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❦ A Letter With No Post Date❦

Mr H Potter

 The Tree Cavity

Micheldever Wood

Winchester, UK

Harry,

I do not know if this letter will come into your possession nor if it will do you any good. Where this letter lay is a puzzle I can only begin to fathom, and I am left in the dark, relying on a curious feeling to leave things as they are. It is a mystery to me whether you currently have access to this space, intend to reclaim it at another time, or it was left for someone else to claim in your place. However, if the day arrives when my letter becomes yours to do with as you wish, I must express what was left unsaid in all the years that I knew you.

I regret it.

I regret my accusations and cold reproach when we first met. It took me much too long to realize that I did not have forever to deliberate over the right way for reconciliation, and I let my hurt and an egregious amount of pride keep me from doing right by you. You are far more special to me than I was ever able to show, and I have long since hoped for your continued happiness.

For so long, you have inspired me through your endeavors to strengthen our world and through the love you hold for your most cherished people. The opportunity to change a life or a world is not one that everyone is afforded and is a claim, more often than not, made a moot point in the face of inability and cowardice. You are neither of these things, and for that, we have all been made Greater alongside you. You have accomplished so much in your life and gained immense knowledge in your time. I doubt there are many material or academic items I could leave behind for you to have that you do not already possess or already know.

Regardless, I leave you with a gift that may be of use—

  A sacrifice in the hope that it finds its way to you and that it may help you find your way back. We do not always know what a sacrifice will yield, but within the unknown, we are granted the gift of life's greatest loves and triumphs.

Hurry home, Harry.

Everyone is waiting.

❦19XX ❦

What is known of the magical-unusual in the isles locked between the Celtic and the North Sea?

Perhaps one has heard of the thick, coiling fog hanging over the eastern Fens that show visions and snatch souls. There are dripping, echoing caves hiding under the Cliffs of Moher that re-shape wanderers into an Other form. On the Black Mountain, there is a grove of massive yew trees that grant one’s dying wish as they bleed into the roots. Or perhaps one has heard whispers in the Scottish Highlands tempting them towards another Time. What has been heard? What is known? What is to be believed in the face of the strange and unusual?

Whether hidden in plain sight in the man-made or buried deep within the natural world, the magical-unusual, as aforementioned, exists in the liminal spaces. It is the uncanny valley of architecture and space where supernatural feats contradict what is believed amongst the Magical. To the witches and wizards of the world—and more so for magical creatures, flora, and fauna— the nature of magic and its existence is held to the same degree of certainty as air. If there is life, there is magic, and it is the very essence of their existence as it moves and beats within and around them. Without it, the heart and world may very well fall still. Regardless, one cannot know and be sure of everything. There are things in the world too old and labyrinthine to attempt to explain with absolutes, existing regardless of understanding.

One such place is Micheldever Wood.

The magical-unusual breathes deep within the ancient woodland and reaches its peak of sensitivity during springtime. Life holds firmer during this season, and death shrinks back just a bit more. It warms the earth alongside the striking light filtering through centuries-old beech trees, and it slumbers in the cool shadows cast upon newborn bluebells. The magical-unusual in Micheldever Wood is unbelieved, but it lives on from the day of a birth and persists as that life turns to myth and legend. On rare occasions, it does more than that in a way that cannot be reasoned with, and the woodland has been this way for centuries. But few things are guaranteed forever.

On one particular Sunday evening, the stinging glare of the day’s sunrays are unwilling to fall away, clinging from just above the horizon line. The heat and fervor of the sun paint the evening in stained glass tones as it tips towards a starbright nightfall, and as it casts the woodland into a nostalgic vision, one that existed in a time when magic thickened the air, all seemed right in the world. To the careless eye, Micheldever Wood is as it should be.

This could not be further from the truth.

There is stillness in the woods that flattens the life within it. The desire-paths through the tall grass have long since become overgrown from years and years of emptiness, and the noises of the woods are hushed in trepidation. The magic in Micheldever Wood grasps onto its existence with futile attempts that rival the setting sunlight, but all the same, it could sense an inevitable finality coming. As the dawn of a new millennia draws closer, the magic of Micheldever Wood wanes. The last disheartened threads of magic sewn into the very fiber of an ancient woodland coil into tight knots. Magic is fraying and unraveling, and Death plucks away at its heartstrings.

I don’t want to die.

Something is coming.

Stillness shatters with a pained screech as a dozen witches and wizards appear just outside the tree line of the woodland. A small army of Death Eaters attempt to corral their intended target— said target more animal than man with a face marred by a vicious scowl and drenched from head to toe in a violent shade of blood. Pupils dilated and the very air around him pulled tight, Harry hunches over to strike like the untamed bloodthirsty creature the Death Eaters did not know he could truly be. However, despite the heat and fury rolling off of the lone Potter, not even that is a deterrent for his pursuers. Everyone has gone too far and seen too much. Killing Harry Potter here and now is not up for debate, whether the Dark Lord desires it or not.

“You’re out of luck, Potter,” a Death Eater roars. “In a few minutes, the field will be flooded with more of us!”

Harry locks his muscles while trying to keep a clear view of everyone surrounding him, but between the mark on his forehead bleeding into his eye and the exhaustion, it is near impossible not to swing from blindness to double vision. Harry grasps at his magic, trying for one more apparition, but lets it slip from his hold lest his head come clean off from a splinching. There’s not enough energy in him to conjure a straightforward way out of this disaster, but just as doubt begins to creep in, one of the Death Eaters yowls in pain, blood spurting from his face and distracting most of his comrades. Seeing his chance and left with no other options, Harry wandlessly swats two Death Eaters off their feet amidst the confusion and launches himself into the woods.

Harry attempts a wild, fevered sprint to uncertain freedom, weaving through the trees and trampling through an ocean of bluebells that stretches farther than he can see. It’s near aimless, and his only compass to salvation points down any route that could lead him away from the Death Eaters in close pursuit. For a split second, he thinks he can make it out of this if he could find a grove to lie low in, but the brutal cacophony of spellfire splintering trunks and ripping stone from their beds is clear proof that there is nowhere to hide. The world around him is going up in flames and shattering. It is a world drenched in chaos, and it rattles Harry down to bone and soul. Hope is just about all there is between him and death, but it is flickering out faster than Harry’s sore body can carry him.

“I can stop, I can surrender,” Harry thinks to himself. But no. No, he can’t. He won’t.

His last breath is a fighting one if Death greets him today.

“Our Lord is here,” someone shouts. “He has come for Potter! Lord Voldemort is coming—"

As he leaps over a fallen log, Harry is nicked with a jinx that blows his senses into overdrive. He cries out while stumbling forward—shoulder checking trees and tumbling over anything and everything under his feet. The stains of blood, mud, and bluebells covering him are a thick coiling mix of sweet, metallic, and earth that nauseate, and the world is oversaturated with light and color that slash across his vision. Everywhere around him, there is the booming sound of magic, mocking laughter and chiming bells punching against his eardrums, but not even that can smother the eerie thought echoing in Harry’s mind.

He’ll make it quick and clean. He doesn’t like to linger and play with death.

Not a few seconds after, something hits his leg and bites in, the pain and shock of it throwing Harry off his feet and whirling down a hilly incline of the woodland. He can feel something atop his head pinch painfully just as the world turns into an unidentifiable blur of blue flowers, blue skies, green canopy, and green killing curses flying in every direction. His body bounces and twists down the hill like a tossed ragdoll, and Harry can’t ignore the agony as joints twist out of place and open wounds grind into the ground. Harry shrieks as his back rotates over a sharp object, slicing a deep cut from shoulder to hip.

It’s too much, and there’s no way out. There’s just falling, falling, pain, and more falling. The world continues to spin out of control, but just as Harry is on the verge of blacking out, he’s forced into—

Nothing? A disquieting nothing. Only Harry and not Harry at all. This feeling that the air was too thin to fill his lungs, but with an intangible weight pressing against all of his nerves.

Something isn’t normal in these woods. Something here is very unusual and taking hold.

I don’t want to die.

  Something is here.

The world is blurring alongside the vertigo, and at every twisting turn, he is forced into darkness with a flashing image in the distance between all of it:

Darkly adorned figures stand over two fallen shadows. Darkness. A soft white glow in endless directions between the high arches of a platform. Darkness. A stone castle and kingdom under the watchful eye of a falcon. Darkness. A home pressed between two skies. Darkness.

Before a thought or an image can take hold or a final word can be brought forth, Harry’s body hits the bottom of the hill, and he comes to an abrupt stop.

The impact punches everything out of him and leaves only the shredded, broken pieces behind. Harry can’t take in a breath as he lay there, cradled by a bed of silky bluebells.  He’s dying, or maybe he’s already dead, and this is his casket—bound to hold his bones until the end of time. Whether dead or not dead, Harry is aware of his own broken heart—baring the weight of dead family, missing friends, and a betrayal so deep, he can’t bear to speak its name.  Eyes wide open and unseeing to the world around him, Harry Potter is consumed by a hollowness inside him as all that he is, is scooped out and tossed into the unusual space between one unvarnished moment and the next. Harry is gone, and in some unexplainable way, the world has split on his final exhale in this time.

Something is no longer where it should be. Something draws back—

❦July 1919 ❦

— and then life comes forth again.

 Something unusual has come to pass.

A baby with a strange birthmark upon his face is born in Micheldever Wood under unusual, tragic circumstances. Mother dead, father nowhere to be found, and only the whispers of the woodland to speak the child’s name, Harry begins a life bound for magic, family, and adventure in every way he was unable to experience before.

And yet, there is a vague and distant echoing that rings in the back of his mind and colors places and people in the strangest of lights. It is the remains of his life lived and cut short, the traces of it forever etched in his souls. One might hope Harry will come to remember his days as Harry James Potter before certain events are to come forth. Surely it would do the world some good to prevent these things from happening. But it is not to be. Not for a while yet. Whatever Fate has allowed by its uncanny Will is not enough to change things based on premeditative knowledge.

Nevertheless, in the end, the lack of knowing, and the state of being as Harry is, is exactly what is needed.

For a time, anyway.

50 Years Later…

❦ Winter 1969 ❦

‘Most people live their entire lives and never go anywhere’.

The truth in those words was startling to put in perspective, whether in retrospect or speculating on the future and when all was said and done, there wasn’t much else to say about most people or their situation. While there was nothing necessarily wrong with simplicity and a humble existence, that was not meant for everyone. Most people could content themselves with a quiet and blissfully obscure life, but this could not be said about Harry Potter, who was far from being anything like most people. In all the ways the aforementioned statement could be understood—by aptitude, ambition, affective development, or distance—none were applicable to Harry.

At fifty years old, Harry Windever Potter was the magical world’s top magi-architect—a master creator of magical architectural and innovative design. This was not a boast or over-exaggeration, nor was it the result of instant prodigal talent. It was a fact built on decades worth of hard work and dedication. Employed by private clients, public institutions, and governments worldwide, Harry contributed to the restoration, construction, and fortification of some of the magical world’s most beloved magical and magi-muggle structures and regions.

His work was important to him and allowed him to ascend further and higher in all directions of the world. Though to be clear, this wasn’t solely due to self-focused ambition. True, what he did was a passion he pursued with great ardor, but Harry knew his architectural work had a purpose that lived beyond himself. Magical architecture was a foundational point for the magical world that built, strengthened, and protected the sanctity of Magic in almost all its forms. Deep in his soul, Harry felt these pursuits were a crucial element in the magical world—that Magic was not just to be used but to be served. More than that, a love for Magic was preeminent to magical beings’ survival. After all, how can a person live if they disregard what sustains their life?

So, Harry loved and loved deeply, and as time passed, that love for magic never changed. He suspected it never would. Now, if only this love stopped stressing his thighs and back…

Standing just below the glass ceiling of a nearly completed conservatory, Harry breathed in and let out a slow exhale as he heaved a large transparent panel of acrylic glass over his head. Magic low-gravity gloves were wrapped tight from his fingertips to his biceps, but while the gloves made the panel and steel frame lighter by several hundred kilos, whatever weight was leftover to feel was no light feather. His stomach did a few flips as he kept perfect balance atop the upper platform of the scaffolding—moving in practiced, confident steps like a cat on a high wall.  At one-hundred and twenty feet in the air, there wasn’t any room for mistakes, and there were plenty that could happen when a person was lifting and carrying heavy acrylic windows above their head with very little magic involved.

“Come on. Just a little more,” Harry said under his breath, the slightest shade of red bursting out across warm, tawny skin. Harry was by no means a slight man—standing well over six feet and broadened by a layer of muscle gained through long hours of manual labor. But even he was struggling under the weight and strain.  “This is nothing. You’ve lifted heavier. Come on, come on, come on. Little more—”

“Do you need help, Arch Potter,” one of Harry’s construction workers called out in concern. The sound of shuffling and rattling could be heard above him, casting a few human-shaped shadows over his head as they moved closer.

“No, no! It’s… I’m good,” Harry said, even as his black curly hair stuck to his forehead and his thighs shook just the slightest bit. Harry re-adjusted his grip one more time. “I’m almost there. Stay where you are.”

Taking a few more steps forward, Harry positioned himself just below the empty space where the last acrylic glass panel was meant to be. Harry’s whole body stretched as far up as he could extend himself and passed the panel vertically to ten workers balancing along the steel framing of the glass conservatory roof. The acrylic was then flipped horizontally and lowered down so the edges of the panel connected with the unyielding steel frame of the building. Taking out a runes-etched copper rod, Harry pushed a stream of magic through it, the end turning a bright orange and hot blue. His team watched on in eager silence as Harry dragged the copper rod along the parameter where the steel frame of the roof and the steel window frame met. In minutes, the metal seamlessly melded and sealed together until it was cool to the touch.

