Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place, September 7th, 1998

Harry let out a soft groan and mindlessly turned the page of the Daily Prophet. The words blurred before his eyes. Since the war ended, he felt like a ghost—alive, but not really living. Each day passed in a haze, his heart heavy with memories of the final battle.

Hogwarts lay in ruins. So many were gone—Lupin, Tonks, Snape, Colin, Lavender, Fred… and Luna.

Luna.

Her death hit him in a way he couldn’t explain. She had always seen through the titles, the fame. To her, he wasn’t The Boy Who Lived. He was just Harry. She spoke to him when no one else did, listened when no one else cared. Losing her felt like losing a part of himself.

Across the table, Hermione sat with a book on ancient magical bonds open in her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. She stared blankly at the pages, her expression mirroring his—tired, hollow, lost.

Since Ron abandoned them during the Horcrux hunt, Harry and Hermione had become close. Closer than he’d ever expected. She was like a sister now—his anchor. Even after Ron returned, Harry found himself turning to Hermione for advice, for reassurance. It grated on Ron. And Ginny.

After the war, Ron and Hermione began dating again. Harry tried to rekindle things with Ginny. At least, that’s what Ginny believed. But every time she touched him, Harry felt like his skin was on fire—as if his body rejected her presence. He couldn’t stand it, even if he couldn’t explain why.

He had asked Hermione to move into Grimmauld Place with him temporarily, and she agreed. They planned to return to Hogwarts eventually, finish their seventh year. In the meantime, they made the house livable. Kreacher helped, surprisingly eager to serve. He adored Harry—and even Hermione, whom he had taken to calling Mistress Hermione. But he flat-out refused to take orders from Ron and Ginny.

When the pair heard about the living arrangement, they tried to move in too. Harry gently refused. He told them the Burrow needed them—especially George. Fred’s death had left him broken, barely functioning.

Molly pushed back, of course. She wanted Harry at the Burrow, doted on him more than George. Sometimes, it felt like she mourned Fred less than she should. But whenever that thought crept in, another voice—quiet and persistent—reminded him how much the Weasleys loved him. Molly was like a mother. Ron was a brother. Ginny… she was supposed to be the love of his life.

He didn’t believe that voice anymore. Not really. But it hadn’t stopped whispering.

With a sigh, Harry glanced back at the Prophet. Another front-page article about the Malfoys. The press had launched a full-blown smear campaign against them. He understood—yes, they’d stood on Voldemort’s side. But under duress. Couldn’t people see that?

After the war, the Ministry began rounding up Death Eaters. There were no trials for many. The Malfoys, the Notts, the Parkinsons—even those who hadn’t taken the Mark—were sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss. No hearings, no defense.

The announcement came from the newly appointed Minister of Magic—Arthur Weasley.

Harry and Hermione had tried to speak with him. Tried to reason. They’d planned to testify for Draco and Narcissa. After all, Narcissa had lied to Voldemort to protect Harry. Draco had hesitated at Malfoy Manor. He’d helped them—indirectly, yes—but still helped.

Arthur dismissed their protests. To him, being a Slytherin was crime enough.

Molly, Ron, and Ginny echoed his sentiments. The other Weasley siblings weren’t so sure.

“Harry… Harry… Harry!” Hermione’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

He blinked up at her. “Sorry… zoned out. What is it?”

Hermione closed the book and looked up at him. “Can we go for a walk? I know we’ve been avoiding the press, but I just… I need air.”

He hesitated.

“We could transfigure ourselves, just enough to blend in,” she added, gently. “Please?”

He saw the weariness in her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped with grief, and nodded.

They transfigured their appearances slightly—nothing too dramatic—and stepped into the cool, grey streets of Diagon Alley.

Diagon Alley

Shops were reopening. Life was returning—slowly, cautiously. But everything felt… different.

When they passed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, a heavy silence fell between them. Fred’s absence was palpable. George hadn’t been the same since—empty-eyed, broken.

“Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, her voice quiet. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I feel like I died too,” she whispered. “Like the war ended, and some part of me never came back. I know Ron's your best friend… but being with him feels wrong. Like I’m betraying myself just being near him. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Do you think… is it PTSD?”

Harry stopped walking. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I feel the same. Being with Ginny feels… forced. Like it’s what I’m supposed to want, not what I actually want.”

“We can’t talk to anyone about this. Not in the wizarding world. They don’t do mental health.” Hermione’s voice trembled. “We couldn’t even see a Muggle therapist without the whole world knowing.”

“I hate not knowing what’s wrong with me,” she added, her voice cracking.

Before Harry could answer, movement caught his eye. Ron and Ginny. Walking hand in hand through the alley, smiling at the people who recognized them. Soaking up the glory.

It made his stomach turn.

Ron had given countless interviews, playing up his role in the Horcrux hunt. Hermione, according to him, had cooked and cleaned. Harry was portrayed as a lost, helpless leader. Ginny’s interviews were worse—gushing about her relationship with Harry, their fairytale future.

Harry clenched his jaw.

“Look,” he whispered to Hermione, nodding toward them.

They watched as Ron and Ginny slipped into Knockturn Alley.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What are they doing down there?”

Without a word, they disillusioned themselves and followed quietly.

Knockturn Alley – Apothecary

Inside a rundown apothecary, Ron rattled off a list of ingredients. Hermione stiffened beside Harry.

She recognized them.

“Those are for the Liberam Obedientiam potion,” she whispered, barely audible.

A dark, highly illegal potion.

As the old shopkeeper disappeared into the back to fetch the items, Ginny rounded on Ron.

“You idiot!” she hissed. “You might as well have announced what we’re brewing. You know that potion’s banned!”

“Relax, Gin,” Ron said with a smirk. “No one’s going to question us. We’re heroes, remember? And we’re the Minister’s kids.”

“I don’t even know why Mum wants to change the potion,” he added. “It’s been working fine.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, their hearts pounding.

Potion? What potion?

Ginny scowled. “It’s not working anymore. It worked for two years—Harry loved me, Hermione was into you. But after the battle… it’s like something changed. The effects are wearing off.”

Ron growled. “Hermione’s been fighting it since Malfoy Manor. She should’ve died there—Dumbledore said she would. Same with Harry.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face.

“We should just poison them,” Ron snapped. “End this.”

“We can’t,” Ginny replied. “I need to marry Harry first—then we can kill him. Once I’m Lady Potter, I inherit everything. Then we get rid of them both and live happily ever after.”

Ron snorted. “Hermione’s loaded too. Dumbledore told Mum. Once we’re married, we can kill her and take it all.”

Ginny smiled coldly. “Exactly. And people will believe us. We’ll cry, pretend to mourn, and then… we live the life we deserve.”

The door creaked open, and the shopkeeper returned with a wrapped bundle of ingredients.

Ron paid without another word.

As the door shut behind them, Harry and Hermione remained frozen in place—completely shell-shocked.

Everything—the doubts, the voice in Harry’s head, the unease around Ron and Ginny—it all made sense now.

They weren’t paranoid.

They were being drugged.

Chapter Text

7th September 1998 — Grimmauld Place, London

Once the initial shock wore off, Harry and Hermione wasted no time. They Apparated straight back to Grimmauld Place and headed directly to the library. As soon as they arrived, they layered the room with privacy charms and instructed Kreacher not to disturb them under any circumstances.

Harry broke the tense silence. “Hermione, that potion they mentioned—do you know anything about it?”

Hermione shook her head, already scanning the nearest shelves. “No, but I plan to find out. Do you think there’s anything in here about it?”

“I hope so. Sirius always said the Black family library had one of the most extensive collections on the Dark Arts. But what if it’s true—what they said? About the love potions? About the money?”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know, Harry. But some of the ingredients they bought—those are illegal, and lethal. We need to figure out what that potion is before we jump to conclusions.”

For hours, they poured over dusty tomes, flipping through pages filled with ancient scripts and ominous illustrations. Eventually, Hermione let out a quiet gasp. She had found something in a book titled Semper Servus Tuus.

Opening to the marked page, she read aloud:

“Summa Imperium—a potion that grants complete control over the drinker’s mind to whoever administered it. Unlike the Imperius Curse, there are no visible symptoms, and the victim cannot resist. Control begins within one to two hours of ingestion. To make the effect permanent, the potion must be consumed daily for half the victim’s age. The potion can be keyed to multiple individuals if their blood and hair are added during its preparation.”

Hermione snapped the book shut and looked at Harry, her expression grim.

“This is serious,” she said quietly. “The way they talked… it wasn’t just love potions, Harry. It sounded like they’ve been dosing us for a while. And Dumbledore—he might have known. They even mentioned our finances.”

Harry nodded, face tight. “Everyone knows I’m rich, but your finances—how would they know?”

“They shouldn’t. I’ve always kept that private. And if they’ve been using this Summa Imperium potion… love potions might be the least of our worries.”

“We need to get tested,” Harry said firmly. “But not at St. Mungo’s. The press would find out, and with Mr. Weasley as Minister, I don’t trust our files staying confidential.”

“Then where?”

“What about Gringotts?” Harry suggested. “Sirius once told me goblins test for compulsion spells when people access vaults—something about stopping those under the Imperius Curse. They don’t answer to the Ministry or the press.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up with cautious hope. “Alright. Let’s go first thing tomorrow.”

They agreed and finally turned in for the night, unaware of how drastically their lives were about to change.

8th September 1998 — Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Disguised under a powerful glamour spell from the Black family archives, Harry and Hermione made their way through the Diagon Alley crowd. The spell had made them taller, Hermione’s curls now sleek and her eyes an icy blue. Harry’s hair had grown longer, obscuring his famous scar, and his green eyes were now a stormy grey.

Inside the bank, they surprised the goblin guards by greeting them politely—a rare courtesy in the wizarding world. Approaching a free teller, Harry spoke in a low, respectful tone.

“We’d like to speak to the Chief Goblin about a private matter, if that’s possible.”

The goblin studied them a moment, then nodded. “Follow me.”

He led them through twisting corridors to a private chamber. Just before they entered, he warned, “This room is protected by anti-glamour enchantments. Once inside, all disguises will be removed.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, then stepped through the threshold. The glamour faded instantly.

Moments later, Chief Ragnok entered the room, flanked by his deputy, Griphook.

“Lord Potter-Black,” Ragnok began smoothly, “you’ve taken your time. We've awaited your arrival to claim your inheritance and titles from both the Potter and Black families. Shall we begin?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up.

“Chief Ragnok,” Harry said cautiously, “we’re actually here for something else. We think someone may have used controlling spells or potions on us. We wanted to be tested discreetly. And—I didn’t know anything about an inheritance or title.”

Griphook narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying your Magical Guardian never told you?”

“Magical Guardian?” Harry repeated. “Both my parents and Sirius are gone.”

“Until you turned seventeen, Albus Dumbledore held that role,” Griphook replied. “He had full access to your trust vaults. You’re certain he never mentioned any of this?”

“Positive.”

Ragnok and Griphook exchanged a dark look. The deputy left the room briefly and returned with an older goblin and two sheets of golden parchment.

“We’ll start with the inheritance test,” Ragnok said. “It reveals bloodlines, magical bonds, titles, and most importantly, any spells, potions, or curses on you—along with who placed them and when. Five drops of blood is all we need.”

Hermione hesitated. “I’m Muggle-born. Will it even work for me?”

“Muggleborns often descend from long-silenced magical lines,” Ragnok explained. “This test will clarify your ancestry—and it’s completely safe.”

They both agreed. Pricking their fingers, they let their blood fall onto the parchment.

The ancient goblin chanted softly in Gobbledegook. The air shimmered with magic as color began swirling over the parchment—blue, black, and ominously, red.

Blue for titles and inheritance. Black for family trees. And red—red meant curses, enchantments, and dark potions.

There was a lot of red.

After a few tense minutes, the room fell silent. The goblins gestured for them to look at their results.

Harry and Hermione leaned in, bracing themselves for answers that would change everything.

Name:

Hermione Jean Granger

Born:

19 September 1979, London, England

Parents:

Robert Matthew Granger (Biological Father)

Josephine Helena Granger nee Taylor (Biological Mother)

Titles:

Lady of the Ancient and Nobel House of Dagworth-Granger (Birth)

Baroness of the Ancient and Nobel House of Trefle-Picques (Birth)

Baroness of the Ancient and Nobel House of Lapin (Birth)

Lady of the Ancient and Nobel House of Ravenclaw (Birth)

Lady of the Ancient and Nobel House of Hufflepuff (Birth)

Vaults:

Dagworth-Granger Vault – 250,345,500 Galleons, 103 Sickels, 100 Knuts; 90 Jewelry articles, 100 magical artefacts, 500 books and 350 unfinished research papers.

Trefle-Picques Vault – 10,150,000 Galleons, 300 Sickels, 50 Knuts; 150 Jewely articles, 50 magical artifacts and 100 books

Lapin Vault – 350,500,250 Galleons, 700 Sickels, 500 Knuts; 300 Jewelry articles, 70 magical artefacts and 150 books

Ravenclaw vault – 700,770,500 Galleons, 800 Sickels, 200 Knuts; 50 Jewelry articles, 100 magical artefacts and 1500 scrolls.

Hufflepuff vault – 400,150,300 Gallons, 200 Sickels, 50 Knuts; 50 Jewelry articles, 100 magical artefacts and 300 scrolls.

Properties:

Dagworth Manor, Bath, England

Château de  Trefle-Picques, Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, France

Manoir de  Trefle-Picques,  Wimereux, France

Chalet Lapin,  Montreux, Switzerland

Taigh an Fhithich,  Cairngorms, Scotland

Bwthyn Heddwch,  Pembrokeshire, Wales

Magical Bond:

Soul Bond – Draco Lucius Malfoy (Blocked by Albus Dumbledore, 5 th  June 1985), Broken on 10 th  May 1998

Adopted Brother Bond – Harry James Potter. Created on 25 th  December 1997

Magical Abilities and Blocks:

Core Magic (70% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5 th  June 1985)

Wandless Magic (30% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5th June 1985)

Wordless Magic (50% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5th June 1985)

Animagus (100% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5th June 1985)

Alchemy (100% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5th June 1985)

Eidetic Memory (30% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5th June 1985)

Hereditary Blood Magic (99% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 5 th  June 1985)

Magical Compulsions:

Loyalty Keyed to Albus Dumbledore (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  September 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Molly Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Ronald Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Ginevra Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Gryffindor House (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  September 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Order of Pheonix (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  September 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Draco Lucius Malfoy (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Narcissa Malfoy (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Severus Snape (Albus Dumbledore, 1 st  November 1991)

Love Potion Keyed to Ronald Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, Molly Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Ginerva Weasley, 1 st  September 1995)

Name:

Harry James Potter

Born:

31 July 1980, Godric's Hollow, England

Parents:

James Fleamont Potter (Biological Father)

Lilly Joana Potter nee Evans (Biological Mother)

Sirius Black III (Adopted Blood Father, August 5 th , 1980)

Titles:

Lord of the Ancient and Nobel House of Potter (Birth)

Lord of the Ancient and Nobel House of Black (Blood Adoption)

Lord of the Ancient and Nobel House of Gryffindor (Birth)

Lord of the Ancient and Nobel House of Slytherin (Birth)

Lord of the Ancient and Nobel House of Peverell (Birth)

Master of Death

Vaults:

Potter trust – 8,500 Galleons, 50 Sickels, 100 Knuts

Potter Vault – 300,200,500 Galleons, 100 Sickels, 50 Knuts; 200 Jewelry articles, 100 magical artefacts, 100 books

Black  Vault – 700,250,000 Galleons, 150 Sickels, 250 Knuts; 250 Jewelry articles, 500 magical artefacts and 1525 books

Gryffindor  Vault – 500,500,250 Galleons, 90 Sickels, 200 Knuts; 50 Jewelry articles, 800 magical artefacts and 150 scrolls

Slytherin  vault – 970,500 Galleons, 300 Sickels, 20 Knuts; 25 Jewelry articles, 300 magical artefacts and 250 scrolls.

Peverell  vault – 900,150,300 Gallons, 200 Sickels, 150 Knuts; 50 Jewelry articles, 300 magical artefacts and 400 scrolls.

The Lava Chamber - 3 magical artefacts

Properties:

House No. 14, Godrics Hollow, England

Potter Manor, Bath, England

Villa de Lune, St. Tropez, France

12 Grimmauld Place, London, England

Black Manor, Cadgwith, England

Castle Black, Geneva, Switzerland

Cottage de Sly,  Claregalway, Ireland

Magical Bond:

Soul Bond – Luna Lovegood (Blocked by Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981), Broken on 2nd May 1998

Adopted Sister Bond – Hermione Jean Granger. Created on 25 th  December 1997

Magical Abilities and Blocks:

Core Magic (95% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Wandless Magic (90% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Wordless Magic (90% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Parseltongue (Failed Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Defensive Magic (50% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Metamorphmagus (100% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Hereditary Blood Magic (99% Blocked, Albus Dumbledore, 1 November 1981)

Magical Compulsions:

Loyalty Keyed to Albus Dumbledore (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Molly Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Ronald Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Ginevra Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Gryffindor House (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Loyalty Keyed to Order of Pheonix (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Draco Lucius Malfoy (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Narcissa Malfoy (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Severus Snape (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Distrust Keyed to Slytherin House (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Recklessness Charm (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Shame Charm keyed to home life (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Anti-Authority Charm (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Selflessness Charm (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Malleability Charm (Albus Dumbledore, 31 st  July 1991)

Love Potion Keyed to Ginerva Weasley (Albus Dumbledore, Molly Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Ginerva Weasley, 1st July  1995)

Chapter Text

Gringotts Wizarding Bank - 8^th September 1998

Harry and Hermione had expected wards and maybe a few mild spells placed on them—protection, or perhaps tracking charms. But they hadn’t expected to find themselves so heavily blocked, especially by Dumbledore. And as for the long list of titles they’d apparently inherited? That was an entirely different surprise.

Chief Ragnok glanced up from the parchments in front of him, eyes flicking between them. “Shall we begin with your results? Ms. Granger—or should I say, Lady Dagworth-Granger?”

Hermione blinked in surprise, then nodded politely.

Ragnok gave a toothy grin. “The inheritance test has identified you as the heiress of five noble houses. These accounts have been dormant for centuries, which means the vaults have accumulated significant interest. Fortunately, no recent withdrawals have been made, so the funds remain intact. Our suggestion: begin investing and managing your holdings. Since you also have Muggle assets, we can link those to your Gringotts profile for seamless management. I’d recommend Griphook as your personal account manager. He’ll send you monthly updates and notify you of any issues.”

Hermione nodded again, but Ragnok’s expression shifted, growing more serious.

“However,” he said, “there’s something... unexpected. According to this, you are soul-bound to your heir—Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione froze. “What?”

Ragnok’s tone remained neutral. “It’s rare but not unheard of. When a soul bond is broken—usually through death—the surviving partner often declines rapidly. Have you been feeling... hollow? Emotionally numb?”

She swallowed. “Yes... that would explain a lot.”

“I imagine it would.” He glanced at the parchment. “But the soul bond raises questions—especially regarding your heritage.”

Hermione leaned forward. “Exactly. I mean, I’m Muggle-born. How am I suddenly heir to all these ancient houses? Dagworth-Granger might be a distant relative, sure—but Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff? That doesn’t make sense. Also... Harry was adopted as my brother? And what about the blocks Dumbledore placed on us?”

Ragnok lifted a finger. “One thing at a time, Lady Dagworth-Granger. Let’s talk inheritance. Every magical child, even Muggle-borns, typically has some magical ancestry. If you trace your family tree, you’ll see names like Bones, Ollivander, Smith, and even Lestrange. Many of your ancestors were Squibs, banished into the Muggle world.”

He tapped a glowing section of the family chart. “Not many know this, but both Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw had Squib children. Disgraced, they were cast out into the Muggle world. Here—see? Their descendants eventually intermarried. The Houses of Trefle-Picques and Lapin, of French origin, are part of your lineage. The Trefle-Picques were innovators in Charms, while the Lapins were gifted Animagi, able to transform at will without potion aids.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in wonder as she followed his finger down the chart.

“Lisette de Lapin served Henry VI and had Muggle connections, which explains your Muggle wealth. As for Dagworth-Granger, he was a renowned Potioneer. His vault continues to grow thanks to potion patents and unpublished research.”

She let out a quiet, “Wow.”

Ragnok smiled faintly. “Now, not every descendant inherits titles. Two things matter: first, the magical bloodline must lack known heirs; second, the title’s inherent magic must recognize you as worthy. You, Lady Dagworth-Granger, have been judged worthy.”

Hermione sat in stunned silence, absorbing it all.

Ragnok turned toward Harry. “Shall we move to your results, Lord Potter-Black?”

Harry nodded slowly.

“You’ve inherited five titles: one by birth, one through Sirius Black’s adoption ritual, and three through ancestry. You are descended from the Peverells, Gryffindor, and Slytherin. It also appears... You are now the Master of Death. I assume you've claimed the three Hallows?”

Harry gave a small nod, confused but intrigued.

“There’s more. A recent blood exchange between you and Lady Dagworth-Granger was identified as a blood adoption ritual. That Christmas Day, when Hermione saved you from Nagini with her blood—that act created a magical sibling bond.”

Harry and Hermione shared a look of realization. So that night had bound them even more deeply than they’d imagined.

“As for the blocks,” Ragnok continued, “you’ve both been subjected to numerous spells—mainly from Dumbledore and members of the Weasley family. We have a healer who can remove them.”

Harry and Hermione didn’t hesitate. They agreed immediately, and after negotiating a fee, a small, determined goblin healer entered the room.

“I am Healer Temperance,” she said briskly.

“Good to meet you,” Harry said respectfully. Hermione echoed him.

The healer blinked, momentarily surprised by their politeness. “Follow me. I’ll be removing the blocks one at a time. The process is long and painful—you’ll be unconscious for most of it. We begin with purging potions, then spells. Now, Lady Dagworth-Granger, come.”

Hermione disappeared behind a rune-covered door. Harry sat alone, haunted by his thoughts. His trust in Dumbledore, Ron, Ginny, and even Mrs. Weasley had been shattered. They hadn’t just lied—they had manipulated him, controlled him. And the worst part? He hadn’t even realized it.

He felt anger rise. And underneath it, a deep, bone-tired grief.

Later…

When Healer Temperance returned, Harry sprang to his feet.

“She’s resting,” the healer assured him. “The process was successful. Your turn now.”

Harry entered a chamber marked with glowing runes. As instructed, he lay down—then found himself magically bound to the table.

“For your safety,” Temperance said simply.

The pain, when it came, was beyond words. It felt like his blood was boiling, his bones stretching, his muscles unraveling. He screamed until everything went black.

Gringotts – Crystal Grotto Recovery Chamber - 9^th September 1998

Harry awoke feeling... light. As if a massive weight had been quietly lifted from his soul.

“You’re awake,” said a familiar voice.

He looked up to see Healer Temperance. “How long was I out?”

“Almost a full day. Lady Dagworth-Granger has just woken up as well. Take this,” she handed him a potion. “It will ease the pain.”

Moments later, a goblin arrived with Hermione beside him. She looked exhausted, but radiant in a strange way—like something inside her had healed. They hugged, quietly reassured by each other’s presence.

After a light meal, Ragnok resumed the conversation.

“Now that the blocks are gone, let’s continue. Lady Dagworth-Granger, your houses—Trefle-Picques, Dagworth-Granger, and Lapin—each hold seats in the Wizengamot and on the Hogwarts Board. That gives you three votes in both. As heir of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, you also hold two Founder seats and greater magical authority within Hogwarts itself.”

He turned to Harry. “Lord Potter-Black, your titles—Potter, Black, and Peverell—also grant three votes in both bodies. As heir of Gryffindor and Slytherin, you too hold Founder’s seats and shared magical control over the school.”

Harry blinked. “Control... of Hogwarts?”

“To a degree, yes,” Ragnok confirmed. “And as for your final title—Master of Death—it’s not fully understood. All we know is that by claiming the Hallows, you’ve taken possession of something once thought impossible.”

“I’d like to see the Hallows,” Harry said.

They descended deep underground—to level -250, one of the oldest vaults in existence. The heat was intense, but the air inside the Lava Chamber was surprisingly cool.

There they were: the three Deathly Hallows, resting peacefully.

As Harry touched them, the world dimmed.

A deep voice echoed: “Congratulations, Master.”

Before him stood a towering figure—neither man nor beast.

“Who... are you?” Harry asked.

“I am Death. And you, Harry Potter, are now my Master.”

“What does that mean?”

“I will guide you. I am not your servant—but I am yours to call. You will not die until you choose to.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Can you bring people back? My soulmate, my parents, Sirius... Draco?”

Death tilted its head. “Some things even I cannot undo. But I can offer you another path. I can send you both back—before the soul bond was broken. You will merge with your younger selves, keeping all memories.”

Harry hesitated. “You’d do that?”

“Yes. Think on it. Discuss with your sister. Call me when you’re ready.”

With a blink, Death vanished. The chamber brightened again. It was as if no time had passed.

Back in Ragnok’s office, they were led to a private exit reserved for high-value clients. As they stepped into the quiet hallway leading out of Gringotts.

Chapter Text

9th September 1998 – Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London

The moment Harry and Hermione stepped through the front door, they were nearly knocked off balance by a frantic, wild-eyed Kreacher.

"Master Harry! Mistress Granger!" he croaked, throwing his spindly arms around Harry's waist in a rare show of affection. "Where were you? Kreacher waited all night! You did not come back from the bank! Kreacher was worried… and then—oh, the horror—the evil Weasley mother and her cursed offspring arrived, pounding on the door, demanding to know where you were. But Kreacher… Kreacher said nothing. Kreacher kept your secrets."

Harry placed a reassuring hand on the elf's bony shoulder. "I'm sorry, Kreacher. We didn't expect things at Gringotts to take that long. We ended up spending the night at Hermione's manor."

But Hermione had already latched on to something. "Wait, Kreacher—what do you mean the Weasleys came here? Who exactly showed up, and what did they say?"

Kreacher's expression twisted into a mask of loathing. "It was the youngest boy and the girl. They came barging in not long after you left. Demanded answers. Said they had the right to know everything about you. Kreacher told them nothing. They tried ordering Kreacher around, but they hold no power here. The girl—weasel girl—said she would be the mistress soon and that Kreacher must obey. But Kreacher knows better. She will never be mistress."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. Kreacher, meanwhile, continued his rant.

"They found your money bag, Master. You dropped it in the living room in your hurry. The greedy boy tried to steal from it, but the protections you placed worked perfectly. Burned his hand. Then they tried to sneak upstairs—but your wards held. No one could get past the living room. They left after a while but returned minutes later with that nosy, shrieking mother of theirs."

"She… brought food," Kreacher added, his face scrunching in disgust. "Lasagna, pie, brownies, scones. But there was something wrong with it—all wrong. The magic in that food reeked of manipulation. Kreacher threw it all away. I'm sorry if I did wrong, Master, but—"

"No," Harry interrupted, his voice firm. "You did exactly what you should have, Kreacher. Thank you. I need you to keep doing just that—check all food that enters this house. If it's tampered with in any way, destroy it. Understood?"

Kreacher bowed low and vanished with a pop.

Harry picked up the letter Kreacher had set aside, and he and Hermione retreated to the library to read it together.

Harry,

Where have you two been?! Ron and I were worried sick!

We dropped by Grimmauld Place yesterday and you weren't there. That creepy elf wouldn't tell us anything. We wanted to stay the night and wait for you, but something weird was going on—we couldn't get upstairs. The house let us into the living room, but that was it. What's going on, Harry? Once we're married, I'll be the lady of the house. I should have access to everything. And if Hermione can roam freely, then Ron should be allowed the same, right?

Also, I noticed you've made some changes to the house. Don't you think I should've been consulted before renovating? After all, once we're together, that place will be our home.

Anyway, Mum dropped off some food since I doubt that elf can cook anything decent. She also says you both absolutely must attend Sunday lunch—no excuses. The whole family will be there. We can talk more then.

Reply soon.

Love,
Ginny

As Harry finished reading, his hands clenched the parchment so tightly that flames began to lick the edges. Hermione reacted instantly, casting a charm to restore it before it turned to ash.

"She really thinks she can boss me around like that?" Harry growled. "After everything that family's done? The potions… the blocks… She still thinks she owns me."

"Harry," Hermione said calmly, though her eyes were burning, "we need to be smarter than that. This is a game now—and they don't know we're playing."

"I don't care. Let's go back there and end this—now."

"No," Hermione snapped. "Not yet. I want answers. I need to know exactly how much they knew—about Dumbledore, about the potions, about everything. We play along, we dig deep, and then we strike. Sunday lunch is our opportunity."

Harry exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to calm down. "Fine. But Kreacher's coming with us. He'll stay hidden, test everything we eat. And if there's anything off…"

"We don't eat," Hermione finished. "And we watch. Closely."

Agreeing on the plan, Harry and Hermione started writing the letter back to the Burrow.

My dearest Ginny,

I'm sorry I didn't write sooner. Hermione recently received word that she needed to attend the reading of her parents' will. Given everything she's been through, I didn't want her to go through it alone.

It took longer than expected. The process is complicated—her family left behind a substantial estate. We returned just this morning. Kreacher mentioned your visit.

Please thank your mum for the food. Kreacher saved it for us, and we tried the lasagna—it was delicious, as always. I'll be joining Hermione shortly for some brownies.

As for the renovations—they're temporary. Once we're married, we'll go over everything together. Your input means the world to me.

Looking forward to Sunday.

Always yours,
Harry

As they watched the owl soar toward the Burrow, Hermione turned to Harry. "We need to prepare for the worst. Let's keep our wands close and our eyes open."

September 13, 1998 — The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole

Harry had told Hermione everything about his eerie conversation with Death—not just in passing, but every disturbing detail. Her reaction was measured. Yes, the offer had sounded tempting, but she agreed with him: tampering with time was never safe. Powerful as the offer was, it needed to be approached with the utmost caution.

In the following days, they penned a formal letter to Chief Ragnok, requesting access to some funds—specifically, to help Ron settle his dues with Gringotts. They even suggested Ragnok request reparations from Ron for the dragon's escape and offered to cover the cost of the damage themselves. When Ragnok agreed to assist, provided they pay the same amount the goblins were demanding from Ron, they made the payment without hesitation.

But that wasn't what was weighing on them today.

As they stepped out of the fireplace into the Burrow, something immediately felt... off. Not wrong, but altered. The mismatched chairs had been replaced by expensive new furniture, the walls bore fresh coats of paint, and a large new clock ticked over the mantel. It was still the Burrow, but its rustic warmth now felt curated—almost artificial.

They barely had time to process it.

George sat silently by the hearth, hollow-eyed, staring at nothing. Percy sat nearby, voice soft, talking about some new product line for the joke shop. But it was Percy's eyes—worried, tired, determined—that caught Harry's attention.

After Fred's death, Percy had changed. He wasn't the overbearing rule-stickler anymore. He'd left the Ministry, moved in with George, and quietly assumed the role of caretaker. For the first time, Harry saw the real Percy—not the caricature Ron had always complained about, but a grieving brother doing everything he could to hold the last twin together. Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. Their earlier judgments had been grossly unfair.

Across the room, Bill, Fleur, and Charlie were locked in a hushed conversation. Harry noticed how the older siblings kept their distance from Ron and Ginny... and from Molly. Why hadn't he seen this before?

"Harry!" Ginny's voice snapped him out of it. She launched herself at him, kissing him without invitation. His stomach churned, but he managed not to recoil.

"I was so worried when we came to Grimmauld Place and you weren't there!" she scolded, arms crossed now. "That horrible elf—he was downright disrespectful! You need to get rid of him, Harry. We can't have a creature like that in our home."

He smiled tightly. "Sorry, Ginny. We didn't expect Hermione's parents' will reading to take so long. It ran late, so we stayed the night at her manor. There's still paperwork left. Actually, we're leaving for France after lunch to finish everything."

Ginny blinked. "France? Without telling me?"

Hermione stepped in smoothly, her voice calm. "I only got word from the Muggle lawyers yesterday. I need a witness, and Harry volunteered. I would've invited you and Ron, but it's all in the Muggle world—trains, hotels, legal meetings. You'd be miserable."

Ginny looked like she'd bitten a lemon but managed a tight nod.

When Hermione asked after Ron, Percy answered from the fireplace, his tone resigned. "Kitchen. Sulking."

They followed Ginny toward the kitchen, just in time to hear Ron shouting.

"Have you seen this? Those damn goblins are trying to rob me now! Just because I'm famous, they think I'm a bloody vault!"

The letter on the table was clear. Gringotts was demanding 675,550 Galleons for crimes ranging from theft and destruction of property to endangering goblin lives. The fine was steep, and the deadline loomed.

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances.

"We got one too," Hermione said casually. "Paid it already."

Ron stared at them, thunderstruck. "You what?"

"It's all accurate, Ron," Harry added. "We broke in, stole things, hurt a dragon, and endangered goblin lives. It's war crimes. Goblins don't forgive those."

Ron turned beet-red. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"We didn't want trouble," Hermione replied. "You can't negotiate with goblins. And you definitely can't ask them to waive war damages."

"But I'm the bloody Minister's son!" Ron argued. "Dad was going to talk to them!"

Arthur finally spoke, frowning. "Yes, well... Molly and I were just discussing that. We thought we could appeal. It was wartime, after all."

"Mr. Weasley," Hermione said firmly, "you know that would violate the Goblin-Ministry Accord. Any Ministry interference in their internal affairs could spark a diplomatic incident—or worse, a war. Is that how you want to start your term?"

Arthur fell silent.

Ron was still fuming. "Where the hell am I supposed to get that kind of money?"

"You got the Order of Merlin award, same as us," Harry reminded him. "Half a million galleons, right? And those paid interviews you did must've added more. Surely your parents can help with the rest."

Molly's face tightened. Even Ginny looked caught off guard.

A tense silence followed, broken only when Molly called everyone to lunch. They all sat, and Harry and Hermione subtly glanced at Kreacher. The elf gave a small nod—safe to eat.

Molly's cooking was still exceptional, whatever her other sins.

Midway through the meal, both Ron and Ginny "accidentally" knocked over Harry and Hermione's water glasses. Kreacher shook his head almost immediately when Ginny returned with replacements. The two of them feigned sipping and discreetly vanished the liquid.

After lunch, they made excuses to leave despite Molly's protests.

Once outside, they disillusioned themselves and silently followed the trio—Molly, Ron, and Ginny—upstairs. From the hallway, hidden and undetectable, they watched the bedroom door lock and the muffling charm go up.

Inside, the plotting began.

"Can you believe those two?" Ron snapped. "Paying their fine without offering to pay mine? I thought that potion was supposed to make them obey!"

"It is," Molly said. "But only after twenty days of regular dosing. With them constantly on the move, we've missed too many chances. Still, they're listening more. And don't forget—I've kept your father under control for decades using the same method."

Ginny's voice broke in. "Is Hermione right? Will interfering with Gringotts cause war? And what's this about Ron's reward being lower?"

Molly huffed. "Yes, she's probably right. That mudblood knows her laws. Ron got less because Arthur's the Minister. Fudge passed a law limiting awards for ministers' families. But don't worry—I'll get it back. We're going to take money from dead pureblood vaults. Quietly. Gradually."

Ron groaned. "Even then, we're still 100,000 galleons short."

"What about George?" Ginny suggested with eerie calm. "He's barely functioning. People already think he's suicidal. If he were to... take his own life... we'd inherit everything."

"It really is a good idea," Ron said with a twisted smirk, lounging back in his chair. "Who would've thought Fred's death would actually pay off? When my curse meant for Harry bounced and hit him instead... well, I didn't expect we'd make money out of it. Still, it worked out, didn't it?" He looked at his mother, eyes gleaming. "You're alright with it, yeah?"
He didn't really need her approval—after all, she hadn't even blinked when Fred hit the ground.

Molly Weasley gave a slight nod, folding her hands in her lap, composed and cold. "It was unfortunate... but useful. We've sacrificed for them for years. I ensured all of you had your Hogwarts fees paid, every book, every robe, every bloody cauldron—paid from Potter gold. It's only fair they repay us now. One way or another."

"What about Kreacher?" Ginny asked. "He won't submit to me."

"We'll poison him too. I'll start working on an elf-specific version."

Her gaze sharpened as she shifted topics. "Now, about your siblings—questions are starting to come up. Nosy questions. We'll need to brew more of the obedience draught and dose them again... and that half-Veela. Fleur's been asking too much, snooping in Gringotts records. I don't trust her. Keep them docile. Keep them loyal."
She tapped her fingers thoughtfully. "Percy must go back to the Ministry and start handling international policy. He's the sharpest of you lot. He'll make your father look good, which is what we need right now."

Ron scowled. "Why Percy? I'm the bloody war hero. I can be the face. I should be the one to replace Dad as Minister when he retires."

Molly let out a soft sigh, almost pitying. "Ron... being Minister isn't about fame. It's about politics. Strategy. Timing. And frankly, neither you nor your father have the... finesse. Percy does. Dumbledore himself told me Percy had the makings to replace Fudge after the war. The youngest Minister of Magic in a century."

She leaned in, voice low and deliberate. "But I convinced him to back you instead. Percy will do the actual work. You? You'll be the shining face. The public darling. You'll accompany Arthur on his travels, learn the role, make the speeches, smile for the press. Once Arthur steps down, you step in. Percy handles the policy, and you take the credit."

Ron seemed mollified by that. Molly pressed on.

"We need Bill in a more powerful role at Gringotts. Once he's in place, he can quietly flag vaults we can... appropriate. Charlie can stay where he is. He's our key to restricted creatures—very useful if we need magical force."

Ginny, who'd been silent until now, finally spoke. "So what's the next step, Mum?"

Molly gave her daughter an approving look. "We proceed with Albus's original plan... with improvements. Ginny, gather the ingredients—we need a stronger variant of the potion. We'll start with George. His death will draw Harry and Hermione in. Once they're here, mourning with us, they'll be within reach. Easier to drug. Easier to bend."

Her tone turned colder. "And that elf. Kreacher. He's a problem. Refuses to recognize you, Ginny. That's a liability when it comes time to claim Harry's estate. I'll work on a poison—something specific to elf physiology. Silent. Untraceable."

Ron grunted. "What about Hermione? We'll need to marry them before anything else, right?"

"Exactly. Once they're under control, we move fast. Marry them. Secure the legal ties. Ron, make Hermione switch from her Muggle solicitor to a magical one. Then, give her the infertility potion. I will not allow a half-blood grandchild in this family."
Molly's eyes glittered with ambition.

"She'll make a brilliant mouthpiece—intelligent, respected. We'll have her champion Arthur and Percy's bills, win the public's sympathy, gain support across Europe. And then... we stage an accident. Something reminiscent of Bellatrix's torture. A tragic loss."

Ron's expression darkened, but he nodded.

"With her gone, you inherit everything. Dumbledore told me her family owned estates across the continent—old money, very discreet. After a suitable mourning period, you marry Astoria Greengrass. Beautiful, pureblooded... and cursed."
She gave him a knowing look.

"Once she bears your heir, the curse takes her. The bloodline ends with the Greengrass sisters. But by then, you'll be so adored by the public, they'll spin it as a noble act. A hero giving a doomed girl a family. She dies, you become wealthier and more loved than ever."

Ginny tapped her fingers on the table. "And Harry?"

Molly smiled tightly. "You marry him. Secure Lady Potter status. If you want a child with him, I'll brew a fertility potion—but I don't recommend it. A young, childless widow has far more options. Once Hermione's gone and Harry's no longer useful..."
She shrugged. "We arrange another accident. Maybe an old Death Eater vendetta. You'll inherit everything. Then we find you a proper pureblood heir, Ginny. Maybe someone with a seat on the International Confederation."

Ron and Ginny exchanged an impressed glance.

"Dumbledore's plan was brilliant," Ginny murmured, admiration tinged with pride. "But your improvements, Mum... they're perfect."

"It's a shame we can't spend the money right away," Ron grumbled. "All this work, and the vaults are still locked up."

Molly laughed softly. "Not for long. I'm using Albus's spells on the Wizengamot to push a narrative—'gratitude to Arthur Weasley, war hero and symbol of unity.' If I play it right, the Malfoy fortune will be transferred to your father as reparations. He'll claim the Manor publicly. A symbolic rebirth of the country. It's already in motion."

They chuckled with her, eyes glittering with visions of gold and influence.

When the door finally shut behind the scheming trio, silence settled over the room like a fog.

Then, with a soft pop, Kreacher apparated into the shadows—his gnarled hand wrapped tight around the arms of a barely-conscious Harry and Hermione. His eyes were wide with horror, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Master... Mistress... you must leave. Now."

Chapter Text

9th September 1998, Grimmauld Place, London

The cozy drawing room at Grimmauld Place was bathed in a warm, flickering glow from the fireplace. The soft crackling of the fire filled the air, blending with the sharp scent of fire whiskey. Harry and Hermione sank into the plush armchairs, each holding a glass in hand, savoring the smooth warmth that spread through them. They sipped slowly, lost in their thoughts as the weight of the day’s events at the Weasleys pressed down on them.

As Harry replayed the heated discussion he’d overheard among the Weasleys, his anger flared. How had he been so blind? He had always believed they loved and cared for him, but now, he wasn’t so sure. Could their hunger for power and wealth really drive them to betray their own family? The thought that they would kill Fred and trap the others with deceitful potions was unthinkable, yet there it was.

The image of Fred’s lifeless body, alongside the memory of Luna—her gentle smile, her dreamy spirit—sent a rush of fury through him. How had he not seen it sooner? Why hadn’t he acted on the feelings that had always lingered beneath the surface? The way his heart had twisted when he learned Luna had been kidnapped by Death Eaters, how the sadness had consumed him when she left Shell Cottage for Muriel’s house—those emotions were more than just concern for a friend.

He couldn’t ignore it anymore. Ron and Ginny, with their constant whispers, had kept him from being alone with her. They’d painted her as unstable, as mad, when all she had ever been was real. The betrayal stung deeper now that he understood it for what it was—manipulation.

Harry’s hands tightened around his glass, and in a moment of raw frustration, he hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered, the sound of breaking shards slicing through the silence. Hermione jolted, startled out of her thoughts.

“I want revenge, Hermione,” Harry's voice was low but charged with emotion. “I don’t care about the consequences. I want us to go back in time and take revenge on them. I want to destroy Dumbledore’s reputation—expose him for the manipulator and criminal he was. And I want to make the Weasleys pay. I want Molly, Ron, and Ginny to feel the consequences of what they’ve done. I want the rest of the family to see them for who they really are. I want to save Draco, save Luna… I want the love and the life we should have had from the beginning. I can’t go on like this. Not with the way they’ve twisted everything. The way they’ve manipulated me—it’s killing me.”

Hermione sat still, her glass forgotten in her lap, her expression tense. “I’ve been thinking about it too,” she said quietly, her eyes dark with determination. “The idea of going back... it’s becoming impossible to ignore. And I can’t stop wondering what it would’ve been like, you know? What if I had fallen in love with Draco? What if I could’ve changed things—stopped him from being a bully, made him see past his prejudices? What if he had refused to join the Death Eaters? All those questions have been haunting me, and yet… I still want revenge here. I can’t stand the thought of them getting away with it.”

She paused, her voice thick with emotion. “But we can’t do anything about Dumbledore now, but we can do something about the Weasleys. They need to pay. Fred and George were always kind to us, especially George. I can’t bear the thought of losing him too. We need to save him. We need to make sure the truth comes out.”

Harry nodded, a surge of guilt and anger swelling in his chest. “We’ll make them pay. But we need to be smart about this. We can’t rush in blindly.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes narrowing as she turned her attention to their immediate concern. “First, we need to save George. We don’t know when they plan to poison him, but we have to act fast. I’m not going to let him suffer because of their greed.”

She sat up straighter, her mind working. After a moment, she had an idea. Bracing herself, she spoke, “I need to call in a favor.”

With a wave of her hand, she summoned Winky, and the house-elf appeared almost instantly, her large eyes blinking with curiosity. Kreacher, ever the loyal servant, followed suit, watching with a sense of wariness.

“Missy Granger, you called?” Winky asked in her usual high-pitched voice.

“Yes,” Hermione replied quickly. “A friend of mine is in grave danger, and I need your help. I want you to become his house-elf.”

Winky tilted her head, confused. “Who is it, Miss? What does he need?”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a low voice. “Mr. George Weasley. His life is in danger—his own mother and younger siblings are planning to kill him, to take his properties. The older Weasley siblings and Arthur are also at risk. I need you to offer your services to him. Become his house-elf, watch over him, and make sure nothing happens to him. You know he’s grieving the loss of Fred, and he might not notice the threats coming from the people closest to him.”

Winky’s eyes widened, and she nodded solemnly. “I understand, Miss Granger. I will serve young Master George, and I will keep him safe.”

Hermione continued, “I also need you to speak with the other Weasley siblings’ elves. Warn them about the danger. If possible, have them check for curses or poisoned food. George trusts his family, and we can’t let that trust be his undoing.”

Winky nodded eagerly. “Yes, Miss. I will find other elves willing to help. With the way the new Minister Weasley is targeting pure-blood families, many elves are now free and eager to serve. I will speak with them.”

With that, Winky disappeared, leaving Harry and Hermione to wait, hoping their plan would work.

The next day, during dinner, Winky returned with good news. “Young Master George has accepted my service. I persuaded George, and after much pleading, he agreed to let me serve him. I also found three other elves to help Bill, Charlie, and Percy. They are all aware of the risks and will keep a watchful eye on the older Weasley siblings.”

A sense of relief washed over Harry and Hermione. The Weasley siblings were safe—for now.

As they prepared for the next phase of their plan, their thoughts turned to the bigger picture: revenge. They still had to figure out how to strike back, how to undo the damage done by Dumbledore, and how to protect themselves from the shadows that loomed over them.

But for tonight, they could rest easy knowing that George, at least, would be safe. Tomorrow, they would meet with Chief Ragnok, and the next steps of their dark, dangerous journey would begin.

10th September — Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley, London

As Harry stumbled out of the green flames of the Floo Network, the scent of aged parchment and polished marble immediately met him. The reception hall of Gringotts exuded both elegance and command—high-arched ceilings adorned with glittering chandeliers cast a warm glow over dark, glossy wood panels lining the walls. Everything here felt curated for quiet power.

Beside a massive onyx desk stood a female goblin, sharply dressed in a tailored black robe that shimmered faintly in the light. Her keen amber eyes flicked toward Harry and Hermione as they stepped forward.

“Good morning,” Harry greeted politely. “We’re here to meet with Chief Ragnok and Deputy Chief Griphook—we have an appointment in five minutes.”

The goblin’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly. “The Chief is currently detained with a Ministry representative,” she replied, her voice calm but clipped. “Unexpected, and uninvited. You may wait in one of the guest rooms. Through that door.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea how long the delay might be?”

The goblin let out a long, exasperated sigh. “No. The Minister did not schedule ahead—he simply barged in. It’s thrown off the entire morning’s schedule.” The faint twitch of her lip betrayed her irritation, despite her otherwise professional tone.

They nodded and followed her gesture to the waiting room.

To Harry’s surprise, it was far more comfortable than he remembered. The room had a sleek, modern feel—deep blue velvet sofas arranged around a marble coffee table stacked with freshly printed magical publications. Silver accents gleamed softly in the corners, lending the space a sense of refined luxury.

A quiet pop announced the arrival of a house-elf. “Refreshments, masters?” it offered with a smile, balancing a silver tray holding fine porcelain teacups and a platter of golden, buttery biscuits.

“Thank you,” Hermione said warmly, taking a cup.

They passed the time sipping fragrant tea and flipping through The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly, the tension between them slowly easing. But it would be nearly two hours before the polished door clicked open and a goblin stepped in.

“Chief Ragnok and Deputy Griphook will see you now.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at the delay but appreciated the discretion—no one would know they’d even been here.

Inside the meeting chamber, Chief Ragnok stood tall behind an ornate desk, his presence commanding yet composed. Griphook stood beside him, equally poised.

“Welcome, Lord Potter-Black. Lady Dagworth-Granger,” Ragnok greeted with a courteous nod. “Apologies for the delay—today’s visitor was… disruptive.”

Harry offered a respectful smile. “Please, call us Harry and Hermione. We understand. Hopefully your day wasn’t too badly thrown off?”

Griphook let out a dry chuckle. “Well, that depends on your perspective.”

Ragnok leaned forward slightly. “The visitor was none other than Minister Arthur Weasley, flanked by his wife and their two youngest children. They arrived demanding that we waive the fine recently imposed on young Ronald Weasley. We declined.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance.

“The fine was levied fairly,” Ragnok continued. “You both fulfilled your obligations. It’s only right that Ronald does the same. When they realized we wouldn’t budge, the Minister had the audacity to threaten us with arrest—he claimed we were harbouring a Horcrux.”

Griphook snorted. “As though the Ministry has the backbone to challenge Gringotts. Every Wizengamot family has at least one dark object buried in their vaults. They wouldn’t dare.”

Hermione folded her arms. “What happened next?”

“Well,” Griphook said, his eyes gleaming faintly, “Mrs Weasley attempted to use your vault key to access your funds, as she apparently used to do.”

“We denied her,” Ragnok interrupted. “You’re of age now, Lord Potter—no one can access your vault without your express, written consent or the Potter bride ring.”

“They tried to argue that Miss Ginny was your fiancée,” Griphook added with a dry laugh. “But lacking the ring or a magical bond, her claim was invalid. They pushed harder, and we pushed back harder.”

“In the end,” Ragnok said, “they were forced to drain the Weasley family account and Ronald’s personal fund. Still short of the total.”

“We gave them two choices,” Griphook explained. “Miss Ginny could serve as guarantor and pay the remaining sum, or Ronald would be held in our custody until the debt was settled.”

“Ron threw a tantrum. Naturally,” Ragnok said.

Hermione sighed. “Let me guess—Ginny paid?”

“Every last Knut,” Griphook confirmed, “including the entirety of her war prize money. They even surrendered family heirlooms—the Prewett tiara and matching set. Mrs Muriel will be furious.”

Ragnok added, “With the accounts emptied and their valuables surrendered, the Weasleys are now effectively penniless.”

Hermione’s voice was quiet. “And they tried to claim the Malfoy estate?”

“They did,” Ragnok said, amused now. “Claimed it as a war prize. But the Malfoy estate is sealed by blood magic. Only one accepted by the Malfoy lineage can claim it through an inheritance test. Needless to say, they left empty-handed.”

Satisfied, Harry leaned forward. “Chief Ragnok, Deputy Griphook—we won’t be available for a while. We’d like our vaults, properties, and accounts locked—accessible only to us or someone the family magic deems worthy.”

Ragnok’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Ah. So, you’re taking Death’s offer. Time travel, then.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Hermione stiffened.

Griphook smiled. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us. We goblins see more than most. We’ll lock everything. Only you or your magical heir can reclaim it.”

Ragnok turned to Hermione. “We suggest you link your Muggle assets to Gringotts. It’s the safest route.”

She nodded, and they asked about reclaiming access upon their return. The goblins detailed the procedures, reassuring them it would be discreet.

Then Hermione raised another concern. “There’s talk—rumours—that the Ministry plans to loot pureblood vaults. Is there a way to prevent that?”

Ragnok nodded grimly. “The Weasleys again. We’ve already placed sanctions on Arthur, Molly, Ronald, and Ginevra. We’ve begun reclaiming the money they siphoned from you without consent. Even Arthur’s Minister salary won’t shield him now.”

“And Dumbledore’s estate?” Harry asked quietly.

“Sanctioned as well,” Ragnok said. “His brother will need to surrender most of Albus’ belongings to cover the debt.”

Griphook leaned forward. “The pureblood vaults are protected by blood magic. No one can claim them without passing the inheritance test. Arthur Weasley, for instance, was rejected by his own magic—he wasted his trust on Molly. However, we believe Percy and the next two eldest brothers might succeed in claiming other lineages.”

Hermione’s brows shot up. “Then why wasn’t the inheritance test promoted during the war? It could’ve saved lives.”

Ragnok’s expression darkened. “It was known—but not taught. Hogwarts failed your kind. Some Muggleborns did take the test, usually with help. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs fared best.”

He gestured to a parchment displaying Harry’s family tree. A name shimmered faintly—one they hadn’t expected.

“If your friend had known,” he said quietly, “he could have claimed the Black name. He didn’t need to spend that year hiding from Snatchers.”

After heartfelt thanks, Harry and Hermione left for Grimmauld Place.

Grimmauld Place — That Evening

Back at their inherited home, Harry summoned Kreacher. They explained everything—the family magic, the goblins’ plan, and what they were about to do.

“If our friend doesn’t inherit the Black name,” Harry said gently, “wait for him, and ask to serve him instead.”

Kreacher nodded solemnly, understanding the depth of this request.

