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Chapter Text

The heavy doors of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place burst open with a thunderous bang. The handful of people gathered in the drawing room froze mid-conversation, startled, their eyes snapping toward the two men striding into the hall.

Severus Snape entered first, a scowl etched deep into his face. Oily black hair hung in curtains, shadowing most of his features and rendering him even more forbidding. His sweeping robes billowed like storm clouds as he crossed the threshold of the Black ancestral home. Behind him came another man, also clad in black. The hood of his cloak remained still despite his brisk pace, and the silver-gray mask concealed his expression entirely.

“Master Phoenix. Professor Snape.” The elderly house-elf Kreacher appeared with a sharp crack before them, bowing so deeply his nose nearly touched the floor. “Does my lords require refreshment? Oh, foolish Kreacher, Kreacher should have prepared beforehand! But the worthless mutinous traitors of the Black bloodline sent Kreacher scurrying on other errands…”

Kreacher’s eyes, wide as tennis balls, shone with both reverence and self-reproach. The others in the room could not quite hide the twist of distaste tugging at their faces.

Kreacher never addressed anyone outside the Black family whom he looked down upon as “Master.” The fact that he did so now explained everything. The young man known only as Phoenix was none other than Bellatrix Lestrange’s superior—second only to the Dark Lord himself.

Dumbledore had once introduced Phoenix solemnly to the Order of the Phoenix, going so far as to bind his own word with an Unbreakable Vow: Phoenix was to be trusted. Yet with the great wizard now bedridden for so long, it was hard not to wonder if senility had clouded even his brilliance. Perhaps trusting Phoenix had been his very first mistake.

“Severus?” Remus Lupin stepped forward, anxiety etched across his face. “Is the situation alright?”

At his words, the Order members tensed. Their recent skirmishes had gone poorly; ambushes had cost them dearly. Those who remained alive were seasoned, loyal Dumbledore supporters—yet few in number.

Snape’s lip curled in a flicker of derision, directed squarely at Phoenix.

“Tonight,” Snape said curtly. He outlined a few key positions where Death Eaters had already been stationed. The silence that followed was heavy, the inevitability of battle hanging in the air. “Ah. I imagine, having heard this, you all have better things to do than gawking uselessly at one another.”

Molly Weasley and Tonks exchanged a glance, forcing small smiles before retreating toward the kitchen to prepare a meal. One by one, the others dispersed. Lupin and Arthur Weasley lingered just long enough to murmur their thanks, braving Snape’s frigid glare. They had both noticed the way his arms were folded tightly across his chest, hiding the tremor in his muscles—a lingering effect of the Cruciatus Curse. Bringing them intelligence had cost Snape dearly. The gratitude was not undeserved.

Phoenix, for his part, did nothing beyond making a few gestures to Kreacher, who obediently placed a small velvet box into his hands. He said nothing, merely watched the others with inscrutable stillness.

Indeed, ever since Phoenix’s induction into the Order years ago, no one had ever heard him utter a single word. His silence was so complete that most often, people forgot he was there at all.

“...Thank you.”

The single phrase broke the quiet. Lupin’s head snapped up in shock—only to see both Snape and Phoenix seize their left forearms simultaneously. Molly, emerging from the kitchen with a tray, went pale at once. Before anyone could speak, the two men strode quickly to the door and vanished with the sharp crack of Disapparition.

“Remus? Are you all right?” Tonks hurried to his side, alarmed by his ashen face. “Don’t worry too much about tonight—we have this intelligence, and Albus will be there too. Everything will turn out fine. Or is it… your furry little problem again?”

“No, not that.” Lupin forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

That voice. That “thank you.”

It hadn’t come from Snape.

It had come from the one person who had never spoken before. Phoenix.

And if his ears weren’t deceiving him…

“…Harry?” Lupin’s gaze fixed on the door, his voice low and uncertain, heavy with dread.

✦✧✦

The two apparated to their destination. A knot of lesser Death Eaters waiting there immediately bowed. Harry inclined his head with indifference, fingers brushing the pale mask strapped firmly to his face. Not that it mattered. Every Death Eater knew the truth already: the Dark Lord’s trusted lieutenant, Phoenix, was none other than the Boy Who Lived—Harry James Potter.

After tonight, the rest of the wizarding world would know too.

“The Lapdog Who Lived.” He almost chuckled at the moniker, recalling Rita Skeeter’s headline. Creative, he admitted wryly.

He was just about to take his place in the ranks when something round and cool was pressed into his palm. Turning slightly, he caught sight of Snape, face obscured by mask and hood, tipping back a nondescript little vial and downing its contents.

“Felix Felicis?” Harry murmured under his breath, drinking his own share without hesitation.

“No, you fool,” Snape hissed, offering no further explanation.

Harry only shrugged, muttering bastard in his head. The familiar surge of cool relief spread through his body. The tremor in his fingers stilled, his grip on his wand firm once more. He knew exactly what it was: Snape’s personal brew of a Cruciatus-recovery potion, powerful enough to restore strength within minutes—and dangerous enough to be banned outright.

Before arriving at Grimmauld Place, both he and Snape had endured more than one Cruciatus. Voldemort had gone utterly mad, drunk on the certainty of victory, exulting in pain and death. He flung the Unforgivable Curses at his followers almost playfully, just to revel in his own power.

Now the Death Eaters stood arrayed in rigid lines, silent and cold, the night air heavy with dread. Then, like the sea parting, the ranks split to admit a lone figure. Voldemort strode into the clearing, graceful, regal, every inch the mad king. No one dared to breathe too loudly. At the center, Snape, Harry, and a handful of the Dark Lord’s favored inner circle waited.

Voldemort came to a halt, red eyes glinting with satisfaction.

“Phoenix. Severus. Lucius… and of course, my dear, loyal Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix’s expression was fever-bright, her body nearly trembling with ecstasy.

“The day has come. Dumbledore’s Order, the Mudbloods, the blood traitors—they will all be eradicated. Severus, Phoenix, you shall be the keystones of my victory.”

“My honor, my Lord,” Snape murmured, bowing low, his voice laced with fervor carefully masked beneath dutiful reverence. “The Order has been told. Harry Potter will be at the Department of Mysteries tonight to retrieve the prophecy. The old man believes it, and will bring them all.”

“Excellent.” Voldemort turned lazily, wand twirling. “And you, Phoenix?”

“My Lord.”

Harry stepped forward, pulling off mask and hood. He sank to his knees, pressing a reverent kiss to the hem of Voldemort’s robes, all the while locking vital memories deep behind Occlumency. When he looked up, his expression was carefully blank, letting his mind fall wide open. The Dark Lord’s Legilimency tore through him like a storm, and Harry yielded without resistance.

Voldemort’s lips curled in satisfaction, a smile that made his pale, snakelike face all the more hideous.

“After all… who would ever believe that the savior Harry Potter has long ceased to exist?” His laughter rang out, cold and triumphant, shadows sweeping through the clearing. “Come. Let us greet our guests. Tonight begins the reign of the Dark Lord!”

“Yes, my Lord!” A figure stepped from the crowd, pale hair catching the torchlight. This Death Eater raised his wand, and the Death Eaters as one felt the pull of the summoned coordinates.

A heartbeat later, they vanished in unison—Apparating straight to the Department of Mysteries.

✦✧✦

“Damn it! This is never-ending!” Ron gritted his teeth, firing Stunning Spells at the Death Eater before him without a single pause to breathe.

“Incendio!” Hermione’s furious shout rang from further down the hall. Ron whipped around just in time to see a hidden Death Eater’s robes erupt in flames, the man shrieking as he tried to beat out the fire. The curse he had aimed at Ron dissolved into nothing.

“Thanks, ’Mione.” Ron wiped sweat from his brow, pressing back-to-back with Hermione as she came to his side. “This place looks nothing like what the old bat told us!”

“It’s Professor Snape,” Hermione corrected automatically, then sighed, giving up. “But right now… whatever keeps us alive, I don’t care what we call him.”

“I’d rather that old bat just—ah, I mean… Phoenix is Harry? No way.”

“I don’t know either. It doesn’t make any sense!” Hermione hissed, her voice taut with strain as she and Ron cast Shield Charms, Stunners, and Petrificus Totalus in tandem. They ducked between shelves while inching toward the battle’s center. “But Harry disappeared after fifth year, right around the same time Phoenix began making a name among the Death Eaters.”

“You think Harry really became the Dark Lord’s right hand?” Ron faltered, shaken by Hermione’s words.

After Harry vanished with the Dark Mark, they lied to themselves. His silence might mean regret, or retreat, or perhaps that he was still clinging to his principles somewhere far away. But Phoenix was no rumor. He was a butcher, his hands soaked in the blood of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of innocents.

Ron’s doubt almost swallowed him whole until his eyes caught the glitter of twin beams of light where Fred and George fought side by side, laughter on their lips even in battle. He felt Hermione’s warmth at his back, and his conviction returned.

“Harry must have a reason…” Hermione whispered, biting her lip hard.

“I believe in him too. But what if he’s not Harry anymore?” Ron muttered back.

“You mean—an Imperius Curse?!”

Hermione gasped, but before either could speak further, invisible force seized them tight, slamming them to the ground. Panic surged through them as they realized they had stumbled into the very heart of the battlefield.

Here, unlike the chaos elsewhere, the air was eerily still. Only the great arch with its tattered veil loomed, its fabric shifting in a wind that wasn’t there. And before it stood figures achingly familiar, yet utterly alien.

“Harry!!” Hermione and Ron cried through clenched teeth, struggling against the Petrificus curse pinning their bodies rigid to the floor.

“Ah. Such clever guesses, aren’t they?” Voldemort stroked his wand with satisfaction, watching as Harry—his eyes glassy yet resolute—had turned his wand on his former friends without hesitation.

“This can’t be real! You’ve got him under the Imperius!” Ron roared. “Harry! Wake up! You can fight it off!”

“How touching,” Voldemort said idly. “Crucio.”

Hermione and Ron’s muscles convulsed under the agony, but their limbs remained frozen stiff from the earlier curse, leaving them screaming helplessly on the ground.

“The great Dark Lord trusts only himself. Why would I need an Imperius Curse?” Voldemort’s voice swelled with contempt.

His laughter split the air, and he flung another volley of Cruciatus Curses—only to have them rebound off a sudden shield.

“Sectumsempra!”

Severus Snape’s voice cut like a whip as his spell slashed into a Death Eater. The man staggered, caught off guard, but before he could fall, a second masked figure raised an ironclad Shield Charm just in time. The blast shredded his cloak, revealing the grave, lined face beneath.

Albus Dumbledore.

“The Dark Lord trusts only himself… Tom.” Dumbledore’s voice was steady, heavy with sorrow. “Harry. He’s your horcrux, isn’t he?”

Hermione’s breath caught. Ron’s eyes widened in horror.

Was Harry Potter’s body truly empty of its soul, occupied instead by a fragment of Voldemort and bound by layers of dark enchantments?

The truth clicked into place. The dreams, the visions, the shared emotions—none of it had been “by accident.” Harry hadn’t simply been haunted by Voldemort. He had been claimed.

Hermione’s face crumpled in grief. Ron’s whole body shook as he stared at Phoenix—the friend he had once known.

“Ah, introductions.” Voldemort’s smile was sharp as broken glass. “This is Phoenix. A fine name, don’t you think? Even the so-called Order burns to ashes in my hand.” He chuckled darkly. “Phoenix is such an obedient child. But after today, he will take his own life. Well, well, well. Not before he kills his two friends… and his beloved headmaster. Phoenix!”

“Yes, my Lord.” Harry’s wand swung toward Ron without hesitation. “Crucio!”

“AAAHHH!” Ron’s scream tore from his throat.

“Crucio!”

“AAAAAAHHHHH!!”

Voldemort, in a gesture of mock mercy, flicked his wand and released the Petrificus curse. At once the battlefield’s center fell into eerie silence. The Dark Lord, his inner circle of Death Eaters, Dumbledore, Hermione—all of them watched as Ron screamed under Harry’s calculated Cruciatus. His body twisted, rolled, and convulsed. Tears and snot streamed down his face as each wave of pain struck.

“Well… noise,” Voldemort waved a hand with mild disinterest. “Give him his thrill.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on Ron’s trembling form. He raised his wand slowly, and as Voldemort turned his head, Harry’s other hand slipped into his robes. He yanked out a black velvet box, along with the crystal prophecy sphere, and hurled them with all his strength toward Voldemort.

“Horcrux Revertantur!” Harry shouted.

The velvet box sprang open. From it, and from the locket, cup, diadem, resurrection stone, and even Nagini’s body, streams of gray mist burst forth. Each fragment shrieked with hatred and fury as they hurled themselves into Voldemort. Harry clenched his jaw, enduring the searing agony that tore through his scar. He felt a sliver of mist rip away from himself, and at the same moment the crystal ball struck the thrashing Dark Lord, every wail ceased. The gray vapors collapsed into the sphere in a single breath.

This is it! Harry’s instincts flared. He leveled his wand at the orb and roared, “Avada—”

“You fool!”

A dark shape slammed into him, knocking him aside. Harry crashed to the floor near the Veil, stunned. A blazing jet of green light ricocheted off a Shield Charm, though not entirely. Thin strands of the curse struck Snape’s body. Voldemort, collapsing yet grinning with manic triumph, discarded the alchemical talisman crumbling into dust in his hand and snarled the incantation with a wandless curse.

“Expelliarmus!”

The scarlet blast struck Harry full on, hurling him backward. His last sight before being flung through the Veil was Snape lying motionless, eyes dimmed, and Voldemort’s body turning to ash as the shattered crystal ball scattered across the floor.

What lay beyond the Veil? If one asked Harry James Potter, he would say it felt like drifting in a vast sea of gray-blue. Floating. Sinking.

Here there was no breath, no hunger, no past or future. An eternity so empty it could erode any soul into nothing. Perhaps Harry might have faded too, if not for the absurd thought that he had actually been undone by a simple Expelliarmus. The irony drove him into such hysterical laughter that he nearly forgot his fear.

When Harry “woke,” his reflex was to tuck his wand safely into his robes. He blinked at the endless void, then noticed a faint light in the distance. Perhaps an exit?

He tried swimming, flailing through several ridiculous strokes, only to realize it was pointless. The closer he fixed his mind on the light, the nearer it seemed. Or perhaps the light was simply growing larger.

As he surged forward, a shadowy figure rushed past him, so fast he barely had time to react. It pierced straight through him, leaving nothing but the ocean of emptiness behind. Harry spun, unsettled, but saw nothing. A trick of the void, perhaps.

Then another silhouette drifted closer, slower this time. Harry lunged and caught it by the wrist. The man’s hand was thin, dry, and trembling. His black hair was unkempt and curly, his face pale and haggard, though hints of handsome features remained beneath the neglect. He looked faintly familiar, though Harry could not place him. The man was unconscious.

Clutching the stranger tightly, Harry turned back toward the light. The glowing archway was now just before them.

“Ha!” Harry exhaled, mustering strength as he dragged them both through the gate of light. He landed on solid ground, gasping in relief. He had never been so grateful for a floor. Though he had not truly been drowning, he gulped the air like a man saved from the sea. Only once his lungs steadied did he pull the unconscious man through as well.

Harry glanced around. They were in the Department of Mysteries. The hall was empty and dim, lit only by the faint glow of crystal orbs on endless shelves. Behind them stood the Veil, silent and still.

The battlefield was gone. By the polished floor and restored shelves, Harry guessed much time had passed since the battle.

What had become of the war? Harry was certain he had destroyed Voldemort completely. Dumbledore, though frail, had allies to guard him. Perhaps the world above had already claimed victory. Perhaps light had returned.

“Ugh.”

Pain slammed into him. Harry doubled over, coughing blood. His organs burned with agony. He spat again, wiping the blood on his sleeve. His robes were already in tatters, caked with dirt and gore.

“After-effects…” he muttered, and spat once more. “If Severus isn’t alive, Harry James Potter might really be dead this time.”

He stood, brushing off the dust with weary calm, and strode from the Department. In a quiet corner free of anti-Disapparition wards, he vanished with a sharp crack, as if no one had ever been there.

He did not notice the unconscious man he had dragged through the Veil stir faintly at the sound of his name. The man’s fingers twitched, almost in reply.

Chapter Text

Harry stood before the door of Severus Snape’s house in Spinner’s End, his vision darkening as weakness threatened to drop him to his knees. The aftereffects nearly had him collapsing in shame right there on the doorstep.

It shouldn’t have been this severe, but Harry had chosen not to Apparate straight to the house. Instead, he made several detours to random, unconnected locations for safety. The repeated jumps left him coughing so hard he wondered if his lungs—or perhaps some other bloody organ—might spill out of his mouth.

Oh, Merlin… Harry muttered inwardly, curling his fingers to knock against the rotten wood. His rhythm was uneven, though this was already his third attempt at the coded knock used in wartime. Still no answer. The old bastard didn’t really die, did he?

From years of enmity with Snape—four long years of clashes and loathing—followed by their reluctant alliance, Harry knew one thing for certain: Severus Snape was not a man who would die so pathetically. He would not fall to a crumbling Dark Lord armed with nothing more than a trinket of alchemy.

Otherwise… otherwise that would mean Severus Snape had deliberately chosen to die shielding Harry Potter—a Potter.

Harry shivered, nauseated by his own thought. No. Better not. Otherwise he might be tempted to resurrect Snape just to kill him again himself, purely to set the record straight.

Perhaps Snape was simply not at home. Perhaps he had been dragged to St. Mungo’s, wounded. Or perhaps he had escorted the frail Dumbledore there. In any case, the fact remained: Snape was not here.

Time pressed on. Harry could hardly sit outside hugging his knees, bleeding on the doorstep and waiting pathetically for Snape to show up out of some rare spark of mercy.

Harry swallowed back another mouthful of blood, carefully severing the backlash of magic in his right hand, steadying it as he closed firmly around the silver doorknob.

A twist upward by a third, then a full press downward—he shoved. The house revealed itself as little more than a ruin, with holes in the ceiling letting in light.

“Damn it,” Harry muttered. He always forgot the sequence. Closing the door, he reset the wards, repeated the motion, and this time the entryway opened into the familiar, damp, dark sitting room.

He pressed on with sure steps, slipping through the hidden passage to Snape’s potion chamber. The shelves had been restocked since the war; rare ingredients Harry had assumed depleted were now neatly lined up again.

He pulled down every nondescript little vial from the corners. There were dozens. He knew at least one had to be a restorative, but Snape had his own method of distinguishing between them, a method Harry didn’t know. The only option was to open each one, sniff them, and hope he remembered the smell of the antidote.

Not my fault, really, Harry thought with a mental shrug.

Snape returned home only to find traces of intrusion. He frowned, lips curling into a dark smile as his eyes followed dirty footprints marring his floor. They led straight to his private sanctum, the potion chamber.

Impossible. His wards were impenetrable. No one should have been able to breach them, unlock his doors, and find their way directly to that room. And yet someone had. Worse still, they had left a trail of footprints as if to mock him.

His grip on his wand tightened as he moved silently along the wall. He positioned himself by the hidden door, waiting, listening. Minutes passed. Still no sound. A silent revealing charm showed movement inside. Snape shoved the door open—and froze.

Vials scattered across the floor. His fury surged. By the time he searched the rest of the house, the rage became incandescent.

And then, in his own bed, of all places, he found it.

“P-O-T-T-E-R!” Snape snarled, choking back the urge to kill, and sent a fierce Petrificus Totalus crashing into Harry. ““I don’t care where POTTER has wandered off to these past days—certainly not here! Who are you? Did you take on this wretched form just to disgust me?!”

“Whoa! Don’t be so terrifying!” Harry had leapt from the bed the instant the spell flew his way. He stared, startled, at Snape fuming in the doorway. “What do you mean, ‘where’? How’s the battle? Is it over?”

“What battle?” Snape’s smile was like a blade. His wand leveled at Harry’s throat. “Perhaps a Dementor would be interested in that answer.”

The boy looked like Potter. Sounded like Potter. Yet the way he moved, the speed with which he dodged, the subtle shift of his wand toward Snape’s chest—it was not the reckless, melancholy child Snape remembered.

“Hey, relax. I just… borrowed your bed.” Harry scratched his head, sheepish. The potion had overwhelmed him, dragging him into sudden sleep. The sofa would have sufficed, even though Snape would likely have thrown him out without a second thought. But the thought of Snape’s fury when he found Potter sleeping in his bed had been too tempting. His “Gryffindor courage” had won out.

“Forget that,” Harry said quickly, scanning Snape up and down. “Your injuries—are you fully healed? I thought it had only been a few days. Did we win? And of course you had a way to dodge the Killing Curse. The great bat who lived?” His grin was crooked, teasing.

If Snape could stand before him like this, it had to mean they had won—or at least, the war was settled.

But Snape’s expression didn’t soften. He did not lower his wand. “You claim to be Harry Potter? Then prove it.”

Potter had been missing for days. The Order and the Death Eaters alike had scoured the land, desperate to find the Boy Who Lived, whether to save him or to kill him. Before he vanished, they had all witnessed him collapse when Black fell through the Veil. Harry had begged for time alone—and then disappeared.

The young man before him, claiming to be Harry Potter, was at once both alike and utterly unlike the Savior—in build, in voice, in expression.
And yet Snape was struck by an absurd intuition: the instant he had found the youth lying on the bed, some deep instinct had told him this was Harry Potter.

There was no explaining it.

“Excuse me… what?” Harry blinked.

“If you are Harry Potter, prove it.”

“Merlin, I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.” Harry forced a laugh.

Snape’s face didn’t move. He only stared, unblinking, with a look that stripped away Harry’s ease.

Squirming under the glare, Harry ruffled his already untidy hair until it stuck out like a nest. He lifted a hand to scratch his ear, and his sleeve slipped down.

“You don’t actually want me to prove it, do you? What, show you the famous scar? Hey—what are you doing?!”

Snape’s face was frozen in naked shock. On the arm he clutched was a skull, jaws gaping, with a serpent uncoiling like its tongue.

The Dark Mark.

“You… You bear the Dark Mark?!”

Harry twisted free, baffled, staring down at his own arm. “It looks fine to me. Didn’t turn into a cutie mark or a sparkly pink star. You’ve got one too, don’t you, Severus? What’s the big shock?”

Snape said nothing. His eyes, cold and sharp as ice, fixed on Harry. He sank into deep, troubled silence.

Chapter Text

Unlike Snape, who was lost in heavy thought, Harry harbored little doubt about the man before him. Snape was Snape. That greasy old bat had warded his front door so that anyone with uncontrolled magic would open it only to ruins, and the faint, familiar scent clinging to the man confirmed it.

It was the faint mixture of potions and herbs that came from years of labor over cauldrons. Hardly noticeable, yet utterly unique. Harry had trained himself to recognize it, even used it once to unmask an impostor who had brewed Polyjuice to impersonate Snape. Since then, he trusted that scent more than any password or oath.

“Severus? Did the Killing Curse leave you with aftereffects?” Harry’s concern came more naturally than suspicion. He wondered if Voldemort’s last desperate strike had damaged Snape’s soul. Souls were a subject forever beyond true comprehension, and after years spent undercover among Death Eaters, Harry knew more about them than he ever wanted to—yet never enough to feel safe.

“Potter.” Snape’s voice was cold, flat, unreadable. With a flick of his hand, a squat bottle flew to him. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” Harry asked absently, but downed it in a single swallow. His face twisted as he smacked his lips.

“Anti-Polyjuice. But perhaps I ought to examine whether there’s anything at all inside that skull of yours—anything at all? Even a single drop?”

“Ugh. No wonder it tasted familiar. I think my tongue just died.” Harry gave him a Malfoy-like sneer. “Always so welcoming to your friends, aren’t you, Severus?”

“No. That was actually a lethal poison,” Snape sneered. “I am delighted you so carelessly fulfilled my life’s ambition.”

Harry burst out laughing, turning the empty bottle between his fingers.
“Impossible. It’s not that I trust you—it’s something much simpler. Severus Snape would never allow a Potter to die in his house and taint his sanctum. And besides, if you ever chose to kill me, you’d do it properly—with patience, artistry, and the slowest torment imaginable.”

Snape knew the Anti-Polyjuice worked instantly. Yet the young man before him still wore Harry Potter’s face, idly spinning the bottle in his hands. For the first time, he found himself forced to admit: this might truly be Harry Potter. At least, the body was.

The filthy, torn robes. The bloodstains. His earlier talk of “the war.” The effortless, almost insolent familiarity with which he spoke to Snape.

Snape narrowed his eyes, and decided to probe.

“That’s what I serve to those I’d rather not see again. Now, perhaps the Chosen One, the Great Savior will condescend to explain where he has been, while every fool in Britain has been tearing the world apart to find him?”

“The Great Savior? That’s funny. You’re the only one left who calls me that,” Harry said, half amused, half weary. He paused, then admitted, “It’s complicated. Voldemort’s curse blasted me through the Veil. I swam for what felt like forever, crawled back out, and found the war already cleaned up. Did we win? Why did you keep dodging the question?”

“Calm yourself, Potter."

“I hope things won’t turn out too bad.” Harry frowned.

"The situation is not as dire as your hysterics suggest. Stay here. Keep your limbs to yourself. In the few minutes I am gone, do not make trouble.” Snape’s glare was sharp enough to pin Harry in place. After Harry gave a reluctant nod, Snape swept out, robes billowing.

Harry rolled his eyes. He had heard that exact threat a hundred times before. Sometimes he obeyed. More often, fate itself made disobedience inevitable. Trouble had a way of seeking him out.

But now, maybe, there really was no trouble left.

