Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Albania, Autumn 1990

The forest had forgotten the sun. Its trees stood twisted and bare, reaching with crooked fingers towards a sky the colour of iron. The wind moved slowly here; heavy, wet, tasting of rot and memory. Leaves did not fall so much as give up, and the branches mourned their passing in silence. Beneath them, in a place untouched by time, the thing that had once been Lord Voldemort waited.

He had no body. Not anymore. No skin to feel the cold, no tongue to shape the syllables of wrath. No wand to wield, no name to command. He was not a man. Not even a ghost. But something older. Hungrier.

A thread of consciousness, coiled like smoke around the last shreds of self. A soul torn, scattered, twisted beyond what death should have allowed. No longer flesh, but will. No longer breath, but presence.

He had been ruined. And he remembered every moment of it. The night that should have crowned him eternal.

The house. The boy. The curse.

The failure.

He had felt the magic recoil as the Killing Curse struck, flung back by something older than law, older than fear. His wand, his faithful companion, tuned to his every whim, had cracked and vanished to dust. His body, so painstakingly preserved through ritual and defiance, had torn itself apart.

That should not have been possible. The Killing Curse did not fail. It did not return. It consumed.

And it eluded him. He, to whom nothing was ever hidden. That was the affront.

He had torn secrets sealed by the Department of Mysteries. Had read languages dead for a thousand years. Had bathed his hands in runes and rewritten the limits of soul and bone. The Horcrux, the forbidden spell, had been his to command. He had cheated death. He had transcended it.

But now, he lingered here. A wraith. Caught not by chain nor curse, but ignorance. And it repulsed him.

He would learn. He would peel the truth from the skin of the world if he had to. He would twist this unknown magic until it screamed for mercy. And when he returned, and return he would, he would not stop with blood or fear. He would burn the world down to reach the answer.

He endured because he knew what power meant.

Power was not a light in the dark. Not safety. Not trust. Those were illusions. Power was obedience. It was domination. It was the world reshaped beneath your will. And he would shape it again.

That night, the plan had been perfect. A trap laid in whispers. First, the Potters. The boy. Half-blood child of a mudblood and a traitor, filth piled upon filth, cradled in Dumbledore’s shadow like a dragon guarding its egg.

He was meant to die.

Neville Longbottom… had been an afterthought. An irrelevance. The child of Aurors. Dangerous, perhaps. But not the real threat. Pureblood. Old family. Powerful line. The Longbottoms were what magic should have been, elegant and disciplined. He had not wanted to kill them. Not truly. He did not want to spill worthy blood. Their blood did not offend. It did not pollute.

But the Potters...

James Potter had flung aside his name, his legacy, for what? For love? For a Muggle-born girl who thought knowing charms made her their equal? Lily Potter was not one of them. She was a scar on the tapestry. And the boy she birthed, stained blood in a cradle, that was the prophecy’s poison.

He would have struck, had Dumbledore not been there. And Dumbledore, as ever, was the complication.

So the plan twisted. The Longbottoms became the opening stroke. A provocation. Draw the old man out, then finish the boy. It should have been immaculate. Yet it had failed.

Now the world believed him dead. Scattered. Vanished.

They were wrong.

He was diminished. Fragmented. But not gone.

They had no idea what he had done to stay alive. The sacrifices. They would call it madness, because they would never grasp it. Could never fathom the cost of conquering death.

But he had. He had torn open the world’s oldest scar and dared it to close. He had created horcruxes.

To the cowards who whispered their name in locked rooms, they were legend. To the fools who dared speak them aloud, they were myth. To most, even those who trafficked in curses and blood, they were fiction. Forbidden. Half-heard, half-feared shadows in the corners of ancient texts.

But to him, they were the foundation. The bones of godhood. The answer he had carved into the universe with spell and sacrifice.

How do you keep death from taking you? Not by pleading. Not by fleeing.

By defying. By anchoring yourself to the world so thoroughly that not even time, not even fate, could undo you.

A Horcrux did not merely preserve. It chained. It pinned the soul to earth in screaming defiance. It told the universe: no. Not yet. That was the brilliance.

And he had gone further than any wizard before him. Not once. Not twice. But again. And again. Until the pain dulled. Until the soul he carried was no longer whole but honed: thin, glinting, sharp as obsidian.

He had made himself unkillable.

So when that boy shattered his body, his soul should have returned to one of its sanctuaries. That was the promise.

And from there, the ritual was simple. Crude. An incantation, resonating with the anchor, would echo and call for a home. And the body would follow. A poor thing at first. A semblance. But his.

Yet it had not happened.

When the curse failed he was flung from flesh like ash from flame. And he reached. Desperately. Instinctively. To the fragments he had hidden like relics in the bones of the world.

He felt them. Shining. Beckoning. Like stars strung across a black sea. And then…

Agony.

Not pain. Pain was familiar, even welcome. This was wrongness. As though the soul he carried no longer belonged to those fragments. As if they had rejected him. The puzzle refused to fit. The locks denied their own key.

He had recoiled. Not at death. But at betrayal, from the very magics he had perfected. From the very laws he had mastered. His soul, too tattered. Or worse, tainted. Whether by ritual, by force… or by that child. The one who had lived. The one who had unmade him.

And so he had fled.

East, and further still. Across forests that forgot their names, through creatures that did not dream. Slipping between thought and shadow, chasing silence. Until he found this place, a place where the pain could not follow.

Worse than pain was the humiliation. That he, Lord Voldemort, had been undone by a woman’s love and a child’s skin.

A half-blood child. Like him.

No. Not like him.

That boy had been cradled by vermin. Whelped in weakness. He carried only softness and the stink of shame.

But he, Lord Voldemort, had been born to a Muggle’s cruelty and a witch’s silence, and risen above both. He had conquered his blood. He had transcended it.

Blood was not virtue. Blood was potential. Only the strong used it rightly.

He had led the pure. Not because he was one of them, but because they had needed a master. Needed someone to remind them what they were meant to be. Not complacent relics. Not snivelling patricians arguing in the Wizengamot. But rulers.

But they had scattered.

Cowards, he thought, but the word held no heat anymore. Only the quiet certainty of a man who already knew the answer. Of course they had betrayed him. The fault was not his. It was theirs. They had misunderstood the future he offered.

What he had begun was restoration. A purging. He had reached into the marrow of magical society and torn out the rot with fire and fury. He had given them vision. And they had let a baby unmake it all.

But it was not over. He was not over.

He was still here, in the cold belly of the world, where magic still ran wild and ungoverned.

The shadows around him swelled as rain whispered through the trees, soft and ceaseless.
It soaked the leaf-litter, turned the earth to mire. He observed it with eyes he no longer possessed. And somewhere between memory and matter, he listened. He seethed.

Even now, his faithless followers stirred in the world beyond. Whispers crossed Europe.

It was a world of lies, now. He had built his empire on purity, on power, and what had followed in his absence? Degradation. Disorder. Bloodlines fraying like rotten rope. Mudbloods preaching justice. Half-bloods strutting like they belonged.

He had fallen. But even ash, in time, feeds the flame. It would begin again. And when it did, no mercy would temper the fire. No excuses. No exceptions.

This time, none would be spared. Not even the pure.

But he could not linger here forever. Not in this half-existence. He had cheated death. Bound his soul to the earth with rites and blood. But the tether frayed. He could feel it; weakening, rotting at the edges like old sinew. His very essence felt… thinned. No longer just fragmented, but eroded.

Something in him had begun to unravel. He needed strength. He needed a vessel. A vessel of life. Of flesh and will. He needed the warmth of blood and the fear of a living soul. Something to replenish the hollows in him. Something to anchor him anew.

But not any vessel. Not another squabbling drifter or foolish peasant seeking the thrill of haunted woods. They had come over the years. Brave or desperate. The forest had claimed them all. They had withered in his presence, collapsed like brittle parchment in flame. But it had not been enough.

Muggle souls were thin. Their blood cold, their minds dull. They offered no nourishment. Only a bitter aftertaste.

But this was different.

He felt it first as a flicker. A ripple in the stale, rotting air. A warmth pressing against the cold hush of the trees. Then a movement. A figure, picking through the undergrowth, cautious but not frightened. Hesitant but curious.

A man. Pale, thin. Dressed in wizard’s robes, travel-worn and damp at the hem. There was a wand in his hand. And magic in his blood.

Magic.

It shone to his senses like embers smouldering beneath ash. His soul twisted hungrily at the sight.

The forest had kept him hidden for years. The locals whispered of curses and phantoms, of a sickness in the soil. Even the animals skirted the glade where he dwelled, their instincts wiser than the tongues of men. But now, someone had come. Drawn by purpose. Or chance. It did not matter.

What mattered was the blood. The soul. The magic. Lord Voldemort relished the thought as a man before a feast.

And then he moved. Silent as breath, shapeless and swift, a shadow loosed from form. He slid between the trees like smoke through cracks in the world, drifting towards the man who did not yet know he was prey.

The forest watched in silence. The rain fell.

And the wraith descended.

Chapter Text

Harry jolted awake, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment the world blurred, trees rushing past in a smear of green and gold, the low hum of tyres on tarmac beneath them. His heart was pounding, chest tight as if he’d been running. The dream was already slipping through his fingers like sand, but pieces clung to him: a forest, smoke twisting through the trees. A man standing still as the smoke passed through him like wind through mist.

Harry shivered and wiped his palms on his jumper. His seatbelt dug into his side, and his canvas bag had tipped over, spilling the slingshot and crumpled paperback across the seat. He glanced around quickly, checking if anyone had noticed.

No one had.

Remus Lupin sat beside him, elbow resting on the windowsill, fingers tapping a quiet, measured rhythm against his knee. He was dressed in a charcoal suit and neat tie, greyish-brown hair gently tousled despite the care in his appearance. His face was lined but kind, a composed, quiet presence, with eyes that looked thoughtful and tired, as they watched the road ahead.

Up front, James Blake sat stiffly in the passenger seat, both hands gripping the dashboard with the tension of someone half-expecting a catastrophe. He wore a deep navy suit, hair neatly cut, grey eyes sharp and alert. There was a certain polish to him, an elegance held just beneath the surface, but it strained against the nerves threading through his posture.

Harry blinked at his reflection in the glass, faint and ghostly against the blurring trees. Still the same face. Same glasses. Same mess of hair. The scar on his forehead, usually just a faint mark, looked a bit sharper. More defined. He reached up and touched it. It didn’t hurt. Just… odd. He dropped his hand.

He shifted in his seat and gave the front a sidelong look. “Mr Blake,” he said with polite solemnity, “if you’re holding on that tightly, you might snap the dashboard in half. I’d feel quite bad if you got arrested for vandalism before we even reached the front door.”

Lupin let out a dry chuckle. “Give him time, Harry. We haven’t hit a roundabout yet. That’s when he really shines.”

Blake didn’t turn around. “I just don’t like being in things I can’t steer,” he muttered, still gripping the dashboard like it might leap away from him.

Lupin tilted his head. “You don’t steer trains either, but I don’t see you clutching the luggage rack.”

“Trains,” Blake said through clenched teeth, “stay on rails.”

Harry smiled and leaned back again. The tightness in his chest had eased. The dream still prickled faintly at the edges of his mind, but it was being steadily drowned out by the engine’s hum and the sun warming the windowpane.

His thoughts drifted back to lunch.

It had been… brilliant. He hadn’t known food could be fun. They’d stopped at a small eatery somewhere off the high street: brick fronted, with a brass bell over the door and red leather booths that squeaked when you sat down. The sort of place that smelled like vinegar and frying batter.

He’d ordered fish and chips, nearly dropped the plate when it arrived, and devoured it like he’d never eaten before. Which, to be fair, he hadn’t. Not like that. Not where people asked you what you wanted, and then gave it to you hot, fresh, and without rationing out the ketchup.

James Blake had chatted with the waiter, eyes flicking towards the windows whenever the door creaked. Once, he adjusted his seat so his face was turned away from the front. Harry hadn’t minded. Grown-ups were all odd, in their own ways.

Besides, both Blake and Lupin had talked to him. About school, and the boys back at St. Jude’s, and what he liked to read. When he’d admitted he wasn’t sure if he was clever, Lupin had said quietly, “There’s all kinds of clever, Harry. Sometimes the ones who ask the best questions are the ones people notice last.”

And when he’d gone quiet after that, because kind words always made something in him shrink back, wary and unsure… Blake had leaned across the table, snagged one of his chips, and said, “Now, that one was clearly the best. I’m just making sure no one else gets it first.” It had made him laugh, despite himself.

A bump in the road jolted him back to the present.

Outside the window, the landscape had shifted. London was long behind them. Now there were hills, soft and rolling, scattered with sheep like clumps of wool tossed by a careless hand. Fields stretched into the distance, stitched with hedgerows, and just below, a small village nestled into the green like it had grown there naturally.

The driver turned the wheel, slowing as the road narrowed. A sign flashed past.

Crockham Hill.

Harry leaned forward slightly, peering out. The village blurred past in bits and pieces: a post box, a school sign, the steeple of a church rising between trees. Then the road dipped and twisted again, climbing away from the clustered rooftops into the hills beyond.

They followed a side road now, barely more than a track, winding through a tangle of hawthorn and wild hedges. The car crunched slowly over loose gravel, the engine muttering low.

“Nearly there,” Blake murmured.

And then they pulled up.

As Harry climbed out, the scent of dry grass and apple blossom hit him all at once, and he forgot to breathe for a moment.

Behind the rusted gate, a gravel path wound through overgrown grass and foxgloves. A crooked apple tree leaned lazily across the lawn, its branches sprawled like it had grown sideways on a whim and never been told otherwise. The cottage itself was small, red-bricked, with ivy trailing up its bricks and moss nestled into every crack.

It didn’t look like a place from a brochure. It looked like a secret. A hidden pocket of the world. Harry stood still for a moment, bag slung over one shoulder, the pendant beneath his collar warm against his chest.

Home, Blake had said. Maybe it was.

Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of woodsmoke, lemon polish, and something vaguely herbal, like someone had tried to cover the scent of dust with dried lavender. The hallway gave way at once to the sitting room, small and warm, with floral wallpaper curling slightly at the corners and a sagging brown sofa facing a brick fireplace. On either side of the hearth stood two floral armchairs; one with a cushion that looked suspiciously hand-stitched, the other slightly faded, as if it had spent years in a sunlit bay window somewhere.

“Living room,” Blake said with a sweeping gesture, like a tour guide who hadn’t rehearsed. “Bit floral, I know. Not my fault.”

Lupin sniffed. “I stand by my choices.”

Harry trailed them in, taking in the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf spilling into corners, the red velvet curtains that looked like they belonged in a theatre. Someone had tried, only half successfully, to conceal a burn mark on the wooden coffee table with a stack of old magazines. A small TV sat tucked beside the fireplace. They hadn’t had one at the orphanage.

Through an archway, the kitchen opened up: narrow, with a round table at one end and battered cabinets lining the other. The sink overlooked a back garden gone slightly wild.

The table wobbled when Blake leaned on it. “This table is a trap. It looks innocent, but it has motives.”

Harry cracked a smile.

The stairs creaked as they climbed, and the upstairs hall was barely wide enough to pass shoulder to shoulder. Blake opened the first door on the right. Inside: a plain bed, a dresser with one drawer stuck open, and a mirror with a crack down the side.

“My room,” he said simply. “Not much, but it’s quiet.”

The bathroom was in between, all white tile and echoes. Harry peeked in: a clawfoot tub, a wide mirror and taps dulled with age.

And then they reached the final door. Blake hesitated just a moment, then pushed it open.

The room was small. Soft blue walls, white trim. A proper bed with navy sheets. A shelf with books, a yellow blanket folded neatly at the foot. The window overlooked the garden, and the curtains fluttered slightly in the breeze.

Harry stood in the doorway, bag still slung over his shoulder.

He hadn’t known what to expect. Not this. Not a room that looked like someone had thought about it. About him.

Blake cleared his throat. “It’s yours. Do what you like. We can paint the walls red if you’re into that.”

Across the room, Lupin turned sharply, the look he shot Blake best described as thunderous.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He stepped inside and set the bag down gently beside the bed.

“It’s good,” he said quietly. “Really good.” And he meant it.

Blake cleared his throat, gentling his voice. “Why don’t you freshen up a bit? We’ll do a light supper. Toast and soup. That all right?”

Harry, still half turning in a slow circle, nodded quickly. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

He wasn’t sure if he was hungry or about to explode. Maybe both.

Blake gave him a smile and stepped back. “We’ll be downstairs. Take your time.”

The door closed with a quiet click behind them.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He stood in the middle of the room for a second, the hush around him soft and unfamiliar, like the house itself was holding its breath. Then he crouched by the bag and unzipped it.

The paperback and the slingshot went onto the shelf. His favourite pair of mismatched socks got tucked into the drawer. He took his time with the last bit.

The little grey cardigan, with its funny little broomstick buttons, worn thin at the elbows but still folded just the way he’d always kept it. And the blanket. Soft, faded, barely bigger than a towel now, still carried that faint smell of soap and something else he couldn’t name. Something like safety.

They were the first things he’d ever owned. Not because someone had given them to him, but because they’d always been his. When Mrs Melling of St. Jude’s found him all those years ago; swaddled in that blanket, the cardigan buttoned up to his chin.

No note. No name. Just those.

He never told anyone, but they mattered more than anything else he had. They weren’t just clothes. They were proof. Silent, stubborn proof, that he had come from somewhere. That before he was Harry Palmer of Dormitory Three, Bed Number Five of St. Jude’s he had a family.

He smoothed the cardigan gently and laid it beside the blanket in the bottom drawer, tucking the edges in like it might protect them from dust or time.

Then he paused.

Above them hung new clothes. Simple things. Not expensive or flashy. Just… things that fit. Jumpers that didn’t itch. Trousers in the right size. Shirts that didn’t belong to five boys before him.

He closed the wardrobe door gently and let his hand rest there a moment longer, as if to mark the moment, for himself, if no one else.

Before heading downstairs, Harry ducked into the bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath his bare feet, and the tap gave a grumbling sort of complaint before the water ran clear. He splashed his face, then looked up.

The mirror was fogged around the edges, but his reflection stared back.

Same messy black hair. Pale skin, slightly freckled from the summer sun. And the eyes, green, too bright for the rest of his face, like they didn’t quite belong. The scar above his brow made him frown. In the car, it had looked sharper somehow. Redder. But here, under the bathroom light, it was barely a faint curve now. Maybe the sunlight through the window had played tricks on him.

He braced his hands on the sink’s edge and studied himself for a moment longer.

Just yesterday, he’d woken up in St. Jude’s. Made his bed. Lined up for breakfast. Listened to the Matron call roll in that same stern voice.

And now… this. A room with a wardrobe with his things inside. People who looked at him when they spoke, not past him or through him. A house that smelled like woodsmoke and lemon polish and dinner waiting.

St. Jude’s hadn’t been cruel, just quiet and stretched thin. A place where time drifted and names faded, where everything felt borrowed. He’d learned not to expect too much, not to hold too tightly. He hadn’t been protected. But he’d endured. Learned how to survive on the edges. One more boy in a sea of hand-me-downs and shut doors.

But this felt different. Real. It felt impossible. Like he’d stepped into someone else’s life.

But the towel he reached for was warm, and the quiet felt like unborrowed. He dried his face, took one last look at himself in the mirror, and nodded, just slightly, like he was agreeing with something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Then he turned and padded downstairs.

The kitchen table had already been laid. A small tureen of soup sat steaming in the middle with slices of toast stacked haphazardly on a plate. Blake and Lupin were already seated, chatting softly.

Harry slid into the empty chair. His stomach growled, finally catching up to the warm, earthy smell of lentils and herbs.

He reached for his spoon, then paused. “Mr Blake?”

Blake looked up from buttering a second piece of toast. “Hmm?”

Harry hesitated. “Why didn’t you visit before?”

There was a beat.

Lupin didn’t move, but something in the air shifted, like a string had gone taut beneath the table. Blake’s fingers stilled on the knife. Then he looked up, gaze steady.

“All in good time, Harry,” he said, and it wasn’t a brush-off. His voice was quiet and even. “You’ve had a big day. Settle in a bit, yeah? Watch some telly. Get some sleep. You look like you didn’t get much rest last night.”

That was true. The dream, the one he had last night, still clung him like a nightmare. He’d been standing at the gates of St. Jude’s, bag in hand, with a faceless family beside him. A voice had murmured, He’s not normal. Then a car door slammed, and he was back on the steps again. Alone.

Blake resumed slicing his toast, more gently this time. “Besides, Remus and I were drowning in paperwork. You wouldn’t believe how many forms you’ve got to fill out just to prove you’re not a complete disaster unfit to raise a cactus, let alone a child.”

Harry gave a small nod. “All right.”

They finished the meal quietly. The soup was warm and comforting, the toast just right.

Afterwards, Lupin stood, brushing a few crumbs from his suit. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow,” he said.

Blake frowned. “Bring what?”

“You told me not to let you forget.”

“Did I?”

Lupin didn’t answer. He just reached for his coat. Then he turned to Harry. “Goodnight, Harry. I hope your first night here is a good one.”

“’Night, sir.”

He left with a quiet click of the front door. Blake stepped out behind him for a moment, murmuring something too low to catch.

Harry wandered into the sitting room and switched on the telly. BBC Two had a documentary on, Millwall: A Season on the Edge, the voiceover already mid-sentence, talking about a surprise victory away at Aston Villa. Harry blinked, then grinned. It was that season. 1988–89. Millwall’s first-ever in the top flight.

He settled into the couch, eyes fixed on the screen. He remembered the posters, faded, curling at the corners, plastered up by the older boys. Teddy Sheringham. Tony Cascarino. That lion crest. The older boys had been obsessed, and Harry, smaller and often left out, had absorbed their loyalty like sunlight through glass. He’d liked that Millwall were scrappy and unexpected. Like him.

He hugged a pillow to his chest, the light from the screen flickering across his face. He didn’t notice when his eyes began to drift closed. Only that the room was warm, and for once, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Sirius stepped back inside twenty minutes later, the cool evening air still clinging to his coat. The house was quiet now, soft with the hush that only settles when the day has truly ended.

He paused in the doorway to the sitting room.

Harry was curled sideways on the couch, head pillowed on his folded arm, the television flickering blue shadows across his face. The remote had slipped from his fingers. One of his shoes had come half off. On screen, the narrator droned on… Something about a striker named Sherring-ham and a season that had ended in quiet disgrace, spoken with the kind of voice people used for royal scandals.

Sirius moved quietly, turning off the telly. Then he crouched and studied Harry’s sleeping face. He looked small like this. Not younger, but softer somehow. Like a boy finally allowed to rest. Like the wary edge he wore during the day had finally slipped away.

He reached down. Harry stirred a little as he was lifted, but didn’t wake. His head lolled against Sirius’s shoulder, arms dangling at his sides. Sirius held him carefully, gently, as if afraid even the weight of his breath might be too much.

The stairs creaked underfoot. He carried Harry into the blue-walled room and laid him down with the same reverence he might’ve given to a spell. He pulled the yellow blanket up, tucking it around him.

In the soft quiet of that little room, as the breeze lifted the curtain and the kestrels cried faintly beyond the hill, Sirius watched the boy he had waited so long to find, and smiled.

Not the reckless grin he’d worn as a boy. Not the false, too-bright one he’d shown the world. This one was quiet. Small. Real.

“James. Lily…” he whispered. “He’s home.”

He looked back at Harry, peaceful in sleep. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

Then he turned off the light, and for the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel like a punishment.

Harry woke to birdsong and a buttery wash of sunlight pressing warm against his eyelids.

For a moment, he stayed still, limbs tangled in the blanket. The soft blue walls caught the morning light in streaks, and the curtains fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the garden. Somewhere outside, a bee stumbled against the windowpane. The air smelled faintly of lavender, dust, and something green.

It didn’t smell like disinfectant. It didn’t echo like a dormitory. And there was no clatter of trays from the dining hall below, no voices raised in sleepy argument; Callum shouting over Ameer, Thomas laughing until Mrs Melling scolded them.

No footsteps. No bells. Definitely not St. Jude’s.

His heart kicked in surprise.

He sat up too quickly, blinking around, caught between dreams and memory. For a split second, the unfamiliarity pressed down, but then it all came rushing back: the car ride, the lunch, the supper. James Blake and Remus Lupin. This room, was his.

The yellow blanket had slipped down to his waist. He gathered it closer for a second, and his breath puffed out in a grin before he even realised he was smiling.

He had a bed that wasn’t one in a row. A wardrobe with clothes that weren’t communal. A space no one could take from him.

A home.

He let himself fall back onto the pillow for a moment, just to feel it again. The sheer strangeness of waking up somewhere that felt… his own.

His stomach gave a hopeful gurgle.

Harry padded down the narrow staircase, one hand trailing the banister. The house creaked companionably underfoot. “Mr Blake?” he called, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Mr Lupin?”

No answer.

The kitchen was empty. No hum of the kettle. No newspaper folded open beside a mug. The quiet here was different from upstairs. Emptier.

For a split second, panic fluttered up in his chest – sharp, irrational. Like when you lose your group at the zoo and suddenly every grown-up looks unfamiliar. He froze in the doorway. But then he spotted the note on the coffee table, scrawled in quick, slanting ink.

Gone out for groceries. Don’t burn anything. – JB

Harry let out a breath. “Right,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. “Not abandoned.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just an old echo he was still learning to quiet. He ran a hand through his hair and looked around the room. The red curtains glowed with sunlight. The floral armchair still looked like it belonged in someone’s nan’s parlour. It all looked just slightly odd and crooked. Perfect, in its own way.

He tucked the note into the fruit bowl for no reason at all, then dropped onto the saggy sofa, legs dangling over the edge.

For a while, he just sat there.

He ran a finger along the edge of the coffee table, pausing at the burn mark. He glanced towards the little bookshelf tucked beside the fireplace, paperbacks with cracked spines, a few strange-looking volumes with stars and Latin on the covers. A photo frame faced inward, deliberately turned away.

He stood and wandered to the window, nudging the red curtain aside. The garden was half wild, all tangled grass and nodding foxgloves. A bumblebee trundled over the crooked fencepost. The quiet was steady, like the house was keeping still on purpose, just to let him breathe.

Eventually, he sat back down again.

The sofa sighed beneath him as he picked up the remote and switched on the telly.

BBC One: a man in a tweed jacket going on about Victorian chimneys. Click.

ITV: a rerun of a game show with too much shouting and teeth. Click.

Channel 4: some blurry French film with yellow subtitles and dramatic piano music. Click.

BBC Two. a presenter in a navy suit, voice clipped and steady, was reading the morning headlines. “…and in other news, the manhunt continues for escaped convict Sirius Black, who remains at large following his escape from prison earlier this year.”

Harry was already clicking the remote, about to flip back to the blurry French film, at least it had music, when a photo appeared on the screen.

Grainy. Black and white. A gaunt man with hollow cheeks and wild eyes stared out from the screen. His hair was long, tangled to his shoulders, like he hadn’t seen a mirror in years.

Harry blinked.

The face… Something about it tugged at him. It wasn’t exact. Not quite. But…

If you trimmed the hair, made it neater… then added a shave, filled out the face just a little… It could be James Blake.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

“Black was convicted in 1981 for the deaths of thirty-nine people, in what police describe as one of the deadliest single events in recent British history,” the newsreader continued calmly. “He is considered highly dangerous and should not be approached under any circumstances.”

His stomach turned over. The remote slipped from his hand and landed on the rug with a muffled thump.

“Authorities warn that Black may be using false identities or disguises,” the presenter went on. “Anyone with information is urged to contact local authorities immediately.”

Harry was still staring at the photo.

It was him. James Blake.

Harry’s throat had gone dry. His heart was hammering now, beating against his ribs like it wanted to get out.

He shot to his feet so fast the sofa creaked. The telly burbled behind him, some new story now, something about a factory strike, but the words didn’t register. He backed into the hallway. His hand found the edge of the bookshelf.

He couldn’t breathe properly.

He was alone in the house. With a man who looked like the one on the screen. Who was the one on the screen.

A murderer.

What if this had all been a trap?

His mind raced. His skin prickled all over. He didn’t think about reasons.

Harry just thought… he’s going to kill me.

His breath came in short bursts now, too loud in the quiet cottage. Every creak in the walls sounded like a footstep. Every shift of the breeze made the curtains twitch.

He turned and ran.

Up the stairs two at a time, bare feet thudding on the wooden steps. He grabbed his canvas bag from where it hung on the chair, yanked the drawer open and pulled out the cardigan and blanket, shoving them in. His hands were shaking. He checked for his pendant. Still around his neck.

He slung the bag over one shoulder and bolted down the stairs.

The front door.

He fumbled with the latch, fingers slippery with sweat. Was it locked? Where was the key? What if he couldn’t open it?

His heart thundered in his chest like it might burst.

And just then… The door swung inward.

He stumbled back with a gasp.

Two figures stepped inside, laughing, talking over each other. Paper bags in their arms. The scent of apples and bread drifted in with them.

Harry froze.

James Blake, no… Sirius Black, was grinning at something Lupin had said, shaking his head. His hair was damp from the mist, coat unbuttoned. Lupin followed behind, balancing a baguette and a tin of treacle. They stopped when they saw him.

Sirius’s smile faltered.

He looked at the bag, at Harry’s pale face, and the way he stood like he was about to bolt. “Harry… What happened?”

Harry backed away. “Don’t come closer.”

Sirius frowned, alarm blooming. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You’re him,” Harry whispered. “You’re that man on the news. You’re Sirius Black.”

Something heavy dropped in the room. The air, the warmth, it all shifted.

“You killed people.”

Sirius took a small step forward. “Harry, it’s not…”

“Don’t lie!” Harry shouted. “You murdered thirty-nine people! They said so on the telly! And now you’ve taken me and you’re going to kill me too…”

“Harry, no… never…” Sirius’s voice cracked. He set the bag down slowly. Hands raised. “Please. Just listen to me. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Liar! You lied about your name! You lied about everything! I should’ve known…”

Lupin spoke then, calm and measured. “Harry. You’re safe here. I promise you. We would never hurt you.”

But the panic had already taken root. Deep. Twisting.

“I’m not safe!” Harry shrieked. “You kidnapped me!”

The lights flickered.

Lupin set the baguette down slowly. “That’s not what happened. Harry… breathe, please…”

“You’re criminals!”

The clock on the mantel let out a sharp crack. The teacups trembled in their saucers. The paper bag in Sirius’s arms began to smoke from the bottom.

“Harry… no one’s going to hurt you,” Sirius said quickly, voice low. “I swear. Just let us explain…”

The words barely registered. Harry’s breath came in panicked gasps. His skin prickled with heat. The air around him shimmered.

“You’re going to kill me!” he screamed.

And the house broke open.

The television shattered in a burst of flames. A gust of invisible force knocked over the standing lamp, sending it crashing into the wall. The kettle shrieked to life on the stove, a sharp, keening wail that matched the pitch in Harry’s chest.

Somewhere, glass cracked. The floor seemed to vibrate.

Lupin stepped back, shielding his face.

“Harry!” Sirius called. “Look at me… it’s not what you think…”

“Get away from me!” Harry screamed. His whole body was shaking now. “You’re a murderer!”

Lupin moved, slow and deliberate. He reached into his coat, pulling out a thin length of polished wood. His eyes found Harry’s… filled with something worn, fraying at the edges. He said softly, “I’m sorry.”

The room swayed, the sound rushed out, and everything went quiet. Darkness folded in like a blanket.

And then, the world slipped away like water through his fingers.

Chapter Text

“…did you give the calming draught?”

A voice, low and rough around the edges. Familiar, in a way that made Harry’s chest twitch.

“Yeah. Not too much.” The reply was quieter, steadier. “I know how much to give a child, Sirius.”

Then: a sigh, and the soft creak of floorboards.

“What’s the state downstairs?”

“Mostly sorted. The windows held. Bit of a scorch on the rug, and we’ll need a new telly. This one is toast. Doesn’t switch on.”

A pause.

“…You think he’s awake?”

“I checked. He was out like a light. Figured I’d wait till you got back.”

A hesitation.

“Shall we…”

Harry didn’t hear the rest. Their voices trailed off as if someone had closed a door between them.

He blinked, heavy-lidded. The light in the room was soft and pale, filtered through the white curtains. The familiar blue walls. The yellow blanket still pulled up over his chest. Everything looked exactly as it had that morning.

Except…

He remembered. All of it. The newsreader’s voice. The black-and-white photo. That name.

Sirius Black. Mass murderer. Thirty-nine people.

And Harry had screamed. Shouted. Something had gone off like fireworks inside him. Something wrong.

He shifted slightly, testing the weight of his limbs. They felt boneless. Warm. Like he’d been sunbathing for hours. No fear. No anger. Just… fuzzy calm. His brain was a soft pillow and the world didn’t feel sharp anymore.

The door clicked.

He should get up. Run. Hide. Scream.

But his head told him none of that was necessary. He was perfectly fine. The bed was warm. The blanket was tucked in just right.

So he stayed where he was, eyes half open.

Two figures stepped into the room. The scent hit Harry first: butter, raspberry jam and tea. Mr. Lupin, carried a tray. Toast, eggs, some cut-up apple slices, a folded napkin, and a mug that steamed faintly.

James Blake, no, Sirius Black, hung back, hovering by the window. He didn’t speak, didn’t smile. Just watched.

Remus set the tray gently on the bedside table, then moved to the foot of the bed, hands folded in front of him.

Sirius perched on the windowsill, back to the glass. He cleared his throat. “Harry,” he said softly. “We’re sorry. Truly. This… this wasn’t how you were meant to find out.”

Harry stared at the tray but didn’t touch it.

“What did you do to me?” he asked, voice small and low. “Why don’t I feel angry? Or scared? I mean… I am angry… and scared… But I don’t…”

His words trailed off like the steam from the mug.

Remus stepped forward a little. “We gave you a calming draught,” he said gently. “It’s… a medicine. It helps people settle after shocks.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to him. “You poisoned me.”

“No,” Sirius said quickly. “No, Harry. We wouldn’t. Please… eat something. We have a lot to talk about. We want to explain.”

Harry didn’t move. His fingers clenched in the blanket.

Remus glanced at Sirius, then slowly reached into his coat pocket and brought out a block of chocolate. He broke off a square, then another, and offered one towards Harry.

“Here,” he said. “Just eat this. It’ll help. Really.”

Harry didn’t take it.

Remus looked at him a moment longer, then gave a square to Sirius, popped one into his own mouth, and chewed.

“See?” he said softly, after swallowing. “Not poisoned. Just chocolate. Please, Harry.”

Harry hesitated. Then, with the mechanical obedience of someone doing something without quite knowing why, he reached out and took the piece.

It tasted ordinary. Slightly bitter, slightly sweet. But as it melted, something unfurled in his chest. The tightness loosened. The jagged fear became… duller. Like warm water trickling into a cold hollow. His toes curled under the blanket. The dread didn’t vanish, but it ebbed. Enough to breathe.

He looked away from them, chewing.

No one spoke.

The birds outside had begun to chirp as though encouraged by the sun slanting through the window.

Harry swallowed the last of the chocolate and licked his lips absently. Then he asked, low and steady, “Who are you?”

Both men looked at him.

“What do you want with me?” Harry pressed on, voice tightening. “I mean, you’re not James Blake. You’re that man… Sirius Black. And you…” he nodded at Remus, eyes narrowing, “you’re not Lupin or whatever you said. Are you his accomplice?”

Sirius let out a long breath. “I’m Sirius Black, Harry. You’re right. I used the name James Blake to… stay hidden.”

Remus gave a small, tired smile. “And I am Remus Lupin, I’m afraid. No false names here.”

Harry frowned. “Then why all of this? Why adopt me? You want to kill me like the others?”
The question burst out, harsher than he’d meant. Then something else came out, quieter, something that had been knotting in his chest since the moment he’d seen the news. “Because… because I make things happen? Things that aren’t normal?”

Sirius straightened. “Harry… no. No. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But you were in jail,” Harry said, eyes locked on him now. “They don’t put you there for nothing.”

Sirius didn’t flinch. “Yes, I was. But not because I did what they said I did.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed again. “Then why?”

Remus stepped forward, quiet but firm. “The man who really did it framed Sirius. It happens sometimes… even people who make the rules get things wrong. He never had a trial, Harry.”

A silence fell, broken only by a pigeon thumping about on the roof.

Then Sirius said, “Your parents. They were our best friends.”

Harry froze. Something in his chest twisted tight.

“You’re lying,” he said, but the words sounded brittle, already unsure.

“We’re not,” Remus said gently.

Sirius’s voice was softer now. “Your name isn’t Harry Palmer.  You’re Harry Potter. Your father was James Potter. Your mother was Lily. They…”

“What do you mean was?” Harry cut in, the word hitting like ice. “What happened to them?”

Remus looked at him squarely. “There was a war in our world. Your parents stood up for what was right. But they were killed.”

Harry blinked. “Your world?”

Sirius nodded and gestured gently between the three of them. “Harry… we’re wizards. Your parents were too.”

A beat passed.

“We can do magic.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly. The birds outside were louder now, cawing like they knew something was changing.

“That… what I do, though,” Harry said. “That’s not magic. Those are just… accidents. When I get scared or angry or… and they don’t always happen.”

He was trying to sound sure, but his voice kept dipping, stuttering.

Remus’s eyes were kind. “Accidents that only seem to happen around you? That no one else can explain?”

Harry’s mouth opened. Then shut.

“You blew up a television today, Harry,” Sirius said. “Without touching it.”

Harry rubbed at his arms, suddenly cold under the blanket. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” Remus said. “And you’re not alone.”

Harry’s breathing was shallow now. He shook his head slowly, lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

A wizard. Magic.

The words didn’t fit. Not in his mouth, not in his head. Not when said out loud like that, as if it were something good, something natural.

Because whatever he had… it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

He thought of the cracked glass at St. Jude’s, and the jump off the roof that left the others gasping and him completely unharmed. The cupboard door slamming shut behind Callum with no one near it. The kettle whistling when the stove was cold. The fire in the kitchen.

His hands clenched at the blanket.

He’d always known he was strange. Wrong, even. There were moments he felt untethered, like he didn’t quite belong, like he was made of something the others couldn’t see. He’d tried to reason with it, turn it over in his mind like a puzzle. Maybe it was bad luck. Maybe the glass had cracked because the frame was old. Maybe the cupboard door had swung shut on a draft. Coincidences, that’s all. Things that happened when the world was being cruel. That was the line he’d drawn for himself. And he’d held it. Until now.

But…

What if it was him? What if it had always been him?

He’d shouted, and the television had exploded. He’d been scared, and the whole house had turned into a battlefield. Teacups, windows, heat in the air. He’d seen it. Felt it. And he couldn’t take it back.

His heart was pounding now. Because if this was magic, then it wasn’t just that something was wrong with the world. Something was wrong with him.

He didn’t say it aloud. But maybe something in his face gave it away.

Sirius spoke gently, “It’s not something wrong with you, Harry. It’s magic.”

Harry blinked. The word sounded absurd. But his mind latched onto something else, something sharp.

“You said my parents... they knew magic too?”

Sirius and Remus both nodded.

“They could make things explode?” Harry asked, suddenly breathless. “Like I did?”

“That,” Remus said gently, “and a great deal more.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. The thought came quick, then lodged like a stone in his throat. “Then why did they die?”

Remus’s face tightened, just for a moment. Then he exhaled, and moved to sit at the foot of the bed.

“Because, Harry,” he said, voice low, “magic isn’t the answer to everything. It’s a gift. A powerful one. But it can’t stop death.”

“And the other side knew magic too,” Sirius added, grim now. “Sometimes more than we did.”

Sirius stood from the windowsill and crossed to the foot of the bed. He stood there, hands loose by his sides, eyes on Harry like he was weighing every word before it came.

“Harry,” he began quietly, “I’m your godfather.”

Harry stilled.

Sirius pressed on. “Your parents… well, when they died... Something happened that night. Something beyond magic as we know it. And it made everyone believe you’d died too.”

Harry didn’t speak, but his fingers tightened slightly on the blanket.

“I was mad with grief,” Sirius went on. “I tried to track down the one who led them to their deaths. But he gave me the slip… and then he killed those people. And framed me for it.”

His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it got flatter. Darker.

“I was sent to prison. A place called Azkaban. For nine years.”

The room felt smaller, as if the name alone had shut the air out.

“And a few months ago…” Sirius let out a slow breath, eyes flicking to the window for half a second, then back. “I found out you were alive.”

Harry still said nothing.

“I broke out of prison,” Sirius said. “And I came to find you.”

His voice cracked, just once, before he steadied it again. “Remus helped me.”

At the mention of his name, Remus nodded once from the foot of the bed.

The silence that followed wasn’t hollow. It was full… of disbelief, of questions that hadn’t yet taken shape, and of something else, still flickering uncertainly at the edges of Harry’s chest.

Sirius was quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on a spot just beyond Harry’s shoulder. Then, he added softly, “Although… I have a theory. About what might’ve happened that night. I still don’t know how you ended up at the orphanage, but…”

He trailed off and glanced at Remus, who gave a small nod.

“We’ve talked about it,” Remus said gently, folding his arms across his chest. “We think it’s the most plausible explanation.”

Harry didn’t answer. His thoughts were a whirl of noise and fragments of things that didn’t feel real. Parents. Magic. War. Murder. And now a theory?

He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to steady himself.

Sirius hesitated, then leaned forward. “May I see your pendant, Harry?”

Harry blinked. “What? You mean… Prongs?”

The moment the name left his mouth, something flickered in both men, like a memory had passed through them. Grief, but something gentler too. The ache of a joke long finished. A name spoken between old friends.

Sirius’s voice was quiet. “Please.”

Harry hesitated. His fingers found the chain beneath his jumper, the familiar shape of the pendant; a stag framed within a slender circlet wrought with lilies, warm against his chest. He tugged it free, letting it rest just outside the fabric. It sat there like a sliver of something half-remembered and whole. Not just familiar… but his. As if it belonged to a life that had slipped through his fingers before he ever knew how to hold it.

Sirius reached forward, careful not to crowd him, and touched the pendant.

The change was immediate.

A low shimmer rose in the air, like heat over stone. The pendant glowed, soft and golden, as though recognising something lost and now found. The light warmed Harry’s chest and seemed to ripple outward, brushing against Sirius’s fingers. The room felt brighter somehow. As though magic itself had sighed in relief.

Harry’s breath caught.

Even Remus sat forward slightly, eyebrows lifting. “Well,” he murmured, “I didn’t expect that.”

Something eased inside Harry. He couldn’t have said what exactly, only that the odd tightness he’d been carrying all morning began to melt. The pendant had reacted not like it was afraid of Sirius, but like it remembered him. Like it was glad.

Sirius gave him a questioning glance. “May I?” he asked again, this time reaching gently for the clasp.

Harry gave a tiny nod.

The chain slipped through his fingers, and Sirius cupped the pendant carefully in his palm. Then he carried it across to Remus.

As soon as Remus’s fingers brushed the silver, the glow pulsed again. The light swirled between them, brushing past Harry where he sat, leaving a hush in the air like the house itself had gone still to watch.

Harry didn’t realise he was leaning forward until he noticed his hands clenched around the edge of the blanket.

He watched as both men drew those wooden sticks. They muttered softly, ancient words falling into the hush. The pendant floated slightly in the air between them, light trailing from its edges like ribbons in water. The colours deepened; amber, forest green, the soft blue of twilight. It shimmered, then settled again in Sirius’s hand, the light fading slowly as though satisfied.

Harry didn’t understand what he’d just seen. But something in him definitely shifted. They’d held something that had been his since before he had words for it, something the matron said had hung around his neck when he was found on the steps of the orphanage, and it had glowed in their hands like it knew them.

They were telling the truth. Or if they weren’t, then the pendant was lying, too.

And Harry didn’t think it was.

He watched in silence as Sirius brought the pendant back and, without a word, held it out to him. Harry reached for it and clasped it in his hand. It felt warmer. Like standing near a fire after being out in the cold. Safer, somehow… though he couldn’t say why.

Sirius looked to Remus, then turned back.

“We’re certain it was a Portkey.”

Harry blinked. “What’s that?”

“It’s a magical object,” Remus explained, rising from the foot of the bed. He began to pace slowly, thoughtful. “It can transport someone from one place to another, instantly. Usually keyed to time, place, or touch.”

“I think your parents used it to get you out,” Sirius added, his voice low. “They were being hunted. And so… they sent you away. To safety. I think… whatever was found in those ruins afterward as a result of their misdirection… people thought it was you.”

Harry stared at the blanket pooled in his lap, fingers absently tracing the stitching.

“Couldn’t they have come too?” he asked finally. “Or does this Portkey thing only work on one person?”

Sirius exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “We don’t know, Harry. We can only guess. It’s possible it was made for just one person. Or maybe it was all too fast. Maybe they didn’t have time.”

He moved forward and sat down at the foot of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Then he looked Harry straight in the eye.

“But…” his voice was steady now. “They loved you. More than life. If there had been any way they could’ve come with you, they would have. They didn’t abandon you. They saved you.”

Something in his voice cracked, just a little.

Harry’s throat burned. His eyes stung, but he blinked hard.

Remus stepped forward. He didn’t say anything, just reached out and rested a hand gently on Harry’s head, fingers brushing through his hair.

Harry didn’t pull away.

“They did what they had to,” Remus said softly. “And you’re alive because of that.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “Who killed them?”

Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance.

“We don’t know for sure,” Sirius said, “No one saw what happened. And your parents… they were strong. The strongest. It would’ve taken a bloody legion to bring them down.”

His hands clenched slightly on his knees, the old grief rising behind his eyes. Remus’s jaw tightened as well, and he looked away.

For a long moment, all three of them just sat with it. Sitting in the ache, the weight of all they’d lost. And all that had been found again.

Sirius glanced towards the pendant still resting in Harry’s lap, the silver stag catching the morning light.

“The stag,” he said quietly, “was your dad. We used to call him Prongs.”

Harry looked up.

“And the lilies,” Sirius continued, “that’s your mum. She was the flower. Always.”

His thumb tapped lightly against his knee. “I’m Padfoot. That’s what they called me. And him” he nodded at Remus, “he’s Moony. Just stupid nicknames we came up with when we were boys. But they stuck.”

A pause. Then Remus reached into his coat and pulled out something flat, wrapped in brown paper.

He stepped forward and placed it in Harry’s lap. “We thought it was time you had this.”

Harry hesitated. His heart had started to thump, too fast now. He peeled the wrapping back with trembling fingers.

It was a photo album.

He opened it, and the book slipped from his hands. It hit the duvet with a soft thud.

The picture on the first page was moving.

It was slow, looping, but unmistakably alive. A tall man with untidy black hair was spinning a woman around in a sunlit field. Her red hair flashed like fire. The man looked almost exactly like Harry, except a bit older, leaner in the face, and grinning like the world couldn’t touch him.

Harry stared.

The woman’s eyes… His eyes. That same vivid, startling green.

Remus bent down and gently lifted the album, placing it back in Harry’s lap.

“Wizarding pictures move,” he said softly. “It’s a charm. Like a memory.”

Harry said nothing. His throat was closed up tight.

On the page, James twirled Lily again. And again. And every time, she smiled like she had everything she’d ever wanted.

Harry turned the page with careful fingers, half afraid the magic might stop if he moved too fast.

The next picture showed the same man, his dad, lounging in the grass. Someone had clearly caught him mid-laugh. A moment later, another figure slid into frame. Young, sharp-featured, long-haired, and tugging playfully at James’s collar.

“That’s me,” Sirius said. “Your dad and I were inseparable. Caused far too much trouble together.”

James grabbed Sirius in a headlock, laughing, and the image looped again.

Harry turned the page.

A new scene. Indoors this time. A small, cluttered living room, books stacked on the armrests, a kettle steaming faintly in the background. There were four of them now.

James, again. Lily, his mother, smiling at something off-camera. Beside her was a younger Remus, pale and neat, wearing a knitted jumper and trying not to smile as Sirius nudged him repeatedly with an elbow.

“That’s all of us,” Remus murmured as he stepped closer, then lowered himself to sit beside Harry on the bed. “James, Lily, Sirius, and me. This was taken at your house in Godric’s Hollow.”

The image was warm and comforting. Like a place that remembered laughter.

Harry blinked, then flipped the page once more.

Lily sat on a worn sofa, her arms full of something swaddled in blankets. James was kneeling beside her, one hand on her back, the other reaching for the bundle. Baby Harry wriggled in the blanket, tiny fists in the air, mouth open in an almost-yawn. He had a mop of black hair that stuck up in every direction, even then.

Sirius let out a soft breath.

“You had just turned four months there,” he said. “You were trying to eat your own foot. And your mum kept saying you’d be a dancer, not a Quidditch player.”

Remus smiled faintly, tracing the edge of the photo with one finger. “You had everyone wrapped around your finger.”

Harry couldn’t speak. His throat ached. But his hands moved with reverence as he turned the page again, heart beating louder.

The next photo was brighter than the rest.

Outdoors again, some wide open garden, green and sun-drenched. The five of them stood in a crooked line, all laughing too much to stay still. Lily in a summer dress, and James beside her, lifting baby Harry high into the air like he was the most important thing in the world.

Harry, barely a year old, was squealing with delight, grabbing at James’s glasses.

Sirius stood on the other side of Lily, dramatically pretending to swoon as Harry pulled, while Remus, stood beside James, half-laughing, half-worried. He reached up like he was going to catch the baby if he slipped.

Sirius chuckled now, shaking his head. “You were obsessed with glasses. Nearly broke James’s nose every time he held you.”

The picture looped again: Harry squealing, James laughing, Lily brushing a kiss to the baby’s head, and Sirius making a face while Remus rolled his eyes. It was loud with happiness, even in silence.

Harry stared at it.

A warmth bloomed in his chest, fierce and sudden. Not just a flicker, but something real. Something that filled in spaces he hadn’t known were empty.

He looked up at the two men now sitting quietly nearby. Older. Worn. Battered in ways the photo couldn’t have foretold. But still here.

And then the ache hit him. Because two of them weren’t.

He touched the page. And the tears fell, quiet and steady, splashing onto the glossy surface below. His fingers left faint smudges on the photo in the trail of his tears. His throat worked silently. Then, in a hoarse whisper, almost like he was afraid the answer might shatter something inside him, he asked, “Is this… is this real?”

Sirius tried to answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came. His jaw clenched, and then, to Harry’s astonishment, a tear slid down his cheek. Sirius turned his face slightly, as if ashamed to let it be seen.

Remus leaned forward, his voice quiet but steady, even as his own eyes shimmered. “Yes, Harry. It’s real. As real as it gets. This is what your parents would have wanted. You. Here. With us.”

Harry looked down again, fingers tightening faintly on the edge of the album. The tears slowed. He drew in a shaky breath, held it, and then let it go, long and slow. His guard came back up, not completely, but enough to steady himself.

“What now?” he asked.

Remus sat back a little, his tone returning to its usual composed warmth. “Now, you have breakfast.”

With a quick flick of the stick in his hand, the mug of tea steamed instantly beside Harry’s untouched toast. The scent of bergamot and something sweet curled into the air.

Sirius had turned away for a moment, wiping his face on his sleeve. When he turned back, his smile was almost normal again.

“And after breakfast,” he said brightly, “we tackle the garden. You’ll learn what being a Gryffindor’s really about… braving the lawnmower.”

Remus gave him a flat look. “You still haven’t figured out how to start it.”

“I have a system.”

“You kicked it and swore at it.”

Sirius turned to Harry. “You probably know how it works.”

Harry blinked. “It’s a lawnmower.”

Sirius nodded solemnly. “Exactly. You’re the expert.”

Harry didn’t know what a Gryffindor was. Or why two grown men seemed alternately enchanted, horrified, and reverent about a piece of garden equipment. But for some reason, it made him feel almost… included.

Sirius leaned back. “To be fair, I’m convinced it’s cursed. No ordinary Muggle contraption could hate me that personally.”

Remus sighed, but the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

And Harry let out a small breath that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh. Because Sirius and Remus were laughing. Not loud or careless, but real. Shared. Like the sound of something mending.

He felt the way the room shifted. How the grief wasn’t gone, but now had space for something else. He didn’t feel whole, he wasn’t sure he ever had. But in that moment, he felt a little closer to it. Like light had finally found its way into a corner of him that had always been in shadow.

Outside, two birds glided past the window, their flight slow at first, then rising fast, effortless. They vanished into the sun, wings turning to light, until only the gold remained.

Chapter Text

Morning had settled gently over the castle and the soft hush of early autumn hung in the air. Outside, the sky was pale and glassy, streaked with thinning clouds. Light filtered through the tall windows of the Headmaster’s office in long, golden beams, casting faint halos on the worn stone floor. Dust rose and turned in the sunlit columns, stirred by currents too old to name.

The chamber itself; round, lofty, and filled to the rafters with oddities, felt almost suspended in time. Shelves bowed under the weight of arcane devices: telescopes with lenses of smoked crystal, narrow flasks containing wisps of memory, and timepieces that marked the hour not with hands but with orbiting moons and shifting sigils. A great silver astrolabe turned slowly near the ceiling, creaking faintly in its cradle of enchantment.

The hearth burned low, its embers a smoulder of quiet red. Shadows moved lazily across the room, crawling over the legs of armchairs and the edges of stacked books. A clock in the shape of a phoenix pulsed once, and fell silent again.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk.

He was a tall man, though age had hollowed his cheeks and left fine lines across the parchment-pale skin of his face. His hair, long and silver, fell neatly over his shoulders, and his beard, equally long, was tucked with habitual care into the braided loop of his belt. His robes were of deep, velvety blue, embroidered with faintly shifting constellations. Bright blue eyes, sharp and far-seeing, gleamed behind a pair of half-moon spectacles.

One of his hands rested lightly atop a letter. The other held his wand, idle between long fingers. The wax seal, broken cleanly, bore the alchemical symbol for gold. His gaze, however, was not on the parchment. It lingered somewhere past the window, past the towers and turrets and the golden sweep of the forest below. Not a man lost in thought, but one watching the horizon for something that hadn’t yet come.

A slow exhale stirred the papers on his desk. The silence stretched and the letter seemed to press down on the room, heavy, like a prophecy too near its hour.

You are right to worry, Albus. The omens are not scattered things, they are converging. We see it here, too. The stars are shifting in ways they should not. Old wards hum without provocation. The Veil has begun to whisper again. And the boy... if what you say is true, then the burden he carries will be unlike any we have known.

Nicholas had written those words in his precise, looping script, every stroke of the quill deliberate, as though it had been carved rather than penned. There was no urgency in the letter, no dramatic flair. Nicholas Flamel had never been given to such things. He did not cry wolf. He waited, and watched; and when he spoke, the world, or at least the part of it that remembered its roots, paid attention.

To most, Nicholas Flamel was legend. An alchemist spoken of in half-truths and dusty footnotes, a curiosity confined to history books. But Albus had known the man well. They had worked side by side across decades and disciplines, from quietly redirecting dangerous magical artefacts to corresponding over arcane theories that pushed the boundaries of known transmutations. He remembered long conversations over wine and ink-stained parchment, and the sharp, undimmed brilliance in Flamel’s eyes even in old age.

They had walked together through places long abandoned to silence and time, halls where magic lingered in the stone, heavy with warnings neither of them could yet name. Albus had learned that Flamel did not speak of omens lightly, and never of prophecy without cost.

The Philosopher’s Stone had been one of their greatest shared legacies, perhaps Flamel’s magnum opus. He had entrusted one of the last known fragments to Albus, years ago, with the quiet understanding that its time in the world was drawing to a close. Both men had agreed: some forms of immortality were never meant to endure. That fragment now lay sealed within a secret Gringotts vault, its presence known only to a chosen few, far from the grasp of a world that would never stop reaching.

There was something otherworldly to Nicholas Flamel; not just age, but distance. He was not moved by ministry decrees, nor by mortal fears. He had lived so long that the rise and fall of Dark Lords had become background noise. He had watched empires collapse and magic reshape itself. When he worried, it was not about power, it was about balance.

And now, he was worried.

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. If even Nicholas had begun to feel the shape of what was coming, then the world was shifting faster than he’d feared. The years had passed quietly, broken only now and then by a flicker of Death Eater activity, traces of darkness that never fully disappeared. But this felt different. As if something old and buried had begun to wake.

The letter made no predictions. Nicholas never did. He offered signs, never outcomes, for outcomes belonged to men still bound by time. But there had been weight in those final lines. If what you say is true… then the burden he carries will be unlike any we have known.

The boy. Neville.

“Albus. You busy?”

Dumbledore blinked, the moment’s weight lifting slightly as a familiar, gravel-edged voice crackled through the flames. The fire flared green, and a battered face resolved within it: pale, weathered, and stitched with old scars. One eye, dark and deeply set, squinted against the light. The other – round, vivid blue, and artificial, spun in its socket with a faint mechanical whir before locking onto him.

“Alastor,” Dumbledore said, a thread of warmth returning to his tone. “I always have time for an old friend. Come in.”

The head in the fire grunted. A moment later, with a whoosh of displaced air and a hiss of soot, Alastor Moody stepped through the floo and into the room.

He was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man, though age and injury had robbed him of any elegance. His gait was stiff, limping slightly with a wooden leg that thudded softly against the stone floor. A long, worn overcoat hung from his frame, charred slightly at the hem and streaked with dust. His grizzled hair was cropped short, peppered grey and white, and his mouth was set in a habitual scowl, though not always from displeasure. For Alastor Moody, suspicion was a kind of baseline.

The magical eye whirled in a wide sweep of the office, taking in the portraits, the shelves, the corners where dust gathered, the ceiling where nothing should be hiding, then came to rest on Dumbledore again.

“Still keeping clockwork birds?” he asked dryly.

One of the brass telescopes turned slightly on its own, as though acknowledging him. The air in the room had changed, not darker, but sharper. Even the fire seemed to burn more alertly in Moody’s presence, its shadows retreating just a little further from the corners.

“You were reading,” Moody said, tone flat.

“I was,” Dumbledore replied. “But it can wait.”

With a quiet flick of his wand, the letter slipped away into a drawer, its seal vanishing with a faint shimmer.

“Sit, Alastor. Tell me what the morning brings. You don’t usually drop in unless something’s either gone wrong… or is about to.”

Moody didn’t answer right away. He moved to the nearest chair with a slow, deliberate motion, not out of hesitation, but the practiced caution of a man who had never stopped patrolling the battlefield.

“Your boy’s fine, by the way. Kingsley filled me in… Lupin’s working temp over in one of the Muggle offices. Social Care. Something to do with records, placements, family assessments... Muggle admin work. Low profile.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “That’s good to hear. I was… concerned.”

Moody snorted. “You always are.”

Dumbledore gave no reply to that. He only folded his hands neatly in his lap and looked towards the fire, which had quieted to a steady flame once more.

“Well, whatever it was,” Moody went on, “there’s no sign of Sirius. Not so much as a whisper.”

“I saw something,” Dumbledore murmured, eyes narrowing slightly at the memory. “In Remus’ eyes… that day, in my office. Just a flicker, but it was there. Guilt, perhaps. Or resolve. Hard to name. But not nothing.”

He paused, fingers drumming once on the arm of his chair.

“He knew he was being watched,” Dumbledore said, his voice low. “Recognised them the moment they arrived. He remarked, that if the Ministry’s idea of surveillance was a man and a woman tripping over each other across the street, then we might as well hang a welcome sign on his door. Said he could walk out and back again in a hat and wig, and they’d be none the wiser.”

A faint pause. “And he wasn’t exaggerating. I believe him. He could lose them without breaking stride. So if Remus can do that... what do you think Sirius Black could manage? I think he will be inclined to tie up loose ends.”

Moody grunted again, less agreement, more resignation. “Half the ones they’ve got on lookouts are Magical Law Enforcement. Desk-trained. Not field. Not like our lot used to be. Budget cuts. Efficiency, they say.” He sneered. “Efficiency never won a war.”

Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t shift, but his mouth tightened ever so slightly.

The truth was, the Ministry had been rotting for years. Not in any dramatic, headline-worthy way, but with the slow, quiet inevitability of something left too long to fester. Every department layered with red tape. Every crisis met first with a policy memo, then a press statement, and only rarely with action. The Office of Magical Catastrophes now spent more time arguing over jurisdiction than containing threats. The International Division had become little more than a luncheon club for soft-palmed diplomats who'd never stepped outside of London.

Even the Auror Office, once feared and respected, had grown thin. Veterans pushed into early retirement. Recruits trained more in paperwork than fieldcraft. Some of the old hands had left outright, disgusted by the new culture of compliance: follow the protocol, don’t make noise, and above all, don’t contradict the Ministry’s version of events.

And Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, had mastered the art of doing nothing very loudly. Public reassurances, photo opportunities, half-hearted reforms. He believed only in the appearance of stability. He measured peace in headlines and approval ratings, not in truth. And where truth threatened that illusion, it was brushed aside and called alarmist.

Moody’s voice cut through again, gruff and bitter. “You know what he told Robards after the raid in Northiam? ‘We need calm, not chaos.’ Calm, Albus. While bodies turned up in St. Mungo’s and whole families vanished.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his hands folded before him. “Calm,” he repeated. “The Ministry’s favourite spell… works wonders on the public, less so on reality. It makes for a very neat illusion of control.”

Moody leaned back. “Fudge is getting rattled. Word is he wants to let the Dementors off the leash. Said it in front of two department heads yesterday.”

“That,” said Dumbledore, his voice taking on a slight chill, “would be a grave mistake.”

“Well, no one’s calling it wise,” Moody muttered. “But it’s not about wisdom, is it? This whole thing’s bruised his pride. That Sirius slipped through his fingers… it makes him look weak.”

“The fragile egos of men in power,” Dumbledore murmured. “More volatile than any dark spell.”

Moody smirked faintly. “I still say you should’ve taken the post when they offered it.”

“I would not have held it well,” said Dumbledore. “Power sits poorly with me. I have worn it before… and found it far too comfortable. That’s the danger, Alastor.”

He glanced at the hearth, the flames casting shifting light across his face.

“There was a time I believed I could bend the world towards good… if only I held the reins tightly enough. But that kind of thinking doesn’t save lives. It breaks them. It feels justified, even noble. But it’s no less terrible for that.”

That drew a moment’s silence. A rare kind, not uncomfortable, but understood.

Then Dumbledore stirred again. “Who is guarding the Longbottoms?”

Moody’s jaw tightened. “Not the rank and file. Aurors. People I trust. I’m on the roster myself. And the Prewett twins… they guard the boy like he’s their own blood.”

“Can you assign Kingsley to them? Quietly.”

Moody’s eye spun. “You’re worried.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore admitted. “The letter. You were right… it was from Nicholas Flamel.”

Moody’s head turned. “And?”

“He was… cryptic. As always. But he’s concerned that something might happen. A convergence of omens. He didn’t name Neville directly, but the implication…”

“Is it Sirius?” Moody said, voice low. “That he might come after the boy?”

Before Dumbledore could answer, a sharp knock echoed against the oak door. Three quick raps. Precise. Familiar.

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked towards the door, then back to Moody, who was already halfway to his feet, wand in hand before he seemed to realise it.

A beat passed.

Moody exhaled and lowered his wand. “It’s Minerva.”

“Come in, please,” Dumbledore called.

The door opened with a soft click, and Professor McGonagall entered with her usual brisk efficiency, robes sweeping the stone floor behind her. Her hair was pulled into its signature bun, not a strand out of place, and the square lines of her spectacles framed eyes that missed very little. She carried herself with a kind of effortless precision, as though the castle itself adjusted to her pace.

“Albus,” she said with a nod, then glanced at the man seated across from him. “Alastor. I didn’t realise you were here.”

“Didn’t announce myself,” Moody replied. The words were rough, but the nod he gave her was respectful.

“Good to see you,” McGonagall returned, voice warmer than her expression.

“Do sit down, Minerva,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the armchair. “You’ve been at it since early, I imagine.”

“I have,” she admitted, settling into the seat. “It’s that strange lull, you know… the term has only just found its rhythm, which is exactly when it decides to misbehave.”

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Just enough quiet for mischief to organise itself.”

With a flick of his wand, the silver teapot rose from its tray and began pouring into three delicate porcelain cups. He handed one to Moody, who took it with a grunt of thanks, and passed another to McGonagall, who accepted it with a nod.

“Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t had a moment since breakfast.”

McGonagall took a sip of her tea, then set it down with practiced precision. Her expression, though composed, bore the faint weariness of someone carrying the weight of an entire castle’s antics.

“This week’s been relatively calm… if one defines calm loosely,” she began. “Professor Vector is settling in well, though she seems perpetually five minutes behind her timetable. Professor Binns has begun a new lecture cycle. He’s already halfway through the Goblin Rebellions of 1752, which I suspect is just the 1670s again with different names.”

Dumbledore made a soft hum of amusement.

“The Ravenclaw common room had to be re-enchanted after a group of fourth years accidentally charmed the door into a riddle even they couldn’t solve. Took Filius an hour and three glasses of water to untangle it.”

She continued with a small sigh. “The first-floor corridor outside the library flooded briefly on Wednesday… not with water, but with ink. No culprit identified, though I have my suspicions.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly. “Ah. The mysterious ink tide returns.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall said, arching a brow. “Argus is still scrubbing ink off the stonework.”

“And Hagrid?” Dumbledore asked, his tone gentling slightly.

She shifted in her chair. “He’s been keeping mostly to himself, tending the hedges near the Forbidden Forest. Says he’s working on regrowing some of the thistle-barrier, though what he’s actually done is lure in half a dozen puffskeins with tinned salmon. They’ve taken up residence under his hut. I imagine he’ll name them soon.”

Moody made a low noise but said nothing.

She paused. “And then, of course, there are the Weasley twins.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

“They managed to hex the hourglasses in the entrance hall to show weather forecasts instead of House points… and rather dramatic ones, too. On Thursday, the Gryffindor hourglass brewed up a storm, complete with thunder and lightning.”

Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “They do have a certain flair.”

McGonagall gave him a dry look. “Need I remind you they managed to land themselves in detention after dinner on the very first day of term… a new record, even for them.”

Moody snorted and shook his head “Arthur’s boys. Figures.”

“They have too much of flair,” McGonagall said tartly. “And I don’t trust them for a moment. Especially when they’re being quiet.”

“What are they up to now?” Dumbledore asked, a note of curiosity creeping in.

“Serving detention with Pomona,” McGonagall said. “She’s set them to weeding the greenhouses under supervision. Claimed she needed the extra hands… but personally, I think she just wanted them somewhere all the flammable things were safely locked away.”

She took another sip of tea, then added, “They’ve been conspicuously well-behaved since. Which, in their case, is hardly reassuring.”

Dumbledore smiled into his tea. “Mischief, when it comes from a good heart, can be a sign of life. Especially in a place like this.”

Moody gave a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “You always were too soft.”

In the circle of firelight, the conversation pressed on, low and steady, like embers refusing to die. McGonagall spoke with clipped precision, Moody with a gravelled drawl, and Dumbledore, quiet and listening, his hand lifting now and then to pause or guide.

Outside the tall windows, the light had softened; late afternoon spilling gold across shelves and stone. Steam curled from the tea, the scent of bergamot and lemon lingering in the air. And the castle listened, as it always did.

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted pale and gold through the curtains, soft as breath against the frost-laced windowpanes. The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the clock on the bookshelf and the occasional groan of the old cottage as it settled into the winter cold. From somewhere outside came the metallic clatter of someone trying and failing to coax the garden gate shut.

Harry stirred under his duvet, nose barely peeking out from the cocoon of warmth. For a moment he didn’t move, just listened to the hush of the house and the soft, steady sound of his own breathing.

It was strange, sometimes, how much things could change and still feel like it belonged to you.

He was no longer Harry Palmer of St Jude’s, whose shoes were always slightly too tight and whose name was scrawled on laundry tags in permanent marker. He was Harry Potter now, son of James and Lily Potter; godson of Sirius Black, who cooked with too much salt and laughed like he hadn’t remembered how until recently. And supervised, though that felt like too stiff a word, by Remus Lupin, who wasn’t exactly a guardian or a friend, but something in between. A sort of unofficial anchor. A steady presence.

His world had tilted on its axis months ago. Since then, he’d been learning to live in a place where the rules didn’t follow the ones he’d grown up with. There was a word for it… Muggles. That’s what they called people without magic. Which meant, by that logic, he wasn’t one.

Because he had magic.

It still didn’t always feel real. But he’d heard enough to know it was. There was an entire world tucked just beneath the skin of the ordinary, stranger and older than he’d imagined. A world with flying broomsticks and goblin-run banks buried deep under London. Where owls delivered post and nothing stayed quite the shape you expected.

There was a Ministry, too. Not like the one that sent inspectors to the orphanage, all clipboards and hairnets. This one regulated magic, tried to keep it hidden, and, according to Sirius, couldn’t organise a cauldron-stirring in an apothecary. There were shops that sold telescopes which didn’t point at stars and robes that shimmered with enchantments, and joke items that sounded wildly unsafe but were apparently bestsellers.

And there had been a war once. Not like the ones in history books, with guns and tanks, but one fought in shadows and silence. A war of curses and fear and vanished names. They didn’t speak of it directly. But sometimes, in the pauses between stories, in the things Sirius and Remus didn’t say, Harry felt it.

And wands. Wands that were more than tools, they chose their owners. Sirius said magic wasn’t just something you did, it was something you listened to. Let it speak. Let it rise.

Harry wasn’t sure if his had started speaking yet. But sometimes, when his emotions got too big, things still crackled under his skin. Lights flickered. Doors trembled. Once the radio exploded and Sirius just nodded and said “That’s your dad in you.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant, exactly. But he was trying to find out.

He’d never been to Hogwarts, the school where you were meant to learn all of this, but he’d seen pictures. Heard stories. Read the letter Sirius had kept: his mother’s first one home. Full of neat handwriting and excitement about Charms class. Harry had memorised it long ago, then slipped it between the pages of his favourite novel, a paperback gifted by Madame Leroux. Le Petit Prince. As if by hiding her words there, among stars and quiet truths, he could hold onto her voice a little longer.

And even now, here in a quiet cottage that smelled faintly of old books and lemon oil, wrapped in a duvet that was his, in a room arranged with him in mind, he sometimes half-expected it all to vanish.

But it hadn’t. Not yet.

He turned on his side, face buried into the pillow. He groaned softly, as if the world were gently tugging at him, coaxing him to wake, and he wasn’t quite ready to leave the quiet spell of sleep just yet.

A draft crept through the floorboards. Somewhere downstairs, something clattered in a pan, followed by a muffled curse and the smell of scorched toast. Then…

“Breakfast’s ready…,” came Sirius’s unmistakable voice, rising through the floor with the cheerful air of someone who had absolutely caused the burnt-toast situation and was refusing to take responsibility.

Harry groaned louder and flung back the covers. “I was having a very important meeting with the Minister for Dreams,” he called hoarsely, voice still thick with sleep. “Negotiations ran long. Had to veto a flying cabbage tax.”

He pulled on his jumper, mismatched socks already halfway down his shins, and padded down the stairs, the banister cold beneath his hand. The scent of eggs and something that might have once been bacon greeted him as he stepped into the kitchen.

Sirius stood at the cooker with a spatula in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, looking far too awake for a man in tartan pyjama bottoms and a “WIZARDS DO IT WITH WANDS” T-shirt.

“You vetoed the cabbage tax, did you?” he said without turning. “Tragic. The economy of the dream realm will never recover.”

Harry flopped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Well, it might’ve helped if someone had given me a wand when I asked,” he said, pouring himself a generous amount of milk. “Could’ve just magicked myself out of bed. Or levitated the toast straight to my face.”

Sirius turned at that, raising a brow. “If I’d given you a wand last week, you'd have used it to charm the entire house to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ in French every time someone opened the door.”

Harry gave him an innocent look. “It would have improved morale.”

“It would have improved noise complaints from the neighbouring fields.”

“Hard to prove my involvement,” Harry said, taking a bite of toast. “Worst case… I would have called my solicitor.”

“Don’t drag him into your crimes… he hasn’t even had his tea yet.”

There was a shuffle from the doorway just then, followed by a muffled, “The case would have been thrown out even before it made it to trial.” Remus entered, wrapped in a faded jumper and carrying the newspaper. He dropped it on the table and headed straight for the kettle.

The cottage felt warm. A little crowded with laughter, the kind that had grown comfortable over time. And at the centre of it, a boy with outlandish dreams and mismatched socks, catching up to the life that had once been kept from him. One cup of milk, one half-burnt toast, one jab at his godfather at a time.

He had finished most of his toast, the jam smudged across his plate in lazy spirals. The morning had quieted; even Sirius had stopped muttering at the frying pan. Only the soft clink of Remus stirring his tea remained.

Harry asked, “Do wands always pick the wizard? Or is that just a thing you say so it sounds cooler?”

Sirius looked up, startled. “Bit of both. But yes, wands do choose. You can use someone else’s, but it won’t work as well. Like… trying to write with the wrong hand.”

Harry nodded slowly. “So what if it doesn’t choose?”

Remus, across the table, folded his hands neatly. “It always does. Sometimes it just takes a few tries. But when the match is right… you’ll feel it. Like something clicks.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb. “And spells? You don’t just say them and hope?”

Sirius laughed. “Definitely not. It’s about intention. Focus. The words help shape the magic… but what drives it is you. That’s why kids can do accidental magic… raw emotion. No words, no wand, just instinct.”

Harry looked down at his fingers. “So when I… when I blew up the telly, that was real? Not just something going haywire?”

Remus nodded. “Completely real. It’s called a magical outburst. Common in children your age.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “So it’s not… wrong. To feel it. When things shake, or I feel like something’s about to snap… it’s not bad?”

“No,” Remus said gently. “It’s you, learning to hold something powerful. That feeling… when you sense it building… is magic responding to emotion. It doesn’t make you dangerous, Harry. Just… magical. And human.”

Harry glanced sideways. “Some days it still feels like a bit of both.”

Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s normal. Magic isn’t clean-cut, Harry. It’s messy and weird and sometimes explodes in your face… usually when you’re least ready. But it belongs to you. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

Harry was silent again. He looked towards the window, eyes distant. “Is there a spell to stop nightmares?”

Remus’s eyes flicked briefly to Sirius, then back to Harry. “There are potions. Some help you sleep deeper, some keep dreams clear. But the best remedy is feeling safe. Magic doesn’t always need a wand.”

Harry considered that. Then nodded once and didn’t ask anything else for a while.

The sun had risen fully now, pale gold on the frostbitten grass. In the corner of the kitchen, the clock ticked on. Remus was quietly buttering toast and Sirius was stirring more sugar into his tea than was strictly acceptable in polite society.

Then, as if a gear had turned in his head, he glanced up. “You still haven’t told me why you called my dad ‘Prongs.’”

Sirius stilled, one hand wrapped around his mug. “That’s right. I suppose we haven’t. It’s because he could turn into a stag.”

Harry blinked. Then sat up straighter. “Wait… what? Like, actually turn into one? Not just pretend?”

“Actually,” Remus said, smiling faintly. “It’s called being an Animagus. Very advanced magic. Your dad was one.”

Harry’s eyes shone, almost comically wide. “That’s brilliant. Can I turn into one too?”

“Maybe one day,” Remus said gently. “It takes years of study, and it’s not something you can force. The form you take… chooses you.”

Harry absorbed that with visible effort. Then, still riding the wave of excitement, he turned to Sirius. “And you’re Padfoot. So what do you turn into? A giant paw?”

Sirius gave him a dry look over the rim of his tea. “A dog.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “No way. What kind of dog?”

Sirius grinned now, rising from his chair. “See for yourself.”

He stepped back from the table and, shifted with a shimmer of magic. His limbs shortened, his hair darkened and thickened. In seconds, a large black dog stood where Sirius had been. Shaggy and lean, with intelligent grey eyes.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed. Then he stood up slowly, gaze locked on the dog.

“You,” he breathed, voice barely audible. “It was you. Outside the orphanage… by the fence. You kept coming back.”

Padfoot’s tail thumped once against the floor. Harry reached out, fingers hesitant, and touched the soft fur. “I saved you biscuits, you know.”

The dog whined low in his throat, and in the next blink, Sirius was back.

“I remember,” Sirius said. “Every one.”

There was a silence, filled with something wordless and full; recognition, gratitude, memory folding back into the present.

Then Harry said, with a little shrug, “You licked my fingers. Bit rude, really.”

Sirius huffed out a breath. “You fed me. You brought snacks. It’s practically law.”

“Still. You could’ve asked first.” He turned to Remus. “Is that a dog thing or a Sirius thing?”

“Both,” said Remus, without looking up from the paper.

Harry grinned. “What about my mum? Did she turn into something too? Like a flower?” His voice was innocent, unguarded. Hopeful.

Something in the air shifted. Remus’s paper rustled as he folded it shut. Sirius looked away, his jaw tightening briefly.

“No,” Remus said after a pause, his voice quiet but warm. “She never became an Animagus.”

Sirius nodded, gaze distant. “She didn’t need to. She was already the best of us.”

Harry blinked. “So she didn’t try?”

“Exactly” Remus said gently. “Your mum… she was brilliant with charms. Subtle magic. She didn’t need to change shape to be powerful.”

Sirius looked at Harry, something soft flickering behind the grey. “She was the kind of witch who made rooms feel different just by walking into them. Like they remembered to be whole.”

Harry sat very still, his voice small but steady: “I think I’d have liked her.”

Sirius smiled faintly, eyes bright. “She would’ve loved you.”

Harry held the words for a moment, like something fragile and precious. Then he nodded and looked down at his hands, as if unsure what to do with them now.

Then he glanced up again, his gaze shifting to Remus. “And you? Why ‘Moony’?”

The question hung there a second longer than it needed to, as if giving Remus the chance to dodge it. But he didn’t.

Before he could speak, though, Sirius cleared his throat.

“He turns into a furry rabbit. Once a month. Can’t control it. Tragic, really.”

Remus didn’t even look at him. “If I bite you, it’s not the rabbit you’ll be dealing with.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, grateful for the levity, but still curious. “Wait… seriously though. Why?”

Sirius’s grin faded, not entirely, but enough to let something else in. He glanced at Remus, who gave a small, steady nod.

“Because,” Sirius said, more quietly now, “Remus carries a kind of magic not many do. Something old. Dangerous. And very rare. He didn’t choose it… but he lives with it, every day.”

Harry’s smile faltered, brows drawing together. He turned towards Remus, who had finally set the paper aside and met his gaze.

“I was bitten by a werewolf when I was very young,” Remus said calmly. “And every full moon, I change.”

Harry’s eyes widened, a spark of awe in them. “Werewolves? Actual werewolves? That’s real?”

Remus nodded, lips twitching faintly. “Very real.”

“Does it hurt?” Harry asked, hushed now. “Can you still think like yourself? Or do you forget everything?” There was no fear in his voice, just honest, wide-eyed wonder.

Remus’s reply was quiet. “It does hurt. And no, I don’t always remember. But I’ve learned ways to manage it.”

Harry was quiet for a beat. Then he said, almost offhandedly, “I don’t think it’s scary. You being a werewolf, I mean. I think it’s kind of… brave.”

Remus was startled. “Brave?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. “You didn’t give up. You figured out how to live with it. That’s… I dunno. That’s better than pretending nothing’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Sirius looked over at Remus, who was staring at the boy with a strange softness behind his tired eyes.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Remus said quietly. “Brave.”

And Harry just nodded, as though he hadn’t said anything extraordinary at all.

Sirius gave a short laugh. “Told you the boy’s got your number.”

And the warmth returned, rooted deep. Not just shared history, but something new taking shape. Trust. Understanding.

Family.

The garden at Wreinleigh Cottage looked half-asleep under the weight of winter. Frost clung to the hedges and fence posts, and the grass crunched faintly underfoot. A low sun filtered through bare branches, casting long, pale shadows over the patchy lawn and skeletal rosemary bushes.

Harry stood in the middle of the garden path, holding a battered watering can that Sirius swore could be used for melting frost if one filled it with hot water. So far, it had managed to dribble most of that water directly into his sock.

“You know, we could just leave it till spring,” Harry said, shaking his foot and wincing. “Let nature deal with it.”

“Nature doesn’t have my flair,” Sirius muttered, crouched beside a trellis with a grim sort of purpose. “Besides, this is Remus’s planting frame. I’m preserving domestic harmony.”

Harry glanced at the wooden trellis, which looked slightly more treacherous than before. “You’re preserving it by setting it on fire?”

“It’s not on fire.” Sirius stuck his wand back in his coat pocket, and picked up a claw hammer with obvious distaste. “I’m doing this the Muggle way. Builds character.”

“Pretty sure ‘building character’ doesn’t usually smell like burnt hedge.”

“Ah, but that’s the smell of progress.” He gave a decisive whack to the frame. It creaked ominously. Then, when he thought Harry wasn’t looking, he slipped his wand back out again, muttered a quick incantation, and the trellis promptly burst into vivid purple flames.

Harry blinked. “I’m going to write a book: Fireside Gardening with Padfoot.”

“It’s a controlled flame,” Sirius insisted.

“It’s purple.”

“Fire is fire.”

“No it’s…”

The frame gave a protesting creak as something inside surrendered to fate. Sirius swore, yanked his wand away, and began stamping out the flames with the hem of his coat. A small cloud of blackened leaves floated upward, drifting like defeated confetti.

At that moment, the garden gate opened with its usual rusty protest and Remus appeared. He paused in the doorway, surveying the battlefield: the scorched trellis, Harry’s soaked socks, Sirius with soot on his nose and dignity in retreat.

He said. “Do I even want to ask?”

“We’re engaging in winter upkeep,” Sirius said, straightening with as much nobility as one could muster beside a smoking trellis.

Remus crossed the lawn, eyeing the wreckage. “That was my winter trellis.”

“Had frost rot,” Sirius offered helpfully. “I was saving it.”

“With fire.”

“Character-building fire.”

Harry, now hopping on one foot to peel off his wet sock, said, “You could’ve just used magic from the start instead of being sneaky and setting fire to the whole thing.”

Sirius put a hand on his chest. “And rob you of essential life skills? I’m giving you formative experiences.”

“You’re giving me frostbite.”

Remus bent down, picked up a half-melted leaf, and gave Sirius a long-suffering look. “I left for twenty minutes.”

“You can’t prove it was me,” Sirius said, wiping his sooty hands on his coat.

“You were holding the wand.”

Harry snorted. “Is this what grown-up wizards do on weekends?”

“Only the best ones,” Sirius said proudly. “We’re making memories.”

“You’re making smoke,” Remus replied dryly, extinguishing the last of the embers with a casual flick.

But his voice had softened. And when Sirius turned away, muttering about ‘structural prejudice in garden frames,’ Harry caught the smile tugging at Remus’s mouth.

The air was cold enough to nip their fingers and pinken their noses, but the company was warm, and the laughter came easily. Beneath the frost and far too many bad decisions, something steady was taking root: messy, bright, and strangely good.

By the time they made it back indoors, all three of them were red-cheeked and trailed in bits of scorched leaf and thawing frost, like some odd procession of garden ghouls.

The warmth hit instantly, thick and rich with the scent of cinnamon and hot cocoa. Remus’s charms had done their work: the cold melted from their skin, coats dried themselves with a soft rustle by the door, and even Harry’s socks gave a mournful squelch before flopping off towards the airing rack like wounded soldiers.

In the drawing room, the floral armchairs stood near the hearth, facing a bare patch of wall, where the telly had stood before Harry accidentally incinerated it months ago, during a morning news broadcast that revealed just who “James Blake” really was.

Sirius had dubbed it Harry’s “brief and fiery career as a BBC anchor,” a line he repeated often enough to turn Harry’s ears red every time. Though the telly was gone, the joke remained and the trust, painstakingly, had been built.

They settled in. Harry sprawled on the rug with a mug of cocoa; Sirius draped like a lazy monarch in one armchair; Remus in the other, post and parchment balanced on his lap.

“Heard back from Flourish and Blotts,” Remus said over the rim of his mug. “I start on the twenty-second.”

Harry’s head lifted. “So soon?”

“Just till mid-January,” said Remus. “Holiday rush. They needed extra help.”

“It’s really just an excuse to sniff parchment,” Sirius muttered.

“I like parchment,” Remus said mildly.

Harry asked, subdued. “You’ll be gone on Christmas?”

“Not all of it,” Remus said gently. “I’ll be back for supper. We’ll spend the evening together.”

“It’s not the same,” Sirius mumbled.

Remus gave them both an apologetic look, then shifted the parchment in his lap. “Grimnark’s back, by the way. Sent word this morning.”

Sirius sat up straighter. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve already got your letter. I’ll go sometime next week, see if I can access the vault.”

Sirius let out a breath, half-relieved, half disbelieving. “Finally. I didn’t think I’d ever get my hands on old Alphard’s gold.”

There was a pause. Sirius’s expression turned thoughtful. Too thoughtful, in Harry’s experience.

“I’ve been thinking.” He said lightly, “we could use some fresh air. Just a short outing. Polyjuice. Little stroll. Bit of pudding with whipped cream. Somewhere far from prying eyes.”

“No,” Remus said instantly.

“Just a few hours,” Sirius pressed. “Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade…”

“We have to be careful, Sirius. We slip up, and it all falls apart.”

Harry watched them both, uncertain. “What’s Polyjuice?”

“Potion,” Remus replied. “Lets you look like someone else for an hour. Complicated. Nasty stuff. Usually involves someone’s hair.”

Harry blinked. “That’s horrible.”

“Exactly,” said Remus.

Sirius looked unconvinced.

“Oh, come on, Moony. One little outing. You wouldn’t even have to bring me Polyjuice… I’ll just transfigure the tip of my nose or something. Give it a bit of flair. Big cloak. Dodgy glasses. Fake moustache…”

“No,” said Remus sternly. “Absolutely not.”

Sirius huffed, flinging one arm over the side of his chair like a wounded poet. “This house is lovely. Warm. Enchanting. But I am slowly, definitively, going mad inside it.”

“You were halfway there already,” Remus offered, deadpan.

Harry barely heard them. The fire snapped in the grate; his mug was growing cold in his hands. He watched the cocoa swirl as if it might spell something out.

And then quietly, as if the thought had travelled a long way to reach him, he spoke.

“Can we visit Godric’s Hollow?”

Both men turned at once. Sirius sat up straighter. Remus’s eyes flicked over Harry’s face, catching the ache beneath his voice.

“We don’t have to stay long,” Harry added quickly. “I just thought… if it’s still there.”

Sirius’s gaze lingered on him. Not inspecting, not questioning, just seeing. And his face softened.

Remus was the first to reply. “The cottage is still there.”

Harry’s head lifted.

“It’s still a wreck, never repaired. And they’re buried in the cemetery, just off the square, behind the old stone church.”

The flicker in Harry’s eyes of grief and longing was gone almost as quickly as it had come. He nodded once and looked back at his mug.

Remus reached for his cocoa again but didn’t drink. He held it, fingers pressed to the warmth, anchoring himself. Then he sighed and rubbed at his temples, bracing as if for impact.

“I’ll get some Polyjuice,” he muttered.

Sirius straightened.

“Only Godric’s Hollow,” Remus continued, tone sharpening. “There and back. No detours. No ‘just popping into Honeydukes’ or ‘let’s nick a look at Zonko’s’… and I cannot stress this enough: don’t do anything idiotic.”

Sirius beamed.

“Try Christmas morning,” Remus added. “Everyone’s too busy with turkey and presents to notice you sneaking about.”

Harry didn’t answer. A stillness set on him, not heavy this time, but expectant. A shadow of a smile touched the corner of his mouth; soft, unsure, like warmth returning to a place long gone cold.

The fire cracked, sparks flaring and fading. Outside, wind stirred the hedges. Somewhere in the hush of dusk, a bird gave a single call and fell silent. And the plan, such as it was, settled into place – simple, cautious, and, if the world was feeling kind, just uneventful enough.

Chapter Text

A pale wash of gold filtered through the curtains, touching the edges of the ceiling with soft light and the faint whisper of wind brushed past the windowpanes. Harry was already awake. In fact, he’d been awake for ages, lying still beneath the weight of his duvet, heart thudding with the quiet thrill of anticipation. Not just because it was Christmas, though that was part of it. But because today, they were going to Godric’s Hollow.

His home. Before it all unravelled

He climbed out of bed, pulled on his slippers, and padded out into the hall. The cottage was hushed and warm with the kind of stillness that made sound feel like a secret. The drawing room was dimly lit. A gentle glow shimmered under the tree. Charms… Sirius had done them. The pine was still crooked near the top, where he had insisted on hanging a stuffed wolf in place of a star.

And beneath it, gifts.

One wrapped in bright, clashing paper. Definitely Sirius. Another in plain brown parchment tied with twine. That had to be Remus. And the last… a red knitted jumper draped gently over a branch, already looking like it belonged there.

Harry knelt down. He wasn’t used to this. At the orphanage, Christmas meant a paper crown, carols in the evening, and a small, shared cake that always ran out before seconds. Presents were a communal thing, pulled from a donation box and handed round without names attached. You got what you got. The younger kids might get a knitted scarf along with that if the staff had time. He hadn’t really minded. It was just another day with a different smell in the corridor.

But this was different. He sat cross-legged on the rug and reached for the brown package first. A small, square box nestled inside. He lifted the lid carefully.

A Walkman.

Old but clean, the Walkman sat nestled in tissue paper, its casing slightly scuffed, with a pair of cushioned headphones and a cassette tucked in beside it. On the label, in Remus’s neat, looping handwriting, were the words:

“Queen – You’re My Best Friend. This was your parents’ wedding song. Thought you ought to know.”

Harry stared at the note. His eyes had gone wide, unfocused. Something prickled at the corners, a pressure that made it hard to breathe for a moment.

This had played at their wedding. His parents – laughing, dancing, alive, had once stood together with this song in the air.

A breath hitched in his chest.

Then, slowly, a grin pulled at his mouth. He ran his thumb reverently over the label, then the metal click-wheel of the player.

“Thanks, Remus,” he whispered.

The jumper came next. Knitted thick and red, loud with cartoonish charm. There was a wolf and a dog and a proud-looking stag blundering through a too-green forest, a single enormous lily rising above them like a crown. Harry snorted. It was ridiculous. And somehow perfect.

Finally, the last box. Sirius had wrapped it within an inch of its life; two layers of wrapping paper, one upside-down. Inside was a large tin of Chocolate Frogs and a folded note.

“Godric’s Hollow can wait ten minutes. Eat sweets. Wear jumper. Do not burn the house down. – The Management.”

Harry chuckled.

He hugged the jumper to himself and sat there for a long minute. Then, grinning like mad, he tugged the jumper over his pyjamas. It was a bit long in the sleeves and the neckline sagged just slightly, but he didn’t care.

Footsteps padded in from the hall. Sirius stepped into the room with a yawn, his wand stirring tea in two floating mugs behind him. He took one look at Harry wearing the jumper, and his face softened.

“Happy Christmas, kiddo.”

Harry scrambled to his feet. “Happy Christmas! Did you see…? Look what Remus got me…!”

“Hold that thought. I’m about to burn the toast.”

From behind, Remus’s voice drifted in. “Again?”

He entered holding a third mug and handed it to Harry. “Milk tea. One sugar. Happy Christmas.”

Harry took it with both hands. “Happy Christmas! I love the Walkman.”

“I’m glad.” Remus said, settling onto the arm of the sofa.

Then on the coffee table, Remus set down a parcel… wrapped, with a dog-eared corner. Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“Reckon you lost your old watch,” Remus said simply.

Sirius unwrapped it slowly. The pocket watch was worn but beautiful. Its brass cover dull with age, and its hands sweeping gently over a constellation dial. Inside the lid, glowed a softly etched engraving:

“Still here. Still Sirius.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “You sentimental bastard.”

Remus smiled. “Takes one.”

Sirius tossed something onto Remus’s lap in reply. “For when your clever little brain gets too full.”

Remus lifted the journal with reverence he wouldn’t voice aloud. The stitched wolf, the lunar phases, the slight scuff on the leather like it had already been carried for years.

Harry, watching them, tucked his knees under his chin and sipped his tea. He’d never had a Christmas morning like this.

Sirius held up his toast, now evenly golden. “Behold… our noble order: the Disgraced, the Deranged, and the Dangerously Ten.”

Harry raised his mug. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Remus said, smiling behind his cup.

The three of them clinked toast and mugs. And for a while, the morning held, whole and golden.

Remus had left not long after breakfast, bundled in his patched winter cloak, with a knowing smile and a silver hipflask passed wordlessly into Sirius’s hand.

“Back in ten,” Sirius had said. “Harry… get dressed. Warm layers.”

