Chapter Text
HUFFLEPUFF COMMON ROOM ; BADGERS’ DEN
Harrison — or Harry, for close friends — stared blankly at the letter in his hands, the parchment wrinkled at the edges from his grip. The Hufflepuff Common Room hearth cast a warm and comforting glow. Warmth from the enchanted flames caused a cozy atmosphere. He had curled up in one of the armchairs near the hearth, a knitted blanket donated by an alum wrapped snug around his shoulders. Chatter flowed quietly, students cautious of the late evening. Stomachs were full from dinner, bursting from the delicious, steaming platters cooked by the Hogwarts elves, and those in Hufflepuff were quite ready to either tuck in for the night or curl up in the smattering of den nests in the common room, nestled beside friends, sharing scent and touch.
“What’s got you frownin’?”
Harry blinked and looked up to see a fellow first year and friend, Miss Hannah Abbott. She had changed out of her uniform, now wearing a night robe over her frilled nightgown. Her pigtail braids bounced against her shoulders as she took a seat on the chair across him, expression soft and kind as ever.
“Pardon?”
Hannah nodded at the letter, a curious gleam in her dark blue eyes. Ever the investigator, she was. “You’ve been frowning at that letter since you’ve opened it.”
“Oh. . .,” Harry let the letter fall to his lap and bit his lower lip. Thoughts rumbled in his mind, half anxious, half hopeful, half desperate. “It’s just— I’ve got a letter from an . . . estranged cousin I didn’t even know existed.”
Hannah blinked, blonde eyebrows high in curiosity, and leaned forward a moment later. “Was it a good letter, at least?”
Harry glanced down at the delicate cursive, the pretty penmanship and prose, breathing in the faintest scent of rose petals and sandalwood drifting from the expensive parchment paper. His eyes found the evidence of Hypatia wanting him, willing to fight for him, even burn an ambient, ancient magical castle to the ground if he were harmed, and imprinted the words to memory. “Yeah,” he whispered a moment later, throat inexplicably tight. “A really good one.”
Hannah observed him quietly, her gaze sharpened with wisdom, before she smiled, her cheeks dimpling cutely, and leaned back against the armchair, appeased Harry had not been hurt by another family member.
Again.
“Good,” she sniffed, sounding like a proper and prim lady, which she was, technically, as the Heiress of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Abbott, “I’d hate to see her poisoned.”
Not many believed Hannah capable at potions, given Professor Snape’s caustic and biting behavior often made her tremble from overwhelming anxiety, but her mother, a renowned and innovative Potions Mistress whom had over thirty countries nearly getting into physical brawls with another for the opportunity to employ her, would have made sure Hannah left home with an impressive foundation of knowledge and understanding in potions. Hannah had grown beside a bubbling caldron before she could even toddle, and the amount of poisons and herbs in her mind could put a Herbology Master to shame.
Harry had even witnessed her skill firsthand.
Hannah had not meant to create a poison.
Not at first.
What she had made was a lesson—a carefully balanced, non-fatal concoction rooted in old Abbott tradition, the kind of magic taught in murmurs and margins rather than classrooms. The kind meant to correct rather than destroy.
She brewed it in borrowed moments and quiet fury, guided by instinct sharpened to a blade.
The base was meadowsweet sap, thinned and clarified—an ingredient traditionally associated with healing, but treacherous when coaxed the wrong way. It ensured the brew would never kill, no matter how violently it twisted its victims. To that, she added fluxweed pollen harvested under a waning moon, not enough to transform, but enough to leave the body uncertain of itself, organs turning inward as though seeking escape.
Knotgrass ash, purified and warded, disrupted magical pathways, causing spells cast afterward to backfire harmlessly—an extra kindness, really, given the advanced jinxes those students had used on Harry. Dittany resin, paradoxically, was included to prevent lasting damage, sealing torn tissue almost as quickly as it was stressed. Hannah was not cruel. She was precise.
The final touch was the most personal.
A single drop of sun-distilled honey, taken from Abbott hives that had not known a sting in three generations. Honey that glowed faintly gold when held to the light. Honey that bound the brew to Light magic—not the sanitized, Ministry-approved sort, but the old kind.
