The slippery sound of silk brushed over Harry’s ears, alarmingly soft in spite of how vile he’d recently found the sensation.

He had so few words to describe the way it felt as it rolled across his cheek and down his nose, utterly lovely—

Utterly pleased.

If Harry felt bolder, he might’ve rocked his head from side to side and enjoyed that pleasure fully. He almost smiled at the notion of feeling bold, given how well that word went down in the past—and truly, who would want to have that label branded into their skin—but, if he wanted to smile he’d have needed to move his lips; such busy things.

Distantly, Harry recognized that sweet sweep of silk over his cheeks again, now moving alongside a whispering sound.

Oh!

He knew that sound.

It’d been such a comforting sound at Privet Drive, one that meant Dudley and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t bother him. Aunt Petunia could never be distracted like the rest of her family, but even when that distant sound echoed, she could be tempted to let Harry out and give him some dinner, or just let him pick out a few of Dudley’s dented or worn army men.

Yes, Harry knew that sound well; gently hissing TV static. Mop and Smiff must’ve come on, and Dudley must be very entertained.

Harry could think of no other reason for why he might feel so comfortable.

A pleasant voice in the back of his head agreed whole-heartedly, and reminded him, lacking lips yet somehow smiling, of how smart he’d been to patiently wait and listen while Aunt Petunia washed the dishes. If he’d shouted and banged in the door, she’d never have let him out.

No, never.

Silk slipped down Harry’s nose, while a gentle tap, tap, tap, joined it. It splattered here and there with sudsy warm water dripping down his cheeks. It could be tears, given how warm it felt, but Harry didn’t think so. He didn’t feel sad. He felt elated.

He felt euphoric.

He felt utterly, undeniably—

Harry sucked in a wet gasp. The foul smelling corridor swallowed him on all sides, only now a far more putrid scent overtook it. It’d become horribly familiar, so much so that Harry spied tombstones peeking out from behind the slick black stone walls.

“Ron!” Hermione cried. Her panicked breath echoed in his ears. He remembered running with her moments ago, held taut in Ron’s arms before being nearly brained on a book bag.

“I don’t know! I don’t know, Hermione!”

“Harry,” Ginny said, having appeared in front of him, her dark brown eyes flat and fierce. “We need you to think back—”

“Think back when?” Harry asked as his euphoria disappeared like smoke up his throat. He tried to find his snitch, but it’d fled.

“Think back now, please?”

“What does that mean?”

“You said s-something,” Ginny said, clutching Harry close. “You said something and—”

“Ron!”

“I see it!”

“Diffindo!” Hermione cried, flicking her wand in a sharp movement as dim light bloomed and the scent of iron erupted around them.

Harry shivered and leant into Ginny’s hug, despite how tightly she held him in a comforting, yet oddly unyielding grip. He could spy Umbridge just over her shoulder. She laid on the ground, still as stone and reminded Harry almost of Cedric, only her eyes weren’t frozen in perpetual shock, but rather terror.

A gruesome river of blood flooded down her chin and soaked her neck and fluffy pink cardigan, staining the fabric in a way no spell or soap would clean. Her fingers clenched in the air, blackened and filthy from scrabbling over the slick stone as her jaw cracked open wide—too wide—and a massive, inky black snake slithered out from within, tasting the air.

‘Something tasty,’ it hissed in a hungry voice. ‘Something tasty lives beneath these stones!’

A giggle trilled in Harry’s ears.

“Diffindo!” Hermione cried again, though this time Harry watched the snake’s scaly skin rip as its head tore through the air, sending another river of blood to pool down over Unbridge’s cardigan.

Harry tried to swallow, or blink, but he couldn’t take his eyes from where Umbridge struggled to breathe.

“Take a b-breath,” Ginny said, pulling him out of her shoulder to face her once more.

“How—”

“Take a breath and think of what you might’ve said, okay?”

“Can you not remember it?” Harry asked, his heart oddly still despite how crippling terror clogged his throat.

Ginny shook her head. “You spoke Parseltongue, whatever you said, whatever spell you cast, whatever thought you had, try and remember! We need to know if we’re going to learn the counter curse!”

“Counter curse?” Harry heard himself ask. His face felt stiff quite suddenly and unable to stretch as it used to.

