#anyways they’re in love your honor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sailforvalinor · 2 months ago

Text

Fears Left Buried—Comfyvember

Monthly Prompt: “Safe and Sound” by Taylor Swift

Harry Potter fix-it AU | The Potters live (but Harry still winds up with the scar | Harry has a younger brother | angst (because heaven forbid I be normal about anything) and fluff | how did this end up being so long? I don’t know

————

Harry Potter’s first two years at Hogwarts felt strange to him. The professor with the face of his parents’ would-be-murderer on the back of his head and the basilisk in the basement were major contributors, of course, but more than that, walking around the school without his brother trailing just a step behind felt a little bit like walking around without a limb.

He and Monty had grown up especially close—after the scare with Voldemort that ended with the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, their mum had been a little extra wary about who she let the boys play with, especially when they were very young, and thus the brothers had been each other’s most constant playmate. Ron Weasley had been Harry’s best friend since he was six, and Hermione Granger had also earned that title a few years later, but he considered “little brother” to be an equal, albeit different, sort of distinction.

Harry thought he knew everything there was to know about Monty. He knew that where he was impulsive, Monty always looked before he leapt—maybe for a little too long. He knew he was useless on a broom, but had a mean batting arm. He knew his hair only looked a little bit neater than Harry’s because he actually used his namesake’s magical hair gel. He knew that, unlike said namesake, he rather liked his name. He knew that his favorite jumper was a green one Mrs. Weasley had knitted him a few years ago, and that he would wear it every day if it weren’t considered a social faux-pas. He knew that he put on his clotted cream before his jam. He knew that calling him “Flea” didn’t particularly bother him (but calling him “slow corner” while playing Exploding Snap would end in a wrestling match).

There was one thing that Harry never quite understood about his brother, however. It was an odd sort of question, a wrong sort of question, that tickled at the back of his mind no matter how hard he tried to fight it off.

Does he even care?

He knew it wasn’t a fair question to ask. Of course he cared. But Monty had such a sanguine temper, was so calm, that Harry couldn’t help but wonder anyway. He supposed that with all of the high tempers that ran in the Potter family, someone had to wind up the even-keeled peacemaker, but Monty had taken to this role so entirely that it was almost uncanny. Absolutely nothing seemed to rattle him beyond the surface level. At nine years old, he’d sat at the end of his bed while Harry told him how he’d successfully stopped the Philosopher’s Stone from being stolen and had narrowly missed being killed by Lord Voldemort for the second time, and his only visible reaction was to chew his lip and occasionally raise an eyebrow. The same went for when he told him about the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.

That night after he got home from his second year at Hogwarts, the question darted through his mind before he could catch it by the heels and bury it: If I’d died in the Chamber, would he be reacting any differently?

However, the day his name shot out of the Goblet of Fire, something happened that banished all such thoughts from his mind.

Getting his name launched out of a magical cup in front of three school populations when it very much should not have was one thing—being accused of supposedly putting it there by five professors and a Ministry of Magic representative was another. As he listened to them argue amongst themselves (and felt the weight of the much older, much more skilled other Champions watching him), their voices started to get fuzzy like the static on the telly at home, his palms started to get sweaty, and his stomach started to do horrible sinking flip-flops. He felt like he did when he was a small child when people would recognize him in public—only, he didn’t have his mum or dad to hide behind this time.

His childish weakness angered him. The thought that he wanted his mum angered him, however desperate it was. He swallowed, hard, and forced himself to refocus his vision and stare at the tips of Ludo Bagman’s boots.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said.

Harry looked up to meet his gaze.

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?” he asked calmly.

Harry felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. “No.”

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?”

“No,” Harry repeated.

“Ah, but of course ‘e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime.

“MR. POTTER—“ Professor McGonagall shouted.

Harry flinched, glancing up at her with wide eyes—though Professor McGonagall could be harsh, rarely was she so loud about it—but was surprised to find that she was not looking at him, but towards the door. He followed her gaze, and his jaw nearly dropped—it was Monty, standing in the doorway, his whole body rigid. His eyes darted from Harry, to the professors, to the other champions, and a strange fire blazed in his eyes that he had never seen before. In an instant, Monty was striding across the room towards them.

