He’s the last one to pass through the gate to platform nine and three quarters. He knows this because parents are waving and crying, and the attendants are closing the doors. Pulling his suitcase behind him, he runs as fast as his legs will carry him, almost flinging himself at the train.

“Better late than never, son...I suppose,” the attendant grumbles at him, taking his suitcase. Harry apologises profusely and gets onto the Hogwarts Express. As he takes a seat in an empty cabin, panting to get his breath back, not once does his mind wander to Ron and Hermione. With the way he’s feeling now, he can’t bear to look at them, to have them see him like he is – nervous, exhausted and angry. So angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world. Before he got through the gate, he’d already decided to keep his distance, at least until he was able to unpack and jump in the shower. He missed the shower so much.

It’s dark outside, black clouds covering the sky. Leaning his head against the window, he closes his eyes in the vague hope he might be able to nod off, but as the rain beats down on the windows he’s reminded of his journey to Hogwarts last year. As the image of a dementor crosses his mind, he opens his eyes with a start. 

He’s never felt safe, not even in the presence of his friends or Dumbledore. While Voldemort still exists in the world, he’ll always be at risk – it’s only now that this fact has started to depress him. Just knowing what he’ll have to go through to feel at ease, like a normal boy, gives him the shakes. He’s already lost so much. 

Gazing out into the darkness, he thinks of Sirius, he thinks of his parents dancing in the mirror of Erised, he thinks about the fragility of life – all things a young boy shouldn’t have to think about.

He can’t remember much from his early life as a child; but as memories go, his fifth birthday is scarcely far from the forefront of his mind and, though faded around the edges, there’s little he doesn’t remember about that day. 

They were whispering as he stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“He’s not ours!” Uncle Vernon hissed at his wife. “We don’t have to do anything for the boy! Those...those freaks put this burden on our doorstep four years ago. He may be your sister’s spawn, but he’s a freak just like the rest of them. We keep him alive; that’s all that was asked of us. We have our own son to take care of.”

“Well, we can’t just let him walk around the house all day. People will talk!” Petunia said through gritted teeth.

“Him even being in this house...my house...it makes me sick to my stomach, but I know how to keep the boy reigned in,” Vernon said, menacingly. “God knows, if he’s anything like his father, he’ll need some old-fashioned discipline.” Harry’s eyes widened at the mention of his father. Even at that young age, he could feel the pangs of sorrow tug at his heart. “Leave the neighbours to me.”

That was the first day of the rest of Harry’s childhood. Everything went wrong from that day – the first time Vernon Dursley took the extra precaution of locking the door of the cupboard under the stairs, leaving Harry to scratch and scream until he collapsed in exhaustion.

The next day, the entire neighbourhood were talking about the boy the Dursleys were bravely raising as their own – their deeply disturbed nephew; the one who couldn’t be trusted around normal people.

“Anything from the trolley, Love?”

*THUD*

Harry’s head bounces off the window pane at the sound of a voice. He turns to her, blinking away the tired droop in his eyes.

“The trolley, can I get you something? A chocolate frog?”

“Uh, no thanks. Not hungry.”

“Are you okay? You’re looking a bit peaky?”

He feels it too.

“Yeah. Fine, thank you. Just a little tired.”

“Well, we’ll be arriving soon, then you can get a proper night sleep,” the woman says with a smile before closing the sliding door and moving down the train.

How long was I out of it? Harry thinks. He realises he’s just spent the whole time staring blankly out of the train. He knows he was thinking of something, but he can’t place it and he’s not terribly sure that he wants to. I’ve missed the whole journey.

Sometimes, he loves that feeling. He can’t help but smile that, even though he’s not at Privet Drive, he hasn’t lost the ability to lose time when he wants to. Wiping his hand over his face, he prepares to close his eyes and zone out for the rest of the journey, when the cabin door slides to one side with a tremendous whoooosh and Hermione glares at him, a sheepish looking Ron peering over her shoulder.

“We thought you’d missed the train!” she sharply says, advancing on Harry. “Why didn’t you come and find us?” She reaches out to hug him, not noticing when his whole body goes rigid in her arms.

“Yeah, mate. We were worried. Thought you’d decided not to come back this year,” Ron says, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips.

Harry searches his head for excuses, reasons, anything that can explain why he didn’t make the effort to find them, other than; I just want to be alone right now. That won’t go down well at all.

“I-I just didn’t want to make a fuss. I was late and...and I figured I’d see you both when we got there anyway.” His body visibly relaxes when he sees them both smile slightly, having believed him.

