"Draco, I'm fine."
"You are not fine."
The two blonds over him, one silver, one gold, paused long enough to straighten up and look at each other in surprise that they'd said the same thing, at the exact same time, before Gryffindor and Slytherin united for once in turning on Harry with annoyance (and worry) written on both of their faces.
"You get lost in a dark forest we're forbidden to be in on any other day of the year due to the crazy dangerous beasts in there during a time when some monster is killing unicorns-"
"-and come riding out on the back of a centaur after being attacked by a hooded figure, that was eating a unicorn immediately before you got there—"
"And you want to get snacks!?"
Harry wanted to be annoyed at them both, but the fact Neville and Draco seemed so caught up in yelling at him that they were acting as if they'd rehearsed that tirade had him shutting up and letting them get their fill of lambasting him for his life choices.
When they took a moment to breath, he cut in calmly.
"No I don't want to get snacks, I'm frankly not that hungry, but I do want to talk to my friends for a moment because I almost died, again, and unfortunately we'd have to go off to our own dorms if we called it a night." They were sitting (well, Harry was, the other two were pacing) in Hagrid's hut, the groundskeeper off talking to the centaur who'd brought Harry back and checking the perimeter of the forest once more now that this had happened and it was clearly a who, not a what that was killing unicorns in the forbidden forest. It was very, very much past curfew and Draco couldn't exactly get away with coming back to the Gryffindor dorm to freak out about this with them, and Harry didn't really think leaving him alone to freak out about it was very wise either. So, Hagrid had let them use his hut under the guise that they needed a moment to calm down before going back for the night—they were still technically serving detention with him, so they were allowed to be out for now.
It wasn't even a lie this time around—Draco and Neville seemed about ready to keel over from panic and Harry himself wasn't feeling so hot after the scare that had been. Hagrid had given them rock cakes to try and settle their nerves, but as professor McGonagall had confirmed eating products of Transfiguration to be a very bad idea, they were really just holding them instead of eating them currently—although Draco looked half a second from chucking his at someone's head he was so agitated.
And Harry really wasn't feeling like taking the blame for this one or brushing it off like he had the broom incident. Yes it was kind of his fault he'd gotten separated from Hagrid, but Hagrid also had them split up? Like, that was a terrible idea and Harry really should've said it. They weren't supposed to be in the forbidden forest in the first place because of the danger, yet when they get detention for being in a dangerous place they were sent to yet another dangerous place as punishment? I mean, in what world did that make sense!?
And then to split up—one group with Hagrid, who only had a crossbow and his size by the way, and two eleven-year-olds with a dog that was currently drooling on Harry's lap instead of being concerned by anything happening around him? That was just a horrible idea! He'd been distracted by worrying how Neville and Draco would get along in their group, that he didn't even consider until they were separated and very deep into the forest how stupid the whole situation was.
And then, when he'd turned around and didn't see Hagrid, he realized he was screwed. He was screwed, because he was a first year alone in the forbidden forest at night—and oh yeah, why couldn't they do this during the day again!?
He realized he was even more screwed when he'd then actually stumbled upon not an injured unicorn, but a dead unicorn and a hooded figure actively drinking its blood.
He'd wanted to see a unicorn ever since Hagrid told him about them… but not like that.
Losing Hagrid was on him, he'll admit that even though still to this moment he had no idea how it'd happened. Hagrid was a hard guy to just lose, especially when it was just the two of them alone in a forest.
But everything else?
That wasn't his fault, and he was still shaking slightly from how close that had been. He still only really knew Transfiguration spells and he'd been so shocked and alarmed by stumbling upon that scene and then having an unknown figure come at him like some freaky not-ghost, that he'd only really managed to trip on a tree root trying to back away quickly, and not a single useful spell had come to him in his panic. If Firenze hadn't swooped in to scare the figure off…well, it hadn't sunk in until much after the fact how truly close to dead he'd really been.
He didn't know for certain what the figure had wanted, but his instincts said murdering him would've been high on its list of priorities, and Harry was not one to ignore his gut as it hadn't failed him yet. If that thing could kill a unicorn, a super-fast ultra-magical being of pure goodness, then a measly first year was probably easy pickings.
Draco finally cooled it enough to put his rock cake back on Hagrid's table and give him a searching look.
"Are you sure you're okay? Whatever that thing was, if it could kill a unicorn, it's powerful." He frowned deeply.
"I know that. It didn't actually touch me, magically or otherwise." Harry assured him, gripping his own rock cake a little harder. "It didn't look like it even had a wand."
"That's not necessarily a good thing—if it's not a witch or wizard it could be a number of any less humanoid creatures." He fretted.
"We need to tell Dumbledore—or someone," Neville reminded them.
"Hagrid definitely will, and I'd be shocked if all the professors weren't made aware before breakfast tomorrow." Harry pointed out. "There isn't really much we can do for tonight."
"But this is the second time someone has actively tried to kill you. The third time you've almost died! And you dismissed me worrying about the broom incident!" Draco accused him.
Harry hated to admit he had a point, and sighed.
"Well there wasn't anything we could do then, and there isn't really anything we can do now, either. The teachers will know, and I'm sure they'll put more effort into scouring the forest now that whatever killed the unicorns is proven not to be an animal of some kind. If the two were related, then they'll catch the culprit and that'll be that."
"Fine! Then—then let's at least go to the Hospital wing, right? Get a calming draught or something!"
"I don't want a calming draught," Harry was getting frustrated, gripping the rock cake harder for a moment before setting it down the table with a dull thud. "Draco, I didn't want to talk to you to strategize."
"Then what?"
Harry could not believe this boy, and stared at him openly as if that would drive it home.
Thankfully, Neville had fallen quiet and seemed to figure it out. He stopped pacing and went up to Harry to take his hand for once instead of it always being the other way around, and Harry shot him a tired, thankful smile as he held on just a bit tighter to stop his fingers from shaking.
Draco finally caught on… and his ears turned a bit pink.
The Slytherin plopped down on the excessively large chair beside him and leaned into his shoulder in his own form of comfort, and Harry took a couple deep breathes to let the excitement of the night seep away.
000
"Ibi."
Daphne's wand did the motion correctly, but Harry watched the two objects she was trying to switch only wobble without actually moving.
"What kind of power are you using? Like, as much as you'd need for Avifors or more like for Flintifors?" He questioned curiously.
"Probably more than Flintifors," She frowned, as if she hadn't considered that. It was only logical to assume every spell after the first they'd learned in Transfiguration would get progressively harder, which was true except harder didn't always mean more power. More complicated, was probably a better way to put it.
"I think that might be it. This spell needs power somewhere in the middle of those two—start off with a medium-range of power, like half of what you'd use for Flintifors, and then halfway through the wand movement just relax. Let the second half of it be delicate, like the Avifors spell." He explained, and she frowned more deeply, considering that. She gave it another shot with no results, but tried it a dozen more times trying to get the power right—
--and suddenly the two buttons switched places. She blinked in surprise and smirked.
