Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The eighth-years had become a spectacle before they’d even unpacked their trunks.

The Daily Prophet had run three separate articles on Hogwarts reopening after the war, all dramatic headlines and grainy moving photographs of students crossing the grounds beneath rebuilt towers. RETURN TO NORMALCY, one had declared, as if normal had ever existed at Hogwarts in the first place.

Harry thought the whole thing was bullshit.

There was nothing normal about being stared at every time he walked into the Great Hall. Nothing normal about first-years freezing with spoons halfway to their mouths when he passed by. Nothing normal about people whispering that’s him like he wasn’t a person, like he was some half-tamed magical creature McGonagall allowed to roam the corridors.

He hated it.

It made his skin itch.

At Grimmauld Place, at least, things were quieter. Sirius and Remus had finally managed to turn the old house into something warm instead of haunted. Kreacher still muttered insults under his breath, but he also made proper tea now and complained if Harry skipped meals, which apparently counted as affection.

Harry had spent most of August stretched across the drawing room sofa while Sirius loudly cheated at cards and Remus pretended not to notice.

“You’re scowling again,” Remus had said one evening over his book.

“I’m Indian. It’s genetic.”

Sirius barked a laugh loud enough to shake the windows. “No, Bambi, your face specifically looks murderous.”

Harry had flipped him off without looking up from the Prophet.

The scar stretching across the side of his face always pulled a little when he was irritated. It started near his temple and slashed jaggedly toward his cheekbone, thin silver-white against brown skin. Most people found it intimidating. Harry liked that. It kept idiots from trying to touch it.

Usually.

Not that Hogwarts students understood boundaries. By the second week back at school, Harry was already considering homicide.

McGonagall’s “eighth-year unity initiative” had forced all returning students into shared dormitories and a combined common room in a renovated corridor above the library. Apparently trauma bonding built character.

Ron called it “state-sanctioned torture.”

Hermione called it “a progressive social experiment.”

Harry called it “a brilliant way to start another war.”

Especially because McGonagall, in what Harry suspected was either optimism or temporary insanity, had placed him in the same dormitory as Draco Malfoy.

The room itself was massive, circular, and lined with six curtained beds. Ron had complained for an hour straight when they first arrived.

“You cannot honestly expect me to sleep six feet away from Malfoy voluntarily.”

“You survived camping with me while I wore the locket,” Harry had pointed out.

“That was different. You’re annoying morally. He’s annoying professionally.”

Neville had looked deeply uncomfortable the entire exchange.

Malfoy, meanwhile, hadn’t reacted at all.

That was the strange thing. Draco Malfoy had become quiet. Not quieter. Not sulky. Just…silent. He moved through Hogwarts like someone trying not to be seen, which would’ve been impossible even if half the school didn’t hate him. He still looked too sharp for invisibility. Pale blond hair. Grey eyes. Expensive posture. But the arrogance was gone from him now, scraped hollow.

Students hexed him constantly.

Harry had seen it happen three times already. Someone had jinxed Draco’s books to explode ink all over him in the corridor outside Transfiguration. Two Hufflepuffs had muttered “Death Eater” loudly enough to echo through the library. A Ravenclaw girl had deliberately rammed into his shoulder near the Astronomy staircase and sneered when he stumbled.

And then there was the infirmary. Three visits in two weeks. Ron said he deserved worse. Hermione said the retaliation culture at Hogwarts was becoming unhealthy. Harry stayed out of it. He ignored Malfoy the same way he ignored moving portraits and Peeves and all the other irritating fixtures of the castle. Easier that way.

The last real conversation they’d had was over the summer when Harry had returned Draco’s wand. Malfoy had stared at it for a long moment before taking it carefully, fingers brushing Harry’s accidentally.

“Why?” he’d asked quietly.

Harry had shrugged. “It’s yours.”

Draco had looked like he wanted to say something else then. Instead, he’d just nodded once and closed the door. That had been that.

Now they shared a dorm and avoided looking at each other.