After all, if they had lost, Snape would not be standing here at all. Voldemort would have made him suffer beyond imagining before reducing him to ashes. Right?

He eyed Snape’s soft, velvet-covered bed with longing, scratched his head, and sulked back to the sofa instead. No one would believe that Snape—the man who scowled at sunlight—slept beneath velvet. Perhaps Malfoy had gifted it to him one Christmas.

Maybe I should buy one too, Harry mused, fighting sleep. A real bed. A proper blanket. Maybe settle at Godric’s Hollow… paint the walls cream, plant a garden, get a big dog. Subscribe to the Prophet, maybe two copies. Anything but this suffocating place. How did Snape survive here without going mad?

The sound of footsteps jolted him. Harry turned, wide-eyed, as Snape reentered. For the briefest moment, Snape faltered under the weight of those bright green eyes. A Potter’s gaze had never before unsettled him so.

“Enough. Follow me.” Snape broke the silence and strode to the fireplace. With a flick of his wand, flames roared to life. He tossed in Floo powder and murmured a destination.

“Wait.” Harry rubbed his scar, trying to focus. “The Floo? Severus, you can’t be serious. Unless something’s wrong. The network could be watched. We should Apparate. You’re… not yourself.”

“Not with your condition,” Snape sneered. “if you can Apparate yourself anywhere in one piece, I shall count myself fortunate.”

Harry grimaced under his glare, but stepped into the flames. The spinning vortex spat him out in the headmaster’s office, and he landed in a graceless heap on the floor.

“Harry? Are you all right? I hope the Floo wasn’t too unpleasant.”

The familiar voice made Harry look up. The headmaster’s office was just as he remembered it: silver instruments puffing streams of smoke, portraits leaning from their frames, the great desk behind which sat an old man with a long silver beard—and a pink ribbon tied into it. A wave of aching nostalgia hit him.

“It’s always awful. I never learned the trick of it,” Harry said, pushing himself to his feet. “I haven’t been here since fifth year. I’m glad to see it hasn’t changed… and that you look well, sir.”

“Severus tells me you are not entirely well,” Dumbledore said gently.

“I’ll manage. Slept a bit, though not enough.” Harry sank into the deep red armchair, fighting drowsiness.

“Yes, I see.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, his lips quirking with cheer.

Puzzled by Dumbledore’s amused expression, Harry followed his gaze downward—only then realizing that he was still clad in filthy, tattered robes. As he slouched deeper into the chair, the fabric shifted, baring a glimpse of taut muscle along his abdomen.

Flushing, Harry tugged at the edge of his clothing to cover himself.

“Er—Professor Dumbledore, you know how it is. After a battle like that, it’s hard to keep one’s dignity intact. I only wanted a shower and some proper sleep. I couldn’t find my spare robes in Severus’s wardrobe—though I thought they’d be there.” Harry chuckled weakly.

Snape’s audible snort behind him.

Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes twinkled with quiet amusement, and he nodded as though in agreement.

“I hope I did not interrupt your rest. Biscuit?” Dumbledore asked pleasantly. A tray of sweets and a steaming cup of tea appeared at Harry’s side.

“No thanks. All I want is to sleep forever. Like I’ve never slept before.” Harry pushed off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Professor, the war—did we win? It feels almost unimportant now, but I’ve asked so many times today without an answer.”

“I find it hard to define the answer, Harry. Tell me what you think.” Dumbledore popped a biscuit into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and reached for another.

Harry frowned. “From what I’ve seen? I’d say yes. Voldemort is gone—dead, utterly. Plenty of Death Eaters remain, but you and Severus can handle that. Professor…” His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be eating those. If Grindelwald knew, he’d ban you from sweets again. Where is he?”

Dumbledore’s surprise was sharp, too sharp. Like he hadn’t expected Harry to know that name at all. The dissonance that had dogged Harry all day suddenly snapped into clarity. His wand was in his hand before he even thought, but when he tried to flee the office, his body collapsed, limbs heavy and weak.

The truth hit him instantly. His face hardened.

“You were probing me. You know nothing.” His gaze slid to the side, to where Snape’s wand pressed coldly against his throat. “The antidote was laced with a weakening agent. That’s why you left so long—to make sure the dose would take hold.”

“Quick. Clever. Which is why you cannot be Potter.” Snape’s eyes were like steel. “Where is he?”

“You are not Severus Snape.” Harry’s voice cracked with fury, then dropped into a chilling calm. His green eyes burned with madness. “Where is that old bastard? Where’s Snape?!”

The chill of Cedric’s lifeless body still seemed to linger in his arms.

Never again would Harry’ allow anyone to die because of him.

Chapter Text

“Harry? Please, calm yourself. Severus is fine.” Dumbledore’s face was drawn with surprise as he looked between the two, wands raised, tempers sharp.

“No!” Harry’s voice was hoarse, almost feral. “Impostors—you will never win my trust. If Severus Snape or Albus Dumbledore have suffered even the slightest harm…” His green eyes blazed with fury. “I’ll make you understand the cost of defying me.”

The words tore from his throat before he realized. Harry bit hard into his tongue, swallowing the threat with a shudder of cold sweat. No. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t what Harry Potter would say—not in any circumstance. This loss of control was too familiar, like the Horcrux shard behind his scar still writhing, still whispering, still there.

“I… I’m sorry,” Harry muttered. He drew his wand despite Snape’s eyes narrowing, ready to stun him at the first twitch. Murmuring words that barely sounded like human speech, Harry forced a charm upon himself.

A pale aura spilled outward. He scanned the haze, and when his eyes found the thick coil of grey mist, his shoulders slumped. Exhaustion dragged at him. He pressed his hand against his scar, rubbing at it as though he could scrape away the ache.

“Damn it. This thing’s as disgusting as chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe,” Harry muttered.

“Harry? Are you well?” Dumbledore’s tone was warm with concern. Harry cracked an eyelid, gave no answer. The headmaster’s smile deepened, kind, almost coaxing. “I have some guesses about your condition. But before we proceed, we must establish trust. A small revealing spell may help.”

He explained a piece of ancient magic, unfamiliar even to Snape: a spell that displayed a person’s magical name, akin to the mysterious magic behind Hogwarts’ letters of admission. “It is not flawless,” Dumbledore cautioned. “The subject must yield without resistance, willing to have their identity exposed.”

Harry’s brows rose. Almost like the Marauder’s Map, then. Perhaps even kin to it.

Once Snape and Harry gave terse nods, Dumbledore lifted his wand and drew a wide arc. “Revelare Nomen.”

A thin red circle bloomed above them, scattering motes of light. Before each man, the dust spiraled into a glowing ring, like a dial.

Harry’s circle was ringed with twenty-one uneven rays. In the center, pale letters spelled Harry James Potter. The script wavered, blurred, and in one corner of the name, faint stains looked like dust or ash. Harry’s mouth twisted. At least the spell hadn’t spelled out “One-eighth Tom Riddle” beside his name.

Turning, he studied the others. Snape’s ring bore a proper thirty-odd lines, his name etched in solid silver-grey: Severus Snape. Dumbledore’s was dazzling, almost blinding, countless rays woven into a hollow ring, his long name—Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—shining with brilliance.

Snape ignored his own. His dark eyes were locked, scowling, on Harry’s blurred name.

“I’m glad we can trust each other’s identities,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, even winking at Harry. Harry forced a smile, waving it off.

“Albus. I think I deserve an explanation.” Snape’s voice was quiet, but edged like a knife. Only someone who had seen him level a wand and demand truth could hear the threat beneath it.

Dumbledore’s usual mirth faded. For once, he looked solemn, almost old. “I have a theory. Only a theory. But you must understand this, both of you.”

Harry felt dread sink into his gut, heavy as stone.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly. “I believe that when you passed through the Veil, you exchanged places with this world’s Harry Potter.”

No.

“I… yes,” Harry whispered, lips numb. “I saw someone. He passed through me. I never saw where he went.”

“Then he was your counterpart.” Dumbledore closed his eyes, weariness etched in every line of his face. Silence fell in the office, thick and heavy—broken only by Snape’s incredulous snarl.

“Albus, you cannot mean this. You believe him? This boy is no savior. He has tricked you with some parlor trick—your spell—he is a liar, a thief of the Chosen One’s name. A Death Eater!”

“Excuse me?” Dumbledore’s eyes widened. “I think I may have missed some crucial detail.”

“Not old news, Headmaster?” Harry asked, equally baffled. His heart raced, unease tightening his chest. “Like Sn—Professor Snape—was a double agent, I too accepted your orders. I was an infiltrator.”

He pressed his palm to his arm. Should he reveal it? Why not. If the truth was going to damn him, better to let it come now. He yanked his sleeve up, baring the Dark Mark.

Dumbledore looked thunderstruck, as though lightning had struck him.

“I have carried this since fourth year,” Harry said.

The kindly smile collapsed. Dumbledore seemed to age years in a breath, his face grey, blank, despairing.

“Lies,” Snape hissed. He looked ready to spit venom, but clamped his jaw shut, silent.

“I see. You really are Professor Dumbledore and Severus… but not mine. This isn’t my world,” Harry whispered.

Harry thought he understood. Snape’s disbelief was his own, mirrored. The story was so absurd, so clumsy, no one with sense could believe it. Unless, of course, it was not a lie.

However impossible, perhaps the impossible was truth.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore began to sketch for Harry the history of this world: Voldemort’s midnight slaughter of the Potters, the Boy Who Lived, the Philosopher’s Stone, the basilisk, Sirius escaping Azkaban and the truth of the Secret-Keeper, the Triwizard Tournament… until the Ministry’s Hall of Prophecy. He ended with Sirius falling through the Veil, and Harry vanishing with him.

Harry listened in silence. At first, events matched his own memories. But the further Dumbledore went, the more sharply the differences cut.

“You’re saying Peter—Scabbers? That cowardly rat actually had the guts and skill to hide for years? And Sirius Black never betrayed anyone?” Harry’s eyes widened. “Ron’s pet disappeared early on, and only later did I learn he was an Animagus. And Sirius Black… perhaps he died in Azkaban? I only learned he was my godfather when I was discreetly notified of my inheritance of Grimmauld Place.”

Dumbledore blinked, genuinely surprised. “Here, Sirius escaped when he saw a photograph of Scabbers with the Weasleys in the Prophet.”

“Hm.” Harry thought aloud. “Perhaps because in my world, Scabbers was summoned back by Voldemort earlier. The main soul must have sensed the… connection between us even in first year. Though Voldemort did not regain a body until my fourth year.”

“Main soul?” Dumbledore asked, curiosity piqued.

Harry froze as the realization struck him. They didn’t know. They knew nothing of Horcruxes, of soul fragments. Nothing at all.

Then how in Merlin’s name had this world expected to win the war? Aside from the friendly neighbor lodged in his scar, how many more Horcruxes of Voldemort were still wandering loose?

He pressed the thought down hard, biting it back. Blurting out the truth now would only spark panic—or worse, suspicion. Until he understood the rules of this world, its Voldemort, its Dumbledore, he would keep that particular secret buried.

“Sorry?” Harry forced a shrug, feigning that Dumbledore had misheard. “What happened after? In the years that followed?”

“That is all, Harry. Your disappearance was only a few days ago.”

“No way!” Harry blurted. “Then this world’s Harry is—what—fifteen? Just finished fifth year?”

“Perhaps the Savior has been so busy he has lost count of his age,” Snape sneered.

“No. I am twenty-one.” Harry’s voice dropped, heavy. “You mean to tell me the war here hasn’t even ended? And their Harry Potter is missing?”

Snape’s disdainful snort filled the room. Dumbledore’s usually bright eyes dimmed with sorrow, apology, and something else… a plea.

It can’t be what I think. It can’t.
If the Veil stood open before him now, Harry wasn’t sure he wouldn’t dive straight back in.

“Harry…” Dumbledore’s voice trembled with regret. His gaze flicked to the Dark Mark burned into Harry’s arm, then to Harry’s twisted expression. His tone softened, pleading. “I will do everything I can to find a way to restore you to your own world. But until then, may I ask…”

“No. You can’t just—” The thought screamed in Harry's head, shrill as Aunt Petunia’s voice.

“…May I ask you to stand, for now, as this Harry Potter?” Dumbledore’s voice was weighted with shame. “I would never ask you to take foolish risks. The war has not yet broken, but it looms. The wizarding world cannot endure the fear—the chaos—of a missing Chosen One.”

He’d said it. And Harry wanted to scream. Could he look at this bent, weary old man and tell him “No”? Perhaps. He had another world, another life to protect. He’d already saved one wizarding world. Why fight for another? Harry clawed through every excuse he could conjure… and yet, no.
Merlin, was this some curse of destiny? Some occupational disease of saviors?

“Dumbledore!” Snape snarled, cutting through Harry’s torment. “You believe this brat’s every word? You trust him as if he were your Golden Boy? You have no idea what he’s done. He bears the Dark Mark! Isn’t that enough? I cannot believe this. You gullible fool.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said gently, “I trust this Harry as I once chose to trust you.”

The words struck Snape like a lash. His face went rigid, expressionless.

Harry almost pitied him.

“I must ask,” Harry said carefully, “about your Harry. He sounds like a beacon of light. No spying, no crawling through filth to win Voldemort’s trust. Just… books, classes, the shining Savior?”

“Not only that,” Dumbledore sighed, “but yes, I never wished to burden him beyond measure. In truth, my hope was always to shield him—to allow his battles to be those of the classroom and friendship, not the shadows.”

Harry let out a humorless breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. He said dryly, with a trace of self-mockery:
“Clearly, this Harry Potter had been cherished, protected.”

For a moment the bitterness tasted sharp on his tongue. He knew, of course, that this world’s boy had surely suffered too in ways others could never guess. But compared to the years of crawling through filth and fire as Voldemort’s unwilling shadow, the contrast cut deep.

Still, at least his world was safe for now. Voldemort dead, Dumbledore shielded by Grindelwald of all people, Hermione and Ron standing strong. The peace he himself could not taste might exist for them.

“…All right,” Harry said finally. Snape looked ready to hex both of them into oblivion. “Perhaps, for now, remaining here—playing the student again—won’t be the worst fate.”

“Harry, thank you,” Dumbledore’s smile returned, touched with relief. “I’m afraid you must resume your fifth year. Your absence I shall explain as a special mission, a respite.”

“That’s fine. I haven’t studied seriously since fifth year anyway,” Harry muttered. “Been a bit busy undercover.”

“If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to tell me. For now, I suggest you return to Gryffindor Tower. Spend some time with Ron and Hermione.” Dumbledore rose, his eyes twinkling again. “I must make arrangements—and soothe the Ministry. You cannot imagine how frantic they become when the Savior vanishes. In the meantime, I trust Severus will… assist you.”

“What?? Why?” Snape and Harry roared together.

“I had thought you and Severus were on rather good terms? The way you address him, the trust you show—it led me to believe as much. If you could find common ground with the Severus of another world, why should it be impossible here?” Dumbledore chuckled softly.

“No. Absolutely not. I only ever called him Severus to annoy him,” Harry snapped, bristling. “I just don’t want to end up dead in his dungeons, bottled as potion ingredients.”

“I assure you, Potter has no potion value,” Snape spat, eyes blazing. “He brings nothing but ruin, chaos, and unrepentant arrogance. His neck doesn’t even contain the smallest grain of sense to learn discipline. I have no reason to aid him—unless it’s to erase him from existence altogether!”

Harry’s lips twitched. Two could play this game. He knew Snape, knew his rhythms after years of battle side by side.

“Oh, Severus,” Harry crooned, voice sticky-sweet. He ignored the shiver racing down his spine. “Your eagerness to help me is overwhelming. I’m so grateful—”

“Shut your mouth!” Snape’s fury practically made the walls tremble. If anger amplified magic, Hogwarts would already lie in rubble.

“Thank you, Severus—”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, tipping his hat as he stepped out. “You’re getting along splendidly.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t be better.” Harry resolved to fight his way out of the Ministry single-handed, to blow apart that damned Veil that had caused all this trouble.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts Castle lay bathed in the beauty of moonlight, its windows glowing faintly with scattered starlight. The usually bustling castle seemed to sleep alongside those who lived within its walls.

Even the boisterous Gryffindors had quieted in their tower. From one bed, the crimson hangings stirred, a hand clutching a wand slipping out. Its owner, burdened with an armful of parchment and books, crept carefully into the night.

“What a life.” Harry rubbed at his eyes, uncertain if that would ease the bruised shadows beneath them. Thank Merlin this cursed term was nearly over. Voldemort’s uncanny enthusiasm for wreaking havoc at year’s end might almost be considered a blessing.

He slipped out with quiet steps, though Harry suspected even a troll performing tap dance wouldn’t be louder than the snores of his roommates.

“Was it always like this?” he wondered. Since the Dark Mark had been revealed, since the press and public hounded him, since Voldemort had dragged him out of school, he had rarely returned. And when he did, he never chose to stay in Gryffindor Tower. The righteous hardly welcomed him back with open arms. The Mark branded on his skin screamed betrayal, cruelty, darkness—even if they didn’t know he was Phoenix.

But Harry had long ceased to be angry about it. He and Voldemort were locked in a death struggle. Bearing the Mark, infiltrating the Death Eaters, killing only to survive—saving the wizarding world was, at best, a side prize.

Casting a Disillusionment Charm over himself, Harry passed through the Fat Lady’s portrait and let his thoughts wander as he strolled across the grounds.

He was bound for the Room of Requirement, hoping to waste some hours there, and perhaps rescue his abysmal History of Magic grade by cobbling together an overdue essay.

“Where’s the original Harry gone?” he mused. Surviving, finishing school, living some ordinary life… Not exactly a light task. “Maybe he’s in my world now. Hopefully he figured out the difference fast. Or better, stood up at a press conference and rolled up his sleeve to show he had nothing there. Because living as the ‘Savior’ with a Dark Mark carved into your arm… that’s not a job anyone should envy.”

But deep down, Harry doubted that boy had crossed into his world at all.

And some of those differences between worlds gnawed at him.

His thoughts sharpened, darkened. They all revolved around one man: Severus Snape—his once ally, now his watchdog.

Not that Harry was petty. Merlin, they’d exchanged curses before crowds, even Crucio, just to solidify their cover and Voldemort’s trust.

But this time was different. This time, Harry had let his guard down—trusted the man. He’d swallowed the man’s damned potion without a thought.

“Some trust, Potter,” he muttered bitterly to himself. He should almost be grateful Snape hadn’t dosed him with Veritaserum outright. At least he’d have known the taste of that.

The warning was clear: same soul or not, different lives meant different loyalties. Some people might no longer be comrades at all.

Harry stopped before a familiar door, its silver serpent-shaped knocker staring back at him with cold eyes.

“Bloody instincts,” Harry groaned into his palm. Before questioning another’s trustworthiness, he ought to question his own brain. Maybe Snape was right—maybe there was nothing inside his skull worth the name of thought.

“Evening, Savior-boy,” the serpent hissed. “The professor’s asleep. Here for a midnight tryst?”

Harry pulled a face, exaggeratedly as if about to gag, and hissed back in Parseltongue: “If anything, maybe an assassination.”

“Ambition and delusion—two different things,” the serpent swayed.

Harry raised a brow, twirling his wand so sparks hissed from its tip. “And if I really were here for that, would you try to stop me?”

“Oh, playing with fire, are we? But what assassin carries half a library in his arms?” The serpent’s tone was amused. Harry had the distinct sense it was simply lonely. “Wait… you’re not the Savior-boy. Since when does Hogwarts have so many Parselmouths?”

Harry stiffened, caught off guard, then replied truthfully, “I am Harry Potter. And as far as I know, I’m the only one here who speaks to snakes.”

“Strange. You were far less talkative a few weeks ago. Always storming past with murder in your eyes. Never spared me a word.”

Harry improvised smoothly, adopting a Malfoy-esque drawl: “Perhaps the night is too enchanting to ignore tonight.” He smirked to himself—Parseltongue had never sounded so smug. “I wasn’t planning to disturb your dear professor. Just passing through.”

Yet as Harry turned to leave, the office door creaked open of its own accord.

“We always serve Parselmouths,” the serpent hissed, retreating into silence.

Harry’s lips twisted. “So much for safeguards with brains.”

Since the door was open, he no longer intended to leave. He entered the dark, damp office, dropping his stack of papers and books onto the low table before settling into the stiff, emerald-green chair by the hearth.

Compared to Dumbledore’s cozy chairs, Snape’s was hard, unyielding, cold. Yet Harry felt strangely at ease. For a fleeting moment, it was as if he’d never left those countless nights waiting here—always ready for Voldemort’s summons.

Hogwarts had two fireplaces connected outward: the Headmaster’s office and this one, Snape’s private sanctum. Only Dumbledore and Snape had known his double-agent role.

Better to hide here with firewhisky or parchment than risk the glares of righteous classmates—or the searing call of the Dark Mark.

A flick of his wand lit the candle on the table. By the glow of a single lamp, he bent to his work, writing line after line of the twenty–inch essay on the goblin rebellions, and did not stop until the first light of dawn.

Until a sting at his scar dragged him back. His arm burned in answer.

Then it hit—an alien surge of emotion. Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Not Voldemort summoning Death Eaters this time, but a resonance between his scar and the true soul-piece of Voldemort, which stirred his Mark.

“Celebrating, are you?” Harry muttered, pressing his fingers into his scar. Voldemort was likely exulting over the advantage gained at the Department of Mysteries.

He drew his wand, pressing its tip to the reddened Mark, closing his eyes. “Right… if the fragment’s still here, maybe I can use it.” He let his lips curl in a grim smile. “Think like Voldemort.”

The shard in his scar had no mind—only a dormant scrap of soul, coiled and silent. But Harry pushed anyway, coaxing it with reckless insistence, daring it to stir. The sting flared, a white-hot lance splitting through his skull, but he barely noticed. Pain was irrelevant. What mattered was proving his theory right.

He ground his teeth as the fire built—and then, at last, something answered. A thread of icy darkness peeled loose, sliding from the scar like smoke from a fissure. Harry seized it, guiding the spectral current down through his wand and into the waiting brand on his arm.

The Mark writhed. Its angry glow flared crimson, then guttered, shadows crawling over the edges of the skull-and-serpent. Light sputtered, as though unsure whether to burn or to die. And then, impossibly, the agony dulled—the raging fire collapsing into a faint, needling prick.

Harry’s eyes snapped open, fever-bright. A ragged laugh escaped him. He’d done it.

Of course it worked. The Mark had been carved with Voldemort’s soul, and no fragment of him would resist its own command. Why should it?

Throwing up Occlumency walls, Harry slammed Voldemort’s emotions out of his head, wiped away the thin line of blood trickling from his scar, and thought wildly: perhaps he’d found it—the way to weaken, reshape, even strip the Mark away altogether.

He gathered his scattered books and parchment, moving with the quiet precision of someone used to hiding triumphs in silence. But before he could reach the door, a wave of dizziness crashed over him. The walls tilted; his knees buckled.

“Merlin,” he muttered with a breathless laugh, clinging to the doorframe. “That’ll knock me flat for a week.”

He slipped back into the corridors, whispering a farewell to the serpent knocker.

Elsewhere, in a place of shadows, a pair of crimson eyes snapped open—serpent-like, glowing, thoughtful.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled across the Great Hall.
Small groups of students trickled in, voices low, eyes wide.

The Boy Who Lived—who had disappeared—was back.

Not everyone knew it yet. Only the Gryffindors seemed unsurprised.
But whispers followed Harry as he sat at the long table, golden trio in their usual seats, breakfast untouched before them.

Harry stabbed idly at his food.

On either side, Ron and Hermione leaned in.Their watchful concern pressed around him as surely as the walls of the castle.

“Harry? You look awful.”
Hermione poured him pumpkin juice, slid the glass into his hand.
Her gaze flicked to his plate—mashed potatoes churned into a mess. She said nothing about it, but the disapproval lingered.

“You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Harry said evenly. “Never better—at least, that’s what I’d say if I were lying in bed. If I had a say in the matter, I’d be there now, asleep, not here being gawked at like some exhibit.”

“Sorry, mate,” Ron muttered, sheepish. He’d been the one to physically drag the unwilling Savior from bed and deliver him into Hermione’s custody. Between the two of them, they had half-carried him into the Hall.

“I know.” Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to force some focus into his bleary eyes. “But I didn’t sleep at all last night. And then I woke up this morning—bloody nightmare of a wake-up call.”

That “call” had been Ron, barging a hand straight through his bedcurtains barely an hour after Harry had finally collapsed. Still half-dreaming, Harry had nearly blasted his friend into oblivion.
If Harry hadn't bitten his tongue in time to stop the spell, Ron would have been half-dead or crippled by a dark magic that had almost been used.

Gryffindors. Harry thought it with a mix of complaint and pride.

“You didn’t sleep at all?” Hermione’s voice was soft with concern. “Harry… we know how hard Sirius’s death has been on you. We can’t pretend to understand, but you can’t destroy yourself like this.”

Harry blinked, mid-bite of toast. “What?”

“Dumbledore told us,” Ron said, lowering his voice. “That your week away was for you to… grieve. To clear your head after—after Sirius. We were all there that night. We know how much he meant to you.”

Hermione and Ron both turned warm, sympathetic eyes on him.

It took Harry a moment to remember: Sirius Black was supposed to be Harry Potter's godfather here.
In his own world, Harry had scarcely exchanged a word with the Black there—quite possibly the man was still rotting in Azkaban, dead or alive—and so Sirius Black being Harry Potter’s last remaining family was, to him, little more than a passing impression formed when he inherited the Black estate.