Ginny froze and what little color she’d kept in her cheeks fled.

“Why would you need that?”

“Harry?”

Harry blinked and shook off a hazy feeling.

Ginny’s thumbs swept up Harry’s shoulders, comforting and kind, though something in her eyes stayed reminded Harry of Snape, oddly. “Try and think, do you remember the spell?”

“I remember telly static.”

“Telly static,” Ginny repeated.

“Mop and Smiff was on. Aunt Petunia let me—” no, no, Harry didn’t want to talk about the cupboard.

Ginny had such lovely eyes, the longer Harry looked; fierce, yet kind, and wickedly, viciously smart. They watched him now, entirely too wickedly for Harry’s liking.

“Will you tell me about the curse,” Ginny asked, kneeling on the filthy, slick flagstones. “It was…”

“Parseltongue,” Harry said.

“Right.”

“I don’t…” Harry distantly appreciating Ginny’s attempt at comfort, but wished Snape had come. “I don’t know how to speak Parseltongue without a snake being near me.”

“What if I conjure one?”

“You mean like Malfoy did at the dueling club?” The miserable dueling club Ron remembered so fondly, but which Justin detested.

Ginny nodded. “Could you ask about what you might’ve said?”

Harry shrugged. “I could ask for any number of things, but snakes are snakes.” Snakes could be quick and clever, but they couldn’t read. They couldn’t learn spells, not unless they were secretly animagi. “Why are you so curious?”

“I want to learn which curse you cast.”

Harry smiled, despite how his face stiffened again, and flaky barely able to show the expression. “Do you?” He adored when people showed curiosity in him! “I’ll have to write it down one day.”

“Write it down?”

“It’s a blend,” Harry said with knowingness he couldn’t fully grasp. He felt so oddly present, yet distant again. He spoke, but he didn’t. He watched another snake wriggle from Umbridge’s unhinged jaw, but he never felt even a prickle of unease. “A bit of hers and a bit of mine.”

“How much of it is hers?” Ginny asked, tossing a quick glance over her shoulder before whirling back around to face Harry.

“Just the inspiration,” Harry said.

Ginny nodded.

“There was so much room for improvement,” Harry continued. “Why start and stop with a phrase, why not silence her altogether?”

“Why not?” Ginny agreed with a shrug.

“You understand,” Harry said.

“It does strike me as a little odd for you to imitate her.”

“It’s not imitation,” Harry said as that bristling, breathtaking anger broiled in his chest at Ginny misunderstanding, “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can make at greatness. To imitate her, I would need to be mediocre, and I am anything but.”

“Harry—”

“Ginny?” Harry asked, feeling the stiffness crack and break. He felt as if he could breathe at last, though the foul smell perfuming the corridor caught up with him in seconds, and longed to stretch his mouth wide open, if only it didn’t remind him of Umbridge.

Ginny’s hands returned, when they’d disappeared, Harry couldn’t remember.

“Can we find Ruffles please?”

Ginny nodded firmly. “Will you hold my hand? We’ll look together.”

Harry did as asked, but they still had to cross around Umbridge’s seizing form, past the wells left behind by her panicked fingertips. Her painted lips had been split too wide from the snakes, and began to tear at the seams, revealing a fleshy rawness that sent hives down Harry’s back.

“Don’t look,” Ginny said, “don’t—don’t look.”

“Why not? It’s impressive magic.”

Ginny’s hands had just come under his armpits, but now they froze as she backed away. “T-tell me more about how brilliant you are,” she said, stumbling down stone steps and splashing through filmy puddles.

Harry smiled again. It was so sudden, that stiffness. Had he fallen into a panic and lost control?

“It’s a clever bit of magic, isn’t it?” she asked.

“More than clever,” Harry said, feeling what should’ve been a lipless smile stretch across his face, only for his own lips to stand in its way. He watched Ginny’s eyes waver as something unspoken darkened within her face in a way that reminded Harry of Dumbledore, and his ever piercing gaze.

He hated Harry.

He’d hated Harry from the very beginning. He’d berated him for his trophies, for defending himself, and acted as if Harry was anything less than impressive.

“Would you like a display?” Harry asked, following Ginny at a polite distance.

