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Chapter Text

Soulmarks are an integral part of society in both magical and nonmagical culture, all over the world. For both muggles and magical folk, it is common knowledge that the words marked on a person’s skin are the first words they will hear from their soulmate. It is also known that having words on one’s skin at birth means they will one day meet the person who is their perfect match, and having no words at all means they have no such perfect match. But that is where the similarity between a magical and a nonmagical soulmark ends.

For a nonmagical individual — a muggle, in some areas of the world — the soulmark is written in a pale whitish shade that shimmers faintly under sun or moonlight. Soulmarks are nearly always for romantic partners, and usually occur between two people of differing gender. To form a soulmate bond two people who share words must also share intimate relations, and after that point have a faint sense of each other’s emotions and exist in perfect harmony.

Soulmarks are treated differently from muggle culture to muggle culture. In the days of arranged marriages these marks were often ignored, or two individuals who were to be married were made to recite their words to one another at their first meeting. In more modern times soulmarks are rather more revered, but by the same token people have stopped believing soulmarks are the be-all and end-all of a proper romantic relationship. True, to meet and marry one’s soulmate is a wonderful thing, but it is up to the two soulmates to make the relationship work. And now-a-days, more stock is put into healthy, developed relationships than in markings on one’s skin. This has caused a good bit of conflict between the magical realms and those muggleborn new children of magic because for wizarding folk, the opposite is true.

In magical society — any magical society, in any time or any location — the writing on one’s skin is sacrosanct. This is because wizarding soulmates are very different from muggle ones. To a witch or wizard, soulmate transcends romance, and instead is someone who is their perfect match in magic as opposed to a perfect mate. Like muggles, a young witch or wizard has pale shimmering words, but unlike muggles that changes once they meet their soulmate. Once both parties have spoken their first words to their partner, their words turn bright gold and change with every new phrase a bonded pair exchanges. If both phrases aren’t exchanged at the same time, the first person’s will turn bright red before changing to gold when its partner phrase is spoken and the magical bond is formed.

A bonded soulmate pair in the magical world, in truth, shares magic between them. It gives truth to the idea of Plato’s that soulmates were remnants of one individual who was split in two. Soulmates for wizardkind do not have to be romantic; as aforementioned, the other half of one’s soul transcends romance when magic is brought into play. Soulmates share magic, they share any spells cast on them, and they share joys and burdens. The only things two soulmates, once bonded, can keep from one another are their thoughts.

Magic also changes the rules around a bit as to how a pair might exchange words. For muggles it is simple: each has the first words they hear from the other, full stop — and these are usually mundane greetings or introductions. But a wizard might speak to another person of magic several times and not activate their words, simply because for magical folk the words must be spoken in person. Speaking through an enchanted mirror does nothing, nor does speaking face-to-face through Floo or some other communication. Oh, in some ways this holds true for Muggles as well (they discovered such with telephones, though strangely words spoken through television still count) but it is a minor difference. Minor, but important.

Another difference is that a muggle and a magical person cannot share soulmarks. It just doesn’t happen. Because magical soulmates are bonded through magic instead of through physicality, the bonds themselves are different. A magical person cannot share magic with a magicless being. Not through a soulmate bond, at any rate.

Because of this strong bond of magic, it is also all-but impossible for a bonded soulmate to live past the death of their partner. They might last days, weeks — but not beyond that. The only thing that might sustain a soulmate past the death of their partner is to have had children by said partner. There is a weak magical bond between the children of soulmate parents, and from parent to child. This weak bond can sustain a soulmate past their partner’s death — if the person wants to live. Of course, that is not always certain. For muggles, of course, there is no noticeable consequence for the death of a soulmate besides incredible grief.

Wizards also cannot kill their soulmates because of this fact. Even before the bond has occurred their magic is both compatible and interchangeable. Wizarding wars have, as a result, an unbelievably short shelf-life, as generally the first time a soulmate pair is put in opposition to one another the conflict is settled as hastily as possible to prevent issues in bonding.

There are any number of other tiny, infinitesimal differences which culminate in magical soulmarks being so completely different from muggle ones as to be utterly alien. There is, in fact, a mandatory class held in all wizarding schools which teaches its students everything about soulmarks and soulmates, just in case they were raised in a more muggle environment than a magical one.

Besides the bond itself, there are a number of reasons for the sacredness of soulmarks in magical society. Firstly, it is possible to lose one’s soulmark through overuse of soul magic, whether light or dark. The tragedy in this is that while one half will find their words inexplicably missing, the other half will still have their words, and so are condemned to a half-life without a soul bond despite needing one. Light magic and dark magic are things greatly debated, and are revered or reviled based on propaganda and belief, but soul magic is the only true taboo in all magical societies. It is said that only a person truly depraved in both magic and mind would ever try to do anything that would rid themselves of such a powerful and beneficial bond.

The only wizard to openly do such a thing in modern history was Gellert Grindelwald, who was rumoured to have met his soulmate as a young man, but abandoned him for world domination and afterwards destroyed his own half of the bond so that he could not be reasoned with by his other half. Many rumours abounded when Albus Dumbledore was able to defeat the man, as the Hogwarts Professor was admitted to St Mungo’s for months after imprisoning the Dark Lord Grindelwald. It was whispered that poor Professor Dumbledore had been forced to duel and imprison his own soulmate — that it was the only way he could have defeated the man, was because Dumbledore had known him so well.

Even a young Tom Riddle, researching ways to gain power and ensure he did not die before he had become great, dared not do anything so foolish and self-destructive as to dabble in magics that might remove his soulmark. Riddle had been enthralled by the stories of the power a bonded pair could wield together in his Soul Magic classes, and was determined to find his own soulmate as quickly as possible. This desire didn’t come to fruition, but Tom did learn a great many things that were not common knowledge about soulmates, soulmarks, and soul magic in general.

The Dark Lord Voldemort crossed the fragile and near-invisible barrier between acceptable magic and unacceptable magic (in regards to soulmarks) quite by accident in late 1976. It was in the months and years after that mistake that his name became one to be feared; one never spoken. Later, it was rumoured that whatever had removed his soulmark had also destroyed the Dark Lord’s sanity at the same time.

In Hogwarts at this time many muggleborns like Lily Evans found themselves coming into conflict with the wizarding ideas of soulmarks and soulmates. Lily found herself bonded with an indescribably rude boy she met on the Hogwarts Express, long before she began her Soul Magic classes. She was sorted into Gryffindor instead of Slytherin due to her existing bond, but was furious at being separated from her best friend. Lily hated having an immature bully for a soulmate, and so fought the urges of the bond with everything she had. It took James Potter six long years to win her over, and their bond was one of the strongest in centuries because of those struggles. It was strong enough that even beyond their death, their magic existed to protect their young son in a powerful blood-bond that lived in his very skin.

Their magic formed a protection powerful enough to defend against almost any spell — except the Unforgivables.

Chapter Text

When Harry was a very little boy, it had been his favourite thing to trace the strange words written in red on his skin. They were where everyone’s soulmark was: written wrapped around his wrist, where they were easily hidden by the thick silver band he’d never been able to take off. Harry would push the band up his arm and would marvel at his words.

He hadn’t been able to read them at first, when he was exceptionally small, but he did know what they were. It was the only question his Aunt Petunia had ever answered willingly, without a hint of ill temper. Harry had asked her why he and Dudley had wristbands covering the pretty markings, when his aunt and uncle didn’t.

Aunt Petunia had pulled Dudley into the room and sat them both down. She’d told them everything she knew about soulmarks. She said they were the first words their soulmate would ever tell them, and that their soulmate was the one person who would love them above anybody else. Dudley had fiddled with his plastic band and, bright-eyed, had asked his mum tons of questions about ways he could figure out what kind of soulmate he had just from the words.

Petunia had smiled and talked about handwriting and ways to guess how they would meet from the words, even if you couldn’t tell anything else. She’d shown both boys her words: an apologetic, “Oh, let me help you get your books, miss,” from what she told them (neither boy had learnt to read yet). Uncle Vernon had a matching, “Hey, watch where’re you’re going!” and Aunt Petunia told the boys the story of how a hurried university student had knocked the books out of his classmate’s hands.

Even if Harry didn’t particularly like Aunt Petunia, who was nasty on good days, he did like the story. He later retreated to his cupboard, pushed up his bracelet, and wondered what his soulmate would be like. He also wondered why his words were red. Aunt Petunia’s words had been a silvery white, and the few times Harry caught glimpses of Dudley’s or Uncle Vernon’s theirs were the same colour. A year later he went to primary school, and was absolutely delighted to finally be able to read his words. He was heartened by the sheer unusual nature of the words — both their meaning and their colour.

After all, a person whose first words to Harry were something as odd as Avada Kedavra had to be as unDursleyish as possible.

*          *          *

When Harry was eleven a giant knocked down their door on his birthday. The giant promptly introduced himself as Hagrid, turned Harry’s world upside-down with the revelation of magic, and gave Harry a birthday cake and Dudley a pig’s tail. Harry’s mind was whirling the next day, full of new information.

That stuff he’d been told the night before about Voldemort was plenty scary — having some madman who might or might not be dead out for his blood would scare any reasonable person — but everything else was so wonderful he didn’t pay it any mind. Diagon Alley was just the most amazing thing Harry had ever seen. Gringotts was so cool with the goblins and the roller-coaster-like ride to the vaults, and even though the boy Harry met while being fitted for robes was rather snobby and rude getting his wand after totally made up for it. Even going back to the Dursleys was pretty good, because nobody was being nasty to him. They were ignoring him instead, but Harry would take what he could get.

He was reminded of his odd words on the Hogwarts Express. The pair of twins who helped him put his trunk on the train had bare wrists, and Harry hadn’t been able to resist glancing down at them. He was startled to see words written in gold on their wrists. One had the shining words “Hurry up!” and the other had “Oy, Fred, c’mere and help!” which oddly enough was the last thing this twin had said before the pair was distracted by Harry’s scar.

The twins noticed his curious looks. “Oh?” one asked.

“You were raised by muggles, weren’t you?”

Harry nodded hesitantly. Both twins nodded decisively back.

“Right—”        “—just so you know—”         “—the colour and changing words are a wizard thing.”

“Quite right. Our cousin who’s a squib has white words—”

“—and they don’t change ever, even though he’s met his soulmate.”

“But you’ll learn the rest in Soul Magic class, so we’ll leave that to old Flitwick to teach you.”

“Quite right. Coming mum!”

The pair ran off to meet up with the mother calling them. Harry had eavesdropped on their conversation a bit with no remorse (it was much too interesting and funny, in a wistful way). Then Harry met the twins’ brother, Ron. He was curious about what they’d said about soulmarks, and Ron was curious about how muggles saw soulmarks, so they found themselves talking about it for a while.

Ron told Harry that unlike with muggles, a soulmate bond didn’t have to lead to marriage. Fred and George were soulmates because they were twins — literally two halves of the same whole. Their relationship was totally platonic, and it was very common for magical twins to be soulmates. Sometimes they would share a romantic partner as adults, sometimes they would go their separate ways in that regard, but they would be very closely connected forever, and would likely always live together and do things together.

Harry’s new friend told him about his older siblings’ soulmarks. His oldest two brothers still had silver marks, but apparently Percy had a bond with a Ravenclaw girl in his year. Ron’s “Are you doing magic? Let’s see then,” was silvery white like his oldest brothers and his baby sister. It was also hidden under a silver band just like Harry’s. Harry told Ron what colour his words were, but didn’t show him, a bit uncomfortable. Ron just chalked it up to a muggle thing, and admitted wizards only hid them to differentiate. There wasn’t any stigma about showing people your words like there was in the muggle world.

They did eventually move on to other topics — mostly Quidditch. Ron also introduced Harry to the wonderful world of wizarding sweets and Chocolate Frog cards. But to both Ron and Harry’s immense surprise, halfway through the train ride a bossy girl barged into their compartment looking for the same toad as the blond boy from earlier.

Ron had snapped at her and she’d blinked at him, scratching under her plastic muggle soulmark-band. She’d been flustered, but became interested when she saw his drawn wand. The girl said Ron’s words and he’d gasped out loud. His silver band had shimmered and a seal had appeared down his vein-line. The band had fallen off and Ron had gaped at his now golden words. The girl, surprised, had pulled up her own muggle armband to reveal words equally golden.

The spell Ron had been about to cast was forgotten as the girl — who introduced herself as Hermione Granger — began pelting both boys with questions on soulmarks. Ron had answered shyly, but with growing confidence, and Harry had happily included Hermione as his second friend. The three eleven-year-olds had watched in fascination as their conversation made Ron and Hermione’s words change over and over again. Harry had been a bit wistful.

The only rather annoying bit was when the snobby boy from Diagon Alley showed up again. He’d been snide and rude when he learnt that Ron and Hermione were newly discovered soulmates, calling Hermione some horrid names which made Ron punch him out. Harry had noted that Malfoy didn’t have a silver band himself, and golden words peeked out from under his robe sleeves.

When they were escorted off the train the First Years had been shepherded onto a series of boats with Hagrid. The first view of the castle was stunning, and Harry had been amazed and awed that this place would be his home for most of the year for the next several school terms. Hagrid left them with a stern witch who was quick to begin giving them a speech.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room.”

She stared around at them all regally. “The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.”

Professor McGonagall smiled at them all faintly, before becoming all business again. “The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarted yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.” Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair.

She paused before leaving the room. “Also, any of you who met your soulmate on the ride here will need to come back to this hall after the feast. You’ll be checked over by our soul magic expert and will be given some informational materials so that you understand how this will affect your lives. All other students will follow your assigned House Prefects to the dorms after the feast.” And with that she left them, leaving behind her the parting, “I will return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly.”

And so after the sorting Harry followed Ron’s older brother to Gryffindor Tower with the other new Gryffindors while Ron and Hermione went back to the Entrance Hall. There was one Gryffindor girl crying on a blonde girl’s shoulder, as apparently she was part of another twin-pair of soulmates and her twin sister had been sorted into Ravenclaw. Pavarti wailed that she’d never been apart from her sister before, and to everyone’s surprise the Weasley twins bookended her and began whispering comfortingly in her ears until she was calm enough to go up to the girls’ dorms.

Ron showed up in the boys’ dorm a while later, after all the boys aside from Harry were already asleep. He had a pamphlet and a teddy bear, and blushed when he noticed Harry was still awake. “The bear’s charmed with Hermione’s magic,” he said. “They said since our bond is new we really should stay in the same room, but it’s inappropriate or something so I got this teddy bear instead. We just have to spend all the time during the day together or we have to sleep in the infirmary.”

Harry just smiled wistfully. “At least you’ve got your soulmate, now,” he said. “And Hermione seemed really smart, and kind of scary.” Ron had nodded thoughtfully, and both boys eventually dropped off to sleep — Ron clutching the teddy bear that connected him to Hermione.

The first month or so of school was both fun and…difficult. The difficult part was how obsessed everyone seemed with Harry. Whispers followed him wherever he went and random people would come up to him to ask the strangest things — or just to ask for an autograph. Harry’s only saving grace was his two newly bonded best friends, but they had their own struggles to work through.

Because of the newness of the bond Ron and Hermione held hands whenever possible, and even the infamously grumpy Professor Snape who clearly loathed Harry found his eyes softening whenever he saw the newly bonded soulmates. Ron and Hermione weren’t the only new soulmates, either. A first year Ravenclaw had bonded with an older person in the same House, but as none of the Gryffindor classes were ever with Ravenclaw this didn’t affect them so much.

The drama Harry did notice and pay attention to was a bonded pair in Slytherin and Hufflepuff, and a second between a Hufflepuff and one of the Gryffindor girls. The Gryffindor-Hufflepuff pair was Fay Dunbar and Hannah Abbott, and they acted just like Ron and Hermione, only because they were in different houses the pair slept in the infirmary and had special, modified schedules. The Hufflepuff-Slytherin pair was the one Harry was most curious about and surprised by.

That pair was the muggleborn Justin Finch-Fletchley and the pretty but glacial Daphne Greengrass. The Slytherin girl was studiously pretending her soulmate didn’t exist, and Ron had explained to a confused Harry that Greengrass was from a pureblood family. While her family hadn’t supported Voldemort like, say, Malfoy had, they were very mistrustful of and disdainful towards muggles and muggleborns. Poor Justin was distraught, and while all the older students and teachers assured both Justin and those distressed by this drama (like Harry) that she’d give in eventually, it did plant a seed of worry in Harry’s mind.

Harry was so invested, in fact, that the class he most looked forward to was the Soul Magic classes under Professor Flitwick. Because Harry had Charms class before this one, Professor Flitwick didn’t do anything funny when he got to Harry’s name in roll (which was honestly a relief) but he did give Harry a warm smile before continuing. After that they got right down to it.

The first few lessons all focused on the major differences between muggle and magical soul bonds. Then, they segued into the types of wizarding bonds to appear: twin soulmates, romantic soulmates, platonic soulmates “of immense brotherhood or sisterhood”, as Professor Flitwick put it, and mentor-student soulmates, which Professor Flitwick said were really rare, and which the Hogwarts grapevine said was the type of bond Malfoy and Professor Snape shared. It was all pretty interesting, but Harry ended up having to read ahead to figure out why his words were red.

The textbook talked about a few different colours soulmarks could come in. Silvery white, in a witch or wizard, meant they hadn’t met their soulmate yet at all. Gold meant a bond had been formed. Black meant one bonded soulmate had died before the other (and usually heralded the death of the remaining soulmate). The book was very clear that it was impossible for one soulmate to die before they’d met and exchanged words with their counterpart. It just didn’t happen. Ever.

According to the textbook, red words came from one soulmate saying words without having anything said in return. The book had lots of different reasons for this: perhaps one person had been under a Silencing Charm, perhaps one person left before a reply could be made, or perhaps the red-marked individual was younger than their soulmate to some extent. This was the one Harry felt was most probable.

It just fit. Harry hadn’t been around any magical people who had spoken to him between roughly a year old and the age of eleven. Therefore, since his words had been red so long as he could remember, his soulmate must have been old enough to talk when Harry was a baby, but since Harry hadn’t been able to talk back only half of the bond had been filled. Harry was also starting to believe the words on his wrist must be a spell of some kind. Avada Kedavra really didn’t sound like normal conversation. No, it sounded much more in line with the odd almost-nonsense sounding spells they were constantly learning now.

It was odd, knowing he had an older soulmate. If they could cast spells, the youngest they could have been was eleven. That would make his soulmate at least ten years older than him, probably more. Perhaps they were a mentor-student bond?

When Professor Flitwick had explained those in Soul Magic class, he had said that sometimes, due to age gap, soulmate pairs who were highly talented in some branch of magic found themselves in a mentor-student relationship, where they studied together and made lots of magical discoveries together. He’d then gone into some really complicated stuff about reincarnation and astrological signs and divinatory stuff that had gone over the heads of the First Year students. But Harry had something else in mind.

Everyone was fairly sure that Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy had a mentor-student bond. It was probably why Snape praised Malfoy so much in class. As much as Harry hated to admit it, Malfoy was good at potions. Good enough to keep an eye out to sabotage Harry and still get his own potion done both on time and with a good grade, which was harder than it sounded. Harry knew because he used to try to mess up Dudley the same way in class out of petty revenge, and he’d only really managed it in maths or other classes where he was already really good, just dumbing himself down.

Harry wanted to ask Professor Snape for advice, maybe for help on finding out whoever might be his other half. The Professor was younger than all the others, after all — young enough to be of a similar age to Harry’s parents. The problem here was that Professor Snape loathed Harry with a fiery passion Harry truly didn’t understand. But Harry remembered how the man had softened whenever he noticed young soulmate couples… perhaps, since it had to do with Harry’s potential soulmate, he wouldn’t be as nasty?

Harry could only hope.

*          *          *

Severus Snape could honestly say the last thing he’d expected on the last Friday before Christmas was to see Harry Potter knocking at his office door. It was sheer curiosity (and no small amount of boredom) that kept him from slamming said door in the brat’s face.

Potter wasn’t having trouble in his class — far from it, as loathe as Severus was to admit it. Oh, Potter had no particular flair for potions, and his many “accidents” brought his grade down, but when Severus was able to remind himself to grade fairly Potter came out with all Acceptables and Exceeds Expectations. Severus was well aware that Draco was sabotaging Potter’s potions, but simply discounted those from the boy’s grades and reprimanded his impetuous soulmate in private. Honestly, he considered it good training for the Potter boy. As he grew older he would have half the wizarding world out for his blood; better to get used to hostility in a controlled environment first.

Severus glared down at the arrogant little brat daring to interrupt his evening. “Yes?” he asked testily. Potter didn’t quite meet his eyes, scooting his foot along the ground nervously.

“Uh, sorry to bother you—” he started meekly. Severus couldn’t help the scoff that escaped. Thankfully, he did manage to control the gut-punched gasp that nearly escaped when Potter finally lifted his gaze, expression hardening in a very familiar expression. Lily had borne that face every time she’d seen James pranking someone for years, and seeing it on the son Severus was studiously ignoring was Lily’s was jarring.

“Oh, come in,” he snapped, opening the door wider. Potter walked warily past him, still eyeing Severus with Lily’s “You Arrogant, Bullying Toe-rag” face. Severus closed his office door firmly and gestured Potter to take a seat, almost against his will. He sat, and Potter sat as well. The boy stopped looking him in the eye again, instead fiddling with his silver soulmark band.

“Well?” Severus bit out. “I don’t have all night.”

Potter grimaced. “Uh, sir, I wanted to ask you about some stuff Professor Flitwick taught us in Soul Magic class.”

A muscle in Severus’ jaw twitched. “And you couldn’t have asked him?”

Potter wrinkled his nose. “I dunno,” he muttered. “It would have felt weird.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Right. What is this question?”

Potter fiddled with his band some more. “Um. Well. When he was explaining how wizarding soul bonds tend to manifest, he talked about mentor-student bonds—”

Oh, bloody hell. Severus held up a hand and Potter miraculously stopped talking when bid. “This is about Dr-Mister Malfoy, isn’t it?” He was surprised when Potter shook his head. He was expecting the boy wanted him to control his soulmate or something equally rude. He’d heard all the rounds already this semester, and it made him want to scream. Oh, it all came from people who had no bond yet, so they didn’t understand the truly revolting nature of what they’d asked, but it didn’t stop Severus from assigning them the worst detentions he could think of.

One did not control one’s soulmate even when they were mentor and student. That was not only illegal, but horrific to think of when one was bonded.

“Well, not really,” the boy amended. “I just—” He bit his lip. “My words are red. They have been as long as I can remember.”

This was worse. Hell, had Potter come to him for advice?

“Red?” Severus managed to repeat. Potter nodded.

“I know it’s a spell, but I don’t know what spell. So I know they had to have been at least eleven — but probably older, cause I skimmed through all my first year books and this spell isn’t taught first year so I don’t really know. You’re closer to my parents’ age than the other professors; surely you might know who I would have been around as a baby who might have cast spells on or near me—”

Severus held up his hand again to stop the flow of consciousness. His other hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Some minor part of him was impressed. That was a fair bit of sleuthing the boy had done, but it was an absolute headache besides. Similar in age? You could say that. Would know who Lily and James Potter might have allowed near their infant son who had a maniac chasing him? Abso-bloody-lutely not. Of Lily’s friends, only Alice Longbottom was still alive and her soulmate had been Frank. The only other ones he could think of were Pettigrew, the wolf, and Black. Pettigrew was out for the obvious reason of being deceased. The other two would both be total disasters if it were true. Which it wasn’t because he knew both had soulmates. He didn’t know who their soulmates were, but they’d lost their silver bands at eleven.

And there was still a chance he might be wrong. Lily might have taken Potter to an Order meeting as an infant for all he knew so somebody else could have spoken to him. Still…

“And so, what, you thought I would miraculously have answers?” Severus asked caustically. How much had Potter thought this through?

The boy just shrugged. “Not really. I thought maybe you could just point me in the right direction.” His face brightened. “Maybe you’ll recognize the spell? I’ve tried looking it up, but I’ve been doing it on my own, without knowing what I’m looking for, so it’s been pretty slow going.”

He seriously doubted he wouldn’t recognize whichever spell the blasted brat had on his arm. But, really, he had to ask, “And you couldn’t ask someone else to help you identify this spell?”

Potter cringed. “Sorry, I just, in the muggle world—”

Severus nodded in understanding. That silly muggle superstition that you shouldn’t show people your words before you’d identified your soulmate. Most muggleborns found it uncomfortable to bare their arm to anyone, even close friends. Lily had been the same way even after meeting her soulmate. “I understand,” he interjected hastily. “I had a muggleborn friend, as a child.” He was slightly flabbergasted he’d even admitted that much, but Potter’s face just eased from its temporary confusion.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t been able to show Ron, even.” The boy grimaced. “I don’t even really want to show you, but I thought — since you might know a bit about my parents as adults — it would be killing two birds with one stone. And even if you hate me for some reason—” That made Severus’ head jerk back and he blinked rather hard at the boy’s almost despondent expression “—well,” Potter added, “at least I know you won’t tell anyone my secrets. You’re a private person, sir.”

Severus scowled, feeling uncomfortably bare. He stood abruptly. “Let’s see it, then,” he said.

Potter stood as well, looking faintly uncomfortable again. He pulled the silver band up his arm so that the stark red letters were barely visible. Severus bent over the boy’s arm only to jerk back as if burned, his eyes widening. A trickle of pity tore its way through him.

The boy was watching him with wide green eyes. Lily’s eyes. How was he supposed to tell those eyes—?

“Sir?” Potter asked cautiously. “You recognize it?” Severus nodded, hardly able to speak. Potter’s face brightened and he almost felt ill. “Really? What does it do?”

He seriously thought about lying. Or, possibly, refusing to answer. But Potter was clearly not stupid. He’d figured out enough to get this far. He’d employed the help of someone who hated him. Potter would figure this out on his own, and soon. He would just have to show someone else. But no — if Potter showed anyone — (Now Severus really did feel ill) —

The boy would be in immeasurable danger. Everyone knew the Dark Lord had destroyed his soulmark. What would he do if his soulmate suddenly appeared long after, completely unable to bond? Severus remembered stories from his mother’s school days, stories of the young Dark Lord who had been so amazed by stories of soul bonds. The Dark Lord would twist Potter’s magic inside out trying to bond with him. It wouldn’t be possible, but the Dark Lord’s reaction to “impossible” was to invent new results — always Dark, usually detrimental to everyone involved, even the Dark Lord himself.

“It’s the incantation for the Killing Curse,” Severus croaked. Potter froze, face paling.

“What?”

Severus leaned over Potter, looming in his face with glaring black eyes. “You must never show your soulmark to anyone, you understand. Not your friends, not long-lost family members, not anyone you might marry one day — no one!” Potter was very white, but didn’t seem to understand yet. Severus didn’t care.

“Swear it, Potter!” Severus shouted at him, shaking the boy.

“I s-s-swear,” Potter stammered out. Severus pulled back. He opened the door to his office.

“Get out,” he said. “This never happened. Don’t go looking for anything to do with your soulmate, you understand me? Not if you want to stay alive.”

Potter had run from his office, still pale. He’d disillusioned himself and followed the boy. Potter had paused outside his office, clearly puzzling through things, fiddling with the silver band once again covering those damning words. Then, pale fright turned to dawning comprehension. Potter darted over to the nearest bathroom. Severus leaned on the door and heard the sound of retching.

Good. Potter understood then.

Now Severus was going to get thoroughly drunk over the holidays in the hopes that he forgot this had ever happened. Draco and Narcissa would scold, but at this point he didn’t care. He had a bottle of good Blishen’s Firewhisky with his name on it.

Chapter Text

Professor Snape did indeed act as though their Christmas meeting had never happened. Harry honestly wished he could forget it; that he could wipe it from his mind and wipe the damning red words from his skin.

Avada Kedavra.

His soulmate’s first words had been to try to kill him.

Harry didn’t need to be told never to tell anyone about this. It made it hard to explain why he’d started crying himself to sleep every night, but it was none of Ron’s business and Harry told him so.

Perhaps the shameful (horrific) knowledge hidden under his silver armband had been what prompted Harry to confront his unknowing soulmate at the end of term. Voldemort had ruined Harry’s future chances at a bond like Ron and Hermione had. Harry wouldn’t let him destroy anything else if he could help it.

And so Harry confronted him. Harry killed his first man; Harry spoke his first words to his soulmate without a hint of recognition from the other. Harry won, but in the end he really felt like he’d lost. He had lost his innocence, his joy in the very idea of soul bonds. Harry had lost everything and nothing at all.

It was part of what made Harry confront him again, the next year. The Chamber of Secrets debacle was exactly that — a debacle. One Harry had no desire to repeat. The diary copy of Harry’s soulmate was handsome, and had a leather strap covering his wrist — as though it was covering words. Harry dreamed, and he wondered. That Tom Riddle hadn’t been real; he’d said as much. A memory, he’d called himself. A simulacrum made to mimic Soul Magic without the negative consequences.

The Tom in the diary hadn’t known the real Tom Riddle had destroyed his own soulmark.

Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him, and after second year Harry cried himself to sleep for different reasons. Tom might have been a copy, but it didn’t change the fact that Harry had murdered a magical artefact that his soulmate had poured time and magic into — an artefact that hinted that Tom Riddle, at least, had wanted a soulmate, even if Voldemort eventually destroyed his own mark.

The third year student had been almost apathetic about the fact that a mass murderer was chasing him down. At least this one wasn’t his deranged soulmate, Harry thought to himself dully. The thought made him giggle for minutes on end in a manner that made him seem deranged himself. He thought about sharing the joke with Professor Snape, but then wondered if he was going mad too.

Maybe Harry and Tom could be mad together.

It all came out in the end: Sirius wasn’t really trying to kill Harry, Snape had a real hate-on for Harry’s father because he couldn’t stand heroism, and Remus Lupin had actually spent the whole year trying to choose between his soulmate and his best friend’s son. That little fact rather made Harry forgive him for not telling Harry sooner about his friendship with James Potter. It helped that Professor Lupin slipped the Marauder’s Map back to Harry at the end of the year.

That was one useful bit of magic, and any legacy of his parents just made Harry want to grip it tighter. At least they loved him the way they should. Harry knew for certain now — the Dementors made sure of that. He’d begun to have doubts.

After all, his soulmate could never love him. Why would his parents have?

Fourth year was both better and worse.

Professor Moody had drawn Harry aside after his first class. The pity in the man’s face and the way both his eyes studiously avoided Harry’s wrists made Harry very sure he knew what this was about.

“You can’t tell anyone!” he blurted out. “Please!”

Wide, panicked green eyes stared up into mismatched blue and brown ones, and Professor Moody’s face had unexpectedly softened. “You have my word,” he said. “The Dark Lord would either kill you or try to force a bond where none can exist.”

Harry nodded faintly. He’d figured that much out for himself, thanks.

Professor Moody just clapped Harry on the back and sent him to Madame Pomphrey for a calming draught. For once Harry went to the Hospital Wing without complaint. He needed some measure of artificial calm to get through the rest of this horrible day.

For the rest of the year Moody was noticeably solicitous of Harry. Where he was harsh and almost cruel with the other students, he was…gentler…with Harry. Oh, not to the point that it was suspicious, but Harry definitely noticed. He was grateful for it, after he’d been forced into the Triwizard Tournament through yet another plot of his deranged soulmate. Professor Moody actually let Harry have a good rant or three about it in his office. The man would just sit and watch him with amusement as Harry ranted about how really, if he wants to know my skill level, hasn’t the last three years of crazy stunts given him enough of a hint!?

Of course, Professor Moody then wanted information on said “crazy stunts”, but such stories were a small price to pay for the ability to speak his mind for once without any fear.

That gratefulness surprisingly didn’t turn to resentfulness after learning who Professor Moody really was. To his credit, Barty Crouch Jr. hadn’t told Voldemort a damn thing about Harry being his soulmate — or about any of the other talks that had happened in his office. Harry almost wondered if, in some twisted way, Crouch had been trying to protect his precious Lord by protecting Harry. Of course, then he’d revealed himself after the Third Task and revealed he had plans to smuggle Harry to Europe by faking his death. Harry was actually sorry Barty had been caught. And he hated that Fudge had ordered the clearly insane man Kissed. Barty should have been sent to St. Mungo’s, at the very least.

And now Fudge was ignoring the fact that Voldemort was back. He was burying his head in the sand and refusing to see the truth. It was infuriating.

There were only two good things about the summer after Harry’s fourth year. This out of the whole rigmarole of bad: dementors in Little Whinging, his friends being incommunicado for the whole summer, the farce of a trial Fudge held for him. All of it. But for those two good things, Harry didn’t know what he would have done.

The first was getting to spend time with Sirius.

They’d corresponded before this, of course. Unfortunately what with Sirius being on the run and Harry having such a hectic life-threatening existence, they hadn’t been able to talk much. This summer was a time for simply that. They got to talk, to get to know each other.

Harry told Sirius about his past four years at school — the ups, the downs, and even some of the few funny bits. Sirius in turn told Harry stories of his parents, the Marauders, and even about the Black family. There were loads of weird, neat, or just plain creepy stories about the once-huge family. Sirius even told Harry in private that he’d named Harry the heir to the Black fortune, if anything happened to him, and Sirius fully expected Harry to blow it all on stuff that would make Sirius’ pureblood-obsessed ancestors roll in their graves.

The second good thing was that Sirius noticed something was off about Harry. How sad was it that the man who hardly knew him noticed over his own best friends?

Still, sad or not, Sirius noticed, and he told Harry he was willing to listen. Sirius never pressured, he never pushed the issue like Hermione might have. He just told Harry if he ever wanted to talk Sirius was there for him. In the end, for lack of anyone else to speak to Harry told him…

…after getting an oath from his godfather to never tell anyone, on his life and his magic.

Harry didn’t realize how much Barty’s death was bothering him until he began to tell Sirius about it. Harry had started with his soulmark, of course, and about how Snape had figured it out and absolutely flipped on him, warning Harry to never tell anyone, ever. Sirius had been horrified, but not at Harry. He’d been horrified for Harry.

Sirius had hugged him, and whispered kind things. When Harry began ranting and raving like he’d got into the habit of doing with Barty, Sirius had let him. Sirius had agreed with him and added even more condemnations on Harry’s insane soulmate. Some of them even made Harry laugh.

Then Harry told Sirius about Barty.

Sirius wasn’t as sympathetic this time, but…he had listened. Harry couldn’t fault the man for his opinions. Harry still didn’t know whether he believed Barty had been innocent of torturing the Longbottoms or not (it was possible; see Sirius Black for Crouch Sr’s other big mistake) but insane Death Eater or no, the man had protected Harry. Barty hadn’t been obligated to do that. In fact, Barty was really obligated to do the exact opposite. He was a loyal Death Eater, practically worshiped Voldemort from the bit Harry had gotten before the man had died. But…he’d protected Harry. Came up with plans to get Harry as far away from Voldemort as was humanely possible.

Harry had grown fond of Barty, loathe as he was to admit it. Sirius at least was comforting, or as much as anyone could be. He certainly agreed that nobody deserved the Dementor’s Kiss as their end.

For once Harry didn’t want to go back to Hogwarts. But go he did, and while at Hogwarts Umbridge turned Harry’s life into a living hell. Harry hated her. He hated the woman who was so determined to silence their words, to stifle their thoughts. Harry was never gladder Hermione was capable of talking Harry into things than when she convinced him to start the DA. It became Harry’s only support in this mess that was his life.

He only wished Cho and Cedric could have been part of it. After Cedric died, Cho reputedly hadn’t even lasted two weeks before following her soulmate to death. Harry had been very surprised to find several friends of Cho joined the DA eagerly. Marietta Edgecombe was almost militant about her belief in Harry, despite her mother’s precarious situation in the Ministry. For Harry’s part, he just found it gratifying to teach people things and watch them get better and better as months went on.

Last year, Harry had told Barty-disguised-as-Moody that he wanted to be an Auror. Now, with the DA all looking up to him and everything Harry was learning about defensive magic, he was starting to think he’d rather be a teacher instead. Harry wondered if Barty would have supported that idea, as well. It was certainly less dangerous than being an Auror.

With Christmas came fear and worry. Mr. Weasley had been attacked in the Ministry right before the break, and Harry had seen it through the eyes of the snake. Harry didn’t know what to make of it. Was he just going mad? Had Voldemort somehow possessed him through their uneven and unsteady link? Had Harry somehow accidently and unknowingly possessed Voldemort through the same link?

Harry didn’t know, and it made him afraid.

Oh, Ginny and Hermione ganged up on him and handily blew the “Voldemort had been possessing Harry” theory out of the water, but the other ideas still rattled around in his head. None of the others knew Harry and Voldemort had a half-formed, twisted soulmate bond after all. Sirius had theorized that must be what connected Harry to the man, after some extensive research in the Black library after Harry had gone back to Hogwarts.

“It’s probably,” Sirius told him, “some sort of defensive measure. I mean, soulmates can’t kill each other. Not with magic, anyway. And whatever magical protection Dumbledore said you have, well; to be honest even if it can burn people to ash it can’t block the Unforgivables. That’s why they’re called Unforgiveable, is because they’re both terrible curses and completely unblockable by any magic in existence except soulmate magic. Much as I love your dad, and admire your mum’s brains, there’s no way the two of them could have come up with some sort of magical protection that could do the impossible. No, I’ll bet their protection works on their soulmate magic — which is why it only started working after they both died — and so it just pulled your unrealized bond forwards to protect you from future murder attempts from your clearly crazy soulmate.”

Harry nodded faintly. That did make sense. “Is that why it’s so one-sided?” Harry wondered aloud. “I mean, I can see into his head, and tell when he’s doing complicated magic like possessing his familiar, but I don’t think he’s ever gotten anything from me.”

Sirius just nodded. “Probably,” he agreed. “Now hand me a beard, will you?”

Harry grinned and handed Sirius a little beard and Santa hat to hang on the next house-elf head up the stairwell. Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, was infectious. Sirius was no longer the downtrodden yet supportive host of the summer; now he seemed determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by the time they began setting up the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognizable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; the great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view, and even the stuffed elf-heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats and beards.

Harry gladly helped, now that his own worries had been assuaged. It was the first time he’d ever really helped decorate for Christmas. Out of all the holidays, Christmas was the one the Dursleys refused to let him have any part in — not even the decorating. Harry could see why, now. Decorating for Christmas was almost as fun as celebrating on Christmas Day. It was wonderful to spend time with the people you love.

On Christmas Eve when Mundungus brought the tree in — already covered in live fairies — Sirius had helped the thief put the Christmas tree into place. He’d grinned at Harry over his shoulder and asked if Harry would be willing to go down into the basement.

“We’ve got other tree decorations in the storage closet down there. It’s the only unmarked door. Make sure you don’t open any of the marked ones: we’ve not cleaned those rooms out yet. Just get the big box marked Yule out of the closet and bring it up.”

Then he turned back to the tree, already beginning to put presents under it. Harry had nodded and went off to get the box, the twins on his heels. Apparently they’d wanted to explore the basement, but hadn’t been able to sneak around their mother yet. Harry descended the steps from the kitchen cautiously.

It was dark down in the basement. There wasn’t anything creepy on the stairwell like the house elf heads up above, but once they got to the basement level it grew eerie again. Harry and the twins found themselves staring down a long disused corridor lit with gas lights that sprung to life as they entered the corridor. The walls down here were bare stone instead of wallpapered. The floor was hardwood instead of carpeted. There were alcoves along the walls between doorframes filled with odd things — a bust of a woman whose face seemed to be melting, a stuffed effigy of a hippogriff’s head, jars filled with strange pickled creatures.

“Well,” Fred said, his voice echoing down the corridor. “This is cheerful.” George snorted and Harry shot both of them sharp looks.

They made their way down the dimly lit corridor searching for the unmarked door. Most of the doors had placards on them naming the rooms: four Ritual Rooms judiciously spaced out between other rooms, three doors in a row all labelled Wine Cellar, two Potions Labs, and even one padlocked door labelled Playroom that Harry had to convince the twins not to open. Considering there was dried blood on the door, Harry didn’t think Playroom meant what the twins believed it did.

Then, halfway down the hallway (Harry was sure it had gotten longer as they’d walked through it) they finally found one unmarked door. It looked rather like a closet door — it was smaller than the others and much more nondescript. Whereas most of the other doors were panelled and painted, this was a simple door of plain wood. The doorknob was smooth brass instead of a coiled snake done in tarnished silver.

“This must be it,” Harry said, carefully grasping the doorknob. The door creaked open, and after a few moments of nothing jumping out to eat them Harry and the twins walked into the large closet.

The moment Harry’s foot crossed the threshold candles flared to life. It was clearly a closet: there were boxes and old trunks piled up to the ceiling of the room, so far up they couldn’t see the rear wall. But funnily enough, there were two armchairs, a little table between them, and a fainting couch with a quilt draped over it at the front of the storeroom. On the little table was an unlit oil lamp, a dusty deck of cards, an even dustier set of Gobstones, and a bottle of bourbon with two grimy tumblers next to it.

George muttered a Scourgify, cleaning the years of dust off the furniture.

“Wonder what this was here for?” his twin quipped. Harry shrugged.

“Dunno. Maybe it was a hideout?” That made the twins snicker. But Harry frowned. “D’you think we could try summoning the box of decorations?” he wondered aloud.

Fred shook his head. “I wouldn’t chance it,” he said. “Look at how tightly it’s all packed. You’d knock everything over, and we’ve no idea what’s been breeding in this stuff.”

“Joy,” Harry said dryly. “I guess we’re doing it by hand then.” The twins nodded cheerfully and set to work.

They pushed their way in front of Harry and began pulling boxes out, quipping that because they could do magic, they might as well be at the front in case doxies attacked or something. They would pull a box out, search it for the word Yule, and if it didn’t have anything would pass it to Harry to set aside. At one point, though, the pair found a case of what seemed to be dried potion ingredients and began debating whether Sirius would let them keep it, and what they could use it all for. Harry sat down in one of the armchairs to wait until they refocused.

It was tiring work, this, and Harry gazed around at the boxes. He supposed back when Sirius was a kid it would have been Kreacher’s job to fetch things from this closet. Sirius just didn’t trust the bitter house elf to do his work properly. Harry did wonder what all of this stuff at the front was for, though. Hideout did seem like the most likely answer, but it didn’t give him too much information.

Harry’s eyes passed tiredly over the fainting couch opposite the armchair he was sat in. He blinked in surprise at something that glinted behind it. Harry stood, glancing at the twins who were now arguing prices it would be reasonable to ask Sirius for to get this whole case of ingredients.

The fifth year walked over to the fainting couch. Behind it, mostly-hidden in a shadowed alcove, was some sort of large clock. Harry nudged the couch aside to get a better look. It was a funny-looking clock, from what Harry could see. He lit his wand with a Lumos to illuminate it better.

There were two faces on this strange-looking clock stacked atop one another: one clock face and the other that seemed to be a calendar face. The clock face was above, and had arms indicating time. There were two rings of numerals in different languages, and then another circle inside the clock face that seemed to indicate something else entirely. There was more than the usual number of hands on the clock face: one that seemed to represent phases of the moon and another with a star on the end being the most noticeable, but there were three others besides.

The calendar face was much simpler. There were no hands at all, and twelve large images around the edges that seemed to represent different months lined its edge, while the twelve symbols of the Greek zodiac were placed in a tighter circle inside this ring of months. This face didn’t have any hands, as aforementioned, but the pictures all moved, and currently one of the topmost circles — depicting a snowy forest — was animated and in full colour where all the others were sepia toned and still. Below the December icon a strange goat with a fish’s tail swam around its little spot, flapping its tail. Harry smiled at the little figures before stepping back to look again at the odd clock as a whole.

The whole thing was huge. Harry craned his neck looking up. It was nestled into an alcove that went above the ceiling of this large storeroom. Harry suddenly wondered if it was a secret passage of some sort. Maybe a stairwell? Or perhaps an elevator or dumbwaiter?

There was a door below the calendar face that was just shorter than average adult height. Harry grasped the delicate latch keeping the stained glass door shut. It swung open smoothly, no signs of age showing. The interior of the clock was dark when Harry stuck his head inside, but there was clearly room for a person. Harry cautiously stepped inside. Candles flared to life over his head, and Harry jumped as the stained glass door swung shut again of its own volition.

He pressed a hand to the door to push it open again. Then Harry was jerking his hand backwards when the door shocked his fingers. “Ow!” he exclaimed, nursing them in the palm of his other hand.

He nudged at the door cautiously with his shoulder, but thankfully it didn’t shock him through his jumper. The whole little cupboard was glowing now, and there was a faint humming sound in the background. When Harry pushed on the door it refused to open. He grimaced, turning about in the little cupboard. Maybe he’d been right and there was another way out?

Only there really didn’t seem to be. The back of the cupboard in the large odd clock was smooth wood, as was the ceiling scant inches above his head. The two sides had things on them. To one side Harry noticed a large tapestry that seemed to be a replica of the Black Family tapestry upstairs, only there were no names burnt off this one. Also, the text was shimmering faintly, as if it wasn’t quite there. Harry lifted the tapestry, but the wall under it was smooth but for what seemed to be a list of names burnt into it. All the names had a thick line scored through, making each one illegible.

He turned to check the other wall. Surely there was some way to open the door from the inside?

Thankfully, on the other side Harry noticed a pair of dials. They had faded and peeling golden lettering written between them that Harry couldn’t read even with the glowing of the walls around him, so he ignored it. The first dial refused to turn at all, seemingly stuck for some reason. The second dial only turned backwards. Harry turned it all the way anticlockwise, but when he pushed on the door it still didn’t budge. The humming was getting louder.

Maybe it could be opened from the outside? Harry banged on the glass door, no longer worried about breaking it.

“Hey! Fred! George!”

But there wasn’t any answer. Harry continued pounding on the glass.

“Fred! George! This isn’t funny!” He paused, panting for breath. He was starting to get just the faintest bit panicked. Surely someone would hear him banging eventually. There hadn’t been any corpses of other people trapped in this cupboard, after all, so there must be a way out. He tried shouting again.

“Guys! Hello!” Harry got an idea. “Kreacher!”

But even though Sirius said the crotchety old elf had to obey Harry like he did Sirius, Kreacher never appeared. “Dobby?” Harry tried. He collapsed, feeling his eyelids drooping heavily.

The humming sound was loud, and almost hypnotic in its intensity. Something was happening right now, Harry was sure. But he didn’t know what. He stood and tried fiddling with the dial some more, turning it this way and that before pushing on the door. He even managed to get the stuck dial to move the barest few millimetres to the left. When he did so, the humming and glowing intensified for a moment before abruptly vanishing.

In the now pitch-black clock Harry could hear his breath harshly in the small confines of the cupboard. His heart was pounding in his ears. He pushed on the door hopefully, but again it didn’t budge. He tried shouting again.