"So, you really do know what you're talking about."
"It's been known to happen sometimes," he flashed her a playful grin. "Just practice that until it's second nature, but you've got it."
"Well… that was honestly easier than I thought it'd be." She admitted, tapping her wand distractedly on the table. "I'm thinking maybe I got the bad end of this deal."
"Is it really? How long would you have kept doing what you were doing in hopes it'd somehow work eventually when you could be using that time to study for other classes?" Given midterms were only days away, he'd gotten quite a bit of subtle approaches from various houses alike asking for Transfiguration help. Neville got free help in exchange for being the one keeping Harry's Herbology grades looking pretty (and because Neville really deserved it after putting up with Harry—period) and Draco had both Transfiguration notes from the Norberta deal and extra lessons in exchange for keeping him afloat in Potions. Even Lu, who was a year older yet fully aware Harry was beyond second year Transfiguration at this point, had traded some tips in exchange for a Charms lesson for Harry himself—and the Ravenclaw, as expected, was a fantastic teacher.
Most others got turned away without something good to exchange, including Blaise who was still loudly annoyed about it. Particularly because Daphne had smiled almost at the Zabini heir as she offered her own deal, and Harry had accepted it immediately.
It was too good a deal to pass up, and going off of Blaise's sharp comments, it was entirely on purpose.
So far, Daphne had been a wealth of information that really didn't cost her anything to give away, just like it didn't cost Harry anything to give her some feedback on her Transfiguration work. Their agreement was working out fantastically for the both of them, and she was way more normal so far as Slytherins went, so Harry was actually really enjoying talking to her.
Not just because she was giving him a beginner's course in Slytherin politics. All those tiny details Harry wasn't privy to as an outsider, yet every Slytherin started at Hogwarts already knowing.
Like what the family alignments really meant.
Like why Blaise was the untouchable Slytherin.
Like why he hated Daphne so much (she was almost gleeful when explaining that one, and Harry was very amused to learn about it to be honest).
He even learned the real reputation behind the Malfoy family and realized it was far more complicated than he could've ever imagined. Turns out them being grey was probably fitting—they really did not care about anything but money and power, as a defined trait, and Dark and Light connections were always just a means to an end.
He knew Draco wasn't… entirely like that, but it certainly gave him a lot more perspective on some of Draco's sharper qualities.
It also explained why he was so twisted up in knots every time he had to write home to his parents—it sounded like a freaking mine-field to navigate, which had to be hard considering he very much did actually love them as his parents on top of needing to be on his toes with them.
Slytherins were weird.
In any case, he was thrilled to finally have a solid source to learn all about the Slytherin subtleties that had been going over his head so far, and Daphne wasn't losing anything by telling him what her whole house already knew. It was a nice arrangement, and as she nodded to his point he considered what question he wanted to ask next, and it came rather easy.
"Okay, my turn. Tell me about the Slytherin first years—I know almost nothing about them so far beyond who will talk to me. Like, why does Tracy hate me? You said her family wasn't even that involved in the last war."
Daphne pursed her lips, considering that. "Hm, that's a tough one, and I'm even her best friend. She's a half-blood, which is already kind of dubious in our house, but her mom is the muggleborn and really, really hated her parents so she was full-in to the magic-is-better thing when she got to Hogwarts despite not being pureblood herself. So yeah, her mom was raised with muggles but I don't think has ever talked about the muggle world since entering the magical one. Tracy grew up pretty much exactly like any pureblood would because of it."
Harry couldn't even fault Mrs. Davis for that—he legitimately got it considering how he was pretending the Dursleys didn't exist right now.
"Tracy already has it hard, being a half-blood in Slytherin. I mean it's not exactly uncommon, but it puts you at a disadvantage that you don't have the old family status to fall back on if you mess up in the politics of it all. People really don't talk about their blood status if they're not pureblood until like third year, because at least by then they should have their own reputation to work with. The Davis family wasn't really involved in the last war, but the bits they were involved with were definitely dark, which puts them skewed in that direction. I don't think Tracy really hates you, but she's certainly not gonna outwardly like you until she's got more status and can get away with it."
"She's leaning on her family's allegiance for now." He put together, Daphne nodding once in confirmation.
"Plus, another level to this is that Pansy really hates you and she's kinda the queen bee of our year. She really is a total pureblood, and as dark as they come, so if you were planning on trying to cozy up to all of Slytherin house eventually, I'd leave her off the list."
Harry blinked at that, surprised. "So Tracy is following Pansy's lead and Pansy hates me because her family does?"
Daphne tilted her head, long black hair pooling over her shoulder, and she took a moment to push it back to give herself a moment to think of her answer. "Yes, technically. But there's definitely more—Pansy would hate you because her parents have told her to hex the hell out of you if she ever gets the chance to, and you're a half-blood on top of it all. She's one of the worst when it comes to blood status, so being The Boy Who Lived aside, she'd think higher of dog crap than she would of you just because of it."
"Wow, sounds like a charming gal." Harry raised his brows pointedly.
"Yep." She hummed, popping her lips slightly as she said it. "Also the fact that she had her whole life planned out before everything changed right before the start of this year. Her parents were in an alliance with the Malfoys and when the Malfoys went grey, I heard they cut it off dead. She's as ambitious as anyone, so she was fully intending to marry into their family—which definitely would've been considered marrying up— and live out her days as part of one of the oldest, purest, and richest families in magical Britain. The fact she essentially got dumped before she even got on the train probably stung her pride quite a bit."
Harry could only stare.
Marry into… wait.
"She was supposed to marry Draco!?" He balked. "Wait—arranged marriages are a thing!?"
Daphne smirked, shrugging once. "Not really, exactly, but old families with a lot on the line if they let someone unworthy marry into their family tend to have a vested interest in making sure it works out in the end, and they wouldn't be Slytherins if there weren't deals going on in the background to make sure everyone got something out of the arrangement. I'm sure Pansy was told since birth to get close to Draco, and I'm sure Draco's parents talked her up quite a bit until recently. I know they were childhood friends, and purebloods don't have playdates unless their parents are up to something."
Okay, Harry was officially baffled by Slytherins. He took it back, no matter how close it'd been, he was definitely right to belong to Gryffindor because that was a bit much, even for him.
Also, Pansy and Draco?
For some reason he wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought.
Daphne put her chin on her hand, seeming to be visibly entertained by his reaction.
"Your expression is quite amusing, you know that?"
"I really don't want to think too closely on that, it's a bit too involved even for me." He shuddered.
"Hey, you asked." She rolled her eyes. "Who else? Pansy, Malfoy, Blaise, and myself are the only big players of our year. Nott's family is well refined pureblood, but dark as hell—or, really his father is, as his mother died years ago. It's actually really surprising he'll even get anywhere near you, as I'd have pegged him to be as bad as Pansy prior to actually meeting him. He doesn't talk to anyone, not even in-house, so… who really knows with him?" Harry perked up in interest, but he was content to figure Nott out himself and waved her off, so she continued. "You probably heard about Crabbe and Goyle… so uh, not much to say."
