Chapter 5 The Coup

Outcasts, callused from being in exile for too long, learn to thrive on being the hated; the attention and infamy of our actions fuel us to become antiheroes.

— Mike Norton, Fighting For Redemption

Had anyone bothered to pay closer attention to the Gryffindor table on a perfectly unremarkable, sunny morning towards the end of the term, they might have noticed that something was — not quite right.

Maybe they would have seen the weary expressions and tired eyes, the subdued conversations where usually, this close to the end of yet another year at Hogwarts, there was no curbing the excitement among the students, much though the professors might try. Maybe they would have realized that the near inconspicuous gap separating a small group of children from the rest of their house had widened over night. Maybe the excited whispers, eagerly shared between the unusually upbeat Gryffindor first years', would have piqued their interest.

Even if they didn't actively notice any of these negligible facts, maybe their subconsciousness would have picked up on the energetic charge in the air, the way the mood had shifted just that bit in reaction to something new. Something big.

Or maybe they wouldn't have noticed anything at all. It wasn't like anyone knew what to look for. It wasn't like any of them had ever bothered to see.

That was alright though.

Harry and his friends had come to expect nothing less. They were counting on it.

[Besides the students had an excuse. It wasn't their job to pay attention. It wasn't their job to see the bigger picture, to realize how much slipped through the cracks of the systems, how many children slipped through whose fall was never broken by anyone. The same couldn't be said for the adults at the head table. The teachers, who had dealt with troublesome and mischievous students for years. The professors, who should know better, should be more perceptive, and turned two blind eyes on the obvious changes around them all the same.]

Thankfully, there were a lot of excuses and justifications to go around at this point. Of course the students were nervous and agitated. After all, hadn't one of their own been taken and almost killed last night? Sure, the poor dears looked exhausted. But wasn't it understandable, considering they had spent all evening worrying about a member of their house and then undoubtedly celebrated the kidnapped girl's courageous saviour for the rest of the night? Yes, some of the older children gave the young Potter wary glances, but wasn't that reasonable as well? The boy had defeated Slytherin's monster with only an old hat, a sword and a phoenix to back him up. Truly, Harry Potter must have been bathed in Felix Felicis as a newborn — so terribly much like his father, that one.

And alright, maybe it wasn't normal for a twelve year old boy to conquer a fully-grown basilisk. But this was the Boy-Who-Lived they were talking about, really, what else did they expect?

The hero had rescued the lost princess. The nightmare had ended and the school was safe once more. The students would calm down within a few days and everything would go back to the way it was, as it always did.

[The rumors didn't calm down within a few days, but that was a different story altogether. A tale of friendship and loyalty and courage, a tale worthy of the Golden Trio with a heartwarming ending. For Harry Potter recovered quickly from his battle and was soon drifting through the halls of the castle by his friends' side once more. He remained somewhat apart from those beyond his year, isolated from even the members of his own house — but that only went to show how different the boy truly was. Not quite belonging, not truly fitting in among his peers, an exception even now, with the darkness passed.]

Little Ginny Weasley was often seen following the Potter heir and his friends around. An unsurprising turn, as the bond the shared trauma had likely forged between the children must give her a sense of dearly needed security in the aftermath of this nightmare. Wanya Blevins, who had taken the troublesome group under his wing back in their first year, kept a watchful eye on them during mealtimes still. The children were picking up the pieces and moving on with their lives, the horrors of petrification fading from stark reality to a ghost story ultimately defeated.

Beyond the surface, nothing had changed.

Hadn't it?

The start of Harry's second year at Hogwarts was uneventful. It really was. The changes — for of course there were changes, with Hermione's discovery at the end of the last term that was a given — came slowly. So slowly that even the children themselves didn't notice, too close, too involved, to pick up on the dangerous undercurrents they were traveling on. There was no one around to sound the alarm, no one to notice the tricky direction in which things were heading.

[It was far too early to predict where the pieces would fall when the time came. And yet. Who really knows at which point the line between not yet certain and too late will be crossed?]

In September 1992, Dean Thomas didn't cover the walls in his dorm with posters of football teams and famous muggle athletes the way he had done the previous year. Summer had shown him how difficult it was to keep track of two separate worlds, especially since the latest game of Manchester United couldn't really compare to a psychotic bludger trying to kill one of your best mates. Dean hadn't realized how out of touch he had become with the world he had been born into until he went home for the summer and met up with his old friends. Friends whom he still cared for but didn't connect with the way he used to.

They talked about games and scores he hadn't heard of and he kept himself occupied with books about things he wasn't allowed to share with them. By the time August came to an end, Dean decided that football was a small thing to give up when compared to the amazing friends, the life, the magic he had been given. So he simply — stopped. Dean didn't belong into the muggle world anymore, that much he had gotten loud and clear. The sooner he accepted it, the better.