“Help! Somebody! Anybody!”

His eyelids were growing heavier and heavier. He felt like he’d run a full marathon, as though he’d warded off a hundred dementors with one Patronus again.

“Help,” he said again, weakly, feeling as though he was suffocating.

The door swung open and Harry fell forwards into the arms of a man in heavy dark robes of the sort Harry had seen a lot of at the Ministry. He stared wide-eyed at the man he’d only seen those two times, both at the Ministry and at St Mungo’s — it was Broderick Bode. But there was something strange about him.

Perhaps it was his black hair, grey at the temples. Hadn’t it been white at the hospital? Or maybe it was the fact that he looked very healthy instead of sallow-skinned and he wasn’t mumbling to himself oddly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something rang very clearly as wrong to Harry’s well-developed sense of danger. He tried to stand up, to pull backwards, but Bode had a rather strong grip on Harry’s arms.

“Well then,” Bode said pleasantly, “having a bit of trouble, were we?”

Harry gulped.

Chapter Text

Harry was pulled out of the clock-cupboard by the still smiling wizard. Another wizard came up beside Harry and began casting spells silently around the clock, his brows furrowed. Harry noticed he had the same robes on as Broderick Bode, though his hair was a curly blonde instead of greying black. When the other wizard lifted his wand Harry saw the glint of a silver soulmark band under his robes.

Bode, meanwhile, murmured something and jabbed his wand. Harry jumped as his hands were suddenly tied behind his back and he was pushed into one of the armchairs. Looking around, Harry realized that the room looked — odd. It was much cleaner and more brightly lit than it had been, before, and the twins were gone. The armchairs and fainting couch also had different upholstery, and the bottle of bourbon was missing.

Bode sat in the other armchair, and Harry noticed for the first time a third wizard, this one standing in a corner out of the way with a bemused expression. He was wearing more normal robes than Bode and the other wizard, though they were of the quality that Lucius Malfoy usually wore. Golden words peeked out from his sleeves. This wizard’s hair was black like Bode’s, but his eyes were a pale grey unlike Bode’s shiny black eyes.

He actually looked strikingly like Sirius.

Harry pulled at the invisible bonds tying his hands behind him and Bode tutted. “Now, now, don’t struggle. I am terribly sorry about this, lad, but it’s all standard procedure.” He first wove his wand in complex pattern back and forth in front of Harry’s face. Several minutes of this produced some sort of parchment that Bode proceeded to read and hum thoughtfully over. “No signs of mental instability…never been Obliviated or Confounded, good, good…you’ve had prior exposure to the Imperius Curse, it seems, but it looks like you got out without any psychological or reality-bending damage… Huh.”

His black eyebrows went up and he looked Harry up and down. “We’ve got a Black Heir,” he remarked to nobody in particular.

Then he pulled out a vial of clear liquid and Harry’s eyes widened. Bode’s eyebrows went up. “Recognize this, do you?” he asked, exchanging a significant look with the wizard still casting spells around the clock.

Harry nodded hesitantly. “My potions teacher showed me, once,” he said, omitting the part where Snape had been threatening to use it on him. “It’s Veritaserum, isn’t it?”

“It is so nice to not have to explain,” Bode said brightly. “Stick out your tongue, now, and we’ll be done quickly.”

“Do I have to?” Harry asked nervously. Bode just raised an eyebrow.

“Certainly you do. It’s standard procedure. If you refuse to take the Veritaserum voluntarily we will have to give it to you by force.”

“O-oh,” Harry replied weakly.

“I don’t mean to scare you, lad,” Bode soothed. “I’m sure there isn’t anything wrong, but we need to verify our answers and right now Veritaserum is the best way to do that.” He pulled a tightly rolled sheet of parchment out of his robes and unrolled it over his knee. Harry’s brows furrowed.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Bode shrugged. “Oh, just the standard list of questions I’m supposed to ask.”

Harry thought hard. He’d been afraid they were just going to ask any number of questions, but if it could be controlled… “Is there anything about soulmarks or soulmates on that parchment?”

Bode looked bemused now, exchanging a less definite look with his partner. “Well, yes…” At Harry’s wide-eyed look of panic, he added, “It’s standard procedure, lad, and if it makes you feel better those questions aren’t very specific.”

Harry gnawed his lip. “Okay,” he said finally. He squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his tongue out.

His tongue went numb the second the potion touched it. Harry’s eyes blinked back open and he pulled his tongue back into his mouth. Everything was a bit hazy, like when he’d been under the Imperius Curse. Harry wondered if he could resist answering like he’d been able to break the Imperius Curse.

“Now!” Bode said, holding up the parchment so that he could read it better. “What is the full date today?”

“December twenty-fourth, nineteen-ninety-five,” Harry said automatically. He didn’t feel that was a question worth fighting, so let the fog guide his words.

Bode nodded. “Mm-hmm. And what was your reason for getting in Morgana’s Clock, here?” He gestured to the odd clock in the corner.

“Is that what it’s called?” Harry managed to ask, but then the Veritaserum took control of his mouth again. “I was curious about it, because I thought it might have a secret passage back up to the ground floor.”

Bode seemed amused by that, glancing over with a smirk at the quiet wizard that looked like Sirius. When Harry had asked his question the man’s eyes had widened in shock, but now he just looked entertained. “I see. And what is your relation to the Black Family, lad?”

Harry gritted his teeth. He didn’t know if he was still in Grimmauld Place (sure, the room was similar, but maybe it was like those Vanishing Cabinets Hermione had read about) and if he wasn’t, his answers could implicate him. He couldn’t let them know he was having contact with Sirius. The Ministry would send him to Azkaban for sure in the current climate.

Bode’s eyes were widening again as Harry struggled to keep from answering. Finally, the fog grasped his mind firmly and he blurted out, “Sirius Black is my godfather, and he’s named me heir to the Black family fortune.” He cringed, expecting condemnations. But Bode didn’t seem at all bothered.

“Would that be Sirius, son of Orion and Walburga, or a different Sirius Black?”

There were multiple Sirius Blacks? “Sirius is the son of Orion and Walburga Black.” The words were pulled from between his teeth, and he glared. The dark-haired wizard in the corner shifted in his seat, gasping softly, but Bode continued to be unperturbed.

“Do you have any desire or plans for world domination, conquest, or assassination?”

“Wha—No!”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Bode’s partner said wryly, and Harry jumped, having forgotten he was there in his fight against the truth serum. Bode continued to ask questions.

“Have you ever travelled in time, to the best of your knowledge?”

“N-yes.” He’d almost managed to change his answer that time. Bode looked impressed for once.

“Clarify. How did you travel in time, when did it happen, and why did you do it?”

Harry managed to keep silent for a good several minutes this time, the three wizards looking more and more impressed. But Harry was discovering that Veritaserum was much more insidious than the Imperius Curse, and was eventually made to answer.

“Hermione and I used the Time-Turner she got for classes. It happened in early nineteen-ninety-four, and we were trying to keep Sirius Black from unjustly being given the Dementor’s Kiss because the Minister thought we were Confunded and refused to believe he was innocent.”

It tore from his throat in a torrent. The man in the corner went white, and grew progressively more ghostly through Harry’s spiel. Bode was back to looking impassive, but the curly-haired wizard had his mouth hanging open. Bode seemingly ignored Harry’s words and instead continued to question him.

“Do you have a deceased soulmate?”

“N-no.” That question had been so close, too close… Bode seemed to notice his discomfort, because his next question had nothing to do with soulmates.

“Do you have any other deceased family members or friends you wouldn’t be averse to bringing back from the dead?”

“Yes.”

Bode lifted an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Cedric Diggory, Li—” Harry bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood, growing annoyed with his inability to avoid answering the man’s questions. The curly-haired wizard laughed even as Bode sighed. He murmured a spell that healed Harry’s now bleeding tongue.

“You, boy, are too clever by half and strong-willed to boot. Ever thought about working in the Department of Mysteries?”

Harry answered this question truthfully, ignoring the blond wizard’s “Oi, that’s not regulation, Bode!”

“No,” he replied simply.

Bode sighed again. “Pity.” Then he was all business again, looking down at his parchment. “State your full name and date of birth.”

Harry blinked. He’d assumed the man didn’t ask for his name because Bode knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. But Harry’s confused distraction was enough to have him automatically replying, “Harry James Potter. I was born on the thirty-first of July, nineteen-eighty.”

“Hmm.” Bode consulted his parchment again before rolling it back up and sticking it in his robes again. “Well, those were all the serious questions I have to ask. Anything else you can make your own choice whether to tell anyone. Stick your tongue out again.”

Harry did so, and was relieved when feeling came back into his tongue with the acrid-tasting antidote to Veritaserum. Bode also flicked his wand and Harry’s hands came untied. He rubbed his wrists gingerly.

Bode looked professional again. “Mister Potter,” he said in a very official-sounding tone, “I am sorry to inform you that you have fallen afoul of one of the oldest magical artefacts in Great Britain, Morgana’s Clock. Am I correct in assuming you do not know what this is?” Harry nodded slowly and was given a brisk nod in exchange.

“Morgana’s Clock was created by Morgana Black, one of the earliest recorded members of the Black Family to live in the London area. She was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries — then only a research organization funded by the Crown — and she invented the Hour-Reversal Charm which we have since adapted for use in Time-Turners such as you already have experience with. Now, how much do you know about the capabilities and limitations of time travel?”

Harry was starting to get a very bad feeling about this. It was dawning on him what must have happened. He stammered his answer, “Um, I know you aren’t supposed to see yourself when you go back in time. The only way to avoid going mad is to know what’s going on. And- err- I’m pretty sure that everything you do in the past was just meant to happen that way. You can’t really change time.”

Bode nodded. “All correct answers when applied to Time-Turners. What you need to understand, Mister Potter, is that the Ministry and its predecessors have been experimenting with time magic for a very long time. Our island has a strong affinity for such magics, and it is much easier to both travel in time and study the effects of time travel while within the boundaries of England, Scotland, and Wales. The Time-Turner was perfected in 1904 after a series of time travel experiments in the late nineteenth century. It was discovered by Saul here’s grandfather—” he gestured to the blond wizard at his side “—that going back more than five hours has a devastating effect on any witch or wizard, particularly when using spells such as the Hour-Reversal Charm. The experiments in the eighteen-hundreds had wizards being unborn all over the place, people dying of inexplicable ailments or old age in the distant past, and many other things. Thus Time-Turners were designed to limit how far one could go backwards as well as subtly keep you from doing anything that would jeopardise the established timeline. The only artefact that has ever been known to safely turn time back decades or centuries with no ill effects is in fact, Morgana’s Clock.”

“So…I’ve gone back in time?” Harry asked, feeling shell-shocked.

Bode’s partner, Saul, nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “For some reason, just as Hogwarts was built over a nexus of magic in this part of the world, Grimmauld Place was built over a nexus of time. Morgana’s Clock is the only magical artefact ever created that allows unregulated time travel: you can go back however far you want and change whatever you want with no magical backlash. Essentially, the Clock’s a functional paradox machine, because nine times out of ten, people who use it change time dramatically from what they remember, but most records we have all agree that the changes were for the better, for some reason. Nobody really knows how, but Morgana Black discovered the perfect location to build her magnum opus — and naturally, being a Black, she keyed it to her family only and built a house on top of it.”

Harry blinked, processing that. “Wait, but I’m not a Black!”

The man in the corner harrumphed. Bode cut in hastily. “Not in blood, Mister Potter, that’s true. But a godparent and godchild bond was created to mimic a soulmate bond in some ways, and while you don’t share magic with your godparent, magically speaking they are part of your heritage as much as your biological parents. That’s why godparents usually adopt orphaned godchildren with no custody battle at all — because magically speaking, a godparent is simply a third parent, and has almost equal rights to the parents that created you. It’s not a well-known fact, but it has caused inheritance issues before.”

Bode’s partner took over. “In the case of Morgana’s Clock, it would have read your magical signature — given you a right shock too, I’ll bet — and then however you turned those dials would have controlled how far you went back in time, and the range of the time travel.”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean by range?”

The curly-haired wizard shrugged. “Well, technically speaking you don’t have to stay inside the clock once you’ve activated it. That’s half the reason for the magical signature reading, besides identity checking.”

“But—” Harry interrupted, “but the door wouldn’t open!”

“Just stuck,” he shrugged again. “It happens sometimes. It must not have been oiled recently in your time period. Or in this time period either, honestly.” The curly-haired wizard eyed the quiet man in the corner. “You’ll need to get a house elf to check that over. It should be done once every year or so, or that door does stick.”

Turning back to Harry, the blond wizard continued. “Back to the point, though, the range dial is that second one. The time dial is the first. You didn’t turn the time dial too far, so it seems you’ve only gone a bit over twenty years back in time. The range dial was interesting, though. You messed with it quite a bit, didn’t you?” he asked.

Harry nodded with a bit of a grimace.

“Thought so. The range was wide enough to hit the whole house for sure, and it might have even stretched as far as Diagon Alley and Gringotts. We’ll have to send someone to check later. As it is, we need to identify everything in this house that was pulled back in time with you. It’ll be anything with your magical signature: your familiar, if you have one, well-worn clothes or things you’ve handled a lot.”

“Is that why you locked my house down?” the quiet wizard snapped, finally speaking for the first time.

Harry was confused, but Bode just nodded. “Yes, well, usually the range is at least the whole house in other instances where this has happened. We couldn’t risk anyone contaminating our time traveller’s magical signature unknowingly, so it was easier to quarantine the house.”

“Wait, what?” Harry cut in, feeling very confused. The man in the corner gave Harry a glaring look.

“My quiet evening was interrupted by a full platoon of Unspeakables barging into my house, taking my wife, children, and house elf to the Ministry, and then taking control of my house wards.”

Harry cringed. “Uh…sorry?”

“Speaking of,” Bode said, “If the team upstairs has everything gathered we could bring your family back, if you wish.”

“That would be much appreciated,” the wizard said with a hint of sarcasm.

“First we need to deal with protocol, Broderick,” the blond wizard reminded his partner. Bode blinked.

“Oh, right. My mistake.”

“Protocol?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Mh, yes, well, usually whoever goes through this clock is a Black, so there’s no issue of custody if the time traveller is a minor as you are. But you’re a Potter by blood and a Black by magic, so technically we really should talk to your blood relatives first according to the law. Particularly since the man you claim is your godfather is currently, what—” He glanced over at the owner of the house (whom Harry realized must be a Black himself).

The Black grimaced faintly, but said, “Sirius is twelve. He’ll be thirteen in November.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed. He had a hard time imagining Sirius as anything but Dementor-worn and haggard. Trying to picture him as a Second Year was nigh on impossible.

“And I would guess, going by this lad’s name,” Mr. Black continued, “that his father is James Potter, who is the same age as Sirius. And by the laws, wouldn’t Fleamont and I have equal right to him? It would be basically down to his choice, yes?”

Bode hummed. “Oh, I didn’t think about that. You know Charlus Potter has a son who’s just now seventeen—”

“I don’t know who that is,” Harry interjected hastily, “and Mr. Black’s right. My dad is James Potter. What’s this about custody?”

The blond wizard explained. “In a custody battle, biological parents take first precedence. If they’re out of the running, then godparents are in the lead. In the absence of either parents or godparents, grandparents — being either the parents of your biological mother and father or of your godmother or godfather — have next right. If none of those parties are available, a minor goes to their closest living relative regardless of magical significance. Now, since you claim to have been born in 1980 and the date you gave as your current time is 1995, you are most definitely a minor.”

Harry scowled. “Didn’t stop the Ministry from holding a full trial like I was an adult for misuse of magic last summer.”

The blond wizard looked temporarily flabbergasted, so Bode cut in. “You have a misuse of magic offense on your record? What for?”

Harry glared at them. “I was attacked by Dementors, so I cast a Patronus. Then the Minister tried to have me expelled and my wand snapped because he said I was lying about the Dementors, and I did cast the spell in a muggle area. Not that any muggles who didn’t know about magic already saw it, but Fudge has gone round the twist.”

The three adults exchanged uncertain looks, clearly at a loss as to how to reply to that. “Well,” Bode said slowly, “future corrupt Ministry administrations aside, what are your views on guardianship? As your parents and godparents are all children, your grandparents and god-grandparents are eligible for guardianship.”

Harry gnawed his lip. So, if this guy was the parent of his godfather…that would make this Orion Black. Harry remembered all the funny names the Blacks had on the tapestry. “Do I have to change my name?”

Mr. Black spoke up. “I would recommend you change your middle name, no matter whose guardianship you choose. It is a wizarding tradition for firstborn sons to have their father’s name as their second. That’s how I figured out James must be your father — there hasn’t been a Potter named James in about four generations, so he was the most likely candidate.”

Harry eyed the man. “Do you want guardianship of me?”

“You are as much heir to the Black family as I am, right now,” the man said quietly. Harry blinked.

“You aren’t head of the family?” he asked in surprise. Orion Black shook his head.

“My father is still alive. I am currently heir of a head, and Sirius is heir of an heir. As in your time you were the heir of a head, you and I hold equal standing.”

Harry looked down, pensive. “I never got the chance to meet my grandparents,” he said softly. He looked back up. “What are they like?”

Orion’s lip curled a bit. Still, he managed to be both polite and unbiased, for the most part. “Your grandfather is a Potioneer of some renown. He currently runs a large business that creates and sells hair care potions. He also occasionally sits his father’s Wizengamot seat, as old Henry Potter has been getting on in years. He’s unabashedly a Gryffindor in everything he does. Your grandmother is from an old family, but was a Ravenclaw and so is more interested in obscure research and dominating the international duelling circuit than in socializing. I know they had some difficulty in having children: James is their only son and both are considered rather older than is normal for such a young son.”

The fifteen-year-old took this in, nodding thoughtfully. “Can we tell them about the time travel, or are you going to make something up?”

Bode answered smoothly. “Legally, we have to inform your guardians. But we will be coming up with a backstory for you, and you aren’t allowed to tell anyone else about travelling in time if it can be avoided. We do leave that up to your discretion, though. It is going to be your choice whether Mister Black here is Obliviated or not, actually, if he doesn’t become your guardian. Your only obligation to the Ministry is at some point writing out a record of what you know about how the timeline went originally. Generally, that document is referred to as a Temporal Memoir and if you wish it can be published as fiction if it’s not too inflammatory. On our end, we will help create your new identity, get your schooling caught up, and integrate you back into society as smoothly as possible.”

“Do keep in mind—” Mr. Black cut in again, shooting Bode a wary look after the comment about Obliviation. “Keep in mind that magically, you are heir to House Black. Even if you go to live with the Potters, I have a feeling my father at least will want to meet you and involve you a bit in the family politics.”

Harry grimaced at the words “family politics”. Joy. He fiddled with his silver soulmark band.

So that was his choice. His grandparents or Sirius’ parents. Harry had to repress a grimace at the idea of being under Walburga Black’s thumb. She was bad enough as a portrait — he didn’t want to see what she was like alive. Sirius had never said anything really terrible about his dad, but Harry got the feeling Sirius didn’t think much of him. The picture Harry had been painted was…actually a bit like a weaker, Slytherin Mr. Weasley. He let his wife rule him and the household, puttered about in his hobbies, and ignored problems that ran contrary to his comfortable life.

That almost made Harry want to stay to see if he could help the man, his “saving people thing” (as Hermione called it) kicking in. But Mr. Black said he’d still have to deal with the Black family no matter what, so nothing was really stopping him from getting to know his family for the first time.

“I’d like to meet my grandparents, please,” he said quietly but firmly.

Bode clapped his hands together. “Brilliant!” he said. “Now that that’s decided we’ll go back to the Ministry, now. My minions upstairs will bring things for you to look through, to determine what all you want to keep and what was just stuff you’ve used a lot — the house may be missing a doorknob or two, unfortunately.”

“Do you mind if Mister Black here retains his memories?” Bode’s partner asked with a smirk. “Or do you want him Obliviated?”

Harry grimaced. “Uh, I don’t really like the idea of removing memories in general…” He eyed the man, and then had an idea. He’d exercise his Slytherin side a bit. “He can keep his memories — if he promises to help tutor me and help me deal with those family politics he mentioned.”

A quick look at Orion Black saw him nodding with a faint grimace. But there was a smirk, too, a faint amused line to the lines of his shoulders that said he saw what Harry had done, and thought it clever. Bode chivvied Harry out of his seat.

“Come on, then, we need to get upstairs. We’ll Floo back to the Ministry out of the drawing room.”

The teenager was urged up the stairs, Orion Black and the two Unspeakables following behind. Once they were all on the ground floor the curly-haired Unspeakable went over to talk to a fellow Ministry wizard waiting in the entrance hall with a bored expression. They spoke softly for a minute or two and then both came over to where Bode was standing with Harry and Mr. Black.

“They’ve got all the carried-over stuff, Broderick,” the man’s partner said. Bode nodded.

“You might as well bring the Blacks back through, then,” he replied. The curly-haired wizard and the other Unspeakable went into the drawing room. Bode followed, Harry now behind him. They got there in time to see a flesh-and-blood Walburga Black Floo back through with a tiny but unmistakeable Sirius Black and an even smaller boy who actually looked a bit like Malfoy had as a kid, only black-haired.

Harry’s jaw dropped at seeing the miniature version of his godfather. “I’ll let you meet him, later.” He jumped at the whisper in his ear, and then turned to Orion Black in confusion. The man was smiling at him.

“What?” Harry whispered back.

“He’s your godfather. If you want to meet him, you shall,” Black said simply. Harry nodded in thanks, unable to think of a reply. Bode grabbed Harry by the elbow.

“Floo address is “Ministry of Magic”, in case you weren’t sure,” he told the teenager. Harry nodded again.

Bode stepped in and vanished in a flash of green flames. Harry stepped in and clearly said, “Ministry of Magic”, not too eager to see what messing up this address would do to his destination. His last sight was that of a bouncy small version of Sirius eagerly asking his father questions.

Chapter Text

Harry tumbled out of the floo and into Bode’s arms once again. The Unspeakable smirked down at him, but said nothing about Harry’s poor Flooing skills. Instead he just banished the soot off of Harry and began pulling the boy along.

Harry was once again standing in the very long and splendid hall that was the entry to the Ministry of Magic. The dark wood floor beneath their feet was polished to a shine. The peacock blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that kept moving and changing like some enormous heavenly noticeboard. Instead of being at the end of the hall this time by the visitor lift, Harry had come out of one of the dozens of gilded fireplaces set into the left wall. Every few seconds other witches and wizards emerged from one of the left-hand fireplaces around Harry with a soft whoosh; across the hall, short queues were forming before each outgoing fireplace, waiting to depart.

The fireplace Harry had come out of was across from the golden fountain in the centre of the hall. The group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of their circular pool. The tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the pops and cracks of the Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing tired, weary looks, strode away from the set of golden gates at the far end of the hall.

“Follow me,” said Bode.

They were going against the throng, wending their way between the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying tottering piles of parchment, others battered briefcases, still others were arguing about this and that while they walked. Harry clung to Bode’s robes in an effort to not be swept away in the crowd. He did notice, oddly enough, that a path opened for the Unspeakable, as if the dark robes stamped with the Department of Mysteries logo had repellent properties.

“This way, lad,” Bode said, and they stepped out of the stream of Ministry employees exiting the golden gates. They walked right past the security desk, and Harry noted that while in this time there was a bored witch in peacock-blue robes instead of an unshaven wizard, nothing much else had changed about the desk. She even had a Daily Prophet, and Harry could see pictures of unfamiliar people on the front of the newspaper.

The security witch started to stand when she saw them go past, but sat down again with wide eyes when Bode gave her a glare. “It’s DoM business, Verity,” he said warningly. He pronounced it “doom”, but Harry assumed he meant the Department of Mysteries. Verity looked properly intimidated and let them pass without recording Harry’s wand.

Bode grasped Harry by the shoulder and steered him around the edge of the stream of wizards and witches walking through the golden gates. They edged their way inside without being bothered to the smaller hall beyond where the lifts stood behind their wrought golden grilles. Once again, the crowd waiting for lifts instead of leaving the building parted for the Unspeakable. Harry and Bode were allowed to the front of the wait, and stepped into a lift as soon as one landed.

With a great jangling and clattering the lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry and Bode stepped into the lift. Bode pressed the number nine button cool as can be and stepped back.

There was a pause, and only a few witches and wizards stepped in with them. Unlike when going to Harry’s trial, he had plenty of elbow room. Several witches and wizards were looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid catching anyone's eye, flattening his fringe reflexively as he did so. But Bode had put on a mournful, unblinking expression Harry realized he remembered from running into the older Bode with Mr. Weasley. It was an odd thing, seeing it on that younger face. The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift descended slowly, chains rattling, while the same cool female voice that was apparently always in the lifts at the Ministry spoke.

“Department of Mysteries,” the cool voice said, not mentioning a level number.

The lift doors rattled open, and everyone in the lift stepped out into the corridor. Harry again noted how it was quite different from those above. The walls were bare; there were no windows and no doors apart from a plain black one set at the very end of the corridor. Most of the people who had been in the lift went off to the side down the stairs, but Bode, Harry, and a witch with a  similarly doleful expression and Unspeakable robes all walked towards the black door.

Harry turned towards the plain black door. Standing here now, he was startled to realize he recognized this door, had been dreaming of it for months. It lent an eerie feeling to everything, but even so Harry followed Bode through the door. It swung open without anyone touching it, silently.

They were standing in a large, circular room. Everything in here was black including the floor and ceiling; identical, unmarked, handleless black doors were set at intervals all around the black walls, interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burned blue; their cool, shimmering light reflected in the shining marble floor made it look as though there was dark water underfoot.

Harry dimly remembered from his dreams. In the few where he’d gotten farther than this black door, he’d walked across this circular room, straight across the stone floor and through the second door. But the witch shut the door behind them all, and that was where things changed from Harry’s dreams.

Without the long chink of light from the torch lit corridor behind them, the place became so dark that for a moment the only things they could see were the bunches of shivering blue flames on the walls and their ghostly reflections in the floor.

Bode and the witch stood quite calmly, not walking towards any of the doors. There was a great rumbling noise and the candles began to move sideways. The circular wall was rotating. For a few seconds, the blue flames around them were blurred to resemble neon lines as the wall sped around; then, quite as suddenly as it had started, the rumbling stopped and everything became stationary once again.

Harry's eyes had blue streaks burned into them; it was all he could see. He had no way of knowing how to get out. He could no sooner identify the exit door than locate an ant on the jet-black floor. The witch stepped forwards and cleared her throat.

“Space Room,” she said. A door sprang open and she walked towards it, disappearing inside and slamming the door behind her.

Harry shut his eyes for this round of spinning, opening them again to gratefully see that the room was stationary again. This time Bode spoke.

“Time Room,” he said. Yet another door sprung open, and Harry was led to yet another room he recognized.

He knew it at once by the beautiful, dancing, diamond-sparkling light. There were patches of dancing light on the walls and floor and an odd mechanical clicking in the background.

As Harry's eyes became accustomed to the brilliant glare, he saw clocks gleaming from every surface, large and small, grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking filled the place like thousands of minuscule, marching footsteps. The source of the dancing, diamond-bright light was a towering crystal bell jar that stood at the far end of the room.

Bode ignored the wonders of the room, instead making for the only other door that led out of this room full of clocks. He led the way down the narrow space between the lines of desks, heading for the source of the light, a crystal bell jar quite as tall as Harry was that stood on a desk and appeared to be full of a billowing, glittering wind. Harry followed, but paused as he passed by the bell jar. He squinted, looking at its heart.

Drifting along in the sparkling current inside was a tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rose in the jar, it cracked open and a hummingbird emerged, which was carried to the very top of the jar, but as it fell on the draught its feathers became bedraggled and damp again, and by the time it had been borne back to the bottom of the jar it had been enclosed once more in its egg.

“Woah…”

“Come along,” Bode chivvied him. “You can sit and watch the time jar later. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of waiting to be done after we’re finished with the protocols.” Harry reluctantly followed to the only door behind the bell jar.

Once again Harry had the odd feeling he’d seen this place before: high as a church and full of nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty glass orbs. They glimmered dully in the light issuing from more candle-brackets set at intervals along the shelves. Like those in the circular room behind them, their flames were burning blue. The room was very cold.

Harry edged forward and peered down one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. He looked up at the end of the closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-glowing candles protruding from it glimmered the silver figure fifty-three. Harry shivered. He could not hear anything or see the slightest sign of movement.

“This way,” Bode said, his voice echoing around the hushed room.

“Sorry I keep getting distracted,” Harry apologized. “This is all just…familiar, somehow. I feel like I’ve dreamt it.”

Bode’s eyebrows went up. “Very interesting,” he murmured.

They walked forward between the towering rows of glass balls, weaving between the long alleys of shelves, the further ends of which were in near-total darkness. Tiny, yellowing labels had been stuck beneath each glass orb on the shelves. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others were as dull and dark within as blown light bulbs.

Eventually, they came to a wall, where there were several doors. Harry stared back the way they’d come. “How big is this room?” he asked. Bode just shrugged and Harry assumed he wasn’t getting an answer. He followed Bode out of the room of glass orbs.

This time they were in a totally unfamiliar location, a simply furnished drawing room, from the looks of it. In the middle was a stack of stuff. There were Unspeakables walking in and out of the room, waving their wands and muttering over the pile or speaking softly amongst themselves.

“I want you to find everything you want to keep out of that,” Bode told Harry, pointing at the haphazard pile of stuff. Harry nodded and stepped forwards.

The first thing he identified, to his relief, was Hedwig, looking disgruntled. She flew over to his shoulder and Harry smiled. “’Lo girl,” he said softly, stroking her feathers.

Hedwig’s cage seemed to be missing, but Harry did see his Hogwarts trunk. That was also a relief. Most everything he would need was in that — books, clothes, potions supplies, his invisibility cloak. There was a blank and faded sheet of parchment on the floor that Harry hastily snatched up and stuffed in his robes. He didn’t want the Marauder’s Map getting accidently thrown away. Another one wouldn’t be made for a few years at least, if his dad was really only twelve.

Harry glanced around. His Firebolt was naturally missing (and Harry hated Umbridge a little bit more) but there were other things: a Galleon Harry recognized as the DA master coin he used to tell people meeting dates, his spare pair of sneakers, a few unopened gifts with his name on them, a number of doorknobs, the bed Harry slept in at Grimmauld Place.

Harry sorted out stuff he wanted to keep for sentimental or practical reasons, separating things he didn’t mind throwing away. He put the unopened gifts in his trunk, handling them with melancholy feelings. He wondered if tomorrow was Christmas Day in this time period as well. Then, curiously, Harry picked up another sheet of parchment off the floor. He read it and his mouth fell open, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead.

“Something interesting?” Harry jumped.

It was one of the Unspeakables. Harry held out the sheet for him to look at. “It…it’s a contract.” The Unspeakable read it.

“I can see that. You’re in business?”

“I gave my best mate’s older brothers my winnings from the Triwizard Tournament to start up a joke shop. I didn’t realize they put me down as a silent partner for real. I thought they were just joking around. I mean…” He tried to explain himself when the Unspeakable looked amused. “I didn’t want anything from them. I didn’t want or need the money, and they’d been swindled out of all their savings earlier in the year. They’re brilliant, they are, could put Zonko’s out of business, so I didn’t want them to give up on their dream.”

“And apparently they decided that generosity deserved a good turn as well,” the Unspeakable said dryly. He handed back the contract giving Harry a third of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes in exchange for one thousand Galleons of start-up money. “You’d better keep that,” he said. “If you deposit money for these two before the contract is listed as having been made, and make it available for them, it will still be valid come 1995.”

Harry blinked, his fingers curling over the parchment of the contract. “Oh,” he said faintly. He looked down at it again and looked up, a thought having occurred to him.

“What’s the current date?” he asked. Bode winced over where he was talking to his curly-haired partner.

“Ah, I never did specify, did I?” he asked. Harry shook his head. “It’s currently the evening of March 24^th, 1972.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. So — it wasn’t Christmas any longer, then. Maybe he’d just open his presents before he went to bed tonight. “So… I jumped forward three months but back over twenty years? How does that work?”

All the Unspeakables shrugged, grumbling. “Nobody really knows how the Morgana Clock works,” one of them said.

“We know things about its parts, and we can make educated guesses,” another agreed. “But the true extent of Morgana Black’s experiments was never written down, and so was lost with her death.”

Harry frowned. “But…if it’s March… Why was Sirius Black home? Shouldn’t he have been at Hogwarts?”

“It’s Easter Holidays, sort of,” one witch chimed in. “My niece is home for the week. This year’s holidays are closer to two weeks than one, because the Defence professor had a bit of an accident and they’re trying to get a replacement before April. I think originally the break would have begun next Wednesday or so, but instead the kiddies all rode home on the Express yesterday—which was a Thursday, by the way. I doubt the days of the week are the same.”

“Huh,” Harry mused. What an odd coincidence, that he’d gone back to a date where Sirius was actually at Grimmauld Place. Also, apparently it was now Friday evening instead of Sunday.

“You done with the sorting, lad?” Bode asked him.

“Oh — yes,” said Harry, startled. Bode nodded.

“Come on, then. We’ve got more that needs doing.”

Harry once again followed Bode through yet another door, this time into a cluttered and dusty office. Hedwig, still on his shoulder, gazed about at everything, her white head turning round and round.

Bode sat behind the desk and conjured a comfortable chair for Harry to sit in. He pulled out a scroll of parchment and a quill. Then he waved his wand, muttering an unfamiliar spell. A soft white glow appeared around Harry’s seated form. Hedwig, ruffling her feathers, left her perch on Harry’s shoulder and alighted on a cabinet instead with a disgruntled air. Bode ignored the owl’s antics.

“Down to business. I’m going to ask you about your school. Don’t tell me what House you were in, but otherwise answer me to the best of your knowledge and understanding. That spell is to tell me if you lie, so don’t bother trying or I’ll pull out the Veritaserum again.”

Harry blinked. There was a whole lot he could comment on in that, but… “Why don’t you want to know what House I’m in?”

“Prejudices,” Bode replied shortly. “We all have preconceived notions of how people from certain Houses should act. Being a Quidditch player means something different in Ravenclaw than in Gryffindor. It means something different if you’re captain of the debate team as a Hufflepuff than if you were a Slytherin. I don’t want any of that cluttering up my head, so just don’t tell me your House.”

Harry nodded hesitantly. “Okay…”

“Now,” Bode said, holding up his quill. “What were your usual grades in the core classes at Hogwarts: namely Transfiguration, Defence against the Dark Arts, Charms, Potions, Astronomy, History of Magic, and Herbology?”

“Uh…” Harry had to think on that. “Well, I always made top marks in Defence. Pretty sure I’m the best or one of the best in my year. I’m also really good at Charms, usually. I like Herbology, and I’m usually close under Neville in class rankings — he’s the best in our year — so I must be doing well. I suppose I’m average in Transfiguration and Potions. And Astronomy, I guess.”

“What would you base that observation on?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “Just…observation…I guess. I always did about the same as other students in Transfiguration and Astronomy, and I was never ahead of the really clever students. I always got terrible grades in Potions, but the teacher hated me and I think he didn’t care if other students sabotaged me, so I don’t think the actual grade I got was accurate.”

Bode had been watching Harry closely, but the spell-glow around him didn’t change colour at all. The Unspeakable hummed to himself and scribbled for a few minutes on the parchment, muttering about placement tests.

“I suppose you had Binns for History of Magic?” he asked in resignation. Harry nodded, amused when the man began grumbling about substandard teachers and how Hogwarts was going downhill if it couldn’t pay an exorcist and hire a real History teacher. Harry frankly agreed on that point. Snape needed to be kicked out too. Thankfully he’d be a titchy first or second year here, not in a position of authority over Harry.

That thought made Harry snicker. Bode just raised an eyebrow, but Harry cleared his face and refused to comment.

“What classes did you begin taking in third year?” the Unspeakable asked.

Harry shrugged again. “Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. Frankly, I don’t know anybody who was actually good at Divination. Our teacher liked it when we wrote depressing stuff, so it was really more of a creative writing class than anything. I think we probably had really good experience in Care though. Hagrid was cleared at the end of my second year and became teacher for that class.”

“Hagrid?” Bode repeated incredulously. “What did he have you studying — manticores and dragons?”

Harry snickered again. Clearly this man had met Hagrid. “Our first lesson as third years was hippogriffs.”

“Bloody hell,” Bode muttered. “Right, even if your grade was terrible you’ve got more hands-on experience than most graduates in the current class.” He presumably wrote out something to that effect on his parchment. “Any extracurriculars?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Bode gestured. “Extracurricular activities. Clubs, study-groups, sports, that sort of thing. You mentioned being in the Triwizard Tournament, for one.”

“Oh!” Harry nodded. “Yeah, I won the Triwizard Tournament. All my opponents were seventeen and eighteen, too, while I was only fourteen. One of my best friends said that while I did have a lot of help, everyone was cheating so she thought I might have won on my own.” After the tournament was over Hermione had gone back through everything they’d all done and tallied it as impartially as she could, according to OWL and NEWT standards. And everybody knew Hermione was the smart one, so when she said Harry might have been able to win without Barty clearing the way for him Harry agreed with her results.

He had another thought that made him grin. He wasn’t banned from Quidditch in this time period! “I play Seeker for my House team. Youngest Seeker in a century, in 1991.”

“Impressive.” Bode made another notation. “Anything else?”

Harry thought. “There was a duelling club in second year,” he said hesitantly, “but there was only one meeting. And, um,” They couldn’t get him in trouble when the Educational Decrees didn’t exist yet could they?

“I headed up a pretty large Defence study-group this year,” he finally said.

“How large?”

Harry squirmed. “Almost thirty students?”

Bode’s eyebrows went up again. “Really? In a Defence group? Did you have a Professor overseeing it?”

Harry shook his head.

“Really.” Harry couldn’t tell what Bode was thinking. “And they behaved?”

Harry blinked. “Um…yeah, mostly. I had to talk to Fred and George once or twice about pranking people, but mostly everyone was just there because they wanted to learn, so they weren’t exactly going to act stupid.”

Bode hummed thoughtfully. “What did you teach?”

Harry shrugged. “Just stuff to prepare for OWLs and NEWTs. I started our first lesson with Expelliarmus and some basic duelling practice. Since then we’ve covered Reducto, shielding, the variants of Bombarda and other explosive spells, the Stunning Charm, and a couple other things.” He brightened, remembering how impressed Madame Bones had been with his Patronus. “We covered the Patronus right before Christmas Break began.”

“The Patronus?” Now Bode actually looked flabbergasted. “Whatever for?”

Harry hesitated. “They wanted me to,” he said slowly. “Most of them knew I could cast one, and I suppose they thought it was cool. I just know it’s a useful spell in any good Defence arsenal, so I taught them.”

“You can cast a Patronus?” Bode said disbelievingly.

Harry stood, holding up his wand. “May I?” he asked. Bode gestured for him to go ahead, his expression curious but sceptical. “Expecto Patronum!” Harry exclaimed, thinking of his wonderful Christmas with Sirius.

Prongs shot out from the end of his wand in a silvery light, cantering about before giving him a baleful look because there wasn’t any danger. “Sorry,” Harry said. “He didn’t believe I could do it.” Prongs snorted and tossed his head. Harry just grinned and cancelled the spell, making the ethereal stag disappear.

Bode’s eyes were wide.

“How long have you been able to do that?” he asked. Harry shrugged.

“I started learning midway through my third year. By the end I could cast one strong enough to push back dozens of Dementors. That’s part of how Hermione and I saved Sirius — you know, with the Time-Turner.”

Bode nodded slowly.

“And how many of your students in the study-group could do it?”

Harry thought. “All of them conjured mist. Some had it stronger than others,” he said slowly. “I’d say only about ten or less managed a corporeal Patronus during the DA session, but I learned in front of a Boggart that turned into a Dementor for me. They didn’t have any struggle. And this was really just something fun we did in an informal session before the holidays. I planned to do a full lesson on it later — maybe around Easter — but I don’t know how I’d rate it since nobody tested it against a Dementor or the illusion of one like I did.”

Bode hummed thoughtfully again, writing on his parchment once more. “Well, I think that’s all for your school information that I need. Here.” He tossed a heavy black cloak with the Department of Mysteries logo as the clasp. “Wear this so you don’t get detained. You can wander around the Department a bit. I’ll send someone looking for you when we need you again.”

Harry stood, pulling the cloak on. A glance at Hedwig saw her head was under a wing, presumably asleep, so he didn’t call out to her. Then his stomach rumbled rather embarrassingly. Bode cracked a smile.

“I suppose we should feed you first. Go back to that first room, the round one, and ask for the cafeteria. You can get food there.”

A frown furrowed Harry’s brow. “But how do I find—”

“You do know how to cast a Point-Me, young mister Defence prodigy?” Bode asked wryly. Harry flushed.

“Point-Me will work in here?” he asked. Bode smirked.

“Only for some things,” he replied mysteriously. Then he bent his head over the parchment and began writing again.  He was rifling through his desk at the same time, pulling out and discarding forms. Having been clearly dismissed, Harry went off in search of food.

Sure enough, using Point-Me led him back to the big round room. Once it was done spinning Harry opened his eyes and asked for the cafeteria. A door to one side sprang open and Harry went through eagerly. He went down a narrow corridor full of enchanted windows to the one door at the other end. Opening it revealed a large room full of tables. There were plates already set out, and menus on top of the plates.

Harry sat down and picked up a menu.

“You say what you want to eat to summon it.” Harry jumped, turning in his seat on the bench to see yet another Unspeakable sitting beside him. Even though — he hardly looked old enough to be out of Hogwarts. The Unspeakable smirked.

“I’m Gus, by the way,” he said carelessly. He stuck out his hand for Harry to shake, and Harry noticed he still had a silver soulmark band on his wrist. “And you’re the most recent poor sod to get dragged back in time by Morgana’s Clock.”

Harry blinked. “Does everyone know about that?” he asked uncomfortably. Gus shrugged, his smirk widening.

“Funny thing about Unspeakables, kid. Something about dealing with oath-bound secrets day in and day out makes us incurable gossips when we’re actually able to discuss something.”

Harry made a face and Gus laughed. The wizard eyed Harry curiously. “Is it true you won the Triwizard Tournament? Why on earth would they have brought back that monolithic murder fest?”

That made Harry snigger. “Yes, I won, and we were only told it was being reinstated due to a need for international cooperation. They did try to make it a bit safer — they banned anyone under seventeen from competing, for one.”

“Okay,” Gus said with raised eyebrows, “there is no way you’re seventeen.”

Harry grimaced and shrugged. “I was illegally entered last year as a fourth champion by someone trying to kill me. I was fourteen at the time, so you’re right. I’m not seventeen.”

“And you still won? Wicked!”

Harry brushed it off. “I had lots of help,” he protested. For some reason telling Bode Hermione’s suppositions felt different than just sitting and talking about it here. Gus rolled his eyes.

“Kid, cheating has been a Tournament tradition since the very beginning. And by your own admission, you hadn’t even passed your OWLs and you were competing with NEWT students!”

…Which was basically what Hermione had said, if with graphs and statistics to back her opinion with evidence.

“Why do you keep calling me kid, anyway?” Harry asked. “You don’t look too much older than me!”

Gus grimaced. “It’s the face, isn’t it?” he sighed. “I’ve always had a baby face. Kid, I’m almost thirty. That makes me twice your age, hence calling you kid.”

Harry blinked. “Oh,” he said faintly.

Gus just smirked again and turned to his own plate. “Kung Pao chicken, please, heavy on the sauce.” Harry blinked as a glowing white timer appeared above his plate. Gus then picked up the brass mug and said, “Butterbeer.” It was suddenly filled with frothy brown liquid. Gus gestured to Harry. “Might as well order now. It always takes a few minutes for the food to get here.”

Harry looked back down at the menu. There was lots of unfamiliar stuff on there.

“I’m partial to the Asian foods, but the pie and mash is good if you want something simple. And the chips are to die for, I swear.”

Hesitantly, Harry ordered a simple fish and chips dish, asking for iced pumpkin juice in his mug. Harry’s timer had half the amount of time Gus’s did.

The chips really were as good as Gus said — better than the ones the house elves at Hogwarts made, actually. Once both their meals had arrived the two ate in companionable silence, with Gus occasionally asking random questions about Harry’s time period.

“So, is old Dumbles still headmaster in your time? How old is he?”

“Wait, I heard something about a Time-Turner and Dementors from Saul Croaker. Story? Please?”

“Were you in the Slug Club?”

“What do you mean who is Horace Slughorn? I thought he’d retire on his deathbed, not before!”

It was…fun, and as much as Gus was apparently a good deal older than him, Harry was starting to think he’d made a friend. Gus did assure him that he wouldn’t spread anything Harry had told him.

“My oaths make it so I can only tell other Unspeakables anyway, since you’re technically a DoM project until you’re given an actual identity. But don’t worry, I won’t go blabbing. I’m going to hold this over everyone else’s heads for ages. They’ll be begging me for scraps of info — only so long as you don’t go telling everyone your life story. Just tell me and Bode, yeah? I might actually win this year’s Most Unspeakable Unspeakable award with all the stuff you’ve given me.”

Apparently the “Most Unspeakable Unspeakable” award went to whichever Unspeakable had kept the most secrets at the end of the year. This was determined via truth spells, drinking games, and year-long betting pools. Croaker — the curly-haired wizard who was Bode’s partner — had apparently won it three years in a row, and Gus was determined to wrestle it from him.

Speaking of Croaker, the blond wizard showed up just as Harry was finishing up the treacle tart he’d ordered after cleaning his plate. Gus was eating his tiramisu with reverent slowness.

“Oi! Potter!” Croaker exclaimed. Harry looked up at him. “We need you again, lad. Broderick finally found a group of oath-bound Healers willing to do work in the evening. Come on.”

Harry stood and followed him, waving goodbye to Gus.

Chapter Text

Harry stood and followed him, waving goodbye to Gus.

He was led back to the drawing room beyond that hall of glass orbs. Most of the Unspeakables who had been in this room before were gone, as was everything Harry had indicated he didn’t want to keep.

His possessions were stacked neatly in one corner. Bode was standing in another corner with a quill and parchment out as if he was prepared to record something again. Croaker went over to join him after pushing Harry towards the group in the middle of the room. Standing there was a pleasant-looking woman in the lime green robes of a St. Mungo’s Healer. She had two male Healers with her.

“These are Healers Pollingtonious, Spleen, and Pomfrey, Mister Potter,” Bode said dolefully. “They’ll be giving you a full examination so that we can create new medical records for you.”

Harry blinked. The healer that had been indicated when Bode said Pomfrey was a tall man with light brown hair. The healer in question smiled at Harry’s bemused look.

“Presuming you aren’t from too far into the future, you likely know my sister Poppy,” he said. Harry nodded.