"I've heard a bit more about the rocks in Hagrid's garden," he said politely, and she scoffed.
"There's probably isn't more to say, honestly. They too, were aligned with the Malfoys before the start of this year and got called off—their parents are dark but I really wouldn't worry too much about them. They do as they're told and Draco's told them to keep to themselves, which they have pretty well so far." She leaned back, stretching a bit as she continued distractedly.
"You already know Zabini, so I'm not going there again. His family is 'new' to Britain but his roots go all the way back to the Roman Empire, so he's a freak outlier."
Harry snickered at that.
"Other girls my year are Millicent Bulstrode and Elizabeth Hearth, both half-bloods themselves who are firmly under Pansy's wing so don't bother for a while. I don't have a good read on them but they do anything Pansy says and seem to enjoy hanging out with her so probably avoid them if you can—either they're as twisted as she is or just great actors for self-preservation, I'm not sure. The last is Melinda Lyles, and she's a pureblood rooming with Tracy and I. She's only recently pureblood, so far back as her grandparents, her great-grandfather being muggle actually. It's a bit of a sting on her family reputation, but she's still a pureblood and still knows exactly what she's doing, keeping her head down this year and such. She was clever to room with Tracey and me, avoiding Pansy at all cost, at least. She has her own thing going on, clearly busy plotting something I'm not aware of, so I'm not sure if she'd be interested in you at all, but she probably wouldn't avoid talking to you if you had something worth trading—she's pretty good at Transfiguration herself though so your notes probably won't get you as far as you'd think."
Talking to Daphne was always extremely helpful, as she could spit out a wealth of information like it was nothing, giving you all the important bits with no hassle or skirting around details like other Slytherins might. She didn't withhold stuff because she wanted an advantage later: their deal was to trade Transfiguration help for information, and so she paid her debt fully, with nothing held back just to be clever and witty about it. Her explanations also gave Harry a great perspective into the type of information Slytherins deemed critical—Harry likely wouldn't have asked to clarify if Melinda Lyles was pureblood or if she was plotting something right now, but that was clearly vital information to have from a Slytherin point of view. So, Daphne had not only provided him that information, but also the implication that that information was important.
It also told him that the amount of information any casual Slytherin would know about someone else's family history was actually terrifying. She said she better represented the average Slytherin compared to the likes of Draco or Blaise, but if she was his example of "normal" then he was still slightly terrified of what the snake house could do with a few dregs of gossip here and there.
"Does that satisfy your curiosity?" She lifted an eyebrow.
"One more thing, on the pureblood topic." He needled politely and she nodded once, but he could tell his favor was just about used up. "You put a lot of emphasis on old pureblood and new pureblood but uh, what?"
She gave a great sigh. "Ask the easy questions, huh?" She rolled her eyes at the most charming grin that he could muster in attempt to convince her. "Fine, but pay attention because I'm only going over this once and there are a lot of names I'm about to spit at you."
He whipped out a piece of paper and quill and poised himself to take notes and she smirked in amusement at his enthusiasm.
"Okay, here goes nothing. There's something called the sacred 28, which is a directory published in the 1930s that outlines all the 'truly pureblood' families. You'll find a lot of families, particularly those listed on it, buy into it to an extreme extent and are really proud of it, but there's a ton wrong with it. For one, its suspected to have been written by a Nott—Cantankerous Nott— who had a lot of personal issues with some of the families at the time and so it was entirely biased around his perspective. For example, he considered the Ollivander family as part of the 28 and yet the matriarch of the family at the time was a muggleborn, so clearly he didn't know about it when he wrote it. Pertinent to you, he left off the Potter family because Henry Potter, the patriarch at the time, was really pro-muggle despite marrying a pureblood in the end—also his son Charles Potter married Dorea Black and the Blacks are one of the most tyrannical families ever about pureblood status so if Dorea married Charles then there's no way there was ever a drop of muggle blood in the Potter family before then. Still, Cantankerous had issues with Henry so the Potters were excluded—other very pureblood families such as the Crabes, Goyles, Lances, Edwards, Murphys, Carters, Wrights, and-- relevant to you--the Monroes were left off because he had feuds with them at the time despite having been proven true purebloods in the years since."
She took a breath and Harry was thankful because he couldn't write that fast.
Also, how do you spell 'Cantankerous'!?
"The 28 also has issues because some of the families included in it outright rejected it—for example the Weasleys and Macmillans very openly claimed to have muggle heritage they were proud of, that Nott flat out ignored. They got the title of 'blood traitors' for being on the list and yet rejecting it, so if you hear people say that, that's why. Aside from them, the 28 is kind of the gold standard of original purebloods in Britain, although several names on it are clear outliers as being way older than just the 1930s. Names like Potter, Gaunt, Prewett, Malfoy, Longbottom, and Black. There are others of course but those are the ones almost anyone can trace centuries prior the 28 being published. Everyone not on the list that is still considered pureblood is new blood so to speak, meaning they got that status after the 1930s, like my family.
And just because I'm nice, I'll tell you about a special little subsection of the list that took the pride of being part of the 28 to new heights—meaning the families that were so tyrannical about being pureblood that they actually resorted to inbreeding within their family just to avoid anyone they deemed contaminated with muggle blood. Those would be the Blacks, the Lestranges, and the Gaunts. I would really avoid any of them if I were you."
Harry paused in his notes.
"…and what exactly do you know about Sirius Black, then?"
Daphne's haughty expression dropped, her face flickering in realization before settling on a calm mask.
"You've definitely used up your favor by now."
Harry didn't really respond to that, because she was right. He just finished his notes in silence… and eventually she gave a light sigh.
"Well… I warned you about those three families because inbreeding in a magical family leads to insanity within only a couple generations, or so it's said. No one from any of those families in recent years has been at all sane with the exception of the few that got out quickly." She pressed her lips, unsure. "Sirius Black was a huge deal—and I mean a huge deal—when he was at Hogwarts because he was the only Black ever to be sorted into Gryffindor. And the Black family pre-dates the founding of Hogwarts by like a lot, so that's a confirmed fact."
Harry looked up, surprised by that. Did that mean…?
She saw his face, and gave him a grim shake of her head. "Inbreeding leads to insanity, Harry. It was a big deal he was in Gryffindor, yeah, but the fact he went insane and killed a bunch of muggles shocked pretty much no one." She winced. "And, even if he weren't back then… he's been in Azkaban for over a decade now. Normal people go insane in Azkaban. He's a Black… he never stood a chance."
Harry tried not to let it show on his face how it felt like the hope that had fluttered to life in his chest was being ground under her heel right now, but he wasn't sure how successful he was given by how she politely gave him a moment by bending down to pick up her bag and arrange her books back around in preparation to leave.