It worked well enough until Charms on Thursday afternoon.

The eighth-year Charms class had been combined into one large room due to low enrollment. Four Slytherins. A cluster of Gryffindors. Several Ravenclaws. A handful of Hufflepuffs.

Harry sat near the back beside Ron while Hermione argued with Pansy Parkinson before class had even started.

“You elbowed me.”

“I brushed against you, Granger. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You are genuinely insufferable.”

Pansy smiled sweetly. “And yet here you are speaking to me voluntarily.”

Theo Nott snorted from nearby without looking up from his book.

Flitwick arrived with unusual enthusiasm. “Good afternoon, everyone!”

The class mumbled back.

“Today,” Flitwick announced, hopping onto a stack of books behind his desk, “we will begin introductory partnered work in Legilimency and Occlumency.”

The room immediately went tense.

Ron groaned. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” Flitwick chirped. “Advanced magic requires trust, discipline, and emotional control.”

Harry nearly laughed at the phrase emotional control. Wrong classroom for that.

“Now then,” Flitwick continued, “I have arranged partners specifically to encourage inter-house cooperation.”

A collective sound of suffering moved through the room.

Flitwick ignored it cheerfully. “Miss Granger with Miss Parkinson.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pansy muttered.

“Mr. Weasley with Mr. Nott.”

Theo looked personally offended.

“Mr. Longbottom with Mr. Zabini.”

Neville visibly swallowed.

“Mr. Potter with Mr. Malfoy.”

The silence that followed felt almost theatrical.

Ron twisted around immediately. “You’re joking.”

“I am not,” Flitwick said brightly.

Across the room, Draco looked unimpressed.

Harry leaned back in his chair. “Could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”

A few people laughed nervously.

Draco rose without a word. Harry followed him toward the cleared practice space at the side of the classroom. They stopped several feet apart.

Up close, Malfoy looked exhausted. There were faint shadows under his eyes Harry hadn’t noticed before, and his sleeves were tugged unusually low over his wrists. He kept flexing his wand hand subtly, like something hurt. Harry remembered hearing Seamus say Malfoy’s wand had been malfunctioning all week. Poetic justice, according to Dean. Harry personally thought wand allegiance sounded like an enormous pain in the arse.

Flitwick clapped his hands. “Remember: gentle penetration only. You are not attempting to overpower your partner. Surface thoughts, emotional impressions, basic memory shielding.”

Ron made a strangled noise somewhere behind Harry.

Draco rolled his shoulders once. “Get on with it, Potter.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “Still bossy. Good to know the war didn’t change everything.”

Grey eyes flashed briefly. “There it is,” Draco said softly. “Thought you’d lost your personality.”

Harry smiled without humor. “Thought you’d lost your nerve.”

For half a second, something ugly flickered across Draco’s expression. Then it vanished.

“Legilimens.” Harry cast first. The spell slipped forward smooth and controlled, but Draco’s defenses slammed shut instantly.

Solid.

Cold.

Harry blinked in surprise. Occlumency wasn’t easy magic. Snape himself had struggled teaching Harry years ago, mostly because Harry had wanted to strangle him every five minutes.

Draco, though—

Nothing got through. Not even a crack.

Harry felt the resistance like hitting reinforced glass. Across from him, Draco’s face remained unreadable. Of course Snape had taught him. The realization came easy. Snape teaching Draco Occlumency in secret rooms beneath the Manor. Snape standing over him with that harsh, precise voice. Snape correcting wand movements with visible irritation.

Harry’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

Dead.

Snape was dead.

And despite everything, Harry still didn’t quite know what to do with that.

Draco’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. A flicker. Something painful crossed his face before disappearing behind composure. Harry wondered if he’d thought the same thing.

“Again,” Flitwick called.

Around them, students practiced unevenly. Hermione and Pansy looked one insult away from murder. Ron nearly knocked Theo’s wand out of his hand. Neville flinched every time Blaise spoke too suddenly.

Harry exhaled slowly and reset his grip. “Legilimens.”