Harry took off one of his gloves and traced his hand along the edges to make sure everything was perfect. He could feel the magic humming taut within the core of the steel framework and settling into a near-unbreakable bond. Drawing his hand back, he gave a satisfied nod. Waving up at the workers, Harry gave them a thumbs up with a huge grin, glowing up at his team.

Harry could just barely hear the muffled cheers through the acrylic glass, but happiness was clear to see by the men and women’s broad smiles. When the celebration died down, they began to make their way to several flying carpets floating stationary to the side. They were all eager to go back home to their families, and Harry couldn’t blame them. It had been a long season. Harry left them to their departure as he took his wand from a thigh holster and waved it in several flickering and wide arches, the scaffolding disassembling and lowering him back to the ground.

Feet finally meeting the soft soil and stone paths of the indoor garden, Harry admired the expanse of the conservatory’s completed form. All that was left was to activate the enchantments and runes. The rune-etched steel would act as a base that collected solar and lunar power, feeding it into the enchanted glass and creating a forever sunny and fair oasis or beautifully moon-struck garden that could sustain itself. It was magic that was fed by the natural world, which would ultimately allow for the conservatory to keep its beauty for an indefinite number of centuries.

Longevity and quality, the kind that was meant to last for centuries, were not always a standard upheld by magi-architects. But Harry considered it a vital component to his structures— especially when these factors were paramount to the comfort and safety of his more isolated and sensitive clients. Such was the case for the intended occupants of the conservatory, for example. The entire structure was made for a massive community of Patasola living deep in the Andes Mountain range in Colombia. The patasola were one of the magical and muggle world’s most misunderstood beings, and though ‘misunderstood’ was not an uncommon concept amongst Magicals, patasola women were perceived with an unusual amount of vitriol and fear in both worlds (though, for the most part, they were still considered folkloric amongst muggles).

It was not hard to parse why.

Their true appearance was difficult to behold as their warped visage relieved a single bulging eye, a gaping mouth filled with crooked fangs, and a pale, sharp-boned body balanced on a single leg. But far more damning was their territorial and ferocious mannerisms. Although the danger they posed was purely out of provocation, it could not be ignored that violent incidents between the patasola and muggles were becoming more frequent as of late. This was due to magical territory losses to muggle governments as well as a rise in muggle technology that allowed them to claim natural resources at a greater and faster rate. Such was the dilemma in most geographically rich regions in the latter half of the 20^th century. But this was why Harry was tireless in his pursuits. As far as Harry was concerned, he was going to hold and push the line for as long as he was alive and able.

All alone in the interior garden, Harry’s mind began to wander away from business and work as he meandered down pathways and around the large waterfall he helped install. It was moments like these—quiet ones where it was just him— that his mind went to one very familiar thought. Like a phantom existing in the far peripheral of his gaze, whispering in his ear and always lingering in his mind, Harry’s thoughts belonged to Tom Riddle.

What would he think of the conservatory? What would Tom think of all the work he’d done in South America? What cutting words or look of appraisal would Tom give Harry if Harry asked the other man the thousand and one questions Harry had let build inside of him after they’d been apart for nearly a decade? Harry couldn’t say. He truly didn’t know. It was hard to glean the reality of someone after only spending a brief, solitary season together so long ago. But, when the heart lingers, the imagination grows stronger. What would Tom think about that, as well? Harry huffed a small, amused laugh. No, the answer to that question was much more obvious.

Tom would be enthralled to know that he was unforgotten.

 “You know, with all the staring you do at your own work, people might think you’re a narcissist, Arch Potter.”

Harry jolted, foot catching on the pathway’s edging stones and barely preventing himself from landing flat on his back. Twisting his head in every direction, Harry caught sight of a familiar figure approaching through the bushes and trees. Gray eyes set in a thin, handsome face framed by dark hair and dressed far too well; it was unmistakably Black. But not just any member of the noble and ancient house. It was his Black.

“Alphard, you’re here,” Harry cheered, rushing to Alphard with a skip to his step. The day was turning out to be a spectacular one with successes to celebrate and friends coming to visit unexpectedly—What? What? Oh, no. Harry came to an abrupt stop, pausing halfway towards Alphard and crossing his arms.

“Wait, you’re here? Why are you here? Are you allowed to be here? Did you get permission to be here because if you didn’t, that could be a probl–”

“Yes, yes, before you implode,” Alphard said, “I have permission, and I brought raw meat for your dear patasolas. Wherever they’re hiding. Good Merlin, I swear I keep seeing someone peeking out here and there. So yes, I wouldn’t come uninvited and empty-handed. Now, come give me a hug before I start to feel lonely and abandoned.”

 Harry threw back his head and laughed, strutting the rest of the way and engulfing Alphard in a tight bear hug, rocking them from side to side. He tucked his face into the crook of Alphard’s neck, feeling far less homesick for family with Alphard here with him, and Alphard, in turn, eagerly let himself be the willing victim to Harry’s unabashed happiness.

“Ugh, hells bells! You’re a sweaty mess,” Alphard whined when they finally parted. “And don’t hug me up like I’m your long-lost lover. You don’t deserve my excellence.”

“Look who’s talking. You held on just as tight,” Harry parried. “It’s too bad you’re an incorrigible, continental rake. We’d never work.”

“Touché. On that note, I don’t see why you put yourself through all that exertion. Like a mule. Just use levitation charms and be done with it. Watching you lift those panels made me sore. Have pity.”

Harry rolled his eyes and pushed Alphard farther away to get a better look at him. He looked good. Pale-skinned despite spending his days floating along the Mediterranean, but healthy and mostly happy in all the ways that mattered.

“That’s why I’m the one that builds the structures, and you’re the one that gets to enjoy them, CEO Black. I do what very few wizards are willing and able to do. Like a mule. A smart mule! Anyway, that sounds like an invitation for a lecture and tour,” Harry said, motioning for Alphard to follow him through the indoor gardens and beautiful glass arches of his latest grand success. Alphard followed alongside Harry, listening intently as Harry explained the motives and methods used to create this or that, nodding along and ‘oohing’ when a new structural feature was pointed out.

“— easier to use the most obvious solution to build these structures. Levitation charms, transfiguration, and binding spells. For the most part, they would work, too. But creating enchantments that retain their power and appearance for centuries relies on a lack of competing traces of magic in the layers where they lay. Most magic leaves some sort of trace, which can be corrosive. For example, using a levitation charm on an object that is enchanted to stick on a wall will cause the sticking charm to be less effective compared to an object untainted,” Harry explained to Alphard.

Harry’s face hurt with the force of his smile, head ducking down as Alphard pinched Harry’s side in playful reprimand when he left his explanation die down. Rolling his eyes, he took a deep breath in and continued on, pointing here and there and everywhere.

“You could levitate something and wait until the traces are leached out, but it’s not worth the wait.  That’s what architectural tools are for. Binding rods, low-gravity magical gloves, and the like. They’re tools created to reduce a magic trace while performing a specific function. This way, nothing here will lose its luster or magical potency for hundreds of years. Not in storms or fire. Not in age or threat. Even Hogwarts suffers from outdated architectural techniques. This is the new age of magical longevity,” Harry boasted, turning somewhat bashful as Alphard clapped and whistled, always sincere and exuberant when Harry rambled about his work.

In truth, Alphard had prompted similar speeches before and more than likely heard the answer a dozen times, but Alphard was also a good friend and liked to see Harry flutter about his passions.  It was one of the things Harry loved about Alphard. He was endlessly interested and engaged. Alphard was also very thorough and intelligent, which paid off for a number of reasons. It was because of this that Harry was not surprised in the least when Alphard pointed up at the runes etched in the highest point of the roof’s steel framework.

“That looks like a ward-off beacon. And a large one at that,” he said, squinting his eyes up with an amused lilt to his voice.

“You don’t say,” Harry said, rocking back on his heels with his hands twisted behind his back. “Well, you know, we wouldn’t want the muggles to find the patasola, would we?”

“No, of course not,” Alphard murmured as he continued to trace the runes with his eyes. Once the realization hit, Alphard’s mouth dropped, and he smacked Harry on the shoulder several times. “Harry Windever Potter, that is not just a simple or small ward-off beacon. You dodgy prat. Don’t be shy. Tell your Alphie what illegal thing you’ve done this time.”

Harry shrugged, scuffing his shoe like some misbehaving schoolboy instead of the youthful fifty-year-old he was.

“Just a little mischief. It’ll ward off non-magical humans for close to a five-thousand-acre radius.”

“Little mischief—Ha! I suppose it’s not much in comparison to the vastness of the region. What’s a few thousand acres to all of the Northwestern Andean montane forest?”

Harry nodded, clapping Alphard on the back. “Exactly that. It’s all cleared by the South American Magical Reconstruction Project and approved by Colombia’s magical governing body. It’s just… not officially on the books. Not on the muggle side and definitely not something we want the ISoWS hearing about.”

Alphard scoffed at the mention of the ISoWS. He intimately understood the magical world's unfortunate position and often blamed these conditions on the council manning and executing the bylaws of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

“Creating wizarding sanctioned area without telling the corresponding muggle government may be illegal according to the ISoWS, but so should selling off magical lands as a weak attempt to keep the peace,” Alphard sneered.

Harry pressed a finger over his lips, a mischievous tilt to his smile. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Many magical governments in South America are done with muggles disrupting things. If muggles had it their way, the Andean forests would have a devastating buzz cut, and there would be nothing left,” Harry said while ruffling his own wild, black curls.

“We could use some of that candor in the UK,” Alphard said, leaning against a boulder and closing his eyes. “I don’t need to live there anymore to hear that the MoM is giving away territories fast. They just signed away territory rights in Haroldswick.”

Harry crossed his arms, green eyes darkening. “In Unst? What could muggles possibly want with the Shetland Islands?”

“The same old song and dance.”

“More for the sake of more,” Harry said, a quiet understanding passing between the two men. A few solemn beats of silence passed between them. “That’s going to be a problem for some of the magical species that live there.”

“Not to mention a few families that will need to move,” Alphard pointed out. “I’m pretty sure the Clearwater Family has a fishing house somewhere along the rocky coast.”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t think he could hate the ministry more, but there always seemed to be space left. Before the mood could darken even more, Harry cleared his throat. Wanting to disperse the dark cloud that was hanging over them, Harry flapped his hand back and forth in the air and clucked his tongue.

“No more getting off topic!”

Alphard raised an eyebrow like he didn’t know what Harry was alluding to, which prompted Harry to flip his middle finger. “Don’t pretend. I want to know what brought Alphard Black all the way from the Grecian coast to South America. Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but we just saw each other not that long ago.”

“I guess there’s no use beating around the bush,” Alphard said, pressing both his hands over his heart as he spoke. “As your best friend and a man who has access to your mail, I have taken on the pleasure, honor, and responsibility of informing you of any grand news that passes through your international mailbox. As it goes, you received a very magical letter holding the most magical of news just this morning.”

Alphard paused for dramatic effect, which Harry rolled his eyes at. “Enough. Spit out then. What’s this news that couldn’t wait?”

Taking ahold of his wand, Alphard flicked the tip skyward, conjuring a spray of colorful, glittering confetti that fell around them and disappeared just before it hit the ground. Looking back at Alphard, Harry snorted as the other wizard struggled through his moleskin pouch for a chilled bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.

“Congratulations, Harry! You are,” Alphard paused again, struggling to pop the champagne bottle’s cork. He cursed under his breath as the cork went soring and the champagne sprayed out between the both of them.

“Oh Merlin, Alphie— What am I? Just say it already!”

“Alright, alright! All you Potters are so impatient. You‘ve been nominated and chosen as Magical of the Decade! Magical. Of. The. Decade! You’re Mr. Magical 60s. No one in the UK has gotten that title since Glover Hipworth in the 1790s. Being nominated as Magical of a Decade makes getting on a chocolate frog look like a joke. Absolutely mad. It’s about damn time.”

“I wonder if they’ll ask me for an interview. I don’t usually like those,” Harry said, an offhand and faraway tone to his voice as his head floated up into the clouds. He couldn’t believe it! Magical of the Decade! Witches and wizards on every continent of the world and from almost every country are considered for the title, but in the end, only one is chosen per decade. Evaluated by public opinion, fellow peers, and MagiGlobal’s international committee, nominees were judged by their contributions to magical society over the course of a decade and sometimes a lifetime. Winning was a pleasant surprise. No, pleasant wasn’t the right word, but his head was too full of unbridled joy and bubbles to think of a good alternative.

Harry was brought back to earth as a cold glass was pressed into his hand. He refocused on Alphard who held out a thick envelope with an already broken wax seal, MagiGlobal’s gold and black logo clear for anyone to see.

“An Order of the Merlin only recognizes British Witches and Wizards as approved by the MoM, and several new chocolate frogs are released every year. This is a far greater honor,” Alphard said, letting Harry read the letter addressed to him.

Dear Mr. Harry W. Potter,

Last we spoke, I interviewed you in 1949 as MagiGlobal’s nominee for Magical of the Year. As I recall, this was due to your solo and masterful reconstruction of one of Poland’s oldest magical sites, Malbork Castle, during your involvement in Magical Europe’s efforts to preserve, find, and replicate structures as a part of a post-World War II Reconstruction Plan. Even then, you shone brightly amongst hundreds of witches and wizards helping to reconstruct Magical Europe.

It’s strange thinking about it now— how your name was so new to me twenty years ago. Since then, I have heard your name and your efforts spoken on what seems to be a weekly basis. I followed your efforts and career throughout the 50s as you worked on a variety of projects that have included but are not limited to magical schools, private homes, century-old castles, fortresses, palaces, and magical villages. Subsequentially, I continued to follow your career this past decade, and this is what I would like to talk to you about.