Thankfully it only took him a moment to pull himself together again.
"Well, thank you for your information, Ms. Greengrass. If you ever need help with another spell I'm sure I can think of more questions to ask."
"I'm sure you can," She flashed him a grin as she stood. "As it is, I think I'm good for midterms. We'll see when finals season comes around."
"Don't be a stranger before then or I might think you're just using me for my notes." He playfully pouted and she laughed quietly (it was the library after all) as she left him be.
"Until next time, Mr. Monroe."
"Until then," he waved her off, and slumped back down onto the library table he was studying at when she disappeared around a bookshelf.
He put his head down on his open book and tried to imagine that mental landscape that was supposed to calm him.
000
He eventually decided on a graveyard, as morbid at that sounded.
But like, a nice graveyard. With huge billowing willow trees with tiny white flowers the size of a sickle each, only billions of them fluttering on the wavy branches and their tiny petals flooding the air, smelling like earth and that delicate sweet fragrance only natural wildflowers could conjure. The grass was longish but still well-tended, giving it a natural feel since it was penned in by a low stone wall covered in thick swatches of moss and curling ivy clinging here and there. The entrance was an iron gate, gothic in style and tall enough to quadruple his height, framed with cracked white marble that had the same regal, ominous feel Gringotts managed to pull off.
Every detail was important, when imagining a mindscape, or so the books Hermione had given him had told him.
So he went through every detail, mentally outlining every crack in the willow tree's bark, exactly how many there were in his graveyard (13) where exactly they were planted, which ones had flowers growing around them, where the tiny fountain he thought would be a nice addition would be placed, exactly how many stepping stones there were resting, semi-overgrown in the thick, lush yard leading to each grave, and so forth. Even the bee hives that lived in one particular tree, and the fox den beneath another, and the rival squirrel families that lived in two neighboring trees in the corner. He knew what kind of weather this place had, with it's lush springs and crispy winters, it's rainy autumns and mild sunny summers. He knew where puddles would form during thunderstorms, and where weeds would sprout first if he didn't tend to his mindscape properly, which plants the bugs would start to eat first, and which graves tended to collect dirt more easily than others. He knew what kinds of birds like to stop by to visit, what time of year the flowers stopped blooming on the trees, and how many branches they tended to lose during storms and heavy snows.
He knew everything about his graveyard, and everything outside of it didn't matter.
And of course, there were the graves themselves.
It seemed like a bad idea, to bury things like he did, but it wasn't… exactly like that. A grave was a place to stand before, and remember. To be introspective, about whoever's grave it was you were standing in front of. You didn't think about Herbology homework when you were standing in front of your mother's grave, after all. When you were standing in front of your mother's grave, things tended to be put in a little more perspective, and it made things a bit clearer.
It also helped him fully… accept? Was that the word? Did he accept she was gone when he was standing in front of the grave he himself has imagined for her? When he could sit in front of her grave that was light grey stone carved with curls and dragonfly etches, planting lilies and white daisies in the earth in front of it, and just exist there in a beautiful graveyard with her grave to talk to with no one in the world there to listen to him spilling his heart out for her? She couldn't hear him anyway—she was dead.
And this was all just in his mind, after all.
And his father had a grave too. It felt… clearer, somehow, separating the graves although they were definitely laid side by side. He never met them after all, he didn't know what they'd say to him much less what they'd say to each other, so imagining him talking to a grave was a lot easier than imagining actual people (strangers) trying to talk to him, or talk to each other. With separate graves he could talk like he could believe their spirits were somehow hearing what he was saying—the magic of a graveyard's illusion making it feel like for some reason they would hear him better if he were saying it to their headstones rather than literally anywhere else in the world. Like they were somehow closer to the living world when he was in a place designed specifically for them, and the memorials to their deaths.
It was realistic, in a way. Talking to two graves separately, with this half-hearted hope they were somehow hearing him, and yet in reality it was him talking to a stone that could never answer him back. It suited his mindscape, because if this were a real graveyard they would never be able to respond—and just because this was a graveyard in his mind, didn't make that any less true.
Sirius Black had a grave, in his mind.
This one was rather dull, as he didn't actually know the man besides that one glimpse in the mirror. That tiny, diamond paw-print clip that had never actually been clipped to his hair was resting on top the blank, dark granite headstone, and bluestar flowers blanketed the ground around it in a thick carpet he could kneel on when he mustered up the courage to visit. He didn't visit often, because he didn't know what to say to a man he both missed and hated… maybe he was just mourning an imaginary man's memory, but that was really all he could do.
What was weirder and yet no less fitting were the graves for the living people he actually knew. Neville had one, and it was filled with as many flowers as Harry could think of and find space for around the gleaming gold-speckled, white marble masterpiece he had built. Again, it was morbid, but he imagined the coffin beneath the ground here to be solid gold, and despite the grave of his mind being unable to answer, he found himself talking most freely to this one and always feeling like he was being listened to very, very closely. Despite the fact the headstone never spoke back or gave away what was actually buried here.
Draco had one, and it was sleek white, studded artfully with accents of pure silver and the ground before it solid black-and-white marble instead of being earth for him to plant things, but he often lay there and wrote letters against the solid surface instead of speaking, as it was somehow easier to formulate his words that way—and carefully formulating his words for those conversations seemed extremely critical. It felt like he'd left hundreds of letters there over time, and every time he returned they were gone.
Blaise had one. Well, Blaise had a mausoleum and when Harry visited he could only appreciate the decadent architecture.
Nott had one, and it was made of thin wood with a bouquet of wilting white heather flowers wrapped in a tan cloth sitting before its otherwise unmarked memorial.
The twins had one each, but they were closer than most other graves, and nearly identical. Actually, the headstones were identical but every time Harry figured out another difference between them, he'd run to the right one and place down a new decoration for it. A chocolate bar or a new orange flower that just seemed to suit one of them or something. Theirs was a work in progress.
McGonagall had one, larger than those around it but perfect to lean against, getting comfy to read through his mental notes for the day and take more notes as they came to him. For some reason he found a lot of clarity there, on more technical subjects.
Dell had one, as his favorite adopted ancestor, and it was just a single large river stone with her name elegantly etched on top, set at the base of a miniature fig tree with colorful swatches of different fabrics tied to every tiny branch for a truly wild art piece near the center of his graveyard.
Even the Dursleys had one—but it was unmarked and they only reason he knew it was there was… well, because it was his mind and he knew it was there. But he only ever visited to make sure the grass he'd ripped up from the bare spot on the otherwise beautiful garden hadn't grown back—and if it had he made sure to stomp on it until it died again, to leave the spot muddy and barren. It was also a mass grave for all he cared, because the three of them were down there and he did not care to spare even a single thought to consider in what order they were buried.
Was this morbid?
Yes, probably. It probably also said a lot about his sanity and state of mind, to be honest.
