An hour later and Harry was very, very tense.

It wasn't as though Ron and Draco were intentionally trying to make him uncomfortable, but the topic at hand was not one he wanted to hear about.

He had been fine as they explained where babies came from, and how muggle pregnancies and births differed, like two witches or two wizards being able to conceive and have a child with no problems and how magical pregnancies usually involved a reduction in the parents' magic. He wasn't sure how that worked, but apparently it was a longstanding magic thing, and there was a whole line of defensive and charmed items for the expecting parents.

It only became uncomfortable when they brought up the ways babies weren't made, the ways doing-the-baby-making-thing could hurt or harm someone and that's when his stomach decided that it liked knots better than none and his palms decided they needed to sweat. And Sev was blocking him, which meant either he was deep in potions or Ms. Etheridge was over, a direction his brain did not need to take him in , especially with flashes of Dudley's pale flabby skin breaking his concentration every so often.

“Harry, are you listening?”

Draco's eyes had gone soft, Harry's mind idly noted, the flinty silver now more of a dark, molten mercury, and that was bad, wasn't it, because it meant that Draco was feeling things for him, and if the Ice Prince of Hogwarts could be moved to emotion for some one other than himself, clearly Harry was pathetic. Either way, he nodded in affirmative, even though he hadn't heard a word Draco had said after 'penetration'.

Ron said something to the blonde teen over his head, and Harry turned to find that he was pressed up against Ron’s side. How that had happened, Harry didn't have a clue, but he wasn't moving, not an inch. Ron was warm and safe, but mostly warm which was something Harry dearly needed since he was cold, right down to his fingertips and he knew the fire was still blazing in the grate across the room but he couldn't feel it, not at all, so he'd suck up all the warmth Ron had to give. Brotherly privilege.

And when Ron wrapped his arms around him and pulled him even closer, Harry went without complaint. If Ron wanted to keep him warm and away from the conversation he really did not want to hear or think about ever again in life, then that was fine with him. Except Ron was speaking to him, and he didn't like that.

“Harry, I know you can hear me.” Harry shook his head in the negative anyway. “Remember that day Hermione accused you of sleeping with Snape?” Harry didn't answer, but his magic did, blasting something against the far wall that fell to the floor in pieces. It lashed out at the room around them, much like it did inside his chest, but Ron was still speaking, so he had to listen. “I know Sev didn't hurt you. But who did? Who hurt you?”

But he didn't want to think about that, he didn't, so he shook his head, trying to shack away the awful memories that were clawing their way out of the recesses of his mind. He didn't want them, those memories, wanted them out of his head and so he pushed, shoved them away, anywhere but in his head and for a second he thought he was free, blissfully free, except something pushed back, and Ron's voice was in his ear.

“Not like that Harry. You need to say it. I know they hurt you and it was awful, beyond awful. I know you're confused and you don't want to think about it, but you have to let it out, Harry. You have to let it out the right way or it'll poison you, too.”

And he was right, harry knew it, felt it reverberate through his magic down to his core because his magic was angry, so very angry and it wanted to lash out, wanted to hurt and break and tear apart and it was only a matter of time before it did to him, in him, and then he'd want to rip and tear and kill others and that way lay madness, his magic whispered, even as it whipped and howled around them, latching onto any and everything in the rom save the three of them sitting on the couch as it vented his pain. Tried to. Wanted to. Harry couldn't think around the building pressure inside him, bubbling higher and higher, so very eager to burst forth and destroy...something, anything, anything at all.

“Harry? Just give me a name, mate. Who hurt my little brother?”

And then there were tears, because someone wanted to fight for him, someone was on his side, he had family willing to comfort him and make sure he was alright, and this was family, not them, not him, and Harry gripped Ron's shirt tight in his fists and let go.

