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Chapter Text

The owl arrived at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, as Harry James Potter scrapped butter and jam across his toast. It swooped in through the kitchen window, nearly knocking over several pots, and dropped a letter straight into the pot of jam.

Harry scowled at the owl, as it perched itself on the lid of the teapot.

“I’m having words with you in a moment, Erfyl.” Harry narrowed his eyes as the tawny-coloured owl fluffed up and narrowed its black eyes. It let out a kewick and ducked its head down to take an enormous bite out of Harry’s toast. Jam dripped down it’s beak, and splattered on its feathers, twittering and looking pleased.

“McGonagall isn’t going to be happy with you if you go back to Hogwarts looking like that,” Harry muttered as he picked the letter up with his forefingers and cast a quick tergeo at the jammy corner of the letter, “I’m not cleaning you, not this time!”

Erfyl let out a slow mournful noise, drawing itself into a tiny quivering sticky feathery ball until Harry sighed and cast another tergeo towards the owl. The owl twittered triumphantly, and immediately scooped its head down for another bite of Harry’s breakfast.

Harry pulled the plate away, setting it in his lap and ignored the indigent shrieks of the Little Owl with a sigh as he peeled open the letter, blazoned with the Hogwarts crest. Harry chewed on his lip and frowned at the handwritten message, ink slightly smeared from where it had been folded and shoved into an envelope in haste.

‘Harry, please make my acquaintance at your earliest convenience. I would like your professional opinion on a Hogwarts artefact which may require magical intervention to ensure it is functional for another generation. Please consider this request at the highest priority. I will be at the Hog’s Head Inn from 9 o’clock until 10 o’clock to meet you.  - Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.’

Harry frowned at the urgency resonating through the smudged ink and narrow window of time. He cast a quick Tempus to catch the time. 9:15am stared back at him, and he frowned at the narrow window. He returned the plate to the table, and snapped into action, trading his lazy dressing gown for a study pair of jeans, his latest emerald green Weasley sweater, and an open-front robe pulled over his shoulders. He returned to the kitchen with a wand-holster strapped to his wrist, and dragon-hide boots laced to mid-calf to see Erfyl screeching from inside the jam jar, legs kicking freely in the air.

“I can’t believe McGonagall still thinks you’re a good choice to deliver important mail,” Harry rolled his eyes, and used his fingers to carefully free the owl, “Honestly, it’s a miracle that you’re still here.”

Once free, the owl sprung clear, leapt into the air and shook it’s wing fiercely. Jam splattered around the room, hitting curtains, walls, furniture, sweaters, and glasses. The owl dove out the open kitchen window, leaving a jammy print on the window where it’d clipped a wing, screeching all the way. Harry let out a deep sigh, and peered out the window, to see the owl in the distance.

“Minerva, I’m buying you a new, smarter, owl for Christmas,” Harry muttered darkly, casting a combination of scourify and tergeo to clean the mess, “I’ve met galleons smarter than that owl, but sure, an owl that gets stuck in my jam on a weekly basis is an excellent choice to deliver mail to muggleborn students.”

As soon as the kitchen was clear, Harry pulled a scarf from his hat stand and curled it around his neck, locking his front door behind him. He made it halfway down his backyard before he hit the carefully warded apparition spot near his potions garden, and apparated. Immediately his insides lurched and stretched, being sucked through the smallest of straws and pulled before he was suddenly deposited in Hogsmeade with a heavier than expected thud just outside the Three Broomsticks. From outside the inn, he could still hear the good cheer and smell the roasted foods served inside.

Harry let out a breath of air, stretched his muscles and immediately set off for Aberforth’s inn. Hogsmeade was covered in a faint dusting of snow, not uncommon for the season, which crunched under his boots as he walked. Along High Street, Honeydukes, Gladrags, Zonkos and Scrivenshaft’s stores remained dark - no doubt closed for the holiday season. It wasn’t a particularly long walk to the Hog’s Head, to Harry’s surprise, but he supposed the last time he’d made this walk, he had been walking on much shorter legs. The Inn was dark from the outside, but Harry pushed against the wooden door and let himself inside.

The Hog’s Head seemingly hadn’t changed. It was cramped, with a low-ceiling, small and extraordinarily dirty and strewn with sawdust. The inn was filled with more light than Harry had expected, due to the windows being nearly opaque with dust. Harry took a few steps inside, and closed the door behind him, frowning at the floor all but invisible beneath the dirt. The whole inn smelled strongly of something that might have been goats. Aberforth was at the bar, rubbing his filthy glasses with an even filthier rag.

At the bar, Minerva McGonagall sat primly, quill in her hand and parchment under her palm. Harry coughed loudly as he approached but didn’t have the chance to sit before McGonagall stood and leveled a grave smile in his direction.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Potter,” She acknowledged, rolling the parchment up in her hands, and tucking it beneath her robe, “We would do better to speak in my office.”

“A pleasure to see you always, Headmistress,” Harry smiled, then frowned as McGonagall stiffly turned and started towards the rickety old wooden staircase behind the bar. Aberforth didn’t so much as lift a head, continuing to polish his cracked and ancient glasses.

Harry and McGonagall ascended wordlessly into the sitting room. The fireplace was crackling warmly, and light streamed in through a curtained window looking down at the street. Above the fireplace the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore beamed down at the approaching witch and wizard. The portrait flew open, and McGonagall cast a quick levitating charm to lift herself into the passage way. Harry followed suit, curiosity peaking with every changing degree of McGonagall’s frown. McGonagall cast a quick lumos but didn’t look any happier for the privacy.

“Not here,” McGonagall said plainly, as the portrait closed behind them, “Only in my office.”

They walked for much longer than Harry expected, but eventually arose into the Room of Requirements. From here, they moved quickly across the castle to the Headmistresses office. One inside, McGonagall walked past her desk, to a small door leading off to the side.

“Follow me, Mr Potter.”

They went trough the door, climbing up the stairs of what seemed to be a tower, until they emerged in a room largely empty. A single stone desk, with a massive book and a quill and inkpot sat. The book was closed, the quill old and frail, and the inkpot empty.

McGonagall reached into her robes, drew out two marbles and transfigured them into chairs, with a voice so soft that Harry couldn’t quite catch the incarnation. She took and seat, and gestured for him to take the other, and spoke only when he sat down.

“Mr Potter, what do you know of the Hogwarts’s admission process?”

Harry blinked back, “Not much, Headmistress. Only that Hogwarts sends letters to every magical child in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales and Brittany.”

The Headmistress made a faint noise, “Well, the process of identifying magical children is a secret known only to Hogwarts. That process is made by those two items, known as the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance. They have not been touched by human hands since the four founders themselves placed that book on that desk.”

Harry looked curiously over at the desk. The book itself was unremarkable, bound in dragon-hide and the silvery inkpot as standard as any you could purchase from Scrivenshaft’s.

“At the precise moment that a child first exhibits signs of magic, the Quill floats up out of its inkpot and attempts to inscribe the name of that child upon the pages of the Book,” McGonagall explained with a long-suffering look to her face, “A mere whiff of magic suffices for the Quill. The Book, however, will often snap shut, refusing to be written upon until it receives sufficiently dramatic evidence of magical ability. Non-magic children born to witches and wizards occasionally have some small, residual aura of magic about them due to their parents, but once their parents’ magic has worn off them it becomes clear that they will never could perform spells. The book ensures that squibs are not admitted to Hogwarts.”

“That’s fascinating, Headmistress,” Harry responded, “But why have you called for me?”

McGonagall sighed, shifted in her seat and looked on the verge of tears, “It is not common that Headmistresses and Headmasters observe the quill. We allow it to continue. Professor Sinistra made a comment to me, noting that students had been dwindling every year. It’s not uncommon for student numbers to dwindle during war, Mr Potter, and even more uncommon for student numbers to explode when peace arises victorious. With this in mind, I came to inspect the Book of Admittance, to see what numbers we would be facing over the next few years. If we are to have an increase of magical children, wards need to be strengthened, rooms cleared and cleaned, teachers sought and hired. It’s a process best undertaken over several years.”

Harry grinned, “That kind of foresight is something I rarely come across in the magical world, Professor.”

“Quite,” McGonagall huffed, “Imagine to my surprise, when I found that the Book and Quill had been inactive for several years. I believe during the era of Death Eaters roaming this school, they may have sabotaged these items to ensure that muggleborns and halfbloods would not be admitted into Hogwarts. The process is automated – every September Hogwarts letters arrive on my desk, for the Headmistress, or Headmaster to sign. To change the books or equipment needed on the letters only requires the Head of Hogwarts to simply say what they require aloud, and Hogwarts listens.”

“Ah,” Harry leant forward in his chair, “And you want me to look at it, based on my work as an Auror, specializing in spell identification?”

“I couldn’t think of a more qualified person who could handle all possible scenarios,” McGonagall acknowledged, “They could be cursed, they may have been destroyed, or made inactive. In any case, from what we know of the Book and Quill, they will quickly write down any magical child born since 1997 once repaired.”

Harry paused, calculating the numbers. Six years of children who had been missed by Hogwarts. Six years of students who may have cast unexpected magic – had the ministry caught these magical bursts? Or were there muggleborn children who had been caught by muggles, performing unexpected feats of magic.

“Of course, I considered that Hogwarts herself shut down the Quill and Book,” McGonagall continued, “To ensure that the children born were safe – both muggleborns, half-bloods and even pureblooded children who didn’t have names in that book. But it raised the question of why exactly Hogwarts hadn’t started the process again after the Battle of Hogwarts. In any case, Hogwarts needs that book back up and running before those first children turn eleven. Goodness knows what will happen if don’t-“

“I’ll see what I can do,” Harry nodded firmly, “I can’t say that I’m going to be able to fix it today – I might need to call in an expert depending on what I find there – but I do know I’m the best Auror in the ministry at running diagnostics on spellwork.”

McGonagall relaxed, ever so slightly, in her chair, and peered at him over her spectacles, “Thank you Mister Potter, I don’t need to impress upon you the graveness of this situation, yes? The ministry would not be so optimistic if they discovered an entire generation of children were nearly missed by Hogwarts.”

Harry shook his head, “Of course.”

“Well then,” McGonagall stood, and clamped her hands together, “By all means, please.”

Harry rose awkwardly, walking towards the desk with a level of deadly seriousness. There was no official title he had, because spell diagnostics wasn’t really a field. It was a cobbled-together set of skills across a dozen fields, held together with dumb luck. Somehow, he had gotten really good at figuring out what a spell was, what it did, and where it went wrong. It wasn’t an exaggeration that half of all Auror calls were for situations where something went wrong, and they had to spend the night putting outa fire in a potion’s lab, helping someone who had splinched themselves across 24 square kilometers, or helping a witch shrink her 24ft kitten. The Aurors had once been described to him as ‘wizard cops’ but it was more, Wizard police, firemen, and ambulance officers rolled together in one. Being able to reverse engineer magic was something of a rare, but useful skill that he hadn’t managed to teach his fellow Aurors yet.

Harry inspected the book visually, before reaching out with his magic to feel the magical aura surrounding it. He cast a nonverbal intactus charm on his hands (a very nifty spell that magical book restorers used to avoid setting off magics triggered by touch or have their hand-oils degrade parchment) and carefully opened the book.

The book was filled with dozens of names. He must have opened a page far back in Hogwart’s history, because the silvery writing listed names so old that many didn’t have surnames. Leofstan Abbott, was listed alongside Alchere of Brimblecombe, and Queneva, daughter of Brictmer. One notable witch was listed as Beatrix, sister of Ralph of Pomeroy and William the Goat,

Harry flicked through the pages at random, getting closer to more recent admissions. Names such as Eadric, brother of Godwin the priest, Lettice daughter of Odelina the witch, slowly turned to Sibilla, cousin of Osbert the toad, then to more familiar Thomasine Elizabeth Ackles, Mathilda Blagden, and Humphrey Martin Hereweard. A few things jumped out as he turned the page, a Prince Louis-Charles XVII, son of King Louis XVI of France and Queen Marie Antoinette made his eyebrows shift higher, if only, because Beauxbaton’s hadn’t snapped him up. As he flicked through, he caught a scattering of more familiar names, Potter, Black, Malfoy, Weasley – a whole page, listing no less than 40 children, in what must have been the 1500’s were entirely Weasley’s - starting with Torkel Weasley, and ending with an Ermenfrid. The next page listed only a handful of non-Weasley children for that year. The last page filled with writing was dated 1996; the last name, Amaia Austen.

Harry snorted at this discovery but pulled himself together as he started to become sidetracked by the history. He turned his attention on the pages itself, which thrummed with magic, with every page brimming with the history of a hundred thousand witches and wizards. He threw himself magic first, deep in the blood and guts of the magical complex of the Book. His magic worked through the pages, untangling the webs of spells and enchantments layered upon each other. The magic was unfamiliar, spell work based more on druidic arts and Celtic invocations than he was familiar with. It was magic strongly tied to the earth, to the land, rooted in history far beyond that connected into the book.

The layers of spells were breathtaking, spells connected to the bloodlines and surnames who has stepped foot through Hogwarts, spells connected to new arrivals who made home within the lands connected to Hogwarts. The tangle of spells were easy enough to visualize, to feel with his magic, to identify their purpose, and see the way their siphoned their magical power from the Hogwarts wards. He traced it back briefly, to feel the way the magic performed within the castle powered the wards, and in turn flowed back to the Book and Quill. He retreated, following each spell back to the wards in turn searching for any spells impeding the enchantments. The pathways were clear, and Harry recoiled in surprise before diving into the enchantments itself, searching for the telltale signs of mis-matched magical signatures, where another had altered or added to a spell. It was harder than expected, the magics of a thousand years of students and teachers, through flowing through the wards, still felt like a patchwork of magics, though it felt washed and faded.

He hummed and tapped each spell, sensing its strength, and retreated with a frown still on his face. His hands tingled from the magic, and he grit his teeth. He reached for the quill and dove into it’s magics, following the same routine of identification, inspection and evaluation. Harry grit his teeth as he retreated. His shoulders slumped even as he grit his teeth, and turned back to McGonagall with his teeth clenched.

“I can’t find anything wrong with it,” Harry admitted, “It’s possible that there’s a problem with the wards. I’m not a warder, but the Book and Quill are connected to the wards. If you’ve changed anything with the wards, it could be stopping either the Book or Quill from picking up anything outside the wards. Strong magical sources near the ward stone could also give too much power to the wards. If you’ve added anything new-“

McGonagall visibly wilted in her chair.

“I’m afraid the wards haven’t been altered since 1920 Mr. Potter,” McGonagall stood and moved her hands behind her back, “It is as Albus and I feared.”

Harry blinked in surprise, “Headmistress, there could be a dozen problems. The very fact that you haven’t altered the wards in 100 years is enough to be a problem. Some wards need constant attention just to make sure they still work. I’d imagine that Hogwarts has a complex layer of hundreds of wards, one out of alignment could impact on another. It’s a whole cascade system- I know a fantastic warding duo, Eleasar and Licoricia Belaset, they don’t work the Sabbath so you’ll have to wait a day before you send them an owl, but they’re BRILLIANT-“

“I’m afraid that won’t be any help,” McGonagall strode to the window, and looked out over Hogwarts, “I’ve checked the wards myself twice, and had a promising former student of mine look over the wards. We came to a similar conclusion, but I admit myself, I had hoped the Carrow’s cast something obscure and nasty so it could be an easy fix.”

There was silence for a long uncomfortable moment before Harry found his voice.

“Surely you’re not suggesting-“

“That no magical children have been born in six years?” McGonagall let out a strange noise, “Yes, I suppose I am. Do you know how many witches and wizards were in your year, Mr. Potter?”

Harry did some quick calculations, though his heart pounded in his chest, “Around 40?”

“In my year of Hogwarts, there were over 100,” McGonagall’s frown tightened, “Albus and I suspected that Grindelwald and Voldemort slowly carved away at an entire generation, but we also have to wonder if magic itself is collapsing. What do you know of Magic, Mr. Potter? The theory of it?”

“I’m no Hermione Granger,” Harry acknowledged with a smile, “I’m afraid I’m more of a hands-on wizard than a theorist.”

There was a long pause. Something somber in the way that McGonagall collected her robes and let out a weary sigh.

“The wards of Hogwarts are strong because they collect ambient magic from students, and teachers performing magic. According to the Kennewell theory, Magic itself is the same,” The corners of her mouth quirked up, and she turned from that window to face him, “Magic is an ecosystem, Mr. Potter.”

She swept from the window and gestured with her arms widely, passionately.

“The different forms of magic flowing through the veins of both wizards and magical creatures, when released, created ambient magic. Its why magical households are imbued with the taste of magic in the air. This magic holds together magical spells long after an incarnation has been cast- I believe you are familiar with the home of Molly and Arthur Weasley?”

“The Burrow, yes.”

“The entire house is held together with the ambient magic of the family,” McGonagall smiled widely, “All magical spells and enchantments must source magic from somewhere. This is true for magic across the world. Magical plants can only spawn near magical communities, and magical creatures naturally draw close to strong sources of magic- did you think the Forbidden Forrest was an accident, Mr. Potter?”

Harry’s eyebrows, raised, lowered as he considered it.

“Strong ambient magic births strong witches and wizards. When the magical ecosystem grows too concentrated with any one kind of magic, family magic, it extends its arms and awakens new wizards and witches from muggle stock. In equal part, it withdraws its hand from some born of magic, to force new blood and magics to combine,” McGonagall drew weary, “It was Albus’s and I’s worst fear that the constant war had decimated the wizarding world too far to allow for recovery. What can be more proof than the lack of children born magical? I’ve spoken to the great magical schools around the world: Beauxbatons, Castelobruxo, Durmstrang, Ilvermorny, Mahoutokoro School of Magic, Uagadou, Koldovstoretz. No one will officially report, but my acquaintances all say the same thing. Students are dwindling. We are dying.”

“Voldemort and Grindelwald only caused problems to Britain and Europe,” Harry countered, “How can schools in Africa, South America, Asia – how can they be effected by two dark lords?”

“Grindelwald and Voldemort were not the only Dark Lords. The entire continent of Africa is currently dealing with a new Dark Lady masquerading as Menchit, a Nubian war goddess. Ahriman started in Persia and has only grown stronger, the werewolf family Malsumis has been slaughtering North America for hundreds of years. Ereshkigal has been causing grief from Iraq, and across South America and Australia. China has had Xuannü, the Dark Lady since before Hogwarts was founded. Those are only the well-known Dark Ladies and Lords,” McGonagall’s face tightened imperceptibly, suddenly her age seemed much more pronounced as ever, “I suppose Professor Binns covered this subject impeccably.”

“As impeccably as always, Professor,” Harry let out a small laugh, before growing solemn, “What does this mean for the Magical world?”

“I’m not quite sure,” McGonagall pursed her lips, “Let’s head back down to my office. I could use a cup of tea after such a tiresome day.”

McGonagall waved her wand at the chairs to return them to their previous form, collected the marbles, and swept off down the stairs. Harry leapt after her, barely keeping up with her pace, despite his Auror training. She glided into her office and collapsed in her chair. Harry made it into the chair across from the desk slightly winded from the sudden exhaustion, as a teapot set floated over to fill two china cups. Two sugar cubes, a splash of milk, and the tea rested on saucers.

“Can you make some enquiries, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall raised her cup and sipped at her tea, “If it is as I feared, then we will quickly see effects. If it is as we feared, then there must be other signs. If we are wrong, we must know in which way we are wrong. You can make enquiries much more quietly than I can – although I trust you will be discrete.”

Harry sipped at his tea slowly, “I’ll have a chat to Neville, he’s better connected with the Guild of Apothecaries. He’ll know if anything is happening with magical plants. I’m sure Bill Weasley, and maybe Luna might have some ideas in their areas?”

“Thank you,” Minerva McGonagall bid quietly, “Let us all hope that we are both wrong.”

Chapter Text

The replies to his letters came on a Saturday morning.

It was always a Saturday.

Harry James Potter sat at his kitchen table with a strong cup of black tea beside a goblet of pumpkin juice, while a pan flipped pancakes behind him. The Daily Prophet was open in front of him, as usual, filled with more gossip and hearsay than factual reporting. He frowned when he came across Rita Skeeter’s name blazoned across an article purporting him to be infatuated with Ginny Weasley.

The subject of Ginny, however, wasn’t so much a sore one, as one he avoided. Ginny had launched her career with Holyhead Harpies almost a week after she’d graduated and has been rising through the ranks until she’d been made Captain this very year. They’d talked about the idea, of going on an actual date to see how things would turn out, but between Ginny’s hectic schedule which took up the majority of her weekends, and his own 9-5 weekly Auror commitments they never seemed to line-up. And that was the crux of this issue. Ginny needed to be able to prove herself, make a name on her own. Harry needed to be able to tend to his herb garden and enjoy cups of tea by the fireplace.

Ginny needed freedom and achievement, he needed security and routine.

Of course, all of their friends were convinced they’d make a good match, but every day seemed to highlight a greater divide between their needs.

The bite of the article was taken out, when he glanced across the page, and found a near identical article reporting on his many trysts with both Hermione Granger AND Ronald Weasley. He grinned and resolved to cut it out later, and owl Ron and Hermione with an appropriately ridiculous message.

There were only twos sections he seriously scanned. First, the Auror report, prepared by the Head Auror. It detailed the list of arrests, sentencing and trials scheduled for open public attendance. It was a new concept, two years into it’s trial run with The Daily Prophet, which so far had been received well. Ron had suggested the idea, still spun into a frenzy over his fiancée’s battle within the ministry to improve accountability and transparency of the government. The idea held merit, forcing the Head Auror to be aware of all facets of the legal process from arrest to sentencing, and displayed on public record. The Auror’s spokesperson passed along the information, the wizarding press wrote articles, attended trials, and ensured that there would be no further wizards swept away to Azkaban without a trial. It worked as a short-term solution, to a larger problem that would only be fixed, when witches and wizards like Hermione Granger were admitted to higher positions.

The second section he glanced at was page 16. The page was a bizarre mix of the comic strips featuring traditional comics such as Athelstan the Alright, a witchy advice column ‘Beseech Bertha’ which had originally been run by the Journalist Bertha Shafiq, and was now run by her magical portrait, and a collection of handy household spells and history facts. It was this page that had taught him domestic magics, which didn’t seem to be part of the Hogwarts curriculum. It was why he could sit and read the daily prophet, while his skillets flipped pancakes behind him. It was why he knew how to enchant knitting needles, shave via wand, and deep clean rooms with three easy incarnations.

There was nothing on their weekly domestic spells list that was incredibly inventive, or useful. The cheery looped ‘On this day in history!’ section peaked his interest though. Ginny teased him when she’d caught him reading the section, declaring that it was for pureblooded wives to bring up in conversation to sound more cultured and academic, but it was really interesting.

On this day, two hundred years ago, Odell the Odd was inside his magically expanded trunk when the enchantments and wards failed. Apparently, they’d had to bury him in his trunk.

Even more cheerfully, Abernathy Brimblebranches in 1876 was post-humourously put on trial for an attempt earlier in the year where he attempted to apparate in animagus form, splinching himself across the American state of Kentucky in an infamous event now known to muggles as the Kentucky meat shower.

Harry was reading about the invention of the Bebinn potion in 1375 (a rather noxious concoction of mandrake root, henbane and hemlock intended to ease childbirth) when the first owl swooped through his window and perched on his breadbin, dropping the letter on his kitchen bench. Harry set down the paper, tightened the belt to his dressing gown, and leant back in his chair until he was close enough to offer the bird a section of pancake. The owl handed out the letter primly, but refused the offer, and busied herself tiding her feathers.

“Hey Fiacre,” Harry cooed fondly, stroking her feathers, “How’s Neville doing?”

The great grey owl gave a gentle hoot in return but quirked her head to level unimpressed eyes directly at his face.

“I know! I’ve been busy though!” Harry defended himself, “But you’re right, the wedding was on August 1st, and it’s now late December, and sure I’ve sent him a letter or two but that’s just asking for advice on how to best grow silphium in my herb garden. I did send him and Hannah a rather lovely Christmas present though!”

The owl stared at Harry for a long hard moment, before looking pointedly down at the letter. Harry slid the letter across the bench, just in case the owl pecked at his fingers, and watched the owl carefully as it hauntily plucked at her feathers.

‘Hey Harry! I hope you’ve been well, thank you for the gift of crying violets! I’ve been trying to track down that particular strain for a few weeks now, as you know, Hannah is starting her first week in her Healer Apprenticeship in January, and we’re awfully excited! We’ve just moved from the Leaky Cauldron back into Hogwarts, and grandmother is both excited and rather put out by the whole affair who has been telling us to return to Longbottom Manor since our wedding day…”

Harry scanned down the letter, eyes furrowing as he did. Neville’s handwriting, as usual, started off in the practiced calligraphy his grandmother had drilled into him, but quickly disintegrated into almost incomprehensible shorthand where uncrossed t’s and l’s became awfully too similar to his undotted i’s and oddly straight r’s. If he hadn’t known that Neville insisted on writing his own letters, Harry would have thought he was looking at the slow death of a Quick-Quotes Quill.

Still, Harry’s hand twitched toward his wand as he read further, mind immediately recalling the dozens of spells that Neville Longbottom, Hogwarts Professor extraordinaire, had invented to help his dyslexic students, and the witches and wizards who came to Hogwarts armed with English as their second, third or fourth language.

The information he needed was almost a foot down the page, a few paragraphs under Neville’s shoddy but endearingly drawn pictures of his first year Gryffindor’s (his first students as Head of Gryffindor), who had apparently been researching how to fix colourblindness since one of the first year boy’s had admitted he couldn’t tell the difference between Slytherin and Gryffindor robes, to the utter horror of the whole house.

Neville sheepishly admitted that he’d already known there was a potion to add new colours to the visible spectrum, but he wanted them to research and find out that many expert warders and cursebreakers purposely took potions to give themselves various forms of colourblindness, to improve their ability to recognize unnatural patterns and camouflage naturally created by wards. The point of it, he wrote, was to improve their research skills, and start thinking about differences as something that could bring advantages, and not just disadvantages. It was a tactic that highlighted just how BRILLIANT of a teacher Neville was.

Harry had written to Neville and asked about the magical growing season. Within wider magical Britain, most Herbologists and Apothecarists grew according to the Coligny calendar, so by all means, it should be mid-winter harvest. Harry frowned as he read, and felt a creeping feeling down his spine.

“-I’m sure you’ve heard the grumblings then, since you’ve asked about the growing season! This year has been a bad season for almost everything inherently magical. Plants like vervain and dittany are growing fine, but these are plants that even a muggle could grow. The problem seems to be with plants that feed on a significant amount of magic to thrive. Some of the more bigoted pureblood growers are a bit incensed with the idea, and have been blaming bad stock, which I think is the funniest metaphor for the whole situation. The problem is, this has been the third bad season in a row, so the prices of some ingredients, and plants have been increasing dramatically. In Diagon Alley, The Apothecary has shut its doors, and considering it’s been in Diagon Alley since 1536, it’s a real shame for the Guild. My own stocks aren’t doing as well as I’d hoped, but they’re still doing better than most of my competitors – I think the magically charged environment of Hogwarts is the only thing starving off whatever is killing the magical plants. If you’re interested, Stephen Cornfoot seems rather insistent that it must be a new kind of magical pandemic, effecting the magical uptake of plants. Now magical plagues aren’t really my whole area, but I’ve been talking to Sue Li, who is now a cursebreaker in Somalia working on breaking a famine curse set by the Ajuran Empire which was tripped by some muggle archeologists in Hannassa…”

The rest of the letter, a further two feet of parchment detailing Sue Li’s work, before circling around to talk about Hannah knitting scarves with variously magically enchanted warming and luck charms for the premature birth ward of St Mungos.

Harry set the letter to the side, summoned a self-inking Quill and parchment, and was halfway through a quick but thankful response to Neville when a second owl swooped through the window with an ear-splitting shriek, nearly taking out a fruit bowl in its haste. It dropped a letter directly in front of Harry and perched on the edge of a chair and screeched until Harry took the letter from it’s leg.

“Hello Endellion,” Harry drying responded, “I trust Luna is well?”

If possible, the owl screeched louder, even as Harry scanned the new letter, to find that similarly, Luna reported that their magical menagerie turned animal sanctuary hadn’t seen a magical creature birth in over five years, although they didn’t intentionally breed magical creatures. The problem was, Luna had written, some magical creatures had a lifespan of less than five years. Luna had evidently read between the lines and remarked curiously that she hadn’t been able to find a single Cornish pixie in Britain, so was off to visit the one rather unscrumptious breeder of Cornish pixies in the world. The letter continued that Luna was well, Rolf Scamander was the most wonderful partner in the world, and they were probably going to be somewhere in Curaçao by the time he received the letter. Harry’s smile thinned as he read on. Luna had helpfully included a list of over 200 magical species, just within Britain, that lived and died before five years of age. She helpfully promised to collate a bigger, better list, once she’d had a moment to finally catch her breath.

“I don’t have a letter for you,” Harry told Luna’s shrieking owl, “You can go home now. Go on.”

Endellion the owl shrieked louder. Behind Harry, Neville’s owl, Fiacre let out a grumbling noise.

“Oh honestly.” Harry twitched, and was about to return to writing his letter to Neville when a third owl swooped in.

Tudwal, the rufous owl Hermione had picked up in magical Australia when she’d gone to hunt down her parents. The owl looked honestly startled by the caterwauling from the other two owls, dropped a letter and perched on a chair across from Luna’s screaming devil bird like it was ready to flee at any time.

“Endellion, go home,” Harry firmly told the bird. The owl considered Harry’s request for one blessedly rightful second before shrieking even louder. Without so much as a second thought, Harry shot a silencing spell at the bird with a glare. The bird continued to wail silently.

“Right, Tudwal,” Harry greeted the new comer, then paused and spoke softly towards Fiacre, “Look, give me one second, and I’ll give you an owl treat before you go, hmm?”

Hermione (and Ron’s) letter was straight forward, but nothing good. Hermione was worried about a looming Goblin War. The Goblin nation was notoriously long-lived, and so had very few children, to the point that they didn’t so much have generations, so much as trickles of births over centuries. It was noteworthy that a Goblin hadn’t been born in over 50 years, and they were blaming wizard impertinence and treachery for fertility issues. Although, as Hermione helpfully pointed out, no Goblin’s had been born between 1512 and 1708, for no other reason than the average Goblin lifespan being 500 years, and a culture focused on the acquisition of wealth, status and renown. She’d included over 30 pages of helpful diagrams plotting birthrates of Veela, Werewolves, Succubi and Vampires over the past hundred years – Hermione was no slouch and clearly knew what he had carefully insinuated in his letter.

Tudwal was beak deep in Harry’s goblet of pumpkin juice when Harry surfaced from the letter, and added it to his pile of replies to write.  Harry sighed, summoned a pouch of owl treats from his cupboard and handed one each over to Tudwal, Endellion (still silently screaming) and Fiacre. Within ten minutes he had a reply written for each owl to carry, two responses seeking further clarification, and one just so Luna’s damned banshee would finally leave when a trilling hoot alerted him to yet another owl diving through his window.

Harry stared at the fourth owl in his kitchen, perched on the last of his chairs.

 “Right,” Harry reached for his coffee, and pulled back at the sight of an owl feather floating on top. He twitched, as he glanced around his kitchen, already strewn with feathers and pancake crumbs, “Endellion, I’m going to take down the spell. You’re going to be quiet, right?”

The white owl considered Harry, beak closed. Harry cautiously lifted the spell.

And immediately the bird started screeching again.

Harry sighed, “I really don’t know what I was expecting.”

He jerked a letter out to the owl, who clicked its beak shut, took the letter and merrily lifted off into the air, and dove out the window with a twitter. Neville’s owl grumbled, seemingly at the line-cutting that had occurred.

“Tudwal, nice to see you, thank you for the letter, please take this, and Fiacre, you’re a beautiful delight as always,” He handed out letters to the owls, relaxing as they in turn left without further incident. Harry soaked in the peace and quiet, and scrunched his nose up at the very owl-smell flooding his kitchen.

The new owl was tall but slender, it’s feathers an unnatural mix of green and black in such a way that Harry immediately suspected it may have Augurey blood in its veins. Attached to its leg was a cuff, with a tiny leather scroll cover. Embossed on the leather, the Malfoy family crest.

“Now you, I’ve never met you before.”

The bird preened and puffed up, holding out its leg for Harry to detach the scroll. To Harry’s immense surprise, the scroll cover, about the size of a knut, was magically expanded inside. As he did, he caught sight of a tiny name inscribed on the side of the scroll cover.

“Ah, would you be Epiphania?” The giant owl hooted cheerfully, as Harry took out the parchment. The bird dropped its leg from Harry’s gentle hands once the parchment was clear, and immediately dove off the chair and swung out the window without waiting for a response. A tad miffed, Harry unrolled the parchment to see few works.

‘Auror Potter, I’ll be waiting at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour until 12 noon. Please do not keep me waiting. It is vital we meet. If you do not find me, I will find you. – D.M’

Harry ground his teeth at the insinuated summons, catch a quick tempus and swore so foully that Molly Weasley herself would have washed his mouth clean out with soap. Complaining and grumbling the whole way, but was dressed back again in jeans, his dragonhide boots and another Weasley sweater - though this was from two Christmases ago, bright cobalt blue with a patch of slightly lighter turquoise where Molly had patched the left sleeve after he’d caught it and broken the yarn on an actual cursed nail in Grimmauld place. He snapped his wand holster to his wrist, shoved a Gringotts-issue magical money pouch into his pockets, and pulled his best woolen black cloak around his shoulders by the time it hit 11:30 in the morning.

Out of spite, Harry pointedly did his very best to waste as much time as possible, clearing the feathers and crumbs from his kitchen before making the trek again from his cottage out into his garden to apparate into Diagon Alley.

It was 12:01 when he arrived at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Draco Malfoy dressed impeccably in the latest pureblooded fashions of black and silver, while his five-year-old son happily was ploughing through a massive glass bowl with far more toppings than actual ice-cream. Harry brightened immediately, pushed any bad feelings to the back of his mind and smiled kindly.

“Draco,” Harry greeted brightly, much for young Scorpius’ benefit than any real fondness, “And Master Scorpius, a pleasure to meet you!”

Scorpius brightly responded, before Draco whispered in his ear, and the child swung his legs off the seat to toddle to the counter with a handful of sickles.

“If I had known it was this kind of meeting, I would have brought Teddy along with me,” Harry grinned, keeping his tone as light as possible just in case Scorpius could overhear, “Now, m’lord, can I ask what is so important that you needed to rudely summon me on a Saturday morning with a greatly implied threat of turning up uninvited to the house of an Auror?”

“Rudely?” Draco lifted one perfectly groomed eyebrow, “I recall saying Please.”

“Right.” Harry deadpanned.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, “You should instead be asking me why I cleared an entire morning of my rather busy agenda to sit in an icecream shop at 11 in the morning. A rather unimpressive icecream shop really, since Florean’s niece took over the shop, they’ve completely changed the menu, it’s not the same at all. Rather a downgrade if you ask me. A pity.”

“A niece?”

“Florencia Fortescue,” Draco answered, then waved his hands at Harry’s expression, “Of come now Potter, it’s a family name. You ought to know the importance of tradition after half your Weasley family has been naming their children after other Weasleys. Unless of course, respected journalist Rita Skeeter isn’t as factually correct and investigative as she is purported to be. Is there no Weasley-Potter romance? Scandalous!”

“Hmm,” Harry responded, narrowing his eyes, “Right, did you want something, or are you so bored out of your mind that you needed to write me and gossip in an icecream parlour. Really Draco, I completely don’t know what your hobbies are, you ought to tell me so next time I can bring a copy of Witch Weekly. We can do the quizzes in the back to figure out which witch or wizard is our magical soulmate.”

Draco hummed, eyes still focused on his son, gleefully pointing at different flavours of icecream so the pink-haired witch behind the counter could give him a sample to try.

“Each pureblood family approaches marriage differently,” Draco started, “The Black family have a very nasty spell that binds witches and wizards together, to ensure that they can only have children with each other, and only within the bounds of marriage. Stops both their sons and daughters accidentally creating a bastard and stops their wives and husbands from philandering. It ensures lineages are true. As part of my mother’s marriage to my father, he had the choice to either consent to that spell, or forsake the engagement.”

“Charming.”

“Now the Malfoy family use runic complexes in lieu of wedding bands,” Draco continued, “A firmly kept family secret. In addition to the effects of the spell used by the Black Family, the Malfoy family runic complex ensures that no squibs can be born. It forces a miscarriage for any woman carrying a Malfoy squib.”

Harry stared back in repulsion.

Draco waved his hand, “The Malfoy family is comparatively young compared to others. A squib would have threatened our rise to nobility. Dreadful stuff, but squibs aren’t nearly as common as you may think. Barely once a generation across the magical world – and squibs are usually taken out by common wizarding childhood illnesses before anyone ever finds out anyway. Stops us from getting too attached to a child that would probably die from weakness anyway.”

“Right,” Harry squinted his eyes, “I think I preferred it when I thought you wanted to gossip with me over my love life. Not much there, but I can offer other tidbits. Hannah Longbottom is pregnant, and they’re set on naming the kid Alice or Donovan.”

Draco scowled, “Really Potter, I offer information kept secret for generations, lifted straight from my family grimoire and you want to talk about Longbottom’s spawn. Honestly, I don’t even know why I try sometimes.”

Draco sniffed delicately.

“Oh please, continue.”

“Wonderful,” Draco smiled, “The point of the matter is, my marriage was undertaken to Malfoy standards. With the addition of Greengrass rites, that as you may understand, I cannot divulge even if I wanted to betray a pureblooded families secret. The runic complex will not let any child born who does not have a well-developed magical core. In addition, the wards of Malfoy Manor are primed to alert the Heads of the family when a squib, or muggle steps foot on the property. It doesn’t detect levels of magic, but rather, the presence of a magical core. It means that any Malfoy foolish to become, say, involved with a Dark Lord, and magically exhaust his core pledging allegiance to a madman, won’t trip the squib/muggle alarm.”

“Ah,” Harry leant forward, “That’s interesting?”

Draco nodded with passion that surprised Harry, “I can’t imagine that an Auror needs to know much magical metaphysics. I’ll use easy language for you. A magical core is a cup. Wizards and wizards have a cup. Some squibs have no cups. Some squibs have cups that are broken, or too small. Muggles do not have cups. Magic is like water. You can only have magic, if you have a cup. Witches and Wizards are born with cups, and they slowly fill up so by the time they’re about 11, they have so much that they can start to use their magic. Magic constantly refills. Accidental magic happens if the cup overflows. If a child never is trained, their magic can constantly overflow causing Bad Things To Happen. A witch and wizard cannot change the size, or shape of their cup. Are you following so far?”

“You lost me somewhere around ‘a cup’,” Harry sarcastically responded, “I understood, yes.”

“Good,” Draco grinned, “We’re about to get more complicated. Now, your cup usually looks like your families cups. Imagine, your godson, the metamorphmagus. Let’s say his cup changes colours. It was because his mother’s cup was the same colour. Inherent magical traits, like being a metamorphmagus, speaking parseltongue- they happen because your cup is the right shape or colour. It cannot happen by accident. It must be inherited. Now, over generations, you can change your families cup by becoming proficient in certain magics. Some families seek to be the best in certain magics. You can cast a spell and physically see your magical core. It is complicated, it is dangerous, but it’s used in diagnostics when St Mungo’s receives cases they don’t understand. It is experimental magic because if you aren’t careful, if someone’s cup is thin, or brittle, or delicate, you can crack their cup. What is easier, is a spell to see how much magic someone has, and if they’re over 11 you can usually tell how big their cup is by how much magic they can hold.”

Draco leaned forwards and dropped his voice, “Which is why, when I cast that spell at my son, to see how he is developing, I was stunned to find that he has no magic at all. But the thing is Potter, that spell does not work on muggles. The spell worked on him, it simply told me he had no magic. It is why I called my personal Healer to try a much more dangerous spell to see his magical core. His magical core, his cup, is completely fine. And yet, his cup is not filling up.”

Draco’s voice was dangerous, with a firm edge that didn’t match his pleasant and soft look on his face. Harry twisted in his seat to see Draco’s son waving at his father while the icecream witch started filling bowls of various flavours. She had the same large nose as Florean had, she must have been his niece.

“I am a Slytherin Potter,” Draco’s low voice had a certain note, something serpentine, “I altered my wards to detect magic and I threw a party for my son’s birthday. Thirty-seven children attended this party, all under the age of 7. I admit, I thought we were being punished for our role in the war, by ending our lines through our children. But I was clever in my selection of invitees. These were children from traditionally Dark families, Neutral families, and from Light families. None of them had the slightest impression of magic. And yet, their cups were fine. Retribution is targeted, this is a massacre.”

Harry stilled.

“You are always at the centre of chaos Potter,” Draco wearily responded, “By your choice, or not. But when things go wrong, you’re right there, playing the hero. Something is deeply wrong, something festering. If this is something, some plot, some foul final curse placed by the Dark Lord-“

Harry quietly stared at his hands, “We don’t know.”

“So there is a ‘we’,” Draco muttered, more to himself “There are people investigating this slow…. genocide. We can’t have expected the Ministry of Magic to ignore this forever, I suppose, but you also can’t keep this secret forever.”

Harry’s lips thinned, “Draco, you can’t spread this around.”

 “Do you think I want this connected to my family, in the slightest?” Draco recoiled, “You fix this Potter. I have no doubt that your reach is much further than mine. You will fix this so my son will bear a wand one day; do you understand me?

Harry nodded solemnly but slowly.

Draco nodded, seemingly satisfied and leant back into his chair. He barely twitched a finger, but Scorpius must have seen it as a sign, for he came bouncing over with two icecream in paper cups, piled high with nuts and magically cracking fizzbombs which set out small fireworks above the cups.

“This is for you, Auror Potter, sir.” Scorpius held out a cup with a wide smile, which only grew wider as Harry accepted the cup and set it down on the table. Harry melted a little at the kid’s squeaky voice and bright face. Harry caught Draco’s smile out of the corner of his eye. Ah, damn. This is why he’d brought his son to this meeting. Clever.

“It’s time to leave Scorpius,” Draco spoke loudly, in his almost-perfect impression of Lucius Malfoy, “I believe I promised your mother we’d be home by one o’clock?”

Scorpius gripped the icecream cup in his hand a little tighter, “This is for mother, do you think she’ll like it?”

Draco fondly smiled down, “Salted caramel and macadamia swirl? I do believe that’s her favourite kind.”

Draco stood at the same time as Harry, then windlessly dropped the Muffliato he must have cast prior to Harry’s arrival. Harry followed the family out, and waved goodbye to little Scorpius until both father and son had apparated out of the alley. Harry blinked, and suddenly remembered the icecream cup he'd left on the table inside. As soon as the Malfoys were gone, Harry turned on his heels back into the icecream parlour, feeling for the life of him, like a dementor had sucked his soul from his body. McGonagall needed to hear about this.

He glanced over at the table he had been sitting, and felt a coil of disappointment to realise it was gone. Magically swept away in the minutes he had been gone.

“One chocolate scoop,” Harry told the pretty witch, and had barely handed over the shiny sickle in exchange for the cone when a deep rumbling echoed and shook the parlour. He and the witch froze, glanced at each other, and then winced as the rumbling grew deeper and deeper, and the building shook and shook until the window burst. The glass shards were for half a second, caught by the magics imprinted into the glass, before failing and dropping glass shards across the floor. The witch shrieked, and Harry leapt for the door to leap outside.

Diagon Alley shook. The stores and shops twisted and morphed unnaturally, convulsing and stretching out of shape. Witches and Wizards were fleeing towards apparition points, the screams growing louder and louder as buildings dropped and sunk, collapsing in on themselves like the Alley itself was folding inwards. The apparition points were too far away and wouldn’t be able to handle the mass exodus of witches and wizards.

For a terrifying short second, Harry realized with horror, that the wards around Diagon Alley were collapsing. And then, he suddenly remembered Odell the Odd inside his magically expanded trunk when the enchantments and wards failed. They’d had to bury him in his trunk.

The wards came crashing down, folding the Alley together, reducing the space that magic had created, space that could not be sustained without sufficient magic. It happened too quickly, the magic failed in cascade, and the muggles would never know an expansive Alley had existed in what would soon just be the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron.

Bloody hell.

He thought, icecream dripping down his hand from where he’d crushed the cone in terror. The Alley was crushed into a sliver and vanquished to wherever vanquished items go.

And Harry Potter was no more.

Chapter Text

Death was actually a tad more disappointing the second time.

It was exactly the same as the last time he had been in this station. The same elusive white eternity, casting shadows of faint grey. The train station, the midway point, the last stop before the final destination. There was utter silence, and an absolute stillness that would not have been possible in the living world.

Hesitantly, Harry lifted his arms, remembering the split-second feeling of being crushed in on himself, between buildings, between space and then unspace.  He checked his fingers, his arms, his torso, his legs, and ran a hand across his face while he tried to reset his mind to what he currently looked like. Not a chutney of atoms across an impossible space, but whole and hale, although quite dead.

Harry walked forward, taking one step at a time to calm his nerves. As soon as he took his first step, he could hear the sound of a steam engine drawing closer and closer. He was, he reminded himself, in a train station. It would only be so natural that trains belonged here in the station. Harry took a deep breath in, let the grief of a life unfulfilled wash through him like water and exhaled slowly, slowly.

He supposed it would be as easy as taking a step aboard, when it came.

“Ticket?” The voice came in under his ear, and Harry jumped to the side in surprise. Harry instinctively reached for his wand, only to find nothing at his wrist, and spun his body around in an Auror stance, only to face an utterly bewildered ticket inspector.

‘Ah yes,’ Harry thought lightly, ‘I’m dead.’

The voice, belonging to a dark-haired man with a fullbeard cropped around his face, a rather hooked nose, and dark eyes too small for his face. His hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his skull, in the style of wizards. His ticket inspector costume was ancient, with a matching cape connected to his jacket. The buttons on his uniform were so ancient, Harry could see the beginning of rust.

‘A wizard ticket inspector’ Harry’s mind helpfully added.

“Do you have a ticket, son?” The ticket inspector started again, lifting his bushy unkept brows, “No ticket no passage I’m afraid.”

“Eh,” Harry hesitated, “I’m really not sure?”

“’He’s not really sure!’ he says!” The ticket inspector huffed, “Have you checked your pockets, son?”

Harry’s hand immediately shot to his jean pockets. He dove his hand inside, and curled his fingers around something small, something made of paper. He pulled the object out, wondering slightly, and cast his eyes on a paper ticket, gold embossed, with a small hole on the side. Hesitantly, Harry handed the ticket over to the inspector, bewildered by the way the inspector frowned.

“This ticket’s already been punched son,” The ticket inspector narrowed his eyes and turned it over, “Ah! But a special ticket. Curiouser, and curioser.”

The ticket inspector narrowed his eyes until they were thin slits, then he humped and brightened dramatically, “Unless, of course.”

Harry dutifully lifted his hair to reveal his lightning bolt shaped scar.

The ticket inspector blinked back and laughed “You’re certainly an odd-duck, aren’t you son!”

Harry looked utterly bewildered as the old man rolled up the arm of his jacket, to reveal a wicked looking scar mid-forearm. The old man caught his confused look and laughed harder, “What a bloody fantastic scar! I’ve got this one myself. Caught this one trying to skin a mandrake alive! My ear muffs were a tad old, and I passed out and nearly took off an arm on my own knife!”

Harry started back, much more bewildered than he first had been.

“Ah, sorry, just thought…,” Harry started, “I just thought, this is because I’m the Boy-Who-Lived?”

The ticket inspector blustered, “Son, I don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re the Boy-Who-Is-Certainly-Dead. Nasty magical implosion there, took out over a hundred and eighty of your kind, and a few hundred goblins, twenty house elves and more magical creatures than I can poke a stick at!”

“No, No.” Harry inhaled, taking only half a second to absorb the death-toll.

Auror’s move on, grieve later.

“I mean. I’ve been here before. In this station. I was here with Albus Dumbledore. I died, but I came back. I mean, Voldemort shot a killing curse at me, but it killed his own horcrux, which had attached itself to, well, me. Then I was perfectly fine, and I defeated Voldemort, and well, I saved the wizarding world.”

“And now you’re dead. Again,” The ticket inspector replied brightly, “Well, not all of us are destined to be family men, I guess. Doesn’t change the fact that you have a punched ticket, lad. The only way that you go back, is if Death itself decides that you ought to go back.”

Harry twitched.

“And how exactly do I talk, to, uh, Death?”

The ticket inspector laughed.

“Death’s the train lad!” The ticket inspector wiped away the mirth from his eyes, “Do you often talk to trains?”

Harry suddenly felt foolish, for no good reason. He puffed up his chest in anger.

“So, I’ll just get on then,” Harry snapped back, “And it’ll take me where I need to go?”

“Either forwards or backwards,” The ticket inspector lazily responded, “How will you know which station to get off, without a ticket though. Plenty of souls without tickets have gotten lost along the rails. Doomed to sorrow and misery, slipping between the cracks of world seeking even scraps of happiness. Wouldn’t want a nice lad like you to end up a Dementor.”

“I’ll be just fine, thanks,” Harry insisted, “I’ll manage.”

“Well then,” The ticket inspector shrugged, “No skin off my back. The real question is, how will you know which train to take?”

The air was suddenly filled with the sound of a thousand steam trains, all building and building over each other. Harry looked up and around to see a thousand platforms stretching endlessly into the distance. On every side, above and below, a never-ending set of pathways. He shut his eyes instinctively.

“In fact,” The ticket inspector cut through the noise, and suddenly it was silent, “Only a Master of Death would know how to navigate the many pathways of Death. But of course, perhaps you already knew that deep inside.”

The ticket inspector handed back the ticket.

“Perhaps, your ticket is yet to be punched, afterall.”

Harry’s fingers moved over the unbroken ticket and felt all the while so much smaller than he had a right to feel. He glanced down for only a second.

The ticket was blank, completely free of any writing, any colour, any mark. He flipped the ticket over, and staring straight back at his face, the mark of the Deathly Hallows.

Harry looked back up suspiciously.

“What does this mean?”

The ticket inspector sat, and Harry followed suit, on a bench that had suddenly, incomprehensibly appeared without his knowledge. The platform was not really a platform, Harry realized far too late.

“It means what you want it to mean, young Master. There are many choices to make. You can choose Death, and greet it as an old friend, as my wiser brother did,” The man grinned broadly, “You can choose to rail against Death and try to beat him at his own game, as did my elder brother. I will warn you, you will not win against Death. Not even Magic itself will. If you are waiting, you can choose to wait and ensure people are given their right tickets, so they may cross into the next life. I await my youngest daughter, Godeliève, she who haunts the world now, but she too, will one day cross over. Now of all times, when Magic is falling. Her tethers to the world are failing. She will come soon.”

Harry considered his options, but had to ask a final time, “Are there any other options?”

“Reach into your pocket.” The ticket inspector suggested lightly.

This time, even before Harry’s finger’s felt his pocket, he knew what would be in there. The wand, though snapped in two, the stone, the cloak. He stared incomprehensibly at those things which had brought nothing but pain and sorrow.

“You could perhaps make a trade with Death, grand-nephew, a trade so he may once again have only mastery over himself, in exchange for life,” Cadmus Peverell stared meaningfully at the oncoming train, “You can’t go back to the life you had. There is too few magic in that world to allow you to return. You don’t have nearly enough magic in your core to power that on your own, and Death is many things, but not magic.”

“I snapped the wand,” Harry insisted, “I destroyed the stone. No one else can ever be the Master of Death. Not even I am, really. The Hallows are gone.”

“A master can remove the shackles of his slave,” Cadmus responded loftily, “Even destroy the bonds, it still does not mean that slave is free. You are the last yes, and Death may even know of that. Death still desires freedom. Would you not?”

Cadmus stood, offering a hand to help his many grand-nephew stand.

“A small word of advice, however. Death does not care if the world is magical, or muggle. Death comes to all, in the end. Death will never help you, will never offer you aid, but is also bound by oaths far more ancient than this world. Death cannot force you to pass over to the other side, nor will Death hinder you. Death’s sole task is to ferry those to the otherside. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Cadmus gripped Harry’s arm tightly, “The only way to win, is to greet Death like an old friend when he arrives. But before then, in the twilight years of magic and men, you can walk between and within worlds.”

“A different world?” Harry muttered, clutching the stone, the wand, the cloak, “Where things were different? Would I ever see my family again?”

“You will always bear that card, Mister Potter, you will always be able to navigate the roads of the afterlife,” Cadmus’s thin lips grew pale, “There is not enough magic now to return you to your own world, but you could collect enough magic. If you saved another world in peril and made the wizarding world flourish, magic shines the brightest in peace, In celebration. Magic is like sunlight, it will always return. Your world is just suffering the start of a hundred thousand years of shade. It will neither cause harm to the world you choose, dear child, nor to your own to be the magicbringer of myth. I’m sure if you tried, you could harness magic to inject life back into your dying world.”

Cadmus smiled dearly, then suddenly turned with a hum, and for just the second, Harry swore he could hear the song of an ancient young woman, singing stories in a language far before his own. But the noise was soon swallowed with the great engines of a steam train growing closer and closer, until the train was nearly level with Harry. He glanced towards the spectral image of a train, then back towards the ticket inspector, to find his fellow wizard gone.

A choice.

Harry resolved his nerves, mustered up every sliver of Gryffindor bravery, and stepped foot onto the train.

-

On the train, things were and weren’t, was and wasn’t, were here but there, and so very very sad.

“W H A T  I S  T H E  P R I C E?”

The words were spoken, and yet not. Thought, but in silence, and Harry, if he had been there, and he might have been could only call back in feelings and dreams.

“A new world. Something different. Something magical. Something filled with magic. Something filled with life. A new life. A chance for life and magic to bloom again.”

“T H E R E  M U S T  A L W A Y S  B E  W I N T E R”

And a thousand blooding lilies in the summer withered in the growing winter but were dormant again until the summer brought new life. Harry replaced these images with a garden, full and vibrant, different plants blooming and dying as the seasons changed, but always with something growing stronger and vibrant. Death considered this for what could have been a second, or a thousand years.

“I  W I L L  S U F F E R  N O  M A S T E R. I  A M  F R E E.”

“Something with hope.” Harry insisted.

Death drew closer and bade him farewell, and Death both tenderly took the Hallows, and snatched them away in rage.

“W H A T  I S  D O N E  I S  D O N E.”

The train stopped, but the train was only ever a metaphor, for something much greater and more awe-inspiring than he could comprehend. Something so ancient it pre-dated creation, pre-dated Magic itself. And suddenly the train was gone, and the walls of eternity pressed into Harry; a forced apparition which crushed him into a narrow straw and tore through the dimensions. The air was sucked from his lungs, his insides shifted and convulsed with magic, he felt himself on the edge of splinching across the universe and could only hold himself together in hope. Something laughed, and something cried, and both could have been him as he tore through the walls of dimensions and time and existence. He was thrown into something new, and felt foreign magic pool around him, judge him, and pour into his magical core in acceptance.

And Harry cried in relief of survival, until he felt those tears on his own face.

And then, he knew only the darkness.

-

When Harry awoke slowly, he was covered in vomit. He considered this, labelled it his first problem to deal with, and proceeded to vomit all over himself again. His head throbbed, and he shivered, despite not feeling the chill. He briefly wondered how he could vomit up anything at all, y’know considering he died. But couldn’t do any more than roll over onto his front and let his head pound away. Harry groaned into the snow-covered grass, feeling worse than any fire whisky-induced hangover had ever caused. He swallowed, coughed and clenched the snow and grass in his hands.

Second problem, he didn’t seem to have a wand, considering the whole death situation. Wands apparently were not included aboard the Death Express, no matter if he seemed to have a proverbial first class ticket. He patted himself down, just in case he’d managed to misplace it, which brought up a whole new set of problems.

Firstly, he was lying in snow, and his hands were stiff but not cold. Second, his jeans were water soaked- at least, he hoped it was water. Thirdly, his body did not feel like what he was expecting to feel.

Harry swore fiercely, and then curled on his side for a long moment in abject misery. No one had seemingly found it fit to tell that apparently coming back to life, or dimension travel, was the most painful thing he’d ever experienced – crucio’s and his own death, all of them included. Cadmus had almost warned him, Death was no foe, but certainly no friend. Fresh snow started to fall before Harry could roll onto his knees, and stare down at his tiny, tiny hands in bewilderment.

New problem.

Harry managed to force himself to his knees, then to his feet, but was thrown by the height difference. Before he could properly freak out, find a mirror and figure out what the hell had happened, he forced his breathing into a pattern, an old Auror trick, and he scanned the area for any landmarks.

Middle of London, some kind of park. He’d been hidden behind bushes and trees near the enormous grey fence. That was a perk at least. He could obliviate a muggle with easy, even without his wand, but it was always riskier wandless. Harry’s knobby knees shook as he took an experimental step, almost collapsing again. He was close enough to lean against the fence, waving his hand over himself to remove the sick from his sweater and jeans, only narrowly missing his cloak. He noticed immediately that his sweater was far too big, but his jeans comically so. He tightened his belt as far as it could go and went to roll the cuffs of his jeans when he was faced with the feet of a child. His toes burned, and he realized quite with a start, that he was barefooted, and his skin had started to turn blue-ish from the snow. He cast a quick warming charm on his feet, and they quickly pinkened. It was enough to make his steps more secure, more surefooted but he hadn’t made it ten steps before he realized with a start that he had nowhere to go.

This was a whole different world.

He had no friends, no money, no job, no family.

Sure, he had gotten by, when his life was on the line, all those years ago. But being in a tent with friends, fleeing for your life only works as far as you need to be a Hermit. He needed books, he needed people, he needed to figure out how the hell to make a bloody magical battery, to jumpstart his own world.

No friends, no money, no job, no family.

He’d never had nothing before.

The thought struck something deep inside of him and he immediately went back to the tantric breathing exercises Auror’s used to calm their nerves. The sudden realization that he may never see Ron and Hermione get married, have children, never meet little Alice or Donovan Longbottom, never see Luna discover another species – it curled in his stomach and formed great unbreakable knots. It would have been easier, had the war made him push his friends and family away, had made him bitter and unfeeling, but it had done the exact opposite. War had made him cling ever tighter to his friends and family, had made him build a community of bright and hardworking people who were going to change the wizarding world, so it could be magical for all.

It was out of this love, this utter selfless love for his family and friends that he was here. The solution to the wizarding world’s problems wasn’t more destruction, more denial of magic – it was more creation, more magic for all. It was in the drafts on Hermione’s desk, to allow Goblin’s to carry wands, to allow a new generation of sentient beings to walk through Hogwarts’ walls and study. It was through the love of magic that they all shared, that he was here, standing in the snow of a new world. It was out of love, and ties, links between families and friends that spurred him to grit his jaw just a little tighter.

The thought of missing his weekly trek to the Burrow, to have a meal with the Weasley family who had so quickly adopted him revolted him. The thought of never joining Ron and Hermione again for a late-night session of wizarding chess made his heart twist. The thought of never again visiting Neville’s herbology lab, or Luna’s conservation menagerie, or see Ginny win a Quidditch match, or even be able to watch the miraculous unfolding change of Draco Malfoy, by his tiny squeaky son, and though they may never be friends, it was important. And 180 of his already too-few kind were gone, and he may never know if any of his friends had been caught up in the collapse of Diagon Alley. He had no way of knowing if other hidden streets, hidden buildings, hidden schools and castles, were suffering the same magical collapse. There was always a real risk that he would return to widespread death and destruction, or even worse, the exposure of the magical world. It would only take one Ministry, somewhere in the world, collapsing in upon itself, collapsing only part of itself.

Harry threw up again, right down his front, and he collapsed straight into the snow to heave up stomach acids. He inhaled rapidly, trying to calm his frantically beating heart, and trying to cast these thoughts from his head – ‘grieve later, Auror’ – when something was dropped straight on the back of his head.

It fell over his shoulder, into the pile of sick, and Harry’s heart pounded as he read the letter.

“Mr ____

Far corner

St Godeliève cemetery for witches and wizards,

Wizarding Quarters

London”

The envelope had no name, but he could swear the empty space was staring back at him, taunting him. The wax seal of the Hogwarts crest was the same as in his own world, but the lack of a name poked and prodded inside his brain, until he was sure he had forgotten something important. He tucked the letter into the pocket of his jeans and stood once more, taking a few less than typical steps along the fence until he reached the gate. From here, he could see the headstones he’d missed where he’d awoken but didn’t care to spend another second looking at them. There had been enough portents of death today.

The Wizarding Quarters of London were like Diagon Alley in construction but were mostly little pokey apartments set over three stories. They were old looking, the same style as Diagon Alley’s stores: stone bricks, mortar and wooden beams all haphazardly leaning, and a hodgepodge of colours and decorations, which tended towards periwinkle and auberguine. It didn’t take too long for Harry to stumble his way out of the residential area, for once Wizards and witches had been sensible and had included helpful signs pointing the way to the main street.

Harry could have cried from the relief of finding the Alley completely whole, even if, strictly speaking, it wasn’t his. There were throngs of witches and wizards pouring through the cobblestone streets; a mix of traditional robes and muggle clothing – although ones that were in a much older style. There were more than a few children slipping through the streets, and if Hogwarts letters had already been sent out, it pointed to a time that didn’t match with his own. It had almost been Christmas in his world, but the excited Hogwarts-bound students rushing the Alley seemed to point to July, or August.

He slipped down the Alley quietly, head down and folded over, to make himself seem small, but he didn’t need to go far. There was no guarantee that this world was even the slightest bit like his own, but he also had no proof everything was terribly different. Harry slipped down a side street, fingers trailing over the thick stone of the buildings on his side. If their worlds were even slightly the same, he was keeping a keen eye out for a wizarding brewery’s sales store.

Harry brightened at the sign of ‘Cadwalader’s Resplendent Cider’ and walked just past – the building next to it bared the sign ‘Clotilde (and daughters) magical medicinal sweets’. Harry frowned at the subtle difference; in his own world the sweet store had been a magical calligraphist.

‘So,’ Harry thought quietly ‘There are differences.’

The stores weren’t what he was ultimately looking for, however. Between the buildings, in the tiny narrow gap was a bright magenta door with an obnoxious bronze doorknocker. Harry palmed the doorknocker; an eagle holding a stack of books with its wings and rapped once on the door. Harry waited, and nervously shifted on his feet. Slowly, the eagle doorknocker peered its head around and let out a caw. Its eyes glowed a dull black, and it blinked several times before the eagle started to speak.

“State your name and purpose of visit,” The Eagle demanded.

“Harry,” Harry responded quickly, “I wish to visit the public library for research.”

The eagle considered the request.

“This library is a place of solitude,” The eagle crowed, “You are not permitted to engage other readers, your voice will cut-off and restricted to enquiries with the library. You are not permitted to cast banned spells or engage in banned magical rituals. A full list of banned magics is available for reference under the registrar’s lectern at the top of the staircase. You must present your wand at the door to be allowed to borrow books. Please place your hand on the touchplate.”

Harry placed his hand on the touchplate of the door, where a handle or doorknob should have been. It took a moment for the wards of the library to recognize his magic. As soon as the process was completed, the eagle settled back down into its original pose, and the door clicked. Harry pushed the door, and immediately marveled at the sight.

The room was circular, with old marble floors cut into decorative patterns. The walls were lined with circular wooden bookshelves. The shelves reached hundreds of books high, and thousands wide. There were a collection of dusty old couches and thick wooden tables deeply carved with graffiti from bored wizards and witches across the century. Under them, a rug so worn out that the pattern had completely faded away. In the centre of the room, a spiraling staircase made of glossy wood.

From what Hermione had told him, the library had once been the collection of a pureblooded family, but when their line ended after several generations of only children, they’d turned the doors of their library to the public in their time honored Ravenclaw tradition. Although only usually ever touched by academics, there was no rule against children, although you needed a wand to be able to borrow a book. Ravenclaw House made traditional pilgrimages to the library during the holidays, but the knowledge that a public library was available for any witch or wizard to visit didn’t seem to permeate other houses. Many old pureblood families had their own libraries, and students tended to rely on Hogwarts for their research. After graduation, it didn’t seem that many people were inclined to read for fun. Those who needed to conduct research for their Apprenticeships only became informed of the library by their Masters. It was a shame really, the library had been intended as something more inclusive, and Harry knew from experience that there was an entire floor dedicated to magical children’s books.

The library, containing all its wonders and treasures, had two things Harry needed in equal measure. A bathroom, and information.

First, the bathroom.

The bathrooms of the library had a nature of appearing exactly where you needed one. It took only a few steps for Harry to find a door that hadn’t been there when he’d scanned the room. Inside a gold-decorated luxury bathroom, decorated exactly how a 15th century pureblood would demand. Harry ignored everything except the full mirror on the wall, taking steps which found him more and more alarmed than he’d imagined.

Well fuck.

An eleven-year-old Harry Potter stared back at him. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. The minute he’d seen his tiny hands, a stray thought had coiled in the back of his head, but he’d dismissed it in favour of collecting more information.

A mirror was a pretty big start.

Except, the more he stared back at his own reflection, the more it didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t exactly eleven-year-old Harry Potter, more the vague image that 23-year-old Harry Potter had remembered of what he looked like at eleven years old. It was a weird mix of himself as a 23-year-old, and his own mental image of himself at 11.

He couldn’t possibly be sure, since the image he had of himself was fleeting – he didn’t often look at his own reflection. Yet if he concentrated hard, his jaw was a little too sharp, his black hair far unrulier, and his eyes a duller green. There were also the little anachronisms that surprised him, the more he looked. His nose was slightly crooked, from where he’d broken it at 19, and hadn’t gotten it straightened before it’d healed. Harry quickly searched, to find that his scars remained: The Basilisk bite, the faint writing of a blood quill on his hand. The only missing scar was the lightning shaped bolt on his forehead. Harry frowned at this, fingers feeling smooth skin in bewilderment and wonder. It had been the only thing he was ever sure about, and the lack of it made his insides ache.

