Sunny Suzuki and the Stupid Traitorous Rat

Harry’s summer holiday was going absolutely wonderfully. 

Instead of being imprisoned in Azkaban for blowing up Aunt Marge– or worse, expelled from Hogwarts (blimey, he was starting to sound like Hermione)– the Minister himself had allowed him to keep his liberty and to even wander about Diagon Alley. It was a far better fate than he deserved truth be told, but he wouldn’t ever complain when it meant the Dursleys were another year away from him three weeks in advance. 

He’d spent his last three days simply; eating at restaurants, finishing his homework at open shops and restaurants, and ogling at the marvellous new broom that had recently been developed. 

And ogling was exactly what he was doing now, with his hands pressed against the glass, his face even closer to the window so that his reflection wouldn’t reflect back to him and diminish the view of the real-life miracle. 

The Firebolt was a masterpiece. If he were to buy one thing, the one thing his heart desired more than anything in the world, it was that broom. Perfectly built, perfectly stable, perfectly fast. Oh, how beautifully crafted it was. Now, he loved his Nimbus 2000– it was reliable and nostalgic. But this… this broom , oh, it was so… so… so… so expensive. 

Harry attempted to convince himself for the millionth time that he needn’t buy this. He had his own broom. A good one. A very good one, in fact. No need to break his bank on this, no matter how much he may want to. 

But if he spent a few more minutes standing there, watching the broom through the window, defining every little detail into memory, well– that was free, yeah? No one could stop him. No one bothered to, either. So nothing took his focus away, nothing and nobody, for quite a long while. 

Until this strange boy showed.

Harry’s focus may have been entranced by the majesty before him, but even then he wasn’t so dense as to not notice a new reflection on the glass, one that hadn’t scurried away like all the others who were keen to be somewhere. 

Behind him was a child, one that seemed to be younger than him but he couldn’t quite tell from the distance. He had black hair and brown eyes, and soft Japanese facial features. But what stood out the most were his clothes. They were visibly muggle, with the terribly large hoodie and sweats and all. 

A muggleborn, perhaps? Maybe. But then, where were his parents?

…and why was he staring at Harry as if his world was shattering to pieces?

Despite his initial impulse to ignore him and walk away, Harry turned his head around, shifting his gaze from the Firebolt to him. The moment he did so, the very second, all colour drained from the boy’s face. Harry merely stared, growing more and more confused (and mildly worried) as time stretched on and the other didn’t move. It was as if he’d been hit with a paralysing jinx. 

“Erm…” started Harry, unsure of what to say. The other’s distress was clearly because of him, but why on earth that was the case he had no idea. He tilted his head. “Are… are you quite alright?” 

The boy didn’t answer. 

Harry was fully concerned at this point. 

He opened his mouth to speak again, but then closed it. He didn’t know what he ought to do. Had this boy been meaning to look at the Firebolt as well? That wasn’t so bad, he could move over to create some space. Why would he look scared, then? Harry wasn’t scary to approach. Was he? No, no. He wasn’t. There must be something else going on.

Nobody else paid attention to the two of them, all too busy minding their own things. Good. 

Harry took a step forward, but stopped when the boy took a step back. 

He frowned. 

“What’s–”

Before he had the chance to complete his sentence, the boy bolted. 

He stumbled back, spun around and simply ran. He left so quickly that for a delirious second Harry believed the other disapparated. But there was no loud crack, no sound other than the hurried footsteps that faded from range, meshing with the rest of the noise of the Alley. 

“–wrong… oh. Alright.”

Well then. 

That was… odd. 

Harry furrowed his brows, a bit upset. 

He didn’t mean to be frightening. 

Suddenly feeling out of place with the overexcited crowd, he patted down his hair to hide his scar (unsuccessfully), ducked his head, and opened the shop’s door. There was a little ring from the overhead bell as he entered, and the outside noise was gradually muffled by the closing door. 

Harry took a deep breath, smelling the sweet, light scent of the shop’s aroma. Focus on that. Focus on that sensation. But despite his best efforts, some of his previous questions popped back into his head. Why did that boy look so scared? It didn’t make sense. Was it something he did?

Harry shook the thoughts away. Whatever, they didn’t matter. 