They share stories of their summers, Harry getting away with saying, “Oh, you know. The usual.” They seemed to understand. For the last twenty minutes, the cabin was rife with idle chat – Harry even pitched in a comment or two, but mainly settled for nodding along. Though he really wasn’t looking forward to seeing them before he was psyched up enough for the school year ahead, he’d forgotten just how easy they were to listen to. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be thinking about someone else’s life and all their exploits instead of his own. Over the summer, he’d forgotten a lot of things.

He’s too tired to unpack tonight. All Harry wants is to feel clean and to sleep without worrying all the time. Even the threat of the Dark Lord doesn’t stir up as much worry and bile in his stomach as the thought of his uncle ‘teaching him a lesson’ at all hours of the day. Time was never an issue. Whether 3am or 2pm, punishment was copious and frequent, safety non-existent.

As the water hits his back, Harry stretches into it like a flower yearning for sun, catching every ray. He waves his hand through the wisps of steam, relishing the warmth in the knowledge that, of all the places he could be right now, at least no one will come and bother him in the shower.

“Took your time, mate,” Ron says light heartedly as Harry finally leaves the bathroom. Harry manages to muster a fairly convincing laugh before Ron pushes past him and runs a shower for himself.

His mind wanders to thoughts of a warm, comfortable bed – unlike the one he has in Little Whinging – one without lumps and springs knotting up his body.

No one can sleep in a bed like that, not even Ron, and he can sleep anywhere – bed, floor, grass, stairs!

When his body relaxes into the mattress, he feels like he’s floating on a cloud, so much so that his body can’t take it any longer and without a fight, he drifts off.

His sleep is fitful, the covers twisting around him as his arms flail at random intervals. Stories seem to play out in his head, altered truths, memories his mind has broken into pieces and seemingly stuck back together in the wrong order. One minute he’s twelve years old, the next he’s fifteen and he feels more terrified than he did when he was younger. Sometimes, he wakes up feeling ashamed of this. Other times, he wakes in such a mess that he can’t really remember anything, just that he’s been dreaming, and without warning, his body lurches forward in a fit to dispel whatever painful, dark feelings his body is harbouring. It’s rare that he ever sleeps the whole night through, but when he does, he wakes with a clear head and it’s a feeling worth savouring.

Tonight is one of the bad nights. He’d expected it, but there was nothing he could do to stop it – sans not sleeping at all.

It’s past midnight and the school grounds are quiet. The sound of snoring can still be heard, but through the walls it’s more like a soft purring. Ron, however, isn’t snoring. He’s too preoccupied watching his friend in the bed across from him. He watches Harry toss and turn, limbs jerking out awkwardly and he doesn’t know what to do. He hopes it will pass, that he won’t have to intervene and wake him up, but when a small moan escapes Harry’s lips and Ron catches a glimpse of his face, pained, brow coated in sweat, he can’t bear to let it go on any longer.

He starts calling out, even before he’s approached the bed, thinking, if I woke up in the middle of the night with someone standing over me, I’d probably have a heart attack.

“Harry,” he says softly, “Harry, mate. Wake up.” Getting closer to the bed, Ron raises his voice. “Harry...” Harry continues to shift in his bed, fingers curling into his palms. “Harry!” Ron barks, but as his hand touches Harry’s shoulder, the covers are thrown from the bed, and a fly-away fist collides with Ron’s face.

“Oww!” Ron tumbles back onto the floor, cupping his nose. It’s bleeding, but thankfully not gushing. Ron being Ron, he tugs at his t-shirt and lifts it up, pressing the fabric to his face to stem the blood flow. Looking up, he’s startled when he sees Harry’s form sat upright in the bed, staring off into the distance.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” he says, and he’s going to carry on, but Harry doesn’t react, doesn’t even look at him. “Uh...hey?” Ron gets up and cautiously waves his free hand in front of Harry’s face, feeling his own anger recede when he sees the sadness in his friend’s eyes.

Eventually, Ron’s waving hand catches Harry’s attention and he looks Ron dead in the eyes, confused and ever so slightly swaying.

“What...what are...why are you...I...I missed the...the...” his voice drifts off.

“The feast? Yeah, but you looked exhausted. ‘Mione told me not to wake you... You alright? You were scaring me a bit...”

“Yeah. Yeah m’fine...” he just about manages to slur before letting his eyes fall closed again and flopping back down on his bed.

“Harry?” Ron says, but it’s no use, he’s asleep again.

He wakes in the morning with the sun trying desperately to pierce the curtains. Rubbing his eyes, he blinks a few times – he doesn’t feel rested at all, but then again, he wasn’t expecting to, not on his first night back. Stumbling out of bed, he realises just how hot and sticky he is and heads for the shower again, but as he turns the water on, something deep in his gut makes him feel guilty, like he’s taking the shower for granted.

This is silly, he thinks, shaking the thoughts from his head, everyone has to shower. Just because I wasn’t allowed before...it doesn’t mean I can’t now. It doesn’t.