Harry stared longer than he should have.

He still wore the same clothing as he had, well, before he died. It seems the slight spells Mrs. Weasley had cast into the creation of the sweater, to allow room for growing children, had let the sweater shrink a size. It was still clearly too-big on his small frame, but not as comical as it would have been, had his adult-sized sweater been uncharmed. It was the same with his cloak. He’d picked it up a little after he’d joined the Auror’s, in part, because it was spelled to be self-cleaning, self-adjusting, and self-mending. ‘The witchless wizard’s cloak!’ and though it was just the kind of thing he expected of the wizarding world, he’d brought it out of sheer convenience. His jeans, on the other hand, were purely muggle items. They were held by a belt for now, and rolled up on the cuffs, but it still looked just as bad as wearing Dudley’s cast-offs.

Harry grimaced at the image his clothing told but reminded himself that the wizarding world wouldn’t care. Really, he’d wandered through Diagon Alley the very first time in cast-offs, taped glasses, looking exceedingly underweight, and not a single person had so much as put the pieces together. The wizarding world didn’t really have a concept of ‘child services’ or ‘call a hotline to report suspected child abuse’. It would be an enormous benefit now, if he needed to figure out how exactly to survive until Hogwarts, but he couldn’t deny that many more witches and wizards have suffered due to that lax attitude.

Hogwarts.

That brought him to the second problem.

Harry reached into his pocket to remove the crumbled letter and frowned at the look of it. It had changed. The letter now read:

“Mr Harry ____

Far corner

St Godeliève cemetery for witches and wizards,

Wizarding Quarters

London”

Harry frowned. It didn’t seem possible that the letter could have changed, or more precisely, it didn’t seem right that it could have changed so suddenly in his pocket without his awareness. Harry turned the letter over twice and reminded himself that he was in the second largest library in all of magical Britain. There would be an answer there, somewhere, that could explain how a letter could have changed to reflect his name.

Harry left the bathroom, after cleaning himself up a little, and trying to smooth down his hair in vain. He was back in the library, Hogwarts letter clenched in his hand in determination. Harry stalked to the staircase and swept up further and further. The staircase occasionally opened to floating platforms on either side. On the platforms he passed, witches and wizards sat at ornate desks, with piles of scrolls and books surrounding them. He climbed higher and higher, passing a green-haired wizard covered in a cloak made of phantom-burning feathers, an eccentrically bejeweled wizard with paper cranes flapping silently in the air, and a rather traditionally dressed witch with snakes for hair.

He kept climbing higher and higher until the staircase curled up to a final platform. In the centre of the small platform was a lectern. Harry approached the lectern and felt the wards of the library lift slightly. ‘Ah,’ he realized, ‘that would be the silencing ward lifting.’

“I’m looking for a book,” Harry started, and immediately felt foolish, “Well, any information on names.”

To his immense delight, all around him, above and below, books slid out from their shelves and floated in mind air. But there were too many books, he realized quickly, he’d be here for months going through them all, and without a wand he couldn’t borrow any.

“Information on magical names,” Harry suggested, watching a few return to their shelves, and others fly out, “About- the names on Hogwarts letters? I don’t have a surname on mine and I want to know why.”

A few books shifted positions, but nothing dramatic. Harry paused and considered this.

“That’s not useful for the catalogue, huh,” Harry mused, more specific, “Magical naming. Hogwarts acceptance letters. Unusual. Odd. First name only. Name changes?”

This time more books returned to the shelf than he expected, and when he peered over the edges of the platform, he could only count a handful of books mid-air.

“Bring them to me,” Harry spoke quietly, “Uh, thank you.”

The books flew to pile on the lectern. About fifteen of different shapes and sizes, ranging from ancient tomes, to modern paperbacks. He eyed the pile, and reached for the top one, hoping to wheedle through and discard books to reduce the pile. The fact he couldn’t borrow any books without a wand, was a nightmare. If you tried to leave with a book elsewise, it would vanish from your hands the second you crossed the boundary and reappear back on its shelf.

‘Although,’ Harry dryly thought, ‘It wasn’t exactly as if I have a place to take them to.’

The first book was a baby name book, apparently derived from the names of Hogwarts students from 1200-1755. It looked like a trendy pureblood’s guide to traditional but certainly not muggleborn names. In the comments, someone had underlined a young girl’s name – Matilda, and had written ‘The muggles are using this name now, must tell sissy’.

Harry frowned, leafed through it just in case, and immediately held the book up to the air.

“Return.”

The book floated off, back down to its shelf as Harry manually checked the pile. In the end, of the fifteen, only seven looked useful, and of those two were in an old form of English he couldn’t read – but he knew a handy translation spell that might do the trick.

He lifted the books – and found them much lighter than expected and went off to claim a quiet platform. The first three books weren’t helpful at all, and the fourth was handwritten and the ink had faded so badly that even Neville’s dyslexia spell didn’t help. He was on the last book before he had to break out the translation spells, leafing through the pages when he came across a paragraph.

‘…There have been numerous cases of the dreaded ‘blank letter’ sent out by Hogwarts, since it’s founding in the late 10^th century. The first instance of a blank letter was anecdotally sent out to a witch born a serf to a muggle lord in 1119. Her parents perished due to malnutrition and pestilence prior to naming her, and she was raised by servants in the Lord’s castle by servants who had referred to her as ‘Girl’, thus, without a name declared before magic, and Hogwarts having marked her as a worthy student, her letter was sent out without a name…’

To the left of the paragraph, a hand drawn portrait. The black ink curled across the page: A woman with an upturned nose, high sloping cheekbones, brown hair hacked short around her face, and a harsh look in her eyes. She looked remarkably like Pansy Parkinson.

‘A second letter was sent in 1345, to a young wizard simply entitled ‘Wilhem’ – no last name. A magbob  child who had been formally disowned by his family prior to receiving his letter due to the religious beliefs of his muggle family. As the child had not formally declared a surname in replacement of his former-families, his letter contained only his own name. The child was eventually fostered by Lord Herefere and post-humourly chose to be blood adopted into his family to continue the Herefere lineage…’

There was a cheerful drawing of an one-armed wizard besides a church steeple.

‘Of course, a case in 1658 involving a young witch named Isolde Bythesea resulted from incredibly strong family wards. The child had been raised entirely under the wards of her family home, raised by her mother, Isidore of the infamous Fleamont family, renown for their experimental magical pursuits. Once the child left the wards, aged 13, a blank Hogwarts letter was triggered for release. It was only when the girl named herself to local villagers, was the name corrected in the Hogwarts ledger…’

The witch glowered at him on the page and threw her hair over her shoulder and she walked away with wide thundering steps.

Harry blinked.

“You want me to name myself?” Harry questioned to the air, “I called myself Harry to the doorknocker, right? So, I just have to name myself and that’s it?”

The air didn’t respond, and an ache in his heart wished Hermione was here beside him. She had always been better at magical research, and she might have been able to stop him from mucking all this up. She also seemed to understand magical theory and laws better than he did. It didn’t seem like it should be so easy, to name himself, but hadn’t he heard before, from Albus Dumbledore himself, that names had power?

But names clearly did and didn’t people name themselves every single day? Hannah Abbott had declared herself to be Hannah Longbottom, and magic listened. She was now Hannah Longbottom. Tom Riddle had declared himself to be Voldemort, and magic listened. He shed the name Tom Riddle like a snake its skin. Which meant, that Harry could be anyone he wanted to be.

So who should he be?

Who could he be?

Harry left the books on the desk and went back up the stairs. He returned with several history books, and a stack of The Daily Prophet’s pulled from various points over the past decade. He started with the most recent copy of The Daily Prophet. The date, August 25^th, 1991. Blazoned across the front, ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived, To Attend Hogwarts!’ with a very uncomfortable looking Neville Longbottom besides his very stern old woman in a bright purple cloak and a garish vultures head.

Harry frowned and sighed deeply. The look of utter misery on Neville’s face had once been on his own face. The fact that this was the most recent paper, today’s edition if he was correct, meant that he had only a few days before Hogwarts started on the 1^st of September. And he didn’t have anything to bring with him. Harry frowned, and tossed the problem on his ever-growing pile of worries.

The rest of The Daily Prophet’s told similar stories to the newest edition of the ‘Prophet. History diverged when Neville had become the Boy-Who-Lived. Unlike his own history however, Alice and Frank Longbottom had survived that Halloween night, but had been tortured. An article from several years before had an outraged Augusta Longbottom speaking at the trial of Bellatrix Lestrange, who had gone with Voldemort that fateful night, who had paralyzed both Frank and Alice, so they could watch while they killed their son.

Harry’s heart ached for this version of his friend.

Then, he started to wonder. What chance had that wrought, Bellatrix accompanying Voldemort to Longbottom Manor? Neville still sport a lightning bolt shaped scar across his forehead, there was a good chance he was a horcrux. But, Harry wondered, had Bellatrix’s cruelty actually saved Neville’s parents that night? Had her desire to make them watch their sons death, helpless, actually saved them? Bellatrix had been there that night, and had been knocked unconscious as Voldemort exploded into nothingness. As The Daily Prophet proclaimed, she had witnessed the fall of Voldemort and was now locked up in Azkaban for her crimes. There was no mention of St Mungo’s for Neville’s parents, which made Harry pause in thought.

Augusta Longbottom across several years of The Daily Prophet was outraged that Bellatrix hadn’t been executed for her torture, and outraged that the Most Noble and Ancient Houses of Lestrange and Black hadn’t answered for their crimes against the House of Longbottom. Lord Orion Black declared in turn that he’d never bow to the house of a blood traitor. House Lestrange pointed to an annulment between Bellatrix and their scion a few days after Voldemort had been vanquished, and the quick remarriage between their son and a witch from the traditionally neutral Zabini family. A few issues past, the death of Lord Orion Black blazed across covers, and the instatement of Lord Sirius Black and his husband Lord Consort Remus Lupin was central to the wizarding world’s agenda. The utter scandal of a werewolf consort, the utter scandal.

Harry froze.

This would mean, it was likely that Teddy would never exist in this world. Maybe fate knew best here, maybe Tonks would find someone else. If a Nymphadora Tonks even existed in this universe. The loss of his godson though, hurt Harry deep in his heart, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that there was still a Teddy out there, waiting for him.

For this world, there was nothing he could dispute about the way the Sirius in the photo looked at Remus. Sirius was dressed in Lord’s robes, his hair pulled back into a low bun. He was fuller in the face, brighter, more vivacious in way that Azkaban must have stripped from his own. He looked far younger, with nary a wrinkle in sight. Remus was clean shaven, with longer hair as well, pulled back into a ponytail in wizarding fashion. His robes were far nicer than anything he had ever seen Remus wear. He looked at Sirius with hearts in his eyes.

So what then, had happened to the Potters?

The stack of newspapers couldn’t give him an answer to that, but the names of Lily and James Potter weren’t across the newspapers. Harry mused on that, and couldn’t figure out if that was a good thing, or a bad thing.

The History books were more helpful. His grandfather Fleamont Potter and his wife Euphemia were mentioned several times. His grandfather for the invention of a hair potion still beloved by millions of wizards and witches, and his grandmother for inventing several healing spells which worked to stabalise a patient hurt by unknown Dark hexes and curses. It briefly mentioned they’d had a child, resulting in their retirement, but a name wasn’t mentioned. Harry huffed in annoyance.

All these books established was that Voldemort existed, then he was vanquished by Neville. Augusta paraded Neville around in public moreso than Harry had ever had to face. Neville was still morosely staring in the photos, looking like he’d literally be anywhere but in front of reporters.

As far as Harry could tell, everything was exactly the same until that faithful Halloween, when Bellatrix Lestrange had joined Voldemort on his hunt for a prophecised child.

He returned to the lectern.

“Is there anything here which will let me see the family lineages of the magical world? Modern lineages,” He added, as half the books on the shelf sprung out, “Whichever is the most recently updated.”

A single book floated up to the lectern. Harry went to grab it, but found it stuck to the podium. There, on the side, a tiny metal plate bearing the words ‘Not for loan’.

“Huh,” Harry mused, “I gotta read it here, huh?”

The book was bound in shimmering silver leather, that was free of any blemish. He turned the page, to only find empty pages. Harry stared at the blank pages, flickering through in an attempt to find anything written. He paused, chewed on his lip and tapped the page.

“Reveal information? Open? Let there be words? I solemnly swear I am up to no good?” He tried hopefully, grumbling when nothing happened, “Show me…”

As soon as those words passed his lips, the page sparked with golden light. Harry withdrew his hand quickly in surprise.

“Show me The Potter Family,” He tried again, grinning at the page burst into life, and a family tree started to form, bleeding ink from within the pages. It spilled over pages and pages, and Harry’s grin quickly was lost as he realized the enormity of the information, “Stop. Show me the most recent three generations of The Potter Family.”

The ink withdrew back into the page, and then slowly, the black ink bled again to form a smaller tree.

Fleamont Potter – Euphemia Potter (nee Shafiq). Fleamont Potter’s name had a tiny skull bearing both a birth and death date, but Euphemia Potter had only one date. With a start, Harry realized that his grandmother could still be alive. A line grew, from their names, a single name, James Fleamont Potter. His birthdate formed, but no death date bled into being, his name connected to Lily Rose Potter (nee Evans) also, miraculously alive. A noise caught in Harry’s throat. A new line, travelling down from his parents, Harry James Potter, still alive and well, and then the line split into more names.

He had siblings.

Euphemia Alice Potter, two years younger. The third line changed into a running dash, instead of the straight black lines it had been for all other names. This one, Amelia Potter, two dates were under her name, one a few months after his own birth, and the second a year after that Halloween night.

From her name, a new set of lines emerged, heading upwards, two new names: Peter Pettigrew, Marcia Pettigrew (nee Cadmore). Both had died on Halloween Night, ten years ago.

Harry stared back incomprehensibly until it snapped in his mind. Adoption. Something twisted in him. A deep hatred for Wormtail battling with the absolute truth that whatever had happened in this universe, a child was never to blame for her father’s mistakes.

Snape had taught him that lessons, in blood and desperation.

This universe’s Harry had three generations of family still alive, wasn’t thrust into a prophecy two-sizes too big, and a godfather who was happy. He’d asked for a world full of life, full of hope, but he felt like an interloper watching through a glass window, at a possibility he could never have. It stung, and his grief deepened into impossibly large weights. He’d have to go to Hogwarts this this world’s Harry Potter, and pretend like the child didn’t have everything he’d ever wanted. Everything that he’d ever been denied.

“Show me The Black Family Tree.” Harry whispered with a building something, only to have the book immediately slam shut on his fingers hard. Harry yanked back with a yelp and rubbed his fingers, before shoved them in his mouth.

‘Probably spelled to only allow family to view the family trees, figures,’ he thought rudely.

That was enough daydreaming for one day, Harry decided with a sharpness in his chest. He had the answers he was seeking, and enough information to know he couldn’t be Harry Potter. But if he couldn’t check to see which families were still alive and well, he couldn’t just go around claiming any old family name.

Of course, he could always choose any old name, and claim to be a muggleborn – but standard procedure was for Hogwarts staff to come to a muggleborn’s house and explain the magical world to disbelieving parents. Hogwarts would want ‘his parents’ to be involved, and he was pretty sure two hastily confounded muggles wouldn’t hold up to Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout or even, the dreaded Snape. There was no doubt Hogwarts had been flagged when a blank letter had flown out, so any name not magical would raise more questions than answers.

So, a half-blood then, or a reclusive pureblood. Proving his claims to such a family were going to be exceedingly difficult, if even a book could figure out, he had no right to even look at a Black Family Tree. He’d have to explain the blank letter as a heavy set of wards. Trying to explain the truth would probably get him blacklisted as an Interdimensional Voldemort, or just a deeply disturbed wizard. Trying to work the whole ‘I didn’t have a name before this afternoon’ would surely have at least one Professor checking in on his homelife if only to make sure he wasn’t going to be a new Dark Lord. The thought made Harry frown, and he resolved to chat to Hermione about some kind of ‘child protection’ something in the near future. It’s not like he didn’t have plenty of time to think on it.

“Okay,” Harry pointedly responded to the book, “Can I try again? Can I see the Shafiq family tree? The recent things?”

The tree displayed itself, but it was clearly a dead-end. There were far too many Shafiq’s, all aged around the same, most married with children under five. They’d know immediately if he tried to hijack a line. The Azkaban sentence wasn’t worth a claim to the sacred 28, no matter how many doors it would open in his favour. Death Eater doors, Blood supremacist doors, maybe, but he’d kick open Voldemort’s own damned door if it meant a chance for magic to thrive in his own world.

Harry considered it for a fraction of a second, then dismissed the idea. He drummed his fingers on the lectern, and slowed down his breathing into a tantric rhythm, to collect his thoughts when it struck him.

There was another option…

“Show me The Fleamont Family Tree,” Harry demanded, “Anything over the past five generations.”

The book released ink slowly. Edzia Wiatr married Hardwin Fleamont, the line lead to two children, a daughter, Juliet, and a son Joseph. Juliet’s line led directly to the Potter family: her grandson Fleamont Potter, ending in the Potter Family. Joseph’s line lead down to one son, and then his grandchildren, two daughters, both deceased as children, and a son who had died around the age of 32, ten years ago. Unmarried.

Magic prickled at Harry’s fingertips.

The male line was dead, only extant in the female line, but if he could see the page, then maybe enough of the Fleamont family magic flowed through his veins to make a claim. Purebloods made claims to dead lines further back in their tree on a regular basis, and magic accepted the inheritance. After the war, the Lestrange family line, all full of Death Eaters either dead or kissed, had been inherited by a thirteen-year Hufflepuff named Katherine “Kitty” Lestrange, descendent from a long-line of male squibs dating back before the statue of secrecy, and a half-Veela mother. Neville had laughed hysterically while throwing back a bottle fire whiskey, proudly announcing how very kind and generous and gentle his student was. The idea of the girl’s ancestors rolling in their graves, just over the amount of butterfly clips she wore in her hair was enough to make Neville announce that the world was finally just and right.

It wasn’t too-far back to claim heritage from the House of Fleamont. Harry stared at the page, dragged a finger over the name of his potential father, Henry Fleamont. Harry blinked in shock, as the page rearranged the ink, showing the portrait of a thin-faced man with blonde hair and an unimpressed, wild look about him.

The page blazoned his name across the top, and a short biography appeared underneath.

“Henry Fleamont was the youngest child, and scion born in 1949 to parents GEORGE FLEAMONT and LYRA FLEAMONT (unavailable information). Two older sisters were recorded, EDZIA (born 1943, died 1945 of dragon pox) and BEATRICE (born 1945, died 1945 of dragon pox) in the Domesday survey of 1950. He was educated via private tutors, notably including CENDRILLION CARSELDINE, KASSIA KURLANSKY and EDWIN SELWYN. He trained as an Herbalist under Potions Mistress KASSIA KURLANSKY and gained the title of Potions Master third-degree in 1971. He was reported as MISSING in 1981, following the MINISTRY OF MAGIC MANDATED CENSUS after the VANQUISH OF YOU-KNOW-WHO by THE-BOY-WHO-LIVED NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM. His body was recovered in 1981, in MAGICAL LONDINIUM after a suspected DEATH EATER attack.”

‘That was incredibly convenient,’ Harry thought cheerfully, then immediately felt terrible for thinking such a thing about a wizard who had seemingly been taken down by Death Eaters. It wasn’t wholly confirmed, but in his experience, usually a person targeted by Death Eaters, was one of the good guys.

But he DID need a cover story while he worked to literally save his world, just in case anyone went asking around, and the Fleamont family did have a history of hiding their children under wards. They were also close enough to his own blood that he might just be able to realistically hold the lie for as long as he needed to be in this world. He *still* hadn’t the slightest idea how to begin to construct something to hold the sheer amount of magic he’d need, let alone have any idea how to charge something like that. Either way, he’d received a letter, and Hogwarts simultaneously had a bigger library on offer, and was the most magically charged place on the face of the planet. If magic needed to be harvested, Hogwarts was the place to be.

And with that, Harry made his decision.

“I name myself Harry Fleamont,” Harry said, and watched the Fleamont family tree rearrange, his name sitting under the name of Henry Fleamont. The two names weren’t connected, but it was close enough that he could work with it.

Harry shook with nervousness and raced down the stairs to pick his Hogwarts letter up, from upon the desk.

“Mr Harry Fleamont

Far corner

St Godeliève cemetery for witches and wizards,

Wizarding Quarters

London”

Harry laughed in wonder, and then opened the letter.

Chapter Text

One door closes, another opens.

 Or, as Mad-eye Moody had put it, One problem resolves, another starts.

“Harry Fleamont,” Harry sounded out, “Har-ry, Flea-mont. Hi, my name is Harry Fleamont.”

He sounded out the name several times, until it started to sound convincingly natural. He let himself relax for a fraction of a second, then ticked a problem off his growing list.

Next, Hogwarts itself.

The letter, as in his own world, read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards.)

Dear Mr Fleamont,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find an enclosed list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Harry read the letter and swore. Twenty minutes of searching later, in which he frantically mimed to a witch with a third eye in the middle of her forehead, Harry was frantically writing out a letter that read-

Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

I would love to attend Hogwarts, but I’m afraid my letter only arrived today, August 25^th, I would still like to go to school if that is okay?

Harry Fleamont

-on the back of the letter Hogwarts had sent. A little more miming had the witch agreeing that he could use her owl – A one-eyed grizzled thing that briefly had Harry wondering where her third eye had come from. The owl was off like a lightning bolt, as Harry continued to read his letter. There had been late replies to Hogwarts before, he knew, though staff loathed last minute changes. At the end, Hogwarts was obligated to provide magical education for all underaged students, however. Which meant, like it or not, Harry Fleamont was going to Hogwarts.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Uniform

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupil’s clothes should carry name tags.

Set books

All students should have a copy of the following

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Other Equipment

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR cat OR a toad.

Harry frowned and calculated the cost. The first time around he’d been with Hagrid, still giddy over of the discovery of his Gringotts vault, stocked high with coins. They *should* have placed a section of gold as a trust account until he was 17, but Gringotts was as foolish as the rest of the wizarding world and had seen no problem in giving an eleven-year-old orphan the entirely of his parent’s life savings. A trust account would have taught him budgeting, perhaps even an allowance from the vault could have taught him the value of wizarding money. Instead, he’d had to learn the hard way, how to take care of money.

Especially after Gringotts had frozen his accounts, after the whole break-in fiasco.

He couldn’t remember the prices of the items he’d brought, but he had enough experience managing his own budget to have a rough idea of the expenses he was facing. Fifteen Galleons for his clothing, 15 Galleons for all his books, Ten Galleons for the equipment, a trunk would set him back around 10 Galleons if he brought the cheapest model, and anywhere between 7 and 15 Galleons for his wand. The only relief was that Hogwarts didn’t charge tuition, the cost was completely covered by the Ministry of Magic – although it often meant that the Ministry justified their nosing about with that funding.

Somehow, he’d need to find 60 Galleons before August 31^st just, so he could head to Hogwarts. Harry’s frown deepened, and then turned considering. Technically, he’d named himself Harry Fleamont, and he’d probably inherited the Fleamont vault through the Potter Family, before, in his own world. Would it be so difficult to claim the Fleamont vault here, in this world?

The only downside, he’d have to walk back through the doors of Gringotts.

‘Well’, Harry thought glumly, ‘It’s not exactly like I have a choice’.

That was why, Harry James Fleamont ended up at the snowy-white Gringotts building. Gringotts towered over all other stores, and standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing the uniform of scarlet and gold was a particularly nasty looking goblin. Harry could empathize a little, customer service was rarely a pleasant experience. The goblin was a head shorter than Harry, with a swarthy clever face, a pointed beard, and very long fingers and feet. Harry bowed as he walked inside, then faced a second set of doors, silver, with words engraved on them. Harry pointedly ignored the rhyme, a warning against theft and continued through. A pair of goblins bowed him through the silver doors, and then glowered at his bare feet. Harry strode into a vast marble hall trying to ignore the clear look of distaste on the faces of everyone who glanced towards the eleven-year-old in massive clothing and unclad feet.

About a hundred goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in ancient ledgers weighing coins on brass scales, and examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were hundreds of doors leading out from the hall, and hundreds of goblins were leading people inside and outside those doors. It was a hive of activity, with many witches and wizards in obnoxious colours tapping their feet in aggravation.

Harry beelined for an open counter, and bowed nervously, “Good morning, I’m looking to inquire about an inheritance test? My father died when I was young, and I was raised by my mother. My parents weren’t married, but I believe I can still claim the inheritance of my father’s vaults?”

The goblin looked suspiciously at Harry, “You got the key, sir?”

“Well. No,” Harry admitted, “Is there another way to prove inheritance?”

“Blood,” Said the goblin, a tad too gleefully for Harry’s comfort, “Which vault?”

“The Fleamont Family Vault.”

“Right,” The Goblin responded, with a toothy smile, “I will have someone run an inheritance test. Snagtooth!”

Snagtooth was another Goblin, he promptly led Harry toward one of the doors leading off the hall. Behind the door was a narrow stone passageway, lit with flaming torches. It ended in a rather dusty office, where Snagtooth climbed up upon the table using a series of books as stairs, and motioned for Harry to sit down on a stool in front of the desk.

“I am required to let you know, by order of the Ministry of Magic, according to the inheritance laws of 1367 and 1782 that if you do not pass this inheritance test, there may be unfortunate consequences for you,” The Goblin grinned very wide, displaying short stumpy but sharp teeth that had been filed down, “The stone will glow green if you are knowingly deceiving Gringotts and attempting to hack a family line you have no claim to. That would be unfortunate for you.”

“Unfortunate?” Harry responded warily.

“Death, grievous bodily injury,” The Goblin continued, “Of course, if you honestly believe you have a claim to this line, and you have been lied to, it will turn yellow. You will then be escorted out of the building.”

“You’re testing me for just the Fleamont Family Vault?” Harry realized, “I thought inheritance tests were more broad? I thought they tested a person and matched it against all possible vaults?”

Snagtooth let out a sigh with an underlying grumble.

“You wizards cast out your own children more often than the sun raises and sets in the sky, and marry your children between your tiny villages” Snagtooth grimaced, “An inheritance test determines your blood, your lineage and your magic. Results must be matched against specific vault samples. You must be accepted on all three areas to gain admittance, and all vaults have different requirements.”

“That’s fascinating,” Harry leaned forward, “So, you couldn’t run a full inheritance against every vault?”

“We could run three,” Snagtooth eventually responded, “But for vaults that have not been touched in a generation, how are we to know of a better fitting witch or wizard, who should truly inherit. What if you match on all three factors but fail to meet the full requirements? Witches and wizards are vindictive. Some vaults may only be opened by a descendant who follows a particular religion, eats a certain diet, holds the right wand, has a certain magical trait, speaks a certain language. Each vault must be checked to see the requirements, and a test undertaken to see if a claimant matches.”

Harry frowned.

Snagtooth leant forward over the desk, “Worry not, little Fleamont. The Vault you’re claiming is a simple blood, lineage and magic vault. You simply must have Fleamont blood flowing through your veins, be accepted as a worthy heir – and since we had thought the Fleamont family extinct, bastard child or not, the Fleamont vault may just find you worthy, and be a wizard of acceptable power.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Harry swallowed, stiffening in alarm, “Doesn’t find me worthy?”

The Goblin considered this, “Then we will escort you out.”

Harry settled back down in his chair in building relief.

“If you wish to be tested for other vaults, you will have to ask to be tested for those vaults separately,” Snagtooth finally said, “Any Vault which hasn’t been opened by a claimant in 500 years is reported to The Ministry Of Magic, afterwhich, unless provisions have been placed on a vault to allow for an unusually long period between withdrawals, the contents are reclaimed by Gringotts, and any contained artefacts are auctioned – or smelted down. Luckily for you, the Fleamont Vault has not been so long dormant.”

“The Bank always wins,” Harry responded wearily.

“You are an usually smart wizard-child, Mr. Fleamont.” The Goblin leveled a twisted smile, and Harry jumped as he realized the Goblin almost seemed fond of him.

Snagtooth pulled a roll of parchment from between the pages of a book, a flat stone in the upper desk draw, and a knife from his own belt. He placed all these on the desk in front of Harry.

“Blood the stone, then set it down in the middle of the parchment, blood facing down,” The Goblin instructed harshly.

Harry picked up the knife and held it to his palm. He was about to slice down deeply when the Goblin let out a loud huff.

“Do they teach wizard children NOTHING,” Snagtooth exclaimed, “Do you know how many nerve endings are in your hands, fool! Slice the tip of a finger! You don’t need to near amputate your hand for the sake of a vault, child.”

Harry blinked owlishly and let out a slight ‘oh’ before hurriedly apologizing. He moved the knife to the tip of his pinky finger, and poked a tiny hole in the tip. He had to squeeze out a few drops of blood onto the stone, but it had already started clotting closed when the process was done. He picked the stone and turned it upside down onto the parchment and waited.

From underneath the stone, blood ran across the page, forming letters in gobbledygook. When the blood finished seeping from the page, the Goblin removed the stone and inspected the paper critically.

“Hmm,” The Goblin responded, “You would be correct, you are the heir to the House of Fleamont, young sir. You also have three secondary vault holdings connected to the Fleamont Vault.”

Harry straightened in his chair at the name, and then blinked in confusion.

“Three?”

“Minor holdings,” The Goblin fussed, “A dowry account from your grandmother, containing a single knut – as per the requirements of her disownment. 35 Galleons collected over 40 years from the publisher of your great-great grandmother Edzia Fleamont’s book, including notification that the publisher has shut its doors, and finally, a vault containing the leftover stock from your grandfather’s business. Ah, correction, the stock has since been moved to the main Fleamont Account,” The Goblin frowned, and scribbled some words down on the parchment in displeasure, “Apologies for the lack of correct records. The vault has not been opened since 1949. Currency has been deducted yearly to cover account fees. The main Fleamont vault does not have an available catalogue. Would you like to visit the vault, Mr Fleamont?”

Harry brightened, “Absolutely!”

The Fleamont vault was deep down in the belly of Gringotts. They stopped by the other two vaults, for Harry to collect the 35 Galleons from his purported great-grandmothers book, and then to collect the single knut from his alleged grandmother’s dowry. Harry thoughtfully flipped the knut between his fingers.

The main Fleamont Vault was an old thing. Harry stared at the keyhole until Snagtooth helpfully handed him the stone he had bled on, and instructed him to hold it to the keyhole. As soon as he did, the stone twisted and morphed, until it formed a golden key, which Harry stuck into the hole and opened the door.

The Fleamont Vault was frankly disappointing. It almost seemed like the family had been using it as a storage for their furniture, rather than a bank account. Harry climbed through piles of desks and old books, before reaching a small pile of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts left on a slightly cleaner desk, set up with a Quill and inkpot. Ah, the Vault had been used as a home office, glorious.

Harry counted out 85 Galleons, 16 sickles and 205 knuts, and a very tiny silver ring bearing a crest, with the Fleamont name. It didn’t look anything like the Lordship rings that the Black Family or Longbottom family had, and the Potter Family had been an aspiring rich merchant family, never a noble house. This ring was something similar, though, but Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the ring.

In his experience, putting on enchanted rings without a little research, never ended well.

The vaults contents were a tiny amount, really, but Molly Weasley had put more children through Hogwarts on a shoestring budget, so it could be done. Harry felt a bolt of affection streak through him at the thought of Molly but shoved such thoughts out of his head quickly. Instead, he counted out 40 Galleons, and grabbed a handful of knuts, and tucked it away in the upper pocket of his cape alongside the rest. He turned his attention to the rest of the vault, and thoughtfully considered it.

He emerged from the tangled mess of the Fleamont family’s legacy, with three very dusty plain black work robes bearing labels that read ‘George Fleamont’, a plain black hat with a hole on the brim labelled ‘Lyra ____’ , a pair of very expensive dragon hide gloves, and a plain black winter cloak with silver fastenings, again from his supposed grandfather.  There were only one pair of leather oxford-style shoes - a few sizes too big, with thin soles and fraying laces. Harry inspected them for spiders, and then put them on his feet - they were unwieldy on his feet, and probably wouldn't fit him until third or fourth year. But he'd walked through Diagon Alley without shoes and wasn't keen to repeat the experience. They'd have to do.

He managed to find a very banged up copper telescope, and a set of brass scales, as well as a set of crystal phials (though they were all different shapes and sizes) – there wasn’t any cauldrons lying around though, which meant he’d have to buy one.

The clothing all more of less fitted him, all tending on the bigger side, which meant they had room for him to grow into. They were dusty, old things, but it was nothing a little mending and cleaning couldn’t fix. That meant that his entire school uniform was entirely sourced from the Fleamont Family vault. He managed to find all books on his book list, although a few were missing a couple pages, and A History Of Magic, was entirely missing the front cover. He was pondering how to carry all his new possessions out when he spied an old beaten green and brown trunk with magically flying Quidditch stickers on the side. The stickers whizzed around his trunk, with the exception of the completely still snitch. Harry only had to touch the sides of the trunk for it to spring open, and was rather put out until he felt the very old family wards encircling it.

‘Ah’, Harry realized with a start, ‘It’s been enchanted to only let Fleamont’s inside.’

The inside of the trunk was empty, but it was piled with a rather nice plaid print, and so Harry cheerfully piled in his new possessions. The trunk didn’t look nearly as full as he expected, so it seemed that it had some kind of minor magical expansion inside. Harry dubiously looked at the trunk, but cheerfully reminded himself it was better than buying a new trunk that was magically expanded to have whole rooms inside. He’d had enough magical expansions for two lifetimes.

When Harry wheeled out his dusty, grimy trunk, Snagtooth gave him a look that suggested he didn’t appreciate being kept waiting. Harry muttered a quick apology – Better safe than sorry when it came to the Goblin Nation.

He was out of Gringotts in less than ten minutes, a skip in his step as he all but ran to Ollivanders. Having a wand again would be like regaining the use of a restrained limb. Utterly, utterly vital for him to feel just a little at peace again. The store was empty when he entered, but a tinkling bell went off somewhere deep in the shop. Harry perched on the edge of the one spindly chair, and waited until Mr Ollivander popped up, on the other side of the counter. The wizard’s pale moon-like eyes shining at he looked hard at Harry.

“Ah,” The wandmaker said, “Why hello young man, who may you be?”

“Harry Fleamont,” Harry offered awkwardly,”

Ollivander’s eyes lit up, “A son of Mr Henry Fleamont, I suppose. Ah, I remember him, very promising, very interesting. His wand was Fir, 13 inches, firm, dragon heartstring core. A Fir wand is known as “the survivor’s wand’ – Ah, but what a terrible end. And your mother?”

Harry pointedly looked away.

“Oh,” Ollivander’s face softened, “My apologies for prying. Now, a wand for you, for Hogwarts?”

Harry offered a smile.

“Well, now Mr Fleamont, let us see,” Ollivander muttered, pulling out a long tape measure, “Which is your wand arm?”

“I’m primarily right-handed, but I’m ambidextrous,” Harry replied, “Something that would work best with both hands would be brilliant.”

Ollivander perked up at the request and rose to the challenge.

“Hold out your arms,” Ollivander responded in return. The tape measure measured Harry from shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, round his head, and between his nostrils. Ollivander went through his spiel on magical cores, while the tape measured between his eyes, the size of his fingernails and started on his inseam when Ollivander dismissed the tape.

“Try this – Beechwood and dragon heartstring, Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Take it and give it a wave.” It barely grazed his fingers before Ollivander snatched it back.

 “Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy.”

Again, the wand was snatched.

“Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches. Springy.”

The pile of wands grew higher and higher, in more and more unusual combinations until Ollivander quirked his head, “Hmm, I wonder…”

A new wand was placed into his hands.

“Walnut and phoenix feather.11 inches. Very flexible.” Even as he spoke, the wand sent fireworks and the scent of pine throughout the air. Harry felt his surprise at the fondness his new wand conveyed through his magic.

“Very interesting,” Ollivander’s silvery eyes grew wider, and more intense, “Walnut wands are known for being connected to great magical innovators and inventors. Your family, the Fleamonts, have always been known as inventors and great experimenters. When paired with a phoenix feather, it typically means a witch or wizard is capable of inventing and experimenting with a great range of magic. I expect great things from you, Mr Fleamont.”

Harry paid 8 Galleons for his wand and left with wondering eyes on his back.

It was falling on twilight by the time Harry had collected the last of his things. One pewter cauldron, size 2 cost him 4 galleons, and some basic potions ingredients another 2. He’d had to ask the clerk to help him heave the cauldron into his trunk before he left.

After grabbing the essentials, Harry had thoughtfully glanced at the coins in his pocket, and had  managed to grab a thick roll of parchment the size of his thigh (which would last him the whole year)  and an ink and quill calligraphy set in a rather pleasant bronze for a steal of 7 sickles. He’d brought the set because it included both a traditional quill, with a small knife to cut the tip of the feather, a crystal inkpot spelled to continually refill for ‘over 200 letters!’ but also included self-inking quill for convenience. He’d eyed a thickly bound notebook, on sale for 13 knuts and cheerfully added it to his growing pile, with a growing idea to ward the book to only allow himself to read it. Could you place a book under a fidelius charm? The idea floated in his brain for a long moment and he resolved to find out.

He stopped briefly by the wizarding cobbler, but the shoes were much too expensive, and even a touch-up work on the pair he was wearing would set him back just a little too much. The pair he wore wasn't brilliant, but he consoled himself by buying a thick pair of woolen socks from a store near the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

As soon as he’d collected his goods, he ran a quick tally of his expenses, and felt quite pleased with himself. There was quite enough left over for a few nights in a wizarding inn until Hogwarts started. Harry ran through his option quickly and glanced at his letter.

Hagrid had handed him a ticket for the train the first time around. There was no mention of platform 9 and ¾ on his letter. It was likely that in the chaos of a late letter, this little fact would be forgotten. His thought turned considering, The Three Broomsticks was a good enough option as any. Two Galleons a night, including breakfast and dinner. The benefits would be that unlike The Leaky Cauldron, or the Hog’s Head Inn, The Three Broomsticks was typically clean although a little smoky. The Three Broomsticks also had food that was actually edible, and delicious. The Leaky Cauldron wouldn’t be a purveyor of fine foods until Neville and Hannah Longbottom brought the place in 1999.

‘If they buy it’, Harry helpfully reminded himself, ‘If Neville marries Hannah Abbott, If Neville survives Voldemort.’

That brought up another topic, which Harry had been steadfast ignoring for this moment. Voldemort was a spirit, possibly leeching off the head of Professor Quirrell at the moment, but he would be back. What would that mean for Neville, here in this universe. What would that mean for Harry Fleamont? He strongly felt as if Voldemort shouldn’t be his problem. BUT also included under the list of ‘Voldemort should not be this person’s problem’ was Neville Longbottom, an eleven-year-old child. In fact, Harry’s entire list of ‘people who should not have to deal with Voldemort’ included the entirety of the children of the entire magical world.

With that thought in mind, Harry stuck out his wand and called The Knight Bus. The Knight Bus was as grimy as ever, and 1 Galleon and 9 sickles later Harry was sitting on the Knight Bus on the way to Hogsmeade, with a new green toothbrush and a spotted hot water bottle. Stan had looked rather put out at having to accept knuts in place of sickles but accepted the money, nevertheless. He was in Hogsmeade, battling his eyes at a cooing Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks, before the sun dipped below the horizon. He handed over 14 Galleons for the week’s stay, dumped his trunk off in a small, but cozy room, and returned back down to the inn with his new notebook and a self-inking quill.

“My guardian needed to go overseas suddenly,” Harry had told her, with wide eyes, “I was given enough money to stay until I go to Hogwarts on September 1^st. I promise I’ll be quiet and back in my room by nine. I won’t be a problem miss.”

She had cooed at him, warmly, and given him the room “with my grandmother’s best quilt!” and sent to drop off his belongings upstairs with the promise of a hearty meal.

When he returned, Rosmerta hurried him into a booth with a warm bowl of a mushroom and beef stew, with a thick crusty bread roll slathered with butter. Harry’s stomach growled loudly. He hadn’t eaten all day, and in fact, hadn’t eaten at all in this world. He was halfway through the meal when Rosmerta returned with a frosty glass of cherry syrup and soda with ice and an umbrella. She patted him on the head with a fond smile and was back off behind the bar where a dozen or so witches and wizards were drinking butterbeer and eating pastries.

While he ate, he opened his notebook and made calculations.

His vault held 45 galleons, 5 sickles, and 18 knuts.  In his cloak pocket, he’d stashed away 60 galleons, and the knut he’d taken from his alleged grandmother’s vault. That meant he’d spent a little more than 45 galleons, and 15 sickles during his Hogwarts shopping spree – although the 14 Galleons he’d had to cough up to stay in Hogsmeade for a few days was the biggest problem. He’d have to find another way to finance his stay in the wizarding world for however long he needed to be here in this world. He’d might have to take another trip into the Fleamont vaults to see if there was anything more in there that could be useful.

105 Galleons, 5 sickles and 18 knuts. He’d have to make it stretch. Every year at Hogwarts would mean more books, new robes, potions ingredients – and in between school years, food, lodgings and a billion other expenses. The sheer lack of funds he was facing was terrifying. At 11 years of age, he couldn’t legally work in the wizarding world. He’d have to wait until he was 14 and nine months old before he could even start looking for employment. Not too many places wanted to hire a 14-year-old though, but a 14-year-old could be paid less than a witch or wizard of age, so there was always hope he could find someone willing to take on a young wizard.

That was too far in the future to bother worrying about though. What was far more pressing, was Voldemort. He’d be at Hogwarts too, sucking the life from Professor Quirrell, and generally being a pain-in-the-ass. Something would have to be done, and there was absolutely not a single cell in Harry’s body that would ever agree to leave a mass-murdering sociopath as the sole responsibility of a child according to a prophecy. The twenty-three-year-old Harry Potter had been a decorated Auror, someone clearly more able to, and more experienced with, the destruction of that particular Dark Lord.

Wearily, Harry stared into his cherry-syrup and soda and brooded.

‘Why’, Harry thought wearily, ‘Does it always have to be me?’

With that, Harry let out a long-suffering sigh and escaped up to his room for a long overdue sleep.

-

The next few days were a whirlwind of boredom.

The morning after he’d arrived, he’d awoken to a cooing owl, bearing a letter from Hogwarts that had in no uncertain terms, told him that yes, he was invited to Hogwarts, they were very sorry for the delay, and asking if he needed any further help getting to Hogwarts, acquiring supplies, or if he needed any assistance with a magical educator to visit his home.

He’d written back promptly, in part because the owl started pulling at the threads of his sweater.

‘Hello Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

Thank you for your reply! I’m awfully excited to go to Hogwarts!  I’ve already visited Diagon Alley, grabbed everything I need, and even got my wand! I know the way to Hogwarts; my grandparents went to Hogwarts – although I don’t know what houses they were in. George and Lyra Fleamont, although I do suppose my grandmother wouldn’t have been a Fleamont then. I really don’t know what her name might have been. I’m very excited to meet you on September 1^st!

Harry Fleamont’

He briefly considered buying an owl but realized just as quickly that he didn’t have anyone to talk to- and anyone who wanted to talk to him probably had their own owl to carry back a reply. He’d walked by Gladrags Wizardwear so often that the witch behind the counter stared suspiciously watching him as he passed. There was a clear sale sign visible from the street over what seemed to be a row of plain shirts and sweaters, and Harry couldn’t help but pick at his single sweater and shirt wistfully. Wearing the exact same things day in and out grew a bit tiring, if only because of the sad looks that the regulars to the Three Broomsticks started levelling him by day four.

Harry read through all his textbooks several times, to remind himself just what he’d have to pretend to be, as an 11-year-old child until he’d half memorized the damned things. He’d cleaned all his school robes several times; using household cleaning spells from The Daily Prophet, and a few from Molly Weasley. He’d done them wandless, easy enough considering they were just household cleaning charms needing little preciseness or power – a tad worried about the trace. He supposed that it wasn’t attached to wands – plenty of pureblood children used magic outside of school, but it was one of the few areas that Harry had to admit that he had absolutely no conceivable idea how it worked. He was in a magical village. Maybe it couldn’t work here? Certainly, plenty of Hogwarts students had cast spells here, during their trips to Hogsmeade. Then again, he didn’t want to end up on any Ministry watch-lists.

Still, he’d used a ‘cosutum’ to stitch together the hole on the brim of his pointed hat (a spell also used by mediwitches to give sutures) and a ‘corroboro’ on the seams of his thin robes to strengthen them. He’d shot a ‘lima’ at his shoes, and at the buttons and fastenings of his uniform to polish them, ‘novo’ to generally make the robes look newer, and several ‘tersus’ to shake the dust from the robes. No matter how many he’d fired at them, dust still shook out, but at least by he’d finished it didn’t look like he’d be wearing dusty old robes. He added his name to everything, using a quick ‘scribendi nominare Harry Fleamont’ in an utter barstardisation of a much better spell Molly Weasley had shared with him, and he’d forgotten. His hodgepoded method yielding the results he wanted – his name on the labels of all his belongings, but in a jagged, wonky lettering.

He’d more or less done the same to the jeans, sweater, shirt and underwear he’d arrived in – but cleaning spells only went so far. By the time September first rolled around, he’d grown desperate and resorted to washing his clothing by hand using the handbasin and hand soap in his bathroom, and then several disinfecting, antibiotic spells ranging from ‘defaeco’ to ‘prohibeo lino’. If living with the Durselys had taught him anything, he was always one ‘banned from the bathroom’ away from being taunted as the smelly weird kid. A metal plate on his trunk bore the name ‘Fleamont’, so he’d left it alone and hoped that it was good enough.

He’d woken up near noon, stared at the ceiling in growing apprehension and then had immediately regretted everything.

He had died.

He had died and now he was going to school with eleven-year-old children, pretending to be eleven just so he could save his world. Could his world even be saved? Maybe there was a solution, but could he possibly be the one to save it? Hermione was brilliant, maybe she could have done a much better job – what was Harry but a mediocre wizard, famous more for being alive than anything useful.

His glum mood only worsened with the smell of his one change of clothing.

Harry locked his door with a particularly useful charm that Hermione Granger had cooked up – which literally melted the door lock, bolt and wall plate into a solid piece of metal, meaning any unlocking spell wouldn’t work. That had been a much more tiring piece of magic than anything else he’d performed, but he’d done it to avoid the sheer embarrassment of anyone, friend or foe, catching him washing his entire non-uniform wardrobe in the nude.

Early in the afternoon, he considered catching The Knight Bus to King’s Cross, but winced at the cost – eleven sickles – and although the opportunity to meet and greet all his classmates was appealing on a purely information-gathering level, he *was* already in Hogsmeade. It seemed like a terrible waste to pay 11 sickles to only end up back where he started. With that in mind, he instead ate a terribly filling meal with Rosmerta (a roasted lamb, cheese and potato pie with another cherry-syrup and soda with a little umbrella on-top). Rosmerta had smiled at his little Hogwarts uniform, mentioning that he looked like a proper young wizard, but had frowned at his trunk in a way that had Harry freezing.

The trunk was old, sure, with peeling green leather on the corners, dents and dings all over, and magical stickers that were sluggish. It definitely didn’t look like even a second-hand trunk, but perhaps a third or fourth-hand one. Combined with his uniform – you could definitely see that even though he’d magicked the hemline a little higher and patched the holes and generally done all that he could to make it look, well, less like it’d been sitting in a dusty Vault for half a century, that it wasn’t something brand-new. Combined with his trunk, it painted the image of a very materially-poor wizard, trying to patch together just enough to be able to go to Hogwarts.

“It has sentimental value to me,” Harry had responded, a tad more defensively than he intended, “It was my grandfathers.”

Rosmerta had slipped him a chocolate frog in return, and pinched his cheeks, “You are my favourite customer by far! Feel free to visit again whenever you can, Mr. Fleamont!”

And so, Harry had gathered his things, folded up everything into his trunk and waited by Hogsmeade station until the train rolled into view. While he waited, he ate a chocolate frog, in part, to improve his mood. The card inside was Dylan Marwood, a dark-skinned man with a broad nose and bright green hair, wearing a finely tailored clear gossamer robe, revealing the white dots over his green-haired chest. The card read:

“Dylan Marwood, is currently the Australian Ministry’s ambassador to the Mermish population off the coast of northern Queensland. His book, ‘Merpeople: A comprehensive guide to their language and customs’ is considered to be the definite guide to wizard-merpeople relations in modern times. He is fluent in all fifteen dialects of mermish, including standard mermish sign, used for inter-tribal trade and communication. He is particularly famous for his role in the 1923 mermish-Bunyip war in Adelaide, Australia, as a neutral peacemaker which de-escalated the conflict. He enjoys didgeri-disco music, and bushwalking.”

The train arrived when the sky was a deep purple. Once the train stopped, children of all ages started pouring out. Harry waited until the throngs of children waned, only to be stopped by a frowning prefect.

“Didn’t you listen to the announcement, first year?” The Hufflepuff prefect huffed, “Trunks are to be left on the train to be taken up to Hogwarts separately.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at the tone but smiled politely as the prefect levitated his trunk onto the train and shoo’d him off towards the castle.

Harry started the walk, before a lamp appeared, bobbing over the heads of the students. Harry grinned widely as a familiar voice called out, “Firs’-years! Firs’-years over here! C’mon, follow me – any more firs’ years? Mind yer step now! Firs’-years follow me!”

Stumbling and slipping on the mud, the gaggle of first years followed Hagrid down a steep narrow path. Thick dark trees blocked the light so completely, that Harry had to follow the person in front of him. The narrow path suddenly opened onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched on top of a high mountain on the otherside, with sparking glittering windows and turrets and towers stretching into the sky, was Hogwarts. Harry felt a great big lump grow in his throat. Missing most of Hagrid’s words.

He wiped away imaginary tears, and climbed into a boat with a two boys and a girl he didn’t recognize. The boats launched off towards the castle, and Harry glanced around in surprise – there seemed to be far more young witches and wizards than he remembered from his time. The boats glided through the curtain of ivy, throwing off Harry’s count. Harry fumed for a second, until the boats arrived at the shore, and all the students clambered out up a passageway, and then spilled out onto grass in the shadow of the castle. Harry tried in vain to count again, but only hit 30 before they were twisting up stone steps and crowding around huge, oak doors. With little fanfare, Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the door.

The door swung open quickly, and Professor McGonagall stared over the crowd of first years. Her face was stern, and her emerald green robes had been ironed, pressed and starched to crisp perfection.

“The firs’-years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you Hagrid,” She replied back promptly, “I’ll take them from here.”

The doors swung open even wider. Harry could hear the children around him gasping over the flaming torches on the walls, the marvelous high ceilings and the marble staircase. They followed the Professor across flagstone, closer towards the great hall, into a tiny chamber off the side of the hall. They squished in uncomfortably tight and started peering around nervously at each other. Harry kept his eyes intensely on Professor McGonagall.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” She started, before going into a detailed explanation about the sorting process, the houses, and concluded with “I shall return when we are ready for you.”

Harry peered around, trying to spot a familiar face. He couldn’t see Ron or Hermione, or Neville, or Seamus, or even Draco bloody Malfoy. They were too squished into the room to properly mingle around though, and Harry was uncomfortably at the front of the room.

From the back, he heard a high-pitched scream, and about twenty ghosts streamed through the backwall talking to each other. Harry couldn’t hear the words, but vaguely remembered they had been talking about Peeves. Harry glanced over the tops of the heads of his peers, when a movement at the edge of his eyes caught his attention, and he turned to watch McGonagall return.

“Move along now,” Professor McGonagall’s voice responded, making several people jump, “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to begin. Form a line and follow me.”

Harry found himself at the front of the line, feeling rather like he’d rather be anywhere else. His legs were leaden with worry that at any moment he’d be found out, as he crossed the chamber, walked back across the hall and outside the Great Hall. As soon as he was inside, his stomach did a funny sort of wobble. Thousands of candles hung in the air over four long tables laden with golden platters and goblets. They came up to the long table, ready to be sorted, and Harry’s eyes did a quick sweep of the head table, and felt the wind knocked out of him.

There was no Professor Quirrell.

There was Professor Dumbledore looking extremely pleased with himself, Professors Babbling and Sinistra in a rousing discussion with each other. Professor Snape was in his customary place – and didn’t that make Harry’s stomach do funny things when faced with a dead man – but he looked much healthier and happier than his Snape ever had. Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout were talking to each other and glancing back at the students with mounting excitement.

But Professor Trelawny was gone.

He first noticed an unfamiliar witch at the table. Middle-aged with deep smile lines and her bright red hair piled on top of her head. She wore golden robes that were tailored sharply, and had an expensive-looking pin in her hair. Harry’s mind rushed to what he knew of the Weasley family tree and tried to place her, trying to recall literally anyone that she could be.

The witch turned her head to glance over the first years and Harry felt his heart stop dead.

Lily Potter, his mother. He’d barely recognized her, she was a whole decade older than the photos he’d poured over. She was thicker in the waist, and her arms bore more muscle, but he supposed that was what miraculously could happen when you were allowed to live past 30. Harry felt tears well in his eyes, and he brushed them away rapidly with the sleeve of his robe, scanning the table for more faces.

That was ALSO a mistake.

Remus goddamn Lupin, or Black, he supposed, was seated right next to Lily Potter. He hadn’t recognized the man either; Remus was a tad heavier, clean-shaven, and his hair was almost mid-back and tied with a leather cuff. Remus was also dressed in expensive black robes, bearing the crest of the Most Ancient And Noble House Of Black. He was grinning wildly at Lily, joy in his eyes beaming with every laugh. The sight of it made Harry nauseous with regret and sorrow.

He’d spent so much time staring that he’d missed McGonagall bring out the sorting hat, and the sorting hat’s yearly omen. He snapped to as the hall gave rousing applause. Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the Hat, and sit on the stool to be sorted.”

And with that, she started.

Abbott, Hannah was the first to be called. Harry smiled wildly at the tiny version of his friend, pink-faced with thin blonde pigtails. She looked rather sick until she was sorted into Hufflepuff. The applause from the table seemed to steady her as she scurried off. Harry resolved to speak to her at some point, to help her through the rocky first year when her seventh-year cousin had bullied her relentlessly over a family feud.

Alsace, Bernard was next, which Harry did not recall at all. The boy was long and thin with spidery fingers, a very wide mouth and thin coppery hair. He was sent off to Ravenclaw.

Avriham, Elijah. Ravenclaw. A curly dark-haired boy, dark eyed and thin, with a massive nose on his wedge-shaped face. He had a kind look about him.

Biggs, Sascha. Gryffindor. He did not recall her at all – but the girl was shaking a muggle mp3 player in increasing alarm. Harry wondered quickly, if a Sascha Biggs had existed in his world, without the gift of magic.

Black, Cygnus, was called and Harry stared in utter fascination as a tiny version of Sirius Black came from the crowd, looked up at the Head Table, where both Lily and Remus shot a thums-up sign at him, and climbed the stool. Harry found himself staring in utter fascination. Ravenclaw the hat decided, and though Cygnus looked rather put-out about it, he scuttled off to the Ravenclaw table.

Bones, Susan. Hufflepuff.

Boot, Terry. Ravenclaw.

He remembered those two and brightened at the familiarity.

Brocklehurst, Mandy. Ravenclaw.

Brown, Lavender. Gryffindor. She went off to the lion’s den with the Weasley twins catcalling.

Bulstrode, Millicent. Slytherin. Harry definitely remembered her, if only for Hermione’s potion mishap in second year.

Crabbe, Vincent. Slytherin. Harry watched the boy walk with an uncomfortable feeling. It could have been pity. It could have been anger. It could have been sorrow for the waste of life that had been his death.

Cress, Beatrice. Hufflepuff.

Cross, Elizabeth. Ravenclaw.

Davids, John. Gryffindor.

Deng, Abei. Ravenclaw.

Etherington-Graves, Wilhelm. Slytherin.

Excel, Samantha. Gryffindor.

Finch-Fletchley, Justin. Hufflepuff.

Finnigan, Seamus. Gryffindor.

“Fleamont, Harry!” Professor McGonagall called, and Harry near fell over his own feet on the way to the stool. He jammed the hat on his head and waited with a growing sense of dread.

‘Hmm.’ A small voice in his head said, ‘What have we here? Difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage. A Very Smart mind. Loyalty in abundance, Ah! But the cunning.’

‘That’s it?’ Harry thought in surprise, ‘No comment on anything else?’

‘My task is to sort students’ The hat responded, ‘Anything else is simply not my concern.’

‘But surely you have some kind of opinion on the whole, masquerade. You can see my whole mind, surely?’

‘My task is to sort students, anything else is not my concern’.

‘I’m 23 years old?’ Harry felt surprise, ‘Isn’t there something that should flag that? No? That’s concerning.’

‘Hogwarts was founded to take on and teach students’ The hat responded, ‘The first students of Hogwarts were not so organised as to only be eleven years of age when the school was formed. The first class ranged from 5 years of age to 79. Age requirements for years came after the Ministry was formed, and the world grew a kinder place to magical kind.’

Harry blinked, ‘I do suppose that my situation is rather unique’.

‘My task is to sort students’ The hat responded, ‘Anything else is simply not my concern.’

And Harry suddenly understood. Sentience, true sentience had not yet been made achievable by wizards. The sorting hat was an incredible piece of magic, but it was still only an enchantment for a specific task.

‘Oh’, Harry mused, feeling the utter urge to take a good look at the enchantments inside, ‘So, where do you think I belong?’

‘I’m deciding between Ravenclaw and Slytherin,’ The Hat responded mildly, ‘Do you have a preference?’

And that was the million-galleon question, wasn’t it?

Slytherin would mean he’d be ostracized from the rest of the school, but he’d better able be able to work his way into the politics of the wizarding world. He’d be able to build connections to get him places, meet the right people, get the right things. It might make life a tad easier, being able to overhear conversations spoken in the common room, gather intelligence and make plans.

Ravenclaw would mean a better school experience overall – and the house did have a tentative friendliness with Slytherin. Those connections might still be open for him to use, even across Houses. A Ravenclaw might be better able to hide amongst a den of studious students, craving knowledge. He’d be able to study and work towards project ‘save magic’ (a better name pending) than he would in Slytherin.

He was a fraction of a second away from deciding Ravenclaw when the hat dryly spoke in his head.

‘Well after witnessing that display of cunning in action, my decision has been made’

‘Don’t you DARE-‘

‘Better be SLYTHERIN!’

Harry took the hat off, plonked it down on the stool with narrowed eyes and was on his way to Slytherin to loud applause within seconds. He glowered at the sneaky hat for a long moment, mind whirling with all the possibilities that Slytherin could offer. He sat down at the front of the table, in a great empty space awaiting new firsties, and only narrowly avoided missing-

Goldstein, Anthony became a Gryffindor. Harry’s eyes shot up to his hairline. He’d been a Ravenclaw in Harry’s own world, which marked the first real deviation.

Goyle, Gregory. Slytherin. Goyle slunk over to sit next to Crabbe.

“Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione Granger, in her bushy haired, big- nosed, bucked teeth glory trotted up to the hat and was quickly placed in Gryffindor. She slid straight in next to Anthony Goldstein and looped an arm around his neck. Harry stared just a second too-long in wistfulness, but looked interested at the sudden familiarity between them. In his own world, he couldn't ever remember the two having any kind of conversation.

Grimm, Hadley. Hufflepuff.

“Longbottom, Neville!” was called and the hall went into a great hush before whispers started breaking out across the hall. Harry stared at Neville in sympathy, as he friend took to the stool with a nervous gait. Gryffindor. Neville scuttled off quickly, to an incredibly loud roar of support from Gryffindor. Harry clapped politely but watched as Neville sunk into the chair with wide eyes and hunched shoulders.

MacDonald, Morag. Slytherin.

Malfoy, Draco. Draco Malfoy, looking like his eleven old git self, strode hauntily up to the stool. The hat barely touched his head when the hat screamed out ‘Slytherin’ and went to join Crabbe and Goyle with a smirk permanently etched upon his face.

There was a Moon, that Harry vaguely remembered. Ravenclaw. Followed by Nott, who he definitely did. Slytherin.

Pansy Parkinson strode off to Slytherin with her nose in the air, purposely not looking at Draco Malfoy. Both the Patil twins ended up in their respective houses, followed by Sally-Anne Perks who looked on the verge of tears, and then at last-

“Potter, Harry.” The version of him that took to the stool was taller, more solid, and had shorter hair. Harry ruefully looked at what good nutrition and a decent sort of raising could do for a child, but banished the thought and decided that was one train of thought he didn’t need to board. Potter was definitely more confident, and Lily Potter straightened in her seat with clear love in her eyes. The hat called out Gryffindor, and the young child went running off to Seamus Finnigan.

Thomas, Dean. Gryffindor.

Turpin, Lisa became a Ravenclaw.

Umberto, Miguel ended up a Hufflepuff. He was vaguely south Spanish looking, and sported a collar under his robes with a bunch of interesting runes on the collar.

Weasley, Ronald. His red-haired friend was looking positively green but ended up a Gryffindor just the same. He could make out his brothers congratulating him over at the Gryffindor table.

Zabini, Blaise went to Slytherin and slid in next to Harry with a nod. Harry nodded back, and then glanced down at his golden plate to think. He’d counted 105 students this year, 106 if you included himself. Each house gained a minimum of twenty five students (slytherin) or as many as thirty  (Ravenclaw). The numbers were staggering, and Harry found himself staring at the new faces all around him in wonder and delight.

Albus Dumbledore stood, giving a welcoming speech that Harry could hardly listen to. The plates all along the Slytherin table were suddenly laden with food, and sending cascades of delicious smells straight to Harry’s stomach.

He was about to reach for the potatoes when Blaise Zabini pulled back his hand sharply, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Harry watched him nervously.

“It’s poor manners to take food from the plate until you’ve purified your hands,” Zabini explained, “May I?”

Harry nodded warily but held out his hands.

“Kathariste ta cheria!” The spell tinged over Harry’s hands, but they did feel properly clean.

With that noted, Harry looked around and noticed the other Slytherin’s shooting various but similar spells at each other’s hands. Pansy Parkinson sitting next to Blaise shot a different spell at his hands, one that Harry was familiar with ('glan' a very basic gaelic spell) and the whole cleansing of hands seemed to go up the line, left to right until the ends of the table where the seventh years were casting wandless cleaning charms on their own hands.

“Thanks, I’m Harry Fleamont,” Harry smiled, “I don’t know that spell, can you explain it for me?”

“Blaise Zabini,,” Blaise looked embarrassed but smiled back widely, “It’s Greek. It’s where my mother is from- she’s actually from one of the 14 great wizarding families of Greece – she can trace her lineage back to Aphrodite.”

“The Greek Goddess?” Harry blinked in surprise, “That’s interesting.”

“That’s more the muggle version though,” Blaise frowned deeply but shrugged, “Aphrodite was a great witch who invented love potions. She was one of the 13 founders of Magical Greece- ruling alongside the first wizard-king Zeus. The royal family of Greece is still ruling to this day.”

Harry’s eyes widened in fascination.

“Of course,” Blaise continued boldly, “My father is descended from two great houses. His father was a Sicilian noble-wizard who was an expert in sea-magics. My grandmother was a priestess of Bast from lower Egypt. It means that I didn’t really get a choice of pet really, my grandmother gave me one of the kittens from Bast’s temple and told me to leave offerings of milk on an altar every Friday.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and picked up his goblet, “My mother wants an altar made for my ancestor Aphrodite, my father wants me to keep a bowl of saltwater by my bedside, my grandmother wants me to leave milk out – there are dozen of cats at Hogwarts, I really don’t want the reputation of a cat burglar, you know?”

Harry gaped as Blaise snickered at his own joke. Soon the giggles were infectious, and Harry laughed deeply.

“So, a Fleamont huh,” Blaise wiped his mouth using a napkin, and then took a long sip from his goblet, “The Zabini’s are known for our control over elemental magics. Usually water-based, but a few of my cousins are unusually good at earth magics. Mostly working in fertility rituals to bring good harvests now, y’know? What are Fleamonts known for?”

“Experimental magics,” Harry responded promptly, “Experimentation, spell creation, general magical messing around really.”

Blaise looked incredibly interested, “That’s fascinating. How about your mother’s family? Your gradmother?”

Harry looked nervous, “I don’t really know what family my grandmother came from – just that her name was Lyra, and she was disowned. She was left a single knut as her dowry.”

Blaise looked utterly fascinated, “Lyra is a Black name if I ever heard one. You best check with either Cygnus Black – he ended up in Ravenclaw, or with his step-father, Professor Lupin-Black.”

“Step-father?” Harry questioned in surprise.

“Oh yes,” Blaise loaded his plate with food, “Terrible scandal it was. Sirius Black was married to his wife, Marlene Black from the McKinnon family. Had two children together, Cygnus and Lyra Black – which is why I thought of the Black family when you mentioned your grandmother – and one day Marlene, the wife of a Lord from a Most Ancient and Noble House, the wife of an Auror, is found with a certain mark on her arm, if you catch my drift,” Blaise pointedly told Harry, “Lord Black turned her in himself. My mother was at the ministry when Lord Black turned her in, said she was wailing all the while.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he turned his head to gaze over at the Ravenclaw table in shock.

“Little Lyra won’t be here until next year,” Blaise offered helpfully, “She’s utterly delightful – Slytherin for sure. She’s also a metamorphmagus, and possibly one of the funniest witches I’ve ever met – The Black Family and Zabini do high society get together sometimes.”

“How does Professor Lupin-Black come into the picture?” Harry asked curiously, reaching for the pies as he spoke, “I thought they were married around 1982? That would be the same year as Lyra was born then right?”