And he’d never had time to dwell on family, not with everything else. His survival had always mattered more than bloodlines.

So Harry only lowered his head, arranging his features into something weary and stricken. No explanations. Silence often earned more than words.

Sure enough, Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance and let the subject drop. For that, Harry was quietly grateful. They reminded him so strongly of his Ron and Hermione, his real friends, who had once looked at his Dark Mark and still chosen to believe in him.
Who had stood with him, even in shadows.

Harry glancing at their earnest faces. Only fifteen, and already the makings of his most loyal companions shone through.

He let their chatter wash over him, listening to their light arguments. Neither of them looked much better than he did—worry etched into their eyes after a week of his disappearance. And still, neither asked where he had gone, nor scolded him for vanishing.

Harry cleared his throat, almost startling himself with the words that slipped out.
“Thank you. Both of you.”

Ron blinked. “Er—what?”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, eyes softening. “Harry… you don’t need to—”

“I do,” Harry cut in quietly, the edge of sincerity in his voice too sharp to be mistaken for deflection.

Sorry, mate, he thought at Ron, amused despite himself. Still as thick as ever. Everyone sees it but you. Even if Mione were pregnant you’d probably miss it. But you’d never let a Cruciatus touch her, would you?

Harry was happy to be friends with them, and happy that no matter which world they were in, they had each other's backs and support.

For a moment, neither of them seemed to know how to respond. Then Ron scratched the back of his neck, looking awkward, while Hermione reached across the table to give Harry’s wrist a gentle squeeze.

Harry let the silence settle, studying the familiar way they bickered a heartbeat later over pumpkin juice versus tea, as though nothing had happened. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

A rush of wings shattered the moment. Owls flooded through the high windows, swooping over the tables to drop letters and parcels with varying degrees of grace.

A small owl Pig crashed into the table, nearly scattering Ron’s porridge. A heartbeat later, a great snowy owl swept down in utter contrast, elegant and regal. She landed before Harry and set a rolled newspaper at his hand.

“Hedwig?” Harry whispered, startled delight breaking through. “Good girl. Oh, it’s good to see you.”

Hedwig nipped affectionately at Harry’s finger. Harry cut off a small piece of bacon, set it on his palm, and watched intently as she pecked at it.

Ron pinned Pig with one hand and stared at Harry, soaked in soup from a misplaced note that had splashed into his bowl. “Sorry,” Ron mumbled, glaring murderously at his owl.

“Harry, shouldn’t you go change?” Hermione asked, then frowned at the sight of his plain black winter robes. “I believe it’s summer now—why are you wearing that?”

Harry smirked faintly. “A quick Cleaning Charm will do the trick.” His hand stroked Hedwig’s feathers.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Still, a bath would be better. Here, let me—” She raised her wand. But when her spell touched his sleeve, Harry’s head snapped up. For a moment, his gaze caught hers, green eyes burning sharp and unfamiliar. It pinned her where she sat. Then, as quickly, it was gone, only Harry again.

“Yes,” Harry said gently. “Thanks. That’s enough. I’ve got History of Magic this afternoon, and no time for long baths.”

At the mention of exams, Hermione went rigid, already pulling out her tome. “Oh no—I still have chapters left! Too much has happened—I’ve let revision slip!”

Harry watched in amusement as her enchanted book flipped obediently to marked pages.

“Come off it,” Ron groaned. “You said you’d spend this morning making sure Harry’s all right, not burying yourself in Binns’ lectures! You’ve read enough.”

“I have not!” Hermione snapped. “And you haven’t either, Ronald—we’ve barely revised at all this week, because—” She cut herself off, glancing at Harry.

Ron huffed. “Harry’s back, that’s what matters. And it’s only History of Magic. Who studies for that besides you and Malfoy?”

He wrestled with Pig’s soggy note, trying to smooth it open. Meanwhile, Hedwig’s newspaper lay untouched—the three of them had seen enough already to know the Prophet’s story would be fiction. The front page bore a photograph of Harry at eleven, small and hollow-eyed. Students at other tables clucked and muttered over the headline, but the Trio ignored it.

“Respect your professors, Ron!” Hermione tried half-heartedly, then gave up with a sigh, turning back to Harry instead. “Harry, do you need me to mark the key passages? Have you finished the assignment Binns set?”

Harry nodded, compliant, handing her his text.

They fell into easy revision, the Great Hall thinning around them until only a handful of students remained.

And then Ron shot to his feet, chair crashing back, a note clutched in his trembling hands.

“Ronald!” Hermione barked.

“Harry!” Ron’s voice was wild. He shoved the letter at his friend, gripping Harry’s shoulder. “It’s from my dad! He says someone reported seeing Sirius Black on the streets.”

Ron’s face was pale, breathless with urgency. “Harry... Sirius might still be alive!”

Harry stared at his friends’ bright, hopeful faces. And without warning, the memory surged up: the chill of the Veil’s ocean, the lifeless quiet, the warm weight of the hand he had dragged with him into the light.

A face he had barely seen, gaunt and fragile.

…Sirius Black?

Chapter Text

Among the crowd of excited students tumbling out of the train, Harry stepped down steadily, carrying a battered little suitcase. He paused on the platform, gaze lingering on the scarlet Hogwarts Express. The enchanted engine that had ferried countless eleven-year-olds to the start of their new lives still gleamed in the morning sun, a relic of first journeys.

A bushy-haired girl and a lanky red-haired boy emerged close behind him, both casting curious looks at Harry’s back before falling silent.

In the few days since Harry’s return, Ron and Hermione had noticed something different. They still shared meals together, though exam schedules and last-minute revising meant less time side by side. Yet even at the crowded Gryffindor table, they saw it clearly: Harry was quieter. Not sulking, not timid. His silence had weight, the sort that reminded them more of Professor Lupin, or even Dumbledore—someone who listened more than he spoke.

And sometimes he would halt in front of an utterly ordinary hallway, or stare at some trivial object as though it carried secrets only he could read. His eyes would linger, calm, unreadable.

If not for the fact that he still slipped out at night to roam unseen, and still gulped down pumpkin juice every morning, they might have wondered if some older twin brother had replaced the Harry they knew.

—And had they ever asked, Harry would have been startled by how close their wild guess cut to the truth.

But Hermione, raised by dentists and schooled in logic, clung to explanations rooted in reason. She and Ron eventually agreed that Harry’s quietness stemmed from guilt—that he blamed his own reckless choices for Sirius falling through the Veil, leaving his godfather’s fate uncertain. Hermione, as a result, treated him with even greater gentleness.

For his part, Harry had sat through another of Dumbledore’s afternoon teas, filling in details about this world’s history and this world’s Harry Potter. He made no effort to “play a part.” After all, no matter how anyone tested him, the outcome was always the same: he was Harry Potter. Better, then, to pass the days with the air of a man on holiday.

Dumbledore had promised not to force burdens upon him, and Harry saw no reason to chase trouble when he could avoid it. The thought left him with an odd taste, but he pushed it aside.

“Harry!”

The Weasleys were waiting on the platform, waving frantically. Molly enveloped him at once, fussing.
“This term must have worn you ragged. Look at you, all skin and bones—oh!”

Her hand pressed lightly at his waist and she let out a delighted laugh.
“Our Harry’s gone and grown into a proper young man. Muscle and all.”

The twins swooped in, flanking him with identical grins.

“Oh, our little Harry—”
“—now a strapping lad—”
“—with a six-pack, no less!”
“Gryffindor’s golden bachelor!”

And with a dramatic flourish, both pounced, tousling his perpetually messy hair until it looked as if a storm had swept through. “Girls, brace yourselves! Wild, dangerous, devastatingly handsome Harry Potter has arrived!”

Fred and George ducked behind their mother, cackling.

“Am I the only one who thinks they’re getting worse?” Ron muttered dryly. “‘Wild and dangerous’? Honestly.”

Harry arched a brow and offered a wicked grin in return. Ginny went crimson; Ron froze like a statue.

“Mum, your Harry’s turned into a rogue,” one twin sniffed, pretending to dab his eyes with a handkerchief. “Poor Ginny, helpless before his sinful charms.”

“Enough, you two,” Molly scolded fondly, then turned back to Harry. “Will you come to the Burrow this summer? You know we’d love to have you.”

Harry’s chest tightened. Once, he had always been welcome in the Weasley home. That changed after the Mark burned his skin, though Ron’s faith had never wavered. Arthur and Molly—parents, after all—could never quite banish their worry.

“I’d like that. I’d love that,” Harry said, lowering his head. “If I’m able.”

The twins exchanged a glance, opened their mouths to speak, then faltered when Arthur’s gaze flicked toward them.

Harry shook his head gently and gave them a grateful smile. “I trust Dumbledore’s reasons. Even if those reasons left me with Aunt Petunia.”

Their faces twisted into a mixture of anger, worry, and affection. Harry realized he needn’t explain further; they would make their own conclusions.

Hermione’s voice was soft with concern. “Harry, if there’s anything we can do, please, promise you’ll tell us.”

Arthur added firmly, “I may not be an Auror, but I hear things at the Ministry. If there’s word of Sirius, I’ll find it. And for anything else, we’ll do what we can.”

Harry nodded, assuring them he would.

From a station bench, he watched Hermione leave with her parents. The Weasleys lingered longer, repeating their invitations before finally bidding him farewell.

When the platform emptied, only a few staff inspecting the train remained. Harry rose, stowed his black robes into the case, smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt, and rolled his wand between his fingers with studied nonchalance.

“Holiday.” Harry let out a low laugh, dragging the battered little trunk behind him with steady steps. “If I’m going to take one, I’d better buy myself another wand.”

Simply stripping the Trace was never enough. Any wizard strong enough—and clever enough to use the Prior Incantato charm—could easily uncover the last few spells cast with a stolen wand. Harry wasn’t about to take that risk.

He would head for Knockturn Alley. Only there could he stockpile the sort of supplies he insisted on keeping within reach. With no crowd of students to blend into, he flicked a casual Notice-Me-Not Charm over himself and dropped the Disillusionment he had been carrying for days. The dark-haired wizard looked less like a boy returning home for summer, and far more like… someone else entirely.

Hoisting the light trunk with practiced ease, the young man vanished into the passage leading toward the Muggle Underground.

For “Harry Potter,” the Muggle world had always been safer than the wizarding one.

Soon after, a small car pulled up under the archway of King’s Cross. Vernon, arriving late and looking sour, gave the platform a perfunctory glance. Not spotting the wretched boy anywhere, he decided not to waste so much as a second searching. He swung the car around and drove straight home, firmly deciding that Harry must have been carted off by that lot of stick-waving freaks. It would be a holiday without Harry Potter—a good holiday, as far as he was concerned—and that was exactly what he intended to tell the family.

By Muggle transport, Harry finally made his way into London, and he couldn’t help but marvel at how blissfully steady the Underground was compared to the Knight Bus.

The Leaky Cauldron stood as shabby and inconspicuous as ever. Harry ruffled his fringe down, and stepped inside. He didn’t linger. Pushing through the dingy pub, he tapped the bricks and went straight into Diagon Alley.

It wasn’t that he feared recognition, exactly. But experience had taught him that being recognized was always a bother—and instinct told him to avoid it. Before, recognition meant jeers and curses hurled his way, or Aurors trying to clap him in irons. Now? Now it might mean crowds pressing in for autographs. The thought amused him: in this world, the Boy Who Lived was a carefully polished idol, a savior sculpted out of myth.

Harry’s gaze swept over the familiar street. Despite rumors of the Dark Lord’s return, people still strolled about in leisure. Strange squawks came from the pet shop; a group of youths pressed their noses to the glass at Quality Quidditch Supplies, lusting after the latest broom model; a couple emerged from Flourish and Blotts with a child cradling a wizarding storybook; several girls passed by, laughing with cones of Fortescue’s ice cream in hand, chattering about exams.

The sun was warm overhead. The scene was peaceful, idyllic.

Were they so calm because they believed the savior would slay the monster and keep them safe? Or did they simply not recognize the war already looming at their door?

By contrast, in his world the “savior” marked as the Dark Lord’s enemy had become the Dark Lord’s right hand; Dumbledore, leader of the light, lay grievously wounded and convalescent; Death Eaters ran rampant, and whole districts could vanish overnight in so-called “blood purges.” If not for Grindelwald’s public pledge to aid Dumbledore—and for Ron and Hermione stepping up to lead their generation—the slaughter would have been worse.

Here, though, people had been spoiled by fairy tales. They believed in the “savior,” in the banner of light, in the promise that darkness must fall and light must triumph. They believed a baby—a boy—a teenager could defeat the most powerful dark wizard in half a century. Maybe it was Dumbledore’s orchestration, maybe not. But one thing was certain: he had done nothing to stop the deification of Harry Potter.

Faith, however, has its uses. Wavering hearts breed volatility.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Harry headed first to Gringotts. He took a hefty pouch of Galleons from the Potter vault, then stopped at Madam Malkin’s to order several sets of light, practical robes for different occasions. He left with one tailored set already fitted to his frame.

Next was the apothecary. After a great deal of picky deliberation, he walked out with a small selection: healing potions for minor wounds, blood-replenishers, antidotes, a few rare calming draughts, and a handful of the standard short-term vision restoratives.

He drifted in and out of other shops, buying a few scattered supplies. Passing a cramped divination shop hung thick with veils of fabric, he ducked inside. The bell jingled overhead, but the elderly witch at the counter only snored, oblivious to customers. Harry didn’t care. He was here for the back door. Skirting around the counter, he slipped through an inconspicuous door and stepped into a narrow, foul-smelling alley.

The dark-haired wizard allowed himself a brief smile at the sameness of it all, then smoothed his face blank and drew a vial of vision restorative from his pocket, checking it before taking a few careful swallows. The potion worked quickly; he removed his glasses and pocketed them, then used a charm to lengthen his hair. Finally, he shrugged into the new robe and straightened the collar.

The robe was pure black, with no embellishment—but anyone with a discerning eye would notice the fine cut, the quality of the cloth, the discreet defensive enchantments woven into its seams. It was the kind of garment a pure-blood heir might wear.

Harry adjusted his bearing, and in the space of a breath his entire presence changed. Now a tall, slender wizard with a patrician air walked the alley with measured strides. As he crossed into Knockturn Alley, he pulled up the hood, concealing the fall of inky hair and the gleam of green eyes.

This was not his first time wearing this face. Of his disguises, it was one of the most effective: a pure-blood aristocrat, born and bred. It took little more than posture and polish, yet it opened doors and silenced questions.

Speech like the Malfoys—flowing, theatrical, poetic—he could never manage. But the posture of a pure-blood noble? That, someone had once drilled into him for long, patient hours. That came easily.

His first priority was the wand. He couldn’t rely on wandless magic forever. In a shadowy little shop, he found one that sat comfortably in his hand. The proprietor, a sly-smiling wizard, presided over an atmosphere thick with blood and menace. Harry tested the wand with several “harmless” spells, then—wand tip at the man’s throat—requested that any enchantments clinging to it be scrubbed clean.

Turning the corner toward Borgin and Burkes, a glint of platinum caught his eye. He paused, turning his head.

Down a side alley, three hooded figures had cornered a boy. Pale already, the youth’s face was chalk-white now, his hood knocked back to reveal sharp features set in brittle fear. He clutched something to his chest as if it were life itself.

Harry’s brows rose. Slowly, his mouth curved.

“Draco Malfoy?”

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy had never braved Knockturn Alley alone. In the past, his father’s presence—or at least a family retainer—had been shield enough to keep trouble at bay.

This time he had tried to pass unnoticed, hood drawn, steps measured. But the moment three cloaked figures fanned out before him, hemming him in like wolves circling prey, his disguise faltered. A pale strand of hair, the cut of fine robes, the flash of a signet ring—just enough to betray him.

And then the recognition dawned in their hungry eyes.

Foolish, Draco thought, a curl of dread tightening in his stomach. If he hadn’t come alone, if he hadn’t been careless, they would never have seen through him. Now his name—his father’s name—was a target painted on his back.

Still, he forced his spine straight, his face composed into aristocratic ice, even as unease prickled cold beneath his skin.

He forced calm into his voice.
“Gentlemen. To what do I owe this… attention?”

“Well, well. Little Malfoy doesn’t need to be polite with the likes of us, does he?” one of them drawled, his tone thick with mockery.

“Funny,” sneered the burly one, “I don’t see your father. Nor his lapdogs. Not quite safe for a little Malfoy to be strolling about alone, is it?”

The third wizard said nothing, idly tapping his wand against his palm. A faint, menacing green glow pulsed at the tip.

Draco’s lips pressed thin. They knew exactly who he was. Was this deliberate, aimed at wringing promises or trinkets out of Malfoy hands? Or mere chance? Why were they so unafraid of retaliation? Unless… unless they already knew what he carried. A cold weight settled in his stomach.

The truth was unavoidable: the name Malfoy no longer commanded the same fear. Not after the debacle at the Department of Mysteries, where Lucius Malfoy had been seen, if not convicted. Aurors might call it “temporary detainment,” but the taint was indelible.

Hyenas, Draco thought bitterly. Hungry for the first bite of fallen prey.

“Forgive me,” he said at last, his tone languid, mocking even, “I came only to make a few small purchases. Hardly dressed for… hospitality. This alley is hardly fit for guests.”

“Oh, listen to that! Hospitality!” the tall wizard laughed, voice sharp and ugly. “Are we invited, then? To the grand Malfoy manor? Careful—our boots might stain the silver floors.”

“Invited? Him?” the burly one scoffed. “His father would throw him out before he offered us tea. No, no—we’ll settle for something simpler. A trinket, a talisman. That amulet you’ve tucked away. Or maybe just a pouch of galleons to amuse us.”

“Or,” said the silent one at last, eyes locked on Draco’s hand, “that ring. Fine work. Family crest, isn’t it?”

Draco’s smile was thin as glass.
“Worthless baubles, really. If such trifles would amuse you, the Malfoys would hardly begrudge it. But the ring—” he flexed his fingers deliberately, “—is not negotiable.”

“That will do,” the tall wizard hissed. “But you know, we’ve just remembered something better.”

Three wands snapped up, tips flaring.
“What we need,” he snarled, “is a live target. For practice. Cruc—”

Draco braced himself, jaw tight.
Malfoys did not cower.

But the curse never landed.

The three men froze mid-gesture, wild glee still etched on their faces—but their eyes wide with terror. Their bodies locked in place, like grotesque statues carved of flesh.

Click. Click. Footsteps echoed down the alley, slow, measured, deliberate. Power pressed in, heavy as iron, unmistakable as a predator’s gaze fixing on its prey. Though the weight of it was not turned on him, Draco’s breath still caught in his throat.

Out of the shadowed curve of the street emerged a wizard clad in rich black robes, walking as though the alley itself parted for him. Dragonhide boots struck the cobblestones without hurry. His wand tapped rhythmically against his palm; his mouth curved in an easy smile.

“Forgive me. Am I late?” He tipped back his hood, revealing green eyes, calm and assured, as if greeting an acquaintance rather than intruding on an ambush. “Kept you waiting, perhaps? My apologies. Knockturn does have its share of obstacles.”

Draco managed a laugh, dry and brittle.
“No, sir. Not late at all. As you can see—I am still in one piece.”

“Then I must be early,” the newcomer said lightly. “Shall we find somewhere… more pleasant? Good food, decent scenery?”

“An honor.” Draco inclined his head, adopting a mask of ease, and stepped forward first—placing his back to the stranger. A concession, and a gamble. Yet what choice did he have?

“Oh, and one more thing.” At the edge of the alley, the man tossed the words back, almost carelessly. “They’ll come round in half an hour. Don’t fret, silent hexes never last.”

The three would-be predators stood frozen, pallid with sweat, locked in grotesque poses by a silent spell they could neither break nor even begin to counter. Few wizards could manage such magic—fewer still with this kind of force.

They had thought they were cornering a vulnerable heir, easy prey. Instead, they had blundered headlong into a reminder of what the Malfoy name still commanded.

Whatever this newcomer was—ally, patron, or something far darker—they understood only one thing: they had no idea who they had dared to cross.

Chapter Text

Harry had no intention of stepping in for Draco Malfoy—yet Lucius had once been his comrade, a fellow Death Eater. A hateful colleague,

The boy before him had inherited his father’s sharp smile, but without the weight behind it. Pride without power. Arrogance without the fangs to defend it.

In Harry’s own world, Draco had angled for a Dark Mark but was rarely entrusted with anything serious. Too low in the ranks to matter. Harry had hardly paid him any attention after childhood; he’d lost the instinctive enmity of school days.

If anything, Draco had once been a door through which he’d met people he would never otherwise have known.

Harry shook the thought away, following the boy back through Knockturn Alley to a discreet restaurant tucked at the end of a side street.

The place was understated elegance—rich leather booths spaced with deliberate care, the air woven with privacy charms and anti-eavesdropping wards. Malfoy turf. Just as there had been a Malfoy compartment on the Hogwarts Express, here was a Malfoy table in the city. A public setting masquerading as private dominion.

Draco moved with the assurance of someone who had done this many times. The staff barely asked before leading them to a secluded corner booth.

After a courteous nod from Draco, Harry gestured indifferently. “Order whatever you like. I’m not particular.”

A faint glance from the boy. “As you wish.”

Harry’s eyes wandered over the chandeliers, the silver inlay on the booths. “Didn’t expect to find a place like this in Knockturn Alley. My thanks for the invitation, heir of Malfoy.”

“It is I who should thank you, sir,” Draco replied smoothly. “You relieved me of a rather… undignified predicament. Forgive me, but I’ve never seen you here before. With your strength, my family would not have overlooked the chance to make your acquaintance. Do you know my father?”

Harry’s answer came with practiced ease. “In passing. I’ve been in the German magical world until recently. Britain’s… not my usual ground.” The lie rolled off his tongue without effort. Time with Grindelwald had given him more than a little truth to lean on.

“I see.” Draco inclined his head, polite but probing. “I am grateful for your intervention. Within what resources I can offer, I would repay the debt. Yet before you accept, you might wish to understand… Britain’s situation is peculiar.”

The server reappeared, setting down their drinks before vanishing discreetly. A dark, aromatic coffee laced faintly with brandy filled Harry’s cup.

He lifted it, inhaled, and took a leisurely sip. Smooth, warm, with a bite beneath. He let it roll over his tongue like it might be water.

Draco arched a pale brow. “You drink so easily. Aren’t you concerned I might have had something slipped into it?”

Harry chuckled, low and careless. “If you’d tried, I’d have tasted it. I spent years with companions who could brew venom into tea leaves and make it smell like roses. I’ve studied more poisons than I care to count. You’d have to be far more inventive to trouble me, Malfoy.”

A flicker of admiration crossed the boy’s face before his mask reset.

“Then you understand why I say this,” Draco continued. Platinum hair fell across one eye as he leaned back, the picture of aristocratic ease. “In this country, one does not stand in the middle. Names carry weight. Allegiances are watched. If you accept a Malfoy’s gratitude, people will speculate where you stand.”

Harry reached across the table without warning, tapping two fingers lightly against the sleeve covering Draco’s forearm, eyes glinting with amusement. “And what would they speculate, exactly?”

Draco froze for a breath, then lifted his cup with deliberate calm, sleeve sliding back to reveal unmarked skin. “That you understand enough. Which is all that matters.”

Harry laughed, quiet and sharp. “This drink is thanks enough. I don’t need payment.”

“My father always said,” Draco replied, voice even but eyes sharp, “that the cheapest favors are always the most expensive.”

Harry tilted his head, weighing the boy’s words. He had no interest in planting suspicions, no need for complications. “Then let’s keep it simple. Show me a few good restaurants, keep me from wasting time on places that serve slop. That’s repayment enough.”

Draco’s gaze lingered on him, startled for just a heartbeat. Then he inclined his head, lips curving into something more genuine. “An arrangement, then. Draco Malfoy. It is an honor.” He extended a hand.

Harry clasped it, and memory stabbed sharp: eleven years old, Diagon Alley, the same pale hand extended. He had refused it then.

Maybe this time, he thought, he could try something different.

“Seibal Barniz,” he said. “Seibal will do.”

“Barniz…” Draco echoed, brows furrowing. “A rare name. German, perhaps?”

Harry’s smile turned sly. “Rare, yes. Because it’s false. Friendship with me isn’t won so easily.”

Draco blinked, then surprised himself by laughing. Not offended—challenged. Intrigued.

Conversation shifted to lighter matters—restaurants worth visiting, dishes to avoid, sly asides into politics neither wished to name. For a time, there was sunlight, peace, good coffee. A holiday, Harry thought. Exactly the kind he’d imagined.

Outside, though, Knockturn Alley was still itself.

A man hurried past the restaurant with quick, restless strides, a chain glinting between his fingers. A pendant, emerald light catching as it swung.

Passing the corner restaurant, his gaze swept the room almost idly. A familiar shock of platinum hair drew his eye first, and he almost looked away again—only to freeze.

here, across from Malfoy, sat a young man he had not expected to see.

The wizard’s violet eyes widened, surprise breaking clean across his face.

Chapter Text

The coffee was unexpectedly good—and Draco Malfoy, Harry had to admit, could be disarmingly pleasant company when he chose to be. The two of them had drifted into easy conversation, the afternoon sun spilling through the windows while gossip and minor intrigues of the pure-blood world filled the silence between sips.

Harry leaned back, long legs stretched, and let himself enjoy the rare lull. When Draco finished a story, Harry tilted his head.
“I won’t ask why you were in Knockturn Alley alone,” he said lightly. “But doesn’t your family worry when you disappear for so long?”

“My mother would have guessed,” Draco said smoothly, pride flickering across his features. “She usually does. But they give me freedom. A Malfoy heir must learn to stand on his own.”