“I’ve already had one.”

“One you described as clever, but now I’d like to show you something brilliant.”

“I know exactly how brilliant you are, Harry.”

Harry shivered and asked, “wasn’t Malfoy following us?”

“He isn’t anymore.”

The flagstones grew less slick and the stench faded, making Harry feel as if Umbridge dropped something similar to a dungbomb or foul-smelling potion to encourage them down her trap. It reminded Harry of how the smallest things could trick the mind and send them spiraling into terror.

“What did you think of the dueling club, Harry?”

“Hmm?” Harry asked.

“The one with Snape and Lockhart.”

“It was fun to watch Lockhart get tossed around and I think Snape enjoyed himself. Lockhart had been saying for weeks how he knew the countercurses for petrification, or the potions that would help.”

“Tell me more about Lockhart, Harry.”

“Why do you keep saying my name?” Harry asked confusedly.

“I like it,” Ginny said, “I feel like I never use it enough.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “Plus, I think it’s funny you have no nicknames. Harry’s short enough already, but we could call you ‘Har’ and we don’t.”

“I s’pose not.”

“Ginny’s way better than Ginevra, imagine if I walked around all day being called Ginevra!”

They rounded a crooked knight in slick, damp armor and came to a stop just before Snape’s office door, where Ginny raised one shaking fist and knocked twice.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, its thick ornate knob never so much as twisting.

“Miss—” Snape began to say before launching out of his chair with a face as white as Nearly Headless Nick.

Harry tried to flatten his hair and make himself more presentable, and only then realized blood had been pouring out from his scar.

——

He stared at his stuffed dog. Lovely white lights traced over his skin, as thin as spider’s webs, but warm and utterly pleasant. Distantly, he could hear Snape and Dumbledore working.

Neither Hermione nor Ron would look at him.

They shivered from where they sat on Snape’s couch, unable to look at each other much less Snape, or…

“Ron looked like that for all of June after my first year,” Ginny whispered as she flattened the fur on Harry’s dog’s ears. “So did Fred, George, and Percy.”

Harry glanced at her.

“Bill came home and stayed for three months.”

His heart throbbed, pinched and painful. It’d been such an odd thing, how distant Harry felt from his heart during the episode with Umbridge, particularly once feeling began returning slowly, but ache felt brand new!

“So did Charlie.”

Harry wanted a hug. He wanted something which would ease the fresh pain lancing through his chest.

He wanted Sirius—

He never wanted Sirius to see this!

Ginny’s hand appeared around his own and she clutched it tight. “It’s worse when we can’t remember, but they can.”

Harry scrubbed away the burning trails racing down his cheeks.

“Bill though,” Ginny continued softly, “he said something I still think of a lot.” She held up one of Harry’s dog’s paws, almost as if he was saying ‘hello’, and raised him up for Harry to see more closely. “Arseholes have been doing this since the dawn of time,” she said, tilting his dog’s head as if he’d been the one to speak, “but somehow, despite all their brilliance, they’ve never succeeded.”

Another aching sensation cracked through Harry’s heart, reminding him oddly of those first few moments he often felt upon waking up.

“It’s almost as if they don’t understand how people work.”

Harry lunged for his dog and clutched him close. A fluttery, small warmth bled through his chest and felt wonderfully—blessedly sanely—pleasant.

“If we could take people over, there’d be no one left,” Ginny finished, that hard glimmer in her eyes more present now than before. “More than that, you aren’t Tom.”

Harry blinked.

The plush blankets beneath the two of them felt unusually soft, too soft for the dungeon floor they covered. Harry idly wondered if Snape might’ve cast something to soften everything—if maybe he’d put Harry in the six-year-old equivalent of a padded room.

“You fought him off though,” Ginny said.

“I didn’t.”

How could Harry have fought him off? He’d barely debated letting that broiling anger out and it’d eaten through every defense he’d had. The notion of giving in was all it took!

“He’d still be here if you’d lost.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Ginny beat him to it.

“He always made sure I woke up alone, but I watched you fight him.” She folded her legs and held out her hands, as if asking for Harry’s dog, which he shared willingly, if hesitantly. “It feels like nothing.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“And you feel weightless and happy.”

