Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A crack shattered the silence of the forest. A man appeared between the trees, as if the cold mist drifting between the trunks had breathed him into existence. Summer was nearly upon them, and yet the night was bitterly cold, as though the seasons themselves wished to make clear that this was no ordinary night – that tonight marked the beginning of a fateful new era.

The man, tall and thin, walked towards the house nestled among the trees, until his legs gave way and he was forced to sit. Leaning back against the rickety fence, he struggled to breathe. The forest air was crisp and clean, and yet it felt like inhaling smoke. Fear, anger, and hatred pressed heavily on his chest. He couldn't quite process the events of the night – he didn't want to.

A beam of light sliced through the mist, blinding the man, who raised a bony hand to shield his eyes.

"Who's there?" called a familiar voice from the darkness.

"It's just me," he replied hoarsely. He had hoped his voice wouldn't tremble, but he couldn't stop it.

"Padfoot?" his old friend said with concern, lowering his wand. "You shouldn't have Apparated. What happened? Is it Harry?"

Sirius tried to make some clever remark about how Remus always worried needlessly, but he couldn't get the words to come out right.

"Let's talk inside," he said at last, rising to his feet. Remus led him in without asking questions.

"Tea?" He offered. He tightened his robe and ran his fingers through his brown hair as he placed the kettle above the kitchen hearth. Sirius suddenly realised it was the early hours of the morning.

"Actually, got anything stronger?"

Remus abandoned the kettle without a word, summoned a bottle of Firewhisky from one of the cupboards, and poured it into two glass tumblers. One of them floated over to Sirius, and only when he grabbed it did he realise his hand was shaking. He downed the drink in a single gulp and turned to look around the house, searching for something to distract him from his nervous energy. It only made things worse. The cluttered table, the fire crackling in the hearth, the open book and blanket draped over the sofa – all of it screamed homeliness, and home was something that had felt foreign to Sirius ever since he'd fled. It made him feel like an intruder.

"Padfoot, tell me what happened," Remus asked, gentle and careful as always. Sirius could only imagine how disturbing his appearance must be – standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring around like he'd dropped from the moon.

He said, "Voldemort is back."

All the colour drained from Remus's face. It was his turn now to drain his glass in one go.
"Are you sure?" he asked, though it was a stupid question – this wasn't the sort of thing one joked about.

Sirius gave a heavy nod. Then, slowly, he began to recount everything to Remus: how he had snuck into Hogwarts to watch the Third Task, how he'd started to worry when Harry and the other Hogwarts champion didn't emerge from the maze, how Harry had finally returned – carrying the other boy's body. And then, with his heart pounding, he told of Harry's account – how Wormtail had murdered the other boy, how Voldemort had risen from the cauldron, and then challenged Harry to a duel, knowing full well the boy stood no chance. Then he came to the part where the figures of Lily and James had appeared, and his voice broke. Remus sank into a nearby chair.

"Somehow, they helped him escape," Sirius finished, staring into his empty glass. "They spoke to him…" He ran a hand down his face, begging himself not to fall apart. "Anyway, he's at Hogwarts now. Madam Pomfrey says he'll be all right."

Remus nodded, though both of them knew that wasn't entirely true. Harry probably wouldn't be all right – not any time soon.

They refilled their glasses and drank in silence. There was nothing to say. Sirius didn't know what Remus was feeling – after all, he'd lived in a world without war all this time – but to Sirius, it felt like the last war had never ended. As if those twelve years had been a void in time, and on the other side of it was only more pain. There had been no peace.

Perhaps, for someone like him – an escaped convict – it didn't really change much. Maybe it just added more names to his list of enemies. But for Harry, it changed everything. And Sirius – who had sworn on the day Harry was born to always protect him – had failed to keep that promise. He couldn't accept the injustice of it all. It wasn't fair that, after Lily and James had given their lives to defeat him, Voldemort should live on. It wasn't fair that Harry should be dragged into it all.

"You couldn't have stopped it," Remus said, as if reading his mind. He'd always had a knack for knowing exactly what Sirius was thinking.

"That doesn't make up for it," Sirius replied darkly, finishing his third drink. He didn't know how to cope with the guilt and the self-loathing. He'd failed Harry again. Failed to protect him, again left him alone to face pain and fear.

Remus opened his mouth to say something comforting, to try and quiet Sirius's guilt with his relentless logic, but Sirius didn't want to be comforted. He felt he deserved to suffer, that he still needed to be punished for the terrible mistake he'd made nearly fourteen years ago, and for everything that had happened since. He didn't want Remus to comfort him – especially not when he hadn't yet forgiven himself for once believing Remus could be the traitor. No matter how many times they'd agreed it was behind them, Sirius hadn't forgotten, and he hadn't forgiven himself.

He filled the silence by passing on the task Dumbledore had given him – to begin gathering the Order of the Phoenix once more.

Remus nodded in agreement, though his face looked exhausted. He seemed to have aged ten years overnight.
"Ready for round two?" Sirius said bitterly, and Remus let out a bark of laughter.
"Yes, how kind of him to give us fourteen years off."

They both laughed, though it wasn't really funny.

"I wish Lily and James were here," Sirius said suddenly, sorrowfully. Ever since Harry had told him he'd seen them, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about them.

"Me too," Remus replied, pouring them a final drink. The sun was beginning to rise, washing the world in a pale, sorrowful light. Remus looked very old, and Sirius dreaded to think how old he himself must appear. He would have given anything to return to their youth, to change everything – or at the very least, to have appreciated what they'd had while they had it.

Remus raised his glass. Sirius mirrored him.

"To Harry Potter."

They drank, and then braced themselves to face the new day – the first day of the war.

Chapter Text

James Potter was an avid newspaper reader. Nothing interesting ever happened in the small town where he lived with his wife and daughter—and, to be honest, not much happened anywhere else in the U.S. either—but he always made a point of thoroughly reading any newspaper that came his way, as if expecting some groundbreaking news that never came.

That day was no different. While his partner chatted with the diner cook where they regularly ate lunch, he sipped his coffee absentmindedly and browsed through the local paper. He knew nothing noteworthy had occurred in recent weeks—he was a cop, after all—yet he skimmed the headlines as if searching for something he wouldn't recognize even if he saw it. He paused over a picture in an article about the local Scouts—a group of boys and girls frozen mid-wave at the camera. It wasn't the first time he thought newspapers would be a lot more interesting if the pictures moved.

He often had ideas like that—popping up when he was focused on something else or just drifting off to sleep. What if cars and motorcycles could fly? What if ghosts were real but just invisible to people?

His daughter always loved hearing the stories he made up, and his partner Matthew used to tell him he was wasted as a cop and should quit and go write screenplays in Hollywood. He always dismissed the suggestion—it sounded ridiculous to him. He was just another guy who enjoyed living a simple life in this quiet corner of the world, with no reason at all to try living another life or leave the town where he was born and raised. He was happy. There was no reason to leave.

But the person who loved his ideas the most was his wife. Lily loved hearing his wild thoughts—when they were driving together or lying side by side in bed. Unlike other people, she didn't laugh at them—they fascinated and comforted her, as if her husband was reminding her of some long-forgotten memories. The ideas were silly—sometimes James was even embarrassed to say them out loud—but even in her darkest times, even on the days when sadness threatened to overwhelm her, they brought a smile to Lily's face. And her smile was worth everything to him.

"Hey, you listening, Jay?" Matthew poked his shoulder, pulling his attention away from an article about the upcoming mayoral election.

"Hm?" James looked up, folding the newspaper. The date blared from the front page—June 23rd, 1995.

"Nick's girlfriend's pregnant," his younger partner said, referring to the cook, who looked even paler than usual.

"Oh, congratulations."

"I don't know," the cook, Nick, said. "We don't know if we're keeping it. We're not married, and we're both still living at home…"

"You're thinking of giving it up for adoption?" James asked, and for some reason the thought unsettled him. The idea of parents abandoning their child disturbed and repulsed him.

"I—"

"Don't do it," he said firmly before the younger man could respond. "That's your kid. If you leave him with someone else, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

The cook looked surprised by the passion in his voice. Matthew said, "No need to get worked up. They haven't decided anything yet."

"Fine," James said slowly, though he didn't feel like he'd gotten worked up at all. "I'm just saying what I think. There's nothing more important than family."

Suddenly, the cook asked, "You and Mrs. Potter—did you ever give a child up for adoption or something?"

"What? Of course not," James replied a little too sharply. "Why would you think that?"

Before the cook could answer, James and Matthew got a call over the radio and had to abandon their lunch and rush back to their patrol car. When they arrived at the scene, it turned out to be a false alarm—an elderly and nearsighted woman had spotted her gardener through the window and thought he was a burglar. But the distraction was enough to make James forget all about the charged conversation at the diner. The strange pain in his chest that arose at the thought of a black-haired baby abandoned by his parents vanished completely. After all, he didn't even know how he was supposed to feel. He and Lily had only one daughter, and they had never had another baby.

The day ended uneventfully, and in the afternoon James returned home. A spring sun still shone over the town, even though it was nearly evening, and the air was warm and sweet. Summer was at the doorstep—his favorite season. Three months of long, warm days before he'd have to contend again with autumn's creeping darkness, which always seemed to cast a shadow over their family.

He parked his truck in the driveway, holstered his gun, and slammed the door behind him, feeling especially cheerful and carefree at the thought of returning home to his family. His hand was on the doorknob when the door opened from the inside.

Standing there was Severus Snape, Lily's longtime friend from college. He was a man James's age, tall and thin, with shoulder-length black hair. In his gaunt face, a hooked nose stood out, along with a pair of dark, calculating eyes that always made James feel like he was under a microscope. As usual, Snape wore a black suit with shiny black shoes, and even though it was warm, he had on a long black coat.

Snape lived in Seattle—so Lily had told him—and whenever he had free time, he would come visit his old friend for lunch. James's police buddies were always surprised he wasn't bothered by the fact that his wife had a male friend, but he would shrug and say he didn't feel threatened by this Severus Snape at all. Lily had chosen him, built a family with him, and lived happily with him—Snape was just a footnote. But privately, James had to admit there was something about the man that deeply unsettled him, like an invisible weight hung between them. As if they'd known each other in a past life—and hadn't liked each other much.

"James," Snape said in that weird formal British tone that always characterized him.

"Sev," James replied. That's what Lily called him.

Snape gave a stiff nod and brushed past James on his way out. James watched him go. He walked toward the street—even though there were no parked cars—and turned left. James turned to go inside, curious, but got distracted by a neighbor who'd just come out to turn on his sprinklers and waved hello. He waved back, and when he looked toward the street again—Snape was gone. He looked both ways, but saw no sign of any passing car. Confused and a little uneasy, James stepped into the house.

The familiar scent and warmth of home wrapped around him the moment he entered, and for a moment he forgot all about Snape and his strange disappearance. The evening sun lit up the family photos in the hallway and the old, comfortable couches in the living room, casting the white walls in gold. James took off his police jacket and walked to the kitchen, where the water was running. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the scene before him with love.

Lily stood with her back to him at the sink, wearing jeans and a floral blouse with the sleeves rolled up, washing dishes and humming a tune. Her reddish-brown hair was tied up in a loose, charming bun and glinted orange and gold in the setting sun. They'd been married nearly sixteen years, and yet to James, she was as beautiful as the day they met.

He walked up behind her—she'd heard him come in—and wrapped his arms around her. She smiled and turned her head so he could kiss her. The motion was simple and natural—like breathing.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," she replied, in the voice he loved so much, looking at him with her beautiful green eyes. "How was your day?"

"Good," he said, not even thinking about the diner conversation. "Yours?"

"Also good," Lily answered, turning back to the dishes. She was a middle school teacher. "Sev came by."

"Yeah, I saw," he said, hiding his displeasure. He didn't want Lily thinking he had a problem with Snape. He let go of her and leaned against the counter. "Say, what kind of car does he drive?"

"I didn't know you were into cars," she teased, slipping into the playful tone they used in their younger years. It was a habit they sometimes revived when they were alone. But when she saw he wasn't joking, she said, "I don't know. Why?"

"I just didn't see any car parked on the street," James replied, suddenly realizing he'd never actually seen Snape driving.

"He probably took a taxi."

"All the way to Seattle?"

"Maybe he's catching a flight."

James said she was probably right and didn't press further, but the question still lingered. He couldn't shake the feeling—an itch he sometimes felt when investigating a crime—that something wasn't quite right.

He showered, changed out of his uniform, and went to look for his daughter. He found Emily in the backyard, practicing her basketball shots.

Emily was their only child, and the next day she would turn eleven. James still couldn't quite believe it. He felt like it was only yesterday she was a tiny, helpless bundle yawning in her mother's arms—and now she could beat him at basketball. Time, he thought, worked in strange ways.

Emily had inherited James's black hair and dark eyes—though she didn't need glasses—and Lily's fair, freckled skin. In most things, she was like her dad: she loved sports, always looked for adventure, and sometimes thought it was okay to bend the rules. Lily blamed James for their daughter's tendency to get into trouble, and he had to admit guilt—he'd gotten into plenty of trouble himself as a kid—but he always said Lily's strong sense of justice had a role too. Emily never did something wrong unless she truly believed it was the right thing to do.

She aimed and threw a perfect arc toward the hoop. James jumped to block it, but the ball flew just past his fingertips and into the net.

"Lucky shot," he teased, not without pride.

"Best out of three?" she challenged. Despite having clearly played for a while, she was excited to face off against her dad. Loose black hairs curled around her sweat-dampened face—her hair, like his, tended to stick out in all directions—and her freckled cheeks were flushed and glowing. She looked so happy, it warmed James's heart.

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you," he said, knowing full well she'd probably beat him again.

They played until dusk, when Lily called them in for dinner. Emily made one last shot—winning the second game—and they walked inside, the ball tucked under James's arm.

"The new school has a girls' basketball team," Emily said. She was starting middle school in September. "Do you think I'll make it? There'll be older girls there…"

"I'm sure you'll make it," James said. "You even beat me—and I didn't go easy on you—"

"Dad!" Emily said, a flicker of insecurity on her face.

"I'm kidding! You'll be great, Em," James said, pride swelling inside him. She looked a little more confident.

Throughout dinner, Emily couldn't stop talking about the family camping trip planned for the next day for her birthday. James did his best to answer all her many questions, explaining repeatedly, much to her disappointment, that there were no tigers in Olympic National Park. All through dinner, Lily was unusually quiet. James tried to catch her gaze, but it was like she was thousands of miles away, hearing and seeing nothing. To his relief, Emily didn't seem to notice her mother's behavior as she described how the Scouts had taught them to identify bear tracks.

After dinner, Emily rushed to her room to finish packing, and James stayed to do the dishes while Lily went to shower. He finished quickly and hurried to their room, entering just as Lily emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, drying her hair.

"You okay?" he asked gently, sensing her somber mood.

"Yes," she replied. He didn't expect another answer—and knew it wasn't honest. She must have seen it on his face, because she added, "Really, James. I'm just… thinking."

James nodded, not pressing for more. He knew his wife well—maybe better than anyone—and knew there was no clear explanation for the darkness that sometimes clouded her heart.

It had started right after Emily was born. During the day, she would break down in tears without warning. At night, she would fall asleep from exhaustion and talk in her sleep, crying out to a faceless figure and begging for mercy.

"Please, no… not him… take me instead…"

Worried sick, James had taken her to the best doctors. They all gave the same diagnosis—postpartum depression. The young couple accepted the explanation, and James gave up on his dream of a big family with many children. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing his wife in that state again.

But the darkness never fully left her. It tended to come in the fall, but sometimes it would show up out of nowhere. It worried him—but he knew it always passed eventually, and he'd get his smiling wife back.

He stepped toward her, and she closed the distance, letting him hold her tight.

"Do you ever get that feeling," she whispered, "like something bad is about to happen?"

He pulled back to look at her face. A strange, frozen expression had taken over her features. He kissed her, trying to erase it—and to his relief, it worked.

"Everything will be fine," he said, brushing his thumb across the pale freckles on her cheek. "There aren't really bears in the camp —I only said that so Emily won't go looking for trouble."

Lily laughed suddenly. The sound warmed James's heart. He kissed her again, filled with a rising sense of optimism. A feeling that as long as they were together, nothing could stand in their way—not even the darkness.

They set off before the sun had risen, the car's boot packed with camping gear, and in the back seat, an excited Emily couldn't stop yawning. They left the town and began driving along the deserted road that led to the motorway, flanked on both sides by fields stretching from horizon to horizon.

James glanced over at Lily as the first light began to appear in the sky, pleased to see she looked far more at ease than she had the previous evening. She felt his gaze and smiled at him, placing her hand on his knee. He couldn't relate to the ominous prophecy they had heard the night before. He felt it in his bones – this was going to be a wonderful day.

The sky was pink, and the rest of the world seemed very dark. His head began to ache. He drank a little water, convinced it was just fatigue, but the pain only worsened, pounding in his temples with unbearable intensity. He began to brake, intending to pull over, but before he could stop, he felt as if he were being flung out of his own body, and darkness enveloped him.

The next thing he remembered was wind. A strong wind struck him from every direction, as though he were standing atop a very high mountain. But he wasn't cold. He didn't feel anything, as if all his limbs had gone numb. It was very dark. He tried to strain his eyes to see his surroundings, and they gradually began to lighten around him: a starry night sky, solid shadows encircling him – people? – and in the distance, the lights of a small town. As the picture came into focus, he realised he was standing in a graveyard, and dark figures surrounded him on all sides. Between him and them was a barrier – a web of golden light.

He tried to remember what had happened but couldn't – it was as though the past was a gaping black void. He tried to recall his name. Only when he looked to the side and recognised Lily did he remember who he was, though he still couldn't recall what had brought him to this place. He tried to look down at his body, but saw nothing. Was he dreaming?

He tried to speak to Lily, to cling to something familiar, but she didn't seem to hear him over the roar of the wind. She was transfixed by the scene before her, her face awash with confusion and astonishment. James looked and saw what she was seeing – two wizards, a golden thread of magic linking their wands, locked in a struggle. He couldn't understand what was happening, or why he was there, when suddenly the realisation hit him. He suddenly knew who they were – and why they were fighting.

Voldemort. He looked different than the last time James had seen him, but there was no mistaking it – it was him. His rage-filled face was pale and elongated, almost serpentine, and his eyes were blood-red. Still, James recognised him – he recognised his killer.

He couldn't comprehend it. He was dead. Voldemort had murdered him that night – he had accepted death with open arms – and yet here he was. He didn't feel dead. He knew he was alive. He was disconnected from his body in that moment, unable to recall what had happened, but he knew he was alive – he was aware of his unconscious body in the front seat of the car that had veered into the ditch at the roadside.

The person Voldemort was duelling – who was he? James tried to move to get a better look, to see his face. The boy noticed him and stared back with wide eyes, as if seeing a ghost. He had green eyes – Lily's eyes – but his face was James's own, from his youth.

Harry. How could he have forgotten him? How had they forgotten him? He looked at Lily, realising she was just as stunned to see their little boy, who had become a young man overnight –

Only it hadn't happened overnight. He was beginning to understand that years had passed. He was beginning to understand that something had happened to him that night. Somehow, he hadn't died, but had lost all his memories, and somehow, he had managed to begin an entirely new life with Lily on the other side of the world. They had had another child and lived out some story someone had spun for them, as though their previous life had never existed. As though Harry had never existed…

He urged himself to focus on what was happening. There was no time to dwell on what had been or drown in guilt – not now. Harry was in danger, and he needed their help.

Chapter Text

Emily Potter had never been as frightened as she was that morning, when her parents' car veered off the road and crashed into the ditch at the roadside. She screamed, and for several moments was too confused to do anything; the impact with the ground had jolted her violently, even though she was strapped in, and the world filled with smoke and the sharp scent of fuel. By the time she became fully aware again, much of the smoke had drifted away in the breeze, and the only thing she could register was that her parents were slumped lifelessly in the front seats. She didn't know how much time had passed.

"Dad? Mom?" she called, her voice cracking with terror. They didn't move. She tried to reach her father's shoulder, but the seatbelt wouldn't let her.

With great effort, Emily managed to unbuckle herself and crawl out of the wrecked vehicle into the ditch. Her legs trembled violently. The world was deathly silent; no cars passed on the road, no workers were visible in the fields, not even birdsong broke the hush. Only the sun continued to climb lazily through the clear sky, as if nothing had happened.

Her parents still didn't move, hanging in their seatbelts like a pair of puppets. They didn't appear injured—so why weren't they waking up? Could they be—?

No, Emily told herself, refusing to give in to the tears of fear and helplessness that threatened to fill her eyes. They're not dead. They're okay. They're just hurt and need her help. She had to be brave. She just needed to find a way to call for help—

A loud crack startled her so much she screamed. For a moment she was certain the smoking car had exploded, but nothing of the sort had happened. She spun around, searching for the source of the noise, and was alarmed to see that she was no longer alone.

A man, around her parents' age, was standing with her in the ditch. He wore a long, strange black coat with silver embroidery at the hem and cuffs—maybe he was an actor in a medieval play?—and his long black hair hung over a face as pale as chalk. Suddenly, Emily realised she knew him—this was Sev, her mother's friend. He had visited them only the day before, quiet and formal as always. How had he got there so suddenly?

Before she could ask him one of the dozens of questions now rushing through her mind, he had already stepped past her without a word and peered through the driver's window at Emily's unconscious parents. Abruptly, he pulled a thin wooden stick from his sleeve and tapped the car door, which swung open at his command, as if by magic. And if that wasn't strange enough, another wave of the stick made her parents' seatbelts release and they floated out of their seats into the air.

It had to be a prank, Emily suddenly realised. Her parents were playing a trick on her. It must have been Dad's idea, she told herself—only he would come up with something so crazy.

"All right, I get it," she said to her parents. "You got me. You can stop now."

They didn't respond. Emily kept waiting for them to wake up and shout, "Surprise!", but it never came. Both of them looked extremely pale, like ghosts.

Tears welled in her eyes. "Say something!"

"They can't hear you," Sev told her sternly.

"What's wrong with them?" she demanded, starting to panic. "And how did you get here? How are you doing all this—?"

Before she could finish the question, Sev grabbed her shoulder in a sudden motion. An instant later, a strange pulling sensation yanked deep in her stomach, as if a hook were dragging her through a very narrow tube. Before she could make sense of the feeling, she was standing in her own living room.

She spun around in astonishment, unable to process what had just happened. Maybe she was dreaming? That was the only explanation that made sense. She pinched herself, but it didn't help.

"You're not dreaming," Sev said in that same monotone, emotionless voice, while expertly guiding Emily's parents through the air. He laid her mother down gently on the large sofa, and her father—rather less gently—onto the rug at its foot. There they lay, unmoving, asleep.

"How are you doing this?" she asked again. Could it be that Sev had some sort of supernatural powers? A silly thought. And yet—

"I have to go," he said firmly. He spoke without looking at her, just as he always had. It had always given Emily the impression that her mother's friend didn't like her. And yet, every time he visited, he brought her presents, even after she was too old for such things.

"But—"

"Your mother will explain everything," he said coolly. He pulled a carved wooden box from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table, then with another sharp crack—he vanished.

Emily ran to where he'd just stood, waving her arms as if searching for strings or tricks that could explain the illusion, but there was nothing. He was simply gone.

Her next step was to check on her parents again. She shook them hard, called to them loudly, but couldn't wake them. Her only comfort was that they were definitely alive; her mother's eyes twitched beneath closed lids, and her father moved his lips as if speaking to someone.

After accepting that she wouldn't be able to rouse them, Emily approached the box Sev had left behind. Hoping for some kind of explanation, she opened it. Inside, on a bed of red silk, lay two carved wooden sticks, like the one Sev had used. Wands.

Emily sank onto the coffee table, forgetting that her mother always scolded her for doing that. She reached out to touch one of the wands—the longer, darker, shinier one—and drew her hand back immediately when she felt a stinging jolt at her fingertips. Despite this, she gathered her courage and picked it up, holding it with her whole hand; it felt as though lightning surged from the wood through her entire body, making her hair stand on end.

She quickly placed the wand back in the box and slammed the lid shut, looking at her parents. The sun had already risen, flooding the room with bright light that only made Lily and James Potter's pallor more striking. Suddenly they looked much older than they were.

Like any child, there had been a time when Emily believed fairy tales were real. She had gone through a phase where she believed in magic, dragons, and unicorns. Her parents never paid it much mind, and she too had grown out of it, realising those beliefs were a bit silly. She was too old to play pretend. But now she began to remember that when she was very small, she'd believed she had special powers. She had believed she could do magic, and she had proof to back it up: the black cat that had leapt into the classroom and caused chaos just when she hadn't done her homework; the soda bottle that exploded in the face of an older girl who bullied her on the basketball court; the time she got lost on a family trip and suddenly found herself right next to their car again—plus many more. Back then, she liked to think she had powers she could rely on in times of trouble. But as she grew up, those strange events stopped, and she told herself she'd imagined the magic to explain things she couldn't understand.

But now… it didn't seem so ridiculous to think that maybe—just maybe—magic could be real.

She didn't know how long had passed before the crack sounded again. She leapt to her feet. Sev had returned, this time appearing calmer and more collected than before, and with him came an old man. A very old man—possibly the oldest person Emily had ever seen—but he didn't look feeble or confused the way old people usually did. He was very thin but stood upright, and his bright eyes burned with a fire that was almost frightening. If Emily had ever needed to imagine what a wizard looked like, it would be this man exactly: long white beard, purple velvet robes, and a matching hat.

The old wizard looked over Emily's unconscious parents, then turned his gaze to her. The look in his eyes scared her—he seemed angry, and at the same time so emotional he was barely holding back tears.

"They've had another child?" he asked. It took Emily a moment to realise he wasn't speaking to her, but to Sev.

"Yes," Sev answered very quietly. Emily thought this was probably the first time he had ever looked her directly in the eyes. "Emily. She's eleven today."

The old man took a wheezy breath and then straightened, as if shaking off sudden weakness. Then he smiled at Emily—a small, pained, but genuine smile. She had never known her grandparents, but she had the feeling that if she had, this is how they would have looked at her.

"We haven't much time," he said after a moment, turning back to her parents. He drew his own wand—long and nearly white—and leaned down to press its tip to Lily's forehead. She woke instantly.

"No! Harry!" she screamed, startling Emily, and sat bolt upright as if to leap off the sofa.

Sev was beside her in a flash, gently pressing her back into a sitting position. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Sev?... How...?" Her eyes landed on the old man. "Professor Dumbledore?..."

"Good to see you again, Lily," the old man—Dumbledore—said gently. "Please, call me Albus. I haven't been your teacher in quite some time."

Emily's mother looked from one man to the other, then at her husband lying on the floor, and finally at Emily, who now realised she was on the verge of tears. Her mother tried to stand, but Sev stopped her again. Instead, Emily ran into her arms, letting her mother hold her tightly. Only then did she realise how truly scared she'd been over the past few hours.

"What happened to us?" she heard her mother ask, her voice trembling in a way that made Emily tremble too. "What happened to Harry? Tell me he's all right—"

"He's safe," Dumbledore assured her. "Severus will explain everything—I'm as confused as you are, Lily—but we'll need you to be ready to restrain James if necessary. We fear he won't take this as well as you..."

For some reason, Emily's mother looked at Sev. Emily herself couldn't get the sound of her mother's scream out of her mind and had no idea how anyone could react worse than that. Lily nodded.

Dumbledore pressed the tip of his wand to James's forehead. He too woke with a jolt, as though doused in cold water. But he didn't scream—he only gasped sharply, as if surfacing from underwater. He looked around, tried to speak but no sound came, tried to stand but collapsed back onto the rug.

"Don't get up. You've been through an ordeal, my boy," Dumbledore said, but James didn't seem to hear him.

"You did this!" he shouted at Sev, who was still standing beside Emily and her mother. Sev didn't react to the accusation—he merely withdrew the hand that had rested on Lily's shoulder. "I don't know how, but it was you! All these years, I knew something was off—"

"Yes, it was me," Sev interrupted coldly. Emily had never heard such venom in a voice. "And I'd suggest you be grateful, Potter. I saved your lives."

Emily couldn't believe it, but her father was struck speechless. He looked between Sev and his wife—who was now intently studying Emily's hair—and shook his head in disbelief. Then he looked up at the old wizard and demanded, "Did you know about this?"

"No, I did not," Dumbledore replied passionately. "Like everyone else in the wizarding world, I believed you were dead."

Emily stared between her parents in shock. Dead?

"Perhaps Emily should wait in the kitchen?" Dumbledore suggested.

"No, it's all right," Emily's mother said firmly. She didn't seem willing to let go of Emily, and Emily was glad of that. "We'll have to tell her sooner or later."

Her father tried to stand again, and this time succeeded.

"What happened, Dumbledore?" he asked desperately. "The Fidelius Charm was supposed to protect us. What went wrong? What happened to Harry?"

"Who's Harry?" Emily, growing more and more confused, asked. Everyone looked at her, but no one seemed eager to answer.

"It was Peter," Lily said suddenly.

"No," her husband replied at once, staring at her almost pleadingly. He was still very pale, as if ill, and the look didn't suit him at all. "He wouldn't betray us..."

"I'm sorry," Dumbledore said gravely, "but that's what happened. We suspected a spy among us... it was him."

James ran a hand through his messy hair and then, without warning, swore loudly. Their TV screen shattered. Emily jumped, but couldn't tear her eyes away from the frightening scene. Her father kept cursing, covering his face with one hand and clutching his glasses with the other, until her mother called out shakily for him to restrain himself.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice tight. Emily had never seen her father so angry. "I'm sorry, Lily... Emily..."

Emily didn't know why he was apologising to her, but it made her feel very sad.

"You couldn't have known," her mother, who clearly understood better than Emily why he was sorry, said.

"I should have known," he insisted. "I should never have trusted him... we agreed to trust only Sirius, and I broke that agreement—"

"We made that decision together," Lily said firmly. "But... Merlin, Remus..."

"He was never the spy," Dumbledore confirmed.

"That's what Wormtail wanted us to think," James said suddenly, and looked ready to shout again. "He used Remus's absence to make us suspect him... and then he got us to make him the Secret-Keeper..."

"We underestimated him," Lily said bitterly—uncharacteristically so.

"What happened next?" James asked, glaring at Sev. "Voldemort found us. He killed me... how—?"

"I don't know," Sev said.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" James shouted, ready to lunge. His wife shot him a warning look.

"I don't know why you didn't die," Sev explained, speaking of it with a near-frightening detachment. Emily still couldn't understand what was going on. "I only know that I was the first to arrive at your house after he... disappeared. You were both alive, but only just. You were in some kind of coma, like today. I still didn't understand what had happened – I didn't know he'd been defeated—"

"He was defeated?" James interrupted. "But we saw him—"

"Patience, James," said Dumbledore, clearly unsettled but trying hard not to show it. "Go on, Severus."

"I didn't know he'd been defeated," Snape continued evenly. "I couldn't understand why he hadn't managed to kill the boy—" He glanced then at Emily's mother, who sat stiff as a statue, her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes barely blinking. "But I didn't believe he was dead. I knew that whatever the reason for his disappearance, he would never stop hunting you. Not as long as the boy lived. So I cast a memory charm on you and took you away, to a place where I could try to heal you. Later, when you were no longer in danger, I made plans to relocate you far away and make you believe you were Muggles. I knew it was only a matter of time before he returned to try and kill you again, and I knew he would never find you if you left the wizarding world."

Silence followed the end of the tale. Emily's father looked at Snape as if ready to strangle him, and her mother's face bore the same vacant, shocked expression. Dumbledore looked as though he was weighing the story carefully. Emily wanted to ask the dozens of questions now racing through her mind—Snape was a wizard? Who was Voldemort? Which boy was he talking about?—but she had a strong feeling this wasn't the time to interrupt.

"Rubeus Hagrid and Sirius Black arrived at the scene shortly after," Dumbledore said after a pause. "They saw the bodies of Lily and James Potter. There was a funeral—I attended it—I saw them buried. How did you do it?"

"A simple transfiguration spell," Snape explained coolly. "It was a risk, but I knew their loved ones would be too distraught to notice the difference. I was right. Everyone was either too grief-stricken or too focused on the boy's future to spot the illusion."

"You never cease to amaze me, Severus," Dumbledore said, with a trace of pride. "You even fooled me."

Snape looked as if he was about to reply when Emily's mother suddenly asked, her voice trembling, "Why did you leave Harry behind? Why didn't you take him too?"

Snape was speechless. For the first time since arriving, he stepped away from Lily's mother, clasped his hands behind his back, and avoided her gaze.

"You wanted him dead," Emily's father suddenly said, his voice shaking the walls as he continued, "You were a Death Eater! You thought Harry was a threat too—you wanted Voldemort to kill him!"

This time, his wife didn't try to calm him.

"Severus, is that true?" she asked her friend, her voice cracking.

"No," Snape replied calmly, still not looking at her. "I knew he would be safe under Dumbledore's protection. I wanted..." he cleared his throat, steadying his voice. "I knew you would never be safe as long as the boy was with you."

Emily's mother stood so suddenly she nearly knocked her daughter off the sofa.

"How could you?!" she screamed. Emily had never heard her mother raise her voice before. "How could you do that?! He's my son!"

Without warning, Lily broke into heartbreaking sobs. Her husband went to her, wrapping her in a comforting embrace, looking no less shaken himself, though he tried to hide it.

Emily didn't know how to put into words what she felt watching her parents fall apart. There were so many things she didn't understand—but there was one thing she did: somewhere out there, she had a brother. A brother her parents had never mentioned, and yet clearly loved deeply.

"I think we should take a short break," Dumbledore said, with perfect gentleness as he addressed the grieving couple. "When you are ready to hear the rest of the story, you're welcome to come to my office. I'll connect your fireplace to the Floo Network."

James nodded without looking at him. Lily was still trembling with silent sobs. Emily watched as Snape and Dumbledore Disapparated with loud cracks, leaving her alone with her mourning parents, who suddenly felt like strangers.

As if reading her thoughts, her father turned to look at her and gave a sad smile. Emily felt slightly calmer—he looked far more like the dad she knew when he smiled.

"What have you got there?" he asked, and she realised she was still holding the box Snape had left behind. She opened it, revealing the contents to her parents. Her father smiled wistfully, as if seeing an old friend he hadn't met in years.

"Lily, look at this," he said softly to his wife, taking the two wands from the box. He kept the longer, darker wand for himself, and held out the lighter one to his tearful wife. She took it, and at once seemed more composed. She took a deep breath and let a final tear roll freely down her cheek.

"I'll make tea," James said, giving a flick of his wand to magically repair the broken television. "Then we'll explain everything, Em."

Emily nodded, too stunned to speak. Her father had just performed real magic in front of her. And what was perhaps even stranger—they'd never even had tea in the house.

Chapter Text

"Come along, children... quickly now..."

Ginny rolled her eyes as her mother hurried her, Ron, and Fred and George towards a row of shabby town houses. That seemed to be all her mother had said since they'd left the Burrow that morning—"Come on", "Careful", "Quickly"—as if Ginny and her brothers didn't understand that the situation was serious, and they weren't simply out on a stroll through Muggle London with their mum.

Ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament, Ginny had known her life was about to change—she just hadn't expected it to happen so soon or so suddenly.

The days following Cedric Diggory's death had been drenched in a strange calm before the storm, but that slowly faded into a dull, sleepy silence. The Daily Prophet denied the rumours of You-Know-Who's return, and no one seemed intent on changing their daily routine because of it. Only Ginny's parents, who had seemed more tense and anxious than ever since picking her and her brothers up from the train station at the end of term, took unusual precautions, as though they were expecting one of You-Know-Who's followers to jump out at them at any moment.

Ginny soon realised their caution came from painful experience; less than a week after the children had returned home, the residents of the Burrow woke to find a message scorched into the lawn in fiery letters: Blood traitors, beware.

For some reason, the incident hadn't frightened Ginny as much as is should have. Perhaps she hadn't truly understood the threat, or simply didn't want to. Her father hadn't gone to work that day, and he and her mother shut themselves in the kitchen with Professor Dumbledore, who had appeared at their door almost immediately after being summoned, looking more solemn than ever. Ginny, Ron, Fred, and George were forced to wait upstairs, speculating about what their parents and the headmaster were discussing for so long. Only Percy had put on his best robes and gone to work, as though nothing had happened.

That evening, their parents told them they'd be leaving the Burrow the next day. Not long after, Percy returned, and once again Ginny and her brothers were banished from the kitchen—only this time, the shouting could be heard even from the top of the stairs. The following day, Percy was gone, and their parents looked as though they'd aged overnight. Their mother's eyes were still red when they set out on their journey.

They had spent the entire morning hopping from one place to another by Floo and Portkey, as though trying to confuse an invisible shadow trailing them, until they finally found themselves in the heart of a run-down Muggle neighbourhood. When the four siblings were just a few steps from the entrance of Number 13, their mother suddenly halted them and lined them up. She then pulled a piece of parchment from her handbag and handed it to Fred. He blinked and read the message.

"The headquarters of—"

"Not out loud!" their mother hissed. "Memorise the address, quickly."

Fred read the note and passed it to George, who passed it to Ron, who gave it to Ginny. Scribbled in neat handwriting were the words: The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London.

"Finished?" her mother asked.

"Yes, but what is—"

Ginny's question was cut off as the note burst into flames in her hand, turning to ash in an instant. At that very moment, the houses on the street began to shift, Number 11 and Number 13 sliding apart and pushing the others aside to make room for Number 12. None of the Muggle residents on the street seemed to notice anything strange; the houses were devoid of signs of life—perhaps because it was midday—and only a dog in Number 8 barked at the newly appeared house.

"Inside, quickly," their mother urged again, ushering them towards the peeling door of the house.

Ginny looked up before entering. Stone gargoyles perched on the cracked windowsills, and the plaster was peeling from the reddish bricks. More than anything, the place gave the impression of being haunted.

Inside wasn't much more welcoming. They found themselves in a narrow hallway with peeling green wallpaper, lit by iron lamps shaped like serpents.

"What is this place?" George asked, eyeing a closed door whose wood carvings had blackened with age.

"Don't touch anything," their mother said, still whispering for some reason. "There should be stairs leading to the kitchen... here, I think it's to the right—"

"Ouch!" Ron, walking ahead of Ginny, stumbled and nearly fell on the dusty rug. Ginny caught a glimpse of what had tripped him—it looked like an umbrella stand fashioned from a stuffed troll's leg.

Ron's cry awoke a chorus of furious and confused portraits, led by a huge painting of a furious old woman, revealed behind a pair of moth-eaten curtains. She pointed a bony finger at them and shrieked, "Blood traitors! Muggle lovers! Shame upon you —!"

Even if Ginny had wanted to hear more, she couldn't; the barrage of screams and accusations was so loud she had to cover her ears, pressing her back to the wall in helpless panic.

"Ron, Ginny, downstairs!" their mother shouted over the chaos. "Fred, George, help me!"

Fred and George whipped out their wands—since turning seventeen, they used any excuse to practice magic outside of school—and Ron and Ginny hurried down the stairs to the basement kitchen without protest, unable to endure the deafening noise.

They found themselves in a large stone room, in the centre of which stood a rough wooden table big enough to seat at least a dozen people. Ginny's first thought was that, despite the lack of windows and the generally gloomy appearance, her mother would love cooking in this spacious, well-equipped kitchen—she always complained the Burrow's kitchen was too small.

Her second thought was that she and Ron were not alone. A tall man in a loose cloak was rummaging through the cupboards. As soon as they entered, he glanced at them from behind the cupboard door and gave a strange smile, as though he'd forgotten how to smile and was only now learning it again.

Ginny's breath caught in her throat. She knew she should scream, do something to call for help, but she was so stunned no sound came out. He looked different from the wanted posters—he wasn't filthy, and his hair and beard were trimmed—but there was no doubt in her mind: this was Sirius Black, the mass murderer.

"Hey, Sirius," Ron said casually, apparently not at all alarmed by the presence of a wanted criminal. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my house," Sirius Black replied. His voice was hoarse, but not especially threatening. Ginny stared at him, clutching her backpack straps tightly. "Well, it was my parents' house. I haven't lived here since I was sixteen. I offered it to Dumbledore as headquarters—no one's lived here for years, as you can probably tell... You're enormous, Ron, what are they feeding you at Hogwarts?"

Ron laughed awkwardly. Lately he hadn't stopped growing—he was nearly as tall as Bill and Charlie now.

"And who's this?" Sirius asked, nodding at Ginny, who felt a sudden stab of panic in her gut. He seemed to notice her fear and tried to offer a reassuring smile.

"This is Ginny, my sister," Ron explained offhandedly. "Ginny, this is Sirius. He's Harry's godfather. Don't worry, he's not really a murderer."

"Nice to meet you," Sirius said. Ginny still couldn't speak. The situation was just too strange.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs above—it sounded like Fred, George, and their mother had managed to silence the screaming portraits.

Suddenly Ron looked as though he'd had a brilliant idea.

"Hey, want to help me prank my brothers?"

A spark of rare delight lit Sirius's pale eyes.

"Absolutely," he said with almost boyish glee, and slipped into the pantry.

Ginny stared after him in disbelief. Ron nudged her and whispered not to spoil the surprise.

Fred, George, and their mother entered the kitchen moments later, commenting on the colourful language of the portraits and the sorry state of the house. Ginny wondered if she should say something—she thought it would be funny to prank Fred and George, but had a feeling their mum would be less amused—but before she could decide, Sirius burst from the pantry and gave them a fright.

Ginny couldn't help but burst into laughter at Fred and George's reactions. They were usually the ones pulling pranks, and their matching expressions of fear and shock at seeing the notorious fugitive were both rare and hilarious. George apparently tried to curse Black but dropped his wand in panic, which shot off a burst of sparks that startled Fred even more.

Ginny couldn't stop laughing, and Ron laughed so hard no sound came out, his face turning beet-red. Even Sirius laughed—a booming, genuine laugh that made him look younger and surprisingly handsome.

"This isn't funny!" Ginny's mother shouted, her face flushing with anger. Her wand was in hand—it looked like she was about to hex Sirius before realising it was a prank. "Mr Black, this is not a subject for jokes! I could have hexed you!"

"I'll take a few hexes for a good laugh," Sirius replied, looking utterly unbothered. "And call me Sirius."

Ginny thought nothing could be stranger than meeting the wizarding world's most wanted man and finding out he was actually quite nice—but the day only got stranger.

Shortly after the prank, Professor Lupin arrived—the same one who had taught Defence Against the Dark Arts during Ginny's second year and had reportedly resigned because he was a werewolf. He wore thick dragon-hide gloves and carried a crate that mumbled and swore softly, which the twins examined with keen interest. He greeted the children warmly, introduced himself to their mother, as if there was nothing odd about him being there, and apologised for being late—he had hoped they'd meet Sirius under more pleasant circumstances. Ron tried to ask what he was doing there, but Lupin only said their parents would explain everything, and he had to go release a particularly rude Jarveys he'd trapped in an upstairs loo.

"Shame, I quite liked that creature," Sirius said after Lupin left. "It was a lot less awful than most things that crawl around here."

That statement left even Fred and George speechless. Their mother didn't waste time, immediately setting all four of them to work preparing lunch before they could ask too many questions. Her only answer to the few they managed to slip in between instructions was, "We'll talk when your father gets here."

When Ron looked to Sirius for answers, he simply gestured that he wasn't allowed to speak.

By the time lunch was ready and the six of them sat down to eat, Fred and George, who had been whispering between themselves the entire time, finally gathered the courage to ask Sirius how he escaped Azkaban. Sirius, who for some reason hadn't sat down and was pacing by the door, looked surprised.

"I don't think this is suitable mealtime conversation," Molly said uneasily.

"It's fine," Sirius replied. "It's not dark or anything. I'm an Animagus—I can turn into a dog. I just slipped through the bars and escaped. Dementors can't really see, you know."

Fred and George looked slightly disappointed. Their mother, however, seemed relieved that Sirius didn't have any sinister secrets that might encourage mischief.

"Well, aren't you going to sit down?" she asked him as he continued to pace.

Sirius looked surprised, as though he hadn't expected to be invited. He glanced at Molly, then at the food, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then sat down next to Ginny with a sheepish expression, as though he didn't feel it was his place to intrude on a family meal. Ginny tried not to look directly at his face as she passed him the salad. It must have been strange—perhaps even frightening—to sit down to a meal after so many years of isolation. As the fugitive devoured his lunch with odd intensity, Ginny was torn between a fierce curiosity to hear his story and a dread of the pain it might contain.

When they finished eating, the doorbell rang, and the sound reawakened the choir of disgruntled portraits. Sirius went to answer it, and they could hear him battling with the screeching woman before silencing her and opening the door. Ginny recognised her father's voice, who was clearly making a visible effort to treat Sirius in a civil manner while the latter directed him where to place the luggage and crates from the Burrow.

"Maybe now we'll finally find out what's going on," George whispered to his brother.

A few minutes later, their father entered the kitchen without Sirius, and the four children were seated around the table at last to hear an explanation. Their parents told them they were now at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a house once owned by the notorious Black family and now serving as the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order, they explained, was an organisation Dumbledore had created to fight You-Know-Who and his followers. They would be staying here all summer, as it was far safer than the Burrow (Fred, George, and Ginny protested this loudly, but Ron received the news with oddly calm acceptance), and their parents expected them not to interfere with Order business.

"What about Harry?" Ron asked, after their mother had finished shutting down his siblings' complaints. "Will he be coming to live here too?"

"Eventually, yes, but for now he must stay with his aunt and uncle," she replied, and before Ron could argue, she added, "We don't like it either, Ron, but those are Dumbledore's orders. And one more thing—you mustn't tell anyone about this house or the Order, not even Harry. It has to remain a secret. We're trusting you to take this seriously. Understood?"

Ron kept arguing, claiming they couldn't possibly keep it from Harry that they were fighting You-Know-Who—especially since Harry had been the one to witness his return in the first place. Their mother made it clear that it wasn't up for debate. Ginny felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment upon learning that Harry wouldn't be joining them just yet.

Despite Ginny's initial dissatisfaction with the sudden move to 12 Grimmauld Place, after a few days she had to admit it wasn't so bad. The house, which had needed a thorough cleaning to be remotely livable, was full of strange and dangerous objects, and Ginny and her brothers were rarely bored—even though they often complained about the long hours spent cleaning. Sirius and Professor Lupin frequently joined them in their cleaning efforts, and time always passed faster when they were around; for an ex-convict and a former teacher, they made surprisingly good company.

Besides that, the members of the Order were shrouded in mystery, and Ginny and her brothers enjoyed spying on them when they came to the house for meetings or other secretive missions. Most of them were strangers, but some faces were familiar. Professor McGonagall and Hagrid showed up from time to time, and Snape never missed a meeting, always arriving and leaving in a storm without speaking to anyone. Fred and George had even begun developing a magical device that allowed them to eavesdrop partially on the Order members. They always knew when something exciting was happening—their mother would inevitably shoo them off to their rooms—and they would sneak back to the landing with their Extendable Ears to listen to the conversations taking place in the kitchen or parlor.

Before long, they had a general idea of what the Order was doing. They gathered that some members were tasked with collecting intelligence, others with recruiting new Order members, and almost everyone was assigned to guard something. Ginny and her brothers figured out that "something" was Harry—they often heard Sirius's hoarse voice complaining about not being allowed to take part in the guard rotations.

Soon enough, Ginny wasn't the only girl in the house. A few days after the move, Hermione wrote to Ron to tell him she'd noticed suspicious people following her while shopping with her mother. The next day, she arrived at Grimmauld Place with her trunk in tow.

Ginny liked Hermione, especially since they'd shared a room before the Quidditch World Cup the summer before. Hermione was very different from Ginny's other friends at school, and Ginny found that refreshing. She was extremely intelligent—always offering a new and interesting perspective on everything—and Ginny felt like she could talk to her about personal things without being judged, unlike her other friends, in front of whom she always felt a little afraid to be herself, to be different or strange. Hermione always understood her, and never made her feel bad for seeing the world differently. The two especially enjoyed gossiping about Ron and Harry.

Hermione took the ban on interfering in the Order's business very seriously, especially after Dumbledore had spoken to her and Ron privately about the strict rule not to mention anything Order-related in their letters to Harry. At first, she refused to huddle with the Weasley siblings and spy on the Order. But curiosity soon got the better of her, and she ended up cramming in beside them to listen in on secret meetings.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" she interjected one evening during an argument between Ron and the twins about some cryptic comments made by Order members returning from their shifts. "There are two shifts. They're guarding Harry, and something else—some kind of object."

Ginny didn't think it was that obvious, but she had to admit Hermione's explanation made a lot of sense. They didn't get to discuss it further that evening, though, because Hermione's comment annoyed Ron and sparked yet another row between them.

The next evening brought another Order meeting. Ginny knew something was up—two meetings in a row was never normal—but to her surprise, even the Order members seemed confused by it. The meeting was scheduled for after dinner this time, and Ginny overheard her father and Bill, who had recently been promoted at the bank and returned to England, wondering aloud why Dumbledore had called them together again so soon.

Molly had just begun serving dinner when the front door opened with a soft creak. The familiar tapping of Mad-Eye Moody's wooden leg echoed through the ceiling, followed moments later by the unmistakable crash that always occurred when someone tripped over the rogue umbrella stand, which magically moved around the hallway to trip unsuspecting guests. The shrieks of Mrs. Black, now a regular part of the household soundtrack, rang out in response.

Sirius, who until then had been sitting at the end of the table looking distant and moody, leapt to his feet and volunteered to silence his mother's portrait. After a few moments, the yelling stopped, and Ginny could hear Sirius talking to Moody. As they approached the kitchen, a third voice— a female voice— joined the conversation.

Mad-Eye's guest was a rather surprising person. She was young, about the same age as Bill and Charlie, with bright, cheerful features and large dark eyes. But the most striking and unusual thing about her was her hair—short, spiky, and dyed a brilliant shade of pink. All eyes in the room turned to her immediately, and she gave them a half-embarrassed, half-playful wave, like someone well used to drawing stares.

"This is Nymphadora Tonks," Moody introduced her without ceremony. "The newest member of the Order."

"Call me Tonks," she said brightly.

"Tonks? You were in Charlie's year, weren't you?" Bill asked.

"Yep!" Tonks replied with exaggerated enthusiasm, which Ginny suspected was just her personality. She blushed slightly and added, "Hufflepuff rules!"

"How lovely," Ginny's mother said warmly, though she was clearly still adjusting to Tonks's unconventional appearance. "Sit down, dear, we were just about to eat."

Ginny instantly liked Tonks, and was pleased when the young witch sat down beside her.

"I'm Ginny," she said, filling her plate with roasted potatoes.

"Wotcher!" Tonks replied cheerfully. "Love your hair. Mind if I steal it?"

Before Ginny could process what she meant, Tonks scrunched her face in concentration, and her pink hair grew out into long, fiery orange waves—identical to Ginny's.

"You're a Metamorphmagus!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Bless you," Ron said from across the table.

"No, a Metamorphmagus is—"

"I know what a Metamorphmagus is," Ron interrupted, his ears turning slightly red.

"Then why—"

"So where'd Moody find you, Tonks?" Bill jumped in before Ron and Hermione could start bickering. The family had already learned it was best to shut down their arguments before they could gain steam.

"Oh, I'm an Auror," Tonks said, still sporting Ginny's hair—though in Ginny's opinion, it looked much better on her. Her own hair never looked that shiny or perfect. "I finished the Academy a year ago. Moody was my instructor."

Moody muttered something into a chicken leg. Bill looked impressed. Ginny figured not many Aurors managed to impress Mad-Eye Moody, so Tonks must be something special if he'd recruited her to the Order.

Midway through dinner, Professor Lupin appeared, wearing his shabby traveling cloak and carrying a few sealed scrolls under his arm. He looked healthier and more cheerful than he had in recent days—probably having gotten some rest since the last full moon.

"You must be Alastor's new recruit," he said to Tonks after greeting everyone, reaching across the table to shake her hand. "Remus Lupin."

"Yeah! I'm Tonks." She sprang to her feet to shake his hand, managing to knock over her goblet of pumpkin juice in the process. She muttered apologies as the juice soaked into the tablecloth, until Bill vanished the stain with a flick of his wand.

"Tonks?" Professor Lupin echoed, "That name sounds familiar…"

"She's Andie's daughter," Sirius said hoarsely, grabbing a juice-soaked chicken leg.