But even reasoning with himself doesn’t quell the guilt.

He’s barely in there for five minutes before he shuts off the hose and gets out to get dressed. Ron’s still asleep, completely oblivious to the fact he has Potions in an hour. Harry, on the other hand, knows full well what his first class is and he’s dreading it much more than usual.

There was barely a day that he could keep his emotions in check over the summer. Every little thing had a big impact, and this in turn had an even larger impact on his uncle’s punishments. Professor Snape, though less threatening than his uncle, has always had a way of twisting the knife just right and since Harry’s head is fighting chaos at the moment, he has the added worry that he’ll make a complete fool out of himself in class.

That’s all I need, to give Snape and Malfoy more ammunition...

Checking his watch again, he realises he should probably wake Ron.

“Hey, Ron, get up,” he says, giving him a forceful shove.

“Mmm...ge’off...” Ron mumbles, so Harry opts for a different technique.

“Ron, you’re late for Potions!” he yells and suddenly Ron flips upright like a switch blade.

“I-I’m what?!” he panics, kicking off his duvet.

Harry laughs heartily, the first time he’s properly laughed in months.

“You think that’s funny? I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks now.” It’s only when Harry gets a proper look at Ron that he notices it.

“What happened to your nose?” He’s honestly confused.

“You happened to it.” Ron gets out of bed and wanders into the bathroom, checking his face in the mirror. “You don’t remember?” Harry’s face contorts.

“Wait, I did that to you?”

“Yeah, you were asleep at the time...well, you weren’t...but you sort of were...”

“Oh. Uh, sorry Ron, I don’t...It wasn’t intentional...I don’t even remember doing it.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. You did seem a bit out of it.” Ron inspects himself closer in the mirror. “Gave me one hell of a shiner though,” he laughs, “I’ve never had a black eye before. Makes me look...rugged...” he drifts off, admiring his injury.

Harry’s not listening; he’s too busy looking at his knuckles, trying to recall the moment he hit out, but he’s not sure that he wants to remember what happened.

“Dumbledore asked about you...at the Feast I mean.”

“The Feast! I slept right through it!” Harry says, only just noticing how hungry he is.

“Yeah, I told Dumbledore you were asleep. He seemed okay with it.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked like death. Hermione said to leave you...didn’t we already have this conversation?”

Harry was about to say something, but his watch caught his eye again. “Never mind that, Ron! If you don’t hurry up, we are gonna be late for Snape!” Ron’s face fell and he quickly gathered up some clothes and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Several minutes later, there’s still no sign of him.

“Come on, Ron!” Harry shouts through the bathroom door. And with that, the door swings open revealing a scruffy looking Ron, hair mussed up, robes hanging off his shoulder and, much to both of their surprise, a fresh trickle of blood descending from one nostril.

“Ron, your nose.”

He wipes it on the back of his hand, visibly paling at the sight of the blood. If there is one thing he was thankful for last night, it was the darkness – it meant he couldn’t see the blood.

“Here,” Harry says, holding out a wad of tissues. Blood doesn’t bother him anymore. “We’ve got to go; he’ll have you in detention for a month...he’ll have me in detention all year.” Picking up their books, he tugs on Ron’s robes, pulling him out the door. Harry almost runs the whole way there, practically carrying a sick-looking Ron on his arm. By the time they get to class, Harry is panting and Ron looks about to collapse, the blood from his nose now dripping from the sodden tissue and down his arm. Ducking in, they take their seats, sighing with relief that Snape doesn’t appear to be there yet.

“Where have you been?” Hermione hisses, “Ron! What have you done to your –” but she doesn’t have time to finish before Snape appears from behind them.

“Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, you’re late,” he says as coolly as ever, marching to the front of the class.

How does he know?

“Five points each from Gryffindor.” A sigh reverberates throughout the room as the Gryffindor students shoot Ron and Harry a glare.

Snape whips round to look at his students and eyes Ron’s pale, bloody face with a hybrid of frustration and amusement.

“I see it’s you, Mr Weasley, who left the trail of blood into my classroom. You’ll clean that up after class.” Stepping forward, he places a hand on Ron’s head, forcefully tipping his head back and pulling out his wand. Ron panics, gripping the table hard with his fingers tips. The Slytherins giggle at the small whimper that escapes Ron’s lips. “Unless you want to end up with your nose double the size it is now, I suggest you calm yourself, Mr Weasley!” As Snape raises his wand, Ron closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath.

“Nasa-cortalis.” Much to Ron’s surprise, at the flick of Snape’s wand, the bleeding stops.

Letting go of Ron’s head, Snape puts his wand away and stalks back to the front of the class.