The kind that remembered oaths.
The poison caused no visible marks. No dramatic convulsions. Only relentless internal cramping, disorientation, and pain sharp enough to force stillness. It left its victims helpless in their own bodies, utterly dependent on the care of others.
Hannah thought that fitting.
Harry had endured worse with no one to help him.
If the bullies had stuck to words, Harry would have weathered it. He had learned early how to do that. One did not survive Petunia Dursley’s sneer or Vernon’s looming bulk without cultivating a skin thick enough to stop feeling altogether. Soft hearts were buried young in the Dursley household.
But they hadn’t stopped at words.
They had ambushed him outside the Great Hall, when he was tired and thinking only of a nap before Astronomy. Two fourth-year Ravenclaws. One third-year Gryffindor. Advanced curses. Enough that Madam Pomfrey had nearly gone to war with the Board of Governors herself.
And Harry—sweet, shattered Harry—had begged her not to.
He knew how bullies retaliated when challenged. He had grown up with Dudley and his gang, with Harry Hunts that left him breathless and bruised and grateful to escape with only that. Reporting never helped. It only taught them to be quieter next time.
Harry did not have guardians who would storm Hogwarts over a papercut.
James and Lily Potter would do that—for Fleamont II.
For Harry, they deferred. To Petunia. To Professor Sprout. To not wanting to cause disruption.
“We just don’t want to step on ol’ Petunia’s toes,” James had said lightly, as if he weren’t reopening a wound that had never healed.
Harry had tried to explain. He really had. But the words tangled, memories pressing in—Vernon’s hands, Petunia’s hissed freak, the cupboard dark and airless. James had waved it away as exaggeration. Lily had looked uncomfortable, apologetic, and done nothing.
Madam Pomfrey healed Harry in three days, but the damage took longer.
He grew quieter. Smaller. He flinched at raised wands, folded inward at sudden movement, and learned to disappear in the castle that should have kept him safe.
Hannah broke.
It took two Calming Draughts before Pomfrey let her leave the Hospital Wing. Neville stood guard like a knight too small for his armor. Hermione’s hair fluffed and sparked dangerously with restrained fury. The Hufflepuffs closed ranks—buddy systems, defense practice in drafty, abandoned classrooms, parchment smoking in Susan Bones’s hands as she marched toward the Owlry.
Even Zacharias Smith bristled, offended on principle, even if he hadn’t liked the “Pitiful Potter.”
And still—nothing happened. There had been detentions, and a grim-faced lecture from Dumbledore at dinner—but nothing else. No suspensions. No Floo calls to parents. No justice at all for the small, shaking second-year Pomfrey took three days to piece back together.
So Hannah acted.
The bullies spent two weeks in the Hospital Wing, their bodies betraying them in slow, merciless turns. Pomfrey and Snape argued endlessly over cause and cure. St. Mungo’s specialists were scheduled.
Hannah slipped in two nights before their arrival and administered the antidote—moon-steeped angelica water, neutralized with crushed asphodel root, restoring balance without erasing the memory of pain.
Justice, not mercy.
No one suspected her. Not with her pinched brow, soft voice, and careful concern. She even brought chocolate frogs.
Because the Abbotts were Light.
Devoutly so. Culturally so. Blessed by Magic Herself.
Everyone always forgot what that meant, always believed the Light to be synonymous with goodness and kindness. Everyone always forgot what happened when their eyes remained on the sun for too long, when they edged too close to a flickering flame.
Light burned.
Light destroyed.
Light judged, leaving nothing hidden in its path.
And justice—true justice—did not always arrive gently.
Harry cracked a smile at the memory, feeling a warmth billow in his veins.
The Sorting Hat had been a tried-and-true soothsayer when it told Harry he would find his truest family in Hufflepuff.
Unbeknownst to his friends, the Hat had deliberated for a long while before settling on the Badger. It sifted through all four Houses with care, lingering in the quiet, raw spaces of Harry’s mind—where vulnerability lived alongside a desperate, aching want to be loved.