He hurried deeper into the shop, determined to get lost in its magic and wonder. He had enough issues as it was. Another mystery to solve wasn’t what he needed– he’s had enough solved secrets for a lifetime after last year’s Chamber and all. 

He deserved a break! He deserved a good summer! One without questions or worries or confusion!

And he’d have one. 

He would. No matter what. 

.

..

.

Turns out, Harry would not have a break. Not even during the holidays. How bloody brilliant.  

That day was not the last time he’d meet the boy. Far from it. Almost every day after, he’d find glimpses of the other constantly. And every time he’d turn his head to look properly at him, he fled before Harry had the chance to fully acknowledge him. It was so strange. 

Once it was while he sat inside of a tea shop. He was completing another essay for Charms at a table close to the window, a review on many locking and unlocking spells from first and second years, when he spotted the Boy watching him from the street. Not doing anything particularly creepy, just sitting down by a bench and staring, with a deep thoughtful look on his face. It was rather likely that the bloke zoned out or something while gazing in his general direction, though that begged the question as to why he was looking in the first place. 

The second Harry gave up on ignoring him and made eye contact, there was a beat of surprise where the Boy blinked, flushed red, jumped up, and scurried away fast enough to put teleportation to shame. Again. Then the same thing occurred another day, except he was eating at a restaurant. Then the same thing again somewhere else. It became a daily pattern. A very troubling pattern. 

Another time, one of the more recent ones, Harry went to buy more potion ingredients in the apothecary. 

This time when he saw him Boy wasn’t alone, but rather with another Tall Man who was busy explaining things Harry didn’t pay attention to. When he entered the shop (for once he was the one initiating any form of interaction), Boy jolted where he stood, surprised and unprepared, before rushing to the farthest corner of the shop, pretending to be checking the multitude of different spider legs and their properties. 

Harry quickly found he wasn’t paying a drop of attention to the legs, for the second Boy realised what he was actually looking at, he let out a soft startled gasp and froze on the spot. Complete body lock type of freeze. The Tall Man had to physically pull the other away from the spiders before he finally started to behave like a conscious human being. 

The worst part of it all was that Boy looked more terrified when he was looking at Harry than when he was checking the bloody spiders. Only good thing about that interaction was that he learned the other’s name: “Mr. Suzuki”, the Tall Man called him when he swept the boy away.

What a strange, strange child. Harry didn’t remember hearing his name during any of the sortings. Perhaps he was an older student from a different house? That didn’t make sense, he’d have to be Harry’s year or younger, he looked barely older than him. But not too young either, certainly not a first year. Why is it that he’d never seen him in the halls before then?

‘Suzuki’. Suzuki, Suzuki, Suzuki.

Yeah, no. It didn’t ring any bells.

His behaviour was confusing at first, and then worrying, but now it was increasingly infuriating. 

What was wrong with him?

Each time that he saw him, it seemed he got more and more agitated or scared. 

And it didn’t make any bloody sense. 

Harry felt he was being treated like some valuable piece of China showcased in a museum. So lovely to look at, but ohhhh don’t you go near it, or you’ll face the danger of shattering it to pretty porcelaine ashes! Suzuki looked at him as if Harry would disappear any second, as if he’d blow away like dust if the breeze dared be too harsh, as if he’d vanish where he stood and take the other with him.

It was disheartening. Last year was already horrible, with everyone believing he was the descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself– but he thought that would’ve ended by now. And even back then nobody looked at him the way he did.

It hurt.  

It hurt a lot. More than Harry wanted to admit. Not to mention that these coincidental meetings weren’t feeling nearly as coincidental the more they’ve met. It had been two weeks since he arrived in Diagon Alley, and nothing had changed, not a single thing. Why would the other seek him out, or at least insist on constantly being near him, only to run away the second Harry acknowledged him?

All of those reasons, and more, were things that ran through Harry’s mind as he convinced himself not to feel guilty for his next few actions. Because they were justified. Because he deserved answers. Because he was Harry Potter and mysteries when it came to him typically meant danger, and wasn’t he anything but cautious? 