As Kreacher served them tea, Harry turned to Hermione. “It’s time.”

Together, they called for Death.

A tall, cloaked figure appeared in the flicker of candlelight.

“Are you ready now?” His voice was low, eternal.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Take us back. To the day before I received my Hogwarts letter. And for Hermione—her eleventh birthday. This time, no blocks. No compulsions.”

Death inclined his head. “So be it.”

The sensation was immediate. As if their very atoms were being unraveled, reshaped. Pain seared through Harry’s body before blackness took over.

Chapter Text

September 1998, London

The wizarding world grieved as one.

“Potter and Granger Dead in Muggle Crash – No Survivors Found.”

The Daily Prophet headline sprawled across breakfast tables. The blurred photograph beneath showed twisted wreckage scattered across the Channel, smoke spiraling into the sky. No bodies. No wands. No survivors.

Hogwarts’ windows glowed with candlelight. The Ministry fountain drowned in lilies. Even Knockturn Alley raised a glass in silence. For a moment, sorrow united them all. But grief curdled quickly into whispers.

Three days later, the marble floor of Gringotts rang with Ron Weasley’s heavy steps. He marched as though the world already belonged to him, chest puffed, chin high. “Hermione Granger was my fiancée. Everyone knew it,” he declared for all to hear. “That makes me her heir. Open her vault.”

The goblin teller stared down, voice as sharp as steel. “Produce the bond. A contract. A vow.”

Ron flushed scarlet. “She told me she’d marry me—that’s proof enough!”

The goblin’s lips curled back in a smile full of teeth. “Words are wind. You bring nothing. You are nothing.”

Gasps rippled through the bank.

Ginny pushed forward, hair blazing, voice shrill. “Harry was mine. We were to marry this summer. That makes me his widow. His vault is mine.”

The goblin barked a laugh that echoed off the marble walls. “Widow? With no ring, no vow, no parchment? You are a liar.”

Guards moved swiftly, seizing them both by the arms. Ron bellowed, “Everyone knew Hermione was mine!” Ginny shrieked, “Harry loved me!”

By evening, the headlines screamed across the wizarding world:

“Weasley Children Exposed: False Claims on Potter and Granger Fortunes.”

The scandal should have ended there. It did not.

Gringotts auditors dug deeper, tracing the faintest trail of ink. Decades of irregular withdrawals appeared, first a trickle, then a flood. The thief was revealed: Molly Weasley.

And she had not acted alone.

Albus Dumbledore’s name surfaced on parchment after parchment, siphoning vast sums from the Potter fortune and disguising them as “scholarships” and “Order expenses.”

The Prophet thundered: “Potter Fortune Plundered: Molly Weasley and Albus Dumbledore Implicated.”

Soon came worse. Inheritance tests showed Molly had cracked into her own bloodline with Dumbledore’s help, draining the Prewett vaults—Fabian and Gideon’s legacies—into her hands.

Arthur Weasley confronted her in the Burrow’s kitchen, face pale and trembling. “You robbed James and Lily’s child. You stole from Fabian and Gideon. And you shackled my mind so I could not stop you.”

Molly’s voice broke into a shriek. “Lies! Harry owed us! My brothers would have wanted their gold to help family!”

The hearth roared green, and two goblins stepped through. “Arthur Weasley,” the elder intoned, “you will come with us for compulsion testing.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with fear, but he nodded. “Yes. Take me.”

Molly lunged, “He will not—”

The goblin’s glare froze her where she stood. “He has the right to be free.”

The runes flared around Arthur, burning away Molly’s compulsions one by one. His eyes cleared, his voice raw. “You did this to me?”

“For us, Arthur. For the children!”

But Arthur said nothing more. The goblins led him into the fire, and he never returned to the Burrow.

Instead, Arthur took a modest flat above a Muggle junk shop in Diagon Alley and filled it with radios, toasters, and clocks. Neighborhood children came to watch the kindly wizard tinker, laughing as he made broken things sing again. Sometimes he visited George’s shop, helping with accounts or fiddling with prototypes. At last, Arthur Weasley lived free of anyone’s control.

The scandals multiplied.

Bill and Fleur’s marriage contract glowed with goblin reveal-runes. Entire clauses had been altered—if Bill died, Fleur lost guardianship of their children. Worse still, buried deep in legalese, Molly had written a control clause over Fleur’s Veela heritage, an attempt to leash her very blood.

Fleur’s voice trembled with fury. “She wanted to chain my allure. To own me.”

Bill’s hands shook. “She tried to enslave you in parchment. My wife—my Fleur—reduced to property.”

Fleur’s vault had been skimmed, her family cottage in France nearly stolen by forged deeds. Fury blazed silver in her eyes. “Never again. We will build something stronger. A consultancy. We will tear every false contract into dust.”

Charlie discovered his stipends had been drained, his reports tampered with. His failures had never been his own—his mother’s hand had poisoned his work. “Years of shame,” he muttered, “for nothing.” Back in Romania, his dragons welcomed him home. This time, he stood tall.

George slumped in his shop until Winky appeared. “Eat, Master George. Winky belongs to Master George now. Winky will protect what is his.” Her wards shimmered around the shop. With her at his side, George’s shop flourished again, and for the first time since Fred’s death, laughter crept back into his voice.

Percy’s disgrace came in ink. Contract after contract bore his signature—loans for Ron, sponsorships for Ginny, debts hidden beneath his name. All forged.

In the Leaky Cauldron, reporters packed the room as Percy’s voice cracked across the crowd. “I built my life on law, on rules, on honor—and you made me a criminal before I began!”

Ron scoffed, “Oh, don’t be dramatic—”

Percy’s roar silenced the pub. “Dramatic? My reputation is ashes! My career ruined before it started. You used me as your shield. You have lost me forever.”

Flashbulbs burst, quills scratched. Bill added, “Our mother, Ron, and Ginny chose greed. We choose truth.” Fleur’s silver gaze burned. “Trust must be earned, not stolen.” The room erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “At last—the decent Weasleys!” and the chant spread like fire.

Molly’s howlers went unopened. Neighbors turned away. Ron stumbled from job to job, mocked as the “fiancé who never was.” Ginny’s Quidditch dreams dissolved into pity. And Dumbledore’s name was stripped from halls and plaques, his legacy spat like poison.

And yet, from the ashes, the rest rebuilt.

Arthur tinkered in peace, humming as Muggle clocks ticked around him. George, with Winky, made his shop a fortress of laughter again. Bill and Fleur’s consultancy flourished, protecting others from theft. Charlie thrived among dragons, respected once more. Percy’s law firm became a bastion of integrity, his name finally spoken with pride.

For the first time, their lives were truly theirs.

But deep in the vaults of Gringotts, old runes trembled. Wards cracked, glowing faintly. Ancient goblin seers muttered in their sleep as the threads of time tugged backward. Ink on parchment bled into nothing. Portraits flickered, memories blurred, history unspooled like thread from a reel.

Unseen by any wizard, the world itself rewove.

Somewhere, sometime, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were not dead at all.

And the story was beginning again

Chapter Text

30th July 1991, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry Potter woke with a jolt. His head throbbed, his muscles ached, and every inch of his body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together. For a moment, he lay still, disoriented by the tight, musty space and the familiar creak of the house above him. Then it hit him.

The cupboard. He was back in the cupboard under the stairs.

"So... it worked," he whispered, his voice younger, higher than he remembered.

A soft, dry chuckle echoed inside his mind.
"Of course it worked. Did you doubt me, Master?"
It was Death, ever amused, ever present.

Harry gave a small, painful smile. "No… just feels unreal being back in this body."

"The Hallows may be out of reach for now, but you are still my Master," Death said calmly. "Call and I will answer. And like your friend Hermione, your magic is yours to control. Try it—see for yourself."

Harry closed his eyes and focused. Lumos, he thought. A faint white glow lit up the cramped cupboard. No wand. No words. Just magic. He waited, half-expecting a Ministry owl to slam against the door. Nothing came. He grinned.

When Death faded from his thoughts, Harry turned his attention to the dusty, spider-infested prison that had been his childhood bedroom. The ceiling shook with footsteps. A cloud of dust rained down on him, making him cough.

"BOY! BREAKFAST! FIVE MINUTES!"

Uncle Vernon's voice was as grating and cruel as Harry remembered. But Harry didn't feel fear this time. He felt... focused.

He got dressed quickly and stepped into the kitchen. There they were: Vernon with his newspaper, Petunia fawning over Dudley, and Dudley glued to his new video game.

No one acknowledged him, and Harry didn't return the courtesy. Instead, he went straight to the stove and began preparing a full English breakfast. The smell of sizzling bacon and fresh toast began to fill the room. He cooked calmly, methodically, and when it was done, he plated the food—for himself—and poured a tall glass of juice.

Then, without a word, he sat down at the table and began eating.

Vernon's face turned an alarming shade of purple. "What do you think you're doing, boy?!"

Harry didn't even look up. "Eating breakfast. What does it look like?"

"You ungrateful freak!" Vernon roared, rising to his feet and unbuckling his belt. "You eat only what's left. You're not family!"

He raised his hand—but he never brought it down.

In a flash, Vernon froze mid-step. His face twisted in agony. Then the screaming started.

Harry calmly chewed his toast.

Vernon dropped to the floor, convulsing violently, his screams growing hoarse as his blood began to boil—literally. Petunia and Dudley rushed in, but there was nothing they could do. Petunia sobbed. Dudley backed away, terrified.

After several minutes, Vernon vomited and passed out. Harry finished the last of his breakfast, then stood and walked over to his unconscious uncle. A quiet incantation passed through his lips, and the spell broke.

Vernon groaned as he came to, eyes wide with fear.

Harry knelt beside him. "Now then, Uncle. It's time for some changes around here. Don't you agree?"

Petunia's voice trembled. "Please... make it stop."

"I asked him," Harry said coldly, not even glancing at her. "He hasn't answered yet."

Petunia dropped to her knees. "We'll do whatever you want."

Vernon was too weak to protest.

"Good," Harry said, his tone like ice. "First, I want to know exactly what your arrangement was with Dumbledore."

Petunia looked shocked. Harry folded his arms and waited.

"I know about Dumbledore," he said flatly. "I know who I am. I know what I'm capable of."

Petunia hesitated, then nodded slowly and began to speak. What she revealed was worse than Harry had imagined.

Dumbledore had come to visit the very next day after leaving Harry on their doorstep. He told them to be strict—ruthless, even. "Beat the magic out of him," he had said. "Make sure he never feels safe, never happy. Starve him if you must."

He promised them £7,500 per month for as long as Harry stayed with them. Petunia admitted that while she had mourned Lily in her own way, she'd been too afraid of Vernon—and too tempted by the money—to refuse.

"Vernon hated magic," she whispered. "He feared Dudley would turn out like you. Dumbledore promised he wouldn't. And he… he threatened me if I ever showed you kindness."

Harry's stomach turned. "And Hogwarts?"

"Vernon wanted to stop you from going. Said once you left, the money would stop coming."

Harry didn't respond right away. He just stared at them. These people had abused him for money—and at Dumbledore's direction.

"I'm done playing house," he said finally. "From now on, I'm not your servant. I don't do chores. You don't ask where I go or what I'm doing. And you don't breathe a word of this to Dumbledore."

Petunia nodded, still trembling.

"Oh—and I'm expecting my Hogwarts letter tomorrow. It better be untouched."

Without waiting for a response, Harry turned and walked upstairs. He opened the second bedroom—Dudley's—and with a wave of his hand, vanished every toy, game console, and scrap of clutter.

Then, using spells Kreacher had taught him and techniques Hermione had researched, he transfigured the room into something more his own. A real bed. Shelves lined with magical texts. A writing desk. Protection charms on the door.

He lay down at last, staring at the ceiling. Rage simmered beneath the surface, but he forced himself to stay calm. Dumbledore's lies. The betrayal. The years of pain. Revenge would come. But not yet.

Hours passed. Then—ring ring.

There was a knock at the door.

"Harry," Dudley said nervously. "The phone's for you. It's a girl. Hermione Granger."

Harry's heart lifted. He bolted down the stairs, grabbed the phone, and felt a smile break across his face for the first time in days.

"It worked," she said. "We're both back."

He breathed out, relieved. "Good. I missed your voice."

"I'll be there tomorrow afternoon," Hermione said. "We've got a lot to do before Diagon Alley. I've been reading up on wizarding customs. We need to be prepared."

Harry nodded, already planning their next steps. "Yeah. Tomorrow. Let's get to work."

31st July 1991, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry Potter woke up with a start, a rare grin already tugging at his face. Today was different—it was his eleventh birthday. For once, the weight of the Dursleys' disdain didn't seem quite so heavy. He rolled out of bed, tugged on his oversized T-shirt and jeans, and padded downstairs, his heart light with a flicker of anticipation.

The kitchen was already filled with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of tense silence. Uncle Vernon sat at the head of the table, shoveling food into his mouth with the urgency of a man who wanted to be somewhere else. Aunt Petunia was perched stiffly at the opposite end, sipping tea with an air of forced detachment, while Dudley sat beside her, eyeing Harry warily.

When Harry stepped into the room, all three froze for a split second. Aunt Petunia's eyes narrowed, Dudley shrank back in his seat, and Uncle Vernon—sweating through his collar—redoubled his efforts to clear his plate. The tension amused Harry. Whatever had happened since that strange letter had arrived days ago, the Dursleys were clearly unsettled.

Harry took his time making breakfast, opting for pancakes with a generous dollop of whipped cream and fresh fruit—strawberries he'd nicked from the fridge the night before. He sat at the far end of the table, far from the Dursleys, savoring each bite.

He had just finished half of his stack when it happened.

The letter arrived.

It didn't slide through the letterbox or come tucked in with the post. It appeared on the windowsill with a soft thud, as if the air itself had set it down. Harry turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. He could feel it this time—faint but distinct. A shimmer of magic clung to the envelope, subtle compulsion charms woven into the parchment like invisible threads.

But he was ready.

Focusing his mind, Harry brushed the magic aside, unraveling the enchantments with a mental flick, as though swatting away cobwebs. He picked up the letter and turned it over in his hands, the weight of it oddly satisfying.

Without a word, he slipped away from the kitchen, climbed the stairs two at a time, and closed the door to his cupboard-room behind him. Sitting cross-legged on the worn mattress, he carefully tore open the envelope.

And began to read.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

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

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Second page

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

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

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

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

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

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

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

OTHER EQUIPMENT

One wand

One cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

One set of glass or crystal phials

One telescope

One set of brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl, a cat, OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR BROOMSTICK

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

Taking a paper and pen, he started writing his letter back to Hogwarts.

Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

Thank you for the letter. I am happy to accept my place as a first-year student in your school.

Regards,

Harry J. Potter.

As soon as Harry scribbled McGonagall's name on the envelope, he hesitated. How could he send this letter back without catching anyone's attention? He mulled over his options, chewing on his bottom lip, when—poof! The letter vanished right out of his hands. A soft crackle of magic filled the air, and before he could even blink, a second letter appeared on his desk—an acknowledgment.

It figured. McGonagall must have set up some sort of charm—probably tied to her name. As soon as someone addressed a reply to her, the charm would activate and deliver it straight to her office. Classic Hogwarts.

Now, all that remained was preparing for school. First stop? Diagon Alley. But before gathering school supplies, there was something even more important he had to do.

He was going to try to get Hedwig back.

Harry's heart thrummed with anticipation. Not only for Hedwig—but for Hermione's arrival. She had promised to pick him up, and he'd been counting the hours.

At exactly noon, the doorbell chimed through the house like a starting pistol. Harry dashed down the stairs, barely managing to keep from tripping in his excitement. He swung the door open—and froze.

There she stood.

Hermione Granger, age eleven—but not exactly as he remembered. She was still the same girl who had lectured him on wand movements and homework deadlines, but... different. Dressed in a simple yet elegant sundress that shimmered under the sun, she radiated a confidence that was both surprising and familiar. Her once-wild curls had relaxed into soft waves, and the gap in her front teeth had been replaced by a dazzling smile framed by perfectly straight teeth.

Before he could say a word, she threw her arms around him, laughing. "Happy birthday, Harry!"

She handed him a neatly wrapped bundle—dark jeans, a soft sweatshirt, and sturdy leather boots. "I figured you'd want something less Dudley and more... you," she said with a grin.

Once he'd changed into the clothes—tailored, warm, and completely his—he followed her outside to where a sleek, black Jaguar was parked at the curb. As they pulled away, Harry watched the house fade into the distance, replaced by the exhilarating buzz of London.

Diagon Alley, London

During the drive, Hermione eagerly filled him in on everything that had happened since she'd received her Hogwarts letter.

"McGonagall showed up, explained everything to my parents. They were skeptical at first, obviously, but once she transfigured Dad's Rolex into a rubber duck and back again, they agreed to visit Diagon Alley. That's where I met Chief Ragnok—and Deputy Chief Griphook."

She paused before continuing, her voice a little quieter. "Turns out, they figured out who I was. They asked me to retake an inheritance test—and after that, well… let's just say things got complicated."

She explained how Gringotts had audited all her vaults over the past few months, finding not just gold but centuries-old potions and magical heirlooms stored in the Dagworth-Granger and Ravenclaw family vaults. She'd hired a private healer—someone who told her parents that while they were excellent dentists, magical misalignment was something they couldn't fix. Her magic had been interfering with all their attempts.

"Oh—and I have a house-elf now. Binky. She's the one who does most of the errands in Diagon Alley for me."

Harry blinked. "You have a house-elf?"

Hermione laughed. "She volunteered, actually. You'll meet her soon."

As they stepped through the Leaky Cauldron and passed into Diagon Alley, both Harry and Hermione threw on lightweight robes over their outfits. Harry pulled up his hood, trying to keep his scar hidden.

Hermione summoned Binky with a soft pop. The little elf was clean, well-dressed, and wore a tidy uniform embroidered with the initials "HJG."

Soon after, they were ushered through the VIP entrance of Gringotts. Hermione, ever the planner, had already arranged a meeting with Chief Ragnok for Harry.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Chief Ragnok gave Harry a courteous nod as they entered.

"It's good to see you again, Heir Potter. I presume, like Heiress Granger, you wish to take your inheritance test and secure your accounts?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, please. Also—I want to stop anyone else from taking money from my accounts. Can I do that?"

Griphook stepped forward. "Albus Dumbledore is listed as your magical guardian, so we can't fully block him. But we can make it so that only he can withdraw—and only in person. We'll also destroy all existing keys and inform him of the new policy when he asks."

With a flick of his hand, dozens of keys materialized in front of them—more than Harry had ever imagined. When he gave the go-ahead, they were incinerated in a flash of blue flame.

Once his inheritance test was complete, Harry was stunned by the results. His trust fund was far larger than he ever knew. Griphook presented him with the Potter heir ring, enchanted to resist theft, love potions, and compulsions. It would also let him pay in shops directly via magical verification.

But the real shock came next.

"Thanks to Heiress Granger's request, we began auditing your trust account over the last decade," Griphook said, laying out several ledgers. "We discovered consistent withdrawals made by three parties: Vernon Dursley—1,500 Galleons a month for ten years. Albus Dumbledore—totaling 250,000 Galleons in varied withdrawals. And Molly Weasley—about 66,000 Galleons, also in monthly payments."

Harry's stomach sank.

"And the largest? The Potter Scholarship Program—used to fund every Weasley child's Hogwarts tuition. Over 432,000 Galleons."

The final total: 928,000 Galleons.

Harry stared at the parchment, jaw slack. "Is there any way to get it back?"

"We're initiating quiet sanctions," Ragnok assured him. "We're also working with our Muggle counterparts to investigate Vernon Dursley. As for the scholarship fund—we propose a reform. Future students must pass a magical aptitude test to qualify, and must maintain top grades to continue receiving funds."

Harry considered it. Percy would easily pass. Fred and George were brilliant in unconventional ways. But Ron? He wasn't so sure. And Ginny… she hadn't even started yet.

"I agree," he said firmly.

Satisfied, the goblins promised to begin immediately. They also discussed Sirius Black. When Harry explained Sirius was innocent, and that Peter Pettigrew was still alive—posing as a rat—Ragnok and Griphook assured him they would discreetly investigate and bring in a law wizard to begin proceedings.

The rest of the day flew by. With Hermione and Binky by his side, Harry shopped efficiently. He splurged on extra books about blood magic, wizarding customs, and magical families. At Ollivander's, his phoenix feather wand chose him again, just like before. He also picked up a wand holster.

At Madam Malkin's, he bought not only school robes, but a full wardrobe of his own for the first time in his life. Clothes that fit. Clothes that would grow with him, thanks to Malkin's clever enchantments.

And finally, at Eeylops Owl Emporium—Hedwig.

She hooted softly the moment she saw him, and Harry felt an overwhelming surge of joy. His first real friend was home again.

Hermione, meanwhile, selected a sleek Tasmanian masked owl she named Gaia.

Granger Townhouse, London – Evening

Later that night, Harry stepped into Hermione's townhouse and stopped dead. It was like stepping into a miniature palace. Marble floors gleamed under warm lighting, and abstract art and antique books lined the walls. Hermione waved off his surprise with a small smile.

"Old money," she explained. "Both my parents come from wealthy families. Plus, their cosmetic dental clinic serves half of the elite in London."

In her private wing, Binky prepared a delicious dinner while the two friends sank into oversized armchairs, finally able to talk without interruption.

They laughed over the Goblin audits, mused over Hogwarts politics, and made a vow: no Gryffindor this year. They were both planning something different.

Then came the serious part: revenge.

Dumbledore. Molly Weasley. It was time to take control of their lives—and that meant forging new alliances. They agreed on their first step: contacting Lucius Malfoy. Together, they penned a carefully-worded letter and handed it to Gaia, who took off into the night sky.

After dinner, Binky used a side-apparition spell to return Harry to his home, with one last assurance: any future correspondence would go through her. Their real journey, it seemed, had only just begun.

Chapter Text

1st August 1991, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

The Malfoy family sat together in the small, sunlit dining room, the air warm and peaceful, far removed from the cold grandeur of their usual surroundings. This was a space they kept to themselves—quiet, private, and tucked away near the manor’s bustling kitchen, with a view of the flourishing gardens Narcissa tended so lovingly. The serene atmosphere of this intimate room was a welcome contrast to the grand, imposing dining hall where they typically entertained guests and hosted lavish soirées.

Lucius sat at the head of the table, his focus absorbed by the Daily Prophet, as he methodically worked through his traditional English breakfast. The day ahead would be busy—meetings at his office, a visit to the Ministry, and numerous other obligations. Beside him, Narcissa savored her beans on toast, a cup of tea cradled between her hands, though her mind was already drifting towards the upcoming charity ball she was co-chairing with Lady Greengrass. As for Draco, he tucked into his egg on toast, his thoughts drifting eagerly towards organizing a Quidditch match with his friend Theodore Nott.

Just as the warmth of the morning settled over them, the tranquility was broken by the soft shuffle of footsteps. Lenny, their devoted house-elf, entered the room carrying a polished silver tray, upon which rested a curious parcel. The envelope was elegantly addressed: To Lord, Lady, and Heir Malfoy. There was no return address—only an intriguing absence that immediately piqued Lucius’s interest. His eyes narrowed slightly as he lifted the letter, casting a few cautious spells to confirm its safety. It was protected by a potent charm, one that allowed only the three of them to read it.

A flicker of urgency passed between them as Lucius set down his fork and beckoned his family to hurry. The letter felt like a summons, and with that unspoken understanding, they quickly cleared their plates and made their way to Lucius’s study. The room, with its rich mahogany furniture and intricate tapestries, was steeped in old-world charm, a fitting backdrop for the gravity of what they were about to uncover.

As they unwrapped the mysterious parcel, a sense of foreboding crept over them. Nestled within layers of crinkled paper was a neatly folded letter and an ornate box, its seal unmistakably bearing the Potter crest—a mark that, to their shock, could only belong to Harry Potter. But that was impossible. Harry had been missing for years. Surely Dumbledore had painted them as enemies in the boy’s mind. Why would he reach out now?

Lucius’s fingers hovered over the letter as he cast another series of spells. The soft glow of his wand revealed the truth: the letter, along with the box, was heavily enchanted. Only the three of them could unlock its contents. Inside the box were vials filled with swirling, ethereal memories—memories that, it seemed, only they were meant to access. Lucius realized the magic binding these items was far beyond ordinary protections. It was a mix of the Fidelius Charm and an Unbreakable Vow—two of the most ancient and powerful forms of magic known. Narcissa’s voice, tinged with awe, whispered that the magic was likely of Black origin, a relic of her own family’s hidden secrets. The contents of this box, whatever they were, could never be shared with anyone else.

The Malfoys exchanged uncertain glances. Lucius was wary of breaking the seal, but the pull of curiosity—and perhaps something more—was too strong to resist. He turned to Draco, who was clearly as intrigued as his parents. With a shared breath, they opened the letter together, their hearts racing as they read its contents.

Dear Lord Lucius, Lady Narcissa, and Heir Draco Malfoy,

You may be wondering why Harry Potter is reaching out to you and what necessitates such a secure communication. The reason is that my friend and I require your assistance in bringing down a deceitful individual who, under the guise of promoting the greater good and light magic, has been exploiting people and stealing their money. Yes, I am speaking of none other than Albus Dumbledore.

My friend Hermione Granger and I have recently discovered that we are among the victims of his schemes, and we seek your help in taking our revenge.

Although Hermione is a Muggle-born, her abilities should not be underestimated. Enclosed with this letter, you will find copies of the inheritance test we recently obtained from Gringotts, and I believe you will find the results intriguing. Given these results, and your status as a Wizengamot member and Head of the Board of Governors, an alliance between us could prove mutually advantageous.

If you examine the bonding results in Hermione's test, you will find that she is the key to the continuation of your family line. Should you have any doubts about this, I encourage you to visit the Goblins, where Draco can undergo his own inheritance test to clarify any uncertainties.

Our desire for revenge against Dumbledore does not mean we align ourselves with dark forces. Voldemort killed my parents and left me an orphan. I am determined to defeat him and anyone associated with him. I know that you and Professor Snape were quite young when you allied with him, and later regretted that decision.

Lord Lucius, I know you prioritize the safety and well-being of your wife and son more than anything else. You aim to protect your family's wealth and status, and you are aware that Voldemort is not truly dead. If he returns, you may find yourself with no choice but to follow him again—something that could lead to your destruction.

Enclosed is a box containing memories from both Hermione and myself, explaining the potential consequences of your decision to continue following Voldemort. We wish to keep how two eleven-year-olds came by these memories private for now.

Once you have reviewed our memories and are ready to converse, please respond to “Hermione Granger, Granger Manor, Knightsbridge, London.” I cannot be certain if letters addressed to me are being monitored, so it would be safer for you to write to her instead.

I await your positive response.

Sincerely,
Harry James Potter-Black

As Lucius read the letter, his mind raced. He turned his attention to the inheritance test results that accompanied it. Harry Potter, the orphaned son of James and Lily Potter, wasn’t just heir to Gryffindor—he also stood to inherit Slytherin and Peverell. But there was more. Harry had been adopted by Sirius Black—when? How had Narcissa not known about this? The Black family’s secrets were deeper than he realized.

But then came Hermione Granger’s results. To Lucius’s shock, she wasn’t just some Muggle-born, but an heir to three long-forgotten families—Dagworth-Granger, Trefle-Picques, and Lapin. And, incredibly, she also had ties to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Together, Harry and Hermione now wielded incredible power—power that could reshape the wizarding world. Lucius’s thoughts churned as he considered the implications: their votes in the Wizengamot, control over Hogwarts, influence at St. Mungo’s, and more.

Then came the most shocking discovery of all. According to the results, Hermione Granger was Draco’s soulmate. The weight of that realization crashed over Lucius. If it were true, Draco’s future was no longer in his hands—he could no longer deny the depth of the connection. If Draco married Hermione, their children would be born of extraordinary power, despite their half-blood status.

So many decisions weighed heavily on him, yet before any could be made, Lucius knew they had to confront the memories contained in the box. Both Narcissa and he had offered Draco the chance to turn away, to step back from whatever lay ahead—but the boy’s curiosity was insatiable. There was something compelling, almost magnetic, in the promise of truth, no matter how dark it might be.

One by one, Narcissa lifted the delicate, silvery vials and dropped them into the pensive. Each memory slithered down like liquid smoke, shimmering in the depths of the swirling pensive. Draco leaned in, his breath catching as the first memory seeped into the void. No matter how steeled they thought they were, the reality was more brutal than any anticipation.

The first memory struck with a jolt: Draco himself, but twisted into something unrecognizable. Cruel, venomous, he terrorized Muggle-borns with cold precision. Lucius felt a chill grip his heart, seeing his own son wielding such hatred. Then, as if the shadows themselves had grown teeth, the rise of the Dark Lord unfolded. Flames and smoke consumed the horizon, swallowing the world they had known.

Their home—their sanctuary—was no longer safe. Lucius saw himself dragged away, imprisoned, helpless. Draco, enticed by darkness, became a Death Eater, faltering only in the attempt to kill Dumbledore. The memories twisted further: Death Eaters roaming freely within Malfoy Manor, echoes of terror filling the halls, beloved rooms turned to stages of horror.

Then the war—the last war. The memory painted the battlefield in harsh detail: smoke clogging the air, flashes of light, the chorus of spells colliding. The screams of the fallen carried through the night like a dirge. The Malfoys fought desperately to hold on to one another, but in the chaos they were overwhelmed.

Captured. Shackled. Dragged to their knees before the victors.

And then came the silence—the kind that rings louder than battle. The air grew colder, unnaturally so, and the light dimmed as though the world itself recoiled. Out of the darkness, they came: Dementors, dozens of them, gliding closer with every heartbeat.

Draco’s breath hitched, fogging in the sudden chill. Narcissa clutched his hand, though her own fingers trembled. Lucius straightened, trying to mask his fear, but his eyes betrayed him as the towering, wraith-like figures loomed.

The first Dementor descended on Lucius. He tried to look away, but the cold drew him in, locking him in place. The creature’s rotting hands seized his face, and with a rasping hiss it lowered its hood. The Kiss. His body writhed, but the sound that escaped him was not a scream—it was the hollow silence of a soul being torn free. When the Dementor released him, Lucius slumped forward, empty, his eyes glassy and lifeless.

Narcissa’s sob echoed through the chamber. She begged, pleaded, but the Dementor turned on her all the same. The creature’s breath rattled, and she felt her strength drain as its gaping maw pressed close. With one shuddering gasp, her soul was consumed, and her body fell limp beside Lucius’s.

Draco fought against his captors, desperate, terrified, calling for his parents even as their bodies lay motionless. But the Dementor was already upon him. The cold was unbearable, slicing into his very being, drawing away everything—hope, memory, warmth. His last cry died in his throat as the Kiss silenced him forever.

When the memory ended, the silence was suffocating. Draco staggered back from the pensive, clutching his stomach. He vomited violently, his entire body trembling, and the house-elves appeared almost instantly, guiding him to his room, wiping his face, whispering words of comfort he could not hear.

Lucius stood frozen, the images still seared into his mind. He could not shake the sight of his wife’s hollow eyes, his son’s final cry.

Then Narcissa’s voice broke the air—steady, firm, almost defiant.

“We can no longer ignore what we’ve seen,” she said, each word deliberate, cutting through the dread like a blade. “These memories, as horrifying as they are, reveal truths we cannot turn away from. I refuse to let them dictate our future. We must ally with the young heir and heiress.”

Lucius met her gaze, his mind a whirl of strategy and caution. “I agree,” he said slowly, measuring each word. “But we must tread carefully. They are children, yes—but they already possess knowledge and power that we are only beginning to grasp. If they wield this, we cannot afford recklessness.” He paused, the weight of their next move pressing down on him. “I will take Draco to Gringotts immediately. We need answers—and we need them before it’s too late.”

And so, with hearts heavy yet resolute, the Malfoys set their course. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and shadowed by the knowledge they now carried—but one thing was undeniable: the steps they were about to take would forever alter the destiny of their family.

2nd August 1991, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Draco sat alone in the expansive library, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the shelves of ancient tomes. His potions book lay open before him, but he could hardly focus. His thoughts churned, haunted by the memories from the previous day. Was he really destined to become a schoolyard bully? Would he follow the path laid out for him by his family—into the arms of the Dark Lord?

The recent meeting with the Goblins had revealed that Hermione Granger was his soulmate, a fact that felt impossible to reconcile with everything he had been taught. His family had always scorned Muggle-borns, yet here was evidence that Hermione came from a remarkable heritage, tracing back to a long line of squibs. If all Muggle-borns were descended from squibs, then everything Draco had been taught about blood purity was a lie.

And yet, despite the chaos swirling around him, he knew one thing: he would not become the boy he had seen in those horrifying memories. With a deep breath, he glanced at the Malfoy Heir Ring adorning his finger. It was a symbol of his lineage, but it also reminded him that he was not helpless. He could shape his future.

With resolve settling over him, he stood. It was time to speak to his parents. They had retreated to his father’s study to discuss their next move, but Draco needed his mother’s counsel more than ever. He had seen enough to know that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

9th August 1991, Granger Manor, London

Hermione was so deep in thought that she missed her elf Binky coming and checking on Harry. The last few days had been busy, but it was something she had expected when Harry woke up. This time, she had prepared better than for her upcoming years in Hogwarts. She did not just buy books and learn stuff from her syllabus but also more about the magical history of England and the world. She bought books about various topics to understand the world and its customs better to prepare both Harry and herself for their upcoming years. When she travelled with her parents to the US and Europe for holidays, she went into their magical community and learned about their lives as well. This helped her immensely as it was in the US when she met the witches there that she learnt that her busy hair was an extension of her magic, and they had introduced her to stugwood shampoos and conditioner. Now her hair was falling in beautiful curls, even Harry had started using the shampoo and conditioner resulting in his hair being much more obedient.

Turning around, she noticed that Harry was fast asleep after taking the potions prescribed by their private healer. Once they finished their trip to Diagon Alley, Hermione convinced Harry to make an appointment with her private healer. Their Healer, Asgard Quigley, did a thorough health checkup on Harry, and the results were worse than she was expecting. She always suspected that Harry's childhood and life at the Dursleys was abusive, but what she learnt from the report was truly shocking.

At just 11 years of age, Harry's physical development was markedly stunted, resembling that of a much younger child, around 8 years old. Healer Quigley, with a furrowed brow, attributed this delay to the persistent malnourishment that Harry had endured. His eyesight was alarmingly poor—almost to the point of being nearly blind. Hermione was furious when she discovered that Harry's aunt and uncle had never bothered to take him to an ophthalmologist; instead, they had merely provided him with a tattered, second-hand pair of glasses that did little to alleviate his struggles. In quiet moments, Harry confided in her that he often resorted to squinting to decipher the words on the page. Each time he attempted to write or read, the pain would worsen, often so agonizing that it forced him to abandon his studies altogether, stifling his natural curiosity and love for learning to escape the discomfort.

Another thing that made Hermione furious was the list of bone repairs noted in Harry's scan reports. It appeared that Harry had been used as the punching bag for Mr Dursley and his son for the past decade. His body was riddled with scars, some even resembling boot and belt marks. In addition, there were remants of bite marks in his body which Harry had later infromed her was from his Aunt Marge's dog. His aunt and uncle had got him vaccinated but the scars still remained. Many of his bones had been fractured and healed incorrectly, which, according to Healer Quigley, also contributed to Harry's stunted growth.

Healer Quigley urged Harry to get admitted to his clinic for treatment, but when Harry refused, Hermione convinced them both to proceed with the treatment at her house. The guest room in her wing was transformed into Harry's room, where he was currently undergoing treatment. Healer Quigley had to remove 80% of Harry's bones and then administered a large dosage of Skele-Gro to mend the damage. The pain was immense, and as a result, Harry had to be placed in an induced coma for two days.

Harry was also put on a regimen of nourishing potions and growth potions three times a day to address his malnourishment. Additionally, Healer Quigley provided Harry with a diet chart to ensure his growth matched that of his peers. Although he would never be tall, the healer reassured him that by following the diet and taking his potions regularly, he could grow another two feet maximum by the next year, which would bring him closer to his classmates. Healer Quigley also prescribed ointment for Harry's scars, which he needed to apply before bed, and recommended an ocular specialist who could treat his eyesight. After a quick visit to the specialist, Harry now had a new pair of glasses—completely different from his father's—that highlighted his eyes and allowed him to see clearly. He was also provided with a magical set of contact lenses in case he ever needed them.

At the moment, Binky was responsible for managing Harry's medications, but they would soon need to find a personal house-elf for him. It would take some time to meet Kreacher, and even when they had access to him, he would always be the Black family house-elf and not specifically Harry's.

Eversince Harry woke up, he would arrive in the morning at her house, and they would study and discuss what they had learnt. Sometimes, they would also discuss their plans for Dumbledore and Weasleys and how they would tackle other people in Hogwarts. Harry usually left after dinner.

Another issue in Hermione's mind was the silence from the Malfoys. A week had passed since they sent the Malfoys a letter and the accompanying memories, and they had yet to receive any response. While they did not expect an immediate reply, they certainly did not anticipate such a long delay.

Suddenly, Binky appeared with a letter, the Malfoy seal indicating its origin. Waking Harry from his slumber, they opened the letter together and read the invitation from the Malfoys for tea, scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

11th August 1991, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

The Malfoys were gathered in their main living room, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their guests. Ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal prisms catching the light and casting shimmering patterns across the polished marble floor. Clad in their customary formal robes, the fabric draped elegantly over their frames, they felt uncertain about how two children raised in the Muggle world would perceive their customs.

In the days leading up to this meeting, the Malfoys had enlisted the services of a private investigator to delve into the lives of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. The revelations about young Harry were startling. He appeared to be a victim of physical and emotional neglect, overshadowed by his relatives, the Dursleys, who indulged in a lifestyle beyond their means. In stark contrast, Harry wore ill-fitting hand-me-downs that hung loosely off his slight frame, and his malnourished appearance spoke volumes of the hardships he had endured. He lived a friendless life, tormented by his cousin and his friends, while his teachers ignored his suffering. It also looked like he was unaware of his magical background and wealth. They were baffled by how he had managed to learn so much in the few days since receiving his acceptance letter to Hogwarts and why Dumbledore had not interfered and stopped the mistreatment.

On the other hand, Hermione Granger emerged from a vastly different background. Born into an elite family of successful Muggle dentists known for their dental practice, she enjoyed a life of comfort and privilege. Hermione's education was exceptional; she attended prestigious private schools and was recognized for her brilliance, often skipping grades with ease.

At exactly 3 PM, the Floo Network activated, and two children stepped out. They looked similar yet distinct from the photographs provided by their investigator. Hermione was dressed in a delicate floral dress robe that danced around her as she moved. The vibrant colours of her robe mirrored the blossoming garden outside, while her ballet shoes, subtly gleaming, gave her the elegance of a young lady. Her hair cascaded in soft, shining curls that framed her youthful face, adding an air of warmth to her already inviting demeanour. Harry, on the other hand, wore a dress robe as well that was more tailored to him. He was also wearing his Potter Heir Ring, and his hair was not as unruly as seen in his photos. Even though he was still slightly petite, He looked healthier than the images the Malfoys had seen, hinting at the care he had received in recent days. Both children bowed with a sincerity that surprised the Malfoys, and Hermione curtsied elegantly to Lady Malfoy, their manners far exceeding their expectations.

"Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy, and Heir Malfoy, thank you for inviting Hermione and me to your home for tea," Harry said, his voice steady but tinged with respect.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor. Please, join us for tea, Heir Potter, and Heiress Granger," Narcissa replied warmly, her voice as smooth as silk. She gestured for them to follow her into the sunroom, a radiant space filled with golden afternoon light that streamed through tall windows, illuminating the intricate floral patterns on the walls and the plush furnishings. The sunroom exuded a sense of welcome and tranquillity, creating an atmosphere that felt serene and welcoming.

As they settled into the plush, velvety armchairs in the elegantly appointed sitting room, an elf appeared, gliding forward with a tray that sparkled under the soft, golden glow of the chandelier. The tray was a remarkable sight, displaying steaming cups of fragrant tea infused with hints of jasmine and bergamot, accompanied by an assortment of delectable afternoon snacks. Crisp, golden-brown pastries dusted lightly with powdered sugar rested next to delicate finger sandwiches filled with cream cheese and cucumber, their fresh aroma wafting through the air and mingling with the comforting scent of the tea.

In this warm and inviting atmosphere, lighthearted conversation filled the room as Harry and Hermione curiously engaged the Malfoys about their Muggle experiences. Their questions flowed freely, eager to understand the nuances of a life that was both unfamiliar and fascinating. The Malfoys, in turn, recounted tales of wizarding customs and their own experiences within the magical community, their words rich with authority and subtle pride. Laughter and spirited exchanges soon unfolded, revealing a surprising camaraderie between Draco, Harry, and Hermione as they discovered shared interests and common ground that transcended their different backgrounds.

Once the last remnants of tea swirled in their cups, Lucius Malfoy straightened in his chair, his expression shifting from congeniality to steely resolve. Leaning slightly forward, his eyes glinted with an inscrutable intensity. "Heir Potter, Heiress Dagworth-Granger," he began, his voice smooth and unwavering, "while I acknowledge that your memories regarding our family are undoubtedly yours, I will refrain from probing into how you acquired them. However, the warnings you bring are not without consequences. Therefore, let us skip the pleasantries and get to the significant part. Please state your request clearly."

"Lord Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice steady, "when we are alone, please call us Hermione and Harry. Not everyone knows that Harry and I have claimed our heirship, so we would appreciate it if you used our names instead of formal titles. We need your help and guidance in the difficult times ahead. Until we turn seventeen, we will not have a say in matters related to Hogwarts or the Wizengamot. We want to build a network of support so that others start questioning Dumbledore's actions. This will take time, but we want to begin laying the groundwork as soon as possible. Our goal is to make alliances with many people so that when we come of age, we will have strong allies who take us seriously."

Harry nodded in agreement, looking serious. "I want to discredit Dumbledore and ensure that Voldemort is defeated for good—without Dumbledore's help. I know Voldemort is still alive, and I need your help to retrieve several items that we must destroy before I can face him. Once I have these important items, I will keep them safe in my vault."

Lucius Malfoy regarded them carefully and nodded. "I can support you with matters concerning the Wizengamot and the Board of Governors. However, discrediting Dumbledore will take time; many people in the Ministry and Wizarding Britain see him as a hero. Minister Fudge follows his every word, but he is merely a pawn in a larger game. Dumbledore controls many significant decisions in the Ministry. Keep in mind that helping you defeat the Dark Lord is risky for me. If Voldemort learns of my involvement, my family could be in danger."

Sensing Lucius's hesitation, Harry leaned forward. "I promise I would never put your family at risk," he said firmly. "I will do everything I can to protect them from both Dumbledore and Voldemort."

Narcissa noticed the tension and stepped forward. "What do you need from us to help defeat the Dark Lord?" she asked sharply.

"To start," Harry said, "I hope you can give me Voldemort's diary." When Lucius looked alarmed, Harry quickly added, "I know he trusted you to keep it safe, but we cannot defeat him until it is destroyed. If I cannot end his life, you can always say it is in a safe place."

"What do you mean you can't destroy him because of a diary?" Narcissa asked, confused as she looked between Harry and Lucius. "What diary are they talking about, Lucius?

Lucius sat comfortably in a shadowy corner of the elegantly appointed room, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls. His face, lined with the weight of past choices, appeared solemn as he began to recount a memory from years gone by. "When you were pregnant with Draco," he murmured, his voice steady yet tinged with unease, "the Dark Lord summoned both Bella and me to his side. He entrusted us with two objects of immense power. To me, he handed his diary from his years at Hogwarts, assuring me it held the key to unlocking the Chamber of Secrets. To Bella, he presented a beautiful cup, claiming it was Hufflepuff's family heirloom and that he had placed a spell in it to allow her to manipulate several members of the light families."

Lucius leaned forward, his intensity rising. "He insisted that these items must be safeguarded above everything else. The diary is concealed deep within the vaults of Malfoy Manor, hidden among the family's treasures. I know that Bella has stashed the cup securely in the Lestrange vault as well. The Dark Lord fell shortly after Draco's birth; at the time, I thought it best not to burden you with this knowledge, but honestly, I think I just forgot that I had such an item with me."

Narcissa's expression shifted to one of irritation, her sharp gaze piercing through Lucius, filled with a mixture of disbelief and anger. She was troubled by the secrecy surrounding such critical information, and she resolved that this was a conversation they would need to have later. Turning her attention to Harry, her voice rang with authority as she demanded an explanation. Harry, understanding the gravity of the moment, requested that the three Malfoys take a wizard's oath to keep his revelations confidential. Looking at each other, they shared reluctant glances but ultimately agreed, knowing the importance of what was at stake.

With the oath binding them, Harry took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "The truth is," he began, "Voldemort, in his quest for immortality, created Horcruxes—these objects are fragments of his very soul." As the weight of his words settled in the air, Lucius's eyes widened in shock, disbelief transforming into determined recognition. "The Malfoy vault is no place for such a thing," he declared, the resolve in his voice unmistakable. "I will ensure it is handed over to you without delay."

Narcissa, her expression now steely with conviction, added, "I have the power of attorney for the Lestrange vaults. I will retrieve the cup and present it to you as well." There was fierce loyalty behind her words, a commitment to protect her family at all costs.

As they delved deeper into their conversation, they meticulously discussed plans for a trip to Gringotts. Ideas flowed about finding a suitable date and coordinating with Draco so they could share precious moments amid the turmoil of their lives. Outside, on the horizon, the sun began its majestic descent, painting the sky with vibrant hues of orange and pink. This warm glow seeped into their gathering, a fleeting reminder of normalcy amidst their concerns.

When the time came for Harry and Hermione to leave, they stepped into the evening air, alive with the promise of adventure that lay ahead. The cool breeze whispered of their imminent journey to Gringotts and the unfamiliar challenges waiting for them at Hogwarts. The thrill of the unknown mingled with their sense of purpose, fueling their resolve to face whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

14th August 1991 – Gringotts Wizarding Bank

The echo of Albus Dumbledore's polished boots rang through the stone corridors of Gringotts. He followed silently behind the Goblin guide, robes swishing, his expression composed but alert. Today's meeting was no ordinary summons. Griphook, now Chief Goblin of Gringotts, had personally requested his presence to discuss a matter deemed—at least by Goblin standards—"significant." That alone was enough to stir Dumbledore's curiosity.

He allowed himself a rare smile of satisfaction. Goblins were notoriously private, fiercely independent, and distrustful of wizarding involvement in their affairs. For centuries, they had guarded their secrets and their vaults with equal ferocity, resisting even the Ministry's probing influence. But now, it seemed, they were finally acknowledging his wisdom—his vision.

Dumbledore's mind flicked to the approaching term. Young Harry Potter was about to begin his Hogwarts journey, and with that came changes—financial ones. No longer could Dumbledore access the Potter vault without raising questions. The need for alternative resources had grown urgent, and this meeting might just provide him a solution cloaked in legitimacy.

He came to a halt before an ornate door. The Goblin gestured silently, and with a nod, Dumbledore entered.

He hadn't expected this.

The room was large, circular, and unusually well-lit for Gringotts. At its center was a grand round table of polished obsidian, already occupied by a cadre of influential witches and wizards. The air buzzed with tension. At the far side sat Lucius Malfoy, composed and commanding, addressing the room with the smooth cadence of someone used to being obeyed.

Dumbledore's eyes swept across the table. Nameplates gleamed with titles: Devlin Whitehorn, Head of the Nimbus Broomstick Scholarship Fund; Lucius Malfoy, both Chief of the Hogwarts Board of Governors and Head of the Malfoy Scholarship Fund; others too—noble names, ancient families, key figures from the Wizengamot and major magical institutions.

He found his nameplate—and stiffened.

Albus Dumbledore, it read, Headmaster of Hogwarts. Magical Guardian of the Potter Scholarship Trust Fund.

That was all.

None of his other titles—Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, Order of Merlin—none had been included. It was a public slight, subtle but effective. They had framed him not as a leader, but as a caretaker of another family's legacy.

Suppressing a flicker of indignation, Dumbledore took his seat. As he glanced around, a dawning realization settled over him: every person present had direct control over a scholarship fund. This wasn't just a meeting—it was a summit. And he, for once, hadn't been the one to call it.

Time dragged on. The Chief Goblin was late—an uncharacteristic breach of etiquette. Dumbledore's fingers tapped the table, his patience thinning. But no one else seemed bothered. Then, with a hush that rolled across the room like fog, the door opened once more.

In strode Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. He moved with awkward self-importance, adjusting his bowler hat before taking his place beside Malfoy. Dumbledore noted Fudge's nameplate: Representative of the Fudge Scholarship Fund. The title of Minister was an afterthought.

Moments later, Griphook entered, flanked by the imposing figure of Ragnok, his Deputy. The room straightened as the air shifted—formality settling like a spell.

"Witches and Wizards," Griphook began, his voice clear and clipped. "Thank you for attending. We have summoned you to discuss an overhaul long overdue. Gringotts has completed a comprehensive audit of our financial obligations—among them, the handling of scholarship funds. It is time, we believe, to restructure this system for the betterment of the magical community."

Dumbledore listened, the words sharp and deliberate. Griphook continued, "All of you represent your own family or firm's scholarship trust. All but one." His eyes flicked to Dumbledore. "Headmaster Dumbledore is here solely as the Magical Guardian of Mr. Harry Potter's fund."

The slight stung again, but Dumbledore kept his composure.

"Our proposal is simple," Griphook said. "We wish to create a unified scholarship system—transparent, merit-based, and publicly announced. A standardized application will be implemented. Candidates will undergo a magical eligibility test, which evaluates financial need, magical aptitude, and intellectual merit."

The goblin turned slightly, addressing the table more broadly now. "Each fund may retain its individual criteria. The Nimbus Fund, for example, favors Quidditch talent. The Scamander Fund prioritizes those drawn to magical creatures. But all scholarships will be listed and publicly accessible. The days of cloaked philanthropy are over."

Dumbledore's gaze swept the room. Most of the governors were nodding. The tide was turning.

Griphook wasn't done. "We also intend to expand this initiative beyond Hogwarts—supporting post-education paths to address shortages in skilled fields: Healers, Magizoologists, Magicitects, even Wizarding Law. The era of vague, unregulated scholarships has passed."

A pause. Then Dumbledore rose, voice calm but pointed.

"Thank you, Chief Griphook," he said. "But are we not trading individuality for bureaucracy? Each child is unique. Must we impose uniformity on something as deeply personal as education funding? And what of blood status? Let us be candid—if made public, these opportunities will disproportionately attract Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and... less traditional magical lineages. Will the Sacred Twenty-Eight still contribute if their gold goes to children outside their bloodlines?"

He left the question hanging.

Lucius Malfoy was quick to rise.

"And why shouldn't it?" he asked smoothly. "The Malfoy Fund has always rewarded excellence—potion-makers, charm prodigies—regardless of blood. You know this, Headmaster. Severus Snape. Filius Flitwick. Both recipients of our support. I see no reason to deny others the same opportunities simply because of their parentage."

He sat back, his smile cold and triumphant.

The vote came swiftly. Overwhelming support. Dumbledore stood alone in dissent.

Still, he tried once more. "If we must assess students, I volunteer to oversee the evaluations personally."

Griphook didn't even blink. "With respect, Headmaster, Gringotts prefers neutrality. We will appoint an independent panel—respected magical scholars with no ties to Hogwarts."

It was a blow.

The meeting ended with stunning efficiency. Within hours, a memo had been finalized and owled to the Daily Prophet. Beginning the next day, all scholarship recipients—current and aspiring—were to report to Gringotts for their eligibility assessments. Lucius Malfoy even suggested letters be sent to first-year Muggle-borns, ensuring no one was excluded for lack of subscription.

Dumbledore sat motionless as the others filed out. He had just lost control—not just of a meeting, but of a system he had quietly steered for decades. With Gringotts now managing the scholarship flow, he could no longer covertly reallocate funds from the Potter vault to cover tuition for the Weasley children.

For the first time in many years, Albus Dumbledore felt powerless—and deeply, deeply alone.

15th August 1991, Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Molly Weasley stood in the grand lobby of Gringotts, her eyes scanning the bustling scene around her. The cool marble floors beneath her feet gleamed in the sunlight streaming through high windows, casting long shadows over the sea of wizards and witches. Her five children flanked her—Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny—each one caught up in the chaos of the moment. The air buzzed with a strange mix of anticipation and anxiety, as families gathered for what had become an annual ritual: the scholarship tests that would determine which students could continue their magical education with the aid of financial support from Gringotts.