"Really?" Professor Lupin said in surprise. "I think the last time I saw you, you were six or seven."

Apparently, the Weasley hair brought with it other Weasley traits, because Tonks's face flushed a deep red.

Just as Ginny and Hermione were about to head upstairs—knowing they'd be kicked out soon for the Order meeting—the large fireplace in the kitchen burst into emerald flames, and out stepped Professor Dumbledore. Ginny thought it was strange that he'd arrived so early; he usually came just before the meeting started. Molly offered him dinner, which he politely declined. Moody tried to introduce Tonks, but Dumbledore cut him off in an uncharacteristically sharp tone.

"There'll be time for that later," he said. "I need to speak with Sirius and Remus before the meeting begins. In private. Shall we go up to the drawing room?"

Remus nodded, and Sirius shrugged like he wasn't the least bit curious about what Dumbledore had to say. At that moment, Molly ordered the children up to their rooms, and they obeyed without protest.

Ginny and Hermione waited in their room for a few minutes, then snuck out once they heard Molly return to the kitchen. In the hallway, they met Ron, and together they crept down the stairs until they were directly above the drawing room on the lower floor. Moments later, Fred and George popped up with twin cracking sounds, armed with their Extendable Ears. They lowered the cord over the banister to the floor below, where it slithered under the heavy wooden door of the drawing room. Ginny squeezed in between Ron and Hermione to listen.

At first, she had trouble understanding what they were talking about, until she heard Professor Lupin say, "You look troubled, Albus. Has something happened?"

"Something has indeed happened," they heard Dumbledore reply, his voice grave. "I'm about to tell you something that may shake you. I ask that you remain calm—as much as possible—and let me finish the story."

"Is it Harry? Did something happen to him?" Sirius's voice broke in tensely.

"Harry is under the capable watch of Hestia Jones this evening. He's safe. But yes, this does concern him—perhaps more than anyone."

"I knew this was about Harry!" Hermione whispered. Everyone shushed her.

"Sirius, Remus, there's no easy way to say this," Dumbledore continued, sounding almost emotional—Ginny had never heard his voice like that before. "I waited nearly two weeks before coming to tell you because I wanted to be sure beyond any possible doubt that it was true—"

"What is it?" Sirius asked impatiently.

"You can't tell Harry. Not yet," Dumbledore pressed on, his voice growing more strained and excited by the moment, until Ginny could barely recognize it. "But the truth is—Lily and James Potter are not dead."

A stunned silence followed on the other end of the Extendable Ear. If Ginny hadn't been just as shocked by what she'd heard, she would have thought the device had broken. She looked up and saw Ron and Hermione just as wide-eyed as she was.

"Hey, what are you doing?" George demanded as she suddenly began pulling the cord back up, cutting off the rest of the conversation.

"We shouldn't be listening to this," she said firmly. "It's personal."

"He's got to be joking," Fred said confidently. "It's got to be some kind of Order code. People don't come back from the dead."

Hermione shook her head. "No, Dumbledore wouldn't say something like that if it weren't true. Sirius and Professor Lupin were best friends with Harry's parents."

"That's ridiculous, Hermione. Fred's right—people don't come back from the dead," George said.

"He didn't say they came back," Ron said suddenly. Just like the day their parents told them they'd be spending the summer at Grimmauld Place, he responded with surprising maturity. "He said they're not dead. I think he meant they never died in the first place."

"Ron's right," Hermione said, looking particularly pale. She and Ron exchanged a loaded look.

"What do we do?" Ginny asked, trying to decipher what passed between them. "Do we tell Harry?"

"We can't," Hermione said firmly. "We can't give him hope. We don't know the details yet."

"We would know them if Ginny gave us back the Extendable Ear—"

As if to prove Ginny's point, muffled yelling rose from behind the door. It was hard to tell whose voice it was, but it was so full of emotion that hearing it felt like being punched in the gut. The noise sparked movement on the kitchen stairs, and the children scrambled back to their rooms to discuss what they'd heard.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore's office hadn't changed at all in the last fourteen years. There was something comforting in knowing that, even though so much had changed outside, that the portraits of former headmasters still dozed idly in their frames, the fire still blazed in the hearth carved with shapes of the lion, snake, eagle and badger, the magical instruments still ticked and whirred, and the countless books remained neatly arranged on the shelves. Fawkes the phoenix still sat calmly on his golden perch, watching the waiting guests with dark, intelligent eyes.

Emily, who had felt very unwell after her first trip by Floo, had recovered after a few minutes lying on one of the sofas by the fire, and was now busy examining the curious magical instruments. Lily had expected her to bombard her and James with questions, but instead she remained unusually silent, as though she instinctively understood that her parents were too preoccupied to answer. It was remarkable—the way children could sense their parents' moods. Even when Harry was a baby, Lily had believed he could tell when she was anxious or afraid; during those times, he somehow knew not to cry. But she tried not to dwell on such memories, because they brought an overwhelming urge to cry herself.

She looked out of the window. Dumbledore's office overlooked the sloping grounds that rolled down to the edge of the forest. It was nighttime, and the forest looked like a dark, churning sea beneath the waning moon shining boldly in the sky. Lights shone in Hagrid's hut and smoke curled from the chimney, as if not a day had passed since Lily had last been there. The sight was comforting.

The night view filled her with longing. It wouldn't be quite accurate to say that she missed the place—after all, she hadn't even remembered it existed for the past fourteen years. But perhaps because it had once been such an inseparable part of her life, she had secretly yearned for it all these years, without even realizing. It was on those grounds, under the shadow of that forest, beneath that very same moonlight, that she had learned the world could be a wondrous, magical place. It was where she first discovered the thrill of adventure—and where she had fallen in love with her husband.

She glanced at James. He sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, staring down at his hands. His face bore a serious, grim expression. He allowed himself that only because he thought Lily and Emily weren't watching. If he knew Lily was looking, he'd have swapped the scowl for a grin, perhaps tried to recall one of the many times he'd been summoned to this very office for a telling-off or punishment over some school prank.

James always used humour to deal with hardship, and Lily knew how much he hated her seeing him worried or afraid. For some reason, he saw that as weakness, even though Lily had tried again and again to explain that it wasn't. Even after more than fifteen years of marriage, he still couldn't accept it. Maybe that was partly her fault; for all her reassurances, she did love his strength—his steadiness, his unwavering nature. It was one of the reasons she loved him.

James noticed her gaze, and just as she had predicted, his expression immediately softened into a smile. He rose and joined her at the window, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Only then did she realize just how tense she had been.

"Not much longer now," he said. "Soon we'll see him again."

Lily nodded, struggling to contain the swell of emotion rising inside her. It was all she had been able to think about since her memories returned—seeing Harry again. She would go through that dreadful out-of-body ordeal she and James had experienced again in a heartbeat, just to see her son, just to know he was safe. She didn't even care what he thought of her or James after all those years of absence (that was a lie—she cared deeply), she just needed to know he was all right.

"We had a lot of good times here," James said gently, looking out across the grounds too. "Do you remember our first kiss?"

"Of course I do," Lily replied, resting her head on his shoulder. She smiled. She could still feel the warmth under James's Invisibility Cloak, the stars peeking through the fabric's tiny holes, the thrill of that unfamiliar closeness. "I remember you made me break the rules. I was sure we'd be caught at any moment."

"I was kind of hoping we would be," James admitted, slightly sheepish. "Thought it would be romantic."

Lily laughed. James grinned in satisfaction.

A burst of green flames roared in the hearth. Dumbledore stepped into his office, and a moment later, Severus appeared. Lily's stomach clenched. She had been hoping he wouldn't be present for this meeting.

As if sensing her displeasure, Severus lowered his eyes. They were all adults now, yet he still acted as if they were children, and she was angry at him for not stepping in when his Slytherin housemates had bullied a first-year. She always forgave him in the end—but this time, she feared she might hold on to the grudge. She didn't think she could forgive him for separating her from her son.

"My apologies for the delay," Dumbledore said, settling into the golden chair behind his desk. Fawkes fluttered down from his perch to his knee, stretching his neck as the old headmaster stroked his golden crest. "The Order meeting ran long. You must remember how those tend to go."

"The Order's still active?" James asked with a hint of bitterness. "And Snape's a member? Last I checked, he was a Death Eater."

Severus didn't flinch at the remark. Dumbledore replied, "Much has changed, James. Today, Severus is one of the Order's most loyal and valuable members."

James muttered something Lily didn't catch. She knew he'd never trust Severus, no matter what Dumbledore said, and especially after what he had done. But she wasn't surprised that he was in the Order now—she had always believed he would return to the right path in the end.

"Please, sit. We have much to discuss," Dumbledore said. "Lemon sherbet? Emily?"

Emily took one shyly, murmuring a faint thank-you. It was unlike her—she was never shy around strangers, not even as a small child. She usually spoke up boldly and without hesitation.

"I assume your parents told you about Hogwarts?" Dumbledore asked her. Emily nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Would you like a tour of the castle?"

She nodded again, more eagerly this time. Most of her conversations with her parents over the past two weeks had revolved around Hogwarts. It seemed to be the only magical subject they could talk about without Lily falling apart; everything else made her think of Harry, and she could barely manage the ache, the guilt and the grief that the thought of him brought.

"Dobby!" Dumbledore called.

A house-elf appeared instantly. He was the oddest-looking elf Lily had ever seen. Instead of the standard Hogwarts tea towels, he wore an array of Muggle children's clothes and a colorful cap.

"Dobby, would you kindly show Emily around the castle? I'm sure she'd enjoy a hot chocolate in the kitchens afterwards."

"Certainly, Professor Dumbledore Sir!" Dobby said obediently, holding out his spindly hand. Emily, who had never seen a non-human creature before, stared at him in awe and uncertainty. James had told her about the magical beings in the wizarding world, but it was quite different to see one in real life.

"It's all right," Lily told her.

Emily took the elf's hand, immediately looking more confident. She waved to her parents as her guide gently led her out of Dumbledore's office. The thought of her daughter discovering Hogwarts for the first time warmed Lily's heart.

"It goes without saying that there's a place for Emily at Hogwarts, if you wish," Dumbledore said after she'd left.

"Yes, we want that," James replied. "We want to come back. We want to rejoin the Order, and we want to see Harry."

"Of course. But all in due time," Dumbledore said. "You must understand—much has changed since you... left."

"We didn't leave, Dumbledore. You know that," James said sharply, looking straight at Severus but still addressing Dumbledore. "I hope that's not what you're telling people."

"Certainly not," Dumbledore replied calmly. "Only a few trusted Order members know about you—Sirius and Remus among them. They know your disappearance wasn't your choice."

At the mention of his closest friends, a spark lit in James's eyes. He'd spoken of them often over the past two weeks, wondering what had become of them in the years that had passed. Fourteen years was a long time—anything could have happened. What kind of lives were they living now? Had they started families? Were they still mourning Lily and James? Only at night, in the dark, had he dared to voice to Lily his deepest fear: that they might no longer be alive.

But now, knowing they were alive and still active in the Order, visible relief flooded his face. Lily felt it too. She and Remus had been friends since their early years at Hogwarts, long before she ever imagined she and James would end up together. Later on, Sirius had also become a close friend, even though they were enemies at first; they'd even named him Harry's godfather. The idea that something might have happened to either of them during their absence had haunted her as well.

"You can go speak to them if you'd like," Dumbledore said, seeing how eager James was to reunite with his friends. "They can answer the many questions I'm sure you have. I only ask that you remember—many things have changed."

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at them gave Lily an uneasy feeling, but James didn't seem to notice at all. Severus looked at him in a strange way. Lily couldn't tell if it was a look of disgust—or pity.

"The new headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London," Dumbledore said. "It's protected by the Fidelius Charm, and I am the Secret Keeper. You may travel there by Floo now—I'll send Emily along in a few hours."

Lily began to thank him, but James interrupted, "Grimmauld Place? Isn't that Sirius's mum's house?"

"As I said, much has changed," Dumbledore replied, gesturing toward the hearth.

After James vanished into the flames, Lily took a pinch of green powder, and with a growing sense of foreboding, threw it into the fire and spoke the address. In the glow of the green flames, she looked back at Severus one last time. He looked like he wanted to say something—he always waited for James to be gone before speaking to her honestly—but she stepped into the fire, not giving him the chance to apologize.

She spun in the green flames for a long time, keeping her eyes closed to stave off nausea, until she felt herself arrive on the other side. She stepped from the flames into a grand but very shabby drawing room.

One look told her she was in a wizard's house; she had only visited there two times, but the room reminded her of the lounge at James's parents' house—only grander, and far more sinister. The display cabinets were filled with disturbing magical artefacts, and a chandelier shaped like writhing snakes left no doubt the home belonged to a pure-blood family which probably dabbled in dark magic.

It was clear the house had stood empty for some time; the heavy curtains over the tall windows buzzed with Doxies, and the luxurious rugs and sofas were worn and dusty. Only once the green flames faded and the red firelight returned did Lily notice someone had made an effort to clean the place up and make it liveable.

A man stood by one of the sofas, staring at Lily and James in stunned silence, a clear pain in his eyes. He was thin, dressed in shabby but clean clothes. Straight, light brown hair framed a serious face marked by pale scars. His mouth was drawn in a tight, severe line, as though restraining himself from speaking—or shouting. At first Lily didn't recognize him, couldn't understand why he was looking at her like that—until the resemblance hit her with stunning force.

"Moony?" James said in disbelief, clearly just as shocked by the changes in their friend.

It was Remus—fourteen years older. The transformation was hard to process; last time Lily had seen him, he was twenty. Now, his hair had already begun to grey, and fine lines had appeared on his face.

He took a deep breath, as though preparing for something painful, then said in a trembling voice, "Turn into the stag."

"What?" James replied, baffled, then continued, clearly in disbelief, "Remus, it's me."

Remus shook his head. The motion seemed to cause him almost physical pain.

"Prove it. I don't care what Dumbledore says. Prove it."

James nodded in understanding, removed his glasses, and handed them to Lily.

"I haven't done this in a while, so I might be a bit rusty," he warned Remus, a little nervous. "If it doesn't work straight away, it doesn't mean I'm a Death Eater."

Remus, whose amber eyes glinted in the firelight, gave a faint smile at that. He seemed far less threatening now—and much more open to the idea that the man standing before him was his old friend, thought long dead.

Lily had seen James transform many times before, but the magic never failed to amaze her. When the soft, warm light enveloped his body, she felt for a moment as if his presence grew stronger—as if, in some way, that light was him, his truest self, freed from his physical form.

After a few short moments, the light faded, and in James's place stood a full-sized stag, its great antlers almost reaching the ceiling. It pawed uncomfortably at the dusty carpet, feeling trapped by the surrounding sofas. A wave of love surged in Lily's chest at the sight of the noble creature. It was, without doubt, the animal that best represented her husband.

Remus crossed the distance between them in a flash, wrapping his arms tightly around the stag's neck. Prongs snorted impatiently, clearly unimpressed with the cramped space he'd been squeezed into. Remus laughed, a sound full of relief, and as James shifted back into his human form, he threw himself at Lily in a bone-crushing hug. She could barely breathe, but she didn't try to push him away. He was trembling like a leaf, clutching her as though he feared she might vanish at any moment—and perhaps he truly believed she would. All she could do was hug him back, as tightly as she could. She couldn't begin to imagine what it was like for him, to live for years with the knowledge that the people dearest to him were dead, only to be reunited with them again in such an unexpected way.

"Oi, don't get too excited. She's a married woman," James cut in lightly, placing a hand on Remus's shoulder. The werewolf turned and pulled him into an equally tight hug.

"I don't remember you being so emotional, Moony," James said, gripping him tightly. Though he was trying to lighten the tense atmosphere, even he seemed particularly moved. "Howling at the moon's no longer good enough for you?"

Remus pulled away to look at him.

"Could you not? Now's not the time," he said irritably, then burst into wild laughter. It made him look much more like the Remus Lupin of their school days. "How easy it is to fall back into old habits..."

James smiled in satisfaction. He clapped his friend on the back affectionately, then grew serious.

"Listen, Remus, we owe you an apology. When we went into hiding—"

"There's no need," Remus interrupted. "I know everything—Sirius explained it all. If anyone should be apologizing, it's me—don't interrupt, James, I've waited fourteen years to say this. I should've been there, helping you. Not a day goes by that I don't regret following Dumbledore's orders and going on that mission. Two—actually, three—of the people I loved most in the world were in danger, and my absence only made things worse. You needed a friend you could trust, and I wasn't there. My constant need to please Dumbledore, to earn the Order's approval, blinded me. I'm sorry."

"We all made mistakes," Lily replied. "It becomes clearer with every passing day. We were young. But it's in the past now, isn't it?"

Remus nodded and made an effort to smile, but failed to pretend he agreed. It was clear from his expression that he thought she was terribly mistaken. That ominous look didn't sit well with Lily, but before she could try to question it, James spoke again.

"Where's Padfoot? And why are we in his mother's house? I thought she disowned him."

"I thought so too, but apparently, she never had the heart to go through with it. Maybe she still hoped he'd come back one day. She died about ten years ago, so now the house belongs to Sirius."

"I didn't think Aunt Walburga had a heart," James said coldly, the sarcasm not quite masking his uncharacteristic bitterness. "So where is he hiding?"

For some reason, Remus seemed taken aback—almost hurt—by the phrasing of the question. He quickly composed himself.

"I'll go get him," he said with a hint of unease. "He... he took the news a bit worse than I did." Then suddenly he asked, "Dumbledore really didn't tell you anything?"

"About what?" James asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"I suppose we've got all night to catch up," said Remus, though he didn't sound nearly as enthusiastic as Lily would have expected. "Just... try to act normal."

James tried to ask what on earth he was talking about, but Remus slipped out of the drawing room without answering.

"Was he always this strange?" James asked once he'd gone.

Lily didn't answer. She perched on the arm of the nearest sofa, her gaze drifting to the faded tapestries adorning the walls. In the flickering firelight, the faces of the Black ancestors and the foes they'd vanquished looked grotesque—almost laughable. She felt as though they were mocking her and James, mocking their optimism about returning to England. Remus's behavior left her with a sense of dread.

James moved closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. His touch grounded her, keeping her thoughts from spiraling into dark places. He was about to say something—probably a reassurance—when the heavy drawing room door opened again, signaling Remus's return. Beside him stood a tall, gaunt man, his face cloaked in shadow.

Lily's hand flew to her mouth in shock. It was like looking at a dark, twisted reflection of the man she once knew. Sirius, who in their youth had been so handsome and full of life, now looked older than any of them. He was still tall and striking, but now his height only accentuated how thin and wasted he had become—little more than skin and bone. His black hair had grown long, and he wore a short beard on his narrow face, as if desperately searching for something behind which to hide. The face that had once been his trademark, now looked like a warped mask designed to conceal immense pain. Even his eyes had changed; their once-silver light had dulled into a stormy metallic grey, ready to start raining at any moment.

But if Lily and James's reaction to Sirius's transformation was extreme, Sirius's response was even worse. He tried to move towards James but collapsed to his knees before he could take more than two steps. Remus tried to support him, but it was as though a great weight dragged him to the floor. He bowed his head, hair falling to hide his face, his cloaked back rising and falling sharply as though he were struggling to breathe. Lily recognized it as a panic attack. There was nothing she could do except stare, stunned.

James, however, snapped out of the shock quickly and rushed to his friend's side, kneeling on the rug before him. The moment he was within reach, Sirius pulled him into a crushing embrace, his bony hands clutching at his shirt with desperate strength. Then came a terrible sound—the worst Lily had ever heard—and she realized Sirius was sobbing. The sound was heart-wrenching, alternating between grief-stricken wails and the noises of a wounded animal, punctuated by fragments of words—pleas for forgiveness.

The raw pain in his voice tore at Lily's insides. Only when Remus came beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder did she realize she was crying too. She couldn't bear the sight, but she knew her pain was nothing compared to the suffering Sirius was enduring in that moment.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Remus whispered soothingly. "He's all right. Just in shock."

All the while, James remained steady as a rock, holding his friend tightly and firmly, like he was the only thing keeping Sirius from falling apart completely. He spoke to him in a low, hushed voice, and though Lily couldn't hear the words, the deep, calming tone was enough to quiet her own sobs.

After a while, Sirius's crying subsided, and James helped him back to his feet. Even standing, he kept his face hidden behind his hand, as if in shame, murmuring again and again, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... Forgive me..."

"There's nothing to forgive, Padfoot," James said firmly, gripping the back of Sirius's neck and forcing him to meet his eyes. "We all made the mistake of trusting him. It wasn't your fault."

The moment Sirius's gaze locked with his, he seemed to calm slightly, as though only now convinced James was truly there—that he wasn't some ghost come to haunt him. Tears still streamed down his face, his wide, searching eyes studying every feature of James's face, as though looking for proof he wasn't hallucinating. But as the seconds ticked by, that lost, guilty look began to shift—into hope.

"I've had a lot of dreams like this," he said. His voice, once warm and musical, was now rough and hoarse. "But I think this isn't a dream... In my dreams, you always say it was my fault."

"Well, obviously dream-me is an idiot," James said. Sirius let out a bark of laughter that sounded almost like the old days. "You still blaming yourself for what happened? I trusted him just as much as you did—more, maybe. I took him under my wing from the start, always covered for him... I thought this time he'd cover for me..." For a moment, his voice nearly cracked, as though he were about to shout, but as always, he mastered his emotions, hiding the cracks behind his perfect mask of self-control.

"Where is he, anyway? I'd like to give him something to think about."

"On the run," Remus replied instead of Sirius, who was still a bit stunned. "Actually, now that his master's back in power, he probably doesn't have to hide anymore."

"His master..." James muttered, his voice so thick with hatred Lily barely recognized it. "I still can't believe he betrayed us like that..."

"What happened to you?" Lily changed the subject, still unable to come to terms with Sirius's condition.

"Lily..." Sirius seemed to notice her presence for the first time. She tried to step forward to hug him, but he drew back with a pained look. "No. I don't deserve it. I let you down."

"You didn't let me down, Sirius—"

"You don't know what happened," Sirius interrupted her, his voice desperate, as though wanting her to be angry or scold him.

She had a feeling she knew what he was referring to, but she didn't want to jump to conclusions. She didn't want to cry again. She just wanted to savour this reunion a few moments longer, to hug an old, loyal friend she hadn't seen in so long. She closed the distance and pulled Sirius into a hug; in response, he embraced her with surprising strength for someone so thin, muttering apologies into her ear. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, tears of helplessness and compassion.

"Don't cry for me, Lily," Sirius said, pulling back. He smiled at her, and in that smile, he looked a little more like himself. "I'm not worth it."

"You're worth every tear," Lily said, wiping her face. "What happened, Sirius? What did this to you?"

"Are you ill?" James asked. "Is this because your parents were cousins?"

"James!" Lily scolded, shocked at his flippancy.

"What?" James defended himself. "They were cousins!"

To Lily's surprise, Sirius laughed. The sound eased some of the pain burning in her chest, where the memory of his awful sobbing still lingered.

"It's not that. Though maybe that would've been better," Sirius said, a shadow crossing his face, wiping away the smile James had managed to coax out of him.

"Want me to tell them?" Remus offered gently.

"No," Sirius replied. "I'll do it."

They took their seats on the sofas by the fireplace. Sirius settled in the armchair farthest from the flames, as though still seeking to hide in shadow, and Remus summoned a teapot and four mugs. The warm drink calmed Lily's nerves; she had missed Remus's tea.

Sirius began to recount the events of the night she and James "died," doing his best to stay composed. When he told them how he left baby Harry in Hagrid's care and went after Peter, James tried to interject, but Remus gestured for him to let Sirius finish. Lily never would have guessed the horrific twist that followed: Sirius described how Peter had tricked him, lured him to a Muggle-filled street and loudly accused Sirius of betraying the Potters, making everyone believe he was the Secret Keeper, then cast a violent curse that killed twelve Muggles before transforming into a rat and vanishing into the sewers.

"When the Ministry arrived, there was no doubt in their minds what had happened," Sirius concluded grimly. "It was obvious I'd betrayed you, that I'd hunted Peter down to silence him, and that I'd murdered all those Muggles. The news that Voldemort had been defeated had only just begun to spread, and the Ministry wanted to tie up loose ends quickly and quietly. They sentenced me to life in Azkaban."

James was on his feet before Sirius finished the sentence.

"That can't be true," he said hotly. Lily tried to touch his hand, but he clenched his fists. "It just can't be. Dumbledore wouldn't have let that happen. Moony—you must have told them it wasn't true! He wouldn't do that!"

"James, you have to understand, at the time, the story Peter spun didn't sound far-fetched at all," Remus said carefully.

"How can you—"

"He's right, Prongs," Sirius cut in darkly. "Our trick worked too well. Everyone, even Dumbledore and Moony, believed I was the Secret Keeper. They believed I betrayed you. And if I killed my closest friends, what's a few Muggles and another friend on top of that?"

James shook his head stubbornly. "I can't accept it."

"You weren't there, Prongs," Remus said quietly. "It looked bad. I myself believed Sirius was the traitor—until I saw Peter on the Marauder's Map two years ago."

James didn't seem calmed by his words. If anything, he looked angrier the longer Remus spoke. Lily knew he was mostly angry at himself, blaming himself for the horrible tragedy.

"Two years ago? How long were you in there?" he asked Sirius, almost accusingly.

"Twelve years," Sirius replied. His friend's harsh tone didn't discourage him, but rather seemed to awaken a dormant strength within him, one that had been buried since he'd lost his former life. That strength made Lily pity him a little less—and admire him much more for the hell he'd survived.

"Why did they let you out?" she asked, transfixed.

A smug smile spread across Sirius's face, revealing a flash of the twenty-year-old Sirius behind the mask.

"They didn't," he said. "I escaped."

"No way!" James exclaimed. His anger faded somewhat, and suddenly it felt as though they were back at school again, with Sirius launching into a dramatic retelling of some brilliant prank he'd pulled on a teacher. "No one's ever escaped from Azkaban! How did you do it?"

"Well, we always said we'd register as Animagi, but never quite got round to it," Sirius said with satisfaction. "A human can't exactly squeeze through the bars there, but Padfoot could. It wouldn't have worked for you—those stupid antlers of yours would've got stuck in the bars."

Lily tried to smile while the three friends laughed. The thought of James in an Azkaban cell was too horrific to ignore completely.

"Hey, what did I tell you? I don't want you crying over me," Sirius said, noticing she looked troubled again.

She shook her head, forcing the unpleasant thoughts away.

"So why did you wait so long? Why wait twelve years to escape?"

The shadow returned to Sirius's face. Lily immediately regretted asking.

"At first, I didn't even think about escaping," he said, his eyes drifting to the flickering flames in the hearth, as if their light might chase away the demons creeping into his mind. "That's what the Dementors do to you. You get trapped inside yourself, inside your fears and regrets. It's like a maze—really hard to find a way out. Pretty quickly I started to believe I deserved to be there, because it was my fault you two were dead and Harry was an orphan. But all that time, I clung to a bit of sanity—maybe because I knew I was innocent—and that helped me stay alert when the Minister of Magic came on a tour of Azkaban. I managed to convince him to leave me his newspaper. He nearly dropped it and ran when I told him I missed doing the puzzles." He let out a short, barking laugh. "There was a picture in one of the stories—of a family who'd won the Daily Prophet lottery—it was the Weasleys. And one of the boys had a pet rat."

"Wormtail?" James asked in astonishment.

"The very same. He'd been hiding with the Weasleys all this time, waiting to hear news of Voldemort, and meanwhile getting the royal treatment as a family pet."

"So you escaped to catch him?"

"I didn't even think about that," said Sirius. "All I could think about was the article said that boy would be going back to Hogwarts—where Harry would be. I knew Dumbledore would see to it that he went to school. I couldn't stay in Azkaban another moment, wallowing in self-pity—I was the only one who knew Wormtail was alive. I had to find Wormtail before Wormtail found Harry. I had to fulfill my vow."

"How can you say you let us down?" Lily demanded. The story moved her deeply. "You were imprisoned in Azkaban, the worst place imaginable, and all you did was think about Harry's well-being. You did more than any godfather could be expected to do."

"She's right, Padfoot," James agreed. Sirius looked as though he might cry again, this time from joy and relief. "So what happened next? Did you find Peter?"

Sirius and Remus exchanged knowing looks.

"That's a tale for the ages, for sure," Remus said with a mischievous smile. "But perhaps it's a bit long for tonight. Yes, we had Peter. Truthfully, we both wanted to kill him—to avenge your deaths..."

"But?" James asked tensely as Remus's voice trailed off. "What stopped you?"

"Your son," Sirius answered, his eyes shining with pride.

"Harry?"

"Have you got another son? Yes, he said he thought his father wouldn't want his two best mates to become murderers over that rat."

Lily felt her heart might burst from sheer love and pride. She looked up at James and found him smiling at her with warmth.

"He's definitely inherited his mother's sense of justice," he said.

Lily smiled back. The story brought her immense comfort.

Green flames roared up in the fireplace, cutting through Lily's thoughts. Emily stumbled out of them and landed heavily on the carpet at the feet of the four adults. James stepped forward and helped her to her feet.

"I hate that thing," she grumbled, rubbing her bruised knees.

"You'll get the hang of it," her father encouraged. "Emily, I'd like you to meet Sirius and Remus, old friends of your mum's and mine."

"Lovely to meet you, Emily," Remus said kindly. Sirius just gave her a tired smile, looking as though he might start crying again if he dared speak.

Emily mumbled a shy response, eyeing the two men with open curiosity while trying to hide the fact that she was staring. Lily imagined they must seem very strange to someone who didn't know them—Remus with the thin scars crisscrossing his face, and Sirius, gaunt and sombre.

"I think it's time for bed," James said as Emily let out a huge yawn.

"But it's morning," Emily said, yawning again. She did indeed look extremely sleepy.

"The time difference is confusing," Lily said. She herself felt utterly drained, whether from the time zone shift between England and the US or the emotionally exhausting reunion with Sirius and Remus.

"I'll show you to your room," Sirius said, rising to his feet. "There's no spare room for Emily at the moment, but she can sleep with the other girls from tomorrow night."

"The other girls? How many people live here, exactly?" James asked as he led a drowsy Emily out of the drawing room behind Sirius.

Sirius answered in a whisper, so Lily couldn't hear what he said. She followed behind them with Remus at her side.

"Is Harry here too?" she asked him, though she thought she already knew the answer.

"I'm sorry, but no. He spends the summer holidays with his relatives."

It took Lily a few moments to realize which relatives he meant.

"Petunia?" she asked as they passed through the entrance hall, shocked.

Remus gestured for her to speak quietly.

"Yes," he replied in a whisper. The corridor was dim, but she could see that he looked slightly guilty. "After you... well, after what happened, Sirius was sent to Azkaban, and of course it was unthinkable to let a werewolf raise a child... so Dumbledore sent him to your sister."

They followed Sirius and James up a narrow staircase. In the dim light of the lanterns, the mounted heads of house-elves looked down at them mournfully from the walls.

Lily wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel. In the final years of her former life, she and Petunia hadn't spoken—her sister had despised everything to do with magic, and couldn't stand James—but she wanted to believe her death had saddened her, and that she'd raised her son with love, even though he was a wizard. Despite the enmity between them, Lily knew Petunia wasn't a bad person. Her hatred of magic was born of fear, nothing more. And perhaps, just perhaps, the years had helped her move beyond that fear. She certainly hoped so.

Chapter Text

When Harry was a small child, sleep had been his only escape from reality. When he slept, he could forget about the cupboard under the stairs, forget the Dursleys, forget the loneliness and alienation. His dreams would take him to distant, beautiful places where anything was possible and there was nothing to fear. He would look forward to sleep with desperate longing, yearning to dream again that he was flying, or that some faceless, long-lost relative would appear and whisk him away from the Dursleys. He didn't even mind that these dreams always ended in that same green light which woke him with a pounding heart; they always gave him hope for a better future, far away from the Dursleys.

Now, a few days before his fifteenth birthday, not even sleep could offer him comfort. The dreams he had as a child had come true in their own way – he had indeed learnt to fly, and met that mysterious relative who had wanted to take him from the Dursleys – but he couldn't shake the voice in his head telling him that the fulfillment of those dreams had come at a heavy price. He still dreamt of the green light, but now it held no mystery or solace. It had only one meaning: death.

That summer in Privet Drive was unbearably hot. Harry felt as though the heat could melt time itself, dragging it into a sticky crawl that made three weeks feel like three years. He slept during the day and stayed awake at night; he'd quickly discovered that the nightmares were slightly less horrible when you woke from them into blazing sunlight and the everyday sounds of the house and street. He spent the nights pacing restlessly around his room, where the bare ceiling lamp was the only thing keeping the ominous darkness of the night at bay. He forbade himself from sleeping; Uncle Vernon had threatened to throw him out if he screamed in the night even once more.

The idea of abandoning Privet Drive was becoming more and more tempting, and Harry decided to write to Sirius and tell him he was leaving for good, no matter where to. Sirius replied at record speed – Hedwig returned with his letter before Harry had even mustered the energy to get out of bed and pack. Contrary to what Harry had expected, the letter showed little sympathy or understanding – mostly repeated demands, even pleas, that he stay where he was.

Harry scrunched the letter in frustration before he even finished reading it and threw it in the bin. He had expected Sirius to understand how he felt – to understand what it meant to feel trapped – he of all people should know. So how could he be so hypocritical with Harry? And why hadn't he come to visit, not even for a moment, not even in his dog form, when he was clearly nearby and able to respond to letters almost instantly?

But despite the bitterness and the anger, Harry stayed on Privet Drive. He was angry with Sirius, angry at himself for staying, angry at Ron and Hermione for sending him brief, contentless letters, as though they couldn't be bothered to talk to him, and from what he could gather, they were spending the summer together – without him. It seemed that anger was all he was capable of feeling these days. Perhaps he couldn't afford to stop being angry, because then the fear, the guilt, and the helplessness would come back to take over, and that was even worse.

He began to think the world outside Privet Drive might have stopped turning. It was the only explanation for why the Daily Prophet hadn't so much as mentioned Voldemort's return, and why Ron and Hermione seemed to have forgotten about him. Maybe he wasn't even really himself – maybe he was just a picture of himself, like the photo of his parents on his bedside table. Maybe, while he looked at them smiling and waving, laughing and dancing through the swirling snowflakes, someone else was watching him, pacing that cramped room, lying on the floor to escape the oppressive heat, searching for some escape from all the anger and fear inside him.

He couldn't help but think that all this might have been a little less awful if Ron and Hermione were there. They were his friends – his real family – and he had always thought that friends helped each other through difficult times, offered comfort, refuge. But perhaps he had misunderstood what friendship meant. Perhaps he was never meant to have a family in the first place.

At the end of the second week after returning to Privet Drive, Harry began to wonder if perhaps he deserved it. Maybe he had done something unforgivable in a past life and now had to be punished for it in his own private hell. Perhaps he deserved to be trapped there, where there was nothing for him but loneliness, spending his days steeped in anger and self-hatred, afraid to sleep and face the dreams that would come.

As the days passed, this thought made more and more sense, because his dreams of the graveyard, of Cedric, of Voldemort, and of his parents' ghosts began to blend with strange and disturbing visions – endless black corridors with locked doors, a house with countless rooms whose narrow windows were always lashed with rain, and a dark cave by the sea (he had never seen the sea in real life). He told himself these were surely memories from that previous life in which he had committed some terrible sin, even though he knew it was ridiculous. But he couldn't think of another reason his friends would abandon him, why Sirius would stop caring. He couldn't understand why the graveyard, Voldemort, and Cedric were disappearing from his dreams, shifting instead into strange visions of places he'd never visited and people he'd never met – from some other world where perhaps they had never existed at all. It might have been comforting, if those dreams weren't so bizarre and terrifying, filled with an inexplicable, suffocating dread.

He was sitting on one of the swings in the playground after his uncle had caught him trying to listen to the news and thrown him out. The sun had already started to set, but it was still unbearably hot. His shirt clung to his back, and his hair, badly in need of a cut, was damp with sweat. He longed for a shower but didn't dare return to Number Four and face his uncle's wrath.

On the far side of the park, a group of younger children played with water guns, happy and carefree. It disgusted him. This whole town disgusted him. The children were laughing and shouting, and for some reason it made him think of Cedric. Cedric had always laughed, always enjoyed himself with his many friends, always seemed to love life. Harry couldn't help but feel it should've been him who died and Cedric who lived – at least one of them might have had the chance to go on loving life after that night in the graveyard.

The familiar, hated voices of Dudley and his gang drifted towards him from the park gate. They hadn't spotted him yet, slouched between the broken swings, and part of him secretly wished they would – that they'd come over and try to bully him like they used to when they were kids. Let them try, a voice in him said. His scar began to ache.

Lately he'd begun to think he ought to get back at Dudley for what he'd done to him as a child. He'd never really thought about it before that summer, even though he'd had plenty of reasons to. Now it just seemed like a good idea – the right thing to do. He could hurt him, humiliate him, make him feel the way he had felt…

"What are you staring at?" one of Dudley's friends shouted. Harry thought he might've dozed off for a moment – it felt like he'd been shaken awake. The scar didn't hurt so much anymore.

He couldn't quite remember why he thought he should get revenge on Dudley. Even as his gang tried to goad Harry, Dudley didn't join in, offering weak excuses for not hitting his cousin. He was afraid of him – hadn't dared touch him since Harry started at Hogwarts. Why would Harry want to hurt him? It seemed childish, pointless.

He enjoyed teasing Dudley as they walked back to his aunt and uncle's house. Darkness had fallen suddenly, as if the sun had simply dropped from the sky. They walked with a safe distance between them, as if Dudley didn't want to be seen in his company. Harry figured he couldn't blame him – no one seemed to want his company lately, except Hedwig.

When the streetlamps in the narrow alley flickered out all at once, Harry thought he'd done it – that his anger at Dudley for mentioning Cedric and his parents – at himself, for crying out their names in his sleep like a child – had triggered accidental magic. But then he felt the cold and realized what was really happening.

He drew his wand – these days he always carried it, even though he wasn't allowed to use it – knowing he had to act fast. Adrenaline surged into his bloodstream and for the first time in weeks, he felt calm, composed. It felt good – good enough to convince him he could drive the Dementors away before the ice reached his heart—

"Stop it!" Dudley's hysterical scream hit him just a fraction of a second before the punch. Pain exploded in his face so sharply he didn't even feel himself hit the pavement. His glasses shattered and cut into his skin, the bleeding slashes stinging. His wand rolled away.

"You bloody idiot!" he yelled, groping blindly for it.

But it was no use. It was too late. They were closing in on him from both ends of the alley – two towering, terrifying shadows. The puddles froze over, the clouds swallowed the stars. Somewhere in the infinite dark, a woman screamed, begging for mercy for her son.

Dudley cowered between two bins, sobbing as his worst memories overwhelmed him, stripping away every shred of hope. The Dementors hovered over his plump body with grotesque curiosity, as though wondering if his happy memories were as plump and juicy as his flesh.

Harry could do nothing but watch, his wand forgotten.

Was this what it felt like to die? To know it was the end, to feel the shadows wrap around you? If so, it wasn't so bad. There was something comforting in the darkness – the very thing he'd avoided so religiously for the past few weeks. The dark was good.

And it wasn't that he would die – he would go on living, just without all the anger and pain. Yes, the Dementor's Kiss was starting to seem like something very tempting. His soul would leave his body, join his parents' souls – the ones he longed to see again with every breath since that night in the graveyard. He wouldn't have to feel anymore. He would be pure and free – he would be perfect – just like them.

He began to imagine, vividly, what would happen after the gaping black mouth clamped down on his and sucked out his soul. He imagined the Ministry of Magic arriving in the Muggle street, Mr Weasley the one to find him there, soulless like an empty shell.

He saw Ron and Hermione sitting by his hospital bed, trying to talk to him, but he couldn't hear them anymore; they felt so guilty, so full of regret for ignoring him all summer. He saw Sirius in his dog form curled up at his feet, swearing never return to human form again because the sight of Harry like this was too much to bear. He could see – with almost surreal clarity, as though he'd seen it in a film – Ginny Weasley crying over him in her Gryffindor dormitory.

Then he saw Dumbledore standing over him, blue fire blazing in his eyes, just like the night Voldemort returned; and he said to Harry something Professor Lupin had once told him: "Your parents died so that you could live."

He saw his parents smiling at him from amidst the snowflakes in the picture. It felt like he was there with them, watching from the side but unable to be seen. And the white flakes weren't snow at all – they were burning ash that seared his skin, forcing him awake.

The Dementor hovered directly above him, drawing back its hood with awful tenderness, revealing its gaping, hungry mouth. There was nothing comforting about it, or even frightening – it was simply a wretched, tormented creature whose hunger knew no end.

Harry seized his wand. His parents were still standing by the frozen fountain, in that sweet, perfect world that never changed, that would always be there for him. A world where he would always be loved.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The silver stag leapt forward as though it had been impatiently waiting to be summoned. The Dementor shielded its face in terror and fled from the silver spirit. Then the Patronus turned on the second Dementor, which had already tilted Dudley's white face upwards, ready to give him the Kiss.

They vanished as if swallowed by the dark. The streetlamps flickered and came back on. Somewhere, cheerful voices drifted from an open window, and a dog barked. The moon shimmered in the blue-grey sky.

Harry was panting like he'd just finished a marathon. The cold sweat on his skin made him shiver in the evening air. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he'd broken the law – but the rush of power in his veins was stronger. He didn't want to think about the consequences. For the first time in weeks, he felt fully in control of his life.

"Master banished the Dementors! Billie was scared, Billie is grateful to Master!"

Harry, who had just approached to check on Dudley sprawled on the pavement, thought for a second the thin voice had come from his cousin. He turned in surprise and saw a house-elf, who had apparently been hiding behind one of the bins, looking at him with unmistakable admiration.

Like all house-elves, she had huge brown eyes, bat-like ears and a tiny nose. Dirty brown skin was stretched over spindly limbs and high cheekbones. But unlike Dobby or any other elf Harry had met, she was dressed quite respectably in a loose dark-blue tunic. On the front was embroidered, in white and gold thread, an elaborate symbol: an equilateral triangle pointing upwards, and at its centre the head of a stag, its antlers extending beyond the triangle's edges. Harry had never seen the emblem before, but if he had to guess, he'd have said it belonged to some noble family – or more likely, a respectable wizarding one.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, lacking any better way to understand what had just happened. Dementors, and now a house-elf – in the middle of Wisteria Walk?

"Billie sensed Master was in danger," said the house-elf, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Billie hurried to help. But Billie was scared of the Dementors. But now it's safe! Billie can take Master home!"

Harry was just about to ask how she knew he was in danger and which house exactly she was talking about, when hurried footsteps echoed at the end of the alleyway. He quickly concealed his wand. With a loud pop, Billie vanished.

Harry was stunned to see that the intruder was none other than Mrs Figg, the old spinster the Dursleys always left him with whenever they went away and didn't want to take him along. He was even more surprised when she shrieked, "Don't put that away, you silly boy! What if there are more of them around? Ugh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"

The next few minutes were especially strange. Harry would never have guessed that Mrs Figg was a Squib – though that certainly explained why she'd never seemed shocked or upset when he'd performed accidental magic as a child, unlike his aunt and uncle – and that she'd actually been living on Privet Drive because Dumbledore had sent her to keep watch over Number Four. Stranger still was the encounter with that shady-looking wizard, Mundungus Fletcher, who was apparently supposed to be guarding him that night. Harry thought to himself – though he didn't say it to Mrs Figg – that if Dumbledore was sending people like that to watch over him, he really shouldn't be surprised if they failed to keep Dementors away.

He would've rather faced the Dementors again than gone back to the house, but he had to get the unconscious Dudley home, and he needed somewhere to hide in case the Dementors came back. His aunt and uncle were not pleased with Dudley's condition, to say the least (it didn't help that he kept blaming Harry for what had happened, as he hadn't seen the Dementors himself), and Uncle Vernon yelled at him every time an owl flew in with another message – from the Ministry, Mr Weasley, or Sirius. After a Howler arrived (which Harry suspected had come from Dumbledore himself), he was banished to his room.

He slammed the door behind him, then realized he had nothing to do. He began pacing, back and forth, like an animal in a cage. Only after several minutes of mentally reliving the evening's bizarre events did he notice Sirius's note was still clutched tightly in his fist.

Whatever you do, don't leave the house.

He crumpled the note. Thanks a lot, he thought bitterly. As though he didn't already know he had to stay inside after nearly having his soul sucked out.

He took a piece of parchment, dipped his quill into the ink, and was about to scribble a note to Ron and Hermione. But he paused, leaning over his desk with quill in hand. They hadn't told him anything since leaving Hogwarts – why should he tell them what had happened? Maybe they deserved a taste of the uncertainty he'd been dealing with. Maybe it was their turn to sit in the dark, not knowing what was going on.

He collapsed onto the narrow bed, realising suddenly that his whole body ached. He touched his face where Dudley had hit him; it hurt, and dried blood stained his fingers. A wave of exhaustion overcame him, dragging him down like an anchor. But he didn't want to sleep – he wasn't ready to face the nightmares again.

He read Sirius's note one more time before throwing it against the wall. Hedwig hooted from her cage as the ball of parchment nearly hit her. They'd nearly snapped his wand, he might get expelled from Hogwarts, and this was all his godfather had to say? Be a good boy and stay home? Some response, considering that in a few weeks they could both be fugitives together...

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands to his face even though it hurt. The pain kept him grounded, helped him stay in the present, rather than sinking into horrific visions of what might happen on the twelfth of August... The thought of being expelled from Hogwarts, losing his wand, and living the rest of his life as a Muggle was unbearable. If he'd eaten anything that day, he would have been sick. After everything he'd endured, being cast out of the wizarding world... that was at least as terrible as the Dementors' Kiss.

He sat up sharply. His whole body buzzed with dread and unease, like waking from a particularly dreadful nightmare. He had to get out.

But where could he go? The Burrow? No – even if he weren't cross with Ron, he couldn't ask his parents to harbour a wanted criminal. Hermione's house? Her parents were Muggles; they wouldn't know what he'd done – but what would happen once Hermione went back to Hogwarts? He couldn't stay with them. Maybe he could find Sirius? It might be nice to share exile with someone. But he had a feeling his godfather would send him straight back to Dumbledore – what power did a fugitive have against the Headmaster of Hogwarts? – and just the thought of Dumbledore stirred a searing, uncontainable anger in Harry that he didn't even understand.

But there was another possibility. He was still thinking about the strange house-elf who had appeared in the alley, the one who'd claimed she wanted to take him away – take him home. It was an odd idea, almost laughable, and yet...

He stood up. He wasn't sure it would work, but it couldn't hurt to try. Feeling a bit foolish, he called out, "Billie!"

The finely dressed house-elf appeared instantly in his room with a pop.

"Did Master call for Billie?" she asked sweetly. "Is Master ready to go?"

Harry studied the triangular crest and the stag's head. He wanted to believe it – really wanted to – but he didn't want to get his hopes up for nothing.

He asked, "Billie, who do you work for?"

"Billie is the very- very devoted house-elf of the Potter family, Master," she replied proudly.

So he'd been right. The stag was the Potter family crest. But if that were true, where had Billie been all those years he'd spent with the Dursleys?

"Why are you here now?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. "I've been in danger loads of times before, but you never came. I'm not angry – " he added quickly, seeing the panic rise in her eyes as though she thought she'd failed him, "I just want to know what's changed."

"Billie is very– very sorry, young master!" the house-elf pleaded, on the verge of tears. "They put Billie to sleep. Billie didn't want to, but she had to – that's the law!"

"Who put you to sleep?" Harry asked, and then another, more important question came to him. "Who woke you up?"

"Billie woke up because Master Potter returned," she said joyfully, wiping tears from her enormous eyes.

"Returned? I didn't go anywhere," Harry said. But Billie didn't seem inclined – or able – to explain further what she meant.

"All right," he said finally, taking a deep breath. He looked around the tiny room with mixed feelings. He couldn't hear his aunt and uncle, but he knew they were still in the house.

He certainly didn't want to stay – but he had to. Or did he? Maybe he was tired of doing what he had to do. Maybe, just this once, he should do something for himself, not what everyone else expected of him.

"Can you take me away from here?" he asked Billie.

"Right now, straight away," she replied, standing tall, as if ready to carry out an important task. "Shall Billie pack for young master?"

Harry nodded – he wasn't sure he could speak. Billie snapped her thin fingers, and all of Harry's belongings arranged themselves neatly inside his trunk. It shut and locked itself (which usually took Harry quite a while), and perched neatly on top were his Firebolt and Hedwig's cage, the owl hooting in polite confusion.

"We're going on a little trip," Harry told her to calm her increasing nervousness – and his own.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked Billie, his voice uncertain.

"Home," she replied. And with a snap of her fingers, Harry Potter vanished from Number Four, Privet Drive.

Chapter Text

James woke up suddenly. It might have been because he had slept in a very uncomfortable position on an armchair, or perhaps it was the endless stream of thoughts that seemed to boil at the edge of his consciousness, just waiting for him to wake up so they could start bothering him again. He sat up stiffly, his back and neck throbbing, and rubbed his face thoroughly to wake himself before putting on his glasses. That was when he discovered the real reason for his sudden alertness: Sirius was standing in the doorway, motioning for him to come and talk.

James checked his watch. It was a quarter to seven. Clearly, Sirius thought he'd had enough sleep—and since he wasn't likely to fall asleep again anyway (the armchair that had seemed so soft and inviting the night before was now unforgivingly uncomfortable), he figured he might as well use the time to catch up with Sirius.

He made sure Lily and Emily were still sleeping peacefully in the double bed before quietly getting up and slipping out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

He turned to Sirius and smiled, even though he hadn't quite recovered from the shock of how much his friend had changed. The man who had once been so handsome and magnetic was now no more than a pale, sorrowful shadow of his former captivating self. James didn't want to admit it, but the truth was Sirius now bore a striking resemblance to his father, Mr Black, who in his lifetime had been a gaunt and serious looking wizard—much like Sirius was now.

"You don't have to look so sad every time you see me," Sirius said, seeing straight through the encouraging smile.

"Sorry, mate," James replied, though he wasn't particularly sorry. He had forgotten how well Sirius could read him—better even than Lily. In their youth, that had annoyed him, but now it brought him comfort.

He'd had plenty of friends in his Muggle life, especially at the police station where he'd been surrounded by loyal and trustworthy colleagues. But even then, he'd always felt something missing. A vague sense of loss, as if he'd thrown a party and the guest of honor never turned up. Now he understood why—deep down, he'd always missed his friends from his previous life, the ones even Snape's most advanced spells hadn't been able to erase from his memory.

"Let's go down to the kitchen," Sirius whispered. "Looks like you could use a cup of coffee."

James, who had only managed a few hours of sleep and was still suffering from jet lag, followed him without protest.

The rest of the residents were still asleep, and the place was wrapped in a sleepy morning stillness, broken only by the ticking of old clocks and the creaking of the floorboards, beneath which James occasionally sensed something scurrying.

He had visited 12 Grimmauld Place a few times in his youth (after he was sorted into Gryffindor, Sirius's parents had been relieved that at least he had a friend that came from a pure-blood family, however controversial). The place had always been unpleasant and slightly frightening, but never neglected. Now, the peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpets, and the blackened portraits of the Black ancestors all spoke of a faded grandeur.

"Did you ever think you'd come back here?" James asked, mainly because Sirius's uncharacteristic silence was starting to weigh on him.

"No," Sirius replied firmly and darkly. James began to feel slightly uneasy. "Keep quiet in the entrance hall—my mother's portrait wakes up and starts screaming if there's too much noise."

James was extremely curious to see what would happen if they did make noise, but he obeyed his friend and kept silent. They descended into the kitchen, which, despite being located in the windowless basement, somehow managed to feel a bit more welcoming. Personal items left on the huge dining table, a cloak draped over one of the chairs, and a half-unravelled ball of yarn on the floor created a homely, lived-in atmosphere in what otherwise could have been a very hostile space.

Sirius placed a kettle over the flames in the brick fireplace, then went to one of the cupboards and took out coffee and a bottle of Firewhisky.

"Isn't it a bit early to start drinking?" James asked, trying to sound casual as Sirius poured coffee into one cup and whisky into another. Sirius had always had a fondness for the bottle, but drinking at seven in the morning was another matter entirely.