Nevertheless, no matter his motives or his reasoning, it was rather too late to stop his own plan. He was already following the bloke through the mostly-empty streets of Diagon Alley. Not by choice, mind you. He only wanted to actually talk with Suzuki, face to face– and if that meant cornering him, then so be it! It wasn’t his fault that the boy kept heading forward! That he kept getting farther! That he… that he kept growing closer and closer to Knockturn Alley. 

Harry stopped for a moment, hesitating. 

He was close to leaving Diagon Alley, so close in fact that discounting Suzuki, he was the only other person in the road. Not to mention how late it was, the sun lowering steadily. The sky had already been split apart into red and pink at the horizon. It was a matter of little time before night fell completely.

The one term he promised the Minister he wouldn’t break was that he’d stay exactly where he was. It was the only thing they had asked of him, to not leave Diagon Alley, to stay put and stay safe, and he was this close to having to lie his way through an excuse if he got caught following that boy outside. 

…which was exactly why he wouldn’t. 

Get caught, that was. 

He was definitely going to follow Suzuki.

Harry started walking again, breaking into a run every once in a while when he could afford doing so without making too much noise. Suzuki had almost left his line of sight, but Harry caught up easily enough, now at an even pace a few metres behind him. A few more shops and a left turn, and they’d be heading straight into Knockturn Alley and–

–and Suzuki went… right? Oh. He’d entered a shop. Harry grinned. This was perfect! He could corner him there, without breaking any rules! 

With this additional surge of hope, Harry quickened his pace, and once he reached the shop he swung open the door with vigour, rushing inside and letting it close by itself behind him. 

…Ah.

This could be a difficult place to find Suzuki.  

He was in an antiques shop it seemed, if the miscellany of ancient-looking items and appliances were anything to go by. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light being the faded purple-grey flooding in from outside through the windows. The few candles over low tables and old-timey desks were put out, which was a bit odd. They should’ve been burning if the shop was open. Light brown walls felt darker thanks to the lack of a bright light, melting with the curved black ceiling above. 

It didn’t seem like anyone was at home. He didn’t hear any shopkeepers. Was he trespassing into a closed building? It felt more and more likely by the second, but hopefully not. Typically the doors were locked with magic and spells that neither he nor Suzuki had the ability to undo, if he was right in his theory of the bloke’s age. Whoever worked here was likely at the loo or something of the sort.

Harry walked, slowly, the floor groaning underneath him with every step. 

“Hello?” he called out. The sound of his voice died quickly, the inside of the shop too dense for there to be any echo. He waited. No response. Harry frowned. This would be more difficult than he’d expected.

He continued to walk, the boards creaking as he did. The soft light of dusk continued to gently pour in through the windows, darkening his own shadow and those of the furniture surrounding him. Harry navigated deeper in, having to squeeze himself into narrow paths to avoid the edges of over decorated shelves or tables or chairs, practically dancing his way through with how often he had to tilt or move his hips and arms. 

“Erm… look, I know you’re in here. I’m Harry.” Adding the Potter didn’t seem to be necessary. “Though you probably knew that already,” he mumbled that last part to himself, partially bitter. 

Harry hissed through his teeth when his back accidentally collided with a cabinet behind him, rattling the old dishes behind their glass case. He massaged the spot he hit, and moved on. 

“I noticed that we’ve met quite often these last few days, and, erm.” Alright, how should he say this? “Well, I have a feeling that you don’t… well… uhm. I believe we started off with the wrong foot, is all. Are you a student at Hogwarts? I don’t reckon I’ve seen you before.”

No response. 

Harry slipped past the last tight bit of the path, and let out a sigh of relief when he reached a more open area of the shop. There was an ugly rug beneath him, one that was covered with dust and dirt from the shoes of previous customers. 

Opposite to him was a series of bookshelves, ones that carried books as old as the ocean of furniture he swam through. No sign of the other boy anywhere. 

Was Harry by himself? Had he entered the wrong shop?

He swallowed. Time to change tactics. 

“Your name is Suzuki, isn’t it?”

A loud thud came from one of the bookshelves. Harry perked to the sound. A response. Finally! He strode towards the source as quickly as he could. 

“That’s a nice name,” he complimented on his way, checking shelf after shelf. The noise had come from farther away, but he was sure he was heading the right way. “You may call me Potter, if you prefer, as I don’t quite know your first name yet. Shall we introduce ourselves, maybe? If you’re okay with that? I’d like to ask a few questions. If– if you don’t mind, that is.” 