“Oh — yes. I didn’t know Madam Pomfrey had a brother.”

Healer Pomfrey shrugged. “I don’t see why you would have.” The one female Healer stepped forwards.

“I’m Heather Pollingtonious, Mister Potter,” she said. “I’ll be your primary Healer today. Herbert and Phillip are just here to fill in gaps I can’t account for.”

“You’re lucky to have gotten Pollingtonious, kid,” the male Pomfrey added. “She’s the most talented Healer we have at St. Mungo’s. Shoo-in for next Healer-In-Charge of the whole hospital. Otherwise there’d be five of us.”

The woman swatted at him. “Honestly, Phillip,” she scolded. She conjured a chair with a wave of her wand. “Would you mind taking off your shirt and that cloak, lad? You can leave the trousers, but I need a bare torso for my spells to get proper readings.”

Harry flushed, but did as she asked. As he sat in the chair he queried, “Why would there be five of you?”

Pollingtonious blinked. “Are you muggleborn, lad?” she asked in some confusion. Harry scowled at her.

“Half-blood,” he snapped. “I was raised in the muggle world, though.”

She waved her hands in front of her, flustered. “Oh, I didn’t mean to sound rude, it’s just that normally we only get that sort of question from muggleborns. To answer you, ordinarily if you want to become a Healer you specialize in one of the five Healing Wards at St. Mungo’s or become a mediwitch or mediwizard. Healers are capable of much greater feats of healing than medi-healers. A muggleborn friend of mine likened it to the difference between a Doctor and a Nurse…?”

When Harry nodded in understanding she continued. “Anyway, I’m a bit of an anomaly because I’ve trained in two Healing Wards — Creature-Induced Injuries and Artefact Accidents — and am currently going through training to heal Spell Damage as well. If the Unspeakables hadn’t gotten me they would’ve needed to get one Healer for each Ward to check you over properly.”

“Oh,” Harry fell silent, thoughtful.

Healer Pollingtonious took that as an opportunity and began casting over him. Her first couple spells didn’t seem to do anything at all that Harry could tell, but then she cast a spell on a piece of parchment. It began floating around Harry in circles. He could see some sort of map of his body being sketched onto the parchment, with different spots being highlighted in different colours. She had a second quill and parchment hovering next to her which seemed to be writing some sort of list out. Several times, her work made her pause in her casting with a frown, brows furrowed. When the woman was finally done she collapsed into another chair with a huff.

Pomfrey took over, casting spells as well. His took much less time, and the third Healer (Herbert Spleen, Harry thought his name was) took his turn. This wizard began a list as well, muttering in aggravation under his breath as he silently cast spells.

Then the three healers retreated to a corner of the room, speaking amongst themselves. Finally, they turned back to Harry.

“We’re going to go over our results now,” Healer Pollingtonious told him kindly. “We’re going to ask you about various injuries, and I need your answers to be as truthful as possible.”

Harry nodded hesitantly and the Healer cleared her throat. “Alright, then.”

Her first question was surprising. Harry expected to get something about the basilisk bite on his arm, or the Acromantula bites from the Third Task, or maybe even the oddly large number of scars Harry had — possibly even about the unusual lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. But Healer Pollingtonious’ first question was about whether he felt he’d always gotten enough to eat.

Harry had squirmed in his seat a bit, hedging that yes, he got plenty to eat, and he was a growing boy besides… The healers were having none of it. Bluntly, he was asked if he’d ever been denied food for more than a single meal at a time. Wincing, Harry admitted that yes, his muggle relatives often left him without food for days on end. Oh, they fed him, Harry hurried to explain. They just might only give him a sandwich in a day, or a bit of toast, or an apple… And it was only when he was being punished.

They asked how long his muggle relatives had been withholding food as punishment. Harry shrugged and said it had been going on for as long as he could remember. Then, they asked how often it happened. That made Harry squirm again.

It hadn’t been too often when he was a kid, Harry tried to explain slowly. Usually only when he did obvious accidental magic. Maybe once every other month he’d be locked in his cupboard — his bedroom, he hastily corrected, but he was sure from the frowns they’d all caught when he almost said — and he might not be fed properly while locked away for a  week or more.

But…Harry did have to admit they’d gotten worse once he started Hogwarts. There were so many reasons to choose from. His relatives didn’t like magic, he explained, and so when there was more magic going on he’d been treated worse. But… it did seem like every summer since his first year had him fed less and less, even if he wasn’t locked in his room. He ate plenty at Hogwarts, Harry added hopefully. But that didn’t seem to improve the stormy faces.

Eventually, Healer Pollingtonious simply said that they’d be giving him nutrient potions, and it would be best if he could eat nutrient-potion-laced meals for the next six months at least. A swift glance between her and Bode meant it was probably going to happen whether Harry agreed or not, the teenager thought glumly.

They asked a few other questions about nonmagical injuries. Had he been hit often — Harry told them about his bully of a cousin. Had he ever had limbs dislocated — Harry said yes, but fudged on when and why since they didn’t seem to know that. He ended up chalking it to Quidditch and falling off of things. They also asked if he’d ever been concussed, and he had to admit he wasn’t sure. Uncle Vernon had thrown him hard enough to do so a few times, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever been taken to a doctor and diagnosed. Likewise Aunt Petunia had caught him with a frying pan several times before he’d grown better at dodging and ducking. But he didn’t know for sure, so he mumbled something again about bullies and not being sure.

Then they moved on to more magical injuries. They were very, very angry when Harry told them the scars on his hands — I must not tell lies — was from a Ministry official and Defence professor forcing him to write with a quill that drew his blood as ink. Harry was told that the artefact he’d described was known as a Black Quill, and was a Class-A Restricted Artefact that could, in the long run, make him more vulnerable to Dark Magic and dark artefacts in general.

Throughout this, Bode was scribbling down everything Harry told them, muttering under his breath. It sounded like he planned to have Delores Umbridge monitored through her Hogwarts days and blacklisted from ever joining the Ministry, which Harry felt vindictively was almost worth getting sent back in time in the first place.

He was told they would send a special potion he needed to wash his hand with twice a day, and that would reduce the magical side-effects of the Quill. Unfortunately, the scarring would remain forever. Harry had figured as much, and wasn’t too bothered. Then they wanted to know about the Acromantula bites and why it looked like he’d been healed of a dragon attack on his shoulder.

Harry haltingly explained about the Triwizard Tournament, hesitant after how upset his talk of the Dursleys and of Umbridge had made the adults in the room. But the three healers worked together to coax it out of him, and Harry found himself explaining each task in detail — and even giving a vague description of his kidnapping from the Third Task and the ritual he’d been forced to participate in as well. He refused to discuss names, though.

When he was asked about the basilisk bite before his clearly regrown arm bones, Harry realized they must be going backwards from most recent injuries to the oldest. He explained the reopening of the Chamber of Secrets as thoroughly as he could; only holding back the few details that might reveal Harry was soulmate to the person who had opened it.

They were all quite interested in how Harry had survived the basilisk’s bite, and when Harry began explaining about Fawkes Healer Pollingtonious began writing something down again excitedly. She asked Harry if he could come to St. Mungo’s for some tests afterwards, because they hadn’t had the chance to study someone who’d been given phoenix tears in recent recorded history, but Bode glared her to silence. Harry made a mental note to maybe talk to her later. It didn’t seem like that big a deal, honestly.

Explaining about an incompetent Defence teacher who managed to vanish his arm bones had them all quite amused, and Harry couldn’t help but tell them all about the fiasco of the Duelling Club just to further ruin Lockhart’s reputation in advance.

Harry was almost startled to realize he’d practically not been injured at all his first year. Instead, they asked about the heavy mantle of soulmate magic sitting on him — explaining they could see evidence it had forced him into a coma (which must have been the end of first year) but weren’t sure what it did otherwise. Harry hesitantly began to explain the details Sirius had discussed with him.

Harry’s parents had been soulmates, but his mother had struggled against the bond for nearly all their years at Hogwarts because she didn’t like his dad’s attitude. The struggles had been mostly one-sided, but James’ continual attempts to win her over — essentially fighting for his soulmate’s love and bond — had strengthened their bond beyond the usual amount.

Sirius had explained to Harry that the more struggles a couple went through, the stronger their bond usually was in response. But normally, because of how wizarding culture viewed soulmarks and soulmates, people hardly struggled with their bonds at all, instead accepting the will of magic. Lily had fought James for six long years, and then the two had fought for their lives together against people trying to kill them for the next few years until their deaths. This, Sirius theorized, was how they’d managed to create such a powerful magical protection for Harry. They’d done some sort of sacrificial ritual that ensured that even if they were dead, their magic would linger on to keep their son safe — a reversal of the usual way the bond between a soulmated romantic pair and their children usually worked.

Harry explained this, and while the Healers merely seemed touched and discounted the coma from their records (soulmate magic was intrinsically unharmful to soulmate-created children) the two Unspeakables grew very intent. They didn’t say anything, just narrowed their eyes and exchanged unreadable looks.

The last questions the Healers asked were all about soulmates, so naturally Harry was uncomfortable. They could clearly see he wasn’t bonded from the silver armband he wore, so instead they’d begun to ask about his words and if he thought his bond could be fulfilled in this time period. The Unspeakables had hastily silenced them.

Healer Pollingtonious began to splutter. “But Mr. Bode, this is standard procedure when checking a young wizard’s health—”

“Yes, yes,” Bode snapped back. “The DoM will take care of that, thank you. We’ve got our own experts. You needn’t concern yourselves.”

But while the Healers and the Unspeakables argued, Harry fell into a bit of a stupor. He’d not thought at all about his soulmate since coming back in time — he’d not had a spare moment to really process, so he hadn’t been able to. It wasn’t as if he didn’t usually ignore Voldemort was his soulmate in most of his life anyway. But now he was in the past. Had anything changed?

A peek under his bracelet while the others were distracted confirmed his words were the same, and they were still bright blood-red. So Voldemort was still his soulmate. But…what did that mean?

While every book on the rise and fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort agreed that at some point he’d lost his soulmark, none of them agreed on when that had happened. Several insisted it hadn’t occurred until later in Voldemort’s campaign, in the late seventies. Others were adamant he’d lost it before appearing in 1970, or he’d never had one in the first place. Harry knew the last possibility was false because he was Voldemort’s soulmate, but for the other two options he really had no way of knowing unless he tracked the Dark Lord down and spoke to him. And for obvious reasons, Harry was reluctant to do so.

At the moment, Harry decided he would just assume nothing had changed. He’d act as though he had a markless soulmate and would live his life the way he wanted. He wasn’t going chasing after a madman — not when he was in a time when Voldemort wasn’t even actively hunting him yet. This decided, he went back to watching the adults argue.

In the end Bode and Croaker apparently won, because Pollingtonious threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. “Fine!” she cried out. “I can see you won’t be dissuaded.” Pomfrey whispered something in her ear and she shook her head jerkily and scowled. Spleen, who hadn’t spoken much, took a moment to be the diplomatic one.

“We’ll just borrow an office to write up the lad’s medical records. I assume later this week we’ll be doing a mock-up version based on whatever alias he’s settled into?” When Bode nodded Spleen did as well. “Alright, then. You might want to let the boy sleep: all our preliminary diagnostic spells read low-level exhaustion. You can do anything else you need to do with him starting tomorrow.”

Then Spleen began guiding his fellow Healers to one of the doors out of the drawing room. “Come along, then,” he told them. “We’ve got work to do.”

Bode walked over to Harry with an exasperated sigh as the Healers left the room, Croaker following them. “Finally,” he grumbled. He eyed Harry. “I know you’ve got some hangup about your soulmark, but you will be discussing it tomorrow morning. I won’t need the exact words on your wrist, just some details to add to our records.”

Harry grimaced, but nodded in acceptance. Bode clapped him on the shoulder.

“If it makes you feel better, we are Unspeakables, lad. You’re a time project, which means we can’t talk about any information you give us under pain of death until you’ve got a real, established identity. You don’t have to watch your words until that point. Now that Healer was right. It’s almost midnight, and you’ve had a hell of an evening. Time to get you to bed.”

Once Harry had his jumper and the heavy Department of Mysteries cloak back on they left the area of the Time Room once again. Bode led Harry back to the large circular room, where he called out for the “Sleep Chamber” once the room had stopped spinning. Surprisingly, Harry was not led to a dormitory of some sort as he had assumed by the name.

The teenager gaped at the dimly lit but still beautiful surroundings. The room was a massive dome shape, and the walls/ceiling had been coloured the same shade as the night sky. The floor was the same shiny black stone that was in the circular room, and around where the walls met the stone floor beautiful abstract patterns were painted in sunset shades and the colours of the northern lights. There were no candles or real light fixtures in the room. There wasn’t even an imitation moon. Instead, the rounded walls were studded with what looked like gemstones, mimicking the soft glow of stars.

And all through the room were clouds. They were white, fluffy clouds trimmed in gold from what Harry could see of the ones just skirting the floor. But the higher up they went the more their colour seemed to fade and blend in with the walls. Harry only knew there were clouds in the higher areas because they were obstructing swaths of star-lights. Otherwise they camouflaged perfectly.

“This is where we study the phenomenon of sleep,” said Bode. “In the rooms beyond we study dreams and visions, comas, petrifications, and Draught of Living Death. This is our main database — Unspeakables will sleep here when they have to pull all-nighters and such. Every person who sleeps in here adds to our collection of knowledge on sleep patterns and how magic interacts with sleeping individuals.”

Harry cast about. “But where do people sleep?” he asked in confusion. Bode gestured.

“On the clouds,” he said simply. “Go on. Try one.”

Harry walked hesitantly next to a cloud hovering patiently nearby, just off the floor. He put a hand on it and pressed down. It was thick and fluffy, like a mattress. Harry hesitantly sat down. He instantly felt his eyes growing heavy. He yawned.

Bode rapped Harry on the head with his knuckles. “Lay down, silly.”

He did so, feeling groggy. Harry wrapped himself in the heavy cloak he still wore. It worked quite nicely as a blanket. He could feel his eyes drifting shut.

It was funny, that his first night without strange dreams came in the place he’d been dreaming of so long.

*          *          *

Harry was shaken awake the next morning to Gus’ smiling face. He blinked dumbly at the sight, confused for a long moment. Then he sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“It wasn’t a dream?” he asked. Gus’ smile faded.

“No, kid, it wasn’t a dream. You’re really in 1972.”

Harry yawned. “Just brilliant,” he grumbled. He stood and the cloud that had been under him wisped away to nothing. Harry blinked. “Huh.”

Gus grabbed Harry by the arm. “Come on, kid. I just got here, and I want breakfast. I’m betting you do too.”

Harry followed Gus willingly enough. “Where’s Bode?” he wondered. Gus shrugged.

“He always has breakfast at home, I think. He’ll be here soon enough. Come on!”

They went through the spinning of the circular room and asked for the cafeteria. They walked in to see the place was much fuller than it had been last night. Half the people there were yawning sleepily and casting spells to shake the wrinkles out of their clearly slept-in robes. Others jittered in place, dark circles under their eyes hinting they hadn’t slept at all. It was only a very small number of individuals who were wandering in looking well-rested and wearing fresh robes as Gus did.

Just like the previous night, the empty plates all had menus on top of them. People were ordering their meals aloud like at the Yule Ball. Harry perused the menu. It was full of breakfast foods this time — many of them totally foreign to Harry’s eyes. He wrinkled his nose.

“What’s…kookoo sabzi?”

Gus looked over at Harry’s menu. “Oh, that? It’s just an omelette. It’s a Persian recipe, I think. I just ordered myself crepes.”

Harry decided to follow Gus’ lead and ordered crepes. He asked for hot tea for his morning drink. Gus was nursing an oversized mug of what Harry was fairly sure was strong coffee after ordering an “extra-large caffè macchiato”.

Bode wandered into the cafeteria as they were eating. Like Gus, the older Unspeakable had on a clean set of fresh-pressed robes, and looked as though he’d actually slept last night. (Unspeakables who’d slept were in the minority according to what Harry saw in the cafeteria.) Bode was also holding a large folder full of sheets of parchment.

“Well, I’ve got almost all your preliminary records,” he said to Harry as he sat down. He pushed his plate aside and simply ordered a coffee. “There’s just a few more details we need to fill out.”

“Yes?” Harry asked apprehensively, remembering what he’d said last night about needing to ask about Harry’s soulmark. Before beginning to speak, Bode flicked his wand. The chatter around them was suddenly muffled and his view of the people outside their corner of the table was hazy, as though he was seeing through a gauzy curtain.

“Now we won’t be bothered,” Bode said with satisfaction. There was an amused cough at Harry’s shoulder.

“Don’t mind if I join in, do you, Broddy?”

It was Gus, who also had his wand out and had somehow done something to be inside the little privacy bubble Bode had created instead of outside with the rest. Gus was smirking, and Bode scowled at him. Harry looked between them in confusion. “Oh, if you must,” Bode finally said brusquely.

He softened back to what seemed to be his default mournful expression when he turned back to Harry. “Now, for starters, do you have your wand?”

“Oh — yes,” Harry said.

The teenager pulled it out and Bode held out a hand. “May I?” Harry hesitantly handed it over. Bode waved his wand so that it was hovering over his palm, not touching, and he cast some sort of spell that had a quill jumping out of his pocket to record what seemed to be details about Harry’s wand.

“It’s an Ollivander make, isn’t it?” Bode asked idly. When Harry nodded he nodded sharply in return. “You’ll have to pick up its current version from the shop then, if it exists. You are allowed to keep this wand — I’ll have a permit for second, concealed wand filed for you. Unfortunately, for things like classes, exams, and any career you end up in you need a wand that exists in this time, if that makes sense. This wand that came with you from the future will have to be a spare unless you’re self-employed and don’t finish up schooling at a real school. Unless, as I mentioned, you end up with its double. Then you can use both interchangeably.”

Harry nodded his understanding slowly as he was handed his wand back. He rolled it between his fingers contemplatively. He didn’t much like the idea of getting a new wand — this one had always served him well, and he liked having Fawkes’ wand — but he did understand the reasoning behind it. Hopefully he’d just be matched with its past version and that would be that.

“Now,” Bode said, “we’re going to talk about your soulmark. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s really necessary I have a few other questions answered.”

Harry grimaced deeply, but Gus was the one who spoke. “Wait, why don’t you want to talk about your soulmark?”

Bode was unconcerned. “He was raised in the muggle world,” he said. “It’s a cultural taboo for most muggles to show one another their soulmarks before the bond is active.”

Gus tilted his head to the side in consideration of this new information. “That’s weird,” he said. Harry shook his head almost violently.

“It- The muggle thing is part of the problem, but it’s not the main reason I don’t want to talk about it.”

Bode’s eyes sharpened. “I know you don’t have a bond yet. If you did then that—” he tapped Harry’s silver soulmark band “—would be gone and you would’ve had a person dragged along just like your familiar was. Frankly I was astonished your godfather wasn’t pulled to this time, but I suppose having a younger version of him alive might have mitigated that need. He doesn’t have the bond yet, but he will, only he might not any longer… It’s heavy paradox-time related stuff, don’t worry about it.”

Harry blinked. “Um…”

“Back to the point,” Bode said hastily. “Are your words red, or completely unrealized?”

Harry squirmed. “…they’re red,” he said eventually. Bode nodded.

“It’s a really fascinating thing, Morgana’s Clock. Every person who’s ever had an unrealized bond when they go through finds their bond being fulfilled in the past — no matter how many centuries they’ve gone. It lends to the idea that people who use the Clock were meant to do so, but because they always seem to change time, it’s almost like at certain points in history things are meant to be changed from how they would have gone without interference… anyway…”

“That’s right,” said Gus. “You’ve been studying the Clock in your spare time.”

Bode shrugged. “It’s a fascinating study,” he said simply. Then— “So do you have any idea who turned your words red? And when?”

“Oh, I know exactly who and when,” Harry said darkly.

There was a beat of silence, and then Bode gestured. “Elaborate?”

Harry glared. “I don’t want to say who it is.” A lifted eyebrow was his answer.

“And why not?”

Harry cringed. “Sometime between…I dunno, the sixties or so and the year I’m born… my soulmate loses his soulmark. Because it was definitely gone the second time I met him.”

“Damn,” Gus breathed. Harry flinched minutely and a hand rubbed his shoulder. “No, don’t do that, kid. It’s hardly your fault. Still, he’d be alive right now?”

Harry nodded. “He was born in 1926,” he said, not looking at either of them.

“And that’s really all I needed to know,” Bode said briskly. “If your words are red there’s a bit more urgency in finding them. We’ve helped form bonds before with time-travellers who knew who their soulmate was but hadn’t had a second meeting yet in their birth time. It’s just protocol. Don’t worry kid, we won’t tell, and we won’t ask for any more information.”

He put the last sheet of parchment — that had details of Harry’s wand and the simple notation Red words, soulmate already born — in with the other papers. The folder glowed for a moment and Bode made a satisfied noise.

“Ah, it’s done.” He waved the folder about under Harry’s nose. “We’ve got all your necessary information, now we just need to compile a new identity for you.” Bode stood, breaking the magical bubble muffling the area around them. Harry stood as well, more reluctantly. Gus followed him.

“Can I tag along?” he asked brightly. Bode just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I suppose,” he grumbled, guiding Harry out of the cafeteria.

The three of them went back through the circular chamber and into the Time Room, walking quickly from room to room until they’d gotten to Bode’s office again. He sat behind his desk, taking the folder with him. Harry sat in the chair still across from the desk and Hedwig flew down to land on Harry’s knee. Harry pulled out the piece of bacon he’d gotten for her and fed his owl.

“You’ve got a pretty familiar,” Gus said. Harry smiled softly at his dear feathery friend.

“Her name’s Hedwig,” he replied. “She was my first real birthday present.”

Both of them jumped a bit when Bode clapped his hands together. “Right!” the older man said. He pointed at Gus. “Since Saul isn’t here yet, and you said you wanted to help, you can be gofer.” Gus groaned.

“Why did I know you were going to say that? Okay, what do you need?”

Bode flipped through Harry’s folder. “All the Black, Potter, and Travers records for the past…twenty years. I also need…hmm…Gringotts’ Big Book of Disappearances and Suspicious Accidents…and their cursebreaker mission records for the same period as the family records.”

Harry was bewildered. “Whatever for?”

Gus laughed. “We’re building you a new identity, kiddo. We’ve got to give you a new name and parents while still allowing for you to be in the custody of your actual blood relatives—”

Bode took over. “And we have to fit your medical records and basic history to a believable timeline of events for your new past, so that it’s harder to suss out most of what you’re going to be telling people is all lies. The best falsehood has a heaping handful of truth in it.”

Gus nodded. “It’s a bit like weaving a tapestry. Neither of us have done this before — the last time traveller through the Clock came through to around 1900, I think — but every Unspeakable in the Time Room halls is trained in how to do this regardless of what we’re actually studying. Don’t worry. By the end of it you’ll hardly be able to tell which parts are true and what’s false.”

Then Gus left, presumably to fetch the records Bode wanted. He wasn’t gone for too long, but it was enough time for Harry to tire of petting Hedwig in silence. He broke the quiet with a question.

“So I get why you wanted Potter and Black records…but why the Travers?”

To Harry’s best knowledge Travers was the name of a Death Eater. He didn’t know if the whole family had been full of pureblood maniacs like the Malfoys, or if it was just the one guy like with Peter Pettigrew, but he was uncomfortable with the idea of being associated with a family that might be closely tied to Voldemort.

Bode’s eyebrows went up. “Your grandmother Euphemia was born a Travers,” he said quietly. “I’m just covering my bases. The Blacks will be tricky to pair you with, and Potters have never been the most prolific family. The Travers family, on the other hand, has several branches scattered across Britain and France. It is likely at least one of your false parents will be a Travers instead of a Potter or Black.”

Harry’s lips thinned but he didn’t protest. It made sense. But… “What sort of branch was my grandmother from?” He noticed the past tense belatedly and winced, but didn’t correct his question. Bode knew what he meant.

Bode hummed. “From Mister Black’s description yesterday,” he said thoughtfully. “I would assume she’s from the branch that lives mostly in South Wales. They’re a whole group of mad Ravenclaws — spell crafters and Unspeakables, the lot of them. I know Lady Potter was nearly recruited for the DoM, but changed her mind when your grandfather proposed. Otherwise, I’m afraid I know nothing about her. We were at school at the same time, but I was a rather self-absorbed Slytherin and she was a grades-obsessed Ravenclaw. I don’t think we exchanged more than a dozen words through our entire Hogwarts career.”

Harry smiled faintly at the picture Bode’s words painted of her. He’d never known anything about either of his grandparents, but from Bode’s description his grandmother sounded an awful lot like a Hermione who’d actually gone to Ravenclaw like the Hat wanted. Though, Harry couldn’t imagine Hermione turning down a job with the Department of Mysteries for anything, much less because she’d been proposed to.

A companionable silence fell for a few minutes. It was broken by Gus returning with his arms full of parchment-stuffed folders.

“You will not believe,” he complained, “the snark of that bloody goblin liaison.”

“Goblin liaison?” Harry asked.

Gus smirked. “There’s a Gringotts goblin assigned to work with the Unspeakables on anything we need bank records or extra funds for. We also split profits with them on gambling on future events — we run probabilities to see if anything’s changed and they keep anything from looking illegal. It’s very profitable.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that. Then he jumped when Gus slammed the massive collection of information on Bode’s desk. Bode rubbed his hands together. “Right! First things first, we need to know when you were born.”

The teen blinked. “Um—” Bode flapped his hands.

“Yes, yes, 1980, I remember. I mean when you would have been born if you were from this time period. Also, you skipped three months; your birthday’s likely different.”

Bode flicked his wand and a strange device came floating out of a cabinet. It landed precariously on top of the teetering stack of papers. It was an odd sort of object, looking rather like a cross between a muggle till, a clock, and a spindle. “Prick your finger on the needle,” Bode told him. “It’ll calculate your date of birth based on your current age.”

Harry gave him a dubious look but did as the man asked. He stuck his finger in his mouth after the prick drew a drop of blood. The entire silvery needle turned red and something began clicking in the bulky till section. The clock — which oddly had planets instead of numbers, and had about twelve hands — began to tick, some of its hands going anticlockwise and others going clockwise. After several minutes of clicking and ticking a bell dinged. A small slip of paper came out of the receipt part of the machine. Bode took this paper and read it, one eyebrow going up as he smirked in amusement.

“Well, Mister Potter, your new birth date according to the time displacement is the 31st of October, 1956.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed weakly. “October?” he repeated. “My birthday’s Halloween?”

Gus barked out a laugh. “Tough luck, that,” he said. “Hard to have a birthday party when everyone has Samhain festivals to go to. Still, you never have to make an effort if you want sweets on your birthday.”

“Uh-huh.” Harry had no idea how to react to this. He hated Halloween, had for years because bad things always seemed to happen. And now it was his birthday? This was not okay.

“Now,” Bode said, “You take this—” Harry was handed the slip of paper “—and make sure to memorize it. Once you’re sure you won’t forget, destroy it.” Harry looked down at it.

Just as Bode had said, it had the date 'October 31, 1956' written on it. Above that was a complicated set of numbers that apparently indicated his exact age down to the minute. It also listed the new date for the rough time of his conception (sometime between December of 1955 and February of 1956) and the new date his soulmark words turned red (January 31, 1958). Harry sighed in a melancholy way.

Gus nudged him. “Cheer up, Harry,” he said, entirely too cheerful himself. “Now that we’ve got a date we can do the fun part — making up who you’re going to be!”

Harry gave him a wan smile. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That does sound fun. Not being Harry Potter would be awesome.”

The Unspeakables didn’t understand the significance of that, but they didn’t have to. Harry was just relishing the realization that the famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived no longer existed. And, if Harry really tried — he might never exist at all. Morgana’s Clock was a paradox machine, after all, and according to what Bode had told him Harry was fully capable of changing time.

He’d save his parents from their death; he'd keep his younger self from both being orphaned and becoming famous; he’d keep Sirius from being illegally imprisoned. He would do it! He’d save them all.

And he’d have a good life in spite of his soulmate.

After all, like Sirius had said when they discussed Harry's soulmark — the best revenge was living well.

Chapter Text

It took them close to two days to get Harry’s whole life mapped out from the mid-1950s to present day 1972. And it was weirdly fun, just as Gus had said. It was about finding real pieces of stuff and creatively sticking them together, kind of like solving a mystery plus creative writing. It was great.

The first part, of course, had been figuring out who his “parents” were going to be in this new identity.

They’d gone through Black, Travers, and Potter records along with the Big Book of Disappearances and Suspicious Accidents for hours trying to find someone who had conveniently vanished and died while missing that was of appropriate relation to either Fleamont Potter or Euphemia Potter nee Travers (or a Black, if his grandparents couldn’t be managed). They didn’t even take a break for lunch or for dinner, instead getting Gus to make food runs and bring back finger foods to munch while they worked.

Bode explained to Harry that finding somebody who’d vanished mysteriously wasn’t the hard part. There had been a period of time from the late forties up until only about a decade ago where Hogwarts had encouraged its students to go abroad to “broaden the mind” and “gain experience” before being employed. Oh, Hogwarts had done the same for years before that, but it was that time period that was the problem.

When Grindelwald had been defeated in 1945, Europe was thrown into chaos. Young witches and wizards who once did European tours began to go a bit farther abroad than before. Nobody wanted to visit MACUSA, where the restrictions kept you from experiencing anything of real fun, so they also began going a bit off the beaten track. Some young witches and wizards went on tours of Asia, but many more visited Oceania, South America, and Africa. Unfortunately, those were some of the most dangerous wizarding regions in the world, and so there was a rash of disappearances for about thirty years. New Hogwarts graduates would go off travelling and simply never come home. Gringotts records could be consulted, and oftentimes after the poor sod’s remains had been tracked down it was discovered they’d fallen afoul of foreign dark wizards, militant groups of muggles, or magical creatures of varying sorts.

It got so bad in the sixties that the Board of Governors forbade the Headmaster and other Professors from advising students to travel, instead encouraging them to jump straight into jobs and adult life. They also moved all materials about foreign schools and tourist spots into the Restricted Section and entirely cut out an elective course on International Wizarding Relations. Bode was disparaging about the efforts, claiming they’d gone overboard, but new methods at Hogwarts had a test-run life of about two decades before they could be protested, and if the death rates of graduates went down it was likely that any protests would be ineffectual.

Harry thought it was all rather silly, but it did explain why he hadn’t known about any of the foreign schools until he’d been taken to the Quidditch World Cup.

As they searched, Bode’s prediction that there would be more Travers to pick from as potential parents than Potters held out. In truth, there were only about three Potters Harry could claim relation to who had disappeared around the right time: two of whom were women who’d later been found alive and had since married and the third of whom had a reputation for liking men over woman and so would hardly be the sort to father a son.

“We could claim he’s Charlus’ illegitimate son,” Gus suggested at one point. Bode snorted.

“Do you really think that dragoness Dorea would sign off on that? Or Charlus himself?”

“It would give us that Black connection you really want,” Gus pointed out, but turned the page anyway.

The Blacks themselves had produced equally poor results.

“Here’s a distant cousin who disappear — no, never mind. He was sent to Azkaban and they hushed it up, he never disappeared. I can’t be his son.”

There was more searching in silence. In exasperation, Bode suggested, “We could claim Harry’s from a squib line — there’s plenty to pick from.”

“Are you trying to have Harry lynched, Bode?”

The boy in question blinked. “What do you mean?”

Bode and Gus exchanged awkward glances. “Err — you’ll learn soon enough Harry. We’ll let Arcturus or Orion explain it to you.”

Then the Travers—

“There’s this girl. Went missing a year before Harry would have been born, was friendly with several young Black men.”

“She’s an option. How close is she related to Lady Potter?”

Gus pulled the copy of the Travers tree over. “Uh…distant cousin? They share a great-great-great-grandfather, and I don’t think the girl’s parents would take in an illegitimate child so there’s a chance we could swing custody going to Euphemia. She does have a good half-dozen sisters though. Has eyes similar to Harry’s, on the upside.”

Bode sighed tiredly, wiping his hand over his face. “Put it in the possibilities stack.” Gus did so, placing that girl’s Ministry file on top of a distant Potter-related cousin who’d been eaten by a Chimera in 1960.

Harry held up the file he’d been reading. “What about this guy?” he asked. Bode took the file and flipped through it.

“Vanished in 1950, married an aborigine girl in Australia, died in a turf war…hmm… it’d be hard to explain why you don’t speak the native language. Besides, you look nothing like either this boy or his wife. Discard pile.” He tossed it over.

There was silence for another hour or two, brief interruptions about hopeful files all being discarded. “Here’s a Travers he could be related to — oh, no, he died of…damn. Never mind.”

Harry looked curiously and turned flaming red when he saw his distant cousin had died of syphilis.

And then sometime in the early hours of day two of looking through dusty old files Harry noticed something interesting in the file he was reading. He blinked.

“Hey…you didn’t say my grandmother had siblings.”

“Two brothers, according to the family tree,” Gus said disinterestedly. “Henry and George. I’ve met old George Travers. Georgie’s a tosser, but his three girls are all gems, and brilliant to boot.”

Bode straightened. “One of Euphemia Potter’s siblings disappeared in the right time period?”

At Harry’s nod he snatched the file and flipped through it. His expression grew more and more uncharacteristically delighted as he read through the file.

“EUREKA!” he shouted. Gus lifted an eyebrow.

“It fits?” Harry asked eagerly.

“It fits perfectly,” Bode agreed. “Listen to this: Henry Travers, Euphemia’s younger brother, went out on a tour of Oceania at the age of eighteen in 1952. According to the newspaper clippings in here, there was some sort of scandal involved because he was joined halfway through his tour by a “sister of House Black” who was thirty years his senior — hence the scandal. There was some debate over whether they were soulmates or not, apparently some people thought it was a sham so that Lycoris Black could leave her father’s household. Hmm. The pair vanished somewhere in New Guinea around 1954. The Black reappeared about a decade later — in 1965 — in Australia, where she was shipped to England with a black soulmark on her wrist. She died only a week after reaching London, presumably because of her soulmate’s death. The entire week she was home she raved about needing to save “them”, but it was never confirmed who “them” was. Rumour had it she’d either had multiple lovers, or she had lost a soulmate and children.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Gus looked impressed. “That does fit really well,” he said slowly. “How much of it can we confirm?”

Bode tossed him the Ministry file and the Big Book of Disappearances and Suspicious Accidents. Then he Accio-ed Lycoris Black’s file and tossed that over to Gus as well. “Why don’t you find out?” he asked. Harry eagerly helped him.

Most of it was confirmed. Apparently not even Gringotts had been able to definitively prove whether the unconventional pair had been soulmates or not — or even whether they’d been romantically entangled. All the records and people who had mentioned seeing them over the roughly ten years they’d been missing wrote that they seemed to be very close friends, but there weren’t even hints of “improper behaviour” in public. There was a snag in the fact that in the Travers family, you needed permission from the head of your branch to marry. Henry Travers never got that permission, and both Unspeakables agreed it was out of character for a Black to have had a child outside wedlock, even with her soulmate. But otherwise it held up.

Henry Travers and Lycoris had moved from island to island in Polynesia for a while before moving to New Zealand. Travers had offended a local coven of dark witches and their dark wizard friends and had been chased all the way to the main Gringotts branch of Australia. He was killed, but Lycoris made it into the bank and so survived to be returned to England.

“That would work for an attack when I was little,” Harry pointed out hours later once they’d sorted everything out. “A dark wizard killed my parents — if I was a kid, I might not have known my mom died of soulmate death instead.”

“Hmm.” Gus considered that. He replied thoughtfully, “It would be better if you were told they were dead — didn’t even see it.”

“But I did see it,” Harry argued. “Isn’t the point to make it so I don’t have to lie? I hear my parents when dementors are nearby. There’s no way to get around that. We’ll say I heard and saw my parents being attacked, at least, and maybe thought I heard them die. Then I was attacked and almost died myself.”

“We could fudge on things there,” Bode said slowly. “According to this timeline you would have been about nine. Well, eight turning nine that fall. As you said, perhaps you saw your parents cursed and believed they both died? Perhaps you were then kidnapped…hm, that could work…and your parents escaped after you were taken. Then their end could go according to the records and we can progress your backstory without worrying about what your parents are doing.”

“So I had parents for nine years?” Harry considered the idea. “I suppose I could use stories about the Weasleys for stuff about families…and Sirius…”

“Now you’re getting it,” Bode encouraged him.

Harry had thought of something else. “What’s my name, though? Can I keep Harry? I don’t mind dropping the Potter, honestly, but I like being a Harry.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Bode said in amusement. “The man we’re claiming is your father was named Henry, after all. Harry’s often considered a nickname for Henry, so you were clearly named after your father. Since you’ve got a Black mother whose father shares a name with your godfather, you can be Henry Sirius Travers, nicknamed Harry.”

Harry grinned. “Brilliant,” he said, bouncing a bit. “Harry Travers,” he tried out. It wasn’t half-bad — and he was named after Sirius too.

Gus interrupted their brainstorming. “Why kidnapped, though, Bode?”

The older man shrugged. “Easiest way to get him at least some of that malnourishment. Both according to Harry and his medical records, he was fed well enough as a small child, fed haphazardly as he got older, and the real periods of starvation began when he was around nine or ten. It would fit.”

“So, what, you’re going to claim he was held captive for the past several years? How was he educated?”

“Well I suppose he could have been rescued a year or two back…”

“What would this coven even want with a captive? Ransom? They killed his parents; they’re not looking for ransom!”

“Well we need to account for his uneven food intake somehow… Any person who knows basic diagnostic charms will find that a massive red flag…”

Harry cleared his throat and the two wizards turned to look at him. “What about an eating disorder?” he asked them. Both blinked.

“A what?” Gus asked, looking totally bewildered. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I heard about it some in the muggle world. There are food disorders where people starve themselves for loads of reasons — or sometimes people hoard food.” He grimaced. “Hermione catches me hoarding food sometimes. I do it when I’m really worried, apparently. I just can’t help it. If I was kidnapped and held captive for a year or so, maybe while this coven or whatever tried to get ransom out of other relatives, or to sell me or something, I was starved and tortured and stuff so I have an eating disorder.”

“What, like you starve yourself for some reason, then realise you’re doing it and overcompensate? Or maybe the other way ’round?” Gus was still looking confused.

Harry shrugged. “It works, doesn’t it? We can say I’ve mostly recovered by now, of course, so sometimes I hoard food but not much else. And then you can have me going to school, because if I was only captive for a year or two I would be right at eleven when I was rescued.”

Bode nodded, writing details down. “Good thinking, Harry,” he said. “Just one problem — why wouldn’t your rescuers have taken you straight to England when they heard your name? The Travers family isn’t the wealthiest, but any wizard would recognize them as a moderately influential pureblood family unless they’re totally foreign.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully, but it was Gus who answered. “Well if we’re giving him eating problems, we could just add to his issues. Maybe say his trauma made him refuse to talk. He could be mute for a good few years and then he’s being brought back now because he’s talking again.”

“How would I have cast spells if I’m not talking though?” Harry asked in confusion.

Bode had the solution, waving the potential problem off nonchalantly. “We’ll teach you nonverbal casting before you have to interact with people. It’s not hard, Ministry policy just doesn’t allow silent casting to be taught to students who haven’t taken their OWLs because once you’ve gotten the hang of casting without incantations there’s a whole gamut of things you can do almost without thinking about it or knowing a proper spell. Makes it harder to use Priori Incantatum on the wand and it muddles the Trace.”

The teenager nodded slowly. “Cool,” he said simply. Being able to cast spells silently like most of the adults he saw about would be awesome. Bode nodded, writing that down as well.

“Now, let me get your medical records—” He fished Harry’s own folder out of the mess on his desk and pulled the appropriate roll of parchment out. Harry looked at the daunting list of past injuries.

Someone (likely Bode or Croaker) had grouped Harry’s injuries by school year in case they needed to invent time spent in a school. Magic apparently could detect nonmagical injuries, but the older it was the less accurate information about it ended up being. So injuries before he was eleven could have all happened within two or three years from random stuff, but injuries after that — magical and mundane — needed to be given specific causes and specific dates.

“So…” Harry began. “So the easiest thing to do would be to go by year. I’ve got to run into a troll, a basilisk, dementors, a dragon, preferably merpeople as well because honestly that story is cool, and at least one Acromantula.” He looked up at the Unspeakables. “Who could I have been rescued by that would end up with me running into all of those?”

Gus and Bode looked at each other. “Gringotts,” they said almost at the same time. Bode smirked and Gus laughed.

Harry was confused again. “Gringotts?” he asked.

Bode, still smirking, explained. “Gringotts hires teams of cursebreaker wizards to do their dirty work. Raiding tombs for riches, raiding muggle mansions or museums for riches, investigating for information or profit, sometimes even destabilizing governments or terrorist organizations for profit. The goblins are restricted by the treaties at the end of the Goblin Wars when interacting with regular wizarding society, so they do an excellent mix of messing in the muggle world and running the crime scene in the magical one to get around their oaths. If you were found by a team of cursebreakers they probably would have just taken you with them — explaining why you weren’t medically treated for your muteness or your eating thing, and giving you a whole array of locations you could have been brought to in order to give you an adventure-filled adolescence.”

Gus noticed Harry’s mildly taken aback expression and added, “And the goblins will cooperate, don’t worry. They love a good lie when they can get away with one, and if you give them any information you know they can use to make money they’ll be even more willing to help you.” He picked up one of the tall glasses of water he’d asked a house elf for about an hour ago.

Harry nodded. “I could tell them about the Quidditch World Cup I went to. It had really unusual results. Oh!” his face brightened before he grinned vindictively. “And I bet they’d like to know about Bagman.”

Gus choked on the water he was drinking. “B-Bagman? Who?”

Harry blinked. “I think his first name was Ludo?” he said uncertainly. Harry scowled. “Slimy guy. He was in debt big time to the goblins, and apparently put a really big bet on me winning the Tournament so he was always trying to help me cheat. And he’s the reason I gave Fred and George my Triwizard winnings. They bet their life savings at the World Cup, and he never paid them back.”

Gus blinked. “Damn,” he said with feeling. “I’m going to kill little Ludovic if he ever acts like that in this timeline.” His head tilted to the side. “Maybe I should talk a little more about my work with the goblins so he gets it into his head that gambling with goblins is the height of idiocy.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “You know Bagman?” he asked with a bit of disgust.

Gus shrugged. “Well yeah, I’m friends with his dad. He’s only fourteen in this time period, you know. And old Wulfric Bagman is a brick. Outstanding chap. Hufflepuffs, you know.”

With a groan Harry buried his face in his hands. “This is so weird,” he whinged. Gus patted him on the back, murmuring “there, there” in a mocking tone. Bode just rolled his eyes at the both of them.

“Back to the point,” the older Unspeakable reminded them. “We currently have Harry being dragged around by cursebreakers until this spring, presumably because he began talking again after years of being mute. He'll have done correspondence school, of course. If he'd been at a proper school his difficulties would have been addressed.”

“What's correspondence school?” Harry asked.

Bode was prompt in his reply. “Exactly what it sounds like. You do assignments by owl, tests are administered once a year in person, and your guardians would have to fill out forms proving they could supervise all your classwork.”

Harry frowned. “But how can we have me even doing that sort of school? You can't just invent things where real people who would remember that are involved!”

Gus sniggered. “Then it's a good thing real people aren't involved. Every time traveler we've helped integrate into society attended the Chrónia Akadimía, an exclusive school in Greece that occasionally does correspondence courses for speakers of English, Greek, and Latin.”

“It's a famous place,” Bode smirked, “but very exclusive. You probably only hear of one person every century or so attending from the British Isles, so you needn’t worry about someone catching you out in a lie. And it stands on the incredibly well-hidden island of Moirai, which doesn't actually exist.”

“That’s convenient,” Harry said dryly. He decided to get them back on topic. “So I’m living with a team of cursebreakers doing mail-order lessons with a fictional school. Can I make up whatever I want about the cursebreakers, too? I could base them off my real Hogwarts professors.”

Bode nodded in agreement. “That’d be best,” he said. “We’ll tell Gringotts after we’ve gotten everything ironed out and they’ll retroactively add this group to their records.”

Harry grinned, glad things were coming together so well. “So if I’m encountering things as I travel, most of these things will be in the wild or connected to tombs and stuff, right?” he asked.

Gus agreed this time, looking up from where he’d started to read the cursebreaker records. “Quite right, Harry,” he said. “Your second year’s the easiest. According to the Gringotts records they’ve encountered basilisks in various stages of growth a good twenty times or so while exploring magical ruins in Africa. One more instance won’t hurt.”

“I fought a basilisk in Africa? Wicked!” Harry grinned again. “I suppose instead of a magical diary it was just a magical artefact or poltergeist or something possessing some local girl? Can she be named Jenny so I don’t have to think too hard about the names?”

Bode was studiously continuing to write everything they brainstormed down. Gus had the idea that perhaps during the period he was taking third year courses he might have started in the tropics and been frightened by a lethifold, prompting him to want to learn the Patronus charm. Then later that same year he’d been moved to a remote mountainous area, where the cursebreakers he was living with found an infestation of dementors. That took care of his Patronus story.

The events of first year were easiest to blend over due to a supreme lack of magical creatures… though Harry supposed he could mention having seen a baby dragon hatching, and the troll was a minor thing. (They were used as guards by some Gringotts branches, weren’t they? He could have run into one by accident.)

In the end, for the whole debacle with Quirrell they just decided to simplify the existing story. Harry had been at a Gringotts Outpost and had come across a robber in the process of stealing from the Outpost. As Outposts were much less heavily fortified than proper Gringotts Banks and were guarded mostly by the cursebreaker teams that used them as bases of operation, nobody would be surprised by this. Harry stumbled over a robber, was used as bait while said robber tried to get through the protections on the Outpost storehouse, and then killed the robber with accidental magic.

By contrast, the previous year — the Triwizard Tournament — was the most difficult. No mention of the Tournament itself could be made, but the tasks all left their marks. He had to encounter a nesting dragon, merpeople, and at least one Acromantula. In the end, they decided the dragon could have been wild, and the Acromantula would be wild as well if they set Harry’s location during this year to Southeast Asia, particularly the islands around Indonesia. The merpeople might have been a migrating pod—

“Perhaps deep-sea diving for treasure brought you into contact with a village, instead?” Bode interjected into Harry and Gus’ theorizing. “You could have encountered them by accident and just passed through while rescuing a “treasure”, without specifying what the treasure was.” The two agreed that was a likely reason for cursebreakers to be underwater and continued on.

The most difficult thing, honestly, was explaining the mark of the Black Quill on the back of Harry’s hand, along with the signs of the ritual Harry had been kidnapped for. That cut Pettigrew had made up his arm had been done with a cursed blade, so it stood out prominently. It would be great to claim one or both had been done during his “kidnapping” between the ages of eight and eleven, but any diagnostic spell that recorded attacks with dark magic on Harry’s person would reveal the lie. Harry thought while Gus and Bode argued over equally unviable solutions.