"I haven't slept yet," Sirius replied coolly. "So for me, it's still last night."

"Oh."

James wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. He supposed it must be hard to sleep well after what Sirius had been through. Sirius had always suffered from nightmares, and they'd surely gotten worse now.

Sirius made a valiant attempt to smile at him over his shoulder, but it wasn't much of an encouraging smile. With each passing moment, James begin to graspe the enormity—and finality—of the change in his friend. And with that understanding, one feeling rose to the surface of the tangled mess of thoughts and emotions that had been swirling in him since the previous night, standing out above all the rest—guilt.

"You alright?" Sirius asked, handing him the coffee.

"Yeah," James said immediately. He wasn't usually one to lie, but this didn't feel like the right time to bring up the fact that he blamed himself for what had happened to Sirius.

Sirius had begged for forgiveness the night before, but the truth was, it was James who should have apologized. He could have testified in Sirius's defense, said he wasn't the Secret Keeper, that Peter was the traitor—but he had let his friend down when he'd needed him most.

"So what do you lot do around here to pass the time?" he changed the subject as the silence started to grow heavy, taking a sip of the coffee even though it was scalding. It was awful coffee.

"Come meet a friend of mine," Sirius said, leaving the kitchen.

James followed him, wondering who on earth he was talking about. Sirius led him upstairs to the fourth floor and into one of the rooms that James remembered had belonged to Sirius's mother, through a pair of grand, well-kept oak doors. James certainly wasn't expecting what he saw inside: on the enormous, once luxurious bed—its sheets now stained and shredded—sat a Hippogriff.

As soon as Sirius entered, the creature leapt to its feet like an eager pet awaiting its meal. Sirius approached and stroked its feathered grey head as if it really were just a friendly dog, and not a beast that could easily tear a man to pieces if it chose to.

"This is Buckbeak," Sirius explained. "We're both fugitives together."

"What did he do?" James asked, still stunned by the creature's presence in the house.

He had an uncle who once tried to tame a Hippogriff, and it hadn't ended well. He started to suspect Buckbeak might somehow know this, because the beast was eyeing him suspiciously with it's large golden eyes.

"Scratched some kid—Lucius Malfoy's son. They were going to execute him, but he managed to escape."

"Executed for a scratch? I see there's still no justice in the world," James said.

He didn't know Lucius Malfoy well, but he certainly knew his reputation. And if his son was even half the prat his father was, it wasn't surprising the poor creature had been condemned so unfairly.

"Can I pet him?"

"You need to bow first."

James set his coffee down and gave a deep bow. The Hippogriff bowed back, and he cautiously approached to stroke it.

"So, what did you want to tell me without Lily hearing?" he asked.

Sirius looked like he'd rather put the conversation off a bit longer, but he knew he couldn't hide the truth from James. He walked over to one of the windows, taking a long swig of whisky. In the morning light, his face looked much older. James's heart clenched with grief.

"Answer me honestly," Sirius started. James was about to say he always answered honestly, but Sirius pressed on. "Before… what happened to you and Lily, when Harry was a baby—did you know about the prophecy?"

That damned prophecy again. James pretended to busy himself with straightening the feathers on Buckbeak's neck to hide his rising anger. Honestly, he was sick of hearing about it. In the weeks since he and his wife had witnessed Voldemort's return and seen their son face him, every time Emily left the room or they were lying in bed unable to sleep, Lily would bring up the prophecy. Did what they saw mean it was true? That the prophecy Dumbledore had shared with them almost fifteen years ago really was Harry's fate—to defeat Lord Voldemort?

It infuriated James, though he always kept his composure and told her the same thing he'd told her all those years ago, when Harry had just been born and Dumbledore had persuaded them to go into hiding: Prophecies are just prophecies.

"Prongs?" Sirius prompted when James didn't respond.

"Yes, we knew," he replied shortly, though he'd meant to stay calm. "And how do you know about it?"

"Dumbledore told the Order. Not all the details, but the general idea. Why didn't you—"

"Why didn't I tell you about the prophecy?" James cut him off with a hard voice. "I don't know—maybe for the same reason I didn't tell you I dreamt once that I was the Minister of Magic. It's a prophecy. Just because someone says something will happen doesn't make it so."

"So you don't believe it's a true prophecy?" Sirius asked in a dark tone. "You don't believe the part that about - A Power He Knows Not?"

"Do you?" James shot back, irritated.

For a moment, Sirius looked like he might respond in kind, but kept his composure —yet another trait that had never characterized him. He sipped the whisky and stared out the window again.

James realized he had raised his voice. He took a deep breath and said calmly, "It's not like you to believe in superstition, Padfoot. You know full well that a prophecy means nothing unless someone believes it will come true. The only reason Lily and I hid Harry was because, for some reason, Voldemort believed in it—and thought he had to stop it from being fulfilled…" His voice trailed off. He didn't like thinking about it.

Now Sirius turned to look at him with a piercing gaze.

"So you don't believe the prophecy will come true?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? There's no such thing as—"

"I'm scared, Prongs," Sirius interrupted. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bright and burning. "I don't care about Voldemort. I don't even care that much about the Order—honestly, the whole world can go to hell for all I care. But I'm scared for Harry."

James opened his mouth to reply—only to realize he had no idea what to say. Sirius turned away again.

"When I made you his godfather," James said at last, feeling guilty for the way he'd snapped, "I never thought your role would involve more than buying him expensive presents and teaching him how to charm girls. I never thought you'd actually have to try being his father one day. And don't even think about saying you failed—" he added as Sirius made to speak, "You've done more for my family than anyone could ever ask. I'll always be grateful to you, Padfoot."

Sirius nodded without hesitation, looking like he was on the verge of tears again. James certainly hoped he wouldn't cry—he still hadn't recovered from the previous night and wasn't sure he could hold himself together again. So he felt an enormous wave of relief when there was a knock at the door and Remus peeked in.

"Starting without me?" he joked, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. Buckbeak watched him suspiciously until he bowed.

"I didn't want to wake you, you finally got a decent night's sleep," Sirius said, then added for James's benefit, "Moony's been doing a lot of work for the Order, especially at night."

"Not that I got much sleep anyway," Remus replied, and his sunken eyes confirmed he was telling the truth. "Is that coffee?"

"You can have it," James said, gesturing to his abandoned cup. "Sirius makes terrible coffee."

"That's low, Prongs," Sirius replied. To James's relief, all the heaviness from their previous conversation seemed to have dissipated.

"It's alright—it's an acquired taste," Remus said, hiding a smile behind the mug.

"Et tu, Moony?" Sirius asked in mock betrayal, though a small smile lingered on his lips. James smiled too—some things never change.

"So, what were you two talking about?" Remus asked, leaning against Mrs Black's old wardrobe. He always had a knack for knowing when something was up with his friends.

"We were planning how to clear Sirius's name," James said quickly, before Sirius could bring up the prophecy. "Now that I'm back, I can testify that Peter was the Secret Keeper."

Remus looked as though he was considering this seriously.

"I don't want to rain on your parade—"

"You always do," James cut in, collapsing heavily into a nearby armchair, which puffed up a cloud of dust as he landed.

"—but I was thinking about it myself last night, and I don't think it'll be that simple. Your testimony would definitely cast Sirius in a better light, but you can't prove he didn't kill all those Muggles in trying to take revenge on Peter."

"He's right, Prongs," Sirius said as James opened his mouth to argue.

"And right now, no one outside the Order can know that you and Lily are alive," Remus continued seriously.

"Why not?"

"Think about it, Prongs. Harry doesn't know the truth yet—you wouldn't want him finding it out from the Daily Prophet, would you?"

James, who had a hard time imagining his young son reading the Daily Prophet, conceded, "Fair point."

"Which brings us to the question," Remus said, now looking mostly at Sirius, "how are we going to break the news to Harry?"

Sirius looked like the very thought of that conversation terrified him. But he didn't have to answer, because just then, the door burst open. Two girls entered the room and froze when they saw Sirius standing by the window.

"Sorry, Sirius, we didn't know you were in here," said a girl with bushy brown hair, before spotting James. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream.

Her friend, a freckled ginger-haired girl carrying a large pot, stared at him with unconcealed curiosity.

"You're Harry's dad," she said in awe, as though he were some rare and wondrous creature.

"So they say," he replied smoothly, "Although no one's ever actually called me that. People usually just call me James."

She looked amazed, as if she hadn't thought he was capable of speech at all.
"I'm Ginny," she introduced herself enthusiastically. "And this is—Hermione, are you crying?"

The other girl, Hermione, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, but couldn't stop the tears. James thought that if one more person cried at the sight of him, he might start taking it personally.

"I'm sorry..." she murmured. "It's just that... I'm so happy... something good is finally happening to Harry..."

Ginny tried to comfort her, until Buckbeak gave an impatient grunt, eager for his meal. Ginny curtsied to him and then placed the pot she had been carrying down on the floor by his feet. It was filled with what looked like leftovers from dinner. The hippogriff shoved his beak into the pot and devoured his meal hungrily.

Meanwhile, Hermione managed to get hold of herself and gave James a sheepish, apologetic smile. James smiled back, though he still felt slightly unsettled by her reaction.

"Mum's making breakfast. You'd better come down before Ron and the twins eat everything," said Ginny, guiding Hermione out of Buckbeak's room.

"Ginny's the youngest daughter of Molly and Arthur Weasley, members of the Order, and Hermione is Harry's friend from school," Remus explained, noting James's confused expression. Then, turning to Sirius, he said, "Did you notice they recognized him straight away?"

"Well, it's hard not to notice the resemblance," Sirius replied.

"Yes, but they're supposed to think James is dead, so how can he be sitting here?" said Remus. "I had my suspicions, but now I'm sure—they've been eavesdropping on the meetings."

"You might be right," Sirius said, then grinned mischievously. "Looks like you'll need to have a chat with them, Professor."

"Wait—what?" said James, whose thoughts had drifted to Harry. He snapped back to attention at the title. "Professor?"

As they made their way down to the kitchen for breakfast, Sirius and Remus filled him in—Sirius with great enthusiasm, and Remus with considerable embarrassment—about Remus's brief stint as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.

"I had to resign at the end of that year," Remus said quietly as they crossed the entrance hall. "One night I forgot to take the Wolfsbane Potion—it's a new invention, a potion that allows a werewolf to retain his mind even during the full moon—and I transformed on the grounds the night we caught Peter. Because of me, he got away. Worse still, Harry and his friends were there—I could have bitten any one of them. I left the next day."

"And it didn't help that Snape told the whole school Remus was a werewolf," Sirius added bitterly.

"Snape?" James asked, loudly. "What's he got to do with it?"

Remus and Sirius both shushed him. From further down the hall came a loud snore from behind a moth-eaten curtain.

"He teaches at Hogwarts," Sirius said, leading James down the stairs to the kitchen. "Can you believe it? Snape—a teacher?"

For a moment, James was too stunned to speak. Snape, a professor at Hogwarts? Sirius must mean he works there, maybe as a caretaker or something. What kind of sane person would let Snape teach children? James had in his mind to speak to Dumbledore about getting the greasy git fired after the stunt he pulled with him and Lily.

He meant to share the idea with his friends, but just then they entered the kitchen, and he immediately spotted Lily talking with a ginger-haired woman in her late forties. The woman, plump and with a warm, motherly appearance, was cooing over Emily, who stood next to her mother and looked as if she were on the verge of falling asleep on her feet.

Lily noticed James and smiled. It was astonishing how nothing—not sorrow, not utter exhaustion—could make her look any less beautiful or radiant. He wondered if, even when they were a hundred years old, he'd still think she was perfect, and he knew the answer was yes. He would never stop admiring her, would never forget how lucky he was that this wise and wonderful woman had chosen him. That's why, years ago, he'd vowed never to mention Snape's name—Snape, who had always been a sore spot between him and his wife—unless absolutely necessary.

He wanted very much to kiss her then, but the fact that they were surrounded by so many people, and that it felt like everyone was watching him, stopped him. In addition to Ginny and Hermione, the room held a tall, thin man with a receding hairline and ginger hair (James didn't think he'd ever seen so many redheads in one place), and three ginger-haired boys. Two of them were clearly twins and were whispering to each other while looking at James with great curiosity. The younger boy—who, despite his age, was nearly as tall as James—looked at him with a mixture of interest and suspicion.

The balding man stepped forward and shook James's hand eagerly, introducing himself as Arthur Weasley. He then introduced the plump woman as his wife, Molly. James recognized her maiden name—Prewett—and remembered her brothers, Gideon and Fabian, who had died during a mission for the Order in the last war, though he didn't mention it.

Sirius took James aside while Lily was still chatting with Molly (Emily trailed behind him with an unusually shy expression) and introduced him to the tall boy.

"This is Ron, Harry's friend—"

"His best mate," Ron corrected him, still eyeing James suspiciously.

"And what are we, the neighbours from across the road?" one of the twins chimed in.

"These are Fred and George," Sirius added, sounding bored.

One of the twins (James didn't bother trying to tell them apart) checked that their parents were distracted at the other end of the kitchen before asking eagerly, "You're Prongs, right?"

"Yes," James answered slowly, glancing at Sirius.

"Fred and George got the Marauder's Map from Filch," his friend explained.

"Oh," James said, secretly impressed. He and his friends had never had time to try to retrieve the map before leaving Hogwarts; planning such a thing had been particularly difficult because Lily—while she had admired the complexity of the magic involved—had always insisted that no student should have such a tool. She had taken her prefect duties very seriously.

"Do you still have it? I'd love to see it again."

"No, we gave it to Harry," one of the twins said. "So he could—"

"Lily and James haven't met Harry yet. They don't need to know what rules he's broken," Remus interrupted, having just finished paying the owl that delivered the morning's Daily Prophet. "And you two—don't disappear after breakfast. We need to talk."

"Oh no, we're in trouble, Fred," George said cheerfully.

"You're not in trouble," Remus said sternly. "But you will be if you keep eavesdropping on Order meetings."

Just then, Molly came over to the table with plates piled high with fried eggs, sausages, and toast, and the twins, who had looked ready to argue, fell silent at once.

James and Lily spent the whole day catching up with Sirius and Remus. They weren't quite sure how to keep Emily entertained, until Molly volunteered to take her under her wing so she could spend the day with the rest of the children, who were busy clearing the house of dark objects. ("Too many idle hours can be dangerous for children their age," Molly told them when the children were out of earshot, and James didn't like the implication that she felt the need to give them parenting advice.)

As soon as they began talking, the conversation flowed naturally from Voldemort's first defeat and return to lighter topics, and the hours passed almost without notice. Lily was unusually quiet, and James had the feeling she wasn't really listening most of the time; her green eyes wandered to the dusty windows or the low-burning fire in the hearth, her gaze glazed.

It was only when Sirius started telling them about Harry's exploits at school that she seemed to come alive, listening to the stories while biting her nails—an old habit she had long since broken. Every time she did it, James grabbed her hand and held it tightly. Her anxiety saddened him; he wished that she, like him, could feel proud hearing about their son's achievements in Quidditch and the dangers he had escaped time and again with such skill—rather than fear and dread.

Towards ten o'clock, Remus put on his coat and got ready to leave. When James asked where he was going, he replied, "I need to keep an eye on Nymphadora Tonks. She's a new member of the Order. Very young, and Dumbledore worries she might be a bit too chatty."

"She won't talk," Sirius said, sounding insulted. "And she's older than we were when we joined the Order."

"Yeah, but we had each other. She's got no one to talk to. It's a hard secret to keep to yourself," Remus said, and when Sirius looked ready to argue, he added, "Mad-Eye agrees with you, which probably means she's trustworthy. But it doesn't matter—I've already promised Dumbledore I'd do it. I'll be back in time for the meeting."

With those words, he left the headquarters.

Evening came quickly, bringing with it the Order meeting. James hadn't expected to feel this way, but in truth, he could barely contain his excitement. Lily was still on edge; the meeting was expected to revolve around planning how to get Harry safely to the headquarters. James wished she wouldn't attend—he didn't know how he'd cope if her anxiety worsened upon hearing what dangers awaited their son outside his aunt and uncle's house—but he also knew there was no way of convincing her to stay out of that discussion.

The meeting was held in the kitchen just as the sun was setting. James and Lily stopped by Emily's room to tell her they were heading into the meeting and would see her when it was over (Emily looked delighted in the company of her two new friends, and there was no sign of the shyness she had shown that morning), before heading downstairs to the kitchen.

All eyes turned to them as they entered. James told himself he'd have to get used to that.

He recognized many of the Order members from the last time around —Sturgis Podmore, Hestia Jones, Mad-Eye Moody—and they greeted him with hearty handshakes and twinkling eyes (perhaps not Mad-Eye, who growled something at him while his magical eye spun rapidly, and James demanded to know what the hell had happened to his nose).

The new Order members were more intriguing: Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had been three years below James at Hogwarts and had played Keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, was now the Auror in charge of the hunt for Sirius; Bill Weasley, Arthur and Molly's eldest, who worked for Gringotts; and Nymphadora Tonks (who insisted on being called Tonks), an Auror and a Metamorphmagus. As the Order members sat around the huge wooden kitchen table awaiting Dumbledore's arrival, James looked around and thought that, with all due respect to wizards like Podmore, it was clear that the future of the Order lay in the hands of its newest recruits.

The time was one minute to eight. The members began glancing at the fireplace, waiting impatiently for Dumbledore's arrival. Remus stood by the door, casting what looked like a sealing charm on it (despite the serious talk he'd had with the twins that morning, it seemed he still didn't trust their promise not to eavesdrop anymore). Tonks was watching him with interest, her face resting on her hand. Sirius rocked back and forth in his chair restlessly, and Lily was biting her nails again.

Seconds before eight, green flames erupted in the fireplace. But to the disappointment of the Order (and James's clear dismay), it was only Snape, draped in a traveling cloak of deep black. He sat down at the far end of the table, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Lily stopped biting her nails and sat up straight.

A moment later, the flames flared again, and this time it was Dumbledore who stepped out. He cast a calming gaze over the Order members, and when his eyes landed on Lily and James, he smiled.

"We'll begin the meeting at once," the Headmaster said, taking his place at the head of the table. Molly Weasley set a quill to parchment at the end of a long scroll, and it began to record the meeting. "We have many matters to discuss tonight. But first, I'm pleased to welcome back two of the Order's longest-serving members—Lily and James Potter."

James smiled and nodded at the clapping members. Lily smiled shyly, until her eyes fell on Snape, and the smile vanished. Snape stared resolutely into the corner of the room. James sincerely hoped things would remain that way between them forever.

"Now, without further delay, let us move to the first and most pressing matter of this meeting," Dumbledore continued, "and that is Harry Potter—"

Upstairs, the front door burst open with a bang and slammed against the wall. The portrait of Sirius's mother began shrieking and cursing at the top of her lungs. Sirius stood to silence it, but before he could leave the room, a hunched figure came bursting in.

It was a short wizard with a sagging belly, wearing filthy, tattered robes. His face was covered in stubble, and his small eyes were bloodshot. He was panting as if he'd run a marathon and seemed unable to speak. After a few confused moments, James recognized him; it was Mundungus Fletcher, who had once served as Sirius's informant among the criminal world when the Order was last active.

"What is it, Mundungus?" Dumbledore asked sternly. "Why are you not watching Harry?"

"He… it's… there were…" he mumbled something unintelligible, squeaking every time he tried to breathe. He looked like he was about to faint.

"Spit it out!" Sirius snapped at him, suddenly looking very pale.

"There were… Dem.. Dement…" Mundungus clutched his chest in a pitiful display and finally managed to shout, "DEMENTORS!"

Chapter Text

Tonks stood waiting alongside dozens of other Ministry of Magic employees for the lift to arrive, struggling to stop herself from smiling. The witches and wizards around her yawned with the tiredness of an early morning or chatted softly amongst themselves, but she—despite only having slept a few hours that night—didn't feel tired at all.

If Mad-Eye could see her now, he would no doubt scold her for not taking her new responsibility seriously. But she was taking it seriously—very seriously. She was just happy that, for once, someone finally appreciated her. For the first time in her life, she'd been let in on the secret, considered good and important enough to be part of the group—and it felt great.

She got out of the lift on the second floor, following behind a group of seasoned Aurors, and didn't even feel a pang of resentment at the knowledge that they'd be discussing their exciting investigations while she had mountains of paperwork waiting on her desk. None of those Aurors were members of the Order of the Phoenix.

She walked to her cubicle with a spring in her step, glancing casually into Kingsley's as she passed. He seemed to be out today; only the wanted posters of Sirius remained, glowering back at her. She smirked, and when two other female Aurors approached from the other direction, she quickly pretended to yawn. Her mother—Sirius's cousin—had always insisted he'd been wrongfully convicted, that there was no way he could've killed all those people. She only regretted that she couldn't tell her she knew Sirius was innocent—and that she'd had dinner with him the night before.

"Morning, Tonks," said Raymond Hawkins, her cubicle-mate, as she squeezed through the narrow gap between the desks to reach her chair. "I like your shirt."

Beneath her Auror robes, Tonks was wearing a plain T-shirt with a paint-splatter pattern—nothing remarkable, really. But Raymond always found something to compliment her on: the colour she'd chosen for her hair that day, what she wore, how she smelled. Tonks was rather glad that Scrimgeour, the Head of the Department, had laid down very clear rules about romantic relationships within the Auror Office. She was quite sure that if Hawkins weren't so religiously devoted to following rules, he'd have asked her out by now. She was glad he hadn't—she wasn't interested in him at all wouldn't have had the heart to say so.

The morning passed without event. It always did, when it came to Tonks—she was rarely allowed out into the field with the more experienced Aurors—but today, it grated more than usual. How could these Aurors sit there chatting comfortably while the darkest wizard of all time was roaming free?

She chewed her quill, watching two Aurors from the Special Unit laughing just across the cubicle partition. True, Fudge had said there was nothing to Potter's story, that Dumbledore only supported him because he was mad, but being the Minister didn't mean they had to follow him blindly. At the Academy, Mad-Eye always said a good Auror had to know when to follow orders and when to think. But apparently not even among her own year, she'd been the only one who truly paid attention to Alastor Moody's lectures.

Just before eleven o'clock, Jackson Hyde appeared at the entrance to their cubicle—the rising star of the Special Unit for Detainment of Dark Wizards. The bulk of the work done by Aurors like Tonks and Raymond involved doing the grunt work for Aurors like him, all while dreaming they might one day be like him.

Besides being exceptionally talented, Hyde was also quite handsome, with grey eyes that had long since become the object of admiration for many in the department. Tonks, who often ended up doing his dirty work, was just grateful that most of the time he was reasonably polite—if a little smug.

"Where's the report on the apothecaries selling powdered griffin bone?" he asked after the briefest of greetings.

Raymond leapt to his feet and began rifling through his papers. Tonks, who happened to have the report by her elbow, handed it over and said, "Here it is. It's sorted by place of residence."

"Good work, Tonks," Hyde said with a smile. Sometimes she felt he was nicer to her than to the other new Aurors. "As always."

Tonks smiled back. Raymond looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be jealous of her or Hyde. Hyde gave her one last smile before turning to leave—then suddenly stopped at the cubicle entrance.

"Can I help you?" he asked coldly.

"Apologies—It seems I got turned around."

Tonks looked up at the sound of the voice. She couldn't see who was speaking—Hyde was blocking the narrow passage—but she recognized that soft voice.

"I'm trying to get to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"I'm not surprised," Hyde said, with ugly disdain. He stepped aside, and now Tonks could see the wizard he was speaking to. It was Remus Lupin.

Tonks made a great effort to look as though she didn't know him, and he in turn didn't look at her at all, as though they'd never met. What was he doing here?

"You're looking for level four. Two and four are both even numbers—maybe that's what confused you."

Raymond gave a nasty snigger. Tonks wanted desperately to tell him to shut up, but she knew she couldn't; she wasn't supposed to know Lupin.

"I'll escort him," she said, standing up. "Visitors aren't allowed to walk around unaccompanied."

"You're right," Hyde said sternly. "Yes, please escort Mr Lupin out."

Tonks squeezed out of the cubicle and began walking toward the exit. Remus followed. She glanced at him over her shoulder—how did Hyde know his name?—but Remus gave her a warning look and muttered very softly, "Don't look at me."

Tonks quickly turned forward, feeling slightly ashamed. Had she broken one of the Order's rules without realizing? Had he come to reprimand her? He looked serious, maybe even angry—perhaps he'd come to expel her from the Order and wipe her memory?

They waited for the lift in silence. Tonks started to sweat. They stepped inside and she pressed the button for level four. As the lift began to rise, Remus drew his wand and tapped the panel. The lift gave a groan and stopped.

Tonks's hand flew to her own wand inside her robe pocket—she had agreed that if she betrayed the Order her memory would be erased, but that didn't mean she'd just let them do it. She felt an enormous wave of relief as Remus smiled at her.

"You did well," he said. "Offering to escort me was a good move. But you could stand to work on your acting skills."

Tonks exhaled, blowing strands of pink hair out of her face.

"I thought you were here to wipe my memory. Or kill me."

He let out a raspy laugh.

"Am I really that terrifying?"

Tonks giggled. No, he wasn't frightening at all—not in his brown jumper and worn cloak. Even the faint scars on his face and the silver glint in his hair were rather charming. His eyes were golden, gentle and intelligent—not the eyes of a ruthless assassin.

"I just came to see how you're handling routine life," Remus said. "Normally Kingsley keeps an eye on you, but he's out today."

Tonks wondered bitterly if someone was keeping tabs on all the Order members, and knew the answer was probably no.

"It's only temporary," Remus added, as if reading her thoughts. "Until you gain a bit more experience."

Tonks nodded, trying to smile. She felt he was being truthful.

"Who have you spoken to since last night?" he asked suddenly.

Mad-Eye had told her she might sometimes be asked to recount her conversations—but only if the Order suspected a leak.

"No one," she said defensively, then corrected herself, "Just my office mate and Hyde."

When Remus looked a little surprised, she added, "Why are you surprised?"

He looked slightly awkward.

"You're a very... sociable witch. I just assumed you had lots of friends."

Knowing that by "sociable" he really meant "chatty," she replied coolly, "I don't have any friends."

She immediately regretted how she'd said it, because Remus looked rather uncomfortable.

"Well," he said, tapping the panel again to restart the lift, "that's not quite true. You've got more friends than you realize—even if you can't be seen with them in public."

That comment lifted Tonks's spirits considerably. She smiled at Remus and he smiled back—just before the lift doors opened again and he resumed pretending not to know her, with remarkable skill. No one else got in, just a few memos, and the lift continued upwards with only the two of them inside.

"How do you know Hyde?" she asked, making use of the final moments they had to speak.

"I don't. Though it seems he knows me."

Tonks frowned. "How could he know you?"

Remus gave her a look of surprise. The lift began to slow, and his expression grew a little irritated.

"Mad-Eye said you were a good Auror," he told her with a faintly bitter smile. The doors opened, and he stepped out without another word. A wizard stepped in to take his place, and Tonks could only watch as Remus disappeared into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

"Going up or down?" the wizard asked in a creaky voice.

"Down," Tonks replied distractedly, a wave of bitterness washing over her. She knew there were no ranks in the Order, and it didn't matter what the others thought of her as long as Dumbledore wanted her in—but she couldn't help wondering if Remus thought she wasn't up to the job.

When she got back to her office, she made an excuse to Raymond about needing something from the archive. Another young Auror was there, and Tonks pretended to search for something until she left. Then she went straight to the "L" section and rummaged through the scrolls until she found what she was looking for: Remus Lupin's criminal file. He must have one—surely that's how Hyde knew him (and let's see someone say she's not a good Auror).

But when she unrolled the scroll, she was surprised to find that there was hardly anything there. Just a few personal details (Tonks lingered on the birth year—1960; he was thirteen years older than her), but no record of criminal activity. Only one line seemed to justify the file's existence:

Status: Werewolf.

Tonks returned to her desk and continued working as though nothing had happened.

Should that information have shocked or frightened her? She was surprised—Remus didn't fit any of the werewolf stereotypes—but she didn't feel scared. If he'd wanted to harm her, surely he would've done it when they were alone in the lift, wouldn't he? Besides, she knew Dumbledore wouldn't have brought him into the Order if he didn't trust him implicitly.

She glanced at the clock. Time seemed to crawl. Despite the new bit of information (and perhaps because of it), she could hardly wait for the evening to come, and with it, the Order meeting.

She left the office at half-past seven, long after most Ministry workers had gone home. It had been that way since graduating the Academy—she spent most of her waking hours at work. She liked to maintain the image of the reliable, hard-working employee, and it usually paid off. Hyde hadn't been the only one to praise her that day—even Scrimgeour had casually hinted she was on the fast track to promotion.

But the truth was, she didn't have much of a life outside work. She lived alone in a one-room flat in West London, which she mostly returned to just to exercise and sleep. She had no friends, didn't go on dates, and the only people she had real connections with were her parents, who lived in Cornwell. She hadn't kept in touch with anyone from school or the Academy—though she'd always surrounded herself with people, she'd never felt that any of them truly understood her.

She travelled home via Floo, showered quickly, and ate a hasty dinner of leftovers from two nights earlier before it was time to leave for the meeting. For some reason, she found herself unusually self-conscious about her appearance, irritated that she didn't have more time to carefully pick her outfit. Before leaving, she at least managed to debate various hair colors—pink, black, brown, or blonde—before settling on her natural dark brown hair. But on the way to the Tube, she tied it up in a messy high bun. She didn't want to look like she was trying to impress anyone.

Moody had said that to limit magical activity near headquarters, he preferred she travel to meetings the Muggle way. Tonks didn't mind—she loved Muggle London. She'd discovered its unique magic through her father and her Muggle relatives, and had always enjoyed blending into the busy crowds, loving the feeling of being invisible and able to watch people without being seen herself. It was oddly calming.

She stepped off the train at a run-down station on the city's edge and hurried to Grimmauld Place. Only when she rapped sharply on the door of Number 12 did she realize she was twenty minutes early.

After a few moments, the locks rattled on the other side of the door and it opened. Sirius stood in the doorway, his scowl melting into a broad grin the moment he saw her.

"Nice disguise," he remarked as she stepped inside. "You're very early."

"I'm always late, so I always make a point to be early," Tonks replied cheerfully. Moody had told her Sirius had been one of her most enthusiastic supporters when the Order voted on whether to let her in or not, and she was determined to prove he'd been right to back her.

"I'm beginning to see why Mad-Eye likes you so much," he said, locking the door with a flick of his wand. "We've just finished eating, but there's probably something left if you're hungry."

"I've already eaten," Tonks replied, although had she known she was invited for dinner, she would have skipped the stale leftovers.

They entered the kitchen, and Tonks found herself scanning for Remus. She spotted him preparing wine bottles and rolls of blank parchment for the meeting and felt annoyed at herself for wanting to see him. He was no different from any other Order member—she shouldn't have secretly hoped he'd be there. She told herself it was just embarrassment; she wasn't sure if she should tell him she knew he was a werewolf.

Luckily, she was spared the need to confront him straight away, because Sirius wanted to introduce her to James and Lily Potter, who had been the focus of the previous evening's meeting. Truth be told, Tonks hadn't quite grasped how exactly they were still alive or how they'd remembered their former lives after fourteen years, but she figured now wasn't the time to ask for clarification.

James Potter seemed like a thoroughly decent person, and so did his wife, even if, just moments after Sirius introduced them, Lily had already stopped paying attention to the conversation. Tonks didn't blame her—coming back from the dead couldn't be easy, especially with a fifteen-year-old son left behind.

"My mum always said I'd make a good Auror," James said, impressed by Tonks being one. "She said it'd be the perfect job for me if someone was willing to pay me to run about and hex people. Reckoned that was all I did at school anyway."

Tonks laughed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Remus talking to some other Order member. She wanted him to join their conversation—and at the same time dreaded it.

"Truth is, I tried to get into the Academy," Sirius told her. "But I failed the psychological assessment. Said I wasn't reliable. I told them to sod off—not like I needed the money. Put my time into the Order instead."

At that moment, Mad-Eye limped in and immediately started grilling Tonks about her day at the Ministry.

"She did fine, Alastor," Remus suddenly cut in, just after Tonks had repeated for the third time that no, she hadn't spoken to anyone, and no, no one had suspected her.

Mad-Eye growled something, clearly not pleased (but he never looked pleased), and sat down nearby with his bottle. Tonks noticed it was nearly nine o'clock, and the other Order members—who'd trickled in during her chat with Mad-Eye—were now all seated.

She sat between Sirius and Moody and watched as Remus cast a sealing charm on the door. She'd studied werewolves extensively at the Academy—seen photos and diagrams of them and the beasts they became—and she had to admit that Remus Lupin didn't look anything like them. He was pleasent- looking, clean-shaven, and even though his clothes were old, they were neat and well kept. There was no trace of the wild, filthy creature the textbooks had described—no hint of the violence-loving, brute outcast. Remus looked like he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Dumbledore appeared, and the meeting was just about to start—Tonks sat upright, determined to pay attention —when a scruffy-looking wizard burst into the room.

After a few moments of panting and with both Dumbledore and Sirius urging him to speak, he cried out, "DEMENTORS!"

A stunned silence fell, and then everyone began talking at once. Mad-Eye growled, his magical eye spinning in its socket. Tonks wasn't quite sure what was going on.

"Silence!" Dumbledore's voice boomed. Everyone fell quiet. "Mundungus, explain yourself!"

"Kept me eye on the kid like yer told me, Dumbledore," the scruffy wizard said, wringing his hands nervously. He was still sweating profusely, and not just from running. Sirius looked at him with a glare that could bore holes through steel. "Only then... well, summat came up, an'—"

"You left him alone?" Sirius said, his voice low and dangerous.

"It were a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" Mundungus defended himself, thereby incriminating himself further. "'Sides, ain't like he really needed me, right? The Dementors came an' he saw 'em off no problem—"

"What Dementors?!" Sirius shouted. Mundungus flinched. "I swear, if a single hair on that boy's head—"

"Did Harry perform magic?" Dumbledore interrupted, his voice firm.

Mundungus, who now looked unsure whether he feared him or Sirius more, said, "Y-yeah. I didn't see it meself, but Figgy said he cast a Patronus—"

Dumbledore didn't wait to hear more. He began issuing instructions. "Arthur, go to the Ministry and find out everything you can. I have no doubt they'll send someone to investigate underage magic. Sirius, write to Harry and tell him to stay indoors no matter what. Severus, find out who sent the Dementors. Remus, go to Privet Drive and see what you can learn. I'm going to the Ministry as well. Mundungus—" He shot the man a withering look. "Wait here until I return."

Mundungus looked like he wished the earth would swallow him, but he didn't dare disobey. Snape was already gone, and Sirius dashed off to scribble a message to Harry. James Potter stood near the table, looking lost. His wife seemed frozen in place. Tonks felt sorry for them—their son had been attacked, and all they could do was watch others try to help him.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when Mad-Eye jabbed a finger into her side.

"Tonks, you're with Lupin," he barked. "Go now!"

Tonks nodded and ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She spotted Remus in the hall and shouted for him to wait. The portrait of Mrs Black began screaming, but by now the chaos in headquarters was such that no one bothered to hush her.

"You're with me?" Remus asked as he unlocked the door with practiced speed. Tonks nodded as they stepped onto the threshold. "Good. Take my hand."

She grabbed it without thinking. A moment later, he Apparated, pulling her along.

If normal Apparition was unpleasant, side-along was worse. She felt like her arm might be torn clean off by the force of the spinning, and when they reappeared in the night air, her legs gave out and she collapsed into Remus.

"Quiet," he whispered before she could apologize for her clumsiness. "The Ministry might already be here."

But he was wrong. As they scouted the quiet Muggle neighbourhood, wands hidden in their pockets, dodging the streetlamps, they quickly realized no Ministry official had come to investigate why Dementors had appeared in a suburban street. Nor was there any sign of a struggle—only an unpleasant puddle of vomit in one alleyway.

"Some people react to Dementors that way," Remus said as they walked on. "But it doesn't mean much."

"But why would Dementors be here?" Tonks asked softly as they walked along the empty road. People in this area clearly went to bed early; most of the houses were dark. "The Ministry thinks Sirius is in Tibet, right? So they wouldn't have sent them here for him."

"And they just happened to run into Harry?" Remus said. "Too much of a coincidence. No, someone sent them to attack him. I'm sure of it."

"You think it was You-Know-Who?" Tonks asked tensely.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Remus replied grimly. He stopped in front of a house where a single upstairs light was on. By the porch lamp, Tonks saw the number: 4.

"This is where Harry lives," Remus explained, crouching behind the fence across the street. Tonks joined him, peering at the house. "We're getting him out soon, but you might be asked to help with watches over the next few days."

Tonks nodded. "That his room?" she asked, pointing to the lit window.

Remus nodded, and they fell into silence. Tonks wondered how long they'd have to wait but didn't ask. She wasn't about to give Remus more reason to think she was a poor Auror.

They waited a long time for something that never came. Remus studied the street and the house with intense focus, as though he expected something to happen at any moment. Tonks was impressed by his concentration.

"So, um..." she began after what felt like hours. She had no watch, but the night had grown cold, indicating that it was late.

Remus looked at her. Her mouth went dry. What was she going to say? "So I found out you're a werewolf—you're hiding it well, by the way, well done"?

"You figured out how your friend knows me?" he asked, as if reading her mind again.

"He's not my friend," Tonks replied. "But yeah, I figured it out. I should've guessed when you said you had to go to the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures."

"It's a big advantage for the Order—I've always got an excuse to visit the Ministry," Remus said, trying to lighten the mood. Tonks let out a forced chuckle, trying to help him.

"You can ask Mad-Eye to pair you with someone else next time," he said suddenly, not looking at her. "I promise I won't be offended."

"Don't be daft," Tonks replied at once. "I'm not scared of you, or anything."

Remus nodded. It was hard to see his face in the dark, but Tonks thought he smiled to himself—sadly. For a moment, she considered saying more—telling him he was nothing like the werewolves Aurors usually chased, that he was a gentleman and a better wizard than most she knew—but she stopped herself. Her mum always said that sometimes, less was more. This felt like one of those times; all Remus needed to hear was that she didn't mind being partnered with him.

"He's not moving," Remus said suddenly. Tonks, who'd been lost in thought, asked him to repeat himself.

"He's not moving," he said again, standing swiftly. "Usually, he walks around the room—you can see the lamp flickering. But he hasn't moved since we got here."

"Maybe he fell asleep?" Tonks asked, rising to her feet as well.

"Maybe, but he usually sleeps during the day. Wait here."

Tonks watched as Remus crossed the street and leapt over the fence of Number Four with ease. She squinted to follow him in the dark—she saw him peer into the downstairs windows, then approach the nearby tree. With surprising agility, he climbed the trunk and vanished into the branches. A few moments later, she saw him look through the lit window, then slip inside.

She had to admit—his athleticism could rival some of the best senior Aurors.

After a tense few minutes, Remus reappeared and jogged back over to her.

"He's gone," he said, breathless, his voice taut.

"Maybe he just stepped out of the room—"

"No. All his stuff's gone. His broom, his owl. He's left. Stay here in case he comes back—I'm going to alert the Order."

Without another word, he Disapparated. Tonks was left alone in the still street.

Suddenly, all the sprinklers on the street went off. Tonks crouched again, wand in her jacket pocket, ready for a long wait. She had a feeling that if Harry Potter had left of his own accord, he wasn't coming back here anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Harry found himself in a very dark place. After a few moments of confusion, his eyes began to adjust to the gloom, and he realized he was standing inside an enormous space, lit only by the moon now shining in the middle of the sky. It was easy to tell where it was, because even though the chamber around him was vast, there appeared to be no ceiling. At first, Harry thought it might be enchanted like the Great Hall's, allowing him to see the sky through it – but then the lights came on, and he realized he could see the sky because the ceiling had long since collapsed. He was standing amid the ruins.

"We're here?" he asked uncertainly, turning to Billie the house-elf, who stood beside him as though awaiting further instructions. She nodded.

He looked around again. Thousands of candles floated high above, illuminating massive stone pillars that jutted out from the walls. Between them hung enormous, colourful tapestries depicting a series of vivid historical events. The tapestries seemed to have been preserved relatively well, except for a few that were singed from fires long extinguished. On one side of the chamber – as large as the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts – stood a massive wooden door, apparently carved from a single enormous tree trunk. On the other, a grand, sweeping staircase led to the rest of the sprawling estate. Through the fallen ceiling, Harry could see there was another floor above the ground one where he now stood. Above the staircase, a huge, faded banner fluttered in the night breeze, bearing the symbol of a triangle and a stag. The eyes of the enormous stag, embroidered in gold thread, seemed to pierce through Harry's very skin.

"Is Master Harry hungry? Billie can make foodsies," the house-elf offered when Harry did nothing but stare at the place.

"Er…"

In truth, he didn't feel hungry at all. His whole body was heavy with exhaustion, and for the first time in weeks, he truly wanted to sleep. Something about this place – vast and ruined though it was – filled him with a sense of calm he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

"I just want to go to sleep, if that's all right," he told her.

"Billie will take Master Harry right away – right away!"

She snapped her fingers, and Harry's belongings floated into the air, following after her. Harry grabbed Hedwig's cage – she clearly didn't appreciate floating – and followed the house-elf up the stairs. She led him through several narrow, windowless corridors, adorned with portraits that stirred to life as he passed, watching him curiously. At last, she stopped before one of the doors. This door stood out from the others because someone had tacked up a Gryffindor Quidditch team flag. Harry's heart gave a flutter.

Billi opened the door and levitated Harry's things inside. He followed them in, staring around the room in astonishment. It reminded him of the boys' dormitory at Hogwarts, with a large four-poster bed and thick rugs covering the entire floor. Posters of various Quidditch teams were pinned to the walls, their players waving and performing tricks on broomsticks, though the edges of the paper had curled with age. A few long, narrow windows looked out over vast expanses of pastureland, dotted here and there with groves and cottages.

Harry set Hedwig's cage on the writing desk and opened it so she could go out for her night- time hunt. He watched her disappear into the night sky, glad that she no longer had to endure the city's soot and noise. Then he turned and immediately noticed a row of gleaming frames on the mantelpiece.

He moved towards them, as if under a spell, and picked up the first frame. He'd known what to expect, but his heart still gave a little leap. The photograph showed his father, Sirius, and Professor Lupin – young and laughing – standing in Hogsmeade's main street. He assumed Wormtail's image had left the frame.

"Can Billie do anything else for Master Harry?"

She startled him; he'd forgotten she was still there.

"N-no, it's fine. Good night."

He felt relieved when the house-elf curtsied and vanished, and he turned his attention back to the photographs.

This had clearly been his father's room – there was no doubt about it. The rest of the pictures on the mantel showed him at various stages of his life. One showed him as a small boy with a plump, handsome woman with thick, dark hair and a plum-coloured formal robe, and a man who looked a great deal like both James and Harry himself, with a neat black beard, round glasses, and unruly black hair. Another picture showed him again with Sirius and Lupin, much younger this time, all three in Gryffindor robes at what seemed to be the end-of-year feast; judging by the Gryffindor banners in the background, Harry gathered Gryffindor had won the House Cup. Yet another photo showed James at about Harry's age, standing beside his father – both holding racing brooms on the background of the same the fields visible from the window – smiling and waving.

Harry set down the last picture, feeling a pang in his chest. He wished there had been pictures of his mother, too. With that thought, he opened his trunk and took out his favourite photo – the one of his parents standing together in the snow – and placed it at the end of the row. His mother blew him kisses, and his father smiled proudly at him. It made Harry think again about the Dementor attack, and suddenly he felt overwhelmingly tired.

He staggered to the bed and collapsed onto it, still in his clothes. He didn't even bother with the covers. A gentle warmth enveloped him; the pillows smelled faintly of his Invisibility Cloak, and he imagined it might once have been his father's scent. Before he could wonder whether he should be afraid of falling asleep, he was out cold.

He woke with his throat parched but didn't want to open his eyes. He couldn't quite remember why he felt so warm and peaceful, and he didn't want to remember. He just wanted to sink into this wonderful feeling and hope it never faded. But soon he had no choice – the sun was glaring into his eyes, and his stomach growled fiercely.

He opened his eyes. Strong rays of late afternoon sun streamed through the narrow windows in what had once been Harry's father's room. The events of the previous night came rushing back to him like a wave, and for the first time, he began to consider the consequences of what he had done.

The anger that had fueled him earlier was now gone, replaced by a bubbling guilt. What would happen when they realised he'd disappeared? Everyone would probably think he'd been kidnapped or something. Maybe he ought to go back?

No. He wouldn't decisions our of guilt. The last few weeks had been hell. He deserved to spend a little time somewhere no one was shouting at him, cursing him, or threatening to hit him on a daily basis (even if Dudley and Uncle Vernon hadn't dared touch him since he'd started at Hogwarts).

If Dumbledore and his little spies were so clever and knew what was best for him, they'd figure out where he'd gone. And as for Ron, Hermione, and Sirius – he hardened his heart at the thought of them worrying and being afraid. Let them stew in the dark, he told himself. Just for a day or two. Then he'd go back and face them – and the upcoming hearing.

For now, he got reluctantly out of bed and went to look out the window. The sun was setting, and a warm summer breeze was blowing. For the first time, he noticed a small, two-storey house standing alone on the estate grounds, its windows lit and smoke curling from the chimney.

It looked like he'd slept the whole day through – no wonder his stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself.

Realizing he had no idea where even to begin looking for the kitchen in this enormous house, he called for Billie. The house-elf appeared at once, as though she'd been waiting for him to summon her.

"Master Harry awake at last," she said. "Billie made mealsies!"

She snapped her fingers, and a table piled high with food appeared in the middle of the room. She hadn't been exaggerating – it looked like a combined breakfast, lunch, and dinner feast that could have put Hogwarts to shame.

Harry tucked in ravenously, eating with more enthusiasm than he'd felt since the third task, sampling everything in sight until he couldn't manage another bite. Afterwards, he discovered Billie had taken the initiative to draw him a bath, and he realized he badly needed one. While the house-elf vanished the remains of the meal with a wave of her fingers (Hermione would have killed him if she'd seen that), he entered the adjoining bathroom, stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes, and sank into the warm water.

He didn't think he'd ever had a proper bath before, aside from that time in the prefects' bathroom. This one was much nicer, though, without question. The room was warm and wood paneled, and there were no portraits of mermaids watching him bathe. More importantly, no one could walk in and interrupt him – least of all Moaning Myrtle.

He scrubbed himself thoroughly and washed his hair before leaning back with a sigh. His toes poked out of the bubbles, and he wiggled them thoughtfully.

His parents had had quite a lot of gold in their vault – but somehow he'd never really considered that James's parents, his own grandparents, had been this wealthy too. There weren't golden taps or sinks, but even this bathroom was more luxurious than anything Aunt Petunia could have dreamed of. Strangely, it made him think of Draco Malfoy – of how power and wealth had turned him into a pompous, spoiled git. That wasn't a nice thought. He hoped being raised in privilege hadn't made his father believe he was entitled to everything.

His gaze drifted to the window. The sun had nearly set behind the distant hills; the sky was deep blue, with the clouds tinged orange and pink. The room darkened, but he didn't want to light the lamps. It was so quiet. But not the oppressive silence of Privet Drive – this was the hush of wide, open land where nothing stirred but the wind.

The thought was deeply comforting. It helped him feel, for this moment at least, that everything was all right. In this moment, he was safe. No one was there to stare at his scar. No one wanted to hurt him. He wasn't the Boy Who Lived. He was just Harry. And even if Voldemort was out there somewhere, plotting some dark scheme, it didn't need to matter now…

He ducked under the water and held his breath until his lungs burned. Then he surfaced, gasping and coughing, his eyes stinging from the soap. As he sucked in air and pushed the wet hair out of his eyes, he swore no one would control him – not Dumbledore, not his friends, not the fear of Voldemort. He would be master of his own fate.

Only when the room was completely dark did he get out of the water, grope for a towel, and return to the bedroom. The fire had been stoked again, and the light left on – Billie's doing, no doubt.

He put on his glasses and went to his trunk, but after one glance at Dudley's old clothes, he slammed it shut and turned to his father's wardrobe instead. He rummaged through a row of neatly pressed wizarding robes – including a few ornate ceremonial ones – then opened the top drawer, which was filled with folded Muggle clothes. He selected a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and dressed. The old clothes were a little big around the shoulders and waist, but far better than Dudley's massive hand-me-downs.

Once he was dressed and his hair dry, he realized he could do whatever he liked. Hedwig, who had returned while he slept, was dozing in her cage. He could write to Ron and Hermione to tell them where he was and invite them to visit… but he wasn't quite ready to share his new refuge just yet, not after how they'd treated him since the end of term. He could ask Billi if there were any Muggle-Repelling Charms around the estate and go flying on his Firebolt – but the moon hadn't risen yet, and it was a bit too dark to fly alone.

So he decided to explore the house.

The corridor outside was narrow, built entirely of grey stone. Large doors set into arched alcoves led to more bedrooms and guest rooms. Candles in iron sconces mounted on the walls flared to life wherever Harry turned, lighting his way as he examined the tapestries and portraits along the walls. Every now and then he glanced up at the ceiling, which bore fading, colourful murals of feasts, battles, and knightly tournaments, the figures moving like characters in an old animated film.

As soon as Harry left his father's room, the portraits around him began to stir and murmur, watching him and sometimes even pointing. A few of them ran into neighbouring frames to spread the word.

"Heir!" cried an old, bearded wizard from one portrait as Harry passed, making him jump. "Heir to the House of Potter! What's your name, boy?"

"Er… Harry," he replied uncertainly.

"Harry Potter!" the old man cried with ridiculous enthusiasm, raising a fist into the air. "A worthy name!"

"Harry Potter?" said another witch, squinting at him through what looked like a melted-together mess of a dozen pairs of glasses. "Aren't you a bit young to be in the Wizengamot?"

"You're thinking of Henry Potter, Griselda," said a dark-skinned witch cradling a massive cat. "His portrait's in the study. Harry is James's son – Henry's grandson. Correct?"

Harry nodded, though at the moment, he wasn't sure of anything.

"At last, that useless scoundrel did something right!" grumbled a frightening-looking wizard with a thin black moustache. "How old are you, boy?"

"Er… nearly fifteen," Harry stammered.

"Fifteen?!" the moustached wizard recoiled in horror. "You look no more than twelve! What've you been doing all these years? You need to get to work!"

Harry, deeply offended by the remark about his age, was about to give a cheekily retort when the first old wizard said, "Don't listen to him. Back in his day, wizards were getting married at thirteen. Fifteen is the perfect age to begin learning the duties of a Head of House."

"The duties of… what?"

"So handsome, just like Fleamont," remarked the witch with the elaborate spectacles.

"It's about time there was a Potter in this house," said another wizard, with sagging cheeks, who had so far maintained a sullen silence. "What do you intend to do about the conflict with the Crown?"

"That conflict ended years ago, you fool," said the bearded wizard.

"How dare you!" the saggy-cheeked wizard thundered.

All the portraits began arguing among themselves. Harry took the opportunity to slip away at a run.

He only stopped when he reached a spacious drawing room, twice the size of the entire ground floor of the Dursleys' house. One door led into another corridor, and another into what looked like the study the cat-holding witch had mentioned. Curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped inside.

The room was fascinating. A white marble fireplace flared to life with a bright flame the moment Harry entered, casting a flickering glow over the intriguing space. Every wall was lined with shelves packed with books, peculiar instruments, and potion ingredients, leaving room only for the narrow windows that overlooked the night. In the centre stood an enormous stone table that served as a potions station, neatly arranged with cauldrons of various sizes and measuring tools. A small writing desk had been pushed into one corner, nestled among the bookshelves. The room had no decorations save for one enormous portrait hanging above the fireplace.

Harry stepped closer to examine the portrait. An elderly man was dozing peacefully, his chin resting on his chest, his spectacles slipping down his nose. He was thin, clean-shaven, and his grey hair—with some remaining black near his temples—looked rather like a bird's nest. He wore plum-coloured robes, the same as Harry's grandmother had worn in the photo in the bedroom, with the same silver-embroidered "W" on the lapel.

A night breeze suddenly swept through the windows, and the door slammed shut. The man in the portrait woke with a start, looked around, yawned, and adjusted his glasses. Then his eyes fell on Harry, who was watching him curiously, knowing this must be his great-grandfather.

