AN: After almost two years, I finally managed to pull myself together and write something. This is the rewrite of Aphelion under a new account (I am also svren). To everyone who has waited for me for so long, I thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart for your patience and love. Your encouragement is invaluable. For everyone who is new, then welcome.

One of the things I didn't like about the original version is that I didn't go into detail about Harry's past. Thus, this story will be split into multiple parts. Part I will cover Harry's years at Hogwarts, and please be warned that things will occur differently. There will be seven chapters to it, and it is purely HP-verse. Part II will be set in LotR.

As a side note, I don't think I will ever understand wizarding logic.

Part I-I
Orestes

I am haunted by fury

[x]

Harry Potter discovers magic three days before the start of primary school. Back then, he was still the good-for-nothing freak living in the cupboard under the stairs. Memories of his childhood will always be tied irrevocably with Uncle Vernon's abuse and Aunt Petunia's disdain, his life held together with little shards of truths that cut in the form of a sharp slap to the back of the head, of blistered fingers pulling up thorny plants that bite into flesh, of eyes gazing longingly at fruit he cannot not eat, of dark corners and spiders and the sensation of being buried alive in shadows, treated as dead but living still beneath a seemingly normal surface. But Harry Potter has no family and cares not to have one, and receives an education (or so it was said) at Hogwarts—a Ravenclaw, though no one quite remembers who he is, save for a few pitying glances by his late parents' former colleagues. Harry Potter is cold, callous, and anonymous. He would care little if the world burned. But it will be many years before the boy becomes anything more than a disappointment.

It will be many years before he is anything at all.

[x]

And when he is—oh, what is he? To the public, he is the hero, the Boy-Who-Lived (in the darkness with the rats and the pigs), the beloved (martyr). They loved him because he is a shield. But he is eleven years old, and by god, what chance does he have against a wizard decades his senior, without the crippling motive of morals, and many thousand times more gifted than he?

They loved him because he would die for them.

What has he not yet sacrificed, even if unwittingly, for the good of the many? His parents are dead, his childhood gone, and every summer he atones for their mistakes (dark lords are not born, they are made) in flesh and blood and tears, slaving beneath the midday sun. God, what more do they want? What more does he have left to give?

(Sometimes, he lies in the darkness and whispers to another boy lost in a world to which he never really belonged, I should hate you. I loathe you for everything you have done for me and yet I don't. Yet I understand, because what they have done to you, they are doing to me.)

When he is in Diagon Alley everyone wants to touch him, to marvel at him, to gawk. Children point their fingers at his forehead and say, "look, there's the boy-who-lived," and even if the tone is different, he still flinches—because they don't think he remembers, but he does. He remembers the green light, and his mother's screams, her pleads (not Harry, take me, don't kill him, please, please). They think he should love his fame, should love them (but where were you when I needed you?).

And when he sits in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, feeling bittersweetly closer to his parents, he tells the hat, "put me somewhere where I can be forgotten."

The thing is, they don't forget him.

[x]

When he saves that Gryffindor girl —Granger, he thinks her name is, that muggleborn know-it-all that keeps giving him these enthralled stares when she thinks he isn't looking— the Daily Prophet immediately hails him as some kind of Messiah. 'Boy-Who-Lived Slays Troll!' Draco Malfoy's nose is upturned when he says, "Think you're so great now, huh, Potter?"

He won't ever admit that the words make him feel alone. He's used to this kind of talk by now. (He encases his fragile heart in stone and let the words resort to the physical, where bones and skin can split and heal). But half the student body stares at him like Malfoy, with the distant cousin of fear and apprehension in their eyes. The other half stares at him like he hung the stars and the moon. Granger belongs in the latter half.

"Please stop following me," he tells her. He doesn't make his voice sharp, his eyes are calm and mild, but she flinches anyways.

"I just... wanted to thank you," she mumbles.

There's a long, jagged scar extending from her right cheekbone, thick as his index finger, scattering lazily beneath her hairline. A part of him viciously thinks, you asked me what it's like to be Harry Potter. Well, now people are going to judge you based on your scar, too, and does that answer your question?

"Anyone would have done it," he says, a little bit harsher, turning away. He begins climbing the stairs that will take him to the Ravenclaw common room. Granger seems to have picked up on some of the famed Gryffindor courage because she resolutely dogs his footsteps.

"At least let me thank you somehow."

"Leaving me alone would be more than enough. Good night, Granger." He mutters the password to the Ravenclaw door knocker, and slams the door shut before she can respond. The darkness of the corridor is soothing. The other Ravenclaws don't talk to him. He ascends to the boys' dorms. In his bed, he lies back and yanks the curtains shut. In the darkness, the air smelling faintly of dust, he can almost pretend he is back in his cupboard. There, at least, the hatred is consistent.

[x]

There's a red-headed boy with freckles that keeps approaching him.

The headmaster calls him to his office after the fifth time he rejects the boy (and if there is a sixth time, then Harry is going to get violent).

"Wouldn't you like to have a friend, Mr. Potter?"

"Frankly, sir, I'd think that it's none of your business."

[x]

On his way back from Charms, he takes a wrong turn on the second corridor and finds Draco Malfoy levitating a misty glass sphere above another boy's head. The other boy is plump, and round, and crying. A Gryffindor.