“What if we say I’m captured again?” Harry wondered aloud. The two Unspeakables stopped quarreling.

“What do you mean?” Gus asked curiously. Harry shrugged.

“Well, I was kidnapped a few months ago for real. We can say maybe that the same group that had me as a kid caught me again, this time for some other reason. A dark ritual they needed a sacrifice for? I was caught with a friend…and they killed my friend. But I got away in the end almost out of sheer dumb luck.”

His tone grew melancholy as he finished up. He still felt bad about Cedric dying. Oh, Sirius had talked Harry out of the buckets of guilt he’d been carting around, but it didn’t stop Harry from wishing he could have done something, anything to save both Cedric and Cho.

He leaned over the desk to distract himself and read Bode’s notations of his new life story upside-down. Suddenly, a thought struck him and Harry had to sit down hard.

“How can I have gone to any of these places? I’ve never been anywhere, really. I can’t describe them; I can hardly even imagine them!”

“Calm down!” Gus exclaimed, patting Harry on the shoulders. “We have ways to account for that, don’t worry. Setting up this whole backstory is gonna take a solid month or so. That’ll be plenty of time for us to familiarize you with the places you’re supposed to have gone, with the magic you’re supposed to have learned. Hey, speaking of learning — why don’t we write him up for an internship so his schooling isn’t messed up?”

Both Bode and Harry looked puzzled, and Gus huffed. “Honestly! It’s March right now. Harry vanished right before the second term of his fifth year. If we don’t do any proper teaching he’ll have to start his OWLs year all over again. I remember what a nightmare that year was for me, and I wouldn’t want to repeat it. Why don’t we give him a couple-year internship? For the next few months we’ll solidify his backstory, train him up, and have him sit his OWLs. Then come September he’ll start sixth year at Hogwarts.”

Bode began nodding, clearly having caught on. “And his internship will renew next summer and possibly the first summer after he graduates. With him here officially we won’t have to sneak around getting his Temporal Memoirs in order. He can do those over the summers.”

Harry looked back and forth between the two Unspeakables. “What’re Temporal Memoirs again?” he asked. “And, if I do an internship do I have to be an Unspeakable once I graduate? Because I really want to be a teacher right now, not an Unspeakable.”

“The Temporal Memoir is your record of the original timeline according to what you remember,” Bode clarified. “And no, it does not obligate you to work at the DoM. Not forever, anyway. Most internship contracts are set up like apprenticeships still, and they require you to work two years after the internship is done. I’m not sure if the DoM’s contract formatting has been updated yet or if ours follows the old method.”

Harry considered this. Summers and then two years of his life was a small price to pay after all they were doing for him. Besides, maybe he’d learn some really cool stuff while working here. “Okay,” said Harry firmly. “Let’s do it.”

Bode smirked at him. “And now — to the actual building.”

They made their way through the circular spinning main room to a room called “The Identity Room”. Despite its name the room was bland and empty — empty of items anyway. It was full of people.

Later, Harry would always think that this had been the coolest part of the process. Bode and Gus had taken their notes along with Harry’s file to a whole group of other Unspeakables. There were Gringotts goblins and a team of cursebreakers as well. Everyone took a piece of Harry’s file and began to make it real.

Documents were created. Entries were added to diaries and letters were forged. Harry was consulted anytime anything was made up wholesale, but often they used real people as a basis or a witness and went from there. There was a trio of witches that even borrowed Harry’s photo album and began creating copies that matched this new, fictional version of events. He was assured the original album would remain intact, but he still found it fascinating to watch the pictures changed. Ron and Hermione had switched hair colors in all the photos, and anytime there was a photograph of somebody alive in this time period they underwent physical alterations that made them unrecognizable unless you knew who they’d started out as. (Harry could not get over seeing McGonagall young and dark-skinned in one Hogwarts Christmas picture which had been adapted into a cursebreaker team photo.) They even made up some new pictures, and helped Harry invent stories to go along with them.

Slowly, bit by bit, Harry’s life was completely remade.

The goblins confirmed that Harry’s vault had been pulled through time by the Clock, as had several of his original records. So they simply modified said records, and attributed Harry’s small mountain of gold to contributions from commissions by the fictional cursebreaker team Harry was said to have been raised by. They also told Harry later in no-nonsense tones with narrowed eyes that he would be coming by the bank later to talk future profit. Harry wondered if gambling with goblins was the height of idiocy if you were enabling them to win. He would have to ask Gus later — he had a feeling the question would make the man laugh.

Ollivander was there. He’d brought what looked like his entire wand stock and Harry was tested to see what wand fit him best now. Harry was too relieved for words when he got the twenty-year-younger version of his own wand back again. Ollivander thankfully didn’t say anything cryptic and vaguely ominous this time, so Harry just thanked him before the teenager was dragged off to another part of the identity building.

Work was done on Harry himself. His black hair was lightened a shade or two to the dark brown members of the Travers family all tended to favor. They also used spells to lengthen Harry’s hair, making it about as long as Bill Weasley’s. Harry asked for a hair-tie and pulled it back into a low tail. His fringe was left, made just long enough and thick enough to hide his distinctive scar.

A clever bit of permanent transfiguration was done to his face to make him look less like a Potter. His thinly bladed nose became wider and shorter (Harry saw the likeness to the adult Sirius). The shape of his eyebrows was changed to look more like a Black, as was his mouth. They left his eyes alone at his request.

Some of Harry’s many scars were erased — mostly the very oldest. Fake scars that mimicked torture curses were added to his back and shoulders to cover ones they couldn’t fully remove. They even managed to fade his lightning-bolt scar to a shimmery white that was very hard to notice unless he was under weird lighting, though they couldn’t seem to get rid of it entirely.

It took hours of delicate magic to get Harry himself finished, and that after hours more of documents of various kinds being created. It was…incredible to watch all these talented adults work magic. He’d never seen it as something integral to life and jobs before. Magic had been his escape from the Dursleys. But this… Harry wanted this.

At the end Harry Travers didn’t exist yet, but all the pieces were in play. As things began to wind down Harry trotted over to where Bode was arguing with two goblins in Gobbledegook.

“What now?” he asked. Bode gave him an indulgent look.

“Starting tomorrow we begin the lengthy process of creating Harry Travers,” he said. “First we’ll get permission from the living parties with power over Henry Travers’ and Lycoris Black’s remaining legacy to use them in your alias. It’s standard protocol, but if we don’t get permission it’ll be back to the drawing board.”

Harry was aghast. “Why would you do all this if you might be forced to undo it all?”

Bode shrugged. “Urgency. If they agree, we’ll start within minutes of their agreement. Of course, they’ll likely agree. They have no reason not to.”

“What happens once they agree?” asked Harry, trying to be optimistic.

“Oh, we’ll have forged documents to distribute, a paper-trail of photos and letters to set up, and memories to modify. We’ll take you around to fill in blanks in your stories and you’ll be intensively tutored in nonverbal magic. You’ll also start the prep-work for your OWLs, but that will continue even after we release you into your grandparents’ custody in a month or however long it takes to make you a real person.”

Harry nodded, stifling a yawn. Bode cracked another rare smile. “Let’s get to the Sleep Room, lad. I’ll be joining you tonight. I have a meeting with all the relevant parties first thing in the morning. I’ll have to get that blasted Rookwood to entertain you again — apparently Saul’s out with wizard’s flu.”

Harry meant to ask who Rookwood was — wasn’t he a Death Eater, too? But he was so tired, and the hand guiding him was warm on his back. They’d been doing this for nearly forty-eight hours, hadn’t they? And the Sleep Room was just there, and it was so nice to lie down…

Harry would ask who Rookwood was in the morning.

Chapter Text

Fleamont Potter’s motto in life was that good things always came about in unexpected ways.

Take his sorting — for centuries Potters had bounced back and forth between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, avoiding the two flashpoint houses with easy charm and genial reserve. Fleamont had not been expecting to be sorted into Gryffindor, but it turned out to be the best several years of his life. He was a Gryffindor through and through, though it was true most of his friends came from other houses. Newt, Jig, and Flea had been the names people remembered; getting in and out of trouble in style.

Oh, poor Newt had gotten into a bit of trouble over that nasty mess with dear, troubled Leta (Flea had been telling him for years the Lestranges were complicated and loyal to themselves above all others, but Newt was a Hufflepuff and refused to cast aside friends). But even Newt’s expulsion had ended up favourably, as he’d never have gotten that commission to write a book on magical creatures if not for his reputation with magical creatures. And Newt’s book research had led indirectly to meeting his future wife, a completely unforeseen turn of events.

Meeting his own beloved Euphie had also happened in an unexpected way. Flea had never been one to chase after love of any kind: he fell into and out of both friendships and courtships with ease. In the end, his future mate’s words were seared on his wrist and that was good enough for him.

He’d been quite expecting to be horridly bored at that Ministry dinner, and he had snapped and snarled like an offended lion at all those around him. At least, that was what the girl ten years his junior had sniped back at him when he served her some angry remark. Their bond had formed from that instant, and despite the pressures of their families and their tumultuous courtship they eventually came together beautifully.

His little Jamie was Flea’s favourite difficulty to ponder. He and Euphie had tried for year to have children to no avail. They’d done everything, offered any amount of money, if only someone could help them bear a child of their own. They had even begun to think of adoption when Euphie finally fell pregnant at the late age of fifty-three.

The pregnancy had been long and difficult. Once or twice they’d been sure Euphie and the baby were going to die, but in the end they pulled through it. The happiest day of his life was when Fleamont was presented with his darling little boy, his pride and joy.

And now Flea had once again been presented with something surprising.

He held the letter from the Department of Mysteries in his hand as he walked, the seal at the bottom allowing Flea and his wife to pass by the wand check-in with no repercussions. They joined the trickle of individuals heading towards the lift. It was so early that most of the Ministry hadn’t begun to arrive yet — general call-time wasn’t for another hour or so, Flea knew. Flea himself was rarely awake at this time, though Euphemia kept odd hours when researching something new. He’d much prefer to be abed yet, and then have come in at regular visiting-time. But when the Unspeakables called for you, you came. Idly, Flea wondered again why he and his wife had received so urgent a summons. No details had been given, just a date and time and an order to come down to the Department door and wait for entry.

Euphie stepped assuredly into a lift with only two other individuals — one wearing the familiar heavy robes of an Unspeakable. Flea followed behind her, eyeing the second man curiously. It was Arcturus Black, who was somewhere between Flea and Euphie in age. He was standing impatiently in the lift, waiting for it to descend. Flea noticed he had a letter with the Department of Mysteries seal on it as well.

Arcturus noticed the two Potters with a blink of surprise. He inclined his head. “Mister Potter,” he greeted. He ignored Euphemia with a familiar aloof air. Flea just hoped Euphie didn’t plan to hex the man this time.

Flea nodded back as well. “Lord Black,” he returned. He eyed Black’s letter again. “So you’ve been summoned as well?”

Black shrugged. “I doubt we’ve been summoned for the same thing. An old family artefact of mine had a bit of a backfire, made the whole basement out of sorts. I expect I’ll be bringing a most singular package back home. Transportation will certainly be interesting.”

Flea supposed he wasn’t there for the same reason, then, though why he was using that Slytherin double-speak Flea had no idea — but Euphie’s eyes were narrowing at Lord Black and a dawning suspicion was appearing on her face. Huh. Interesting. Well, Euphemia would tell him later, whatever the matter was. He didn’t have the patience to suss out that Slytherin-Ravenclaw nuance right now. Too damn early in the morning for subtlety, if you asked him.

The lift clattered to a halt and the four people inside stepped out. The Unspeakable glanced at the three civilians.

“You all have letters from Unspeakable Bode?” she grunted. At the nods she jerked her head at the black entrance to the Department of Mysteries. “Follow me, then,” she said crabbily. They were led to a large all-black circular room Flea had never been in before, though he knew Euphie was familiar with it. Black looked vaguely bored, so he had clearly been here before as well. Flea watched the shimmering blue flames they had for lights.

Euphie gripped his arm and whispered in his ear, “Close your eyes.”

He did as his wife bid just as there was a great rumbling and the sound of stone sliding over stone. Was something moving? He peeked one eye open to confirm that yes, the walls were spinning, and closed them again to ward off dizziness. Once the room had stopped spinning the Unspeakable called out, “Time Room!”

A door sprang open, and the Unspeakable led them through a fantastic room full of clocks. Flea felt as though he was trying to look in every direction at once, but the other three just went on straight through without glancing around. (Though Flea was sure he’d caught Black casting the Time-Turners on their shelf a covetous look.)

The next room they came to was the fabled Hall of Prophecy, rumoured to have been somewhere within the Ministry, but it had never been confirmed exactly where it was. The dusty orbs were mostly dark, with a few here and there lit with an internal soft glow. Again, though, he found himself at the end of a line headed straight through without looking about. Finally, they came to a drawing room that was empty but for a second Unspeakable. The one who’d led them here murmured something in the second’s ear and then wandered out. The second Unspeakable stood.

“Thank you for coming here today,” the Unspeakable said. “I am Unspeakable Bode, and I have called you here to aid in a Department of Mysteries project. Please, have a seat.”

The Potters sat in two of the available chairs, but Lord Black remained standing, a scowl on his face.

“Is this about the clock?” he demanded of the Unspeakable. “Why would you be involving…these people?” There was a sneer cast their way at his last words. Euphemia stuck her nose up in the air and sniffed, light glinting off her spectacles.

Unspeakable Bode remained unruffled. “Perhaps if you sit and listen, I can explain,” he said in sepulchral tones. Still, a hint of annoyance was creeping in around his eyes. Lord Black sat. Bode nodded.

“Now, I know Lord Black is aware of Morgana’s Clock, but for the sake of simplicity I will explain the details to you all…”

Fleamont’s eyebrows rose progressively higher at the description of a clock capable of changing time. It was obvious this was the magical artefact Black had been referencing earlier. Still, how did a time-travelling clock backfire? And what would that have to do with a package?

Once Bode was finished speaking Fleamont had one remaining question. “The Ministry hasn’t destroyed or confiscated the artefact?” he asked incredulously. It was a bit out of character for the Ministry. Black smirked, sitting up straighter.

“The Lady Morgana made it unbreakable,” he said in a self-satisfied way. “Any attempts to smash the clock have resulted in it piecing itself back together. Any attempts to remove it see the clock returning itself to its original location.”

The Potter nodded thoughtfully. “Alright then. So what does all this have to do with the missus and me? We aren’t Blacks, and we’re not exactly experts on time magic either.”

Unspeakable Bode nodded. “True, you are not Blacks,” he agreed. “But the young lad who came back through the clock by accident a few days ago is both your grandson, and the heir to the Black family.”

“What!?” Euphemia exclaimed furiously, speaking for the first time. Flea nodded, eyes wide. “…seconded,” he said weakly.

The Unspeakable shrugged. “Harry James Potter, son of James Henry Potter, is godson to Sirius Orion Black, who was the Lord of House Black in the time Harry came from. Therefore, the boy is heir to the House of Black despite not being of Black blood himself.”

“He’s heir?” Arcturus asked in disbelief. “Full heir?”

“As far as we can tell,” Bode said, spreading his hands. Fleamont was shaking his head.

“I don’t believe this,” he said faintly.

Unspeakable Bode pulled a pair of photographs out of his robes. “Perhaps these will serve as proof?”

Flea took the pictures. The one on top made his breath catch in his throat. There was Jamie, perhaps about twenty years old — Merlin’s Beard the boy would grow up to look like Flea’s father! With James was a beautiful red-haired woman with vibrant green eyes. Both were smiling and holding onto a toddler with his and James’ black unruly hair and the woman’s green eyes. The photographic adults were taking turns making the toddler wave at the camera.

He turned to the second photograph. This one was even more startling. A green-eyed teenager who looked uncannily like his Jamie (clearly the toddler all grown up) was standing arm in arm with a grinning man Flea recognized as a Black. The boy’s expression was adoring, the man’s fondly paternal. They were standing beside a staircase, an odd line of decapitated house elf heads wearing Father Christmas beards and hats adding a surreal aspect to the picture.

The man passed the photographs to his wife. He saw her face soften and knew she, at least, believed it. What else could he do but accept the facts?

Instead of giving them directly back to the Unspeakable, Euphie passed the pictures to Lord Black. The man’s expression was placid when viewing the top picture, but the second one made him still. “That’s little Sirius, alright,” he said hoarsely. “He takes after my cousin Pollux. And that picture…it’s taken in Grimmauld Place. That’s the front staircase — and I could see my ridiculous grandson doing that to the elf busts. Utterly outrageous.”

Despite his words his lips were twitching at the corners as he gave the photographs back to Unspeakable Bode. The sombre man accepted them and returned them to a pocket concealed in his robes.

“According to precedent, as the time traveller is a minor we must give his closest adult blood relatives the opportunity to accept custody of him. If you refuse, custody will revert to Lord Black.”

“Of course we’ll take him!” Fleamont boomed out. Euphemia just smiled.

“Unspeakable Bode, James was a miraculous surprise for us. I will never turn away the opportunity for a second child — particularly since this boy is our grandson to begin with.”

Bode nodded briskly. “Then I will proceed to the second portion of our meeting. We were lucky enough to come up with a believable — if a bit dramatic — backstory for young Mister Potter that utilizes both Mrs. Potter’s brother Henry Travers and Lord Black’s sister Lycoris Black. I will give the both of you copies of the basic backstory we’ve worked out for Mister Potter. You need to read them and, preferably, sign the release form at the end granting permission to use your sibling’s name and life details.”

Having said his piece Bode passed Euphemia and Arcturus each a thick packet of parchment and then pulled out a ticking timepiece. Flea stood up curiously and wandered over behind his wife’s chair, reading over her shoulder.

It started out like a standard file from the Ministry Hall of Records. It listed what would be his grandson’s full false name (Henry Sirius Travers) and the names of his fake parents (Lycoris Black and Euphie’s brother, obviously). Then it went on to date of birth, presumed location of birth, and other very basic information. Page two was where things started to become odd. A notation explained that the next few pages had been pulled almost wholesale from the personal Ministry files and Gringotts search information about Lycoris Black and Henry Travers.

It was all mostly familiar to Flea — he’d lived through the whole scandal surrounding what everyone had assumed was the elopement of the youngest Travers son to the new Lord Black’s sister. It had been a scandal not only because of their difference in age but because Lycoris had left before the end of the mourning period for old Lord Sirius Black II. There’d been arguments between Euphie’s poor parents and Arcturus Black for months before Lycoris had sent a letter back to her brother. He’d apologized for bothering the elder Travers, retreated to his country estate for several months, and then never mentioned it again, even when the gossip continued to sell papers for ages.

Nobody knew what had been in the letter, but Arcturus had ignored his sister’s absence despite all manner of rumours. When she’d resurfaced ten years later he hid her away until she died, refusing to allow Euphie and her parents to ask about if Lycoris knew what had happened to Henry. Lord Black had even killed the healer who leaked the information about her blackened soulmark in a duel, handily silencing any more questions or speculation for fear they’d be next.

Euphie’s hands trembled as she read the tale that had been pieced together by the Gringotts goblins. Their branch of the Travers family had fallen on hard times shortly before Lycoris returned, culminating in the prolonged deaths by illness of both Euphemia’s parents. They’d never been able to afford the fee the goblins charged to consult the Big Book of Disappearances and Suspicious Accidents, and after her parents died as well, Euphie couldn’t bear to know.

The story was both more heartening and more heart-wrenching than they’d expected. That her brother had lived quite happily for years with either a wife or fellow explorer and friend was a relief after years of wondering and worrying. That he’d been killed after offending a local coven of insurgents was just like the impetuous young Henry they all remembered.

Notations pointed out where things had been smoothed over and fleshed out to explain Harry’s existence and life with his “parents”. None of it was disgraceful to either deceased individual. In fact, Flea could just see Henry agreeing to all of this if he were still alive. He’d been a kind-hearted soul, but he craved a life of excitement. Helping a time traveller would have been the highlight of his life.

By the fourth page, however, they were moving into the entirely fictional as they extrapolated what Harry’s life might have been like after the deaths of his “parents”. More notations pointed out where pieces coincided with Harry’s actual experiences, and gave summaries of the original events. With every paragraph the Potters grew more and more alarmed. They exchanged disbelieving looks. A troll at Hogwarts? An eleven-year-old saving the Philosopher’s Stone from a possessed defence professor? Defeating basilisks and dementors? Winning the Triwizard Tournament at fourteen!?

But there were other notations, more negative ones, which made it all seem real. Nearly all of the magical creature encounters were accompanied by a medical footnote of injuries acquired at the time. The boy also had a dizzying list of magical injuries and pre-existing mundane injuries that weren’t caused by either magical creatures or homicidal defence professors. (And was it just him, or did Hogwarts apparently go down in quality within the next twenty years? Perhaps he should try to acquire a seat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors like his father always insisted.)

The way everything had been blended together into a new life was clever, and more than capable of standing up to scrutiny with a bit of acting. But…it was still disheartening to the two parents who adored their only son to learn that their beautiful James would be dead before his own son’s first birthday. It was enraging that said son had apparently been abused and forced into dangerous situations for the next fourteen years of his young life. Children should be cherished and protected, not left to sink or swim as their grandson had been!

The few glances Flea shot at Lord Black noted he seemed similarly upset over the boy’s experiences. His face was ashen and his lips were pressed very tightly together under narrowed eyes. He held his packet in a white-knuckled grip. But he also had a glimmer of respect and almost admiration on his face, a very unusual look on the younger man.

Euphemia reached the release form on the last page and picked up the quill provided, signing it without a word. Flea noted Black doing the same. Both packets vanished, presumably to a records office somewhere to be filed. There was silence for a long moment.

Lord Black was the one who finally broke the stillness. “In that dossier,” he noted, “I did not see an explanation as to why our young time traveller can claim heirship to the House of Black.”

Unspeakable Bode nodded to him. “We felt it best to wait for your input, for that issue. As Lord Black you might have greater insight into what could make the magic of your family claim two individuals as equal heirs to your title.”

A smirk lifted one side of Black’s mouth. “I do have an explanation for that, actually,” he said. “And it’s not one you would have come up with on your own. I don’t think anyone knows all the details but me.”

Bode raised his eyebrows and gestured at Lord Black to continue speaking. The Unspeakable also pulled out a quill and parchment that floated beside him, the quill ready to record Black’s words.

“While my father and my sister never saw eye to eye while alive,” Black began with black amusement, “my father did leave Lycoris an unusual bequest in his will. She was left her favourite properties out of the Black holdings and a large sum of money. Once all tallied up, her bequest was only barely smaller than mine, and slightly larger than my son’s.”

The Unspeakable looked quite surprised, and Euphie’s eyes widened as a small “Oh!” escaped her.

Fleamont blinked. “Right, for those of us who’ve never dealt with the inheritance laws of wizarding nobility, please explain that?”

Amusingly, Arcturus actually rolled his eyes. “Honestly,” he grumbled. Euphemia was quick to jump in and explain it to her husband.

“The Lord can give whatever bequests he wants to whomever he wants,” said his lovely wife, “but the one constant law is that the monetary amount that each bequest totals up to must match their standing in the family. Ordinarily, the main heir and the Lord’s wife receive the largest, followed by the heir’s heir and the heir’s wife, followed by any other children of the Lord, followed by any other children of the heir and children of the deceased’s other children…and so on until you’ve covered everyone blood related to you within either four separations or bearing your surname. Bequests outside the family don’t follow this rule, of course, but to give his daughter a bequest larger than his heir’s heir would legally give her the right to challenge Orion for the position of Heir Black once Arcturus claimed his inheritance as Lord.”

The Black in question nodded. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Except that Lycoris never accepted her bequest — she left the country before the will reading could be arranged. Father died right before Yuletide, and with the busyness of the season combined with funeral arrangements I wasn’t able to have the will reading held until early the next January. And by then of course Lycoris had gone gallivanting off with that Travers boy.”

He fidgeted with the pocket watch hanging from his waistcoat. “She told me in her letter that they were soulmates,” he admitted. “And she believed Henry’s father would never agree to a marriage because he’d quite firmly told her off when Lycoris tried to begin courting him after he graduated Hogwarts. I gave her my blessing and I did tell her about the bequest she had waiting, but she likely kept putting it off. Cory did tend to do that when she was having fun.”

Arcturus breathed out explosively and Fleamont frankly stared. He’d never seen the younger man act so human — not even when they were both students at Hogwarts.

“And then shortly after Sirius was born — my heir’s heir — Orion fell ill with Medusa’s Plague.”

Everyone in the room sucked in a breath of horror. Medusa’s Plague was a sickness from Greece that slowly turned its victims to stone. Unspeakables studying it had confirmed that the plague was actually a vicious curse that had been modified to act as a virus. The only way to save someone being petrified by Medusa’s Plague was to pay an exorbitant amount of money for the Perseus Institute in Mycenae, Greece, to revive the patient. Oftentimes families would save up money for generations before being able to afford to revive even one person. The immensely wealthy Weasley family had bankrupted themselves only two years ago and gone into decades of debt when paying for the healing of only four members of the main branch of their family.

The Black nodded with a sigh. “I kept it hushed up because my brother Regulus had just died of dragon pox and the family didn’t need any more publicity. Thankfully, I was able to call in a few favours and get my fee lowered without tipping off the press. But even so it still took them several days to revive him, as by the time we got Orion to Greece the plague had covered his entire body. Due to the nature of Medusa’s Plague, our family magic deemed him dead.”

He grimaced. “I had to cancel the activation of his will and rework his placement as heir when I discovered as much on my return to England. I had assumed at the time that the heirship passed to my cousin Pollux, as my daughter Lucretia had already joined legally with the House of Prewett and Sirius hadn’t been announced yet, being a new-born. I was confused that Pollux never mentioned anything, and I must confess as the finances and the Black properties never tried to treat him as heir I assumed his status as heir had been revoked, somehow.”

The Unspeakable interrupted. “But that’s not how legal magic works. Once an heir, always an heir unless the person legally becomes a member of a different noble family or unless the heir becomes head.”

Arcturus nodded. “Yes, yes, I know, but I’d been Lord less than a decade and simply didn’t understand how it would all make sense otherwise. Until, of course, my sister showed up on my doorstep six years later dying of her soulmate’s death and my house wards gave her the same status as my son.”

Unspeakable Bode’s eyebrows went up. “The heirship went to Lycoris.”

Lord Black nodded again. “The heirship went to Lycoris,” he agreed. “Legally, it makes sense. Orion was magically considered dead, and she’d been favoured over him by the last Lord Black. It didn’t matter that she’d never accepted the bequest, it was in my records and so the family magic deemed her the next heir when the current was unavailable. When Lycoris died her status as a potential heir became defunct, but if she had a son, it would certainly have passed to him. Any child Lycoris had would inherit her possessions and any inheritances she had — unclaimed or not. That would handily explain Harry’s status, I would think.”

There was a heavy silence once again.

Well damn, Fleamont thought. He nearly said it aloud, but caught himself at the last moment. It felt appropriate for the moment, but Euphemia despised uncouth language at the most lax of times. The Unspeakable pulled out his wand and sent the parchment off somewhere — presumably to update young Harry’s file. Flea had to repress the urge to cross his arms over his chest impatiently, but despite his best efforts words still burst out.

“Can we meet him?”

The Unspeakable blinked slowly, but then did something with his face that might have been a smirk. Or maybe just a muscle spasm. “I don’t see why not,” Bode said slowly. “He’s been listening at the door, after all.”

What—?

Bode flicked his wand again and one of the side doors sprang open, sprawling a young man on the ground. Green eyes looked up sheepishly and he grinned at the Unspeakable. He stood, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Gus said it was fine,” he said. Even his voice sounded just like Jamie’s! But his face didn’t quite match what was in the photograph. He had quite a lot of physical similarity to the Black family for someone not related by blood, and he also bore more than a slight resemblance to Euphie’s brother and father. Transfigurations, Flea assumed. It would have been hard to claim he was the child of a Travers and a Black when he looked so undeniably like a Potter.

The teen turned to look over the three other adults in the room with wide eyes. He stepped forwards.

“You’re really my grandparents?” he asked Flea and Euphemia in a small voice.

*          *          *

Harry’s morning had started with the unpleasant realization that he’d spent the past few days making friends with a future Death Eater and Ministry spy.

He’d had no reason to connect the friendly Gus with the Augustus Rookwood they’d been discussing in that memory Harry had watched of Bagman’s trial. They’d never shown pictures of the man and Harry hadn’t seen him in the memory at all, so he’d not known what Augustus Rookwood looked like. Harry had been furious with himself, sure he’d been taken in…and then Gus himself had shown up during breakfast and Harry’s anger had deflated.

Voldemort didn’t know about Harry in this time period. There was no reason for elaborate plots concerning him. Sure, he was a time traveller, but it was doubtful Gus would be able to tell anyone about him right now. They way Bode had explained it, Unspeakable oaths kept you from even hinting at current projects. You could find ways around the oaths if you wanted to talk about “shelved projects” — projects that weren’t under current study — but it was still very difficult. The easiest way to tell someone about the Department of Mysteries was to quit without officially filling out the exit paperwork. You’d be considered a deserter and hunted down, but you’d escape the oath that bound your tongue on all Department matters.

There were other ways around the oaths, of course, but none that could have Gus telling anyone about Harry’s arrival only days after the fact. So…there was no plot. Rookwood was just being friendly and open; a personality which, if Harry thought about it, did make sense for a spy. People would tell more things to a nice or ordinary-looking person than a snarly scary one.

And actually, Harry realised, Gus might not even be a Death Eater yet! It was 1972, which meant while later history books would consider the Wizarding World two years into the war against Voldemort, officially the Ministry for Magic wouldn’t declare itself at war until sometime next year.

The timeline of the Wizarding War (well, First Wizarding War, since a second technically begun in 1995) went something like this. Voldemort first appeared in early 1970 as the leader of a militant political party known as the Knights of Walpurgis. The party supported pureblood ideals such as limitations on interactions with muggles, repossession of muggleborns who would then be adopted out to pureblood and halfblood families, as well as decreases on restricted categories of magics labelled as dark. They began with lobbying the government, but quickly escalated in an attempt to force the Wizengamot’s hands after being ignored. They did boycotts of muggleborn businesses and crazy-dangerous stunts like riots, night-time arson, and defacement of objects symbolizing the muggle world or muggleborns to effect change. Hermione had once likened their early actions to the WSPU in the women’s rights movements of the early 1900s.

Their actions continued to escalate over the next two years until Voldemort led a protest in the Ministry itself in which he and several masked members of his political party used incredibly dark magics and apparently destroyed half the Atrium. He was officially labelled a Dark Lord and the Knights of Walpurgis were blacklisted from government participation. Voldemort declared he would get his way through either peaceful means or violent ones and vanished for several months.

When he and his group reappeared, they’d been reorganized and all members barring Voldemort were afterwards always masked and heavily cloaked. They’d never been officially termed Death Eaters — hence why he and Hermione had never heard of them even after all the research they’d done in third year — but people began using it around the time the Ministry officially declared they were at war with the Dark Lord Voldemort in the summer of 1973.

The declaration of war came after several attacks on various muggleborn business and muggle areas wizards tended to frequent. There had been only accidental casualties, and any muggle witnesses were Obliviated by Voldemort’s followers, but the Ministry claimed the intent was clear and declared war. Voldemort continued to escalate his violence, and deaths became common in battles between supporters of the Dark Lord and the Ministry’s forces — which were lumped together with the Order of the Phoenix at the time.

However, sometime in 1976 the attacks began to shift from scare tactics and actual deaths only occurring in pitched battle to senseless violence. This was why people theorized this year was when Voldemort had lost his soulmark, but nobody had ever gotten close enough to the nameless man to find out either way. All anyone knew was that his attacks became bigger, bolder, and a lot deadlier. It was also around then that the Dark Lord began to be referred to as You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named due to a combination of his most stomach-turning atrocities and because he’d begun to set out subtly warded regions set with a Taboo of his name that allowed him to attack those who spoke of him openly in public areas such as Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade.

Things continued to escalate, and Voldemort had very nearly won when Harry and his parents had brought Voldemort’s conquest to a screeching halt. Without their leader, the Death Eaters collapsed into disarray and were picked off in pieces by the Ministry and sentenced to prison.

Harry knew at this point Voldemort was still considered the leader of a rather radical political party. He wasn’t even called a Dark Lord yet! Gus couldn’t be a Death Eater because they didn’t exist yet either! Oh, he might be in the Knights of Walpurgis, but there wasn’t even a guarantee of that. Most of the more well-known Death Eaters had joined after the political party had been reformed into a militia.

So Harry had done his best to pretend he hadn’t been about to make accusations of Gus and laughed along to his jokes. If Gus noticed he was uncomfortable, the man likely chalked it up to meeting his grandparents for the first time later today. First, Gus distracted Harry by showing the teen his usual duties in the Hall of Prophecies, and then when that hadn’t worked he snuck Harry into Bode’s office and suggested with a sly grin that they listen in to Bode’s meeting with the Potters and Arcturus Black.

The teen had gone along with it for lack of anything else to do, and he had been fascinated by all he could hear. The stuff about Lycoris Black was really interesting. Then, Bode opened the door on him and because Harry had his ear pressed up against it his grandparents’ first sight of him was sprawled on the ground caught in eavesdropping. Harry tried to talk his way out of trouble, but the amused glint in Bode’s eye reassured him he’d done nothing wrong.

Then, Harry couldn’t help but ask if the distinguished older gentleman (whose hair stuck up in the back like his had before the transfigurations) and the pretty middle-aged woman (whose eyes were a much darker shade of green than his but who shared his need for glasses) were really his grandparents. His grandmother’s sharp face had melted into a soft smile and she had nodded.

“Yes, I suppose we are,” she said. She held her hand out to Harry, but when he took it she pulled him towards her instead of shaking his hand. “I’m Euphemia,” she said. “You would have called me Gran in your time, but here I suppose I’m Aunt Euphie.”

“Aunt Euphie,” Harry repeated a bit numbly. She smoothed down his hair with her free hand.

“They did make you look a good bit like Henry, didn’t they?” she asked him. Harry nodded.

“They gave me a face chart,” he explained. “They told me I could pick areas they’d add Travers features and areas they’d add Black features. They did a mock-up in an enchanted mirror and I shuffled things around until I liked it. Then they did permanent transfigurations on my face. The wizards doing the transfiguration said it was important I liked it, because I’ll have to look at it in the mirror for the rest of my life.”

He jumped when a laugh boomed out behind him and his grandfather clapped him on the shoulder. “Too true,” the man agreed. “Though most of us can’t exactly afford permanent transfigurations to change our faces however we like, so we’re stuck with what our parents give us.”

Harry smiled uncertainly up at him. “Well, I liked the face my parents gave me,” he said shyly. “Only I looked too much like Dad to keep it. They only let me keep Mum’s eyes because she’s a muggleborn.”

Arcturus harrumphed in the background. “Muggleborn?” he huffed.

The boy instantly went from shy teenager to defensive warrior. “Mum was Head Girl and did most of the runic magic behind the blood protection she and Dad left behind for me. She set records at school so high only Tom Riddle in the forties was above her in the charts. She even broke Dumbledore’s old records. The only person who ever came close to breaking Mum’s records was my best friend Hermione. She’s muggleborn too, and she’s been described multiple times as the brightest witch of the age even by people who don’t like her. Blood purity doesn’t matter, not really. It’s your actions that make you great — not your bloodline.”

Arcturus blinked slowly at him. “I’ll take that into consideration,” he said with equal deliberateness. Harry nodded sharply at him and then turned back to his grandparents.

“What do I call you?” he asked his grandfather. “And is your name really Fleamont? Gus said it was but he could just be pulling my leg.”

The older man grimaced. “Yes, my name’s Fleamont. I actually go by Flea, usually. Or Monty.”

Harry’s repressed laughter must have shown on his face, because his grandfather just clapped him on the shoulder again. “Go ahead and laugh,” he said in amused resignation. “I’m used to it by now, believe me. If only my dad hadn’t promised my horror of a grandmother to give his firstborn her surname… ah, well, it built character in me.”

He sniggered at that. Then, mischievously, “So I can call you Uncle Flea?”

Flea boomed out another laugh. “Go right ahead, lad. And old sourpuss in the corner over there will be your Uncle Arcturus. Technically, he’s your god-great-grandfather, but since we’re going to be acting as though his sister is your mother you should really call him uncle.”

Harry mouthed out the words “god-great-grandfather” but shook his head, dismissing it to puzzle over another time. Instead he smiled up at his grandfather. (Uncle Flea, remember Harry!)

“Thanks!” he said simply.

Uncle Flea nodded and rubbed his long-fingered hands together. “Right!” he said cheerfully. “So how do we acquire custody of a time traveller?”

Bode had his hangdog face on again. Harry had determined that doleful expression was his default, and any actual emotions were both unusual and generally only when he was interacting with people in a non-profession manner. Bode especially wore his glum face when dealing with people from outside the DoM.

“Technically, you don’t,” he droned. “Before you leave today you’ll sign special forms allowing you access to the 1972 Clock Project — which will legally let us keep you up to date on this project without the need for any Obliviates. It should take roughly a month to have Harry Travers made into a real, legally existing individual. During this process Mister Potter will remain here and will practice his new identity. At the end of that time Gringotts will contact all three of you and officially, custody will be sorted out through the bank. Unofficially, the forms you sign today will specify what your relationship will be with Harry once he exists, and so will grant you unofficial custody of a young man who does not yet exist.”

“Even after I’m living with you I’ll still need to come back to the DoM,” Harry chimed in. His grandparents blinked at him.

“Really? Whatever for?” Aunt Euphie asked.

Harry grinned. “I’ve got a three-year internship with the DoM,” he said. “They’ll help me pass my OWLs since I’m going to be missing the second term of my OWLs year. Then in September I can go to Hogwarts with dad, but as a sixth year. Over the summers after the next school year or so I’ll come back and do a proper internship, along with some projects they like time travellers to work on.”

Uncle Flea nodded sagely. “Well that all seems very reasonable,” he said. “Judging by your listed birth date on the form you really should be taking your OWL year next year, but I can see why you’d want to get it over with. And if you’ve been living with cursebreakers there’s no reason you mightn’t be advanced enough to be ahead a year.”

“Well before we have to leave I want to hug my grandson,” Euphemia sniffed. Bode raised an eyebrow at her.

“Oh, you’re not leaving yet,” he said, managing to sound ominous. “You’ll be starting to help Mister Potter here with his identity — he needs to know everything he can be told about Henry Travers and Lycoris Black. A son should be able to describe his parents, after all.” Harry bounced on his toes a bit.

“Let’s go to the cafeteria!” he said excitedly. “They’ve got awesome food, and if we put up those privacy bubble spell things Bode uses nobody will bother us. Unspeakables are really sensitive about privacy and stuff. And can you tell me stuff about Dad — sorry, I need to start calling him James don’t I?”

Harry chattered his way out of the room, three civilians in tow, enjoying having grandparents for the first time in his life.

Chapter Text

Harry got to spend the rest of the day with his grandparents and Arcturus. They told him story after story about the people he would have to pretend were his parents, and asked Harry questions about his life and time at Hogwarts. Arcturus and Harry debated ideas of blood purity for nearly half an hour before the Black smirked and stepped back, hardly saying a word until it was time for the civilians to leave. Instead he watched Harry interact with his grandparents, grey eyes calculating and considering.

After yet another night spent in the Sleep Room, Harry was awakened at some ungodly hour by Gus, who was so obnoxiously cheerful Harry knew he must have had at least one large cup of coffee already. Gus rushed Harry through breakfast and dragged him to the DoM bathrooms. Harry had been escorted to those his first day in the Ministry (they were behind a disguised door outside the Department itself), but today Gus showed him a second room hidden at the back of the loo that had showers, a large bath, and even a sauna!

Harry was glad of the opportunity to wash up. It had finally occurred to him yesterday he’d been in the past for three days and hadn’t washed or brushed his teeth or anything. He felt grimy, and a chance to shower was just fantastic. Afterwards Gus dragged him back through the black door and through the circular hall to a rather small chamber past the “Mind Room” (Harry did not want to know what the tank of brains was for) full of nothing but cushions scattered across the floor. Once in the room, Harry was introduced to another Unspeakable who went by Rowena.

“Like the—”

“—founder of Hogwarts, yes,” Rowena said dismissively. “Don’t know what my mother was thinking…”

She clarified upon seeing Harry’s confused expression. “Oh, it’s just that our family has been in Ravenclaw for centuries. If not for the only known descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw claiming to have never had children, there’d be rumours about us being descended from her, like everyone talks about the Smiths being descendants of Hufflepuff despite not having any proof. Anyway, Mum decided to name me after Ravenclaw, so of course I was the first person ever in our family’s recorded history to be sorted into Gryffindor.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, good for you then,” he said. Rowena smirked at him.

“Well, thanks kid. Now, to the point of why you’re here — Rookwood here says you need to learn nonverbal casting, correct?”

Harry nodded, faintly nonplussed. Why couldn’t Gus or Bode just teach him? They cast silent spells left and right.

Rowena was still smirking. “I’ve been asked to teach you because I just came back from sick leave and haven’t started any new projects yet. I’ll be helping you learn not only nonverbal casting but something any person with secrets to hide needs to know — Occlumency. I’m sure,” she said in a louder tone, holding up a hand to stem Harry’s attempt to speak, “that you’ve never heard of this before so I’ll explain. Occlumency is the magical defence of the mind against external penetration. Someone who knows how to enter another person’s mind is known as a Legilimens, and unfortunately most of the known Legilimens in Britain practice this magic without much care for either privacy or legality. So!”

Harry jumped at the sharply spoken word as Rowena raised a finger and pointed it at him.

“You need to learn to properly guard your mind. Thankfully for you, Occlumency has the added side-effect of ordering your mind and making you more in-tune with your internal magic, both things you need for nonverbal spells. Really, the easiest way to teach these is side-by-side.”

“Okay…” Harry replied when she seemed to expect it. “How long will this take?”

Rowena shrugged. “No idea. It depends on how emotional you are naturally and the amount of mental discipline you already exercise. Now let’s get started!”

What followed was the oddest set of lessons ever. Rowena began by explaining to Occlude properly in the short term, you needed to be able to clear your mind of thoughts and emotions anytime somebody tried to penetrate your mind. Eventually clearing your mind would become second nature and you could progress to the second, more difficult stage, which involved “building mental constructs” and “crafting false memories” to confuse someone who entered your mind. Then, she made him sit with her on the floor and do meditative exercises.

Rowena talked Harry through something called “yoga”, teaching him how to begin to do the different strange stretching poses. She explained this had been how she’d learnt Occlumency, and if it didn’t work she’d try some other methods she knew of. As they slid from pose to pose, Rowena spoke to Harry all the while. They ended up talking about the weirdest things.

First, Rowena asked Harry what it was like being twenty years in his own past, and all the things he’d learnt and seen since going through the clock. All of her questions were probing and insightful, and Harry really didn’t mind answering her. And so when she began asking about things from his file, he talked about those as well, even where he might never have spoken about it otherwise, like his cupboard.

They took a break for lunch, but Rowena put some sort of spell around them that moved as they did. It was like Bode’s spell he’d used a few times in the cafeteria only it also played soft, soothing music of a distinctly foreign sort. They continued talking all through lunch and then as they went back to the little room full of cushions. There were also an uncomfortably large number of questions asked about feelings. Rowena wanted to know how every situation had made him feel at the time it happened, and how he felt thinking back on it.

The other odd thing was that Rowena told him if he wanted something he had to cast a spell instead of using his hands. If he wanted to grab one of the cushions — he had to Accio it. If he was asked to pass the salt and pepper at lunch — he had to levitate them over. Rowena would also have them take sort breaks from yoga and talking and she would instruct him to cast random spells around the room. The catch? He had to do all this without speaking a word.

It was hard, really hard, and by the end of the first day he’d not managed to cast a single spell wordlessly. He also hadn’t figured out why Rowena didn’t have them practicing Occlumency, and instead had them talking all day. She just laughed at him when he asked.

Harry was still with Rowena during dinner, but afterwards she sent him back to Bode’s office. There, he found the drawing room beside the office had been made into a classroom. Harry entered to see another Unspeakable he didn’t know. This Unspeakable didn’t introduce himself as Rowena had. Instead, the hooded figure told Harry he was to take a series of placement tests to see how much work needed to be done to get him ready for his OWLs. Harry sat down at the only desk and got to work.

It was like doing exams with only one teacher. He would take a written test, and the Unspeakable would then ask him to cast spells in the same subject. For Potions class he was asked to brew a number of potions ranging from first year lessons to even potions Harry hadn’t heard of yet. The Unspeakable always asked him to first try brewing it with a simplified recipe (usually just a list of ingredients) or without a recipe at all, but would give him the recipe if he needed it. When Harry was finished it was quite late and he was chivvied back to the Sleep Room for the night.

The next morning was almost a repeat of the last. Gus woke him horribly early and dragged him to breakfast. Today, however, he received the results of his tests last night. He was in line with where most OWL students would be in March in some classes, and behind in only a few (Potions being one). Gus mused that perhaps there’d been new spells added to the curriculum in the next twenty years, or they’d gotten better teachers, so that was why Harry’s results were ahead of where someone who’d only had class until Christmas should be. He was even farther ahead than usual in defence, so far in fact that they said he really only needed to work on a bit more theory before taking that exam.

After breakfast Harry was returned to Rowena. They did yoga in silence for a good hour or so, quiet music in the background. After a certain amount of time had passed, though, Rowena put a silencing charm on Harry and handed him a book. It was called Guarding the Mind, and it was presumably about Occlumency. He was told to read it, and take notes, and so did.

The book wasn’t too thick, so it only took him a few hours. It was an interesting read, all about the history of Occlumency and Legilimency and how you were supposed to clear your mind. There were a few mental exercises to do so, and Harry scribbled all of those down. The book also said the usual method of teaching Occlumency was have a trusted individual continually attempt to penetrate your mind while you tried to clear your mind before they saw anything. Harry wondered why Rowena hadn’t done anything like that.

After he was finished with the book it was time for lunch. Rowena brought take-out from a muggle fast food restaurant and Harry tried a few times to summon his food silently before she finally brought it over to him. After lunch Harry was taken to a maze Rowena had set up through a few offices and rooms in the Department. He was told the silencing charm would be removed at the end of the maze and he had to navigate it with silent casting.

Unfortunately, as Harry hadn’t managed to silently cast at all yet, he totally failed at clearing the maze. Rowena took pity on him and removed the silencing charm anyway. He had dinner, and afterwards Rowena asked Harry what he’d thought of the Occlumency book.