But it worked. Because every time Ron ticked him off he could run to the youngest Weasley's grave and scrawl rude things over his dusty grey memorial with a sharpie, or chuck a mental tomato at it as hard as he could, and the sheer disrespect of the motion was always so satisfying. Also, the mental image of dancing rudely on someone's grave was surprisingly calming when you currently wanted to strangle them into a real grave in real life.
Harry had found Potions class much easier to get through when he could imagine bottling up his potions and taking them back to his graveyard, pouring them all over the ground before Snape's sleek black headstone. He knew the man actually legitimately liked potions enough that it felt like spitting on his grave, but worse, and for some reason it really helped keep his flaring temper at how unfair the man could be in check. Probably the fact that even imagining taking revenge could make him so happy was probably not healthy, but he wasn't asking to be psychoanalyzed, thanks.
Everyone had a grave in his mind, even people he was still working out had unmarked, unremarkable graves until he could settle pieces about them in his mind, creating better adornments with time. He would change the shape and color of their headstone, plant new flowers or leave different gifts, removing old things and refreshing bouquets as needed. Needing to walk through his graveyard to find their stone focused his mind, and figuring out how to decorate it was cathartic. Visiting, even once he knew exactly how the grave should look, always felt different each time, like it really was a visit he'd taken to relieve his soul of something on his mind that only talking to their grave could fix.
For most of the graves, they were real people he could go talk to.
But that wasn't the point of his graveyard.
He'd told Hermione how helpful her books had been, and she'd been happy to track down the next one in the series for him, but he hadn't read it yet. It had started talking about what's outside his graveyard, and he somehow just knew he wasn't ready for it. He spent most of his time perfecting his graveyard these days, making sure it was just right.
He'd get to what was outside his iron gate another day.
000
"Hey, Neville."
A blond head perked up from behind a bush of slightly bioluminescent flowers, taking a neat step back and holding his watering can closer to his chest in surprise someone had actually come to visit him in the greenhouses this late in the evening. Harry initially thought he'd surprised him, which he had, but Neville's tense posture was actually revealed to be likely because of the bush in front of him that seemed to be actively trying to grab at him. So, Harry might've just incidentally interrupted his friend during a particularly dangerous gardening moment.
Oops, my bad.
"Harry! What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I like to bother people, didn't you know?" He teased lightly, and Neville offered him an amused smile as the redhead came to stand beside him and look curiously at the bush he'd been tending to.
"I'm just weeding and watering some, it's not very interesting."
"Well I can keep you company then." Harry offered, squinting as he got a good look at the bush. "Do… do those flowers have teeth?"
"They're Biting Bogberries, and those teeth will break if they bite you so don't let them bite you. It won't hurt you much but when they're full grown the fangs are the medicinal part." He explained, and Harry always loved hearing Neville talk about Herbology. Mainly because he spoke with solid sentences without a waver to his voice to be heard, and it was refreshing.
"Right, so it's not me you're worried about, it's the flowers."
Neville's smile neither confirmed nor denied the implication. "In a nice way, of course."
Harry snickered, content to sit back and watch him return to his watering session while gloved hands carefully avoided getting any water droplets in the flowers many, many chomping mouths. It was rather quiet apart from the sprinkle of water hitting soft earth, as predictably the flowers' pointed teeth were young and made of a plant-like material, so their incessant chomping didn't make much noise.
As Neville finished he moved on to another plant Harry didn't recognize and started weeding, and as that seemed less dangerous he prodded him into an easy conversation—with midterms over and finals still plenty far enough away that no one was even thinking about them (aside from the fifth years, who'd been obsessing over OWLs since September, actually) most people had gone their own ways to pursue their different interests without being too concerned over needing to study every spare hour they had. That meant Harry had been playing a lot of quidditch and football and Neville had all but disappeared into the greenhouses for the past two weeks. Even the Slytherins had been sequestered in their dorms more often than not, and Daphne told him some serious plotting and scheming was going on that they were all very preoccupied with—him being a weird Gryffindor who sat at their table had lost its novelty at some point so they were on to better things apparently.
On the one hand it was nice, because he could actually hang out with Draco not just at mealtimes (and when the boy had the time) without getting glared at constantly. On the other hand, he was now aware that these last months of the school year were crunch time for Slytherins. For them, first years weren't players really because they had no position on the board yet, but now was the time to situate yourself in the snake house, and if you didn't do it well enough then the summer could disrupt a lot of carefully laid plans if you didn't prepare properly. Apparently now was the opportune time to enact the plans they'd been laying all year and how they fell would determine what kind of position they were in next year. And for first years who got a by since they didn't even know they were in Slytherin until last September, the pressure was on because now they had no excuse and this would set a precedent for how they would be positioned politically for the next six years at Hogwarts—if you messed up it was possible to regain status eventually, but you'd be working at a disadvantage from here on out.
And Slytherins hated working at a disadvantage. They'd rather not play at all than go into a fight without the upper hand, but this wasn't exactly avoidable so things were a bit tense over there for the time being.
Therefore, Draco was understandably preoccupied these days. Harry hadn't seen hide nor hair of Nott since the week before midterms, and even Blaise didn't stick around at the Slytherin table as long as he used to—he was the only one who gleefully told Harry he was working on a personal project, but Harry assumed that was because the untouchable Slytherin was confident in the fact that no one would be able to stop him even if rumors did get out that he was up to something.
As if anyone in Slytherin would be stupid enough to think anyone wasn't up to something in what was apparently plotting-season for the snake house.
And, well, technically I'm part of it too. I've been plotting operation fox all year, and now is the time to put it into play if I could just figure out my next move. He mused to himself.
He had every tool he needed to at this point, he just needed the inspiration to strike. He had the skill at Transfiguration to pull this off(he'd paid back his first favor to the twins by giving them Transfiguration help for their upcoming finals, which they were highly entertained by), now he just needed to pick the perfect spell to do it with, and he couldn't quite decide where to go with it.
There was only a couple months left in the school year though, so he needed to pick something fast. He was hoping inspiration would simply hit him, but he hadn't had any luck with that tactic so far and was really feeling the time crunch.
In the mean time he was happy to check on his friends who'd disappeared off into their corners. Dean, Seamus, and Lu had fast become the three musketeers in concerns to all things football, and Harry's idea of having mock games had gone surprisingly well. It was very chill, no pressure for those who weren't into it and also because there was no point into actually winning, but making it an "official" club game had churned up the fire in those who were actually inherently competitive and the club had gotten heated for a while.
Susan, as it turns out, was a bloody monster and the fact she wasn't on the Hufflepuff quidditch team was a blessing to the Gryffindor seeker who knew he'd have been knocked off his broom already from how into a game she got. Luckily her chosen sport was football and just this year she'd improved enough to jump from the beginners games up to the non-beginners, and she was absolutely ruthless.
Harry was sure he still had bruises on his shins from how hard she'd kicked him and to this day he wasn't sure if that was legal or not but they didn't exactly have referees so he kind of just had to live with it. The only person who dared argue with her was Lu, and it'd been all year and the Ravenclaw had no success convincing her of anything so far so… Harry called that a losing battle and didn't bring it up.
