anxiety
Harry was panicking.
His body was shaking, and his breaths were quick and shallow. He felt his hands tangling in his hair, pulling and tugging. His pounding heart echoed in his ears, and he could hear the twins calling his name.
The weird bubble of silence had burst, and Harry's rising panic overtook him, accompanied by the overwhelming screams of laughter and chatter from other children in the train cars around him.
Magical children.
Harry was magical.
The overwhelming storm of feelings and thoughts spiraled inside him, each crashing into the next, making it nearly impossible to think clearly. Maybe it wasn't that he couldn't think—he was overthinking.
He felt angry.
No, he was angry.
His entire world, everything he had been led to believe, was shattering.
His parents were dead.
Petunia had always claimed they didn't want him, that he was a mistake they discarded like unwanted baggage. His mother and father had supposedly run off to Las Vegas to indulge in drugs and alcohol, leaving him behind, abandoned.
But that wasn't true. Harry's mother had loved him. She had sacrificed everything for him, and she had died because of that love.
And he didn't know if that realization was worse.
He had killed his mother; she had wasted her life on him—on someone as pathetic as Harry Potter.
But she died loving him.
Deep within the whirlwind of panic and turbulent emotions, Harry registered an unsettling truth: it was the first time he had ever truly felt loved. Even if it was from the Weasleys, not his mother, it was a relief to understand that once, long ago, someone had cared for him.
He had been capable of being loved, but then, of course, he had ruined that by being the reason his mother was gone.
He wondered if the act of her death had made him unlovable.
And looming over all of this was the shadow of someone called Moldy—something out there, intent on killing him. This figure wouldn't hesitate to destroy anyone who dared to help Harry, leaving a trail of deaths in their wake.
The entire wizarding world seemed aware that if they tried to protect Harry Potter, they would become targets, too.
Except Moldy might be dead, and somehow, Harry was a hero.
Oh, and witches and wizards were real. And Harry was one of them.
He was going to school to learn to be a wizard.
But Vernon had known.
And now, standing there, he felt utterly unprepared—drowning in his panic.
He didn't have any books.
Or robes.
Or a wand.
Or a cauldron.
Everything felt heavy and suffocating, an avalanche of uncertainty that threatened to crush him under its weight.
Harry was dripping wet.
With great effort, he cracked his eyes open, finding himself curled into a tight ball. Above him stood Fred and George, their familiar faces caught somewhere between concern and something Harry couldn't quite place.
"Oi, Harry!" Fred exclaimed, his wand hovering just above Harry's head. "You alright, mate?"
George swiftly swatted Fred's wand down, shooting him a look. "Easy there, Fred! That's not how you help someone who's panicking. We're not trying to summon bad luck here," he quipped, though his voice held genuine care. "Just breathe. You're okay."
Fred huffed, feigning offense. "I thought that was a solid technique!" He gestured vaguely with his wand before flashing Harry a sheepish grin. "S'pose you've got a point, though. Sorry, mate—figured a splash of water might bring you back to reality."
Harry managed a weak smile, grateful for the familiar faces.
George stepped forward, holding out a robe that looked comically oversized for Harry. "Here, put this on! It might not win any fashion awards, but it'll keep you warm and dry. Plus, I don't believe you've got a robe hidden in your backpack. And We'll be at Hogwarts any minute now."
Harry shook his head but accepted it with a slight grin. He was used to oversized, hand-me-down clothes—this was nothing new.
"Hold on a sec," Fred said, eyes alight with mischief. Harry's wet clothes dried instantly with a flick of his wand and a muttered incantation. "Voilà! Now you won't be mistaken for the world's most miserable mermaid—no more 'drenched stray cat' aesthetic for you, mate."
George nudged him with an encouraging smile. "See? Not so bad now, right? Remember, we're here for you if you're ever feeling overwhelmed. Nobody tackles Hogwarts alone—even the famous Harry Potter needs backup sometimes."
Harry's smile faltered. His heart sank at the mention of his fame. With the Dursleys, blending into the background had been a survival tactic he had mastered out of necessity. But at Hogwarts, there was no hiding—his name, past, and so-called legacy clung to him like the ill-fitting cloak. The wizarding world knew more about his story than he did, and the weight of it all felt suffocating.