“Who is this?” Madame Maxime demanded.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, who was the only one in the room who didn’t look surprised. “This would be Harry’s younger brother, Fl—“

“Fleamont Potter!” McGonagall exclaimed. “You will explain to me just what you are doing here!”

By the time Monty reached them, the fire in his eyes had been stamped out, though the embers still remained, hidden by what Harry could now plainly see was a careful veneer of polite respect. Putting himself between Harry and the other professors, he said, “Harry didn’t put his name in.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up behind his spectacles. “Ah,” he said. “And how are you so certain, Mr. Potter?”

“Because he would have told me, sir,” Monty said evenly.

Karkaroff barked out a laugh. “Is this a joke, Dumbledore? We’re supposed to believe this?”

“Mr. Karkaroff, I don’t know what your policy is at Durmstrang,” Professor McGonagall snapped, “but at Hogwarts, we do not believe students are guilty until proven innocent. Perhaps we should begin to wonder at the quality of your students, if you believe they’re all liars on principle.”

Karkaroff opened his mouth to give an angry retort, but Madame Maxime cut him off, “No, I agree with Professor Karkaroff—both of these boys are lying. He must have found a way to fool the Age Line. Perhaps Professor Dumbly-dorr made a mistake.”

“It is possible, of course,” Dumbledore said mildly.

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake—“ Professor McGonagall sputtered.

The adults launched into another argument over Harry’s guilt or innocence. He desperately wanted to defend himself, but at the same time, knew it would be pointless—even with Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore on his side, he knew that everyone else wouldn’t be convinced by anything he might say. He drove his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

“There’s always veritaserum,” Monty spoke up.

Despite how quietly he’d spoken, everyone’s voices died, and they all turned to stare down at him.

Monty shrugged. “It’s the only way to know for sure. You have some, don’t you, Professor Snape?”

Snape, who had only looked at Harry with judgmental distaste so far, stared at Monty for a long moment. Harry could almost sense Snape’s desire not to oblige Monty warring with his delight at the idea of making them both endure a potion that could make them spill their darkest secrets. Finally, he replied, “…yes, I do.”

Monty nodded. “I’m okay with taking it. Are you, Harry?”

Monty caught his eye. Just go with me on this, his expression seemed to say.

Harry shrugged, matching his brother’s nonchalance, though he couldn’t be further from feeling it—Snape’s cooperation was making him uneasy. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”

There was a long pause again. Monty turned back to the adults, eyes darting from face to face as he studied them. None of them said what they were all thinking—veritaserum was a substance highly controlled by the Ministry, only used in very specific circumstances by magical law enforcement. While Snape already had some, acquiring it was not the reason for their silence, for the use of it within Hogwarts for unsanctioned purposes—on a fourteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old, no less—was nothing short of ridiculous. Bagman shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“I…do not believe that will be necessary, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Crouch finally said.

Monty muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “didn’t think so.” Harry’s eyes went wide, and he cast about to see if anyone had heard him. No one gave any indication—except for Professor McGonagall, whose left eyebrow arched slightly.

Audibly this time, Monty said, “Well, you’ll just have to take his word for it, then. Harry didn’t put his name in, and he doesn’t want to compete.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. Though it had been an entertaining daydream, he of course didn’t want to compete—but admitting it in front of three older students, champions, no less, made him feel like a coward. As grateful as he was to Monty in that moment, he also harbored an urge to step on his foot.

“I’m afraid whether or not Mr. Potter wants to compete is irrelevant,” Mr. Crouch said. “He must compete. We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

“Can’t you start over?” Monty asked. “Have everyone put their names in again?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire has just gone out, and it won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament. It’s a binding magical contract, you know.”

Harry could see Monty’s polite mask slipping. “How clever,” Monty said sarcastically.

“Isn’t it?” Bagman exclaimed excitedly, clearly oblivious to Monty’s tone.

“Oh yes, very,” Monty agreed, deadpan. “I’m sure our parents will be absolutely thrilled to hear about it. And, of course, how their underage son is being forced to compete in a competition that is known to kill full-grown adult wizards.”

Bagman’s face fell.

“The boy’s got a point,” came a voice from across the room. Moody had just entered, limping closer to the fire. “Awfully convenient, don’t you think? That anyone whose name comes out of that cup is forced to compete?”

“Convenient? I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Moody,” Karkaroff said.