"Give it b-back, Malfoy," he's saying, except the false bravado in his voice quivers like a leaf in the wind. "My gran gave it to me."

"A Remembrall," the blonde boy sneers. "Fitting for a worthless squib like you."

Harry doesn't know what a squib is, but he knows by the paleness of the boy's pallor that it's been something he's been called so many times that he's beginning to believe it too. (Freak, aunt petunia spits. You worthless, no-good freak.)

Draco Malfoy, who has never wanted for anything in his life, will never understand the desperate craving of affection, the hoarding of anything that is a sign of thus. He does not know the heaviness of expectations (I will never be what you wanted). He does not know how jealously orphans guard their treasures, especially gifts from their family, from which they had been sorely deprived.

Harry turns his wand onto the ball. "Accio," he intones, remembering one of the upper-year Ravenclaws summoning something from across the room. The little ball zooms into his hand. The glass is cool beneath his grip, and he holds it out to the Gryffindor, saying, "Yours?" When the boy doesn't do anything more than shake, Harry furrows his brow and injects a little more steel in his tone. "Take it."

The boy snatches it back and cradles it to his chest. Harry lowers his hand. Draco Malfoy is flushing at being caught off-guard, even as he covers it up by lifting his chin and sneering. The Gryffindor boy flinches at the expression, but Harry speaks blandly, unaffected. "Get lost, Malfoy."

"Don't tell me you're standing up for that squib, Potter?"

"I thought you had more tact than to bully students in deserted hallways."

"I suppose it takes one to know one. I've seen how you're doing." Draco Malfoy jerks his chin at Harry's wand. "Not working well for you, is it?"

Holly and phoenix feather. The wood is always warm, and sometimes it feels wrong beneath his fingers. There is a great deal of legend and intrigue tied up with the wand. It does not feel like his own.

"If you're insinuating that I have no magic, I hope you remember that it was still enough to defeat your little lord." He hates capitalizing on his not-victory, but he's too angered to care, even if his outwards expression is implacable. Malfoy's face twists.

"Watch what you're implying, Potter. He is no lord of mine."

There's too much rage there (in the tightened eyes, the trembling fists. What ties did he have with Voldemort, to drive him to such a reaction? He files the question for later. Before he can retaliate, Malfoy stomps down the hall, shoulders stiff, robes billowing.

Harry stows his wand, flexing his fingers, and prepares to follow. Just before he is out of earshot, the Gryffindor boy calls out, his nerves squeaking in his voice, "wait!" Harry stops, listening. "Thank... thank you. For..."

Harry does not turn around, but he nods. "Think nothing of it," he says.

[x]

Disgruntled, Harry closes his book and tucks it back into his bag. He stretches his arms languorously over his head, grimacing with pleasure as his spine snaps back into position. He is researching wand lore, but Hogwarts' library is disappointingly lacking in that field. At least it is quiet, for once, without the giggles and smothered voices of other students. It is the first Quidditch match of the season today. Harry doesn't see the appeal in chasing a bunch of balls on brooms, of all things, but it seems to be the only sport the wizards played.

Despite himself, he is curious. He walks to the window, which faces the Quidditch field and the black lake. There are three stands set up, several rows high, each filled to the brim by writhing students. They have all worn their house allegiances today. The Gryffindor red is directly opposite of the Slytherin green, with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws scattered intermittently between. What a petty and childish thing, these house rivalries. It is a distraction that Harry does not understand. There are few enough wizards as it is—should they not band together? (But these are also the people that expect an eleven year old boy to defeat their dark lord for them, so Harry supposes he shouldn't hold out much hope for them).

From here, he can see the Forbidden Forest overtaking the horizon, dark and dreary (but welcoming, somehow). Beyond the green field and the players zooming around like flying gnats, the rest of Hogwarts' grounds stretch on, resplendent and crisp in the morning air. It is beautiful. The sun casts reds and blues and greens over the dew. A spider on the windowsill is spinning its web. And—

Harry's eyes widen. He drops to the floor the instant before something large, dark, and angry crashes through the glass. Shards rain over him. He shakes them out of his hair and rolls to his feet. There is a massive hole where the window once was.

It is not a large, bloodthirsty bird, as Harry had initially thought. No, it is one of the balls from the Quidditch field. Incredulously, Harry looked at it, then looked through the window. There was no way someone could hit it that far. Which only meant—

The bludger plows through another bookshelf, heading straight for him.

It is too late to dodge. Feverishly, he throws out his wand, crying, "Protego!"

—but the wand doesn't work for him.

A second later, the bludger slams into his ribs, and he tumbles out of the open window to the ground fifteen stories below.

[x]

—wind howls forces its way down his throat trying to rip him apart—greens reds blues yellows blurring there is no distinction magic is one entity hogwarts he can feel under his fingertips—children are screaming he laughs adrenaline makes him dizzy the ground is approaching—

—some kind of barrier. It twists his neck harshly when he lands, but it breaks with a sharp, discordant shatter of glass, and he continues his descent—there is white furious blue eyes a black cloak roared words—impact.

(—black cloak, skeletal hands, whispered words: live, master)

[x]

When he wakes he is numb from the waist down. His heart thumps once, hard. Before he can panic, Madam Pomfrey bustles out of her office and assures him that he is only under a stasis charm, that no permanent damage has been done.