Gryffindor had been discarded with vehemence.
Harry associated it with blood that had callously deposited him in the Dursleys’ care and never bothered to retrieve him, even after he proved a wizard. With the family that would always measure him against the brother he should have been raised beside. Even if that brother tried—truly tried—Harry would forever be weighed against the same impossible standard, praised for endurance and criticized for any perceived failure to shine.
Slytherin had fared no better.
It was a nest of budding supremacists, bullies, and old enemies of House Potter—by history, by politics, or by resentment over the fact that it had been his younger brother who vanquished Voldemort. Harry had been painfully honest with the Hat when he admitted he wasn’t sure he would survive his first year if his tie were green and silver instead of yellow and black.
He had already spent over a decade in a house where people sneered at his existence—where jokes about burying him in the backyard or selling him off for services had begun when he was five.
He refused to spend another seven years doing the same.
He had told the Hat, primly and with great seriousness, that he would flee to the Forbidden Forest and live as a hermit if necessary. He had already bought a tent when he’d returned to Diagon Alley for school supplies, fully aware the Dursleys wouldn’t hesitate to deprive him of food, a latrine, or a bed now that he knew of his ‘freakishness.’ The chaperoning Teacher’s Assistant hadn’t even blinked at the purchase.
At least the Potters had done one thing right: Harry’s Trust Vault remained in his name and under his control, replenished bi-yearly with a comfortable sum siphoned from the Main Vault. It was enough to ensure survival—even independence, if it came to that.
The Hat had chuckled fondly at his dramatics, remarking that Harry had inherited them honestly from his ancestors, before bellowing “HUFFLEPUFF!” into the Great Hall.
The applause had been immediate, raucous, and warm.
No one expected much from a Hufflepuff, beyond loyalty, hard work, and a tendency to collect the unwanted. Harry slipped into the fold without friction, and the Badger Den welcomed him fiercely.
That first night of term, he slept in the common room nest—part of the aptly named Welcoming Nest Pile, a tradition that had endured for centuries. For the first time in his life, he experienced scenting and positive touch without strings of fear or a nefarious promise attached.
He knew, then and there, he would never regret his choice.
Harry did not want to be seen as a hero.
Nor as a prodigy.
Nor as someone to be pitied and fussed over because of misconceptions surrounding his magic.
He wanted to be seen as himself.
Just Harry.
In Hufflepuff, he was.
“Want to nest before bed?” Hannah asked, yawning through her fingers.
Sleep clung to her scent—soft coconut and vanilla—no longer muted by the mandatory scent-dulling charms woven into their uniforms. There was still decorum to be had in the common rooms, but Hufflepuff spaces were shared and private all at once. As long as no one wandered about in their birthday suit, no one cared much about attire or fluffed scent.
Harry raised a brow, teasing. “Are you sure you won’t just fall asleep in the nest again?”
Hannah pouted, crossing her arms. “It’s not my fault the nests are so comfy!” She jabbed a finger at him. “I remember you snoring in those blankets just a few days ago!”
Feeling safe enough to be his age, Harry stuck his tongue out. Hannah returned the gesture without hesitation.
“Alright, little duckies,” called a fifth-year prefect—Omega Wix Paige D’Armando, a Half-Blood commonborn—as they rose from a study table cluttered with intimidating stacks of Arithmancy tomes and scrunched parchment. They clapped their hands for attention. “Anyone under thirteen needs to bundle up in the commons nest or head to your dorms. And remember—if you’re in the dormitory, you must sleep in your assigned room. You won’t enjoy being hauled out of the wrong bed at two in the morning. Lights out in fifteen!”
Scattered groans followed, but D’Armando remained unmoved. One third-year muttered about “prefect tyrants” as he dramatically stacked his chocolate frog card collection.
Harry noticed it immediately upon returning to the magical world.
Wixen were, perhaps, the most dramatic people ever born.
It made sense. Magic was sentient energy, shaped with nothing but will and a stick of enchanted wood. Explosions of color, noise, and chaos were everyday occurrences, as were injuries healed in seconds. Why be stoic when the world itself was theatrical?