[He couldn't help but wonder whether leaving things and people you loved behind like this was really a normal part of growing up though. Dean had yet to decide whether he liked it or not.]

In October 1992, Neville Longbottom stopped asking his grandmother about news of his parents. His short and far in-between letters were filled with his grades, his favorite herbology lessons and all kind of questions about wizarding culture that Hermione asked him and he didn't know the answer to instead. It wasn't done out of malice or lack of care. But Neville constantly worried about strange house elves with threatening messages, getting caught sneaking out after curfew and causing another escalation with the Arthur knights, his next potion class and other trouble. Somehow, with five close friends filling a void Neville had never noticed before, his parents simply slipped his mind more often than not. Their guileless eyes didn't haunt his every waking moment anymore and were instead replaced by Seamus' boisterous laughter and singed eyebrows, Dean's caustic comments, Harry's wry smiles, Hermione's wild gestures and Ron's quirky comments.

[Neville wasn't sure whether to call it moving on or giving up. He wasn't sure if there was even a difference between the two anymore.]

In December 1992, Hermione Granger asked her parents to please send her books about chemistry, physics and human anatomy. There was no particular incident that reawakened her interest in muggle science, the subjects simply fascinated her. Hermione didn't stop her daily library sessions and she always completed her assignments on time, but in her free time Hermione often became absorbed in books that had nothing to do with latin phrases and grotesque drawings of magic gone wrong. She still spent a lot of time researching the monster haunting their school, but there was something soothing in the logical arguments she found in the muggle books — clear explanations the magical world couldn't offer her.

[Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that it was less of a desire to learn and more of a way to cope. Coping with what though she didn't know.]

In January 1993, Harry Potter stopped caring for Quidditch. To be fair, he had never been passionate fan like Ron or Seamus. Playing Quidditch had always been more about flying than catching the snitch — though there was a thrill in the challenge, the hunt, as well. Because flying was the truest form of freedom Harry had ever tasted. It was unconditional. It was unlimited. It was breathtaking. In the air, there were no boundaries, no dividing lines that dictated the rest of his life. Only it wasn't real. Ironically enough, the one thing that allowed Harry to taste this newfound freedom was also the one thing that ruined it. Because Quidditch was a sport. Quidditch had rules. Quidditch was controlled.

And Harry? He couldn't suddenly stop playing for many reasons — at least half of them related to Wanya and his knights — but every time he played, it was like living a dream, always knowing that you would wake up before the grand finale. The stunts, the crazy risks, the unexpected attacks — At the end of the day, it still wasn't enough.

[Harry kept playing regardless, not caring that he didn't enjoy the games anymore. Not caring that something he once loved from the very first time he'd tried it had lost all meaning to him. And maybe it was that indifference that Harry should have really cared about.]

In February 1993, Ron Weasley didn't sleep in on Saturday. Although Ron had already lived through enough life-endangering adventures to give him nightmares for years — a troll, spilled unicorn blood, and a devil's snare came to mind — he had never had any trouble sleeping through the night. That hadn't suddenly changed either, Ron still liked the thought of staying in bed until lunchtime. The reason for his sudden change of habit was far more simple: Ron didn't have the time to afford such frivolities anymore. His hours were filled with research — petrification was not a thing found on the official curriculum and neither were the locking charms they used to secure their dorm —, endless afternoons in the library and following Malfoy around whenever he had some extra time. It wasn't so much a newfound desire to learn — though his mom would be ecstatic, it was actually a determined will to survive the next six years that had convinced Ron to adapt. Besides he was responsible for the finer details of their steadily nearing confrontation with Wanya. Ron had never been responsible for anything this important before.

[Ron believed that the deep bond he shared with his fellow yearmates was worth every sacrifice he — they all — made over the months. He had to believe it.]

In March 1993, Seamus Finnigan handed a homesick first year student his beloved chocolate frog card collection. He hadn't stopped eating sweets or anything drastic like that — in spite of Hermione's regular lectures on caries. Neither did he give up his most prized possession because he needed the space — though that was part of it. Mostly, Seamus couldn't stand to look at the collection anymore. It hurt.

He didn't know when it started, couldn't pinpoint the beginning, but somewhere between when he first boarded the train to Hogwarts as an excited eleven-year-old and now he'd lost interest in the cards. That much became obvious when Seamus finally got the rare card of the ancient alchemist Carladeus after months of searching for it, only to vanish it along with the discarded rubbish a few minutes later. Sure, he'd been distracted by Neville, who had just informed him that Colin Creevey had been petrified, but Seamus hadn't even been bothered when he finally did notice. Besides, he'd been happy when he found that card, yes. But it hadn't been the same level of happy he would have been just a year before. It didn't compare to the infinite delight he felt when he was finally allowed to do magic. It was but a mere shadow of the pure joy he had experienced when Harry — pale, lifeless Harry, not him, please, Merlin, not him — had woken up again after his fight with Quirrel. The barely sustainable enjoyment the cards gave him paled in comparison to everything else in his life. And remembering what used to be but unable to feel it again? That hurt. More than he thought it would.