“That’s half the scandal!” Another voice to Harry’s right cut in, “His ex-wife and mother of his children was on trial for murder, torture and other crimes, and the day she went to Azkaban he married a werewolf!”

Pansy Parkinson, eyes bright with a source of gossip, slid over, and shook her short black hair.

“Pansy,” Blaise greeted warmly, “Meet Harry Fleamont.”

“Oh! That’s a good wizarding name I’d thought extinct!” Pansy greeted him back, then grew excited, “I heard you talking about Black. Do you know about what he and the werewolf have done since then? They started up a magical orphanage, basically, except they really just adopt all the children.”

Blaise shrugged, “Not really that many magical orphans. Most of us have plenty of family around to make someone in, and people who don’t usually just assign a godparent or two.”

“They’ve got, like, two orphans they’ve picked up,” Pansy stressed, “Alphard Arcturus, and Cassiopeia Lacerta Black. They blood adopted them both, into the Black family like they were really part of the family.”

Harry tallied quickly and felt faint. That name four Black scions he’d have to keep an eye on, Cygnus, Lyra, Alphard, Cassiopeia, plus Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom and-

“Blood adoption is blood adoption,” Blaise insisted, which sounded like the start of an argument he and Pansy had had time and time before, “They are members of the Black Family, as sworn before magic-“

The words between the two grew more heated, and instead of paying attention to what was shaping up to be a particularly nasty argument, Harry took a bit of everything, but kept sneaking looks at the High table where Lily Potter and Remus Lupin-Black were deep in conversation. The Bloody Baron floated over, seating next to Draco Malfoy who looked like he’d eaten a rather unpleasant something the whole while. When everyone had eaten their fill, the plates disappeared, and with only the briefest pause, the table was laden with puddings. Piles of icecream in every flavour, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam donuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding. Harry reached straight for the treacle tart and felt everything righting itself with the world.

Harry was polishing off the last of his pudding when the argument between Blaise and Pansy settled down.

“I still don’t think they know what they’re doing,” Pansy sniffed, “They’re going to run out of orphans to adopt at this rate, and then the mother hen werewolf will start making them.”

“They’re going to run out of constellations to name their kids after long before then,” Blaise retorted foully, “Besides, what I was getting at, is that if Harry’s grandmother was a disowned Black, and at the rate they’re adopting, he’d just need to ask and I’m sure she’s be reinstated and they’d set Harry a Christmas plate and tell him to pick out a bedroom.”

Pansy looked appeased, then frowned as Blaise continued.

“Besides, the Black Family could use new and more blood in their family tree. Weren’t you saying just the other day that pureblood families were having too few children, and you wouldn’t settle for less than four?”

“Well yes,” Pansy looked like she’d bitten into a foul lemon, “But it is a problem, though isn’t it. The Yaxley heir is almost sixty and he plans to stay a bachelor forever, and the Malfoy’s only decided on three which is, as I looked up, the replacement rate of the magical world. We should be growing, not staying the same.”

Harry paused, goblet raised at that statement.

“Draco has siblings?” Harry found himself faintly wondering.

Pansy snickered at the look on his face, “They’re not as bad as the self-proclaimed ‘Slytherin Prince’, Fleamont, his brother Antares is actually very sweet – he’ll be here next year – and wants to be a Healer. His sister Berenice is only seven at the moment, but she’ll be here too eventually. She’s a darling child, hair as black as night and the most regal face.”

“Huh,” Harry decided weakly, clenching his goblet and throwing back the contents. As soon as the goblet hit the table, it magically refilled, and Harry was left staring into pumpkin juice, trying to figure out if more Malfoys was something he needed in his life or not.

He’d asked death for a world with more life, with more hope. He hadn’t been thinking about what that looked like, however.

“How about you two?” Harry breeched curiously, “Any siblings?”

“Three,” Pansy stressed, “Because my parents are doing their bit for the magical world. My oldest brother Rowan is in Ravenclaw, seventh year, with my sister, Betony, third year. My brother Cinquefoil is a fifth year Slytherin like me. My brother Rowan just got engaged to Maddalena Shafiq – she’s a sixth year Slytherin and she’s promised to show me all kinds of cosmetic spells!”

“I have eleven or so,” Blaise admitted, clarifying at Harry’s wide eyes, “It’s ….complicated. I have three half-sisters from my mother, two half brothers from my dad, and then I have five step-brothers and sisters from my step-father. And then there’s Jenica- she used to be my step-sister from my mother’s last husband, but well… She’s still family though.”

“Didn’t your eldest sister Tatiana just marry the voivode Cezar Constanta? He’s Viktor Krum’s second cousin!” Pansy gushed before turning to Harry, “A voivode is basically a prince!”

“She might have,” Blaise responded wearily, “I wouldn’t know, considering my mother has taken to calling her the Tahl Ielelor – they’re Romanian female spirits which lure people to their doom. I’ve never even met her. How about you, Harry?”

Harry blinked at the sudden change of topic.

“Uh, I’m an only child. No siblings.”

Pansy tutted disapprovingly, but Blaise looked sympathetic.

“Why?” Pansy narrowed her eyes slightly.

“My father was killed a little before I was born,” Harry slowly said, “And my mother wasn’t…. She was awfully sad.”

“Tough luck,” Blaise said empathetically, and considering what Harry roughly knew of Blaise’s mother’s seven or eight husbands, all mysteriously having disappeared, Blaise probably knew grief.

Pansy’s lip thinned, “She decided not to remarry- she was one of our kind wasn’t she?”

“She was a witch,” Harry narrowed his eyes right back and then paused to quickly cobble together the biggest lie that had ever passed his lips, “She was handfastened with my father.”

Pansy sucked in air, making her cheeks comically wide.

“Oh,” She responded dumbly, “Oh! That’s terribly romantic! Oh gosh, did she really lose her magic after your father died? Oh how romantic!”

Theodore Nott craned his head over from his spot next to Pansy, clearly trying to listen in, but he needn’t have bothered, because Pansy gripped his arm tightly and shook him.

“Theo, Oh! Listen to this!” Pansy announced, and all but threw Theo at Harry.

Harry and Theo stared at each other for long uncomfortable moment before Pansy grumbled.

“Harry said his parents were handfastened and then his father died, and then his poor mother must have lost her magic!” Pansy cried, then huffed at Theo’s confused face, “Handfasting is a very very ancient marriage rite, they bind witch and wizard together as one, magic to magic. It means that you can tap into the magical core of your spouse before magic, and it links two people together completely! It was said to make you more powerful, more likely to have children with magical traits, more likely to live long lives. But it’s very dangerous. If one person dies, they can drag the other with them, or worse, lose their magic. But they say that the children of a handfastened couple are always magically powerful. No wonder your mother was sad! After losing half her soul!”

Pansy gave him an apprising but pitying look, seemingly evaluating if, when it came to wizards or witches, she should prioritise quantity or quality.

Theo looked like he was going to interject into the discussion when the pudding disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet. The Hall fell silent.

“Ahem – just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start of term notices for you…” Dumbledore issued warnings about the forbidden forest, letting them know that magic in the corridors between class was banned, that Quidditch trials would start in the second week of term, and finally that the third-floor corridor on the right hand side was out of bounds.

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!”

The song went forever, in part due to the funeral-progression tune the Weasley twins had decided to sing to. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand, even as Slytherin house grew collectively bored.

Soon they were off, being led by the Slytherin prefect down into the Dungeons, where they passed a stretch of bare, damp stone wall and muttered the password ‘Salazar’ – when a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. They entered the Slytherin common room, a long stone room with an elaborately decorated stone fireplace from which a fire was crackling loudly. On the far wall, Harry blinked and realized it was entirely glass, and he could see into the Great Lake. Schools of luminescent fish were swimming by peacefully.

“Listen up, because I am only going to say this once,” The Slytherin prefect said, a great lump of a bloke with more pimples than skin, “My name is Benedict Selwyn. My father is Lord Alphage Selwyn and my mother Lady Ethelburga Selwyn nee Shafiq. Your threats of family power will not phase me. If you try to threaten your way around Slytherin House, I will find out. If you try to threaten me with your family clout, I will personally and vindictively start a blood feud with your family, and if you are aware how the Sacred 30 became the Sacred 28, you should know why you do not want that outcome.

Head up the staircase here to reach the bedrooms. Four to a room, your names are on the door you’ve been assigned, boys on the left, girls on the right. Do not change rooms. If you are unable to be in that room, due to a family blood feud, split or elsewise, see me and I will consider all concerns on a case by case basis.

You do not want to know the consequences if you try to enter the room of another gender, and I will personally see to it that I’ll write home to your parents and let them know what a failure of an heir you turned out to be if I find out you’ve tried – and believe me, I’ll find out. Now get going! Get to bed!”

Harry stared at the Prefect for a long second, completely unsure if he liked the ‘plutocracy enforcing public good’ method this prefect was employing, but decided he didn’t want to find out, on the very first day, how exactly a blood feud worked.

Instead, already feeling tired, he’d climbed the staircase to find his name alongside Blaise and Theo, but also, unfortunately, Draco. He deflated a little at this revelation, because while he’d mostly made peace with a twenty-something year old Draco with a tiny son, tiny Draco was still an enormous prat. Harry steeled himself, and went through the door.

He was pleasantly surprised with what he found. An enormous cream rug covered the floor and was toasty-warm under his feet. Four-poster beds with deep emerald green velvet curtains were spread across the room, and angled so the bed-ends all pointed to the centre of the room. Their trunks had already been brought up. Harry brightened as he realized his bed was the closest to the door. His beaten-up old trunk looked just as dreadful next to the very expensive new trunks sported by the three pureblood boys, but he ignored them. Blaise was using his wand to shoot spells at his curtains, Theo was off in the bathroom cursing up a storm over the lack of shelves for hair products while Draco was digging through his trunk.

A tiny hairless cat wandered into the room, making a beeline for Blaise, while Draco dramatically gagged at the sight of the creature. Blaise narrowed his eyes dangerously and picked up the cat and plonked it on his bed.

Harry could barely last a few minutes, to stick up some rudimentary protection and shield charms around his bed and trunk – just in case. He stripped off his robes and folded them gently– he hadn’t the coin to buy pajamas right now, when he was comfortable wearing underwear to bed, but he quickly realized that it had only worked well enough when he was sleeping alone. He hadn’t thought ahead to being at Hogwarts.

He was indecisive enough that he witnessed Zabini strip off completely naked and jump into bed, Theo screamed about Zabini’s nakedness in his quidditch-print PJ’s, and Draco Malfoy wandered from the bathroom in an actual white laced nightgown, complete with a droopy nightcap which hung as low as his navel to yell at them both. Harry didn’t get a chance to witness this utterly perplexing scene to see the end to that feud, as he fell into a quiet slumber, green curtains wrapping protectively around his bed.

And he dreamt of a red-haired witch, still frightening alive.

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke, he awoke to a bedroom that was in chaos.

While he slept, Blaise had followed through and built three altars along the stone indented shelf behind his bedhead, as per his family customs. There was a glass bowl with a tiny magically enchanted ocean, gently waving, while Blaise carefully added salt to the waters. Beside it, a brightly painted marble bust of a stunningly beautiful Greek witch with yellow hair, Blaise’s high cheekbones and a necklace of scallop shells. Next to this bust, a tiny wooden cat walked back and forth along the shelf, darting between the items and letting out a wooden purr.

Draco Malfoy was apparently incensed over the inclusion of a bowl of milk on this shelf, which Blaise’s hairless cat Bubastis was lapping up eagerly.

“It’s just not hygienic,” Draco insisted stubbornly, still dressed in his long lacey nightgown, “To have animals crawling through one’s sleeping quarter.”

“She’s perfectly fine,” Blaise defended, but seemed to wilt as a second cat stuck its head out from under his bed and used her claws to climb up the velvet curtains to the milk, “Okay, fine, I’ll research some spells to make sure she doesn’t hurt your precious allergies.”

Draco sniffed delicately, “I can already feel my airways closing over, you best hurry before I die, here, on my first day as part of a direct murder attempt by a Zabini. I wouldn’t be the first Malfoy to be killed by a scheming Zabini-“

And that apparently set them off over Lucius’ Malfoy’s cousin Actaeus Malfoy, who had been the third husband of Deianeira Zabini, Blaise’s incredibly beautiful mother. Harry could spy a photo pinned up over Blaise’s mantle, of a tall witch with dark black eyes, even darker and thicker black hair which she left down to cascade to her wide rounded hips. The witch had dark Mediterranean skin, and Harry could see the sharp cheekbones and defined jaw which she’d shared with her son. Beside the witch was a lean man dressed in Italian wizarding finery, his skin almost as dark as his wife’s hair, with eyes that were exactly Blaise’s. He was shooting wicked smiles towards the witch next to him, while she struggled to keep a smile off her face, as she faced the camera.

The argument between the two boys seemed to be over whether Deianeira Zabini had murdered Actaeus Malfoy, or if his death had been as accidental as the other six mysterious deaths which had left Deianeira Zabini a widow seven times over each time with a growing pile of gold.

Blaise was indignant over the mere suggestion of any impropriety on his mother’s behalf.

“Can you two knock it off,” Nott interjected, as he was adjusting a stone statue on his own shelf, “I think the crux of the issue here is that Draco is jealous that the Malfoy family, is essentially novus homo, and don’t have any real heritage they can faithfully trace further back than Armand Malfoy, joining that muggle french git William the Conqueror as a pet wizard.”

Draco roared.

“Sorry that I can trace my heritage back to the Patrician families of Rome in 488 B.C,” Nott fired back, and went into a lengthy and rousing discussion why only being able to trace your trace back to the 10^th century to a muggle-loving pet wizard of a muggle king was proof the Malfoy family was barely pure blooded. Blaise glanced over curiously but continued to watch the growing number of cats (there seemed to now be three) sip from the bowl of milk, apparently content to be left out of this argument.

Harry goggled at the scene.

Apart from the constantly rousing discussions of family heritage, which Harry was starting to think was more about a centuries long squabble between the same 28 families, mixed in with obscure grudges and wizarding history.

Even while they went to the bathroom, to shower and get ready for the day, Harry could hear Nott snap at Malfoy over a Malfoy woman who had left his great-great-great-great uncle at the altar for a Parkinson bloke. While Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott seemed completely okay with chatting to him, Blaise if only to apologise for the seven cats Harry found napping on his bed that Tuesday night, Draco Malfoy was a different story.

It seemed without a lightning scar on his forehead, he wasn’t worthy of Draco’s attention, and that delighted Harry as much as anything had so far. It seemed Draco Malfoy was less comfortable with someone the less he knew about them, and so Draco didn’t deem him worthy enough of an introduction until Wednesday morning, when the blonde stuck out a hand, greeted him and told him to pass the croissants.

“I wrote to my father. Did you know we’re fifth cousins, twice removed,” Draco announced to Harry, “We share 5^th great grandparents in common through our fathers. Your 6^th great grandmother snuffed my 6^th great grandparents on the wedding day of her daughter Dulcibella and caused a raucous scene which almost had the wedding called off! A blood feud was called between your grandmother Theodosia Fleamont and my grandparents Aurelius and Melaena Malfoy. It’s been a dreadfully wicked feud because of your Theodosia who refused to apologise for her bawdy behaviour.”

Harry peered back in confusion, “Um, I’m sorry?”

Draco blinked, “Are you really?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, good,” Draco brightened dramatically, “I shall write father at once and let him know the House of Fleamont and House of Malfoy have resolved their notorious 500 yearlong feud.”

With that Draco turned and span on his chair, off to the owlery with his nose held high in the air and a skip in his step.

Blaise snorted and grinned into his pumpkin juice, mockingly responded “Are you really?”

“Well,” Harry responded, placing some bacon on his plate, “I’ve never even heard of the Fleamont-Malfoy feud before this morning, so how important can it be?”

“Ha! Draco is going to be in your debt after this,” Blaise added scrambled eggs to his plate, “His father will be awfully pleased that Draco managed to solve a 500-year-old feud in his first week at Hogwarts – Lucius will be bragging about his clever heir for weeks! If Draco upsets you now and you re-start the feud, his father will be rather upset with him. Society might just be able to make fun of Lucius for it!”

Harry considered this, feeling rather overwhelmed.

“Ah. Good?”

“I can’t wait to tell Mama about this.” Blaise responded with a dark smile.

Apart from this odd encounter, Harry’s first week at Hogwarts was nostalgic. He found himself staring around at a castle, a home, unblemished by war.

On the first morning, Professor Snape sauntered by, handing out schedules to each of the first-year students. Harry frowned at it – it was much more complicated than the one he could remember from first year. Either Hogwarts was a tad different here, or Professor Snape ran a much more helpful schedule. That thought had Harry shivering.

The core classes were still the same: Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall, Charms with professor Flitwick, Potions with Professor Snape, Herbology with Professor Sprout, Flying by Madam Hooch, Astronomy with Professor Sinistra, but Defence Against the Dark Arts was being run by Professor Lupin-Black, and History of Magic had a little star with the words ‘alternating’ which made Harry feel intently curious.

In addition to these, was a list of classes they’d be able to take in third year or above and the required grades in their classes to be able to take each course.

Care of Magical Creatures (run by Professor Kettleburn) required at least an Acceptable in Herbology in both years, while Divination (marked with yet another star) didn’t have a requirement. Muggle Studies, run by Professor Burbage needed at least an Acceptable in History of Magic.

Arithmancy, taught by Professor Vector, was only available if you scored at least an Acceptable in both Transfiguration and Astronomy in first and second year. Ancient Runes with Professor Babbling didn’t have a requirement, but it was strongly recommended to be taken alongside Arithmancy. Only through taking the combination of the two classes, with at least an Acceptable score, would a student be allowed to continue to Advanced Arithmancy in sixth year.

In seventh year, the chance to study Alchemy was offered with either Nicolas or Perenelle Flamel, if both there was enough demand for the class from seventh year N.E.W.T students, and if either one of the couple were available.

Ancient Studies was only offered to students who achieved both an Outstanding in History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts, with preference given to students undertaking Advanced Arithmancy. Harry figured it must be something similar to curse-breaking, from the way the magic fields seemed to line up.

There were also Apparition lessons available from sixth year that were compulsory.

What was rather interesting, was the list of elective extra-curricular classes available for first year students. There was an Art class on Saturday morning, followed by both Frog choir, and ghoul studies scheduled from 1:30 til 2:30 on different sides of the castle. Magical Theory was offered on Sunday at 2pm, with a note that explained any assignments completed in this elective could be used for further credit in Transfiguration, Charms or Defense Against the Dark Arts. Xylomancy was offered in the North tower Monday at 6pm, after dinner at the same time that an orchestra was scheduled to practice near the dungeons.

Harry carefully folded the schedule away but made a note to sit down and figure out what might be interesting to visit, if not to just take a look at what Hogwarts could offer.

In the first week, they’d partnered up with the Ravenclaw’s for Charms with Professor Flitwick, been with the Hufflepuffs for Herbology and were back again with the Ravenclaws for Astronomy Wednesday midnight. On a whole, Professor Sprout was as delightful as always, starting them off on the first day by having them identify and catalogue fungi. Professor Flitwick was excitable as ever, walking across strategically placed piles of books to dart between the two pews of the room.

Transfiguration with the Gryffindor’s was not at all as unpleasant as Harry had recalled from his own world.

Professor McGonagall was in her animagus form, perched on the edge of her desk when Harry turned into the classroom. Blaise was over at the desk, scratching McGonagall’s ear – blissfully unaware that she was in fact, the Gryffindor head of house – while Nott and Malfoy had claimed a seat at the very back of the room and were quietly arguing over whether Nott’s Alicanto feather Quill, or Malfoy’s Sirin feather Quill was the best. Blaise strode back to them, just to insist that his Nachtkrapp feather quill was clearly the superior choice.

Harry rolled his eyes at the spats but couldn’t quite help his lip twitching at the scene. Instead he scanned the room, and immediately brightened upon seeing Hermione Granger, setting her books and bag down at a desk in the front of the room. Hermione was far taller than Harry remembered, but he also could have been shorter than the last time around. Harry found himself having to crane his head up to look at her face. Hermione’s hair was still as thick and curly, and dark brown as he remembered, and her brown eyes glowed with intelligence. She settled down into her chair, and placed a book on the desk to her left. She was prepared with a quill in her hand and a thick roll of parchment spread ready to scribble notes down within seconds.

Harry swung into the chair on her right, and immediately saw her narrow her eyes suspiciously.

“Hello, I’m Harry Fleamont,” He cheerfully, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Hermione’s tone was flat, “What do you want?”

Harry stared back owlishly at the sudden snap, “Ah, well that’s a bit broad really. I want quite a lot of things.”

“Funny,” Hermione’s eye grew narrower, “Why are you sitting next to me. Go to your own desk.”

“I didn’t know there was assigned seating,” Harry responded cheerfully, then paused as Hermione looked uncomfortable, and quickly backtracked, “Look, I just wanted to say hello? You look nice and it’s the first week of classes, and I don’t really know anyone and I wanted to sit at the front anyway, to get some decent notes and-“

“Is this Slytherin bothering you, Hermione?”

Anthony Goldstein was suddenly besides Hermione. He was slight but tall, with knobbly knees and large knuckles on a pianist’s hands. His hair was blonde and curly, and he wore a kippah on his head. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his deep-set eyes were chocolate brown. His nose was large and crooked on his round face, and his brown eyebrows thick and messy. He held a stack of books under his arm, and with a thick roll of parchment poking out from his robe pocket. Hermione visibly brightened when she saw him, but Anthony didn’t look at her. Instead, Anthony stared down as Harry like he was prepared at any moment to dive in with either his fist or his wand.

Harry immediately liked him.

“No, he’s fine,” Hermione peered at Harry quizzically, “I think – Is - I think he’s trying to befriend me?”

Anthony blinked uncertainly.

“Hey, I’m Harry Fleamont!” Harry tried again, sticking out his hand to Anthony who looked aghast.

“Right,” Anthony responded, glancing at Hermione, “Carry on then. I’m Anthony. We’re Gryffindors.”

“Cool,” Harry responded, “I’m a Slytherin. In case you hadn’t noticed the green and silver stripes.”

Anthony flushed, “Just making sure you weren’t colourblind. And mistook us for your kind.”

Harry blinked, “We’ve literally been at Hogwarts for two days and you already hate Slytherins? That’s weird.”

“Slytherin house is full of Dark wizards,” Hermione insisted, “I’ve heard all about your house, all your pureblood beliefs, all about Salazar Slytherin. Hagrid said there wasn’t a wizard or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.”

Anthony made a face.

It stuck Harry suddenly that making Slytherin House less violent, slowing the tensions between the houses, could pay dividends in the upcoming war.

“Hermione, I’m eleven,” Harry pointed out, “Are you suggesting that being sorted into a House at a boarding school signals that a bunch of children are going to be evil?”

“There is a rather significant portion of Slytherins that were Death Eaters, and most of their children have been sorted into Slytherin,” Anthony pointed out, “History is circular.”

“Because they were raised with the same values? Ambition, cunning and resourcefulness,” Harry pointed out, “I’m not saying that every single Slytherin is a paragon of virtue, but I’m not saying that Gryffindors are either. Merlin was in Slytherin – I think I’d recall if he was a Dark Lord. At the same time, Gryffindor Yardley Platt is known to the Goblin Nation as the ‘Great Butcherer’ given that he was a serial killer of Goblins: Goblins who were fighting for the right to vote.”

Hermione considered this with a pinched face.

“He’s got a point,” Anthony shrugged, and slipped into the chair on the other side of Hermione, “It’s actually interesting, but it’s all about intent anyway. My Rabbi has always taught us that there’s no inherent evil in magic. Magic can only be used to do evil. There’s a spell – The Killing Curse – and most of the wizarding world in England thinks it’s super evil because it can only kill, but it was originally used by wizards to kill livestock as humanely as possible. There’s also a household charm my Ma uses – Scourify, and it’s used to clean, but my older sister Esther once used it on her face – because she has oily skin you see – and she had to go to St Mungos because she literally removed all the skin from her left cheek.”

Hermione looked horrified.

“Oh, she’s completely fine now! Not even a scar!” Anthony hurriedly said, “Ma was pretty angry about her experimenting with magic without letting Ma know. My oldest sister Rivka is a Healer and had everything under control quickly. Esther gets all kinds of injured trying to repurpose spells anyway, I think she’s rather proud of the whole experience.”

“That’s why we’re not supposed to do Magic outside of school,” Hermione insisted, “It’s dangerous.”

Anthony snorted, “Nah, I’m the youngest. Esther is seventeen- she graduated last year- and now she and my brother David - write for ‘The Witch of Endor’ – it’s a magical Jewish magazine which covers some pretty cool modern and historical magical practices. I have a few editions in my trunk if you want to read some Hermione?”

Hermione nodded passionately.

“Great, remind me tonight after dinner,” Anthony responded brightly, then looked around, “We’ve been here for a while, haven’t we?”

“When is Professor McGonagall getting here, anyway,” Hermione wondered, then shot a look towards Harry, “She’s our Head of House, she’s rather impressive, don’t you think?”

Harry cleared his throat and pointed towards McGonagall, “Yeah, that’s the Professor. She’s an Animagus.”

“Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Fleamont.” Professor McGonagall announced as she leapt off her desk and turned back into her human form, “For outstanding observational skills.”

Hermione and Anthony shot him impressed looks.

“Now,” She started with a severe look to her face, “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back. The students around them audibly leant forward in their chairs but were quickly disappointed when she instead turned to the blackboard. With a wave of her wand, the chalk rose into the air and made notes as she spoke.

“There are four branches of transfiguration: transformation, vanishment, conjuration, and untransfiguration. The first essay, due next week, will be a one-foot long essay on the definition and differences between these branches of transfiguration, including sub branches. You must draw upon ‘A Beginners Guide to Transfiguration’ by Emeric Switch, but I also recommend looking at ‘Magical Theory’ by Adalbert Waffling. You can find further books to support your argument in the Hogwarts Library,” McGonagall strode down the walkway dividing the room, “This year, we will be focusing on transformation. That is, the process by which we change an object from their original state into another or alters the form of them. Within transfiguration, there are four sub-branches: trans-species transformations, standard transfiguration, switching, and human transfiguration. Standard transfiguration is broken down even further, into four general categories that are: inanimate to inanimate, inanimate to animate, animate to inanimate, and animate to animate transformations.”

On the chalkboard, a family tree of Transfiguration was growing. As the chalk moved, the chalkboard seemed to grow larger.

“We will be discussing the differences between these types of magic throughout your time in this class, but for now, let me talk a little more about the four main sub-branches, firstly, switching spells,” McGonagall paced back up towards her desk, “Switching spells are spells that either switch the physical location of two items or one essential detail of an object. Can anyone tell me the name, and incantation of any switching spells, and an example of what it can be used for? Patil!”

Parvati Patil stuck up her hand quickly, “The Switching Spell, permutare, my Āī and Bābā have it keyed into our home so if my sister Padme or I walk into the house wearing our shoes, it removes them from our feet and puts on our indoor slippers.”

“Ah! Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” McGonagall awarded, before scanning the room again, finding another hand, “Etxeberria Zabaleta.”

Etxeberria Zabaleta, whose first name Harry couldn’t recall, turned out to be a pallid boy with black hair and stunning blue eyes with a red beret on his head, his robes were loose on him. Harry didn’t recognize him at all, which meant his existence or presence here at Hogwarts was a difference between universes.

“Trukatu, It’s, well a Euskara spell, it was used to transport things – or notes – between your baserri and your lehen auzo – your house and your neighbour, and it was important because traditionally most euskaldunak – Basque people – lived on isolated farms,” He waved his hands as he spoke, rambling on, “My brothers mostly use it to transport Kalimotxo between the kitchen and their bedrooms though, erm, which is a drink.”

“That’s a great – and unique – example,” McGonagall gave him a smile which made him slump over his desk in relief, sending a stream of giggles throughout the room, “Another ten points to Gryffindor. Can I have a third example?”

Hermione’s hand waved in the air, but McGonagall looked around for a second. Harry got the impression she was specifically trying to find a Slytherin student to call upon. Her eyes brightened as she managed to find one.

“Ah! Repetto!”

Hermione’s hand slunk down sadly.

Repetto was a very dark-skinned witch with vibrant blue curly hair which rippled like the ocean. She was sitting close to Pansy Parkinson, Harry vaguely recalled the sorting hat yelling out for an ‘Asturias Repetto’. Her voice was deadly calm, controlled, and Harry suspected immediately that she was an incredibly powerful witch.

“Dérasiné,” The witch responded, “It’s the uprooting spell. It was the spell that the British Ministry of Magic used to remove the wizarding community from the Chagos Islands last year. It literally grabbed us and dumped us in Mauritius, in Africa. It took a whole week to find my whole family from all over the country, and then have to emigrate to Britain, because we are British citizens. Some people are still missing, they may have appeared above the ocean and drowned.”

McGonagall visibly softened, “Ten points to Slytherin, I am very sorry you have experienced such displacement, Miss Repetto.”

Harry stared, maybe a tad longer than was polite, and when he glanced at Hermione, he found that she was white with shock.

“As you can see,” McGonagall responded after a moment, “Those were some good examples of the first type of switching spell. The second kind replaces one integral part of an object for another. Can anyone give me an example of this kind of switching spell? Potter!”

Harry twisted in his seat, stunned to find that his younger counterpart must have snuck in after he’d arrived. Little Harry was taller, with a much more solid build, and shorter hair. His tie was crooked, and behind him, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas were snickering.

“Metallassó, the exchange spell, my Uncle Sirius once used it as a prank to switch everyone’s teeth with the person next to them.”

“Hmm,” McGonagall pursed her lips, “A good example but one that never needs to be demonstrated here at Hogwarts, do you understand Mr. Potter?”

Potter’s eyes were wide as he nodded earnestly.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” She awarded, then continued on with her explanations, “Today we’ll be working with mutatio, which is a spell that can change characteristics. If you have two books, one red with spots, and the other blue with stripes, you can use this spell to change the books to blue with spots and red with stripes. It must be an equal exchange, however. To undertake the process of transfiguration, you must visualize the steps as a process. All the examples you have heard are known as static spells – which mean they are immediate and end after casting, the opposite are known as dynamic spells, which require magic to sustain them after casting. Wards are a good example of a dynamic spell, but you will find that almost all Transfiguration spells are static. The only exception is the Animagus process; you saw me turn from a cat into a person only at the start of class! Being an Animagus requires a strong magical core, able to sustain the process every second. It is enormously magically taxing – but we won’t go into the Animagus process until seventh year.”

Hermione was furiously scribbling notes while Anthony seemed to have decided to charm his quill to do it for him. Harry took notes for reference mostly, but the theory was largely familiar.

McGonagall went on, describing all sub-branches, until Hermione looked close to tears, nearing the end of her parchment.

“Okay, now all have a good understanding of the theory, it’s time for the practical,” With a wave of her wand, matches appeared in everyone’s desk, “Your task is to turn these matches into a silver needle. The incantation is mutatio – you’ll have until the end of class.”

Harry spent the next twenty minutes flipping through both textbooks assigned just to reacquaint himself with the level that was expected of him. By the end of class, only Hermione Granger and Harry had managed to get their matchsticks to a perfect needle. McGonagall had smiled at them, a rare occurrence, but hadn’t awarded any points for completing the exercise.

While they were packing up, Hermione kept shooting him odd glances, clearly waiting for the punchline.

“Hey,” Harry started, “We have Transfiguration, Herbology, and Potions together, right? Do you two  maybe want to start a study group in the library?”

Hermione considered this, “Well, you did transfigure your needle as fast as I did…”

“I was suggesting it as a social activity,” Harry helpfully responded, “You can pick my brain, I’ll pick yours. I had some private tutoring before I came to Hogwarts, so I already understand the theory behind my classes – and I think you’re a very quick learner – so together we can probably get up to at least the third-year theory doing some self-study…”

Hermione visibly thrummed with excitement but turned to Anthony. The two exchanged a series of looks until Anthony nodded.

“Sure,” Anthony said with a shrug, “I didn’t get nearly as much as you two did. Get your schedule out, Fleamont, let’s work out a time.”

After cross-referencing their schedules, they decided on Friday afternoon, after Lunch.

“We can meet in the Great Hall and eat lunch together,” Anthony suggested, “Then head to the library for a study session.”

“Can we do that?” Hermione asked, aghast, “Gryffindor might not be happy if we invite a Slytherin to our table.”

“Well, galloping gorgons, Hermione, if they have a problem with us making a friend, then we ought to having a word with them,” Anthony retorted, “Harry’s been nothing but kind. I can’t say as much about some of our classmates.”

Hermione’s lips pursed, and she looked at Anthony in a way that even Harry could understand.

 ‘Ah’, Harry realized, ‘She’s being bullied here too’.

At least in this universe, she had a friend from day one. Which was interesting, what had happened on the train to bring Anthony Goldstein and Hermione Granger closer together. There was only one way to find out.

“How do you two know each other?” He asked bravely, “You just seem very close for only knowing each other a week?”

“Oh,” Hermione waved off, “We met on the train, but we got talking and realized that my cousin Alexander goes to shul with Rabbi Twersky in Plymouth, where Anthony’s brother-in-law Elijah’s sister Hadassah attends. We’re practically family.”

It took some mental gymnastics for Harry to figure out the connection. Once he did, he blinked and another though filtered through his head. The question, though unspoken, must have been seen on his face because Hermione sighed and answered.

“I’m Jewish, through my Dad,” She shrugged but looked uncomfortable, “Granger doesn’t sound like a very Jewish name, but it was changed from Goldberg in the 1890’s. I go to a reform shul, but there’s this whole thing around Jewishness that’s a bit complicated and my parents are muggles, so they’re awfully proud of me, but it’s complicated.”

“My mum’s muggleborn so I can kinda understand, but my dad’s family have been magical since the 1300’s and we follow my dad’s Nusach and minhag mostly. Magical Judaism doesn’t really have the same kind of movements that Ashkenazi muggles have – the whole reform movement was made in the early 1900’s right? – Well, that’s not quite right, wizarding Britain and Europe don’t,” Anthony rambled, by the end he was directing his words entirely towards Hermione who looked utterly fascinated, “The American wizarding world does, mostly due to muggleborn witches and wizards starting their own movements and stuff. Ilvermony – the American wizarding school, has so many Jewish witches and wizards that they have a Rabbi on staff, and they cook almost entirely kosher food. The only other Jewish person I know at Hogwarts, besides us – I’m not going to go into halacha with you – is David Padamsee, fifth year Slytherin, oh! I have a second cousin through my mother, Elia Lwowski who’s a seventh year Ravenclaw. There’s also Ayako Suzuki in Hufflepuff, third year – but she’s on the whole apple-sauce side of the latke debate so wow.”

“Excuse me,” Hermione interrupted, “Applesauce is the only right way to do it – are you saying you think sour cream-“

 “Oh! Harry, you’re still here. Sorry about that – we better get to our next class anyway,” Anthony quickly interrupted, “This is going to go on for a while. You best escape while you can.”

Harry scooped up his books, bade the two farewell, and blinked in bemusement at following riveting discussion Hermione and Anthony were having, partly on whether sour cream or applesauce was the correct topping on a latke. He only had the faintest idea of what a latke was, in part due to his work with the warding twins Eleasar and Licoricia Belaset who wouldn’t be at Hogwarts for another three years, and their insistence that they feed him when he’d popped over their family house during Hanukkah so their youngest brother could meet the famous Harry Potter (he’d signed three copies of his own chocolate frog card, and two dumbledores.)

Next class was History of Magic, which Slytherin had with the Ravenclaws. The two new friends he’d made were still audibly bickering when he was halfway to History of Magic, intent to take a long nap in the back of the classroom.

History of Magic was different, however.

Professor Binns was nowhere to be seen when Harry strode into the room and scanned around the room for empty seats. He’d arrived, well, not quite late, but close to it. He was about to take the one seat at the front of the room – and wouldn’t that just ruin his sleeping plans, when he heard his name called and saw Pansy Parkinson waving at him. He took the seat next to her, noting that she looked particularly pleased.

“Oh, I’m so excited for this,” She gushed, “I LOVE history and I was terribly put out when my brothers told me that there was a ghost teaching the class, and that it was terrible. And then I told Draco, and Draco said I ought to do something about it then.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, I looked up which Heir Apparents of Noble Houses were attending Hogwarts this year- and I already knew of course, but I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss anyone, so I asked my Mama for a pre-Hogwarts playdate and I spoke to Theodore Nott, and even Crabbe and Goyle, I mean they are heirs I guess, and then I spoke to Daphne Greengrass who passed a message along to Madam Longbottom, and Lord Tolipan, and then they told basically everyone, anyway, all the heirs told their parents that they thought they wouldn’t be the best prepared heirs that they could be if they had to learn the valuable subject of history from a ghost.”

Harry blinked, and then looked hard at Pansy.

“You started a conspiracy to oust Professor Binns?” Harry reconsidered Pansy, “Because you wanted to study History with an actually accomplished teacher?”

Pansy nodded with a cunning smile, “Draco said his father and the school board were here over the holidays performing an exorcism. He said it took fifteen gowpen’s of salt, and a yepsen of rue to get Professor Binns to realise he was being fired.”

It was impressive, even though the idea of literally performing an exorcism to oust Professor Binns from his role was a bit much. Pansy must have caught this conflicted expression because she elaborated.

“Oh Professor Binns is fine,” She rolled her eyes and tucked her black hair behind her ear, “Honestly, the Headmaster just told him he was being reassigned to special study. He’s off in an unused classroom working on a paper about the Goblin Rebellions or something.”

Harry paused and then let out a long-suffering sigh as his plans for a nap were foiled. Then, he reconsidered that thought and frowned.

“Who teaches History of Magic?”

Pansy was about to reply when a familiar witch turned the corner, and cheerfully bounded towards her desk. Harry’s throat clammed up, and he felt himself sinking into his chair.

“Hello everyone,” Lily Potter cheerfully said, perching herself on the edge of her desk, “I’m Professor Potter, and I’d like to introduce you all to History of Magic! You can see on the blackboard, we have set topics to cover each week, but today we’re going to start with an overview on the British Wizarding World, and then we’re going to backtrack to explain why the Wizarding World is set out the way it is.”

She crossed one leg over the other on the desk and waved her wand. The blackboard suddenly expanded, taking up half the room. The list of topics were set out each week, with a note indicating tests to be completed weekly. Some weeks also had names next to them.

“As you can see, we’ll be having guest lecturers come in during certain weeks, to give special instruction in their area of focus. Most of the time, you’ll have class with me,” Lily brightened, “Now first, can I please have everyone introduce themselves?”

The class went around, introducing themselves to Lily who looked very determined to know everyone’s name. Harry could barely stutter out his name before Pansy beside him introduced herself as ‘Lady Pansy Parkinson, from the Most Ancient and Noble House of Parkinson’ which escalated amongst the Slytherins to Draco Malfoy, who introduced himself as ‘Master Draco Malfoy, Heir Apparent to Lord Lucius Malfoy of the Noble House of Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire’ to eye-rolling from the Ravenclaw side of the room.

“That actually can get us on track for our first topic of today: the Wizengamot!” Lily brightened, “There are 53 active seats on the Wizengamot which are hereditary. Which means, you must inherit them through a blood-related parent. These seats can be best understood as either: Unilineal, or Bilinial.”

Harry leant forward in his seat and frowned. This was entirely something he didn’t know. He scrabbled for a quill and hurriedly started to take notes.

“Let’s start with Unilineal seats: these are seats which are either matrilineally-inherited, or patrilineally inherited. A matrilineal seat is where a daughter inherits a seat from a female relative through her mother’s family, usually from her mother, but she could also inherit from her mother’s sister, or aunt. These seats are matrilineal, because the House that owns that seat is Matrilineal. Does anyone know any matrilineal houses?”

A few hands went up, but eventually Professor Potter called on Daphne Greengrass.

“My House, Professor,” Daphne responded, “The Most Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass. Apart from us, there is the Most Ancient and Noble House of Abbott, and Prewett, and then the Noble Houses of Slughorn, Cardigan, Abernathy, Colquhoun, and then the Baronet of Wewyss. All of those are the active members of the Wizengamot, anyway.”

“Ten points to Slytherin, Miss Greengrass,” Lily smiled, “She is right of course. The Wizengamot actually has 126 seats – many are inactive, or extinct. For example, the House of Goldsmid holds a matrilineal seat, but last was active in 1786 with Adelaide Goldsmid, she only had a son, who had since only had sons. When a female child is born from the inheritance line, from the current head of House Goldsmid, the seat will become active on her 17^th birthday.”

Harry stared back in increasing interest.

“Now, patrilineal seats! I trust you all understand it is an inheritance to a son from his father, or male relative through his father’s line? Good! Can anyone name a patrilineal House?”

Ravenclaw Bernard Alsace was next, “Well, the Shafiq, Rosier, Lestrange, and Rowle are a few.”

“That’s great! Ten points to Ravenclaw!” Lily walked towards the blackboard, “Those are the two ways that a unilateral seat can be allocated. We also have Bilineal seats. These are seats that do not have a gender requirement for a seat to be held. Does anyone know of a bilineal seat?”

Malfoy raised his hand, looking rather chuffed.

“Well,” He drawled, “There’s the Noble House of Selwyn, their heirs are their eldest child, regardless of gender. There’s also the Noble House of Wood, which has an election process where they nominate a successor to take the seat, and every adult witch or wizard bearing the surname Wood has one vote.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin,” Lily praised, though Draco looked torn between being pleased and looking affronted at the whole situation, “There’s also one other way that Bilineal seats can function – where you must inherit through both your mother and father. Does anyone have any examples?”

There was mummering, but none raised their hand.

“Ah,” Lily’s smile grew, “It’s tricky! There’s only one house who still requires both parents to come from the same House. The Most Ancient And Noble House of Gaunt. Typically, it means that they must marry their cousins in order to be able to control their seat. When the Wizengamot was formed, there were thirteen other seats that functioned like this – but all have become extinct, from either marriage outside the house, or from infertility issues arising from close inter-marriage over generations.”

Harry stifled a laugh.

“Okay, now we’ve worked out the inherited seats, let’s talk about the elected seats! These are seats elected by the Ministry of Magic. There are 25 active elected seats, does anyone have any idea about the role you can be elected into, or why you can be elected? I’ll also throw in an extra 5 bonus house points if you can name an elected member of the Wizengamot!”

“Headmaster Dumbledore!” Terry Boot called out excitedly, “He was elected as the Chief Warlock. That means he helps run the meetings and can cast the deciding vote when meetings end in a tie. He was elected because he defeated Grindelwald!”

“Fifteen points to Ravenclaw!” Lily called cheerily, “He’s completely right. You can be elected due to outstanding service to the Ministry, and serve up to three, ten-year terms as Chief Warlock. Any others?”

Mandy Brucklehurt was next, “Gertrude Jigger? Um, I’m a muggleborn so I really don’t know but I think I read about her in The Daily Prophet? I think she was just elected as the Court Scribe? It was important, I think.”

“Don’t worry,” Lily responded with a small smile, “I’m muggle-born too. You’ll quickly learn about the whole new world you’re in. You’re completely right! Gertrude Jigger was elected as Court Scribe, and it was important, because she’s the first squib to be elected to the Wizengamot! We’ll learn about the squib-rights movement later this month.”

Mandy visibly sagged in relief.

“There’s also the British Youth Representative,” A squeaky voice pipped up from across the room, “It’s  held by Joan Cerfberr but she’s turning 17 on July 15^th next year, so she’ll no longer be eligible.”

“Thank you, Cygnus,” Lily gave a thumbs-up to the small Ravenclaw, and doled him out fifteen points, “Which brings me to the next point. The selection process for the next British Youth Representative is open at the moment, and Hogwarts is allowed to submit four names for consideration. The requirements of this are a good understanding of wizarding history, patience, and the desire to advocate for all magical youth. If you get any detentions, or fail any classes, you will not be able to submit your name for consideration. Preference will be given to students with high achieving marks, because next year if successful you’ll be managing both your schoolwork and Wizengamot work. See me after class if you’d like further information.”

The rest of the class, a double, went in a whirlwind as his mother started at the founding of the Wizengamot, listing every wizarding family originally part of it, and described the changes in its structure until she reached the current day. She went over how laws were made, passed and voted on, and the various elected seats. She even managed to talk about the Minister for Magic (Fudge again) and how average wizards and witches could vote for the Minister For Magic every six years. By the time class ended, Harry had scribbled over both sides of his parchment and was kicking himself for not bringing more.

As soon as class ended, Cygnus Black shot up from his chair and was straight over to the Professor’s desk. Harry stared longingly at Professor Potter but clenched his jaw at the nauseous feelings swirling in his stomach, and the breathless feelings paralyzing his lungs. Instead he dutifully followed Pansy out from the room, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone ground.

‘I’m fine.’

That night, Harry was curled up in the Slytherin common room with a book from the library boasting to be a detailed overview of Wizarding History in the Magical World. Something told him he needed to find the point where this world diverged from his own, if only because the life abounding around him was starting to cause a pressure at the back of his head. It didn’t seem fair that he had grown up in a world, with less magic, less life, more suffering, more death. If he found that divergence, maybe then he could understand why the world was all the more wonderful. Maybe this point could be used to make his own world more vibrant, or worse, maybe this divergence meant that Voldemort would be all the harder to kill here.

He didn’t know what he’d do if that divergence point was something like Voldemort deciding not to make so many horcruxes.

It was here, in the common room by the fire that he overheard a conversation that made his fingernails dig into the wooden arm of the couch.

“-My parents were muggles, you see,” A tiny voice said, “And they were very religious and they thought that I was possessed by a demon when I did accidental magic.”

Harry moved his head just enough to see a gathering of second year girls next to the glass wall showing the underbelly of the great-lake. Bio-luminescent fish were swimming across in schools, sending a magical glow across the common room. The girls had blankets drawn up around them, and mugs of hot tea spelled to stay warm.

“I mean, I don’t want to talk about a lot of it,” The girl admitted in a small voice, “First Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall came to deliver my letter and explain to my parents, but my parents were so angry and so – I don’t know how to explain it. The professors charmed my whole family to forget anything about magic and to ignore any accidental magic. It was better that way.”

The other second year girls tittered out comforting words, and pressed hands on the speaker’s arm and legs.

“It turned out that my dad was actually a squib though,” The girl continued, “And at first the charms held and my parents just believed that I was going to be attending a prestigious boarding school to be prepared for the most prestigious colleges – but my Dad turned out to be a Squib, and Squibs have just a little bit of magic in them, just not much, and it wore off and my Dad was so very very angry.”

The girl’s shoulders hunched and drew in upon herself, “Professor Snape came back very quickly. He said when muggleborn’s first touch their letters, well, the letters have a charm on them to monitor our health to make sure nothing happens to us from when our muggle parents know we’re magic. I’m – I’m okay, but Professor Snape  Obliviated my whole family to forget me, because it was too dangerous for me to stay there. And it works, because my family only came here a few months ago, so no one knows us, and no one will remember me.”

Harry’s throat closed.

“It’s – I mean -,” The girl sighed, “I don’t know how I think about it just yet, but Hogwarts gave me a Mind Healer – I just sort of talk to her about what I think, and – I understand why it happened. I miss my younger sisters, they were never mean to me like my brothers and parents were, but, it’s okay, Mind Healer Kaur says I’m allowed to be angry, or sad, or scared, or anything, but I’m not? I’m just, nothing, I guess. I’m just grateful I’m here at Hogwarts, I just don’t want to think about it too much.”

The girls mumbled quietly, until Harry had to strain to hear.

“No no, that’s why I decided I had to be a Slytherin!” The girl insisted, “Because Professor Snape saved me, and I’m staying with my Aunt Nadia – she’s my dad’s sister, and she’s a witch and she’s awesome.”

Harry froze for a very long time, until his body was shaking with that relevation.

Had his own letter been charmed? If it had been, did that mean Hogwarts had decided to forsake him? There’d been quite a number of frying pans flung at his head, slaps about his head and missed meals between when he first touched his letter, and when he’d gone to Hogwarts. He remembered being so hungry that his belly had stopped aching stuffed in his little cupboard for three days after the snake at the zoo incident.

He wasn’t sure if it was worse that his world didn’t have the charms, or if it did.

Harry tried to focus on his breathing, calming himself down, and went back to the history book to distract himself. He was shaking as he read, and he instinctively moved closer to the fire, after prying his fingernails loose from the wood. He was still shaking, but no longer on the verge of tears when he found it.

The divergence point between their worlds.

His vision started to grow black, and his lungs forgot how to breathe, he struggled for many long seconds, his chest heaving and he felt bile rise at the back of his throat. He felt sick to his stomach, sick to his soul, and he wanted to throw up and cry in equal measures.

“31^th October 1981: Peter Pettigrew, aged 19, was tortured to death by Death Eaters. Lord James Potter, then Head Auror, spoke at a Wizengamot meeting (Meeting 14,785) declaring that Peter Pettigrew had been the secret keeper for the Potter family’s home in Godric's Hollow under the fidelius charm, and that Peter Pettigrew had died rather than betray the secret. Peter Pettigrew was post-humoursly nominated for an Order of Merlin, third class, which passed 112-57. Peter Pettigrew was buried in Upton Snodsbury in his family plot, and was survived by his wife Marcia (now deceased) and daughter Amelia Pettigrew Potter – who Lord James Potter adopted in respects to the loyalty shown by his deceased friend.”

Harry shook and shook and shook. He was getting odd looks by the time he used every piece of strength he had to stumbled up the stairs to his dorm and threw himself into bed. His curtains snapped shut, and Harry lied there for a long moment, just shaking with feelings he couldn’t interpret.

Lily Potter?

The letter charm?

Pettigrew?

Harry’s eyes went dark and he struggled to breathe, until finally, finally something snapped.

And he cried himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts, and Harry could have quite happily thrown himself off the side of one by the time Friday dragged around. It wasn’t like it would cause any harm; the cushioning charms wrapped around every staircase was perhaps the most practical thing the wizarding world ever created.

Possibly the only practical thing.

The fundamental problem was that pretending to be eleven years old was about as pleasant as he’d expected, and he was spending quite a lot of time doing spectacularly well in class and then giving as little of a response that he could. There were things that had changed that he couldn’t exactly put his fingers on – the language mostly. Slang that had fallen out of use, butterfly clips in every girl’s hair, and naivety of children that wasn’t easy to fake. It was much much harder to pretend to be a decade younger, in a decade he’d mostly forgotten.

By the time Friday hit, he was ready to throw himself off the side of a staircase to ask Death if there was a nice world that needed a twenty-five-year-old Harry Potter, rather than an eleven-year-old Harry Fleamont. To add to this stress, as a ‘raised in the magical world’ wizard, Slytherin seemed to expect that he knew offhand knowledge about pureblood culture, trends and general wizarding knowledge. What he did know, was one universe away and fifteen years too early to be of any help. The first week at Hogwarts then, had Harry pretending he absolutely knew why Pansy Parkinson was joking to Daphne Greengrass about Danish wizards using hebenon as ear drops, and exactly why the entire house of Slytherin seemed unnaturally fond of Scottish rugby.

The result was that Harry was in a poor mood when he awoke on Friday morning. The stress of suddenly being thrown from a life of quiet weekend gardening and occasional Auror bouts, into a world where everything was a-okay (if you ignored the disembodied spirit of a narcissistic genocidal racist) didn’t match up to the effort of waking up at 6:30am in order to shower in peace, gather books and be down to breakfast on time for 7:30. It was an enormous undertaking when his three roommates seemed hellbent on ending every night with a genealogy themed discussion around ancient family disputes. The more nights Harry witnessed, the more he was convinced that it was just one big family drama that grew more ridiculous, convoluted and pettier with every generation.

Thursday night featured a rather dramatic assertion between Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini centring around a duel to the death between a Nott and Zabini circa 300 A.D over a very pretty witch from the Blishwick family that ended with both men dead and the Blishwick witch marrying a muggleborn which started the Tremblay family. The whole affair apparently ended with five blood feuds and the loss of several limbs.

While the two were arguing – and Harry was beginning to think that family-based arguing was a delightful wizarding pastime – Harry was flicking through a note that Professor Snape had sent every single first year. The note, delivered on Thursday morning, was a list of textbook chapters to read before Potions Class. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs, who had a double Potions Thursday afternoon, has less time than the Slytherin and Gryffindor class on Friday morning. The list was basic; the first two chapters of ‘Magical Drafts and Potions’, and the first twenty pages of ‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi’.  It was only good fortune that Harry was flicking through books with information he’d long ago memorised, that saved both Blaise and Theo from being hit with a silencing charm somewhere around 10pm.

To avoid the morning continuation of the argument, or risk having to put up with sitting through another, Harry left the dorms an hour earlier than he would have liked. His schedule was light; just a double Potions Class, followed by lunch and then a free afternoon before dinner. To prepare for the day, Harry had found himself thoughtfully rummaging through his belongings, setting aside parchment, self-inking quills, the notebook he’d brought for himself in Diagon Alley, and his copies of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions. Once set aside, he dressed, and frowned at the robes – although since expertly cleansed by the house elves, still faded, threadbare and reaching the end of their days. Other students had brought an array of book bags to help them carry their belongings throughout the day – but it had been something he’d overlooked in his haste to get everything ready, and a consequence of limited finances.

Harry sighed, tucking his materials into his robe pockets, and hefting his books into his arms when he paused. The room of requirements, he realised with a jolt. A huge weight fell of his shoulder as he exhaled in relief – a huge trove of things left by students over centuries might just be the solution to a short-term problem – surely amongst the junk, there would be a single bag for him to take.

That’s why Harry ended up pacing on the seventh floor, across from the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls. He walked by the blank wall three times concentrating hard on what he needed, turning sharply between the window and the man-sized vase.

I need the room of lost things, Harry thought desperately, I need to find all the objects that have been forgotten.

A highly-polished door appeared, and Harry slumped in relief, even as he reached for the brass handles and ducked into the room of things lost. The room was an utter mess of objects lost since the very founding of Hogwarts – haphazardly piled up in great big heaps that swayed side to side. Harry stood near the door and eyed the piles with a grimace. The search went for much longer than he wanted – but he found a dusty leather satchel that he gratefully stuck his books in and threw it over his shoulder. A further quick search yielded a handful of knuts and sickles, that he cheerfully stuck into his pockets, and a pair of thick woollen socks. A more extensive search only yielded dust on his robes and a collection of chocolate frog cards, useless junk and a collection of textbooks and journals. There wasn’t enough time this morning to properly dig through the collection for things he could use – or sell.

Do wizards have garage sales? Harry wondered aimlessly.

This was a weekend project, best completed when he’d have a day to comb through and figure out how to help finance his impromptu cross-dimensional visit. Combing the room also brought up a new concern – somewhere in this room might be a horcrux. Figuring out how to successfully contain and destroy a horcrux had to be next on his list – mixed in with the several other million things on his list.

It was with this in mind that he sauntered down a little early to Friday breakfast with a bit of a slump to his step and collapsed into the first open spot he could find. He inhaled deeply against the wood and tried to organise his thoughts. There was a lot to do, that he wouldn’t be able to do until the weekend. There were simply too many eyes keeping track over the first-year students, lest any of them get bamboozled by the stairs, get caught in Peeves’ shenanigans, or generally lollygag around the school. On the weekend however, it wouldn’t be remiss for a first-year student to head to the library to do some much-needed last-minute research for a parchment or two.

Firstly, he needed to finally get some research under the way to figure out how magical containment would or could work. It wasn’t like he’d come here with an exact magical standard of measurement, knowing that he’d need exactly 10 magics to jumpstart his own world – it was generally more of a feeling that he needed to bring back Some Magics. That might mean research around what exactly, magic was, and the idea of the train of research that he might need to do just to understand the complexity of his own task made Harry’s head spin.

There was no use in making a problem more difficult than it needed to be though – there very well could be a portable magic battery device native to this universe that he could easily buy on Diagon Alley.

Harry could hope at least.

Although breakfast was an ordeal that didn’t officially kick off until 7:30, there were a few people milling around the hall: a cluster of Ravenclaws, and the odd Slytherin or Hufflepuff at their respective tables. The uniform seemed to be a bit more relaxed than his own world; with a few more colourful headpieces, and jewellery over uniforms. Although, Luna Lovegood had famously worn a colourful array of earrings, scarves, glasses and hats – so perhaps it was just this world permitted a little more expression than his own had.

Harry stared blankly at the table for an uncomfortably long time, until the hall filled up. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t quite recall what he had been thinking about during the time he had spent waiting. Typically, his Auror career didn’t require him to be in the office until 9, and more often than not he could be found sleeping in until 8:30. The major downside to being eleven years old again, was the early hours and late nights – breakfast was still at 7:30 even if you had class from midnight until 2am at the astronomy tower.

As it were, Blaise, and Theo didn’t make it down to the hall until a minute before breakfast was started; this time they were at relative peace, and Blaise stuck a Slytherin scarf over Harry’s neck as he sat. Harry gratefully coiled it around his neck again and shot a smile at the wizard. Draco and his entourage of Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy arrived seconds later.

Once it hit 7:30, Professor Dumbledore kicked off the morning with his general zany antics, and the process of cleansing hands at the Slytherin table started around him. After, Harry dug in quickly, adding a whole array of sausages, eggs, toast and tomatoes to his plate alongside a nice cup of tea. He all but inhaled the first cup, still hot, just to kick himself a little more awake. Fortunately, the teapots were charmed to refill your teacups, and the sugar cubes did a happy dance across the table onto his saucer.

“What’s first up?” Blaise asked, while adding kippers and eggs to his plate. Theo beside him paused mid-scoop from porridge tureen, and Draco frowned across from them while digging marmalade out of a jar. Harry was already halfway through a sausage when Draco responded.

“Double Potions class with Professor Snape. He’s my godfather, and possibly the finest Potions Master produced in wizarding Britain since Roger Bacon – It’s a shame we must share the class with the Gryffindor’s though – a complete and utter waste of magic all of them.” Draco sniffed, “Of course, here’s to hoping that one of them melts a cauldron. I could use some entertainment around here.”

Harry frowned.

Crabbe stuck his fist into the sausage plate and quickly piled them all on his plate, to the dismay of other Slytherin’s around him.

“How are you going with McGonagall’s essay?” Blaise continued, ignoring Draco and his bodyguards, while adding spinach to his plate, “I’m referencing the work of Abraham Abulafia in mine – he was an ancestor of yours Theo, wasn’t he? – and honestly I’m so grateful that mother insisted I have private tutors before Hogwarts.”

“I’m looking at Ramon Llull’s transfiguration work,” Theo replied, “Father brought me a really useful book on Majorcan wizardry when we holidayed there last summer. I think it should be finished over the weekend – we have the afternoon off if you want to trade off parchments and correct mistakes?”

“Hmm,” Blaise nodded in agreement, then frowned at Draco’s rather put out look, “What is it now Draco?”

“I said that Professor Snape is the finest Potions Master AND my godfather, and you don’t even have a comment for that Zabini?” Draco tried to adopt a stern expression that looked remarkably like Lucius Malfoy but stopped short of utter loathing. Goyle stopped his careful endeavour to build a mattress-thick pile of bacon on his plate to look stern.

“Right,” Blaise responded flatly, “If you need me to stroke your ego, it’ll be at least a galleon an hour – that’s what your daddy dearest is paying Crabbe and Goyle right?”

Draco, to his credit, didn’t take the bait, but huffed and slide down the table closer to Crabbe and Goyle in a remarkable show of restraint. At the last second, Draco perked up and looked skywards.

While Harry blinked in surprise, he noted that hundreds of owls were started to swoop down into the hall, delivering letters and packages alike to excited students. Draco within seconds had an incredibly expensive looking owl preening herself while Draco untied a hefty care package.

“Git,” Blaise responded but not without a little fondness: he took a dainty sip of his coffee, grimaced and then brightened as an extremely elegant owl swooped, and landed on his shoulder, “Ah! Sabah al-khair Ashtaroth!”

Harry watched the beautiful tiny owl for a long moment, wistfully thinking of Hedwig. The owl – Ashtaroth – had large striking orange-yellow eyes and mottled plumage. Her head was tawny and densely marked with black and creamy streaks and blotches, while her torso was a pale cream with fine reddish vermiculations on her belly and legs. Harry could roughly place her as an eagle-owl but couldn’t quite tell if she was a desert eagle owl or a pharaoh eagle owl. Owl identification wasn’t exactly his specialty, no matter if he could roughly tell what kind of owl, an owl usually was.

Blaise kept up a steady stream of Arabic to the bird, who nuzzled him when he offered her a piece of kipper. He collected the letter, tucked it away in his robe, and didn’t send the owl off until Theo was pulling at his robes to go to Potions class.

Potions class, rather inexplicably, turned out to be one of the best classes that Harry had ever been to. The first year Slytherin’s went down as a group to the dungeons, entered silently and orderly and were thus greeted warmly by Snape, while they set up their kits on the right side of the room. Harry immediately was pulled towards Blaise who stuck a thumbs up motion just in time to watch Snape’s face dramatically sour when the herd of Gryffindor’s slammed into the room with heavy enough footsteps to rattle the creepy jars of pickled animals. Snape started the class by taking the register, going through the list of both Slytherins and Gryffindor’s without further comment. When he’d finished, without undue fuss and vindictive bullying, Harry wondered for just a second if it were possible, if the starts had truly aligned in a miracle to produce a likeable Snape.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes,” Snape continued in his low quiet voice, an eerie duplicate of the speech his own Snape had given him decades ago, “…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even stopper death.”

Snape was still unhealthily pale, with greasy hair and a general disposition that he didn’t like children – but his cheeks were less sallow, and he looked less aged by stress and regret. There was something else that struck Harry, something he couldn’t quite put his fingers on, until Snape called his whole class dunderheads, and rolled up his sleeves to begin writing on the blackboard.

Harry couldn’t help but stare in fascination at unmarked skin.

“I am Professor Severus Snape,” The Potions Master punctuated each word with a pause, “In this class, you will address me as Sir, or as Professor Snape. Is that clear?”

A chorus of affirmation followed his words.

“Very well,” Snape’s cold grey eyes scanned the room, “I will not tolerate dangerous activities, and ignorance in my classroom. If you fail to complete the weekly readings I set, fail to complete an assignment, or insist on acting the fool in my classroom – I will ban you from entering my classroom and mark your non-attendance. I will not tolerate tomfoolery in my classroom. Is that clear?”

Another chorus of affirmations followed, and Harry couldn’t help but straighten in his chair. Snape’s mouth twisted, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Very well, time to see if you have completed the readings I set. I suggest you all write this down.” Professor Snape’s lip curled, “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood? Malfoy!”

“The draught of the living dead, sir,” Draco responded smugly.

“Very good, Malfoy – a point to Slytherin,” Snape’s eyes were scanning the room even before he finished speaking, “Where could you find a bezoar? Finnigan?”

Seamus withered in his chair, “Uh, I don’t know sir.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, “Didn’t do the readings Finnigan?”

“Uh, no sir,” Seamus flushed bright red, “I didn’t have time for it.”

Snape hummed, “Five points from Gryffindor, Finnegan. A point for lack of time management, a point for failing to complete readings, and three points for lying to me. I know you were given 24 hours to read 24 pages; 12 of those being illustrations.”

Seamus sunk further into his chair, beside him, Dean Thomas looked furious. Snape seemed to narrow in on that fury with ill repressed glee.

“Now, for those less incompetent – What is the difference, Thomas, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Dean grit his teeth, “I don’t know sir.”

“Also ‘too busy’ to complete your schoolwork, Thomas?” Snape responded dryly, “Can any of your classmates help you out?”

Hermione’s hand flung up in the air, and Harry couldn’t help but grin at her visible desperation to prove she wasn’t a dunderhead. Snape’s cold eyes looked straight through her, ignoring her quivering hand. Anthony Goldstein dropped his shoulders and desperately tried to make himself smaller next to her.

“Potter, can you assist your classmate?” Snape called. Harry felt himself jolt from his bones up, until his brain caught up to Snape’s line of sight, looking straight at eleven-year-old Harry James Potter. Next to him, Neville Longbottom was flipping through a textbook frantically.

“Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, it’s also known as aconite, lycotonum, devil’s helmet and queen of poisons,” Harry Potter responded quickly, but with a smile.

“Very good, Potter – a point to Gryffindor.”

The sight of any Severus Snape, awarding points to any Harry Potter was enough to utterly confuse Harry. Even more so, when Harry Potter sent the Potions Master a smile that seemed completely genuine. It was with the sudden image of a weekend visiting Uncle Severus Snape visiting the Potter residence haunting Harry’s thoughts that the Potions master started rapid firing questions at Slytherins and Gryffindor’s alike – doling out single points for correct answers and removing multiple points for lack of answers.

Harry was barely coming to terms with the concept of ‘Uncle Snape’ when the Potions Master turned his attention to one Harry Fleamont.

“Fleamont,” Snape called, with eyes that seemed colder by the moment, “Name three potions that incorporates henbane into their base ingredients – and explain how they are different from a standard pure henbane distillation.”

“Draught of Bad Fortune which causes bad luck uses a combination of henbane, mandrake seeds, deadly nightshade petals and datura extract; Philtre of Dream Inducement which causes waking dreams, requires distilled henbane seeds, crushed henbane leaves, and concentrated henbane juice combined with the scent of a wildflower; and the standard cleansing tonic which is a fumigant for potion cauldrons made of brass, pewter or crystal – made with specifically black henbane with mugwort.”

“Five points to Slytherin,” Snape paused, “The Philtre of Dream Inducement, however, was not included in either required reading.”

Before Harry had a chance to respond, Snape continued barking questions around the room, until even Hermione had an opportunity to answer a coolly levelled quiz about why the moon phase mattered in dittany harvesting. The results weren’t brilliant by any means – it seemed that more than half the room hadn’t completed the readings for the week or were unable to answer the questions if they had. Neville Longbottom, lightning bolt scar and all, looked utterly miserable and sat silent in his chair while growing more and more red the whole while. Little Harry next to him nudged him and whispered something into his ear.