Harry tilted his head. “Sounds like good parents.”

“I hope they’ll have reason to be proud,” Draco replied quietly, for once without the mask of arrogance.

Just then, a ripple of unfamiliar magic brushed through the room. Harry’s eyes flicked toward the street outside. A tall wizard in dark green robes passed by, idly spinning a pendant between his fingers—a silver chain tipped with a sharp emerald. He moved quickly on, vanishing into the crowd.

Harry narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

He turned back, unbothered, and slipped a pair of rimless spectacles from his pocket, letting the amethyst on its chain catch the light.

“Seibal, you wear spectacles?” Draco asked, genuinely curious. “With potions and charms available, it’s… unusual.”

“There’s a touch of enchantment in them,” Harry answered mildly. “Nothing more.” He tapped the glass with one finger and changed the subject. “You mentioned some recent developments in potions?”

“Britain is fortunate,” Draco said, voice shaded with admiration. “Professor Snape is unmatched. He’s brought the Association ideas no one else dared to test. He’s more than our best teacher—he’s our master of invention.”

Harry allowed a small smile. “Yes. That sounds like him.”

They drifted from potions to alchemy, from gossip to policy, until Harry flicked a casual rune in the air to check the time. His brows rose. “So late already? I’ve things to settle—papers, permits, the Ministry always finds something. I hope I haven’t kept you too long.”

“On the contrary,” Draco replied, standing as well, “it has been a rewarding afternoon.”

“Pleasant company makes time run faster.” Harry reached into his pocket, transfigured a trinket into a slim silver ring, and slid it across the table. “If you ever need to reach me—tie this to an owl’s leg. As long as I’m in Britain, it will find me.”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly. Not a vague promise, not a dismissal—but a token, discreet yet binding. “Then I’ll be certain to use it. And perhaps we’ll meet again soon.”

“Perhaps.” Harry smiled, lifted his hood, and with a ripple of glamour melted into the street.

But he did not turn toward the Ministry. Instead, he slipped into narrower lanes, weaving through Diagon Alley until the crowd thinned, then thinner still, until he found a pocket of quiet wedged between two old houses.

A lone wizard leaned against the wall there, feigning rest. His wand, however, was angled—deliberately, unwaveringly—at Harry. In his other hand glimmered the emerald pendant Harry had glimpsed earlier.

Harry’s wand was in his hand before a heartbeat passed, emerald-green eyes narrowing, his voice calm yet edged with threat. “Apologies, sir. You give me a very poor feeling. Kindly lower the hood?”

The man obliged with a shrug, slipping the cloak back over his arm, wand still loosely hidden beneath. Tall, striking, with sharp features, a head of thick black hair, and sun-bronzed skin, he looked as though he had stepped from the cover of a wizarding magazine. His violet eyes fixed on Harry, scrutinizing, intent.

Harry’s lips curved. “Well. That’s interesting.”

The stranger’s mouth quirked. “Unfriendly of me, isn’t it?” His tone was smooth, magnetic, the kind of voice that could make witches swoon if he cared to use it that way. “Terral Y Proth. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Seibal Barniz,” Harry returned easily.

“Mm. As I have said, the alias could hardly be more transparent. Pray, how is one to believe that a wizard who journeyed from Germany to Britain should bear a Spanish name?” The man chuckled. “Not very subtle.”

“Coming from you?” Harry’s smirk sharpened. “Proth isn’t even a word.”

The stranger’s wand lowered by a fraction.

A silence fell. The two of them locked eyes, and then—under Harry’s gaze—the man slowly raised the emerald pendant in his hand.

The pendant between the man’s fingers pulsed once, faint green light answering the amethyst charm Harry still carried. Their eyes locked, the same realization crashing down on them.

His gaze searched Harry’s face. “…Potter?”

“…Zabini?”

Their eyes widened, shock mirrored.

“You really are Blaise? Merlin, how could you possibly be here?” Harry whispered, stunned. “Only you would use some ridiculous alias.”

“And you,” Blaise retorted, “with a false name that practically screams ‘hidden identity.’ Barniz—‘to cover.’ Seibal—‘a cipher.’ Subtle as a Bludger to the head. How many times have I told you, stop announcing yourself by surname?”

Harry huffed, lowering his wand at last. “It doesn’t matter. That alias was built out of your name anyway. No one would ever link it to me.”

Blaise gave a sardonic smile. “As it happens, mine was built out of yours. Terral Y Proth—twisted, but it fits. You of all people should recognize it.”

Harry huffed a mirthless laugh. “Only you would twist my name into something that ridiculous.”

Their wands lowered, slowly. The impossible truth stood between them. Two men who should have been separated forever by the Veil were staring at each other, alive.

Blaise gave a soft laugh. His eyes flicked to the pendant. “Good to see you still carry it.”

Harry’s expression softened. “It fell with me through the Veil. But I thought it would never respond again.”

Blaise stepped forward, pendant clutched tight, and placed a steady hand on Harry’s arm. His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. “Then it’s true. You survived. For that, I’m grateful.”

Harry met his eyes, steady at last. “So am I.”

Chapter Text

Whether to exchange information or for any other purpose, Knockturn Alley was hardly the place. Harry had rented a room upstairs at the Leaky Cauldron under a false name, and with the Invisibility Cloak he smuggled Blaise inside.

Once through the door, they moved with the same practiced instinct—layering detection charms, anti-eavesdropping wards, counter-curses—before settling in. One sat upright in the armchair, the other lounged across the bed. Different postures, yet the impression was uncannily alike. Years of quiet training had left its echo.

So, in a quiet room above the Leaky Cauldron, Harry Potter and Blaise Zabini regarded each other with matching, insincere smiles, eyes sharp with appraisal.

“Your manners are still passable. At least my time teaching you wasn’t entirely wasted.” Blaise finally inclined his head with mock solemnity, as though bestowing judgment.

“Looks like I learned well, didn’t I?”Harry, seated primly in the chair, mirrored him on purpose—an aristocrat’s dip of the chin, a thin smile polished to irony.

Blaise’s smile softened into something like a sigh.

“I’ll admit, I’m grateful. I never thought the next time we’d meet would be here,” Harry said at last, easing his shoulders. Compared to the war that just ended in his own world, the quiet of this place felt dreamlike, half-forgotten.

In Harry's past experience, once his Mark had been exposed and his cover blown, Blaise Zabini had been one of the very few who chose to stand behind him—even if only from the shadows, without knowing the truth of his double life.

Before that, Harry had hardly noticed him. Just another Slytherin face at Draco Malfoy’s back—hanger-on, cheerleader, little more than a shadow. Even Draco’s hulking bodyguards had made a deeper impression.

It was only after Harry became a true infiltrator—fourth, fifth year, cut off from the school once the Dark Mark burned across his arm—that Blaise sought him out. No explanation, just the demand to “borrow” every spare moment Harry had. The lessons had been relentless: family politics, old-house customs, the unwritten grammar of pure-blood society.

To this day Harry still didn’t know what madness had possessed Blaise. But it had been exactly what he’d needed. A Death Eater who couldn’t read the room, who didn’t know the weight of a bow or the edge of an insult, wouldn’t last long.

Besides, Harry had to glean what he could from the Death Eaters’ cryptic talk—otherwise, what was the point of being undercover at all?

Blaise had made sure he did. For that, Harry remained grateful.

And when the war escalated, when the Zabini family declared neutrality—a dangerous stance even for them—Harry had known they’d need more than Mrs. Zabini’s charm to survive. Information delayed could be fatal. So he and Blaise struck their bargain: mocking aliases, secret codes, and an alchemical pendant for their private exchanges.

Harry fed them warnings where he could, and Blaise repaid him in the coin of the drawing rooms—gossip, alliances, whispers dressed in etiquette.

It had been enough to keep them both alive.

As the war reached its most desperate stage, clashes between the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix grew constant. Under the mask of Phoenix, Harry was often forced to lead squads into brutal engagements, while Voldemort steadily “tightened” his leash—strengthening the Imperius, sharpening every curse that bound him.

Harry had to endure layer upon layer of the Dark Lord’s control, anticipate Voldemort’s whims, funnel intelligence to the Order, and still find ways to bend missions so fewer innocents were slaughtered. He was stretched thin, burned from every side. There was no space—no strength left—to meet with Blaise, and he would not risk dragging a neutral family into the fire. Their last contact had been short, Harry warning him to leave Britain altogether, as far as possible. After that, silence.

“I never realized… the school’s little savior was you all along.” Blaise’s violet eyes flicked over him casually. He could tell from Harry’s still face, the way his gaze sank inward, that his thoughts were spinning again, so he broke the silence. “Some thought Harry Potter grew sullen because of Sirius Black, refusing to talk. Turns out the truth is simpler: the Harry Potter here… is actually you. Still no talent for small talk?”

“You know why. Too many things I could never share with anyone.” Harry’s tone was flat. “And I never learned that aristocrats’ tongue of yours—half-true, half-lie. Silence was simpler. I’ve only been here a fortnight myself. I didn’t realize that ‘Blaise Zabini’ was you.”

“That’s natural,” Blaise replied smoothly. “I’ve always kept myself in Draco’s shadow, using the Malfoy glow as cover. I never truly changed how I acted. Didn’t you also find yourself being ‘hidden’ by your own allies?”

“True enough,” Harry admitted after a pause. “But like you, I never tried to play this world’s version of me.”

Their eyes met, suspicion and realization passing between them. The problem revealed itself: they knew each other too well. The fact that neither of them had noticed anything wrong—that was the warning sign.

Harry couldn’t help but look at fifteen-year-old Ron and Hermione with the faint air of an elder humoring younger siblings. His views of Snape and Draco had shifted as well, shaped by the differences he sensed between the two worlds. By that logic, he ought to see fifteen-year-old Zabini—and, from Blaise’s side, the fifteen-year-old savior of the Light—in the same altered light. And yet… he didn’t.

Appearances could be altered with potions or charms, but habits, the weight of lived years, the cadence of a gesture—those were harder to disguise. It was precisely that unshaken familiarity that had fooled them both.

“You were drinking Age-Reducing Potion at school, weren’t you?” Harry asked at last, studying the man before him: tall, well-built, very much an adult. Not the Zabini he’d glimpsed days earlier in the corridors.

“Yes. About five years’ worth, mixed with a touch of Confundus to blur the edges.” Blaise sighed, weary. “Always watching the dose, always dodging prying eyes—it’s exhausting.”

Harry regarded him in silence.

Blaise shot him an amused look, well aware of the old wound he was pressing: Harry’s height had never changed much.

Still, Harry had grown. His frame was wiry but solid, muscle earned through years of battle. His movements carried the speed and precision of someone who had survived too many fights. Yet when he chose to, he could smother that edge completely—fold in his power, soften his posture, add a subtle charm—and for a moment, he could pass as harmless, even ordinary.

“By the way, how did you end up in this world? I thought you’d left the British wizarding world far behind,” Harry asked. “Do you… know how to get back?”

“No. And I never left,” Blaise replied. He grabbed a pillow, sprawled lazily across the bed, utterly unconcerned with Harry’s startled look. “I was there. I saw the Dark Lord’s curse drive you through the Veil. I knew that day might be the last battle—only one side walking away. I knew you’d be there. I arranged for my mother and a few neutral families to be taken to safety, then went straight to the Department of Mysteries.”

“I didn’t see you there,” Harry said evenly. He didn’t press for Blaise’s reasons; he’d offered him a chance to stay out of the war. What Blaise did with it hadn’t been Harry’s to manage—not with everything else on his shoulders.

“That’s thanks to Death Eater robes. Excellent disguises.” Blaise gave a tired shrug. “I wasn’t sure where your loyalties lay, but slipping in under their side gave me easier access to artifacts and information than trying to pass as the Order.”

Harry tapped the heel of his boot against the floor, a steady rhythm betraying his thoughts. “So… you came through the Veil as well? What about this world’s Zabini?” His voice dropped. “And what about Severus Snape? Is he alive there?”

“I… don’t know.”

Harry turned sharply at the raw note in Blaise’s voice. The other man covered his eyes with a hand, gaze skittering away. His words came halting, heavy with confusion.

“Don’t know?” Harry arched a brow, tone quiet.

“Yes. I heard the official story—that this world’s savior vanished with Dumbledore’s consent, needing time to ‘recover from grief.’” Blaise’s mouth twisted. “But I believed the earlier rumor instead: that he went through the Veil, chasing Black. And now, knowing you’re the one they call Harry Potter here… the second version makes more sense.”

He drew a breath, steadying himself. “As for me—I remember the Department of Mysteries. I remember you falling under the Dark Lord’s curse, his body shattering to dust. I was running toward you. Then—” He snapped his fingers. “Nothing. A blink. And I was in the Slytherin dormitory, everyone else asleep, looking fifteen again. No trace of the Zabini who should exist here. That entire stretch between is blank. No matter how I try, I can’t recall it.”

“…All right.” Harry moved closer, resting a hand briefly on Blaise’s shoulder. “Let me think.”

“Thank you. But understand—this world’s Blaise Zabini can’t simply vanish.” Blaise’s voice was low, threaded with something unreadable.

Harry studied him, propping his chin in one hand. “Then let me think carefully. What did you hide? Why would you? Even a clumsy lie, if I can hear it this easily…”

“Occupational hazard?” Blaise muttered, rolling his eyes without heat. “Fine then. What exactly do you think I’m hiding?”

“First,” Harry began evenly, “if you suddenly woke up in a dormitory full of schoolchildren, and the Zabini who ought to have been in that bed was nowhere to be found—wouldn’t the obvious assumption be that he’d gone for a midnight stroll? Or slipped away from school for some other reason? And yet you stepped into his place without hesitation. If this world’s Zabini were to walk back in unexpectedly, how would you explain yourself? That would be difficult to talk your way out of.”

Blaise’s lips curved, intrigued. “Mhm. Fair point. Anything else?”

“Second…” Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why in Merlin’s name would you, of all people, go to the Department of Mysteries knowing the Dark Lord and the Order were about to clash there? The Blaise Zabini I knew was never reckless. Not without another reason.” He tilted his head, dry amusement flickering in his voice. “The only truly brainless thing you ever did was deciding to corner me and ‘educate’ me in how to behave like a proper pure-blood. If you went running into that battle simply to help? That would be the second stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

“And lastly…” Harry reached out, poked Blaise in the ribs, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You once told me there are only two circumstances in which a pure-blood would ever let emotion show so nakedly. First, with family. Second, on the stage. I’ve had firsthand lessons in Zabini family etiquette—‘losing control’ is not in your repertoire. You might feel something about a missing Zabini or a gap in your memory, but to let it bleed through? Not now. Not for that.”

For a long moment Blaise was silent. Then he let out a low chuckle.
“You only ever grow articulate when you’re twisting the knife. Typical.”Blaise murmured with a quiet laugh. The sound carried both relief and something warmer, almost fond.
“If there’s anyone who can find the truth, it’s you.”

Harry snorted. “If I hadn’t been conned by this world’s Snape the moment I arrived, I doubt my so-called ‘professional instincts’ would even be acting up.”

And yet he didn’t believe for a second that Blaise thought such flimsy lines would actually fool him.

Harry stretched out his legs, settling comfortably against the headboard, eyes drifting to Blaise beside him. The other man looked nothing like his earlier “anguished” self—half sprawled across the bed, drowsy, monopolizing most of the mattress with no sign of moving.

This wasn’t deception so much as concealment. A nudge, a lead.

What was it that Blaise couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say outright, but wanted Harry to discover on his own?

Chapter Text

Late into the night, the two traded scraps of intelligence and tentative guesses about their situation, only to admit in the end that neither of them had enough knowledge to explain this crossing of worlds and time. Nor could they predict what ripple effects it might cause—the proverbial butterfly wings.

“Moments like this,” Harry sighed, “make you realize just how little you know—and how much it matters.”

From the bed, Blaise gave a drowsy murmur of assent, half-lost to sleep.

Harry arched a brow, twirling his wand lazily between his fingers. “If you don’t drag yourself back soon, there’ll be another little rumor floating about: ‘Blaise Zabini, found overnight in yet another witch’s bed.’ Care to guess who the lucky lady is this time?”

Unruffled, Blaise smirked as he stretched. “Cathy, Kate… or perhaps someone even more scandalous. Who can say?” Still, he rose and vacated the mattress—Harry had, after all, only booked a single room. “Not that anyone truly cares. My mother certainly doesn’t, at least not at the moment.”

“Suit yourself. If you’re staying, sort it out on your own.” Harry disappeared into the washroom to wash up.

Blaise raked a hand through his hair, too tired to trek home at this hour. With a flick of his wand, the sofa shifted and lengthened, reshaping itself into a neat single bed.

When Harry emerged, toweling his hair, he found a low bed of black and green, carved with subtle patterns and fine woven trim, its posts etched with delicate images. Understated, yet undeniably decadent.

“Purebloods,” Harry muttered under his breath, a small smile tugging at his lips—though he wasn’t sure why.

He pulled down his pillow, slid under the blanket with easy finality, as if Blaise’s choice of lodging arrangement concerned him not in the slightest.

But the word pureblood tugged at something else in his mind. He, too, was technically the last heir of a noble house.

Harry’s thumb brushed over what to others appeared to be nothing more than a faint reddish ring-shaped tattoo on his hand. In his own eyes, however, it shimmered as an old, elegant signet: a square-cut ring with a stag wrought in fine relief, its antlers framed by slender branches. At the center, a flowing P for Potter. The Potter signet ring—one of the few possessions that had crossed the Veil with him.

He remembered turning eighteen, secretly inheriting the ring and the title of Head of House from Gringotts, counting it among the few true advantages he had against Voldemort. Later, during Blaise’s eccentric lessons in noble etiquette and old magic, Harry had stumbled across a half-forgotten charm. What Blaise had tossed off as a mere curiosity, Harry had used to locate the ancestral Potter estate. The spell, of course, acknowledged him as Head of House—the only Potter left to claim it.

If this world’s young Potter also possessed this ring, then his own would likely lose its power—especially considering that Harry has already come of age.

Once, Voldemort’s watchful eyes and the Death Eaters’ scrutiny had kept Harry from seeking out the manor. Now, perhaps, he finally had the chance.

With those thoughts shaping into plans, Harry let himself drift into sleep.

Harry woke to the faint shimmer of wards flaring.
The tripwires he and Blaise had set were pulsing—someone was heading straight for the corner room at the end of the hall.

Judging by the dim grey light through the curtains, it was barely dawn. This wasn’t breakfast service. Whoever it was, they weren’t coming with good intentions.

Harry slipped soundlessly out of bed, wand in hand, ready to ambush from behind the door—when Blaise suddenly rolled across the mattress, hooking an arm around his neck and dragging him back down.

Harry stiffened as Blaise pressed close, burying his face between Harry’s shoulder blades, an arm looped lazily across his chest as if they’d spent the night entwined.

Warm breath on the back of his neck raised gooseflesh. His wand stayed steady, but he muttered through clenched teeth, “What the hell are you—”

“Cover,” Blaise breathed, low and quick.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a wizard. Why not use a spell?”

Blaise’s lips curved against his shoulder, amusement curling in his voice. “Because sometimes the Muggle way is faster. Simpler. Convenient.” He gave a quiet chuckle. “Isn’t that what you taught me?”

The door burst open with a sharp Alohomora, forced wide by brute strength. Wood banged against the wall, rattling. A dark figure stepped in, wand raised, sweeping into the gloom like a thundercloud.

“POTTER!” The snarl was unmistakable. “Where in Merlin’s name—” Snape froze mid-roar, eyes catching the tangled outline on the bed. His expression twisted with disgust. “Of course. Why am I not surprised.”

Harry, sprawled but still armed, lifted his head, voice dry as ash. “Morning to you too, Professor. Always a pleasure.”

“Pleasure?” Snape’s tone dropped to lethal calm, rage simmering beneath. “Do you have any idea why I waste my nights hunting down a wayward savior instead of attending to my own work? And to find you—” He cut himself off with a sharp hiss, turning his gaze away as if the sight itself scorched him.

“Merlin forbid you actually look me in the eye.” Harry’s sarcasm dripped like venom. “So what’s worse, Severus? Losing sleep—or finding out your ‘missing student’ hasn’t been eaten alive after all?”

The two of them collided instantly, words like curses, each barb perfectly honed. For a moment the shabby room felt charged, ready to ignite.

On the bed, Blaise smothered a laugh against Harry’s shoulder. His voice was a velvet murmur: “Darling, I think he means this scene. You, me, one bed…”

Harry blinked once, then shoved back with an elbow, exasperated. “You bloody planned that.”

“Mmh. Effective, wasn’t it?” Blaise drawled, stretching out languidly, his grin sinful in the half-light.

Harry’s voice went flat. “Keep it up, and I’ll hex you senseless.”

Snape’s patience finally snapped. “ENOUGH.” Veins stood out against his temple. “I do not care what sordid entanglements you’ve acquired, Potter. Spare me every sordid detail. Come. NOW.”

The command brooked no argument. With a sharp flick of his wand Snape sealed a Silencing Charm over the room, his black eyes glittering with contempt as they locked on Harry.

Harry rose without hurry, slipping from Blaise’s grip. He shot a last withering glare at the other wizard—who had the gall to lounge back and wave pleasantly at him—before following Snape into the corridor, the door slamming shut behind.

“Headmaster Dumbledore is looking for me?” Harry cut straight in, hoping to avoid needless detours.

“Yes.” Snape’s tone was flat, cold. “Your beloved Headmaster has dispatched me to hunt down the missing Boy Who Lived and deposit him back with his delightful Muggle relatives.”

“My relatives? You mean the Dursleys? No. Absolutely not.” Harry hadn’t expected that to be the reason—and refused at once.

“Don’t tell me—” Snape drawled, as if the notion were unthinkable, “no one has ever explained to you about the blood protection charm?”

“I know about it,” Harry said evenly. “And I don’t need it. Which means I’m not going.”

“Ah. Of course.” Snape’s mouth twisted. “The great, world-saving Potter considers himself strong enough to roam about as he pleases during holidays, perfectly capable of guarding his own precious hide.”

“I can protect myself,” Harry answered coolly. “Unless I’m volunteering to be their unpaid house-elf or reliving child labor, there’s nothing for me at Privet Drive. And don’t fool yourself—the so-called protection there does nothing for me now.”

“Child labor?” Snape sneered. “You squander other people’s time and effort, forcing resources to split—half searching for the missing savior, half keeping him alive despite his own carelessness.”

He stepped closer, eyes sharp as blades. “That protection runs through your veins, Potter. It holds until the day you die. If staying inside its reach could guarantee your survival, why can’t you remain in one place—quiet—for even a single minute?”

Harry’s expression did not shift. “That protection shattered when I was fourteen. Shattered completely.” His tone was flat, final. With a flick of his hand he commanded,“Harry Potter’s trunk—Accio.”

The small case shot out from within the room—Blaise had vanished, likely slipped away unnoticed—and landed neatly in Harry’s grasp.

Before Severus Snape could shape another word, still stunned by the admission, Harry twisted on the spot and Disapparated with a sharp crack—gone as though fleeing something unseen, leaving only the echo of departure hanging in the air.

✦✧✦

“Brilliant. Well done, Potter,” Harry muttered to himself, slouched against his trunk on some nameless Muggle street. Overhead, the sky was dull and gray. “You left Snape raging behind you and bolted like a sulky fifth-year.”

He didn’t like the word fled. But there it was.

“I should’ve handled it better,” he admitted under his breath. “I’m not a schoolboy anymore. And what exactly is there to be ashamed of with Snape? Or afraid of?” His gaze hardened, the answer pressing forward unbidden. “It wasn’t him I couldn’t face.”

The memory was all fire and scarlet eyes: Voldemort’s delight when the blood wards shattered, the crushing grip around his hand, the invasion that burned through his soul. “I didn’t resist the Imperius,” Harry said quietly, as though confessing to an invisible confessor. “Not really. I survived it because something broke—and because someone else paid the price.”

That shattering had left him changed. No Imperius, no mind-curse since had bitten deep. He carried the immunity like an unwanted gift.

“And the echo,” he added, shaking his head, “the sound that shouldn’t exist—like the wards themselves were still screaming.”

He was still murmuring when he felt it: a stare, hot but not hostile. His eyes lifted, finding a ragged man at the edge of the crowd. Filthy rags, hair like straw, skin caked with grime—he stank so badly that Muggles instinctively gave him a wide berth. Yet his spine was straight, and his eyes—storm-grey, locked on Harry with raw joy, as if Harry Potter were the axis of his entire world.

“…Really?” Harry exhaled. “What did this Harry Potter do? Save you? Drop a pile of gold in your lap?” He had no interest in being dragged into stray loyalties.

Decision made, he turned down a side alley and whispered the spell for Apparition, focusing hard on the coordinates of the old Potter estate. But the man lunged—hands like claws fastening on his trunk.

Harry’s stomach lurched. “Bloody hell!” He forced a surge of magic through the spell, dragging the stowaway with him rather than risk Splinching them both.

The world snapped back. He barely registered the quiet grove and the looming gates before checking the man clinging to his trunk. Limbs intact. Breathing. Eyes still blazing with that desperate recognition.

“Merlin’s sake…” Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “Now I understand why Snape keeps shouting at me not to play games with my life.”

He steadied his wand. “Look—I don’t know why you grabbed my luggage. But I’ll Obliviate you and send you back where you came from. Fair trade, considering you almost lost a leg.”

Instead, the man released the trunk at once. His filthy fingers slid instead into Harry’s robes, clutching tight.