Since the summer of 1960, you have primarily worked in South America as a part of a decade-long architectural tour as funded by the South American Magical Reconstruction Project. I have heard that your work has brought you as far up as the guano-filled banks of Bajo Nuevo to create a wizarding outpost for potion supply collection and as far down as Patagonia, Argentina, to modernize their magical astronomy towers. There have been photos of you working on Castelobruxo in the Amazon rainforest, underground facilities between the peaks of Winikunka, magical towns in the Lake District… I could go on and on and on and never be able to name every magical spot. You have contributed to the magical world tirelessly and what feels like endlessly.

So, it’s without further ado that I announce that MagiGlobal has decided to name you Magical of the 60s. We will need to conduct an interview and photoshoot before the end of the year, and we will need to decide on a time and place within the month. It will be a pleasure to see and speak to you again, Mr. Potter.

Until then, please contact us at MagiGlobal’s firecall system.

Ariala Abbiati

Senior Journalist

MagiGlobal Inc.

Harry took another moment to read over the contents of the letter again. The rush of accomplishment buzzing in his chest did a valiant job of smothering any apprehension he felt when it came to interviews and public speaking roles, and Harry allowed himself to sink into the feeling just a bit more. Looking back up at his friend, Harry waved the torn to shreds envelope in Alphard’s face.

“Did a dog get its teeth on this and maul it?”

“I may have been over-eager when I saw the envelope,” Alphard said, not the least bit ashamed. “What can I say? I love happy tidings.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Come on. Let’s go back to your villa. The evening is young, and I intend for us to eat and drink ourselves sick by the end of it.”

Harry wholeheartedly agreed, turning to summon several of his possessions sitting on a boulder not far off. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Alphard, who was amusing himself with a pair of flasher butterflies floating over his head. For a second, Harry sees something else, someone else standing and waiting for him at the end of a muted and grimy hallway before the image is whisked away in the blink of an eye.

Harry adjusted his glasses and, as usual, ignored the sense of déjà vu. It was better this way.

Or, at the very least, easier.

Harry’s villa was paid for by the architectural program he was contracted with. It was a mountain-side estate nestled in the tropical forests just a few miles from the center of Florianópolis in Brazil, but Harry rarely got to enjoy its beauty between all the work he did. He was still grateful for the comfort and privacy it provided, and more than once, Harry had considered buying the property from the program to keep as a vacation home for the family. But Harry never spent his fortune on such things. Since the first day Harry began earning money, he’d been saving up for one thing and one thing only. Nevertheless, when one was surrounded by such extraordinary beauty, it was hard to resist the temptation.

 By the time Alphard and Harry arrived at the villa, the sun was starting to set, and a misty rainfall was overtaking the city and mountainous forests. Several bags of food, alcohol, and mixers were floating beside them as they squeezed through the front door. But instead of an empty villa to greet them, loud music and off-key singing were coming from inside the living room. Lively and animated, the world felt lighter within the temporary home. Alphard was quick to join in, his songbird voice ringing clear and bright to alert their guest of their arrival.

It seemed earlier that morning, Alphard had been quick to send the good news home to Harry’s family because swaying and humming to the music was Harry’s cousin, Gwaine. He was still half-dressed in his auror uniform but already partway through a bottle of dragon barrel brandy. The uniform jacket was thrown haphazardly on a chair with several holsters, and somewhere below the mess was a poorly wrapped gift peeking out by its paper and ribbons.

It warmed Harry down to his toes.

At twenty-one years old, Gwaine was as much of a handful as he was as a rambunctious child and an unruly Hogwarts student, but he was also the kindest of the Potters in his own right. Nothing seemed to change that.

“Harry! Alphard sent the news to everyone earlier. They couldn’t come on short notice, but—”

“You and Alphard are more than enough,” Harry said, catching Gwaine in a tight hug and barely avoiding getting a face full of Gwaine’s wavy brown locks. “Are you staying the night?”

“Nah. I’ll stick around for a bit, but I stole an international portkey to get here. I need to put it back before anyone notices. I couldn’t miss out on alcohol and a celebration, could I?”

“Thank you for making the time,” Harry said, cupping Gwaine’s face. Gwaine shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that he would be here, which Harry responded to with one final pat on Gwaine’s cheek—admiring how much his younger cousin had grown. Some of Gwaine’s father and mother’s physical features were peeking through, but Gwaine had ultimately grown into his own unique appearance as an adult.

The Potters were a mixing pot of physical characteristics that came and went between generations and lines, and there was no good way to summarize the mass of them as looking one singular way. They weren’t like the Blacks who, besides the occasional exception, were predominantly seen with black hair, pale white skin, and dark eyes, or the Malfoys who had pale blonde hair with icy blue or green eyes. If Harry tried to describe the Potter family’s appearance with some over-generalization, the best he could say was that Gwaine’s line carried a lighter shade of tan skin and light brown eyes, while the heirship line sported the tawny tones with an unruly nest of black hair. This, of course, did not account for the women who married into the family or several members like Harry who bore unique eye colors or somewhat darker skin tones. Speaking of which…

“How are Dorea and Charlus?”

“Mum and Da are fine. Come home more often, and you won’t have to ask.”

It was an unfortunate truth that the natural result of Harry’s career was that Harry was away from the British Isles and his family most days of the year. At this point, he was more of a foreigner in his home country than in some far-and-away lands he’d worked in for years. For all that he took as many opportunities as possible to soothe the familiar ache of homesickness by visiting for special occasions and holidays, it was never enough. But that was soon to change.

Harry leaned to the side to check where Alphard was. Hearing clattering noises from the next room over, Harry now knew the other man had left to plate some of the food in the kitchen while he and Gwaine were catching up.

“About that…” Harry said, hesitant and shifting on his feet. “I didn’t want to say anything since it’s not fully confirmed, but I’ll be returning to the UK. Well, maybe. My time in South America is just about done, and I was invited to spearhead a project in Scotland.”

Gwaine threw up his hands, cheering at the news. “That’s fantastic! I’m glad you’re happy traveling, but I miss you something awful. You’re my favorite, you know.”

“You love your Da too much for that to be true.”

“Maybe everyone is my favorite, then,” Gwaine said, sticking out his tongue. “Did you ever think of that?”

“S’pose with a heart like yours, there’s room,” Harry said, flicking Gwaine in the center of his forehead. “Keep it under your hat for now. I want to be sure before I spring the news on the family. You know how they get.”

“What you mean is you know how Fleamont gets. He’ll throw a whole festival with fireworks. We’re all shaking in our boots over how far he’ll go when James grows up and gets married.”

“Flea can’t resist extravagance. Also,” Harry paused, taking another moment to listen for Alphard, who was still in the kitchen. The other man was preoccupied with putting everything together but could appear at any second. Harry rubbed at the birthmark that split down his forehead, over his eyelid, and stopped at the peak of his cheekbone. It was a nervous habit he’d always had, and very telling by the look on Gwaine’s face.

 “I meant it when I said you’re the first to know. I’ll tell Alphard soon, but I need to word it carefully. He gets itchy about England like there’s some monster lurking in the cupboard.” 

Gwaine squinted across at Harry, taking another deep drink of brandy straight from the bottle. “Aye. I’ll keep it under my hat. No need to put me under oath. I love a good secret.”

Both Potters went quiet again as a parade of food and beverages floated out from the kitchen.

“So Gwaine,” Alphard said, newly emerged from the other room alongside several more platters of food and bottles. “How do you like being an Auror? You just finished the Aurorial Appraisal, didn’t you?”

“Sure, sure. This past summer. It’s… fine. It’s only been a few months, so we’ll see how it goes,” Gwaine said, shutting down the conversation before it could begin. Instead, Gwaine avoided eye contact with them, rushing over to claim a plate of food for himself before Alphard or Harry could even move.

Alphard shot Harry a look.

Harry could only shrug in response, just as in the dark about Gwaine’s lackluster response. Gwaine had been an eager candidate when he graduated from Hogwarts and started the three-year training program right out of school. It was hard enough to be accepted into the program and more challenging to get through all the trials and training, but Gwaine had done it all with gusto and top marks. It would make sense if Gwaine were feeling a little burnt out now that he was working, but Harry could feel in his gut that wasn’t it. It was strange to see Gwaine, usually bursting with boisterous energy, look like he was trying to crawl into a hole. There was something more going on.

“But we’re not here to talk about me,” Gwaine said around a mouthful of food. “Harry, Harry! Have I said congratulations yet? Congrats! Don’t be a stuttering mess during the official interview.”

Harry squawked in indignation. “What do you know about that?”

“Mum says you turn into a nervous wreck during interviews.”

“I do not,” Harry mumbled under his breath. He scratched at his stubble to hide the embarrassed flush crawling up his neck and cheeks.

“You definitely do,” Alphard said. “Don’t know what you have to worry about. It’s not like papers are slanderous towards you.”

Harry punched down the usual anxiety, his mind’s eye conjuring an altogether familiar and unfamiliar blurry image of someone dressed in beetle green.

“Ahh, I just don’t like when people ask too many prying questions when it’s on the record. You never know how it’ll be taken out of context.” Harry tapped a finger on his temple, wishing away the faint, echoing sound of his name spoken over and over in cruel condemnation. “But no more about that! Food. Drink. Fun times, now.  We can have a serious conversation later when the world is ending.”

Late evening soon turned to early night, and before long, all of them were half drunk and sore from laughter, with the faint sound of conversation and music filling the villa. They’d all served themselves first, second, and third helpings while telling stories about what had been going on in their lives. As the hours went by, the last bites of food and drink were scattered on the coffee table in front of them. Several opened bottles of liquor were spread out where they’d started something before moving on to some other concoction, and the occasional treat was hopping around and lost between the cushions. Harry and Alphard were more than finished, belts undone around the swell of meats and alcohol, while Gwaine continued on like the black hole he tended to be.

It was the perfect night—the kind Harry wished would never end. In all the world, Harry’s family and close friends were precious to him in a way he could not explain without doing the feeling an injustice. They allowed each other to shuck off the veneer and prestige that came with their respective family names and careers. Stories that could not be told to anyone else could be openly shared between them in light jest. Such was the case as Gwaine continued his animated story about his most recent break up with Laurentia Fletwock.

“No, this is it. She doesn’t want to get back together. This was the deal breaker for her, apparently. Can you believe that? She broke up with me because I bought the wrong winged horse!” Gwaine slumped forward, a little of his whiskey spilling out of his glass. “That granian foal was calling to me with those big, pretty eyes. I couldn’t say no. Laurentia kept yelling about how she couldn't date someone who wanted to raise a little runt. Something or other about every winged horse associated with the great Laurentia Fletwock being only the most excellent for breeding and racing. Who knows… I just know little Gringolet will grow up fine. Just you wait.”

“I can’t believe you broke up with a beautiful, successful woman over a horse,” Alphard wheezed.

“First of all, she broke up with me, so I take no blame in this. I’m just not going to give up little Gringolet now that I have her. The horse was calling to my soul. That sweet girl sees me. I swear to you! Anyway, Laurentia keeps sending letters to retrieve some of her stuff from my place. It’s a big, awkward hullabaloo.”

“At least you do better romantically compared to dear Harry here,” Alphard claimed. “He’s a mess.”

“A mess? A mess!” Harry flopped onto the couch, pointing at himself. “One divorce and a carriage full of failed relationships, and I’m a mess?” He slumped further into the cushions with a mournful sigh. “Yeah. No, I’m a mess.”

“Hold it. Pause! You were married,” Gwaine questioned and howled in shock. “Married since when? When was this? How did I not know about this?”

“It was before you were born. Ancient history and all that rot. It didn’t work out.”

“Clearly,” Gwaine mumbled over his drinking glass as he tipped it back. He swallowed with a curious expression crossing his face.

“I’ll explain another time,” Harry said, waving it off.

“Ah, but you see, Gwaine, the mess gets worse,” Alphard said, digging the hole deeper for Harry as best friends do. “Harry met some mystery person a decade ago and supposedly spent a magical season in a dark, dreary castle with them. Even after all these years, like a lovesick fool, he still holds a candle to them even though he hasn’t seen or heard from them since then. He doesn’t tell anyone their name or what they look like—not even me, might I add— and expects everyone to think he’s dealing with the state of his heart… reasonably. Clearly.”

“Fucking hippogriff, it’s like I don’t know you at all, cousin,” Gwaine cried, rocking back into his seat with astonishment. “How did I not know anything of this before tonight?”

“Perks of being an adult now, Gwaine,” Harry said. He tried to slap on a serious expression on his face but was far too tickled to pull it off. “You’re all grown up now. You’re going to start hearing all sorts of wild stories about your cousins and parents. Merlin, I need to redeem myself. Alphie, tell him something that makes me look good.”

“I don’t know if there is anything,” Alphard joked, catching a balled-up blanket before it hit his face.

“Okay, wait! I have one. I think you’ll like this one, Gwaine. So, it’s 1964, and Harry goes to Japan for work. It’s a really quick trip. Two weeks, right?”

“Oh, that,” Harry said. He punched the air, smiling at the memory. “That’s a good story.”

“Anyway,” Alphard dragged out. “Can you remember what else was going on in the summer of 1964 in Japan? Anything interesting? Anything that might have made the news?”

Gwaine thought about it before snapping his fingers. “Celestina Warbeck’s infamous 1964 concert. It was on Kagoshima Prefecture’s active volcano, Sakurajima.”