“I do,” Monty said quietly. “Somebody put Harry’s name in hoping he’d die in the competition.”

There was a very tense silence. Moody nodded gravely. “Correct, Potter. James is sure going to find this interesting…maybe I should head to the Ministry tomorrow to tell him about it myself.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether or not it was a trick of the firelight, but Karkaroff seemed to pale fractionally. “James…Potter?” he repeated. “The Auror?”

“How many James Potters that work for the Ministry do you know?” asked Moody.

“No, I refuse to believe this!” Madame Maxime protested angrily. “How do we know that someone didn’t put this boy’s name in to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple?”

Monty took a step forward. “I don’t know if you know this, Madame,” he said in a low voice, “but my family and I have a history of people trying to kill us. Harry has nearly died twice just while going to this school. So, no, I don’t think it’s going to be difficult for my parents—or anyone who hears about this with half a brain—to believe that the person who put Harry’s name in that cup didn’t have Hogwarts’ best interests in mind. I’m sure that Harry Potter dying in a government-sanctioned competition is going to look great for the Ministry and any other Wizarding governments involved.”

“Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed, hand flying to her mouth.

Harry couldn’t help it—he was gaping at his brother like a fish.

“Dumbledore,” Karkaroff sputtered, “are we supposed to stand for this insolence?”

“You appear to be doing so just fine,” Moody snapped.

Monty took a breath, appearing to collect himself. “I’m sorry if I offended any of you,” he said, now appearing again the model of respect. “I’m just worried, is all. Now, can we go up to our Common Room? We still need to write to our parents and let them know what’s happening.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, Mr. Potter, I believe that would be wise. It will give us some time to mull over everyone’s concerns,” he said diplomatically. “Mr. Crouch, could the rest of the proceedings wait until tomorrow?”

“Well—yes, I suppose,” Mr. Crouch complied, though he did not look happy about it.

“Well, then, I will bid you each goodnight, boys,” Dumbledore said. He met each of their eyes in turn, giving them both a tiny encouraging nod.

“Goodnight, Headmaster,” Monty said. He then turned and strode out of the room, and Harry found himself following him as quick as his legs would carry him.

Harry’s relief at being out of that stifling, choking room was so intense that he couldn’t even feel bad about what seemed like running away. He could still feel the heat of everyone’s gazes on his back as he left, could still see the wide eyes and gaping mouths of everyone in the Great Hall as he’d been forced to walk its length after that horrible moment when his name was called at what felt like the pace of a flobberworm. Harry thought that night that it would be very nice not to ever be perceived again.

“You okay?” Monty asked.

“Yeah,” Harry replied.

He followed Monty at an almost breakneck pace up to their Common Room, and he was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice they’d arrived until Monty threw out an arm to stop him from walking into the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“Hey, watch it, Mr. Champion,” the Fat Lady said, she and her visiting friend Violet fixing him with indignant stares.

Monty directed him to stand to the side. “Wait here,” he said.

“What?” said Harry, confused.

Monty said, “Balderdash!” the portrait opened, and Harry instantly understood why Monty had told him to wait—the explosion of voices and excitement from inside the Common Room made him shrink back out of sight.

“—hey, Monty!” Harry heard Lee Jordan say as Monty stepped inside. “Is Harry with y—”

“—shove off,” Monty snapped uncharacteristically.

The portrait swung shut before Harry could catch any more. He didn’t have to wonder long what his brother was up to, however—less than a minute later, he emerged again, his bookbag slung over a shoulder.

Wordlessly, Monty pulled something small and folded out of his pocket, and it wasn’t until he shook it out that Harry realized it was the Invisibility Cloak.

As Monty quickly draped it over both of them, Harry asked, “Hey, how do you know where I keep the cloak?”

“You really thought I didn’t know? Bottom of your trunk, top right corner. It’s in the exact same place you hide it in your sock drawer at home. Now come on.”

Harry could have asked how he knew that, but he refrained. “Where are we going?”

Monty didn’t answer, but instead took the lead and crept down the hallway again, Harry following. At first, it seemed like he was heading towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, but he instead stopped in front of the One-Eyed Witch statue.

“Uh—“ whispered Harry.

“Dissendum!” Monty hissed. As the hump on the statue slid open, Monty grabbed Harry’s wrist and dragged him inside.