“It was interesting,” Harry told her, “but the book said you learn Occlumency by having someone cast the mind-reading spell at you while you practice clearing your mind.”

Rowena huffed.  “Okay, first it is not mind-reading. The mind is too complicated to be read like a book. If you liken it to anything in the real world, it’s like following a bramble branch tangled in with a whole lot of other brambles from its top end down to its root tip. The neural passages of your brain are…well…they’re weird. Going into another person’s mind is disorienting. The more the caster knows about the other person the easier it is, and the more trusting the person being cast on is the less uncomfortable it is. If someone you don’t trust casts Legilimens on you again and again it can make you literally sick.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I was talking with you all yesterday to get us more familiar with each other. I also want you to start thinking about how your emotions connect to your memories because that’s important to know when you start doing hard stuff like creating false memories and thoughts to confuse someone trying to take information out of your mind. I just killed two birds with one stone yesterday.”

Harry blinked, and nodded. “That…makes a lot of sense, yeah.” He did look at her sideways though. “But why would you just tell me you’re being nice so I trust you? Shouldn’t that make me trust you less?”

Rowena blinked and then smirked. “Does it make you trust me less? I’m trying to get you to trust me so that I can teach you something without hurting you. I have no other motives. I think the better question right now is do you trust me to cast a curse at you over and over again that will make you relive thoughts and memories you might not want anyone to see?”

Harry sat back. “I…I don’t know.”

The Unspeakable nodded. “When you can answer that, we’ll start our lessons properly. Until then we’ll talk and practice nonverbal casting.”

And that was what they did. Rowena talked with Harry about anything under the sun, even answering a few questions about her life that Harry had asked her. After a while had passed Harry would be put under a silencing charm for the rest of the day. He’d run the maze, trying to get through and cast nonverbal spells at the same time. This went on for the rest of the week, until Harry woke up one morning and realised to his surprise that he’d been in the past for almost ten days now. Harry was struck with a horrible sense of homesickness, wondering what Christmas would have been like spent in 1995 with Sirius. He wondered how the DA would handle Umbridge without him.

Nobody really knew what happened to the original timelines that people who travelled through Morgana’s Clock came from. Some theories claimed that they dissolved into nothing and the new future created by the actions of the time traveller was the only future. Other ideas maintained that travelling back in time created a split timeline, where a person vanished from the future of one timeline, reappeared in the past of another, and influenced the second universe accordingly while the first remained unchanged.

Harry didn’t know which he’d rather have happen. Was it better for the future Sirius, Hermione, and Ron to not even exist? Sirius, at least, was better off. He was twelve, surrounded by friends, and had what appeared to be a doting grandfather in Arcturus. He didn’t know anything about betrayal and he’d never even met a Dementor. But Harry’s other friends… none of them were even born yet.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were still a young couple. Bill was likely a toddler; Harry didn’t think he even had any siblings yet. Well, maybe Charlie. Hermione’s muggle parents would be in school right now probably, or just starting up their dentistry practice — they wouldn’t have a child for another seven years. Neville’s parents were the same age as Harry’s right now. Mad-Eye Moody wouldn’t even be Mad-Eye Moody yet! He’d lost his eye and leg in the war against Voldemort, which didn’t officially start for another year. He was just Auror Alastor Moody. Hell — he might even just be an Auror Trainee.

Rowena took one look at his face and asked what Harry wanted to do today. Harry didn’t know — but then he remembered his Christmas presents, all wrapped but not yet opened. He went back to the drawing room with Rowena in tow and gathered his gifts. Rowena suggested they take them back to the little room full of cushions along with some punch and biscuits.

“It’ll be like we’re celebrating Christmas for them,” she said. Harry nodded in agreement. Frankly, he was just glad to have the presents. The Unspeakables said it was a wonder they'd come back with everything else that was his. Bode theorized that the magical intent behind the gifts, even undelivered, was enough to have Morgana's Clock lock onto them. Either way, Harry was just glad they'd come through. It...it was like getting one last glimpse at his friends who may or may not exist any longer.

Once they were set up, both sitting on the floor surrounded by snacks, Harry hesitantly began to sort through his presents. The first one he picked up was labelled with Hermione's neat handwriting. She had given him a book that resembled a diary except that every time he opened a page it said aloud things like: ‘Do it today or later you'll pay!’

Harry wasn’t sure whether he laughed or sobbed. He set the homework planner — he could almost hear Ron complaining about it in his mind — to one side and picked up another present.

The second one he grabbed was from Sirius and Lupin. The note said, “From Padfoot and Moony ― for the rebellion.” He smiled faintly at the set of excellent books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described. Harry flicked through the first volume with a melancholy air; this would have been highly useful in his plans for the DA. Now, he’d just be the best Defence student he could be, and that would have to be enough. He ran a finger over the book plates on the inside cover of all the books. They were all labelled Prongslet along with his initials HJP.

Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably supposed to be an anti-theft device. Unfortunately, the fangs prevented Harry from putting any money in without getting his fingers ripped off until Rowena noticed his dilemma. She cast some complicated spell on it and told him to pick it up. Harry did so reluctantly, but was surprised when the wallet just purred and its fangs retracted. Rowena giggled.

“It’s got a command spell so it knows its owner. My dad has one just like it. Now, it’ll only let you near it.”

Harry smiled and thanked her. Rowena just shrugged and stuffed another biscuit into her mouth. “I’m going to be so fat,” she moaned, but Harry had turned back to his presents. Tonks had surprisingly sent him a present as well: a small, working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched zoom around the room, wishing he still had his full-size version. Rowena was fascinated.

“When does the full-sized version of that come out?”

“Why?”

“Because my soulmate will want it for sure and I’m going to start saving up now!”

Ron had given him an enormous box of Every-Flavour Beans, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies, and Dobby a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected had been done by the elf himself. He turned it upside-down to see whether it looked better that way, but still couldn’t figure out what it was until Rowena noticed the note on the back.

The Unspeakable rolled on the floor laughing as Harry read with dismay the explanation that this was a picture of the Very Great Wizard Mister Harry Potter and it was from Dobby.

“It — oh — it looks like a gibbon with two black eyes!”

Harry threw his new homework diary at her; it hit the wall opposite and fell to the floor where it said happily: 'If you've dotted the "i"s and crossed the "t"s then you may do whatever you please!'

At that Harry couldn’t help but join her in helpless laughter.

That day after lunch Rowena didn’t take him straight to the maze. Instead, after silencing him, they went back to the small chamber filled with cushions. Rowena grinned.

“Okay, Harry,” she said. “I have an idea. I’m not sure you’ve been properly motivated in casting silent spells yet this week. The one time you almost summoned that glass of water was pretty good, and I know you were really thirsty at the time so I’m going to motivate you.” She smirked and summoned all Harry’s Christmas gifts to her silently. “Do you want them back?” Rowena asked.

Harry tried to summon them. One of the Defence books Sirius had given him twitched. Accio, he thought firmly again. The homework planner came sailing before falling down again.

“Oh, come on,” Rowena said. “You can do better than that. You told me you summoned your Firebolt from Gryffindor Tower to a stadium by the Forbidden Forest! Use some of that determination.”

Accio! Harry repeated in his mind, and to his astonishment all his presents came flying back towards him. He cancelled the spell with a silent slash, and even managed to levitate them all down gently. Harry bounced on his toes, grinning.

Rowena smirked back. “That’s more like it!” she said. “Now do that in the maze today!”

The next week was a blur of activity and further practice. Now that Harry had managed to do it, everyone was asking him to randomly demonstrate spells silently. He was encouraged to practice casting as part of his normal life — summoning things, levitating things, using tooth-brushing spells and shoe-tying spells instead of doing it himself the muggle way. And any time he was caught casting verbally he was hit with a stinging jinx that made him jump and yelp.

Now that he wasn’t practicing nonverbal spells in the afternoon his schedule was rearranged. Now, in the mornings he was taken by someone — usually Bode, Gus, or a still coughing Croaker — to further build his stories about living around the world.

At first he was taken to specific locations: houses Henry Travers and Lycoris Black shared during the time Harry would have been a child, wizarding villages and marketplaces he likely shopped at, places he might have played. They bounced him all around southern Oceania, and Harry was amazed by the sights and smells and new foods he got to try.

There was a specific group of Unspeakables studying time magic who were so wrapped up in secrecy spells that they couldn’t say a word to anyone who wasn’t also a time traveller. They began teaching him the basics of sign language: ASL, which they told him was internationally recognized, and was recognized by most people who knew of any sign language, as well as goblin hand-sign, which worked in conjunction with Gobbledegook as part of the language but could be used alone if silence was needed. Goblin signs had been added in to the wizarding versions of ASL and BSL because regular muggle-created sign languages lacked sign-terms for various aspects of magical life, and several basic goblin signs easily substituted in the missing vocabulary.

 Learning the signs was difficult, but it was almost like memorizing wand movements. Some days even though he’d mastered nonverbal casting he’d have a Silencing spell put on him in the morning, and he had to wear it all day while he talked and cast spells all without saying a word. It was difficult, but fun.

He was given to a group of Australian Unspeakables and made to practice speaking like they did — while Lycoris would have been certain to teach him “proper English” (a rather thick upper-crust accent he also had to practice), being a child, he likely would have developed at least a tinge of an Australian accent, so when he did speak he needed to sound authentic. Sometimes, to give him more time to visit or practice, they’d stay all day and then turn time back to the start of the morning. Harry would take a nap before going to his Occlumency lessons after lunch.

Those had begun to progress as well. Two days after casting nonverbally for the first time, Harry felt he trusted Rowena enough to begin properly teaching him Occlumency. And so their lessons began.

It was even more difficult than nonverbal casting. The spell Rowena cast sent them both hurtling down Harry’s memory lane. The small room swam in front of his eyes and vanished; image after image was racing through his mind like a flickering film so vivid it blinded him to his surroundings.

He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, and his heart was bursting with jealousy ... he was nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the lawn ... he was sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it was telling him he would do well in Slytherin ... Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face covered with thick black hair ... a hundred dementors were closing in on him beside the dark lake ... Staring at the enchanted replica of his soulmate and knowing he’d have to kill him ...

No, said a voice inside Harry's head, as the memory of Tom's Diary drew nearer, you're not watching that, you're not watching it, it's private—

And he remembered what Rowena had said, about the mental focus needed for nonverbal spells begin like the focus needed for Occlumency… he’d needed to focus on breaking the Imperius Curse too… and something in Harry’s mind heaved.

It felt viscerally like he’d thrown up, like his heart had lodged itself in his throat and choked him, like he’d picked up a bludger and tossed it by hand as far as he could after it had hit him in the stomach. The room came back into view and he realised that he had fallen to the floor; his knees were resting on a large cushion. He looked up at Rowena, who had lowered her wand and was grinning at Harry. She’d been pushed a few feet backwards.

“That was good, Harry! You need to work on emptying your mind before I see anything, though. The goal is to keep me from viewing any of your memories. If I was somebody snooping around, I’d already have seen too much. Your memory of the Sorting showed a pretty old-looking McGonagall. That would make anyone suspicious.”

Harry nodded as he got up from the floor, accepting the point.

“Basically, you let me get in too far,” Rowena said. “This is your mind. You need to either keep me out completely, or control what I see. I’ll take either with how short our deadline is for now.”

“Did you see everything I saw?” Harry asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.

Rowena shrugged. “Flashes of it,” she confirmed. “I saw a dog chasing you?”

Harry nodded. “My Aunt Marge thought it was funny when he chased me around,” he explained. Rowena shook her head.

“Your relatives were first rate bastards, kiddo,” she muttered. “But for a first try you did really good, Harry.” She raised her wand again. “Let’s try again.”

Harry cleared his mind like the book told him too, boxing away all his thoughts, feelings, and memories and just drifting.

“Okay, get ready Harry... on the count of three... one — two — three — Legilimens!'

A great black dragon was rearing in front of him ... his father and mother were waving at him out of an enchanted mirror ... Cedric Diggory was lying on the ground — no, Harry thought, you can’t see that. Suddenly they were seeing meaningless memories: Harry practicing Transfiguration homework… playing on the high monkey bars where Dudley couldn’t climb or reach… naming the spiders in his cupboard and imagining he had a spider army…

With effort, Harry managed to push Rowena out of his mind again. He stood there panting.

“Why was it harder that time?” he asked.

Rowena smiled at him. “Personally, I think you did really good. Pushing me away from your sadder and more negative memories into a stream of fluff was a good idea. That’s part of why it was harder to push me out; when you take control of the flow of memories, you’re effectively pushing me forward into certain parts of your mind. That makes it harder for you to pull me out. But like I said, we’re on a deadline. We need you to have basic proficiency at the end of the month, and you need to be capable of occluding on instinct by September. One of the main Legilimens in the country is Headmaster Dumbledore.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, Professor Dumbledore can see inside my mind?”

Rowena nodded. “Yes, he can. He uses it for security reasons, mostly, and when an issue is in doubt and he needs more information. I understand the reasons, but that doesn’t mean it’s not entirely immoral not to at least inform people you might first. I know you had a close relationship with the version of him in your time, but you’ll need to remember this version of him doesn’t know you and has no business knowing about your time travel unless you decide to tell him yourself.”

Harry nodded slowly in return. “Yeah, I get that,” he agreed. He didn't really think the professor would do something like that, but Rowena was in charge of him right now. And he did understand the need to make sure his thoughts were secret. Even if he'd not been overly aware of things that could make money, if, say, a future Death Eater got their hands on his knowledge of the war against Voldemort and the Dark Lord's second rise it would spell disaster for everyone.

Rowena raised her wand a third time. “Now, you calm? Let’s try again. Clear your mind. Empty yourself of emotion. Legilimens!”

He was watching Uncle Vernon hammering the letterbox shut ... a hundred dementors were drifting across the lake in the grounds towards him ... he was running along a windowless passage with Mr. Weasley ... they were drawing nearer to the plain black door at the end of the corridor ... Harry expected to go through it ... but Mr. Weasley led him off to the left, down a flight of stone steps...

The connection was broken abruptly as the memories shifted into Harry’s dreams of the Department he’d had before coming back in time. Rowena looked shaken.

“What was that?” she asked. Harry blinked.

“Uh — I’ve been dreaming of the DoM for months,” Harry said hesitantly. “I realised it when Bode brought me here the first day.”

Rowena still looked discomfited. “That…I’m going to have to tell somebody about that from the Studies of Sleep. Dreams like that need to be looked over by an expert.” Then she shook her head.

“Anyway, you’ll probably spend part of tomorrow being checked over. Now let’s try that again. Legilimens!”

They practiced over and over. Harry got much better at controlling the flow of memories — and even got to where he could shunt Rowena into a blank blackness of current thoughts. The only downside to that was that she could tell what he was planning when she was in his thoughts and could counter it. He was improving, Rowena assured him. But Harry didn’t feel much like it. After those first two times he didn’t manage to push Rowena entirely out of his mind again.

The next day, true to her word, Harry was sent to the Sleep Room where someone checked over his dreams instead of spending another morning in Australia. The man was befuddled, insisting they looked like the sort of shared dreams that travelled across a soulmate bond — only of course Harry wasn’t listed as bonded yet, so that didn’t make sense to him. Harry realised he must have been sharing dreams with Voldemort, and he could only wonder why Voldemort had been dreaming of the Department of Mysteries in the months after his resurrection. Well, it wasn't as if it mattered much any more. That set of dreams were over twenty years away for the current version of his soulmate.

He was sent back to Rowena to practice Occlumency again in the afternoon, and the cycle continued. Now, Harry was being taken to places where his adventures with the Gringotts cursebreaker team might have happened.

As Ron had said during the summer before third year, Egypt was dry and dusty, but it was amazing. Harry was shown around the main Gringotts facilities and allowed to shadow different cursebreaker groups under various glamours to change his appearance. The cursebreakers were all told he was an Unspeakable project, if they asked, and to not ask any more questions. They did teach him some cursebreaker slang, though, that would lend authenticity to the idea that he’d been raised in his teenage years by a group of them. Of course, most of the time he shadowed cursebreakers around the various Gringotts facilities he was silenced, so he would practice his sign language, but it was the idea of it that was important.

Africa was equally awesome, and Harry nearly gave Gus a heart attack when he found and held a fascinating conversation with a Runespoor. For an hour. While it curled around him. The Runespoor was a surprisingly good conversationalist, and it enjoyed the chance to speak to a human in the serpent tongue. While Runespoors were one of the few magical creatures capable of human speech, it liked being able to use its own native language. Harry, for his part, was enjoying listening to the three heads argue over whether he was small or average height for a human.

And then when Gus returned Harry just laughed as the big bad (Death Eater) Unspeakable gasped on the ground, white-faced and terrified of the giant three-headed snake.

The best part of all the trips, though, was when he was taken to places with a beach. During the expedition to show him a usual Lethifold locale, they’d made a day of it and Harry got to play at the beach for hours. Oh, Rowena still made him do Occlumency training when he returned to England regardless of his sunburns, but he did get to regale her with how he actually did meet a Lethifold by accident, as it was slowly drifting through the island jungle. He’d chased it off with a Patronus and then had made a sandcastle with Croaker, who insisted if he had to spend time at the beach he was going to practice the sand-sifting spells he had to use while making Time-Turners.

As week two blended into weeks three and four of living in the Department of Mysteries, they began alternating days to take him on trips. On the alternate days, he began cramming on everything he needed to know for his OWLs — the original goal had been to have him take them with the Hogwarts students in June, but it was halfway through April now and Harry was months behind. It was looking like except for his Defence exam, he’d be taking his OWLs under special dispensation in July or August instead. Even with the delay, he had a ton of work to get through.

His Occlumency improved slowly. He got to where he could direct Rowena wherever he wanted the instant she penetrated his mind. She didn’t even have to speak the incantation, and she’d still be routed into a mess of inconsequential memories before being pushed out of his mind. That was his main improvement: he figured out the trick to pushing someone out after he’d taken control of their attempt to see inside his head. One day Rowena even brought in a group of strangers, Unspeakables who specialized in mind magics. The lot of them spent all morning trying to break into Harry’s mind while Harry completed various tasks with nonverbal magic. By the end he was pale and shaking, but he’d successfully gotten them all out of his mind without anyone seeing anything incriminating. The hot chocolate and treacle tart Rowena gave him as a reward was worth the experience.

And then, over a month after Harry had first tripped through time in Morgana’s Clock, the day finally came. The day Harry Potter would be set aside, and Harry Travers would walk out of Gringotts beside the Aunt he was supposed to have never met.

Chapter Text

Actually getting Harry into Euphemia Potter’s custody was an ordeal and a half. As had already been discussed, Harry needed to go to Gringotts, where they would get what information they wanted out of him and then contact Euphemia and Arcturus to have an entire mock-custody discussion before signing Harry over to the Potters. The first problem was getting Harry to Gringotts in the first place.

The easiest solution was to Floo, but most glamours didn’t hold up through the Floo and they couldn’t risk someone seeing Harry unglamoured in the Floo Hall of Gringotts since he was supposed to be coming from Gringotts. So instead Harry was taken to the main Atrium of the Ministry under heavy glamour charms altering his appearance. Bode apparated Harry to his home and then they walked down the road to a park where Croaker was waiting with Harry’s luggage, which also looked totally different to how it had been when it arrived.

Harry’s trunk had been emptied and tossed out, and Harry had been bought a decently sturdy travel-suitcase that had hidden compartments in the main “suitcase” section and, if you turned the key anticlockwise, the inside of the suitcase would transform into an expanded interior that held a small apartment. When opened to this setting you climbed down a ladder into a walk-in wardrobe. A small hallway led off from it to four rooms: a study, a small bathroom, a rather empty room the Unspeakables suggested Harry make into a miniature potions lab, and a bedroom. The suitcase had been weathered by a group of Unspeakables whose job it was to make Harry’s possessions look as though he’d been using all the new stuff since he was eleven. Faded and dirty stickers were added to the outside proclaiming him to have travelled to various wizarding locations.

Harry had pulled out all his clothes (his Hogwarts robes were discarded like his trunk) and more clothes practical for travelling were bought for him. His muggle outfits were thrown away wholesale and he was given new clothing similar but in wizarding styles. Every item was systematically given a bit of believable wear. Any extra Hogwarts paraphernalia he was allowed to keep such as scarves, hats, and jumpers, were recoloured — some of the red and grey jumpers were made red and brown or grey and black, the yellow stripes on everything was made a plain white — so that they didn’t exactly match Hogwarts colours any longer. His Weasley sweaters were his only clothes left completely untouched, and Harry was glad of that. Most everything was hung in the wardrobe-entrance to the apartment, with a few articles of clothing being put in the actual suitcase compartment of Harry’s new luggage piece.

Other things he’d found in his Hogwarts trunk were moved to various locations in his suitcase-apartment. His old and new textbooks were all stacked neatly on bookshelves in his study (barring Lockhart’s books and the Slinkhard textbook, which he gleefully turned to cinders). He was allowed to keep the Occlumency book Rowena had given him, and various other Unspeakables gave him some novels and other books on useful magic that a traveller might find use for. On the roll-top desk were the written OWLs assignments he was currently working on, and in one drawer was a box holding every letter he’d dug out of his trunk. They were heavily charmed so that only he could read them. His potions kit was put in the empty room along with a cauldron, a podium to place a recipe book, and a cabinet where he could store brewed potions and extra ingredients.

One shelf in Harry’s new suitcase-bedroom held all his new generic but carefully weathered Quidditch gear, each item bought to replace the Gryffindor-themed articles since Quidditch gear was resistant to spells being cast on it. The sneakoscope Ron had given him two years ago was put on another shelf in his room alongside the currently useless broom-servicing kit, the old flute he’d gotten from Hagrid first year, various other knick-knacks and gifts, and his revised photo album.  His original photo album was hidden alongside the Marauder’s Map in a shrunken box under his mattress. Harry figured when he wasn’t using it his invisibility cloak could join them there. Hedwig’s cage was also in his bedroom, the owl sleeping inside for now.

Croaker took Harry from Bode and Harry took his suitcase from Croaker. Then he was apparated to half a dozen locations — their glamours changed each time — before landing in an alleyway halfway down Charing’s Cross. Croaker cancelled the glamours altering Harry’s appearance and then Harry pulled out the invisibility cloak he had stuffed into a pocket in his tan robes. Before he pulled it over his head Croaker tapped him right at the top of said head with his wand. It felt like an egg being broken in his hair, and as the spell slid down around him cold trickles seemed to be running down his body from the point the wand had struck.

After the cold feeling had vanished Harry looked down at his body, or rather, what had been his body, for it didn't look anything like his anymore. It was not invisible; it had simply taken on the exact colour and texture of the dingy alley wall behind him. He seemed to have become a human chameleon.

“Neat,” Harry said. They’d talked about the Disillusionment Charm when discussing this plan, but Harry hadn’t realised exactly what it did. They’d made it sound like he was going to turn invisible. Then, before Croaker could prompt him he pulled his invisibility cloak on over his already mostly-invisible body and said, “Ready.”

Croaker smirked and swirled his wand around his own head. He morphed into a particularly old witch carrying a large carpet bag. “Come along then,” he said in a quavering effeminate voice. “I have some shopping to do.”

Harry stumbled invisibly on the disguised Unspeakable’s heels as Croaker tottered through the Leaky Cauldron and out into Diagon Alley. The “woman” then made a very determined beeline for Gringotts, Harry still trotting behind her completely unseen. Croaker led Harry into a side room and cancelled both his illusion and Harry’s Disillusion. He nodded at Harry.

“Go through this door here—” he pointed to a side door different from the one they’d entered the room through “—and ask for the Head Goblin. Tell them you’re a DoM project and they’ll take you where you need to go.” And with that Croaker put his disguise back on and staggered back out of the room querulously asking where the loo was.

Harry did as he’d been bid as soon as he managed to fully stifle his nearly hysterical laughter. Croaker hadn’t mentioned how he would be disguised, only that he would be. That old lady disguise was just awesome. Harry would have to remember that himself.

The teenager went hesitantly through the side door. He seemed to be in a tunnel that wasn’t a main part of the bank. It was much more simply decorated than the outside, and there were no goblins standing guard except one by the very door Harry had just opened. He smiled uncertainly at the suspiciously scowling guard.

“Um, I need to see the Head Goblin. I’m a Department of Mysteries project, you see.” As he spoke, he carefully used the goblin hand signals he’d been taught to augment and emphasize his speech.

The goblin’s eyes widened and he nodded. The butt of the heavy ceremonial spear all the Gringotts guards held was rapped three times on the ground and another goblin came running. “What?” the other goblin barked. The guard began to speak in Gobbledegook, and the other goblin eyed Harry strangely.

“Come with me,” he said finally.

Harry was led along a labyrinth of tunnels and corridors down to a hallway of offices. Harry was led to the one at the end of the hall, neat letters spelling out “Ragnok” inked on the door. The goblin leading him opened the door and gestured Harry inside.

“Sit,” he said brusquely, gesturing to a chair in front of the desk. Harry sat. The goblin walked out, closing the door firmly behind him. Harry blinked and looked about.

The office was empty, but finely furnished in shades of burgundy and muted orange. The large desk in front of Harry was mahogany, and all the parchment sheets atop it were neatly stacked in a paper-tray. There was a collection of quills in what looked like a muggle themed coffee mug with the words “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn[1]” written on it in fancy old-fashioned lettering.

After only a few moments of sitting and waiting, the door behind Harry opened and a different goblin entered the room. The older goblin had hair that was a fading chestnut streaked with grey and white as well as a long nose and glasses that resembled the ones Headmaster Dumbledore always wore.

The goblin went around the desk and sat in his chair. Harry blinked. He vaguely recognized seeing this goblin on his very first trip to Gringotts. He’d been much older than he was right now, of course, with all snow-white wispy hair. His long, pointed nose and half-moon spectacles were the most familiar things about him.

Ragnok looked over said spectacles at Harry. “So you’re the project that’s had the Department of Mysteries in such a fuss, are you?” he said grouchily. Harry nodded and Ragnok nodded back. “Right. I’ll need the Temporal Business forms then.”

He fished the forms in question out of the massive stack of parchment in his paper-tray and laid them out in front of Harry. As he’d been told back at the Department, Harry read each one carefully.

The first was merely an addendum to the Weasleys Wizard Wheezes contract the twins had sneakily filled out after Harry had given them his Triwizard winnings. The addendum noted that the one thousand galleons would be taken out of Harry’s vault and put in a separate account (plus 50 galleon fees for transfer and the price of a low-security vault) where it would be kept in trust until June of 1995, at which point it would be given to the as-yet unborn Fred and George Weasley in exchange for a third of the company. The addendum added stipulations to the vault of money — the twins would only be allowed to use this money for their business, and the third of a company given to Harry was non-negotiable. Frankly, Harry didn’t much care either way, but he did wonder what this would do to the contents of his vault.

He asked Ragnok as much. “I’ve never seen an actual listing of what all is in my vault, you see. Would taking a thousand and fifty galleons out dent it too much?”

The answer, apparently, was no. Ragnok called in a goblin for a ledger for the “vault under review”, and promptly handed it to Harry. His eyebrows went up. The vault had approximately 50,625 galleons in it right now — approximately because it also had an awful lot of sickles and knuts. The final total came out to closer to sixty thousand galleons, which was an incredible amount of money in Harry’s time. Back in the 1970s, before the First Wizarding War ratcheted up prices, it was even more.

Bill said the price increase during the 1980s, which had settled out but not yet begun to fall in the 1990s, was due to the increase in demand as the population grew again after the war. The population grew, returning to more healthy and normal numbers, but the number of suppliers had shrunk during the war and didn’t grow with the population because all the new people were children. Hermione had been the only one to really understand Bill’s talk about money values, but Harry did remember what he’d said about how before the war, the galleon had been worth a lot more than it was worth after just because everything was cheaper. So…

Yeah, he had no problems signing the addendum to this contract.

The second piece of parchment was a simple thing involved with re-cataloguing and reassigning Harry’s vault. Vault 687 was a Potter Vault; specifically, in Harry’s time it had been the family vault left behind by his parents. In the current time period it was one of three vaults maintained by the Potter family: the other two were a vault that contained Euphemia Travers’ dowry money, and a vault that was apparently the current family vault. Harry supposed the two must have been combined sometime within the next few years, and when his father was grown or something — presumably also after his grandparents had died — the other two vaults had been merged into Vault 687, which right now was under Harry’s dad’s name. It wasn’t a particularly full vault: to Harry, it looked like it was some sort of allowance scheme for Harry’s father to use.

When Harry’s money had come back in time as one of his “magical possessions” according to how Morgana’s Clock worked, it had simply been added to the contents of the vault already there. The Unspeakables had separated out all of Harry’s own money and it had been held separately for a little while. But they must have gotten together with Fleamont Potter sometime during Harry’s month of intensive training because this document explained that the current contents of the vault had been transferred elsewhere and Harry needed to sign off on taking full ownership of the vault, under the Travers name instead of the Potter one. There was an addendum explaining that as a time traveller, if he died his vault would be sealed and later given over to any future versions of himself that might appear, otherwise it would be donated to the Department of Mysteries.

Harry supposed all of that was fairly straightforward, and so signed it as well.

The third form Harry had to deal with was about his alias — specifically the Gringotts cursebreaker team he was supposed to have lived with for the past five years or so. He had to fill out basic profiles for each of them, and then read through the basic description of mock-missions they’d come up with based on Harry’s list of adapted adventures and make any corrections that needed to be made.

Writing out the cursebreaker profiles was fun. The goblins had decided he’d been picked up by one of their larger teams — with eight people in the team, seven regular team members and an eighth slot people would be rotated out of every year. During Harry’s month of training with the DoM he’d been give help in setting up backstories for everyone he’d have to discuss. He’d then been surprised at random intervals with intense interrogations on various events in his fabricated history until he could repeat even minor details without having to think about it. All that was left now was to copy it all out.

Harry wrote out versions of his main Hogwarts teachers to begin with. Professor McGonagall became the young but stern Athena McGinn, Professor Snape was made into the nasty Salazar Snipe. He had a bear of a man named Rory Haggard on the team as well as the kindly healer of the group Persephone Sprig, who was a cross between Professor Sprout and Madame Pomfrey. Boring Percy Weatherby was a combination of both Professor Binns and Percy Weasley. Percy’s cousin Bill Weatherby was also on the team, and through him Harry could have Ron and the entire Weasley family in his reminiscing.

There was a whole list of people Harry mentally labelled the “defence professor stand-ins” who would have each been with the team only one year: thieving Quirinus Quemort (arrested for trying to steal from Gringotts), followed by the incompetent Gilderoy Hartley, then werewolf Romulus Lune, the rather mad Barty Mudd, and finally a man Harry based heavily on both Sirius and various Order members Harry had rather liked named Patrick Brown. He’d have Umbridge be a member of the “dark coven” that had kidnapped him.

The most complicated one to fill out was in writing up the final member’s vague description: instead of a made-up parallel for Professor Flitwick, Harry had gotten permission to use the name of Warwick Fleet: an actual half-goblin employee of Gringotts Harry had followed around for several days of his stint familiarizing himself with various Gringotts locations. Fleet was part of a rotation of cursebreakers that often did work with the Unspeakables and didn’t have any family or a permanent cursebreaker team to reveal the lie. Harry had asked the wizard for permission to use him in his fake “cursebreaker family” so that if he needed to ever introduce someone to a “member” of his team he would have a real person to produce. Fleet had been amused, and he had agreed readily.

Harry sighed in relief as he finally finished that information sheet. All the missions looked good, and Harry had created a colourful tapestry of individuals he’d been interacting with as a teen that he could tell stories about that would both allow him to share personal stories with people but still stay in keeping with his false identity.

The third sheet was a copy of a form he’d had to fill out before leaving the Department of Mysteries. This copy would be placed into his Gringotts records and sealed. It was a document legally changing his identity from Harry James Potter born 31 July 1980 to James Potter and Lily Evans, to Henry Sirius Travers born 31 October 1956 to Henry Travers and Lycoris Black. It was straightforward enough — he had to sign with both his original name and his new name, and then bloody his thumb and press a fingerprint to the round space just under his signatures.

This would enable him to not only legally refer to himself as Henry/Harry Travers even under truth spells or Veritaserum but would also allow him to legally claim things that had belonged to his supposed parents. That was an important part of proving his new identity, after all. People might realise something was fishy if he couldn’t inherit from his own claimed parents.

The next document was mostly-blank, with labels where things needed to be written. Reading down the labels that said things like Quidditch results and Year of event and probability of wagers, Harry slowly realised what this was. “You want me to write down stuff you can make money off of,” said Harry.

Ragnok nodded. “Any Quidditch matches, broom races, or other sports you attended or knew about, and their results. If you knew about any betting going on, and what the rates were, write those down as well.”

Harry nodded back to him and got to work. He borrowed a quill from the goblin and began with Quidditch. He’d only been to the one professional quidditch match, but Ron and the other Gryffindors did tend to bring up matches a lot — particularly match wins. Harry wrote down as many he could remember, and the odds (though he did note that he’d learnt most of this from a group of schoolkids). The years were a bit more difficult to fill out, but Ragnok just assured him when asked that if he couldn’t remember, he should just leave the year blank and they’d set the DoM to calculating when that win likely would occur.

Under Major Money-Making Events Harry wrote down both the 1994 Quidditch World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament the same year. He explained in his description that Ireland had won, but the Bulgarian Seeker had caught the Snitch anyway. He then told them the only people to bet on that possibility were sixteen-year-old Fred and George Weasley, but they’d been swindled out of their winnings. For the Tournament he described how he’d been made a fourth contestant by someone trying to kill him, and how that had changed the tasks. Harry forced himself to be painstakingly honest and wrote down every instance of cheating he knew both he and the other contestants had done. Then, he wrote down what he could remember of Hermione’s end-of-term fourth year Arithmancy project. She’d showed it to him because it involved him — it had two parts, the first calculating who might have won if the judges had been impartial and there’d been no cheating (Harry was still either first or second place), and the second part calculated how it might have gone if Harry hadn’t been in the tournament at all (Viktor would have won). Harry didn’t remember all the numbers, but surely the goblins had people who could do this better than a very smart fourth year student.

Down at the bottom of the form was a heading labelled Advice for Gringotts. Harry paused, tapping his quill on the parchment. In the end, he wrote out the attempted robbery back from his first year, explaining the vault had already been emptied and the thief in question had been possessed by a dark spirit who had then tried to steal the same artefact at Hogwarts. The goblins at least deserved a warning. With that last thought in mind, he also mentioned Bagman’s gambling problems and suggested that perhaps it was just better to keep him from ever gambling with Gringotts or other goblins to begin with because he wouldn’t pay them back.

Once finished Harry simply had to sign off on the form. He signed the document with his new identity, and a new line of text appeared under his signature. Harry had to squint to read it, but it informed him he would receive ten percent of any profits made from the information he’d provided. Wicked.

While he’d been writing Ragnok had wandered out and back into the office several times. Once Harry was finally done, throwing the quill down and leaning back in his chair with an explosive sigh, Ragnok was sitting again noting something down in a massive ledger. He accepted the forms from Harry and shuffled them back into the mountainous stack of parchment in his paper-tray. Ragnok handed Harry a new Gringotts key to his vault, and then picked up a small bell hidden behind the mug full of quills. He rang it briefly and then set the bell down again. His door opened to reveal what seemed to be a decades-younger version of Griphook, the goblin who’d taken Harry to his vault for the first time.

“Yes, sir?” the goblin asked. Ragnok smirked.

“I need you to cover a rather unusual custody debate, young Griphook. This young man has been cared for by one of Gringotts’ top cursebreaker teams for the past several years. We have just identified his actual family and he needs to be remanded into their custody so that the Ministry doesn’t begin squawking about kidnapping and similar unpleasantness. I’ve already contacted them by owl, but you are to handle his transfer of custody, do you understand? Do this well and there may be a pay raise or even a promotion in it for you.”

Griphook’s shiny black eyes gleamed and he bowed. “I am honoured to take care of this for Gringotts Bank,” said Griphook. He accepted a file from Ragnok and Harry stood.

This was it. Harry Travers began here.

“Follow me,” the young goblin said to Harry, turning and walking out of the office. Harry strode behind him, suitcase in hand. He was led to a large conference room and told to sit. He did so obediently, politely asking “Mr. Griphook” if he could have a drink of water, remembering to add goblin hand-signals as he spoke. It had been Fleet’s idea for Harry to call all goblins at the bank “Mr.” or “Ms.” Because all cursebreakers employed by Gringotts were subordinate to the goblins, this was how all Gringotts cursebreakers addressed Gringotts goblins. As a traumatized child he’d have picked up the inflections used by the adults around him once he began talking again, Fleet said.

Griphook looked surprised to be addressed in such a way by a wizard child but called for a lower-level goblin to fetch them both refreshments as they waited for the other parties to arrive. Arcturus got there first, his eyes sliding over Harry as though he’d never seen the boy before.

“So you’re my sister’s son, are you?” he asked brusquely. Harry nodded his head meekly but didn’t answer aloud. Arcturus harrumphed. “Well you do look like a Black,” he acceded.

Harry’s grandmother arrived right on the hour, Harry’s grandfather missing from her side. She smiled at Harry when she stepped in and hugged him, winking as she did so. “Oh, you poor boy!” she exclaimed. She drew back and regarded Arcturus.

“Lord Black,” she said coolly.

“Mrs. Potter,” he said dismissively in return. Both turned back to Griphook, who cleared his throat.

“It is my duty to inform you that this young man, one Henry Sirius Travers, has spent the past five years in the custody of Gringotts following his rescue from a group of Australian insurgents.” Griphook was reading from a piece of paper, glancing up at the witch and wizard watching him as he did so. “Following the revelation of his true identity his closest living relatives have been discovered and contacted to decide custody of this young wizard.”

He put the sheet of parchment down, looking up rather nervously. It was obvious he was the only one who didn’t know this was a charade. Harry felt rather sorry for him, but hey, if he botched it he probably wouldn’t get in trouble at least. “In light of this, it is asked that Arcturus Black and Euphemia Potter nee Travers discuss the custody of Henry Travers. Should you both wish to claim custody the case will be forwarded to the appropriate Ministry office and a hearing will be held. Should one of you not want custody, or if an agreement can be come to today, the papers will be filed with the Ministry by Gringotts as early as tomorrow morning.”

Arcturus’ eyes narrowed and he stood. “How do I know this is really my nephew?” he asked sharply. “You lot had him for five years. Are you saying his identity was never checked through magical means?”

Despite the Black’s displeased expression and angry tone, Harry could tell there was a glint of humour in his eye that made him look rather like Sirius when playing a prank. Harry kept his own face bland but let a bit of indignation creep in that this man who was supposed to be his uncle didn’t believe he was who he said he was. Griphook shuffled through Harry’s file.

“Yes, well, he was exposed to a large amount of dark magic during his time in the possession of the insurgents who killed his parents and kidnapped him, and so regular magical means of determining his name and heritage would not work until the dark magic was flushed from his system. In addition, the boy refused to speak at all, much less discuss his past, until this past winter, and so could not simply be asked for his name. After he revealed his name for the first time it was discovered that his system had been cleared of the magic, and so he was tested and proven to be Henry Sirius Travers, son of Henry Travers Sr. and Lycoris Black.”

Arcturus harrumphed again and sat back down.

“Well if Gringotts has no doubts it’s enough for me,” Euphemia said unconcernedly. “And I’d be glad to take custody of my nephew. I’ve always wanted more children, and Jamie would love an older brother to play Quidditch with.”

Arcturus frowned. “If he really is my nephew he will have inherited Lycoris’ vault and any inheritances she may have neglected to claim before her death. I want to know whether he can claim my sister’s vaults.”

Griphook nodded, clearly having expected that. “Please take this, Mister Travers,” he said, handing a closed ledger to Harry. There was a rounded indentation on the front of the ledger. “Place your wand in the circle and state your full name. Any vaults and other inheritances you are capable of claiming will be written into the ledger.”

Harry did as bid, saying, “My name is Henry Sirius Travers,” while pressing his wand to the indentation. Something sparked, and the pages inside the ledger glowed. Harry opened it slowly.

At the top was Vault 687. Just below it was Vault 1242, listed as a business vault and nothing else. Harry supposed that was the vault with the money for the twins. Under both of those was a bold black line, the words Inherited from Lycoris Black just below the line. It listed a small personal vault with only a little bit of money in it (only one hundred fifty galleons) but under that was a bracketed list entitled Bequeathed by Sirius Black II, father, to Lycoris Black, daughter. This list had a vault with an insane number of galleons in it, an apartment in Birmingham, and a seaside cottage in southern Ireland. There was a second bolded line that separated out what he’d inherited from his ‘father’ Henry Travers. This one only had a single vault, but it had a decent amount of money and “assorted items” inside it.

Harry passed the ledger around the table when Griphook told him to. Euphemia just nodded thoughtfully, but Arcturus scowled.

“My wife’s health will not permit a rambunctious child in our home,” he said. “It’s why we moved away from the main family to France. But if you take custody of my nephew I want access to him.”

Euphemia hummed consideringly. “I suppose we can come to an arrangement.”

They began a very polite argument that mostly consisted of how often Harry would visit Arcturus, certain events and such that the Blacks would handle instead of the Potters, and somehow Arcturus wrangled permission to manage Harry’s finances for him until he was seventeen. Oh, because Harry was over the age of eleven Arcturus couldn’t remove anything without Harry’s permission, but he would be able to invest for Harry and move his money around.

At the end of this very intensely mannerly discussion Griphook was sweating and Harry was a bit wide-eyed himself without even having to fake it. He hadn’t known all of this was going to happen. But it never actually came to more than snide insults and eventually they signed a contract listing out everything they’d discussed. The contract glowed once both signatures were on it and Griphook had signed as well as the Gringotts Representative.

“Thank you for doing business with Gringotts, have a pleasant day,” the goblin said, summoning a guard to escort the three humans back to the main Entrance Hall of the bank. Harry walked out at Euphemia’s side as Arcturus went over to floo out of the bank straight to his home. Harry grinned in the sunlight.

“It’s over,” he breathed out. Euphemia grinned at him.

“Not quite yet, it’s not,” she disagreed. “I have to introduce my darling nephew to the rest of my family.”

Before Harry could object they’d reached the Diagon Alley apparition zone, and Euphemia grasped Harry by the arm and they both vanished. Harry grimaced a bit as they landed. No matter how many times he was side-along apparated it didn’t seem to get any less unpleasant.

Still faintly queasy from the side-along apparition, Harry opened his eyes. They were standing arm in arm in a flower-lined lane under a brilliant blue sky. The sun shone brightly overhead. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road, flowery curtains covering their windows. A short way ahead of them, a cluster of unlit old-fashioned streetlamps indicated the centre of the village.

They walked forwards together, a gentle spring breeze caressing their faces as they passed more cottages. “The Potter family has lived here for generations,” Euphemia said. “There’s the family manor just outside town — it’s a bit young for a wizarding estate, only build in the late seventeen-hundreds. It’s called Potter Manse and your great-great-grandfather was exceedingly proud of the additions he made to it in the mid-nineteenth century. Aside from my husband, son, and I, my father-in-law also lives at the Manse. Amusingly enough, he’s also named Henry.”

Harry remembered what Bode had said about Harry being a nickname for Henry. Had James named his son after his, perhaps, recently-deceased grandfather?

Then the little lane along which they were walking curved to the left and the heart of the village, a small square, was revealed to them. there was what looked like a war memorial in the middle of the square, a tall obelisk inscribed with names. There were several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-bright from the reflection of the sunlight across the square. His grandmother began talking again.

“That gaudy obelisk used to be a lovely statue that depicted some muggle war hero on a horse. When a magical person looked at it long enough it would transform into a depiction of Godric Gryffindor. He came from here, you know. That’s why the town’s called Godric’s Hollow. But the bombing in the muggle war they had at the same time as Grindelwald’s second war destroyed the old statue, so the muggles put up a war memorial instead. We’ve not been able to find a good wizarding sculptor to redo our half of the statue, unfortunately.”

They walked across the cobblestoned square. Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them, calling out cheerfully to Euphemia. She replied with equal good humour but kept on walking. Nobody bothered her as they went except to greet “Missus Potter”. They heard a snatch of laughter and old music (sixties rock by the sound of it) as the pub door opened and closed; the little church was silent and empty by contrast.

“Every Potter who’s ever lived has been buried in the graveyard behind that church,” Euphemia told him softly in a more solemn tone than she’d been using before. “They’ve got a private family crypt only family members can access.”

Harry frowned, thinking that through. “Do…Do you think my—” He paused, thought through what he wanted to say. “What do you think would happen if the only living Potter was a baby?” he asked carefully.

Euphemia’s eyes widened, and Harry knew she’d understood his unspoken question. “Well, I suppose the poor babe’s parents would be put in the main part of the cemetery with everyone else,” she said briskly. She hurried Harry past the church and out of the square, chattering in a nervous sort of way.

 “Your Uncle Flea’s only cousins live here in town, down the road a bit. Charlus and his wife Dorea, and their son Caelum. You’ll meet Charlus and Dorea at supper. It’s customary for young Potters to grow up in the manse but then move to the village for a while as young men — or even farther, I know Charlus’ father moved all the way to London — but they almost always come back. The house Charlus is living in now was the one Flea lived in, actually, but Dorea wanted her own home where she could be lady of the house, so they turned the bachelor pad into more of a little home. I expect they’ll move out when James is grown, though. He’ll likely live there at least until he’s married.”

Or until a madman comes knocking at the door, Harry realised in a daze. Harry gazed around at the cottages they were passing now: at the front doors, their shining tile roofs, and their front porches, wondering whether he remembered any of them, knowing deep inside that it was impossible, that even if he had been born and raised in one of these cottages he’d been only just over a year old when he was forced to leave this place forever. It was sobering, to realise this was his home. These villagers might have called out to Harry’s mother the same way they did to Euphemia. Perhaps Harry would have spent time in that little church at Christmas.

Euphemia walked Harry down a slightly wider street leading out of the village in the opposite direction from which they had entered. Harry could see the point where the cottages ended and the lane turned into open country again. They walked sedately down the road, past more windows hidden with frowsy curtains, people coming in and out of houses or doing gardening in the front lawn. Euphemia pointed to the large two-story house at the very end of this row of cottages as they passed it.

“That’s where Charlus and his family live right now. When Flea bought it the house was just another cottage, but Cousin Charlus added a second story when he and Dorea moved in.”

Harry knew from reading the accounts of that night with Hermione that in the future this house would have a massive hole in the roof where Voldemort’s Killing Curse had backfired. He’d seen a black-and-white picture, once, that revealed a house entirely covered in dark ivy, surrounded by rubble and waist-high grass.

