Chapter Text
Draco bursts into the hospital wing just as Dumbledore finishes his explanation of how Harry got the Stone out of the mirror; Ron and Hermione are just behind him, though Hermione looks terrified at the sight of Professor Dumbledore. Draco doesn’t seem to care, though, pitching forward and practically climbing into Harry’s lap in his haste to throw his arms around him.
Dumbledore gives them all an indulgent smile before saying, “I’ll let you catch up with your friends. I recommend you stay quiet, though, or you will draw the ire of Madam Pomfrey.” He winks at Hermione, who turns a dull red, and then he turns and walks out of the hospital wing.
“You’re an idiot and I thought you were going to die,” Draco snaps in his ear, then tightens his arms around Harry so hard it hurts. Hermione is hovering on one side of the bed, Ron perched near her, and both of them are grinning at him. He grins back, then winces when Draco’s grip tightens and his head gives a throb of pain.
“Mate, I’m glad you’re okay,” Ron says. “You’ve been out for three days—we thought you’d never wake up.”
“Madam Pomfrey said he would.”
Ron glances over at Hermione, then says, “We really were worried, I swear.”
Harry grins at him even as Hermione says, “Well, of course I was worried.”
“I was confident in your abilities,” Draco says, even though he just said basically the opposite. Harry doesn’t call it out on it, though, because he’s too happy to be surrounded by his favorite people and to be alive.
“What’s been going on?” Harry asks. “Who’s been teaching DADA?”
“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione tells him.
“He’s bloody brilliant,” Ron adds. “Knows everything, and at least he doesn’t stutter. And he’s light on homework.”
“He is a good teacher,” Draco admits reluctantly when Harry glances over at him; he finally pulls himself away from Harry to sit on the side of the bed. “Still mad, but even Crabbe and Goyle seem to know what he’s talking about.”
Harry frowns at that. “I don’t actually think Goyle can read. You really think he knows what Dumledore is saying?”
“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione corrects at the same time Draco says, “He said he did, at least.”
Draco waves a dismissive hand. “Regardless. What did happen to Quirrell? Dumbledore just said he was gone, and it must have to do with you because he disappeared at the same time.”
Harry hesitates, then scrubs his hand across his face and starts to explain. By the time he gets to the end, Hermione looks like she wants to cry, and Draco is about as pale as Ron is red.
“Bloody hell,” Ron breathes finally, turning away to look around the hospital wing like it’s going to give him some answers. “He’s back, then? You-Know-Who?”
“No,” Draco snaps before Harry can say anything.
Harry glances at him, then says, “No, not really. Dumbledore said he’s delayed and weak. But he’ll try to come back again, probably.”
“No,” Draco says again. “No, he’s gone, he’s gone again, just stop.”
He sounds a bit hysterical now, so Harry just says, “Okay. Did we all lose a hundred points for what we did? I can’t imagine Snape or McGonagall were too happy with you guys—or, well, us, I guess.”
“Snape wanted to,” Ron tells him, “but Dumbledore overruled him. Said that we got special dispensation for saving the school. I thought Snape was going to throw something at him. Not that Snape ever takes points from Slytherins.”
“He might just give me detention from now until my OWLs.”
And that’s when Madam Pomfrey appears and kicks them out, ordering Harry to rest.
--
Harry’s not really sure what day it is when Madam Pomfrey lets him go; he can barely tell what time it is, because all of the windows in the hospital wing have curtains over them that seem to block out the changing of the light. He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he leaves—Ron and Hermione and Draco waiting for him, maybe—but instead a furious-looking Professor Snape grabs his upper arm as soon as he’s out of the hospital wing and marches him all the way down to the dungeons. He doesn’t say anything while doing it, but his grip is tight enough to bruise, and he looks almost incandescent in his rage.
His office door slams open with the wave of Snape’s wand, and he drags Harry in before slamming the door behind him. Harry stares at him as he walks over and sits down behind his desk; he’s not sure what Snape’s going to do to him, but he’d rather not provoke anything worse.