[Seamus had the distinct impression that his collection was only one of many things that were discarded as the year went on. It might have been a warning of sorts, but if it was, it came far too late.]

In the end, it was easier than any of them had expected. Too easy even, some might say. Or maybe it just wasn't dramatic enough to satisfy the expectations. Not after everything Harry had already accomplished, all the impossibilities he had already proven false.

The truth was, none of the students from the other houses — or even the Gryffindors that would join them in future years — would ever understand it. Because they hadn't been there. No matter how often many of those who were would rehash the story in the years to come, there were some things — too many things — about magic that no recollection could convey. That was a worry for another day though.

[The ones meant to bear witness were present and that was all that was needed, in the end.]

Years later Dean would still remember this moment. He would look back at the memory with a mixture of sadness and admiration, a faded sense of disbelieving glee and relief, mixed with a confusing air of resignation. All whilst shaking his head at the sheer impossibility of the entire situation.

It had taken them months to come up with a halfway decent plan. They had researched the history of the founders, the structure of the house of Gryffindor, the various ways of battle. They had discarded idea after idea, scheme after scheme. They had studied and panicked and double-checked and improved and trained and bled. And then, finally, at the very end of their second year, everything they were preparing for had been set into motion. All their hard work was finally going to pay off.

It had been a simple, workable plan. A plan that had been shot to hell the minute Ginny Weasley had been taken.

To this day, Dean was torn between genuine laughter and incredulous hysteria when he thought about it for too long. Because he loved Seamus, Neville, Ron and Hermione with all his heart, but only Harry fucking Potter could walk straight into the Gryffindor common room, declare himself the official heir of Godric Gryffindor and new King and get away with it. No one else could have done something so bloody insane without getting cursed within an inch of their life.

Of course those rules didn't apply for Harry Potter because not even the Arthur Knights or Wanya had protested. And honestly? Dean didn't blame them.

In theory, the Boy-Who-Lived could claim the title of the King with little effort — not that they had known that in the beginning —, considering that most students already saw him as the hero he had been portrayed as for years. It helped that, knowingly or not, Harry lived up to the image.

[He didn't bow that first night, and Dean hadn't known the story of Harry Potter for more than two weeks, but when Harry Potter took a stand, Dean had known it must be for a cause worth following. Harry Potter had become Harry fast, and his choice had proven to be the right one, but that first morning at Hogwarts, half a lifetime ago, Dean hadn't known that. Hadn't known Harry. Had only known a bedtime story for children. And he hadn't even hesitated.]

That was likely the reason Wanya had resented Harry from the start. Everyone had their eyes on Harry Potter, expecting him to be extraordinary. And if he decided to be the King, well, who said they wouldn't follow him? After all, it was a well-known fact that the usual rules didn't apply to Potters.

Yet, it hadn't been his reputation alone that had ensured Harry's success in the end. He hadn't just walked into the common room that night and demanded the crown. Oh no. That would have been too easy, too predictable. That wasn't how Harry Potter did these things.

[In retrospect, they should have accounted for the Harry Potter Effect™ when they made their plans. It would've freed up so many sleepless nights.]

Dean sat in a badly lit corner of the common room, brooding over one of the books Hermione had been working on before she'd been turned into a — thankfully still living — statue, when it happened. They were still searching, desperately, for an answer to the monster haunting the castle this year. Something they had neglected until Hermione had been attacked and now that Ginny Weasley had been taken… Well. Suffice to say, Dean was glad that Ron had gone with Harry to follow a hunch. It was easier than having to look at his stark-white friend and read the misery and self-hatred in his every expression.

A loud crack disrupted the gloomy quiet as the portrait of the Fat Lady was thrown open with unnecessary force. Dean remembered the hush that fell over his fellow housemates. Remembered looking up from his book and freezing in place, unable to understand what his eyes were telling him.

Because there stood Harry.

There stood Harry.

His school uniform was ripped and torn and covered in blood. Grime, dirt and other fluids covered the fabric of his ruined cloak like a small child clinging to its mother's leg. Harry was pale and glassy eyed — looked far too much like the motionless body they'd dragged out of the forbidden third floor last year — and the heavy weight in Dean's stomach turned to iron, determined to sink him.