Harry had nodded solemnly, then bolted upstairs like his feet were already on fire. Now he stood by the window in his coat and new jumper, watching frost creep across the panes as the minutes ticked by.

He was halfway through adjusting his scarf when the door creaked open.

A man stepped into the drawing room, tallish, with mouse-brown hair, a forgettable face, and the sort of beige jacket only accountants and undercover spies could love. Harry froze. The man blinked at him, looked around the room, and said, “Blimey, rough neighbourhood. Someone’s let in a ten-year-old in a stag jumper.”

Harry stared.

The man grinned. “Honestly. I leave you alone for ten minutes and you forget your own godfather. Tragic.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Sirius?”

“In the tragically bland flesh,” said the man, and gave a dramatic bow. “Hair from a poor chap in Crockham.”

Harry squinted at the not-quite-right face and shook his head slowly. “You look like someone who reads gas meters for fun.”

“Perfect, isn’t it?” Sirius beamed. “Can’t go visiting sacred sites in this face…” he gestured broadly to where his real one should’ve been “… people would talk.”

“You mean, scream.”

“Exactly.”

He held out a hand. Harry took it without hesitation. The gloves were familiar, even if the face wasn’t.

“Ready?” Sirius asked.

Harry nodded. His heart was thudding, not with fear, but with something else. Something sharp-edged and huge and not quite nameable. They stepped out into the cold together, boots crunching over frost, breath misting silver in the morning light.

They stood at the cottage gate and Harry glanced up at the stranger beside him. Even up close, he couldn’t find a trace of Sirius in that face: round-cheeked, sandy-haired, with a slight stoop. Completely, absurdly average.

“Well,” said the man in Sirius’s voice, “ready for your first Side-Along?”

Harry blinked. “Er… ready as I’ll ever be?”

Sirius leaned down slightly, voice light but a touch gentler. “It’s not painful. Just strange. Like being yanked through a very narrow tube with your ribs on backwards.”

Harry stared. “That’s… comforting.”

“Figured you’d want the truth.” Sirius smirked, straightening. “Hang on tight, yeah?”

Harry reached out and grasped his sleeve, trying not to clutch like a limpet.

And then the world vanished. Or maybe it imploded. There was a sharp squeeze, like the air had turned inside out, and the breath was stolen from Harry’s lungs as everything warped and spun and pressed. It stretched forever, his feet didn’t feel like feet, and then… crack.

They landed.

Harry staggered sideways and grabbed Sirius’s coat to keep from falling over entirely. His stomach swooped unpleasantly.

“I think my brain is in my elbow,” he muttered, swaying.

Sirius snorted. “If so, it’s in good company.”

Harry managed a shaky laugh. “That was mad.”

And then he looked up… and forgot to breathe.

Godric’s Hollow was… beautiful.

Snow lay in smooth blankets across the rooftops, thick along the hedgerows and the tops of gates, but the sun had broken through the clouds at last, turning everything to gold. In the centre of the square stood a fountain carved from stone, twin lions rearing on either side of a great basin, their frozen manes glittering with frost. The houses around the square had wreaths on their doors and frost-framed windows with lace curtains.

There was no one about. The village was quiet under the weight of the morning light.

A tall church stood at the far end, its spire catching the sun. And just beside it, nestled past the low wall and bare trees, was the graveyard. Harry felt something catch in his throat.

“Alright?” Sirius asked, watching him.

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just…” He glanced around. “I thought it’d feel… louder.”

Sirius looked at the church. “Remus said it always feels like this here. Still. Like the place remembers.”

“I like it,” he said quietly. “It feels like… like it’s waiting. Not sad. Just… holding something.”

“Yeah,” said Sirius, voice low. “Yeah, it does.”

His gaze lingered on Harry for a beat. “You know your pendant’s glowing?”

Harry looked down. The silver stag had slipped free during the apparition. Now it hung just outside his jumper, pulsing faintly with a soft golden light.

“Yeah,” he said. “Happens sometimes. Ever since you and Remus touched it that day.”

They began to walk. The snow crunched softly under their boots as they stepped through the gate into the churchyard.

It was hushed, the kind of stillness that felt almost sacred. A light breeze stirred the bare branches overhead, shaking loose a few flakes from the limbs. The gravestones rose in uneven rows, some worn to softness by time, others newer, sharper-edged. Frost clung to the stone, tracing letters and lichen in silver.

Harry read names as they passed, some old and faded, some with fresh wreaths set at their base. A few were magical, spelled to gently hum or glow; but most were simple. A handful bore symbols he didn’t recognise.

“Not that one,” Sirius murmured, as Harry slowed near a tall cross. “Come on.”

The path wound past a stone angel whose wings had cracked at the tips, then past a cluster of headstones crowded together like gossiping neighbours.

Harry stopped at one. Abbott. Not the one. Then he saw it… a single headstone, pale and weathered, set back a little from the rest. His footsteps slowed.

Sirius came up beside him, his voice low. “That’s them.”

Harry crouched down. His gloved hand hovered for a moment, then brushed the snow gently away from the lettering carved into the weathered marble.

The names emerged slowly, line by line, as if rising from silence:

James Potter
27 March 1960 – 31 October 1981

Lily Potter
30 January 1960 – 31 October 1981

Harry James Potter
31 July 1980 – 31 October 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Harry stared at it, breath clouding the cold morning air. He’d seen their names before, scribbled in the corner of the album. But this was different. There was no life here. No laughter or movement. Just the stillness of stone and the hush of fallen snow.

His own name sat beneath theirs, carved in the same hand. The lie that had once been the truth.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, worn slightly at the edges where he’d held it too many times. He turned to Sirius and offered it to him.

“Do you think they’d like this?” he asked, voice soft, earnest and uncertain, as if speaking not only to Sirius, but to the ones buried beneath the frost. “I… I wasn’t sure how to begin. But I wrote it anyway.”

Sirius took the paper gently. As he read, something shifted in his expression, his jaw tightening, his eyes distant but full.

Dear Mum and Dad,

Hi.

I didn’t really know what to say. I kept starting over. I’ve never done this before.

I just… I wanted you to know I’m all right. I’ve got a home now. I wish you could see it. You’d laugh, I think. Or maybe roll your eyes. Sirius and Remus… they talk about you all the time.

I think about you a lot. I wish I remembered more… your voices, the way it felt to be held. But I know you loved me.

Sometimes I get angry. Or sad, in a way I can’t quite explain. But I get back up. I keep going. Because I think you would’ve done the same. And I’m trying to be someone you’d be proud of.

I hope it’s peaceful, where you are. I hope you’re together. And laughing, like in those photos.

Happy Christmas.

I’ll come back soon. I promise.

Love,

Harry

When he reached the end, Sirius exhaled slowly. The corner of his mouth lifted with something warmer than grief.

“They’d love it,” he said, voice low but certain. “They’d love you.”

He handed the letter back.

Harry nodded, the ache in his chest gentle now. He knelt again and placed the parchment on the grave, beneath the names, at the base of the headstone. The paper shifted slightly in the breeze, but stayed.

Then he paused. His gaze swept the churchyard as if searching for something. He stood, looked left and right, peering behind a low wall where the frost lay thick.

And there it was.

Nestled in the shelter of the church’s stone foundation, a single snowdrop bloomed, its white petals cupped like hands in prayer. Fragile, defiant. Alive in the heart of winter.

Harry crouched and gathered it gently. He came back to the grave, sat on his heels, and then, after a moment’s thought, reached down and tore a threadbare edge from the hem of his jumper. Sirius didn’t stop him.

He tied the bit of red wool around the stem of the flower, then bound it and the letter together. A small, smooth stone lay near the base of the grave, half-buried in frost. Harry picked it up and tucked it into the bundle, weighing it down so the wind wouldn’t take it. Then, bracing the little parcel with one palm, he laid it down with care.

Harry swallowed. “I wish you could read it,” he murmured. “Properly.”

Sirius stepped forward beside him, and from within his coat he pulled a little flask. With a quiet spell, he conjured two small cups. The liquid that poured out was amber and steaming.

“Tea,” Sirius said. “Remus would hex me if I gave you firewhisky.”

Harry accepted the cup.

Sirius raised his. “To James and Lily.”

Harry looked down at the headstone and the bundle beneath. Then he raised his cup too.

“To Mum and Dad.”

They drank in silence, the steam curling in the still air, two shadows standing watch as the graveyard stirred gently in the morning light.

They walked in circles for what felt like the third time, boots crackling softly over the frozen path that curved along Maple Walk. Harry glanced up at the crooked street sign again, brow furrowed. The houses here all looked the same: low hedges, slate roofs, pale brick dulled by time. And every time they reached a bend, something tugged them back.

Sirius came to a slow stop beside him. He stood very still for a moment, as if listening to a sound only he could hear. Then, with a low exhale, he said, “There’s a repelling charm on it.”

Harry turned to him. “What is that?”

Sirius didn’t look away from the road. “A charm. Makes your feet forget where they’re going. Turns your thoughts around without you noticing. Clever, really.”

He reached into his coat and drew his wand, muttered something under his breath and tapped Harry lightly on the shoulder, then himself. A strange weight lifted from the air between them. The road ahead, which had seemed like a wall of nothing, now pulled at Harry’s attention like a thread tugged loose from a sleeve.

They walked forward.

The cottage revealed itself slowly, like something shaking off a veil, a shell half-surrendered to time. It sat at the very edge of the lane, tucked behind a low stone wall and what might once have been a tidy garden. The roof had caved in on one side. Moss coated the bricks, ivy strangled the windows.

Harry stood still, breath misting faintly. His chest felt hollow, like something had slipped loose inside him. This was it. The place where it ended. And the place where it all began.

He waited, as if the cottage itself might speak first. Might offer something: memory, answer, anything. But there was only the wind. He didn’t know what he’d expected. A spark, some echo… But all he felt was a strange, distant quiet. Behind him, Sirius said nothing. He simply waited, hands in his pockets, the lines of his face unreadable.

They didn’t speak as they stepped through the broken gate. The latch had rusted clean through. It gave way with a soft creak, the kind that sounded too loud in a place like this.

Sirius moved first, scanning the perimeter with narrowed eyes. Harry followed close behind, his boots crunching against what might’ve once been a path, now overrun with frost-bitten weeds.

When they reached the threshold, Sirius stopped abruptly and lifted a hand.

“Careful,” he said, voice low. “There’s still magic in the air.”

Harry looked up sharply. The doorway yawned dark before them, and though the ruin stood quiet, the air pulsed faintly, like something living lay curled beneath the rubble.

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He drew his wand in a single, fluid motion. With a murmured incantation, a faint shimmer bled into view across the doorway, like light catching on glass. Another flick, and something hissed through the frost, like steam off a kettle. Sirius tilted his head slightly, listening not just with his ears, but with something deeper.

“These are old,” he said. “Half-broken, but… layered. Protective wards, mostly. Anchored through the threshold. And…” He paused. His brow furrowed, wand moving through the air with quick, precise motions. “Residual magic from the explosion. That night. It’s still echoing here.”

Harry felt it then, faintly, like a breath against the nape of his neck. The spells clung to the walls, to the wood and stone, as if the house itself refused to forget.

Sirius’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Some of its passive now, dormant. But some…” He sliced a slow arc in the air, and the magic quivered, visible only in the shifting light. “Some is holding something in. Not just memories. Actual force.”

He didn’t sound afraid. But he was cautious. Respectful, almost, in the way a diver might regard deep, dark water.

He adjusted his grip and began weaving counter-charms. Silent ones, clean and complex. His movements were efficient but not rushed, like he knew exactly what he was doing, like the layers of enchantment spoke a language he hadn’t forgotten. The wand-tip glowed faintly blue, then gold, then dimmed again as charm after charm slipped loose.

It took several minutes. Harry watched, saying nothing. He had never seen Sirius like this: focused, still, almost scholarly in his attention. It reminded him of something Remus once said: Sirius was always the boldest of us… but never reckless with magic. He learned fast and deep. Broke the rules, sure… but he knew what he was breaking.

Finally, Sirius stepped back and exhaled. The air felt lighter.

“That should hold it. We’ve got a little time,” he said, low and certain. “There’ll still be fragments, but nothing that’ll bite. Not for a while.”

They crossed the threshold together.

Inside, the house was in shreds.

The drawing room was the first to greet them, a half-collapsed shell of its former self. The walls, once likely lined with books or framed photos, were scorched and peeling. An armchair lay broken on its side, stuffing torn out like something eviscerated. Curtains hung in tatters. What had been a hearth was now a cracked ruin, the grate warped by heat and time. Shards of a tea set lay buried beneath dust and rubble, like the remnants of an ordinary evening frozen mid-collapse.

The ceiling above sagged ominously in places, but it was the far end of the house, up a stairwell half-swallowed by shadows, that held the worst of it. The first floor had caved in. Rubble spilled from the gap where a nursery had once been, wood and plaster collapsed in a yawning heap. The remnants of a crib lay half-exposed, one side blackened and splintered. A scorched mobile hung twisted from a charred beam above, its moons and stars melted beyond shape.

Harry stood still. The air shimmered faintly where the ceiling had given way, as if the moment still echoed here, too powerful to fully fade.

Then, without warning, his pendant stirred. A pulse of light bloomed beneath his jumper, gentle at first, then radiant. Golden threads spilled outward, weaving around him like sunlight through water, wrapping him in a glow that was not just light, but memory.

Sirius stepped forward, alarm flaring in his eyes, wand raised, but the light vanished before he could reach him, leaving only a stillness that felt deeper than before.

He stared at Harry. “Are you alright? What… what was that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said blinked. His fingers brushed the pendant where it lay warm against his chest. “It just… reacted. Like it knew this place. As if it had finally come home.”

Sirius didn’t say anything. Concern still shadowed his face, but something in his stance eased; like he’d expected violence and found something ancient watching back. His shoulders settled against the cold.

Beneath their feet, the floor was blackened, seared deep into the wood. Like it bore a scar from that night.

Harry knelt slowly.

His fingers brushed the earth, and something old and hot and aching flared under his skin. The ground was cold, but it pulsed faintly. He let his hand rest there, pressed flat to the place where it had happened. Where once, his parents had stood, and laughed, and held him.

A piece of charred wood lay near his knee. Scorched, edges rough where it had split. He picked it up without thinking, turned it over in his palm. Then, quietly, he slipped it into his pocket.

Sirius saw. He didn’t say a word.

His face was unreadable, drawn tight against something too deep for words. But his eyes lingered on the boy kneeling in the ash of his childhood, pocketing a fragment of ruin like it might fill the space where his parents should’ve been.

A breath shuddered through Sirius. And then a tear slipped down his cheek.

They stood there a while longer. Among the bones of the past, under the weight of silence.

Then Sirius turned wordlessly and stepped back through the shattered doorway. Harry followed, one last glance over his shoulder.

The house did not look back. But it remembered.

As they walked away, the magic breathed again, slow and soundless, like something vast exhaling after a long sleep. The spells they had pushed aside began to gather once more; older than grief, heavier than time. It did not lash out. It waited; coiled deep in the bones of the house, patient, buried, too old now to forget.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley had already begun to fill by the time Remus arrived. Snow lingered on the edges of the cobbled street, but most of it had been swept clean by the charmed brooms that swooped overhead with shrill, officious whirrs. Christmas morning, and not the loud cheer of the afternoon rush. This was the quieter sort: hurried boots on cobblestones, owls flitting past with ribbon-tied parcels, shopkeepers fussing with wreaths in their windows, too proud to admit they’d forgotten to hang them the night before. Faerie lights gleamed in storefronts and soft carols drifted from nowhere in particular.

He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and checked his watch. 9:12.

He hadn’t wanted to take the shift. But Christmas was always busy at the shop, and calling out, especially on the fourth day of a new job, would’ve raised too many questions. So he’d said yes, and told himself it was only a few hours. But now the foreboding rattled behind his eyes, loud and unshakable.

He shouldn’t have let them go alone.

The door to Flourish and Blotts creaked as he pushed it open, stepping into the stillness of new parchment and dusty spines. The warmth inside was comforting, if a little dry.

“Morning, Lupin!” called Miriam from the front counter. She was already levitating a stack of festive charms texts towards the display window. “You can take the front desk today, yes?”

“Of course,” he said, pulling off his gloves. His voice came out thin. “Looks like a full crowd today.”

9:34. A mother with two small children came in looking for something “with dragons but not too scary.” Remus summoned a short stack of pop-up books and made one of them roar. The smallest child screamed. He winced.

9:57. A group of third-years came in asking if Magical Mishaps of the 17th Century had a chapter on exploding beets. Remus told them no, but they bought it anyway.

10:28. He checked his watch. Again. Then again, hoping the time might move faster if he glared at it hard enough.

Customers came and went; seeking fairy tales, potion manuals, a last-minute gift for a cousin they'd forgotten existed, each served with a patient smile.

And yet, time refused to move any faster for him.

10:57 AM. The bell above the door jingled. A man in weather-worn overcoat stepped up to the counter. “Excuse me,” he said, “do you have a copy of The Hairy Boggart and the Moon?”

Remus stiffened. He did not sigh, but only because he’d already sighed a lot this morning. That book had sold out last Christmas and came back as an awful sequinned collector’s edition. It was a soppy, overwrought thing, and unfortunately, beloved by generations of wizarding children.

He had loved it once. Until Sirius and James discovered it in his third year and decided it was Remus’s autobiography.

He didn’t even look at the man. Just pointed behind him. “Second alcove, third shelf. Between Mooncalf Memories and Broomstick Babble.”

“Ah,” said the man. “Excellent.” There was a pause. “My sister-in-law calls it tragic, but I say it’s a laugh. Honestly, a boggart who falls in love with the moon and turns into a werewolf? Bit much, isn’t it?”

Remus turned, a biting retort on the tip of his tongue, and froze.

Behind the man, half-hidden by a floating stack of books, stood Harry. A towering sundae was in his hands, packed high with strawberry and treacle-fudge, glittering with red-and-green sugar. He looked wildly pleased with himself.

“Surprise, Moony,” Harry said, voice muffled by a spoonful of cream.

Remus blinked. For a moment, the rest of the shop fell away.

The man, sandy-haired, slightly tall, wearing a beige jacket and the same old look of half-daring, half-regret. A single glance was enough. It was Sirius. Remus closed his eyes.

Oh.

Relief broke first, swift and overwhelming. It swept through Remus like a tide, knocking the breath from his lungs. They were safe. They were here.

Then, almost at once, that relief curdled into indignation.

He stepped around the counter, jaw tight. “Are you mad?” he hissed under his breath, “Padfoot… what on earth do you think you’re doing, showing up here like this?”

Sirius raised his hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Relax, Moony. Last swig… I've still got an hour. I timed it.”

“An hour?” Remus repeated, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been strolling around Diagon Alley with a ten-year-old and a potion on a countdown timer?”

“I’ve been showing Harry the sights,” Sirius said, maddeningly calm. “It’s Christmas. He deserved a bit of fun.”

Remus opened his mouth to argue further, but Harry chose that moment to wander over, licking the edge of his sundae with a delighted hum.

“Remus!” he said. “We saw the Quidditch shop… they’ve got the Nimbus in the window! It’s massive. And Sirius bought me sundae! And there was this street violinist doing magic sparks from the bow, and we even…”

His words tumbled out with excitement, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes brighter still. Remus couldn’t keep up with half of it. And yet somehow, just watching Harry light up like that, some of the tension bled from his shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Remus said, his voice softening.

Harry nodded vigorously. “Best Christmas ever.”

Sirius gave a sideways grin, then turned back to Remus. “Since we’re already here, I thought I might pop over to Gringotts. Won’t take long.”

Remus rubbed at his temple, exhaling slowly. “Fine. But for Melin’s sake, don’t dawdle.”

Sirius gave a lazy salute. “Marauder’s honour.”

Remus ignored that. He turned to Harry and knelt slightly. “You’ll stay here in the shop, alright? Just here. No slipping outside.”

Harry gave a thumbs-up, now shovelling more sundae into his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

Sirius ruffled his hair and gave Remus a reassuring look before vanishing into the street once more, coat flapping behind him. Harry, meanwhile, wandered through the aisles of Flourish and Blotts, his hand trailing along the shelves.

He passed a rotating stand of spellbooks for toddlers – Snap! Crackle! Hex! made him grin, and a whole wall stacked high with snowy-covered editions of holiday-themed fiction. One had a jinxed front cover that made a goblin fall repeatedly into a barrel of butterbeer.

He giggled.

He wandered deeper into the shop, as his eyes scanned shelf after shelf. He passed through an aisle stacked high with enchanted cookbooks, one of which flipped open and tried to offer him a steaming tart. He ducked past it, suppressing a laugh.

He lingered near the Magical Biographies section next, tracing the names with his finger. Bathilda Bagshot. Emeric Switch. Daring dragonslayers, broom designers, Ministry Heads, and mad potioneers stared at him from glossy dust jackets.

Time slipped by.

Then, something gold caught his eye, a tall shelf near the back, set apart from the rest, its frame carved with tiny runes. Wandlore: Theory and Craft.

The books there gleamed like treasure. Some had metal clasps; others looked as if they’d been stitched together by hand. Harry stepped closer, drawn to them. One in particular had a phoenix feather embossed across the spine, shimmering faintly. He didn’t know why, but something pulled at him, a flicker of something ancient and curious, like the low thrum of a memory he hadn’t made yet.

He reached for it…

From somewhere outside, beyond the shop’s tall windows, a deafening boom cracked through the air.

The glass rattled in its panes. Books shivered on their shelves. Harry froze.

Kingsley Shacklebolt blended into the milling crowd of Diagon Alley like ink into parchment.

He stood tall, shoulders squared beneath a sharply cut charcoal cloak, the hood pushed back to reveal a smooth-shaven scalp that gleamed in the winter sun. Dark skin, gold hoop in one ear, and a wand tucked subtly into his sleeve, he drew the eye, but only when he wanted to. Today, the spellwork woven into his outer layers softened his presence, dulled his edges. He knew how to scan a street with a single glance. How to vanish into a crowd not with magic, but sheer discipline.

He’d been trained by Mad-Eye himself.

Moody didn’t hand out praise, and Kingsley didn’t seek it. Still, in the quiet halls of the Department, people talked. No one ever admitted it to his face, but they all whispered the same thing when he passed:

He’s one of the best.

Kingsley didn’t let that get to his head. He didn’t have the time.

He shifted his weight slightly and adjusted the enchanted mirror tucked into his cuff. Across the street, Neville Longbottom and his grandmother were stepping out of the apothecary, the boy juggling a small paper bag and a chocolate frog card, Augusta’s wide-brimmed hat cut an impressive silhouette against the shopfront glass.

Kingsley didn’t need to look directly at them. His team was good; four of them, stationed like chess pieces across the alley. Two blended with the crowd near the apothecary, another posing as a distracted wizard browsing brooms. The last was inside Fortescue’s, pretending to read a Prophet while keeping eyes on both ends of the lane.

Best of the best. Trained, disciplined, quiet. Kingsley was proud of them.

He kept walking, slow and steady, eyes flicking through storefront reflections. A woman leading a child. A delivery owl overhead. A goblin counting coin on the sidewalk. All normal. All calm.

He lived with caution. It was a reflex by now. Spending too long in Moody’s orbit did that to a man. Constant vigilance wasn’t a motto, it was marrow-deep instinct. You watched everything. Questioned everything. Trusted no pattern too easily. If things seemed quiet, it only meant you were missing what wasn’t.

But this unease had a different shape. Sharper. More persistent.

It had started a few months ago.

“Keep an eye on Lupin,” Moody had said, voice gravelled and low as he tossed over a thin, battered file.

Kingsley hadn’t asked any questions. Moody was many things: paranoid, grizzled, half-mad on Tuesdays. But he’d earned every scar. If he said watch someone, you watched.

So Kingsley had.

For over a week, he’d followed Remus Lupin’s movements. He moved with quiet resignation of someone expecting bad news and never surprised when it came. Like he already knew his place in the world and saw no reason to protest. He lived in a modest flat in a quieter part of town, frequented bookshops, walked long distances alone and kept to himself. He spoke little, never drawing attention.

Nothing dangerous. Nothing strange. Just quiet.

And yet, Kingsley couldn’t shake the feeling.

Like there was something just beyond the edge of what he could see. As though he’d walked into a room that looked perfectly ordinary, only to realise much later that the chairs had been facing the wrong way the whole time.

He’d reported back to Moody, of course. And Moody had listened in silence, one hand stroking his chin as he stared at the file, then nodded.

“Pulling you off it. Something bigger's brewing.”

Kingsley had obeyed. But the itch had never gone away.

So, whenever he had the time, between missions or in his off-hours, he kept an eye on Lupin anyway. Not because he distrusted him. But because... he didn’t trust the absence of anything.

As a habit, his gaze flicked towards Flourish and Blotts as he passed. Glass gleamed faintly in the morning sun, reflecting the swirl of shoppers. Inside, near the front counter, a familiar figure stood behind the till: slim, slightly hunched, sleeves rolled past the elbows. Remus Lupin. Sorting receipts with methodical calm. His fingers moved with a kind of absent grace, lips moving now and then, murmuring, maybe, to a customer just out of view. Nothing unusual. Nothing changed.

Still. He lingered there a few moments more.

Then the crowd shifted, and his attention snapped forward again, because Augusta Longbottom had veered left, tugging her grandson towards Gringotts with the stern force of a woman who’d dragged an entire bloodline through war and dinner parties alike.

Kingsley fell back into step. And that’s when he saw him.

Just outside the white marble steps of Gringotts, a man in a beige wool coat stepped into the flow of foot traffic. Sandy hair, stooped shoulders, hands tucked deep in his pockets.

Unremarkable.

That was the first impression. But the second, Kingsley trusted second impressions more, told a different story. The coat was wrinkled, too loose at the shoulders. A deliberate choice. The stoop, the scuffed boots, deliberate too. All carefully chosen to sink into the crowd.

But his gait didn’t match. Too smooth. Too silent.

Graceful, like he was used to making himself vanish before someone noticed him. And he didn’t look down at the cobbles like the rest of the morning crowd. He scanned. A flick of the eyes over shopfronts. A moment too long watching reflections in glass.

Predatory, in the way of someone who’d once been the hunter, often enough that it stayed in the bones. Kingsley tapped twice on the side of his wand holster, a coded signal, and turned left, breaking from the line. “Pursuing subject east of Gringotts. No engagement,” he murmured low.

He adjusted pace, keeping casual distance. The man crossed the square, slipping past Gambol and Japes, then doubled back on a side street that would pass Ollivander’s.

Curious.

Kingsley matched the turn, cloak swinging low behind him, and caught up by the corner near the old apothecary.

“Excuse me,” Kingsley said, stepping just close enough to catch the man’s attention. “Mind if I have a word?”

The man slowed, and turned. Middle-aged, perhaps a little younger.

“Something wrong, sir?” the man asked, tone light.

“Just a routine check,” Kingsley said. “Crowd’s a bit thick today. We’ve got plainclothes stationed up and down the Alley, just keeping an eye.”

“Of course,” the man replied easily. “Always happy to help the people keeping us safe. Lovely morning for it too… brisk air, low-level paranoia. Almost festive.”

“Name?”

“Alban Marsh,” he said at once. “I’ve got ID, if you need.”

Kingsley nodded, but didn’t ask for it.

“Where are you headed, Mr Marsh?”

“Just a quick pickup. My niece has a thing for dancing teacups… there’s a shop a few doors down. Run by a woman with hair like a lightning storm and absolutely no idea what things cost.” He gestured and checked his watch in the same fluid motion.

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Bit anxious about the time?”

“Well,” the man said, glancing at his pocket watch again with a theatrical sigh, “I was meant to be done ten minutes ago. The timing was part of the surprise. Now I’m the one getting surprised. Circle of life.”

A beat passed. The man ran a hand through his hair, then offered a smile, too quick to be careless, too polished to be natural.

“Look, if this’ll take long, I don’t mind coming back later or checking in somewhere. It’s just… my sister’ll have my head if I ruin the moment. And there’s a pixie involved. Don’t ask.”

A soft chuckle followed. It came easily enough, but his body never quite relaxed. His stance was loose, but not unguarded. Those eyes stayed on Kingsley, calculating.

A faint pressure, two quick taps, brushed the edge of his wand holster. Kingsley stilled, barely turning his head as a low voice reached his ear.

“Longbottoms are out of Gringotts. Moving now.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. But inside, a muscle tightened. Timing couldn’t have been worse.

He held the man’s gaze a beat longer, weighing the tension behind the charm, the watchfulness beneath the wit. Something about him didn’t sit right. Too smooth. Too ready. But…

Damn it.

He nodded. “All right, Mr Marsh. Thanks for your time.”

“Pleasure,” the man said, tipping an invisible hat with just a touch of dramatic flair. “And if you see a pixie with a ribbon round its middle… do not let it near you. Trust me. Happy Christmas, sir.”

Kingsley turned, already moving.

And then… the world cracked.

A deafening boom split the air, rolling through the Alley like thunder off stone. Shrieks followed, high and panicked. Smoke bloomed in the distance: thick, grey, and rising fast from the direction of Gringotts.

His heart plummeted. Instinct took over, he whirled back, eyes scanning, hand going to his wand.

The man, Marsh, had turned too, frozen for a heartbeat, face lit by the sudden orange glow. His eyes were wide. Frightened.

Then his features shifted: mouth tightening, eyes sharpening, something wild breaking through the calm. The skin around his jaw warped slightly, as if the face itself were forgetting what it was.

And in the place of the man Kingsley had just been questioning stood…

Sirius Black.

Coming down the marble steps of Gringotts, Sirius felt, if not quite light, then at least buoyant. Grimnark was still as paranoid as ever, but gold had a way of smoothing out most tensions. He could feel the weight of the coin purse snug against his ribs, charmed flat and warm beneath the coat.

A good morning. Almost festive. For once, something had gone to plan.

The crowd was thick, which suited him fine. He kept his gait easy, purposeful. Nondescript. He was nearly clear when a voice called out… low, firm, too polite to ignore.

“Excuse me…”

A tall man in a charcoal cloak was watching him with the kind of stillness that made Sirius’s skin twitch. Auror. Had to be. The posture, the wand-arm tension, the calm suspicion. And the smell, there was something familiar.

He played it easy. Pleasant face, soft tone. Cracked a few jokes. Kept it light but not slippery. Checked his watch with a flourish. Ten minutes left. Damn. He’d cut it close.

He nearly blew it when the Auror asked his name, but it came fast enough. No hesitation. He could feel the sweat under his collar, but his hands didn’t shake. Alban Marsh. Just a man buying dancing teacups. Nothing more.

A few more sentences. A breath held.

Then… release.

“Thanks for your time.”

He managed a smile. Even tipped an invisible hat, for good measure.

Get moving. Blend. You’re out.

He turned.

And then the world exploded.

A thunderous boom tore through the cobbled street behind him, raw and concussive. The air shivered with sound. Screams broke out like firecrackers. Smoke rose in a billow, curling black and thick above the white marble of Gringotts.

Sirius spun with the crowd, heart already pounding, instincts slamming to the surface.

And in that same, cruel moment… He felt it.

A lurch deep in his gut, the ebb of magic fading fast. The Polyjuice unravelling. The mask sloughing away from inside out. Bones settling back into themselves. His face, it wasn’t Alban’s anymore.

He didn’t need a mirror to know it. He saw it instead in the crowd. The Auror. Standing frozen, eyes wide. Horror breaking clean across his face.

Recognition.

Too late.

He didn’t get a step away. The second his heel turned, a voice barked, “Stupefy!” and red light tore through the morning air.

He spun, wand up. The spell crashed into a conjured shield, rattling the cobblestones under his boots.

The man was already advancing, wand carving through the air.

Sirius deflected a second curse, countered with a Confringo that blasted mortar from the apothecary wall.

Pedestrians screamed and scattered.

Another spell grazed his sleeve. Cutting Hex. Close. Too close.

The alley, narrow and boxed in between Ollivanders and a boarded-up storefront, offered little cover. Smoke from the earlier explosion curled around the edges.

Sirius fell back a step, then surged forward, his wand slashing down, “Expulso!”

The Auror ducked, cloak billowing, and retaliated with a wide sweep of flame that licked the alley wall, igniting a hanging sign.

This wasn’t some rookie. Sirius could feel it in his footing, in the pressure of the duelling rhythm.

Another flick, Sirius met the curse with another shield, turned the magic mid-air, and sent it rebounding towards the cobbles in a controlled burst of smoke. He gritted his teeth. The man hadn’t introduced himself, but Sirius didn’t need a name. Efficient, disciplined and ruthless. Moody’s type.

But Sirius had been raised in a time when magic was war.

He cast again, Ventus, a slicing wind charm that drove splinters from the apothecary’s half-boarded windows into the alley like shrapnel. The Auror raised a quick shield, but the distraction was enough. Sirius moved, closing the distance, wand ready to press his edge…

Then a second voice snapped behind him.

“Don’t move!”

He spun on instinct. Another Auror had joined: leaner, younger, with short-cropped hair and a faint scar along one jaw. Cool eyes. Firm grip. No hesitation.

Elliot Hirsch.

Sirius recognised him immediately. He had been assigned to the North Wing in Azkaban. Not cruel. But professional. A man who believed in lines and rules, and who’d looked at Sirius for years without flinching.

And now? That professionalism had hardened. The betrayal of his escape had become personal.

They came at him together.

The Auror from the left, Hirsch from the right. Their spells overlapped; one binding, one concussive. Sirius ducked, rolled across broken stone, wand up again.

A Reducto tore through the crates behind him. A Petrificus Totalus fizzled past his ribs.

He retaliated with a whip of chainfire: rare, illegal, and utterly justified. It cracked through the smoke like a whip of molten gold, snapping Hirsch’s shield into fragments and forcing the other attacker to conjure a slab of stone to absorb the blow.

The fight turned brutal. No time for elegance. It was grit and instinct.

Sirius dropped low to avoid a hex, lashed out with a blasting jinx that tore chunks from the alley wall, then twisted as Hirsch nearly clipped his shoulder with a piercing curse. He felt it singe the edge of his coat.

He’d been outnumbered before. He’d won before. But this wasn’t the past. He was older, slower, and already tired from the Polyjuice drag.

Still, they weren’t better. He was a Black after all; sharpened on secrets, forged for darker things.

A jinx flashed past, close enough to singe his sleeve. He dropped low, one hand snapping out, wand flicking in a motion too fast to follow. His spell didn’t just strike; it split in midair, and knocked Hirsch’s wand clean from his grip.

Then… From the corner of his eye…

Harry.

The boy was stumbling into the alley. Clothes askew, face pale, eyes wide, jaw tight. He wasn’t moving. Just staring at him, at the fight, like the world had narrowed to that one image.

No…

Sirius’s breath caught.

Neither Auror had seen Harry, but he didn’t have long. He pivoted, wand raised, calculating his next move when…

He felt it.

The air behind him shifted. Thickened. A tremor, barely perceptible. Familiar. Dangerous.

Harry’s chest rose too fast. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, trembling. But it was his eyes that gave him away. Green, brilliant, and explosive. Lit with something wild.

Sirius’s gut clenched.

A spark flickered by Harry’s elbow. Then another. Green. Gold. White. The same colours as last time, when the television burst and the curtains scorched.

Only now it was worse.

Far worse.

Sirius moved on instinct.

“Protego!” he barked, snapping his wand between Harry and the Aurors; his other arm rising, to shield his face.

A heartbeat later, the air split apart.

BOOM.

His shield shattered and magic tore through the alley. Heat punched through Sirius’s ribs. A soundless detonation cracked open the street like a dropped pane of glass. Flames licked skyward. The front of the apothecary exploded, boards flying like shrapnel. The side of Ollivanders caved in, wood splintering, windows bursting inward.

Sirius was flung against the wall. Smoke billowed around him. Ash choked the air.

A groan, Hirsch had gone down hard. His partner had fared no better; blown off his feet as his own shield shattered under the blast.

Sirius blinked through the smoke and spotted Harry. Collapsed. Breathing, but barely.

He dragged himself upright, cast “Obscuro!” and smoke flooded the alley, dense and clinging.

Cries rose from the street. Someone was shouting orders. More Aurors were coming.

Sirius ran. Grabbed the boy’s shoulders. Too still.

He pulled Harry close, heart pounding. Shifted his grip, one hand steady around the boy, the other on his wand. He couldn’t apparate in this alley, it was warded. But the edge was close. If he could just…

There.

The pressure around them shifted. Magic opened like a gate. With a sharp breath, he turned on the spot and vanished.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet. Quiet in that unnatural way that always meant something had gone wrong.

Sirius hadn’t left the floor since they got here.

The wooden boards were cold beneath him, but that hardly mattered. His wand lay beside his knee, forgotten. His hands, scraped, still blackened under the nails, rested uselessly in his lap.

Harry lay in the bed above. The yellow blanket pulled halfway up, rumpled, clutched gently in one small hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead, but there was no fever, Remus had checked a dozen times. It was just sleep. Deep, unnatural sleep, stretching across two whole days. As if his body had simply shut down.

As if the magic had taken everything.

They had returned to Wreinleigh Cottage on Christmas noon. The walk to the door had nearly undone Sirius; his legs had trembled with every step. He hadn’t remembered much of anything after the Alley.

Only Harry’s fingers, curled tight in his sleeve.

The boy hadn’t spoken once. Not once they entered the cottage. Not when Sirius had helped him into the bed and tucked the blanket around him. He had just curled up like that, and drifted off.

He’d stirred once. A few hours after sunrise, the next morning. His eyes had fluttered open, unfocused. Sirius had jerked upright, heart in his throat.

“Harry?”

But he hadn’t answered. Just blinked, slowly, as though the room didn’t quite exist. His hand had tightened around the blanket. Then his eyelids drooped again, and he turned his face away.

Gone.

Sirius had no idea what to do. His chest ached with it. That helpless, hateful weight that pressed down with every passing hour. He had tried so hard to hold it together, to think ahead, to be careful. But one wrong move, and it had all come undone.

It had been his fault.

Sirius exhaled shakily and rubbed his hands over his face. He could still smell the alley, dust and fire and the tang of magic. The memory slashed at him every time he blinked.

Remus had warned him not to go. Had sat in the kitchen, arms folded tight, voice low and strained: “Godric’s Hollow and back, Padfoot. No detours. No risks. You step out in public, you’ll be recognised… and Harry will pay the price.”

But Sirius, stupid, stubborn, desperate Sirius; had looked at the boy standing in front of the fountain in Godric’s Hollow, the jacket too big on his thin shoulders, asking if they could visit the bookshop after. Just for a minute. Just to see.

And he’d said yes.

To give him a shred of joy. One quiet day, one moment of normalcy, after standing in front of his parents' graves. After touching the cracked ground where everything had unravelled. Sirius had hoped that maybe it would balance out. That a stop in Diagon Alley might soften the rawness. A book. A treat. A gift, maybe.

It was reckless. But he had wanted the boy to smile. Just once.

He hadn't forgotten the way Remus had raged on Christmas night. They’d stood on opposite ends of the drawing room, the air between them brittle. His fury had been cold and lashing, each word like the crack of a whip: “You risked everything. You risked him. You’re not thinking like a guardian, Sirius… you’re thinking like a child.”

The Christmas tree had still been glowing faintly. The stuffed wolf dangled from the top like a joke gone sour. Beneath it, the wrapping paper was still there. Still carrying the joy and laughter from the morning.

And then Remus had broken. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just cracked, like glass under slow pressure. His hands had gone to his face. His voice, when it came again, had splintered: “I can’t lose him, Sirius. I can’t do it again.”

Sirius had said nothing then; because what could he say? Any blame Remus cast on him, Sirius had already buried himself in them, deep. He’d been digging his own grave for days.

And now… here they were. The cost laid bare: still, pale, and silent under the blanket.

A scrape of a chair downstairs. Footsteps. Then the soft groan of the cottage stair. Sirius didn’t turn. He knew it was Remus.

The door opened.

Remus didn’t speak. He entered as he had half a dozen times over the past couple of days, dropped his satchel gently onto the dresser, then lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. His hand brushed lightly over Harry’s hair, then fell away again.

Sirius finally looked up.

Remus’s face was hollowed by sleepless nights. His robes smelled faintly of ink and parchment, and a newspaper poked from his pocket.

“How was the shop?” Sirius asked hoarsely.

“Quiet,” Remus replied. “Nobody’s really coming in, not after…” He hesitated. Then, after a breath, added, “The Alley’s still crawling with patrols. And press. No one's allowed near Gringotts.”

Sirius flinched. “They think I attacked it, don’t they?”

Remus didn’t answer.

“Moony…”

“There was an explosion. Inside the bank. That’s what you heard first. A break-in, from what I gathered. Goblins fought them off. Heavy casualties. But they’re not giving details.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And then the second one… Harry’s… happened minutes later. Where you were duelling Shacklebolt and Hirsch. Which everyone saw. It was enough.”

Sirius looked back down at the floor. “And Harry?”

“No one knows he was there. In the confusion of the duel, no one noticed him. And the smokescreen you conjured made sure that when you ran with him, you both stayed hidden.”

He nodded slowly, the relief hollow in his chest.

“He was doing so well,” Sirius said, almost to himself. “He was blooming, Moony. Just starting to come out of himself. Asking questions. Laughing.”

“I know,” Remus said softly.

“I pushed him. He’s a child, and I dragged him into that. He trusted me, and I…” His voice caught. “I should’ve shielded him better.”

Remus didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was tight.

“I should’ve stopped you. I saw it coming. And I let it happen.”

The guilt hung like smog. Thick, choking, everywhere. The world outside spun, accused, theorised. But here, in this small blue room, nothing had moved at all.

Remus reached into the folds of his coat and drew out a small vial; frosted glass, stoppered in copper.

“I spoke to someone. Quietly. A contact from the war. They gave me this.”

Sirius glanced over. The liquid inside shimmered pale blue, like moonlight caught in water. “What is it?”

“They called it a restorative. Said it works... deeply. On the root. When someone’s burned through themselves too fast.” He didn’t look up. “There’s not much research. No guarantees. But I’ve tried everything I know… spells, potions. Nothing else has helped.”

Sirius took the vial from him, turned towards the bed and uncorked it. “Alright, kid,” he murmured, brushing back the fringe from Harry’s damp forehead. “Come back to us.”

Harry swallowed with a small, instinctive motion. Then he stirred. A rustle beneath the blanket. A small exhale. Sirius held his breath.

Harry blinked once. Eyes glazed, confused, his lashes heavy with sleep. He looked past both men like they weren’t even there. Then, just as quickly, his eyes shut again.

“Let it work,” Remus said softly, handing Sirius another dose in a small phial. “Give him this again in the morning.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Sirius spoke.

“If he doesn’t wake…” His voice cracked. He didn’t clear it. “We need to take him to St Mungo’s.”

Remus didn’t answer straight away. Then: “Well, if you go, you’re done. But yes. I’ve been thinking the same. He needs help we can’t give.”

“You take him.”

“And what would I say?” Remus asked gently. “That I stumbled across a boy who’s the spitting image of James Potter? Who just happens to be ten years old, and covered in magical fallout? You think they wouldn’t recognise him?”

Sirius stared down at his hands. They trembled, slightly, as he closed them into fists.

“Then you say this,” Sirius said at last. “You say I came to you. After the Alley, I brought Harry with me… like this. Unconscious. Hurt. And you didn’t know why. You couldn’t risk calling anyone, not with me there, not with how I was raving. Maybe I said I wanted to finish what Voldemort started. Maybe it was some twisted Black family rite, some mad ritual to ‘cleanse’ the bloodline or bind it or… hell, they’ll believe anything.”

He looked up, eyes glassy but sharp with resolve. “Say you tried to talk me down. When that didn’t work, you fought me off. You managed to get the boy… and brought him to St Mungo’s. Just make it sound like that you got Harry away before I could do worse. As long as they don’t look at you twice. As long as they don’t touch him.”

Remus was still.

“You know what that would mean, don’t you?” he said at last, voice low. “That you did betray them. That you found their boy and tried to finish what you started.”

“I know.”

“And once that story is told, Sirius... you don’t come back from it.”

“I know,” he repeated. “But he needs to be alright.”

Remus reached out, placed a hand on Harry’s head. His face had gone unreadable. Tired. Paper-thin.

“Alright,” he said. “He’s stable for now. But if there’s no change by morning… I’ll take him. I’ll tell the story.”

Sirius nodded.

“You’ll need to disappear after that. Trash up my flat. Make it look like you were there, and I fought you off. Leave a trail. They’ll check.”

Sirius didn’t move for a long time. Then, finally, he stood slowly. His knees cracked. He looked down at Harry, then back at Remus.

“Don’t let them take him,” he said quietly. “If it comes to it… if they want to keep him…”

“I won’t,” Remus said. “On my life.”

The wind outside had changed. Snow tapped softly at the window. Inside, the room stayed still: blue, breathless, waiting.

CARNAGE AT GRINGOTTS: SIRIUS BLACK STRIKES AGAIN?

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

What began as a festive Christmas morning in Diagon Alley ended in bloodshed, ruin and the chilling resurgence of a nightmare we thought buried.

In an audacious and unspeakably violent attack, Gringotts Wizarding Bank was rocked by a series of explosions that left several goblins dead, high-security vaults obliterated, and half the Alley in smoking ruin.

And yes, dear readers… Sirius Black was there.

Witnesses report the north wing of Gringotts erupting just after midday, gold strewn like ash, and goblin bodies broken beneath the rubble. The vaults targeted are rumoured to have contained priceless magical artefacts. But as always, officials have refused to comment, no doubt hoping the smell of smoke will fade before the scent of scandal takes hold.

But one thing is undeniable: Sirius Black – escaped mass murderer, known Death Eater, and You-Know-Who’s right hand, was seen standing amid the carnage, laughing.

Moments later, there was another explosion. And when the smoke cleared, Black was gone. No trace. No arrest.

The question writes itself: how?

Was this a heist? A hit? A message? Or something even darker? Some allege it was an elaborate cover for theft – an operation designed to retrieve an artefact of immense power. Others whisper of darker motives. One anonymous source suggests it was a ritual, a summoning linked to the cursed Black bloodline. Was something… awakened?

Of course, no discussion of artefacts, rituals, or blood-soaked legacies would be complete without a mention of the vaults themselves. Inside sources murmur about a “classified object”, loaned from the Department of Mysteries, that may have been housed in one of the destroyed chambers. Was Black retrieving it? And if so… for whom?

But perhaps the most disturbing revelation: young Neville Longbottom, grandson of Augusta Longbottom, was in Diagon Alley at the time of the attack. He and his grandmother were seen leaving Gringotts moments before the first blast. Coincidence?

The Longbottoms, as the public well remembers, were among the most tragic casualties of the First War. His father, driven mad by Death Eaters. His mother, killed shielding him from You-Know-Who himself. Could Black, once a close associate of You-Know-Who, have been sent to finish what his Lord began?

What happened to Gringotts’ vaunted defences? How did Sirius Black escape even when surrounded by Aurors? Why was no one prepared?

There is only silence.

But silence, is no longer acceptable. This is a man who slaughtered innocents, escaped Azkaban, and now walks among us with impunity. Either the Ministry is hiding something... or they’ve lost control altogether.

Rita Skeeter will continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime: be alert, keep your wands close, and trust no one.

Sirius sat slumped in the armchair before the hearth, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands. Yesterday’s Prophet lay crumpled at his feet, Rita Skeeter’s venomous words curling at the edges.

His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry now. He’d cried himself out earlier… After the potion.

It had been the second dose. Three days since the Alley. Three days of quiet breathing and unmoving hands. Three days of pretending to believe.

That morning, he’d kissed Harry’s brow. Whispered something; he didn’t know what anymore. A farewell? A prayer? A plea?

He’d stood by the window for a long time after that, watching the frost creep across the glass. He was going to run. Had to. The moment Remus stepped into St Mungo’s with Harry, things would explode. There’d be questions. Faces recognised. Wand records examined. Remus would have to say, He was there. He was the one who…

He’d tucked the drawing into his jacket pocket. A dog with too many legs and stars in its eyes. “Padfoot,” Harry had written beneath it, in thick looping letters. The corners of Sirius’s mouth twitched.

His chest cracked open, sudden and shuddering. He doubled over, shoulders shaking, palms pressed hard to his face as if he could hold it all in. As if grief were water and he was still something solid enough to contain it.

The door creaked open. “Sirius?” Remus’s voice was quiet.

Sirius didn’t answer. Just sat there. Sobbing.

Remus crossed the room without a word and dropped to one knee beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other gently resting over Sirius’s knee.

“Remus…” His voice cracked apart. “He’s the same. No change. Not even a flicker. I thought… I thought maybe after last night… but this morning… nothing. What if… what if I’ve been a coward again, and it’s too late now… what if…”

Remus didn’t answer right away. His face was pale, drawn, and worn with the weight of dread creeping. But his hand didn’t leave Sirius’s shoulder.

“It’s time,” he said softly.

Sirius nodded. He stood and hugged Remus tightly. There were no words left that hadn’t been said. No false hopes. Only goodbye.

He was about to step away when the sofa creaked.

“Oh, so you two are done with the tragic farewell scene?” a hoarse voice croaked, “Or are we all going to cry into the porridge before anyone makes me breakfast?”

They both froze. Sirius turned first. Remus blinked.

There, tucked into the cushions with his hair sticking out in seventeen different directions and his glasses crooked on his nose, sat Harry James Potter. Pale. A bit gaunt. But smirking.

Sirius dropped to his knees.

“Harry?” Remus breathed.

“Who else?” Harry scratched the side of his head and squinted around. “I had the weirdest dream. I was Minister for Magic. You were my advisors. We outlawed trousers and made pyjamas mandatory. Complete chaos.”

Sirius launched himself forward before he finished the sentence, nearly knocking the boy sideways. Remus was there a heartbeat later, arms tight around both of them.

“I can’t breathe,” Harry wheezed, though he was smiling now. “Alright, alright, I’m fine… really. You can stop crushing my lungs.”

“You’re not fine, we need to check… your pulse, any damage…” Remus had drawn back just far enough to start a frantic diagnostic charm.

“Have I ever been fine?” Harry deadpanned, tugging his arm back with mock offence. “Also, I’m starving. Like, I could eat a cow. Preferably roasted. With chips.”

Sirius laughed then. Loud and half-hysterical. His face was still wet and his hands were shaking, but there was light in him again.

Harry was awake. Harry was back. They stayed there for a long time, holding on, as if he might disappear if they let go.

Eventually, Remus rose with a half-smile, murmuring something about miracles and the need for tea, toast, and perhaps the entire cow Harry had just demanded for breakfast.
Sirius didn’t move.

He stayed beside the boy on the sofa, fingers loosely holding Harry’s hand.

Beyond the windows, frost clung to the garden wall, silvering the hedge and paling the grass to a dull white. The tree stood bare and still, its limbs etched against a pewter sky.

Inside, the fire crackled low. The Christmas tree glimmered faintly, as though remembering its purpose. A single bauble blinked to life, then another, and another, until the whole thing shimmered again, gentle and golden.

And the cottage held its breath, just long enough to believe in peace and warmth again.

Chapter Text

It was the last day of the year.

Harry stared out the cottage window. The yard was white and silent, only a few brave sparrows hopping about in the hedges. Everything felt strangely quiet, like the world was holding its breath. Or maybe he was.

Bits of that day kept coming back to him, like pieces of a dream he wasn’t sure he’d ever woken from.

He remembered Remus had his nose buried in a book and Sirius had said he’d be back in a moment.

For once, nothing had been wrong.

Harry had taken a bite of the sundae, grinning to himself. Then the world ripped apart. Everything jolted sideways. The sky cracked. Sound vanished. Harry had dropped his sundae. He remembered stupidly watching as it hit the floor, bright pink against the grey.

Then came the pain.

His head. A splitting pain, like someone was trying to claw their way out through his skull. His vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

But his feet were already moving.

He didn’t stop to call out Remus. He tore out of Flourish and Blotts. Shoved past panicked crowds and smoke-clogged alleys.

And found him.

Sirius, in the middle of the street, duelling two wizards, wands flashing like lightning bolts. Harry had never seen Sirius look like that. Wild. Feral. Like something cornered and deadly.

And he had felt angry.

Not afraid. Not even shocked. Just…furious.

Because it wasn’t fair.

He had never felt such heat in his chest. Like someone had reached in and yanked everything out. His quiet mornings. The stupid toast Sirius always burnt. Remus reading aloud and Harry pretending not to listen.

He’d been nothing for so long. Just another name in the orphanage, one among many the world had forgotten. Then suddenly, he had Sirius. Remus. A home. A family who didn’t just take him in, but knew him.

And now someone was trying to take that away.

He didn’t remember what happened after that. Only heat. Fire. Screaming. And another explosion, closer this time.

And then, Sirius’s face, bloodied and pale, calling his name over and over like it was a spell that might bring him back.

Sirius had carried him, clutched tight, like letting go might kill them both. His head rested against a chest he knew. The heart beneath it thudded like thunder.

He didn’t remember how they got to the cottage. He only remembered the snow crunching under his boots, Sirius half-hauling him up the steps, and the sound of the door slamming shut. Everything swaying.

The bed had never looked softer.

And then… sleep.

Not restful. Just a long, long fall into the dark.

But now, awake, he remembered the dream.

He had been in a forest. Every leaf shimmered faintly, like it had been dusted with starlight. The trees pulsed with magic: some glowing soft and golden, humming like lullabies; others thrumming with silver-blue fire, sharp as lightning. But there were darker trunks too. Thorns twisted in their bark, and their glow was dimmer… greenish, like oil on water. Their magic didn’t sing. It whispered.

Still, none of it scared him. Only made him feel… small. And far from home.

Voices followed him. Always his name. Sometimes shouted. Sometimes sung. Sometimes nothing more than a breath against the back of his neck.

He wandered.

There was no path, just endless trees. Some brushed against his skin when he passed, like they were trying to remember him. Others pulled. Tugged at his sleeves. One tree, dark and old, reached out with a single blackened branch and stroked his cheek like a mother might.

He flinched away.

Then came the voices again. Louder now.

A woman’s voice first, gentle, like rain on a lake. He couldn’t place it, but it stirred something deep inside him. A memory, perhaps. Then a man’s voice, rougher, almost laughing. As though it came from a place filled with firelight and jokes told over tea.

Neither voice belonged to anyone he knew. And yet they made something ache in his chest. Familiar in the way old grief is. Like a bruise you’ve forgotten how you got.

Later, he wasn’t sure when, he heard someone who might’ve been Sirius. Not calling, exactly. Just speaking, like he was close by.

And someone else. A voice like Remus’s, but more fragile. Pleading. Calling his name over and over, like a lifeline tossed across water.

Harry tried to answer. He shouted. But the forest swallowed every sound whole.

So he walked again.

He fell asleep sometimes, curled beneath glowing branches, only to wake to new trees. His feet never stopped aching. His chest felt hollow. Still he moved. Because something in him told he had to. Not for himself. For them.

For Sirius. For Remus. For the life he wasn’t ready to lose. For the promise he’d whispered to the stone, cold beneath his fingers at Godric’s Hollow: I’ll come back soon.

Then, after what felt like eternity, he found the clearing.

It rose from the forest, wide and glowing. Every light in the woods had gathered here. The gold, the blue, the silver and green. Not blinding, but impossibly bright. And the voices were there, too. All of them. Not from around him now, but from within it. Waiting.

He ran.

Branches lashed at his arms, brambles caught his feet, but he didn’t stop. The light pulled at him. He stumbled into the clearing, breath tearing from his throat, and dropped to his knees before the light.

He knew, somehow, if he touched the light, he could go back.

Back to Sirius. To Remus. To burnt toast and laughter.

Harry’s hand brushed the light, and the world tilted.

He woke to silence. Pale morning light slipped past the curtains, painting soft rectangles on the floorboards. For a moment, he lay still, breathing in the faint scent of warming hearth and pine needles. His head felt thick, as if filled with cotton. He blinked, trying to remember where “here” was.

Then it all came flooding back: the explosion, the forest of lights, the reach into the brilliance, and the long, sweet fall into oblivion.

He lay there a heartbeat longer, nursing a dull ache behind his eyes and a hollowness in his chest.

Quietly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and felt the wooden floor under his feet. His legs trembled; he leaned against the banister, hand wrapped around the polished wood. One careful step after another, he made his way downstairs.

By the hearth, the sofa looked impossibly inviting. He sank into its cushions, closing his eyes for a moment as memories of Christmas morning swirled behind his lids. Then he opened them to see Remus and Sirius, locked in each other’s arms, voices low and choked, tears glistening on their cheeks.

Sirius’s head turned, surprise flashing across his features, quickly vanishing into relief. Remus stepped forward as well, voice catching in a whisper of “Harry?” They both crowded onto the sofa beside him, arms wrapping him in a hug so fierce he could hardly breathe.

For a few perfect seconds, everything else fell away. They were all there. Complete.

Harry smiled against Sirius’s shoulder, letting the warmth wash through him. He patted Remus’s hand. They wept then, and he held them both, his family, feeling the tremor of their joy as if it were his own heartbeat.

He didn’t speak of the forest, the voices, or the light. That path was his alone, a burden he’d carry so that they could stand untroubled. They would never understand what he’d seen or felt there, and he wouldn’t let them fret for what they could not comprehend.

And in that quiet moment, his own promise, to make them happy, to protect their peace, felt heavier than any memory, and far more sacred than any dream.

By the time he made it to the kitchen that evening, the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and warm spices. Something hearty bubbled on the stove, and a faint haze of steam curled near the windows. Sirius was at the counter, elbow-deep in a bowl of mashed potatoes, sleeves rolled to his forearms, wand tapping out some charm. Remus stood beside him, supervising like a strict but quietly amused professor.

They were muttering about something, but both fell abruptly silent as Harry stepped into the room.

Sirius straightened, flicking the wand to levitate a wooden spoon out of the sink. “Perfect timing,” he said. “Come stir this before I end up splashing gravy all over the curtains.”

Remus turned and smiled. “We were just about to burn the carrots.”

Harry grinned and joined them, taking over the stirring while Sirius finished charming the pie crusts into shape. The kitchen filled with easy chatter. Remus asked about how he was feeling in that not-pushing sort of way he had. Sirius tossed a carrot at him when Harry sniffed the roast, gave a mock-critical frown, and declared it “acceptable… but only just.”

Later, they retired to the drawing room, dinner set to finish itself with a timing charm Remus swore he didn’t trust but Sirius insisted would “probably not explode.” The tree in the corner twinkled gently. The stuffed wolf at the top of the tree, its ears too large and one button eye missing, grinned down over the room like it was in on the joke.

Harry curled up on the sofa, legs tucked under a cushion, warm cocoa in hand. Sirius and Remus had taken the armchairs, mirroring each other without realising. A copy of the Daily Prophet sat folded on the coffee table.

Harry reached for it, eyes skimming the page. And then he stilled.

Half the front was swallowed by a grainy black-and-white photograph: Sirius, hollow-eyed, gaunt. The headline blared: “Dementors Sanctioned to Join Hunt for Black – Ministry ‘Takes No Chances.’”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

The article was worse. Paragraphs of frothing speculation. Anonymous eyewitnesses, claiming Sirius had cast Unforgivables. That he’d hexed bystanders for “getting in his way.” That he’d attacked Ministry officials. One even swore he’d flung a Killing Curse at Neville Longbottom.

They called him the darkest of You-Know-Who’s followers. Said he was the heir to the cause. That he meant to finish what You-Know-Who started.

Lies. All of it. And not the confused, uncertain sort. These were stories crafted to provoke, to fuel outrage. To sell.

Harry set the paper down slowly, and his fingers tightened around the mug.

“How can they write this?” he said, voice quiet but shaking. “How can they just… say these things? And people’ll believe it. They already think you’re…”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. The word murderer hung in the silence.

Sirius made a face like he’d bitten into something sour. “Because they’re cowards with quills, that’s how. They’ve got nothing better to do than feed off blood and fire.”

Remus exhaled, slow. “Harry,” he said gently, “there’ll be people in your life who will dislike you. Who will oppose you. Who will try to make you look smaller so they can feel taller. That’s the world. Even among them, if you look closely enough, there’s always something to learn. Even if you don’t like them, sometimes they’ll teach you what not to become.”

He paused. His eyes flicked to Sirius.

“That opinion,” he added, “is not shared by your godfather.”

Sirius raised his cup. “Not one bit.”

“But,” Remus continued, “I try to keep an open mind. I believe in second chances. I believe people can change. And I would never say what I’m about to say about anyone else.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice cold. “Rita Skeeter is different. You must never… ever… trust a word she writes. She is not interested in truth. She preys on the vulnerable, the grieving, the silenced. Over the years she has twisted stories about your family. She publishes cruelty and calls it insight. And she gets paid very well to do it.”

Harry blinked. “I… I didn’t know.”

“It’s a lot,” Remus said. “You’re young, and this is heavier than it should be. But you should still know it.”

Harry wasn’t sure he understood all of it. But it mattered that Remus had said it. So he nodded, and let the words settle, the way he always did with truths that felt too large for now but important enough to carry.

He glanced down at the paper again, then back up. “And this You-Know-Who,” he said slowly. “That’s Voldemort, right? The one whose followers… came after my parents?”

Sirius’s eyes darkened. “Yes,” he said, with a bite of fury. “That’s him. And his precious little cult. Called themselves Death Eaters. Thought they were above everyone… blood purity, dark magic, all that rot. They’d kill without blinking. Laugh while doing it.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then: “And this Neville Longbottom?”

Remus answered gently. “No one knows how, but he’s the one who brought Voldemort down in the end. That night… Halloween… the Death Eaters attacked both your families. Voldemort went to the Longbottoms. It’s said his mother, Alice, tried to protect him, but Voldemort killed her.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Remus’s voice lowered. “And when he turned on Neville… something happened. Something went wrong. Voldemort vanished. No one really understands why. And his father, Frank… he survived, but not whole. The Death Eaters tortured him into madness.”

Harry shuddered.

Sirius leaned forward, his voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry all of this, Harry. Not alone.”

Remus added, quieter: “No child your age should have to hear stories like this. Most kids grow up with fairy tales. Dragons and castles and heroes who always win.”

Sirius reached out, brushing a hand briefly against Harry’s shoulder. “But you… you’re the son of two people who stood and fought when it mattered most. You’re their pride. Ours, too. And you’ve got their fire in you.”

He held his gaze, steady and sad. “You’re a child of war, Harry. You didn’t ask for it, but it’s part of you now. So we won’t lie to you. We’ll tell you the truth. And you’ll decide what to do with it. Like they did.”

Harry didn’t speak, but he nodded. This time, he didn’t just tuck the words away. He felt them sink into the shape of him, like they’d always belonged.

Remus watched him for a moment, then went on, his voice gentler. “Neville’s a good boy. You’ll be in the same year at Hogwarts. I think you’ll like him.”

Harry gave a small hum of agreement and looked back down at the headline, brow furrowing. “What are Dementors?”

Sirius flinched before the word had even fully left Harry’s lips. His hand, resting on the arm of the chair, twitched. The shadows around his eyes deepened, and for a moment, he looked like he wasn’t in the room at all.

Remus glanced at him quickly, then turned to Harry.

“They’re… creatures, Harry,” he said gently. “They guard Azkaban. They feed on human emotion… on happiness. They drain the warmth from the air and leave nothing behind but fear and sorrow. And if they choose to…” He paused. “They can suck the soul from a person. That’s called the Dementor’s Kiss. It’s worse than death.”

Harry’s breath caught. He looked towards Sirius, guilt flickering across his face. “Sorry I asked…”

Sirius blinked, returning to himself. He looked at Harry for a second before answering.

“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “You asked because you care. That’s never wrong.”

Remus glanced at Sirius. The hollow under his eyes, the tautness in his jaw. Without a word, he reached over and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Sirius didn’t move, but something in his posture eased a fraction.

Then Remus turned to Harry. He cleared his throat. “He’s just upset he didn’t get to deliver the dramatic monologue.”

Harry stared at him.

“You know,” Remus went on, eyes dancing, “the brooding pause. The thousand-yard stare. The ‘no one suffers like I do’ energy. You’ve robbed him of his performance.”

Harry cracked a small grin. “You can still go for it Sirius. I will act shocked, I promise.”

Sirius gave a long-suffering sigh, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You two are monsters.”

Remus and Harry both lifted their cups in salute. “Cheers.”

Just then, a shrill wheeze echoed from the kitchen, followed by a puff of golden smoke curling into the drawing room.

All three were startled.

Sirius was on his feet first. “That’ll be the bloody timing charm.”

They hurried to the kitchen, only to find the roast floating perfectly mid-air, glistening and untouched, while a teacup on the far counter was spinning in tight, furious circles, squealing like it was having a tantrum.

“Ah,” Sirius said mildly, eyeing it. “That’s not how it’s supposed to sound.”

Harry blinked. “Is it supposed to sound like anything?”

“Usually a faint chime,” Sirius replied, as he waved the charm off with a muttered Finite. The teacup stopped spinning and thudded to the counter.

“Well,” Remus said, examining the roast, “at least the dinner’s not charred.”

“You doubted me?” Sirius gave him a look of mock betrayal.

Remus held up both hands. “I doubted the charm. Not you.” He shot Harry a wink. “We all know that you cook like a monk – calm, patient, and unsettlingly precise.”

Sirius gave a short laugh. “Sit down, you two.”

They laid the table: a modest roast with potatoes and gravy, warm bread rolls in a towel-lined bowl, and a half-melted candle in the centre that Sirius had stuck with some pine needles “for aesthetic reasons.” It smelled rich and comforting, the kind of meal that made a place feel like home.

Sirius poured pumpkin juice into their glasses, pausing to add a splash of Firewhiskey into his and Remus’s, and raised his cup.

“To us,” he said quietly, eyes flicking between them. “To getting through the year. To the ones who didn’t. And to James and Lily… who would’ve made the worst jokes and the best toast.”

Harry clinked his cup against Sirius’s, then Remus’s. “To them.”

Remus smiled gently. “To all of it.”

They drank in silence, the clink of glass echoing through the room.

Sirius cleared his throat, the moment settling. “Bit late, but… Happy Christmas again.”

“And a better New Year,” Remus added.

Harry looked up. “Do people wish New Year on the last day?”

“Bit optimistic,” Remus said. “But we’re not people, are we?”

Sirius gave a snort. “We can wish it again tomorrow. No rules against doubling your luck.”

With that, they finally sat down to eat, the quiet hum of warmth slowly weaving itself into the walls.

Towards the end of the meal, as the last of the gravy was scraped up and the bread rolls dwindled to a few crumbs, Harry looked up, a glint of intent in his eyes. “One last thing before bed,” he said, folding his hands with exaggerated innocence.

Sirius gave Remus a sideways glance. “Here we go.”

Remus sighed. “He’s got that face.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

Remus magicked the plates towards the sink, where they began to scrub themselves and Sirius flicked his wand at the table, vanishing the crumbs in one neat crack.

“Alright, Professor Trouble,” Sirius said, lounging back. “What’s the grand question?”

“I was thinking,” Harry said, tone careful, “I’d like to go to St Jude’s tomorrow. I promised I’d visit. The lot there… they’ll be waiting.”

The joking vanished at once. Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance – brief, wordless, heavy.

“You’re sure, Harry? After…” Sirius hesitated. “After everything?”

Harry nodded. “I’m sure. I gave them my word.”

Sirius looked like he wanted to argue. But before he could speak, Remus broke in gently.

“Alright. But Sirius… you’re not stepping out of the house.”

“What?” Sirius blinked. “Moony…”

“I’ll take him,” Remus said evenly. “On the way to work. He can spend the day there, and I’ll pick him up in the evening.”

Sirius’s jaw twitched, the protest still sitting stubbornly on his tongue. But he looked at Harry, and then sighed, nodding. “Fine. Just… if anything feels off, Harry. Anything at all…”

Harry tapped his pocket. “I’ll use the portkey. Promise.”

The object in question, a battered old button sewn onto a strip of elastic, sat tucked beneath the lining of his pocket. Sirius had spelled it himself, and bound it to one destination, Wreinleigh Cottage. He’d made Harry swear, three separate times, not to lose it.

Then Harry was up, flinging his arms around Sirius in a sudden hug. He moved to Remus next with equal force, knocking the man half a step backward with the speed of it. “Thank you… both of you.”

They held on for a moment. When they let go, Harry smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was still carrying it. The memory. The ache. The quiet weight of something he couldn’t quite name.

Sirius watched him cross the room, eyes tracking every step. Remus stood still, thoughtful, his mind already drifting into tomorrow.

Harry climbed the stairs slowly. Tomorrow, he would return to the place he’d lived but never belonged. To the boys who called him friend, though none had really known him, not fully. What would they see now?

Chapter Text

The bathroom mirror had fogged around the edges, but Harry leaned in anyway, toes curling against the cold tile. He rubbed a sleeve across the glass, clearing a strip wide enough to see.

His reflection blinked back; jet-black hair in stubborn disarray, a faint crease still pressed into one cheek from sleep. And his eyes. Bright green. Like the glass bottle Sirius kept on the windowsill that turned emerald when the light hit it just right.

He stared for a moment longer. Not at the eyes, or the hair. But at the scar.

It was barely there now. Most days, he didn’t notice it. Some mornings, he had to tilt his head just so to see it at all.

Maybe, he thought, when I’m older, it’ll disappear completely.

His fingers found the chain around his neck, the pendant, warm against his skin no matter the weather. A stag, silver and proud, standing in a circlet of finely etched lilies. It had glowed now and then, soft pulses of light that came without warning. But it hadn’t lit up since Christmas.

Not since Godric’s Hollow. Not since it had wrapped him in light as he stood among the ash and silence. Since then, it had stayed still. As if waiting.

He dressed slowly, pulling on the thick red jumper Sirius had given him for Christmas. He then reached for his coat.

His fingers brushed something in the left pocket. Hard. Cool to the touch.

Wood.

Harry froze. He drew it out slowly.

A piece of charred timber, long, solid, heavier than he remembered. Rough-edged where it had splintered, blackened all the way through. One side had a ridge, like it had once fit into something larger.

He turned it over in his hands.

He hadn’t thought about it since Godric’s Hollow.

It had been near his knee in the rubble, half-buried. He hadn’t meant to take it, not consciously at least. But he’d picked it up all the same. Slipped it into his coat without thinking. Holding it again, the weight of it brought back memories of the ruin. The wreckage of the life he once had.

He slowly crossed to the drawer.

The little grey cardigan was still folded inside. The blanket was there too. His first belongings. He shifted them slightly, made room.

Then he placed the wood alongside them, careful not to let it scratch the fabric. It didn’t really match. But it belonged. Just like he was trying to.

Cardigan. Blanket. Burnt wood.

Proof.

He shut the drawer softly.

He sat on his bed, laced his boots, and shrugged properly into his coat. His bag waited by the side, already packed with chocolates for everyone at St Jude’s.

He was excited. That was the truth of it.

He missed them – Ameer’s dry humour, Callum’s idiotic dares, little Thomas who still sucked his fingers and followed him like a shadow. He wanted to see them again. He never knew when it happened but somewhere along the way they had started to matter. And he’d given them his word.

And Harry Potter kept his word.

He wanted to go back. Not just to visit, but to show them he hadn’t forgotten. That no matter what strange truths had unfolded around him, they were still part of his story.

But beneath the excitement… a knot of nerves tugged thinly at his chest.

What if they think I left them behind?

What if they thought he’d gone off and changed… got soft, living with some well-to-do family? Forgot how it felt to share everything, under flickering corridor lights? He didn’t know how to explain any of it. The magic. He couldn’t tell them he was a wizard. So what could he possibly say?

And he couldn’t shake the guilt that threaded through it all. Like he’d stepped out of the rain, but left the others shivering on the doorstep.

He padded into the drawing room, bag slung over one shoulder. The fire was low, giving off a sleepy orange glow, and Sirius stood by the mantelpiece, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked up the moment Harry entered. “You’ve got the Portkey?”

Harry nodded and patted his pocket.

“Good.” Sirius stepped forward, running a hand through his hair. “Be careful, alright? No matter what happens, you do not lose control. Not even a flicker. If something feels off, you use the Portkey. No heroics. You hear me?”

Harry gave a small huff. “I’m going to St Jude’s, not storming Azkaban.”

“I know,” Sirius said quietly. “Still.”

Before Harry could answer, the door creaked open, and a gust of sharp winter air rolled in. Remus stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders.

“Morning,” he said, offering a faint smile. “Ready?”

Harry nodded again.

But Sirius wasn’t quite done. “Wait a second,” he said, vanishing briefly into the corridor. He returned with a long, brown-paper parcel, tied up with string. It looked soft around the edges.

“These are for your friends,” he said, pressing the bundle into Harry’s arms. “Just jumpers. Thought… well. Thought they might like something warm.”

Harry blinked. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” Sirius said. “They matter to you. That’s enough for me.”

Harry swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and nodded. Sirius reached out, squeezing his shoulder once, and then stepped back.

“Right,” Remus said gently. “Let’s go.”

The front door opened with a creak, and Harry followed him out into the cold, boots crunching across the frozen path. Behind them, the door clicked shut, and the quiet warmth of the drawing room was left behind.

The streets of Southwark were quiet in the early morning, and the world muffled under a brittle sky. Frost edged the pavement, clung to parked cars and gathered in shallow puddles. Every breath steamed white.

Harry kept pace beside Remus, boots thudding softly. The wind had picked up again, sharp as pins, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself, chin tucked in, trying to disappear inside the wool. “It’s bloody freezing,” he muttered, breath ghosting past his lips.

Remus didn’t answer. His brow was furrowed, mouth set in a thin line, and his eyes alert, searching. For a moment, he looked almost like he was listening to something far away.

Then, he said quietly, “This isn’t normal cold.”

Harry glanced up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

Remus exhaled, a plume of white curling from his mouth. “Dementors.”

The word struck like a jolt. Harry stopped in his tracks. “Here?”

Remus nodded grimly. “They’ve joined the hunt. Your godfather’s too high a prize.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s not linger.”

They crossed a narrow street where old brick terraces leaned against one another. At last, they turned the corner, and there it was, St Jude’s Home for Children, crouched in its patch of weedy lawn and wintered trees, its tall iron gates black against the pale morning. The windows were all dark, save one faint glow on the top floor, Matron Grindle, already up.

They stopped just outside the gate.

Remus looked at Harry carefully. “You don’t leave the grounds. Not for anything. I’ll be back by evening.”

Harry nodded.

Remus opened the gate with a creak, then rested his hand briefly on Harry’s shoulder. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Harry stepped inside and the gate shut behind him with a dull clang. He turned once, watched as Remus walked away down the empty street, his figure shrinking into the grey, as he disappeared into the morning.

The bench outside Matron Grindle’s office hadn’t changed. Still wobbled slightly to the left. Still bore the scratch marks from some long-forgotten tantrum. Harry sat with his hands tucked in his lap, coat bunched around him, watching the dust shift in the cold morning light.

Footsteps approached, measured, clicking lightly against the linoleum.

“Mr. Palmer,” came a familiar voice, measured, with a trace of surprise beneath the calm. “Well. I must admit, I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come.”

He stood as Matron Grindle came into view, composed as ever in her navy wool dress. She wasn’t tall, nor loud, but there was an authority to her that needed no raising of voice. Her grey hair was swept into its usual tight coil, and the silver chain of her glasses glinted at her collar. Her expression gave little away, except, the faintest softening at the corners of her mouth as she looked at him.

“Come in, then.”

He followed her in. The office hadn’t changed either – old desk, two stiff-backed chairs, shelves stuffed with binders and books she never let the boys touch. A tea tray steamed gently in one corner.

She gestured for him to sit. “Tea?”

Harry shook his head.

She poured herself a cup, then settled behind the desk. For a moment, she simply looked at him. He sat still under the scrutiny, spine straight.

“How are you, Harry?”

He blinked. It was strange hearing his name like that here. “I’m fine.”

“Good. And Mr. Blake?”

“He’s alright.”

“You’re still attending school?”

Harry nodded.

“Eating well? Sleeping warm?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “He looks after me.”

There was a pause.

“I’m lucky,” he added, after a moment.

Matron Grindle’s face didn’t change much, but something in her gaze sharpened. Like she’d taken the measure of him again and found a piece that hadn’t been there before.

Just then, there was a soft knock at the doorframe.

“Oh… sorry.” Mrs Melling stood just inside, arms folded over a stack of folders, her cardigan mismatched with the neatness of her bun. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Harry turned.

“My goodness,” she said, stepping closer, giving him a slow once-over. “You’ve grown.”

He gave her a sheepish shrug. “Bit hard not to.”

She gave a faint smile. “And you look…” She paused, eyes taking in the clearer skin, the healthier frame, the boy who no longer looked quite like he belonged in this place. “…well.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, a little awkwardly.

Matron Grindle cleared her throat. “Is it urgent, Audrey?”

“Oh… no. Just the meds chart for the little ones. I’ll leave them on the shelf.” She gave Harry a brief nod before slipping out again.

Matron Grindle set her tea aside. “You know, most children who leave don’t come back. Not unless they need something.”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He picked at a thread on his sleeve, eyes lowered.

“I suppose what I mean is…” She leaned forward slightly. “You are certain Mr. Blake is treating you properly?”

His head snapped up. “Yes. I mean… yeah, he is. Really.”

She studied him a moment longer.

Harry glanced away. “I just promised everyone I’d visit.”

Matron Grindle’s gaze softened.

She didn’t smile, but gave a small nod and said, “Then I’m glad you came. Did you have breakfast?”

Harry shook his head.

She nodded once. “Then go join the others.”

The kitchen was nearly empty, save a single mug that steamed on the long wooden table, set at his usual spot. The air was still thick with the scent of porridge and toast, but the usual din of clinking cutlery and squabbling voices was missing.

He slid into the seat, fingers curling around the warm mug. For a moment, he just sat, letting the quiet settle around him, foreign and strangely heavy.

“Morning, Madam General,” he said, without looking up.

From the kitchen door, Mrs Melling snorted. “Thought by now you’d have outgrown that nonsense.”

Harry gave a small smile. “I’m incorrigible.”

Callum stumbled in first, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw, his hair sticking up in wild tufts. Ameer followed close behind, blinking against the light, one hand on Callum’s elbow and the other gently guiding Thomas, who looked half-awake and clutched a stuffed bear by the leg.

Callum didn’t even glance over, just made a beeline for the bench, mumbling something about dying of hunger. Ameer, sharper as always, slowed. His hand tugged once at Callum’s sleeve, his eyes locked on the figure already at the table.

Callum stopped. Blinked. Blinked again.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Morning.”

Ameer recovered first. “You’re early.”

Harry shrugged, deadpan. “The Prime Minister sent a letter saying I had to report in before sunrise or I’d be turned into a sofa.”

Ameer snorted, pulling out a chair. “Brave of them.”

Callum dropped down across from Harry, still staring like he couldn’t quite trust his eyes. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. No sound came out.

“Your jaw’s gonna catch flies,” Harry said mildly, reaching for a slice of toast.

Before Callum could think of a reply, Thomas darted around the table with a sudden burst of speed and flung himself at Harry’s side. The hug was messy and half a tackle, with little arms clinging tight.

“Careful,” Harry said, laughing under his breath. “I’ve got the reflexes of a startled pigeon before breakfast.”

Thomas beamed and didn’t let go. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “I’m back.”

He ruffled Thomas’s hair, already a disaster, and the boy clambered up beside him.

The warmth in the room thickened slowly, like a kettle coming to boil. The usual sounds returned: the scrape of chairs, a muttered complaint about crusts, Ameer telling Callum to stop drooling into his mug.

Harry stirred his porridge, slow and absent. Everything was exactly as he remembered it.

And yet, something had shifted. Not in the room. In him.

This place had never been cruel, not quite kind either, just a pause in time, a nowhere between befores and afters. But he had come back. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

Because he wasn’t that lost boy anymore. He took another bite, warm and bland, and let the silence hold him. It didn’t echo like it used to.

In the sitting room, a narrow space off the main corridor with scuffed floorboards and mismatched armchairs, Harry settled into the corner of the old green sofa. One of the littlest boys tottered over, fists rubbing at tired eyes, and clambered onto his lap without a word. Sticky fingers clutched at the sleeve of Harry’s jumper. He held steady, one hand resting gently on the boy’s back, the other unwrapping a piece of chocolate.

“Here,” he murmured.

Around them, the older girls were twisting silver paper into makeshift streamers, giggling softly as they hung them on the curtain rail. A radio crackled from the kitchen, some old tune carrying across the floorboards.

Years ago, he’d curled into this same corner, head tucked beneath Madame Leroux’s chin, knees drawn to his chest, silent and unsure while her hand traced slow circles down his back. He remembered the way her cardigan had smelled faintly of nutmeg and old paper. The way she’d never asked anything of him, just held on.

Now it was his lap someone else had found. And he understood, maybe for the first time, what it meant to be that kind of safe.

Outside, the frost hadn’t lifted. Pale light clung to the bare hedges and rusted fence posts, casting long shadows across the patchy yard. Harry tugged his sleeves down over his wrists and stepped out, breath fogging as he crossed towards the loose cluster of boys near an old football.

Callum gave him a crooked grin and nudged the ball his way. “Still know how to kick, Harry?”

Harry snorted, gave it a lazy tap with his boot. “Only if you lot still know how to lose.” That got a few whoops.

Toby, Jacob, and Niall were there, leaning against the side wall where the frost was thickest, jackets undone despite the cold. They didn’t say anything at first, just stared, surprised. Like they hadn’t really believed he’d show.

Then Niall shrugged. “You playing or what?”

“Already am,” Harry called back, light and easy.

Jacob gave a low whistle, and the three of them trotted in, their usual swagger softened by something quieter.

The match picked up quick after that, scrappy and breathless, the ball bouncing over clumps of frozen mud and bits of gravel. Harry passed to Callum, got hip-checked by Niall, and he elbowed back harder. No one kept score.

When Ameer skidded on the frozen turf and landed flat on his back, arms splayed wide, Harry doubled over laughing, not mean or sharp, just loud and surprised, like it had come from someplace he’d forgotten was still in him.

They laughed too, all of them, even Ameer, red-cheeked, breathless, grinning up at the sky like the whole thing had been worth it.

The match had wound down in a muddle of cheers and aching lungs. Ameer had begged off first, collapsing theatrically in the grass. Thomas followed, boots caked in half-frozen sludge, declaring victory even though no one had kept score. Harry stayed back, teasing Callum for falling over twice and still claiming he hadn’t. Janice pouted about her laces being knotted. Harry crouched without a word and began undoing them, fingers red from the cold but patient as ever.

When they were sorted, he stood and reached into his coat pocket.

 Humbugs wrapped in wax paper, caramels gone soft around the edges, a twist of lemon sherbets slightly tacky through the foil. He handed them out, one by one.

The little ones gathered fast, tugging at his sleeves, pointing at his pockets, eyes wide.

“Where’d you get these?” asked a girl with a runny nose, already chewing.

Harry tilted his head. “Secret stash. Buried under the floorboards. Guarded by ferrets.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, deadpan. “Vicious ones.”

They followed, trailing after him like ducklings, wrappers crackling underfoot. Eventually, they began to drift off, one by one, tugged away by the promise of warmth and tea.

He had laughed more in the last few hours than he had in weeks, not the quiet kind he shared at home with Sirius and Remus, while wrestling the overgrown garden into shape or trading insults over burnt toast, but something brighter. Wilder. The sort that bubbled up in the cold without warning, spurred by flying snowballs, and the easy chaos of being surrounded by children his own age. With wind in his lungs and the giddy thrill of not caring who saw.

He crouched now, scraping a clump of muck off a younger boy’s boot with a bent stick. “Hold still, George… unless you want to track half the garden into the corridor.”

George giggled, wobbling a little, and Harry braced him with a steady hand. A few of the others lingered nearby, the ones who hadn’t trailed off after the others, arms full of sweets, coats flapping in the breeze.

Then the wind shifted.

Harry didn’t need to turn around. He felt that change. A prickle up his spine, the way the yard fell just a little too quiet.

He stood slowly, brushing his hands on his trousers. The little ones caught on and melted back inside, laughter fading. When he finally turned, Toby, Jacob, and Niall were waiting by the bins, too casual to be natural, too deliberate to be nothing.

Harry sighed. “Come on?” he said. “We just had a game together.”

Toby scratched the back of his neck. “Thought we’d welcome back the prodigal son with a little ceremony.”

Jacob grinned, all teeth and no warmth. “Thought you might’ve forgotten how things work around here.”

Harry stepped forward. ““Is this the part where you try to look threatening? Because it’s not working.” he said, voice clipped. “Toby, you remember what happened last time?”

Toby’s mouth opened. Then closed.

“Do you really want to test that memory?” Harry asked.

He wasn’t angry. His voice didn’t rise. But something shifted in him, like frost spreading under glass. Steady, calm. Unmoving.

The three boys didn’t flinch. But they didn’t come close either.

“Go away,” Harry said.

And they did. They peeled off, one by one. Niall first, then Jacob with a muttered breath through his teeth. Toby held on longest, gaze locked with Harry’s for a moment. Then he turned.

Harry didn’t move until the last shape vanished round the corner. Then he sat back on the steps and dug into his pocket, fingers closing around the last lemon sherbet. He turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the crinkled foil.

Behind him, a door creaked open.

“Are you okay?” Callum asked.

Harry didn’t answer at once. He popped the sweet into his mouth, then tilted his head back to watch the clouds thicken above the rooftops.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’m alright.”

And for once, it felt mostly true.

Later, in the kitchen, he helped Mrs Melling peel carrots. Though she huffed that she didn’t need an extra pair of hands, he noticed she didn’t actually tell him to stop. Her knees were stiffer these days, her pace slower, but the kitchen was warmer than he remembered. The wallpaper had changed too. And someone had finally fixed the broken hinge on the pantry door.

“You’ve been busy,” Harry said mildly, nodding towards the shelves, where proper new tin canisters sat in a neat row.

Mrs Melling made a vague noise in her throat. “Some funding came through.”

“Hmm,” Harry said. Then, as if it hadn’t been burning a hole in his pocket all day, he slid a paper-wrapped bar across the counter. “Happy New Year.”

She stared at it. “Dark?”

“Milk. I’m not a monster.”

She smiled and tucked it into the corner of her apron.

By supper, the dining hall was loud, clatter of cutlery, chair legs scuffing the floor, someone dropping a tray. Harry found himself helping stack the chairs after, out of habit more than anything. He noticed some of the glass panes had been replaced, not the cloudy plastic kind from before, but real panes, smooth and clear. He remembered frost creeping in through the cracks on nights like this. Matron Grindle watched him from the end of the hall, unreadable, and Harry offered her the last of the chocolates with a simple nod.

She didn’t smile, but she took it.

The laundry room still smelled of starch and damp cotton, but someone had fixed the whine in the pipes. The overhead light no longer buzzed like a trapped fly.

Harry sat on the folding bench, elbows on knees. Across from him, Callum sprawled with his back against the washer, Thomas curled up beside him with a hand tucked into his sleeve. Ameer sat cross-legged, fiddling with the edge of a frayed towel.

None of them spoke for a while. The silence felt settled, not awkward. Then Harry reached into the bag at his feet.

He pulled out three neatly folded jumpers. Wool, thick-knit, hand-stitched. Each a little too big, on purpose. He passed them out without ceremony: navy for Callum, forest green for Ameer, a deep, warm red for Thomas.

Thomas’s eyes lit up first. “It’s got my name on the tag.”

Ameer ran a hand across the fabric. “This isn’t secondhand.”

“Nope,” Harry said. “Yours.”

Callum unfolded his slowly. “These real wool?”

“I suppose,” Harry said. “Blake got them for you. Figured if you’re going to freeze your arse off walking to school, might as well be warm while doing it. No slacking off just because I’m not around to yell.”

“You don’t yell,” said Ameer. “You nag.”

Callum’s grin flickered, then faded. “You leaving tonight?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Thomas clutched the jumper to his chest. “You’ll come back, though. Right?”

Harry looked at him for a moment. “I want to.”

Ameer cut in. “You could write. Properly, this time. Not like last time when you sent that postcard with the drawing of a squirrel that looked like a potato.”

“It was a bad pen,” Harry muttered.

“You drew it in crayon,” Ameer said.

Callum snorted. “I thought it was a dog.”

“It was a squirrel,” Harry insisted. “And it was artistic interpretation.”

They laughed.

Callum kicked lightly at Harry’s shoe. “You’ll be alright out there?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

“You’ll still be weird?”

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

Thomas fished something out of his sleeve, a folded bit of paper, grubby and creased at the corners. “Made you a card,” he mumbled, holding it out. “Drew all of us. That’s you, with the cape. I didn’t have a silver pencil for your pendant so I rubbed in a bit of toothpaste. It shines a bit, see?”

Harry stared at it, lips parting slightly, blinking back something sharp behind his eyes. He folded the paper with careful hands, and tucked it into his coat pocket, like something precious.

He reached out and ruffled Thomas’s hair.

Callum watched him. “You remember the cabbage patch?”

“The compost heap? The fire in the kitchen? How could I forget?”

They were quiet for a moment.

Callum stared down at the navy wool stretched over his lap. “Place feels different when you’re here,” he muttered.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He stared at the old washer drum, the streak of chalk on the wall that no one had ever bothered to clean. “That’s not me,” he said eventually. “That’s you lot.”

Ameer frowned. “No it’s not.”

Harry smiled. “Alright. Maybe it’s both.”

They sat there a little longer. The radiator ticked. Outside, someone dragged a chair too fast.

Finally, Harry stood. At the door, he turned. “Wear the jumpers. Don’t save them.”

Thomas stared up at him. “Even if I spill sauce on it?”

“Especially then.”

Mrs. Melling’s voice came from the top of the stairs, “Palmer! Mr Lupin’s waiting in the office. Don’t dawdle or I’ll drag you myself.”

Thomas stood and threw his arms around his waist. Callum joined a moment later. Ameer clasped his shoulder. They didn’t say goodbye. That word felt too final… too heavy, too loud for what this was.

But when Harry pulled open the door, Callum called after him: “Oi, Palmer!”

Harry paused, halfway through.

“You’ve still got the face of an angel.”

He grinned. “Yeah. And the temper of a wasp.”

He gave them a half-smile, tugged his own coat closer. “Happy New Year, by the way. Hope this one’s better than the last.”

“You said that last time,” Callum muttered.

“I’ll keep saying it,” Harry replied. “Till it’s true.”

Silence settled, full of things none of them had words for.

He stepped out into the corridor. Behind him, he heard Callum mutter something like cheeky sod, and Thomas laugh through his nose. The door creaked shut on the warmth, and Harry didn’t look back again.

He turned left, away from the stairs, down the corridor that smelled faintly of old books. His footsteps slowed as he passed the familiar bend.

The library hadn’t changed. Still quiet, still smelled of dust.

Harry stepped in slowly. The photograph was still there above the reading nook, same wooden frame, same faint warmth in Madame Leroux’s eyes. Gentle. Watching.

He reached into his pocket and drew out something small. A pressed violet, delicate and faded, laminated in clear plastic with scalloped edges. Her old bookmark. He’d found it tucked inside his copy of Le Petit Prince, when he was reading his favourite chapter at home. It must’ve slipped in there when she lent it to him, and stayed, quiet and waiting.

He crossed the room, found the worn spine of Le Petit Prince on the shelf… her copy, the one she always read from. The corners were still curled.

He turned to the page she’d read aloud on her last day. The passage came back like breath: “On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.” One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

He pressed the violet into the spine, fingers lingering there. “You always stopped here,” he said. “I never asked why.”

“Bonne année, Madame.”

He stepped back, eyes on the photograph one last time.

“Goodbye… for now.”

And then he left the library, the bookmark resting like a small, quiet farewell between the pages.

The corridor beyond felt longer than usual. Quieter. As if the walls, too, knew he was leaving. He made his way to the office.

Remus stood as Harry entered, offering him a smile.

Mrs Melling gave him a nod, brisk but kind. The faint lines around her eyes were tighter than usual, her hands folded in her lap.

Matron Grindle, stiff as ever, adjusted her collar and cleared her throat. “You've been a right handful,” she said, almost accusingly. Then, a little more softly, “And a good one.”

Harry smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “For… everything.”

The quiet wrapped around them, full of things unspoken.

Then Remus gently touched his shoulder. “Ready?”

Harry nodded.

He let his gaze sweep across the office one final time. The faint scratch on the windowsill from an old toy sword duel. The ink stain beneath the desk. The cupboard where they used to nick biscuits. Small things.

Quietly, he said, “Goodbye.”

And then he and Remus stepped outside.