“This is why I’ll never play trivia with you Potters. So precise. Well, right you are! Our Harry bumped into the Celestina Warbeck a few days before her concert, and they got to talking and spending time together. Now, here’s the amazing part. Pure solid gold. A few hours before the concert, Harry and Celestina Warbeck are messing around with cocktails behind the backstage bar. Next thing they know, they accidentally invent the Welengon Kiss&Slap. You know, that cocktail? The green one. The one that’s a mix of Hermes Melon Liqueur, lime juice, lemon juice, and alihosty infused soda water.”

“Oh, I know what you’re talking about,” Gwaine said. “I just don’t believe you.”

“It’s true! I swear on my sister’s life, and you know that’s serious because Wally is the kind of witch that would haunt after death.”

Gwaine’s eyes flickered between Harry and Alphard before slapping his knee. “Well, fuck me. You know it’s called the Welsh Green Dragon Kiss&Slap in England, right?”

“And the Wendigon Kiss&Slap in the Americas,” Harry chimed in.

“That’s wild. You’re bosom buddies with the Celestina Warbeck. What’s she like?”

“She’s ambitious and gorgeous and the best kind of person to be friends with,” Harry hiccupped. “We went to school together at Hogwarts. Both of us were Gryffindors, of course, but she thought I was a complete numpty and troublemaker. Which…fair. I came off that way. But she warmed up to me… several decades later.”

“I have a chocolate frog of her,” Gwaine said. A curious look twisted onto his face as his mind drifted. “I wonder if you’ll end up getting a chocolate frog, too. You’re Mr. Magical 60s, so it seems inevitable.”

Harry spat out some of his drink, the thought actually catching him off guard. It wasn’t a surprising idea, but after fully processing the whole Magical of the Decade thing, a chocolate frog seemed obvious.

“If you don’t get a chocolate frog, I’ll riot,” Alphard said. “I hope it’s a sexy one, too. Like hic something without any pants or a shirt.”

“Imagine that. Adults Only Explicit chocolate frogs,” Gwaine said, lifting his shirt to look at his chest and trying to imagine how that would all go down.

Everyone went quiet before bursting out in uproarious laughter, toppling off their respective couches in a grand show of drunk flailing. As soon as the laughter began to ebb, it would rise up again, stronger and louder.

“I want that so bad,” Alphard yelled. “Please, please, please. I beg you. Direct message to Lady Magic herself.” Alphard dragged himself onto his knees and bowed to the open air. “If Harry Potter gets a chocolate frog, let it be a near-nude. Thank you for your time, Lady Magic.”

Gwaine was laughing so hard his whole body was shaking without any sound coming out. He was leaning against Alphard who could hardly contain himself, as well. Harry shook his head at the pair of them. Gwaine had just enough Black in him that he looked a bit like Alphard the way Alphard looked a bit like Dorea. It made Harry wonder, sometimes, what it was about the Blacks that attracted Potters to them like moths to a lamplight.

Gwaine stumbled as he finally forced himself to his feet. “I stayed longer than I thought I would. It’s getting closer to morning in England. I need to go back.”

“Ah, shame. If it must be, I’ll see you when you see you,” Alphard said, reaching out to pat Gwaine on his back without getting up from the couch.

“I’ll give mum your love,” Gwaine said as a farewell to Alphard. A look of embarrassment washed over Alphard, knowing that he rarely went home to speak to his family, and that was more choice than work. He nodded but said no more.

“I’ll walk you out,” Harry said, leading Gwaine to the front courtyard where an international portkey landing circle was centered. They talked in hushed tones as they walked outside, heads close together and saying their farewells.

“Again, thanks for coming. It means the world to me,” Harry said. Though Harry was awkward when it came to certain things, he forced himself to continue now that the opportunity had opened up. “You’d tell me if there was anything wrong, right? About your job at the ministry or… or the other thing. I know that I don’t talk about my reincarnation situation. It’s not something I know enough about or like to talk about, but I should have talked more with you. But if there’s something that I can say that might help you with your own—”

Gwaine shook his head at Harry, playing it off with an overconfident grin. “Just trying to figure out my life. Growing pains don’t ever seem to stop. Funny that. But maybe when you move back, we can talk about it. It’s not good. It’s not bad, either. Annoying, more like. Niggling at the edge of me.”

Harry nodded in understanding, backing up until he stood just outside the circle as Gwaine grasped at the portkey— a jar of glittering marbles or candy in every color. One could never be sure with magical treats.

“See you when I see you?”

“Not soon enough.”

With the sound of a whirling snap, Gwaine disappeared, leaving Harry alone in the dark. Alphard must have turned off the music player because as Harry stood there, the only sound he could hear was the faint ambiance of nocturnal life filling the air. Despite the sun having gone for hours, the earthy scent was still warm in the air and wrapped Harry in a comforting embrace. Harry took some time to enjoy the peace and quiet, the only light coming from inside the villa. He hummed under his breath, swaying with the light breeze.

When he finally did wander back into the house, it was so quiet he wondered if Alphard might have fallen asleep on him. Walking back to the living room, Harry leaned over the couch to check, but Alphard was still awake. He was staring up at the ceiling with some thoughts weighing on him.

“Sometimes I miss the 50s, you know? Just you and me traveling and working, coming into our own and fucking our way through Europe,” Alphard said, wistful and breathy. Harry could relate in some ways. He wouldn’t want to go back to that time, but it was one he reminisced about with some nostalgia.

“Fucking? Are we allowed to say that at this age? We’re at a regal time in our lives, you know,” Harry said as he rounded the couch. He flopped down on the floor next to it, tugging the pillow under Alphard’s head to put under his own.

“Regal, my ass. I saw you get into a brawl a few weeks ago and come out of it looking like an animal with rabies. Regality is for work. We both know that neither of us are anything but—Hold on. I’m confusing myself. We both are—No, that’s not right. Hold on.”

“We’re aging troublemakers.”

“Yes, that! Wait, no—aging?!” Alphard shot a horrified look at Harry. “Neither of us is even close to middle-aged for a wizard. We still have another half century before we get there. No, I take it back. Look at you. You’re ancient. I knew from the instant I saw you that you were a dirty old man. I was a fresh-faced, sweet first year, and you were a work-tired thestral-faced seventh year—”

“You were such a cute kid. What happened,” Harry mocked.

Alphard froze, his brows knitting together as his eyes went a little out of focus. “Oh. Well, I… just realized. Mhh. I just realized that after all this time, I never told you—” Alphard cut himself off, turning his head towards Harry with a wide-eyed expression.

“Told me what?” Harry said, sitting up the slightest bit on his elbows to get a better view of Alphard.

Alphard laughed under his breath, an awkward jittering noise, breathless at the tail end. It set off alarm bells in Harry’s head.

“It’s just that— there’s always been something about you, Harry. Like you’ve seen more or felt more. Something more to you. I know you mentioned that a seer once told you that you lived a past life, but I’ve always wondered about that. The way it gave you this strange intuition about people and places.”

“What are you getting at,” Harry pushed, concerned over the dark sadness pulling at the edges of Alphard’s frown and eyes.

“I… needed someone—you— to like me? Almost as if you liking me would confirm that I wasn’t a bad person. I was all alone when we met again as adults, and I just wanted someone to see me. To see me and honestly tell me if I was rotten or not. But then I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. That being me might be a bad thing—”

Harry sat up all the way and grasped at Alphard, very sorry to have accidentally poked him in a sore spot. For as much as Alphard was a great talent and mind, his heart often failed to support him, turning on him at the most random of comments or times. Much of his self-complemental nature was reflexive instead of honest. Alphard was never short for kind words for his friends—however few they were— but seldom did he offer patience and kindness to himself. Harry ached over this as it was not hard to look for things to compliment and find desirable about Alphard.  He was a dashing wizard in his prime and the CEO of Alpha-Black Bank—an offshore wizarding bank that he’d started after leaving England with a few galleons in his pocket to spare. More than that, he had a golden heart. At least for Harry and his family.

“Alphie…”

“No,” Alphard said, tone as dull and flat as his eyes. “Don’t Alphie me. I am allowed to feel any way about myself as I want.”.

“I wish you felt differently, Alphard,” Harry said. “I really do. You’re incredible. You’re the truest and brightest of stars.”

“I know you’re going back home. And I know you’ve been keeping it from me for some time.”

Harry flushed, looking down and away at Alphard’s piercing gaze. “I’m not mad. I know what I might seem like to you when it comes to home. I just never thought either of us would ever go back. I don’t want either of us to go back.”

“Alphard, you’re not making much sense, mate. You have to tell it to me straight—”

“That day when we met in the pub in 1947,” Alphard interrupted, smoothing his hands across the soft cloth of the couch cushions under him. “That night and every day since you’ve never asked me why I was the way that I was. Why?”

Harry tipped his head in thought, mind conjuring far-off memories of wandering into some random pub he can’t remember the name of every Friday for a drink. Like clockwork, there was Alphard face down at a table and nothing short of smashed. Harry remembered how the barman was keen to ban Alphard forever if he wasn’t for the fact that Alphard was a paying patron who paid handsomely. It was obvious to Harry and everyone else there that he wasn’t well—hair uncombed, drunk as a fish, and a red-eyed, puffy look to him.

“We weren’t close at Hogwarts. I was just finishing when you were just starting. We were in different houses. But I remembered how you were back then. You were a cute little first year with the biggest smile, and then the next I saw, you were a young man sick to his stomach with alcohol. You were a wreck. It was a stark difference; it hurt to see, and I couldn’t just leave you there. Then life started to change for you when we left for Europe together. You did well. You made something of yourself when you could have stayed some sad, ruined man slumped over a dirty pub table for the rest of your life. I figured if you ever wanted to share, you would. And I wasn’t going to drag out bad memories for the sake of knowing. Knowing what happened isn’t always the most important part.”

Alphard kept staring up at the ceiling, picking at one of the alabaster buttons on his dress shirt.

“There was an incident.”

Alphard paused again, seeming to deliberate whether to continue or not. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling and never at Harry, more uncomfortable now than Harry had ever seen him. Harry pressed his hand to Alphard’s leg, prompting him to continue. His patience won out as Alphard began again.

“There was an incident in my last year at Hogwarts. The Ministry kept it all very hush-hush, though I’m sure there were vague rumors floating around at the time. It was the best year of my life. I was Head Boy in my final year, I had a great group of friends, and I secured an internship at the ministry. Everything was going my way. Then, students started to turn up petrified. No one knew what was going on, and Headmaster Dippet was determined to figure it out before the ministry or aurors needed to get involved. In retrospect, he should have called them after the second petrification. He should have because a few weeks before the end of term, a muggle-born girl died.”

A chill washed over Harry, remembering in stark detail a feeling coming over him decades ago when he heard the rumor in passing. It was hardly more than a vague murmuring in a political client’s home, but it had thrown him off— the nauseous sensation and phantom ache in his arm catching him off guard. At the time, he’d forced himself to let it go. Harry had made a promise to his then-wife, Rosmerta, not to get carried away again about these feelings. He had let his urge to go looking for answers unsatisfied even though a part of him wanted to dig and push and tear at everything until he could finally scratch that itch he could never quite get at.  

As it was, it was the last he’d heard of the incident until now.

“Yes,” Harry responded, trying to steady the quiver in his voice. “Though I only heard that a student died, and the muggle parents and relatives were obliviated.”

This finally got Alphard’s attention, his head snapping towards Harry. His throat was so choked up that Harry could hear it click when Alphard swallowed.

“The ministry obliviated the parents?”

“At the time, I was outfitting enchanted gateways in the private home of a man who worked for the ministry. I overheard the man talking about it and how the muggle and wizarding governing bodies were already in a tenuous position because of Grindelwald and the war. The MoM didn’t want to give a muggle government the chance to hear about something that might bolster anti-magical platforms, so they obliviated the parents and left it at that. That’s all I know.”

Alphard nodded. He threw an arm over his face, hiding his expression and eyes as he continued to speak. Harry was afraid that Alphard was seconds away from crying as he forced himself to keep speaking as if the very words were a knife to his heart.

“The girl’s name was Myrtle Warren. The student who found Miss Warren ran from the scene of the crime, and the first person she ran into… was me. I was on my prefect rounds, and just a corridor away from the bathroom Miss Warren was found in,” Alphard admitted. “Another prefect asked to swap routes with me, which was odd in and of itself, but I wasn’t looking for an argument that night.”

Harry pressed a comforting hand on Alphard’s leg, the other man stiffening under the touch. “Olive Hornby, the girl who found Warren, brought me to the girl’s bathroom and showed me the body. She was crying and shaking. Completely in shock. And Miss Warren? Well, I’d never seen a dead body before. Her eyes were wide open, and her face frozen in this strange expression.”

Alphard jolted up, leaning his elbows on his knees and pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead. He looked like he was going to be sick. “At first, I thought she was just petrified. A handful of students had been at that point. But there was something in the air. It was too still. How do I describe a buzzing, noisy silence even when Hornby was wailing just to the side? I don’t know how to truly describe the feeling.”

Alphard shook his head, a devastated grimace contorting his face as he slapped his chest several times. “I should be over this! It was almost thirty years ago. It was all over within a week. But on the first day, even though I was the one who reported it in, I was under heavy suspicion. I was number one suspect for many reasons: one of which was that the late Miss Warren had had an infatuation with me. It got really bad. ‘Why did you swap prefect routes that night, Alphard, how did you feel about a muggleborn’s desires for you, Mr. Black, if you don’t confess now, we’ll have to take you in anyway, Black’. They kept pushing and threatening me to confess. Only at the very last minute did another Slytherin prefect find the one responsible. I should be over it. It was over so quickly, but I’m not over it. Harry, it’s like no one doubted it. At the slightest sign of miscommunication, they were pulling my guts out. Like Alphard Black was capable of killing a young girl and there wasn’t room for a ‘maybe not’.”