Questions like ‘why are you so scared of me all the time’, and then some. Harry wanted to demand answers immediately, so that he could correct the wrong assumptions sooner and all, but he had a feeling that things would backfire if he did. He didn’t want to intimidate anything out of the boy either. Suzuki was terrified enough of him as it was. 

The floor groaned to Harry’s left. A shadow flurried past him. Thumping footsteps pounded against the floor, thud thud thud, fading quickly as they went farther away. 

“Oh what– wait, hey wait!”

Harry spun around immediately, and started to run to the exit, where the silhouette of Suzuki was headed. He rushed past the shelves, his weight punch against the floor combined with the other’s creating vibrations so strong a few books toppled down. He’d come back for those later. After their conversation, which he would have.

Suzuki’s figure slipped into one of the narrow paths before them, moving so quickly he kept bumping into things, every artifact rattling on impact. He was fast. Really, really fast, and he didn't seem to care for his physical well-being, moving past adorned daggers with equal amounts of speed and carelessness. 

Why was he so desperate?

Harry followed suit, using the same path (but with an added layer of caution) and mostly the same speed. 

“I only want to talk, why are you– ow– ” one of the bloody daggers pricked his arm. Harry would worry about that later. He started to shove some of the furniture around him, something that Suzuki hadn’t done, which gained him a little bit extra advantage when it came to speed. “Please, I really just want to–”

Suzuki was by the door, reaching his hand out to open it. 

He was still too far to stop him. 

Harry didn’t think. He whipped his wand out, pointed, and cried out, “Colloportus!” 

The click from the lock made Suzuki freeze. He was gripping the door knob with a white-knuckled fist, and after a gentle, failed attempt at twisting the door open, he didn’t try again. His hand continued to hold the knob though. 

Harry stood there, crooked between the walls of furniture, his arm still outstretched and wand high in the air, panting loudly as he caught up with oxygen. God, he hadn’t exhausted himself this much in weeks. His lungs ached and his limbs trembled. Suzuki himself was not in any better a state, his cheeks flushed red and his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“R-right… erm,” said Harry, his lips and throat utterly dry. “You– you won’t get out. Not until we talk, yeah?” 

Brilliant. His plan was utterly brilliant, wasn’t it. What’s next after locking him in, Potter, shall you threaten his family next? Summon your basilisk to attack him? If Harry was right about Suzuki being muggle born… Well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have his reasons to fear him if he still believed those ridiculous rumours. 

Suzuki didn’t let go of the door knob. From where he stood, Harry couldn’t quite see his face, only the back of his head. He expected Suzuki wasn’t wearing the friendliest of expressions. 

A silent air of tension fell between the two of them. It felt uncomfortably hostile. 

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Now that he hadn’t a time limit, Harry gently moved through every couch and table, making an effort not to touch the shop’s goods even if it meant sacrificing his speed. 

“I- sorry, about, erm, locking us both in, but… look, I just want to talk, and, uhm, you… you see, it… Well, I’ve noticed you seem to always freeze up whenever we’ve met.” And they’ve met plenty of times, but Harry had enough tact not to say that. Not enough tact to do anything else though, evidently. 

The tension shifted, horribly tangible as it thickened the air and grew in aggression, revolving in circles around them. It was quiet but thunderous in a way only a very clear warning could be. Tread carefully, Harry thought it said. It made the back hairs of his neck stand straight, making his gut plummet to the ground. It was electric in nature, the type of wild sparks Harry was very familiar with. 

Magic. 

But it wasn’t coming from him. Suzuki didn’t seem to be doing anything though. 

…accidental?

From what he’s heard, Harry dearly hoped not. 

He swallowed, and kept talking. “I… I wanted to ask you why, I suppose? I don’t mean to scare you, I really don’t. If– if I do, you don’t have to be, I’m not dangerous, certainly not the descendant of Slytherin, so you don’t have to be scared, I swear!”

Suzuki didn’t say anything. 

The warning grew louder, sharper, furious it wasn’t being heeded, a dangerously slow tornado of energy.

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that either.

“I…”

The air stilled, as if holding its breath. 