Snape looked utterly frustrated by the whole ordeal.

“Well, why aren’t you all copying this down?” He turned a cool voice to the whole class, who scrabbled for parchment and quill.

Snape then set everyone into pairs, where Draco grabbed Harry by the arm and directed him over to a pewter cauldron. The instructions for a basic boil-cure went up on the blackboard in a wave of a wand, and Snape demonstrated basic techniques once to the class before telling them to get to it.

Draco was a better partner than Harry had ever scored in potions, and they set about dividing up the task of weighing dried nettles and crushing snake fangs in a mortal. Malfoy insisted on selecting the ingredients – claiming he had an affinity for selecting the best elements - from the pantry but seemed happy enough to let Harry do the weighing and crushing aspects. After adding 4 measures of the crushed fangs to the cauldron, and waiting for it to heat, Draco waved his wand, and then cast tempus. He seemed satisfied enough, and noted down the time on his parchment. Then, he cast a ‘Proeidopoíise me thirty-three’ and tucked his wand back into his robe. Harry didn’t recognise the spell, but he didn’t need to ask.

“Blaise taught me it after you went to sleep on Monday night,” Draco responded brightly, “It’s a spell which makes your wand vibrate when you want it to – you just have to add the number of minutes you want after it. Very clever, I think. Mother uses a different spell, of course, but it’s awfully noisy, and this one just makes your wand vibrate.”

“Very clever,” Harry responded dutifully.

“How did you know about the Philtre of Dream Inducement, anyway? It wasn’t in the textbooks – and Professor Snape made note of it,” Draco started, then perked up, “Do you have a study group? Did you have private tutors? Or are you hoping to be a Potions Apprentice so you can be a Potions Master like your Father?”

“Erm,” Harry said, suddenly reminded that the only thing he knew about his fictional father was that he was a Potions Master, “Just reading I guess – I like to know how things work.”

“Ah,” Draco said sagely, “Your family affinity for invention, I guess. I asked father all about the Fleamont family, and he said he was very excited to see what you do when you graduate. For a very long time everyone thought the Fleamont family was gone – and had taken their affinity with them. Sure, some families are good at specific kinds of invention – Professor Snape’s mother was a Prince, and the Prince family have always been known for Potions and Potion creation, but that’s a specific affinity that isn’t really about invention.”

“Ah, yeah.” Harry responded, and glanced at the board quickly to confirm that yes, he did now need to wait between 33-45 minutes waiting for the potion to finish brewing in the first stage, “Well.”

“That’s why we should be partners all year,” Draco concluded, “Afterall, everyone knows that the Malfoy affinity is being discerning. We’re able to select the best of everything – the best meals, the best clothes, the best choices. We’re very astute you see – and my mother is a Black – so I also inherited a small amount of the Black family affinity too. Combinations of affinities are always so interesting.”

“Is that how we’re related?” Harry asked curiously, “I think my father’s mother was a Black, but she was disowned.”

Draco looked scandalised, “Not a chance. Once someone is disowned, they’re disowned. Father said we share 5th great grandparents in common; that’s Septimus and Dulcibella Malfoy. It’s very simple really; Aurelius Malfoy and Malaena Malfoy – she was a Goyle before she was married – had a son Septimus and he married Dulcibella Fleamont. Dulcibella was the daughter of Ulric and Theodosia Fleamont – but Theodosia had been a Selwyn and you know how Selwyns can be.”

“Right,” Harry responded slowly.

“So Septimus and Dulcibella had a son, Nicholas and Nicholas’ son was Lucius the first, and Lucius’ son was Brutus, and his son was Septimus the second, and his son was Abrasax, and his son was Lucius the second – who is my father. Very simple there,” Draco brightened, “Now you can trace your side two ways. So firstly, Dulcibella’s father Ulric had a brother Reginald who married Thomasine Shafiq, and their son was Archibald, whose son was Hardwin the first, whose son was Cuthbert, whose son was Edric, whose son was Hardwin the second, whose son was Joseph, whose son was George, and whose son was your father, George. So then we could trace our common family tree back to our 7^th great-grandparents Athelstan and Ethelreda Fleamont.”

“We could,” Harry looked around furiously for a distraction, but Snape was too busy snapping at Seamus and Dean for butchering their slugs.

“That’s the easy way though,” Draco’s voice grew louder, “The shorter way is through Septimus and Dulcibella Malfoy directly. Their daughter was Euphrasia Malfoy – who invented self-knitting needles – and she married Roderick Longbottom, and they had a son, Algernon Longbottom. Algernon’s daughter was Philomena Longbottom and she married Desmond Bulstrode and one of their daughters was Wilhelmina Bulstrode who married your great-grandfather Joseph!”

Harry blinked rapidly, “How do you remember all of this?”

Malfoy preened, “It’s the family affinity. We know the best things. And we choose the best friends.”

Malfoy stared at Harry under long lashes that seemed to judge him. Whatever found, Draco seemed to find him acceptable because he nodded, and pulled out his wand that seemed to be buzzing like a bee in his hand.

“It’s about time to add the horned slugs,” Draco announced, “I’m going to take the cauldron off the fire as soon as they’re in. Be ready to add two porcupine quills quickly. Don’t mess this up.”

As soon as it was done, Draco stirred the cauldron exactly five times clockwise and waved his wand, to a bright puff of pink smoke. Snape seemed to appear just at the right moment to praise the potion, which meant Harry got a front seat to Snape’s sudden rage as a cloud of acid green smoke filled the room and a loud hissing reverbed the walls.

Seamus and Dean stood up on their desk, clutching each other as thick pus-filled boils started erupting from their skin. Their cauldron was melted across the floor, dripping their potion across the floor where it was sizzling and eating into the stone, and people’s shoes. As soon as the rest of the class yelped and jumped onto stools and benches, Seamus and Dean had dropped again to the floor, collapsing in pain as the boils reddened.

“Finnigan! Thomas! What exactly did I just tell you about adding porcupine quills to the cauldron before taking it off the fire?!” Snape hissed, waving his wand to vanish the potion and cauldron, “Fools.”

Snape swirled to Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter, who were standing in their socks atop their stools; shoes half melted on the ground.

“Potter, take these two up to the Hospital wing,” Snape all but spat, “Longbottom, complete your potion and when you leave, take your classmates belongings back to your dorm. They will remain there, far far away from any of my classes ever again until your delinquent friends serve a detention scrubbing cauldrons with me, Friday night, 6pm sharp.”

Potter half dragged Seamus and Dean from the room in his Gryffindor striped socks, urgently whispering to the two who were moaning pitifully. Harry braced for the inevitable explosion of fury, but Snape just pinched the bridge of his nose and walked back to the front of his desk, muttering darkly under his breath. Draco eyed him curiously but didn’t say anything while he decanted the potion into crystal phials, labelled them in neat cursive and walked to the front of the room to present them to the Professor.

“Full marks to Malfoy and Fleamont,” Snape announced, holding the vial up to the light with an impressed look, “You may work on the homework until class ends if it pleases you; I would like at least a foot of parchment on the Wiggenweld Potion. You will be expected to collect asphodel, dittany and wiggentree bark in order to brew the aforementioned potion next lesson. If you do not collect those ingredients, or fail to harvest them properly, and safely, you will not be able to brew during that lesson, and I do not allow makeup sessions.”

“Can we work together Professor Snape?” Draco asked curiously, “On the research component, not the essay itself.”

“If you please,” Snape drawled, then frowned and turned on his heels to snap as Parvati Patil’s braid dropped into her potion – the girl yelped and would have upturned her potion if Lavender Brown hadn’t dove across the isle to stabilise her cauldron.

As Harry climbed out of the dungeons an hour later, he was in remarkable good spirits. Draco beside him was keeping up an endless stream about his mother’s potion skills, with Blaise and Theo at their backs still scribbling down homework on parchments. They made it to lunch to the sound of Theo’s gurgling stomach, and barely had time to go through the rituals of hand cleansing before Theo was heartily adding a lamprey pie to his plate with great gusto. Harry reached for a chicken sandwich when Blaise snatched his hand away.

“Ah, might not want to do that,” Blaise suggested lightly, “Try a Cornish Pasty – they’re really very good.”

Harry extended his hand past the plate of sandwiches, and picked up a pasty, suddenly awake of a few eyes glancing over to look at him. When you placed it on his plate, he made a show of casually filling his and Blaise’s cup with pumpkin juice.

“What was that about?”

Blaise considered Harry, “I don’t need to know how exactly you were raised – it’s none of my business. But you can’t go about making such dramatic declarations without considering what kind of consequences there will be for all your friends.”

Harry floundered for a second.

 “You really don’t know do you?” Blaise looked aghast, “Harry, sandwiches are a muggle invention.”

Harry blinked, “Right.”

Blaise pinched his nose, then looked morose, “Your father died when you were young, right? So, your mother raised you, an effective squib after a hand fastening, raising a magical scion to old wizarding house. Did you ever get etiquette training? Any run down on current politics? Harry, can you tell me, right now, who the three major factions are in the Wizengamot and where the Fleamont family has traditionally sat?”

“Erm,” Harry blanked, “We haven’t gone over that in Professor Potter’s class yet?”

Blaise’s eye twitched, “Right. I think you should let me tutor you, so you don’t cause a political crisis within Slytherin.”

“Over a sandwich?”

“It’s not about the sandwich,” Blaise looked increasingly frustrated, “It’s – look. The answer to the question of major factions is Pendle, Assizes and Kyteler. My family has its roots in the Assizes which existed alongside the Wizard’s Council, which was dissolved when the Ministry of Magic was created. The Assizes was essentially the Wizengamot before the Wizengamot was founded.”

“The Assizes are a neutral party?” Harry confirmed, taking a swig of his pumpkin juice, “So Pendle and Kyteler, which one is conservative, and which one is progressive?”

Blaise sighed, “That’s a muggle idea of politics. It’s very complicated, and I’m still trying to understand how it all works out. I don’t know a whole great deal. It’s Mother that sits in the Zabini seat until I’m of age. The only experience I’ve really had, was helping mother craft a law about magbob children.”

Harry blinked, “What’s a magbob?”

Blaise stared back incredulously, “A witch or wizard born to a muggle?”

“Oh, a muggleborn?”

“That’s a political word,” Blaise replied promptly, and Harry could hear strong undertones of his mother’s words in his voice, “Look – if someone is a magbob, they belong to the magical world. They were born somewhere else, but they found us in the end. Muggleborns are magbobs that are still loyal to the muggle world. You just best know where someone’s loyalties lie if there’s another outbreak of witch trials.”

“What does this have to do with a sandwich exactly?” Harry replied, feeling a headache forming behind his eyes.

“The statue of secrecy was made in 1692, before that more of less wizards and witches and muggles just sort of got along, afterwards we secluded ourselves and now we don’t mix with muggles,” Blaise paused to take a big gulp of pumpkin juice, “And we ought to stop pretending that we’re the same as muggles. We’re different and we have different cultures. So, people who align with Kyteler swear off using muggle inventions made after 1692 in order to preserve the magical way of life. Pendle is mostly all about mixing with muggle sorts, and Assizes don’t really care.”

“So no sandwiches?” Harry responded incredulously.

Blaise shrugged, “Slytherin is big on traditionalism. You’ll have an easier time if you at least try not to make any big political moves at the lunch table.”

Harry frowned, “You’re neutral though – what do you think about it?”

Blaise bit his lip, and suddenly Harry had a dawning of realisation that Blaise was still just an eleven year old kid, being quizzed about matters he really didn’t understand in their entirety.

“I think it’s not so easy to decide,” Blaise paused, “So, my mother has two mothers and no father. In the muggle world that isn’t really an okay thing. In the wizarding world it is. When my mother was in school sometimes, she had muggleborn children pinch and kick at her because of that. And some muggleborns believe my mother deserved to be hurt because of her parents - so if we let things change just because muggleborns want them to change, then the wizarding world would be a worse place. It’s always been Kyteler that demands we don’t change those things. But Kyteler is also the reason that You-Know-Who waged a war, and I’m not saying that there’s not some bad stuff there too. I can also see Pendle being right sometimes – radio’s are such a cool idea, and it’s not like we’re just becoming more like muggles by having them. Radio’s don’t work around magic, so some witches and wizards invented a whole new kind of magic – technomagic, to make them work, and now we have wizarding musicians that are becoming more known. So, we’re making sure our culture is there for everyone to listen to, and not just people who can afford to hire musicians. But Pendle was a big supporter of Grindelwald and they want an end to the statue of secrecy you know.”

“So you’re saying that Assizes is the best way to go?” Harry concluded, only to frown at Blaise’s head shaking.

“My family has always been neutral because it works for us, but I can also know when we haven’t always been great,” The wizard bit his lip again, and Harry could practically see his mind whirling, “We sometimes don’t take a side, even when we should take a side. We always vote against any kind of Wizengamot idea to help muggles – even when it’s famine or war. We care about the Wizarding World surviving, and we value us more than muggles. But, sometimes helping them can mean we might be safer in the future.”

Blaise straightened his back.

“This is a lot to talk about,” Blaise sighed, “Can we talk about it tonight? Mother gave me a few books to read up on this year, they might be able to help you? I just don’t know how to really tell you all about this. It’s not like I’m an expert or anything.”

Harry felt a wave of relief fall over him.

“I’d really appreciate that Blaise,” Harry grinned at him, “Thanks for letting me borrow your scarf at breakfast by the way.”

“You can keep it,” Blaise shook his head, and reached for the potatoes, but his voice betrayed a little concern, “It’s not really from me anyway. Pansy has been knitting all week with her wand, and we noticed that you didn’t have anything warm. You should probably thank her though.”

Harry felt a funny shoot of warmth rush down his spine.

“Thanks Blaise, I will,” Harry muttered back, for a lack of what else to say, “…You know, you rode on a steam train to Hogwarts, right?”

“The inventor, Richard Trevihick was a wizard of good character and standing,” Blaise defended with a grin, “Ask Draco about him; I’m sure he’ll be able to find a way that we’re all related to him anyway.”

Harry managed to eat two Cornish pasties, a large jam doughnut and two goblets of pumpkin juice before he was fully sated. He glanced around the table for Pansy, but she was notably absent – but Harry had been a slow eater today, and many students had left the hall for classes or to relax during free periods.

What he could see, was Hermione Granger and Anthony Goldstein over at the Gryffindor table perking up as they caught his eye. The two waved, and Harry jolted with embarrassment as he realised, he’d forgotten about the study session he’d invited them to on Friday afternoon. With that realisation, he rose to stand only to hear a humph across the table – Draco Malfoy looked particularly cross.

“It’s usually polite to talk to everyone at your dining table Fleamont,” Draco retorted, crossing his arms, “Not even a goodbye. Were you raised by werewolves? Were you born in a stable?”

Harry wavered for a minute, torn between heading off to Hermione and Anthony, and maintaining this new found cordiality between this Draco and himself.

“Sorry,” He decided on, “I promised that I’d join a study group after lunch, and I don’t want to be late.”

Draco perked up, “Very well, I’ll join you. I suspect you’re going to the library, and that’s very fortunate because I also need to study.”

Harry considered this for half a moment before blanching.

“It’s uh, with some Gryffindors.”

Draco looked scandalised, “You’d rather study with a bunch of knuckle-heads than your own, clever and cunning and ambitious Slytherins? Ravenclaws I’d understand. I’m still coming – what if two of them see a book they both want, and they decide to wizard duel in the middle of the library like a bunch of idiots. I have to come now, just to make sure you don’t get incriminated in some pointless Gryffindor honour theatrics.”

The blond boy stood and whirled around the table in determination, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. Harry could feel the growing tension radiating throughout his body when he left Blaise to finally enjoy his long-awaited lunch, next to Theo who was still inhaling pork chops and casserole at an impressive speed for someone his height. Draco was at Harry’s side, with Crabbe and Goyle behind them, looking horrified by Gryffindor table manners when they reached Hermione and Anthony.

“Harry! Do you want to sit with Anthony and I? We’ve finished eating but if you need to sit and eat, we can wait a while! You’re still coming with us to the library afterwards, right?” Hermione fussed.

Anthony rolled his eyes, “Hi, I’m Anthony Goldstein – and you are?”

“Draco Malfoy, and this is Crabbe and Goyle,” Draco drawled, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. You’re related to Esther Goldstein, right?”

“My sister,” Anthony confirmed.

“Ah,” Draco noted, “A very talented writer, my mother reads her column in The Daily Prophet, and says your sister’s section on repurposing spells is very useful.”

“Oh,” Hermione floundered, “Hermione Granger.”

Draco looked curious, “Are you related to Hector Dagsworth-Granger? The Potioneer?”

Hermione frowned, “Oh certainly not, I’m muggleborn.”

Draco looked intrigued, “Ah! A magbob – you know, I’ve seen you in class, you’re pretty clever – but everyone knows that magbobs are usually pretty powerful and adaptable. Either you’re first of your name, or you’re from a squib line that’s returned to magic. You should investigate that, just in case there’s any old Gringotts’s vaults or magical family artefacts lying around.”

Harry stared unblinkingly, incredulous, but Draco didn’t notice

“I’ve heard some magbobs have a faint affinity,” Draco shrugged “– might also explain that if they’re squib-born.”

“An affinity?” Hermione asked curiously, her fingers twitching for a quill.

“Family speciality,” Draco chimed back, “They either express as innate magical traits that can’t be learned, like being a metamorphmagus – a natural shapeshifter, or languages – like parseltongue, or with magical specialities – Fleamont here is from an inventing family, Goldstein’s are known for defensive warding. You can’t change an affinity – they’re like having curly hair or green eyes.”

Hermione looked fascinated.

“It’s the trade off really,” Draco continued, “Magbob’s are always generally more magically more powerful, but you can’t beat an affinity. I’m always going to hire a Goldstein when I have a need for a defensive warder, because they’re better at that specific magic.”

Hermione frowned.

“It’s not a personal thing,” Anthony jumped in quickly, “It’s a matter of magical inheritance; with an affinity you aren’t an all-rounder, so you might be terrible at some things, but your magic is set to be brilliant at certain magics. My family has an affinity for defensive magic in general really. It all sort of has to do with magical core shapes and sizes and all – but it’s a bit complicated. It’s sort of why wizards tend to marry people who have roughly the same affinity.”

Hermione perked up, “That sounds interesting. I’m sure there will be a book or two on that in the library, right? How do affinities form? I mean they have to come from somewhere?”

Draco shrugged.

“Huh,” Hermione bit her lip, and scribbled down some words on her parchment, “Do you want to join us? I’m sure you’re welcome. I’m warning you though, I’ve had enough Slytherin’s telling me all sorts of regressive pureblood beliefs this week, and I’ve learned three whole hexes that I’m prepared to use.”

Harry felt a smile quirk at his lips.

Draco’s eyes darkened, “Certainly, I’ve heard of enough Gryffindor muggleborns telling Slytherins all kinds of regressive muggle beliefs. There’s a second year Gryffindor muggleborn that keeps jeering at Daphne Greengrass – you should be hexing him first.”

Anthony rose his hands peacefully, “Dad, uh, always said never to bring politics, religion or money into friendly conservation. You’re still welcome to join us, but can we just study?”

With that noted, the group headed off to the library, making Harry feel even more like he had absolutely no idea what was going on.

-

Magbob: (noun) A witch or wizard born to non-magical parents, with no known magical heritage.

The first thing Harry did after lunch, was to covertly find a dictionary amongst the shelves. He was starting to think he’d permanently need one by the end of his time here. There was no definition given for ‘mudblood’ – and he’d checked three different dictionaries to make sure. There was, however, a definition of ‘blood traitor’ (noun) a person who betrays wizarding kin, and a definition for ‘pureblood’ (noun) a traditionalist magical person, who is not a squib. That sent him to ‘halfblood’ (noun) a magical person, who is not a squib, with one muggle and one magical parent.

 Which meant, he had absolutely no idea what exactly the wizarding world was conflicted over. Why there had been a Voldemort here to begin with escaped him, if pureblood supremacy was an alien concept that meant the turning point might have been further back than Peter Pettigrew (and boy did that make Harry’s heart do a weird twist). But what caused Voldemort to arise? Sure, he could see the structures for anti-muggle sentiments, but unless Voldemort had gained power on a platform of muggle genocide – and somehow, he just couldn’t fathom that, it seemed ridiculous.

With this new bunch of information in mind, Harry went digging for an eclectic array of history books. He didn’t emerge from the thick of Madam Pince’s bookshelves until Harry had so many books, he’d resorted to levitating them behind him. He’d made an assumption in a whole new universe, that pureblood beliefs were constant, a cross-dimensional norm, but if each universe diverged, changed, then change would produce new and different outcomes. So, what constituted pureblood beliefs in this universe?

When he returned, his floating books stacked themselves neatly beside his desk with a flick of his wand. Hermione’s lit up wide at the display, full of ambition and hunger, but she didn’t chase up the incantation. Instead, she was paying attention to a conversation blooming between Anthony and Draco Malfoy.

“-it’s interesting you see,” Anthony was saying, “My mum’s muggleborn, but my dad is from an old wizarding family. They met in Australia actually, my dad was contracted by the Australian ministry to help ward some sacred sites against muggle mining efforts. The muggles there have absolutely no respect you know – no problem just knocking down a 30,000-year-old sacred site to stick up a road. My mum was on an expedition with Newt Scamander -he’s an old family friend – and they were hunting a Billywig when it gave them the slip and bumbled its way onto my Dad’s warding site. The rest is sort of history. Mum’s from Quebec, in Canada though – Which is still administered by the French Ministry in Quebec. There’s no pan-Canadian Ministry, it’s sort of a mix between the French Ministry in Quebec, the independent Council that covers Alaska and the Yukon, the Nunavut Ministry that also covers the North Western Territories, the British Ministry sort of deals with Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and Labrador but mostly leaves them alone, the Canadian Ministry just goes from British Columbia to Ontario and even then mum just says it’s a figurehead government for the American Ministry. What do they know though, because the American Ministry went to war against the independent Texas Ministry and they lost. The Texas Ministry is unbelievable.”

Draco let out an interested noise, “The French Ministry is such a bother to deal with.”

“The Canadian Ministry isn’t in Quebec?” Hermione interjected, “Do magical borders look vastly different from muggle ones then?”

“I’ve never seen a muggle map in my life,” Draco looked affronted, “Why should I care where a bunch of muggles have stuck up a fence?”

Anthony jumped in soothingly, “So, no, Wizarding societies don’t follow muggle ones exactly. We’re not the magical version of a country, we’re a different country sharing the same space. We just have the ability to magically expand our space, and make sure we don’t have to interact with each other.”

Hermione visibly vibrated, “Is there a magical map I can see?”

Draco shook his head, “No maps – I’m not sure how you could plot down magically expanded space on a flat surface – and some ministries share some space, and some ministries are linked together. It’s all based on intermarriage between wizarding families, political changes and so forth anyway. It also depends on when, and if, a statue of secrecy went up. We’re not going to stop being British just because we decided we were better than muggles and didn’t have to associate with them. The Sentinelese Wizards just killed off their muggle population and any muggle who tries to go to their island. An idea, isn’t it? But the wizarding world has been a global community long before muggles figured out there were multiple continents. We’ve been friendly neighbours for thousands and thousands of years.”

Hermione ignored the barb but looked like she’d only held back the retort by the tip of her tongue, “Really.”

“Yes,” Draco retorted back, “Isn’t that right? Crabbe, Goyle?”

The two let out noises of affirmation, but Harry could see their robes pockets were bulging with sweets and pastries from the lunch table. It was fifty-fifty really, on if they were agreeing with Draco, or just appreciating their snacks.

“Well, Wizards can apparate,” Harry cheerfully added, “It’s like teleporting but it makes you feel sick. I always end up heaving – when I uh, side-along. You can’t apparate until you’re 16, and you have to go for a license and learn because you could end up splinching yourself and loose a leg or two along the way if you’re not careful.”

Hermione looked absolutely revolted by the idea, but leaned forward, “How far can you apparate?”

Harry looked thoughtful, “It’s an accuracy thing, really. The further you go, the more likely you are to get lost. If you knew where you were going, and you’d been before, You could start on the tip of Cornwall and get to the most northern part of Scotland pretty easily, because it’s over the land and you could probably just follow muggle roads if you got lost. But if you want to get to France from London, you’re better off taking a portkey – which is a, uh, an object spelled to get you somewhere. Water can mess up your sense of direction, but if you wanted to apparate, and I guess it was at low tide, and you could see France, you might be able to make a little jump across. It’s also a politeness factor – most Ministries have alerts set up to detect international apparition.”

Hermione scribbled down ‘apparate’ and ‘portkey’ to her ever-growing list of things to research. Harry could make out the words ‘Gamp’s laws’, ‘centaurs – research ALL mythical creatures’ and ‘wandlore’.

“So,” Hermione snapped back to it, with an endless hunger for information in her eyes, “Wizards invented globalism. For how long? What are other countries wizarding worlds like?”

“I’ve already told you,” Draco shot back, “We’re not the magical version of muggle countries – we’re our own communities.”

“Well you don’t have to be so RUDE.”

“Mum said the Australian Ministry – well, it’s not really a ministry like we see it,” Anthony paused, “The Australian Ministry is a massive hall with representatives from about 300 communities – Australia has about that in different nations – and then there are communities representing non-wizards – they had a Bunyip-mermish war about a hundred years ago that means the Mermish and Bunyip populations both have separate representatives, rather than a general waterways representative.”

“Dylan Marwood, right” Harry interjected cheerfully, “I have his chocolate frog card.”

“Sounds about right,” Anthony shrugged, “The Australian Minister for Magic is just an ambassador, that mostly just visits other magical communities around the area like Aotearoa and Atlantis. No executive power like Fudge has – And they’re a separate Ministry, and so Australian muggles are under the Queen still, but Australian magicals aren’t.”

Hermione looked like she didn’t know where to start, but dutifully noted down ‘atlantis???’ on her parchment before picking a pathway of questioning, “Are there Wizarding Royal Families??”

“Muggles and wizards still have the same royal family, but we only answer to them if they’re magical. Most Royal families have intrinsically tied their bloodlines to their sovereign land through complicated geomancy; bad things will happen if they don’t stay in power – but it also depends if a royal is magical or not,” Harry replied, “I’m – really not an expert in royal magics though – but Egypt is a good example though – Magicals were the ruling Pharaohs, and when they stopped ruling after the squib Cleopatra died without an heir according to their traditions, Egypt had plagues and famines.”

Hermione stared back speechless, “Is the Queen a witch?”

“No,” Draco retorted back, looking a tad bored of endless questions and answers, “But the royal family became magical when Elizabeth Wydville married into the royal family line. Elizabeth Wydville’s mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg was from an old wizarding family which was founded by Siegfried of Luxembourg who lived about a thousand years ago, and he was a son of the famous witch Melusine. She has a chocolate frog card; I’m sure plenty of Gryffindors will have one. One of her grandsons is a magbob though. Private tutors though, as you can imagine. Unlikely to ever see him on a throne, though.”

Hermione perked up, and then went back to the book open in front of her.

Harry slid into a seat and glanced around curiously, “Draco, have you considered being a genealogist? I’m pretty sure you could recite everyone’s parentage back to the dawn of time if we gave you a weekend to practice.”

Draco shot him a long-suffering look.

“I still haven’t figured out who your mother was yet,” Draco’s eye narrowed, “I have my suspects. It would be much easier for you to just tell me.”

Harry looked away, with rising panic, but almost shook with relief when Hermione interrupted them.

“Oh! Harry, read this!” Hermione declared, “The unlocking spell, Alohomora was created in Africa, and means ‘friendly to thieves’ in the West African Sidiki dialect used in geomancy! It was brought to England in the 17^th century by Eldon Elsrickle, and he was a thief who terrorised England until Blagdon Blay invented a counter-charm! It was used by magicals to escape the chains of muggle slavers! Isn’t that so interesting!”

“That’s interesting.” Harry responded promptly. Even as Hermione spoke, she was furiously scribbling down notes.

Hermione paused, then glanced at him earnestly, “Do let me know if I’m bothering you – it’s just that I’m so excited to be learning magic and reading all about this, is so fascinating!”

“I will,” Harry responded with a fond smile, “I, uh, like learning things.”

Hermione beamed back, “Good! That’s a very mature trait to have. Schoolwork is very important and learning even more so. Did you know that Michelangelo was a wizard, and he painted the Sistine chapel while levitating himself using a wingardium leviosa cast on his paintbrushes?”

Hermione was primed to continue when Madam Pince rounded the corner and gave them a severe look. Hermione went beet red and cowered under the look, in utter mortification. Harry ducked his eyes down and grabbed the first book on his pile to maintain his look of studiousness.

“Sorry madam Pince,” Harry faintly heard Draco say, “We were just discussing the Wizarding library system so my magbob friend here could understand how the catalogue works. My father uses the same system in our library at home, of course.”

Harry peaked up to find Hermione’s beet red face flush even further.

“That was a close call,” Anthony quipped, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

 “I can’t get in trouble in my first week!!! – and not with a librarian – I’ve always been nothing but the best of friends with librarians!” Hermione moaned, and hid her face in her hands, “But what kind of cataloguing system does Hogwarts actually use? I thought they ought to have been using the Dewey Decimal system but there’s hardly any kind of sense to this mess!”

Draco’s eye narrowed, “You can hardly expect wizards to use a muggle system.”

“The catalogue is by subject and keyword,” Anthony interjected, “You can either go and find the wardstone – it’s usually a lecturn in libraries, and I’m sure Madam Pince would be happy to direct you – and you state what you’re looking for as specifically as possible and it gives you the best options, or you can manually search the shelves. If you’re manually searching, wizards don’t really have concrete subject matters – there’s sometimes not that much difference between a Herbology book and a Potions book and a wizard cookbook. But you’ll be able to find generally what you want – and then they’re catalogued by date of publishing or republishing.”

Hermione looked annoyed.

“Wizards and Witches change their name pretty regularly,” Harry interjected, feeling completely out of depth, explaining something to Hermione Granger, “So categorising by name isn’t always helpful. Muggles publish a book and then it stays under that name, but many books have spell work imbedded into the cover that changes a name if someone gets married, or divorced, or starts a House – but that hasn’t happened in a while – or just decides to change their name really. It’s like – a software update on a muggle computer– that affects all the books published in each lot. I think some instead put the spell work into the letter tiles used in the printing presses instead – so books can be constantly updated rather than need a new edition published – those are usually more expensive and more in-depth books though.”

Hermione paused for a second before she started scribbling down more information on her parchment, growing more and more frantic every second.

“How am I supposed to know everything,” She frantically said, eyes wide and welling with tears, “There’s so much to read about, and I don’t have time to read everything – how do you know all this?”

“Eleven years of living here,” Anthony shot back, “Look – I’ve told you that my mum was a convert to Judaism right. It was really confusing for her, and it’s like a whole different world, and she had to learn a lot of new stuff – new words, a new culture, new ways of doing things, new traditions. It’s basically the same for muggleborns. Now, you’re lucky because there are so many magical cultures, and you can be a part of a bunch of them, or one of them. Some of them aren’t really so different, but they are different.

“That doesn’t matter,” Hermione insisted, “I have to study hard and learn, and – and it’s not like I can take a class to learn this.”

“You’re literally in a school Granger,” Draco drawled, with a smirk.

“Oh- Oh hush you,” Hermione snapped, “Only schoolwork, not anything like – like how the library works, or that books update themselves, or that wizards and witches have been internationally travelling because they can teleport.”

“Apparate,” Draco corrected, because he didn’t have a single self-preservation bone in his body. Harry grit his teeth, even before Hermione whirled on him.

“See! I can’t even get that right!” Hermione wailed, then clamped her hand over her mouth, “And now Madam Pince is going to kick me out and I’ll never be allowed to come back to the library and I’ll never learn anything, and I’ll be kicked out of Hogwarts.”

Malfoy looked faintly interested to see what that would be like, but Anthony was frowning deeply. Harry let out a silent exhale. It took less than a second to evaluate Hermione, and Harry couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for her panic. His own Hermione Granger had once told him, long ago, that she’d felt lost and adrift when arriving at Hogwarts. She hadn’t made friends until after Halloween but had taken solace in the one thing she did have – her cleverness. But this time around, Harry had been easily outstripping her in classes, and in Potions he and Draco had finished the quickest, with the best end product.

Without meaning to, he’d taken away the one thing she had found solace in, and he’d done it without the mountains of research that she was clearly putting into her.  That was her fear, not being good enough, not deserving her place in the magical world.

“Hermione,” Harry said softly, “You don’t need to know everything – no one is going to think you’re less of an amazing witch just because you can’t recite The Tales of Beedle the Bard off the top of your head. You’re hardworking, and brave and inventive and cunning and ambitious. It’s a steep learning curve, but you’re going to exceed expectations – not because you only have value in your cleverness, but because you’re wonderful and you’re already a great witch. You’ve got over a hundred years to learn and become the terrifyingly powerful all-knowing Witch you want to be, okay?”

“What exactly, is The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” Hermione softed before half a second before refocusing on the new information, “And just what exactly do you mean over a hundred years?”

“Wizarding life expectancy is about 200, But I’ve met wizards over 700 years old before,” Draco helpfully added before adopting a look of faux concern, “I’ve heard muggles only live to about forty. They have about the same life expectancy as my father’s hunting hounds. Imagine being outlived by a dog.”

“That’s not true,” Hermione snapped at Draco before sighing and glancing down at her parchment list to add in a few more dot points, “Why did no one think to mention this to me? See? How I am supposed to relax, when I don’t even know basic things like how long I’m going to live? Now, someone tell me what the Tales of Beedle the Bard is?”

“Wizarding fairy tales for wizarding children,” Harry helpfully added, “There’s a copy in the library if you want to read about the warlock’s hairy heart, The Tale of the three brothers, the fountain of fair fortune.”

Hermione looked utterly pained by the new research she’d decided to add to her list. Instead of further questioning, she shut her jaw so hard it clanked her teeth together and she flew up from behind the table, parchment in hand, to research her life away.

Crabbe and Goyle raised their heads long enough to watch her walk off in a huff.

“She’s a bit high stung for a magbob isn’t she?” Draco observed plainly, earning a sharp look from Anthony.

“She’s dedicated,” Anthony suggested lightly, “She’s had a hard week. I think she just needs time to read and learn – she’d right, really. We have a muggle studies class, but we don’t offer a wizarding class for muggleborns who want to learn basic wizarding knowledge. My mum didn’t know any household charms; how to knit sweaters, scrub pots, sweep floors, de-gnome gardens – she only learned things because my grandmother taught her. “

Draco drummed his fingers together, “I’ll write to my father at once. He’s o the Hogwarts board of governors you know – there used to be wizarding etiquette lessons when my father was at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore removed them. But, I’m sure if I take the concerns of a magbob straight to the board of governors, they won’t be able to ignore the pleading calls of hostages who desperately want to re-join their own kind.”

“Hostages?” Harry questions incredulous.

Draco looked at Harry in surprise, “What else do you call witches and wizards being forced to stay in unsuitable and dangerous muggle homes by muggle-loving blood traitors? Forced, just because they share a tiny bit of blood. As if blood overrides magic. They should be placed in proper wizarding families!”

“Right,” Harry responded in a flat voice, “If you’re going to just make stupid remarks about muggles you can just take Crabbe and Goyle and go back to lurking about in the dungeons. Can we just study together in peace, and talk exclusively about homework? You invited yourself to the study group, and if you can’t play nice and behave for a few hours, I don’t get why you aren’t off bothering Theo or Blaise.”

Draco flushed an ugly red, “Look Fleamont, I don’t take orders from you. I’ll do as I please.” Draco sniffed delicately, and Harry not-so patiently waited while Draco inspected his fingernails,

“However, in this case I’ll do you a favour – but you have to agree to let me join your little study group whenever I please,” Draco concluded primly, eyeing Harry speculatively, “Father will not be pleased if I’m not excelling at Hogwarts. I have eyes Fleamont, I can see that after an entire week of classes, you’ve barely put in any effort and you’re top of the class. You’re either enormously talented, a studious wizard, or both.”

“Look, stay, go, whatever you please,” Harry retorted, “Just understand that there are rules to being here. Now, what exactly do you want help with?”

“A Malfoy doesn’t need help, Fleamont,” Draco snapped, “I’m here for the company, that’s all. Can’t have you becoming poorly socialised by the likes of these.”

By the time dinner rolled around, Harry didn’t get much study done. He finished all his essays quickly, with tiny neat writing that betrayed his years of experience holding a quill. It was with remarkable ill-luck that Harry didn’t manage to snag a copy of the Daily Prophet until he was back in the Slytherin common room, curled up next to the fire with a blanket dragged around his shoulders. He managed to catch up to Pansy before she’d ducked upstairs to see to something ‘momentously important’ in the girl’s dorm, to earnestly thank her for the gift. She seemed surprised, but pleased by his candor, and point-blank told him to expect a pair of mittens soon, if only so she didn’t have to keep seeing his tiny blue hands.

Harry was left was leafing through the Daily Prophet casually, just noting general happenstance to keep in mind, when he came across the article.

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST, the headline blared, and Harry exhaled in annoyance. Again, a break-in at Gringotts on the 31^st of July, again nothing of value taken, and again, the vault had been emptied earlier that day.

The stone is at Hogwarts, Harry thought grimly, and then proceeded to go straight to bed.

Chapter Text

Harry slept in on Saturday, because he was both a full-grown adult who could do what he wanted, and a growing eleven-year-old child who desperately needed a good rest.

As it were, when he finally woke up, it was about an hour until lunch, so Harry dutifully cleaned himself up, and then dressed himself in the single sweater, shirt and jeans he’d arrived in.

The house elves had cleaned them and returned them neatly folded atop his dresser, with a slight alteration: they seemed to have hemmed the cuff of his jeans and cut down the sides, so they fit around his waist without looking like Dudley’s hand-me-downs. They felt much softer and looked less destroyed than they had been after he’d shot a bunch of spells at them and tried to clean them in Madam Rosmerta’s sink. The feeling of fresh underwear too was now a luxury he’d never take for granted again. The first order of business would to secure an owl order form and replace enough of his wardrobe that he could exist without someone trying to send a howler to his fictional mother. He’d only brought with him, the pair he’d been wearing when he’d arrived – and hadn’t the foresight to buy more – not that the magical world often wore such garments.

Harry could just make out a row of neat stitches along them hem on the cuff of his sweater where the turquoise patch had started to fray. The cobalt blue of his sweater, straight from Molly Weasley herself was the only reminder of home, true home, that he’d managed to take with him. He draped his best cloak around his shoulders, the best a bachelor wizard could buy, made of dark grey wool, and felt the chill of the air a tad less. The house elves also seemed to have taken offense to the woollen socks he’d rescued from the room of requirements, because they’d darned the heel, and polished his shoes. Even the Slytherin scarf Pansy had made him looked much more handsome after a thorough cleaning.

Most importantly, the house elves had taken the time to clean up his satchel, repair the inside lining, polish the brass rings and snap-closure, and return it to the end of his bed. He dug out the textbooks, filled the bag with parchment, his self-inking quill and notebook, and was starting to feel a bit better about his whole ordeal when he finally left his dorm in search of food. He was certainly starting to look less of an eyesore.

He made it down to lunch, to inhale a quick meal of sausages and chips, before stuffing a handful of strawberries and a huge chunk of nut brittle into his cloak’s pocket and downing an entire goblet of pumpkin juice. Within an hour of waking, Harry had made his escape to the library, ducked into a not-so frequented alcove and pulled out his notebook.

Firstly, he needed to fabricate the name of his mother.

She’d have to have been born around 1950, preferably with a family that had died out – just to stop real family popping up and discounting his claims. Without getting access to a certain genealogy book that wasn’t available for loan, in a private library in the middle of Diagon Alley, there was no way to strategically search who was close enough to his bloodline that he could gain access to their vaults if need be. That left a shot in the dark, and so Harry ended up combing through years of census records, writing own lists of names that seemed promising, and then cross referencing against reported deaths in the post-war census, and Hogwarts records. It was tedious work, and often Harry though he’d found a lead only to realise that a witch or wizard had fled the country and left no record – a thread too precarious to pull at just in case it yielded an angry, very alive witch. There were, however, many witches who were reported missing, and never surfaced after the war.

When Harry sat back in his chair, about two hundred and fifty witches deep into his search, he only had four viable candidates. None of them was an ideal as he was hoping.

Beatrice Reidy born in 1951, a Ravenclaw seeker who had almost single-handedly brought Hufflepuff to victory for almost four years straight – but had barely graduated. There was not much available on what she’d done during and after the war – just a note that she’d taken an apprenticeship in thermaumalogy, making cauldrons in the north of Scotland. She’d taken a very public anti-Voldemort stance, and had been reported missing following an explosion at her workshop only a few weeks before Voldemort’s downfall. eternity.

Evangeline Carrigan born in 1952, home-schooled. She’d apparently written several key texts surrounding Arithmancy texts using a base-12 standard, rather than the typical base-10 of European Arithmancy, but Harry didn’t have the foggiest idea what that was about. After she’d graduated, she became a specialist in self-sustainable magically expanded spaces. The leading theory seemed to be that she’d accidentally shut herself away in a pocket dimension, left to farm her vegetables for all eternity.

Eugenia Abernathy, born 1953, Slytherin. She was an orphan magbob who had been picked up from London. Her grades were average but tended to favour Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. By all accounts she was incredibly kind, had received a merit to the school award for organising a clothing drive for other orphans and poor students. After graduation she’d brought a house in Doveton, growing rare and exotic herbs in her sunroom – until one day her muggle neighbours reported her front door wide open and her house thoroughly searched and raided.

Etruria Mattingley, born 1954, a Beauxbatons student who had returned to England after her Grindelwald-supporting parents fled the country following the end of Grindelwald’s campaign. She was registered as part-Veela on the British census.

None of them were a perfect fit to the story he needed. There were too many loose ends, and too many questions that could be raised – but his options were limited. In the last few years of Voldemort’s reign, international travel to Magical Britain had hit a complete standstill. A fictionalised foreign witch would draw even more questions – questions that he couldn’t answer.

With limited resources, Harry began the process of whittling down the list. Etruria Mattingley was off the list immediately – for the simple reason that Harry couldn’t recall at what point Veela blood diluted enough that a son could be produced. There was also the problem that he couldn’t access Beauxbatons records to keep an eye on if she’d just escaped back to France without letting the British Ministry know, or if she’d had any close friends. Further, for the life of him, Harry couldn’t speak a lick of French. There was also the problem of her families strict pro-Grindelwald stance – which still could raise a few eyebrows.

But, if Etruria Mattingley’s pro-Grindelwald stance was a problem, so was Beatrice Reidy’s strong anti-Voldemort stance. Having a father, you’d never met dying the good fight against Voldemort was one thing – but, there was still the matter of a certain Horcrux locked up in the Malfoy manor that Harry needed to get his hands on. If he could stay on good terms with Malfoy, he might be able to receive an invite, and take it off their hands quietly. The less of a bother he caused in general would mean more death eater doors that would be open for him to walk right through, and then make off like a thief in the night.

Which left Evangeline Carrigan and Eugenia Abernathy. Evangeline could have met his ‘father’, bonding through a home-school education. Eugenia could have supplied his ‘father’ with potion ingredients. Which left the next step – trying to find a single photograph of his potential mothers, just to make sure they could have conceivably been mother and son. While he was at it – he really needed to find a picture of Henry Fleamont.

The Hogwarts cataloguing system was a bit of a blessing in this case, and it took only seven minutes to collect newspapers, books and photo albums filed on the shelves of Hogwarts. The problem was the filing system couldn’t differentiate between a photograph and text. He started with Evangeline Carrigan, who had a single black and white photo in the Daily Prophet where she was proudly displaying her newest book – a house witches guide to magically expanding bedrooms – a horrifying concept that made Harry immediately think of the Burrow. She was a pale, plump witch, with dark hair and wideset eyes. Harry couldn’t tell what colour her eyes might have been, but they looked light in colour, and she looked roughly like they might have had a similar nose shape.

Eugenia Abernathy though, turned out to be a very dark-skinned witch wearing bright green robes and bright blue hair twisted into the shapes of enchanted snakes that moved around her head like medusa. She certainly looked like someone you’d want to have a butterbeer with, or possibly someone Tonks would have loved, with lots of interesting things sewn to her robe, but she didn’t pass the mother test, given the obvious differences in appearance.

Which meant, Evangeline Carrigan would have to do. There wasn’t a whole lot on her, just that she was something of an Arithmancy prodigy who wanted to be able to both magically expand, but also magically contract space in order to shuffle around parts of the world. She’d been born into a pureblood family, her mother a Sayre and alleged parselmouth – that might have been a useful cover story if Harry had still been a parseltongue – and if the skill hadn’t evaporated like smoke once his unwanted tenant had been evicted from his soul. Both her parents had died by the time she’d gone missing – but she had a grandmother who was alive but confined to Saint Mungo’s. Still, Evangeline hadn’t been sighted since September 1980 – he could easily claim her as a mother, frightened by the death of her lover, frightened into hiding after being rendered a squib.

Henry Fleamont was easier to find; there were three photographs in the Minotaur’s Maze, some kind of owl posted newsletter for Potions Enthusiasts, which described his innovations to several potions, making them easier to brew, with a longer shelf life, and with more accessible ingredients. The problem was, Henry Fleamont seemed to be very good at improving potions, but not at inventing anything new. His role as Potions Master never grew beyond the Herbalist stage – meaning he was not permitted to work with any ingredients more dangerous than a bundle of dittany.

He was a pale man, with long blonde hair he tied up into a bun at his nape. He wore short sleeved violet robes, with an exposed wand halter below his elbow. His jaw was familiar though – it was the same as Harry Potter, James Potter and now Harry Fleamont.  Between his two ‘parents’ he couldn’t pick out any striking resemblance, but he could find traits he shared with both – at least, it was unlikely that anyone would outright refuse to believe he was their offspring.

“Evangeline Carrigan was my mother,” Harry said aloud, and felt the tingling of magic working across his skin, “Henry Fleamont was my father.”

As soon as those words passed his lips, Harry immediately and inexplicably knew that he had done something. As a kid who had always somehow found himself involved in something, it was a unique feeling he knew by touch, taste, smell and sight. It was so familiar, that he immediately knew what he had done.

This universe…didn’t know him. There was no magical permeation between universes – magic needed him to name himself, needed him to define who he was. He had been a blank chip, left up to his own self-definition – and once he had declared it, magic had no reason to judge and doubt him – because magic had no idea who he was. If he declared now, that perhaps Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were his parents – magic would know that they weren’t. It was not the same as Hannah Abbott declaring herself Hannah Longbottom – because magic knew who she was and knew she had been granted that name as a choice. He had declared who his parents were, and in a sense, now they were his parents, just as much as Lily and James Potter were his parents. Harry Fleamont was a loose thread that had finally been woven into the delicate tapestry of this world. Which meant, anything relevant that he declared before magic, could become truth.

Harry could only hope that he had made the right choice.

With that in mind, Harry noted down the issues of the Daily Prophet and assorted newsletters that contained articles and photographs and went to his next task. Over the course of twenty minutes, he drafted letters, requesting back issues of the Daily Prophet and Minotaur’s Maze, and requested an owl order catalogue from Gladrags Wizardwear. It was only a matter of borrowing three of the school owls to send off the messages before Harry started to feel like he’d finally accomplished more than brewing a basic boil cure potion.

With the basic responsibilities out of the way, Harry was on his way back from the owlery, noting the lowering sun with surprise. Dinner was probably only an hour or so away – and his absence would be noticed and questioned if he didn’t at least show up to prove he was alive and well. With the most pressing things solved, he really didn’t so much have tasks to complete, as he had questions to resolve.

Where was Voldemort if Professor Quirrell wasn’t here? Why was the Philosopher’s Stone at Hogwarts? Where was Professor Trelawny? Why was he in an eleven-year-old child’s body when thrown into this world? Why was it, again, 1991? Why wasn’t Snape a Death Eater? What did that change? What effect did pureblood supremacy with an emphasis on wizarding culture and magic itself, over blood and lineage do to Voldemort’s rise to terror? Why was this world better? It was a testament to the amount of assumptions he’d made about this universe, that hadn’t factored into his plan.

He hadn’t even begun to figure out how to research how to safeguard his own world. How to capture magic, how to store it, how to measure it, why exactly was his world dying and this one thriving. He felt it in the air, felt it in his bones – that the magic of this universe was flourishing, and healthy.

Did Voldemort even matter to his own goal? As soon as he thought it, Harry felt guilty. Maybe Voldemort wasn’t his responsibility – but Neville Longbottom was still an eleven-year-old boy who absolutely shouldn’t be responsible for a genocidal maniac. There was no harm really, in quietly taking care of a few horcruxes and hoping that Voldemort tripped down the stairs.

And that thought stopped Harry in his literal tracks. Horcruxes, stored souls, but they also stored magic. How else had Harry been able to speak parseltongue, how else had the diary been able to possess Ginny. That meant that storing magic was possible, in some manner. Harry’s head spun, and his hand longed to write these questions and thoughts out now to straighten out his head – but a great big part of him worried about the ramifications of any note he made being found. Writing would have to wait until he figured out how to safeguard his notebook.

The weekend passed in much the same manner, with Harry enjoying his newly found lack of any and all responsibilities to sleep in until noon and play wizarding games in the Slytherin common room between meals. The week flew by, with Harry breezing through classwork, and handing up assignments both early and expertly worded. Despite the ease of success, he made a point to try and stay under the radar during the classes themselves, mostly to avoid looking directly at Professor Potter, Professor Lupin-Black or indeed, this universes Harry Potter. The trouble didn’t start up until Thursday when Harry was suddenly reminded why he had once hated Draco Malfoy more than he had ever hated Dudley Dursley.

It started on Wednesday morning when Harry had awoken to see a notice pinned in the Slytherin common room, declaring that Flying lessons would start on Thursday, and they would be held with the Gryffindors. That seemed to be the proverbial red flag in front of the most bull-headed version of Draco Malfoy possible in the many universes. From the second Draco Malfoy saw that notice, he descended into incessant complaints about first years not being allowed to join house Quidditch teams, loud boastful stories about avoiding muggles in helicopters, and deriding Blaise for not caring about Quidditch in the slightest. Somehow, that coincided with a week of daily packages sent from Malfoy’s parents, sending him a variety of expensive and exotic sweets, which he opened with all due pomp and ceremony of someone who wasn’t prepared to share and wanted everyone to know it. By Thursday morning, Harry probably could have thrown Malfoy off a tower, and gotten plenty of help from the Slytherin table – and Harry had taken to sitting as far away as humanly possible with Blaise, and Theo in an attempt to limit the chances of premeditated murder.

Still, at three-thirty that afternoon, they all trotted outside the castle to a wide open lawn. It was a gentle breezy day, and the grass was surprising thick and springy under Harry’s feet. It was an incredibly good day to teach children the delicate art of flying, all things considered. The Slytherin’s were up first, and Harry identified the best possible of the old school brooms. When the Gryffindors finally made it down, he discretely tried to herd Neville Longbottom towards the best of the brooms.

Madam Hooch was prompt, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Harry’s broom was one of the first that jumped into his hand – so did Harry Potter’s - but most gave a pathetic sort of roll. Once up, Madam Hooch showed them how to mount their brooms, corrected their grips and then announced that they could all kick off when she blew her whistle.

Like a prophecy, Neville kicked off too soon while Madam Hooch yelled. Neville reached about twenty feet high in the air before he went sideways off his broom and landed with a crack. It all happened too quickly for Harry to react to.

“Broken wrist,” Madam Hooch muttered, “C’mon boy, lets get you to the hospital wing.”

Because wizards had no concept of supervision, Madam Hooch turned around to the rest of the class.

“None of you are to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those broomsticks where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’!” She turned to face Neville, looking sympathetic, “Come on now dear.”

Neville, tear-faced and clutching his wrist in pain, went off with madam Hooch, hobbling with her arm over his neck. Harry suddenly had much more appreciation for Snape, who had realised only last week that you could just conscript any random student to make sure an injured student reached the hospital ward.

No sooner than Madam Hooch was out of earshot, did Malfoy burst out into pearls of laughter.

“Did you see his face, the great big lump?” Draco laughed harder, “Ladies and gentlemen, The Boy-who-lived.”

The other Slytherins joined in.

“Shut up Malfoy,” Parvati snapped first.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy Parkinson snickered, “Never thought I’d see you liking a fat little ugly cry baby, Parvati.”

“Look!” Malfoy said gleefully, darting forward and snatching something from the grass, “It’s the stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.”

 “Give that back Malfoy!” Harry Potter yelled in utmost determination. Everyone stopped to watch as Malfoy took a step forward, and then smiled nastily.

Draco,” Harry interjected, “I’ll buy you your own if you desperately want one. You don’t need a second-hand Remembrall.”

“I think you’re right, Fleamont,” Draco said, surprising Harry, “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect – perhaps up a tree?”

Harry raised his eyes heavenward and sighed as the Remembrall glittered in the sun in Malfoy’s hand. Within a second, Malfoy had taken off into the air and taken off, hovering over the top of an oak tree.

Harry Potter grabbed his broom; a very old broom with bristles that stuck out at weird angles. Harry Fleamont eyed it dubiously – it didn’t look like the one he had taken in his first year. It looked much older, and less maintained. It looked like trouble.

“No really, there’s no need for this,” Harry interjected again, this time meeting Harry Potter’s eyes, “Madam Hooch will be back in a second, and we can just carry on enjoying our flying lesson.”

“Slimy Slytherin,” Harry Potter shot back, “You just don’t want to lose.”

 “Come and get it then, Potter.”

With an expression equal parts determination and fool, Potter launched himself up into the air. He was good on a broom, perhaps even better than Malfoy, who had learned how to fly by dodging muggle helicopters, planes and hang gliders, allegedly.

Hermione Granger was yelling at the two from the ground, while Pansy Parkinson mocked her words. Up in the sky, the two boys circled each other yelled insults at one another.

“Right,” Harry Fleamont yelled, “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to get back down here before I take that Remembrall from you both.”

Potter and Malfoy continued to taunt each other up in the sky, pausing only to yell back down variants of “piss off Fleamont” in near perfect unison. The entire time, Harry loudly counted down in sets of five. Suddenly, Malfoy launched the Remembrall, and Potter dove after it.

“Accio Remembrall!” Harry Fleamont cast, and the Remembrall launched straight into his waiting hands.

Potter continued to dive, and with a start, Harry realised the broom he’d grabbed was vibrating and jerking about – the sign of a broom on its last flight. Potter was desperately trying to pull up but didn’t seem to be able to compensate for the pull downwards. Harry could hear the blood pumping in his ears, heart exploding with his chest in panic – and could hear the sound of air whooshing as Potter dove straight now, mixed wit Potters shriek of terror.

With a second to spare, Harry cast a hasty cushioning charm on the grass and watched as Harry Potter smacked straight into the grass and bounced off down towards the Quidditch Pitch – a bone chilling crack resounded throughout the ground. With a horrifying second, the world seemed to stop and Harry choked as air seemed to stop in his throat.

The Gryffindor’s screamed, and when Draco Malfoy touched down on the ground, he was ghostly white. The Slytherins were staring in shock as the Gryffindors moved as a unit to surround Harry Potter, lying still on the grass. Harry couldn’t see through the mass of people, but he leapt off towards them, trying to remember every single first aid spell he’d ever been taught.

“HARRY POTTER!” The shriek came from McGonagall, running at lightspeed towards them.

The Gryffindor’s parted, and Harry let out an enormous breath of relief as Harry Potter weakly sat up with the remnants of a broken broom in his arms. He looked fine but was growing more miserable every second McGonagall drew closer.

“Never, in all my time at Hogwarts,” McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashes dangerously, “-how dare you – you might have broken your neck.”

“It wasn’t his fault Professor-“

“Be quiet, Miss Patil.”

“But Malfoy-“

“That’s enough Mister Weasley.”

“Harry Fleamont saved his life,” Hermione Granger said, “He cast a cushioning charm – if he hadn’t Harry might have died.”

McGonagall blinked.

“Is this true Mister Fleamont?” McGonagall peered at him over her spectacles. She didn’t wait for an answer because a barrage of answers came from both Gryffindor and Slytherin alike.

“Well then,” McGonagall blinked, “Potter, Fleamont, with me.”

Harry sighed, and he caught sight of Malfoy’s smirk, and Crabbe and Goyle’s triumphant faces.  Blaise and Theo glanced at each other, and grimly watched as Harry sighed and dutifully followed the Professor. Harry Potter was a ghostly white, eyes wide with the realisation of how close to death he came, and he dutifully followed McGonagall in his wake. McGonagall strode towards the castle, and both Harrys had to jog to keep up with her strides.  Up the front stairs, up the marble staircase, circling around the second floor and Harry knew immediately where they were going. So, it seemed, did Harry Potter, because he groaned and hid his face in his hands.

McGonagall reached a classroom and walked inside. The history classroom, empty of people but for a red-haired witch marking some essays.

“Professor Potter, a word?”

Professor Lily Potter looked up, and immediately focused on her son in alarm.

“Mister Potter thought it clever to mount his broom unsupervised I might add, and dove straight at the ground from fifty feet in the air,” McGonagall informed her, “He might have died if not for a cushioning charm cast just in time for his considerable collision with the earth.”

“Harry,” Professor Potter said, eyes wide, and her voice soft, “You did what? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine mum. Sorry mum,” Potter mumbled, “I didn’t mean to.”

She held Potter at arm’s length, inspecting every inch of him before she pulled him in for a hug of relief and love. Harry had to avert his eyes for how unexpectantly painful it was. She held him so close to herself, pulled his head into her neck, in a kind of overwhelming maternal hug Harry had never felt before. But just as soon as she’d pulled him close, she jerked back, with both her hands on Potter’s shoulders.

Her face was furious.

“That is the single stupidest thing you have ever done,” She hissed through her teeth, “Flying straight into the ground – what on earth possessed you to do such a momentously idiotic thing.”

“Um,” Potter replied, scratching his head, “Well- It was important. Malfoy threw Neville Remembrall and I tried to catch it. I didn’t think I was going that fast.”

“Right,” Professor Potter replied, “And how were you on a broom, unsupervised, in the first place?”

“Um,” Potter replied, with comically wide eyes.

“I thought so,” Professor Potter replied, “And where is the Remembrall now?”

“Uh, here it is,” Harry held the red glowing ball, “Professor McGonagall, can you return this to Neville, please?”

McGonagall inclined her head and accepted the memory prompt from Harry without further comment. Then, she handed it to Professor Potter, who accepted it with surprise.

“So, Harry Fleamont, right?” Professor Potter confirmed, “How did you get the Remembrall? That’s an impressive catch from fifty feet.”

“Accio, uh, Professor,” Harry replied, ducking his head.

Professor Potter looked surprised, and considered this silently, before turned to face Professor McGonagall, “Have you assigned my son detention?”

“I have not,” Professor McGonagall clarified, “I thought to leave that up to you, and ask that you might escort Mister Potter to the infirmary for Poppy’s administrations. Mister Potter managed to break a school broom in the fall, and it’s best to make sure that he didn’t cause himself any harm. He ought to thank Mister Fleamont though - He might have died if Mister Fleamont hadn’t thought to cast a cushioning charm to break his fall.”

There was a lot to digest in that revelation, but Professor Potter nodded sharply.

“Thank you Mister Fleamont,” Professor Potter said gratefully, “I fear what may have happened if you hadn’t been there. That is an enormously talented piece of magic to cast.”

She nudged her son with her arm.

“Oh!” Harry Potter squeaked, “Um, thanks for saving my neck. You’re not such a slimy Slytherin after all. Thanks.”

“I’ll take him to Poppy now,” Professor Potter confirmed, tightening her grip on his shoulder, “With your permission, I’d like to give him detention every single Saturday for the next three months. Severus always needs help scrubbing cauldrons, I’m sure there’s a few animal stables that needs mucking out, and I’m perfectly sure Argus always needs help cleaning the castle.”

“Whatever you see fit, Lily,” McGonagall replied, to the background noise of Harry Potter groaning, “Please deliver Mr Longbottom’s property back to him -I believe I saw him being escorted to the infirmary with a broken wrist, poor dear. I’m going to find Severus to discuss Mister Fleamont here.”

Harry shot a concerned look at McGonagall – there wasn’t anything he had done to warrant punishment – but there was an anxiety deep inside him that wondered if McGonagall was going to make him give an eye witness account against Draco Malfoy. The last thing he needed was an all-out feud against Draco, when the easy tolerance between them had been odd, but positive. He still had to sleep in the same room as him, and a Draco Malfoy who both hated him, and could have access to him while he slept or Merlin-forbid, showered, wasn’t a Draco Malfoy he wanted to ever deal with.

With that said, Professor McGonagall lead Harry down into the dungeons, past the Slytherin dormitory where a group of Seventh years looked alarmed at seeing the Gryffindor Head of House leading a forlorn Slytherin first year through the dungeons. Among them was the Slytherin prefect, Benedict Selwyn who narrowed his dark eyes dangerously at the procession.

McGonagall stood primly outside of the Potions classroom and knocked, then let herself inside. The classroom was empty when they entered, and Harry felt distinctly like he was trespassing, and more than likely to meet a nasty trap. McGonagall patiently waited, and busied herself inspecting the jars of pickled animals, foul-smelling vials and oddly shaped instruments.

Small steps, and then Professor Snape appeared from within his potion stores; with a glass jar of newt eyes. He eyed the two with something sharp, and Harry instinctively straightened his back.

“Minerva,” Snape drawled, “A pleasure to have you, as always. Is not Mister Fleamont intended to be at Flying Practice now?”

“A word about that Severus,” McGonagall replied, “Mister Fleamont, if you will?”

Harry relayed the story, dispassionately, glancing between McGonagall and Snape and waiting for whatever secret conversation they seemed to be having between them to end. When Harry finished relaying the tale, Snape considered him for a long moment, that seemed to stretch into an eternity.

“Indeed,” Severus Snape commented, “Mister Fleamont, am I to presume that you cast an expertly executed cushioning charm and saved the life of one Mister Potter? A spell which is well above your year level.”

“Um, yes.” Harry responded.

Snape let a smile curl the edges of his lips. He looked distinctly pleased, like a cat who had finally caught the mouse.

“It brings me great pleasure to award 50 points to Slytherin, for exemplary actions to the school, resulting in the preservation of student life,” Snape replied, “Do you concur, Professor.”

“I do,” McGonagall replied, surprisingly passionate for someone so competitive over the House Cup, “Whole heartedly.”

“Very well,” Snape replied, “Minerva, do you have any further classes today?”

“I do not,” McGonagall replied, “I am at your assistance.”

Harry eyed them suspiciously.

“Mister Fleamont,” Snape started, “There are measures in place at Hogwarts, to ensure that especially gifted students are challenged. It is my understanding that you are excelling across all your classes – across both theory and practical knowledge. We are going to test you, to determine how to best facilitate your education.”

-

“Are you serious?” Was the first thing that came out of Blaise’s mouth when he told him over dinner.

It wasn’t like Harry could have hidden his knowledge – it was easy to say what you knew, and to say nothing at all – but much more difficult to moderate your knowledge down to what should be expected of a first year Hogwarts student circa 1991. The curriculum changes over the many years, the history of working as an Auror – when you needed to answer using a particular criteria, remembering what exactly was on a specific page of a specific book was almost impossible when your mind was offering you a list of answers with no indication what would be the most likely answer to an eleven year old.

The rest of the afternoon had McGonagall and Snape escort him up to Professor Dumbledore’s office, where Harry desperately tried to not look him directly in the eye and play the part of a very humble boy who was frankly embarrassed by all the attention. It seemed to have worked, because Albus Dumbledore consented to a series of tests to be administered on Saturday, to gauge how to tailor-make a program best suited to his talents and skills.

“Sir,” Harry had said, in front of Albus Dumbledore, “I don’t want to leave Hogwarts early, no matter how good I am at magic. I want to stay here as long as I can – I’d – I’d miss my friends too much.”

“Tell me of them,” Albus Dumbledore had asked, and so Harry had delighted the old man with his cross-House friendships. Then result had been promising though – Albus Dumbledore swearing right there and then, that he would never have to graduate and leave Hogwarts any earlier than any student. That it would also be a home to anyone who wanted it.

Blaise Zabini was the first person to find out about the situation, only because Harry wanted to avoid everyone finding out from Professor Snape.

“The test is on Saturday,” Harry confirmed, “Only – I’m not entirely sure how they’re going to be administered – or who is doing it – or even if they’re going to be practical or theoretical. Just that Professor Snape will take me from the Great Hall after breakfast.”

Blaise sucked in air sharply, “Harry, you’re a genius. You’ve been holding out on me. What else can you do?”

Harry shrugged, “I just know a few more spells than most, that’s all really.”

Blaise leant back, evaluating him.

“I don’t believe that in the slightest. Well, I’m sure you’ll slip up eventually and show us what kind of Merlin-level warlock you are,” Blaise teased, “It’s the Fleamont in you, I guess, you’re all innovators and creative sorts – what about your mother’s side? What family was she from?”

“Um,” Harry replied, and had to frantically remember which witch he’d chosen, “Carrigan.”

Blaise paused, then looked up incredulously, “Well no wonder you’re a prodigy. Carrigan’s, geniuses the lot of them. You know, my mother’s first husband had a grandmother who was a Carrigan. Frighteningly powerful, frightfully clever witch. You might have been related. Hey, let’s ask Draco!”

“Um,” Harry replied and then panicked, because he hadn’t thought to consider broader family in his very basic research to find a mother.

Blaise was already scanning to find Draco, who seemed to have stopped by the Gryffindor table with Crabbe and Goyle, to speak to Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. Draco quickly came over to the Slytherin table, smirking all the while, and sat primly down next to Harry, leaving the other two boys to find their own spots.

