Potions, even with Snape’s threat in mind, is actually alright – except, unfortunately, for the fact that Hermione is refusing to speak to him. She gave one sharp comment about how could you be so disrespectful, and then ignored him for the rest of the lesson, even when he asked her to pass the daisy stems.

His other lessons, at least, all went well – until Transfiguration last period.

“What is that, Potter?” Harry looks up from his Transfiguration notes as he very neatly and carefully transcribes them from the board, peering up at McGonagall through his glasses. She really does hate him at the moment, and he hopes it wears off, because she’s more than a little terrifying. She points to the notes stacked on the desk from his back, and he looks at them.

“Oh, they’re just my notes from last week, Ma-”

“Is Augusta Longbottom offering you tutelage in Transfiguration, Potter?” Harry flushes pink as some of the Hufflepuffs titter, and he moves to grab the stack and put them into his bag, but McGonagall stops him short, grasping at the letter on top.

“Professor McGonagall, that’s private correspondence. I must have picked up my letters instead of my notes this morning.”

McGonagall ignores him, scanning the page, and Harry huffs out an irritated sound; she begins to look through the pages, and it’s a stack of seven: two from Molly Weasley, and then new replies from Amelia Bones, Augusta Longbottom, Lucius Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks. He hasn’t even read them yet.

“Professor-”

“Stay behind after class please, Mr Potter.” McGonagall speaks cleanly, and she replaces the letter on the pile; a few of the Hufflepuffs ooh, and Harry makes a mental note to tell Ernie MacMillan where to shove it the next time he asks Harry how to perform a polishing charm – Slytherin, it seems, is the only house that teaches basic application of household charms.

He crosses his arms over his chest as he stands in front of her desk after class – this is just great. Snape hates him, and now McGonagall is going to victimize him too, as if he needs this.

“It’s not against the school rules to send and receive letters, Professor,” Harry says as soon as the last Hufflepuff has reluctantly filtered out of the room.

“Mr Potter, why are you writing letters to these people?”

“With respect, Professor, that’s none of your business.”

McGonagall takes the letter from Mrs Longbottom, opening it to the second page, and Harry notices something he hadn’t when he’d opened it from the envelope – a photograph pinned to the front, marked 1978 on the back. He puts out his hand immediately, and she presses it to his fingers: an older couple, labelled Frank and Alice, with a man Harry recognizes as well as his own reflection.

The photograph moves, and Harry sees the woman – Alice – repeatedly lean away, laughing, as his father shoves Frank in the chest, the motion repeated every few seconds as the photograph loops back. His chest aches to look at it, to see his own father laughing – he’s so young, how old must he be? 18? 19?

Two years before Harry was born – how old would he be now? In his thirties?

“That’s my dad. I do look like him.” He whispers the words, and he’s surprised to hear his own voice come out thickly.

“Yes, James and Lily knew the Longbottoms quite well. They were a few years above them at school.”

McGonagall is looking at him with an oddly pinched expression on her face, and Harry can see her eyes are shining slightly. She breathes in, and then she says,

“Potter, your father was one of my Gryffindors. I taught him while he was at school. I quite understand if you are reaching out, hoping to find more information about he and your mother. You are- welcome in my office, if you wish to talk about them.”

Harry stares at McGonagall, just for a few seconds, and then he says, in a very small voice, slightly surprised, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

McGonagall gives a curt nod, and Harry moves towards the door, but then he turns back, hesitating for a second before asking, “What did my mum look like?”

She frowns. “Didn’t you live with your mother’s sister, Petunia?”

Harry debates it, for a second – it’s embarrassing, to talk about his aunt and uncle, but on the other, he might not get sent back there if people know how horrible they are. “I was never allowed to talk about my parents, Ma’am. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said they were freaks who died in a car crash. I never knew what either of them looked like.”

He watches lines tighten in McGonagall’s face, watches the furious red that had come about when he’d insulted her last week come to her cheeks. Maybe he won’t have to go back to the Dursleys in the summer after all.

“She was a short girl, not much taller than you. Beautiful red hair down to her shoulders, green eyes just like yours. She was ever so pretty – James was infatuated with her even at your age.”Harry smiles a little, giving a slow nod, and McGonagall watches him with a sad expression on her face, but she doesn't look angry at all now.

---

Harry whispers Extinguo from where he crouches against the next staircase, watching the lamps either side of the Fat Lady dim a little, and then he really carefully moves down as she lets out a loud noise of complaint.

He hears the girls walk up the stairs – all three of them are chasers on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and he's seen them zoom about at practice under the command of Oliver Wood.