Harry enjoyed football but even he could only take so much strategizing and calculating about the next game that wasn't even on the schedule yet, so he let the three musketeers do their own thing with the club for now. Susan and Hannah (and the Hufflepuffs in general) were always joys to talk with, but he realized he'd probably been spending more meals with them than not, and he hadn't seen Neville in what felt like ages.
Neville himself had all but disappeared, and it was only a lot of poking and prodding from Harry that got him to admit that Professor Sprout had asked him to officially help out in the greenhouses as an actual assistant. Apparently she had other hands available to help out, but they were two fifth years and one seventh year and the fifth years were all but drowning from OWL prep which in turn meant she was quite busy as well. She'd asked Neville to tend to a lot of the third-year level plants and below so she could focus on the more complicated plants, which meant the blond really had this greenhouse to himself for the time being.
He was red as a tomato when Harry had gushed over how exciting that was, but his tiny embarrassed smile was all the proof needed for how much he actually really enjoyed the responsibility, telling Harry all about how the work was far more interesting, if not more tricky than anything they were learning in class. So, Neville was quietly getting ahead in his own way despite every other subject being a struggle for him, and unlike a Slytherin or even Harry, he wasn't even using it to get ahead.
In fact, Harry was pretty sure he was the only one who knew Neville was one of Sprout's assistants right now, and while he wanted to scream it from the Astronomy tower that his quiet friend was brilliant and absolutely not the horrible things people sometimes called him behind his back, he also knew Neville himself had no interest in flaunting his abilities or getting that kind of attention in any way. The fact he hadn't even told Harry until he'd had to track the boy down and wrestle the truth out of him said a lot, after all. Harry wouldn't betray his shy friend by going out and telling everyone like Neville so clearly feared he would (and he admittedly really, really wanted to), but he didn't!
But it was frustrating, when he was an extrovert who wanted to punch people in the face when they called Neville a squib loud enough that there was no way they didn't intend for him to hear it. It drove him insane that Neville himself would just quietly turn bright red and keep his head down, and that even when Harry asked him later if he was alright, he'd just deny having heard them say anything. Protecting his bullies because he knew the second he asked it of his louder friend, Harry would use his budding prodigal Transfiguration skills to make their lives hell, if not actually punch them in the face like a muggle.
Harry did not want a reputation as a bully, but the fact that Neville hid things from him to protect people was a problem. Both because that implied Neville thought he was a lunatic who'd attack people without hesitation (which, you know, fair) and also because it meant Neville felt like he couldn't share things with Harry and that really got him on edge.
He'd been working on it, but no such luck so far with the shyest Gryffindor, who still just smiled at him and promised him everything was okay any time he tried to ask.
"Have you ever considered being a healer, Neville?" He blurted out, the two of them crouching over a low bed of tiny sprouting plants with a soft pinkish tinge to their baby leaves as Neville carefully weeded between them.
The blond pause long enough to glance at him as if wondering why he'd ask that. "A healer?"
"You clearly know the parts of a plant, and a lot about the medicinal properties of it all. I mean it just struck me as a thought that you might like it, not saying you should or anything."
His face crumpled into a frown as he just bent his head again to keep weeding, a long minute of silence passing while he gave it thought. That was progress Harry had made—learning to shut the hell up and just wait him out, and now Neville was very comfortable with taking all the time he needed to formulate his words without fear Harry was going to talk over him, safe in the knowledge Harry would sit there and wait until he was good and ready to speak.
Eventually…
"Knowing about plants is all and well I guess, but I'd have to have top marks in things like Potions and Charms to be a healer. Charms is one thing, but I will never be good at Potions."
"I'm sure you could make a trade…" Harry offered as delicately as he could, knowing Neville knew exactly where he was going by the sharp look he got. He pressed forward anyway. "Slytherins like trades, and you're clearly top of our class at Herbology even if you hide it from everyone. You could trade Herbology notes for tutoring in Potions from someone like, say, Draco—and you and I can work on Charms together! Or maybe work out a trade with Lu as I'm not exactly the best Charms student admittedly," He winced, remembering to study harder for his Charms final as the midterm hadn't been the most fun experience ever. He quickly brushed it off. "I mean if you don't want to that's one thing, but if it's something you can fix that's stopping you, it just seems a shame. I just thought… it was weird as hell, the whole situation, but we all worked together pretty well with Norbert, don't you think?"
Neville did not look at him while he worked for a solid five minutes, and Harry was positively fidgeting in his seat by the time he spoke again.
"I don't think potions is for me."
Okay, that was a LONG pause for just that.
"Neville…" But the blond still refused to look up at him, and Harry sighed. "… it's absolutely okay if the answer is yes, but you don't like Draco, do you?"
"I have nothing against Draco." That answer came fast, but Harry wasn't buying it.
"But you do against his reputation? His house?"
"His family." Neville seemed almost as surprised as Harry was that he'd actually admitted that, and he quickly ducked his head again to avoid the piercing green gaze following him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Not… well, he has one aunt that…"
His jaw clenched and unclenched almost by force, and he had to stop weeding for a second to steady himself before busying himself dusting the dirt of the edge of the flower bed, which incidentally had him facing pointedly away from Harry to do it. "All purebloods are sort of related. We all know about each other in some way." He finally got out.
Harry knew that… he also knew Neville was pureblood, he just also kinda forgot it most days. But he did in fact know he was a pureblood, and not just a pureblood… if Daphne's lessons were to be believed, his family was just as pristine and long-lived as the Malfoys. The kind of blood that pre-dated Hogwarts and Merlin himself by like a lot. Old, old magic and history and tradition that Harry never really could understand even if he was taking lessons.
With the Slytherins it came easy. They eat, sleep, and breathe this stuff. For people like Neville… hell, even Fred and George and Ron—they were all pureblood.
Even the Potter name he knew nothing about was pureblood, and he forgot that meant something most days because it meant very little to him. He thought it didn't mean anything to people like the Weasleys or to Neville either… and it was kind of alarming to realize he might've been incredibly stupid to think that.
Just because Neville clearly wasn't a blood purist or an extremist, didn't mean he didn't have pride in his family name. That quiet, un-flaunted pride he worked for under Sprout, that silent unwavering moral compass that made him a pure Gryffindor, that unspoken iron-clad belief he had in his friends and in what the right thing to do was. Just because he didn't boast about his family name like Draco did, didn't mean he didn't believe in his family's pride with everything he had, just as any of the most outspoken Slytherin did.
He wanted to slap himself for being so foolish, but now was not the time to ask that. He was trying to figure out why Neville, who was only outshone by Seamus in how open-minded a Gryffindor he was, still refused to even look at Draco the rare times the Slytherin sat at their table—or why he'd always pull a Nott and seemingly disappear into thin air when Draco came to study with them. They'd worked just fine together for Norberta, and seemed to have even almost gotten along when worrying about Harry almost being killed in the Forbidden Forest, but that truce had evaporated almost immediately after all was said and done and things had settled down.