But right now, it was just another house like the cottages beside it. The roof had grass growing on it, and a little chimney coming out of the middle. There were three windows on each floor facing the road, and the front door had been painted a pale green. The hedge was neatly trimmed, the grass was properly cut, and the massive overgrowth of ivy in the future was right now reduced to three trellises of climbing roses set up between each of the windows and at the end of the house.

Harry took a dazed step forwards and grasped the shiny black iron gate. It was likely rusted badly in Harry’s time, having been abandoned for fourteen years. Not like now. Now everything was whole. He didn’t try to open it, instead simply wishing to hold some part of the house.

Euphemia wrapped a hand around his shoulders.

“Harry?” she asked gently. He took a violent step back, shutting his eyes and clearing his mind as he’d been taught. He boxed away all the grief and wonder and horror combined that seeing the house where his parents would one day die arose in him and turned determinedly to his grandmother.

“Let’s keep going,” he said. “I’d like to get unpacked before lunch.”

[1] Gone with the Wind, 1939

Chapter Text

“Let’s keep going,” he said. “I’d like to get unpacked before lunch.”

She smiled uncertainly. “Of course, dear,” Euphemia agreed. They began walking away from the main village of Godric’s Hollow, the paved road under their feet turning to packed rubble and earth along the way. Harry’s eyes widened when he saw the house. That must be it — it was the only house Harry could see around. And what a house it was.

It was a large stone-and-brick building with a dark tiled roof. There were two floors from what Harry could tell, and each floor had at least six windows across the front. There was a low wall that went around the front and one side of the manse separating the house from a large green lawn, freshly mowed. Harry’s keen eyes could pick out small stone outbuildings a half a mile or so away, and a sheep wandering the property revealed what those outbuildings might house. Harry and Euphemia came up to the house from the side; a stone lane met up with the country road and following it swung them in an arch around the low wall towards the front door.

Harry could see small patches of bright flowers, lovingly tended, growing in circular groups between the low wall and the lane leading up to the door of the manor house. Euphemia walked up to the door and tapped the doorknob with her wand. It swung open.

“We’ll have to get your wand keyed in to the doors at the house, Harry,” she said. “Remind me later we need to do that before bed tonight.”

Harry nodded, and at the last minute remembered to add a “Yes, Aunt Euphie.”

He was given the grand tour around the house. The first floor had a small dining room right off the front door with a study just past it, sitting and drawing rooms that were cater-cornered at the front left and back right of the house, and a large kitchen area behind the staircase that came down just across from the front door. Going up the staircase he was shown the three “adult” bedrooms — one belonging to Euphemia and Flea, a second to Flea’s father Henry, and the third was used by Charlus and Dorea whenever they stayed over for the night. Euphemia showed him a secret way through an enchanted mirror that allowed you to go from the front of the second floor to the back. Ordinarily, she told him, you could only get to the last three rooms on the second floor from a staircase in the kitchen. This mirror was only one-way for people under the age of 21, due to how the enchantments had been designed.

The back area had James’ room, the room Cousin Caelum stayed over in, and a currently unoccupied bedroom. Harry was told to look it over and see if he liked it. It was nice enough, Harry thought. The large double bed was covered in plain white sheets and a dark auburn comforter all under a black-and-white quilt. There was a wardrobe to one side of the bed. The room also had a fireplace, a small vanity, and a fainting couch over to one side of the room. When Harry came out and Euphemia asked how he’d liked it he just shrugged. “I don’t really care what my room looks like,” he said. “Having a room is good enough for me.”

Euphemia laughed at him and called him precious. Then, she led him back down the stairs to the kitchen and showed him the pantry and mud room that led outside. They even nipped out the back door and glanced down into the cellar that could only be gotten to from outside the house. Once they were back inside Harry was led up the main staircase again, and to a small door between Euphemia’s room and Old Henry’s room that Harry had assumed was a closet. It turned out to be a spiralled staircase leading up to an attic-area that had wizard-expanded space to make it useable.

This floor had a library, a potions lab, and four guest bedrooms. An old man stuck his head out of the potions lab when they came up. He looked a great deal like Fleamont, only his messy hair was snow-white and his eyes were blue instead of hazel. Harry thought he vaguely recognized him from the Mirror of Erised in first year, and Harry realised with a start that this was his great-grandfather.

“Wasn’t expecting you back so soon, lass,” Henry said grumpily.

“And I wasn’t expecting you to be brewing today,” Euphemia retorted. “Didn’t Healer Bones say you weren’t to be doing anything strenuous?”

“It’s not a complicated potion,” Henry protested with annoyance clear on his face. But there was a shiftiness present too that had Euphemia pushing past him to see what he was doing.

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. “Purple berry dye, burnt demiguise hair, and Quintaped bile as an enhancer... Why are you brewing a prank potion, Henry Potter?”

The man scowled at her like a child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar, crossing his arms in front of him.

“’S for Jamie,” he grumbled. “Poor lad’s been miserable over his soulmate ignoring him. I thought I’d send him something to help cheer him up. You know pranking always makes him feel better.”

“Prank who?” Euphemia asked warily. “If I get one more letter from Horace Slughorn complaining that his punishments hardly stick when Jamie’s grandfather’s helping him with pranks—”

“Oh, not the Slytherins,” Henry said hastily. “He got the idea that if he pranked his soulmate, she at least wouldn’t be ignoring him anymore. So he asked me for a potion to change her hair to purple.” He then muttered under his breath, “Little muggle-raised princess who thinks she knows better than her Professors.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good idea to me.”

It was only when the other two turned to stare at him that Harry realised he was the one who’d spoken.

“What? Why not?” Henry asked testily.

Harry blinked, but having drawn attention to himself he supposed he might as well justify his comment. He grimaced, and he spoke slowly in that strange jumble of accents he’d accumulated as part of his backstory. “Well, if she’s a little girl, won’t pranking her just make her more upset? If she’s ignoring her soulmate, perhaps James should figure out why she’s ignoring him and try to make up for whatever he did. I mean, what if pranking her doesn’t make her pay attention to him more? Then he’s still ignored and he’s got detention or whatnot on top of everything else.”

Henry huffed. “Suppose you have a point,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll tell him to use it on someone else. And more discreetly, so Horace Slughorn doesn’t send you another letter, Euphie.” Then Henry squinted at Harry. “Who’s this, anyway?”

“My nephew. Apparently my brother Henry went and had a son while he was off at the other end of the world. Harry here was just properly identified and sent back to England, so now he’ll be living here with us. I was just about to let him pick out a bedroom.”

Henry hummed thoughtfully. “You like brewing potions, boy?” he asked him. Harry blinked. He started to sign his answer, and then stopped, as if he’d suddenly remembered to speak aloud. Then, he said hesitantly, “Um…I suppose it’s alright. I’m not very good at it, though.”

The old man harrumphed. “Well, perhaps you can help me brew one day. I’ve got to go now, the potion’s about to boil over.” And he slammed the door in both of their faces. Euphemia just laughed.

“That’s Old Henry for you. It’ll be fun, brewing with him. He’s one of the best potioneers in the family, you know.”

Harry was still a bit dazed from the encounter. “Does a talent at potions run in the Potter family?”

Euphemia nodded. “Oh, they’re famous for it. Never been titled, don’t hold any real weight in society as a whole, but this family has been inventing new potions for generations. Old Henry was more interested in politics than potions as a younger man, but now that the healers are all telling him to slow down he’s gone back to brewing a lot.”

Harry considered this sourly. He wondered if Snape had known his family was famous for being both good at and fond of potions. It put the way the man treated him in class and allowed others to sabotage him in a whole new light. Well, Harry thought, I’m well shot of him. Maybe here I can learn to love potions like my family seems to. He’d been excited for potions before his first class, after all. It was Snape who’d squashed that with his nastiness and bullying.

As he thought about it all Harry was showed the upstairs bedrooms. Euphemia said he could choose either the room downstairs or one of these rooms as his personal one. These were smaller than the bedroom downstairs but were just as nice-looking. Still had double beds, but the wardrobes were narrower and smaller with space-expanded interiors. There weren’t vanities in any of these rooms. Instead two had small old-fashioned desks and the other two had chests of drawers. Harry did like the view from the windows in one room in particular, he thought to himself.

It was the one at the back of the house, past the potions lab and library. The little room had a private bath and the bedroom itself was half under the eaves of the house, making the roof sloped. The back end of the roof met up with a large window, a wide cushioned shelf under the window creating a little reading nook. The wardrobe was small and fat, almost more of a cabinet than a wardrobe…until he opened it up to reveal its insides were much larger than its outsides. This was one of the rooms with a desk, and it was the same sort Harry had in his suitcase — a roll-top desk with little shelves inside for parchment and ink bottles and other writing supplies.

Harry also liked that the room was almost hidden from the rest of the house: the only way in was through the library, and whoever had set up the library decided having a door there was no reason not to add extra shelves and so while not actually disguised to look like a shelf, the door did have a bookshelf affixed to the back which camouflaged it a little.

Once Harry had chosen a room Euphemia left him to “get settled in”, telling him she’d send their elf Taffy up to fetch him when it was time for lunch.

It was difficult for Harry to decide what he would take out of his suitcase and what to leave in. He knew he needed to leave anything that was noticeably from the future in his suitcase: Bode had assured him that the key had been specially charmed so only he could use it without his fingers being burnt off, and even if somebody negated that charm they still couldn’t open the apartment portion of the suitcase. It was the safest place for anything that didn’t belong in this time.

So while he took out the assignments he’d gotten from the Unspeakables and put them on his desk, he left the letters alone. Any knickknacks and books that had no date on them could come out, but he checked every one of the books from his time to make sure the publication date was 1972 or earlier. If it wasn’t, then it stayed on a shelf in his suitcase. He brought out the altered version of his photo album and set it on the bedside table.

Then, since the clock hanging on the wall told him there was still an hour or two before lunch, Harry sat down at his desk to do some of his OWLs assignments. Impulsively, he decided to start with his next potions essay. Harry worked through his potions essay, his herbology and transfiguration assignments, and was halfway through his most recent assigned theory reading for defence when a female house elf popped into Harry’s new room.

It was smaller and slighter than Dobby, but it had a similarly long nose. Its large round eyes were blue, and it wore what looked like a red embroidered cloth napkin as a toga.

“Mistress Euphie is saying that it is time for lunch, young master!” the elf squeaked.

Harry nodded, standing and setting his book aside. “Thanks,” he said in reply. Thankfully this elf didn’t burst into hysterical tears like Dobby was prone to either. Instead it just nodded and vanished again.

The teenager made his way down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor, but a glance into the dining room revealed it was empty. Harry wandered to the back of the house towards the kitchen. There he found his grandmother and great-grandfather sitting together at the kitchen table eating sandwiches. Euphie beckoned for Harry to join them.

As they all ate Euphie and Henry wanted to know how Harry was settling in. Henry wanted to know if Harry had gone exploring yet. Harry shrugged and shyly admitted he’d been doing his homework assignments instead.

He had to explain his correspondence schooling, and Henry was impressed he was doing even a correspondence course with Chrónia Akadimía, but asked if he was planning to continue it now that he wasn’t travelling all over. “You could go to Hogwarts, you know. Euphie’s boy Jamie is a first year there right now.”

Harry just smiled and agreed that would be nice, but he had to get through this term’s worth of Chrónia classes first. All the while he was talking, he had to keep reminding himself to either sign while talking, or begin signing, stop, and then talk as if he’d prefer to not speak aloud. And then, when he did speak, he had to use that Australian-English-goblin accent he’d acquired while preparing his backstory. It was kind of complicated, but he’d gotten used to it over the past month (or more, but time turner use had thoroughly scrambled Harry’s ability to gauge how much time had actually passed) with the Unspeakables, so Harry managed to make it all look and sound natural enough.

After lunch Henry wandered off muttering about needing to “check on the sick mooncalves”, and Euphemia turned to Harry and asked how he was really doing.

“You took a funny turn out by Charlus and Dorea’s house. Are you really alright?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, I just… I just realised that was the house I’d lived in — as a baby, I mean. When my parents were alive.”

Euphemia let out a soft “oh” and changed the subject to Harry’s fictional correspondence lessons. “I know you’re actually studying with the Unspeakables. Are you really doing long-distance lessons, or do you need to visit in person?” Harry told her what Rowena had told him: that he was required to continue coming to the Department for at least a few hours a day until he was either proficient in Occlumency or until he started Hogwarts in September. They would also prefer him to come and do at least some of his lessons in person so that he could fit more into shorter amounts of time, but that part was more flexible.

After a bit of discussion, they agreed that Harry would spend the mornings at the Ministry. He would leave before the sun was up, eat breakfast at the DoM, and do lessons with the Unspeakables until lunch, when he would come home. Euphemia showed him where the house Floo was (in the sitting room) and where the Floo powder was stored (in a china vase on the fireplace mantle). While they were in the sitting room Fleamont Flooed in from somewhere. He kissed his wife on the cheek and exclaimed over Harry’s presence, asking him eagerly how he’d been settling in and how he liked the house. Harry answered as best as he could but thankfully Fleamont was more than capable of carrying the conversation without Harry really having to say too much. At one point they migrated to the kitchen so Fleamont could begin to prepare supper. Apparently while their elf Taffy could cook she rarely did so; instead the elf helped care for the potions ingredient garden and the livestock while the male Potters usually cooked.

“It’s just like potion brewing, really,” Fleamont said cheerfully, and Harry blinked. He’d never thought of it like that before. He shyly suggested he could help cook sometime.

“I don’t know how to use a wizarding kitchen, but I’m sure it’s not that different from muggle cooking.”

His grandfather was enthusiastic in his agreement, loudly proclaiming they’d have to cook together sometime. Flea then spent the rest of his time preparing supper interrogating Harry on what sort of meals he was used to cooking, the things he enjoyed preparing, and his favourite foods. It was…really nice, having someone so interested and pleased over something that had been Harry’s job at the Dursleys’ since he was a kid. The Dursleys never cared so long as the food was edible, and Uncle Vernon had hated it the few times Harry tried to experiment with unusual recipes. His grandfather, on the other hand, seemed the sort to eagerly help him with all experimenting.

Supper was held in the dining room instead of the kitchen, and all the Potters except James and Cousin Caelum were in attendance. Those two were at Hogwarts — James in first year Gryffindor and Caelum in seventh year Ravenclaw. Charlus was rather like a younger Henry, and accepted Harry easily enough after asking him a few questions about places he'd visited and such. Charlus' wife Dorea, on the other hand, was another story.

She didn't regard him with suspicion, exactly, but she watched him as if he was a puzzle. It was revealed that Dorea was a Black just like Harry's "mother", and so was Harry's cousin twice removed, or something like. From the names the others were dropping Harry was able to piece together that Dorea was Sirius's great-aunt, his grandfather Pollux's youngest sister. Harry supposed Gus had been right in making him memorize the Black Family Tree.

No matter what he said she continued to regard him with a narrow-eyed, thoughtful expression. It was enough to make Harry feel a bit paranoid. He was doubly careful to sign almost as much as he spoke, and was surprised to learn she knew sign language, so he simply stopped talking to her aloud at all, because his odd accent made her look at him cross-eyed.

All through dinner Harry avoided direct eye contact with her and cleared his mind. Dorea Potter nee Black hadn’t been on the list of British and international Legilimens he needed to look out for, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use Legilimency. She just might be more discreet about it than figures with more political clout to get out of trouble if caught using it.

Thankfully, Harry’s other new relatives had plenty to talk about: regaling him with family tales and funny stories from their youths and asking for stories of Harry’s in return. It was almost enough to distract him from Dorea’s probing focus on him—and forcing Dorea to act as sign-translator because Harry acted too overwhelmed to speak aloud distracted her a bit. And fortunately, the after-dinner activity the Potters apparently almost always took part in was more than enough to distract the both of them.

He’d not missed a beat when Old Henry asked how he was on a broom.

“I’m a fair flyer,” he’d signed, and Dorea translated. The crotchety old man eyed him as though scenting the understatement.

“Ever played Quidditch? I know they do bloody Quodpot in the Americas; down south they still play proper broom sports, don’t they?”

Startled, Harry nodded. He actually spoke aloud this time, though slowly and quietly. “Oh — yes. And I usually play Seeker, in pick-up games. I’m a fair Beater as well, though.”

“Well, that’s good,” Flea said cheerfully. “We’ve not had a Seeker type in ages. Jamie can be a Seeker in a pinch, but he’s really more of a Chaser, that boy.” He stood. “Well, if you’re a Seeker you can use the old Silver Arrow. I’m a Beater myself.”

“Uh…what?”

Everyone else was getting up, so Harry got up as well.

“We have a bit of a pick-up Quidditch match in the evenings,” Charlus told him. “Or sometimes we play Shuntbumps or Swivenhodge, but the former we only play when the children are home and the latter we only play when Farmer Jones up the road trades us a hog for some sheep.”

“I’ve not heard of any of those but Quidditch,” Harry told him as he was led by the adults out the front door and around the house to a broom shed.

Euphie laughed. “That’s not surprising,” she said. “I know Swivenhodge is only played in England and Scotland.”

Dorea looked surprised. “I thought Shuntbumps would be played in Australia, at least. It is a popular children’s game.”

“Ah, well he didn’t live in Australia that long, Dee,” Euphie rejoined.

Harry nodded and interjected, “Yes, we were only there a year or so. Before that we had a house in New Zealand but travelled an awful lot. I didn’t have many friends as a kid. What is Shuntbumps anyway?” he asked plaintively, growing weary of all this discussion going over his head.

Old Henry came up beside him. “Ever heard of that muggle game — hmm, dodge ball, I think it’s called?”

Harry nodded slowly.

“Well it’s rather like that, only there’s no ball and you’re on a broomstick. Nobody flies very high, of course, and we’re all trying to knock each other off our brooms. But like Charlie boy said, we don’t play unless the children are here.”

“And we sit out,” Dorea said huffily. “Knocking each other around on broomsticks is all well and good when you’re a lass, but it’s too undignified for grown women. Best left for men and children.”

“As you say,” Henry said agreeably, as though she’d said this many times before.

As Fleamont had said, Harry was presented with a Silver Arrow from the shed. The others all divided up old Comet and Nimbus models — old to Harry, anyway. The newest broom, which Flea said was James’s (as he was only a first year, it had been left home), was only a Nimbus 1000. Those were the very first brooms in the Nimbus line and had been released in 1967. Sure, in 1972 that meant the broom was only just five years old, but to Harry, who’d ridden the version that had three decades of improvement over this one, it seemed very old indeed.

Harry was startled to find a good dozen or so individuals carrying brooms had shown up in the field behind Potter Manse that was marked off as an informal Quidditch pitch. From conversation around, he learned that the Potters went flying together nearly every evening, unless serious business was afoot. It was so ingrained in the culture of Godric’s Hollow wizard-folk, in fact, that it was quite common for people wanting to play a good game of Quidditch to show up and play after supper even if the Potters weren’t participating that evening.

There was a lot of exclaiming over Harry, and people who’d greeted Euphemia without further conversation that morning bombarded both his grandmother and Harry himself with questions now. Euphie was in her element, gaily discussing her “nephew” with everyone. Harry was more reticent, but answered a few questions put to him about where he’d been and what sort of schooling he’d had up until now. Well, for a definition of answered. Mostly he signed and dragged Dorea into translating. She bore it with a long-suffering air. Many were impressed that Harry was apparently a student of Chrónia. The Unspeakables had been right, Harry reflected. Nobody seemed to know where it was or what criteria it followed for student intake, but everyone had at least heard of the “prestigious Greek school” and had an opinion on it.

Then the game was organized. Old Henry was Keeper for the Potter side, against a barrel-chested young man who looked to be a recent Hogwarts graduate. Fleamont and Dorea were Beaters, while Charlus and Euphemia were Chasers along with a lady from town who chattered merrily with Dorea before the game began. Their opponents were a motley lot: some farmers, a shopkeeper, and a little slip of a girl who looked to be about nine as third Chaser. Harry’s opponent as Seeker was built more like Krum than like Harry himself—big and bulky with sloped shoulders. The man introduced himself as Sam from the magical bookshop in town and clapped Harry on the shoulders companionably.

“Don’t feel too bad when I get the Snitch,” Sam said.

Harry gave him a startled glare, his surprise having him forget to sign instead of speaking aloud. “And what makes you so sure you’ll get it?” he asked sharply.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You look like a stiff breeze could blow you over, kid. And I’ve got the record for Quidditch victories here on the green. I usually take your spot, actually, when Jamie and Caelum aren’t home. So like I said, don’t feel too bad when I win. I always do.”

Harry had to repress a smirk. This Sam might have the record for informal games here, but the only game Harry ever lost was because he’d been attacked by Dementors, and he was the youngest Seeker in a century. He’d enjoy showing this self-satisfied fellow the ropes.

Funnily enough, the old author of Harry’s history textbook refereed the game. Harry hadn’t known anything about Bathilda Bagshot, but apparently she lived in Godric’s Hollow not too far from the house currently lived in by Charlus and Dorea. And here she was now holding her wand up and getting set to release the balls for the start of the game.

It was a comical sight.

She was a little woman, even older than Dumbledore, and wrapped in half a dozen shawls over her floral-patterned robes. Old Bathilda looked so old she made Henry seem young, despite the two being of similar ages. Her eyes were pale but still sharp, and she held her wand like she was conducting troops on a field. You’d expect her to have a soft, grandmotherly voice based on her appearance, but instead, when the players were all on their brooms and she cried out “Game start!” she had a deep booming voice that reverberated around the field.

The players all took off on their brooms at her shout. The group of children watching from up on a nearby hill began cheering. Some wit had cast a Sonorous charm on himself and was narrating the game of Potter versus Village in a manner very reminiscent of Lee Jordan.

“And it’s Euphie Potter in possession — passing to her cousin-in-law — Maria from the village team trying to block — OUCH! Looks like that hurt! Dorea Potter just proved once again that terrifying things come in pretty packages, folks. Never mess with a Black when dealing in politics or Quidditch. She packs a mean Bludger and a meaner bludgeoning hex!”

Harry sniggered as he swooped above the main game on the Silver Arrow. He’d been a bit apprehensive about getting on such an old broom. He remembered Madame Hooch mentioning the Silver Arrow line when he’d gotten his Firebolt, and he knew it must have been old if she’d learnt to fly on one. But it flew really, really well. Not quite as good as his Firebolt — it was slightly slower, for one, and seemed to have poor-quality braking charms as well. But if Harry had to rank it, he’d put it between his Nimbus 2000 and the Firebolt in terms of speed and maneuverability.

Sam for the other team was flying back and forth in an old search pattern Harry recognized as the first one Oliver Wood had taught him; it was a classic Seeker pattern from Hogwarts plays, though rarely used in professional matches. Because Harry was so good Wood had progressed quickly into teaching him more complex plays he could use to mess with the other team even as he searched for the Snitch. As such, Harry was occasionally ducking into the main play-zone when the other team was in possession. He’d drop down, do a low-level search pattern right in the way of the other team’s Chasers, and fly back up above before the other team’s Beaters could target him easily. The commentator noticed his odd flight pattern, but only spared it a brief comment.

“And Euphie’s nephew definitely has some proper Seeker training — that’s a relatively easy professional-level Seeker search pattern, for you kiddies up on the hill. Only try that with adults watching so they can catch you if you ram someone by accident. Back to the game, William from the village team is in possession, about to reach the Potter goal posts — He throws but Henry Potter catches and throws it to his nephew Charlus. Potter team in possession. And that’s a Bludger from Amelius that Charlus just dodged — oh, it’s coming back now — and Charlus dodges again! And his wife catches the bludger and sends it back at Amelius — I told you that Black was dangerous, Lee! Potter team scores as the Seekers are making a dive — MERLIN’S BEARD, LOOK AT THAT TRAVERS BOY FLY!”

Sam had dived suddenly in the middle of a play, and Harry came tearing after him. He realised halfway down that Sam was trying to catch him out with a Wronski Feint. Not only was Sam just flying straight down, not as though he was pursuing anything, but Harry caught a fluttering glint of gold out of the corner of his eye. The Snitch was hovering just under a goalpost towards Harry’s side of the field. He could probably pull out now and give chase, but Sam would notice and follow right after. Harry instead continued to follow Sam into the dive but began to drift to the side marginally as he dove, as though he couldn’t hold a dive that steep. Just before he hit the ground he veered the old broom sharply towards the goal posts and streaked across the field.

There was a thud behind him, but Harry didn’t look back. He stretched his hand out and plucked the Snitch out of the air but was going so fast he had to loop around the goalposts two more times before he could come to a halt. The Silver Arrow definitely didn’t brake as readily as the Firebolt.

The commentator guy was still shouting about Harry’s move — apparently Sam had noticed him pulling to the side, and forgot to pull out of the dive himself, so technically Harry had turned the Feint back on him. But Harry didn’t pay any attention to that.

“Fair flyer, you said!” Old Henry howled, flying over to Harry on his own Comet. “You should play professional, boy!”

Harry grinned at him. “I may have forgotten to mention that I was also the youngest known Seeker to play on an official team in about…” he mentally calculated the difference “…seventy-five years when I used to play games with the Gringotts teams.”

Henry laughed so hard he nearly fell off his broom, and Dorea flew over.

“Maybe you’ll be sorted into Slytherin when you go to Hogwarts,” she laughed. “I could use another snake in this family of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors.”

Harry kept his face innocent and unknowing and spoke aloud for maximum effect, “What does it matter?”

Everyone within hearing turned to look at him oddly.

“What does it matter?” Dorea gasped out.

Harry nodded solemnly. “Yes, the cursebreakers always used to make a big deal about Houses if they attended Hogwarts. I really don’t understand it, though. I mean, a manky old hat determines your personality at age eleven and everyone judges you on that for years afterwards. It’s silly.”

He was actually quoting Rowena on a rant she’d gone off on a week or so ago about House prejudice in conjunction with her name and being in Gryffindor. He completely understood her point, and so had no problems touting that as if it was his opinion. It was worth it to see Dorea try to explain exactly why Houses were important though. She was so indignant she forgot to look puzzled by him.

As they all landed Charlus clapped him on the back. “Good flying, cousin!” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when you shot off like that. A perfect ninety-degree turn; nobody’ll believe me down at the pub.”

“They will if I back you up!”

It was the guy who’d commentated the match. He held out a hand for Harry to shake. “I’m Phillip Blishen. My family runs the pub and firewhisky brewery down in town. Blishen’s Firewhisky — maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Harry’s eyebrows went up as his hand was vigorously shaken. He pulled it back to sign his answer. Dorea, who was still beside him, replied for him. “I’m fifteen,” he pointed out. “And this is my first time in England. I grew up as a Gringotts ward, so I mostly lived in Egypt and various places in Oceania as a kid. My parents drank firewhisky on occasion, but it’s not like I paid attention to the label when I couldn’t have any myself.”

The man looked thrown for a moment by the signing, but once Dorea had finished translating he shook it off and shrugged. “Shame,” Phillip Blishen said blithely. “We’ll hold your seventeenth birthday at the pub, then, and you can try it.”

“His birthday’s in October, Phillip, so he’ll be at Hogwarts,” Euphemia said, stepping forwards with a disapproving expression. “And you’ll not be encouraging my nephew to get drunk the day he turns seventeen. Not on your whisky.”

Harry looked up at her, nonplussed. “What’s wrong with his whisky?” he signed. Charlus laughed.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, but it does make you breathe fire for a couple hours afterwards. The weaker your alcohol tolerance the longer it lasts.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Oh,” he mouthed silently. The adults all laughed.

Most of the villagers went off down the country road as night began to fall, chivvying sleepy children along. Charlus and Dorea went with them, and Euphemia led Harry to the drawing room where Henry and Fleamont were having cigars and discussing the match. Euphemia left Harry with them, giving him a reminder to not stay up too late, and then vanished. Harry, a tad surprised, stood looking after her for a few minutes until his grandfather spoke.

“The ladies never join us in the evenings,” Fleamont told him. “If Dorea was here the pair of them would go to the sitting room or up to the library to do needlework and talk, but well-bred witches are not fond of the smell of cigar smoke.”

He took a puff of his cigar as if to emphasize the point. Old Henry had laid aside his own cigar and taken out a long-fluted pipe instead, and he was determinedly blowing smoke-rings. Harry sat slowly.

“So…we just talk until bed?”

Old Henry nodded. Then, he added around his pipe, “Or until one of you youngsters drops off, anyhow. So what did you think of the game, boy? Have fun?”

Harry nodded. “It was brilliant,” he agreed.

Henry hummed around his pipe, his blue eyes considering. “And you’ve been settling in nicely? From what young Monty has been telling me you spent the past few years mostly living out of a suitcase. It must be an unusual change.”

It took Harry a moment to remember that Monty was one of his grandfather’s nicknames. Harry looked at his great-grandfather and smiled. “Oh, I love it here,” he said. “It’s like having a home, and it’s been far too long since I had one of those.”

Henry regarded him with a sad smile and Fleamont leaned over to give him a hug. In that moment, Harry knew he’d found a new memory if he needed to conjure his Patronus again in the future. For the first time ever, he had his family.

And that was enough for him.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up the next morning before it was light outside. He made his way softly down the spiral staircase to the second floor and then ghosted down the main staircase just as quietly. He had a small bag he’d been given by Euphemia that held his finished assignments and the heavy cloak that marked him as affiliated with the Department of Mysteries. When Harry reached the Floo he first pulled out the cloak and put it on, then threw some of the green powder into the large fireplace.

“Ministry for Magic!” he called out as softly as possible. He was whirled through the green flames and came stumbling out into the Ministry Atrium.

It was mostly empty at this particularly early point in the morning, only one or two bleary-eyed individuals Flooing or Apparating in every few minutes. Harry walked confidently over to where the golden lifts were, getting in one that had a single Unspeakable in it.

The Unspeakable eyed him. “Morning,” he said. Harry just nodded in reply.

The lift took them down to the stone corridor with the door to the Department of Mysteries at the far end. Harry entered alongside the Unspeakable. He let the man who worked there go to his destination first — the Mind Room. Harry wondered if he was co-workers with Rowena. Then Harry made his way to Bode’s office as he usually did.

The Unspeakable assigned to his case wasn’t there yet, but Saul Croaker was. Croaker listened to a recitation of Harry’s and Euphemia’s decisions on how he could finish out his internship through the rest of the spring and summer and agreed that their plans seemed sensible. Harry was then sent off to work more on his Occlumency with Rowena.

The day seemed to pass by quickly. Occlumency with Rowena, then a break for breakfast. After he’d eaten Harry was sent off to do more OWLs prep, practicing all his casting nonverbally just as his alias required. After a snack he turned time back to further work on stories and mannerisms to help flesh out his new identity, as well as working on a bit more OWLs prep before leaving for the day. It was exhausting, and by the time he Flooed back to Godric’s Hollow for a late lunch he was bleary-eyed and tired.

Euphemia sent him off to take a nap after lunch. Harry didn’t really plan to sleep — he planned to get started on his homework — but he dozed off before he realised it and slept for three hours. Late afternoon saw Henry Potter showing Harry around the property and teaching him how to help with the sheep and the potions garden. Dinner was once again a large family affair followed by a Quidditch game with the villagers. With Harry as Seeker the Potters won once again, and Harry did some of his homework in the evening before going to bed. He did it in the drawing room, and both Fleamont and Henry were eager to help him. When he woke up the next morning the process repeated itself all over again.

The days fell into a pattern of Occlumency-OWLs-time travel-study-nap-family-homework. It was fun and easy despite being exhausting. Harry was learning so much at the Ministry, and experiencing so many new things with the Potters. Harry found himself slowly growing to love all the Potters who had been dead before his first birthday. Each and every one was a colourful personality, and Harry sometimes found himself wistfully imagining growing up with all of them still around in his time.

Old Henry, his possible namesake, was a crochety old man, but James had clearly gotten his prankster streak from his grandfather. Henry was a canny fellow who liked to talk politics and potions, sometimes together. Harry found that when brewing with his great-grandfather, he not only enjoyed himself, but he was learning all sorts of things Snape had never bothered to teach anyone in potions class. Sometimes Henry annoyed him, as the old man was set in his ways and could be rather bigoted about non-humans and muggleborns, despite politically supporting both when he was a younger man.

Harry’s grandparents were simply wonderful. Euphemia was determined to spoil him as much as possible, and Fleamont was always willing to help Harry with his assignments. The old couple also advised Harry constantly on what to wear, and his grandfather had convinced him to use Sleakeazy’s—the hair-care potion Fleamont had invented—to tame his unruly mop of hair. Fleamont and Harry would cook together at meals, and Harry was blushing so brightly he felt as though he’d turned the same colour as a telephone box when the family effusively praised the first meal he helped cook for them.

Charlus and Dorea were another pair of characters. Charlus was cut out of the same cloth as Henry and Fleamont—potion-obsessed to the extreme but otherwise a mellow individual. He shared Henry’s interest in politics and Fleamont’s interest in fashion, and he would take Harry out late at night when the moon was high in the sky to show him the herd of mooncalves the Potters kept. Dorea was an unconventional Black, disdainful of muggles but surprisingly tolerant about half-bloods and muggleborns. She analysed everything Harry said, but also loved to pull pranks with Henry, dragging Harry into her fun because she insisted he needed to “lighten up”. She also enjoyed signing with him. According to her, she’d learnt due to a classmate who’d been permanently Silenced in a duel fourth year that went out of hand, and she’d been falling out of practice lately because the friend was abroad. Translating for Harry helped her remember, so Harry did his best to provide reasons for her to translate for him at every opportunity.

Harry couldn’t wait to meet his cousin Caelum and his dad—who amazingly had only recently turned twelve. Harry had been mistaken when he heard Sirius was twelve back in March and assumed the Marauders were all second years. Apparently Sirius had an early birthday, so the Marauders were in reality finishing up their first year at Hogwarts, not their second like Harry had assumed.

Euphemia even introduced him over the course of two dinner parties to her branch of the Travers family, and they were pretty neat as well. Harry’s “grandparents” were deceased, but Euphemia’s brother George was still alive. George himself reminded Harry of Malfoy or perhaps Zacharias Smith with his self-entitled airs, but Harry’s Aunt Diana was friendly and funny, and their daughters Pandora, Atalanta, and Selene were all awesome in a mad Ravenclaw way that reminded Harry an awful lot of Luna Lovegood.

Cousin Pandora looked a bit like Luna as well, Harry realised after that first dinner together. Her eyes were a sea-coloured bluish green instead of the Travers dark green or hazel which all the other girls had, and her hair was a lighter shade of brown than anyone in the family. Her face was quite like Luna’s, though there were significant differences. Pandora’s eyes weren’t nearly as protuberant as Harry’s friend’s, and Luna’s hair was more of a dirty blonde than light brown. Still, it made him wonder…

Pandora was very interested in Harry’s “correspondence” courses. She wanted to know all about what the famous but mysterious Greek school’s curriculum was like, and how that differed from Hogwarts. Pandora considered herself something of an expert on Hogwarts, as she had graduated a few years ago.

Harry indulged her, and it was quite entertaining to do so. He had loads of fun adapting his own Hogwarts lessons from the future into something that sounded plausible. And despite how sharp she was, Pandora thankfully didn’t catch on. While in some ways Pandora reminded him of Luna, in others she was all Hermione. It…eased the ache in his heart to be making friends with someone as vivacious and wonderful and brilliant as Pandora. And she and Atalanta were two peas in a pod, though Atalanta was a bit more fact-obsessed and less flighty than Pandora.

Harry only got to meet the younger two of his cousins because the entire Travers household had come down with Vanishing sickness the previous summer. They’d all been in St. Mungo’s for months and had only just been released with a clean bill of health. Atalanta and Selene had been doing correspondence courses and tutoring to keep up with their schoolwork at Hogwarts, and Atalanta was stressing because she’d have to take all her OWLs in July instead of with her classmates. Pandora simply lamented that the illness had pushed back her wedding date by months and months. Her poor fiancé hadn’t even been allowed to visit with her until after Christmas, she bemoaned.

Harry occasionally wondered what had happened to Pandora and her sisters in his time. Were they all dead? Had none of them wanted or been able to get custody of their cousin James’ son? Harry would have much preferred one of his Travers cousins to Aunt Petunia as his guardian, honestly. But it was 1972 and the only person who would have the answers had never even met Harry before, so he put thoughts like that out of his head as thoroughly as he could when they showed up.

On the topic of his schooling, Pandora and Atalanta were also delighted to hear that Harry planned to begin attending Hogwarts in the fall. They discovered that if he managed to join sixth year as he planned, he would be in the same year as Atalanta. Little Selene was currently a third year, but was also eager to have her new cousin at Hogwarts with her.

“Oh, maybe you’ll be in Ravenclaw like the girls are, and like I was!” Pandora had squealed, clapping her hands together. “That would just be marvellous!”

Atalanta nodded. “And you could meet all my friends, and we could all have such fun!”

Harry grinned at her. “Well, I’m sure we’ll have fun no matter what Hogwarts House I’m put in. Cousin Dee seems to think I’ll be a Slytherin, you know.” He signed as he spoke, as the three Ravenclaws had expressed a desire to learn both ASL and the goblin signs Harry tended to use “in order to make things easier on him”.

Harry had already decided not to fight the Hat no matter where it wanted to put him. Oh, he’d loved Gryffindor and rather wanted to be in it again simply so he could watch his parents interact, but he knew from talk with the Unspeakables that it would look much less suspicious if he was put into Ravenclaw or Slytherin, due to how most members of the Travers and Black families were sorted. And since he didn’t see himself as quite clever enough for Ravenclaw, well…at least he was pretty sure that all the most obnoxious people that should be in Slytherin right now would probably only be twelve or thirteen. He could ignore them all he wanted.

Pandora nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I could see that,” she said slowly. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters. You’ll only be at Hogwarts two years anyway — that’s hardly enough time for your House to really define you as usually happens at Hogwarts.”

Harry agreed and then graced Pandora with his borrowed speech (again, from Rowena) on how silly the whole Sorting thing was to begin with. They proceeded to have a lively debate on the pros and cons of giving eleven-year-olds such defining labels for the next hour or two, Atalanta chiming in whenever she agreed with one or the other of them. Harry was really starting to be glad he was becoming friends with Cousins Pandora and Atalanta.

He spent weekend evenings with Arcturus. Harry flooed over to Chateau Noir in France just before dinner every Saturday. He then spent the evening and all of Sunday with the crotchety old Black and his wife. Melania was surprisingly charming, for a Black, and was apparently related to Ernie from Harry’s time, as she had been born a McMillian. Harry hadn’t been introduced to any of the other members of the Black family yet. Arcturus wanted Harry more familiar with the family magic and customs first, and so they spent the time after dinner learning Black family lore.

The family was descended from the blending of two distinct lines of wizards—one a clan of Celtic sorcerers who had followed the way of the Morrigan, and the other a group of Roman wizards who believed themselves to be descended from many of the Underworld-related Roman gods such as Pluto, Mors, or Trivia. The family hoarded centuries of knowledge on various magics ranging from simply the obsolete to the darkest and most wretched of rituals. While the more basic or wide-spread magics of the family were held in the one of three Black Libraries in their largest properties, the spells and rituals that had been created by and then passed down by the ancient Blacks were kept in a set of volumes known as the Black Grimoires. These Grimoires were always in the possession of either the Lord or a family Heir, and it was believed that if they were ever lost the family itself would be lost.

The Blacks particularly had a reputation for celestial-based rituals and spells, and Harry had to read through the Black Grimoires to learn them all. And as an Heir, it was Harry’s job to gain mastery over his family’s magic, though he also had to be well-versed in an overview of the family history and the other magics the Blacks kept record of. It was all fascinating, and despite the man’s strongly pro-pureblood views Harry found himself growing fond of “Uncle Arcturus” as well. The old man was a fantastic storyteller.

On some days Orion would show up as well. His “cousin” was perfectly willing to give Harry stories of a young Sirius and was pleasant enough to talk to even outside of stories of Harry’s twelve-year-old godfather. Every conversation with him did reinforce his earlier impression of Orion as a more stuffy, rich Slytherin version of Mister Weasley, which only made Harry like him more. He could always argue about the things they disagreed on, after all. Orion would always argue in this absent but polite manner and gave in gracefully when he’d been convinced of something or when he had no more arguments to provide. This was in stark contrast to Arcturus, who was like a dog with a bone with some things.

Since Harry didn’t have to pretend at all with the two Blacks, it was much easier to get down to business. He still used his fake accent, to continue building the habit, but otherwise acted more-or-less normal as they taught him everything from how to bow in different situations to dinner etiquette to allowed conversation topics at various types of parties.

Harry got a crash-course in politics from his “uncle” and “cousin” — both pureblood principles and Wizengamot policy. He and Uncle Arcturus had some fantastic debates about pureblood beliefs, but Harry found to his surprise some of them weren’t that bad. There were a lot of “honour the family” and “keep useful traditions alive” mores, and those Harry agreed with. It was the beliefs concerning pureblood superiority over muggles and muggleborns that Harry argued about with both Blacks. He used his knowledge of future muggle advancements as well his more personal recollection of muggleborns he’d met or heard about to thoroughly debunk every superiority argument Arcturus or Orion put to him.

Then Arcturus made the mistake of bringing up the political factions at the Ministry — specifically, the Knights of Walpurgis and their eloquent leader Voldemort who had arrived from the continent only two years prior.

“He’s a halfblood, you know,” Harry said abruptly as Arcturus extoled how well Voldemort had upheld the Dark cause—namely, the cause to loosen Ministry restrictions on various fields of magic and to advocate total separation from the Muggle world even down to products and facilities used.

His “uncle” paused. “I…beg your pardon,” he said in that way he’d taken to doing every time Harry interrupted the old man with another argument.

Harry smirked. “Voldemort. He’s a halfblood named Tom Riddle.”

Arcturus scowled outrageously. “He’s the Heir to Slytherin!”

“Never said he wasn’t,” Harry shrugged. “His mom was a witch descended from Slytherin, and she died when he was really young because he grew up in an orphanage. His dad was a muggle nobleman from Little Hangleton.”

The old Black’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s your proof?” he asked gruffly.

Harry rolled his eyes. “You mean besides the fact that he told me himself? Or, well, will tell me, in 1993.”

“Why would Lord Voldemort be concerning himself with a schoolboy?” Arcturus protested. “He’s a very important political figure.” Orion watched the argument sharp-eyed, like he usually did, but his brow was furrowed as he considered Harry.

Harry turned away sharply, compulsively running his fingers over his soulmark and pushing his silver band askew. “Well, things change, you know,” Harry said brusquely. “He’s always been very concerned with me, not that he ever realised why.”

Too late, Harry realised Arcturus and Orion had both noticed his odd motion to cover his soulmark, had noticed the blood-red death warrant seared into his skin. The men drew back, a considering look on Arcturus’ face and a dawning expression of realisation on Orion’s.

Neither said anything more about Voldemort or the Walpurgis party, and to Harry’s surprise began to give in on some of their blood purity arguments. Harry didn’t know what either one had realised or thought he’d realised, but Harry was content to ignore it so long as Arcturus and Orion said nothing.

Harry did his best to stop messing with his soul band every time Voldemort or Walpurgis were mentioned and pretended his two god-relatives weren’t giving him thoughtful looks.

Hopefully the old Black and his son wouldn’t do anything too disastrous.

He didn’t want his soulmate to know who he was.

Voldemort was likely already mark-less anyway.

*          *          *

As April and May flew by and the cramming began to have some effect on the assessment tests Harry was made to take weekly, the Unspeakables in charge of getting him up to par began talking about letting him take his Defence OWL a few months early. It was still looking like his other exams were all going to be taken at the end of July, but Gus was sure Harry could take his Defence OWL at the end of May, around the same time the Hogwarts students would be taking it. Of course, all Harry’s exams would be taken in the Department of Mysteries by qualified Unspeakables to keep the secret of Chrónia Akadimía’s non-existence, but still. Finishing Defence early would clear up one subject slot for extra cramming in those last two months before he had to take his exams to be able to attend Hogwarts as a sixth year.

Learning with the Unspeakables was an interesting experience. Most of his instructors in his core subjects were all individuals who’d been on leave for one reason or another and had been assigned to Harry as their newest “project”. None of them seemed to know how to teach a fifteen-year-old time travelling boy, and so they often got side-tracked and taught him other things as well. The cursebreakers — loaned from Gringotts and sworn to secrecy — who were helping with subjects like Care of Magical Creatures that were rather difficult to teach in the confines of the Department, were just the same.

They’d take the time to explain the oddest things, or they would give him a crash-course on something important but completely unrelated to the topic at hand. Harry was starting to wonder if he could even take Ancient Runes and Arithmancy OWLs at the end of July just because of how much of it everyone seemed to thing was necessary for him to know. Apparently those two subjects were the backbone of any sort of research job in the Wizarding World. He decided to ask Bode for an assessment test just for the heck of it one afternoon. Bode promised he’d arrange one, perhaps after Harry’s Defence OWL.

Judicious use was also being made of DoM time-turners to cram even more knowledge into his brain. Due to the restrictions on turning back time with the Hour-Reversal Charm, there were specific offices and rooms set aside in the Department that were used for extra study or research while under a time-crunch. The cursebreakers also had their own time-turners usually, used to help in their work, that they would use to stretch the time they spent teaching Harry as well, usually commandeering an empty conference room in the bank to stay out of people’s way. Half the reason he’d begun taking naps every afternoon was because while he was officially spending somewhere between six to seven hours with the DoM every day, time-turner use transformed that into sometimes double or triple the amount of time.

Harry also dropped the idea of a Divination OWL shortly after moving in with the Potters. Everything he was learning from the Unspeakables who studied time and prophecy was that Divination was very subjective, and hard to manage. Harry had actually been walked back through memories of Divination classes where he’d been shown how every single prophecy or foresight that made a bit of sense had actually come true regardless of his own scepticism. Apparently it was very common for people with a gift in prophecy to not realize their true insights. So Trelawney wasn’t a fraud in truth, it was just that her grand-standing made picking the real glimpses of the future difficult. They’d even walked Harry through the memories of several of his classmates, explaining how you could tell their proficiency in Divination as much by what they said without thinking as whatever they Saw in class. The big example Harry was provided by the Unspeakables who worked in the Hall of Prophecy was actually Ron.

Yeah, that had been a weird revelation.

Harry had met a Weasley working in the Hall of Prophecy who told Harry with some amusement that their whole family had a bit of a divinatory strain. It was still incredibly weird that Ron could apparently predict the future without even trying, but the Weasley Unspeakable had shown Harry exactly how subtle the Sight really could be. In their first Divination class Ron had seen windfall of unexpected gold in Harry’s cup — which he’d gotten a year later in the Triwizard Tournament. Ron made some offhand comment in second year about Tom Riddle possibly getting his award for murdering Myrtle — technically true, though in a round-about way. It was also apparently not just total chance that Fred and George had guessed the outcome of the Quidditch World Cup so successfully. Even so, one thing Harry had figured out about himself was that regardless of some latent Seer abilities in the Weasley family, Harry himself was pants at Divination, hence his decision to drop it and focus on his other OWLs.