"What is it now, James? You know you're not supposed to be in here," said Henry Potter gently.

It took Harry a moment to find his voice, but he managed at last to say, "I'm Harry. James is my dad."

"Ah!" the portrait exclaimed joyfully, a spark lighting up his blue eyes. "Wonderful! Yes, I recall now—he brought a girl here once… Millie or Gillie or—"

"Lily," Harry offered, surprised to find himself smiling

"Yes! A very sweet girl. So, where is my mischievous grandson? He said he'd visit from time to time, but I don't believe I've seen him in many years."

"He's dead," Harry said quickly, then added, "I'm sorry."

Henry Potter's face fell. "Oh… I'm very sorry to hear that. I'm not kept up to date—none of the other portraits come here. I'm beginning to regret asking Fleamont to keep me separated from that chattering lot…"

"Who's Fleamont?" Harry asked. It was the second time he'd heard that name today.

"My son, of course. Well, your grandfather, to be precise."

A warm feeling spread through Harry's chest. It was nice to put a name to the face of the cheerful man in the pictures in his dad's room.

"And my grandmother? What was her name?"

"Ah, dear Euphemia," Henry said fondly, smiling as he remembered his daughter-in-law. "Yes, she was a remarkable woman—always wanted to change the world. She was a member in the Wizengamot, you know, just like me."

"Are their portraits here too?" Harry asked, eager to meet his grandparents.

"I believe so. Though I don't recall if your father ever told me where he hung them… Might be in the drawing room on the first floor. I expect they'd be delighted to see you. I believe they passed away before you were born."

"Thanks," said Harry.

"My pleasure. It's lovely to meet you, Harry," Henry Potter said with a warm smile, his eyes twinkling with affection.

The way he looked at Harry reminded him of something—he'd seen this man once before. In his first year, he'd spotted him standing behind his father in the Mirror of Erised, beaming with pride.

In especially high spirits, Harry retraced his steps in search of the staircase down to the first floor. The knowledge that he still had family—other than the Dursleys—was immensely comforting, even if they were technically not alive. Dumbledore once told him not to dwell on dreams and forget to live, but Harry thought he was allowed to dream sometimes—dream that he had a family.

He passed the portraits—still arguing noisily—and the door to his father's room, and soon found the wide stone staircase leading to the ruined entrance hall. He remembered he'd meant to ask his great-grandfather what exactly had happened there, but the excitement of meeting his grandparents had driven the question from his mind.

He walked beneath the fluttering Potter family banner, stepped carefully between massive chunks of stone that had once been part of the ceiling, and made his way towards a scorched double wooden door, behind which he guessed was the drawing room.

His hand was already on the ornate iron handle when he felt something cold and sharp touch the back of his neck. He froze.

"Empty your pockets," a gruff voice ordered. "Then I'll decide whether to take just one of your hands or both."

"What?" Harry gasped, still struggling to process the sudden turn of events. He tried to turn around, but the sharp object pressed harder against his neck. He had the distinct sense that even a centimetre's movement might draw blood.

"Don't move!" the man behind him growled. "You should be grateful if I only take your hands! Back in my day, the punishment for breaking into a wizard's home was death!"

"I'm not a thief!" Harry protested. "Billie brought me here! My name's Harry Potter—"

"A thief and a liar?" the man barked. "You expect me to believe you're Harry Potter?"

"I can prove it," Harry said, and for the first time in his life was glad he had the scar. "Let me turn around and I'll show you."

"Fine," the man said after a moment. "But I want to see your hands. No tricks, or I'll skewer you."

Harry raised his arms slowly and turned around, feeling the sharp object remain pressed against his side the whole time.

He hadn't known quite what sort of person to expect, but he certainly hadn't imagined someone this old. The man's grey hair was long and unkempt despite the clear signs of balding, and a thick beard of the same hue covered his face. One of his eyes was black and scowling, the other milky and narrowed, blind. He wore dark, outdated wizard robes that made him look like he stole it from some rich wizard, especially paired with his mud-stained work boots. His skin was covered in dark sunspots, and though his arms were thin as twigs, the hand holding the duelling sabre aimed at Harry's chest was rock steady.

Under the old man's unrelenting gaze, Harry cautiously raised his hand to brush aside his fringe, revealing the scar beneath.

The man looked startled for a moment but quickly masked it with a scowl. He didn't seem fully convinced.

A worried squeak startled them both. Billie appeared, looking frightened and cross.

"Mister is not supposed to be here!" she scolded in a high-pitched voice. "Shoo!"

Harry took advantage of the old man's surprise to draw his wand and aim it straight at his head. He knew he'd be in serious trouble if he performed magic outside of school—but the man didn't know that.

"I'll tear you to shreds before you can speak, boy!" the man threatened, though Harry could tell he was rattled. For some reason, he didn't draw his own wand.

"Mister must go home!" Billie continued, flapping her hands in a fury. "Mister mustn't come here without Master Potter's permission!"

"Silence, you cursed elf!" the man snapped. "Your Master Potter is lying in his grave. What did you wake up for?"

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, still pointing his wand. He remembered the lights he'd seen at the edge of the estate. "I told you who I am. Now tell me who you are."

"I don't owe you any answers!" the old man retorted. His attitude was worse than Harry's—and that was saying something. "If I'm not mistaken, you're still under seventeen, which means you don't get to order me about."

"Who said anything about ordering you about?" Harry replied, a little astonished that someone so old could be this childish. "I just want you to stop pointing that sword at me."

"Then lower your wand," the old man growled.

"Fine—both of us at once," Harry said, feeling like he was talking to a stroppy toddler. He lowered his wand slowly, watching the old man do the same with the sword. Only when it was back in the scabbard at his belt did Harry return his wand to his pocket.

"Alright," the man said suddenly, "you can stay here if you must. But don't move anything. I'll know if you touch a single thing."

With that, he turned and hobbled towards the great front doors.

"Wait!" Harry called after him, startled by the abrupt shift. "You haven't told me who you are."

The man didn't answer. Harry broke into a run and caught up with him moments later.

"Do you live here?" he asked, trying to coax a response. "Is that your house on the edge of the field?"

The man threw open the door and began crossing the cobbled courtyard outside. In the middle stood a statue—once a proud stag rearing on its hind legs, now its antlered head lay shattered.

"So what, are you like the groundskeeper, or—"

"I am not a groundskeeper!" the man snapped, flushing red even in the dark. "For your information, boy, I'm a Potter just like you!"

"So we're related?" Harry asked, pleased to have drawn something out of him.

"It would appear so, wouldn't it?" the old man growled.

"I didn't know anyone else in my family was still alive," Harry said, wondering if Dumbledore knew about this grumpy relative. He wasn't sure how the man measured up to the Dursleys—but at least he was a wizard.

"Good for you," the man grunted, trudging down the path through the pasture that presumably led to his home. He seemed lost in thought.

"So, does that mean you knew my dad?"

The night was too dark to see the man's expression clearly, but Harry was certain he noticed a change in his posture.

"Yes," he said quietly. "And I regret the day that brat was born."

"What?" Harry echoed, too stunned to say anything else.

"You heard me!" the man barked, throwing up his arms. "You can thank him for the state your grand house is in! It's all his fault! He always had to go chasing adventure—never satisfied with what he had. Couldn't just sit at home with his little Muggle-born wife. No, he had to bring all of the Dark Lord's followers down on us…"

Harry waited anxiously for him to elaborate, but the man fell silent.

"How did Voldemort—"

"Don't say his name!" the man scolded. "You're just like him! Think you're brave saying his name, do you? No—you're a fool! He and that Mudblood of his—went and got themselves killed—"

"Don't call her that!" Harry shouted back, furious now. Criticizing his dad's choices was one thing, but he wouldn't stand for anyone insulting his mum.

The man muttered something and spat on the ground.

Harry stopped, glaring at his back, and finally turned around and headed back inside, leaving the old man to hobble off towards his house. He was willing to forgive the comment about his mum, if only because the man was old and obviously unhinged. But he certainly didn't want his company, and Harry sincerely hoped he'd never have to see him again. If he wanted to be insulted and shouted at, he could've stayed with the Dursleys.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

Lily flinched as James raised his voice. He noticed and tried to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she slipped away and moved towards the window.

There was nothing to be seen through the grimy glass, only the reflection of the drawing room behind her. She watched the goings-on this way, hoping that if she could pretend she wasn't really there, the terrible fear rising within her might lessen a little. 

She had been plagued by a nagging, suffocating feeling of dread since the night before, when she was told Harry was with Petunia. It felt as though he were in immediate danger—like she was watching her son through a window, seeing him being stalked by some ominous shadow, but unable to warn him.

When she tried to share the feeling with James, he reassured her that everything was going to be all right, and that very soon they would be reunited with Harry. Lily felt anything but reassured by his words, but she didn’t press the matter. She sat beside him as he caught up with Remus and Sirius, trying to convince herself it was just her anxiety playing tricks on her. But, as had happened many times before in her life, her fearful premonition had come true.

"How did it happen?" Sirius's voice boomed, almost accusatory. Since they had received the news about the Dementors, he seemed no less worried than Lily and James about Harry. "I thought he was safe as long as he was there!"

"He is," said Remus, somehow managing to keep his composure, though Lily could see through the window's reflection that his wand hand was trembling slightly. "I don't think he was taken. In fact, I'm sure that's not what happened. There were no signs of a struggle in his room, and all of his things are gone. It looks like he left of his own accord."

"I told him to stay put!" Sirius snapped, pacing again in front of the fire like a caged animal. That was what he'd been doing for the past hour. "But since when does he listen to me? I'm only his godfather..."

"You took your eyes off him for ten minutes and he legged it?" said James, sounding somewhere between worried and impressed.

"It was more than ten minutes," Remus admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "Tonks and I did a sweep of the neighbourhood before returning to keep watch on the house. I'd say he had at least half an hour."

"But Lily's sister would've said something if she saw him packing up and leaving, wouldn't she? Or that Figg woman who works for Dumbledore?" James asked desperately.

"Not necessarily. He's got your Invisibility Cloak."

James muttered a low curse and glanced over at Lily. There was guilt in his eyes. She shifted her gaze from him.

"Where could he have gone?" Sirius asked, now sounding more lost than angry. "The Burrow?"

"I asked Molly to check. But assuming he didn't fly there, it'll take hours for him to get that far," said Remus. "Can you think of anywhere else he might have run off to?"

Sirius considered. Then he said, "Last time he ran away from his aunt and uncle's, he took the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron."

"Good," said Remus. "I'll go check that out. Send me a Patronus if you think of anything else."

With that, he left the room, and they heard the front door close behind him. A heavy silence followed, as though even the walls were waiting for news. Lily edged closer to the window in a futile attempt to see outside, but there was only darkness.

James cleared his throat. Sirius muttered something unintelligible and left the room, leaving Lily alone with her husband. She pretended to be transfixed by the darkness beyond the window, and for a brief moment tensed as she felt his arms around her.

She turned and pressed her face to his shoulder, allowing him to hold her tightly—mostly so he wouldn't be able to see her expression. She knew that if he looked into her eyes, he'd know exactly what she was thinking and feeling.

"He'll be alright," James said. "You've heard the stories—he's a tough kid."

Lily nodded and took a deep breath to relax her muscles. She had to show James she was holding it together. She had never lied to him, but their love was built on one unspoken lie: James needed to believe he had the strength to save Lily from herself. So she held him tightly, not saying a word. 

A hesitant knock sounded at the door. James pulled away reluctantly and called, "Yes?"

Sirius had returned, bringing Emily with him. She was dressed in pyjamas and looked slightly sheepish.

"Emily has questions about the Dementors," Sirius said. "I tried to tell her there's nothing to be afraid of as long as you can think of a happy memory, but I don't think she believes me."

"You're only saying that to get me back to bed," Emily said in an injured tone. She always suspected adults made things up to stop her asking questions and send her to sleep. James and Lily were slightly guilty of doing just that.

"I'm not!" Sirius replied, affronted. "If I wanted to do that, I'd come up with something far more original."

"Hermione says Dementors eat feelings," Emily said, as if that alone was enough to contradict Sirius.

"She's right, in a way," James said. "But they can't touch your memories. So if you've got a happy memory, you can use it to drive them away."

"Is that magic?" Emily asked sceptically.

"It's magic," James confirmed with a smile. "It's a spell called a Patronus."

"Is that what Harry used to fight them? That Patrenus thing?"

"Patronus," James corrected her. "And yes."

He glanced over at Lily, who made sure to keep her expression calm. Sometimes it annoyed her that James seemed to think she was always on the verge of falling apart.

"Can I learn it too?" Emily asked. "Do they teach it at Hogwarts?"

"Yes, but when you're a bit older."

"But what if Dementors attack me too?"

That question left even James speechless. He glanced at Lily for a split second, and she met his gaze, a cold feeling creeping up her spine.

"That won't happen," Sirius answered for them, evidently sensing the reason for their silence. "Hermione probably told you Dementors don't just roam the world at random. Most wizards never see one in their lives. What happened to Harry tonight was very unusual."

Emily seemed satisfied with this. Perhaps she sensed her parents' tension, because she wished them and Sirius goodnight and went back to her room.

James moved closer to the fire and stared into the flames, hands in his pockets. He didn't need to say anything—but Lily knew they were thinking the exact same thing: what if Voldemort didn't stop with Harry, and decided Emily was a threat too?

"He's no reason to take an interest in her," James said very late that night, as they lay trying to sleep in their darkened room. Lily felt like the vast, ancient house was suffocating her. "The only reason he ever cared about Harry was that ridiculous prophecy. Emily doesn't threaten him."

"You're probably right," Lily said, and she truly hoped he was.

The following day was one of the hardest of Lily's life. Time crawled by, and there was no distraction from the nerve-shredding wait and the terrible thoughts. James asked Sirius how he managed to not leave the house for so long without going mad, and Sirius darkly asked how James knew he hadn't gone mad. Lily would have gladly been trapped in that house for the rest of her life, just to know Harry was safe and sound.

Her son did not appear at the Weasleys' that day, nor at the Leaky Cauldron, nor in Hogsmeade. They sat all day in the drawing room, hearing the children—who had been granted a day off from chores and didn't know Harry was missing—running up and down the stairs. Dumbledore had not contacted them. James and Sirius continued speculating about where Harry might be, but Lily kept silent.

Her father used to say that the simplest solution is usually the right one. She felt that applied here: there was no explanation more plausible than Harry having left his aunt and uncle’s of his own accord, and that something had gone wrong on the way to somewhere familiar.

She tried to imagine what could have become of Harry, as Sirius and James were doing, but found she couldn’t think of a single scenario. There was only emptiness—and the more she tried to fill it, the more that space was flooded with grief.

When Emily was nine years old, she ran away from home. Lily had a parent-teacher conference that evening and came home late to find James at his wits’ end, almost mad with worry and wrought with guilt over their daughter’s disappearance. 

But Lily hadn’t been worried. They got into the car and drove to the edge of town, to a playground they hadn’t visited in years. And there was Emily, sitting beneath the monkey bars she had loved to play on as a young child.

Both James and Emily were shocked that Lily had known exactly where to find her, without the slightest hesitation. Lily just shrugged and said it was “a mother’s instinct.”

Now, it was the exact opposite of that. She didn’t know her son—not truly. The stories Sirius and Remus told them were comforting, but they couldn’t paint a true picture of who Harry really was, what he was thinking, how he was feeling. She didn’t know what playground he had loved as a child. She didn’t know where he went when he felt lonely and afraid. All she knew was that the same shadowy figure she had envisioned was still stalking him, preying on him.

On the second day of waiting, after another sleepless night, Lily started to think she might be cursed—doomed never to see her son again. Since the day Harry was born, death had loomed over him, from the circumstances of his birth to the prophecy and Voldemort's intentions, and at times she felt it was somehow her fault. Of course, James had explanations for all of it—coincidence, bad luck—and Lily told herself she agreed. It was just bad luck. But now she couldn't help wondering if there wasn't more to it.

That morning, she sat alone in the drawing room, where the sunlight filtering through the dusty windows was blindingly bright. James was in the kitchen, speaking with some of the Order members who had returned empty-handed from searching for Harry. But she didn't want to hear what they had to say. She felt she needed a moment alone, without James, so she could stop pretending to believe that everything was going to be alright. 

She jumped when the door opened suddenly. She wiped her face, almost guiltily, before realizing it was only Ginny, the youngest daughter of Arthur and Molly Weasley.

"Sorry," the girl said awkwardly. She grabbed a battered chessboard, presumably the reason she'd come, and turned to go.

Lily brushed hair from her damp cheeks and waited to hear the door shut, but it didn't.

"Mrs Potter?" Ginny asked hesitantly, lingering in the doorway. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," Lily replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

Ginny didn't look convinced. She had clearly misunderstood the reason for Lily's tears, because she said, "Harry's dealt with Dementors loads of times—he'll be okay."

The innocent attempt to comfort her helped, even though it completely missed the mark. Lily gave her a sad smile. She looked like a brave, strong girl—one who never cried. She was grateful for Ginny's attempt to console her, so she decided to stop pretending and tell her the real reason she was crying.

Ginny didn't seem shocked or even worried when she heard Harry had gone missing—only angry.

"He's such a git sometimes," she said. "I know he's your son, but it's true. He never thinks about the fact that people worry about him."

She didn't seem worried about Harry's fate, and Lily wondered whether that meant she didn't need to worry quite so much either. Was it wise or foolish to take cues from a fourteen-year-old?

"I'm sure you'll find him soon," Ginny added more gently. "He may be an idiot, but he's not stupid. He knows how to look after himself. He even saved my life once."

Lily pictured Harry as James had been in his youth, saving this beautiful girl from some terrible monster. The thought saddened and comforted her.

"You know, you should talk to Ron and Hermione," Ginny continued, piquing Lily's interest. "They know him better than anyone. Maybe they'll know where he went."

Molly had insisted the children not be told what had happened to Harry, fearing they'd try to help and only hinder the Order's efforts. But Lily felt that if the Order hadn't found him yet, they needed all the help they could get.

She stood, straightened her dress, and said to Ginny, "Let's go see them."

Ginny seemed surprised—clearly used to having every question or suggestion dismissed by the Order—but quickly recovered and led Lily out of the drawing room, up the stairs, and into the girls' bedroom on the second floor.

Inside, Hermione was sitting on one of the beds with a heavy book in her lap, and Ron was lying on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. Emily was sitting on her bed, playing with a large ginger cat with a squashed face.

"What took you so long?" Ron asked his sister, sitting up. Then he spotted Lily, and his ears went red. Hermione looked up from her book, curious.

"Mom, what's wrong?" Emily asked.

Lily gave her a smile and sat beside her on the bed. She knew she didn't look good—pale from sleeplessness, eyes red from crying—and she wanted to show her daughter she was alright.

She turned to Ron and Hermione and said, "Harry has been missing since Wednesday."

They exchanged surprised looks. Lily felt Emily watching her, but decided to delay that conversation for later.

"Why didn't anyone tell us?" Ron demanded accusingly.

"Your parents didn't want to worry you unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily?" Ron spluttered, his ears reddening again, this time not from embarrassment. "You've no idea where he is for two whole days and you're worried we'd be worried unnecessarily ?"

"How about you stop being an idiot and listen for a second?" his sister snapped.

"We've already searched every place we could think of," Lily continued, grateful to Ginny. "Your house, Diagon Alley, even Hogsmeade and the Shrieking Shack. Can you think of anywhere else he might have gone?"

"How do you know he ran off? How do you know he wasn't taken?" Ron demanded.

"You know there are protective enchantments around his aunt and uncle's house," Hermione answered, paler than usual. "That's why he has to go back there every year. Professor Dumbledore would know if someone tried to kidnap him. Besides..." she glanced nervously at Lily, "you know he's got a bit of a temper. He could have run off without telling anyone."

"He would've told us if he'd decided to run away," Ron insisted, clearly hurt by the suggestion.

Hermione looked close to tears.

"I don't know about you, but he told me to stop writing until I decide to stop lying to him. I'm not sure he wants to tell us anything right now."

Ron didn't have an answer for that. He looked torn between anger and guilt.

"Well, we've established that Harry's mad at you lot," Ginny said matter-of-factly. "Now tell us where he went."

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances again. They were silent for a very long moment, as though they could communicate wordlessly.

"I suppose you've already checked my parents' place?" Hermione said. "He should have their address and phone number."

"I don't think we have," Lily replied. No one had mentioned Hermione's parents. "What else?"

"Maybe he's at the Ministry of Magic?" Ron suggested.

"Oh, sure," Ginny said flatly.

"No, I'm serious. Remember that time he ran away and Fudge let him stay at the Leaky Cauldron? Well, Fudge isn't exactly his biggest fan anymore. Maybe he found him again—and this time took him to the Ministry?"

"That's possible," Lily said doubtfully. "Though I think Dumbledore would know if that were the case."

Ron and Hermione looked at each other again, this time helplessly.

"Can't you think of anyone else he knows? Someone he trusts?"

"He knows loads of people," said Ron with a shrug. "People are always coming up to him and trying to shake his hand. But I don't know if there's anyone he really trusts, except my parents and Sirius. Maybe one of the teachers..."

"They would've told Dumbledore." Lily shook her head. The faint glimmer of hope she'd clung to began to fade.

"Maybe Snape found him?" Ron said suddenly, his eyes wild. "Maybe Harry went with him thinking he was on our side, but really he handed him over to You-Know-Who!"

"Ron!" Hermione looked horrified. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Potter—"

"It's all right," Lily replied, doing her best to appear unfazed by the far-fetched and disturbing idea. "Severus would've let us know if he'd come across Harry."

"How do you know that?" Ron asked urgently. "He used to be a Death Eater— he has the Dark Mark."

"I just know," Lily said firmly, and something in her expression must have been convincing, because Ron didn't press her further.

"But..." said Ginny after a moment's silence, in which they all seemed to be desperately trying to solve the mystery, even Emily. "I don't want to believe it, but maybe there's something in what Ron said. Maybe Harry did meet someone he thought he could trust, but they turned out to be a Death Eater or something. No, listen—" she added, as Hermione opened her mouth to argue. "I want to believe he's just hiding somewhere too, but it's been two days and no one's seen him. It's starting to feel like something else happened. We already know how easy it is for a dark wizard to pretend to be someone else—look what happened to Professor Moody last year. Maybe someone showed up at the Dursleys' disguised as one of our parents, or Professor Lupin, or someone, and Harry went with them thinking they were one of us."

"But that's really unlikely," said Hermione, sparing Lily the need to respond to such a terrifying suggestion. "There's always someone from the Order keeping an eye on the house, right? They would've seen if someone knocked on the door."

For a frightening moment, Lily was about to tell her she was wrong—when suddenly she realized Hermione was right; even when Remus and Tonks were patrolling the neighbourhood, Arabella Figg had always kept watch over the house.

"So it doesn't make sense at all," said Ron. "How did he get out without anyone seeing him?"

"He's got his Invisibility Cloak, Ron," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes slightly.

"I know , Hermione," he retorted, emphasising each word. "But I'm guessing he took all his stuff, yeah? There's no way his trunk, his broom, and Hedwig's cage all fit under the cloak, and he wouldn't be able to carry them all without something falling out. Think about it—we can barely squeeze under that thing ourselves."

"You're right," said Lily. She felt as though a hatch had opened inside her head. "It really doesn't make sense."

"So how did he leave without anyone seeing him?" Ginny asked.

Lily rose to her feet without even realizing she'd done so and began pacing the room. Her mind was suddenly working at full tilt, and nothing could be allowed to slow it down now.

"He never went out the door," she murmured.

"So what, he's still there?" Ron asked, watching Lily as she moved about the room. "Or someone Apparated into the house and took him?"

"I'm sure you can't just Apparate in there—otherwise it wouldn't be such a protected house, would it?" said Hermione.

"But there are other ways for wizards to travel," Lily said, pressing a finger to her lips. "An illegal Floo Network connection, or a very precisely set Portkey—"

"Or a house-elf?" Ron said suddenly. Lily looked at him sharply. "Yeah, that happened once. Remember, Hermione? When Dobby came to warn Harry that summer before second year, he just turned up in his room."

"And when he did magic, they blamed Harry for it, because the Ministry can't track house-elf magic," Hermione agreed, her book slipping from her slack hands. "Ron, you're a genius!"

Ron blushed to the roots of his hair.

"But that's not what happened this time, right?" he said modestly. "Dobby works at Hogwarts now."

"It could've been a different house-elf," said Hermione.

"Yes," Lily said distractedly, and everyone turned to look at her. For a moment she stared intently at a bare patch of wall, then turned and strode purposefully out of the room. The children rushed to follow her.

In the kitchen, she found James, Sirius, and Remus sitting in chairs around the fireplace, sunk in frustrated silence. James looked surprised to see her leading the children, even more so by the look of grim purpose on her face.

"Your parents had a house-elf," she said without preamble.

"Yeah, Billie," James replied, and just before he could ask why she was bringing it up, understanding dawned on his face. "Yes—that would make sense!"

"Make sense how?" Sirius asked. His eyes were red, and a nearly empty bottle of Firewhisky stood near his foot. Lily wasn't the only one secretly fearing something terrible had happened to Harry.

"Don't you remember, Padfoot? After that time we snuck off to Diagon Alley without telling her, my mum told Billi to come fetch me home whenever she sensed I was in trouble."

"So you think she took Harry from the Dursleys'?" Sirius asked sceptically. "He's been in trouble loads of times—I've never heard of her helping before. Besides, she must be nearly as old and mad as Kreacher by now."

"Not necessarily," Hermione said suddenly. "I read about this once—some house-elves go into a kind of slumber if their master dies—or, in this case, disappears. And underage relatives don't count as their masters, not until they come of age."

"How do you know that?" Ginny asked, amazed.

"Spew," said Ron dryly.

"S.P.E.W!" Hermione snapped.

"It does explain everything, really," said James, eyes narrowing in concentration. "I came back to the wizarding world, Billie woke up, sensed Harry was in danger, interpreted Mum's old command broadly—and went to get him."

"So where would she have taken him? Your parents' house?" Remus asked, getting to his feet and throwing on his cloak without hesitation.

"Definitely," said James, eyes widening behind his glasses.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Sirius sprang to his feet with surprising agility, as though he hadn't touched a drop of Firewhisky.

"Sirius—"

"Don't start with me, Moony. I'm coming with you."

He bolted from the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time, with Remus and James close behind and Lily and the children following. By the time they reached the hall, he'd already transformed into a huge black dog and was scratching impatiently at the front door.

James grabbed a random cloak from the peg by the door, but it belonged to a much smaller man and barely fit over his shoulders. Lily pointed her wand at it, and it expanded to match her husband's size.

"Thanks," he said, then noticed she wasn't getting ready to leave. "You're not coming?"

Lily froze. She could go now—walk out that door and Apparate—and when she reached her destination, maybe she would see Harry…

A fierce fear gripped her, one she couldn’t explain. The idea that her son was a complete stranger to her shook her deeply.

"I'll wait here," she replied at last, grateful that James was in too much of a hurry to argue.

"All right," he said, cupping her head and kissing her firmly on the forehead. "I'll find him. I promise."

She watched the two wizards and the dog disappear out the door in a rush, then steeled herself for what would no doubt be a long, nerve-racking wait.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up with a start. His heart was pounding, and his scar was prickling.

He kicked off the covers and rolled onto his side, letting the sunlight warm his face. His heartbeat slowly eased, as did the pain in his scar, which had become an almost constant companion in his life.

He tried to recall what he’d dreamt, but the dark images slipped away like water through his fingers, leaving no chance of remembering. He could feel the sensation of long, bony, cold fingers on his scalp—it was more a physical feeling than a memory of a dream. The fingers caressed his skin, ran through his hair, and held onto his head before dipping into his very mind—

He stretched and got out of bed, deciding, as always, to forget about the dream. His stomach rumbled. His body, clearly trying to make up for weeks of poor sleep and missed meals, had taken to making him feel constantly exhausted and ravenous.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a soft flannel shirt from his father's wardrobe and headed for the dining room, which he'd found the night before while searching for the portraits of his grandparents. To his deep disappointment, he hadn't found them anywhere, and soon fatigue had crept over him again, so he returned to his father's bed—even though he'd only woken a few hours earlier.

Now morning sunlight shone through the hole in the ceiling of the entrance hall, and the banner bearing the Potter family crest flapped boldly in the strong wind. The dining room also had no ceiling, and the outer wall had collapsed, opening a wide passage to a well-kept garden. Harry wondered who had maintained it all these years and thought of the elderly relative he'd met the night before.
At the centre of the room stood a long wooden table, surrounded by matching chairs with red silk upholstery. The polished surface was covered in ugly scratches and dents—no doubt the result of falling bricks—and some of the chairs were broken, their cushions torn.

Harry sat at the head of the table, where his breakfast was waiting for him. He ate heartily, and when he finished, he leaned back in his chair to finish his tea, gazing at the large, empty table.

He imagined himself surrounded by his family, all dining together, celebrating something—perhaps Christmas. He pictured his grandparents, his great-grandfather, his parents, all chatting and laughing. Sirius was there too—not Sirius the escaped convict, but Sirius the best man at his parents' wedding—and even Professor Lupin. And of course, no celebration would be complete without the Weasleys and Hermione.

He watched them all talking and laughing around his table, just as he had done around theirs for so many years. But as he smiled fondly at them, the scene shifted; a shadow fell over the joyful gathering, and from the darkness emerged silver masked wizards...

He set his teacup down too quickly, splashing dark drops across the table. No , he told himself, I won't think like that. Not now.

He stood up abruptly and left the dining room, heading once again in search of Henry Potter's portrait.

He made his way back to the study, trying not to wake the portraits lining the hallways. His great-grandfather was awake, looking deep in thought.

"Hello, Harry," he said cheerfully.

"Hi," Harry replied, feeling slightly shy. "What are you doing?"

"There's not much I can do. Just thinking. Remembering." Henry Potter smiled sadly. "Have you seen your grandparents yet?"

"I couldn't find them anywhere."

"Hm… that is most unfortunate," said Henry Potter. "It is a son's duty to ensure portraits are made of his parents, but it seems your father neglected that. Well, he was never very devoted to tradition."

Harry thought that perhaps his father had simply died before he'd had the chance, but said nothing.

"I met someone yesterday," he told his great-grandfather. "An old man. He said we're related, but he didn't tell me his name. I think he lives in the house at the edge of the field."

Henry Potter considered this. "You must mean Leopold. I imagine he must be quite old by now. He's my nephew—your grandfather's cousin."

Harry was surprised. For some reason, he'd imagined the old man as a distant, minor relative—not someone who had grown up alongside his grandfather.

"Why doesn't he live here, in the house?"

"This place doesn't belong to him, but to your father—or rather, to you," Henry said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Besides… well, you see, he's a Squib."

That explained why he'd threatened Harry with a sword instead of drawing a wand. It might also explain why Harry had never heard of him.

"So, because he's a Squib, he doesn't count or something?"

Henry looked uncomfortable. "Of course not! It's just… well, it's not exactly done for a Squib to inherit as Head of House, especially when there's still a magical heir, even if they've not come of age. But Leopold loves his house," he added quickly. "He told me so—he's content. He doesn't need to live alone in the big, empty manor."

From their conversation the night before, Harry had got the impression Leopold was very attached to the manor, but he supposed that didn't contradict what his great-grandfather had said.

"Say," Harry said, remembering something else Leopold had said. "Was there a battle here or something? Is that why the ceiling in the entrance hall collapsed?"

"Yes," Henry Potter said, his expression darkening. "Yes, something terrible happened here many years ago. But I was here, so I don't know exactly what happened. Best ask Leopold."

Harry thanked his great-grandfather and left the study. He wasn't particularly keen on speaking to Leopold, especially after he'd called his mother a Mudblood. But he also wasn't sure he wanted to go on not knowing what had happened—especially if it had anything to do with Voldemort.

He returned to his father's room and picked up his Firebolt. It had been nearly two days since he'd fled Privet Drive—he knew he couldn't stay much longer. A bitter voice inside told him probably no one had even noticed he was missing, but he reminded himself that if Dumbledore had sent people to watch over him, they'd likely discovered his absence by now. He'd stay just a little longer, he told himself—go for a flight, get a sense of the place from outside, clear his head—and after that, he'd ask Billie to take him to the Burrow.

He stepped outside through the front doors into the courtyard, where the shattered stag statue stood. It was a bright, sunny day—perfect weather for Quidditch. He mounted his broomstick, a little regretful that he couldn't enjoy the skies with Ron and the twins, and took off.

Only then did he realize how much he'd missed flying. He felt free, in control, as the ground dropped away beneath him. That was why he loved flying so much—up here, no one could touch him.

A strong wind lashed at him, making waves in the tall grass growing in every direction. For the first time, he saw the Potter family home in full, and was struck by an eerie sense of DeJa Vu.

It was an old, low, wide building that resembled a fortress more than anything else. The entire structure had been built around the entrance hall, which appeared to be the oldest part—made of grey stone, with a broad, low roof tiled with brown slate.

Harry began to circle the house when movement below caught his eye. Leopold was limping toward him, shouting something Harry couldn't hear over the wind. He rolled his eyes and descended, thinking he really should have seen this coming.

"Just like your father!" Leopold shouted as Harry touched the ground, his wrinkled face red. "With those blasted brooms! Do you want every Muggle in the area to see you flying, boy?"

Harry, unsure whether it was an insult to be compared to his father, replied calmly, "There are Muggle-Repelling Charms here. Billie told me."

He was tempted to add a snide comment about Leopold probably not knowing much about such things because he was a Squib, but held his tongue.

"She doesn't know what she's talking about," the old man huffed, now blushing more from embarrassment than anger.

"So I can't fly here?" Harry asked, annoyed.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Leopold snapped. "Where do you think you're going?"

Harry, who had started to head back inside, stopped and replied, "Somewhere I can fly."

"Where?" Leopold demanded.

"To a friend's house."

"You can't," the old man said, surprisingly without any anger. "How will you get there?"

"Billie will take me."

"She's not a Knight Bus driver, lad. She doesn't give lifts. House-elves can't leave their masters' homes unless it's a matter of life and death."

Harry didn't want to admit it, but he thought Leopold might be right. He vaguely remembered Hermione explaining something about that once.

"Then I'll fly there."

"No, that's dangerous. What if someone sees you?"

If Harry hadn't known better, he'd have thought Leopold was looking for an excuse to make him stay. He was about to say he'd walk until he found a town and figure things out from there, but then it struck him— maybe Leopold was looking for an excuse to make him stay. His face was stern, proud—but Harry imagined it must be very lonely living in that house all by oneself, without any family.

"Boredom's dangerous for a boy your age," Leopold grumbled. "Come help me feed the owls."

It wasn't the most tempting offer, but Harry agreed, if only out of respect for the elderly. As he followed Leopold through the tall grass, broomstick over his shoulder, he told himself anyone would agree he ought to stay just a little longer and keep his only living relative company.

The walk to Leopold's house was not short. While the old man used his walking stick to push aside particularly tall weeds, Harry noticed what looked like enormous stone rings embedded in the earth, seemingly surrounding the whole house. The faint traces of magical runes could still be seen etched into the cracked stone, and for the first time, Harry regretted not signing up for Ancient Runes at Hogwarts.

Leopold led Harry around the side of the house to the back garden, where a massive aviary stood, home to a dozen owls and barn owls. The cage was open, allowing the birds to come and go as they pleased, though most of them were sleeping. Harry spotted Hedwig snoozing peacefully between a large tawny owl and a tiny scops owl.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" he said to her, as she opened one eye and greeted him with a soft hoot.

"That your owl?" Leopold asked, scooping owl feed from a barrel nearby. "She's clever. Knows where to find food."

Harry hummed in agreement, sensing that Leopold was making an effort to be kind to him—and that it didn't come naturally. He propped the Firebolt against the wall near the back door and stepped in to help.

They fed the birds, changed the water in the bowls, and cleaned the cage. Afterwards, Harry watched as Leopold trained the owls to understand who each letter they carried was meant for, and how to find the recipient. Harry had to admit—it was rather interesting.

Then they went inside through the back door, which opened straight into the kitchen. Leopold ordered Harry to sit at the table and set before him a loaf of bread, butter, sausage, and cheese. Harry tried to say he already had breakfast, but Leopold would hear none of it, claiming that if Harry didn't eat, he'd stay short forever. Harry tried not to take offence at the comment about his height and to appreciate that his relative was trying to look after him in his own way. Aunt Petunia had never commented on his height—but she had also never gone out of her way to feed him, either.

For a while, Leopold continued talking about his owls, but eventually the topic dried up and they fell into silence. While he ate, Harry noticed a copy of the Daily Prophet in the bin, so he asked, "Anything interesting in the paper?"

"Just the usual drivel," Leopold grunted. "Stuffing people's heads with nonsense so they won't notice that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back. In my day, the Daily Prophet had a reputation—it wasn't the Minister for Magic's pet."

"That's what I think, too," Harry said. It angered him that the paper wasn't reporting Voldemort's return.

"I don't know what the Ministry thinks it's doing," Leopold continued fervently. Harry guessed he usually had no one to share his thoughts with except the owls. "It was obvious he'd come back eventually! What do they think—that a baby could kill a wizard like him? Have they forgotten the horrors he unleashed?"

"Exactly," Harry agreed eagerly. "That's what I always say! Everyone loves to think there's something special about me, but I didn't do anything. It was my mum."

Leopold grimaced slightly, and Harry added, "I still haven't forgiven you for calling her a Mudblood."

Leopold muttered something under his breath and went to make tea.

"James never cared about rules," he said suddenly, after a long pause. "I've nothing against your mother, boy. But when your father chose love over tradition, he brought an end to one of the greatest wizarding lines that ever existed."

"What, so I don't count?" Harry said, hurt.

"Not everything's about you," Leopold snapped. Then, trying to soften his tone, he continued, "Your father was ungrateful, you must understand that. Don't interrupt—" he said as Harry opened his mouth to defend his father.

"Listen to what I have to say. For years your grandparents believed the Potter line had ended. They tried for a child, but they grew older and it never happened. Then, when your grandfather had made peace with it all being over, your grandmother found out she was pregnant. The pregnancy was difficult—she was nearly fifty—but eventually James was born. His parents loved him more than anything. Everyone did. They were so grateful he'd been born that inevitably, he was a very spoiled child."

The way Leopold described Harry's father didn't sit well with him at all. But he stayed quiet, listening.

"He thought no rule applied to him. He did whatever he pleased, and his parents struggled to tell him no. That behaviour carried on at school. They tried to teach him discipline, but in the end, they always gave in. After all, he was their heir.

"When Euphemia passed away, it seemed like he finally grew up—but it turned out to be a double-edged sword. He got involved in the fight against the Dark Lord, who by then wasn't even being challenged by the Ministry. Fleamont warned him not to interfere. He warned him that many wizarding families depended on theirs, that the name Potter carried weight—that it was important to resist the Dark Arts, yes, but he needed to remember he wasn't just any wizard. There were other ways to resist. But none of that mattered to James. He just wanted to fight."

The kettle began to whistle. Leopold fell silent and poured the tea. Harry waited anxiously for him to continue.

"One night, he and his wife were in danger," Leopold said quietly, the steam from the tea curling around his wrinkled face. "Death Eaters were on their trail, and his wife was going into labour. So he brought her here."

Harry could see it as if he were there himself, watching from the sidelines. He saw his father in the entrance hall, beneath the stag banner, carrying Harry's mother in his arms. He saw her crying out in pain, clutching her stomach. She was about to give birth—to him.

"What happened then?" he asked tensely.

"What do you think happened?" Leopold replied bitterly. "The Death Eaters came, followed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Names himself. James and Fleamont fought them off. Fleamont was killed… and you were born. Life is strange like that."

Harry didn't know what to say.

"But that's not the worst of it. The truly terrible thing is that when your father led the Death Eaters here, the protection runes were broken. They didn't just protect this house—they shielded the homes of many wizarding families loyal to the Potters. I'll spare you the details of their fates, but let's just say most of the houses around here stand empty now."

A dark expression passed over Leopold's face.

"That's why I say your father was ungrateful. Until that night, the Potters were the last of the ancient families not to join the Dark Lord and not to fall to the war—the last stronghold of resistance—thanks to your grandfather's wisdom. Your father was meant to inherit that, to carry it on—that's all Fleamont ever wanted—but he destroyed everything he built. He's responsible for his father's death and the deaths of the witches and wizards he was meant to protect."

Harry shook his head, for some reason unable to speak. Leopold was wrong—his father had wanted to do the right thing. What else was he meant to do, sit in his big house and watch Voldemort murder people?

"Don't argue, boy. He's also to blame for what happened to you and your mother. He might as well have cast the Killing Curse on her himself. He ruined your life before it had even begun—"

"That's not true!" Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. He wasn't going to accept that. His father wasn't to blame. It was Voldemort's fault—his and his alone.

"Think what you like," Leopold growled, his tone final.

Harry felt a fresh wave of resentment toward his elderly relative. It was easy to blame someone who wasn't around to defend his actions.

"Thanks for the food," he said shortly and turned to the back door.

"You didn't drink your tea. Where are you going?"

"I can't stay here," Harry said. Now that even his new refuge was tainted by death, he didn't want to stay.

A rusty bell hanging above the fireplace suddenly began to ring.

"Someone's coming," Leopold said, springing to his feet with surprising speed and grabbing his duelling sword from beside the hearth.

"What? Who?"

But Harry already knew.

"The Dark Lord traced you here," Leopold said urgently, shoving a bewildered Harry through the back door. “You must leave, now!”

"No, that's not possible!" Harry interjected loudly, more to himself than to Leopold, not willing to accept what was happening

He couldn't see anyone outside, but somehow he knew—they weren't alone anymore.

.

"it's not only possible, it's likely!" Leoplod replied even louder, yanking Harry by the arm forcefully. "What did you think, that He wasn't watching your every step?! He's the Dark Lord - did you really think you could hide from him?!"

These words struck Harry like a slap across the. No - there was no way. How could Voldemort have known his location?

Leopold took a quick look around his back yard.

"Yes—finally, those brooms are good for something! Fly until you see the ocean, then keep it on your left until you reach Ottery St Catchpole. There are wizarding families there who will help you."

"But—"

There was a crack. A wizard appeared in the field a few dozen metres from Leopold's house. He wore an ordinary set of wizarding robes—no hood—but a silver mask concealed his identity. The form was much less frightening in full daylight, in comparison to the dark graveyard in June, but Harry had no doubt what he was.

"Go!"

The strange wizard sent a curse flying—it struck the owl cage. The terrified owls burst out in a panic. But Hedwig didn't flee with the others—she swooped at the Death Eater, talons outstretched. He shouted in pain and raised his arms to protect his face.

Another loud crack sounded from beyond the hedgerow, and a jet of light shot through the air, scorching the corner of the house. The ground shuddered with the impact. Another masked figure stepped through the smoke and ruin, wand raised.

Leopold drew his duelling sword in a single smooth motion, the steel glinting in the light as he held it defensively in front of him, ready to fight off the intruders with his bare hands.

Harry grabbed his broom, which was leaning against the owl cage, when a force slammed into his back—he hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. An invisible, oppressive force began dragging him backwards through the damp grass. The helplessness, the smell of the grass—it took him straight back to the graveyard in June, and he was seized with unspeakable horror.

He thrashed wildly, scraping his elbows and knees as he was dragged towards the wand-wielding Death Eater standing by the hedgerow. He struggled to reach his wand in his pocket. The Death Eater was muttering under his breath, tugging at the invisible ropes impatiently as Harry came within reach.

“You’re coming with me, boy—” a hoarse voice muttered from beneath the mask.

Harry twisted, kicked, and caught the man in the knee. The Death Eater swore, losing concentration on the spell for a split second—just enough. Harry twisted again and rolled free, scrambling across the grass towards his broom.

He heard someone shout a curse and rolled, avoiding it by pure instinct. He grabbed his Firebolt and immediately felt safer. The polished wood was warm to the touch and vibrating slightly, like a friendly hand outstretched to pull him away from the battlefield.

Leopold slashed at the Death Eater who had tried to drag Harry away, forcing the man to step back. Hedwig was still attacking the first Death Eater, who was firing curses in all directions in a frantic attempt to hit her. Harry took advantage of the distraction, mounted his broom, and took off.

From above, he saw that the two Death Eaters hadn’t come alone. More wizards were moving through the fields, disappearing and reappearing, closing in on Leopold’s house like a pack of wolves. Harry hesitated.

"GO!" Leopold bellowed from below, waving his sword. "Get out of here, you stupid boy!"

A Stunning Spell whizzed past Harry’s elbow. He couldn’t leave Leopold behind… but the Death Eaters wanted him, not Leopold.

“Hi!” he shouted loudly. His voice carried across the open field.

Half a dozen silver-masked faces turned to look up at him.

“What are you doing!?” Leopold screamed. Harry ignored him.

“Want me? Come and get me!”

Harry leaned into his broom and flew off at top speed. He looked back, half hoping and half dreading that the Death Eaters were following. 

Leaving behind the house where he’d been born, he soared into the sky, his heart full of guilt and rage.

Chapter Text

James, Remus and Sirius Apparated with a loud crack into the courtyard of the Potter family home. Sirius, still in dog form, let out an anxious bark and immediately bolted towards the wild overgrown grass.

"Don't forget why we're here," Remus called after him, then turned to James and added, "It's remarkable how easy it is for him to act like a dog, isn't it?"

But James wasn't listening. The sight of the stag statue with its shattered antlers clenched painfully at his heart. His memory of the last time he'd visited his parents' house was old, and he'd thought he'd learned to live with the pain. But now, being back, the memory felt sharp and raw again.

"You alright?" Remus asked gently.

"Yes," James replied in a steady voice. "Let's find Harry and get out of here. Billie!"

The house-elf appeared before him in an instant. Her large eyes were red and swollen, and she kept dabbing them with the corner of her dress even as she bowed deeply. At first James thought it was because she was overwhelmed to see him, but before he could say anything she burst out hysterically, "Master Leopold is hurt—hurt very badly! Billie tried to help, but Billie doesn't know what to do!"

"Uncle Leo?" James asked in surprise. He hadn't imagined his grumpy old uncle was still alive. "What happened to him?"

"Bad mens hurt him very badly," the elf wailed, fat tears streaming down her large eyes.

"Who?" James asked—but then a terrible realization struck him. "Where's Harry?"

"Master Harry fled on his broom," Billie said with some relief. Sirius, who had returned at a run, barked disapprovingly and frightened the elf.

"Death Eater found him. This is exactly what Dumbledore was afraid will happen," Remus said, calm and composed, and asked Bille, "Do you know where he went?"

Billie shook her head.

James said, "Maybe Uncle Leo knows. Billie, can you take us to him?"

In a blink they were in a small bedroom. It contained nothing but a wardrobe, a single chair and a narrow bed, where James's father's cousin lay. He looked dreadful. He'd aged considerably since James last saw him (though in fairness, Leo had always looked ancient), and it seemed he'd lost vision in one eye, likely due to the aggression of one of his owls. And if that wasn't bad enough, it was clear he was in immense pain; his skin was chalk-white, and beads of sweat trickled down his wrinkled forehead.

The moment he saw James, he cried out and reached for his famous sabre, which was propped against the wall by his bed. But when he tried to sit up, he collapsed back down with a heart-wrenching groan. A white owl perched on the window sill flapped her wings disapprovingly.

"That's Harry's owl," Remus said to James, as the owl spread her wings and screeched sharply at Sirius, as though trying to communicate.

"I won't go without a fight!" Uncle Leo cried, waving the sword from his bed towards James. "You won't take me, do you hear?!"

Realizing his uncle thought he was a ghost, James said, "I'm not taking you anywhere. It's really me. It's a long story, but I'm not dead."

"I don't believe you!" Leo bellowed. "Don't touch me, boy!" he snapped at Remus, who had approached to examine his injuries. Years of dealing with full moons had given Remus considerable skill in healing charms.

"He can help you, Uncle Leo," James said patiently. His uncle had always been unbearable, but this was extreme.

"I won't talk!" Leopold continued shouting, even as Remus passed his wand over the wounds. "I won't tell you where he's gone! You'll have to kill me first!"

"It's not good," Remus murmured to James. "He's been hit with multiple curses, mostly Cruciatus. The damage may be beyond repair, even for the Healers... We need to take him to St. Mungo's - "

"You won't take me!" Leopold shouted again, then burst into a coughing fit. A drop of blood was visible on his lip. "I will die in this house, like my ancestors before me! Do you hear?!"

"Uncle Leo, who did this to you?" James asked, though he suspected he already knew. The worry for his son and his uncle was drowned out by a stronger emotion—rage.

"This is all your fault!" Leopold screamed at James so loudly that Billie fled behind the wardrobe in fright. "You brought them here! Because of you, he's dead!"

Remus glanced at James with concern. Even Sirius sat quietly, gazing at him with sympathy.

Something cold crept up James's arms, but he kept his composure and said, "That happened a long time ago, Uncle Leo. What happened today? Were the Death Eaters here?"

It seemed Leopold had finally got tired of shouting. His body sagged against the pillows and he rasped, "They were looking for the boy."

"Where did he go?" James's heart pounded in his chest.

"I didn't tell them," Leopold mumbled in pain.

"I'm grateful for that, but where did he go?" James urged, his patience thinning. "I'm his father. You have to help me find him."

"It really is you, then?" Leopold said, his glazed eyes fixed on James. "You were always insolent."

"Uncle Leo—"

"Alright, alright," Leopold grumbled, closing his eyes in exhaustion. "I told him to fly north, to Ottery St Catchpole…"

"That's where the Weasleys live," Remus said.

Sirius barked and bolted out of the room. Remus rushed after him, but stopped James in the doorway.

"You're staying here," he said quietly. "Try to convince him to go to St. Mungo's. But even if he will... He hasn't got long."

"But Harry—"

"We'll find Harry. But you need to stay, James. No one deserves to die alone."

James groaned.

"You're right," he said. Remus was always right. "Keep me updated."

Remus patted his shoulder and hurried down the stairs. James waited until he heard the front door slam, then returned to Leopold's room.

"You can go, Billie," he told the trembling house-elf. She obeyed and vanished.

He dragged the chair closer and sat beside his dying uncle. Harry's white owl flew from the window sill to perch on his knee, hooting softly. James stroked her feathers, a sharp sadness tugging at his heart.

"Will you go to the hospital, Uncle Leo?" He asked, although he knew the answer.

"I knew you weren't dead," Leopold said in return, ignoring his request to help him. When he wasn't shouting, it was clear he was lucid. "The moment I saw the elf woke up, I knew you were alive, somewhere."

James nodded and tried to smile. The last time they'd spoken, fifteen years ago, his uncle had blamed him for his father's death and the murders of four other wizarding families. He didn't know how one can move past something like that.

"I told him everything about you," Leopold said, speaking despite his obvious pain. James could only watch him wither.

"That's nice."

"I told him you were an ungrateful little scoundrel."

"I'm not surprised."

"But he wouldn't hear it. Thick-skulled, like his father."

James gave a bitter smile. A wave of gratitude towards his son washed over him.

"He's better than you, you know," Leopold continued, his voice trembling. "He respects his elders. He listens. I know—it's Fleamont's soul in his body."

A lump rose in James's throat. He hadn't thought of his father in fourteen years, but that memory—of the light fading from his eyes—was fresh in his mind. The memory of the saddest and happiest day of his life.

"He's the best thing I ever did," James said, aching with the urge to see his son again.

"Yes," Leopold agreed, his whole body shuddering with pain as he coughed.

"Look, Uncle Leo—"

"I don't want to hear your apologies," his uncle interrupted firmly. "I know you don't mean them."

James didn't argue. Leo had always berated him, always tried to discipline him, and when he failed, had called him the devil's spawn. He only ever saw the bad in him, never the good. He had never forgiven James's mistakes—why should it be different now? James could do nothing but sit and watch his uncle die still blaming him for all the terrible things that had befallen their family.

"Bet you were happy when you heard I had died," he told his uncle.

"I was not," Leopold rasped in reply. And then, as if to make sure that James didn't think he had any affection for him, he added, "It's just like you, to go and die so you won't need to pay for your mistakes."

James smirked bitterly.

"Oh, I paid for my mistakes, Uncle Leo. You have no idea how dearly I paid..."