Harry sat back in astonishment. He hadn’t known this. They’d been friends for two decades, and although Harry knew Alphard had bad blood about something, some ghoul in his closet, this was something different. Except… something in him was telling him that Alphard wasn’t telling the complete truth. He was omitting parts or wording it in a way that was a little dishonest, but he didn’t push. Harry could recognize that Alphard verbalizing this at all was painful enough.  

“No one apologized for believing the worst in me. I know that sounds petty. After all, a young girl died. But not even my family believed I was innocent. Don’t get me wrong, they were willing to hide the proverbial knife and ‘bury it’ if you catch my drift. Loyalty is wonderful, but that’s not the same thing as believing the best in me. I’m innocent. I am. You have to believe me—”

“Alphard, Alphard. I understand, and I won’t push or demand anything more,” Harry reassured. He could still see the distant memory from days long past of a younger and far more depressed Alphard sitting alone at the bar. Harry felt the urge to cancel his plans to go back home. It wasn’t nearly as important as a lot of people made it seem.

“No, no. I know that look on your face,” Alphard cut in. He jolted forward and grabbed Harry by each of his shoulders. “Listen, Harry. I know why you’re going back, and I want you to know that even though I said otherwise, I actually do want you to go. This is an amazing opportunity.”

“It’s not necessary. I’ve already been a part of a thousand amazing opportunities. I can miss out on one more.”

“It would be a shame.  If anyone can do Hogwarts’ restoration justice, it’s you. They need you more than you need them, right? I don’t want you worrying about me. I’m a grown man, and it’s not like we’re joined at the hip nowadays, anyway. I just need to warm up to the idea and figure out how visiting my best friend is going to work. Neither of us need British Aurors up our skirts, and I don’t want to draw attention.”

“You’re not a wanted criminal, Alphard.”

“Maybe not, but the unease never dwindles,” Alphard said as he slumped back onto the couch and closed his eyes.

Harry nodded, pressing his forehead to Alphard’s knee as he sat cross-legged at the base of the couch. He didn’t know how much time passed, but by the time Harry lifted his head again, Alphard was fast asleep. Gentle snoring filled the room, and Harry rolled up onto his feet and dragged a blanket over Alphard. Grasping at his wand, he muffled the noises around the sleeping man and levitated the left-over food and bottles into the kitchen. Harry made quick work of throwing and putting everything away before turning off the lights and disappearing further into the villa.

For as late as it was, Harry didn’t feel tired at all. He was often prone to fits of insomnia when the thoughts in his head became too loud. Instead of attempting to sleep, Harry made his way to a balcony overlooking the dark shadows of the tree line surrounding the villa with only the faintest of stars sparkling above. Harry tapped a finger on the tiny lamp sitting on a table, the warm glow cutting a circle of light around him. It was no match for the shadows of night but enough to keep Harry from being swallowed by darkness. Shuffling into one of the two chairs, the seat creaked under Harry’s weight before silence reigned again.

Amidst the humming and soothing symphony of the night, Harry tried to shake Alphard's confession from his mind. A murder mystery was not something Harry ever expected to hear from his friend, and it left Harry tangled in a web of anxiety and confusion. If Harry was being honest, he'd wanted to ask Alphard a million questions. He wanted to know who had murdered Myrtle Warren, who had caught her supposed murderer, and how all of these students got petrified in a building with eyes around every corner with no one the wiser. Slapping his forehead and reprimanding himself, Harry took a deep breath in and held it. Interrogating Alphard wouldn't do him any favors. And besides, the case was solved and closed. There wasn't any need to ask or know more than that at the cost of Alphard's comfort, right?

In lieu of murder and crime, Harry's thoughts were dragged to Tom Riddle once more. It was a little vexing how, as of late, he was thinking about Tom more and more. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t even sure why the thought of Tom was that much clearer tonight than any other night recently. Maybe because he was moving back home, and the chances of bumping into Tom were that much greater there than anywhere else. Harry thought about what Alphard had said earlier that night. Was Harry a lovesick fool for holding on to someone the way he has? Maybe. Yes. But affection or love was an odd thing in the Potter family. It came on like a storm, leaving its mark like lightning striking the earth. It didn’t matter if it was one-sided.

And maybe his affection for Tom was one-sided. It was perhaps the reason why he never spoke of Spring 1960 to anyone in great detail. There was a certain degree of absurdity to Tom and Harry’s time together in that faraway castle in France. To speak of it out loud was almost tempting it to shatter like an illusion. Truth was a cornerstone of the Potter creed, and Harry found that he was struggling to accept the possible reality that Tom was gone forever. That he would never see the man again. That the truth was that their time together meant far more to Harry than it ever did to Tom. Why else would Tom leave without notice and without a way to contact him?

Leaning back further, Harry focused on the few pinpricks of stars above. Maybe it was time to finally let Tom Riddle go. Harry was on the verge of starting a new chapter of his life. For an unspecified number of months or years, he would be with his family and Harry’s life would be very different than it had been for twenty years traveling the world. Wouldn’t it be better if he did it with a clear mind and heart?

Something inside Harry rebelled at the implication. He was not ready to let go. Instead, Harry wanted to hold on to hope a little longer, even if that did make him a fool. He was good at that. And for Tom? He might hold on forever.

Unbeknownst to Harry, and as Fate would have it, he would not have to wait that long.

Whether that was a good or bad thing was yet to be decided.  

Chapter Text

❦ July 1970 ❦

The interview and corresponding article published by MagiGlobal at the end of 1969 was a hit and, in the following months, resulted in an avalanche of commissions from all over the world to roll into Harry’s international mailbox. While a handful of requests caught his interest, Harry couldn’t take on long-term or new projects from one country to the next. Instead, it was up to Harry to field many of the commissions to magi-architects he recommended or to push them towards more broad-serving agencies. Now that the British Ministry of Magic had made Harry a lead architect for Hogwarts’ reconstruction, his professional schedule would need to be cleared for the unforeseeable future.

Nevertheless, there were a few short and sweet projects around the British Isles Harry could see himself making time for.

In the interim, Harry spent the first few months of 1970 tying off loose ends by completing anything left on his docket for the South American program. By the time late July arrived, his work was done, most of his luggage and possessions were sent ahead of him to Potter Manor, and Harry was standing outside the now empty Florianópolis villa with one bag at his feet. It was an ungodly hour, and Harry was still half asleep on the portkey landing circle with his gold-rimmed glasses askew, hair an absolute mess, and waiting for the international portkey to England to activate. While the portkey was scheduled for 10 AM London time, it was currently a few minutes before 6 AM in Brazil. The four-hour time difference was painful, and it didn’t help that Alphard was standing outside the landing circle rambling about something Harry was almost too tired to focus on.

He loved that man, but by Merlin, Harry was not a morning person.

Harry’s last week in Brazil was spent glued to Alphard’s side, exploring beautiful sites along the coast. But for the most part, the pair went swimming and sunbathing in Maceió in too-short shorts while drinking frozen cocktails that conjured snowflakes on their breath. A week wasn’t enough time in the world to enjoy everything as fun days ended with the blink of an eye, but Alphard and Harry found a way to put a big bow on every day.

Even on the last evening, in an odd turn of events, they’d signed themselves up for a government-regulated service that allowed them to temporarily transfigure their legs into mertails and tease drunk and drugged-out muggles on boats. Apparently, appearing as muggle-stereotyped magical creatures in front of addle-brained muggles helped with the magical world’s secrecy. After all, who would believe someone half out of their mind? It was helpful fun, but the highlight of it all was when a muggle professed their loud and explicit lust to a horrified, black-tailed Alphard. As the drunk muggle chased the screeching Black around in a dingy motorboat, Harry watched on from a nearby rock, flipping his green tail back and forth in amusement.

Their time together was never short of absurd tales, but neither man was soon to forget that.

Looking back on their twenty-year friendship, how Alphard managed to run a high-profit banking company while running off with Harry at the drop of a hat was a mystery, but Harry wasn’t going to take it for granted. He never had before, and Harry wouldn’t start now. He rarely had the luxury to travel to Alphard as architectural work required Harry to be on-site and on hand too often, so Alphard’s efforts were a gift.

And yet, in spite of Alphard’s supposed plans to visit him in the British Isles, Harry was reluctant to hold him to his word. Whatever, or whomever Alphard was excluding from his story of the murder of Myrtle Warren was enough to cause him to emotionally devolve at the very thought of Harry staying long-term on the same isle. And what with Alphard’s motivation for visiting being wholly hinged on just Harry, it wasn’t much to hold out for. The reality of it was that there were far more momentous occasions Alphard had missed in the past to avoid England.

In fact, Alphard wasn’t there for his eldest niece’s wedding just a little over a year ago. According to Dorea, an irate Bellatrix in full bridal regalia, had stormed through three floo networks to get to the Black family townhouse in London to blast his image right off the family tree. It wasn’t her call to disown Alphard, but Bellatrix wanted it known that her favorite uncle was now scum under her boot. Bellatrix’s father, Cygnus, was all that stood between her and Alphard’s tapestried face for a whole hour before she could be talked into rejoining the party. Alphard was grateful to his younger brother for defusing the situation, but no amount of regret and sorrowful letters could sooth Bellatrix’s ire. She was a Lestrange now, but she was still a Black through and through. Their fury sustained like fiendfyre.

In the end, Harry’s doubts were cemented by the way Alphard explained his visitations. His ever-changing plans sounded more and more like escape routes in and out of the country each time he re-explained what he had put together, and Harry was willing to bet that Alphard was keeping several plans from him just to avoid appearing paranoid.

Not that Alphard was doing a good job of that when Harry knew him so well.

“This is the official plan—the final one. Harry, are you listening? This is important,” Alphard said as Harry swayed on the spot. He resigned himself to hearing Alphard out again but kept his eyes shut to soothe the tired, stinging burn.

“You see, I set up an anonymous LLC that keeps my name off the papers, which allowed me to buy a fully outfitted magic ship with no one the wiser. The ship, which, as you know, I named Phouka, is enchanted to appear in several different ways to muggles and magicals. What it actually looks like is a Spanish galleon ship,” Alphard said while taking a deep breath for the next part. “So, wherever I am in Europe, if I want to visit you, I’ll apparate, floo or portkey—”

“Be honest,” Harry interrupted with one eye fluttering open. “How much money do you spend annually on cross-country and international portkeys?”

“Price is no object,” Alphard said, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “Besides, I send the receipts to my accounting department as work trips with clients, and because you bank with me, you are one of my clients. Ergo, tax deductible.”

Harry’s head flopped forward until his chin hit his chest, motioning for Alphard to continue with a lazy wave of his free hand.

“As I was saying! I’ll apparate, floo, or portkey to Boulogne-Sur-Mer, France, where my ship is docked in a muggle marina. The ship will be disguised as a muggle luxury yacht as it leaves the French coast. The trip across the English Channel should take me a little under two hours, and when I’m pulling up to the docks at Rye, East Sussex, the ship will appear as a commercial fishing boat. I’ve already done this several times in order to establish a known docking history. The whole point is to enter the country without alerting any official wizarding authorities, and Rye is muggle enough that I’ll pass through unnoticed.”

Harry nodded along. It was true. Rye used to be a primary wizarding coastal town for a long time, but they lost the territory during some muggle conflict a century ago. There were a few lingering remnants of hidden wizarding facilities —like The Mermaid Inn—with the occasional witch or wizard living in the town, but otherwise, it was a convenient and inconspicuous place for Alphard to pass through.

“From there, I’ll apparate to a nearby forested wizarding town called Bedinfield just a few miles from Peasmarsh.”

“Bedinfield, Bedinfield. That sounds familiar,” Harry muttered. “Oh. You asked my cousin Artemis to broker a deal for the mansion there, didn’t you? I thought it wasn’t on the market.”  

“It wasn’t,” Alphard said. “We did it under the table. All legal with the LLC, but quiet as a will-o-wisp. How do you know about that?”

“Artemis writes to me about all the interesting properties no one wants. He never mentioned he sold the mansion to you, though, so don’t worry,” Harry said, reaching up to rub his eyes as he yawned. “You know, Bedinfield was named after a persecuted witch who lived in Essex several centuries ago. Her name was Elizabeth Clarke, and the town mascot is dedicated to her black rabbit familiar, Sacke and Sugar. Interesting, right? Alphard?”

Harry waited for Alphard to answer, but he was greeted by silence. He opened one eye again but blinked it back shut after seeing that Alphard had disappeared. Heaving a sigh and with nothing else to do, Harry continued to wait alone. The portkey in his pocket would sling him across the Atlantic any second, and getting through MoM customs would be the only obstacle between him and home.

As Harry began to sense the subtle shift of increased magic pulling into the portkey, a traveling cup full of coffee and a bag with a still warm pão francês were pressed into his unoccupied hand. Harry blinked fully awake, his heart stuttering at the tight and burdened expression caught on Alphard’s face.

“Just promise me that if you ever need my help, you won’t hesitate to ask,” Alphard said. “No questions asked and with no stipulations.”

“I can handle myself. I’ve been to far more dangerous places in the world than home,” Harry reassured Alphard for the millionth time. A bit of sarcasm leaked through, and by Alphard’s guilty fidgeting, it hadn’t gone unnoticed or unheard. Harry tried to give Alphard an encouraging smile, but it was hard to reassure anyone when Harry himself did not know what Alphard saw or knew that Harry did not.

“Just promise me,” Alphard pushed.