"You are in the hospital ward, Mr. Potter," she informs him in her no-nonsense, professional tone. "How much do you remember?"

"Just falling," he says.

(It is a lie. He hears his mother screaming in his head, like she is somehow responding to the danger he is in, pleading with death itself, take me instead, spare my baby, please, please. But it's private, and makes his chest twist uncomfortably when he thinks of her, so he puts it out of his mind).

He looks to his right. Granger is holding his hand. She doesn't seem to realize she is until she feels his gaze boring a hole into the side of her head, and she winces, dropping it, folding her own hands back into her lap. Beside her, there's another figure, but he can't see without his glasses. He only recognized her by her bushy hair, something distinctive to her and Hagrid.

Granger passes him his glasses from the night table, doesn't comment when his fingers tremble slightly as he accepts it. The world comes into focus. Her large, worried eyes are staring back at him, and as he watches, she bursts into tears. The boy beside her —the Gryffindor who lost the Remembrall— stares at the crying girl with horror.

"Oh—Oh, Harry, we were so worried—we saw you—and Professor Dumbledore's spell didn't work, and oh—"

He has no idea what to do with crying girls. Awkwardly, he pats the back of her hand. "I'm alright," he says, his voice slightly hoarse. "What happened?"

Granger wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffs loudly.

"The bludger went rogue. No one knows why, but it just crashed into the library. We didn't know why, and then we saw someone falling, and—" Her voice trails off. Surprisingly, it is the Gryffindor boy who picks up the story in a quiet, quavering voice.

"—Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape tried to cast some kind of spell, but they... bounced off. You just sort of slowed down a bit on your own, and then you crashed. We thought you were dead. Your neck was..." He indicates an unnatural angle with his hands. "But you were still breathing." He shivers. "I've never seen Professor Dumbledore so..."

"...furious," Granger whispers. Thankfully, she is mostly calm by now, even if her eyes are still a little red. "But... you're okay? Harry?"

"Yes," he says. "Sore, but I'll live."

She squeezes his hand again before standing up and offering him a teary smile. "Good. I'm glad. Even if you're...really cold, you have a warm heart. I owe you my life."

"Thank you for...you know, Malfoy," the other boy murmurs.

Granger frowns. "Is he still bothering you? Don't let him get to you, Neville."

"I know, Hermione," says the boy—Neville, Harry supposed. Longbottom.

"People like him bully because they want the power. If you deny them the satisfaction, they will leave you alone."

"I...I know that. But when he starts talking I just..."

Squib, the voice in his head supplements. Freak.

"Granger," Harry says slowly. He looks down at his right hand to see it bandaged tightly to the elbow. "Where's my wand?"

Her smile slips off her face. "It... broke, Harry."

It must have been shattered by the bludger. He'd heard stories of wizards who had lost their wands—bereft, as though a part of them had died. Harry searches inside of himself but nothing's different. Just the usual emptiness.

"It's alright, I suppose. I'll have to go to Ollivander's to get another one."

Granger gapes openly. It is an unbecoming expression, but one he is (much to his annoyance) becoming unfortunately familiar with.

"It's not that easy."

"I don't think my wand ever bonded with me. It didn't feel...right."

"Neither does mine," says Longbottom quietly. "It's...was my da's."

"Maybe you ought to come with me, then," Harry suggests. "Another wand may suit you better." Seeing Longbottom's hesitance, he adds, "Won't your gran be prouder of you if you could work your magic better?"

"Yeah, I... I'll have to...think about it."

Harry accepts the answer. They lapse into a comfortable silence. Granger sits down again. She doesn't take his hand but there's something warm in her eyes, something that makes him uncomfortable and he looks away because he doesn't know how to respond (the only looks he's ever gotten are cold, harsh, and violent, and he shapes his personality around it because that's all he's ever known). For the first time, he almost doesn't mind Hogwarts.

[x]

The wand beneath his hand doesn't heat up like the phoenix and holly did, but instead, cools calmly in his touch, a welcoming cold suffusing up his arm. It feels...right, somehow. More soothing than the fire and passion that had lingered there before.

Ollivander regards him with inscrutable grey eyes. "Unyielding and firm. Fifteen and a half inches, blackthorne wood with the tail hair of a thestral. Gorgeous beast, that. Almost ran me over when I plucked it."

A trail of green sparks erupt into the air. Harry holds it to his chest and smiles (feeling safe for the first time that he's ever known).

[x]

They're not friends. But sometimes, when the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors have classes together, they sit side-by-side. Sometimes they exchange a glance across the Great Hall—Granger waves, Longbottom smiles, and Harry looks away. It's not friendship.

Even so, when Longbottom is able to get a spell on the fifth try with his new wand, he turns to Harry and his smile is so blinding with happiness that he almost feels his own mouth curving upwards.

[x]

There is a mirror in an abandoned classroom. It is golden, and tall enough that it towers far above Harry. In it Harry sees his parents. They are not drunks, like the Dursleys say. They are radiant with love, and they love him. He feels something inside of him break at the visions. He presses his cheek against the cool glass and closes his eyes, for once wishing he could feel warmth instead, a human touch.