Bill and Charlie, Molly's older sons, were no longer part of this world. They had already graduated and set off on their respective journeys, leaving her to manage the education of the remaining five. The pressure was mounting, especially with Ginny and Ron still to embark on their Hogwarts journeys. And now, the recent announcement about scholarship funds had completely blindsided her. What had started as an agreement between Dumbledore and her—designed to help Harry Potter re-enter the wizarding world—was somehow now linked to her family's future.

Her thoughts churned as she watched the steady stream of families arriving, all preparing for the test that would determine their eligibility. She recalled the moment when her sons had first received their summons from Gringotts, a letter detailing the scholarship they'd been awarded. The surprise had been overwhelming, but the implications were unclear. Percy, ever the diligent one, had already buried himself in the details of the new scholarship regulations, poring over the documents like they were a life-or-death exam. Fred and George, on the other hand, were already plotting something, their eyes glinting with mischief as they exchanged quiet whispers. Molly's heart fluttered uneasily. It was hard to know what to expect from them, especially when it came to academics.

Then her attention shifted to Ron and Ginny, who were standing a little farther away, mesmerized by a goblin teller working behind the counter. His sharp claws flicked deftly through a pile of gleaming galleons, the coins clinking together in a rhythm that seemed to echo through Molly's thoughts. She smiled at the sight of them, so full of wonder and excitement. Ron, with his bright blue eyes, already displayed an ambition that made her proud, while Ginny—her little girl, all fiery hair and sharp intelligence—had such potential, it took Molly's breath away. She had no doubt they'd both pass the test with flying colors.

But then, as if on cue, the playful banter between Percy and the twins drew her back to reality. They were cracking jokes about the test, trying to lighten the mood. But the worry gnawing at Molly's insides only deepened. How had Fred and George fared academically? She pushed the thought away—surely, she thought, they had done well enough. Still, the nagging concern remained. If they didn't qualify, that meant she would have to somehow find a way to fund their education for another five years. The thought made her chest tighten with dread.

Just then, a booming voice filled the room, and all eyes turned toward the entrance. Deputy Chief Ragnok, the goblin in charge, had arrived.

"Attention, everyone!" he announced, his voice carrying with an authority that made even the rowdiest of children fall silent. "The test will commence shortly. This year, due to the unprecedented number of applicants, we first assessed your parents' financial ability to support your education. For those who have completed at least one year at Hogwarts, we have also reviewed your end-of-year reports. To qualify for funding, you must have achieved at least 'Exceeds Expectations' (E) in every subject. If you meet these criteria, a badge with your assigned group number will appear in your hand."

Molly's heart leapt into her throat as she watched her children. One by one, the badges appeared—first Percy's, then Fred's, followed by George's. Relief flooded her chest. All her sons had qualified! She glanced around the room, noting the disappointment and frustration on the faces of other parents, whose children's hands remained empty.

"Now that you have your badges," Ragnok continued, "you will proceed to the written and practical components of the test. The written exam will assess your knowledge of the magical world, as well as your general awareness. First-year Muggleborns need not worry, for the questions have been adjusted accordingly. Following that, you will undergo a practical evaluation, where you will demonstrate your magical abilities in areas like flying, potion-making, charms, and even wizard's chess. The results will determine if you are eligible for sponsorship. Should you receive funding but fail to meet performance requirements, the amount will be deducted from your parents' account, with immediate consequences. If any of you fail to meet the necessary criteria for a second year in a row, your funding will be revoked."

The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and Molly felt the weight of them. Her children were already being tested in ways she could hardly fathom. They were all growing up so quickly.

One by one, her sons were led into different rooms, their fates now in the hands of the examiners. She stood by, her heart racing, as time seemed to stretch. Ron was the first to return, his face alight with excitement. Molly felt a sense of calm wash over her—her youngest had clearly shown his talent. Percy followed next, his usual seriousness etched into every line of his face. He was no doubt running through every detail of his performance in his head, analyzing what had gone right and what had gone wrong. Finally, Fred and George emerged, grinning from ear to ear, looking as though they had just pulled off some grand prank. Molly's stomach tightened again. The grin on their faces only made her more anxious.

After what felt like an eternity, Ragnok returned, his imposing figure commanding attention once more. The murmurs around her grew louder as he began to speak.

"Out of the 150 students who took the test, 70 have qualified for scholarship funding," Ragnok announced. "You will each receive a letter with the results."

Excitement rippled through the room, and Molly turned eagerly toward Ron, expecting to see his badge or letter. But her heart skipped a beat when she realized he wasn't holding one. He was standing there, still empty-handed, his eyes wide with confusion. A knot of worry twisted in her stomach.

"Mum!" Percy called out, his voice filled with excitement. "I did it! I've qualified! The Potter Scholarship Trust is sponsoring me for the rest of my education, as long as I maintain my scores!"

But his enthusiasm quickly faltered when he noticed something. "Wait a minute… It says here I'm being sponsored by the Potter Trust. Isn't Harry Potter living with his Muggle family? Who's overseeing this trust?"

Fred and George exchanged incredulous glances, but before Molly could answer, she was already making her way toward Ragnok, who was preparing to leave.

"Excuse me, Deputy Chief Ragnok," she called, her voice a little more desperate than she meant it to be. "My son, Ronald, hasn't received his letter yet. Could it have been missed?"

Percy, Fred, and George stared at her, their faces contorting into expressions of disbelief. If Ron hadn't received a letter, surely that meant he hadn't passed. A lump formed in Molly's throat, but she pushed on, hoping for an explanation.

Ragnok looked at her solemnly, his eyes unblinking. "I'm afraid your son did not qualify, Mrs. Weasley," he said coldly. "He failed both the written and practical exams. His scholarship has been revoked, and the money returned to the Potter Trust Fund."

Molly's heart dropped. Ron's face turned crimson with embarrassment. The words seemed to hang in the air, sharp and painful.

"Impossible!" Molly exclaimed. "Dumbledore assured me! All of my children have been sponsored through the Potter Trust! How can you say Ron didn't qualify? Give us back our money!"

"I'm sorry, but the new policies are in effect," Ragnok replied, his voice firm. "Your son had the lowest score of all the students who took the test. It's not possible for him to qualify when others have outperformed him. As for your daughter, if she wishes to apply for funding, she will need to come back next year and pass the test."

Molly's mind raced, a storm of frustration and anger welling up inside her. "You haven't heard the last of this!" she shouted, her voice ringing out through the hall as Ragnok turned away.

The walk home was heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. Ron, who had been eerily quiet up until now, suddenly erupted in a fit of rage. He ranted about how the examiners must have been Death Eaters seeking revenge on him because of his friendship with Harry Potter. His brothers stared at him, shocked. Harry Potter? They hadn't seen him in years.

The tension in the house was palpable. Molly wrapped her arms around Ron, doing her best to calm him, assuring him it was just a misunderstanding. She'd speak with Dumbledore, she promised. It would all be set right.

Meanwhile, Percy, Fred, and George quietly retreated to their rooms, embarrassed by the scene they had witnessed. They quickly sat down to write to Bill and Charlie, explaining what had happened. They described how Ron had been excluded from the Potter funding, and how he had lashed out, accusing his brothers of somehow stealing his money. The letter would be sent off with a heavy heart, for they knew that, while family loyalty ran deep, something was fundamentally off about the entire situation.

17th August 1991, Gringotts Wizarding Bank

The morning sun filtered through the cozy windows of Dumbledore's cottage in Hogsmeade as Molly Weasley stepped over the threshold, her heart filled with both hope and trepidation. She had come for a solution to the mounting financial pressure facing her family—particularly the education of Ron and Ginny. She had thought that if anyone could help, it would be Dumbledore. But as she crossed the threshold of the Headmaster's study, her optimism began to fade.

Dumbledore sat at his desk, poring over a mountain of parchment. His usually warm and reassuring presence seemed less so today, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar note of regret. He glanced up at her, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the sunlight, before shaking his head gently.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a stone. "The new scholarship policies have made it impossible for me to offer any assistance. The funds you seek simply aren't available to me anymore. As for Ron—well, his abysmal test scores have left me with no leverage to work with, even if I wanted to."

Molly's stomach twisted at the mention of Ron's poor performance in his exams, but before she could voice her frustration, Dumbledore offered a glimmer of hope. "But there's still Harry's trust fund. You have access to that. You can use it to pay their school fees. After all, it's not as though Harry would notice. He has no idea how much is in that vault."

The suggestion sparked a flicker of relief in Molly's chest. It was a solution, albeit one she hadn't expected to rely on. With newfound resolve, she left Dumbledore's study and made her way to the grand, imposing structure of Gringotts. The bank's marble columns loomed overhead, their intricate carvings seeming to whisper of ancient power as she walked through the heavy doors.

Inside, the atmosphere was cool and dignified, and Molly approached the nearest teller with an almost palpable sense of urgency. She recited the vault number and the amount she wished to withdraw, hoping against hope that everything would go smoothly.

But the teller's response was as cold as the marble floors beneath her feet. "I'm afraid you cannot access these funds," he said, his tone flat and impersonal. "It's the new bank policy. Only the account holder or their parents—or in Mr. Potter's case, his Magical Guardian—are permitted to withdraw money. And if Mr. Potter is underage, then it's only his guardians who can access the vault. No one else."

Molly's face flushed with indignation. "What do you mean, no one else?" she demanded, her voice rising. "This is for the children's education! You must let me—"

The teller interrupted her, his voice unyielding. "I'm afraid it's out of my hands. You'll need Harry or his guardian to make the request."

Fuming, Molly left the bank, feeling the sting of frustration settle in her chest. She Apparated back to Dumbledore's study with a snap of her fingers, still buzzing with disbelief. She burst through the door, practically throwing herself into a chair across from him.

"What do you mean I can't get the money, Albus?" she asked, her voice a mixture of disbelief and anger. "They've barred me from accessing it completely! And they said only Harry or you can withdraw from the account! They've even melted down the keys!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "This doesn't make any sense," he said, setting aside his parchment. "I'll write to the Goblins. You'll be able to withdraw the amount you need. Don't worry." He scribbled quickly on a piece of parchment, sealing it with a flourish before handing it to her.

But as he sat back, his gaze fell on the scholarship list before him. His brow furrowed as he studied the names, all too familiar. He had granted scholarships to many students, but it seems that none of the ones he personally supported have succeeded. Most disappointingly, Ron's name had now been replaced by Miss Penelope Clearwater from Ravenclaw.

Molly's mind whirled with frustration, but before she could comment, Dumbledore was already lost in his thoughts. He muttered something about shifting funds and the "greater good," before suddenly shaking himself out of his reverie.

"Here," he said, handing her the letter with an air of finality. "This should sort everything out."

But when Molly stormed back into Gringotts, the Goblins were just as adamant in their refusal. "Only Harry can make the withdrawal through owl," they told her, their voices unwavering.

A fire ignited in Molly's chest. She stormed back to Dumbledore's study, face flushed with fury. "It's useless!" she spat, slamming the letter onto the desk. "The Goblins won't let us access the funds, not even with your letter! It's ridiculous! And what's this nonsense about Harry having to go alone to the bank to get his money? You said Hagrid would help him!"

Dumbledore's face twinkled with something close to regret, though his voice was calm. "I didn't expect it to happen like this," he said, "but Harry's independence took me by surprise. I thought he would wait for help, but he went to Diagon Alley alone, without hesitation, and used the new system to access his funds."

Molly's hands clenched at her sides, but before she could speak, Dumbledore added, "Not everything is lost. There's still a way we can ensure Harry stays under our control. I have a plan to ensure that Harry will need our help to navigate his way through Platform 9¾ when the time comes."

Molly's eyes narrowed with growing curiosity. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression serious. "I have arranged for Severus to keep an eye on the Muggle entrance. Harry will need assistance to cross the barrier. This is where you come in, Molly. You'll be there to help him. But there's more—we need to get Ron and Ginny to connect with Harry. You must present yourself as a nurturing, motherly figure. If Ron can garner Harry's sympathy, he'll agree to cover his fees. Ron will be key in this."

Molly's thoughts raced. "I understand. But I have to make sure Arthur doesn't get wind of it." She knew that if her husband found out, he would never support such a plan.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled once more, as though he could already see the unfolding of his grand design. "Exactly. You'll need to guide Ron and Ginny through this carefully. It's imperative they make a connection with Harry—and once they do, the wealth of the Potter family will be within our grasp."

Molly left Dumbledore's study that night with a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in years. There was a plan in motion, and everything would fall into place—once she could ensure that Ron, the boy she hoped would be the key to Harry's fortune, played his part perfectly.

Chapter Text

1st September 1991, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

On the morning of September 1, 1991, Harry woke up filled with nervous excitement and the past month had been a whirlwind of activities. After their meeting with the Malfoys, they had scheduled an appointment at Gringotts. Lucius and Narcissa had gone down to the vaults and retrieved the Horcruxes. Harry then secured them in his lava chamber, where they would be safe until he found a way to access either Basilisk venom or learn to control fiendfyre.

During this time, Harry and Draco met several times and quickly became friends. They connected over Quidditch matches, and when Draco discovered that Harry had never been exposed to wizarding sports, he took it upon himself to educate both Harry and Hermione. Under his guidance, they learned to fly a broomstick. While Hermione claimed she found flying merely acceptable, she ultimately agreed to buy a broom as well, and they both decided on Nimbus 2000s. Both brooms were now stored at Malfoy Manor, as they had no use for them in their first year. Draco also taught them how to play Wizard's Chess.

They soon learned that Draco was academically gifted, having been trained by his family from a young age in various subjects, both scholastic and business-related. He joined Harry and Hermione in their study sessions, imparting skills not found in books. In their potion study sessions, Draco's training with Severus Snape gave him an edge. Thanks to Draco's guidance, Harry began to enjoy potions more and developed a greater interest in the subject. "When making potions, you need to feel the directions they need to take. Yes, measurements and timings are important, Potter, but sometimes you also need to feel. Is this the way I need to cut the root? Can I stir it one more time? What if I stir anti-clockwise instead of clockwise? These questions will make you a better potioneer," Draco had once said.

Hermione and Draco also developed a friendship, often discussing various topics. Harry could see that their relationship might blossom into something more when the time was right. With Draco, he noticed Hermione becoming more carefree and less bossy. Watching her happiness when Draco was around made Harry yearn for a similar connection with Luna, but he knew contacting her would be dangerous. He was uncertain about what kind of surveillance Dumbledore might have on both Luna and himself, so he chose not to take any risks until he reached Hogwarts. The Weasleys lived nearby to Luna, and Ginny and Luna were the same age. He wasn't sure if Dumbledore had asked Molly to keep an eye on Luna. The thought of writing to Luna and risking Ginny seeing the letter made him hesitate. No! He decided not to take such a risk until he was sure that contacting Luna would be safe for her.

After quickly getting ready, Harry went into the dining room, where he was met with a scene that made him laugh out loud. The Dursleys were huddled in a corner, their faces pale as they trembled in fear, while Dobby, the cheerful house-elf, danced around the kitchen. Pots floated above the counters, and ladles whisked themselves in a harmonious melody as Dobby hummed along to a lively ABBA tune, which echoed melodiously in the background. Upon catching sight of Harry, Dobby scurried over, insisting, "Master must eat a hearty breakfast today! We must leave shortly to catch the train, and Master won't have anything other than sweets until dinner!" With that, he placed a steaming plate of a full English breakfast before Harry, complete with crispy bacon, juicy sausages, fresh tomatoes, and scrambled eggs, alongside a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Dobby added to Harry's happiness. During their trips to Malfoy Manor, Harry met Dobby, who was no longer mistreated but also quite bored, as the Malfoys had their house-elf for daily tasks. Being one of the younger house-elves, Dobby didn't have much to do except keep the silverware shiny. He at once took a liking to Harry and started following him around like a lost puppy, which Draco found hilarious. Recognizing the bond forming between them, Hermione approached Narcissa. When she explained Harry's medical situation to Narcissa, Narcissa granted Dobby his freedom, allowing him to dedicate himself to Harry's care. Now, Dobby was Harry's elf, taking care of his medical and personal needs. Dobby had already spoken with the head elf at Hogwarts, and during Harry's stay, he would work in the kitchen, helping the other elves while also overseeing Harry's medication and diet.

Once Harry had polished off his breakfast, he turned towards his aunt, a look of determination on his face. "I'm heading off to Hogwarts and won't return until the end of the year. Remember, everything that happened this past month must remain a secret. If anyone discovers how much I know about the magical world, it won't end well for you." Harry was satisfied to see the Dursleys' fear register clearly as he released Hedwig from her cage, watching her soar freely into the open air, unconfined and purposeful. With a flick of his wrist,

Dobby quickly shrank Harry's luggage to a manageable size. Harry then asked him to apparate them directly to King's Cross Station, ensuring they arrived on the Muggle side. Maintaining appearances was crucial; he needed to cross the barrier without drawing any suspicion. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of anticipation about observing Dumbledore's potential intentions—would he attempt to introduce Harry to the Weasleys once again, just as he had done in the past?

1st September 1991, Kings Cross Station, London

Severus Snape stood on the other end of Platform 9 3/4, overseeing the smooth entry of Muggleborn into the platform. He was looking at the kids going through the barrier dreading another year of dunderheads trying to learn the fine art of potion-making but in reality, trying to destroy his classroom. He really needed to take Lucius's advice, quit his job and start his own business but he couldn't. Staying at Hogwarts was paramount not only for keeping his standing with Dumbledore but also for the unspoken security it afforded him. At least, the potions he had invented in his pseudo name and patented were making him rich because Hogwarts in general pays their staff pitifully. He needed to talk to Lucius about the pay rise but every time he thinks of talking about the staff salary, he gets distracted by some other thing and suddenly he feels satisfied about the pay and the job.

Yet another source of his mounting anxiety existed in the imminent arrival of James Potter's son. Dumbledore often reminisced about Harry's striking resemblance to his father, save for the notable distinction of his mother's vivid green eyes. The headmaster frequently gushed about young Potter's manners, positing that they mirrored those of his father, which only served to deepen Snape's dread. His hatred for James Potter was no secret; he viewed the man as insufferably rude, spoiled, and boastful. He felt sad that Lily's son appeared to embody none of her trademark kindness.

Like being summoned, he saw a child who looked more like Lily than James enter the railway station. He looked at the barrier and tried to enter but to both their surprise, young Harry Potter couldn't enter. He saw another Muggle-born, enter the barrier with ease but when Mr Potter tried again, the barrier refused him entry. He was just about to go and help him when he heard a voice say loudly, "Packed with Muggles, of course", turning towards the voice, he was surprised to see Molly Weasley and her brood of children coming towards the platform. What on earth was she doing at the muggle side of the platform? He also saw Mr. Potter accidentally cast a notice-me-not spell and make himself invisible to them.

Severus stood silently; his dark eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the chaotic scene unfolding in front of him. Molly Weasley's voice cut through the bustling noise of King's Cross Station, rising above the clamour as she loudly berated the number of Muggles milling about. She insisted that, as witches and wizards, they needed to enter Platform 9 3/4 as quickly as possible while trying to find someone and at the same time preventing her sons from crossing the barrier. "Mum, could you please let us cross the barrier?" Percy Weasley finally interjected; his voice tinged with exasperation. He adjusted his glasses and glanced at his mother with a raised eyebrow. "I don't understand why we had to come through this way to catch the train. We've always used the Floo to enter the platform. What's so special this year that we had to take the Knight Bus to enter the station through the Muggle side?"

"Because it's just me, and I can't ensure that all five of you reach the platform correctly via Floo," Molly replied, her tone sharp and defensive.

Fred crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Yeah, why isn't Dad here with us today?" he pressed, glancing around as if expecting Arthur Weasley to appear at any moment. "The Ministry is closed, and he's always been here to send us off. Doesn't he want to send off Ron?

Molly's dark eyes softened for a moment, pride sparking as she explained, "Headmaster Dumbledore needed his help with something of utmost importance, and your father had to leave at once. He would have been here with you if the job didn't demand his immediate attention." Her voice held a tinge of reverence for the esteemed wizard and his choice to rely on Arthur.

"Please," scoffed George, rolling his eyes dramatically. "It was more like you twisted his arm to do Dumbledore's bidding. Dad said he could manage it after he dropped us off, but you insisted he go right away. We wanted him here, and he wanted to be here with us, but it was you and Ron who stopped him from coming." He punctuated his words with an exasperated sigh. "And would you mind lowering your voice about Muggles? It's as if you're trying to shatter the International Statute of Secrecy!"

"Shut up, George. Mum knows best, and Dad has to be with Dumbledore. We have to take the Muggle route to the platform; it's very important for me. Doing it this way will help me on my path to greatness. You wouldn't understand," Ron said heatedly, turning as red as Molly at the thought of his brothers questioning their mother. Among all the brothers, he stood out as the one who appeared the most unkempt. While his siblings donned neat and relatively new clothing that reflected self-care, he wore a ragged-looking sweater that had seen better days and frayed pants that hung loosely on his frame. His trunk looked distinctly second-hand, its faded exterior suggesting years of use and neglect.

It seemed as though he was purposefully dressed to portray the role of the youngest son from a struggling family, someone who had to make do with whatever his older brothers no longer wanted. This image of a boy receiving hand-me-downs was a poignant reminder of how their parents struggled to provide for all their children. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that this choice in appearance was designed to evoke sympathy for Ron.

As the tension of the argument lingered in the air, their younger sister, Ginny, couldn't hold back any longer. Her voice trembled with a blend of nervousness and excitement as she spoke, "Mum, it's almost time for the train to leave! Why can't we find Harry Potter? Is it possible he slipped onto the platform without us noticing? I thought you said Dumbledore made sure he wouldn't know how to enter, and that we were meant to help him become friends with Ron so he could start handing out money to us and eventually fall in love with me." Her bright, eager eyes sparkled with anticipation, revealing her dreams of finally meeting the elusive Harry Potter. She envisioned the possibilities that lay ahead—when she could successfully win his heart, it would pave the way for her mother, Ron, and her to lead the luxurious life Dumbledore had promised, filled with money, adventure, and luxuries. Ginny could hardly contain her excitement as she imagined the future, her heart racing at the potential of what this encounter might bring.

As the realization set in, Percy, Fred, and George exchanged looks of disgust with their mother and their younger siblings. They hurried through the barrier that separated the Muggle world from the magical platform without a second glance at the three of them. Molly, still frustrated and determined to connect with Harry, called out repeatedly, her voice echoing with anxiety about Muggles and magic, hoping to grab his attention. However, after a few futile attempts, she resigned herself to the reality of the situation. With a sigh, she instructed Ron to join his brothers, followed swiftly by Ginny and herself. Before crossing through, she cast a spell on the barrier, which would allow Harry to enter the platform safely. Once Molly and the others had left, Harry swiftly released the notice-me-not spell that had cloaked him from view and crossed the barrier with a surge of relief.

Meanwhile, Severus Snape stood on the sidelines, stunned by the events he had just seen. The implications of what he had seen weighed heavily on his mind. He needed time to process it all, but first, he had to complete his duties. Once he ensured that all the students had safely entered the platform, he closed the barrier with a flick of his wand and apparated back to Hogwarts, his thoughts swirling with the complexities of the situation he had just met.

1st September 1991, Hogwarts Express

It had been decided beforehand that when they entered the platform, neither Harry nor Hermione would seek out the Malfoys to ensure their safety. Harry quickly boarded the train, scanning the compartments until he found Hermione, who had managed to secure an entire carriage for herself. As the train began to chug away from the platform, a sense of relief washed over both of them—they had successfully evaded Molly Weasley and, in doing so, interrupted the first phase of Dumbledore's intricate plan. Once inside, they cast a spell to shield themselves from Ron's inevitable search for Harry.

"So, how did you manage to wriggle free from Molly Weasley's relentless motherly affections?" Hermione teased, a playful smile dancing on her lips. Harry chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with mischief. "It was all thanks to a well-placed notice-me-not spell," he replied, shaking his head in amusement. "You should have seen her frantic attempts to grab my attention, tossing around words like 'muggles' and 'Hogwarts' in rapid succession. And Ron? He was no better; he paraded around in an oversized hand-me-down dress and lugged a second-hand trunk that looked like it had seen better days. Now that they no longer have free access to my vault for his studies, I suspect they're trying to gain my sympathy and convince me to share my wealth with him." He scoffed, the hint of anger clear in his tone.

Both Harry and Hermione found themselves chuckling at Molly's expense, vividly imagining the look of shock on her face when she realized that she no longer had access to his considerable wealth. Just then, there was a firm knock at the compartment door, which swung open to reveal Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Seamus Finnegan, and Neville Longbottom, all peering in with eager expressions.

"Can we join you? All the other carriages are completely packed," they asked, their eyes bright with anticipation. After exchanging warm greetings and introductions, they quickly recognized that Harry was indeed the famous Harry Potter. Harry asked that they treat him as a regular guy and not a famous figure. The conversation effortlessly transitioned to the topic of their anticipated Sorting, with everyone voicing their preferences.

Hannah and Susan both expressed a desire to be sorted into Hufflepuff, while Seamus declared his hopes of joining Gryffindor.

"My Gran said I'd probably end up in Hufflepuff," Neville said, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Hannah and Susan shot him indignant looks, firmly believing in their aspirations to be Hufflepuffs.

"And what's wrong with that?" they questioned, their voices sharp with indignation.

"Nothing," Neville quickly amended, clearly worried he might have offended them. "It's just that my parents were both in Gryffindor, and it would mean a lot to me to be placed there too, to prove that I truly belong as their son," he admitted, a flicker of dismay crossing his face. All of them regarded Neville with empathy. Hannah and Susan understood his feelings; everyone in the wizarding community was aware of the tragic fate that befell the Longbottoms at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. Susan sometimes felt a deep sympathy for Neville; her parents had fallen victim to the first wizarding war along with her entire family, leaving her an orphan. She had managed to escape only because she had been with her aunt that fateful day.

"You know, Neville, if you genuinely wish to be a Gryffindor, just make your wish known to the Hat. I've heard it takes our opinions into account when making its choice," Harry suggested encouragingly.

After pondering this for a moment, Neville nodded and then turned to Hermione and Harry, inquiring where they hoped to be sorted. Hermione promptly declared her ambition to join Ravenclaw. After a brief moment of reflection, Harry responded, "I think I might also find myself in Ravenclaw, but I wouldn't be surprised if I were placed in Slytherin."

His declaration was met with a stunned silence from Hannah, Susan, Seamus, and Neville, all wide-eyed with disbelief.

"You want to be in Slytherin?" Seamus asked, astonishment evident in his tone.

"Why not? It's a house known for ambition, cunning, resourcefulness, and leadership. I believe I possess those qualities," Harry stated with a sense of conviction.

"But that's the very house You-Know-Who was sorted into," Hannah pointed out, her expression troubled.

"So what? Just because he was assigned to that house doesn't mean that everyone sorted there is inherently evil. Every house has its share of both admirable and questionable wizards and witches. Judging an entire house by one notorious wizard is a form of prejudice that only leads to conflict and division," he explained passionately, his voice rising slightly.

Nodding in understanding, they shifted their discussion to their childhood experiences, with each of them sharing anecdotes from their formative years. Harry and Hermione soon discovered that Neville and Hannah lived near each other, that Susan's mother had been a close friend of both Hannah's and Seamus's mothers, and that the four of them shared a long-standing friendship, often playing together with Neville's grandmother providing tutelage along the way. In turn, Hermione recounted her joyful childhood memories, while Harry remained notably quiet, deep in thought.

Both Hermione and Harry had harboured fears about how they would adapt to being eleven again while surrounded by younger children, but so far, they were managing without any difficulties. At that moment, the trolley lady made her rounds, and Harry seized the opportunity to buy quite a few snacks, generously sharing some with his new friends while stowing the rest away in his trunk. He reasoned that since they wouldn't be able to visit Hogsmeade until their third year and he had no one to send him treats, it made sense to build up a good supply.

"So, those rumours were true? You did grow up with your Muggle aunt and uncle?" Seamus asked, curiosity written on his face.

"Yes, I did live with my Muggle relatives," Harry confirmed, his tone unmistakably revealing his dissatisfaction.

"You don't enjoy living with them?" Susan ventured cautiously; her voice soft.

"No," Harry replied firmly. "My uncle and aunt have always tried to present themselves as typical Muggles with their son. My existence was a constant source of embarrassment for them. Whenever something occurred that deviated from their narrow view of normalcy, my uncle was furious. Every time I accidentally performed magic, the consequences for me were never pleasant," he elaborated a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Harry left them to derive their conclusions, but he was happy to notice Susan deep in thought and suspected that this revelation would soon reach her aunt, setting the stage for his plan to remove Dumbledore as his Magical Guardian.

As they drew closer to Hogwarts, it became increasingly clear that they needed to prepare for their imminent arrival.

1st September 1991, Hogsmeade Station, Hogsmeade, Scotland

The train began to decelerate with a rhythmic clatter, eventually gliding to a stop at the quaint Hogsmeade station. As the doors creaked open, the brisk, chilly air enveloped Harry, sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through him. He quickly spotted Hagrid's towering silhouette, framed against the vibrant backdrop of the station asking the first-timers to gather around him, and, instinctively, he ducked behind a group of excitable first-years, all the while trying to evade the enthusiastic approach of Ron Weasley.

Finding an open spot, Harry squeezed into one of the smaller boats, where he shared a hearty space with Hermione, Neville, Seamus, Hannah, and Susan. Laughter danced through the air as they settled in, but Harry couldn't help but glance over at the larger boat that Hagrid had commandeered. Ron was there, nestled between Ernie, Dean, Lavender, Fay, Padma, and Parvati, his face a mix of bewilderment and determination as he searched for Harry among the throng. Harry stifled a smirk, taking a moment to appreciate his newfound confidence, thanks to his last-minute decision to wear contact lenses and style his hair neatly. It seemed Hagrid and Ron both had a specific image in mind: that of a small boy with untamed hair and round glasses, a boy, who looked so much like James Potter - a figure Harry had cleverly transformed from.

Meanwhile, a few boats ahead, Draco Malfoy sat snugly among his inner circle—Pansy, Daphne, Theo, Vincent, Crabbe, and Blaise. When his sharp gaze landed on Harry and Hermione, he offered a discreet nod, which they returned with subtly.

As the boats glided across the dark, shimmering surface of the great lake, they all collectively inhaled sharply, their breath hitching at the magnificent sight of Hogwarts rising majestically against the velvet night sky. The castle was a beacon of light, its turrets and towers aglow, evoking a sense of wonder in all who beheld it. Harry's heart sank at the thought that this magnificent fortress, a symbol of hope and resilience, had also borne witness to such terrible wars and heart-wrenching losses. He silently vowed that he would do everything in his power to prevent the horrors of the past from ever returning to these hallowed halls.

Abruptly, Ron's voice shattered his reverie. "Hagrid, we need to turn around immediately! Harry isn't in my boat, and none of these boys look like him. What if we accidentally left him behind in London? How can I be his best friend if we abandon him? We have to go back!" Ron's anxious rant echoed across the still lake.

"Calm down, Ron!" Hagrid's booming voice rumbled in response. "Harry did catch the train, I swear it! Dumbledore assured me that no student was left behind in London. I can't see him on the boats, but nobody was left behind at Hogsmeade. He must've climbed into one of the carriages. They should be departing soon, and he'll be arriving with the others any minute now." Harry felt a swell of incredulity; did Hagrid keep track of who boarded the boats? This year was going to be different, with numerous new students joining due to the scholarship initiative—those who, until now, had been barred from Hogwarts by financial constraints. As per tradition, any new student no matter the year they are entering in Hogwarts had to travel via boats so the number of boats this year was more. Harry had assumed Hagrid would at least have conducted a headcount.

"Hagrid, if that's true, we need to go back to the shore. I must ride with Harry in the carriage. I must introduce myself and ensure my status as his best friend," Ron insisted passionately. At that moment, an unexpected spark ignited from both Hermione's and Draco's wands, striking Ron and sending him tumbling into the dark, frigid waters of the lake. Hagrid struggled against Ron's frantic splashes as he tried to haul him back onto the boat; the darkness and thick fog made everything more daunting. Ultimately, it was the Giant Squid that made the most comical yet heroic appearance, surfacing to scoop Ron from the icy depths, depositing a shivering, soaked figure back onto the boat. Ron looked ghostly pale now, his freckles standing out starkly against his damp skin.

Finally, they reached the shores of Hogwarts, and like a chorus, everyone began to disembark their boats. The moment Harry and Hermione set foot on the castle grounds, a profound sense of wonder enveloped them. Their magic unfurled like a delicate flower, intertwining with the ancient, melodic magic of Hogwarts, which wrapped around them like a warm embrace, welcoming them home as if they were beloved children reuniting with their long-lost grandparents. Hogwarts was not just a school; it was a living entity that had awaited the return of its founders' heirs, ready to protect and cherish them throughout their journey within its storied walls.

Chapter Text

1st September 1991, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Hagrid, the half-giant Keeper of Keys and Grounds, ushered all the newcomers towards a grand, round chamber. The walls were adorned with an array of mirrors that reflected not only the eager faces of students but also the enchanted atmosphere of Hogwarts. In the center of the chamber stood the formidable Professor Minerva McGonagall, her signature stern demeanor accentuated by her tightly coiled black hair, which was meticulously arranged in a bun.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take it from here," she said crisply, her voice firm yet authoritative as she dismissed Hagrid to deal with his other responsibilities.

With a soft yet commanding tone, Professor McGonagall addressed the assembled first-years. "Welcome to Hogwarts," she began. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will undergo the Sorting ceremony. This is an immensely significant event, as your House will serve as your family during your time here. It is with your housemates that you will attend classes, live in your House dormitory, and spend your leisure hours in your House common room."

She continued, her voice imbued with gravity, "Hogwarts comprises four distinguished Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own rich history and has produced remarkable witches and wizards. While you journey through your time at Hogwarts, your achievements will earn your House points. At the same time, any rule-breaking can result in the deduction of points. At the end of the academic year, the House with the most points will be awarded the coveted House Cup, a prestigious honor that symbolizes your collective effort and spirit. I trust that each of you will represent your respective Houses with pride and integrity."

Professor McGonagall paused briefly before adding, "The Sorting Ceremony will take place shortly in front of the entire school. I suggest that you all take a moment to straighten your robes and present yourselves as best as you can while we wait."

As she began cataloging the students with her sharp gaze, it fell upon Ron Weasley, who was dripping wet and visibly shivering. "Good heavens, what on earth happened to you?" she inquired, her brow furrowing in concern.

"He fell into the lake," chimed in an amused Lavender Brown.

"No, I was pushed into the lake! I'm certain it was Malfoy and his gang," Ron chattered, his teeth audibly chattering from the cold.

Draco Malfoy let out a derisive snort and murmured. "Right, as if I would waste my time pushing a red-haired, poorly dressed weasel into the lake." His words drew a wave of laughter from several students at Ron's expense.

McGonagall took a steadying breath and brandished her wand. "I assume you are a Weasley? Mr. Weasley, please remain still," she instructed authoritatively, and with a swift flick of her wand, Ron's clothes were magically dried. "Now, ensure you all look presentable. I shall return shortly to escort you to the Great Hall."

Once she left, the students began checking their reflections in the mirrors, eager to appear their best for the anticipated Sorting. Harry and Hermione huddled together, adjusting their clothing, when the atmosphere suddenly shifted as a loud argument erupted nearby.

"I know it was you who pushed me into the lake, Malfoy! Have you already started taking orders from your master? Did he instruct you to harm Harry's best friend?" Ron fumed, his voice rising with indignation.

"Mind your language, Weasley! and what do you mean by 'best friend'? Harry Potter has been missing for nearly a decade; how can he be your best friend?" Draco shot back, a smug smirk dancing across his lips.

"I know plenty, Malfoy! Harry and I are best friends, and once we're sorted into Gryffindor, we'll become legendary while you Slytherins rot in Azkaban!" Ron retorted vehemently. Many of the onlookers wore shocked expressions at Ron's passionate outburst, though Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Ron's spirited assumptions.

The sight of Harry laughing only intensified Ron's embarrassment, prompting him to shout, "And who do you think you are? Another elitist pureblood, flaunting your fancy robes. Just you wait; you all will get what's coming to you. I'll make certain Harry deals with your families!" His face flushed with anger.

Just as Ron was poised to launch into yet another tirade, Professor McGonagall re-entered the chamber, announcing that they were ready for the Sorting.

"But Professor, Harry Potter is missing! How can we proceed without him?" Ron implored, his voice tense with concern.

"What do you mean 'missing,' Mr. Weasley?" she inquired, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Harry didn't arrive with us via the boats, and I couldn't locate him on the train either. Hagrid said Dumbledore confirmed that he boarded the train," Ron elaborated, his anxiety palpable.

McGonagall scanned the students and suddenly noticed a boy whose features echoed Lily Evans more than those of James Potter. She recognized him at once as she noticed his bright green eyes, a clear sign of being Lily's son. The only connection to his father appeared to be his black hair, neatly styled rather than the unruly mop that characterized James Potter. All these years, Dumbledore had insisted that James's son mirrored him in both mannerisms and physical features, yet the person who stood before her was a completely different person.

"The Sorting waits for no one, Mr. Weasley," she asserted firmly. "If Mr. Potter is indeed missing, rest assured that the headmaster will address it." With a decisive gesture, she beckoned for everyone to follow her into the Great Hall.

1st September 1991, Great Hall, Hogwarts

As they stepped into the breathtaking Great Hall, illuminated by a thousand floating candles, each flickering glow danced in the air like fireflies. The enchanted ceiling above mirrored the vast expanse of the night sky, dotted with shimmering stars that twinkled as if they had a life of their own. Harry's heart raced as he scanned the familiar surroundings. Everything appeared as it always had, yet an unfamiliar sense of fury surged within him when his gaze finally landed on Professor Dumbledore, who sat regally at the staff table. Drawing in a deep breath to compose himself, Harry quickly ducked behind Hermione, seeking refuge in her presence, desperate to still be unnoticed until the inevitable call of his name echoed throughout the hall.

The sorting ceremony began with the traditional pomp and circumstance, each new student stepping forward to discover which house they would be joining, just like previous years. Then came Hermione's turn. She walked up to the high stool, her hands trembling slightly as she placed the Sorting Hat atop her head. Harry and Hermione had strategized extensively beforehand; this time, they needed to avoid Gryffindor, where Dumbledore's influence loomed too large. Slytherin was categorically out of the question, as that would inevitably raise suspicions. Thus, their gaze turned toward Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, contemplating a safer sanctuary for their continued friendship. The Sorting Hat would be their arbiter; they planned to request it place Hermione in either of those houses, with Harry pledging to follow suit.

When Hermione's name rang out, a palpable tension gripped the room. She approached the stool, dread filling her heart as she donned the hat.

"Welcome home, Mistress," the Sorting Hat greeted her in a tone that was both whimsical and solemn. "Hogwarts has informed me that our Master and Mistress have arrived." A shiver of fear coursed through Hermione—would Dumbledore discern her true identity through the hat's recognition? The Sorting Hat seemed to sense her anxiety and snorted reassuringly, "Worry not, young mistress! I report to no one but Hogwarts, her founders, and her heirs. You have a remarkable intellect akin to that of Ravenclaw, coupled with the bravery and loyalty that rival even Gryffindor's finest. You also mirror Slytherin's ambition and Hufflepuff's deep compassion. When I was created by the founders, they anticipated that some students might be heirs to more than one founder's legacy, thus designating special chambers for their residence. Now, where do you wish to be sorted?"

"I cannot be sorted into Gryffindor—Dumbledore's influence there is too strong. Slytherin is not an option, as I am Muggle-born. I had the choice to go to Ravenclaw last time, but I chose Gryffindor then. Please place me in either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, but ensure that Harry and I are together," Hermione explained, her voice steady yet filled with urgency.

"In that case, RAVENCLAW!" the hat bellowed triumphantly. Joy coursed through Hermione as she made her way to the Ravenclaw table, eagerly awaiting Harry's arrival.

Next, it was Neville's turn. He shuffled nervously towards the hat, the weight of expectation heavy upon him. In a matter of moments, he was sorted without a hint of hesitation, landing squarely in Gryffindor, much to the delight of the table. Malfoy, in his typical fashion, swaggered up when his name was called. The hat had just touched his head when it loudly proclaimed, "SLYTHERIN!" The Great Hall erupted in a mix of applause and whispers—Malfoy's cockiness was as predictably irritating as ever.

As the sorting continued, Harry could not help but notice some changes. Michael Corner and Padma Patil, students he hadn't expected to see, were now proudly seated at the Gryffindor table. He guessed that the Sorting Hat was strategically balancing the houses to maintain harmony among the students.

Soon, it was Harry's turn. As he stepped forward, whispers swelled into an audible murmur throughout the hall, punctuated by a surprised gasp from Ron Weasley who had just realized who he was. Harry's eyes darted to Dumbledore, who wore a frown that suggested concern. The last thing he caught before the hat descended over his eyes was a sea of eager faces, all craning to catch a glimpse of him. In the next moment, darkness enveloped him; he found himself gazing into the shadowy interior of the Sorting Hat.

"Welcome home, dear young master," the hat announced warmly. "Mistress Hermione has conveyed your desire to be sorted into the same house, so there's no need to worry; I will ensure that happens. However, I must reiterate a few critical points that I shared with the young mistress. I answer to no one but Hogwarts, her founders, and her heirs. Any thoughts I explore within your mind will remain confidential; I will not relay them to the headmaster. The founders predicted that some may lay claim to more than one founder's inheritance, which is why they established designated rooms for them, ensuring they are sorted into the house that best represents them. You and Mistress Hermione will have access to these special quarters, and rest assured, no one—absolutely no one—will be able to find them without your express permission. If you wish to invite guests, they may enter only under your supervision, as they cannot find the space themselves. Now, let me show you the way; you must visit it soon, for the founders' portraits are waiting eagerly to meet their heirs. Do you have any other inquiries?" the Sorting Hat asked.

"I will need access to the headmaster's office in the future," Harry replied, his voice steady. "I also need someone who can spy on Dumbledore and inform Hermione and me if he plots anything sinister regarding our futures. How can I arrange that?"

"Why the portraits, of course," the enchanted hat began, its voice reverberating gently through his mind. Shadows danced on the stone walls, illuminated by flickering candlelight, as the hat continued. "The headmaster's office are adorned with the portraits of previous headmasters, their ethereal forms forever bound to this castle. They have little else to occupy their time than to eavesdrop on Dumbledore's every activity, gathering an abundance of information that they can share at a moment's notice. If you seek insight into his plans, they can reveal anything and everything he is up to. As for access, no door within this vast and enchanted castle will ever lock you out. And, of course, you have me. Dumbledore may think I'm dormant, only alert on Sorting Day, but truly, I feign sleep, gathering far more than he's aware. All you must do is call for me in your room, and I shall come to you," the hat explained, a note of pride underscoring its melody.

"In that case, please announce the house," Harry ventured, a whirlwind of anticipation and anxiety buzzing through him.

"All right, RAVENCLAW!" the hat boomed, its voice ringing out with authority and finality that echoed throughout the chamber.

As Harry made his way toward the Ravenclaw table, an electric tension charged the air within the Great Hall. He settled between Hermione and Lisa Turpin, who was wide-eyed and visibly astonished. A profound silence enveloped the hall as students and staff alike processed the momentous event. For centuries, every member of the illustrious Potter family had been sorted into Gryffindor. Yet here stood Harry Potter, the last surviving scion of that legacy, the boy who had vanquished the Dark Lord as an infant, now claiming his unexpected place among the Eagles.

Suddenly, Hermione, broke the silence with a burst of enthusiastic applause. The sound rippled through the hall, swiftly garnering the attention of other Ravenclaws, whose claps resonated in celebration like a joyful thunderstorm. However, their excitement was suddenly shattered when a piercing scream sliced through the air, originating from one agitated Ron Weasley whose face flushed bright as his hair with indignation, stepped forward to confront the hat and began shouting furiously. "How dare you sort Harry into Ravenclaw! He is the vanquisher of the Dark Lord! His entire family has been in Gryffindor since Hogwarts was founded! It's as if you're losing your faculties with age! Take back your decision and sort him again this instant! If you don't, Professor Dumbledore will surely have you disposed of and will resort Harry himself!" he yelled, his complexion a fierce shade of scarlet.

"Mr. Weasley, return to your place and await your turn," Professor McGonagall commanded sternly, her voice resolute as she tried to stave off further chaos. "The hat's decision is final, and no one may question it. Do you understand?"

"But Harry has to be sorted into Gryffindor! We are destined to become best friends, embark on grand adventures, and emerge as heroes of the wizarding world! Gryffindor is the house of courageous wizards! Each member is renowned for their bravery and loyalty, while the other houses—especially Slytherin—only have dark wizards! Ravenclaw is known for its friendships with Slytherins, and all Slytherins are potential Death Eaters! The Eagles would hand Harry over on a silver platter! Ravenclaw is no place for someone of his caliber!" he insisted fiercely, desperation coating his words.

Seated quietly, Harry couldn't help but let a bemused smile creep onto his face as he observed the chaotic scene unfolding around him. Ron's deluded outburst had swiftly transformed him into the most disliked individual in the entire hall. Ravenclaws, Slytherins, and Hufflepuffs shot him venomous glances, while the Gryffindors, particularly his brothers, looked on with disbelief and embarrassment etched on their faces.

"Mr. Weasley, cease this uncalled-for display immediately," McGonagall said, her voice rising with authoritative clarity. "The decision of the Sorting Hat is sacrosanct; no one has ever altered it. We will be deducting 100 points from your future house for this appalling behavior, and you shall serve detentions every weekend for the entirety of the term. I will also be informing your parents about your conduct. Now return to your position and wait for your turn," she commanded, her gaze unwavering and resolute.

The sorting ceremony progressed, a palpable tension weaving through the Great Hall like a thick fog. Soon enough, it was Ron's turn, and dread crept into the hearts of every house as anticipation hung heavy in the air. Gryffindor, in particular, clung to a fervent hope that he would not join their ranks, despite the unwritten rule that the Weasley family always found their home in that very house. Yet, true to the long-standing tradition that seemed inescapable, Ron was sorted into Gryffindor, causing a ripple of discontent as the house began the year with a deficit of points. The silence that followed was deafening; not a single clap echoed in the hall, as Ron trudged to his table. His brothers shot him venomous glares, and Harry felt a sinking feeling that Ron had sacrificed himself as the latest target for their mischievous pranks.

As the sorting of new first-years concluded with Blaise Zabini donning the green robes of Slytherin, attention shifted to the older newcomers, who were welcomed into their respective houses with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. At last, the feast commenced, and within moments, the long tables overflowed with a bounty fit for a king: golden roast beef, tender roast chicken, juicy pork chops, and rich lamb chops competed for attention alongside sizzling sausages and crispy bacon. Boiled and roast potatoes, perfectly seasoned peas and carrots, and pools of gravy and ketchup completed the mouthwatering spread. The desserts were equally extravagant: towers of ice cream in every imaginable flavor beckoned alongside apple pies, luscious treacle tarts, decadent chocolate éclairs, fluffy jam doughnuts, and multi-layered trifles, a variety of towering cakes all vying for a spot on the plates of eager students. The room buzzed with excitement as everyone dove into the feast with unbridled enthusiasm.

As Harry filled his plate, a wave of greetings washed over him from familiar faces and new acquaintances alike. Opposite him sat Terry Boot and Sue Li, while further down the table, Lisa Turpin and Anthony Goldstein engaged in lively chatter.

"Do you really have the scar?" Anthony asked, his eyes wide with curiosity as he leaned closer, trying to peer beneath Harry's hair. With a resigned sigh, Harry cast his gaze around the table, taking in the eager expressions. "I understand that as Ravenclaws, we all love to seek knowledge, but please, can you not examine me like I'm some sort of rare specimen? I'm really just an ordinary kid," he replied, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"How can you say that? You defeated You-Know-Who!" an older student interjected, disbelief etched across their features.

"I very much doubt what happened had anything to do with me. It was likely a mistake on Voldemort's part," Harry responded, his words causing an immediate hush to envelop the table, the weight of history hanging in the silence. "Honestly, I'm just a normal boy, a regular student. So please, treat me like you would anyone else," he added with sincerity. With that, he began to eat, attempting to tune out the whispers that swirled around him. The students exchanged glances, feeling a newfound respect, and many found comfort in the fact that Harry was among them, exuding an unpretentious kindness that made them glad he had joined their house. As Harry sat at the long, polished table, he could feel the weight of three pairs of eyes fixed on him from the staff table, each gaze laden with intent. Severus Snape, with his slicked-back hair and cold demeanor, scrutinized Harry's features, searching for any trace of resemblance to his father, James Potter. Albus Dumbledore, with his twinkling blue eyes peering from behind half-moon spectacles, assessed the situation, ensuring that his carefully laid blocks remained intact and unblemished. And then there was Lord Voldemort, a malevolent presence lurking within the shadowy confines of Quirinus Quirrell, who seemed to be dissecting Harry with a chilling focus, fully aware that the boy before him was a profound threat to his dark ambitions. The air crackled with unspoken tension as the dynamics of destiny intertwined around them.

At the staff table, things were unfolding differently.

Albus Dumbledore drummed his fingers against the polished wood of the staff table, his patience ebbing as he awaited the start of the sorting ceremony. The day had dawned with promise, but a troubling missive from Molly Weasley had deflated his optimism. She confessed her struggle to capture Harry Potter's attention on the bustling platform, unsure even if he had boarded the Hogwarts Express. A swift inquiry to the conductor confirmed Harry was indeed on the train, yet Dumbledore found himself wrestling with doubts. How could Molly have let him slip through her fingers? He had ensured that the boy wouldn't navigate the platform alone. Today, her singular task had been to engage Harry, to step into a maternal role, to foster a connection with Ron, and introduce Ginny, all of which she failed spectacularly.

As the train rolled into Hogsmeade, the evening sky blazed with hues of orange and pink, casting a magical glow over the enchantingly misty landscape. The first years and the latecomers piled into boats, their faces illuminated with the thrill of adventure. Once Minerva McGonagall had safely ushered the children into Hogwarts, Hagrid lumbered over to Dumbledore, his brow furrowed with concern. "I couldn't find Harry on the platform either," he rumbled, voice heavy with worry. Dumbledore couldn't help but furrow his own brow in frustration. How difficult could it possibly be to spot a small, scruffy boy among the crowd? Thankfully, a brief conversation with Minerva put his mind at ease. She assured him that Harry Potter was indeed among the first-years, presumably attached to Ron Weasley, as hoped.

As the sorting began, students were sorted one by one. Soon, he heard a name he hadn't heard in a long time: Hermione Granger. It was back in 1985 when the former Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold, had written to him asking for his advice. She recounted that there was a girl who was now five and a half years old but had started to display bouts of magic from the moment she was born. Her magic was growing stronger by the day. Just the day before, she had brought to life characters from a book when she was teased by a boy during school. Unfortunately, the book they were reading was *The Lion King, and the boy had been severely traumatized and injured. The boy was none other than the grandson of the Prime Minister. The Obliviators managed to fix the memories of everyone involved, but the boy was badly harmed by the lions and hyenas and was currently residing in St. Mungo's for treatment. The Prime Minister was furious and insisted that she control the girl from her side, fearing backlash during the next election season due to the child's influential family. Her parents were famous dentists, and several cabinet members and royal family members were their clients. Her grandparents were also friends with several politicians and targeting them would not do the Prime Minister any good. Madam Bagnold was considering introducing the girl and her family to the magical world and allocating her to a magical guardian who could help her wield her magic better. She sought his advice, as this was not done before, and she wanted his thoughts on the matter.

Intrigued by the girl's extraordinary potential, Dumbledore requested to meet her. When she stood before him, her presence exuded a mix of innocence and latent power. He discreetly assessed her core magic, understanding the gravity of such a test reserved for Goblins; wizards seldom tread these waters. The results astonished him—her magical core rivaled his own at that age. The implications were staggering. If she wielded such potency as a child, how much more formidable would she become as she matured? A Muggle-born eclipsing his strength was a scenario he could not allow. He quickly conversed with the Minister, advocating for the curtailment of her magic until she reached the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. He vowed to lift the enchantments then, allowing her to blossom into the exceptional witch she was born to be. However, he had no intention of doing so; instead, he was already planning to place several compulsion charms on her. He also advised her that this would ensure she would not be introduced to magic before she turned eleven, making it fair to other Muggleborn.

Significantly, Harry's journey would intertwine with hers as both began their first year at Hogwarts—perhaps Hermione would emerge as a pivotal player in his grand design. With veiled intentions, he wove magical barriers around her, even stifling her innate magical qualities as they developed. Watching her, Dumbledore marveled at her refinement, the sophistication at such a young age speaking volumes of her affluent upbringing. When the Sorting Hat finally deliberated, its iconic voice echoed within the cavernous hall, finally declaring, "Ravenclaw!"