Harry didn't stumble though, even in his tired, post battle-like state. He entered the common room slow and collected, his presence spreading like a warm, woollen blanket over the entire area. Harry's steps were sure and sharp, almost too jerky to be natural, his back straight. Pale, sweaty skin shimmered like white pearls in the firelight, highlighted the dark reddish brown smears on his cheek, forehead and arms. Mesmerizing green eyes, usually hidden behind thick glasses and wild hair, were brimming with pure, unadulterated power.

There stood Harry and he didn't look like Harry at all.

For one absurd second, Dean wondered if this was what Harry would look like in a few years, bathed in his enemies' blood. But the thing was, Harry didn't look older. He looked beautiful. Untouchable in a way he hadn't been mere hours ago, when Dean had last seen him. This, whatever it was, wasn't natural. Because Harry, their Harry, wasn't yet good-looking or handsome. He was too young, too small, too angelic. And yet, when Dean blinked, for a short moment he could picture it.

[Should that scare him? Did it? ]

Somehow Dean managed to avert his gaze from the captivating sight Harry made. Without conscious thought his eyes found Seamus on the opposite site of the room, frozen mid-step halfway down the stairs, pale but excited. Neville, near the fireplace, face slack and eyes wide. And finally Ron, who had entered the room right behind Harry, in their friend's shadow, and simply stood there now, like everyone else. Watching. Waiting.

Ginny clung to his hand, her robes little better off than Harry's own, an expression of open reverence on her face as she stared at Harry as though he was the center of her world.

It was terrifying.

The air, thick with magic, hummed. A pleasant thrumming that vibrated deep inside Dean's very bones. Then Harry lifted his arms, revealing an imposing sword held securely in both hands, high above his head. It should have looked ridiculous.

It didn't.

A flash of red and gold. A barely audible whisper that filled the silence in the room, echoed from every corner, as Harry spoke. Voice soft and raspy, and all the more mocking for it.

"Enemies of the heir beware, the father's blood has returned!"

And Dean wanted to laugh. Laugh at the purposeful mockery of the infamous words that Harry had been hated and shunned for. Laugh at the ignorant children surrounding him, most of them older than he was and yet looked so damn surprised, so shocked. After everything that had happened in the past two years, everything they — all of them — had done [and not done] to push them to this point. Really, what had they expected?

Laugh because right there and then Dean fell a little bit more in love with Harry — with what he was, what he could be, what he one day would be — and he sure as hell wasn't the only one. Laugh because it was all he could do not to cry.

Harry dove the sword into the ground. It sunk into the stone paved floor like burning metal through molten butter, its blade glinting in the light. The name of its former wielder clearly visible carved into the handle for all to see.

Godric Gryffindor

Later that night, long after Harry, Ron and Ginny had disappeared to inform the Headmaster about the battle in the Chamber of Secrets, Dean still couldn't grasp what exactly had happened in that moment in the common room. He'd been there. More importantly, he'd been planning a coup with Harry and the others for the past year. And yet.

Somehow, Harry had managed to trick them all. Had seen an opportunity and exploited it for all it was worth. He'd played his role so well, so convincing, that not even Wanya had been able to deny him. Dean had known he was being played and he still half believed every word. [It helped that the sword was still exactly where Harry had left it, its blade stuck in the ground in the middle of the common room, a picture of proud history. No one had dared to touch it, even with Harry gone.]

This hadn't been their plan. But they'd never expected it to be so easy.

Now the common room was deserted, safe for Dean himself, who stared blindly into the dying ember in the fireplace.

Harry Potter, second year student, had become the King of Gryffindor. Together, the six of them — all the first years, really, Parvati, Lavender and Lily had joined them more often than not, lately — had done the unthinkable. This wasn't even a normal battle. This wasn't something Wanya and everyone, who might have come after him, could fight. This was perfect. They had won.

Whatever the following days would bring, however much things would now change, nobody would ever be able to take this final victory from them. The rest of the world might never know — certainly didn't care —, but after two years of rejection and harassment, of being alone and without anyone to rely on, they had done it anyways. On their own. Harry had done it anyways.

They had won.

[Now what?]

Idly, Dean wondered when victory had started to taste like defeat.

The end

Well. Here we are.

Some of you might not have gotten the all-powerful coup you were hoping for. But I have to be honest: It was always going to come down to Gryffindor's sword. I mean, Arthur King and his Knights? Let's be honest, there was no other way for Harry to play this...
And that's it, really. I hope you enjoyed my take on the political house trope and the slow evolution towards something that isn't really a happy ending. Yeah, sorry about that. Not to cheapen their victory, but the story isn't actually a very happy one, and the ending reflects that.
There might be a sequel at some point. But you should all know my terrible update schedule by now. For now, leave me with a final thought on this fic? I'd really appreciate it!