"You don't look so good, Harry," says Hermione. He never corrected her the first time, and now she seemed to have taken it as permission to address him informally ever since.

"I'm fine," he grits out. He stabs his food with his knife harder than is necessary.

"Even I can see the dark circles under your eyes. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"Mind your own business, Granger."

Instead of leaving, the irritating girl sits down. "Now I know there's something wrong. You haven't talked to me like that since the first week of school."

He exhales through his teeth. "It is nothing. Don't concern yourself with it."

"I'm not leaving until you do."

Usually he would have been able to smother the rising anger in his chest, but he's unusually short-tempered and his head is pounding, and he hasn't really slept in two weeks so words are a jumble in his head and he just wants her to leave.

"Fine. You know what's bothering me? There's a mirror in the first floor corridor and I can see my dead parents through it. Happy? Can you leave now, Granger?"

Instead of anger, her eyes soften, and she places a gentle hand on his shoulder, not moving even when he tries to shrug her off. "Oh, Harry," she says softly. "There's nothing that can bring back the dead. Not even magic."

"You think I don't know that? It's just...I've never seen them before."

"You don't have pictures at home?"

"Pictures?" he laughs bitterly. His eyes are wide, pupils blown black. He bares his teeth in a vicious smile. "The Dursleys told me they were whores and drunks. They can't even look me in the face. You think they'd keep pictures?"

Granger flinched. "That's... I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. I don't care."

(But you do, whispers the voice in his head. You care so much you think you will be torn apart by the sheer intensity of it.)

Granger doesn't say anything to challenge his statement. She squeezes his shoulder one last time, then leaves the dining hall, her expression vacant and distracted.

That night, he doesn't go to the mirror.

[x]

"You know, Malfoy, if you don't want to draw attention, maybe you shouldn't act so suspicious. Wearing all black in daylight and sneaking around like that really isn't doing you any favours. Just a thought."

Malfoy's lips draw back into an angry snarl. Before he can say anything, one of his Slytherin friends calls out to him. He looks back, "Next time, Potty," before joining them. Safely ensconced within their clique, they glare at Harry suspiciously. He rolls his eyes.

"Psst—Harry!"

Granger is hiding behind a tree trunk. Longbottom is timidly trailing after her. A couple meters away from them, the red-haired boy from many months ago is staring at Harry in awe.

"Granger?" he says coolly. "Is there a reason why you're trying to become one with the tree?"

Her eyes dart furtively from side to side. Harry suppresses a groan. It seems as though, for all of their famed enmity, there really are many traits in common between the Gryffindors and Slytherins.

"We've figured out why Malfoy's been acting so suspicious," she says in a loud whisper. Pulling an unwilling but curious Harry closer, she continues, "Hagrid's got a dragon egg, and it just hatched!"

"A...dragon egg," Harry repeats in disbelief. "Does he not remember that he lives in a wooden hut?"

"He even named it Norbert, and everything."

"Malfoy saw," says the red-headed boy, still staring at Harry (or more precisely, his forehead). He sounds slightly dazed. "He's tryna get Hagrid in trouble. We're gonna get Norbert to my brother—Charlie, he's a dragon keeper, he can take him—tonight. You coming, mate? You're alright, for a Ravenclaw."

At least Granger has the decency to look mildly mortified. "Ronald!"

"I'd rather not, thanks. I'd also suggest that you don't either."

"Never took you for such a rule-stickler. C'mon, you're the Boy-Who-Lived. You can get outta anythin.' What's life without a little risk?"

"There's a difference between having no choice and being idiotic. Hagrid can tell the Headmaster himself. Why does he need to resort to the help of three first-years? He might have a blatant disregard for his health —I've seen that dog of his, and it's no normal dog— but I hope you do." Harry catches his breath, dips his head faux-courteously. "If that's all, I should be getting back. Think on it. Good day."

The next morning, Harry checks the hourglasses, and Gryffindor is in the negatives. He blows out a breath between his teeth. Of course.

[x]

"Mr. Potter. Are you awake?"

When Granger and Longbottom come back from their detention in the Forbidden Forest (where they are punished for breaking curfew and handling dangerous beasts by... breaking curfew and handling even more dangerous beasts. But such is wizarding logic), they are white-faced and trembling.

Harry is woken by Professor Flitwick, who is standing by his bedside with lumos on his wand. He squints at the sudden light. "Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom are asking for you, Mr. Potter, if you are able to go to the hospital wing."

Harry sits up. He ignores the sudden spike of fear that seizes through his body (it is irrational).

"What happened?"

A shadow crosses over the diminutive professor's face, or perhaps it is caused by the lumos. "A detention gone astray, I'm afraid. If you—

Harry pushes past him and stands up. He walks very quickly to the hospital wing, stumbling over his feet a few times. He does not run. His heart is beating fast, like that time he fell out of the library window, like it's difficult to breathe.

Madame Pomfrey is standing between shadowed beds. Even in the darkness he can see the thinness of her disapproving lips. She looks to his bare feet. He forgot to wear shoes.

"Mr. Potter," she greets. "Miss Granger and Mr Longbottom are in those two beds." She gestures with one hand. Even from here, Harry can see the lumps under the blankets quivering.