A twinge of disappointment gnawed at Dumbledore; he had hoped the hat would place her in Gryffindor, where he could guide her presence more closely, perhaps even orchestrate a camaraderie with Harry and Ron. Now, an alternate plan would take shape. Yet, he noted her undeniable beauty, a radiance destined to intensify over the years. What if Harry's affections shifted to her instead of Ginny Weasley, the outcome he had meticulously envisioned? Decisions sprawled before him like a complex tapestry, but he reassured himself—time remained, and he would navigate each thread carefully.

Students shuffled nervously as the Sorting Ceremony continued, and then the name that had long haunted his thoughts echoed through the Great Hall. It was Harry Potter. What unfolded next left him staggered. As Harry stepped forward—moving with an unexpected grace for a boy raised among Muggles—he bore no resemblance to James. Instead, he was a striking mirror of his mother, Lily. His black hair was neatly styled, concealing the infamous scar that marked his forehead. The fitted dress robes he wore draped elegantly over his frame, and to Albus's astonishment, he stood several inches taller than anticipated, appearing far more well-nourished than he had imagined. What was happening? He had instructed the Dursleys to mistreat the boy, ensuring he went hungry often; that neglect was supposed to stunt his growth and dull his magical potential, making him reliant on Albus and the Weasleys when they finally extended their warmth and affection.

With bated breath, Albus leaned forward as the Sorting Hat was placed upon Harry's head. The moment felt agonizingly prolonged, each tick of the second hand amplifying his anxiety. The hat deliberated longer than it had for any previous student, driving Albus's heart to race in alarm. Surely, Harry was destined for Gryffindor! But when the hat finally shouted "Ravenclaw," relief washed over him like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. While not the house he had envisioned, it was clear that Harry possessed admirable qualities that had steered him away from the dark path of Slytherin. Yet, unease crept back into Albus's mind; some of his carefully devised charms seemed to have failed. He needed Harry to grow into the perfect beacon of hope, the light warrior his plans hinged upon.

Just as he began to settle, a spectacle of utter embarrassment unfolded before him—one that would surely be etched into the annals of Hogwarts history. Clarity struck when he realized that the scholarship test results were no fluke. Ron Weasley, unlike his clever brothers, had an unfortunate knack for speaking at the most inopportune times. Albus felt a wave of silent panic crash over him, fearful that Ron would unwittingly expose his grand designs to the entire school. Thankfully, the boy kept his mouth shut this time. But Albus recognized the necessity of a tighter grip on Ron's antics. He knew he had to carefully guide him in forging a friendship with Harry, for it became apparent that his initial plans were crumbling. Instead of forming a bond with Harry, it was Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom who had managed to connect with him—and that revelation filled Albus with a mixture of dread and determination.

Chapter Text

11th September 1991, Great Hall, Hogwarts

A full week had elapsed since the start of the school year, and each morning Harry awakened with the lingering expectation that Dumbledore would swoop into his dormitory, drag him from his warm bed, and whisk him away to Gryffindor Tower for another sorting into the Gryffindor house. Yet, much to his surprise, Dumbledore had not made any attempts to contact him.

Surprisingly, Harry found himself relishing his new life as a Ravenclaw. His previous experience in Ravenclaw Tower during the climactic battle had been a whirlwind, leaving him little time to appreciate the atmosphere. Now, nestled in the inviting embrace of the house, he was finally able to revel in its charm. The entrance to the common room was located on the western side of the sprawling Hogwarts castle, accessed by a winding spiral staircase that ascended five stories. At the top, a grand door awaited, devoid of a traditional doorknob or keyhole. Instead, it featured a striking bronze knocker intricately shaped like an eagle. To gain entrance, one had to answer a riddle posed by this majestic knocker. An incorrect answer meant a wait for another student to crack the puzzle, a feature Harry and Hermione found particularly delightful; it engaged their minds and ensured the common room remained exclusive.

Another aspect they cherished was the serene ambience characteristic of Ravenclaw. Unlike the raucous revelry often echoing from the Gryffindor commons, Ravenclaw's common area was a sanctuary of tranquillity. It was an expansive, circular room bathed in light, adorned with arched windows that draped the space in blue and bronze silks. The midnight blue carpet, speckled with shimmering stars, reflected a celestial tapestry upon the domed ceiling above. Furnished with polished wooden tables and comfortable chairs, along with towering bookshelves brimming with tomes, the atmosphere was perfect for studying. Near the archway that led to the dormitories stood a striking statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, crafted from white marble, lending an air of sophistication to the room. The notice board, always meticulously organized, displayed study group schedules, club activities, and other important announcements. By day, the common room offered a breathtaking view of the picturesque school grounds, glistening lake, the forbidding expanse of the Forbidden Forest, the Quidditch pitch, the magical Herbology gardens, and the majestic surrounding mountains.

As the days passed, Harry and Hermione found themselves forging a host of new friendships. They soon realized that aside from Ron and Ginny, their circle of friends had been rather limited. Even Fred, George, Neville, Dean, and Seamus felt more like elder brothers and acquaintances rather than true pals. With the burgeoning camaraderie in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, Harry and Hermione felt a refreshing change. Dean would often join forces with Neville and Seamus, rounding out their group, and even Slytherins seemed to acknowledge their growing presence. They began to mingle with some of the older students in their house, brightening their social interactions. Most of their classes were now shared with Hufflepuff, which led to Harry seldom seeing Ron. On the rare occasions they shared classes with Gryffindor, Harry found himself surrounded by Hermione, Neville, Dean, and Seamus, while Ron attempted to catch his attention amidst the bustle of activity.

This morning, as the sun cast warm light over the breakfast table, the Ravenclaws chatted animatedly while Harry hastily tried to savour his delicious meal. Thanks to Dobby's thoughtful interventions, his Hogwarts food was always well-balanced and nourishing. Today marked a crucial day for Harry and Hermione, as they planned to begin their mission to discredit Dumbledore within the school, starting with the staff. With time against him, Harry was determined to visit Madam Pomfrey before his first lesson. He needed to hurry; traversing the lengthy walk to the dungeons from the infirmary would eat up precious minutes.

"Where are you off to in such a rush?" inquired Terry, glancing up as Harry strode by him.

"I need to go to the infirmary," Harry replied, eliciting concerned looks from those within earshot.

"Are you all right, Harry? Did you injure yourself?" Hermione asked, her eyes darting over him for any signs of distress, mimicking the worried demeanour of a loyal friend, despite knowing he was fine. He assured everyone he was fine.

"But why the infirmary?" Lisa pressed, tilting her head in curiosity.

"I've nearly exhausted the ointment my healer prescribed, and I didn't anticipate running low. I'm just hoping Madam Pomfrey can provide me with some more," Harry explained, keeping his tone casual.

"Oh, well, that's a relief. I hope you're doing okay," Terry responded, easing back into his chair.

"Would you like me to accompany you?" Hermione offered, glancing at him with concern still etched on her face.

Harry returned her gaze with a reassuring smile, "That's alright; you finish your breakfast. I'll be fine on my own," he assured her.

With confident strides, he made his way to the infirmary. As he entered, Harry scanned the familiar room, a place where he had spent countless hours during his previous life. A sense of anxiety crept over him as he wondered if fate would treat him differently this time around.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, what can I do for you this morning?" Madam Pomfrey inquired, her kind, aged eyes sparkling with curiosity as they settled on the young wizard. Though she scanned him carefully, her healer's instinct sensed that something was amiss, even if nothing outwardly showed.

Harry returned her gaze with a warm smile, stepping closer to her well-worn desk cluttered with the paraphernalia of healing. "A few days after I received my Hogwarts letter, I visited a healer for a general check-up, and he put me on a rather strict potions regime. I thought it would be wise to inform you in case I ever find myself in your care," he explained, his voice steady yet measured.

The healer's brows knitted together with surprise at his candidness. "I see. And which potions are you taking, and for what purposes?" Poppy inquired, her maternal concern shining through. Noticing his sudden frown, she quickly added, "Rest assured, Mr. Potter, all this information will remain strictly between us. As a healer, I have pledged to safeguard my patients' confidences."

Harry swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor, as though an invisible weight settled on his shoulders. "Oh," he replied quietly, "the potions are to help minimize the damage done by my caretakers and improve my growth and help " The truth hung heavy in the air, fueling the simmering anger within him as he thought about the injustices he had faced at the hands of those who were meant to care for him.

Poppy nodded slowly, her expression shifting to one of understanding. "Do you know which potions you are taking?" she prompted gently.

"I take Corrigere incrementum tuum twice a day, morning and night after food, Nutrición saludable three times a day after meals, and I also apply macchie chiare before bed." His words poured forth, each one dripping with the weight of his experiences.

Poppy's eyes narrowed slightly, her concern deepening as she processed the information. "Those are quite advanced medications, Mr. Potter, typically not administered at Hogwarts. I would need to consult our resident Potion Master, Professor Snape, to brew them for you. How much do you currently have?" she asked, her tone authoritative yet compassionate.

Harry tilted his head, contemplating. "I have Potions first thing regarding class, and I do have enough supplies and ointment for this month. But I can let him know and ask if he could prepare some for me," he offered, the resolve clear in his voice.

"That would be very helpful, dear," Poppy replied, her demeanor softening. "Now, if you have Potions to attend to, you'd best make your way there. Professor Snape has little patience for tardiness—unless there's anything else on your mind?"

"No, ma'am," Harry answered, turning to leave, but not before she called him back.

"Mr. Potter, I'd like to schedule a health scan in a few weeks to monitor the progress of your potions. If you don't mind, may I also contact your healer for your reports? I promise it will all remain confidential, but I need to understand your health history in case of any emergencies," she said, her tone serious and sincere.

After a moment's hesitation, Harry agreed and provided her with his healer's information. With a reassuring nod, Poppy sent him on his way, promising to owl him with the details for his upcoming check-up.

First-year, potions class:

Harry hurried through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls as he made his way to the dungeons. He arrived just in time to slip into his seat beside Hermione in the potions classroom. The air was thick with the earthy scent of ingredients and simmering brews. As the door creaked open, Severus Snape swept in like a shadow, his dark robes billowing behind him, instantly commanding the attention of every student.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he intoned, his voice smooth yet laced with an imperious edge. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic." His piercing gaze scanned the room, landing on Harry for a brief moment as if he could sense the boy's inner thoughts. "I don't expect you will truly grasp the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, or the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Here we go again, Harry mused, rolling his eyes inwardly. Did Snape rehearse that same speech every year? Thank goodness I came prepared, he thought, a flicker of determination igniting within him.

"Potter!" Snape's voice sliced through the classroom like a dagger. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Sitting up straight, Harry met Snape's intense gaze without flinching. "The root of asphodel, when mixed with an infusion of wormwood, creates the most powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death, Sir," he replied, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. He cast a quick sideways glance at Hermione, who appeared remarkably at ease. Unlike her usual animated self, today she sat quietly, her hand resting calmly in her lap, devoid of the usual urge to interject and offer her thoughts.

Snape arched an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by the acumen displayed. "Alright, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will save us from most poisons, Sir," Harry answered confidently, feeling an unexpected surge of pride at his knowledge.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?" Snape continued, his tone sharp and unyielding.

"It's the same thing, Sir. They are both names for the plant known as Aconite," Harry finished, his heart racing as a hush fell over the classroom.

Snape appeared momentarily stunned, struggling to find words as the weight of Harry's response settled around them. Finally, in a rare moment of acknowledgement, he awarded 30 points to Ravenclaw, his expression inscrutable, before launching into the lesson. Harry couldn't believe his ears; Snape had never before rewarded him house points, and the realization left him both bewildered and elated.

Once the class concluded, Harry lingered behind, biding his time until Snape noticed he was still there. After a few minutes of silence, the potion master finally looked up, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

"What is it, Mr. Potter?" he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

"This morning, I visited Madam Pomfrey to inform her about the potions I'm taking, and she advised me that they're not typically stocked here at Hogwarts," Harry explained, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. "She suggested I bring this to your attention, so you could prepare them for me."

Snape's brow furrowed at the mention of the potions. "What are the potions?" he inquired, a hint of scepticism creeping into his voice.

"Corrigere incrementum tuum, Nutrición saludable, and macchie chiare. I have all three stocked and they should last for this month, but I'll need them again next month. Would you be able to prepare them for me, Sir? If it's too much trouble, I can always order them by owl," Harry offered hesitantly, his heart pounding.

Severus frowned deeply, contemplating the implications of the medicines which were quite strong and advanced potions intended for young students grappling with malnutrition and dwarfism. The ointment, used to diminish severe scarring, raised questions in his mind. Why on earth was Lily Potter's son in need of such treatments?

"No, I'll have them ready for you by the end of this month," Snape said carefully, the practised steel of his demeanour softening just a touch.

"Thank you, Sir," Harry replied, relief flooding through him as he turned to leave, a sense of gratitude building within his chest, knowing that at this moment, he had connected with a man who, despite the shadows of his past, was willing to extend a hand.

12th September 1991, Flying Class, Hogwarts

The first-year flying class brought together students from all four houses, a mingling of hopeful faces and fresh excitement. At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Hermione, and a cluster of eager Ravenclaws rushed down the grand front steps, their hearts pounding with anticipation as they made their way across the sprawling grounds for their inaugural flying lesson. The sun hung bright in a vivid blue sky, with a gentle breeze causing the grass to ripple like a green ocean beneath their feet. They descended the lush slopes, heading toward a vast, smooth expanse on the far side of the grounds, just a stone's throw from the Forbidden Forest, its towering trees looming ominously in the distance, swaying like ghostly sentinels.

The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs were already congregated there, their laughter and chatter echoing off the walls of the castle. Just moments after the Ravenclaws arrived, the Gryffindors began to arrive in waves, a vibrant splash of red and gold against the verdant backdrop.

As they reached the designated area, Hermione and Harry quickly veered toward Neville, concern evident in their eyes as they asked him how he was settling in and what had transpired with Ron while they waited for Professor Sprout. Before long, Ron squeezed through the throng and approached Harry with an exaggerated grin plastered across his face. "Harry, mate, why didn't you say anything before the sorting?" he asked, his voice overly cheerful, drawing the curious gazes of the other first years.

Harry cast an irritated glance at Neville before turning his attention to Ron, catching sight of Draco Malfoy smirking slyly from the sidelines, whispering to his fellow Slytherins. "Who are you?" Harry asked, his voice steady but edged with irritation.

Ron puffed out his chest, a small display of bravado. "The name's Ronald Weasley, but you can call me Ron; all my friends do!" He extended his hand, palm open in a gesture of friendship.

Harry regarded Ron's outstretched hand with a skeptical expression, refusing to shake it. "Well, Ronald," he replied coolly, "what exactly do you want?" He crossed his arms defensively, eyes narrowed.

The crowd tensed, sensing the tension escalating, leaning in like moths drawn to a flame, eager to witness the confrontation unfold. Ron looked momentarily taken aback, a flash of confusion crossing his face, but he quickly regained his composure, the confident smile returning. "I figured I'd rescue you from Longbottom. You can't possibly want to spend time with him—he's hardly a proper Gryffindor. Besides, it's rumoured he could be a squib, completely hopeless at magic. You need friends like me—someone who understands what it's like to be important," Ron declared.

Harry felt the heat rise in his cheeks as he saw Neville flinch at Ron's words and narrowed his gaze at the redhead. "So, you think you can just waltz over here, interrupt my conversation with a friend, insult him, and expect me to abandon Neville for your companionship?" Harry's incredulity was palpable.

Ron stood there, for a moment dumbfounded, his mouth agape before he stammered, "Well, yeah. I've got so much to offer beyond what Longbottom and the Granger girl can provide. Longbottom's parents are practically dead, and he's stuck with that grumpy grandmother. The Granger girl? Please. She's a Muggle; she wouldn't know magic if it hit her in the face! But me? With my magical family, we could have a blast together. You'd be like a son to my parents."

So absorbed was Ron in his boastful tirade that he failed to notice the shocked expressions of their classmates, the furious glare from Hermione, or the hurt yet furious look on Neville's face. Harry shook his head, struggling to comprehend Ron's ludicrous words. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "Why on earth would I want to be friends with you? I can't stand you. You're rude and only interested in my fame because of some silly title the media burdened me with regarding something I don't even recall."

"But I'm a Gryffindor, and you're the Boy-Who-Lived—" Ron protested, his confidence wavering.

Harry interrupted him sharply, "Why would I give a rat's tail about your house allegiance? Especially considering I'm in Ravenclaw!"

"You were meant to be in Gryffindor!" Ron shouted back, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

"Meant to be?" Harry echoed incredulously, glancing around at the growing crowd, who were now intently focused on their fiery exchange, many shooting Ron looks filled with disgust. "Yes!" Ron insisted, growing agitated. "You might as well be a slimy snake! Everyone knows the other houses breed dark wizards! You were supposed to be in Gryffindor with me! We were meant to bond over heroic adventures, to be legends together!"

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief as whispers of confusion and anger rippled through the crowd. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with being in Slytherin! I would have been just fine in that house or any other! Even if, for some inexplicable reason, I had ended up in Gryffindor, I would never want to be friends with someone like you," he declared, barely suppressing a laugh at Ron's childlike tantrums. A wave of clarity washed over him, and he realized just how naïve he had been to have ever entertained Ron's façade.

"Merlin, you're ruining everything!" Ron's voice boomed, a mix of shock and frustration echoing in the air. Harry bit back a chuckle, incredulous at the thought that Ron might be reckless enough to unveil all of Dumbledore's carefully laid plans in front of their entire year group.

"Why? Because I was sorted into a house you deem inferior? Because I refuse to forge a friendship with someone who clings to me like a barnacle, desperate for a taste of glory I don't even recall? Because I'm not the flawless Boy-Who-Lived painted in the tales you devoured as a child? Well, let me set the record straight: I'm just Harry; I'm not some mythical beacon of hope clad in Gryffindor robes!" His voice cut through the tension, raw and unapologetic.

Ron's face blazed with rage, his muscles tensing as he let out a primal roar, propelling himself towards Harry like a battering ram. Anticipating the onslaught, Harry effortlessly sidestepped, watching as Ron crashed to the ground with a thud, limbs sprawled awkwardly like a discarded puppet. The rest of the class gawked, disbelief etched on their faces, as Ron glared up at Harry, simmering.

"Ugh, I hate you!" he spat, his frustration palpable.

Just then, Madam Hooch burst onto the scene, her presence commanding in the whirlwind of chaos. She took in the tableau of shocked students and her gaze landed on Ron, visibly flustered and fuming on the floor. "What's the meaning of all this?" she queried, her brows knitted in concern as she surveyed the chaos.

Harry kept his eyes on Ron, a surge of quiet satisfaction bubbling beneath his calm exterior, knowing Dumbledore would find it nearly impossible to smooth over this turmoil. He turned to their flying instructor and shrugged innocently, "Honestly, Professor, I couldn't even guess."

"Yeah, Ron just lost it," Neville chimed in, backing up Harry with an earnestness that only came from true friendship.

A chorus of agreement arose from the rest of the class, murmurs weaving through the air like a gentle breeze, all directed towards Ron's unexpected outburst. Madam Hooch paused, her eyes glinting with amusement, before shaking her head and allowing a smile to break through the tension. "Right then, moving on. Hello, my name..."

Chapter Text

13th September 1991, Great Hall, Hogwarts

It was a brisk Friday morning at Hogwarts, and the Great Hall buzzed with the lively chatter of students. The enchanted ceiling, a brilliant mirror of the clear blue sky outside, created an atmosphere that felt almost idyllic as students relished their extensive breakfasts. Long tables were laden with an array of delectable fare—golden fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly toasted bread with a crisp crust, and generous heaps of sizzling bacon—producing delighted murmurs of contentment and excitement for the weekend ahead. All around Harry, friends were laughing heartily and breaking bread together, eager to unwind and share stories of the week's escapades.

Seated at the Ravenclaw table, Harry's attention was fixated on his plate rather than the festive atmosphere enveloping him. A subtle frown creased his forehead when he recognized that he hadn’t received any letters that morning; he had no one to write to him. The usual flurry of owls delivering messages from friends or family was conspicuously absent, leaving him feeling somewhat isolated and adrift among the chatter. Just as he was about to push his plate away in disappointment, a duo of owls suddenly swooped down gracefully from the cavernous rafters, their wings cutting through the air with surprising vigor and catching him off guard.

The first to land was a robust barn owl, its face adorned with a strikingly bushy tuft of feathers, looking distinguished and wise. Harry's heart raced as he noticed the envelope clutched in its talons, addressed in a familiar scrawl. With eager hands, he tore open the seal, unveiling a note from Hagrid. A jolt of excitement surged through him—this sentiment felt strangely profound, realizing he had yet to meet Hagrid in this life.

Dear Harry,

Please come and have tea with me tomorrow at 4 PM.

Regards,

Hagrid

His thoughts spiraled with the implications of this invitation. What secret motives could Dumbledore possibly have in arranging this meeting? Was he, in some way, trying to prepare him for something significant? As he tucked the first letter away, the curiosity gnawed at him, prompting him to reach for the second, more elegantly penned note. The graceful script unmistakably belonged to Albus Dumbledore himself. Harry scanned the contents quickly.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Please join me for a spot of tea this afternoon after your classes are over.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

P.S. I do love sherbet lemons.

A wave of intrigue washed over him. Dumbledore seemed to be making a clear effort to involve himself in Harry's life, and now Hagrid was part of this curious unfolding.

His contemplative moment was interrupted by Hermione, who had been observing him intently. "Who is it, Harry?" she inquired, her eyes shining with curiosity. 

“It’s an invitation for tea with the Headmaster later today... and another with Hagrid tomorrow,” he replied, doing his best to mask the confusion that clouded his thoughts. Hermione’s face shifted to one of understanding and concern, but before she could express her thoughts, Terry Boot chimed in, “Why would they want to invite you for tea, Harry?”

Harry shrugged, the uncertainty hanging thick in the air. “I have no idea.”

“Do you think it has something to do with the Weasleys?” Neville suggested, joining Harry and Hermione at the table alongside Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones. The idea made sense; after all, Neville had picked up on whispers regarding the bond that Dumbledore shared with Molly Weasley. His grandmother frequently remarked on how Dumbledore was practically part of the family, and it was evident that Ron's enthusiasm for Harry ventured into obsession.

As he recalled their flying lesson earlier that week, Neville remembered Ron’s dramatic struggles to control his broomstick—while Harry and Hermione soared confidently through the skies, Neville had faced his own challenges, grappling with the basics but eventually finding his stride thanks to his friends’ encouragement. Surprisingly, even Draco Malfoy had momentarily put aside his usual taunts to assist Neville, helping him stabilise his flying and avoid further tumbles.

In contrast, Ron often lamented his finances, constantly complaining about the woes of owning a second-hand broom. He would lament how their family's budget couldn't accommodate everyone's wishes while often failing to acknowledge that his older brothers, all Quidditch players, had access to considerably finer brooms. The situation left Neville puzzled, as Ron seemed trapped in a cloud of self-pity, fixated on financial hardships while disregarding the advantages his family could offer.

As Harry pondered over the potential intentions behind Dumbledore’s invitations, Neville took the opportunity to share a piece of local gossip that had caught his ear during a conversation with his grandmother. “You know, she often says that Molly Weasley spoils her last two children, Harry. Maybe these invitations aren’t just coincidental, but rather a way for Dumbledore to ensure you’re taken care of,” he suggested, his eyes alight with speculation.

This tidbit added another layer of complexity to what lay ahead as Harry understood that not all were blind to Dumbledore’s preferences towards the Weasley family. What could Dumbledore and Hagrid have planned for him? Only time would reveal their intentions.

Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts

As the final bell tolled through the hallowed corridors of Hogwarts, resonating like a distant call to adventure, Harry waved goodbye to Hermione and their fellow classmates, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation churn in his stomach. He set off toward the headmaster’s office. Climbing the narrow staircase leading to the headmaster’s tower, he reached the entrance of the Gargoyle corridor, where a stone sentinel stood guard. With a whispered password, the Gargoyle sprang to life, shifting aside to reveal an enchanting, spiraling staircase constructed of ancient, moving stones that wound upwards in a graceful spiral, glinting in the afternoon light.

Harry approached the imposing door, his heart beating a little faster as he knocked softly. The gentle echo reverberated against the polished wood, and he barely had time to collect his thoughts before a voice rang out from within, inviting him to enter with an enthusiasm that set him slightly at edge. Drawing a deep breath, he focused on locking away his memories—an exercise he and Hermione had ingrained into their very beings over the summer months—before stepping confidently into the room. They needed to make sure that Dumbledore did not suspect that all of his blocks had been removed.

Upon entering, Harry was enveloped by the office’s warm embrace, filled with the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows. The room was a circular sanctuary, adorned with vibrant tapestries that depicted the rich history of Hogwarts, and lined with shelves crammed full of dusty volumes and peculiar artifacts, each with its own story to tell. Portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses adorned the walls, their painted faces watching him with expressions of both wisdom and curiosity, as if they knew he was the male Hogwarts heir that they were looking forward to meet.

“Harry, my boy! Please take a seat,” Dumbledore exclaimed, his voice as warm and inviting as the cozy ambiance surrounding them. Unbeknownst to him, the atmosphere crackled with an energy that hinted at a profound shift within Harry’s perception assuring him that he was safe in this office.

Harry walked over to the intricately carved desk at the center of the room and took his seat. He settled into it and asked, uncertainty tinging his voice, “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes that sparkled like stars, gestured toward a tray brimming with steaming cups of tea and freshly baked biscuits. “Yes, indeed! Have some tea and biscuits. There’s truly nothing to be concerned about, my boy,” he encouraged, his tone laced with that familiar sense of kindness that made Harry’s tense muscles tighten just a bit more.

“I’m fine, thank you, sir,” Harry replied quietly, reaching for a biscuit and savoring its warm, buttery goodness as he nibbled hesitantly.

“Good, good,” Dumbledore said, assessing Harry with a look that combined understanding and a hint of doubt. “I can only imagine how overwhelming everything must be—all the revelations and such,” he added thoughtfully, his gaze probing for the truth behind Harry’s composed exterior.

“It was a shock, yes, but I did have the entire summer to prepare myself,” Harry replied, his tone steady as he crafted his words carefully, almost as if rehearsing a performance. “I kept my eyes peeled for the letter, ready to respond immediately once it arrived, free from my uncle or aunt’s interruptions.” The lie came with surprising fluidity, masking the turmoil bubbling beneath.

“Yes, I must admit, I was quite taken aback when your reply arrived promptly by owl. I had anticipated having to send a member of staff to fetch you, curious about whether your relatives would grant you access to such a letter,” Albus remarked, an edge of concern entering his voice. “I’ve heard unsettling whispers about how they raised you, shielding you from our world.”

“You are correct, Sir. If I hadn’t suspected that such a letter was on its way, I likely would have needed your help. Thankfully, on my last day at school, my uncle and aunt discussed my 'future,' and my aunt let slip that I would receive a letter from Hogwarts soon, explaining everything I needed to know. That’s how I learned of my parents’ magical heritage,” Harry lied, a gravity to his words as he spoke of his newfound identity. “Once the letter arrived, I responded right away. I really appreciate your concern, Professor, really, but it wasn't necessary. I wouldn’t want to cause anyone any trouble,” he added, his voice low and earnest.

“It would never have been a trouble, my dear boy,” Dumbledore replied, his tone full of warmth. “In fact, I was already dispatching Hagrid to Diagon Alley for a personal mission; he had to retrieve something from Gringotts. It turned out to be quite fortuitous, considering the unfortunate break-in at the vault you likely heard about,” he continued, a spark of mischief gleaming in his eyes, though a shadow of irritation lingered for the Dursleys. How could they be so careless with his carefully laid plans?

Harry couldn’t help but think, ‘Well, that clarifies one question I had.’ He'd been wondering how Dumbledore would attempt to lead him toward the elusive stone this time.

“You’re lucky then, Sir. I’ve heard that Gringotts is the safest place on earth—save for Hogwarts, of course,” Harry remarked, probing for more insight as he sipped his tea, savoring the rich, comforting flavor.

“Indeed, Hogwarts remains an untouchable sanctuary,” Dumbledore agreed, a knowing smile creasing his face, pleased that his carefully woven plans seemed to take root within Harry’s mind.

After a moment of heavy silence, the air seemed to thicken until Dumbledore's voice broke through it like sunlight piercing through cloud cover. "Anyway, we seem to have strayed from our intended path. I had called you up here because I heard you had a rather troubling incident this week with a fellow student—one Mister Ron Weasley."

Harry felt a rush of dread wash over him, his heart quickening at the thought of impending consequences.

"I remember Ronald from his childhood. He used to be your playmate before the tragic loss of your parents. After you went to live with your relatives, he grew up hearing tales about you and always wished for the chance to befriend you. I can only imagine that upon meeting you, he became a bit too exuberant. Surely, you can find it in your heart to forgive him, can't you, Harry?" Albus said, his voice wrapping around Harry like a warm blanket, almost igniting a flicker of guilt within him. However, he quickly reminded himself of the man speaking to him.

Harry squirmed in his chair, feigning a look of youthful innocence on his face as he replied, "I might forgive him, sir, but he was unkind to both Hermione and Neville as well."

"Ah yes, you're friends with young Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore acknowledged, his eyes twinkling with genuine interest.

Harry nodded eagerly, a faux excitement bubbling within him. "Oh yes! They are both my best friends. We met on the train."

Dumbledore smiled warmly. "That's wonderful, my dear boy. But surely, you’d like to expand your circle of friends. Ronald has such a large family; they would absolutely adore you."

"I already have plenty of friends," Harry protested slightly, his voice retaining a childish lilt. "I am friends with most of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in my year, not to mention some Gryffindors too."

"I'm sure you do," Albus replied in a soothing tone. "It’s just that I worry for you. You see, I knew your parents well, and if I’m honest, I see you as a bit like a grandson."

"Really, sir? You knew my parents?" Harry asked, feigning awe, his heart thumping wildly.

"Yes, we shared a close friendship," Dumbledore reminisced, his gaze distant. "The Potters were also quite close with the Weasleys. Your grandfather and Ron’s grandfather were great friends, and many weekends were spent in each other's company, with you and Ron playing together. There were even serious discussions about making Molly and Arthur your godparents, but before anything could be finalized, your parents tragically passed away. They were truly wonderful friends, always supporting each other both financially and emotionally," Albus continued, his tone heavy with nostalgia.

Harry clenched his fists, a rush of indignation coursing through him as he fought to contain his burgeoning magic, focusing intently on his occlumency shields. How dare he weave such lies about his parents! Arthur Weasley had never been close to his father; they were mere acquaintances at best. And as for those stories of playing together, Harry couldn’t help but simmer with frustration. His parents were gone before he could even walk, hidden away for his safety during those precious years! Desperation clawed at him, urging him to maintain his composure—if those shields fell, his magic would explode, tearing the room apart and exposing him.

Noticing Harry’s silence, Albus pressed on, “I have something that rightly belongs to you. It was your father’s, and I believe the time has come for it to be returned." He opened a desk drawer with an air of reverence, retrieving Harry's invisibility cloak.

Harry's eyes widened in surprise; although part of him expected this, he saw it for what it was—a calculated move to draw him in. Gently, he took the cloak and laid it on his lap, feeling its cool fabric against his palms. To maintain the façade of wonder, he stroked it lightly, his voice dipped in faux emotion. “Thank you, sir.” A surge of relief washed over him; his cloak was finally back, and now he just needed the wand and the ring.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. “I borrowed it from your father just before his tragic end. I think you will find it quite intriguing when you put it on,” he hinted, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

Taking the cue, Harry stood and draped the cloak over his shoulders. As it enveloped him, he looked down in feigned astonishment, gasping, “I’m invisible!”

Dumbledore chuckled, a sound like ringing bells in the stillness of the office. “Indeed, this cloak has been a cherished artifact in your family for generations. However, remember, my boy, that it must not be used for mischief or sneaking around.”

Heaving off the cloak, yet ensuring his expression remained one of surprise, Harry settled back down into his chair. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of doing that,” he replied, his voice full of innocence.

Albus erupted into a melodious laugh, the sound rich and warm, echoing in the cozy office filled with oversized books and flickering candlelight. "Oh, I'm certain of it," he said, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes. "You’d be astonished to know just how many times I’ve heard your father utter those very words. In fact, I could have caught him twice already, tiptoeing his way toward the forbidden third-floor corridor. He was always in search of adventure, that one."

Harry’s heart twisted at the audacity of the man sitting before him, who had the gall to invoke his father's name so openly to sway him. Veiling his rising frustration with a mask of feigned curiosity, he inquired, "My father was adventurous?"

Albus’s face lit up with glee, his smile radiating warmth like a summer sun. "Oh yes! He thrived on mysteries and a sprinkle of mischief. You see, he and his friends from Gryffindor were legendary for their antics."

"And he was in Gryffindor, then?" Harry asked, a subtle edge of disbelief threading through his words, as if he had just been told something surprising, yet already known.

"Yes, both of your parents were," Albus replied, somewhat taken aback by Harry’s apparent ignorance. "That's why I was genuinely surprised when you were sorted into Ravenclaw," he continued, his tone almost wistful.

"I wasn’t aware of that, sir," Harry replied, injecting a hint of sorrow into his voice. "The Sorting Hat did contemplate Gryffindor, but it ultimately deemed Ravenclaw a better fit for me—I enjoy reading," he added.

"That’s alright, Harry," Albus assured, his kind eyes sparkling. "You can still honor your parents’ memories from Ravenclaw, even if the colors may differ."

Harry struggled to suppress a snarl at the way Dumbledore phrased his final thought, tinged with an air of condescension. "Well, one of my best friends is in Gryffindor," he said, redirecting the conversation.

"Ah, yes! That brings us back to the matter of friendships. I’m sure your parents would agree—forgiving young Ron for his lapse in judgment would be the right course of action. He truly is a delightful lad once you take the time to know him. He’s just like any young Gryffindor, often acting before thinking," Albus said, his voice soft, yet insistent.

Harry could hardly believe the sheer boldness of the man before him. It was as if Dumbledore believed he was hidden behind a veil, utterly unaware of the manipulation hanging in the air.

"I suppose you might be right," Harry mumbled, his voice low and hesitant. "And if my parents would have wanted me to..." he added, allowing the words to linger.

Dumbledore's smile widened, his blue eyes shimmering with an almost childlike delight. He was satisfied that the boy had been swayed so easily. Though relinquishing the cloak had been difficult, he rationalized that sacrifices for the greater good were sometimes necessary—and he would eventually reclaim it once Harry fulfilled his destiny.

"Excellent! Now, I believe that covers everything," Albus said, waving his hand dismissively. "Why don’t you wander off and enjoy the rest of your day, Harry?"

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, rising from his seat, the weight of the conversation still heavy upon him.

As he approached the door, Dumbledore's rich and comforting voice rang out, "Oh, and Harry? Do remember, should you ever need someone to confide in, I’m always here. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I felt you were like family." His genial, grandfatherly tone wrapped around the words, casting a spell of warmth.

A wave of nausea twisted in Harry's stomach; the man could deceive the entire world, making them believe in his carefully crafted facade.

Nodding, Harry forced a bright smile, despite the turmoil within. "Thank you, sir, I’ll keep that in mind," he promised.

"Off you go, then," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with victory, a master chess player observing the game's moves.

Potions Master's office, Hogwarts

Harry strode purposefully toward Ravenclaw Tower, a tempest of anger swirling within him. The audacity of Dumbledore had left him reeling, the old wizard's words echoing in his mind like an unwelcome mantra. How could Dumbledore even suggest—let alone imply—that his parents had intended for the Weasleys to be his godparents? The very idea felt like a betrayal, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been foolish to place any trust in Dumbledore’s assurances. So deep was his spiral of thoughts that he failed to notice the tall figure approaching him until it was too late. With a sudden jolt, he collided directly into Professor Snape.

"My apologies, sir," Harry managed, his voice strained and slightly breathless. "I wasn't paying close attention to where I was going."

"Clearly," Snape replied in his signature drawl, his voice cutting through the air like a scalpel, reminiscent of the harsh realities of Harry's previous life. "You would do well to mind your surroundings, Mr. Potter."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up his neck as he stood awkwardly before the imposing figure of his Potions professor.

"Nevertheless," Snape continued, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, "it is fortunate for you that I require your presence. I have nearly completed brewing your potions. If you arrive at my office after dinner, you may collect them."

"Thank you, sir," Harry replied, relief flooding through him despite the weight of their earlier encounter.

"It is of no consequence," Snape remarked dismissively, turning on his heel and sweeping down the corridor, his flowing black robes swishing dramatically behind him like shadows in the dimly lit hallway.

As Harry processed this unexpected interaction—which had strangely calmed his turbulent thoughts—he made his way to the Ravenclaw common room, where he hurriedly stowed his cloak in his trunk before setting off on his evening trek. During dinner, Neville had offered to accompany him, but Harry, knowing his friend’s panicked history with Snape and his struggles in Potions class, politely declined. He needed to focus, and he couldn’t risk Neville’s anxiety clouding the visit.

As he treaded through the winding corridors, a sense of anticipation coursed through him, heightened by the instructions he had received in a short note during the meal. The directions led him deep into the dungeons, where the atmosphere grew cooler, and the stone walls felt ancient and alive with secrets.

Finally, he arrived at Snape’s office, greeted by a curious sight: a portrait of a young man lounging casually, a serpent coiled comfortably in his lap. The intricately painted background was dark and mysterious, providing an air of intrigue to the scene. Curious, Harry approached the portrait and respectfully asked it to announce his arrival to the professor.

"You may enter," the portrait replied, swinging open the heavy door with a creak that resonated through the silence of the dungeon corridor.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry decided to take a risk. He whispered a quiet "Thank you" in Parseltongue, his unusual gift slipping effortlessly from his lips. The portrait's eyes widened in astonishment, and the snake in the painting perked up, watching him intently as he slipped through the doorway into Snape’s lair.

As Harry stepped into the dimly lit office, a wave of curiosity washed over him, tinged with an almost reverent wonder. The room was enveloped in shadows, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight that cast a warm glow against the walls. Dark wood shelves loomed high, their surfaces lined with an array of jars filled with vibrant, mysterious ingredients, many of which whispered secrets of ancient potions and enchantments. This space felt entirely alien to him; during his tumultuous years at Hogwarts, he had never dared to venture into these depths, even during those long, agonizing nights dominated by his Occlumency lessons. Surrounded by the eclectic collection of artifacts and trinkets that belonged to his professor, he felt an unexpected sense of intimacy, as if he were peering into the intricate layers of Severus Snape’s complicated life.

“Surprised by the absence of coffins and blood?” Snape’s voice emerged from the shadows, smooth and laced with a thick layer of sarcasm. Beneath his words, there was a subtle challenge that made Harry pause, pondering the true nature of his professor's intent.

Harry turned to face Snape, a faint smile breaking through the tension. “No, sir. It’s common knowledge that you keep the coffins and blood tucked away in your personal chamber. It’s the chains and whips you keep here that caught my attention,” he replied, daring to inject humor into the charged atmosphere.

For a brief moment, Snape’s expression faltered, dark eyes narrowing thoughtfully before a smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth, a surprised glimmer of amusement breaking his stoic facade. “And I believed I had hidden that information quite effectively,” he replied, his tone dry yet tinged with a rare hint of levity.

Feeling an unexpected warmth burgeoning in his chest at this rare moment of connection, Harry took a deep breath, summoning the courage to express his gratitude. “Thank you, sir, for making the medicine.”

“As I have mentioned previously, Mr. Potter, it holds no significance,” Snape stated matter-of-factly, reaching into the depths of his flowing black robes. He produced three small metal vials that glimmered dully in the muted light, its contents swirling with a concoction that seemed almost alive. “When your supply diminishes, do notify me, and I shall brew another batch before you find yourself wanting.”

Harry nodded appreciatively, mulling over whether to offer Snape some form of repayment for his effort. The thought faded quickly; he understood all too well that suggesting payment would be an insult to Snape's pride and professionalism.

“Do you have any idea how long this batch will last?” Snape queried, his gaze unwavering as he studied Harry with keen attention.

Harry considered the question carefully, mentally reviewing his usage and the durability of the previous vial. “I should be fine until mid-November,” he replied, trying to project an air of confidence.

Severus raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise softening his typically impassive demeanor before he regained his composure. “And you’ve been using it properly?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low, probing tone that hinted at deeper concerns.

“Yes, sir. The scar ointment,” Harry answered with sincerity. “I’ve been applying a small amount to each scar every night before I go to bed.” He could feel Snape’s penetrating gaze assessing his situation closely, as if he were trying to unearth hidden truths lurking beneath Harry’s surface. Recognizing the opportunity to subtly sow doubt in Dumbledore’s mind, Harry continued, “It seems to be working well. The scars on my back are harder for me to see now, but those I can look at appear to have faded considerably.”

“I see. May I examine the scars on your back?” Snape inquired, his tone shifting, curiosity piquing just beneath his calm facade. Harry hesitated momentarily at the request but ultimately relented, cautiously lifting his shirt for Snape’s inspection. As he swiftly fastened his shirt at Snape’s instruction, he felt the gravity of the moment pressing down on him, heavy with unspoken implications.

Harry observed Snape closely as the professor studied him, the surface of his expression remaining impassive while a storm of thoughts swirled behind his dark eyes. Though the man’s face betrayed nothing, a flicker of internal conflict played out in his gaze as he processed the weight of Harry’s revelation. Beneath his calculated exterior, a simmering anger seemed to lurk, barely contained.

“You may leave now, Mr. Potter,” Severus said, his voice firm yet not devoid of kindness. “Remember to request more potion before you run low.” He extended the small potions vial toward Harry, the gesture both routine and imbued with a peculiar significance.

As Harry accepted the vial, gratitude mingled with apprehension within him. He tucked it securely into his pocket, murmuring a sincere “Thank you, sir,” feeling an unexpected bond solidify between them amidst their delicate exchange.

Severus felt a jolt of shock race through him. If Harry’s hints held any truth, he grappled with the implications of what Dumbledore knew—or perhaps, more distressingly, what he did not know. The headmaster had always portrayed the “Golden Boy” as cherished and adored, cocooned in love and comfort. He had even suggested that Harry was spoiled, a mirror image of his father. Yet here stood Harry, alluding to a life marked by scars—both physical and emotional—that Severus himself could understand all too well. The unsettling implications swept over him as fresh questions loomed, haunting his thoughts: had Albus woven a web of lies, and if so, what other deceptions had slipped through the cracks of their tightly held narrative?

Chapter Text

14th September 1991, Hagrid's Hut, Hogwarts Grounds

On the afternoon of September 14, 1991, a warm breeze stirred the leaves around Hagrid's hut, which sat comfortably on the expansive Hogwarts grounds. Harry, Hermione, and their friends strolled purposefully toward the rustic abode, all brimming with anticipation. Although Harry and Hermione held a fondness for Hagrid, they were acutely aware of his unwavering loyalty to Dumbledore, which often colored his opinions about others. It was Hagrid who had initially introduced Harry to the enchanting world of magic, revealing that Dumbledore was considered the greatest wizard to ever walk the earth. Through Hagrid's tales, Harry had come to understand the complex dynamics at Hogwarts, believing that all Slytherins were inherently evil while Gryffindors embodied the essence of courage and nobility.

To prevent any attempt by Dumbledore to subtly influence him through Hagrid, Harry had strategically decided to bring his friends along for this meeting. He wanted to ensure he wasn't alone during this pivotal encounter. The curiosity surrounding why Hagrid had invited Harry for tea filled the group with excitement, ultimately leading Neville, Susan, and Hannah to join Harry and Hermione on their journey.

As they approached, Hagrid could hardly contain his excitement. He had long awaited the opportunity to host Harry for tea, hoping to impress Dumbledore and prove that he was more than just the gentle giant who tended to magical creatures and lived in a ramshackle hut out of pity from the esteemed headmaster. Although Dumbledore had intended for Hagrid to take Harry under his wing much earlier, the timing had worked against them—Harry had already procured his school supplies. Thus, Dumbledore instructed Hagrid to invite Harry to tea and begin to weave his influence.

As the clock struck four, Hagrid eagerly swung open the door, only to be taken aback by the sight of five first-years standing on his doorstep instead of just Harry. Overcoming his surprise, he welcomed the group into his cozy home, where the aroma of freshly brewed tea filled the air, accompanied by the scent of warm biscuits. Fang, his large, shaggy dog, lay snoozing contentedly by the fireplace, occasionally twitching in his dreams.

"Mr. Hagrid, I apologize for bringing my friends along uninvited," Harry began, sounding a bit sheepish yet enthusiastic. "They were so excited to meet you, and I thought it would be nice for them to join me."

"No problem at all, Harry! Any friend of yours is a friend of mine," Hagrid replied, his voice booming with warmth. "Just call me Hagrid! I was friends with your parents, you know. It was I who rescued you from your home on that fateful Halloween night and brought you safely to Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes widened with curiosity and awe. "Oh, you did? I wasn't aware of that," he said slowly.

"Yes, indeed! I retrieved you from Godric's Hollow and flew you all the way to Surrey on my trusty flying motorcycle," Hagrid recounted, a hint of pride coloring his tone. "You were just a tiny baby, wailing loudly at first, but you fell asleep somewhere near Bristol. By the time we reached Surrey, it was almost midnight. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were patiently waiting for us, and I placed you gently into Dumbledore's arms before he left you on your relatives' doorstep." Hagrid paused, beaming as he shared that he still owned the flying bike. "If you ever want to see it, I'd be more than happy to take you for a ride!"

As he spoke, he seemed oblivious to the bewildered expressions on Neville, Hannah, and Susan's faces or the small, knowing smiles exchanged between Harry and Hermione. Hagrid was unknowingly leading them down a revealing path.

"Professor Dumbledore left him at his relatives' doorstep at midnight?" Susan interjected, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"Absolutely! They wouldn't have taken you otherwise, so Dumbledore thought it best to leave you there with a letter explaining the tragic circumstances surrounding your parents' deaths and how they were meant to care for you," Hagrid responded, his admiration for Dumbledore shining through.

"But didn't Harry's parents die that Halloween night? He must have spent a whole night out in the cold," Hannah questioned, her brow furrowing with concern.

"Indeed, but you see, Dumbledore knows what's best for everyone. He is never wrong," Hagrid insisted, his tone resolute as he sought to steer the conversation back to its intended purpose.

"Hagrid," Neville asked hesitantly, "my grandmother told me that you were expelled from school and your wand was destroyed. So how did you get a flying bike?"

Caught off guard, Hagrid fidgeted slightly, wishing to divert the conversation back to its intended purpose but unable to find the right words without risking further scrutiny. "Uh, it wasn't mine," he managed, his face flushing slightly. "A friend of your parents lent it to me so I could get Harry to safety." He cringed internally, realizing how easily the conversation had strayed and noting that he had yet to convey the true reason for Harry's visit.

"Who? And why haven't you given it back to them?" Neville inquired, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

"Oh, he no longer needs it. He resides in an incredibly distant place now, and bikes hold no value for him anymore," Hagrid replied thoughtfully. "Anyway, I was genuinely looking forward to taking you both shopping in Hogsmeade, Harry, but then Dumbledore said you no longer required assistance. I had been eagerly anticipating a day out with you," Hagrid added, his expression shifting slightly as he attempted to guide the conversation.

"Oh, that's really kind of you," Harry said, his appreciation evident in his tone.

A comfortable silence enveloped the trio as Hermione awkwardly patted Fang, who had ambled over to them, resting his enormous head on Neville's lap. Harry busied himself pretending to sip his tea, the gentle clinking of cups filling the air. "So anyway, Harry, how's school treating you?" Hagrid asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.

"It's great, truly!" Harry responded enthusiastically, a bright smile illuminating his face.

"I see you've made some friends," Hagrid noted, his gaze nodding towards Neville, who was grinning sheepishly.

"Oh yes, they're wonderful," Harry said, pleased to see Neville's smile broaden at the compliment.

"Good, good. And what about your teachers?" Hagrid pressed, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

"Oh, they're all fine," Harry explained. "I mean, sometimes Professor Snape can be a bit strict, but aside from that, there's really nothing to complain about."

"Professor Snape, eh? He's a peculiar one, good man at heart, mind you, but it's wise to keep your wits about you—especially considering how much he loathed your father," Hagrid warned, his brow furrowing with concern.

Harry was taken aback by Hagrid's caution. In his previous life, the gentle giant had vehemently defended Snape's innocence when Harry had suspected him of nefarious intentions regarding the Philosopher's Stone. Perhaps this was a strategic ploy to evoke suspicion in Harry, prompting him to contemplate the stone again.

"He's actually been rather decently nice to me," Harry replied, attempting to dismiss Hagrid's concerns.

"Yeah, and you even manage to earn points; it's me he seems to take a dislike to," Neville added glumly, a hint of defeat in his voice.

"Ah, well, never mind that then," Hagrid replied, his expression a mix of confusion and empathy.

Another silence settled over them, the tranquil atmosphere punctuated only by the distant sounds of the Hogwarts grounds. "So, did you manage to complete all your shopping without any issues?" Hagrid asked, genuine interest lacing his voice. "I was really looking forward to helping you out, to be honest."

"Oh, yes. I wouldn't have wanted you to go out of your way just for me," Harry answered, grateful but also feeling the weight of the giant's willingness to help.

"No bother at all! I had to head to Gringotts on the 31st anyway—secret Hogwarts business," Hagrid said with a conspiratorial wink and a knowing smile.

Hermione, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, suddenly spoke up. "That's the day the break-in happened," she said, a flicker of concern crossing her face.

Harry's mind began racing, contemplating how Dumbledore might reintroduce the stone into their lives. Following their conversation yesterday, he had refrained from pursuing the stone, leaving him uncertain about what steps to take next.

Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, his demeanor suddenly tense. "Yes, well, I wouldn't have the slightest clue about that," he remarked overly nervously. "Oh, would you look at the time? You kids best be heading off," he added hastily, nearly ushering them out the door.

Somewhere Near the Great Lake

Once they departed from Hagrid's cozy hut, the group ambled toward the serene shoreline of the Great Lake, where the sunlight danced upon the water's surface, creating a mesmerizing spectacle of glimmering diamonds. They settled down on a soft patch of grass, relishing the refreshing breeze that caressed the area, carrying with it the earthy scents of nature. As the gentle ripples lapped at the shore, a sense of peace enveloped them. Seamus and Dean soon strolled over, their expressions animated as they recounted the unusual events that had unfolded at Hagrid's place.

Suddenly, an aristocratic voice broke through their conversation, asking if they could join. Turning around, they were greeted by the sight of Draco Malfoy, flanked by his usual cadre of followers: Blaise, Theo, Greg, Crabbe, Daphne, and Pansy. Each wore a façade of curiosity mingled with distant aloofness. The group exchanged hesitant glances and, with a reluctant nod, welcomed them into their midst. Before long, the air was thick with laughter and playful banter as they began to engage with one another, the initial tension dissipating like mist under the sun. Over the course of their conversation, Harry and Hermione learned that Theo, Daphne, and Draco lived near one another, while Neville and Hannah resided close to Crabbe, Greg, and Pansy. Though not the closest of friends, they shared an undeniable camaraderie, making their interaction easy and natural. Blaise, typically reserved, surprised everyone by joining the discussion, and before long, an atmosphere of friendship enveloped the group.

However, amidst the mirth, it quickly became evident that Hannah and Susan were preoccupied with thoughts of their earlier afternoon tea with Hagrid, lingering on the peculiarities of their visit.

"You know, Potter," Theo interjected thoughtfully, a hint of sincerity in his eyes, "I've heard my father say that your godfather, Sirius Black, used to own a flying bike." His tone was casual, but the revelation sent a ripple of shock through Harry and Hermione.

Both Harry and Hermione exchanged startled glances, surprised that Nott knew about Sirius Black and his connection to Harry. While everyone else, save for Draco, seemed equally astonished by this newfound information, they leaned in closer, eager to hear more.

"I have a godfather?" Harry feigned surprise, an eyebrow raised in exaggerated confusion.

"Of course! Don't you know? Most of the pureblood families are aware that he was your godfather, and you should have been raised by him," Theo explained, his voice low and conspiratorial. "It's tragic that it couldn't happen after they unjustly imprisoned him in Azkaban without a trial."

"How do you know he didn't receive a trial?" Susan questioned, curiosity piqued and a hint of defiance in her tone.

"Because my father said so," Theo replied with quiet confidence. "Many innocent people were thrown into Azkaban without proper trials, and Sirius Black is one of the most notorious examples. They said he was responsible for killing Muggles, but my father never bought into that narrative. He's also rumored to have been a Death Eater and the Potters' Secret Keeper, revealing their location to Voldemort. Yet my father insists it's impossible; his oath as your godfather would have prevented him from causing such harm."