“I wanted to know if–” 

–you’d like to be friends?

But he never had the chance to say that. 

Creak

A single fracture sliced across the upper edge of the shop’s window. 

Harry stopped. Stared.

Crack

The fracture gained newer, smaller cuts, slowly making its way down the glass in a lightning-like pattern.

Harry took a step back, eyes widening. 

“Suzu-”

CRASH 

—

The door was locked. The door was locked. Magically fucking locked.

Let me out

Sunny couldn’t hear Harry’s voice over his beating heart, blood furiously pounded in his ears. 

He needed to leave. He needed to leave. He was fucking up the story, fucking up this kid’s life, he didn't have a plan of how to behave with Harry yet, he still needed time to think, time to think , he didn't want to have a plan, he wanted to leave, he needed to leave, he needed to leave-

Let me out

The door wouldn't budge. How would he escape? He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't. He needed to leave. He would fuck up the story. He already fucked up, but this would make it worse if he didn't go. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck- Harry was saying something, he couldn’t make out the words, he couldn’t focus on the boy’s words, he couldn’t fucking focus, he couldn’t breathe . 

LET ME OUT

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn’t he couldn’t he–

LET ME OUT

The story would be broken Harry would be broken everything would be fucking broken and it would be his fault he needed to leave it would all be his fault he needed to leave he needed to leave to leave to leave to leave to leave to leave to leave toleavetoleavetoleavetoleavetoleavetolea–

L E T  M E  O U T

CRASH  

The window was obliterated, a cascade of glass crashing to the ground. 

Holy shit. 

Sunny’s heart leaped to his throat, and he stumbled back. 

Holy shit?

It was gone, the window was gone, destroyed, completely destroyed, and Harry gasped behind him. 

Sunny could barely think with the ringing in his ears. 

His legs decided for his brain to launch over the cracks and run. 

Harry cried out his name as he followed, stumbling outside as well, before stuttering out a startled Reparo. But his voice meshed with the sound of the crackling glass as it was fixed back to normal, and faded with the blowing wind in his ears as Sunny pounded across the cobblestones beneath. 

The one and only Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Him-Question-His-Sanity quickly died from his auditory range as Sunny gained rapid distance.

He never ran so fast in his whole fucking life.

What the fuck, holy shit, holy shit, holy SHIT–  

Panic tore at his chest and fueled the speed of his swishing legs. He beat the ground in desperation as he sprinted, stumbling every other step. He turned sharply to the left to enter Knockturn, speeding through the crooked, dense path to Providence’s Potions. He memorized the way to Atticus’ store by heart these past few weeks. He was grateful for that. Muscle memory could save him when his spiraling mind couldn’t.

That old-stuff store. 

It was blasted open.

Did I do that?

The thought– no. The realization, it made him run faster. 

What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.

He was panicking too much over too little. 

Panicking way too much. 

He knew that. 

He knew that, but he couldn’t calm himself down.

He couldn’t. 

I blasted that window open. 

Sunny wasn’t sure how much time he spent sprinting in an endless frenzy until he saw the distinct barred window and old dirty door of the store. He almost cried with relief at the sight. He stormed inside, almost wrenching the door off of its hinges before slamming it shut. A loud BANG rang out at the collision. 

A sharp crash of glass– I shattered that window, I shattered it, I did that–  crumbling against the floor quickly followed Atticus’ startled yelp from the leftmost shelf.

“BOY!” 

He stumbled away from the edges of a destroyed jar that had toppled down a shelf, enraged. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Atticus whispered to himself, staring at the ground, and then his voice hardened. “What are you doing, you cannot simply barge in like–” 

He spun around to face Sunny, and there was a beat of silence as he noticed the state he was in, his furious glare twitching into something else. Something Sunny couldn’t quite name what with the blurry mess that was his brain. 

“...ah.”

The floor creaked as Atticus strode forward, broken jar forgotten, and he gently took Sunny’s shoulder, pulling him away from the door. He moved in front of him as he swished his wand, a click of a newly locked door echoing horribly in his ears– don’t think about Harry don’t think about Harry don’t think abou– 

“What happened? Are you harmed? Were you followed?” 