“You’re a genius Fleamont,” Malfoy smirked, “Grabbing the Remembrall right from under Potter’s nose – he flew right into the ground, the absolute fool – and your comment about the Remembrall – being second-hand do you remember? It gave me the idea to throw it in the first place!”

Malfoy busied himself with filling his golden plate, chuckling all the time. Harry felt irritation creeping along his spine.

“What did McGonagall want with you anyway?” Draco asked, clearly as an afterthought.

“She took me to Professor Snape,” Harry started before Draco interrupted.

“Oh, I can’t imagine he was that upset.”

“Actually, I was awarded 50 points for saving Potter’s life,” Harry interjected.

“Oh!” Draco howled, “That’s even better! We humiliated Potter and we earned Slytherin 50 points! I told you Professor Snape is on our side – even he can see what kind of poorly bred excuses for wizards those Gryffindors are.”

“And, I’m being tested on Saturday, because Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape think I’m too advanced for the first year work,” Harry shot back in irritation, “They’re going to see what level of work will be able to challenge me,”

Draco paused and stared back up with his wide mouth open, “What you?”

Draco closed his mouth and stared at Harry in utter bewilderment. Harry could practically see Draco turning green with jealousy, before Draco exhaled and looked thoughtful. It was … remarkably mature, and not for the first time Harry wondered if this was the result of a Draco raised with siblings; expected to share, play nice and act the mature big brother.

“Good,” Draco decided, filling up his goblet, “Not that Slytherin needs the help of course – we’ve beaten all the other houses for almost a decade. But Slytherin could definitely use a type like you to remind everyone why Slytherins are the best in the school – and not those know-it-all Ravenclaws.”

Harry made a faint noise, and tried to return to his meal. His stomach grumbled from the sight of his roast beef, which hadn’t let touched his stomach. He only managed a few bites before Blaise spoke again.

“I found out who Harry’s mother was,” Blaise spoke, and then took a leisurely sip of pumpkin juice, “Don’t you know yet Draco?”

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Ah,” Blaise said, in faux-surprise, “Well then, allow me to keep you in the dark.”

Draco then turned to Harry, expectantly. Harry cut an enormous bite of roast beef and started chewing imperiously. After an eternity of chewing, he swallowed and countered with-

“Why were you at the Gryffindor table?”

Draco scowled, “I challenged Potter and the Weasel to a Wizard’s duel tonight, midnight, at the trophy cabinets.”

Blaise choked on his pumpkin juice.

“I’m not going to actually go,” Draco explained to Blaise, as if he would explain it to a very stupid dog, “But they’ll go and get caught, and then won’t they look stupid when they’re punished. It’s called cunning Blaise, though I understand why you don’t recognise it.”

Blaise sighed, shook his head, but didn’t rise to the bait.

“Now then, Fleamont,” Draco replied sternly, “Your mother?”

“Evangeline Carrigan,” Harry reluctantly replied, only to see Draco’s eyebrows hit the roof, “You’ve heard of her?”

“Not a chance,” Draco retorted, “But her family – no wonder you’re a genius. Carrigan’s are infamous for producing either prodigies or utterly mad wizards. You’re half inventor, half prodigy – or half-mad, I haven’t really decided yet. Merlin, I don’t know the particulars of your family tree, but certainly I will by the end of the week. I’ll write to mother at once.”

A tingling concern crept at along Harry’s spine, but he dismissed it as a problem he couldn’t resolve now. It was future Harry’s problem. The problem just seemed to be that future Harry was getting an awful lot of problems to deal with, and one day he’d be future Harry.

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry mollified, “Really.”

Draco looked like he was utterly mad, “Of course I do – besides it’s hardly an effort. Mother loves research, and she’ll be ever so excited to hear about you – two old bloodlines that we thought had died out – and she’s a matchmaker you know.”

“A what,” Harry replied, and immediately regretted it.

Draco brightened, and Harry presumed that any opportunity for Draco to boast and talk was one he loved.

 “A match-maker. You see, because she married a Malfoy the family affinity bleeds over a little, so she’s really rather good – but she’s also a Black, and the Black family knows bloodlines and magical inheritance like the backs of their hands. I’m lucky enough to have some of the Black affinity in me too, so I can tell just by looking at you that yes, you’re a Fleamont, and a bit of a Carrigan,” Draco boasted, “So my mother keeps track of the wizarding world’s bloodlines, and she counsels witches and wizards to find suitable matches that are a respectable and proper amount of distant relation, and suggests suitable matches.”

“Like an arranged marriage?” Harry replied, equally disturbed and curious.

“No,” Draco replied, eying Harry, “What a vulgar muggle concept. No – Mother is a respectable matchmaker, making introductions so witches and wizards may meet and know each other.”

“How,” Harry tried to wrap his brain around this, “How does that work?”

“Eligible witches and wizards give mother a full copy of their family trees – though mother hardly needs it, and then she organises dinner parties strategically organised to facilitate certain introductions between people,” Draco explained, “And everyone knows when mother makes an introduction between two who are seeking suitors, that they are a good match as a couple, politically able to marry and won’t have the bother of finding out later that they’re bred too close to have good wizarding children.”

Harry considered that.

“Has she match-made you?” Harry asked, only to see Draco roll his eyes dramatically.

“I hardly need help, thank you very much,” Draco retorted, “But no. Mother only works with those who are sixteen and above. If you start too young, you don’t have a personality set for life yet – you can’t just pair together children and expect them to marry.”

“What does politically able to marry mean?” Harry then asked, after replaying Draco’s answer in his head, and already fearing the answer.

“That’s easy, I couldn’t marry Daphne Greengrass. Because the Greengrass family is matrilineal, and the Malfoy family is a sort-of bilineal house that prioritises sons. When you get married, you have to choose which House you want to be under,” Draco replied, “So, I’d either need to give up my heirship in favour of my brother, or she’d need to give up her heirship in favour of her sister. And what happens if Daphne’s sister died and she became a Malfoy – Daphne gave up being the heir and she can’t get that back but if we had a daughter and no son, she’d be the heir to both the Greengrass and Malfoy Houses – which is strictly not allowed.”

Draco busied himself fetching a generous portion of rice pudding, “Besides, what would we bring to a marriage? One of us would be more powerful than the other, and if it didn’t work out and we got divorced, then one of us might be homeless and penniless. When you’re the heir, you need to marry people into the family, not out of the family. An heir is looking for a good partner, not to be someone elses’ partner.”

That – was actually a little more illuminating about how the magical world functioned, and especially to how Malfoy ended up marrying Astoria Greengrass and producing a son like a proper pureblood back home. It meant there were no Malfoy daughters with a claim to a Greengrass heirship if anything went south – and explained a little about how Daphne Greengrass had immediately set about raising two daughters. An heir and a spare.

“Mother will love a new bloodline to keep an eye on,” Draco was still prattling away, and drifted into a conversation about how Deianeira Zabini was tragically a repeat customer which ended when Blaise narrowed his eyes dangerously.

Harry could barely get through the rest of dinner, scanning the room to try and locate Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley to get a warning out to them. Both boys were gone, as was a great chunk of Gryffindor. Harry could remember the jovial and communal spirit Gryffindor had fostered amongst the first years – gobstone tournaments and wizarding card games directly after dinner.

Which – only meant one thing really.

Harry finished his dinner, bade the Slytherin table a farewell, and was off to the Gryffindor Common room before Draco Malfoy had even finished the first course of his leisurely meal. Before he left, he grabbed a great big jam doughnut and nibbled on it on the way. When he reached the Gryffindor common room, he was faced with a new challenge – getting inside.

“You aren’t one of mine,” The fat lady said, on seeing him, “Shoo – go back to wherever you came from.”

“I have friends inside,” Harry tried to explain, “I just want to deliver a message.”

“HA!” The Fat Lady replied, “I’ve heard them all before. You can’t possibly trick me into letting me let YOU into this room. Not without the password anyway.”

“Can’t you just send a message that I need to speak with Harry Potter, or Ronald Weasley?” Harry tried again, desperately, “Or Hermione Granger or Anthony Goldstein?”

The Fat Lady huffed, “I’m not some common messenger pigeon.”

“Please,” Harry replied with wide eyes, “I just really need to speak to them. My friend Harry was in the hospital wing today, and he’s not in my House and I haven’t heard from him and I just need to know he’s okay.”

The Fat Lady melted, “Oh, well, I’m afraid I can’t do much.”

Harry was about to cajole her further, when she brightened, “But someone’s about to come out now!”

Her portrait swung open, and Harry was about to quickly dart through when he was faced with the Weasley Twins. The sight threw Harry for a moment, and so he wasn’t quick enough to scamper through before The Fat Lady’s portrait swung shut again.

“Well well, what do we have here?” George said, down peering at Harry.

“A lost little snake by the looks of it, George.” Fred replied.

“A bit far from your nest, don’t you think?” George continued.

Fred nodded sagely, “Looks a bit like someone up to no good.”

“Look,” Harry stated, “I’m just here because your brother Ron, and Harry Potter agreed to fight a wizard’s duel with Draco Malfoy tonight at midnight in the trophy room. Can you just tell your brother that Draco has no intention of showing up, and they’re just going to get caught by Filch out of bed?”

Fred and George looked at each other.

“Sure, gotta make sure little ronnikins doesn’t get into too much trouble,” Fred responded cheerfully.

“We’ll make sure he finds out,” George continued, “Proud though aren’t we George? That our ickle little brother is having his first illicit wizards duel.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied, eying them suspiciously, “I appreciate it.”

-

Harry came down to breakfast the next day, looking forward for a nice cup of tea and a plate of bacon and eggs. His return to the Slytherin dorms the night before had been met with absolute rousing celebrations surrounding his massive points gain, in only his second week, and the news travelling around that he was going to need special education to keep up with his cunning intellect. The older students had bottles of butterbeer, or elderflower wine and a few seventh years had flasks that smelled suspiciously like fire whisky. For everyone else, there was an array of hot chocolate, and various teas as per personal taste. Slytherin in general seemed to be more interested in him, no doubt figuring where he could fit into their ambitious and cunning schemes. It was only the lurching presence of Professor Snape, who seemed to have done everything he could to be a looming but silent presence, marking papers in a far corner that perhaps stopped a little more raucous celebration.

In all, his plan to stay under the radar had gone swimmingly.

Harry was still a little tired when he slid down next to Theo, and Pansy, where the two were having a rousing discussion over musical instruments. Neither Draco, who was now allegedly his very best friend ever, or Blaise (who seemed to have his own personal stash of mulled mead and wine as per his cultural traditions) had yet risen from their beds. Crabbe and Goyle were looking positively lost, sitting by themselves and eating a small village worth of food.

“-My mother is from the Tad Awen family, so of course she had me educated in all the musical instruments expected of an heir to a pureblood family. She wanted me to be able to entertain my own guests,” Nott said, “She taught me the spinet and harpsichord, and of course the lute and harp. But I taught myself the cittern.”

That was all he caught before Harry caught sight of the House Cup – where Gryffindor had been in second place the day before, it was now in the very last place. Somehow, over the course of the night, they seemed to have lost every single point they had earned in the last two weeks.

Harry sighed miserably and reminded himself to never ever trust a Weasley twin ever again. Then just as quickly as he had he arrived, he was off to scan the Gryffindor table – where only Hermione Granger and Anthony Goldstein were familiar faces. Harry slid in besides them, making Gryffindor’s around him gape, and then start muttering in low voices.

“Hey,” Harry greeted, with a little awkward wave, “Can, I, uh, join?”

It was an unspoken question: what in Merlin’s name was going on here?

“Of course, you can Harry,” Hermione fretted, and then raised her voice, “Because you have done absolutely nothing wrong, and even saved Harry Potter’s stupid life.”

Harry blinked.

“In fact,” Hermione continued to say, “I would eve assert that you have done nothing but help improve my Hogwarts experience from the very moment you started to talk to me – AND if I MAY continue, you tried to warn those stupid, foolish boys what was going to happen in the first place!”

“Fred and George didn’t pass the message on, did they?” Harry replied flatly.

Hermione’s smile was frighteningly wide, “They did – AFTER Ronald, and Harry left to fight in a wizard duel, AND after Seamus AND Dean decided to sneak out to launch an ambush attack on Malfoy, taking with them, Neville Longbottom – who rebroke his wrist – AND who were all found together by Filch in the third corridor after trying to break into the locked third floor corridor door that we were EXPLICITLY TOLD NOT TO ENTER, on the VERY FIRST DAY.”

Hermione’s voice grew softer again, “ So yes, they did decide to pass the message along – to Peeves the Poltergeist – and then to their friend Mister Lee Jordan – which is how Anthony and I found out – and then we told Professor McGonagall – who was NOT very happy about being woken up at midnight – and who only got her slippers on before Filch was dragging them all back to the common room. Did I cover everything Anthony?”

“Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Neville, Fred and George, and Lee Jordan lost fifty points each for trying to hold an illegal wizard duel on school property,” Anthony replied, “That’s 400 points. We didn’t even have 400 points yet, so it’s been re-set to zero.”

“Well,” Harry replied, because how to you reply to such a development, that he had explicitly tried to avoid, “That’s something.”

Harry sat and ate his breakfast there, having a delightful conversation with Anthony and Hermione about what they’d been up to at Hogwarts so far – lots of studying and exploring – when Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley finally entered the hall, to the jeers of Gryffindor students. The two avoided eye contact but sat on the seats closest to the door to avoid having to talk to anyone. On whole, they looked distinctly miserable, and Harry couldn’t fathom what was going to be done to Potter – considering only a day before he’d been awarded a whole three months of detentions for his little broom escapade.

Harry’s answer to how Ron was coping with all this, was answered when all the owls came flooding into the great hall. Harry was surprised by a few letters dropped on his chair – replies from Gladrags Wizardwear and the various newspapers and newsletters he’d contacted over the previous weekend – but paused as a red letter was dropped in front of Ronald Weasley.

“Look! Ron’s got a howler!” Someone cried, and the hall basically fell silent as Ron’s face went ashen and his hands trembled.

“Well, open it,” Someone urged, “ Else they explode.”

And – wasn’t that an idea. The very idea of howlers infuriated Harry – a very public humiliation was never an effective way of dealing with a problem. A letter would simply suffice, and the idea that a howler was being used to verbally shame children who clearly already knew they had done the wrong thing – who were very visibly feeling the effects – it served no purpose.

It was cruel.

Harry … might not have been the same person. But he knew he despised cruel.

With that in mind, Harry gracefully extradited himself from his spot and jogged towards Ron; grabbing a silver bowl of bread and dumping them on the table just in time to slam the bowl over the top of the howler as it started to unfold. It barely got out a ‘RONALD-‘before its noise was muffled under the heavy metal.

Harry pushed down with all his might, even as the howler struggled to rise and get, free screaming all the while- but eventually harry felt the explosion underneath and lifted the bowl cautiously to see nothing but ash.

“That worked a little better than expected,” Harry said, and then picked up the bowl to return it to its rightful spot.

“Come on Fleamont,” Someone cried from far down the Gryffindor table, “Some of us wanted to listen to that.”

“Well how embarrassing for you,” Harry retorted, “I wouldn’t want to admit that I’m an immature eavesdropper and a boor if I were, but what do I know – I’m eleven.”

That started off the whole hall in whispers and conversations while Harry scowled, collected his letters, and was out of the hall as Professor Dumbledore was trying to regain order.

-

Friday from there was as normal; Potions class in which Draco stole him again and crooned to everyone who would listen about how clever they both were. Snape gave them a different potion to brew than the rest of the class – something from second year if Harry recalled right – and they ended up with a perfectly brewed Truthache Eclegme – a syrupy potion used to cure toothaches and mend cavities. Harry again retreated to study with Hermione, Anthony and Draco in the library, where Harry ended up filling out an owl order for five pairs of underwear, two shirts, a black robe from their clearance section and a pair of basic leather shoes. Harry wistfully remembered the dragon hide boots he had been wearing when he had been caught in the magical collapse of Diagon Alley – and then stooped dead in his tracks.

Neither his wand, NOR the Dragon Hide boots had come through with him. Neither had his wand holster, also made of dragon hide. Which meant that anything with inherent magical properties had been stripped away, while the typical wools, and cottons had survived.

Harry – didn’t necessarily like where this was going.

He had felt his magic being stripped from him, in that split second after the wards had crushed him to death, and again felt magic return to him in that split second before he had awoken to him, in this world.

What exactly did that mean for him, then, in the pursuit of magical reinvigoration?

All the same, he added it to his mental list of things to follow up, and busied himself tracking his finances – things, were not so good. If he kept spending at this rate, he’d end up running out of money somewhere mid-third year. Practically, there were limited options for him. It was time to start executing plan ‘hold an enormous sale of items from the room of requirements’, which couldn’t be done until Sunday at the soonest.

He wanted to do something about the looming Voldemort issue, if only because Neville Longbottom had broken a wrist in two days and generally didn’t exactly seem like the type who would easily survive a Voldemort reencounter. There was no Professor Quirrell, but a stone secreted away, and a Horcrux inside a hidden room and a giant snake hiding under the school to deal with.

If Professor Dumbledore wasn’t trying to lure out Quirrell, who exactly did he suspect? Why wasn’t the stone safe at Gringotts any longer?

Harry excused himself from the study group early, having completed all his weekly assignments, and being unable to make a start on many more until tomorrow, when he’d be put through his paces and given a new curriculum to follow. He ducked up to the owlery, sent off his replies and was walking back to the Slytherin common room for a little peace when he overheard a voice and ducked behind the statue of Maggie the Murderous.

“I’ve been hearing that Fleamont is the son of Evangeline Carrigan – is that …?” The first voice said in a low, deep voice. Harry had to strain to hear.

“It seems so,” The second voice responded, “But to Fleamont – a blood traitor – a muggle-lover. By all reports the boy has appeared on family trees – and, if we are to connect the dots, he and his mother have been living under a fidellius charm. But does he know.”

“His mother must have raised him to know our Lord’s cause,” The first voice said, “Else – what if she was a traitor. She was brilliant – brilliant but mad. It was almost too convenient – too coincidence for her to have disappeared just when her work would have removed every muggle from the face of this earth. Maybe she was the mole our Lord could never find – and now she knows we would slaughter her if she ever surfaced. Keep an eye on Fleamont. We must know what he knows.”

Harry froze.

“We have to be moving,” The second voice urged, “Our Lord needs us to return to him – he is weak.”

Harry was frozen a very long time after the voices had vanished. When he moved, it was with a wand clutched in his hand and eyes conscious of every single thing – living or otherwise- around him until he was back inside his dorm. He was the first to bed, and he shut the door and swept the room for any kind of nasty surveillance spells, before he lowered his guard long enough to start warding his bedpost with every single bloody idea he’d ever had.

By the time he finished, two hours later, the bedpost could have burnt the very soul of anything that crossed the threshold without his knowledge. The bed itself gave off harrowing vibes of ‘do not touch me’ at the same time the notice-me-not charms generally made his bed something to be forgotten. The result was something that he felt comfortable climbing into, but not closing his eyes. The bedpost wasn’t enough – he needed a notebook to organise his thoughts, his plans, his ideas. Making something portable something also secure was a problem – and he’d never quite gotten around to researching if objects could be placed under a fidellius, but he came up with the next best thing – if hands other than his touched the notebook, it would explode into flames and burn into a crisp.

He was stupid, plain and simple.

He had remembered Voldemort as a nightmare and forgotten the network of racist power-hungry warmongers that drove him into power. He’d forgotten, in part, because he’d seen Snape’s bare forearm and concluded that the man had escaped Voldemort’s clutch – but Narcissa Malfoy had supported his campaign, if not for a little while, and her arms had always been bare. But this was a different world, and he couldn’t judge someone to be a Death Eater based on knowledge of his own world – but it certainly was a start of a suspicion.

He hadn’t considered that Voldemort might have possessed a student, rather than a teacher.

Voldemort needed to die.

It was a painful realisation to know that he might be in this world for years, and that he’d much prefer to be working in a world that let him have access to whatever he pleased, rather than work under the tyrannical government of a pureblood supremacist. A tyranny that his fictional mother may or may not have played a part in fostering as an ideal.  He scribbled all this down in the notebook, all his questions, all the plans, all his concerns and when he was out of words to give, he still didn’t feel a tad better.

For Merlin’s sake.

Harry heard Draco, and Blaise and Theo enter the room at different times. Knew by his magic alone that Draco would be in his chemise and night cap enjoying a late night cup of milk and a sweet before bed. He knew by magic alone that Blaise would strip off as he walked in and collapse on his bed naked, only to fall asleep in seconds. He knew that Theo would be in his Quidditch pajamas and sit in his bed with the curtains drawn to read a chapter of his latest fiction book for an hour.

What Harry couldn’t tell, was if any of them would make the choice to be Death Eaters.

Being sorted into Slytherin or being born into a family did not make someone a Death Eater – and children never deserved to suffer for the sins of their parents.

Harry still went to sleep uneasily.

Chapter Text

True to tradition, Saturday morning was so bad that Harry almost fell asleep in his cornflakes. Blaise seemed to notice, and so switched Harry from Orange Juice to Coffee without asking – in an act of kindness that made Harry feel guilty about the thoughts he had only been having the night before.

“You’re going to do brilliantly, Harry,” Blaise responded to his sluggish manner, “Honestly, how have you managed to get this far without realising that you’re brilliant.”

Harry guiltily adjusted the scarf Blaise had given him, and Pansy had made him, and tried to read the copy of The Daily Prophet that Nott had discarded after reading it. Inside, Harry was hit with a case of déjà vu when he encountered a delightful article on Odell the Odd, and how he’d been crushed inside his magically expanded, twenty-seven bedroom, nineteen bathroom, nine potion room, three quidditch pitch trunk, when the wards had failed. The article offered seven and three-quarter helpful tips on what signs to match out for, when your magical expansion was starting to fail.

The omen had Harry squirming in his chair.

The only thing that was beginning to brighten his day, was the utter ridiculousness of the fashion: There was a bizarre mix of muggle fashion trends, and wizarding ones. The more muggle trends had half of the hall in puffy and fluffy sweaters, long ill-fitting jeans with holes in the knee with converse shoes, overalls and enchanted coloured tights, and hair crimped with magic. There were a group of upper year Hufflepuffs wearing quite a lot of yellow tartan, and denim jackets with the arms cut off covered in buttons and badges. The backs declared ‘Hufflepunk’ – and the sight made Harry laugh and wonder if Tonks had been part of this little subculture. It looked like an absolute riot, and Harry mournfully wondered what a Hufflepuff experience would be like.

Probably far more hot chocolate, really.

Glancing around the hall made him feel nostalgic, but also incredibly glad that fashion had quickly moved on: it was around the end of his Hogwarts experience that his favourite kind of simple t-shirts and jeans had become the norm.

The wizarding side of the room was just as inexplicable, just rooted in wizarding history over muggle ones. Wizarding fashion was a weird mix of times; with lots of fashionable witches’ hats, short capes edged in trimmings, dragon-skin heel boots, and coats that looked like they’d came off the Quidditch Pitch. There was some kind of dress cut that looked popular – something vaguely like a medieval dress worn without any of the under-stuff, that came up mid-calf with a collared shirt worn underneath. There were great big broaches pinned to just about any fap of fabric, with animals that made noises and moved. Magical antlers charmed to look like wood also seemed to be in. Most people wore a combination of these two styles, which blended into the Hogwarts fashion scene. With his Weasley sweater, and more tailored jeans, Harry looked a little plainer, and certainly a little unfashionable.

He was certainly more comfortable though.

“It’s not that,” Harry muttered back to Blaise, as the wizard refilled his cup with coffee, “I just… “

“Just need to drink more coffee so you can wake up, I’d say,” Blaise retorted, “Drink up – my mother sent over my house elf Flopsy to make my coffee in the mornings. It’s an incredibly blend of authentic Kaldian beans grown in Italy, and Oromian beans from Harar in Ethiopia.”

Harry stared, “A house elf? Just to make you coffee in the morning?”

Blaise rolled his eyes, “Hogwarts Coffee might have well been boiled potting soil. I owled mother the very second after I had the misfortunate of tasting it. Now Flopsy just pops over in the morning with the briki, grinds the beans herself and then bakes the coffee over the sands. She knows just the right amount of cardamom to add. She rather likes being at Hogwarts for a while anyway – a bit of a social one she is. Then she pops back home to help mother. Mother is rarely up before noon anyway.”

Harry shrugged. It sure sounded excessive to him, but he was in Slytherin.

“It’s delicious, thank you Blaise,” Harry acknowledged, and sipped at his coffee pleasantly, “It’s kind of you to share with me.”

“Really not a problem,” Blaise replied, he looked like he wanted to say something further, but instead sipped at his own coffee and then seemed to change his mind, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Harry found himself agreeing, with a knot in his stomach.

By the time Professor Snape came to collect him, Harry was positively mournful.

Snape wasn’t a particularly hands-on kind of Head of House - not that he was neglectful - he just seemed to take an ‘outsourcing’ kind of approach to Slytherin House. Harry hadn’t needed to tap into it yet, but there was some kind of in-house mentoring system where second-years mentored the first years, and third-years mentored the second years, and so up the chain until Snape took an active approach to making sure his seventh year students graduated with good grades and on time. The benefits on this system, for the mentors, seemed to be increased lending privileges from the library and occasional curfew extensions. Harry had seen the hourly updated notice on the Slytherin noticeboard, which highlighted all the points allocated and taken away from Slytherin by each individual.

The whole set-up seemed to induce a collective and transparent responsibility among Slytherin while Snape didn’t have to do a thing. Snape’s system of cramming as many people between a snotty nosed first year and himself was so wonderfully designed that Harry was honestly surprised that Snape personally came to collect him that morning. It seemed like a task that Snape could have sent one of his student aides to do, or better yet, outsource to a prefect.

So, the fact that Snape personally came to collect him magnified the feeling that he had somehow betrayed the very real eleven year old’s who were not the grown adult death eaters their counterparts had been. That equilibrium – between valuable foreknowledge and forcing a child to conform to some idea of destiny – was an endless balancing act. It was only compounded when his dormmates appeared just to praise him and offer encouragement.

“Fleamont, with me,” Snape drawled, and Harry scrambled frantically to be up, and following Snape before the Potions Master became annoyed, “Are you prepared for your evaluations today?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said promptly and dutifully followed him.

“Good luck today Harry,” Blaise called out loudly with a brilliantly wide smile, with the sound of Slytherin cheering around him, “We know you’re going to do fantastically.”

Gladrags Wizardwear hadn’t sent over his owl order package yet, so his patched blue Wesley Sweater and jeans would have to do. Snape eyed him with his lip curled and Harry could feel himself bristling. Sure, the sweater was still far too big for his frame, and even though he rolled the cuffs right up he felt frail and small. But it was only the ever-present reminder that this sweater came from Molly Weasley, possibly the closest thing he had to a mother figure, that prevented the association between baggy clothing and the utter misery of the Dursleys. There was a reason why he preferred to wear fitting clothing.  Thought it was only early autumn, the cool air of the castle had his sweater and scarf practically glued to his body. Not even Snape's derision could remove them.

But Snape had literally only ever seen him wear school robes or this exact pair of jeans and a sweater. He was still wearing the little too large shoes he’d gotten from Gringotts – wearing both the socks he’d brought on Diagon Alley and the pair he’d found in the room of requirements. It was still a little too big for his feet, even with the extra padding. Standing next to Snape again made him feel very young, but as the silent walk dragged on, he began to feel old beyond his years.

“You will be put through a series of tests today, Mister Fleamont,” Snape drawled, “A series of practical and theoretical tests. As your head of House, I will be observing you throughout the day. You are to perform to the best of your ability – I will know if you are not – is that clear?”

Harry swallowed hard and then nodded.

When they finally reached their destination, they were outside the Transfiguration classroom. Snape didn’t bother to knock – he simply walked in. It seemed as if that to be expected, for Professor McGonagall was sat primly behind her desk with a cup of tea. She was out of her emerald and black robes today: a little more dressed down but not casual by any means. Instead, McGonagall was clothed in not a small amount of her favourite green tartan and a deerstalker. She glanced over towards the door when it opened and greeted them warmly. In the front row, a stack of parchment paper was waiting next to a quill and ink pot.

 Two chairs were set up in front of her desk, and both Harry and Snape sat down and waited.

“Mister Fleamont,” Professor McGonagall greeted warmly, “I do hope that you have had a lovely breakfast and are now prepared for a day of testing. I’m here in my role as Deputy Headmistress- and I’ll be observing you all day to ensure these tests are fair and conducted properly. Severus will also be observing all day – in his role as your Head of House. I very firmly believe that you are going to do wonderfully today – in a few minutes I’m going to sit down at a desk and give you 30 minutes to work on a test parchment. Do as much as you can – but I don’t expect that you’ll be able to finish it, dear. The test starts off with the first year material we have been working on in class and gets progressively more difficult. Just give that your best try – when you’re done, we’ll work on some practical spellcasting for half an hour and then break for a little while so you can have a nice cup of tea, and a biscuit and we’ll wait for your next teacher to come and start their section – I do think it’s Professor Flitwick straight after, dear. We’ll pause for Lunch sometime after noon.”

Harry nodded.

“We have your parchment set up already with a quill – I’m afraid we can’t allow you to use your own – it’s protocol you see,” McGonagall was very apologetic, “If you have need of me, please raise your hand – although I hope by now you know I cannot answer any of your parchment questions. Professor Snape will be here all day, observing throughout all your tests. And, I will let you know this now, that anti-cheating charms have been applied to your test parchment.”

“No spells Professor,” Harry responded pleasantly.

“Well then, very well, let us proceed.”

Harry took his seat and watched as Professor McGonagall cast a spell wordlessly – and on the chalkboard in front of them, a piece of chalk floated up and wrote a giant thirty. It signaled the countdown of time he'd have - but Harry had learned long ago that watching the time creep away was the exact way to fail something.

“You may now start, Mister Fleamont.”

With that, Harry started the test and found to his surprise that there was only one question.

“Define the four branches of transfiguration, including the sub-branches.”

It was confusing, and Harry flipped the parchment just to make sure there hadn’t been a mix up. When he found no further writing, on any of the other papers, he frowned and went into great detail answering it. Having gone over this in class very recently, it was remarkably easy to define and draw a family tree of transfiguration to map it out properly.

As soon as he was done, a second question magically revealed itself:

“Give the name and incantation of the spell used to turn a matchstick into a needle”

Harry stared at it and frowned. This specific form of test had been made redundant by Neville’s tenure. There was no way to see all the questions until he’d given an answer. It was a progressive test – but one that didn’t allow for students to skip questions because of a gap in learning and assumed inability to answer was due to lack of knowledge beyond this point.

Regardless, he answered it. Then, the test went surprisingly easier asking him to give the incantation, name, and description for a variety of basic transfiguration spells. They ranged in difficulty, from evanesce (to vanish an object) and reparifarge (used to counter the effects of transfiguration which has been poorly executed), to avifors (which turned small objects or statues into birds) and avis (conjuring birds), before becoming more difficult with draconifors (which turned small objects or statues into fire breathing dragons) and ebublio (which turned an opposing wizard into bubbles).

Harry realised far too late why it had asked him in this order – because question 20 ordered him to go back through the list of spells and add in the branch and subbranch (if applicable) of each spell. Harry gnawed on his lip as he considered ‘epoximise’ (which bonded two objects) for a few more seconds than he should have, before marking down an answer and moving on. By the time Harry hit question 30 – which asked him to write down a kind of Transfiguration incantation to help him in specific situations – Harry was starting to see an emerging pattern. The phrasing of each question was just specific enough that it gave answers: What kind of Transfiguration spell would you use when your friend has broken their leg, and you need to help them before you floo St Mungo’s? Ferula, of course! What kind of Transfiguration incantation would help you turn a hard stone floor bouncy? Spongify!

He defined Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration in its entirety, broke down the conjuration orchideous into the theoretical framework describing its construction based on the transfiguration spell constructive work of Audric Etherington-Graves, and almost started to tear up by the time he started to explain why evanesce was such a complex spell – and explained in great detail why a kitten was much harder to vanish than a mouse.

By the time Harry reached the end of the parchment, it was entirely on human transfiguration, including the spell crinus muto which he painstakingly had to pull apart into its most basic steps, giving form to the theories that went into the mental image that supported the change of hair colour and style on a semi-permanent basis. It was tedious work – but he understood how things functioned, having plenty of experience working an Auror, dealing with all sorts of botched transfiguration attempts.

But Transfiguration had always been one of his best subjects. He’d managed an Exceeds Expectations on his OWLS – but hadn’t returned for his NEWTS after his disastrous seventh year. The way he’d always been described as was being the magical equivalent of a sledgehammer. He could funnel through enough raw power and will to make anything happen – the delicacy involved was something he hadn’t managed to gain until excruciating life lessons at work. Once the theory was down now, it wasn’t that difficult to reverse engineer a spell, or craft something that more or less seemed like it could work. He’d been running diagnostics on spells far too long to fall complacent after just a few weeks off at school.

It was still with surprise that he finished before time ran out, so he busied himself double-checking answers and then writing the IMPS (International Magical Pronunciation System) next to each incantation – because he figured it was something Hermione would do, and Hermione was still one of the smartest people he knew.

With five minutes to go, Harry stuck his hand up.

“Yes, Mister Fleamont?”

“I’m finished, Professor,” Harry organised his papers, and returned his quill to the ink well, “I’m ready for the practical element if you are.”

“The entire parchment?” Professor McGonagall responded even as she was walking across the room to scan over his parchment, “An incredible effort, Mister Fleamont.”

She still sounded incredibly pleased, even as she handed Professor Snape the parchment and instructed him to keep it safe. Harry had almost forgotten about Snape, as he was silently watching from a corner, with a strong cup of nettle tea in hand. Snape’s eyes were narrowed, and Harry got a distinct feeling that something wasn’t quite right – and Snape was trying to puzzle him out. That wasn’t a good thing.

The practical component wasn’t anything particularly complicated. It just seemed to involve a lot of switching spells; he turned a matchstick into a needle, a mouse into a teacup, a sugar cube into a fire-breathing dragon and then a desk into a pig, and back again. At each step, Professor McGonagall looked more and more impressed until finally, she looked at him with a considering expression.

“Mister Fleamont,” The professor said, “You have completed all the practical elements I have set and executed them stupendously. I am now giving you something very rare: a free pass to show me what else you can do. Impress me.”

That – was unexpected.

It was a challenge though, and something in the way that both Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape were looking at him – with clear respect – was something that made him feel something great well up in his chest. It was unfamiliar – his school days had mostly been spent with people generally being disappointed in him, not believing him or generally just being great big gits. The strangeness of this situation – being praised for knowing things, for being able to innovate and create – however much of an experience gap he had admittedly – was something he wanted to hold on to, for just a bit longer. It was addictive, it made his chest swell up, it made him feel eager to please.

It was this in mind that Harry considered this for a while. He’d already gone big – and Ron had once told him ‘go big or go home’ – so what exactly was the harm in showing off a little? Harry turned to face his desk, frowned and then pointed his wand at the inkpot on his desk and wordlessly cast a spell only bubbling in the back of his memory. The inkpot twisted and span, the inkpot, the ink, and the quill being transfigured simultaneously; feathers burst into being, wings formed, bright yellow eyes opened for the first time. The result was the closest Harry could get to Hedwig – her exact colourings and patterns having faded into some foggy part of his memory. He leaned forward to stroke her feathers and she hooted – looking around the room in such a way that Harry could tell wasn’t truly real. Magic couldn’t create the one thing he had always needed: life.

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows flew up, and she threw her head over to look at Snape, who was staring at the owl in something like surprise and deep concern. Harry didn’t like what that conveyed.

“Severus look,” McGonagall crowed, “Isn’t this truly remarkable – look at the detail of this work. The feathers – see how both flight feathers are curved individually. The sounds, the animations. Marvelous, simply marvelous.”

Harry could appreciate his own good work and could appreciate praise coming from one of his most treasured professors even more. He could feel his face growing hot and red from it when he let himself smile broadly until it hurt his cheeks.

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry responded, ducking his head to hide a wide smile, then glancing at Snape, “Shall I end the incantation?”

“Please do,” The Slytherin head replied. Harry ended it and ensured the inkpot and quill and ink were back to normal before turning and graciously taking the cup of tea being offered to him.

He returned his thanks and relaxed back into his chair gratefully: it was a great deal more magic than he had been doing for the past few weeks, and the hot sugary beverage did a great deal to replenish what he had spent on his theatrics. It was probably his downfall really – the fact that he was prepared to go to such extremes for such little praise from an adult.

“Mister Fleamont,” Professor McGonagall said once he was properly seated, “I can’t imagine you were anything but entirely bored sitting in my classes. Good gracious, the level to which has been demonstrated here today is outstanding – I’ve glanced over your test results and I can’t possibly fathom that they’d be any less than an Outstanding. Severus,” She turned to face Snape, “I simply do not know what to do with him – he’s incredibly technically competent – perhaps my seventh year class could help him gain a greater knowledge of more complex configurations surrounding the creation of transfiguration spells.”

“Have you had prior study Mister Fleamont?” Professor Snape asked, dark eyes boring into him, “Private tutoring in this subject? Wand-usage without ministry approval?”

“Private tutoring yes sir,” Harry responded, “I, uh, like to read, and the family library has a great many books. I haven’t used a wand before I was eleven though sir.”

Snape continued to stare at him, and Harry felt like he had made an enormous mistake. Professor McGonagall however, looked utterly delighted. When Harry switched his attention back to Professor McGonagall, he immediately knew that he had made a mistake, as Snape had gone from curious and probing to thoughtful.

“Oh, Filius is going to love you,” McGonagall replied with a wide grin, “I suspect you’re going to make a lot of people very excited today, Mister Fleamont. Talented wizards are few and far between – especially one as talented as you. Filius should be along in ten minutes or so since we finished early. It gives you time for a breather, though fortunately. Do have another biscuit.”

“Am I going to be tested in every class?” Harry asked, clutching a teacup in his hand, “It’s only – well I’m not very good at History of Magic, or Astronomy if I’m honest.”

“You are – but don’t be alarmed if you don’t do as spectacular as this test,” Professor McGonagall said with a smile, “The point of these tests isn’t to pass or fail – they’re a tool to help us help you. So, we can see not only if you know an answer – but how you’re working out the questions we set. I’m sure we can forgive you – indeed still appreciate you – if you do not get the perfect scores you seek.”

It was a better version of the speech he had given Hermione only yesterday. Where Hermione strove from insecurity around her brains, Harry had to admit to himself that some of his came from constantly worrying about what everyone was thinking about him. It was practical really, given that his life had been a slide from ‘Harry save us’ to ‘Potter stinks’ depending on the week – but one that was perhaps more obvious than what he’d known if McGonagall had spotted it within only a few weeks of knowing him. The fact that McGonagall could pick up his endless need to be loved made him feel a little bothered and worried about what exactly people were seeing when they looked at him.

“What area do you intend to study?” Professor Snape questioned, with a considering look, “Hogwarts has indeed offered apprenticeships when students are capable – although not until students have reached their fourth year or higher. With your technical proficiency, perhaps an apprenticeship could be a solution.”

Harry stilled.

That was – unexpected. He hadn’t exactly thought about this, had he? If he was in this world – perhaps for years – at one point he’d have to consider a job – a real job. He could easily meet the requirements to become Auror – he already knew the training and requirements – but being an Auror was a time demanding job and it was quite common that Aurors would be asked to work weekends. Sure, his Auror training would come in handy, but Auror background checks would probably expose his shoddily constructed background in less than a day – within an hour if Mad-eye was still roaming around.

An apprenticeship could help cement his history in this world. A lack of history before he was eleven could be explained away by lost records, and paranoid parents – and plenty of Amish and Mennonite witches and wizards existed without detailed Ministry records.

They managed just fine.

Being able to stay at Hogwarts for as long as possible was the goal: Hogwarts had free board, free food, free owls, and a room of endless junk to subside off. Outside of Hogwarts meant rent, expenses, and background checks.

But what could he do? He wasn’t much of a Herbologist, and the few magizooogical excursions he’d undertaken with Luna was quite enough for him. He’d also had quite enough Dragon’s for this lifetime.  You could apprentice to any Professor – although it was quite rare – and could only come at the invitation of a Professor. You certainly could enquire to any availability in the apprenticeship schedules though.

There were limited amounts of apprenticeships offered in the magical world, and limited people who were able to offer apprenticeships. This was largely controlled by the Guilds of Magical Britain to make sure there were never too many wizards and witches working in each profession – their members paid membership fees, and had their prices strictly controlled, so no one could be threatened by another in their profession. It stopped people from dramatically undercutting their peers, running them into the ground, and then jacking up their prices. It stopped clever people creating a new product or improving a product and then making an enormous amount of money through innovation. It set instructions and recipes and created homogeny, all stamped with the Guild approval. It was proof of quality but stifled innovation.

There were Guilds that were particularly bad – Potions – and Guilds that were much freer – Cure Breaking. The utter mess and contradictions of the Guilds were why most people opted for ministry jobs – and ministry jobs were plenty in the over-convoluted bureaucratic nightmare of the wizarding world. The Ministry was exempt from all Guild guidelines – but anything you created while in Ministry employ belonged to the Ministry. The Guilds also meant that the Ministry effectively outsourced any problem – if a wayward duellist was causing problems, then the Dueller’s Guild was wholly responsible for their member – and other members of the Guild were incentivised to censure if not outward deal with the problem.

Harry simply did not have the patience for the Guilds – at least not until wizards developed the idea of unions and the free market somewhere around 2011. This, however, left a limited choice of decent Guilds for career options. Curse-breaking, Healing, Weaving, Runic Warding – there were dozens available. Curse breaking was interesting – but the market for that was driven by Gringotts – and Harry wasn’t convinced they’d employ someone who sooner or later, would have to break into Bellatrix Black’s vault.

Or – did he?

Bellatrix was still a Black in this vault – she’d been divorced from Lestrange. If Sirius was the Lord, maybe he could be convinced to hand it over?

Which was a whole new avenue to explore?

A whole avenue that was now a little harder thanks to his green and silver tie. His best bet would be befriending Cygnus Black, who had been sorted into Ravenclaw. Befriending someone solely for the contents of their vault though – well Harry had done worse.

“You don’t need to decide on a career now, Mister Fleamont,” McGonagall interrupted his thoughts, “Why, you’re still eleven. You have two years before you need to start choosing your electives with at least a faint idea of what you’d like to do when you graduate.”

There was only one choice that he could see a clear benefit to, in terms of apprenticeships.

“Well, the thing is - I was thinking I’d like to be a Healer,” Harry responded, to see McGonagall’s face brighten, “I really like figuring out how potions and spells are made – how to undo them. I want to improve on what is currently we can do to treat people – and make people better.”

Harry would see the exact moment when McGonagall melted.

“I’m sure you’ll make a marvelous Healer, if that is the path you walk down,” McGonagall told him firmly, “After we finish conducting your evaluation, we will re-evaluate how to alter your schedule and see if we can perhaps, admit you to some electives early.”

Harry straightened in his chair, “I would appreciate that Professor.”

“This still must be approved by Professor Dumbledore,” McGonagall responded firmly, “He will most likely ask you to meet with him – and Professor Snape and myself will be there to support you. We must also get permission granted from your guardians.”

Harry stilled.

Snape seemed to catch the slight motion, and Harry could see his eyes narrow. Snape looked rigid like a puzzle piece had just been offered to him – and it fit. McGonagall didn’t though – and continued.

“I can’t give you any guarantees Mister Fleamont,” McGonagall said, then paused as the door opened, “Ah! Filius! Good, we’ve been expecting you!”

The rest of the day continued in this fashion: Flitwick, and Sprout entertained him before he broke for lunch – catching up very briefly with Hermione and Anthony who were enjoying Shabbos with Ayako Suzuki from Hufflepuff, David Padamsee from Slytherin, and Elia Lwowski from Ravenclaw who all were having a rousing debate that seemed to focus on whether magic was considered ‘work’ or not, and if it was ‘work’, did automated magic count? Did spells that were cast on Friday before sunset that automated themselves but still drew on the magic of their caster – like self-knitting needles – count? Harry could only drop by for a few minutes to say hi before ducking off again, just as debate started raging about the Chief Wizarding Rabbinate. Elia Lwowski had seemingly started this debate, talking about her muggle parents shock when she accidentally had her Hanukkah candles burning – unable to put them out - for almost the whole month of December.

He briefly checked up with Theo and Pansy, who were incredibly excited to hear how’d he had done so far – and told him that Draco Malfoy was off writing his weekly incredibly long letter to his father, which detailed all his gripes, complaints and week so far. Additionally, Blaise had ducked off to the owlery to send off the no less than eight letters he’d written to various members of his family – in seven different languages.

“High Greek to his mother, of course,” Pansy said, looking incredibly impressed, “Sicilian to his brothers Gesualdo and Brancaleone, Wizarding Arabic to his grandmother, Wizarding Catalan to his sister Aristea and Aramaic to his sister Melitta, Frisian to his cousins -far too many to name - and Kaji to his step-brothers and sisters who are all on a very exciting excursion to see some kind of lake mermaid and evil river snake – I wrote it down for you Harry, because there’s no way I can say it.”

Pansy slid over a piece of parchment with the word ‘Tskarishdida’ written down in Pansy’s curly handwriting. Beside it was an unfamiliar script that looked somewhat similar to Blaise’s handwriting – but Harry couldn’t be sure since it wasn’t in a typical Latin-script. Underneath it was the word ‘Gveleshapi’ and another non-Latin script scrawled. Harry could empathise with Pansy – he wouldn’t know where to start on the pronunciation by sight alone.

“That’s interesting,” Harry replied, “What language is Kaji? Where’s that from?”

“Kajeti – Kaji just means wizard really,” Pansy primly replied, “It’s the wizarding area of the Kingdom of Georgia – Blaise just told me all about it.”

“I still don’t think it’s a kingdom anymore,” Theo interjected, “Muggles aren’t really all that fond of kings anymore.”

Pansy huffed in return.

“What do you have next?” Theo asked curiously, “You’ve done Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology, right? Did they give you a schedule?”

That would be much too convenient.

Harry shook his head, “No written schedule – But I’ve been told next is Astronomy, History of Magic, and then Defence Against the Dark Arts. Potions are after dinner.”

Theo cheered

Harry gloomed, “I’m going to fail Astronomy and History of Magic, I just know it.”

It wasn’t far off from his prediction. Harry was pretty sure bungled the very first question – filling out a map of stars. He couldn’t remember where most of them were, forgot the names of a bunch of different stars and was pretty sure he accidentally invented a constellation or two. By the time he had to start plotting out planets, describing their locations and movements, and detailing the environments on the surface of those planets – Harry was completely lost.

He ran out of time when he was staring at a map of Jupiter and trying to figure out which moon was Io when the time was officially called. He hadn’t exactly spent much time inspecting the sky – and had originally completely dropped the class once he could. Professor Sinistra looked a tad disappointed in his results, and Harry was convinced that she was planning a remedial package for him when she left. His expression must have alerted McGonagall, for she insisted on making him drink another cup of tea. Professor Potter seemed to understand what must have happened, and so she cheerfully asked to join their tea break before they started further evaluations. Sitting next to his mother – well, a version of his mother anyway, continued to do strange things to his stomach.

It wasn’t as hard as he would have thought. This version of his mother was older, much more settled – she didn’t look exactly like she had in the few images Harry had preciously hoarded. Maybe it was because he had never actually met her – didn’t know much about her at all – that stopped something much more painful. It was interesting, like looking at a walking, talking magical portrait.

What was more interesting, was the way Professor Potter and Professor Snape seemed to have whole conversations with their eyes. They were clearly on good terms – when his mother had greeted ‘Sev’ he’d been surprised, but when he’d responded with ‘Lils’ Harry had almost choked on his tea.

The confirmation of ‘Uncle Sev’ was all but there, in that single interaction.

It was only once they had finished their tea did Harry undertake the History of Magic test – and proceed to utterly botch it again. The questions relating to the new material he had learned so far, he could get right, more or less, but the rest of the questions were baffling. There were only a few he could confidently answer – things like when the statue of secrecy was raised. There was a whole section dedicated to the Goblin Rebellion that he frankly had no idea about, but made him remember the droning monotonous voice of Professor Binns with a shudder – this was how he learned that a drop of ink from a quill counted as an answer, and would let him move on to the next question. There was talk about the interaction between the muggle and wizarding Britains during colonial times – and Harry could only remember Hermione’s quick explanation of this history of 'alohomora'. There were questions relating to magical religious practices, magical human rights movements, magical political innovations, and a whole part on the interaction between the magical and muggle governments of Britain, and the Republic of Ireland which started a whole section on magical borders where he’d need to fill in a map with the names of 347 countries (with extra points if he could also fill in a second map with muggle borders and country names). He knew exactly none of it.

Professor Potter didn’t mark the results there, but cheerfully tucked them away in her satchel and offer to escort them all back to the Great Hall in time for dinner. The entire walk she valiantly tried to cheer Harry up, which somehow made Harry feel even worse. The idea that he had failed his mother – even if she wasn’t ‘his’ mother – send a cascade of ugly feelings deep inside of him.  

He slid in on the Slytherin table next to Blaise – who picked up on his mood and cheerfully started him on a conversation about how he’d seen Harry Potter miserably serving his detention scrubbing the dungeon hallway floor using a scrubbing brush and a bucket of warm water under Flinch’s keen attention, while Ron Weasley had been scrubbing the left wall, and Seamus scrubbing the right. Dean Thomas had apparently drawn the short straw and was forced to clean the ceiling by moving a wooden ladder every few metres. Half of Slytherin, Blaise gleefully had told him, had been sitting on the steps outside the Slytherin Common room just to watch the four scrub every single statue, column, and floor-grove with a toothbrush.

After Harry was fed and watered, and already feeling a bit tired, Professor Snape and McGonagall collected him to venture to the Potions classroom, where Snape set him about brewing a wound cleaning potion over the course of three hours. In the middle, during the 45 minutes where the potion had to brew under controlled flame – he was verbally quizzed on a variety of potions and ingredients while he had to remember to stir clockwise once every minute. After he’d decanted the vibrantly violent potion into three glass vials, labelled and presented them to Snape – he’d raised a single eyebrow and declared them adequate.

It was unexpected high praise.

Harry felt like he was glowing as he was escorted to his very final evaluation – Defence against the Dark Arts. It was perhaps the easier subject of the day – and good to end it on a high note given the way he’d had an absolute mental blank on whether Pluto was still considered a planet or not.

The door was open when they arrived; Professor Lupin was behind his desk, shuffling papers and organising his desk. When Harry walked in, he perked up and gave a bright smile.

Even though Harry hadn’t quite forgotten, it still surprised him to see the deep scars across Remus’ face. They were no less painful looking than they had back in his own world. Hermione’s voice came to mind – dittany is more effective pre-healing than post.

“Ah! Mister Fleamont,” He greeted, “Minerva, Professor Snape – come in. I’ve just put on a pot of tea, please join me.”

Harry accepted another teacup – although by now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep tonight having had no less than five cups. Lupin looked well – with healthier cheeks and dressed very finely – and he was clean shaven though his hair still greying. His desk held framed pictures – Cygnus Black who Harry could recall from class but hadn’t spoken to much yet – a smaller girl with hair rapidly changing between a deep green and bright blue, and two smaller children with brown hair who were curled on a couch surrounded by wizarding treats. There was also an assortment of knickknacks – wizarding instruments that whizzed and moved and floated around. It spoke of a kind of stability that his own Remus Lupin had been ill-able to afford.

“Today is going to be a practical class, Mister Fleamont,” Remus said, pausing to sip his tea – Harry was curious as he smelled the brew – it wasn’t regular black tea, “I’ll be putting you through the paces today; I’ve been hearing that you’re quite bright but it’s not enough to be bright when you’re trying to come up with a decent defence – you also have to be quick, adaptable and creative. Tell me – do you know what a Boggart is, Mister Fleamont?”

“I do,” Harry replied.

“Well, it just so happens that I have one, in preparation for my third-year class on Monday – do you know the incantation to repeal one?”

“Riddikulus,” Harry replied promptly.

“You can’t be seriously thinking of having an eleven-year-old child face a boggart?” McGonagall replied sternly.

Remus waved her off, “I think Mister Fleamont has shown that he is quite unusual for his age. I wouldn’t be able to properly assess him if I don’t subject him to few different and more dangerous challenges – besides – with three Professors keeping an eye on him I hardly think he can get into much trouble? Professor Dumbledore concurred.”

She turned to Snape as if trying to find an ally, but found Snape curiously considering Harry with a gleam in his eye.

“Very well,” She replied, seemingly resigned to the whole process.

“Well then,” Remus said – and he stood quickly – “Harry are you ready?”

Remus’s boggart was contained in his supplied cupboard. McGonagall looked like a barb was sitting on the tip of her tongue when she realised, and Snape glowered.

“It stops my extra quills and parchment suddenly going missing,” Remus cheerily explained, “And if it can’t – well then, that’s a well-deserved quill.”

Harry grinned at the scene: his own Remus Lupin had whirled into his third-year class late and turned something horrifying into Snape wearing Neville’s grandmother’s clothing. Maybe because his own Remus had been much more tired and mournful, his mischievous and witty side had been tempered down by grief and death. His Remus Lupin had adopted a much more fatherly role in his life – filling the gap where far too many had been taken away. This Remus Lupin was a Lupin in his prime: watered with the most basic ingredients – love and hope, which caused a flourish of good humour and glee.

With a flash, the boggart was loose, and a harrowing Dementor ghosted out of the closet with skeletal hands and an endlessly wavering cloak. McGonagall stood up quickly from her side of the room, Snape paled and had his wand out – but Harry bet them all to it.

“Riddikulus!” He cast and then held his breath. The Dementor warped and twisted, and suddenly the Dementor was in the robes Ron Weasley had worn to the Yule Ball in fourth year. The Dementor looked down and shrieked, and Harry started laughing from the sight.

Remus looked distinctly pleased – and banished the boggart back to the closet from whence it had come.

“Marvellous Harry, simply marvelous!” Remus cheered, “An incredible execution of the spell with plenty of visualisation and power behind the cast. I thought I’d start you off with something a tad tricky – but you’ve responded as if it were nothing more than degnoming a garden.”

Harry grimaced with thoughts of doing exactly that at the Weasley home.

“Tell me-“ Remus said, looking a little more thoughtful, “A Dementor is a terrible thing to be exposed to – and an easy thing to fear. Would you like to learn the incantation to fight a Dementor?”

“I already know it, Professor,” Harry replied, “Expecto Patronum.”

Remus’ eyes seemed to stare straight through him: The Professor looked endlessly thoughtful.

“Tell me what you know of it?”

“It’s a charm that produces a Patronus made of white light to defend you against dark creatures like Dementors and Lethifolds,” Harry dutifully replied, “Most Patronuses are cats, dogs or horses. It’s rare that a Patronus can be an extinct animal or magical animal. Albus Dumbledore’s is a phoenix, but I recall that Hedley Fleetwood could produce a corporeal woolly mammoth. The size of the Patronus doesn’t correlate to the strength of a Patronus though – there’s a story of Illyius and Raczidian – where Illyius produced a corporeal mouse Patronus when the dark lord Raczidian attacked his village with Dementors, and only the mouse Patronus that was strong enough to fight off the dementors. Raczidian died at the end of the story because he tried to cast a Patronus – but instead, maggots shot out the end of his wand and they ate him alive.”

“Do you know why it ate him alive?” Remus probed.

Harry paused while he considered this.

“Well – when you produce a Patronus, you have to use happy memories, truly happy memories built from love and care,” Harry paused, but couldn’t find the exact words, “Raczidian’s happiness was based on the misery of others. It wasn’t genuine happiness – it was based on selfishness and anger and suffering. It was a delight in cruelty. It’s why we say that if you’re not careful – it will consume you – because if you hold onto things, if you don’t – I don’t know – deal with things and make good choices – then one day it will literally eat you up. The story is a whole metaphor I think – I mean the wizard did literally live with Dementors haunting him.”

Remus smiled; it was a proud smile. A delighted smile. A smile that quickly grew just a tad gleeful.

Harry couldn’t tell where his thoughts had drifted, but McGonagall seemed to know if the sharp inhale was anything to go by.

“Can you cast a Patronus?” Remus gently asked, “Could you demonstrate it for me?”

There really wasn’t any way of getting out of it – Snape would know if he lied, and it would result in more questions. He was doing surprisingly well anyway, hiding under a guise of prodigy. A Patronus was a difficult piece of magic to do, for any witch or wizard, but only because the skills needed as a prerequisite of the charm weren’t actively taught.

Harry cast the spell, gathering up all the memories of pure happiness he could. From the tip of his wand came a blinding, dazzling shape – not a shapeless cloud of mist – but a fully-fledged Patronus which skipped around the room with antlers of pure white. There was an almost revere silence, McGonagall’s hand flew to her mouth, and Snape’s eyebrows dramatically lifted as his jaw dropped. Remus though – he grinned so broadly he looked half-mad, and then he started laughing in wonder.

“Marvelous!” Remus was repeating, “Simply Marvelous. Look at the detail on the fur, Minerva! The sparkle in his eye!”

The Patronus did a sweep of the classroom, and finding no dementors, returned to Harry, bowed his head and then disappeared into the air.

“Where on earth did you learn that?” McGonagall cried.

Well.

“I do have a lot of time on weekends, Professor,” Harry replied as sweetly as he could, “I like to practice new spells – not dangerous ones!”

He hastily added the last part to both Snape and McGonagall who looked increasingly opposed to such an idea. Remus seemed to have no problem with it at all, rather, on the contrary, he nodded as if remembering his own mischief while a Hogwarts student.

“Have you ever dueled Harry?”

Harry could never resist a clear challenge.

That turned out to be a mistake though. Harry could duel, sure – but his unfamiliar eleven-year-old body just didn’t have the muscle memory with the right proportions. Harry Potter was a twenty-three-year-old Auror with long lean arms, long strong legs and was just on the shorter side of 5”8. Eleven-year-old Harry Fleamont could have done better to have pencils for legs, and rubber bands for arms – and was barely scrapping 4”3 in terms of height.

 Additionally, his shoes were still three sizes too big and tended to shift around on his feet. His Gladrags order included plain leather shoes, but they still hadn’t arrived. It certainly wouldn’t give him the flexibility of dragon skin boots, but it was better than what he had.

It wasn’t difficult to walk or run even really – but the level of physicality, the level of self-awareness that an Auror needed just wasn’t there. The mental map he had of his own body just didn’t line up with what he actually had. He lacked the lean muscle, the callouses, the instinctive muscle memory. This realisation made him deeply uncomfortable – along with the idea that if he closed his eyes and tried to touch his nose, he probably wouldn’t be able to do it. He was just a little out of sync between what he could do now, and what he would be able to do in the future. His mental image probably wouldn’t realign until he had the chance to properly figure out what his body could do – or when he was finally around 16 and he more or less stopped getting taller.

Lupin managed to disarm him within only a few minutes – and Harry had only managed to fire off eight spells, half of them expelliarmus – and he managed to trip over his own feet.

Lupin pointed out the fact when he handed back Harry’s wand.

“You did incredibly well, you should be proud of yourself,” Lupin congratulated him with an incredibly broad smile. Harry heard the unspoken ‘you may need to improve on your co-ordination’, and ‘try literally any other spell than expelliarmus’ that Remus was withholding in order to save Harry further embarrassment. If literally, anyone in the Auror department had seen that, they’d have died from laughter.

“Thanks,” Harry responded, shifting on his feet, “Is, ah, there anything else?”

“We’re finished here today,” Professor Lupin responded, “It’s getting quite late anyway – you ought to have time to talk and laugh with your classmates now that we’ve finished disrupting your weekend.”

With that, Harry was briskly escorted back to the Slytherin Common Room. Though it was late when he returned, it seemed like half of Slytherin had been waiting around just to hear Professor Snape declare that he did perfectly adequately. After a celebration – and a Slytherin celebration was certainly nothing like what he had imagined – Harry fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The rest of his weekend was perfectly uneventful. His roommates were perfectly content to let him sleep-in, so when he awoke on Sunday, he found that Blaise must have refilled the bowls of milk on his altar because there were nearly half a dozen cats snoozing merrily across the many beds of the room. A particularly fat and fluffy one was sprawled across Draco’s bed, leaving shed fur across his nicest blanket – supposedly woven from the golden fleece of Colchis, and knocking Draco's orichalcum telescope from the bedside table. The Sunday night showcase of the utter indigent furious screams of Draco Malfoy was still echoing in his eardrums on Monday morning.

That was how Harry ended up sitting next to Crabbe and Goyle that Monday morning, with Draco and Pansy down one end, and Theo and Blaise on the other. Harry ended up sitting in the middle, with the two meathead bodyguards to avoid taking a side in such a petty squabble – really Draco could have followed through on his threat to apply an anti-feline charm on his bed if he was that serious – only to find that surprising, Crabbe and Goyle really weren’t so bad. Crabbe was keenly interested in magical husbandry, while Goyle kept up a steady stream about a wizard named Abernathy Alcazar who was currently painting his Father’s magical portrait. It seemed that both were just a bit quiet, and both heirs under strict orders to not do anything to embarrass themselves ever. The two had largely decided to stay silent, keep their heads down and follow through on their fathers’ orders to get in good with the Malfoy heir – apparently, Draco had some third cousins who might agree to some introductions with witches from both the Crabbe and Goyle family.

It wasn’t until breakfast had almost ended that Professor Snape caught him and quietly pulled him away – as much as he could in a large hall anyway. Dumbledore had been noticeably absent during breakfast and Harry immediately knew why Snape was leading him from the hall even before the Potions Master verbalised it. Snape lead him to one of the nicest courtyards at Hogwarts- the one overlooking the Great Lake – where Dumbledore stood in merrily twinkling lime green and salmon robes charmed to look like the stars, with his hands clasped behind his back. McGonagall was standing close by, visually inspecting the hazel trees that dotted the courtyard. When Snape drew close McGonagall strung to his side to meet his gait.

McGonagall didn’t look pleased by any measure. Her mouth was in a firm line and her eyebrows were drawn together a little too tightly whenever she looked towards Dumbledore. It set alarm bells off in Harry’s head.

It was a peaceful morning, and it seemed that Dumbledore had nothing better to do than stand and watch the tiny bradán feasa fish swimming in the pool below the water fountain. When he did turn and launch a twinkling smile at Harry, Harry could feel the tension quickly snap up.

“Ah! Young Harry!” Dumbledore greeted cheerfully, perching himself on the edge of the water fountain, “I hope you don’t mind indulging an old man’s curiosity? I thought I’d best meet with the clever student who has been doing so well in classes. Tell me, what’s your favourite class so far?”

Dumbledore didn’t do things by any half-measure. Harry couldn’t decide whether he was being investigated as a potential Voldemort, a Dumbledore-like recurrence, or if the old man was genuinely interested in how he was going. In any case, Harry didn’t look straight in his eyes but tried to look anywhere else and play it off as being very nervous and humble.

“I rather enjoy Transfiguration and Charms, sir,” Harry responded, “But Defense Against the Dark Arts is my favourite class.”

“Excellent!” Dumbledore cheered, “I’ve heard nothing but glowing remarks from your teachers in those subjects. I hear you want to be a Healer once you graduate?”

“Yes sir,” Harry responded again, “I just- I just want to help people.”

“An admirable goal,” The Headmaster replied solemnly, “You scored excellently on your evaluations – but I am afraid I do feel that you belong with your peers, and not placed in other year levels classes. It would be a great shame to see you disconnected from all your wonderful friends. A compromise then – you stay in your first-year classes, but you’ll be given individual packages to complete in those classes which match the level of your experience. If your classwork doesn’t slip – and if you’re still able to maintain your excellent friendships with your friends, I will allow you to begin taking electives next year. Agreed?”

Harry felt a heat of indignation heat up – and he could see McGonagall’s disapproving look out of the corner of his eye. Not a popular decision, given her expression. It did make sense from Dumbledore’s perspective through – a very powerful, very learned eleven-year-old wizard appears from out of nowhere and excels. It could be history if Harry didn’t firmly know he wasn’t Voldemort. Arguing or protesting would just drive confirmation bias against him.

Harry nodded, and tried to sound eager, “Of course Professor!”

“Very well, Harry,” Professor Dumbledore’s voice grew more grandfatherly, “I do hope you’ll forgive me, for disrupting any dreams you might have had. I just couldn’t possibly bear the thought of breaking up your friendships with Ms. Granger and Mr. Goldstein.”

That was interesting. Dumbledore had omitted the friendships with Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and even Draco. Harry glanced sideways to look at Snape’s face – his jaw was clenched but elsewise his face was impassive.

Snape had noticed it too, which drew Harry into thought.

‘Ah’ Harry realised, moments later, ‘Not a new Voldemort, not a new Dumbledore. A new Snape.’

Harry hastily re-drew the conclusion. And isn’t that what he must have looked like – a shabbily dressed but powerful wizard appears out of nowhere. His Hogwarts robes are dusty, worn and patched. He gets placed in Slytherin – but he is friends with a Muggle-born Gryffindor. There is a war upcoming, Dumbledore knows that, and he has survived enough wars to know when to keep a backup spy.

He has witnessed this story once, and he will witness again – for the greater good.

But Snape didn’t have a dark mark, Harry pondered, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a Death Eater, he could have just as easily been unmarked. Harry eyed his head of house curiously but couldn’t possibly fathom a line of questioning that would go over well. Instead, Harry took a deep breath and fought every single instinct to make the steadying breath look like a breath of relief.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry forced as much appreciation as he could into his words, “I was a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to stay with my friends. I like being in classes with them.”

Snape was eyeing him curiously.

“Thank you Harry, you are very gracious,” Dumbledore replied in a cloying voice, “I am sorry for disrupting your morning – I’m sure your friends are wondering where you are – and Harry, I often find that it is not our circumstances that determine our life, but the choices we make.”

