It happened on a Monday afternoon, in the middle of lunch. Malfoy startled him. Malfoy did that a lot, so normally, it wouldn't have mattered. But this time, Harry hadn't managed a trip to the loo before lunch like he usually did. Gotten out of Charms late.

And it was with the most painful blush he'd ever experienced that Harry realised he'd just wet his pants. 

At first, he thought perhaps he could hide it, at least until he could go and change. After all, his robes were rather baggy and black. But the acrid smell of urine rising in the air and crinkling the noses of those seated around him told him quickly that was not going to be an option.

"Did you just wet your pants, Potter?" Malfoy exclaimed gleefully, his voice calculated to be just loud enough for everyone at the surrounding tables to hear him. Harry flushed harder, to the tips of his ears. His fingers dug so tightly into the table edge, he thought they might break.

"Of course not," Harry squeaked, but the dampness of the bench beneath him proved otherwise. Even Ron was edging away from him, and Hermione looked torn between disgust and wanting to help him. Harry jumped up, stumbling over the frayed edge of his robes, and fled for the relative sanctuary of the dormitory, leaving behind a damp stain on the bench, and the particular miasma of pants-wetting that had made his primary school years a torment. 

He'd always had a problem with losing control of his bladder. Ever since he was small. Aunt Petunia had been very lax about potty-training. For her ickle Duddykins, she lavished praise and treats, but for Harry, he was lucky if he managed to dodge her stray kicks. He couldn't dodge the angry words, the little barbs that stung even a toddler's ears.

And Uncle Vernon hated him. Harry knew that. Even if he hadn't shown signs of being a wizard, Uncle Vernon would have never treated him properly. He liked to sneak up on Harry, to make him jump, to make him lose control, and then when he did, he'd be heavily punished. Being locked in the cupboard under the stairs was a frequent occurrence, where he was left with the household cleaners and a very dirty bucket for company. If he couldn't behave like a normal boy, then he wouldn't be allowed in polite company until he could, Aunt Petunia would hiss at him through the tiny vent in the door. Freak.

Deep down inside, Harry knew that it wasn't his fault. That it was his uncle's and aunt's and fat, bullying cousin's. But far more prevalent was the dark, burning shame.

The same shame that now spread thickly through his entire body as he scrubbed his body nearly raw in the showers and changed his clothes, stuffing the stained ones in the hamper for the house elves to take away. No one had followed him up here, at least. Thank Merlin for small favours. But Harry dreaded going back. He couldn't miss his afternoon classes. Hermione would have conniptions. But...

He slumped at the edge of his bed and scrubbed his hands roughly through his hair. Everyone would laugh at him now. Call him a baby. Malfoy would never let him live it down, either, he realised glumly. The Slytherin hated him, made fun of him at every opportunity, even imagined ones, and this? This would be like Christmas morning all over again for Malfoy.

No matter, Harry resolved. It couldn't be that big of a deal anyway, right? Not for long, anyway. He was sure it would all blow over by Friday.

~*~*~*~

Harry dragged himself into the Gryffindor common room the following Sunday, feeling like the biggest git alive. 

It hadn't blown over. If anything, it had gotten worse. The Slytherins had made sure of that, led by that pompous prat Draco Malfoy. The Gryffindors had at least mostly stood by him, although several of the older years kept giving him disgusted looks when they thought no one was looking. Still, House loyalty was sticking, and Harry was grateful for it.

The rest of Hogwarts, however... He suppressed a wince as he dropped like a sack of turnips into the nearest chair. They were very careful to do it away from the prying eyes of the professors, was the thing. Acid whispers in the hallways. Using baby talk. Always using baby talk. "Aww has widdle Hawwy had another accident in his pantsy-wantsys?" And similar comments until Harry was certain his face would never go back to its proper colour. The newest idea was transfiguring various items around him into bibs and baby rattles. He supposed at least they tended to be in Gryffindor colours.

"I still think you should tell Professor McGonagall," Hermione opined behind him. Harry jumped, desperately afraid for a moment he'd repeated the embarrassment that had led to his current predicament. But no, his trousers remained welcomely dry.

"No," he said stubbornly.

"Professor Snape, then?" Hermione offered. Harry shuddered. The Slytherin Head of House had always seemed a right git to him and Ron, although Hermione seemed to like him all right. 

This time, Ron spoke up for him.

"Are you mad, Hermione?" Ron asked, adding in a shudder of his own. "It's his bloody House that started it!" Hermione chewed her bottom lip, eyeing the floor.

"Yes, well...I just have a feeling that he could help," she offered quietly. "At least think about it, Harry! If you won't go to Professor McGonagall..."

"Yeah, 'cause the dungeon bat would be so much better," Ron scoffed. Harry tended to agree with him, and yet...

Professor McGonagall always seemed to him like the kind of witch you didn't want to cross. Or even bother. Head of House or not, she gave off that aura of "it had better be life and death if you're in my office." And despite what his friends seemed to think, a bit of bullying wasn't enough to make Harry do that. He'd had worse from his cousin, after all. He was well used to Harry Hunting and all the things that went along with it. Besides, even with Malfoy instigating so much, surely it couldn't last forever? And then wouldn't he feel silly, ratting out most of the school to McGonagall like some sort of--well, like some sort of crybaby.

Professor Snape, on the other hand, well. If Harry was just being a git about it all, Snape would tell him. Quite bluntly. He wouldn't have to worry about that awkward, stern glance at him through small spectacles, like he was some sort of fascinating bug pinned on a card. Most of the faculty looked at him that way. Like he wasn't a normal student. He knew he was the Boy Who Lived, but You-Know-Who was dead. Had been dead for quite a while. The Headmaster and the Minister of Magic had confirmed it, apparently when Harry himself was three years old. Why that made him special, Harry hadn't quite figured out.

Still, if he was being a crybaby, Snape would inform him and all would be right with his world once more. Hermione would be appeased. Ron would be, once he got over the shock of Harry seeing the Potions professor. And Harry could go back to trying to accept suddenly finding himself in a transfigured diaper in the middle of the dungeons and a bib tied round his neck with the sloppiest handwriting he'd ever seen reading "Widdle Hawwy."

Harry couldn't help but smile slightly and snuggle deeper into the chair, listening to his friends bicker like normal. If it kept on, he'd just go talk to Professor Snape. But he was sure it would stop soon. It had to. Surely someone else would do something embarrassing soon and they'd forget about him. Right?