“You want to go to Hogsmeade? Now?” Harry asked as they stepped into the pitch-black passage. Pulling off the cloak, he muttered, “Lumos,” causing his wand to illuminate the stone walls surrounding them.

“No,” Monty said. He pointed to the ground. “Sit.”

Mystified, Harry sat down with his back to the wall. Monty sat down in front of him, rummaging through his bag, and then pulled out a bottle of Butterbeer and a big hunk of chocolate wrapped in gold foil. He handed both to Harry.

“Thanks,” said Harry. Giving him the chocolate was especially kind—Uncle Moony had sent them both chocolate through the post last week, a chocolate that he usually saved for gifting on special occasions, and Harry had eaten most of his by the time post came the next day. From the looks of things, it looked like Monty had barely touched his.

Harry held up the bottle. “Where did you get this?”

“Ginny,” Monty explained. “She snuck them from the Kitchens for me.”

“Should’ve known.” Monty and Ginny had been partners in crime since they were toddlers—or maybe “partners-in-Ginny-doing-crime-while-Monty-tried-to-stop-her” was the better term. Though, their making of a new friend by the name of Luna Lovegood—and a very odd but very nice girl that Harry had met over Christmas at the Weasley’s—seemed to be giving their act a little bit of balance lately.

Harry opened the bottle and took a sip, and, despite the fact that the Butterbeer wasn’t hot or nearly as sweet as the Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, despite the fact that he was sitting on the hard stone of a dark tunnel, despite the fact that he knew that someone was probably trying to kill him again, his breathing finally evened out, and an intense sense of relief washed over him. Hiding in the One-Eyed Witch passage, Harry thought, had actually been ingenious—it was one of the few places in the castle where no one could find him. Harry broke off a piece of chocolate and popped it in his mouth. It tasted like home, like Christmas morning in his pajamas, like his mum helping him with forgotten homework the night before the start of term, like him and his dad swiping candy from his mum’s secret stash hoping she wouldn’t notice.

Harry went to break off another piece and offer it to Monty, but he paused midway. His brother had brought a Butterbeer for himself, but hadn’t touched it. Instead, he sat like a cross-legged statue on the ground, so still, Harry wasn’t sure he was even blinking, staring at Harry’s still-glowing wand laying on the ground between them.

Before Harry could say anything, Monty almost seemed to mentally shake himself. He rummaged through his bag again, and pulled out some parchment, a quill, and an inkwell.

“What are you doing?”

Monty spread out the parchment on the ground. He dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, saying, “Writing Mum and Dad?” He shot Harry a quizzical glance. “They need to know what’s happening.”

A jolt of panic lanced through Harry, and before he’d realized what he was doing, he’d shot forward and slammed his hand over the parchment. “Wait,” he said desperately. “Don’t tell them yet.”

Monty jumped back. “What? Why?” he demanded. “They’re going to find out soon anyway.”

Harry’s stomach churned. “You know what’ll happen—Mum’s going to panic, and Dad’ll pretend not to do it, and then stay up all night doing it anyway.” Harry could still picture his parents’ faces in the aftermath of the events of his first and second years—drawn, tight, anxious, trying desperately to hide it.

“Panic?” Monty repeated indignantly. “Harry, of course they’re going to panic—someone put your name in the Goblet of Fire and is forcing you into a competition where you might die!” Monty stood up, staring down at Harry in disbelief. “First there’s that dream you had and your scar hurting, and now this—“

“—did you tell them about the dream?!” Harry demanded, voice rising. As much as he didn’t want anyone to know about that horrifying nightmare, it had been hard to hide it from the person who shared a room with who he woke up with his thrashing and sleep-talking in the middle of the night—so he was forced to swear him to secrecy.

“No, of course I didn’t—but I’ll admit, right now, I’m really tempted!” Monty shouted, voice cracking. “What is wrong with you, Harry? You’re so worried that Mum and Dad are going to pull you out of school to keep you safe, but I keep having nightmares about having to bury your dead body!”

Monty’s voice echoed for a long moment in the tunnel, the sound blithely bouncing along, unaware of the emotion it carried. Instant regret shot through Harry. Monty turned away, his face in profile, scrubbing furiously with the heel of his hand at his forehead. He sniffled. Was he crying? His face was too far in shadow for Harry to tell.