Seeing the shocked expressions on their faces, Theo leaned back, crossing his arms. "If you don't believe me, why not ask your aunt, Susan? As the head of Law Enforcement, she could always dig deeper into the matter."

Pansy chimed in, a smug smile forming on her lips. "Theo is right. We've been educated about pureblood families since we could speak, learning all the intricate relationships and histories. That's how we know this information."

Just then, a sleek black cat with striking green eyes leapt gracefully onto Hermione's lap, purring as it began to lick her hand. "Oh no, I'm sorry. Ebony! Get off her, sweetheart," Daphne said, quickly scooping her cat off Hermione's lap, a slightly embarrassed smile on her face.

"It's perfectly fine! I love cats, and this one is simply adorable," Hermione beamed, reaching out to stroke Ebony's glossy fur affectionately.

"You like cats, then, Granger?" Draco inquired, genuine curiosity flickering in his icy gray eyes.

"Absolutely! I tried to adopt a cat before the school year began. There was a particular one I fell in love with during my trips to Hogsmeade, but by the time I was ready to bring him home, someone else had taken him. I really miss Crookshanks," Hermione confessed, her voice tinged with sadness as she reminisced.

"Crookshanks? That's rather an unconventional name, Granger," Draco remarked, his tone a mix of amusement and intrigue.

"I think it's a beautiful name. He would have made an excellent companion if I could have gotten him," she replied, the gloom in her voice palpable as she remembered her lost friend.

As conversations ebbed and flowed, seamlessly shifting between a kaleidoscope of topics—classes, personal interests, and thrilling Quidditch matches—Hermione remained blissfully oblivious to the contemplative gaze Draco had directed her way after their discussion about Crookshanks. A mixture of admiration and intrigue flickered across his face, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that had begun to blossom in the absence of words.

Chapter Text

15th September 1991, Founder’s Room, Hogwarts

It had been two weeks since Harry and Hermione entered the school, yet they still hadn’t ventured into the founder’s room that the Sorting Hat had spoken of. Confident that they were free from the watchful eyes of Dumbledore’s followers, the duo decided to explore this hidden sanctuary after the rest of the school had gone to sleep. As the castle settled into silence, they tiptoed into the common room, their hearts racing with anticipation, and stood before the magnificent statue of Rowena Ravenclaw.

With a sense of purpose, Hermione stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper as she uttered the password, “Helena.” Instantly, the statue sprang to life, gracefully stepping aside to reveal a dimly lit passageway adorned with flickering candles that danced like fireflies in the night. The pair entered, traversing the serpentine path until they finally stood before an ornate door, intricately carved and radiating a sense of ancient magic.

As Harry pushed the door open, their breath caught in their throats. They were greeted by one of the most expansive and awe-inspiring rooms they had ever encountered at Hogwarts. The space was warm and inviting, dominated by a lavish wooden sofa set embellished with rich leather cushions, all positioned around an opulent fireplace that crackled softly, casting a golden glow across the room. Above the mantle, four grand portraits of the Hogwarts founders watched over the room, their expressions ranging from stern to whimsical as they watched their two heirs look around the room.

To either side, two study rooms beckoned, each door proudly displaying the crests of the Granger and Potter houses,  When they peeked inside, they discovered spacious wood desks for them to work on and books shelves brimming with countless rare tomes, their spines gleaming in the soft light, inviting Hermione and Harry to dive into their pages and uncover their secrets.

Behind the cozy living area lay a charming kitchen, completely stocked with a variety of ingredients that seemed to promise endless culinary adventures. What surprised them the most was the eclectic mix of Muggle appliances nestled within, alongside a small kitchen garden bursting with herbs and fresh vegetables. Near the living room, to the right, an enchanting sunroom opened up to a delightful mini garden, its verdant plants thriving in the natural light.

In a cozy corner of the sunroom, a pet nook had been thoughtfully arranged for two owls, where Hedwig and Gaia were nestled among soft bedding, dreaming peacefully. The entirety of the room was framed by large windows that offered sweeping views of the surrounding grounds and imbued the space with an otherworldly tranquility.

A spiral staircase, nestled by the kitchen entrance, drew their curiosity. When they explored its winding ascent, they discovered two separate sets of bedrooms, each adorned with the family crests. The bedrooms were marvelously spacious, featuring en-suite bathrooms that promised to be havens of rest and rejuvenation after long days filled with magic and adventure.

“Wow, this place is incredible! I wonder if Dobby and Binky have seen it yet,” Harry exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in his surroundings.

As if summoned by his words, both Binky and Dobby appeared, their faces lighting up with excitement. The house elves animatedly recounted how they had been diligently cleaning and preparing the room, readying it for their arrival and the delightful meals they had been cooking up in the kitchen. When Hermione, curiosity piqued, asked how the Muggle appliances were functioning within the magical walls of Hogwarts, Binky chimed in with pride. She explained how she had learned to tweak the appliances to meld with magic, going so far as to procure them from London with the help of Hermione’s mother. Dobby had also chimed in, informing him that he had been preparing Harry's food from here and that no one had realized that such a room existed yet.

“If both of you are finished exploring, we’ve been anticipating your arrival for quite a while now, and we would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you both,” declared the stern-faced Salazar Slytherin from within the confines of his ornate portrait, his eyes piercing through the canvas with an intensity that belied his artistic medium.

“We sincerely apologize, sir. We simply couldn’t believe that such a magnificent room existed within the walls of Hogwarts and found ourselves captivated by its wonders,” explained Hermione, her voice laced with a blend of genuine awe and urgency. “Additionally, we needed to ensure that Dumbledore wasn’t monitoring our movements,” she added, glancing at Harry, who nodded emphatically in agreement, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Ah, that bothersome headmaster—Albus Dumbledore. Ever since he seized control, he has been systematically undermining the very foundation of this school and our original vision. The standards have fallen to such dismal levels that it fills us with regret and frustration, and despite our combined efforts, it seems there is little we can do,” lamented Godric Gryffindor, his voice heavy with a sense of shared dismay.

“We are determined to discredit him, to unveil the truth of his character, and ultimately expel him from Hogwarts. We understand that this won’t happen overnight; it will require years of tireless groundwork and strategic maneuvering, but we are determined in our commitment to see this through,” Harry and Hermione vowed together, their expressions set with determination.

“That is indeed a sensible assessment,” Rowena Ravenclaw interjected, her keen intellect shining through. “Albus Dumbledore has had decades to entrench his influence within these hallowed halls, so dismantling that will surely be an arduous journey.”

“However, there is a pressing matter we need to address. We don’t know if you’ve been made aware of recent developments, but Voldemort has infiltrated Hogwarts, taking possession of Professor Quirrell. Dumbledore is fully aware of this, and he has chosen to harbor the Philosopher's Stone here, clearly planning to use it as leverage to force me into a confrontation with Voldemort and initiate his master plan. How can I secure the stone without drawing attention to myself?” Harry inquired, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

“Rest assured, both of you are recognized as the true heirs of Hogwarts; there are no enchantments or wards within these ancient walls that can hinder your ability, nor any spells that could betray your presence. You need only to ask, and the sentient spirit of Hogwarts itself will deliver what you desire,” Helga Hufflepuff explained, her demeanor reassuring and firm.

“The same principle applies to the Horcrux concealed within the Room of Requirement—merely express your wish, and it shall be brought to you,” Rowena elaborated.

With a nod of resolve, Harry quickly summoned the Philosopher's Stone and Rowena's diadem from the depths of the castle. Within moments, the two coveted items materialized before them in a shimmering flourish. Hermione, her hands steady and practiced, gently placed them into two velvet bags reinforced with protective charms to guard against prying eyes. Harry then directed Dobby, the loyal house-elf, to take the items to Gringotts in the morning and request that the Head Goblin secure them within his lava chamber. At last, he asked Hogwarts to replace the genuine Philosopher’s Stone with the flawless replica that Hermione had painstakingly crafted, ensuring that no suspicions would arise.

“Tom Riddle, that wretched descendant, was among the most loathsome of my lineage. He had the audacity to brand himself the heir of Slytherin when he was anything but, and he once commanded Cora to commit that heinous act against that poor girl,” Slytherin remarked, his expression twisted with disdain as he recalled the dark legacy of his bloodline.

"Cora? Are you referring to the Basilisk that resides within the Chamber of Secrets? Wasn't she intended to eliminate all Muggleborns at Hogwarts?" Harry inquired, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Not at all. That story has long been a fiction. Over time, individuals misconstrued events and fabricated this narrative. I was the one who created the Chamber and housed Cora within it as a safeguard for the school. Should Hogwarts ever come under threat, she can be summoned and utilized as a powerful weapon against its enemies. While I initially opposed the admission of Muggleborns, it was not rooted in any disdain for their bloodline; rather, my concern stemmed from the greed of certain Muggle families who sought to enroll their children solely to gain magical prowess for personal gain in their conflicts and quests for wealth. My intentions were misrepresented, and over the years, the label of a pureblood supremacist has been wrongfully attached to me, memorializing the myth of my hatred towards Muggleborn. I never departed Hogwarts; I met my end within its walls, surrounded by my closest companions," Slytherin recounted, his voice a mixture of regret and pride.

"It’s the same for each of us. Many of our histories have been clouded by exaggerations and myths, which could have been mitigated if history classes were taught with accuracy. Unfortunately, the curriculum has evolved, and the vision we once held for this institution has become profoundly distorted," Rowena lamented, her eyes filled with unspoken sorrow, while Gryffindor and Hufflepuff nodded in solemn agreement.

"You needn't be concerned; we will address these issues one step at a time and restore Hogwarts to its former splendor. It will require patience and perseverance, but I assure you, we are capable of achieving this. In the meantime, we would like to request your assistance. We understand that the four of you have portraits within the headmaster’s office. It would be immensely beneficial for you to keep us informed about any plans Dumbledore may have, allowing us to mitigate potential threats," Hermione proposed with commendable determination.

"Absolutely, we will fulfill that request. If you make it a point to visit us regularly, we can relay that crucial information to you. This room can be accessed from anywhere within the confines of Hogwarts; simply focus on your desire to enter, and the passageway will reveal itself. Others may only enter this room if they are escorted by either of you, and any discussions or letters exchanged here are shrouded in protective magic, ensuring that their contents stay confidential," Gryffindor clarified, his tone earnest.

"So, letters written from this room remain private?" Harry asked, a spark of inspiration igniting within his mind.

"Precisely. Within your desk, you will discover enchanted parchments specifically designed to allow only the writer and the addressed recipient to understand their contents. Any owls dispatched from this room will leave no trace, ensuring complete secrecy, and you can rest assured that any owls arriving here will also go unnoticed by prying eyes," Rowena expounded, her smile returning as she saw their excitement grow.

Feeling satisfied with the agreements made and the potential ahead, both Harry and Hermione exchanged grateful farewells before retreating to their dormitories. The very next day, Harry found himself back in his study within the founder’s room. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls as he, with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation, penned a brief note to Luna Lovegood. In his letter, he expressed genuine curiosity about her, mentioning how much he had heard about her. He conveyed his eagerness to meet her in person when she joined the school the following year, hoping to forge a friendship that would add warmth to their shared experiences.

To ensure the letter reached her safely and privately, he made a calculated decision to send it via Hermione’s loyal owl, Gaia, rather than his own Hedwig. He knew that Hedwig’s distinct appearance could attract unwanted attention. With a few gentle strokes, he secured the note to Gaia’s leg, feeling a sense of hope and apprehension as the owl took flight into the crisp morning air.

Two days had passed since Gaia had embarked on her mission, and although she had yet to return, Harry couldn’t shake his anxious thoughts about Luna’s potential reply. He often found himself glancing out the window, anticipation bubbling within him, while Hermione, seeing his restless demeanor, offered reassuring smiles, fully aware of the significance this correspondence held for him.

19th September 1991, Hogwarts Grounds

Hermione's birthday fell on a weekday, which meant the continuation of her classes at Hogwarts. This year, however, felt markedly different, largely due to the unwavering presence of her friend Harry. In their previous timeline, her first birthday at Hogwarts had been tinged with loneliness; a stark contrast to her current experience. That first birthday had gone largely unacknowledged—aside from a fleeting birthday wish from Neville, the day had passed without recognition.

As dawn broke on her special day, Hermione was delighted to find her dorm mates gathered in the common room, eager to surprise her with heartfelt birthday wishes. Harry was waiting for her there, beaming as he presented her with a meticulously wrapped birthday gift. With anticipation bubbling within her, she carefully unwrapped the present to reveal a delicate pair of silver earrings paired with a matching necklace. This thoughtful gesture struck a chord with Hermione; she appreciated not only the beauty of the jewelry but also the effort Harry had invested in selecting something so personal. It was a poignant reminder of the gifts he had given her in their previous timeline—usually vouchers for Flourish & Blotts, which were thoughtful but hardly as sentimental as this gift.

Throughout the day, she was met with cheerful greetings, her classmates extending wishes that filled her heart with warmth. Staying true to Ravenclaw tradition, the entire house gathered in the common room at lunchtime to partake in a celebratory cake. The sweet aroma of freshly baked goods filled the air, heightening the festive atmosphere around her.

Once classes concluded, Harry led her down to the Great Lake. To her utter astonishment, she discovered a gathering of her fellow first-years already assembled there, including Neville, Hannah, Susan, Dean, Seamus, Lisa, Terry, Daphne, Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Vince, Goyle, and Draco. They awaited her arrival with cheerful smiles, a delightful spread of gifts, and a beautifully arranged picnic laid out before them. As Hermione approached, they broke into the joyous melody of "Happy Birthday," the sound echoing across the water as she cut into a magnificent chocolate fudge cake, lovingly crafted by her faithful house-elf, Binky. Alongside the cake sat an array of sumptuous snacks: iced doughnuts that glistened in the sunlight, savory quiches, delectable sandwiches, fresh fruits, and refreshing lemonade—all arranged to perfection.

As gifts were exchanged, Hermione’s heart swelled with gratitude, receiving an eclectic collection ranging from enchanting books to exquisite jewelry and rich, melt-in-your-mouth chocolates. However, the moment of anticipation reached its peak when Draco stepped forward to present her with a large, ornately wrapped box. With a hint of eagerness in his voice, he encouraged her to unwrap it quickly.

With a mixture of excitement and curiosity, she began to peel away the layers of wrapping, breath hitching in her throat as she finally unveiled the treasure within—a spacious cage that held her beloved cat, Crookshanks, curled up comfortably inside. Overcome with overwhelming joy at the miraculous reunion with her cherished pet, Hermione gasped, “I don’t understand! How did you find him, Draco?”

A triumphant glint sparkled in Draco's eyes as he recounted the story. “After you shared the story of Crookshanks with us, I took it upon myself to track him down. I contacted the shop where you saw him and persuaded them to share the details of the buyer. They were hesitant at first, naturally. But you know, no one says no to a Malfoy. After that, I reached out to the buyer, offering to buy Crookshanks for a considerably higher price, and they accepted the deal eagerly. Apparently, he hadn't bonded with his new owners.” As he concluded his heartfelt explanation, Hermione's gratitude overflowed. In a moment of pure bliss, she enveloped Draco in a warm embrace, tears of happiness glistening in her eyes. “Thank you, Draco. You have no idea how much this present means to me,” she exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. In that magical instant, surrounded by friends, love, and the gentle purring warmth of her beloved feline, Hermione realized, without a doubt, that she had truly found her home at Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

18^th October 1991, Founder’s Room, Hogwarts

Harry reclined in the sunroom of the founder’s room, the warm sunlight spilling through the expansive windows, casting a golden glow around him. He gazed out, distracted, as he watched birds flit across the sky. Meanwhile, Hermione sat at a polished oak table, diligently working on her potion assignment—her quill gliding over parchment with precision. Although he was also meant to be completing his own assignments, Harry's thoughts were far away, lingering on the letter he had sent to Luna nearly a month ago.

A sense of unease settled over him as the days slipped by without a word from her. He couldn't shake off the nagging doubt lurking in the back of his mind: had his letter reached her? The portraits had confidently assured him that the enchanted delivery system inside this room would ensure safe passage, yet the proximity of Luna to the Weasley household, and her friendship with Ginny, left him feeling apprehensive about the letter's journey.

Hermione’s owl, Gaia, who flew to Luna with the letter but had yet to return. She had been instructed to bring back a response from Luna, and now they found themselves anxious, wondering if the bird had successfully delivered the message or if she was still with Luna, patiently awaiting a reply.

As if summoned by Harry’s restless thoughts, Gaia appeared in the distance, her wings beating heavily against the currents. As she drew closer, the glass of the window shimmered and dissolved into thin air, creating a small opening that allowed her to enter effortlessly. Harry felt a surge of relief mixed with concern as he observed her exhausted demeanour; her feathers ruffled and her flight slightly unsteady. A letter was securely tied to her leg.

Without hesitation, Harry called for Dobby to provide Gaia with some nourishing treats. Hermione, sensing Harry's need for privacy, gently grabbed Gaia and took her to the pet room, giving Harry the space he needed to focus on the letter.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry unfastened the delicate ribbon that held the letter in place. With careful fingers, he unfolded the parchment, his heart racing as he prepared to read Luna's words, eager for any news from her that might bring clarity to his swirling thoughts.

4^th October 1991

Dear Harry,

I’m writing this by the light of a butterberry lantern—quite rare at this altitude, but Father insists they help lure the Yetis. We’ve been in Tibet for six days now, following their tracks through the snow-brushed cliffs of the Himalayas. Father still believes the Yetis are just frost-bitten trolls, misunderstood and maligned like so many gentle things. I rather think he’s right. Their footprints are large but deliberate, never destructive. I’ve been leaving bundles of thistle and dried lavender where they tread—just in case they’re drawn to kindness. So far, they’ve only left us polite silences in return.

Harry, I was so glad to receive your letter. I wasn’t sure you would write at all. Some futures whisper, others stay quiet unless listened to. From my mother’s side, I’ve inherited the Sight—not the kind that tells lottery numbers or where someone’s lost their wand, but the kind that sees versions. Forks in the path. I’ve seen many futures for you and for us. I’m very glad you chose this one.

I must warn you, though. Halloween draws near, and there’s a stirring. Shadows in time sometimes slip through when the veil is thinnest. Please, skip the Hogwarts feast that night. And avoid the restrooms, especially the third-floor ones. (Yes, those again. Peeves is the least of your worries.)

Instead, find Draco Malfoy—yes, him. And Neville. Ask them about the old customs wizards once held to honour those who’ve passed. This year, it would mean something if you marked your parents’ death anniversary properly. I think they’d like it.

I’ll write when I can. I must be careful—there are more eyes on us than we thought, and not all are kind. But I look forward to the day we meet again. I believe it will be once Padfoot is with you. That will be the right moment. You’ll know it.

Until then, be safe. And thank you—for choosing this version of our story.

With warmth wrapped in frost,

Your little moon.

Harry read the letter more times than he cared to admit, his eyes tracing each word with a desperate hope that somehow, rereading it would conjure her into the room, whole and real. But no matter how long he stared at the neat, looping script, she remained absent, only her words lingering like perfume in the air. Still, the line "there are more eyes on us than we thought" echoed in his mind, chilling and mysterious. He understood now—understood the risk she had taken simply in writing to him, and the warning buried in her phrasing. Someone was watching. Always.

That meant he had to act carefully. He would write to her after some time, perhaps just before Christmas. Gaia had to rest, and the gap would also ensure they were not being watched.  

With a sense of urgency, he resolved to seek out Draco and Neville. He needed to question them about the various rituals that the wizarding community observed on the anniversaries of a person’s death. The traditions could provide insights that might ease the pain of loss or perhaps even summon a semblance of closure.

But before anything else, he had to speak to Hermione.

He sighed and rubbed his temples. That conversation would be... difficult. Hermione had never held much patience for Divination—Professor Trelawney had seen to that. The idea of seeing the future, of glimpsing what lay ahead in a teacup or crystal ball, had always seemed like nonsense to her, wrapped in incense smoke and vague metaphors. So telling her that Luna claimed to have had a vision of the future was going to take careful phrasing.

He could already imagine her reaction: arms folded, eyebrow arched, her mouth set in that disapproving line she always wore when someone mentioned "inner eyes." But he had to try. She needed to know.

Harry stood, the weight of the letter still pressing against his chest, and steeled himself. There was much to do, and not much time.

31^st October 1991, Founder’s Room, Hogwarts

When Harry had asked both Neville and Draco about the Wizarding customs during death anniversaries, they both gave him the same but at the same time different answers.

“My Gran says it’s proper to visit the graves of family on the day they passed,” Neville explained gently. His voice carried warmth and reverence, emulating the essence of the cherished memories he held close. “She believes it helps keep them connected to us, you know? It’s like a way of showing respect and love.” Draco, standing nearby, let out a thoughtful sniff, a gesture that was surprisingly kind. “My family, on the other hand, prefers what's called portrait visitations,” he interjected. His demeanor was more composed, yet there was a spark of enthusiasm in his description. “We spend the day with the paintings of our ancestors, share a meal with them, and talk as if they’re right there with us. Mother always says that magic doesn’t really separate us from those we love; it simply changes how we experience their presence.”

Harry listened intently, absorbing their words, but he felt a widening gap between their experiences and his own. A sense of longing settled in his chest. He didn’t know where his parents were buried; no one had ever shared that crucial detail with him. For him, Halloween had always been synonymous with Dudley’s gaudy birthday parties—costumes, sweets, and laughter—but never an invitation for him to belong. It stung more now as he reflected on what he had missed.

When he asked them further about wizarding customs to honor the dead, they explained the traditions further: families gathering at a loved one’s portrait, telling stories over dinner, lighting floating candles, and sometimes even enchanting small memory orbs to preserve a family member’s favourite moments.

That night in the Ravenclaw common room, surrounded by the warm glow of the evening fire, Harry made a quiet but resolute decision. He would honor his parents properly this year, in a way that resonated with the love and respect they deserved.

Gathering his friends Draco, Hermione, and Neville, he expressed his desire to commission a portrait of his parents—something tangible, an entity he could talk to, as opposed to mere photographs stuffed away in books.

Draco leaned back, a sly smile gracing his features, his eyes glittering with mischief. “I know someone who can help,” he announced confidently. “The Potter family artist—well, her family has a longstanding history with yours. My mother’s side kept the records. I can send an owl to her right now.”

Harry blinked. “You’d do that for me?”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course, I would!” Draco shot back, though his tone was more playful than dismissive.

Within a remarkably short span, the portrait was completed and secretly delivered to the founder’s room at Hogwarts. Harry approached it with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. The frame was gold-trimmed—modest yet elegant—and when he peered inside, two young, familiar faces came into view: James Potter, grinning widely, his tousled hair a charming mess, and Lily, radiating warmth with gentle green eyes just like Harry’s own. The moment Harry stepped closer, they stirred to life.

“Harry,” Lily breathed, her voice trembling with emotion, tears shimmering in her eyes as she reached out towards him.

“Oh wow,” James exclaimed, adjusting his glasses in a way that felt utterly familiar. “You’ve got my hair, son! But look at you—you’ve tamed it! And those eyes—told you, Lily!”

Harry stood frozen, words caught in his throat, overwhelmed by the realization that, for the first time, two people gazed at him with pride rather than suspicion or a sense of disdain. Someone had just called him “son,” a word that felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

That Halloween night, as the rest of Hogwarts thrived with the chaos of floating pumpkins and a bountiful feast, Harry chose solitude in the founder’s room, the portrait carefully propped in a space he had deliberately prepared. He had written down his thoughts, the things he wished to share. With every story, he revealed glimpses of his life: his adventures at Hogwarts—the lessons that challenged him, the friendships he had forged but never dreamed he could, and even the betrayals that had left scars on his tender heart. He cried alongside them, letting the weight of sadness thrum through the air, as he comforted them through their grief for what they had lost. With laughter, he engaged in lively discussions with James about Quidditch, while his heart tightened as Lily voiced her unwavering belief that he would grow into a kind man.

Later that evening, Hermione, Neville, and Draco, each privy to the secret room—not that Neville even fully grasped its purpose—joined him, bringing along a small basket filled with treats from the kitchens. They set up a modest dining arrangement, lighting a few enchanted candles that flickered gently in the soft light, creating an intimate and magical atmosphere. Stories flowed easily between them—Neville remarked on his Gran’s hapless effort to charm teacups into cheerful songbirds, while Draco recounted a hilarious escapade when his pet peacocks had spirited themselves away into the drawing room during an important family gathering.

Harry, initially hesitant, found himself sharing stories that had once filled him with fear and sadness: Aunt Petunia's relentless scowling at his hair, the cramped cupboard under the stairs he had called home, and the countless birthdays he never got to celebrate. However, as he spoke, he realized those stories had been granted a new ending. Here he was, surrounded by friends and the enduring love of his parents, finally feeling acknowledged and cherished.

As the evening wore on, the four of them raised their goblets filled with pumpkin juice.

“To the ones we’ve lost,” Neville intoned softly, his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding.

“To the ones who always live on in our hearts,” Hermione added, her voice steady and earnest.

“To the ones who never leave us,” Draco chimed in, his tone imbued with sincerity that surprised even him.

And Harry, grounding himself amidst the swirling emotions, proclaimed clearly, “To Mum and Dad.”

In that moment, the candles flickered brightly, casting an ethereal glow across the room as the portrait of his parents smiled down at him.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt whole—a beautiful tapestry woven from love, connection, and the indelible bonds that wrapped around their hearts, transcending time and space.

Chapter Text

1^st November 1991, Great Hall, Hogwarts

After Hermione, Neville, and Draco left for dinner, Harry ended up spending much more time than he had planned in the Founder’s Room. By the time he returned to the Ravenclaw dorms, it was well past curfew, and everyone was already asleep. It wasn’t until the next morning that he learned how chaotic the previous night had been.

The Halloween feast had been unexpectedly cut short. Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall, looking as if he had seen a ghost, and breathlessly informed everyone that a troll had escaped, wandered into the dungeons, and then—quite dramatically—fainted. Students were hurriedly sent back to their dorms, and the feast was called off.

The Ravenclaw prefect was the first to approach Harry and Hermione when they finally made their way down to breakfast. She looked visibly relieved to see them and immediately asked if he had returned to the dorm safely the previous night after she had sent an elf to look for him. She seemed genuinely concerned, but also a bit frazzled, probably from trying to keep track of all the stragglers

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance before explaining that they had been in the library, and the elf, thankfully, Dobby, had found Harry and brought them back safely. They didn’t feel the need to add any more details, and they were glad to avoid a long explanation.

When they entered the Great Hall, everything seemed pretty normal—students chatting and laughing, the usual murmur of the morning rush. However, the atmosphere at the Gryffindor table was noticeably more charged. It was clear that something significant had happened, and it didn’t take long for Neville to fill them in.

“Blimey,” Neville began, looking around as if ensuring no one was eavesdropping. “You won’t believe what happened. Once everyone got back to the dorms, Percy noticed Ron wasn’t with them, so he went full-on Captain Serious mode and immediately ran to Professor McGonagall.” He paused for effect, a grin tugging at his lips. “I swear, the man’s got a sixth sense for trouble.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, already dreading what he would say next.

“Well,” Neville continued, lowering his voice, “it turns out that Ron had decided to go looking for the troll.” His eyes widened dramatically. “Yeah, apparently, he thought he could—what did he say?—‘take it on, just him and his wand.’ Classic Ron, right? Anyway, he went to the third-floor restroom, and… well, he didn’t exactly come out unscathed. They say the troll really gave him a hard time.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, he tried to fight it?”

Neville nodded solemnly. “Yep, and the only reason he isn’t a troll pancake right now is that Dumbledore and McGonagall arrived just in time. If they hadn’t shown up, Ron... well, let’s just say it wouldn’t have ended well.”

Hermione shook her head, a mix of concern and disbelief on her face. “What was he thinking?”

“Ron’s a bit... erm, overconfident at times,” Neville said, trying—and failing—to suppress a chuckle. “But he’s fine now. He’s in the hospital wing. That stubborn git probably won’t learn his lesson, though.”

Before Harry and Hermione could respond, Harry received a letter delivered straight to him just as they were about to sit down. It was from Dumbledore.

“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice a little too tense, “what does it say?”

He quickly scanned the letter. “He wants me to meet him in his office... right now.”

“Great,” Hermione muttered. “You’re about to be grilled, aren’t you?”

Harry could only nod, bracing himself for whatever was coming. He packed his bag, gave Hermione a quick wave, and left the table. Well, if he was going to be grilled, he might as well get it over with.

As he walked toward the headmaster’s office, he couldn’t help but wonder what Dumbledore had in store for him.

1st November 1991, Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts

When Harry knocked on the heavy oak door of the Headmaster’s office, it creaked open as if it had been anticipating his arrival. Inside, the air was imbued with the familiar, comforting scents of lemon drops and aged parchment, creating an atmosphere that was both inviting and slightly nostalgic. Seated behind his grand, intricately carved desk, Dumbledore regarded Harry with his usual warmth, his long fingers tented in front of him like a wise guardian pondering a great mystery. Flanking him were Professor McGonagall, her sharp features betraying nothing, and Professor Flitwick, who, despite his usual cheerfulness, wore an expression of grave concern.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore greeted, inclining his head slightly and gesturing toward the plush chair opposite him. “Please, do come in. Take a seat.” He offered a small bowl of brightly colored sherbet lemons, but Harry politely declined with a slight shake of his head, his mind elsewhere. “You’re likely wondering why I’ve summoned you,” Dumbledore continued, his voice gentle yet steady, as if carefully choosing his words. “As you’re aware, a troll breached the castle walls last night. All students were ordered to return to their dormitories immediately. However, it has come to our attention that you were neither at the feast nor in your dormitory during this time.”

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry felt the subtle intrusion of Legilimency—a flickering sensation brushing against his consciousness, probing his thoughts like a gentle prod. Yet, he was prepared. He had diligently practiced Occlumency, and this time he stood resolute, his mental barriers firmly in place.

“I didn’t attend the feast, sir,” Harry replied, keeping his voice steady. “Yesterday marked the anniversary of my parents’ deaths. It felt wrong to participate in a celebration. I hoped to find some solace in the library, finishing my assignments. A house-elf came to find me once the troll was discovered and escorted me back to Ravenclaw Tower.” T

here was a moment of silence that stretched, with Professor McGonagall’s expression softening marginally, though her mouth remained set in a straight line. Flitwick cast a quick look at Dumbledore, who regarded Harry with a slow nod, his blue eyes twinkling—though the gleam seemed more inquisitive than playful.

“I understand, Harry,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers. “However, Halloween holds great significance here at Hogwarts. It represents not just time-honored traditions but also the night You-Know-Who was first defeated—by you. The feast symbolizes our triumph over darkness. I hope that next year, you’ll consider joining us.”

Harry met Dumbledore’s gaze with equal conviction. “No offense, sir, but to me, it’s not a night of celebration. It’s a painful reminder of everything I lost. I would much prefer to spend it in quiet reflection. As I mentioned, I was in the library the entire time until I was brought back to the dormitory.” Dumbledore nodded slightly, though the twinkle in his eyes dimmed, as if a shadow had passed over his thoughts

It was Professor McGonagall who leaned forward next, her voice sharp and to the point. “So you’re saying you did not ask Mr. Ron Weasley to meet you on the third floor, in the girls’ lavatory, to confront the troll?”

Harry blinked, taken aback by the unexpected accusation. “No, Professor. Why would I do that? Everyone knows I’m not particularly close with Ron. To be honest, I find him somewhat… obsessive. I wouldn’t actively seek out a troll. That would be sheer madness.”

Professor Flitwick, usually quick to diffuse tension, cleared his throat delicately. “Mr. Weasley insists he followed you there, believing you might need assistance in facing the troll. Unfortunately, he was gravely injured during the encounter and is now recovering in the hospital wing.”

Harry looked from one face to another, incredulous. “But I’ve already said—I was in the library. Why would I, a first-year student, go troll hunting when there are trained wizards and witches in this school perfectly capable of handling it?”

There was a beat of silence. McGonagall and Flitwick exchanged a look, and it was clear Harry’s logic had not gone unnoticed. But Dumbledore continued to study him, as if trying to read a deeper meaning between his words.

“So,” Dumbledore said softly, “you’re absolutely certain you didn’t set foot anywhere near the third floor last night?”

“No, sir,” Harry replied, firmly.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his robes. “Good. Because I have reason to believe the troll was not here by accident. It was a distraction. There are certain… valuable and dangerous items kept safe within these walls, and I suspect someone attempted to steal one of them under the chaos.”

His words hung in the air like smoke. McGonagall and Flitwick looked startled—clearly not expecting Dumbledore to divulge so much in front of a first-year student.

Harry, catching the Headmaster’s subtle bait, tilted his head just slightly and allowed his brows to lift in feigned interest. “Really, sir? That’s… alarming. I hope whoever it was didn’t succeed.”

Dumbledore gave a faint smile, as if pleased by the question. “Indeed. Fortunately, the attempt was unsuccessful.”

“Well,” Harry said, rising from his seat, “if that’s all, I should be heading to Potions. Professor Snape doesn’t take kindly to lateness.”

He inclined his head respectfully and turned to go.

As the door closed behind him, the silence in the office was telling. Professor McGonagall exhaled through her nose, Flitwick returned to his usual fidgeting, and Dumbledore sat still—the disappointment in his eyes evident.

He had hoped for curiosity. He had expected bravado. But what he got was something altogether more dangerous.

A boy who could think for himself!

2nd November, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

The grand dining room of Malfoy Manor shimmered under the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers, casting long, golden reflections against the polished mahogany walls. Ornate silver cutlery gleamed beside porcelain dishes, each one brimming with carefully prepared delicacies—every item tailored to the tastes of their rare guest.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy sat poised at the long table, elegant as ever, hosting none other than Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts and godfather to their son, Draco. Though the three shared a long and complicated history, it was rare these days for Severus to dine outside the castle. He was perpetually buried in work—between teaching, overseeing the Slytherin House, and his… other responsibilities.

It was mid-November now, nearly two full months since the beginning of the term, and tonight, at long last, Severus Snape had decided to accept their invitation. He arrived just after dusk, the chill of the autumn evening lingering in the air, but he was visibly grateful for the warmth and familiarity that the manor offered. The soft golden glow of the candlelight spilled from the windows, casting a welcoming aura on the cobblestone path leading to the entrance.

Inside, the house-elves had outdone themselves with a feast that catered perfectly to his discerning palate. The rich aroma of spiced pumpkin soup wafted through the air, its warmth promising comfort against the season's bite. A vibrant chicken and garden vegetable salad, artfully arranged, beckoned with freshness, its colors a pleasing contrast to the hearty braised lamb that promised to melt in his mouth. For dessert, a luscious treacle tart awaited, its golden crust and sweet, sticky filling a delightful conclusion to the evening's meal—all prepared just as he preferred, with every detail carefully considered to make him feel at home.

Severus, surprisingly relaxed, was eating heartily. Between bites, he updated the Malfoys on Draco’s performance at school and the general goings-on within the Hogwarts halls.

“He’s doing remarkably well in Potions, as one would expect,” Severus remarked, swirling the dark liquid in his glass, the rich aroma of elf-made wine wafting up to his senses. “He’s beginning to demonstrate a firmer grasp of non-verbal techniques, which is no small feat. However, he remains excessively preoccupied with the need to impress his peers, which can cloud his judgment.”

Narcissa allowed a faint smile to touch her lips, her maternal pride tinged with a whisper of realism. “He inherited that trait from his father, no doubt,” she said, her tone playful yet laced with sincerity.

Lucius inclined his head slightly, a subtle acknowledgement of her words, accepting the understated compliment with the practised grace of a seasoned aristocrat. “Indeed,” he responded, his voice smooth and confident. “Better to aspire for greatness than to settle for mediocrity. History favours those who lead, rather than those who merely follow in the shadows.”

“I must say,” Narcissa murmured, swirling her wine thoughtfully, “we were both rather shocked when we read Draco’s letter this morning. A troll, Severus? Inside Hogwarts?”

Severus set down his fork with a deliberate clink. “It didn’t simply wander in, Narcissa. Trolls lack the intelligence for that. Someone let it in—likely as a diversion. I believe the real aim was the object Dumbledore is hiding on the third-floor corridor.”

Lucius’s expression darkened. “Dumbledore, of course. Ever the puppet master. When I confronted him, he waved it off like it was a minor scuffle. Claimed it had been handled and didn’t ‘warrant alarming the Governors.’ When I asked about the Weasley boy, he said the child suffered nothing more than a few scrapes and ‘accidentally’ crossed the troll’s path.” He scoffed, setting his glass down harder than intended. “You’d think the headmaster would show more concern for the offspring of his most loyal supporters.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Severus said coolly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “The boy went looking for the troll. He thought Potter would be there—trying to play hero—and wanted to join the adventure. Foolish doesn’t begin to cover it. Filius said the boy was convinced he could help.” He paused, tone growing more reflective. “That Weasley boy… he’s obsessive when it comes to Potter. Seems he’s under the delusion that he’s Potter’s… what? Shield? Shadow?” He shook his head. “The obsession is unhealthy.”

He paused, expression hardening further. “And Dumbeldore is the same when it comes to Potter. He want to mould him into a second James. But he isn’t. The boy has Lily’s mind. Thoughtful. Observant. Quieter than people assume. He doesn’t know it yet, but… he’s more her than he realizes.”

Lucius’s brows rose slightly. Narcissa, more attuned to nuance, studied the subtle shift in Severus’s expression. There, beneath the cool sarcasm, lay something else—an ache, faint but unmistakable. That name—Lily—still carried weight. Still stirred ghosts.

She reached for her wine but did not drink. “You still see her when you look at him.”

Severus did not respond. His silence said enough.

Lucius cleared his throat, cutting the moment cleanly in half. “Still,” he said, tone carefully neutral, “what troubles me more is the fact that the Board has received no disclosure whatsoever about the nature of this… object. It’s one thing to keep it in the school. It’s another to conceal this vital information from the governors.”

Severus exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as though the very thought gave him a headache. “Dumbledore has sworn the staff to secrecy. We each contributed to its protection, but none of us know exactly what it is. Only that it’s important. Potentially dangerous. He’s grown more secretive than ever—erratic, even. Yet I cannot walk away. His protection… it’s not a luxury I can afford to lose.”

At that, Lucius leaned back, swirling his drink with a measured hand. His gaze, cool and pale, rested on Severus with a kind of clinical interest. Behind the civility, behind the concern, wheels were turning. Calculations were being made.

Narcissa saw it. She knew him too well not to. And she understood instantly what he was thinking.

What if Dumbledore hadn’t simply protected Severus? What if he’d tethered him—bound him—by means less honorable? Charms. Compulsions. Oaths buried beneath layers of trust?

The thought chilled her. But it also clarified the path forward.

With a softness that surprised even herself, she reached across the table and laid a hand gently over Severus’s. “Come here for Christmas,” she said, her voice velvet and steel. “Truly come. Stay through the holidays. No duties. No distractions. Just rest. And maybe a little… space. To think clearly.”

Severus blinked, startled. Her touch—so rare, so unguarded—seemed to rattle him more than any confrontation.

“I—” He hesitated. His eyes flickered to the side, as if scanning a calendar only he could see. “Perhaps… I could manage a few days. It wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

When dessert arrived—sliced treacle tart with vanilla cream and cinnamon sugar—he had already agreed.

Lucius, lips curling around the rim of his wineglass, hid his satisfaction well. Plans were forming. Quiet ones. Come December, they would escort Severus to Gringotts—under pretense, of course. If Dumbledore had tampered with him magically, the goblins would know.

And if he had, the Malfoys would act.

After all, loyalty only meant something when it was freely given.

Chapter Text

22 December 1991, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

The snow had begun falling sometime before dawn—fine, powdery flakes that drifted gently from a pale sky, barely touching the frozen earth before vanishing. By the time Severus Snape reached the iron-wrought gates of Malfoy Manor, the world was cloaked in white, hushed and still, as if the very air was holding its breath.

He walked the long drive alone, his boots crunching softly against the frost-bitten path, the trees overhead bowed like old sentinels standing in solemn watch. A thin ribbon of light crept over the Wiltshire hills behind him, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Severus wasn’t bracing for disaster—no misfired jinxes, no shrieking students, no cauldrons bubbling into chaos. Just winter. Just silence.

The decision to spend Christmas with the Malfoys hadn’t been made lightly. Not publicly, at any rate.

Dumbledore had not been pleased.

“Severus,” the old man had said, all twinkling eyes and that maddeningly gentle tone that made Severus want to hex a wall, “your presence over the holiday might prove... beneficial here at Hogwarts.”

Severus had tilted his head, arching one dark brow. “Beneficial how, exactly? Surely not to babysit another troll wandering the dungeons?”

That had shut the old meddler up—briefly.

But of course, Albus had tried again. Brought up the troll incident. The third-floor corridor. The object he was guarding. Always a nudge, never a full truth. Always turning the chessboard, rearranging the pieces.

Severus had known exactly what he was getting at. But he’d also known Albus. And when it came to secrets, no one hoarded them more greedily.

“Should anything truly urgent arise,” Severus had said, folding his arms across his chest, “you’ll manage. You always do.”

And that had been the end of it. He’d packed his things the next morning, ignoring the wounded glint in the headmaster’s eye.

Now, a day later, he stood at the tall window of the east wing guest room, warm coffee cradled in his hands, watching winter play itself out across the Malfoy estate.

Down in the courtyard, Draco was hurling snowballs at Lucius with the kind of reckless delight only eleven-year-olds could summon. Lucius, ever the composed duelist, deflected each icy missile with casual flicks of his wand, more amused than annoyed. Narcissa watched from the drawing room, her laughter—a soft, silvery sound—spilled out into the cold air through the slightly open window.

It was almost... idyllic. In a Malfoy sort of way.

Severus sipped his coffee, black and bitter, just the way he liked it—courtesy of the ever-efficient house-elves, who remembered even the smallest details without being asked. He stood still for a moment longer, letting the warmth seep through him, letting the quiet do its work.

No overcooked cauldrons. No idiotic mispronunciations. No Gryffindor dramatics, and no Weasley blowing things up in the common room.

Just stillness. And snow. And the subtle comfort of old alliances.

For once, Severus thought, not unkindly, he had chosen well.

With a final glance out at the snowy grounds, he turned from the window and made his way down the long hall toward the dining room. Breakfast would be waiting. Narcissa always made sure of that. And while he would never admit it aloud—not even under Veritaserum—there was something deeply satisfying about being welcomed not as a professor, not as a spy, not even as a servant of a cause, but as a friend.

Severus Snape stepped through the arched doorway of the Malfoys’ private dining room and was instantly enveloped in warmth, both from the gently crackling fireplace and the mouthwatering aroma drifting through the air. The scent hit him first—sizzling bacon, sweet cinnamon, warm maple, and the earthy richness of mushrooms fried in butter. His nostrils flared involuntarily, and despite himself, his mouth watered.

The long, dark walnut table—ornate but intimate—was laden with an almost celebratory spread. It seemed the Malfoy elves had already begun their holiday cooking in earnest. Alongside the usual silver platters of toast, sausages, and scrambled eggs sat more indulgent offerings: stacks of golden pancakes dusted with powdered sugar and topped with plump, enchanted berries that shimmered slightly; warm scones served with spiced apple preserves; a golden-brown breakfast pudding dotted with dried fruits and drizzled with honey. There was even a small tureen of pumpkin-ginger soup, steaming gently in its enchanted bowl.

Draco was already halfway through demolishing his plate, a smear of syrup on his lip and a look of utter contentment on his face. He didn’t even look up as Severus entered, merely speared another piece of crispy bacon and chased it with a forkful of pancake.

The moment Severus sank into one of the high-backed velvet chairs, a silver plate materialized in front of him, courtesy of a discreet house-elf. It was a full English breakfast, done perfectly: sausages with a faint crackling char, two eggs sunny-side-up with yolks as bright as melted gold, grilled tomatoes glistening with herb oil, a pair of crisp hash browns, thick rashers of bacon, baked beans, and a lightly buttered slice of toast. Beside it, a delicate china cup of his preferred black Darjeeling—hot, fragrant, and strong—appeared, followed by his neatly folded copy of the Daily Prophet.

Lucius and Narcissa were at the far end of the table, deep in conversation over parchment plans and a thick leather-bound event book—the annual Malfoy New Year’s Ball was less than a fortnight away, and as always, perfection was expected. Narcissa, immaculate in soft greys, was calmly but firmly vetoing Lucius’s suggestion of enchanted icicles hanging from the chandeliers.

Draco, between bites, announced, “I’m off to Theo’s after this. He found a new potion recipe he wants to try.”

“Don’t blow yourselves up,” Severus murmured dryly, earning a smirk from the boy.

Breakfast passed with quiet elegance and familial routine, and when Narcissa swept away on her shopping expedition and Draco disappeared through the Floo, Lucius turned toward Severus with a more serious air.

“If you’ve finished, I’d like a word in my study.”

The study door clicked softly shut behind them, sealing out the last of the morning’s civility.

Inside, the room was as rich and restrained as Lucius himself—dark paneling, gilt-framed portraits that didn’t move unless summoned, shelves of dragonhide-bound volumes gleaming in the low firelight. It smelled faintly of smoke, aged parchment, and a hint of citrus from the polish used on the dark wood. A decanter of something amber and expensive glinted on a sideboard, untouched.

Severus moved toward the familiar mahogany chair opposite Lucius’s desk and sat with a deliberate calm. He was used to these rooms, used to the quiet weight of Malfoy authority that clung to every surface like an enchantment. But something felt different today. Lucius wasn’t performing. He wasn’t playing the grand host, or the cold strategist.

He looked tired.

Lucius Malfoy rarely looked tired.

“I assume this isn’t about the annual guest list,” Severus said after a moment, his voice dry but quiet.

Lucius gave a tight smile, one that didn’t touch his eyes. “No. This is... not for polite company.”

He moved to the desk but didn’t sit immediately. Instead, he reached into a drawer and retrieved a thick folder, bound in silver thread. It bore no mark, but Severus felt the protective wards around it pulse slightly as it came into view. Lucius hesitated, then set it on the desk between them with a sound like finality.

“I’ve been planning for Draco’s future,” he said, his voice low and measured. “His survival, more specifically.”

Severus tilted his head. “You’ve always planned for Draco’s future.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “Not like this.”

He finally sat, resting his elbows on the desk. The fire caught in the pale strands of his hair, giving him a haunted look, like something out of a portrait painted in wartime. Severus could see the lines around his mouth more clearly now. Worry had carved them deeper.

“We both know,” Lucius said slowly, “that the Dark Lord is not truly gone. That what the world celebrated was merely a delay, not an ending.”

Severus didn’t flinch at the name. He hadn’t for years.

“And when he returns,” Lucius continued, “he’ll come looking for old friends. Old debts. He’ll want loyalty. Gold. Names. And Draco.”

There it was. The real fear. It wasn’t for himself. It never had been. Severus could hear it in his voice—tight, clipped, too steady to be natural. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of failing his son.

“Bellatrix announced at Draco’s birth that he would be the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant,” Lucius added, quieter now. “She sees herself as some twisted fairy godmother. That alone keeps me awake.”

Severus broke it first. “You’ve been thinking about this longer than you let on.”

Lucius nodded. “Since before Draco’s second birthday.”

That startled him. “That long?”

“You don’t grow up under a Dark Lord without learning to calculate worst-case scenarios.”

Lucius’s voice was smooth, but there was a rawness beneath the polish. Something unspoken. Guilt, perhaps. Or shame. Severus wasn’t sure which Lucius would admit to feeling.

“You remember what it was like,” Lucius went on. “We were boys when we first heard him speak. He made himself sound like salvation. Power, control, freedom from Ministry corruption. He used our fear, our pride. He made us believe we were chosen.”

Severus’s throat was suddenly dry. He remembered. Too well.

“And when the truth came,” Lucius said bitterly, “it was too late.”

There was a long pause.

“I can’t undo my choices,” Lucius said, almost to himself. “But I can make sure Draco isn’t destroyed by them.”

The mark…” Lucius looked down at his left arm, then away. “Every time I visit Hogwarts, it darkens. I can feel it, like a pulse. It senses something—or someone. And yet, he should not be able to penetrate Hogwarts. Not yet.”

Severus looked grim. “I’ve felt it too. I told Dumbledore. He only smiled that maddening smile of his and told me not to worry. But I do worry. That mark... it acts as though he’s near. Waiting. Watching.”

“And the old man does nothing?”

“Nothing useful,” Severus snapped. “He speaks in riddles and then retreats into that damnable tower of his.”

Lucius’s lips curled in disdain. “Forget him. My priority is protecting Draco—and Narcissa. I’ve begun laying down contingency plans. Warded safehouses, binding contracts, hidden vaults, escape routes… I even consulted the goblins. But I need you, Severus.”

Severus’s gaze sharpened. “What do you need?”

Lucius looked at him. And for the first time in years—perhaps ever—his pride dropped. The words came slowly.

“I want you to be the guardian of his inheritance. His vaults. His future. If something happens to me... if I’m compromised... I want you to protect him. Not just from the Dark Lord. From everyone. Bellatrix. The Ministry. Even Dumbledore, if it comes to that.”

Severus leaned back in his chair, heart thudding quietly. “You think he’d need protecting from Dumbledore?”

Lucius’s eyes didn’t waver. “Don’t you?”

Severus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew the truth. Dumbledore played a long game, and it had never favored Slytherin children.

“I’ve laid out contingencies—layered wards, bloodline spells, trust locks keyed to Draco’s magical signature, timed portkeys to safe locations. But I need someone with the will to follow through if I’m not there. Someone who won’t hesitate. Someone Draco trusts—even if he doesn’t always like it.”

Severus snorted. “I imagine he’ll hate me when I confiscate his Galleons.”

“Then he’ll be alive to do it.”

They sat in silence after that. A shared understanding humming in the space between them like an invisible tether—woven from years of missteps, regrets, and the heavy, unspoken bond of men who had made terrible choices and were now trying, in whatever way they could, to make sure their legacies didn’t inherit the same darkness.

Finally, Severus spoke, voice softer than before. “I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”

Lucius let out a breath, some subtle tension leaving his shoulders. “Thank you.”

For the rest of the day, the two men pored over Lucius’s carefully crafted plans. Severus was silently impressed—Lucius had thought of everything. Magical guardians, false identities, a pre-enchanted Gringotts vault keyed only to Draco’s blood and Severus’s wand. Even a secret exit built into the manor itself. Layer upon layer of magical and legal protections, designed to shield his family from Death Eaters, the Ministry, and even Dumbledore’s own agents.

Draco and Narcissa, Severus thought privately, would be among the safest people in all of Britain. Perhaps even the world.

They didn’t stop until they heard the distant click of Narcissa’s heels returning from her shopping, echoing through the marbled halls. As they stood, Lucius spoke again, more quietly this time.

“We’ll go to Gringotts the day after Christmas. Make everything official.”

Severus nodded—but what he didn’t know, what Lucius hadn’t yet said, was that the visit to Gringotts would change everything.

Not just for Draco. Not just for the Malfoys.

But for Severus Snape.

Because on December 26th, buried beneath marble floors and goblin enchantments, the truth waiting to be unearthed would tilt the very axis of his world.

Chapter Text

26^th December 1991, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley

The cold crept beneath Severus Snape’s robes as he stood just outside Gringotts, but it was nothing compared to the frost that had settled in his heart over the years. The conversation with Lucius had stirred old fears—about the future, about loyalty, about a world shifting beneath his feet—but those worries had been kept at bay for a few rare, precious days. Christmas had softened the edges of his usual solitude, even if only briefly.

Severus wasn’t used to Christmases like this. Most years, the season was a reminder of everything he had lost.

Before Lily’s marriage to James Potter, Christmas had meant retreating to the warmth of the Evans household. There, in the flickering light of their hearth, he had felt something like belonging. He’d sit quietly in the corner, exchanging small smiles and shy conversations with Lily, drinking in the rare comfort of friendship and family he’d never truly known in his own home. Petunia Evans—Lily’s sister—had always been colder, a constant reminder of the distance he could never bridge, so he carefully avoided her, and the sharp edges of her disdain.

Then came James. After Lily married Potter, Severus began to vanish from the Evans household altogether. The thought of facing James—boisterous, confident, and the one who had stolen Lily’s heart—was unbearable. Yet, even then, Severus found a fragile thread to cling to: a quiet, unspoken tradition. Every Christmas Eve, he and Lily would meet near the small church at Spinner’s End. There, away from prying eyes, they exchanged simple gifts—tokens of a friendship that had survived everything else. Sometimes it was a book, sometimes a flower pressed between pages, sometimes a vial of rare potion ingredients. Those moments were brief, but they were precious.