When the sun began to set, Uncle Leo finally fell silent. His eyes closed slowly, as though he were drifting into a peaceful sleep. There were no bells, no trumpets—he simply passed, quietly, with humility.

James sat beside him for a long time, even after he was gone. At last, the white owl fluttered restlessly back to the window, as if urging James to move on. He stood, sent a Patronus to Lily to update her, and turned to the task of burial.

He charmed a pair of shovels in the back garden, then returned to the room to carry his uncle's frail body outside. He was all skin and bone, yet somehow felt heavy, as if every grudge and memory had a weight of its own.

James lowered him into the grave and forced himself to watch as the earth piled atop him. Then he planted the sabre upright in the centre of the mound and cast a powerful preservation charm over it, so it would stand eternal and unmovable. He allowed himself to linger a few moments more, until the sun dipped behind the trees and blinded him, then turned and walked slowly towards the house.

He passed the headless stag, climbed the broad stone steps, and entered the entrance hall. Curtains of dust drifted gently in the setting sun filtering through the hole in the ceiling. Above the wreckage, the stern stag of the Potter family coat of arms stared at James reproachfully.

"Yes, I know," he told it. "It's all my fault."

He crossed the hall and climbed the stairs he had climbed so many times before. Halfway up, he paused and looked down at the hall below. This was where he and his father had stood together, for the last time. They had fought the intruders side by side—his father had taught him everything he knew about dueling—and Fleamont had laughed. For the first time since his wife's death, he laughed with joy. He felt alive, for a fleeting moment, before his defences failed and the Killing Curse hurled him into the staircase. And James was left alone, until the reinforcements from the Order came.

He continued up, guilt rising in him again, as though his father's body lay once more in his arms. He didn't push the guilt away—he welcomed it, savoured the pain it brought. It was his punishment. And he deserved it.

The mistake he made that night hadn't only cost his father's life—it had sealed his son's fate. That night, James had taken the Invisibility Cloak after a rumour reached him about Voldemort's hiding place. He told no one but Lily—Dumbledore had strictly forbidden him from pursuing the lead, suspecting it to be a trap—and he planned to find and defeat Voldemort himself. He had been proud, foolish, arrogant. He thought he knew best, thought he couldn't be deceived. Lily had begged him not to go, and when he refused, she followed—seven months pregnant—and grabbed him just as he Disapparated.

Once they arrived, not even the Cloak could save them. They fell straight into the trap. They fled, but Lily was hit by a curse. It hadn't struck her directly, and under normal circumstances it wouldn't have stopped her—but it make her water brake, six weeks early.

The rest, as they say, is history. James had to Apparate her to safety, and without thinking, he took her to his parents' home. The Death Eaters tracked them and broke through the house's defences. By the time the Order's reinforcements arrived, it was too late—his father was dead, along with four wizarding families James had known all his life. They hadn't spared even the children.

And Harry, born while James desperately held back the Death Eaters from the room where Lily lay, became the boy prophesied to defeat Voldemort. If only James had listened to Dumbledore and Lily and not gone that night, Harry would've been born in mid-September—and they would never have needed to go into hiding...

His feet carried him to his old bedroom. He was glad to see Billie hadn't changed anything; the Gryffindor Quidditch banner still hung proudly on the door, and inside were all the hallmarks of a teenage wizard's room.

Despite the tidiness, James immediately realized someone else had been staying there: a large trunk rested on the floor by the bed, and in the laundry basket were freshly washed clothes that clearly weren't his.

He stepped closer to examine them, when something on the mantlepiece caught his eye: a photo he didn't recognize.

He approached and picked it up. It was of him and Lily in front of a frozen fountain, snow falling gently around them. He didn't remember it, and he knew it hadn't been placed there by him—it was in a cheap plastic frame, unlike the silver ones used for all the other photos.

The picture belonged to Harry. For the first time, James truly understood what it meant that he and Lily had been missing from Harry's life all these years—they were dead to him. He had no idea they were searching for him, thinking of him every moment. And he'd carried a photo of them everywhere, because it was the only way he could feel close to them.

James sat on the bed and pressed the photo to his forehead. The glass was cool and soothing. He ought to get up, to help Remus and Sirius find Harry—but at that moment, he simply couldn't. For now, just for a moment, he needed to feel close to his family.

Chapter Text

Harry flew for what felt like an eternity. Normally, he wouldn't have complained—he would've relished the complete freedom he'd been granted and the vast ocean stretching beneath him. He'd never seen the ocean before, only in dreams. But he couldn't absorb the sense of power all of it gave him—not when he was glancing over his shoulder every few minutes to check if he was being followed. Not when he kept seeing his last remaining relative standing alone, armed with nothing but a fencing sabre, as Death Eaters closed in on his home. It was as if the third task was repeating itself—once again, he had escaped by the skin of his teeth, and someone else was paying the price.

Self-loathing filled every cell in his body. He didn't know what had happened to Leopold, but whatever it was, it was on his conscience. So when he spotted the town of Ottery St Catchpole to his right, and beyond it the crooked silhouette of the Burrow, he descended and landed in a nearby wood—not even remotely close to the Weasleys' home. He wouldn't condemn the Weasleys to the same fate as Leopold. He wouldn't endanger Ron, his parents, or any of his siblings, even if it meant hiding in this woodland for days until it was safe to come out.

He leaned against a tree trunk and tried to think. He had no idea how the Death Eaters had found him, nor whether they'd been able to track him. He looked up through the tree branches—the sky already suggested afternoon—but saw nothing. At last, he decided it would be best to move further away from where he'd landed, just to be safe.

Clutching the Firebolt in one hand and his wand in the other, he began walking in the opposite direction from the Burrow. With any luck, someone would have seen him land far from the Weasleys and understand he wasn't seeking refuge with them.

The sun still hung in the sky, but in the woods, dusk seemed to arrive early. Harry walked for a long time, constantly alert and scanning his surroundings. Eventually, he reached the edge of the woods and realized he was close to the hill where he and the Weasleys had taken the Portkey to the Quidditch World Cup the summer before.

He turned away from it and delved deeper into the woods, his self-hatred swelling again. Cedric Diggory and his father had also taken that Portkey. Could Mr Diggory have imagined that a year after that day, he would be mourning his only son?

A flash of light between the trees startled him, and he ducked behind a trunk. Violet beams shot through the branches like long fingers, and he pressed himself closer to the bark, not even sure why, as one of the beams brushed the tip of his shoe. Only once the light passed did he dare peek out. Something glowing was hovering in the distance, drifting slowly away. He decided to follow it, if only out of the hope that whatever it was, it had no reason to turn around.

He moved cautiously, trying not to tread on twigs or make a sound, all the while attempting to see what was generating the light. Just when he least expected it, a new light dazzled him—what looked like a floating orb of violet light suddenly appeared to his left. He spun and bolted the other way, heart pounding.

What was that thing? Had it seen him? Could it even see?

*

Tonks was finding it very hard to concentrate at work. Lily Potter had told Molly Weasley, who told her husband, who told Kingsley, who quietly told Tonks—while she was handing him search warrants for the Sirius Black manhunt—that the Order had picked up Harry Potter's trail. He had escaped a Death Eater attack in the Potter’s old home on his broomstick.

Kingsley had given her an important task. Since he was in charge of the Sirius Black operation, he wasn't meant to go out on unrelated field missions; but Tonks was still a junior Auror, and it wasn't unusual for rookies to approach more experienced Aurors in their spare time and beg to tag along on fieldwork. So, her job was to keep an ear out in the department, and if anything came up involving a mysterious attack or Harry Potter, she was to do "whatever it takes"to get involved.

The words "whatever it takes" were still ringing in her ears an hour later. She searched for any excuse to leave her cubicle and wander around the department, a heavy sense of urgency pressing down on her. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was her moment to prove herself to the Order.

She went to the loo so often that Raymond had started giving her odd looks, so she told him she had a "girl issue." That made him blush beetroot-red, and he stopped complaining about her constant breaks. But the real reason for her frequent trips was that the women's loo was past the locker room, where Aurors equipped themselves before heading out. Every time she passed, she tried to peer inside and catch whether anyone was gearing up for a mission.

On the fifth pass, she spotted Hyde grabbing a truth-detector from his locker, looking less than thrilled. Knowing he was one of the Aurors who actually liked her, she tried her luck and approached.

"Hey," she said casually, as if chatting out of boredom. "Important mission?"

"Yeah, sure," Hyde replied with an eye-roll. "Helping out the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A wizard was seen flying over the western coastal plain, and when they sent agents after him, it turned out to be Harry Potter. Now they're claiming they're too scared to confront him. Can you believe it? Scared of a kid —and then they whine about not getting the same work benefits as Aurors."

"Yeah, real clowns," Tonks agreed, struggling to hide her heart's leap at the mention of the 'criminal.' "Mind if I come along? Haven't been out in ages."

"You actually want to come? It's going to be dead boring," Hyde said, not quite falling for it yet. "The only reason they're sending me is because I'm the youngest."

Tonks shrugged, keeping her cool, just like Moody had taught her.

"Can't really afford to be picky, can I? If I want a promotion, I've got to get results."

That seemed to do the trick.

"Tell you what," he said suddenly. "Go without me. That way you'll get all the credit."

Tonks was stunned by the offer—it was almost too good to be true.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he said, returning his equipment to the locker like it was a done deal. "You deserve that promotion. Go get clearance from your supervisor and meet me at my office for a briefing."

Tonks thanked him excitedly for the opportunity —even though she knew it was probably more about laziness than generosity—and hurried to find Kingsley. He was in his office, talking with an Auror named Williamson. She waited (barely patiently) for them to notice her and asked Kingsley for permission to join the mission.

"What about the report on the Diagon Alley break-in?" he asked blandly.

"I gave it to Scrimgeour's secretary."

"And the search warrants?"

"Delivered to the special unit this morning."

"All right," Kingsley agreed with a yawn—and as he turned back to Williamson, she caught the spark of excitement in his eye.

Hands sweating with anticipation, Tonks hurried to Hyde's office. As she passed her cubicle, she noticed Raymond eyeing her suspiciously, but she ignored him.

Inside, Hyde sat with his feet on the desk, fiddling with a snitch-like ball. You'd think he'd use the time to catch up on other work, but he didn't seem inclined to do so.

"Right," he said. "There's a Portkey waiting for you at Magical Law Enforcement. It'll take you to where he was last spotted. We've had reports he was hiding in the back garden of some local wizarding family. If their trackers are doing their job, he probably hasn't gone far. I assume you'll be paired with someone else, but once you've got him, it's your job to detain him and make sure he doesn't cause trouble."

"Bring him back here?" Tonks asked, making sure she understood.

"No," Hyde replied, rifling through scattered bits of parchment and handing her one. "You need to take him to this address."

"What's there?" Tonks asked—she didn't think she'd ever heard of the place.

"That's the home of Madam Umbridge, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister."

Tonks was about to ask why a suspect was being taken to a Ministry official's home instead of a holding cell, but she stopped herself. She didn't want to seem like she was questioning orders.

She thanked Hyde again for the opportunity and turned to leave, the address in her pocket.

"Tonks," Hyde said just as she reached the door.

"Yeah?" she replied, a trace of wariness in her voice.

There was a strange look on his face—something that made her think of a fox sizing up a canary it planned to eat.

"What are you doing after work?"

"I'm having dinner with some friends," she replied.

It wasn't a lie—Sirius had indeed invited her for dinner at Grimmauld Place, and afterward, Remus was supposed to brief her on the start of her shifts guarding the mysterious object the Order was protecting, about which she still knew nothing. She was looking forward to it immensely.

"Why do you ask?" she added, mostly because his gaze was starting to make her uncomfortable.

"No reason," he said, suddenly losing interest and returning to his ball. "Good luck out there."

*

Harry ran until he couldn't breathe. Thanks to years of escaping Dudley and his gang, he weaved nimbly between trees and bushes, dodging the violet beams that kept appearing among the branches, until he felt sure he was far from the Diggory house and that no one had followed him. He found himself in a small clearing, surrounded by trees decorated with hanging mobiles and bells. He looked at them in confusion, trying to catch his breath, wondering who would hang such things in the woods.

"Hello."

He spun around and raised his wand. Behind him stood a girl his age, wearing a blue dress. After a moment of panic, Harry realized he'd seen her at Hogwarts, though he didn't know her name; she had very long, almost white hair, nearly invisible eyebrows, and wide, unblinking eyes that gave her a perpetually surprised look.

"You're Harry Potter," she said, peering at him with great curiosity. "I'm Luna Lovegood. Why are you running?"

"No reason," Harry lied innocently. A light flashed through the trees, and he ducked out of its path just in time. The glowing orb swept past them, scanning Luna in a beam (she didn't seem fussed by it) and continued on its way.

"What is that thing?" Harry asked.

"A Ministry of Magic tracker," Luna replied, searching the branches above her. "I saw two of them near my house earlier. Are you running away from them?"

Harry wasn't sure. He thought he'd been running from Death Eaters—so what was the Ministry doing here? Were they after him, or the Death Eaters?

"Act like you didn't see me," he told Luna and turned to leave.

"That'll be hard. I'm not very good at pretending," Luna said, though Harry thought he'd never seen a more serene, unreadable face. "Trackers don't get tired, you know—but you do. That's how they catch you. My dad says the Ministry borrowed them from wizards in India, who use them to torture their enemies."

Harry had no idea how to respond to that.

"You should hide at my house," Luna offered cheerfully.

"I can't," Harry replied immediately.

"Why not?" Luna looked almost disappointed.

"I can't put your family in danger."

"From the Ministry?" Luna asked, puzzled. "It's true Fudge is doing awful things to goblins, but not to wizards."

"What?" Harry had no idea what she was talking about.

Another tracker swept past, and this time Harry barely avoided it. He was becoming aware of just how long he'd been running; it had been late morning when he'd left Leopold, and now it was nearly evening. He was tiring quickly and didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

"All right," he told Luna. If it really was the Ministry after him, her family had nothing to fear. "Can you take me to your house?"

Looking extremely pleased, Luna began leading him through the trees, almost skipping.

After only a few minutes of walking, they reached the edge of the grove, where a tall, crooked house appeared between the trees. It bore some resemblance to the Burrow. Luna led him through a garden overflowing with strange plants, some of which made odd noises or squirted sap at Harry as he passed, and she entered the house through the back door, which was decorated with a wreath of mistletoe even though Christmas was nowhere near.

Inside, Harry was met with a mess of legendary proportions. The only way to tell the room was meant to be a kitchen was the presence of pots and pans piled among books, newspapers, and scrolls of parchment that occupied nearly every available surface.

Amidst all this stood a thin man with white hair, wearing what looked like a white nightshirt that reached the floor.

"Who's your friend, Luna-love?" he asked in a croaking voice, eyeing Harry with one squinting eye.

"This is Harry Potter, Daddy," said Luna. "He's on the run from the Ministry of Magic."

"Ah!" Luna's father declared, his good eye scanning Harry's forehead for the famous scar. "No doubt they're trying to silence you once and for all!"

"What?" Harry blurted out, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed.

"Yes, Fudge would like you to stop telling everyone He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, right? I've written about it in my paper, The Quibbler, you know... Wonder when he will try to silence me, too..."

“Let’s have some tea while we wait,” Luna said cheerfully, apparently not concerned about the Ministry “silencing” her dad.

“Yes, yes, of course. Show your friend to the den, Luna-Love, I will put the kettle on the stove.”

Luna gave Harry an encouraging smile that made him feel he was in safe hands, then led him out of the kitchen, picking her way through the clutter. They passed through a narrow corridor lined with pictures, and entered what might could be considered a den, though it contained a bed entirely taken over by an enormous map marked with various coloured symbols. The floor was packed with stacks of old papers. The cramped space was made even smaller by the presence of an enormous painting of a very ugly purple unicorn.

Feeling confused and slightly weary, Harry sat on one end of the bed, trying not to crumple the map, and leaned his Firebolt against the mattress. Luna was propped on the other end of the bed.

“So… you go to Hogwarts too?” Harry asked awkwardly. It seemed that Luna had no problem simply staring at him in silence, so she probably had stronger nerves than he did.

“Yes, I’ll be starting my fourth year in September, in Ravenclaw,” Luna replied serenely. “I know that now I’m supposed to ask you what year you’re in and what house you’re in, but I already know everything about you.”

“Right…” Harry mumbled, glad that she was at least being honest.

Mr Lovegood drifted in, holding a folded newspaper, followed by a tea tray laden with colourful porcelain cups and a few strange pink pastries. He squeezed into the small space between Harry and Luna and pushed the paper into Harry’s hands.

“The latest issue of The Quibbler ! The Minister must not be happy about this one!” Mr Lovegood gave a crackling laugh.

Harry looked at the front page. It was covered in a grotesque caricature of who must have been Fudge, hanging on ropes like a marionette, controlled by smug-looking wizards in fine robes. Realising it must be an essay criticising Fudge’s spinelessness, Harry flipped through the paper to look for the story. He was utterly confused to read the headline: MINISTER OF MAGIC FUGE: WIZARD OR MANNEQUIN?

“In the next issue I’m planning to write all about how they’re covering up the return of You-Know-Who,” Mr Lovegood told Harry as he poured the tea. “Sugar, Harry?”

Harry shook his head, speechless. He was glad someone was willing to speak publicly about Voldemort’s return—the Daily Prophet certainly wasn’t going to—though he only hoped that story would be a little more rooted in reality than the one about Fuge literally being a doll.

A knock at the front door made Harry jump.

“And here is the Ministry now,” Mr Lovegood said with a sigh, as if these were merely unwanted guests and not officials looking for a fugitive he was harbouring. “Come on, then. Behind the painting you go.”

Harry allowed Mr Lovegood to push him into a hidden compartment in the wall behind the painting of the ugly purple unicorn.

"We'll call you when it's safe," Luna said in a calming tone, and her father closed the picture.

Harry was left alone in darkness. He sat down on the floor and leaned his head against the handle of his Firebolt. How did he always end up in situations like this?

For what felt like a very long time, nothing happened. Through the narrow cracks at the edge of the painting, he could tell the sun was setting. He wondered what Mr Lovegood had meant when he said the Ministry wanted to silence him. Harry knew Fudge didn't want to believe Voldemort had returned, but would he really go so far as to try and shut Harry up by force?

He was just starting to think he might have escaped when a knock echoed clearly through the house. He stiffened, pressing his ear to the painting in an attempt to hear who it was, but he couldn't make out anything.

He waited tensely for long minutes, until suddenly the light flickered, and he knew someone was in the room. All at once, the sound of his own breathing felt deafening, and he covered his mouth with his hand to muffle it. Someone was moving things around with loud clattering. Harry's heart pounded so hard he was certain it could be heard.

Then the noise stopped. For a moment, Harry thought perhaps he was safe—

"Revelio," said a male voice.

Harry gripped his wand tightly. The picture swung open, and he was blinded by a sudden burst of light. Squinting, he could just make out a young man in formal Ministry robes standing outside his hiding place. He had neatly combed ginger hair, and a pair of glasses rested on his long, freckled nose… it was none other than Percy, Ron's older brother.

"Blimey, am I glad to see you," said Harry with relief, stepping out. "I thought—"

If he hadn't been so stunned by what happened next, he might have had time to react. But as he smiled at Percy, who looked at him with a pinched expression, the young man disarmed him. Then, while Harry stared in disbelief, he bound his hands with a glowing rope.

"Got him!" Percy called to someone outside the room.

Harry was too shocked and betrayed for words. Why would Percy do this? He knew Percy worked at the Ministry, but did that mean he had to treat him like a criminal?

A young witch entered the room. She wore dark blue robes with the letter A embroidered on the lapel, and her serious expression clashed oddly with her short hair, which was dyed a vivid bubblegum pink.

"He didn't resist?" she asked Percy, who handed her Harry's wand and broomstick with barely concealed irritation.

"No," he replied, as though she'd asked something offensive. "Take him. I've already wasted far too much of my time."

The witch looked like she wanted to give Percy a piece of her mind, but she only nodded. She tapped Harry's broom with her wand, and it vanished before his eyes. She tucked his wand into her robe pocket, then gripped his arm tightly and, with her wand pressed between his shoulder blades, began to lead him away.

Harry looked back over his shoulder at Percy, but he had turned his back and stood still, as though pretending not to know him. They passed Luna and her father, who both gave Harry apologetic looks.

"I didn't do anything," he told the witch, but she didn't reply or even look at him.

As soon as they left the property, Harry felt the sensation of being squeezed through a very tight tube. Before he knew what was happening, they were standing elsewhere—before a perfectly ordinary, rather pleasant-looking cottage. It was almost dark, and lights shone behind lace curtains in the windows.

"What is this place?" Harry demanded, struggling to pull his arm from her grasp.

"Listen, we don't have much time," the Auror said quickly, quietly, pretending to inspect the enchanted rope that bound his hands while keeping her back to the house. "Don't look at me, just listen. I don't know what'll happen when you go inside, but if she tries to take you anywhere, stall. Do whatever you can to delay. Someone will come for you soon."

She gripped his arm again and jabbed her wand between his shoulders a bit harder than necessary, then marched him down the path to the front door. He began to ask who she was and why she was helping him, but she only whispered for him to keep quiet.

She rang the bell, and something that sounded like a choir of cats meowed from within. A shadow flickered across the lace curtain, and then the door opened.

Harry didn't know who he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't the toadlike woman standing in a pink cardigan, with sagging pale skin and bulging eyes that gave her the appearance of a famished amphibian.

"How lovely," she said in a high-pitched, sickly-sweet voice that didn't match her toadlike face at all, looking at Harry as though he were a treat. "I hope you didn't give the nice Auror any trouble, Mr Potter."

Harry was too stunned by her familiarity to even think of replying.

"You may release him and return to work, dear," the toad-faced woman told the pink-haired Auror, eyeing her outlandish appearance with a hint of disapproval. "I'll be sure to let your superiors know you've done an excellent job. Though I don't believe we've met—your name?"

"Auror Tonks," the Auror replied coolly, a remarkable feat considering the woman's smile looked like that of a toad preparing to snap up a fly.

Harry felt a shiver as the enchanted bindings around his wrists vanished.

"Thank you, Auror Tonks, for your dedicated service," the woman said. "No, Mr Potter won't be needing his wand. You may hand it over for safekeeping at the office. You may go now."

Harry had an overwhelming urge to beg Tonks not to leave him, but all he could do was watch her disappear down the garden path with a pop.

"Come in, Mr Potter," the toad-woman said with threatening sweetness. He had no choice but to follow her, wishing more than anything that he still had his wand.

He found himself in a carpeted hallway with thick pink rugs, and walls covered in flowery wallpaper and decorative plates featuring pictures of kittens. If Harry hadn't been frightened before, he certainly was now. The toad-woman stood behind him. He started to walk, wondering if this was how Hansel and Gretel had felt when they realized the witch in the gingerbread house meant to eat them.

She led him into her office, which was decorated in the same dreadful blend of frills, flowers, and felines. She sat behind the desk and motioned for Harry to sit in the chair opposite.

"Well, Mr Potter," she began with a tutting noise, as though scolding him for misbehaving in class, "My name is Dolores Umbridge, and I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Mr Fudge. Do you know why you're here, Mr Potter?"

Harry shook his head. It felt like the events of the day were colliding inside his skull like a train crash, and he didn't know what to think anymore.

"Only three days ago you received a summons for a disciplinary hearing, and now you've broken the law again," said Umbridge, her large eyes boring into him, cold and empty as a snake's. "Do you know how many Muggles saw you flying your broom this afternoon? That's a serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy."

Harry's heart sank. With everything that had happened, he hadn't even thought about that.

"I had to run," he said desperately, even though he was fairly sure she wouldn't believe him. "I was at my father's old house, and Death Eaters showed up—"

"That's enough," Umbridge cut him off icily, her eyes flashing. She smiled, but the smile only made her look more menacing. "Enough with the stories, Mr Potter. I don't like liars."

"I'm not lying!" Harry protested, then added quickly, "I can prove it—I wasn't alone! Ask... ask Leopold Potter, he'll tell you I'm telling the truth!"

Umbridge sighed, as if Harry's attempts to defend himself were a waste of her time. She picked up a scroll of parchment from her desk and read aloud, "Leopold Potter, aged eighty-seven, Squib... am I correct?"

"Yes," said Harry, "ask him—"

"The Ministry received notification of Mr Potter's death only a few hours ago, so I'm afraid he won't be able to testify," said Umbridge coldly. "My condolences."

Harry felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He looked down at his shoes so she wouldn't see the pain and guilt on his face. But his grief and anger quickly gave way to a blazing hatred for the woman seated before him.

"Your most recent offence will be reviewed at your hearing on the twelfth of August," Umbridge continued in that infuriatingly sugary voice. "And I promise, you will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. The Wizengamot does not take lightly to such blatant violations of the Statute of Secrecy."

She paused, perhaps to see his reaction. He looked up, meeting her ugly face with a blank expression. If he'd learned anything from living with the Dursleys, it was how to intimidate someone stronger than you by pretending nothing could hurt you. It seemed to work—her expression flickered with a flash of anger.

"But," she went on, "I have the power... to reduce your punishment. Perhaps even avoid it altogether. Perhaps," she added when Harry didn't react, "even have your hearing cancelled."

Harry said nothing, still staring at her. He was willing to listen, but he had the strong sense that whatever she wanted in exchange wouldn't come cheap.

"We'll just take this parchment," Umbridge said, speaking to him like a child, "and you'll write, in your own hand, and sign, that all the stories you've told about the Dark Lord's return are filthy lies—"

Harry let out a snort of laughter. Her eyes flashed dangerously, but he didn't try to stop himself. The laughter came rolling out of him uncontrollably. 

What else was there to do but laugh? Today he'd been attacked by Death Eaters, got his last relative killed, fled and hid in strangers' houses, and now this woman thought he'd simply say it was all made up?

"Is that so?" Umbridge hissed, all sweetness gone from her voice. "We'll see how funny it is when you're expelled from Hogwarts and your wand is snapped in two."

The threat was probably meant to shut him up, but instead it pushed him into complete hysteria. If there was any other way to cope with such a day apart from crying, it was laughing like mad. He covered his mouth with his hand, hoping to muffle the sound, thinking maybe if he cried he wouldn't seem quite so insane.

Clearly, Umbridge misinterpreted his reaction, because her expression darkened further.

"This is your last chance, Mr Potter," she screeched. "Cooperate with the Ministry now, or you'll regret it!"

Harry's laughter, which had just begun to subside, surged back in a wild, uncontrollable wave. Tears streamed down his face, and his whole body shook. Regret? How could she possibly make him regret anything more than he already did?

"Impudent child!" Umbridge spat, suddenly standing, wand in hand. "By the authority of the Ministry of Magic, you leave me no choice, Mr Potter—"

Harry jumped to his feet, as if the murderous look in her eyes had slapped him across the face. He was still trembling, but his mind was clear—would he reach the door before she cursed him?

" Obliviate! "

Harry raised his arms to shield his face from the blinding white light that flooded the room.

Suddenly, he was back in the graveyard in June, everything happening at double speed, like a film being fast-forwarded: Cedric collapsing lifelessly, Harry dragged to the headstone, Voldemort rising from the cauldron, pale skin glowing against the darkness, red eyes locking onto his—

A scream rang out, snapping him back to reality. He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and found himself kneeling on Umbridge's fluffy carpet, clutching his scar. He realized he was the one who had screamed. A searing pain flared in the scar for one more agonising moment, then vanished without a trace.

He jumped to his feet. Umbridge was leaning against the wall behind her desk, clutching a bookshelf as if Harry had somehow managed to throw her backwards with great force. She was staring at him with a mixture of shock, fear, and fury.

Harry understood what she had tried to do – she had attempted to erase his memories of the graveyard… but for some reason, it hadn't worked, and he still remembered that night with perfect clarity – perhaps even more clearly than before. A part of him would have liked to forget that night once and for all, but it didn't compare to the sense of triumph he felt at having resisted Umbridge's spell.

"I don't think you're supposed to do that," he said hoarsely.

Umbridge straightened up, her sagging cheeks quivering with rage. Suddenly, Harry regretted provoking her, remembering he had no means of defence beyond his bare fists – and she looked ready to do something terrible to him—

The doorbell rang, flooding the air with meows. Harry's heart pounded as if he had just finished a marathon. He and Umbridge stared at each other.

The bell rang again, harsh and shrill. Umbridge jabbed her wand sharply, and Harry was forced back into the chair, discovering he couldn't stand – or even move his arms.

"Don't move," Umbridge hissed, and went to open the door. Harry twisted in his seat, trying to see or hear anything, but whoever was at the door was speaking in an extremely quiet voice.

Umbridge took a long time. Harry tried to rock the chair to break the spell, but all he managed to do was tip it over with a painful thud.

Muffled voices could be heard through the closed door, arguing heatedly. A few long moments later, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Harry craned his neck to see who it was. He saw Umbridge's fat legs in her pink shoes, followed by a pair of old brown ones.

"What is this?" a man's voice said in anger.

The tone was unfamiliar, but Harry knew the soft, slightly hoarse voice well. He craned his neck and saw that the visitor was none other than Professor Lupin.

"It is within my authority to restrain a prisoner, if I see fit to do so," Umbridge replied shrilly. She seemed very uncomfortable in Lupin's gentle presence; she was even pointing her wand at him, as if she thought he might attack her.

"A prisoner?" Lupin echoed angrily. Harry had never seen him so furious—not even that time in third year when he'd caught him sneaking into Hogsmeade. "He's a child! Let him go, now!"

"I won't take orders from the likes of you!" Umbridge shouted, her eyes bulging. Even so, she waved her wand at Harry. 

The ropes disappeared and he fell to the floor. He jumped to his feet immediately and stood beside Lupin.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Lupin asked, looking intently at his face. "Dumbledore sent me to get you—"

"You have what you came for!" Umbridge cut across him. "Now take the brat and get out of my house, you beast!"

"What's your problem?" Harry snapped, shocked by her behaviour. Abusing him was one thing—but what had Lupin done to deserve that kind of treatment?

"Come on, Harry," Lupin said, placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him towards the door. He didn't seem fazed by the way Umbridge had treated him.

"Here—the letter signed by Dumbledore, asking me to take custody of Harry," he said to Umbridge before they left, tossing a folded piece of parchment towards her. "Proof that you had no choice but to let me into your home. Merlin forbid word gets out that Madam Umbridge received a social call from a filthy werewolf."

Umbridge looked as though she were about to explode. Harry couldn't help but grin as Lupin led him out of the house.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen while Harry had been in Umbridge's company, and crickets were chirping energetically in the bushes. Lupin crossed the drive in long strides, and Harry had to break into a run to keep up with him.

As soon as they had crossed the property boundary, Lupin turned sharply and gave Harry a grave look. Harry's relief was suddenly replaced by weariness. Before, at the Lovegoods', he had been glad to see Percy—but then Percy had turned him in to the Ministry. What if Lupin was going to turn on him as well?

But then Lupin's face broke into a warm smile. Harry felt his shoulders relax.

"It's good to see you again, Harry," his former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher said in a reassuring tone.

"You too, Professor."

"I haven't been a professor in quite some time—you don't need to keep calling me that," Lupin said. "Are you all right? What did she want with you? No—let's talk somewhere else. Take hold of my arm. We're going to Apparate."

Harry had a million questions to ask Lupin, but he also felt a strong urge to move away from the lace-curtained windows of Umbridge's house. He took hold of Lupin's arm, and they vanished with a crack.

They appeared on a particularly shabby urban street. The houses around them were tall and narrow, towering over the road with dark windows and pointed roofs. Above them, the sky held a threatening, rust-coloured hue. The wails of ambulances and the hum of traffic left no doubt—they were in the heart of a large city.

"Where—?"

"Not here," Lupin whispered, and handed Harry a piece of parchment. "Memorise this, quickly."

Harry squinted in the darkness to read the note, which was written elegantly:

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

Harry wanted to ask what the Order of the Phoenix was, but Lupin motioned him to be quiet. Still, he stopped thinking about the Order quickly, because right before his eyes, a new house began to grow, shoving aside Numbers 11 and 13 to make space for the grim façade of Number 12.

Lupin climbed the steps to the front door, and Harry followed hesitantly. The door was peeling and neglected, with no handle—only a knocker shaped like a serpent.

Lupin knocked. The door swung open almost immediately, as though someone behind it had been waiting for him to knock—and Harry was pulled inside.

He found himself standing in a narrow hallway lit by outdated oil lamps. The wooden floor had been stripped bare of carpet. And he wasn't alone—the person who had opened the door was none other than Harry's godfather.

"Sirius?" Harry blurted in complete surprise.

And then, as if everything hadn't been strange enough already, Sirius did something he had never done before—he hugged Harry.

"Never," he said over Harry's head, his voice trembling. "Never do that again."

Sirius's hug was nothing like Mrs Weasley's or Hermione's. But before Harry could quite understand how it was different, or what exactly it made him feel, his godfather let go and looked him in the face.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself," he said sternly—but then suddenly smiled. "I've aged about ten years from the worry. My hair started to turn gray."

Harry felt a stab of guilt. Partly because he'd worried Sirius, and partly because—even when he tried, even when Harry deserved it—Sirius just couldn't seem to be angry with him.

"I'm sorry," he said, even though he'd sworn to himself when he ran away that he wouldn't apologise.

Sirius squeezed his shoulder. Harry dropped his gaze to the worn floorboards, ashamed to meet his godfather's eyes.

"I know it's hard with the Muggles," Sirius said, "and I know it probably felt like we'd all forgotten about you. But… when I tell you to stay put, you've got to stay put."

Harry nodded, feeling a mixture of appreciation and resentment towards Sirius for scolding him like that, without being angry at all. He felt like he deserved someone to be angry at him—and at the same time, he knew that Sirius, in his place, would have done exactly the same thing.

"Come on, you must be starving," Sirius said, giving Harry's shoulder one last squeeze and leading him inside. Lupin seemed to have slipped away as soon as they entered the house. "Just be quiet in the hallway."

Harry looked around as they walked down the corridor. The place looked like a particularly old house someone had tried to renovate—with little success. Blackened portraits hung on the walls, surrounded by scorch marks and scratches, as though someone had tried to rip them down by force but failed.

"Is this your house?" Harry whispered to Sirius, not even sure why he was whispering.

"Yeah," Sirius replied, also whispering. "But it's not happy about it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sirius gave a quiet laugh. Harry was surprised to find it wasn't the usual bitter, joyless laugh he was used to from his godfather—it was a real, genuine chuckle. And it made him realise that even though it had only been a few weeks since he last saw Sirius, something about him had changed. He didn't just look healthier and more put together—he seemed happier.

"You'll see soon enough," Sirius said, leading Harry down a narrow, windowless staircase. "But for now, we've got more important things to talk about."

They entered a large stone-walled room, lit by a blazing hearth and a multitude of candles scattered over an enormous wooden table in the centre. The place couldn't have been more different from Aunt Petunia's bright, spotless kitchen—and yet it was unmistakably a kitchen.

Around the table sat an unlikely collection of people. Mrs Weasley, dressed in a woolly dressing gown, was commanding a pair of knitting needles with her wand as they worked on a brownish-purple jumper. A few seats away, Lupin was leaning against a chair, chatting with the pink-haired Auror who had helped Harry earlier that day—though now she was wearing ripped jeans and a Weird Sisters T-shirt instead of her Auror robes. On the table beside her elbow rested Harry's Firebolt.

"Surprise," she said brightly as Harry entered. "I believe this is yours as well—" she pulled Harry's wand from her pocket and handed it to him.

"Thanks," Harry said in surprise, relieved to feel it in his hand again. "But how—?"

"Thank Merlin," Mrs Weasley gasped, yanking Harry into a sudden hug. "We were so worried. Are you all right? Were you hurt? You're so thin again—haven't you been eating?"

"As you can see, Harry's alive and well," Sirius said with a trace of impatience. "You can go to bed now, Molly."

But Mrs Weasley ignored him, continuing to fuss over Harry's weight while, at her wand's command, a ladle served hot soup into a deep bowl.

"Mrs Weasley, what are you doing here?" Harry asked, trying to think what reason she could possibly have to be in Sirius's house.

"We're spending the summer here for now," she replied, ushering Harry into a chair and setting the bowl in front of him. "It's safer this way."

"Ron's here?" Harry asked, unsure if that was something that pleased or irritated him.

"Yes, and Hermione too. They're asleep now, but you'll see them tomorrow."

"Thanks, Molly," Sirius said again, more pointedly this time.

Mrs Weasley seemed to get the hint. She gave Sirius a cross look, bid the others goodnight, and left the kitchen.

"I believe you've met Tonks?" Lupin said, introducing the young Auror to Harry.

"We had quite the adventure together," Tonks said. "That Umbridge is seriously creepy, isn't she? What did she even want from you?"

Glancing at Sirius, Harry told them about what he'd experienced at the home of the Senior Undersecretary. When he finished, Sirius looked furious, and Lupin studied him with great concentration, a crease appearing between his brows.

"I'm sick of the Ministry thinking it can do whatever it likes!" Sirius snapped, pacing in front of the fire. "Don't like someone? Just wipe their memory! Or better yet, chuck them in Azkaban! Easy, right?"

"Wait, so she didn't succeed?" Tonks asked Harry, resting her chin on her hand, looking at him with unrestrained curiosity. "You still remember everything?"

Harry nodded.

"I didn't know you could resist a Memory Charm," she said, turning to Lupin.

"I've heard of a case," he said, still watching Harry closely. "The mind is complex. Different people react differently to spells that affect it. It's not impossible. I heard you resisted the Imperius Curse once, didn't you?"

Harry nodded again, and Tonks looked impressed.

"Well, I suppose we'd better report this to Dumbledore, shouldn't we?" she said to Lupin. "We can't let her get away with it."

"I've a feeling that's exactly what'll happen," he replied darkly.

"Bet she wasn't at all happy to have you giving her a visit," Sirius said smugly.

"What? You know Umbridge?" Tonks asked Lupin in surprise.

"There isn't a werewolf in Britain that doesn't know of her," Lupin said bitterly. Harry had never heard him speak in that tone before. "Umbridge's life's work is to strip werewolves and vampires of every right possible and have us shunned from wizarding society."

Tonks bit her lower lip nervously, then suddenly smiled and said, "Oh, so that was why you jumped to go get Harry from her? Wanted to see the look on her face when she realised she had to do as you asked, did you?"

Lupin grinned at her, almost mischievously.

"I did no such thing…"

Harry dropped his gaze to his soup bowl. He knew he should be angry about what had happened to him, about how Umbridge had treated Lupin, and should demand that she be punished—but he was simply too tired. The long day weighed on him like a stone, and his thoughts kept turning back to Leopold.

"Er… you alright?" Tonks asked. It took Harry a moment to realise she was talking to him. He looked up to find all three of them watching him.

"Yeah," he said, guessing he must look strange, just staring into his soup like that. He started eating, even though he didn't feel remotely hungry.

But it was hard to concentrate on eating with the three of them still looking at him. He wanted to shout at them to stop staring like he was some sideshow attraction, but he held himself back and focused on the ripples in his soup.

Professor Lupin cleared his throat. That must have been a signal, because Tonks sprang to her feet, saying she had to be up early for work. The two of them left, and Harry was left alone with Sirius, who watched them go like he wished they'd stayed. Then his gaze shifted to Harry, an uneasy, worried expression crossing his face.

"You can go if you want," Harry said angrily, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Everyone who's ever been alone with me ended up dead—so you'd best keep your distance."

Sirius looked stunned by the outburst.

"Why would you say that?" he asked evenly, though he sounded a bit worried. "Is this about Uncle Leo?"

"Who?"

"Leopold," Sirius clarified. "You heard what happened to him?"

Harry nodded, a lump rising in his throat. What had happened to him? Or rather, what Harry had done to him...

"Listen, Harry," said Sirius, trying to speak in a soothing tone that only irritated Harry further. "I know you feel awful. But he was very old, and—"

"Oh, so it's all right for him to die for me because he was old?" Harry interrupted furiously.

For the first time since Harry had met him, Sirius looked like he didn't know what to say.

"He told me about my dad," Harry said painfully, bending his soup spoon against the table. Sirius gave him a strange look. "He wasn't all that nice, but I was glad he was at least family. I bet he didn't know that meant he had to die."

A heavy silence fell at his words. He didn't dare look at Sirius, afraid of what he'd see.

"I should just turn myself in and be done with it," he said, tears rising in his throat. He forced them back. "I'll give Voldemort what he wants. Maybe then—"

"No!" Sirius cut him off, his voice loud and urgent, startling Harry. "Don't you dare say that! Do you hear me?"

Harry didn't respond, fixing his gaze on the table.

"That's not you," Sirius said sternly. "I know it hurts, but lying down to die—that's not who you are. You can't change what happened to Uncle Leo, that's awful, but you can make the best of his sacrifice."

"What does that even mean?" Harry replied weakly. He had no energy for riddles—he just wanted to sleep.

Sirius seemed to run out of words again.

"You'll understand, one day," he said at last, sounding tired himself. "But listen—before you go to bed, there's something I have to tell you."

Harry looked up at him anxiously. Sirius ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly nervous, but when he saw Harry's face, he added, "Don't worry—it's not bad news."

He stood up and resumed pacing in front of the fire. Harry followed his movements, curious despite his exhaustion.

"Right," Sirius said finally, in a tone of finality. "I've no idea how you're going to react to what I'm about to tell you. Just know that I wouldn't say anything like this unless I was absolutely certain—and unless Dumbledore was, too—that it's true."

Harry watched him expectantly. Sirius had said it wasn't bad news, but he couldn't help feeling a deep unease. Did this have something to do with Voldemort?

"Harry," Sirius said, his back to him, "your parents are alive."

"What?" Harry said at once, thinking he hadn't heard properly. After a moment's thought, he was sure of it—he must have misheard, because the words didn't make sense.

"You heard me," Sirius said apologetically, turning slightly to gauge Harry's reaction.

"Is this a joke?" Harry asked angrily, even though he knew Sirius would never joke about something like that.

"I told you—I wouldn't say this if I weren't certain," Sirius said.

There was a new glint in his eyes, one Harry had never seen before. And Harry realized—Sirius really believed Harry's parents were alive.

"So what, two people showed up and said they were my parents, and you just believed them?" he asked in a hard voice, refusing to accept it. Things like this don't happen, he told himself. People don't come back from the dead. Sirius must be so desperate to have Harry's parents back that he'd believe anything.

"That's what I said to Dumbledore at first," Sirius replied. "Except I shouted it. But... it's true, Harry. It's really them. Remus even saw James transform..."

"It could've been a Death Eater!" Harry said loudly. He wanted to shout, but felt he might faint from exhaustion if he tried. "You saw what happened to Moody last year—!"

Sirius shook his head. "A wizard's Animagus form is unique. It can't be copied—not even with Polyjuice Potion."

"So..." But Harry couldn't think of any other argument, except that it simply wasn't possible. "But Dumbledore said—there's no spell that can bring people back from the dead."

"That's true. But Lily and James were never actually dead," Sirius explained, scratching his chin. "There are still loads of questions not even Dumbledore can answer, but the truth is—there's actually quite a bit of logic to their story..."

A silence fell as Sirius seemed lost in thought, and Harry watched him intently, half-expecting him to suddenly laugh and say it had all been a joke, just when Harry was beginning to let himself hope.

"All right," Sirius said once he realized Harry was waiting tensely for a proper explanation. "The night Voldemort... Well, it actually started long before that. You remember how we told you the four of us—me, Remus, your dad and Wormtail—were at Hogwarts with Snape?" Harry nodded. "Well, your mum went with us too. And at first, when they were kids, Lily and Snape were friends."

"What?" Harry blurted in shock. His mum and Snape? Friends?

"Yeah, I know how it sounds. But don't worry, they grew apart quickly after they got to Hogwarts. Lily was in Gryffindor with us, and Snape was sorted into Slytherin, where he made friends with a lot of dodgy types who eventually became Death Eaters. Lily didn't approve. Anyway, she married James and they joined the Order, while Snape became a Death Eater, and their paths split."

That Order again. With everything that had happened, Harry hadn't even thought to ask Sirius about it—but now didn't seem like the time to interrupt.

"But the bitter truth is... well, Snape was in love with your mum. Yeah, I know, it's revolting," Sirius added, seeing the horrified expression on Harry's face. "But nothing ever happened between them. Lily says she never saw him as more than a friend. You'd think he'd have moved on after she married James, but he didn't. He was... obsessed, you could say. And when he found out Voldemort had discovered where you and your parents were hiding, he followed him—probably trying to save Lily..."

He paused, perhaps to let Harry absorb it.

"And then what happened?" Harry prompted him.

"That's what we don't know," Sirius said. "When Snape arrived, Voldemort was already gone, and he claims your parents were alive."

"How could that be?"

"We're not entirely sure. But it's not that strange, right? You survived the Killing Curse—why not them?"

"But Dumbledore said..." Harry rubbed his scar, which throbbed painfully. None of it made sense. "He said I survived because my mum cast a spell to save me."

"That's true in a way. But it wasn't a curse or a charm—it was more like... a raw magical force, incredibly powerful, but not controlled. Lily doesn't even know how she did it." It felt strange—almost surreal—to Harry, hearing Sirius talk about his mum in the present tense. "So Dumbledore theorised that maybe that same uncontrolled magic that protected you... also protected your parents."

Harry tried to think it through, but the thoughts spun chaotically in his mind, and he couldn't concentrate.

"What happened to them after that?" he asked at last.

"Well, like I said, Snape did all of this to save Lily. So he decided—" and here Sirius's voice dripped with hatred, "that she'd only be safe from Voldemort if she left the wizarding world. So he suppressed her and James's memories and implanted new ones—ones that made them believe they were Muggles—and moved them to the United States. They lived there until a few weeks ago, when Voldemort returned—and so did their memories."

Harry's thoughts flew back to the graveyard. Even in his exhaustion, he could remember clearly how the echoes of his parents had emerged from Voldemort's wand, how they'd spoken to him... He'd thought they were speaking to him from beyond the grave—but now Sirius was saying that at that very moment, they'd been living halfway across the world?

"It doesn't make sense," he said, pressing his palms into his eyes to ease the pain in his head. "If Snape really did all that, why would he take my dad, too? You said they hated each other. If he really wanted to keep my mum safe, he'd have taken just her, and gone off to live with her somewhere..." The idea of his mum living with Snape made him feel sick.

"You're right," Sirius said, and for some reason sounded quite pleased. "But you don't know your dad, Harry. Snape wouldn't have fooled him easily—and he knew it. He knew that if James had lived and found out Lily was dead, he'd suspect something—why had she died and he survived? And he'd have likely realized the body wasn't real at all, just a transfigured fake. He was brilliant at Transfiguration—even better than Snape—and that's saying something. Snape must've known that if James even suspected Lily was alive somewhere, he wouldn't rest until he found her."

At any other time, that story might have warmed Harry's heart, made him feel proud of his father, made him want to be like him. But now, he wasn't sure what he felt. He loved his parents, even though he'd never met them—the idea of them gave him strength, like that night the Dementors had attacked him. The knowledge that they'd loved him enough to die for him had driven him, given him hope that good things could still happen. But now, that hope was darkened by the knowledge that through all his childhood with the Dursleys, all the times he'd come close to death at Hogwarts, his parents had been alive somewhere, living their lives without even remembering he existed.

"Harry..." Sirius murmured. Harry felt his hand on his back, and only then realized he'd rested his head on the table. He felt sick, like his body was about to fall apart.

"I'm going mad," he told Sirius, because it felt like a balloon had inflated inside his skull and was now pressing all his thoughts painfully against the sides.

"You're just exhausted," Sirius said. Harry heard him as though from underwater. "You can sleep in my room tonight—I'm sleeping as a dog anyway."

Before Harry knew what was happening, Sirius was guiding him up the stairs, through the entrance hall and up again, lighting the way with his wand. The mounted heads of house-elves stared down at him from above, but he wasn't sure they were real.

After a long climb, they reached a bedroom. It looked like an old version of Harry's father's room, except the windows were big and dusty, with streetlamps visible beyond them, and posters of motorbikes and girls in swimsuits adorned the walls.

"You don't need to worry," Sirius said as Harry looked out at the Muggle street beyond. "My father was paranoid—he put every protection known to wizardkind on this house. I don't hesitate to say there's no safer place in Britain, except Hogwarts. The Death Eaters won't be dropping by."

Harry nodded and took the old-fashioned pyjamas Sirius handed him. Sirius kept talking about something, but Harry didn't really hear.

"Sirius," he said, "Thanks."

Sirius smiled at him. Now Harry understood why he'd seemed so much better—he'd got his two best friends back. Harry knew he should be happy, but he couldn't feel anything at all.

"No need," Sirius said, and just before transforming added, "Your dad's got some competition."

Harry gave a tired smile. He put on the pyjamas, his ears ringing, as Padfoot curled up into a ball at the foot of the bed. He lay down, thinking that with everything he'd just learned, there was no way he'd be able to fall asleep.

But the moment his head hit the pillow, he was out.

Chapter Text

It felt like he'd only just gotten into bed, and morning had already arrived. Harry woke up suddenly, as if someone had yanked him out of sleep. He supposed that was a good thing – he felt refreshed, and he hadn't had any nightmares that night.

He realized he was lying in Sirius's bed, with his feet pointing toward the headboard and his head resting against something furry and warm that rose and fell rhythmically. It was Sirius, still fast asleep in his dog form.

Feeling slightly embarrassed but relieved that Sirius was still asleep, Harry sat up. Bright sunlight was streaming through the windows. The events of the day before came rushing back to him, sharp and clear. And with them, the knowledge that – if he was willing to believe it – somewhere in the world, maybe very nearby, his parents were alive.

What were they doing now? Were they still asleep? Or perhaps they were sitting up, wondering when they'd be able to see him?... Or maybe they didn't want to see him at all? Maybe they'd been just fine without him all this time? Maybe—

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and told himself to stop thinking like that. It was silly to try and guess what they were thinking – again, assuming they were even alive and Sirius wasn't just completely mad.

He found the en suite bathroom and washed up, his head spinning with dozens of questions demanding his attention. He found a clean towel in one of the cupboards and stepped into the shower; hours of running and hiding in the forest had left their marks on him.

He couldn't work out how to turn on the hot water, so he showered cold. He shivered as the water ran down his back, then tilted his head back and kept his eyes open against the sharp droplets striking his face. He only closed them when they started to sting, and thought to himself that these were sensations Leopold would never feel again.

Once he'd finished, with no other option, he put on the same clothes he'd worn the day before. He remembered that his trunk and Hedwig were still at his father's house, and suddenly he realized what Billie had meant that night she'd taken him from the Dursleys, when she'd said her master had returned. That night, Harry had thought she was talking about him – but now he understood she'd been talking about his father… and suddenly it was very hard to keep denying the mad story Sirius had told him the night before.

He returned to Sirius's room and found him sitting up in human form, yawning and scratching his neck in a vaguely dog-like manner. He smiled when he saw Harry.

"Morning."

"Morning," Harry replied, then quickly asked, "Last night... it really happened, didn't it? It wasn't a dream?"

Sirius's grin widened. "I know it's a lot to take in. But once you see them, it'll get easier."

Harry wasn't sure he was ready for that.

"They... they're here? In this house?"

"Yes," Sirius replied, and he must've noticed the momentary panic on Harry's face, because he added, "But they're waiting in their room – you don't have to see them until you're ready."

That reassured Harry, if only a little.

"You should eat something before there's nothing left," Sirius said, getting out of bed and stretching.

"What about you?" Harry asked.

"I'll join you. Just go on down until you reach the kitchen. And if you see Kreacher, don't panic – he may be ugly, but he's harmless."

Harry wanted to ask who Kreacher was, exactly, but Sirius had already gone into the bathroom before he could. With no small amount of hesitation, Harry left the room (on the door across the hall was a plaque that read: No entry without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black) and headed down the narrow staircase.

He looked uneasily at the closed doors on either side, trying not to make a sound, wondering if behind one of them his parents were sitting right now – torn between the urge to open each one and the rising dread of what that meeting might be like.

He was halfway between the third and second floors when a door below him opened suddenly. Harry's heart skipped a beat. He stopped and watched a girl with long red hair shutting the door behind her – and then he realized it was only Ginny Weasley.

"Hey, Harry," she said with a smile, spotting him on the stairs.

"Hey," he replied with relief, taking the rest of the steps quickly to join her. It was nice to see a familiar face.