Harry blinked. Up close, he saw the man was taller than him, shoulders still broad despite the wasted frame. His bearing—straight-backed, deliberate—didn’t fit the image of a derelict at all.

The stranger noticed Harry’s scrutiny. His cracked lips pulled into something that might have been a smile. “Ha… Harry… Harry… Po—” His voice rasped to breaking, dry as sandpaper.

Harry’s brows drew together. “You know my name?”

A pulse of faint magic brushed his senses, weak but undeniable. A wizard, then—but broken somehow, mind unsteady.

“Fine,” Harry muttered. “You stay quiet. I’ll decide later what to do with you.”

He turned—and stopped. The fog thinned to reveal ancient gates, and beyond them, the faint silhouette of a manor. On the path ahead, a house-elf stood trembling, wide eyes overflowing with tears, fixed on the ring gleaming faintly at Harry’s thumb.

The Potter crest, the stag wreathed in branches, caught the light.

Whatever else had just happened—the Potter estate was finally before him.

Chapter Text

“It is—an honor, Master Potter! I am Sissy!” The house-elf bent so low her nose nearly scraped the floor.

“Hello, Sissy. I’m Harry—Harry Potter.” He inclined his head politely. “Is there anyone else here in the manor besides you?”

Sissy sniffled hard, her tennis-ball eyes brimming with tears. “I am sorry, Master. I am the only elf left in the Potter estate. The wards were sealed for so long… without a steady well of magic, the other elves withered and died.”

Harry softened his tone. “It’s all right. Tell me about the manor.”

Sissy launched into a torrent of history and details, her fervor reminding Harry uncomfortably of Bellatrix rhapsodizing before the Dark Lord—or, in lighter times, of Colin Creevey trailing him with a Muggle camera at school.

All the while, Harry kept half an eye on the man who had all but smuggled himself through Apparition clinging to Harry’s trunk. The stranger loitered a few paces away, gaze drifting in and out of focus, his mind clearly damaged. That much was obvious: no rational wizard would have risked splinching himself by grabbing a moving trunk mid-Apparition. Yet compared to that desperate act, the man was quiet now, his gaunt frame folded in on itself, steel-gray eyes peering curiously from behind a snarl of filthy hair.

And Sissy would not stop talking.
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wondering if he might be left standing at the threshold until the end of days. The elf was so carried away by the manor’s reopening that she seemed to have forgotten basic courtesy—until the vagrant wizard abruptly dropped to the floor with no ceremony at all. That, oddly enough, jolted Sissy back to herself.

“Master, Master! Sissy let Master stand at the door—Sissy is wicked! Sissy must punish herself!” The elf shrieked and began slamming her head into the wall, each crack reverberating in Harry’s skull.

“Stop! Enough.” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip. The elf froze mid-movement, limbs locked. “Listen to me—Sissy, call me Harry. Just Harry. I’m grateful you’re here. If the manor truly has only you left, then I’ll need your help. But you help me best by staying steady, not by punishing yourself. Do you understand? It unsettles me.” He hesitated, wary of sounding harsh, but the last thing he wanted was an elf driven into hysterics every time she breathed wrong in his presence.

“Yes! Harry, Master Harry!” Sissy wrung the edge of her immaculate pillowcase, where an embroidered P had been worn into a crooked lightning-bolt shape. “Sissy has a good Master—Master said her name! Sissy… Sissy nearly troubled Master again!” She stood rigid, twitching, caught between the urge to self-punish and the command that restrained her.

Harry raised a calming hand. “That’s enough. Now, could you take this gentleman to get something to eat, a bath, and clean clothes?” He gestured at the dazed wizard.

Delighted at a clear order, Sissy bobbed fervent bows and scurried toward the stranger. The man’s bleary gaze flicked between elf and wizard, then, surprisingly docile, he hauled himself upright and shuffled after her down the hall.

Only when their footsteps faded did Harry exhale in relief.

He stepped across the threshold of the Potter estate.

Compared with the Malfoy manor—vast, gilded, ostentatiously designed to impress—the Potter estate felt almost modest. It resembled less a lordly manor and more the sort of country retreat an old family might maintain for solitude. Its design leaned toward comfort and quiet refinement rather than gaudy display.

Pale walls, elegant furnishings with understated detail, soft rugs in every chamber, harmless magical curios tucked neatly in corners—the entire place radiated a sense of peace, unthreatening, unassuming. And yet, Harry’s eyes caught on certain artifacts so ancient that even Dumbledore might not have recognized their function, on ward-lines woven into the very bones of the house. This was no forgotten cottage; it was one of the rare estates that had weathered centuries intact.

Though absent from the official rolls of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—Potters had always leaned toward Muggle sympathies—the family’s depth ran far older and stronger than most could guess.

The grounds, however, were anything but modest. Harry pushed open the tall windows to see meadow rolling out toward forest, wildflowers and grasses untamed, magical creatures grazing freely under the sun. In the distance, the slant of glass revealed a greenhouse—the herb gardens still lived.

Sissy had explained that the estate had sealed itself generations ago, when its last master died. Since then, only the one who inherited the family ring could break the wards. To everyone else, the place was nothing more than empty land. The Potters who later settled in Godric’s Hollow knew the estate existed but could never find it.

Harry made a mental note: one day, when boredom pressed, he’d unravel the reason for that long dormancy.

In the meantime, isolation had starved the elves. No one truly understood how house-elves came to be, but without a master the old ones had wasted away. Only Sissy—barely a few decades born—remained.

And she had done her part. Young as she was, the elf had kept the manor neat, livable, and warm.

That was what mattered to Harry most: the estate’s secrecy. Hidden for so long, unknown to nearly all, unfindable without invitation. And now the only Potter alive to extend that invitation… was him.

“Well then,” Harry murmured, half amused, “the goal is simple—stay out of the war, get some peace. At the very least, no more of Sev—Snape blowing through doors to drag me off.”

Whether he could ever truly disentangle himself from war was another matter. But he was not fool enough to stride back into the heart of wizarding Britain, raising a banner and shouting about salvation.

Fatigue rooted itself in his bones, with no cause he could name. For now, all he wanted was a corner of the world to breathe, to rest.

Harry was studying a peculiar device mounted over the hearth when the side door to the sitting room swung open.

Sissy came bustling in, beaming, a tray of sandwiches balanced in her hands while a teapot and cups floated obediently at her side. Behind her followed another figure. He pushed the door with unhurried ease: clean clothes, damp curls brushing his shoulders, deep grey eyes startlingly clear.

Though gaunt and skeletal still, he carried a trace of the man he must once have been—handsome, sharp, almost dashing.

Harry frowned, the sense of familiarity prickling.

It took him a moment to drag the memory up from the edges of thought—yes. The man he’d hauled, half-conscious, out of the Veil.

“You are…” Harry narrowed his eyes, weighing fragments of rumor and deduction. “Sirius Black?”

It fit—Black had fallen through the Veil, and Harry had dragged someone out. Days later, whispers spread among Muggles of a “mad killer” wandering London streets. If this was Black, then his broken wits could be explained by the Veil’s pull… or by too many years in Azkaban, gnawed hollow by Dementors.

But another question pressed in. If his mind was so frayed, how had he slipped out of the Department of Mysteries alive? Harry had left him where he fell. By rights the Aurors should have found him, dragged him straight to a cell. Instead he’d staggered free, only to collide with Harry Potter again by sheer chance.

A thought surfaced—Harry remembered overhearing Lupin in a weary midnight conversation, or perhaps Wormtail bragging—something about Sirius Black and his Animagus form…

The man tilted his head at Harry’s question, as if testing the shape of the words, then gave the slowest of nods.

“So. Let’s suppose you are Black.” Harry kept his voice even, probing. “Do you remember what happened after you woke? After I pulled you back?”

The man rocked his head from side to side. Useless.

“I mean,” Harry pressed, “how did you get out of the Ministry?”

Sirius furrowed his brow, strained, and then looked back at Harry with raw frustration. He opened his mouth—

“Woof.”

Harry blinked. “…What?”

“Woof!”

A silence stretched.

Harry dragged a hand down his face. “Merlin save me.”

The man grinned lopsidedly, and in the next instant his body shuddered. Bones twisted; his frame folded and reshaped with a crack of magic. Fur spilled across his skin, his hands collapsed into paws. In heartbeats, the ragged man was gone, replaced by a shaggy black dog, bear-sized, tail thumping against the rug.

The dog bounded a circle around Harry, eyes wide and wet with simple joy.

“Wonderful,” Harry muttered, rubbing his face again.

He ought to throw the doggy out of the estate. And yet… Sirius Black was the only other soul he knew to crawl back from beyond the Veil, however clumsily.

That made him priceless. However fragile the man might be.

And another detail: the Black family was empty now. No brothers, no cousins close enough. In every world Harry knew, Sirius Black was the last of his line.
Tossing him out would mean casting him adrift with nowhere to go—and Merlin knew if Harry would ever find a third soul who had walked back through the Veil.

Oh, and Blaise had come through the Veil too—though Harry stayed cautious about what Blaise let slip.

Harry drew a long breath, steadying his tone into something wry, deliberate. “Well then. Welcome home.”

Chapter Text

Beneath the wide shadow of an old oak on the Potter estate’s rolling meadow, a young wizard lounged in a cushioned deck chair. Black hair tousled by the breeze, Harry slouched lazily with an ancient, yellow-edged tome in hand. His vivid green eyes, however, were not on the page but fixed absently on the far horizon.

A unicorn stepped lightly from the treeline—its coat pure as fresh snow, movements graceful as water. Unicorns had grown familiar here; Harry often glimpsed them wandering the meadow from the manor windows. It seemed that during the manor’s decades of seclusion, a herd had claimed these grounds as their private sanctuary.

Today, as a young unicorn trotted out on its habitual stroll, a hulking black dog—massive as a bear cub—burst from the brush, snarling, teeth bared, barking with feral intensity. The unicorn bolted, vanishing back into the trees in a flash of silver-white. The dog, however, only cocked its head, tail wagging with an almost comical friendliness.

“Padfoot,” Harry called.

At once the dog abandoned its posturing, bounding toward him with eager yelps, eyes bright and fixed on Harry as if nothing else in the world mattered.

“Scared your playmate off, did you?” Harry murmured, half amused, scratching firmly along the dog’s ribs and shoulders. In the few days since he had dragged Sirius Black, the man’s health had improved considerably. Harry was no healer, but he could see that malnutrition and exhaustion had been the chief ailments. For those, he had conscripted Sissy, the elf, who all but vibrated with zeal at having work to do for her master. Under her tireless care, Sirius had begun to recover.

The great dog gave a soft whuff, tail sweeping against Harry’s shin with simple, animal contentment.

Harry’s grin was quick and unguarded. He rubbed hard at the shaggy head. “Go on then. Supper soon.”

Padfoot sprang away, bounding into the wildflowers with an exuberance that belied his gaunt frame.

Harry’s gaze drifted back to the open book on his lap—a dense text on soulcraft and fractured spirits. He calculated silently: once Sirius’s strength returned, he would have to attempt some manner of mental repair. Sirius rarely held human form for long. Harry could not decide whether that was instinctive self-preservation—a mind retreating into Animagus form to blunt the weight of thought—or simply the first sign that Sirius’s humanity was slipping away entirely.

What Harry knew of the soul, he had learned at Voldemort’s side. The Dark Lord had hoarded every scrap of lore he could lay his hands on: horcruxes, rites of prolonging life, obscure treatises on spirit and shade. Those he could not obtain, he destroyed. No Death Eater ever entered the Dark Lord’s study without summons—except for Phoenix, the one under Imperius.

After all, Harry himself had been a horcrux. Wasn’t it only natural, in Voldemort’s twisted logic, to keep him in the safest place of all—caged beside Nagini?

He went undercover to hunt the secret of Voldemort’s survival and, in the end, found the countermeasure. The spell he used to finish it—Horcrux Revertantur—was born of that research. In essence it is a curative charm, meant to restore what was sundered. Harry did not apply it gently or in stages; he forced decades-split fragments back onto the primary soul in one violent surge. The shards slammed together, repelled and tore, and Voldemort’s soul sheared apart on the spot.

It was, without question, the most reading he had done in his life. Most of those texts were written in antique tongues he could only half-guess at, and a few journals were in Parseltongue; he had to grind through them in secret, line by line.

Now that Potter Manor was open, he had stumbled on shelves of work he’d never seen. The Potter bloodline could be traced to the Peverells—legend’s youngest brother who made a friend of Death—so a private library heavy with death and soulcraft was hardly surprising. Harry sifted for what he could both understand and use, especially anything that might help Sirius Black.

He also needed to audit his own soul.

Catching himself drifting, Harry looked up again at the great black dog bounding through sunlight after a rabbit, tail flagging with absurd delight. A thin, inexplicable warmth rose in his chest.

“This has to be wrong,” he murmured, palm pressed to his sternum, feeling the warmth linger.

He had no real history with Sirius Black. In his own world the name was just that—a name—and when Grimmauld Place passed to him, he learned it was because his nominal godfather had died in Azkaban. Here, the man was little more than a stray who had latched onto him at the last second, someone he had known for days, not years.

By that logic, he should not feel this clear, clean relief that the man was alive. He could hand Black to the Order; they had every resource to treat him. Yet a stubborn voice inside insisted on seeing this through himself, on watching with his own eyes as Sirius came back to himself.

Enough delay. Harry dropped his gaze to the page and read on, methodically, carefully.

The snowy owl swept into the manor, wings cutting the air in a graceful arc before alighting on the perch by the window.

Harry took the letter, brushing his fingers gently under Hedwig’s chin. The owl ruffled her feathers, turned her head away, and ignored him.

“Hedwig? Good girl. That was my fault. Forgive me, will you?” His tone was patient, coaxing. The owl gave a low, throaty hoot of disapproval.

Harry chuckled wryly. Before the holidays he had released her, warning her that his whereabouts might be uncertain, and telling her either to come find him later or to roost with Hagrid for a while.

She had done better than that. Not only had she understood, she had detoured through Ron and Hermione’s homes, collected their letters, and then hunted Harry down. But the Potter wards had confused her, left her circling fruitlessly until Sissy noticed her and brought her inside.

After a long string of apologies, Hedwig nipped his finger once—grumpy forgiveness—and then tucked her head into her feathers to sleep.

Harry patted the great black dog at his feet, moved to the long sofa, and broke the seals on the letters. Ron’s was simple, filled with everyday chatter and assurances: “If you need help, mate, you only have to ask,” and “If there’s news of Sirius, you’ll be the first to know.”

Harry glanced down at the dog curled across two cushions beside him. Sirius Black thumped his tail obligingly.

Hermione’s letter was more pointed. She began with warm greetings, then shifted:

“Since you came back—those last days at school—you haven’t quite been yourself. You were quieter than usual, always on edge, as though you expected danger to leap from every shadow. And—please don’t be offended—you sometimes spoke to Ron and me the way an uncle or an older guardian might, not as a classmate. It felt…strange, as if there was another layer to you we’d never seen before. I’m certain I’ve read about similar cases somewhere; I’ll look through the Muggle texts again.”

She listed her observations, and finished:

“Dumbledore asked Ron and me if we knew where you’d gone. You didn’t return to your relatives? Ron said anywhere would be better than that Muggle hell. Hedwig came to me on her own, so I think you’re safe. Right, Harry? If anything’s wrong, tell us—we’ll find a way to help. Please write back, just to let us know you’re all right.”

Harry flicked the parchment with a finger, smiling. “Mione. Always sharp.”

For all her occasional blind spots—toward authority, or her own emotions—Harry knew that with age and experience she would grow formidable. He had no doubt she could one day become the first Muggle-born Minister for Magic. He even found himself wondering what conclusion this younger Hermione would draw from his altered manner. If she meant to turn to Muggle texts, she clearly wasn’t thinking of Polyjuice or the Imperius.

But he would not reply. He did not believe he could compose an answer in the voice of a Harry Potter he had never even met.

“Come on then, Padfoot,” Harry said, drawing his wand. “Back to two legs. A quick soul-check, and we’ll be done before tea.”

Sirius obeyed. The black paws lengthened into hands, the dark pelt dissolved into skin, and in the dog’s place sat a strikingly handsome wizard, his storm-grey eyes fixed on Harry.

Harry ordered Sissy to keep every interruption at bay, then reached for the volume he’d marked earlier. He reviewed the arcane syllables, steadied his breathing, and lifted his wand.

The incantation that spilled from him was long, rough-edged, heavy with resonance. As it wound on, a stream of dark-silver vapour bled from his wand, viscous and metallic, coiling outward until it split in two and bound itself around them both. The temperature of the room seemed to plummet. A clammy chill crept into the air, and every breath came sharp as knives.

Sirius’s eyes flickered with unease, but he did not break the spell.
He watched as the smoke wound in slow spirals around him, never touching yet tracing his outline. A faint phosphorescence answered from within his chest—weak at first, then clearer as the silver coils thickened. But the bulk of the smoke did not stay with him; it streamed toward Harry, clinging twice as heavily to the young wizard. Harry, intent on the incantation, seemed oblivious.

Minutes passed before he finally lowered his wand. Sweat dampened his fringe as he rubbed the scar that throbbed at his brow. His gaze shifted immediately to Sirius, measuring the light.

Sirius’s soul glowed a translucent, pearly white. Frayed at the edges, blurred with strain, but still whole. The will that burned in Sirius Black had kept him intact; no great tear, only exhaustion—an illness that could be nursed.

“You’ll recover,” Harry said quietly, with the certainty of someone who had seen worse.

But Sirius only stared at him, hesitation clouding his features. His lips worked soundlessly a moment, like he was reaching for words from the wreckage of his mind. Then, haltingly, he breathed out:

“You…”

Harry, distracted, flicked his wrist to summon a mirror, scarcely listening. “Yes?” he murmured.

The word came, ragged but clear: “Harry?”

Harry’s reply snapped out before he could think—“Sirius!” His own voice, too quick, too sharp. He froze, brows lifting in a startled frown. That hadn’t been him—or at least, not wholly. It had felt like an answer dragged from his throat by another hand.

A suspicion stirred, cold and relentless. Slowly, he raised the mirror.

The reflection stared back swathed in light—thick, opaque white, as though two complete souls had been pressed together inside one body. The glow blurred his outline, almost doubled it. And there, at his scar, a gray blemish marred the radiance: like a handprint of ash smeared across a painted wall, clinging above the surface rather than within.

Two souls.
And one of them carried Tom Riddle’s fragment like a parasite crowning the brow.

Harry felt the faintest tremor beneath his own thoughts. He loosened his hold on himself—like stepping back from a stage light—and at once something foreign slid into place, seizing the strings of his body.

His own voice rang out, confused, urgent:
“…Sirius? Are you all right?!”

Then he moved—arms flung forward, clutching Sirius Black with sudden, clumsy force. The embrace was stiff, almost puppet-like, as though the wielder hadn’t quite learned the body’s rhythm. Breathless words tumbled out, raw with joy:

“You’re back? We’re alive? Merlin, I truly thought—”

Sirius’s arms tightened in return, relief washing through the fog of his mind. Yet confusion lingered too; he patted Harry’s back awkwardly, trying to steady himself. “Yes, Harry… yes.”

Hot tears struck his neck. The shock of it split something open inside Sirius. A vow he’d carried even into the void. He had been Harry’s last family. He couldn’t vanish behind the Veil. He couldn’t leave his godson alone with war snapping at his heels. He had to come back.

It had never been Harry’s fault that Sirius fell through the Veil.
But did Harry know that? Or had he carried the blame on his shoulders ever since?
And if Sirius truly had ended in that moment, what would have become of the boy left behind?

That thought—the need to remain, to protect rather than fade—was the tether that kept him from dissolving in the formless dark beyond the Veil. Time there was meaningless: aeons or a single blink, hunger or cold, pain or nothing at all. He had only drifted, step after step through dark chaos, until those eyes found him again. Green eyes, brimming with unguarded light, blurred with tears yet burning clear as lightning.

At that sight, Sirius remembered—

“Look at him, already zooming about like a born Seeker,” James laughed, one arm half-raised as if ready to sprint after the wobbling toy broom.

“He’s barely a year old, James,” Lily chided, though her smile betrayed pride. “If he falls, you’ll both end up in St. Mungo’s.”

Sirius snorted, lounging against the doorframe. “Relax, Lily. If Prongs drops the ball, I’ll catch him. That’s what godfathers are for.”

The memory landed like a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. For the first time since the Veil, he felt fully awake.

For the first time, Sirius truly looked at the young man before him—a man in his twenties, bearing lines of hardship and strength that the boy he had once known could never have carried.
It should have felt alien, wrong, a stranger’s face where his godson’s had been.
Yet through those tear-brimmed green eyes, he saw not a stranger at all, but the boy he had loved as family—his Harry.

Sirius’s voice was rough, unsteady from exhaustion. “You… you’ve grown?”

The younger Harry—only fifteen, rattled by the shock of seeing his godfather alive—latched onto him with desperate strength. Words tumbled out in a rush, half-broken, “I thought you were gone—I should’ve done something, I should’ve stopped it—”

His voice cracked, too tangled with guilt and relief to register Sirius’s halting reply. All he could do was cling tighter, as though holding on might undo the fall through the Veil.

Sirius’s lips trembled into a faint smile. “Not… so easy… to get rid of me

The boy gave a broken laugh, half sob, half relief, and pressed his forehead into Sirius’s shoulder as if to anchor him in place.

They had whole rooms of words waiting to be spoken, confessions piled up over the gulf of death, but weariness overtook them. Soon both drifted into drowsy half-speech, half-silence, leaning against one another until sleep claimed them.

Harry did not reclaim control of his body. He merely sank deeper, watching with quiet thought as a translucent cluster of light, shaped vaguely like a boy, floated in the depths of his soul—rising and falling like breath.

“So… that flare in the Veil, the light that struck me—that was you?” Harry reached out, brushing the glow. It rippled like water under his touch.
“How curious. So you’re this world’s radiant little savior, Harry Potter? Hiding inside me all this time, and I never noticed.”

If not for Sirius Black—and that soul-revealing incantation that jarred something free—he might never have noticed at all. Souls of the same origin blurred together, and his own was the stronger—like a river swallowing a drop, easy to miss.

Harry settled cross-legged in that inner space, chin propped in one hand, studying the faint grey mar along the boy’s light.
“I thought I’d finally shaken off little Tommy. Turns out you carried his fragment back in with you.” He sighed.

But if the fifteen-year-old Harry’s soul was here, then where was his body? Why had soul and flesh been split apart? Sirius Black and Harry himself had crossed the Veil whole—so why not the boy?

His thoughts strayed to the missing younger Blaise Zabini, and to the searing bursts of scar and Dark Mark pain that had racked his own body upon arrival. Threads tugged uneasily together in his mind, hinting at some buried link.

The path ahead was treacherous, uncertain.

With the younger Potter’s soul bound to him, Harry could no longer pretend to stand apart.
Even if only to return this stowaway to where he belonged, he would have to tear a way through the shroud of riddles—open a crack toward the light.

Chapter Text

Chaos. Spells arcing through the Department of Mysteries, the crash of shattering glass, the flash of curses that lit the shadows in sickly green. Voldemort’s crimson eyes, wide with triumph. Sirius—his godfather—toppling backward, swallowed whole by the Veil.

Potter blinked.

The roar of battle vanished. He no longer knew whether he had fallen after Sirius, or if time itself had splintered. His head throbbed with confusion, thoughts a jumble of images too jagged to order.

He didn’t understand how Sirius, the godfather who had fallen through the Veil, could suddenly be here. Nor did he grasp why Sirius looked at him with such confusion, as though torn between recognition and doubt. Potter only knew that whoever had saved Sirius Black, he was grateful beyond words, nearly undone by tears.

This was the last family he had in the world—and he had almost killed him.
If Sirius Black had truly vanished into the Veil, then Harry James Potter would have been his murderer.

He had ignored every warning, believed Voldemort’s visions, and rushed headlong into a trap. Never had his weakness and helplessness felt so raw, so damning. He had done nothing—only sulked inside protective circles, bitter and powerless.

Again and again he checked that Sirius was alive, clung to every sign of his godfather’s well-being, until relief loosened the knots inside him. Talking with Sirius, watching him breathe, Potter half-suspected it was just another cruel hallucination. Maybe this was what a dying dream looked like. But if Sirius was alive, then it didn’t matter.

For the first time in months, Potter felt safe. His guard slipped; exhaustion claimed him. Without meaning to, he leaned against Sirius’s side and drifted into sleep.

He dreamed.

The scene shifted into a place he knew too well: a tangle of low, oppressive forest, thick with strange magical flora. Through the canopy’s gaps there was nothing but blackness—night, perhaps. From somewhere in the dark came eerie, unrecognizable cries.

Potter looked down. His robes were torn by branches, smeared with mud, streaked with blood and some foul-smelling ichor. His wand was slick with sweat in his palm.

It was a memory barely a year old. He recognized it instantly—the Triwizard Tournament, the third task.

He stepped forward. On the stone plinth ahead sat a small gleaming cup, the Triwizard Cup, shining with the promise of triumph—and of death.

A rustle to his left. Potter turned sharply. Through the thicket pushed a tall, handsome boy, face lit with elation. His grey eyes caught the prize; a broad grin spread across his features.

Cedric.

Cedric Diggory saw him too. Surprise flared for an instant, then faded into a rueful, gentle smile. From where they stood, they were equally close to the cup. And yet Cedric’s expression said he had already decided.

‘Take it,’ Cedric said. ‘It’s yours. Go on, Harry.’

‘No,’ Potter heard himself answer, steady and firm. ‘We’ll take it together.’