Harry was unnerved for the rest of the day. He didn’t exactly know what he felt about a Headmaster apparently okay with making the sacrifice play on behalf of an eleven-year-old child. There was just a deep feeling of disappointment – disappointment that even in a universe where things looked pretty okay really, Albus Dumbledore still resorted to a much too liberal application of child soldiers. The week drew on, and he could already see Albus’s influence, setting up the chess board against Voldemort. Albus’ influence was clear around Neville, who was still a sort of a loner, but tended to hang with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, or Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan when he wasn’t with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones. Neville was either the Queen or a pawn, depending on how Albus tended to play. The Slytherins had been collectively grouped as Voldemort’s pawns, and Harry didn’t for one minute, like that. Although the more he thought about it, and the angrier he grew, he could easily see why Albus had begun to keep an eye on him as Snape 2.0.

If Snape was a Death Eater.

After this Harry fell into a steady rhythm, going to classes all week, studying with Hermione, Anthony, and Draco on Friday afternoons, and spending his weekend rifling through the room of requirements for anything useful. Draco and Blaise fell into a more peaceful truce somewhere mid-October, with thanks to some delightful input from Pansy who pointed out that both Draco and Blaise should be more concerned about Tracey Davis and Sally-Anne Perks who were both witches from families with an active blood feud with everyone in their dorm. Blaise didn’t seem to care much, but Draco began to dedicate a truly ridiculous amount of time researching their family trees in order to determine just how many blood feuds and ‘anti-Malfoy activities’ he could use as a basis of a decent inter-Slytherin feud.

It seemed like a whole lot more bother than Harry cared to investigate further. He was beginning to realise that an occupied Malfoy, was a Malfoy who was distracted from bullying all the houses and generally being a gigantic git.

There was also a sudden spate of colds that circulated around, and Madam Pomphrey was kept busy by staff and students alike. Harry could recall just how great the Matron’s Pepperup Potion was – and it was evidenced by just how long the drinkers had smoke pouring from their ears. Harry could have confused Hogwarts for a Swedish sauna by the time the flu season was underway.

His order from Gladrags came, and it was with the greatest relief that Harry finally had an extra five pairs of underwear, two shirts, a black robe and a pair of basic leather shoes that fit his feet. The cost wiped out his budget for the year, which made Harry nervously worry about how he was going to finance the rest of the year until something could fill that gap.

The Room of Requirements was less profitable than Harry had hoped.

Before long, Harry had woken up early in the morning to get down to breakfast with to roughly go over his Potions essay when it suddenly occurred to him that it was Halloween. This hit him the second his foot landed outside the Slytherin common room, for even though it was in the dungeons, and indeed at a ridiculous hour, he could smell baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors. The smell only increased the closer he got to the great hall. The largest of Hagrid’s Pumpkins were lined up across the hall with carved faces so big Harry could have walked right into them.

“Dreadful isn’t it,” Said Draco as soon as he reached the Hall, almost an hour after Harry, “Disgusting stuff pumpkins. Figures that Dumbledore is batty enough to want to bathe in it.”

“Draco you drink pumpkin juice,” Pansy said sweetly to his left, “What does that make you if you’re marinating yourself in it?”

Draco huffed but didn’t make further comment, though his nose still twitched like something particularly nasty was wafting under it. The resemblance to his mother grew tenfold.

Instead, Draco busied himself watching the live bats swooping around above him with a growing frown.

“It’s Thursday. We’ve got charms next Harry,” Pansy was in an unusually good mood, “Word is, it’s the levitating charm. What are you working on instead?”

“I’m doing the same thing, but with runes,” Harry replied, “Professor Flitwick suggested I take Runes next year if I want to be a Healer, and since I did so well, he adapted a package for me. Whatever you do in charms using a spell, I have to do using a runic array.”

“What kind of runes are you using?” Pansy asked curiously, “My mum is a traditional Celtic warder – I sort of know a little bit if you need any help- “

Draco scoffed loudly

“-And my mum taught me how to ward basic things like my jewelry boxes and my trunk, and my hairbrush- “

“Hairbrush?” Draco responded, “Why on earth would you need to ward your precious hard brush, Parkinson?”

“So, someone doesn’t steal my hair for Polyjuice,” Pansy shot back, “It’s really handy to keep things safe. You can’t alohomora a ward.”

Draco looked surprised, and then curious, “If I give you a box of Belgium Giggling Chocolate – can you ward a few of my things?”

Pansy nodded, looking distinctly pleased, “If you bring me what you need to be done tonight before bed. Harry – what runic alphabet are you using?”

“Ah, Elder Futhark,” Harry responded.

“I’ll teach you Ogham if you’d like,” Pansy offered, to the sound of Draco scoffing even louder in a petulant tone that demanded immediate attention, “Don’t mind Draco, he and other purebloods are woefully victims of a smear campaign long ago that makes them think that Celtic runes aren’t brilliant.”

Harry hesitated as Draco scoffed again, a little more loudly and a little more insistent.

“The schism between Morgana Le Fay and Merlin,” Pansy explained, “Morgana was a Celtic-practice witch, but Merlin favoured Latin based magicks. There was a whole political divide around then between Celtic and Latin practices, and Celtic practices forcefully and deliberately fell out of favour – some people even ridicule them – which really just means they don't know what will kill them when I strike.”

Pansy preened and Draco dramatically rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure Fleamont has better things to do than watch you do some cave paintings,” Draco retorted, swinging his legs off the bench to head to class, “Besides, if he really wants to learn some useless parlous tricks, I’m sure he can find an appropriate muggle on the street corner.”

“Can you two maybe save this argument for another time?” Harry requested with a sigh.

“Oh, it’s nothing serious, Fleamont,” Draco interjected, “Just a little friendly arguing between friends.”

“We’ve been having this argument since we were eight,” Pansy confirmed with a smile, “Which means when he finally realises, he’s sorrowfully wrong – it’s going to be the most delicious victory in all of history.”

Draco wasn’t in a talkative mood until they reached Charms class, where Flitwick was positively vibrating with excitement as he announced that they were going to make things fly. Flitwick made Neville’s toad fly around the room, while Neville despaired, and then got on with it.

While the rest of the class was going over the basic theory, then practical aspects of wingardium leviosa, Harry was working on completing a runic charm array to achieve the same results. It was a task for sure; within the runic array, he had been limited to only five runes and told to link the size and shape runes to the action rune, in turn leading to the target rune, but intercepted by the triggering rune. Harry could have done this exact exercise in eight runes off the top of his head, but by reducing the runes down, and making him execute it more precisely,

Harry spent the greatest portion of the class looking through runic combinations in the textbook Flitwick had given him. The whole exercise was infuriating, and for the first time since re-starting Hogwarts, he found himself applying himself to the work he was doing. He’d need to study; he’d need to actually spend time on essays and homework. It occurred to him, rather ruefully, that he could have pretended to be a whole lot less educated and gotten away with learning how to levitate feathers the easy way. If he hadn’t known himself so well, to know that he would have been utterly and completely bored the whole while – it could have been a nice escape.

Draco spent half the time growing progressively more frustrated that his feather was barely twitching, and joyously gloating about his parents planning a vacation to France over the Christmas break.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!” Flitwick squeaked, “Swish and flick remember! Swish and flick – and saying the magic words properly are very important, too – never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”

Almost by divine will, Seamus Finnegan prodded his feather with his wand and set it on fire which prompted Harry Potter to frantically put it out with his hat.

Hermione was the first to get the spell right, followed by Draco and then Anthony. Hermione was puffed-chested and riding high off her success – correcting Ron just a little too firmly until he was in an absolutely foul mood.

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” Ron spat at Harry Potter, “She’s an absolute nightmare.”

Harry looked on in concern as Hermione started tearing up and pushed her way past the two – this time Anthony Goldstein was straight behind her, and Harry watched as Lavender Brown trailed after him.

It was a change – but one for the best, hopefully. In any case, Harry bit his lip and watched them long enough to decide Hermione was in good hands. He didn’t share a class with the Gryffindor’s next-up, and his absence would be missed, and not excused. His best chance was checking after classes to see how they were doing.

Still, after the last class of the day, Harry swung by the girl’s bathroom just to make sure Hermione wasn’t a sitting duck for an absolutely idiotic troll. He lingered outside for a few moments – he certainly didn’t need the reputation of a peeping tom to help foster his public image. He listened as much as he could – but couldn’t hear anyone inside. He called out Hermione’s name several times, before glancing around and sticking his head in desperately. The bathroom was clear, and Harry was back in the Great Hall for the Halloween Feast before anyone noticed he had gone. Despite this bit of good fortune – even with Quirrell gone, he was still keeping a firm eye out for a troll – he felt something odd in his stomach that made his paranoia skyrocket.

A thousand live bats were swooping over the tables in low black clouds, knocking into the floating candles suspended above the tables. Harry glanced over the Gryffindor table but couldn't see Hermione. Short of a headcount though, he was unlikely to find her in the mess at the table. Gryffindor didn't exactly have assigned seating. Harry settled into the first open seat he could see, next to Pansy who was sitting next to Millicent Bulstrode.

Millicent Bulstrode was a very large, thickly-built witch with a very round chubby face. She looked remarkable like Vincent Crabbe. Her brown hair was incredibly long and incredibly thick, and her eyebrows were so dark against her pale skin that it gave her a very serious and severe look. She also had an enormously thick Manchester accent that seemed odd in the very refined posh received pronunciation accents that were preferred by Slytherin.

Of course, Hogwarts was a mesh of accents – Millicent’s accent wasn’t incredibly out of place. It was just very very thick. Professor McGonagall, Oliver Wood, and Cho Chang had three different kinds of Scottish accent, Seamus Finnigan and Luna Lovegood had accents from almost opposite ends of Ireland. Neville Longbottom’s Yorkshire accent and the Weasleys were from Devon. Hermione was from Hertfordshire but actively tried to smooth her accent just that little further into something posher and more northern London. Dean Thomas was from Stratford in east London and sometimes sounded a little cockney, but like Malfoy whose home was primarily Wiltshire, he didn’t always sound it. Lavender Brown was an accent chameleon and adapted her voice depending on who she spoke to – but her voice adopted a Geordie twang whenever she was a tad tired, and whenever she came back to Hogwarts in September her voice reminded everyone that she’d spent the summer in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne.

There was a slight tendency towards southern accents – most purebloods were old aristocracy who flourished around London and who had only started to branch out in the past few hundred years. Less than aristocratic wizards had tended to flock together in wizarding communities like Ottery St Catchpole and Godric’s Hollow. The more unique accents tended to be muggleborns. Besides Millicent from Manchester, there was also Tracey Davis from Liverpool, Kevin Entwhistle from Birmingham, and Lisa and Steven Turpin from Salford. Sue Li, Megan Jones, and Stephen Cornfoot in order had Welsh accents that ranged from almost imperceptible to so thick it required extensive listening.

Of all the accents, he liked Remus’ the best. Remus was from the midlands, and Harry was only roughly sure it was more or less Shropshire. One of the things he’d picked up curiously, was that his own mother had an accent that wobbled between the north and the midlands. This universe’s version of Harry Potter, however, had a much different accent and sounded posh in an old money farmhouse kind of way. The kind of different, Harry decided, is that Draco Malfoy sounded the kind of posh who would be delighted to attend a cotillion, but Harry Potter was the kind of posh who didn’t. It was a fascinating look at what his father might sound like – which was a whole new avenue of thinking that Harry hadn’t explored yet.

“Ah! Harry – have you met Milly?” Pansy cheerfully introduced the two, and Harry had to frantically pay attention, “Milly owns around 90% of the cats in Slytherin.”

“If Hogwarts wants to let people bring in a bunch of cats to roam the castle without insisting that students cast anti-fertility charms on them, then they ought to be grateful that someone is actually looking after the resulting kittens,” Millicent cracked a grin, “I’m up to forty-seven at the moment. I’ve been collaring and neutering every cat I see, but I’m quite frankly running out of appropriate names for the little darlings, let alone people without pets who might want to take one.”

“Harry doesn’t own any pets,” Pansy gleefully replied, in the tone of voice that was sounding more and more like the satisfaction caused by a successful set-up.

“Do you want a cat Fleamont?” Millicent brightened, “My kittens are litter trained, and they get fed by the house elves anyway. You just need to pat it and take care of it when school’s out.”

Harry owlishly blinked.

“He’ll take one,” Pansy confirmed, “Do you have that little grey thing? The one that keeps biting your shoelaces?”

Millicent reached into the deep pockets of her robe and pulled out a tiny grey kitten. She dropped it unceremoniously into Harry’s hand – and he scrambled to scoop both hands under the thing. Harry stared down incomprehensibly before sighing deeply.

“No take backsies,” Millicent responded promptly, “All sales are final.”

“I have never owned a cat in my life,” Harry responded, in alarm, “I can’t just take a cat. What am I even supposed to do with it?”

Millicent shrugged, “Most people just let them wander, my cat – Archibald – sits on my bed and naps in the sun all day, and then comes with me when I need to go to the astronomy tower or pick potions ingredients. He’s such a good kitty.”

Harry stared at the tiny kitten in his hands in exasperation, “What kind is it?”

“Cat?” Millicent helpfully added, “Look there’s no way I can find a pedigree for you – I don’t even know who his parents are – and since cats have been breeding since students started bringing cats – basically when Hogwarts was founded – I’m pretty sure he’s a whole new breed of Hogwarts cat. He’s grey. That’s all I can say, really.”

“Cats need medical care,” Harry retorted, “I don’t see a vet on staff.”

“Uh, Professor Kettleburn,” Millicent responded in surprise, “He’s a qualified magizoologist – he’s usually in the stables if you need him, and if he isn’t there when you get there, one of his student aides usually is.”

Harry floundered.

“Fantastic!” Millicent responded with a smile, “He’ll make a great familiar, you look like you need a cat anyway – you’ve got the gloomiest face I’ve ever seen. You can’t be gloomy if you’ve got a cat. It’s a fact.”

“So, what are you going to name it?” Pansy demanded, “That’s the best part of owning a cat.”

“Um,” Harry responded, realising that the only think he’d ever named had been something picked out of Hogwarts: A History, “I don’t know. Do you want to name it?”

That set Pansy and Millicent off into quite a significant debate, offering up a series of names in quick succession that the other shot down. Their tastes in names seemed to be quite opposite, which made them argue twice as hard but without any of the heat that would have made it a fight. While they did so, Harry started feeding his new friend pieces of roast chicken from his plate.

Algernon – no, Pansy had a great uncle who was awful named that.

Bartholomew – Millicent didn’t appreciate a poor creature being forced to bear a pun-based name.

Caradoc – No Pansy pointed out there was an awful portrait called Caradoc on the second floor that was super annoying.

Erasmus – Millicent said it sounded awful.

Fithian – Millicent apparent already had a cat named that, which she kept an eye on.

Egbert – Pansy started laughing so hard until she snorted.

The discussion lasted throughout Dumbledore’s announcement and introduction, and Harry didn’t get a decision until he stashed the cat away in his pockets as the golden plates and feast began. Still, the two only started to look confident when he helped himself to a jacket potato.

“Bernard,” Pansy declared, in the same manner that a king might declare a new law, “You’re welcome.”

Harry stared incredulously, “Right.”

If there was one thing Harry had learned from his godson, once an animal had a name they weren’t going anywhere. Harry sighed and slumped, picking off strips of chicken until the cat refused to eat anymore.

It was about this time that Harry started to get a very ugly feeling in his stomach. The hairs on his arm started to stand up on end, and the back of his neck prickled. Harry was scanning the room before he even realised, he was, but could only find Professor Kettleburn whispering into Professor Dumbledore’s ear. Harry watched the exchange, and then called out in attention to the hall.

“Students,” Professor Dumbledore announced very genially, “I have just been informed of a troll loose in the castle.”

There was an uproar. There was pandemonium. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from Professor Dumbledore’s wand to get everything under control.

“Prefects, lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!” Dumbledore paused, “We will come and collect you when the troll has been located.”

The Slytherin Prefect, Benedict Selwyn snapped to attention the quickest, “Follow me, form an orderly line. I want you all to do a quick count of your dormmates. Is everyone here?”

Harry could see Draco causing a ruckus with Crabbe and Goyle while Theo snapped back furiously. Blaise caught his eye from where he had been talking to Daphne Greengrass. A quick rumbling later revealed that a third-year Slytherin was missing. Benedict frowned deeply, and brought up his wand, he cast a spell that Harry wasn’t familiar with, which charmed two scraps of parchment to hover in front of his face.

“One missing student, Alicia Walker, third-year,” Benedict stated, and then watched as one of the paper repeated his words back in his exact voice before it folded and went flying off above their heads and out the door where Professor Dumbledore and the other heads of House had dashed off quickly. The other paper continued to hover near his face.

From here, Slytherin grouped together, a tad more orderly than Gryffindor had, in Harry’s opinion. As they left, Harry saw the Hufflepuff Prefect trying to console crying first years. Benedict was a smart one, sticking to corridors and passageways that were too-small for a troll to fit through while questioning the portraits as they walked if they had seen anything. The portraits were like a network and were running back and forth to direct them far away from where the troll had been or was near.

Some of the seventh years had decided to flank each side of the group as they travelled, wands in their hands and a very severe look on their faces. Harry could feel the tension rising in the group, even as he was sure that Benedict was an incredibly practical leader. But the more they moved, the more Harry could swear he could hear something moving around him. Not being able to pinpoint the direction, the noise, or do anything but feel more and more on edge upset him more than the idea that something was following him.

When they were close by the long bare stretch of stone that formed the entrance, Benedict said ‘Ambition’ and the paper went flying off around the corner to the stone wall. When they finally rounded the last corner, Harry watched as Benedict paused in alarm and then turned to his fellow Prefect, Gervaise Fawley, to issue a command in her ear. She nodded and continued to march the group through to the Slytherin common room – where Benedict’s paper trick had made it open just in time to have the long line of Slytherins keep pouring in without having to pause in their strides.

As they walked, Benedict strode over, and Harry could see a stiff body lying on the stone floor, only a few meters away from the entrance. He could feel himself stiffen as he realised what he was seeing – the missing Slytherin, Alicia Walker presumably, was stiff unmoving with a large pair of glasses covering her eyes. It was only as Harry passed into the common room that he heard Benedict give another paper a command “Found Alicia Walker, it looks like she’s alive but petrified.”

Harry grit his jaw and followed Pansy and Millicent to a sofa by the fire; already some of the sixth years were busy summoning their house elves from the kitchen to make hot chocolates and bring snacks. He accepted a mug without properly thinking, from Blaise who was looking a tad pale.

“Do you think she’s dead?” Millicent said first, already pulling a kitten out of her pocket for comfort, “She was so still.”

“She’s not dead,” Harry said with a frown, “Benedict said she’s just petrified.”

The stone wall opened again to let the prefect inside with the levitating body of Alicia Walker, which was quickly moved through to Snape’s Office. She was rigidly locked into place like a statue, but Harry focused on her glasses which had the weirdest green lens Harry had ever seen. That might have meant that the basilisk’s sight was distorted – it was a miraculous chance, and Harry bit his lip with the realisation just how close the basilisk had come to killing someone.

 “Benedict wouldn’t worry about saving her body if she was dead – especially since he was alone out there at risk of whatever did that to her,” Blaise was saying, when Harry switched back from his thoughts, “No point going back for a body.”

“What kind of glasses are those?” Harry asked, “Her lenses were green and polished. It didn’t look like glass.”

Pansy looked curious, “Hmm. Walker’s a half-blood – I don’t really know her to know her sense of style – but they sound like they could be Smaragdus glasses. A little vintage, but vintage is making a recurrence.”

Harry looked to Millicent, who shrugged in the universal expression of not knowing.

“Smaragdus means emerald, specifically wizarding roman emerald, which is of incredible quality,” Pansy continued, “The backside near the eye is concave in order to aid near-sightedness and to take the glare off on a sunny day. Quite ingenious. I think they’re still in fashion in Egypt.”

Harry considered this. Light refracted through emeralds, which would have been some limited form of protection against a Basilisk. The problem was, this time around, Harry was not a parselmouth – and evidently, the diary was here – or another speaker – to have set the basilisk free.

Maybe Voldemort wasn’t possessing a teacher to get at the stone, maybe the diary was possessing a student to get at the stone AND at the basilisk.

The stone AND the diary. Harry was already getting a headache.

“She was petrified,” Harry said again, “Not a lot of creatures can do that.”

Pansy and Millicent looked at each other alarmed.

“Trolls can’t do that,” Pansy insisted, “They’re so stupid, they just smash things.”

“I know,” Blaise responded firmly, “Which means there’s something else out there. What can cause petrification?”

Harry frowned and watched as Benedict Selwyn came back from Snape’s office and cast a sonorous.

“Everyone fifth year and up into their dorms,” Benedict announced, “Your dorms are heavily fortified and can withstand a siege if need be. Best be safe than sorry when dealing with a troll – call a house elf if you need anything.”

The seventh and sixth years converged together, while the rest of Slytherin were grumbling and heading up the staircase. Harry lingered as much as he could, eager to hear what the other students were planning, but Gervaise Fawley was suddenly standing in the middle of the room with her wand out, and with a particularly nasty smile. Blaise grabbed his arm and pulled him off toward the dorms, while Pansy did the same to Millicent.

“Don’t risk it,” Blaise muttered, but didn’t continue until they were safely inside their dorm, “We’ve got hours before bedtime – I think we should get some research done and figure out what the heck petrified Walker.”

“Don’t you even dare, Zabini,” Draco spat, pointing to the half-dozen cats sprawled around their room, “Get rid of them. Get rid of your Merlin-damned milk bowls.”

Harry glanced around the room, eyebrows somewhere in his hairline. This – hadn’t been a problem in Gryffindor tower. Theo was gathering up armfuls of cats, only to open their dorm door and throw them out. Blaise looked furious.

“The whole point of a Bastet altar is to bless Bastet,” He hissed, “You can’t have a Bastet altar without cats.”

Draco locked eyes with him, and then pointed his wand at his bed, “Auferte cattus.”

The cat on Draco’s bed – the very fat and fluffy white one – was ejected from his bed and sent flying through the air. Harry caught the cat rather unexpectantly, only for Theo to take it from his arms and dump it outside.

Draco took a few more steps and pointed his wand at Theo’s bed “Auferte cattus.”

It was silent for a second, and then a cat came howling out from underneath, straight past the open dorm door.

Draco continued to spell the room with the anti-cat charm; finding three cats in his personal closet, and two in Theo’s. Harry was stunned by this – hadn’t known that the closet he thought was just Draco’s, changed depending on whose hands touched it. The thought made him a little uneasy, not only for the not-knowing part but also because he hadn’t really anything to put inside a closet anyway. Draco’s closet was practically bulging, Harry had exactly two outfits he wore.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Harry responded as Draco raised his wand to Harry’s bed, “I have it warded – any spell would be treated as hostile.”

Draco’s eyes hardened, even as Blaise looked triumphant, “I see.”

“New rule,” Theo suddenly interjected, “Only the cats you own are allowed in here, and only if you cast a hygiene spell on them beforehand. And you have to let us know what pets are in here.”

Blaise looked mutinous.

Bubastis, Blaise’s hairless cat jumped up on Blaise’s shoulder from where he had been hidden under Blaise’s bed. Blaise scratched him behind the ears while eying Theo and Draco.

“Bubastis,” Theo announced, “Is staying here regardless of whether you want him or not, and he sheds far less than you do, Malfoy. Id’s suggest you see a Healer about your receding hairline before you end up like your father – thirty-five-year-old wizard wearing Veela hair.”

Draco hissed, turning an unusual shade of purple.

Harry caught Theo’s eye.

“I have a cat,” Harry said dumbly, hoping to interrupt what was definitely going to be a wizard’s duel soon, “Um, Millicent Bulstrode gave him to me, and his name is Bernard.”

Draco stared at him through narrowed eyes until Harry produced the cat from his robe pocket.

“That is the stupidest name I’ve ever heard,” Draco declared, “It can stay. As long as it doesn’t get on my things, I don’t care what it does.”

Blaise snorted, “How very magnanimous of you, oh great ruler of the dorm.”

Draco bared his teeth, “I’m sorry, what part of ‘bedroom’ are you confusing for the word ‘menagerie’ look at the bedposts! Look at these claw marks!  I don’t live on a farm; I live in the Slytherin dorms. If you wanted to live a lucky-go-happy homestead life with your pets you should have gone to Hufflepuff.”

That provoked a whole new argument. Not for the first time, Harry mournfully missed his invisibility cloak. It would be so easy to duck off and listen to the much more interesting meeting downstairs than witness the start of another Malfoy-Zabini blood feud.

Which was actually an idea that could be adapted.

He certainly didn’t have an invisibility cloak, but he was a wizard, and wizards had been trying to get true invisibility for centuries. There were hundreds of spells he could use, and he did own a wand.

Harry considered this briefly, but he was always more of action before thinking kind of person.

There was a very large bathroom shared between the first year boys that were located in the centre of the first year floor. It was large, private and not often used, because each dorm had its own private bathroom attached (in true Slytherin opulence). The shared bathroom mostly seemed to be there for when Draco Malfoy personally spent forty minutes in the bathroom, having his twice daily bath.

Harry edged towards the door while Blaise and Draco continued to argue loudly. Theo caught his eye again while Harry was on his way out but looked utterly jealous that Harry could escape. With a jaunty wave, Harry was off, creeping up the staircase while keeping an eye out of any nosy Slytherins, before ducking inside the bathroom.

As soon as Harry was in the bathroom, he pointed his wand at himself and layered a Disillusionment Charm over a Notice-Me-Not. The spells settled onto his skin uncomfortably: they were both spells that wanted to conflict with each other, and it was only Harry’s own magical strength that forced them to stay and work together. It was far from a perfect combination, but he should be able to get what he needed to get done and see what the Slytherins were discussing below. His skin still buzzed and crawled as he moved, making harry feel more and more nauseous while they were both active.

Harry crept, taking his time to cast an array of wordless detection spells as he walked, desperately trying not to trip any alarms placed to detect creeping first years. He managed to descend right down into the common room, and creep beside the fireplace out of sight only to find with great frustration, that his ears were filled with a great buzzing noise.

They’d cast a Muffliato to hide their conversation. Severus Snape had created the spell, so either these students had found the half-blood prince’s textbook – or Snape had taught it to them personally. Either scenario was distinctly interesting. It was a shame he wasn’t a parselmouth anymore – Hermione had discovered the spell only worked on humans during their unique seventh-year experience. Harry only had to summon a snake and use it as an intermediary to get around the spell.

Harry glowered and made his escape back to the dorms with a sour taste in his mouth.

So, how could he become a parselmouth?

The thought stopped Harry in his tracks. With both the diary and stone at play – he’d need to be a parselmouth to get access to the chamber and call off the Basilisk. Neville Longbottom might be a parselmouth here, but Harry wasn’t sure just how amicable Neville would be to the idea of opening Slytherin’s fabled chamber on the request of a weird Slytherin.

Parselmouth was a language - and Harry had once spoken that language. He didn’t need to construct new sentences, just remember what he once had said to get the same result. Maybe a memory charm might be able to poke about in his head and remind him how to say ‘open’ in parseltongue.

Memory charms were notoriously terrible though – you could do things utterly perfect and still botch the job because human biochemistry was bonkers, especially when you added magic to the mix. When things went spectacularly wrong, by Merlin did they go spectacularly wrong.

Lockhart was such an example, and the more Harry thought about it the more he was utterly conflicted.

On one hand, Lockhart destroyed his own long and short term memory during an attempt to cause absolute harm to Ron and himself. He couldn’t muster up enough care to ever feel bad that that was the outcome that Lockhart was now experiencing. The Daily Prophet had done a special after Lockhart had been permanently handed over to St Mungo’s which highlighted all the memory charms Lockhart had botched across Asia and Europe, with victims and survivors a mile wide – some in worse condition than he. He was objectively a bad wizard, a bad person and the fact he couldn’t harm anyone anymore made Harry feel utterly satisfied.

On the other hand, there was something that was deeply uncomfortable about the way that The Daily Prophet had concluded that Lockhart deserved what he got. Because if he did deserve what he got, and that was institutionalisation at St Mungo’s, then the natural conclusion was that institutionalisation at St Mungo’s was a terrible thing to experience. So, either St Mungo’s was all around terrible, and wizards were okay with that, or St Mungo’s was only bad to Some People – and harm wasn’t exactly something a hospital should be doling out.

Wizards also invented Azkaban though.

Wizards didn’t seem to be able to separate the idea of ‘this is not just punishment’ with the idea of ‘this person did nothing wrong’. Wizarding ethics seemed utterly tied into magical ability and prowess being intrinsic proof that wizards were good and right and superior – so anyone without magic had to be bad and wrong and inferior. Of course, Lockhart, who did something bad and wrong because he was an inferior wizard, should be punished with no magic. It was something Harry hadn’t realised until he was a few years into the Aurors, and the realisation had come after a raid gone badly. Hermione had clarified it, through pursed lips and a look of utter rage on her face.

Hermione had been advocating for home and community-based care over institutionalisation when Harry had been forcibly ejected from existence. They’d planned a butterbeer catchup with Neville for a month’s time, to discuss more practical measures before Hermione drafted a bill to propose.

Memory charms – were probably not the best idea.

Harry swung into his bedroom, where Draco and Blaise were still arguing. Theo was looking bored, slouched out on his bed with an assortment of candy and a decent wizarding novel in his hand. Harry didn’t bother to drop the spells hiding him, and he instead grabbed his allocated sleeping shirt, and assorted goods, and disappeared into their shared bathroom. He drew a bath and locked the door with Hermione’s nasty locking spell and relaxed into the hot water to think.

If memory charms were out of the question, he needed something else to help take down Voldemort. A horcrux version of Voldemort was still a dangerous thing to face.

Harry startled.

The diary had been the first horcrux, he realised. The diary was about 50% Voldemort – the most dangerous of the horcruxes due to this. Which meant Voldemort had been walking around with only 50% of his soul – until he’d made another horcrux – the ring – tearing himself in half again until each the ring and Voldemort had 25% of his soul. Then again, the locket gained 12.5% of Voldemort’s soul while Voldemort himself held the same.

After the locket, it had been the cup – with 6.25% of Voldemort’s soul. Then the diadem – Harry had to frantically cast an arithmancy spell to work out the numbers – 3.125%. After the diadem had been Harry himself – with 1.5625% of Voldemort’s soul in his forehead. Voldemort hadn’t stopped there though – he’d created Nagini – 0.78125% Which meant that the Voldemort who had taken over the ministry, the Voldemort who had been an inhuman snakelike monster – he had only 1/128^th of his own soul in his body by the time he’d died. No wonder he’d been so monstrous by the end.

Harry considered this.

He’d been able to speak parseltongue with 1.5625% of Voldemort in his scar, which meant that any horcrux he could get his hands on might be able to be hijacked. The Diadem was close enough, and close-by. In Harry’s own expert opinion, having 3.125% of Voldemort’s soul nearby was still 3.125% far too much Voldemort to be close by – but there was something interesting there. Harry was good at diagnostic spells – how hard would it be to figure out how to make a portable parseltongue translator?

If that could work – then he could get rid of the diary, who might or might not be possessing a student to get at the stone to what? Make himself immortal? Hadn’t the diary Tom Riddle been trying to do that the last time? He had sucked Ginny’s magic reserves half-dry and the mirage of Voldemort had been almost solid by the time Harry had stabbed the diary with a basilisk fang.

The Stone might offer a better way to ensure that teenaged Voldemort, who, according to math, was the most Voldemort, to become full-fledged and gain immortality in a single day. He certainly might be a little more popular with the pureblood crowd, over the pale snake man he’d become. How would the dark mark even determine who was the real Voldemort?

Harry sighed and tried to relax back in the bath.

First thing first, the chamber of secrets needed to be opened and the basilisk stopped. It might also be able to be harvested, as long as he could figure out how to get a giant snake corpse out of the country and over to Constantinople where the best basilisk harvesters were based. Trying to carve up one himself would be foolish – Basilisks were 99% highly corrosive poison of course.

Harry could feel a wave of relief as he finally had a plan he could follow.

It took another twenty minutes before Draco was pounding on the bathroom door, demanding access for his twice-daily bath. That was fine – Harry had finished getting clean and was mostly just appreciating the heat of the water by that stage anyway. He took longer than usual to get out and get dressed in his sleeping clothes – not really quite pyjamas if it was just an oversized t-shirt that didn’t at all hide his ridiculously thin legs and knobbly knees.

Draco barrelled past Harry with nary a second thought. The door was slammed shut, and Harry could hear the water being turned on. Harry was a tad confused by this haste until he caught sight of the room’s occupants.

In his room, Blaise had a dozen books open, and Theo was dolling out candy. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting on Draco’s bed, each with a licorice wand in their hands. Most surprisingly, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and Daphne Greengrass were sprawled over the various seats in the dorm; Daphne on Draco’s antique fauteuil, Pansy was lounging over Draco’s matching canapé, while Millicent was perched on an ottoman cross-legged.

“Hey Harry,” Pansy greeted, “Sorry about dropping in – we’ve just been talking.”

Harry felt suddenly high self-conscious that he was just wearing a long-shirt that ended above his knee. It hit his underwear, but the fact no one could see them didn’t help the fact he felt half-naked. Harry cast a wordless, wandless accio towards his robe, and slipped it on to hide himself as quickly as he could.

“How are you here?” Harry demanded, “Why are you here?”

“The gender-barrier only bars boys from going into the girl’s room. There’s not anything to bar girls in the male dorms,” Pansy replied smugly, “Ravenclaw spelled the female dorms herself using a modified Beguinage charm. It was to stop medieval wizards going up and stealing a witch while she was sleeping to make her marry him.”

Harry gaped.

“Cave-wizards, the lot of them,” Pansy declared, “We all know what happens when you swear an unbreakable oath anyway.”

“I’ve got grandparents who swore an unbreakable oath to each other,” Millicent offered, “They’d only been dating two weeks and have hated each other since. You either must end up staying together for the rest of your lives, or you die. My grandmother reckons that’s why my dad ended up so weird.”

“I thought your dad was nice,” Daphne responded in surprise, “He’s always been so kind.”

“Yeah, well,” Millicent looked distinctly uncomfortable, “My mum was a muggle.”

“Anyway,” Pansy announced, in the suddenly uncomfortable lull the room had fallen into, “So I was talking with Daphne, Millicent – and well, Tracey Davis but she has the personality of a sack of dragon dung so we’re not talking to her until she apologises for being positively ghastly.”

“Right,” Harry replied, feeling a little like he understood why Hermione had always hated gossip, “That still doesn’t answer why you’re here?”

“Something petrified a Slytherin,” Pansy responded, “We’re researching.”

“I’m sure the Professors are researching as we speak,” Harry said, and immediately knew he was wrong, “I’m sure they don’t need the help. We could all just go to bed nice and early. Classes tomorrow.”

“I don’t care about helping,” Pansy responded hotly, “I care about making sure I don’t get petrified.”

“It’s a basilisk,” Harry responded blankly, “I don’t know – do anti-medusa charms work on snakes?”

“Oh good, you agree. I also think there’s a basilisk loose in the castle,” Daphne Greengrass said, “I was in Kalale recently, in India with my mother on a business trip. We were in the marketplace and watching some snake-charming wizards use the snake summons spell to befuddle muggles. There were lots of people who were trying to hatch basilisks using toads. If you poke the eye of a basilisk their magic is a bit muddled and they just petrify you if you lock eyes with them instead of dying. It fits. I got to India by taking an international portkey – but what stops someone from just coming the old fashioned way?”

“Who would be dumb enough to buy a basilisk?” Millicent responded, “They’re magically poisonous, bad-tempered and they eat enough to send even Draco bankrupt.”

“We do have a forest full of tasty little creatures,” Pansy pointed out, “Who would miss a centaur or two, really?”

“How would anyone control a basilisk?” Theo interjected, “You’d have to be a parselmouth.”

Daphne considered this, “Padma or Parvati Patil then.”

“The Gryffindor wouldn’t on principal, and the Ravenclaw’s a wuss,” Pansy replied, “But they’re most likely to be parselmouth. Parseltongue came from India.”

Harry jerked in surprise.

“Really?”

“Well yeah,” Blaise was the first to reply, “There’s like four native snake species here. India’s got like 300. You tell me which group of wizards figured out how to talk to snakes.”

Harry considered this, “What about Salazar Slytherin? How’d he end up speaking parseltongue?”

“Parselmouths aren’t just in India,” Blaise dismissed, “It’s not Padma or Parvati - It doesn’t run in their bloodline. If our biggest clue is that their bloodline originates in India, then you should know that parseltongue is also common in Egypt, Greece, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Thailand, Morocco, and Tunisia to name a few. I have far more parselmouths in my bloodline than they do. There’s a big culture of healing parselmagic in Greece. Asclepius, the son of Apollo founded the main wizarding hospital in Greece, and he used parselmagic to save lives that conventional magic couldn’t. They let the snakes freely roam around the hospital now because there are so many parselmouths that ask for their help.”

“According to this, Alexander the Great’s mother was a parselmouth,” Daphne interjected, “I just looked it up. Parseltongue probably came to England when the Romans were knocking about the place.”

“Well it could be anyone then,” Pansy huffed, “Basically all of us can trace our family back that far. It’s about motive then – who would want to bring a basilisk into a school.”

There was a beat of silence, then-

“Are you sure it's not Draco?” Theo asked, “Look, this is exactly the kind of Slytherin Prince thing he’d try just for the clout. What’s cooler than coming into Hogwarts with a Basilisk around your neck.”

“If it was Draco, do you think he wouldn’t be boasting about it?” Daphne retorted.

“It’s not Draco,” Crabbe replied gruffly, and that was the end of that.

“What if it’s not a parselmouth?” Goyle voiced.

“That’s ridiculous!” Theo hissed.

“No, that’s genius,” Pansy responded brightly, “We’ve been thinking like a Slytherin. It’s not a Slytherin. We would have noticed a basilisk hanging around the place – do you know how many spells and wards and stuff are on this place? Draco’s overprotective teenaged dad basically warded this place harder than a nursery.”

“Um,” Harry says because this conversation is wildly spinning off track.

“Oh,” Pansy pauses, “You wouldn’t know – Draco’s dad is thirty-seven, he had Draco at 26. That’s terribly young. He’s quite overprotective – but Draco is a bit attached anyway – I can’t tell whether the weekly thirty page letters are something Draco or Lucius Malfoy insists on. Probably both. Malfoys are weird.”

“If it isn’t a Slytherin, who the hell is it?” Theo puts the thought into words.

There isn’t an answer to that, because Harry isn’t entirely sure what to say. There is no Ginny Weasley here to be possessed. Just a terrifying overheard conversation and a deep sense of concern.

“What about Slytherin’s chamber?” Daphne Greengrass suggests, “Slytherin apparently had a terrifying monster designed to protect the school. A basilisk is known as the King of Serpents. I can’t imagine much that could threaten a giant snake.”

“A rooster,” Pansy retorts, “The half-giant groundskeeper has a flock of them. I’m sure even the Weasleys could afford a rooster if they took out a decent mortgage. Can’t be much of a monster is any muggle farmer could safely kill it.”

“Isn’t a basilisk made from a chicken egg?” Goyle asked with a frown, “Why would a rooster hurt it?”

“Don’t we all have a bad relationship with our fathers,” Pansy says breezily, in a loaded voice, “It’s very Slytherin, isn’t it?”

“Slytherin’s monster isn’t a basilisk then,” Theo concludes only to hear Millicent scoff loudly.

“Oh no,” Millicent responds in a deadpan voice, “I wonder what else it could possibly be then? Don’t mind me, just sitting here in my Slytherin House sweater – with a big green snake on it – and my Slytherin House scarf with the snake – and my Slytherin House pyjama pants – are these big snakes? Weird! Gosh, I better go back to my Slytherin house dorm with the big banners with snakes on them and ponder what kind of intriguing mystery we have here. I bet it’s a hippogriff.”

Theo darkened, “I’m just saying.”

“It’s a basilisk – it makes sense – what if it’s a really really old basilisk with very bad eyesight?” Pansy suggested, “It’s gotta be at least a thousand years old. If I was a thousand, I’m pretty sure I’d need spectacles.”

“How would it eat,” Theo demanded, “Unless the house elves have been secretly sacrificing themselves on a monthly basis, you can’t ignore the fact that it’s impossible that it’s been secretly living at Hogwarts a thousand years. Can a basilisk even live that long?”

“Newt Scamander says yes,” Daphne interjected, holding up a new and hugely thick book, “Summoned it from the family library. Basilisks have no known natural lifespan because they’re super not natural. They can theoretically live forever.”

“How’s it getting around then?” Theo replied sharply.

“The pipes,” Harry said, to a room of silence, “There’s plumping all over the place. It can travel wherever it wants to go; any bathroom is a way in and out. Basilisks are natural shapeshifters; they can alter their size and shape. Which means it can go wherever it wants to go. The plumbing has to go somewhere right? Maybe it goes out into the forbidden forest, and it can hunt whatever it wants to hunt?”

“Yikes,” Crabbe said, which was both an enormous understatement and also a pretty good summary of the whole situation, “Why’d it hurt a Slytherin though?”

“Slytherin’s monster is supposed to protect the school,” Daphne concurred, “Look, this book says ‘Slytherin, according to legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic.’ Maybe it’s gone senile?”

“Maybe it’s pissed that it’s been locked up for a thousand years and now it wants revenge against Slytherin’s descendants?” Pansy offered, “I mean, my dad said that I’m probably related to any wizard or witch who lived more than 35 generations ago. We all probably have Slytherin blood in us, maternal or paternal depending on how your family structures.”

“Who exactly is unworthy to study magic?” Harry found himself asking.

“Medieval wizards had a lot of weird ideas,” Pansy replied, “Also, we can’t rely on that. It’s not a proper source. It’s hearsay and isn’t permissible in court.”

“Sure, he definitely kept a Merlin-damned basilisk around just for the company,” Blaise replied sarcastically then paused, “Maybe, basilisks are one of the most powerful snakes. Slytherin was an expert in potions, healing, and herbology. Did he do parselmagic? I don’t know, maybe snakes are excellent conversationalists. “

“If I wanted to strategically cleanse the school of those, I found unworthy of magic – like the Weasleys – then I wouldn’t be using a basilisk,” Theo said, “It can only kill one or two people at a time. There are literally countless ways to kill wizards – especially children, which would cause far less suspicion. A decent plague-ward linked to a set of criteria would suffice – the noteworthy get dragon pox and die, and it would be seen as the consequences of poor breeding and no one ever investigates. Problem solved.”

“Theo, you’re an artist,” Millicent dryly responded, “I can’t possibly understand the superb level of artistry that you’ve achieved so young.”

“There’s also something beautiful about a decent blood curse,” Theo remarked lightly, “Stick it on the sorting hat. Better exposure. Can’t imagine what’s so useful about a giant snake that you can see and hear coming.”

“So, why’s it out and purging now?” Pansy asked, “If Slytherin intended his heirs to purge the school – why has it been a thousand years without any purging?”

“What’s it purging is the question,” Blaise thoughtfully added, “Alicia Walker was a half-blood, there was a whole different conversation around blood purity then. There’s a really high amount of magbobs and half-bloods this year at Hogwarts. Could be the trigger?”

“Because the war slaughtered so many purebloods,” Millicent added strongly, “You-Know-Who’s war took out eight traditional bloodlines. Maybe his heirs weren’t parselmouths?”

“Nah, parselmagic is weird,” Blaise paused and tried to find words, “It can only stay dormant for three generations max – and it can only be passed down on the maternal lines.”

“The Gaunts were always parselmouths.”

“The Gaunts married their sisters and cousins,” Theo snapped back, “And because of it, they’re all dead now.”

“Slytherin didn’t pass on his parselmouthness?” Harry paused, “So his wife would have had to be a parselmouth then – and if she wasn’t, then why would Slytherin create a hidden room for a murder snake if there was only a 50/50 chance of having his descendants be able to control it? It would have to be passed down from his daughter to daughter after all.”

“I still don’t think it’s a basilisk,” Theo interjected, “Basilisks haven’t been in England since the 16^th century.”

“Well, good thing we’re in Scotland now, isn’t it?” Millicent replied, “Because it’s a Merlin-damned Basilisk.”

“Basilisk venom destroys everything,” Blaise looked thoughtful, “Literally everything. In the hands of a masterful healer, parselmagic can be used to destroy any kind of infection or poison that can hurt a witch or wizard. Like, incurable levels of things. Maybe Slytherin left it here just in case something super terrible came along – and tripped something in the wards or something?”

That was a surprisingly helpful observation. Maybe the diary had tripped the wards Slytherin had left at Hogwarts, and the Basilisk had been dispatched to deal with the threat – only to come face to face with Tom Riddle – a parselmouth who was charming and just human enough to trick the basilisk into following his plan.

“So, what’s unworthy to Slytherin?” Harry found himself asking again, to an uncomfortable looking room.

“Muggleborns, maybe,” Millicent responded first, “I did a bit of looking into it – because my mum was a muggle you see. Some people think he hated all magbobs because their blood was dirty, some said he hated magbobs because there was always a risk that they or their parents would bring down a witch trial. Hogwarts didn’t get anti-muggle charms until much later. Hogwarts takes a lot of magic to fuel – and it’s fine because there’s so much magic that happens here, but Hogwarts wasn’t big until 500 years ago or so. So, Hogwarts was a bit more at risk from witch trials. There are plenty of magbobs who went screaming back to the church because the church went after their family, or they had an argument with another witch or wizard and wanted the muggles to take them out.”

“Witch-hunts didn’t start until the 14^th century, Slytherin lived in the 10^th century,” Blaise pointed out, “And muggles weren’t all just anti-magic Christians. Most muggles held really contradictory understandings where they could study their bible and also practice folk magic. There are plenty of Christian witches and wizards, aren’t there? It was mostly magbobs that got caught in witch trials anyway – that’s why we have to do as much as we can to take care of them until they can join the magical world. Slytherin was a bigot in his time, and he’s still a bigot now.”

Millicent looked uncomfortable, Theo even more so.

“You don’t have to sugar coat it,” Pansy said uncomfortably, “Slytherin could have just been another hard blood purist. A bigot is a bigot. The kind that the Gaunts were before they died of incest.”

“Helga Hufflepuff worked with Obscurials,” Daphne said, “My grandmother was a Hufflepuff and she used to get into quite big rows with my grand-uncle over it. Helga Hufflepuff wrote the world’s first treatise on Obscurials. Hogwarts used to house a number of them before they were deemed too dangerous to the future of the wizarding world. Slytherin apparently hated it.”

“You think there’s an obscurial around Hogwarts?”

“I once saw Neville Longbottom get dropped out a window by one of his great uncles,” Pansy said, “I think I’d hate myself too if I was a fat cry baby that’s practically a squib – and You-Know-Who’s followers were out for my blood. It’s really a matter of time isn’t it?”

“Thanks, Pansy,” Harry replied, with an unnaturally wide smile, “For that incredibly helpful, incredibly valuable contribution to this conversation.”

“No obscurial,” Theo said, “What kind of loon thinks a giant snake is a good solution to an exploding magical storm of suffering and abuse?”

“So, you think it’s a basilisk now?” Pansy said lightly, “Great. So, some long forgotten ward is triggered by something dark – it would have to be really dark – and the Basilisk goes nuts and is hunting for it. Nice. Are you sure it isn’t a Slytherin it’s after?”

“What are you saying about noble Slytherin House,” Daphne responded with a toothy smile, “Dark objects? We can’t have those – Pansy Parkinson, those are illegal.”

“I would ever so hate to assume anything,” Pansy batted her eyes while adopting an odd accent, “The kind of dark it would need to be – given that, I uh, suspect that I know what kind of dark objects may have come to Hogwarts in past years, allegedly – would have to be multiple Azkaban sentences kind of Dark. The ‘you’re better off casting all the unforgivable and going down in a blaze of Gryffindor Glory’ kind of dark.”

“Nice,” Theo interjected, “That’s pretty awesome. But, right if there is a Basilisk lurking around, how do we know?”

“The hissing would be an awful big hint, I’d reckon,” Millicent muttered.

“Helpful,” Theo responded a little too sharply, “It’s not like I live in an ancient magical castle that makes weird noises, because of all the ancientness and ghosts and students and the cursed poltergeist floating around the place.”

“Oh Morgana, don’t let Peeves find out,” Daphne responded in alarm, “Can you imagine his antics? He’d be hissing and pretending to be a snake all year. I don’t think Draco’s ego would survive.”

“What if it isn’t a person?” Millicent looked curious, “Ghosts and Poltergeist are one thing – what about a spectre? They can possess people. I’m reading a really cool post-apocalyptic series at the moment and the lead gets possessed by a spectre while she’s escaping from the ruins of Diagon Alley.”

There was a knock at their dorm door. Everyone froze for just a minute while the girls hid as best, they could. Harry answered the door by opening it up just a smidge. Staring back at him was a particularly nasty looking girl, with a greenish tint to her brown hair. She had a grimace on her face that reminded him of Draco.

“Um, hello?”

“Three more students have been found petrified,” Tracey Davis responded rather shortly, “Just thought you’d want to know.”

Harry blinked, “Oh. Who?”

“Some muggleborn from Gryffindor. Bushy hair,” Tracey responded, “Penelope Clearwater from Ravenclaw. Another muggleborn from Hufflepuff – the rather poncy git with the double-barrel surname.”

“Justin Finch-Fletchley?” Harry replied in surprise, “Are they all okay?”

The same combination of people had been petrified in a single night. Which meant that anyone could potentially now be petrified, and Harry didn’t have a single clue to jump off. He had only a chamber that he needed to break into.

“Alive, but petrified,” Tracey looked bored, “The Hufflepuff was found outside the Hufflepuff common room, and Penelope near Ravenclaw’s entrance, but the Gryff was near the third floor, near the forbidden corridor. She’ll be in for a lot of points when she wakes up. The Gryffindor ghost is petrified too – right next to her. We’re planning a bit of a party tonight to celebrate if you want.”

Harry hardened his face, “No thanks.”

“Whatever,” Tracey scoffed, “Look, I’m just letting you know as a favour. Have fun with whatever this is.”

“Will do.” Harry responded awkwardly as she strode off up the staircase. She was a bit off but didn’t feel like a possessed pre-teen or future death eater, just a remarkably spoiled witch. She was incredibly like Draco had been in his third year, and Harry could only hope that like Draco, she’d more or less grow out of it if only to make his Hogwarts experience a little nicer.

Harry shut the door as soon as Tracey was off.

From the looks on everyone’s faces, everyone had been listening very intently.

“Told you she’s a total pain,” Pansy muttered darkly, flipping her short black hair in a huff, “She’s going to want something from you now Fleamont. A favour for a favour, you ought to just have her pushed down the stairs now before she asks for your firstborn.”

Daphne laughed.

 “Isn’t there something on the third-floor corridor that we’re not allowed to know about?” Crabbe said softly in an amazingly dense kind of voice, “Draco told me about it.”

Pansy and Daphne looked at each other and then vaulted across the room to pound on the bathroom door, until Draco came out, dressed in a long warm robe. His face was set in a kind of Narcissa Malfoy mask of pleasantness that was exactly 0% genuine. His hair was still wet.

“Harpies,” Draco greeted with a faux-smile, “I was bathing. What was so important that I can’t even have a bath drawn without you two causing a scene?”

“I’m so very proud that you’re bathing, it’s a new change for you,” Daphne greeted with a similar smile, “Vincent said you know something about the third-floor corridor.”

Draco sighed long and dramatically, “Just that Potter and Weasley and their assorted filth got detention for the next month for going near it. Father says I'm not to be anywhere near it, on risk of disownment. Something dangerous I’m sure.”

“A basilisk would help against that,” Daphne said thoughtfully, “You don’t know what it is?”

“Are you pulling a heist, Greengrass?” Draco gaped, “Buying basilisk eggs are illegal, you know. I wasn’t aware House Greengrass was so impoverished.”

Daphne scowled, “No – oh, you’ve missed too much to explain. If you didn’t insist on bathing when everyone is trying to have a decent conversation, you might actually know something for once.”

“So, is it, or is it not Slytherin’s monster?” Theo replied, “Merlin knows that git Harry Potter doesn’t think any rule applies to him. His ego is so big I’m sure he’d think buying a basilisk is a good idea.”

“It is.” Daphne and Millicent responded sharply.

“But is it trying to purge the school or steal whatever is behind the door?”

“What in Merlin’s name are you all nattering about?” Draco demanded, “What about Slytherin’s monster?”

“Look,” Harry shifted on his feet, and sat on the edge of his bed self-consciously, “Um, you all come from really big and ancient families – surely someone has a book about basilisks, right? I can check the library, but I thought you all might have access to a better library than Hogwarts offers.”

Daphne looked thoughtful, “I’ll write to my father and ask. If everyone else does the same, we might be able to solve this over the weekend.”

There was a wave of muttering that swept across the room. Everyone more or less agreed with the idea. Draco scowled over the missing information he didn’t have until Pansy Parkinson huffed and pulled him to the side to fill him in in a frenzy of whispers and wide swooping hand gestures.

“You’re all insane,” Draco declared, “If Slytherin had a basilisk it wouldn’t be roaming the castle for a thousand years – it would be stuck under a stasis charm until Slytherin called for it. Unlike all of you, I actually own a snake. Stasis charm slows down time but not growth – probably an easy way to get a 60ft high basilisk with only a handful of deer and sheep. Basilisks are magical creatures – which mean they can eat magic just as much as they eat meat. A pretty economical familiar if you ask me.”

Pansy frowned but didn’t respond.

“A pretty economical snake,” Theo mimicked, “It’s a murder snake. It’s meant for wizards to saddle and ride into battle. It’s not meant for the wizard on a budget. What are we supposed to do about a basilisk anyway? We can’t walk around with roosters strapped to our hip until one happens to crow at the right time.”

Harry considered this, “Why not?”

Theo stared back, “That’s ridiculous. Roosters are filthy.”

“Well, it’s really up to you Theo,” Harry responded brightly, “But I rather prefer being alive. If a basilisk can petrify a ghost, then not even death will stop a basilisk from killing you so it’s really up to you. Do your parents have another son they can sub in when you get eaten by a giant snake because you didn’t think roosters were fashionable?”

“We should go to Professor Snape,” Daphne said, biting her lip, “He should know that it’s a basilisk out there.”

“Professor Snape is probably out looking for it,” Harry said, thinking while he was talking, “But some of the older years should be downstairs, and Benedict knows that cool paper trick.”

That was how Harry ended up leading a small army of tiny Slytherins down the stairs and standing around until the older students noticed they were there. The buzzing in their ears were still providing an uncomfortable sort of annoyance until Benedict appeared from under the curtain of the spell to stand there impatiently.

“First years,” He greeted – and Harry was suddenly aware that Benedict, for all his prefect responsibilities, was still only a fifth-year student acting remarkably mature in an emergency, “I sent you to bed. Is there an emergency?”

The unspoken ‘there better be an emergency’ lingered in the air.

“The thing petrifying students is a basilisk,” Harry said, “Can you tell Professor Snape that he needs a rooster or two to make sure he doesn’t, uh, die or something. Hagrid should have some. Or Professor Kettleburn.”

Benedict considered this information with no small amount of surprise. He looked very curious, and then with a flick of his wand, a slice of paper rose up from inside his robe and hovered around Harry’s face. The movement made Harry flinch, even as Benedict indicated the paper with his head.

“Repeat that.”

Harry did, and the paper folded up and went quickly off, clearly heading off to wherever Professor Snape was currently lurking around the castle. Harry slumped in relief and could feel his classmates brighten now that their task was completed for the night.

“Thank you for helping,” Benedict said rather patiently, “But I’m afraid I now have to insist you go back to your dorms. Your own dorms, if you please? If I were to find out that students were clustering in dorms that weren’t their own, I might be forced to take house points, and write home letters to parents concerning what kind of heirs they were raising. If I found something like that out, of course.”

Goyle started to complain but was silenced by a quiet thump that sounded suspiciously like an elbow jabbing into a ribcage.

“Thank you, Benedict,” Harry responded politely, “Are classes still going to be on tomorrow?”

Benedict looked severe for just a moment, “If the troll cannot be located by tomorrow morning, we’ll hold classes tomorrow in Slytherin House. Besides the common room, there’s plenty of room inside Slytherin House to make into classrooms.”

Harry perked up, “Really?”

Benedict smiled tightly, “When you have time, there are about a dozen hidden entrances to potions labs, classrooms, study rooms, dueling rooms, the Slytherin personal library is always interesting, a magically resistant practice room, a general purpose room intended as a second common room space when our numbers are high, there’s a ballet studio and a small kitchen for personal house elves. All the Houses have an array of rooms available for students to investigate and use.”

There were excited whispers behind Harry.

“That was not an invitation for tonight, however,” Benedict confirmed, “I trust you’ll remember that I know a significant array of spells and hexes for anyone outside of bed once lights-out hits? Wonderful. Get ready for bed. Be up ready for classes at the usual time. We’ll let you know if anything changes.”

With an almost disappointing end to that endeavour, the group went back up to their dorms; parting halfway up to split off into three separate groups to filter back into the proper dorm. As soon as Harry and his dormmates were back inside, Draco moaned pitifully and relaxed into bed with a sigh.

“I can’t take a decent bath, can’t be properly credited for discovering a poisonous beast at Hogwarts,” Draco muttered mournfully, “Does no one know how to properly thank a Malfoy.”

“You literally did nothing,” Blaise shot back furiously rising from his bed, “You were taking a bath.”

“Oh, just like a Malfoy,” Theo added, “Waltzes in unannounced after the project is completed and still gets their name first on the bill. This is just like the 1346 Proposition on Animagus registration within Britain isn’t it you slimy git?”

“Ingrates!” Draco snapped back.

That set both Blaise and Theo off on another tangent related to proper attribution of credit, and the fact Malfoy contributed nothing to the discovery of the basilisk, in which Draco grew more and more offended. While Draco was furiously defining the idea that he had positively contributed to the facilitation of discussion by taking a recluse position, Harry ordered his belongings for Friday morning.

Harry relaxed into his bed, hanging his robe up on the inside of the four poster bed and jumped as a head poked out of his robes. Harry had forgotten the cat – and ruefully remembered that it was now his responsibility. Harry pulled the cat out and dropped it on his bed, watching as it curled up at the end, on top of his best-and-only Weasley sweater.

At least it had eaten a significant amount of chicken at dinner. Millicent said it was litter trained, Blaise had bowls of milk and water around the room. Hopefully, it wouldn’t cause any further conflict if he just let the thing wander – unless he took it to every class, and it would quickly grow too big to fit in his pocket – there wasn’t really much to do with it.

It wasn’t so much a gift, as it was an obligation for the rest of his Hogwarts experience.

“If you please,” Harry replied, frowning, “Just stay inside the bed okay? There’s a snake hurting people around the place, and I haven’t figured out who’s controlling it yet.”

The cat started snoring even as Harry was finishing his sentence. Outside the bed, the argument was still brewing – Blaise and Theo were still ganging up on Draco who was rapidly detailing the failures of the Zabini and Nott family presumably back to the time magic itself was created. Draco was threatening to take them both to court for libel, slander and general unpleasantness while Blaise seemed to be talking about how he could end the life of any foolish wizard with only a tablespoon of saltwater.

Not wanting to risk a silencing charm, Harry opted instead to cast an anti-snake charm on his bed, even though he doubted that it would work against a sufficiently motivated basilisk. Once he figured out how an anti-basilisk charm worked, he’d personally cast it on every toilet, sink, and urinal if that’s what it took to keep such a creature far away from the innocent Muggle-born and half-blood populations currently at risk.

Harry was long asleep before the argument finally died down, and so Harry would find himself the first to rise.

Chapter Text

The first of November was an icy sort of day.

Despite the thick woolen blankets Hogwarts supplied, he could feel a slight chill on his skin when Harry started to awaken. At the end of his bed, Millicent’s cat – well, his cat now – let out a deeply contented purr. The feeling of cold air only increased when Harry was startled by the crowing of a dozen roosters. Harry blinked, then snapped out of bed before he’d realised, he’d responded – but his roommates let out gentle groans and burrowed deeper under blankets.

The sharp call of a rooster sounded again; Harry jerked in utter confusion. Harry found himself groggily going down to the common room, bewildered, only to find half of Slytherin House hanging around in small groups in low conversations.

Everyone was in pajamas, some with robes thrown hastily over shoulders – and with more than one person dragging a blanket around themselves. Everyone looked distinctly unhappy, while roosters happily wandered around to peck at invisible crumbs. Harry boggled at this sight for a long moment, watching feathers floating around the room and sticking to furniture, bookcases, and rugs. Already the common room was starting to smell, and look, a bit like a barn.

None of the first or second years had risen yet, and so Harry took a deep breathe in and prepared himself for the circus to come. If Draco Malfoy had poorly responded to the presence of cats, it was absolutely nothing like how he’d respond to roosters. Harry didn’t have to wait very long, because Gervaise Fawley stuck her wand towards the most vocal rooster, and soon its cry was shaking the walls of the dungeons and rattling things on shelves. Wands were flicked towards shelves and bookcases to prevent rattling books and jars and vials from wriggling loose. Sleuths of students came pouring down in pajamas, with expressions a spectrum from confused to utterly enraged. As they came, the Slytherin prefect tucked her wand behind her ear, and cheerily started checking off people on her parchment rollcall.

Harry was slightly pleased to see that the Great Lake outside the glass wall was covered in a thick frost, radiating cold as strongly as a Dementor. Sketches and drawings had been pressed into the frost lass by warm fingers, which seemed to quickly re-frost over. There was a game of tic-tac-toe being played using symbols of the deathly hallows, which made Harry stare for such a long moment that people around him started to notice.

If Harry ignored the prickling feelings which heralded the calamity to come, he was almost relaxed watching the gentle waters. He was glancing at the peaceful scene and busing himself watching the glowing fish that he almost missed Draco Malfoy storm down the stairs and then stand as still as a statue in utter horror at the scene below. It was like Draco’s brain misfired – his face kept twitching even as his snapped his jaw shut, and his eyes bugged out of his head.

Blaise was a few second behind, laughing so hard he pushed past Malfoy in eagerness to see the blond’s face. Draco’s eye twitching increased, and Harry watched in amazement as his jaw hardened, and he inhaled sharply, spun on his feet and marched back upstairs. Blaise’s laughter grew, until it was borderline hysterical, but the boy still waited by the staircase until Theodore Nott cheerfully herded Draco out back towards the common room while Draco’s face grew more and more crazed looking.

His resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange was…. astounding.

Harry waved them all over, and they settled down on the sofa where Draco’s eyes zeroed in on a free-floating feather and looked like he was going to gag.

“This is inhumane,” Draco responded so sharply it could have cut steel, “They can’t make us live in a barn, like muggles. Do you know the kind of diseases you can get from barn-animals? I won’t stand for this. When my father hears about this- “

Draco paused, and visible held his breath as a rooster came strutting between the sofa’s, to nestle by the fire. Draco’s eye twitch grew into great shuddering blinks, until Theo scowled and shooed off the bird with his foot. Malfoy looked distinctly like he had tasted the world’s most disgusting, foul and vomit-inducing meal – and now he was expected to swallow.

“We could hold a cockfight?” Theo suggested, a little too enthusiastically, “Get two bloodthirsty looking ones, add on some spurs, shot a couple of spells at them and we could take wagers? We do it all the time in our summer house in Nord-Pas-de-Calais.”

“No cockfighting,” Harry firmly replied in alarm, “Pretty sure that’s illegal here. Let’s not risk it, when they’re clearly here to protect us from the basilisk.”

“They’re not staying here,” Draco firmly responded, “I can’t possibly live like this. This is untenable, completely and utterly ridiculous. I’d rather take my chances with the basilisk. I would rather be eaten by the basilisk than be forced to desecrate my very good name by sleeping alongside a cockerel.”

“Well, I’m fine with it,” Blaise interjected.

Draco looked him up and down with a sneer to his lips, “Clearly.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, “You only dislike them because you want to be the only rooster parading around the common room, you great big- “

Draco sneezed hard, the force of it rocked his body, and threw him back harder into the back of the sofa. A rooster feather went cascading into the air, and Draco scrambled to avoid touching it. His eye was still twitching as he looked at it.

“If you think I’m going to put up with having to hear crowing every morning as my wake-up call, you’re even dumber than you look,” Draco responded, “I’m not a farmer.”

“No, your disposition is much too faint and dainty for that,” Blaise retorted, “I shall fetch the smelling salts at once, Milord! Perhaps a change of air to restore your constitution, lest sanatorium take you on the ‘morrow!”

Theo snickered.

Draco firmly glanced at Harry with narrowing eyes.

“I still think it’s pretty gross,” Harry admitted, “Roosters, ugh, make waste. Do you really want it tracked around the common room? It’s not very hygienic. Still better than being eaten by a basilisk though.”

The crowing rooster sounded again, possibly louder than before. The crow brought down Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode in their student robes over pyjamas, alongside Daphne Greengrass who had fully dressed and styled her hair. They seemed to be the last down, because Gervaise rolled up her parchment and stuck her wand under her chin.

“Slytherins!” She cheerfully announced, a tone that didn’t seem appropriate for so early in the morning, “You have all certainly by now heard that there is a dangerous creature lurking these halls. One of our own was found petrified, but alive, outside our very common room. This is an unacceptable situation. Many of you have come to Benedict and myself with your theories, and the consensus is that it is either a basilisk, a cockatrice, or a disgruntled student using a new kind of spell which we have not seen before.”

There was a rumbling amongst the students, and Harry was surprised to see that most of it seemed to be agreeance. Harry stared in wonder at the consensus that was sweeping through the room. It didn’t look like this was the first time anyone here had heard of these theories – had the older students gathered prior to the House wake-up?

“We are incredibly fortunate,” Gervaise continued, “Benedict Selwyn, our very own highly-respected Prefect, was so kind as to help Slytherin house acquire 30 roosters at his own personal cost and have them delivered express overnight. We have learned that Hogwarts own personal supply of roosters were killed only days before by an unknown party. I do not believe in co-incidences. This is all the evidence; I personally need to be certain that a rooster is perhaps the best defence.”