They walked in silence in the hush of early evening. The cold met him at once, sharp and clean, curling past his collar, threading through his jumper like a whispered warning. It slid down his spine and settled in his fingers, biting and insistent.

He pulled his coat a little tighter and kept walking.

Chapter Text

The streets of Southwark were quieter here, no longer the hum of Borough Market or the rattle of buses, just narrow lanes with damp brick walls and rusted signs.

Harry glanced up at Remus. “How much further?”

“Just ahead,” Remus murmured, nodding towards the end of the street. “Half a block that way. It’s a bit secluded. We should be able to apparate unnoticed.”

Harry nodded and tucked his hands into his sleeves. The cold had sharpened, wrapping itself around his ribs and settling low in his lungs. He took a breath and tasted metal in the air.

Remus slowed beside him. “Stay close.”

Harry’s voice was quieter now. “Are they near?”

“I don’t think so,” said Remus, though his eyes scanned the rooftops, the alleyway mouths, the shifting shadows. “But they’re watching.”

He tilted his head slightly, indicating the sky. Above them, the clouds had darkened further, stretched in long, unnatural drifts. As if something just beyond them was pressing down, leeching the warmth from the world.

Harry shivered. “I don’t like it.”

“I know.” Remus sighed. “I’d cast a warming charm. Or a Patronus. But… we can’t risk it here. Too many Muggles. And if they’re nearby… well… Magic might draw them.”

Harry asked, “What’s a Patronus?”

“It’s a charm,” Remus said, “that drives Dementors away. Pure light. Tied to your happiest memory. Not easy to cast, but when it works… well, it’s something to see.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small bar of chocolate, snapping it cleanly in two. “Here,” he said, offering one half to Harry. “It helps.”

Harry took it, frowning slightly. “Chocolate?”

“It’s not just for comfort,” Remus said. “There’s something in it… helps counter the effects of a Dementor attack. Restores warmth. Some people think it’s just a sentimental remedy, but every Healer I know swears by it.”

Harry took it and bit down. It was rich and dark, slightly bitter. He felt it melt on his tongue, warmth blooming slow and steady. Beside him, Remus did the same.

They turned the corner. They were at the far end of the narrow lane now, more a cul-de-sac than a proper street. A cluster of boarded-up flats loomed in silence, their windows blind with grime. The pavement here was uneven, cracked in places, and the streetlamp above flickered faintly, drowning in a heavy mist.

The cold hit like a wave. It went deeper, slipping past scarf and skin, sinking into bone. Harry stumbled, drawing a sharp breath. His teeth clacked together. Remus swore under his breath and reached for him.

“Come on,” he said, voice taut. “Just a bit further.”

He took a step, but Harry didn’t follow.

Remus turned.

Harry was standing still, arms stiff at his sides. His eyes were distant, unfocused, fixed on nothing. Not exactly frozen in fear. More like… caught. As if something unseen held him in place.

“Harry,” Remus called again. “Harry, come on.”

He reached out and touched the boy’s hand.

The jolt made him recoil. It wasn’t cold, it was searing.

Remus hissed, shaking his fingers, eyes wide. “Harry…”

Harry blinked. His gaze snapped back to Remus. “What? Yeah. Let’s go. Is it there?” He looked down the alley, then at Remus.

But Remus didn’t move. His expression was fixed, stunned.

“You’re…” he began, then stopped. He pointed.

Harry looked down.

A faint, golden sheen clung to his skin, flickering like sunlight through water. It wasn’t bright or blinding, just… alive. His whole body shimmered faintly, not just his hand. The very air around him seemed warmer, pulsing softly, casting back the cold.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” Harry murmured, staring at his arms. “But I don’t feel cold anymore.”

Remus was still staring. Wonder and something close to fear flickered across his face. Then he swallowed hard, forced himself to move.

“No time,” he said brusquely. “Let’s not tarry.”

They moved to the shadowed edge of the cul-de-sac. The spot was well-chosen, tucked between a shattered phone box and a rusted skip. The kind of place no one looked at twice.

Remus wrapped an arm around Harry, flinching as his palm brushed the boy’s hand. The heat was fading now, but still there, like embers beneath the surface. The glow had dimmed to something imperceptible.

And then with a sharp twist, they vanished.

They landed with a muted crack. Wreinleigh Cottage stood just ahead, its windows aglow with soft lamplight, the red bricks white under a fine dusting of snow. The gate creaked faintly in the wind.

And there, in the middle of the garden, Sirius sat cross-legged in the snow.

A lazy ring of flame circled him. Blue-orange fire drifting gently above the ground, melting the snow in a perfect radius. His wand lay idly beside him, and a faint shimmer pulsed over his cloak, some charm that repelled both damp and cold, leaving him entirely untouched.

He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing against the sudden shift in air and saw them.

The fire vanished in an instant. Sirius was on his feet and crossed the garden with long, urgent strides. He reached Harry and pulled him into a rough, firm hug.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low, almost hoarse. “Was everything okay?”

Harry let out a breath against his chest. “Yeah…”

Sirius stepped back, hands on Harry’s shoulders. His brow furrowed. “You’re warm.”

Harry blinked. “I know.”

Remus stepped up beside them, eyebrows raised. “How long have you been sitting out here?”

Sirius hesitated. “…Maybe an hour.”

Remus was stunned. “What?”

Sirius gave him an unapologetic shrug. “Alright, maybe two.”

“In the snow?”

“I had a fire.”

Remus sighed, long-suffering but fond. “You do know houses exist for a reason, right? Shelter from the weather… ringing any bells?”

Sirius flashed a grin. “Where’s the thrill in that?”

Harry glanced between them, half-confused, half-entertained. “Is this normal? Do wizards just… wait outside in the snow for people?”

“No,” Remus said flatly.

“Yes,” Sirius said at the same time. “But only the ones who are dramatic, impulsive, and probably related to me.”

Remus gave him a look that was all raised eyebrows. “Inside. Now. Before you decide to build yourself a snow fort.”

Sirius swept a mock bow, one arm still wrapped around Harry. “As you command, Honourable Justice Lupin.”

With the cottage ahead and the two men flanking him, Harry felt… safe. Like the warmth around him wasn’t just in his skin. It was in the laughter. In the shared glances. In the way neither man let him walk too far ahead.

And it did feel like home, more and more with every mad, brilliant second of it.

The drawing room was warm. A squat kettle whistled, and Sirius appeared moments later, two mugs in hand and one already steaming on the low table in front of the couch.

"Hot chocolate," he declared, plonking the mugs down. “With the works. Well… if the works include cinnamon and an irresponsible amount of sugar.”

Harry took one eagerly. Remus accepted his with a quiet nod of thanks.

Sirius sat back with a groan. “Right then. How were things back at St. Jude’s? Set fire to a toaster? Got banned from the dining hall? Started a turf war over custard?”

He shot Harry a grin. “Or did you blow up the kitchen again and pass it off as a cultural exchange?”

“There have been a couple of developments,” Remus cut in.

Sirius straightened at once, the humour draining from his face. He waited, mug balanced on one knee, eyes fixed on his friend.

Remus glanced briefly at Harry, then back. “Dementors. We knew they’d been authorised… but they’re out now. Hunting. We felt them in Southwark. Close… And circling.”

Sirius went very still.

“There’s absolutely no way you can leave the house anymore,” Remus said, his voice softer now but no less firm. “You know how they work… they can sense their prey. Whether you're a captive now or were one before… it doesn’t matter.”

The silence stretched.

Then Sirius gave a short, brittle laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You worry too much, Moony.”

“I worry just enough,” Remus said evenly. “You need to swear it. No more wandering off. You’re safe behind the wards, Sirius. That’s where you stay.”

Sirius looked at him, jaw clenched. But it was Harry who spoke next.

“I felt them,” Harry said quietly. “It wasn’t just cold. It was… hollow. Like the warmth got ripped out of everything. It was like I’d forgotten what happiness even felt like. As if it never existed at all.”

That got him. Sirius’s gaze flicked to Harry, sharp and pained. He held it there for a moment, then sighed and set down his mug with a soft clink.

“Alright. I swear I’ll behave. Stay indoors, avoid soul-sucking wraiths, keep the doom to a manageable level.”

He continued, almost managing a grin. “I’ll even sit here and take up knitting… Grow old gracefully.”

Remus raised a brow. “Miracles.”

Sirius turned to him. “And the second development? Please say it’s something cheerful. Like Harry sprouted wings. Or became a wizarding rock star.”

“The second development,” Remus said, tone measured, “is about Harry.”

Sirius glanced up, alert.

“He did accidental magic again.”

“I didn’t,” Harry said at once, surprised. “I kept my temper. Nothing exploded.”

Sirius nearly spilled his drink lunging forward. “You should’ve led with that,” he said sharply, setting the mug down on the table and reaching across to check Harry, his forehead, his hands, his shoulders, as if expecting burns or something worse.

Harry batted him off. “I’m fine.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Remus cut in gently. “Sirius, sit down.”

He waited until Sirius eased back onto the edge of his seat.

Then Remus turned to Harry again. “Do you remember just before we apparated… when you suddenly felt warm? The glow?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”

Remus studied him for a moment. “I don’t know a single warming charm that works like that. Harry, you were burning, like a furnace. But you didn’t feel it. And it wasn’t hurting you.”

Harry’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.

Sirius was silent a moment before saying, “That’s why he felt so hot, when he came back,” he murmured. “I didn’t realise…”

“I felt cold,” Harry said suddenly, frowning at the memory. “Really cold. Like… I couldn’t feel my fingers. Then suddenly, it was warm. It felt… safe. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Obviously,” Remus said gently. “But Harry, you are…” he paused, met Sirius’s eyes, and went on, “…you are a special child.”

Harry shifted, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

Remus continued. “The temperature dropped because of the Dementors. I didn’t risk casting a Patronus… I wasn’t sure how many were nearby, or if it would draw more. When I touched your arm, it scorched me. Enough to know it wasn’t just heat. It was power.”

He held up his fingers; faint red marks still lingered at the base of his thumb. “It’s fine now, but I felt it.”

Harry stared. He hadn’t noticed it back then.

“So,” he said finally, hesitating, “can’t both of you do that? I mean… you’re wizards too.”

Sirius gave a short laugh. “No, kid. If we could do that, someone would’ve written a book about it.”

“That’s why Remus said you’re special,” he added, glancing over. “You know… we’ve tried to make sense of this. We’ve talked about it more times than I can count. Trying to work out why your magic’s so strange.”

Harry looked between them. “Strange how?”

“Most kids your age might levitate a chair. Melt a doorknob. Maybe turn a toy inside-out by accident,” Sirius said. “You’ve done more than that… and it’s not just that it’s powerful, it’s happening consistently.”

He frowned. “It’s not just rare. It’s unusual. Even for you.”

Harry looked down at his hands.

Remus leaned forward. “We think it might have something to do with what happened the night your family was attacked.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. The quiet in the room deepened, heavy with what hadn’t been said.

“There’s something you need to know,” Remus said quietly. “We weren’t sure if telling you would help or only make things harder. But you deserve to know.”

Harry turned to him slowly.

“I saw a body… Supposed to be yours,” Remus said quietly.

The words dropped into the room like a stone. For a moment, only the fire crackled.

“I remember standing with Dumbledore as they lowered it into the coffin,” he went on, gaze distant. “It was so charred… so ruined…”

Harry froze. His breath hitched. “You mean to say…” He sat up straight, the blood draining from his face. “There’s someone buried in that grave?”

He looked between them, eyes wide, voice trembling. “I thought… maybe the coffin was empty. That they couldn’t find me, so they just… assumed I was dead. I thought it was just for show. For the people who missed me.”

Sirius moved before the silence could settle. He crossed the room in three strides and sat beside Harry on the couch, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“No, kiddo. That grave… it fooled a lot of people. Made the whole world think you were really gone.”

Harry stared down at his knees. “Are you sure it’s not me?”

“Harry…”

“I mean it.” His voice cracked. “What if I’m not who you think I am? What if I’m someone else? What if… what if I’m just pretending without realising it?” His fingers gripped the fabric of his jumper. “What if the real Harry Potter died in that fire and I’m just… some… thing?”

Remus blinked hard, as if something sharp had hit him. Sirius’s hand clenched on Harry’s shoulder, then he gave a low, startled breath – half laugh, half protest.

“You absolute little menace,” Sirius muttered. “You think I wouldn’t recognise you? You think Padfoot wouldn’t sniff you out if you were some sort of imposter?”

Harry was caught off guard.

“I’ve been chasing you around since you were in nappies,” Sirius said, mock-offended now. “I know that ridiculous hair, that scowl, that weird smell of grass, soap and biscuit crumbs. It’s you, Harry.”

“And I have a werewolf’s nose, mind you,” Remus added, more gently, but with conviction. “I’d have known. I knew it was you. The moment you looked at me the first time.”

Harry’s lip twitched. His eyes were still wet, but something eased behind them.

“…All right,” he said hoarsely.

“Good,” Sirius said, patting his shoulder again, a little too hard. “Because if you’d turned out to be a very clever ferret in disguise, I’d have to rethink my entire godfathering strategy.”

“Or you’d still adopt the ferret,” Harry mumbled.

“Well, only if it did the dishes,” Sirius said, grinning.

Harry huffed something like a laugh.

But the moment passed, and Harry glanced back at the fire. “Then who is buried there?”

Sirius’s grin faded. “That’s what we don’t know. But I’ve come across passages… in forbidden books. Back in my family’s library. They spoke of rituals… dark ones… that could craft a body. Or worse, twist the dead into something that moves. That’s how Inferi are made.”

Harry’s brow creased. “Inferi?”

Remus nodded. “Animated corpses. It’s dark magic of the worst kind… Necromancy. Not just summoning, but defiling. Voldemort used them during the last war. Pulled them from graves, from battlefields. They move, they obey… but they’re not alive. Just flesh, twisted into puppets.”

“So… you can make a body?” Harry asked slowly. “Or bring one back? Like… make it move again?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. Both are possible.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “But it takes more than magic. You need knowledge. Precision. Intent… and a complete absence of conscience.”

Harry swallowed. “So someone did all that. Made a body. And left it in my place.”

Sirius let out a long breath. “That’s what it looks like.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “But… why?”

Sirius hesitated. “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out. This kind of magic… it’s not just restricted. It’s buried. The sort of thing even the oldest families were too afraid to record. We don’t even know who cast it. And if it was your parents… whether they even knew of it… or would’ve dared to use it.”

Remus tilted his head. “Most necromantic spells aren’t cast to fool the living. They serve a master… obedient, mindless. But this…”

He trailed off.

Silence followed. But beneath it, something stirred in Sirius’s mind. Not memory, intuition.

He looked up, eyes sharp now. “Remus… what if it wasn’t about control at all?”

Remus blinked, slowly turning to him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something I read years ago. A treatise on magical divergence. It argued that if your intent was preservation, truly selfless, it could alter the outcome. Even corrupt magic could be reshaped… its purpose subverted.”

Remus frowned. “You think… it wasn’t necromancy?”

“I think it looked like necromancy. But maybe it wasn’t meant to raise the dead. Maybe it was meant to preserve the living.”

Remus had walked too close to monstrosity not to know the scent of dark enchantment. But this did feel different. Perhaps Sirius was right.

“That’s the only way it could make sense,” Sirius said slowly. “If the spell wasn’t meant to break natural law… but to bend around it. To protect something older than law itself. A life.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked quietly.

Sirius’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Magic… true magic… preserves. It lingers in places, in bloodlines. It threads through time. That’s what makes Hogwarts endure, Gringotts thrive, what binds the wards around this house.”

“Intent,” Remus said. “In magic, intent is everything. Spells are words, gestures, focus… but intent is the soul of it. If someone used forbidden magic… but their will was pure, their purpose selfless… only to preserve… then something… different might take shape.”

Sirius nodded, voice urgent. “Your parents knew what was coming. They knew they couldn’t stop it. So they found a way to keep you from being touched by it. Even if it meant invoking what should’ve been left untouched. Remember how the magic felt strange in Godric’s Hollow when we visited?”

Harry stilled. The memory rose unbidden. That hush in the air, like something ancient and unfinished. And the ground… it had felt alive beneath his feet. Like it remembered.

“That magic,” he said slowly, “the one in the air… was that it? Is that what they used… to make that body? To hide me?”

“To shield you,” Sirius corrected. “To tether you to something deeper than blood. So you’d survive.”

Harry’s thoughts spun. He had never thought himself special. Certainly not made of myth and sacrifice. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

Remus added, “And if their intent… was love… desperate, willing love… it could’ve left a resonance. A magical echo so strong, it might have reshaped destiny itself. That kind of love can move forces we barely understand.”

Harry’s voice was quiet. “But wouldn’t that be… wrong? Twisting something good into something like that?”

Sirius exhaled. “It’s both. That’s the truth. The magic that saved you wasn’t just light. It was steeped in sorrow. In grief. Reckless hope. The act may have been tainted… but the purpose? Pure. That contradiction… it would ripple through the very fabric of magic itself.”

That was the brilliance. A spell born from paradox… dark in shape, luminous in meaning. Magic meant for one thing: protect the child. No matter the cost.

He looked at Harry. “You weren’t just protected, Harry. You were forged in it.”

Sirius continued, calm and sure. “And you carry both in your blood. Their love. And the darkness they dared to touch to wield it.”

Remus met Harry’s eyes, gaze steady. “It marked you. That spell lives in you still. And that kind of power doesn’t fade. It remembers. It grows.”

Harry sat very still. He watched the fire flicker for a moment, then asked quietly, “So… When we left St Jude’s… that was my magic?”

Remus nodded slowly. “I believe so. You were freezing, terrified. You felt the Dementors. And somehow, your magic responded. As instinct.”

Harry blinked, trying to process it. “So you’re saying… I can just do things? Without knowing?”

Remus hesitated. “In moments like that? Yes. Magic that’s shaped by your emotion, can move before you realise what you’re doing.”

Harry glanced between them, unease creeping in. “And… you are saying my magic is powerful? That I’m stronger than both of you?”

Sirius let out a surprised bark of laughter. “No, Harry. Not stronger. Not yet.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “But you just said…”

“What you’ve got is potential,” Sirius said, leaning forward. “Enormous potential. But that’s like having a wand with no idea how to use it. Raw magic isn’t the same as power. Power is when you know what you’re doing. When you’ve trained, studied, failed, and kept going. Magic without discipline is just noise.”

Remus added, “Exactly. What happened tonight was raw force, restrained, but it could have turned wild. Like trying to empty a massive reservoir through a cracked pipe. All that pressure with nowhere to go… it could have hurt you. Or someone else. That’s why control matters.”

Harry frowned. “So if I don’t learn to… I don’t know… channel it… I could what, explode?”

“Not explode,” Remus said. “But… misfire. Your magic will keep responding to your emotions, and that kind of volatility could make things worse, not better.”

Sirius gave a crooked smile. “It’s also probably why your temper’s a bit off the rails sometimes.”

Harry stiffened. “My temper?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sirius said, grinning. “You know it’s true. It’s not a judgment. It’s… a pattern. It happened at St Jude’s, didn’t it? That boy, the one who hit you…”

“I didn’t mean to blow up the kitchen.” Harry said quickly.

“I know,” Sirius said. “That’s the point. It wasn’t deliberate. But it happened anyway.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. The fire cast shadows on his face. He looked older in the light. Tired.

“So what do I do?” he asked finally.

Sirius sat back. “You learn. You train. You ask questions. You stay curious and grounded. You let us help you. Because like it or not, Harry… power like yours doesn’t just change things. It carries weight. What you do with it… that’s what matters.”

Remus added, “And you learn not just spells, but yourself. What sets you off. What steadies you. That’s how you gain control… not just over magic, but over who you want to be.”

Sirius nudged him gently. “You’re not alone in this, Harry.”

Harry didn’t smile. But he didn’t look quite so afraid, either.

Sirius shifted beside him, reached into his coat, and drew out his wand. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “Try this.”

Harry blinked. “Try what?”

“Just give it a flick,” Sirius said, as if it were obvious.

Harry took the wand hesitantly. “Alright…”

He gave it a small flick.

Nothing happened.

“…Was something supposed to?” he asked. “Don’t I have to say something?”

“Sometimes you don’t,” Sirius said with a shrug. “Magic reacts, even without words.”

Remus stepped away from the fireplace and crossed the room, watching closely. “Try mine,” he offered, drawing his wand. “And this time, say ‘Lumos.’”

Harry passed Sirius’s wand back and took Remus’s. It felt the same: light, smooth, unremarkable. He gave it a flick. Then again, a bit more deliberately. “Lumos.”

Nothing.

Sirius frowned. “Well, that’s… curious.”

“Did you feel anything?” Remus asked. “A pull, a trace of warmth or resistance?”

Harry shook his head. “No. It just felt like… a stick.”

Sirius sighed. “Cheeky.”

Remus tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if listening for something just beyond hearing. “The theory holds,” he said softly. “Your magic… it’s been brushed by something vast. It’s still yours, but it is… unanchored. Like it’s searching for itself. It doesn’t recognise our wands… not as something it can trust.”

Harry frowned, staring down at the wand. “But I thought… the wand chooses the wizard.”

“It does,” Remus said gently. “And as our wands didn’t choose you. At best, they would have let you borrow their loyalty… for simple things. But even that’s not happening right now.”

Harry handed the wand back slowly. “So not only am I weird,” he muttered, “even wands don’t like me.”

“You’re not weird,” Sirius said. “You’re just… complicated. And once you’ve got your own wand… one that truly chooses you… well, the world better be ready.”

Harry was quiet a moment. Then, deadpan: “Still… it felt like a twig.”

Sirius clutched his chest in mock offence. “That’s imported walnut!”

Remus arched a brow. “Used it to stir tea yesterday, didn’t you?”

“That was strategic,” Sirius said gravely. “The teabag was acting suspicious.”

A flicker of smile crossed Harry’s face.

Remus softened. “You’re not broken, Harry. Your magic’s just… finding its shape.”

Sirius looked at Harry for a long moment – the boy who had survived, who had changed even the rules of magic just by being. Then he said, softly, but with a glint in his eyes,

“And when it does… Merlin help anyone who stands in your way.”

Chapter Text

The shack held the silence of a tomb.

It stood like a wound in the forest, squat and crumbling. The trees leaned away, branches curling back as if recoiling from the taint. Moss blanketed the roof in thick, sickly green, and the windows had clouded to blindness. What glass remained trembled in its panes, as though the structure itself resented its inhabitant.

Inside, magic pulsed faintly. Diseased magic. A thin, sickly rhythm; like the echo of a dying heart.

And at its centre, he sat.

Not Quirinus Quirrell.

His body was slouched over a rotting desk, surrounded by scattered scrolls, ash, and something darker. Smoke clung to the wizard’s robes, seared into the threads. Blood had soaked through the left sleeve, caked beneath fingernails gone black. His breath was shallow. His skin was grey.

Lord Voldemort did not care.

He moved the hand anyway, fingers twitching like dead twigs in winter. The chill in the room was unnatural, not from the cold, but from something inside. Even the shadows bent differently.

“So close,” he whispered.

The words emerged through Quirrell’s lips, but not in Quirrell’s voice. This one was deeper, silkier, coated in venom and something older than hatred. Something dry and ancient. Something hollowed out by rage.

“I held it.”

He could still feel the Stone in his grasp: smooth, warm, alive with power. The way it had glowed: that rich, impossible red-gold, like liquid sunset, thrumming with promise.

Then the vault had screamed.

Goblin wards had awakened, magic not written in wands and Latin, but etched in blood, iron and bone. The vault itself had retaliated, striking with the fury of a thing defiled.

He had fought it. With all his force. All his knowledge. All the twisted remains of what had once been a God.

But the Stone was wrenched from his grasp. The magic buckled. The floor cracked. Fire roared. Screams.

Then… Explosion.

Gringotts had erupted from the inside, rock and steel thrown skyward like toys. Vaults shattered. Goblins dead. Gold melted in their hands.

And still he had failed.

He rose from the chair. Slowly. Stiffly. His movements pulled at sinew and joint with unfamiliar ache. The body was not his. It carried him, but barely. Like a cage might carry fire.

“You said it would be enough,” said Quirrell’s voice, thin and tremulous. He stirred somewhere behind his own eyes, more than a whisper, but no more a man. “You promised. After Gringotts… you said you’d let me go.”

Lord Voldemort’s eyes… Quirrell’s eyes… closed briefly.

“And I would have,” he said, voice like silk over steel. “But failure has a price.”

He thought again of the Stone. The alchemy of it. The rightness of it in his hand. Not crude resurrection. Not rituals of blood or bone. Something pure. And the way it was gone. Torn from him by the oldest kind of magic, sacrifice and vengeance.

“They remember,” he murmured. “The stones. The iron. The gold. Every vault, every rail, every rune etched into the walls… they remember. Gringotts was built on blood and betrayal, and its bones still hum with that memory. They guard not merely treasure. They are vengeance made manifest. Magic steeped in ancient grievance, waiting to rise against any who dare violate the sanctum.”

He would remember, too.

He had marked every goblin who had stood and fought, who had dared to bleed for their vaults. And when the time came, when power was his again, he would make certain they paid for that defiance. Not just in blood. He would see the legacy of Gringotts reduced to ash.

There were other memories, too. Older than this ruined dwelling. Older than Quirrell.

He remembered the mountains, jagged and grey, where even the wind moved like a curse. He remembered the shattered temples, roots breaking through forgotten sigils, where Ravenclaw’s blood had stained the earth. He remembered the Black Forest, thick with rot and memory, where the trees leaned close, and the dead muttered beneath the moss.

The world had forgotten those places.

He had not.

And when Quirrell came; soft-spoken, wide-eyed, searching for truths he barely understood; to the ruins deep in the Albania, it had been almost too easy.

“I let you serve,” Voldemort whispered. His lips curled back from Quirrell’s teeth in something like a sneer. “And you welcomed it.”

“I did,” the wizard breathed. “I… I wanted to learn. To see. I believed…”

“But belief,” Voldemort hissed, “is not strength.”

The air in the room thickened, cloying, heavy with the press of something unseen.

“I…” Quirrell gasped. “I can’t… breathe…”

The hand moved of its own accord. Fingers clawed at the chest, scrabbling at robes, at skin. The mouth opened in a silent, strangled cry.

Lord Voldemort’s magic pulsed.

No wandwork. No words. Just will.

Quirrell dropped to his knees like a puppet with strings cut, body shuddering.

Inside him, the Dark Lord pressed close, coiling tighter, breathless and cold, a presence crawling behind his eyes.

“Quiet,” he said. “You were broken long before I found you.”

He turned away.

The fire had long gone out. Frost webbed the glass. In the hearth, a snake watched with glittering eyes, its tongue flicking once, then vanishing again into the shadows.

This form would not hold. It could not.

But he would not fade.

Not now. Not again.

The Stone had not surpassed his Horcruxes. Those were his true legacy. But it had offered a rare convenience. Magic, deep and ancient, coaxed into form. A cleaner return. The body it might have given him would have been whole – immortal, strong, unbreakable.

But it had slipped through his fingers.

He had not been defeated… merely delayed.

Already, he had begun to conceive of a path, one that would demand deeper study, rarer magic, preparation beyond what this fragile shell could presently endure.

For that, he needed time. And time could only be bought with this vessel’s survival.

There were lesser methods. Crude, but sufficient to stave off collapse. Potent, if only for a while.

The unicorns. Silver-blooded things of grace and light, whose deaths could taint even innocence. Drinking their blood was an abomination.

But it would sustain him. Strengthen the spirit. Keep this wretched vessel clinging to life.

To the Forest. To the hunt.

“I will rise again,” Lord Voldemort whispered.

The shadows in the room stirred. From their depths, the snake emerged – silent, gliding, before coiling once more at his side.

He was not vanquished. Not broken.

Merely waiting.

And the world, drunk on its borrowed peace, would not see the end coming until it was far too late.

Chapter Text

The manor had been silent for hours.

Its halls, marble-veined and cavernous, swallowed all the warmth, though firelight burned in every hearth. The chill in the air was not the sort borne by winter alone, but something older, more ingrained. The kind of cold that clung to ancient bloodlines.

Seven figures stood scattered across the drawing room. These men, and one hooded woman, were not assembled out of friendship, nor habit. This was necessity. Instinct. The same impulse that draws jackals to the bones of a lion.

The room itself whispered legacy. Wainscoted walls bore embossed serpents that twisted down to a polished floor of dark wood. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting fractured light over silver goblets. The velvet drapes were drawn tight against the snow beyond the tall windows.

“Late,” muttered Antonin Dolohov. His arms were crossed, like a man prepared for violence.

Lucius Malfoy answered, from a low-backed chair near the window. “He has the right to be. He brings word.”

And bring it he did.

Augustus Rookwood entered without any flourish, yet the air shifted with him. His hair had thinned since the war, but his bearing was unchanged – upright, deliberate, almost military in its precision. One gloved hand rested on the head of his cane: not a crutch, but a statement. Polished wood, unadorned, with a subtle curve worn smooth by time. When he spoke, the room listened.

“They’ve confirmed it. From the vaults.”

A ripple ran through the gathering.

He didn’t raise his voice. “Wards of that kind haven’t been broken in centuries. Not without ceremony. Not without armies. Yet this… this was as if the stones themselves yielded.”

“And the Ministry?” asked Lucius. “They’ve named Black, haven’t they?”

Dolohov scoffed. “A convenient scapegoat.”

“He was never one of us,” he spat. “A blood traitor, nothing more. The Dark Lord would never…”

Rookwood’s cane tapped against the wood. Once. Sharp.

“Enough,” he said. “Sirius Black is irrelevant.”

He turned, the firelight catching in his eyes. “What matters is the vaults lie open. The wards torn asunder. The goblins themselves speak of magics they could not name. And at the heart of it… The Dark Lord’s magic…”

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

“You saw it?” asked Nott Sr., his voice almost reverent.

Rookwood inclined his head. “I saw what was left behind. I heard what the goblins would not speak of in the presence of Aurors.”

“But that means…” began Goyle Sr., only to falter mid-thought.

“He lives,” said Narcissa Malfoy. “Or something of him lingers still.”

A chill threaded through the room.

“If it was him… then why not come to us?” Dolohov demanded. “Why tear open a vault and vanish? Why leave us in silence?”

“Perhaps,” murmured Rookwood, “it is not silence. Perhaps it is a message. A reminder that he still walks this earth… and that we have done nothing. That he is watching who trembles… and who acts.”

“I don’t tremble,” Dolohov muttered.

“Don’t you?” came the reply, sharp as glass. “You should.”

“He was never destroyed,” said Lucius with quiet conviction. “We thought him gone. Vanquished. But he endured. In shadow. In silence. And now… he stirs.”

Narcissa’s voice cracked through the stillness, her tone uncertain. “Then what does that make us?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Loyalists? Or cowards? His chosen, or his forsaken?

A silence deeper than the last settled over the gathering, heavy with unspoken fear.

Rookwood turned from the hearth, cane tapping lightly against the floor as he crossed the room. He reached the centre and sank into the high-backed chair.

“When he returns… and he will… what will he see when he looks at us?” he asked.

No one answered.

He paused, gaze moving slowly across the room.

“Sworn names. Unbroken oaths. But years of silence. Years without effort. No hand stretched towards him. No voice raised beyond a whisper.”

“We’ve kept the fight alive. The raids…” said Goyle Sr., already pacing.

“Petty violence,” Rookwood said coldly. “Flashes in the dark. You mistake fire for fury.”

“That fire keeps his name alive,” Lucius said. “It reminds the world he’s not gone. That we haven’t surrendered.”

“It reminds the world we are fractured,” came the reply. “And it reminds him… when he returns… how little we’ve done in his absence.”

“Then what else would we have done?” asked Goyle Sr., “Storm the Ministry? Break the walls of Azkaban? Die meaningless deaths?”

“The boy,” Dolohov muttered.

And now, the name hung heavy between them.

Neville Longbottom.

They did not speak it aloud. A child who had stood when their master had fallen. Who had walked away untouched, while the Dark Lord was cast into nothing.

“There were whispers,” said Lucius, speculatively, “That the boy was meant to rise. The signs were there. How else could he have survived?”

“No,” said Nott Sr., “You misunderstood. His survival wasn’t destiny. It was interruption. A crack in the plan. One we should’ve sealed long ago.”

“He should have been silenced,” Dolohov snapped, eyes narrowing on Lucius. “But you… you decided to wait. To watch. To treat the boy like a curiosity instead of what he was. A threat.”

Lucius’s head lifted sharply. “I made a calculated choice. We all did.”

“Calculated,” Dolohov sneered. “Or cowardly? You stood there and dressed it up as strategy. While he grew.”

Lucius moved before he thought, one foot forward, wand hand half-risen.

“Antonin…” Narcissa’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. She had crossed from the mantel to the window in near silence, her silk hem barely whispering across the floor. One pale hand found Lucius’s wrist, not restraining, but warning.

Dolohov’s gaze flicked to her, unreadable. Then he stepped back.

Lucius exhaled, jaw clenched. “We believed he might be his heir. We consented together to watch, to learn. If he was our master reborn…”

“Then we waited like fools.” Rookwood said evenly.

“He was always guarded,” Nott Sr. muttered. “His home… Always under wards, spells, blood protections. And now, Ministry oversight. Too many eyes.”

“Then not his home,” said Dolohov. “He starts Hogwarts this year.”

“No,” said Nott Sr., voice calm and certain. “Hogwarts is protected in ways we can't even begin to breach. It has to be the station.”

A few exchanged glances.

“Too crowded,” muttered Goyle Sr., fidgeting with his sleeves. “Too risky.”

“Our own children will be there,” said Lucius, voice taut with warning. “You’d sacrifice them?”

“You’ve always been weak.” said Dolohov, lip curled in contempt. “Spines aren’t something gold can buy.”

A flicker of anger sparked in Lucius’s eyes. But before he could rise, Narcissa laid a hand on his arm again, her touch light but commanding.

“We can’t strike at the station,” said Rookwood. “Too exposed. Too many wands, and not all of them ours. It invites resistance… and spectacle. We need precision, not chaos.”

He paused. “Another place. Another moment. One we choose, not one forced upon us.”

Narcissa spoke without turning from the fire. “Then we choose a place where our children will not be present.”

“There are still Aurors,” said Goyle Sr., nervous now. “Always someone watching.”

“There are always Aurors,” Dolohov shrugged.

“And yet,” came a cold voice from the corner. Crabbe Sr., quiet until now, eyes gleaming dully in the firelight, “they bleed like anyone else.”

The fire hissed in answer.

“So,” said Rookwood decisively. “We wait. We choose the place. We choose the hour. And when we strike… it will be final.”

“And the Dark Lord?” asked Nott Sr., fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the arm of his chair. “What if he takes our silence for betrayal?”

Rookwood didn’t answer at once. He watched the fire, the shadows it cast on the stone. Then, he turned slowly, eyes glinting with quiet resolve, the path already chosen.

“He values outcomes, not bluster. We act when it matters… and when we do, it will not be forgotten. There is something we can do. Now.”

The shift was instant. Heads turned. The room leaned in.

“The guards at Azkaban.”

“Gone?” asked Goyle Sr., brow furrowed in slow confusion.

“The Dementors have left to join the hunt for Sirius Black.” Rookwood confirmed.

Another intake of breath.

“All of them?” asked Dolohov, a hint of relish curling in his voice.

“No. Some remain… for now. But they'll go soon enough. Fudge is getting desperate.”

“We’ll never breach the whole fortress,” said Lucius. “Even with the Dementors gone, its defences run deeper than the walls.”

“No,” said Nott Sr., rising from his chair at last. He stepped forward. “Nor should we try. We don’t need to break everyone out… Quality, not quantity. You always lacked imagination.”

His eyes gleamed.

“We retrieve only those we need. The ones that matter. The ones he would want.”

Murmurs began again. Names, half-spoken. The worst of them.

Lucius waited until the final whispers ebbed into silence. “I’ll see that the will of this gathering reaches our allies. They’ll be ready when the moment comes.”

The fire cracked. Snow ticked at the windows like brittle fingers. Somewhere deep within, a clock struck midnight.

And outside, the world slept on.

Unaware. Unprepared.

Chapter Text

The clearing behind Wreinleigh Cottage wasn’t much. A patch of uneven grass ringed by elms and ash trees, and always half dappled in shade. But above it was the sky.

Harry zipped through the air, eyes squinting against the late June sunlight. He leaned into the broomstick, heart hammering from sheer, giddy joy. One of Sirius’s makeshift balls, transfigured from an old cushion, shot past him. He banked hard, doubled back, and snatched it mid-dive with one hand.

“Oi!” Sirius’s voice came from behind, breathless and laughing. “No showboating!”

“You’re just sore because I beat you to it,” Harry called back.

“Beat me? I let you have that one.”

Harry snorted, tossing the ball high into the air and catching it again with a satisfying thwack. “Sure you did.”

They'd been at it for what felt like hours, maybe longer. Time slipped differently up here, stretched into long moments where nothing existed but wind, motion, and the ache in his cheeks from smiling too hard. The trees blurred below them, Remus just a faint shape under one of them.

It hadn’t always been like this. Not in January, not when everything still felt half-frozen and strange.

Back then, it had started with the garden.

When the snow started to melt, Sirius had taken one look at the mess of brambles, weeds, and half-buried stones and declared it a “ghastly insult to vegetation.” So they’d spent weeks digging, planting, weeding; Harry in boots too big for him, Sirius with his hair tied back, Remus with sleeves rolled up and a faint look of amusement, as if the chaos was growing on him.

By late February, the garden was pristine. Sirius had declared it “aggressively wholesome,” which Remus took as a compliment; and Harry took as permission to wage war on imaginary dragons, digging trenches by the rosemary bush and fortifying them with sticks, mud, and heroic shouts.

And then, there was nothing left to do.

That’s when the books came out.

Transfiguration, Charms, Defensive Theory. Sirius and Remus turned the drawing room into a duelling arena of parchment and anecdotes. Sirius taught with wild gestures and dramatic flair, often knocking over ink bottles or accidentally setting quills on fire to demonstrate the wrong way to cast a Severing Charm. Remus taught with underlined notes and softly spoken warnings, pausing to ask thoughtful questions like “What would you do if the spell rebounded?” and “Why might this not work on a Grindylow?”

But between the diagrams and incantations of spellwork, there were stories. So many stories. Of their own time at Hogwarts. Harry had finally learned about the four houses – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin… and what they were known for, and Sirius and Remus’s commentary was far more colourful than any textbook.

His father had once enchanted the suits of armour to serenade the Fat Lady every Friday evening with badly harmonised renditions of Celestina Warbeck hits. Sirius had hexed all of Slughorn’s quills during a N.E.W.T. lecture to write rude limericks… one particularly memorable verse involved a dragon, a misplaced wand, and something Sirius refused to repeat, though it made Remus choke on his tea even now. Then there was the time they bribed Peeves to follow Lucius Malfoy around all day, repeating everything he said in a singsong voice. And, of course, the Great Hall pudding incident, which none of them had explained properly, but apparently resulted in two hundred house point deductions, one howler from Harry’s grandmother, and the permanent banning of banana custard at school feasts.

Sirius had acted out the Howler in full. The crisp and indignant voice of Euphemia Potter had echoed through the Great Hall, “…Honestly, Sirius Orion Black, what would your mother say… Oh, never mind, love… don’t answer that!” It had smelled faintly of roses and singed the corner of his toast. James, sitting beside him, had clutched his ribs laughing, right up until the voice turned on him. “…And James Potter, if you think for one second that grinning like a baboon makes you less culpable…”

Through it all, Remus would shake his head in mock defeat, muttering things like, “Twenty-seven detentions in one term, Sirius,” or “You lot are the reason Flitwick started using security charms on the staff room.” But his eyes gave him away, crinkled with memory, voice touched with reluctant fondness.

There were stories from Harry’s own childhood too…

How they used to have a cat, a scruffy ginger thing called Buttons who hated everyone except Harry. How Harry, barely a year old, used to chase Buttons around the sitting room on a toy broom Sirius had charmed to hover just high enough to avoid skinned knees. How Lily used to call it “utter chaos” and James used to call it “early Quidditch training.” How Sirius once caught toddler Harry standing triumphantly on the kitchen table in only a nappy, waving a breadstick like a wand and shouting “Up! Up!” while Buttons glared at him from the chandelier.

“I was a menace,” Harry had said, slightly pleased.

“You were a tyrant,” Remus replied, sipping his tea. “A charming, giggling tyrant who made Sirius cry when he couldn’t find his slippers because you’d tossed them into the fireplace.”

Harry soaked it all up. Half the time, he didn’t even realise he was learning, he just wanted to keep hearing their voices, weaving those stories into something whole. Something his.

Eventually, even that ran dry. He could recite wand motions in his sleep. He knew incantations like lyrics. There was a week in May where he caught himself saying “Expelliarmus” under his breath while brushing his teeth.

And then one afternoon, Sirius had stood up from the sofa and said, too casually, “Be back in an hour.”

Remus had looked up. “What?”

“Just a little errand.”

“You don’t do errands,” Harry had said, frowning. “You haven’t gone past the wards in months.”

“I’m not going far,” Sirius said, winking. “And I’ll be warded the whole time. Promise.”

Remus was already on his feet, concern tightening his mouth. “Sirius, don’t… The Dementors…”

But Sirius had only laughed, saluted with two fingers, and disappeared with a crack before either of them could stop him.

Three hours.

Harry had played You Are My Best Friend on repeat nineteen times.

He and Remus were in the garden, sitting on the low stone wall near the rosemary bush, shoes scuffing gravel, the air close with summer heat and unspoken worry. Neither said it aloud, but they both kept glancing towards the lane. Sirius had been gone longer than planned. With the Ministry doubling their efforts and the Dementors sniffing along the seams of every rumour., this long absence scraped the nerves raw.

Then… Crack.

The air shivered. A flash near the hedgerow. Sirius stumbled into view, covered in soot and cobwebs, hair sticking up wildly, a lopsided grin on his face.

“I bring gifts,” he declared, half-bowing with theatrical flair.

He trailed behind them, dragging a long, oddly shaped bundle swaddled in what looked like a moth-eaten Persian carpet. His coat was streaked with dust, and he carried himself with the smug weariness of someone who had thoroughly earned their triumph.

Once inside, he gave the carpet a final heave into the centre of the sitting room, slapped the dust off his sleeves, and collapsed onto the sofa with all the grace of a wardrobe falling off a lorry.

“Spent the whole bloody afternoon knee-deep in the attic at Grimmauld Place,” he said, breathless and smug. “Fought off one very offended ghoul, three cursed hatboxes, and a self-updating Genealogy book that tried to call me a… never mind.”

He sat up, grinning, and reached for the carpet. “But…” he said, untying the string with a flourish, “found these.”

He peeled back the layers to reveal three brooms. Their bristles were frayed, the handles dulled with age and nicked with long-forgotten scrapes. One was missing its nameplate entirely. But Harry stepped forward before Sirius had even finished speaking. His fingers traced the worn wood of the nearest one. He turned it in his hands, eyes bright.

Sirius watched him. “I think that one was your dad’s first broom,” he said quietly. “Old Comet. Hard to tell, the state it’s in… but I recognise the grip.”

He paused, then added, “James lent it to me in third year, when I tried out for the team. I didn’t have one of my own. Said it had a season left in it… maybe two, if I didn’t fly it into a tree.”

Harry nodded, still holding the broom, still clutching the handle like it was a memory he could hold.

But a moment later, without a word, he pulled Sirius into a fierce, clumsy hug that stole the breath from them both.

“Catch!”

Harry jolted from the memory just in time to see the red ball hurtling towards his head. He caught it clean and whooped, streaking low over the clearing in a tight arc.

It had become a ritual now. Every few days, when the skies held and Sirius wasn’t cross about the news, they came out here, just the two of them, brooms in hand, tearing through the summer air. Sometimes three, though Remus insisted his flying days had peaked at thirteen and ended with a nosebleed and a stay in the hospital wing. He mostly sat cross-legged on an old tree stump with a book and a thermos, pretending not to watch.

“Points to Gryffindor for enthusiasm,” he murmured, as Sirius narrowly avoided a branch.

Sirius scoffed. “Oi, that was strategy!”

“Was it?” Remus said, still not looking up. “Looked like flailing.”

“That’s rich,” Sirius shouted, “from someone who once flew straight into a Quidditch post.”

“Was pushed,” came the calm reply.

Harry laughed, banking hard to avoid the same branch Sirius had nearly clipped. For a moment, the game eased.

Sirius had been the one to teach him the rules, over meals, during walks, sprawled across the drawing room floor with diagrams made of toast crusts and jam jars. Positions, fouls, legendary plays, ancient rivalries. He made it feel like folklore. Most of the lessons had descended into wild storytelling, usually involving his father doing something reckless and McGonagall threatening to hex his broomstick in half.

But somewhere between the laughs and biscuit-crumb tactics, Harry had picked it up. Not just the rules, but how to feel the game, when to trust the wind, when to twist into a dive, how to read a feint before it landed.

At first, Sirius had flown rings around him. But that hadn’t lasted long.

A few weeks ago, during one of their scrappier matches, Harry had pulled off a sharp, spiralling dive so tight that Sirius had tried to follow, and ended up ploughing straight into a bush. Harry had circled back, grinning, and hovered overhead.

Sirius, flat on his back in the grass and laughing like a lunatic, had waved a hand. “The first time you flew,” he’d wheezed, “I thought… bloody hell, he’s good.”

Harry, still astride his broom, had tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Then, a few days later, I thought… he’s better than me.”

Harry had flushed. “You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

“I’m not,” Sirius had said. “And now… I think you’re going to be better than your dad. And trust me, kid… he was magic on a broom.”

Harry hadn’t known what to say. He’d just hovered there, mouth opening and closing, until he managed, “Think he’d have let me on his team?”

Sirius had grinned, eyes on the clouds. “He’d have fought McGonagall herself to make you Seeker in first year.”

From the stump, Remus had turned a page. “She would’ve won.”

“Obviously,” Sirius mumbled.

Harry had laughed, heart hammering from more than just flying.

That laugh echoed in his chest, even now as he climbed higher, above the tree line... The wind buffeted his face, whipped through his hair. The sun was warm on his back, and the sky felt huge. His heart soared with him.

He let the broom drift, floating still for a moment. Beneath him was the clearing. The trees. The cottage. The garden they’d brought back to life. The godfather who’d gone to hell and back for him. The friend with scars he never complained about.

He closed his eyes, smiling.

Everything felt possible from up here.

And as Harry dove again, Sirius hollering a challenge behind him, the only thought in his head was don’t ever let this end.

The game wound down as the sun began its slow arc towards the treetops, casting the clearing in slanted gold. Harry touched down first, legs pleasantly wobbly from the flight. Sirius landed behind him in a dramatic skid, kicking up a spray of grass and twigs, and Remus, who had refereed the last few rounds with mild commentary and a raised eyebrow, rose from where he’d been sitting against a tree.

They fell into step together, three figures weaving a narrow path through the woods.

Sirius reached out and tapped Remus lightly on the shoulder. “Any luck?”

Remus blew out a slow breath, eyes on the path ahead. “No. I’ve asked nearly every contact I can think of, old colleagues, spellcrafters, even a retired Hogwarts governor. None of them know how the letters are created. Or if… well, if Harry will even get one.”

Harry glanced sideways. He didn’t speak, just listened.

“There’s always the option of a foreign school,” Remus added after a moment. “We could look into Beauxbatons. Or Ilvermorny. Even Castelobruxo, if it comes to that. You’ve enough set aside. You could move abroad… start fresh.”

“No,” Sirius said, sharply enough that a bird startled from a branch above. He stopped walking. “We’ve talked about this before, Remus. I’m not running from my own country like some common criminal.”

Remus met his eyes.

Sirius’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose conviction. “Hogwarts is Harry’s birthright. He deserves to walk in the same halls his parents once walked. To learn in the castle where they laughed, and fought, and fell in love. I won’t take that from him.”

Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. The way Sirius said it, it wasn’t loud or dramatic, just certain. Like it was a fact written into the bones of the world.

Remus gave a quiet nod. “All right.”

They resumed walking.

For a while, only the rustle of leaves and the crunch of boots on the forest floor stirred the quiet.

When Remus spoke again, his voice had softened. “My best guess is that there’s some kind of magical census… something automatic. Hogwarts seems to… know. But if that’s true, then when that record surfaces, Dumbledore will know too.”

Harry’s mind caught on the name. Dumbledore.

Remus and Sirius had spoken of him before, the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts. Wise beyond years, powerful beyond reckoning. They said he could calm a dragon with a glance, move governments with a word. Harry didn’t know if that was true, but something about the way they said his name made it feel like it could be.

Sirius muttered, “Even if the letter is created, it won’t reach us. Not with the wards. No owl’s getting through.”

“Exactly,” Remus said. “Which is why I think... it might be time we come clean.”

Sirius stopped walking. “To Dumbledore?”

Remus nodded. “We don’t have to explain everything. Just ask him to keep it quiet. That Harry’s alive. That he’ll attend Hogwarts, nothing more.”

Harry blinked. “You’re going to tell him?”

“We might have to,” Remus said gently. “Before he comes looking himself.”

Sirius didn’t answer right away. The breeze stirred the hem of his cloak as he stared up at the sky, frowning. “We promised,” he said quietly. “No more saints.”

“I remember,” Remus replied. “But we also said we’d play it by ear. Figure it out when the time came.”

He looked back at Sirius calmly. “Well... the time has come.”

Harry watched Sirius’s jaw work, tension running along the set of his shoulders.

“And what exactly,” Sirius asked at last, “are you planning to say about me?”

Remus gave a faint smile. “Leave that to me. I won’t mention you unless absolutely necessary.”

He glanced ahead, voice steady. “Worst case, you might have to camp out in your precious Quidditch ground for a few days.”

Sirius snorted, but didn’t argue.

Then Remus turned to Harry. “And Harry… listen to me. You don’t mention Sirius. Not a word. If anyone asks, you say we ran into each other at St Jude’s while I was working with the Muggle outreach offices. You came to live with me, and that’s all.”

Harry looked between them, and nodded.

They’d reached the edge of the garden now, where flowerbeds curled lazily towards the cottage porch and the air carried the quiet scent of rosemary and earth. Sunlight pooled on the red brick walls.

For years, Harry had believed his birthday was November first. But it was just a date, chosen because it had been convenient, the day he’d been dropped at the orphanage doorstep.

Now he knew. July thirty-first. That was the real day. His day.

He said, voice uncertain. “So... if the letters come on birthdays…”

“They usually do,” Sirius said. “We’ve got a few weeks.”

Remus nodded. “Just enough time to speak with him. On our terms.”

Sirius looked at him, long and hard, then gave a single, slow nod. “Alright.”

They crossed the garden together. The sun dipped behind the trees. Shadows stretched across the grass. And somewhere in the quiet that followed, the weight of a choice settled. Unwelcome, but inevitable.

It was time.

Chapter Text

The morning was bright, but the air carried a chill that didn’t quite belong to summer.

The Headmaster’s office was quiet save for the scratching of a quill and the faint whir of enchanted devices shifting in slow rhythm. Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, a long sheet of parchment before him, the ink drying in looping lines of steady script.

My dear Nicholas,

The stars above Scotland are uneasy. There are nights I feel them pressing in, like a tide preparing to turn.

The Ministry, in its usual efficiency, still believes the Gringotts attack was merely an opportunistic act of terrorism. But I know better. We both do. That strange echo, that twisting wrongness. It was him. And the goblins confirmed it.

We were right. He is not gone. Only hidden. Waiting.

He paused, fingers steepled above the parchment, eyes distant. The fire cracked softly, scenting the room with cherrywood smoke and the faintest trace of cinnamon.

It had taken mere hours after the Christmas attack to act. The Philosopher’s Stone had been destroyed without ceremony, reduced to a shimmer of alchemical dust in a warded chamber near the coast of Brittany. Nicholas had made the arrangements himself.

Albus had not asked how many stones remained. He hadn’t needed to. The old alchemist had ways, caches of hidden knowledge and distant sanctums threaded across the world. He was not careless with eternity.

The vault is ash. The Stone is gone. I hope, that it is enough. And yet... the signs continue. Have you noticed? The wards along the coast are flickering. The Forest whispers again. I stood beneath the tallest beech last week and it did not know me.

There were other signs too. Sirius Black had resurfaced, at Gringotts, amid chaos and ruin.

Back then, his betrayal had seemed likely. Too many pieces had pointed his way. Dumbledore hadn’t been certain, but the doubt had lingered. While Sirius was in Azkaban, he hadn’t been able to face him. The guilt of having brought the man who caused such devastation into the Order of the Phoenix weighed on him like a stone.

Now, there was no doubt left.

He had heard the reports. The pattern was there. Calculated. Ruthless. Sirius had always been reckless. Brilliant, but reckless.

The quill hovered for a moment.

There is more, Nicholas. I will write again soon. Perhaps I shall come to Paris myself.

Then, after a stretch of stillness, his mind turning over some quiet ache, he added,

And the boy. I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake by waiting so long.

He folded the letter carefully, sealing it with a press of golden wax marked by the twin symbols of gold and mercury. Fawkes, roused by the motion, gave a soft trill and extended a claw. The phoenix's eyes met Dumbledore’s for a long moment – old, knowing, impossibly clear. With a shimmer of heat and a rush of rising light, he vanished into the sky through the high, arched window.

The letter would reach Nicholas soon.

Dumbledore had just leaned back when hurried footsteps echoed outside his door. A sharp knock followed, firm, but with an edge of urgency.

He rose at once, brow furrowed. “Come in.”

The door swung open, and Minerva McGonagall stepped inside, not quite breathless but visibly shaken. Her bun was lopsided, the tartan shawl askew on her shoulder, rare signs of disarray for a woman who had, for over twenty-five years, held her composure like a second wand.

“There’s something you need to see,” she said without preamble. “Now. My office.”

Dumbledore didn’t ask questions. He followed her swiftly through the quiet corridors of the castle. In her office, past the shelves of records and the ticking brass timepiece on the mantel, she approached a narrow wooden panel on the far wall. She tapped it thrice with her wand. The panel shimmered, then peeled back like a curtain, revealing a small arched doorway.

He’d entered this room countless times in all his years at Hogwarts, a hidden chamber known only to the Headmaster and the Deputy, protected by enchantments as old as the castle itself.

It was a strange, whispering sort of space, suspended between here and elsewhere. Not large, yet cavernous in feel. The Room of Records connected to every Deputy’s office, wherever it might be in the castle, a realm of parchment and purpose.

The scent inside was thick with old ink, and something more elusive: a quiet magic that pulsed beneath the surface.

Scrolls and folders lined the walls like battalions awaiting orders. But at the centre stood the room’s heart. A broad writing podium, more table than lectern, its surface worn smooth by centuries of ritual. Atop it rested the Quill of Acceptance, long and ornate, its feather a deep peacock green threaded with silver etchings. Beside it shimmered a squat inkpot, glowing and eternally full.

Next to these lay a grand tome, half as wide as the desk and bound in dragonhide blackened by time. The Book of Admittance. It lay open, parchment aglow with the slow breath of ancient magic. Names appeared in delicate script, then faded and reformed with the passage of time, as if memory itself stirred within its spine.

Just beyond, tucked within the podium’s carved frame, sat an elegant box embossed with the school crest in burnished gold. Inside: a tidy arrangement of parchment, untouched and crisp at one end, and a small stack of completed letters at the other, sealed and addressed. Futures, recorded and set in motion, awaiting only their time.

The room was usually kept in perfect order, a quiet ledger of destiny, updated without fail.

But not today.

Today, the box sat askew, its contents disrupted. Around it, chaos had bloomed.

Crumpled balls of parchment littered the stone floor, spilling from a magical wastebin now glowing red at the edges, its enchantments clearly exhausted. Some of the papers twitched as if trying to vanish themselves, but fizzled weakly halfway.

A fresh parchment had glided into place, summoned by magic. The quill dipped and scribbled in swift, elegant strokes. Then it stilled, suspended mid-air, tip quivering… reading, perhaps, the name it had just brought into being.

Then, with a violent twitch, it slashed through the words with ink so dark it bled through the parchment. The feather bristled. Another dip into the inkpot, a sharp flick, and it began anew, scratching with agitated speed.

Again, a pause.

Then a furious huff, an actual puff of displaced air, and the page crumpled in on itself with magical spite. The ball of parchment hurled itself into the bin, trailing sparks as it went.

Another parchment slid up from the ornate box.

The cycle repeated.

Dumbledore watched, eyes narrowing, taking in the spectacle of chaos, the precision gone haywire.

“How long has it been doing this?” he asked quietly.

McGonagall folded her arms tightly. “I came in this morning to collect the stack of letters for this month. Found this instead.”

“It has never done this before,” she said, voice hushed now. “Not once. In all my years.”

“And even before that,” Dumbledore murmured, almost to himself, “under Armando… nothing like this.”

He stepped forward slowly. The air smelled of something frustrated beyond sense.

He reached down and picked up one of the parchments. It gave a reluctant shudder in his palm, then slowly unfurled.

The name at the top was unmistakable, even through the scratched-out mess of ink.

Harry James Potter.

Number 4, Privet Drive…

It had been gouged out with deep slashes scored through the ink.

He blinked. “Well.”

McGonagall leaned forward to see, and when Dumbledore silently passed the parchment into her hands, her breath caught.

She stared at the name scrawled across it, half-obscured beneath slashing lines of frantic ink. The address below had been mangled beyond sense. It had been crossed out again and again, as though the magic itself had choked on it.

Her fingers curled around the parchment. “Albus,” she breathed. “This… this can’t be… he can’t be…”

But Dumbledore had already stooped to retrieve another. Another crumpled ball, only to reveal the same again. Harry James Potter.

McGonagall’s voice broke. “We buried him. I placed the wreath myself. I watched them lower the coffin… I saw his name on the stone, Albus. I saw it.”

“I remember,” Dumbledore said softly. “I remember every moment.”

He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the podium, where the quill hovered in midair, trembling faintly, like a candle flickering at the end of its wick.

“The quill doesn’t lie,” he said, almost to himself. “Never in the history of Hogwarts.”

McGonagall shook her head, parchment still clutched in her hands. “But how… how could this have happened? If it’s true…”

Another parchment fluttered past them, hitting the ground with a dry rustle.

Dumbledore stepped forward and placed a hand on the edge of the podium.

The quill stilled. Then, as if finally granted permission to rest, it let out a sigh, and lowered itself onto the parchment and lay still.

Dumbledore exhaled. He turned, eyes falling to the Book of Admittance beside the podium. When he touched it, the pages turned of their own accord, fluttering, whispering, until they stopped on a fresh, near-empty spread.

There, glowing softly in curling golden ink, was a single name: Harry James Potter.
No address followed. Just a stretch of blank parchment below, magic throbbing beneath the surface, alive, straining towards an answer it had not yet received.

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed. He gave his wand a short flick. The room shimmered, and all the pieces of parchment vanished, save the one McGonagall still held.

He turned to her. “I believe,” he said quietly, “I know that address.”

McGonagall didn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on the parchment in her hand. Her knuckles were white.

Dumbledore touched her shoulder. “Come, Minerva. We have much to consider. And no time to waste.”

They left the room together, walking in silence through the corridors of Hogwarts. Pale light was beginning to filter through the windows, casting long streaks across the stone floors. They crossed the grounds in silence, the dew-slick grass whispering beneath their steps. As they neared the gates, the boars atop the stone pillars came into view, carved wings outstretched in frozen vigilance. The protective wards shimmered faintly as they passed, parting without resistance, as though even the ancient magic of the castle understood the gravity of this moment.

Mid-stride, Dumbledore drew his wand. A brief shimmer ran down his figure as his plum robes gave way to a long, dark coat, quiet folds of shadow replacing silk. From a distance, he might’ve passed for a retired professor or a widower out on his morning walk. But up close, the air about him was older still, something half-forgotten and vast, like an illustrious comet trying to pass as a man.

McGonagall’s change mirrored Dumbledore’s. Her cloak reshaped into a tailored charcoal-grey jacket, sharp at the shoulders, the collar of a crisp white blouse visible beneath. The tartan scarf remained. She adjusted the sleeves, then glanced sideways.

“Muggle neighbourhood?” she asked quietly.

Dumbledore gave a single nod, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if trying to glimpse something mortal sight could not reach.

The air cracked open and they were gone.

Every brick in Privet Drive’s row of square, prim houses seemed designed to retreat politely from the eye. The hedges were trimmed with surgical precision. The cars were freshly washed. The morning sun glanced off the windows, bright and harmless.

They appeared with a faint crack at the far end of the street.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, taking in the rows of identical houses, the sleeping neatness of suburbia. There was a lingering scent of cut grass in the air, and the occasional thrum of a lawnmower starting somewhere down the block.

McGonagall’s gaze swept the street. “You’re certain this is it?”

“I believe,” said Dumbledore, “that the address belongs Lily Potter’s sister.”

They walked the pavement with measured steps. Past number two. Then number three.

And there it was, number four.

The door was painted a shade too bright, the brass number polished to gleam. A hanging basket drooped slightly with petunias, already wilting from the heat. Dumbledore paused before it, lifting his hand.

He knocked twice.

There were footsteps. Quick ones.

The door creaked open to reveal a round-faced boy, pale and suspicious, his mouth already full of toast. He blinked up at them, squinting against the sun.

McGonagall stepped forward at once. “Harry…?”

Dumbledore held out a hand, stopping her gently. His eyes had narrowed behind the half-moon glasses. “I believe not.”

The boy scowled and slammed the door shut.

A pause. Then, moments later, it opened again.

Petunia Dursley stood framed in the doorway.

The years had hollowed her face and sharpened the corners. Her blonde hair was scraped back with ruthless neatness, and the pinched lines around her mouth deepened as she looked between the two figures on her doorstep.

Her eyes landed on Dumbledore and narrowed, but not before a flicker passed through them. Recognition, but also confusion. And something colder. Fear, perhaps.

Her mind was already racing. What on earth would he be doing here? And why now? A lifetime of keeping her world orderly – curtains straight, lawns trimmed, secrets buried… quivered at the edges.

“You,” she said flatly.

“Good morning, Petunia,” Dumbledore replied, with something that might have been a smile. “May we come in?”

Petunia didn’t move at first. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door, the whites of her knuckles showing. There was a moment where it looked like she might slam it shut.

Then, with a breath like something bitter caught in her throat, she stepped aside.

“Fine,” she said. “Come in. But be quick.”

She hesitated just a moment before closing the door, her eyes flicking up and down the street. No twitch of curtains, no sound but a distant lawnmower. Still, her mouth pinched as if the very sight of the strangers on her step had already been noticed and whispered about.

She stepped back, and closed the door with a decisive click.

The sitting room was scrubbed and spotless. Photographs lined the mantelpiece in careful symmetry – birthday parties, school awards, a boy beaming with sweets in his hands. The same boy who’d opened the door.

McGonagall sat stiffly on the very edge of the sofa. Her eyes, sharp behind her spectacles, swept the room as if searching for something missing. Dumbledore, by contrast, was calm, his hands folded before him, his gaze lowered in polite deference to a space that bristled with hostility.

Petunia did not sit. She remained by the doorway, arms crossed, chin tilted up, as if daring them to try and make her comfortable.

“What is this about?” she asked, voice clipped. “Why are you here?”

“Since we have already foregone the pleasantries,” Dumbledore said, “…allow me to come straight to the point.”

His voice, though soft, seemed to ripple across the room like a current beneath still water.

“We are not here to cause distress. But there is something we must understand. Something we hope…” he glanced at McGonagall, then back, “…you can help us confirm.”

“Where is Harry Potter?”

Petunia’s expression froze. Her lips parted, not in surprise, but in the way of someone who’d always known this moment would come. Deep down, she had buried it, convinced it would decay with time. But some things don’t rot. They wait.

She didn’t answer.

McGonagall leaned forward slightly. “Please. It is… important. More than you know.”

Before Petunia could speak, however, a shadow moved behind her in the doorway, the same boy who’d opened the door. Dudley Dursley, still in pyjamas, scratching his stomach with one hand and holding a half-eaten slice of toast in the other. His small eyes flicked from Dumbledore to McGonagall, then back to his mother.

“Who are they?” he asked.

Petunia flinched. “Dudley. Upstairs. Now.”

“But…”

“Now.”

The sharpness of her voice cracked through the air. Dudley blinked, startled, then sulked off with a muttered “Weirdos”, dragging his feet across the carpet.

Petunia watched until he was out of sight. When she finally turned back, her expression was unreadable.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”

McGonagall’s breath caught faintly, but Dumbledore didn’t react. He simply looked at Petunia; piercing, patient, impossible to dodge. It was like standing bare in sunlight.

Petunia shifted under it.

“Vernon will be home soon,” she added. “And it would be better for everyone if you left before he got here.”

Still, Dumbledore said nothing.

Petunia drew herself up, chin rising higher. “I told you…”

“Petunia,” he said quietly. Not admonishing. Not threatening. Just her name, worn with something almost like grief.

She faltered.

Silence settled, thick and pressing. She lowered herself onto the arm of the nearest chair. For a moment, she said nothing. And when she finally spoke, her voice sounded distant.

“I found him by the bins, in the middle of the night. No note, nothing. Just left there.”

She didn’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes.

“I didn’t know how to contact Lily.” She continued. “Figured she’d run off… had enough of the freaks. Left him for us to deal with. We took him to an orphanage in London the next morning. That was the end of it.”

Her voice didn’t waver. “He wasn’t our responsibility.”

There was a long silence.

McGonagall’s hands clenched in her lap. Her eyes hadn’t left Petunia once, her mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Then, she said, “How could you…”

The words rang out sharp and accusing, trembling with rage.

Petunia’s gaze flicked to her, then away. Unbothered. Unbowed.

Before McGonagall could rise from her seat, Dumbledore spoke.

“Minerva.”

His voice was low. Just one word and she went still. Only her fingers moved, twitching against the fabric of her jacket.

He turned to Petunia, his expression unreadable. “Lily Potter died ten years ago, on the night of Halloween, 1981. Am I right to assume you found Harry then?”

Petunia didn’t flinch. If the news stirred anything in her; grief, guilt, even surprise, she didn’t let it show. Her face remained composed, almost indifferent.

“Yes,” she said. “I think it was the morning after. November first.”

Across from her, McGonagall let out a breath that broke halfway. She turned slightly in her chair, digging into the sleeve of her jacket. A tartan handkerchief appeared in her hand, pressed quickly to her eyes.

“You left him,” she whispered at last, voice hoarse. “A baby. Your own nephew. Alone.”

Petunia opened her mouth, but McGonagall didn’t let her speak.

“You didn’t care what could’ve happened to him. He was barely a year old. He had just lost everything. He had no one.”

Her voice rose, each word honed to a blade. “And you… you looked at a child, and saw nothing but inconvenience.”

Petunia met her gaze without blinking. “He wasn’t ours,” she said. “We did what anyone would’ve done.”

“No,” McGonagall said. “You didn’t.”

“Where was this? The place you left him?” Dumbledore asked, voice soft yet laced with storm.

Petunia frowned faintly, brows pulling together, not in regret, but effort. “Somewhere in Southwark. I don’t remember the name. Vernon drove.”

The room fell into silence. From beyond the window, the first drops began to fall, soft at first, then steadier, the quiet patter of rain threading through the hush.

Dumbledore rose at once, as if staying a moment longer might sully something in him beyond repair.

“I believe we’ve heard all we needed,” he said.

McGonagall followed, fury still radiating from her in waves. At the threshold, the door half-open, air outside tinged with petrichor, Petunia’s voice caught them, soft, almost involuntary.

“Lily is dead?”

It wasn’t quite a question. More an admission. Or perhaps the only truth she couldn’t pretend away.

Dumbledore paused in the doorway. He turned, slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “She is. And her child is out there somewhere. Alone.”

He stepped out, the rain-soaked wind tugging at the hem of his coat. But after a few paces, he turned once more, his gaze falling on Petunia with a strange, sorrowful clarity.

“I daresay,” he said gently, “that one day the world may judge your decision less harshly. Perhaps they’ll say you did the boy a kindness. That you spared him the fate you brought upon your own child.”

Petunia flinched like she’d been struck.

“How dare you!” she hissed, stepping forward. “You don’t know a thing about my son…”

But Dumbledore didn’t answer. He had already turned away, his footsteps quiet on the path, swallowed by the rain.

McGonagall lingered a moment longer. Her eyes burned as they held Petunia’s… a long, hard look that said everything words could not. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and followed Dumbledore.

The rain came harder in Southwark.

Sheets of it poured from the slate-grey sky, turning the narrow streets into rivulets and washing the gutters clean. McGonagall walked beside Dumbledore under the cover of his charm, one of those small magics so deftly woven it left not a drop on them. The Muggles they passed were soaked to the skin, hurrying with umbrellas.

They moved in silence for a while. The neighbourhood changed around them, tight terraced houses giving way to older, greyer buildings.

“You’re certain it’s here?” McGonagall asked, peering down the street, eyes narrowed against the rain. “This is where they left him?”

“I am certain of very little,” Dumbledore said. “Only that I hope we are not too late.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “You truly didn’t know?”

Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t leave the street ahead. “No.”

“But how?” she pressed. “Someone left him in Surrey. Someone must have known…”

“I suspect,” he said, gently, “we will learn more once we see the boy for ourselves.”

Her jaw tightened. “I still don’t understand how. We were at the funeral, Albus. You gave the eulogy.”

“I remember,” he said.

“So what was it, then?” McGonagall asked.

Dumbledore’s silence was not evasive but deliberate. His expression was unreadable. “There are magics older than you or I would dare employ,” he murmured. “Something was invoked that night. Something ancient. And desperation, Minerva… has a way of turning even the cautious into conjurors of the unthinkable.”

She made a noise of frustration low in her throat. “But even then, Albus… ten years… and not a whisper…”

“Yes,” he said, “Which means someone ensured it.”

McGonagall frowned. “But why send him to the Muggles? Why not to a wizarding family… someone who could protect him?”

“Perhaps it was not a matter of choice,” Dumbledore said. “Or perhaps… protection came in a form we don’t yet understand.”

“Even so, Albus,” she said, “what spell could shield a child from the wreckage at Godric’s Hollow… and deceive us all into mourning a corpse that wasn’t his?”

“That… is what I intend to discover.”

They turned the corner, their reflections wavered in rain-streaked puddles, dull in the afternoon light.

“But of one thing we can be certain.” He paused, gaze distant. “Harry Potter lives.”

The street had narrowed. Iron railings hemmed in a building at the end of the lane, half-hidden behind a low stone wall slick with moss. An old iron sign creaked in the wind.

St. Jude’s Home for Children

A modest brick structure squatted behind the gate. Ivy curled up its sides like clinging fingers. A faded blue door stood closed, paint flaking around the hinges. Out back, a few limp clotheslines swayed in the storm.

They paused at the gate.

Dumbledore stared up at the orphanage, his breath misting the air.

More than fifty years ago, he had stood before a place not so different from this, another building tucked deep in the belly of London. The memory rose, unbidden yet insistent. Merope Gaunt’s child had met him at the threshold with a voice too calm for childhood and eyes that gave nothing away. In the cupboard behind him: stolen trinkets hoarded like secrets. He had smiled without warmth, and spoken of cruelty the way others spoke of the weather.

At the time, Dumbledore had not understood.

He had seen the signs. But he had not lingered, not looked closely enough. There had always been other matters, other fires to put out. He had told himself the boy was strange, not broken. Sharp, not dangerous. A child, after all.

The rain slid cold beneath his collar, down the length of his spine.

He had made mistakes before. Grievous ones. He had misjudged what silence could harbour, what neglect could shape. He had faced the darkness a forgotten child would one day wield.

And now, here he stood again. At the edge of another door.

Another orphan.

Another boy, lost to the world, left to vanish in its margins.

He wondered, whether this was warning or mercy. Whether life, in its quiet, stubborn way, had offered him a second chance. To watch more carefully. To listen. To act before it was too late.

“Albus?” McGonagall prompted, watching him.

He straightened.

“Whatever awaits us beyond that door,” he said softly, “we must tread with care. For the child’s sake… and perhaps our own.”

Then he stepped forward and knocked.

Grey light filtered through the narrow windows of the Matron’s office at St. Jude’s, softened by cloud and mist. Somewhere beyond the glass, rain struck the world in steady, muffled bursts. Inside, cool air lingered, faintly tinged with the scent of disinfectant and order. Everything bore a sense of quiet discipline – every file meticulously labelled, every pencil aligned with exacting care.

Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall sat in silence.

Dumbledore did not look like he belonged in such a room. He had crossed too many thresholds that had left a quiet gravity in him, unadorned, but unmistakable.

Beside him, McGonagall sat upright, hands clasped neatly in her lap. Her face had regained its composure, but sorrow lingered beneath her features.

The door opened.

Matron Grindle entered with a clipped stride, already frowning. Her grey hair was twisted into its usual coil, and her eyes, behind their perfectly angled glasses, were sharp with administrative resolve. She looked like a woman who had been summoned to many such meetings and had found none of them worth her time.

She took her seat behind the desk as though claiming a battlefield.

“Yes?” she said crisply. “How may I help you?”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Matron. I wonder… may we speak to Harry Potter?”

Matron Grindle gaze flicked from McGonagall to Dumbledore and back again, reading the strangeness in their bearing.

Her voice came out lower now. “We have no one of that name here.”

McGonagall leaned forward, her tone touched with disbelief. “Are you certain?”

Matron Grindle’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Do you mean to suggest,” she said, frost creeping in, “that I do not know the names of the children in my care?”

The tension flared between them like dry paper catching flame, two women forged of discipline and spine, meeting in a clash neither had sought, but neither would retreat from.

Dumbledore raised a calming hand, voice light, but with just enough solemnity beneath it to disarm.

“No offence was intended, Matron,” he said gently. “My sister,” he gestured towards McGonagall with a slight, deliberate softness, “has only this morning learnt that her grandson may still be alive. She is, as you might understand, beside herself with sorrow.”

A flicker crossed Grindle’s face. It wasn’t quite sympathy, more the professional awareness of a situation becoming complicated. She sat back a little.

“Well,” she said, more level now, “I cannot help you. There is no Harry Potter here.”

Dumbledore gave a mild nod, as if absorbing a minor setback.

“Might I ask, then,” he said, “are there any other institutions in Southwark… any of comparable standing, perhaps… that could have taken in a child?”

It was flattery, but not excessive. It came dressed in curiosity, and the Matron, sharp as she was, caught the note. Her spine eased by a degree.

“I don’t believe so,” she said, measuring him. “Not of our size. There are a few foster care placements scattered through the borough, of course, but we are one of the last proper orphanages in London. A relic. The government has tried to close us twice.”

“A rare thing, then,” Dumbledore murmured. “All the more reason we’re grateful for your time.”

He paused.

“Might I make a small request, Matron?”

Her fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the desk. “That depends on the request.”

“Would you be willing to check, whether a child was placed in your care… around the first of November, 1981?”

She blinked. “That was nearly a decade ago.”

“Yes,” he said. “And I imagine you have no shortage of records to sift through. Still…”

Something shifted behind her eyes. A subtle pause, like a gear catching mid-turn.

Dumbledore noticed it. So did McGonagall.

Matron Grindle’s tone changed, turning guarded. “Why do you ask?”

McGonagall sat forward now, no longer quite composed. “Because we believe he was left here. Around that time. And if we’re right…” She didn’t finish. Her lips pressed shut.

Matron Grindle didn’t answer at once. Her fingers hovered over the file in front of her: still, poised, calculating.

Dumbledore watched her in silence, waiting.

Something shifted behind her eyes. Whether it was memory, instinct, or something else entirely, it tugged her forward. “Yes,” she said slowly. “A child was placed in our care around that time. Left outside the back entrance. I remember… because the same child was adopted last year.”

McGonagall half-rose from her chair. “Adopted?”

Dumbledore’s hand touched her sleeve, gentle, restraining. His eyes remained on the Matron. “Please. If you could tell us who took him in… it would mean a great deal to my sister. The boy is all she has left.”

Matron Grindle hesitated. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, as if warring with something within herself. Then, stiffly, she rose and crossed to the file cabinet.

She thumbed through a drawer, and pulled free a narrow folder. “The name assigned at the time was Harry Palmer. We didn’t know his surname. But… yes, it might well be the boy you’re looking for.”

McGonagall exhaled quietly, as if afraid to believe it fully. Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but something eased in his posture.

Matron Grindle came back to her desk with the file and sat down. Her hand rested atop it. “But I can’t release anything further. Not without the proper channels, not without authorisation. I’m sorry.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Of course. I understand.”

McGonagall leaned forward, her voice quiet but earnest. “Please. He’s been lost to us for ten years. If there’s a chance… any chance at all… we could bring him home…”

The Matron’s fingers shifted slightly atop the file. She looked at Dumbledore. Held his gaze a beat too long. Something unseen passed between them. The faintest disturbance in the air.

Her posture softened.

“This is highly irregular,” she said at last, her voice quieter than before. She reached for a notepad. “An exception. Just this once.”

Her pen scratched across the page. “He was adopted by a man named James Blake. This is the address we have on file.”

She tore off the sheet and slid it across the desk.

Wrenleigh Cottage, Crockham Hill, Kent.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she said.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “You won’t. We seek only what was lost. And now, perhaps, can be found.”

“You have our deepest thanks,” he added, his voice sincere. “You’ve done more than you know.”

McGonagall gave a short nod, still tense with barely held emotion.

They rose. Chairs scraped softly across the floor. The slip of paper folded carefully, and tucked in Dumbledore’s pocket.

The air in the room became lighter, cleared of the weight that had gathered during their conversation. Outside, the rain still lashed against the windows, unrelenting. But within, something had opened – a direction, a name, a hope reclaimed.

Chapter Text

The air was still damp when they landed, soft with the scent of rain-soaked earth. Dumbledore straightened slowly, brushing mud from the hem of his coat. Beside him, McGonagall tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders, her boots sinking slightly into the wet slope.

Below them, Crockham Hill unfurled in gentle ridges and hedgerows, its rooftops glinting dully in the waning light. The storm had passed, leaving the sky streaked with lavender and ochre, the last gold of the sun caught in the wet leaves.

McGonagall peered down the hillside. “We’re not far, surely.”

“No,” Dumbledore murmured. “Not far.”

They began walking, the hush between them broken only by the occasional caw of a distant rook. The lane into the village curved invitingly below, but just before they reached it, Dumbledore halted mid-step.

He turned his head, brows slightly lifted, as though listening to something just out of reach.

McGonagall paused beside him. “Albus?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. Instead, he tilted his head again, then took a slow step left, towards a hedgerow dense with hawthorn. “There,” he said softly. “Do you feel it?”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. The breeze had stilled entirely, but there was something in the air now. A faint shimmer, a low thrum, barely perceptible, brushing against her skin.

“A trace of magic,” she said.

Dumbledore glanced towards the tangle of green. “Come.”

They left the village path behind, slipping into the scrub and shadow of the hedgerow. The dirt track they followed was narrow and half-swallowed by summer growth.

Dumbledore moved with the assuredness of someone not quite navigating but remembering. Every few steps, he paused, turned slightly, then continued. McGonagall followed with a frown, wand at the ready.

They walked until the land levelled out again, until the brush thinned to reveal an empty stretch of field and moss-laced stone, as if the world had forgotten to finish this patch.

Dumbledore came to a stop. His eyes moved over the open space, slowly, carefully, as though tracing outlines that no longer existed.

McGonagall stepped up beside him. The hairs on her arms prickled. “There’s something here,” she said. “I can feel it now.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore murmured. “Here lies Wreinleigh Cottage… or, I should say, the idea of it.”

“Very well hidden. Woven deep. This is no simple enchantment… it’s layers. Illusion, deflection, repelling fields. A subtle kind of brilliance.” There was almost admiration in his tone, like a professor grading an unexpectedly clever essay.

“Albus,” McGonagall said sharply.

His expression sobered. “If I unravel the wards too quickly, the inhabitants will be alerted, or maimed.” He crouched slightly, drawing a delicate figure in the air. The lines glowed faintly, then vanished.

“The outermost charm is tuned to conceal from both Muggle and magical perception. But beneath that... well. Clever layering often relies on recursive logic… like doors that only exist if you already know they’re there.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to help anchor them.”

“I’d be most grateful if you did,” he said. “Begin by stabilising the perimeter. We’re not here to harm.”

She didn’t argue. Her wand was already out, moving in clean, precise gestures. Sigils shimmered faintly in the air before settling into the ground like droplets of light.

Dumbledore turned and began to peel the first ward apart. It was like unfastening threads knotted by a spider: slow, careful, and strangely intimate. The air around them grew heavier, the shimmer more palpable.

Layer by layer, they worked, one to unravel, one to hold fast.

And somewhere, beneath the web of spells and silence, Wreinleigh Cottage waited.

Inside the cottage, the fire in the hearth crackled low, its glow washing the sitting room in a flickering amber hush. The rain had passed, but the scent of damp earth still lingered through the half-open window, and somewhere outside, an owl hooted once before falling silent.

Sirius and Harry lay on their stomachs across the rug, elbows propped up, heads bent over a mess of parchment. A dozen overlapping diagrams curved in restless spirals – ward lines, enchantment fields, something labelled Conditional Trigger – Wild Magic Risk? in a bold, looping scrawl.

“…see, the trick isn’t just casting something clever,” Sirius was saying, tapping his wand to a symbol that looked like a pair of concentric moons. “It’s borrowing what’s already there. Every bit of magic leaves a kind of fingerprint… and if you’re sharp, you can twist those prints into something new. Like using echoes to build a song.”

Harry frowned, squinting at the curves. “So… you didn’t make the whole spell from scratch?”

“God, no. That’d take years. We were clever, not masochists.” Sirius grinned, eyes dancing with mischief. “We hijacked half the castle’s natural enchantments. Filch used to think the castle was helping us, poor sod.”

Harry didn’t really follow, something about binding intent into thresholds and piggybacking on forgotten charms, but he nodded anyway, and Sirius caught it. His grin only widened.

“Wait, hang on… this bit’s throwing you, isn’t it?”

Harry flushed faintly. “...Sort of.”

And Sirius lit up.

There was something electric about him then. He launched into an explanation with a burst of enthusiasm, fingers dancing mid-air to draw runes Harry couldn’t yet name, his voice dipping into impressions and bad analogies with gleeful disregard for dignity. He was patient, animated, expansive, like he couldn’t wait to drag Harry along through the tangle of his thoughts.

In moments like these, the prisoner of Azkaban vanished.

What remained was Sirius Black – brilliant, erratic, deeply alive. A little mad, maybe. But unmistakably his godfather.

So Harry tried. Even when the theory tangled and the runes blurred, he tried. Because Sirius made him want to.

They were halfway through an example, something about false positive traces in crowded magical environments, when Sirius abruptly stopped mid-sentence.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Sirius didn’t answer. His head tilted sharply, eyes narrowing. One hand drifted up, fingers twitching as if brushing the air for threads only he could sense.

“Sirius?”

He didn’t look at Harry. “Wait.”

Harry sat up properly, pulse beginning to pick up. The air had changed. He didn’t know how, but he could feel it too – faint, like a whisper beneath the skin.

Then Sirius moved.

Fast.

He shot to his feet and crossed to the window in two strides, wand drawn. He paused just long enough to cast a silent charm, and his jaw tightened.

“Someone’s here,” he said.

Harry froze. “Who?”

“I don’t know yet.” Sirius turned to him, all warmth vanished from his face, replaced by the clipped, fierce edge Harry rarely saw. “Go to your room. Take your broom.”

“What?”

“If you hear spells, or a fight, you don’t come down. No heroics, nothing clever. You fly. Go straight to the clearing. Wait for Remus. He’ll come.”

“But…”

“No.” Sirius stepped forward, voice sharp with urgency. “Harry, no. I can’t…” He stopped himself, breath catching. “I can’t afford to lose you. Not again.”

Harry stared up at him.

“I mean it,” Sirius said softly, hands coming to his shoulders. “Please. Go.”

There was a beat of stillness, then Harry nodded. Sirius gave him a push, half-guiding him towards the stairs, then turned back, wand steady in his hand.

The diagrams lay forgotten on the rug, curling slightly in the fire’s breath.

As Harry’s reluctant footsteps faded up the stairs, Sirius closed his eyes for just a beat.

The last of the wards crumbled.

The cottage, once held in a hush of layered protections, was suddenly exposed. Someone had unpicked the spells with precision, dismantling each layer while laying down their own in its place. A careful, calculated takeover. Whoever it was, they weren’t just powerful, they were meticulous.

Too meticulous for a duellist. Too precise for a thief. Sirius’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t try to apparate. What would be the point? The moment he felt the enchantments shifting, he knew there’d be no clean escape. Apparition traps. Directional scrambles. The kind of clever cruelty he’d come to expect from the war. He hadn’t written the playbook, but he’d lived through enough chapters to know how this ended.

But Harry needed time.

He moved fast.

A flash of thought, and his wand was raised. A glowing silver hound burst from the tip, elegant and swift even as it crashed through the back window in a silent shimmer. We’ve been made. Quidditch field. Get him out.

Then came the preparation.

He transfigured the sideboard into a wall of thorns, rooted deep into the floor. The hearth split open into a snare, a web of illusions wrapped around real hexes. The bookcase turned into glass, every surface reflecting false openings and dead-end passageways. He layered the walls with deflecting charms and misdirection loops. Windows became doors, doors became stone. The house began to twist under his touch, shedding its warmth.

It was old magic. War-born and reckless. A little Marauder, a little Black. Not meant for comfort.

His hands trembled faintly, not with fear, but anticipation.  Now all that was left was to wait.

Wait for whoever had found them.

And make sure they remember this house for the rest of their life.

A gust of displaced air whispered through the room as two figures stepped over the threshold. Drenched in the waning light, Dumbledore and McGonagall stood, silhouetted like judgment itself, wands drawn, faces unreadable. They took one look at Sirius, standing alone amidst his hastily armed fortress, and the world seemed to stand still.

Dumbledore’s eyes, usually so maddeningly unreadable, widened in something like disbelief. “Sirius. I did not expect to find you here.”

McGonagall’s eyes had widened too, but it wasn’t surprise. It was rage. “You… how dare you? Taking Harry… After everything… after James and Lily…” Her voice cracked.

Sirius gave a slow, sardonic bow. “Minerva. Albus. Do come in. Mind the floor… bit slippery with imaginary betrayal.”

McGonagall’s wand snapped up.

Dumbledore raised a hand, as if to steady her. “Sirius. Whatever this is… whatever excuse you’ve told yourself… lay down your wand.”

Sirius gave a cold laugh. “Right. No wand, no trial, straight back to Azkaban again… for things I didn’t do.”

Dumbledore’s face was grave. “You betrayed James and Lily. You handed them to Voldemort. Then murdered Peter Pettigrew… and all those innocent people caught in the blast. And now… Gringotts. You helped him storm it.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Blimey, all this before supper? I’m flattered you think I’m so diligent.”

He took a half-step back. “Now unless this is all a terrible misunderstanding and you’re just here for a cuppa…”

“Enough!” McGonagall snapped, voice cracking like a whip.

A searing jet of blue erupted from her wand that carved through the air, narrowly missing his shoulder as Sirius twisted behind the sofa. Her second spell hit the frame and it exploded with a dull thud, but it wasn’t wood anymore.

It was thorns.

Brambles surged from its core, sharp as glass and rooted deep, curling to ensnare. Vines hissed as they lunged towards her ankles. She slashed through them.

The hearth split open with a hiss, revealing a ring of illusions, each flickering above buried hexes, lying in wait. McGonagall’s foot struck one, her boot sank half a step into a pit, enough to make her falter. A silent jinx clipped her shoulder and sent her reeling back.

Dumbledore moved to shield her. A pulse of golden light shattered the remaining brambles to ash, cleared a path through the thickening enchantments. But Sirius was already moving.

Glass exploded from the bookcase, now jagged with mirrored shards. Each piece reflected a false door, a phantom Sirius darting in and out. McGonagall cast a wide-burning dispel, but the magic ricocheted off the warded walls.

“You’ve gotten slower, Minerva,” Sirius taunted. “I remember when you could hit a fly in mid-air.”

“You traitorous…”

She fired again, faster this time. Her magic sliced through his shoulder, white fire against skin. He gasped, staggered back, but even through the pain, he kept moving.

A flash of light nearly caught her from behind. She spun, barely in time. The hex scorched the edge of her jacket.

The walls pulsed. Sirius flung open a door, only for it to turn to stone as he passed through. The room spun. Windows shimmered into doorframes. Lamps flickered and vanished.

A transfigured chair burst into a choking gout of smoke as Dumbledore tried to pass. The air thickened, oppressive, close, until the smoke reversed, sucked back in with unnatural silence.

“Enough,” Dumbledore said, voice calm, and raised his wand. The floor rebelled, gravity warped, the ceiling flickering with runes. Sirius tried to cast a deflection, but he was too slow. He was lifted, dragged sideways as if caught in a tide. He crashed into the wall.

Still, he didn’t yield.

He launched a chain of spells. Dumbledore batted them away, transfigured a teacup into a gleaming shield, and threw it with a flick. Sirius dropped flat. The shield embedded in the wall behind.

McGonagall fired from the left, a paralyzing curse. Sirius turned the floor beneath her to slick ice and she skidded.

A mirror cracked. Then another.

Dumbledore stepped through the mess like a man crossing a whirlpool. He raised his wand, and this time, Sirius couldn’t dodge fast enough.

The air imploded around him. Something gripped his chest, and hurled him backward. He slammed into the kitchen wall, the world spinning. A sharp spike of pain bloomed in his ribs.

Still, he raised his wand again.

“I’ve faced worse than you,” he spat.

“You’ve become worse,” McGonagall hissed.

Then her spell hit him from the side, a bolt with too much power behind it. It cracked across his shoulder, sent him to one knee.

He tried to rise, one more time.

But Dumbledore was already there.

The next spell pinned him to the floor like an iron weight.

Pain bloomed and breath left his lungs. His wand fell from his hand. He looked up, through the haze, through the wreckage.

There, out the shattered window, a streak of movement against the last fire of the sky. A boy on a broomstick.

Sirius let out a strangled breath.

He’s gone.

The world narrowed. Light blurred.

But even as the weight of Dumbledore’s spell kept him down, even as blood ran warm across his side, he managed one final smile.

“Should’ve ducked,” he muttered, and then the dark swallowed him.

Consciousness returned like seawater through cracked skin, stinging and sharp. Sirius groaned low in his throat, blinking against the swimming lights. Smoke coiled in the rafters. His ribs felt like shattered glass.

Above him, Dumbledore’s wand glowed and a Patronus erupted from its tip. It vanished through the shattered window. Reinforcements. Aurors, no doubt.

Sirius watched it go, breath ragged, every muscle trembling as he leaned against the splintered wall. Shards of wood dug into his palms; but he didn’t care.

“Minerva,” he rasped, a bloody smile tugging at his lips. “Aren’t you about ten years late to the party?”

Her wand lifted slightly. Her eyes narrowed with fire.

“Tell me where he is, you monster,” she said. “Where is Harry?”

He coughed hard and spat crimson into the ash-stained floorboards.

“Safe,” he said. “Where he should be.”

“That’s rich,” McGonagall snapped. “Coming from you.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Sirius muttered. “Neither of you.”

He shifted. Pain flared in his shoulder but it was grounding. It sharpened him. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier.

“Although… if either of you had a shred of wisdom left, you’d have seen it. I didn’t betray James and Lily. I was never the Secret Keeper.”

No explanation followed. Just silence and that withering stare, as if the truth were too sacred to waste on deaf ears.

McGonagall stepped forward. “Liar,” she hissed. “You betrayed them. You killed those people. You attacked us.”

Dumbledore’s voice, when it came, was soft but sharp as glass. “Would an innocent man do that, Sirius?”

A pause.

Sirius pushed himself upright, the act a small rebellion in itself.

“You come to my home,” he roared, “you tear through my wards, and then you draw your wands on me. And you expect me to lie down and take it like some whipped dog?”

The room rang with it. That thundering voice of a Black, full of a terrible, unyielding pride. Raw, electric fury radiated from Sirius in waves.

This wasn’t the boy they remembered, laughing through the corridors in mischief.

This was the scion to a fallen house, fire in his chest and defiance in his eyes. “You don’t get to question my loyalty,” he snarled. “Not after what you let happen to Harry.”

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Sirius. The boy could be in danger…”

“Where were you?” Sirius thundered. “For ten years? Where was your brilliance then, Albus?”

“We believed he was dead,” McGonagall whispered.

“No,” Sirius said, his voice shaking. “You believed what was easy. What gave you peace.”

His eyes flicked to Dumbledore. “You, had to have felt that magic in the ruins. And still, you walked away. You buried a coffin with a lie while Harry slipped through the cracks.”