"When did you get here?" Ginny asked.

"Last night."

"We heard you gave the Ministry quite the run-around," she said with a cheeky grin. "You have to tell us everything. Tonks just said you were hiding near our house and it took them nearly five hours to find you."

Harry smiled, pleased, but within a second the smile dropped from his face.

"It won't be such a good story once they expel me from Hogwarts."

"Don't say that," Ginny said seriously. "Hermione looked it up in the International Confederation of Wizards' Law, and she says they can't expel you because it was self-defence. Dumbledore says the law's on your side too."

"Dumbledore?" Harry repeated, a flicker of anger sparking within him. Ginny had started walking toward the kitchen and Harry followed beside her. "You saw him this summer?"

"Well, yeah, a few times," Ginny said, as though it were obvious. "He comes over a few times a week for meetings. He's also had some chats with Ron and Hermione, to make sure they weren't sending you any classified information in their letters."

"What meetings?" Harry asked. He was still furious with Dumbledore, and with Ron and Hermione, but he wasn't ready to tell Ginny just how awful his summer had been.

"The Order," she said as they crossed the first floor and headed toward the kitchen stairs. "You didn't know? I thought that'd be the first thing they told you."

"Didn't exactly get a chance to talk about it yesterday," Harry said.

From the look on Ginny's face, Harry realized she knew why he hadn't had time. Was he the only one who hadn't known his parents were alive? How long had Ron, Hermione and Sirius known without telling him?

"Well, the Order of the Phoenix is basically a group that fights You-Know-Who," Ginny explained as they descended the narrow stone steps to the kitchen. "Not that there's a lot of fighting at the moment... they mostly just protect you and gather information. Our parents are in the Order, so they brought me, Ron and the twins to live here over the summer. We got threats at the Burrow."

"Threats?" Harry repeated in shock. Ron hadn't even mentioned that. “What about Percy? I saw him yesterday. He’s…”

“Gone full Ministry of Magic lapdog? Yeah, we’ve heard,” Ginny said bitterly. That tone didn’t suit her. “He’s taken Fudge's side. We haven't seen him in weeks.”

A familiar feeling of guilt struck a cord in Harry’s heart. If everything that he’s done so far wasn’t enough, now he was also breaking the Weasley family apart. 

They entered the kitchen. Harry immediately spotted Mrs Weasley by the stove, and then Ron, Hermione, and the twins, who were seated around the table. Hedwig, perched atop one of the cupboards, hooted softly and swooped down to land on Harry's shoulder. He stroked her gratefully, remembering how she'd attacked the Death Eater and helped him escape.

Hermione leapt up from her seat, and a second later, Harry was engulfed in a rib-crushing hug. Hedwig gave an indignant squawk and flew off.

"We're so sorry," Hermione said at once. "We wanted to tell you everything, but Dumbledore swore us to secrecy – we couldn't write anything in our letters!"

"Nice welcome, Hermione," Ron said with a sheepish laugh behind her. "Let him breathe, will you?"

Hermione let go of Harry and wiped her sleeve across her face. Harry felt a pang – she felt so guilty for not writing that she was in tears. He looked away, reminding himself it didn't make up for what they'd done.

"But she's right, you know," Ron said, patting him on the shoulder. "We wanted to write more, you know we did."

"Yeah," Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm. He was grateful when Mrs Weasley hurried him to the table and placed a heaping plate of eggs and toast in front of him.

"How's it going, Harry?" Fred called from across the table.

"It's been dead boring without you," George added with a wink.

"Finished?" Mrs Weasley pounced. "Good. We're cleaning the dining room today. Off you go, Ginny too."

"I haven't eaten anything yet!" Ginny protested, reaching for her first bite of toast.

"Fine, then finish quickly and come," Mrs Weasley ordered, shooing the twins out of the room. Harry understood she was trying to give him a moment alone with Ron and Hermione, so he was glad Ginny was still there. He wasn't sure he could keep his emotions in check once she left.

He looked at Ron and Hermione. They were eyeing him cautiously, as if waiting for him to react. It irritated him.

"So... have you heard the big news?" Ron asked hopefully.

"What news?" Harry replied bitterly.

"About your parents," Ron said tentatively.

Harry's heart skipped again, as though he'd missed a step.

"Oh, yeah…"

"I'm so happy for you, Harry," Hermione said warmly. "You deserve something good to happen."

Looking at their beaming faces, Harry smiled too. Yes, maybe it was about time something good happened to him... but immediately a small, angry voice inside him told him not to get his hopes up. That he didn't deserve it.

"How long have you known?" he asked, wanting to know how long they'd kept this massive secret from him.

"Since the day you were attacked," Hermione replied.

"And you didn't think that was something I ought to know?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance that showed they'd feared this reaction.

"Well, we told you, Dumbledore –"

"I don't care what Dumbledore said!" Harry cut in, raising his voice. Hermione flinched slightly, and Ginny dropped her spoon in surprise, staring at him with wide brown eyes. "I don't care what he told you! I don't care about the stupid Order or whatever it is! This is me – it's my life! You can't – you don't have the right –"

He stopped, not sure how to express the deep sense of betrayal burning in him as he thought about how, while he'd nearly given up to the Dementors, Ron and Hermione had been here, with his parents – and had chosen, yes, chosen – not to tell him. He didn't know how to contain the fury at the realization that, had he only known, he might not have gone with Billie, and Leopold might still be alive...

"Please don't shout at us, Harry," Hermione said shakily, tears in her eyes. "We wanted to tell you more than anything – we really did! But Professor Dumbledore was afraid the letter might fall into the wrong hands –"

"I'm sick of that excuse!" Harry shouted, and before he knew it, his chair had clattered to the floor and he was on his feet. "You could've found a way! I would've found a way, if it had been me!"

Ron and Hermione looked ashamed. They knew he was right – and so did he.

"Three years ago," he said to Ron, who was staring hard at the table. "You convinced Fred and George to steal your dad's flying car to rescue me from the Dursleys. Why couldn't you do it again? I – I really needed you – to be that friend again…"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione murmured sadly.

Ron looked up at him, and Harry felt his anger ebb slightly. Now he mostly felt ashamed – ashamed for yelling, for showing his emotions like that, especially in front of Ginny. Everyone was looking at him, and he hated it.

"I'll see you later, all right?" he said tersely, and left the kitchen before anyone could call him back.

All summer, he'd longed to talk to Ron and Hermione again, to try and guess what Voldemort was up to and what the Ministry was doing to stop him. But now that he was with them, he just wanted to be alone. 

He knew they would make up soon enough. The truth was, the moment he saw them, he was already starting to forgive them. But right now, he didn't want them to ask about his summer adventures. He was ashamed of what he'd done.

He climbed the stairs, thinking maybe he'd look for Sirius. As he reached the stairs to the second floor, someone else was coming down, whistling a tune. Harry looked up and stopped in shock. For one brief second, he thought someone had put a mirror in front of him – but then he realized that wasn't it at all. It was, without a doubt, his father.

James Potter. He looked exactly like he had in the Mirror of Erised. He was so identical to the reflection Harry had seen in his first year that he wondered if maybe this was just another illusion. Perhaps, like the echo that had come from Voldemort's wand in June, he'd just shown up to say one kind word – and would vanish again just as quickly.

But he didn't disappear. He continued to block the staircase, staring at Harry with an unrestrained curiosity that bordered on complete shock—although even that was nothing compared to what Harry himself was feeling. He was tall, much taller than Harry, but otherwise they were remarkably alike, just as everyone had always said. They looked alike in everything except the eyes—his father's eyes were dark, warm, and full of life.

He tried to say something, but couldn't quite form a proper sentence. That, more than anything else, made him feel real.

"Hi," he said eventually. "I'm not really sure what one's supposed to say to their son the first time they meet him... I mean, I guess it's not exactly the first time, but last time you were sort of... and now you're... this."

Harry wasn't sure whether to be offended that the man (his dad) referred to him as "this". There was still some leftover anger from the conversation with Ron and Hermione, but it was hard to hold onto it while his father was looking at him like that—as though he were some kind of wonder. Mostly, it scared him.

He turned around—he couldn't stay there—but found his way blocked by the ugliest, oldest house-elf he'd ever seen. Its greyish skin hung loose and wrinkled, its huge eyes were bloodshot and restless, and tufts of white hair sprouted from its enormous ears.

At first it didn't seem to notice Harry at all, shuffling along the corridor muttering to itself. Only when it realized it was blocking Harry's path did it look up at him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

"Another one of the filthy kiddiekins," it muttered in a croaky, grating voice, though it wasn't clear who it was speaking to. "Kreacher never saw him before... but Kreacher knows who he is. Yes-yes, Kreacher sees the scar..."

Harry quickly swept his fringe to better hide the scar. Kreacher kept talking in a low voice, so quiet Harry could barely make out the words.

"They say the boy defeated the Dark Lord. Kreacher doesn't know if it's true. He's just a filthy half-blood. But the masterkins whisper in their portraits... the masterkins know, they say—he's got a great-great power in him, greater than the Dark Lord's..."

"What did you say?" Harry's father asked sharply.

Kreacher jumped in fright. His eyes fixed on James and then, as though nothing had happened, he gave a deep bow.

"Kreacher didn't notice master," he said in a sycophantic tone.

"Enough with the act," James snapped. "That last thing you said—say it again."

"Kreacher said nothing, Kreacher is only cleaning," the house-elf said innocently, then muttered with hatred, "Stinking blood-traitor, handing out orders to Kreacher. How mistressy cursed him, because of him her son left her. Shame-shame. He and his filthy Mudblood wife defile mistressy's house—"

"I'm getting tired of your nonsense, Kreacher," James interrupted him, his voice threatening. "Get out of here before I do something I'll regret."

Kreacher bowed deeply and shuffled off, muttering a string of colourful curses Harry had never heard before.

"He talks a lot of rubbish," James said to Harry, sounding vaguely apologetic. "I suppose there's no reason to take him seriously. But next time he calls Lily a Mudblood he'll regret his head's not hanging next to his mother's..."

He noticed Harry staring and cleared his throat.

"I'm joking, obviously. I wouldn't actually... well, you know what I mean, right?"

Harry still didn't speak. His father was starting to look worried.

"Are you... ever going to say anything?"

Harry felt his face flush.

"Are you ever going to stop talking?"

James let out a nervous chuckle. Harry immediately regretted the outburst, his face burning with anger and shame. He'd known his father for less than five minutes and he was already acting like a prick. What was wrong with him?

"Sorry," he mumbled. He wanted to look down, but he was too curious—and afraid—to see how his father would react. He had never really stopped to think, if he had parents, how he should act around them... He supposed he was about to find out.

"It's alright. I do talk a bit too much sometimes," his father said, not sounding angry at all. "Honestly, I'm not quite sure how I'm supposed to behave. But it must be even stranger for you, thinking we were dead and all..."

Harry still couldn't manage to force any of the words in his head out of his mouth.

"Anyway, what are you doing now?"

The spontaneous question caught Harry off guard. He shrugged.

"You should come see Lily. She's waiting patiently, but she can't wait to see you."

Harry's stomach twisted. He wasn't sure he was ready for that, but maybe it was best to get it over with, and maybe then this whole thing would stop feeling so overwhelming. He nodded uncertainly.

His father smiled broadly. Suddenly, Harry realised they were less alike than he'd thought—he himself had never managed a smile so wide and carefree.

He followed him up the stairs, heart pounding in his throat and making it hard to breathe. He couldn't get his mother's last words out of his head—or what he thought had been her last words—those he heard every time the Dementors came near.

They stopped in front of one of the doors Harry had passed earlier. His father motioned for him to stay out of sight and opened the door.

Harry's heart skipped a beat when a woman's voice came from the room, "I turn my back for a second and you disappear? We're supposed to wait here, James."

"I know. I couldn't help myself," James replied, wearing a charming smile. "Anyway, I've got a surprise for you..."

He stepped aside and gestured for Harry to come in. Harry hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if he should turn and run, but in the end, he stepped into the doorway.

The first thought that passed through his mind was that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He had seen her before—in the Mirror of Erised, in Hagrid's photo album, and at the cemetery in June—but those had been like reflections, unable to capture the light she radiated.

As soon as she saw him, she dropped the laundry basket she was carrying and raised her hands to her face, as if to stifle a scream—but no sound came. Her eyes sparkled in the bright morning light that flooded the room, and two clear tears ran down her cheeks. It felt as if someone had driven a knife into his stomach and twisted it cruelly. He wanted to tell her not to cry, but once again he'd lost his voice.

She took a hesitant step towards him, as though afraid that a sudden movement would scare him off. He closed the distance between them, not without trepidation, and she embraced him tightly. The light pouring in from the window behind her dazzled him, so he squeezed his eyes shut and rested his face against her shoulder—he was nearly her height—and tried to breathe.

If he had any doubt before about who they were, that doubt melted away in that moment. Something about her scent was so familiar and comforting that he had no doubt it was the same smell that had comforted him as a baby—his mother's scent.

His eyes stung, so he shut them tighter. Suddenly, he realized he wasn't hugging her back, so he wrapped his arms around her, very gently. She made a sound that was somewhere between joy and pain.

"My Harry," she whispered, so softly only he could hear. His heart ached, but somehow, it was a good kind of pain. "Please, forgive me..."

"Don't—" he wanted to tell her she didn't need to ask for forgiveness, but his voice broke. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't even sure he should speak; he was afraid that if he tried, the illusion would shatter and he'd realise it was all just a dream.

After a long while, she let him go. She looked him over from head to toe and smiled, wiping the tears from her face. It was true—they did have the same eyes. Harry only regretted not having put on clean clothes for the occasion, and that he'd postponed the much-needed haircut.

Her husband came over and gave her a half-hug. He looked very happy, even if he wasn't crying. Sirius had been right—seeing them, standing with them, talking to them, helped him take that final step and accept that they were truly there. His parents.

Seeing them both together like that, he had to ask, "You really were there, at the graveyard? You saw everything?"

"Yes," his father replied. "Though I still don't understand how it happened. But we were there—you were very brave."

Harry didn't like having his adventures praised, especially when he only made it out thanks to others or pure luck, but this compliment warmed him from within. And the fact that he was no longer the only one who'd witnessed Voldemort's return made him feel better, as if until now he'd been floating helplessly in space, and suddenly his feet had found solid ground.

His mother had finished drying her eyes, and now she was looking towards Harry's left elbow. He turned to see what she was looking at and realised they had an audience.

The moment he saw her, he knew who she was. His stomach twisted. It shouldn't have surprised him—and yet it did, unpleasantly.
She looked very small, with black hair tied in a ponytail (it wasn't hard to imagine that Harry's hair would look like that if it were longer), dark eyes, and freckled skin. She looked at him with great curiosity mixed with unease, but he looked away, feeling a new weight pressing on his chest.

He understood his parents had been living different lives all these years, but for some reason he hadn't thought they'd have more children. But here she was, standing in front of him. He felt a sudden flash of anger towards Sirius for not telling him about her, and for not giving him time to prepare for this awkward meeting.

"This is Emily," Harry's mother said. "I'm sure Sirius told you."

"Yeah," Harry lied, not wanting to reveal how uncomfortable he was with this unexpected twist.

Emily smiled at him—a wide smile that looked very much like his father's—their father's—and for some reason, it annoyed him. Easy for her to smile, he thought—she grew up with their parents, loved and cared for, while he was left on the Dursleys' doorstep.

Apparently, he hadn't hidden his irritation well, because her smile faded and she looked less sure of herself.

"How about some tea?" Lily said suddenly, her cheer a little too bright. She summoned a tea tray laden with biscuits and a teapot (Harry wondered if she'd prepared it all in advance for him) and directed it to the table beside the bed.

Harry's father moved a photo frame that had been resting there, and Harry saw that it was the picture of his parents he'd left behind at his father's old house.

"I believe this is yours," his father said as he handed it to him.

Harry murmured thanks and took it, looking at his young parents laughing in the snow. It felt strange to remember how much comfort that picture had once brought him, back when he had no idea he'd one day meet them face to face.

When he looked up again, he found his father watching him with a strange expression. Realising he'd been caught, James smiled.

Suddenly Harry realized that if his father had this photo, he must have been at the Potter house, and perhaps he had missed Harry by mere minutes. If he had just arrived a little earlier... might Leopold still be alive today?

Harry sat in the armchair by the bed, while his father and Emily sat on the bed. His mother summoned another armchair for herself and then turned to command the teapot to pour into four cups.

Harry desperately wanted, and at the same time was deeply afraid, to ask his father about Leopold. As if he'd read his thoughts, James broke the silence and said, "Uncle Leo praised you, said you reminded him of my dad. I think that's the biggest compliment he ever gave anyone. He worshipped my dad."

Harry looked down at the steaming cup in his hands. He knew he ought to feel pleased that Leopold had thought well of him, but it only made him feel worse.

"Sirius told me you feel bad about what happened," his father said calmly.

"Feel bad?" Harry repeated, his anger flaring without warning. "He died because of me, so yeah, I feel pretty bad."

He realized he'd overreacted, and to avoid their gazes he took a sip of tea and burned his tongue.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry," his mother said softly—but that only made the guilt sting even more.

"It was," he said, trying harder to keep himself under control. "I'm sorry, but it was. The Death Eaters came for me, and I ran off and left him behind."

An oppressive silence fell after his words. Harry continued staring into his cup, regretting speaking at all. He'd only just met his parents and he was already ruining his time with them.

"Emily, why don't you go down to the kitchen and fetch more biscuits?" his father said suddenly. The biscuit tray was still full.

"Are you kicking me out?" Emily said grumpily. Harry felt a stab of dislike—she should be grateful their parents were trying to protect her.

"Just for a few minutes," Lily said softly.

Emily scowled and left the room. After a few seconds of silence, Harry's father spoke.

"I know a thing or two about guilt," he said with unexpected seriousness. "Uncle Leo must've told you. So I'm speaking from experience when I say there's no point in blaming yourself. It won't bring him back."

"So what, I'm just supposed to forget about it?" Harry replied irritably, then looked down again and cursed himself for ruining this reunion, which was supposed to be the best thing that ever happened to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," his father said immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw him make an awkward, hesitant movement, and then he leaned forward and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry stiffened under the touch; it was strong and comforting, unfamiliar.

"You don't... I mean, it's okay. It's okay to grieve—Uncle Leo deserves to be grieved."

Harry wanted to demand whether his father didn't feel guilty about what had happened to his own father, Harry's grandfather – whether he didn't feel guilty about what had happened to Sirius, or about the life Harry himself had had to live – "He's just as much to blame for what happened to you and your mother. He might as well have cast the Killing Curse at her himself, and he's the one who ruined your life before it had even begun…" –

But he pushed down that sickening curiosity. He didn't want to think about all that. Not now. So instead, he nodded at his teacup. Then he lifted his gaze and looked at his parents to make sure they were still there, that he hadn't scared them off.

They were still sitting there, smiling at him, and his mother gently stroked his back in a short, comforting motion. He immediately felt calmer.

He really hoped one of them would say something, but they simply remained silent, still looking at him as though he were something rare and beautiful that needed no explanation. It embarrassed him, and he longed to talk about something – anything – just to break the silence.

He wanted to ask them a million questions, but they all tangled together in his head and he couldn't form even one coherent sentence.

"So… where do you live?" he managed to ask at last, rather pathetically.

"We haven't had time to find a place yet," his mother said quickly, as though he'd jolted her out of a daydream. "For now, we're staying with Sirius. I hope we're not overstaying our welcome…"

"He doesn't mind, you know that," her husband said, taking a biscuit from the tray. If the heavy words he said to Harry just a few minutes earlier was still weighing on him, he didn't show it. "Besides, it's not like we can just go out house-hunting – people would think the dead are rising. I think we'll need to wait a few weeks after we announce it."

"You're planning to tell the wizarding world you're alive?" Harry asked uncertainly.

"Of course," his father replied casually, dunking the biscuit in his tea. "People need to know the truth. They need to know Voldemort's back – and that Sirius is innocent."

Lily looked like she wanted to say something that might dampen those hopes, but in the end, she chose to remain silent. She caught Harry's eye and smiled at him. He thought he knew what she was thinking – why would anyone believe they'd seen Voldemort return? Why would anyone even believe they were really Lily and James Potter?

"And… are you members of the Order and all that?"

"We were among the first," Harry's mother told him. "Dumbledore recruited us right after we finished school, along with Remus and Sirius and…" He knew she wanted to say Wormtail's name, but she stopped herself after a quick glance at her husband. He didn't seem troubled by the subject, but Lily probably saw something Harry couldn't.

"Is that why Voldemort went after you back then?" Harry asked. "Because you were in Dumbledore's Order?"

He expected a simple yes or no, but the answer seemed more complicated. His parents exchanged meaningful looks. His father opened his mouth, but Lily cut in, saying, "Yes. We disrupted a lot of his plans as members of the Order, and he wanted revenge."

Harry looked at his father, who was sipping his tea with perfect calm. But he wasn't fooled – he could already tell there was something they weren't telling him.

He was just wondering whether it would be too rude to try prying more information out of them when Emily returned with a plate of biscuits. James took the opportunity to start talking to Harry about Quidditch. Lily didn't seem remotely interested in Quidditch, but she still listened with a soft, happy smile on her face.

"I'm going to be a Chaser, like Dad," Emily told Harry.

"You're going to Hogwarts?" he asked uncertainly, only realizing how stupid he sounded after the words were out.

"I'm starting this year," she replied excitedly.

Harry thought about his summer with the Dursleys before his first year at Hogwarts – the tense anticipation and the thrill of knowing he was going to a school for wizards, and that he wouldn't have to see his aunt and uncle for a whole year. But then, the memory of his hearing rose up within the pleasant recollection, sinking its cruel teeth into the small bit of hope he'd had about returning to school.

His mother, who seemed to have the uncanny ability to read his thoughts, placed a comforting hand on his back and said, "You'll be going back to Hogwarts too. Don't worry about the hearing – they don't really have the authority to expel you."

"She's right," his father added. "And we'll be there with you."

That thought lifted Harry's spirits more than he could say. He had parents now – parents who would stand by him and support him through difficult times. And that, really, was all he'd ever wanted. Even if the worst happened and he was expelled, he wouldn't have to go back to the Dursleys. He could live with them, somewhere he was wanted and loved.

Emily continued grilling their dad about Quidditch. His mum laughed at something someone said. Harry wasn't listening – a warm, golden feeling of happiness filled him from head to toe. He wasn't dreaming, he reminded himself – he was sitting there with his family. His family. And they were all safe and whole and real.

Even his initial weariness of Emily had begun to melt away. He had always dreamed of having a brother or sister, and after all, it wasn't her fault she had been born after him. He realized that if he treated her badly just for being younger than him, he'd be no better than Snape – who had hated him simply for being his father's son.

So he chose not to think about the Dursleys or the life his family had lived without him, not about Voldemort or the hearing – in that moment, he simply decided to be happy.

Chapter Text

A torrential rain fell over Diagon Alley on the thirtieth of July, but James had no complaints. The cold, wet air was a blessing after the jarring journey through Gringotts' stifling tunnels. Besides, the cloudy skies and light mist made it easier for him to blend in among the passers-by without drawing too much attention. Now and then, a bystander would catch a glimpse of his face beneath his hood and whisper to their friends in shock or fear.

The stares and murmurs he could handle. He just hoped he and Lily would finish their business before the Daily Prophet got wind of their visit. He wasn't afraid of the questions or the attention—and he could understand the curiosity that rose around the announcement of his and Lily’s “Return From the Dead”. He simply preferred avoiding doing anything regrettable to the people who were printing vile remarks about his son on a daily basis.

He descended the bank's slick marble steps quickly, a pouch of gold in his pocket and a battered leather suitcase in hand. It was strange, having so much money, when only a month earlier he and Lily had decided against buying a new car in favour of putting more into Emily's college savings. Now they knew Emily would probably never go to college, and her parents had no use for a car.

He made his way to the Quidditch supplies shop, keeping his face hidden under the hood of his cloak. The stormy, grey weather matched his mood perfectly—he'd been in a vengeful frame of mind lately.

Now that they had been reunited with Harry and the days of worrying for his safety were over, James had time to focus on other things that had been troubling him. Regular items on his mental agenda included Sirius's innocence, Wormtail's whereabouts, demand of accountability from Snape, and the idiocy of the Ministry of Magic. But mostly - he had to do something about the fact that the Order was busy chasing its own tail instead of actually fighting Voldemort. Fourteen years was far too long to sit idle. Now he had work to do.

He entered the shop, which was blessedly dry and warm, and cast a drying charm on himself. The shop was unusually crowded, though it didn't seem like any of the customers were truly interested in the Quidditch gear. 

Lily stood near the counter, her hair plaited in a long braid and wearing a greenish cloak that made her eyes stand out, looking anxious and restless. Relief instantly lit up her face when she saw James.

"Did you find anything?" he asked, joining her at the counter and ignoring the curious glances and whispers from the other shoppers.

Lily opened a small box lined with red silk, inside which lay a handsome golden Snitch with perfect ivory wings, held securely in place. Engraved in elegant script on the golden sphere were the initials H.P.

"Excellent choice!" the shopkeeper said to James with excessive enthusiasm, far too pleased by the satisfied expression on his face. "That's our highest-quality model. A birthday gift for your son, I presume? I believe the boy, if he says He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned—"

"Yes," James cut him off curtly. "How much do I owe you?"

They paid and left without delay, Harry's birthday present now safely tucked into Lily's cloak pocket.

"Harry wasn't exaggerating about those looks being awful," she said wearily, pulling her hood over her head. "Don't people have any shame?"

"It’s not every day that they see a beautiful woman that’s returned from the dead," James replied.

Lily rolled her eyes at him, blushing slightly under her hood.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding at the suitcase he'd retrieved from the vault.

"Some of my dad's inventions," he said. "Thought I'd show them to Harry and Emily."

Lily looked pleased. James smiled at her, though he felt a pang of guilt. It didn't feel right not telling her the whole truth, but he urged himself to be patient. Once it was all over, he'd tell her everything.

They Apparated back to Grimmauld Place, where the rain was coming down even harder. They stood in the downpour for several minutes until Sirius opened the door.

"About time, we're soaked through," James told him, pushing past into the lit hallway. 

He hadn't thought it possible, but compared to the storm raging outside, the house felt warm and inviting—perhaps due to the relentless cleaning efforts Molly Weasley had been overseeing, which were finally showing results.

"At least you can stand in the rain," Sirius replied bitterly. He didn't close the door, instead remaining on the threshold and gazing longingly out at the wet street. James immediately regretted his tone.

"Shut the door, Sirius," Lily said gently, removing her dripping cloak.

Sirius obeyed reluctantly. James watched him, feeling the now-familiar sting of guilt. He was trying his best to follow the advice he'd given Harry on that unforgettable day they first met, but he had to admit it was far harder than it sounded, fighting guilt that threatened to consume him.

They entered the drawing room, where the household had gathered around the fire after a tiring day of cleaning. Molly was directing a pair of knitting needles with her wand as they worked on a pair of socks, while she read the biography of the famous singing witch, Celestina Warbeck. The children were playing Exploding Snap on the rug near the fireplace.

James paused to take in the scene. Emily giggled at something Ron had said, and beside her, Harry smiled distantly, eyes cast down to the cards in his hand. Lily had seated herself behind them, watching with love and pride. This was his family—whole again after fourteen years apart.

He had always felt something was missing, always known deep in his heart that something in his and Lily's life wasn't right. He only wished he'd remembered earlier, returned for Harry sooner. 

He and Lily still hadn't talked to him about his life with Lily's sister, mostly because it seemed that Harry would use every possible excuse to avoid the topic. James felt a strong urge to hound him about it, but Lily kept reminding him that they agreed they wouldn’t pressure Harry into a conversation that he was uncomfortable in, especially this early in their new found relationship. 

If James trusted anything in life it was Lily’s instincts, especially when it came to their children - so he vowed to keep silent on the matter of those missing years, at least for the time being. 

"What's that, Dad?" Emily asked, pointing to the suitcase. He gave her a knowing smile, pushing aside the guilt and fear for now. He couldn't change the past, but he could do everything in his power to protect Harry now. To protect his family.

"They're my dad's inventions," he said, placing the suitcase on a nearby table.

The children, bored of the card game, gathered around to inspect its contents. He tapped the brass lock with his wand. The suitcase sprang open, doubling in size, revealing an assortment of strange devices and potion vials.

"I use this!" Hermione said in astonishment, holding up a bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. "I didn't know Harry's grandfather invented it!"

"That could've solved the misery of generations of Potter men," James said, running a hand through his wild hair. "But personally, I prefer the natural look."

He smiled at Harry, who looked away awkwardly. James wished he'd stop shrinking away from him like that and be more at ease in his company, as he was around Lily and Sirius.

"What does this do?" Ron asked, trying on a blue flat cap he'd taken from the suitcase.

"I'm not sure," James lied, taking the cap and inspecting it. "Don't remember ever seeing it before. Might just be a hat."

A tap sounded on the window. Everyone turned towards the noise—owls rarely came to headquarters—and James took the chance to tap the cap with his wand and vanish it.

Sirius went to open the window, allowing a wet, disgruntled owl bearing the Ministry of Magic seal to flutter in. It landed on the table in front of Harry and impatiently offered him a letter before flying out again.

Harry looked around—the room had gone quiet with expectation—then opened the letter steadily. He read it quickly and said coolly, "They've brought my hearing forward."

"That's good, isn't it?" Ginny was the first to speak. "Better to get it over with."

"I don't know, there's a Wizengamot seal on it," Ron said tactlessly, reading over Harry's shoulder. "Didn't think they dealt with underage wizards."

"That Umbridge woman said something about them," Harry said in a surprisingly calm voice. "She said they don't take breaches of the Statute of Secrecy lightly."

"May I see?" James asked. Harry handed him the letter.

The hearing had been moved to the third of August—just four days away—and the Wizengamot's seal was indeed affixed to the official notice. The new development forced James to accelerate his plans.

"They're just trying to scare you," he told Harry, who stood with his hands in his pockets, trying to look unfazed. James wasn't fooled. "They want you to think they've got enough to convict you. But they've got nothing—it's obvious you acted in self-defence both times. Besides, once we tell them what Umbridge tried to do, they'll back off and try to wrap it up quickly. You'll see."

Harry didn't look convinced. James was grateful that at that moment the front door bell rang, waking up Sirius's mother and signalling Arthur's return. Molly ushered everyone to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. Harry went with Ron and Hermione, sparing James the need to keep trying to reassure him. Was he also that brooding and serious at that age? He doubted it.

The next day was Harry's birthday. Time was running out for James, and he needed to find an opportunity to speak with his son alone—or at least without any of the Order members present. For some reason, this task was making him far more nervous than it ought to have.

That morning, after thanking his parents for the Snitch engraved with his initials, Harry went upstairs to put the gift in his room before breakfast. James made sure Lily was deep in conversation with Molly and that Sirius wasn't watching him before slipping out of the kitchen and following Harry.

"Hey," he said quietly, so as not to wake the portrait of Mrs Black. Harry stopped on the stairs; he seemed to be examining the Snitch as he walked, looking at it intently, as though it were more than just a gift.

"Do you like it?" James asked, mostly to break the ice.

"Yeah," Harry said, clearly a little embarrassed. "Thanks..."

"Say," James went on, before any Order member could interrupt. "You've still got my Invisibility Cloak, right?"

Harry looked slightly uncomfortable. "Yeah. Uh, I was going to give it back to you before—"

"No, keep it," James said quickly, not wanting Harry to get the wrong idea. "Hogwarts is a lot less fun without it. I just need to borrow it for a few days."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Order business," James replied, gesturing that he couldn't say more.

Harry looked intrigued, but didn't argue. He handed James the cloak without any further questions, and James just hoped his son wouldn't find a reason to mention it to Lily.

For a brief moment in Harry's room, as he passed him the cloak, James felt an overwhelming urge to tell him exactly what he was about to do—but he held back. The day would come when he would tell Harry everything, no matter what Dumbledore thought, but today wasn't that day.

He had only one thing left to do, apart from wait. He owed it to Lily—and to the rest of the Order—to try and reach his goal the honest way, at least once more. So at the end of that evening's Order meeting, during which James listened with mounting boredom to the reports from other members, he raised his hand when Dumbledore asked if anyone had anything to add before they adjourned.

A faint sigh of frustration came from somewhere around the table. The tension in the room dropped almost comically, as if the others were just waiting for James to finish so they could leave. This was the fifth time he had done this, and everyone already knew exactly what he wanted to say. Only Dumbledore watched him with polite interest, and Lily looked torn between supporting him and explaining that he wasn't getting anywhere with these votes.

"Well," James said, standing up. "You all know my speech by now. It's time to stop wasting our resources guarding the prophecy, and start using them to gain some kind of advantage over Voldemort." He ignored the flinch of several Order members at the name. "There's no point pretending this won't be like last time. We need to take the fight to him, not wait for him to come to us. All those in favour of ending the guard shifts on the prophecy—?"

Only his usual supporters raised their hands—Sirius, Mad-Eye, and Tonks. No one else dared challenge Dumbledore's stance.

"Are you done?" Snape asked curtly, and without waiting for a response, stood up and left. James stared at his retreating back with hatred, reminding himself that this wasn't the time or place to hex him. His chance would come.

"Anything else?" Dumbledore asked politely.

"No," James replied. "The Order has spoken. Maybe I'll have better luck next time."

The meeting ended. Mad-Eye gave James a silent nod of support and took a long swig from his flask, while Sirius shrugged and slumped in his chair.

James had often considered telling Sirius what he was planning, but always stopped himself at the last moment. This wasn't a school prank—it was serious. He couldn't risk Sirius trying to stop him somehow, or telling Lily or Remus.

In the past, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell his friend, but the truth was, he wasn't sure what Sirius would do with the information now. He swore to tell him once it was over—right after telling Lily. He knew Sirius would be angry at being kept in the dark, but he also knew Sirius would support him in the end—something he wasn't at all sure he could say about the rest of the Order, or even Lily.

Molly began offering people tea and leftovers from Harry's birthday cake. James hadn't realized he was still standing by the table until Lily touched his arm.

"I'm sorry, James," she said seriously. "But I agree with Dumbledore. Right now, the best thing for Harry is to make sure the full prophecy doesn't fall into Voldemort's hands. It’s the only way we have right now to try and keep him safe."

James didn't agree, so he only smiled and placed his hand over hers. He hated that they were on opposite sides of this—and hated himself for not telling her the whole truth.

By the time the morning of Harry's hearing arrived, James was starting to doubt himself. Maybe his plan wasn't as good as he thought? Maybe it wasn't a good idea at all. And what if it all went wrong—what would happen to Lily and their children?

He told himself to stop being an idiot. He'd made his decision, and he wasn't going to back down now. One way or another, this had to be done. And if Dumbledore and the Order weren't going to do it, he would.

Maybe Harry's nerves were contagious—maybe that's why he felt this way all of a sudden. Harry hadn't touched his breakfast, and when it was time to leave, he looked like a man heading to his execution. James tried to give him an encouraging smile as they stepped out into the chilly morning, but it only made James himself more nervous.

The hard truth was that the only witnesses who could testify that Harry had acted in self-defence that summer were a Muggle, a Squib, a house-elf, and a dead man. What if the Wizengamot didn't buy Dumbledore's argument and decided Harry should be expelled from Hogwarts on the spot? James didn't think that was as unlikely as he'd tried to make Harry believe. He'd been absent from the wizarding world for so long—what if the Wizengamot wasn't what it had been in his mother's day?

Sure, there were other wizarding schools in Europe, but James knew Harry wouldn't find comfort in that. He couldn't imagine how he'd have felt at Harry's age if someone told him he wasn't going back to Hogwarts with his friends.

Lily, on the other hand, seemed utterly convinced that Harry would be cleared. She had no problem chatting with him calmly as they rode the underground to the other side of the city. Harry wasn’t much of a talker on any day, and his nerves made him even less inclined to chat, but Lily had an almost magical ability to bring him out of his shell, even in his darkest of moods.

If she was frightened by the possible outcome of the trial, she hid it well. James wondered whether she truly believed everything would be fine—or whether she was just putting on a brave face for Harry. Either way, her gentle demeanor was helping him far more than James's clumsy attempts at reassurance.

The day was especially chilly for August, which worked in James's favour: his jacket had enough pockets to hide all the tools he needed without them being noticeable. Only when the three of them squeezed into the phone booth that served as the visitor entrance to the Ministry, and James leaned over Lily to dial the code, did she apparently feel the bulge in his jacket pocket.

"What have you got in there?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said innocently. "Just happy to see you."

Lily blushed, almost horrified that James would say such a thing in front of Harry. Harry, meanwhile, turned crimson and looked like he was calculating how to escape the phone box without making eye contact with either parent. His eyes accidentally met James's, and James winked cheerfully. Harry looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. In that moment of shared embarrassment, the subject of James's pockets content was thankfully forgotten.

The lift shuddered and began to descend, carrying them from the Muggle world to the heart of the wizarding one.

As the guard checked their wands, James's earlier fear began to dissolve, replaced by a quiet sense of triumph. The Ministry's security was terrible—even worse than it had been in his youth. His chances of success had just skyrocketed.

The queue for the lifts was enormous at this hour. James motioned for Lily and Harry to follow him and led them to the stairwell, a well-kept space lit by glass lamps casting a warm glow, rarely used. Even when his father had brought him to visit his mother at work, James had always hated the long queues and the cramped lifts, preferring the stairs. Besides, he wasn't keen on being stared at today.

The climb wasn't short—the Wizengamot chambers were on the second floor. When they arrived, James checked his watch. Ten to eight.

"What are we doing now?" Harry asked after a few minutes of waiting in the reception area outside the chamber, where James had informed the tired, confused receptionist that they had arrived.

"Waiting," James said, casting glances at the receptionist every few moments. She seemed increasingly uncomfortable under his gaze.

"But... the hearing's at eleven."

"Don't count on it," James replied, not bothering to lower his voice. He knew the receptionist could hear every word. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was mysteriously brought forward. If the accused fails to show without good reason, they've got the right to declare him guilty."

Harry paled slightly. Lily said in a soothing voice, "That's why we came early. Don't worry."

At two minutes to eight, a paper memo floated into the office and landed on the receptionist's desk. James watched her open and read it carefully. She looked momentarily lost, but whether due to James's stare or her own conscience, she said, "Mr Potter, your hearing has been moved forward to eight o'clock."

Harry leapt to his feet in alarm. James immediately turned towards the door he knew led to the courtroom, but the receptionist stopped him.

"It's been moved to the old courtrooms. Level ten."

James's heart skipped a beat. That was a dirty move—even in his mother's day, those courtrooms were rarely used except for the sentencing of particularly dangerous criminals—but it made his plan far simpler. It was as though some unseen force was telling him: now or never.

Without wasting a second, James rushed out, Lily and Harry right behind him, and into the stairwell. There was no way they'd get a lift anytime soon. They tore down the steps until they reached level nine, where the staircase ended in an ancient stone corridor—the oldest part of the Ministry. The blue flames flickering in the torches along the walls made it feel like part of a strange dream.

Harry turned at once down a narrow corridor ending in a black door, but Lily grabbed his arm and steered him after James toward the steps leading to level ten, unreachable by lift. As they ran, James couldn't help wondering why Harry had tried to go that way— to that door —when it was obvious James was leading him somewhere else entirely. Surely he didn't know what lay behind it, did he? No, if he did, he wouldn't have gone there so eagerly on the way to his own hearing.

They entered the courtroom at two minutes past eight. A few members of the Wizengamot were still making their way to their seats and looked surprised by the defendant's sudden appearance.

"Even Fudge isn't here yet," James said to Harry, satisfied. "I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees you showed up on time."

Harry managed a small smile.

Sure enough, a few moments later the door behind them opened. In walked the Minister for Magic, whom James had learned to dislike thanks to the dramatic and dishonest statements he kept publishing, insisting that Harry was a spoiled liar and Dumbledore a senile old man. His face twisted with fury when he spotted the Potters. Behind him stood a young ginger man wearing glasses. James guessed it was Molly and Arthur's third son, who had sided with the Ministry and cut off contact.

"Hi, Percy," Harry said acidly. Percy flinched, as if even being spoken to by Harry might infect him with some dreadful disease, and didn't reply.

"You're late, Minister," James said to Fudge.

Fudge grumbled something and swept past them.

"Don't provoke him," Lily said to James as he passed, then turned to Harry with a gentler tone: "Good luck, sweetheart."

"If you'd kindly be seated, Mr Potter," Fudge barked, taking his place at the front of the platform.

Harry gave his parents a tense smile and walked nervously toward the chair in the centre of the room. The chains around it rattled threateningly, but he ignored them with commendable composure. Lily and James went to sit on the stone bench for observers by the wall.

"Where's Dumbledore?" Lily whispered.

"Probably planning a fashionable entrance," James replied. "No way that trick of theirs fooled him."

The hearing began. As Fudge started reading names for the record, James noticed a squat woman sitting to his right; from the front, her face was lost in shadow, but from the side, her unattractive features were plain to see.

"That's Umbridge?" James whispered to Lily. Based on what she'd tried to do to Harry a few weeks earlier, and by the way Remus talked about her, he'd expected someone imposing and fearsome who hunted werewolves and vampires for fun—not this ridiculous toad-like creature. "What are they playing at?"

Before Lily could answer, the door opened again and Dumbledore entered with a confident stride. Harry turned in his seat and visibly relaxed. Dumbledore really did radiate calm and reassurance. James imagined that in the absence of his parents, Harry had had to find a father figure—but still, James wished he could be the one to make Harry feel like everything would be alright.

The hearing continued without delay. Dumbledore summoned Mrs Figg to testify about the Dementor attack. Amelia Bones, whom James remembered from when she'd just begun working at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, appeared to accept the testimony, though of course Fudge dismissed it outright. The opinions of the Wizengamot seemed divided. In light of that, James was glad Dumbledore had decided not to bring Billie to testify; house-elves would lie without batting an eye if ordered by their masters, and such a witness would not have cast Harry in a favourable light.

To avoid the subject of the Dementors possibly wandering out of Azkaban, Fudge steered the hearing towards the second offence Harry had committed that summer.

"I only did it to get away from the Death Eaters!" Harry protested, because Fudge was making it sound like he'd gone out on a joyride rather than fled for his life on a broomstick.

"Calm down, don't get upset," Lily whispered, as if Harry could hear her.

"Another far-fetched tale, and – how convenient – no witnesses again..."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Dumbledore cut in, "At this point I would like to summon my second witness, if I may."

"Well, who is it now?" Fudge said impatiently.

James squeezed Lily's hand and stepped to the front of the assembly. He hadn't known a human face could turn purple, but that's exactly what happened to Fudge's. Dumbledore gestured to the chair where Mrs Figg had sat, but James declined and stood before the Wizengamot, positioned just ahead of where Harry and Dumbledore were seated, so he couldn't see them.

"Please state your full name for the record," said Amelia Bones, though James saw that she recognized him.

"James Henry Potter."

"It's important to note that the witness is the boy's father," Fudge announced loudly. Percy Weasley was scribbling every word down fervently. "That is, if you believe the story of the Potters not being dead after all… Not exactly the most reliable witness, Dumbledore."

"That will be for our esteemed colleagues to decide, Cornelius," said Dumbledore calmly. "James, if you would kindly tell us what happened—"

"I'M the one asking questions here!" Fudge barked. "Well? Speak up!" he snapped at James.

James launched into a description of that day's events, recounting how he'd found Uncle Leo injured, what the nature of his wounds had been, and what his old uncle had told him before passing away.

"How convenient!" Fudge cried, glancing around at the Wizengamot as if sharing a joke. "Another bit of testimony that can't be verified!"

"I wouldn't exactly call someone being murdered convenient, but I suppose that does rather work in your favour," James retorted sharply.

Fudge's neck flushed a deep crimson.

"Need I remind you where you are, Mr Potter?" he growled.

"I thought I was standing before the Minister for Magic, whose duty is to protect the wizarding community – but apparently I was mistaken," James replied.

It was easier than he'd imagined – Fudge looked livid. The members of the Wizengamot appeared shocked, but a few of them bore expressions of agreement or even amusement.

"This is outrageous!" the Minister bellowed. "Dumbledore, I demand you restrain your witness!"

James was sure Dumbledore would silence him, but to his surprise, the Headmaster merely said tranquilly, "Mr Potter is an adult, Cornelius, not a student. I hardly have any control over what he chooses to say or do."

"You know what this reminds me of?" James pressed on, clashing with Fudge head-on. He could only imagine Lily's expression in that moment. "You know who does have the power to control what people say and do? You . You could investigate what Harry testified happened that day – Unforgivable Curses were used, curses your office has the means to trace – but instead, you put him on trial like a criminal and ignore the fact that a Ministry employee attacked him using a curse she had no authority to cast, and tried to alter his memory—"

"Just another of young Mr Potter's imaginative tales," a sickly sweet voice cut across him. Umbridge leaned forward in her chair, her face catching the dim light. "First Dementors in a Muggle town, then Death Eaters, and now a mysterious assault. I wonder what other fantasies his overactive imagination will bring us next."

She let out a high-pitched, childish giggle that made the hairs on James's neck stand on end.

The sound of a chair scraping came from behind James. Harry had risen to his feet. Knowing things would spiral out of control if his son started talking, James said quickly, "I was wondering when you'd show your ugly face. Got no shame, have you, showing up here after what you tried to do to him?"

It wasn't the cleverest jab James had ever made, but it got the job done.

"That's enough, Mr Potter!" Fudge shouted. "You've gone beyond all bounds! You are in contempt of this court! Leave the chamber at once, or else - !"

James gestured that he wouldn't resist. He turned away, avoiding Dumbledore's piercing gaze. Harry was still standing, looking at him as if unsure whether what his father had done was foolish or impressive. James winked at him as he passed. Across the room, Lily was glaring daggers. He knew she was furious – but also that her current anger would pale in comparison to what she'd feel that evening after he told her what he'd done.

He exited the chamber and shut the door behind him. He was alone, completely alone.

Without wasting a moment, he pulled his old Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and threw it over himself. The familiar sensation was comforting. The ability to see without being seen had always empowered him – made him feel he could do anything: defeat the Darkest wizard of all time, kiss Lily Evans, and even break into the Department of Mysteries.

He reached the door leading to the Department without incident. Suddenly, he thought of Matthew, his partner at the police station. What would he say if he knew his law-abiding partner was about to pull off such a brazen break-in?

After making sure he was alone, James took a battered old Muggle torch from his pocket, attached to which was a cloudy vial filled with a thin liquid. He fiddled with the device for a few moments before managing to turn it on. The beam that shone out was bluish, and when it hit the door, the light seemed to pass through, allowing James to see the room beyond.

"Dad, you genius," James muttered.

This particular invention of his father's had never reached the market. The Ministry had refused to approve a device that allowed wizards to invade others' privacy so thoroughly. So his father had shelved it, unable to bring himself to destroy it.

The entrance hall of the Department of Mysteries appeared empty. James glanced over his shoulder one last time – was the hearing still going on? – and entered.

It felt like stepping into a deep, black pool. The floor was glossy and black, reflecting the cold blue flames so perfectly he feared it might reflect him too. The silence was thick, suffocating. James shone his torch at the doors around him, peering into the rooms beyond like silent television screens. Most were empty, though in a few Unspeakables toiled away.

Now came the hard part. James didn't know which room he was looking for. He had no choice but to search each one, and the enchantment that reshuffled the doors whenever one was left had little effect on him – but sneaking into rooms where Unspeakables were working was tricky. A young witch nearly discovered him in a room full of clocks, and it was sheer luck that her experiment distracted her just in time. He was growing nervous – he didn't have time to waste.

Just when he was starting to wonder whether the whole plan was flawed, he found it: a vast, shadowy chamber filled with rows of dusty crystal orbs forming a gloomy labyrinth. Pleased, but aware the hardest part still lay ahead, he moved among the shelves, checking his surroundings carefully. Before long, he found what he was after – a heavy desk bearing a massive book. Making sure no one was around, he bent over it and flipped through the pages until he spotted the name, "Harry Potter?" . Without delay, he headed into the rows.

By wandlight, he found the correct shelf. The prophecy that had doomed his family looked so innocent, resting there on the dusty surface. He still couldn't fathom how Dumbledore and Voldemort gave such weight to something so small.

Now he drew his father's other invention from his pocket – the blue cap. This had been Fleamont Potter's final and perhaps most important creation. The Thinking Cap, as he'd called it, was designed to shield the minds of witches and wizards from invasive spells. Tragically, he had died before it could be shared with the magical world. It might have saved many lives.

James used to joke that no wizard in his right mind would wear such a thing in public. But now, under the Invisibility Cloak, he donned it – knowing it was his only chance of success.

For the first time, he let himself consider what would happen if he failed. If caught, he'd go to Azkaban. But if the Thinking Cap failed when he touched the prophecy... he might prefer Azkaban. Still, there was no other way. He couldn't cast spells here without being detected. He had to do it the old-fashioned way.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself why he was doing this. He had to do it, and he knew he'd never forgive himself if he let fear stop him. He thought of Harry resisting Umbridge's memory charm – so young, yet so strong. If he could do it, so could James.

With a swift, sharp motion, he reached out and grabbed the crystal orb.

At first, nothing happened. He studied the prophecy, running his thumb over its smooth surface. It was warm, as though it had been sitting in the sun. He tossed it in the air and caught it—when something in his peripheral vision made him flinch.

But no one was there.

Someone stood behind the shelves.

James backed away, fear prickling his skin, shining his wand between the rows.

He was alone.

It's not real , he reminded himself. It's the curse on the prophecy, trying to drive you mad. And in a rebellious act, he threw the orb hard at the floor.

The prophecy shattered into a thousand pieces. White smoke billowed out, slithering heavily across the floor. The smoke rose and formed the figure of a fragile woman. She began to speak—but James couldn't hear her, for at that moment a piercing scream ripped through his ears.

He clutched his head, trying to shut out the awful sound that flooded every cell of his body.

Whose voice was it? If only he knew, perhaps he could help and end it. It tore at him. Was it his mother? Lily? Emily? Maybe all three?

But he couldn't help them. He hadn't saved his mother, hadn't saved Lily from Voldemort – if not for Snape's interference, she would have died – so what made him think he could protect Emily? He'd ripped her from her old life, brought her to this dangerous country, into the heart of a war. That wasn't what a father should do. How could he have been so selfish?

A wave of self-loathing surged and drowned him. He'd only ever destroyed those closest to him – his father, Sirius, Harry, Lily. No one was safe from him. Everyone would be better off if he just stopped existing, vanished into himself—

"Don't be an idiot," a voice whispered in his ear – soft and quiet, yet louder than the scream. "You know that's not true. You need to get back to them. So fight this."

Whose voice was that? His father's? Sirius's? Remus's?

"You haven't time to sit around wallowing in self-pity. You had fourteen years for that. Now it's time to fight."

But the voice sounded too young for any of them. Was it Harry?

Suddenly he remembered where he was, and why. The scream still echoed in his ears. He realized he was crouched on the floor of the Department of Mysteries. He stood, trembling all over.

The seer's figure dissipated and the smoke vanished. The scream died away, leaving behind a maddening ring. He wiped his face and found it drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he took a deep breath to steady it.

Thanking Merlin that was over, he removed the Thinking Cap and ran a hand through his damp hair. He felt a wild urge to laugh but held it back. Without looking back, he walked away, leaving the shattered prophecy behind.

He hurried back to the courtroom, and on the stairs had to press himself against the wall to avoid colliding with Dumbledore, who was climbing swiftly, a worried, focused look on his face. James waited until the Headmaster was out of sight before removing the cloak. He had barely stuffed it into his pocket when Lily and Harry appeared at the bottom of the stairs, beaming. Any trace of fear or hatred left in him melted away in that instant.

"Well?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Cleared," Harry said joyfully. "All charges dropped."

"Knew it!" James exclaimed, and Harry even laughed. A fierce love surged through him, and James did something he hadn't yet done – he hugged Harry.

He held him tightly for a brief moment, then let go. Harry still looked happy, though also slightly embarrassed. James knew it felt strange to him. He hadn't hugged his own father at that age either.

"You were right," Lily said, looking at James with a mix of fondness and reproach. "Amelia Bones wasn't willing to ignore what you said about Umbridge, and she wanted Harry to tell her everything. Before we left, she told me she intends to open an investigation. I think she's had enough of Fudge meddling in her department. You got off lightly."