Harry considered his options before saying, “I’ll nest tonight. Just need to do my routine—and put away the letter.”
Hannah brightened instantly. “Great! I’ll get the others!” She scampered off toward Susan and Sally-Anne, who were wrestling stubborn chess pieces back into their box.
Harry chuckled and headed upstairs to the first-year dorms. Michael Corner was already asleep, limbs flung everywhere. Michael always ended up burritoed whenever he nested; an upper-year inevitably tired of being kicked in the night.
Harry grabbed his wool pajamas—the dungeons were unforgivingly cold in winter, even with enchanted flames—and completed his nighttime routine.
When he returned, he sat on his bed and reread Hypatia’s letter for the fourth time.
He traced her careful penmanship with his eyes, imagined an expensive, sharp quill, and noted the subtle glimpses of her personality woven between the lines—her kindness, her protective edge, the quiet acknowledgment that they were cut from the same cloth.
He placed the letter carefully into his warded trunk. He’d splurged on extra protections and compartments—just in case.
The Dursleys hadn’t destroyed his tent, but Harry had learned not to rely on mercy.
He hesitated before reaching for the small, plush stag. It had arrived with him on the Dursleys’ doorstep and had never left—not through rips, burns, or attempts to hide it away. It always returned, mended and warm, whenever Harry settled into the cupboard to sleep.
It was why magic hadn’t shocked him.
He already had it.
The stag hummed softly in his hands as he returned to the common room. No one teased him when he first brought it to the nests. Susan had squealed about an “animal party,” and soon the night had filled with plush companions of every kind.
The nesting platform’s wards hushed the common room noise to a gentle hum. The lights dimmed to a soft, wispy orange. Sally-Anne managed to strongarm Zacharias into a nest shared with two upper years—Bianca Thump, a golden-eyed fifth-year, and Cassius Stanley, a quiet and mischievous third-year whose pranks were always attributed to the Weasley twins—and in the nest beside them held Justin, already snoring, some drool dribbling down his chin, Susan, fighting, and failing, in her battle against sleep, and Hannah.
Hannah patted the empty space beside her.
Harry settled easily, tucking the stag beneath his chin. Hannah draped a leg over his, anchoring him. Susan’s roasted chestnut scent mingled with peppermint from Justin, already snoring.
Warmth curled up Harry’s spine.
“Night, Harry,” Hannah murmured.
“Night,” he whispered, setting his glasses nearby.
A seventh-year prefect—Beta Mister Randall Rivers, always helpful with Transfiguration questions—flicked his wand, and the lights dispersed, drenching the room in comforting darkness.
Harry closed his eyes, breathing in sync with Hannah without realizing it. Thoughts of Hypatia drifted through him—hope, fear, warmth, vindication.
For the first time in a long while, Harry slept peacefully through the night.
Dear Hypatia,
I hope you’re having a good day. Thank you for the care package. Tell Tibkey it was delicious; my friends and I almost ate it in one go! Hogwarts is colder than I expected this time of year, but the common room makes up for it. The stones are warm, and there’s always a kettle going somewhere for tea, even if no one remembers who put it on.
Susan has a running bet it’s a Niffler. Not sure what a Niffler is, though. I haven’t yet got to reading about many magical animals.
I’m in Hufflepuff. I know people have opinions about that, but I like it here. The common room is near the kitchens, which means it always smells like bread or soup, and the older students are really nice. Well, most of them are. We have an area for nesting in the common room. I heard from Hermione — my friend in Ravenclaw; she’s wicked smart — that the other Houses don’t really do that.
My friends are great! I’ve become fast friends with most in my cohort, but this one boy, Zacharias Smith, can be a real prat. Oh, sorry about the language. It’s rude to curse in front of a lady; at least, that’s what the books and rare movies I watched at the Dursleys say. Hannah sits with me in Herbology and tends to get mud everywhere—she says it helps the plants trust her. Susan is very serious about rules until she isn’t, and then she’s terrifying. Justin talks a lot, but he notices things others don’t. Neville is my godbrother—he’s in Gryffindor, but he comes down to the kitchens with us when he can. Hermione studies like it’s a competitive sport. She pretends not to enjoy correcting people, but she absolutely does.