“The Headmaster,” Snape grates out finally, “has forbidden me to give you detentions for the rest of your miserable time at this school. I will not be taking points, because he insists that you must be celebrated for your abject foolishness, not punished. I disagree, but he is the Headmaster and I am not.”
Harry blinks at him. That’s not what he expected to hear. Finally, when Snape doesn’t say anything else, Harry says, “Yes, sir.”
“Do not think,” Snape says, standing up behind his desk. He leans forward on it, like he wants to loom over Harry but doesn’t want to get near him. “Do not think that you should take such an action again. Do not think that such idiotic measures were brave or clever or chivalrous. And if you should take such measures again, I will have you scrubbing cauldrons and disemboweling toads until the end of your days. Do you understand me?”
Harry nods again. “Yes, sir.”
“Doing what you did may impress others, because they laud you for being like your father, for being foolish and reckless and uncaring of authority. I am not such a person. Those are not Slytherin traits, Mr. Potter, and while you are one of us, you will comport yourself as one of us.” He stares at Harry for a minute, then says, “Dismissed, Mr. Potter. Get out.”
Harry does.
Prefect Caster finds him next, and she looks pale and a little upset when she leads him away from the crowd of people trying to interrogate him on what happened and to a nearby empty classroom.
She stares at him for a bit before saying anything, and he fidgets and fiddles with the sleeve of his robe because he’s not sure if she’s going to yell at him, too. But finally she says, “I have the paperwork drawn up regarding the Wizengamot seat, if you’re still planning on giving it to me.”
Harry blinks at her. “What?”
“The Potter seat on the Wizengamot. If you still plan for me to take it following the end of this year, the paperwork will need to be finished before we leave. Unless you want me to visit you over the summer.”
“No,” Harry blurts out before he can think better of it.
Her expression says she wants to ask, but she doesn’t, which he appreciates. Instead, she says, “Okay,” and pulls out a roll of parchment from under her robe. With a flick of her wand and a muttered spell, it unrolls on a table, staying open like something is pinning down its corners. It’s full of small, dense text, and Harry would need to get closer to actually read it.
On the bottom of the page is a signature with what looks like a smudge of blood next to it, with a space below it.
“This is the form to for you to give me your Wizengamot seat. You’re welcome to read the entire thing, and I’ll give you a copy, but here are some basic points to it.” She gestures towards the top section. “This part here explains that you are the rightful holder of the Potter seat in the Wizengamot, that you’re not yet of age and so can’t sit on the Wizengamot yet, and that your guardians are muggles and so can neither sit on the Wizengamot for you nor appoint a regent for you. It then specifies the statutes that allow you, as a minor sole heir of your line with no acting wizard guardian, to appoint somebody to your seat. Do you have any questions about that?”
Harry shakes his head.
“Moving on, then, the next section is about the terms of service for a regent. Once you come of age and take the seat, the regent’s time on the Wizengamot ends. However, if you choose to delay taking the seat, the regent can continue to serve for as long as you want. That means that, once you come of age, you’re not actually required to take the seat or vote personally if you don’t want to, and you don’t need to appoint someone new. It also says that, at any time, you can remove or replace your regent for any reason. Your regent serves at your pleasure, and if you feel that they’re not representing your interests or you decide you don’t like them, or you find someone better, you are fully within your rights to remove them. Additionally, if your regent actively acts against you, or they work to physically or magically harm you, their seat is automatically forfeit and they may face disciplinary actions. Any questions?”
Harry hesitates, then asks, “Why would you include that, if it means I could remove you?”
Prefect Caster frowns at him. “That’s one of your rights, Harry, regardless of whether it’s written on this paper. And it’s my responsibility to make sure you know this.”
“But if you didn’t tell me, then I wouldn’t know.”