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” Harry said. By the look on Alphard’s face, he felt the sentiment was better fit the other way around.

“I promise I’ll ask for help if I need it,” Harry finally acquiesced, shrugging his shoulders but feeling anything but blasé about the conversation now that ‘farewell’ was hanging right over their heads.

“Good.”

Harry was struck by a bought of regret, wishing there was something more he could say—almost sure that this would be the last he saw of Alphard in person for quite some time. Harry opened his mouth to thank Alphard or to say anything that might mean everything that went unsaid between them, but before Harry could get the words out, the portkey pulled him away with a definite snap.

The last thing he saw was Alphard’s reluctant smile.

❦ Ministry of Magic Headquarters, Whitehall, London ❦

Harry landed in the London portkey circle with a muffled crack, the charms placed around the space around him mitigating the noise. The landing circle was conveniently tucked in a curtained alcove with a chaise lounge and mirror, giving Harry a moment to reorient himself before having to face the rest of the world. Readjusting his glasses and patting down some of his wilder curls, Harry pushed the thick curtain aside and was bombarded by the bright and ornate décor of the International Portkey Platform in London. Harry groaned under his breath—equally peeved and amused at being reminded of the open showboating the Ministry practiced.  

The IPP was a converted ballroom that used to host special events and celebrations but was later reconstructed for the transportation department to accommodate a higher rate of visiting foreign liaisons and dignitaries. The room was fit for royalty with a tall painted ceiling, a humongous crystal chandelier hanging from the middle, and a dozen portkey landing platforms tucked in embellished, curtained alcoves on the sides of the room. It had all the regality of a French rococo-style palace and hidden security that was impressive. But for all its gilded beauty and convenience, Harry rarely went this route to travel back into the country, and for good reason.

The Ministry wanted to keep track of when high-profile individuals entered and exited the country, and while Harry hated to overvalue himself, he was not so naïve or ignorant that he could ignore his influence over society both as a successful public figure or as a Potter. This, compounded with the fact that plenty of witches and wizards came and went out of the country with far less fanfare, cemented the conclusion that the Ministry sending him a portkey had nothing to do with his convenience. Harry hated his privacy being encroached on and would have refused on principle, but that would've been seen as suspicious.

A suspicious government was a burden to deal with, so Harry was resigned to the unavoidable annoyance.

Staring up at the flying cherubs floating about the painted sky, Harry stepped up to the security check desk and aligned his feet to the foot-shaped imprints on the floor—waiting for the woman behind the desk to address him. While the platform was bustling and packed during political seasons or popular events like quidditch finals, the platform otherwise fell into a lulling emptiness due to the high price and restrictive regulations of international portkeys. The non-existent line worked fine for Harry, but that didn't stop the employee behind the desk from looking stressed and exhausted to death—brown hair tossed up in a messy bun and dark, heavy bags under her eyes.

"Good morning, sir," the woman said in a monotone voice. "My name is Britta Fawcett, and I will be assisting you today. To confirm, was the British Ministry of Magic your intended destination point?"

"Yes, Miss Fawcett," Harry said, leaning heavily against the desk on his forearm while sipping his coffee.

"Then welcome to London, England. Please pass me your used portkey and registered wand and state your business."

Ready and on hand, Harry passed his holly and phoenix feather wand alongside a tiny teacup.

"I'm a resident of this country, but I've worked abroad for most of the past two decades," Harry said while Fawcett inspected the wand and portkey. "I'm moving back more permanently for work reasons."

Nodding along to his words, Miss Fawcett placed the teacup in a dark box under the desk and his wand on an obsidian-lined wand holder. With a glittering flash, Harry's full legal name, birth date, and wand registration number popped up in the air and floated down to an open book in front of her where the words and numbers settled onto the page. Harry waited while tracing his fingers along the edge of the desk in lazy circles.

All was well until writing began to appear in the notes section.

Harry shifted as a bright red circle bled up right next to his name, and Fawcett's eyebrows notched up with some realization. She looked between him and the page several times before slapping the book closed.

"Please hand over your consumables," she said, reaching out to snatch the drinking cup and food right out of his grip before she finished speaking. Harry held the bag and cup out of her reach, blinking rapidly at the tonal shift.

"What?"

"Please hand over your c—"

"No, I heard you," Harry said, trying not to be rude. "Why?"

"It's protocol," Fawcett said, short and to the point. Her hand snapped forward to snatch the bag of bread and the cup again, but Harry was quick to lift them farther up and away from her.

"This is a new protocol and one I’m not familiar with, so I want to know why. Is food no longer allowed into the building, or are you checking it for something?"

"If you have nothing to hide from the Ministry, there is nothing to fear."

"If I have nothing left to hide, I have everything to fear," Harry answered back. "Privacy is a right. It's just a drink and bread. Normal. No potion additives. But it's the small things, isn't it? Next thing you know, Aurors will escort me to a side room and ask me to drop my pants."

The uncomfortable pause that followed his words made it clear to Harry that that was not out of the realm of possibilities.

Harry tracked Fawcett with his eyes as she circled the desk to stand before him, arms and legs akimbo in a power pose. Harry admired her zeal and attempt at intimidation, but as both continued to stare at each other, unblinking and unmoving, it was clear that Harry was willing to wait her out. When Harry didn't budge or hand over his things, she grumbled and rubbed at her forehead, seeing no other option than to explain.

"Fine. If you must know, your wand registration number is flagged. You're considered a person who is more likely to bring in 'recently made illegal substances or artifacts' based on newly passed restriction acts. This is not an arrest. It's for your safety and knowledge as you transition back into the country."

Harry laughed at the absurdity. “Right. Okay,” he said under his breath.

Not waiting another second, Harry stuffed half of a pao francês in his mouth while Fawcett lunged forward.

"Mr. Potter! Please, Mr. Potter! It's protocol—" Harry scuttled away from her, sipping his still-warm coffee between bites of bread. They went in circles, with Fawcett trying to catch him, but she was always a few inches too short as Harry swirled around her. By the time she was out of breath, hand on her knees, and still trying to call out to him, Harry was wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand and jogging to stand with his feet aligned with the imprints again.

"I understand," Harry said, a shameless grin glowing on his face while waiting for Fawcett to drag herself back behind the desk. "Please, check as thoroughly as you can."

Harry handed the empty bag and cup to her, smiling at the way she tipped the cup upside down, not a single drop left to dribble out. Resigned, she threw them away and turned back to Harry, tapping her foot like he was her final straw.

"Please empty all of your possessions onto the side table where they will be individually processed and evaluated for—"

"No."

"Mr. Potter!"

"Listen," Harry entreated, trying to calm the flustered and puffed-up security attendant. "The last time I came through here, the process was a preliminary scan on the outside of the bags. Can’t you do that as usual? If I knew somebody would spread my stuff out for the cherubs to ogle at, I'd have packed—well, nothing."

Fawcett cracked her jaw, ready to argue back, but was interrupted as the side door creaked open. Harry cheered at the appearance of his grumpy-faced brother-in-law standing with his arms crossed and a severe frown dragging his face straight to Hades. He looked the same as always, his far too neatly trimmed mustache and all-black clothing from head to toe an unforgettable ensemble. In another life, Bartemius Crouch would have made the perfect mortician just by appearance alone.

"Bartemius," Harry said, waving grandly at the other man. "Get me out of here before my briefs are exposed to the eyes in the ceiling."

Bartemius Crouch shook his head. "We need to inspect your bag. That's the protocol now, and I can't make an exception just because we're associated with each other."

Harry scrunched up his face, crossing his arms and mimicking Crouch's pose. "Oh, so I'm your wife's sister's husband's brother, and we're just associated. For shame! I'll be sure to mention it to the family later."

"I don't have time for Potters today," Bartemius said in response, rubbing his temples and motioning for Fawcett to continue. "Check his bag. Now."

Harry held up his hands in defeat, hiding the hot curl of frustration that burst in his chest as his possessions were spread out in front of them. Harry was familiar with strict security checks in certain countries and regions and, therefore, sent his more valuable and questionable possessions through private channels. He also made it a habit to pack the luggage on hand light, which is why today, there was nothing of note in his bag. But that never stopped Harry from resisting the search on principle. Open compliance was not something Harry practiced with ease, especially not with the Ministry.

"It checks out," Fawcett said, handing Harry's wand back to him, which he flicked at his things—everything re-packing itself and the bag buckling closed.

Harry bowed to the woman and slung the bag over his shoulder. "Thank you, Miss Fawcett, for your help, and excuse me for my willfulness. Habits do as habit does."

Jogging toward Bartemius, Harry gave a final look up at the peeping cherubs and flipped them the middle finger. He knew they were magically enabled to report the comings and goings to Aurors, and Harry didn’t appreciate a cute face masked over deceit.

"And here I thought you'd come to save me from all that," Harry groused. “Or are you just the welcome parade?”

Bartemius shook his head, tapping the Auror badge on his chest with great pride and authority. "I take my position and career quite seriously. If I make exceptions and bend the rules, then order begins to fall in disarray. What if other Aurors saw me excuse you from a now common practice in the transportation department? I lead by example."

"Yes. Let’s completely ignore that I’m flagged by the Ministry. Or are flagged individuals common? That doesn’t sound like healthy governing,” Harry mocked.

The glare he got in response was scathing. “Alright! Okay,” Harry said. “No need to bust my balls."

Harry nudged at Bartemius' shoulder, dodging his hand as he swatted Harry away like an annoying fly. He ignored his brother-in-law’s open disdain, giving a mighty stretch as they walked side by side down several hallways. "Thank you for meeting me. I'll be late if I don't get to the floo system soon."

"Unfortunately, lateness may be in the cards for you today," Bartemius said, leading him into one of the gold elevators and facing forward, not looking at Harry. "You've been ordered to join Minister Jenkins in her office for a brief meeting."

Ordered .

Harry frowned. If he were to say no, if he were to refuse, would that be allowed? Yes. Absolutely. But Minister Eugenia Jenkins would keep calling and calling until whatever she had to say was said. That’s just what Ministry officials were like. This would be the first time he spoke to her, and with two years in office under her belt, he could only guess what she wanted. Harry supposed it was best to get it out of the way and have the Minister say her peace. Still—

"And you didn't send a message to me about it before my arrival because…?"

Bartemius turned fully to Harry as the elevator lifted them higher and higher. "Because I didn't know until last night and because you don't need to treat the Ministry like a nuisance. You act like there’s a basilisk in your basement, and we’re banging down your door. It’s not a good look.”

“I’ll be sure to warn the basilisk in my plumbing that you’d sell her out because you won’t vouch for your in-laws,” Harry said.

 “One of these days, your attitude and cheek will get you in trouble."

"Stop talking to me like you're my senior. You’re younger than me by several years," Harry said, jabbing his finger at Crouch. "It ages you, Bart. Makes you look old and cranky, and one of these days, people will start calling you Crotchety Crouch."

Bartemius covered his face with a hand. "Why are you all like this? It's like a copied memo for trouble with every single Potter. It's bad enough having to deal with Gwaine in my department. He's causing me enough issues."

Harry took a pause, worry seeping into his heart. "Issues? What kind of issues?"

Bartemius shook his head. "The difficulties of learning how to take orders. He doesn't listen. Doesn't work well with others." Bartemius fiddled with his cuffs, clearly annoyed at the mere thought of Gwaine. "He goes off on these strange side adventures on patrol. He disappears and reappears with some random object tucked under his arm. He won't last as an Auror if he keeps on like this."

"Gwaine works wonderfully with others. He's the biggest team player that ever was," Harry defended. "Of all the Potters, Gwaine is the one most suited for teamwork, and he would never put anyone in danger for personal reasons. His heart is too big for careless harm.”

"That's not a high bar or a glowing endorsement coming from your risktaker family," Bartemius hissed.

"You don't have to be a prat all the time,” Harry said, a scowl curling his lips as he snapped his fingers at Crouch. “We're your family whether you like it or not. It's unkind and ungentlemanly to be so uncharitable about us because we march to a different tune."

Crouch coughed into his hand and looked at his shoes, twisting one back and forth to catch the light. He made no attempt to fill in the silence, but Harry recognized it wasn't all due to stubbornness. Bartemius was cowed and embarrassed at oversharing his frustrations and was too prideful to admit that he’d overstepped. By marital and familial relation, Bartemius’ wife, Eulia Eleanor Crouch nee Parpidum, was Euphemia’s much younger sister, and considering Euphemia was married to Fleamont, Bartemius should have had much stronger emotional ties to the Potters. But Bartemius’ efforts at fostering relationships with his in-laws were flimsy at best, and more often than not, it felt like he was actively trying to distance himself from them.

"I know we're not the kind of family that works into your plans. We’re an unattractive fit for someone who is trying to embody perfect law and order," Harry entreated, trying to catch Bartemius' elusive gaze. "That can be difficult and lonely when family is supposed to have your back. But despite what you may feel, we want to be there for you, and none of us are aiming for your unhappiness. We're trying our best. Maybe you should, too."

The elevator doors dinged open, and Harry moved to leave. He was momentarily stopped by Bartemius, who held him by his bicep and kept one hand on the doors to keep them from closing.

“I won’t be joining you or the family for this afternoon’s festivities, but Eulia and Junior will be there with you all.”

“Are you sure you can’t make it? It’ll be a sweet surprise for Barty if you do.”

Bartemius shook his head but reached into his inner robe pocket to pull out a medium-sized box, thin and square. He passed it on to Harry, who tucked the box into the front of his bag. “Inside the box are flower crowns for my wife and son,” Bartemius said, still not looking into Harry’s eyes. “I made it for them last night. It’ll have to be enough.”

Harry hoped it would be for Eulia and Barty’s sake.