McGonagall looked pale. Her lips parted, but no words came.

“I might forgive the rest,” Sirius continued. “They didn’t know better. But you Albus?”

Dumbledore’s voice was almost mournful now. “What have you done with him, Sirius? Who adopted him?”

Sirius met his eyes. “I did. He’s my godson.”

Dumbledore straightened. “For the last time… where is he?”

Sirius laughed. Harsh. Bitter. “The last time? Or what? You’ll try to claw your way into my mind? I’m not one of your tame followers, Albus. I’m not one of those simpering little sycophants who trail after your robes.”

His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m a Black. You want answers? You’ll have to break me first. Because… I don’t trust any of you.”

Just then light footsteps, descended from the stairs.

Three heads turned.

Harry stood frozen halfway down, eyes wide with shock, face pale. His gaze swept the room, the blood on Sirius, the drawn wands, the tension in the air. For one moment, he didn’t breathe.

Then he bolted the rest of the way down, sliding to Sirius’s side and catching his arm as he sagged again.

Sirius gritted his teeth. “Why did you come back?” he rasped. “I told you to go…”

“I’m not leaving you,” Harry said firmly. He turned, standing between Sirius and the others, green eyes blazing, small frame taut with fury.

His voice rang through the cottage. “What do you want with him? He didn’t kill those people. Leave him alone.”

McGonagall stared at him as if she were seeing a ghost. Her wand lowered an inch. “Harry,” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “You’re… Merlin’s mercy, you’re…”

She took a step forward, as if to reach for him, but Harry flinched back instinctively, shoulders curling as he stayed between her and Sirius.

“Don’t,” he said sharply.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t loud. But it stopped her cold.

McGonagall froze, arm hovering in mid-air. Her lips parted slightly, unsure. The fierce, defiant boy in front of her wasn’t the child she had imagined. He wasn’t waiting to be saved. He was the one protecting.

Behind her, Dumbledore’s eyes were locked on Harry, not with triumph, but with something stranger. Shock. Relief. But deeper than that, a dawning realisation that the boy before him had lived through fire. And it clung to him like smoke – grief, loss, and the kind of strength that costs too much.

Harry’s stance was unyielding. “He’s done nothing wrong. And you barged into our home like you had the right.”

Dumbledore took a breath. “Harry… I am sorry. We truly believed you had died that night.”

Harry didn’t answer. He looked at Sirius and reached up to steady him.

McGonagall had found her voice again. Gently, but firmly, she said, “Harry, you don’t understand. He betrayed your parents...”

Sirius flinched as if struck. The words landed like a lead weight, cold and brutal, thudding into the centre of his chest.

He had never told Harry. Not once, in all these stolen months of hard-won joy. At first, it had been caution, because even the faintest shadow of suspicion, however unfounded, might’ve been enough to shatter the fragile trust they were just beginning to build. And later… later it had become too easy to breathe in the quiet they’d carved out together. Too easy to believe that silence could hold the past at bay. As though speaking it aloud might crack the miracle they’d stitched from grief, luck, and love.

He hadn’t forgotten. But perhaps he had hoped it had been buried deep enough never to surface.

He saw it hit Harry. A sudden stillness, like breath held too long. His mouth parted, then shut.

Sirius’s hand lifted instinctively. “Harry,” he said, as if his name alone could tether him.

But Harry didn’t move. He looked at Dumbledore. At McGonagall. And then finally, back at Sirius. His face gave away nothing. But his silence screamed.

Dumbledore’s voice cut in, low and grave. “It’s true, Harry. He was your parents’ Secret Keeper. He betrayed them to Voldemort.”.

Harry took a step back, eyes wide, chest rising too fast. “No,” he said, voice hardening. “No. That’s not true.”

McGonagall flinched. Dumbledore said nothing.

“You don’t know him,” Harry went on, trembling now, not with fear, but fury. “You don’t. He would have died for them. He would die for me. He’d go to hell and back if I asked him to. And he has.”

His voice cracked, but the conviction in it didn’t waver.

Relief broke across Sirius’s face like a dam giving way. The fight left him all at once, his shoulders shook, tears spilling unchecked down his cheeks. He slid down the wall, collapsing under the weight of it all.

Harry moved with him, crouching low, one arm steady at Sirius’s back. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Dumbledore’s expression flickered, not with doubt but with calculation. He spoke gently, as though addressing a dangerous creature cornered in a room too small.

“There’s a chance, Harry… that you’ve been misled. Sirius may not be the man you believe he is. He could have deceived you.”

“Manipulated you,” McGonagall added, rising from the wreckage of her shock. “Twisted the truth before you knew to question it. He could’ve earned your trust for reasons that serve only him.”

“And what are those reasons, exactly?” he asked. “Go on. I’ve been living with him for nine months. I’ve known him for over a year.”

His voice sharpened, “If he betrayed my parents… if he wanted me dead… don’t you think I’d be dead by now?”

The question landed like a curse. No one answered. No one could.

Dumbledore’s face had gone inscrutable again, but not serene. He looked... uncertain.

McGonagall blinked rapidly. She seemed entirely at a loss for words.

“Harry…” Dumbledore began again. “He killed thirty-nine people. That’s not in dispute.”

“And he is helping Voldemort again,” McGonagall added, “He helped orchestrate the attack on Gringotts.”

Harry stared at them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dumbledore took a single step forward. “Please, Harry. Step aside, so that we may take him.”

But Harry couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t see. His vision blurred with heat. The world had narrowed to noise and fire and the pounding in his chest.

Sirius felt the shift. Magic thickened in the room, like a storm tightening its coil. He recognised the signs: the tremble in Hary’s hands, the glint behind his eyes, the way he stood, rigid with the effort of holding it all in. Everything Harry had built, everything that made this life his, was slipping away. Fear tangled with fury, cracked open by desperation.

And then Harry’s magic broke free. It surged out of him like a shuddering, soundless wave, a living force tearing through what little still stood. Splintered furniture was flung across the room, breaking apart even further. The sofa, already half-collapsed, slammed back against the wall with a bone-jarring crack. Shelves buckled and fell, dragging the last of their contents down with them. The windows shattered inward in a hail of glass, as though the house itself had finally given in to the storm.

The room erupted into chaos.

Chapter Text

Rain spattered softly against the windows of Flourish and Blotts, drawing pale, streaky lines across the glass. The sky sagged low and grey, like it could press the whole city flat.

Remus was supposed to have written to Dumbledore by now.

He hadn’t.

Ten days since that conversation in the woods. Since his voice went flat with certainty, “We’ve got a few weeks. Just enough time to speak with him. On our terms.”

But the letter was still unwritten. Every draft Remus had started ended up crumpled, scorched, or quietly vanished with a charm. He’d burned five attempts. Vanished seven. Each one fell apart under the weight of what it meant.

He’d promised to be the one to do it. To keep Sirius out of it. To shield Harry. To keep it controlled. Just enough truth to open a door, not enough to let the whole story pour out.

And yet here he was. Still delaying.

Coward, he told himself. Not unkindly, just honestly. The word no longer stung; it had settled in like a familiar ache.

He wasn’t afraid of the consequences. He was afraid of Dumbledore’s face when the truth landed, quiet and knowing and disappointed. Not in anger, but in that gentle, unbearable way of his.

He might understand. But the man Remus remembered would still see through him, through every omission, every lie by silence, every day he’d kept Harry hidden away like a secret.

And when he did... what then?

A gust of wind rattled the door, and Miriam poked her head in from the back, a teacup in hand. “Rain’s properly started now,” she said cheerfully, unaware of the storm in his head. “No one’s been in since ten. If this goes on, the books’ll start talking to each other out of boredom.”

Remus managed a faint smile. “Let’s hope they stick to polite conversation this time.”

Miriam laughed. “No promises. If the Divination shelf starts gossiping again, I’m blaming you.”

He gave her a nod, then hesitated. “Miriam, do you mind covering for me the rest of the day? I think I might be coming down with something.”

She set her tea aside and looked at him with concern. “You look it. A bit grey in the cheeks.”

That wasn’t illness… just his face.

Still, he nodded. “I’ll go lie down.”

“Course,” she said warmly. “Go. I’ll mind the front.”

He murmured his thanks, collected his cloak from the peg, and stepped out into the street.

The rain met him like a welcome punishment, steady and cold, soaking his collar and cuffs. He didn’t bother with a repelling charm. Let it soak in. It felt deserved. He’d dawdled long enough.

It was time to face the music in person.

The alley was deserted. He turned once on the spot, and vanished.

He apparated just outside the gates of Hogwarts. The rain was heavier here, sweeping across the hills in silver sheets.

He stared up at the castle, heart a knot in his chest. Somewhere behind those walls, Albus Dumbledore would be having his tea. Reading. Preparing for the next turn of history.

Remus took a breath. Each step would be a reckoning.

He knocked on the gate, three firm raps against the wrought iron between the winged boars. The sound echoed, swallowed quickly by the rain.

A lantern bobbed in the distance, weaving through the downpour. It grew larger until the unmistakable shape of Hagrid emerged, umbrella in hand, the size of a small boat, entirely unbothered by the storm.

“Well, look who it is!” Hagrid beamed, pushing back the hood of his moleskin coat. “Thought that was you. You alright, Remus?”

“As good as I’ll ever be,” he said, managing a weary smile. “I was hoping to see the Headmaster.”

Hagrid’s smile faltered. “Ah. He’s not in, I’m afraid. Left a little while ago with Professor McGonagall. Didn’t say where to.”

“I see.”

“I was out in the patch, trimming back a few of the runners before they got wild again,” Hagrid added, nodding back towards his sodden pumpkin beds. “Saw ‘em heading off together.”

Remus glanced towards the castle, unsure of his next step.

“Well,” Hagrid said, “no sense standin’ here gettin’ soaked through. Come to the hut, have a cuppa. You can wait there till they’re back.”

Remus gave a nod. “Thank you, Hagrid.”

The hut was warm, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, and whatever stew had been simmering on the stove. Fang thudded his tail lazily against the floor as Remus entered, then dropped his head again with a huff.

“Here y’are,” Hagrid said, setting down a steaming mug. “Still take it strong?”

“Stronger than ever,” Remus murmured, accepting it with a grateful nod.

He settled into the chair by the hearth, hands wrapped around the chipped mug, the heat slowly seeping back into his fingers. His mind already in the tower above, the moment playing out before him: the look on Dumbledore’s face. The silence. The questions. The decisions that would follow.

He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting.

The downpour had stopped some time ago. The fire burnt low, crackling gently now and then as if it, too, was dozing. Outside, the last beads of rain clung to the windowpane, catching what little light remained.

Hagrid, meanwhile, was in full stride, mug in hand, launching into one story after another with the easy rhythm of someone who’d told them many times and never grown tired of them.

A silver light bloomed suddenly in the centre of the room. Fang stirred but didn’t wake.

The Patronus was unmistakable, a great, gleaming hound that seemed to shimmer with urgency. It bounded forward and skidded to a halt, and its head turned towards Remus.

“We’ve been made,” said Sirius’s voice. “Quidditch field. Get him out.”

And the hound vanished.

The mug slipped from Remus’s hand. It hit the floor with a dull thunk, tea spilling across the stone like dark ink.

Hagrid sat up, alarmed. “What in Merlin’s name?”

But Remus was already on his feet, heart pounding, cloak flying out behind him as he crossed the room in a single, fluid motion.

“I have to go.”

“What’s happened?”

“No time,” Remus said, as he bolted through the door, sprinting towards the gates before Hagrid could get another word out.

And with a crack, he was gone.

The air cracked as Remus apparated into the clearing behind Wreinleigh Cottage, his boots hitting the rain-slick earth with a jolt. The scent of damp grass mingled with the faint tang of smoke drifting in from afar. The woods, usually quiet, felt tense and watchful. Every branch seemed frozen mid-movement, as if the forest itself sensed something had gone terribly wrong.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Please let them be here. Please let Harry be safe.

“Homenum Revelio,” he whispered, wand sweeping in a slow arc.

Nothing. No whisper of presence. Fear clamped around him, cold and choking.

He took off, mud flying from his shoes as he tore through the undergrowth, breath ragged, wet branches slapping against his face. The cottage… he had to get to the cottage. He had to get to them.

By the time Remus reached Wrenleigh Cottage, the air hit him like a blow. Smoke billowed from the windows, curling into the dusk in thick, choking plumes. Slates had peeled off the roof; part of the front wall had collapsed. The very air felt blistered, tainted with the echo of violent magic.

He reeled at the sight.

For a moment, his only instinct was to run… headlong, wand drawn, screaming Sirius and Harry’s name. But then…

Voices.

He froze. Ducking behind the low wall that circled the cottage, he moved with a predator’s caution, every breath shallow, every step deliberate.

He crept closer, heart hammering. The door to the cottage hung open, blasted clean off its hinges.

Inside, amid the wreckage and flickering light, he saw them.

Dumbledore. McGonagall. Standing. like sentinels. Remus felt their fury the moment he saw them – McGonagall’s, sharp and cold as cut glass; Dumbledore’s, older, heavier, like quiet wrath.

And in front of them stood Harry, his small frame taut as a bowstring, shoulders hunched, fists clenched at his sides. His hair bristled with static, and his clothes whipped in the rush of magic surging around him. Behind him, slumped against the floor, lay Sirius; broken, streaked with ash, sprawled like a fallen soldier, the realisation of what was coming etched in his eyes.

Sparks bled from Harry’s skin, trailing up his arms like veins made of lightning. The air split with a crack, an invisible shockwave tore through the room. Walls groaned. Furniture splintered apart. The sofa slammed against the far wall. Windows shattered inwards in a storm of glass.

Remus barely had time to react. He threw up a shield charm, the spell flaring to life just as a table leg whistled past his head.

Through the chaos, he saw Sirius surge forward, arms locking around Harry, dragging him down, curling his body protectively over the boy.

Dumbledore moved in the same breath, his wand sweeping in a wide arc. A dome of silver-blue light erupted from its tip, expanding outward, shielding McGonagall, and sweeping over Sirius and Harry, cocooning them from the full brunt of the blast. As it spread, the magic didn’t just shield, it steadied. The wild surge in the room slowed, the air thick with power slowly beginning to calm. The storm around Harry faltered, drawn in, anchored by Dumbledore’s spell.

But even through the chaos, Remus stayed alert watching for his moment. His mind was made up; this was his last gamble. Either they would believe, or everything would be lost. He saw Dumbledore momentarily staggered by the sheer force of the magic. He saw McGonagall turn, eyes wide on the source of it.

And before the dust had even begun to settle, he struck. Silent. Sudden.

McGonagall didn’t scream. She gasped once as she felt the hard press of Remus’s wand to her neck, just below the ear. Her body froze.

Dumbledore turned. The shield he’d been casting flickered out as his wand swept sideways, now levelled at Remus.

“Don’t,” Remus said. His voice was quiet. Dead steady. “I won’t miss.”

Dumbledore’s wand didn’t waver.

“Put it down, Remus,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to do this. You’re not this.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Sorrow, perhaps. Or pity. The belief that Remus, too, had been deceived. Warped by grief. Twisted by friendship into a shape Dumbledore no longer recognised.

But Remus didn’t lower his wand.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said. “Sirius is telling the truth.”

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. Her lip curled, eyes hard with disbelief.

“Is this where you stand now, Remus?” she snapped. “A wand at my throat?”

Her voice was bitter, laced with disgust. “What has he done to you? How could you let him twist you into this?”

Remus’s breath hitched, but his wand stayed firm. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, gleamed with something ancient and dangerous.

“I haven’t changed,” he said. “I’ve just stopped waiting for permission.”

He shifted slightly. “Lower your wand, Minerva.”

She moved slowly. Her wand dipped, trembling slightly in her grasp.

A low groan, then the rustle of cloth against broken floorboards. Remus’s head whipped towards the sound.

“Sirius?” he called.

Sirius coughed, and pushed himself upright with a grimace. “Still here,” he rasped. “Unfortunately.”

Next to him, Harry stirred more slowly. His limbs moved as if underwater. He blinked hard, eyes glassy, then lifted his head, brow furrowed in confusion. Like the room hadn’t caught up with him yet.

“Harry,” Remus said sharply. “Are you alright?”

Harry turned, eyes finding him through the haze. He nodded once, unsteady.

“I… I think so,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “Just… everything’s loud.”

He swayed slightly, and Sirius caught his shoulder, steadying him. “You’re alright,” he muttered, voice still shaking. “You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

“Sirius. Go,” Remus said, not taking his eyes off Dumbledore. “Your room. Top drawer. Bring the parchment.”

Sirius’s eyes widened in understanding. He groaned as he pushed himself up, muttering a string of oaths under his breath, every movement stiff with pain. He staggered towards the stairs, throwing one last look over his shoulder; at Remus, at Harry, at the standoff frozen in place.

Dumbledore’s wand followed him for a moment, but he didn’t cast. His jaw tightened. “I won’t let you manipulate this, Remus. You’ve been misled, and now is the time to stop. This isn’t the way.”

Remus bared his teeth.

“You think I don’t know what you’re capable of Albus?” he said, voice taut with fury. “You could take me down in a heartbeat.”

His grip tightened on his wand. “But if you try… if even a flicker touches me… she dies. A single twitch, and I’ll take her head clean off.”

The words hit like icewater. Flat. Honest. Terrifying.

McGonagall flinched, her disgust written clear in every line of her face. “You’d use me as a shield? Me, Remus?”

“I’d do worse,” he said. “To protect them, I would do far worse. And you’d do the same if you knew the truth.”

The seconds stretched. The room waited, teetering on a knife’s edge.

Sirius reappeared on the stairs, a small folded parchment clutched in one bruised hand. His other arm pressed against the banister as he descended carefully, face drawn with pain.

He crossed the ruined floor without a word and held the parchment out towards Dumbledore.

Dumbledore took the parchment slowly.

His eyes scanned the page. The Potters are at number seventeen, Maple Walk, Godric’s Hollow. His expression didn’t shift.

Finally, he looked up at Remus.

“What does this prove?”

His voice was quiet. But beneath it, something darker swelled. Confusion curdling into anger. A man used to having everything under control suddenly adrift.

Remus’s eyes burned. “It’s Peter’s handwriting,” he said. “Can’t you see that, Albus?”

Dumbledore glanced down again. His brow furrowed. Still not seeing it. Still floundering in a moment that refused to obey him.

McGonagall didn’t move, but something in her stilled. The fury that had gripped her spine began to ebb, leaving behind something brittle and uncertain. Her eyes... were fixed on the parchment in Dumbledore’s hand.

“Albus,” she said softly. “Give it to me.”

Dumbledore shifted, just a step towards her.

Remus snapped. “No. You stay where you are.”

Dumbledore froze mid-step. His eyes narrowed, sharp with restrained fury, offended not just by the wand aimed at McGonagall, but by the defiance behind it. But he didn’t press further. Didn’t risk provoking Remus’s hand.

Remus didn’t take his eyes off him. “Sirius. Bring it to her.”

Sirius took the parchment from Dumbledore’s fingers, and crossed the short distance to McGonagall.

She took it without a word and scanned the lines. The loops were loose. The letters, clumsy and familiar.

Peter Pettigrew.

No… It couldn’t be…

But she had seen that handwriting scrawled across hundreds of essays. Her eyes widened, not just in recognition, but in horror. In dawning, sick realisation.

They had believed the worst. They had accused Sirius. They had hunted him. They had let him rot. Unchallenged, unheard, in a cell meant for monsters.

The parchment in her hand fluttered slightly as her fingers began to tremble. Her eyes lifted, slowly, to Sirius, his face pale, his eyes hollowed by years of torment. The man they had brutalised with silence and suspicion.

The man they hadn’t saved.

Her voice was barely a whisper. But it carried like a thunderclap.

“Albus… they’re telling the truth.”

Dumbledore stared at her. And for the first time that night, he wavered. His gaze dropped to the parchment, then rose again past McGonagall, to Sirius.

McGonagall’s voice was trembling… not with doubt but with conviction.

"You taught us to value proof. To question even our certainties. Now the evidence is before us… and so is our duty, Albus."

Something broke in the room. The tension collapsed.

The pieces fell, and the weight came crashing down. Nine years in Azkaban. Nine years they had failed him.

Dumbledore should have seen it. He should have known. But he had let the silence speak for him. Had trusted in the narrative rather than the person.

His expression shifted, not to guilt, but to grief.

Grief for a boy he’d once taught. For the young man whose name had been dragged through the mud, then buried beneath it.

His wand lowered. He turned to Remus, as a man unravelled by his own failures.

“Remus,” he said.

Just the name. No accusation. No defence. Only understanding.

Remus sagged.

His knees gave out, and he dropped. The wand clattered from his hand and skittered across the floor.

His breath caught, and then came all at once. His hands pressed to his face as the tears came, too fast to hide. Through the tears, his voice came raw: “I didn’t want to threaten you,” he choked. “I hated it. I’ll never forgive myself.”

It wasn’t peace yet. But it was no more a war.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there.

His head was buzzing and lights still danced behind his eyes. The room looked wrong, stretched thin at the edges, like he was seeing it through water. His breath came in uneven pulls, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought: I did magic again. I lost control.

He saw the forest again, but this time, he wasn’t walking through it. He stood in the clearing, inside the glow. Light curled around him, alive, and it was burning him.

He didn’t know how long he was there, only that when he opened his eyes again, everything had changed.

Remus stood a few feet away, wand out, pointed at a woman.

Professor McGonagall.

Harry knew her at once. Tall, with greying hair drawn back in a severe bun. Her green robes were streaked with soot, the hem torn, marked by battle.

He had heard of her. Countless stories. Her strength, her precision, her refusal to bend.

She looked exactly as they’d said.

And the man with her…

He knew him, too. Albus Dumbledore.

He’d imagined him as a giant. As a myth stitched together from bedtime tales and whispered warnings. But now here he was. Real. Old but not weak. Magic clung to him like wind to a stormcloud. Even in stillness, he felt… vast. There was something about Dumbledore’s presence – quiet, commanding, that made the back of his neck prickle and his chest ache.

Harry had hated him. Hated how he and McGonagall had looked at Sirius like he was something dangerous, something they could take from him.

But everything had shifted with the arrival of Remus. A note had passed hands. Wands had been lowered.

Remus was crying. Not the kind one did in secret, muffled into pillows or sleeves. This was open. Raw. Remus was folded in on himself on the floor, hands over his face. His breath came ragged and fast.

Then Harry heard footsteps.

The soft crunch of debris, a wooden thunk against stone.

Three figures emerged, cutting through the ruin. One stepped through where the door had been. Another vaulted clean through a shattered window. The third stepped in from a gap in the wall. They spread out – one straight ahead, two to the flanks, wands drawn.

Spells surged, arcs of light crackling towards Sirius.

Dumbledore moved. His wand snapped through the air, the spells turned mid-flight, bursting harmlessly against the broken hearth.

“Alastor,” he said sharply, voice ringing clear. “That will do. The situation has changed.”

The man at the centre halted. Even before he spoke, there was no mistaking him. Alastor Moody: battered, broad-shouldered, his magical eye whirring in wild, mechanical sweeps. Harry had never met him, but he knew the name. The Auror who’d put half of Azkaban behind bars and always slept with a wand under his pillow. Moody grunted low in his throat and lowered his wand, but only slightly.

Behind him, the other two held their ground. Watchful, assessing, every muscle coiled in readiness.

Harry knew them. He remembered Christmas in Diagon Alley, the way they’d come after Sirius without a second’s pause.

Moody’s eye froze mid-whirr. It locked on Harry.

“Is that?” he asked.

Dumbledore gave a small nod. “It is.”

Moody didn’t look away. “How?”

Dumbledore’s voice was quiet, but it carried. “Patience, Alastor. All shall come in its time. But this much is now beyond dispute… Sirius Black was not the Secret-Keeper.”

Silence.

Dumbledore turned, and McGonagall who had been pacing the room like a restless cat, strode forward and handed the folded scrap of parchment to Moody.

Moody’s good eye narrowed.

“I know this,” he muttered, voice full of memory. “Sirius gave it to me.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “He left it with you before he vanished. What you see there is not his hand. It belongs to Peter Pettigrew. He was the one entrusted with the secret. And he was the one who betrayed them.”

Moody stared at the note, then back at Dumbledore.

A grunt. Not disbelief but resignation. The sound of old instincts giving way to older trust.

Then he turned. “Kingsley. Elliot. Wands down.”

Kingsley obeyed at once, though he didn’t holster. “You’ll be explaining all of this, Mad-Eye,” he said quietly, still watching Sirius.

Moody barked a laugh. His magical eye swivelled to Harry again. “You’ve no idea, lad. It'll be the story of your life.”

Elliot didn’t move. His wand was still up. His jaw clenched. “He escaped Azkaban,” he said. “On my watch.”

“Elliot…” Moody began.

But the younger Auror didn’t hear him. Or didn’t want to. “You expect me to lower my wand now? Just like that?”

Moody didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Elliot’s arm trembled once. Then he stepped forward and grabbed Moody’s sleeve, his voice shaking, “Only because it’s you, Mad-Eye.” His wand dropped, finally, though his hand curled into a fist as he turned and stalked back towards the door.

Moody watched him go, eyes unreadable.

Sirius hadn’t moved the entire time. He sat on the floor, legs folded loosely beneath him. His face was pale beneath the grime. Although his eyes tracked every movement in the room, something in him had gone very still.

Beside him, Harry hadn’t realised he’d edged closer until their shoulders were nearly touching.

Remus stood just behind Harry. When the spells had started flying, he’d risen in a flash, wand at the ready. Now, as the Aurors stood down, he let out a slow breath. The tension eased from his stance, but not from his eyes.

Dumbledore turned back to Sirius at last.

“Forgive me,” he said gently.

But Sirius didn’t answer. Not because he refused to, because he couldn’t. He was frozen, with the kind of disbelief that settles in the bones. Like some part of him hadn’t caught up to the moment yet. He had spent so long, certain no one would ever believe him, that he’d stopped daring to imagine otherwise. And now suddenly, impossibly, they were standing up for him.

Kingsley broke the silence. “The Dementors won’t be far behind.”

That was all it took. Moody straightened at once. His eye locked with Dumbledore’s and something unspoken passed between them.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. “Minerva. Would you host them at your house tonight?”

She nodded immediately. “Of course.”

Harry stiffened. “Wait… what? We’re leaving?”

“Come on,” said Remus gently, already moving. “We don’t have long.”

He conjured two satchels with a wave of his wand, one floated into Harry’s hands. The other he slung over his own shoulder.

But Harry didn’t move. His eyes stayed on Sirius, still sitting slumped on the cold stone.

“I’m not leaving him,” Harry said quietly, rooted to the spot.

McGonagall knelt beside Sirius. Something in her face had softened, the lines etched there no longer sharp with anger, but with something that felt almost like sorrow. “You don’t have to worry,” she said softly. “He’s coming with us too.”

As she spoke, she drew her wand and with quiet, practised gestures, began tending to the worst of Sirius’s injuries. He flinched once, but didn’t resist.

“There was a time,” she murmured, brushing ash and grime from his sleeve, “when this one drove me half mad. But I’d have hexed anyone who tried to hurt him.”

She looked up at Harry, and the kindness in her face, unguarded, slowed the pulse in his chest. A softness he had not yet seen in the eyes of the stern professor.

Harry stumbled up the stairs, the weight of the evening dragging at his limbs. Remus was waiting at the top. He met Harry’s gaze for a moment, then peeled off towards Sirius’s room. Harry slipped into his own.

This was the second time in less than a year he was packing whatever little he had. The only difference was, his name had changed. And somewhere between fire and trial, he’d gained a chaotic, fragile, fiercely loyal family.

He moved quickly, methodically. Clothes first. The Walkman. The photo album. The worn paperback of The Little Prince. Then he opened the drawer. The baby blanket. The tiny cardigan. The charred piece of wood he’d taken from the ruins in Godric’s Hollow.

He gathered them like a magpie might, not for their worth, but for what they meant. Keepsakes of the life he once had. The one that was stolen, and might, someday, be his again.

The satchel swallowed them without protest.

He slung his dad’s old broom over one shoulder and stepped out into the landing. Remus was already there, bag full, waiting.

When they came down, Sirius was on his feet. The vacant glaze had lifted from his eyes, replaced by something steadier. He looked up as Harry entered, and their eyes met. A flicker of warmth bloomed there softening the worn lines of his face.

In the far corner, Dumbledore and Moody spoke in low voices. Moody beckoned the other two Aurors, murmuring swift instructions in hushed tones. They nodded, then slipped away without a word.

McGonagall stood near the doorway. Her eyes found Harry first, full of affection, and then Remus, with a look that held a different weight entirely. There was softness there, but it was threaded with steel. She hadn’t forgotten the wand at her throat.

She turned and gently placed a hand on Sirius’s back. “Come on… Let’s get you home.”

Remus murmured a quiet “Ready?” and together they followed.

Harry hesitated a second as he looked back at Wreinleigh Cottage, the cracked red bricks and broken windows, the warmth it once held now drained into silence. Another ruin. Like Godric’s Hollow. Like everything he’d ever called his. Everything that ever felt like it might last.

Then he gripped his satchel, tightened his hold on the old broom strapped to his back and disappeared with the rest, vanishing into the night.

They apparated just beyond a low stone wall, the kind held together more by memory than mortar. A soft wind pressed through the heather, and overhead, the sky hung low with cloud. The path ahead wound gently between crooked fence posts and tufts of wild grass, leading to a modest stone cottage that stood alone against the moor.

It looked exactly like Harry had imagined Professor McGonagall’s house might, stern in silhouette, but not unwelcoming. A narrow chimney smoked faintly, and the windows glowed with the muted light of oil lamps, softened by lace curtains.

They walked the short path in silence.

When McGonagall opened the door, she stepped back without a word to let them pass, but her eyes lingered, on Harry, on Sirius, and the longest on Remus.

Inside, the air was warm, spiced faintly with tea and woodsmoke. Harry blinked as his eyes adjusted. The sitting room was lined with tall bookcases, their shelves full of thick-bound volumes arranged meticulously. The books were dusting themselves, and the curtains twitched shut against a draft. A tartan rug stretched beneath an armchair by the fire, where a black cat dozed. And the clock on the mantle shifted its hands not with the hour but with mood: Restless, Pensive, Indignant. At the moment, the hand rested on Optimistic, like a heart relearning trust.

Sirius was the first to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes fixed on McGonagall. “For the fight. The way I… snapped at you. I was afraid.” He swallowed. “I didn’t know if any of you would believe me… I can’t go back… to Azkaban.”

McGonagall held his gaze for a long moment. “You were out of control, Sirius. But I understand.”

Her voice was stern, but not cold. “You’ve lost too much. But if you want to be the man you once were… the one James believed in, the one Harry needs… then you must stop letting grief do the talking for you. You must learn to reach for us before you burn the ground under your feet.”

She paused, then added, “And you weren’t the only one who said things they shouldn’t.”

Beside Sirius, Remus dipped his head. “That includes me. There’s no excuse for what I did.”

He looked up, and for a moment, he seemed older than he was. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But I needed you to hear it from me… I am sorry, Minerva. More than I can say.”

McGonagall gave a faint sigh. Her gaze lingered on him, unreadable.

“You’ll stay the night,” she said. “All of you.”

In the kitchen, the kettle whistled softly. McGonagall busied herself without fuss, summoning mugs and a pot of stout-looking tea. A plate of oatcakes appeared, along with some slices of cheese and cold roast from the larder.

They sat at the narrow table, elbows tucked in. The only sound was the faint rattle of cutlery, the clink of cups. Sirius winced slightly as he lifted his tea. McGonagall noticed, and without a word, handed him a small vial of potion. He took it with a murmur of thanks, downed it in one go, then grimaced.

“Still tastes like someone steeped socks in dragon piss,” he muttered, rubbing his throat.

A flicker of amusement touched McGonagall’s face, but didn’t quite settle.

Remus set down his mug. “I mean it,” he said softly. “About earlier. I saw no other way. I know that’s not a justification. I…”

McGonagall interrupted gently. “You were protecting a friend. And a child… I might’ve done the same, in your place.”

Remus bowed his head, silent.

Sirius shot him a look. “Did you just get forgiven faster than I did? That took me ten years.”

“You acted out of desperation. He, out of conviction,” McGonagall said, tone dry. “And I stood on the wrong side of you both. None of us were at our best today.”

Remus offered her a quiet look of gratitude, but it was Sirius who broke the silence.

“Was that…” he tilted his head, mock-serious “…an apology, Professor?”

McGonagall adjusted her spectacles. “A momentary lapse. I assure you, it won’t become a habit.”

Remus’s mouth twitched in a faint smile. Sirius let out a quiet huff of laughter. Between them, something shifted, a thread of trust slowly re-spun.

But McGonagall’s gaze kept returning to Harry. Watching him carefully. Measuring, perhaps. Or searching.

Harry kept his eyes on his tea. He wasn’t sure what to say.

They didn’t linger long at the table. She showed them up a narrow staircase to a small guest room at the end of the hall. The walls were pale green, the ceiling sloped low, and there was only one bed, neatly made with a woollen throw and extra blankets folded at the foot.

Sirius padded over to the rug beside it, dropped down without a word, and curled in on himself like a dog seeking warmth. Remus pulled the worn armchair near the hearth and stretched across it as best he could, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped back. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floorboards.

It was the first moment of peace in hours.

But Harry didn’t feel peaceful. He felt tight and trembling beneath the surface. Like something had cracked in him, and the pieces were still rattling.

“It happened again,” he said, quietly. The words dropped like stones into the room.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Sirius shifted slightly on the rug. Remus’s eyes opened.

“I didn’t mean to…” Harry went on. “It just…” He clenched his fists. “It was too much. I couldn’t hold it.”

“That’s not your fault,” Remus said gently. “What you went through tonight… anyone would’ve broken under that weight.”

“It burnt…” Harry said. “And it scares me, because every time it happens, it feels like… it feels a part of me is slipping away… It feels… I dunno… hollow…”

Sirius sat up, his face creased with concern. He reached out, resting a hand gently on Harry’s knee. “You’re not hollow. You’re full… so full it hurts. You’ve just been forced to carry more than anyone should.”

Remus sat up in the chair, his face marked with seriousness. “You don’t have the tools yet. Your magic… it’s raw, immense. Left without shape or understanding, it spills. Surges. Breaks things. It just needs guidance. A frame to grow into… Time to mature…”

Harry didn’t speak right away. His eyes stayed on the floorboards.

“Will it get better?” he asked.

Remus nodded. “It will.”

Sirius chuckled. “Wait till you get a wand. Then you can level the house with style.”

That earned a faint twitch of Harry’s lips.

They fell quiet again.

After a while, Sirius said, “We’re alright, Harry.”

Harry didn’t answer.

From the chair, Remus said quietly, “We will be.”

Not a correction. Not quite a promise. Just the space between the two truths where hope lived.

Harry lay back on the bed, the blanket drawn up to his chest. He shut his eyes. He felt weight lifting off his chest, just enough to let him breathe.

The were still here. Together.

Harry woke with a sharp breath. The sheets were soaked beneath him. His shirt was stuck to his back. He sat up fast, chest heaving, the world still not quite real.

The dream clung to him like cobwebs.

He remembered, darkness everywhere. A thick, suffocating black, and something alive in it. Shapes had come crawling. Tall and decaying. Not human. Long fingers, reaching out for his heart. He’d screamed for Remus and Sirius. But the shapes had taken them too. Dragged them into the dark.

And then he was awake. Sweat cooling fast on his skin.

He looked around. Remus was still curled up in the armchair. Sirius had rolled over onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Harry threw off the blanket and swung his legs to the floor. He just needed air. Some light.

Downstairs, the house was still and dim in the early morning hush. He padded quietly across the hall, then out through the front door, which had been left slightly ajar.

The sky was just beginning to break, soft lavender spreading across the horizon, still caught behind the low shoulders of the hills. The porch was narrow, but the view stretched wide and unbroken, nothing but heather and earth and sky.

McGonagall was already there.

She sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, a tartan shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders. A cup of tea steamed in one hand. A plate of digestives rested on the arm of the chair beside her.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. Just tilted her head slightly.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Harry hesitated, then gave a noncommittal nod, gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder.

“Didn’t feel like staying in bed,” he said quietly.

She nodded once. “Sit down, Harry.”

He stepped onto the porch and took a chair, low and a bit wobbly, with a cushion that squished to one side. McGonagall wordlessly poured a second cup of tea from the little iron teapot between them, and offered him the biscuits. He took one, more to be polite than anything else.

The silence stretched, but his guilt pressed in.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, not quite meeting her eye. “About yesterday. I shouldn’t have…”

Professor McGonagall gave a quiet sniff and waved her biscuit at him like a wand. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

He blinked. Her eyes looked hollowed, red-rimmed and tired. Still composed, of course.

“Did you sleep?” he asked after a moment.

“Not especially… Albus came by last night,” she said, watching the dawn. “Checked in on the three of you.”

Harry sipped his tea. It was bitter and hot.

“Did he say anything?”

“He’ll be back today. With Alastor. To meet you. Properly.”

Harry took a moment. Then: “He’s so…”

McGonagall glanced at him. Harry didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he lifted one hand and made a vague motion in the air, as if describing something enormous in an orbit of its own. His brow creased, searching.

“It’s like he walks in and the walls have to make room,” he said finally.

That earned a faint smile from her. “He has that effect. But he is kind… deeply so. He listens more than he speaks. And when he speaks, it’s never to make himself feel taller.”

Her gaze shifted, thoughtful now.

“He doesn’t want reverence, Harry. What he wants… is for people to choose what’s right without being told. To stand not because they must, but because they understand why it matters.”

He looked unconvinced. He’d seen the fury in Dumbledore’s eyes. Cold, controlled. It still unnerved him.

McGonagall seemed to read the thought. Her expression softened. She gave him a sidelong glance. “He doesn’t bite, Mr Potter.”

Harry hesitated, caught off guard.

“Not unless provoked.”

That startled a small laugh out of him, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief.

She didn’t look at him when she said, “You thought I’d be worse.”

He gave a sheepish grin, caught. “Sirius and Remus have told me... quite a few stories.”

McGonagall arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Pray tell.”

He paused, considering. Then: “Just that, in your presence, I should always sit straight. And start with an apology. Even if I haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

She noted he was sitting remarkably straight for someone holding a teacup on a wobbly chair with a sinking cushion,

“Merlin’s beard,” she murmured and then burst out laughing.

It was sudden and unguarded. For a moment, the lines around her eyes lifted, and she looked not stern or tired, but amused and just a little fond.

“Tell them,” She said at last, regaining her breath, “that if I ever catch them exaggerating, I’ll turn them both into pocket watches. Set five minutes slow.”

Harry grinned. “That’d drive Remus mad.”

“And Sirius?”

“He’d probably wear himself on a chain just to annoy you.”

McGonagall shook her head, smiling. “That sounds about right.”

It was a while before the others stirred. By the time Remus and Sirius had woken, the sun had climbed higher, casting long slants of light across the kitchen floor. They all gathered at the table. There was a companionable hush, broken only by the clink of crockery and the rustle of toast being buttered.

Sirius moved stiffly, his face still pale beneath the faint stubble. McGonagall, without a word, handed him a vial before he even sat down. He uncorked it and swallowed.

When Remus reached for the toast, she was already drawing the plate towards her. She cut a slice into neat halves and placed one gently on his plate. He stilled. His eyes met hers, glassy, and full of gratitude.

They were clearing the plates when a knock sounded at the front door. A moment later, Dumbledore stepped inside, wearing robes of deep indigo, scattered with constellations that shimmered faintly as he moved. He looked entirely unlike the man from yesterday, less a figure of thunder and trial, and more an old professor who had decided, on a whim, to take a long walk and drop in for tea.

Behind him came Alastor Moody, gruff and limping. Kingsley entered next, tall and composed, with a faint trace of amusement tugging at his mouth. And then Elliot Hirsch, quiet and tense. His discomfort was obvious, though whether from guilt, unease, or both, Harry couldn’t tell.

The sitting room, though hardly large, seemed to stretch to accommodate the gathering. It should have felt overcrowded, eight people in close quarters, but it didn’t.

Sirius walked in like a man summoned to trial. His shoulders were tight, his steps slow, and he took the armchair by the hearth. Dumbledore took the seat opposite him, hands resting lightly on his knee.

Harry lingered by the hearth, just beside Sirius. Remus stood for a moment, then perched on the edge of the armchair on Sirius’s side. If this was a hearing, they were not the defence, nor the prosecution, but witnesses to the truth.

Dumbledore folded his hands, the faintest smile touching his beard.

“Harry,” he began, “allow me to make the room known to you.”

At the mention of Harry’s name, Kingsley’s gaze sharpened with quiet confirmation. Elliot's brow furrowed faintly, confused.

“I present Auror Alastor Moody,” Dumbledore said, “veteran of two wars, and one of the few people I trust without question. He has kindly agreed to join us today out of concern for our mutual interests.”

Moody gave a gruff nod that might have meant anything from “pleased to meet you” to “I’m watching your every move.”

Dumbledore turned slightly. “Beside him, Aurors Kingsley Shacklebolt and Elliot Hirsch… steadfast as ever in their commitment to justice, and no strangers to the darker corners of our world.”

“And of course,” he went on, turning towards the window, “Professor Minerva McGonagall. Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. And… though she is too modest to accept… one of the finest witches of her age.”

His eyes twinkled briefly as they met Harry’s. “I suspect you’ve already begun to form your own opinion.”

McGonagall gave a quiet sniff, though her expression was softer than usual.

“And lastly,” Dumbledore said, almost as an afterthought, “I am Albus Dumbledore. I’ve been many things over the years… none of them quite as interesting as what brings us all together now.”

He let the silence settle a moment, his gaze coming to rest on Sirius. “And now,” he said, “let us commence… at the beginning, if you please.”

Chapter Text

The room had blurred, at some point, into stillness. Harry had drifted to one of the chairs without noticing, feet tucked up beneath him, chin resting on his knees. Sirius’s voice had long since lost its edge. What began as an explanation had softened into memory. Confession.

He had told them everything.

How they’d switched Secret Keepers at the last moment. That it must have been Peter who betrayed them. How Sirius had reached Godric’s Hollow only to find the house torn open. Hagrid had already been there, hunched over the bodies – James, Lily, and a scorched infant they’d all believed was Harry.

He had spoken of the hunt. That he’d tracked Peter down and cornered him. How he’d been outwitted – Peter screaming, drawing every eye, then blasting the road apart. In the chaos, Sirius had managed only to slice away a finger before the traitor vanished into smoke and dust.

He hadn’t spoken of trials, because there hadn’t been one. Only guilt, for what he hadn’t been able to prevent.

Azkaban had followed. Sirius hadn’t described the cell or the Dementors. Only the hours. The slow, bitter drip of memory and madness. He’d mentioned the crossword puzzles, how Hirsch used to leave The Telegraph on the ledge for him. And how one day, in the corner of a page, he’d seen a photograph. A boy with green eyes.

And that had been enough.

He didn’t say how he escaped, only that he had. That he’d followed Harry to St. Jude’s. Found Remus. And together, they’d made a plan.

The name James Blake. A rented cottage. A boy brought home.

He told them how he’d explained it to Harry. That he had magic in his blood. His parents had died for him. That he was his godfather. And the world thought Sirius a murderer. But he wasn’t.

Harry had believed him.

And they had lived quietly, the three of them, since.

Sirius’s account had been enough to shift the room. Enough to make something impossible sound true.

There had been reactions, of course. Sharp intakes of breath. Furrowed brows. Shifts in posture as the truth rearranged itself in the air.

McGonagall and Moody had tried to interrupt, but Dumbledore had raised a hand each time, gentle but firm. “Let him finish,” he’d said, and they had listened.

Now, silence held the room.

Sirius sat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees, staring at the floor. He looked torn between relief and emptiness.

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted from Sirius to Moody. “Alastor… you can ask your questions now.”

Moody grunted. “I want to know how the lad got out of Azkaban.”

Sirius stiffened. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, whatever words he’d meant to say, caught somewhere behind his teeth.

It was Remus who answered instead.

“Sirius… James… and Peter became Animagi in our fifth year.” He looked at Dumbledore, pain flickering in his eyes. “So they could be with me…” His voice faltered.

A hush fell over the room.

McGonagall stepped forward, her face a mixture of astonishment and disbelief. “Really? You were that foolish?” she said, her voice rising. “Without any supervision? You know what could’ve happened? What might have…” But her outrage was laced with concern.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, looked oddly proud. His blue eyes sparkled faintly behind the lenses of his half-moon spectacles. “An impressive bit of magic,” he murmured. “But not many fifth-years could have managed it… not without extraordinary discipline, and a rare bond of trust.”

He paused, gaze lingering on Sirius and Remus in turn. “I do wish you’d told me earlier.”

The Aurors, however, were less charmed.

Moody let out a groan. “So what, he turns into a worm or something?”

“A dog,” Remus said. “That’s how he slipped through the bars.”

“And that’s how Peter escaped.” Sirius added, voice laced with venom. “He’s a rat.”

Moody snorted. “Suits him fine. Vermin.”       

Sirius gave a humourless chuckle. “Don’t insult vermin Mad-Eye. Most of them have the decency to survive without betrayal.”

McGonagall turned to Dumbledore. “But I still don’t understand… how did Harry survive? Whom did we bury that day?”

Sirius shifted, straightening slightly. “We don’t know everything… But Remus and I have a theory. Something James and Lily might’ve done that night. Something desperate.”

He glanced at McGonagall, then at Dumbledore. His voice was quiet. “I think… I think they used a decoy. A magical proxy. To fool the Death Eaters.”

McGonagall straightened, her brows knitting. “A decoy?”

Sirius nodded, choosing his words carefully. “Something that would look and feel like Harry to anyone entering the house. Long enough to buy time.”

McGonagall’s lips parted, but she hesitated. “That sort of spellwork is…” Her voice faltered as she searched for a gentler word. “Rare. And heavily restricted.”

“Illegal,” Moody muttered.

She shot him a look but didn’t deny it.

Sirius didn’t flinch. “Told you. They were desperate. But they managed to save Harry.” His voice dropped. “And that matters more than anything.”

Dumbledore’s brows rose slightly, but he said nothing.

After a pause, Sirius added, “They used a Portkey to get him out.”

Then he turned to Harry, nodding once. “Go on, kid. Show them.”

Harry hesitated, then slipped the chain over his head. Silver glinted in the light.

He stepped forward and placed it in Dumbledore’s hand. He had half-expected the familiar shimmer of light, the pulse of warmth that had surged when Sirius and Remus had touched it. But deep down, he knew the pendant wouldn’t glow. Not after what had happened in Godric’s Hollow. Since then it felt as though it were waiting, for something yet to come, before one final flicker, one last thread of enchantment stirred through it.

Dumbledore murmured something under his breath, tracing the pendant with a slow sweep of his wand. It gave a faint chime then fell quiet.

“Curious,” he said quietly. “Most curious indeed.”

He turned the pendant over in his hand. “It was a Portkey, that much is certain. But the enchantment... it is remarkably intricate.”

His eyes narrowed slightly behind the lenses of his spectacles. “And its magic hasn’t faded yet… it’s deepening.”

He held it a moment longer, then passed it back to Harry.

“What does that mean?” Remus asked.

Dumbledore did not answer straightaway. He watched Harry instead, with a quiet intensity, as if the boy were both the question and the key.

At last, he said, “It means that whatever James and Lily wrought that night… they left behind more than protection. They left potential… woven in silver, sealed with blood and love. And now, that magic is stirring. As though it yearns to become something more.”

His gaze returned to Harry, thoughtful. “To what end… I cannot yet say. But such spells do not grow without reason.”

As Harry slipped the chain back over his head, McGonagall’s voice broke the hush.

“Is it safe?” she asked. She glanced at Harry. “It won’t… harm him?”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “There is no harm to him from the pendant, Minerva… as far as I can tell. On the contrary… the magic seems drawn to him, like a wick remembering its flame.”

The room held its breath for a beat, until Kingsley cleared his throat. “I need to ask this. You’re cleared Black, and I believe you, but… what were you doing in Gringotts the day of the attack?”

Sirius winced, half-grimace, half-sheepish smile. “Took Harry to Diagon Alley for Christmas. Thought we’d surprise Remus. Took in the sights.”

“Yes,” Moody growled, “but you were seen coming out of Gringotts.”

Sirius hesitated. “I’ve got a vault,” he said eventually, “not in my name. Old arrangement. I needed to withdraw funds.”

Hirsch said, deadpan: “Ah. Just like Muggle banks, then. Even criminals can access their money.”

He caught McGonagall’s sharp glance and raised both hands. “I meant falsely accused criminals.”

Sirius huffed a laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “Hirsch, I do owe you, you know. If not for your Telegraph, I might’ve never found Harry.”

Hirsch shrugged it off with a wave of his hand, but his posture eased.

Kingsley hadn’t relaxed. His brows remained furrowed.

“One more thing,” he said. “That spell you used… it wasn’t any spell we know. What you hit us with near Ollivander’s… It blew apart the storeroom and the closed apothecary next door.”

He fixed Sirius with a level stare. “You’re lucky that part of the alley’s usually empty. If there’d been anyone inside, there could’ve been casualties.”

Sirius’s lips curled into a faintly smug smile. “You might be one of the best Aurors in Britain, Shacklebolt, but even I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

His hand brushed the back of his neck, too casual to be natural. Across the room, Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.

The grin slipped away as Sirius turned back to Kingsley, voice quieter now. “That said… I’m sorry about the damage. If there’s anything I can do to help cover the repairs…”

Moody’s mouth twisted, his tone dry. “Call it even. We had to blow your little cottage sky-high just to sell the lie. Made it look like you did a runner.”

Sirius’s shoulders sagged just slightly. Remus looked away, jaw clenched. Even Harry’s chest tightened. The silence that followed was thick with memory. The quiet knowledge of a home that would never be theirs again.

Sirius nodded slowly. “I suppose it’s fair.”

Dumbledore stirred, his gaze shifting to Sirius. “But fairness, I’m afraid, has little bearing in the eyes of the law at present. As things stand, Sirius, you cannot be exonerated from the charges brought against you unless Peter Pettigrew is found and brought in.”

His voice was gentle, but it carried weight. “Even as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I cannot sway the vote with only a parchment and personal testimony… especially not when the Ministry is so deeply invested in maintaining the illusion of control. Cornelius would rather preserve the appearance of stability than confront the truth. And public sentiment…”

He paused. “Public sentiment is so heavily turned against you that a trial may never even occur. There is talk, I fear, of the Dementor’s Kiss. With or without official sanction.”

Sirius didn’t speak for a moment. The set of his jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable. Finally, he gave a slow nod. “I understand.”

“Bollocks,” growled Moody. “You don’t need to be cleared to be right.”

He leaned back in his chair. “We know the truth. And we’re on this. Off the books. And we’ll find that rat. Dead or alive.”

Kingsley gave a sharp nod. “We’ve already started combing through old reports. Witnesses. Anyone who might’ve seen movement after the explosion in ’81.”

Beside him, Hirsch spoke. “Sooner or later, he’ll slip up.”

Sirius looked between them. The lines of tension in his shoulders eased, and for the first time in hours, warmth touched his voice. “Thanks… All of you.”

Kingsley waved a hand, brushing the words aside. “Nah. Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

A rare glint of wry humour flickered across his face. “We just want The Prophet to say something nice about us for once. Right now we’re the blokes who let the country’s most infamous fugitive slip through our fingers in broad daylight.”

Sirius let out a quiet huff of amusement.

Remus, who had been quiet for a stretch, finally spoke. “But, Albus… how did you find them?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, now. That was Hogwarts, in her own quiet way, lending a hand.”

He cast a sidelong glance at McGonagall. “The Book of Admittance saw fit to record a name we had all believed lost. Harry James Potter. And Minerva responded with… admirable swiftness.”

McGonagall cleared her throat primly, though a flush rose to her cheeks. “I was startled.”

“Startled,” Dumbledore echoed, with mock solemnity. “Yes, I believe that’s what we’re calling it now.”

He then turned to Remus. “And Remus, I should let you know that I’ve… done a bit of smoothing over.”

Remus blinked.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore said, with a smile. “You gave him quite the fright yesterday. He was terribly distressed… and deeply confused by your sudden departure. I had to explain rather a lot.”

He paused, a glimmer of amusement in his eye. “I’ve rarely seen him so overwhelmed with joy as when he learnt that Harry is alive… and that you, Sirius, are innocent. I suspect a package of rock cakes will be arriving shortly.”

Remus laughed. “Merlin help us.”

Sirius winced theatrically. “We’d better reinforce the windows.”

Harry smiled, even as he frowned. “What is it with rock cakes? Why is that funny?”

Remus turned to him. “Because they’re neither rocks nor cakes, but somehow still manage to be both.”

Harry snorted. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Wait and see,” Sirius murmured.

Laughter drifted between them, light and brief. It settled but something unspoken hovered just beneath.

Sirius exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. I suppose we’d better start packing.”

McGonagall frowned. “What? Where will you go?”

He hesitated. Then, as if weighing the word in his mouth, said, “Grimmauld Place.”

Even Remus looked over at him, surprised.

Sirius didn’t meet his eye. “Not my first choice, but it’s… available.”

He turned to Dumbledore. “Would you mind having a look? I don’t know what the wards will do if I bring over someone who isn’t a Black. My family were… uniquely paranoid.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “It would be my honour. It’s the least I can do.”

McGonagall stepped forward. “You may stay here, if you like.”

Sirius gave her a crooked smile. “Lovely offer, really… but I’d hate to be the reason your armchair walks out in protest.”

McGonagall sniffed. “My house has excellent taste.”

Sirius chuckled. “I’ll try not to take that personally.”

The moment hung there, warm. The road ahead was uncertain, but at least now they knew where to set their feet.

One by one, they left.

Moody was the first, with a brisk nod; Elliot followed, promising to keep them informed. Shacklebolt lingered just a moment, meeting Harry’s eyes with a steady, reassuring look.

Remus left next, a worn satchel over his shoulder, heading off to work.

Then Dumbledore and Sirius departed together, off to check if Grimmauld Place would let them in.

Now, hours later, Harry sat curled on the settee, legs tucked beneath him. McGonagall moved quietly in the background. At some point, she’d placed a cup of tea beside him. It was strange, how comfort didn’t always come with words. How someone simply being there could feel like a balm.

Eventually, she settled beside him. Between measured sips of her tea, she inquired whether he’d been keeping up with his studies.

He replied, “Mostly.”

She hummed. “I’d expected better than mostly.”

That made him grin. She caught it, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

The conversation lingered longer than he expected. She asked the basics: match to needle, mouse to snuffbox. Harry answered without missing a beat, tracing the wand movements in the air with two fingers. The incantations came easily.

That gave her pause. He noticed it, the faint lift of her chin, the subtle turn of her shoulders towards him.

She tested him further. Brought up the Duro Charm, a hardening spell usually taught in third year.

Harry blinked, thought a moment, then offered a quiet, careful explanation. He stumbled over its origin, but he understood how it worked. How to use it on something delicate without making it shatter. How the wand needed to dip ever so slightly on the final syllable.

Something like approval surfaced in the fine lines around her mouth. She was looking at him properly now, not as a boy finding his footing after a storm, but as a student.

And so it continued. A gentle escalation. Questions woven one into the next. He wasn’t brilliant, not like his mum or dad had been, from what he’d heard. But he kept up. Sirius and Remus had seen to that, drilling him in the quiet hours, in those long, idle evenings when the world outside didn’t matter.

“Clearly,” she said at last, “Sirius and Remus haven’t spent the past few months idling.”

He didn’t know how to respond. He only gave a small shrug.

Later, she asked whether he’d been eating properly, he mentioned Sirius’s attempts at cooking. Her nose wrinkled with dignified disapproval. “I’ll send along a few recipes,” she said, then added, with a pointed glance that nearly made him laugh, “simple ones.”

And then, bang… the door burst open.

Sirius stood there, breathless, hair wild, eyes blazing with something sharp and bright. His coat hung half-fastened, boots scuffed, and he looked like he’d run the final stretch just to reach the door.

He was grinning.

Behind her glasses, McGonagall flinched. She turned slowly, with the kind of pointed calm that required no raised voice to make her disapproval abundantly clear.

Sirius caught the look mid-stride and winced, an entire apology written across his face before he’d even opened his mouth. He mouthed a quick “sorry” like a schoolboy who knew better, and didn’t care just now.

Then he turned to Harry, and his face lit afresh, the grin stretching wider, warmer.

Grimmauld Place was habitable.

Cleared. Approved. Safe. Dumbledore had combed through every room himself, peeling back layers of magic, dust, and memory.

It wasn’t a sanctuary yet. The walls still remembered too much. The light inside still faltered, unsure of its place. But it was theirs.

Beneath all Sirius’s energy, there was something else.

Hope.

Harry felt it rise inside him, anchored in bone.

They had a home again.

Chapter Text

Night had settled over the narrow streets of Islington, wrapping chimneys and slate roofs in shadow. The streetlamps cast pale pools of light along the pavement, flickering faintly where moths batted against the glass.

A creeping chill threaded through the air, too sharp for summer. The kind that clung to the bones. He knew this kind of cold. The Dementors had been near.

Harry adjusted the strap of his rucksack, the transfigured broomstick bag thudding softly against his leg as he walked beside Sirius. Their footsteps rang louder now, broken only by the distant hiss of tyres on wet tarmac and the waft of fried food clinging to the night air.

Sirius glanced sideways. “Can’t apparate straight in. The house won’t show itself unless you approach from the square.”

Harry nodded.

They turned a corner into a quieter street, bland brick façades, shuttered windows, a post box listing slightly in its stone cradle. And there, waiting just before the edge of the square, was Remus.

He stood with one foot against the wall, arms folded, eyes scanning the street. When he spotted them, he gave a small tilt of his head. Remus fell into step without a word as they passed him, falling into place beside Sirius with the easy rhythm of old habit.

The square lay ahead, tidy and forgettable. A low garden wall, overgrown with ivy. A pair of children’s bicycles leaned against a gate. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place did not exist.

Sirius slowed his pace. “Watch carefully,” he murmured.

Harry frowned, but followed his lead. As they stepped past the peeling sign of Number Eleven, something strange happened. A sliver of space widened between the houses, imperceptible at first, then with sudden, seamless force. Brick slid and warped in a way that defied logic, until a grim, tall house stood wedged between its neighbours, black as soot and just as welcoming.

Number Twelve.

Harry stared.

“Well,” Remus said, voice low. “Still ugly as ever.”

Sirius smirked. He stepped forward, hand outstretched for the serpent knocker.

The door creaked open before he touched it.

It was dim and cool inside, the air steeped in the scent of secrets hoarded over generations. But the earlier efforts of Dumbledore and Sirius had coaxed a measure of warmth from the place. Wall sconces glowed with steady candlelight, and the rug beneath their feet, though recently beaten, remained firmly in the “sinister Victorian” category.

Sirius closed the door behind them with a click. “Welcome to the ancestral vault of misanthropy and poor interior decisions.”

Harry took a cautious step forward, eyes roaming.

Sirius nodded towards the staircase that curled into shadow. “She’s cleaned up just enough to let us live. Bedrooms are aired, kitchen works, plumbing mostly behaves, though the bathtub may still be possessed, I’m not sure.”

Remus gave a quiet huff of amusement.

They passed a heavy velvet curtain, drawn shut, and Harry’s gaze lingered on it.

“Behind that is my mother’s portrait,” Sirius said, catching the glance. “Don’t worry… she’s asleep at the moment. Properly, for now.”

Harry frowned. “She sleeps?”

Sirius snorted. “She kicked up a storm when Dumbledore and I came in earlier. Curses flying, screaming about bloodlines… the usual show.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I left the room. When I came back, Dumbledore was still standing there, chatting to her as if she weren’t shrieking like a banshee. Calm as you please. And then she fell asleep…” he waved a hand, “Like a baby. I’ve no idea what he said. I’m half afraid to know.”

Harry eyed the curtain warily. “Your family’s mad.”

“Oh, wildly.” Sirius swept into a bow, voice grand. “Presenting the noble House of Black: poisonous as ever, and steeped in centuries of pure-blood prejudice.”

Remus snorted. Sirius looked far too pleased with himself.

“Guest room’s yours,” Sirius said, leading Harry up the flight of stairs. “Second floor. I picked it because it gets light in the morning. Unlike the rest of this place, which prefers eternal dusk.”

“And your room?”

“Top floor. For strategic brooding.”

“Of course,” Harry said solemnly. “You’ll need a tower and a window to complete the look.”

“You get me, kid.”

They reached a landing, and Sirius pushed open a door. “Here. Sheets are clean. You’ve got a desk, wardrobe, window that opens, and nothing cursed, far as I can tell.”

The room was high-ceilinged, with dark wood and deep green furnishings, but the curtains were drawn back, and the hearth was clean. An empty frame of a portrait hung above the fireplace.

He dropped his bags with a soft thud.

Sirius leaned against the doorway. “Not much of a welcome home, I know.”

Harry looked around, then up at him. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Bit haunted, but perfect.”

They regrouped downstairs in the kitchen, stone-floored, low-ceilinged, and surprisingly warm. The soot from the hearth had been scrubbed and the mantel lined with a few battered tins of tea. Sirius flicked his wand, and the kettle clattered to life with a hiss.

“You sure you won’t stay?” he asked, glancing at Remus as he reached for the mugs. “There’s space. You could take Regulus’s room… if you don’t mind the sulking atmosphere.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Tempting, but no. I like sleeping in places where the furniture doesn’t judge me.”

Harry snorted into his sleeve.

“Besides,” Remus went on dryly, “I’d rather not wake up with disembodied voices whispering ‘Join us.’ This house gives off strong Addams Family energy.”

Harry grinned. “Right? Like, if Thing skittered across the table, I wouldn’t even flinch.”

Sirius blinked between them. “The Addams what-now?”

Harry turned to Remus, mock-scandalised. “He doesn’t know?”

Remus gave a sage nod. “Tragic, really.”

Sirius crossed his arms. “What, is this some secret Muggle order I’m not part of?”

Harry said solemnly. “It’s a family of cheerful weirdos who live in a haunted house and actively enjoy it. You’d fit right in.”

Remus leaned against the counter. “There’s a cousin who growls, a sentient hand, and a butler who looks like he was summoned from a graveyard.”

Sirius looked mildly offended. “Sounds like my actual family.”

“And yet somehow warmer,” Harry muttered.

That broke them. The laughter spilled out, Remus’s quiet chuckle, Harry’s full snort, and even Sirius giving in with a bark of amusement once he realised he was the punchline.

“All right, all right,” Sirius said, chuckling as he handed them each a mug. “I’ll accept the insult, so long as nobody suggests turning the library into a torture chamber.”

Remus sipped his tea. “Wasn’t that already its original purpose?”

“Only for guests,” Sirius shot back.

They took their plates to the long wooden table. Supper had been packed by McGonagall in neatly labelled parcels: shepherd’s pie, warm rolls, and a treacle tart that Harry tasted and made a reverent noise.

“Don’t let her hear you liked it,” Sirius warned. “You’ll be expected to praise it every time for the next ten years.”

They were halfway through the pie when a loud crack sounded behind them, followed by an voice rasping, “Blood-traitor filth… half-breeds and brat… dirtying Mistress’s floor with their stinking feet…”

Harry froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

A hunched creature had appeared at the far end of the kitchen, glaring at them with bulbous eyes and an expression like he’d bitten into a lemon soaked in poison. He wore a dirty towel like a shroud and seemed to be aiming most of his muttering at Sirius.

Sirius didn’t miss a beat. “Ah. Kreacher. There you are.”

The elf turned his glare into something resembling a bow, though it looked more like a bitter spasm. “Master Sirius returns to defile the house of his noble ancestors,” he croaked.

“Yes, yes, thank you, Kreacher,” Sirius said breezily. “Everyone, this is Kreacher. The Black family’s ever-faithful house-elf. He comes with complimentary curses and a thousand years of pure-blood snobbery.”

Kreacher sniffed. “Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black… not its disgrace.”

“House-elf?” Harry asked.

“They’re bound magical beings,” Remus explained. “They serve old wizarding families. The magic is ancient… complicated. And often cruel.”

Harry stared at Kreacher, then turned to Sirius, eyes wide. “You own him?”

Sirius’s expression darkened. “Technically, yeah. It's not like I asked to inherit a malevolent little relic who thinks blood purity is a moral compass.”

Harry didn’t laugh. “But… he talks. He thinks. You can’t just own someone like that.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “I ran away when I was sixteen because of everything this house stood for… everything he still stands for.” He jerked his head towards Kreacher. “Bloodlines. Supremacy. Obedience bought with chains.”

Harry glanced back at the elf, clearly unsettled.

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Now I’m back, I’m stuck with it. I’d like to be rid of him. But I can’t… he knows too much. Letting him go would be… dangerous.”

Remus spoke gently, but with weight. “Then all the more reason to treat him better than the house ever taught you to.”

Sirius gave a tight nod, his gaze flicking to Harry. “I try. Some days, it’s harder than others.”

Kreacher let out a particularly vile mutter involving “half-breeds, traitors, and ungrateful spawn.”

Harry blinked. “I don’t think he’s… normal.”

“Unfortunately,” Sirius said, “this is normal for him. You learn to tune it out. Eventually.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“Neither did I,” Sirius muttered. Then he said sharply, “Kreacher, you are not to speak, show, hint, or communicate anything about this house, or what happens inside it, to anyone outside it… It’s an order… Understood?”

Kreacher gave a stiff bow, clearly searching for a loophole, and clearly finding none.

“Now, be a dear and return to your boiler room. We’ll call if we need any poltergeist impressions.”

Kreacher shot them a look of pure venom, and vanished with a loud crack.

Silence fell.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Well. That was… cheerful.”

Remus gave a mild nod. “He has a certain charm. Like a cupboard full of spiders.”

Sirius raised his glass with a crooked grin. “Welcome to Grimmauld Place.”

It wasn’t bad.

That was the phrase Harry had settled on, sometime in the last couple of weeks, as he tried to make sense of living in a house that smelled faintly of mildew, regret, and something disturbingly pickled.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was no Wreinleigh. There was no sun-drenched garden, no scent of lavender on the breeze. No open sky stretched above him, only ceilings that cracked and creaked and sometimes muttered to themselves, and walls that pressed in just a little too close.

But Sirius was here. And that, somehow, made it all tolerable.

Sirius had thrown himself into restoring the house with a kind of wild, determined gusto. Each day saw another mouldy curtain hacked down, another shrieking portrait hexed into silence. Kreacher skulked in the shadows like a bitter gargoyle, muttering about disrespectful heirs and blood-traitor filth, but Sirius shot him looks that usually shut him up. Mostly.

Remus came by every morning, like clockwork. He and Sirius shared long-suffering glances over burnt toast and newspaper headlines, while Harry listened in with a quiet fascination. In the evenings, Remus returned for supper, always bringing quiet steadiness. Harry had started to count on that calm voice slipping in through the front door, softening the sharp corners of the day.

He missed a couple of days around the full moon, but even then, something about his presence lingered, undiminished. As if that quiet constancy could stretch itself across absence, too.

When it was just the two of them, Sirius and Harry roamed the house like pirates exploring a sunken ship. They discovered cursed wardrobes and suspiciously rattling trunks, a room full of shrunken heads, none of which had been friendly, and a grand piano that played itself backwards. Sirius taught Harry how to identify a hexed object at a glance, and how to throw a surprisingly decent left hook.

But there was one thing missing.

Flying.

The back garden, if one could call it that, was a gloomy rectangle choked with ivy and brambles, barely large enough to pace in, let alone take off. Harry hadn’t touched his broom since they’d arrived. It lay tucked away wherever Sirius had stashed it, gathering dust.

And then Sirius had vanished. He still appeared for meals, sometimes for a quick lesson or a round of wizard chess, but for the past few days, he’d spent long stretches barricaded in his room. Whenever Harry asked, Sirius just grinned and said, “Top secret.” Then winked. Then vanished again.

Harry hadn’t pressed.

But today was different.

He woke to the light slanting through the windows, heart thudding with an excitement he hadn’t felt since… well, maybe ever. His birthday. His first real birthday, with people who knew, and cared, and remembered.

He slipped out from under the covers, bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and padded towards the door.

The hallway was still dim, the walls whispering their usual complaints. But the moment Harry opened the kitchen door, the scent of fresh toast, coffee, and cinnamon hit him like a warm tide.

Inside, Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore were already gathered around the long wooden table, deep in conversation. Sirius leaned back, gesturing animatedly with a slice of toast. Dumbledore was opposite him, his hands folded, expression thoughtful. Remus was hunched slightly, eyes red-rimmed and blinking down at his untouched tea.

All three looked up as Harry entered.

“Happy birthday!” Sirius cried, leaping to his feet. “Eleven! About time you started growing a proper chin.”

Remus gave a small, watery smile. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “A very happy birthday to you, Harry.”

Harry nodded a little awkwardly. “Thanks.” He hovered near the table, glancing at Remus. “Are you… all right?”

Sirius answered before Remus could open his mouth. “He’s fine. Just emotional because he’s been roped into full-time child supervision for the next ten months.”

Remus made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sniff. He didn’t speak, just shook his head once, as though still trying to believe it.

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

It was Dumbledore who answered, his tone gentle. “I asked Remus if he might return to the castle to teach Defence… just for the year. There are few I’d trust more with the subject… or with the students themselves.”

Harry stared. “Wait. You’re going to be teaching at Hogwarts?”

Remus gave a small nod, pressing his fingers briefly to his eyes. “I… yes. Apparently so.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said at once, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You’ll be the best one there.”

Remus’s hand trembled slightly.

Sirius reached across the table and stole a bit of toast from Remus’s plate, possibly as a distraction, or just because he could. “Frankly Harry, you should be terrified. If he starts lecturing at breakfast, we’re done for. He once gave me a twenty-minute dissertation on tea steeping.”

Remus let out a proper laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He shook his head and reached for his tea.

Dumbledore watched the exchange with a faint smile, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. When the laughter faded, he tilted his head towards Harry.

“No need to stay on your feet, Harry… unless it’s a new form of polite protest I’ve not yet encountered.”

Harry hesitated.

He hadn’t forgotten Wreinleigh Cottage, the quiet steel in Dumbledore’s voice. Even now, in the gentle light of the kitchen, surrounded by warmth and toast crumbs, something about the man made his spine stiffen.

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “I believe Professor McGonagall has already assured you, what was the phrase… ah, yes… ‘he doesn’t bite.’”

Sirius let out a snort. Remus chuckled quietly into his tea.

Harry flushed and slid into the chair beside Sirius. “Right. Sorry.”

“No apology necessary,” Dumbledore said. “I brought something for you. Something that once belonged to your father.”

He nudged forward a small, neatly wrapped package. Harry reached for it slowly, fingers brushing the soft fabric beneath the paper. The moment he unwrapped it, a shimmer of silver slipped between his hands, light as air, impossibly smooth.

“What is it?” he asked.

“James’s Invisibility cloak,” Sirius said, voice low with a strange, faraway note.

Remus gave a faint huff of amusement. “He once tried to nick a whole tray of treacle tart from the kitchens and tripped over the hem… landed face-first in it.”

“Didn’t stop him trying again the next week,” Sirius added fondly. “Though by then, we’d all started borrowing it. Had a whole rotation going at one point.”

“Nightly adventures, occasional library raids, exploring the castle,” Remus murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Very educational, in its own way.”

They both stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking towards Dumbledore with matching expressions of sheepish guilt.

The Headmaster raised his brows over the rim of his teacup. “As I am not here in any official capacity,” he said mildly, “I’m sure I’ve no idea what any of you are referring to.”

A soft chuckle passed between Sirius and Remus, and Harry found himself smiling too. He held the cloak with both hands, fingers tracing its silken folds as though trying to memorise the feel of it, like something sacred passed down through time.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, lifting his gaze to Dumbledore. “For keeping it safe.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It was never mine to keep, only to return when the time was right.”

Then, from within his robes, Dumbledore withdrew a small brass key and laid it gently on the table between them.

“This,” he said, “is the key to your parents’ vault at Gringotts. It is yours by birthright, and you may access it whenever you wish. I have already corresponded with the goblins… they have acknowledged your… unique circumstances, and agreed that possession of the key shall suffice in lieu of formal identification.”

He paused. “I would only ask that you draw from it with care. The vault holds all your parents left behind, and I believe they would have wanted you to make use of it wisely.”

Harry swallowed, throat tight. He picked up the key as if it weighed far more than brass. “I… thank you. Really.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened at Harry’s quiet gratitude. “You are very welcome,” he said. “It is a small thing, compared to all that should have been yours.”

His eyes twinkled, but there was a faint sorrow beneath the warmth. “And while I wish your birthday were the only reason I came this morning… I’m afraid it is not.”

The mood in the kitchen shifted. Sirius straightened slightly; Remus set down his teacup with a soft clink.

Dumbledore folded his hands atop the table. “You see, the magical registry at Hogwarts… the Book that records every child destined to attend… has not yet registered an address for you, Harry.”

Harry blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Dumbledore said gently, “that at the time, the book did not list your actual location… Wreinleigh Cottage… as it should have under normal circumstances. Instead, the quill’s magic defaulted to an older residence: Number Four, Privet Drive.”

Sirius frowned. “Privet Drive…” He glanced at Remus. “That rings a bell.”

“It should,” Remus said grimly. “That’s… Lily’s sister. Petunia. Her house.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “If I am not mistaken, that is where the Portkey took Harry on Halloween night.”

Sirius stilled. “You’re telling me he landed on her doorstep… and she left him at St. Jude’s?”

“I am.”

The scrape of chair legs was sharp as Sirius pushed to his feet. “She abandoned him. Lily’s own sister… she left him there? Like he was nothing?”

“Sirius,” said Remus quietly. His voice was strained. “Sit down.”

But Harry was staring at the table now, brow furrowed. “So she’s the one who left me at the orphanage.”

The words weren’t bitter. Just hollow.

Dumbledore’s voice came soft yet firm. “It is not within our power to choose our family, Harry. As you, Sirius, know better than most.”

Sirius froze, then slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

Dumbledore continued. “Petunia Dursley is, I fear, a small and resentful woman. But on that night… whether out of duty, guilt, or the flicker of her sister’s memory… she took you in. And by doing so, she fulfilled a magical contract your mother invoked with her last breath.”

“A contract?” Remus asked, frowning.

“A bond,” Dumbledore corrected. “Lily chose to entrust you to blood. That act, however brief the shelter, wove a very ancient magic around you. It is why the Quill still recognises Number Four as your residence. The bond has not yet been formally closed.”

There was a beat of silence. It felt heavier now. Charged with something unspoken.

“I am not asking Harry to live there,” Dumbledore said, with a subtle, quiet finality. “Only to visit. To close the circle. Once he has returned, even for a few minutes, the record will be corrected. The Ministry will see no irregularity. No gaps. No reason to look further.”

Sirius gave a short, bitter laugh. “So what… you want him to go round for tea with those people so the Ministry won’t start sniffing around?”

“I believe,” said Dumbledore mildly, “that a knock on the door and a civil exchange will suffice.”

“That’s still…”

“Better than living with them, surely?” Dumbledore interrupted gently. “And a far cry from the sort of consequences their absence might provoke. The world is watching, Sirius. We would do well to avoid unnecessary attention… especially attention that might lead directly to you.”

Sirius muttered something under his breath and nodded.

Dumbledore studied him a moment longer. “It would be preferable,” he said, “for Remus to accompany Harry. Or Minerva, if Remus is unavailable.”

Sirius bristled. “Why not me?”

“Quite apart from the fact that you are being actively hunted by Dementors,” Dumbledore said, one brow rising slightly, “I imagine the reunion would prove… emotionally strenuous. For all parties involved.”

A pause.

“And I daresay Mrs. Dursley would feel very sorry indeed.”

Sirius’s mouth twitched despite himself, but he didn’t argue.

Dumbledore rose with a quiet rustle of his cloak, his hands resting lightly on the back of the chair for a moment as though reluctant to disturb the hush that had settled over the kitchen. “I must be on my way. There’s an unfortunate mountain of correspondence waiting for me.”

He turned, but then paused, studying Harry with that deep, inscrutable gaze of his, the one that seemed to weigh centuries in a heartbeat.

“One last thing, Harry,” he said gently. “That day at Wreinleigh, I witnessed a force of magic that was… formidable. Raw, unshaped, and unshackled by control. I believe now, that the disturbance in Diagon Alley was of the same origin.”

Harry stiffened, hands curling instinctively around the edge of the table. Beside him, Sirius’s fingers drummed once against his mug before going still. Remus’s expression was harder to read, his mouth set in a line that might’ve been pride or concern.

“I’m not criticising,” Dumbledore added. “Such power is not shameful. It is, in fact, a rare gift. But magic responds to will… and even more so to emotion. Left unchecked, it can turn wild… destructive without meaning to be.” He paused, his gaze drifting for a moment, distant and shadowed by something unspoken. “I have seen what happens when it does.”

The moment passed like a flicker of wind through still air.

“Hogwarts will offer you every tool to hone your talents, to shape them with care. But the choice to wield that strength wisely… must be yours. Always.”

Harry nodded slowly, throat tight. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll try. I will.”

“And I’m sorry,” he added, quieter still. “About that day at the cottage. I didn’t mean to…”

But Dumbledore waved a long-fingered hand, dismissing the apology with a flicker of humour.

“My dear boy, if I held a grudge every time a talented young wizard tried to explode a room out of sheer panic, I’d never have time to read the Prophet.” He tilted his head. “Which, some might argue, is no great loss.”

That coaxed a soft laugh from Remus and a grin from Sirius.

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled. “Happy birthday, Harry. Do enjoy being eleven. It’s a splendid age, far too many questions, and the occasional bout of accidental transfiguration. Excellent foundations for mischief and wisdom.”

And with that, he turned and made his way out, cloak sweeping like a whisper behind him, leaving a kitchen full of thoughtful silence in his wake.

The kitchen had quieted since Dumbledore’s departure, the warmth of breakfast giving way to a gentler hush. The sun had climbed a little higher, angling through the kitchen windows, catching flecks of dust in golden shafts of light. Plates had been cleared, mugs refilled, and Remus was calmly reading the back of the marmalade jar, as though it contained great literary insight.

Harry leaned back in his chair, still thinking about the cloak folded neatly in his room upstairs. About the key now tucked safely in his drawer. About… everything.

Sirius stood abruptly, his chair scraping back with sudden energy. He gave Remus a sideways grin. “Back in a tick. Don’t move.”

“We’re in a kitchen,” Remus said, raising an eyebrow. “Where do you think we’re going?”

But Sirius had already vanished up the stairs.

Harry stared after him, then turned to Remus, who simply sipped his tea and muttered, “Brace yourself.”

Moments later, Sirius thundered back down the stairs with the energy of a large, overexcited dog. In his arms was a long, cloth-wrapped package.

Harry sat up straighter.

Sirius set the bundle carefully on the table. “This one’s from me.”

Harry hesitated only a moment before pulling the cloth away, and his breath caught.

It was the broom. His dad’s old Comet. But it gleamed now. The wood had been polished to a rich, dark lustre, the bristles trimmed and aligned with almost obsessive care. It looked… sleeker. Sharper. As though it had shed a decade’s worth of dust and memory and come into its own again.

Just above the handle grip, where the nameplate had dulled with time, the letters JP were now crisp and clean, polished until they caught the light. And just below them, newly engraved in smaller, neater script: HP.

Harry stared.

“I thought about getting you a new one,” Sirius said, half-defensive, half-hopeful. “But then I remembered… first-years aren’t allowed brooms. So I figured… well, why not fix this one up?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “I did the work myself. That’s what I’ve been up to in my room. Cleaned up the shaft, reinforced the flightline, added a bit of anti-sway charmwork… nothing too over the top. Won’t outrun a Nimbus or anything, but she’ll hold her own against the latest Cleansweeps or the newer Comets.”

He hesitated, watching Harry closely. “Hope that’s alright.”

Harry didn’t answer at first. His fingers brushed the handle, tracing the initials. His father’s. And now… his.

Then he looked up, eyes shining.

“It’s perfect,” he said quietly.

And Sirius beamed.

Remus cleared his throat softly. “Well, now I feel unoriginal.”

Harry looked up just as Remus reached into his satchel and pulled out a neatly wrapped package. The brown paper was tied with simple string, the corners folded with care.

“For you,” Remus said softly, passing it over.

Harry untied the string, peeled back the paper, and revealed a slim, weathered book. Its cover was soft with age, the leather worn smooth at the corners. In curling silver ink, the title read: Still Waters: The Balance of Emotion and Magic.

“I remembered this from when I was your age,” Remus said, his voice a little far-off. “My father gave it to me… back when I was struggling with… well, the temper that came with being a werewolf. The transformations, the isolation… it made things… volatile, sometimes.”

Harry glanced up, wide-eyed.

“It helped,” Remus continued. “Quite a lot, actually. Taught me to sit with things. To let the magic settle.”

He gave a faint smile. “The original went missing years ago… I think during one of our many house moves. But I tracked down a copy. One of the last few, by the looks of it. It’s not flashy, but it’s clever. Teaches focus… and control.”

Harry turned the book over in his hands, eyes brimming with quiet gratitude. “Thank you,” he said. “Really.”

Remus gave a soft smile.

“I’ve never had a birthday like this,” Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never had a proper one,” Sirius said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “This is just the first.”

Harry sat there, broom across his lap, book resting in his hands, and something unfurled slowly in his chest. It wasn’t only joy. It was steadier than that. Warmer. A quiet bloom of something he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

Chapter Text

The scent hit him first – warm bread, melted butter, and something rich and spiced that curled out from the kitchen. Harry padded into the hallway, hair still damp from his morning shower, and stopped dead.

The kitchen had been… transformed.

A string of fluttering paper stars looped between the beams overhead, glowing faintly with a gentle charm. Ribbons trailed from the shelves. There were balloons and a handmade banner that read Happy Birthday, Harry in slightly wobbly letters.

“Morning, birthday boy,” Remus said, emerging from the pantry with a mixing bowl tucked under one arm and flour on his jumper.

Harry blinked. “You took the day off?”

“I did,” Remus said, setting the bowl down. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m allowed.”

Harry turned slowly. “I thought we were having a quiet dinner.”

“We are,” Sirius said, poking his head in from the pantry, a mug of tea in hand and a wicked grin playing on his face. “Very quiet. Possibly silent.”

Remus nodded solemnly. “Completely uneventful.”

Harry squinted. “You two are terrible liars.”

Sirius looked mock-offended. “I beg your pardon. I am an excellent liar. Ask any professor who ever taught me.”

Harry laughed despite himself. “So what’s happening?”

“You’ll see,” Sirius said, ruffling his hair. “Now, into position. We’re cutting the cake.”

The cake had three candles, unevenly spaced, and bright blue icing that was slightly lopsided. Harry stood between the two of them as they lit the candles together, then, on Remus’s count, all three blew them out in a single breath.

It was already more than he’d imagined.

And then the knock came.

Sirius looked up. “Right on time.”

The door swung open, and in walked Alastor Moody, followed by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Elliot Hirsch.

Moody grunted in greeting, his magical eye sweeping the kitchen with habitual suspicion before he made a beeline for the kettle. He lifted the lid, sniffed with the gravity of a battlefield scout, gave a single approving nod, and poured himself a cup.

“Tea’s still decent,” he said gruffly.

“Would you like some cake, Mad-Eye?” Sirius asked, lifting a plate hopefully.

Moody looked at the cake, then at Sirius, then back at the cake, as if calculating whether it might be poisoned. He raised a brow.

“I’m not eating anything you’ve baked.”

“It was Remus, actually,” Sirius muttered.

Moody gave him a flat look. “Still not.”

Kingsley stepped forward, smiling, and handed over two boxes wrapped in green paper, one large, the other small and unassuming. “Honeydukes selection, charmed to stay fresh… and something else for special circumstances. Read the note.”

“Thanks!” Harry said, grinning widely.

Then Elliot held up a box, eyes gleaming. “Go on. Open it…”

Harry tore off the wrapping. Inside was a shiny new football, scarlet and white, the Arsenal crest gleaming proudly.

“Charmed it myself,” Elliot said. “Won’t deflate or burst.”

Harry blinked. “It’s brilliant… but… Arsenal?”

Elliot’s smile wavered. “Didn’t you grow up in London? That’s the best club there is.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Er… I support Millwall, actually.”

Elliot stared at him like he’d just confessed to kicking puppies. “You’re joking.”

Harry shook his head, solemn as a judge. “No one likes us, we don’t care.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Elliot groaned. “You’re one of them.”

Harry gave a guilty grin. “I’ll still use it. In a dark alley. Wearing an overcoat. Maybe draw a lion over the crest…”

“That’s a charmed crest, you little gremlin!”

“Alright, alright… cheers. I do like it. Really.”

Elliot sniffed. “You’d better. That ball’s more reliable than your back four on a good day.”

At the table, Remus observed dryly, “This is why I stay out of Muggle sports. Too violent.”

Sirius leaned over to Remus, baffled. “Is this about the red ball or some kind of wizard feud?”

Elliot ignored them and pointed at Harry. “You’re alright. For a Millwall lad.”

Harry grinned. “Keep saying that and I’ll get you tickets at the Den. Front row.”

Elliot froze and gave Harry a long, betrayed look.

Kingsley had already helped himself to a slice of cake by then, neatly avoiding the whole debate. Elliot followed suit, grinning as he took a forkful. “This is good. You made this, Lupin?”

Remus gave a modest nod. “It’s a family recipe.”

Moody was still nursing his tea like it was a tonic for the soul. He gave a grunt that might’ve meant approval.

“Wish we could stay for the whole thing,” Kingsley said, glancing at the clock. “Shift starts soon.”

Elliot groaned. “Double patrol rotation. Can’t even skive.”

They moved to leave, but Moody stepped forward, looming a bit like a sentient thundercloud. “Got something for you too, Potter,” he said.

Harry looked up, a little uncertain. “Er… thank you, sir…?”

Moody stared at him with that mismatched gaze. “Listen close. Birthdays are all right, sure. Cake, presents, laugh with your mates. But one day, you’ll find yourself outnumbered in a rain-slick alley, wand snapped, no backup, and someone’s firing a curse you’ve never heard of at your spine.”

Harry froze.

Moody leaned in. “That’s when it counts. Not how many candles you blew out. It’s what’s up here…” he tapped his scarred temple, “and whether you’ve got the instinct to stay alive.”

There was a long pause.

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it.

“…Right,” he said faintly. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Sirius had already cracked, hiding laughter behind his hand. Remus looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. Elliot had one eyebrow raised halfway to his hairline.

“Merlin’s beard, Mad-Eye,” Elliot murmured, “he’s eleven.”

“He’ll be twelve soon,” Moody said, unmoved.

Kingsley was struggling to keep a straight face. “That’s Mad-Eye’s idea of a birthday greeting Harry. May your instincts keep your spine intact.”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. “I think.”

“See?” Moody growled, with what might’ve been pride. “He’s learning.”

Then, with a swirl of cloaks and boots and another gruff farewell, the three were gone.

The kitchen had slipped into a gentle rhythm. With Remus’s guidance, the table arranged itself, plates gliding into neat stacks, cutlery settling with soft clicks, napkins folding with precision, as if the house knew company was coming.

Harry was reaching for a pitcher of pumpkin juice when a brisk knock echoed from the front door.

Sirius looked up. “That’ll be Minerva. Only she knocks like it’s a moral obligation.”

Sure enough, moments later, the door swung open and in walked Professor McGonagall, followed closely by a massive shape that had to stoop just to fit through the frame.

He was enormous, easily the largest person Harry had ever seen. Wild, tangled beard, beetle-black eyes glinting kindly beneath thick eyebrows, and hands the size of dinner plates. He wore a vast moleskin overcoat that looked as though it had never met a brush, and his boots were like baby hippopotamuses. There was flour in his beard, and he carried two parcels: one lumpy and faintly singed at the corners. The other, a gleaming new cage from which an owl blinked out serenely, her feathers white as frost.

“’Arry,” Hagrid breathed. His voice was thick and oddly soft for someone who looked like he could wrestle trolls. “Blimey, look at yeh.”

Harry blinked. “Er… hullo.”

But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He turned and swept Sirius into a hug that lifted him clean off the floor.

Sirius let out a very dignified wheeze. “Good to see you too, Hagrid… still crushing ribs like daffodils, I see…”

“You're alright,” Hagrid choked. “They said you… but you… an’ I thought…”

“Still breathing,” Sirius managed, sagging once he was released and clutching his side. “Mostly.”

Before Harry could so much as flinch, he too was swept into a crushing embrace. The air shot from his lungs in a whoof.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Hagrid said, beaming. “Proper proud ter meet yeh.”

Harry staggered slightly. “Thanks,” he rasped, blinking stars from his vision.

Remus, watching warily, seized the moment to slide a chair casually in front of him, a smooth, practiced motion.

Hagrid turned his way, then paused, eyes flicking to the chair now conveniently in his path. With a low chuckle, he offered a broad, calloused hand.

“Remus… You could’ve said somethin’ that day,” he rumbled.

Remus took the hand with a smile. “I know. I’m sorry for leaving like that… But thank you… for understanding.”

Hagrid nodded. “Course I do. Dumbledore told me the lot. Just glad it all worked out.”

Then Hagrid busied himself with unloading the gifts onto the table. The lumpy cloth bundle turned out to be his infamous rock cakes – still warm, slightly misshapen, and trailing the unmistakable scent of scorched treacle. The owl in the cage gave a soft, inquisitive hoot, swivelling her head to take in the room.

“Got yeh a friend, Harry,” Hagrid said. “Snowy owl. Smart as they come. Good temper, too.”

Harry stared. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” Hagrid said proudly. “Name’s up to you. Already knows the way to Hogwarts, too.”

Harry was still gaping when McGonagall cleared her throat and stepped forward, holding out a neatly wrapped parcel. The brown paper was crisply folded, tied with deep green twine in a symmetrical bow.

“A gift from my own shelves,” she said. “Intermediate Transfiguration. Annotated, I’m afraid… I never could resist scribbling in the margins.”

Harry opened it with care. The inside cover bore her name in elegant script. Notes danced along the edges of the text – observations, corrections, small diagrams in precise ink.

“I thought,” McGonagall said, her tone casual but her eyes kind, “you might enjoy a bit of a challenge.”

Harry looked up at her, awed. “Thank you.”

Sirius leaned over and muttered, “Careful. That book’s probably smarter than half the Ministry.”

Harry grinned and the evening moved on, warm and unhurried.

The table groaned under the weight of food: roast chicken, fresh bread, spiced potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, buttered peas and a treacle tart that gleamed under the candlelight.

Plates clinked, laughter rolled, and conversation drifted from Quidditch to duelling stories to a particularly questionable pudding Hagrid had once cooked.

Harry sat at the middle of it all, his smile so wide it hurt a little.

He’d had birthdays before, technically. At St. Jude’s, they’d call out your name at breakfast, hand over a paper-wrapped parcel from the charity box, and put a candle on the pudding at dinner. But it had always felt like an obligation, something done because it had to be, not because anyone truly cared.

This was different.

Not louder or grander. Just warmer. He let the feeling settle as the room buzzed on around him.

Sirius was flicking peas at Hagrid’s beard when he thought no one was looking. Hagrid didn’t notice, but McGonagall did, and her resulting stare made Sirius instantly start buttering a roll with saintly concentration. Remus, across the table, smirked into his cup.

Hagrid leaned over. “You haven’t named her yet.”

Harry turned to the snowy owl, now perched beside the window. She looked calm, proud, and faintly regal, like McGonagall, if McGonagall had feathers and talons.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry said. “Something fitting. Elegant. With a bit of bite.”

McGonagall cleared her throat delicately. “Might I suggest something from mythology? Athena, perhaps. An owl is a symbol of wisdom.”

“Good idea,” Harry said.

“And wise,” Remus said, eyes twinkling. “So the opposite of Sirius.”

“Oh, thanks.” Sirius muttered.

“Or you can name her Hedwig,” McGonagall offered.

Harry blinked. “That’s… brilliant, actually.”

McGonagall gave a rare, pleased smile. “It was my great-grandmother’s name. She hexed three suitors and one magistrate. I think your owl would approve.”

“Well, that’s sorted,” Sirius said, raising his glass of pumpkin juice. “To Hedwig. And to Harry… birthday boy, menace, and secret football hooligan.”

“To Harry!” the others echoed.

Harry ducked his head, grinning, and clinked glasses with everyone.

“Yeh know,” Hagrid said suddenly, dabbing at his beard with a napkin the size of a pillowcase, “yer look jus’ like yer dad.”