She just keeps staring at him, and he fidgets under her gaze, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. It seems obvious to him, but she’s looking at him like she has no idea what he’s talking about. Finally, she says, “If I didn’t inform you of your rights—if I didn’t write out everything on the petition or didn’t let you know—and it came out, I would lose the respect of the other seat-holders on the Wizengamot and could even lose the seat. I’m better off letting you know and then making sure I act in your interests rather than trying to hide it from you. Do you understand that?”
After a second, Harry nods. That does make sense to him.
“Good.” She hesitates, then goes on to say, “The next section names me as your regent. It gives some background on me—magical bloodlines three generations back, my position as prefect, my OWLs, and so on. My NEWT scores will automatically be added once they are released. This provides information on me to anybody who wishes to know about me, but particularly people who serve on the Wizengamot.”
“Why would anyone care about your magical bloodlines? That doesn’t—I mean, that doesn’t impact who you are as a person, really. Hermione’s the smartest witch I know, and she’s muggleborn.”
Prefect Caster laughs. “You do know Draco Malfoy, right, snakelet? To old families, blood is what matters—you could be a mass murderer, but as long as you have the right bloodline, they’ll still consider you acceptable for marriage. People knew Bellatrix Lestrange was mad far before she left school, but she’s a Black, so a Lestrange was perfectly happy to marry her.” Harry has no idea who she’s talking about, but now doesn’t seem like the time to ask. “And remember, the seats are tied to pureblood lines. You’re only getting this seat because of your magical bloodlines. So for better or for worse, that’s how it works.”
Harry drags a hand through his hair. He doesn’t like it, but there’s nothing he can do about it. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
At that, she points to the last line, the signature. “Right here, I signed it, and next to it you can see some blood. My blood. This is special petition parchment, which is made to record the magical signature of blood. Because I put my blood on it, it recorded that I’m one of the petitioners associated with this petition. Once you sign it and put your blood on it, it’ll record your magical signature as that of the other petitioner. Because your magical signature is associated with the seat, it will automatically be filed and approved once you put your blood on it. Which, if you don’t have any problems with or questions about the petition, you can do now.”
Harry nods, and she hands him an Ever-Inking Quill for him to use to sign it. His signature looks messier than hers, but it’s recognizably his name, at least, which is good. Once he’s handed back the quill, she says, “Give me your hand.”
Once he gives her his hand, with a quick flick of her wand she opens up a small cut on his finger; once blood wells up in it, she turns his hand and places it down on the paper next to his signature.
For some stupid reason, he expects it to glow or do something else magical, but instead the paper just sits there, and she heals up his finger and lets go of his hand.
“There.” Prefect Caster rolls up the parchment and sticks it back in her robes, then sits back in her seat. “We’ve already discussed your first order of business, fighting to allow children to take potions to adjust their bodies to the correct sex without parental permission. Now I’d like to talk to you a bit more about what else you’re particularly interested in—what you care about, what you do or don’t want to happen. I’m not expecting you to be familiar with everything, but I do need to get a feel for what you care about so I know what specifically to pay attention to and who to engage with.”
Harry nods, and they get started.
--
Packing up his stuff makes Harry’s chest ache a little. They’ve ended up sprawled around, somewhat, more than ever before in his life, and he actually has to hunt for a pair of socks and some spare parchment that found its way under his bed. He’s never had enough stuff to lose any of it before.
Even with the new stuff he’s acquired, fitting everything in his trunk is easy, unlikely Draco and the rest of the Slytherin boys, who all have to have upperclassmen shrink their stuff so it fits. Harry doesn’t know how that would work for muggleborns, because they couldn’t have anyone unshrink it when they got home, but maybe they have enough stuff that they don’t need to wear what’s in their trunk over the summer.
But the idea of leaving, of going back to the Dursleys, feels awful. For the first time in his life, he’s found somewhere that feels like home, with people he likes, and now he’s going to have to go to Surrey for months.