As May drew to a close, the Unspeakables set up one last practical assessment for Defence before Harry took the actual OWL. Harry loved the practical assessments the Unspeakables gave him. They were either mazes of increasing difficulty or duels that could either be one-on-one or sometimes even multiple against one. He loved the adrenaline rush of fighting and duelling every other day. The best part was that the Unspeakables were all perfectly willing to teach him unfamiliar magic if he asked after the lesson. It was like Dumbledore’s Army only he was the student.

The Unspeakables all liked hearing about Harry’s efforts with the DA. More than one had commented that it was no wonder Harry wanted to be a teacher, because he’d likely be excellent at it. Others told him he should start a duelling club or defence club while he was at Hogwarts for his last two years to see if he really wanted to be a teacher. Harry had never had an actual adult take real interest in what he wanted to do with his life before besides Barty and Professor Lupin. Now, he was the centre of attention for a good dozen different Unspeakables and cursebreakers, and he was thriving under the positive feedback.

His favourite Unspeakables had to be Gus, Bode, and Rowena, but he was gaining surprising fondness for the group that was enthusiastically helping him prepare for the Defence OWL he was taking at the end of this week. There were two women and three men, and he’d not gotten their given names — just the Rooms of Study each one worked in. There were two Soul Magic Unspeakables, a man who worked in the Mind Room with Rowena, another man who worked in the Hall of Forgotten Magics, and a woman Unspeakable who worked in the unnamed research hall behind the cafeteria.

She was the only Unspeakable Harry was at all uneasy with, because Gus had told him that in the hall nicknamed the “Food Room” by outside Unspeakables, the researchers studied poisons, potions, and all manners of foodstuff-related magics. The Food Room Unspeakable was very fond of spells that poisoned him, or made him vomit, or spells that vanished the last meal he’d eaten from his stomach and made him feel absolutely starving. He hated duelling her.

Today Harry would be fighting all of them at once, and he jittered in place nervously as he waited for the others to finish setting up the duelling stage. There was an unfamiliar trio of people wearing robes that, while clearly denoting some sort of Ministry department, were just as clearly not Unspeakable robes. Harry wondered what they were present for. Unspeakables wandered in and out of the area as usual, clearly curious. Practically everyone in the Department knew of Harry, even if there were still several who hadn’t yet met him themselves. There was a lot of hype about the time travelling boy who was so very talented at Defence. But he’d never had people from other parts of the Ministry watch before. He felt his nerves mounting.

When the preparations were complete Harry was ushered onto the duelling floor. He stood opposite the five Unspeakables, unspeakably nervous. His wand was out and held laxly, but in a way that would allow Harry to easily bright it to attention. The hardest thing, Harry felt, was that he needed to do all his casting silently if he could. Now and Friday when he took his Defence OWL.

The man who worked in the Hall of Forgotten Magics was the first to cast, as usual. His spells were always impressive—generally either wandless, wordless, or both. This time he sent a spear of ice hurtling Harry’s direction. The teen dodged and had to pull up a shield at the same time as one of the other Unspeakables took advantage to send another spell Harry’s way. Harry was entirely on the defensive, unable to send any spells out as the other Unspeakables presented a well-oiled team after weeks of working together to teach Harry.

The Unspeakable from the Mind Room had Harry dodging what he recognized as a nasty variant of Legilimency that deliberately dragged up his most embarrassing memories. He’d been hit with it the other day and hadn’t liked it at all.

Harry couldn’t do anything truly offensive, but he did manage to send a silent Glisseo at the floor over towards the Unspeakables, causing two of his opponents to slip before someone cancelled his spell. They began to spread out around the room. This made it even more difficult for Harry to defend against them as he tried to keep track of all five Unspeakables at once.

He dodged and shielded as fast as he could, avoiding spells by a hair’s breadth. Harry got hit by one spell that turned his hair bright green but managed to turn a vomiting curse back on the Food Room Unspeakable with a special shielding charm Gus had taught him. She collapsed to the ground retching.

With one of his five opponents out of commission he could chance an offensive turn. Harry threw out a wide array of spells as fast as he could to catch the remaining four Unspeakables off guard before beginning to dodge and shield again. The Mind Room Unspeakable was dropped with a sleeping curse that would last upwards of a week unless he was fed a Draught of Living Death antidote, putting a second one of Harry’s opponents out of the fight. Now facing only three opponents the previously one-sided fight turned into more of a proper duel.

They traded spells back and forth for several long minutes. The trio of Unspeakables tried multiple times to spread out around him, surrounding Harry to easier subdue him, but he’d not gotten caught by that trick in over a week. Harry dodged and sprinted about, casting spells to force them all to group together. He was grinning as he dodged and cast, his blood roaring in his ears. This was fun!

The Forgotten Magics Unspeakable sent some sort of slicing spell Harry’s way. He just barely dodged, but the edge of it cut across his forehead. He didn’t realise it, but it neatly bisected the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead. Blood oozed out of the cut as Harry continued to dodge around, and unnoticed by everyone, the edges of the cursed scar shimmered.

Harry brushed the blood out of his eyes, leaving a smear of red coating the words carved into the back of his hand. He retaliated with a dozen conjured snakes which he set on the man. That Unspeakable was temporarily put out of commission vanishing the cobras coming towards him. Harry took advantage of his distraction and disarmed the man who worked in Soul Magics, who had been tag-teaming Harry with the Forgotten Magics Unspeakable’s help. He snatched the wand that arced through the air with a Seeker’s deftness and knocked the disarmed wizard out with the same sleeping curse he’d used earlier.

But Harry himself was distracted by his catch, and the other Soul Magic Unspeakable sent a bloody red light towards Harry. It sizzled through the air and he heard it coming. Harry turned to dodge, but he couldn’t avoid it in time.

The spell hit him straight on, but it did nothing visible. Harry paused for only a moment, but it hadn’t had any noticeable effect other than making his scar throb like it had back in first year when Voldemort was around.

But Harry wasn’t eleven anymore, and he powered through the growing headache to raise a shield of water to guard against the fire whip the Forgotten Magics Unspeakable had conjured now. He continued to fight and dodge for another moment or two until another spell broke through his guard. The spell itself wasn’t overly harmful — it was just Tarantallegra, the Dancing Feet jinx — but Harry didn’t hear the incantation. He only saw a green light out of the corner of his eye and panicked.

It took only a few seconds for the onlookers to realise something was very, very wrong.

In his brief instant of panic the scar on his forehead seemed to burst open. Harry screamed, his hands coming up to cover the lightning bolt scar. Glowing golden and bloody red magic seemed to erupt from his skin, forming a shield that made a sound like a clanging bell when the jinx hit. The glowing magic reformed into two vaguely humanoid shapes and rushed Harry’s two remaining opponents. Both slumped to the ground unconscious.

Harry, meanwhile, had fallen to his hands and knees. His scar didn’t hurt any longer, but magic was buzzing over his skin and he could feel it like a kiss on his forehead. It was warm.

He was gasping open-mouthed, his eyes wide. When the magical surge had ended he felt something briefly. It was almost like someone had ruffled a hand through his hair, pressed a kiss to his temple. He heard a voice, so faint and echoey it was unrecognizable, whisper “You’re safe now.”

And then it was over.

The gold and red magic sank back beneath Harry’s skin. He had a faint pins-and-needles feel from it, but even that was slowly settling back down. Harry sat up and realised, blinking, that there didn’t seem to be any blood dripping down his forehead any longer. A hand was lifted to rub across his forehead, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

What—

“Harry!”

Gus was suddenly by his side, exclaiming his name loudly. “Harry are you alright?”

Harry nodded, still feeling faintly numb and shaky from…whatever it was…that had just happened. His hand came down slowly to rest in his lap. Harry didn’t know how he felt right now. Grieved? Confused? Inexplicably loved?

It was as though he’d just been given everything he wanted and then had it vanish again, on top of the weirdness that had actually happened. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as though his body hadn’t decided yet whether it wanted to cry or not. Stranger and stranger, considering how little Harry cried in general.

“…Harry?” Gus asked carefully. “Didn’t…didn’t you used to have a rune scar right there?” A finger brushed his forehead and Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes widening again.

“Yeah!” he exclaimed. “It-it’s really gone!? But-”

His mouth snapped shut. He’d managed to keep from telling the Unspeakables all this time that he’d survived the Killing Curse as a baby, he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell them even now. He trusted the Unspeakables to help him get integrated into this time period, even trusted them a bit to prevent things like Umbridge and Lockhart. He just wasn’t sure he trusted them not to go mad scientist over learning he’d survived the Killing Curse because his soulmate had been the one to throw it at him.

Thankfully Gus didn’t seem to pay his sudden silence any thought. “It’s a curse scar, I know. Bode had to spend four hours arguing the Rune Room Unspeakables out of requesting a study of it. We could tell you don’t like drawing attention to it.”

Harry nodded faintly. “Um. What…what just happened?” he finally asked meekly.

“I was hoping you could grant us some insight into that, Mister Travers.”

Harry looked up and gulped. The trio of Ministry officials in unfamiliar robes were standing over him along with Rowena, Bode, and a hooded Unspeakable Harry recognized vaguely as the head of the entire Department of Mysteries. He’d not known that person was coming out to watch Harry’s duel! He didn’t even know what gender the Unspeakable was, and s/he was always hooded and wore face-obscuring and voice-changing charms, even within the department.

“I…I don’t know what happened,” Harry stammered. “That’s why I asked.”

“You’ve never experienced anything like that before?” the Head Unspeakable pressed. Harry shook his head wordlessly.

“Not like the magic. My scar used to hurt…when I was around the person who created it…but nothing like that magic has happened before.”

Bode sighed. He had on his doleful face and Harry just knew he wasn’t going to like what the man had to say. “Harry, I know we’ve been allowing you to avoid explaining that scar of yours, but I think you have to now.”

Harry cringed. “I…well…”

“Just tell us how you got it, okay, Harry?” Gus said encouragingly.

It went against everything Harry wanted, but he knew he had little choice. If they urgently wanted answers asking was only a courtesy. If the DoM wanted answers badly enough they’d just dose him with Veritaserum and he’d have no control at all over the information they dragged out of him. He was stuck, and Harry had no idea what to do.

Chapter Text

Knowing he had no way out, Harry decided to tell them what they wanted to know. Or, well, he’d tell them what he had to. There was no need for them to know everything. He began to explain slowly, haltingly, still leaving out everything he felt he could get away with.

“Sometime soon…a war is going to break out. It’s between the pureblood factions and the muggle sympathizers, and by the time I’m born in 1980 it’s been going on for almost ten years. At some point when I was a baby…my parents went into hiding. They were on the same side as the Ministry, as Professor Dumbledore, and for some reason the opposing side was targeting them. They went into hiding under this special ward called the Fidelus Charm…but they trusted the wrong person. A single person entered the safehouse the Halloween after my first birthday. He killed my father first as my mom ran upstairs. I don’t know if she planned to apparate and couldn’t, or if they actually planned what ended up happening.”

He hesitated, and Rowena knelt next to him, a hand on his back. “What ended up happening?” she coaxed.

Harry took a shuddering breath. “My…my parents were soulmates. They were also apparently both absolutely brilliant. My mom must have known with my dad dead she’d die soon enough anyway, so they did something…I don’t know what they did. But I know my mom stood in front of the man who’d been hunting my family down and begged for my life. I’m not sure she even had a wand on her. He…” this was something he’d started to wonder about after the end of third year. After he’d gotten over the sheer bittersweet joy of hearing his parents’ voices and had begun thinking about the meaning of what they were saying…

“The man was going to let my mom go.” That was unescapable. It was definite. Why would he have told her to move unless he had even a vague plan of letting her go? “He told her to stand aside three times, and each time she refused and insisted he take her and kill her instead of me. Finally, he stopped telling her to move and killed her, maybe because he lost his patience. Then he immediately turned to kill me.”

His fingers found where the scar had once been on his forehead. “When the spell hit it just…bounced right off. My parents had created some sort of protection that kept me safe even years later—when I was eleven, the defence professor that I said my accidental magic killed…well, it wasn’t actually me. He just…turned to ash. Professor Dumbledore said my mom had created a protection when she died for me that lived in my skin. But that’s the only time it’s ever done anything that I know of. It made my scar hurt something awful, though. My scar also hurts whenever I run into the person that created it.”

“About that protection,” the Head Unspeakable said urgently. “You said it turned someone to ash?”

Harry hesitated, and then nodded. “I…I had figured out someone was trying to steal a magical artefact Dumbledore was hiding in the castle, and he’d somehow tricked the Headmaster into leaving too. I…don’t have the best track record with adults, so I figured I might as well try to stop the person myself when the teacher I went to about it didn’t believe me. When I confronted him…I accidently tripped the security measure guarding the artefact, and I fulfilled its requirements. Professor Dumbledore—he said somebody had to want to find it, but not use it at all, in order to receive it. And, well, then I not only had a man with a bit of a grudge against me—he’d tried to hex my broom in my first quidditch game of the season earlier in the year—but he was trying to get that magical artefact off me. He rushed me, trying to grab me and take the artefact out of my hand, and when he touched me his skin blistered like crazy and turned to ash. His hand just…fell off. He was really freaking out.”

He paused again, not sure he wanted to continue. All the adults around him looked disturbed.

“Mister Travers,” one of the Ministry officials asked softly, “have you ever spoke about this before?”

Harry nodded. “I-I told my friends what happened. They were stuck on the other side of one of the protections while all this was going on. And I told Professor Dumbledore after he rescued me.”

Bode had that pinched, displeased look he occasionally got when Harry told him something about the future that he believed had been handled badly. Harry somehow knew he was going to have to discuss all this in detail with Rowena later. She was under oath to not tell anyone what he said or what she saw in his mind, so she was the only Unspeakable he’d ever considered explaining his fame and the reasons for it to.

“So the Headmaster did catch this thief?” the woman of the trio said, sounding relieved. Harry shook his head slowly.

“Not…not exactly. Professor Quirrell jumped back when his hand…uh…turned to ash and fell off. He was trying to curse me, and I was only eleven. I didn’t know enough magic to stop him with my wand so I…I kind of grabbed his face.”

The woman inhaled sharply.

Harry cringed, but Gus spoke up. “Don’t be ashamed, Harry. You said he’d already tried to kill you once that year, and you were only eleven. It was legitimate self-defence. You should be proud you made it out, not ashamed of something you took advantage of to save your life.”

“That’s basically what Dumbledore said at the time,” Harry murmured. “Only he also said I didn’t do anything—he said my mum’s protection was what made him disintegrate.”

“So, this protection,” the Head Unspeakable repeated again, insistently. “What form did it take when it turned the man to ash? How did it act?”

Harry frowned. “It…it didn’t do anything. I couldn’t even tell it wasn’t just me doing whatever-it-was. My scar hurt something awful, too, so I wasn’t thinking too clearly though.”

“You keep going back to your scar,” Bode said shrewdly. “Why is it so important?”

Harry frantically wondered if he could get out of answering this, but all the adults were gazing down at him waiting for an answer. He slumped. Perhaps he’d just avoid mentioning the killing curse and tell them the basics.

“The curse scar was…my godfather theorized it was sort-of a crack in my parents’ protection. That it had messed the protection up. Sirius said that soul magic is…it’s delicate?” He looked up at them all, and many were nodding in agreement. “Well, anyway, any interference can turn a soul magic ritual or enchantment on its head, and the curse scar was interference, even though it was the protection that made sure I had the scar instead of just being…really injured…in the first place.”

“You are dancing around something,” the Head Unspeakable intuited. “The only thing that can truly interfere with soulmate magic is more soulmate magic. How does it connect?”

Harry refused to look at them. “My soulmate was the one who attacked my family when I was a baby,” he said softly, clutching his silver soul band to his wrist so that no edge of his soulmark showed.

The adults above him murmured and muttered. Only Gus and Bode were unsurprised, and each one put a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulders.

“Now that,” the Head Unspeakable intoned, “does make sense.” Harry looked up. The Head Unspeakable sounded amused when s/he spoke again. “I’ll bet your godfather’s theory was that the curse scar was a sign of an incomplete soul bond?”

Harry nodded, dumbfounded.

The Head Unspeakable’s hood tilted to the side in an avian manner. “What many people do not realise is that a one-sided bond is formed every time a soulmark is even partially activated. It’s why your mark turned red when words were spoken to you. His soul connected to your magic. The connection will be complete when your soul in turn bonds to his magic, forming a full two-way soul bond. An incomplete bond so soon after your parents’ protection was formed would have muddied the waters. That also explains what happened today.”

“It does!?” Harry exclaimed along with several others.

The Head Unspeakable nodded. “That one spell which hit young Harry here—the red one—do any of you know what it is?” There was a good bit of murmuring and shaking of heads. “I’m not surprised. It was put on the official duelling roster of banned spells back in 1765. The reason for this is that the curse in question actually disrupts soul bonds.”

There were several surprised exclamations over this that were silenced when the Head Unspeakable raised a gloved hand. “It doesn’t actually affect soul bonds long-term. What it does is temporarily disrupt the bond between two soul mates. It lasts no more than an hour or two, but it was banned anyway because the disorientation and magical instability a disrupted bond causes is dangerous for the cursed individual. Of course, that is for fully bonded persons. There isn’t a ban on using it against unbonded or partially bonded people, because the effect is much diminished. People who have a partial bond might experience unease, perhaps a slight magical disruption. Unbonded individuals would find their soulmarks itching in a quite distracting manner, but nothing more.”

“So when that spell hit me it disrupted my…partial soul bond?” Harry asked hesitantly, for clarification. The Head Unspeakable nodded.

“For that brief time, and right now in fact, your partial bond to your soulmate is severed. Look at your mark.”

Harry did, and was astonished to find his mark the glittery, shimmering silvery-white colour that unbonded people had. “I don’t understand though,” he said. “Shouldn’t this have happened when I went back in time? The version of him in this time shouldn’t be bonded to me at all.”

Bode just shrugged. “That’s one of the phenomena we’re talking about when we call Morgana’s Clock a functional paradox machine. There’s precedent for that, you see — people with partial bonds going through the Clock. They always seem to fulfil their complete bonds without any issue in the past, as well.”

“Huh.” Harry considered that thoughtfully, but steadily avoided all consideration of the idea of his soul bond one day being completed.

“Back to the point,” the Head Unspeakable said, “my theory is that whatever magic your parents devised worked based on a mixture of runes and old soul magic enchantments. We’ve records of something that looked similar to your protection, you see. There have been several versions over various cultures, the original used in Atlantis. They all involved a soul-bonded pair sacrificing themselves for someone — usually a child or an infant — marked with a magical rune of power written in blood. In your case, the Sowilo on your forehead.”

Harry’s hand went up to where his scar was supposed to be. “But it’s gone!” he exclaimed.

The Head Unspeakable knelt and placed a gloved hand right in front of Harry’s eyes. He stayed very still as a wand poked at his forehead. “No, it’s still there,” the Unspeakable said softly. “There’s a very old scar here that goes down into your skull. It just looks like your skin has been healed of any visible mark, along with the cut caused in your duel earlier. The rune is still there, it’s just under your skin and muscle now where it can’t cause you as much pain.”

His mouth fell open. “R-really!? But- how? What healed it?”

“Why, your parent’s soul-blood protection, of course,” the Head Unspeakable said. “It also removed the colour-changing charm on your hair.” Harry gaped. The Unspeakable’s hood tilted again and Harry had the feeling s/he was amused.

“Remember what I said about the ancient Atlantean version of this soul-blood protection? We have extensive records of such protections, and many of our records were copied from other libraries, such as the private Hogwarts Headmaster’s library and the Black Family Library. It is entirely possible your parents re-enacted an ancient Atlantean ritual to protect you, since they knew there was a large chance they would die with the opposition chasing them. At least this way, they could ensure their child’s survival.”

The Head Unspeakable stood. “It’s really very admirable of your parents. They had to have been astonishingly intelligent and talented to properly do all the rituals to begin with, and they did them knowing full well those protections would only wake up if the two of them died in your defence. The only problem is, this protection is very delicate, as you put it, within its first seven hours of existence. Any interference from other soul magic—such as might arise if the person marked with the rune formed a partial or even a complete soul bond in that time—will confuse the protective magic nearly to the point of inefficiency. There are various ways to cleanse the marked individual’s magic and allow the protection free reign, of course. The easiest way would be to place the marked individual in the care of blood relatives to one or both deceased soulmates. The magical love between sworn guardians and a child is powerful enough to cleanse a botched ritual.”

Well that explained why Dumbledore had put him with the Dursleys, Harry thought sourly to himself. But he clearly hadn’t done it right. The Head Unspeakable said sworn guardians—which in wizarding terms meant some sort of magical oaths or contracts, Arcturus had explained on Harry’s first visit to Chateau Noir. Euphemia and Arcturus became Harry’s sworn guardians when they signed all that paperwork with Griphook, but the Dursleys were muggles and couldn’t be sworn guardians even if they wanted to. And on top of that there had never been any love between Harry or his relatives. Harry scowled, but did his best to redirect his attention back to the Head Unspeakable, who had paused for a moment but was now continuing to speak.

“Another way to solve a problem with a soul-blood protection that is described in our records,” the Unspeakable said, “would be to cast an ancient version of the disrupter spell that was cast on you today. It is very likely the modern version works much the same.”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “So…that was my parents’ blood protection that did…whatever-it-was? That’s how it’s supposed to work?” He recalled the breath of warm magic that ruffled through his hair and the quiet voice that reassured him he was safe. He smiled. “Wow.”

“Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to work. The protection is a learning thing, you see. Since it was usually placed on a very young child it would begin extremely overprotective—wiping away every hurt and possible danger. But as the child grew older the magic would loosen its grip, fading away to only protect from truly life-threatening things so that as the child became an adult he or she could participate in more dangerous activities. We’ll have to do something about that.”

The last sentence was said softly, almost as if the Head Unspeakable was speaking to his/herself.

“Do something about what?” Harry frowned.

“Your soul-blood protection has been disrupted for several years,” s/he said. “it didn’t have a chance to grow with you, so it’s likely the protection will treat you like the infant you were when it was first created. Hence the protection reacting to your alarm and removing believed threats, instead of acting to only defend against actual life-threatening spells. As the protection grows, it should begin to be able to tell the difference.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed silently, his eyes huge. Then, the first thing he could think to say was — “Does this mean no more duelling practice?”

That prompted laughter from the adults still standing around him. “You really do love duelling, don’t you?” one of the Ministry officials said. Harry nodded.

“Yes, it’s really fun,” he said. “It’s almost as fun as flying.”

“Well, I don’t see any reason to stop completely,” the Head Unspeakable announced. “If your instructors work with our Soul Magic experts we can hopefully speed up the ageing of your protection so that it’s not jumping at the slightest thing like an overprotective parent by the time you’re attending Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded obediently.

“Well — not that all this isn’t fascinating—” the only Ministry official to have not talked yet spoke up “—but since the three of us are undoubtedly going to be obliviated of all this as a need-to-know event I’d like to ask you some questions I will actually remember the answers to, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh, okay,” Harry blinked.

“Firstly — excluding the soul-blood protection’s activation — how do you feel you did in this duel? You were fighting five adult opponents, all with Defence Masteries.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, I think I did good. But then, this isn’t the first time I’ve duelled the five of them. They even pulled Rowena and Bode in once, so I’ve even duelled seven against one. That one I ended up failing, but I’ve been practicing a lot since then. I got caught off-balance a couple times, but I think I could have drawn at least if — you know, if the protection stuff hadn’t happened.”

“Have you ever won a duel like this before?” the woman asked. Harry nodded.

“Yeah. I win three-on-ones pretty consistently now — that’s the most common duel type they’ve been drilling me on, you see. I’ve only won a five-on-one once, and that was because I used a method that doesn’t exist yet so it caught them all by surprise.”

“Really?” the woman exclaimed. “It doesn’t exist at all?”

Harry grinned. “Really. I was friends with the creators, you see. They created their own prank products, and while most of them were candies some were charmed objects. One object they had was a wand that would self-transfigure itself back and forth between a wand and some sort of joke object. It was a wand when held still or not held at all, but if you tried to use wand movements with it the trick wand would transform into something silly. I still have a few of their trick wands, and I brought some to duelling practice one day. I used switching spells on three of my opponents to switch their wands for the trick ones. It was really funny.”

That prompted some more chuckles. “It certainly is innovative,” one of the other two Ministry officials chortled.

“How would you have proceeded if the Dancing Feet Jinx had hit you?”

Harry cringed. “Was that what that was? I saw the green light and panicked.”

“We noticed,” Bode said dryly. Harry pointedly ignored him in favour of seriously considering the question.

“I would have done my best to cancel it and dodge any other spells coming until I could retaliate. I probably would have hexed his robe to wrap around him. Then I could disarm him easily, and I’d only have one opponent left to deal with.”

“And we’ve discovered he’s becoming close to unbeatable one-on-one unless he’s fighting an unfamiliar opponent. Against those five he’s been practicing with for months, he can nearly predict their movements,” Gus said with a sunny smile. Harry’s ears turned red as one of the Ministry officials whistled lowly.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Harry said embarrassedly. “Like he said, it’s only because we’ve been fighting together so often. The cursebreakers I’m having lessons with keep slipping tactics and strategy drills into my assignments so I’m learning how to do stuff like that.”

“But it shows you have talent,” the official who’d whistled disagreed. The three exchanged glances.

“I think we’re done here, sir,” the woman said to Bode. He nodded dolefully, and Harry’s eyes narrowed as they all filed out of the room. The Head Unspeakable had wandered off while the Ministry officials were asking Harry questions.

“What was that all about?” he asked Gus lowly. The man shrugged.

“They’re going to be helping us get your OWL results into place,” he said. “And Bode wanted them for other parts of your records. They’re going to file everything and then be obliviated. That’s what that one guy was referencing. They’ll remember assessing a duel in the DoM, but they won’t remember who for or what the result was.”

“Oh, OWLs,” Harry said tonelessly, suddenly filled with dread. Gus smirked at him.

“Yes, OWLs,” he repeated. “You’re more than ready for them, Harry. Don’t worry.”

“Says you,” Harry said. “I don’t even have Hermione to stress with as she obsesses over revising.”

Gus laughed at that, clapping Harry on the back.

“Don’t worry!” he exclaimed. “You’ll ace them, I’m sure.”

As he winked Harry wondered if Gus knew something he didn’t. The future Death Eater looked entirely too amused about Harry’s distress.

But then, he was a future Death Eater, Harry supposed.

Barty disguised as Moody had laughed when he stressed over tests as well.

*          *          *

A few hours later when Harry’s soulmark had been restored to its red colour, Harry had been sitting in the Hall of Souls surrounded by Soul Magic Unspeakables all monitoring his soulmark and the soul-blood protection. They wanted to make sure there were no further complications, now that his soul-blood protection was properly active.

They were also having to be very careful with what kind of spells they cast near him. One Unspeakable tried to light a cigarette with a flame-spell right next to Harry and the golden and blood-red protection had risen out of his skin—only to snuff out the flame and vanish again! The Unspeakables had all muttered excitedly about it, and Harry resignedly anticipated a load of testing sometime soon.

Harry watched in fascination as the words on his arm shimmered and turned red. It looked almost like the blood quill, like bloody words were being carved into his skin. He shivered as he watched it, and then pulled the silver bracelet back down over them. He looked up at the Unspeakables running diagnostics over him.

“Everything okay?” he asked. One of the Unspeakables nodded.

“Your half-bond reformed without issue, your magic is stable, and your soul-blood protection seems to have accepted your half-bond as part of your own magic now. It should continue to function properly, but we really ought to test it…”

Obligingly, the Unspeakable with the cigarette (he’d stepped out to light it and come back in smoking) vanished his cigarette and pulled out a new one. When he tried to light it the blood protection appeared once again to snuff the flame out. “Looks like it’s working just fine,” the smoker said dryly.

They’d turned time back for Harry after that, and he’d been sat in a special room as they tested the boundaries of the protective magic his parents had left him. The DoM had a special team of Unspeakables who were intended to test magic sent through time, and so were all utterly mute from magical protections, and could only speak to other people who had gone back in time. That meant Harry was a favourite of theirs, in the course of his lessons, and he was very familiar with them even though like with the duelling team, he knew none of their names.

The tests began tamely enough. First the Unspeakables ran through standard spells from the Hogwarts curriculum. Anything that even barely resembled a hex or jinx was instantly rebuffed, as were any actual curses. Magic could be performed near him easily enough, but only so long as it was not going to affect Harry at all. But then Harry told the Unspeakables testing his protection about the incident with the smoker earlier (later) that day.

One of the Unspeakables on the time-travel team was also a smoker, so he decided to test that more extensively. They discovered that not only would the protection put out any fires or sparks set near Harry, but it would actually physically push away any smoke exhaled by the smoker as well. Then the same Unspeakable wanted to test the other elements around Harry as well. They discovered that he could get wet, but the blood protection made him buoyant in water, and kept his face out of the water at all times. The one thing Harry had been nervous about was flying. What if the protection wouldn’t let him fly?

Thankfully it hardly seemed to register him flying, even when he did dangerous stunts in the space-expanded room he was brought to. Of course, Harry was an excellent flier and wasn’t in any danger or state of panic. They knew the protection guarded against objects thrown or banished at Harry, so it would likely protect him from Bludgers automatically. He glumly realised this meant no Quidditch until they could lessen the effects of the protection. After all, the people of Godric’s Hollow were very serious about their Quidditch, and even if Harry couldn’t help it the protection keeping Bludgers away from him likely still counted as cheating.

Another odd thing about the protection made it very telling that it had been designed for use on toddlers and young children. The soul-blood protection wouldn’t let Harry be in a room alone unless he was somewhere safe. “Somewhere safe” being a bedroom or a location that passed for baby-proofed, which was really annoying.

In a “non-safe room” he could get a single room’s distance away so long as the door was open, but if he tried to close the door the magic of the protection would reappear to open the door. Even in a single space, if he wandered a certain distance from the adults around him a glowing gold and red light would appear and literally drag him back towards the nearest adult. Oh, it was a gentle dragging, and all the while Harry would hear a soft feminine voice he vaguely recognized as his mother’s gently scolding him. It was almost funny, and Harry loved hearing his mum say anything that wasn’t a dying scream, so he almost didn’t mind.

Still.

He really hoped they fixed it soon, so that the protection would stop treating him like a toddler.

After they had tested everything they could think of Harry was sent off to his OWL study session. Even unusual magical happenings couldn’t postpone his OWLs review, it seemed. On the way out, Harry was very firmly told to inform the DoM anytime his protection did anything new. Then he went back to cramming for his OWLs, which were scheduled for a month and a half from now except for his Defence OWL, which was Friday.

Harry was coming along rather nicely with his review work, despite his apprehensions. He actually used that silly planner Hermione gave him to keep track of everything, and occasionally he wistfully wondered how she would have reacted to seeing him be so dutiful and studious.

The easiest classes to review for were Astronomy and History of Magic. Both classes were mostly book-work, and neither were overly difficult with competent teachers. In the end, most of the focus in those classes was making sure Harry knew what sort of things would exist that didn’t yet, both according to his own recollections and other records from previous travellers through Morgana’s Clock. Evidently the farthest anyone had ever gone in the Clock was back from 2142 all the way to the early 1200’s, so they had plenty of records of various improvements that may or may not have existed in the new timeline.

Apparently, one of the duties of the DoM was to keep track of all innovations and magical changes that were supposed to occur. Any that were negated by timeline changes, but were beneficial to society, would be released by the DoM through the regular Ministry patent office on the date they should have been created. That was why the Temporal Memoir Harry would write was such a big deal, and it was also why they’d borrowed all of Harry’s past and current textbooks before hiding them in his suitcase apartment. They used all the information they could to update their lists and keep time running more-or-less smoothly despite time travellers like Harry causing hiccups.

As for his other classes, Harry’s Herbology and Charms study were also coming along swimmingly. His Potions review was as well despite his having been farther behind in that subject. He supposed all those times Henry or Uncle Flea had dragged him off to the potions’ lab in the attic were really counting for something.

Transfiguration was one class he was having serious trouble in, as Harry had incredible difficulty using transfiguration spells nonverbally. Even for his exams within the DoM the Unspeakables wanted him performing all spells nonverbally. They said it was just good sense, and further practice for when he’d be at Hogwarts. After all, he’d likely be under intense scrutiny for the first few months he was there and so his backstory would have to hold. Harry totally understood their reasoning…but that didn’t make transfiguring nonverbally any easier!

Bode had tested Harry’s growing knowledge of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes and had decided that he’d take those OWLs late, at Christmas or Easter break depending on how quickly he progressed through the materials they’d compile to send him. So he’d be put in the sixth year classes at Hogwarts for the subjects, but only conditionally. He’d be taking correspondence courses with the DoM to catch up in the subjects and would take his OWLs for the classes over break. If he passed he’d stay in the sixth year classes, if not, he would drop down to a lower level or drop them entirely.

The Unspeakables said he clearly had a talent for Arithmancy, but they felt confident he could get caught up in both subjects by spring hols at the latest. Harry just supposed he’d have to wait and see.

By the end of the review period Harry was yawning openly. He’d really had a very full day—he’d turned time back twice, once for the blood protection testing and again for his OWLs review. He’d definitely be taking a long nap this afternoon.

He was met with Bode, Rowena, and Gus at the end of his time in the DoM for the day. They’d turned time back after the duelling incident, so they were caught up and knew what was going on. The three had really become Harry’s primary “minders” in the DoM, and he was growing extremely fond of the three of them, even knowing Gus would become a Death Eater.

The trio made plans for Harry to meet up with the group of Soul Magic Unspeakables tomorrow after his daily Occlumency lesson with Rowena. He’d be doing research with them on what the DoM knew about the sort of soul-blood protection Harry’s parents had created, in the hopes of finding a way to “age it up”, so to speak.

Harry returned to Potter Manse heavy-eyed and drowsy. Aunt Euphemia took one look at him and sent him upstairs for a nap.

“I’ll hold your luncheon for you, dear,” she told him, helping him up to his bedroom. As they walked, Harry told her all they’d discovered that day about the soul-blood protection his parents had created for him—and that the Unspeakable today had unwittingly woken up. Euphemia and Fleamont knew only a little bit about Harry’s past—only what had been meshed with his new backstory, and the few details he’d let slip afterwards. They knew his soulmate was alive in this time period, but they still did not know that Harry’s soulmate was the one who was going to kill their son and daughter-in-law.

And so Euphemia hugged him tightly as Harry told her all about it. She even teared up when Harry sleepily described how his mother’s voice would sometimes speak through the protection, and how he hoped he’d hear his dad.

“I’ve only ever heard him telling Mum to take me and run, you know. I can hear Mum and Dad right before they died when Dementors are around. That’s why Professor Lupin taught me the Patronus. I like hearing them say things that aren’t distressed.”

His grandmother kissed him on the forehead, tucking him into bed. “Well, at the start of next week your father will be talking your ears off, Harry. I told him about you in our last letter to him and Jamie’s very excited to have a cousin. We’ve decided not to tell him who you really are, but I think the two of you will be very close anyhow.”

Harry yawned. “I’d like that,” he mused sleepily. “’Night, Gran.”

His door closed softly. “Goodnight, grandson.”

*          *          *

Harry awoke with the depressing reminder that he couldn’t play Quidditch with the rest of the family tonight or anytime soon, unless they could figure out this protection business. He moseyed his way down to the kitchen to discover his grandfather cooking supper. A sandwich was under a covered plate, and Fleamont pointed to it.

“That’s your lunch, Harry, if you still want it. Supper shouldn’t be for another few hours so as long as you don’t eat too much before then it should be fine.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

As Harry sat, he told Fleamont about the problems with his playing Quidditch. “And I was really looking forward to tonight’s game, too,” he said dolefully.

Fleamont shook his head. “Ah, well, there’ll be other games, lad,” he said bracingly.

Harry frowned. “What should we tell the others?” he asked. “I mean, we could say I’m feeling poorly tonight, but that won’t hold up if it takes a month or two to fix the problem.”

His grandfather blinked. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” He regarded Harry carefully. “I suppose we’ll have to make up some story for the villagers, but I’ve never really liked all this secret-keeping business among the family. I agree your dad shouldn’t be told yet—he’s still a wee thing, so it can wait until he’s older—and Caelum won’t be too heavily involved as he’s going to begin working in France this summer, but letting the others know would help us. Six heads are better than three, after all.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I…suppose so,” he said hesitantly. “The Department of Mysteries basically left it up to my discretion who I tell. I’m not supposed to be overly open with it, and the people I tell have to swear oaths of silence to keep the Black family safe and the Clock hidden, but there’re no real laws against my telling people I’m a time traveller.”

Fleamont nodded brightly. “It’s settled, then. We’ll discuss it tonight at supper, and then tomorrow those Unspeakables will work at convincing your mum and dad’s imprints that you’re not a toddler any longer.”

As the older man was speaking there was a flapping at the window. Both Potters blinked at the large raven carrying a letter in its beak. The raven hopped over and presented it to Harry. This surprised both even more. It wasn’t as if there were a vast number of people who would even know Harry existed to send him letters, after all.

“Only the Blacks use ravens,” Fleamont said uneasily as Harry took the letter, bemused.

Harry opened the folded parchment to reveal a fancy letterhead. His eyebrows went up as he realised exactly what this was. Uncle Arcturus had warned him about this. It was a special lunch known as a Gathering, when every living member who either was born a Black or identified more as Black than as another family was required to attend. They discussed important family business and it was at the Gatherings that family politics and public stances were decided. There were four a year—one at the start of the new year, one a month before the students returned from Hogwarts, a third right before Hogwarts began, and the last shortly after Halloween.

“It’s the invitation to the Black Gathering,” Harry said. “Uncle Arcturus and Cousin Orion have been telling me about this. I’d forgotten the next one is going to be tomorrow.” He looked up. “Can we floo call the Ministry? I need to get a message to the DoM so they know I’ll need to leave before eleven tomorrow.”

Well, comparatively. What would really happen would be them turning back time for Harry an extra go or two so he could get all his usual work in. Harry sighed.

He just knew that tomorrow was going to be an ordeal. He just knew it.

Chapter Text

Harry had supposed today would be an ordeal, but the real ordeal actually began the previous night. They’d sat Henry, Charlus, and Dorea down before supper and had them all take the Unspeakable oaths Harry had been given copies of to show people when necessary. The three Potters had been confused, but they had gone along with it with minimal fuss with a bit of cajoling from Harry’s grandparents. Afterwards, Harry had stood and said, in his original Surrey accent, “Hello, everyone, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter.” He quirked a smile at the mouths falling open but couldn’t help but fidget nervously. “I was born in nineteen-eighty, and three months ago I accidently arrived in the past because of a Black artefact in my godfather’s home.”

There’d been bewilderment, and so many questions, but at that point Flea and Euphie had taken over explanations. Thankfully, Dorea did know of Morgana’s Clock and its abilities, so she was the easiest to convince. She also admitted Harry was just too much like Jamie and the other Potters. That had been what caught her attention about him. Apparently, his unconscious habits of running his hand through his hair, fidgeting with his shirt, even the way he’d inflected some words was just very…Potter. Which was odd to her, because he’d been introduced as a Travers-Black.

That was when Harry had pointed out that he’d not been raised by any Potters, so he didn’t see how that could be. Unfortunately, that revelation required his grandparents to explain what Harry had told them about the upcoming war, and the role of the Potters in it. Harry hated that he still didn’t know what had happened to most of his family. He knew his grandparents had died of dragon pox shortly before his dad’s graduating year, because Sirius had told him so, but no mention had ever been made of any other Potter relatives. Harry only knew that Charlus, Dorea, and their son had all died the same year because of the Black Tapestry.

Explaining took an awful long time, so long Taffy had set dinner down in front of them all with a huff, announcing they could keep talking as long as they ate while they did so. They wanted to know all about his years at Hogwarts, who had raised him, if being in the past meant he’d never bond with a soulmate—Harry answered Hogwarts questions easily enough, dodged around the topic of the Dursleys as gracefully as he could, and flat out told them all that considering his soulmate had been the one to murder his parents, he didn’t bloody well care if he never bonded with the man.

That had stopped them all short, and it had provided enough of a segue that Harry could get down to the real point of explaining all this—the soul-blood bond his parents had created to save his life. He’d demonstrated what he could and had explained the difficulties with it believing he was a toddler. They ended up cancelling that evening’s Quidditch match to brainstorm ways to explain the blood protection away if the DoM couldn’t wear it down any.

In the end, Dorea suggested implying it was some sort of Black family witch’s magic. Not too many people knew how witch’s magic worked, and even fewer would pry into family magic. They would simply imply the spirits that appeared to protect Harry were ancestral instead of his actual parents, and hedge on why the protection acted the way it did. Apparently there were blood magics in the Black Family Grimoires that could call on ancestral spirits, so that explanation might even pass muster for other members of the Black family.

Harry had agreed, glad they’d finally had a solution. The Potters had all gone to bed exhausted but pleased at how everything had gone—though Harry anticipated several questions over the next few days and weeks. Dorea especially looked like she was biting back hundreds of fascinated questions.

He’d had to be escorted to bed because the blood protection wouldn’t let him near the stairs when he was alone. When they reached his bedroom in the attic his grandmother had kissed his cheek goodnight and wished him well for the upcoming day. Harry had fallen asleep hopeful that the Unspeakables could figure out a way to explain to the imprints of his parents that he was, in fact, fifteen years old and not fifteen months old. He was still hopeful when he’d woken up the next morning, but as the morning waned his hope began to wane with it.

The Unspeakables spent the whole morning testing his protection even further than they had the day before—with added attempts to work out a way to calm the protection down. The problem, Harry was told, was that there was simply too little information on both the original ritual and on whatever Harry’s parents had done. They had to run so many tests to figure out if the Potters had used the original, if they’d used one of the known adapted versions, or if they’d created their own. Without knowing the details, they wouldn’t have any way to safely effect the blood and soul protection at all.

By the time Harry had to turn back time for his daily schooling he was disheartened and tetchy. The Unspeakables all assured him that they had made progress, that they would simply have to work more on it tomorrow, but Harry had been hoping for at least a sign they’d improved it any.

But they hadn’t, so Harry went through his schoolwork morosely before Flooing back to Potter Manse. The bloody protection wouldn’t even let him Floo by himself, so Gus escorted him home, heavy and noticeable Unspeakable robes transfigured to draw less attention.

Aunt Euphie convinced Gus to stay for an early lunch, which Harry was glad of. Gus was such a cheerful fellow, for a future Death Eater. Harry almost thought of him as a friend.

Considering he was going to be fed later by the Blacks Harry had only picked at his lunch before waving goodbye to Gus and trudging upstairs to change and get ready for the Black Family Meeting. He pulled on the robes Aunt Melania had taken him shopping for—the robes in acromantula silk and lightweight cashmere, lined in velvet and satin (nicer than anything Harry had ever worn before) with the Black crest carved into the buttons that went down his front—and tried to make his hair look presentable. Having long hair made that a little easier, but he still had to use a ridiculous amount of Uncle Flea’s Sleekeazy’s in the shower to have it actually lie flat.

Harry stared at the stranger that was his reflection. Henry Travers had dark brown hair that curled in every direction instead of just being ridiculously untidy. Because Aunt Euphie’s (his grandmother’s) mother had been from wizarding India, he now had a darker complexion than Harry Potter who, being another generation removed and the son of a milk-pale redhead besides, had only been somewhat tan unless he spent time in the sun. His formerly striking rune-scar was gone, his forehead smooth. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that.

Harry’s green eyes were still his most noticeable feature, and they shone even brighter without glasses obscuring them. Apparently there was actually a potion which could fix your vision, but it was not only hideously expensive and difficult to brew, but was restricted by the Ministry besides because it could only be used on people under a certain age and only if the person’s eyesight was a certain level of terrible.

The Unspeakables had given him some while rebuilding his identity, and Harry still wasn’t used to how clear the world was. The glasses his aunt had pulled out of the charity bin years ago had definitely been the wrong prescription after so long, so going from his so-so sight to sharp clarity was still unsettling even after the months he’d been here.

Harry stared at the stranger wearing fine robes in the mirror, wondering rather desperately how his life had gotten to this point. It was…it was jarring, and alarming, to realize he was turning into somebody he didn’t recognize. What if he kept on changing? What if he forgot the sound of Sirius’ laugh, or how it felt when Hermione and Ron hugged him, or the warm feeling hearing new stories about Lily and James Potter gave him?

Red and gold shimmered under his skin, rising up as the ghostly near-invisible forms of his dead parents wrapped their arms around him. “Don’t be sad, Harry,” his Mum breathed. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

Harry stared at himself in the mirror, ghostly images of his parents trying to give him comfort. He imagined having had this all his life. He wondered if these two ghosts sleeping under his skin had been the reason for his unassailable belief that someone out there loved him, even when the Dursleys insisted he was unlovable.

“Yes,” Harry whispered. “Everything’s going to be fine. I might be stuck here in the past but that…that just means I have a chance to keep you all safe.” Harry nodded determinedly to his reflection. He’d been avoiding thinking about the fact that he was never going home, and right now was definitely not the time for a breakdown, but that thought was one he’d had occasionally. It made the thought of being stuck here forever worth it—if he could save his parents, if he could keep his family safe, Harry could stand his whole world being upended.

He deliberately turned away from the mirror. “I’ve got to go meet Dorea, now,” he murmured. He felt his mum’s echo press a kiss to his temple, felt his father ruffle his hair.

“Have fun kiddo,” he heard whispered, and then they were gone again.

Harry managed to push aside the desperate longing in his heart long enough to head out into the main part of the Manse. Dorea was waiting by the Floo, dressed in sombre dark red robes with the ravens from the Black crest embroidered around the hems. She held out her arm for Harry to take as his etiquette lessons with Arcturus and Melania had taught him. Dorea smiled at him.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” she said. “This meeting will be a breeze, you’ll see.”

The family meeting was held in Grimmauld Place. It was Harry’s first time back there since arriving in 1972. Harry looked around at the sitting room they’d flooed in to. He’d not paid his surroundings much mind before, too dazed and confused, but now Harry was able to appreciate seeing this house in its prime.

It was still quite dark and rather creepy, but without the cobwebs, the scrabbling of vermin, and the pervasive smell of rot and mildew, it came across as austere and grand rather than haunted house-esque. Waiting in the sitting room was Orion (whom he had been told to call Cousin) along with the living Walburga Black. She looked just as unpleasant in person as she had in painted form, dismissing Dorea with a rude sniff and giving Harry a once-over that showed she clearly felt he was lacking in something.

Harry, for his part, simply raised his chin, using Occlumency to blank out his face as he gave her his best glare. But he didn’t let his gaze linger on her—he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d managed to annoy him—and instead he turned to Orion with a warm smile.