“Dudley.” The word was a soft, shaky whisper nearly lost to the howling of his magic as it shook the very walls of the castle. The sentient building reached out but Harry's magic quieted her before alarms were raised. He wanted Sev, not Dumbledore, but not now. Now he had Ron. “Dudley and P-Piers. T-They beat me up, and laughed at me. Mrs. Figg had just given me these trainers, they weren't new, but they were almost new and they fit, and Dudley had Piers run me down and they took my trainers but my trousers fell, Dudley's old trousers were always too big and I didn't have the belt anymore. Vernon took it after he beat me with it last time. But they laughed at my pants and P-Piers grabbed me, said I'd be good for a round, and he laughed and I fell, and Dudley told me to get lost. But they came back later, at the house, Dudley sent his mum out for ice cream and when she was gone he sat on my back while P-Piers did... I dunno, something went up my...bum and it hurt and they laughed and when they were finished they locked me in the cupboard under the stairs till they were done and then P-Piers left and Dudley dragged me back upstairs to his room and he t-took off his p-pants and t-told me to suck h-him and when I said n-no he punched me, and then he sat on my chest with his t-thing  in my face and I said, I screamed 'STOP' and then he did. He just stopped. I couldn't get him off and when his parents came home t-they s-said I did it, I broke him. He couldn't move, or blink or anything, only breathe. The doctors say he's a vegetable and Vernon, Vernon hates me,” he clung to ron's ironclad grip, unaware that he'd started sobbing or how to stop. “He beat me and he cut me and  he said I was freak who killed his Dudley because my thing won't work and I tried to tell him, I t-tried to tell him that D-Dudley had hurt me, that he'd let P-Piers hurt me, but he never listened, never listens to me.”

There was an almost peternatural silence as he sobbed into Ron's chest. His magic had calmed, mostly, still whipping soundlessly through the room, but the more he cried, and screamed, and mumbled unintelligently into Ron's shirt the better he felt, the jagged rock that had been sitting in his chest since the summer smoothing over and going away.

When he opened his eyes some time later, he was numb. Calm, but numb, warm and calm and Draco was holding a furious bound Hermione at wandpoint.

He blinked at that. The room had changed since the last time he'd seen it. He and Ron, whose chest he had been using as a pillow, were in a recessed alcove of some sort, one devoid of light and filled with the light sound of wind. It reminded him of flying, the wind rushing past his ears, which he assumed was the point. Draco and Hermione were in the 'main' part of the room, the part with both lights and the roaring fire. The couch they'd sat on earlier was nowhere in sight, but it may have become the bed he and Ron were on now, he didn't know. He did know that he was comfortable, and warm and safe and that all he needed was Snape to be puttering around in the background and it could have been the perfect setting.

Minus the prefect at wandpoint.

A hand settled onto his head, rubbing through his hair before settling on the base of his neck. “We should get up now, mate.” Harry nodded, but only because it was Ron, and Ron was safe, and would take care of him, would take him to Snape. He stood from the bed with difficulty, his limbs not agreeing with the change in direction, and swayed for a moment before Ron steadied him. He had a moment longer to soak up Ron's Ron-ness before the older boy was leading him forward, into the light.

“It's about time!” Hermione snapped, unfolding and then refolding her arms. “I've been waiting for more than an hour!”

“Less than half, Granger. Don't try my patience.” Draco drawled.

“What's wrong with Harry?” She ignored the blonde, eyes racking over Harry's shorter form trailing behind Ron. “He's been crying.”

“Harry's fine.” Ron made sure to tuck the shorter boy under his arm before they got closer to the door, and Harry made sure to let him do the tucking. “I just need to get him to Snape.”

“Snape? What on earth would you need to bother that gloriously dedicated and talented professional for?” she sneered.

“Hey, that's my godfather, Granger and I'd appreciate if you'd speak of him with some respect!” Draco glared.

“I'll speak of him how I please, like I care what you think - “

“Well he's my father, Hermione, and I'd appreciate the same.” Ron said over his shoulder. He half turned to look at her, feet away from the door. “Or don't you care what I think either?”

She stared at him a moment, visibly fighting not to speak. Then, “You're sure.”

“I don't think I can be more sure. Or less. Blood tends not to lie.”

“But Ron, he's fantastic!”

“Please don't fight me on this.” Ron's voice was soft, low, calm. It cut through Hermione's words like a sword. “Anything on earth, but not this.”

Her lips pursed, arms coming to fold across her chest. It was a moment of tense silence that followed, and Harry began to fidget. This reminded him of the old fights Ron and Hermione used to have, yes, but there was a different light to it, a different darkness almost. He didn’t like it.