"Thank you," he mutters.

He draws up a chair and sits.

"Granger. Longbottom."

A head of tousled hair from beneath the covers. Large, frightened eyes. Longbottom scoots closer to Harry. He extends a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Harry takes it and lets himself be pulled into the bed as well, between the two. Longbottom's shoulder brushes against his own, and Granger is tucked into his chest. He pulls the blankets up so it covers the three of them. They talk in whispers. Their skin is cold, even colder than his own.

"...it got Malfoy," Granger's voice is muffled by the blankets. "We were... Hagrid said there was something killing the unicorns. So we went to find what it was and there was a fork in the road, so we split up..."

"I was with Hagrid," Longbottom says. Surprisingly, his voice is low, and quiet, but steady. "Hermione went with Malfoy and Fang."

Harry shifts. "There's something strong enough to kill unicorns, and they sent you lot to investigate? Are they spare?"

Longbottom shrugs uncomfortably. There's a burst of commotion towards the front of the ward, where the fireplace is situated. It spits out two people. One has waist-length blonde hair and is dressed in tight, shimmering robes, and the other is a blonde woman with fearful eyes.

"Where's Draco?" she demands. "Where's my son!"

Longbottom stiffens. "Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy," he whispers into Harry's ear.

Madame Pomfrey was trying to calm her down. "Mrs. Malfoy, if you would follow me—"

But the distraught woman pushes past the nurse, and barrels towards the bed where Malfoy is lying. From between Longbottom and Granger, he doesn't have a good vantage point, but Malfoy is not moving. She falls by his bedside, clasping cold hands in her own, breathing out, "Draco, Draco dear, Mummy's here, open your eyes for Mummy, okay baby?"

Lucius Malfoy is still standing by the fireplace. "I demand to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but Prof—"

"—no need, Poppy, he will be arriving in a few moments." A new, silky voice. Professor Snape.

"Severus," says Malfoy's mother. She is an aristocratic woman, of high birth and class, but right now she is a mother whose son is in danger and she will do anything, she will relinquish her pride and beg if need be. "Severus, isn't there anything you can do?"

The potions master approaches and touches the young boy's white cheek with long, elegant fingers. He opens one eyelid, murmurs a lumos. Then he presses his hand to Malfoy's throat. He shakes his head.

"He has retreated far into his mind. I can try to pull him out, but it may damage him more. It is not a risk I am willing to take."

"There must be something you can do..."

"He is my godson, Narcissa. Do you think I would not if I could?"

By now, Dumbledore has arrived, and he stands by the door, hands clasped behind his back. His voice is calm, steady, while Lucius Malfoy's are sharp and bitter and designed to hurt. "There will be an inquiry," he says, his voice clipped. "I will find those to pay." His voice catches on the last word, a slight hitch of breath, almost a sob. Dumbledore ignores it politely.

Harry remains between his not-friends, not daring to move. He doesn't sleep, even as they begin to drop off, their adrenaline fading into weariness. He thinks: it could have been them instead of Malfoy, and something cold rises in his stomach at the thought. (He thinks: I don't want to lose them, too).

But eventually his tired eyes droop closed, and that is how Madame Pomfrey finds them in the morning.

[x]

There is an inquiry. The board of trustees call for Hagrid's disemployment. Harry knows both Longbottom and Granger are itching to stand up for their friend, but he pulls both of them down. "You have done enough," he hisses. "Do not draw attention to yourself."

Because Harry knows. He has always known, since that day when he saw Lucius Malfoy, and knew that vengeance was the only way the man knew how to grieve. And someone as proud as Lucius Malfoy would not set his target as low as Hogwart's groundskeeper.

No. He called into question Dumbledore's position as Headmaster. First the troll, now this, he said. How much longer are we going to let him control the safety of our children? (And Harry isn't fond of Lucius Malfoy because he does not like oily, manipulative people, but he also admits that the man is a very good orator).

There is heated debate on both side, but Harry already knows what will happen, and he has the feeling Dumbledore knows, too. He is stripped of his position and publicly declaimed in the Daily Prophet. (And this is how quickly the fickle favour of the public turns; sheep led to the slaughter, and they will praise he who holds the knife to their necks).

[x]

Third floor corridor. Fluffy the three-headed dog. There is a harp by his massive paws.

"Oh, no!" Granger moans in despair. "No, we're too late!"

Longbottom is shaking when he says, "We should go after them."

Harry fixes him with a look. "Don't be stupid," he says. "We're eleven. Whoever this is, they're definitely not a student, and that's even if they get through all of the professors' traps."

"We can't just—"

Gryffindors. "Granger. You've read Hogwarts: A History."

The girl blinks. "Why—yes. I have."

"Is apparition possible inside the wards? Or portkeys, inside the castle?"

"No."

"So whoever steals the stone has to come back out here."

"Oh. Um, yes. Yes! God, why didn't I think of that?"

"McGonagall should still be in her office. Can you get her to come here? With the harp as evidence, there's no way she can overlook this."

She nods sharply. "I will. Will you be... alright?"

"Yes. But hurry. We don't know how long he'll take." When Hermione nods again and disappears around the corner, he calls after her, "Also, get McGonagall to have someone do a staff inventory!"

"I will," comes the faint reply.