“Flea,” Harry said.

Monty looked up.

Harry patted the ground next to him. “Come on.

Monty hesitated for a second, then sat next to him against the wall.

Harry slung an arm around his brother’s shoulders, then reached for the chocolate and broke off a piece and handed it to him. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll—I’ll write to Mum and Dad in the morning.”

“…okay,” Monty said around a mouthful of chocolate. He sniffled again. “Sorry I yelled.”

“S’okay.” To be honest, seeing Monty yell at him like that had been a little bit cathartic—it had been so long since Harry had been able to make him that angry, he hadn’t been sure if he still had it in him.

“It’s just…” Monty leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’ve just got this…bad feeling. Like something horrible is coming.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…I dunno. It’s just—I kind of was expecting something to happen last year, you know? For another professor to be hiding You-Know-Who’s face on them somewhere, or for someone in our house to turn out to be a Death Eater and try to kill you in your sleep or something. But nothing happened. And I tried to make myself believe that maybe You-Know-Who had given up on killing you, but I couldn’t. And then you heard Professor Trelawney give that prophecy. And then I heard Dad and Uncle Padfoot talking about disappearances at the Ministry. And then you had that dream. And now—this. What if—what if all this time, You-Know-Who hasn’t given up, or been trying to figure out what to do, but has just been waiting? What if you dying in this competition is his big plan?”

The entire time he’d been talking, Harry had been watching his brother closely—watched him make the exact same face he made when Harry told him about fighting Professor Quirrell or facing the basilisk—and now clearly could see the layers of worry and concern that he previously couldn’t spot. Despite the severity of the situation, Harry almost wanted to laugh—the fact that he’d been misreading his brother’s facial expressions for this long was so shameful, it was almost funny.

“Then,” Harry said simply, as much to himself as to Monty, “my job this year is to stay alive.”

He’d said it lightly, but clearly that wasn’t enough for Monty. His brother looked up at him, that fire again flickering in his eyes. “Promise me right now that you won’t die.”

It seemed like a rash promise to make, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. “I promise I won’t die,” Harry said.

“Good. Because if you do, I’ll bring you back from the dead and kill you again.”

“Not if Hermione finds me first.”

Both boys chuckled.

Harry reached across and grabbed Monty’s Butterbeer. “Drink this,” he said, handing it to him.

As Monty obediently took a swig. As he did, Harry asked, “How did you do that, anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Chew up those professors and spit them out like that.”

“I don’t really know,” Monty admitted. “Your name got called, and I kinda just panicked.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You were scared?”

“Dead scared.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have known,” Harry said, impressed. “And…thanks, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Monty said, giving him a quick smile—but it dropped from his face just as quickly. His eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh no.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“Harry, I disrespected two visiting headmasters of foreign Wizarding schools and a Ministry of Magic representative. There’s no way I’m not getting detention.”

“I mean, possibly,” Harry said, not quite seeing what the big deal was. “It’s not the end of the world—Dad got more detentions in a month than his house would get in a year.”

“You don’t understand,” Monty said, looking pained. “If I get my first detention before Ginny does, she’s never going to let me live it down.”

Harry couldn’t help it, he laughed—but he cut himself off quickly at the expression on Monty’s face. “Well,” Harry said, “we’d better get back to the Common Room before someone realizes we’re out of bed and makes one detention two.”

“Yeah.”

As they emerged back out into the corridor, covered by the Cloak again, Harry teased, “The One-Eyed Witch passage? Really?”

“I said I panicked.”

Chuckling under his breath, Harry led the way back up to their Common Room, laying aside thoughts of Dark Lords and death for the moment—the effort made all the easier with his brother at his side.

#honestly I don’t know if I love or hate this #I’m very self-conscious about whether or not Monty comes across as 12 here. I mean he is a mature 12 year old but still #anyway. they’re brothers your honor #if you’re curious the reason that nothing happened in year 3 is because Sirius doesn’t get sent to Azkaban in this AU so there’s no one to #come after Harry #Peter is assumed to have been killed in a duel with Sirius and Remus but did he actually die? who knows certainly not me #also my headcanon is that Harry is named after Lily’s dad so Monty is named after James’#harry potter #fleamont potter ii #Harry Potter fix-it #comfy vember 2024

23 notes · View notes