"It was all part of the plan," James replied smugly. Lily smiled at him indulgently. She always forgave him.

"Let's go tell everyone the good news," he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder as they made their way towards the lift.

He knew he'd have to face the consequences of what he'd done soon, but right now, his happiness and relief were so overwhelming it was hard to worry about it. Harry would be going back to Hogwarts in a month, and with any luck, he'd never have to know about the prophecy that had sealed his fate.

Chapter Text

Emily couldn't decide whether she liked Number 12 Grimmauld Place or not. When her parents told her they were leaving the United States and returning to England to live in the wizarding world, she'd felt sad at the thought of saying goodbye to her friends and having to move somewhere new. But that sadness didn't compare to the excitement and anticipation she felt about discovering the magical world for the first time—a world her parents had been telling her about ever since the beginning of summer.

She'd imagined the entire wizarding world would be like Hogwarts, which had thrilled and amazed her when Dobby the house-elf introduced her to the castle. She hadn't expected it to include places like Grimmauld Place—magical and impressive, but also frightening in equal measure.

Whereas Hogwarts was full of broad, marble-floored corridors and arched ceilings, colourful and lively portraits that moved and spoke before her eyes, massive shifting staircases, and large windows looking out onto forests and lakes—Grimmauld Place had narrow hallways and staircases, grim and bitter portraits, and dusty windows overlooking a rundown and gloomy neighbourhood.

Still, Emily wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else that summer. It was, without a doubt, the least boring summer holiday she'd ever had.

Every nook and room in Grimmauld Place held magical objects and marvellous creatures that had, until now, existed only in Emily's wildest dreams: Doxies—the small black biting fairies lurking in the curtains and tapestries—books that began speaking when opened (or tried to bite the person holding them), wardrobes capable of swallowing up house occupants and spitting them out in another room, strangling cloaks, a foul-tempered grandfather clock, and even an armchair that came to life in one of the guest rooms and tried to trample her when she entered—until George Weasley shattered it to pieces with a spell.

Each day brought a new discovery about the magical world, especially thanks to Hermione's detailed explanations—Hermione always tried to answer Emily's questions as best she could. Emily didn't always understand the answers, but Hermione promised her that once she started at Hogwarts, everything would become much clearer. In the meantime, Emily continued to spend the summer exploring the secrets of Number 12 Grimmauld Place with the Weasley children, Hermione—and Harry.

She never quite knew how to behave around her brother. She'd always dreamed of having siblings, but now that the dream had suddenly come true, she didn't know how to feel.

At first, when she discovered Harry existed, she'd been thrilled. And when she arrived at Grimmauld Place and started hearing stories about him from his friends, she was even more excited—she couldn't wait to meet her brother. His adventures at Hogwarts inspired her, and whenever she felt nervous about starting at the wizarding school, she thought of his stories and felt comforted. It was good to know that no matter what happened at Hogwarts, she'd have an older brother she could always turn to.

But their first meeting hadn't gone at all as Emily had hoped. Harry hadn't seemed especially pleased to see her. That morning, her mum had warned her that the meeting might be emotionally charged—maybe even unpleasant—but it felt like she was the only one not included in the happy reunion. Harry didn't say a single word to her—not even hello—and from that moment on, he did everything he could to avoid making eye contact.

Even so, Emily kept smiling. Her parents were overjoyed to be reunited with Harry, and she didn't want to ruin their happiness by complaining. Maybe her brother just needed more time—time she herself had already had.

But when she went to bed that night, a heavy, foreign sadness filled her. Maybe Harry hated her. Maybe he blamed her for all the years he'd lived apart from their parents. She didn't know how to untangle those thoughts to stop them from nagging at her.

For a moment, she considered waking Ginny, who always knew how to cheer her up—but changed her mind at the last second. She didn't want Ginny or Hermione to think she was a little girl who needed cuddling just because she couldn't sleep. In just over a month, she'd be off to Hogwarts, living with girls her own age—there'd be no one to wake up in the night when she felt sad. She'd just have to convince herself that everything would be fine and try to fall asleep.

And everything was fine, in the end. Over time, Harry began to be nicer to her, and sometimes, while cleaning, they even chatted a bit. Emily started to realize she'd been a bit naive to imagine Harry would instantly become the doting big brother who looked out for her. Just because they shared the same parents didn't mean they'd immediately act like Ginny and her brothers, who had grown up in the same house together. But maybe that was all right. Emily was still glad Harry was in her life—if only because he made their parents so happy.

After Harry was cleared at his hearing, everyone in the house was in particularly high spirits. Following a celebratory dinner, the children gathered in Harry and Ron's room to listen to a Quidditch match on the wireless and play Exploding Snap. In honour of the joyous occasion, Mrs Weasley had agreed to postpone lights-out.

"Johnson'll probably be captain this year," Fred said to Harry as he bit into a chocolate frog. "Good thing you weren't expelled—I don't know how we would've told her she needed a new Seeker. She's already drawing up game plans, you know?"

"At this rate, she'll be worse than Wood," George added. "We were already thinking about quitting the team this year—"

"You're quitting?" Ron piped up, sounding rather too interested.

"Don't sound so pleased," George replied. "We're not quitting. We've still got this year to survive, and we'd rather Angelina didn't murder us before it's over."

Ron looked vaguely disappointed.

"What positions are opening up this year?" Ginny asked, placing a card carefully on the pile, making sure it didn't explode. "Just Keeper, right?"

"One too many," Fred said darkly. "There's no one in Gryffindor who can fill Wood's shoes. We're doomed."

"Maybe McGonagall'll let you take a first-year again," Hermione suggested, studying her cards intently. "You know, like she did with Harry."

"No first-year could be a Keeper," Ron said, inexplicably annoyed. "They're tiny."

"I think Emily would make a great Keeper," Fred said, winking at her.

"My dad says I'd be better as a Chaser," Emily replied, though the compliment pleased her. "I always played offence in basketball. But I don't even know how to fly yet."

To her great surprise, Harry suddenly said, "I can teach you, if you want."

"Really?" she asked, stunned.

"Sure," he replied, barely looking at her as he focused on choosing a card. "We're supposed to finish cleaning the greenhouse tomorrow—I think there's enough room in there."

"Isn't it dangerous to fly indoors?" Hermione cut in, clearly thinking it was a bad idea.

"It's dangerous outdoors too," Harry replied.

"I'll ask Mum and Dad if they'll let me," Emily said quickly, leaping to her feet before Hermione could talk Harry out of it.

She left the room and bounded up the stairs towards her parents' bedroom. Learning to fly was one of the things she'd most longed to do since finding out she was a witch. She was sure that even if her mum hesitated, her dad would convince her to agree.

She was just about to knock on their door when she heard her mother's voice from inside and froze. She sounded furious, as though restraining herself from shouting.

"How could you do that?" she asked. Her voice was angry and frightened, but there was something else there too—something Emily couldn't quite place, something that made her hesitate. "You could've ended up in Azkaban. Or worse!"

The mention of the wizard prison sparked Emily's curiosity. Her parents argued sometimes, but never like this. She crept closer to the door to hear better.

"But I didn't," her father replied. He sounded very calm—maybe too calm.

"No, you didn't," Lily snapped, somehow sounding even angrier. "But what if you had? What if they'd caught you? What if you hadn't been able to break the curse? How do you think that would've affected Emily and Harry?"

"I did it for them," James said, his voice rising slightly. "Do you think I wanted to do it? Dumbledore's going to kick me out of the Order when he finds out. But I didn't have a choice—"

"You did have a choice!" Emily jumped when her mother suddenly shouted. "There's always a choice! You just like to believe you know best. Haven't you learned anything?" Her voice cracked. "Don't you remember what happened the last time you didn't listen to Dumbledore?"

"No," James said softly, but it sounded like thunder in the silence. Emily shivered. "That's not fair, Lily. I paid for that mistake."

"You've learned nothing…" the whisper was so faint Emily barely caught it.

Silence fell. Emily began to think maybe she shouldn't have been listening—and with a guilty heart, she turned to leave. But then her mother asked, suddenly, "What did you do with it?"

"I destroyed it," her husband replied.

After another long pause, Lily said, "I can't believe that after all these years, you still don't understand that your actions have consequences."

James began to answer angrily, but Emily didn't want to hear anymore. She made her way back to the boys' room, a new, unsettling worry weighing on her.

"What did they say?" Harry asked when she came back in.

Emily had already forgotten about flying lessons. All she could think about was her parents' argument—and the more she thought about it, the more she realized it probably wasn't something she was meant to hear.

"You all right?" Ginny asked, worried.

Now everyone was looking at her. Maybe she should have dismissed the fight and acted normal—but she couldn't stop thinking about her mum's harsh words.

"I think…" she began hesitantly, "I think my dad did something bad."

Everyone stared at her in confusion and concern. She realized she sounded very childish. She sat on the carpet, wondering whether she should keep what she'd overheard to herself—or tell the others. They were older than her and understood the wizarding world much better. Maybe they could help her make sense of it all?

"Er," Harry mumbled. Hermione gave him a sharp look, urging him to say something. "Why do you think that?"

"I heard them arguing," Emily blurted.

"Well, married people argue sometimes," Harry said awkwardly.

"Not like that," Emily replied sharply, surprising everyone. "Mum said he could've gone to Azkaban. And he said he didn't have a choice, and that Dumbledore would kick him out of the Order—"

"Wait, wait, start from the beginning," Fred interrupted.

Emily took a breath and did her best to recount everything she'd heard. When she finished, she glanced at Harry for the first time—he looked deep in thought.

"I don't even get what he did," Ron said. "Okay, he destroyed something. But what? Could've been anything."

"It must've been something important, if Mrs Potter was that angry," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Something Dumbledore told him not to do… The thing the Order's protecting—it must be that!"

"But if the Order's protecting it, why would Mr Potter destroy it?" Ginny asked.

Emily had held back one personal detail, but now she said, "He said he did it for us. For me and Harry."

Harry gave her a strange look. It made her uncomfortable, and she looked away.

"If only we knew what it was…" Ron said, seemingly missing the new tension in the room.

"It's something Voldemort wants," Harry said suddenly. Everyone but Emily flinched at the name of the Dark wizard.

"How do you know?" Ron asked uneasily.

"I don't," Harry said quickly. "But it makes sense, right? That's why the Order's guarding it. And it's not something Dumbledore can use, or he would've done it already. By destroying it, my dad stopped Voldemort from getting stronger—will you stop flinching?"

"Then why didn't Dumbledore destroy it himself?" Emily asked, caught up in the discussion.

"Because it's illegal," Ginny said. "Mrs Potter said he could've gone to Azkaban—so whatever it was, it must've been against the law. Maybe he broke in somewhere to get it."

"He wouldn't do that," Emily said firmly, defending her dad's honour.

"I think he would," Harry said seriously. "He seems like the kind of person who'd break the law if he thought it was for a good reason."

"He wouldn't break the law," Emily insisted. "He used to be a police officer in America—he wouldn't do that!"

For some reason, this seemed to annoy Harry greatly. He looked down and began tidying up his cards.

"Whatever you say. You probably know him a lot better than I do," he said coolly.

His words were like a knife of ice cutting through her. It wasn't fair of Harry to speak to her like that. It wasn't her fault he barely knew their parents.

Thankfully, Mrs Weasley entered just then and ordered everyone to bed. Emily returned to her room without looking at Harry, regretting she'd eavesdropped on her parents' argument in the first place.

In the corridor, she ran into her mother, still dressed in her day clothes, heading downstairs. Emily expected to see her looking pale and fragile, as she had during Harry's absence—but that wasn't the case. A clear tension remained in her face as she smiled warmly and wished Emily goodnight, but she didn't seem broken or anguished after the argument. On the contrary—her anger had given her a new strength that Emily had never seen before. In that moment, she realized her mother was far stronger than she'd ever imagined.

The following day, the tension between Emily's parents was obvious. She'd hoped she'd only imagined what she'd heard the night before, but by breakfast it was clear they were barely speaking, just enough to pretend everything was normal. Emily's father was unusually quiet; he looked tired and angry, and didn't say a word during the whole meal.

Emily had never seen him behave like that before, and it frightened her. She had always been so sure her dad would never break the law—but what if she didn't know him as well as she thought? He had always been a sort of hero to her, a role model, but what if the image of the brave, dedicated policeman had just been a mask? So many things had changed in her life since this summer began—maybe he had changed, too.

All at once, everything seemed grey and threatening. She started to think she would have preferred if they had stayed in the United States, if her parents had never remembered who they truly were, because it was beginning to feel like the parents who raised her were very different from the strange, shadowy people they had suddenly become. And the worst part was that she had no one to turn to for help or comfort—because they had always been the ones who made everything seem all right.

To her surprise, it was Harry who managed to cheer her up. Maybe he felt bad about the way he had spoken to her the night before, or maybe he'd simply noticed she looked troubled, because that afternoon, as they weeded wilted plants in the greenhouse, he suddenly said, "So, do you still want those flying lessons?"

Emily was so surprised she didn't answer. She hadn't even noticed that Ron and Hermione had moved away from where they'd been working, and now she and Harry were alone.

"Look," Harry went on. Emily realised she'd stopped trying to pull up the wilted plant in her hand. "Even if dad did break the law somehow, it doesn't make him a bad person. Not everything's black and white."

Emily stayed silent. She knew Harry was right, but she still felt like a heavy weight was pressing on her chest. She tried hard to put what she was feeling into words.

"It's just…" she began at last, feeling embarrassed. "Everything's changing, you know?"

Harry just nodded, digging into the soil with quiet focus.

Emily didn't want the conversation to end, but she didn't know what else to say. It felt good to tell someone how she felt, even if it was only in a few words. She felt like Harry understood her, even though he didn't say much. Everything had changed for him, too.

"You really will teach me to fly?" she asked at last.

"Course," said Harry. He sounded relieved that she'd changed the subject.

A lot had changed for her that summer, but maybe change wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe her parents had always been who they were now, and she was only just old enough to see them for who they really were. Maybe that was all right.

Chapter Text

It was late at night when the fire in the Headmaster's office flared emerald green. Lily's face appeared among the flames, her hair cascading into the embers. Her eyes, the same colour as the fire, flashed within the blaze.

Very few things could surprise Severus Snape, but Lily's sudden appearance in the fire caught him unprepared. He felt her gaze on him like two burning embers, and as always, he turned his eyes away to avoid meeting hers, reinforcing the thick wall around his heart. Lily had never trained in Legilimency, but he had always felt that if there was a witch or wizard in the world capable of breaking through his defences with a single glance, it would be her.

"Lily," said Dumbledore gently, rising from the armchair by the fire. "We were just speaking of you. Is everything all right at headquarters?"

"All is well, Professor," Lily replied. She sounded troubled. "I don't want to interrupt, but I need to speak with you urgently."

"Of course," Dumbledore said calmly, gesturing for her to join them in the office.

Lily's head disappeared from the flames, and a moment later she stepped out of the fireplace and into the room. Severus quickly turned his gaze away. There was danger in looking at her too long—it was like staring at the sun.

"May I offer you a drink?" Dumbledore asked pleasantly, motioning to the bottle of wine he and Severus had been sharing.

"No, thank you," Lily said, and without ceremony, continued, "Professor, James just told me that during the hearing today, he entered the Department of Mysteries and destroyed the prophecy."

Severus's hand tightened around his wine goblet, but otherwise he gave no reaction. Destroy the prophecy? That was extreme—even for Potter.

Dumbledore responded to the news with calm. Severus knew that he too simply had excellent control over his emotions. The Headmaster returned to his seat peacefully and interlaced his fingers beneath his chin as he thought. Lily watched him tensely, her arms rigid by her sides.

"I suspected he was planning something daring," the Headmaster said at last. "But I could not have imagined he would do something so dangerous.”

"How did he do it?" Severus asked.

Lily looked at him as if she hadn't expected him to speak. At any other time, he would have kept silent, but his curiosity now outweighed his shame. He hated Potter with every fibre of his being—that much was true—but one couldn't deny the man was a skilled wizard. If he weren't, Severus would not consider him a rival. He burned to know how Potter had overcome the curse protecting the prophecy; it was supposed to drive anyone who touched it to madness.

"I didn't ask for the details," Lily replied coolly.

"We already know the Ministry's security is inadequate," Dumbledore said calmly. "That is why the Order was guarding the prophecy. There's no point wondering how it was done. James has upset the balance. Now we must consider, in the absence of the prophecy, what Voldemort's next move will be."

"Do you want me to report the development to him?" Severus asked.

Dumbledore pondered the question.

"No," he said at last. "Let him find out on his own. It will buy us more time to prepare."

"What will happen to James, Professor?" Lily asked in a thin voice.

"I expect the Order will want to vote on whether to expel him," Dumbledore replied. "But I do not believe it will be necessary to wipe his memories, whatever they decide. I have no right to ask a woman to keep secrets from her husband. Of course, Order activities will not be privy to him."

Lily nodded, looking somewhat calmer.

"I'll call an emergency Order meeting for tomorrow evening," Dumbledore said. "Is there anything else you wanted to say, Lily?"

"Yes," she said, steadying her voice. "How will this affect Harry?"

Dumbledore gave her a gentle smile.

"I don't yet know," he said. "I believe James destroyed the prophecy thinking that if Voldemort couldn't learn its contents, he might forget about it and move on—and hopefully forget about Harry as well. But I fear he won't give up on Harry so easily."

Lily nodded again. The pain was evident on her face. Severus wished he could spare her from it—that's why he'd taken her away all those years ago—but now he was beginning to realize that perhaps she didn't want to be saved.

"Goodnight, Professor," she said to Dumbledore and turned towards the fire.

"One moment," Dumbledore stopped her. "Since you're here, there's something I wanted to ask you."

Severus drained the rest of his wine in one gulp and didn't look at either of them. It was cruel of the old man to make him witness this conversation.

"I'm having a very difficult time finding a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore said. "As you know, last year's teacher turned out to be a Death Eater in disguise. My greatest fear is that if I don't find someone soon, the Ministry will force me to appoint someone of their choosing. So I ask you—would you consider taking the position?"

"Me?" Lily asked, surprised. She was so modest—Severus found it hard to begrudge her that Dumbledore was offering the job to her instead of him.

"Yes, you," Dumbledore said with a smile, his eyes twinkling fondly. "As I recall, you worked as a teacher in a Muggle school. Besides, you were an excellent student and have gained valuable experience as an Order member. I believe the Ministry would find it hard to refuse your appointment. You would, of course, need to be very careful not to appear to favour your children, but aside from that, I believe you're the perfect choice."

Lily seemed to be seriously considering the offer. Promising to think it over, she returned to headquarters.

Once the green flames had died away and the reddish glow returned to the office, Dumbledore stood.

"It's late, Severus," he said, hinting that it was time to leave. But Severus wasn't going to let him off so easily.

"You're out of excuses," he said, rising to his feet as well. "You can't say there's no one else to teach Potions. You know she's a gifted brewer—even better than I am. She could teach. Let me take the Defense job."

"My answer remains no," Dumbledore said firmly.

"Are you punishing me for what I did?" Severus demanded, "You would have done the same thing—"

“Goodnight, Severus,” Dumbledore ended the conversation calmly. 

He entered his room and closed the door behind him, leaving Severus alone. From the dimness, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black let out a wicked chuckle.

"Maybe you'll have better luck next year, boy," he sneered.

Severus ignored him. 

He had no illusions regarding his standing with the Headmaster. He knew full well that if it weren't for his value as a spy, he would not be returning to his teaching post in the upcoming year. Instead, he would be standing trial for kidnapping and unauthorized memory alteration.

He was lucky to avoid a sentence in Azkaban for his actions, but he hated being at the Order's and Dumbledore's mercy. He seemed to have a talent for avoiding persecution for his crimes, but that did not mean he wasn't paying a dear personal cost.

He threw a handful of Floo Powder into the fire and returned home.

Darkness greeted him as he stepped out of the flames. No light was on in the house save for the dying embers in the hearth. The house, to which guests were never invited, clearly reflected Severus's character—furnished simply, even ascetically, with only the most basic items. There were no decorations or photographs, no personal items. A stranger walking in would likely assume no one lived there.

Severus removed his cloak, which floated over and hung itself on the coat rack. He crossed the room, passed the door to the kitchen and the staircase leading to the bedroom, and ran his wand along the bookcase. The bookcase pivoted, revealing a hidden staircase.

He climbed the pitch-black stairs, finding his way expertly by feel, and entered his potion lab. The windowless room was thick with the cloying scent of brewing potion, lit by a few large floating candles that cast a greasy light over the perfectly organised instruments and shelves laden with potion ingredients.

Severus rolled up his sleeves and approached the cauldron bubbling over the fire. On the table beside it, a silver knife was finely chopping monkshood petals, and a mortar contained powdered moonstone. He noted with satisfaction that the potion was beginning to turn the proper black-grey hue.

He donned his reading glasses and examined the open book on the table again. For most of his life, reading had required effort—he would hold the page close, nearly touching his nose, to decipher the words. Lily had always told him he needed reading glasses, but he'd dismissed her. He tried to recall if he'd ever told her he'd finally given in, but couldn't remember.

The sand in the hovering hourglass had run out. Severus stirred the potion—seven times clockwise, once anticlockwise—watching as it turned a dull silver. Candlelight flickered on the Dark Mark on his forearm, so black it seemed to consume the light.

Brewing had always given him a sense of calm. But once the potion was perfected, a familiar choking loneliness descended on him once again. He wondered what Lily was doing now. Was she already asleep, or lying awake, lost in thought? Or perhaps she sat in the darkness, watching her children sleep? Had she already forgiven Potter his foolishness?

He knew it was only a matter of time before she did. He had watched them for so many years, he could predict what they would do before they even considered doing it. That's how he knew she would not hold a grudge for long.

Many times, he had entertained the thought that she would leave him, that this time the obstacle would be too much. But his hopes were always in vain. The years passed while Severus watched them live their lives—two ordinary Muggles, dull and unremarkable—and their bond only grew stronger. With every hardship they overcame, their love deepened.

It would have been so easy for him to separate them. They had been like toys in his hands, powerless before his abilities. But he had never been able to make himself do it. No matter how much he wanted to believe Lily was deluded, that she didn't see Potter for what he truly was, he couldn't lie to himself. He could remove Potter from her life, make her hate him—but he couldn't make her love him instead. He couldn't make her happy.

That was the choice he had made fourteen years ago, the one he vowed to stick to, come what may: to put Lily’s happiness and well-being above all else, even if it meant setting aside his own desires and his hate for Potter.

He stored the memory of that stormy Halloween night and the following days in his Pensieve, and he relived them countless times over the years. Now, he placed the Pensieve on his work station and reviewed them again.

The green light flashed in the windows of the country home, once on the ground floor, and a few moments later on the second floor. Almost at the same moment, there was a huge, fiery explosion that blew off the roof and a part of the wall. There was no fire or smoke, only a strong smell of burning, and debris fell to the ground around the house.

His heart pounding with panic, Severus ran inside. He passed by Potter, who was lying on the floor—he had been certain he was dead then—and ran up the stairs, expecting to come face to face with the Dark Lord standing over a grieving Lily wailing over her dead baby. Instead, the Dark Lord was nowhere to be found. Lily was lying on the floor, covered in debris, next to her living boy, who was sitting there silently with a bleeding gash on his forehead.

The room was eerily silent after the explosion. Nothing could be heard except the wailing of the wind outside. Lily’s son looked at Severus with wide, innocent eyes—that was the first time he realized the boy had inherited his mother’s eyes.

He fell to his knees and took Lily in his arms, bracing himself to feel the chill of death in her limbs. He was shocked to discover her skin was intensely warm, as if she had been sitting in the sun for hours. He touched her neck with trembling fingers and felt a weak pulse.

“What has happened here?” his own voice sounded thin, almost unnatural, in the silence. Lily did not wake to answer his query, and her son only rubbed his eyes tiredly with his small hands.

He lifted Lily in his arms and carried her downstairs. He had to take her away and treat her mysterious ailment—at any moment, the Dark Lord could return, or other Death Eaters could arrive on the scene. He barely gave the boy any thought.

In the hall, he stepped over Potter’s body—and then paused. Potter was motionless and pale. However…

His curiosity getting the better of him, he laid Lily on the floor for a moment and checked Potter for a pulse. His skin was a normal temperature, not particularly cold, nor hot like his wife, and he was alive.

Looking back, at that moment, Severus arrived at one of the major crossroads of his life. His first instinct was to leave Potter to fend for himself. Then, a dark, slithering notion crept in on him. Why shouldn’t he just put Potter out of his misery? It would be easy—he was utterly helpless—and no soul would ever know what had happened there…

He didn’t contemplate this idea long before his rational side took over. He would kill his enemies in battle without batting an eye, but to murder a helpless wizard was a pathetic and cowardly act, even by his standards.

And besides, what would he tell Lily? He was a very good liar, but lying to Lily was somehow different. He could tell her simply that Potter had been murdered by the Dark Lord, and she would believe him. But for how long could he keep the truth from her before the terrible lie would consume him?

Making a decision, Severus reluctantly laid Lily next to her husband and Transfigured some of the sofa cushions into their likeness, in case the Dark Lord came back to finish the job. Then, as the storm outside worsened, he Apparated home with the real Potters.

He took them to his home and placed them on two makeshift beds that he had put in the very same hidden room he was now brewing his potion in. After casting a few simple diagnostic spells on Lily, he discovered there was seemingly nothing wrong with her, but for some reason, she was getting weaker by the moment, as if she was fighting the grip of death itself.

Severus brewed every potion he could think of to help her regain her strength. He must have done something right, because as morning came, the color returned to Lily’s face and her breath steadied.

Potter was still clinging to life. Severus allowed himself time to inspect and investigate his mysterious condition. Like Lily, there was seemingly no reason for his weakened state. Had they somehow survived the Killing Curse? He saw the Dark Lord enter their home, saw the green flashes that could only mean the Unforgivable Curse had been used—and Severus knew enough about Dark Magic to know it was not technically possible to survive it. So how were they still alive?

He monitored Potter in that state for as long as possible in an attempt to find answers, until he was on the very brink of death. Then he administered him the same treatment as Lily, allowing him a chance to at least fight for his life. That was the most mercy he would allow him. He still begrudged him saving his life when they had been in school, and decided that with this, his life debt to him had finally been paid.

Then he waited. Lily and Potter were expected to remain unconscious for hours, assuming they would survive. He clasped the Dark Mark on his arm nervously, expecting a summon from the Dark Lord, who would surely blame him for his failure and punish him severely. But none came.

At last, he decided to return to the scene of the crime in an attempt to find answers. He cast a sleeping spell on his patients, just to be safe, and Apparated back to Godric’s Hollow.

He did not expect the scene that greeted him when he arrived. Lily’s ruined home was surrounded by a huge crowd of wizards and witches, standing there in plain sight in robes and hats, for all the Muggle neighbors to see. They were talking excitedly among themselves; some were weeping, some were laying flowers against the fence.

“What happened here?” Severus asked a group of chatting middle-aged wizards.

“Haven’t you heard?” one of them answered eagerly, “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been vanquished!"

“That’s impossible,” were the first words that left Severus’ mouth.

“You better believe it!” the wizard replied, “It was the Potters’ boy, Harry, they say his name is. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to off them. He killed the parents, but when he got to the boy they say the Killing Curse bounced off and turned back on him. And the most amazing part is the boy survived! The only mark left on him is a bolt-shaped scar…”

“How do you know He has been defeated?” Severus demanded to know, “Has anyone found a body?”

But the wizard lost interest in the conversation, moving on to discuss with his friends the massive arrests being conducted by the Ministry across the country. Realizing he was facing the danger of being arrested himself, Severus slipped away and returned home.

He could not believe the story about the Dark Lord’s defeat. A wizard like him, with his knowledge and control of the Dark Arts, was not so easy to kill. However, it was not the most strange and shocking thing that had happened that night.

He went into the secret room, where the Potters were still lying side by side, pale and weak, like two corpses waiting to be buried in a lovers’ grave.

He looked over them for a long time and calmly contemplated his options. If it was true that the Dark Lord was defeated, his fellow Death Eaters would surely start turning on each other soon, giving each other up to gain some favor in the Wizengamot and avoid Azkaban. Severus’ only sanctuary lay with Dumbledore. He could use the Potters as leverage, trading them in for the Headmaster’s protection. That was the best solution, he had no doubt about that—yet, he could not bring himself to go through with it.

Anyone who believed the Dark Lord had truly been defeated was a fool. He may have disappeared, but Severus had no doubt he would return, be it tomorrow, next year, or in ten years. And when he returns, he would seek vengeance on those the world dubbed his vanquishers—the Potters. It didn’t matter what really happened that night, it didn’t matter if Lily’s son had actually had something to do with the Dark Lord’s disappearance, it didn’t even matter if the Prophecy was true or not—as long as the Dark Lord lived, Lily would never be safe. Unless…

Right now, the whole world believes Lily and James Potter are dead. What if they were to continue to believe so? No one, not even the Dark Lord, will think to hunt down someone who was dead.

A plan started to take shape in Severus’ mind. He could take Lily far away, but as soon as she woke up she would want to go back for her son—who by now must be under the protection of the Ministry or Dumbledore, being watched after closely. Severus would have to use memory charms to make her forget about the boy, forget about the life she used to live. She would have to start a completely new life, preferably as a Muggle, to avoid ever being detected by the Ministry.

He found himself doing something he had long since forbidden himself from doing—fantasizing about a possible life with Lily, just the two of them, together. He despised Muggle culture and society, but he would tolerate it if it meant having a chance of a life with Lily. He wouldn’t even have to win her over; all he had to do was make her believe they were already in love, maybe even married…

He looked at Potter and again contemplated the possibility of murder. It was the only way. He couldn’t let him go free now and risk arousing his suspicion or that of Dumbledore. No one would believe Potter had survived while Lily didn’t. They would investigate, and Potter—he was like a dog with a bone when it came to things that mattered to him. Severus couldn’t risk that anyone would ever find out the truth. If he wiped Lily’s memories and someone from her past came bursting in, especially her husband, he could break the charm and she would know what Severus had done to her. She would feel disgusted, violated—she would never forgive him for as long as she lived.

He had no choice. Potter had to die, now. He got up and stood over his sleeping enemy, wand in hand. He had never killed anyone before, although he had dreamt about eliminating Potter many times over the years. If he were ever to kill someone, it was fitting it would be Potter, his most hated rival.

He was almost prepared to cast the Killing Curse. But for some reason, as he looked at the man’s pale face, committing it to memory so he could compare it to the mask of death that would soon replace it—he suddenly thought about Lily’s young son, the black-haired boy who looked quite similar to the man Severus was about to kill.

A terrible understanding dawned on him. Last night, as he was desperate to save Lily, he left a one-year-old baby alone in a ruined house, while knowing full well that the Dark Lord or one of his followers might come back at any moment to murder him. He saw an injured baby, and instead of helping him, he abandoned him to his fate.

Potter would have never done something like that. He would have protected that baby at all costs. Even if he had been in Severus’ place and that boy was not his son, but the son of his rival, he would not have abandoned it.

Severus’ arm dropped and he returned to his seat in defeat. He was not worthy of Lily’s love. He was a monster. She had chosen Potter to be the father of her child, not him—and for a good reason. He loved her, provided for her, was prepared to give his life for her and their child—all Severus had done was to give her up to the Dark Lord, abandoned her infant son to his fate, contemplated murdering her husband, and plotted to manipulate her to believe she loved him instead.

As night fell again, Severus had made his decision. He would take Lily far away, give her a new life as a Muggle, and Potter would join her. Severus would monitor her new life, of course, but Potter would be there to love and support her, maybe even have more children with her. She deserved that much. And when the Dark Lord returns, he may come after her son, but she will be safe and ignorant of the child’s fate.

At the beginning, he felt sick playing Master of Puppets to them. But like everything in life, he soon got used to it, to the point that a year or two into the charade, he didn’t even give it any particular thought. It was his dark little secret—just one of many.

But none of that mattered now. His great plan had failed, and now Lily wouldn't even look at him. He began to wonder whether it might have been better had he simply let them both die.

The following evening, Severus arrived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix at precisely two minutes to seven. Diggle and Podmore had arrived just before him and were already knocking on the door. Severus positioned himself behind them, nodding coolly when they greeted him with a "Good evening," and the moment the door opened, he slipped inside behind them.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," Molly Weasley greeted him warmly as she closed the door behind him.

"Hello," he replied and made haste towards the kitchen before she could invite him to stay for dinner.

The kitchen was filled with members of the Order standing about and talking amongst themselves, speculating as to why Dumbledore had summoned such an urgent meeting. It seemed Dumbledore himself was running late. Severus avoided making eye contact with anyone, walking over to take his place at the far end of the table.

He noticed Potter sitting beside his ever-loyal companions, Black and Lupin. No doubt he had already shared the reckless stunt he had pulled, and they already knew the exact reason for the meeting. Severus had expected to see them laughing and chatting animatedly, just as he had seen them do countless times in their youth—but that wasn't the case. They sat with solemn expressions, barely exchanging a word, and it was plain to see that Lupin was angry with Potter.

And suddenly it hit him—how much time had passed since they'd finished school. He remembered the days they used to torment him as if they'd happened yesterday, but the truth was twenty years had gone by. 

Suddenly the room and everyone in it seemed dull, unreal. Even Lily, who was standing far from her husband and speaking with Hestia Jones, looked pale and distant to him, as though she weren't really there. Twenty years was a long time... so why couldn't he forget everything that had happened? Why couldn't he move on? Why couldn't he simply live? Perhaps he had never learnt how.

Dumbledore arrived and the meeting began. Lily took a seat beside Potter, but Severus noticed clearly there was no warmth between them. She still hadn't forgiven him.

"I have an important announcement," Dumbledore began. He stood in front of his chair with his arms folded behind his back. "I'm sorry to report that yesterday morning, the prophecy stored in the Department of Mysteries was destroyed."

A wave of astonished murmurs swept through the kitchen. Severus looked over at Potter, who leaned back in his chair and tried to appear unbothered.

"How did that happen, Dumbledore?" Arthur Weasley asked in disbelief.

"It was me," Potter said before Dumbledore could answer. "I did it."

Another wave of murmurs, louder this time, grew into a deafening noise. Yes, Potter certainly loved attention. Even now, he didn't flinch under the stunned, horrified stares directed at him.

"You knew about this?" Sturgis Podmore asked Lily sternly.

"Only after it was done," she replied coolly.

"How could you?" Molly Weasley looked distraught. "What if you'd failed? You have children! How do you think Harry would've felt—?"

"It's probably very easy for you to judge me," Potter cut across her angrily. "Just try to imagine that prophecy was about one of your own children. Wouldn't you do everything you could for the faintest chance that Voldemort might leave them alone? Arthur, wouldn't you risk everything if you thought you could change that fate?"

Molly shook her head and covered her mouth with her hand, as if the very thought was unbearable. Her husband removed his glasses and began cleaning them with grim concentration.

"Destroying the prophecy," said Severus, his quiet voice cutting through the room like smoke—cold and unyielding. "Doesn't mean the Dark Lord will stop believing it."

"Probably not. I don't know what he thinks—It’s not like I'm in his inner circle or anything," Potter retorted, refusing to miss the opportunity for a jab. He stood up. "But I do know we can't keep running. Fifteen years ago, Lily and I listened to Dumbledore's advice and went into hiding, and look where that got us. It's time to stop hiding, to stop wasting our time with prophecies and guard shifts. If you want to throw me out of the Order, go ahead. I won't regret it, as long as what I did wakes you up and makes you realize that we're at war. I don't know about you, but I have too much to lose."

Silence fell at the end of his speech, and he sat back down. The Order members exchanged glances.

"Let us vote," said Dumbledore. "All in favour of expelling James from the Order—"

Severus raised his hand without hesitation. So did Elphias Doge, Sturgis Podmore, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, Emmeline Vance, and—after a moment's hesitation—Molly Weasley. Dumbledore did not raise his hand, nor did Lily. Potter was spared by a vote of nine to seven.

"It is decided that James shall remain a member of the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore concluded.

Severus looked at him angrily—and he wasn't alone. Why was he allowing Potter to stay after what he had done? This leniency again, Severus thought. It would be his downfall one day.

"There must be repercussions," Shacklebolt thundered. "The Order can't function if everyone does whatever they please."

"Didn't seem to bother you before," Potter remarked acidly, looking directly at Severus. "Maybe you would have thought differently if I were buddies with Voldemort..."

"Quite right, Kingsley," Dumbledore said, ignoring Potter's criticism. "I propose that James be suspended from meetings and activities for two months, and that his continued membership be contingent on not acting against the Order's decisions again. All in favour—"

Everyone except Black raised their hands.

"Then it is settled," said Dumbledore.

"If you do something like this again, you won't get off so easily," Elphias Doge said to Potter angrily.

"Oh, I'm so scared," Potter replied mockingly.

"James, if you would," Dumbledore said calmly.

Potter left the room without protest. Lily watched his back, and Severus wondered how much that uninspired speech of his had affected her. He'd always known how to charm her.

The meeting ended shortly afterwards. Everyone was still in shock after the sharp turn of events, and it seemed no one had a good idea as to what to do next. Lupin went on and on about his plans to prevent the werewolves from joining forces with the Dark Lord. Severus considered it a futile attempt, but said nothing. His standing with the Order was not solid ever since the truth about the Potters came out, so he chose his battles carefully during the meeting.

He was one of the first to leave the room as soon as the meeting ended. He reached the first floor and headed for the door without exchanging a single glance with the Order members lingering in the hallway.

"Hey, wait!" someone called. Everyone turned, but not Severus. He recognized the voice, and instead of stopping, quickened his pace, his hand closing around his wand in his pocket. He didn't want — and didn't need — to deal with this now.

He was nearly at the door when the boy caught up to him. He passed Severus easily and blocked his way. Severus tried to walk around him, not even looking at him, but he moved stubbornly, blocking his path.

"Why did you do it!?" Harry demanded.

He was upset. Severus had foreseen he wouldn't be able to control his emotions, and had also predicted he would seek confrontation after learning the truth about his parents' fate. How typical, throwing his emotions out in the open and revealing his weaknesses for all to see. 

He made another attempt for the door, but Harry wouldn't budge. Severus, unwilling under any circumstances to lay a hand on him, took a step back.

"Why did you do it?" Harry asked again, his emotions flaring out of control. Severus could almost see them, surrounding him like a blinding halo. "Why did you take them?"

Severus didn't answer. He wanted to put the boy in his place, to tell him that even if he wanted to explain, there was no way his tiny mind could grasp the reasoning behind Severus's actions. He wanted to shove him aside, to hex him — but he could do nothing. The boy stood before him unafraid — and rightfully so. If Severus so much as tried to lay a finger on him, at least half a dozen Order members would be on him at once.

"Answer me!" he shouted. The portrait of Mrs Black awoke and began shrieking at full volume.

"I owe you no answers, Potter," Severus said quietly.

"You do!" Harry insisted fervently. "You ruined my life when you left me there! What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?"

Severus's rage flared like fire, breaking through all his self-control. How dare he speak to him about ruined lives? How dare he be so ungrateful? He saved his mother’s life, kept her safe and protected so that one day he would be reunited with her. That was more than he deserved, and certainly more than anyone has ever done for Severus.

But before he could do anything rash, Lupin and Black appeared. Black grabbed the boy's shoulder and pulled him out of Severus's path quickly, as if he feared Severus might be carrying a terrible contagious disease. When he tried to resist, Lupin said, "Let him go, Harry. There’s no use."

Silently grateful to the werewolf, Severus forced himself to calm down. He passed by Black and the boy, ignoring their hateful glares. His hand was already on the door handle when Harry spoke again.

"Why didn't you take me too?"

The question — or perhaps the vulnerability in it — caught Severus off guard. He turned his head, almost involuntarily, and made a mistake. He looked into Harry's eyes.

A sharp pain pierced his arm. He tore his gaze away quickly, but couldn't shake the wave of terror that had seized him without warning. He turned his back on the boy and left quickly.

The night air was chilly. Even through his heavy cloak, Severus shivered. He slipped into the narrow alleyway between the houses so none of the departing Order members would see him in such a state of confusion and loss of control. He rolled up his sleeve and gripped his left forearm. The Dark Mark was burning with an unnatural heat, searing his skin.

What was that? The pain was real — of that there was no doubt. But what was the meaning of the feeling that came before it? What was the source of that uncontrollable fear that had overtaken him when he looked into the boy's eyes — Lily's eyes? He knew it had nothing to do with what he felt for either of them. It was something else, something powerful, something...

The Dark Mark still burned. He couldn't delay much longer. But why was it happening now, of all times? Was it connected to what he had seen when he glanced, for a split second, into the boy's mind? Could the Dark Lord somehow know?

No, that was impossible. It had to be a coincidence. The Dark Lord was skilled in Legilimency, but even he couldn't probe the mind of someone hundreds of kilometres away.

Steadying his thoughts and emotions, Severus rebuilt the wall that shielded his secrets and Disapparated.

He reappeared a moment later on a flagstone path cracked with age, at the foot of a dark, crumbling Keep. Beyond the worn stone railing surrounding the cliff's edge, the ocean thrashed in the darkness like a great monster. The moon and stars were hidden behind clouds.

He lit his wand tip and approached the large door in the wall surrounding the Keep. It was an entirely unremarkable wooden door. But when Severus pressed his bare forearm against it, the shape of the Dark Mark remained imprinted on it in glowing red—and the door opened silently.

He crossed the wind-wept yard and entered the forebuilding, which was cold and damp. The interior was in complete darkness, save for the flicker of firelight from a nearby room. Severus crossed the stone hall in silence and entered the room calmly. There was almost no furniture there, no decoration, save from a single armchair and a great mirror in a beautiful silver frame that reflected the light of the fire. No sound was heard but the crackling of the logs in the hearth. 

The Dark Lord sat alone in the armchair by the fire, his figure a dark shadow in the mirror behind him. The flickering light cast deep shadows over his face, making him appear more monstrous than ever—and, at the same time, oddly vulnerable. He looked lost in painful thought. The idea that the Dark Lord could be vulnerable was strange.

During the last war, Severus had never met with the Dark Lord alone. He was always surrounded by his followers, day and night. They would serve him and listen raptly to his endless speeches about the place of wizards in the world and the endless possibilities of magic that they were being denied by the Ministry of Magic.

But since his return to power, the Dark Lord seemed unable to bear anyone's presence — save for the great snake now coiled about his chair. He had secluded himself in this abandoned Keep, its previous owners unknown, for days and weeks at a time, summoning his followers only to issue orders or receive updates on his plans.

Severus stood before his master and knelt, lowering his gaze to the carpet.

"My Lord."

"Severus," said the Dark Lord. His voice was high and rasping, like a serpent's whisper. "Rise."

Severus stood and looked into the Dark Lord's face. His red, slitted eyes were dreadful. Anyone else would have crumbled beneath their gaze—but not Severus. He had long since learnt that fear was a relative thing.

"How may I serve you, my Lord?" he asked. He thought of Harry Potter—and buried the thought deep in his mind, far beyond the Dark Lord's reach.

"The boy," he said. For one awful moment, Severus feared he knew—that he could smell it on him. But the Dark Lord continued, "Tell me about the boy."

With immense relief, Severus began to speak. It wasn't the first time the Dark Lord had made this strange request, and Severus had learnt never to ask exactly what he wanted to know or why—the consequences of doing so were terrible.

Even Dumbledore couldn't explain the purpose of the Dark Lord's new, strange curiosity. Was he planning a way to capture Potter? Whatever the case, the new situation was certainly odd—even concerning. If Severus hadn't known who he was dealing with, he'd have thought the Dark Lord was concerned about the boy's wellbeing.

He began weaving insignificant details about the boy's life before the Dark Lord, who listened patiently. Severus made sure to present him as an ordinary teenager, his head full of nonsense like pranks and Quidditch, destined to become an average wizard at best. He had no trouble describing the boy's striking lack of talent in Potions.

But deep within his mind, in the place even the Dark Lord could not penetrate—and from which Severus himself tried to keep his distance—he knew this wasn't the truth. The boy had already resisted the Imperius Curse and a Memory Charm, and he hadn't even reached adulthood yet. Dumbledore believed—and in secret, Severus agreed with him—that tremendous potential lay hidden within the boy's mind. With the right guidance and education, he might one day become a great wizard—a wizard who could rival the Dark Lord, and perhaps even Dumbledore himself. Severus would expect no less from Lily's son.

"And what of Lily and James Potter?" the Dark Lord interrupted Severus, apparently bored by the tales of the younger Potter's schoolboy mischief. "Is it true they had been alive all this time?"

"Yes, my Lord," Severus replied, wondering whether the Dark Lord didn’t read the papers. "They've rejoined Dumbledore's Order."

"How is that possible?" the Dark Lord asked, his anger beginning to rise. "I cast the Killing Curse on them myself. How is it they are not dead?"

"I am on my way to finding out, my Lord," Severus answered, bowing his head humbly under his master's fury. "They can not explain it either, and even Dumbledore is at a loss for an explanation."

"The boy has reunited with them?" the Dark Lord asked.

"All three of them are under Dumbledore's protection," Severus said, careful to omit the existence of Lily's young daughter. As long as the Dark Lord remained unaware of her, she would be safe.

"And he's with them?" the Dark Lord pressed, his patience wearing thin.

And Severus understood—he didn't want to know whether Harry was vulnerable; he wanted to know whether he had his parents back.

He nodded cautiously, afraid the Dark Lord's rage might erupt.

The Dark Lord fell silent. Severus stood still, waiting for orders tensely.

"Go," the Dark Lord said at last.

Severus bowed, and with great relief, departed from the Dark Lord's hideout.

Chapter Text

Lily dreamt she was in their house in Godric's Hollow. Nothing there had changed, as if not a day had passed since their wedding. The wide windows, which were the feature that first made her fall in love with that house, looked out over the garden and bathed the rooms in bright light. Harry and Emily were there, at their present age. Lily didn't dwell on the fact that neither of them had ever seen, or at least remembered, this house.

The four of them sat in the living room––she, Harry, Emily, and James––enjoying a peaceful summer afternoon. In the dream, Lily watched herself with her husband and children, as if she was watching a movie, and suddenly a terrible fear filled her. She knew that at any moment a shadow would fall over the world and all of it would be taken from her.

The dream shifted, and her fear came true. It was no longer a summer afternoon, but a stormy autumn night. The front door opened slowly. Lily didn't dare look and see who stood in the doorway. But she knew-it was him.

"Take Harry and run!"

She picked up Harry–who was now a baby–and ran upstairs. Her legs were heavy as lead, getting heavier and heavier as she climbed.  

She arrived in Harry's room. A crashing sound was heard downstairs and Harry began to cry in distress. Outside a storm was still raging; it was a fire storm, with enormous balls of orange fire raining from the sky. Someone was climbing the stairs. 

She knew James was dead. Murdered. And now he was coming for them–Voldemort–he was coming for Harry… He was going to kill her Harry…

She felt like a huge weight came down on her and she fell to her knees, sick to her stomach. She looked up at the Dark Lord–looked straight into his unnaturally red eyes, corrupted by Dark Magic–and begged for her son’s life.

Voldemort raised his wand with a steady hand. There was no shame or regret in his eyes–only hate and triumph.

“Avada Kadava!” 

A green light blinded her. The fire storm burst into the room through the window and engulfed her in flames, burning her alive. The world exploded in white light–

She woke in her bed at Grimmauld Place, her heart racing. Faint morning light slipped between the closed shutters. She sat up, feeling her nightdress cling to her sweaty skin, and clutched her chest, feeling her heart racing. 

It wasn't the first time she'd had a dream like that. Since her memories had returned, such dreams plagued her regularly, and she had started to realize she'd had them long before–Severus's memory charms had simply prevented her from remembering them upon waking.

A sharp pain tore through her body as she realized she was alone in bed. The clear, stinging knowledge that James was dead, that she had lost him forever, overwhelmed her to the point she almost choked, until she managed to remind herself that he was safe and sound, asleep two floors above. They hadn't shared a bed since he confessed his rebellion against the Order; it was hard for them to be in the same room without arguing, especially when they were alone.

Lily had felt hurt and betrayed that James had done something so extreme and dangerous without even discussing it with her, but only in that moment did she understand why she was truly so angry with him. For a brief time fourteen years ago–a brief time that had felt like an eternity–James had been dead to her. She had felt the loss in every cell of her body, it had torn her apart from within. But she couldn't even mourn him. She could do nothing but sit there and wait for Voldemort to murder her and Harry too.

James had never felt that. He didn't know what it was like to lose her, not truly. He'd faced Voldemort that night filled with hope that she and Harry would get away, that his sacrifice would ensure they lived on. Maybe that was why he couldn't understand the depth of her anger–he didn't know how unbearable it would be for her to lose him.

Feeling a sudden urge to see him, to know he was safe, Lily wrapped herself in her dressing gown and left the room. It seemed no one else was awake yet. She climbed the narrow stairs silently, passing closed doors, until she reached the fourth floor.

She pressed her ear to Sirius's door. No sound. She carefully turned the handle and peered inside.

The window was wide open, casting light on posters of motorbikes and scantily clad Muggle women. James lay asleep in the large bed at the centre of the room, next to a huge black dog.

Lily smiled to herself, waves of affection and forgiveness washing over her. She crossed the room silently and sat at the edge of the bed. In sleep, James looked younger; the faint signs of age on his face softened, his untidy hair giving him an almost boyish look. Without his glasses, he seemed exposed, vulnerable. She touched him gently and he stirred immediately, blinking in the dim light.

"Lily?" he mumbled hoarsely.

"Let's not fight anymore," she said.

James sat up, the sleepiness vanishing from his face almost at once.

"I don't want to fight either," he said, speaking quietly so as not to wake Padfoot. "I know what I did was illegal, but—"

"That's not it," Lily said, her throat tightening. Just thinking about it brought her to the verge of tears. "James, the night Voldemort found us, I lost you. For several minutes, you were dead to me. It felt…"

She couldn't describe how it felt. No words could capture that kind of pain. 

"When you told me you destroyed the prophecy, the first thing I thought was how easily you could have been hurt. You could have ended up in Azkaban or in the closed ward at St. Mungo's, or worse… I realize now that I lashed out because it took me back to losing you the night Voldemort came for us."

She choked and fought back the tears. James took her hands and clasped them tightly, pressing them to his forehead in a gesture of deep remorse.

"I'm so sorry, Lily," he said sincerely. "I didn't even think of that. I was willing to sacrifice everything for our family, but I didn't think what it would do to you… Merlin, I'm such an idiot…"

Lily shook her head but didn't contradict him. She felt that if she tried to speak, she'd break down in tears.

"What I did was dangerous," James said with solemnity, "and I promise–I'll never put myself in that kind of danger again. Not as long as I have a choice. I swear it."

Lily swallowed and said faintly, “Choice being the key word…”

James didn’t respond. They both knew they weren't going to have much choice if they wanted to keep Harry and Emily safe, not with Voldemort gaining power again. 

Lily still wasn’t in agreement about destroying the prophecy, especially due the chaos element it brought into their situation, but she couldn't keep her distance from James going; It felt like losing a part of herself. They had no choice but to sit and work through their differences, as they always had, even if it felt like a rift too wide to mend.

James pulled her into an embrace, and she clung to him, sinking into his touch with relief. He was there. He was alive. That was what mattered.

Padfoot stirred with a sneeze. The moment he saw Lily, he perked up and transformed back into Sirius.

"Finally made up?" he asked, and at their smiling faces added, "Good. I'm sick of Prongs trying to cuddle me at night."

"I wasn't cuddling you," James retorted. "I was trying to strangle you so you'd stop snoring."

Lily laughed. She had missed James so much these past few days.

"Actually, I've got some news," she said, cutting through James and Sirius's friendly bickering. "Dumbledore's offered me the Defence Against the Dark Arts post..."

She watched James's reaction; he looked intrigued.

"And what did you say?" he asked.

"I didn’t give him an answer yet," Lily replied uncertainly, “I’m not sure I should take it. I’ve been away from the wizarding world for so long… And it would mean being Emily and Harry’s teacher…”

“All the more reason you should take it,” James encouraged her. “I’m sure they’d be pleased to have you around. And who’d better teach Defence than a member of the Order? You knew more about defensive spells and detecting Dark Magic fourteen years ago than most wizard-folk know today. And besides, it’s your dream job!”