After Lily died, everything changed. Severus’ world shattered into fragments of guilt and grief. Hogwarts, once a place of torment and refuge in equal measure, became his sanctuary and his cage. He stayed there every Christmas, supervising students left behind, deliberately cutting himself off from any semblance of family or celebration. Invitations from the Malfoys came and went, each declined without hesitation. He was a shadow among shadows.

Until this year.

Lucius and Narcissa’s persistence was something he hadn’t expected to withstand. Their insistence was not the cruel kind, but quiet, sincere—an offer of inclusion, even friendship. Perhaps it was that sincerity that finally cracked his defenses, or perhaps a deep-rooted longing for connection—something he had buried beneath years of self-imposed exile. He accepted.

That Christmas morning was unlike any he had known.

Snow lay thick across the grounds of Malfoy Manor, softening the harsh outlines of the estate like a dream. Inside, the manor was alive with warmth and light. The family room glowed under the flicker of candles and the twinkle of enchanted holly. The Malfoys were gathered together, faces bright with anticipation, surrounded by carefully wrapped gifts piled beneath the tree.

Severus felt awkward at first, the foreignness of the moment pressing in on him like a cloak. Then, one by one, he received presents. They were simple, but thoughtful—silken scarves dyed in deep green and silver, rare potion ingredients he recognised instantly, and a leather-bound journal embossed with an intricate serpent motif, a nod to his own House. Each gift was a silent acknowledgement, a gesture that said, without words, "You belong here."

He had chosen gifts with care for them, too. For Narcissa, a delicate, hand-embroidered silk handkerchief scented faintly with lavender—the kind of small, elegant comfort that spoke quietly of care and attention, something she could carry with her during difficult days. For Lucius, an ancient text on rare dark magic artifacts, a nod to his collector’s obsession. For Draco, a small, enchanted puzzle box—complex, challenging, just like the boy himself.

When Narcissa unwrapped the silk handkerchief, her eyes softened with appreciation, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at her lips—a quiet acknowledgment that did not go unnoticed. Lucius’s eyes flickered with interest as he leafed through the ancient tome. And Draco’s delighted grin as he held the puzzle box was something Severus hadn’t seen from the boy before—a glimpse of childhood, untouched by the weight of their world.

It was the first time in years Severus had felt seen—not as a teacher, not as a spy or a shadow, but as a person.

The house-elves’ Christmas feast was no less remarkable. Platters arrived, laden with roast pheasant stuffed with herbs, delicate parsnip soufflés, and shimmering crystal goblets filled with spiced wine that never emptied. Severus savored the flavors with a surprising sense of wonder. The care, the magic, the sheer abundance of it all—it outshone even the feasts he’d endured at Hogwarts, which were, by comparison, simple and functional.

And yet, amid the laughter and clinking glasses, Severus’s heart ached.

He watched Narcissa straighten Draco’s collar, Lucius hand his son a small, weighty box with a proud smile, and realized—painfully—that this was not a scene that would ever play out for him. He would never have a wife to smile at over breakfast. No child to hand presents to with trembling fingers and hidden pride. That life, that simple, ordinary dream, had never been his to have. It was Lily’s face he still saw when he thought of such things, and that chapter had long closed. The world had not been written with such softness for him.

Still, he was grateful. The Malfoys had given him something more than hospitality. They had, without knowing it, reminded him he was still capable of being human. Still capable of wanting things. That was both a gift and a burden—but on that particular morning, wrapped in snow and memory, he allowed himself to feel it all. Even the ache.

He was brought back from his thoughts when Lucius guided him toward the bank.  Severus Snape stepped through the discreet VIP entrance of Gringotts alongside Lucius Malfoy, the heavy doors closing silently behind them. It was the first time Severus had passed through this guarded threshold. Usually, Gringotts had little reason to beckon him. Hogwarts had long provided room and board, and his purchases—rare though they were—were often managed with a simple signature and a swipe from his account. Most visits, when necessary, had been through the main entrance, amidst the hustle of witches and wizards. But here, behind these polished, guarded doors, the atmosphere was something else entirely.

The reception hall felt like an enclave of quiet power. High-arched ceilings stretched overhead, dotted with glittering chandeliers whose soft light pooled over dark wood panels that gleamed like obsidian. It was a room that commanded respect without a word, where even the air seemed heavy with tradition and influence. The polished marble floor reflected the warm glow, and every detail—the subtle hum of whispered spells, the faint metallic scent—marked this as a place where wealth and magic intertwined.

Behind a vast onyx desk stood a female goblin, impeccably dressed in a tailored waistcoat, her sharp eyes assessing the two men with a practiced gaze. Her voice, precise and clipped, carried an authority that rivaled any wizard's. “Chief Ragnok and Deputy Chief Griphook are expecting you. Right this way.”

Another goblin, no less meticulous in appearance, appeared almost immediately to guide them through winding corridors lined with ledgers and ancient vault doors. Severus followed Lucius, his posture guarded, eyes flickering with quiet curiosity beneath his dark lashes. Though he wore his usual mask of detachment, the subtle differences from the public entrance intrigued him — the careful etiquette, the unspoken hierarchy visible even in the smallest gestures.

They entered a richly appointed office where Chief Ragnok sat behind a heavy desk, his expression one of reserved dignity. Beside him stood Deputy Chief Griphook, who offered a curt nod. Lucius stepped forward first, his voice smooth and measured.

“Chief Ragnok, Deputy Chief Griphook, I trust the day has treated you well?”

Severus followed with a slight inclination of his head, adding, “And I hope your health remains strong.”

The goblins responded with polite formalities, their voices a soft rasp that seemed to carry centuries of wisdom. For a few moments, the conversation turned to pleasantries — talk of the bank’s newly launched scholarship program, its unexpected popularity, and the subtle changes rippling through the wizarding economy.

After the necessary courtesies, Lucius shifted in his chair, brushing his cane aside, and fixed the goblins with a steely gaze. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of a man not merely speaking, but declaring.

“I trust this meeting will be held in strictest confidence,” he began, the steel beneath the silk of his voice unmistakable. “There are... delicate matters to be handled today. My wife, my son, and my legacy must be protected. If anything—untoward—should happen to me, I want to ensure that Draco and Narcissa alone, along with Severus, have access to every Malfoy vault, property, and asset.”

His pale fingers tightened slightly on the carved armrest.

“No one else, not even those related by blood, should be permitted to lay claim to what is ours. And should my son still be underage at that time, Severus Snape, as his godfather and magical guardian, is to hold full access to Draco’s inheritance until he comes of age.”

Ragnok and Griphook exchanged a glance—measured, but meaningful. Goblins had long studied wizards not merely by their wealth, but by how they moved to protect it. Lord Malfoy was being cautious—but also strategic. He was safeguarding his family, yes—but also placing trust, perhaps the only trust he had left outside his bloodline, in Severus Snape.

The alliance between the Malfoys and Heir Potter and Heiress Granger hadn’t gone unnoticed in the goblin circles. Nor had the quietly whispered rumors about Dumbledore's manipulations—charming children, enchanting guardians, twisting oaths into chains.

Griphook stepped forward. “This is possible. But for Mr. Snape to assume that role legally and magically, a contract must be signed, making him guardian to Heir Malfoy’s estate. In addition, as protection for you and us, we recommend Mr. Snape be tested. For spells, potions, and compulsions.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “You mean a compulsion diagnosis?”

Griphook nodded. “Precisely. Though we also offer an Inheritance Test, which includes that and more—lineage, magical titles, bonds, and any enchantments upon the individual. And for the time being, both are the same cost.”

Lucius raised a brow. “You’re waiving fees?”

Ragnok inclined his head. “There are too many vaults abandoned, too many lines left unclaimed. We are testing a policy—offering full diagnostics to select individuals to encourage reclamation. Consider it an... investment into wizarding liquidity.”

Severus’ dark gaze flicked toward Lucius, calculating. “And you are not concerned about what I might find?”

Lucius’ reply was quiet but resolute. “You deserve to know. Whatever chains bind you—whether by the Dark Lord or by Dumbledore—I would like to see them broken.”

After a beat, Severus gave a short nod. “Very well.”

Ragnok gestured, and a much older goblin entered, ancient and ink-stained, carrying a roll of golden parchment that shimmered faintly with runes. The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly, the magic thickening.

“The Inheritance Parchment,” the old goblin intoned, voice like rustling leaves, “reveals all that is hidden in blood and bond—titles, lineage, enchantments, and origins. Blue will show magical titles or inheritances. Green will show you magical bonds, Black for family trees. Red for curses, potions, compulsions... and those who cast them.”

He laid the parchment on the stone desk with reverence.

“Five drops of blood.”

Severus stepped forward without ceremony, withdrew a silver needle from within his robes, and pricked his finger. The blood welled dark and sluggish—magic fighting the reveal—and he let five drops fall, one by one, onto the golden page.

The old goblin began to chant in Gobbledegook, low and rhythmic. The air shimmered. The parchment soaked in the blood like a sponge, then rippled, glowing from within.

Colour bled through: black, Green, then red—so much red it seemed to burn—and then, to everyone’s shock, blue.

Lucius stepped closer, eyebrows furrowing. “Blue?”

Severus said nothing yet. His face was still, but his knuckles were white against the desk.

The goblin stopped chanting. The room fell deathly silent. Griphook leaned in, his sharp eyes scanning the glowing runes.

“The red is extensive,” he said carefully. “And... intricate. Multiple sources. Some are older than others. Most prominent—Albus Dumbledore. Memory charms. Suggestion potions. Compulsion enchantments, layered over decades. And some from... Voldemort. Binding curses.”

Severus’ face had drained of colour. How dare Dumbledore place so many charms on him!

Lucius stood beside him, jaw clenched. “How much?”

Griphook’s expression, for once, was nearly somber. “Enough to have affected your loyalty, your memories, your choices. There are tampering marks going back to when you were sixteen.”

Ragnok tapped the glowing red lines with a claw. “There is more. The bonds, show your bond with Heir Malfoy as your godson, but you also have a soul mate, as shown in the Green. Not only that but you are... an heir. Not only to the Prince family, but to a line we thought long extinct.” He pointed to the blue. “A lost house. The parchment is verifying it now.”

Severus’ breath caught.

Lucius laid a hand on Severus’ shoulder—quiet, steadying.

“You are not what they made you,” he said, voice like tempered steel. “We will undo every bit of it.”

And Severus, for the first time in many years, allowed himself to hope—however slightly—that he might not be alone in the end.

Chapter Text

3rd January 1992, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland

The dungeons hadn't changed.

Cold. Silent. Watchful. Just like him.

They were constant—unlike everything else.

The heavy oak door groaned as Severus stepped inside, its sound echoing in the stillness. It shut behind him with a soft thud, sealing him once more into the gloom that had once comforted him. Now, it simply... fit. Like robes that hung too tight but had become too familiar to discard.

He paused, breathing. Letting the stone's chill settle into his bones like old memories. Flickering torches sputtered shadows across the carved walls, casting streaks of gold and gray. His chambers were the same as ever—books stacked in careless towers, potions bubbling faintly in sealed vials, the lingering scent of asphodel and burnt rosemary clinging to the air.

But he wasn't the same.

Not anymore.

He crossed the room slowly, boots echoing on the flagstones, and sank into his worn leather chair like a man twice his age. It gave a familiar groan beneath him. On the desk before him lay the parchment—thin, golden, deceptively fragile. Unassuming, yet it had split his life clean in two.

His jaw clenched as he stared at it. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

He'd nearly hexed Dumbledore into the next century.

No—truthfully, he'd wanted to kill him. With a cold, focused fury that had made his wand hand twitch and his magic crackle in the air.

It had taken both Lucius and Narcissa to stop him. Literally. Narcissa had stunned him before he'd even seen her raise her wand. And Lucius—of all people—had talked him down. The irony of that still made his lips curl.

"Play the long game," Lucius had said, smooth and disarming. "You're a Slytherin, Severus. Start acting like it."

And Merlin help him, the bastard had been right.

He hadn't wanted to hear it. Not then—lying bruised and disoriented in a Gringotts ritual chamber, magic raw and bleeding from the extraction of Dumbledore's bindings. But he'd heard it anyway.

The goblin healer, Temperance—clinical, sharp-eyed—had worked through his magical core like a surgeon cutting out rot. Layer by layer, she'd revealed the tampering. The compulsions. The conditioning.

"The emotions were artificial," she'd told him. "Induced. Not love. Just... programming."

That word—conditioning—had cut deeper than any curse.

Not love for Lily.

Not really.

Not since fifth year. Not since that conversation with Dumbledore—guidance, he'd called it. That was the day everything shifted. The day he stopped being Severus and started becoming someone else's piece on the board.

All of it… orchestrated.

And he had played every note, perfectly, like the finely-tuned instrument they'd made him.

Now, free from the spells, everything felt raw. His thoughts clearer than they'd been in years. His magic more responsive. And the ache in his chest wasn't for Lily anymore. It was for himself—for everything he'd lost.

He still mourned her. She had been his first friend, his flicker of light in the dark. But what remained was grief, not obsession. And certainly not love.

"Just a girl," he murmured, eyes dropping to the parchment. "Just a girl… and a very old lie."

But it hadn't ended there.

The goblins had uncovered more.

He was rich.

Disgustingly so.

The money from his potions patents—registered under a pseudonym—had already afforded him a comfortable life. But now the Prince estate had fully reverted to him. And in an almost laughable twist, so had the Lestrange fortune. Ancient bloodline magic had claimed him as heir through his mother's lineage.

How Rabastan, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix would react to that was a source of grim amusement.

Lucius had practically toasted him. "The look on Bellatrix's face when she finds out," he'd drawled, grinning into his brandy. "Do preserve it in a Pensieve for me?"

Even that had stirred only faint, wry amusement.

Narcissa, of course, had glared. "It's not funny, Lucius. Severus needs time."

She always meant well. Over the holidays, she'd been unexpectedly gentle—offering tea, speaking softly, never pushing too hard.

"Maybe you should see someone," she'd said one evening. "A mind healer. A proper one."

He hadn't answered at first. Then: "And where exactly do I find one who won't sell me out to Dumbledore or the Dark Lord?"

Narcissa had simply touched his hand. "There are such people. You just have to look in the right places."

He was considering it.

Not that he'd ever say so.

But the goblins hadn't lied. About any of it.

Not even the most unbelievable part.

His soulmate.

He'd refused to believe it at first. But soul magic didn't lie.

Her name had appeared in silver script on the parchment—warm, glowing.

He'd stared at it in silence. Unmoving. Disbelieving.

And then—something unexpected.

Hope.

She wasn't who he would've imagined. Not even close. A far cry from the soft, bookish ideal he'd once clung to. Where Lily had been gentle light, this woman was all fire and ferocity. Sunlight and sharp edges. Honeyed laughter in crowded rooms. Eyes that saw too much.

Lucius, predictably, hadn't resisted commentary.

"You have to admit," he'd said, smirking, "the Fates were generous. She's… something. That laugh—Merlin, man. You're going to be envied."

Severus had said nothing. Just turned away, jaw clenched, ears ringing with the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in weeks but had already memorized.

Narcissa had swatted Lucius with a glare. "This isn't a joke. It's not some courtship game."

No. It wasn't.

He didn't even know where to start. With her. With himself.

She had brushed past him once in Hogsmeade—weeks ago. Her fingers had grazed his sleeve and he'd nearly flinched. The warmth had lingered like fire.

She'd smiled at him.

Before the parchment.

Before he knew.

Now, he couldn't bring himself to look at her. What if she knew? What if she didn't?

A knock at the door shattered the thought.

He stood immediately, wand drawn—not out of fear, but instinct.

No one visited him unannounced.

He flicked the parchment away and warded the drawer with three layers of protection.

Then, face schooled into impassivity, Occlumency walls solid and high, he opened the door.

And there stood Albus Dumbledore.

The very last man he wanted to see.

"Ah, Severus," Albus said, his blue eyes far less twinkly than usual. "May I come in?"

Not a question. A courtesy.

Severus stepped aside silently, watching the old man pass like a predator studying prey too arrogant to know it was in danger.

The door shut behind them with a quiet click.

For the first time in years, Severus felt completely, utterly in control.

The heavy oak door creaked softly as Albus Dumbledore stepped into Severus Snape's quarters, the faint scent of herbs and old parchment trailing in with him. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows along the walls, bathing the room in warm, uneven light. It was quiet, orderly—controlled, like the man who lived within it.

A polished desk stood at attention near the far wall. Two black leather chairs faced the hearth like silent sentinels. Albus moved to one without invitation, the hem of his plum-colored robes brushing the carpet. He did not speak right away. There was power in silence, and Albus—like Severus—knew how to wield it.

But Severus was better at it.

He stood a moment longer, watching the old man settle. Then he crossed the room with unhurried steps, pouring himself a measure of elf-made wine. He took the opposite chair, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate ease.

Albus watched him, always watching. Trying to read a face that had long since become a mask. A mind shielded behind years of Occlumency and survival. There had been a time—brief and regrettable—when Severus had allowed the man to think he had access. That time had passed.

And Albus knew it.

Still, he tried. Always.

"So, Severus," he said at last, voice warm and deceptively casual, "how were your holidays? We missed you here at Hogwarts."

Severus didn't smile. "I'm sure you did." He took a sip of wine. "It was… quiet. Private. Pleasant."

He let the words hang, knowing Albus would hear what he wanted to. He always did.

"The Malfoy ball on New Year's Eve," he added with a glance toward the flames. "I hadn't planned to attend, but Lucius is... persistent. Far too much pomp. I ended the evening alone in their garden. I doubt I'll go next year."

A clean, elegant lie.

In truth, the ball had been strategic. He had made connections. Watched. Learned. Strengthened alliances. There had even been something almost like enjoyment in the dance of old families and newer power.

The only shadow had been the hours in Gringotts before the party—bleeding out Dumbledore's lies in gold-lit ritual chambers.

But he said none of that. He said only what Albus would expect.

And the man's eyes—sharp, ancient—twinkled with something almost like satisfaction.

"Yes, Lucius does enjoy a spectacle," Albus said lightly, though the edge was there. "I'm glad you're back. The castle always feels… unbalanced without you."

Severus arched a brow. "Surely you had Potter to keep things lively."

"Oh yes," Albus chuckled, folding his hands. "Harry stayed for the holidays, along with young Ronald. His health has been fragile since the troll incident. And with the Weasleys abroad, we thought it best he remain here."

He let the pause stretch, then added with artful nonchalance: "The two of them have grown close. Almost inseparable, really. Watching them, I'm reminded of James and Sirius."

The bait was obvious. Crude, even. But Severus took it anyway—because it served a purpose.

He sneered. "Potter is exactly like his father. Arrogant, reckless, utterly convinced of his own invincibility. And now he's found a sidekick just as idiotic. Together, they'll break every rule in the book."

He didn't need to fake the venom. His loathing for James Potter was too deeply rooted. But behind the old bitterness, newer thoughts stirred.

Harry Potter, close to Weasley? That was new. He remembered the boy's early disdain for Ronald—open, unmistakable. That sort of resentment didn't vanish on its own.

No. This was calculated.

Albus was testing him. Probing for fractures. Trying to see if the old programming still held. If his creature still danced to the same tune.

The Headmaster always played his games. Always moved his pieces. And Severus knew—had always known—he was just another one.

Across the fire, Albus tilted his head.

"Now, now, Severus," he said, all grandfatherly patience. "Harry is simply inquisitive. And Ron is loyal. That's something you used to value, isn't it?"

A knife, slipped between the ribs with a smile.

"If you say so." His voice was cool, detached.

Albus stood abruptly, smoothing his robes. "Well, I must be going. The carriages will arrive soon, and there's much to prepare. Enjoy your evening, Severus."

The door closed with a soft click.

Severus didn't move.

He sat, wine glass in hand, eyes fixed on the fire as it twisted and danced—thoughts flickering just as fast, just as dangerous.

So. That was the visit. Not a check-in. Not concern. A test. A measure.

Was the leash still on?

Had the Malfoys pulled too hard?

Was his puppet still dancing?

And yet… there had been something else. A message in the mention of Potter. A claim: He's bonding. I'm shaping him. He's mine now.

Severus's jaw tightened.

He didn't believe for a moment that Albus cared for Harry as anything more than a symbol. A sacrifice in the making. Just like he had been.

But Severus had made a promise once. Not born of love, not anymore—but of memory. Of grief. Of guilt.

And defiance.

I will save her son, Severus thought, the vow ringing like iron in his chest. Even if it means saving him from you.

He raised his glass in a silent toast to the firelight.

"To the game," he murmured, bitterly amused. "And to the ones who think they've already won it."

Chapter Text

3rd January 1992 — Hogwarts Grounds

Snowflakes drifted lazily across the frozen Black Lake, dusting the ground and catching in Harry's hair as he paced in his Ravenclaw scarf. From a distance, he looked like he was brooding over equations gone wrong, but really, he was waiting. Hermione was due back today, along with Neville, Susan, Hannah, Dean, and Seamus. After the long, hollow days of Christmas, he was desperate for their return.

Christmas had been… tolerable, at best.

Hermione had gone home. Everyone else had gone home. Even the Weasleys had gone abroad to visit Bill in Egypt—everyone except Ron. Ron had been left behind, much to his sulking, and Harry was far too perceptive not to see the invisible strings tugging. Dumbledore wanted Ron at Hogwarts, pressed conveniently into Harry's orbit.

Ron himself seemed oblivious, babbling endlessly about Gryffindor glory, Dumbledore's brilliance, and Slytherin treachery. He had suggested Harry "just switch houses" or "sneak into the third-floor corridor for a bit of fun."

Harry had smiled thinly, declined both, and quietly filed the entire situation under manipulation. Ravenclaws noticed patterns. This one was glaring.

At least there had been gifts—and this year, Harry had given as much as he received.

Hermione had floored him with a Ravenclaw-blue journal, charmed to reorder itself on command, with her neat inscription inside the cover. He had laughed softly when he opened his own gift to her: a pair of earrings he'd chosen weeks earlier in Diagon Alley. Diamonds, emeralds, and pearls set in delicate silver—elegant without being showy, exactly the kind of understated brilliance Hermione deserved. She had blushed scarlet, stammered her thanks, and worn them every day of the holiday.

For Luna, he had sent moonstone: a necklace and matching earrings made of moonstone, pearls and diamonds that caught the light like bottled starlight. Two days later, her reply had arrived, tucked inside a package that contained a slim, leather-bound book titled Ancient Rites and Old Magic of the Isles.

Dearest Harry,

I wore the necklace at breakfast and Daddy said I looked like the moon had decided to sit on my collarbones. I think he was right. The earrings make me feel like I can hear starlight if I tilt my head properly.

Ginny asked where I got them. She looked very cross, the way gnomes do when you throw them over the hedge. I told her they were a family heirloom, passed down because the moon listens to me better than people do. She didn't understand, but she stopped asking.

The Weasleys came back early. I'm meant to go play with Ginny this afternoon—she seems very determined that I do. But I wanted you to have this first: a book on the old ways and forgotten traditions. I think it will serve you well, because old things have long memories, and you'll need them.

Thank you for giving me something that feels like it was always meant to be mine. I'll give you something just as true when I see you next. Until then, keep your wand warm and don't let the castle trick you—it likes to whisper.

Always,
Luna

Harry had read it three times, tucked it into his new journal, then read it again for good measure. He couldn't decide what pleased him more: Luna's joy, or the thought of Ginny Weasley's expression when she realised Luna had something she couldn't wheedle out of her.

But the book gave him pause. The timing was too neat—Luna pushed toward Ginny, Luna kept busy elsewhere. Dumbledore wasn't taking any chances. Did the old man know Harry had already contacted her? Harry slipped the book into his trunk, face calm but mind sharp. If Dumbledore was tightening the net, then Harry would simply need to swim deeper, quieter, and far more cautiously.

Neville's gift had been chosen with equal care: a jar of enchanted soil enhancer brewed by the goblins' greenhouse keepers. Neville had handled it like a sacred relic, muttering about how much his plants would thrive.

Susan had been delighted with a slim, advanced warding manual Harry had managed to track down, the sort of book the Ministry usually kept locked behind red tape. "For your family's safety," he'd said, and Susan's smile had been fierce with gratitude.

For Hannah, he'd chosen a silver charm bracelet, each link etched with a different protective rune. She had fastened it immediately, her eyes shining as she whispered, "I'll never take it off."

Dean had unwrapped a fine set of charcoals and parchment—better than anything the school provided—and had launched straight into sketching the view from the tower window.

Seamus had nearly fallen out of his chair laughing when he unwrapped a flame-resistant wand holster. "So you don't lose your eyebrows next time," Harry had teased, and Seamus had promised to test it the very next time something "accidentally" exploded.

And Ron? Ron had received nothing.

It wasn't oversight. It wasn't forgetfulness. It was choice.

Ron's face had faltered when no gift appeared, his ears turning nearly as red as his hair. He tried to mask it with a joking, "Blimey, Harry, you went all out this year, didn't you?"—but the sulky edge was plain. Harry had seen it, stored it away alongside every other instance of Dumbledore's careful meddling, and felt no guilt.

And Harry had received quite a nice set of gifts from his friends as well. Neville had given him a rare rose plant, a crossbreed between lily and rose and named as Lillian in honor of his mother. Susan had sent a hand-knit scarf, a long ribbon of Ravenclaw blue with Hufflepuff-yellow threading at the ends — a small, defiant comfort that felt like solidarity. Hannah's tin of ginger biscuits arrived amidst much anticipation and vanished before the New Year. Dean had brought a careful charcoal sketch of the castle dusted in snow, its turrets softened, the Black Lake a quiet mirror; he pressed it into Harry's hands with the shy pride of an artist. Seamus, with his usual explosive sense of humour, presented a "firecracker quill," a laughing, crackling thing that sputtered for three seconds before settling into ink.

Even Ron had a parcel; he thrust a hand-knit, heart-warming Weasley jumper at Harry. The wool hummed faintly with charmwork — compulsion threads that made the jumper feel like an obligation. Harry smiled, thanked him, and put the jumper aside with the care of someone handling an old, sharp and cursed thing.

The crunch of footsteps in snow pulled Harry back to the present. Neville was leading the returning group down from the carriages, Susan and Hannah at his sides, Dean and Seamus laughing behind. Hermione, cheeks pink from the cold, spotted Harry first and waved.

"You look like you've been pacing holes in the ice," she called.

"Just keeping it from freezing over," Harry said, deadpan. The group laughed, shaking off the chill as they gathered around him.

Neville, unusually confident, cleared his throat. "Er—I wanted to ask… would all of you like to come to Longbottom Manor for Easter hols? Gran says it's high time I hosted friends, not just family. There's plenty of room, and the greenhouses are in full bloom then."

Susan beamed. "That sounds wonderful, Neville!"

"Count me in," Dean said immediately.

"Same here," Seamus added. "Never been to a manor before. Do we have to bow to portraits?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Only if they bow first."

Harry grinned. "I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it."

Neville flushed with relief, smiling shyly at their chorus of agreements. "Brilliant. Gran will be so pleased."

The snow kept falling, their laughter carrying across the lake. For the first time all holiday, Harry felt properly warm.

But even gifts and invitations weren't the biggest thing weighing on him. That honour went to the envelope the goblins had delivered back at Halloween.

31st October 1991 — Founders' Room, Hogwarts

The goblins' owl had carried a dossier sealed with runes.

Asgard Thornewell (As of October 1991)
Profession: Independent Magical Advocate
Specialties: overturning unjust contracts, reversing wrongful imprisonment, restoring inheritance rights, securing political immunity.
Notes: Declined Wizengamot seat. Refuses Ministry positions. Known among goblins as a contract-breaker. Has bested the Ministry three times in closed court.

Folded beneath it was thick parchment, blank but waiting.

Harry didn't hesitate. That night, under the glow of the Founders' Room, he wrote:

To Advocate Asgard Thornewell,

I write as Lord Harry James Potter, Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter, and Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

My godfather, Lord Sirius Orion Black, has been imprisoned in Azkaban for ten years without trial. The Ministry accepted false evidence. Peter Pettigrew, the true traitor, lives still as an unregistered Animagus—currently disguised as a rat kept by the Weasley family.

I ask you to:

Investigate and expose the unlawful imprisonment of Lord Black.

Prove Pettigrew's survival and identity.

Secure Lord Black's freedom and guardianship of myself, as is his right by blood and law.

This matter must remain discreet. I do not trust the Ministry, and I especially do not trust Professor Dumbledore. He acts as though my life is his to direct. That ends now.

Payment will be made from the Potter vaults, and I will swear any oath required.

If you accept, respond through Miss Hermione Granger, who will arrange to meet you during the school holidays.

Respectfully,
Lord Harry James Potter

Harry pressed his ring into the wax seal, the crest imprinting with quiet finality. "This isn't just a letter," he told Hermione. "It's the first move."

27th December 1991 — Asgard Thornewell's Office, Diagon Alley

Hermione's goblin portkey dropped her in a warded alley behind Gringotts. A green door, humming with runes, swung open to a dim office where scrolls floated like watchful birds.

Behind a desk sat Asgard Thornewell. Tall, broad, storm-grey robes veined with silver. His skin polished-oak dark, his eyes fractured-glass pale. He studied Hermione as though weighing her against the air.

"You came about Azkaban," he said. "Lord Sirius Black."

"Yes," Hermione replied evenly. "On behalf of my friend, Lord Potter. He cannot leave Hogwarts, but he trusts you." She placed Harry's sealed letter on his desk.

Thornewell broke the wax, read each line without haste. When he set it down, his gaze sharpened.

"Three requests. All reasonable. All dangerous." He opened a rune-sealed cabinet, withdrawing a black ledger that thrummed like stormclouds. "If Pettigrew lives, the case collapses. Tell me about the rat."

Hermione slid her notes across. "Scabbers. Weasley pet for nearly ten years. Too long for a normal rat. Missing a toe—the same Pettigrew was said to have lost. Skittish when war names are mentioned. Too many coincidences."

Thornewell's mouth twisted, not quite a smile. "Viable. I'll take the case. Keep the rat close. When I move, it will be fast. And if Dumbledore stands in my way—" His voice cut like a drawn blade. "—he will lose."

Hermione gripped his hand firmly. "We will."

3rd January 1992 — Founders' Room, Hogwarts

Hermione finished recounting every detail, the fire crackling low between them.

"So you met him," Harry said at last.

"I did. He's terrifying," Hermione admitted. Then her mouth quirked. "But the good kind."

Harry grinned, dangerous and delighted. "My favourite kind."

"And Sirius?" His voice softened on the name.

"If Thornewell finds what we think, he'll file before summer. Then he'll petition guardianship under law."

Harry leaned back, firelight flashing in his glasses, grin widening.

"And Dumbledore?"

Hermione's voice was iron. "Thornewell said: If Dumbledore stands in my way, he will lose."

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Harry's smile grew sharper, brighter, more certain.

"Good."

Chapter Text

Ron’s POV — Hogwarts, 10th April 1992

Ron Weasley slumped into the armchair, staring into the flames. He should have been packing for the journey home tomorrow, but what did it matter? The fire crackled like a cruel whisper, mocking him with every spark.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

He had six brothers, each of them brilliant, each of them brighter than him. Bill with his curse-breaking, Charlie with his dragons, Percy with his pompous prefect’s badge, the twins with their endless pranks. Ron had always been the leftover — the hand-me-down, the afterthought. This was supposed to be his year. His mother and Dumbledore had promised him that much. He was supposed to meet Harry Potter first, be chosen as the best mate, step into the spotlight at last. He was supposed to be the envy of everyone: the Boy-Who-Lived’s closest friend, the one who went on adventures with him, the one who got the expensive gifts, the one who had everything.

And yet…

His jaw clenched as he forced himself to retrace the disasters of the year.

First, the scholarship fiasco. His scholarship revoked. He was convinced the goblins and the Malfoys had schemed together against him. He couldn’t have failed — he was clever, cleverer than anyone! The train ride should have been the beginning: Harry and Ron, fast friends forever. Instead, that insufferable Hermione Granger had ruined everything. She had swooped in with her cleverness, stolen Harry’s attention, stolen his place. She became his best friend, his confidante. And Neville Longbottom — clumsy, useless Neville — had taken the place of his closest mate.

Malfoy should have been simple, too. The Weasley rule was clear: hate Slytherins, despise Malfoys. But Harry had not listened. He had taken Ron’s warnings with a shrug, made up his own mind, and even befriended some of them. Didn’t Harry see? Didn’t he understand Ron was protecting him?

It kept happening. Tea with Hagrid — with Hermione and the others, not him. The way Harry looked at her, with respect with admiration. He never looked at Ron that way. All Ron ever got was a glance of irritation, of disdain. That look made his insides crawl.

The Halloween troll had been his chance to shine, to stand beside Harry in bravery. But Harry was gone, and Ron had been tossed around like a rag doll instead.

Christmas, too, was supposed to fix things. Mum’s gifts, staying behind to keep Harry company, sharing her homemade treats. Surely Harry would feel bound to them then. But Harry’s smile had been polite, guarded — as though he knew. As though he suspected the truth of the potions and charms Mum had worked into the jumper and food. Ron had wanted to scream. Didn’t Harry realise how much the Weasleys had given him?

And now… now Harry was going to Neville’s house for Easter. With Hermione, with Dean, even with Susan, Hannah, and Seamus. Everyone but him. Ron buried his face in his hands, the humiliation searing hot. He could picture it too easily: Harry laughing at Longbottom Manor, Hermione whispering at his side, Dean cracking jokes, Neville smug in his own home. And Ron left behind with nothing but the fire.

He had seen it even in the corridors: Harry’s face lighting up at Hermione’s words, Neville trailing close, steady and sure. Ron had tried, once, to catch Harry on the way to Charms. But Harry had brushed him aside with a distracted nod before hurrying off after the others. That single gesture stung worse than any prank the twins had ever pulled.

No. He couldn’t let panic win. He straightened, forcing calm. He was Harry’s best mate. He always had been. Hermione was bossy — Harry would tire of her. Neville was useless. Malfoy was rotten. Ginny would win Harry’s heart. Mum and Dumbledore had plans. Everything would work out.

It had to.

Ron whispered the words under his breath, over and over, until the fire blurred into a haze of orange. Yet deep down, a fear coiled tight: what if Harry never came back to him at all?

Albus’s POV — Dumbledore’s Office

Albus Dumbledore adjusted a knight on his chessboard, the faint scrape of stone on wood soothing in its precision. Predictable. Reliable. Unlike his current circumstances.

The year had not unfolded as it should. Harry had arrived hungry for belonging, yes, but also far too curious. The Dursleys had failed him. Neglect should have dulled him, left him pliable. Instead, it had sharpened his mind. The child asked questions — too many questions — and never accepted blindly. Ravenclaw had been a dangerous turn. At least he had not gone to Slytherin.

Then came the scholarship fiasco. Money wrenched from Albus’s hands without warning. The goblins sniffing around, Hermione Granger proving too clever by half, Draco Malfoy circling like a hawk. Annoying complications, though not insurmountable.

But Ronald Weasley. That was the greatest disappointment. Molly had sworn her youngest son would anchor Harry — loyal, eager, easy to shape. Instead, Ron’s jealousy and temper had pushed the boy away. Dumbledore had seen it himself: Harry leaving classes with Hermione and even Longbottom, laughing easily, while Ron trailed behind, ignored and scowling. Worse still, Harry had brushed off Ron’s words as though he were a fly. That had made Albus’s jaw tighten. Harry was supposed to need Ron.

And now Easter. Harry was preparing to spend the holiday at Longbottom Manor with Hermione, Dean, Seamus, Susan, and Hannah, while Ron was left out. Dumbledore could almost hear his plans cracking.

The troll incident had been meant as a test, a chance for Harry to prove his bravery, to bond where Albus directed. Instead, Harry was nowhere in sight. Leaving the situation to the adults. Sensible, yes, but useless to Albus’s story. Sensibility could be a leash, but only when held in the right hands.

The Philosopher’s Stone had been worse — the greatest failure yet. Harry had shown no curiosity about the forbidden corridor. Quirrell had slipped away with the Stone, leaving Albus scrambling to patch the consequences.

First came Nicolas Flamel. The old alchemist had been livid. Centuries of work, the secret of his survival, gone in one reckless gamble. He had called Albus careless, arrogant, deceitful. Albus endured the tirade with calm dignity, then spun the tale carefully: the theft had been a calculated risk, a trap to lure out enemies. Better the Stone be lost forever than fall into true darkness. With gentle words and solemn eyes, he reminded Nicolas of his age, of Perenelle’s frailty, of the burden the Stone had always been. At last, he had offered restitution: rare texts from the Restricted Section, access to alchemical records locked away for centuries. Costly, yes, but necessary. Nicolas had quieted, though resentment lingered like poison beneath the surface.

Then the staff. They had seen enough to know something had gone wrong. McGonagall pressed him hardest, demanding how a troll and a thief had roamed her school unchecked. He reassured her with soft words: the Stone had already been removed by Flamel at his request, the protections were a mere exercise in vigilance. “A test we passed,” he told her, his tone as smooth as honey. Snape had sneered, suspicion written plainly across his face, but Albus stroked his pride — credited his vigilance, praised his watchful eye — until the man softened, sullen but mollified. The rest of the staff required little more than his usual calm smile and a firm assurance that Hogwarts had never truly been in danger. They wanted to believe. He let them.

And finally, the Board of Governors. Their outrage thundered through the chamber when the matter came before them. To have hidden such a dangerous object in a school of children! To endanger heirs and pureblood legacies alike! Some demanded inquiries, others suggested his removal. Albus met them with serenity, twinkle intact. He claimed foresight: that the Stone had always been scheduled for removal, that Hogwarts had never truly housed it by the time of Quirrell’s attempt, that their vigilance as Governors had spurred him to caution. It was a lie polished to a diamond’s gleam. Most accepted it — or pretended to.

But Lucius Malfoy had not. His questions were sharp, his smirk sharper. He pressed at every gap in the story, probing for leverage. Albus could see the calculation in his eyes: suspicion stored away, waiting to be used at the right moment. That was the true danger — not the Board’s bluster, not Flamel’s fury, not the staff’s doubts. Lucius Malfoy sniffed blood, and once he sank his teeth, he would not let go.

Too much money, too many favours, too many lies. The cost had been dear.

Still, none of it was fatal. The boy was only eleven. Eleven-year-olds were clay, pliable in skilled hands. Hermione’s cleverness could be broken, reshaped. Neville’s loyalty could be redirected. Cracks could be plastered. Flaws corrected. The compulsions still held. The prophecy still bound him.

Albus’s irritation was tempered by resolve. The game was not lost. Not yet. But if Harry strayed too far from the path, Albus knew what must be done. Sacrifices. Unpleasant, yes. Necessary, always. For the Greater Good.

Molly’s POV — The Burrow

Molly Weasley sat at the kitchen table, quill poised above parchment, though the letter she meant to write never formed. Her eyes strayed instead to Ron’s latest owl, folded neatly beside her teacup. The words echoed in her head, sour and sharp:

Harry’s going to Longbottom Manor for Easter. Hermione, Hannah, Susan, Seamus, Dean too. Not me.

Molly’s jaw tightened. After all the jumpers she had knitted, the parcels she had sent, the careful potions she had slipped into food, Harry dared to drift? To that Muggleborn girl and the bumbling Longbottom boy?

Ron’s owls came sporadically, never as often as she wanted, but she read each one with care. His complaints were always the same: Hermione was bossy, Harry spent too much time with her, Neville was too close, Malfoy a nuisance. Molly knew her son. Beneath the whining lay jealousy — and jealousy meant Harry still mattered to him. That was proof enough that the plan was working. She had feared, back on the platform, when Ron failed to bring Harry through the barrier with him, that she had ruined everything. But now? Perhaps Ron had succeeded where she had faltered.

Still, order was needed. Molly always found comfort in lists. She dipped her quill and scribbled:

1. Remind Ron: no sulking. Be agreeable. Always stand with Harry in public.
2. Easter parcel for Harry — fudge, jumpers, the faintest charms woven in. Subtle enough that goblins won’t detect them.
3. Speak with Albus.

The sight of the neat numbers calmed her. Yes. That was better.

Harry’s friendship was crucial for Ron. Without the scholarship, she had been forced to sell off her dead brother’s trinkets and skim from Charlie’s dragon research funds. That was no long-term solution. Once Harry came to stay with them this summer, she could strengthen the compulsions, lace his meals with potions, and finally bind him to her children. Then his wealth would see Ron and Ginny properly educated. Arthur’s salary was not for that. Arthur’s money was for her — her indulgence, her gambling.

When Dumbledore visited, he always soothed her with wise words and calm reassurances. He told her Harry was thriving, that bonds of friendship were forming, that everything was unfolding as planned. Complications, yes, but nothing beyond control. Yet Molly had begun to notice the strain in his patience. His smile thinned when she pressed him for gold. His voice sharpened when she fretted about Ron’s failures. She resented his evasions. He resented her demands. But neither dared admit it. He needed her influence. She needed his power. So they smiled. They pretended harmony.

Molly clung to that pretense. Best not to think that perhaps Albus doubted Ron’s usefulness as much as she sometimes did. Best not to wonder if he had his own plans for Harry that she was not privy to.

Her thoughts drifted instead to Christmas. Harry in his jumper, unwrapping fudge and mince pies. Ron’s letter had said Harry seemed pleased. That was enough for her. She ignored the part about him looking “thoughtful.” He was a child. He would learn, in time, that her gifts were love, her food safe. How could an eleven-year-old suspect enchantments in a mother’s offering?

Ginny was the key. Molly’s heart swelled whenever she saw her daughter’s dreamy expression at the mention of Harry’s name. It was destiny. Harry needed family. Ginny needed someone strong, kind — and rich. It would all fall into place. Next year, at Hogwarts, Ginny would bind him properly.

That night, passing Ginny’s room, Molly paused. The door stood ajar. Inside, Ginny lay sprawled across her bed, diary open, quill scratching. Molly’s breath caught at the sight of the words scrawled across the page: G. Potter, circled with little hearts. Ginny hugged the diary to her chest, whispering softly:

“Harry will be mine. He has to be.”

Molly’s chest filled with pride and relief. Yes. This was how it was meant to be. Ginny’s devotion, Ron’s friendship, Dumbledore’s guidance — together they would bind Harry to the Weasleys.

Everything was still under control.

She smoothed the folded parchment on the table, sealing the thought in place. Yet as the candle guttered low, a flicker of unease stirred: whose plan was it really? Hers? Dumbledore’s? Or someone else entirely?

Chapter Text

Easter Break, 1992 – Longbottom Manor

The carriage wheels crunched against gravel as Neville guided Harry, Hermione, Dean, Susan, Hannah, and Seamus up the steps of Longbottom Manor. The house loomed tall and dignified, its ivy-clad walls softened by charms that kept blossoms blooming year-round.

Inside, Augusta Longbottom waited in the great hall, her vulture hat perched firmly in place. Her eyes swept over the children with keen precision, but when Neville introduced his friends one by one, her expression softened.

“So these are the companions you write of,” she said, gaze lingering on Harry’s polite bow and Hermione’s confident handshake, on Susan and Hannah’s graceful curtsies, and on Dean and Seamus’s awkward but earnest greetings. “Welcome. May you find rest here.”

It was nothing like the Burrow, where Harry had felt paraded about as a prize. Here, he was treated with dignity — as a guest in his own right.

The days before Easter unfolded in a gentle rhythm. They explored the greenhouses, where Neville proudly showed off rare plants. Hermione gasped aloud when a moon lily glowed beneath her touch. Susan and Hannah tended seedlings, giggling when a fertility charm sprouted one too quickly. Dean sketched blossoms in charcoal. Seamus, inevitably, managed to singe his sleeve with a flame spell.

Their laughter was easy, unforced. For Harry, it was peace — and he realised with startling clarity that he didn’t miss Ron at all.

One afternoon, Augusta took Neville to St. Mungo’s to visit his parents. Harry, Hermione, Dean, Susan, Hannah, and Seamus went with him, offering quiet solidarity.

Frank and Alice Longbottom sat in their ward, eyes unfocused, their minds lost to the Cruciatus. Neville placed a sweet wrapper into his mother’s hand, and she clutched it as though it were treasure.

Hermione’s eyes filled, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she rested a gentle hand on Neville’s arm. Susan whispered that her own aunt, Amelia, still called Frank one of the bravest Aurors she had ever known. Dean, unusually solemn, sketched the tenderness of Alice’s smile as she looked at her son. Hannah squeezed Neville’s shoulder, and Seamus muttered an awkward but heartfelt, “They’d be proud of you, mate.”

Harry stood at Neville’s side and said quietly, “They’re still your mum and dad. And they love you. That hasn’t changed.”

Neville swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. Surrounded by his friends, he felt something steady within him — not pity, but strength.

Easter Morning

On Easter morning, Augusta gathered them in the drawing room beneath floating golden candles.

“In our world,” she explained, “Easter marks renewal — of the earth, of magic, of families. The hare is our symbol of continuity. Charms woven today last thrice as long. Old wizarding families once sowed blessed seeds at dawn to carry fortune through the year.”

House-elves served sugared eggs shimmering faintly with preservation charms. Hermione leaned forward eagerly; Susan and Hannah shared family memories; Dean considered sketching them; and Seamus nearly dropped his egg when it fizzed violet sparks.

Harry listened quietly, heart full. At Privet Drive, Easter had meant nothing but silence and stale chocolate. Here, it meant warmth, history, and belonging.

Guests soon arrived in robes of pastel silk and enchanted brooches. Among them came the Malfoys.

Lucius was the picture of aristocracy, cane tapping softly on marble. Narcissa glided with measured grace, Draco walking proud at their side.

The air grew taut — Augusta’s disdain for Lucius was no secret — but etiquette held.

Harry and Hermione stepped forward. Hermione, her neck glittering with the elegant chain Draco had gifted her at Christmas — the Starlight Set, a chain and earring pair crafted from diamonds, black opals, and alexandrite set in platinum — curtsied politely. Draco’s eyes caught the jewels resting against her skin, and his heart swelled with quiet, unspoken pride.

“Thank you for your Christmas gifts,” Hermione said warmly. “The Arithmancy texts, Mrs. Malfoy, were invaluable.”

Narcissa’s eyes lingered on Hermione. Though her face remained composed, inwardly she was pleased. A fine choice, Draco. Refined. Worthy of a Malfoy heirloom.

Harry added, “And the cloak pin, Draco. Perfectly chosen.”

Draco’s smile was proud. “I knew it would suit you both. I’m glad I was right.”

Hermione then presented a parcel. “This is from Harry and me — one of Dean’s sketches. We thought you’d appreciate it, Madam Malfoy.”

Narcissa unwrapped the drawing carefully and gasped softly. It was her gardens, rendered in exquisite charcoal detail, every arch and bloom captured with uncanny precision.

“Mr. Thomas,” she said carefully, “you have never set foot in our gardens. How did you capture them so faithfully?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… saw them once in Magical Homes and Gardens. Your estate was the cover. I sketched it from memory.”

Narcissa’s lips curved — rare, genuine. “Talent such as yours is wasted on scraps. Your eye is keen. Remember that.”

Dean blinked, then grinned, while Harry clapped him proudly on the shoulder.

Then Harry turned to Lucius. “Congratulations on your induction into the Wizengamot, sir. A deserved honour.”

Lucius’s pale brows arched, then lowered in approval. “You honour me, Lord Potter,” he said smoothly, deliberately using the title. A ripple of whispers swept the hall.

Later, Harry drew Narcissa aside for a private request.

“I want Number Twelve Grimmauld Place restored,” he said quietly. “It’s steeped in old Black darkness — unfit for living. I want sunlight in its windows, life in its halls. Kreacher will assist you. He’ll obey.”

For a heartbeat, Narcissa’s mask slipped. She knew Number Twelve — she had played in those halls as a girl, long before Sirius fell. That Harry would claim it now was… intriguing. Was he preparing a stronghold? Reviving Sirius’s legacy?

But she folded her thoughts into elegance. “You would have me cleanse it, make it worthy once more. Elegant, yet alive.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Bring sunlight into it. Make it worthy — even of my godfather, if he ever returns.”

Respect flickered in her eyes. Sirius still rotted in Azkaban, but Harry’s loyalty remained unshaken. That defiance, that faith — she recognised it.

“It will be done, Lord Potter,” Narcissa said smoothly. “And it will be done well.”

When Harry returned, Draco clapped his shoulder. “You handled my mother like a true lord. I’m proud of you, Potter.”

There was no envy in his voice — only pride. And for once, Harry accepted it without discomfort.

Reflections

As the sun dipped low, they gathered in the gardens. Dean sketched Augusta’s lilies, Susan and Hannah braided ribbons into each other’s hair, Seamus made a fizzing egg belch violet smoke, and Hermione explained Easter’s magical rites. Neville quietly planted a few spell-seeds, his friends kneeling beside him.

Harry leaned back on the bench, watching them. Real laughter, real friendship — bonds chosen freely. For the first time, he wasn’t just surviving. He was building.

The Burrow — Molly’s POV

At the Burrow, Molly Weasley sealed a parcel with a flourish — jumpers and fudge, laced with subtle charms. She added a note, her script prim and certain:

Harry,
Happy Easter. I thought you might like some home comforts. Do remember that you always have a place here with us.
— Molly Weasley

The owl took flight into the night.

When it reached Longbottom Manor, Harry accepted the parcel politely, set it aside unopened, and never touched it again.

Malfoy Manor

The echo of footsteps followed them into the grand drawing room of Malfoy Manor. A fire crackled in the marble hearth, casting golden light across dark wood and polished silver. Once the doors closed, the masks they had worn at Longbottom Manor slipped away.

Lucius rested his cane against the mantel, eyes glinting with rare approval. “They carried themselves as if born to it. Lord Potter spoke with the assurance of a young lord, and Lady Granger stood beside him as his equal. Even Augusta Longbottom adjusted her bearing. That alone speaks volumes.”

Narcissa seated herself gracefully, tone cool but eyes bright. “They are heirs of Hogwarts, Lucius. That legacy bends the air around them. Augusta saw it clearly. She knows power when it sits across her table.”

Draco, still flushed with pride, leaned forward. “Hermione wore the Starlight Set. Not because she had to — because she wished to. And Harry… Harry looked at me with respect. No rivalry. No dismissal. A friend.”

Narcissa’s lips softened. “Because she is your soulmate, Draco, and Harry honours that bond. The three of you steady one another. Today, you showed only pride. That is as it should be.”

Draco’s heart swelled. All his life he had been taught to compete, to measure himself against others — especially Harry Potter. Yet today had been different. Harry had treated him as an equal, and Hermione had smiled at him with warmth that steadied his nerves. For the first time, he felt not like a boy scrabbling for notice, but like part of something larger.

Lucius placed a rare hand on his son’s shoulder. “And so you shall. Their strength will be yours, and yours, theirs. Together you may mend divisions that have poisoned our world since Salazar’s day.”

Narcissa hesitated, then said, “There is more. At brunch, Harry asked me to see to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He wants it stripped of darkness, filled with light. Kreacher will aid me.”

Lucius stilled, the firelight sharpening his features. “Grimmauld Place,” he murmured. “The Black family seat. And Sirius… still rotting in Azkaban.” His fingers tapped his cane. “Why would Potter lay claim to that house? Unless…” His eyes narrowed. “Unless he intends to free Sirius himself.”

Narcissa’s breath caught. She remembered those oppressive halls, steeped in dust and curses. Sirius had despised them. If Harry wished to cleanse Grimmauld, he meant more than paint and polish — he meant to restore his godfather’s honour. The boy is not only thinking of family. He is thinking like a lord.

Draco sat up straighter, heart racing. Of course Harry would think of Sirius. He carried others’ grief as his own. If he was bold enough to reach into Azkaban’s shadows, then Draco would match him step for step.

Lucius’s voice hardened. “If Sirius Black were freed, Dumbledore would lose more than reputation. Guardianship of Potter would revert to its rightful holder, the Potter trust would slip beyond his control, and his influence over the boy would crumble. The Ministry would resist — they buried their mistake once and will fight to keep it buried. Overturning it would require a lawyer of immense calibre. Bones, perhaps. Or a goblin-brokered contract. Or an old Potter retainer, if one still breathes.”

He paused, a sharp gleam in his eyes. “Potter’s request to renovate Grimmauld is no child’s whim. It is the move of someone already thinking three steps ahead. He is half Black, through his mother. By laying claim to Grimmauld, he asserts both lines. He is staking his place in the House of Black — and in the political arena that comes with it.”

Narcissa’s gaze lingered on the fire, her voice softer. Half Black, she thought. Half mine, in a way. And perhaps the only one who can restore what our family lost.

Draco’s mind spun, not with fear but with determination. If Harry truly meant to bring Sirius back, it would shake the Ministry, the Wizengamot, and Dumbledore himself. And Draco vowed he would not trail behind; he would be there, as friend, ally, and heir of both Malfoy and Black.