“There is no substantive difference between a basilisk and a cockatrice,” Benedict interjected, “A basilisk is always, and cannot be anything but male. A cockatrice is the female version, which has brightly coloured plumage around its head, and vestigial wings.”

“Oh great,” Theo muttered to his side, “A murderous snake that can fly.”

“It can’t fly, idiot,” Draco hissed back, “Vestigial means they’re functionless. Merlin, do you even read?”

Blaise elbowed Draco’s ribs.

 “-They will be accompanying you every second of the day while you are outside of these walls. We have posted a list of students that you are to shadow every day. Each group must always be around each other while you are not within Slytherin House – so save your pressing adolescent need to be alone for while you’re inside these walls. Every group will elect a member which will always be responsible for carrying a shrunken rooster with them. After dinner, you will return here, and you will be required to sign your rooster back in. Do not lose them. The lists are pinned up on the noticeboard by year.”

The frantic push following her words was chaotic. Still, Harry could squeeze his way through the crowd to read the parchments pinned to the noticeboard. It looked like it had been assigned by dorm allocation – at least for the first years who attended all the same classes. It seemed that the groups had been assigned based on similar classes, however, for the upper levels. It wasn’t like he didn’t spend most of his time with Blaise, Theo and Draco anyway, but the system seemed to be working less well with some of the upper years who had swarmed Benedict and Gervaise with demands to switch. Harry managed to shimmy out to Blaise who was still seated on the sofa, pulling Theo by the scruff of his shirt to avoid the scrambling elbows of older students. Draco was nowhere to be seen, and Harry wondered for the longest moment if the blond had taken the opportunity to escape back upstairs.

As soon as Theo was free from Harry’s fingers, he rubbed the back of his neck while he informed Blaise. Blaise’s expression didn’t change as he considered this, but instead leant forward until his elbows were resting on his knees.

“So, we’re all in agreement, right?”

Theo nodded vigorously.

Harry glanced between the two in confusion, but the lack of response on his part didn’t stop Blaise.

Blaise rose impossibly gracefully, striding with a natural elegance. He pushed straight through a group of older students, to Benedict Selwyn, who was in his pressed and starched robes with his polished prefect badge pinned to his chest. The prefect’s pimpled face seemed to have gotten worse overnight, and now it seemed more like acne covering his face in painful red blotches. The acne was so bad near his nose, that you couldn’t exactly figure out where the pimples ended, and his nose began. Benedict’s head snapped up at Blaise approached, and Harry was stunned to see a smile on his face.

The two conversed for a short while, and then shook hands.

Blaise returned to Harry’s confusion and Theo’s ear-splitting grin.

“Draco gets the rooster,” Blaise said, “Benedict’s going to put a líne on Draco as soon as he sees him.”

Theo looked like Christmas had come early.

“A what?”

“It’s a house witch spell,” Blaise cheerfully told Harry, “It’s meant to tether a child to you, so they have an invisible boundary of about 20ft or so before they can’t move any further. Usually stops the odd political kidnapping, makes sure they can’t get into any mischief and ensures the lineage.”

“Never saw Pansy Parkinson without her mother hovering 20ft away until Hogwarts,” Theo cheerfully added, “Barely recognised her when I saw her.”

“I’m sure madam Parkinson is thrilled to have no more hostages – I’m sorry – children- tethered to her twenty-four hours a day,” Blaise sarcastically added, “Mother thinks Primula Parkinson has confused the idea of a child with an insurance policy.”

“On the other hand, Millicent Bulstrode probably hasn’t been within 20ft of her parents though,” Theo added, “On account of her mother being a dead muggle, her father having his wand confiscated, and her step-mother dry heaving whenever she sees Millicent. Probably why Millicent gets on so well with Parkinson.”

“I heard Pansy talking about starting a Slytherin House printing press,” Theo continued, as if he and Blaise hadn’t casually disclosed some of the most concerning information Harry had ever heard in his life, “She wants to follow in her mother’s footsteps of being a columnist for the Daily Prophet, and thinks she ought to start her own zine for students.”

“Doesn’t House Parkinson own a percentage of the Daily Prophet?”

“Yeah, well,” Theo shrugged “She’s been off about merit or something.”

“Excuse me,” Harry interjected, “I have a few questions, starting with – maybe we shouldn’t be discussing this rather private information in a packed common room?”

Blaise blinked, “Daily Prophet shareholders are public knowledge?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, until Blaise rolled his eyes.

“Harry, everyone already knows,” Blaise drew his thick eyebrows together, “I forgot that your mother was such an isolationist. It’s common knowledge. Everyone already knows that Millicent’s dad got his wand snapped because he enchanted a muggle when his parents kicked him out. My Mother was having tea with the Matriarch Beatrice Bulstrode when Baldric Bulstrode turned up with a newly born bastard, and absolutely covered in muggle blood. Hatched a whole plan to get a child so the family wards would be forced to let him in – you know, because the wards would just see him as a nursemaid – and kill his parents so he could get the inheritance.”

Harry’s face twisted painfully.

“Kicked up a right fuss because it was just after the last wizarding war, so the Wizengamot snapped his wand and magically bound him, then put him on house arrest for the rest of his life,” Theo added thoughtfully, “Then because the family wards had keyed in Millicent, her grandparents had to keep her and raise her. They keep them separated though – Millicent has a whole wing of the house to herself, and her Dad has to live in the dungeons because the Bulstrode wards hate him and want him gone, and the dungeon is the only place that the wards don’t reach, and that fits the house-arrest curse requirements.”

Harry’s face twisted painfully at that thought.

“Millicent’s fine,” Blaise sighed, “Probably for the rest that her nutter dad killed her mum and took her back to the ancestral Bulstrode home anyway – once the wards keyed her in, well, most ancient Houses have things in place to protect children. Her grandparents were too old to have more children, and her dad got kicked out for killing his sister, so the wards recognise him as a kinslayer. Millicent was a baby that could inherit the House and continue the bloodline, so she took preference in the wards. Her grandparents have to treat her incredibly well, because I’m pretty sure she’s the lady of the house.”

Theo’s eyebrows rose but he looked thoughtful.

“It means she can’t marry out of the family, only marry people in,” Blaise replied, for Harry’s benefit, “The wards have designated her the head of the household. The wards will obey her every command and protects her above all else. It’s probably because her grandmother was under an unbreakable oath when she was married, so it didn’t take properly. Millicent is the only female Bulstrode available, so she’s the de facto head of the household. It’s unusual, but magic can often be so.”

“I’m a little more concerned about the fact that Millicent is living with the murderer of her mother,” Harry replied dryly, “Why wasn’t he thrown in Azkaban?”

“Overcrowding,” Theo cheerfully added, like it didn’t raise a thousand more questions.

“Of course,” Harry replied with a sigh, “That’s a completely reasonable reason to place him on indefinite house arrest. What’s this about a stepmother?”

“Oh yeah!” Theo shrugged, “Well, no one is really happy when your kinslaying Death-Eater son brings home a half-blood bastard, so they got special dispensation to marry their kid off to one of Corvus Lestrange’s daughters to hopefully get an heir. Fat lot of good that did them. She just empties their vault and refuses to be in the same room as Baldric.”

“Euphraïlde,” Blaise responded, “In her last year at Hogwarts she cut off Ottilie Volant’s pigtails and slipped a love potion into Argo Pyrites’ pumpkin juice. Mother once hexed all her hair off. Bit of a mean and nasty one but she’s magically just above a squib despite all her squawking.”

“The fire’s lit, but the cauldron’s empty,” Theo muttered, “I do suppose if I was in her shoes though, better be hanged for a dragon as an egg.”

“Hmm,” Harry replied with an ugly feeling twisting in his stomach, “Why exactly is Azkaban overpopulated?”

The question was posed, but not answered, because it was at this time that a furious Draco Malfoy descended onto the sofa like a vulture on a fresh kill. He dropped into the sofa so hard that Blaise and Theo physically moved. Theo shot Blaise a rather pleased but sinister sort of look, while Blaise maintained a perfectly composed face while he relaxed back into the couch with a considering gaze. Draco was visibly seething, to the point that Harry wiggled a little further away from him in alarm. In Draco’s arms, was a rather placid rooster, who was twitching his face back and forth to look around.

“Benedict has vouchsafed to make me the rooster bearer,” Draco announced, “I will not deign to ask why none of you thought to intervene in this matter. I will presume that my friends certainly did not decide to invoke the spirit of Marcus Junius Brutus and stab me in the back because I demand hygiene.”

“You sound like a right git right now,” Blaise responded, before taking on a mocking tone, “I beseech thee, forsooth!”

“Stultiloquence from the poorly educated,” Draco responded with a smile, “It’s hardly my fault that you’re both hapless blithering idiots.”

“Practiced that speech for a few minutes then, did you?” Blaise replied condescendingly, stroking the roosters’ head. Draco’s arms were so busy keeping the rooster in his arms, that he couldn’t bat away Blaise’s petting. Instead, Draco heaped as much loathing into his sharp look as possible.

“Doesn’t the Malfoy crest have a rooster on it?” Harry interjected, feeling the tension change a little more hostile, only to receive a piercingly unimpressed look in return.

“Et tu Brutus,” Draco responded flatly, “You’re lucky that this benefits me, and Daphne Greengrass cast an anti-allergen spell on this foul beast. As soon as this basilisk is killed, I’m taking it straight to the house elves and I’m going to dine on coq-au-vin.”

Theo frowned, and looked thoroughly put out by the mention of an anti-allergen spell.

“Also,” Draco responded sharply, “Harry, Benedict would like a word with you.”

Harry straightened up in his seat in alarm as Draco flounced back up the stairs to the dorms to the sound of a crowing rooster. Theo shot him a worried look, but Blaise just nudged Harry’s arm.

“He’s not mad,” Blaise told Harry, “He’s just rather put out that he was out- maneuvered politically and it’s not even Christmas yet. I mean, he used the Latin translation of ‘et tu Brutus’ for you. That’s very considerate. The original version is ‘kai su teknon’, and ‘kai su’ has been used on curse tablets and hex incantations since before wizarding kind built the pyramids. He didn’t even lightly threaten you, Fleamont. He’s too inexplicably fond of you for that.”

With that utterly perplexing and baffling explanation on why all wizards were the single most ridiculous creatures on the face of the planet, Harry was striding back off towards Benedict Selwyn. To his side, Gervaise Fawley was busying herself with her lists again, but keeping an eye out across the room as people started moving back up to dorms, with roosters in tow. Only the upper years had thought to ask Benedict to shrink the roosters before moving off.

“Good work last night Fleamont,” The dark haired prefect said brightly, “I’m incredibly impressed that you and your cohort managed to figure out what caused those petrification’s yesterday – everyone affected is in the hospital ward and is awaiting doses of Mandrake Restorative Draught. They’ll be fine.”

“Oh,” Harry responded for lack of something else to say, “That’s good?”

“It is,” Benedict responded lightly, “But now I must ask you to keep that knowledge a secret from your friends in other Houses – I will be informing your collection of friends the same non-negotiable request. Miss Parkinson, Miss Bulstrode and Miss Greengrass have been informed, as has your Mister Malfoy given you all have taken to Gryffindor’s and Ravenclaws alike.”

“Oh,” Harry said again, then blinked in realisation, “Uh, we, ah, weren’t the only people who figured it out, were we?”

“True,” Benedict confirmed, “But you were certainly the fastest. The fourth years didn’t think to let me know they’d realised it was a basilisk for another twenty minutes. We must keep this a secret to avoid panic at the school, do you understand? Slytherin House is more likely to know the information relating to the Chamber of Secrets, Slytherin’s monster, and indeed, creatures such as a basilisk. We’re all immersed deeply in wizarding culture, with ambition to further learn and embody traditional practices. I’m sure Professor Flitwick has assigned someone in Ravenclaw House to censure the information, as will other Heads of House as they require. If you feel like you must further research – please do so here within your dorms, or in this common room.”

Harry considered this with surprise.

“Of course,” Harry finally confirmed, to Benedict’s visible relief.

“I’m sure everyone will be speaking about Miss Brown and Miss Patil anyway,” Gervaise spoke nonchalantly, “It’s the talk of Slytherin House already.”

Harry gaped as a terribly icy sword twisted in his stomach. He looked at Gervaise in alarm.

“Afterall,” She added, “It’s not every day that two first years take down a mountain troll and live to tell the tale.”

“Excuse me?” Harry demanded a little too forcefully, “Lavender and Parvati?”

Benedict shrugged, “You’ll have to ask them at breakfast to explain the story. I try to stay out of House gossip unless it directly causes a concern.”

“I don’t,” Gervaise grinned, “Miss Patil went to the hospital wing last night, and asked for her cousin Miss Pavana Patil from Ravenclaw, who told her sisters Priya and Pihu Patil from Hufflepuff. I believe that Pihu Patil then spoke to her friend Rajani Rao, a Gryffindor, who told her dormmate Naomi Nadkarni who then spoke to Agratha Acharya, who is my baby cousin here in Slytherin, and then I passed the message onto Benedict. Agratha made sure the whole of Slytherin knew though. If you wanna crack the secret on how they manage to talk to each other, there’s a whole bet going. My money is on communication mirrors.”

“Is Parvati okay?” Harry worried.

“Completely fine,” Gervaise replied, “Parvati did take down a mountain troll. A few broken bones are to be expected – and Madam Pomphrey is an excellent matron. I’m sure you’ll see her at breakfast and can get the whole story from her.”

The whole story, when Harry finally made it down to breakfast, was that the troll had been caught and defeated by Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, who had gone looking for Hermione after she’d not appeared for the Halloween Feast. Not having had the fortunate of defeating a troll, Anthony Goldstein and Neville Longbottom, who had split from the girls after leaving the hall to cover more ground, apparently had detention for the next two weeks.

Anthony Goldstein relayed the whole story to him with a gloomy expression.

“And now Hermione is petrified in the Hospital Wing anyway,” Anthony said, pushing his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose, “And she may end up missing Hanukkah – how are we supposed to settle the latke issue now?”

Harry cracked a grin, “She’s going to be fine. But you can still visit her, I’m sure she’ll love to hear your voice.”

Anthony nodded, a tiny movement that seemed to be more for the benefit of Anthony’s resolve than for Harry’s benefit.

“So,” Anthony started casually, but no less gloomily, “Do you know what caused the petrification’s?”

Harry didn’t need to respond, before Anthony casually stretched and reached inside his robe.

“Hmm, you do,” Anthony mused, “Probably got the talk from someone, huh? Cover-ups have always been great historically, really. In any case, I have a gift for you.”

Harry paused, halfway through making a toast sandwich of scrambled eggs.

“It’s sort of hard to explain,” Anthony said, dropping his voice down low, “It’s a hamsa. My grandmother sent me an owl with a few inside. They’re meant to counter the evil eye, and well, I figured there is ill-intent in a basilisk’s gaze. They’re meant to be sentient snakes.”

“You told her there’s a basilisk?” Harry replied in surprise.

“No!” Anthony scoffed, “I told her that they were counting students in nightly rollcalls.”

Harry took a long drink of tea.

“I told my Rabbi that there was a tzeph’a – basilisk- though,” Anthony said, “On account of my Rabbi being the most perceptive wizard that I have ever met, and also because his wife manages a magical menagerie part-time and I thought she might have some helpful tips on not dying. It’s a bit of a cultural thing, really, not dying. There are whole celebrations around it, such as Passover. You’re invited to our Seder if you can get your mother to let you come over during the Easter break. It usually doesn’t line up so well, but this year Passover starts on the 29^th and Easter is on the 31^st of March so by the time we’re setting the Seder it’s right in the Easter break. Put the 5^th of April in your calendar. Hermione and her parents have been invited over to our house too!”

“I would love to,” Harry said cheerfully, “What’s the problem with a roll call?”

 “That’s a longer conversation,” Anthony made a face, and handed Harry a metal figure, “You’re not supposed to count people directly, because when you count people individually, they become separated and can be scrutinised. It’s fine – I let my prefect know and she’s been using the old ‘not one, not two, not three’ work around so no one is counting us, and I’ve been arguing that she’s not counting people, just counting the written names of people. It’s a loophole that is fine with my Rabbi. Really, it’s a long explanation to explain this. It’s a cultural and religious thing.”

Harry nodded, and took the figure; it was a hand, with an eye in the palm. It was highly decorated with blues and fish. There was a pin on the back, and Harry realised it was meant to be pinned to a cloak. He fixed it to his school cloak. He glanced back at Anthony, and now he knew what to look for, found a similar hamsa hanging from a necklace around Anthony’s neck.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, a tad touched by the act, “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“No worries,” Anthony said with a wide grin, “I’m going to ask Madam Pomphrey to hang one over Hermione’s bed. Don’t go looking for the snake though, you hear me? You seem like the sort that might just take on a basilisk because it slithered too close. Leave that for the Professors. Now what’s this about you getting a cat?”

Bernard was proving a hit with his growing array of friends outside of Slytherin – Hermione, though absent, had always been a cat lover, and although he was sure that his cat would be more, well, a cat than a kitten by the time she awoke, he was sure his bushy-haired friend would be equally delighted. Still, it helped his evil slimy Slytherin image by having a kitten constantly hanging out of his robe pocket and begging for pats through high pitched meows. It also helped that Anthony enthusiastically waved at him whenever they shared a class.

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown spent the next few days surrounded by buzzing students who gaped and gasped in just the right places. By the end of the week, Harry had heard a dozen different versions of their adventure with the troll, each more grandiose than the last. More than one retelling insisted that there had been a whole pack of mountain trolls. Gryffindor was awarded thirty points for their outstanding bravery in caring for a friend but lost them when Anthony and Neville had been caught lurking around another corridor. It seemed that two first years looking for an upset friend was perfectly fine, but four was simply unacceptable.

Draco was endlessly put-out by Benedict’s censure but followed the instructions to the letter. Although, Draco was beginning to turn purple as Pansy and Theo had taken to hiss at him in the hallways when Draco looked like he desperately wanted to tell someone about his clever problem-solving. The issue soon changed, for although the roosters had been shrunken down to fit into robe pockets, there was nothing that could be done about the clucking and crowing noises the roosters were making. By the time Gryffindor House finally figured out not to cluck like a chicken when Slytherins were near, half of Gryffindor House had been taken to the hospital wing for various curse and hex related injuries.

The entirety of Hogwarts spooked by the targeted petrification flocked together in groups. More than once, Harry tried to quietly duck off to go and visit the room of requirements, only to be pulled back into the fold. The Slytherin common room was now sealed during the night, much to Harry’s frustration, and on the weekends, it seemed that every sixth and seventh year Slytherin had taken on the responsibility of herding first years back into public areas. It wasn’t just the endless watch stopping him from being out of sight, it was the way that Slytherin House withdrew into defensive corners of each classroom as if waiting with bated breath.

It was endlessly frustrating to not be able to achieve anything of real value while Voldemort was off possessing someone and getting closer to the stone. Harry noted with surprise that Quidditch had begun again, and he ruefully remembered the feeling of utter freedom while playing for the Gryffindor House team. It wouldn’t exactly be fair to pit him against children, given his experience on a broom – but also, it was with a start that he realised he literally couldn’t afford to buy a decent broom. There would be no charity from McGonagall this time around, no people fawning over the lingering spectre of his parents to pave his way, despite never asking for it.

The school brooms were simply out of the question, because they were perhaps more dangerous than the sport itself. He certainly didn’t need to get an injury bad enough for a non-existent parent to be summoned to Hogwarts.

The weeks dragged from charms essays, to history of magic revision. Each Friday Anthony and Draco dutifully attended his study group, but Harry found himself missing Hermione a little more. Somewhere along the weeks, Millicent started coming by, and even Daphne and Blaise had dropped by once or twice. Yet eventually, the sense of isolation within each House grew, until Harry could no longer visit Anthony over at the Gryffindor table without hearing disgruntled whispers starting to brew. This sent the wisps of hair on Harry’s neck on end, to witness the divisions between Houses start to grow. It was so pervasive that Harry had started to catch sight of Cygnus Black’s raven hair and feel immediately guilty. He needed to know Cygnus in order to access the Black Family vaults – but the fact that he needed to cultivate a friendship for someone’s vault made him feel both distinctly uncomfortable, and that the cold shoulder being given to the Slytherin’s was perhaps based in something. With the current cool air separating the Houses, it also probably wouldn’t be well received if he started to make overtured of friendship.

When Professor McGonagall had swept through the hall one morning to make a list of students that were staying at Hogwarts over the holidays, Harry had signed up immediately.

He was the only one to do so from his new cohort of friends. Draco and his parents hosted a yearly Yule celebration that was quite extravagant and spectacular, Daphne intended on spending something quiet at home and Blaise was heading to Egypt to visit his grandmother.
Theo had shrugged, and mentioned something about fulfilling an obligation to the Queen of Elphame somewhere in North Ayrshire – but Theo had taken to creating ridiculous stories, because more often than not, Harry couldn’t tell the difference so there was no way to figure out if Theo was telling the truth or not.
Millicent was back home over Christmas – and Harry didn’t really like the sound of that, but apparently her estate had an assortment of animals that she needed to check on and visit – and Pansy had given her the Parkinson floo address just in case she needed a break.

It was a blessing really – not having to worry about anything for another break. Christmas in Hogwarts was always an event – and Harry could already taste the treacle tart.

The only spot of entertainment was watching Snape limp into the Slytherin common room one day, which immediately caught the attention of Gervaise Fawley, Benedict Selwyn and the little-seen Slytherin Head Girl Fiorentina Travers who seemed to have a constant red face and scowl. They dove into his office behind him, but were swiftly kicked out when Snape’s lip curled, and he slammed his door in their face. It was hilarious for just the instant, before the perfects and Head Girl seemed to crack down on unsupervised students to such a high degree that Harry could have sworn that they were Dementors, sucking the life and joy out of everyone around them.

Harry was so frustrated about the constant surveillance from his fellow Slytherins that on a Thursday night, only a few minutes before curfew, he walked straight into the Slytherin common room in an absolute mood. Theo was jogging beside him, but Draco and Blaise shot off to the dorms, both vying for the first bath of the night. Harry’s face was twitching with ill-repressed irritation when he proceeded to throw himself on the sofa closest to the fire. Harry ignored Gervaise Fawley ticking them off her list – she was running a nightly rollcall which had become the bane of every Slytherin – and proceeded to shove his face in a pillow and shout. He heard Theo yelp in surprise, and for a short second, heard another voice furiously whispering.

After an embarrassingly long scream, Harry lifted his head and jumped with a start when he noticed a very bored looking Pansy Parkinson sitting on the arm of the chair. She levelled a distinctly unimpressed look at him and Theo, and crossed her arms.

Theo frowned in return and peered down over him when Harry finally returned to the world. Theo was holding his wand out weightlessly, like he’d just finished casting a spell.

“Was that necessary?” Pansy demanded, “If you wanted theatrics you should have joined the Theatre Guild.”

“You’re welcome, you absolute nutter,” Theo cheerfully said, “I think I got that charm up in just enough time to prevent everyone from getting a little too involved.”

“Thanks,” Harry said brightly, “Keep it up, won’t you?”

Theo looked a little more disturbed, five minutes later, when Harry finally finished screaming into a pillow out of pure frustration. When he finally felt a little better, he absently stuck his hand into his robe pocket where Bernard was still napping happily. Pansy huffed and shifted down to the sofa cushion.

“Is that why you keep silencing wards up on your bed?” Theo curiously asked, “Are you ducking into your bed every night for a little therapeutic screaming?”

Harry scowled, “No.”

“Oh,” Theo considered this, “You probably should consider it.”

Harry remained stubbornly silent, in an incredibly poor mood.

“What’s got your wand in a twist, anyway?” Pansy asked, “Given that you’re screaming into pillows in our common room – oh look you’ve gotten them dirty.”

“Aren’t you sick of being constantly monitored everywhere you go?” Harry replied glumly, “I have had exactly five minutes of privacy over the past two days and the entire duration was spent with Draco banging on the bathroom door because he wanted to apply a hair mask.”

“It was a good hair mask,” Theo replied, stroking his hair, “Very moisturising.”

“That’s not really the point,” Harry replied testily, “It’s more the constant unwavering surveillance.”

Pansy shrugged, “Sneak out.”

Harry stared back.

“The front door is locked,” Theo patiently said, “But the back doors aren’t.”

“There are back doors?” Harry replied flatly, “And no one thought to mention them?”

“You telling me you haven’t properly looked around Slytherin House to evaluate the layout for your own safety?” Theo looked bewildered, “Both my parents made sure I was cognizant by the time I was seven. Blaise probably by the time he could walk.”

Harry let out a mournful sigh.

Theo’s eyes squinted, “I’ll tell you if I can join your study sessions with Draco.”

Harry paused, and looked incredulous, “You could just come? Anyone can just come as long as they’re polite and they don’t interrupt me. Draco comes every week, Millicent and Blaise drop by whenever they’re free. It’s not even a proper study group – Draco spent the last one looking at Abraxan horses and drafting a near-thesis on why his father should buy him one for his birthday.”

“Mother always said, ‘money talks, wealth whispers’,” Pansy sighed, “Draco would have himself gold plated if he could.”

“I don’t care about Draco like you do Parkinson,” Theo stubbornly interjected, “I also don’t gate-crash like some kind of common novus homo, I would like you to extend a formal invitation to the heir of House Nott.”

“Like, a card?” Harry questioned, “I don’t really have the calligraphy skills for that, and Millicent charges too much for me.”

“A verbal invitation will surface,” Theo looked expectant.

“You are formally invited to my weekly study sessions,” Harry replied blankly, “You two Pansy, if you want.”

Pansy preened at the invitation, and Theo looked affronted that she’d been included but rolled his eyes and didn’t elect to comment.

 “Thankful, I will be in attendance should my schedule be available,” Theo nodded gracefully, “There’s a passageway behind the statue of Salazar Slytherin at the top of the staircase that will take you behind the statue of Eporita Columba of Sens on the first floor, and if you tap the fourth brick in the fourth year boys bathroom below the bathroom mirror while whistling you’ll come out behind the painting of William Wallace on the second floor near the staff room.”

Pansy scoffed, “Don’t listen to Theo. He’s never gone out past curfew in his life. Those are one-way passages – you’ll either have to stay out all night and wait until morning or come back in the main entrance and get expelled when Snape’s alarm pings you for being late.”

“There’s also the passageway behind the bookcase in the seventh year common room,” Theo pointed out, “Pull on the cover of Antwerp Scrivener-Hawtrey’s biography and you’ll come out behind the griffin statue near the potions classroom.”

“Oh great!” Pansy faked a cheerful tone, “You may as well come out in Snape’s personal boudoir.”

Harry sighed, “Is there any other passageways?”

Theo frowned.

 “You need to use the spell ‘cognoscere’,” Pansy decided, “You point your wand at your temple and tap on the g sound. It’s a minor awareness spell. If you’re thinking about finding exits, it will increase your awareness of possible exits and you’ll find them.”

“That’s …. handy,” Harry brightened, “I haven’t heard of it before.”

“A House witch spell, meant to help witches find things tucked away in the back of their pantries – Theo and Draco won’t dare touch it,” Pansy rolled her eyes, “Millicent and I go to the kitchens late at night to get meals for the cats coming back from the astronomy tower and we always seem to find just the right passageway. The only thing is, unless you write it down, or remember to talk about it, or bring someone with you who doesn’t have the spell on them - you’ll forget where it is. It doesn’t let you keep it in your memory.”

“A fat lot of good it does you if you can’t remember where you’ve been,” Theo retorted, “I’m not a witch. If I need something, I’ll use accio.”

Pansy’s mouth thinned, “A careless attitude, from a careless wizard. What if you make a mess because you’ve summoned something without a lid, or knocked something over?”

“I have a house-elf,” Theo drawled, “And Pansy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we have spells for that sort of thing. I am a wizard.”

“Barely,” Pansy muttered, “Aren’t your parents’ cousins? And their parents’ cousins?”

“Your parents named you Pansy only because my mother talked yours out of calling you Mentha,” Theo responded rather crossly, “You should be thanking the House of Nott on your knees for that one. I’ve never met a witch under 150 called Mentha.”

“I’ve never seen anything I couldn’t pull off,” Pansy sniffed, “But apparently you can’t pull off half of spells because as soon as they’re too hard for you, you call them witches work.”

Theo noticeably darkened, and it was about here that Harry had an urgent feeling to intervene.

“Great,” He responded, a little too cheerfully for a wizard who had been screaming into a pillow a few moment ago, “Thank you Pansy, that will come in handy.”

“Where are you going?” Pansy replied with a touch of concern in her voice, “Make sure you take a rooster with you.”

“Can’t,” Theo interjected, “The tethering charm was cast on Draco. Unless you want to take Draco along with you…?”

Harry made a disgruntled face.

“Thought so,” Theo frowned, “Millicent got your rooster yeah? Of course, she would, she’s going to be a magizoologist right? Fantastic. We could try to lift the spell complex and move it from Draco to Harry? I’m sure Harry could do it, he’s wicked smart.”

“It would still let Benedict know, AND we’d owe Draco a favour,” Pansy huffed, “I’d rather cut my own ear off than have Draco hold one over me. You could try tying a scarf around your eyes – the basilisk can’t get you if you can’t see it.”

“I’ve never been so jealous of Eugene Mopsus,” Theo responded, then sighed at Harry’s blank look, “He’s a famous custom armourer that fits out the Aurors and whoever can afford it really. Graduated Hogwarts two years ago. He’s blind – must be really nice to be immune to things like basilisks and gorgons.”

“We could just hatch a cockatrice and set it loose in Hogwarts?” Pansy idly said, “Daphne just told me about it – they’re a great enemy of the basilisk. They can also kill people by looking at them. You can make one with the egg of a cockerel incubated under a snake or toad. We have the roosters; Longbottom has a toad. Let’s make it happen people.”

“More creatures with death eyes aren’t exactly the way we want to go,” Harry pointed out, “We’re aiming for less.”

“Yeah well, according to Isidore of Seville, weasels are immune to the glance of a cockatrice, and we’re got a whole flock of Weasleys that needs a good cull,” Pansy huffed.

Harry narrowed his eyes dangerously, “Pansy.”

“Oh, come off it,” Pansy huffed, “I was joking. Besides, I think the basilisk is actually a decent investment for my portfolio.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Theo muttered, “You’re insane. She’s insane.”

“I’m ambitious,” Pansy insisted, “Theophilus Presbyter published a recipe, using powdered basilisk blood, powdered human blood, red copper and vinegar to make Spanish gold. Hermes Trismegistus also said the ashes of a basilisk can convert silver into gold. We could start a rival wizarding bank and undo the monopoly the goblins have on the wizarding world.”

“You want to start a new goblin war?” Harry replied aghast.

“It’s only cause for war if we start one within Britain,” Pansy insisted, “I’m going to start mine in Iceland.”

“Because the jötunn are any better,” Theo replied, “Move your bank accounts over to the Wizarding Bank of Constantinople if it bothers you so much.”

“I will once they’re not in trust anymore,” Pansy frowned, “Look, they’re legitimate recipes. I got them from the official biography of the city of Basel in Switzerland. Their cities mascot is the basilisk and they’ve been the only major producers of basilisk venom and other goods for centuries. Cantabria is the only place in the world where they’re allowed to be made, according to the International Wizards treaty of 1569 and they exclusively sell to Basel.”

“Basilisk breeders,” Harry replied with a forming headache, “Thanks for that thought. That’s not incredibly disturbing.”

“The Hogwarts library is a little more interesting than I thought,” Theo peered at Pansy in fascination, “Restricted section?”

“Nope,” Pansy shrugged, “General history, halfway between geography and pet care.”

Theo grinned a little too toothily at that. Harry eyed him, remembering he had suggested illegal cockfight for fun very recently.

“Cantabria is probably where Salazar Slytherin brought his snake,” Pansy replied, thoughtfully “For a good pedigree.”

“How exactly do you raise a basilisk?” Harry wondered, “Or transport one. Or milk one.”

” Strict boundaries,” Theo nodded sagely, and Harry could help but snicker.

“Complete mirrored glasses,” Pansy responded, a little too smugly, “They’re incredibly expensive, but they’re perfect mirrors on one side but you can see through them. I haven’t the slightest idea how they’re made. It’s a secret held by the city of Basel.”

 “Well that’s weird,” Harry said, as casually as he could, “Well, I’m going to find a way out of here. I just need some time alone.”

“If you slay a basilisk you’re entitled to an Order of Merlin, second class,” Pansy offered, “And if you die by a basilisk there’s compensation of 13 and a half sickles per year to surviving family.”

“He’s not going to slay a basilisk,” Theo scoffed, “We won’t know who owns it. Harry might have to pay damages. If it’s Salazar Slytherin’s, Dumbledore will make Harry pay blood money for sure.”

 “At least let us follow so we can tell you where the passage is afterwards,” Pansy insisted, “And if we can’t find something else, then we’ll sneak you to the seventh year common room so you can get caught by Snape.”

The two didn’t wait for an answer and were up and staring at Harry expectantly. With no other way to avoid the two, and Harry knew they weren’t above snitching on him to Gervaise if he tried to ignore them, they were up the staircase as quickly as they could, without alerting Gervaise to their plan. They passed the first year boys’ dorms and continuing up to the first landing without meeting anyone. With a tap of his wand, Harry cast ‘cognoscere’ and immediately felt something in his mind.

‘I’m looking for an exit’ Harry thought desperately, ‘I need to get to room of requirements.’

There was nothing for a long time. No magical sight or illumination of what was hidden, and after the seconds continued to tick, Harry frowned. He could feel it working, but nothing was happening.

“I can’t see anything,” Harry replied with a frown, “Is it working?”

Theo was shooting Pansy a particularly smug look.

“Give it a minute,” Pansy insisted.

Harry glanced around and paused when he had the most intense feeling to go and check the picture of Robert Guiscard, who may or may not, have had a Weasley for a mother, alongside the Princess Sichelgaita.

“Wait,” Harry said, “I think we need to go up. The picture outside the fifth years dorm.”

Pansy preened, but Theo just looked interested as they went further up the staircase. Harry was struck with the oddest of sensation, something deeper than intuition, but not as concrete as knowledge. When they finally arrived at the portrait, Harry stared at it incomprehensibly.

“I think we need to talk to her,” Harry said with a frown, “I don’t know- “

“The spell just increases your awareness,” Pansy said, “You’ve probably noticed something odd about this portrait before but didn’t think it was important enough to investigate. It just brings forth your subconscious memories. That’s why you won’t be able to remember when you’re done. It doesn’t belong in your conscious memories.”

The two in the painting gave him an unimpressed look. The princess was tall and muscular, her light hair bound above her head with gold thread and metal hairpins, with a sword strapped to her hip and a spear in her hand. She was just as heavily armoured as the white bearded man beside her, though she wore more brocade. The painting was old however, much older than another portraits Harry had seen around Hogwarts. As such, her portrait didn’t seem as realistic, and had the look of a hazy ancient drawing. Her husband’s movements were jerky and stilted, like the charms cast on the ancient portrait were failing.

“Hello,” Harry said, and felt a little foolish, “Is there a secret passageway behind your frame?”

Theo scoffed.

The princess sighed dramatically, “Cnucian.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose, “Excuse me?”

“Cnucian,” The Princess replied stubbornly, “Dysig, dollic.”

“That isn’t English,” Pansy mused, “Oh – portraits can learn new words, right? No one has spoken to you in so long that you can’t speak modern English. Is that Old English or Anglo-Saxon? Middle English? Or maybe you can understand it but not speak it?”

The portrait nodded, and this time rose her hand to knock on her armour, “Cnucian.”

Harry rose his hand slowly to knock on the wood of her frame hesitantly. The frame creaked, and then swung open, almost knocking into Harry’s legs in the process. A plume of dust blew out from behind the portrait, coating Harry’s legs in thin grey powder. Pansy yelped – she was covered in more dust than the others, but Theo just sighed as if it was all a massive inconvenience.

As soon as the passageway was exposed, Harry slumped in his shoes. Rather than the newer passageways, with perfectly rectangle stone bricks, this passageway seemed more like a souterrain – a tunnel dug out of the very rock of the hill Hogwarts was built on – probably by firing a bunch of ‘reductos’ off. It was clearly an escape tunnel, or a tunnel to be a place of refuge – hewn roughly and with a low ceiling – either to accommodate the shorter height of children or the shorter statues or less nourished wizards. 

“We should come with you,” Theo declared, “Just in case its dangerous.”

“I’m not going,” Pansy replied firmly, “That tunnel is disgusting, and I didn’t agree to break curfew just because Harry wants to be alone for a while. He can sit in his closet if that’s what he needs.”

“It’s fine,” Harry replied gratefully, “Theo, I need you to make sure Gervaise and Benedict don’t find out I’m gone anyway.”

Theo looked unsure but nodded his agreeance.

Harry, being rather shorter than usual could easily walk under it, but the ceiling was still too close to the top of his head for comfort. The passageway took many twists and turns, growing so dark that Harry had to cast a lumus to see ahead of him. Eventually the passageway ended in a thick stone wall, and Harry first knocked hopefully, and then resorted to kicking down the stone when first attempts proved futile. The stone tile came loose from the wall with a considerable thump, hitting the floor and sending a flume of dust through the air. Harry followed coughed as the dust hit his lungs, and then peaked his head out of the wall.

It had led to an empty classroom, incredibly dark and spacious. He couldn’t tell what unused classroom – there were literally hundreds, and those were only the rooms that more or less could be found where you last saw them.

Harry was cautious when he moved, hypervigilant of anyone around when he moved out from the wall. As soon as he was clear of the passageway, the thick stone lifted and slotted back in the wall. Harry eyed it warily – before scanning the room once more. There were dark shapes of desks and chairs piled against the walls, and an upturned wastepaper basket gathering dust. Harry took a few steps into the room and paused when something crunched under his shoes.

He paused and crouched to get a better look – it looked like shards of glass, although the light wasn’t good enough from his wand to see well enough. He didn’t dare turn the light up any higher, until he could figure out exactly where he was. Harry glanced around, and although the lack of light was an issue, it was just enough to see that there were no windows in this classroom. The classrooms in the middle of the castle tended to be the darkest, and therefore least used.

The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on edge, and he could feel the goose bumps racing down his arm. Harry’s intuition had always been more or less right, but there was no questing the way he was overcome with a sense of impending dread. Harry turned back to the stone wall and paused; there was a memory…. finding a passageway and walking through…but how had he gained entry to it? Pansy had said he wouldn’t be able to remember, but it wasn’t a gap in his memory, just a fuzzy feeling in his recollections that was stubbornly refusing to get further than the tip of his tongue.

 Harry stared incomprehensively for a few seconds, unable to get back through. It was still cold, and Harry could see his breath turning to mist in front of his eyes. The sense of something not quite right was still niggling in his mind.

The feeling of déjà vu had turned into a feeling of horror when his eyes locked onto the Mirror of Erised. The gleaming golden frame, almost as high as the ceiling, standing on two clawed feet with an inscription along the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. He’d come through the hallway door last time – and glancing across he could only faintly make out the shape of the door. It was shut tight – hadn’t it been opened before?

But something was wrong, something deeply wrong, because the mirror had been smashed into a million pieces. It had been the shards from the mirror he had stepped on. That feeling of wrongness – there had been no windows for broken glass to fall – it was a connection he should have made sooner.

Harry’s heart started to beat faster, and without thinking he reached for the largest shard. Harry stared into the shard, and watched as his face became clear – except it was himself, the real version of him, surrounded by Hermione and Ron, and the Weasleys. There were others he didn’t know – potential children he supposed, with family stretching back generations. He was standing tall and proud, and in the background flocks of children were casting spells and laughing as they dashed between shops in Diagon Alley. It was life in abundance, life in magic, and Harry heart skipped a beat at the sight.

Then – it changed. His mother, bright green eyes and flaming red hair, beside his father, lanky and tall with wild hair. People with noses like him, knees like him. People who didn’t look like him at all. The ache inside him grew, half joy, half sadness. And then the picture twisted and morphed again, this time, his new friends, all grown and unhurt, without the spectre of a snake-like tyrant. Neville Longbottom never having suffered an enemy he never chose, Harry Potter and his flock of siblings and cousins, Marauders, laughing together.

Harry’s heart ached and ached until he was gripping the shard much too hard, and Harry realised only when the sting of his hand yielded a fine line that started welling blood. Yet the reflections did not fade, and Harry stood there clutching a shard of his own hearts desire until a distant noise brought him out of his musing.

The sound of a doorknob being fumbled, Harry glanced up in dawning horror, and looked around for somewhere to hide – but then a door opening.

There was only a split second, much too short to make a dash for the desks, and Harry could only clench his jaw in fright.

“Harry Fleamont!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed, with her hand to her mouth, “What have you done?!?”

“I didn’t do anything Professor!” Harry immediately responded, clutching the mirror shard harder until his bled, he could feel the shard cracking and splintering under the pressure, and then dropping it immediately as it hurt, “I promise! I found it like this!”

The shard hit the floor and shattered into tiny splinters. McGonagall grew deathly white at the sight but hardened her jaw and summoned a piece of the broken mirror to hang in front of her. Evidence.  Harry swallowed painfully. She did not make any attempt to touch the piece, still slick with blood.

Professor McGonagall, as expected, had absolutely no goodwill for a student who she thought had smashed an uncountably ancient mirror. Her eyes narrowed to a terrifying degree, and she grabbed the scruff of his robes to march him straight to Dumbledore’s office. The whole way she was shaking, and Harry couldn’t tell whether it was out of absolute rage or terror.

There had been no stone lying in the classroom.

Harry was as white as a sheet when she finally passed the gargoyles of Dumbledore’s office. She didn’t let go of the scruff of his neck until she was in the middle of the room, and the doors had closed behind him. Dumbledore looked utterly flummoxed by the sudden intrusion – and by Professor McGonagall’s thundercloud of a mood. Snape, who was sitting across the desk, turned and delivered a withering look at Harry – which was exactly what Harry needed right now.

“Minerva,” Dumbledore greeted cheerily, “I see you found the student who tripped the alarm, must this require such an action though?”

“The Mirror has been smashed,” Professor McGonagall responded flatly, watching as both men blanched, “I found Mister Fleamont here clutching a shard of it.”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and brought his fingers together, under his chin. The shard of mirror McGonagall has summoned floated over to Dumbledore’s desk, where it floated and sent glints of light across the room in sharp geometric lines. Professor Dumbledore moved to examine it; its surface was too marred with spidery white lines of mirror dust, hairline fractures and blood to see anything in its surface.

Harry gulped audibly, eyes wide as the room grew sombre and dark. Professor Dumbledore was looking at him critically, with a tenseness to his jaw that was both powerful and decisive.

“Why did you smash the mirror, Harry?” Dumbledore said, with a flat voice, “Did you take anything from that room?”

“I didn’t smash it sir,” Harry insisted, “I found the mirror like that.”

Although it was the truth, Harry could tell as soon as it passed his lips that it was the exact wrong thing to say. Snape boggled at him, eyes with an unconscionable amount of rage. Beside him, Professor Dumbledore looked hard and quietly simmering. No one had believed his words.

“Indeed,” Professor Dumbledore replied flatly.

“Do not lie to me boy,” Snape snapped furiously, looming up from his chair to loom over Harry, “Why are you out after curfew? What were you doing in that classroom? Who told you about the mirror?”

“Severus,” Professor Dumbledore called quietly, “Harry, you best answer these questions.”

Harry shrunk, mind whirling a million miles an hour to come up with something that would help. Snape’s eyes were dark, but he was staring at the Headmaster with a jaw so tense it could have cracked teeth.

 “I was just exploring Slytherin House!” Harry finally said, perhaps a second too late, “I found a passageway behind a portrait – “

“Which portrait?” Dumbledore urgently insisted.

“I… I can’t remember which one sir,” Harry replied miserably, and it was true, because he could remember a passageway, but not how he come to be there. Pansy and Theo had been there though, he was sure of it.

“You cannot remember which portrait, or passageway you took?” Dumbledore replied with no small measure of scepticism.

“I followed it – because I was told Slytherin House had a lot of secret rooms, sir, ask Prefect Selwyn. Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson can vouch for me! I’ve only been gone a few minutes! I came out in that classroom, and I found the room like that!”

“But you maintain you did not smash the mirror?” Professor Dumbledore said.

“I didn’t do it,” Harry insisted urgently.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, “I have alarms placed on empty classrooms, to let me know if perhaps a student is lost or has hidden themselves away. That alarm triggered, and Professor McGonagall was dispatched to see who was out of bed after curfew. It is perhaps a ten minute walk between my office and that classroom. Are you stating that another student came across the mirror, smashed it, and left and then you happened to come across the aftermath within a ten minute span?”

“I – I thought maybe Peeves had been through,” Harry replied, as his heart started racing, “I don’t know what happened Professor – I only know that I didn’t smash the mirror.”

“You understand how that story sounds?” Professor Dumbledore said, “It is an unlikely chain of events.”

“It is the truth.”

Professor Dumbledore considered this but didn’t look convinced in the slightest.

“Perhaps,” Professor Dumbledore replied, “Perhaps an older student told you where you may find the mirror, perhaps you thought yourself a bright wizard and decided to look. Perhaps you were frustrated that you couldn’t gain its secrets. Harry, did you find anything else in that classroom that you decided to keep?”

There was a subtle undertone here. An accusation, Harry felt outraged and foolish, and he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes from the sheer injustice of it.

“I haven’t taken anything,” Harry said, “I didn’t do anything but look around Slytherin House – how was I supposed to know that I’d end up in a classroom? The Gryffindor common room is behind a portrait – the Slytherin common room is behind a wall – it’s not like anyone ever said that we shouldn’t look around our Houses!”

Snape gave a moment of pause, eyes narrowing dangerously. He considered the words for a second, and then turned back to Professor Dumbledore.

“I think it best that we talk while the boy busies himself in your waiting room,” Professor Snape announced, “Fleamont – the door on the left.  Go and sit down, don’t touch anything, and do us a favour and don’t jump out the window. You’ll find that it is quite high, and if you die, I’ll open my tomes on necromancy to bring you back to answer for this? Did you hear me boy?”

“Yes sir,” Harry replied quickly, feeling the primordial terror of Snape inherent in all Hogwarts students rise in his chest, and dove for the waiting room Snape spoke of. It was a rather plush room where Headmistress McGonagall had diverted Ministry buffoons who were always so excited to implement changes they’d never experience. It felt wrong though, that he wouldn’t be a party to a conversation about him.

They’d thrown Sirius in Azkaban with less evidence.

Harry closed the door behind him – or more precisely, the compulsion charm on the doorway to close the door behind him did the trick. His heart was beating a million miles an hour in his chest, as Harry took stock of the situation – being blamed for the destruction of a one of a kind infinitely powerful magical artefact, check. Being suspected of stealing the philosopher’s stone – check. Being suspected of being an accomplice of Voldemort – possibly. Being suspected of opening the Chamber of Secrets – well, it was always Harry, wasn’t it? The way that Dumbledore kept levelling suspicious glances at him probably meant that he’d be blamed for the sky being blue if Dumbledore got his way.

Harry let himself take just a second, to take a deep breath in to slow his rapidly accelerating heartrate and bring his Auror training to the front. First, he needed to know what they were thinking to figure out whether there was a one way trip to Azkaban on the books, or if he was going to be believed. Too high or not, Harry suspected a jump from the tower might not be the way to rid yourself of a master of death. He could start all over again perhaps, get it right this time around, use this reality as a training run.

But – as soon as Harry thought it, he felt a little guilty. There were real eleven year olds inside this castle, one who had been scarred as a baby, and told he was solely personally responsible for ending Voldemort’s very existence. Anthony Goldstein and Hermione Granger didn’t deserve this. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson didn’t deserve this. Millicent Bulstrode and Daphne Greengrass, and Theodore Nott and even this self-aggrandised Draco Malfoy didn’t deserve that. Because they were eleven year old children. The future children didn’t deserve that either – after the battle of Hogwarts there had been dozens of Slytherin students left orphaned, left alone, left walking past the bodies of their Death Eater parents when being evacuated from Hogwarts. They didn’t deserve that either.

It was with this certainty that Harry let out a deep sigh and glanced around the room. Solitary amongst a sea of plush seats and sofas was an awkwardly uncomfortable looking wooden chair painted in a garish magenta with lime green fur fabric covering the cushion.  Dumbledore always had a method of spying on those around him, and this had been a particular one that Headmistress McGonagall had shown him. Just the right seat, in just the right place, so when someone pressed their arms against the arms of the chair, you could listen to what was being spoken. It worked both ways though – the office would hear any noise that Harry made, so Harry tried to slow his breathing to shallow inhales. He down with nary a trace of guilt in this matter, and the second his arms hit the armrest, he could hear the voices of his Professors become clearer.

“-tried to steal the stone and when he was unable to retrieve it, he smashed the mirror out of anger,” Harry could hear Professor Dumbledore say, “Out past curfew, caught at the scene of the crime. He is back Severus, and we have caught an agent of His.”

“Would you say such a thing if he were not a Slytherin?” Snape countered, “He is guilty of your bias, Albus. Guilty of being ambitious, guilty of being cunning, guilty of being intelligent, guilty of being resourceful.”

“Is this not a story we have heard before?” Dumbledore countered, “A boy, placed in Slytherin. From obscurity, vastly intelligent, suffering in his past. Ambitious, cunning, resourceful, hungry for power– and now, you yourself said a basilisk roams these halls – the rumoured familiar of Salazar Slytherin himself. The wheel of history turns, Severus.”

“You would condemn desiring power,” Snape sneered, “I find that people who have been deprived of power seek power over their lives. My House does not make evil, Albus. My House collects those seek refuge from it, and at the end of every year we send them back. Cunning is a trait borne from need. He is ambitious – yes – a hardworker, cunning – intelligent in not just academia, but across his life. You cannot ignore that the story of his life is simply not adding up – that is not a sign of guilt, it is a sign of concern.”

Harry stiffened in his chair.

“It is my gravest concern,” Dumbledore responded wearily, “I cannot reconcile how young Mister Fleamont came to be.”

“He is no Riddle,” Snape replied coolly, “I know my own students.”

“He is no Fleamont,” Dumbledore countered, “I have a suspicion of him, yes. His mother, Evangeline Carrigan, a covert supporter of Voldemort, rumoured to speak parseltongue like her mother. A different branch of Slytherins lineage, but a lineage, nevertheless. It has proven a powerful call for others like him, I would be foolhardy to discount it. And now the chamber of secrets may have been opened. His father, Henry Fleamont, a known anti-Voldemort figure during the war. I saw his body with my own eyes, Severus, I know what became of him. He mentioned no child to any of us. No secret relationship.”

“If Carrigan turned away from Voldemort, where better than to hide under a Fidellius,” Snape retorted, “What were her options? To beg for sanctuary? Where? The Order was a secret. The ministry would have imprisoned her – and spies within the Ministry would have silenced her. The world does not need to consult Albus Dumbledore on every decision.”

“Then she is alive,” Dumbledore retorted, “And yet she has made no contact. Our owls cannot find her, she has not contacted the school, Harry has received no mail from family, and was absent from the Hogwarts express – someone must have brought him straight to the steps of Hogwarts. She has no blood relatives that have remained in contact with her – yet Harry has stated his parents were handfastened. A squib cannot maintain a fidellius, cannot be the sole secret keeper. Who then, has cared for him?”

“That,” Snape replied sharply, “Is my concern. I will reveal my decisions on this matter when I have gathered evidence. Fleamont has not been raised to blindly follow the Dark Lord. He is perhaps a little too enabling of his peers, but he also has stuck to his own principles. He is not even slightly near my list of troubling students. He has shown that he cares for those he does not even know – silencing that wretched Weasley woman’s howler to her son. He did save the life of Harry Potter in his first week, did he not? Where are his accolades for that?”

“Riddle was never seen as a troubling student, on the contrary, did we not give him honours for exemplary service to the school?” Dumbledore replied, “And the price that we have paid for that.”

“One boy’s choices are not another’s destiny,” McGonagall said quietly, Harry had to stain his ears to hear, “You cannot evidence this issue with conjecture.”

Harry could imagine Albus’ shock at his dissent, “Minerva!”

“I know what I saw, Albus Dumbledore,” McGonagall replied tersely, “I did not see You-Know-Know standing over that boy and directing his hand. I will not use invented and unsubstantiated theories when determining what he may or MAY NOT have done.”

Albus sighed, “Minerva- “

“The issue at hand, Albus,” Minerva countered, “Is whether Mister Fleamont broke a mirror. Whether he knew what the object was, whether he knows more than he has told us. I do know that he is kind, that he is decent, that he had made friends in Gryffindor and Slytherin, that he has taken to visiting Miss Granger in the hospital wing. Severus is correct – I shouldn’t have presumed guilt.”

“And if he smashed the mirror because he looked into it, and saw things he could never have, Albus?” Snape queried, “Not a tyrant, as you may believe. But a boy who clearly comes from a household without means, one who has no family who cares to write to him, one who would prefer to stay at a school infested with a basilisk, rather than return home to safety. I have seen his old robes. I have seen his too-large shoes. I have seen his too large sweater, threadbare and patched. I have seen the way he shivered until his friends provided him with a scarf. I have seen his over-eagerness to please, and desperation for approval, his unnatural perception for a child, I have seen the way he freezes when asked of his guardians.”

Harry could hear Dumbledore sigh.

“We are digressing,” McGonagall said, and then there was a long silence before, “Severus will continue to monitor Mister Fleamont, as agreed. The issue is that we found him in a room, triggered by an alarm, surrounded by sharps of broken mirror, with one held in his hand, and now we must determine whether he is telling the truth, or if he is lying to us.”

“Perhaps the stone is still recoverable?” Dumbledore mused, “We might ask young Harry what he saw in the mirror.”

“He claims there is a passageway between Slytherin House and the classroom,” Minerva said, “Severus do you know of it?”

“I do not,” Snape replied a little sharply, “Though I do not waste my time dilly-dallying about the students, looking for phantasmal buried treasures. I will speak to my prefects at once.”

Harry could hear the rush of a floo system, and his eyebrows rose as he tried to interpret it. Had Snape left for Slytherin House, or was he firecalling Benedict or Gervaise in the common room? Snape was gone, that much was certain, but McGonagall and Dumbledore continued.

“And if the boy was telling the truth?” McGonagall finally said, after a long silence, “Who could have done such a thing, entering a classroom without triggering an alarm? For what purpose?”

“Then my fears are correct,” Dumbledore wearily said, “I have seen a change in my students. Heard the same dangerous rhetoric starting up once again. Voldemort did not die that night, Minerva, and he has returned. And now, we may have lost the philosophers stone to Voldemort or his influence.”

“The Mirror is on loan from the Ministry,” McGonagall reminded him, and Harry could vividly imagine how pursed her lips would be, “When will we inform them?”

A longer silence, one where Albus would be running his hands over his face with the sheer weight of all the responsibilities he didn’t want to fulfil.

“I will personally see to it that repairs are first attempted,” Dumbledore congenially replied, “To avoid any potential unpleasantness of involving the Ministry so prematurely. I’m sure Cornelius has much better things to do, than be forced to stare into a broken mirror.”

“Hmm,” McGonagall responded, “And if it cannot be repaired? The ministry will want a name.”

“Then, as Mister Fleamont can attest, it was our resident poltergeist who damaged the mirror in a fit of chaotic mischief,” Dumbledore responded, “I’m sure Cornelius remembers his many encounters with Peeves quite well.”

McGonagall let out a sigh of relief, and then audibly startled as a high pitched alarm sounded. McGonagall and Dumbledore continued to talk, although Harry couldn’t make out the words. When the alarm was finally silenced, Harry was surprised to hear Snape’s voice.

“Miss Fawley has confirmed that Mister Fleamont was being truthful about the existence of a passageway,” Snape drawled, with an undertone of vindication, “Mister Selwyn confirmed that witnesses place Mister Fleamont in the Slytherin common room three minutes after the alarm had sounded. He was making quite a scene with his fellow students. Miss Parkinson and Mister Nott have confirmed that he entered the passageway only a very short time ago – neither followed him because they wished to retire to bed early. It takes two minutes to walk from the common room, up the stairs and through the passageway. He did not trip the alarm.”

There was a long silence.

“The door was still locked when I arrived, Albus,” McGonagall confirmed, “And Mister Fleamont has not disclosure if he met another student along the passageway – although I cannot imagine a reason why he would hide such a fact. He may still have broken the mirror.”

“Yet in the face of any real evidence, Minerva,” Snape’s drawl grew smug, “He is my student to punish and reward at leisure.”

“Severus- “

“Oh, I have no such illusions that he is not up to something,” Snape replied, “He is a snot nosed brat like the rest of the first year students. They are all struck with illusions of grandeur, no matter how foolish and misplaced. Mister Malfoy desires fame, Miss Greengrass desires worship, Mister Zabini will not be satisfied until he is powerful beyond all measure, Mister Nott wishes for security backed by skill with far more dangerous magics than he should involve himself with. Mister Fleamont will reveal his driving motivation in due course.”

“It is a dangerous web you weave, Severus, one that will tear if you are wrong,” Professor Dumbledore replied, “Fetch Mister Fleamont, if you will.”

Harry scrambled to stand awkwardly near the door when Professor Snape pulled it open and gave a jerky head motion to indicate he must follow. He tried to look as casual as possible, but the distinctly unimpressed look that Snape shot him quickly proved to kill that sense of success.

“Mister Fleamont, Harry,” Dumbledore said to him seriously, “You still maintain that you did not break the glass?”

“I do.”

“And you saw no one on your transit from your common room to the classroom?”

“No, I didn’t.” At least he didn’t think he had.

“And what did you see in the mirror?” Dumbledore leant forward.

Harry squared his shoulders, but tried to look surprised, “My reflection – sir?”

Dumbledore continued to stare at him with suspicious eyes, but eventually let out a sigh.

“I have no evidence to suggest that you shattered that mirror,” Dumbledore admitted, “On the contrary, I have evidence to prove your innocence. And I will not place the blame on an innocent party. Perhaps you should reconsider your judgement, when climbing through unfamiliar hallways, but I will ask that you return with Professor Snape to your common room, and do not leave your dormitory through any more unfamiliar passageways, do we agree?”

“Yes sir,” Harry replied, starting to relax, “I apologise for causing any disruption – sir.”

“Very good.”

Harry turned to Snape, only to see a look of utter annoyance. Still Harry followed the Professor when the Head of Slytherin lead him back to the common room with no idle chatter. Harry couldn’t help but see the Potions Professor as a tightly coiled snake, ready to pounce if Harry ran, ready to bite if he was provoked in anyway.

The hallways were empty, being past curfew, but Harry was treated to the disapproving stares of half the ghosts of Hogwarts who had taken to being lookouts for the students and staff. Harry was tempted to mention that even ghosts could be petrified by the basilisk but couldn’t figure out a non-suspicious way of bringing it up, when he didn’t even know how the Hogwarts staff had de-petrified Sir Nick the last time around. It wasn’t exactly like you could easily get a ghost to ingest the physical Mandrake potion that was being made.

It wasn’t until the two were safely back in the common room when Snape paused Harry with a sudden arm that shot out from Snape’s side to bar Harry’s movements.

“Ten points from Slytherin,” Snape hissed, “For a lack of self-awareness, a lack of self-preservation, a lack of sense, and a lack of initiative. You will not be making any further treks through passageways; do you hear me Fleamont? You are much smarter than this – and I do not think I need to explain to you how foolish it is to incriminate yourself by touching the evidence. You will not cause any further incidents this year, do you understand me? You will always be near at least three witnesses, preferably including a prefect or Professor. If I catch you alone, or with any less, I will take points for the sheer idiocy you have demonstrated and assign so many detentions that you will not be able to breathe without a teacher present. Is that clear?”

Harry swallowed down a lump that was forming in his throat, “Yes Professor.”

The year continued to go on after this, Harry locked under so many eyes that his weeks became homework, classes and being in the common room in perfect sight of Benedict or Gervaise. After that disastrous attempt at getting his hands on a horcrux – another attempt would have to wait until the Christmas holidays – Harry had escaped up into his dorm, ignored all his roommates and pulled the curtains tight.

He’d cast a Lumos to inspect his hand; a long cut still weeping blood although finally clotting. Harry grimaced as he looked at it and had to wrack his brain to get the proper spells to heal the slice. It was in this stage that he pulled a tiny pebble of mirror, and then a longer shard of mirror from deep within his hand. It had been deep, and Harry bit his lip so hard it bled as badly as his hand when it was finally pulled out. The agitated cut spat out blood so fast that Harry had to fire off a series of spells – but even so the house elves were going to have a field day with the bloodstains on his bedsheets. It was a cut so bad that it was near criminal the Professors hadn’t noticed and sent him off to the infirmary, and perhaps only his too-long sleeves had stood between him and a complete check-up by Madam Pomphrey, considering his complete lack of medical records.

Once healed to the degree that his hand only yielded an ugly pink scar, Harry wiped the larger mirror shard on the bedsheet for lack of a better way to clean it without harming the magic. The shard though small, a triangular wedge perhaps the size of a teaspoon, was big enough that when Harry investigated it, he could see adult Ron and Hermione waving back at him. Harry froze at this and didn’t sleep a wink until the shards was hidden inside his trunk for a time when he was less watched.

It was a long wait.

There wasn’t a single moment Harry could find to escape on his own, not under the lockdown that Snape had decided to implement on the entirety of Slytherin House. Curfew was set straight after classes had finished for the day, or after dinner, whichever was latest. Harry always seemed to be within the eyes sight of a Professor, Prefect, Head Student or at least five other Slytherin students. The whole situation wreaked of Snape’s influence, and Harry had had quite enough of Cassius Warrington, Terence Higgs and Adrian Pucey, despite being the best of the upper year Slytherins.

Weekends were limited to Slytherin House, and Harry was feeling much less innocent as under House-arrest. It wasn’t just himself however, Slytherin House was muttering about unfair scrutiny, and Draco had taken to sending weekly letters to his father, which ended with ‘From your loving son, Draco Malfoy, in the Slytherin Wing of New-Azkaban’ written with such petulance that even Blaise thought it was funny.

Around mid-December Ron Weasley had figured out that Draco Malfoy, specifically, was carrying a shrunken rooster, when Professor Snape announced that all poultry had to be removed and placed outside the classroom to avoid spoiling their daily potion assignment. Draco’s eyes were in narrowed slits as he had to cast a finite incantatem on the rooster and then hold it in his arms while he took it outside. Ron continued to cluck like a chicken until well after Snape had docked him twenty whole points for the cheek of it.

The dungeon was so cold by this time of the year, that their breaths formed misty clouds, and students had resorted to huddling over their hot cauldrons. Draco’s mood seemed to get worse and worse, because while winter was his favourite season, huddling over a cauldron lead to potion vapours clinging to skin and clothing and leaving oily residue. Draco was then already in a bad mood when ten minutes later, Ron’s potion exploded and the read headed boy started to painfully sprout scarlet feathers from his arms.

Draco was looking incredibly smug, with an alibi to boot.

“I do feel sorry,” Draco said, once the class was let out, “For all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts over the Christmas break, because they’re not wanted at home.”

It was clearly directed at Ron, whose face was growing redder by the second.

“Imagine,” Draco said loudly, “Imagine your parents going to Romania to avoid seeing their own misshapen children.”

Harry shot him an annoyed look.

“So says the Slytherin who needs a comfort rooster,” Ron shot back, and seemed surprised by his own words, “Did you leave your baby blankey at home with mummy and daddy?”

Draco scowled viscously, “Three things you just mentioned are things that you can’t afford: a house, a rooster, a blanket. Possibly also parents. They certainly can’t afford their brood of disappointments.”

To Ron’s credit, he didn’t respond to Draco’s taunts, if only because Harry Potter and Dean Thomas pulled him away. This lasted only a few seconds though, because the whole class immediately ran into a giant fir tree blocking the path.

“Hey Hagrid, do you need any help?” Ron offered, calming down much quicker than Harry had expected.

“Nah, I’m alright, thanks Ron”

“Would you just MOVE out of the way,” Draco drawled coldly, “Or are you trying to earn your family some money Weasley? I’m sure they’ll be happy when you rent a blanket to share.”

No matter what Harry tried to do, there didn’t seem to be anything curb the hostility blooming between Draco and Ron. No matter what Harry said, no matter how often he intervened – or didn’t intervene – it was flaring up so often that teachers were starting to magically hover around them. It was getting so bad that towards the end of the term, Harry was desperately trying to sit with Pansy and Millicent, and sometimes Blaise and Theo – who all had a touch more sense in their heads. Unfortunately, Potions had set partners and Draco had staked him out early.

“Draco,” Harry hissed at Draco with a little more venom than he intended.

Ron drove at Draco, balling his fists into Draco’s robes and hoisting him up onto his tiptoes.

“WEASLEY” Snape bellowed from down the hall. Harry pinched the bridge between his eyes as Snape stormed down the hallway until he was looming over Ron. Ron let go of the front of Draco’s robes.

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” Hagrid stubbornly said, between the branches of the fir, “The blond boy was provoking him.”

Draco looked highly offended at that moniker.

“Be that as it may,” Snape replied silkily, “The escalation of a childish verbal spat into a physical brawl is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid. Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley.”

Ron looked like something sharp was on the tip of his tongue.

“Be grateful it isn’t more,” Snape said, looking down past his nose at the first years, “Now move along, all of you.”

Crabbe and Goyle pushed past the tree, scattering needles everywhere. Draco hoisted an arm around Harry and Theo, pulling them along with him, while Blaise and Pansy brought up the rear; the former having been saddled with the task of carrying the rooster since no one knew how to shrink it again.

“I’ll get him,” Harry could hear Ron threatening behind him, “One of these days, I’ll get him…”

“Draco,” Harry started when they were just out of hearing range, “You need to stop provoking Ron.”