He thought he was reliving the memory. But almost at once he realized something was wrong.
This wasn’t how it had happened—
Cedric stepped right up to the Cup, studying it with a curious tilt of his head. Then he gave a slow shake of his head.

‘You reached it first. Victory’s yours, even if part of me wants to just snatch it.’ Cedric gave a crooked grin. ‘Either way, Hogwarts wins. Congratulations, Harry.’

‘But we got here together,’ Potter insisted—yet the Harry Potter who truly watched from within, the Harry Potter crouched silent in the body, felt a wash of relief. That Cup was the key to hell itself; if Cedric walked away from it—even only in dream—it was better than any reality he remembered.

Then came the scrape of other footsteps, faint but certain. Cedric’s smile faded.
‘Quickly, Harry! take it!’

‘No, it’s ours—’

Potter’s dream-self faltered. A haze slid over his mind. Then, stiff and unnatural, he lurched forward, seizing Cedric’s wrist in a bruising grip.

A low hiss slid from his lips—chilling, twisted, not Parseltongue but something darker.
‘Yes. Together,’ the voice said.

Cedric’s face went wide with horror. He tried to wrench free, but Potter’s grasp held with unnatural strength. With his free hand, Potter slashed through the air—summoning the Cup straight into his palm.

Cold metal bit into his skin. A whip of nauseating force yanked at his navel, and just before the world spun into oblivion, he caught a glimpse of Cedric’s eyes: wide, terrified, and reflecting back an image of Potter—grinning, vicious, with a faint crimson gleam seeping into his emerald gaze…

Potter reeled, shaken, until a violent pull tore him free of the dream altogether. He tumbled into darkness, dizzy and unable to think, but the memory of that nightmare clung, seared into him.

And then—

“Sleeping well, boy? On someone else’s ground?”

The voice was rough, sardonic, far too much like the one that had hissed through his dream.

Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter whipped around in panic. Out of the endless black stepped a figure: a young man in black robes, arms folded across his chest. The shadows should have hidden him, yet Potter could see him clearly—wild black hair, narrowed green eyes, a lightning scar half-veiled by an unruly fringe.

“Who are you?!” Potter cried.

To wake and realize another soul was lodged inside you—no one could call that comfortable.
All the more so when that soul had, just yesterday, surged up and seized control—sobbed into his godfather’s shoulder, clung with awkward limbs, and fallen asleep against Sirius Black on the sitting-room sofa. Yes, Harry had yielded control deliberately, to confirm his suspicion. That didn’t mean he’d enjoyed watching his own body reduced to that awkward tableau.

Now, in the clear wash of morning sunlight, Harry kneaded at the ache in his shoulder and neck, tugging his sleeve back into place to cover the Dark Mark. The stiffness was wretched. Sirius, at least, had no such complaints: worn out from the soul-healing and the storm of emotions, he was still fast asleep, spirited back to his room by Sissy and likely to remain there for hours yet. Harry had caught a glimpse of Sirius Black’s resting face earlier, open and unguarded. He’d almost felt a flicker of resentment—Sirius slept soundly, while he had lain awake half the night wrestling with unwelcome discoveries and now bore the aches for it.

“Perfect start to the day,” Harry muttered darkly. “If this is what Severus felt every morning, dealing with reckless Gryffindors, no wonder he always looks ready to set the world on fire.”

Breakfast, he decided, was usually the cure to all such annoyances. He was hungry enough to eat a hippogriff; yesterday’s half-day of rituals, discoveries, and reunion had carried him past dinner entirely.
But food would have to wait. There was another conversation he couldn’t postpone.

He tossed back the black coffee Sissy had brought, letting the bitterness bite him awake, and slipped inward again—down into that hidden corner of his soul.

“Boy,” he hissed, deliberately dragging the quivering light-ball of a presence into view, parodying Voldemort’s rasp with malicious glee. “Sleeping well on someone else’s ground, are you?”

The light shuddered violently. Within it, the faint outline of a teenager flinched, shrinking in on itself. At the same moment, Harry felt a tremor of fear surface in his own chest—fear that wasn’t his.
No, it was the boy’s, bleeding into him. His lip curled. It was revolting, that blurring of boundaries, his own emotions tainted with someone else’s panic.

“Wh—what is this place? Where’s Sirius?” the boy’s voice quavered.

“Calm yourself. Black is fine—snoring away on a very comfortable bed, I’d wager.” Harry’s tone was level, almost casual.

The light wavered. For a heartbeat it pulsed with sheer relief, only for that to twist swiftly into sharper fear.

“Who are you? Why are you inside me?” the younger Potter burst out. “Why can’t I feel anything? What did you do to me? Am I—am I dead?”

“You don’t know what became of your body?” Harry arched a brow, strolling in slow, unhurried circles around the trembling shape.

“My… my body? What do you mean ‘became of’? Wait—what’s happening to me?”

“At present,” Harry said with mild amusement, “you’re the one lodged inside my body, little saviour.”

The boy recoiled, his voice breaking into a tangle of panic and questions. Harry let them wash over him, listening without interruption. Behind the desperate attempt to sound steady, the fear bled through—he was, after all, still just a boy who had no idea why his world had been ripped away.

Harry, meanwhile, kept his poise. Dumbledore’s missing champion was right here, pacing like a caged animal within his own chest. A soul without a body rarely held its shape for long; if not for the resonance of their shared essence, the boy might have unravelled already. And even then—souls were not chess pieces he could simply shuffle into spare vessels. They were fragile, dangerous things.

For now, all he had were working theories. Perhaps only the boy’s soul had crossed the Veil. But certainty? That was still beyond reach.

“…This is Voldemort, isn’t it?” Potter whispered. “All of this. Just another trick. Even the things I saw before—it was all illusion, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t look to your enemies for answers,” Harry cut in smoothly. His gaze narrowed. “Tell me instead—what did you see?”

The boy faltered, words dragging. “…The Triwizard Tournament. But it wasn’t what I lived through.”

Harry’s expression gave nothing away, arms folded as he listened.

“I saw Cedric,” the boy muttered, “he… he gave the Cup to me. Said it was mine. But then I grabbed him. I pulled him with me.”

Harry said nothing, his stillness pressing heavier than any reprimand.

“It was like I dragged him to die,” Potter whispered, his voice raw, tangled with shame and confusion. “But that wasn’t how it happened. It wasn’t. So why would Voldemort want me to see that? What’s the point, except… except to make me think I killed someone, the first time? Only—it was so clear, I could tell it was false.”

Harry’s gaze dropped, his expression unreadable. For a heartbeat his mouth twisted as though in a bitter smile, but the effect was suffocating

The younger Potter hadn’t seen what came after. He had pulled him out in time. That was something.

And yet the emptiness around them was suddenly thick with ghosts—iron and earth, sweat and rain, panic and fury. The scents of a graveyard. Things he didn’t exactly hate or cherish, only endure. Things that had branded themselves into him.

With practiced ease, he threw up Occlumency walls, burying the surge of emotion deep where it could not be reached.

At length, he said quietly, “That wasn’t an illusion. You stumbled into one of my memories.” His voice was flat, controlled, though the edge of strain lingered. Then, before the boy could demand more, he cut across smoothly, tightening his composure.

“Perhaps introductions are overdue. My name is Harry. Harry Potter. I crossed the Veil—from another world.”

Chapter Text

Harry relayed the essentials of what had happened: succinct, efficient, stripped of sentiment.

Since arriving in this world, he had already measured its magical society and found it soft. The boy within him—the local Harry Potter—had been raised in safety and light, molded to save a world that refused to let him touch its darker truths.

So the older Harry didn’t bother clarifying certain things.
That they had already killed.
That at eleven, he had pressed his palms against Quirrell’s burning face until flesh turned to ash.
That Dumbledore, in his infinite mercy, had never told him.

He kept his silence.

And to keep the boy from stumbling again into memories not meant for him, Harry reinforced his Occlumency walls—thickened them until not even a flicker of thought could pass through. He shoved the younger Potter’s soul, and that thrice-damned scrap of Riddle’s, neatly outside the barricade.

At least, their difference in age and experience kept them from spiraling into confusion. No questions of identity, no you’re me, I’m you.
If anything, Harry thought wryly, they felt more like brothers than reflections.

The younger Potter was overwhelmed but quiet. That restraint earned a measure of respect. Clearly, the Dursleys had always taught Harry Potter the oldest of survival arts. All about silence, compliance, endurance.

They met again in the shared mental space, a dim, echoing plane shaped by thought.
Harry stood with easy balance, hands loosely clasped behind his back. The boy’s soul hovered nearby, a pale, unsteady light.

“Now,” Harry said evenly, “if we’re to avoid confusion, we’ll need names that don’t sound like an echo. You can call me Potter, perhaps. Or...”

He considered, words forming in his mind—Phoenix, the old codename flickering at the edge of memory—

But before he could speak, the boy blurted out, “No… call me Potter. It’s your name first.”

The older Harry stopped, one brow rising. For a moment, he saw past the deference to the weariness beneath—the learned reflex of someone who never expects the right to ask for anything.

“…Very well,” Harry said at last, tone gentling despite himself. “Potter it is, then.”

The younger soul dimmed a little, as though relieved. The older one only smiled faintly, half amusement, half pity.

Some habits, it seemed, carried across every world.

Harry studied the flickering outline of the boy’s soul—how it trembled, how it tried to stand straighter under his gaze.

Then he spoke, tone deceptively mild.
“Good,” he said at last. “Now that we’ve settled that…”

His tone shifted—lighter, but with a faint edge of mischief.
“…how do you feel about being trained?”

The boy blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Trained?” he echoed, as if the word itself were foreign.

Harry’s smirk deepened. “Yes. You didn’t think I’d let you idle in my head, did you?”

The household at Potter Manor had become something of a curiosity.
A recovering Sirius Black, his soul still stitching itself together.
A displaced fifteen-year-old saviour whose body was nowhere to be found.
And Harry himself—a stranger from another world.

If this sort of chaos was the normal state of affairs whenever Gryffindors gathered in numbers, he thought he finally understood why Severus Snape had lived with a permanent scowl.

In the meantime, Harry had begun Sirius’s soul therapy. The man’s resilience was remarkable; his spirit carried the stubborn will of someone who had survived too much to yield now. Regular restorative spells and gentle exposure to the boy’s presence worked better than any complex ritual. Sirius’s recovery accelerated, and the younger Potter’s anxious moods eased alongside it.
It was—unexpectedly—almost peaceful.

Resigned to the situation, Harry set aside any notion of a “vacation.” He slipped instead back into the rhythm of wartime life.

After his morning drills—an hour of movement sharp enough to sweat the ghosts out of muscle memory—he showered, dressed in clean black robes, and studied his reflection.

The mirror returned a strange double image: two Harrys, one steady and solid, the other faintly smaller and hazier. Both figures seemed faint, as if the glass had split their presence in two.
The younger slept soundly with a half-open mouth, oblivious.

Harry sank into the armchair beside the mirror, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift downward. The room faded away until he stood again in the silent, dark interior of his own soul. There, a small orb of light pulsed softly, its rhythm steady as breath.

“Potter,” he murmured, voice low and deliberately ominous, “the famous saviour, sleeping in until noon—what a privilege.”

The light flinched. The younger Potter startled awake, half-transparent and unsteady, his outline flickering. “N–no, wait—Professor Snape—” He blinked, refocused, and let out a groggy sigh. “Harry… honestly, you sound exactly like him. You even dress the same!”

Harry’s reply was calm, unhurried. “You’ll admit, the look has its uses. Fits most occasions.”

And it did. He’d spent enough time fighting beside Severus to appreciate the efficiency of fear. They’d shared similar burdens—spies trapped between two sides, both fluent in masks and silence.

“Besides,” Harry added dryly, “if you want to keep people at arm’s length, there’s no disguise more effective than Snape’s.”

The boy grimaced but conceded the point.

“I’m awake,” he said quickly. “I can train now. And—Harry?” The hesitation was awkward, shy. “After training, can I see Sirius again? Padfoot, I mean. Like before?”

“You can,” Harry said, leaning back in the void. “But as I warned you, his mind isn’t fully healed. Don’t expect too much clarity when he’s human. The Animagus form is simpler, easier on what’s left of him. If he forgets who you are halfway through a sentence—or starts barking at you—I’m not consoling you.”

“I’m ready,” the boy whispered, more to himself than to Harry. Then, louder: “Yes. Ready.”

“Good.”

Harry extended a hand. The boy’s light reached for him instinctively, and the instant they touched, the world folded inward.

The void reshaped itself into a vast, four-walled chamber—sterile, ivory-white, featureless except for the silver circle inscribed at its center. Potter found himself standing within it, breath catching.

Before him stood the older Harry, taller, sharper, eyes glinting with the same impossible green as the Killing Curse. The lightning scar gleamed faintly beneath his fringe. Potter realized he was still clutching the cuff of Harry’s sleeve.

Chapter Text

Potter let go of Harry’s sleeve in a flurry of movement, staring at his own hands as if rediscovering the concept of touch.
“I did it, didn’t I?” he breathed, flexing his fingers, savoring the phantom sensation of muscles that weren’t technically there.

Harry opened his eyes, gaze sweeping over the blank chamber with open curiosity. It was rare—refreshing, even—to see genuine wonder in his own face.
“I still don’t understand how you pulled this off,” he admitted, circling the space. “It feels like you created an entirely separate construct inside my mind.”

“I don’t understand it either,” the boy confessed. “I just tried to—well, remember what it felt like last time. When it accidentally worked.”

Harry hummed, lips quirking. “Ah. In other words—typical Harry Potter business.”

That “business,” as it happened, had begun days earlier.

After Harry had laid out the facts of their strange coexistence, the younger Potter had gone very quiet.
For a while, he seemed to take it in with almost unnatural composure—too calm, too polite.
But beneath that silence, something had begun to coil and tighten. The storm came later, sudden and sharp, when he thought Harry wasn’t watching.
Why was it always him? Every year, another catastrophe. Now even his body was gone, trapped inside someone else, his life reduced to borrowed time.

The anger didn’t come loud at first. It crept up, simmering behind his restraint, until it finally broke—sudden, sharp, uncontrollable.
He lashed out at the empty air, muttering, striking at nothing. And by some impossible twist, his flailing grasp had caught Harry, dragging them both into this shared space.

Harry had just finished a round of healing spells on Sirius and was letting his guard down, a touch of fatigue easing his focus. That was when it happened—an abrupt tug, like someone had hooked him by the chest and yanked hard.

The younger Potter, still lost in his own fury, felt his hand close around something solid—something alive. A dark shape flickered before him, and before his mind could catch up, his instincts did.

Harry blinked in surprise, barely realizing what had happened before the boy swung at him. Reflex took over. With a sharp motion, he raised a hand, and a shield flared to life between them, sending the younger Potter tumbling across the floor with a startled grunt.

Remembering the incident, Harry said evenly, “You need proper training. Otherwise, one day you won’t even need a Killing Curse to die, a simple Expelliarmus will do it.”
It was bitter experience speaking, though he didn’t bother to say so aloud. “You’ve been lucky, but relying on luck is idiotic. When it runs out, you’ll find you’re just another ordinary wizard.”

Potter groaned. “Lucky? There’s a snake-faced lunatic serial killer chasing me across continents. I’m not sure I’ll even make it to adulthood.”

Harry shook his head. “From where I stand, you’re practically the chosen protagonist of the universe. Lost your body, yet conveniently ended up living in another version of yourself? Voldy would kill for that kind of insurance. Frankly, I doubt your luck ever runs out. Still—better to be prepared for when it does.”

“I’ve never felt lucky,” the boy said quietly, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “But coming from you… somehow, it sounds almost believable.”

Harry sighed. Sometimes he longed for a place where no one could find him, to rest in silence and watch from afar as everything ran its course—or even as the world itself fell apart. Since coming to this world, that weariness had only deepened.
Yet something within him still held fast; he could not simply stand by, arms folded, and watch everything he had once bled to protect fade into ruin.

“Same rules as before. Three rounds, ten minutes each. Evade or counter as best you can,” Harry said evenly. His tone sharpened. “Petrificus Totalus!”

A bolt of white light streaked toward Potter like lightning. The boy threw himself backward, shouting, “Protego!”

The stone curse struck where he’d been a heartbeat before, charring the pale floor to black. His Shield Charm flared under the impact, then jolted again as it deflected a silent Leg-Locker Curse hidden neatly behind the first.

Harry sidestepped the rebound as though brushing off a breeze, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. “Stupefy.”

“Expelliarmus!” Potter hit the floor and rolled, his spell cracking against Harry’s shield in a flash of red light. Dust rose around them. The boy’s face was flushed, but his eyes stayed sharp, following every flick of Harry’s wand.

A shimmering barrier of blue absorbed Potter’s next counterspell, though a well-aimed Trip Jinx caught Harry’s boots as he retreated a step. His balance shifted, just barely. Potter’s mouth twitched with the hint of a grin, then froze as Harry’s voice cut the air again.

“Good. But don’t get comfortable. Incendio Maxima!”

A ribbon of fire exploded across the pale floor, heat washing over them in a wave. Potter dove aside, rolling through the smoke, his sleeve singed. Harry’s silhouette strode through the haze, wand hand steady, movements precise and deliberate, more like a duelist in control of a performance than a man in combat.

Potter tried to press his advantage, hurling a barrage of spells—Impedimenta, Expelliarmus, Lumos Solem—but Harry slipped between them as if he’d seen each curse a second before it was cast. His wand carved a sharp arc through the air, and a shockwave burst from the floor. The tiles splintered, dust spiraling upward like a miniature storm.

Potter barely had time to throw up a shield before the next curse, Expulso, hit. The impact rattled his bones, forcing him back several steps before the barrier shattered, scattering silver fragments of light.

Harry’s gaze never wavered. He pivoted, his robes sweeping in a sharp arc, and his wand snapped up once more. “Rictusempra!”

A jet of silver light shot forward, catching Potter square in the side. The boy yelped as the tickling jinx hit him full force, collapsing into helpless laughter while trying in vain to roll out of its reach. His wand clattered away, spinning across the floor.

Harry stopped at a measured distance, lowering his own wand with maddening calm. The faintest trace of amusement ghosted across his lips. “You’re alive. Good enough for round one.”

Potter gasped through the laughter, face flushed, trying to sit up and glare at him. “That—was completely unfair.”

“Of course it was,” Harry replied easily. “So is life.”

For a long moment, the room held only Potter’s ragged breathing and the quiet hum of fading magic. Then Harry turned away, expression once again unreadable, though the edge of approval in his eyes was unmistakable.

Potter, covered in dust and sweat, sprawled flat on the floor, still catching his breath.

“On your feet. Round two won’t wait for you.”

Potter gritted his teeth, pushed himself up, and tightened his grip on his wand. Determination burned behind his glasses.

Ordinary duels between wizards rarely lasted long. Most ended the moment one spell connected and tipped the scales. Some treated dueling as a contest of raw power—two pillars facing off, hurling curses until one fell, believing it looked more dignified that way, more wizardly.

Harry had little patience for that sort of pomp. He preferred movement, precision, and rhythm: the blend of wand and body, attack and instinct. The younger Potter shared that same leaning toward fluid, physical combat. Unfortunately, the boy now lacked a body of his own, so Harry could only help him build the instincts, to hone his reactions through repetition.

It wasn’t ideal, and Harry knew it. But for now, it would have to do.

Potter wiped sweat from his brow, chest rising and falling. Every few moments he darted quick glances at Harry, wary and awed in equal measure.

“You know,” Harry said with a wry half-smile, “it’s rather strange, isn’t it—trying to keep secrets from yourself when we’re literally inside each other’s heads.”

Potter hesitated, then groaned in defeat. “Fine… I was just thinking how I’d wished for a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher like Professor Lupin—someone who actually taught us useful spells. I didn’t realize the universe would take that wish so literally.”

Harry’s lips curved. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Well, it’s easy to praise you,” Potter shot back with mock bravado. “After all, you’re me.”

“True,” Harry said, smiling faintly. “And I’ll admit, you’re performing better than I expected. This kind of training’s surprisingly therapeutic.” He rolled his shoulders, feeling the old tension ease for the first time in days.

Then his tone softened. “I’ll keep my promise. You’ll have time with your godfather soon. Take Black outside when you do—it’ll do you both some good.”

“You’re… you’re really willing to let me take control?” Potter asked hesitantly. “Aren’t you worried I might not give it back?”

Harry’s mouth curved in quiet amusement. “Oh, I’d love to see you try. Let’s set aside the obvious fact that I’m stronger—don’t scowl, it’s true—and consider the rest. This body’s mine, built for my magic, attuned to my soul. You’re the guest here, not the landlord, and I’d imagine evicting me would be… difficult. Besides, I know at least ten curses that target the soul directly.”

Potter’s expression twisted between indignation and shame. He looked down, guilt flickering across his face at the thought of borrowing another man’s body just to see Sirius. Harry recognized it instantly—the moral hesitation, the instinct to apologize for wanting something.

He hid a smile. Good, he thought. A bit of selfishness means he’s still human. No one truly selfless ever survives long.

“Fine,” Harry said, tone turning brisk. “You have until lunch. Black needs rest to recover properly. Oh, and your friends wrote to you. Try answering for once.”

A faint sound brushed the edge of their shared awareness—scratching, steady and impatient, claws raking lightly against wood. It wasn’t part of the mindscape; it came from the world outside.

Harry’s attention flicked toward it, senses sharpening. Not Hedwig, he realized. Too heavy… too deliberate.

Beside him, the boy’s outline stirred. Potter’s eyes widened, a flash of recognition breaking through the haze of their link. “That’s—Padfoot,” he breathed, voice trembling with hope.

“Seems your turn’s arrived,” Harry said, and let his consciousness recede, the mental space dimming around them as he sank away toward silence.

Potter’s voice stopped him. “He’s your godfather too, isn’t he?” The boy’s tone was careful, almost timid. “You’re Harry Potter as well… aren’t you?”

Harry glanced at him, the corner of his mouth curving faintly. He understood what the boy really meant. Don’t you want to see him? Don’t you miss him too?

“I never met my godfather. That Sirius Black was gone long before I could’ve known him.”
A pause, then a small, almost careless shrug. “So no—I don’t feel much about it. You can’t miss what you never had.”

He leaned back slightly, the faintest trace of something softer passing through his eyes. “Though I suppose it’s a bit of a shame. He sounded like someone I might’ve liked.”

His gaze drifted somewhere distant, where a few indistinct faces stirred through memory—sharp, watchful eyes that had once belonged to a rival turned uneasy ally; and a flash of violet, warm and teasing, from someone who never quite let the world see how genuine he was beneath the laughter.

And beyond them, he could almost sense Ron’s laughter, Hermione’s relentless reasoning, and the quiet strength of those who’d held his world together when it might have fallen apart.

He exhaled softly, the faintest hint of a smile curving his mouth. “I had people of my own,” he said. The words carried no bitterness—only the calm weight of someone who had already made peace with what was his, and what was not.

Then, with the ease of someone used to letting go, he added, “You go. He’s waiting for you. Enjoy it.”

And with a quiet ease, he stepped back from the light, the edges of his presence fading until only the calm shimmer of the space remained.
In the hush that followed, Potter’s own breath echoed faintly.

Chapter Text

Potter eased into control of the body, testing it carefully. Every movement felt powerful—steady, coiled with strength in a way his own had never been. The unfamiliarity made him tense at first, but the effort it took to move, the faint resistance between self and flesh, was oddly reassuring. At least it wasn’t effortless. At least it wasn’t really his.

He tried his best to ignore the images in his mind—Professor Quirrell and that horrifying face on the back of his head.
At least he wasn’t some vile thief, slipping easily into another person’s body.

He pushed open the door. The great black dog that had been slumped against it stirred, massive head lifting, tail giving an uncertain wag. Then, in a rush of recognition, Padfoot barked and bounded up, circling him in clumsy, joyful loops that nearly sent Potter stumbling backward.

“Hey, easy there,” Potter laughed, wrapping his arms around the thick, shaggy neck. “Yeah, I know—it’s me. But no running off. We’re not leaving the manor, got it?”

Padfoot’s ears drooped at once. He looked up, wide-eyed and tragic, then started weaving slow figure eights around Potter’s legs, a creature far too large to be pretending to be a cat. His bulk nearly bowled Potter over, and the boy staggered with a startled laugh. Judging from the dog’s weight—and how much food Sissy had been sneaking him—one misplaced paw could probably snap a few of Potter’s ribs.

“We’ll stay inside, okay?” Potter murmured, crouching to rub the dog’s ears. “The manor’s big enough. There’s still plenty to explore.” His hand stilled, fingers curling against Padfoot’s fur. “I just… wonder what the Order’s going to do now. My body’s missing. My soul’s stuck inside another Harry Potter. What happens when they figure that out?”

The thought twisted in his chest. Would the Order even bother to bring him back—when they already had someone stronger, sharper, and far more capable of playing the savior?
And if they came for him, what would happen then? He’d seen enough of the other Harry to know he wasn’t the sort to nod and follow orders. He had that quiet, unsettling confidence of someone who didn’t follow the rules so much as bend them until they fit.
And if the Order decided he couldn’t be controlled—while he, the younger one, was still borrowing the man’s body…
Potter swallowed hard. There were worse possibilities than being forgotten.

Potter’s mind chased the thought in uneasy circles until it made him dizzy. Finally, he sighed and scratched behind Padfoot’s ear. “Never mind. Let’s just wait for you to get better first, yeah?”

The dog gave a soft, thoughtful whine, head tilted, as if he understood more than Potter would ever admit aloud.