Sirius smiled faintly, his fork pausing mid-air.

“Yeah. I’ve been told,” Harry said, looking down at his plate, his ears turning red.

“He was a good man, James,” Hagrid said, shaking his head fondly. “Used ter charm my pumpkins ter float just to give the first-years a thrill.”

“He also turned my hat into a flobberworm once,” McGonagall said crisply, though a corner of her mouth twitched. “It took me a week to get the slime out.”

Sirius gave a quiet snort. “And he insisted it improved your fashion sense.”

Hagrid let out a booming laugh, thumping the table and making the silverware jump.

“And Lily…” His voice softened. “Smart as they come. Had me writin’ with a proper fountain pen for weeks after she gave me one. Said I had ‘fine penmanship in the rough.’ Never forgot that.”

Harry didn’t speak, but he gripped his fork a little tighter. There was a hum in his chest, a strange ache that wasn’t sharp, just… full.

They lingered long after the plates had cleared, the remains of a cheese board and a half-empty bottle of wine pushed to one side.

Eventually, McGonagall rose. “We’ll be off, I think. It’s been quite the evening.”

Hagrid pushed back his chair with a groan and a belch, earning a scandalised look from McGonagall.

By the door, Hagrid crouched low to give Harry another hug, gentler this time, though he still lost feeling in one arm.

McGonagall laid a hand on his shoulder. “That book is yours now, Harry. I hope you’ll annotate it.”

Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Certainly. Consider it… a conversation across time. I expect clever retorts in the margins.”

He grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

With a final nod, they disappeared into the night, the door clicking shut behind them.

Harry stood in the quiet corridor, hands in his pockets, the warmth of the night still clinging to the walls. He knew he’d never, ever forget this birthday.

The roof tiles of Grimmauld Place were rough beneath Harry’s palms as he leaned back, eyes fixed on the patchwork sky. Around him, the world hushed, the echoes of laughter and clinking glasses now faded into the quiet of a late summer night.

Sirius lay flat on the warm slates, arms folded behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle. Remus was a little further back, spine resting against the chimney, one knee drawn up, arms folded loosely around it. None of them spoke.

Above, London’s glow bled into the horizon, dulling the stars to a smudge. But then Remus lifted his wand, tracing a lazy arc in the air. A moment later, Sirius mirrored the charm with a flick. The haze thinned. The stars blinked clearer.

Harry tipped his head back, breathing in the quiet.

Sirius spoke first. “McGonagall said she’ll take you to Diagon Alley tomorrow. To get your school things.”

Harry hummed in response.

Remus added, “I’ll come too. We’ll stop by the Dursleys first, then head into London. I’ll have to go in to the bookshop after, but you and McGonagall can finish the rest.”

At the mention of the Dursleys, Sirius shifted, a tightening at the jaw, a flick of the fingers. But Harry felt it in himself too, like a knot that tugged taut across a silent line between them.

“Padfoot,” Remus said gently. “I’ll be there. You don’t have to worry.”

Sirius let out a breath.

They lapsed back into stillness. Somewhere below, a window creaked. Hedwig hooted once and soared upward, her wings pale against the dark.

Harry spoke at last, eyes still fixed upward. “What do I even say to people like that?”

Remus said, after a beat: “Be yourself.”

Sirius ruffled Harry’s hair, fond and careless.

They stayed like that for a long while, three dark shapes against a chimneyed skyline, heads tipped to the stars.

Above them, the stars watched in silence.

Chapter Text

Privet Drive looked like a street where nothing ever happened. Even the clouds above it seemed hesitant to misbehave. There was a faint edge to the air, cooler than an August morning ought to be, but no one seemed to notice. Harry stood just outside Number Four, hands stuffed deep in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting.

“I’ll do the talking,” Professor McGonagall said.

Harry nodded. His throat felt constricted.

What did you say to the ones who saw you not as a child, but as a disruption… An uninvited shadow cast over their neat, ordinary lives?

He didn’t hate them. He wasn’t sure he cared enough to.

But there was a strange, tight flicker in his chest. Not quite anger. Not quite grief. Just a knot of old questions with no one left to ask. Had they looked at him and seen his mother? Or had they tried not to see anything at all?

He exhaled, grounding himself in the weight of Remus beside him. In the composed certainty of McGonagall ahead. He wasn’t here for vengeance or retribution.

Just recognition. A thread to be tied off.

McGonagall raised her hand and knocked.

There were muffled voices inside. Footsteps approached. The door opened.

A tall woman stood framed in the light. Her blonde hair was tied back too tightly. Her mouth was drawn into a line.

Harry stared. She looked nothing like the photographs of his mother. None of the warmth, none of that wild, clever light in her eyes. But the chin… the mouth… there was a faint resemblance.

Petunia’s gaze found McGonagall first and her eyes widened a fraction. Then Remus. And then she saw Harry. Their eyes met, hers searching, his steady, and then she looked away. When her face turned back, it was carefully blank. Unreadable.

“You,” she said.

McGonagall’s voice was clipped. “Mrs Dursley.”

Remus gave a polite nod.

Petunia’s gaze settled on Harry again. “So you're him, then.”

Harry couldn’t reply. There didn’t seem to be anything worth saying.

McGonagall stepped forward. “We won’t be long. We’re here at Professor Dumbledore’s request. Legally, you are still listed as Mr. Potter’s next of kin. This visit is to acknowledge that… nothing more.”

Something flickered in Petunia’s face. Guilt. Or annoyance. It was hard to tell.

She moved aside. “In and out. We’re expecting company.”

The sitting room was just as Harry expected: stiff furniture, beige walls, spotless surfaces. A place where comfort was allowed, but not encouraged.

Vernon Dursley was already on his feet. His jowls trembled with indignation, “You!” he barked, pointing at Remus. “You’re one of them… one of those people…”

“We all are, Mr Dursley,” said Remus mildly.

Vernon puffed up. “What’s this about, then? We’ve got nothing to do with the boy…” He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes finally landed on Harry.

“You’re right,” McGonagall cut in sharply. “But he is still your nephew.”

Vernon flinched, not at her tone, but at the word itself. ‘Nephew’. As if it were contagious.

Petunia took a seat on the arm of the sofa. “You’re not here to accuse us of anything again, are you? I told you everything the other day.”

“No accusations,” McGonagall said. “Only formality.”

Remus gave Harry the faintest nod.

Harry stepped forward. “I’m starting school next month. We’re here because…” He faltered, words snagging in his throat.

He took a slow breath and held out a folded parchment. “Could you please hold this once, Aunt Petunia?”

At that moment, footsteps thundered down the stairs. A pale, round-faced boy appeared in the doorway, gripping a half-eaten chocolate bar and squinting at the unfamiliar adults.

“Mum? Who are they?”

Vernon muttered ‘Inconsequential fools’ under his breath.

Petunia waved a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing important, Dudley. Go watch the telly.”

Dudley frowned. “But I want to know.” He wandered closer, staring at Harry. “Who are you?”

“Cousin,” Harry said dryly.

Dudley blinked. “I don’t have a cousin.”

A brief silence followed. Then Vernon gave a short, derisive grunt. “Not one we’d ever mix with. Comes from a bad sort.”

Harry inhaled through his nose. His arm was still outstretched, parchment resting lightly between his fingers. “Please, Aunt Petunia?”

Vernon took a step forward. “Don’t touch it, Petunia. It’s one of their tricks.”

Petunia hesitated. Her arms crossed over her chest. “I’d rather not. That sort of thing… your mother’s nonsense… never brought anything but trouble.”

McGonagall intervened. “Please. It’s harmless. We’ll be gone in a moment.”

Dudley peered at the parchment, unimpressed. “Why d’you want her to hold tissue paper?”

Harry’s arm didn’t waver.

McGonagall tried again, her tone clipped but polite. “It’s simply a document. For our records. It will cause no harm. All it needs is a moment’s contact.”

Petunia’s mouth thinned. She looked at Harry, then at the parchment. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she reached out. The moment the parchment brushed her skin, a soft chime rang through the room. Vernon flinched. Petunia drew back, startled. Dudley just blinked, still oblivious.

McGonagall stepped forward and gently retrieved the parchment. “Thank you,” she said curtly.

Vernon grumbled something unintelligible. His face had gone red.

McGonagall turned towards the door. “I believe we’re done here.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. With a final glance over her spectacles, McGonagall turned and made for the door. Remus followed, offering a quiet nod of farewell that none of the Dursleys returned.

Harry lingered a moment longer. He looked around. Petunia had already turned away. Vernon was glaring. Dudley had collapsed onto the sofa.

No one said goodbye.

Harry stepped out and closed the door behind him.

They made it just to the garden path when the voices carried out through the open window.

“Arrogant little brat,” Vernon muttered. “Strutting around like his father. That lot always thought too much of themselves.”

Dudley gave a wheezy laugh.

“And look where it got them,” said Petunia coldly. “Dead, aren’t they?”

“Brought it on themselves,” Vernon grunted.

“And then they go and drop him on our doorstep,” Petunia added, voice sharp with scorn. “We didn’t ask them to have a child.”

Remus’s step had faltered slightly. McGonagall’s jaw had gone tight, but she said nothing.

Harry turned back towards the door. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small lime chocolate, neatly wrapped with a green ribbon. Before Remus or McGonagall could react, he stepped forward and knocked once.

The door creaked open. Petunia stood there, a trace of surprise flickering across her face. She didn’t look ashamed, Harry doubted she ever would, but there was a guardedness to her expression. For a moment, he wondered if she felt anything like a normal person might, knowing they'd been overheard.

He held out the chocolate and said. “Thought it might be nice to leave a gift.”

He pressed it into her hand and turned away before she could answer, striding back down the path without a backward glance.

McGonagall’s brows lifted slightly. Lupin cast Harry a look of quiet curiosity.

Harry just shrugged. “Kill them with kindness.”

They walked on in silence, down the garden path, past the trimmed hedges, until the houses gave way. At the mouth of a narrow alley, they turned, and disappeared.

Diagon Alley was already stirring when they arrived: sunlight bouncing off cauldron displays, owls hooting indignantly from the Emporium railings, and the warm, yeasty smell of breakfast drifting from the Leaky Cauldron behind them.

They had parted ways with Remus at the entrance to Flourish and Blotts, he’d promised to keep Harry’s booklist ready by the time they returned. McGonagall had adjusted her tartan shawl and turned to Harry before they entered the heart of the Alley.

“Let’s keep to ourselves. No need to invite attention.”

Harry nodded. She didn’t need to explain. To the rest of the wizarding world, Harry Potter had died in Godric’s Hollow. This trip wasn’t about announcements or revelations. It was about robes and textbooks and a wand that wouldn’t feel like a stick.

Gringotts rose at the far end of the alley like a crooked marble fortress, gleaming in the sunlight. Its pale white façade slanted slightly to one side, as though it had been drunk when built and too proud to admit it. Tall bronze doors stood open beneath an archway etched with precise, spidery runes.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes at the entrance, noting the new additions and muttered something about ‘improved security’ under her breath.

A pair of rune-scored wrought-iron gates now guarded the inner vestibule. Uniformed goblins in scaled armour stood on either side, eyes scanning every wizard with the precision of raptors.

They joined the growing queue. Harry watched as each visitor was scrutinised and cross-checked before being allowed further in. He could feel the magic thickening the air around them.

When their turn came, a goblin in a crimson waistcoat eyed McGonagall sharply.

“Name and business.”

“Professor Minerva McGonagall, accompanying Mr Harry Potter to access his vault,” she said in a low voice. “He has the key.”

Harry stepped forward and offered it. The goblin inspected the key with a long-nailed hand, eyes narrowing.

“Follow me.”

They were led through a wrought-iron archway and down into the belly of the bank.

The cart bay was like nothing Harry had ever seen, vast and echoing, with the scent of metal and fire hanging in the air. Narrow cart-rails crisscrossed overhead like a spiderweb of steel.

Their escort, a goblin named Griphook, gestured silently to the nearest cart. Harry climbed in at once. McGonagall followed more cautiously, muttering under her breath as she adjusted her robes.

The cart gave a sudden jerk and then dropped.

Wind whipped past them. The track dove into shadow, swallowed by torchlit tunnels that twisted like serpents underground.

Harry whooped. “I could do this every day!”

McGonagall made a sound that could only be described as a dignified shriek. Her hands gripped the edge of the cart.

“I do hope not,” she muttered.

The cart finally jolted to a halt before a massive stone door, with words etched in deep goblin runes. Griphook stepped out and held out a hand. “Key.”

Harry passed it over. The goblin inserted it with a click and the door melted away.

Inside, the vault lit itself.

Harry took a single step in and stopped.

Gold. Stacked in neat, precise columns. Galleons like golden suns, flanked by trays of silver Sickles and coppery Knuts.

He stared.

“They left this,” he murmured. “For me?”

Behind him, McGonagall’s voice softened. “What did you think, Mr Potter? That your parents would leave you with nothing?”

Harry swallowed. “I didn’t know what to think.”

She stepped in beside him, her gaze sweeping the vault. “Plenty to see you through Hogwarts… and then some, if you’re careful.”

She moved to the silver tray, selecting a tidy stack of Sickles, then added a generous handful of Galleons and a few Knuts for good measure. She tucked the coins into a small pouch and handed it to him. “This should be more than enough for your supplies… and a bit more, just in case.”

Harry took the pouch from her, still glancing around the vault in wonder.

Griphook re-locked the door with an efficient click.

The return trip was faster. Fewer twists and turns, just a clean shot back towards the surface. Harry leaned into the corners again, grinning. McGonagall kept her eyes on a fixed point ahead.

Back in the entrance hall, McGonagall offered the goblin a formal thanks. Harry followed with a small bow, which Griphook acknowledged with the faintest incline of his head.

As they stepped back out into the bustle of Diagon Alley, McGonagall exhaled with the air of someone reacquainting themselves with gravity.

“Let us never speak of that cart again,” she said briskly.

Harry followed, his grin unrepentant. “Of course, Professor.”

The alley was now abuzz with late-morning life, witches and wizards bustling between shopfronts, and the air thick with the scent of parchment and potion supplies. Clusters of children, darted about with wide eyes and excited chatter. None of them spared him a second glance.

Harry, for his part, kept close to McGonagall. The anonymity, it seemed, was holding for now.

They made their way down the cobbled street, past the apothecary and a window full of shimmering quills, until they reached a small shop tucked between a second-hand bookstore and a seller of self-stirring cauldrons. The sign read Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

Inside, the shop was quiet. Bolts of fabric floated mid-air, and a pair of enchanted measuring tapes slithered lazily across a worktable. Madam Malkin emerged from behind a rack of finished robes, her iron-grey curls pinned beneath a lace-edged cap. A smile bloomed at the sight of McGonagall.

“Minerva! A Hogwarts fitting, is it?”

“Yes. Standard set for a first-year, please,” McGonagall said. “Name tags on everything, as usual.”

“Of course. What name shall I?” Her eyes flicked to Harry, then froze. “Is that?”

McGonagall cut her off with a quiet but firm, “Later, Dahlia.”

Malkin’s mouth snapped shut. She gave a nod and flicked her wand at the shop windows and the blinds slid down with a soft rustle. She turned to Harry. “Up you go, dear. Arms out.”

McGonagall turned to him. “I shall return shortly. I’ll arrange your trunk. Stay still, and don’t let the tape nip your ankles.”

Harry managed a half-smile as the professor swept out.

The fitting itself was largely uneventful, save for the measuring tape giving him a slight jab in the ribs when he shifted. Madam Malkin worked efficiently, pinning hems, muttering instructions to floating needles, and summoning items from high shelves with effortless flicks of her wand. Harry ended up with three sets of black robes, a winter cloak, a pair of dragon hide gloves, and a plain, pointed hat that drooped slightly when worn.

By the time McGonagall returned, Harry was waiting, hands full of neatly folded garments. A dark chest hovered ahead of her at wand’s tip – simple, polished wood with reinforced corners and brass fittings.

“I hope it’s not too heavy,” Harry said, eyeing it.

“It won’t be,” McGonagall replied. “Enlarged inside, featherlight to carry. Nothing extravagant.” She lifted the lid and placed his clothes inside, arranging them with careful precision. “You’ll add your books once we’ve collected them.”

Harry nodded accepting the trunk as she handed it over. It was indeed light, easily manageable, even for someone his size.

As they made for the door, Malkin gave Harry a gentle look, almost wistful.

“You know,” she said quietly, “you’ve your father’s face. But your mother’s eyes, without a doubt.”

She hesitated, then added, “I was very fond of your grandmother. Spirited woman… always had a wicked sense of colour.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. His throat felt oddly tight, but he managed, “Thank you. For the robes. And… for that.”

Her smile deepened. “You’re very welcome, dear. Now go on.”

McGonagall met her gaze, something soft passing between them. “I’ll explain everything later.”

“Over tea, I hope,” Malkin replied, pulling the blinds back up with a flick of her wand.

They stepped into the sunlight once more, the soft clatter of the door behind them lost in the bustle of the alley.

The bell above the door gave a brittle chime as they stepped into Ollivanders.

It was dim inside. Dust hung in the air like a veil, and shelves rose high on either side, crammed to bursting with narrow boxes, stacked at angles, tucked into crevices, and balanced by magic.

Harry stared. The place felt… alive. As though the walls were listening.

Then a figure moved.

He seemed to materialise from the shadows, thin and pale, his eyes wide and silvery in the gloom. His hair was fine as spider-silk, and his voice, when it came, was soft as the rustle of parchment.

“Minerva McGonagall.” He inclined his head. “And… Harry Potter.”

Harry was startled.

“I was expecting you,” Ollivander murmured, his pale eyes studying Harry with eerie calm. “Stepping into the folds of magic after a tragedy such as yours… it takes time. Remarkable indeed… to walk away from such ruin… But come… my lips are sealed. You needn’t worry.”

McGonagall gave a short nod. “Thank you, Mr Ollivander.”

“This way,” Ollivander said, gesturing behind the counter.

He led them through a narrow doorway and into the back of the shop and Harry froze.

The room beyond had clearly once been orderly: rows of tall drawers and sorted compartments lined the walls. But now, parts of it bore quiet ruin. Some sections had been repaired – panels replaced, shelves set upright, but charred beams still jutted through the neatness, and shattered wand boxes lay in tilted stacks like forgotten debris. Wand cores glimmered faintly where they’d spilled, catching the light.

He took in the damage silently, recognising it with a twist in his chest. He tried hard to shove the guilt back down, but it lingered, stubborn as smoke.

Ollivander gave a soft, regretful sigh as he moved past the wreckage. “A terrible loss,” he murmured. “Some of the finest specimens I had. Many irreplaceable.”

He glanced at Harry, something unreadable in his gaze. “But no matter. We begin anew.”

He flicked his wand and a measuring tape sprang to life, darting about Harry’s form. While it worked, Ollivander disappeared briefly into a far corner and returned with an armful of boxes.

One by one, the wands emerged. Polished cherry, pale willow, dense blackthorn. Unicorn hair, the occasional phoenix feather, and dragon heartstrings. All thrummed faintly in Ollivander’s long fingers before falling still in Harry’s.

Not a single wand sparked in his grip. Disinterested. No more magical than kindling. He sat still, dutifully holding out his palm, each time, a little less sure. The old man grew increasingly animated, eyes bright with something between excitement and confusion.

The pile of discarded boxes grew steadily at Harry’s feet.

Ollivander did not grow flustered. Only more focused. He murmured to himself, consulted ledgers, tested flex, and tapped each wand before handing it over.

Still nothing.

McGonagall eventually cleared her throat. “I’ll fetch the rest of your supplies. Take your time.”

She gave Harry a faintly reassuring look before disappearing into the alley.

After some time, the front bell rang. A trickle of students, their faces bright with anticipation. Harry shrank back instinctively.

Ollivander glanced over, then nodded towards a corner. “There, if you please. No need to make anyone nervous.”

Harry slipped into the shadows beside a tall shelf.

What followed was a strange parade: children stepping up, trying a few wands, before something clicked, an arc of colourful sparks, a sudden breeze. Ollivander nodded each time, boxed the wand, and sent them on their way.

None of them looked at Harry twice.

He pressed his back to the shelf, fingers curled tight around the last wand he’d tried. It had gone still the moment it touched his skin.

Just wood.

Same as Sirius’s and Remus’s had been, months ago at Wreinleigh Cottage.

They had told him his wand would find him eventually. But clutching silence after silence, Harry felt the fear settle deeper. What if magic simply… wouldn’t take to him? The thought curled cold in his chest, edged with the ache of not belonging.

Ollivander's voice murmured faintly from the front of the shop, helping another student. Harry stepped away, making his way down the narrow aisle. His eyes drifted over the debris, and half-buried beneath a fallen crate, something glinted.

A shimmer like flame, colours shifting: scarlet, amber, the deep red-gold of a phoenix’s plume. He moved towards it, hands brushing through dust and splinters, until his fingers found the wand.

Or what remained of it.

It was cracked down the middle, a jagged splinter marring the shaft. Near the tip, the wood was scorched and warped. A thread of phoenix feather pulsed faintly, exposed where the casing had failed, binding the wand’s two halves like a final breath.

It should’ve repelled him like the others.

But the moment he touched it, the world stilled.

The wand felt… as if it recognized him. As if some deep part of him, long silent, had stirred awake.

"Mr Potter?"

Ollivander's voice found him as he stepped back into the front, clutching the broken wand to his chest.

The wandmaker moved towards him. “May I?”

Harry gave a wordless nod.

Ollivander took the wand, and his expression changed at once. The wide stare, the air of knowing more than he said, tightened into something grim.

“This wand… This damaged…” He trailed off, voice hushed. “It should be inert. It should recoil from all magic. And yet…”

He glanced up at Harry.

“It responded to you.”

“Yes.” Wonder softened his voice.

Ollivander studied the wand for a moment longer, then silently offered the wand back.

“Try a spell,” he murmured. “Something simple. Lumos, perhaps.”

Harry reached out. For one dreadful moment, he thought the broken end might come loose again. He tightened his hold instinctively.

“Lumos,” he whispered.

A warm light sparked at the tip but it flickered uncertainly, then dimmed to nothing.

Ollivander’s gaze dropped again. His brows drew together as he bent low over the wand, turning it now with even greater care.

“I’m afraid it has endured magic far beyond what it was ever meant to bear. It will serve no more.” He exhaled sharply.

Harry’s face fell. “But…” he began, then faltered, the word fading into silence.

Ollivander glanced at him sharply, ready to launch into wandlore, but the look on Harry’s face gave him pause. Quietly, he turned and beckoned Harry back towards the shelves. “Come. Let us try a few more.”

He brought out a few wands, each with phoenix feather at its heart. But none answered.

By the time McGonagall returned, levitating Harry’s trunk behind her, they stood in silence.

She glanced from Harry to Ollivander. “What’s happened?”

Ollivander turned towards her solemnly. “The only wand to show any affinity for Mr Potter is damaged beyond use.”

Harry swallowed hard. “But… it chose me.”

Ollivander let out a soft, frustrated breath. “I could try to craft something new. A fresh wand, similar in core…”

Harry stepped forward, his voice low but hopeful. “Please, sir… couldn’t it be fixed?”

“He’s tried nearly every wand in your shop,” McGonagall said, eyeing the stacks of discarded boxes on the counter and by the stool. “Is there truly nothing you can try?”

Ollivander pressed his lips together. “Magic is a delicate thing. A wand, once shattered, rarely retains its purpose.”

“In the early days of wandlore,” he continued, tone edged with reluctance, “before we understood cores or wood, everything was... primitive. When a wand broke, its owner would harvest resin from a tree and use it to fuse the pieces. Crude work. Nothing more than gluing together splinters with hope.”

“Do you believe it might work?” McGonagall asked.

“It shouldn’t,” Ollivander replied at once. “A wand is not a tool. It is a conduit. A partner. Once broken, the magic fractures with it.”

Harry looked up, his voice quiet but earnest. “Please, sir… could you try?”

“I will try. No promises. And I’ll attempt to craft a few wands that might suit Mr Potter’s rare affinity. I’ll send an owl when I have something.”

Harry exhaled. “Thank you.”

Ollivander gave a distracted nod, already turning the wand in his fingers like a puzzle with a single missing piece. He disappeared into the back room without another word.

Harry sat on the seat by the window, knees tucked up, forehead resting lightly against the glass. A lamp flickered somewhere near the neighbour’s stoop, and further down, someone was playing music. Downstairs, the front door opened. The muffled scrape of boots. Then voices, swallowed by the hallway.

The fire in the grate had burned low, throwing faint amber light against the dark wood panelling.

“Brooding doesn’t make you clever,” drawled a dry voice, making Harry nearly jump out of his chair.

He twisted around. “Who?” he began, then caught sight of the empty portrait frame above the hearth. “...Right. That’s normal.”

The frame offered no further commentary, just a self-satisfied silence.

One of the house’s many oddities: advice from nowhere. Criticism from beyond. Always smug, often unwelcome, occasionally useful.

Harry shook his head, turning back to the window. “Thanks, I guess.”

It had been a long day.

After Ollivander’s, they’d collected his books. Remus had already paid, apparently having sorted it with Sirius beforehand. Harry had tried to argue, but the look on Remus’s face had made it clear it wasn’t a discussion. “Let me,” he’d said. “This one’s from both of us.”

Harry hadn’t known what to say to that. He’d muttered “Thanks,” packed his books into his trunk, and left.

McGonagall had taken him to eat afterwards. Some quiet place by the river, with oak beams and soft lighting. He couldn’t remember what he’d eaten. Something with gravy. She hadn’t spoken much, and he hadn’t felt like filling the silence.

When they reached Grimmauld Place, Sirius had met them at the door. Harry had muttered something about being tired and slipped upstairs. He had been tired, not the sort that sleep could fix.

He stared at his palm now. A wand should have been there. But none had answered.

And the only one that had ever reached for him was already broken.

A knot twisted low in his chest.

Then, a knock, gentle, but enough to stir him. Before he could answer, the door opened.

Sirius stepped in first, balancing a tray so laden with food it bordered on theatrical. Remus followed with a second tray with cutlery, napkins, and what looked like pudding in a squat silver bowl.

“Room service,” Sirius declared.

Harry stood quickly. “You didn’t have to… I would’ve come down.”

“You’ve had a long day,” said Remus, setting the tray down beside him. “Let us fuss a bit.”

Harry’s gaze dropped, but he was smiling.

Sirius grinned, dropping cross-legged onto the rug beside the bed. “Also, you missed the kitchen mutiny. Kreacher nearly murdered a carrot. It was art.”

Remus quirked a brow. “I thought he was trying to murder you.”

Harry slid down onto the floor beside them. The trays smelled warm and comforting.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Sirius didn’t answer, but bumped his shoulder lightly.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the quiet clink of cutlery, and the low crackle from the hearth.

Sirius spoke first, through a mouthful of food. “Remus filled me in on your wand fiasco.”

Harry gave a small shrug.

Remus set his fork down gently. “Ollivander may seem a touch… eccentric. But he’s a craftsman in the truest sense. If anyone can create something worthy of your magic, it’s him.

Harry poked at his food, then nodded. “Yeah. Professor McGonagall said the same.”

Harry looked up. Sirius was staring into the fire, chewing with far more focus than the food deserved. Something in his face, a tightness in the jaw, a flicker behind the eyes, made Harry’s chest go still.

“You okay?” he asked.

Sirius blinked, then gave a small shrug. “I’m all right,” he said, though it sounded more like habit than truth. “But the real question is… are you okay?”

Harry didn’t answer. And in that stillness, he understood. Not in the way someone told you a fact, but in the way you felt it, like a cold draft through a crack in the wall.

Sirius might be out of Azkaban. Might be sitting on a rug with dinner and firelight. But until Peter was found, until the truth was undeniable, he wasn’t free.

Harry swallowed. “It’s not fair,” the words escaped before he could stop them. “You gave me a home. You’ve both done everything right. Still…”

Sirius looked over at him, startled, not by the sentiment itself, but by the sudden turn in conversation. The vulnerability caught him off guard, visible in the way his brow knit together.

Remus stilled, his fork hovering mid-air. He didn’t speak, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes. He reached out and patted Harry on the back, like that might help somehow.

Harry let out a breath, frustrated with himself. “Sorry. I just… everything’s been so much. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to feel.”

“Whatever it is,” said Sirius softly, “you don’t have to feel it alone.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “You say that now. Let’s see how you feel after I blow up the house again.”

“Well,” Sirius said, glancing around the room, “blowing up the house might actually be an improvement. Have you seen the wallpapers?”

That did it.

All three of them broke into laughter, the kind that left your ribs sore and your eyes stinging.

Harry wiped his eyes, still grinning as he caught his breath.

“So,” he said after a beat, quieter now, “what happens next? I mean… when I go to school. When people find out I’m alive. What then?”

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, not the panicked kind, but the kind that said they’d had this conversation more than once.

Sirius leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “There’ll be talk. Rumours. Some people won’t know what to believe. But things will settle. You’ll find your footing. And you won’t be alone… we’ll be right here. And so will McGonagall. Dumbledore too.”

“And that,” Remus said, “is why we didn’t stay angry.”

“At Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall?” Harry asked.

Sirius nodded. “They’re not saints. Merlin knows we’ve disagreed with them. But… their failing wasn’t cruelty. It was blindness. They didn’t see what was really happening.”

“But now they do…” Remus said, “And they want to put it right. Not just for you… for Sirius, too. They’re not perfect. But they’re helping now…”

“That matters…” Sirius added quietly, “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen… but I can try to move forward.”

A moment passed. Then his mouth curled in a dry half-smile. “Besides… it’s wiser to keep Dumbledore close. He’s the sort who’ll light the fire to keep you warm… and forget to check if you’re standing in it.”

“It’s safer to keep watch by the fire than to run from it,” said Remus. “Forgiveness doesn’t mean erasing the past… just… knowing where you stand.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t speak right away. His fingers traced the edge of his plate.

“I want to believe that,” he said finally. “I really do. I just… I don’t know what people are going to see when they look at me. A boy who disappeared? A story come back to life?” He hesitated. “What if I don’t fit there?”

The words hung there, tentative but undeniable.

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. Remus looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t. He didn’t have an answer either.

Harry looked between them, took in their expressions and snorted. “I’m a ray of sunshine today.”

Sirius blinked, then grinned. “There it is.”

“There what is?” said Harry.

“The teenage existential crisis. I was starting to worry you were too well-adjusted.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “He’s eleven, Sirius.”

“Exactly. Peak crisis window.”

Harry huffed a laugh, short and reluctant. And something in him loosened with it. Maybe he wouldn’t fit perfectly. Maybe he’d still feel like a question in every room. But right now, here, he wasn’t a puzzle to solve. Just a boy with pudding and people who loved him.

Sirius leaned back on his hands, catching the shift in Harry’s face. His grin turned playful. “And what’s this I hear about you giving the Dursleys chocolate?” He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Truly generous… Noble… So very… Dumbledore of you.”

Remus gave a low chuckle. “It was wise,” he said, glancing at Harry. “You chose kindness when you didn’t have to.”

Harry said nothing, but reached into his pocket and fished out a folded scrap of paper. He passed it across to Sirius without a word.

Sirius opened it, Remus leaning over to read. Then two sets of eyebrows shot up.

Limerick Limes.

One bite, and you’ll rhyme… For an hour, you’ll speak only kind.

Zonko’s. Limited edition. Handle with care.

There was a pause, then Sirius burst into laughter.

“Where in Merlin’s name did you get this?” Sirius asked, eyes dancing.

“Kingsley,” Harry said through a mouthful of pudding.

Sirius cackled. “You little menace. You gave this to the Dursleys? That’s pure Marauder.”

Remus shook his head. “And here I thought you were the sensible one.”

Sirius added, still grinning. “Do you reckon they ate it? All of them?”

Remus gave a quiet snort. “Sirius.” But he had started smiling too.

Harry, cheeks faintly pink, ducked his head and kept eating.

The night went on, threaded with quiet mirth and the soft clatter of dishes. And for a while, the ache of being passed over by magic eased, softened by the glow of something warmer.

Chapter Text

The last light of August filtered through the narrow windowpanes, catching on dust motes that spun lazily in the air. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock let out a ponderous chime, but Harry didn’t move from where he sat, legs tucked up on the windowsill, chin resting on his knee. The day had been slow and warm, the kind that made the world feel slightly out of focus, like an old photograph left in the sun.

It had been thirty days since Diagon Alley, since robes and Ollivander and the ache of a wand that had chosen him but was broken. It was strange how time had folded in on itself. Some days blurred by, while others dragged, restless.

He had gone through every book in his trunk.

Well… he had tried to.

Charms was manageable. The incantations felt natural on his tongue, the wand motions easy to imagine even without a wand in his hand. But the explanations – long, winding things filled with phrases like situational energy gradients and elemental compatibilities, made his eyes glaze over. It wasn’t like when Sirius leaned over with that glint in his eye and made everything sound like a challenge. Or when Remus explained quietly, patiently, as if the magic had always been inside Harry, just waiting to be spoken to properly.

Potions was worse. Far worse. It wasn’t the ingredients. Those were fascinating in a strange, gruesome sort of way. But the details. The exact, endless details that were maddening. One stir too many. A clockwise swirl when it ought to have been counter. And why did it matter if monkshood was picked at dawn or dusk, as long as it was in the bottle? Was the potion going to check the time?

Defence Against the Dark Arts, though, that felt different. Like a puzzle he already knew how to solve, even if he didn’t yet know the shape of every piece. The theory didn’t feel like theory at all. It was vivid. Real. When the book spoke of shielding charms or hex deflection, he could almost feel the motion in his muscles, see the light slicing through shadow. Some parts dragged, but his mind kept slipping past the words, into imagined duels. Like the magic there wasn’t something to learn, but something to remember. Something old, buried deep and humming quietly beneath his ribs.

McGonagall’s annotated Intermediate Transfiguration was the oddest of them all. Her notes in the margins were sharp and precise, but half the time Harry didn’t know if she was explaining something or critiquing the author. He’d taken to scribbling his own translations in the margins, lines of messier handwriting winding around her tidy script. He liked that she expected him to understand. Even when he didn’t.

To make sense of the denser bits, he kept his copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration close at hand. He flipped back and forth between the two books, comparing definitions and diagrams, cross-checking spells, occasionally muttering under his breath. Sometimes he found answers; other times, only more questions. He’d started jotting things down in it too. Together, they began to sketch a picture, clearer, if still a bit blurred at the edges.

Though there were times he gave up completely, stalking down to the parlour where Sirius or Remus would be. He would drop the book in their laps like an accusation, scowl already in place, and one of them, always patient, would walk him through it again.

And then there was the other book.

The one Remus had gifted him. A collection of essays, memories, strange little stories that had nothing to do with school but everything to do with feeling the ground beneath your feet. It felt like a lantern in the fog.

He’d expected to be called back to Ollivander’s within a few days. A week, maybe. But the days passed, and nothing. McGonagall had written once. Remus had visited the shop. Ollivander had remained maddeningly vague, always polite, but evasive. “Soon,” he had said. “Soon, when it’s ready.” And that was it.

Still. Not everything had been bad.

A few weeks ago, they’d gone to Kingsley’s house. One of those enormous countryside places with tall hedges and a stretch of lawn that begged to be flown over. Sirius, Remus, and Elliot had all come along, and someone had suggested Quidditch.

Kingsley turned out to be an excellent flier: smooth, efficient, infuriatingly precise. Sirius grumbled about it for days. And Elliot, who looked like he belonged on a football pitch rather than a broom, flew like he’d been born in the air. Better than Remus, anyway, who sputtered and wobbled through the sky with such theatrical inconsistency that Harry laughed so hard he nearly slid off his own.

But none of them stood a chance against him.

His dad’s old Comet, freshly refurbished by Sirius, soared above the rest. In the sky, Harry felt free in a way he hadn’t for a long time. Kingsley came at him hard, trying to knock the Quaffle loose with a flurry of tight loops and clever spins, but Harry dipped and twisted beneath him, a manic grin splitting his face. By the time someone called time, he’d scored seven goals to Kingsley’s four.

Hedwig had come too, and once the game ended, she launched herself into the open sky, wings slicing clean through the wind, her cry sharp with joy. She circled high above them, then dipped low to fly alongside Harry, their paths weaving together in quiet synchrony. For a brief, golden stretch, it felt like they shared something unspoken: speed, silence, sky.

That day still lived in his chest, bright and weightless.

But even now, as August wound to a close and the skies turned a richer blue, that old ache returned. He wanted to be ready. To belong, properly, to the world he was finally entering.

He just needed the last piece.

The wand.

And the waiting was the worst part of all.

The parlour was quiet, washed in soft afternoon light that spilled through the windows. Sirius and Remus sat by the fireplace, their low voices threading through the stillness.

Harry padded in barefoot, one hand curled loosely around the banister. “You’re both whispering like you’ve just plotted a murder.”

Sirius startled, then grinned. “No murder. Not unless someone’s made you read more Potions theory.”

Harry flopped onto the sofa with a groan. “Not funny.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Better or worse than yesterday?”

“Worse. I actually dreamt about dicing daisy roots. Woke up stirring my pillow counter-clockwise.”

Sirius chuckled. Remus gave him a consoling pat on the back.

Harry tilted his head. “I was wondering… what are the professors like?”

“You’ve already met McGonagall,” Sirius said. “Count yourself lucky. She’s the best of the lot.”

“Then there’s Flitwick,” he went on. “Tiny bloke, duelling champion back in the day. He can swish a wand faster than most people blink.”

“And… drumroll, please… presenting: the ever-humble, devastatingly clever, awarded ‘Most Likely to Lecture You Kindly While Bleeding Out…’” Sirius made a sweeping, theatrical gesture. “Professor Remus J. Lupin.”

Harry broke into laughter. Remus’s ears went pink.

“Honestly,” Harry said through his grin, “I think you’re going to be the best professor Hogwarts has ever had.”

Remus glanced at him, startled. “You haven’t even seen me teach in a classroom.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said with a shrug. “You explain things better than the books do. And you don’t make me feel like an idiot when I get the theory wrong.”

Sirius made a mock gasp. “Blasphemy! Replacing centuries of dry, outdated curriculum with actual understanding? Scandalous.”

Remus huffed a quiet laugh, and the colour in his cheeks deepened.

Harry nudged his knee. “I’m serious.”

“I’m Sirius,” said Sirius automatically.

Remus groaned. “Every time.”

Harry just snorted. “I walked right into that one.”

Remus, perhaps sensing Sirius gearing up for another grand announcement, cleared his throat and turned to Harry. “You’ll like Professor Sprout. She’s kind… and practical. And her greenhouses are spectacular.”

“And then there’s Professor Binns,” he went on. “Teaches History of Magic. He’s a ghost.”

Harry blinked. “A ghost?”

“Died in the staffroom, didn’t realise he’d gone,” Sirius said. “Got up and floated straight back to class.”

Harry grinned. “Charming.”

“And Professor Sinistra,” Remus said, leaning back in his chair. “She teaches Astronomy.”

Sirius yawned dramatically. “And now the Hogwarts faculty directory is complete.”

Remus arched an eyebrow. “You’re forgetting someone.”

“Oh, right,” Sirius said, far too casually. “The dungeon dweller. Greasy git extraordinaire. Snivellus.”

Remus gave him a look – dry, reproachful, and unmistakably pointed.

“Sirius,” he said.

“What?” Sirius held up his hands. “I’m being educational. That’s what the students should call him anyway.”

Harry looked between them, frowning. “Wait… who?”

“Professor Severus Snape,” Remus said. “He teaches Potions.”

“Professor Snape,” Harry repeated slowly. “And you two… know him?”

Sirius snorted. “We went to school with him.”

Remus added, a touch more gently, “He was in our year. Slytherin.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And he’s a professor now?”

“He’s a brilliant potioneer,” Remus added. “And he does know how to teach. When he wants to.”

“And you call him… Snivellus? Why?”

Before they could answer, a sharp knock sounded at the front door.

“That’ll be Minerva,” Remus said mildly, rising to his feet. “She mentioned she’d be stopping by Ollivander’s today.”

Harry shot up like a firework. “She what?”

And then he was gone, barefoot and bolting for the door, socks skidding on the floorboards as he vanished round the corner at full tilt.

Sirius chuckled. “And I thought I was dramatic.”

The sky had begun to bruise into twilight, streaks of violet and indigo threading their way above the crooked rooftops of Diagon Alley. Most of the shops were shuttered now, their signs creaking faintly in the warm evening breeze. At the far end of the cobbled street, beneath the curling gilt letters of Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., stood Harry and Professor McGonagall.

The shop looked was closed, its windows dark. But Harry, bouncing on the balls of his feet, stared fixedly at the door.

“He’s late,” he muttered.

“He is,” McGonagall agreed, her voice calm as ever.

Harry shot her a glance, aiming for nonchalance and failing utterly. “You’re sure he hasn’t forgotten?”

“For the fourth time, Mr Potter,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching, “he said, ‘Bring the boy at sundown.’”

Harry frowned. “Right. Not vague at all.”

“I’ve learnt not to question Mr Ollivander’s phrasing,” she said briskly.

Harry nodded, then went back to watching the door.

A beat passed. Then he turned to her again. “He does know I leave tomorrow, right?”

“He knows,” McGonagall replied just as the faintest sound stirred in the shadows behind them.

Harry turned. From the deepening dusk emerged a tall figure, robe drawn close, three slender wand boxes cradled in his arms. His silvery eyes, were fixed on them with unsettling clarity.

“Forgive the delay,” said Mr Ollivander. “I was… ah… consulting a peer.”

“A peer?” McGonagall repeated, eyebrows lifting.

“One of few left whose opinion I trust,” Ollivander murmured. “And even fewer who answer letters promptly.”

He turned and unlocked the door.

“Come in, come in. Time is a poor companion in matters of wandwork.”

He moved with eerie precision, crossing to the counter and he unlatched the first two boxes. Inside nestled two gleaming wands, freshly polished and radiant under the lamp-glow.

“This,” Ollivander said, lifting one gently, “is yew, twelve inches. Supple. Phoenix feather core. Responsive to willpower, excels in curses, and capable of great subtlety.”

He set it down and opened the second box. “And this… holly, eleven and a quarter inches. Slightly springy. Also phoenix feather. Protective by nature.”

“They’re beautiful,” Harry said softly.

“They are,” said Ollivander. “Though neither of these is the wand that broke.”

Harry stepped forward and picked up the holly wand.

Nothing. No warmth. No hum. The air remained still.

He set it down carefully. Then, with a breath held too long, he reached for the yew.

Still nothing. He held it a moment longer than needed, waiting, hoping, for some delayed flicker. When none came, he placed it back in its box.

That had been it. The best Ollivander could do. The last hope. Tomorrow was September first. The train would leave in the morning. And he still didn’t have a wand.

A breath tried to escape his chest, but it caught halfway and turned sharp. He blinked rapidly, hoping the blur behind his glasses would pass.

He wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not in front of Ollivander and McGonagall.

McGonagall’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder.

Harry stood very still. And told himself the shaking in his chest was just the draft.

Across the counter, Ollivander sagged, his frail shoulders bowing under an invisible weight. One trembling hand braced against the edge, as if he needed the wood to stay upright. His pale eyes stared at the wands as though they had betrayed him.

Harry’s fingers curled at his sides. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. He had to try again.

When he finally found his voice, it came out hoarse. “What about… the broken one?”

Ollivander didn’t speak. He simply opened the third box.

Nestled inside was the ruined wand.

Ollivander had shaved the fractured parts with care, leaving a slim channel where the phoenix feather lay exposed. Over that, he had poured a coating of resin. Thick, translucent.

“I’ve used every technique known to me,” Ollivander said bitterly. “Drying charms, binding runes… The resin won’t cure. The wand won’t spark. It is… dead.”

There was grief in his voice. And shame. To fail a child standing at the threshold of his magical life, to be defeated by the very craft he’d spent a lifetime mastering… cut deep.

Harry reached out, just to touch it one last time. To feel, perhaps, that quiet hum again, the one he’d sensed when he'd first held it a month ago.

His fingers brushed the shaft.

Instantly, the wand flared, light blooming along the length in a rush of gold, hot and sudden, like fire catching dry bark. A pulse of warmth thrummed through his fingers and reverberated in the air. He could feel the resin harden beneath his grip. The narrow groove where the feather lay glowed amber, casting dancing shadows on the counter. A mournful melody rose in his chest – ancient, timeless.

A laugh tore from his lips, unsteady, astonished, alight with something too fierce to name. He stared at the wand in his hand, eyes wide. It was real. He wasn’t imagining it. The wand, the same one everyone had given up on, had answered him.

The glow faded slowly, and silence pooled in its place.

Behind him, McGonagall let out a soft, incredulous breath. “Merciful Merlin,” she murmured, one hand pressed to her chest. Her usual restraint wavered, and in its place stood awe.

Ollivander stepped forward, as though afraid to disturb whatever had just passed. “May I?” he asked.

Harry gave a small nod and handed it over.

The old wandmaker took it with reverent care. He turned it in his fingers, inspecting every inch, his expression shifting from suspicion to wonder. The resin had set completely. The wood looked almost black in the shop’s dim light, but when it caught the lantern glow, fine veins of amber shimmered through it.

“Remarkable,” Ollivander murmured. “It feels… alive.”

He flicked the wand once, then again, murmuring an incantation. But the air remained still, the wand inert in his hand.

McGonagall extended a hand. “May I?”

Ollivander passed the wand to her.

She studied it with the precision of someone who had shaped magic into form more times than most dared attempt. Then she raised it. “Lumos.”

Still nothing.

Her gaze flicked to Harry, and she held the wand out to him. “Try.”

He took it gently, feeling again that quiet hum that had greeted him before.

“Lumos,” he said.

Light burst from the tip. Steady. Bright. Warm.

McGonagall’s lips curved into the smallest smile. She reached out and adjusted the edge of his collar with a touch so gentle he almost missed it.

Ollivander’s eyes gleamed. “Extraordinary. I’ve never seen a wand bind itself so completely. It’s loyal to you. Entirely.”

Harry blinked, then broke into a grin that felt too big for his face. “Thank you,” he said, voice bright and turned to reach for his pouch.

But Ollivander raised a hand. “No. That wand won’t be bought.” His voice was firm. “Some things are beyond price. I expect great things from the one it has chosen.”

He offered a faint, knowing smile. “My workshop still hasn’t quite recovered.”

Harry glanced up, startled. “How did you…”

But Ollivander was watching him with a smile steeped in centuries.

Harry looked down, guilt flickering across his face. “I’m… sorry about that.”

“There is no need for apology, Mr Potter,” Ollivander said softly. “Magic such as yours was never meant to be quiet. May this wand guide you… and may you prove worthy of its fire. Honour it, and it shall follow you faithfully… until the tale is told and it slips once more into silence.”

Confusion flickered across Harry’s features, chasing the remnants of guilt. But beneath it all, his fingers still curled around the wand with quiet, unshakable relief. 

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was aglow with a soft, flickering warmth. The heavy chandelier above swayed ever so slightly, disturbed only by the occasional stir of summer air from the open window. The plates had been cleared, the stew long eaten, and now only the quiet clink of mugs broke the silence.

Harry sat, a smile lingering on his face. It hadn’t left him since McGonagall dropped him off earlier that evening. He’d barely made it past the threshold before launching into a breathless recounting of everything that had happened: the shop, the broken wand, the sudden bloom of light. Sirius had looked at him as if trying to memorise him. Remus had simply listened, eyes calm and shining.

Now the wand lay in front of him on the table. Once pale holly, but it had darkened. Its length was now laced with faint golden veins running along the scar of the wood, like threads of sunlight.  Sirius and Remus had both remarked on how beautiful it looked. Then they had tried spells but the wand remained dormant. Yet when Harry had reached for it, it had hummed in his palm like something recognising home.

Even Kreacher had crept in midway through, eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. He'd muttered darkly about "traitor-spawn disturbing the air, waving sticks about like drunken trolls,” but Harry didn’t mind. Tonight, even Kreacher’s complaints sounded almost... quaint.

Sirius had taken that moment to go completely mad. With mock solemnity, he’d swept back into the kitchen bearing a chipped teacup balanced on a cracked saucer and announced grandly, “Your tea, oh Mighty Wand-Wielder of Number Twelve. Breaker of Wandlore. Vanquisher of Logic.” Then bowed low with an extravagant flourish.

Harry had gone bright red. “Shut up.”

Remus had turned a page without looking up. “You’ll encourage him if you react, you know.”

Sirius, undeterred, pressed on: “Perhaps I should call the Prophet. Forget Neville the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’, meet Harry, the ‘Boy-Who-Mends.’”

Hedwig had ruffled her feathers with what could only be described as long-suffering dignity. She gave a single disapproving hoot before launching out into the night like she had better places to be.

Now, the energy had quieted. The three of them sat in companionable silence. The joy hung in the air like steam off a teacup, quietly curling around them, refusing to fade.

Sirius broke the silence. “You know, Harry… tomorrow is going to change everything.”

Harry looked up.

Sirius met his eyes. “You asked, once… what people would see when they looked at you.”

“The world thinks you’re dead. Have, for years. And tomorrow, the moment you step onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, that changes. People will look. Some will recognise. Some’ll guess. And once you’re sorted… well, then it’ll be confirmed. Harry Potter’s alive.”

He paused, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands. “Whispers’ll start. Theories. People may call you things you don’t like. Some might stare like you’re some walking legend from a bedtime tale.”

Harry didn’t speak. He simply sat there, letting the words fall over him, settling in the spaces between his ribs.

Remus leaned forward, his tone dry but gentle. “I’d wager my last surviving coat that September’s issues of the Prophet will probably be like an encyclopaedia. And none of it’s going to be quite true. Because the truth… well, only a handful know it. And even they don’t know it all.”

Harry swallowed. “But everything’s going to be alright… right? I mean, you’ll be there, Remus? And Sirius?”

Remus smiled. “Yes, Harry. I’ll be there. All the way.”

Sirius’s gaze had gone a little distant, shadows flickering behind the brightness of his eyes.

“And me too,” he said softly. “Even if I can’t be there in person… I’m with you, always.”

There was a quiet grief in his tone, but it passed like a cloud over the moon.

“What I mean to say,” he continued, sitting up straighter, “is don’t let it get to you. Any of it. Hold your head high… you’ve got nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. You’re special, and not because of what happened to you… but because of who you are. Remember that. And write to me. Every day.”

“Every day?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, fine. Every other day,” Sirius said with mock exasperation, grinning. “I’ll accept occasional delays for heroic deeds and homework.”

Harry laughed, and Remus chuckled behind his mug.

Sirius grew quiet again, then reached across the table. “Just… don’t ever think you’re alone. Your parents are here,” he said, pressing his fingers to Harry’s chest, “and there’s magic in your veins.”

“And you’ve got the deranged…” he nodded solemnly at Remus, “and the disgraced…” he jabbed his thumb at himself, “trailing behind you like questionable bodyguards.”

“Padfoot, I’ll have you know,” Remus said dryly, “I am now a respected professor of Defence.”

“And I am a charming fugitive,” Sirius added, not missing a beat.

“You were never charming,” Remus muttered into his cup.

Sirius looked deeply wounded. “I was the pinnacle of charm. Ask literally no one.”

Laughter bubbled up again. Even Kreacher, lurking in the shadows by the pantry, gave a low huff of derision, as if disgusted by the levity and disappeared with a noise like a deflating bagpipe.

Harry sat back, watching the two men, his tether to a world once stolen, and breathed in deeply.

He was dangerously eleven. And it didn’t feel like something to fear.

“I’ve got something to say.” Harry said softly, breaking the silence.

Sirius looked up, attentive.

“Things are going to change for you, too,” Harry said after a pause.

Sirius blinked. “Me?”

Remus gave a faint, sad smile, like someone recognising the first line of a story he knew by heart.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Harry said. “Remus is too. And you’ll be here. In this house. Alone. With nowhere to go.”

The words hung in the air. Sirius said nothing at first. The truth of it settled on him. It wasn’t the first time the thought had stirred in the back of his mind. But he’d always batted it away, choosing instead to fill the time with laughter, with flights of mischief, with long evenings like this one.

Now it stood before him, quiet and unmoving.

He forced a grin. “Don’t worry about me.”

Remus arched an eyebrow. “Oh, we have to worry about you, Padfoot. That’s half our job description. We both have a right to.”

Harry got up, walked around the table, and wrapped his arms around Sirius’s shoulders from behind the chair. He rested his chin lightly there.

“Don’t lose yourself to the prisoner of Azkaban,” he whispered. “Be my godfather. Always.”

Sirius let out a shaky breath, the kind that tried not to be a sob. He reached up and gripped Harry’s arm tightly, his fingers trembling.

“I’ll be here,” Remus said gently, clearing his throat. “When I can. And during full moons. I graciously accept your earlier offer of taking Regulus’s room. Although…” his tone turned perfectly deadpan, “I might have to change the wallpaper. Something floral.”

Sirius let out a startled laugh. He turned to Remus, eyes shining.

“Moony…” His voice was cracked. “The boy’s got my number too.”

Harry didn’t let go. The three of them stayed like that a while, tethered, in the quiet, by something stronger than magic. In the parlour, the clock struck the hour, and the house, so often hollow, felt full.

Chapter Text

Harry had packed his trunk the night before. Or rather, he had packed, unpacked, and packed again. His wand was nestled in the folds of his robes, wrapped in an old handkerchief Sirius insisted was "heirloom-quality," though Harry was fairly certain it had been liberated from the laundry that morning.

Now the trunk stood at the front door of Number Twelve, as ready as it would ever be, its corners scuffed from a summer’s worth of bumping around. Harry stood beside it in a plain T-shirt and jeans, trainers already a bit dusty. The morning air was warm against his arms, and something just beneath his ribs was taut and humming. Nerves, or maybe anticipation.

Sirius was frowning down at Harry’s ankles.

“You’ve got one red sock and one yellow,” Sirius said accusingly.

“They’re a set,” Harry replied solemnly. “Red symbolises courage in the face of the unknown. Yellow is for hope.”

Sirius looked up, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been spending too much time with Remus.”

“Actually, I made it up,” Harry admitted with a smirk. “I just couldn’t find the other red one.”

Sirius gave him a look that landed somewhere between fond and exasperated, then stepped forward and tried to fix his hair, flattening exactly nothing. “Alright philosopher. You’ve got your books. Your cauldron. Wand. Emotional turmoil sock. All the essentials.”

Harry nodded, but it stuck in his throat. He wasn’t really ready for this. Another goodbye. He’d only just found this life, this strange, fractured family that made him feel whole. And now he was meant to leave it behind and walk into something entirely unknown.

Sirius seemed to sense his ache. His voice gentled. “You’ll be alright, you know. Hogwarts is... it’s home, in its own way.”

Harry gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the doormat, then looked up and managed a half-smile.

Sirius cleared his throat and nodded towards the stairs. “Go on then. Let her out.”

Harry jogged up to his room and unlatched Hedwig’s cage. She stepped out with regal dignity, hooting softly before ruffling her wings.

“You know where to go,” Harry said, stroking the smooth curve of her head. “Hogwarts. I’ll meet you there.”

She nipped his finger affectionately and soared through the open window, white wings flashing against the dull London sky.

By the time Harry clattered back down, Remus was waiting at the door, dressed in his usual shabby robes and worn shoes polished to within an inch of their life. He had a battered suitcase in his hand. He greeted Harry with a warm smile and a touch of concern around the eyes.

“Ready?”

Harry looked at Sirius one final time.

“No,” he said. “But let’s go anyway.”

At King’s Cross, Remus took the lead, weaving through the crowd like a man who’d done this a hundred times. Harry followed close behind, dodging businessmen with briefcases and a cluster of school kids in matching blazers.

Harry spotted a woman in magenta robes half-concealed by a trench coat, and a boy in trainers far too pointy to be Muggle-issue. Wizards in disguise, stitched into the seams of the city. It gave Harry a strange thrill, spotting the signs, being part of the secret now.

They reached the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. Remus paused, set down his suitcase, and gave Harry a small nod.

“Want to go first?”

Harry glanced around. No one was watching too closely. He nodded and stepped forward, picking up speed until the barrier shimmered ahead, then vanished.

He was through.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters stretched wide and gleaming, alive with colour and sound. The scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express gleamed in the sunlight, billowing soft clouds of steam into the vaulted roof. Students rushed past in clusters, some already in robes, others juggling last-minute goodbyes. Trunks clattered over cobblestones. Cats wove between legs. Owls hooted indignantly. The smell of smoke and sweets lingered in the air.

Harry stood still for a second, just breathing it in.

Then he heard the barrier ripple behind him, and turned to see Remus step through, suitcase in hand.

“Still in one piece?” he asked.

Harry nodded, then finally smiled.

“The compartments towards the end are usually quieter,” Remus said, adjusting the grip on his suitcase. “Let’s head that way.”

Harry nodded and fell into step beside him, weaving through the noise and movement. Here and there, he caught someone glancing at him, furtive, uncertain. At the far end of the train, the crowd thinned. The last few compartments were mostly empty.

Remus slid open a door. “This one’s free.”

Harry stepped inside. The seats were upholstered in brown, worn smooth by years of use. The glass windows radiated a gentle warmth where the sunlight pressed against them.

Remus lingered at the door. “I’ll drop the letter at St Jude’s personally. Let them know you’ll visit during the Christmas break.”

Harry glanced up. “And I’ll see you at the Sorting?”

“You will.” Remus offered a reassuring nod. “You’ll be alright, Harry. I promise.”

A small nod. “Alright.”

Remus gave him a warm smile, then turned and walked away, his figure swallowed up by the steam curling lazily outside.

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. The train gave a low blare, then lurched forward with a hiss, the rhythm of wheels beginning to build beneath him. He pressed his palm to the window, watching the platform slip away – faces, shapes, colours smudging into motion.

He was crossing a distance that wasn’t just miles, but something deeper. From what was known to what waited for him. From Grimmauld to Hogwarts. From memory into myth. It felt like the quiet ache of something beginning.

The compartment had grown stuffy. Harry had already changed into his Hogwarts robes despite Sirius insisting it could wait till later, and now sat with his sleeves tugged down, his wand tucked neatly into the fold like he’d seen Kingsley do. It felt ridiculous and brilliant all at once.

Outside the window, the landscape had shifted. The flat grey sprawl of London had given way to wide hills, sunlit fields, and hedgerows that flashed past in a blur of green and gold. The sky had gone bluer, clearer, like it had shaken off the city’s smoke. He’d counted sheep for a while. Then clouds. Then tried to imagine what his Sorting would feel like. None of it helped.

Neither Sirius nor Remus had explained it. They’d just exchanged maddeningly identical winks and said he’d have to find that out on his own. Like it was some grand joke they weren’t letting him in on.

His legs bounced restlessly. He stood, stretched, and slid the door open. The corridor was narrow and he set off down it without much thought. Near the end of the carriage, the door to the toilet clicked open, and a girl stepped out. She was bushy-haired, with a pinched, determined sort of face.

She caught him staring.

“What?” she said, sharply. “Do I have something on my face?”

Harry blinked. “No. But there is something in your hair.”

Her expression shifted instantly from suspicion to alarm. She reached up and patted at her curls, and…

“AAAAAHH!”

A small, squat toad leapt from her hair to the floor with an indignant plop. She scrambled back, nearly tripping over her own feet, and Harry burst out laughing before he could stop himself.

“Not funny!” she snapped, glaring at him as she tried to compose herself.

Harry wiped his eyes. “Well, your toad thinks it’s hilarious.”

“Not my toad,” she said, scandalised.

He crouched, gently scooping up the creature in both hands. “Well, it’s someone’s.”

She peered down at it. “We should return it. I’m sure someone’s worried sick… imagine losing your pet on the first day.”

Harry gave a shrug that was half-reluctant, half-wary.

She frowned at him. “Well don’t just stand there. Come on.”

He hesitated, then followed. They tried a few compartments. The girl took the lead with unshaken purpose, sliding doors open one by one and peering in with brisk certainty.

“Hello… sorry to interrupt… has anyone lost a toad?”

“No?” she’d nod, polite but firm. “Alright then, thank you.”

Harry hovered in the corridor behind her, the toad cupped carefully in both hands, feeling like a walking noticeboard.

Each compartment was its own little world. Robes draped over seats, owl cages tucked by the windows, stacks of sweets half-spilled on the floor. In one, two boys were locked in a duel using liquorice sticks as wands. In another, a girl sat serenely reading a book while her cat batted at a floating feather above her head.

But none of them were missing a toad.

Eventually, near the middle of the train, they slid open a door to find two boys mid-conversation, faces flushed with laughter, half-finished Pumpkin Pasties between them. One had a round, open face and a slight softness about him, his shirt already rumpled and a few biscuit crumbs clinging to his collar. The other was taller, lankier, with a shock of bright red hair and a grin that came easy.

“Excuse me,” the girl said, poking her head in. “Have either of you lost a toad?”

The red-haired boy blinked. “Er… no?”

The round-faced one looked puzzled. “A toad?”

They glanced around the compartment. The redhead leaned down to check beneath the seat, while the other padded along the windowsill and nudged aside a pile of wrappers. Only a rather miserable-looking rat lay curled on the cushion, tufts of thinning fur patchy along its back and a slight tremble in its limbs.

“There’s Scabbers,” the redhead said, reaching for him. But the moment his fingers closed around the rat’s middle, Scabbers gave a sudden jerk, as though something had bitten him, and began squirming wildly.

“Oi! Settle down… what’s the matter with you?” the boy muttered, frowning. He tucked the rat against his chest, trying to calm it. “Neville… Where’s Trevor?”

The girl turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow.

Harry stepped forward, holding out the squat, damp toad in his hands. “This him?”

“Trevor!” the round-faced boy cried, springing to his feet. He took the toad gently, his relief evident.

“Thanks,” he said, flushed and grateful. “Seriously.”

The red-haired boy grinned at them, clearly amused. “Be thankful he always turns up.” His rat had gone limp in his hand, and was now blinking slowly at the newcomers.

The girl looked pleased. Harry just nodded slightly, still hovering at the doorway.

“Do you want to sit with us?” the round-faced boy asked, shifting aside to make room.

Harry hesitated but the girl stepped in without pause. “That would be nice, thank you.”

They all settled, knees knocking slightly as they shuffled past trunks and sweet wrappers. Trevor blinked once and promptly fell asleep in the boy’s lap.

“I’m Neville Longbottom,” he said, straightening a little. “And this is Ronald Weasley.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “You’re the Boy Who Lived.”

Neville’s ears turned red. He shifted, clearly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t mean to… sorry… I wasn’t trying to be rude,” she added quickly. “I just read about you. In one of the books… Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”

Ron gave Neville a sideways nudge. “Mate, better get used to that. Now you’re at school, people’ll be staring like you’ve got fireworks coming out your ears.”

Neville gave a lopsided smile but didn’t quite meet the girl’s eyes.

“I’m Hermione Granger, by the way,” the girl said, with a proud sort of brightness. Then she turned to Harry. “And you are…?”

Harry made a vague sort of noise, more breath than words.

“Sorry?” Hermione leaned in slightly.

He cleared his throat. “Harry.”

A pause. The kind that suggested a thought flickering too fast to catch.

“Harry Palmer.”

Ron glanced up, catching the name with mild interest. “Palmer. Right.” He gave a quick nod, like he’d filed it away, then fished something out of his pocket. “D’you lot want a Chocolate Frog?”

Before anyone answered, he lobbed one across to Harry and he caught it on reflex, more surprised than anything.

Neville smiled, stroking his toad absentmindedly. “Nice to meet you.” But his eyes lingered on Harry’s face, as though something about it was tugging at the edge of his memory.

Harry managed a smile in return. He turned the frog over in his hands.

He hadn’t meant to lie. Palmer had just… come out. It was safer, easier. The name he had at the orphanage, a name without history.

Better a Chocolate Frog than a storm of questions.

“Do either of you know the spell to turn something into a rat?” Ron asked suddenly, his mouth half-full of Chocolate Frog. “Fred tried it on my toothbrush this morning. Gave me splinters in my gums.”

Neville winced. “That sounds awful.”

Hermione straightened. “That’s an advanced Transfiguration charm, you know. You’re not supposed to try it without supervision.”

Ron blinked. “Er… right.”

She flushed slightly. “I just meant… it’s not safe to practise spells without proper instruction. You could turn someone’s nose into a… a badger.”

“Bet Fred’d try it just to see if it worked.” Ron muttered, though he looked faintly intrigued by the idea.

Neville handed Hermione a Chocolate Frog. “I tried a levitation charm once. On my gran’s handbag. Just made it vibrate and spit out peppermints.”

“Sounds like you’re halfway there,” Harry said, cracking his first real smile.

Ron glanced over. “You know any spells, Palmer?”

Harry hesitated. “A couple. Not ones I’d risk in here.”

Ron grinned. “Fair. Save the roof-blasting for after dinner.”

Hermione opened her mouth, likely to mention the Hogwarts Code of Conduct, but Ron beat her to it. “Yes, I know… It’s not allowed.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Hermione sniffed, clearly lying.

Neville coughed into his sleeve, trying not to laugh.

The conversation ambled on from there, bumpy in spots, but full of life. Ron launched into a story about one of his brothers enchanting toilet seats; Neville followed with a tale about a misfiring teacup at home, thanks to a prank by Fabian and Gideon, Ron’s uncles, but practically family to Neville too. Hermione, meanwhile, launched on a rather detailed explanation of what happens if a spell is cast with a snapped wand. Ron stared at her for a moment, mouth slightly ajar, whether in horror or fascination, it was hard to say.

Harry listened more than he spoke. But their voices, the clatter of the train, the countryside flickering past, it all swirled together, warm and strange and new. He leaned back against the seat and let it settle.

The sky outside had dimmed to a pewter shade, clouds stitched in long grey threads over the hills. Hermione stood, brushing off her skirt. “I should probably go change into my robes before we arrive.”

Harry nodded and stretched, about to rise when the door to the compartment slid open.

Three boys stood in the corridor.

The one in front was pale and sharp-featured, with a pointed chin and light blonde hair slicked back too carefully for a train ride. His expression was one of studied boredom until his eyes landed on Neville.

“Well, well,” said the boy, stepping inside without invitation. “Look who’s got a whole compartment to himself. Longbottom, living the high life.”

Neville blinked, distaste evident in his expression. “Malfoy.”

Ron shifted beside him, already scowling. Hermione froze halfway out of her seat, as if unsure whether to sit back down or press on.

Neville’s voice wary but steady. “What do you want?”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Just curious. Wanted to see who you'd decided to grace with your company. Guess I shouldn't be surprised.” His gaze slid to Ron. “Scraping the bottom of the cauldron already, are we?”

Ron flushed crimson, his hands tightening around a half-unwrapped Chocolate Frog.

Hermione’s voice rang out, smooth and clipped. “And you are?”

Malfoy blinked, as though she'd interrupted something obvious. “Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Oh,” she said flatly.

Then his eyes drifted towards Harry. “And who’re you supposed to be?”

Harry met his gaze. “Harry Palmer.”

Malfoy stared. Huffed faintly through his nose, like the name had failed to impress.

He turned, with a sharp flick of his head. “Come on.”

The two boys behind him, big and thick-shouldered, with the look of permanent confusion, moved to follow.

But just as Malfoy stepped forward, his foot caught on something.

There was a dull thud, then a chorus of grunts as all three went down in a tangled heap, Malfoy yelping, and the other two landing on him like felled trees.

Inside the compartment, Ron let out a strangled snort. Hermione gasped and clutched the back of her seat. Neville looked aghast.

Harry blinked, slowly standing. “Oh no,” he said, voice mild. “Did you… trip?”

Malfoy pushed himself upright, hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed with fury. “You!”

Harry met his glare with open concern. “I was stretching,” he said. “Didn’t see you. Sorry.”

As he shifted, a half-squashed Chocolate Frog and a couple of lime green sweets dropped from his robe pocket and scattered at his feet.

He stooped and scooped them up, then held the lot out towards Malfoy. “Truce?”

Malfoy stared at the offering, then at Harry’s face, as if trying to determine whether this was mockery or madness. With a sound of disgust, he slapped the chocolates from Harry’s hand. “Pathetic,” he sneered, brushing past him with deliberate disdain.

But his two friends didn’t follow.

They lingered, eyeing the sweets now lying on the floor. One of them stepped forward, snatched up the lime chocolates with a grunt. The other snatched the frog before it could hop away. The two glared at Harry as if daring him to object, shoulders squared, jaws grinding.

Harry simply raised his hands in surrender, brows drawn. “Honestly,” he said softly, “they’re for sharing.”

They gave him one last vicious stare, then turned and lumbered after Malfoy.

The door slammed shut. There was a beat of stunned silence.

Harry sank back into his seat. “That went well.”

Ron started laughing again, this time freely. “You are mental.”

Hermione sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “This school is going to be exhausting.”

Neville glanced at Harry. “You really didn’t mean to trip them?”

Harry tilted his head, expression utterly solemn. “My leg acted of its own accord. It’s very independent.”

Neville managed a faint smile, visibly relieved the encounter had passed.

The platform at Hogsmeade buzzed with the chaotic energy of arrival. The air was cooler here, touched by the scent of pine and something damp and earthy drifting in from the lake.

Harry stepped down from the train, his trainers crunching against gravel. Around him, students spilled onto the platform in bunches. A lantern bobbed ahead, held high above the crowd.

“Firs’-years! Firs’-years over here!”

The voice rang out rough and deep over the chatter, familiar in a way that startled him. Harry craned his neck.

There, towering over the crowd like a misplaced tree, stood Hagrid. He waved a massive arm.

Harry’s mouth curved in surprise. He turned to Ron and the others. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped through the tangle of students, dodging a cluster of girls whispering excitedly. As he approached, the man’s eyes lit up beneath wild brows.

“Harry!” Hagrid said, clapping a hand to Harry’s shoulder so firmly his knees nearly buckled.

Harry grinned up at him. “Hi, Hagrid.”

Hagrid leaned down a little. “Hedwig doin’ alright?”

“She’s fine,” said Harry. “She’s flying to the castle.”

Hagrid chuckled, pleased. “That’s her, all right. Dignified, that one. Like a queen with wings.”

Harry nodded, the familiar swell of affection rising in his chest.

“Come on, then,” Hagrid called out, turning back to the crowd. “Firs’-years! This way now!”

Ron, Hermione, and Neville had caught up, Ron giving Harry a sideways glance.

“Do you know him?” he asked, nodding towards Hagrid.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I’ve met him before.”

They followed the other first-years down a narrow, sloping path. The torches grew fewer as they descended. Crickets chirped somewhere unseen. As the path opened, the lake stretched out before them, its surface still as glass. Lanterns glowed on the edge where boats waited, bobbing gently.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called.

Harry climbed into a boat with Ron, Hermione, and Neville. It rocked slightly under their weight. Around them, water lapped softly against the hulls while mist curled low across the lake, turning the lanterns into floating halos. The boats moved of their own accord, gliding in eerie silence across the dark water. The farther they drifted from shore, the more the world narrowed to cool air, creaking wood, and the quiet rush of ripples.

Then… suddenly, there it was…

Rising from the cliffside, the castle came into view, vast and ancient, its towers piercing the dusk like spires of a dream. Light spilled from tall windows, as though the stars themselves had come down to dwell behind stone. Its reflection shimmered on the black lake below, so perfectly mirrored it seemed the castle floated between two worlds. Harry stared, breath caught. He had heard the stories from Sirius and Remus. And now, here it was. Dazzling. Real.

Chapter Text

The boats touched shore with a soft scrape of wood on stone.

Harry climbed out, his legs a little stiff from sitting so long. The others followed, voices hushed by the scale of it all, the lake behind them vast, the castle rising ahead like something out of a dream.

Lanterns bobbed along the path, casting pools of gold on the gravel as the group trudged uphill. They reached a broad set of stone steps and mounted them slowly. The oak doors of the castle loomed ahead, with iron handles shaped like dragons curled into sleep.

And then they opened.

A tall woman stood waiting just beyond the threshold. She wore emerald-green robes fastened at the collar with a gold brooch, and her gaze moved over the gathering of students like someone taking inventory.

Professor McGonagall.

Her eyes paused just for a breath when they reached him. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for Harry to feel the weight of it.

Then she turned crisply on her heel. “Follow me.”

The entrance hall was massive. Stone arches stretched overhead, their ribs forming a high, vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, their light glinting off suits of armour that stood like silent sentries. The floor was smooth flagstone, worn pale where generations of feet had passed.

To Harry, it felt less like entering a school and more like crossing into the hollow chest of some ancient creature – vast, echoing, alive with memory.

They moved across the hall in quiet procession. Somewhere beyond the far wall came the low murmur of hundreds of voices, rising and falling like a distant tide.

McGonagall stopped in front of a pair of double doors and turned to face them.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said, her voice crisp and clear, slicing cleanly through the air. “In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and take your places in the Great Hall. But first, you will be Sorted into your Houses.”

A voice rang out, cutting through the silence. Clear. Rhythmic. And entirely out of place.

“A House that suits your traits the best,

Be brave, or kind, or slightly obsessed…”

McGonagall froze.

Draco Malfoy blinked innocently, though his mouth was still hanging open mid-verse. Behind him, the two boys with him stood red-faced, hands clamped over their mouths, one trembling with barely contained rhyme, the other looking ready to combust from the effort.

McGonagall turned very slowly. “Mr Malfoy,” she said, her tone icier than the lake. “Is there a reason you’ve decided to offer your own rendition of my address?”

Draco looked horrified. “I don’t know what you mean, Professor. It’s just… oh no… here comes another…”

“It’s not that I mean to offend,

But rhymes keep slipping out the end…”

He snapped his mouth shut with his hands.

There was a ripple of giggles. A snort came from the back. Harry, half-shadowed behind a stone pillar, was nearly doubled over.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you refrain from further… lyrical interjections. Unless, of course, you’d like me to compose a few verses. Detention-themed.”

A nervous murmur ran through the group. A sandy-haired boy stifled a laugh. A red-haired girl gave a pointed cough. Ron’s mouth hung open. He looked torn between horror and delight, as though Christmas had come early. Malfoy, meanwhile, was biting his tongue with herculean effort, while his friends had resorted to muffling each other, turning to a shade of puce.

Harry tried to school his face into something resembling solemnity.

“There are four Houses at Hogwarts,” McGonagall continued. “Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. While you are here, your House will be your family. Your triumphs will earn you points; your mistakes will lose them. At the end of the year, the House with the most points will win the House Cup.”

Harry barely heard the rest. His thoughts had snagged on the word family, and then on mistakes. He glanced at Hermione who was mouthing the House names under her breath like an incantation. Neville looked one startled breath away from fainting. Somewhere behind him, someone let out a hiccup of panic.

McGonagall’s eyes swept the crowd again. “The Sorting is very simple. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

A lie, obviously, Harry thought. But a well-delivered one.

She gave a sharp nod. “I will return shortly.”

And with that, she disappeared through the doors of the Great Hall, leaving the first-years in a tight, fidgeting knot in the corridor.

Professor McGonagall had returned, every line of her posture just as composed as when she left. With a short nod, she turned and led them forward.

The doors creaked open and the Great Hall rose around them, colossal as a palace, thrumming with magic.

Harry barely registered the stone beneath his feet. His gaze was pulled upward, drawn to a ceiling that wasn’t a ceiling at all, but sky. Vast and endless, scattered with stars, as if the night itself had followed them in and curled overhead like a watchful dome. Hundreds of candles floated mid-air, casting soft halos of light.

Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, each one crowded with students, their faces turned to watch the first-years file past. At the far end stood another table – broader, slightly raised, where the teachers sat.

Harry’s eyes scanned it. Dumbledore sat in the centre, unmistakable with his half-moon glasses and a silver beard that shimmered like frost. At one side was Hagrid, half-hidden behind a goblet the size of a cauldron. There was a witch with grey hair and a straw hat. That must be Professor Sprout. And…

Remus sat off to another side, a little apart from the cluster of staff. His threadbare robes looked out of place among the richness, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he held himself – hands folded, eyes calm. And those amber eyes found Harry.

A small nod.

Not a grand gesture. Nothing anyone else would notice. But to Harry, it was solid ground. He drew a breath and stood a little straighter.

They came to a stop before a short, three-legged stool. Upon it sat a hat, worn and ancient, with the weary dignity of something that remembered when the stones of Hogwarts were first laid.

A jagged rip near the brim widened and the hat began to sing.

“The four great founders long ago

Set out to build a school...”

Harry’s eyes drifted up again. It really was the sky. He could just make out the curve of the moon, pale and smudged like a thumbprint.

His gaze dropped to the crowd. Ron stood stiff beside him, hands clenched. Hermione looked as though she was mouthing the words, already trying to memorise them.

“Brave of heart and bold of deed,

Or wise of mind and thought...”

Harry let the words wash over him. He was trying to take in everything, the grandeur of it, the weight of it. The way the suits of armour along the far wall caught the candlelight. The scent of wax and something roasted. The thousand pairs of eyes watching them.

He realised, suddenly, that his parents had stood here too. Had his mum stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide? Had his dad nudged Sirius and whispered something ridiculous under his breath? Had Remus, younger and nervous, stood just like Neville stood now?

“The daring, kind, the clever and sly,

Each one must find their place…”

Harry’s thoughts stilled. Something in the words had reached out and caught him. A promise. A warning. Not just about traits. About choice.

Who you might become.

Who you might choose to be.

Harry’s fingers curled into the sleeve of his robe. He was listening now.

“So choose your House… but choose it true,

For House will shape what lies in you.

Yet mind this truth, for all your days:

The bravest hearts may lose their way.”

The final note curled into silence.

For a moment, no one moved. Then applause erupted, filling the Hall in a great wave of sound. Some clapped politely; others whooped and cheered, eager for the Sorting to begin.

The last line rang in Harry’s mind. He wasn’t sure why it unsettled him. Only that it had. He glanced at Remus again. But Remus wasn’t looking at him now.

The stool was waiting.

One by one, names were called. And one by one, students stepped forward to sit on the stool, the Sorting Hat lowered gently onto their heads by Professor McGonagall.

Harry watched, hands cold at his sides.

The two hulking boys who had flanked Malfoy on the train went up in quick succession. Vincent Crabbe, then Gregory Goyle. Now he had names for their scowls. Both looked slightly ill, cheeks bulging in obvious effort not to open their mouths. The Hat hadn’t even settled before it barked, “SLYTHERIN!”

When Hermione Granger was called, she nearly tripped over her own feet in her rush to reach the stool. She perched stiffly on the stool like she was taking an exam. The Hat paused, just long enough for the room to feel it. Then: “GRYFFINDOR!” She beamed and hurried to the table with red and gold banners, face flushed with triumph.

Neville Longbottom followed a few names later. The moment he was called, a ripple moved through the hall, whispers flitting like sparks, heads turning. Of course there were mutterings. Harry had expected them. Neville was the one who had defeated Voldemort.

At first, Neville hesitated like he might vanish into the floor if he stood still long enough. Then he drew a breath, braced himself, and walked to the front, shoulders tight with effort.

The Hat paused a second longer than it had for others, before declaring, “GRYFFINDOR!”

A cheer rose from the Gryffindor table. Neville stood and gave a small, jerky nod, more to himself than anyone, then turned. As he made his way across the hall, Harry caught the brief dip of Dumbledore’s head. A nod. Quiet, approving.

Harry’s chest tightened. Poor bloke. And if his name stirred that kind of attention, what would it be like when they called Harry Potter? The boy who was supposed to be dead?

Then came Malfoy. He made a show of swaggering to the stool, chin high, robes swishing like he thought they were lined with gold. His pale face stayed composed, but only just. Harry caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the clench of his jaw. Clearly, his mouth was still trying to rhyme, and Malfoy was holding it together by sheer pride.

The Hat didn’t dither. “SLYTHERIN!” it cried, almost gleeful.

Malfoy slid off the stool and strutted to the green and silver table like he’d just inherited the castle. For a moment, with that haughty tilt of his head and the cold glint in his eyes, he looked exactly like one of those raving ancestors of Sirius whose portraits had lined Grimmauld Place. Madness in miniature.

The line of first-years grew shorter with every name. Anticipation coiled tight in his chest, but it wasn’t excitement. It was dread. Each Sorting felt like a drumbeat ticking down to his turn.

Patil, Parvati… Patil, Padma…

And then…

“Potter, Harry.”

The name cracked through the hall like a spell. Then the whispers began.

“Harry Potter?”

“Did she say Potter?”

“But he’s supposed to be dead…”

“He’s alive?”

“I thought the Potters…”

Necks craned. Heads twisted. A thousand eyes searched the group of first-years. Harry closed his own.

The moment had come. His name was too wrapped up in history he barely remembered and a tragedy he hadn’t asked for. Still, it was his.

He opened his eyes. Lifted his chin. Stepped forward.

The walk to the stool felt longer than it was. The air in the Hall buzzed, charged like a storm. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. He sat. The stool creaked under his weight. Professor McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat onto his head.

And then everything went dark. Everything outside grew muted. Inside, a voice spoke. Old. Deep. Like a whisper buried in time, worn smooth by centuries of secrets.

“Harry Potter. Well, well… I wondered if I’d see you.”

Harry froze. His fingers tightened around the edge of the stool.

“Let’s see… Ambition, yes. Intelligence. Quick to assess danger. You’d go far in Slytherin.”

“Not looking to make friends by threatening them, thanks.”

“Ah… Sirius Black’s influence, I take it.”

Harry didn’t respond.

“Guarded, aren’t you? Doors shut tight. But not to keep me out. No… you’ve kept everyone out.”

“Should I have sent a welcome mat?”

“Wit. Sharp. Defensive. But that’s just fear wrapped in bramble. And loneliness.”

“You talk a lot. For a hat.”

“Prickly, too. But loyal. Fiercely so. That trust, though… it’s hard-earned. You don’t hand it out lightly. Still, underneath… you ache for it. Connection. Belonging.”

That stung more than he’d expected.

“Courage as well. Plenty of it. The sort that would walk into fire for someone you love. A touch of a hero complex?”

“No. Just don’t want to be a coward.”

“Resourceful. Cunning. You’d thrive in Slytherin… you’d never be powerless again.”

“Not interested.”

“Is it really disinterest? Or fear? You’re afraid of what it might mean if you end up there.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“Let’s not pretend. You’ve been angry for a long time. You don’t show it… but it’s there. Buried deep. That kind of anger… do you know where it lives? It shares a root with ambition. It’s kin to fear.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Aren’t you? You’re afraid of being alone. Of being forgotten. Of not being like them… your parents, the ones you lost. And maybe even the ones who stayed.”

That landed hard. He didn’t answer.

“Ah. There it is. You think if you don’t end up where they were… something’s broken in you. That maybe you don’t belong to them after all.”

His throat was tight. The words wouldn’t come.

“You could carve a path of your own… one they never even imagined. Use your magic to illuminate, not to overshadow. But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“I just don’t want to be like the ones who did it. The ones who killed them.”

“So not power, then. Just the opposite. You’re trying not to become what you fear.”

A pause.

“That’s courage of another kind.”

And then, aloud – clear, decisive:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was lifted from his head.

For a second, Harry didn’t move. His legs felt leaden beneath him, his chest tight with everything the Sorting Hat had dredged up. Then Professor McGonagall gave his shoulder a gentle nudge, and he slid off the stool.

The Gryffindor table erupted in polite applause, but it felt distant. Blurred. Harry looked towards it, uncertain. Students were still craning for a look. A few clapped a bit harder, a bit too eagerly. Then he spotted Neville, already seated, eyes wide with disbelief. Beside him sat Hermione, watching Harry with the same stunned curiosity.

Not quite ready to meet that sort of attention head-on, Harry veered to the side and walked a little farther down the table before slipping onto the bench near the end. He tried to seem unfazed.

From the staff table, Remus caught his eye. The man raised his goblet, slow and subtle. Harry gave a small nod back, the corners of his mouth twitching into the barest smile.

A few moments later, Ron was sorted into Gryffindor too. He stumbled down the steps and made his way to the table with a dazed expression, then slid in beside Neville without taking his eyes off Harry.

Harry looked down at his plate.

The sorting continued. A boy named Zabini was the last to be called. Dumbledore rose once it was done.

“Welcome, one and all,” he said. “To those who return… welcome home. And to those who are new… welcome at last.”

He spread his arms with a twinkle in his eye.

“Now… a few words. Snibble. Crumpet. Boddlefrot. Fizzwig.”

Everybody clapped and cheered.

The golden plates filled in an instant. Roast chicken, thick cuts of beef, buttery potatoes, glistening peas, jugs of pumpkin juice, bowls of strawberries and cream. The entire hall shimmered with warmth and spice and the clink of sudden motion.

Harry stared at it. His stomach gave no indication of interest.

The day had worn him thin. The Sorting Hat’s voice still echoed in his head. He reached for a piece of chicken, more out of habit than hunger.

And then…

Something swooped up from below the table.

“Bloody hell!” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

A ghost had risen, silvery and translucent, with a plumed ruff around his neck and a look of mild offence.

“Terribly sorry, didn’t mean to startle,” the ghost said, floating upright. “Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service.”

“Sir Nicholas,” Harry said, nodding politely. “Nice to meet you.”

The ghost gave a pleased little bow, his ruff billowing slightly. “Ah! A boy with manners. And you are?”

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

Sir Nicholas blinked, an odd thing, as his eyelids were slightly transparent. “Well, now. That explains the whispers.”

Harry shrugged. “I suppose it does.” He glanced around. Sure enough, several students were still whispering behind cupped hands.

It must’ve looked strange, him, chatting with a ghost, when people still weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t one. The thought struck him as funny.

Not funny in the ordinary sense, just absurd enough to feel like the universe was winking at him, daring him to laugh. His lips twitched despite himself. Madness or mirth, at this point, either would do. He turned back to Sir Nicholas, a touch more alive now, and leaned in as if they’d known each other for years.

“So, what’s it like being a House ghost? Do you get bored? Do you haunt other tables when Slytherin’s winning?”

Sir Nicholas chuckled, floating a little higher with pride. “Oh, I’m strictly loyal to Gryffindor. Though I do occasionally glide menacingly through the Hufflepuff salt bowls. Tradition.”

“Right,” Harry said seriously. “Important work.”

He kept chatting with Sir Nicholas between cautious bites of roast chicken, the ghost all too happy to share his encyclopaedic, if slightly embellished, knowledge of Hogwarts. He spoke of moving staircases and vanishing cabinets, secret passageways and overly emotional portraits, with the blustery pomp of a man who had once worn a powdered wig in court and never quite stopped performing. For all his fuss and flourish, though, he was oddly comforting, in the way only a ghost proud of his own botched beheading could be.

Harry cast a sideways glance down the Gryffindor table. Most of the students had returned to their food with the easy resilience of children, distracted by pudding, pumpkin juice, or the mild peril of roast potatoes flying across plates via overambitious serving spoons. Hermione was deep in conversation with a serious-looking redheaded boy wearing a Prefect badge on his chest, her brow furrowed in interest as she gestured towards the enchanted ceiling. Further down, Neville and Ron were chatting animatedly through mouthfuls of food, though both kept flicking looks in Harry’s direction.

Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, it was a different story.

Harry spotted Malfoy immediately, staring daggers at him with all the intensity of someone who clearly rehearsed in front of mirrors. But more satisfying was what followed: Crabbe and Goyle, oblivious as ever, had just helped themselves to the last of the Limerick Limes before Malfoy could stop them. His hand was still half-raised in warning, face frozen in alarm, as the two began chewing with gusto, utterly unaware that the rhyming was about to return.

Too late now.

Crabbe’s mouth moved in unmistakable rhythm, his heavy brow furrowed in a poetic sort of confusion, while Goyle’s cheeks puffed like he was preparing to sing an opera in couplets. Whatever rhymes they were producing, Harry couldn’t hear the words over the general din, but the expressions on their tablemates’ faces told the story. A few Slytherins were laughing helplessly, others watched with a kind of horrified fascination, and Malfoy looked like he might actually dissolve into aristocratic fury.

Harry didn’t laugh. But he did allow himself a small, perfectly smug smile. Then he turned back to Sir Nicholas, who was now launching into a dramatic tale involving the fourth-floor lavatory, a banshee and a love-sick suit of armour.

The feast ended in a glorious clatter of cutlery and chatter, dishes now scrubbed clean by unseen magic. Just as Harry was beginning to wonder if it was time to be marched off to bed, Dumbledore stood.

“I am most pleased to introduce this year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Please welcome Professor Lupin.”

At that, there was a polite round of applause. Harry clapped harder than the rest. Remus bowed his head modestly, and Harry could tell by the way his lips twitched that not only he’d heard the applause but felt it.

“Another matter before we all turn in,” Dumbledore said lightly. He gestured towards a pillar, behind which a hunched man with hollow cheeks and watchful eyes hovered, “Mr Filch, our devoted caretaker, has asked me to inform you that the list of banned items at Hogwarts has been… expanded. Again.”

There was a ripple of laughter, mostly from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables.

“If you’re curious, or perhaps concerned that your belongings fall within the category of ‘miscellaneous menace,’ the full list is available outside Mr Filch’s office. Reading it in its entirety may take some time…”

“I recommend snacks.” he added helpfully.

Filch looked scandalised at how little effect the list seemed to have. A cat glared from around his ankles, eyes glowing like vengeful coals.

Dumbledore continued serenely, as though Filch were not currently vibrating with silent outrage. “A brief reminder to all students that the forest on the grounds is, as ever, strictly forbidden. To everyone.”

“Now,” he said, with the air of someone delivering excellent news, “before we all go collapsing into our beds from exhaustion, I believe it’s time for the most important ceremony of all… the school song.”

There was an immediate groan from several quarters; enthusiastic from the Gryffindor end, theatrical from the Slytherin table. The Ravenclaws exchanged looks of quiet dread. The Hufflepuffs, bless them, actually seemed ready to sing.

The first-years simply looked bewildered.

“Everyone pick their favourite tune,” Dumbledore went on cheerfully, drawing his wand. “And off we go.”

With a casual flick, a long golden ribbon shot from the tip of his wand, curling into words high above the tables:

Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts…

At once, a dozen different melodies collided. A group of Gryffindors launched into a heroic marching anthem. Others bellowed sea shanties. One corner of the Ravenclaw table attempted a barbershop quartet, while a Hufflepuff trio sang in mournful harmony like they were at a funeral, and over in the far end of the Slytherin table, someone was definitely beatboxing.

Someone near Harry was belting the lyrics to the tune of “God Save the Queen,” and someone else had taken inspiration from a Weird Sisters ballad and added dramatic wailing.

Harry didn’t sing. He wasn’t sure he could, not through the grin spreading unwillingly across his face. He’d heard of the school song. Sirius had mentioned it, but he hadn’t imagined this. It was bedlam. Musical bedlam.

When the last note, somehow a bagpipe solo, finally wheezed to a halt, Dumbledore clapped with delight.

“Lovely,” he declared, as if they’d just performed at the Royal Albert Hall. “A performance to rival any enchantment. And now, off to bed!”

Harry had stood with the rest, preparing to join the first-years filing towards the doors, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

Remus.

“Alright?” he asked quietly.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Remus gave him a gentle, encouraging smile and then stepped back into the flow of teachers filing out.

Harry watched him go, that strange knot in his chest twisting tighter and looser at the same time.

Chapter Text

They were led from the Great Hall by the red-haired prefect who introduced himself crisply as Percy Weasley. “Head Boy candidate, if I keep my marks up,” he added, without a trace of irony.

The corridors were vast. Portraits dozed in their frames or watched them pass with murmured commentary. The route wound steadily upward, through a shifting maze of staircases and hallways, past arched windows lit with moonlight.

Harry stayed at the back of the line, his footsteps nearly soundless against the flagstones. He hadn’t meant to linger behind, but it suited him. No one asked questions if you didn’t walk near enough to hear them.

Finally, Percy stopped before a large portrait of a fat woman in a pink dress, who regarded them with obvious amusement.

“Password?” she said, hands on her hips.

“The password is Caput Draconis.” Percy turned to the group. “Remember it. It will change regularly, and you’ll need it to get inside.”

The portrait swung open to reveal a round hole in the wall. One by one, they scrambled through, emerging into the Gryffindor common room.

It was warm and circular, with a high ceiling and a wide hearth glowing with firelight. Squashy armchairs and comfortable sofas formed uneven circles around tables. The rugs were thick and mismatched, the wallpaper faded in places, but the whole room felt lived-in and comfortable, like something that had grown into itself over the centuries.

Percy led the way to the dormitories, reciting rules as he went. Without a backward glance at the rest of the group, Harry slipped ahead and climbed the narrow spiral staircase alone.