Again, Draco blocked him effortlessly.

Harry clicked his tongue. “Show off.”

“Skill issue.”

“Merlin, there’s the arsehole I remember.”

One corner of Draco’s mouth twitched before flattening immediately, like the reaction had escaped accidentally. Then Draco lifted his own wand.

Harry braced automatically.

“Legilimens.” The spell came sharp and controlled. And then—

“Parkinson, honestly—”

“Don’t shove me, Granger—”

Someone collided hard into Draco’s shoulder from behind.

Pansy stumbled sideways after Hermione shoved past her, and Draco’s wand jerked violently mid-cast. The spell hit Harry crooked.

Wrong.

Harry felt it instantly. Instead of the usual invasive pressure against his mind, something ripped sideways. A sharp crack split behind his eyes. Draco inhaled sharply. And suddenly he was there.

A cupboard.

Too small.

Dark.

Eight years old and shaking from cold. Vernon Dursley yelling upstairs. Petunia’s sharp voice calling him freak. The sting of Dudley’s fist connecting with his ribs. Hunger clawing at his stomach so fiercely it hurt to breathe. Too-thin wrists. Secondhand clothes hanging off his frame. Hands raw from scrubbing floors.

“Boy!”

Flashes came rapid and violent. Harry curled on stone outside in winter because he’d been locked out again. Petunia gripping his chin hard enough to bruise. Dudley laughing while Harry bled from his nose onto the kitchen tile. A frying pan narrowly missing his head.

Cupboard walls.

Darkness.

Loneliness so complete it felt endless.

Draco staggered slightly. The emotions hit too, not just memories.

Fear.

Rage.

Humiliation.

The horrible aching certainty of being unwanted.

Harry jerked backward violently. “Get the fuck out of my head!”

The words cracked across the classroom. Everyone froze.

Draco looked stunned. Actually stunned. His wand lowered immediately. “I didn’t—”

Harry’s scar burned hot across his face. His breathing had gone uneven. Too loud. Too many eyes on him. The classroom suddenly felt too small.

Flitwick hurried over at once. “Easy now, easy—everyone return to your seats immediately.”

Hermione looked alarmed. Ron halfway rose from his chair. “Mate—”

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped automatically.

Which, judging by Ron’s expression, convinced absolutely no one.

Across from him, Draco had gone unnaturally pale. 

There was a strange ringing in Harry’s ears. His left arm felt oddly numb. Pins and needles crawled from his wrist toward his elbow beneath his robes. Probably nothing.

Probably.

He ignored it. 

Pansy stormed over instantly. “This is Granger’s fault,” she hissed. “She shoved me—”

Hermione looked furious. “You stepped directly into the casting line!”

“You elbowed me!”

“Because you wouldn’t stop talking!”

Flitwick clapped loudly. “Enough!” Silence dropped again. “Everyone, sit down.”

Reluctantly, chairs scraped across stone. Harry sat stiffly beside Ron near the back, jaw tight. He could still feel the phantom remnants of the spell clawing through him. His skin felt wrong. Too tight. He hated Legilimency. Hated the violation of it. Hated that Malfoy had seen—

No.

Harry shoved the thought away violently. Don’t think about it.

Don’t.

Beside him, Ron looked deeply unsettled. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

Harry stared ahead. “I said I’m fine.”

Ron shut up after that, though not happily.

At the opposite side of the classroom, Draco slid into his chair beside Pansy and Blaise. His arm burned. No matter how much he cut the mark, it wouldn’t fade. And Potter’s memories—

Draco swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to go that deep. The spell had casted incorrectly the moment Parkinson crashed into him. He’d felt it happen. Felt his control slip sideways. But that wasn’t what unsettled him. It was what he’d seen. Potter had lived like that?

Draco stared blankly at Flitwick as the professor launched into a lecture about ethical boundaries in mind magic.

Cupboard.

Starvation.

Bruises.