“Come on,” Potter said, shaking off the heaviness. “Let’s check on the unicorns in the back field. Then I’ve got to write Ron and Hermione, maybe get some homework done. Lots to do.”

He turned, Padfoot trotting after him, tail sweeping the air in happy arcs. As they stepped out, a glint of light caught Potter’s eye—something small had fallen to the floor.

Bending down, he found a fine silver chain, cool against his fingers, a small violet crystal catching the light at its end.
It wasn’t quite a pendant, nor exactly an eyeglass charm—something in between, crafted with deliberate elegance. It looked personal.

“Must’ve dropped it,” Potter murmured. The chain looked far too fine for the Harry he knew—delicate, expensive, almost aristocratic in design. It didn’t feel like his taste.
Then again, what did he really know about the man?
Still, it seemed important, so he set it carefully on the bedside table, meaning to ask about it later. Padfoot padded after him, nails clicking on the floor.
Behind them, the chain caught the morning light—one brief, glinting flash before the door closed.

Somewhere far away, sunlight struggled to reach a once-grand manor. Though it was day, the air felt wrong, cold and funereal, as if unseen ghosts wailed through the corridors. It wasn’t the house itself that cast the pall; the place was merely a faded estate, more cursed than shabby.

The dread came from the wizard who occupied it.

He sat at the center of the study in a tall, high-backed chair. Heavy velvet drapes smothered every trace of daylight, leaving the chamber in near-total darkness. Only a pair of crimson eyes burned through the gloom.
The man’s face, pale as polished bone and smooth as wax, was dominated by slitted, serpentine pupils. Veins of shadow seemed to coil beneath his translucent skin. When he moved, his gestures were unnervingly smooth, boneless, like a serpent deciding when to strike.

Voldemort regarded the figure kneeling before him in silence.

Lucius Malfoy, cloaked head to toe in black, knelt rigidly at his feet. A single strand of pale hair had slipped from his hood, trembling in the still air. He hadn’t dared to move for several minutes, long enough to wonder if he was already dead.

“My faithful Lucius,” the Dark Lord’s voice hissed, low and silken, with an undertone that barely sounded human. For a heartbeat, Lucius almost thought it was Parseltongue. “Have you discovered who touched my Mark?”

“My Lord,” Lucius rasped, forcing his dry throat to form the words. “We have examined every Death Eater, each tested under your spell. None showed—”

“None?” Voldemort echoed softly, as if tasting the word. His long, white fingers shifted. “Crucio.”

Lucius convulsed, every nerve screaming at once. His body arched and thrashed on the cold floor, nails clawing against the wood until they split and bled. His lips tore under his own teeth, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. He wanted to scream, to tear out his own heart just to make it stop, but even that courage deserted him. He made no sound.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the curse lifted.

Lucius collapsed, trembling, dragging himself back to a kneeling position. Sweat slicked his face, streaked with grime, but he didn’t dare wipe it away.

“You examined every follower,” Voldemort murmured, stroking Nagini’s coiled form beside his chair. The serpent’s scales rasped softly, her tongue flicking near Lucius’s ear. “And yet you found no one. Should I take that to mean you doubt me? That you suspect my senses, my judgment, are faltering?”

Lucius swallowed hard, tasting blood as he forced out a whisper. “Never, my Lord. I would not, could not, doubt you.”

“Lucius,” Voldemort said softly, the silken calm in his voice more dreadful than any shout. “You know why I have always valued you. Because you have the ability to be of value. And I trust,” his tone sharpened, cold as a blade’s edge, “you are not foolish enough to wonder what happens to those who disappoint me.”

He leaned forward slightly, a ghost of a smile curving his colorless lips. “Find them. Whoever is not among my followers, yet dared to touch my Mark—find them.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius managed, voice hoarse from pain.

Voldemort’s pale hand flicked once in dismissal. A crack echoed through the dim room, and Lucius vanished.

He landed hard on the marble floor of a hidden chamber within Malfoy Manor—a room only he could Apparate into. The impact jarred his bones, sending fresh tremors through muscles still twitching from the Cruciatus. He pressed a shaking hand against the floor to steady himself, then fumbled inside his cloak and pulled free a small, unadorned vial.

He uncorked it with his teeth and swallowed. The potion slid down cool and sharp, its chill racing through his veins, washing away the pain until only a faint ache lingered. Lucius let out a long breath, his pulse finally slowing. “Severus,” he murmured, “you truly are a master.”

For a moment he allowed himself to lie there, breath shallow, clothes filthy, every inch of dignity stripped away. The relief was intoxicating. He hadn’t believed the man when he’d pressed this vial into his hand weeks ago, saying quietly it was “for the aftertaste of loyalty.” Now, Lucius thought grimly, it was worth more than gold.

“Merlin knows when he even found the time to brew this.”

At times, Lucius almost admired Severus’s capacity to balance so many lives at once. Still, he couldn’t recall the man ever mentioning a new formula.

But weakness could not linger. He whispered a cleaning charm, straightened his robes, adjusted his cuffs, and combed his pale hair back until it gleamed once more. When he raised his head, his reflection in the mirror showed not a broken man, but the Malfoy patriarch—cold, poised, and untouchable.

Still, the thought of Voldemort’s face—serene, deadly—clung to him like frost. The Dark Lord he remembered, the one who had inspired both fear and devotion, would never have wasted an Unforgivable Curse on a loyal servant for so small a failure. This new volatility, this hunger to lash out, was something else entirely.

Unless…

Unless the disturbance in the Mark was not a simple trespass. Perhaps someone had not merely touched it… but altered it—severed the bond that should have been unbreakable.

The notion sent a shiver through him. If true, the Dark Lord’s fury was more than madness—it was fear.

Lucius’s gaze hardened. Hesitation was a luxury he could not afford. Malfoy Manor still stood, and he would see it remain so.

He rose to his full height, smoothed his sleeve with deliberate precision, and took up the polished cane that never strayed far from his reach. The door of the hidden chamber shut softly behind him, sealing away the last trace of frailty.

Lucius Malfoy, lord of an ancient house, walked forward once more—composed, immaculate, and utterly unyielding. Whatever loyalty he showed, his thoughts were his own.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light slanted across the room when Potter woke Harry at the agreed hour. They traded control seamlessly, and once the shift settled, Harry moved to where Black sat waiting.

Padfoot was human again—quiet, obedient almost, as Harry traced his wand through the air, sending faint ripples of light skimming over him. One spell after another shimmered briefly against Sirius’s skin, dissolving into smoke before vanishing.

At last Harry lowered his wand. His tone was lighter than usual. “You’re mending well. Keep at it, and you’ll be fine on your own soon.”

Sirius tried to answer, but the words tangled. He managed a strained half-smile. “I—uh—thanks…”

“Talk to the boy more,” Harry said mildly, as if discussing the weather. “Speech and reasoning rebuild fastest through habit.”

Sirius nodded, though his eyes flickered unfocused for a heartbeat before he steadied them again.

Days of routine treatment had done their work. The color had returned to Sirius’s face; he slept deeply, ate well, and no longer startled at every sound. For someone who’d spent over a decade in Azkaban, living day and night among Dementors, and then walked through the Veil, that was near miraculous.

Yet Harry noticed something else. The clearer Sirius’s mind became, the more uneasy he seemed around him—restless, uncertain, as though unsure what to make of the man standing before him.

“...Harry,” Sirius said suddenly, voice uncertain as if the words had escaped before he could stop them. “How about... how about a round of Quidditch? You must still like it, yeah?”

“No need.” Harry slid his wand back into its holster with deliberate ease. “You don’t have to try so hard, Black. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Right...” Sirius’s shoulders slumped; if he’d been in dog form, his ears would have drooped. “I’m your godfather, you know—well, maybe not yours, exactly, but I made a promise to James and Lily. I told them I’d look after you. Only…”

“Only?”

“It’s starting to feel like I’m the one being looked after.”
The admission came out rough, embarrassed. For once, the man who’d faced down Azkaban and death itself looked genuinely lost. He wasn’t used to standing still while someone else fixed the damage.

Watching Harry methodically tidy away his wand, as detached as if treating a stranger, Sirius’s thoughts tangled further. That morning he’d spent hours laughing and tumbling in the sun with a boy who looked just like him. Padfoot’s tail had wagged; the world had felt briefly right again. And now—Merlin help him—it was this Harry sitting across from him, older, sharper, and utterly unknowable.

Harry didn’t blame him. After all, though he carried the same name as Sirius’s godson, he was not that Harry Potter. His age, his composure, his way of speaking—none of it fit the reckless boy Sirius remembered. There would be no cheerful roughhousing, no clumsy laughter and bounding dog in the sun.

Harry understood, but still thought those concerns entirely unnecessary.

Harry, catching the weight of his stare, spoke first.
“You seem to have decided to treat me and the kid as brothers. You don’t have to. I’m not helping you out of kindness or duty. You do realize you and Potter are effectively under house arrest, don’t you?”

Sirius blinked, thrown. “House arrest?”

Harry sighed, as if explaining something obvious. “As far as I can tell, most who crossed the Veil are here now. I haven’t given up on finding a way back—but I don’t intend to sit around waiting for Dumbledore’s promised miracle. I’d rather start my own research.”

Sirius frowned, the easy humor draining from his face. “You’re planning to go back through it, aren’t you?”

“It depends,” Harry said, considering. “I’m not sure it’s even possible to go back. Without more records to compare, all I can do is look for patterns, see if there’s anything the three of us share that might explain why we passed through the Veil. You’re useful for that.”

He shrugged lightly, the movement almost careless. “Mutual benefit, really.”

Sirius didn’t seem to find that reassuring. “But, Harry—”

“Relax,” Harry cut in, tone dry but not unkind. “You’re doing fine. You’ve been looking after Potter, haven’t you?” The irony wasn’t lost on him, and it showed in the faint curl of his lips. “If it weren’t for you, he’d probably be panicking non-stop in the back of my head by now. I don’t have a neat way to get him out safely yet, so… this works.”

“And what about you?” Sirius asked.

Harry blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “What about me?”

Sirius met his gaze, voice quieter now. “Sharing your head with another soul, doesn’t that bother you? Make you… uneasy?”

Harry studied him for a moment, half-expecting a grin or a laugh to break the tension. None came. Sirius’s expression stayed steady, his dark-grey eyes searching Harry’s face with that disarming sincerity of his—like he was one step away from pulling him into one of those too-tight godfatherly hugs.

“Black,” Harry said at last, tone wry. “I’m an adult.”

“You can call me Sirius,” the man countered instantly. “Or Padfoot, if you’d rather. Big Harry.”

Harry stared. “Big Harry? What kind of name is that?”

“A proper one,” Sirius replied with mock gravity. “For my elder godson.”

For a long moment, the two of them just stared at each other—Sirius obstinate, Harry unimpressed. Neither had the faintest idea why this was the hill the other had chosen to die on.

With a sharp crack, Sissy appeared in the middle of the room. Both wizards turned their heads at once, and the poor elf froze under their combined stare, nearly slamming herself into the wall in a panicked attempt to bow.

“Harry, sir!” she squeaked. “A wizard’s waiting at the manor gates. Sissy tried to send him away, but he said you had summoned him.”

“Who?” Harry asked at once, his eyes narrowing before sliding toward Sirius. “You or the kid invite anyone here?”

Sirius blinked, caught off guard. “No. But it’s not a big deal if he did, is it? It’s his house too, technically.”

Harry ignored him, gaze fixed on the trembling elf. He was getting tired of surprises. “What does this ‘wizard’ look like? Don’t tell me it’s a snake-faced red-eyed sort, or Dumbledore, or—”

or a sour-faced bat who looks like someone owes him a fortune?

Sissy shook her head frantically. “No, Master! The guest is a dark-haired wizard with violet eyes, very fine robes, like a noble. He said to show you this.”

She held up a small ornament: a pendant of polished silver and deep emerald, gleaming faintly in her hand.

Harry stared for a heartbeat, then sighed, rubbing his temple. “...Of course. Let him in. Take him to the drawing room.”
He paused, then added dryly, “And next time he shows up, just let him through. If he brings company, stop them, not him.”

“Yes, sir!” The elf vanished with another pop.

Harry pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling through his nose. Since when did I invite Blaise to drop by?
He was certain the manor was hidden well enough that no one could have traced it, let alone waltz straight to the gates without tripping a single ward.
So how in Merlin’s name did he find the place—and why now?

Harry made a mental note: he would have words with Blaise Zabini very soon.

A faint, incredulous smile tugged at Harry’s mouth, the kind that promised trouble for whoever stood on the other side of the door.

Sirius, watching from across the room, caught the expression and frowned, curiosity clearly piqued.

Harry turned to find Sirius watching him with wide, bewildered eyes—the picture of innocence, which for Sirius Black was usually a bad sign. To keep the situation from spiraling any further, Harry spoke in the tone one reserved for particularly excitable dogs.

“Black, stay here. Don’t touch anything. Don’t move anything. Understood?”

Before Sirius could form a protest, Harry had already snatched up the emerald pendant and swept out of the room, the edge of his black robe curling behind him like the wake of a shadow.

Sirius watched him go, expression contorting somewhere between offense and disbelief.
“Merlin’s beard,” he muttered, “the kid was right. Big Harry does act like Snivellus sometimes. James would hex me for even thinking it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. The more he thought about it, the worse it sounded.
Harry had looked far too serious, and that green pendant—very Slytherin. Could the visitor be that greasy bat himself? Was Harry actually meeting with Snape?

The image was enough to make him blanch.
No. Absolutely not. If that snake-faced potion-stirrer was anywhere near the house, Sirius Black had a moral duty to intervene. Purely out of concern for Harry’s safety, of course. Not because of curiosity. Not at all.

“Just… keeping an eye on things,” he told himself with great solemnity as he crept toward the door.

Without his wand—lost somewhere between the Ministry and the veil—he couldn’t Disapparate.
So he resorted to the oldest Marauder skill of all: moving low and quiet, hugging the wall, following the faint swish of robes ahead.

Sirius Black, veteran fugitive and self-declared godfather extraordinaire, began his stealth mission through Potter Manor.

Harry was halfway down the stairs when a low, velvet voice drifted up to meet him.

“Hello, Harry.”

Blaise Zabini was lounging in one of the manor’s armchairs as though it had been made for him. He sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture relaxed yet deliberate, a study in practiced elegance. His wand rested between two fingers, the tip glimmering faintly with a silver pulse as he murmured under his breath. Whatever spell he was casting, it clearly wasn’t small.

Harry sighed the kind of sigh reserved for old friends. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

Blaise didn’t even look guilty. He only turned his head, that half-smile curling lazily on his lips. “I’m helping you, Harry. This place could use a touch of charm. The décor’s… quaint.”

Harry descended the last step, flicking the emerald pendant toward him with effortless precision. “You mean lifeless, don’t you?”

“Understated,” Blaise corrected smoothly, catching the pendant in one hand. “It’s very you, of course. But I thought you might enjoy a little atmosphere.”

Harry took one look around the room and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

By then, the sitting room had transformed almost beyond recognition.
The simple, sunlit space Harry remembered—oak furniture, beige drapes, and a well-worn rug that spoke of quiet dignity—had become something else entirely.

The curtains now fell in heavy folds of green velvet, their edges trimmed with a faint silvery sheen that shimmered whenever the firelight flickered. The old stone fireplace gleamed as if freshly polished, its mantle now inlaid with thin lines of serpent-like filigree.
A carpet of deep emerald sprawled across the floor, threaded with silver and gold that caught the light like water. Even the candlesticks had changed—no longer plain brass, but intricate silver stems coiling upward like vines, each holding a candle that burned with a cool white flame.

It wasn’t entirely Slytherin, though. Between the green and silver, there lingered faint traces of the room’s former warmth: a Gryffindor-red cushion tossed carelessly on one of the armchairs, a framed photograph still crooked on the mantel. Potter Manor stubbornly refusing to lose its soul.

Harry plucked at the corner of a nearby tablecloth, staring in dismay as the once modest beige-and-gold trim had turned to dark green brocade, woven through with silver threads and subtle golden patterns.

“Of course it has,” he muttered, voice heavy with resignation. “Atmosphere, right.”

“I hope you like it,” Blaise said, watching him closely.

“It reminds me of the old days,” Harry said helplessly. “You know, it reminds me of before—those times when we ran into each other.”
Harry glanced around. “Can’t say I like it or not, but I suppose I’ve grown used to it.”

Blaise laughed softly, the sound low and smooth before his expression sobered again.

“You look well,” he said, studying Harry with the careful gaze of someone assessing more than he said aloud. “Honestly, I thought something had gone wrong. Why else would you use the pendant to summon me?”

“I didn’t.” Harry frowned and slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing over paper and foil. He pulled out a handful of neatly wrapped toffees and stilled, realization dawning.

Blaise’s brow arched, amusement gleaming in his violet eyes. “Toffee, Harry? I’m astonished. That shop’s famous among old families, you’ve got unexpectedly refined taste.”

Harry gave him a flat look, tossing the sweets back into his pocket. “You mean I have good taste by accident.”

“Or perhaps you’ve been spending too much time around people like me,” Blaise said with that teasing smile of his. “I always used to choose their desserts when I needed a gift.”

Harry cleared his throat, trying for dignity and failing halfway. “Ya—yes, it’s… nice.”
Merlin only knew what it actually tasted like.
He could practically hear himself thinking: It’s probably one of the sweets the little saviour and his godfather keep sneaking between them. Owl delivery, bloody miracle.
“I imagine you gave quite a few of them to the girls you were dating.”

Blaise arched a brow, amusement flickering across his face.

“For girls—my friends, If you remember Daphne, she still insists these are irresistible.” he said lightly. “Though I’m surprised you’ve developed a sweet tooth. Had I known, I’d have brought along some of Mrs. Malfoy’s pastries from the Manor. She rarely bakes, one must treasure the opportunity.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Harry said dryly, giving Blaise’s stretched-out legs a none-too-gentle shove so he could pass. He dropped into the armchair beside him, the motion heavy with mock resignation. “You’ve seen the Malfoys recently, then?”

“Of course. I was at the Manor earlier today.” Blaise reclined again, graceful as a cat, his voice a silken drawl. “Actually, I picked up a few pieces of news for you. But tell me, Harry—what was so urgent you needed to summon me here? I left Draco mid-conversation with the most tragically unconvincing excuse. Hardly worthy of my reputation. D Don’t tell me it was only to share sweets. Still, I wouldn’t have refused. You need only send an owl.”

He plucked one of the toffees Harry had thrown onto the low table, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth with infuriating leisure.

Rather than talk about sweets—or answer with something like “I suppose the little savior just happened to trigger the pendant by sheer dumb luck”—Harry thought it would be easier to change the subject.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go on, what’s the gossip this time?”

“Oh, that.” Blaise smiled around the candy, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be irritating. “I might have told Draco I had an urgent engagement—something involving a man with terrible taste in décor but excellent conversation.”

He gave an elegant little shrug, unapologetic. “But you didn’t ask about that, did you? You asked about the news.”

Harry exhaled through his fingers, covering his face with one hand, the picture of long-suffering patience.

Chapter Text

Harry, of course, didn’t believe Blaise had left using such a ridiculous excuse.
Whatever reason Blaise had given Draco, Harry was inclined to think his visit to Malfoy Manor had been nothing more than a casual summer call between wizards—something that could end at any moment without consequence.
After all, there was nothing happening here important enough to make Blaise rush over. Harry couldn’t quite see what could have made Blaise leave so abruptly. The man was deliberate to a fault; he didn’t waste effort unless there was something to gain. Which made his sudden appearance here all the more curious.

Still, when information came knocking, there was no reason to turn it away.

“So, how’s Draco? ”
Harry cast a glance at Blaise as he reached out to take the silver tray Sisi had brought in, set with delicate tea and small pastries. The elf gave a deep, graceful bow before vanishing on the spot.

“He seems uncertain—unsettled, even. The whole of Malfoy Manor feels… tense, unpleasant,” Blaise said after a brief pause. “As for the news, I won’t hide it from you. It’s about the Dark Lord.”

Harry said nothing. He simply watched Blaise’s thoughtful expression, waiting in silence for him to continue.

“It’s closely tied to why Draco invited me over,” Blaise went on, his voice lower now. “But forgive me, I can’t give you the details. It’s Malfoy family business, and as his friend, I won’t betray his confidence.”
He gave a deliberate blink, a small glint of mischief—or warning—in his violet eyes. “I can understand him, though. When something monumental happens—something that could change your life—you can’t help but turn to someone you trust.”

He caught the undertone in Blaise’s words.
Family secrets. Hesitation. A suffocating atmosphere. A turning point.
Harry recalled the younger Malfoy—so eager to prove himself, so painfully sensitive about loyalty and sides.
If it wasn’t the threat of being cast out from the family, then it must have been something darker. Something to do with the Mark.

“I see,” Harry said at last, returning Blaise’s look with equal calm.

Blaise smiled lightly. “How wonderfully understanding of you, Harry.”

“Other than that, the Malfoys are well?” Harry asked.

“I wouldn’t call it well.”
Blaise unwrapped another piece of chocolate toffee and slipped it into his mouth, savoring it slowly. The melted sugar clung to his fingertips in a thin sheen that glimmered faintly against his bronze skin—too deliberate to be an accident.
Harry waited for him to elaborate. Blaise didn’t.

Instead, he lounged deeper into the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, licking the chocolate from his fingers—first the thumb, then each finger in turn, slow and lazy, his gaze flicking up to meet Harry’s between movements. His expression was mild; his eyes anything but.
“You know,” he murmured, voice smooth, “their sweets go perfectly with a cup of hot tea.”

Harry felt a headache building behind his eyes. He drew a steady breath, silently reminding himself not to hex a man who was still his best source of information. Then, without a word, he reached for the teapot and poured a cup, sliding it toward Blaise.

“Thank you,” Blaise said with a satisfied sigh. “The pot was a bit far from reach.” He took a sip, then added thoughtfully, “Sweet.”

“I’ll make sure Sissy sets it on your head next time,” Harry said flatly. “And do us both a favor—save the little performances for someone else.”

Blaise stared at him for a long moment, as if deciding whether to laugh or argue, then gave up on both. He wiped his fingers neatly on a napkin, straightened in his seat, and for a moment looked more like the Blaise Harry knew—composed, deliberate, inscrutable.

With a faint flick of his wand, Blaise turned the teapot’s coaster into a delicate spiral of golden filigree. Harry said nothing; petty magic was a better outlet than flirting.

“I think Draco’s father isn’t doing well,” Blaise said at last. “Not that you’d see it outright—but it’s a feeling. He’s... fraying at the edges.”

“Lucius?” Harry echoed, thoughtful. “If you ever saw him show it outright, it’d have to be after a fistfight with Arthur Weasley. The man could be bleeding out and still find a way to polish his cane.”

“Lucius?” Blaise’s tone carried a hint of surprise, but he didn’t press. “Anyway, he struck me as anxious—more so than Draco. Restless, uncertain. I can’t imagine what would shake the head of the Malfoy family that much.”

Harry’s gaze drifted toward the window, light sliding across his features. “And about this world’s Harry Potter—or me—has he mentioned anything?”

Blaise shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. Among the old families, no one seems particularly concerned about where the famous savior spends his holidays. They assume it’s business as usual.”

He smiled faintly. “Your disguise is holding up beautifully.”

Harry nodded, brow faintly furrowing in thought.

Blaise didn’t seem to mind that his companion had drifted elsewhere. He reached for another tea cake, breaking it neatly in half before taking an unhurried bite. He’d left Draco’s place in such haste that he hadn’t had the chance to eat properly.

Harry had never been particularly fluent in the serpentine cadences of Slytherin speech. When it came to pure-bloods, information was never offered outright; it slipped out in tone, in hesitation, in what wasn’t said.

But Harry possessed an odd talent of his own—a predator’s instinct for emotional scent. He could read tension and deceit in the smallest shift of tone or breath. In the past, he would have passed such observations to Severus Snape, the dour partner who could weave half-formed impressions into sharp, reliable intelligence.

Now, he had only himself.

What was Lucius afraid of?
What threat—or promise—was large enough to unsettle a man like him?
Whatever it was, it had to be something Lucius couldn’t buy, bribe, or bow his way out of.

After a moment, Harry said quietly, “Thank you. That’s useful information.”

Blaise gave a soft hum of amusement. “The famous Harry Potter, saving the world again?”

“In my case,” Harry replied dryly, “it’s usually closer to infamy than famous. And I don’t recall ever trying to save the world.”
He leaned back, expression unreadable. “Still, as payment for the information, what is it you want in return?”

“Then allow me to turn the question around.” Blaise tilted his head, voice silk-smooth. “What are you offering?”

Harry shrugged, casual as ever. “Anything you like, so long as it’s within reason.”

Blaise’s violet eyes gleamed with mischief. He leaned in just close enough for Harry to catch the whisper of his breath.
“Then, Harry,” he murmured, words brushing against the edge of a smile, “if what I like is you—would you offer yourself?”

“Hmm.”
Harry didn’t push him away. Instead, he caught Blaise by the collar and yanked him forward.

The motion startled Blaise—he lost his balance, bracing one hand against the armrest to keep from falling completely over Harry. For a breathless moment, they hovered there, close enough to feel the other’s breath.
Violet met green: one startled, one deliberately amused.

Harry’s lips curved into a grin that carried a trace of wicked humor. His voice dropped, low and teasing, echoing Blaise’s earlier drawl.
“This is for that little stunt you pulled at the Leaky Cauldron. Tell me—do you use the same tricks and pretty words on the rest of Hogwarts when you go courting?”