Then they are alone in the chamber. Longbottom edges closer nervously, eyeing the beast that is slobbering by the corner. Its snores rumble in its chest, sounding like roars. "H-Harry? That's a cerberus, isn't it?"

Harry looks at the trap door it is guarding between sprawled paws, the foot-long claws jutting mercilessly out of car-sized feet. Its entire body is the size of Number Four, Privet Drive. It would have been absolutely terrifying, if not for the sparkly collar around its neck, and the thick string of drool slipping down one side of its mouth in viscous yellow ropes.

"Yes. Guardian of the underworld. Fitting, isn't it?"

Longbottom only whimpers.

Harry thinks of the mythology. A Herculean task, indeed—penance for sins not of one own, slaving under a false king. Or perhaps Orpheus is more fitting. Orpheus, who descends into hell out of love, and dies by it. Whose music is so soul-wrenching that he is able to tame the hounds of death (to such an extent that its future progeny have the same weakness), who is able to move the god of death himself.

(Except Harry will never love the public that he was destined to save, and he will not be manipulated like this.)

"I hear something," Longbottom says suddenly. His face, if possible, pales until it is fully bleached of colour. "From the trap door. Someone's coming."

Then McGonagall steps into the room, face grim and lips pursed. Granger trails after her head of house, clutching her wand uncertainly. "Quirinus is missing," says McGonagall. "The Aurors have been informed. They will be coming shortly."

—and that is when the trap door slams open. A black, wraith-like figure swathed in shadows leaps out nimbly, landing without sound. McGonagall pushes them away, her wand already out. From the rubble she transfigures a gleaming, golden lion that is only slightly smaller than the cerberus. It roars, shaking its shining mane, and leaps at the man. Its massive claws rend apart the protective spells laced tightly over his torso and arms, knocking his hood back.

"Quirrell," McGonagall hisses darkly. She flicks her wand into the air sharply. "Lumos maxima!" The chamber is bathed in piercing white light. Harry shields his eyes and ushers the shell-shocked Longbottom and Granger towards the door.

"Come on," he mutters.

When they are five feet away, it slams shut as though pushed by an invisible hand.

"Ah, ah," Quirrell tuts. He has lost his stutter by now, and smiles like a viper ready to strike, all teeth and sharpness. "You won't be leaving that easily, my students."

"They are not your fight," McGonagall says. "Let them go."

"Ah, but they are. Harry Potter...yes, I see you."

Granger's hand clamps around his arm tight enough to bruise.

"They are children, Quirinus."

"And the old lion tries to defend her cubs." Gone is the nervous air, replaced with the gait of a predator as he glides closer, careless under the point of McGonagall's wand. "But you are not as spry as you used to be, are you, dearest Minerva?"

There is a terrifying look in her eye. She erects a shield to block his incoming attack, and the two of them begin to duel in earnest. Harry is transfixed for a moment, drunk on the power that he can feel wafting into the air, thick and heady, intoxicating. But when he hears Granger give a short whimper when a sickly yellow spell splashes onto the wall next to them, his head clears.

"Alohomora." The door does not open. Granger is shaking. "Alohomora! It's not working."

Harry glances around and determines Quirrell to be suitably distracted. "Come on. We don't want to be collateral damage." Ducking his head, he grasps both children by one elbow and half-guides, half-yanks them as far away from the duel as possible. Unfortunately, that puts them very close to the slumbering cerberus. "Stay here, no matter what happens."

"Where are the aurors?"

"Late, as usual."

From across the room, Quirrell meets his eye. A slow, sickening smile spreads on his face.

"Duck!"

But the next spell doesn't hit them.

"No!" shouts McGonagall, but Quirrell begins to press in on her in earnest, and she barely has time to defend herself against the onslaught.

The music stops. The cerberus's eye opens. Its hackles are rising. Large, lamplike yellow eyes rove the chamber, and settle on the three cowering children. Its lips draw back, and it roars. Harry tries to sing a tune under his breath, but the cerberus brushes it away. It will not fall to music twice.

"Do you trust me?" Harry murmurs in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the beast's.

Granger swallows loudly. "I... yes, Harry. What do we do?"

"I can hear the Aurors coming. They are close to the door. At my signal, you need to run to it."

"We'll never get there."

"Leave that part up to me."

Her eyes are wide as saucers. "You can't—you're not going to—"

"I'm not a Gryffindor. I have a plan. Just do your part." Harry brushes his wand against his lips and murmurs to the thrumming wood, "I need a weapon. Please." From the tip, a thin, concentrated beam of light shimmers into existence and solidifies into metal. The blade is as long as Harry's arm and the hilt is his wand. It shimmers with a cold white—not pure, only dead. Harry smiles grimly.

"Are you ready? In three, two... one!"

The two children run. The cerberus's head snaps to them, and it lifts its upper lip in a snarl, but before it can chase them Harry slashes the sword and regains its attention.

He walks closer.

"Guardian of the underworld," he says. "There is one who has entered your domain and seeks to steal the treasure you guard."