Ron sighed. “We can talk about this later. Harry needs to get to bed.”

“Which is a nice way to say stay away from us, in case you didn’t realize,” Draco snapped.

Harry was out in the corridor before he realized that they’d moved, and was aimlessly staring at the passing walls when a frantic portrait caught his eye.

The small, bald man in the painting was mute, or at least he would have been since he did not have a mouth. His long brown robes were speckled with dirt and mud and the dirty, stark background of his portrait told why. The desert stretched out wide and dry behind him, but Harry couldn’t see much of it because the man was waving frantically at him.

And pointing.

“Ron?” His voice sounded low and slow to his own ears, but it got Ron’s attention, and so Harry pointed, and the little painted man burst into silent tears.

“Blimey, what’s the matter with you?”

The portrait didn’t speak, but pointed desperately down the hallway, waving his little arms near off his body.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Draco murmured from his other side, and harry couldn’t help but agree. His stomach was doing that funny thing it did when he was close to an Episode, as he’d heard Sev murmur to himself, and figured his best bet was to get to the man before one did indeed take place.

“You want us to follow you?” Ron asked. The portrait shook his head in the negative, holding up seven fingers then pointing down. “Seven down? Seven floors down?” The portrait continued to cry, but nodded, then began to mime what Harry could only assume was a small person with a stomach ache.

“Someone’s hurt in the dungeons.” Draco’s face had gone to stone, and Harry looked away, trying to shove the roiling feeling in his stomach away. Someone had hurt a Slytherin, a small Slytherin, probably one of the firsties. A cold breeze seemed to pass through his skin, and Harry shifted closer to Ron, who put an arm around him, even as they started to walk.

“We’ll take care of it. Go alert some of the other portraits, will you? We may need help.”

“He can’t speak, Ron. The other portraits won’t let him into their sceneries. Thank you though, Dilbert. We’ll take it from here.” Harry hadn’t noticed Hermione standing with them, and practically plastered himself against Ron’s side at the sound of her voice. It wasn’t like he hated her, or was afraid of her. No, harry was scared for her. She was a trigger for his anger and confusion, and his magic had practically lurched forward at the sound of her voice.

Ron had an iron grip on his shoulder, so that was fine. He could trust Ron. Ron was family.

“Don’t either of you know a shortcut downstairs?” Draco’s voice had an edge to it that made Harry’s stomach, already upset, turn with agitation. He needed Severus, and he needed Severus now. He couldn’t understand how the man couldn’t feel him poking at their mind barrier, until he remembered Sev had spent the evening before entertaining Ms. Etheridge, and hadn’t wanted harry to eavesdrop.

“Fred and George didn’t share all their secrets, mate. We’ll have to run for it.”

“What about the map? Harry, don’t you – “

But harry didn’t hear her. The map. His dad’s map. Four friends building something together all through school. The closest friends. Betrayal. The map. The marauders. Harry grabbed a fistful of Ron’s shirt and pulled, unaware that he’d bent over at the waist and had his eyes clenched shut. He only realized that something was different when he felt Ron’s hands in his hair, and the boy shouting at his girlfriend. “ – saying things that upset him. Merlin, Hermione, you’re brilliant, but you’re the dimmest when it comes to seeing what’s right in front of you.” Ron’s hands shifted, and Harry forced himself to breathe. “Harry, bud, I’m going to put you on my back, alright? We’ve got to get downstairs, and I can get you to Sn-Sev quicker that way, alright?”

Harry nodded, and felt Ron maneuver him onto his back. Draco mumbled something and some sort of harness thing wrapped around his back and thighs before a sticking charm stuck him to Ron’s back, and then they were moving. Harry held on, tucked his head against Ron’s shoulder and focused on keeping the magic begging to course through him at bay.

They were four floors down when the stray thought crossed him mind that Ron was a lot more fit that he’d thought possible. More Snape-gene benefits? That would be interesting. He didn’t know Ron to be particularly concerned with fitness, since wizards didn’t seem to care about it in general, and the little exercise they got from Quidditch and spell-casting wasn’t enough to keep Ron, and Draco, he realized, in good enough shape to run down seven flights of stairs. The idle ramblings of his brain soothed him a little, enough so that he was aware of when they hit the dungeons, simply by the change in the air.