“He’s one to talk about big noses,” Ron mutters under his breath and Harry sniggers despite himself. Hermione just looks irritated.

“Turn to page 242.” Snape folds his robes across himself, knotting his arms together. “Read through the instructions carefully. Once you have done so, collect your equipment and begin brewing. Anyone seen neglecting their potion will be kept back after class. Go.”

Nobody needs to be told twice by Snape. Minutes go by and, as if by clockwork, the room suddenly erupts, filling with the sound of screeching chairs, clunking potion bottles and the faint murmur of people talking amongst themselves. The entire class are milling around, collecting books and squabbling over who gets the brand new pieces of equipment and who has to use the old, rusty ones.

As Ron tries to get up, he’s immediately accosted.

“Nice eye, Weasleby. What happened, trouble with the boyfriend?” Malfoy smirks and swaggers off to a cauldron. Ron’s too queasy, so he doesn’t retort, but Harry can barely resist the urge to hit Malfoy in the nose.

Seeing that he’s still a bit unsteady on his legs, Harry leads Ron to an empty cauldron before finding his own – and it’s just his luck that the only cauldron left is right next to Malfoy.

Just keep quiet and he’ll leave you alone.

He takes some of his ingredients and begins preparing the daisy roots for the potion.

“Surprised you even bothered coming back this year, Potter,” Malfoy spits out. “Didn’t think you’d have much to come back to.”

Ignore him; he’ll get bored with you soon.

Harry continues chopping his ingredients, maybe a little more violently than necessary. Malfoy does the same, but keeps talking, his voice now a quiet, menacing whisper.

“No family, no friends, I’m surprised Weasley and Granger still put up with you.”

Harry stops chopping, swallowing back the emotion rising inside him.

“It won’t be long until they leave you too. It was you who gave Weasley the black eye?”

“It- it wasn’t like that –”

Snape looks up from his desk, eyeing them both suspiciously, but they don’t notice.

“Won’t be long ‘til you snap at Granger too. Then who’ll you have?”

Harry goes back to his potion, but can’t concentrate. He can feel himself getting overwhelmed, flustered almost. He expected anger, the urge to lash out, but he inwardly cringes at the painfully sad feeling trying to tear out of his body. He literally has to blink back the heavy feeling behind his eyes.

Malfoy casually throws a handful of ingredients into his cauldron, watching Harry out the corner of his eye. “People are always worse off for being around you. Face it, Potter. By the end of this year, you’ll be alone.”

I already feel alone.

Harry keeps his eyes on his cauldron, hanging his head as much as he can without drawing attention to himself. Unbeknownst to him, Snape is still watching, though he can’t quite make out what’s being said over the murmur of other students.

Malfoy scoffs. “Even your own parents left you.”

Harry doesn’t expect it when the flood gates open. He doesn’t expect it when the tears spill from his eyes like water from a burst dam. He tries to hide it, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. Malfoy’s still talking, but everything’s started buzzing and all Harry can think is, I need to get out of here. I need to get away, now.

Feeling a wracking sob building in his chest, his breaths quicken and even Malfoy shoots him a quizzical look.

I can’t do this, not in front of all these people. Not here.

Before his brain can convince him otherwise, he finds himself blurting out, “Professor!” instead of a sob, though his voice sounds choked and pained. Hermione is busy concentrating, but Ron looks over at him. Harry keeps his head ducked into his chest, pretending to work, waiting for Ron to look away.

Snape stands up and strides over to Harry. “What is it now, Mr Potter?” Snape says slowly, giving Malfoy an unmistakeable, get back to work, glare. For once though, Snape looks uncomfortable. He’s seen Harry’s face, though the boy is looking down at his cauldron, but he doesn’t mention it. He can’t.

“I need to – can I be excused, Professor. I-I need to get some air,” he says hastily.

“Look at me when you’re talking to me, Potter.” Snape doesn’t know why he says it. It just makes it more awkward, looking into those eyes.

Harry looks up at Snape, but can’t hold his gaze. He’s ashamed of himself, now all he wants to do is let it all out, but he’s not in the right place at all. “Please, Professor. I ha...I have to...to g-go...to get out...of here,” he pleads through shaky breaths.

“Pull yourself together, Potter!” Snape hisses at him, but Harry can’t. He honestly can’t stop.

Surely even Snape isn’t stupid enough to think I’m doing this on purpose...

“Professor, I...”

“Fine, as you wish, go. But you’re to come back tonight to finish your potion,” he says, sternly.

“Thank you, Professor.” And for the first time in his life, Harry actually means it. Rushing for the door, he bolts into the corridor, a curious Severus Snape watching as he goes.

One day back and he’s already creating drama, Snape thinks, but his gut tells him there’s something going on. Something more than just teenage hormones.