 Patting him on the shoulder, Harry backed into the hallway and shooed the Senior Auror away. “Off you go then, Crouch. I’m sure the office is already falling apart without you.”

The comment put a slight smile on the dour man’s face, grateful that Harry would not lecture him about familial and work priorities in this regard. Not that he could. Harry couldn’t fault anyone for marital issues when he had miraculously failed at his own marriage due to fits of obsession chasing after echoes of his past life. Letting the obsession go was the hardest thing Harry had done in his younger years, but some things only led to dead ends and broken relationships.

Moving away from the elevators, Harry steadied himself, trying to ignore how troubled he always felt when he passed through the MoM's London headquarters. It wasn't a huge, debilitating reaction, but there was a sense of unease when he entered the atrium, some of the offices or rooms, and down certain hallways. Harry took note of the many employees rushing from office to office with tall stacks of documents chasing right behind them. Each door had a bronze plaque with a surname engraved across it, and as Harry moved farther down the hall, he would occasionally catch a glimpse of those witches and wizards at their desks.

Finally reaching the Minister's office, Harry raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before he could get one in—Minister Eugenia Jenkins standing a bit too close to him as she ushered him inside.

"Arch Potter! Come in, come in. I'm afraid I'm very busy today, so I don't have much time for you," Minister Jenkins said as she led Harry to one of the chairs facing her desk. Harry sucked on his teeth, miffed at the way she made it sound like he asked for her time instead of the other way around. He'd have chalked it up to a power play, but like every other person who worked at the Ministry, Jenkins looked seconds away from overdosing on Wideye Potions.

Eugenia Jenkins was a pureblood a decade older than Harry, with mousy brown hair cut to her shoulders in a fashionable style and bright red lipstick that cut a mean shade against her pearly white teeth. She had a gaze that was just as cutting, but Harry was used to these kinds of people. Under the veneer of severity, Harry knew she was paddling through political waters with all the paranoia of a duck tailed by a crocodile. But who could blame her when it was rumored that her muggle-born predecessor, Nobby Leach, resigned from office after catching a mysterious illness he was rumored to have contracted through unnatural means? And if Henry Potter was to be believed, unnatural means came in the domineering form of Abraxas Malfoy.

The same Abraxas Malfoy who had an office just a few doors down and was always hard at work.

"Thank you for having me, Minister Jenkins. It's a pleasure to meet you, but as you implied, time is short and the day is shorter," Harry said, plopping down on one of the chairs and giving Jenkins his full attention. "I think we'd both benefit if you got right to the point."

Jenkins nodded, leaning back in her seat and holding her breath as if she was profoundly considering her words before saying them.

"As you know, our country is experiencing an influx of unfulfillment and unrest."

"I'm not so familiar with the details, Minister Jenkins. I've been out of the country for nearly as long as I've been in it," Harry pointed out. “I only came home for brief special events.”

"We’re dealing with minor riots here and there, but it's the talk—the whispers— and underground meetings of people voicing their discontent that is concerning. Not that anyone has proof of these meetings, but such is the nature of these things," Eugenia said, caressing the length of her wand in thought. "Now, more than ever, it is important for people to live and lead by example."

Bartemius' face cut through Harry's thoughts as Jenkins continued to speak. "The common folk are looking towards public figures to gauge what direction to move, what or who to believe in, and how to vote. I'm not asking you to endorse anything or anyone, but we currently cannot afford for the public to sway in too extreme of a direction on the whims of celebrities."

Harry Potter, our new celebrity… Fame clearly isn't everything.

Harry shook his head, slapping the whisper of a nasty voice right out of his mind's ear. "I am keenly aware that what I do and what I say influences people, and I do my best to represent myself with care.”

“That would be very helpful to us, Arch Potter,” Minister Jenkins said, pleased enough at him that her shoulders unlocking from their tense position. “I was concerned about some of your beliefs being a negative force against the peace we are trying to hold on to, but if you’re willing to keep them to yourself, it would be appreciated.”

Harry cocked his head to the side, lost over what she was referring to. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I won't change or downplay my opinions to fit a narrative."

"Your anti-muggle-born rhetoric is not the opinion we want to endorse in our modernizing society, Arch Potter. We realize that older families have—"

"Now, hold on," Harry interrupted, rearing back and eyebrows scrunched together at how fast the conversation turned on its side. "I have nothing against muggle-borns. What makes you think I do?"

Harry bristled at the look Eugenia Jenkins gave him as if he was lying and lying poorly to her. His hands gripped the armchair to keep himself from biting her head off.

"Well, if I had to name one thing," she said, "your reaction over the repealment of Rappaport's Law in 1965 was reported on in the Daily Prophet. You voiced some very loud objections to the United States lifting many of its segregation laws that kept magicals from befriending, marrying, or generally co-existing alongside muggles. From what we've all heard, you have quite the vendetta against non-magicals, and that's not something the muggle-born population feels at ease with."

"First of all," Harry snapped, "muggles and muggle-borns are two different topics of conversation, even when the lines blur between them. My 'loud objections' were about the lack of safety nets the American government was setting up to protect witches and wizards from overexposure during the process of repealing the law. It was pretty obvious they were going about it like they wanted integration to fail."

Harry stood up and loomed over the desk, casting a shadow over Minister Jenkins, who was none too pleased with the open way in which Harry was contradicting her.

"And secondly, vendetta isn't what anyone should call it. I prioritize magical kind. Someone has to, or should I accuse you of having a vendetta against Merpeople?" Harry tapped a finger at the corner of his mouth, a mocking lilt to his voice. " Newt Scamander—you know Master Scamander—told me how you forcibly relocated a colony of merpeople after allowing non-magicals to claim ownership of the Greater Lake in Scotland . What muddy puddle have you stuck them in to keep muggles fat and satisfied, Minister Eugenia Jenkins?"

"That was for unavoidable financial reasons, the details of which you are not privy to and therefore have no understanding of," Jenkins said, getting up to stand by the office window overlooking the atrium fountain.

She held her hands behind her back, a pensive and disappointed expression smeared across her face. "I was hoping you and I could come to a spoken agreement, but you're challenging, aren't you? We can split hairs and disagree all day, but I'm still asking that you conduct yourself appropriately now that you're rejoining our society. There are members of our population that will benefit from our empathy, and we need to make room for their customs and lifestyle."

"Funny, I just said the latter verbatim in court the other day, didn't I, Henry?"

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as Henry Potter and Artemis Potter came out of nowhere, flanking him on each side. Neither Harry nor Jenkins heard the two men sneak into the room in the heat of the conversation, and who knows how Henry or Artemis knew he was in the Minister's office in the first place. But Harry was more than done with dealing with the Ministry today and now that reinforcements had arrived, Harry hoped to exit the conversation and office in the next minute.

"We're flattered you pay such close attention to us on the Wizengamot floor, Minister, but taking and using our words out of context is rude. Especially when addressing a member of our family," Henry admonished.

Henry, the previous Lord of House Potter, was one of the Wizengamot's longest-serving members, having seen decades of politicking. Always dressed in leather gloves and long, thick robes that dragged far behind him, Henry was an imposing man who dressed like a retired king if such a thing even existed. Younger politicians thought Henry, at ninety-three years old, wouldn't be able to keep up the same way he used to, but Harry knew that was far from the truth. Though an injury Henry obtained several years ago left him reliant on a carved mahogany walking cane, Henry was no less sharp or wily than when Harry first met him in 1935. What are a few wrinkles and silver hairs to a Potter hurricane?

"Insults were not my intent today, Dowager Potter, but reputation can be just as disadvantageous as a boon. It's for Arch Potter's comfort that I enlighten him and give him perspective on the current climate of our society. Not that he was open to it. Instead of receptivity, he was quite accusatory," Jenkins said, noticeably keeping her distance at the far end of the room.

"While your consideration for Harry's comfort is noted, Minister," Artemis said. "Harry's response to your lecture was in defense of his character. And rightfully so if we heard correctly. If you have an issue with a member of our family, you can speak to me or Henry before you address them. An unofficial meeting to question a wizard's social standing is wildly inappropriate, and it's not your place to give Harry unsolicited advice."

Minister Jenkins clucked her tongue. "Apologies. I overstepped out of concern, and I recognize my blunder."

"Forgiven," Artemis said, waving Minister Jenkins off. Harry admired the confident form his cousin cut. Artemis was Charlus' father and a decade younger than Henry, and in many ways, Harry considered him the closest thing he had to a parental figure. He had a certain way about him: wild energy and swagger that paired handsomely with his salt and pepper locks and forever present smirk. As a member of House Potter's secondary line, Artemis had no obligation to represent their family politically, but he enjoyed the rat race just as much as real estate work.

"Well, gentleman," Minster Jenkins said while clearing her throat. "I see that this meeting is coming to a close. Apologies for keeping your son, Dowager Potter."

"He's not my son," Henry said, short and to the point.

The office fell into an awkward silence; the second Harry had had to suffer in one morning. As Minister Jenkins blushed bright red at the first misstep she was actually embarrassed over; her mouth clicking open and closed, unsure how to proceed. Harry, wanting out more than anything, grabbed his bag and readied himself for a hasty exit. "No harm done, Minister Jenkins. I'm the current Lord Potter's half-brother through our shared mother, and she was a Potter by blood. You wouldn't be the first to make that mistake."

Minister Jenkins didn't know what to say to that, and by the harsh glare Artemis was too busy throwing at Henry, and Henry, who was too busy staring at the ceiling, it was up to Harry to move things along again.

"Good day to you, and we hope you have a festive Lúnasa," Harry said, gracing her with the shallowest of bows and beating a quick retreat. "Artemis, Henry, come on. Let's go."

In a whirlwind, all three Potters left Minister Jenkins' office as a united front and began to make their way to the floo network in the atrium. Most of the offices were empty of their designated occupants as it was a half day at the Ministry, and it was around that time that most employees were making their way home or already gone. The rush from earlier must have been everyone trying to get their work done before leaving, but now all that was left were a few temps and assistants cleaning up.

As Harry, Artemis, and Henry strutted past, the Ministry workers hopped out of their way and gave nervous bows—some of them staring for too long. Harry nodded his head in acknowledgment but otherwise kept in step with Henry and Artemis with quiet confidence, trying not to look back and check if they were still staring.

The Potter men made it a few yards and around the corner before one of them finally broke, Artemis purposefully stepping on the tail of Henry's robe.

"Must you always be on," Artemis snapped, swinging his newspaper at Henry, who ducked with an abashed scowl.

"The truth is the truth," Henry said, adjusting the moly flower pin on his chest where it had twisted from the pull on his robes. The Potter family's heraldic badge also gleamed on Artemis' chest, reminding Harry that he needed to start wearing his own opal and black steel pin now that he was home.

"You made it sound like Harry was some disgraced, disowned son! And in front of the Minister, no less. For someone so talented with words on the Wizengamot floor, you're such a—"

"I didn't mean it like that," Henry cried out, doing a valiant job, as usual, of ignoring the uncomfortable moments he caused when their relationship was brought up to outsiders. Harry wasn't around enough for his feelings to get hurt, but even if he was, Henry was entitled to feel and say what he wanted regardless. He tried not to hold that against him. Perhaps Harry had held hope for a connection with Henry when he was a teenage orphan coming face to face with the family he'd never known he had, but those days were long gone. Accepting the disjointed fit of their relationship was all that was left between them.

"Then how did you mean it?"

"As a matter of fact. Not opinion."

The two bickering men threw quips back and forth as they continued walking, but Harry was too lost in his head, thinking over the past hour, to pay attention to what they were saying. He wasn't expecting a direct confrontation from the Ministry right off the beater's bat. Maybe something eventually, but Eugenia Jenkins had no reason to be so flagrant with her agenda with him. She performed none of the concealed, perfumed words that Harry would have expected from a first meeting, and Harry couldn't tell if that was her style of politics or if she'd lost patience for the subtle game. Home was home, and there was no place like it. That often meant an entirely different world to deal with, but Harry was far from being a criminal worthy of being flagged by the Ministry and verbally dressed down by the Minister herself. The whole morning and the intensity of it read as odd to Harry.

"It's fine," Harry reassured them. "I'm just glad to be out of there. The conversation reeked of ulterior motives."

"Minister Jenkins is under a lot of stress," Artemis said, pushing them into an elevator. "But who isn't? That shouldn't be an excuse. She lacks the calm mind needed for leadership roles, and too many think she's fit for office because she tempered one small riot a few years ago."

"The worst part of the situation we're in with her is that Minister Jenkins genuinely means well," Henry tacked on as the elevator dropped them to Level Eight. "She wants peace, quiet, and social cohesiveness, but she's pointing her wand in the dark and taking wild shots."

"It's not like the country is in a time of war," Harry said, confused and out of step as the elevator doors opened. "She was acting like the world was about to unravel into spellfire at the drop of one wrong word."

 "War? No. Tension and discontent? Yes," Artemis said. "But you know how these things can be. Escalation can happen anywhere and at any time. War is not so foreign a concept for this country that it should ever be considered inconceivable."

They all stopped before stepping into the atrium, peaking their heads out to see a group of men loitering and talking by the fountain. From the looks of it, the group consisted of a little over half of the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, who must have had an impromptu meeting in the lower levels and were just now getting out.

"Is Gwaine already at the manor, or are we swinging by to get him," Harry asked as they leaned back into the shadows of the hallway.

"He should already be there, so we just have to get through that lovely little thorn thicket. I'd rather not walk past them today. It's a headache waiting to happen when they're all bunched together," Artemis said. He peaked out again, locking in on a man walking away from the collective group and towards where they were hidden.