“Yeah,” Harry said as his dog skipped around their blanket. “It’s…I felt thick-headed.”

“He does that.”

“Intentionally?”

“If you feel thick, he can convince you of your own stupidity,” Ginny said with a bitterness Harry felt in his own belly, “but he’s messed up, and doesn’t realize that that’s what wakes us up.”

His blanket flickered with shapes, snitches Harry couldn’t imagine for himself, and a quidditch pitch far below, with grass waving in the painted breeze.

“Sometimes I wake up feeling them,” Ginny continued, “his excitement.”

“Euphoria,” Harry whispered.

Ginny nodded and let Harry’s dog slip free to run over the quidditch pitch.

“Have you ever felt something like that? I’ve won quidditch games, and been to Egypt. I’ve hexed Malfoy and earned O’s in my course work, but nothing, Harry, nothing, brought me the euphoria Tom felt.”

“Euphoria,” Harry repeated, “and fury.”

“He’s so clever, but he doesn’t realize it’s not normal.”

No.

No, Tom didn’t. Harry knew far too well how Tom thought now, even as a whisper in his ear, or in the way Harry felt his fury and anger.

Long fingers carded through Harry’s hair.

“Miss Weasley, your parents are in the headmaster’s office,” Snape said. Color had slowly returned to his face, but the wells of color beneath his eyes darkened with unspoken emotions. “The headmaster will escort you.”

Ginny stood and passed Harry’s dog over.

“What—”

“Say your goodbyes to your friends,” Snape said softly, “they’ll be visiting Mr Weasley’s family for the weekend.”

“I’m not going?”

“We’ll discuss that once you’ve said your goodbyes. Your friends have done admirably,” Snape said, raising his eyebrows at the admission, “but they will sleep better knowing you’re safe.”

“Am I safe?”

“You will be.”

Harry climbed to his feet and padded off of the soft cover to where Ron and Hermione stared forward.

He didn’t think they’d sleep better knowing Harry was safe, not going by the—

Hermione’s arms wound around Harry’s throat in the tightest hug possible before she said, “oh Harry, I’m so sorry!” Her hug tightened somehow. “It was awful! I wish we could’ve done something! I’ve never felt more useless!” Tears dampened his cheeks as she slid off the couch to kneel. “We didn’t know what to do, we didn’t know!”

Ron dropped an awkward hand over Hermione’s shoulder and gave Harry a surprisingly comforting look. He seemed caught between tugging Harry into a hug, or tugging them both close, but let Hermione cling to Harry instead.

It reminded Harry of those miserable days after the Triwizard Tournament, when Hermione and Ron remained firmly at his sides in the Hospital Wing.

His heart felt brand new when it came to feeling emotions like—

Love.

He felt loved, he realized belatedly.

It felt so soft, but choked him in a way Tom’s anger never could. Anger sliced through him like one of Aunt Petunia’s carving knives, sharp as fear. Euphoria bubbled, weightless and elated.

Love…love sat still.

Hermione backed away and swiped the tears from her face, looking as rotten as Harry had felt only moments ago. Harry understood why. He distantly remembered her helping Umbridge breathe, even if it’d been a terrifyingly vague notion at the time.

Hands appeared underneath Harry’s armpits and he was swung up on Snape’s hip. The little white lights sweeping over his skin accepted the change easily, and moved to race over Snape’s long arms.

“Even if you can’t write to us,” Ron whispered, eyeing Snape with something he more often watched Mrs Weasley with, “do.”

“Write?” Harry asked. “Are we going somewhere?”

Snape nodded.

Dumbledore shepherded Ron, Hermione, and Ginny out the door, and gave him one piercing last look before disappearing down the corridor.

“Not…not Privet Drive,” Harry said, feeling the breathtaking weight of a heavy heart for the first time in what felt like ages. He scrunched his eyes shut, miserable for one heart pounding moment before the pendant on his mum’s necklace hummed with warmth.

“No, Harry.”

Harry blinked as Snape tossed a handful of floo powder into his fireplace.

His dog leapt from the cover and shrank as he whirled into Snape’s pocket, alongside Harry’s trunk, which landed on the floor with a thunk before shivering and shrinking.

“Grimmauld Place?”

“Germany.”