Ron stopped, panting, and harry squirmed in his harness. He was not a baby, which was exactly what the harness reminded him of now that he was aware enough to think about it. Draco cancelled his spells and Harry slid to the ground, only opening his eyes when his magic gave an angry pulse.

“Up there. He can’t move.” He didn’t even question how he knew, but he did, and Ron took one look at him before nodding. Harry stood where he was, counting and then trying to list all the potions ingredients he knew. They weren’t in a part of the dungeons he recognized, but that could be because he was only looking at one spot because he needed every inch of his concentration to not slip into crazy-Harry mode. He was still numb, in that the messy emotions he’d released on Ron were still held at bay, but he was aware enough to know that there was trouble coming.

Up ahead, Draco hissed, even as Ron dropped to his knees, gently gathering the small limp body to his chest. The child's face was bruised and bloody, the slim wrists broken and bruised under discolored skin. Draco whipped out his wand, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Someone had attacked one of his snakes. He sent a splash of magic down the hallway, the most detailed identifying spell he knew. It came back to him blue, the shade of a tall figure, no more than a blurred shadow, indistinguishable because of the hood pulled over their head. He snarled, his magic jumping in his veins and sending sparks around his wand. Ron cast a partial body-bind on the form, while Hermione watched. Before he could properly form any annoyance at the girl she drew a short, sharp line from the little boy’s head and linked it to a series of spells she cast down the hallway. Draco wanted to sneer in annoyance, but he couldn’t bring himself to deride someone for trying to help one of his snakes, especially when she looked beyond furious. Years of humiliating and irritating the girl had shown him what to look for and the light in her brown eyes was definitely not one he’d wish to see pointed at him. He shivered in the breeze, and pulled his robes tighter around himself. Hermione’s casting had frizzed out her hair, even more than usual, and he almost missed Ron’s tall form stand with the child in his arms.

“You shouldn’t move him. It’s not – “

“It’s better than letting him lay on the freezing cold floor. We’ve got to get him to Poppy.”

“Not Poppy, Snape. Slytherins don’t use the hospital wing. Granger, what do you have?”

The girl was practically vibrating with restrained fury, and her hair waved dangerously in the air. “Sixth year ravenclaw. There are hair strands on the floor, I’m waiting on – “ There was a flash of blue from the ground, then a string of floating symbols appeared in the air before her.  She stared at them, even as the temperature in the hallway dipped, and Hermione shivered, folding her arms across her chest, her wand clenched tightly in her hand. “Daville Scopeton. We need to get a professor.” She turned. “If Harry – “

Hermione froze as if struck and Draco turned to the end of the hallway, only to find a pale, floating Harry. His blood ran cold, and he felt himself take a half-step back. Unlike the other times Harry had ‘maged-out’ as he called it, Harry’s face was completely calm, his eyes bright and cold and hard. “Harry?”

The green eyes didn’t move from the small beaten form in Ron’s arms. Draco tried again, and resisted the urge to shiver. Something was not right. Harry stared hard at the slytherin first year’s small, pale face, and then he rocketed up the stairs, a high, gusty wind whipping through the corridor, and Draco’s stomach dropped.

“Bloody hell.”

Granger spun, Ron’s voice breaking her out of her trance, a stasis charm flying from her wand to the child in Ron’s arms. “Get him to the great hall quickly, but be gentle.” To Draco she said, “You know the fifth law of Luviere, correct?”

Without waiting for his reply, she took off down the hallway, leaving Draco to catch up.

As he pelted down the hallway, Draco felt his stomach clench. Granger should not know about the fifth law of Luviere. Granger should not know about any law of Luviere. They were Dark Magics. Sure, they were the basics, but it was still dark magic. Granger should be trying to report him to Dumbledore on the assumption that he knew any of them. The world had suddenly been tipped on its head and nothing made sense.

But he could worry about that later. Right now, he had to make sure that Severus found Harry before the teen killed someone.