At the top, a wooden door creaked open to reveal five four-posters, each draped in deep red curtains, with heavy blankets folded neatly at the foot. Trunks had already been delivered and stood waiting at the base of each bed. An enchanted candle hovered by the door, flickering softly in welcome.

Harry’s trunk sat beneath the bed by the window.

He crossed the room and sat on it without a word. Through the mullioned glass, he could see the moonlight stretched thin across the Black Lake.

He exhaled. Removed his shoes. Let the silence settle.

And then… Footsteps on the stairs.

Voices.

The door swung open and in walked Ron, followed closely by Neville, and two other boys Harry hadn’t yet spoken to. One tall and wiry, the other shorter with a mop of sandy hair.

They stopped just inside the doorway. Looked at him. Ron’s freckles stood out sharply against his pale face.

It didn’t take long for the first question to land. The first of what would almost certainly be a lifetime’s worth.

“So… You’re Harry Potter.” Ron stared. His voice, when he spoke again, was more uncertain than accusing. “You said your name was Palmer.”

Harry didn’t move from the bed. He looked up at them and tilted his head, like he was seeing the question from the wrong end of a telescope.

“I did.”

Ron blinked. “But… you’re Harry Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “Apparently.”

“But… you’re supposed to be dead.”

“Not currently.”

Neville made a small sound like a laugh that didn’t quite make it out, and shifted his weight awkwardly. He looked stricken. “But how did you… I mean, your family…”

“The Potters were killed,” Ron cut in. “All of them. In Godric’s Hollow.”

“I know,” Harry said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really get it either. But I’m alive. Pretty sure about that part.”

Ron frowned. “Then why lie? You sat with us the whole train ride.”

Harry shrugged. “If I’d said ‘Hi, I’m Harry Potter,’ what do you think would’ve happened?”

They didn’t answer.

“Exactly.”

An awkward silence settled over the room. Like they’d stumbled into something that had been waiting in the dark. Somewhere in Ron’s pocket, Scabbers gave a few soft, squealing protests, thin, reedy sounds that didn’t help.

Eventually, the sandy-haired boy spoke up. “Well, it’s mad, isn’t it? You turning up after all this time. I mean… it’s not bad mad. Just… mad.”

The tall boy beside him, dark-skinned, thoughtful-looking, nodded slowly. “Suppose if I’d been missing ten years, I’d have used a fake name too.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m Dean, by the way. That’s Seamus.”

Harry gave a small nod. Deadpan. “Hello. Harry Potter.”

That earned a few snorts. Nervous laughter flickered in the space between them.

Ron scratched the back of his head. “You know, you’re completely mental.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Takes one to know one, I suppose.”

That broke the tension properly. Dean gave a soft chuckle. Seamus let out a wheezy laugh like he’d been holding it in too long. Even Neville smiled faintly.

And just like that, the sharp edges of the room dulled a little. Not gone. But slightly softened.

The corridors were near silent at this hour. Harry made his way down from Gryffindor Tower. Here and there, suits of armour stirred faintly as he passed, and the portraits along the staircases murmured in their sleep before drifting back into painted dreams.

The Great Hall was nearly empty.

Sunlight slanted through the high windows in long golden stripes, pooling on the flagstone floor and catching on floating motes of dust. The ceiling above still mirrored the outside sky, pale blue with streaks of early cloud, and the four long house tables stretched out like bridges into the morning light.

Only a few students dotted the space. An older girl at the Ravenclaw table hunched over a book and a bowl of porridge. Two Hufflepuff boys sat far down their table sharing a quiet laugh over toast. The staff table was empty, save for Professor Sprout, who appeared to be examining a stack of damp herb cuttings while sipping tea.

Harry drifted to the Gryffindor table and sat at the end. Plates and bowls appeared with a soft shimmer. He poured himself a cup of tea and let the steam curl up to his face.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until she was nearly beside him.

“Good morning,” said a voice, a little breathless.

He looked up. Hermione Granger.

“Hi,” he said.

She sat across from him, carefully arranging her books on the bench before reaching for a bowl of porridge.

“I thought you might come down early,” she said. “First day and all. I barely slept… too excited.”

Harry gave a polite nod.

She stirred her porridge, eyes still on him.

“I read about you last night,” she said.

Harry looked up, a bit startled.

“In Modern Magical History,” she went on. “And Famous Magical Families of Britain. And The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.” She paused. “All three say you died.”

Harry blinked. “Oh.”

“They were quite definite, actually,” she added, with the faint edge of someone who very much disliked being told three books were wrong. “Killed with your parents. On Halloween night. 1981.”

He chewed a mouthful of toast, then said lightly, “Books can be wrong, you know.”

Hermione stared at him as if he’d just insulted the entire written word.

“I mean,” he said, gesturing vaguely between his cup and his very-much-alive self, “seems like a fairly large oversight, doesn’t it?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, with a slight huff, she scooted an inch away along the bench, rummaged in her bag, and pulled out The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. She flipped it open with purpose and began scanning the pages, muttering under her breath.

Harry watched her with quiet amusement. He bit into another piece of toast and leaned back a little, letting the comfort of the warm hall settle into his shoulders.

The Great Hall gradually stirred to life.

First came the trickle of students still rubbing sleep from their eyes, slumping onto benches with yawns and muttered greetings. Then the chatter began to rise, slow and groggy at first, building with each passing minute.

People were looking at him.

Not the way they had last night, but enough. A glance here, a nudge there. Thankfully, no one else approached.

Hermione remained absorbed in her book, lips pursed in silent reading, one finger trailing down the page. She didn’t so much as glance up when a large barn owl dropped a newspaper right onto her porridge.

Harry nursed his second cup of tea.

A while later, the other first-years from Gryffindor trickled in all looking rumpled but alert. They slid onto the benches around him with easy nods and tired “mornings. Ron grabbed a kipper. Neville accidentally poured pumpkin juice into his cereal but looked determined to pretend he hadn’t. Dean and Seamus were still grinning from some shared joke.

It was only near the end of breakfast that he noticed Remus had arrived at the staff table. He looked pale but tidy, a steaming cup clutched between both hands. He caught Harry’s eye across the hall, and Harry mouthed good morning.

Remus smiled.

A few moments later, Professor McGonagall descended from the dais, her tartan robes swishing crisply behind her. She held a neat stack of timetables, which she began to distribute with brisk efficiency.

Harry instinctively sat up straighter as she approached. She handed him his schedule without pause, but he thought he caught a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

He glanced down at the timetable. First lesson: double Potions.

With the Slytherins.

Of course.

Why not start the term with misery?

Harry had to bolt from the Great Hall before breakfast was properly over. In his rush to escape attention, he’d forgotten his bag under his bed.

By the time he tore back down from the Gryffindor dormitory, nearly tripping over a trick stair on the third-floor landing and doubling back twice after losing count of turns, he was fairly certain he’d missed the start of class. The castle was a maze of staircases that didn’t behave, portraits that offered opinions rather than directions, and corridors that looped like someone had charmed the floorplan out of spite. He finally stumbled upon a patrolling prefect and managed to extract the location of the dungeons from her in between panting breaths.

The descent was worse than he’d imagined.

The air grew colder with every step. The stone underfoot was slick in places, wet from seeping moisture. Shadows stretched long along the walls, torchlight barely flickering through the gloom. A strange, sharp scent lingered in the air, something metallic and sour, like tincture and old vinegar.

By the time he found the classroom, Harry was breathless and damp with sweat. The door was shut. Through the narrow glass pane he could see students already seated in rows.

He knocked. The door creaked open.

The room was cold and quiet. Harry spotted Ron further up, red-eared and glowering. Everyone else was seated. Only Neville stood, rigid, hands twisted like he’d tried to defend himself and failed. He looked perilously close to tears. The Slytherins were sniggering.

Snape didn’t speak right away. He looked up from the roll, his gaze drifting over Harry, from his untidy hair to the hem of his robes, before halting at his eyes. A faint sneer curled at the corner of his mouth, as though the very sight of him were some personal offence.

“Well,” he said, voice like oiled hinges, “how fashionable of you to arrive at your convenience.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I got… lost.”

“How terribly tragic. And entirely original, considering the rest of your housemates arrived on time.”

Harry kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“This is not a playground,” Snape snapped. “Five points from Gryffindor for your tardiness, and another five for the insult to my intelligence.”

Harry slid into an empty seat at the back, heat prickling at his neck.

Snape turned back to the roll. He called the last name, then slammed the register shut.

“Potter. Since you’re already so determined to make an impression… what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry blinked. “Er…”

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Snape lazily. “That was the only first question.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Let’s try something simpler. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry’s ears burned. “It’s a stone. From a goat’s stomach.”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “The first useful thing out of your mouth all morning. How miraculous.”

A few Slytherins snorted. Malfoy gave an exaggerated slow clap.

“And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry hesitated. “I read… they’re picked at different times of the day, I think? Or maybe they’re not? I’m not sure, sir.”

Snape smiled thinly, like someone baring their teeth. “Astonishing. You managed to read half a sentence. Shall we alert the Prophet?”

Harry said nothing. His nails dug into the wood of the bench.

“Five more points from Gryffindor. For ignorance, and for being a waste of time.”

Hermione’s hand had been in the air since the first question. Snape’s gaze slid towards her, dangerous and slow.

“What is it, Miss Granger?”

“I… I know the answer, sir.”

“Of course you do. But sadly, I didn’t ask you.”

She wilted, hand falling.

“And for your inability to wait your turn,” he said coldly, “five points from Gryffindor.”

She gasped.

Harry was fuming. His hands were clenched under the desk, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the man at the front of the room. Snape had just humiliated Neville, dismissed Hermione, and docked points from Harry before he’d even sat down. The injustice of it burned.

He glared and for a moment, their eyes met. He muttered under his breath. “Now I know why they called you Snivellus.”

Snape stilled.

It was barely a whisper. There was no way he could have heard it. But…

His sneer faltered. His eyes widened, but it was there. A flicker of surprise. As if… he’d heard the thought before it ever passed Harry’s lips.

“What did you say?” Snape’s voice was low. Dangerous.

Harry blinked. His heart was hammering, but his face stayed blank.

“Nothing.”

But it was too late. His voice dropped, nearly a hiss. “You arrogant little… Ten more points. And detention. Tonight. You will report to me. And believe me, Potter… it will not be pleasant.”

There was a stunned silence. Even the Slytherins were still.

Snape turned sharply and began scrawling instructions on the board. Harry stood rigid, pulse hammering in his ears.

The lesson had only just begun.

Harry had thought it couldn’t get any worse. That, apparently, had been an optimistic assumption.

Snape asked them to divide into pairs, and for a moment, it looked like Hermione was the only one left unpaired. Harry had taken a step in her direction, but Snape cut in, and reassigned them. Ron with Hermione. Harry with Neville. It felt deliberate.

The haze from all the simmering cauldrons made it hard to read the instructions on the board. Neville was a bundle of nerves and determination, fiercely trying to prove he wasn’t a waste of space, that he hadn’t earned his place by accident or by name.  He diced with vigour and skipped lines with the same energy. He added the snake fangs before Harry had even crushed the nettles. At one point he nearly tossed in a handful of normal slugs instead of the horned ones.

Snape hovered like a vulture. Every time he passed, Neville’s measuring spoon slipped or his knife wobbled. Porcupine quills ended up on the floor. Dried roots floated across the table. It didn’t help.

Hermione, seated behind them, seemed to realise as much. She began muttering the instructions under her breath, barely loud enough to be heard. Harry caught fragments, timed their additions, blocked Neville when necessary. Between her whispered guidance and Harry’s frantic attempts to keep Neville from dumping anything else into the cauldron, their potion now resembled something merely unpleasant, instead of actively dangerous.

Snape paused at the Slytherin benches, watching closely, but without the cold scrutiny he reserved for others. When Malfoy stirred counter-clockwise with neat precision, Snape gave a curt nod. “Good. Just like that.”

But when Hermione’s potion turned the ideal shade well before anyone else’s, he said nothing.

Harry was wiping the sweat from his brow when Snape drifted over to their potion for the final inspection.

“Let us see,” said Snape silkily, “what wonders our resident celebrity,” he inclined his head faintly towards Neville, “and Mr Late-but-Legendary have managed.”

He took one look at the cloudy, half-curdled potion and gave an expression of disgust so pointed it might have curdled it further. With a flick of his wand, the contents vanished in a plume of acrid steam.

“Pathetic,” he muttered. “Five points from Gryffindor. For your collective inability to read English.”

Harry said nothing. He’d never been more relieved to hear the bell.

Compared to Potions, History of Magic was almost peaceful. It just wore you down, like a slowly dripping tap. Or a very polite form of torture.

Professor Binns had floated through the blackboard ten minutes late. Harry, who’d never seen a ghost teaching a lesson before, stared openly. The man, or what was left of him, seemed to have no idea he was dead, nor any interest in the fact that a dozen eleven-year-olds were blinking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“And so,” Binns intoned, voice thin and wheezy, “the Subdivision of Goblin Voting Rights, as ratified under the Unified Charter of Magical Beings, Section Twelve, Clause Nine…”

After the grim tension of Snape’s dungeon, the suffocating monotony came almost as a relief, at least Binns wasn’t deducting points for breathing too loudly.

Dean gave up early and doodled goalposts. Seamus folded his parchment into an origami frog and was attempting to balance it on his quill. Hermione sat stiff-backed and furious, scribbling line after line as if determined to master boredom by brute force.

A girl Harry was fairly sure was Parvati Patil, was whispering with her friend, whose name he hadn’t quite caught. Lavender, maybe? The two of them had abandoned all pretence of note-taking and were now giggling behind their hands. Whether at Professor Binns or Seamus’s paper frog, Harry couldn’t tell.

Harry, meanwhile, drifted.

His head drooped. His notes turned into loops. And suddenly…

He was on a battlefield, astride a warthog wearing chainmail, leading an army of goblins armed with soup ladles and old cauldrons. “For Clause Nine!” he shouted, waving a jellybean standard. A particularly fierce goblin rode a teapot into battle.

“…and thus the rebellion was quelled,” came Binns’s voice, dragging Harry half-awake.

He blinked blearily at his parchment. He had scrawled The Teapot Accords in the margins.

When the bell finally rang, it felt like being released from a particularly dull curse. Chairs scraped. Bags thudded shut. ‘I’ve forgotten how to feel feelings,’ Ron groaned. Neville gave a real laugh, the first one all morning.

Harry yawned so wide his jaw cracked, then muttered, “At least we didn’t lose any points for existing.”

They filed out, stomachs growling, and the faint whisper of Binns's voice followed them. The professor hadn’t noticed class was over.

Lunch in the Great Hall was a clamour of voices and clattering cutlery. The Gryffindor first-years trickled in.

Ron and Neville were deep in discussion about chocolate frog cards, Neville beaming as Ron handed over a spare Dumbledore. Dean and Seamus peeled off to the side, snickering about something Harry hadn’t heard, while Parvati and her friend Lavender veered towards the end of the bench, their heads already bent in shared, secret laughter. Three of the girls Harry hadn’t properly spoken to yet settled opposite them, leaning in close to compare notes on something that involved a lot of dramatic hand gestures. Hermione was the last to sit, already opening a book before she even reached the bench.

Harry hung back a second longer than necessary, letting them sort themselves out. He wasn’t sure where he fit yet. Eventually, he slid in beside Ron and Neville, who made room without hesitation.

He’d barely picked up a fork before a shadow loomed over the table.

“Mr Potter.”

Harry froze.

Professor McGonagall was standing behind him, her expression carved from granite.

He shot upright in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over the pumpkin juice.

“I’ve just come from speaking with Professor Snape,” she said, every syllable clipped and cold. “Would you care to explain what prompted your detention?”

Every Gryffindor within earshot suddenly found their peas very interesting.

“I…” Harry’s mouth was dry. “I’m sorry, Professor. It was my fault.”

McGonagall’s nostrils flared. “That much is clear.”

She paused, just long enough for the weight of it to land.

“This is your second day at Hogwarts. I had hoped to go longer than twenty-four hours before being informed that one of house had mouthed off to a member of staff.”

Harry’s ears burned. He didn’t try to defend himself. He couldn’t.

“I’ve arranged for your detention to be served with me,” she said. “Seven o’clock sharp. Do not be late.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Professor.”

“Good.” She straightened, gave him one last look, and swept away.

The silence held for a beat. Then the conversation started again, but lower now, and with frequent glances in Harry’s direction.

Ron muttered, “Blimey.”

Neville gave him a sympathetic wince. “She’s terrifying,” he whispered. “But she’s fair. You’ll probably just have to write lines or something.”

Harry didn’t answer. He sank slowly back onto the bench. His hands were clammy. His chest tight.

It wasn’t the detention that stung.

It was the way she’d looked at him, not just angry, but disappointed, like she’d hoped he was better. And what stung more was the absence of surprise, as if deep down, she’d always known it would come to this.

Harry had just managed a few bites of roast potato, eating without tasting, when he heard it. The unmistakable sound of exaggerated footsteps.

“Make way…”

“Coming through…”

“We have business with the King of Detentions.”

Before Harry could react, two red-haired boys slid on either side of him with the ease of a well-rehearsed stunt. One slung an arm round his shoulders. The other dropped a handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans into his lap like a tribute.

He froze, fork suspended mid-air.

“Congratulations,” said the one on his right, voice full of cheerful solemnity.

“Truly,” said the one on the left, “we’re honoured to witness history.”

Harry blinked at them.

“You’ve broken our personal best,” the right-side twin explained. “First detention of term, day one, after dinner.”

“We thought the record would stand the test of time,” said the left.

Harry cleared his throat. “I… didn’t mean to?”

The one on the left gave a sympathetic nod. “Neither did we. We were just testing if our new fireworks worked underwater.”

“They do,” said the right proudly.

“Anyway,” said the left twin, offering a hand. “I’m George.”

“And I’m Fred,” said the right, shaking Harry’s dazed hand before he could decide if it was a trap. “Or maybe the other way round. Difficult to say.”

The other first-years were watching with wide eyes, equal parts scandalised and impressed. Ron groaned, face hovering an inch above his mashed potatoes. “Can you not adopt him in public?”

“You’ll get used to the attention,” said Fred, patting Harry’s cheek. “Comes with the territory.”

“Either way, you’re in excellent company now,” George added, tossing a Bertie Bott’s into his mouth without looking.

“Welcome to Gryffindor. May your robes never catch fire.”

From a little way down the table, Hermione gave them a look like she was mentally drafting a letter to the Headmaster. “You’re not supposed to encourage rule-breaking. It sets a poor example…”

Fred raised his hand. “Ah! A voice of caution.”

George mirrored him. “We value that deeply.”

“Not enough to listen, mind you.”

Hermione huffed and turned back to her book, flipping the page a little too forcefully.

Fred gave Harry a conspiratorial nudge. “We like her. She’ll keep the rest of you alive.”

George nodded. “Probably against her will.”

Then they stood, smooth as choreography.

“Right, we’ve said our piece.”

“And he hasn’t hexed us yet…”

“So clearly destined for great things.”

With twin salutes, they turned and disappeared into the crowd, their path marked by trailing laughter and a floating spoon that probably hadn’t started floating on its own.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure if he’d just been recruited or inducted. He glanced sideways at Ron. “Are they always like that?”

Ron didn’t even look up. “Worse.”

After lunch, they made their way up several staircases to the Astronomy Tower. The classroom sat just below the tower’s peak. Its stone walls, tall arched windows, and high ceilings were etched with old constellations that flickered softly, as if inked in starlight. This wasn’t the practical session. Just theory, for now.

The Ravenclaws were already seated when they arrived, gathered with unconscious symmetry along the far row. There was something unmistakably different about them. Not their robes or posture, but the way they leaned into the subject, already deep in quiet concentration before the lesson had properly begun. One boy, Boot, Harry thought, was consulting his notes like he was cramming for an exam no one else had heard of. Padma Patil had conjured a starlit diagram in the margins of her parchment, purely for decoration, but so neat it looked like it belonged in a textbook.

Harry took a seat beside Hermione, who had already spread out her parchment and aligned her ink bottle with geometric precision.

The class was... fine. Almost soothing. Professor Sinistra, a pale woman with owl-like eyes and a voice like sand sliding through glass, lectured calmly on angular motion, lunar cycles, orbital eccentricities. Harry could actually follow most of it.

Still, he wasn’t used to writing with a quill. His notes were a blotchy, looping disaster. Ink pooled in the corners and smudged under his palm. A sideways glance showed Hermione’s parchment: rows of elegant script, perfectly spaced and colour-coded, her quill moving at near-supernatural speed.

He wasn’t sure if he was impressed, intimidated, or mildly alarmed.

Probably all three.

When the class ended, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws spilled out together. They walked down three staircases, books tucked under their arms, voices rising in eager speculation.

“Bet it’s duelling,” said Seamus, eyes gleaming.

“Or jinxing a nose clean off,” Ron added, far too hopefully.

Neville looked uneasy. “He wouldn’t start with curses, would he?”

Up ahead, the Ravenclaws were deep in their own theories. Terry Boot was flipping through the textbook as he walked, while Su Li read over his shoulder. “We’re meant to begin with dark creatures,” he murmured. “Probably vampires. Or maybe zombies.”

Harry didn’t join in. He already knew Remus, the kind of teacher who made even the hardest things feel like they made sense.

Still, his chest buzzed with a nervous energy he couldn’t shake.

He wanted them to see it, that calm brilliance, the kindness beneath the quiet. To hear the steadiness in Remus’s voice and know it for what it was. Because some hopes shone too gently to survive being overlooked.

The lesson was extraordinary. Harry needn’t have worried at all.

Remus began with a brisk roll call, pausing now and then to smile at a name or correct a pronunciation. Then he closed the register and stepped into the middle of the room, sleeves rolled back, as if inviting them all to lean closer.

“I thought we’d alternate,” he said simply. “One week on creatures, the next on spells. Defence is a wide subject, and I’d rather we explored it like a landscape… something to walk through… than grind through a list of things to memorise.”

That got their attention. Even the ones who’d slouched in expecting another plodding lecture now sat up straighter, caught by something in the calm clarity of his voice.

They began with vampires.

But it wasn’t dry theory or textbook recitation. Remus spoke like a storyteller. He traced the roots of vampire myths across countries and centuries, weaving in facts so effortlessly that they barely noticed they were learning. He explained the difference between the wild folklore and the real threats. How much of the fear came from ignorance, how much from truth. He conjured neat diagrams in the air with his wand, clean and annotated, each one vanishing in wisps of chalk-like smoke as he moved on.

He handed out notes near the end. Succinct, and actually useful. And then, almost as an afterthought, said there’d be no homework.

A collective sigh swept the room. After the piles of calculations from Sinistra and Snape’s three-foot essay, it felt like an act of mercy.

When the bell rang, no one leapt up to leave. There was a ripple of reluctant motion, as if they’d only just remembered they had somewhere else to be. Harry found himself grinning wide, and not even trying to hide it. Around him, the room hummed with bright chatter. Dean and Seamus were already speculating about werewolves, Neville was trying to sketch one of the diagrams from memory, and even Hermione looked quietly thrilled, her arms folded but her eyes alight.

“He’s brilliant,” Ron muttered as they packed up.

“I know,” Harry said.

As they began filing out, Remus looked up from his desk and gave Harry a small nod.

“Harry… would you stay behind a moment?”

As the door clicked shut behind the last of the students, the room fell still. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows. Remus folded his hands on the desk and looked up, his expression unreadable.

“I heard from Professor McGonagall,” he said, “that you’ve already landed yourself in detention.”

Harry flushed. His smile vanished in an instant. He didn’t answer.

Remus watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh. “I’m not here to scold,” he said. “Only… since it’s just us… if you want to tell me what happened.”

Harry hesitated. The quiet in the room felt suddenly heavy. He met Remus’s eyes for a moment, then looked away.

“I… I was wrong,” he admitted finally. “I shouldn’t’ve said Snivellus. I know that. But still… He took fifteen points from Gryffindor. And he took five from Hermione just for raising her hand.” His voice tightened. “It wasn’t fair.”

“No,” Remus said gently. “It wasn’t.”

That surprised Harry more than anything.

“But,” Remus continued, “unfairness doesn’t give you licence to lose your head. I know it’s difficult. I know he might push you… and I’m not going to pretend there isn’t history there. But when a teacher is in the room, Harry, the power is already uneven. Words from you carry consequences. Even if those words feel right at the time.”

Harry frowned. He knew this, somewhere in the back of his mind. But it was different hearing it from Remus, not angry, not patronising. Just quiet truth.

Remus tilted his head. “You remember the book I gave you?”

Harry nodded.

“This is one of those moments it was written for.”

“I’ll try,” Harry said, and meant it.

Remus’s expression softened. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

He rose, “Now… off with you. Write to Sirius tonight, will you? Otherwise he’ll assume something’s gone terribly wrong and come marching up the front steps with Kreacher in tow.”

Harry laughed despite himself. “He wouldn’t.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t he?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah. He would.”

Chapter Text

Harry stepped away from the Gryffindor table, still half-smiling at something Neville had said. He slipped out before dessert, not wanting to be late for detention. The Great Hall's warm chatter faded behind him as he crossed the Entrance Hall.

He was halfway to the marble staircase when he heard footsteps. He turned the corner and stopped.

Malfoy stepped out from the shadows near a torch bracket, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like particularly dim gargoyles. His wand was already in his hand.

“Going somewhere, Potter? Or should I say Palmer?” Malfoy drawled.

Harry’s eyes flicked from the wand to Malfoy’s face. He didn’t answer.

Malfoy lips curled. “Those chocolates on the train. You think you’re clever, do you?”

Harry tilted his head. “Depends who I’m being compared to.”

Malfoy didn’t smile. “Thought you could make a fool of me and get away with it?”

Harry shrugged lightly. “Didn’t take much effort.”

Malfoy stepped closer. “Let’s settle this properly. Wizard’s duel. Unless you’re scared?”

Harry’s eyes dropped pointedly to the wand in Malfoy’s hand, then flicked back up, calm. “You realise when you start with your wand drawn, it just looks like you think you’ll lose.”

That landed. Malfoy hesitated and Harry stepped into the silence before it could harden.

“Want to hear something strange, Malfoy?” His voice was almost thoughtful. “All these whispers flying around. About me. That I was supposed to be dead. That I shouldn’t even be here. That something… happened.”

He drew a slow breath. “I’m not saying I believe the rumours. But do you really want to find out? Because when I draw my wand… it’s not for show. I like it too much. Long story there. But if I did… are you sure you want to be on the other end of it?”

The torchlight flickered. Crabbe shifted uneasily. Malfoy tried to scoff, but the sound landed thin.

“You’re bluffing,” he muttered. “You’re just some… some fluke.”

Harry didn’t reply. He just gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and walked away without looking back. He counted each step, waiting for the hex between his shoulders.

But none came.

Malfoy didn’t follow. Too busy calculating risk versus reward, Harry figured.

Only when he turned the next corner did he let out a breath. His stomach had curled into a knot, and his palms were damp.

Bluffing. Every bit of it. He’d been bluffing so hard he could’ve sold broomsticks to centaurs.

Still… it worked, didn’t it?

Alright… so being dead had its perks.

Harry arrived fifteen minutes early, nerves prickling like static. He paused outside the heavy wooden door, debating whether knocking early made him look eager, or guilty. Eventually, he gave in and knocked.

“Enter,” came the crisp reply.

McGonagall was seated at her desk, her square spectacles perched low on her nose as she examined a stack of parchment. On the low table nearby sat a wooden tray stacked with folders – aged, yellowing ones that looked as though they’d been retrieved from the bottom of a cupboard.

“Mr Potter,” she said without looking up, “since you're early, you may begin with these.” She gestured to the folders.

Harry stepped forward. “What are they?”

“Disciplinary records. Mr Filch is thorough… if not always legible… and I like my paperwork categorised. Alphabetically, by offence type, with dates noted in the upper-right corner.”

Harry sat in the chair near the small table she’d indicated and pulled the stack towards him. The first folder contained a report titled “Fawcett, S. – Second Floor Bathroom – Reversal Charm Mishap.”

He blinked.

So that’s what detention looked like at Hogwarts.

For a while, the office was quiet save for the scratch of McGonagall’s quill and the soft rustle of parchment. Harry sifted through reports, scribbled dates in the margins, and tried not to lose focus when he came across entries like “Weasley, F and Weasley, G. – Third Floor Corridor – Ink Tide Charm.”

Now and then, he glanced at McGonagall. She hadn’t spoken in what felt like over an hour, wholly absorbed in a stack of lesson schedules. Every so often, she’d scribble a note or make a small, approving noise, like she was grading the timetables themselves.

Eventually, without looking up, she spoke. “I presume you brought the book I gave you.”

“I did,” Harry said quickly, setting down the file he’d been holding and pulling the Transfiguration text from his satchel. He handed the book over.

“As I said,” she continued, “I expect annotations, your own thoughts, and any questions you encountered while reading. You had the benefit of an early start.”

“I added my own notes,” he said. “I got a bit carried away with one of the chapters… about nested objects and recursive transfigurations. That part reminded me of something Sirius once said about cursed boxes inside cursed boxes. So I tried working out how that might work in theory.”

Her mouth twitched in what might’ve been the beginning of a smile. “Did you, now?”

While she read, Harry returned to the files, but his attention was divided now. He kept flicking glances at her, trying to read her reaction. She furrowed her brow at one note, nodded faintly at another. A page turned. Another pause.

At last, she looked up.

“Mr Potter, come here.”

He did, brushing dust from his hands as he stepped to her desk.

“What you’ve done here,” she said, tapping one of the margins, “with the spiral transformation… linking an object’s physical structure to a layered symbolic mapping… that’s not in any standard textbook. Where did you come across this?”

He shrugged. “Like I said… Sirius. He was rambling about magical artefacts and how sometimes what matters isn’t what they are, but what they mean. And it sort of clicked with the idea of formula-weighted casting you mentioned in your notes.”

McGonagall gave him a long look. Something unreadable passed through her eyes, surprise, perhaps.

“Your logic holds,” she said simply. Then she stood. “Let’s move on.”

The rest of the hour passed not in silence, but in the hum of focused magic.

McGonagall produced a selection of matchsticks and set them neatly in a row on the table.

“We begin with the fundamentals. Matchstick to needle.”

The transfiguration was subtle, requiring a steady grip, a clear visualisation, and a precise flick that Harry fumbled at first. He’d practised the theory for months now, under Sirius’s sharp-eyed improvisations and Remus’s quiet, exacting corrections. He knew the principles backwards: intent, structure, symbolic congruence.

But this was different.

With a wand in hand, the magic didn’t just obey knowledge, it demanded presence. Precision. Control. The matchstick quivered and stubbornly stayed a match. Frustration prickled.

McGonagall said nothing, and that unreadable stillness of hers that somehow felt more watchful than a thousand words.

So he breathed. Slowed himself. Let the impatience settle like dust.

He pictured the needle, its length, its shine, the cool resistance of it between two fingers. He shaped the image in his mind, called it forward with the intent behind the spell, not just the result, but the why. Then, with that quiet warmth rising in his chest, he tried again.

This time, the matchstick shifted. Slendered. Shimmered. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it gleamed with promise.

He adjusted and tried again. And again. Until at last, a needle lay on the desk – sleek, sharp, silver.

Then mice into snuffboxes. Trickier, that. The creature’s nervous twitching made the magic stutter. Twice his snuffbox had whiskers.

By the end of it, his wrist ached and his focus was fraying, but his confidence had settled. The magic no longer felt like something to wrestle or chase. It was there, steady under his skin. Like he’d taken a step closer to it. And it had stepped towards him in return.

Harry wasn’t sure if this was still detention, or something else entirely. Maybe McGonagall tested other students like this too, those she thought worth the effort.

By the time the bell in the clocktower tolled nine, his shoulders were stiff, and his eyes felt like they’d been sandpapered.

McGonagall gave him a final nod. “That will do for tonight.”

He gathered his things, still half-buzzing with the strange thrill of it. Magic. Real, deliberate, controlled magic. Not just something that happened when he was upset or startled. This had been something else entirely.

“Thank you, Professor.”

"You’ll finish categorising Mr Filch’s catalogue of catastrophe this time next week,” said McGonagall. “And I expect your notes on tonight’s work by then. If time permits, we’ll continue."

Harry nodded and stepped towards the door.

“And, Harry?”

He turned back.

“Well done.”

He left the office grinning and there was a lift in his step that hadn’t been there before.

The fire had long since died down to a bed of faintly glowing embers, and the common room wore its hush like a second skin.

Harry blinked blearily at his star chart, and shifted to shade in the final lines of Altair and Vega. His hand cramped halfway through Deneb, but he pressed on. Professor Sinistra had said accuracy mattered more than artistry, but his stars looked like they'd been plotted during a minor earthquake.

He set his quill down and flexed his fingers. A glance at the clock on the mantel made his stomach sink. Nearly half-past eleven.

Snape's essay still sat on the table beside him, the parchment too white and too empty for comfort. He had managed a heading, a paragraph and a half, then scratched most of it out in frustration. The words had felt stiff and wrong, as if Snape might materialise out of the shadows just to sneer at them. He slipped the essay back into his bag, a quiet decision not to wrestle with it tonight. Better done with a clearer head.

Pulling a fresh bit of parchment towards him, he began to write.

Dear Sirius,

Made it through the first day alive. Mostly. Not expelled yet either, though Snape may already be plotting. I got sorted into Gryffindor. So technically I’m allowed to cover everything I own in red and gold now. Thought I might charm my walls to scream “bravery” every hour. Or just find whatever spell you used to turn your room into a lion’s stomach and do the opposite.

His handwriting grew messier the more he wrote. He signed it with a flourish, then folded the letter neatly and set it aside, to send with Hedwig in the morning.

The common room had gone utterly still. The squashy armchairs sat like dozing sentinels, and the fire let out a soft pop as a coal collapsed.

Harry gathered his things and made his way up the stairs, rubbing at his eyes. The dormitory was dark when he entered, but moonlight spilled across the floor in silver puddles. Ron was snoring softly behind his curtains. Trevor was croaking triumphantly from somewhere he clearly wasn’t meant to be.

Dean’s West Ham poster rustled faintly in the breeze. Harry hadn’t noticed it before. Dean must’ve put it up tonight. He gave the poster a long, withering look.

“Traitor,” he muttered, unclear whether he meant Dean or the players. Still, he gave it a grumpy little nod, as if to say fine, have your moment, and collapsed into his bed.

Harry was late. He’d bolted upright in bed to find the dormitory empty and sunlight streaming in, hazy and golden. After a frantic splash of water and a half-buttoned shirt, he dashed through the corridors, clutching his bag, stomach grumbling like a disgruntled ghoul. The doors to the Great Hall loomed ahead. He strode in.

And stopped.

Every head had turned towards him like a great murmuring tide. A hundred eyes followed, expressions ranging from curiosity to awe to something colder. Whispers rose in swells. Some students nudged their neighbours. Others stared openly, as if he might suddenly transform into a dragon.

Harry blinked. Did he still have toothpaste on his chin?

He gave a hesitant nod to no one in particular and walked, very deliberately, to the Gryffindor table. Ron, sitting halfway down, stock-still, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. Neville looked like someone had hexed his shoelaces together under the table.

“Morning,” Harry said, sliding into the seat beside them. “Did I miss something?”

No answer.

Ron’s toast made it to his mouth at last, but he only blinked at Harry, chewing like a man possessed.

“Er… hi,” Neville said weakly. He fiddled with his fork. “Nice weather today?”

Harry glanced up at the enchanted ceiling. Thick clouds drifted past, tinged with early sunlight.

“Suppose so.”

Neville nodded, apparently pleased to have survived the interaction.

The whispers kept rising, like the whole Hall was vibrating just below hearing. Somewhere near the Hufflepuffs, someone actually gasped when Harry reached for the pumpkin juice.

Then he caught it, across the table, in Hermione’s hands. The Daily Prophet. Folded double, headline clearly visible from his angle, upside down. Her fingers were white at the edges, gripping the page too tightly. She didn’t look up.

Harry stared at the words.

The Dead Return: Is Harry Potter an Inferius?

Unnatural survival… or Dark Magic deception?

He didn’t need to read the article. Of course it was Rita Skeeter.

His stomach dropped. Beneath the headline, a shadowed photograph of the ruined house at Godric’s Hollow. Scorched timbers, sagging stone, something unrecognisable in the wreckage that might have once been a cradle.

He swallowed. The toast on his plate felt miles away.

He had thought, foolishly maybe, that after the initial uproar during Sorting, things might settle. Everyone had school to worry about, after all – essays, spells, late nights over parchment. Life here was supposed to be bigger than him.

But he was wrong.

The word Inferius burned.

It wasn’t just the insult. It was the idea stitched into it, that he didn’t belong in the world of the living, that he was a shadow wearing skin. That he ought not to exist at all.

Harry stared down at his hands. They looked ordinary enough. Ink-stained fingers, a callus from holding a quill. Flesh and bone. Warm. Alive. And yet, with every whisper rolling through the Hall, he felt the edges of himself blur, as though he might look in a mirror and find nothing reflected back at all.

He looked up towards the staff table.

Empty seats.

No Remus. No McGonagall. No Dumbledore. Professor Sprout was present, the Prophet open in front of her, mouth set in a firm line. Her eyes flicked to Harry, helpless, almost pitying. Further down, Snape watched him too. Not with pity. With something colder, unreadable.

Harry looked away. He shoved a slice of toast into his mouth, chewed once, twice…

And then the owls came.

A sudden clatter of wings filled the Hall as a stream of tawny, grey, and barn owls swept through the high windows. Dozens broke from the flock and swooped straight for him, landing in a flurry of feathers on the table.

Envelopes rained down in front of him, spilling across his plate, sliding to the floor. Soon there was a heap of letters. Too many for one morning, too many for one boy.

Harry stared at the pile, bewildered.

One letter twitched. Then smoked. Then burst open.

The Howler’s voice shrieked, loud enough to rattle the windows.

“YOU ARE AN ABOMINATION… AN UNHOLY THING! EVEN THE GRAVE REJECTS YOU!”

Harry froze. His ears burned hot. He stood, but the Howler rose with him, floating like a blood-red phantom, screaming after him as he strode towards the doors.

“YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THEIR MEMORY… A DARK SPAWN…”

He shoved through the doors. The Howler followed. Its voice echoed off the walls until, with a final screech, it ripped itself apart in a flash of fire and smoke.

The silence that followed roared in his ears. Behind him, faintly, the Hall was stirring again, low murmurs, sniggers from the Slytherin table carrying furthest.

Harry’s fists clenched. His face burned red. He pressed on, until the sound faded behind him.

He didn’t stop walking until the Owlery.

Hedwig waited on her perch, snowy and bright against the stone, amber eyes fixed on him with unblinking calm. At the sight of her, something in him unclenched.

Harry fumbled with his bag, pulled out the folded parchment he’d written the night before. He held it out, and Hedwig took it gently from his fingers.

His hand lingered against her soft feathers. The quiet of the Owlery pressed close, smelling of straw and droppings, wings shifting in the rafters, but it felt safer than the Hall below.

“I don’t get it,” he whispered. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted…” His voice cracked. He stopped, pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. “Just wanted to be normal. Just wanted…” He trailed off, biting his lip. The words crowded his throat, messy and hot.

Hedwig bent down and nudged his knuckles with her beak.

Harry let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “You don’t think I’m wrong, do you? You know I’m real.”

For a moment, his chest hitched, his eyes stung. He swallowed it down. He was not going to cry.

He scratched behind her feathers one last time, grounding himself in the warmth of her. Then he straightened, tugging his bag onto his shoulder.

“Right then,” he muttered, voice firm. “Charms.”

By the time Harry reached the Charms corridor, the lesson had already begun.

He hovered outside the door for a moment, hand resting on the cool brass handle. Through the thick oak, he could hear the gentle hum of voices, and Professor Flitwick’s high, cheerful instruction ringing over it all.

He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip through.

The room was lit with soft, slanted sunlight, filtered through high mullioned windows. Shelves of spellbooks lined the walls. Students were paired off at rows of desks, each with a snowy white feather resting on a square of dark cloth.

Professor Flitwick looked up from the front of the room, where he stood atop a stack of books to reach the blackboard. His wand paused mid-demonstration, and then his eyes lit up.

“Ah, Mr Potter!” he chirped. “Delighted you made it. No trouble at all, no trouble at all… just find yourself a space. We’re on introductory levitation… very exciting stuff!”

Harry flushed slightly. “Sorry, Professor.”

“No need for that,” Flitwick said, waving his wand cheerily.

A few heads turned. Ravenclaws glanced his way with thinly disguised curiosity. The Gryffindors, less subtle, outright stared. Flitwick clapped his hands to redirect them.

“Eyes front, everyone! Remember: swish and flick, not stab and jab. I’m talking to you, Mr Corner.”

There were a few nervous chuckles. Harry slipped quietly into a seat at the back, alone.

On the desk before him, the feather looked absurdly soft. Too delicate to belong to a day like this.

Around him, murmurs of Wingardium Leviosa floated through the air. Some students were getting frustrated. A few feathers wobbled. One flipped over and lay there indignantly, as if insulted by the attempt. Seamus's feather gave a worrying pop and began to smoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,” Flitwick said lightly, flicking his wand behind his back without even turning. A silvery shield sprang up around Seamus’s desk just as the feather exploded into a harmless puff of steam. “Try again, Mr Finnigan… gently this time!”

Up near the front, Hermione’s feather had risen a full foot off the desk and was spinning lazily like a coin caught mid-flip.

“Five points to Gryffindor! Excellent wand control, Miss Granger!”

She beamed, tucking her curls behind one ear and sitting up straighter.

Harry still hadn’t moved. His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere beyond the drifting feathers and sun-dappled wood. His thoughts flickered, unbidden, back to the Great Hall. The voices. The letters. The screaming Howler.

And then… his mother.

He remembered her letter again. The first one she’d written from Hogwarts. How excited she’d been about Charms, about this very class.

"Professor Flitwick said I had the best wandwork in my year! I was so proud I nearly fell off the stool."

Harry glanced around the room.

She must have sat here once. Maybe even in this very seat.

He gave a small huff of laughter through his nose. No. His mum would’ve sat right at the front. Wand raised. Quill ready. Probably already asking questions.

His fingers tightened around his wand.

A shadow fell across his desk. He looked up to see Professor Flitwick standing beside him.

“You haven’t had a go yet, Mr Potter,” he said gently.

Harry blinked. “Oh. Right.”

“Try now,” said Flitwick with a smile, and then, without missing a beat, flicked his wand again to redirect a minor explosion at Seamus’s table. “Honestly, gentlemen, it’s a feather, not a firework!”

Harry turned back to the table. The feather sat still, serene and white, as if waiting patiently for him to catch up.

He raised his wand.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

The feather didn’t move.

He stared at it for a long moment, imagined it gliding up into the air, gentle and effortless. Floating out the window, high above the towers. Free. Light as breath.

And in that moment, the feather became something else.

He pictured flying on a broomstick, the wind tearing past, Sirius whooping beside him, racing loops through clouds. Remus standing below, shielding his eyes with a hand and calling out exaggerated commentary. His father beside him in the air, fast and reckless, the two of them dodging trees. And his mother’s voice… calling after them, laughing and scolding in the same breath.

“James! Not so low! Harry, hold steady…”

The words came from somewhere deep in his imagination, though he had never truly heard her voice. A tear prickled at the corner of his eye. He blinked it away and raised his wand again.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

This time, the feather lifted.

It rose in a smooth arc, unhurried and graceful. Higher. A little higher still. Harry guided it gently with a turn of his wrist. It circled once, dipped, looped back. Danced.

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands, eyes sparkling. “Ten points to Gryffindor!” he exclaimed. “Beautiful, beautiful control, Mr Potter!”

Harry let the feather settle softly back onto the desk. The tiniest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The lesson continued.

Flitwick launched back into the theory with his usual exuberance, sketching diagrams in the air with his wand, graceful curls of light that hovered above the blackboard. The class copied notes while their feathers drifted and bobbed, some more steadily than others.

Harry dipped his quill and followed along. He still felt the weight of the morning pressing at the edges. But the heaviness had eased, just a little, as if the feather’s flight had taken some of it with it.

Harry skipped lunch. The noise of the Great Hall felt impossible to face again, so he wandered outside instead, crossing the grounds until he found a quiet patch beneath a wide beech tree by the lake. Its branches stretched out like sheltering arms, leaves whispering overhead in the light breeze. He sat with his back against the trunk, knees pulled up, and watched the water ripple silver in the sunlight. A pair of tentacles broke the surface briefly before slipping away again.

By the time Herbology rolled round, he’d pulled himself back together. The class was with Hufflepuff, which meant two houses crammed into the damp warmth of the greenhouse.

Harry couldn’t help but notice the way people’s eyes slid towards him, even here. Ravenclaws, earlier, had been quietly intrigued, whispering but not unkind. Slytherins, by contrast, seemed to make a game of it, curious one moment, dismissive the next, a few smirking outright if they caught his eye. His own house was more divided: some Gryffindors looked at him as though he were about to sprout fangs; others, as if they wanted to claim him loudly before anyone else could. And the Hufflepuffs… well, most of them simply looked afraid, shrinking back as if his shadow carried weight.

Professor Sprout, though, treated him no differently than anyone else. She greeted him with a small, steady smile, soil smudged across her cheek, and passed him a shallow wooden tray of puffapods. “Pair up, dear, pair up… oh, yes, with Miss Granger, that’ll do nicely.”

Hermione gave him a small, nervous smile but said nothing. Together they planted the puffapods, and as soon as the seeds touched the earth they burst into showers of pale blossoms, tumbling across the table in cascades of colour. It was messy work, but the blooms were oddly soothing in their softness.

By the time Herbology ended, Harry found himself drifting back to the same beech tree by the lake. He pulled out parchment and ink, determined to make some headway on Snape’s essay.

When the dinner bell rang, he lingered just long enough to gather his things before his stomach made the decision for him. It gave a loud, traitorous grumble and he made his way up the sloping lawns towards the castle.

The warm light and scent of roast and fresh bread spilled out of the Great Hall, but so did something else. Trouble.

Two older Ravenclaws spotted him almost immediately.

“Excuse me,” said one, his voice clipped, parchment already out, “what's your basal temperature since resurrection?”

“Do you metabolise differently post-mortem?” asked the other, eyes gleaming with academic hunger. “Do you require… nutritional augmentation?”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

They leaned in, scribbling already. “Fascinating. Are your dreams colour-saturated or spectral?”

He took a step back. “Mostly I dream about running away from nosey Ravenclaws.”

They didn’t hear him.

“Any tissue loss?” one asked. “Signs of magical instability?”

And, because the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Malfoy arrived just then, gliding into view with the self-satisfaction of someone who thought smirking was a talent worth awarding. He took in the scene with all the glee of a cat spotting a cornered mouse.

Harry clenched his jaw and tried to slip past the Ravenclaws, but they flanked him.

That was when salvation arrived in the form of chaos.

“MAKE WAY!” Fred bellowed, elbowing into the corridor. “Bow before the Master of Death!”

George dropped into an elaborate bow that nearly knocked over a student. “The Undying approaches!”

Before Harry could even protest, they were on either side of him, ushering him through the doors as though he were some visiting diplomat.

“No questions!” Fred barked at the Ravenclaws, who recoiled in confusion. “The Master has spoken enough for one lifetime… several, in fact!”

Harry was shocked. “What are you…”

“Shh,” George whispered, hand to his chest. “Your voice… such haunting gravitas.”

They guided him to the Gryffindor table with absurd pomp. Fred marched ahead, clearing a space like a royal herald. George followed, like a house-elf with stage fright.

“Sit, my liege,” George said solemnly. “Your table awaits.”

Fred mimed rolling out a carpet. “A throne would be better, but alas, woodwork club has a waitlist.”

Harry dropped into the seat with a groan. “Please stop.”

“Can’t. Sworn life debt,” said George, bowing low again. “Also, we’re terribly bored.”

Harry reached for a slice of bread, only for George to snatch a napkin and begin dabbing at his face like an overzealous nursemaid.

“Stop that!”

“You’ve crumbs, Master,” George murmured. “The people mustn’t see you sullied.”

Across the hall, Dumbledore was watching with a twinkle so bright it could probably illuminate a cave. Remus had gone half-rigid, caught between what looked like parental horror and the urge to laugh. His fork was paused mid-air.

Then came the swish of tartan robes and the sound of doom: Professor McGonagall.

She arrived with the precision of a thundercloud, arms crossed, expression already lined in exasperation.

“Mr Weasley. Mr Weasley,” she said, in a tone that could polish silver.

“Professor!” Fred cried, straightening like a toy soldier.

George knelt. “At your service.”

“What… precisely… is the meaning of this performance?”

Fred beamed. “It is not a performance, Professor. It is devotion.”

“Devotion,” George echoed. “Sacred servitude to the Boy Who Returned.”

“The Master of Death,” Fred added, “The King of Detentions.”

“If you intend to impose punishment, know you risk offending forces beyond mortal comprehension.”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t get me involved.”

Professor McGonagall stared at them for a moment longer. Her lips thinned. Then, with a slow sigh that seemed to carry decades of regret, she said, “You may serve him silently. And from a respectful distance.”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused, already back in position like highly obedient, extremely loud guard dogs.

She gave Harry a brief look, half pity, half reassurance, and turned away.

Dinner resumed. Harry now found himself chewing his roast under the protection of two madmen who had decided he was theirs.

He wasn’t sure if he should laugh, hex them, or hide.

But as he glanced down the table and caught Ron laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench, and Hermione rolling her eyes with a tiny smile she tried to hide, he realised he didn’t need to choose.

So he let himself eat.

And as Fred solemnly refilled his pumpkin juice while George stood sentry behind him, Harry found himself smiling. He still didn’t understand what he was to them. Friend? Myth? Punchline? But at least he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

Harry sat in front of his matchstick, chin propped on one hand, the other tapping his quill absently against the desk. The scratch of parchment, and the mutter of whispered incantations drifted around him, but they barely registered.

The murmurs had quieted since last night. Fred and George had seen to that. After all, nothing killed hysteria like being hand-fed bread rolls by someone claiming to be your legally bound thrall. The mood had shifted from eerie to ridiculous. The whispers hadn’t disappeared entirely, some eyes still lingered a bit too long, and the gaps in conversation still widened when he entered a room, but there was less edge to it now. Less fear.

And then this morning, just when Harry had begun to hope that maybe the letters would stop, they hadn’t. The owls came anyway. Parchment had fallen like rain.

His heart had sunk. He hadn’t even touched his eggs yet.

Around him, other students reached up for their mail. A few pointed. And Harry was already shifting on the bench, ready to slip away before another Howler could scream again.

But before he could move, the letters meant for him vanished. Gone. Just a faint shimmer in the air, and then nothing.

He’d turned, searching instinctively for the cause, and spotted Remus walking past the Gryffindor table, tucking his wand back into his sleeve, almost absentminded. As if he hadn’t just banished a small storm.

Their eyes had met across the distance.

Harry had nodded gratefully. Remus had returned it, then made his way to the staff table.

“Mr Potter?”

Harry blinked.

The warmth of the Great Hall, the flutter of wings, the mail vanishing… gone. In its place: the cool stone of the Transfiguration classroom, and the firm voice of Professor McGonagall cutting clean through the fog of his mind.

“If you would join the rest of us?”

He sat up straighter at once, heat rising to his face. Around him, students were already hunched over their desks, wands raised in concentration. Matchsticks lay in rows like miniature riddles. Beside him, Hermione’s had begun to elongate and glint faintly, but the result was more molten blob than needle, and a thin trail of smoke curled gently from one end.

He straightened, pulled out his wand, and focused on the matchstick.

“Transfigura Acus.”

The spell whispered off his tongue like it had been waiting. A shiver passed through his wand, and the matchstick shimmered. In the blink of an eye, it elongated and sharpened to a perfect silver needle, gleaming on the desk.

There was a ripple of reactions, the scrape of chairs as classmates craned to see.

Harry was surprised. Even he hadn’t expected it to work that quickly.

“And back again, Mr Potter.”

Harry nodded. Another breath. Another flick.

“Reverto.”

The needle transformed back into the matchstick.

Professor McGonagall’s held his gaze for a moment. Then a small nod.

“Excellent execution,” she said. “Next time, Mr Potter, I would suggest attending to the start of the lesson as well as the end.”

Harry mumbled, “Yes, Professor,” and tried not to look too pleased.

The wand in his hand, blackened wood veined with amber-gold, caught the morning sunlight and threw it back in fractured glints. That was what drew the stares now, rather than his performance.

The lesson wound on. A few more students managed the transfiguration. Hermione’s blob thinned to an acceptable point, earning a murmured “well done” from McGonagall. Most only managed sparks, or matchsticks that went vaguely bendy.

By the time the bell rang, students were already inching towards Harry’s desk.

He tried to escape. But it didn’t work.

“What wood is that?” asked Lavender, leaning in to peer at the wand like it might hiss or hum if she stared long enough.

Hermione’s eyes were sharp on it too, but her voice was more measured. “It doesn’t match any standard polish. The veining… what happened to it?”

Susan Bones, who had been quiet until now, spoke with a slight frown. “Is it supposed to look like that? Only… I’ve never seen a wand that looks... cracked and whole at once.”

“Do you have another one?” asked Neville hopefully. “Like a spare? Just in case?”

Harry paused, still halfway through stuffing his books into his bag. They were all looking at him. Not like he was dangerous. Not like he was a miracle.

Just… interested. Curious.

He hesitated. Then said, evenly, “It’s holly. Phoenix feather core.”

The silence that followed was politely disbelieving.

So he continued, deadpan: “After it cracked, it spent a month soaking in dragon toenails and unicorn eyelashes. Supervised by a very anxious goblin. And I think a house-elf sneezed on it for luck.”

A beat.

Dean wheezed. Seamus actually bent double. Even Ron made a sound that was definitely a snort.

Harry shrugged, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Right. Off to lunch before anyone asks if it’s sentient.”

And with that, he slipped out the door, ducking grins and dodging questions.

The Great Hall buzzed with the soft chaos of dinner – voices overlapping, goblets clinking, and the comforting weight of food in the air. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, a half-finished shepherd’s pie in front of him, absently nudging peas around with his fork. Fred and George had given him a wink as they sat down earlier, but no theatrics had followed.

After a successful transfiguration class, potions had felt almost bearable. Oppressive, yes. Snape still prowled like a dungeon-dwelling bat. But Harry had kept his head down and his mouth shut, which in itself felt like an achievement. He only lost five points, and that was for his essay, which Snape read aloud with a face like he’d been handed a loathsome specimen for inspection.

Neville, unfortunately, hadn’t fared as well.

He was partnered with Harry once again, and mixed up two ingredients halfway through the class, swapping dried hellebore for hellebore root extract, and their cauldron had let out a long, wounded whine before belching a cloud of lilac smoke. Snape had docked ten points and informed Neville, that he had successfully invented a potion that could reverse the effects of digestion. Neville had gone pale.

Harry had tried to reassure him, but Neville still looked on the verge of tears until Hermione quietly offered him a Chocolate Frog, and Ron pointed out that he could have lost more points.

Now, dinner was winding down. Plates refilled themselves once more, and the last golden light from the high windows melted into dusk.

At the staff table, Professor Dumbledore rose.

The effect was immediate. Conversations died off like candles snuffed all at once.

He stood with hands lightly clasped before him, the folds of his deep plum robes edged with silver stars. His expression was serene, but his eyes… those sharp, knowing eyes… held something heavier tonight.

“Good evening to you all,” he began. “I hope your first week of term has begun with more joy than dread, more discovery than complaint, and that you are treating your teachers with the respect they so valiantly earn.”

Harry paused mid-chew.

“I do, however, have a matter of safety to address.” He glanced briefly down the length of the hall, and for a breath, his gaze lingered on Neville. Then, on Harry.

“In light of recent developments, the Ministry of Magic has requested additional security measures to be taken. You may hear certain rumours… indeed, some of you already have… but let me clarify what I can.

“As of tonight, a small contingent of Dementors will be stationed at the outer boundaries of the Hogwarts grounds. The forest line, the Hogsmeade perimeter, and points beyond the lake. They will not enter the castle. Nor the lawns. I have made this condition clear, and I intend to see it upheld.”

A shift passed through the room, as though the temperature had dropped. Even the candlelight seemed to flicker lower.

Dumbledore’s expression did not waver, but the twinkle in his eyes had fully vanished. “They are not here by my choosing. They are not to be approached or provoked under any circumstances.”

“That said,” he continued, voice now gentler, “until such time as their presence is no longer deemed necessary, I must ask that you do not attempt to cross the school boundaries unaccompanied. This includes any... impromptu explorations of the forest, the lake, or the sky.”

His eyes flicked very briefly to the Weasley twins, who wore expressions of studied innocence.

“As for our third-years and above, Hogsmeade weekends will proceed as usual, but under stricter supervision. A rotation of staff will accompany you and remain in the village for the full duration of the day.”

He paused, then added, almost apologetically, “I ask your patience, and your good sense. And for those of you who find yourselves upset by these changes... I find myself in agreement… Now, off to bed.”

With that, he nodded once and resumed his seat. The quiet held a moment longer, then shattered into a hundred murmurs all at once.

Harry rose with the others, the scrape of benches echoing around him. He caught a glimpse of Remus near the end of the staff table, expression unreadable. The twins were already plotting something, from the look on their faces.

“It’s because of Sirius Black, isn’t it?” said Seamus, glancing back towards the Great Hall. “Has to be. Why else would they bring in Dementors?”

“I heard he was spotted near York,” said Lavender, wide-eyed. “Or maybe it was Dover.”

Parvati leaned in, voice low. “You think he’ll try to get into Hogwarts? I mean… He might be after Neville…”

Neville flinched. The colour had drained from his face, leaving him grey in the torchlight.

Ron stepped in sharply. “Well, he’d be an idiot if he tried. There’s Dementors all over the grounds now, and Dumbledore’s not exactly going to roll out the carpet.”

They were halfway back to the common room by now, climbing the moving staircase.

“Still,” said Seamus, “he did get out of Azkaban. That’s never happened before.”

“Doesn’t mean he can get through Dumbledore,” Ron said. “Right, Neville?”

Neville gave a small, stiff nod, but didn’t speak.

Ron slowed his pace a little to match his. “Seriously. He’d have to be mad. And even then, he’d be going through a lot of people before he ever got to you.”

Harry walked just behind them, listening. A strange, flickering heat rose in his chest, not anger or shame… Something more knotted.

Because Sirius wasn’t out there, slinking through forests. He was at Grimmauld Place, a prisoner in all but name, his eyes shadowed with years the world refused to give back. And he wasn’t trying to kill Neville.

He was trying to survive.

Harry swallowed hard and looked away from the others. Their fear wasn’t foolish. It wasn’t even wrong, not from where they stood. It just wasn’t the truth.

They reached the portrait hole. Hermione paused before the Fat Lady swung forward, her hand still on the frame.

“I’m not sure it’s just about Neville,” she said.

Everyone turned.

She glanced at Harry for a second, then looked away. “I read the Prophet this morning. Anonymous sources within the Ministry were quoted saying they needed to ‘verify the legitimacy of any surviving claims regarding Harry Potter’. I’m sure they wanted to question Harry.”

“What?” Ron blurted. “But that’s…”

She held up a hand. “It’s not in the article. But I’m certain. Dumbledore must’ve refused. That’s why they’ve posted Dementors. It’s not just about Sirius Black. It’s about control.”

The Fat Lady swung open.

Hermione stepped through first, pausing only to say, “Goodnight.”

Harry didn’t move right away. Neither did the others.

Eventually, he made his way to his usual corner. The same old armchair, the same spot by the fireplace, always a bit too warm on the left side. He pulled his bag up and retrieved his Charms homework, quill tapping the side of the ink bottle in a slow, unfocused rhythm.

Behind him, the common room slowly emptied. Dean gave his shoulder a light pat in passing. Ron hesitated by the stairs, then left without a word. One by one, the others followed. Until it was just Harry and the fire.

He opened the book and stared at the same line for what felt like minutes, the words swimming uselessly before his eyes.

His thoughts weren’t in the common room.

They were out beyond the castle walls, where the grass met the forest and the Dementors now stood watch. Their presence blanketed the edges of the world in cold, dragging shadows across the ground like tattered cloaks of fear.

Beneath his ribs, something glowed, a hush of heat, like firelight in a cave. He curled his fingers around his pendant, let his eyes slip shut, and felt the warmth settle through him.

There was something reassuring about Defence Against the Dark Arts. No riddles, no theory piled six feet deep. Just spells that did what they said and a teacher who knew when to speak and when to let silence teach.

The desks had been rearranged into a wide arc, leaving an open space at the centre like a duelling circle. Remus stood near the front with a quiet patience that made even the most restless Ravenclaws sit straighter. His robes were slightly rumpled, his eyes shadowed, but he had a way of speaking that made the lesson feel like a conversation, not a performance.

Today’s topic: the Knockback Jinx.

“Flipendo,” Remus had demonstrated, gently sending a cushion skidding across the floor with a flick of his wand. “Force depends on focus. Direction depends on intention. It's not about shouting loud or jabbing hard… it’s about knowing what you want the spell to do.”

They practised in pairs. Harry was partnered with Padma Patil, who had an impressively neat wand grip and asked precise questions. He had cast the spell on the first try. The cushion shot across the room and skidded to a halt at her feet.

There’d been a collective pause. Even Remus raised an eyebrow. “Very good, Harry.”

Padma had smiled at him, intrigued. A few other Ravenclaws had leaned in discreetly to whisper to one another. But it wasn’t just the spell that drew their eyes.

It was his wand again.

Most of the Gryffindors had already seen it, and the Hufflepuffs had caught a glimpse during Transfiguration. But the Ravenclaws hadn’t. Not up close. Terry Boot nearly tripped over his own feet watching it. Anthony Goldstein murmured something about “non-standard structural patterns,” and Lisa Turpin leaned in to ask if it was a family wand or bespoke.

Harry, used to attention of the wrong sort, gave his usual defence: vague shrugs, a polite nod, and the expression of someone who’d rather be talking to the cushion.

Eventually, class ended.

“Pack up, everyone,” said Lupin, straightening. “Well done today. Next week we will continue with vampires.”

The classroom had emptied slowly. Harry leaned against a desk, his bag slung across one shoulder.

Remus closed the classroom door with a soft click and turned back to him. “I thought you might stay,” he said, walking over. “Didn’t want to scare the others again with a display of blatant favouritism.”

Harry gave a crooked smile. “Too late. I reckon they think I’m some kind of alien. Between the wand and the magic…”

“…and the whole return from the dead thing,” Remus added dryly.

Harry huffed a laugh. “Right. That.”

Remus leaned back against the edge of his own desk. The lines on his face were soft today, but tired. Always a little tired.

“Joking aside, Harry… things are stirring,” he said. “The Ministry’s not handling your reappearance well. When the news hit, there was… well, panic’s not the wrong word. They were afraid of what it might mean. Who might’ve known. What else might’ve been hidden. And Rita Skeeter’s article didn’t help. Half of it was speculation, the other half... creative fiction.”

Harry's smile slipped. “So, they think I’m lying?”

Remus looked at him steadily. “Some do. Others just don’t know what to believe. The world’s built on what happened to you, Harry. To change that story means shifting more than just headlines.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just stared at a scorch mark on the floor, the one he’d accidentally made during the lesson’s warm-up round. It looked like a bird.

“There was talk of sending a full Magical Law Enforcement team to question you,” Remus said. “Not just Aurors… Unspeakables.”

Harry’s eyes snapped up.

Remus held up a hand. “They didn’t come. Dumbledore stopped it before it began. As Headmaster, he’s your de facto magical guardian… since you’re a ward of the school… and that carries weight in our world. The Dursleys are still your legal guardians on paper, but they’re Muggles. The Ministry wouldn’t waste time going through them. They don’t see Muggles as part of the equation. Not when it comes to magical matters.”

That should have been reassuring. And in a way, it was. But Harry’s shoulders didn’t quite settle.

Remus’s voice dipped lower. “Hence the Dementors. Their way of reminding Dumbledore who holds the leash. But you don’t need to worry. He won’t let anyone near you. Not here. Not at Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded, slow but sure. “Alright.”

“You're safe.”

“I know,” he said, and meant it. “I just… I didn't expect all this.”

“School, or magical politics?”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Bit of both.”

Remus smiled, then tilted his head. “And how is school? Really.”

Harry scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s fine. I think I’m managing. It’s just… a lot. There’s always something. Transfiguration, Charms, the hallways keep shifting, someone charmed the second-floor suits of armour to clap every time I pass…”

Remus blinked. “Seriously?”

“I’m not sure if it’s meant as a compliment,” Harry muttered. “But I can’t sneak anywhere on that floor now.”

That earned a real laugh.

Remus reached over to straighten a stack of papers. “I saw Hedwig deliver something this morning. Was that?”

Harry brightened. “Yeah. Sirius.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a slightly crumpled envelope, thick parchment and red wax barely holding together. He cracked the seal.

Inside was a letter in Sirius’s unmistakable handwriting – large, loose, overconfident.

Harry, you absolute menace… Gryffindor! Of course. I was right, you know. James would be insufferable. I’m already being smug on his behalf.

Tucked between the pages was a rough sketch of a lion, drawn in what looked like ink and charcoal. Its mane was a glorious scribble. Below it: Poke the nose. Trust me.

Harry did.

The lion shook itself and let out a low, satisfied roar. Then it flopped onto its side, looking deeply pleased with itself.

Remus was chuckling. “Merlin’s teeth. Only he would enchant it.”

“He’s clearly bored,” Harry said, grinning. “The lion sort of looks like McGonagall, but less terrifying.”

Remus shook his head fondly. “I’m visiting him this weekend. Full moon.”

Harry’s smile faded. “You’ll be alright?”

Remus nodded, quiet. “I’ll have the Wolfsbane. And I’ll be in Regulus’s room… first time trying it, so we’ll see. Let’s just hope Sirius doesn’t make me chase Kreacher through the house.”

Harry snorted.

Remus pushed off from the desk. “Go on. I’ll see you at supper.”

Harry folded the letter carefully and slid it back into his bag. “Tell him I said hi.”

“You know I will.”

And with that, Harry turned and slipped out the door, the lion still roaring faintly in his bag.

Harry could hardly believe it had only been a week since he arrived at Hogwarts. It felt like a lifetime. Every day had been packed. Last night he had astronomy practicals under a sky so clear it hardly seemed real; a herbology lesson this morning in the sun-drenched gardens, elbow-deep in Devil’s Snare; and another droning lecture from Professor Binns. It was all a bit overwhelming, in its own peculiar way. And now, under the crisp autumn sun, he stood on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor first-years, waiting.

This was the lesson he had been looking forward to all week. Flying. Just the word made something spark behind his ribs. Not even the fact that they had to share the lesson with the Slytherins could dampen his mood. If anything, it added a touch of challenge.

The only thing that gave him pause was Neville. Harry cast a glance towards him now, his shoulders hunched, his grip tight around the hem of his robe. The Slytherins had a talent for needling him with quiet, well-placed jabs, murmured taunts about being the Boy Who Lived, and Neville never quite managed to shake them off. Ron was beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and muttering reassurances that weren’t really convincing anyone, least of all Neville.

He glanced around. Hermione looked absolutely petrified, first time she’d been anything less than confident in a lesson. Seamus was shifting on the balls of his feet, murmuring something to Dean, who looked undecided between excitement and bolting. A little way off, Parvati, Lavender, and three other girls stood in a huddle, staring at the school brooms with expressions that ranged from wary awe to mild horror.

And then they came. The Slytherins, sleek and smirking in their green-trimmed robes, sauntering onto the pitch like they already owned the air. Striding behind them was Madam Hooch, the Hogwarts flying instructor, a whistle already swinging from one hand.

"Everyone find a broomstick," Madam Hooch barked, her voice carrying across the pitch. "Stand to the left of it. No fiddling."

There was a collective rustle as students spread out. Harry found a broom that looked marginally less splintery than the others and stepped beside it. Beside him, Neville’s expression was grim, like he was marching to the gallows.

"Stick out your right hand over the broom and say, ‘Up!’"

"Up!" echoed the group in various tones of confidence and fear.

Harry’s broom snapped into his hand at once.

Neville’s broom rolled slightly but didn’t move. Ron’s wobbled uncertainly, then jerked up into his hand with reluctance. Dean’s smacked him in the nose, and Hermione’s lay very still, as though pretending not to exist.

On the Slytherin side, Malfoy’s broom leapt eagerly into his palm. He turned to Neville, tossing him a glance and a slow, mocking smile. Neville caught it and immediately looked away. He had gone a shade paler, if that was still possible.

Madam Hooch strode between the rows, correcting grips, repositioning elbows, frowning at brooms that refused to behave. Finally, everyone had a broom in their hand, though a few had to sheepishly retrieve theirs from the grass, where it had rolled or thunked unhelpfully to the side. Madam Hooch gave one last glance down the line, silver hair glinting in the sun, yellow eyes sharp as ever.

"Mount your brooms. Firm grip. Feet flat. If anyone takes off before I say so, you’ll be scraping frog guts off the cauldrons for the rest of the term."

Harry swung a leg over and felt the familiar hum of magic stir beneath him. The broom was old and splintery, but it steadied under his grip like it remembered what it was meant for.

He glanced sideways.

Neville was pale and hunched, knuckles white around the handle like he was hanging on for dear life.

“You’ll be alright,” Ron whispered, bumping his shoulder gently. “Just don’t panic.”

“Easy for you to say,” Neville muttered. “You practised with Charlie and the others every summer.”

Ron huffed, but his voice was warm. “Well, I asked you to fly with us. You always said you preferred watching.”

Neville didn’t answer, but some colour crept back into his face, and his grip loosened a little.

Madam Hooch raised her whistle.

“On my count… three… two…”

There was a sharp whistle of air, then a whoosh.

Neville’s broom shot up, hard and sudden, like it had been kicked. One second he was on the ground, the next he was hurtling five, ten, fifteen feet into the air.

“Neville!” Ron shouted.

Madam Hooch turned, eyes narrowing. “Mr Longbottom, come back down this instant!”

But Neville wasn’t steering. He was clinging, eyes wide, his legs barely gripping the broom. It lurched hard to the left, then pitched upward in a sudden, violent jolt. A strangled cry tore from his throat.

And then, his fingers slipped. His body spun as it fell, robes flaring like torn sails, a limp shape hurtling towards the ground with sickening speed. Before anyone could blink and Madam Hooch could so much as reach for her wand, Neville hit the ground with a thud that echoed off the pitch.

There was a gasp. Then screams. Hermione let out a choked noise, Seamus swore under his breath, and Ron was already sprinting. Harry moved on instinct, vaulting over his broom and bolting towards the crumpled form in the grass. The other Gryffindors followed with alarmed voices.

Neville was groaning, curled on his side, face contorted in pain. One arm lay at an awful angle.

Madam Hooch pushed through the crowd, wand in hand, kneeling beside him with brisk efficiency. “Back up. Give him air.” Her tone cut through the chatter. “Clear the space, now.”

She muttered a spell, her wand tip glimmering pale blue as it passed over Neville’s arm. “Broken wrist,” she said grimly. “Possibly fractured a rib too. He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Neville gave a faint whimper, trying to sit up.

“Don’t move.” Madam Hooch conjured a stretcher with a flick. “Everyone stay put. If I see a single toe off the ground, you’ll be scrubbing bedpans in the hospital wing till Christmas.”

She levitated Neville carefully onto the stretcher and swept off towards the castle, the stretcher floating beside her.

The moment she was out of sight, the pitch erupted.

“Poor bloke,” muttered Dean, running a hand through his hair.

“That fall…” Seamus shook his head. “He could’ve snapped his spine.”

“He’s lucky he wasn’t higher up,” Hermione said quietly, eyes still fixed on where Neville had landed.

There were murmurs of agreement from the Gryffindor side, worried, shaken. But on the Slytherin end, the tone was different. Low sniggers, elbow nudges. A few of them mimed flailing mid-air like grotesque puppets.

Malfoy gave a theatrical sigh and smirked. “I told you Longbottom didn’t belong on a broom. Should’ve left him in the greenhouses like the dirt he is.”

Ron stormed forward. “Say that again,” his ears burning red.

Malfoy didn’t flinch. Instead, he crouched, his voice rising theatrically. “Oh, look… he dropped something.”

He straightened slowly, holding up a small, glassy orb that shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun.

Neville’s Remembrall.

It had arrived that morning by owl post from his gran, along with a note reminding him ‘to stop forgetting things.’

Malfoy turned it over between his fingers, the red smoke inside swirling lazily as he smirked. “Must be important, if Granny thought he needed a babysitter.”

“Give it back, Malfoy,” Ron growled.

“Relax, Weasley. I’m just helping,” Malfoy said airily, tossing the Remembrall from one hand to the other. “Figured I’d get it off the ground before you tried to pawn it for lunch money.”

Ron lunged forward, but Dean grabbed his arm.

“Don’t, mate.”

“Not worth it,” Seamus muttered, blocking his path.

Harry stepped between them. “Ron. Not now.”

Ron’s jaw worked furiously, but he didn’t break past them.

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He swung his leg over his broom with a practiced, lazy grace.

“Alright then, Weasley. If you want it… come get it.”

With a smirk, he kicked off the ground and soared into the sky, the broom responding as if it had been waiting for his command. He arced in a smooth circle above them. The Slytherins whooped and jeered from below.

Harry watched him. He couldn’t deny it. Malfoy was good. Balanced. Fluid in the air. It was almost annoying.

Beside him, Ron was trembling with the effort of staying put.

Malfoy did one final loop, then drifted down and hovered just above their heads, eyes gleaming with smug delight.

“What now, Weasley?” he drawled. “Going to write home and cry to Mummy? Oh… wait. Forgot your lot can’t even afford an owl.”

Harry stepped forward, one hand on Ron’s arm to hold him back. “Give it back, Malfoy. You’re not half as clever as you think, and Ron doesn’t need to prove anything to you.”

Malfoy’s gaze flicked to him. The smirk widened.

“Or what, Potter? Going to dazzle me with your fancy stick? Bet that’s the only reason anyone’s looking at you.”

Harry looked up at Malfoy, unimpressed.

“If I wanted to dazzle you, Malfoy,” he said, “I’d have to assume you had the range for it.”

Malfoy froze for a beat.

Harry added with a mock-thoughtful expression. “All that bragging. Grabbing things that aren’t yours. Acting like the world owes you attention. Must be hereditary.”

Malfoy’s smirk twitched, then vanished entirely. His face darkened, lips pressed thin. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might swoop down.

And that was all Ron needed. With a roar, he surged forward, launching himself towards the hovering Slytherin.

It took all three of them – Harry, Seamus, and Dean to hold him back. His face was flushed scarlet, his fists thrashing wildly as he shouted, “I’ll knock that smug face clean off!”

None of them noticed the flick of Malfoy’s wrist.

A blur of red glass sailed through the air and smacked hard into the back of Harry’s head.

The Remembrall cracked on impact and clattered to the ground with a sharp, shattering noise. Harry staggered forward a step, blinking. There was a dull ache blooming at the base of his skull. Bits of red smoke curled faintly from the cracked sphere at his feet.

“You little…” Seamus started, wheeling around.

But Harry wasn’t listening.

He straightened slowly, breath shallow, hand rising to the back of his head. When he turned, his eyes were cold and bright. Malfoy was still floating above, face twisted into something between anger and satisfaction.

And then it happened.

A sudden, unbearable pressure in Harry’s chest, like something inside him had twisted too tight and snapped.

Malfoy’s broom jerked.

He grabbed the handle instinctively, but the broom veered hard to the side, then shot straight up like a firework. Startled yells cut across the pitch.

“What’s he doing?” cried Parkinson.

“Is he showing off or losing it?” drawled Nott, half-laughing, half-wary.

“Doesn’t look planned,” said Zabini, eyes squinting against the glare.

Malfoy wasn’t in control. He was clinging now, desperately. His confident posture gone, replaced by a white-knuckled grip and wide, darting eyes. The broom pitched violently left, then right, then climbed, faster than any school broom had business flying.

Harry’s stomach dropped. A flicker of dread slid through him. Did he do it? The thought chilled him more than the wind.

Malfoy’s screams echoed across the pitch, growing fainter as the broom kept rising, far above the towers, above the owlery, until he was a speck against the sky.

Then a sharp turn. A wobble. His grip broke.

“No…” Harry breathed.

Malfoy fell.

For one frozen heartbeat, there was no sound.

Then cries rang out across the field.

Harry didn’t think. He moved.

He leapt onto his broom and kicked off so hard the bristles groaned. Wind tore at his robes as he surged skyward, eyes locked on the tumbling figure ahead.

He barely registered the voices shouting from the ground. Just the shape of Malfoy, spiralling down like a ragdoll, arms flailing.

Harry leaned in, picking up speed. His eyes stung. His muscles screamed. Still not enough. He poured everything into the chase, drawing closer every burning second.

Then… he caught him.

They slammed together in midair. Malfoy’s weight knocked the breath from Harry’s lungs, but he clung tight, one hand gripping the broom and the other fisted in the back of Malfoy’s robes.

He angled down sharply, slowing the fall, trying not to lose control.

The pitch rushed up towards them.

With a final desperate lurch, Harry levelled out and skidded across the grass, sparks flying from the bristles of his broom. They landed hard. Malfoy sprawled off to the side, wheezing.

There was silence.

Then the sound of gasps. Someone shouted, “Did you see that?!”

Harry stood slowly, windblown and pale, eyes wide. His chest still heaved, not just with exertion, but with that lingering, heavy feeling from before. That tightness. He turned around, hand still trembling.

Standing on the edge of the pitch, lips pressed thin, was Professor McGonagall. Beside her, Madam Hooch looked shell-shocked.

McGonagall’s eyes were fixed on Harry. Cold. Calculating. And just a little too quiet.

Harry swallowed.

Well. That couldn’t be good.

Chapter Text

Sunlight slanted across the bookshelves in Professor McGonagall’s office, catching on the gilt spines, and every tick of the clock on the mantel seemed louder than it had any right to be. Harry sat across from McGonagall’s desk. His head ached where the Remembrall had struck, but worse than that was the prickling in his stomach, the sense that he was being weighed on invisible scales.

Professor McGonagall watched him in silence. Her hands were folded neatly on the desk, her expression unreadable. Finally, she said, “Mr Potter. Explain to me what happened.”

Harry swallowed. “Malfoy’s broom went haywire. I saw him falling and… well… I just reacted. I caught him.”

McGonagall’s brow arched slightly. “You just caught him.”

“Yes, Professor.” He kept his gaze fixed on her collar.

There was a pause, longer this time. McGonagall leaned back in her chair. “I have taught here a long time, Mr Potter. Brooms misbehave, but not in that way. Not without… encouragement. And we had two incidents in a single class… That is unusual.”

Harry’s chest tightened and words came out in stammered fragments, “I wouldn’t… Neville… That wasn’t me… I didn’t do anything…”

“I am not accusing you,” she said calmly. “I am considering possibilities.”

Harry shut his mouth.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “I’m quite certain you don’t know any jinx capable of causing this. If it did come from you, Mr Potter, then it was not deliberate.”

Harry shifted in his chair. “I didn’t… I only tried to help.”

She tapped her fingers against the desk. “You are not to discuss this incident with anyone who was not on that pitch.”

Harry nodded quickly.

“You may go.” She shuffled a few parchments, signalling the end of the interview. “Keep your feet on the ground for the time being, Mr Potter.”

Harry stood, his heart hammering, and made for the door. He felt her gaze on his back the whole way out. He felt bad about dodging the truth. And the truth was… Malfoy could’ve died.

He didn’t like Malfoy and didn’t think he ever would. But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach the fact that he might’ve nearly killed someone.

The worst part though, was the look in McGonagall’s eyes. Not anger. Just distance. A step back from the quiet understanding they’d started to build. Whatever he'd earned with her so far – trust, affection, that flicker of acknowledgement; it felt like it had slipped through his fingers the moment Malfoy went spinning into the sky.

And Harry had no idea how to get it back.

The hospital wing smelled of bitter potions and salve-soaked bandages. The white sheets of the beds glared under the late sunlight that poured through the tall windows. Neville was propped up against a stack of pillows on the nearest bed, his wrist wrapped in a thick white bandage that pulsed with a soft glow. His face was pale, but he smiled as Harry approached.

“Hi,” Harry said, stopping at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Neville shrugged with his good shoulder. “Wrist’s broken. Rib’s bruised. Madam Pomfrey says I’ve got to stay the night, just in case.”

Harry nodded. “I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”

A few feet away, Ron, Dean, and Seamus were squeezed onto two rickety chairs, chewing Drooble’s and arguing over whether Ron had actually managed to punch Malfoy before being held back. They looked up as Harry joined them.

“You alright?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “McGonagall just wanted to talk.”

That earned him a collective wince.

“Bet that was fun,” Seamus muttered.

Harry didn’t answer. He caught movement from the far side of the room. Malfoy was reclined dramatically across a bed near the corner, arm draped over his eyes, flanked by a knot of Slytherins. Parkinson was murmuring something to him while Crabbe dug through a tin of sweets.

Malfoy shifted just enough to peer around his elbow and fix Harry with a lingering glare.

Harry looked away and closed the curtain around Neville’s bed without a word.

“So,” Dean said, “What did she say?”

Harry hesitated. “Just wanted to know what happened. I told her I saw Malfoy falling and went after him. That’s all.”

They didn’t press, but they didn’t quite relax either. A charged silence followed, filled only by the distant hoot of an owl outside.

Ron broke the silence, “It was weird. Malfoy’s broom, I mean. One second he’s smirking like a prat, and the next he’s…” He made a gesture like a rocket shooting skyward.

Dean snorted. “Serves him right for throwing stuff at your head.”

“Yeah,” Seamus said, grinning. “Couldn’t’ve happened to a nicer git.”

But the laughter didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Ron glanced at Harry. “You didn’t… do anything, did you?”

Harry’s mouth went dry. “No.”

Neville picked at a thread on his blanket. “He was lucky you caught him.”

“That bit was mental,” Ron said. “The way you flew… I thought you were going to crash. And then you just…” He gestured with both hands. “Landed like it was nothing.”

Harry felt his ears warm. “I didn’t think about it. I just moved.”

Ron grinned. “Mate, you moved like someone set you on fire.”

The boys snorted with amusement. Even Neville gave a breathy chuckle. But beneath the joking, something else lingered. The way they glanced at him, just a second too long. The way they didn’t ask again what really happened.

Harry could tell they were just a little afraid of finding out the truth. He stood after a while. “I’ll leave you to it. Neville… rest up, yeah?”

Neville nodded, offering a faint smile. “Thanks, Harry.”

Ron gave him a parting slap on the arm. “Well, next time I fall off a roof, I’m aiming for you.”

“Cheers,” Harry said, with half a smile.

He slipped out through the curtain, avoided looking towards the Slytherins, and stepped quietly into the corridor. Students made their way down to dinner, voices echoing off stone in bursts of chatter and laughter.

Harry walked the other way.

He wasn’t really thinking. He just moved, head down, hands in his pockets. Without meaning to, he found himself in the Defence corridor. He stopped outside the door and reached for the handle. Locked.

Right.

It took him a moment to remember. Remus did mention in the last class. Full moon.

He stood there for another moment, then turned and walked on.

He wandered for a while. Past the trick staircase. Past a faded tapestry of Gifford the Gouty arguing with a portrait of himself. The hum of the castle settled into a dull thrum behind him – the faint sounds of students at dinner, a few portraits murmuring idly, the creak of old stone.

And then, without really deciding to, Harry slipped out through the doors and into the courtyard. The sun hadn’t yet set, but the sky had dipped into that golden hour – soft light, long shadows, the lake glowing like melted bronze.

He walked along the worn path towards the beech tree by the lake’s edge and dropped down beneath it, pressing his palms flat to the grass. The ground was warm. He stared out across the lake.

He didn’t want to cry. But something heavy had built up behind his ribs, and he didn’t know how to let it out.

He thought of writing to Sirius. But what would he even say? I might’ve cursed someone mid-air today. But I also saved them. So it evens out? Still probably my fault.

Sirius would worry. He’d get that edge in his voice, the one that sounded like guilt dressed up as concern.

No. Better not.

He wished he had someone to talk to. His mum, maybe. Or his dad. Someone he could go to even with the stupidest, smallest thing; like a cracked Remembrall or a lie to a professor or the terrifying feeling that he was strange and dangerous.

His hand curled in the grass.

They must have walked here. His parents. Years ago. They must have sat under this tree, maybe laughed, maybe argued… People had lives before they became memories.

A soft, mournful sound pierced the air.

Harry froze.

It was a trill, high and haunting, as if the sky itself had sighed.

He turned slowly.

A bird was gliding down from the treetops, all scarlet and gold. It flared its wings as it landed, scattering dry leaves in a circle, and settled on the rock beside him.

Harry stared, mesmerised.

A phoenix.

He’d seen one in a book. A drawing. But it didn’t come close. Nothing in that picture could capture the living heat of this creature; the way its feathers shimmered with colour, as though each one had been painted with fire. And its eyes; dark and watchful, filled with quiet intelligence.

The phoenix trilled again – a curious, warbling note that made Harry’s ribs ache a little less. Then, slowly, and with the air of someone terribly important, it scooted two inches to the left and knocked over a pebble.

“Was that on purpose?” Harry asked.

The phoenix peered down at the fallen pebble. Then at Harry. Then, without breaking eye contact, kicked a second pebble off the rock.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry muttered.

The phoenix turned its back to him.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do you live here?”

The phoenix turned back to face him, puffed out its chest, and gave a warbling chirp that Harry was fairly certain translated to yes, peasant.

A laugh startled out of him like a hiccup. “Alright,” he said. “You know I don’t have any treats on me…”

The phoenix, very deliberately, lay down on its side like a wounded actor in a play. One wing splayed. Beak tilted just so. A single mournful note escaped it, like the death cry of a tragic hero.

Harry blinked. “Are you pretending to faint?”

The phoenix peeked at him through one eye.

“You’re mental.” He grinned, rummaging in his pockets and coming up with a half-squashed piece of chocolate from breakfast. “I don’t know if you’re supposed to eat this,” he said, holding it out.

The phoenix studied it… and then, with complete serenity, snatched the whole thing and swallowed it in one gulp.

Harry gaped. “That had the wrapper on!”

The phoenix gave a deeply satisfied chirp, which Harry was fairly sure meant it had no regrets whatsoever.

He laughed again. “You’re going to explode into flames just from indigestion.”

The phoenix sidled closer, bumping its warm, feathered head against his side.

His breath caught. He stayed like that for a while, the bird pressed up against him, the lake breathing softly beside them both.

It was enough.

As the day exhaled its last warmth and twilight crept in, the phoenix rose in a flare of wings and light. It gave a final, echoing trill, something between a song and a promise; and then lifted off into the darkening sky.

Harry watched it go, his heart lighter than it had been all day. Then he stood, brushed himself off, and turned back towards the castle.

The common room was warm and buzzing when Harry stepped inside. Students were scattered across armchairs and rugs, still lingering from dinner, chatting or hunched over homework.

He made his way to the quiet corner by the far window. Hermione was already there, bent over a stack of books, quill scratching busily.

She didn’t look up as he dropped into the seat across from her, but after a moment, she said, “You missed dinner.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Harry murmured, pulling out his own parchment. “Went for a walk.”

She didn’t press. Just nodded and returned to her notes, muttering something about properties of Devil’s Snare.

They worked in silence for a while. Harry copied a few lines from his Herbology textbook without really seeing them. The lake still echoed in his mind – the quiet, the warmth, the strange golden bird. It still felt like a dream.

Then someone clapped him on the back, hard enough to jolt him out of his thoughts. Harry turned. A tall, broad-shouldered boy stood over him, with dark eyes and a kind of earnest, intense energy.

“Nice flying today,” the boy said.

Harry blinked. “Er… thanks?”

“You don’t know me. Oliver Wood,” he added, sticking out a hand. “Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

“Oh.” Harry shook his hand, still a little confused. “I… how did you...?”

Wood grinned and jerked his head towards the corner. Ron was sitting on a beanbag, flanked by the Weasley twins, who wore matching grins like they’d just pulled off a successful heist. Ron gave Harry a sheepish wave.

“Apparently the entire tower believes you pulled a Wronski Feint to catch Malfoy,” Wood said. “I’m assuming that’s an exaggeration.”

Harry frowned. “What’s a Wronski Feint?”

Wood muttered. “Yeah… definitely an exaggeration.”

He beckoned Harry away from the table, towards the fireplace.

Ron scrambled up to follow, along with the twins and two older girls Harry vaguely recognised from meals, one with a thick braid down her back, the other with her sleeves rolled up and ink stains on her fingers.

“I’m rebuilding the team this year,” Wood continued. “Lost three Chasers. Thankfully, we’ve got two excellent reserves. But what we don’t have… what we desperately need… is a Seeker.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Okay…”

Wood turned to him. “How long have you been flying?”

Harry hesitated. “A few months. Since summer.”

George leaned towards Wood. “First years aren’t allowed on the team, remember?”

“Yeah,” Ron added. “It’s against the rules.”

Harry’s mouth had already opened, ‘yes’ rising before Wood had even finished his questions. He loved flying. It was the one thing he hadn’t needed to learn. But at those words, the excitement drained away.

Wood, however, looked unfazed. “I’ll talk to McGonagall. She knows we need this to win the Cup this year.”

Fred raised both eyebrows. “Good luck with that.”

“Meanwhile,” Wood continued, turning to Harry, “you’re meeting Fred and George on the pitch tomorrow… before breakfast. They’ll show you the ropes. The official tryouts are later in the morning, but if you really flew the way everyone’s saying, I’m sure you’ll make the team.”

“What?” Fred said. “Why us?”

“Because,” Wood said without looking at them, “you’re the only ones who played on the team last year. Angelina and Alicia were reserves, remember?”

George clutched his chest dramatically. “We are being treated like House-Elves.”

“Abused,” Fred agreed. “Unpaid.”

“I’ll break something if you’re late,” Wood said.

He clapped Harry on the shoulder, hard enough to rock him slightly, then turned and disappeared through the portrait hole with a determined air, marching down to McGonagall’s office.

Harry stood there dazed, feeling as if a small tornado had just passed through.

The girl with the braid patted his back. “You’ll be fine,” she said.

“Try not to let him hand you a clipboard,” the ink-stained one added. “He gets weird about drills.”

They wandered off, leaving Harry with Fred, George, and Ron.

Fred gave him a look. “So, Harry. Our new Seeker.”

George nodded solemnly. “The Boy Who Returned… To Catch the Snitch.”

They sauntered off in unison, muttering something about unionising and staging a Beater mutiny.

Harry was still staring after them when Ron came to stand beside him.

“Crazy, right?” he said. “You on the team.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Ron offered a weak smile, then scratched the back of his neck. “I mean… it’s brilliant, obviously. You deserve it.”

Harry nodded again. “We’ll see.”

Then Ron mumbled something about getting his Transfiguration book and ducked towards the dorms. Harry watched him go. He couldn’t be sure, but there’d been something in Ron’s voice; a flicker of something, like envy trying not to be. It sat just behind the words, quiet but hard to miss.

He turned back towards the fire, heart still thudding, and wondered if the warmth in his chest was excitement or dread.

Chapter Text

The sky was still tinged with grey when Harry stepped onto the pitch. A fine mist hung over the grass, and the stands loomed like sleepy shadows in the distance. He rubbed his arms. The air felt colder than it should’ve. Maybe it was the Dementors. Even from beyond the grounds, their presence seemed to press in, making the morning feel heavier somehow.

Fred and George were already there. Technically.

Fred was sitting cross-legged on the grass, yawning into his sleeve. George was lying flat on his back beside him, one arm draped dramatically across his face like he’d perished from exhaustion.

“Morning,” Harry said.

Fred blinked at him. “Blimey. You’re chipper.”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “Just awake.”

George made a noise that sounded like he had been betrayed. “Why does Oliver hate us?”

“He doesn’t,” Fred said. “He just loves Quidditch. In a deeply unhealthy way.”

Harry glanced around. “So… what are we doing?”

Fred clapped his hands once, as if that would summon energy from somewhere. “Right! Basics first… broom handling, control drills, timing.”

They went through the motions. Mounting. Acceleration. Sharp turns. Rolls. Fred shouted instructions between yawns. George made up names for all the drills, things like The Spinning Gut-Wrench and The Bladder Twister, while Harry flew through the mist, fast and fluid, every movement natural.

After about thirty minutes, Fred called a break.

George didn’t bother landing. He just drifted down like a falling leaf, flopped onto the grass, and groaned. “He’s too good. It’s disgusting.”