And Neville had been the one to back off surprisingly, not Draco. The Slytherin didn't seem to care if Neville was there or not, so long as Harry was a bridge between them.
Neville though, as the days went on it became exceedingly clear that Neville did.
And Harry worried… worried at this was another thing Neville wasn't telling him.
He attempted to get to the root of the problem.
"And you had a bad experience with one of Draco's aunts?"
He immediately knew he'd said the absolute wrong thing though, when Neville abruptly stood and walked away in the greenhouse, almost as an after thought grabbing his watering can to re-fill it at the spigot at the other end of the building. Harry would've let him have a moment to collect himself if he wasn't so damn worried—worried by the way Neville was refusing to look at him and the way his whole body was stiff as a board from whatever wrong thing Harry had said. He got up and followed him on quiet feet, trying to be respectful but unwilling to just let him walk away.
Or, he thought he was on quiet feet, but Neville seemed to hear him anyway.
"Harry… I'd rather stay out of it, if that's okay." His voice was quiet, but otherwise normal and Harry froze in his tracks as he realized he'd been caught.
The 'don't ask me about the Malfoys' warning was clear as day under the deceptively calm tone though and he quickly backed off.
"Of course it is. Sorry for being so nosy, just letting my mouth run over here." He kicked the ground a bit awkwardly, gripping his hands behind his back in a submissive tone that Neville couldn't see with his back turned.
He turned the spigot off and seemed to take a breath.
"…it's alright, I know you were just helping." He turned around and his face was calm, eyes still downturned like they always were. Harry hated it.
He was tempted to ask Daphne about what the hell had gone on between the two families but… Draco clearly didn't care enough to mention it and Neville was the only one bothered. Not that that was a good sign, as Draco's family had once served Voldemort so… yeah, not a great sign, but one he hoped Draco would at least acknowledge one day, when he remember he was supposed to be grey and not dark.
But, asking someone else about it also felt like a betrayal of Neville's confidence. He clearly didn't want to talk about it, and Harry knew he'd be a poor friend to go behind his back about it. A Slytherin would appreciate the art of it even, but Neville most certainly would not.
He hoped Neville would tell himself one day, and was just going to have to get used to being patient, he guessed.
Still…
"I'd like to hear your thoughts on it, if that's okay?" He offered as an olive branch, and Neville frowned at him, not understanding. "I mean, not Draco or his family exactly but I guess sort of… everything? The thing with Norberta, and Hagrid, me and the Slytherins," He scratched the back of his neck, not sure if this was making any sense but feeling an obligation to just try. "You're always down to support me and whatever crazy thing I'm up to, and to me it's not crazy but I guess it's sinking in finally that most of what I do is super weird. And that doesn't stop me, but you don't really ever tell me to stop like Draco does, you just worry. I can see it on your face like all the time, but you never say anything."
The blond Gryffindor just looked at him, as if trying to digest those words.
"I'd like to hear what you think on things Neville, don't think I don't just because I get caught up in my own thing most of the time. Er… all of the time." He admitted, hoping he was being heard.
Neville… crossed in front of him to return to the flower bed he was tending, and Harry dutifully followed to crouch beside him as he picked at a few stray weeds here and there. The silence always got to him eventually and Harry wanted to help with the weeding just for something to do, but knew he'd probably just get in his way so he kept his hands to himself for now, and watched him work.
And as always, Neville eventually worked up to talking again.
"Truth is… I guess I don't have a strong opinion on a lot of stuff."
"How do you mean?"
His smile this time was wry—not something Harry was used to seeing on his otherwise nervous expression. "Must be a weird thought for you, who always knows what he wants and does what he wants without even thinking if it's even possible or not." He tilted his head, stopping to glance at him in amusement. "That's not a bad thing." He clarified as an afterthought.
"Well… when I met you, I could tell you were letting Hermione boss you around, and she's kind of oblivious so it was clear you weren't happy with it and just letting it happen. I do acknowledge I've basically been doing the same thing, but one of my goals is to get you to be able to get what you want, if that makes it better? And I really want to help, honest! If you have a goal, just tell me and I'll do what I can to help!"
Neville's smile grew, even though he still didn't look up. "Thanks. But that's the thing… I don't have a goal." He shrugged half-heartedly as he gently pressed down the soil around a tiny sprout, no bigger than his finger as if tucking it in. "I don't really want anything, or know what I should be doing with my life or… or anything like that."
Okay, that's not the weirdest thing, I don't think.
"I mean, we are eleven. I've been told on no uncertain terms that I'm the weird one." And that was coming from Blaise, which meant a lot.
The blonde gave a light, breathy laugh. "Yeah, I guess there's time." He agreed diplomatically. "But I don't have a solid reason to tell you not to hang out with Slytherins, or to not play football or to not avoid Potions because Snape is terrifying." His ears turned a bit pink as if realizing he'd said that out loud, ducking his head a bit more. "I don't really have a reason to do anything other than trying my hardest not to disappoint people."
"You will never be a disappointment, Neville."
The words sort of just came out of him out of nowhere, but Harry honestly truly meant them. And he realized they meant a lot when Neville actually froze, lifting his gaze to startle at him with wide, blue eyes silently asking if he was serious.
Harry didn't bother answering that silent question because he didn't say things he didn't mean, and Neville should know that by now. Meeting his gaze pointedly seemed to drive that concept home for him, and he glanced back at his sprouts uncertainly.
"Thanks." He eventually responded, in a rather quiet tone. "Maybe you do… push, a bit, without thinking of everyone else but… on the other hand I think maybe I consider what other people think way too much." He admitted with a slight wince.
"But if you ever really minded what I was doing, you'd tell me, right?"
"Yeah. Of course." He agreed easily with a nod and another shrug.
"And about Draco…?"
Neville's lips pressed together uncomfortably at the question, but he took a lot less time to formulate response this time.
"You made it clear that he could be friends with people you didn't like, and you could do the same. You've let him do it, and he's let you do it." He tiled his head back thoughtfully. "I see no reason I can't do the same."
Harry wanted to grin at that, but kept his face in a neutral smile so as not to alarm him. There was that Gryffindor pride of his—said in such a polite, reasonable way, and yet the implication was that over his dead body would he ever be called less open minded than a Slytherin. If Draco could be open about who he was friends with then Neville would choke on his dinner and be six feet under before he admitted he couldn't be just as open about his friends as Draco Malfoy.Neville was a shy, quiet, self-conscious kind of guy… but never let it be said that he didn't have a pride that was far more noble than anything Harry could claim.
And just in considering it… Neville was a really, really good Gryffindor. He was good. He would help people for no other reason than that they needed help, even at great cost to himself.