Draco’s stomach turned unpleasantly. He thought about Malfoy Manor. Silk sheets. Private tutors. Imported sweets from France. And Potter had slept in a cupboard. Something twisted sharply in Draco’s chest. No wonder Potter looked at the world like he expected it to bite him.

Beside him, Pansy was whispering furiously.

“Granger’s actually psychotic. I swear she did it on purpose.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s obsessed with being right all the time.”

“Mhm.”

“She’d probably marry a textbook if given the chance.”

Draco rubbed absentmindedly at his numb arm.

Across the room, Potter looked wrong.

Draco noticed it immediately despite himself. Potter’s eyes kept moving. Not darting exactly. Scanning. Like he was checking exits unconsciously. His shoulders were too tense. His fingers tapped rapidly against his thigh beneath the desk.

Panicked.

The realization came sudden and uncomfortable. Potter looked panicked.

Draco looked away at once. Not his problem. None of it was his problem. Potter hated him. Most of the school hated him. And Draco was far too exhausted to care anymore. Still—

Cupboard walls flashed again behind his eyes. The sharp, instinctive fear in younger Potter’s face. Draco flexed his numb hand slowly. Something felt off. Not just physically. Like the spell hadn’t ended cleanly.

He glanced toward Potter again before he could stop himself. Potter was already staring at him. Their eyes locked across the classroom. Harry’s expression hardened immediately, walls slamming back into place. Draco looked away first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry knew something was wrong almost immediately after he sat back down. It started behind his left eye. A sharp pulse. Then another. Like static snapping through his skull.

He stared hard at the scratched surface of the desk while Flitwick continued speaking somewhere at the front of the classroom, voice bright and distant and impossible to focus on. “Mind magic requires responsibility and restraint—”

Harry’s arm burned. Not metaphorically. Actually burned. Heat crawled beneath the skin of his left forearm in vicious waves, spreading slowly toward his wrist. He flexed his fingers beneath the desk.

Pins and needles.

Shit. Not now. Please not now.

His breathing slowed automatically, instinctive. Remus had taught him that after the second seizure over the summer.

“Don’t panic before it happens,” he’d said gently while Harry sat pale and exhausted at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place. “Sometimes the fear makes it worse.”

Easy for him to say.

Harry hated the feeling before a seizure more than the seizure itself. The warning signs. The awful anticipation. Like his own body becoming unfamiliar one inch at a time.

Beside him, Ron was still muttering darkly under his breath. “Honestly gonna kill Malfoy one day. Bloody ferret practically scrambled your brain.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Nobody scrambled my brain.”

“You shouted at him.”

“I shout at everybody.”

“Not usually with that much terror in your voice.”

Harry shot him a glare.

Ron held up his hands immediately. “Right. Okay. Sorry. Touchy subject.”

Harry rubbed at his temple hard enough to hurt. The room tilted faintly. Just for a second. He closed his eyes.

Not now.

Sometimes it stopped. Sometimes he got the warning signs and nothing happened after. Hermione called them focal episodes. Harry called them deeply fucking irritating.

The first seizure had happened three weeks after the war. He’d been making tea at Grimmauld Place one minute and waking up on the kitchen floor the next with Sirius shouting his name and Remus trying to keep him from choking.

Turns out dying and coming back could do strange things to a person.

Who knew.

The healers at St. Mungo’s had called it “neurological trauma resulting from magical death exposure.” Harry called it bullshit.

He shifted in his seat. Bad idea. The classroom swayed harder this time. His stomach twisted. A strange metallic taste flooded his mouth.

Fuck.

His arm burned hotter. Not like muscle pain. Not even like curse pain. It felt almost electrical beneath his skin. Harry tugged his sleeve higher subtly and glanced down.

Nothing.

No marks. No bruising. Still burning.

Across the room, Malfoy looked off. Harry noticed despite himself. The blond was leaning oddly against the wall beside his desk, one hand braced hard against the stone. His expression looked distant. Confused.

Theo frowned beside him. “You alright?”

Draco blinked once like he’d forgotten where he was. “Fine.”