Fred dropped down beside him. “Honestly, this is pointless. You fly like the broom’s part of your spine. Where’d you learn that?”

Harry shrugged. “Just… picked it up.”

George peeked at him from under one eyelid. “You sure you weren’t born on a broom?”

Harry grinned. “Not that I know of.”

Fred rolled onto his stomach, chin propped on his hands. “Well, Oliver’s going to weep with joy. He’s been on edge since term started. Half the team graduated last year.”

“Five out of ten,” George added. “It was a massacre.”

Harry frowned. “Ten?”

“Seven players, three reserves,” Fred explained. “We lost four regulars and one reserve. That leaves us two backups… Alicia and Angelina. Plus George and me. And Oliver.”

“We’re the only survivors of the purge,” George said.

Fred snorted. “And now we need a Seeker. Alicia filled in for a match last year, but Oliver says she’s better chasing.”

Harry nodded, letting it sink in.

Fred gave him a sideways look. “You’re not scared of Oliver, are you?”

Harry considered. “He’s... intense.”

“That's putting it mildly,” George mumbled, eyes closed. “He named his broom.”

Fred added, “He talks strategy in his sleep.”

Harry laughed. “How long’s it been since Gryffindor won?”

“Two years,” Fred said. “Last time was when our brother Charlie was Seeker. Then he quit after fifth year to focus on his N.E.W.T.s.”

“He said something about future and careers,” George muttered. “Betrayed us. No one’s matched him since.”

Fred shrugged. “Anyway, we’ve been cursed since. Last year Slytherin beat us by forty points. Oliver nearly combusted.”

“He dried to drown himself in the shower,” George said.

Harry tried to picture all of this. Charlie Weasley soaring through the air, Wood designing plays in his sleep, Fred and George doing… whatever this was. A part of him was already hungry for it. The sky. The wind. The speed.

He lay back in the grass beside them, and stared up at the brightening sky. And that’s when he heard footsteps crunching across the pitch.

Fred sighed without opening his eyes. “And there’s Oliver.”

“Brace for impact,” George muttered.

Oliver Wood strode into view like a man entering a battlefield rather than a Quidditch pitch. His eyes scanned the three of them, landed on Fred and George sprawled on the grass, and narrowed with the precision of a Bludger aimed for the nose.

“Are you resting?” he demanded.

“We were lying in wait,” Fred offered.

Wood snapped. “You’re supposed to be showing him the basics, not sunbathing!”

Fred sat up, brushing grass from his jumper. “Relax, Cap. He’s nearly as good as Charlie.”

“Better, if he puts in the time,” George added, sitting up too. “And eats his vegetables.”

Wood’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. His expression did something strange; a flicker of hope, awe, maybe worship. He turned slowly to Harry. “Really?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I… I don’t know?”

Wood was already digging through his satchel, muttering under his breath. A moment later, he produced a golf ball.

“Alright, Potter… let’s try something.”

What followed was less a drill and more a blur. Wood tossed the ball high and low. He spun it with his wand. Harry caught it every time. On the rise, on the dip, over-the-shoulder, even once behind his back without quite meaning to. The broom seemed to know where to go.

When he landed, Wood looked positively misty-eyed.

“Merlin on a splintered broomstick!” he breathed. “You’re it…”

They sat down again on the grass, Fred and George flanking Harry like smug bodyguards.

Then Wood sighed. “I talked to McGonagall last night.”

Fred and George exchanged glances. Harry braced.

“She said no,” Wood went on. “Flat out. Says first years aren’t allowed, says it sets a precedent.”

Fred groaned. “Typical.”

George leaned back on his elbows. “Bet she’s still bitter we filled her inkpot with glitter last year.”

Wood gave them both a look. “This is serious.”

“I know,” Fred said. “That’s why we used permanent glitter.”

Wood ignored him. He turned to Harry. “I’m sorry. I really thought I could convince her.”

Harry tried to smile. “It’s alright. I get it.”

And he did, mostly. McGonagall must have put two and two together. The way Malfoy’s broom had gone wild. She probably didn’t want to take the risk. Not when it came to student safety.

Still, it stung.

Wood ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll fight for you, Potter. I swear it. I’ll talk to her again after tryouts… once she sees there’s no one else who even comes close.”

“Don’t you dare go down without a hunger strike,” George said solemnly.

Wood’s eyes lit up.

“Oh no,” Fred muttered.

“That’s it,” Wood said. “If she still says no after tryouts, I’m launching a hunger strike. Right outside Dumbledore’s office.”

George blinked. “Hang on. That was a joke.”

“I’m serious,” Wood declared. “I’ll sit there. Refuse food. Make a statement.”

Fred groaned. “You always take things to the next level. Can’t you just write a politely worded letter like a normal lunatic?”

“I’m fighting for Gryffindor’s shot at the Cup.” Wood said passionately.

George gave him a wary look. “We’re not expected to starve too, are we? I’ve got a delicate constitution.”

“Relax,” Wood said. “I’ll do it myself. But I won’t be moved.”

Fred leaned towards George. “We’re definitely bringing snacks. Not for you. Just to keep our strength up while we support you.”

Harry sat through the whole thing, caught between baffled amusement and guilt. The what-ifs of the flying lesson, the feeling that McGonagall had seen through him still tugged at him. But there was something else now too.

They were fighting for him. Even if it didn’t work… that meant something. Something that felt suspiciously like belonging.

The sun had risen fully by the time the official tryouts began. Harry watched them from the stands, a little stiff from the morning’s flight session.

The rest of the Gryffindors had trickled in slowly, even one or two from other houses who’d come out of curiosity. But there wasn’t much conversation. Just the occasional murmur when someone pulled a neat move or fumbled a catch.

Harry watched Alicia and Angelina fly. They were confident and sharp. There was no sign of a proper Seeker, though.

Wood moved like a man under siege. Shouting plays, scribbling notes, gesturing wildly from the ground. When the last Bludger was boxed and the final broom landed, he marched off towards the castle, face set like a knight riding to war.

Harry didn’t follow. Instead, he wandered uphill to the Owlery.

The late morning sun slanted through the stone arches, catching feathers in gold. Hedwig swooped down the moment she spotted him. She nipped his thumb fondly, then settled beside him on the ledge, watching the grounds below like a queen surveying her realm. He leaned against the cool stone and sat there with her, letting the wind and quiet settle over him.

It was past midday by the time he dragged himself back to the castle. His stomach had started complaining, and by the time he reached the Great Hall, he was ravenous. He realised with a start he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. He made up for it quickly.

Afterwards, he returned to the common room, resolved to make a dent in the growing pile of homework. He sat at his usual table by the window and began copying notes. Somewhere between the conclusion of his Herbology essay and a particularly dull paragraph on transfiguration formula, his eyelids gave up.

He jerked awake some time later to the sound of parchment being shuffled. Hermione was sitting across from him, a neatly stacked pile of books by her elbow, quill moving in crisp, controlled strokes.

“You drooled on your Transfiguration essay,” she said, without looking up.

Harry wiped his mouth and scowled at the parchment. “Wasn’t asleep… I was… studying through osmosis.”

Hermione didn’t dignify that with a response. She did, however, pass him a fresh sheet. He took it, blinking away the fuzz of sleep.

“You going down for supper?” she asked after a moment.

Harry glanced at the clock. His stomach answered before he did, growling audibly. “Yeah,” he said. “Coming?”

She nodded and rolled up her notes.

They walked down together. Harry noticed, not for the first time, that Hermione never seemed to be part of a group. No pack of whispering girls, no cluster of companions. Just books. And a lot of muttering.

“You don’t hang out with anyone else, do you?” he asked.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Pardon?”

“I mean…” he shrugged. “You’re always alone.”

She hesitated. “So are you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’s probably why we keep ending up at the same table.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Hermione said, “I don’t mind.”

They walked in step towards the Great Hall, the warm murmur of evening chatter curling out through the open doors. As they entered, Harry’s eyes flicked instinctively to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was back, seated between Crabbe and Goyle. Every pair of eyes at the table turned on him, conversations dropped to whispers, and more than a few glares were sharp enough to feel.

Harry didn’t flinch. He just kept walking, though he felt every stare like a prickle at the back of his neck. He glanced sideways at Hermione. “So… what do your books say about me today?”

Hermione was caught off guard. “Oh. Um…” She looked almost embarrassed. “Nothing new.”

“No posthumous update?” he asked. “Still dead?”

A startled laugh escaped her. “Still very much listed as deceased.”

They found seats near the end of the table. As they filled their plates, Hermione glanced at him thoughtfully.

“I did go back and read the chapters again,” she admitted. “After that morning.”

“Still trying to prove I’m a ghost?”

“No. I just… I wanted to understand it better. Everything that happened.”

Harry slowed his fork. “And?”

“And,” she said carefully, “I think those books cared more about the event than the people. They never cared about the cost.”

There was a long pause.

Harry said quietly, “Books are like that sometimes.”

Hermione nodded. “People too.” She hesitated, then added, “I mean, you are getting fan mail every day.”

Harry snorted.

They ate for a while in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… reflective.

Then she asked, “Was it strange? Coming here, facing all this. I mean after all that…”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He poked at his mashed potatoes, then said, “A bit.”

Hermione seemed to sense that was all she’d get. She didn’t press. Instead, she reached for the gravy, then paused. “Would you like some?”

Harry blinked, then passed her his plate without a word.

She poured a neat line of gravy across the potatoes, handed it back, and resumed eating.

For some reason, that small act felt bigger than it was. Like a hand stretched towards him in acceptance. Harry didn’t say thank you. He knew he didn’t have to.

As he reached for a second helping of potatoes, Neville appeared at the table, face lit up with a wide, relieved grin.

“Madam Pomfrey finally let me go,” he said. “Said my balance is back to normal.”

“That’s great,” Harry smiled. “Glad you’re alright.”

“I think I am developing an immunity to embarrassment,” Neville said proudly. “And I must have built a resistance to falling.”

Harry laughed, and even Hermione looked amused.

But as Neville gave them a quick nod before hurrying on towards Ron and the others, a flicker of admiration settled in Harry’s chest. Neville Longbottom, just a baby like him, had faced the same dark night.

And here he was, still standing. Still smiling. Still trying.

There was strength in that. Maybe more than most people saw.

The warmth of supper lingered pleasantly in Harry’s stomach as he and Hermione left the Great Hall and joined the flow of students headed back towards the towers. They’d only just reached the second landing when a whisper called out from above.

“Oi! Harry!”

Harry glanced up. Fred was leaning over the railing from the next flight. George appeared beside him, and for once, neither of them were grinning.

Fred jerked his head. “Come here a sec, would you?”

Hermione paused beside him. “What now?”

“No idea,” Harry said, and he climbed the stairs towards them.

As soon as he reached the landing, Fred pulled him aside, out of the stream of students. George followed, brows raised.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

Fred looked oddly serious. “Oliver. He’s really doing it.”

“Doing what?”

George glanced down the stairwell to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “He’s camped outside Dumbledore’s office.”

Harry stared. “What?”

“With a blanket,” Fred said grimly. “And a bottle of water.”

Harry blinked. “I… what?”

“Said he wouldn’t leave until McGonagall relents,” George added, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or worry.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Is he serious?”

“Mate,” said Fred, clapping a hand to his shoulder, “he’s Oliver Wood. He’s always serious.”

Hermione’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly vanished into her hair.

Harry gave her a sheepish look. “I… think I need to check this out.”

He hurried after Fred and George, who had taken off at a brisk pace, muttering between themselves.

“I told him it was a metaphor,” George said.

“Metaphor?” Fred shot back. “You do realise some people wouldn’t recognise one even if it bit them on the back.”

“It was a joke!”

Harry trailed close behind. He hadn’t truly believed Wood would go through with it. And now it felt like something teetering on the edge of ridiculous and real. Something that was his fault.

Malfoy’s broom hadn’t gone haywire on its own. Harry had done something, even if he hadn’t meant to. And now Wood was on a mission, all because Harry hadn’t been honest. He hadn’t explained why McGonagall said no, and that made it seem like she was the problem, like she cared only about rules, not her House.

They came to a halt before a large, hunched statue of a stone gargoyle. It stood with arms crossed and wings tucked in tight, eyes glinting in the torchlight like it was sizing them up.

Oliver Wood sat cross-legged on the cold flagstones before the gargoyle, wrapped in a Gryffindor blanket like a monk. Beside him: a water bottle, and a crudely lettered cardboard sign that read Justice for Seekers, the “S” bearing wings like a Golden Snitch.

Harry stared. “Oh no.”

Wood looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. His face lit up. “Potter! You came.”

Harry hesitated, guilt prickling at his throat. “You… you really did it.”

“Of course I did.” Wood stood, brushing off his robes. “This is a matter of principle. McGonagall’s being completely unreasonable. But once she sees I’m serious, she’ll have to reconsider.”

Fred and George stayed behind, hovering just far enough back to pretend they weren’t watching closely.

Harry stepped forward. “Oliver, listen. You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to do this,” Wood said fervently. “You deserve to play.”

Harry swallowed. “I’m saying… I don’t… I don’t want to play.”

For a moment, Wood looked utterly unmoored. Like someone had taken away the ground beneath his feet. He blinked. “What?”

Harry shifted awkwardly. “I mean, I’m… not ready. Or I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not… I don’t want the pressure. It’s just a game.”

“Just a game?” Wood repeated, like Harry had spat in the name of Merlin himself. “Quidditch is… it’s not just…” He stopped. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“You can say what you want, Potter,” Wood said, belief and hurt battling in his eyes. “But I’ve seen you fly. You belong on the team.”

Harry felt something tighten in his chest. “I don’t want to belong there.”

Wood’s mouth opened, maybe to argue, but Harry had already turned. He didn’t wait to hear more. His feet carried him down the corridor, fury and guilt knotting in his gut.

“I don’t want to play,” he muttered again under his breath, but it sounded less convincing this time.

His steps quickened, past tapestries and portraits and flickering torches. Before he realised it, he was standing in front of an oaken door with a brass plaque that read: Deputy Headmistress – Professor M. McGonagall.

Harry hesitated, then raised his hand and knocked.

“Enter.”

He stepped inside.

Professor McGonagall looked up from her writing, her expression as unreadable as always. “Mr Potter.”

Harry swallowed. “Professor. I wanted to speak to you.”

She gestured for him to sit, but he kept standing. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. “It’s about… Oliver. He’s… he’s outside Professor Dumbledore’s office right now.”

McGonagall’s brow twitched, though her voice remained flat. “Yes. I’m aware.” She placed her quill back in the inkwell. “I’ve made it quite clear to Mr Wood that you will not be playing for the Gryffindor team. In any capacity.”

Harry nodded. “Right. I know.” He hesitated. “I just… Please tell him to stop. I told him I don’t want to play.”

That gave her pause. Her eyes searched his face. “You told him you didn’t want to play?”

“I mean,” Harry said, “you’re right not to let me. What happened… it wasn’t… it isn’t safe.”

McGonagall studied him for another moment, then folded her arms. “Go on.”

“I think…” His voice came out too soft. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I lost control yesterday.”

Her brow creased faintly.

“When Malfoy hit me with the Remembrall,” Harry said, “It felt like something snapped. The magic just… left me. And then his broom went wild.”

McGonagall’s eyes sharpened.

Harry looked down at his hands. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I understand why you won’t let me on the team. I shouldn’t have… I didn’t even know I could do that.”

The silence stretched. She rose from her desk, moving to stand beside the fire. “Magic, Mr Potter, is not merely a matter of waving your wand. It is a matter of intent, control, and discipline.”

He nodded. “Yes, Professor.”

“You have more magic in you than most your age,” she said, turning to face him. “Untrained, it’s unpredictable… and with temper, it becomes a risk. It becomes a danger to all.”

Harry’s throat tightened.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said, voice softer now. “You could have chosen not to come forward. That tells me something about your character.”

Harry stared at the floor, steeling himself for the punishment he knew was coming.

As McGonagall stood poised to speak, the door opened with a gentle click.

Dumbledore entered as if he had wandered in by accident, robes the colour of midnight plums trailing faintly behind him. His expression was one of mild curiosity, as though he had stumbled upon a tea party rather than a student-teacher reckoning.

“Ah, Minerva,” he said, “I was just passing by and thought I might inquire whether you’ve had a chance to read the latest Transfiguration Today. I believe they’re still insisting that teacups and canaries should never share a spell matrix.”

McGonagall gave him a look over her spectacles that said: I know exactly what you’re doing.

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Harry, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Harry! What a coincidence.”

Harry gulped down his guilt and opened his mouth to deliver his confession again, but Dumbledore held up a finger gently.

“No need to explain,” he said. “There are some conversations one does not need to overhear to understand. By now, I suspect half the school has formed an opinion on the matter, and three different versions are already circulating.”

He moved closer to the hearth, examining an old inkpot on the mantel as if it were of great interest. “The thing about rules,” he said, “is that they are excellent at keeping us safe. They are less adept, however, at recognising the shape of a moment. Or the weight of a choice.”

McGonagall’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

“I believe,” Dumbledore went on, “that Harry should be allowed to play. He has shown remorse. And a good deal of courage in coming to you tonight.”

He looked to her. “Sometimes we teach more by trusting than by withholding.”

McGonagall studied him for a long beat. Then gave a terse nod. “On the condition,” she said to Harry, “that there are no further incidents of uncontrolled magic. If it happens again… even once… you’re off the team. Permanently. You will not be allowed to play Quidditch at Hogwarts again.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Professor.”

Dumbledore gave a small, satisfied hum. “Besides, I would quite like to persuade Mr Wood that I am not, in fact, a barmy old codger with no regard for athletic integrity… though I’m sure he meant it in the kindest possible way.”

Harry startled out a laugh that wobbled at the edges.

McGonagall did not smile. “You’ll also report to Mr Filch’s office every Monday evening, for the remainder of the term,” she said crisply. “He has an impressive backlog of disciplinary records in need of sorting. I’m sure you’ll find the task… enlightening.”

Harry’s shoulders drooped half an inch. “Yes, Professor.”

Dumbledore raised his brows. “Ah, the filing cabinets of consequence. An underrated educational resource… often more impactful than a good textbook.”

He turned to Harry with a look both piercing and kind. “I find,” he said softly, “that when young people tell the truth, even at personal cost, it often means they are learning what it takes to carry the weight of their own choices… and that is no small thing.”

Then, he added, “Now, I suggest you go inform Mr Wood… so that he might finally eat the pumpkin pasty he was eyeing with such tragic determination.”

A wide grin broke across Harry’s face. Joy rose like fireworks in his chest, loud and warm and almost too big for him to hold. “Thank you,” he said, and ran.

Chapter Text

By the end of September, Harry’s life had settled into something resembling a rhythm, fuelled by adrenaline, tea-dunked biscuits from the common room stash, and the ever-present threat of being hexed in Potions.

The day McGonagall relented, Harry had rushed straight to the corridor outside Dumbledore’s office, where Oliver Wood was still camped. Fred and George flanked him, dangling promises of soup, sanity, and the very real risk of permanent spinal damage from sleeping on flagstones.

When Harry told him, Wood didn’t speak. He just stared. Then, to no one’s surprise, he cried. Openly. Unashamedly. Then, still weeping, he shoved an entire pumpkin pasty into his mouth, chewed like a man possessed, and sprinted to the common room to draw up the season’s strategy with the manic glee of a general who’d just won a war and immediately declared another.

Harry wrote to Sirius the next morning. He told him, almost bashfully, that he’d been selected for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. As Seeker.

Sirius’s reply came back so fast it might’ve caught a tailwind. The parchment practically hummed with excitement; mad, unfiltered joy in every line. There were at least three different lines that just said “YES” followed by exclamation marks and celebratory doodles of Snitches doing loop-the-loops.

Then came the inevitable bit.

“You’re getting a new broom.”

“No, Sirius.”

“Yes, Harry.”

“No, Sirius.”

And so it went.

Sirius threatened to buy him a Nimbus 2000, “Top of the line, fastest on the market, and don’t even try to argue, or I’ll come down there and hex your trainers into rats.” But Harry had stood firm. He didn’t want something shiny and new. He wanted the same one his dad had once flown in school colours.

Eventually, Sirius gave in. “You’re just as stubborn as James,” he wrote, the ink smudged like he’d jabbed the quill a bit too hard. “Merlin help me.”

And that was that.

That weekend, Remus had called Harry into his office. The broom was waiting there, propped gently against the bookshelf. He gave Harry a quiet smile and something in his eyes told Harry he understood what this meant.

From then on, life shifted into gear.

The sudden lurch from long, quiet months at home to Hogwarts’ relentless pace left Harry breathless. He barely had time to think between classes, homework, and Oliver Wood’s increasingly militant training sessions. Quidditch practices began at dawn or ended long past supper, and always involved Wood yelling about feints like they were ancient philosophy.

By mid-October, Harry was waking up sore in places he hadn’t known could ache.

He was studying, too. The wandwork came easier than he expected, honed by months of careful, deliberate teaching from Sirius and Remus. There was a steadiness to it now, a confidence that felt earned. He still struggled with essays, the winding theory made his brain itch, but he soldiered on.

Somewhere in all that, Hermione had stopped being just the girl who answered every question and started becoming… a friend. She had taken to sitting across from him during study sessions, often sliding him spare parchment or nudging his inkpot back when it drifted. She was still visibly startled and affronted by how often he fumbled the theory behind a charm, only to master it on his first try. The Severing Charm incident had been particularly memorable: he hadn’t known who invented it or why it was used in duelling, but his ribbon slice had been clean enough to make Flitwick clap in wonder. Hermione had spluttered, recomposed herself, then redoubled her effort.

Still, there were parts of his timetable he’d have gladly fed to a dragon.

If Snape had been cold before, now he was glacial. Since Harry’s selection, it was like someone had lit a fuse beneath him. Every class brought new insults, more point deductions, and the kind of snarling sarcasm that could curdle milk.

And then there was last week, the full moon. With Remus absent, Snape had filled in for Defence Against the Dark Arts. The lesson had been meant to continue their work on zombies, but Snape, with thinly veiled glee, had steered the class towards werewolves instead. He spoke of them as degrading creatures, riddled with instability, dangerous by nature and pathetic by design. His tone dripped with contempt, and more than once, his eyes flicked deliberately to Harry with challenge. As if daring him to react.

Harry had been left fuming. His fingers clenched around his quill, heart pounding with the force of words he didn’t dare speak aloud. But he kept his head down.

He remembered something he’d read the night before, a passage from Remus’s book. “Let the unkindness of others pass through you like wind through branches. Bend, but do not break. Your strength is in choosing when not to strike.”

He hadn’t wanted another round of detentions. More than that, he hadn’t wanted to give Snape the satisfaction, the chance to say, See? He’s just what I thought he was. Because it was clear by now that Snape didn’t just dislike him, he believed Harry was something vile.

Still, the restraint didn’t make Potions any easier.

Neville, bless him, was doing his best, but the lessons were always unforgiving. Monday’s class had ended in disaster: a mismeasured Shrivelfig, a puff of noxious green vapour, and ten full minutes of Snape publicly dissecting Neville’s incompetence, complete with sneering remarks about Gryffindor’s selection standards.

By the time they were cleaning up, the classroom had mostly emptied. Ron had lingered near the door, glancing back once, but a look from Neville had sent him on ahead.

Neville scrubbed at a crusted ladle with a sort of desperate vigour. “I know why the Slytherins hate me,” he said suddenly. “A lot of their families were on You-Know-Who’s side.”

Harry paused mid-scrub. Neville’s eyes were still fixed on the cauldron.

“They look at me like I cheated. Like I stole something.”

The words seemed to fall out of him now, like a seam that had finally split open. “I’m still getting used to it, but I can live with that. But Snape…” His throat bobbed. “He’s a teacher. I don’t understand why he looks at me like that. Like I ruined his life just by being born.”

Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. “It’s not your fault… None of it.”

Neville didn’t look up.

“You didn’t choose what happened. You didn’t ask for the attention or the titles. You’re just trying to learn potions without someone breathing down your neck like a cursed bat.”

A wet, startled laugh escaped Neville.

Harry went back to cleaning beside him. He didn’t say it aloud, but felt that no one should have to carry a war they didn’t start.

Two days later, during their Wednesday Potions, Neville knocked over a beaker of salamander blood just as Snape was mid-demonstration. The classroom fell silent. Snape turned with the slow inevitability of poison taking hold.

Neville froze, eyes wide. His mouth opened in silent horror.

But before Snape could speak, Harry leaned back on his stool and said, loud enough to carry, “Sorry, Sir, I dared him to do it. Said he couldn’t make a bigger mess than I did last week. Bit of a let-down, to be honest.”

A few Gryffindors stifled snorts. Even Hermione let out a cough that was suspiciously giggle-adjacent. Across the aisle, several Slytherins sneered. Malfoy leaned forward, eyes fixed on Snape, as if waiting for retaliation.

Snape’s eyes snapped to Harry. “Five points from Gryffindor, Potter, for speaking out of turn. And another five for sheer idiocy.”

Harry offered a mild shrug. “Only fair, Sir. Wouldn’t want us getting too comfortable."

Snape’s lip curled. “You find this amusing, do you?”

“No, Sir,” Harry said blandly. “Just educational. I think it’s brilliant, really.”

Another wave of deductions followed. Snape snarled something about “inherited delusions of grandeur” and slammed the ingredients drawer shut harder than necessary.

But Neville didn’t get yelled at.

And that became the pattern.

Every time Snape prowled near their table, Harry would throw himself under the broomstick first. A dry remark, a poorly hidden smirk, a comment just cheeky enough to derail the venom aimed at Neville’s clumsy hands.

Neville noticed, of course. He tried to protest once, after Harry earned them both a lost evening to scrubbing cauldrons. But Harry just shrugged it off.

“You’re better at trying,” he said. “I’m better at annoying him. We all play to our strengths.”

Neville didn’t smile right away. But he nodded. And the next time Harry cracked a joke that drew Snape’s ire like a magnet, Neville managed a brave grin.

Harry caught it. And grinned back. He didn’t have to be a hero. He just had to be loud enough to be a distraction.

Still, that wasn’t the only punishment Harry had earned this term.

Every Monday evening, without fail, he reported to Filch’s office; a room that smelled of mildew, bad decisions, and formaldehyde. The caretaker received him with the glee of a man welcoming his worst enemy to tea. His first task had been cleaning a crate of blood-stained shackles without magic. After that, it had been paperwork. Endless paperwork. There were entire drawers of disciplinary records and Filch insisted Harry read each one aloud “for archival accuracy.” Meanwhile, the caretaker hovered, muttering about the good old days of thumb screws and chains, and lamenting the current state of magical discipline.

Harry mostly tuned it out. He learned to sort quickly, and to keep an eye on Mrs Norris, who stalked the room like a miniature prison warden.

And once, when Filch caught him actually humming while filing a stack, he muttered, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, boy?”

Harry gave him a look of pure innocence. “Immensely, Sir.”

Filch glared at him for a full minute. Then grumbled and stalked off with Mrs Norris slinking at his heels.

And as if Potions and detentions weren’t enough, there were the Slytherins.

The Malfoy incident hadn’t helped. If things had been tense before, they turned openly hostile after that flying lesson. And Harry’s unexpected rise to Seeker only days later seemed, to the Slytherins, like proof of every unfair advantage they’d already decided he had.

Harry did his best to avoid Malfoy entirely. Fortunately, he’d gotten rather good at it, thanks in no small part to Sir Nicholas, who had taken it upon himself to become Harry’s self-declared “ghostly guide.” The Gryffindor ghost possessed an immense and inexhaustible knowledge of the castle’s secret passages, which he shared in hushed, theatrical whispers, as though narrating a grand conspiracy no one else must hear.

Harry, who found it far easier to slip away from trouble, accepted the help gratefully and managed to steer clear of Malfoy more often than not.

But dodging the older Slytherins was easier said than done. Curses followed him in corridors. Some were petty: tripping jinxes, hair-colour charms, sneezing hex. But a few had real bite.

After one particularly nasty hit, a tripping jinx followed by a silent hex that slammed him into a stone wall, Harry had crumpled to the floor. Pain had bloomed in his ribs, and for a moment, all he could see was red.

He tried to breathe. Quidditch, he reminded himself. The team. Remus’s book.

But the pain had been too much. His control had almost slipped. Magic had started to surge. But by the time he staggered upright, his attackers were already gone.

The corridor had been quiet again, as if nothing had happened.

He had made it to the Hospital Wing on his own. Madam Pomfrey had fixed the bruised ribs quickly, but her eyes had narrowed when he muttered something about the staircase shifting under him mid-step. She hadn’t pressed, simply pursed her lips and summoned more salve than usual.

He hadn’t dared look her in the eye. He just hoped she’d bought it.

Hermione hadn’t. She’d cornered him after his release the next day, insisting he tell a professor. “Probably just nerves,” Harry deflected, brushing it off with a shrug. “Opening match is soon. Tensions are high.” She hadn’t looked convinced.

Remus, when he heard, said nothing. He handed Harry a cup of tea, then showed him the Shield Charm that same evening. They practised until Harry could cast it effortlessly, his wrist moving on instinct.

After that, he got better at reacting quickly, raising a shield, and disappearing into the castle’s maze.

Although it didn’t always go smoothly.

One afternoon, as he was returning from Transfiguration, his head still full of the lecture on switching spells, he walked straight into an ambush near the northern stairwell. Flint was throwing hexes while Bletchley stood at the corridor’s mouth, keeping watch.

The first jinx missed by inches. Harry dove behind a suit of armour just as another sizzled past, cracking against the stone. His heart was pounding, not from fear, but from sheer fury. He’d been careless. He should’ve heard them coming.

Another hex exploded against the armour’s shoulder plate. His mind was blank. Just noise and fear and the coppery taste of adrenaline.

Then… a flicker of memory. Avifors.

He gripped his wand tighter, aiming towards the tapestry. He didn’t stand a chance against them. He needed a distraction. Just one bird.

“Avifors,” he muttered.

The tapestry didn’t shift gently. It detonated.

Feathers exploded outward as the fabric tore itself apart, unravelling into a wild, tangled storm of wings. Half-formed birds shot into the corridor, squawking and flapping with frantic energy. One had two heads. Another had no eyes. None of them were what he meant, but they were loud, and they were everywhere.

It startled Flint and that was all Harry could ask for. He used the chaos to slip out from cover, his wand already moving.

A streak of yellow light, a Stinging Hex, shot towards him. His wrist turned on instinct. The shield rose and something pulsed through his wand, warm and alive. The hex snapped mid-air and rebounded cleanly, slamming into Flint’s chest. The older boy dropped with a strangled yelp.

Bletchley, hearing the cry, jumped into the fray. He cast a flash of blue light.

Harry’s shield snapped up again. This time he twisted his wand as he parried, and the spell ricocheted in a jagged arc. Bletchley ducked too late. The curse caught his arm and spun him off balance. He crashed into the wall with a grunt.

By the time the last feathers settled and the groans began, Harry melted into a side corridor and vanished down a hidden stairwell.

After that, the older Slytherins were warier. They still watched, but rarely attacked him unless they had the numbers.

It wasn’t ideal. But it was the closest thing to control.

Still, not every hour at Hogwarts was spent dodging curses.

Over the course of the term, Harry found himself visiting Hagrid more and more. The groundskeeper always welcomed him like he was the most important guest to cross his threshold, throwing open the door with a booming, “There yeh are!” and promptly shoving a rock cake into his hand, whether Harry wanted one or not.

Afternoons at the edge of the forest took on a kind of rhythm. Fang would launch himself at Harry in joy, while Hedwig, who had clearly decided Hagrid’s hut was her new favourite perch, would glide down from the Owlery. The two creatures had struck up a strange sort of friendship. More than once, Harry watched in amusement as Fang chased after her, barking joyfully while Hedwig swooped just out of reach, as if she was humouring a very large, very slobbery puppy.

Hagrid, for his part, was a never-ending source of stories. Some likely exaggerated, many likely true, all told with enormous hands waving through the air and eyes twinkling with excitement. Tales of flesh-eating slugs in the pumpkin patch, of runaway puffskeins wreaking havoc in the kitchens, of the time he’d mistaken a baby troll for a lost goat, said with a twinkle in his eyes and a mumbled, “Easy mistake, honest, the light was funny.”

Sometimes, Remus would drop by. He’d bring ginger biscuits, and settle into a chair with a tired smile. Hagrid would launch into his latest tale without pause, and Remus, more often than not, would raise an eyebrow and murmur something like, “That’s not quite how I remember it.” Hagrid would bellow with laughter, then double down on the tale just to make him laugh.

And Harry… he would sit back and let it all wash over him. The crackle of the fire. The scrape of Fang’s claws on the floor. Hedwig preening on the windowsill. Hagrid’s voice booming through the room like a living fairytale.

But the fairytale faded fast.

In the week leading up to their first match, Wood, sleepless, snappy, and halfway to madness; assigned Fred and George to shadow Harry between classes. “If the Slytherins can’t outfly us, they’ll outscheme us,” he muttered. “Let’s not give them the chance.”

Harry had raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. The twins took to the task with their usual flair, cracking jokes and inventing elaborate backstories for everyone who passed them, not without the customary teasing aimed at Harry, of course. But what surprised him most was what happened in the quiet pockets between the chaos.

George, when they passed the pitch one evening, mentioned in an offhand voice that he still had nightmares of falling… from his first match, and waking up before he hit the ground.

A few days later, Harry noticed a pale scar tracing across the side of Fred’s hand, an old burn, by the look of it.

“That?” Fred said, catching the glance. “Kitchen accident. Summer before last.” He gave a small shrug. “Couldn’t find the salve. Didn’t want to bother Mum… she was already in bits that week. Ron had a fever that wouldn’t break.”

He said it like it made perfect sense.

They told these stories with their usual crooked grins, but the edge beneath was real. And Harry listened. And remembered.

It struck him then that their jokes weren’t armour for themselves, but for everyone else. That they bore the weight lightly so others didn’t have to feel it. And behind it, the twins held things close. Guilt, maybe. Pressure. A kind of fierce pride that didn’t ask to be understood.

And somewhere along the way, between shared shortcuts, late-night strategy sessions, shoulder nudges and lookout shifts, the teasing lost its edge. What remained was easier. A rhythm that didn’t need words. Steady as a heartbeat.

Now it was Halloween, and just two days remained until their match against Slytherin. Harry was fighting nerves – sharp, swooping jolts in his stomach that felt like sudden dives on a broom.

The team were no better. Katie, usually cheerful, kept tapping her fork against her plate like a ticking clock. Alicia had gone quiet, staring holes into the enchanted ceiling as though rehearsing every pass in her head. Even Fred and George, normally full of jokes, were subdued, their banter thinner.

The Great Hall had been transformed. Floating jack-o’-lanterns bobbed cheerfully above the tables, their carved faces ranging from classic toothy grins to expressions so detailed they might have been modelled off real students. Hundreds of fluttering candles hung overhead, casting golden light against the enchanted ceiling, which now rippled with autumn clouds and the occasional flutter of spectral bats.

The long house tables were groaning under the weight of pies, puddings and roast meats. Normally he would have piled his plate high. Tonight though, even the sight of treacle tart made his stomach flip. He toyed with a roll instead, tearing it into tiny pieces he didn’t eat. A few places down the table, Ron was gleefully testing how quickly his goblet refilled itself with pumpkin juice.

The silence stretched among the team, until Wood finally broke it. “I’m telling you… Pucey’s going to try the sloth grip roll again. He’s obsessed with it. Probably thinks it makes him look dramatic.”

“He is dramatic,” said Angelina. “Last year he faked a crash into the stands to stop play… Said the light was in his eyes.”

“Should’ve been banned for bad acting,” muttered Fred.

“Or given a costume and shoved into the Drama Club,” George added.

“Speaking of drama,” said Wood, turning on Harry like he’d been waiting to bring this up, “you sure you don’t want a new broom? There’s still time to upgrade…”

“No,” Harry said firmly.

Wood raised an eyebrow. “Still hung up on that old thing?”

Alicia rolled her eyes before Harry could answer. “It’s not the broom, Oliver.”

“Yeah,” said Angelina, jabbing a fork for emphasis. “You could put Harry on a mop, and he’d still flatten Slytherin.”

Fred smirked. “Maybe that’s the trick. Show up with a broomstick held together by spellotape and sheer spite. Psyche them out.”

“Exactly,” said George. “They’ll be too busy laughing to notice him nicking the Snitch out from under their noses.”

Harry flushed, ducking his head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he muttered. “I might just forget how to fly entirely and steer myself into the lake.”

“Tragic downfall of the Master of Death,” said George. “We’ll write a ballad.”

“Do you mind,” said Wood, clearly exasperated, “if I plan the match without musical numbers?”

Harry glanced up, a flicker of mischief breaking through the nerves, “That’s all right, Oliver. We’ll let you do the solo.”

Fred choked on his juice. Angelina snorted so hard it drew a curious glance from Percy two seats down.

Wood pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, if we lose because half the team’s laughing mid-play…”

“We’re not going to lose,” said Angelina firmly. “We’ve got the best Seeker out there.”

Harry added quickly, “…and possibly the first to faint mid-match.”

“It’s the first match for most of you. You’re allowed to be nervous,” murmured Julian Heath, the tall fifth-year reserve, his expression somewhere between sympathy and deep regret for ever agreeing to help Wood draw up team strategy.

Katie straightened, her fork clenched like a sword; expression grim and steady like someone marching to the gallows. At the far end of the table, Cormac McLaggen and Sophie Stretton, the two second-year reserves, exchanged glances. Sophie looked pale but kept nibbling; Cormac attempted bravado and failed. Still, the relief in their eyes was unmistakable. They weren’t the ones flying on Saturday.

“I’m not nervous,” Harry said, then paused. “Okay, maybe a little… But seriously, if I faint, Fred, you can just use me as a Bludger. Might be more useful.”

The table broke into laughter. Fred thumped him on the back, Alicia rolled her eyes fondly, and even Wood’s solemn face cracked into the ghost of a grin. The laughter lingered for a moment before fading into the warm hum of the Hall. Plates refilled, candles flickered, and pumpkins drifted lazily overhead. The night wound on, a blur of nerves and jokes, with too much food left untouched.

Friday came wrapped in grey light and restless wind, the kind that made the castle windows shiver in their frames. Harry didn’t have flying lessons like the rest of the first-years, so he wandered down to Hagrid’s hut. He knocked once and pushed the door open.

“Harry!” boomed Hagrid at once, standing from his enormous chair and nearly knocking over a bucket of eels by the hearth. “Was wonderin’ if yeh’d come by.”

Remus was already there, sitting across from Hagrid with a half-empty mug and a biscuit balanced on his knee. He looked up with a smile. “You’re just in time. I was about to steal your share.”

Harry stepped inside. Hedwig was perched on a rafter near the ceiling, and Fang thudded his tail lazily against the floor in greeting.

The table was cluttered – Hagrid’s tea, a copy of the Daily Prophet, and a large flask of something that smelled faintly of treacle and boot polish. The Prophet’s front page was turned towards Harry. He recognised the headline from that morning:

BREAKOUT AT AZKABAN – SIRIUS BLACK STRIKES AGAIN?

Remus followed his gaze, then leaned forward and folded the paper shut.

“No need to glare at it,” he said. “It won’t apologise.”

Harry pulled up a stool and sat. “They really think Sirius…”

“They want the public to think it,” Remus said. “That’s not quite the same thing.”

Hagrid made a low, unhappy noise, pouring Harry a cup of tea. “Load of rubbish. They haven’t got a shred o’ real proof. Jus’ pinning it on the easiest name they’ve got.”

“Convenient,” Remus agreed, “that they mention Sirius right in the headline, but only list the actual escapees halfway through the fourth column.”

Hagrid nodded grimly. “Whole lot of them ought’ve never seen daylight again. If they’re loose… well…”

Remus tapped a finger against the folded newspaper. “And not a single mention of the Dementors being pulled out. Not one line about the Ministry leaving Azkaban undermanned. They don’t want accountability. They want a headline. And a scapegoat.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “They’ll call the Dementors off Hogwarts soon enough… At least that’ll make the Headmaster happy.”

Harry sat very still, both hands wrapped around his tea.

He could still hear the sound in the Great Hall that morning, the sharp rustle of newspapers being spread open, followed by a single gasp that seemed to spark dozens more. Murmurs had built into a rising swell of voices, students leaning across tables, pointing, whispering, jostling for a look.

And just like that, the panic had caught.

By the time Harry reached the Gryffindor table, copies of the paper were already being passed around. Someone was reading out the names: the Lestranges, Crouch, Travers, and more, thirteen in all.

Professor McGonagall had stalked past with her mouth set in a thin line. Dumbledore’s seat at the staff table sat conspicuously empty, and his absence spoke louder than any headline. The teachers who were present looked shaken. Flitwick kept wringing his hands. Sprout didn’t touch her plate. Snape, by contrast, looked almost intrigued, his eyes sharp and oddly alert, as though some part of him had been waiting for this.

At the Slytherin table, the mood was quieter but no less pointed. There was no laughter, no overt celebration; but a subtle shift in posture, a murmur beneath the surface. Like they knew something the rest of the castle hadn’t caught up to yet.

And Sirius’s name had been everywhere. Whispered in corridors. Hissed across house tables. Circled in ink on the Prophet like a bloodstain.

It had made Harry’s chest feel hot, like someone had stoked the fire too high.

And yet… the adults who knew Sirius best were here now, quietly rejecting the story. No drama. No panic. Just truth, set against a world already moving to accuse.

“They’ll blame him for whatever comes next,” Remus said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Harry nodded.

Hagrid gave a sigh that rattled his shoulders. “Well. If anyone’s got half a brain, they won’t believe it. Not if they read between the lines.”

Harry glanced towards the window. The forest beyond was quiet, still swaying in the wind. The same wind that had carried him across the Quidditch pitch. The same wind that had once echoed through the cell of his godfather.

Remus smiled fondly. “You just focus on the game. Let us worry about the rest.”

Hagrid nodded solemnly. “An’ yeh’d best eat somethin’, Harry. Can’t go in on nerves alone. Even if yeh fly like James, yeh need food in yer belly.”

Harry managed a small smile. The knot in his stomach hadn’t eased, but the tightness had shifted. Less anger. More focus.

The common room had emptied slowly. Laughter had faded to whispers, footsteps to silence, until only the soft rustle of parchment and the ticking of the clock remained. Harry sat hunched over his Charms essay, quill poised and unmoving. The words on the page blurred and rearranged themselves every time he blinked.

Across from him, Hermione was scribbling away, her parchment almost full. “Still stuck?” she asked without looking up.

Harry grunted. “I think Flitwick cursed this parchment to repel coherent thought.”

Hermione made a sympathetic noise, though it sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh. A moment later, she pushed a neatly written outline of the theory, underlined in her tidy script.

He blinked at it. “You wrote me a cheat sheet?”

“Study guide,” she said briskly. “And you look like you're going to vomit. Again.”

Harry let out a laugh. “If I throw up on a broom mid-air, think they'll disqualify me or just assume it's strategy?”

Hermione looked at him, exasperated but fond. “You’re not going to throw up. Honestly, the things you come up with…”

Around them, the final stragglers drifted out of the room, yawning and murmuring their goodnights. Wood was the last to pass, eyeing the fireplace like it might cough up tomorrow’s score.

“Don’t stay up all night,” he said as he headed for the stairs. “Big day tomorrow. You’ll need your head clear.”

Harry gave a vague nod. He started to gather his things, but paused when he spotted someone at the far end of the room.

Neville sat curled in an armchair by the window, knees pulled to his chest, face half-lit by moonlight. His Herbology book lay forgotten in his lap.

On the nearby couch, Ron had fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs and blanket, one hand still loosely clutching a Chocolate Frog wrapper.

Harry hesitated, then crossed to Neville.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Neville turned his head slightly. “Yeah. Just... couldn’t sleep.”

Harry nodded and lowered himself onto the windowsill.

Neville said nothing more, just hugged his knees closer and stared past him, out at the sky. It was dark and stormy, clouds churning low on the horizon.

“You’re not the only one who can’t sleep,” Harry said at last.

Neville gave a faint smile. “Yeah… I know.”

Harry hesitated. “You’re worried about the breakout.”

Neville nodded once. “Everyone’s talking about it.” He trailed off. “I know people… look at me. Like I should be brave, or strong, or... something.”

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” Harry said. “You’re here. You’re learning. You’re trying. That’s enough.”

Neville’s mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “You sound like Professor Lupin.”

“Must be rubbing off,” Harry said.

There was a long pause. Then, almost too softly to hear, Neville murmured, “My gran thinks I’m not strong enough. That I won’t live up to them.”

Harry looked at him for a moment. He didn’t ask who they were. He didn’t need to. He knew what had happened at Longbottom Manor the night Voldemort fell. The Lestranges, Crouch, the Cruciatus Curse. And what it meant to carry a scar like that.

He shifted slightly. “My parents are not here either. And sometimes I worry I’m not… enough like them. But people aren’t legacies. They’re people. And so are we.”

“I guess…” Neville rubbed the back of his neck, then looked at him. “Thanks.”

Just then, Ron stirred on the couch, groaning as he sat up and rubbed his face. “Is it morning?”

“Not yet,” said Harry.

“Oh. Thought I heard voices.” He blinked at them blearily. Then, with unexpected clarity: “Hey… good luck tomorrow, mate.”

Harry was surprised. “What?”

Ron shrugged. “The match. I was going to say it earlier, but, I dunno. Figured you didn’t need more noise. You’ll do great.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. No forced grin or sarcasm. Just plain honesty. It was the first time since the night Wood had picked Harry for Seeker that Ron had spoken more than a sentence to him.

“Thanks,” Harry said. He meant it.

Ron flopped back onto the couch. “Just make sure you don’t drop the Snitch in Higgs’s lap or something. That’d be tragic.”

“I’ll try my best,” Harry said dryly.

A few minutes later, Hermione stood, clutching her books to her chest. “You lot should really get some sleep,” she said, glancing pointedly at Harry. “Honestly. No match is ever won by staying up and brooding about it.”

Harry offered a half-smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her gaze flicked to Neville, then to Ron, who was now sitting up and yawning. “And you too,” she added. “Especially if you’re planning to shout advice from the stands.”

Ron grinned. “Only if he’s losing.”

Neville chuckled under his breath.

Hermione rolled her eyes but there was no heat in it. “Good night,” she said, already heading for the stairs.

“’Night,” Harry called after her.

She paused at the bottom step, looked back briefly, then vanished up to the girls’ dormitory.

Ron stretched and muttered, “She’s not wrong, I guess.”

Neville stood and closed his book without a word. Harry followed. Together, the three of them made their way upstairs. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Chapter Text

Harry was flying. Wind rushed past his ears. The sky stretched wide above him, and his broom moved like an extension of his body. He dove, eyes fixed on a flicker of gold below. The Snitch darted through the air like a firefly on the run. It looped between goal-hoops, veered just past Fred’s shoulder, and shot forward again. But he was gaining. He knew he was.

Suddenly… the light changed.

He looked up. The sky had vanished. Trees rose around him now, trunks twisted with age, bark laced with glowing veins of green light. The air was thick, heavy, and steeped in silence.

A unicorn fled in the hushed glow of the forest, its hooves barely touching the ground. Light shimmered around it, spilling from the creature like moonlight spun into flesh. Even the trees bowed as it passed, as though they too recognised its grace.

And behind it came something else. A wizard.

His robes flared as he moved. His gait stuttered unnaturally, limbs jerking like marionette strings pulled from within. Smoke clung to him, rising from the charred edges of his sleeves.

The unicorn veered hard, crashing through underbrush. Thorns tore at its flank. Blood, bright as mercury, flecked the moss.

The figure pursued. A shadow wrapped in skin, stretched thin over something dying. His eyes burned like coals buried in ash. Magic crackled at his fingertips. Leaves blackened where he passed. His wand moved. A net unfurled mid-air, its threads glistening like spider silk soaked in rot.

The unicorn hit the ground hard, legs tangled. The snare’s magic sliced into it, drawing jagged cuts and blood flowed like molten silver – thick, gleaming, alive. The creature writhed, its silver glow flickering. Its horn struck the earth again and again, carving trenches in the dirt. It screamed in pain.

The hunter stepped closer. His lips touched the wound.

And then… he drank.

Harry jolted awake. His sheets were tangled around his legs. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out. The dormitory was still dark, lit only by the occasional flicker of lightning behind the curtains. Thunder murmured somewhere beyond the towers.

He lay very still.

The taste lingered at the back of his throat, metallic and foul. His breath came too fast. His skin felt too tight, like it didn’t belong to him. And behind his eyes, the images still pulsed – silver blood, a dying scream, lips pressed to a wound.

He swallowed. The taste didn’t go away.

His head throbbed. A slow, pulsing pain, as if something was trying to burrow out. His scar burned. He pressed a palm to it, then pulled his hand back like it had been scalded.

He got up.

The world tilted as he stood, nausea rising fast and sharp. He stumbled across the dormitory, into the tiny bathroom off the landing.

He didn’t make it to the sink.

He dropped to his knees and retched. Once, and then again. Nothing came up, just the bitter taste of bile. His whole body shook. He gripped the edge of the basin with white-knuckled fingers and spat.

He turned the tap with trembling hands and splashed his face again and again, as if water could scrub that dream from his skin. But the forest clung to him. He could feel it – the press of roots beneath his feet, the flicker of silver light, the scream echoing just out of reach. He scrubbed his face with a towel. It didn’t help.

He stripped and stepped into the shower.

The water was too hot. He let it burn anyway. Steam curled around him and slowly the edges of the dream receded. His pulse settled. The throb in his head faded to a dull ache. By the time he towelled off and dressed, he no longer felt full to the brim.

Back in the dormitory, the others were still asleep. Harry crossed to the window.

Outside, the world was in chaos.

Rain lashed the windows with relentless force. Lightning split the horizon, illuminating the grounds in flashes – the Quidditch stands swaying, trees bowing in the wind and beyond them the Forbidden Forest, unnaturally still.

The Great Hall was nearly empty when Harry slipped in. Rain hammered against the high windows with steady fury. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the storm. He slid into a seat at the far end of the Gryffindor table. A plate appeared before him – eggs, toast, a rasher of bacon. He only nudged at the toast. His stomach felt like it was still tumbling through the dream. Or maybe just bracing for the match.

He wasn’t sure which.

His head had stopped pounding at least. He reached for his spoon and caught his reflection in its back. His scar was faint again, barely a pale lightning line.

A swish of robes made him glance up.

Professor McGonagall stood beside him. She studied him for a long moment, then tapped the edge of his glasses with her wand. A faint shimmer passed over the lenses.

Harry blinked in surprise.

"That should keep the rain off your glasses," she said. “We need you seeing straight today.”

He looked up at her. "Thank you, Professor."

Her expression didn’t soften much but her eyes were warmer than he was used to lately. “You’ve earned your place, Mr Potter,” she said quietly. “Now go show them why.”

Then she turned, scarf trailing behind her in a sweep of red and gold, and made her way back to the staff table.

Harry sat still for a few seconds longer. After weeks of nothing but reprimands and reserve, that moment of care landed like something rare.

The Hall gradually began to fill. Chatter stayed low, voices muffled by the weather, the hour, the match. Most students moved slowly, yawning and blinking, but the Gryffindors and Slytherins were quieter than usual. Like the storm had settled over their tables too.

Harry’s teammates arrived in small groups. Wood came last, jaw tight, eyes scanning the ceiling like he was trying to will the clouds into clearing. Harry forced down a few bites of toast, more for form than anything else. Around him, the team ate in silence.

Hermione came and sat beside him and offered a smile. Her hand hovered over his arm for a moment, like she was considering a pat, then dropped to her lap instead. “You’ll be brilliant,” she said.

Harry nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak.

A few more good-lucks came from the table. Lee Jordan offered a thumbs-up, Parvati gave a small, encouraging grin. Across from him, Ron and Neville mouthed “All the best” at the same time. Then Wood stood, jerked his chin towards the doors, and the team rose.

With one glance at Remus, whose usually tired eyes now shone with quiet pride, Harry followed his team out of the Hall.

The storm hadn’t eased. If anything, it had intensified. Thunder rolled overhead like the growl of some ancient beast, and rain lashed the pitch. The enchanted stands kept the spectators dry, and the stadium was a tempest of colour and sound; Gryffindor red clashing against Slytherin green.

Harry mounted his broom. He glanced up at the stands and his stomach gave a queasy lurch. For a moment, he thought he might be sick again. The storm, the weight of hundreds of eyes, the echo of that dream, it all swirled together. He swallowed hard, blinked the dizziness away, and steadied his grip on the broom. Just nerves. He could fly through nerves.

Madam Hooch’s whistle was nearly swallowed by the wind, but the match began all the same.

"AND THEY'RE OFF!" Lee Jordan bellowed over the enchanted megaphone. "Angelina Johnson grabs the Quaffle… she's got Pucey on her tail… MERLIN’S BOXERS THAT WAS CLOSE!"

Angelina twisted sharply, ducking a Bludger that came screaming out of nowhere.

“This might be the wettest Quidditch match Hogwarts has seen in decades…"

"He passes to Flint… oh, come on, that was a blatant elbow!"

McGonagall’s voice cut through the megaphone: "Mr Jordan."

“Right, right… Flint to Montague, back to Flint… oh, saved by Wood!”

The Chasers clashed in a blur of motion. Fred and George Weasley swept either side of the pitch, knocking Bludgers away with grim precision.

"Flint with the Quaffle again… dodges Spinnet… Wood’s coming out… OH, WHAT A SAVE! OLIVER WOOD, YOU BEAUTIFUL BEAST!"

Wood’s robes snapped in the wind as he levelled out. He barked something at Alicia, then ducked a Bludger that nearly took off his ear. Katie then took possession, darting past Pucey and launching a pass to Angelina.

"Gryffindor in control… Johnson with it now… dodges Flint… LOOK AT THAT SIDESTEP, YOU GO GIRL… passes to Bell… she shoots…"

The Quaffle slammed through the centre hoop. A cheer went up from the Gryffindor end.

"AND IT'S TEN-NIL TO GRYFFINDOR!"

The game surged forward. Flint wrestled the Quaffle from Alicia with what could only generously be called a legal move.

"Come on, ref! He elbowed her in the throat!" Lee shouted. "Anyway, Flint's got it… flying like a troll…"

“Mr Jordan,” came McGonagall’s interjection.

“Sorry Professor… Yes… Flint passes to Pucey… and that's a goal for Slytherin. Ten all."

Harry stayed high, circling like a hawk. The moment his broom lifted from the ground, the nausea had receded. Up here, things made sense. His eyes scanned the chaos below, seeking the glimmer of gold. The Snitch wasn’t in sight.

But something else was becoming clear.

Two of Gryffindor’s three Chasers, Angelina and Katie, were playing their very first match. Alicia had filled in last year as Seeker, but this was her first time flying in formation as a Chaser. They were good, but they weren’t a unit yet.

The Slytherin Chasers, by contrast, moved like a machine. Flint, Pucey, and Montague had played together long enough for it to show; in their positioning, their passes, the instinctive way they flowed as one. They excelled in seamless transitions and sharp elbows, legal only by the thinnest of margins. Gryffindor had raw talent. Slytherin had rhythm.

And it was costing them. Slytherin surged ahead.

“Twenty… make that thirty… oh for Merlin’s sake, forty to ten, Slytherin leads!” Jordan’s voice had lost some of its usual buoyancy. “Flint again, with a one-handed toss, someone stop him!”

Wood did. With a blinding dive, he hurtled sideways and snatched the Quaffle, intercepting Flint’s throw. He spun, nearly lost control, and then threw it out to Angelina. She bolted down the pitch, flanked by Katie, while Alicia pulled a loop to bait the Slytherin Beaters.

“Go, go, go!” Jordan shouted. “That’s it… Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle… dodges a Bludger… where did that come from?! She passes to Katie Bell… nice catch… Bell to Spinnet… back to Bell… Bell shoots… YES!”

The Gryffindor stands erupted.

“Forty-twenty!” Jordan crowed. “We’re back!”

But even as the team rallied, Harry could see it: they were still struggling. The visibility was awful. Even with the charm McGonagall had cast on his glasses, the rain distorted everything. Players appeared and vanished in curtains of water.

The Slytherin Beaters were fast. Bole and Derrick didn’t have the twins’ instinct or firepower, but they moved like lightning, always where they needed to be. They intercepted Bludgers with blunt efficiency, and hemmed in the Gryffindor attack again and again.

It was like playing against a wall of green and silver.

Still, Gryffindor fought back. Angelina stole a pass and scored. Alicia ducked under a Bludger and banked a perfect toss. Katie dodged two defenders and slammed one past Bletchley’s elbow.

The score crawled upward.

“Seventy-forty! They’re closing the gap!”

Harry caught a flash of gold and dove, the Comet groaned beneath him as it struggled through the wind. Higgs saw him and gave chase.

The Snitch darted left. So did they.

And then Flint barrelled straight into him.

Harry swerved too late. He was left spinning mid-air. The Snitch vanished into the storm. Boos erupted from the stands.

"FOUL! FOUL! That was BLATANT obstruction! Ref, are you on a tea break?!"

McGonagall's voice cut through like a knife. "Mr Jordan, impartiality, please."

"Right. Slytherin foul. Surprise, surprise."

Harry gritted his teeth and pulled up. His shoulder screamed.

The game moved like a war. Bludgers ricocheted through the air with wild force. Fred knocked one straight into Pucey’s path. He veered sharply, attempting a Sloth Grip Roll, and while he just managed to avoid the Bludger, the wind caught him. His broom lurched sideways, and for a breathless second, he hung on by his fingertips, legs kicking over empty air.

"Nice shot, Weasley!" Lee shouted. "Bludger control today courtesy of the twin tornadoes… and Slytherin is wobbling! Pucey pulls off a Sloth Grip Roll! Bit dramatic, mate… someone give that boy a seatbelt!”

Below, the score climbed: Eighty-fifty. Then ninety-fifty Slytherin. Then hundred-fifty.

Harry caught another glimpse of the Snitch high above the pitch. He leaned into the wind, narrowing his eyes. But Higgs had the speed advantage. Harry gained, then lost ground.

Lightning slammed into the forest’s edge, the crack of it so loud Harry thought for a second he’d gone deaf. Screams rose from the stands.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I THINK THAT NEARLY KILLED US ALL. BRILLIANT!"

"Mr Jordan!"

"I mean, terribly unsafe, match should be called off."

Every player pulled hard to avoid the shockwave.

The Snitch was gone again.

More minutes passed.

Wood made another save, a spectacular dive that sent him spiralling just beneath his post. He twisted midair and hurled the Quaffle to Alicia with an arc that defied the gale.

More goals. Pucey scored once for Slytherin. Angelina got one back. Bletchley blocked a shot from Katie with the tip of his glove.

Hundred ten-sixty.

Harry was soaked through. In this wind, his broom was barely keeping up. He angled into a gust and watched Higgs surge past with ease.

The Snitch appeared again, dancing near the Gryffindor hoops. Harry pushed his broom forward, willing it to go faster. It didn’t.

The Snitch darted away, unbothered by the wind.

The Bludgers were feral now. One clipped George’s arm, who missed its swerve entirely with the water in his eyes. He was spinning and Fred helped him find balance and intercepted the next one, sending it screaming towards Flint.

“Score check! Hundred thirty–sixty to Slytherin! They’re running away with the match like a Niffler in a jewellery shop, folks!”

Higgs patrolled near the centre of the pitch. Harry hovered above, half-hidden by the clouds. Lightning flashed again, revealing the whole board for a heartbeat. He saw the Snitch hovering beneath the Slytherin goal.

Harry dove. Higgs spotted him a second too late. They were neck and neck, wind shrieking around them. Harry’s broom vibrated beneath him, but he leaned lower, coaxing out every bit of speed.

The Snitch dipped, swerved left, and they leaned into the turn.

The Snitch looped sharply, then plunged towards the pitch.

Harry followed. A near vertical dive, the kind only a lunatic would attempt. Higgs hesitated, not quite mad enough to follow. Harry stretched forward, hand open, fingers straining.

And then, it veered straight up. Like a bullet.

His heart lurched. The Snitch was going straight to Higgs. Harry was too low, there was no way he could level up and give chase in time. He had a split second to choose. He let go of his broom and jumped, arms outstretched, body hurtling forward to intercept…

For a second, time slowed.

His hand closed around the fluttering wings of the Snitch.

And then the ground rose up to meet him. He hit with a wet thud, splattering mud. Something sharp twisted in his ankle. The world blurred at the edges, but the Snitch buzzed wildly in his hand, wings beating against his fingers.

Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieked through the storm.

The stands exploded. A wall of sound. Red and gold erupted in the rain.

"HE’S GOT IT! HE’S ACTUALLY GOT IT… HARRY POTTER JUMPED OFF HIS BROOM MID-AIR, AND CAUGHT THE SNITCH! THE BOY’S A MANIAC! GRYFFINDOR WINS! FINAL SCORE: TWO HUNDRED TEN TO ONE HUNDRED THIRTY!"

Fred and George came spiralling down first, followed by Katie, Alicia, and Angelina. They barrelled into him. Fred was shouting something incoherent. Alicia was crying. George thumped him on the back so hard it jarred his ankle again. Harry winced, but he didn’t care.

Above them, Wood held Harry’s broom aloft in one hand and punched the air with the other. “YES!” he bellowed, and nearly toppled off his own broom in the process.

The crowd in the stands were already on their feet, silhouettes jumping and waving through the rain. The storm still raged. The wind still screamed.

But the Gryffindors roared louder.

And Harry, soaked and shivering, couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this alive.

Everything after that was a blur. Gryffindors had swarmed the pitch and there were cheers. So many cheers. Harry wasn’t sure when a daft grin had become a permanent feature on his face. He barely remembered the walk back through the rain; only that someone kept trying to ruffle his hair, and Fred had attempted to hoist him onto a banner in celebration until Angelina wisely talked him out of it.

McGonagall had patted him on the shoulder. “Harry,” she’d said. “In future, please attempt to catch the Snitch while on the broom. My nerves are not what they used to be.”

Remus had appeared beside her, soaked to the bone and looking positively gleeful. “That was either the stupidest or the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” he told Harry, “Possibly both.”

Hagrid gave him one of his trademark crushing hugs. “Tha’ was brillian’, Harry! Like yer dad, that was! Reckless, mad, and brillian’!”

Through it all, Harry kept catching himself grinning. His leg still throbbed, his robes were caked in mud, but none of it mattered. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

The corridors were chaos. Students nodded, some with impressed smirks, others with the wide-eyed look of someone who’d just witnessed something completely mental. A Hufflepuff passing by offered him a solemn thumbs-up.

The Slytherins were another matter. Most pointedly ignored him. A few scowled. Malfoy muttered “show-off” under his breath, but Harry only shrugged. Coming from him, it felt like a compliment.

Eventually, Remus steered him firmly towards the hospital wing. “Before your ankle turns into something you need Skele-Gro for,” he said, when Harry tried to protest.

Madam Pomfrey took one look at his limp and tutted so loudly it could’ve passed for a Howler. “Honestly, Mr Potter. Launching yourself from fifty feet,,, like some kind of batty daredevil. I’ve half a mind to keep you overnight just to make a point.”

Harry gave her a sheepish smile. “But would you, really?”

Pomfrey sighed, but her hands were already at work. A charm hovered briefly over his leg, then vanished. “Sprain. You’re lucky the ground was soft, or I’d be knitting bones back together.”

Harry kept smiling stupidly.

She handed him a vial of something purple and vile-smelling. “Drink this. You’ll be sore for a day or two, but no damage done.”

The potion burned on the way down, but his ankle eased almost instantly.

“And Mr Potter,” she added, softening just a little, “try not to make a habit of these visits.”

Harry grinned. “No promises.”

Remus appeared at the door, having tactfully disappeared during the treatment. “All done?” he asked, and when Harry nodded, he added, “Come on then. Let’s get you back.”

They walked slowly through the corridors. For a while, Remus said nothing, hands in his pockets, a small smile playing on his face. When they rounded the corner to the moving staircase, he finally spoke.

“I’ll write to Padfoot tonight,” he said. “I’ll have to tell him about the jump…”

Harry snorted. “I can’t believe I actually did that.”

Remus looked at him. “I can.”

There was pride in his voice. Harry looked away, the grin returning without his permission. As they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, Remus drew his wand and gave it a wave. A rush of warm air wrapped around Harry, lifting the damp from his hair, cleaning off the worst of the mud, and drying his robes until they looked almost respectable again.

“You need to look presentable for the party,” Remus said, stopping short of the frame.

Harry blinked. “What party?”

Remus chuckled. “You’ll see.”

He gave Harry a pat on the shoulder, then turned back down the corridor, whistling under his breath.

The portrait swung open. And the noise hit him like a Bludger to the chest.

The common room had erupted into pure chaos. Red and gold banners draped the walls, or perhaps were the walls, because Julian had transfigured his robes into a massive Gryffindor flag and pinned it across half the room. He now stood shirtless atop a footstool, waving his hat. Overhead, a model Snitch zipped around the ceiling trailing glitter. The tables by the fireplace were groaning under the weight of snacks smuggled in from the kitchens.

Harry barely had time to blink before he was seized, first by Wood, who clapped him on the back with such enthusiasm it nearly sent him back to the hospital wing, then by Angelina, who ruffled his hair and shouted, “That was bloody insane! Who even jumps off their broom?”

“Brilliant, that’s who,” Lee added, stuffing a Chocolate Frog into Harry’s hand. “Hero. Lunatic. Icon.”

George flicked his wand and conjured a miniature broom-shaped crown that landed askew on Harry’s head. “All hail King of the Pitch!”

“King of Reckless Decisions, more like,” Alicia said, but she was grinning as she handed him a butterbeer.

Fred was singing, loudly and off-key, and others were joining in.

He flew through the thunder, he soared through the rain,

He jumped off his broom, not right in his brain!

He’s bonkers, he’s brilliant, he flies like a streak,

All hail Harry Potter, the Seeker of the Week!

Neville was beating time on a table. Parvati and Lavender were twirling each other in circles and narrowly missing the fire. A group of second-years were gazing at Harry with the kind of awe normally reserved for Bertie Bott’s that only had good flavours.

Ron emerged from the crowd, and threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Mate. You jumped. You actually jumped. You’re never going to live that down.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Harry managed.

Dean appeared. “Did you see his face? When he landed? I thought he’d cracked his leg off!”

“Is your ankle even real?” Seamus added.

“It’s mostly potion and hope,” Harry said, and the room howled with laughter.

More butterbeer. More singing. Someone brought out a deck of exploding snap. A sixth-year tried to charm the couch into floating so they could re-enact the final dive with socks for Snitches. It promptly crashed into the bookshelf, sending Katie leaping backward, straight into the fireplace, where she singed her sleeves. Percy and another prefect tried to come down from the dormitory twice and both times retreated in horror at the volume.

There was cake at some point. It ended up smeared across Ron’s face and McLaggen’s left ear.

Harry sank into the squashy armchair tucked into the far corner, finally starting to feel the ache settle in his bones. The room spun gently, full of laughter and shouting and dancing.

Hermione plopped down on the opposite chair, adjusting the books cradled in her arms, “Next match, try not to give everyone a heart attack.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry said, not sounding remotely sincere.

Hermione huffed, “If you ever do die, just know I’ll never forgive you. Or share my notes. Same thing, really.”

Harry burst out laughing.

Someone had handed Fred a tambourine, which was clearly a mistake. The twins were now harmonising a very questionable tune that involved rhyming "Slytherin" with "slithered in." Every time they reached the chorus – "They dive, they hiss, they whine, they miss… Oh Slytherins, you're no match for this!" the common room erupted like a Quidditch pitch.

Someone shouted “MIDNIGHT SNACK RAID!” and a pack of fourth-years disappeared down the portrait hole.

Harry felt giddy as leaned back in his chair. Tonight, he had everything.

Chapter Text

The win over Slytherin had catapulted Gryffindor into a kind of dizzy euphoria. For three days, the common room was a riot of butterbeer-fuelled retellings, each more exaggerated than the last. Harry found himself at the centre of it all, not as a whispered rumour, but as someone to be cheered. It felt strange.

Fragments of the dream still haunted his sleep. Silver blood. Rotting leaves. Eyes like burning coal. Some mornings, he woke with his scar aching faintly and a metallic taste on his tongue that no amount of pumpkin juice could wash away.

He didn’t tell anyone.

Sirius’s letter after the match was full of unfiltered joy, and equal parts congratulations and concern.

"You’re your father’s son and your mother’s worst nightmare. Also, be advised: if you ever pull a stunt like that again without warning me first, I will come to Hogwarts and drag you home. I mean it.

So… no pressure. Just don’t break your bones… Or my nerves.”

Harry snorted tea up his nose when he read it.

November deepened. The trees bordering the Forbidden Forest turned skeletal. Frost clung to the castle walls like ivy, and the lake turned to glass. Lessons pressed on. Charms turned challenging and Transfiguration required more precision. Defence, at least, still came instinctively. Remus made it feel like second nature.

Potions, of course, remained abysmal. Snape seemed determined to make Harry’s life as unpleasant as magically possible. Once, he deducted five points for “improper wrist movement while stirring,” then another five for “raising his eyebrows.”

Harry hadn’t even realised he’d raised them. Apparently, neither had his eyebrows.

He found new ways to irritate Snape in return. He feigned ignorance with alarming enthusiasm, and once asked if “inhuman levels of bitterness” were a key potion ingredient. Neville snorted so hard he inhaled potion fumes and had to spend the night in the hospital wing.

But slowly, Neville was growing bolder. His hand no longer trembled quite so much, and he smiled more. One night, on the walk back to the dorms, he admitted he’d started enjoying Hogwarts. Though he quickly added, “I still hate Potions, though.”

It was during these late-night walks that Harry learned just how many legends Hogwarts had collected over the ages. He’d heard plenty of stories about the castle’s resident poltergeist, but until December, he’d somehow managed to avoid Peeves entirely. That luck finally ran out on a Tuesday, when Peeves dropped an inkpot on his head from the third-floor chandelier and sang rhyming insults in three-part harmony.

The next time, Harry was fast enough to escape, but Hermione wasn’t. She stepped out of the corridor drenched in ink from head to toe, with black droplets still trickling from her hair.

Harry doubled over, wheezing with laughter, clutching his side until it hurt. “Don’t worry,” he gasped. “If anyone asks, just say you’re experimenting with immersive learning.”

Hermione gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “It’s comforting to know that if you ever face Death Eaters, Harry, they’ll be defeated by your sense of humour.”

That only made him laugh harder.

Still, the best thing about Peeves was that he didn’t discriminate. He soaked prefects with water balloons, swapped stair labels just before class changes, and pelted anyone passing the third-floor corridor with dungbombs.

Filch chased him with mounting desperation, often catching the worst of it himself, until his clothes reeked so badly that students had to hold their breath whenever he passed.

When Friday came, Harry slipped out of Transfiguration to visit Hagrid. Remus was away for the full moon. They talked for a while over tea, but Harry could tell something was weighing on Hagrid’s mind. He even forgot to offer him a rock cake. Fang seemed anxious too; he didn’t give chase when Hedwig swooped down to perch on his back. He simply lay there as she preened his fur.

When Harry asked about it, Hagrid only waved him off and launched into his stories, though with less of his usual bluster. The tales rambled on, but the laughter never quite reached his eyes, and his gaze kept drifting to the edge of the Forest.

On the walk back, Harry paused by the Quidditch pitch. A biting wind swept across the grounds, but the flying class was in full swing. By now, the group had split in two: some still clutched their brooms like lifelines, content to hover a few feet above the ground, while others chased more – spirals, dives, races with close shaves and wide grins.

Near the broom shed, Harry spotted all four Quidditch captains deep in conversation with Madam Hooch, two dozen brand-new brooms stacked in orderly rows beside them. Not far off, Fred and George were crouched behind a frost-crusted bush, quietly changing Oliver’s hair colour every time he opened his mouth.

Oliver glanced around, increasingly exasperated, his hair flickering from scarlet to green to blue as the twins muffled their laughter in their scarves.

They waved when they spotted Harry, and ambled over with expressions so angelic, even Filch wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow.

“Just helping out,” Fred said with a wink. “New brooms this month. Malfoy’s dad threw a fit after his ‘accident.’ He’s a school governor. So… all swapped.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That why they’re not held together with string anymore?”

“More or less,” said George. “Still rubbish. Just shiny rubbish now.”

Madam Hooch broke away from her meeting, striding out with her whistle already between her lips. Ron and Malfoy were squared off on the pitch, looking seconds away from trading blows. Whatever was said didn’t carry, but it ended with Malfoy pointing, Ron flushing red, and Neville close to tears. Hooch stepped sharply between them, barking something that sent them scattering like startled pigeons.

“What was that about?” Harry asked.

“No idea,” Fred said. “But I vote for some payback.”

George’s eyes glinted. “Something subtle.”

Harry smiled, an idea blooming. “Something that’ll really stick with them.”

The plan took shape that evening.

Harry pitched the scheme. Fred and George fine-tuned the method. And Julian, whose knack for charmwork was matched only by the long-suffering patience he reserved for the twins’ wildest schemes, handled the magic with resigned brilliance and a muttered quip: “All three of you ought to come with a warning label.”

The result was a pouch of beans, bewitched to be tiny and cling to robes unnoticed. The enchantment itself was delicate, it would lie dormant until the noise around the wearer dipped below a certain threshold, at which point hissing would begin. It would only stop if the volume picked up again, or when the charm finally wore off; which, Julian assured them, would take at least a day.

Harry contributed an extra twist, not in practice as he didn’t know the spellwork, but in theory. He suggested the hissing should grow louder if anyone tried to use ‘Finite’ to end it. The idea came from his notes in McGonagall’s book about recursive spells. When Harry explained it, Julian looked at him like he was the second coming of Merlin and needed a sharp poke from George to get back to the task at hand.

Fred dubbed them “Snake Pops,” which George immediately vetoed as “woefully lacking in panache.” Harry didn’t much care about the name. He just wanted to see Malfoy squirm.

Peeves proved ridiculously easy to persuade. A donation of dungbombs was all it took. Two boxes of Bertie Bott’s Beans were handed over: one ordinary, the other laced with Snake Pops. He accepted them with glee, and promised to toss in a few stinkers “for texture.”

On Monday morning, he struck.

Everyone had barely settled in for breakfast when Peeves came hurtling through a window like a deranged Bludger, scattering beans and dungbombs everywhere with a triumphant cry of, “BREAKFAST IS SERVED, YOU WRETCHED TOADS!” The stench was unbearable, but Harry couldn’t stop the unapologetic grin that spread across his face as he watched Peeves swap pouches just before reaching the Slytherin table.

The pin-drop silence that Snape demanded in his classroom proved to be the bane of the Slytherins that morning. They were meant to be brewing Wiggenweld Potions, and as Snape instructed everyone to begin, the usual hush settled, only to be broken seconds later by a rising chorus of unmistakable hissing from the Slytherin side.

Snape’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the benches, searching for the source. The Slytherins shifted uncomfortably, glancing around as if someone else might be the culprit. Snape’s gaze swung to the Gryffindor side, suspicious as ever.

“Potter,” he drawled, “is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Harry kept his gaze fixed on his cauldron, brow slightly furrowed in the picture of innocent bewilderment. “No, sir. Just getting the ingredients ready.”

Snape’s frown deepened. He waited until the room fell quiet again, then the hissing started up. He simply stared for a moment then snapped his wand: “Finite!”

The sound intensified, echoing off the stone walls. The Gryffindors were barely managing to contain their laughter, faces pressed into sleeves and shoulders shaking.

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If anyone wishes to confess to this little experiment in noise pollution, now would be the time.”

No one moved. No one spoke.

He waited another beat, then fell silent himself. The hissing resumed at once, almost gleeful now. He rounded on the Gryffindors. “Ten points from Gryffindor, for finding all this so amusing.”

Abandoning all pretense of a practical lesson, Snape launched into a relentless lecture on the properties of Wiggenweld Potion, on the dangers of magical mishaps, and on the “predictable immaturity of certain houses.” He talked without stopping, his voice slowly growing hoarse, determined to keep the hissing at bay through sheer force of will.

No potion was brewed that day. When the bell finally rang and the students spilled out, their laughter echoed all the way up the dungeon stairs.

By lunchtime, Hogwarts had descended into utter chaos. Slytherins were banned from every classroom including the library, after a morning of relentless hissing left the Professors visibly frazzled and Madam Pince threatening to “ban snakes and children alike.” The only refuge was History of Magic, where Professor Binns’s endless droning overshadowed the enchantment. Most of the Slytherins spent the entire day there, whether it was their class or not.

Word spread fast that the only escape from the spell was to keep talking, and so the Slytherins talked. They talked in the corridors, babbled by the lake, and even held spirited debates about uses of dragon dung in the Great Hall.

By mid-afternoon, their voices were hoarse, their faces red, and more than one Slytherin prefect was reduced to reciting poetry just to stave off the sibilant chorus. Pansy Parkinson was heard giving a lecture on the merits of pickled eels. And Malfoy, desperate for respite, confessed loudly to owning a collection of Celestina Warbeck records, which earned him a round of applause from the Ravenclaw table and a sharp elbow from Crabbe.

The climax came in the afternoon, when Professor McGonagall interrupted a cluster of Slytherins in the courtyard, who were holding an impromptu limerick contest. Her wand was raised and there was a determined glint in her eye. They shrank back, hands raised in surrender.

“Please, Professor, don’t use Finite!” wailed Pucey, as Montague and Bletchley nodded frantically. “It only makes it worse!”

McGonagall, to her credit, tucked her wand away.

Snape was beside himself, pacing the corridor and vowing retribution. The other three houses were beside themselves for a very different reason: the sound of Slytherins earnestly discussing the best way to polish silver or debating the proper pronunciation of ‘Beauxbatons’ had the rest of the school in stitches.

The Hissing Fiasco, as it was soon christened by the students, slipped quietly into Hogwarts history. No culprits were ever found, though Fred and George made two visits to Professor McGonagall’s office and returned each time wearing expressions that spoke of stern lectures and weary exasperation.

Snow crept higher with every passing day, draping the castle in thick white folds and muffling the world outside in a hush. December seemed to pass all at once, swept up in a tide of last-minute quizzes, frantic practice sessions, and the perennial scramble to finish assignments.

Even the Daily Prophet’s fascination with ‘Inferius Harry’ had faded, replaced by fresh panic over the Azkaban breakout. Each morning brought new tales of escapees, and students spent breakfast guessing which sighting was the wildest. The castle buzzed with whispers, but the immediate danger always seemed comfortably far away from the enchanted walls of Hogwarts.

Christmas break had finally arrived, and the air was alive with a restless, anticipatory energy. On the morning of departure, Harry was packing his trunk beneath the watchful eyes of Hedwig and a rather curious Trevor. Of all the boys in their dormitory, only he and Neville were heading home for the holidays. Harry’s heart gave a small, buoyant lurch at the thought. He would see Sirius again. Satisfied that everything was in order, he shut his trunk and swung open the window. Hedwig gave a soft hoot and soared out, disappearing over the snowy grounds.

Ron was staying behind, his parents had gone to Romania to visit Charlie. Neville had offered to take Ron with him. But Ron, after much deliberation, decided he ought to use the break to improve his tactics in chess. The Hogwarts Chess Club, open to second-years and above, held a fiercely competitive entrance match at the start of every year, and Ron was determined to beat the lot of them next September. Percy, already a club member, had graciously agreed to tutor Ron over the holidays, vowing to instil not just a killer endgame but some much-needed decorum along the way.

Down in the Entrance Hall, students were bustling about in a storm of trunks, scarves, and last-minute goodbyes. The castle thrummed with the start-of-holiday excitement. Outside, a line of carriages waited on the drive. No beasts were tethered to them. Harry guessed they must move by magic.

Fred and George caught sight of Harry as he carried his trunk toward the doors. They elbowed through the crowd with matching grins and saluted him with exaggerated thumbs-ups.

“Enjoy your break!” Fred called.

Their latest creation was already making the rounds: enchanted snowballs that hovered like inquisitive bees before hurtling themselves at unsuspecting students with uncanny precision.

“Don’t worry,” George added, as a snowball curved mid-air to smack a sixth-year in the back of the head. “We’ve set them to avoid first-years. Mostly.”

Harry grinned. “Try not to bring down the castle while I’m gone.”

George gave an exaggerated bow. “No promises.”

Near the carriages, Remus waited with a woollen scarf looped twice around his neck and a thermos warming his hands. “I’ll see you in London,” he said, giving Harry’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And try not to do anything on the journey that Padfoot would consider a good idea.”

Harry smiled. “I’ll try my best.”

He found a carriage with Neville and Hermione. Outside, snow drifted softly, blurring the castle’s silhouette as the wheels began to roll. He leaned back into his seat, fingers brushing the edge of his trunk, as the warmth in his chest burned steady.

He was going home.

The ride south had been wonderfully uneventful. Malfoy, it turned out, had stayed at Hogwarts for the break, sparking a wave of relief that settled over Neville. They’d found a compartment to themselves for most of the journey, though about halfway through, two Hufflepuffs, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott, had poked their heads in with a shy, “Is there room?”

There was, and before long, the seats were filled with chatter and laughter. Conversation drifted from Transfiguration, with the girls exchanging revision notes, to Neville’s Herbology tips, which earned him a few appreciative nods. Eventually, they turned to the subject of Trevor, who spent a good hour burrowed under Harry’s jacket, sulking after a failed escape attempt near York.

“I still say he’s trying to get to France,” Neville insisted, clutching Trevor to his chest. “He heard about the snails.”

Hannah giggled. “French snails are enormous. Maybe he’s just ambitious.”

At one point, Oliver Wood burst in. “Harry! Next match, we…” he began, only to stop as Harry put on his most dramatic look of horror.

“Oh no,” Harry groaned, clutching his stomach. “I think the toast was bad… I need the loo!” He bolted down the corridor, face twisted in agony.

“He’s been like this all morning,” Hermione said helpfully, barely managing to keep a straight face.

Wood eyed her, then Neville, who just shrugged. “It’s definitely contagious,” Neville offered.

That was the last they saw of Wood. Harry returned a few minutes later, bearing a large stash of Pumpkin Pasties and the air of someone who’d narrowly escaped disaster.

Conversation slipped into companionable silence as London’s suburbs flickered past the windows, the city unfolding beneath a bruised sky. Afternoon light slanted across the rooftops, the first hints of winter evening catching on chimney pots and railings. As the train slowed, King’s Cross came into view.

Harry was already on his feet before the train had even ground to a halt, craning for a glimpse through the frosted windows. His heart leapt as he spotted Remus on the platform. As soon as the doors slid open, Harry offered the others hurried goodbyes, hauled his trunk into the aisle, and practically jumped off the train, pulse thrumming with excitement.

He hit the platform at a jog, heading straight towards Remus, his hand already raised in greeting. But something about his face made Harry slow.

Remus Lupin always looked tired and worn at the edges. But now, his tiredness had a sharper shape. He looked… worried.

He reached him, breath puffing in the cold air. “What is it?” he asked quietly.

Remus didn’t answer but tilted his head toward the barrier.

A witch stood near the archway to King’s Cross, her robes a lurid shade of lime that clashed violently with the dull grey stone behind her. Golden curls towered in stiff, lacquered spirals, catching the light like a warning sign. She scanned the platform with a predator’s patience.

Three men flanked her – one lugging an oversized camera, the other two in dark, nondescript robes. They stood with the kind of stillness that made Harry’s skin crawl.

Remus said, “That’s Rita Skeeter and her lackey. And those two… Unspeakables, by the look of it.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. The headlines came flooding back.

“They’ve been here for the last half hour… Watching.” Remus went on. “My guess? They’re waiting for you.”

Harry swallowed. “What do we do?”

“We walk,” said Remus. “Slow… With the crowd… Try to give them the slip.”

Harry nodded.

Remus glanced at him. “You have the cloak?”

“Yeah.” Harry bent down to unclasp his trunk.

Remus hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Leave it.”

Harry straightened, frowning. “Why?”

“There are too many eyes,” Remus said. “If you disappear now, it’ll cause a scene. We act normal. Leave like everyone else.”

And so they moved without drawing notice. The press of bodies was thick around them: trunks jostled, voices bounced, owls hooted from their cages. Hermione had been a few paces behind, but she walked past them at a brisk clip, giving Harry a quick nod. Moments later, she slipped through the barrier.

The crowd had begun to thin. A few more students passed through, and Harry risked a glance towards Skeeter. She was craning her neck now, scanning the rear of the platform with a slight frown, as if she thought he’d already slipped past her. The cameraman beside her muttered something and ducked through the barrier, likely to check the Muggle side.

Then Harry glanced back and saw Neville.

He was red-faced and puffing, dragging his trunk at a stubborn angle. Beside him strode his grandmother, an austere-looking witch who cut through the crowd without so much as a glance. On her head perched a hat adorned with a stuffed vulture. Flanking them were two redheaded wizards in deep green travelling cloaks. One gestured animatedly as he spoke; the other levitated Neville’s trunk with a flick of his wand and ruffled his hair with a grin. They reminded Harry of Fred and George.

Further down the platform, a broad-shouldered figure moved among the last stragglers. Kingsley. Harry recognised the glint of his earring even before their eyes met. Kingsley gave him a brief, knowing wink.

Harry turned instinctively. “Why is King…”

But the question never made it out.

A searing crack split the air. Then another. One after the other. Like thunder, but too close. Hooded figures burst from every corner, disillusionments melting from their cloaks as they fired.

Screams followed, and the platform exploded into motion. Spells flashed – red, blue, sickly green; ricocheting off tiles and iron columns, lighting the air with jolts of colour. Someone shouted. A child wailed.

Trunks flew, some flung aside by sheer magical force, others yanked into the line of fire by desperate defenders to block curses. Clothes scattered like confetti. Bottles of ink burst and sprayed over everything, scarlet and black blotches across marble and robes alike. Books burst open, pages tearing loose and scattering in the air.

A ginger cat darted past Harry’s foot, howling. Somewhere nearby, another answered, a high, strangled yowl that cut through the crackle of magic but abruptly fell silent mid-note. Owls shrieked and flapped madly against the bars of their cages.

Piercing cries rose on every side as panic swept the platform. A throng of people surged towards the barrier in a blind rush for safety, tangling and tripping in a growing stampede. Others ducked behind benches and trolleys. A woman yanked her daughter under a bench moments before it exploded in a spray of splinters and flame. The girl curled into herself, sobbing, hands clamped over her ears, her mother sprawled and unmoving beside her.

Spells were flying in all directions now, striking attackers and defenders alike. A streak of red hit a fleeing man square in the back. He crumpled without a sound. A hooded figure fell with a cry as a jet of purple flame caught his arm. The air stank of singed wool and scorched metal, of perfume and panic. Bodies lay scattered amid the luggage and shattered glass. Chaos reigned. Every step became a scramble.

And above it all, the sharp, merciless rhythm of spellfire continued, relentless as rain.

Remus moved fast.

“Get behind that pillar!” he barked, dragging Harry hard to the side. “Now!”

Harry stumbled but obeyed, heart hammering. Remus, with a sharp twist of his wrist, cast a Disillusionment Charm over Harry. Cold ran down Harry’s spine like ice water. He stared down at his hands, but they were invisible.

“Stay out of sight,” Remus ordered. “Don’t draw attention. I’ll find you when I can.”

Then he was gone.

Harry pressed his back to the pillar, breath shallow, vision swimming. It was all happening too fast. Too loud. Too much.

And at the centre of it all… Neville.

He was on his knees beside his grandmother, who lay slumped across the stone floor, motionless. His arms were flung over her, trying to shield her with his own body.

The two redheaded wizards fought with ruthless precision, their wands moving in perfect tandem. They carved a circle of protection around Neville, spells lashing out with brutal force. Kingsley blasted a path through the attackers to join them, summoning chunks of fallen debris mid-stride to intercept jets of green. More Aurors were converging now. Harry realised they must have been mingled in the crowd from the start.

He caught a glimpse of Elliot crouched low, scrawling glowing runes across the stones. A shimmering dome rose, flickering to life around the group, but spells kept hammering through, too many to hold back. They were nearly encircled.

The shrieks around the platform rose to a fever pitch. Spells struck the station roof, sending cascades of shattered glass and fractured tiles down like jagged rain. Harry saw Remus break through the chaos, charging towards Neville, joined by a scattering of parents and older students rallying for one last stand.

Harry’s fingers clenched his wand.

He wanted to help. He had to help.

"Protego," he whispered. The shield bloomed briefly, too late and too far from anything that needed saving. He shifted, heart pounding, and tried again. "Diffindo." A red slash burst from his wand – wild, off-mark, swallowed by the smoke.

Across the platform, Remus spun just in time. A streak of green carved past his shoulder, close enough to singe his cloak.

Harry tried another hex, but his hands were trembling now. The fight was a blur of colour and motion, shapes darting too quick to track. The din was unbearable. There were too many targets, and none stood still long enough to aim.

He was trying. Desperately. But it wasn’t enough.

He’d duelled before in corridors, driven by panic and the raw instinct to survive, but this was something else entirely. This was destruction on a scale he couldn’t comprehend. It wasn’t a scuffle. It wasn’t even a skirmish. It was a battlefield, and Harry, for all his fire and fury, was a child standing in the middle of it with a wand that suddenly felt far too small.

The knot in his chest twisted tighter. That familiar pressure built, the one that always came before things blew apart. But this time, he didn’t hold it back. He let it come. His fingers buzzed with static. He closed his eyes and unleashed.

But nothing burst free.

Instead, his wand pulsed. A low thrum spread through his chest, dulling his rage. It felt like being wrapped in a blanket he hadn’t asked for. A soft, mournful music seemed to echo through his bones, like the phoenix song he’d heard by the lake.

Why wasn’t it working?

He didn’t want comfort. He wanted fire. Fury. To fight. But the song curled around him, softening the edges until his anger blurred.

He opened his eyes and looked up.

Neville was being pulled away now; Oliver Wood at the front, cutting a path through the fray. Catriona, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, dragged Neville by the arm. Two Hufflepuff prefects flanked them, wands flashing. Behind them, Elliot held a shimmering barrier steady while two Aurors covered the rear.

Then a curse struck Wood square in the back.

He was flung sideways like a ragdoll and hit the stone with a sickening thud right in front of Harry.

Harry scrambled forward, heart in his throat. "Oliver?" he gasped. "Oliver!"

No answer.

Panic surged. He grabbed Wood’s shoulders and shook him. "No… Come on… wake up… please wake up!"

Still nothing.

Wood’s eyes were shut, his jaw slack. Harry’s vision blurred. His hands trembled where they clutched Oliver’s sleeve.

He wasn’t moving. And all around them, the battle still raged.

Something cracked inside Harry, grief curdling into fury. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, shame flooding him as if that could make him stronger. Make him useful. He forced himself to his feet.

"Protego!" he shouted, stepping into the open and catching a jet of orange light meant for a fleeing parent and snapped the curse back at its caster. A scream answered in the distance.

He turned, heart pounding. "Diffindo!"

The spell burst from his wand, too high, striking the metal eaves above in a shower of sparks. Another shot wide. Still, he kept casting, teeth clenched in desperation. Then a curse clipped his forearm. His arm erupted in white-hot pain, as if fire had been poured straight into the wound. He screamed, clutching it and stumbling back.

But no one turned to stop him. The Disillusionment Charm still held, shimmering over his skin like an invisible shield. In the chaos, no one noticed the source of the spells lashing back.

It gave him an edge. Not enough to win, but enough to matter.

He shifted left, found two Death Eaters clustered together, and fired a Knockback Jinx. The spell cracked against the stone like a whip, sending both figures hurtling into the far wall. They hit hard, slid down the stone, and didn’t get up.

But it wasn’t enough.

The defenders were falling back, closing ranks near the barrier in a desperate stand. Students, parents, and Aurors, all pushing into a tighter formation, protecting what ground they had left. Harry stumbled with them, dragged by the tide.

But the line was breaking. Spells tore through the air unchecked, and the resistance was folding, step by step, wand by wand.

And then, a new rhythm rose through the pandemonium. The steady pounding of boots. Louder. Closer. From the barrier came Ministry workers, Aurors, and others who had chosen to fight back. Harry could hear the distinct thunk of Moody’s wooden leg behind him.

Momentum, slow but steady, started to turn in their favour.

The retreating line of defenders surged forward. The air lit up with spells, blinding blues, crackling whites, stunning reds. Screams echoed as the hooded figures faltered, and their flanks collapsed. Some were blasted backwards. Others vanished in the spiralling tug of portkeys.

Then someone grabbed him.