Was he followed? He hoped not. That sounded like something Harry would do. Something Harry did do about a few minutes ago, and Sunny’s attempts to avoid him by going to the closest empty store did jack fucking shit. 

He wouldn’t have followed him again, right? No. No, probably not. Oh, he really hoped not. 

Blood rushed through his veins; it felt like spiders were crawling over his prickled skin. He panted, gasping for air that never seemed to fully reach his lungs. Sunny’s eyes clung to the handle of the door, gaping with wide eyes, a part of him not yet realizing it was locked already, that it was safe.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

There was another nudge from Atticus, his hand still on his shoulder, and Sunny took a small step back with trembling limbs. 

“Breathe, boy,” instructed Atticus firmly, his voice steady as he grabbed Sunny’s left arm and began to drag him to the couch. “I must ask for you to calm yourself down. Explain. Use words. What occurred? Did someone attack you? Are you harmed, jinxed, cursed? What is the issue, I must know it first in order to help you fix it.” 

Sunny sunk into the couch, dizzy with lingering panic. He focused on his breathing. 

In, out. In, out. In, out. 

“I’ll fetch the calming draught,” said Atticus curtly, stalking off somewhere to the right. 

Yeah, good idea. 

It took him less than two seconds to return, an opened vial in hand, and Sunny took it gratefully, his fingers quaking so badly he almost tipped the entire thing over himself. He drank the whole thing in one gulp, the liquid pouring into his mouth and immediately washing him with mind-numbing peace. His heart stopped trying to beat out of his ribs, slowing to a steady rhythm, and his skin stopped prickling, as if soothed by an invisible, comforting blanket. 

Sunny let out a quiet gasp-turned-cough as he put the vial down, finally being able to breathe in and feel his lungs expand with sweet, lovely, fantastical oxygen.

“T-thank you…” he whispered, melting into the couch as he closed his eyes in relief. 

Oh, how good it was to be able to breathe again. 

Atticus hummed, nipping the vial away and setting it aside by the desk. “Have a moment to yourself, calm your nerves. I’ll place a few wards around the–”

“No, no, n-no, it’s fine, it’s… you don’t have to do that, you don’t, it’s… fine…” Sunny sounded almost delirious, his voice slurry with exhaustion of having run what felt to be the equivalent of a marathon. “I just- I panicked, that’s… that’s all, I… I just…” 

He just blew up a store. Without the wand Atticus gave him. 

Sunny brought his hands to his face, hunching over with his elbows on his knees. 

His mind was spiraling, question after question shooting to the surface before drowning back down as more clamored for attention. 

Why? How?? What???

This shouldn’t be possible. He wasn’t a wizard. He wasn’t even supposed to be in a world where wizards existed. This shouldn’t be possible. None of this. These last few days, busy with work, with wrapping his head around the fact that Harry fucking Potter was only a few roads away from him, busy with just processing everything else– he stopped trying to question the reality of his situation. 

But now he was fairly sure he was losing his goddamn mind. 

“You… panicked?” Atticus echoed, tilting his head at Sunny, and it took every fiber of his strength to force his focus back to the conversation at hand, to actually listen to the words that were being spoken. “And what exactly, if I may ask, spurred such a reaction?” While he spoke, he took out his wand, barely glancing at the broken jar on the ground as he waved towards it in a perfectly practiced motion, whispering a quiet Reparo under his breath. 

Just like the window of the store, the glass of the jar remolded itself seamlessly, looking as good as new. 

…The window of the store. 

He shattered it.

“I… w-well, I… I think I…”

He shattered it.

Sunny took a deep breath in through his mouth, exhaling slowly out his nose. It was so hard to get himself to speak in a state like this. If it wasn’t for the calming draught, he was sure he would’ve lost his voice entirely by now. He let go of his face with trembling hands, and looked back up at Atticus. 

The older man waited patiently, wearing a placid look, entirely indifferent to his disheveled state. 

“Yes, Mr. Suzuki?”

The horrified expression etched on Sunny’s face matched the terrified tremor of his voice.

“I t-think…”

He swallowed, and his eyes slid down to stare at the dark wand in Atticus’ hand. It seemed to almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop, haloed by the light of a candle that sat on a nearby desk. 

“...I think I just did magic.”