Lucius’s lips curved into a razor smile. “Then it falls to me to see he is trained. Politics is not instinct alone — it is craft. And if the boy is to succeed in freeing Sirius, in claiming what is his, then he must be sharpened. Better that he learn from me than stumble in the dark.”

Draco felt the weight of his father’s words settle over him — not as a burden, but as an inheritance.

Narcissa inclined her head, firm. “Then we will prepare him. If Sirius walks free, Harry gains not only a guardian but a seat in the Black family restored to light. And Dumbledore loses his chains forever.”

Lucius let the silence stretch, the fire crackling. At last, he said quietly, “Then so it shall be. Potter will not only be Lord Potter. He will be a Black in truth. And with our Draco at his side, the new world they forge will carry the Malfoy name with pride.”

The fire snapped loudly, sparks leaping upward as though sealing the vow none of them dared to speak aloud.

Hogwarts — Dumbledore’s POV

Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, the report from a distant Longbottom cousin spread neatly before him. His eyes lingered on the words: Harry Potter… Longbottom Manor… Malfoys in attendance.

The quill in his hand stilled. Harry had not only broken bread with Augusta but had thanked Narcissa Malfoy, spoken warmly to Lucius, and worn the air of a young lord among them. Even Draco Malfoy had stood at his side — not as rival, but as friend.

It was wrong. Dangerous.

Harry was meant to cling to Ron for companionship, to Molly for motherly comfort, to Ginny in time for his heart. Not to the Longbottoms. Not to Granger. And certainly not to the Malfoys.

Dumbledore’s gaze hardened, the twinkle in his eye long gone. If Harry binds himself to them, my chains slip further away.

He tapped the parchment once, decision settling. Ron would need stronger guidance. Molly and Ginny would need reassurance — perhaps more persuasive potions. The school year’s end could be shaped with carefully arranged tests, events designed to remind Harry where his loyalties should lie.

The prophecy still held. The compulsions still whispered in Harry’s blood. He was only eleven. Clay could yet be moulded.

Albus set the quill down and steepled his fingers. The boy’s path was straying, yes — but the game was not lost. He would make certain of that.

For the Greater Good.

Longbottom Manor — Augusta’s POV

On the morning the children departed for Hogwarts, Augusta Longbottom stood at the manor gates, her vulture hat casting its shadow across the gravel. She watched as Neville, Harry, Hermione, Susan, Hannah, Seamus, and Dean climbed into the carriage, their voices bright, their laughter unguarded.

Harry sat at the centre of it all, as natural as sunlight. Not the desperate boy she had half-expected when Neville first wrote of him, but steady, sharp-eyed, and far too aware for one so young. And beside him, Hermione Granger — quick of wit, unflinching of gaze, a girl who met Augusta’s questions without shrinking. That one had steel in her spine. Dangerous steel, perhaps, but necessary in the times to come.

Augusta’s eyes narrowed as memory tugged: the boy and girl together at the Easter brunch, moving with a grace well beyond their age. Thanking the Malfoys with courtesy, navigating Lucius’s pride and Narcissa’s poise without faltering. Harry had addressed Lucius as though he were already schooled in politics, and Hermione had stood at his side like a partner rather than a shadow. It was not the fumbling deference of children — it was the first steps of statesmanship.

She drew her cloak tighter. She had lived through Grindelwald and Voldemort alike. She knew the shape of power when it shifted.

The world might expect Harry Potter to follow Dumbledore’s script, with compliant companions at his side. Augusta knew better. The boy was already choosing his own allies — and the clever girl at his side would only sharpen his edge.

“Mark my words,” she murmured as the carriage rattled away, “that child will not dance to Albus’s tune. Not him. Not her. Not ever.”

Chapter Text

20 June 1992 – End of Year Feast, Great Hall, Hogwarts

The Great Hall shimmered with emerald and silver banners, serpents coiling proudly down the walls. The Slytherin table roared its triumph, voices sharp and bright, while Gryffindor sat hunched in stunned silence beneath the faint glow of scarlet lamps that did nothing to lift their spirits. Ravenclaw chattered with relief at second place; Hufflepuff murmured amiably about third.

Slytherin had won the House Cup. Again.

Severus Snape allowed himself a rare curl of satisfaction at the High Table. For once, his students had delivered exactly what he demanded. Gryffindor, by contrast, had sunk to the lowest House score in recorded history—a humiliation whispered gleefully from table to table. Most of it, he knew, could be laid at the feet of Ronald Weasley: duels lost, detentions piled, points squandered in arrogance and temper. Even other Gryffindors shot him poisonous looks, as though his single foolishness had dragged their lion into disgrace.

The Headmaster's usual twinkle was hollow. Dumbledore rose with his customary benevolent smile, but it rang brittle against the murmurs. There was no sign of Quirrell at the staff table. The man had simply… vanished. Officially, nothing had been explained to the students, and the lack of reason only stoked rumours. Some whispered he had fled in shame. Others insisted he'd been cursed or had betrayed Dumbledore.

The Headmaster had offered no word to quash them. That in itself was unusual, and Snape had not missed the unease it spread.

He sipped from his goblet, dark eyes wandering the hall. At Ravenclaw table, Potter and Granger leaned close, laughing too easily, as though they were nothing but ordinary children. Snape knew better. Conspirators, he thought, not for the first time. They had changed everything since January, though none here understood.

The hall blurred. His thoughts slipped back, back to the moment it began.

The fourth of January had been cold enough to bite bone. Snow clung stubbornly on the windows of his private quarter and he had been dissecting essays when the pounding came, sharp and insistent. No one disturbed him here. He opened the door with a sneer ready and found a girl: arms full of parchment, eyes too bright for her age. "Miss Granger," he said icily. "Past curfew. Ten points and—"

"I need to speak with you." She brushed past him before he could finish and set the parchments on his desk without a word.

The cover read: Liberatio Lunaris – Notes on the Moon-Bound.

Snape's breath caught. The name stamped beneath was Dagworth's. A man whispered of only in old potion circles, one whose research had vanished mysteriously centuries ago.

"Where did you get this?" His voice sliced the air.

Hermione swallowed, eyes bright with determination. "In my valults, I'm Dagworth's heir. Gringotts confirmed it."

"His Heir", Snape repeated with disdain.

Snape flipped through the brittle pages. An excerpt leapt at him: "The wolf and the man are not enemies, but unbalanced halves. If they can be reconciled, the curse itself may dissolve."

His throat tightened. Dangerous, impossible. And yet the girl looked at him with stubborn fire.

"You do realize what this means," he said softly. "That meddling old man upstairs would seize it and trumpet it as his own."

"That's why I'm here."

For a long moment, he studied her. Then, without a word, he rose and drew his wand.

"You will bind me," he said. "If you mean this, you will take no chances. I will not labour only for Albus to pluck the fruit."

Her eyes widened. "You'll swear secrecy?"

His wand carved the air, silver light coiling. "Do it."

She lifted her wand, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. Together they wove the oath, threads of silver wrapping their hands before sinking into skin.

Snape flexed his fingers when it was done. At least this will be ours.

He assumed she would follow his lead and start the experimentation in his potions lab, but that was not the case, the following night, she guided him to a long-abandoned corridor, its shadows thick and draped in silence. With a hushed incantation, a door materialized before them, its surface adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to pulsate with untold magic.

Inside lay an ancient laboratory, a sanctuary of alchemical secrets and arcane knowledge. The stone benches were meticulously arranged, each one supporting copper cauldrons that gleamed as though freshly polished. Cupboards, etched with intricate protective runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light, stools sentinel against the dust of forgotten years, their contents hidden yet palpably potent.

"The castle crafted this space for me," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. As her fingertips grazed the cool stone walls, they responded with a low, resonant hum, as if awakening from a long slumber.

"The castle," Snape repeated with disdain.

"It responds to Harry and me," she pressed. "It… cares for us."

Severus had occupied this castle for decades, yet he had never unravelled such profound devotion from its very essence. To witness such loyalty extended to a Muggle-born first-year was… disheartening, to say the least.

Even more troubling was the realisation that Hogwarts, with a will of its own, had carved a hidden passageway directly linking this clandestine laboratory to his own quarters. He had not sought this connection; it had chosen to bridge their worlds without his consent.

He took command with a firm resolve, but she met his authority with silent defiance. The next weeks blurred into fumes and failures. Cauldrons buckled, brews curdled. Snape's rasping corrections cut through Hermione's endless questions.

"Why silver shavings, not powder?"

"Because, girl, powder dissolves too quickly. The wolf is not dirt to be smothered. It requires tethering."

"But if aconite is already binding—"

"Then it kills outright. Ratios, Miss Granger."

She scowled, scribbling furiously. He almost admired the ferocity, though he would never admit it aloud.

By February's end, they had a draught that lasted only minutes before collapsing. March brought flickers of stability, brief but promising.

Through it all, the castle itself seemed to bend toward them. Doors opened of their own accord. Parchments appeared when Hermione whispered for them. Potter found hidden chambers without effort, as though the stones whispered back. Snape told himself it was a coincidence, but unease gnawed his gut. Hogwarts was responding to them.

Then, in mid-March, Potter stood before him, eyes too calm for a child.

"Use Lupin."

Snape nearly dropped the vial in his hand. "Excuse me?"

"Remus will test it," Potter said flatly. "He volunteered."

Snape's lips curled in scorn. "And if it fails, do you expect me to explain to your precious godfather why his friend is dead at my feet?"

"It won't fail," Potter shot back. "Remus trusts us. He wants to try."

Snape's stomach clenched. For years, he had known Dumbledore deliberately kept the boy from his parents, from his godfather, from well-wishers, from the truth of his heritage. How, then, had Potter even spoken to Lupin? He didn't flinch or act surprised when he talked about his godfather. The thought scraped raw suspicion across his mind. What else is the old man hiding? What else is Harry Potter and Hermione Granger hiding?

A few days later, Hermione introduced another stranger with his profile documents, "Healer Asgard Quigley," she said, "our personal healer. He'll act as third-party observer."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Your personal healer?"

He knew Healer Quigley, of course. He was two years younger than him, attended Hogwarts as his junior, and was an extremely intelligent individual who carved his own niche in the healing world.

"Harry and I have used his services since last summer. He is bound by oath already, but I'll ask him to sign any contract you require."

Snape agreed. He sent warranted parchments to both Lupin and Healer Quigley and asked them to sign the confidentiality oath. "No word beyond this circle, or your tongues will rot in your mouths.", he told Hermione

Quigley didn't flinch. He signed the contract, flaring gold. Snape tucked it away, lips tight. At least this part would be bound.

The final weeks of March were spent in acquisition. Snape prowled Knockturn's back-alleys, snarling down apothecaries until they parted with moonstone slivered only under the waning crescent, aconite root bled from mountain soil, silver dust pure as starlight. He tested each for poison and hex, double and triple.

At last, on the first dawn of April, a cauldron in his lab shimmered silver-blue. The surface rippled like a calm sea, its scent sharp as frost. The potion held.

Severus Snape allowed himself the briefest smile. The draught was finally ready. Hermione named it "The MoonCalm Draught".

It was time for the next phase – testing the draught on a subject.

He had expected ruin at Number Twelve. The last time he had seen the house, it had been a mausoleum for the Black family—draped in mildew, steeped in dust, its corridors echoing with curses and ghosts of arrogance. What he did not expect was a trace of life.

The foyer was dim, but not neglected. The bannister bore a strip of polish where a hand had laboured; the portraits had been scrubbed of their thickest layers of grime; a rug lay that had not been there before. Curtains still hung in tatters, but someone had carved out pockets of the house fit to live in.

Severus paused, the realisation catching like a thorn. He had assumed the house had been abandoned since Sirius rotted in Azkaban. He had never imagined a child—Harry Potter—could command it.

Kreacher appeared at his elbow with a stiff bow. "Master Lupin lives here. At Master Harry's bidding. The boy sent letters, papers, enchantments. Kreacher obeys."

Severus's eyes narrowed. "Harry has control over this house?"

"Yes, Master Snape. Master Harry ordered it. He has not met Master Lupin in person—only by letters. But he placed him here."

The words lodged like a shard under Severus's skin. Potter had been made to grow apart from family and allies, the Headmaster's favourite habit, and yet here was proof that the boy was maneuvering behind those walls. A reminder that Dumbledore's omnipotence had cracks.

He shoved the thought aside. There was work to do.

Lupin waited in the sitting room. Kreacher had scrubbed into usability. He was gaunt, his posture weary, eyes sullen but alive.

Severus snapped open his journal. His quill floated, ink-tip ready. His voice cut like a scalpel as he began the record.

"Subject presents severely underweight. Ribs visible on inspection. Scarring extensive across torso and limbs, resistant to regenerative charms. Premature greying of hair. Tremor in the hands. Magical reserves dangerously depleted. Aura fractured, unstable. Vocal cords raw, voice hoarse. Eyes sunken; scleral vessels ruptured."

The quill scratched every word, merciless.

Lupin's lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "You make me sound like a corpse."

"You are," Severus replied flatly. "This is documentation, not flattery."

Lupin's gaze dropped to the vial in his hands. The silver-blue draught shimmered under the lamp, an uncertain promise. "Wolfsbane nearly poisoned me. What if this does worse?"

"At worst," Severus said, voice cold as stone, "you die quickly. At best, you live whole. Choose."

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rasp of Lupin's breath. At last, his hand steadied. He drank.

The April transformation had not been what Severus expected. The change ripped through bone and skin, but the scream was strangled, not feral. The wolf paced rather than lunged, eyes wary but—impossibly—aware. When Kreacher shifted, the beast tracked him. When Quigley spoke, the wolf's ears pricked. Recognition flickered in its gaze.

Severus's quill raced, recording without mercy:

Pulse: 112 bpm, elevated.

Respiration: shallow, irregular.

Scarring: inflamed, resistant to soothing charms.

Motor control: tremor, difficulty maintaining upright stance.

Magical reserve: 20% baseline.

Aura: fragmented with pockets of lycanthropic dominance.

Cognitive: partial memory retention; responds to familiar movement and voice.

At dawn the wolf collapsed, bones realigning with sickening cracks. Lupin lay gasping, drenched in sweat—but his eyes were lucid.

"I remembered," he whispered, tears streaking grime. "For the first time—I remembered myself."

Quigley's voice was calm, clinical. "Remarkable. Coherence during transformation, memory partially intact." His quill added its own neat strokes to the parchment.

Kreacher tucked a blanket around Lupin's shoulders, muttering, "Master Lupin honours the House."

Severus said nothing, but the words pressed against something buried deep.

For the next few months, the regimen held. Quigley visited every two days, recording vitals, scars, weight. His tone was professional, his presence steady. Severus found himself tolerating it.

Until Lupin missed a dose.

On the twenty-first of April, Severus found him on the kitchen floor, groaning, scars blazing red-hot as if flayed from within.

"Fools," Severus hissed, wand glowing over his chest. "We thought one draught was sufficient."

Quigley's charts fluttered. "Instability climbing. Aura fracturing again."

Snape's quill wrote the new conclusion, sharp strokes of ink:

Single pre-moon administration insufficient.

Requires second stabiliser dose at waxing moon.

Missed waxing-moon dose results in aura collapse, regression, severe instability.

He forced the vial into Lupin's hand. "You will not deviate again. One day before the full moon. Again at waxing. Do you understand?"

Lupin drank, colour slowly returning to his face. He nodded weakly, shame burning in his eyes.

"Miss Granger will draw the schedule," Severus said curtly. "You will follow it."

Kreacher fussed at his master's side, murmuring encouragements.

But Severus's thoughts already leapt ahead. The draught worked—haltingly, precariously—but it worked. For the first time in centuries, a werewolf had walked away with his mind intact.

And no one—neither Dumbledore, nor the Ministry—knew.

By May, Narcissa had begun her quiet renovations: curtains replaced, stair runners cleaned, mirrors restored to gleam. The house remained half-ruin, but it stirred with life, like a patient roused from long sleep.

Lupin walked into the May trial straighter, shoulders firmer, eyes less hollow. His scars were still prominent, but no longer inflamed; and though threads of grey streaked his hair, they no longer spread as quickly as they had in April. There was even new hair growth.

Snape's quill recorded the change with clinical satisfaction:

Pulse: 88 bpm at rest.

Respiration: steady.

Scarring: reduced inflammation, early smoothing.

Motor control: tremor minimal.

Magical reserve: ~40% baseline, rising.

Aura: partial cohesion.

Appearance: premature greying slowed; new hair growth visible, skin tone improved; subject appears nearer late thirties than the early forties observed in April.

Cognition in wolf state: recognition of caretakers; decreased latency to stimuli.

The transformation was smoother. The wolf emerged controlled, eyes intelligent, no violent lunge. He followed Quigley's voice, turned his head toward Kreacher. At dawn, he collapsed into sleep like a man merely exhausted.

Back at Hogwarts, Hermione pored over Severus's notes, peppering him with questions, her voice quick, insistent.

"What were the precise gains in magical reserve? Was the aura still fragmented? Did he track motion as fast as a human reflex?"

"You are insufferable," Severus muttered, rubbing his temples.

"You refuse to be thorough."

"I am thorough," he snapped. "You are relentless."

"That's how breakthroughs happen," she shot back, lips pursed.

He allowed himself the smallest curl of amusement. "For once, we agree."

June found the house nearly restored. Mirrors gleamed, wood shone, rooms had purpose again. Lupin himself was transformed: colour in his face, strength in his frame.

The third trial confirmed it.

Pulse: 72–76 bpm.

Respiration: unlaboured.

Scarring: healed, dermis stable.

Motor control: no tremor.

Magical reserve / core strength: stabilised at ~90% of estimated baseline.

Aura: cohesive, integrated.

Cognition: complete retention of self during transformation.

Appearance: premature greying reversed; complexion youthful. Subject now appears his true age of thirty-two, rather than the prematurely aged man in his forties observed in April.

The wolf stood calm, eyes bright with recognition, posture at peace. No frenzy, no collapse. For the first time, he seemed whole.

Kreacher's voice broke softly: "Master Lupin honours the House."

Quigley sealed his charts. "Independent validation: stable. Coherence maintained. This will change how lycanthropy is treated."

Severus inclined his head, hiding the tug in his chest.

Severus opened his journal again, the enchanted quill hovering at the ready as he observed Lupin during the June assessments. His voice was low, precise, each word etched into parchment.

"Subject displays marked improvement. Premature greying has reversed. Hair restored to natural brown. Muscle mass increased. Tremors absent. Reflexes sharp, gait steady. Eyesight corrected — no longer requires spectacles. Hearing and olfactory sensitivity heightened, now reliable in human form. Magical reserves: estimated ninety percent of natural core capacity. Aura stabilised, burn-through absent. Emotional state: calmer, lucidity sustained post-transformation."

He paused, watching Lupin flex his fingers, the man marvelling quietly at the steadiness in his hands.

The draught had done more than suppress the wolf — it had begun to heal the man. Remus's frame no longer sagged with age before its time, his movements carried speed and confidence, and his eyes, once dulled and bloodshot, now shone with clarity. For the first time in over a decade, he looked every bit his thirty-two years, whole in both body and mind.

The trials had done more than restore a werewolf's body. They had changed the men themselves.

Severus found in Lupin not just a patient but a man of dignity who bore pain without complaint and honoured each dose as though it were sacred. Against his will, Severus respected him for it.

Quigley, ever steady, had become more than a third-party observer. He was the anchor of their data, the healer who could be trusted to speak truth without embellishment or deceit. His wry humour, younger but tempered, had become a strange balm Severus did not despise.

By June's end, what had begun as duty and suspicion had hardened into something else: a quiet bond. Not friendship in the careless Gryffindor sense, but something forged under secrecy, trial, and shared risk.

Hermione saw it too, though she never said the word aloud. For her, the data and the discovery were everything. For the men, it was survival—and in surviving together, they had found the beginnings of respect, and perhaps, the makings of a friendship.

Hermione leaned over the parchment, eyes widening as she scanned the flowing script the quill had left behind. "Professor… do you see this? Ninety percent magical reserves. His eyesight, his reflexes—he's better than I ever imagined. This isn't just stabilisation. It's restoration."

Severus closed the journal with a decisive snap. "Do not overstate it. The draught is effective, yes, but enthusiasm clouds precision. He is improved, not reborn."

"But look at data," she pressed at the notes, "It's as if he's been given back a decade of his life."

Severus's gaze lingered on the notes, then returned to Hermione, his voice even. "Which is precisely why we keep this hidden. Success attracts questions. Questions expose sources. And exposure would undo everything."

Hermione bit her lip but nodded, chastened. Still, she could not keep the quiet pride from her voice. "Then we'll let the notes speak for us. And the results will speak for themselves. We need structure," she said. "Not just raw data. An introduction with historical context—Dagworth's Liberatio Lunaris, followed by methodology, dosage regimen, results across three full cycles. Then discussion, significance, and—"

"No." Severus's voice cut across her like a blade.

Hermione blinked. "No…?"

"You will not cite Dagworth," he said, each syllable clipped. "If you so much as mention Liberatio Lunaris, every half-wit in Europe will start sniffing for missing manuscripts. And when they ask where you found them, we will have invited more peril than protection."

Hermione frowned, defensive. "But the notes were the foundation. It feels dishonest not to—"

"This is not about honesty. It is about survival." His eyes narrowed, black and unyielding. "We are not gifting scavengers a map to Dagworth's grave. Our paper will stand on its own—clinical data, methodology, validation. No more, no less."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but after a long pause, she nodded. "Then the introduction will cite only the known body of lycanthropy research. I'll make the transition clean, so no one suspects we had more."

"Good," he said shortly.

Hermione turned back to the parchment, voice quickening as she scribbled headings. "Dosage regimen—two administrations per cycle, before the full moon and at waxing. Clinical observations: April through June. Comparative notes on scarring, magical core recovery, and aura stability. Quigley's independent validation attached as appendix."

Severus gave a slight, approving incline of his head. "That will suffice."

She hesitated, then glanced at him. "And the names?"

He answered without pause. "Marius Corvinus. My established mask."

She breathed once, steadying herself. "Then I'll take Lyra Callidus."

His lips curved in a humourless half-smile. "Pretentious. But it will do."

Her quill scratched the names into the margin, ink blotting where her hand trembled with excitement.

"And the patent?" she pressed.

"Filed through goblin channels," he said crisply. "On the sixteenth. Protected under our names. If this draught spreads, it will bear our seal—not Dumbledore's, not the Ministry's."

Hermione exhaled, half relief, half exhilaration. She bent over the parchment again, muttering to herself. "Dosage. Core restoration. Age reversal. Ninety percent capacity." Her eyes gleamed as she looked back up. "Professor—it's not just stabilisation anymore. It's restoration."

Severus regarded her for a long moment, unreadable. At last, he inclined his head slightly. "So be it. Write it that way. But remember—what we restore here, others will envy, covet, and seek to tear apart. Never forget that."

The streets of Diagon Alley were hushed at dawn, lamps guttering low, shutters still drawn. It was an hour chosen with care: too early for crowds, too quiet for chance eyes. Severus slipped through the VIP archway of Gringotts, rune-marked guards admitting him without question.

Inside, marble corridors echoed underfoot, lit by braziers burning cold silver flame. The air smelled faintly of iron and parchment. He was led into a vaulted chamber where an obsidian desk gleamed under steady lamplight.

Behind it sat Deputy Chief Griphook, already waiting, ledgers and quills aligned with precision.

"Master Snape," the goblin said briskly. "You requested an emergency audience. Few disturb the bank at dawn. State your business."

Severus placed a sealed scroll on the desk. "Application for patent. The draught is unprecedented. Its ownership must be bound immediately under goblin law."

Griphook slit the seal with a claw and read in silence. His eyes lingered on the signatures. "Marius Corvinus," he noted. "A name our ledgers know well—high-value, high-risk contributions." He tapped the second name. "And Lyra Callidus. A careful choice. But the hand is young—too firm on the quill. Hermione Granger."

Severus's tone was flat. "And Gringotts does not discuss client identities beyond this desk."

"Correct," Griphook replied evenly. "But we prepare accordingly. If her name is to remain protected, it requires a shield." He drew forward another form bordered in faint runes. "A proxy vault will be established under Lyra Callidus. All royalties, licensing, and fees from the MoonCalm Draught will deposit there. In every ledger, she exists as a sovereign account. Her true vault remains untouched."

"And transfers?" Severus asked.

"Performed discreetly to the Granger family vault on your instruction," Griphook said. "To the world, Callidus holds her fortune. In practice, it is hers. Clean. Untraceable."

"Costs."

"Standard," Griphook said with a thin smile. "Annual fees for the proxy, levies on transfers. Routine for clients who value discretion. Goblins guard well, but never for free."

Severus signed in the flowing hand of Marius Corvinus. The careful signature of Lyra Callidus was already pressed on the parchment. Griphook laid his claw across both, black runes flaring and sinking into the page. The air thickened—the binding of goblin law.

He closed the ledger with a precise snap. "Effective immediately: the MoonCalm Draught is the property of Marius Corvinus and Lyra Callidus. Registered, sealed, and protected. No Ministry decree or Wizengamot ruling may touch it. Royalties will flow through the Callidus proxy vault, and, as arranged, into the Granger account."

Severus inclined his head. "Acceptable."

Griphook's gaze sharpened. "Efficient. But understand this: once released, this draught will generate coin. And coin attracts attention. You have protection—but protection does not deter envy."

Severus gathered the iron-sealed documents into his cloak, gave a curt nod, and departed. Behind him, Griphook was already reaching for his next ledger.

Two days later, on the 18th of June, their thesis lay ready. Severus's drafts had been precise, clinical; Hermione's additions made them orderly, polished. Quigley's healer's charts were affixed as appendix, signed and sealed.

"Gaia will take it," Hermione said, smoothing the feathers of her great horned owl. Gaia blinked solemn amber eyes, regal and patient.

Severus tied the scroll with black wax stamped in Corvinus's sigil. "See it delivered to The Magicae Potiones editorial office in London. No delay."

Gaia hooted once and swept into the summer sky.

The reply arrived by evening, a thick envelope sealed in black. Severus opened it with a practiced hand.

To Marius Corvinus and Lyra Callidus,

Your submitted article, "MoonCalm Draught: A Regimen for Lycanthropic Stabilisation and Restoration," has been reviewed under seal of urgency, owing to the provenance of Master Corvinus.

The board unanimously recognises the work as a landmark. We commend the precision of your methods, the restraint of your conclusions, and the independent validation by Healer Asgard Quigley—a rarity that strengthens the work's credibility. The documentation of stabilisation, reversal of degeneration, and near-restoration of magical reserves represents a paradigm shift in potion scholarship.

Accordingly, your article will be published as the highlight feature of our June 25th, 1992 edition. It will stand alongside contributions from Horace Slughorn, Zygmunt Budge, Takumi Harada, Isabella Cortez, Amina Al-Mahdi, and others. Lyra Callidus is hereby recognised as a contributor of record, joining the ranks of those who shape modern potioncraft.

Be aware: the implications of your draught will invite scrutiny. Your discretion regarding sources is noted and applauded. Should correspondence be required, all communication will be addressed under your mailing address.

On behalf of the Editorial Board,
Cassian Prewett, Editor-in-Chief

Hermione read the letter twice, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide. "Highlight feature," she whispered. "In The Magicae Potiones. My first article. Do you understand what this means?"

Severus folded his copy neatly. "It means the world will scramble to imitate the work and fail. The competent may poison themselves. The clever will speculate endlessly. And we will remain unknown."

She pressed the parchment to her chest. "I don't care if no one knows. We did it."

At Grimmauld Place, Lupin read the letter silently before handing it back with steady hands. "So it begins. The world will have the draught—even if it never knows the names behind it."

Quigley chuckled as he closed his ledger. "One day I'll tell people I was there when history was made. I might even leave out how damp the walls were."

Severus ignored the jest, but not the sincerity in Lupin's eyes when he said, quietly, "Thank you."

The words were not dismissed as sharply as they might once have been. By June's end, a bond had taken shape—strange, tentative, but real. Respect between Severus and Lupin, professional friendship with Quigley. Not Gryffindor camaraderie, but trust forged in secrecy and trial.

The Great Hall erupted in applause.

Severus blinked, dragged back into the present. Dumbledore was retaking his seat at the high table, his end-of-year speech concluded. The banners of Slytherin hung proudly overhead, emerald and silver gleaming. The Cup was theirs again. Ravenclaw close behind, but Gryffindor sunk to the bottom—the lowest tally in living memory, their disgrace whispered from bench to bench, Quirrell's disappearance only fueling rumours.

Severus's eyes swept the hall. His Slytherins cheered with fierce pride, hands clattering the tables. Across the room, Potter and Granger sat shoulder to shoulder at the Ravenclaw table, laughing at some private jest.

To the world, they were children. To him, they were co-conspirators—living proof that the Headmaster's grip was not as absolute as it once had been.

For the first time in years, Severus allowed something dangerous to flicker in his chest.

Not vengeance.
Not bitterness.
Hope.

Chapter Text

24 June 1992 – The Conclave Chamber, Elysian & Co., Mayfair, London

Emerald flames roared to life, spilling Rita Skeeter into the heart of the Conclave Chamber. She landed with practiced grace, brushing an imaginary fleck of soot from her plum-colored robes, lips curving in faint satisfaction.

Elysian & Co., she thought, sweeping her sharp gaze over the chamber. Now this is impressive.

The walls shimmered under layered enchantments, and the marble floor gleamed like glass. A crystal chandelier bathed the room in gold light, reflecting off a long mahogany table polished to perfection. The air carried a subtle blend of sandalwood, roasted pheasant, and quiet money.

Whoever had sent that mysterious letter, Rita mused, was someone who demanded to be taken seriously.

The invitation she’d received bore no seal, no name—only a time, a place, and a single, intriguing line:
“For the news you’ve been denied, come prepared to listen.”

And Rita Skeeter, who lived for the thrill of secrets, hadn’t hesitated.

Her green quill, ever faithful, hummed faintly inside her crocodile-skin bag. A meeting here was never ordinary. The Conclave Chamber of Elysian & Co. was reserved for those whose information was worth more than gold.

Sir Percival Thornwood had founded Elysian in 1970, born of a celebrated Muggle aristocrat and a renowned wizarding scholar. His vision was simple but revolutionary: unity without dilution, respect without erasure. Elysian embodied that vision—four interconnected spaces bridging two worlds. The Dining Hall and Mews catered to London’s Muggle elite, offering exquisite cuisine and discretion. The Sanctum and Conclave Chambers, however, were for magical society alone—protected by enchantments that guarded secrets with ruthless precision.

Its motto, “Inter mundos, sed separati”—Between worlds, yet apart—perfectly captured Thornwood’s philosophy: a bridge of understanding that never surrendered its foundations.

Rita had dreamed of dining here for years. Still, she hadn’t expected to be kept waiting. The silver clock above the mantel ticked precisely; her source was ten minutes late.

Typical. The powerful never arrived on time. They arrived when it suited them.

The fireplace flared again—and she froze.

Two small figures stepped from the emerald flames.

Children.

A boy and a girl, though impeccably dressed.

Her gaze first caught the girl: she wore a royal blue silk A-line dress trimmed with delicate lace and shimmering silver threads that caught the candlelight like captured moonlight. A velvet bolero rested neatly over her shoulders, and polished Mary Janes completed the look—youthful but unmistakably refined. A silver locket dangled from her neck, engraved with intricate filigree, and her hair—soft, cascading waves—was pinned with a discreet, color-shifting enchanted clip. Even the small moonstone earrings gleamed with quiet confidence.

Then her attention shifted to the boy beside her. His robes were deep forest green, perfectly tailored, silver embroidery tracing subtle runes along the cuffs and collar—protection spells, she realized, and old ones. He stood with a composure entirely alien to his age.

Her disappointment curdled into irritation. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered. “If this is someone’s idea of a joke—”

Then the boy straightened, and the light caught the lightning-shaped scar beneath his fringe.

Rita’s words died.

“Good evening, Miss Skeeter,” the boy said politely, amusement threading through his calm tone. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting long.”

Her eyes dropped, almost involuntarily, to the heavy silver signet ring gleaming on his hand—the Potter family crest, ancient and unmistakable.

Her pulse stuttered.

“Merlin’s beard,” she whispered. “Harry Potter.”

Harry smiled faintly, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes.
“Just Harry is fine.”

Rita blinked, taking him in—the posture too straight for a twelve-year-old, the calm too deliberate, the eyes too old. And beside him, the girl—quiet, calculating—watched her like a chess player studying the board.

Harry gestured toward the table. “Shall we sit?”

Almost automatically, Rita obeyed, her mind scrambling to catch up.

“So,” she began, smoothing her quill, “when I received your letter, I wasn’t expecting—”

“Children?” Harry offered lightly.

Rita smirked despite herself. “The word clients might be closer to the mark.”

The girl’s smile was slight, knowing. “Appearances are rarely what they seem, Miss Skeeter.”

Her voice was steady, her tone deliberate.

“And you are…?” Rita asked.

“Hermione Granger,” the girl replied with a small nod. “A friend. And partner, of sorts.”

“Partner?” Rita repeated, arching a brow.

Harry leaned back, utterly at ease. “You’re an excellent journalist, Miss Skeeter—manipulative, opportunistic, and allergic to boredom.”

Rita blinked. “That’s… not quite the compliment you think it is.”

“Oh, it is,” Harry said mildly. “We’re offering you something exciting enough to cure even your chronic self-interest.”

His gaze locked on hers, cool and unwavering. “It’s precisely because of who I am that we need someone who can tell it properly.”

The menu appeared in a shimmer of light. Within seconds, their table filled with delicacies—flame-roasted duck, delicate oysters, and desserts that glowed faintly blue.

The aroma was heavenly, but curiosity overpowered appetite.

“So,” Rita said, tracing the rim of her crystal glass, “why am I here, Harry Potter? Surely not for fine dining.”

“You’re here,” Harry said, “because you’re very good at what you do.”

“Some would say unethical,” she countered.

“Only those afraid of the truth,” Hermione replied softly, an edge beneath the calm. “You embellish, but you don’t fabricate. You know how to tell a story—and, more importantly, how to be heard.”

Rita’s smirk faltered; she wasn’t used to children cutting through her defenses so neatly.

“We’re not flattering you,” Harry continued. “We’re hiring you.”

“Hiring?” Rita echoed.

Hermione met her gaze. “We have information—substantial, verifiable, dangerous. We need someone to tell the story our way.”

Rita gave a sharp laugh. “You do realize that’s not how journalism works?”

Hermione’s expression didn’t change. “On the contrary, that’s exactly how it works. You shape truth for the reader. We’re simply asking to be part of the shaping.”

Rita studied her. That poise—unnerving for someone so young. “You’re remarkably composed. Most children your age can’t sit through a meal without starting a food fight.”

Harry shrugged. “We’ve had good teachers.”

The smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes.

As dinner went on, the air between them tightened—half negotiation, half duel.

“So what’s the catch?” Rita finally asked, swirling her wine. “You want puff pieces about Hogwarts? Or perhaps your... chess club?”

Harry chuckled softly. “Nothing so dull.”

Hermione set down her fork, folding her hands. “We’d like to offer you exclusivity—interviews, details no one else can get. Stories that can make or break reputations.”

Rita’s quill twitched in her bag like it could already smell blood. “And in exchange?”

Harry leaned forward, calm but iron-edged. “You work for us. Quietly. You publish what we approve, when we approve it. In return, you’ll have the biggest stories of your career—and the protection to write them.”

“Protection?” she repeated.

Hermione’s tone softened, but her eyes did not. “You’ve made enemies, Miss Skeeter. We can make sure none of them silence you.”

A chill crept up Rita’s spine. “You’re rather confident for two children barely out of first year.”

Harry’s gaze hardened slightly. “We’ve seen what happens when you wait until you’re older.”

For the first time, Rita forgot their age entirely.

“And if I refuse?”

Hermione smiled, all polite civility. “Then we’ll find someone else—someone equally talented, but far less... vulnerable to certain Ministry regulations. Like, say, an unregistered Animagus?”

Rita froze, her hand halfway to her glass.

“I see,” she said finally. “You did your homework.”

Harry’s tone was deceptively pleasant. “We like to be thorough.”

The silence hung thick for a beat—then Rita laughed, sharp and genuine. “Well. I can hardly accuse you of being boring.”

By dessert, the tension had mellowed into wary respect. The enchanted tart on Rita’s plate shimmered as she cut it, releasing gold-dusted steam.

“You know,” she said conversationally, “I’ve interviewed Ministers and war heroes, but never twelve-year-olds who negotiate like Wizengamot barristers.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “We practice a lot.”

“Mostly on each other,” Harry added dryly.

Rita snorted. “I can’t decide if you’re endearing or terrifying.”

“Both,” Hermione replied smoothly.

Rita laughed again. “Alright. Say I agree. How do I know you won’t stab me in the back once I publish?”

Harry drew his wand, graceful and precise. A parchment shimmered into existence, runes glowing silver along its edges.

“You don’t,” he said. “That’s why we make it official.”

Rita stared. “A binding vow?”

Hermione nodded. “Voluntary but unbreakable. You write freely, but not falsely. You won’t twist our words beyond intent. In return, you’ll have safety, anonymity—and the first chapter of the story that will shake the wizarding world.”

Rita eyed the glowing parchment warily. “You two are far too comfortable with binding magic.”

Harry’s expression softened. “We’ve had to learn fast.”

Something in his tone—quiet and tired—made her chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Fine,” she said at last, extending her hand. “Let’s make history, then.”

Their wands glowed, threads of gold and silver weaving around their clasped hands before fading into the air.

When the light dimmed, Rita knew—whatever these two were planning—it wasn’t childish idealism.

“So,” she asked, voice low and curious, “what do I call this little crusade of yours?”

Hermione glanced at Harry.

He met her gaze, thoughtful. “Call it a correction. One the world’s long overdue for.”

Rita raised her glass, eyes gleaming. “Then here’s to rewriting history.”

Their glasses clinked softly, crystal ringing like a promise.

Moments later, the pair rose and approached the fireplace. Rita watched as the green flames swallowed them, leaving only the echo of their confidence behind.

For a long while, she sat in silence, gold light flickering over her face. Her quill itched to move—but for once, she didn’t reach for it.

Instead, she allowed herself a rare, genuine smile.
“Merlin help us all,” she murmured. “They’re going to be very good at this.”

Above her, the chandelier chimed softly, scattering light like applause.

Chapter Text

The Calm After the Moon

Remus Lupin’s Triumph and the Dawn of a New Era for Werewolves and Wizarding Education

By Rita Skeeter, Senior Correspondent, The Daily Prophet
June 27, 1992 — London

For decades, the full moon has been a symbol of fear. Werewolves, long shrouded in whispers, suspicion, and avoidance, were often forced into hiding. Families whispered warnings to their children, schools hesitated to admit students with the condition, and the wizarding world largely treated them as untouchables. Today, that fear is beginning to fade. The recent unveiling of the MoonCalm Draught, a potion capable of stabilizing lycanthropic transformations, restoring lost magical reserves, and reversing long-term degeneration, represents not just a medical breakthrough but a social one.

At the heart of this story is Remus Lupin, once known primarily as a werewolf under careful supervision, now stepping into the public eye in a new and inspiring role. Lupin has accepted the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at the prestigious Valebyrne Preparatory Institute for Young Witches and Wizards, guiding pre-Hogwarts students and Hogwarts pupils through a newly created summer Defense program designed to reinforce their magical skills after disruptions caused by Professor Quirrell’s sudden disappearance.

The MoonCalm Draught was developed by potion masters Marius Corvinus and Lyra Callidus, with independent oversight from Healer Asgard Quigley, who monitored its efficacy and safety during clinical trials. Corvinus and Callidus, though declining a full interview, offered a brief statement to The Daily Prophet:

“Our goal was always to create a potion that could restore balance and dignity to those affected by lycanthropy. We are pleased that it can now reach so many in need.”

The potion’s effects are already apparent in Lupin, whose poise, control, and renewed magical strength stand as testament to its success. Healer Quigley remarked:

“Even after decades of strain, Lupin’s magical reserves have returned to near-normal levels. The transformation under the full moon is now completely manageable, a level of control unseen in previous treatments.”

Recognizing the potential global impact, Corvinus and Callidus have donated initial batches of MoonCalm Draught to major magical hospitals worldwide, including St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries in London, Sainte-Claire’s Healing Institute in Paris, The Nordic Institute of Magical Medicine in Bergen, and The Salem Sanctum of Spellcraft Healing in Massachusetts.

The Minister of Magic, England, confirmed that St. Mungo’s would purchase the potion in bulk but administer it free of charge to any werewolf seeking treatment. In his statement, the Minister highlighted both progress and public service:

“We are committed to supporting medical innovation and the welfare of magical citizens. This initiative ensures that those in need, regardless of their personal means, can receive treatment that restores dignity and control.”

Observers note that the announcement arrives at a politically opportune time, though for werewolves and their families, the immediate effect is clear: safe, effective treatment is now freely accessible.

Voices from the Werewolf Community

The potion has sparked hope among those long affected by lycanthropy:

“I’ve lived my whole life hiding from the moon. If this potion works like they say, maybe I can finally walk without fear.” – R.L.

“I’ve booked my first appointment. I can’t wait to see if I can feel… normal again. For once, hope doesn’t feel dangerous.” – E.H.

“I’ve been on Wolfsbane for years, but it never gave me confidence. If MoonCalm can stabilize me, I might finally control my own life.” – J.T.

“I never thought the wizarding world would offer something like this freely. Knowing I won’t have to pay just to survive feels… incredible.” – M.K.

“I grew up believing the full moon was my enemy. This potion, and seeing someone like Professor Lupin take charge, makes me believe there’s a future we can live in.” – S.F.

Even those previously skeptical are cautiously optimistic:

“I was hesitant at first, but seeing Lupin demonstrate control and poise convinces me this is real progress.” – anonymous werewolf patient

“This potion gives me hope I’ve never had before. I can imagine going to school, working, and not having to disappear each month.” – anonymous patient

“It’s not perfect yet, but this is a turning point. For the first time, I feel safe in my own body.” – anonymous werewolf

Skepticism from the Wider Wizarding Community

Not everyone shares this optimism. Traditionalists and some supporters of Headmaster Dumbledore have expressed concern.

“Healing a werewolf? I don’t know… some things are just unnatural. These creatures aren’t meant to be trusted.” – anonymous wizarding parent

“Potions can’t change instinct. I fear this is opening a door to trouble.” – anonymous Ministry employee

“I respect the idea, but I question whether this is wise. There’s too much we do not yet understand.” – Molly Weasley

“Even with good intentions, this seems risky. I am not yet convinced that werewolves should be treated so openly.” – Elphias Doge

Despite these warnings, the majority of families and patients are embracing the potential change, highlighting the societal shift the MoonCalm Draught represents.

The Valebyrne Preparatory Institute and Lupin’s Return to Teaching

It was during his treatment that Healer Quigley recommended Lupin for a teaching post at Valebyrne Preparatory, an elite institute near Upper Flagley offering pre-Hogwarts education for any child whose family can afford it. The school emphasizes magical skill alongside etiquette, formal dances, debate, and social refinement, aiming to produce students who are both competent and confident in magical and social spheres.

For the first time in public, The Daily Prophet can reveal that Lupin has accepted the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, guiding students with precision and calm authority.

“Defense is not about aggression. It’s about readiness and respect — for yourself and for others,” Lupin explained during a class demonstration, as students practised Shield Charms.

Lady Agatha Valebyrne praised his influence:

“Professor Lupin embodies the balance of courage, control, and compassion that we wish to instill in every student. His presence has elevated the school immeasurably.”

Parents and students alike expressed admiration for the werewolf professor:

“He treats the children with respect and patience. Even my shyest daughter comes home buzzing with confidence after a single lesson.” – Mrs. Treney, parent

“It’s incredible to watch him interact with the students. They’re learning more than spells; they’re learning courage and composure.” – Mr. Fallon, parent

Summer Program for Hogwarts Students

In response to recent disruptions at Hogwarts, particularly Professor Quirrell’s sudden disappearance, Valebyrne Preparatory has created a special summer Defense program, open to Hogwarts students wishing to catch up on their Defense Against the Dark Arts education.

The course emphasises practical skill, composure under pressure, duelling etiquette, and situational awareness. When approached for comment, Headmaster Dumbledore declined to respond, maintaining official discretion regarding both the potion and the summer program.

“We want students to be confident in their abilities, regardless of disruptions. Professor Lupin’s teaching is exactly what they need,” remarked Lady Agatha Valebyrne.

A New Era for Werewolves and Magical Education

For centuries, werewolves were marginalized, feared, and forced into secrecy. The MoonCalm Draught and Lupin’s high-profile teaching role represent more than medical innovation—they mark a social transformation. Werewolves can now look forward to autonomy, dignity, and participation in the wizarding world.

In the quiet courtyards of Valebyrne Preparatory, Lupin guides young hands through Shield Charms, corrects a curtsy here, demonstrates a spell there. Each lesson, each interaction, is a statement: werewolves can live openly, teach openly, and inspire. The moon rises above the school grounds, no longer a symbol of fear, but a witness to hope.

“It’s a chance to live, learn, and grow without hiding,” Lupin told me with quiet conviction.

The wizarding world is watching, and for the first time, many are watching with hope instead of fear.

— Rita Skeeter, The Daily Prophet

Chapter Text

23 June 1992 - Asgard Thornewell's Office, Diagon Alley

The alley behind Gringotts is the sort of place most witches pretend not to see—too narrow, too quiet, the light always a shade dimmer than the street outside, let alone during nighttime time Hermione checks the runic plaque beside a narrow brass-bound door twice before knocking. The rune glows once, judging, then the door opens on silent hinges.

A man with silver-shot hair and a face that looks carved rather than aged stands waiting. “Miss Granger,” he says. His voice is calm steel. “You’re punctual.”

“Advocate Thornewell.” Hermione straightens instinctively, then glances behind her. “May I introduce Harry Potter and Professor Remus Lupin.”

Thornewell’s eyes flicker over each of them, cool but attentive. He nods to Remus first, acknowledging an adult—and then looks back to Harry. “Lord Potter,” he says quietly, as if testing the title. “I expected someone taller.”

Harry can’t help a tiny grin. “I’m still growing.”

“See that you keep at it.” A faint smile, there and gone. “Come in.”

The office felt part library, part fortress. Shelves rise to the ceiling; iron-edged folders hum with charming locks. In the corner, a circular pool mirrors the ceiling like glass, its surface unnervingly still.

“Goblin stonework,” Thornewell explains as they enter. “Absorbs stray magic. Keeps ears honest.”

He gestures them to a small round table rather than the enormous desk behind him. “Formality interferes with truth,” he says. “Sit.”

Remus lowers himself carefully, smoothing his sleeve. “We appreciate you seeing us this late.”

“The truth keeps late hours,” Thornewell replies, taking the final seat. He places a thin wand across a folder, murmurs a charm, and the latch clicks open. “Now. Let’s get to business. We need to discuss about your godfather, Lord Potter.”

The name hits the air like a dropped stone. Remus exhales through his nose; Hermione folds her hands tighter. Harry waits—listening, measuring.

Thornewell draws out parchment after parchment, each stamped with the Ministry’s crest and each more frayed than the last. “No trial record,” he says flatly. “No Veritaserum testimony. Not even a statement from the accused. Just a signature from Bartemius Crouch Senior transferring him directly to Azkaban.”

Remus shakes his head slowly. “Dumbledore told me the evidence was overwhelming.”

Thornewell’s eyes lift. “Dumbledore told you wrong.” He lets that settle before continuing. “Witnesses never questioned, wand never recovered, the supposed victim’s body never confirmed. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement wanted a swift headline, not an investigation.”

Hermione leans forward, voice brisk but steady. “If Pettigrew is proven alive, Wizengamot Statute Eight-Seventy-Four requires a retrial.”

Thornewell looks almost amused. “You did read the annex, then. Good. That’s precisely the lever we’ll use. where we stand. Pettigrew—currently disguised as a pet rat belonging to one Ronald Weasley—is in custody. Alive. Verified by goblin stasis spell. The moment Madam Bones receives the evidence, she can convene a closed session of the Wizengamot.”, he said.

Remus blinks. “You already have him?”

A trace of pride edges Thornewell’s tone. “We have him. Credit goes to Mr Potter’s elf.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Dobby.”

“Ah, yes,” Thornewell says, as if the name itself explains the entire improbable success. “An elf of rare initiative.”

Remus rubs his forehead, overwhelmed. “Merlin. Sirius rotting away all these years…”

“Not for much longer,” Thornewell says. He closes the folder with soft finality. “But from this point forward, secrecy is everything. If Dumbledore hears a whisper before the trial begins, he’ll bury it again. I have updated myself as Sirius Black’s lawyer so when Madam Bones sets a retrial, I will be notified.  I’ll need each of you there when the hearing opens.

Then he rises, the meeting’s end clearly marked. “We reconvene before the hearing. Until then—speak of this to no one, not even those you trust. Especially those you trust.”

They stand. Hermione thanks him; Remus murmurs something polite and half-dazed. Harry pauses at the threshold, the faint shimmer of the door-ward brushing his skin.

Thornewell’s voice follows him out. “Justice rarely knocks politely, Lord Potter. Be ready when it kicks the door in.”

Outside, Diagon Alley sleeps under mist. Hermione walks fast, muttering lists under her breath. Remus’s expression is haunted but lighter. Harry keeps pace between them, the night’s silence humming like a promise.

Granger Townhouse, London

Arriving at Hermione’s townhouse, where Harry was currently staying, Binky and Dobby immediately set up the table and it was there during dinner that they told the story of Peter’s capture to Remus.

Weeks earlier in May 1992 – Hogwarts, Scotland

Once they knew Thornewell was ready to secure Peter, Harry had asked Dobby to fetch him when the time was right. That time came on an early morning in May when Dobby slid under the curtains, humming quietly—some off-key tune about socks and justice but still the boys in the dorm where deep in sleep. The dormitory is still, dawn barely pink at the edges. He scurries to the bedside table, where a small cage sits among quills and Chocolate Frog wrappers. Inside: a plump, snoring rat.

“Dobby apologizes most sincerely, Mister Traitor Rat,” he whispers, unlocking the cage with a tap of long fingers. “But justice does not wait for breakfast.”

He scoops Scabbers up like a fragile ornament, wraps him in a handkerchief, and looks around the room one last time. He leaves the cage door swinging open, sprinkles a few crumbs nearby, and tips over a half-empty ink bottle for good measure. The scene will scream rat chaos, not elf heist.

When he pops back into Thornewell’s office, the advocate is mid-paperwork and nearly spills his tea.

“Sir!” Dobby gasps. “Dobby does not steal—Dobby borrows for justice!”

Thornewell pinches the bridge of his nose. “Very noble. May I see the—ah—evidence?”

Dobby proudly produces the teapot, from which a faint squeak issues.

The verification process that follows is swift and silent. Runes flare gold along the rim of a crystal orb as Thornewell channels a sequence of Goblin forensics charms—no glamour, no human bias. The light coalesces into a faint signature suspended inside the orb: Peter Pettigrew, Unregistered Animagus.

Thornewell sits back. “Merlin’s contract,” he murmurs. “He’s really alive!”

Dobby’s eyes are enormous. “Dobby knew it! The bad wizard lives like a rat, but Dobby found him anyway!”

23 June 1992 - Granger Townhouse, London

Hermione, listening now in the present, can’t help smiling at Dobby. “You must’ve been proud.”

Harry grins, warmth breaking through his concentration. “He probably told himself he’s part of the legal team now.”

Remus laughs, “Ron Weasley must have been devastated to lose his familiar.”

Sometime in May 1992 – Hogwarts, Scotland

If Hogwarts had a soundtrack that spring, it would’ve been Ron Weasley’s voice echoing up staircases:
“Scabbers! Scabbers, come back!”

By the end of the week, even the portraits were rolling their eyes.

The morning after Dobby’s “borrowing,” chaos reigns in the Great Hall. Ron waves a tiny empty cage at anyone who’ll look. “He’s gone! Someone’s nicked him! He was right there last night!”

Hermione exchanges a look with Harry over her toast—half guilt, half grim amusement.

“Could’ve been an owl,” Harry says mildly.

“Or a cat,” Hermione murmurs, stirring her pumpkin juice.

“Or divine intervention.”

Ron glares at both of them. “This isn’t funny! He’s been in the family for years!”

“Then he’s due a holiday,” Hermione mutters under her breath. Harry hides his grin in a bite of toast.

Dumbledore, seated at the head table, looks like a man pretending calm. His fork hovers above his plate, untouched. He’s watching Ron’s dramatics far too closely for someone supposedly indifferent to a missing pet.