“You look like death.”

“Charming.”

Harry frowned faintly. Something about this felt—

Wrong.

His scar throbbed suddenly. White-hot pain slashed across the side of his face and Harry inhaled sharply through his teeth.

Ron turned immediately. “Mate?”

“I’m okay.”

Lie.

His vision flickered. Just for a split second. The world dimmed at the edges like candlelight being smothered. 

He focused hard on Flitwick’s voice. “Given the sensitive nature of Legilimency, all future exercises will be supervised carefully—”

Harry couldn’t feel two of his fingers properly anymore. That was new.

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

He pressed his palm flat against his thigh beneath the desk to stop the subtle tremor starting there. Nobody noticed.

Hermione did. Of course she did. She narrowed her eyes from across the aisle immediately.

Harry mouthed don’t.

She looked deeply unimpressed.

Flitwick finally clapped his hands together. “I believe we shall conclude early today given the…excitement.”

Nobody argued. Chairs scraped loudly across stone floors as students began gathering bags and books. Conversations burst instantly into existence around the room.

“Did you see Potter yell at Malfoy?”

“Something definitely happened—”

“Parkinson nearly started another duel—”

Harry stood too quickly. The world vanished sideways. For one horrifying second he lost all sense of balance. His knee buckled. Then everything slammed violently white. He heard Ron shout his name. Harry hit the edge of the desk hard enough that pain exploded through his temple. Then the seizure hit fully. It always started with light.

Blinding. Violent. Like someone had shoved molten electricity straight through his skull.

Harry couldn’t breathe. Not properly. His body locked all at once, every muscle seizing painfully tight. His jaw snapped shut hard enough to ache instantly.

There was no graceful way to fall during a seizure. One moment he was upright, the next his body simply stopped belonging to him. He crashed sideways into the stone floor. Distantly, he heard screams. Someone yelling for a professor. Furniture scraping violently backward. But all of it sounded underwater. Far away.

Harry’s spine arched painfully as another wave tore through him. It hurt. That was the part people never understood. Seizures hurt. Every muscle contracted so violently it felt like his body was trying to tear itself apart from the inside. His hands curled painfully inward. His legs jerked uncontrollably against the floor. He could feel his head hitting stone.

Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop anything.

Panic exploded bright and animal somewhere deep in his chest. Not because of the seizure itself. Because he was aware during this one. Usually awareness blurred. Usually it became fragments. But now—

Now he could feel everything. His lungs spasmed uselessly. His vision flickered in shattered pieces. Faces above him. Shapes moving. Voices distorted.

“Move back!”

“Give him room!”

“Oh my god—”

Harry tried to speak. Nothing happened. His tongue felt thick and wrong. Another violent convulsion ripped through him and agony shot down his shoulders hard enough to make black spots burst across his vision. His scar burned. His arm burned worse. The heat under his skin had become unbearable now, racing wildly through his nerves in jagged bursts. It felt connected somehow to the seizure, though Harry couldn’t understand how. Then suddenly—

A flash. Not his memory. Silver-blue eyes staring through smoke. Harry’s stomach lurched violently. What the fuck—

Another flash. Blond hair. Grey eyes. A drawing room at Malfoy Manor. Lucius Malfoy standing rigid beside a fireplace.

Cold voice. Weakness is not tolerated, Draco.

Harry couldn’t process it. The images vanished instantly beneath another crushing wave of pain. His body jerked violently against the floor again. Someone was holding his shoulders now. Wrong move. Harry wanted to tell them not to. You weren’t supposed to restrain seizures. Hermione had lectured them all extensively after the second one. But he couldn’t form words. Could barely think.

The classroom ceiling twisted strangely overhead. Flitwick’s horrified face hovered somewhere above him. “Easy, Mr. Potter, easy—”

Easy? Harry would’ve laughed if he could breathe. His chest spasmed again. The seizure began shifting. Not stopping, but changing. The violent convulsions weakened first into harsh tremors that shook through his limbs uncontrollably. Every muscle hurt. His teeth ached from clenching.