“Caput Draconis!” One of them, a strikingly beautiful girl Harry knows is named Angelina, gives the password cleanly, and Harry smirks. He knows where all the common rooms are, now – the Hufflepuffs are by the kitchens, the Ravenclaws are up in another tower, and the Gryffindors are behind the Fat Lady: most importantly, of course, he now knows the password.

“Your torches are looking a bit dim, Ma’am.” Harry speaks politely as he looks up at the Fat Lady, having casually walked down the stairs he’d been hidden on while she’d been looking the other way, and she huffs at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You should go down to the dungeons, child, where you belong.”

“I just wanted you to know, if you’d like me to fix them before I do.”

Harry holds up the box of matches he uses for Potions class, and her frown falters a little as she shifts in her painted seat.

“Very well. I’d be grateful.” She lifts her chin, looking down at him with an aristocratic arrogance, and Harry stands on his very tip-toes to set the match against the torches and get them flaming properly again. With that, he flicks the match through the air to extinguish it again.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And- Ma’am?”

“Yes, child?”

“Caput Draconis.”

“You sneaky little-”

The rest of her insult is cut off as she swings backwards, and Harry neatly steps into the common room, walking directly up to another member of the Quidditch team and tapping him on the shoulder. No one really glances his way, and Wood looks completely surprised as he turns his head and stares at Harry.

“Excuse me? Captain Wood?”

“Who- what in the Hell are you doing in he-”

“I just want to talk. It’s about Quidditch.”

Wood grabs him by the back of the robes and begins to haul Harry out onto the grand staircase again, infuriated by the way he grins up at the older man. Wood scowls at him.

“How did you-”

“I want you to teach me how to play Quidditch.”

“Ask Flint.” Harry laughs, making Wood look started.

“Flint will want me on the team. I don’t want to be on the team. You don’t want me on the team.” Wood stares at him, his thick brow furrowing. He’s a burly lad, broad and well-built, but Harry isn’t intimidated – he can see the catch in the boy’s face; he’s heard Marcus Flint talk about how passionate Wood is about Quidditch. Harry is intent on banking on that obsession.

“Why don't you want to be on the team?” Wood asks, as if he's asking why Harry doesn't want to keep breathing. Harry shrugs his shoulders. Quidditch looks like a fun game, but the boys on the Quidditch team are built like giants, and he's seen the way the Bludgers whistle through the air at practice. Even if he'd be unlikely to die, one of those things would probably hurt.

“Why don’t I want you on the team?”

“Madam Hooch says I fly like a demon.” Wood crosses his arms over his chest.

“Talk, snake.”

“You take Hermione and Neville aside, under guise of giving them extra lessons. I join in because we’re friends. You teach me the rules, and I don’t join the team. You don’t narrow your chance at the cup even further.”

“Why?” Harry grins.

“Does it matter?”

“I want this in writing.” Harry shrugs.

“Okay.” Wood scowls, just a second more, and then he puts out his broad hand: Harry shakes it, offering a grin in return. He then says,

“This is secret, though. I came up here to ask about my crush on Angelina if anyone asks.”

“You have a crush on Angelina?” Wood asks, stumped, and Harry frowns at him. Angelina is pretty, but-

“Wood. I’m eleven.”

“Right, right. Well. See you, Potter. Granger will let you know.”

--

“Hello, Hermione,” Harry says reasonably as she storms over to the Slytherin table, and he smiles at her pleasantly, looking up from his conversation with the Bloody Baron – they’re sat together towards the end of the table. He’d wanted to ask the man a few questions for his History of Magic homework and, for reasons Harry quite understands as he considers the silver bloodstains down the Baron’s robe, no one had much wanted to sit with them.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

“I’m not doing it! I won’t do it.”

“It’ll help you be more comfortable on a broom,” Harry points out.

“I don’t want to be comfortable on a broom!”

“You want to be uncomfortable?” The Baron speaks in a scathing, rasping tone, but Hermione, to her credit, is a bit too angry of Harry to be scared of Slytherin’s bloodied house ghost.

“I don’t want to be on a broom at all, thank you very much!” The Baron looks surprised, arching his eyebrows and leaning back slightly, and Hermione turns back to Harry.

“What about Neville? Neville’s gran would probably be really happy with him if he could ride a broom properly.”

Hermione crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s just for Neville.”

“Just for Neville, totally.” Harry grins at her, and after an exasperated huff, she offers a slight smile.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Lucky I’ve got you then, isn’t it?”