“Harry!” It was Susan. Her eyes were wide with alarm. “You’re bleeding!”

He blinked. “What?”

She was staring at his forearm. His skin was torn open, blood dripping down his wrist.

And then it hit him.

The Disillusionment was gone. He wasn’t hidden anymore.

Which could only mean…

His stomach dropped. He turned, fast. Across the platform, just paces ahead, Remus lay sprawled on the stone. One arm twisted under him. Blood spreading dark and fast beneath his robes.

“No…”

Harry ran. His knees buckled as he dropped beside him. “Remus?” His voice cracked. “Remus, please…”

He gripped his shoulder and shook him. Remus’s head lolled slightly, but there was no response.

“Please…” Harry’s voice broke entirely.

His fingers came away soaked, slick and sticky with Remus’s blood, and the sharp, metallic tang of iron hit his nose. Nausea surged up his throat, and before he could stop it, a sob tore loose, choking him as he doubled over, retching onto the platform.

All around him, the battle was beginning to ebb. Cries of fury gave way to groans, the thunder of magic thinning into scattered bursts. It felt like watching a storm exhaust itself; less violent, but no less devastating.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know if there was anything to do.

He felt a hand close around his shoulder.

“Come on, lad,” said Moody, his voice gruff, with the faintest edge of kindness threading through.

Harry shook his head. “Remus…”

“We’ll take care of him,” Moody said. “You can’t be here for what comes next. Come on.”

Harry didn’t want to move. He couldn’t. His feet were stone, his body frozen in place, as if leaving would make it real, would make Remus’s stillness permanent. His heart screamed to stay, to reach out again, to do something. But the world was already shifting around him.

But Moody didn’t wait. He took Harry’s wrist, slapped a Disillusionment Charm over him, and tugged him to his feet.

The last thing Harry saw, as Moody half-dragged him through the barrier, was Neville, still weeping… and Kingsley crouching over Remus, wand moving in slow arcs of glowing magic above his chest.

The Muggle side of King’s Cross was untouched. Unaware. Trains hissed softly along the platforms. Announcements echoed with clinical indifference. A porter whistled a tune as he wheeled a cart past rows of passengers clutching paper cups and weekend bags.

It was as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn’t just torn open metres away.

But Harry saw them; Ministry workers in ill-fitting Muggle coats, moving briskly through the crowd, eyes scanning. A quiet current beneath the calm.

None of it mattered to him.

His hands were shaking. His arm throbbed, the cold biting deeper now. But he barely noticed. The numbness was worse. Not cold. Not pain. Just the hollow where something should be.

He could still see Remus’s face.

Pale. Broken. Splashed with red.

Moody’s grip tightened on his shoulder as they moved. Another platform loomed ahead. Quiet. Empty. A flickering sign overhead buzzed in the stillness.

Then Moody turned. The world twisted.

And they were gone.

Chapter Text

The sky above Hogwarts was the colour of ash, the last stars fading behind the clouds. Snow blanketed the grounds in a dull sheet; the kind that swallowed all light, all sound, all certainty. Dumbledore walked alone across the grounds, moving like a man unravelled by the long dark, robes heavy with damp and memory. His boots left soft prints in the frost. He had not slept. There had been Ministry briefings, bedside vigils. Names to account for, wounds to witness. And now, finally, he was returning to the castle.

A figure stood beneath the stone arch of the Entrance Hall, as still as sculpture.

"Severus," Dumbledore greeted quietly.

"Headmaster." The reply was clipped, the courtesy stripped bare.

Dumbledore studied him for a moment before speaking. “Your information was not without merit. The attack did come… though not precisely where we’d feared. They struck the platform itself.”

Snape's eyes narrowed faintly.

“Alastor brought in what reinforcements he could.” Dumbledore continued. “They reached the defenders before all was lost."

Snape’s face remained unreadable. “They’re growing bold. A strike like that… they’ve stopped pretending."

“Yes.” Dumbledore’s gaze drifted towards the horizon. “And they will strike again.”

Snape’s lip curled. “I doubt I’ll be able to uncover much more. I am not among their confidences. I am merely tolerated, not trusted.”

“I do not blame you for not learning more, and I never will,” Dumbledore said. “You’ve already risked much.”

That made Snape’s jaw tighten. He glanced away.

Dumbledore pressed on. “No students were lost. Mr Wood and Miss Tonks will need time in St Mungo’s. Two others were hurt as well… both from your house.”

“Who?”

“Tracey Davis and Tobias Baddock. They were among the first struck.”

“How coincidental,” Snape said coldly. “Almost as if someone wished it noticed.”

Dumbledore’s voice dropped. “According to those who saw it unfold… they were standing rather near Neville when the ambush began. Whether they were struck by chance… or by design… I cannot yet say.”

Snape’s mouth pulled into a hard line. “Of course.”

A moment passed. “And now?” he asked. “Will this be another ‘unforeseen incident’ for the Prophet to whitewash?”

“They have several in custody,” Dumbledore said. “I hope it is enough to force the Ministry’s hand. They can no longer pretend not to see.”

Snape scoffed. “See what? That the rot runs deep into their very administration?” His voice dropped to a hiss. “And will that make it right? Will that free me from this prison you’ve built for me?”

Dumbledore said nothing.

Snape’s words spat like venom now. “I did what you asked. I became what you needed. And what do I have to show for it? A classroom full of mediocrity and defiance. Children who would drown if I stopped dragging them forward. Who mistake arrogance for talent.”

Dumbledore’s tone cooled. “You have been many things, Severus. But a teacher you have not.”

Snape bristled. “No?”

“I know your methods,” Dumbledore said with a level voice. “They learn in spite of you, not because of you.”

“You dare…”

“You forget, Severus,” Dumbledore cut in. “You came to me with blood on your hands and begged for absolution. Don’t feign ignorance of the price.”

Snape’s face twisted. “This wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“Wasn’t it?” Dumbledore’s eyes were cold now. “You asked for purpose. You asked for protection. And I gave it… in the only form I could.”

Snape fell silent. His hands clenched at his sides. The sky above them was slowly brightening, grey surrendering to a paler shade, though warmth was still a distant promise.

Dumbledore’s voice dropped. “You chose this path.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “Because you left me no other.”

“I know what it’s cost you,” Dumbledore said.

“Do you?” Snape asked, quietly seething. “Or do you only count the sacrifices that you can justify to the world?”

Before Dumbledore could answer, a brisk set of footsteps echoed across the stone floor behind them. Minerva McGonagall emerged from the archway, wrapped in a tartan cloak, her eyes sharp even in this early hour.

“Albus,” she said. “Severus.”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore replied. “You’re up early.”

She gave him a worried look. “A night like this would rob sleep from anyone.”

Then she looked to Snape, who had responded to her greeting with only a perfunctory tilt of the head, and said, “I’ve been reviewing the student rolls. Nearly the entire Slytherin House elected to remain for the holidays.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Severus, don’t you find that… remarkably timed?”

Dumbledore raised a hand, gentle but firm. “Minerva…”

Snape’s eyes flickered. “Allow the Professor her suspicions, Headmaster,” he said, turning to McGonagall. “Though it may be news to you, Minerva, but two of my students were injured.”

He went on, voice icily polite. “Must your doubts always fall at Slytherin’s feet? You’ve not forgotten, I hope, that it was one of your Lions who sold out the Potters.”

The words landed with the weight of something well-aimed. McGonagall went still. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, but she said nothing.

Snape’s eyes flicked between them. “If you’ll excuse me… I’ve essays to mark. Not nearly as thrilling as pointing fingers or playing saviour, but someone must do the thankless work. Assuming, of course, any of them bothered to write in complete sentences.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and swept into the castle, black robes trailing behind like smoke.

McGonagall watched Snape vanish into the castle’s shadows, her mouth set in a hard line. “I do not enjoy suspecting them,” she said quietly. “But the pattern is there. Nearly all of Slytherin remained behind. And far too many of their parents…”

She hesitated. “Well. We both know what loyalties they once held.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer at once. His gaze remained on the empty archway. “It troubles me too,” he said at last. “But suspicion, Minerva, is not evidence.”

She turned to look at him. “You believe them innocent?”

“I believe some may be exactly as you fear,” he replied. “But until we know, we must grant them the benefit of doubt.” His tone gentled. “I’ve never asked you to turn a blind eye. Only to remember that people change, and that we do not pass sentence on children for the sins of their parents.”

McGonagall gave a small nod, but said nothing.

Dumbledore went on, “Even in the last war… some who wore the wrong colours found their way back. And others… with unblemished names… lost their way entirely.”

His words hung between them for a moment. McGonagall then turned, and together they walked along the corridor beyond the Entrance Hall, its stone walls washed pale by the first light of morning. The castle had not yet stirred; no echo of students, no murmur of portraits.

She broke the silence. “Albus… I need to know everything. Not what the Prophet will print. The truth.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Of course.”

They turned down a side passage and he spoke. “From what Alastor has been able to piece together, there were over thirty attackers. They were already on the platform when the students arrived… concealed under Disillusionment Charms.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “But the Aurors were sweeping King’s Cross. The station, the surrounding areas… since first light.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said. “Which raises more questions than it answers. For them to pass unnoticed under such scrutiny… that is no small feat.”

McGonagall stopped walking. Her voice was grim. “Someone must have helped them.”

Dumbledore turned to face her. “There is always someone,” he said quietly. “There was, during the last war. And there is now.”

The silence that followed was heavy, threaded with memory. “Back then,” he went on, “the Ministry chose denial. Until silence served no one. By the time they acted, the worst had already taken root.”

They resumed walking, their footfalls echoing faintly off the vaulted ceiling. “I can only hope,” he murmured, “that this time, they will choose differently. Before the cost becomes too great.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Any deaths?”

Dumbledore’s expression darkened. “Three,” he said. “Augustus Fawley… father to Marshall, our fourth-year Hufflepuff. Meena Patel… Ravenclaw alumna, aunt to two of our younger students. And Marcus Greengrass… on duty with the Longbottom detail.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Merlin help them.”

Dumbledore continued. “Four students sustained serious injuries. Mr Wood. Miss Tonks. Mr Baddock. And Miss Davis.”

McGonagall’s brow furrowed. “And the rest?”

He let out a slow breath. “Eleven others are in critical condition at St Mungo’s. Parents and Ministry personnel. Many more with lesser injuries, of course, but the toll…”

She shook her head. “This is beyond anything we’ve faced in years.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “The scale. The precision. And the cost.” He paused. “Among the injured… is Remus.”

McGonagall stopped where she stood.

“He fell holding the line,” Dumbledore said.

Her voice was hushed. “How bad?”

“It is uncertain,” Dumbledore admitted. “His condition is… delicate. Being a werewolf complicates every known method of magical healing. But it may also be the only reason he survived. Any other wizard would have succumbed to the injuries he sustained.”

She blinked. “Then that’s a mercy. Of a sort.”

“Yes… and no,” Dumbledore said gently. “What grants him resilience also resists intervention. The Healers say the usual treatments yield unpredictable results. He is not responding as they’d hoped. For now… they can only keep him breathing. And wait.”

McGonagall murmured an old Gaelic prayer, and they walked on together.

Dumbledore’s gaze was fixed ahead. “Your friend Augusta was also among the injured…”

“Augusta?”

“She is out of danger, but the damage was… severe,” he said. “The curse struck her spine. The Healers believe she may never walk again.”

For a moment, McGonagall said nothing. Her lips parted, then closed again. When she spoke, it was threaded with fondness, “She was always so proud. So unyielding.”

“She remains so,” Dumbledore said. “When I saw her, she was chiding the mediwitch for mislabelling an infusion. A lioness yet.”

That drew a sad smile from McGonagall.

Dumbledore’s voice dropped further. “Neville was the target. He survived only because Fabian and Gideon moved faster than the Death Eaters expected. It seems… they have once again taken it upon themselves to be his guardian angels.”

McGonagall’s brow furrowed. “Where is he now?”

“With the Prewetts,” Dumbledore replied. “Arthur and Molly are expected to be back from Romania this evening. Until Augusta is well enough to receive him, Neville will stay at the Burrow. I expect the Weasleys too will depart tomorrow.”

McGonagall’s voice was thin. “He’s just a boy, Albus. Haven’t they taken enough from him already?”

Dumbledore turned to her, eyes heavy with sorrow. “Yes. But he is also a boy bound to a legacy. All we can do now is protect him… that he may be strong enough to bear it.”

They arrived at the foot of the staircase. The stone gargoyle that stood sentinel gave a low, grinding groan and shifted aside. The spiral staircase beyond began to turn silently. Without another word, Dumbledore stepped forward. McGonagall followed, and they ascended towards the waiting door above.

She asked, “Were any of the attackers taken alive?”

He gave a solemn nod. “Seven. And four more lie dead.”

“Any of them marked?”

“Not all. But Rowle was found… He was struck by a Killing Curse. Travers was among the captured. The others… a few known faces from Knockturn Alley, and some not known at all. Foreign wands. No allegiances we can prove.”

 “You know what that means. This is the Death Eaters,” she said. “They’re simply wearing different masks… And the Ministry… they’ll call it foreign interference. Start looking for smoke all across the continent while the fire’s burning right here.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Then why won’t you speak? You could still…”

“I have spoken, Minerva,” he said gently. “But to their ears, I am no longer a voice of caution… merely one of opposition. They would twist any counsel into evidence of some hidden agenda.”

The staircase slowed to a stop.

“This school,” he said, “is the last ground the Ministry have not seized. Though not for lack of trying. And recent… disagreements, including the one over Harry’s guardianship, have only deepened their suspicion.”

They stepped into his office. The portraits on the walls stirred faintly at their entrance. Fawkes, dozed atop his perch, feathers dulled in the morning gloom. Dumbledore moved to the hearth and conjured a fire with a flick of his wand. He sank into his chair, the weight in his bones evident in the way he moved. McGonagall took the chair across from him, her tartan cloak brushing the carpet as she sat.

“And Harry?”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “He is safe. Alastor brought him to Grimmauld Place before the Department of Magical Law Enforcement arrived. They didn’t get the chance to question him.” He paused. “Though after yesterday… I suspect their appetite for interrogation has waned.”

She flicked her wand, and the kettle rose at once, gliding through the air alongside two ornate cups. They settled gently on the table between them, steam curling softly in the quiet.

“He must be distraught,” she said, handing him a cup. “About Remus.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, accepting it with a nod of gratitude. “Him and Sirius both. Alastor had to use a full Body-Bind to stop Sirius from rushing to St Mungo’s. He’d lost all reason. Wouldn’t be swayed.”

McGonagall shook her head. “He hasn’t changed.”

“No,” Dumbledore said. “Not in the ways that count.”

He took a sip before continuing. “I learnt from Kingsley that Harry was responsible for incapacitating two of the attackers. A Knockback Jinx. Strong enough to drop them both at once.”

McGonagall’s cup paused mid-air. “At his age? That’s no small thing.”

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted to the mantelpiece, where a thin vial of holly sap caught the firelight; clear, golden, glinting with quiet promise. “He’s… exceptionally gifted.”

“That is why,” he said, more to himself now, “we must teach him not only how to wield power, but when not to. He must learn compassion. And the weight of choosing mercy.”

McGonagall watched him over the rim of her teacup. “Is that why you nudged him onto the Quidditch team?”

Dumbledore chuckled, the first trace of lightness in hours. “Partly,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And partly because I suspected you were tempted to do so yourself… but held back, lest it be seen as favouritism. Especially after the incident with Mr Malfoy.”

A faint smile curved her lips. She said nothing, but her silence spoke well enough.

“He deserves a chance to grow up with laughter,” Dumbledore said. “To not be cast aside. Not again.”

His gaze lingered on the vial, and sorrow flickered behind his eyes, older than regret, older than war. “I’ve seen what becomes of a boy left too long in the shadow.”

Golden light had begun to spill through the tall windows, warming the stone and shelves alike, gilding the room in soft brilliance. Outside, the castle was stirring. McGonagall refilled their cups. The silence that followed was solemn – steeped in memory, in mourning, in all that the day before had already demanded of them.

Chapter Text

The room was cold, but Harry hardly felt it. The draft that slid through the warped window frame might as well have been a warm breeze compared to the chill lodged in his ribs. He had been lying awake for hours, long enough to lose count, watching the sky beyond the glass darken to its deepest shade and then slowly pale again.

Sirius had meant this room to feel like home. While Harry was at Hogwarts, he had swapped the dour furnishings for a red bedspread emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest, and heavy curtains alive with darting golden Snitches. Harry was supposed to have smiled at it. Remus would have rolled his eyes at Sirius’s flamboyant taste in décor. But none of that mattered now. What should have been a joyous homecoming had turned hollow, emptied by Remus’s absence. And the worst part was not knowing if Remus would wake again.

He was only eleven. He knew that. But yesterday he hadn’t been fast enough, or strong enough, or clever enough. The thought gnawed at him, relentless, wearing at the edges of every breath he drew.

His silver pendant rested in his palm, the stag rearing proud within its circlet of lilies. Its surface glimmered faintly in the winter light. Warmth seeped against his skin, wrong for metal, wrong for silver; as if it still remembered the inferno that had once marked his life, and had sworn never to let it claim him again. Harry closed his fingers tight around it, trying to steady the ache that hollowed his chest. But his breaths came shallow all the same, quick and restless, like someone bracing for a blow that had not yet landed.

When the first grey light of dawn edged across the windowpane, he could lie still no longer. He swung his legs out of bed, bare feet finding the cold floorboards, and eased the door open.

He stopped short.

Sirius was sitting on the landing, his back against the bannisters. His hair was a dark tangle, his face hollowed by sleeplessness, but his eyes, grey and bloodshot, lifted to Harry at once.

Harry blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Sirius gave a faint shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t know if you had. Thought I’d wait here, just in case.”

Harry lowered himself to the floor beside him. The wood was cold through his pyjamas, but the company was warmer than the bed had been.

Sirius turned and studied him with a searching gaze. His voice was hoarse. “Stop blaming yourself. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Harry throat worked before he managed, “Did you?” The question was small, but it cut sharp. “Did you stop blaming yourself? For everything?”

Sirius let out a pained laugh, the kind that only betrayed how much it hurt. And though no answer followed, the silence that stretched between them spoke louder than words.

They sat like that while the winter light crept slowly across the stairwell. The house around them was silent, but the hush felt less empty now, as if grief could be borne more easily when it was shared.

Harry didn’t know how long they had been sitting there, or when his eyes had finally closed. One moment he was staring at the light creeping across the bannisters, and the next he was waking with a start, cheek pressed against Sirius’s shoulder. His neck ached, his arm was sore, and downstairs someone was knocking at the front door.

Sirius was already moving, rising with a stiffness that betrayed the hours spent on the landing. Harry scrambled up after him, and together they hurried down the stairs.

In the hall, the door swung open, and Elliot Hirsch stepped inside. He looked as though he had come straight from the battlefield; coat dusted with soot, eyes shadowed by a night without sleep, hair sticking damply to his forehead. In one hand he carried Harry’s school trunk, scuffed and dented at the corners.

“Guess you didn’t fancy going through the Ministry’s red tape to claim this,” Elliot said, hefting it with a tired grin. “Brought it myself.”

Harry took it wordlessly. The scratches along the trunk’s surface were like scars reminding of where it had been left. He set it aside and followed Elliot and Sirius down to the kitchen. Sirius busied himself at once with the kettle, clattering mugs onto the table as if motion alone could hold him steady.

Elliot sat, elbows braced on the tabletop, and accepted the steaming mug Sirius slid across to him. “About Lupin,” he said at last. His voice was rough, stripped of its usual fire. “He’s not out of the woods yet. The Healers are keeping him stabilised, but they won’t say more. All we can do is wait. And pray, if that’s your thing.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, a heavy ache spreading through him that had nothing to do with hunger. The mug Sirius set in front of him steamed, but he only wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth seep into fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling.

Across the table, Sirius’s jaw had gone tight. “It should have been me,” he muttered. “I should’ve gone to the platform. Remus was only there because…”

“Black.” Elliot cut him. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

Sirius slammed the mug down a little too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. “Remus is a professor. He should’ve been at Hogwarts. If I’d been there instead…”

Elliot’s mouth twisted. “Notwithstanding the fact that you’re technically a felon on the run… be glad it was Lupin. With that kind of blast to the side, you or me would’ve been laid out for a funeral. It’s his lycanthropy that kept him breathing. The attack was ugly, no doubt about it. But don’t dress it up as sacrifice. And don’t you go trying to be a martyr. He’s alive, and that’s what matters.”

Harry stayed silent, staring into the untouched tea cooling in his hands. Sirius raked both hands through his hair.

“I would have gladly died for him,” Sirius said hoarsely. “Gladly taken his place.”

For a heartbeat, something dark flickered behind Elliot’s eyes. Then he leaned forward, voice dropping. “Don’t be so eager to throw your life away, Black. Cherish it while you’ve still got it. And stop being a child about it.” He jerked his head towards Harry. “If you’d died, what happens to the little tyke over here? The one you broke out of Azkaban for… and nearly cost me my job. You think Lupin would thank you for leaving him alone? I saw him fight. He’s strong. He’ll pull through.”

The words hit Sirius like a leash pulling him back. He went still, then reached across the table to rest a hand on Harry’s arm. His grip was steady, but his grey eyes burned with sorrow.

Elliot’s gaze softened as he turned to Harry. “You want to see him? Visit Lupin?”

Harry’s head snapped up, hope flaring so bright it almost hurt. “Yes.”

Sirius blinked. “How? You mean now?”

“Yeah.” Elliot leaned back, stretching out his shoulders as if the weight of the night sat on them still. “I’ll take him. I’m on leave a few days. This might be the only chance you get.”

Both Sirius and Harry froze, alarm flashing across their faces.

Elliot caught it and shook his head. “Not like that. I didn’t mean… Merlin, no. The Ministry’s scrambling, chasing their tails, trying to paper over the attack. Their big dream of grilling the ‘boy-who-died’? Not top priority right this minute. But by this time tomorrow, they’ll have their files in order, their departments briefed, and their bases covered. And then it’ll be back to business as usual.”

Harry was already on his feet, dragging the trunk behind him as he bolted upstairs to grab a jumper and jacket.

Sirius stayed seated, watching Elliot with an expression that shifted too fast to pin down – gratitude, suspicion, grief, all crowding behind the hollow of his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” he asked finally.

Elliot’s grin was faint, but real. “Because he reminds me of someone. And because…” his gaze hardened, though the kindness remained “…you need to take care of yourself, Black. Eat something. Sleep. When Lupin wakes, he’s going to have a hell of a road ahead. He’ll need you in one piece.”

Sirius gave a short nod, though his eyes had already drifted far away.

Harry thundered back down the stairs, tugging on his jacket with one arm, hair sticking up wildly. The pendant glimmered at his throat as he fastened it.

“Elliot,” he said. “Do you know whether Oliver’s okay?”

Elliot looked at him, thrown. “Oliver?”

“Oliver Wood,” Harry pressed. “Big bloke. Brown hair. The kind of hands that look like they were made to crush a quaffle.”

Recognition flickered. Elliot huffed a laugh. “Oh. You mean the Quidditch fiend? Yeah, he’s fine. Was lecturing the mediwitches on team formations so much they slipped him an extra dose of Sleeping Draught just to shut him up.”

Harry felt a sudden breath of relief. The knot in his chest loosened, if only a little.

Elliot pushed himself to his feet and turned to Sirius. “All right. We’ll be off. Back in a few hours.”

And with that, Harry and Elliot stepped out into the cold morning, leaving Sirius at the kitchen table, alone with the wreckage of sleepless hours, lost in the maze of his own heartache.

The streets of Islington were dusted with a thin crust of snow, gleaming like frost-laced silk in the pale, blue-grey light of morning. Somewhere out of sight, a milk float hummed its way down the street. The world moved slowly, as if reluctant to wake.

At the station entrance, Elliot bought two tickets. “We’ll have to travel the Muggle way,” he said. “The Ministry’s tracking every magical trace in London. We don’t want to light up a signature close to Grimmauld. Not if we can help it.”

Harry nodded as Elliot handed him a paper ticket, and they clicked through the turnstile. The Underground smelled of hot metal, damp wool, and yesterday’s newspaper. They boarded a nearly empty carriage that rattled south, lights flickering as it slid through the tunnels like a snake threading its way through the dark.

“Hungry?” Elliot asked after a stretch of silence, gaze fixed on the blur outside.

Harry shook his head.

Elliot gave a quiet grunt of assent. “Fair. But we’re grabbing something before we head back. No arguments.”

Harry gave the barest nod. He sat with his hands in his lap, watching the map above the door as each stop blinked past. Angel. Euston. They switched lines with the early commuters, the cold rushing in like a breath of ice when the doors opened. Tottenham Court Road blurred past, and then they stepped out at Leicester Square, just off Charing Cross Road, where the morning had brightened but still carried a grey pallor. The city was beginning to stir. A newsagent flipped signs with a practised flick of the wrist. Delivery vans idled in narrow bays, clouds of exhaust curling into the air.

Harry walked slightly ahead, head bowed, hands jammed into his pockets like he was trying to disappear into them. Elliot studied the set of his shoulders, the way his body folded inward like a secret, and knew better than to speak right away.

But after a few moments, he tried anyway. “You know,” he said, “I grew up not far from here. Just across the river. Southwark.”

Harry blinked and turned. “What? You never said…”

Elliot huffed a small laugh. “Yeah… Raised in a foster family. Good people. Bit mad, but in the fun way. Once I got my Hogwarts letter, though… well. There were complications.”

Harry tilted his head. “Like what?”

Elliot paused at a crossing, waiting for the light to change. His voice was quieter when it came again. “Not everyone’s keen to raise a magical child when they didn’t sign up for one. Ministry stepped in. Wizard named Cyril Greengrass. Took me in, showed me the ropes. Whole new world.”

Harry said nothing, but the line of his shoulders softened just enough to be noticed. They walked in companionable quiet for a stretch, boots scuffing the pavement.

“That shield you made,” Harry said, after a time. “Back at the platform. With the runes. That was… brilliant.”

Elliot smiled, but there was a twinge of sadness to it. “Thanks. My brother taught me. Cyril’s son. You never saw him do it. Bloody spectacle. Mine’s a shoddy echo, really.” He glanced sideways. “Tell you what… you take Runes as elective, I’ll teach you how to create one.”

Harry nodded. The grief pressing on his chest didn’t go away, but something shifted, like a new thought cracking through the old ones.

“Why are you on leave?” Harry asked, not prying, just… careful. “After what happened… wouldn’t the Ministry need you?”

Elliot’s stride slowed. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, voice rough, he murmured, “Mandatory leave for…” He glanced up at the sky, searching for words. “…Personal trauma.”

Harry looked up.

“It was my brother,” Elliot said. “Marcus. He died on the platform.”

The wind howled low between the buildings. Harry’s voice was small. “I’m sorry.”

Elliot nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. He loved the job. Died doing it.” He exhaled hard, like the words had scraped his ribs on the way out. “I just… I don’t know what to tell Cyril and Camilla. Our parents. I can’t face them yet.”

They passed a bakery where the scent of warm bread curled into the cold. Harry’s footsteps slowed. “Greengrass,” he said. “There’s a Greengrass in my year.”

Elliot gave a faint smile. “Cyril’s related to them, but they don’t really mix. Bit of a split. That lot… they’re more… polished. Belgravia types. Silk ties and old silver. Cyril… he’s a pint at the pub and shouting at the telly during footie.”

Harry blinked. “He watches football?”

Elliot chuckled. “Mate, he lives football. Cyril’s the one who got me into supporting Arsenal, actually… said it was character-building. Teaches you to suffer the near misses with dignity.”

He smiled faintly, “Marcus and I always went to the matches. We were season ticket holders…” He didn’t finish the thought. It didn’t need finishing.

They walked a little longer, their silence no longer strained but stitched together by shared weight. Then Harry spoke, quietly. “You should talk to them. Your parents. They probably need you as much as you need them.”

Elliot didn’t respond at first. He kept on walking. Then he glanced sideways and looked at Harry, and something unreadable moved behind his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

Harry hesitated. “And I’ll come with you,” he added. “To the matches. If you want.”

Elliot barked a surprised laugh. “A Millwall lad at Highbury? That’s either bravery or treason.”

Harry’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Could be both.”

For any Muggle looking in, the window of Purge and Dowse Ltd. displayed a faded mannequin in mid-stride, one arm lifted in a silent greeting, and a selection of out-of-fashion hats. But when Elliot and Harry stepped forward, the glass gave way to a ripple, and they passed through.

Inside, the air shifted at once. Magic lingered in every stone, and the corridors buzzed with a quiet urgency. The place smelled of tinctures, burnt sage, and the tang of cleansing charms. St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was alive with movement. Healers in lime-green robes strode briskly between wards, and Mediwitches in crisp white robes hovered at their elbows, scribbling on floating clipboards that bobbed beside them.

Harry kept his head down as they crossed the reception hall. The floor was tiled in pale stone veined with gold, enchanted to shimmer faintly beneath the feet. Waiting benches lined the walls, already filled with the shuffling sick and sleep-rumpled visitors. A mother cradled a boy with antlers. An old wizard blinked slowly, his beard full of feathers.

They took the lift, a rattling brass cage that clanged shut and shuddered its way upward. It ground to a halt on the fourth floor, the Spell Damage ward.

The chaos of the lower levels thinned here. The flames of the torches were softened by blue-tinged charms. Every sound was hushed by enchantment – footsteps muffled, voices dampened, as though the air itself insisted on restraint.

Elliot led the way without speaking, past doors inscribed in curling golden script: Long-Term Residents, Potion Mishaps, Unidentified Hexes. At the end of the hall, a narrower passage branched off, marked Private Care.

Elliot stopped at the first door on the right and pushed it open. Harry followed, his chest tightening. A mediwitch in white robes was at the cabinet, quietly arranging vials and folded packets of gauze. She glanced over her shoulder when they entered.

“Any updates?” Elliot asked.

The mediwitch shook her head. “No change. Still stable. The Healers will make their next round shortly.”

Elliot dipped his head in thanks, and she stepped back to give Harry a clear view of the bed.

Remus lay motionless beneath pale green sheets, colourless against them, more bone than flesh. His face was drawn, lips cracked, chest rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm that spoke of enchantments doing the work of lungs. Someone had combed his hair back neatly, though the effort only deepened the hollows of his temples. Across his side, a thick bandage gleamed faintly with runes, the sigils pulsing softly as they worked.

Harry moved to the bedside and reached out and touched Remus’s hand. It was warm. That mattered. Warm meant alive.

He lingered for a while, throat tight with all the words he hadn’t said. Then, slowly, he drew back, fingers curling into his palm. Elliot waited by the door and stepped aside as Harry passed. Together, they slipped into the corridor.

Down the hallway, three figures approached. Neville Longbottom walked in the centre, uninjured, but visibly shaken, the weight of yesterday etched into the slope of his shoulders. Flanking him were the two redheaded wizards Harry had glimpsed at the station, one with his left arm in a sling, the other walking with a noticeable limp. Both moved with the measured ease of seasoned fighters, their wands resting openly in worn leather holsters at their sides.

Neville spotted them first. His step slowed, “Harry,” he said, giving a small nod.

Harry nodded in return.

Neville glanced to Elliot. “Mr Hirsch.”

“Mr Longbottom,” Elliot replied with quiet formality. His gaze shifted to the two men. “Fabian. Gideon.”

“Hirsch,” said Fabian with a grin, adjusting his sling. “Good to see you walking in one piece.”

Gideon gave a brief nod. “Been a long night.”

“Too long,” Elliot agreed.

“You must be Harry Potter,” Fabian said. “I’m Fabian. This grump here is Gideon.”

Gideon raised a hand in greeting. “Good to put a face to the name.”

Harry gave a short nod, still studying Neville. “How are you holding up?”

Neville shrugged, his mouth a thin line. “I’m here to see my gran. They told me she’s awake.”

Harry felt a tug of relief at that. He glanced at Elliot, then back at Neville. “Let’s go.”

Something warmed in Neville’s features at the words, enough to soften the shadows in his face. Together they turned back down the corridor, retracing their steps past the room where Remus lay. A few doors beyond, Elliot pushed open a door to the left, and the others followed.

Augusta Longbottom’s room was awash in gold. Harry had expected the window to show rooftops and traffic, the grey pulse of London stirring to life. Instead, the glass revealed a moor at dawn, heather-flecked hills rolling into the distance. Above them, the sky flushed with colour, soft blues bleeding into amber, while a kestrel wheeled silently overhead.

It took Harry a moment to realise it wasn’t real.

Enchanted, he thought, quietly impressed. Meant to soothe.

Neville’s grandmother sat upright in bed, a shawl draped over her shoulders, posture as straight as a staff. Her hair was neatly coiled, her features lined and stern, and a vase of thistles stood rigid on the table, as if echoing her bearing. Everything about her spoke of discipline, of pride worn like armour.

Neville stepped forward. “Gran,” he said, “this is Harry Potter.”

Her eyes narrowed like a jeweller inspecting a stone. “So…” she said. “This is Mr Potter.”

Harry straightened unconsciously. “Ma’am.”

“I knew your grandfather,” she said with a short nod. “He and Frank… My husband… fought together on the Continent during the war. And your grandmother… I knew her too. Proud woman. A skilled duellist.”

Harry blinked. That was… new. His mind caught on the words, storing them away. He didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded.

Augusta turned her gaze to Neville. “You’re limping.”

Neville frowned. “No, I’m not.”

“Hm,” she said, unswayed. “Then… your posture’s gone to ruin.”

Neville gave a small shrug. “Just didn’t sleep much.”

Her eyes narrowed “Well, that’s no good. Nothing useful comes from lying awake and brooding. If you’ve got something worth fretting over, you settle it in daylight.”

Neville looked away, but there was no irritation in it, only the dull ache of long understanding. “Yes, Gran.”

Harry stood by the door, hands clasped in front of him. Now that the introductions had passed, he felt like he was trespassing on something private. A page of history too intimate for a stranger to chart.

As Augusta shifted slightly, Neville moved to take the chair beside her. Harry caught his eye and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll be off,” he said quietly. He turned to Augusta. “Wishing you a smooth recovery, ma’am.”

Her mouth twitched, something between a smile and a scowl. “Recovery’s for the idle,” she said crisply. “I plan to be up before the week’s out.”

Then her eyes flicked back to Neville. “And you, Mr Potter… see that he doesn’t turn soft. His heart’s always been a bit too large for his own good. Fills up with feeling and crowds out his sense.”

Harry blinked, caught between surprise and understanding. There was no malice in her voice, only that stern pride wrapped tight in fondness and habit.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

Augusta gave a curt nod, sealing it like a contract.

The door clicked softly behind him as he stepped out into the corridor. Elliot stood leaned against the wall, watching the far end. He glanced over as Harry approached.

“Do you know where the students are?” Harry asked.

Elliot gave a short nod. “Down this way. They’ve put them all on the same stretch.”

He turned and led Harry further down the corridor. The faint glow of monitoring spells hovered near the doors, pulsing gently in shades of green and amber.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the nameplates as they passed.

Tracey Davies

Tobias Baddock

Nymphadora Tonks

And then…

Oliver Wood

Harry reached out, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. Elliot followed silently, the door clicking shut behind them.

Wood was wide awake, propped up in bed, looking relatively intact, aside from the brass-and-glass contraption at his side that hissed at regular intervals, releasing sharp puffs of frost that made the room uncomfortably cold. Tubes glowing faint blue with sigils snaked out from the machine, disappearing beneath the thick bandages wrapped around his torso like a shroud. His brown hair was an unrepentant disaster, and his eyes were scanning the room like he was plotting a jailbreak. A clipboard lay facedown on the bedside table, half-crumpled, as if it had displeased him.

The moment Harry stepped in, Oliver lit up.

“Thank Merlin you’re all right!” he exclaimed, voice cracking with relief. “I was this close to losing my mind… I thought I’d have to put Alicia in as Seeker for the next match.”

Harry blinked. “Er… thanks?”

Wood didn’t hear him. He’d already shifted into the familiar cadence of a man on a mission, expression sharpening with mathematical urgency.

“Right,” he muttered, holding up his fingers. “So. Five at school. One in St Mungo’s. One accounted for.” He glanced up, fixing Harry with a look of deep import. “That leaves three.”

“Three what?”

“Three players!” Wood said, aghast that Harry didn’t follow. “Katie, Cormac, Sophie. Do you know if they’re all right? Please tell me they didn’t take a hex to the head or something, because honestly, Cormac can’t spare the brain cells.”

Before Harry could respond, Wood turned abruptly to Elliot.

“You look like a Ministry man. Do you know if they were among the injured?”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “I’ll try to find out.” Then he pointed to the curious instrument hovering beside the bed. “Looks like you took a Blood-Boiling Curse. You should be resting.”

Wood waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, they said that.” He gestured to the crumpled clipboard at his side. “Said it should’ve done a number on me. But apparently I’ve got unusually resilient internal organs… told them my blood runs hot anyway, so not much change.”

He gave a proud little nod. “Reckon that’s thanks to Quidditch. All the adrenaline. My body’s used to operating under pressure.”

Harry stared. Elliot blinked, genuinely at a loss.

Wood, undeterred, leaned back with a sigh. “Well, I’ll just ask Professor McGonagall when she gets here…”

At that moment, a mediwitch swept into the room. “That’s quite enough excitement for one morning,” she said firmly, casting a look at the visitors. “Time to see yourselves out. Healer’s orders.”

Wood wilted. “Can’t I at least…”

“No.”

Harry and Elliot backed out quickly. As the door shut behind them, they could still hear Wood protesting faintly through the wall.

In the corridor, Elliot rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Is he always like that?”

Harry considered. “That was him being positively tame.”

They walked a few steps in silence.

Then Elliot shook his head in disbelief. “You lot really do live and breathe that game, don’t you.”

Harry gave a quiet smile, glancing once more at Wood’s door. “Some of us even boil in it.”

They made their way down the quiet corridor together, the strange comfort of Wood’s absurdity still lingering in the air, like the fading puffs of frost from the enchanted device. Grief lingered at their heels; relief waited somewhere further on, not yet ready to be found.

Chapter Text

The days passed in a blur. Or perhaps they didn’t pass at all, only sagged into one another, indistinguishable, like pages soaked through until they turned to pulp.

After St Mungo’s, Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place in silence. Sirius had been waiting, eyes sharp with expectation, as though willing Harry to deliver some scrap of hope. Harry had only given a wordless nod. The look on his face had been enough. Whatever he had seen at St Mungo’s needed no telling.

Sirius had gone still. It was not calm. It was the brittle quiet of someone one breath away from breaking, or lashing out, or both. And after that, the house seemed to close in around them, its halls echoing with a silence that screamed louder than words.

That afternoon, Professor McGonagall had come by with an update. “Still no change in Remus’s condition,” she had said. Her eyes had lingered too long on Sirius, and then on Harry, as if she were trying to measure wounds without asking aloud. Sirius met her gaze with the stiff defiance of someone who refused pity, while Harry found himself looking at the floor, the weight of her concern almost unbearable.

She had brought food, something warm, smelling faintly of spice and broth. They had unwrapped it, and sat with plates in front of them. Yet neither could remember what it was. Whether they ate it at all. What lingered instead was the silence at the table, McGonagall’s retreating footsteps, and the heavy truth that nothing had changed.

Time had slipped sideways after that.

They had moved through the house like sleepwalkers. Sirius had paced for hours, then vanished into his room. Harry had drifted between the parlour and his bedroom, where the Walkman Remus had gifted him sat on the windowsill. Sometimes he wound the tape forward or back, not listening, just moving his fingers, as if he could rewind time the same way.

The only break in the hush came the day before Christmas.

McGonagall had just left, another update, another “no change.” She had left behind a large tin of shortbread. The door had barely clicked shut when Kreacher crept in, muttering to himself in a low, bitter rasp.

“…should’ve let the half-breed die… foul stain…”

The words snapped like a tripwire.

Sirius moved with sudden violence, his chair screeching back, wand drawn in an instant. He rounded on the elf with a fury that blistered the air, eyes wild with something deeper than rage.

Kreacher froze mid-step, but his sneer only deepened.

Harry had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, the walkman in his lap, thumb on the knob. He didn’t register the words at first, only the shift in the temperature, the way the air thickened like it might shatter.

Then he saw Sirius, wand aimed dead-centre at Kreacher’s temple.

Harry leapt to his feet and shoved himself in between them.

“Don’t,” he said, breath catching. “Please. Don’t.”

It took all his strength to hold Sirius back, and even then, it wasn’t strength that worked. It was the look on Harry’s face. The raw, helpless desperation.

Sirius faltered. For a long moment, he stood there – arm rigid, eyes burning. Then, with a sound between a snarl and a sob, he lowered his wand. His voice was low and cracked. “I told you once. I’ll tell you again. Show your face in front of me, and you’ll regret it.”

Kreacher’s lip curled. He gave a deep, mocking bow and vanished with a loud crack, his glare lingering like smoke.

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.

The shortbread tin on the table remained unopened.

Christmas morning came quietly. No tree. No carols. No gifts tucked beneath enchanted fir boughs. Just grey light filtering through the curtains, and the distant creak of pipes as the old house stirred to life.

Harry woke to the smell of something faintly toasted, though he couldn’t say from where. No one had been cooking. He blinked at the ceiling for a while and then swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Down the hall, Sirius emerged around the same time, hair flattened on one side. Neither said “Happy Christmas.” The words didn’t feel right. They nodded to each other instead.

They had just settled into the kitchen, Sirius nursing a cold cup of tea, Harry turning over the unopened tin of shortbread on the table, when a knock came at the front door.

Both stilled.

Harry glanced at Sirius.

Another knock, firmer this time.

They moved together into the hall, tension taut between them. Sirius reached the door first and eased it open.

Albus Dumbledore stood on the doorstep, clad in robes of midnight blue, a light dusting of snow caught in his beard. Beside him, Professor McGonagall’s tartan cloak was drawn close, but her expression looked… lighter. The usual tight line of her mouth had softened, and the deep creases around her eyes had eased.

But it was Dumbledore’s eyes that held Harry. That familiar twinkle was there, like joy that refused to be extinguished.

“May we come in?” Dumbledore asked gently. “It is Christmas, after all.”

Harry stepped aside wordlessly. Sirius, still tense, nodded once.

In the kitchen, McGonagall accepted a chair with a weary sort of grace. Dumbledore remained standing, his gaze warm as it moved between them.

“I know this is an unorthodox hour for a visit,” he began, “but I thought it only right that good news not be delayed.”

Harry’s heart kicked.

“Remus,” Dumbledore said, and the name alone made something shift in the room, “woke up late last night.”

Sirius inhaled sharply. Harry froze.

“He is weak,” Dumbledore continued, “and still quite battered. But he is responsive. The worst has passed. The Healers are optimistic, and more importantly, he is… well. Himself.”

McGonagall nodded. “He asked after both of you, of course.”

Dumbledore reached into his cloak and withdrew a folded scrap of parchment. “He insisted this be delivered to you as soon as possible.”

He passed it to Sirius, who wasted no time in unfolding it. The parchment was scrawled in familiar, slanting script. Rushed, but unmistakable.

Harry & Sirius,

Eat something. Sleep properly. And stop skulking around like flobberworms.

Honestly. You’d think neither of you had ever been in a hospital before.

I’ll be up and pestering you again soon enough.

Merry Christmas, you utter children.

– Remus

Harry let out a short breath, and then, suddenly, he was laughing. It spilled out of him without warning, cracking through the weight in his chest like sun through frost.

Sirius gave a wet, snorting sort of sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He ran a hand over his face, the note shaking slightly in the other. “Merlin,” he said hoarsely. “That’s him all right. Nagging us from a bloody hospital bed.”

He looked up, eyes rimmed red but alight for the first time in days. “Whatever that spell was… it didn’t do a damn thing to his brain.”

Before the laughter could fade, McGonagall reached into her satchel and drew out a large, square tin.

“Remus also insisted this be delivered,” she said, placing it gently on the table. “Apparently Christmas, cannot be allowed to pass without cake.”

Harry stared at the tin. Sirius leaned forward, lifting the lid. Inside sat a modest fruitcake. The icing had cracked slightly at one corner, clearly jostled in transit, but it still smelled richly of spice, citrus, and just a hint of brandy.

Sirius huffed. “Fruitcake. Of course.”

McGonagall arched a brow. “You will eat it and be grateful.”

Sirius gave a sigh and pushed back from the table. “Fine. But if I break a tooth, Remus is getting an earful.” He turned to busy himself with the kettle, flicking his wand to refill it with a wave.

Dumbledore, who had been standing by the far wall quietly observing, clapped his hands together once. “A lovely cake, a warm kitchen…” His gaze wandered. “But surely we’re missing something.”

He flicked his wand, and in the far corner of the kitchen, a pine tree erupted out of thin air, adorned with silver stars and glowing orbs of golden light. A faint scent of pine needles and frost filled the room.

“Ah,” he said, admiring it with satisfaction, “There. It hardly feels like Christmas without one.”

Harry smiled faintly as Sirius returned with the tea, levitating four mismatched mugs to the table. Dumbledore accepted a cup and sipped with a hum of appreciation. The glow of the conjured tree pooled gently on the floorboards, and the smell of citrus and pine made the air feel almost soft.

Then Dumbledore cleared his throat softly. “Now,” he said, “we must turn, I’m afraid, to the more serious matters concerning Remus’s recovery.”

He glanced towards the conjured tree, then back at them. “He will need rest. A great deal of it. And patience… from all of us, not least himself. The body takes its time to mend… and his, as we know, carries complications not found in any standard Healer’s textbook.”

He folded his hands lightly. “We do not yet know how his wounds will respond to the cycles of the moon. Lycanthropic physiology remains… something of a frontier. One that few are eager to chart.”

McGonagall’s mouth tightened, and she nodded once.

“And of course,” he went on, “there are the… social complications. We remain, alas, a society that flinches from what it does not understand. The idea of a werewolf… being treated in a respected institution has not been met with universal grace.”

He looked up, weariness clouding the blue of his eyes.  “There have been whispers. Raised eyebrows. Certain chairs at the Ministry creaking under the weight of discomfort.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched as he rose to his feet, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “He comes here.”

Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles with a measured hand. “Sirius…”

“He comes here,” Sirius repeated. “I’ll take care of him. And if it’s a matter of skill, then you can damn well convince Poppy to visit him here.”

Dumbledore’s face was unreadable, not surprised, but as though he’d been bracing for this. “I was afraid you’d suggest something like that,” he said gently.

Sirius opened his mouth again, but Dumbledore raised a hand.

“I did speak with Poppy,” he said. “I told her about your… unusual circumstance. The injustice you endured. And how very little, in all these years, the world has done to make amends.”

His gaze held Sirius’s for a moment.

“She was, I must say, more than willing. Enthusiastic, even.” A fond smile flickered across his face. “And when she heard what the Ministry had to say about Remus… well.” His gaze twinkled. “She reminded me… quite firmly… that healing is not beholden to politics. And that care… often begins exactly where the rules fall short.”

McGonagall allowed herself the faintest smirk. “She’s already drawn up a treatment plan.”

Sirius blinked, caught off guard. “She… what?”

“As soon as Remus is able to walk,” McGonagall said, “He will be brought here, and Poppy will visit as needed.”

Sirius looked away. “Thank you.”

“Some matters,” Dumbledore said, “require very little deliberation. This was one of them.”

They rose soon after. McGonagall brushed crumbs from her cloak and refastened the clasp at her throat. Dumbledore stood with the ease of someone unhurried by time, his eyes resting briefly on the conjured tree in the corner.

“We’ll take our leave,” Dumbledore said. “There is joy enough here without us crowding it.”

“And that shortbread,” McGonagall added dryly, casting a pointed glance at the tin still on the table. “It is not for decoration.”

Harry and Sirius followed them to the front door.

“Merry Christmas,” Dumbledore said, pausing in the threshold. His gaze moved between them. “Let us hope the year ahead is gentler.”

McGonagall nodded, her eyes settling on Harry for a moment longer, a look that seemed to carry both blessing and caution.

Then they were gone. The door clicked shut behind them with a quiet finality.

Sirius stood there a moment, his hand still resting on the latch. Beyond the glass, snow was falling again. He let out a long breath.

“We should boycott Christmas,” he muttered.

Harry looked over, brow raised.

“Last year it was you,” Sirius said. “This year it’s Remus. Next year it’ll probably be me, hexed through a window or eaten by a cursed armchair.”

Harry tilted his head. “Let’s not give Kreacher any ideas.”

That startled a real laugh from Sirius. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“Come on,” he said, nudging Harry towards the kitchen. “Let’s finish the cake.”

“And shortbread,” Harry added.

“Yeah,” he paused, casting a glance over his shoulder as they went. “Before Minerva comes back to check.”

The days that followed passed more gently. The mood inside Grimmauld Place had shifted. It was not quite cheerful, but it was no longer cloaked in dread. The silence, once thick with waiting, had grown looser at the edges. Laughter, when it came, no longer felt out of place.

The next morning was spent almost entirely in Regulus’s old bedroom. Harry and Sirius had set themselves to the task of refurbishing it. Remus had stayed there a handful of times during full moons, but now, it needed more than a dusting to be made fit for recovery. It needed softening. It needed charm.

Like most of Grimmauld Place, it wore its heritage heavily – dark woods, silver trim, and an emerald-green carpet that might once have gleamed but now looked more mildew than majesty. The wallpaper was patterned with faded serpents, and the canopy bed had dragon-finial posts that glared down like sentinels.

That morning, Hedwig had arrived bearing a large parcel, an owl-order delivery Sirius had arranged the day before. Sleeves rolled up, the two of them set to work.

The wallpaper was stripped away, revealing cold stone beneath, before Harry covered it with fresh sheets of pale floral pattern, soft violets and climbing roses. The heavy emerald drapes were vanished and replaced with something airier. The armchair, once a rigid-backed throne of green velvet, was transfigured into a plush floral seat with wide arms and a welcoming sag.

Sirius kept muttering about Regulus’s “bloody gothic gloom” while Harry unpacked a daisy-shaped cushion from the parcel. “He’ll hate that,” Sirius said approvingly.

By the time they were done, the room felt lighter. More like a place someone might actually want to wake up in.

Moody stopped by once, grumbling as he stalked through the back garden with his wand held high, scanning the perimeter for enchantments that would need adjusting before Remus arrived.

“He’ll be coming by Portkey,” he muttered, squinting at the crumbling stone wall. “We’ll need the anchor tuned proper. Last thing he needs is a rough landing.” His magical eye spun towards the house, then narrowed. “This place is humming with old blood magic. Black family nonsense. Half of it’s snarling at me.”

He got to work without waiting for a response, prodding the wards and tracing lines in the air with precision. The process took nearly two hours – a blur of grunts, incantations, and suspicious glances; punctuated only by the way he sniffed warily at the tea Sirius handed him, then drank it with visible mistrust.

When he was finally done, he made a noise that might’ve passed for approval, holstered his wand, and left without a word.

Kingsley arrived the next afternoon by Portkey, landing in the back garden with only the faintest stagger. His cloak rippled in the winter air as he straightened, composed as ever, the very picture of calm. It was almost hard to believe he’d been at the platform too.

“Moody’s orders,” he said dryly. “Sent me through to test the anchor. Wanted to make sure the layering he did on the back garden held up under real conditions.”

Sirius blinked at him, baffled. “You’re telling me he used you as the guinea pig?”

Kingsley shrugged. “He wanted to come himself. I volunteered.”

Sirius just shook his head, muttering something under his breath about “bloody lunatics with wands.”

Kingsley reached into his coat and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment. “A message from Remus,” he said, handing it to Harry. “He’s steady. Sleeping more, eating better. Healer says he’s ready to travel tomorrow.”

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Tomorrow?”

Sirius looked up from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “You mean… he’s actually…”

Kingsley nodded once. “If all goes well, he’ll be here before tea.”

Sirius made a choked sound that might’ve been a laugh or a breath he’d forgotten to release. “Bloody hell,” he said, eyes shining. “About time.”

Harry turned to the note, scanning it quickly. It was shorter than the last, but undeniably Remus; grumpy about staying in the hospital, and insistent that Harry and Sirius behave like responsible adults.

“He’s going to be unbearable,” Sirius said fondly.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with a laugh. “Can’t wait.”

Then, after a pause, his tone shifted. “Has Elliot been in touch?” he asked quietly, glancing up at Kingsley.

Kingsley’s expression shifted, a flicker of something caught between weariness and patience. “You heard, right? About Marcus?”

Harry nodded.

“He hasn’t responded to my owls yet,” Kingsley said. “He’s… taking his time.”

There was no frustration in it. Just acceptance, shaped by understanding.

Harry glanced down. “I figured.”

Kingsley hesitated. Then added, “I’ll let him know we’re moving Remus tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll want to be there.”

Kingsley didn’t linger. He stayed just long enough for a quiet cup of tea, then offered a nod of farewell and slipped out into the cold. The door closed softly behind him, and the house felt tuned to something just beyond the moment, like a breath drawn in and held. Waiting. Ready.

They arrived just before tea, as promised. A shimmer of magic rippled across the garden as the Portkey activated, and with a muted crack, the trio appeared: Remus on a floating stretcher, bundled in layers of blankets and snoring faintly, flanked by Kingsley and Elliot.

“Sedated?” Sirius asked, pushing open the back door.

“Thoroughly,” Kingsley confirmed.

Elliot nodded, brushing a streak of frost from his cheek. “The Healers said it was either this, or Lupin throwing up mid-journey and tearing his stitches.”

Remus stirred then, eyelids fluttering open. He blinked blearily up at the sky and grinned. “Oh. We’re still in England. The clouds are a giveaway. When do we go to France?”

Elliot gave Kingsley a sidelong glance. “It’s hitting harder than expected.”

A giddy sort of warmth bubbled in Harry’s chest. Remus was here. He was speaking. His eyes flicked to Elliot, standing silent beside Kingsley. Their gazes met, just a quiet nod, but it held volumes. Relief. Welcome. Glad you’re back too.

Kingsley checked the hover charm with a flick of his wand, then said with a suppressed laugh, “Dumbledore’s covered our tracks. According to the Ministry, Remus is en route to France… to be treated by a ‘noted specialist in lycanthropic nerve regeneration.’”

“France,” Remus said suddenly, lifting his head like he’d just joined the conversation. “Of course. My cousin lives in France.”

Sirius looked sharply at him. “What cousin?”

“Arsène,” Remus said proudly. “Arsène Lupin. You’d like him, Padfoot. Bit of a rebel. Exceptionally well-dressed. Steals from the rich and gives to… well, mostly himself.”

Sirius stared at him. “You do not have a cousin named Arsène.”

“I do!” Remus insisted. “He’s quite famous. Gentleman burglar. Solves mysteries. Wears a very good hat.”

Harry laughed, the memory surfacing like a charm. Translated copies of Maurice Leblanc’s stories, tucked in Madame Leroux’s stash of paperbacks at St. Jude’s. “He’s fictional,” he said. “That’s Maurice Leblanc’s Lupin.”

Remus stared down at his hands. “Sirius… am I fictional?”

“You’re about five potions and a Portkey away from coherence,” Sirius said, dragging a hand down his face. “And I have never been more thrilled.”

They floated Remus upstairs, his babbling punctuated by occasional, oddly specific declarations:

“I lied about losing my Charms essay during the Great Hall Pudding incident. I just didn’t complete it.”

That got a chuckle out of the group.

“I once nicked a quill from the Gringotts lobby because the goblin kept hissing at me. Honestly, best quill I ever owned. Wrote straighter than anything from Scrivenshaft’s. I still have it.”

Sirius grinned. “Merlin’s robes, Moony. You’ve been hoarding from the goblins. I knew there was a Slytherin in you.”

“I only joined the Gobstones Club because of Cressida Rosier,” Remus continued dreamily as they turned into the corridor. “She had this habit of drawing little stars on her thumb during practice. I thought it was charming.”

The stretcher wobbled slightly as Kingsley snorted. “Oh, we’re doing romantic confessions now.”

Sirius perked up. “Rosier, huh? Go on then… did she like you back?”

“She did,” Remus said, eyes half-lidded. “She said I was… soothing. Said I smelled like books and chocolate. And she had this way of tucking her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, Moony, no. That’s just what girls with long hair do.”

Remus smiled vaguely at the ceiling. “I thought it meant something.”

“So what happened?” Sirius asked, leaning in as he helped Remus onto the mattress. “Don’t leave me hanging. Did you two snog in the broom cupboard outside the trophy room?”

“No,” Remus said. “She fell for Belby.”

There was a collective pause.

“Florian Belby?” Sirius said, aghast. “The one who always smelled like stale biscuits and fainted during the OWLs?”

“That’s the one,” Remus confirmed serenely.

Elliot looked over. “Tell me it wasn’t the Gobstones talent.”

Remus gave a long-suffering sigh. “He had the name. It was bound to happen.”

The room quieted for a moment.

Sirius’s hands stilled against the blanket, and Harry glanced away. Kingsley shifted his weight like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

Then Remus, oblivious, burrowed into the daisy-shaped cushion and mumbled, “I like this pillow. It’s judging me less than Minerva does.”

“You absolute loon,” Sirius said, shaking his head, part relief, part ache, as he tucked the blanket around Remus and laughed under his breath. “Don’t get used to it, Moony. She’ll be by soon enough.”

Kingsley vanished the stretcher with a precise flick of his wand, and Elliot folded his arms, surveying their work. “Alright. The potions will do their job… he’ll sleep for a day, then grumble for the rest of the week.”

Sirius, however, looked downright gleeful. “He’s finally unable to dodge questions. Brilliant.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to interrogate a sedated werewolf?”

“Absolutely,” Sirius said without missing a beat. “Starting with whether he actually failed his Apparition test the first time, or just claimed he didn’t take it because his grandmother died.”

From the bed, Remus let out a long, dramatic groan. “You’re insufferable.”

Sirius grinned, eyes alight, and leaned down so their faces were nearly level. “And you’re high as the Astronomy Tower, Moony… Spill.”

Remus had, in the hour that followed, spilled many more beans. From the time he accidentally vanished Professor Flitwick’s eyebrows during a class to the short-lived attempt at raising a Fanged Geranium he’d named Gregory, his confessions came in increasingly absurd detail, until he finally drifted off and slept like a baby.

Sirius had looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

They took turns keeping watch over him throughout the day. At night, Harry had insisted on staying up, but Sirius had pointed to the door and sent him packing, wielding the weary authority of someone who wasn’t quite hiding how much he needed to keep vigil himself.

Harry had tiptoed back once, just to check. The sight had stuck with him: Sirius curled in the armchair, half-covered in a blanket, wand resting on his chest, and Remus asleep in the bed, mouth slightly open, one hand curled around the edge of the pillow. Peaceful, in a way Harry hadn’t seen before.

The next morning passed without incident. Remus slept, occasionally stirred, and once woke just long enough to warn Harry not to trust the doorknob, then immediately dozed off again. Harry and Sirius resumed their quiet rotation.

Around mid-afternoon, Harry was in the parlour, locked in a silent staring match with his pile of unfinished homework, which continued to radiate judgment, when a sharp knock echoed from the front door.

Startled, he rose to answer it.

On the other side stood Madam Pomfrey, bundled in a thick navy cloak and carrying a leather satchel, and Professor McGonagall, cheeks red from the cold.

“Is he sleeping?” McGonagall asked without preamble.

Harry nodded. “Mostly.”

“Let us in, won’t you?” Pomfrey added. “We’ve got work to do.”

Harry stepped back quickly and led them through the hallway and up the stairs. Their footsteps echoed softly, a slow procession through dimness and draught.

Sirius must have heard them. He stepped out of the bedroom just as they reached the landing. His gaze flicked to the visitors, and he froze.

Pomfrey looked at him, her gaze heavy with the weight of years. Not since the world had believed a lie and buried the truth with it. But now here he was, no longer the boy she remembered slipping out of the Hospital Wing with bruised knuckles and that restless, defiant spark; but a man, haunted and older, and somehow still standing.

There was a trace of melancholy in her eyes, softened by time, and beneath it, a flicker of nostalgia for the boy he once was, and the years that might have been different.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” she said gently. “But you’re here. That’s what matters.”

Sirius nodded once, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “I’m here.”

McGonagall touched his arm as she passed. “Show us in?”

As soon as she entered the room, Madam Pomfrey set down her satchel on the side-table and lit the air with charms, each one flaring and fading in soft pulses of light. With deft movements, she traced runes that rose and settled above Remus’s chest in elegant succession. She worked with the brisk tenderness of a lifelong Healer, pausing only to nod or purse her lips in quiet assessment.

McGonagall took the armchair, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her gaze tracked every motion of Pomfrey’s wand, though her eyes softened when they settled on Remus.

Sirius and Harry remained by the door, shoulder to shoulder, silent, as if even their breath might disturb the fragile rhythm of healing.

Remus stirred beneath the covers. His eyes fluttered open, tracking the ceiling before settling on the faces around him. He blinked. Once. Then again.

“I was dreaming I was in France…” he said hoarsely.

“Not yet,” McGonagall said dryly. “Though you may wish you were there, once Poppy begins listing the rules you’re meant to follow.”

Remus exhaled. His voice steadied as he turned his head. “Professor McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey.”

McGonagall’s expression softened into a rare smile. “Welcome home Remus.”

His gaze shifted again. “Harry. Sirius.”

Harry stepped forward instinctively. “Hey.”

“You look tired,” Remus murmured.

Sirius gave a dry huff. “Look who’s talking.”

Remus gave the smallest shrug. “Fair.”

Pomfrey completed the final charm and tucked her wand behind her ear. “Vitals are stronger. No sign of resumed bleeding. Inflammation’s down, though we’ll need to keep monitor the lumbar column.”

Remus glanced up at her, brow furrowing. “So, I am alright?”

“Not at all,” she said, lifting a few potion vials from her satchel. “But you’re stable. And healing. And for once, you can’t throw yourself into danger again… which means, you might actually recover properly.”

Remus gave a dry little smile, equal parts rueful and amused. “Suppose that’s progress.”

Pomfrey didn’t return it. “You’re still a long way from walking.”

She began lining up the vials on the table with practised efficiency. “Your spine needs time to set fully… and we’ve got less than two weeks before the full moon. If it doesn’t stabilise by then, the transformation could undo the healing. We’d have to start over again.”

His expression sobered.

Her tone gentled. “I won’t lie… I’m not sure you’ll be ready in time for this cycle. But with the way you’re responding to treatment… I’m confident you’ll be in far better shape by the next one. Just give your body the chance.”

She glanced at Remus, then at Sirius and spoke in a voice that brooked no argument. “I’ll show you both how to conjure supportive splints… enough that you can sit upright when needed. But no heroics. No pushing through pain. Is that understood?”

Remus gave a slow nod. “Understood. No heroics. I’ll keep my movements limited to blinking and polite nods.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from the room, even Pomfrey, despite herself, let out a breath that was dangerously close to a laugh.

“All three of you,” she muttered, reaching for a vial. “You never stop being insufferable.”

She handed the potion to Remus. He accepted it without protest and drank it down in one smooth swallow, barely wincing at the taste.

Sirius leaned slightly towards Harry and muttered under his breath, “Do you reckon it’s another sedative?”

Harry pressed his lips together tightly, fighting a smile. “Shhh,” he hissed, elbowing Sirius gently.

McGonagall looked up, sharp-eyed. “Are we interrupting something entertaining?”

They both straightened at once, schooling their expressions into masks of earnest innocence. Harry tried very hard not to glance at Sirius, who was now wearing the exact face of someone caught with a dungbomb in their pocket.

"Not at all, Professor," they said in unison, a little too quickly.

Pomfrey rolled her eyes but said nothing, adjusting the blankets with a flick of her wand.

Sirius waited precisely three seconds before muttering out of the corner of his mouth, “Keeping my fingers crossed. Really want Moony Memoirs. But this time it’ll be The Untamed Edition.”

Harry’s composure collapsed.

He turned sharply on his heel and fled to the landing, shoulders shaking, and the laugh came too fast to stop. He doubled over, joy and absurdity and days of held tension spilling out in one helpless, glorious breath.

When he finally got himself under control, the sounds from the room drifted out to meet him: Remus laughing hoarsely, McGonagall’s sharp voice scolding Sirius for setting a bad example, and Pomfrey trying, with rising volume, to explain the treatment plan over the noise.

Chapter Text

The new year came and went without fuss. No grand countdowns, no enchanted fireworks; only a warm room, soft light, and the gentle crackling of fire in the hearth. The three of them had gathered in Remus’s room, who’d refused to let the year slip past unmarked. He said they ought to see it in together, even if it was with mismatched mugs of pumpkin juice and the last of the shortbread.

Sirius had made a great show of dragging in an extra blanket and groaning theatrically about the lack of firewhisky. Remus, propped up by pillows and looking far too pleased for someone still on seven potions a day, had simply handed him a mug and told him to hush.

Harry sat on the armchair, blanket round his shoulders, gaze flicking between the two of them like he was watching a play.

As the clock struck twelve, Remus cleared his throat. “To a year,” he said, “with fewer curses, fewer stitches, and far less Madam Pomfrey.”

Sirius raised his mug. “And no muttering house-elves lurking in doorways.”

Harry considered this, then added, “And less homework.”

Remus arched a brow. “You haven’t done any of it, have you?”

Harry sipped his juice very deliberately and said nothing.

The next few days settled into a gentle rhythm. Outside, the snow lingered in quiet drifts along the pavement, and the world beyond Grimmauld Place remained muffled, as though wrapped in thick wool. Inside, the house no longer felt suspended in waiting. There was movement again. Laughter even, if not often.

Downstairs, the desk in the parlour, with its neat stack of schoolbooks and fresh scrolls of parchment, had grown accusatory. Every time Harry so much as passed the threshold, he could feel his homework glaring at him and an unspoken reproach in Hermione’s voice ringing in his head: “It is due the first week back, Harry!”

So Harry, for his part, had taken to avoiding the parlour entirely.

Instead, he drifted between the kitchen, his room, and Remus’s, where the atmosphere leaned more towards quiet mischief than academic despair.

They played chess and gobstones, though Harry was spectacularly bad at both. The gobstones, in particular, seemed to sense his lack of finesse, and took every opportunity to spit foul-smelling liquid at him with what felt like personal spite. He was beginning to suspect the set was cursed, or at least holding a grudge.

Still, the games passed the time. And Sirius, never one to miss an opportunity, joined in with unholy glee whenever Harry started needling Remus about his… confessions.

No opportunity was wasted. A passing mention of pudding would earn solemn nods from Harry and a helpful inquiry as to whether Remus would like a Charms text with that. If Remus so much as asked for a quill, Harry would spring to his feet, salute, and declare that he’d dash to Gringotts at once. When Remus responded with nothing more than an unimpressed arch of the brow, Sirius would sigh dramatically and mutter something about “The tragic tale of the Boggart and Cressida.”

The teasing continued for two whole days until one morning, while rearranging potion vials with infuriating calm, Remus casually remarked that he would be the one setting the Defence exams come spring, and that, being still in recovery, he couldn’t promise not to accidentally hand Harry an OWLs paper instead.

Harry had stared at him, appalled. Sirius had nearly fallen off the chair laughing.

After that, Harry began acting around Remus with the beatific restraint of a monk. He walked softly, offered tea without being asked, folded blankets with solemn fastidiousness, and once even referred to Remus as “a paragon of scholarly virtue.” He said please and thank you, and, on more than one occasion, murmured that he was “not qualified to comment on the Rosier Affair.”

The performance was so exaggerated, that it reduced Sirius to wheezing laughter every time Harry left the room, muttering that if the boy turned any holier, the walls would start bleeding frankincense.

But of course, it couldn’t last forever.

By the fourth of January, Remus had grown suspicious of Harry’s monastic streak. That morning, while paging through an old issue of Defensive Spellwork, he glanced over and asked, “When exactly are you planning to visit St. Jude’s? You mentioned it in your letter.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. In the blur of the last week, the promise had slipped quietly from his mind. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Soon.”

Remus nodded. “And your homework?”

There was a pause. “Also… soon.”

Remus turned a page. “It would be better,” he said mildly, “if you started now.”

Which was how Harry found himself hunched over the desk in the parlour for the rest of the day, scrambling to finish his assignments with the grace of a troll on ice. He jumbled what he could onto the parchment, words spilling in uneven, frantic spurts. Adjectives were overworked and sentence structure had deserted him entirely by the third scroll.

Every time he paused, he could practically hear a very cross, very Scottish voice in his head reminding him that “the standards of Hogwarts are not to be insulted by last-minute scribbling, Mr Potter.”

What was meant to be spread across a week, he somehow managed to cram into a single day. He only left the desk for rushed meals, toast eaten standing up, soup inhaled between footnotes, and returned each time with the air of a condemned man.

By evening, the house was quiet. Grimmauld Place had long since settled into night, but Harry pressed on. The Potions essay stared back at him with cold malice. He attacked it with a kind of manic resolve, listing out ingredients and antidotes like he was trying to beat them into submission.

Near the end, he scribbled the word “obviously” in the middle of a sentence that made absolutely no sense.

Snape’s voice slithered into his head, thick with disdain: “Ten points from Gryffindor for believing that logic is optional.”

Harry read the sentence again, and then, with tired defiance, underlined “obviously.” Snape would flay it regardless, he might as well provide a target.

At a few minutes to midnight, he sat back with a sigh and shuffled his finished scrolls into a stack, ink-splotched and crumpled at the edges but done. He reached for his Transfiguration essay for a final check, one last proud pass before bed.

As he skimmed the parchment, a new voice surfaced in his head – measured, precise, and deeply unimpressed: “Proper diagrams are required, you know. It’s part of standard writing, Harry.”

His eyes widened. He slowly turned the parchment over.

Blank.

No diagram. Nothing. Not even a sketch of a teapot.

He stared at it for a long, terrible second.

Then folded his arms on the desk, lowered his head onto them, and whispered into the wood, “Brilliant.”

The clock in the hallway struck midnight.

The fifth of January dawned pale and windless, the kind of grey morning that didn’t seem to begin so much as stretch itself wearily out of the night. Harry arrived at St. Jude’s with his scarf tucked in his thick winter jacket and a large box of chocolates under one arm, walking a pace behind Professor McGonagall, who had insisted on accompanying him.

They met Matron Grindle in her office. The grey in her hair had grown more assertive, though her posture remained as straight-backed as ever. The two women exchanged quiet words, voices warm with that careful respect shared by those who’ve shouldered burdens too heavy to name. McGonagall thanked her once again for passing on Harry’s address, then added, with a glint in her eye, that Mr Blake had proven “surprisingly competent” and remained closely involved in the boy’s upbringing.

Grindle gave a satisfied nod, the kind that said she was glad she'd bent the rules, and gladder still that she needn’t regret it.

The air smelled the same. Wood polish and disinfectants. Harry handed over the chocolates with the same sheepish grin he’d worn last winter, and Grindle accepted them with the same dry nod. A group of younger children lingered nearby, half-curious, half-shy, and scurried away when Mrs Melling emerged from the kitchen with her sleeves rolled and a tea towel flung over one shoulder.

“You’re taller,” she said by way of greeting, squinting at him. “Still got that dreadful hair, though.”

Harry grinned. “Nice to see you too, Madam General.”

She barked a laugh and vanished back into the kitchen, muttering that he was “still as cheeky as ever” and “too old now to be calling me Madam General, mind you.” Her voice had the same clipped warmth, the same rhythm he remembered.

But things felt different around him. Like humming the melody of a song after the lyrics had been forgotten. Not in any grand way. Not in some cinematic transformation. But in the quiet erosion of familiarity. Faces missing, others in their place. The clatter of new voices where old ones used to be. The rooms were the same, but they echoed differently now, reshaped by the presence of children whom he didn’t know, who brought their own shadows and stories, softening the edges of the memories he’d left behind.

There was a new maths tutor, Miss Dalton. She had kind eyes, a firm handshake, and an accent that Harry was fairly sure was American. The children were fascinated by her voice, especially when she said “math” instead of “maths.” According to Mrs Melling, she had “done wonders with the little ones already,” which Harry knew was high praise. He liked her straightaway. There was a steadiness to her, a gentle command of the space around her, not overbearing, yet anchored.

But even that couldn’t distract from the absence that pulled at the corners of the day.

It was Ameer.

Harry had expected to find him loitering by the radiator, or dragging Callum into another nonsensical bet about who could balance a spoon on their nose the longest. But he was gone. Adopted.

No one had made a fuss about it. Mrs. Melling mentioned it briefly. A family had come. They’d liked him. He’d left a week later, just before Christmas.

His bunk was stripped bare. The poster above it, a crooked page torn from a comic book held up with thumbtacks, had left a square of cleaner paint on the wall. Harry stared at it for a long time like it might explain the absence. Like it might apologise.

Last year, they had all curled together in the laundry room, trading insults and sweets and promises. Now the space felt quieter, as though the warmth had ebbed from its corners, leaving behind only the echo of what once was.

Callum was still there.

He sat on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some point in the floor that only he could see. His expression had settled into the quiet stillness of someone who no longer expected people to stay. He looked up once, met Harry’s eyes, and didn’t smile.

Thomas clung to Harry almost as soon as he entered the dorm. He was taller now, no longer quite so baby-faced, but his hands still knew where to grip a sleeve, how to bury his face just below Harry’s ribs.

“You heard about Ameer?” he asked.

Harry crouched, smoothing a hand over the boy’s curls. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He’s off being brilliant. Somewhere warm, I bet.”

Thomas’s lower lip trembled. “But… he didn’t say bye.”

Harry faltered. He wanted to offer something – a reason, a reassurance, anything that would make the world make sense to a seven-year-old. But the words didn’t come. Because how did you explain that some things didn’t end with goodbyes? That sometimes people slipped away without ceremony or warning; not because they meant to hurt you, not because they forgot you, but because life moved and you weren’t always invited along.

He looked at Thomas, and wished he could promise permanence. Instead, he simply pulled him close and let silence say what he couldn’t. But silence could only do so much. And if there was one thing Harry had learned, it was that sometimes, when the words wouldn’t come, mischief made a decent stand-in.

He opened his bag and pulled out two jumpers – one deep blue, one brick red. They were lumpy, slightly crooked at the seams, and radiated the uneven charm of something made with love rather than talent. He held them up with ceremonial gravity.

“Gentlemen,” he declared, solemn as a court herald, “I bring gifts…”

Callum looked up and reached for his. “Again? Last year’s still all right…”

Harry waved a dismissive hand. “Let that one retire with dignity. This model may cause excessive handsomeness. Use responsibly.”

That earned a snort from Callum, that was quickly buried in the jumper as he tugged it on.

Thomas took the red one with both hands, squinting at the stitching. “Your mum made these?” he asked curiously.

Callum gave him a sidelong look. “His mum’s not…”

But Harry cut in, breezily, “No. These were hand-stitched by a mysterious and reclusive tailor known only as James Blake… a man who once tried to knit a hat and accidentally made a hammock. So manage your expectations.”

He pointed dramatically at Thomas’s jumper. “That one comes with limited rights to command pigeons. And a special charm that creates extra room for snacks. Or smuggled frogs. Your choice.”

Thomas giggled, already wriggling into it, the sleeves flopping past his hands. He looked down at himself with grave approval. “Red suits me.”

“It does,” Harry said. “You look like someone who has strong opinions about jam.”

Thomas nodded, entirely serious. “I do.”

Callum smirked.

Harry dropped onto the bed beside him, close enough that their shoulders knocked. For a minute, the three of them just sat, wrapped in the quiet hush of the room, the faint creak of old pipes in the walls, and the distant clatter of Mrs Melling bullying the pots into submission.

But Ameer’s bed remained empty. The third jumper, dark green, with a lopsided letter ‘A’ stitched into the hem, stayed folded at the bottom of Harry’s bag. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he leaned back with a sigh. “Next year,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m getting you matching onesies. With capes.”

Thomas perked up. “Can mine have wings?”

“Obviously,” Harry said. “You’ll be aerodynamic.”

Callum rolled his eyes. Thomas beamed. And all three of them laughed, the kind of laughter that knew the shape of silence and filled it without effort, the way only old friends could.

The rest of the day went on unhurriedly. Games were played, stories exchanged, laughter blooming here and there in bursts that caught like sparks on kindling. Some of the younger children hovered nearby, drawn to the energy without quite knowing why. Harry made room for them easily, drawing them into the orbit of old jokes and gentle mischief.

He invented an award called the Chocolate Custard Cross and insisted Thomas was its latest recipient for his heroics in the defence of the cabbage patch. When Callum raised a sceptical brow, Harry accused him of treason against the Kingdom of Vegetables and sentenced him to two minutes of tickling, to be carried out by the younger ones, immediately.

Before leaving, he slipped away to the library and placed a single violet beneath Madame Leroux’s photograph. He stood there for a moment, hands in his pocket, then turned and walked out.

When McGonagall reappeared at dusk, she found Harry waiting by the door, cheeks red from the cold, bag slung over one shoulder, a small smudge of ink still on his chin. He looked back once, saw Callum teaching two smaller boys how to shuffle cards, Thomas sprawled nearby with his new jumper bunched around his knees.

He didn’t wave goodbye, just smiled softly, and turned to go. Outside, the wind caught his scarf and tugged it sideways. The sky had shifted to the pale lavender of early dusk, clouds piled low like fading thoughts.

Something had changed. But something else, quieter and enduring, had stayed. And sometimes, you returned to the place you’d once belonged, only to find the pieces no longer fitting quite the same. But you came back all the same, because even the quiet places deserved to be remembered.

And maybe because some part of you still needed to say thank you. Even if no one said it back.

Harry had noticed it first on New Year’s Day, that Hedwig had not returned from her hunt. At first, he told himself she’d simply flown somewhere far, chasing whatever secret trails owls followed. But it had been days now, and the absence began to gnaw at him.

The evening when he returned from St. Jude’s, and found Hedwig’s perch still empty, he blurted out his worry in Remus’s room.

“She’s fine, Harry,” Remus said gently. “Owls are intelligent creatures. She’s likely gone off for a reason.”

Sirius added with more conviction, “That bird’s sharper than the Ministry. Don’t you remember? From the day you came home till Moony finally joined us, she barely left her spot on the bannister outside your room. She knew something was wrong. Didn’t leave your side for a week straight. If anyone’s earned a holiday, it’s her.”

Harry wanted to believe them. He nodded, but the worry coiled deeper in his ribs.

He woke up the next morning to a sharp poke at his ear. For a moment, he thought Sirius was playing some ill-advised prank, but then came the soft rustle of feathers, the warm, familiar weight pressing into his shoulder.

“Hedwig,” he breathed, sitting up so quickly his blanket tumbled to the floor. She nibbled at his hair with affection. He fumbled for the owl treats on his bedside table, offering one with relief.

She accepted, then gave a self-satisfied hoot and extended one foot forward. Two parcels dangled from her leg, tied in neat loops of string. She fixed him with a look so proud it might as well have been words: You doubted me? Observe. I bring gifts.

Harry laughed and pointed grandly at the bundles. “Your Majesty, you honour me with spoils.”

Hedwig hooted again, and gave his finger a gentle nip, like a queen bestowing favour.

Once Hedwig had settled on her perch Harry reached for the parcels she’d brought.

The first was wrapped in neat brown paper, the string tied with geometric precision. Inside was a slim leather-bound book. A study planner. There were colour-coded tabs, enchanted columns, and a delicate shimmer to the parchment that suggested it would not tolerate idle doodling.

Tucked between its pages was a folded note:

Dear Harry,

It was absolutely horrifying what happened at the station. Are you alright? I’ve been so worried. I tried sending this with a post owl from Diagon Alley on Christmas, but it kept coming back. Your owl turned up just after New Year’s. I’m sending it with her now.

The planner should help. It’s enchanted to read back theory if you fill in the topic. I tested it three times and it works perfectly.

Take care.

Hermione

Harry blinked at the note, then looked down at the planner. He flipped to the first page and wrote, Basic theory of Defensive Spells.

Immediately, the book spoke in a clear voice:

“Defensive magic is the branch of spellwork that aims to repel, neutralise, or prevent harm from hostile magical sources…”

As it spoke, words bloomed across the page, each sentence unfurling in rhythm with the narration, as though drawn by an invisible quill.

Harry stared at it, then slowly closed the planner. “Terrifying,” he muttered. He made a mental note never to write anything embarrassing in it. Things like "Snape’s hair care routine.”

The second parcel was more chaotic. Wrapped in crumpled scarlet paper, it rattled when shaken. Inside was a box of chocolates. A note was stuck to the lid in bold, loopy scrawl:

You okay?

These are NOT hexed.

Probably.

Happy Christmas anyway.

– Gred  and Forge

Harry stared at the chocolates for a long moment, then set them aside with great care, as though they might explode if offended.

And then the pit dropped.

He hadn’t sent anything. Not a single card, not a single gift. Christmas had come and gone in a blur of fear and fire, and somehow the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

But even if it had…

Who would he have sent something to?

The thought curled inside him. He glanced again at Hermione’s precise note, at Fred and George’s chaotic scrawl. They’d written to him. Remembered him.

Because they were his friends. Unmistakeable. Undeniable.

The realisation hit him like a Howler in a silent room.

He was on his feet before the thought even finished forming. “Sirius!” he shouted, already halfway down the stairs. “Where are the owl order forms? I need a quill! Ink! It’s an emergency!”

Somewhere downstairs, there was a startled clatter and the sound of something breaking.

“I’M FINE,” Sirius’s voice called back. “I’M FINE… I THINK SO…”

Harry stepped into the kitchen and froze. Startled by his war-cry, Sirius had evidently dropped the mixing bowl he'd been holding. Glass shards glittered across the floor, and a thick smear of batter coated nearly everything in sight, including Sirius himself, who was lying facedown on the tiles like some ancient statue of a fallen hero, sculpted entirely out of pudding mix.

Harry started laughing. He laughed until his ribs ached and his knees gave out and he had to clutch the doorframe for support.

Sirius groaned and pushed himself up slowly, batter dripping from his hair and one eyebrow arched in profound betrayal.

“The owl order forms,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “are in the drawer.”

Then, still grinning, Harry ducked out and made his way to the parlour. He pulled a fresh stack of forms, swept everything aside from the table, and jotted down his orders in a rush.

By the time he was done, the sun had begun to rise, casting soft gold through the tall parlour windows. He padded upstairs, and found Hedwig dozing on her perch.

“Sorry for the short notice,” Harry whispered, holding them out with an apologetic grin.

She blinked one amber eye open, and took the forms. With a hoot that could only be called longsuffering, she spread her wings and swept out the window into the morning sky.

Chapter Text

Harry made his way to the kitchen, where the earlier chaos had, mercifully, been cleared. Sirius stood at the stove, wand in hand, humming off-key and stirring three pots at once with theatrical flourishes.

It dawned on Harry that Sirius was preparing a feast. A farewell dinner before he returned to Hogwarts. When he raised an eyebrow at the sheer volume of food, enough to feed the entire borough, Sirius had simply struck a pose and grandly declared that it was going to be a ‘banquet for the ages.’

The house smelled as though supper had been brewing all day: roasted herbs clung to the air, the yeasty comfort of warm bread drifted from the oven, and something else lingered; a scent Sirius refused to explain but insisted was “part of the experience.”

Harry later discovered the truth. One of Sirius’s pudding experiments had gone so spectacularly wrong that the resulting goo was now welded to the bottom of a pan, humming faintly like one of Harry and Neville’s more questionable Potions attempts.

Deciding two wasted puddings were enough for one day, Harry joined in, or rather, tried to keep Sirius from causing any further disasters.

And Sirius, in true over-the-top fashion, went all out with the guest list: Kingsley, Elliot, Moody, Madam Pomfrey, even Hagrid. McGonagall too, though she declined, citing school matters. He was considering inviting Dumbledore as well, before deciding the man didn’t eat. Not food, anyway. Just cryptic wisdom at odd hours.

Harry knew Sirius was being ridiculous, yet the certainty in his tone gave him pause. He was halfway to asking whether it might actually be true when the air shimmered, and a massive silver tiger padded into the kitchen. Moody’s gravelly voice growled out:

“Are you serious?” Then it vanished.

Sirius, without missing a beat, muttered, “Poor Mad-Eye. So knocked in the head he’s forgotten my name.”

Evening settled over Grimmauld Place, brushing frost against the windows and stretching long shadows across the floors. The dining room, usually cloaked in quiet, brimmed now with warmth and flickering candlelight.

Harry had never seen it so full. Madam Pomfrey sat near the end, insisting on passing things herself, "I can lift a jug, thank you very much, Mr Shacklebolt," while Kingsley gave her a patient nod. Elliot had wedged himself between Hagrid and Remus, looking slightly overwhelmed but too polite to flee.

Remus, propped up by lumbar splints, had been hovered down from his room on a chair; courtesy of Sirius, who’d added enough Cushioning Charms to survive a crash landing, and muttered something about fitting it with straps like a Muggle car seat.

Hagrid beamed from his place beside the pudding, cheerfully recounting a story about a Niffler who’d taken up residence beneath his bed. Sirius hovered nearby, carving meat with far too much flair and insisting, with growing outrage, that no one was eating nearly enough.

Finally, Sirius took his seat and raised his glass, his expression brighter than the chandelier.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “I would like to propose a toast.”

The room quieted, save for the faint clink of Hagrid accidentally knocking over a goblet.

“To old friends,” Sirius began, “and new ones.”

He glanced towards Remus. “To Professor Remus J. Lupin for managing not to hex any of us during recovery. May the coming weeks be kinder to you.”

Remus smiled and raised his glass in reply.

Sirius gave a solemn nod. “And finally…” his eyes found Harry’s across the table, “to this one. For keeping us on our toes… and still managing to somehow get pudding in his eyebrow.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Sirius pointed. “Left side.”

Harry wiped at it, scowling.

Sirius grinned. “To Harry,” he said.

“To Harry!” the table echoed, and glasses rose and clinked.

Harry flushed, but the smile came anyway. For a moment, he let himself have it.

Sirius had barely taken a bite when Kingsley said, “If the Ministry knew you threw such grand dinners, they’d pardon you on the spot.”

Sirius shot him a sideways look as he reached for the gravy boat. “Clearly I’ve been going about this all wrong. Instead of hiding, I should’ve been sending hampers to Fudge’s office.”

Elliot cut in, spearing a carrot. “Have you read The Prophet lately?”

Sirius’s grin faltered. “No. I’ve stopped torturing myself. It is healthier.”

Remus gave him a glance. “I have. They’ve pinned the King’s Cross attack on you.”

Sirius set down the gravy with more force than strictly necessary.

Remus continued, “They’re calling you The Black Flame… the one behind Voldemort’s rise, the one carrying on his legacy of terror.”

A ripple passed through the room at the name of Voldemort.

Sirius exhaled through his nose. “Well. At least they’ve finally given me a title. Bit dramatic, but I’ll take it.”

“I’m tired of the Ministry’s wild goose chase,” Kingsley said, setting down his glass. “It’s lazy scapegoating. But it’s easier to blame you than admit they lost control.”

“And they’re still spinning,” Elliot said. “If only we can catch the rat and prove you innocent, maybe they’d stop chasing their own bloody tail and start looking in the right places.”

Sirius reached for his glass and took a sip. “Here’s to hoping for a day that’ll never come.”

Kingsley leaned back. “At least the Dementors are back at Azkaban. That gives you some breathing room.”

Sirius stiffened, though his eyes flickered with relief.

Pomfrey glanced over, frowning slightly. “But wouldn’t the Dementors have helped track down the rest of the escapees?”

“The Ministry’s spooked,” Kingsley went on. “Afraid of another breakout. There are still dozens of Death Eaters in Azkaban… and with the seven we captured at the station, the Ministry’s already declared it a ‘resounding success.’ Press conferences. Lots of handshakes. Job done.”

“Did any of them give up anything useful?” Remus asked.

Kingsley shook his head. “Nothing. Not a name, not a location. Just that the Longbottom kid was the target.”

Pomfrey tutted sharply. “He is just a boy…”

“They’re clever,” Elliot said, leaning forward slightly. “Compartmentalised cells. Messages passed through dead drops. No traceable orders, no names. No one knows who’s at the top… there’s no chain to follow.” He paused, the flicker of a frown tugging at his brow. “They’ve had years to prepare. We’re still scrambling to catch up.”

Kingsley glanced toward Remus, the candlelight catching the scar along his cheekbone. “And then there’s the matter of Lupin being denied treatment once it became clear he was a werewolf. That revelation’s ruffled more than a few feathers at the Ministry.”

A hush settled. Remus didn’t move. His fork remained untouched beside his plate, his expression unreadable. Only his eyes betrayed the flicker of tension.

Sirius’s chair scraped as he shifted. “Those people weren’t there. They weren’t on that platform, risking their lives.”

Kingsley held up a calming hand. “I’m not saying they’re right. I’m saying what it is. The whispering’s started, and it’s moving fast.”

“They’re not whispers anymore,” Elliot said grimly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “The information’s spread. Rumours are circling like vultures. It won’t be long before the Board of Governors hears of it… if they haven’t already.”

He glanced at Remus, then back at the table. “They won’t be thrilled to learn a werewolf’s teaching their children… not when some of their children carry names like… well, you can guess.”

Harry had been listening in silence till now. But at that, the worry punched through. He looked from Elliot to Kingsley. “They’re not going to push him out? Just because…”

His gut twisted. Remus loved teaching. He was good at it.

His voice dropped. “And Snape? He’ll take over? Full time? For Defence?”

The horror in his tone was enough to draw the table’s attention. Even Hagrid stopped mid-sip.

“Professor Dumbledore won’t let that happen,” Harry said, more to himself now. “He won’t, will he?”

Hagrid thumped a hand on the table, rattling the cutlery. “O’ course not! Professor Dumbledore’s the best Headmaster Hogwarts ever had. Knows what he’s doing, he does. He’ll stand by Remus… you’ll see.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded firmly. “It’s been years since the school had a Defence teacher who could actually teach. If the Board tries to push him out, they’ll be cutting off their own foot and lighting it on fire.”

Sirius gave a dry snort. “That hasn’t stopped them before. Half the Board’s Slytherin, and the other half’s on the Ministry’s leash. And Fudge won’t call a spade a spade… not when it wears polished shoes and speaks in pure-blood rhetoric.”

Kingsley arched a brow. “What do you have against Slytherins?”

Sirius scoffed. “Oh, come on. That’s not a real question.”

“It is,” Kingsley said, setting down his goblet with a light clink. “Because I’m a Slytherin.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Sirius blinked. “What?”

Even Harry looked startled.

“But you’re… normal,” Sirius said, almost indignantly.

A laugh rippled through the table, restrained, but unmistakable.

Kingsley merely raised his glass. “Not all Slytherins fit the profile, Black. Some of us just wanted to get out of the war with all our limbs intact. Also, it helped that I left the country straight after Hogwarts. Spent a decade in Greece. Curse-breaking for Gringotts.”

“Ah,” Sirius said sagely. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Kingsley asked dryly.

Sirius leaned in. “The sun baked all the Slytherin out of you.”

Kingsley chuckled. “No, I just learned how to duel before I learned how to manipulate.”

“Same thing, really,” Elliot muttered.

Remus finally spoke, his voice low but clear. “It doesn’t matter what house anyone was in. What matters is who they are now. And what they choose to stand for.”

That silenced the table more effectively than any toast.

Harry looked down at his plate, his appetite gone. A flicker of unease danced in his stomach, not just about Snape, or Remus, but the reminder that prejudice could sneak in through the back door, even in the magical society.

Remus broke the silence gently. “But for the time being, Harry… you’re right. Professor Snape will be taking over the Defence classes until I have recovered.”

He lifted his glass, though didn’t drink. “Once I’m well enough, I’ll speak to Dumbledore. We’ll explore our options then.”

Sirius leaned in, tone unnervingly reasonable. “It won’t be that bad, Harry. He won’t be easy on you. But he’ll keep you sharp.”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then stared at Sirius in disbelief.

Remus arched a brow at Sirius. “When did you become so mature?”

Sirius folded his arms. “Ever since I wasted two perfectly good puddings and learned Shacklebolt over here is a Slytherin. I'm all for fresh starts now.”

That broke the tension. Laughter bubbled around the table, even Harry chuckled, and Hagrid thumped the table so hard his goblet sloshed.

The mirth had barely faded when silver erupted, and a massive spectral tiger prowled into the dining room, eyes narrowed like it had already assessed every threat in the room. It stopped just behind Elliot, gave him a long, suspicious look, then opened its jaws.

Moody’s voice filled the air:

“Coming in five. Keep Elliot there. I haven’t finished with him. Bringing my own damn food.”

The tiger vanished with a low snarl, leaving the room in stunned silence.