The world came back in pieces. Cold stone beneath his cheek. The smell of dust. Someone crying quietly nearby. Harry blinked sluggishly. Everything looked blurred. Wrong.

Ron’s face appeared suddenly above him, pale with panic. “Harry?”

Harry tried to answer. His mouth didn’t work properly.

“Easy,” Hermione said somewhere close beside him. Her voice sounded strained. “Don’t try to move yet.”

Humiliation arrived before awareness fully did. There were people staring. Of course there were. His entire body felt weak and heavy and wrong. The aftereffects always hit hard, like every ounce of energy had been ripped out through his spine. He became aware of the silence. A classroom full of students staring at him. Some shocked. Some frightened. Some curious. Harry wanted to disappear. His arm still burned. Less intensely now, but enough to make him grimace.

He turned his head slowly. Malfoy stood against the far wall looking genuinely unwell. Sweat soaked through the collar of his uniform. One hand pressed hard against his forearm like he was trying to hold himself together physically. And he looked panicked, and almost confused.

Theo was saying something sharply to him, but Draco barely seemed to hear.

Harry frowned weakly. “What…” His voice cracked badly.

Ron immediately leaned closer. “Easy, mate. You hit your head.”

“No kidding,” Harry muttered thickly.

Hermione let out a tiny relieved exhale. “There he is.”

Harry shut his eyes briefly. Everything hurt. His shoulders especially. Like he’d been dragged behind a broom for several miles.

Flitwick crouched nearby looking deeply concerned. “Mr. Potter, do you know where you are?”

Harry opened one eye. “Unfortunately.”

That earned a startled laugh from someone.

Flitwick looked relieved enough to sag slightly. “Can you sit up?”

“Probably.”

Ron helped carefully while Hermione steadied Harry’s shoulder. The second Harry moved, nausea slammed into him viciously. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck.”

“Easy,” Hermione warned.

“Stop saying easy. None of this feels easy.”

Ron looked close to either punching someone or throwing up himself. “You scared the shit out of us.”

“Sorry.”

“You fell like a sack of bricks!”

“Helpful imagery, Ron.”

“You were convulsing!”

“Yes, that tends to happen during seizures.”

Several nearby students looked startled at the word. Whispers broke out immediately.

“Seizures?”

“Potter has seizures?”

“Oh Merlin—”

Harry wanted to fling himself into the Black Lake.

Hermione glared at the class viciously enough that several people shut up instantly.

Flitwick cleared his throat. “I believe perhaps Mr. Potter should visit Madam Pomfrey.”

“No,” Harry said immediately.

“Harry—”

“No infirmary. I’m fine.”

“You just collapsed!”

“I collapse all the time.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

“It’s reassuring to me.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Merlin give me strength.”

Harry slowly pushed himself upright fully. His legs trembled hard enough that Ron immediately grabbed his elbow. “Whoa there.”

“I’m standing.”

“Barely.”

Harry leaned more weight against him than he wanted to admit. Across the room, Draco suddenly slid down the wall slightly before catching himself.

Pansy frowned sharply. “Draco?”

“I’m fine.” He absolutely was not fine.

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “You look terrible.”

“Congratulations on your observational skills.”

Harry stared at him. Something still felt wrong. Like static lingering under his skin.

Flitwick looked between them both with growing concern. “I think perhaps both Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy should visit Madam Pomfrey immediately.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “No.” The response came too fast. Too sharp.

Flitwick blinked.

Draco straightened slowly away from the wall despite looking pale enough to faint. “I’m perfectly alright.”

“You’re sweating through your robes,” Theo said flatly.

“Mind your business.”

Harry frowned harder. His arm burned again suddenly. Draco flinched at the exact same moment. Both of them froze. 

Hermione noticed instantly. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Harry said.

“Does your arm hurt?”

Ron looked between them sharply. “Your arm?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Harry.”

“Seriously.”

Hermione looked unconvinced.