Artemis gifted Harry a sneaky smile as he leaned close so Henry wouldn't hear. "Harry. Wonderful, filial Harry. Do me the biggest favor and give Bulstrode some attitude, will you?"

Harry huffed, leaning casually against the wall with his not-father and kind-of father as Plutus Bulstrode strode into their hallway.

"Eat shit, Bulstrode," Harry said with all the casualness of a man having a conversation over tea and biscuits. Bulstrode blanched, shocked at the vulgarity. He stumbled away, looking back at them every few seconds with an insulted, open-mouthed expression like he couldn't believe what he just heard. Artemis covered his smile, while Henry was suddenly very interested in his nail beds, both pretending that Harry's comment was nothing unusual for civilized gentlemen to say.

Artemis turned to Harry and kissed the side of his head with fond approval. "You're perfect, Harry. That was beautiful Pottering."

"My pleasure."

It's astonishing how polite and quiet Charlus is with a father like you. Don't encourage bad behavior, Artemis," Henry reprimanded.

Artemis ruffled his salt and pepper hair and scratched at the nape of his neck, one of those habits all Potters fell into when they didn't know what to say. Staring at his pseudo-father, Harry scrunched up his nose with the force of his smile. Being back with family was wonderful— a comforting familiarity that was safe wherever they were so long as they were together.

"What's a Potter without some spontaneousness," Artemis finally answered. "Besides, if Bulstrode tells anyone, it's not like they'd believe him. He's a cun—"

"Behave," Henry said as he looked to check how many wizards were still talking by the fountain. Many had already left through the floo system or down other hallways, but some more prominent members lingered. "We're barely cordial with most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the Wizengamot combined. We can't afford recklessness."

There were fifty voting members of the Wizengamot at any given time, with one vote automatically going to the acting Minister of Magic, another for the elected Chief Wizard of the Wizengamot, and one for each of the Heads of the Ministry's seven departments. From there, as established upon the Ministry's founding in 1707, twenty-eight seats were legally reserved for the Sacred Twenty-Eight to claim. This meant that families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had one voting seat each inherited upon retirement or death, unlike elected members of the Wizengamot.

Of course, not all families listed on the Sacred Twenty-Eight were politically active. Currently, twenty-four seats were claimed by the Sacred Twenty-Eight, with the Gaunt line being extinct and the Burkes, Ollivanders, and Weasleys being inactive. If a voting seat from the Sacred Twenty-Eight was inactive or extinct, the seat was given to a newly elected member of the Wizengamot, which left seventeen seats to be claimed by-election and held until retirement or impeachment. There was the possibility of a Sacred Twenty-Eight member with an inactive seat or an heir of a previously thought-to-be extinct line stepping forward to reclaim their seat, but reappointment was an uncouth affair. They were required to plead their case to the Wizengamot so a decision could be put to a vote, but if accepted, another vote was needed to decide who of the elected masses would have to give up their seat. The elected seats were one of few the public had a say over, so reappointment would undoubtedly cause an outcry from the population.

There were so few spots on the Wizengamot that they were coveted and guarded— most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hoping to gain another vote but finding it difficult to advance. Difficult but not unheard of or impossible. As it was, the only family to have more than one vote on the Wizengamot was

The Potters.

Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes. The story behind the Potters' position in the Wizengamot was considered miraculous and outstanding to many, but Harry considered it more 'pure Potter pettiness.'

That's just who they were.

It was no great secret that the Potters were one of the oldest, if not the oldest, wizarding family established in the British Isles with a wealth, history, and political influence that elevated them to a form of social elitism. An attempt to knock them down to their knees occurred every few decades. Why? The temptation was too powerful for some people. Envy for their position or fear over the Potters' collective influence was no laughing matter.

So, when Henry Potter made the bold decision to pose an assist and relief plan to help muggles during World War I, several influential wizarding houses quickly took that as the perfect opportunity to take a shot. In a stunning coupe, the Potters were ousted from the Sacred Twenty-Eight in 1916 by vote of its active members, replaced by the Carrows, and promptly lost their right to an inherited seat on the Wizengamot.

For weeks, the Wizengamot deliberated over whether Henry should stay on as a member with a demotion to an elected seat despite not going through a public election. But Henry wasn't about to sit around and find out. Humiliated and furious, Henry left the Wizengamot and did a grand tour of war relief with his wife, Amelia Potter, leading up to a few months before WWI ended.

That would have been the last of it, but in 1921, four elected seats opened up on the Wizengamot for the first time in forever, and Henry returned for election season with Artemis Potter at his side. With all the pettiness and clever marketing a duo could muster, Henry and Artemis campaigned as a set with the slogan 'Double or Nothing.'

It was audacious and bold.

At that point, Henry was still considered a boon for muggle-borns and half-blood families straddling the line between muggle and wizarding life. At the same time, Artemis was a wizarding traditionalist who looked attractive to the older magical crowd, hoping to protect their lands and customs. The masses considered it a reliable addition as it served the best of both worlds, so when the ballots came in, both Potters gained a seat through the popular vote of the public. Since then, the Potters have been the only family with a double vote.

It was a massive 'fuck you' to the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

The Potters' goodwill with members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight changed between generations and circumstances, and years of good manners and work-related amicability was just as likely to spoil with a fiendfyre spark of disagreements on the Wizengamot floor. The whole environment was precisely the kind of stress Harry avoided.  He was happy where he was as a man and as a member of the Potter family, which was thankfully far away from the twists and turns of the fully immersive political lifestyle. But Harry acknowledged that Henry and Artemis were a fabulous wildcard team on the political floor, and no one else in the family was a better fit for it.

Nowadays, there was no saying which way either of the Potters would vote as time and experiences reshaped their outlook and expectations.

"We should get moving," Henry said, pushing himself off the wall to lead them out. The elder Potter stopped with only one foot at the mouth of the hallway and stepped back against the wall once more. "Hold on, here come Abraxas and Druan."

And just like that, Abraxas Malfoy and Druan Rosier waltzed past them, pausing at a second glance and doubling back to join their little group in the shadow of the threshold.

"Good morning, Dowager Potter, Mr. Potter, Arch Potter," Malfoy said, Rosier following suit with an equally polite greeting. Giving the pair a good once over. They looked around the same age, and their shoulders brushed against each other with a familiarity born from family or old schoolboy companions who grew into adult friends.

Abraxas was a handsome man with a pointed nose and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in modern wizarding robes held together by fine stitching and expensive accessories, but not in a way that could be considered garish like many affluent witches and wizards who worked at the Ministry. He was no boy and in his early forties, but Abraxas was still one of the younger members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and on the Wizengamot. His attempts at looking statelier in the face of his peers manifested in his taste in style and manners, which he succeeded in doing in spades. In comparison, Druan leaned into a more youthful appearance with his big doe-like eyes and stylishly swept-back brown hair. He wore simple, solid colors but with all sorts of jewelry and embellishments that made him glitter like raindrops on a flower petal. He struck Harry as the kind of man who surrounded himself with beautiful things regardless of grandeur or simplicity.  

"It's near noontime," Henry said. "You've been hard at work in the lower levels for some time now. But, yes, it is a good morning. May I formally introduce you to our family's globetrotter?'"

With a simple bow of their heads, Abraxas and Druan turned to Harry. Harry had never personally met either man, but he knew without a shred of doubt that they all knew each other to some degree. That was just what it was like amongst the wizarding upper class— even if the Potters weren't openly welcomed at their social events anymore. Everyone knew everyone and strived to know everyone's business.

Henry stepped forward and gestured to the two lords with a sweep of his hand. "Abraxas Maximus, Lord of House Malfoy, Lord of the Salisbury Plain West of Netheravon," Henry said before motioning towards Druan. "Druan Evaline, Lord of House Rosier, Lord of Pen Wood North of Highclere. This is Harry Windever, son of House Potter, Master Architect."

"Well met, Lord Malfoy. Lord Rosier," Harry said, placing a hand over his heart and giving a more profound bow. Druan's introduction tickled something in the back of his mind, and as Harry's eyes slid to the rose emblem pinned to Rosier's chest, the memory finally clicked into place. Harry snapped his fingers, a pleased grin overtaking him.

"You sent me a commission earlier this year," Harry said to Druan, who nodded with so much excitement, several locks of his hair unstuck from their gelled-back position and fell across his forehead.

"I'm an admirer of your work," Druan said with earnest glee, grabbing Harry's hand and holding it in a firm handshake. Harry noted that Druan pulled a bit too close, and any second longer, the handshake would've been considered a touch too friendly. "I even bought a moving photobook documenting your career through the decades."

"Thank you for your support, Lord Rosier—"

"Druan, please."

"Druan, it is," Harry said. "It's honestly heartwarming knowing that people recognize and admire the important role architecture plays in the wizarding world."

"Oh! Well, yes. That," Druan pointed up and down at Harry with his finger, his stare very intentional. "But not every architectural design is worth a second glance, and not every architect is as talented as you. You're quite singular."

"He is, isn't he," Artemis cut in, slinging an arm around Harry's broad shoulders. Artemis' smile was a touch too broad to be innocent. "He's a treasure."

"We just learned from an associate that you're due to start an architectural venture on Hogwarts," Abraxas said, checking his pocket watch as he spoke. "We're eager to see what you do with her."

"Most of us have fond memories of Hogwarts, so I'll do my best to do her justice," Harry said. He leaned into Artemis while thinking back on his own time in Gryffindor Tower. Back then, he was an absolute mess of a student trying to become less of an idea and more of a person. For as many fun times as he had, there were small heartbreaks tucked in between those memories. There were even some large ones, too.

"I can't say much because I haven't heard nearly enough from the Public Works Division. The PWD is annoyingly closed-lipped about it with me, and I think we all understand that most work is contingent on the budget and the team manning the project."

"I suppose there was no hope squeezing into your schedule during your transition, but I needed to try all the same," Druan jumped in, disappointment seeping into his voice.

Harry shook his head, disagreeing wholeheartedly. "I'll make the time. Hogwarts is a large project with elements that require downtime. Your concept request is one of the few projects I couldn't pass on, and I'm always on the hunt for good work. Besides, how can I say no to England's prettiest roses?"

Druan blushed bright red, straightening his robes with giddy pride that almost looked shy. There was a beat of silence, which was then filled by Artemis and Harry's quiet chuckles when Druan noticed the annoyed stare Abraxas pressed in his direction. It was like watching siblings silently play a subtle game of non-verbal tug-of-war. It was no more than a few short seconds, but Abraxas was quick to take hold of the conversation after that, making an obvious but polite show of the pocket watch in his hand. Abraxas' eyes flickered to check and tap the crystal face of the watch, throwing in a genteel bow of his head out of simple respect and trying not to come off rude despite being pressed for time. 

"We must be going," Abraxas said, cocking his head to the side as if he was motioning for Druan to follow his lead. "Dowager Potter, Mr. Potter, I will see you on Monday. Have a fruitful Lúnasa. Arch Potter, congratulations on your many successes and safe return home. I'm confident we will speak again." Harry shot Druan a parting smile, which he returned in kind as the two Lords began their trek back to their empty offices.

"Ah, one more thing," Abraxas said, turning back around. "Windever?"

"Common surname or middle name gifted to magicals born in the Micheldever parish in Winchester," Harry replied, already moving to leave before he finished speaking. "If my geography is correct, it's thirty miles southeast of your domain, Lord Malfoy."

Abraxas considered the explanation with his eyes squinting before nodding in acceptance. Both parties parted with nothing further to say, but Artemis gave Harry a look.

"He was going to look for information anyway," Harry said. "Best to give him his answers and save him the time. I don't have enough dancing skeletons in my closet to be needlessly cautious about simple things like that.”

Entering the atrium, Harry felt a cold shiver trickle down his back. This was the first time he was in the atrium when it was empty of people. The dark green of the floors looked black with the lights dimmed to a shadowed darkness, and the only sound echoing through the large space was the loud splashing coming from the fountain's water. Harry loved being in architectural wonders alone. He got to enjoy the grand beauty with none of the hustle and bustle of people pushing and moving him along. Usually, he would’ve felt at peace in the dark, calm emptiness, but there was something off about the atrium to him.

It left Harry dizzy.

Harry slowed down behind Artemis and Henry, rubbing his hand over his birthmark and squeezing his eyes shut. Just as he opened them again, his breath caught in his throat. There, sitting on the edge of the atrium fountain's basin with a book on his lap, was Tom.

Beautiful Tom, and then nothing there again. It was just a hallucination slipping in when Harry was one toe into disorientation.

"Harry?"

Harry's head snapped towards Henry, and he saw a flash of some faceless black-and-white specter blink in and out of his vision. It stood just behind Henry before it was gone again, and Harry was forced to re-align himself with reality like nothing was wrong in the first place. Harry took a deep breath to stay grounded, reminding himself that staying present was more important than latching on to the brief, unknowable images passing him by.

"It's nothing. Just tired."

Henry's gaze traced the length of him in some strange way Harry couldn't recognize. Maybe Harry was imagining this too, but it felt as though Henry had begun to say the most peculiar things and give Harry these hard, searching looks for some time now. Decades of coldness and detachment made way for some unnamable thing as if Harry was the greatest mystery of all. But Harry couldn't make sense of it, so he let Henry be. There was no point in pushing when Henry wasn't about to give him a legitimate answer.

With his gloved hand— the one missing a ring finger hidden under the soft material—Henry reached out to beckon Harry forward. "Come. Everyone is waiting."

Harry nodded, jogging up to Henry to join Artemis right next to the floo firebox. The fireplace key was already inserted, which switched the pocket magic dispersed in the flames to access the private network leading to Potter Manor.

With a burst of green flames, they were home.