Draco flops down on the bed next to him, draping his legs over Harry’s; Harry startles and almost pokes him in the face with his wand before he catches himself. “Stop moping,” Draco tells him. “Yes, it’s awful that you need to go back to your muggles, but you can just owl us. And it’s only a few months.”
“They’re not my muggles,” Harry says stiffly, wriggling away because Draco’s legs feel claustrophobic, like they’re holding him down and blocking him in. Draco scowls at him.
“They’re the muggles you live with—they’re your muggles. Will you stop moving?”
“Will you stop touching me?” Harry snaps back.
Draco stills, then scowls at him. “What’s wrong with you? You’re going home, not to Azkaban. Relax.”
Harry rolls off his bed so Draco can’t see whatever is on his face, because he doesn’t want to explain to Draco how awful the idea going back to the Dursleys is. Because Draco won’t get it, and he’ll think it’s about muggles when it’s really about the Dursleys, and Harry just doesn’t want to have that conversation. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and his voice is a little sharper than he had intended, but he can’t help that. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Draco stares at him, then says, “Okay, fine, whatever.”
--
Harry is waylaid by Ron and Hermione on the way to the Hogwarts Express, and he ends up in a cabin with the two of them. He’s not sure where Draco is, probably in a cabin with Crabbe and Goyle—who he goes to when he’s annoyed at Harry, because they never argue with him and listen to everything he says and frankly aren’t intelligent enough to produce an idea in opposition to him—and likely with Blaise and Theo as well. And it bothers Harry that Draco doesn’t come find him, but he supposes he doesn’t go find him either, but he knows Draco is annoyed at him, so he doesn’t want to bother him.
And Ron and Hermione are enough for him for the train ride, and it’s good to be able to see them before he’s going to be stuck with the Dursleys for a summer.
“If you send me Hedwig,” Hermione tells him after they finish changing into muggle clothes, as the train nears Kings Cross, “I can send you a letter back with her.” She frowns. “I could send you regular mail, if you want, that might be easier. Just give me your address, and I’ll—”
Imagining the Dursleys’ responses if he gets mail from anyone, he blurts out, “No, that’s okay. Don’t—I’ll send Hedwig.”
“Are you sure?” She pulls out a piece of parchment and a quill. “It’s no trouble, to send you mail, and you can send Hedwig to people who don’t know how the mail works.” She glances over at Ron, who shrugs. “It’s really no trouble, Harry.”
“No, I—” Harry makes a face. “The Dursleys won’t like me getting mail, I don’t think, especially not from, you know, wizards. Witches. They probably wouldn’t let me keep it.”
Hermione eyes him for a moment, then says, “Okay, if you’re sure. But don’t wait too long to write. I want to hear from you.”
“Yeah,” Ron says. “Maye not as much as Hermione wants you to write, but—” Hermione hits his arm, and he grins at her. “I’m just saying, you’re probably looking for a dissertation, and I’ll settle for, you know, words.”
Harry laughs. “I’ll try for somewhere in between. And you two write me, too. I’m going to go spare, stuck alone at the Dursleys.”
“You’ll get a chance to do all of your homework early,” Hermione says cheerfully. “I’ve already started mine, of course—not all of it, I haven’t gotten a chance, but I’m partway through the essay for Potions, and—”
“No,” Ron says loudly. “We just got out of school, we’re not going to talk about it right now. If I have to look at another piece of bloody Potions theory—”
“And this is why you never finish your homework on time.”
“It’s been less than a day,” Ron protests. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it, just that I’m sane enough not to want to talk about it right now.”
“What about you?” Hermione asks, and they both turn in unison to look at Harry, who raises his hands in his air.
“I’m not getting between you,” he tells them.
Looking disappointed, Hermione turns to look back out the window, and Ron grins at Harry once she’s not looking. Harry grins back. He’s going to miss them, this summer. But at least they’ll write, and he won’t be totally alone.