James was right – when she was a student, and later during the war, she had dreamt of teaching at Hogwarts one day. She hadn't expected to teach Defense – her strongest subjects had always been Charms and Potions – but it was still a dream come true.

She bit her lip hesitantly. In truth, she was mostly worried Harry would be against the idea, that he would feel embarrassed having his returned-from-the-dead mum as his teacher. But they got along so well – and it was hard to turn down the opportunity to spend more time with him after all of their years apart.

"We don’t have time to find a place of our own,” she told James, her mind already searching for possible problems. “And you won’t be able to live in Hogwarts with me. Where will we stay?”

“Nonsense,” Sirius interjected. “You can stay here as long as you need to. My home is your home.”

“See? No reason for you not to take the job,” James told her encouragingly. “So will you write to Dumbledore to tell him the good news?”

“I guess there really isn’t,” Lily admitted, her excitement starting to grow.

Lily was in high spirits over the following days. She had good reasons: she and James had reconciled, Voldemort and the Death Eaters were still keeping a low profile, and she was about to fulfill her dream of becoming a Hogwarts Professor. Beside it being a dream come true, she would get something every witch mother secretly desired: the chance to see her children nearly every day during the school year. 

As James had expected, Harry and Emily were happy and excited when she shared the news with them. Emily bombarded her with questions about the class, and Harry smiled meekly and told her Defense Against the Dark Arts was his favorite class, and that she could probably give Professor Lupin a run for his money.

For the first time since the summer began, Lily was able to breathe freely and feel that, truly and sincerely, everything was all right.

But during the night time, something would stir in her. Night after night, she dreamt about their house in Godric's Hollow, reliving again and again the night Voldemort found them. She'd grown so used to the dreams that she no longer thought to wake James and talk to him when she woke in the middle of the night with a wrenching sense of terror.

One night she saw the green light and the fire storm in her dream and woke up. She wasn’t startled—she'd dreamed of it so often that, at times, she could even remind herself mid-dream that it wasn't real—but the fear still lingered, pressing down on her chest like a great stone.

Knowing she wouldn't fall back asleep any time soon—not if she let the thoughts come—she wrapped herself in her dressing gown in the dark and slipped quietly out of the room, careful not to wake James.

Lily loved Grimmauld Place at night. The sleeping portraits breathed in calming rhythms, and the mounted house-elf heads looked for all the world as if they were simply resting peacefully. In the darkness, it felt as though even the house itself was asleep, and the gloom was so deep it seemed the sun might never rise again. Lily rather liked that. She enjoyed the feeling that time had stopped, even if only for a little while.

She made the familiar way to the drawing room in near-total darkness. The light there was on, and inside, Harry sat on one of the threadbare sofas, absent-mindedly flipping through a battered book. He noticed Lily standing in the doorway and gave her an awkward smile. 

This was their usual nighttime rendezvous. They started running into each other there at nights a few days after Harry arrived in Grimmuld Place, and by now it became a sort of a habit. Lily knew she was supposed to be against Harry staying awake at nights, but she secretly looked forward to their nightly meetings. It was the only time they could talk without the presence of James and Emily or Harry’s friends, and she sensed that allowed Harry to be more open with her.

Outwardly, Harry bore an astonishing resemblance to James, but inside, Lily saw much of herself. Whenever someone commented on how much her son looked like her husband, she would silently think that there were no two people in the world more different than Harry and James. James liked to stand out in a crowd, while Harry preferred to fade into the background; James talked and joked endlessly, while Harry kept things to himself; James could hide his fears behind a flawless mask of confidence, but Harry was like an open book. A bit like her.

"Can’t sleep?" she asked softly, sitting beside him on the worn-out sofa. 

She already knew why Harry was there. She knew he was suffering from nightmares, like her. But she respected the fact that he didn’t always want to talk about that—she knew that she didn’t.

"Ron’s snoring again," Harry gave an excuse, setting aside the book he was reading, Quidditch Through the Ages.

She dared to gently probe her son's privacy and asked, "Did you have another nightmare?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded.

"Was it about the graveyard?”

“No,” he replied, fiddling with a frayed thread on the sofa cover. "It started with that dream about the corridor with the black door that never opens, the one I told you about. Then it changed to me running through a big old house, not a place I’ve actually visited. I was running away from someone, even though there was no one there… It’s stupid, really… Nothing really scary was happening there, but…"

Lily waited patiently for him to find the words to describe how he was feeling.

“There was this feeling of suffocation, and helplessness, and rage… Like I was a prisoner… Kind of like how I was feeling over the summer…”

She contemplated asking him about his summer with his uncles, as he was the one who brought it up, but before she could summon the courage he raised his gaze and looked at her.

“What kind of nightmare is that? I get why I keep having nightmares about the graveyard and Voldemort, and Cedric… But I don’t understand these other ones. I have one where I’m inside a cave by the ocean, but I’ve never been to the ocean.”

"Actual dreams are rarely straightforward," Lily answered, glad that Harry was opening up and determined to help him work through his feelings. "The dreams people usually have, usually don’t mean anything––even though some Divination practitioners think otherwise. The nightmares you have about the night Voldemort returned aren’t regular dreams, they’re a byproduct of your trauma. They’re a way for your mind to try and process what happened to you. ” 

Harry seemed slightly agitated by her explanation, as if the mention of trauma was somehow insulting to him.

In an attempt to ease his mind, she told him, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I dream about that night in our house in Godric's Hollow almost every night."

"About Voldemort?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Yes," Lily replied.

Harry seemed unsure whether or not to say something. Lily waited patiently. At last, he spoke.

"I know I was a baby then, but… I remember things from that night. I remember the Killing Curse—I used to dream about the green light when I was little… and… when Dementors are around, I can hear you and Dad… I hear Dad telling you to run, and then you're begging Voldemort not to kill me… to take you instead…"

His voice broke, and he fell silent. Lily could barely hold back the tears threatening to spill. There were so many things she wanted to tell Harry, so many things she needed to say—but it was far harder than it seemed.

She moved closer to him and wrapped her arms gently around him.

"Is this all right?" she asked.

Harry nodded and leaned into her embrace. 

The tears came, along with a pain too fierce for her to suppress. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Harry was meant to be the eldest of a bunch of successful, beautiful children, confident and strong like his father, with two loving parents to nurture and care for him. He wasn't meant to be an orphan. He wasn't meant to endure all this terror. He shouldn’t have been forced to grow up so fast. It wasn't fair.

They sat like that for a long time. Lily sank into the sofa, the pain and regret slowly dulling, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. Harry's head rested on her shoulder, and it was hard to tell whether he was asleep or awake. It felt so natural to sit together like that, peacefully, without needing to say a word.

"Mum?" he said, after a long silence. Outside the drawing room windows, a faint glow of dawn was beginning to emerge over the city.

"Yes?"

"Can we go there?" he asked. "To our house?"

Lily had dreaded this moment. James had occasionally, tentatively, brought up the idea of returning to Godric's Hollow and seeing what had become of their home. Maybe they would find clues there as to how they survived that night. She always found excuses not to go. She was afraid to return. But she knew it wouldn't be fair to deny James—or Harry—the closure they so clearly needed. So she agreed.

A few hours later, James, Lily, and Harry were ready to leave. Lily took Emily aside during breakfast and explained to her confused daughter where they were going.

"Why can't I come with you?" she asked, not without a trace of hurt in her voice. 

Lily was surprised this hadn't happened sooner. So far, Emily had handled all the changes in their lives with such maturity and understanding that it was easy to forget she was only eleven.

"Because…" Lily hesitated, unsure how to explain to her daughter what Godric's Hollow meant to her, to James, and to Harry. "There are a lot of painful memories there. For all of us. We need closure. Do you understand?"

Emily still didn't look happy about the arrangement, but she nodded anyway.

"Can I fly Harry's broomstick while you're gone?" she asked hopefully.

"Absolutely not," Lily replied firmly.

"Ready to go?" James appeared at her side. If the upcoming visit to their old home unsettled him, he hid it well.

Lily nodded. James smiled at Emily and tried to ruffle her hair, but she dodged his hand with ease and stuck out her tongue.

"See you soon, Em."

Harry was waiting on the stairs. He stood in the narrow hall with Ron and Hermione, the three of them speaking in hushed voices. The moment Lily and James approached, they fell silent.

"I'll see you later," Harry said to his friends, then followed his parents.

As they stepped out the front door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the bright summer sunlight dazzled them. It felt like waking from a dream after the house's shadowy gloom, and Lily was suddenly struck by the realization—they really were going back to Godric's Hollow.

"How are we getting there?" Harry asked. "A Portkey?"

"No, takes too long to get approval for one of those," James said, pulling out his wand. "We'll Apparate. You've done it before?"

"Yeah, with Tonks."

"Great, then you already know how unpleasant it is. Hold on to my arm. Not like that—tightly."

Harry clutched James's arm, clearly self-conscious. Lily gave him an encouraging smile.

"See you on the other side," James said, and with a crack, he and Harry vanished.

Lily took a deep breath, anchoring herself to the present moment, where everything was all right—and Apparated.

She appeared on a bare patch of land surrounded by woodland. She hadn't visited in fourteen years, but the place hadn't changed a bit. The tall, straight tree trunks, the carpet of twigs on the ground, the birdsong in the branches—it was all still there, as if time had stood still.

James and Harry were already there. Without a word, the small family began to walk.

They emerged from the woods into the summer sunlight. The day was warm, but a cool breeze blew in from the sea. The fresh, salty smell took Lily back—to their last summer together.

They used to walk this very path, pushing Harry in a pram, wands hidden and ready for any lurking danger. It had been such a dark time, and yet Lily found herself remembering it with a touch of nostalgia. They'd been young, full of hope that the war would end soon and they could raise their family in peace. James must have been thinking the same, because he reached for her hand and held it tightly as they walked towards the village.

The place had barely changed, apart from the fact that the quiet high street was now bustling with Muggle tourists. The family of three moved through the crowd like just another tourist family, but Lily felt she couldn't have been more different from them. None of them knew what this place meant to her.

They reached the village square, where several cafés and restaurants buzzed with customers sitting at small tables in the sun. Lily, James, and Harry wove through groups of visitors clustered around a war memorial—when Harry suddenly said, "Look at that."

Lily stopped and looked up at the obelisk. She was stunned to see that the stone had been replaced—with a statue of herself.

She looked around. The Muggles didn't seem to notice its true nature. She raised her eyes again, unsure what to feel. There she was, carved in stone like some goddess, cradling baby Harry as if she were the very embodiment of motherhood. Next to her stood James, also carved in painstaking detail—his messy hair, his glasses—smiling lovingly at them both.

"This is ridiculous," Lily muttered, feeling a mix of embarrassment and anger.

"You're right," said James. "I'm much taller in real life."

His joke didn't make her laugh. 

What were people thinking—that she and James were some kind of heroes? They'd lost everything that night—and this was what people thought they'd want? A statue? They could've started by making sure their son was raised in a proper home, where he was loved and valued—not with Petunia…

A church bell began to toll. Startled, Lily looked up at the sound, along with dozens of other spellbound onlookers, to see the massive bronze bell swinging in the white church tower. As she lowered her gaze, she noticed a wrought-iron gate in the churchyard wall, covered in green ivy.

The graveyard. Behind that gate stood a headstone bearing her name...

James placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her gently from her thoughts.

"There's nothing there. Just stones," he said steadily.

Lily nodded. Harry looked at her, concerned, so she made an effort to smile.

"Let's go," she said, and led the way.

They left the tourist-filled streets behind and entered the quieter lanes, where houses stood peacefully amidst their spacious gardens. Lily's heart pounded as she walked along the road, its worn cobblestones centuries old. Three houses to go, then two, then one...

She froze.

She had expected to see a new family living in her house, unaware of the horrors that had taken place there. Or perhaps the house would have vanished entirely, leaving a gaping hole in the street. What she hadn't expected was to see the house still standing — ruined. Her stomach clenched sharply.

James reached for her hand, but she was already moving towards the gate, as if in a trance. The northern part of the second floor had collapsed entirely, leaving a gaping hole in the side of the house. The garden she had once tended so lovingly—the garden where Harry had played in the summer—had withered beneath a blanket of overgrown weeds.

She pushed open the gate, ignoring the sign affixed to it, and walked up the path to the front door. The blue paint had peeled away so much it was barely visible, but she still remembered the day they painted it—she had somehow believed it would keep them safe.

She opened the door. A heavy scent of dust and mildew greeted her. It felt like a dream—strange, and yet achingly familiar. Clouds of dust rose from the carpet as she crossed the entryway with measured steps. The kitchen was flooded with blinding light from the collapsed ceiling, and sunlight poured into the sitting room through the windows—just like in her dream. But in her dream, the sofas and carpets hadn't been moth-eaten, and the scattered toys hadn't been broken and caked in dust.

"Lily, take Harry and run! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off—"

She drifted towards the staircase and looked up. The light from above was unusually bright, almost blinding. She began to climb, passing the discolored wedding and family photographs on the wall. She could hear Harry crying, feel his weight in her arms, the weakness in her legs as she ran up the stairs...

The upper floor was entirely destroyed. The wall that had once separated Harry's room from the corridor had collapsed, and what used to be her and James's bedroom was now just a pile of shattered bricks and broken roof tiles. In Harry's room, a hole had been blown through the outer wall, giving a clear view of the village and the moors, all the way to the sea.

"No—not Harry! Please, I'll do anything—!"

Lily stepped inside, collapsed beside Harry's broken cot, and began to weep.

This had been her home. Her first true home. 

As a child, she had thought the house where she lived with her parents and Petunia was her home, but that was only because she never knew what a true home was. 

She had loved her parents deeply and missed them greatly since their passing, but for all their love and affection for her, she they never truly understood her. She had been a good girl, never caused any trouble, and they had been proud of her even after discovering she was a witch. But she had always known that if she wished to keep that favor, she could never let her mask slip. She could never let them see the side of her that was not always sweet and kind. 

She had to be smart––but not too smart. She had to be forgiving––but only towards those deemed worthy. She could go to a school for witches and wizards and learn magic, but she was to live a normal life and absolutely not involve herself in any sort of wizarding war, no matter the cause. She could never truly be herself around them.

Hogwarts had become her home the moment she set foot there, but it wasn't her own. This house in Godric's Hollow, the home she and James had chosen together to start their life in, was the first place she could call her own. It was the first place she could truly be herself, without fear of judgment for being different, and without being afraid James would leave her if he saw her without her mask. 

He had always had the uncanny ability to see through it clearly, ever since they were children, long before she fell in love with him. In hindsight, that had been one of the reasons she used to dislike him.

But her sanctuary had been violated and destroyed. The sense of peace and safety had been taken from it. Now it held nothing but frightening memories and the knowledge that things could never go back to the way they were.

She was vaguely aware of James holding her. The fear, the grief and the relief she had never allowed herself to feel before—they all came crashing down on her at once, and the pain they brought forced her out of her own body. 

So much time had passed, but that night refused to let her go. Wherever she turned, there she was—weeping silent tears for her murdered husband and pleading with the Dark Lord to spare her son, even at the cost of her own life. 

She knew it was in the past. She knew she was alive, that James and Harry were alive, and her Emily—Emily, who wouldn't have been born if not for that unexplainable miracle that took place that night—was safe back at headquarters. But none of that eased the pain. None of it eased the fear that at any moment, it could all be taken from her again.

She didn't know how long she cried. When the tears finally ran out, she was left with a blessed emptiness, her head resting on James's shoulder as she stared out through the broken wall. The sea was so beautiful. She told herself their new home would have to be near the ocean.

Harry sat on the floor beside her, drawing patterns in the dust. Lily wondered quietly what was going through his mind. Did returning to the house where he was born stir anything in him?

"Don't judge the house by how it looks now," James broke the silence. "It was beautiful once. You'd have loved it."

Harry looked at the broken cot and the old toys with a hint of sadness.

"I thought I'd remember something. But I don't remember anything."

"You were very young," James said gently. Harry was focused on the shapes in the dust, and didn't notice the affection in his father's gaze.

"That reminds me," James said suddenly, springing to his feet. Harry and Lily turned to watch as he rummaged through the scattered toys. "I'm sure I left it here somewhere… Aha!"

He yanked open a cupboard door—it came off its hinges with a loud crash—and pulled out a tiny toy broomstick.

"This was your first toy broom," he said to Harry. "Sirius gave it to you on your first birthday. You wouldn't let go of it—not even when you went to bed."

Harry joined his father and took the broomstick from his hands, examining it with curiosity. It felt utterly surreal; Lily remembered him flying on that broom in the garden as a baby—and now here he was, standing in what used to be his room, smiling at his old toy. In an instant, the tears came back.

"Lily?" James asked, concerned.

"They're tears of joy," she said thickly, wiping her face on her sleeve.

They stayed at the house until midday, going through the rooms and scanning the remaining furniture for anything that could explain how they had been spared from their fate. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could explain the mysterious events that took place.

"I've had the pleasure of seeing the Killing Curse being cast a few times in my day," James said to Lily as they examined their old bedroom, which lay in ruins. "But I've never seen one that brought down a building."

Lily thought about the firestorm from her dreams.

"What are you thinking about?" James asked, sensing she was troubled.

She went back to the nursery, with Harry and James following. On the remains of the outer wall, old scorch marks were still visible.

"It also usually doesn't leave scorch marks," she said.

"Are you sure you don't remember anything after he cast it?" James asked, not for the first time.

Lily shook her head.

"You don't seem convinced," James noted.

Lily hesitated and said, "When I have dreams about that night, there's always fire in the sky outside, like a firestorm... Obviously, that wasn't really what happened, but seeing these scorch marks..."

"I think I would have remembered if the sky was burning that night," James said.

"It's just a dream," Lily said, a little defensively.

"But it isn't," Harry said, surprising them both. "You said so yourself, Mum—these types of dreams are not like other dreams. They're a product of the mind trying to deal with what happened. So why would the dream include something that didn't really happen?"

Lily was deeply impressed with her son's observation. She didn't have a good counterargument, and neither did James.

"It was during our first night at Hogwarts," James was telling Harry over an hour later, as they finished their lunch at the village inn. "The four of us were getting ready for bed, and I told them—mark my words, one day Lily Evans will be my wife."

"I don't believe you," Harry said, a smile playing on his lips.

"It's true. Ask Moony and Padfoot."

"Sirius backs up the story," Lily told Harry. "But Remus says it never happened."

"He didn't say it didn't happen—he said he doesn't remember," James corrected her.

"What you don't remember," Lily replied, "is that you threw peas at me during the welcome feast and I called you a prat. How did you get 'she'll marry me' out of that?"

"You can't argue with results," James said smugly. Lily threw her used napkin at him.

The afternoon sun bathed the village in warm light as they stepped out of the inn. The tourists who had crowded the square in the morning had moved on to another village, and now the place looked much more like the sleepy, quiet hamlet Lily remembered. The gate of the graveyard still called to her.

"Give me a few minutes," she said.

"Are you sure?" James asked.

She nodded, and stepped into the graveyard. It was peaceful, almost welcoming, filled with birdsong and the rustle of leaves. 

Lily used to visit it during her time in the village, even though she wasn’t related to anyone who was buried there. She had been intrigued by the ancient head stones, especially those of witches and wizards of old. 

Strolling through a graveyard because it gave her peace—it was one of those things she could never share with anyone except for James, for fear of being judged or ridiculed.  

She found the spot quickly, as though she had known exactly where to go—the white headstone engraved with her name and James's.

She stood before it, and a shiver ran through her as she read the words:

The Last Enemy That Shall be Destroyed is Death

Chapter Text

That summer at Grimmauld Place, Harry learned that dreams really can come true. He'd often thought of the daydream he'd had at the old Potter house, where he sat at the dining table, imagining he was surrounded by his happy friends and family. A few weeks later, at dinnertime in Grimmauld Place, he suddenly realised the dream had become reality.

As he sat at the table, a strange sense of detachment came over him. It wasn't a bad feeling—it had a great peacefulness, one he couldn't remember ever feeling before. This feeling allowed him to see his surroundings from a different perspective, as if he were watching the room from above, seeing everything that was happening in it at the same time.

To his right, Hermione laughed involuntarily at something Ron had said. On his second day at Grimmauld Place, Harry had made up with Ron and Hermione, and there was no trace left of their tense conversation. He wasn't even angry at them about the letters anymore. He was so stunned and happy to have his parents back that he felt especially forgiving. In any case, at no point that summer, even at its awful beginning, had he doubted that he would eventually make up with his friends. They had always stuck together—it had always been that way, the most constant and secure thing he'd ever had.

Behind Ron's back, George was levitating a fork, which he was probably plotting to stab into his younger brother’s backside, while Fred snickered; but Mrs. Weasley spotted the scheme and scolded them loudly, causing George to lose concentration, and the fork fell to the floor.

To Harry's left, Ginny and Emily listened with great interest to Tonks's tales. Today her hair was shoulder-length electric blue. She was telling them about her many attempts to get into the Hufflepuff Quidditch team during her time at Hogwarts, which included many accidents and a variety of unfortunate incidents. Ultimately, in her sixth year, Professor Sprout had forbidden her from even trying out. Ginny laughed joyfully at Tonks’s accurate impersonation of the Herbology teacher.

Next to Tonks, Sirius was talking to Harry's dad. Both had already finished eating and were completely engrossed in conversation; Sirius talked and Harry’s dad listened intently. Really listened. He had this ability to make anyone in front of him feel as if they were the only person in the world at that moment. It sometimes made Harry feel exposed.

On the other side of the table, Professor Lupin was engrossed in a discussion with Harry's mum, probably about the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum. She noticed him looking at her and gave him a warm smile. The gesture surprised and embarrassed him—he realised he had been staring. He forced an awkward smile and looked away. He sometimes had the feeling that his mother could read his mind; he wasn’t sure if he liked that idea or not.

At the end of dinner, everyone helped clear the table, and then Harry and the other children were chased away before the upcoming Order meeting. There was still time before their lights-out, so they went to their favourite spot in the house—the Black family conservatory.

It was probably the safest room in the house, except for maybe the kitchen. When Harry first arrived, it was nearly impossible to get in because the magical plants inside had grown so wild. But after a few days of work, several bites from Snapping Cabbages, and plenty of sneezing from various pollen, the beds and pots were left exposed and harmless. 

Mrs. Weasley and Harry’s mum replaced the dangerous plants with various flowers and medicinal herbs, and Sirius brought in some rickety armchairs and worn-out rugs he’d collected from around the house. The kids kept Ron's Wizard's Chess set there, a deck of Exploding Snap cards, and a stash of sweets and cauldron cakes. They would spend their free time there; during the day, if it wasn't too cloudy, a little sunlight managed to seep through the grimy glass walls and ceiling, illuminating the space with a pleasant summer glow.

When the group arrived that evening, Crookshanks greeted them with a yawn from his spot on one of the sofas. Hermione pulled out a book she’d stashed between the cushions and was soon absorbed in it. The twins slipped into the corner and looked to be whispering over some mysterious pieces of parchment. Emily immediately dived under another sofa and pulled out Harry's Firebolt, excited for another flying lesson.

Harry believed she didn't need these lessons at all at that point. She had a natural talent for flying, and combined with her background in Muggle sports (something Harry didn't have), he wouldn't have been surprised if she could rival even the veteran Chasers on the Gryffindor team. But it was something they could easily do together as siblings—having a conversation was quite difficult for Harry—so he wasn't going to say anything about it.

Up until now, Emily had practised "careful" flying around the conservatory (as she had promised their mum she would) and catching balls made of old socks that Harry and the others threw at her. This time, Harry suggested he release his Snitch, the one his parents had given him for his birthday, and she could try to catch it.

"That's a waste of time," Ginny declared. For some reason, she took Emily's Quidditch education very personally, claiming she had a responsibility to teach her about her "little sister's rights." "Emily won't be a Seeker; she has too much potential for that."

"What are you on about?" Harry blurted out. "Everyone knows Seeker is the hardest position on the team."

Ginny let out a loud snort and rolled her eyes demonstratively. The sight was so amusing that even Ron chuckled.

"The most pointless position on the team, you mean."

"That's something someone who'll never be able to catch the Snitch would say."

"Excuse me?" This time it was Ginny's turn to blurt out. "I'd catch the Snitch before you any day, Potter."

"Let's test that," Harry said and pulled the Snitch out of the box in his pocket.

"That wouldn't be fair. Even Neville Longbottom could catch the Snitch on that broomstick," Ginny said, gesturing to the Firebolt, on which Emily was still hovering low, watching the argument with great interest.

"No broomsticks," Harry said. The Snitch fluttered excitedly in his hand with its tiny wings. "Don't tell me you're afraid to lose?"

"In your dreams," Ginny replied stubbornly, narrowing her brown eyes. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Knowing it wouldn't be fair if he released the Snitch himself, Harry entrusted it to Ron and took a step back.

"Ready?" Ron asked. "Releasing the Snitch in one, two, three—"

He opened his palm and the Snitch shot out like an arrow. Ginny pounced on it immediately, but it evaded her outstretched hand and flew towards the grimy glass ceiling. 

She continued to watch it intently, her whole body tense, in a way that was comically similar to how Crookshanks watched it. Harry found himself looking at her watching the Snitch instead of focusing on the Snitch himself; but the moment he realised what he was doing, he looked away and instead concentrated on the buzzing of the golden wings.

The Snitch flew high above them for several long moments. Ron lost patience and went to sit next to Hermione, and Emily started practising dodging manoeuvres on the Firebolt. Harry expected Ginny to get bored of the game too, but that wasn't what happened. She continued to wait with concentration for the Snitch to approach, and when she noticed Harry looking at her, she gave him a victorious smile.

He was so focused on her that he almost didn’t notice the Snitch change direction and start hurtling towards them. He positioned himself carefully, and when the Snitch got close, he swiftly reached out his hand and caught it easily—just before Ginny slammed into him on her way to catch the Snitch herself.

Everyone present gave a collective groan. He crashed to the floor on his side with a thud, the Snitch still clenched in his fist, and Ginny fell heavily on top of him. 

As he recovered from the painful blow, Ginny tried to snatch the Snitch from his hand, clawing at his fingers with determination. He squirmed under her weight and moved his hand to the other side in an attempt to get it out of her reach, and she, in response, bit his hand hard. He let out a yelp of pain and the Snitch slipped out of his hand, right into Ginny's.

She sprang to her feet, her freckled face glowing a bright pink and her hair dishevelled, and raised her hand in a victory gesture. Then she noticed something at the end of the room and suddenly looked embarrassed.

Harry straightened his glasses and turned to see what she was looking at. His dad was standing at the conservatory entrance and looked to be watching their competition with interest along with the rest of the group.

"Don't let me interrupt," he said lightly at the sight of Ginny's embarrassment. 

"Didn’t the Order meeting start already?" Hermione asked him, her book forgotten during the race to catch the Snitch.

"It has," James replied and went to sit in one of the armchairs, examining the conservatory with interest. "I'm suspended from Order activities. Nice space you got here."

"What did you do?" Ron asked him with interest. Emily hovered towards them, and even the twins abandoned their plots to come closer and listen to the gossip.

James put his feet up on a nearby stool comfortably and replied, "I set Snape's hair on fire."

"Really?"

"No, I wish. It was something much less fun, which I can't tell you about."

Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. They had spent a long time trying to guess what that mysterious forbidden object his dad had destroyed was that had made his mum so angry. It had to be related to his suspension—Emily had heard him say that Dumbledore would kick him out of the Order for what he did.

"I can't believe Snape is still in the Order after what he did," Fred said. Harry would have preferred them to keep talking about his dad's suspension instead. "He should be in Azkaban or something, not going on with his life as normal."

"I think that's something we can all agree on," Ginny said in a grim tone, glancing at Harry. Everyone in the house had, of course, seen—or heard—his confrontation with Snape a few nights earlier.

A fleeting emotion crossed James's face.

"Well, you can't have everything in life," he said with that typical calmness that sometimes annoyed Harry. "We can’t reveal to the world the fact he was behind our so-called resurrection, it would blow his cover with Voldemort. And the truth is, as much as I hate him, Snape is an important asset to the Order as a spy. It's certainly not something we had in the first war. It's almost impossible to infiltrate the Death Eaters’ ranks. It’s a premium club."

"How do you know he's really on our side?" Ron asked the question he had raised every time he discussed the topic with Harry and Hermione. "How do you know he's not spying on the Order for You-Know-Who?"

"I hate to admit it, but I think if he were on Voldemort's side, I wouldn't be sitting here now," James replied, summing up the matter briefly.

Harry suddenly realised he was clenching his fists so hard his nails were almost cutting into his skin.

"I can't understand why he did it," he said in a quiet voice, almost to himself, but everyone heard him.

Something in his father's face softened.

"Neither can I. It's hard to understand how that greasy mind works. But we're all here together now—that's all that matters, isn't it?"

Harry muttered something in agreement. His thoughts had already escaped to a distant, dark place, full of regret and resentment.

In a clear attempt to distract him from the topic, his father leaned back in the armchair comfortably and asked, "So, do you want to tell me what's going on between you two?"

Harry didn't understand who or what he was talking about. For some reason, Ginny, who had been standing next to him, suddenly moved away.

"What, you don't know?" George said gleefully.

"Don't you dare, George," Ginny growled at him.

"I think it's safe to say," Fred continued for his brother, "that Ginny here would be happy to be your future daughter in law."

"Really?" James asked with interest.

"Huh?" Harry wondered in genuine confusion.

"Shut up, both of you," Ginny said to the twins in an even more threatening voice. In her hand, which until now had held the Snitch, her wand suddenly appeared. "You know what I'm capable of…"

Fred looked at the wand, paling.

"You wouldn't dare," he said, but his voice was a little higher than usual. "If the Ministry doesn't get you, Mum will kill you."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Ginny said in a dangerous voice.

"She's bluffing, Fred," George said confidently, and then in a sing-song voice, he called out, "His eyes are green as a pickled toad—"

Ginny brandished her wand with a wide flourish, and something extraordinary happened; George made a horrible gurgling sound and a ridiculously large lump of green snot shot out of his nose. But instead of falling to the floor, it remained floating in the air, taking the shape of a giant bat that swooped at the twins.

"Run!" Fred shouted, and he and his brother ran out of the conservatory. Ginny chased after them determinedly, controlling the terrible bat that was pursuing her brothers.

"The Bat-Bogey Hex!" Ron called in awe, and ran after his sister to watch the hunt.

Hermione watched them anxiously. She asked Harry's dad, who looked very impressed by Ginny's performance, "Won't Ginny get into trouble with the Ministry for using magic outside of school?"

"No, the house is unplottable," James replied casually. "I think she should be more worried about Molly."

Hermione said something about finding a quiet place to read and left, holding her book in one hand and carrying a sleepy Crookshanks on her shoulder. Harry realised he was left alone with his dad and sister and wondered if she had left to give him some time with them. He would have preferred it if she had stayed and provided him with some moral support. He sat down on one of the sofas, opposite his dad.

"Dad, look!" Emily said and performed the dodging manoeuvre Harry had taught her the night before.

Emily continued to practise while Harry and his dad watched her. Every now and then, James gave Emily some advice or praise. He and Harry didn't talk to each other. Harry sank into thought.

"What's bothering you?" his dad asked him suddenly.

"Nothing," he replied automatically.

"You're biting your nails," his dad remarked. "Lily does that too when something is on her mind."

Harry, who until that moment hadn't even noticed he was doing it, clenched his hand into a fist and put it in his lap.

Knowing he needed to learn to share things with his parents, he said, "I can't stop thinking about… I mean, Snape—I'm angry at him for what he did to you and all, but what bothers me a lot more is… if on that night when the Dementors came I had known you were alive, I wouldn't have run away to your old house, and the Death Eaters wouldn't have followed me there, and Leopold…"

Despite his awkward phrasing, his dad understood exactly what he was trying to say.

"It's very tempting to dwell on what might have been," was his reply, which didn't comfort Harry much.

"Where is he buried?" he asked his dad.

"In the field outside his house."

Harry wondered who had buried him there and realised it must have been his dad.

"What are you two talking about?" Emily joined the gloomy conversation, now hanging upside down from the broom at their eye level.

James said, "Harry wants to go and visit my parents' house."

"I want to go too," Emily said before Harry could contradict, rolling into a sitting position on the broom. "I want to see where you grew up. I don't know anything about our family's past."

"I don't think your mum will be keen on the idea," James said with a hint of bitterness. "She'll think it's dangerous."

"It is dangerous," Harry said. He felt his dad was underestimating what had happened there last month, and it annoyed him. "Death Eaters found me there once. What's to stop them from coming there again?"

"Me," his dad said simply, and then explained, "The protections on the house and the surrounding area are based on runes. They're currently off, but I can activate them. We'll be very safe with them."

Emily didn't doubt for a moment that it was an excellent idea and started making plans as if it had already been decided they would go, even though their dad reminded her again that they needed to get Lily's approval. Harry didn't say anything. He wanted to, and was also afraid of, visiting Leopold's grave—and he also thought about those runes, which Leopold had told him had already been breached by Death Eaters in the past.

A noise was heard from the corridor outside the conservatory, indicating that the Order meeting had ended. Emily landed and returned the Firebolt to its place before going to find their mum to ask her about the visit to the old Potter house. James followed her, and Harry trailed after them awkwardly.

By the time they reached the entrance hall, most of the Order members had already quietly slipped out of the headquarters into the night. Snape had probably learned his lesson from the previous meeting, as he was nowhere to be seen. Tonks lingered in the corridor to talk to Lupin. They stood close to the wall so as not to bother the passing Order members, and Tonks curled a bunch of blue hair around her finger as she talked, just as Harry had sometimes seen girls at school do when they talked to boys.

Harry's mum emerged from the stairs leading to the kitchen and smiled warmly when she saw the three of them.

“What are you lot up to?” she asked and brushed Harry’s shoulder with her hand, as if she could detect that there was something on his mind.

"I want to go visit Dad's old house," Emily said immediately. Harry wished he could also just say what he wanted just like that.

Lily looked at James as if she thought it was his idea, and he shrugged sheepishly. Harry didn’t mention that it really had been his idea; he was the first to bring it up.

"Let's talk in the drawing room," she said.

The four of them entered the drawing room, where a low fire was burning in the hearth.

"Dad said the runes in the house will keep us safe," Emily said upon entering.

"It's not so simple," Lily replied and looked at her husband again, silently scolding him.

"It actually is," James replied easily, leaning on the armrest of one of the sofas. "These runes have protected the Potter family for generations. Earlier this summer they were deactivated, but—"

"They failed before," Lily said shortly.

She didn't need to elaborate—her husband knew exactly what she was referring to. He only folded his arms calmly. Harry realized he was biting his nails again and scolded himself for doing that. He was overcome with the apprehension that his parents would get into a row about this, and that it would somehow be his fault.

"You're doing it again," Emily said suddenly, sounding slightly angry. At first Harry thought she was talking to him, but realized she was talking to their parents.

"Doing what, Em?" their father asked.

"Hiding stuff from me," Emily said. She sat down heavily on one of the sofas and crossed her legs beneath her. "I hate it when you do that. It's like you think I can't handle it. I can."

Their parents seemed to be at a loss for words (perhaps because what Emily said was true), so Harry said, "This summer wasn't the first time Death Eaters got into the house. It happened before, when the runes were still activated. They—"

He began to tell her they killed their grandfather, but their father cut him off before he could.

"That was different," he insisted. "They piggybacked on my Apparition. It won't happen this time."

"I still think it's not a good idea," Lily said uncertainly.

"It's not fair," Emily said argumentatively, standing up to their mother heatedly. "It's one thing not to know anything about the wizarding world, but it's not fair that I don't get to know anything about our family. I know that your side are Muggles so we can't just barge in on them because they think you died—but at least let me see where Dad grew up!"

Lily seemed stunned by the outburst. Harry's opinion was that Emily should speak to their mother more respectfully, and that his father should be defending her. As always, he kept his thoughts to himself.

"Can I get a moment alone with your mum?" James said at last. "It's time for you to go to bed anyway."

Emily huffed and left without a word. Harry smiled at his mother apologetically. She smiled back and gave his arm an encouraging squeeze, as if to tell him that everything was alright, before he left as well. 

He went up to his and Ron's room on the third floor. Emily was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed she already got to her room. When he entered his room, he was surprised to see Ron wasn't alone; he and Hermione were sitting on his bed, in the midst of a lively conversation with Ginny, who was sitting on Harry's bed with her legs spread out, hugging his pillow. His Snitch was flying around the room with a lively buzz—he had completely forgotten Ginny had it.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, shooing Ginny's legs to make a space for himself to sit on his bed.

"Tonks and Professor Lupin," Ginny updated him. "Hermione and I bet Ron they’re going to date."

"The easiest money I'll ever make," Ron said with unfounded confidence. "No way she'd go out with him—he's twice her age."

"He's not that old," Hermione told him, "and besides, some women are attracted to older men."

For some reason, this comment greatly annoyed Ron.

"They probably also like them with thick skulls and crooked legs," he said disgruntledly.

"I hope you're not talking about Viktor," Hermione said in a high-pitched voice.

Knowing full well how that argument was going to go, Harry stopped listening all together. He looked at Ginny, and she rolled her eyes demonstratively, indicating she was already well acquainted with their arguments about Krum as well. He chuckled at her reaction and easily caught the Snitch as it flew past him.

"What do I get?" Ginny asked him suddenly.

"For what?"

"For catching the Snitch earlier."

"If I recall correctly, I was the one who caught the Snitch."

"I don't know what you remember, but I'm the one who left the conservatory with the Snitch in my hand, not you."

"I caught it first. Besides, you had to bite me to get it, and that would never have worked in a real game."

"Oh, right," Ginny said cheerfully, as if she was trying to check if he had forgotten. She gave him a friendly shove with her foot. "You just got lucky, Potter, that's all."

"You can bite me all you like, it won't make you a better Seeker than me."

For some reason, this comment seemed to embarrass Ginny. Harry, who was enjoying their friendly banter and didn't realize he had said anything wrong, was about to apologise at once; but at that moment, Mrs. Weasley came in and scolded them for not being in bed yet. 

Ginny's embarrassment vanished without a trace. She tossed him his pillow and even stuck her tongue out at him teasingly before she left the room with Hermione.

Ron, still fuming from the argument with Hermione, wrapped himself in his blanket angrily and lay with his face to the wall, without saying good night.

Harry changed and got into bed. As soon as he laid his head on the pillow, he was flooded with a pleasant floral scent. He wasn't sure where the scent had come from, but it was lovely. He buried his face in the pillow, breathing in the fragrance, and soon fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, which was very unusual for him.

The next morning at breakfast, Harry’s parents told him and Emily that they were going to visit the old Potter home. Harry didn’t know what his father told his mother to convince her to agree, but she looked to be at peace with the decision, so he didn’t press the matter.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Lily told him, sensing his discomfort at once.

“No, I want to,” he told her. He was worried about the upcoming visit, but he wanted to go, if only to show himself that nothing bad was going to happen if he went there again.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mrs. Weasley asked Harry’s parents in concern as they were getting ready to leave.

Harry’s father looked like he was going to reply impatiently, but before he could Lily said, “Thank you for your concern, Molly. James’s old house is as safe as Grimmauld Place when the defenses are activated. We will be safe there.”

They exited headquarters and Apparated, Harry going along with his mother and Emily with their father. A moment later they appeared in the courtyard outside the Potter house, next to the shattered statue of the stag. It was a sunny and bright day, with a pleasant wind that blew through the tall grass; Emily looked up at the old fortress and let out a sound of awe.

“Go wait inside while I activate the runes,” James said.

Harry would have liked to see how exactly the protective runes worked and how his father activated them, but he let his mother guide him inside nonetheless.

Inside the entrance hall, sunbeams were shining in through the broken ceiling, and the stag banner was swaying softly in the breeze. Someone had cleared the enormous debris that had previously covered the cracked marble floor and cleaned the faded tapestries and the mantelpiece. The creature responsible for it appeared next to them with a pop as soon as they stepped inside.

“Hello, Billie,” Lily said to the house-elf affectionately.

“Mistress Potter! Billie is happy-happy you’ve come home!” the house-elf said happily, bowing deeply to Lily. “And Master Harry! Billie is happy you are safe!”

“Thank you, Billie. This is Emily, my and James’s youngest daughter. Emily, this is Billie.”

Billie was very excited to meet Emily. She bowed deeply to her, and then her large eyes filled with tears which she wiped away with the corner of her dress.

“Did the Death Eaters do that?” Emily asked, referring to the hole in the ceiling. “Why did you and Dad never fix it?”

“We never got around to that,” Lily said. Harry didn’t think Emily noticed the topic was making her uncomfortable. “We had to go into hiding from Voldemort, and after that all the story with Severus started…”

She noticed Harry looking at her and gave him a soft smile. She made it all sound so regular, like it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to their family. He realized she was trying to protect Emily from the harsh truth, but thought she should trust his sister to handle it. She was a part of that story too, even if she was born a few years later.

His father came in before he could decide if he should say something. He greeted Billie warmly, and she bowed to him so deeply that her nose almost touched the floor.

“I told you you don’t need to do that, Billie,” he said to her.

“Billie is glad Master Potter has come back home,” the house-elf said, wiping her eyes again. “The house is so sad without its Master.”

“Thanks, Billie. But we’re just visiting.”

He turned to Emily and Harry with a smile. 

“Ready for the grand tour?”

Emily jumped forward excitedly. She and James led the way, with Harry and Lily trailing behind, and Billie following.

On the ground floor there was the kitchen and the dining room in which Harry had had breakfast, where the outer wall had collapsed. There was also a large sitting room with a huge stone hearth carved in the shape of a lion’s pharynx, with comfortable armchairs and a large liquor cabinet; that room was mostly used for entertaining guests.

The most interesting room on the ground floor was a large room carpeted in a threadbare crimson carpet and lit by a long row of narrow windows across the outer wall. The room was completely empty except for a row of strange looking mannequins on wheels. On his first visit Harry didn’t understand the purpose of the room and assumed it was used for storage; now his father explained it was actually a dueling room.

“My Dad had a passion for dueling,” he told his family as they stood in the center of the empty room. “You can probably guess that with a name like Fleamont he got into his fair share of fights in school, which helped hone his skill. But he kept practicing daily long after he graduated, and sometimes even enjoyed wiping the floor here with a guest who was stupid enough to challenge him.”

“Can you teach me how to duel?” Emily asked him straight away.

“Yes, but after you know a little bit more magic.”

Harry felt confident enough to say he wanted to learn as well, but he didn’t say anything. His mother didn’t comment on Emily’s request, but he sensed it troubled her. All of them, maybe except for Emily herself, knew that one day, maybe soon, she might need these dueling skills to defend herself in real life.

They moved on to the second floor, where the halls were filled with portraits and tapestries. Harry had inspected them closely on his last visit, and now his father’s tales spun the characters and events into life.

“This is the illustrious Linfred of Stinchcombe, the first Potter,” James explained as they stood in front of a very old tapestry.

It depicted an old and merry wizard standing in the middle of a village square, holding a plant pot under one arm and flourishing his wand in the other. The wizard was surrounded by Muggle-looking village people that looked at him in gratitude.

“He was the inventor of many of the most important remedies and cures for magical ailments that plague wizard-kind to this day.”

They moved on to the next tapestry. This one showed a very detailed wizarding wedding banquet.

“Linfred’s son, Hardwin, married Iolanthe Peverell. The Peverells were one of the most ancient wizarding families in Britain, before their male line had unfortunately ended.”

Harry moved closer to inspect the figure of Iolanthe Peverell, a beautiful fair-skinned witch with raven-black hair, and noticed a small detail he hadn’t noticed during his first visit.

“Is that the Invisibility Cloak?” He asked his father, pointing at one of the items in the bride’s dowry: a silvery, shiny cloak.

“It is,” his father replied proudly. “It had been a Peverell family heirloom, fabled to have been gifted to Iolanthe’s ancestor by Death himself. After she married Hardwin, the Cloak had been passed down the Potter family through the generations, always to the generation’s eldest son. It’s a good thing I had agreed to lend it to Dumbledore when we were in hiding; I would hate to think what could have happened to it if I would have kept it in our house when Voldemort came.”

They inspected a few more tapestries and continued the tour through the family and guest rooms. Like James's old room, all of the bedrooms were decorated with thick rugs and comfortable four-poster beds with curtains of deep green and red embroidered with shapes of stags and ivy. The narrow windows of the rooms all looked out into the fields around the house.

Harry glanced out at every opportunity and searched for Leopold’s house, as if he imagined the house had vanished upon its owner’s demise. His mother noticed him looking out and caressed his back encouragingly, as if she knew exactly what was on his mind.

Then they went to the other wing, where Fleamont Potter’s study was located. The portraits on the walls spoke to them as they passed, trying to get James’s attention, but he ignored them with proficiency. Emily looked at them with interest, as if she wanted to speak with each and every one of them.

The other wing was slightly more modern. The library contained electrical lamps, and was decorated with many black-and-white wizarding photographs of Harry and Emily’s grandparents and great-grandparents. There was an especially interesting one of Henry Potter shaking hands with a stocky Muggle man with a cigar hanging from his mouth; Harry and Lily were certain it was Winston Churchill.

After that they visited the family sitting room, which was much more cozy than the one on the ground floor, decorated with fine art and more family photos, and then entered Fleamont Potter’s lab.

James approached the large portrait of Henry Potter that was hanging above the hearth.

“Hi, Granddad.”

Henry Potter cracked open a single eye. When he saw who his visitor was, he leaned forward in interest and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“James? Is that really you?” he asked in astonishment. “I thought you passed away?”

“They won’t get rid of me that easily, Granddad,” James replied. He motioned for Harry and Emily to come closer so Henry Potter could look at them.

“You remember my wife, Lily. And these are our children, Harry and Emily.”

“Ah, yes, I had the pleasure to meet my young namesake,” Henry Potter said and smiled at Harry affectionately. Then he turned to look at Emily with the same warm twinkle in his eyes. “It’s wonderful to meet you, young lady. It has been many generations since the Potters have been blessed with a daughter.”

Emily smiled at him in slight embarrassment. It was probably the first time someone referred to her as a lady, at least in the positive sense.

Harry’s parents chatted with Henry Potter’s portrait while he and Emily explored the lab (without touching anything, as they promised their mother). Like Billie and the other portraits that filled the house, Henry Potter was overjoyed to have James return to his ancestral home, and listened with interest to the story of the miraculous survival.

Harry was curious about the many trinkets and gadgets that were placed on the shelves around the room, some of which he had already inspected on his last visit; now he knew that the odd assortment of Muggle items, vials and tools were his grandfather’s inventions.

Emily, on the other hand, was much more interested in the potion workstation. She stared in amazement at the meticulously arranged cauldrons, knives and colorful potion ingredients, like a child in a candy shop. She demanded Harry to explain to her exactly what each item was used for, and showed impatience when he didn’t have good enough answers.

“Don’t they teach about potions at Hogwarts?” she asked him.

“I won’t call what Snape does ‘teaching’,” Harry replied sourly.

At that point it was already noon. Lily said they should go back to Grimmauld Place for lunch, but Emily said she didn’t want to go yet. James said he knew a great (and safe) place for a picnic on the grounds, and Billie volunteered to make them sandwiches.

Knowing he couldn't postpone it for much longer, Harry approached his father and started to say, “Can you show me…?”

He couldn't find the words then, but his father understood all the same.

“Sure.”

His mother also understood what he needed at the moment, without anyone needing to say anything. She said that she and Emily would go help Billie with the food, and Harry and his father slipped away. Harry heard Emily asking where they were going, but thankfully his mother answered on his behalf.

Harry’s father took him to a grassy hill not far away from Leopold’s cottage. Leopold’s sabre was stuck in the ground, on a patch of earth where the grass was just beginning to grow again.

There was no tombstone, nothing else to indicate that this was in fact a grave. Harry had expected his stomach to turn at that moment, or for him to feel a surge of guilt or self-hate, but there was none of that. He only felt numb.

James started to say something to him—he dreaded what he was about to say—but then he seemed to decide against it.

“Do you need a moment alone?” he asked instead.

Harry nodded silently. His father patted him on the shoulder lightly and walked away.

Harry sat cross-legged on the grass. The sun was warm, shining on the steel of the sword, and a light breeze was blowing. It was a perfect day. Leopold would have probably found a reason to complain about it.

Not for the first time, Harry found himself wondering how Leopold had felt in his last moments. He had been plagued by similar thoughts about Cedric over the summer.

What does a person think and feel in their last moments? Terror? Acceptance? Does it hurt? Does life suddenly make sense at that moment? Are they greeted by death as some sort of figure that takes them on a journey, or do the lights just go out and everything ends?

A dull pain started building up in Harry’s scar, and he rubbed it absentmindedly.

He had never given it much thought before the graveyard, when he saw the echoes of his parents and the people Voldemort had killed, but after that night, he thought a lot about the possibility of life after death. 

He knew it was supposed to be comforting to know that death wasn't the end. But there was nothing comforting about the echoes he saw; the thought that the terrible things that happened to these people in their last moments stayed with them in the afterlife filled him with despair.

What was the point of eternal life if there was no peace in it?

He sat there until the sun began to dip westward. Time passed by him in a strange way, as if he were asleep but awake at the same time. This often happened to him during the weeks he spent in Privet Drive that summer. Ever since he came to Grimmauld Place, he hadn't noticed it happening as much, but the feeling would still plague him from time to time—like he was watching someone else's dream.

Finally, deciding he should go find his family before they started to worry, he got up, patted the grass off his trousers, and left Leopold’s memorial behind.

He found his parents and Emily sitting on a blanket in the shade of a massive oak tree that grew not far from the front door of the house. It seemed they had already finished eating, but they saved him a plate of sandwiches, which looked very appetizing. He realized he was actually quite hungry.

“Are you all right, love?” his mother asked him kindly.

He nodded and took a bite of a sandwich. It was true—he was all right, much better than he had expected to be. Emily was eyeing him curiously—their parents must have told her what his disappearance was about—but thankfully, she didn’t ask him about it.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Lily said, drawing Emily closer to her. “I want to apologize about the way I behaved yesterday. I reacted out of fear. But your dad reminded me that we can’t live our lives in fear. We tried that before, and it didn’t end well.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harry said right away.

His mother smiled at him gratefully. 

Emily asked, “Does it mean I can meet your side of the family now?”

Harry swallowed hard and put the rest of his sandwich down, his appetite gone. He felt his parents giving him looks but didn’t meet their eyes.

“The thing is, sweetheart,” his mother said to Emily gently, “my sister, Petunia, is afraid of magic. She has been since I discovered I was a witch. We lost touch years before Harry was born.”

“But Harry grew up with her,” Emily stated the obvious.

No one said anything. Harry knew that the inevitable conclusion was clear to his parents—it had been since they had been reunited—so he was especially grateful that they didn’t press him for details about the Dursleys. He wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. He didn’t know if he ever will be.

“Don’t you go hiding things from me again,” Emily said when no one spoke, starting to sound angry.

“Look,” Harry said to her before she’d start fighting with their parents again. “You’re really not missing anything by not getting to know them. They’re really boring. All they care about is neighborhood gossip and fancy cars.”

“But—”

“The fact that they’re related to us by blood doesn’t make them our family,” Harry told her in a final tone. “The way I see it, the Weasleys and Hermione are more of a family to me than the Dursleys ever were. Trust me, they’re not worth your time.”

He feared that he had revealed too much. His mother’s eyes looked a little wet, and his father had that look that seemed nonchalant but Harry had come to learn that it was his way of hiding the fact that he was furious.

“Your brother is right,” Lily said to Emily. “And besides, it will be very hard to explain to Petunia that we had been alive all this time. She has no understanding about the possibilities and limitations of magic.”

After that Emily agreed to drop the subject. Harry was relieved when she then suggested they play a passing game with a Quaffle she took from their dad’s old room. 

As they played, their parents were leaning against the trunk of the tree while embracing each other, watching them at ease. Harry tried to guess what they were talking about. He suspected it was about him and the Dursleys. 

He was determined never to tell his parents any damning information about his years with the Dursleys. He was sure it would cause his mother great grief, and his father would get angry and do something stupid that would get him in trouble, or at least spark another row with his wife. Harry didn’t want to ever be the reason behind their fights.

And honestly, it didn’t really matter. That chapter in his life was closed. Why dwell on the past, when everything and everyone he ever wanted was right there beside him?