Flitwick finally sighed heavily. “Very well. Mr. Potter, if you insist on resting privately, I expect one of your friends to remain with you. And if this happens again, I am personally carrying you to Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry managed a weak grin. “You’re tiny, Professor.”

“I know several levitation charms.”

Fair point.

Ron carefully hauled Harry fully upright. Harry swayed immediately. “Bloody hell,” Ron muttered.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that while actively collapsing.”

“Shut up.”

Hermione gathered Harry’s bag automatically while Ron kept an arm around his shoulders.

The classroom remained painfully silent as they started toward the door. Everyone stared. Harry hated it. The Hero of the Wizarding World sprawled twitching on a classroom floor. Fantastic. Exactly the reputation he wanted.

As they passed, Harry glanced once toward Malfoy. Draco was already looking at him. Grey eyes sharp despite the sweat dampening his face. Confused. Suspicious. And underneath that—

Something else. Something unsettled.

Harry looked away first.

The corridor outside felt blessedly cooler. The second the classroom door shut behind them, Ron exploded. “What the fuck was that?”

Harry winced. “Volume.”

“You had a seizure in Charms!”

“Observant today, aren’t you?”

“Harry.”

Ron sounded genuinely frightened now beneath the anger. That immediately made Harry feel guilty.

Hermione walked close on Harry’s other side, watching him carefully. “How bad was it?”

Harry shrugged weakly. “Six out of ten.”

Ron stared at him. “You rate them?”

“They vary.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You get used to weird things after a while.”

Hermione looked pale. “You were conscious during parts of it.”

Harry glanced at her sharply. “How’d you know?”

“You were tracking movement with your eyes.” She hesitated. “And you looked terrified.”

Harry looked away. The corridor blurred slightly again. 

Ron tightened his grip instantly. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Lie. Everything felt strange after seizures. His skin hypersensitive. His thoughts sluggish. The world too loud and too bright all at once. And his arm still fucking burned. He rubbed at it irritably through his sleeve.

Hermione caught the motion immediately. “Still hurting?”

“Yeah.”

“Describe it.”

“You sound like Moony.”

“Describe it anyway.”

Harry sighed. “Feels sharp, like something sliced my skin.”

Ron looked alarmed again. “That sounds bad.”

“It’s probably just residual magic.”

“Residual magic from what?”

Harry didn’t answer. Because honestly? He didn’t know.

The walk back to the dormitory felt longer than usual. Students kept staring. Whispering. Harry ignored them as best he could. By the time they finally reached the eighth-year corridor, his legs felt like wet sand. Ron shoved the dormitory door open. Harry made it approximately three steps inside before collapsing face-first onto his bed. “Oh thank fuck.”

Ron snorted shakily. “That’s attractive.”

“Die quietly.”

Hermione set Harry’s bag down before sitting on Ron’s bed across from him. For several moments nobody spoke. Harry lay there breathing hard into his pillow while the adrenaline crash hit fully. Exhaustion flooded through him brutally fast after seizures. Like his body simply gave up afterward.

Ron broke first. “So,” he said carefully, “what the fuck happened with Malfoy?”

Harry groaned into the blanket. “Can today end already?”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “You said the spell felt wrong.”

Harry rolled onto his back slowly. The ceiling spun slightly. He shut his eyes until it settled. “Yeah,” he admitted finally. “It wasn’t normal Legilimency.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Ron sat forward immediately. “Did he do something to you?”

“No.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do actually.”

Ron looked unconvinced. “Mate, he’s a former Death Eater with emotional issues and terrible hair. Forgive me for not trusting him.”

“He didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t know that!”

Harry opened one eye tiredly. “Ron.”

“What?”

“You threatened to murder a first-year yesterday because they touched your chips.”

“They were my chips.”

“You have anger problems.”

“Says you.”

Fair.

Hermione leaned forward slightly. “What exactly did you feel?”

Harry hesitated. That was the problem. He didn’t fully understand it himself. “It was like…” He frowned. “The spell went too deep. Like instead of surface thoughts it just ripped everything open.”