Draco boggled at him, “Me? Provoking him? Are you deaf? Did you hear the noises he was making at me during class?”

“Let Snape deal with it,” Harry replied firmly, “I think you need to just need to stop and be the bigger person.”

“Do you?” Draco responded with a slight sneer, “Absolute waste of magic they are.”

Harry looked at Blaise in exasperation, surprisingly it was actually Pansy who spoke.

“Harry doesn’t want you to waste all our hard earned house points because you’re trying to one-up a Weasley,” Pansy bluntly replied, which was absolutely not what Harry was trying to convey, “It’s terribly gauche.”

“Besides, are you aware how much of an absolute pleb you look when you’re getting into some kind of common argument with a Gryffindor. You certainly don’t see me getting into verbal brawls in the hallway,” Theo replied, “Mate, you need to get a better hobby.”

Draco hissed, “I’ll do whatever it is that I please, Nott – and if you think you can just tell me what to do, I’ll be writing to my father to explain the kind of rabble you’re associating with – you think I don’t know you’ve been spending your free time with a Hufflepuff.”

That was news to Harry.

“You leave Rozalija out of this,” Theo snapped back, “I’ll be sure to write to my father about how the standards for Malfoy heirs have fallen so low to allow you to be produced, of all people.”

“Are you jealous? Is that it?” Pansy added, with a crook to her smile.

“Of a Weasley,” Draco had never looked so surprised, “Of their red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford? What on earth do they have that would I be jealous of?”

“Is that classism or general temerity?” Pansy replied testily, eyeing Harry.

“It’s worth,” Draco retorted, “You can’t honestly say that he’s not the biggest waste of magic since, well, the last squib was born.”

Harry saw red.

“That is the single stupidest thing I have ever heard you say, Draco Malfoy, and I listen to a lot of dumb things that come from your mouth,” Harry replied back, with a slight shake to his frame, “Poverty doesn’t make someone a bad person. It just makes them poor. How are you so threatened by the existence of poor people that you feel like you have to just insult him constantly over it. It’s pathetic.”

Ron was the eleven year old who put his life on the line for a checkmate, trying to stop the philosopher’s stone from being used for an evil he’d only heard about. Ron had been the thirteen year old who had stood on a broken leg as a human shield to try and buy his friends more time, when he thought Sirius Black was the merciless Death Eater who had helped to kill Harry’s parents.  Ron was the sixteen year old who stormed the Ministry, and the seventeen and eighteen year old who became a soldier to defend the school twice over.

Ronald Weasley was the adult who left the Aurors to work alongside George at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes because his brother needed him, and to ensure that his wife could have the best possible position from which to launch an incredible political career. Ronald Weasley didn’t care if he was the person to cut the ribbon at the end of the day, he just wanted to help lay the stones – and sometimes yes, he struggled with the pressure of feeling so normal and overlooked, could be needlessly and thoughtlessly hurtful at points – but he was capable or growing and learning and empathetic to a fault.

‘He’s not my Draco Malfoy’ Harry tried to remind himself – and couldn’t figure out if that made things worse or better. His Draco Malfoy, at least, the one from his world, had been an absolute parochial bigot. Draco Malfoy had spent his entire fifth year viciously bullying the students of Hogwarts, standing by and not doing anything while Umbridge had attempted to cast an unforgiveable curse. Sixth year, he’d cast his first unforgivable, nearly murdered three people, and become a Death Eater. Seventh year had seen Draco hiding from Voldemort as much as possible, being complacent in the hunting of ‘mudbloods’ and then ran away from the battle as soon as he was able.

It had only been Draco Malfoy with a tiny child in arm that had extended an olive branch later in life.

‘Cowardice isn’t a moral failing’ Draco had said, snuggling a newborn Scorpius into the crook of his arm, ‘Fear isn’t a moral failing, and when we say it is, we devalue fear. We call people cowards when we want to show our contempt. We’ve been taught to think that all cowards are guilty of other sins – vindictiveness, cruelty, conspiracy – when all coward are is fearful.’

‘You took the easy path’ Harry stubbornly replied, ‘The harder path was standing up against injustice.’

‘We all take the easy, fearful path sometimes. The difference is whether the consequences can be dire, or they can be negligible,’ Draco paused, ‘Death Eaters had a version of fustuarium – a old Roman practice where a soldier was cudgelled to death. Voldemort was fond of Grindelwald’s old saying – one coward makes ten. Except if you were a coward, he thought your whole family was. He’d kill them all. ‘

‘Your father made that choice. You chose to be a Death Eater,’ Harry had replied, ‘You made that choice’.

‘I’m not saying that cowardice is good, but it’s normal and understandable,’ Draco responded, ‘What’s the difference between cowardice and justified fear? How many children died at the Battle of Hogwarts, fearing the shame of cowardice? How many died for glory? The Gryffindor gold is looking more like fool’s gold when you finish counting the bodies, doesn’t it?’

Harry had bitten his lip hard.

‘Yesterday Granger stood in a room full of pompous wizards and said that a refusal to fight was neither spineless nor craven, but prudent, even courageous in the right circumstances, and she said that she thinks we all need a coward in the room when we think of war,’ Draco mused, ‘And she said such because the muggles might be heading for another war and the Muggle Prime Minister has requested some wizards and witches.’

‘You need to take some responsibility for what you’ve done,’ Harry folded his arms across his chest, ‘There is no justification.’

‘This isn’t a justification,’ Draco had responded with surprise ‘You spoke at my trial, without being asked, and you painted a picture of a boy – a child - who had no choice, and we both know that isn’t true.’

‘No,’ Harry responded with narrowed eyes, ‘You were a bully and a bigot who made the wrong choices, and only started questioning your beliefs when no one gave a shit about you because you’d burned all your bridges. Your redeeming quality is that you weren’t as bad as you could have been which is less of a saving grace than you think. The excuse that you were a child might have worked for an eleven year old finally out from under a parent influence but being sixteen instead of seventeen doesn’t excuse blood purism, vile behaviour and attempted murder.’

Draco nodded, and shifted his son in his arms, ‘Weasley came to visit me.’

That was unexpected.

‘Ron visited you?’ Harry had blinked in surprise.

‘No,’ Draco rolled his eyes, ‘I do keep forgetting how many of them there are. More of a family ecosystem than a family tree. Percy, the Ministry one.”

That had been even more surprising.

‘Why?’

‘We spoke on the subject of redemption,’ Draco replied, and his voice had wavered a little, ‘He said it looked like I needed a conversation from the otherside. He said that redemption was a Sisyphean task. That it wasn’t a single vent that would happen – that redemption is a story in every person’s eyes, and to some I’ve already been redeemed and to some I never would. He said that redemption begins though, when you realise that you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life, and when you own up to what you’ve done, and when you apologise with no caveats and expectations.’

Harry frowned, ‘That sounds like Percy.’

‘I don’t know why he thinks he needs redemption though,’ Draco responded loftily, ‘From what he said, he was in a toxic household – where his own brothers, the twins, sent him dragon dung and stole his property and made him the butt of jokes. When he tried to forge a new relationship with them, he was treated like he wasn’t wanted there. He was at the Battle of Hogwarts and took blame for taking the first opportunity to flee suppression by his own family.’

Harry felt so very uncomfortable, ‘I think – when you’re young – it’s easy to see the roles of villain and victim within a family – but – but then when you get older, it isn’t all that clear anymore. Percy thinks he needed that humility and needed to apologise. Fred – Fred is gone. I don’t think Percy is at that stage in his life where he can accept that Fred also bullied him – all his brothers really. He’s not unloved, but – well, you’ve probably read Penelope Clearwater’s Witch Weekly spread?’

Draco nodded, ‘I heard the Weasley’s might sue for slander?’

Harry shrugged.

‘I don’t want my son to be raised like I was,’ Draco added, after a long moment, ‘And I don’t want my son to be raised like that, if that is what your side offers. I married Astoria because she’s everything I should have been, everything wonderful in this universe, and everything I want my son to be like.’

‘Astoria was one of the Slytherins who stayed behind at the Battle of Hogwarts,’ Harry replied, although both knew it was true, ‘The Daily Prophet seems to think you’ve died. You haven’t exactly been out and about in the past few years. Your parents ran a whole spread on you in Witch Weekly when you were born, according to Luna.’

‘High society bred contempt, which bred all three of the previous Wizarding Wars,’ Draco responded, ‘We call it a war on blood purity, but wasn’t it really a class war? Name me five death eaters who weren’t from old wizarding families with either current great estates or with a history of one that they squandered, and name me five of yours who came from great estates.”

Harry could roughly only think of Neville, Lord of House Longbottom.

‘You’ve got a point,’ Harry admitted, ‘Percy is in a unique situation though.’

‘He won’t tell anyone about how he was smuggling muggleborns and half-bloods out of the country, for one,’ Draco responded casually, ‘Just in case any uncaught Death Eaters or blood purists or Voldemort Supporters murder them before they can be witness at trials. I heard he married the muggle that was helping him forge muggle documents.’

‘Aubrey,’ Harry nodded, ‘She was Percy’s muggle document forger. She’s now an employee of the Ministry, working on trying to locate people who fled into the muggle world, who don’t have any way of knowing the war is over, and Voldemort lost.’

‘Then what exactly, does he need redemption for,’ Draco replied, ‘I’m not seeking redemption for such substantive concepts as my soul. I’m seeking it for my son. If he loves a muggle, or a squib, or half-blood, or a pureblood, I want him to come to that conclusion without every hearing the word ‘mudblood’’

Draco mouthed the last word without sound, while hugging his son a little closer.

‘I often wonder what would have happened if we had become friends,’ Draco concluded, ‘If I would have become brave and been on the other side of a war, if I might have just dragged you down with me.’

“Harry’s not a bad person,” Pansy said, a little hesitantly, “And well, Harry, it’s not that you’re in poverty, but you don’t have as much as we do.”

That was an incredible step, from the Pansy Parkinson who had sneered at Ron for his dress robes in fourth year. Harry sent back a beaming smile.

“Yeah,” Theo said, “Harry’s probably poorer than a Weasley, anyway. Have you seen his robes?”

Pansy shot Theo a sharp look.

 “Do none of you know how to hold a reasonable conversation,” Blaise interjected, and Harry was reminded that he was perhaps from the family with the most healthy family dynamic, black widow mother aside, “Draco, we’re not commenting on you as an individual, we’re commenting on a behaviour that doesn’t seem like it fits the person you want to be. It’s simply unbecoming of a wizard to harass the poor. Harry, we appreciate you as a friend for your personality and not your financial situation – but you will let us know if that changes, won’t you? For the better or worse. I worry sometimes.”

It was remarkably mature, considering Draco had locked Blaise’s cat in the closet all yesterday. Harry still felt like all of them were missing the point completely, except Blaise’s piercing eyes seemed to understand far more than he let on.

Draco looked ready to explode, however, but Pansy took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear until Draco relented.

“Fine,” Draco muttered, “Can we get along to Lunch now? You know Arminius Theobald and Goronwyn Idwal will hog the Beech root Salad and I’m not going to sit next to Millicent if she’s just going to give her cats all the smoked haddock.”

They were very close to the Great Hall when they started to hear the rumblings. It wasn’t out of place – the Great Hall was usually loud and filled with hundreds of conversations all taking place at once, and in one space. But something was wrong about this sort of noise, because when Draco whirled down the hallway, he was stopped in his tracks by a massive crowd blocking his path.

“What on earth is this about?” Draco said, sounding very annoying by a slight inconvenience, “You – move out of the way.”

The crowd didn’t dissipate, it seemed to grow really, as more people came for Lunch and found the Hall blocked. The crowd did move though, and Harry, Blaise and Theo seemed to wiggle their way through to the front.

Something was on the wall outside the Great Hall. Foot-high words that made Harry’s stomach drop anxiously, lit by flaming torches: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.  The words had been written in blood, which dripped down the walls. Lying prone on the ground was an unidentifiable heap of fur and blood. It was too big to be Mrs Norris, and Harry could tell immediately that it was dead.

Harry’s stomach rolled.

“What’s going on here?” A voice called, and Harry watched as Hagrid came towering down the hallway. Hagrid dropped the fir tree against the wall, and students parted around him wordlessly.

Harry could see Hagrid’s exact moment where he processed what he was seeing, because Hagrid’s face went terribly white with shock.

“Fluffy!” Hagrid cried, stricken with grief and shock and horror. He fell to his knees in front of the wall, placing his gigantic hands on the heap.

Harry boggled at the sight as Hagrid started crying, he was weeping with hands on one of the dismembered heads of the Cerberus that should have been guarding the philosopher’s stone. The mirror had been smashed though – and Harry wasn’t sure who still had the stone. Whether Voldemort had claimed it, or even if Voldemort was IN Hogwarts, if Dumbledore had been able to reclaim it, or if the stone was lost forever in the broken mirror.

Harry’s skin crawled as Hagrid’s hands moved the lump, and Harry could start to make out features, like eyes that had been gauged out, lips drooping to revealed cracked and broken teeth. The jagged cuts that had dismembered a Cerberus head, jagged and unsure, with hesitation marks that looked like a dozen severing charms cast in concert, just to break through bone, sinew and flesh. It must have been a bloody, savage butchery to achieve that. There was no possible way that a wizard could have achieved that close-up carnage without soaking themselves in blood. If so, Harry was a little sick at the idea that someone may very well wake up with no memory, soaked in blood – with potential injuries of their own. Fluffy hadn’t been a bad dog by any means, and Harry was feeling mournful that Hagrid was experiencing so much raw grief when harry couldn’t do a thing about it.

“Hagrid!” Dumbledore had appeared on the scene, followed by several other teachers. He swept through the crowd, who had recoiled at the blood. The other teachers did a quick job of ferrying students straight into the Great Hall, rather than lingering outside.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore, “This head is still warm. Let us go now, and we shall see if Fluffy is yet still alive.”

Dumbledore’s words were punctured by Hagrid’s dry racking sobs. Harry could feel his heart breaking in two but felt distinctly helpless. At Dumbledore’s proclamation though, Hagrid stood shakily, shirt stained with blood and gave a shaky nod. Hagrid had aged a thousand years in less than a moment, and kept his eyes pointed straight at the ground as he followed Professor Dumbledore down the hallway. As they left, he could see Dumbledore flick a subtle head motion at Professor McGonagall who was looking pale and shaky herself. The witch was as strong as any goblin forged blade though, and she took no pause in her duty.

She strode forward quickly filling the gap left by Dumbledore. She jabbed her wand under her chin, casting a wordless sonorous and spoke loudly.

“Can anyone tell me what happened here?” She scanned over the crowd, with her eye lingering a little too long on te group of first year Slytherins at the front, “Who was here first?”

Blaise shifted, standing up straighter, rooster in arm, and bumped into Harry with his shoulder. Before Blaise, or Harry could respond to the subtle and unspoken accusation, a voice from behind them spoke out.

“We were Professor,” Percy Weasley stepped forward, “I was walking with Robert Hilliard, escorting the combined fifth year Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Charms class. They’re inside the Hall now, getting everyone else inside proved less successful.”

McGonagall nodded seriously, letting the tension seep from her shoulders.

“Everyone, into the Hall now!” She called, “Listen to your Prefects!”

That included Harry, unfortunately, and they were shuffled off inside the Hall for Lunch before he had a chance to inspect the writing. The letters had burned themselves deep inside his retina though, even as he was dragged by Theo. Something was much, much worse to yield this result, this time around. Mrs Norris hadn’t been petrified; a Cerberus had been beheaded.

This meant, at least, that whoever had gone after the stone had to be an upperclassman. The sheer magic and power that had to go into that many strong severing charms were something he could only imagine a sixth or seventh year being able to do. It was magically exhausting to concentrate so much effort on magical creatures, which had their own magical protections which made magic much weaker against them. A Cerberus especially was a very thick skinned magical creature, which often needed specialist magics to tame and control, since their fur repealed magical attacks.

With the proverbial cat out of the bag, rumours of the fabled Chamber of Secrets were being traded over pumpkin juice by dinner. Harry was thoroughly entertained, because while he’d heard the sanctioned version of the tale, he hadn’t heard the other versions which suggested that Slytherin left after a lover’s quarrel with Rowena, Helga or Godric (Harry heard all versions within ten minutes, including one story that suggested all three). Robert Hilliard, the surviving Ravenclaw Prefect now that Penelope Clearwater was in the Hospital Wing, seemed to be making it his life’s mission to let every first year know that particular tale. Gabriel Truman, the Hufflepuff Prefect who had been so rude to Harry before arriving at Hogwarts, seemed to be furious over this, and kept shooing him away from the Hufflepuff table. The other Hufflepuff Prefect, who might have been Charlotte Wright, but Harry really couldn’t be sure – was rolling her eyes at the Hufflepuff table and looking a little cross.

Percy Weasley and the other Gryffindor Prefect, who Harry vaguely remembered but certainly couldn’t recall her name, were busy reprimanding some of the first years – including Kellah Morris, and Fay Dunbar from Gryffindor, and Leanne Laughland and Megan Jones from Hufflepuff, who had been running between the tables with loud laughs and shrieks. Ron Weasley was nearby and was slowly growing redder and redder with embarrassment as the other Gryffindors started snickering from the sight.

Draco Malfoy for once, was suspiciously making no bold and ridiculous claims, or comments. Instead, he was curiously asking Miles Bletchley and Graham Montague questions about their version of the chamber of secrets story, which involved a vengeful reincarnated Salazar Slytherin/heir come to slaughter all the Gryffindors because Godric had stolen Helga Hufflepuff’s heart right from under Salazar Slytherin.

“There’s no way of knowing who the heir is,” Draco was grumbling, “Do you understand that we’re all probably related to Salazar Slytherin? All purebloods are related. Heirship is a legal technicality that has to be invoked. Slytherin wasn’t a Lord of anything, and unless he specified an heir to his secret chamber, and that’s been kept alive instead of becoming extinct in an heirship line, there’s no heir.”

“Someone clearly thinks they’re the heir,” Miles defended, “It’s on the bloody wall, mate.”

Filch was scrubbing off the message with Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover later that night, to absolutely no avail. The words were still as crimson bright on the stone as when they’d found them. It seemed awfully cruel to let him keep scrubbing – because Harry could tell by sight that it had some kind of sticking charm over the top of it that looked nastily complicated. Filch was employed by the Squib Employment Act of 1978 though, and the Squib Society, which was some kind of wizarding charity/job provider and pseudo-union rolled into one, was quite strong despite being only being less than a dozen members across the whole of the United Kingdom.

When Harry and his cohort finally retired to Slytherin House, they arrived back to what looked like the start of a slumber party. Lots of witches and wizards had brought out desks and blankets and were looking through books as thick as Harry’s head. It was about the time of year when the more studious of students were starting to worry about O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S, so the sight was becoming a tad more common, but certainly not to this extent.

“Um,” Harry said at the sight, “Did someone set an exam?”

“Nah,” A fourth year Slytherin girl replied, “Slytherin’s chamber of secret has been opened, everyone’s going to think it was us, so we’re going to all sleep down in the common room. Group alibi.”

Draco looked astounded, “No one would dare accuse me. Do you know why my father is?!””

“The chairman, and solicitor on the Board of Governors,” The girl retorted, “Not exactly the king, is he?”

Absolutely flummoxed by that, Draco didn’t have a reply before she’d flounced off to her friends.

“We’ve got a Professor Potter’s foot on the Medieval Assembly of European Wizards to write anyway, Draco,” Blaise replied practically, “Just the right time for a group study session, considering Harry can’t hold his usual one in the library.”

Draco perked up at that, “Harry, you’ll proofread my transfiguration paper, right? It’s due Monday, and you’re really good at referencing.”

“Yeah, sure. What’s it on?”

“The abolition of the ‘Magic for the Undeprivileged and disenfranchised’ exam for magbobs,” Draco sniffed, “I thought the M.U.D test was a great way to help magbobs learn about their culture, and understand how they’d been terribly held hostage by the muggles.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

Draco huffed, “I’m taking the position that History of Magic is a poor method of helping to integrate into wizarding culture, and we really ought to be doing more to help magbobs learn about current wizarding cultures and practices.”

Draco might actually have a point, or at least, one side of a point, but Harry could already tell it would be worded in the exact way to make Professor Potter’s nostrils flare in fury. Draco, despite his flowery talk, has a way with words that meant he always constructed it as badly as possible.

“I’ll read it,” Harry conceded, “But I’m going to use red ink, and when I’m done, you’re going to accept all my criticisms without getting stroppy.”

“I’ll read and review yours,” Blaise told Harry, because Blaise while Harry was good at the arguments, Blaise could spot a grammatical mistake by scent, “Since you reviewed my charms essay last week.”

The common room study session was a practical help to Harry, who hadn’t been able to do anything without a dozen pairs of eyes on him, and a common room in lockdown. Since the next day was Saturday, everyone was looking forward to the idea of a long-night. Unsurprisingly, the entirety of Slytherin House didn’t get that much sleep that night. What was surprising, as that the room was filled with more mugs of hot chocolate and sharing essays to be proofread, than he would have once expected.

The Slytherin Quidditch team were debating tactics over by the window, and from Harry’s spot curled up near the Christmas tree, he could glance out across the room. It would be too easy to see if there were a black diary held in someone’s hand, but there was no guarantee that it was a Slytherin who was in possession. Where exactly had it gone – because Draco Malfoy clearly wasn’t under its influence.

Benedict and Gervaise were in and out all night, having been placed on Prefect Patrol work all night. The Slytherin Head Girl was out and about, and it was only midway through the night when she started toying with the fireplace that Harry realised, she was placing alarms and blocks on the secret passageways from Slytherin House. It was a good idea, but Harry was feeling more ad more like a caged animal as sanctions were being placed on Slytherin House – seemingly more by Slytherins building evidence and alibi’s than by outside forces.

Once the holidays had started, Harry could have cried with relief. He had the whole dorm to himself, and the common room was boiled down to only a handful of students that seemed to find empty dorms more palatable than a sparsely populated common room. It was a little lonely without Hermione and Ron to keep him company – and though he took to visiting Hermione in the hospital wing whenever Gervaise Fawley could be convinced to escort him - it really wasn’t the same thing. The most cheering thing about the Christmas break, was that the air of scrutiny had died down to be replaced with Christmas cheer, and months of good behaviour had seen Snape allowing students to leave Slytherin House and enjoy their days at the library, throwing snowballs and drinking hot chocolate in the kitchens. The roosters had been left behind, this time with Hagrid and Professor Kettleburn rather than letting them muck up Slytherin House.

So, when Harry awoke Christmas morning, it was to an array of Christmas breakfasts in the Slytherin common room that could be speared on a toasting fork - Bread, crumpets, marshmallows and other goodies. Gervaise, quickly becoming one of Harry’s favourite prefects, had put together a House treat before they were all to go to the Great Hall for the traditional Hogwarts breakfast. Under the tree, a gleaming pile of gifts were waiting – and that thought hit Harry a little harder than expected. He wasn’t a child anymore, and Christmas didn’t really hold the same kind of magic and wonder, but this was the first year where there would be nothing waiting for him.

The first time around Hagrid had carved him a little flute that sounded like an owl when you blew it. Hermione had sent him a box of chocolate frogs. Molly Weasley had handknit him a jumper and sent him a box of homemade fudge, even though she hadn’t known him. Dumbledore had gifted him his father’s cloak. Even Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had sent him 50p sellotaped to a note.  Why exactly they had bothered, was something Harry really didn’t understand to this day.

The lack of presents didn’t bother him, it was the realisation that he was completely alone that soured his spirits throughout the day. If something happened to him – the basilisk caught him ad he died down in the Chamber of Secrets – Harry broke off that train of thought and busied himself with toasting a marshmallow over the fire.

“-And that just leaves little Fleamont,” Gervaise called, startling Harry from his thoughts, “Harry – a nice little haul here.”

In her arms were an assortment of gifts, all wrapped in shiny papers and tied with ribbons. Harry blinked back incomprehensively before he startled and realised that they were all intended for him.

Gervaise dropped them by his feet, narrowly missing Bernard who had curled up over his toes. She gave him a cheery grin and then was off to open her own presents on the sofa she had claimed near the tree.

Harry stared at the pile in awe for a few seconds, before tearing into them. The first, a shiny silver package stamped with the wax crest of the Malfoy Family yielded a very expensive looking calligraphy set in a walnut case. There was a sharp looking quill with a metal nib with highly detailed engravings, three different sorts of ink and three sticks of wax in green, silver and black, and a stamp that bore an unfamiliar crest.  When Harry looked closer, he could see a melting spoon for the wax with the same intricate detailing. There was a letter enclosed with the box – ‘Merry Christmas Harry! I had noticed that you lacked a proper calligraphy set to represent the Fleamont family. Mother and I did some research and found the Fleamont crest in her genealogy records. Do send me a letter over the holidays. – Draco’.

Harry felt himself smiling as he recognised this for what it was; a gift to reconnect him to his supposed heritage. It was no surprise that Harry was clearly identifiable as a less wealthy wizard, given the luxury that permeated Slytherin House. Pansy wore earrings of lyngurium and batrachite the size of plums, Draco’s best weekend robe had buttons carved from draconite, Blaise’s trunk was inlayed with mermaid tears, and flaming pearls.

Harry’s robes were patched with magic, not thread and needle, and although it didn’t really bother him in the slightest, more because he was at heart, an adult – it might have bothered him as a child, if his parents hadn’t left a tidy fortune to ensure his Hogwarts stint was as well-funded as possible.

But, when Millicent wore a bracelet, craved from a single piece of baetylus, and Daphne wore tasteful serpentstone studs in her ears since the night she had been sorted into Slytherin – that disparity between fortunes was as plain as could be. He had been the Slytherin who had come to Hogwarts without owning a single pair of pyjamas – and he certainly might again, if he couldn’t figure an income source before he had to buy new clothing. He could already feel a growth spurt coming on. The money he had was about a month’s wages working as an Auror. Somehow that needed to stretch years and years.

A single one of these stones his friends wore could have brought a modest property somewhere in magical Britain, and a single one of these stones in the muggle world could have blown several dozen international wizarding laws irrevocably. Was it any wonder that despite his best efforts, Snape had immediately recognised something in him, that pointed towards a lack of funds? Harry had never been high society, even when he had graduated and started going to the Longbottom Manor parties – although they had been more like house parties than respectable social cotillion in the first year after the war was over, and slowly turned into silent discos before Madam Longbottom broke out the fine china and insisted on a decent debutante ball. After that, the Lovegood-Scamander household had carried on the spirit with garden parties that usually involved one kind of very dangerous magical creature or so.

The packages in Harry’s hand were luxurious.  There were gifts from all his new friends. Pansy sent him a very fine off-white wizarding shirt with a high collar, which Pansy said she had spun herself from stinging nettles. There was delicate embroidery of green and silver around the collar, in shapes of slithering snakes, which Millicent had lent her hand too, since Millicent had left her house in a fury after two days home. Pansy and Millicent sent a co-written letter explaining how Millicent’s homecoming had gone. The package had been wrapped in a silvery and warm fabric, that Harry cheerfully draped around his neck.

Blaise sent him a box of Egyptian wizarding candy, including biscuits stamped with elaborate designs which whirled and changed before his eyes, a very dense halva that muttered compliments to him, and a box of deep fried tulumba which would change flavour every time he bit into it. This was all explained in incredibly neat and precise handwriting, which also detailed how his grandmother and extended family had been doing in Egypt, tending to one of the last temples of Bastet. They were very put out that urban sprawl was starting to envelop the tiny wizarding temples dotted across the country – and even more so that they had to hire an expensive wizarding warding coven to set up barriers to hide them.

Crabbe and Goyle sent him, respectively, a box of chocolate frogs and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and had both included handwriting in shaky letters that seemed a vast improvement from the handwriting he had been reading all year. Both seemed like wizards who would greatly benefit from a tad more nuance in the Hogwarts curriculum to support wizards with dyslexia and other reading troubles. It was hardly a surprise that of all the wizards he knew who were generally considered stupid, they seemed to be in Slytherin. Marcus Flint had repeated a year, because he was genuinely struggling with the academic work, but was proficient practically, and no one had thought to intervene.  Harry was having certainly an interesting time, going through the same situations with a whole different perspective on things.

Theo, on the otherhand, sent a black box that was a little scuffed and banged from the journey. He’d written a note on a torn piece of parchment. Harry opened the box; he’d stared down in utter bafflement. Theo had sent him an old and frankly disturbing looking dagger with snakes engraved in the blade. Theo had helpfully pointed out Harry had chosen to stay at a basilisk infested castle rather than go home to his ‘mother’, so therefore it was up to Theo to ensure Harry’s safety. Apparently sending a friend with safety concerns an antique Goblin-forged seax blade – and Theo helpfully suggested naming it nǣdre-bana which might have meant snake killer, or snake bane, or perhaps snake destroyer – was a sacred Nott tradition, which certainly explained a few things.

Theo had signed off by confirming that even if Dumbledore did own the basilisk, he wouldn’t have to pay damages for killing it, and yes, anyone who could prove they killed a basilisk would get an Order or Merlin – provided they gave the corpse to the Ministry. Theo instead, had insinuated that a corpse might get a higher price on the potions market than at Ministry cost, and might help a wizard buy a decent property and start a tidy fortunate. Theo had further insinuated, that he might know a decent broker based in the old part of Veliko Tarnovo, on Trapezitsa who could get enough chernozem to contain every drop of a basilisk’s blood for market at a reasonable cost.

It was exactly the kind of thing that Harry expected from Theo; frankly a little concerning, but with good intentions at heart.

Harry immediately resolved to tuck it away in his trunk and leave it be, possibly for the rest of his life. Despite this hasty move, Gervaise still gave him a rather unimpressed look when he unsheathed the dagger to glance over it. It was the look of someone that was not looking forward to docking a bunch of points if he was fool enough to leave the dorm with it.

That wasn’t the end of his pile though, because Anthony had sent him a glossy book on spellcrafting, which made Harry grin widely as he flicked through it. Anthony had taken the time to leave helpful comments in the margins and highlight sections that were relevant. Overall, the sheer time Anthony must have spent on it, and the array of gifts across the floor made Harry’s heart do a funny sort of flip. He hadn’t sent anything to any of his friends, and he hoped that didn’t change their friendship once they were back at school after the holidays.

Feeling rather cheerful, Harry shared out some of the chocolate frogs to the room. There were a handful of second years that spoke to him with any level of familiarity. They’d slept in a little later than usual and were looking forward to gorging themselves on syrups and pancakes. They gave him the cards back – ‘it’s only fair’ – and had fun melting the frogs over marshmallows.

Gervaise Fawley was sat on the comfiest chair cross-legged; either revising for her upcoming exams and tests or reading for leisure. She was clearly keeping an eye on everyone though, and her eye especially lingered on Harry. Harry flipped the cards over his fingers casually thoughtfully. The first, Salazar Slytherin. His task this holiday break would have to be killing the basilisk. He’d need to get away, grab the diadem, get into the Chamber of Secrets, kill the basilisk.

The second chocolate frog card, Albus Dumbledore. Second task find all the horcruxes he could reach and destroy them. There were many of them that he’d have to worry about but getting rid of the primary ones in Hogwarts would sooth a lot of his anxiety over the continued life of all the tiny first years currently schooling with hunks of Voldemort’s dismembered soul.

The third chocolate frog card, Nicholas Flamel. Third, track down the philosopher’s stone and then…deal with that situation somehow. Dumbledore had destroyed it in the original timeline, but perhaps it could be returned to the Flamels with due care. Grindelwald hadn’t managed to get his greedy hands on it, and he’d certainly tried in his short-lived wizarding war.

The fourth card, Neville Longbottom. Fourth task, end Voldemort’s miserable pathetic little life before he could destroy any more.

After breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry was hit with the oddest sensation of freedom. There simply weren’t enough Professors and Prefects left to keep an eye on everyone, and either he’d been forgotten in the shuffle from school term to holidays, he had finally no longer required observation, or Dumbledore finally thought him innocent.

But – it was Christmas day, and things could be delayed until Harry didn’t feel so warm, happy and stuffed full of roast meat, potatoes and treacle tart.

Chapter Text

When Harry woke on Boxing Day, it was so early in the morning it was still dark and cold in the dorm. He could hear Blaise’s saltwater waves crashing about on his altar and awoke with a little sea salt on his lips.

Harry let out an enormous yawn, once he’d properly awoken, idling watching the warm steam of his breath linger in the air. The threat of a cutting cold breeze, outside his warm cocoon of blankets, was too severe however, and he buried his face in the soft sheets for much longer than he logically wanted to remain in bed. Winter bedding was one of the luxuries that Harry consistently forgot about and then was pleasantly surprised to find every single year. There was a direct correlation of the time he spent in bed before finally getting out, and the day the house-elves had switched from linen to thick woollen sheets.

Time was of the utmost essence today; however, there was simply far too much to get done. With a long-suffering look on his face, Harry cast wordless tempus and realised that it was only a little past 2:30 in the morning. Harry frowned; he had a very short window of opportunity that wouldn’t allow him to enjoy the simple warmth of a bed the way it should be enjoyed.

The way he had only started to enjoy, after he had left the Dursleys.

There was a slight mist on the ground, seeping up from the earth and into the Slytherin dungeon.  When Harry finally swung his legs off the side of the bed, he could feel the tingling of magic at his ankles.

The reason why Slytherin had chosen to imbed his dorms into the earth, was because the earth was charged with magical power, and sometimes, it seeped from the soil.

Sometimes, other things seeped from the dungeons too.

The idea had started like this, Gervaise Fawley was currently studying astronomy, and was working on a research paper for the ‘Anathematic Areodesy’, a well-respected European astronomy journal focusing on the study of Mars. It meant she had to be granted special dispensation to leave Slytherin House at 11:30 pm to the astronomy tower, and re-enter at 3 am – rooster in her arm. To do this, the heavily constructed wards Snape had constructed, were dropped for just a second, to allow her movement at this exact time. It meant that for a very slight window, Harry had an opportunity to sneak out of Slytherin House with no-one the wiser.

Snape, most, fortunately, was busy making the latest batch of wolfsbane for Professor Lupin-Black. The full moon had come almost a week earlier on the 21st, and with Remus back at his home with Sirius and various children, Snape hadn’t needed to make the previous batch. With the next full moon coming up on Jan 19^th, Snape had started the labour-intensive process of making the perfect Wolfsbane potion. Snape didn’t advertise his comings and goings, but Harry knew roughly enough about the process of making the best possible Wolfsbane potion, to know that brewing under the waning gibbous moon helped to promote better potion absorption into the blood, and if Snape ended the intensive first stages of the potion on the Last quarter of the moon, it would help to protect the veins and skin during the transformation. Snape would be adding the myrrh, pickled in carrow spider ichor sometime around the waxing crescent when the moon sign turned to Pisces.

This meant, Snape was largely nocturnal now, rising late to work early, and coming back to Slytherin House sometime around 7 am every morning to make sure his prefects were awake to wake up Slytherin House. Then Snape disappeared into the dimly lit cave of his Professor den, presumably to rest and regret ever becoming a Professor of children.

Thus, there was a way out of, and back into Slytherin House to prevent anyone from noticing he was gone.

Harry had woken up on time, if not a little earlier from innate anticipation of the early rise. This was exactly what Harry had hoped because it gave him time to dress in his Weasley sweater, don his Slytherin Scarf and emptied out his satchel. Once the satchel was snugly around him, he added his thickest robe on top and laced his shoes a little tighter. He’d organised the rest of the things the night before; the mirror Shards he’d dug out of his hand went into one pocket stuffed next to his wand, and he filled the other with chocolate frogs and a glass phial from his potions kit. The only thing that needed to be done, was something a little more distasteful.

Harry drew his wand, pulled the glass phial from his pocket and took a deep breath in.

“Accio spider!” Harry cast quietly and then held abated breath to see whether this step of the plan would work. Harry waited for a few seconds more than he’d expected – but then, the faint sheen of magic and a spider came flying at his face. Harry only barely managed to capture it with the glass phial before he gained an entirely new problem. Harry thumbed a cork stopper on it, and then glanced through the phial at the tiny money spider. With a spider captured, Harry could let out that breath of air and dropped the phial into his pocket.

Spiders fled from basilisks, and he had seen spiders fleeing Hogwarts in droves one day, and then spinning webs in dark corners the next. It was an untested idea, but perhaps a spider could be used as an unintentional Basilisk compass. If the spider started to flee in one direction, it would help to determine where the basilisk was.

On the bed, Bernard gave a rather annoyed sort of mew and nibbled on his fingers affectionately when he ran a hand over her head. It was a much better present than the one Bernard had given him, which turned out to be a dead mouse beside his bed. Harry vanished the mouse and ignored the petulant sounds Bernard made in protest. Harry shushed the cat, who rolled over and snuggled down in the warm impression in the mattress Harry had left.

With everything set, Harry cast a ‘fyrnema’ at himself to quash any noises made by the swish of his cloak or rub of the fabric. It was an odd spell, a very rare austmenn spell that Harry only knew because Hermione Granger was a fiend when playing hide and seek with Teddy and she didn’t believe in going magic-free. She thought every witch or wizard ought to know how to be completely silent, just in case they needed to hide – which Andromeda Tonks wasn’t very happy about when Teddy’s natural camouflage abilities were combined with accidental magic that made him silent and invisible.

He hadn’t chosen the spell out of pure nostalgia. He’d chosen it because it was a spell that could be used as the centric spell in a complex. A complex formed the basis of any advanced magic; the central knot in a web that wove together different spells.

Spells in a complex needed to be balanced and feed off one another. Neville had once explained it to him like gardening – if you tried to grow cabbage and tomatoes together, it would stunt the growth of the tomatoes and the two would compete for soil nutrients. However, Neville always grew corn, squash and climbing beans together, because they helped to support each other. The corn stalks supported the climbing beans, the beans used the bacteria on their roots to convert nitrogen from the atmosphere into plant food, fertilising the hungry corn and the squash. At the same time, the Squash sprawled over the ground, providing shade, a natural mulch and helped keep the soil cool and full of moisture.

Spells needed to work in concert. Some spells directly worked against each other – like a heating charm and a cooling charm. Though there were many things to consider, the spells would at best cancel each other out, and at worst make a localised tornado. Some spells overlapped in odd ways, either modifying each other or boosting the power of one or the other, like spells to improve eyesight when placed on someone with a general health charm, or a healing charm when placed on someone under a hair preservation charm. Hermione claimed that magical complexes followed ‘genie rules’ – a muggle concept about genies in stories granting wishes in unexpected ways.

‘Fyrnema’ was a useful silencing spell, because it was specifically designed for cloth, and because it could be layered with another spell ‘Endrþaga’. Endrþaga belonged to a very specific category of co-dependency spells, one that literally couldn’t be cast without being placed into a complex. Specifically, the spell was intended to cause ‘silence in return’, so specifically had to be cast after another silencing spell had been cast. The benefits were a stronger spell complex, and protection against the casting of a ‘finite incantatem’ at least once. Redundant spell casting had fallen out of favour sometime around the 14^th century, due to the sheer number of co-dependent spells you needed to know, as well as how spells interacted with each other. Hermione Granger, of course, never truly believed in wizarding norms, and had a near-eidetic memory that perfectly matched the concept of layering spells.

Harry cast the second spell at his feet and could feel a thrum of magic racing through his body and softening the noise into perfect silence. Even though Harry knew what was coming, he still jumped with surprise and discomfort at the complete silence surrounding him like a cloak. The sound of his own heartbeat was gone, and he suddenly felt like a wraith. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Harry could feel something in him that said something was wrong – the unnatural silence, the disappearance of his own internal sounds. It was a general sense of foreboding, that uneasily settled onto his mind.

Harry took a few experimental steps and then stamped his foot as hard as he could. He could feel the vibrations along the floorboard but couldn’t hear a single sound. Harry didn’t know of a spell that would layer with a silence-based complex that would remove vibrations – he suspected the energy from the sound was being converted into the vibrations – but he frowned at the weakness all the same.

The third spell that needed to be cast on himself was a little less easily combinable with the previous two, but one equally needed. Since the previous two spells were austmenn in design, another austmenn spell would work the best in concert, as long as they had the same linguistic origins. A notice-me-not or disillusionment charm were Latin-based and had a different construction and intent that couldn’t properly communicate with austmenn spells.

“Œgishjalmr,” Harry finally settled on, and grit his teeth as a heavy weight settled on his head. The spell was half visualisation, no wand-movement, and would certainly give him a headache by the end of the day. Latin-based spells tended to conceptualise invisibility as a cloak one could don, but the Nordic wizardry had conceptualised invisibility as a helmet.

That was the issue with creating modern spells based on English. English was a hodgepodge of different languages, creating hybrid words and with odd meanings that were largely ignored. Words in English often were made from two compound words from different language families.

Trying to make it work as a functional magical language was difficult, and so most ‘modern’ spells were still largely based in an ancient language where meanings wouldn’t be slippery and change. This was also exactly why Hogwarts didn’t do any sort of Latin or Greek languages – because the clarity of a spell often got worse when you explained the base concepts and their meanings. It was one hundred per cent easier to just show a spell working, and then have students expect that it was a matter of casting a spell to trigger a set effect, rather than a chain of commands to direct energy into a specific reason that was largely mutable.

Fleur, who dabbled in Latin-based spell construction had tried to explain this concept to him with a very determined look on her face.

‘The word ‘regret’,’ Fleur had said, in her lilting French accent, ‘Is made from a Germanic word ‘gráta’ from les Vikings? And then combined with le préfixe français ‘re- ‘, but also made as a word from les anglo-saxon ‘grætan’. One word, three origins you must consider. Very complicated to work with.’

Harry could recall the sense of frustration he’d felt when trying to understand spell construction.

‘Many other Anglais words like this, ‘wicket’ is made of les Vikings word ‘víkja’ meaning, uh, like… to turn? To move, and also le suffixe français "-et" and you wonder why making spell with word that means turn and a suffixe that means…like a diminuative? One that implied a singular, and not a plural? What does that have to do with the current English word ‘wicket’? What does a little turning have to do with a sport arrangement of sticks?” Fleur laughed, “But also, once a wicket said to mean a small door – and now it does not. English changes meaning too quickly to make strong spells and is made of fatras. If I told you to cast wicket as a spell, you first think of the cricket game? But now I have explained, you think of turning, and then after I explain more, you think of a gate. That is why making spells is hard.”

Fleur's multi-lingual proficiency could only serve to make her more dangerous - and she'd grown much stronger when her language proficiency has solidified after marrying Bill and making a new life in the UK.

The fact that there were dozens of modern Latin dialects – such as French, Italian and Spanish, meant that usually more or less classical and vulgar Latin spells usually remained unchanged and were more familiar. Yet, the same spell incantation could produce different effects based on the native-language of a speaker.

Language reflected the culture, and culture language. English, the result of a thousand cultures, hadn’t yet reached an equilibrium. Latin spell culture was robust in Europe, and generally preferable over Germanic based spells, which were being replaced by Latin spellcraft. The stereotype was that Latin-based spells were more civilised, better for precise and specific work, while Germanic spells were raw power and no subtlety. French spellcraft especially was booming due to the extensive work of the Académie française, who moderated spellcraft wording to stick to purely French incantations.

That wasn’t to say that syncretic spells didn’t work, just that you needed a decent working ability in at least two languages to make sure they were balanced, meshed well, and functional. There was already enough research on monolingual spellcraft to help spell crafters create new spells, that the challenge of multiple languages being meshed wasn’t always incredibly appealing – especially when spell crafting was often an unpaid hobby. The words didn’t matter, at the end of the day, just the clarity in concepts and history and intent that words had previously been used for. Magic remembered what had been cast, and slowly shifted the purpose of spells to clearer definitions.

All of this was why wizarding wars tended to be local, rather than international. Magic was wonky enough at the best of times, so when you were facing a wizard who spoke a whole new language, based in traditions and culture you didn’t have a working knowledge of – the magic you cast at each other was never quite compatible and tended towards chaos. You never quite knew how to defend yourself because you rarely understood enough of what their intention was before the spell hit you. You couldn’t counter a spell without knowing exactly what the spell did.

But witches and wizards were often inventors of spells, and London had a booming syncretic culture of spellcraft, with a culture of home-schooled wizards and witches crafting spells from a combination of Aramaic and Phoenician, hieroglyphics being cast wordlessly through visualisation techniques, sign language – itself a syncretic magic technique – casting spells for the first time. The existence of Yiddish, a whole language made from a mix of Semitic and Germanic origins, made for a brilliant magical base to start spell crafting because it delivered some of the most powerful protection curses. This was how Anthony Goldstein’s family had built a legacy on being near undefeatable in protection-based warding. The problem was that the wizarding world tended to create a non-existent divide between ‘proper magic’ and ‘street magic’ – there was a reason why very few non-Latin spells were included in the Hogwarts curriculum. Wizarding culture didn’t tend to change quickly.

The chill of the room was sending goosebumps up Harry’s arms, despite the warm attire. Harry cast his spells carefully, feeling the layers lock over his skin and then he took some experimental steps forwards. The overwhelming silence of the room was maintained, even as he tried to drag his shoes over the floorboards and rub the fabric of his robes together experimentally. The silence persisted, and Harry grinned at the success as an overwhelming wave of elation hit him deeply. After weeks of failure, finally, a plan was coming together.

Harry boldly thumped down the stairs, joyously celebrating the lack of sound – but started to hesitate as he started to feel the incredible vibrations of the stairs through the soles of his shoes. The cold air was retreating rapidly, and he could feel an odd sort of warmth arising from him – it wasn’t from inside of him, but at skin-level. It was expected – magic was energy and energy needed to be expended – apparently, invisibility and silence created vibrations and heat.

The heat was an unexpected benefit in the chill of the winter air.

Still, he couldn’t worry too much about the vibrations aspect of the trade, because he barely had enough time to reach the stone wall and press himself against one of the stone pillars before it opened and Gervaise Fawley came strolling in with an exhausted yawn. Being invisible and soundless would be a taxing complex to maintain – and would drain him completely dry if he left it on too long.

All magic had consequences, at the end of the day.

Before the stone wall could snap shut again, Harry ducked through, and let out a soundless exhale of relief at the dark stone corridors. Harry kept his eyes glued to the ground though and glanced at the spider in the phial curiously. The spider was clearly not happy about his confinement, but not making any clear movements to suggest an imminent basilisk.

With one eye glued to his spider friend, and one on the stone floor, Harry cast the one pure-English spell he did know: “Point me the mirror of Erised.”

Between the compass pointing to the mirror, and the spider in the phial, it was the closest comparison to having the marauder’s map back in his hands again. There was absolutely no telling where the map might have been in this world, though a proper census of the Weasley twins would have to be placed on Harry’s priority list at one point. It was not a perfect system, however, as a point-me spell could only work in a two-dimensional space, which meant Harry still had to double back to go up and down stairs until he finally found a familiar disused classroom sometime around 4:30 am. The classroom was somewhere near the middle courtyard, accessible through the third floor, without any windows to light the room. The door was slightly ajar – as it had been the last time –

Harry glanced down at the money spider inside the glass vial and found no change.

Harry had absolutely no desire to come face to face with Dumbledore again, and so grit his teeth and set to work on a series of Auror protocols to detect magical tripwires. There was a straightforward process to detecting magical triggers, starting with feather-light magical touches to sense ambient magic in the air (Findan zoubar), then followed a logical process to detection spells that could detect the strength of a spell (Zeigôn want) before moving to more complex spells to gauge intent ad purpose (Cognosce muro amet) and finally, if safe, an illumination spell – which literally made a spell complex visually glow to allow an Auror the ability to start breaking apart any leftover magic (illustrant tutela) – with a billion steps in-between based on factors like whether a ward stone was involved, or if a spell complex was tied to a bloodline, heirship line or family manor – or in one memorable case, to the life of a beloved cat a witch had left her whole estate to, over her ungrateful children.

Dumbledore, despite his reputation as an incredible and terrifyingly strong wizard – had only cast a simple detection spell. Perhaps – it was due to this reputation that Dumbledore could afford to use simple spells – Harry realised, as he set about trying to slip past the spell.

More complex spells had more room to wiggle, but something so simple was designed for a single purpose. To detect anything that passed the barrier – presumably so Dumbledore himself could leisurely stroll down to deal with any issue wand-to wand. The one fact Harry needed to know – did the detection spell aim to detect anything that moved through the barrier – meddlesome wizard children, dark spirits, ghosts, moths – did it trigger with the existence of an object - or did it detect an intent?

If it detected anything, how did Dumbledore know when a stray speck of dust blew through the corridor when a poltergeist went wandering or a stray pet? Detection spells that were too sensitive set off alarms every few seconds – the world was much more chaotic and fuller of life than wizards often realised. Wizards rarely considered the movement of flies and worms and stray hair blowing through the breeze, when detecting treasures.

Fortunately, while Harry wasn’t a natural strategist – Ronald Weasley was.

Harry grinned at the sudden memory of his oldest friend and couldn’t help letting out a tiny soundless laugh as he cracked a chocolate frog open and watched as the semi-animated chocolate treat went hopping straight into the unused classroom. Somewhere in Cornwall, in a universe so very far away, he and Ron had cracked open a few hundred chocolate frogs to trip detection spells around a former Death Water stronghold, until the constant alarms inside the manor had angered one of the last Death Eaters to become enraged and fly out of his very safe and well-protected house, wand in hand.

Ron, an often-targeted victim of the Weasley twin’s, understood the proper application of annoyance as its own form of warfare.

With the Auror-branded illuminating spell making the spell complex visible, Harry watched as the frog went straight through the barrier and watched it as it jumped around happily on the stone floors until it disappeared into the darkness.

The frog didn’t trip the alarm.

It wasn’t a spell tripped by movement alone.

Which left either an object which triggers the alarm – a wand maybe? Or something triggered by intent. Detection spells triggered by an object were harder to pin down – you needed a sample to set the sensitivity of the spells – and in the case of wands unless you could provide a significantly wide range of samples, it was likely that the spell would only be tripped by a specific wand.

This was how the trace worked. The detection spells were cast across the UK and tied to significantly magical ground and linked in concert. It was triggered by magic, rather than tied to a wand (as the common misconception held) – areas listed as low-magical such as muggle areas were monitored heavily, and magical detection tagged and catalogued, and compared to the known addresses of witches and wizards. If the records suggested an underaged caster, then their wands were checked against records (and further specific detection spells set-up around repeat offenders).

This method worked to detect accidental magic early and build Ministry records of muggleborn wizardry to held with the maintenance of the statue of secrecy. It was why the Ministry had known so very much about the muggleborns they were hunting – and why they had been so very effective at nearly causing a genocide during Voldemort’s reign.

On the other hand, in magically dense areas, this system could not be effectively used to detect underaged magic. It was why many pureblood and half-blood wizards and witches could practice their craft alone at home during the holidays without any fear. The system was overloaded with signals – itself helping the Ministry to keep a rough census of the wizarding population and their dispersion over the UK.

It was certainly an advantage, but one that wasn’t quite unfair. There was a presumption that their magically capable parents and guardians would provide adequate supervision, as was their right as kin. It was much the same for driver’s licenses in the muggle world, where parents with their own certification in this area could supervise their children who were learning.  It still made Hermione glower to the point she’d been actively trying to create a muggleborn liaison unit to visit wizards and witches in magically low areas without magical guardians, so they could practice at home.

Harry couldn’t help but still smile at the thought of his friends, though far away they were. He felt more than a little warm at the memory but seemed to cool when his smile dropped just a tad, as his heart started to give a funny sort of wobble, and he realised that he missed them both dearly. In the past decade, he’d never spent more than a few months without them close by – and that had been caused by the bravest little house elf Harry had ever known.

His mood slightly souring, Harry found himself frowning deeply as he pushed the feelings away. It would be impossible to tell what Dumbledore had set to be detected – if it was meant to snag a student, or indeed, Voldemort – it was likely a wand. Setting anything to just detect magic, in a magical ancient castle, was foolish.

It might also register intent. Though it had been well over a decade since Harry had personally pulled the Philosopher’s Stone from the mirror, he could recall the strange magic Dumbledore had imbedded into the mirror – the magic had sensed the intent of the viewer. Only those who had no intention of using the stone could pull it free.

Dumbledore was many things, but needlessly inventive he was not. It was likely the same, modified spell had been added to the doorframe. Perhaps, the detection spell could sense someone with an intent to take the stone. Perhaps, that had been why Dumbledore had been so suspicious. So insistent that Harry had tripped the alarm in search of eternal life. Harry frowned a little more deeply but grudgingly had to admit the sheer coincidence taking place.

It was harder to figure out the specific wording that went into an intent-based spell. There was a world of difference between a spell that detecting the desire to possess the stone, and one to steal it – many a spell set to detect theft could be avoided with the sheer belief that you were just ‘borrowing’ it.

Which really meant, there was hardly any way to tell what specifically would set the alarm off without a lot of trial and error. Harry gnawed on his lip and then had a dawning realisation that he was going about this process the wrong way.

It was a simple detection spell. A tripwire designed to send a discrete alarm to Dumbledore – clearly there was no way to tag whoever entered, based on Dumbledore’s suspicious accusations. Which meant, as it was a ten-minute journey from his office to the classroom, Harry could do what he pleased, as long as it was under that ten-minute timeslot.

Suddenly a little brighter, Harry lifted his wand and cast the spell Draco Malfoy had taught him weeks ago “Proeidopoíise me eight” and tucked his wand behind his ear. Suddenly under a time crunch, Harry glanced down at the spider compass, and then walked straight through the doorway, and immediately felt the tingling that always accompanied a basic detection spell.

Harry walked towards the mirror with great caution and was surprised to find the mirror almost entirely repaired. The last time he had been in this room, there had been a million pieces across the floor that he had crushed. There were hairline cracks in the mirror, and a few sections missing, like a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. In the air, tiny grains of glass were floating around, and occasionally slotting back into the tiny cracks in the mirror until the surface was flawless.

Harry watched in fascination, the reflection in the mirror showing familiar scenes of those who he loved, and who loved him in return when he reached his hand out towards the mirror subconsciously-

-And Harry hissed in pain as the scar on his hand exploded open, blood dripping down his hand, and tiny shiny specks burst from within his body and drifted towards the mirror. Harry bit down on his lip until it drew blood and swore as he healed his hand but watched in fascination as the tiny grains of the mirror from his hand slowly filled in the hairline cracks of the mirror until the cracks had disappeared and sealed shut.

Harry stared at it for a long moment, before reaching into his pocket for the smaller shard of the mirror he had dug from his hand. He considered it for a moment and could feel the slightest tugging feeling as something magical tried to free the shard from between his fingers. Harry curiously dropped the pebble of the mirror and watched as its momentum stopped in mid-air, and the shard tucked itself back into its proper place. Many magical artefacts were imbedded with restoration spells which would be activated when broken – to prevent the magic binding an object’s magical use from falling away.

Harry’s eyebrows flew up, and he scored the mirror for the missing pieces.

There was a long thin piece missing in the centre of the mirror, which roughly fit the shape of the shard Harry still had tucked into his robe pocket. The only other piece missing was the size of a small plum a little higher on the mirror. Harry considered it and mimed a punch towards it – it did look roughly like someone a little taller had slammed a fist into the mirror in anger.

Harry grinned. It all rather seemed to him, that no one had managed to take the stone from the mirror after all – but someone had clearly taken a shard of the mirror with them, to continue to try.

They would certainly try again.

Behind his ear, Harry’s wand vibrated, and Harry wasted absolutely no time leaving the scene of the crime and instinctively wandering as far away from the unused classroom as he could. With all hope, Dumbledore would arrive, see a magical chocolate frog jumping around and suspect someone had simply lost a midnight snack – or, that the Weasley twins were up to new japes and jokes.

When Harry was finally far enough way, he cast tempus behind a stone gargoyle and frowned at the time. It was a little past 5, which didn’t leave much time to get things done before someone finally noticed he was gone. The timing was critical – Snape would be back at 7 am sharp – and that did not leave much time for the rest of the steps Harry needed to take today. Using Draco’s handy alarm spell, he set it for 6:30 and returned his wand to behind his ear.

The diadem was the next concern – grab the diadem, figure out how to deal with the Horcrux inside and dodgy-up a parseltongue translator using 3.125% of genuine authentic Voldemort soul, in order to take out a second Voldemort fragment.

The room of requirements would be the first step here.

Harry found his feet pushing him towards the room before he even consciously registered it. Before long, he found himself on the seventh floor in the left corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Harry, still as silent as a mouse, walked past it three times thinking about the dusty treasure trove of all things lost – and slipped in through the door as the room provided.

Room of Hidden Things, a dusty mess of broken and lost things over centuries, was a treasure trove of history. Every single time Harry entered; the room seemed to be just a little different. This time, when Harry entered, it was with a haphazardly swaying pile of broken and damaged chairs and tables, with a few cabinets propped up underneath. Harry almost crashed straight into a gigantic harp – bearing the name ‘Angharad James’ – and how someone has lost an entire hap, Harry couldn’t fathom.  There were also thousands of books covering every surface, in tottering piles and stuffed into bookcases, and chipped bottles of congealed potions dotted around the room. Several rusted swords were weighing down piles of cloaks, and endless cages of twisted metal - including one with a 5 legged skeleton in it – were dangling from hooks and laying on the ground.

Harry stepped over a pile of dragon eggshells, and made his way through the corridor of cauldrons, turning left at a broken banjo being half-hidden by an ancient broom crumbling into dust. Hermione had proven that you couldn’t simply summon things in this room – it was a consequence of a room being unplottable. A summoning spell needed to be able to get a location on an object, and a location on a caster to be able to bring one to the other. It would also be far too convenient to be able to simply order a Voldemort-soul infused tiara when Harry was on a time crunch.

The world, any world, and potentially every world, had but one constant – causing the most misery and inconvenience to him, personally. It was also why Harry was starting to feel just a tad too warm while frolicking in the room of requirements but didn’t dare drop the spells, even hidden away.

This meant that by the time Harry’s wand had started to vibrate from the alarm, he still hadn’t located the damned diadem. It hadn’t been where he’d remembered it being – but being in a completely different universe tended to mean differences. The thought was starting to give Harry a headache, and he swore so foully that even Snape would have washed his mouth clean with soap.

In a particularly foul mood, Harry made his way back down to Slytherin House, hurrying as quickly as he could on tiny eleven-year-old legs.

There was no way to be certain what was the same, and what would be different. Having knowledge of a different set of rules could very well be a hindrance here.

The plan had hinged on a lot of assumptions, namely that all the Horcruxes would be the same between universes. That Tom Riddle’s special brand of egotism and fascism would be the same this time over. Hadn’t it been shown again and again that something was different in this world? Of course, the diadem could still have been in the Room of Requirements – stuffed into a different hidey-hole. It would take hours of digging to be able to find the diadem if the diadem was even in the room at all.

Harry was about halfway back to the dungeons when he felt frantic vibrations in his hand. His eyes snapped down quickly and gawked at the sight of the tiny money spider, desperately crawling as far as it could towards the right. Harry swung the phial around curiously and watched as the spider did everything it could inside its prison to escape. The spider was panicking in an utterly desperate way – throwing itself against the glass in pure instinct, and Harry’s heart did a funny sort of wobble at the sight. Then, with just as much instinct, Harry clamped his eyes shut and backed up until he hit a stone wall.

At first, Harry couldn’t hear anything at all, and then, could hear an odd sort of scraping – scales dragging over metal and stone. A low hiss just too far out of his hearing that was echoing off ancient infrastructure. Harry held his breath and frantically tried to think.

The spells he was using made him invisible and silent but made his vibrations stronger, his heat signature brighter.

For a snake, vibrations and warmth were practically a delicious wafting scent of a meal beckoning them nearer. If he dropped the spells, the snake would have less of an idea where he was – but being visible presented a whole new set of complications.

Snape-shaped complications.

Harry exhaled slowly as his lungs started to burn and felt his skin crawl. The vibrations in his hand grew more and more frantic until the sound faded away and the vibrations ended. Harry waited a long, long time, growing more and more worried about the time that was passing when he finally let out a tiny exhale, and opened his eyes – pointing down at the ground.

When no terrifying murder snake greeted his eye, Harry kept his eyes on the cobblestone and started to slowly jog all the way back to Slytherin House. Harry’s heartbeat was thumping like the wings of a hummingbird, and an unsettling feeling that he was missing something was curling at the edges of his chest.

Harry hardly had time to calm down before Snape came storming from the other end of the hallway.

Harry wrinkled his nose – Snape smelled truly foul – the sulfuric, rotting smell of Black Quicksilver and Aconite being stewed in a cauldron with giant moonwort leaves. Harry had to stop himself from gagging from the sheer smell of it – Snape looked like he was in such a foul mood that he didn’t waste a second slipping through as Snape entered the dungeons and making his way silently up the staircase in a panic.

Snape, as expected was striding up the staircase, on his way to wake up his prefects. Harry held his breath the whole while and tried to keep just enough distance to stay out of Snape’s radar. Snape paused briefly when he arrived at Harry’s door, and the sudden shot of panic that shot through Harry was enough to turn his hair grey. Snape considered it, frowned, and just when Harry was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Snape's hand shot forward, and he opened the door.

For a second, Snape’s eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom – his eyes scanning the room, and finally landing on the bed of Harry Fleamont. Snape’s face went through an impressive array of emotions – ranging from resignation to annoyance, to rage, to an odd pinched expression that grew when Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. Snape waved his wand, and while Harry couldn’t exactly tell why Snape suddenly looked furious, he could tell that it meant nothing good.

Harry hadn’t shut his sleeping canopy before he left, hadn’t thought to draw the curtain, given there was hardly anyone around in the holidays. Snape’s eyes continued to rake over the room – like he was hoping to find a small Slytherin asleep on Draco Malfoy’s ridiculously luxurious bed. When no Harry Fleamont materialised, Snape hissed in absolute fury for a second, annoyance and fury on his face, and then he pivoted and turned on his heels and stormed up the staircase with thuds so loud it would have woken up the whole dorm.

Harry held his breath, waited for just a second and then dove into the dorm as silently as he could. Harry dropped the spells wrapped around his body, fumbled with an armful of PJ’s and dove into the bathroom attached to his room. Wasting no time, he stuck his head under the taps of the bath until his hair was wet, stripping off his clothing even as he could hear the rumblings of Snape’s footsteps come bounding back into the room. He heard the door to his room open once more and inhaled sharply as Snape’s drawling voice spoke loudly.

“Gervaise,” Snape announced sharply, “Have you seen Harry Fleamont this morning? His bed is empty, as you can see.”

“I have not,” Gervaise responded, with a voice so groggy that Harry was certain Snape had dragged her from her bed, “All students were accounted for when I got in at 3 am – and I’ve been asleep for the last 4 hours. No one came to get me. None of the wards were tripped – no one tried to leave.”

Harry could tell that Snape was glowering, despite the door between them, and forced a confused look on his face as he popped the door open.

“Oh!” Harry said, widening his eyes, “Good morning Professor Snape!”

Snape blinked, and stared at Harry for a long moment.

“Good morning Harry,” Gervaise responded, still a little groggy, but with a split-second of smugness, “May I go back to bed, Professor?”

Snape made an odd sound, and Gervaise went back upstairs – Harry hadn’t noticed at first, but her nightgown was long and plain, a chemise that seemed much more practical than the layers of silk ruffling on Draco’s nightgown.

“You were in the bathroom?” Snape responded with a small frown, “Why are you awake at 7 am, Fleamont?”

The lie came easily, “I receive many gifts, yesterday Professor, I want to write proper thank you letters for everyone. I – I thought if I woke up early, I could get a draft at least prepared before breakfast.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed; Harry met his eyes until the bags of exhaustion under Snape’s eyes were as stark as his hair.

“Then perhaps,” Snape said, punctuating his words with sharp letters, “I may be of some assistance – I am available all morning to consult on proper letter etiquette. If you dress in more appropriate clothing, you can meet me in the common room, where I will instruct you on your task.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, Professor,” Harry hastily responded.

“It was not a suggestion,” Snape responded with a bite to his words, “Mister Fleamont.”

Harry slumped his shoulders, “Of course Professor, thank you.”

True to his word, Snape was waiting down in the common room, looking massively sleep-deprived and smelling like a cauldron had exploded magical waste onto his corpse. Harry was dressed in his Weasley sweater, and too-long jeans, and cloak across his shoulders, while Snape held a mug of thick noxious coffee to his lips.

Under Snape’s auspicious stares, Harry carefully used the expensive calligraphy set that Draco had sent him to write thank you letters to Pansy (for the fine wizarding shirt she had spun herself), to Millicent (For the embroidery on the shirt Pansy had sent him), to Blaise (for the box of Egyptian wizarding candy), to both Crabbe and Goyle (for their more conventional British wizarding candy), to Anthony (for the book on spell crafting) and to Theo (for his bafflingly disturbing dagger).

Snape kept a mostly quiet but noticeable presence, offering suggestions for wording and formality of his letters. Harry thanked him for each suggestion, trying to keep Snape from voicing what was clearly on his mind.

Harry carefully folded the letters, wrote the address in his finest writing, and sealed the back in wax with the Fleamont family seal in his calligraphy kit. By the time Harry had completed the letters, Snape was looking noticeably more tired, but he rose to his feet when Gervaise Fawley came down the stairs around 9 am for Boxing day breakfast.

“Miss Fawley,” Snape greeted a little more genteelly than he had earlier, “Mister Fleamont requires a compatriot to ensure he is safely delivered to the owlery – he had a number of important letters to send today. Ensure you take a rooster with you – and make sure he is safely delivered to the Great Hall.”

Gervaise looked at Snape, glanced down at Harry, and then nodded sharply.

“Thank you,” Snape said, in a shocking display of sincerity, “I will be in my office until after lunch, and I am only to be disturbed in the most dire of situations, understood?”

“Yes sir,” Gervaise responded again, “Harry, do you have everything you need?”

As soon as Snape was in his office – door slammed shut with a bang, they were off to the owlery.