McGonagall leans over and says something to him quietly; he nods but doesn’t move. A minute later, he’s whispering to Hagrid, then to Filch, and by lunchtime every corridor has a hand-scrawled notice pinned to it:

MISSING FAMILIAR – PLEASE REPORT ANY SIGN OF A RAT CALLED SCABBERS.

At dinner, he’s escalated to staff briefings. Filch mutters about “pipes and crawlspaces.” Hagrid tramps around muttering “No rat’s worth this much fuss.” The suits of armor are enchanted to march patrols. Peeves leads a “Scabbers Search Party,” waving a stolen lantern and singing something about “The Rat Who Lived.”

Fred and George keep a tally on a chalkboard in their common room. False Sightings: 27. Dumbledore Panic Level: High.

Even Percy begins waxing sentimental about “the sacred bond between wizard and familiar.” Charlie, when he hears via owl, sends back: You’re sure the headmaster’s all right? It’s just a rat, isn’t it?

The joke would’ve been harmless—if not for the way Dumbledore starts haunting the castle at night. Students whisper about his light floating past windows at two in the morning. He searches the grounds personally, his robes whispering through the grass. Professors trade uneasy glances in the staff room. McGonagall’s mouth thins further every day.

One evening in the library, Hermione snaps her book shut. “He knows.”

Harry looks up from his parchment. “Knows what?”

“That Pettigrew’s missing,” she says. “And if he knows that much, he knows the rest.”

Harry’s quill stills. “Then we’re ahead of him.”

“Barely,” she replies, lowering her voice as a Ravenclaw passes. “He’s terrified. He’s not worried about Ron’s pet; he’s worried about what it proves.”

Harry nods slowly. “So we let him worry. It’ll make him sloppy.”

Hermione hesitates, then smiles faintly. “That’s disturbingly Slytherin of you.”

“Comes from hanging out with the cleverest witch in our year.”

The compliment earns him a blush and a huff, but the tension eases for a heartbeat. Outside, the evening wind presses against the library windows, and in the far distance, faintly, Dumbledore’s voice carries through the corridors—calm, controlled, and ever so slightly desperate.

27 June 1992 - Asgard Thornewell's Office, Diagon Alley

Thornewell’s office was dark except for the lamplight glinting off parchment. It was the early hours, and the sun had still not risen but he had work to do. He moved with the precision of someone performing an ancient ritual—inking runes, rolling scrolls, sealing wax. Hermione watches, memorizing every motion. Harry stands by the window, restless energy simmering under his calm.

“Scabbers has been returned to a more… public setting,” Thornewell says without looking up.

“Where exactly?” Remus asks from the corner; tone edged with nerves.

“A barn outside Ottery St. Catchpole. Abandoned, legally speaking, but the neighbors are all too nosy for comfort.” Thornewell smirks faintly. “Perfect for an anonymous tip to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Hermione leans forward. “You’re setting up the discovery.”

“Precisely. The Goblin stasis will fade naturally within an hour of exposure to open air. He’ll wake, panic, try to escape. The Aurors will have their living proof delivered to them before breakfast.”

Harry folds his arms. “And Amelia Bones?”

“She’ll get the anonymous report at the same time,” Thornewell replies. “Written in my hand, signed by no one. She’s cautious but fair—she’ll send someone she trusts to confirm.”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Hermione says instantly.

The advocate gives her a look of genuine approval. “Your insight continues to amuse me, Miss Granger.”

Remus shakes his head slowly, still amazed at the calm efficiency around him. “We really are doing this.”

Thornewell glances up, his expression unreadable. “Sirius has waited a decade for justice, Mr. Lupin.”

Harry steps forward, his voice soft. “Once Kingsley confirms Pettigrew, it’s over.”

“It begins,” Thornewell corrects. “Bones will handle the rest quietly. She’ll verify the evidence herself—she doesn’t delegate when history’s at stake.”

Hermione looks up. “And the trial?”

“Within forty-eight hours of verification.” The advocate’s eyes gleam. “Midnight session, closed court. Less time for interference, fewer leaks. Amelia will summon the Wizengamot by sealed owl—those birds are faster than panic.”

He signs the final document with a flourish and melts the wax with a whispered charm. “By this time tomorrow night, the Ministry will be in chaos, and Dumbledore will be wondering who pulled the rug out from under him.”

Remus lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Merlin help us.”

“Merlin rarely helps,” Thornewell says mildly. “But paperwork does.”

27 June 1992 - Abandoned Barn, Near the Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole

The afternoon sun burned low over the fields outside Ottery St Catchpole when Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared beside the old barn with a muted pop. The air smelled of hay and wild thyme; the only sound was the creak of half-rotted shutters. His wand moved in small, deliberate arcs, sending faint threads of blue light through the shadows.

A shape scuttled across the packed earth—small, grey, ordinary at first glance. Then the shimmer of human magic pulsed faintly beneath its fur. Kingsley’s jaw tightened. So, the note was true.

One swift incantation later, the rat froze mid-step, stiff as a statue. Kingsley knelt, conjured a containment sphere, and whispered a code only the Auror Office used when verifying illegal Animagi. The rat flickered once—fur blending to skin, tail twisting to bone—and within seconds, Peter Pettigrew lay curled inside the orb, still unconscious, the silver ring of stasis humming faintly around him.

“Merlin’s mercy,” Kingsley muttered, the words half prayer, half curse.

He sealed the sphere, wrote classified—urgent across the attached tag, and vanished with a crack, leaving the barn silent again.

27 June 1992 – Ministry of Magic, London

Three hours later, Madam Amelia Bones stood in her private office on Level Two, watching the orb spin slowly atop her desk. Her monocle glinted in the lamplight; the set of her shoulders spoke of control, but her heartbeat drummed fast and hard.

“So it’s true,” she said at last. “He lives.”

Kingsley nodded. “Confirmed by four separate diagnostics. Magical signature matches Ministry file for Peter Pettigrew—last registered living in 1981.”

Amelia inhaled sharply. “And Black?”

“Still in Azkaban.”

The silence that followed was cold and deliberate. Amelia’s gaze drifted to the portrait of her late brother Edgar hanging above the filing cabinets—stern, kind eyes watching her across the years. You always said justice sleeps too easily.

“Well,” she murmured, “it’s time to wake her.”

For two days, she worked behind locked doors, refusing to delegate even routine checks. The orb sat on her desk while she examined every scrap of record connected to the night of Pettigrew’s supposed death.

The more she read, the worse it became. The Daily Prophet articles—each one quoting “official sources”—had been published less than three hours after the explosion. There was no crime-scene map, no witness affidavit, no autopsy report. Even the supposed twelve Muggle victims had no names.

When she demanded access to the Azkaban transfer documents, the clerks blanched. “There isn’t one, Director,” a young witch stammered. “Only a note from Mr Crouch Senior—he said a confession was obtained verbally.”

“By whom?” Amelia asked.

“Chief Warlock Dumbledore, ma’am.”

Her quill snapped clean in two.

By dusk on the twenty-eighth, Amelia’s table was littered with evidence of bureaucratic malpractice. Each missing signature, each falsified line, was another blow to the Ministry’s pretense of integrity. No trial. No counsel. No verification. She could almost feel the echo of Azkaban’s chill through the parchment.

She called Kingsley back that evening. “No word leaves this office,” she told him. “Not to the Minister, not to the press, and certainly not to the Chief Warlock. I’ll handle the inquiry personally.”

Kingsley’s expression didn’t change, but his voice lowered to a rumble. “Understood. What about Black?”

Amelia’s eyes hardened. “He deserves what the law denied him: a trial.”

The interrogation chamber lay deep beneath the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; a place built for truth and terror. The air is cool and stale, thick with the metallic tang of wards humming above stone. A silver globe drifts over the table, casting sterile light on parchment, chains, and the trembling man who sits between them.

Peter Pettigrew wrings his thin hands, the cuffs clinking softly. His eyes dart from the door to the flask on the table, and then to the woman across from him. Madam Bones sits perfectly straight; her expression carved from composure and fatigue. Beside her, Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt stood silent, arms folded, his wand casting the spell that starts recording every single word spoken inside the room.

“Identity confirmed,” Amelia says, her voice steady. “Peter Pettigrew. Former assistant to the Department of Magical Creature Regulation. Accused of treason, mass murder, and conspiracy. Do you dispute any of these?”

Peter shakes his head so fast his hair flicks over his eyes. “No, no, Madam, I—I never meant—"

“You will drink Vertimisum,” she interrupts, uncorking the vial. “You will answer. Every word is recorded. Anything withheld will weigh against you.”

He swallows the liquid reluctantly, trembling as the transparency enchantment glows around his throat.

Amelia waits for a beat, then begins. “State your full name.”

“Peter Caleb Pettigrew.”

“State your allegiance in October 1981.”

“I—served the Dark Lord,” he whispers, staring at the table. “But I was afraid, you must understand—Dumbledore was losing! I had to choose life—”

Kingsley’s voice is a low baritone of command. “Describe how you survived.”

Peter licks his lips. The potion dragging each word from him like wire. “I—cut my finger, left it for them to find. Transformed before the explosion. Hid… hid as a rat.”

“For how long?” Amelia’s tone tightens.

“Ten years,” he croaks.

The silence stretches, broken only by the faint scratch of the recording quill.

Amelia folds her hands. “You hid in plain sight as an animal. Why?”

“Safer,” he mutters. “No one looks for vermin. And I could listen. Gather news. I knew the Dark Lord wasn’t gone.”

Her eyes flash upward. “Explain.”

Peter hesitates, breath quickening. “The Mark… it never vanished. Sometimes it burned faintly. He wasn’t dead, only—only broken. Waiting. I thought—if I ever found Harry Potter—if I could bring him back, the Dark Lord would forgive me.”

A quiet chill ripples through the room. Kingsley’s wand light flickers against the walls.

“You intended to kidnap the boy,” Amelia says.

He nods miserably. “If—if the time came.”

Amelia’s voice softens, but only slightly. “Tell me where you hid.”

“At the Weasley home,” he stammers. “For years. First with Percy, then with the youngest son, Ron.”

Kingsley’s brow furrows. “They never suspected?”

Peter’s shoulders twitch. “Arthur, Bill, and Charlie—they joked sometimes about how long a rat should live. But Molly—she always stopped them. Said she’d checked with Professor Dumbledore. He said I was a normal rat. She even told them the headmaster wanted me passed down to Ron.”

Amelia’s gaze sharpens like cut glass. “You’re certain she said Dumbledore asked that?”

“Yes,” Peter whispers. “She said he thought it would comfort the boy at school.”

Comfort the boy? Amelia’s thoughts twist coldly. Albus Dumbledore, vetting a pet rat for a child? Since when has he ever concerned himself with household rodents?

“Did Dumbledore ever see you?” she asks aloud.

Peter nods weakly. “Once. He visited the Burrow. Looked straight at me… as if he knew. Then he smiled and said, ‘Curious little creature, isn’t he?’ and left.”

The air is still. Amelia’s pulse hammers. Curious little creature. Merlin help us, he saw you and walked away.

She glances at Kingsley, whose expression remains carved from granite. The Auror’s eyes flick toward the parchment where the quill continues to scratch.

Amelia forces her tone back to law. “Describe your activities after transforming. Every contact. Every piece of correspondence.”

He babbles for nearly an hour—fragmented names, safehouses, whispers of fugitives who once called themselves Death Eaters. His answers spill into confession until exhaustion drags him silent.

Amelia studies him, the pathetic shape of him, and thinks of the letter that arrived three weeks ago, with her niece Susan’s careful handwriting:

Auntie, the Headmaster has been so odd lately. He keeps asking if anyone has seen Ron’s rat. Everyone says it’s silly, but he looks worried. Isn’t that strange?

Strange, yes. Now, horrifyingly clear. He knew the rat was no rat, and yet said nothing until it vanished.

She leans forward. “You will sign this statement. Your words will stand before the High Council of Magic tomorrow. If you lie again, it will be the last lie you ever tell.”

Peter’s eyes glisten. “Please, Madam, mercy—”

“Mercy belongs to the innocent,” she says, standing. “You will remain in stasis until summoned.”

Kingsley taps his wand. Silver light envelops the prisoner, freezing him mid-sob. Amelia exhales slowly, the weight of a decade pressing on her shoulders.

She orders, “Prepare the secure file.” “Every spell verified, every word sealed.”

Kingsley nods. “Understood. When will you call the Council?”

“Tomorrow night. They’ll learn the truth together.” She pauses. And Dumbledore will have nowhere to hide.

They leave the chamber. The door seals behind them with a heavy click, muffling the echo of Pettigrew’s shallow breathing.

29 June 1992 - Ministry of Magic, London

The morning of the twenty-ninth dawned pale and tense. By then, she had drafted the final report and verified Pettigrew’s identity through magical residue cross-matching—his aura still carried traces of the Dark Mark. That was all she needed.

At noon, she called in her assistant. “Prepare emergency session parchments—Class One priority. Closed Wizengamot hearing. I want those sealed owls in the air at quarter to midnight tonight sharp.”

The young wizard blinked. “Tonight, Director? That’s hardly time for—”

“That’s precisely the point,” Amelia said, not unkindly. “We move before politics has time to interfere.”

When he left, she turned back to the orb one last time. Pettigrew’s small body twitched inside, his face contorting even in sleep. She regarded him coolly. You’ve haunted too many graves for too long.

She extinguished the lamps, sealing the orb in a steel-runed box. “At one a.m., the Wizengamot will sit,” she said softly to the empty room. “And Albus Dumbledore will finally listen.”

The Ministry of Magic never slept. Just changed shifts.

At 11:45 p.m., hundreds of owls burst from the message atrium in a storm of wings and parchment. Within minutes, wax-sealed summonses thudded against doors from Cornwall to Inverness. The purple crest of the Wizengamot gleamed on each envelope; the words Emergency Closed Session – Attendance Mandatory glowed faintly beneath.

By half past midnight, fireplaces flared across the building. Sleep-rumpled witches and wizards stumbled out of green flames, some still fastening their robes, others muttering about lost slippers and unfinished brandy.

“What in Merlin’s beard could be this urgent?” grumbled one elder as he adjusted his plum-colored mantle.

“No idea,” hissed another. “The Undersecretary says Bones is refusing to explain.”

A low hum of speculation filled the marbled corridors. Clerks scurried to open the heavy doors of Courtroom Ten, the great chamber of trials. Torches flared one by one, bathing the stone benches in restless gold.

Cornelius Fudge wipes sweat from his forehead as he hurries down the corridor toward Courtroom Ten. “This is irregular,” he mutters, tugging at his hat. “Very irregular.”

Beside him, Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge totters on sensible heels, parchment clutched to her chest. “Entirely improper, Minister,” she simpers, voice sugary with indignation. “A closed session without briefing the Minister’s Office? I’ll have to note this breach for the record.”

“Yes, yes, Dolores,” Fudge says distractedly, glancing over his shoulder. “Perhaps Director Bones simply—er—forgot the usual channels.”

“Forgot?” Her laugh is small and poisonous. “Hardly. She’s circumvented them.”

A soft voice cuts through their bickering. “Perhaps she has reason.”

Albus Dumbledore steps from the shadowed archway, his indigo robes rippling with embroidered constellations, clearly different from the formal Wizengamot robes he had to wear like the others, eyes unreadable behind their half-moon lenses. He greets them with a polite nod, but tension threads his posture.

“Albus!” Fudge exclaims, relief and nerves mingling. “Thank heavens. Do you know what this is about?”

“I do not,” Dumbledore replies. “And that is what troubles me.”

Umbridge purses her lips. “Surely you, as Chief Warlock, were informed?”

“Surely,” he echoes softly, “and yet—no.” He glances at the sealed doors of the courtroom. No one knows. Not the Minister, not even me.

Fudge fidgets. “Perhaps a security issue—Azkaban, maybe?”

“Or a scandal,” Umbridge says, voice gleaming with malice. “One the Director wishes to control before the Prophet does. I must protest that the Ministry’s Undersecretary has been left uninformed of matters of such secrecy.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flick toward her, calm but cold. “If Amelia wished secrecy, Dolores, perhaps she doubted who could keep it.”

Her mouth snaps shut.

Across the hall, members of the High Council gather in small knots, whispering speculation. Their robes whisper across the marble like restless waves. Near one pillar, Lucius Malfoy stands aloof, silver-headed cane gleaming under torchlight. He says nothing, but his eyes move from Dumbledore to the sealed courtroom door, cataloguing discomfort, suspicion, and fear with quiet satisfaction.

The minutes stretch toward midnight. The only sound is the flutter of owls returning to their perches and the low murmur of the assembled.

At last, the heavy doors creak open. A clerk announces, “All members are to be seated. Director Bones will address the Council shortly.”

Fudge straightens his hat; Umbridge sniffs importantly. Dumbledore follows them inside, every step echoing like a heartbeat.

The courtroom is dim, lit by floating globes that cast pale light on the tiered benches. The air smells of parchment and storm. Dumbledore takes his place at the central dais, surveying the circle of faces — confusion, irritation, weariness. No one speaks above a whisper.

Then something catches his eye beyond the shimmer of the confidentiality wards. The press gallery. It is empty save for one figure — a woman with an acid-green quill poised above a blank page, eyes glittering with anticipation.

Rita Skeeter.

Dumbledore’s heart sinks. Only one reporter. A confidential trial—and she is the one chosen?

The realization lands heavy and cold. This is not a routine hearing. It is exposure.

He turns toward the sealed doors just as they swing wide to admit Amelia Bones followed by none other than the notorious advocate Asgard Thornewell, files in hand, expression carved from stone. The murmur dies instantly.

Dumbledore exhales slowly, the weight of inevitability pressing down. Whatever this is, it will not end quietly.

Chapter Text

29 June 1992 – Level 10, British Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London

The lift doors opened with a sigh, revealing Level Ten, filled with air that carried a faint scent of metal and old parchment. Harry stepped out first. The corridor stretched ahead of them, its walls made of carved stone and illuminated by flickering torches. The walls were lined with engravings of magical seals that seemed to watch as they passed. Every sound was absorbed by the Ministry’s depths—each footstep felt like a secret that should remain unheard.

Hermione followed closely behind, her robe hem whispering against the floor, silver runes catching and scattering the light. Behind her, Remus moved quietly, his eyes alert and shoulders tense, as if he expected danger even in this place of law and order carved in stone.

A few people were milling about, but, as far as they could tell, no one actually knew whose trial it was. Some had started to notice them, reacting in various ways. After all, it was the first time Remus had been in public since Rita’s article, and it was also Harry's first appearance as Lord Potter. Hermione caught a few curious glances as well. They were an odd sight: Remus and two young people at the Ministry so late at night. However, Harry was focused on Lucius Malfoy, who was approaching them. Subtly signaling to Remus, Harry turned to face the blond wizard.

Looking the man in the eye as he approached, Harry observed Lucius taking him in. He noticed Lucius's gaze lingering on his signet ring.

"Lord Potter," Malfoy greeted.

"Lord Malfoy," Harry replied formally, inclining his head to acknowledge his status as the lord of his house and a member of the Wizegmont.

Harry noted the flash of approval in Lucius's eyes before he turned to Remus. "Remus Lupin, I believe," he said, extending his hand.

"Indeed, Lord Malfoy," Remus responded as he shook Lucius's hand.

“Congratulations on your appointment at Valebyrne, Mr. Lupin. The Valebyrnes have been singing your praises, and many parents I know have echoed those sentiments. I myself am planning to enroll Draco in the summer program and look forward to him actually learning some defense,” Lucius stated.

“Thank you, Lord Malfoy. I look forward to having Young Heir Malfoy in my class,” Lupin replied, gaining Lucius's approval for acknowledging Draco’s position as his heir.

“Miss Granger, it is good to see you again,” Lucius greeted.

“As do I, Lord Malfoy,” Hermione responded.

"I must say, Lord Potter, I am surprised to see you here today," Lucius remarked, turning back to Harry as if seeking more insight.

Harry smirked slightly, aware that the Slytherin would pick up on it. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world, Lord Malfoy."

Lucius looked both annoyed and pleased by the answer. "I see, so you are one of the few who are aware of what this trial is about," Lucius said.

Harry smirked again. "I couldn't say. However, I can assure you that you will be very intrigued by the trial."

Lucius bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. "I see. Well then, Lord Potter, I look forward to it."

Harry nodded in return. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Lord Malfoy."

After a brief pause, Lucius straightened his already immaculate posture. "Mr. Lupin, Miss Granger, Lord Potter," he said in place of a farewell before turning and walking toward the other Wizegmont members.

Remus, who had been watching their exchange in silence, regarded Harry with a thoughtful expression after Lucius had left. "Are you sure you're not in Slytherin?" he joked.

"No, but the Sorting Hat did consider it," Harry replied.

Remus looked slightly pensive, and Harry wondered about his friend's biases. "Harry, I know you are smart, but please be careful around him. He was a Death Eater," he warned, leaning in to whisper.

Harry felt relieved; that was what Remus's look was about. "Don't worry, Remus. I know what I'm doing," Harry promised.

Remus looked at him again before sighing in defeat. "Alright, I will trust you. But please remember that, no matter what, I will always be here if you want to talk."

Thorewell arrived at that moment and ushered them through an archway. The courtroom was empty—tiered benches rose into shadow, and the judge’s dais loomed like a watchtower. Blue runes glowed faintly along the walls, pulsing to the rhythm of ancient wards.

Thornewell moved toward the spectator gallery, his wand flicking in smooth, economical motions. A shimmer unfolded—silver light curling like smoke, then hardening into a translucent shell that rippled with a faint, soundless hum.

He turned to them. “Sit here. You’ll see everything, but no one will see you. The charm bends light and mutes sound; to anyone else, it’s just another layer of Ministry wards.”

Hermione leaned closer, her eyes bright. “That’s Goblin shielding, isn’t it?”

He allowed himself a half-smile. “Inspired by it. Improved, naturally.”

They settled on the narrow bench behind the veil of light. The air felt thicker inside, almost filtered. Harry could taste the magic—cold on his tongue, almost metallic.

Shortly afterward, they noticed Rita Skeeter arriving and taking her place in the press gallery, ready to take notes and write today’s front-page news. Harry was certain there was no other story where she would want this piece to appear.

The door at the far end creaked open again. Footsteps clicked against the stone. Lucius Malfoy entered first, his silver cane glinting under the torches, followed by two other Wizengamot members in deep plum robes. Their conversation died when they noticed Thornewell and Rita Skeeter sitting in the press gallery. Lucius quickly deduced that the three people he had just met were hidden.

“Advocate Thornewell,” Lucius drawled, polite yet pointed. “I wasn’t aware this hearing required… privacy.”

Thornewell inclined his head just enough to acknowledge him. “The secrecy protects the truth, Lord Malfoy. You’ll understand soon enough.”

Lucius studied him for a heartbeat, his eyes narrowing slightly, then smiled in a way that reminded one of a snake. “I look forward to it.”

He took his seat, his robes rustling, his gaze flicking briefly toward the upper gallery—guessing what lay behind its shimmer.

From within the ward, Harry watched, breath caught halfway between awe and anxiety. The room felt like a trap wound tight, waiting for the first trigger. Remus’s hand rested briefly on the bench beside Harry’s; Hermione’s hand hovered uselessly before she finally set it down.

The lift doors echoed again from the corridor above—more footsteps, louder now. The rest of the Wizengamot was arriving. A murmur of robes and muffled conversation drifted through the chamber. Amelia’s eyes met Thornewell’s; she nodded once.

“No delays,” she said quietly. “No interruptions. We finish this before they remember who’s meant to be in charge.”

Thornewell’s mouth curved, faint and sharp. “Then let’s make history.”

Harry looked through the veiled shimmer toward the floor below. Purple and plum robes swept in, voices rising, unaware of the boy and his allies already seated among the shadows. Magic hummed softly around him—anticipation, judgment, the edge of something about to break.

The air tasted of lightning. And somewhere deep within the stone, the courtroom seemed to awaken.

30 June 1992 - Level 10, British Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London

Time stretched thin inside the shimmer of the hiding ward. The air had a strange, held-breath quality—too still, as if the entire Ministry knew something extraordinary was about to happen.

From their hidden bench, Harry watched as the seats filled. The hum of conversation rose in uneven waves: rustling robes, quills floating into position, and the low thrum of anxious magic. The Wizengamot chamber gradually brightened, with torches blooming to life one by one.

Harry noticed the moment Dumbledore entered, wearing indigo robes that rippled with embroidered constellations, a stark contrast to the plum-colored robes worn by the other members. He trusted Dumbledore to think he was above the rules. Dumbledore didn’t see Harry as he walked down to the floor; as Chief Warlock, he would be overseeing the trial along with the defenders and the opposition.

Hermione leaned toward him. “They don’t suspect a thing,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying, the sound flattened by the ward.

Remus gave a small nod, his eyes flicking across the crowd. “Not yet,” he said quietly, but Harry heard the warning in his tone. “Not yet” meant they would.

Thornewell stood a few rows down, speaking softly with Amelia Bones. He appeared completely at ease, but Harry noticed the subtle tension in his shoulders—the readiness of a duelist before the first spell. Amelia checked a sheet of parchment and then looked toward the doors.

The sound of the main lift echoed down the corridor: the metallic clang and the echoing footsteps—more Wizengamot officials arriving in hurried clusters. Their voices blended into the murmur already filling the hall.

Lucius Malfoy turned slightly in his seat, his silver cane gleaming. He leaned toward the witch beside him and said something that made her laugh softly. The image twisted Harry’s stomach. Lucius looked entirely at home there, as if the chamber belonged to him.

Hermione’s gaze hardened. “He’s enjoying this,” she murmured. Harry didn’t respond; he could feel his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips—everywhere.

Below, the semicircle of the Wizengamot filled slowly. Senators in mauve robes still buttoned their sleeves, yawning into handkerchiefs and muttering about “midnight madness.” Quills floated beside them, ready to record every word. At the center stood the high dais where the Chief Warlock usually presides. Tonight, Dumbledore occupied it—his serene mask firmly in place.

Harry watched him closely. The Headmaster’s hands were folded, but his fingers twitched once, betraying tension. He knew something was wrong; he just didn’t know what yet.

Amelia Bones strode to the center of the chamber. She didn’t bow to Dumbledore; she simply raised her wand and amplified her voice.

“This emergency session of the Wizengamot is now in order.”

The low conversation died at once. Quills stilled, and robes rustled. Harry felt Hermione exhale beside him. Thornewell’s calm pulse of magic behind them tightened the ward—insurance against discovery.

Amelia continued, each syllable crisp and clear. “We meet tonight to address a grave injustice within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The matter concerns the imprisonment—without trial—of one Sirius Orion Black.”

A ripple of shock rolled through the chamber like thunder over water. Half the wizards leaned forward; a few gasped outright. Fudge turned pink, opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish. Even Dumbledore’s composure flickered.

“That case is closed!” Fudge blurted. “It’s—years old—”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. “It was never opened, Minister. That is the problem.”

Murmurs erupted throughout the room—names, dates, rumors. Amelia lifted her wand again, and silence returned.

“You will hear verified evidence tonight that the man condemned for the murders of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles was innocent. The true culprit remains alive.”

A collective intake of breath echoed through the chamber, rattling Harry’s bones. He felt Hermione’s fingers tighten briefly around his sleeve.

Down below, Dumbledore leaned forward. “Madam Bones,” he said softly, using the tone that once made even McGonagall hesitate, “I trust you understand the gravity of such a claim.”

Her reply was clean and sharp. “Perfectly. That is why we’ll begin with facts, not assumptions.”

She gestured toward the floor. “Advocate Thornewell, you may present your findings.”

From behind the glass, Thornewell rose from his seat near the defense stand, his robes perfectly ordered and his expression unreadable. He inclined his head toward Amelia, then turned to address the court.

Harry swallowed hard. The hour had finally come. After months of secrecy and preparation, the truth was about to come to light.

Thornewell moved as if he had rehearsed this a hundred times, though Harry knew he hadn’t slept in two days. Every step was measured and deliberate. He stopped at the center of the courtroom, the tip of his wand glowing faintly as parchment and a small crystal orb floated to his side.

“Madam Bones. Members of the Wizengamot,” he began.

His voice didn’t rise, yet it carried—clear, calm, and laced with the authority that comes from absolute precision. “I appear tonight on behalf of my client, Lord Sirius Orion Black, to present evidence that his conviction—if such a word can even apply—was unlawful.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed; a few members of the Wizengamot leaned forward. Harry could feel the pulse of his own heart against the protective glass.

Thornewell gestured, and the crystal orb rose higher, spinning slowly. “Contained within this Goblin-forged stasis vessel is Peter Pettigrew, formerly of the Order of the Phoenix. He was verified as an Unregistered Animagus and registered as deceased by this Ministry eleven years ago.”

The orb flared with a white pulse, revealing the curled, rat-like figure inside. Gasps erupted like sparks from a fire. Even Amelia’s expression tightened—not from surprise, but from rekindled anger.

“These are not illusions,” Thornewell continued evenly. “Goblin verification spells are incorruptible. The magical signature of this creature matches that of Peter Pettigrew’s wand registry filed in 1971.”

The orb glowed again; runes twisted through the air, forming Pettigrew’s name and registry number. For a moment, silence reigned. Then voices erupted.

“Impossible—” 

“Forgery!” 

“Black must have planted it—”

Amelia raised her wand. “Enough!”

The room fell silent under her silencing charm. Her gaze swept over the chamber. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has verified these results personally. Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt apprehended Pettigrew three nights ago near Ottery St. Catchpole. The suspect confessed to assuming a rodent Animagus form since October 31, 1981.”

Even Dumbledore looked taken aback, his blue eyes flicking between the orb and back again. Fudge slumped into his chair, muttering incoherently.

Amelia nodded once to Thornewell. “Continue.”

He inclined his head. “The evidence establishes two points of law: first, that Sirius Black’s supposed victim is alive; and second, that no trial, hearing, or inquiry into Black’s guilt ever occurred. His imprisonment, therefore, constitutes a direct violation of the Wizarding Charter of Rights, Article Twelve.”

He let the parchment float toward Dumbledore’s desk. The Chief Warlock’s hand closed around it reflexively; his expression remained neutral, but Harry caught the faint tremor in those fingers.

“In light of these facts,” Thornewell finished, “I petition this court to recognize Sirius Orion Black’s right to an immediate retrial and compensation, and to call the true perpetrator to account.”

He stepped back, calm as still water.

Amelia inclined her head slightly. “Your petition is accepted. The Wizengamot will now question the Chief Warlock regarding these omissions.”

Dumbledore rose slowly, his robes whispering around him. His face was a portrait of solemn composure, but the tension in the room thickened.

From behind the glass, Hermione whispered under her breath, “He’s cornered.”

Harry didn’t answer; he could see it in Dumbledore’s eyes—the moment the man realized he was no longer in control of the room.

The silence stretched thin as Dumbledore straightened to his full height. His robes were immaculate, his face calm—but that calm felt brittle now, too polished.

“Madam Bones,” he began, his voice soft and grandfatherly, “I was not involved in Mr. Black’s sentencing. The war had just ended; emotions were... raw. I trusted the Department’s evidence.”

Thornewell’s voice cut in before Amelia could reply. “With respect, Chief Warlock, there was no evidence. Only assumption.”

A ripple of murmurs swept through the chamber. Dumbledore glanced down at the parchment Thornewell had sent him, fingers tightening slightly.

“I had reason to believe,” Dumbledore said carefully, “that Sirius Black betrayed James and Lily Potter. He was their Secret Keeper—”

“Correction,” Thornewell interjected mildly, “he was not. Peter Pettigrew was.”

The murmurs grew louder. Even Fudge leaned forward now, wide-eyed.

Dumbledore’s voice tightened. “I was informed otherwise by multiple sources—”

“Unnamed sources, naturally,” Thornewell said, his tone still polite. “Forgive me, Headmaster, but are you asking this court to believe you never verified any of these claims? That you, as Chief Warlock and founder of the Order of the Phoenix, did not even request a Veritaserum hearing?”

The chamber rustled; whispers turned into open talk. Harry felt the tension climb like heat rising in the air. His heart beat hard against his ribs.

Amelia’s wand tapped once against her podium. “Answer the question, Albus.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked to her. “Bartemius Crouch handled the matter. The Ministry was in chaos. My focus was on the safety of the remaining Order members—and the orphaned child.”

At that last word, Harry’s fingers curled around his knee. He forced himself to stay still.

Thornewell inclined his head. “Ah yes. The orphaned child. Tell us, Headmaster—were you aware that Sirius Black was named in the Potters’ will as guardian to that child?”

The impact was immediate. Half the Wizengamot straightened. Dumbledore froze.

“That will was sealed,” he said sharply. “No one outside the Potters’ circle—”

“Correct,” Thornewell interrupted gently. “No one outside that circle—and yet, you intervened. You placed the boy with Muggle relatives despite explicit magical guardianship rites naming Sirius Orion Black as secondary blood guardian. And from what I can gather, there were also third and fourth guardians named in case of Sirius Black’s death, none of them being his Muggle relatives.”

Gasps scattered like sparks. Even Amelia’s expression flickered, her sharp composure tested.

Dumbledore recovered quickly, regaining his calm voice. “I acted in the child’s best interest. His mother’s blood protection was active only with her sister’s family.”

Amelia’s eyes flashed. “Protection or imprisonment, Albus? You denied the rightful guardian his charge and allowed an innocent man to rot in Azkaban.”

Dumbledore’s voice hardened, finally losing its gentle tone. “You were not there. The war demanded—”

“The war ended,” Thornewell said softly, “and you simply never corrected your mistake.”

The chamber went utterly still.

From behind the glass, Hermione’s whisper trembled. “He’s losing them.”

Harry could see it—how the Wizengamot’s deference fractured, how the once-untouchable Chief Warlock suddenly appeared small beneath their judgment.

Amelia folded her hands, every movement controlled.

“Your testimony is noted, Albus. You may sit.”

Dumbledore hesitated a moment too long before obeying.

Thornewell’s voice followed, calm and precise. “Then, Madam Bones, I request the release of my client to speak for himself.”

The silence broke into a murmur again. The door at the side of the courtroom opened, and Harry’s breath caught as a gaunt figure stepped through the archway—barefoot, unshaven, eyes wild and bright with disbelief.

It was Sirius Black.

The iron doors slammed shut behind him. For a moment, no one moved. The man who stepped forward looked more like a shadow than an actual person—his skin too pale against the black of his prison robes, and his hair hung in tangled ropes. But his eyes, grey and alive, swept across the chamber like a storm breaking.

Thornewell inclined his head. "Mr. Black," he said and stepped forward. "My client has been wrongly imprisoned without a trial and is innocent of all the crimes he is accused of. He has agreed to be placed under veritaserum for the duration of his trial to prove his innocence."

The courtroom broke out in whispers again, and Harry noticed how Dumbledore stiffened slightly.

"Very well. Bailiffs, please administer the serum," Amelia said.

Harry watched as Sirius took the potion without complaint, feeling relieved. He knew how hot-headed Sirius could be.

"I will ask a few basic questions to ascertain that the potion is working correctly. Please state your full name," she asked.

"Sirius Orion Black," Sirius replied, his voice raspy but showing the signs of the daze associated with veritaserum.

Madam Bones sighed. "Please provide the defendant with some water," she said.

Sirius looked grateful and took a sip when the glass materialized.

"Mr. Black, what is the date of your birth?" she asked.

"3rd of November, 1959," Sirius responded, his voice still raspy but much clearer.

"And what is your blood status?" she inquired.

"Pureblood," Sirius answered.

"I believe the serum is working," Amelia said. "Therefore, I shall begin the questioning."

"Mr. Black, did you reveal the location of the Potters' address to the Dark Lord on the night of October 31, 1980?"

"No," Sirius said.

"Did you provide him with this location on any other date?" Amelia pressed.

"No, I never betrayed them," Sirius replied.

"You were found screaming, 'It was my fault!' Why were you shouting this if you never betrayed them?" Amelia questioned.

"It was my fault—" Sirius began.

The courtroom erupted in shouts again.

"—because I told them to use Peter Pettigrew as their Secret Keeper. I thought they would be safe. I made them switch to him, and he betrayed them. It's my fault!" he cried.

Amelia banged her gavel to restore order.

"So you were never the Secret Keeper for the Potter family?" she asked.

"No. James wanted me to be, but I thought it would be too obvious. I persuaded him to use Peter," Sirius said, his voice filled with anguish.

"You had no idea Peter Pettigrew would betray them?" she continued.

"No, never! I would have died for James and Lily; I would never have betrayed them!" Sirius insisted.

"Have you ever been a supporter of Lord Voldemort, marked or otherwise?" Amelia asked.

"No. Never," Sirius denied.

"Very well. I believe we should move on."

The courtroom was buzzing with whispers.

"Mr. Black, can you walk us through what happened on the night of October 31, 1980, in your own words?" Amelia asked.

"I was at my house when I felt a tug in my heart, a sign that Harry was in danger. Before Harry was born, James and Lily asked me to be his godfather. James wanted to ensure extra security, so he convinced Lily and me to undergo the blood adoption ritual. Since James and I were purebloods, we were related to each other. However, with the blood adoption ritual, I would share my blood with Lily and become Harry’s blood-adopted father. A week after Harry's birth, we went ahead with the ritual, and Harry became my adopted blood son and heir to my fortune and titles, until I had children of my own. We decided to keep this a secret and told no one about it.

Immediately, the room started murmuring; a blood ritual was rare, particularly due to the inherent danger involved. The chance of success was extremely low, yet the Potter-Black adoption ritual had succeeded, and no one ever knew about it. Both family magics had to accept the ritual, and if it was truly successful, then young Harry Potter was not only the Lord Potter he appeared to be, but also the Heir to the Black fortune and titles. Moreover, there was no way Sirius Black could have betrayed the Potters; the ritual would not have allowed him to do so.

Harry sensed the winds of change and was pleased to see Dumbledore pale at this unexpected revelation. “I immediately went to see James and Lily; I wanted to see little Harry. When I got there, the door was blasted open. James… James was just there on the floor, his wand by his hand. He was dead. I rushed to him, but there was nothing I could do; he was just gone. I heard something upstairs and ran up. I found Lily in the nursery. The room was trashed, resembling a magical backlash. She was lying in front of Harry's crib, lifeless. There was a scorch mark next to her, and Harry was in his crib, crying, trying to get to Lily. I rushed to him; he had a cut on his forehead—I couldn't believe he was alive. I was so grateful, but then I heard something. I grabbed Harry and his blanket and ran downstairs. It was Hagrid. He saw me with Harry and charged towards me before I could stop him. He said Dumbledore sent him and that he would take Harry to Hogwarts so Madam Pomfrey could look after him. He also told me Dumbledore had asked me to go find Peter. I agreed; the cut wasn't bleeding badly, but I couldn't heal it, and I knew I needed to find Peter. I told Hagrid to take my bike and get Harry to Hogwarts while I went after Peter.

I found him a few hours later, and we fought in the street. He cried out that he knew how I had killed them before blasting off his own finger and sending a spell at me, which misfired and caused a Muggle electric box to explode. He then transformed into his Animagus form and escaped just as the Aurors arrived, and I was arrested. At that point, I went a bit mad, I think—James and Lily were dead, and Peter had gotten away. By the time I regained my senses, I was already in Azkaban."

The room fell silent, then erupted into chaos with everyone demanding questions. After a few minutes, Amelia called for silence.

"When you say Hagrid came, are you talking about Rubeus Hagrid, the groundskeeper at Hogwarts?" Amelia asked for clarification.

"Yes," Sirius replied.

"You say he told you that Dumbledore had asked you to find Peter?" she continued.

"Yes. At the time, the plan sounded good," Sirius confirmed.

"You trusted him?" she pressed.

"Yes. He worked with Dumbledore, and Dumbledore often said he would trust Hagrid with his life," Sirius responded. The expression on Dumbledore’s face at this moment was one that Harry wished he could print and frame.

"I see. So, you never cast the spell that killed twelve Muggles?" she clarified.

"No, I only cast spells at Peter. None of my spells went off course," Sirius said.

"What Animagus form does Peter possess?" Amelia inquired.

"He's an unregistered brown rat," Sirius answered.

"How do you know this?" Amelia questioned further.

"James and I were also unregistered Animagi. We became them in our fifth year at Hogwarts. I'm a big black dog, and James was a stag," Sirius explained.

"You are aware that being unregistered is illegal?" Amelia asked, bemused.

"Yes, but we planned on registering after the war," Sirius replied.

Amelia's tone softened slightly. “The record will note your statement, Mr. Black.” She looked around the room. “Let the Wizengamot remember that the truth does not decay, even when locked away. We will next interrogate Peter Pettigrew."

Immediately, the orb vanished, and Peter found himself standing before a full Wizengamot, terrified. He hardly looked human—his skin was pale, round, and his fingers twitched as if he were still expecting a tail. Two Aurors half-dragged him into the truth circle. Blue runes flared around his feet, and he squealed when they touched his skin.

Amelia Bones didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t have to. “Peter Pettigrew,” she said, “you understand you stand before this court under the influence of Veritaserum?”

He gave a jerky nod, with sweat sliding down his cheek. An Auror immediately administered the truth serum, and Amelia began asking basic questions to confirm his identity.

Thornewell stepped forward, unhurried. “Let’s begin with the night of October thirty-first, nineteen eighty-one. Who performed the Fidelius Charm for the Potters?”

The answer burst out before Pettigrew could stop it. “Professor Dumbledore! He—he bound the spell himself!”

The chamber exploded in whispers, and Harry felt the shock ripple through the room like heat lightning. Every gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, who sat rigid on the dais.

Amelia’s voice cut through the murmurs. “You claim Albus Dumbledore himself cast the Fidelius Charm?”

Pettigrew nodded frantically, words tumbling out. “Yes! Yes—he said it was safest that way—he cast the charm and he—he said I’d keep the secret. Sirius was too obvious; everyone knew he’d die for James, but me—”

The circle flashed white, and he yelped. “I—I volunteered. He let me!”

Someone muttered, “Merlin help us,” while another voice hissed, “If he cast it, he knew—”

Thornewell remained unmoved. “Did Professor Dumbledore ever correct the Ministry when it accused Sirius Black of being the Secret Keeper?”

Pettigrew shook his head violently. “No! Never! I—I don’t know why; I thought—maybe he wanted it that way—”

Harry's stomach twisted. Dumbledore’s face remained carved from ice.

Under questioning, Pettigrew spoke faster, words spilling out. He recounted how he hid the Dark Lord’s fall, cut off his finger, and transformed in the chaos. He described how the sewers stank but felt safer than Azkaban. He spoke of finding the Weasley family—“good people, noisy, perfect cover”—and curling up on their youngest boy’s pillow for twelve years.

He babbled about the nights he listened to Ron’s brothers snore, about learning when Ministry inspections occurred, and about watching the news for any sign of the Dark Lord’s return.

“And when the Boy—when Harry came back to Hogwarts,” he said, trembling, “I thought—I thought if the Dark Lord rose again, I could bring him the child. I’d be forgiven—”

Amelia’s wand glowed brighter. “Enough.”

The word echoed in the chamber. Pettigrew sobbed once and collapsed to his knees.

Every face in the Wizengamot was now turned toward Dumbledore, measuring, questioning, wondering how the man who cast the charm could never correct the lie that had damned Sirius.

Harry felt sick but clearer than he ever had been. He saw it now: cowardice wearing different faces—one scurrying on the floor, another sitting high above, silent when the truth might have saved a friend.

The courtroom felt smaller now. The air had gone sharp and brittle, with every whisper slicing through it. Pettigrew had been taken away, his squeals still echoing faintly down the corridor.

Amelia Bones stood. “The evidence is complete. The Wizengamot will vote.”

Wands rose slowly, one by one. Runes shimmered in the air: violet for guilt and gold for innocence. The gold spread like sunrise, filling the chamber.

“The Wizengamot finds Sirius Orion Black not guilty of all charges.”

The sentence hung in the air. Then the room erupted—robes rustling, voices tumbling over one another. Harry’s throat went tight. He didn’t cheer; he just stared as Sirius bowed his head, shoulders shaking once before he lifted his face to the light.

Amelia raised her hand, and the noise faded.

“Further: this court recognizes the unlawful detention and loss of guardianship rights sustained by Mr. Black. Reparations are set at three million galleons, payable from the Ministry treasury.”

Even Fudge’s spluttering couldn’t break her calm.

“Consider it the price of neglect,” she said. “Perhaps next time we will remember what justice is for.”

At the dais, Dumbledore finally moved. “Madam Bones—surely this compensation is excessive—”

But her gaze pinned him like a nail. “Excessive is eleven years in Azkaban without a trial.”

The murmur turned against him. Harry could feel it—the shift, the unmasking. The same people who used to nod when Dumbledore spoke now avoided his eyes.

“Now, the Wizengamot will vote on Peter Pettigrew,” Amelia informed.

Again, wands rose slowly, one by one. This time, violet spread across the room, filling the chamber.

“The Wizengamot finds Peter Caleb Pettigrew guilty of all charges. You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.”

Two Aurors immediately dragged Peter out of the room, his wails echoing behind him.

Thornewell’s voice remained quiet and respectful. “With your permission, Madam Bones, my client will be released into his rightful guardianship duties at once.”

She nodded. “So ordered.”

For a long second, no one moved. Then Sirius looked up toward the gallery—toward the hidden glass—and even though he couldn’t see through it, Harry knew he felt them there.

Harry, Hermione and Remus shared a relieved look and stood when the court was adjourned. The courtroom emptied slowly, the echo of wands and footsteps fading into the marble corridors.
For the first time in years, Sirius walks without shackles. The air feels too wide, too bright. He stops halfway to the door, blinking as if the light itself might vanish if he looks too hard.

Instead of going back out the way they came though, they went down to where Sirius was standing with Thornewell and Madam Bones. Dumbledore was also there, but he was off to the side, most likely trying to gain some composure.

Harry steps beside him. Neither spoke for a long moment.

Remus murmurs, “It’s really over.”
Sirius huffs a laugh that cracks in the middle. “Over? Merlin, I hope so.”

"Mr. Black, might I introduce the young man who attained me for you and brought to light the injustice of your sentence," Advocate Thornewell said, moving so that Sirius and Amelia would see him approach.

He looks at Harry—properly looks—and something fragile and fierce passes between them.

"Harry?" Sirius whispered, shocked at the boys appearance and his involvement.

Hearing Harry's name, Dumbledore turned sharply and Harry saw his face tighten and eyes grow hard. Dumbledore moved quickly, jumping in front of Harry with a surprising amount of agility for a man of his advanced years.

"Harry, my dear boy, what are you doing here?" he asked, full of grandfatherly concern.

Harry narrowed his eyes and barely stopped them from rolling. "As Advocate Thornewell said, I hired him for my godfather. I would not have missed the trial for anything."

 "But my boy, what about your relatives? Surely they wouldn't have allowed you to come, that to at this time of the day" Dumbledore said.

"I'm not staying with my relatives," Harry said.

"What?!" Dumbledore barely managed not to shout. "Harry, my boy, you must. I really do insist you return to them immediately."

"Why, headmaster?" Harry asked innocently and it was at this point that Dumbeldore noticed Harry’s outfit and Remus standing next to him. A mirage of emotions passed throught him and but it took him a few seconds to regain his composure.

"It is not safe. You need to go back to them for your own protection. I insist."

"I'm sorry, headmaster, but I feel a lot safer now than I have ever before and, anyway, where I spend my summers or any holidays really doesn't have anything to do with you," Harry said.

"That is enough. Harry, you will come with me, and I will return you to your aunt," Dumbledore said, taking a step towards Harry and making him step back.

At this point, Amelia, who had been watching, took a step forward. "Albus, like Mr Potter has said, where he lives during the summer is not your concern. If you fear for his welfare, then it is a ministry issue." She then turned to Harry and said, "Good morning, Mr Potter. My name is Amelia Bones. I think my niece Susan has told you about me." She offered him her hand.

Harry smiled, taking her hand and kissing the air above it. "Good morning, Madam Bones. And, please, call me Harry.” he said.

Amelia smiled lightly. "Susan did say you were charming, Harry. Now, may I ask why you are not staying with your relatives?"

Harry frowned slightly. "I'm sure Susan has told you about them and their treatment of me. I fear how they would react to taking me in after I had been away to school," Harry said.

Amelia's expression turned dark. "So you decided not to return to them?" she asked.

"No. I feared what they would do. I sent them a letter telling them I would not return and got a note back telling me good," Harry explained.

Dumbledore interrupted at that. "Come now, Harry. I'm sure they're missing you. They are the last of your family, after all."

Harry frowned. "Blood does not make family, sir. I consider my friends family: Hermione, Neville, Hannah, Susan, Seamus, Dean and others. I consider Remus family and most likely Sirius once I get to know him. The Dursleys are not my family."

"But my boy, they are your family. They looked after you for ten years," he tried again.

Harry sent Remus a look. "No, they abused me for ten years," Harry said firmly, making Sirius, who had been silent up to this point, gasp.

"What?!" he said, anguished.

"It's okay, it's over. I'm okay now," Harry said, looking into his eyes for the first time.

"Mr. Potter, Harry, those claims are serious. I had hoped to talk to you when you visited in the summer about them; however, if you are willing and able to provide evidence, I can take your statement now," Amelia said, her face sad but supportive.

"Now see here, is that really necessary? Harry, do you really want to get your relatives into trouble?" Dumbledore asked, staring at Harry intently and ignoring the outrage on the faces of the other adults present. A few of the members of the Wizengamot had, at this point, returned and were listening in - including Lucius, who was staring with disbelief and anger at Dumbledore.

"I would be happy to talk to you, Madam Bones - however, could we perhaps get Sirius sorted first? I'm sure he is not comfortable in those robes, and he could probably do with a meal or two," Harry said.

"That would be fine, Harry. Why don't you come in tomorrow with Mr Lupin and I presume Advocate Thorewell as your lawyer? You're staying with Mr Lupin, I gather?" she asked.

"No, I am staying with my friend, Hermione Granger, at her house. Her parents have been very welcoming and I feel safe there. But I am sure Remus can pick me up and bring me to see you tomorrow." Harry said.

"Now, see here. Harry really must return home," Dumbledore said indignantly, noticing Miss Granger only.

Amelia seemed to have had enough and turned to the old man. "Albus, if what Harry says is true, you are insisting he return home to his abusers. He is perfectly safe with at Ms. Granger’s house. If you are so worried I can make Kingsley escort Mr. Lupin, Hermione and Harry back to Ms. Granger’s house and have a word with her parents. however, if you are still that worried I will have them return to my home tonight. I'm sure Susan would love that, anyway," Amelia said.

Dumbledore opened his mouth again, but closed it. "Very well," he said, before turning and dramatically walking to the doors.

Harry turned and looked at Remus and shrugged lightly before turning to look at Sirius and Amelia.

"Sorry about that," he said softly. "I don't know why he takes such an interest in me."

"It's quite alright, Mr. Potter. Now, the offer does stand if you would like to come back to Bones Manor; you're more than welcome," she said.

Harry thought about it before he spoke, "That's okay. Though we would love to see Susie, I fear if we turned up now she would beat me for keeping all of this from her.' Amelia smiled, "Want me to warm her up for you?"

"Please? Maybe mention how much she would miss us if she killed us for keeping secrets?" Harry added. Amelia smiled and approached Harry. "You are always welcome at our home, Harry and Hermione. And about our conversation tomorrow, I will expect you at noon in my office," she said.

"Thank you, Madam Bones," Harry said.

"Oh, and please, call me Amelia when it's nothing official," Amelia said.

Amelia turned then and walked out of the doors Albus had vacated from. Harry walked closer to Sirius and offered the man a smile. Sirius launched himself at Harry and pulled the boy into a tight hug, mumbling "thank you's and I'm sorry's" in between kisses to Harry's head.

"It's okay, Sirius - you're okay, I'm okay," Harry reassured the man.

Remus cleared his throat after a few minutes, pulling Sirius out of his mind and back to the real world.

“Sirius, Harry has arranged for a private healer to take a look at you. Let’s get you to his clinic first and get you checked and maybe have a meal or two and then rest.”, Remus said.

Agreeing, the four quietly left the halls of the ministry  and back to homewhere they would be having long conversations but first someone had to rest.

Behind them, the courtroom doors close with a soft thud. Amelia gives a single nod of acknowledgment; Thornewell inclines his head, already drafting the parchment that will make this verdict permanent. The torches dim.

Outside, dawn has just begun to silver the Ministry atrium. Magic hums faintly through the tiles, and for the first time the sound doesn’t remind Harry of prison bars. It sounds like breathing.

He glances up at the rising light. “Let’s go home.”

Sirius grins—tired, incredulous, free. Together they step through the great doors, the crowd’s murmur fading behind them.

And for the first time, the day belongs to them.