Hermione looked thoughtful immediately.

“An unstable magical connection.”

“English, please,” Ron said.

“The miscast spell may have accidentally bypassed normal mental boundaries.” Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Especially if both participants were emotionally heightened.”

Ron blinked. “Still English.”

Hermione sighed.

“The spell got fucked up.”

“Ah.”

Harry rubbed at his eyes. “I think I saw something too.”

That got both their attention instantly. “What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

Harry frowned harder trying to remember through the post-seizure fog. “During the seizure there were flashes that weren’t mine.”

Ron went still. “What kind of flashes?”

“Malfoy, I think.”

Hermione sat straighter immediately. “You saw his memories?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. It was weird.”

“What did you see?” Ron demanded.

Harry hesitated. “A man yelling.”

“Lucius?”

“I think so.” Hermione’s expression tightened slightly. Harry stared at the canopy above his bed. “There was this feeling too.”

“What feeling?”

Harry swallowed once. “Fear.”

The room went quiet. Ron looked deeply uncomfortable. “That ferret’s scared of his dad?”

Harry laughed weakly without humor. “Pretty sure half the wizarding world was scared of Lucius Malfoy.”

Hermione looked thoughtful again in that dangerous way she got when piecing things together. “The arm pain started after the spell connected?”

“Yeah.”

“And Malfoy reacted at the same time you did.”

Harry nodded slowly.

Ron groaned loudly. “No. Absolutely not. We are not doing creepy magical soul-bond nonsense.”

Harry barked a tired laugh. “Mate, calm down.”

“I’m serious! This is exactly how those awful romance novels Ginny reads start.”

Hermione looked scandalized. “Ronald!”

“What? They do!”

Harry laughed harder this time despite himself. Immediately regretted it when his skull pounded. “Ow. Fuck.”

Hermione softened instantly. “Sorry.”

Ron leaned back on the bed with a sigh. “You really scared us.”

Harry looked away. “Sorry.”

“No, seriously.” Ron rubbed a hand over his face. “You hit your head and started shaking and you weren’t breathing right and—”

“I’m okay now.”

“That doesn’t make it less terrifying!”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. Because Ron looked genuinely shaken. Hermione too. Harry hated causing that look in people. The room settled into quieter conversation after that. Ron eventually kicked off his shoes and sprawled backward dramatically across his bed. “I hate eighth year.”

“You hate every year,” Hermione said.

“True.”

Harry smiled faintly. Outside the dormitory windows, rain had begun tapping softly against the glass. The grey light made the room feel oddly calm. Safe. His body still ached horribly. Every muscle felt bruised from the seizure. His jaw hurt worst from clenching.

Hermione noticed him rubbing it. “Headache?”

“Everything-ache.”

“That’s normal afterward.”

“You sound disturbingly excited about medical terminology.”

“I read books while you ignore your health.”

Ron pointed at Harry. “She’s got you there.”

Traitor.

Harry flexed his burning arm again. Still there. Less intense now. But there.

Hermione caught the movement instantly. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Harry.”

He sighed dramatically and shoved up his sleeve. Hermione shifted closer, examining his forearm carefully. There was nothing there. No bruising. No curse marks. No swelling. Perfectly normal brown skin.

Hermione frowned anyway. “Does it hurt when I touch it?”

She pressed lightly near his wrist. Harry inhaled sharply. “Yes.”

Ron sat upright immediately. “What?”

Hermione touched another spot. Harry hissed. “It burns.”

“But there’s nothing there,” Ron said uneasily.

Hermione looked troubled now. “Magic can manifest physically without visible injury.”

“Wonderful,” Harry muttered. “Love that for me.”

Hermione ignored him. “Did Malfoy touch his arm too?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah.”

The three of them went silent simultaneously.

Ron looked horrified. “Nope. Don’t like that.”

Harry rubbed his face tiredly. “Could just be spell backlash.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced. And honestly? Neither did Harry.