Classes are harder than I thought, but I like it. Sometimes I just can’t believe I’m learning magic in a magic castle. Charms is my favorite so far. Professor Flitwick says precision matters more than power, which makes sense to me. Transfiguration is… intimidating. Professor McGonagall is very sharp, and she knows it. Potions would be unbearable if it weren’t for the theory—Professor Snape doesn’t like me much, but I’m used to that. I just keep my head down and focus on the potion. I pair with Susan, and she’s great with keeping me steady. Herbology is calming, but I’m still getting used to the idea that some plants fight back.
Flying is… brilliant. After I took Flying last year, the quidditch team has been wanting me to join. It does sound exciting, though. Hannah says I should try out, but I’m not sure. What if I fall and make a fool of myself? I’d never leave the commons nest.
History…. well, I get some naps in. It’s taught by a ghost who drones on about goblin wars and disputes. You’d think after 500 years, he’d get tired of it. Astronomy is fine. Don’t really care for the stars but it is nice looking at the night sky. I rarely saw it at Privet.
Hogwarts is amazing. And you do sound like you belong in Ravenclaw — Hermione told me you practically created an entire new branch of magic! I think you’re her idol now.
I’m okay. I love Hogwarts; can’t even imagine if I never attended. Did Lady Credence’s make you wear ballgowns? Apparently Sally-Anne almost went but her dad convinced her mom to let her go. What are the Sayre’s like, by the way?
About being my magical guardian and living with you… I’m at a loss for words. No one really wanted me until you, or even offered to burn down an ancient castle for me, either. But please do not burn Hogwarts, even if I’m Petrified. I also let my friends know and I think Susan is writing to her Aunt about it, since she’s the DMLE Head. But… I never want to go back to the Dursleys, so wherever you offer, I’ll go. But I think I want to live with you.
Thank you again for writing to me. I like knowing there’s someone out there who wanted to hear about my life instead of deciding what it is for me.
I’ll write again soon.
Warmly,
Harry Potter
PS. my owl’s name is Hedwig, and she really likes bacon
Charms class would always find Harry bright-eyed and sharp. Sunlight poked through the tall, arched windows, spilling across the wooden desks and inkwells like spilled gold. Hufflepuff shared the lesson with Gryffindor, and Harry sat between Hannah and Justin. Near the back, his brother, Fleamont II, sat and whispered jokes with Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnegan, and Dean Thomas. Their quartet would burst into hastily muffled giggles whenever Seamus started another fire on accident.
Already, he’d gone through four feathers.
They were still working on the Engorgement charm and would, hopefully, be getting to the Shrinking charm in the next two weeks. As feathers were largely harmless, even when engorged, the classroom soon had impressively large feathers. Hannah’s feather wobbled in the air, tipped over sideways, and ended up knocking into Parvati Patil’s inkpot. Harry held his wand tightly, feeling the magic hum beneath the wood, flickering in his core. He loved Charms since their first lesson, Professor Flitwick standing on a stack of books and grinning in welcome at the nervous firsties.
Susan’s feather swelled with impressive speed. Justin’s whacked his into her’s on purpose, causing a brief feather fight that Professor Flitwick halfheartedly put to rest moments later. Ron Weasley’s wand smoked, and it seemed Seamus had lost another feather to the flames. Fleamont just laughed, his own feather sitting primly on his desk, the size of their textbook. Harry turned his attention back to his own feather, breathed, and flicked his wrist.
It grew, steadily, until it covered the expanse of his desk.
Professor Flitwick noticed, beaming. “Excellent control, Mr. Potter! 5 points to Hufflepuff!”
Neville caught his eye from across the room, giving him a wide, toothy smile and a thumbs-up. Ron groaned, looking faintly affronted at the fact Harry had gotten points before him, and slumped against the front of his desk. “How’d you manage that?”