He longed for invisibility again, to escape the spotlight that had painted him as a hero when, in truth, he didn't feel like one at all.
"And," Fred added with a wink, "we promise to keep the jokes coming. After all, laughter is the best way to chase away the nerves—unless it's our pranks, it might just send you running!"
Harry let out a laugh, the heaviness easing just a little. Maybe the world wouldn't let him disappear, but at least Fred and George were here.
When the train pulled to a stop, Harry tried looking for Ron and Hermione. He'd learned their names as they began explaining the wizarding world, but Fred and George had shooed them off after Harry started hyperventilating.
As he stepped off the train, Harry felt a familiar twinge in his leg, a reminder of his time in the cupboard. He walked with a noticeable limp, feeling every bit of self-consciousness that came with it. The heat of embarrassment flushed over him as he realized he'd somehow made a scene before school had even begun.
"All first years over here!" a deep voice, louder than Uncle Vernon's, called over the crowd of kids. "Four to a boat, alright, alright!"
Harry scanned the chaotic scene, his leg throbbing slightly as he navigated through the throng. He finally spotted Ron and Hermione, settling into a boat with two other kids. A wave of anxiety washed over him as he realized he was alone.
"Oi," a boy with striking white slicked-back hair called out, his voice confident yet almost teasing. "This is a Slytherin-only boat. You'll want to find your own."
"But we're not even sorted yet," Harry replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the flutter in his stomach. "I'm hoping to be a Slytherin. I've got friends in Slytherin, you see." He hoped to end up with Fred and George; after their kindness, he craved more of it.
The other boy raised an eyebrow, his piercing grey eyes narrowing slightly, but there was an unmistakable glimmer of curiosity behind them. "Well, if that's how you feel, I suppose you can sit with us," he replied, the edge of his tone softening. "Just so you know, if you end up in Slytherin, you must be a part of the house. Can't have you looking like a lost puppy wandering around."
Harry blinked, unsure of how to take the comment.
The other boy continued, his voice slightly more earnest. "I mean, image matters to us. You don't want to be the one to embarrass the rest of us. You can borrow my robes if you like; they'll at least be better fitting." He glanced at Harry's oversized attire, which the Weasley Twins gave him. "Though I think they might still be big on you—you're quite small."
Harry wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or grateful. "Thanks… I guess," Harry replied, attempting to keep the anxiety in his voice at bay. "I'll make sure not to let you down."
"Good." Draco smiled, the corners of his lips twitching upward with sincerity. "We Slytherins ought to help each other out, right?"
Harry found himself unexpectedly warmed by Draco's kindness. It was a stark contrast to the aloofness he had braced himself for. Draco extended his hand with genuine friendliness as the boats glided away from the dock. "Malfoy," he introduced, his voice cordial yet straightforward. "Draco Malfoy."
Harry swallowed nervously and took the boy's hand, trying not to overthink the moment. "Potter, Harry Potter," he responded, his smile a mixture of nerves and excitement.
Draco's demeanor shifted slightly; there was a note of surprise, but he quickly masked it with a composed expression. He had expected the famous Harry Potter to be someone different, grander, perhaps. Instead, he met a boy who seemed uncertain and unkempt, with a wholesome unease about him.
And he wanted to be in Slytherin? Draco smirked internally. Harry Potter? A Slytherin and friends with Draco? His father would be so proud.
Harry frowned at Draco's momentary pause, anxiety bubbling back within him.
"Hey, look at that," Draco said, shifting focus with a hint of excitement as the castle came into view. "Isn't it magnificent?"
Harry turned to see the towering castle shimmering in the night, enveloped in mist. For a moment, the worries faded, replaced by awe at the beauty before them.
--
Draco's gaze lingered on Harry Potter, who radiated an undeniable aura of anxiety as the boats glided toward the looming silhouette of the castle. The boy fidgeted incessantly, twisting his fingers into his unruly hair, desperately trying to find calm. It was like Potter thought he might be expelled before even setting foot inside Hogwarts.