Blaise chuckled, the sound soft and unbothered. “Is that what they’re saying now? Rumors do get creative. But I assure you, Harry—” he leaned a little closer, smile faint but knowing “—I don’t waste my time on things that don’t work.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He studied the man above him instead.
The fall of black curls against bronze skin; the faint gleam of light catching the curve of his cheek; the lazy warmth in those violet eyes that could so easily be mistaken for tenderness. Blaise Zabini had always looked like temptation dressed in silk—refined, untouchable, and far too aware of it.

He remembered the school gossip, stretching all the way back to second year: which girl Blaise had taken to Hogsmeade this week, which one was crying in the courtyard the next. But Harry had learned long ago not to trust rumors—he’d been the subject of too many himself.

The Blaise he knew was measured, composed, aristocratic to the bone. Beneath that polish ran the unmistakable pride of old pure-blood lineage.
If someone failed to meet his exacting standards, Blaise wouldn’t just refuse to flirt or touch them, he wouldn’t even spare them a glance.
Taken in the worst light, it made him arrogant, almost unbearably so—perhaps even more than Draco Malfoy.
Taken in the best, it meant he was disciplined, impeccably self-contained.

So no—Blaise couldn’t possibly mean that kind of “like.”
The rumors, after all, had always involved girls. That probably said something about Blaise’s taste in partners.
And Harry himself—well, he wasn’t exactly the sort of man people found easy to like.
He’d spent too long pretending, too long living under the shadow of madmen and murderers to even think about things like affection.

What could he possibly want from me?
The thought flickered through his mind as he exhaled. Information, perhaps. Access to the manor’s wards? A rare potion text?

Harry remembered that Blaise had excelled in Potions, though that didn’t necessarily make it a passion.
He himself was good at dueling—at destroying things, but that hardly meant he enjoyed it.

So if Blaise said he wanted him, he probably meant something else entirely.
Something Harry hadn’t yet seen coming.

For the first time, Harry found himself wondering—
what did Blaise Zabini actually like?
What were his hobbies? His ambitions? His favorite color?

He shifted slightly, trying to think—and his knee brushed against Blaise’s leg.
Warm. That was his first, useless thought.

Before he could move away, Blaise spoke—perhaps a little too quickly. “Unless you plan on kissing me, perhaps we could find a less compromising position for your deep thinking?”

Harry exhaled, exasperated but not quite able to hide the twitch of a smile. “Fine. How about a game of Quidditch instead? In return?”
A beat later, he muttered under his breath, “Merlin, I sound as desperate as Black.”

Blaise paused, eyebrows lifting. “What Black?”

“Oh, that’s a new development. Sirius Black, he—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

A low growl echoed from the shadows near the staircase, sharp and unmistakably canine.
“Get your hands off Harry!”

Sirius Black burst out from the corner, all wild hair and protective fury, half a snarl caught between man and dog. He looked one good shove away from literally biting someone.

Blaise blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Sirius Black? He’s alive? Merlin, was he bitten by a werewolf or just born this way? How dangerous.”
He turned to Harry, deadpan. “You didn’t tell me you kept a guard dog in the house.”

“You’re the one who’s in danger!” Sirius barked back, pointing an accusing finger at Blaise. “Harry, move away from him! I don’t care what smooth rubbish he’s feeding you—he’s after your pants or your secrets, maybe both!”

Blaise arched an eyebrow, utterly unruffled. “You were eavesdropping?”
The question wasn’t directed at Sirius at all—it was for Harry, who shook his head ever so slightly. They both knew they’d warded the room with enough spells to keep out a small army.

“I don’t need to hear it,” Sirius snapped.

“Then he’s guessing,” Blaise murmured, tilting his head with an almost impressed expression. “Remarkably accurate guessing.”

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t remember you being this insufferable,” he said dryly.

Sirius crossed his arms, still bristling. “I’m just saying—if you two are going to… do things, you’d better have protective charms ready! I won’t have my godson getting hexed in the middle of—whatever this is!”

“Merlin’s sake,” Harry groaned. His ears were definitely turning red now. “That’s our cue to end this conversation.”

“Agreed,” Blaise said smoothly, not without amusement. “I’d rather face a Dementor than a talk about safety.”

Harry shot him a withering look, but couldn’t help the corner of his mouth twitching. “Don’t tempt him. He bites.”

Sirius still glaring between the two of them.
“Get—away—from—my—godson!” Sirius roared, scanning frantically for anything sharp enough to be a weapon.

“My godson? Since Harry’s letting you stay here, and since he’s made no attempt to disguise his appearance, I’ll assume you have at least some idea of what’s going on.” Blaise tilted his head, eyes glinting. “He’s hardly your Harry Potter.”

Sirius froze, then straightened, voice dropping low and fierce. “Doesn’t matter the world, or the time—Harry Potter will always be my godson.”

“Wrong. He’s from the same world I am. Which means—” Blaise said softly, almost lazily. He smiled. “—he’s my Harry Potter.”

And before Harry could roll his eyes, Blaise caught his hand resting on the couch.
For a moment, his teasing mask faltered. Harry’s skin was cold—too cold. Blaise’s fingers tightened reflexively, his smile staying in place but losing its ease.

The room went still. Sirius’s glare burned; Harry’s sigh was long-suffering; Blaise’s grip didn’t loosen.

“From the same world?” Sirius blinked, clearly thrown off for a moment.

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sirius, I’m not fifteen anymore,” he said evenly. “You don’t need to leap out of the shadows every time someone gets within two feet of me. I can handle myself.”

For a brief second, Sirius looked taken aback—as if only just realizing that this wasn’t his fifteen-year-old godson but a man who’d been through his own wars.
The realization left him awkward and faintly guilty, though not enough to erase the flare of protective instinct still burning behind his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said at last, voice gruff but determined. “Whichever Harry Potter you are, you’re still my godson.”

There was no arguing with that kind of sentimental logic.

Since the unwelcome guest had been invited by the manor’s actual owner, Sirius couldn’t exactly throw him out. He settled for glaring at Blaise as if eye contact alone could cause spontaneous combustion.

Blaise, of course, was unbothered. He rose with a smooth, almost courtly grace. “As you wish. I’ll call again soon, Harry.”

Harry gave him a look halfway between amusement and threat. “Do. But next time, send a note first, so I can install a few extra security charms and maybe a tranquilizer dart for the guard dog.”

Blaise’s lips curved. “Duly noted. Though I prefer my welcomes less… armed.”

Sirius “helpfully” escorted Blaise all the way to the manor gates, intercepting every attempt at another lingering goodbye.
By the time he returned, he looked thoroughly pleased with himself, whistling under his breath like a man who’d just saved his child from moral corruption.

Harry, however, wasn’t impressed.
“I don’t know what that was supposed to be,” he said, crossing his arms. “But don’t do that again. It’s embarrassing and exhausting. I belong to myself, Sirius. Not to you, not to anyone.”

Sirius nodded immediately, all agreeable charm. “Of course, no problem at all.”
Inwardly, however, his mind was a swirl of justifications.
He didn’t say I couldn’t listen in. Or warn people. Or make sure that slick bastard keeps his hands to himself. Or give a few well-meaning reminders about safety…

He gave himself a firm nod, feeling rather noble about the whole thing.

…Come to think of it, he’d never asked for that bastard’s name.
Didn’t matter. He didn’t want to know anyway.

Mist drifted in slow curls around the outer edge of the Potter estate, soft and colorless beneath the waning light.
By the gates, a tall figure stood motionless, the fine cut of his robes disappearing into the fog.

Blaise Zabini lingered there longer than he meant to, eyes fixed on the faint, ghostlike silhouette of the manor beyond.
The air was heavy with summer warmth, yet his hands still remembered that unnatural cold—the brief, chilling touch of Harry’s skin.

Harry Potter was never cold.
He’d always carried a kind of restless warmth about him, that unbreakable spark Gryffindors seemed to be born with.
Cold didn’t belong on him—especially not in midsummer.

Blaise’s gaze darkened. “And what exactly did he mean…” he murmured, voice nearly lost in the fog, “…by ‘whichever Harry Potter’?”

There was something in Black’s tone, a slip so small most would’ve missed it—but Blaise Zabini didn’t miss things. The phrasing had been wrong. Too specific. Too certain.
It almost sounded as though the man had seen another one.

He reached into his pocket and drew out the emerald pendant, turning it between his fingers. The metal was cold at first, but soon warmed under his touch, the green gem catching a faint glimmer of light through the mist.

Blaise watched until his reflection blurred on its surface. “Don’t make me worry,” he murmured, barely audible, the softness of it almost a prayer.

Then he closed his hand around the pendant, tucked it away, and turned toward the fading path. The fog folded behind him, quiet and pale, erasing every trace of his presence.

Chapter Text

Harry activated the network tied to his assumed name—Seibal Barniz.
In practice, it was little more than a carefully woven spell, one that linked every enchanted trinket he’d ever handed out.
When triggered, those charms guided any owl carrying marked correspondence straight to his current location.

Of course, in this identity, there was only one person who possessed that means of contact now: Draco Malfoy.
It could just as well be called the Malfoy line.

It was a small gamble, but after what Blaise had told him of the family’s state, Harry had decided to take the risk.
Under the polite guise of Seibal Barniz, he penned a letter, pleasant, unremarkable, and perfectly dull.
There was no cipher, no hidden allusion between the lines, only a courteous inquiry about how the young Malfoy was spending his summer—and a request for more recommendations of fine restaurants. Just as they’d agreed in the beginning.

When he finished, Harry read the letter twice, eyes narrowing at each curve of ink, double-checking for anything that might betray intent.
Then, satisfied that even Lucius Malfoy’s paranoia couldn’t fault it, he signed the bottom with a sweeping, elegant abbreviation of his alias.

The letter slid neatly into an envelope; a drop of sealing wax hissed, cooling under the firm press of his signet.
Beside him, a large black hawk waited with the hauteur, Harry fastening the envelope to its leg.
The hawk gave a single sharp cry, spread its wings, and shot upward. Dark feathers slicing through the night as it vanished beyond the Potter estate’s wards.

Harry stood by the open window a moment longer, watching the last glint of its silhouette disappear.
“Here’s hoping it reads like casual friendship,” he said under his breath, “just enough to coax him into writing freely, without realizing he’s said anything at all.”
He allowed himself a thin smile. “And if he trusts me enough to share what’s truly troubling him, all the better.”

The following days passed in quiet rhythm.
He carried on as usual—tending to the restless godfather and the young soul inhabiting his mind, training the boy’s reflexes, charting the hidden corridors of the manor, continuing his research into the Veil.
It was a full, meticulous sort of busyness that left little room for thought.

Until one morning, as he crossed the hall, a flash of gold caught his eye.
A golden eagle was descending toward the window, talons glinting, a silver ring clasped tight around one leg.

Harry’s mouth curved faintly. “Right on schedule.”

The letter bore Draco Malfoy’s elegant hand, polite and perfectly measured, no secrets, no tension.
Just a neat list of other fine restaurants he thought “Mr. Barniz might enjoy.”

Draco’s reply arrived two days later—polite, measured, and perfectly Malfoy.
He had thoughtfully included “a few additional establishments Mr. Barniz might find agreeable.”

There’s a place in Diagon Alley, hidden behind the upper terrace of Flourish and Blotts.
The entrance is marked only by an old brass lamp, but inside, the floors are black marble and the chandeliers float low, reflecting like silver moons.
They serve the finest grilled sea bass and enchanted citrus tea; quiet enough for privacy, elegant enough for company.
Do try it, Barniz, if you prefer a dinner where you won’t be stared at by half the Alley.

Harry smiled faintly. The description was so carefully balanced between indulgence and restraint—it almost made him want to see the place for himself.

He dipped his quill in ink and wrote back, “As I’ve mentioned before, please—call me Seibal.”

Draco’s response came swiftly, longer this time, every sentence reading like an elaborate dance around the simplest of phrases.
Harry couldn’t tell which part of his short note had prompted it, or whether the young Malfoy was teasing, wary, or simply amused.
The only line that stood out with absolute clarity was: “Then you must allow me to do the same—call me Draco.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair.
“Only a pure-blood could turn a name into a five-paragraph essay,” he muttered, making a mental note to keep future correspondence painfully simple.

Their letters continued, steady and innocuous.
They spoke of nothing in particular—restaurants, minor social anecdotes, small talk that might have passed for boredom.
Draco had his stories of society events and occasional gossip; Harry, confined to the quiet of Potter Manor, offered what few details he could.

He wrote, half in jest, “I’ve taken to raising a fine black hound—pure lineage, glossy coat, temperament a little too clever for its own good. We play Quidditch in the fields most mornings.”
(It was, of course, Padfoot and the younger Potter doing the playing, but Draco hardly needed to know that.)

Draco’s next reply came promptly, polite curiosity threading between the lines.
“From your description, it sounds like a magical breed. Does he have a traceable line?”

Harry’s lips curved. “I’m quite sure he does,” he wrote back, resisting the childish temptation to add that the creature carried Black blood—in more ways than one.

The exchange amused him more than he expected.
Pure-bloods and their obsession with pedigree—he supposed even the Muggle rich were just as bad about it, dressing vanity in the language of breeding and rarity.

Still, Draco’s tone remained unfailingly courteous, even warm.

“It’s quite the handful, honestly. Sometimes I wonder if taking it in was a mistake. But at the time… well, I didn’t really have a choice.”
Harry wrote, pausing a moment before adding, “Refusal wasn’t an option.”

The reply came slower than usual—more deliberate, each stroke of ink sharper than the last.
And within it, at last, was what Harry had been waiting for.

“Seibal, if there was no choice, then it was never truly one, was it?
That’s not a decision—that’s coercion.
Even refusing to choose is still a choice, of sorts.”

The neat script faltered slightly, betraying something harsher beneath its polished tone—a curl of disgust, carefully leashed.
Then, almost playfully, Draco concluded:
“Still, it seems you’ve made peace with it. If you’d prefer a less troublesome companion, allow me to send you a cat. Or perhaps… a snake?”

Harry’s lips curved as he read, an amused glint softening the green in his eyes.
“It’s only a dog,” he wrote back, calm and certain.
“Whatever reason I had for keeping it, if I truly disliked it, I’d know how to make it disappear. When faced with something you cannot stand, there’s always a way to remove it—and it’s never too late. But as you said, every choice demands that we live with its weight.”
“So tell me, Draco… do you prefer dogs, cats, or snakes?”

Draco’s next reply took longer still—as though each word had been reconsidered a dozen times before being committed to parchment.
When it finally arrived, the note was almost absurdly brief, like an afterthought:
“Perhaps I’d rather keep a dragon.”

Harry’s answer came just as short:
“Then you should. I promise, you can.”

He folded the letter neatly, tucked it deep inside the drawer, and sealed it with a faint shimmer of protective wards.
That precaution was more than justified—his overenergetic housemates, the ever-curious godfather and his excitable young charge, had taken to exploring the manor like it was a new battlefield.

Harry rapped his fingers lightly against the desk, murmuring to himself, “Let’s hope he caught the hint. If I’m going to test how to remove a Dark Mark, I’ll need volunteers… and what better way to aid an old colleague while gaining a valuable ally?”

“Father… do you believe that the Mark—the one He gave us—could ever be removed?”

The words left Draco’s lips before he could stop them.
The instant they did, his face drained of color. He bowed his head quickly. “Forgive me, Father, I didn’t mean—”

“—A Malfoy,” Lucius interrupted, his tone cold and steady, “must weigh every word and gesture. Always.”

He paused just long enough for the silence to sting, then added, “I will pretend I heard nothing. Go back to your room.”

Draco straightened, his posture stiff and proper as ever, and murmured, “Good night, Father,” before escaping the study in a rush of quick, uneven steps.

Lucius watched the young heir’s retreating back, his expression carved from marble.
Yet in the pale depths of his eyes, a faint glimmer kindled—something like recognition, or realization—before it was carefully, completely smothered.

Through Blaise and Draco, Harry had begun to weave the faint outlines of an information web, though most days he remained comfortably tucked away in the quiet seclusion of Potter Manor.

Old habits died hard. Building networks was a form of insurance—one never knew when the world would shift again.
Still, he’d shared none of this with his two housemates.

Dumbledore of this world wanted a symbol of purity and light—his Harry Potter was meant to be that banner.
Harry, older and far more jaded, had no intention of forcing his methods onto the boy.
Teaching the young Potter how to survive was charity enough; explaining why survival required compromise was a lesson he doubted this world would ever allow.

He felt it then—a pull in the dark, the familiar whisper threading through the edges of his mind.
A call.

Harry exhaled and let his consciousness descend, sinking into the black until the faint hum of magic around him reshaped into space and sound.

When he opened his eyes, he stood once again in the shared mindscape—the bridge between their souls, where they trained and met.

The space had changed.

What had once been a blank, endless white void now carried faint color and form.
Soft grass spread underfoot, benches lined the edges, a few practice dummies stood scattered in neat rows.
The place was slowly taking on the shape of a Quidditch field, and Harry was not entirely sure how he felt about that.

He folded his arms, watching a tuft of conjured grass sway under a nonexistent breeze.
“At this rate,” he muttered dryly, “he’ll build himself an entire stadium in my head.”

Every time he returned here, the place seemed a little less his own.
And truth be told, Harry wasn’t convinced that was a good sign.

Beside him, the younger Potter was staring outright—wide-eyed, hesitant, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and uncertainty.

Harry waited. And waited. When the silence stretched too long, he shrugged lightly.
“No problem, then. I’ll be going. Get some rest.”

“Wait!”

Harry halted mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“I—uh—I had a question.”

He turned back fully, the faintest hint of amusement touching his face. “Go on.”

Potter fidgeted, gaze darting everywhere before settling—awkwardly—on Harry’s arm. “It’s about… your clothes,” he blurted out at last. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It’s summer, right? But you’re still wearing long sleeves. And it’s strange, I don’t feel hot at all. The sleeves don’t even… slip down or anything. They just stay there. It’s, um, convenient. But weird.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Plenty of wizards don’t change their wardrobe by season. That’s what temperature charms are for. As for the sleeves, they’re charmed to stay in place. Domestic magic, mostly.” His tone stayed mild, conversational. “Not everyone enjoys showing skin for no reason.”

Or in some cases, showing the wrong patch of skin could get you killed.
A glimpse of a Dark Mark at the wrong moment, and an entire web of Death Eaters would unravel overnight.

He glanced at the boy again, and couldn’t help a private flicker of relief. It was almost impressive that the kid hadn’t rolled around with that overgrown dog enough to tug the cuffs loose.

Potter blinked, visibly shrinking a little. He rubbed his arm without thinking. “That’s… handy,” he muttered. “Yeah. Really useful. Especially with bloody quills and all.”

Harry raised a brow.
Blood quills? Interesting. Perhaps this world’s Hogwarts had its own brand of cruelty.

“So that’s all you wanted to ask? A sleeve charm?” Harry’s voice turned lightly teasing. “I could recommend a very thorough book on household enchantments if you’d like—”

“No! I mean—yes, but not just that.” Potter bit his tongue, frustrated with himself, then raked a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “All right. I wanted to ask if… Remus could come by. For a bit.”

“Remus Lupin?”

Potter nodded, earnest. “Ron and Hermione wrote me. I didn’t tell them much, I swear—only that we found Sirius. But they said Remus has been… worried. More than usual. And with the full moon coming soon, he’s been… um, a bit jumpy. Overprotective.”

Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes narrowing just a little.
“Ah. Him.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there, caught in thought.

When it came to Remus Lupin, Harry’s impression of him had always been sharper than most of the Order.
Whatever the situation, Lupin managed to stay composed, reasonable, fair when others could not be. He had even been civil toward him—toward the version of Harry who went by the name Phoenix, the well-known Death Eater—and toward Severus, whose temper could strip paint off a wall.

Merlin, anyone who could speak kindly to Severus Snape deserved to have their virtues engraved on a medal.

And considering how viciously Severus had spoken of Lupin—how Dumbledore had once hinted at some old, nearly fatal grievance between them—it was telling that, in moments that mattered, Snape had still trusted Lupin enough to pass him vital intelligence.
If nothing else, it proved the man could be trusted with secrets… even if he was a werewolf.

In another world, he’d been one of the few who’d still believed in Harry Potter, even when the papers had labeled him The Lapdog Who Lived.

Harry studied the boy before him, the awkward set of his shoulders, the way he tried to look composed but couldn’t quite pull it off.
“Black once told me this manor belongs to you as much as to him,” Harry said calmly. “That means you have the right to invite whomever you like. You don’t need my permission.”

Potter hesitated, looking both relieved and flustered, as if he wanted to ask for help but didn’t quite know how—or why he needed Harry’s approval at all.
So that’s how it is, Harry thought. Maybe he really does see me as some long-lost brother—or something like it.

“But,” Harry continued, tone softening, “if you’re asking my opinion—if you’re certain Lupin is someone you can trust—then yes. I don’t see any harm in inviting him.”

The boy’s whole face lit up, a grin blooming so bright it almost startled Harry.
“Thanks! Remus will be thrilled! I’ll write to him right now!”

Before Harry could reply, Potter surged forward and threw his arms around him.
It wasn’t a long embrace, just a quick, impulsive hug, but it was warm and clumsy enough to leave Harry completely taken aback.

Then, just as suddenly, the boy let go, muttered something under his breath, and vanished.

“Wait—when exactly are you planning to—”

Harry’s words cut off mid-sentence as the world lurched.
The familiar blackness rushed up from beneath his feet, pulling him down into the depths of the shared space.

The last thing he felt before consciousness slipped away was the echo of his own exasperated sigh.

When Harry next woke, he was back in his own body.

The younger Potter had returned control to him, though the transition was never graceful.
His skull throbbed, vision swimming in and out of focus, limbs heavy as stone. He didn’t rush to move—just breathed through the dizziness, waiting for his bearings to return.
There was always this hollow lag after a transfer of consciousness, a strange weight between mind and flesh. He’d grown used to it by now.
This time, though, the disorientation lingered longer, sharper—likely thanks to the younger one’s less-than-gentle handover.

When his eyes finally adjusted, he found himself staring straight into a pair of wide, soulful black eyes.

A massive, glossy-furred dog stood in front of him, ears drooping, tail thumping cautiously against the carpet. Padfoot placed both front paws delicately on Harry’s knee, claws tucked in, and wagged his tail again, sending a light tickle along Harry’s calf.

“Woof?” The sound was low and uncertain, half greeting, half apology. The enormous creature tilted his head, then leaned closer, pressing the side of his muzzle against Harry’s leg with theatrical affection, as if smiling.

Unfortunately, from where Harry sat, what he saw was a hulking black beast baring a full set of sharp white teeth in something between a grin and a threat.

Still, the air didn’t smell of blood or danger.
It smelled—absurdly—of whipped cream, chocolate, and vanilla.

It took Harry a moment to realize the sweetness was on his own breath as well.
He blinked, looked around, and the scene came into focus: not his bed, but the armchair in the study. Ink bottles and parchment scattered across the desk, pushed aside without care.
In the center lay an empty box he recognized at once, surrounded by crumpled candy wrappers like fallen leaves.

So that’s how it was. His charming housemates had been writing their invitation letters while throwing an impromptu candy party in the study.

Harry groaned under his breath, grabbed the nearest teacup, and drained what was left of the cold tea in one go, hoping to wash the syrupy taste off his tongue.

He’d never had a sweet tooth to begin with. Now he was beginning to wonder if he ought to stock a vial of dental-strength potion next to the ink wells.

After a moment, Harry sighed and reached out, ruffling the dog’s ears with a rough sort of fondness.
Sirius would no doubt take it as a silent truce.
A few heartbeats later, the warm weight pressed against his leg shifted, bones reshaping, fur giving way to fabric.
In Padfoot’s place knelt a tall, dark-haired man with a grin entirely too bright for this hour.

“Thanks for agreeing to let Moony visit,” Sirius said at once, straightening his robes. “I knew little Harry would talk you into it. Oh, and—funny thing—that visit? It’s… happening rather soon.”

Harry blinked at him. “Define ‘soon.’”

Sirius coughed into his fist, visibly uneasy. “Ah. Well. We sent the letter, and he replied through his Patronus. He said he wanted to make sure we were both all right—promised he’d come alone. He didn’t want to waste time, you see. And maybe—just maybe—little Harry and I asked Sissy to find us a, er, slightly illegal Portkey to get him here faster.”

For a moment, Harry simply stared at him.
Then he let out a long breath, pressing two fingers to his scar as a familiar, almost nostalgic ache bloomed behind his eyes.

“Of course you did,” he muttered. “Fine. The full moon’s in a few days anyway. Better he visits now than when he’s… furrier.”

Sirius blinked, surprised. “You’re—taking this rather well.”

Harry gave him a look that was halfway between weary amusement and mild threat. “You’re just lucky I haven’t hexed the both of you yet.”

That seemed good enough for Sirius. He brightened immediately, nodding with fervent relief. “He’ll only stay a short while, just long enough to see that we’re safe. Then he’s gone.”

Harry’s gaze softened, thoughtful for a moment. If I can keep contact with Lupin… maybe even draw some intelligence from the Order through him. It might be worth the trouble.

“Fine,” he said at last, standing and smoothing his sleeve. “Let’s go meet him at the gate before he decides to Apparate straight into the living room.”

Sirius, delighted, clapped him on the shoulder, already halfway to the door. His energy filled the quiet study like a gust of wind.

Harry followed at an easier pace, one hand in his pocket, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“I really should’ve seen this coming,” he muttered under his breath.

Together, they left the study—Sirius striding ahead with barely contained excitement, Harry trailing behind with quiet resignation—on their way to meet the incoming visitor.