The dog does not understand. The middle head stares him down. It lowers itself until its eye is staring directly into Harry's face. He holds his breath and does not move, even as his heart is drumming in staccato. When it suddenly rises, he jerks a little, readying himself in case it strikes, but it only brings its nose to Harry and gives one long, deep sniff, making his hair fly towards the massive nostril. He has to impale the ground with his sword-wand so that he does not fly into it (and he would probably fit into a single nostril, too).

The cerberus is staring at something just above Harry's head. Whining, it lowers its head. They stare at each other for a few moments, before Harry realizes that it is asking him to climb on. He shifts his grip on his sword so that the blade is pointing outwards, and grasps a handful of surprisingly silky fur. He begins to climb, but right when he is halfway, the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and he ducks just as a massive paw flies over his head. The cerberus begins to shake itself, and it is like trying to hold onto a tree during a windstorm.

It wanted to play? Well, Harry would oblige. On the next downwards swing, he lets one of his hands slip, and sinks the sword into the dog's furry breast. It pierces through and makes it howl. Luckily, it has sunk deeply, and Harry hangs on to the hilt with both hands, desperately clinging on as his teeth are slammed together over and over from the impact. He is covered in the beast's blood. Finally, with a last dodge of the right head's teeth, it falls to its knees submissively.

"Do not do that again, or I will not be lenient," he warns the baleful yellow eye. It whines in response. "Good. Now...I believe there is something else we can do." High on adrenaline, Harry tugs his sword free and climbs onto the cerberus's middle neck, this time without resistance. When he is safely secure, the cerberus lurches to its paws, and Harry has to cling to the collar tightly. Smaller, smaller... from this height, people are so small and insignificant.

Quirrell has McGonagall pressed into the corner.

Harry raises a war cry. He plunges his sword into the air, screams "Go!"

—because discretion is out of the question when a five hundred pound beast is barrelling towards you at full speed.

Quirrell only has time to widen his eyes before a massive paw sends him careening into the wall, claws gouging a deep hole in his abdomen. "I...will not—be defeated!" he wheezes. But his spells splash off the cerberus's hide effortlessly, and the beast growls, before—

The middle head snatches Quirrell between its teeth and bites in half. It shakes itself until the lower half flies off, hitting a wall and sliding down in an ooze of intestines and fluid. Harry thinks he hears Granger screaming. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes as a wave of hot blood douses the side of his face, trickling down his hair, soaking his robes.

It is silent for a moment more.

"Dear Merlin," McGonagall gasps, holding one hand to her chest.

And then—

The cerberus falls to its knees. Harry rolls clear just as it begins spasming on the ground, its jaw open in pain. It roars, whimpers—and the middle head explodes into tissue and blood. The beast slumps, dead, as a black mist rises. It forms a face, chest, arms, contorted in anger. Harry barely has enough time to thrust out his sword before it is flying towards him in wrath, and it bisects itself into the sword and into him—cold there is someone screaming please not harry take me instead take—

He falls into darkness.

[x]

He wakes up in the hospital wing feeling even worse than last time. His dry mouth tastes of blood and acid. He sits up, feeling his head spin horribly, and gropes for his glasses. When he finds them, he slides them onto his nose and eyes the small mountain of cards, flowers, and chocolates (...was that a toilet seat?) on his nightstand and occupying the next two beds.

Madame Pomfrey comes out of her office. "Mr. Potter," she scolds, ushering him back into bed. His legs shake, and grudgingly he lets her. "You should not be up."

"Where are Granger and Longbottom?"

She purses her lips. "In classes. Mostly shaken up, but they are fine. They tried to stay with you until you woke, but Headmaster Dumbledore intervened." She softened slightly. "Your friends care for you a great deal, Mr. Potter."

He briefly thinks about telling her that they were not friends, but decides the point is moot.

"Professor Dumbledore is...?"

"Yes. The Board decided that it was safer to be—well, after all that has happened. They are saying that it wouldn't have escalated as far if a wizard of Dumbledore's status was involved." Harry wasn't so sure of that, but Madame Pomfrey nods sharply to herself. "And rightfully, if I do say so."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

"That means..."

"The feast has just begun."

"Can I go?"

"I would strongly recommend against it, but... I cannot stop you if you do."

"I want to."

She sighs, but does not stop him. "Miss Granger brought a set of your robes. They are in the changing room. I will ask, however, that you take a little more care of yourself."

"I always do."

It is only through massive amounts of stubbornness, determination, and time that Harry is able to get out of bed and get to his clothes. He has a feeling Madame Pomfrey is passive-aggressively punishing him, but he grits his teeth and pulls the robes over his head. He fumbles with the tie for a few minutes, then gives up and eyes the sloppy knot with disdain.

"Thank you, Madame Pomfrey," he calls on his way out.

It takes him twenty minutes to hobble to the Great Hall. By then, his lungs are burning and he can't feel his legs. Irritably, he palms his wand and blasts the ornate doors open with a little too much force, and they slam into the wall.

He steps into the suddenly silent hall. He barely has time to be mortified by his unintentionally dramatic entrance before a brown missile slams into him, arms wrapped around his waist.

"Harry! Don't ever do that to us again!"

Cautiously, he pats her back. "Well... the plan worked, didn't it?" He regards the suddenly-too-interested students warily and meets Longbottom's gaze. The boy smiles weakly, but he, too, looks relieved. "Why don't we go somewhere else?"