Navigating the winding staircase proved challenging, and Draco quickly noticed Harry's limp, his left leg bothering him. The large, boisterous man—Hagrid—gathered the first years into a haphazard formation, leading them up the steps with his booming voice.
Harry lagged, struggling to keep pace, each upward step looking like an ordeal. Draco observed the strain on Harry's face, his knees trembling under the weight of it all.
Draco maintained a steady pace despite his impatience.
He was unwilling to abandon Potter—not out of kindness, he told himself, but curiosity. Something about the way Harry moved, the sheer exhaustion in his eyes, unsettled him. A few other students glanced at Harry's way, but Draco ignored them.
At last, they were greeted by a tall, slender woman whose age was marked by strands of gray in her otherwise dark hair. The small group of nervously chattering children fell silent under her gaze.
"Right, thank you, Hagrid," she said. "Welcome to Hogwarts." Her voice was firm yet warm. "My name is Professor McGonagall. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. This Sorting Ceremony is significant because your house will be like your family here. You will attend classes, sleep, and spend time with your housemates."
The first years watched her intently. Harry ran a hand through his hair again, his leg shifting uncomfortably beneath him.
"I shall return when we are ready for you," McGonagall finished. "Please wait quietly."
She disappeared into the next chamber, and silence stretched in her wake.
Harry swayed slightly, his legs visibly shaking. He hadn't been on his feet this long since his time in the cupboard. Leaning against the staircase's railing, he struggled to catch his breath. His legs burned with the effort of walking and standing, and the tightness in his chest made everything worse.
Draco raised an eyebrow, suppressing irritation and an unfamiliar sense of concern. "You alright?"
"I need to sit down," Harry admitted, scanning the room for a bench. As he started to lower himself, Draco stepped in front of him.
"Don't sit here. The floor's disgusting," he said, voice clipped but not unkind. "Just hold on a minute; you'll be able to sit soon enough."
Harry hesitated, gripping the railing tighter. "If you're sure." His unoccupied hand found his hair again, tugging at the strands. The familiar pulling sensation brought a wave of calmness.
Draco sighed. "Honestly, Potter, your hair is the least of your problems. You look like you're about to keel over."
Harry let out a humorless chuckle. "Not exactly how I pictured my first day going."
Before Draco could respond, Ron Weasley appeared, eyes blazing. "Leave him alone, Malfoy!"
Draco rolled his eyes, his expression slipping closer to his usual arrogance. "Oh, look, a Weasley. Shouldn't you be off somewhere looking for hand-me-downs?"
Ron's ears turned red, but he crossed his arms, standing firm. "Better that than being a stuck-up little ferret."
Draco smirked. "At least I don't have to dig through a rubbish bin to find my school supplies."
Ron took a step closer. "Yeah? Well, at least my family cares about me, Malfoy. Bet your lot would trade you for a few extra Galleons."
Draco's smirk faltered for the briefest moment before he sneered. "Keep dreaming, Weasley. Just because your family is content living in a shack doesn't mean the rest of us have to stoop to that level."
Ron clenched his fists. "You don't know anything about my family, Malfoy. But I know exactly what you are—a coward who hides behind his father's money."
Draco's eyes narrowed. "And you're just another Weasley, desperate to prove worth something. Spoiler: You're not."
Draco's gaze flicked between them before settling back on Harry, his voice calmer but not antagonistic. "I'm not looking to fight, Weasley. Just trying to be practical. Potter needs to focus."
Ron scoffed. "You think you're so much better than us, but we all know what you are, Malfoy."
Draco smirked, though there was less bite to it. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Weasley."
Harry exhaled, tension still evident in his posture. "Thanks," he muttered, reluctant but sincere. "I just… don't want to mess this up."
Draco crossed his arms but gave a slight nod. "You won't. … don't pass out before we even get to the Sorting."
Ron, still wary, turned back to Harry. "Yeah, mate, it's going to be fine. Just breathe. They won't kick you out before you even get a chance to know where you belong."
Draco shrugged. "Exactly. Stick close to your friends."
The large doors swung open, cutting through the tension. Professor McGonagall stepped back in, her expression serious. "It's time to get sorted, children."
The first years straightened up, bracing themselves for what awaited them inside the Great Hall.