Harry shrugged, averting his gaze from the boy whom had said a few unkind words about Harry being in Hufflepuff and an ex-Squib. He muffled a snort when he caught Neville’s eye once more, and the boy rolled his eyes at Ron’s exaggerated mumbling.
After class, they caught up to Hermione as the Ravenclaws and Slytherins shuffled into the castle from Herbology. Her nose was as bright red as her tie, and Hannah immediately fussed over her and cast a few warming charms her way. They drifted away from the main corridor, shuffled down a staircase oft forgotten by the masses, and ducked behind a tapestry depicting a rather fierce battle between centaurs of warring clans.
The abandoned classroom they’d claimed in their first year was slightly dusty, but clean enough. Desks were shoved against the far wall, chairs and some boxes stacked atop it. A cracked chalkboard still had faint words scribbled onto it—Justin believed it to be an Ancient Runes matrix whereas Hermione insisted it was simply gibberish disguised as magic. Tall windows with moth-eaten curtains let in the warm afternoon sunlight.
It was dusty, and old, but it was theirs.
Their little haven.
Harry set his bag down on one of the less cluttered desks, hesitating for a moment, before he took out the parcel wrapped in thin, quietly expensive, parchment and twine. Susan caught sight of it first, a question in her gaze. Harry opened it without a word, and soon the aroma of freshly baked desserts drifted across the stone.
Inside were rows of soft, buttered rolls, honey-glazed biscuits, cookies, and extra fudge brownies. There were also covered mugs of hot chocolate and marshmallows, charmed to never be cold.
Justin whistled. “Who’d you kill to get that?”
Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone . . . it was a gift.”
Neville made a noise in the back of his throat, not-so-dissimilar to a detective solving a cold case. “You got something from your . . . your family?”
Harry sensed the unspoken questions lingering. He wasn’t offended, though, for the Potters rarely, if ever, sent him letters. If anything, he would be a postmarked footnote on Fleamont’s care packages. “It’s . . . from a cousin,” Harry said quietly, silently offering his friends to take the morsels. “Her name’s Hypatia.”
Hannah’s eyes sharpened. Susan drew in a breath. Neville blinked, from surprise and vague discomfort. Justin raised a brow at their reactions, sharing puzzled looks with Hermione and Michael, two other muggle-raised students.
“Er, what?” asked Michael. “She a criminal or something?”
“She’s my great-uncle’s daughter,” Harry explained, hesitating a bit. “Not from my great-aunt.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Justin tilted his head, the expression of a curious puppy. “How’s that work then, with the noble class and stuff? I know in the muggle world, kids like that aren’t . . . treated as well.”
Harry glanced at the three whom had grown up with magic, but they stayed back, deferring to him and what he wished to disclose. “Ah . . .Not sure how it was for others, but my, um, grandfather didn’t acknowledge her,” Harry said, setting the box down on the floor, and took a seat. “She wasn’t disowned, though, and her father gave her most of his things when he died.”
Justin whistled low. “Shit, mate.”
“Language!” Hermione huffed, and then her expression softened. “How’re you feeling, Harry? Are you gonna write back to her?”
Harry could have told them about the offer of guardianship, of Hypatia’s rising fury at his treatment and the protection laced with each stroke of a quill, but he tucked that away in his heart. Another time. For now, he wanted to keep that knowledge close to himself. “I sent one before breakfast,” he admitted.
Hannah softened. “Well, I hope she replies soon.”
“And sends another care package,” said Michael, through two fudge brownies.
Susan rolled her eyes hard. “Boys.”
“Don’t bring me into this,” said Neville, lightly affronted.
Michael protested the soft insult with muffled grunts as he chewed. Hermione only shook her head, drinking her hot chocolate. Harry wondered if he should tell her of her foamy mustache or not. As conversation flowed and drifted as they ate and drank, teasing each other about their foamy mustaches, Harry felt something settle inside of him. He couldn’t say what it was or pinpoint its’ location, but he breathed easy, the hot chocolate soothing as it slid down his throat.
Things were uncertain, but—.
Hope.
It was safe to feel that now.