Granger nods, her head still tucked under Harry's chin. She wipes her eyes and says, "Right, of course. We can go to the Gryffindor common room."

Longbottom catches up with them just as the doors close.

"I don't think I'm allowed in there, Granger."

"Nonsense. You'd be allowed anywhere right now. They worship the ground you walk on. Besides, you're an honorary Gryffindor."

Harry suppresses a shiver of horror. "That is not...exactly a good thing."

She sniffed. "Well, you should have thought of that before you decided that climbing a cerberus was the way to go. Even if I have to admit...you were brilliant out there. But don't do that again!"

Amused, but fond, "Wasn't planning on it."

The Gryffindor common room is guarded by the portrait of a fat woman wearing too many rings and particularly voluminous petticoats. She peers down at Harry and holds one hand daintily to my chest. "My, but if it isn't Harry Potter! I had expected you to be in my house, young man. I'd recognize you immediately. You have your father's—"

"Victory," Granger says hastily. The portrait continued talking even as it swung open.

"—build and you look just like him, except you have your mother's eyes—" Her voice becomes fainter and fainter as they walk further into the room.

The only word to describe the Gryffindor common room is...warm. Red and golds everywhere, the hearth merrily burning in front of dozens of overstuffed couches, perfect for falling into after a long day. As it is in a tower, the view from the windows is quite breathtaking. It does not have the austere, eruditic comfort of Ravenclaw's Spire, but it is homely nonetheless.

"Wait here," says Granger, and disappears up the girl's dorms. Longbottom pulls him to a couch.

"How're you feeling?" the timid boy asks.

"Like I've been run over by a tractor."

"A... a what?"

"Never mind."

Granger bounds down the stairs. In her hand, she is clutching a bundle of newspapers, which she throws into Harry's lap. "Look, Harry!" she says excitedly, and points to the front cover. He stares at it dumbly for a few seconds.

It is a moving picture. The background is pitch black. In the middle, a three-headed cerberus is thrashing, roaring, gnashing its gleaming teeth. On top of the middle head, Harry has his sword thrust into the air, and the white glow casts his determined face into view.

Below, in bold: 'Boy-Who-Lived Saves Hogwarts!'

"That's...a bit of an exaggeration, isn't it?"

Granger waves a hand dismissively. "It sells."

"How did they even get this picture?"

"Oh!" Granger perks up again. "After you, the shadow... well... what was that, Harry?"

"The wraith? I don't know." He frowns. "I remember hearing voices, and my scar hurt."

"...your scar hurt? I've never heard of such a thing. I'll be sure to look into it over the summer."

"What happened?"

"The Aurors came not soon after you... Professor McGonagall was livid. They said there was some kind of ward over the door. I don't think she believed that. But did you know, the aurors asked to see our memories? You think really hard about it," she mimics pulling a string out of her temple with one hand, "and deposit the memory in the pensieve. I guess they must have taken the picture from there."

"I see."

"I bought a bunch of copies of this issue. Here, have this one. I've sent another to my parents, too! I can show them my friend!" She smiles, a little wistfully. "I've never had friends before."

Perhaps it's the lack of sleep getting to his head again, but he says, "Neither have I."

They look at Longbottom, who shrugs. "Gran tried to get me to associate with some of the other pureblood children once. That's about it."

"Well," says Granger briskly. "We have each other now."

Harry doesn't respond, but he looks down at the newspaper, and something in his chest tightens.

[x]

Harry watches Granger tackle her parents in Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters. They hug her tightly, kissing her cheeks, fussing over the scar on the side of her face as she rolls her eyes. When she sees Harry, she excuses herself momentarily and bounds over, grasping his elbow and leading him to the side.

"Where are your aunt and uncle?"

Harry shrugs. "Outside the terminal, probably. I'll find them."

"Well..alright. Stay in touch, okay? And..." she draws a thick book out of her robes from where she had been squashing it against her side. "It's meant to be a surprise. Nev and I worked on it, but he needed to go somewhere so I'm the one presenting you with it." Her eyes soften. "Thank you for being my first friend, Harry. Even if you won't admit it."

He takes the book. The cover is leather, and slightly coarse. When he opens it he is momentarily robbed of breath, because there is a black-haired man and a green-eyed woman grinning at him from the first page, waving enthusiastically.

"You said you didn't have any pictures," Granger says softly. "So Neville and I went to Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, and they got some pictures for us. I hope you like—omph!" Despite himself, Harry surges forward and grabs her in a hug.

"I love it, Hermione. Thank you... so much. I..."

She grins. "Good." Her parents beckon from a distance. "I have to go now, but take care of yourself. We'll be in contact." She squeezes him one last time and lets go. Harry nods to her, takes one last look as she is rejoining her family, and pushes his cart out of the platform.

The Dursleys are waiting on the other side, surly.

"About time, boy," Uncle Vernon grunts. But not even he is able to bring Harry's mood down. He caresses the spine of the album and smiles.

When his luggage is loaded into the trunk, and Hedwig's cage is safely stowed next to him, he opens the album to the last photo. It is a picture of the black lake. In the middle stand three figures. Harry is scowling, his hands tucked into his pockets. Longbottom is smiling, and Granger waves.

On the back, in spidery handwriting:

To new beginnings.

[x]