The sheer idea that Slytherins needed a trade or to save face while they did it or get something out of helping someone probably insulted every moral bone in Neville's quiet, silently prideful body. He would never get in someone's face about it, but his moral compass pointed true north, so the fact Draco's (and even Harry's, most times) pointed in a more grey direction was just not compatible.
But Neville was kind. He would accept someone for who they were anyway… just don't ask him to compromise on his principles. Harry almost wanted to, just to see what kind of pushback Neville would actually give, but he knew that was cruel, and he'd likely be one friend down by the end of it.
Unlike a Slytherin, broken friendships with a true lion couldn't be fixed with a game of words or even trading his whole life away for it.
"Thank you." And he meant it. "But I really do treasure you as one of my best friends and I know I'm not… well, not always a good sort of person. Hanging out with Slytherins all the time and then talking to you, who is legitimately one of the nicest people ever, makes it really, really obvious." Neville blinked in surprise, blinking at him widely as Harry pushed forward before he could react. "So you have to tell me if I'm doing something you don't like, or even something you're just unsure about. Because I value your opinion as someone who is generally just nicer than me, and I want to be a nicer person. Please help me?"
Neville looked at him like he'd grown another head. "You are a nice person."
"I'm nice to you because I like you." He grimaced, the trueness of that statement smarting a bit. "I've got a temper and I snap at people when I'm anxious… and maybe I'm confident in who I am but I can at least acknowledge that some parts of me I don't like. And I want to be better—like you."
"I'm not-" The blond turned bright red and he shifted uncomfortably to be put on the spot like that. "Why would you want that?"
Harry laughed loudly, in his face. Because it was a stupid question and Neville should know by now that Harry mocked stupid questions with ruthless abandon.
"Because you're a better person than me. Maybe there are things about yourself you want to change, but join the club. I've got them too and I'm working on them like everyone else is."
"I mean… I suppose I could try. I still don't know what it is you're looking for." Neville seemed totally out of his depth, but Harry leaned into his shoulder playfully and just elbowed his side.
"I'm just looking for you to be you—and to be the friend who calls me out on my crap when I'm being petty. And trust me, I can be petty. And full of myself… and pushy." He gently nudged him in the ribs yet again to make the point, and it pulled an almost unwillingly smile from the blond.
"Okay maybe." He reluctantly allowed.
"You admit it! You agree I'm pushy!"
"I said maybe,"
But his laughter was music to Harry's ears, and he hoped at least some of the words he'd said sunk in for Neville, and he would eventually take them to heart.
But, he probably wouldn't know if he was ever successful or not because… well, Neville tended not to tell him things.
Harry just hoped one day, he would.
000
It was breakfast, some amount of days later that Harry's teacup made a breakthrough in operation fox.
Said teacup was being drained for the fourth time in one meal, but he really liked jasmine tea and they rarely had it. Most people seemed to like earl grey, the lemmings.
"Nothing's wrong with black tea." Dean defended the beverage valiantly.
"I'm not a big fan of tea," Seamus admitted, getting glares from all around which he ignored as he dug into his toast.
"Chamomile is better, is all I'm saying. Black tea will do in a pinch, but it tastes like a bush." Harry dismissed him, getting his own 'are you crazy' looks that he ignored as always.
Dean looked to Neville for help, but as usual the blond just poured his own cup and let them argue amongst themselves. He wouldn't give them an opinion unless they outright asked him... and notice he said an opinion, because Neville had a bad habit of saying whatever would cause the least trouble even if he agreed with it or not.
Harry was slowly starting to realize Neville could lie, but he lied about very boring, annoying things.
"I don't know where you come up with this stuff." Dean huffed when he realized he'd get no help, and Harry flashed him a hundred-dollar grin for his troubles. "Chamomile isn't a breakfast drink, it's a dessert drink. How you can stomach that first thing in the morning is beyond me."
"Same way I eat French toast covered in syrup," Harry was very amused by this conversation. "You're telling me there's no sweet breakfast food you like?"
"None at all. French toast is an abomination too."
"Dean, I had no idea you felt so strongly about syrup."
Dean waved a spoon threateningly at him, eyes glinting meaning he knew exactly where Harry was trying to go with this. "If you dare use that sentence out of context you will regret it, Potter."
"Come at me, Thomas." Harry lifted his chin definitely, his own playful glint making Seamus sink into his beans and toast in an attempt to get out of the crossfire.
And he was smart to do it because Dean used his spoon to flick a tiny bit of oatmeal Harry's way, only for it to be dodged and immediately retaliated with the dregs of what was left in his teacup being launched into his face—it wasn't a lot of liquid but it certainly caused him to splutter.
"Can we not, first thing in the morning?" Seamus complained as Dean coughed on the drop or two he inhaled while Harry laughed gleefully at his pain. "Also, you had that coming. You've seen him play quidditch—if he could dodge that bludger last weekend he can dodge oatmeal." He scolded Dean who shot him an annoyed glare for that.
Harry just preened happily at the comment on his skills as he threateningly brandished his teacup at his roommate once more. "Don't test me when I'm armed, Thomas."
"With a teacup."
"You bet your butt a teacup, and if you don't think I can't use a teacup effectively if the situation calls for it then you—"
Harry froze mid-sentence, and all three Gryffindors around him paused as well, because that was weird.
…wait a second.
He whipped out his wand and everyone around him leaned back sharply in alarm—but he ignored them as he tapped on the now-empty cup, and immediately it transfigured itself into solid silver. He tapped it again and nothing seemed to happen, but Harry's eyes widened noticeably as they just blinked in surprise.
"Woah, what kind of spell is that?" Seamus perked up.
"Third year." Harry answered him distractedly. He tapped it again and jerked back in shock at whatever result he got that no one else could see, dropping the cup down onto the table from as high as his arm could reach above him while sitting down.
It shattered, loudly, catching a lot of people's attention and forcing Neville to jump a bit in both surprise, and to avoid any tiny bits that had shattered near him. Harry's head snapped up, eyes wide and staring at Dean across the table from him like he'd just found the answer to the universe and was startled to have found it, and Dean stared back in shock about what the hell was going on.
"I've got to go." He blurted out, jumping to his feet and grabbing his bag as he all but ran from the Great Hall—breakfast half-finished and pretty much ruined anyway given the shards of teacup now splattered all over it.
Dean, Seamus, and Neville just stared after him, baffled. And not just them, but several others who'd heard the cup break and then watched Potter run from the hall like he was being chased. The fact the people he was sitting with seemed to have no idea what had happened meant it was probably just the first year being weird again, so they went back to their breakfasts without further issue.
Dean turned to the room at large.
"Does anyone know what that was about?"
Seamus frowned deeply, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Do we really want to ask?"
Neville, suddenly remembering Norberta the dragon, winced visibly.
That gave Dean and Seamus their answer and they exchanged knowing looks before they pointedly went back to their meal, ignoring their roommate's weirdness.
If it was important enough, Harry would definitely not hesitate to get them involved. Until then, it was probably best not to know.