“Cousin Orion!” he exclaimed, clasping the man’s hand as Dorea and Walburga pretended to kiss cheeks as per protocol. The two women both stepped back very quickly, still eyeing each other hatefully, but Harry and Orion ignored their animosity to catch up since Harry’s last Sunday lesson Orion had been able to attend, a little over a week ago.

He really did like Orion. He was nice, and the way he reminded Harry of Mr. Weasley meant Harry found him easy to talk to. The poor man was just utterly incapable of standing up to Walburga.

Orion placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder as they finished catching up. “We’re only waiting on Aunt Cassiopeia, now,” he said. “If you like, you and Dorea could head on to the solarium.”

Dorea leapt at the chance to escape Walburga. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. She offered Harry her arm again. “Come along, Cousin Harry. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Harry accepted her arm with a murmur of agreement, and Dorea led him through the house. Harry blinked when he saw the door they were approaching. “This is a solarium?” he asked, fascinated. “It was taken over by this massive Bundium when I was visiting my godfather, so we weren’t allowed near it.”

Dorea’s eyebrows went up. “You know I’m going to ask you more about that later,” she warned.

“Sure!” Harry rejoined cheerfully, and then they opened the door and entered.

The room was full of people. Harry was the only one under seventeen—most of them were actually middle-aged or older. The oldest person there was his “Uncle” Arcturus. The youngest was Bellatrix Lestrange, who was twenty-one, bright-eyed and fresh-faced. She looked nothing like the haughty but maddened woman he’d seen in the Pensieve trial memory. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about her—he remembered seeing the Longbottoms at St Mungo’s, but…like with Gus, this woman was hardly a Death Eater yet. Harry felt conflicted, and so when Bellatrix practically skipped up to them with a delighted greeting for Dorea, arms akimbo and silver soulmark bracelet barely visible under her voluminous sleeves, he stayed silent.

“And is this my new cousin I’ve heard so much about?” Bellatrix asked slyly, beaming at Harry with an expression that was disconcertingly familiar.

Dorea smiled back warmly. “Why, yes, it is. This is Henry Travers. Henry, Bellatrix Black Lestrange.”

Harry bowed obediently over her hand, offering her a bland smile. “Pleased to meet you, cousin,” he managed to say.

Bellatrix grinned. “Oh, don’t bother being too formal. It’s just Bella to you, lad. Or Cousin Bella.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiring tone, “Frankly, I’m so glad Uncle Arcturus claimed you for our House instead of leaving you for the Travers. We’ve not got enough handsome young men in the family.”

That had Harry flushing and stepping backwards.

Dorea gave him a concerned glance, but said, “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s so shy.”

Bella’s eyes glinted. “Oh, he’ll get over that if he attends enough family gatherings, Auntie.”

Harry was honestly frightened of Bellatrix, and not because of her future as a loony torturing Death Eater. Right now, she looked just like Sirius had when he’d been planning ways to drive Mrs. Weasley insane when she’d been rude about his insistence on telling her what rooms she was and wasn’t allowed to go through. That look boded no good for anyone it was directed towards, Harry had learnt.

The others in the room were all chatting with one another politely but watching Harry out of the corners of their eyes. Just as Harry was starting to wonder if he could politely duck away from Bellatrix to avoid any diabolical plotting, the quiet chatting was interrupted by a tall woman dressed in bottle-green robes nearly running into the room, followed at a more sedate pace by Orion and Walburga. The woman looked to be only a few years older than Dorea, closer in age to Pollux than to Orion, but she carried herself as if she was much younger than her grey-streaked black hair implied. The stranger gave Harry a curtsey as she passed, but otherwise ignored him to make a general announcement to the room.

“Sorry I’m late,” she sang out. “I blew up the cottage again.”

There was a chorus of spluttering from the various Blacks.

“Again!?” Arcturus demanded, striding forwards. “Really, Cassie, that’s the third time since Yule!”

She smirked. “Well, if you’d let me cast some of the wards I want to set over the property we wouldn’t have to deal with this, would we?”

Arcturus just rubbed his brow tiredly. Harry’s own eyebrows went up.

“Is there any specific reason he won’t let you?” Harry asked interestedly.

The Black called Cassie (probably the Aunt Cassiopeia Orion mentioned earlier) blinked at him innocently. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said in a mock-thoughtful manner. “It might be because the one I’d like to set are blood magic, and the Ministry’s awfully touchy about that sort of thing.” She smirked. “Or perhaps it’s because my favourite types of wards turn intruders inside-out, whether they’re nosy relatives or not, in addition to defending the structural integrity of the building.”

Erk.

“Well,” Harry said, trying not to let on that she’d officially freaked him out, “I can see why he wouldn’t want to have to deal with that sort of thing. Having relatives dropping dead because they’re trying to visit you for tea would be most inconvenient.”

Cassie pouted like she was his age. “I’d put them right eventually,” she muttered. Harry didn’t know what was more alarming—that this crazy Black still clearly thought that turning annoying people inside-out was appropriate, that the wards which did so somehow kept the person who’d had their insides replace their outsides alive, or that she clearly knew enough about dark magic to not only create such a ward, but reverse its effects as well.

“Perhaps a compromise?” Harry couldn’t help but say. He winced when he saw Cassie perk up and Arcturus start to look worried. Him and his big mouth.

“Oh?” Cassie said eagerly. “And what sort of compromise would you suggest?”

He really hadn’t had any ideas, so he winged it. “Um, maybe…maybe make it so that any wards that effect people who aren’t dangerous intruders—you know, like nosy relatives or Ministry officials—can be reversed by the intruders themselves. I mean,” he continued, warming to the idea, “then you wouldn’t have to worry about undoing the effects yourself, and people will know if they show up and get cursed that you’re not up for visitors, so they should leave. And as for the blood wards,” he added, a sudden idea striking him. Harry threw Dorea a tiny smirk before continuing. She was watching him like he was an absolute train wreck, but she also looked impressed, so he figured he was doing something right.

Harry turned back to Cassiopeia. “Don’t you know the Ministry won’t give a fuss if they think it’s women’s magic? They’d hardly dare to.”

At least, that’s what he’d gathered from what Dorea had said the previous evening. Apparently witch’s magic—known more informally as women’s magic—was a taboo subject for lawmakers because it ran the risk of upsetting wives and mothers unduly. It was thoroughly skirted around in a number of laws, and the loopholes available if you could call something witch’s magic were apparently large enough to drive the Weasley Ford Anglia through. Pun intended. Harry had asked Rowena this morning about her opinion on it, and she’d laughed and said much the same as Dorea, so there must be something to it.

Cassie blinked at him, and then a grin slowly spread across her face. “That’s brilliant!” she crowed. She latched onto his arm. “Oh, you’re my new favourite, lad! Just like Lycoris, you are!” She threw Arcturus a superior look. “Well, what do you think of your nephew’s compromise?”

Arcturus gave Harry the same considering look he tended to when he was talking about Voldemort. Harry wasn’t quite sure why, but was relieved when the man merely said, “I suppose it sounds reasonable, Cassie. But you and I will go over your list of intended wards in detail before you lay anything down!”

Cassie nodded, apparently completely unphased. “Of course, cousin dearest!” she sang out. Arcturus just looked tired and Harry felt for him. He really did.

Still holding onto Harry’s arm, Cassie dragged him forward and into the centre of the room before letting go and turning to Arcturus. “I feel we haven’t been properly introduced to our newest and most interesting cousin, Arty. It must be rectified immediately.”

Harry really wished she hadn’t dragged him into the middle of the room. Everyone was staring now. Bellatrix looked thoroughly entertained, as did Dorea, and the others looked varying levels of impressed, amused, or disdainful. Arcturus just sighed again.

“Of course, dear cousin,” he said with a hint of dryness. “Now that you’ve finally arrived, we can, of course, begin.”

Arcturus stepped forward and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Cousins and children, kin one and all, welcome to the Black Family Gathering. I would have you bid welcome to the newest member of our family. A Black by blood and by birthright, if not by name. Henry Sirius Travers, son of Lycoris Black and her soul-bonded mate. He is of our kin, he is our kin, and he shall be welcomed among us.”

The family bowed almost in unison and greetings of varying enthusiasm were called out to him. Even Walburga muttered something, even though Harry noted she refused to do so until Orion elbowed her. Arcturus looked satisfied at the reactions.

“Let us take our seats,” he continued, “and begin the Gathering.”

The entire family migrated over to the table at the back of the room. Arcturus steered Harry into the seat to his right, with Orion sitting to his left. Harry was uncomfortably aware that everyone was staring, and no wonder. His “uncle” was making quite the statement, according to what Harry had been taught. Usually at a social function, a nobleman’s heir always sat to his right, with either his wife or a favoured relative to his left. Auntie Mellie (as Melania had insisted he call her) looked quite content sitting at the opposite end of the table with the younger women, and she was positively smirking at the ruckus Harry’s seating had caused. Orion was also smirking, but Walburga looked like she wanted to claw Harry’s eyes out with her fingernails.

Pollux Black, Walburga’s father, sat down next to Harry and introduced himself, looking Harry up and down like he couldn’t decide if he was entertained by him or not. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Pollux’s wife, a rather ugly woman who was definitely related to the Crabbe family, stuck her nose in the air and sat next to her daughter rather than her husband, pointedly ignoring both him and Harry beside him. The rest of the family seated themselves by age, with the men in Arcturus’ and Pollux’s generation at one end and the young ones like Bellatrix and her cousins at the opposite end, with many of the oldest women forming a small group around Melania in the midst of the younger cousins.

First was the luncheon, which was Harry’s first real test of the etiquette Arcturus, Melania, and Orion had been teaching him. Thankfully, his alias gave him an excuse to refuse to speak, so he could concentrate more on remembering rules like which fork to use, and the order in which you were supposed to eat your courses. As he did so, Arcturus told everyone Harry’s cover history and Harry did his best to smile and at least nod or shake his head to the various questions his new family had for him.

Discussing heavy topics was rather taboo for meal times, so Harry only had to deal with small talk until their dishes had vanished and been replaced by small plates of dessert, each one specialized for the individual Blacks seated at the table and all but Harry’s accompanied by a glass of wine or Firewhisky. Harry instead had a glass of frothy butterbeer. Once everyone had taken at least a few bites of their dessert, Arcturus cleared his throat.

“To business. I have announcements to begin with, obviously, and then other matters and issues will be addressed.”

The older wizard’s grey eyes flickered to the faces sat watching him. Most of them had their own eyes on Arcturus as well, but some were unable to keep from glancing at Harry in the meantime.

“Firstly, I am sure you have all noticed the new seating arrangements. It has been discovered that my father named Lycoris a potential Heir, under myself but greater than my son Orion. Her status has been inherited by her son, Henry, and Orion and I have decided after much deliberation that he will be trained and raised as a full Heir of House Black. You will treat him with the respect this position grants him.”

A quiet babble erupted, and the voice of one of the Blacks he didn’t know rang out. “What about Orion, my lord? Are he and his sons being set aside?”

Arcturus smirked. “Hardly,” he said. “It is by Orion’s wish that Henry will be taking his place as Heir, and Orion will still act as Heir at many social functions which our young lad will not be able to attend, at least until Henry is of age. Young Sirius is still Heir’s Heir. If I died tomorrow, magic would decide between Orion and Henry to choose the new Lord, but Sirius would become full Heir at that time in lieu of his father regardless of whether Orion were made Lord or not.”

“Sounds unnecessarily complicated to me,” Bellatrix muttered. Harry rather thought she hadn’t intended to be heard, because she started and flushed when Arcturus replied to her.

“You may say that, young Bellatrix,” Arcturus conceded, “because it is true. It is a mess my father created by favouring Lycoris, but our decided upon arrangement is an adequate solution.”

His silver gaze searched around the table. “Any other questions or objections?” At the shaking heads Arcturus nodded his own head sharply. “Then let us move on.”

The next thing discussed were the grades of the Blacks still at Hogwarts, and the tutoring grades of any who were not currently in school. Harry had been surprised while studying the Black Family tree with Arcturus and Orion to learn that Malfoy’s future mom was only a year or two older than he was right now. She also had a twin—and Harry was fairly sure that Andromeda was actually Tonks’ mother. Those two and Sirius were the only ones with the Black name who were currently at Hogwarts. Sirius had a younger brother named Regulus who wasn’t slated to begin attending until September, and who was being privately tutored in history and magical theory as all Black children were before Hogwarts.

“Cissy” and “Andy” were currently sixth years, and there was quiet talk about how their grades had all been more than satisfactory. Harry learnt, to his bemusement, that apparently that prim and proper woman he’d seen trailing after Lucius Malfoy was one of the Slytherin Quidditch Beaters, with her twin being the other one. Huh. Maybe he could convince Melania or Arcturus to let him host a party for all the younger Blacks at the sprawling French estate the older couple lived at, and they could play a game or five of Quidditch.

If, of course, he could get this soul-blood protection figured out before then.

There was some grumbling when it came to discuss Sirius—some still sour over his being a Gryffindor, and many more disgruntled at the sheer number of detentions he’d acquired for only being a first year. Apparently Sirius and James had been in fine pranking form for the past school year, and had been in and out of detentions, only making up any points lost through sheer brilliance in their classes. A few Blacks made sly insulting remarks about Orion and Walburga’s parenting. Orion gracefully deflected all barbs while Walburga’s expression grew more and more sour.

There was a brief discussion of Harry’s own grades—many people were impressed he was “attending” Chrónia Akadimía, despite knowing nothing about it. They explained Harry was preparing to take his OWLs at the Ministry, and that he hoped to begin Hogwarts in the fall. There was a great deal of well-wishes and congratulations. It was kind of overwhelming, actually, and Harry fell back on his cover’s muteness to avoid replying awkwardly to the strangers who seemed so invested in his life.

Once they’d finished with Harry the discussion moved on to Black relatives who didn’t carry the Black name. Harry hadn’t even known they still kept an eye on relatives outside the main family, but he listened as they discussed how Dorea’s son Caelum was doing—having a mental breakdown over his NEWTs, apparently—and what his plans were for graduation. Harry learned why he’d likely never heard of Cousin Caelum. The seventh year was planning on apprenticing to a famous healer in France who was currently an instructor at Beauxbatons. Caelum was also courting a French girl who was about to graduate from Beauxbatons as well. Even if he’d survived the (upcoming) war, he likely would have stayed in France, or possibly moved elsewhere in Europe rather than deal with the political turmoil of being relatives of the Harry Potter.

Neville’s father Frank was the grandson of a Black woman, but as the Longbottoms were nobility in their own right, he wasn’t watched over as closely by the Black family. Still, as he was apparently of a similar age to Bellatrix, his budding Auror career was discussed in brief. They still spent a few minutes talking about Neville’s great-grandmother Callidora, though, as she’d been suffering a bout of dragon pox recently, and her Black cousins were worried about her. Harry was surprised to learn during this discussion that Barty Crouch Jr. actually did count in the ranks of “cousins” the Blacks kept track of. His grandmother Charis was one of the older women at the table, sat just beside Melania. Little Bartemius was at the moment one of the pre-Hogwarts children (he would be starting the school year after Regulus), but his tutors were being paid for by the Black Family. Harry was amused when Charis went into a rant about her son—Bartemius Senior—who in her opinion had turned his back not only on his parents but on the family he’d created, utterly neglecting his son’s education despite the Crouches being a vassal family to the Blacks.

That was when Harry interrupted. “Um, what does that mean?” he asked, hating the way all eyes turned to him. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I just—” Harry did his best not to flounder and said, “We haven’t discussed vassals yet, Uncle Arcturus.”

It was Orion who answered. “Yes, sorry, that’s on the agenda for two weeks from now. In brief, a lesser family—untitled purebloods in poverty, immigrants, halfbloods, that sort of thing—can petition the greater family for certain benefits in exchange for family protection and certain concessions. Vassalage is usually sealed by a marriage agreement and is perpetuated by marrying lesser members of the House back into the vassal family. The only way to break a vassalage is to have five generations pass with no one in either family marrying each other. The Blacks haven’t actually made any new vassal families in the last few centuries, which is why we felt we could wait to cover it. The Lestranges and the Crouches are the last of our vassals to remain in our service, actually. While the Lestranges were actually granted vassalage when they arrived in the wake of William’s conquest, the Crouches became such over a millennium ago; according to family lore they were actually muggleborns who petitioned for protection from muggle persecution in exchange for a number of things, including influence over their politics and rights to govern their children. Now they’re pureblooded, of course, after so many centuries of Black-arranged marriages, but they are still subordinate to our family.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Right, I’ve got it.” He wondered, suddenly curious, how on earth Crouch had managed to send Sirius to Azkaban without a trial if Sirius was the heir of a family Crouch was beholden to. Something was…fishy there but considering all those issues were a decade in the future, Harry supposed he’d just have to gather more information. He also wistfully wondered if he could help the younger Barty any. He owned the poor kid a debt due to his older self’s actions, and Harry felt it would only be right to not only repay him, but possibly try to keep Barty’s life from going so thoroughly down the toilet.

Harry tuned back to the family discussion to register they’d turned from the subject of grades to the topic of family finances and businesses. He made a face. Maybe he’d think a bit more on Barty and wait for them to return to a more interesting topic.

Chapter Text

Harry began paying attention again when two of the older Black ladies began squabbling over something or other to the point that they actually began throwing hexes. He watched wide-eyed until Arcturus ended the spat by slamming his hand on the table and demanding they put their wands away.

The Black patriarch tucked a stray hair behind his ear as he sat down again, smoothing out his robes. “Now that we’ve all remembered how to act like civilized witches and wizards again,” he said in a censuring tone, “perhaps we could get back to the family business. Are there any other serious matters we need to discuss?”

Beside Orion and Walburga, Cygnus Black cleared his throat. Harry remembered from his lessons that he was the father of Bellatrix and the two sixth-year twins.

“We have yet to discuss marriage contracts for Andromeda and Narcissa. Bellatrix was already betrothed by the end of her fourth year of Hogwarts—” In the background, Harry noticed Bellatrix make a face “—and yet my younger daughters have not even had their offers reviewed. In addition, neither girl has met her soul match yet, so we cannot know whether their soulmates will be appropriate partners either.”

Harry noticed the sharp, almost angry looks exchanged between Cygnus and his wife, and suddenly realized the wife must have been the one to postpone this. Perhaps she didn’t agree with marriage contracts?

Arcturus nodded slowly. “A wise proposal. I assume you have some offers already, and that is why you’ve recommended I look into the matter?”

Cygnus nodded sharply. “Yes, that is correct, my lord.”

From his pocket, he produced a large leather folder stuffed with parchment. He slid it down the table to Arcturus, who opened it and began to flip through the stack of what Harry could see were letters offering various things in exchange for the hand of a daughter of House Black in marriage, all crisp and smooth and covered in elegant handwriting. Harry read the offers over Arcturus’ shoulder curiously, Orion on the other side also looking them over. It was all formal language and business deals. Harry didn’t much like it, but Melania had waxed eloquent about the benefits of a proper marriage contract for the girl being contracted when he’d dared to offer his opinions on the matter a few weeks ago.

Apparently, such contracts could ensure the girl’s money and social status stayed intact or improved according to her marriage. All marriage contracts laid out a list of options that would ensure if ever mistreated or otherwise slighted, the girl could always return to her family’s House with little to no legal or social consequences, often even keeping her children. Ministry law had the children always remaining with the father unless such clauses in a marriage contract were in place. So Harry could see there were some benefits, but there were also plenty of disadvantages.

Such as the fact that despite planning these two girls’ futures, the twins were not present to offer their opinions.

Curious, Harry noticed a tiny corner of parchment that looked anything but crisp and smooth sticking out from the back of the large leather binder. He realized, after pulling a bit at the corner and opening the folder up some more, that there was one offer buried at the bottom of the stack that looked…odd. Harry saw with bewilderment that it wasn’t even properly in the stack, tucked into a back flap of the folder as if to hide it. Harry began to slide it out of the stack, and Arcturus and Orion sat back, looking curious. When Harry got it out, he realized the letter had been crumpled, balled up as if to be thrown away, before being smoothed out again, which was why it looked so odd.

This letter was not at all like the ones at the top of the stack, offering money and business connections and foreign trade deals. The letter began simply and humbly, but with a good deal of compliments — properly laid out according to what Harry’s etiquette lessons had taught him too — for both Cygnus and the Black Family. Then, it went into the offer…which admittedly was fairly one-sided. The offer was to love, cherish, and worship Andromeda, Daughter of House Black, with everything the writer had, to provide her with the life she should have according to her station even if he had to work day and night to make it so, and for all children born from his and Andromeda’s union to belong solely to the House of Black, instead of choosing to start a new House of his own.

It was signed Theodore Tonks, First of his Name, Healer’s Apprentice in the Hogwarts Infirmary. There was also a post-script from Andromeda, mentioning she would also be sending her father a letter regarding this betrothal offer.

Harry glanced up at Cygnus, whose fists were clenched and his lips pressed together, tight and furious. His eyes were like chips of ice, but angry fire burned in their depths.

“From my lessons,” Harry said slowly, “marriage offers should be presented to the House lord from least to greatest. By that custom, I suppose you were right to put this one at the end.”

Arcturus made an interested noise and took the letter from Harry. He read it slowly, his eyebrows climbing. Orion, reading it over his shoulder, began to throw startled looks at Harry. All the other Blacks were looking between Harry, the two Blacks at the head of the table, and Cygnus in curiosity and bewilderment. Next to the furious man his wife sat looking vindictively amused. Harry wondered if she’d known about this offer and had perhaps supported it.

The Lord Black sat back in his chair, gazing up at Cygnus mildly. “May I see Andromeda’s letter?” he asked. His words were calm, but his eyes said he knew exactly what Cygnus wanted him to do with this betrothal offer, and he was unhappy with the attempted meddling to make it so.

Harry knew after a month or so of time spent with Arcturus that he was a prideful, deeply traditional man. Intolerant of muggleborns, perhaps, but he’d listen to any argument contrary to his own so long as he could marshal his own counterarguments later. Cygnus had been revealed to be trying to blatantly manipulate the head of his house. Regardless of whether Arcturus would on his own have discarded a betrothal offer from a muggleborn boy, the formidable Lord Black would never stand for such disrespect from a member of his house.

After a few moments of furious glaring at Harry, Cygnus produced the letter and it was passed down the table to Arcturus. Harry read it over his shoulder and had to repress a grin. Oh, Tonks was apparently just like her mother. The letter was ridiculously snarky, full of subtle barbs towards her father and even subtler pleas for Arcturus, whom she must have known would have asked to see the letter if he ever actually saw Ted Tonks’ betrothal proposal, to listen to what she wanted and give her the marriage she wished for. She also admitted in the first few paragraphs that Theodore Tonks was her soulmate, and she would have him or no other.

The rest of the letter baldly laid out exactly what Andromeda would do if she were betrothed to anyone but her soulmate—nearly two pages of dire threats to do something drastic like castrate her unwanted betrothed, or even run away and elope in the muggle world, shock and horror—and that she honestly didn’t care if she was disowned for chasing what she wanted.

Arcturus read the letter slowly, his frown deepening. Then, he deliberately set the letter down and turned to Harry.

“What do you think of this, my young nephew?”

Harry blinked. For a moment he was confused, and then he saw the calculating glint in the man’s eye, the eager look Walburga had combined with Dorea’s oncoming train wreck stare, both expecting him to crash and burn. This was, like many things Arcturus had placed before Harry recently, a test of how well he could navigate the family. In particular, Harry was starkly aware his personal beliefs were quite opposed to the general consensus the other Blacks would have in response to this betrothal offer. But could he put what he wanted to happen to the family without causing them to all-but revolt? A lord was useless if he couldn’t lead his family in the direction he wanted to go, and that was what Arcturus wanted to see if Harry could do.

His eyes met Orion’s for a moment in a panic, but then suddenly he was calm. Sirius’ gentle grey eyes stared back at him. Oh, Orion lacked the dementor-induced shadows, the subtle edge of war-torn grief never mended, but those were his godfather’s eyes. Harry thought of Sirius, his Sirius whom Harry was determined would never exist in this new timeline.

Suddenly, he knew exactly what to do.

“To me,” Harry said slowly and carefully, ever conscious of both his words and his artificial accent, “this sounds like an opportunity for the House of Black.”

Down the table, Cygnus spluttered. Orion sat back, satisfied, while Arcturus raised a single eyebrow. “Opportunity?” he asked.

Harry smiled thinly. He was sure Arcturus had no idea where he was going with this, and he looked forward to surprising the man.

“Well, from the sounds of it…this is an offer of vassalage.”

Curious noises ran up and down the table of Blacks, the majority of whom still had no idea what the two letters were about. Arcturus blinked once, clearly thrown, and Harry mentally punched the air. “Why do you say that, Henry?” Orion asked, picking up from where his father had left off as Arcturus quietly recovered from his mental derailing.

“The letter is from a young man, first of his name,” —which Harry had been taught always meant muggleborn in this day and age— “and his offer includes giving House Black full authority over future generations of his House. Isn’t that what you only just explained to me, Cousin Orion? It sounds like an offer of vassalage.”

Orion was fighting a smile. “I must admit, in that light, it does.” Walburga hissed something angrily in his ear, and his smile dropped, his whole face drooping. Before she could ruin Harry’s idea, though, the boy jumped ahead of her by turning to Arcturus.

“Don’t you think so, Uncle?” he asked.

Arcturus picked up the letter with thumb and forefinger. “In this, it claims he would be willing to give up his own name and right to begin his own House, in exchange for Andromeda’s hand in marriage.”

“Well, that’s only his first offer, isn’t it?” Harry rejoined. “He’s going to give the grandest concessions first in the hopes that you hear his offer at all.”

“As if he would,” Walburga spat, clearly incensed. “As if any lord of House Black would sully our lines by bringing a mudblood into the House.”

“Firstly,” Harry snapped back as coolly as he could manage, “you watch your tongue, Walburga. We’re at a noble family gathering, not out for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. I had been told we were to treat these gatherings with respect and dignity, not vulgarity.” The flush that crept up her neck told Harry he’d scored a hit, and he continued with more composure.

“Besides, as your husband told me not too long ago in this very meeting, House Black has in the past sullied its lines with muggleborn vassals, so I don’t see why this offer is such a heinous thing. He may be the first in his family to have magic, but he clearly wants to join wizarding society fully. He wants to better himself, and isn’t that the best solution? I mean, you can’t kill them all, that would be both ridiculous and cause too much public outcry. If you can’t be rid of them, you should put them to use.”

At least, that seemed to be Melania’s viewpoint. And the family seemed quite aware of that, as glances were thrown at her, looking approvingly at Harry from the opposite end of the table. And phrasing “why can’t we all just get along” in Lady Black’s terms wouldn’t have this pack of purebloods wanting to lynch him.

“Personally,” Harry continued, “I think that makes this the most valuable betrothal in the lot. What do trade deals for a single generation, or lump sums of money and land, compare to generations of loyalty?”

Arcturus set the letter down and from the way he looked impressed Harry knew he’d actually managed to convince him.

“I quite agree,” Arcturus said softly. “Loyalty is one currency that will outlast all others. Perhaps it is time for the Blacks to gain new vassalage once again. Your reasoning was very well argued, my Heir.” He glanced down the table, where very few people looked pleased. “Young Andromeda’s letter was her declaration, and in it she admitted to aiding that muggleborn boy in writing his proposal, because he is her soulmate. Andromeda has always been a canny young girl. I do not think such a clever young witch would abandon all sense over even her soul’s mate. Surely, she sees some value he could prove to our House.”

Harry marvelled at how, with just a few words, Arcturus managed to turn those unhappy faces into thoughtful ones. He’d have to learn how to do that, he thought to himself. It was amazing! Arcturus turned back to his “nephew”. “I think perhaps during your lesson on vassals in two weeks, you will help me to draft a new marriage betrothal arrangement between our Andromeda and young Theodore Tonks.”

He’d actually changed something! Harry was almost breathless from the weight of what had just happened. In the timeline he’d been born into, Andromeda had run away (possibly after gelding some poor hapless pureblood boy) with Ted Tonks and they had eloped in the muggle world. Without the money from a dowry and outright blacklisting from the Blacks in high society, neither newlywed had been able to continue in Healer training past Hogwarts graduation, and the pair had scraped and scrounged to attend muggle university together. Tonks had been a surprise born early and had grown up in near poverty until her parents had both found decently paying employment in the muggle world. Here, it wouldn’t be like that. Here, they would both have the full weight of the Black family behind him.

Orion was nodding at Harry, his courage found again and Walburga sitting sullenly beside him. Despite knowing it was a break in protocol, Harry couldn’t help the beaming smile that spread across his face at the compliment.

Then, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt a magical warmth wash over him from head to toe in the increasingly familiar sensation of the soul-blood protection’s activation. Gold and red surged from his skin, one misty form catching a spell aimed under the table with a raised hand as the other surged forward—to Cygnus.

“Just hold him!” Harry exclaimed, half-standing and raising a hand in protest. To his astonishment, the magic paused, the ghost of his father seemingly recognizing the request and hesitating a moment before simply disarming the man and freezing him in place. Cygnus’ wand was laid gently before Harry.

He could feel all eyes on him, and he desperately wanted to hide. Dorea caught his eye and laid a hand over her mouth. At the reminder he was allowed to go mute if he was uncomfortable, he clamped his jaws shut.

Cygnus was frozen, but Walburga and her mother were both spluttering. “What on earth—” “What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Harry didn’t do anything!” Dorea said defiantly. “Lycoris took understandable measures to protect her only son in a dangerous location like the wilds of Australia, and Cygnus could only have run afoul of them if he’d tried to harm Harry in any way.”

That brought silence to the stunned table. Arcturus was the one who took action, claiming Cygnus’ wand from the table in front of Harry and then pulling out his own wand to petrify Cygnus. The soul-blood protection, seemingly sensing Harry’s safety now that the old Lord Black was standing, drew back and misted back into Harry’s skin, sleeping until the next time they were needed. It was Cassiopeia who spoke.

“Measures? That looked like an old Black blood protection to me.”

Harry spoke with his hands instead of his mouth, and Dorea translated. “We think it is. I was practicing duelling yesterday and had an old soul-blood spell cast on me. After that, this began to happen.”

“Yes,” Dorea agreed. “We think it’s an ancestral protection spell calling on the spirits of past Blacks to safeguard a young member from harm. He can’t play Quidditch right now at all; the magic just stops the Bludgers cold.”

“I’m surprised a protective spell such as that would allow him to fly in the first place,” Pollux said gravely from next to Harry.

Harry managed to unclench his jaw enough to address his unknowing other great-grand-godfather. “It doesn’t seem to register flight as a danger at all,” he admitted, “but then I’m a fairly good flier and I’ve not tried any dangerous stunts since this began happening. We’re hoping to find a way for me to control it.”

“But it only just appeared?” Cassiopeia said intently.

Dorea nodded. “Yes, his OWLs are coming up and we were practicing his duelling. I used several old family spells, both blood and soul magic—we’re not sure which one actually reawakened his protection.” As Dorea was a fantastic dueller, this was a believable lie to tell.

Walburga’s mother huffed. “Well then, I don’t see how you could say it was anything Lycoris did!”

“It has his mother’s magical signature all over it!” Dorea retorted to her sister-in-law, exasperated.

“It must have been disrupted,” Cassiopeia cut in. “Old spells like that are often delicate. The slightest error could have disrupted its intended function for years until a chance cleansing allowed the magic to act in full once again.”

“That seems to be a topic for Black study,” Arcturus said firmly, over top of the discussions happening quietly and curiously around the table. “I want as many of the Black women as are willing to join Dorea and Cassiopeia in researching old Black protective enchantments. All research can be passed to Henry through Dorea, as he’s living at Potter Manse. But for now, we have a more serious issue to resolve.”

The table quieted again. Arcturus turned to Cygnus, murmuring a spell which unfroze his head and shoulders, but kept the rest of his body petrified. Cygnus blinked owlishly for several moments before he realized the position he was in. The realization that he’d been caught only took a few seconds to sink in, his eyes widening and his face falling.

“Cygnus Nigellus Black,” the Lord Black said softly. “You just attacked not only a junior member of your own house, but one I have made very clear in this meeting is to be treated as the Heir and future Lord of this House. And this after lying to your lord about the status of one of your daughters’ soulmarks and attempting to manipulate the decisions of your Lord regarding the marriage of a Daughter of our House. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cygnus’ face turned ugly, but he clearly knew anything he said about vile mudbloods and whatnot would just land him in hotter water right now, and he said nothing.

“Anything?” Arcturus asked, still in a tone as mild as milk. “No?”

His young cousin simply blinked and glared. Pollux harrumphed, meeting Arcturus’ eye around Harry. The teen leaned back as Arcturus seemed to reach silent agreement with the man, and the lord stood silent as Cygnus’ father came slowly to his feet.

“I,” Pollux said in a harsh voice, “have never been more ashamed of a member of my line. To have opposed this betrothal offer was understandable, but your concerns and desires should have been laid before your lord. I would never do such a thing as you have done.” His eyes landed on Walburga. “And don’t think I am unaware of who may have given you such ideas of interference.”

Walburga, in her seat, flushed and looked down, clearly signalling Pollux had been right and she had helped Cygnus come up with this plan.

“And regardless of any such plans, you attacked a child younger than your own, a Black who has only just been welcomed into our family. Our Heir! How dare you! That boy was only doing as a dutiful Heir should—pointing out that which his Lord had missed, and he was clearly thinking only of the furtherment of our family. As you should have been! Do you not realize you could be disowned for your actions? You sat here, claiming to wish to protect your daughters’ futures, while you put those same futures in danger! If you were disowned, all children of your line would be taken in by your wife’s family! We would lose two Daughters of the House to the empowerment of another family. And you…you would lose everything!”

Harry sat, wide-eyed, as Pollux tore into Cygnus from across the table. The older wizard turned to Arcturus and bowed.

“My Lord, I apologize for my foolish and disobedient offspring. For his punishment, I would suggest confinement, and the removal of his daughters into my own house, as he has clearly proven he would put their status in jeopardy in order to further his personal political agenda.”

Arcturus nodded slowly. “And what is your opinion of this marriage offer, Cousin Pollux?”

Pollux grimaced, but glanced down at Harry. His gaze softened somewhat. “I am loath to allow any mud-ggleborn such access to my granddaughter, but Lycoris’ son makes excellent points. Lestrange is secured for another several generations, but Bartemius Crouch disagrees with the family agenda and if given the chance would cut his family away from our own. More vassalage would be a valuable thing to ensure our family remains at the forefront of society. I too agree that loyalty is a currency more valuable than money or land.” He grimaced. “In fact, were it anything but a boy first of his name, I’d be jumping at the idea that my bloodline could start a new vassal house for our family. Even more so, I would never separate young Andromeda from her soulmate.”

The Lord Black nodded again. “So be it,” he said. He turned furious eyes on Cygnus. “Cygnus Nigellus Black, for your actions here today I confine you to your home until the next Black Family Gathering. You are forbidden to entertain or to send out letters, and your wife will not be allowed to relay messages for you when she goes out. Furthermore, your daughters will be moved into the care of their grandfather Pollux until such time as they have married to better our House, and you will not be permitted to help in the choosing of either girl’s future.”

Harry could feel magic heavy in the air, the wards thrumming dangerously in the background, and he knew something important had just happened. Still, he wondered…how exactly could Arcturus enforce all of that?

Then, the moment had passed, and Arcturus just looked angry instead of frightening. With a flick of his wand Cygnus was freed from his restraints. Arcturus pointed at the door. “You are dismissed from this gathering, young man,” the Lord Black finished.

Cygnus looked a mixture of enraged and mortified. He stood, bowed to his father and his lord, and fled the room. If he’d been a teenager, Harry had the feeling he’d have been in tears.

Walburga, surprisingly, didn’t say a word of protest, nor did her mother, both clearly recognizing the severity of the situation. Once Cygnus’ footsteps had faded down the stairs, Arcturus shut the door with another flick of his wand and sat down again, Pollux sitting as well.

He heaved a sigh. Pollux looked weary.

“Well,” Arcturus said, “We still have Narcissa’s requests to go over. Can we please do so civilly and with no tricks, this time?”

*          *          *

After much discussion of the various contracts offered either specifically for Narcissa, or for either of the twin girls, Arcturus, Orion, and Pollux settled on what they saw as the best offer—from one Abraxas Malfoy, requesting a Daughter of House Black to marry his son in exchange for an alliance for the next fifty years, a French winery and chateau, and an exorbitant amount of money as bride-price. Harry had rather expected it, but he couldn’t help but fidget. He remembered again that glimpse of Malfoy’s mom he’d gotten.

Harry had learnt by now that there was a difference between public and private attitudes for pureblood nobles like the Blacks, but he recalled the beautiful blonde woman, tall and slim, who would have been nice-looking if she hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose. Probably that moment in particular had been because she’d been confronted with a pack of blood-traitor Weasleys sitting near her nice seats in the Minister’s box, but he’d caught glimpses of her all through the game as well.

She’d been properly enthused for it, pale grey eyes alight eagerly even as she sat with unchanging poise. But, while she’d given her son indulgent smiles over his own excitement, she’d not once glanced at her husband, and they’d not touched in any way. Even her escort to her seat had been done by her son, not by Lucius. Maybe they’d just had an argument recently, maybe she’d known about the Death Eater riot about to happen and disapproved, but at the time, Harry hadn’t been able to dispel the feeling that she was…rather unhappy. And he knew for a fact that Lucius and Narcissa weren’t soulmates. In fact, Lucius still had his bracelet, even twenty years from now. Lucius did…but Narcissa didn’t.

“Something troubling you, young Heir?” Pollux asked him. Harry blinked and looked up.

He hesitated, unsure of how to put this. Then, he glanced down the table at Bellatrix, who looked as blank as a marble statue while her eyes blazed angrily at all this talk of selling her sister for such wealth. Harry opened his mouth, and said, “I know I am still learning a great deal about proper society, but…it bothers me that we aren’t even asking the girls’ opinions, I suppose.” He glanced up at Arcturus, growing bolder as nobody scoffed at him. “I mean, if you’d never noticed Cygnus’ bid to manipulate Andromeda’s contract, you wouldn’t have even known about that letter where she made her own wants and desires very clear. What…what would happen if she went through with her threats?”

Arcturus’ eyebrows went up. “Well, if I hadn’t known about her letter, I would have seen it as disrespect and rebellion, I suppose. This letter is a declaration of intent—you’ll be learning how to write one soon. With it, she is telling her Lord what she will and will not concede to. Any member of the House is allowed to write such a letter, or make such a declaration in person, and the Lord is honour-bound to listen as protector of the House so long as it is done well before any decisions are made by the Lord. But if I hadn’t known such a declaration had been made, I would not have known she was acting such because of her soulmate. She likely would be disowned if she actually did as she claimed she would in this declaration, in that case. It is part of why Cygnus’ actions could not be allowed. All declarations of intent must be handed over to me immediately, and the date mark for this letter was over a month ago.”

“He would have ruined her life because she wouldn’t have gotten the chance to give her declaration in person before a decision had been made,” Harry said softly. “That…that isn’t right, that he could do something like that.”

Arcturus and Pollux both regarded him. “What are you suggesting?” Orion was the one to ask.

“…perhaps a trial period?” Harry suggested swiftly, words tumbling over one another. “Give each girl…a year, to change her mind. They graduate at the end of the next school year, don’t they? Give them both until graduation to choose whether to go through with the betrothal or not.” He glanced at Pollux, another idea occurring. He knew because of Tonks and the things she’d told him that her parents had a romantic soulmate bond, but from his first-year lessons he knew a soul bond took months, sometimes years to settle into what sort of relationship the bond was intended to be. Since nobody but him knew it was romantic, yet…he could suggest something to sweeten this new idea to the old Blacks.

“Perhaps Andromeda will withdraw her declaration after she’s been given time to think about it. She might decide she and her soulmate will be better off as friends—their bond is probably still new, since nobody knew of it. They probably aren’t sure what kind of bond they have, yet. But we won’t know one way or another how the twins see their own betrothals unless they are given the chance to speak.”

Pollux nodded slowly. “A sensible idea,” he said. “I know arrangements can often be a controversial subject with young witches not yet aware of their value to our House.”

The table quieted when the Lady of the house spoke. “Personally, I adore the idea,” Melania said. The old woman smiled. “Perhaps we should make such standard, for our family contracts in the future.”

But in the end, Arcturus was the one who would decide. He sat thoughtfully, tapping the Malfoy marriage proposal. Eventually, he nodded.

“Very well. Each family loses daughters every few generations because they would rather be disowned for following their soulmark or their own hearts rather than marry for duty. Lycoris herself was one such, and all of you in my generation remember Cedrella. A few even know the story of Great-Aunt Isla, who ran to the muggle world in destitution rather than marry a man later imprisoned in Azkaban for familial abuse because her grandfather disregarded her declaration of intent. This policy will be good for our family, I believe.”

He laid a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Well done, nephew.”

Harry once again couldn’t repress the bright smile the compliment prompted.

“Perhaps we shall rewrite both contracts together?” Pollux suggested. “You mentioned writing Andromeda’s at one of the boy’s lordship lessons?”

Arcturus nodded. “We hold them every Sunday. This upcoming lesson will be covering ball etiquette, in preparation for the Summer Soirée, and the next Sunday was when we intended to go over vassalage, alliances, and trade.”

“Oh! Could I help with the etiquette lesson, my lord, please?” Bellatrix pleaded.

Melania, sitting not three seats from her, smiled broadly. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea, isn’t it, my love? It will be good for him to have a young woman as a dancing partner. My old joints aren’t what they used to be.”

“And I would offer my aid on his next lesson,” Pollux added. “We can add in marriage and betrothal contracts to the lesson plan for that day.”

Harry watched, bewildered, as suddenly a flurry of questions erupted around him, all asking about his lesson plan, asking to help teach him.

Pollux glanced down and seemed to notice his pale face and mute bewilderment. “Something wrong, lad?” the older wizard asked.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed mutely. He signed his answer in the face of his consternation and stared down at the table embarrassedly.

He could almost feel the entire table turn to Dorea. “He’s just a bit overwhelmed at the attention. I doubt those Gringotts cursebreakers he lived with after Lycoris died fussed over him at all,” she said, and Harry felt a wave of relief. He still didn’t know why he’d signed what he actually felt.

I don’t understand why everyone cares so much.

He still felt a flush creep up his neck when Dorea’s actual answer prompted a chorus of “awws” from the women in the room.

*          *          *

It was after the meeting was officially at an end and people were just standing in groups socializing that Harry went up to Arcturus. He’d only just escaped Bellatrix, who’d hugged him tightly and breathed a “thank you for taking care of my sisters, Heir Black,” in his ear. Walburga on the other side of the room was glaring daggers at Harry still, but he didn’t let that bother him.

Arcturus, who had delegated organizing aid for Harry’s lessons to Orion, was packing up the marriage proposals stacked at his end of the table. “Um, sir?” Harry asked timidly.

The man glanced at him. “Yes? Do you need something, Harry?”

“I-I was just wondering,” Harry said. “I was wondering how you know Cygnus is going to do what you told him to. If he’s really opposed, what’s to stop him from rebelling? You always tell me I’m going to have to learn to navigate the family because a lord cannot lead when his house disagrees with him, but…”

Arcturus huffed a quiet laugh.

“Between your maturity and cleverness, I often forget you were not raised in our world. Harry, while it is true a House can rebel, they can only do so if given the leeway to do so. Every bloodline member of our House is bound up in loyalty oaths and soul-blood ties, similar to how those of vassalage are bound but much more tightly. And legally, when a family is listed in the Ministry or with the ICW as a Wizarding House, all assets and members of the family are under the direct control of the lord. It is modelled after the paterfamilias of ancient Rome. Cygnus knows if he disobeys me, I could cut him off from his accounts or even legally imprison him in a family dungeon for his disobedience. Moreover, I made my words a direct order.”

He hesitated. “Ordinarily, an Heir would not be told this until they are grown, but the oaths and bindings taken in childhood for members of our House and our vassals ensure that if the Lord gives a direct order, the House is compelled to obey. A good Lord is sparing with his orders, of course, lest he be seen a tyrant. That is, in fact, the first true order I had ever given in my time as Lord Black.”

Harry’s eyes were huge. “Oh,” he exclaimed quietly, “I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Arcturus said. “From what you have told me, Sirius ran away while still Heir’s Heir, and was estranged from the family when his father died, and in Azkaban when I died. He would have had no idea, and thus he would not have been able to tell you.”

Harry was quiet and thoughtful as the man called for an elf to take the leather binder of parchment and put it in his office back in France.

“By…by the way,” he said just before Arcturus walked away, presumably to socialize, “What’s the…um…Summer Soirée and why do I need to learn more etiquette for it?”

The man’s eyes glinted almost mischievously. “Oh, it’s just the largest Ministry party of the summer,” he said. “It’s in three weeks, and Melania heard from her ladies’ group that Lord Astor offered up his castle for the event. I’ve decided to take you so, of course, I have to be sure you can dance and know all the social niceties of a high-society Event.”

Harry stared at him in dismay. “A party?” he managed to squeak out, flash-backs to the Yule Ball raising his apprehension to incredible heights.

Arcturus clapped him on the shoulder again, that hint of mischief still dancing in his eyes. “Don’t worry lad,” he said bracingly. “If you can manage a pack of Blacks the way you did today, a party will be a piece of cake.”

Harry was doomed. Definitely, definitely doomed.

Chapter Text

The most insane week of Harry’s life ended with an exam at six in the morning that Friday. Technically to Harry it felt like afternoon or evening, because he’d already lived the morning twice as he continued to slowly improve his Occlumency, did his other studying, and sat for several hours as the Unspeakables put his soul-blood protection through paces meant to slowly teach it Harry was not a baby and didn’t need as much protection as one.

That part was slow-going. The main issue was that clearly Lily and James hadn’t used the original Atlantean ritual or any of the known more modern versions—they had instead created their own. So nobody was sure which tests or spell combinations or rituals would work for what they needed, and it was all just a lot of trial and error.

They’d decided to let Harry take the OWL on his last run through of the morning instead of first as had been originally planned because he’d requested at least a little extra time to go over his study materials again before actually having to take the exam. So despite the early hour, Harry felt quite alert and ready. It took him two hours to get through the massive parchment roll of questions, but Harry felt sure he had passed. He had no problem with any of the written questions, and the most he was worried about when he rolled the scroll back up and handed it to the Unspeakable proctoring his exam was that his sore wrist would hinder proper spell-casting for the practical part.

Harry was sent straight to Bode’s office after turning in his exam, where he supposed he’d get a short break before taking the practical. He wasn’t surprised that Gus and Rowena were waiting for him with Bode.

“So?” Rowena wanted to know. “How do you think you did?”

Harry blanked out his mind, tightening his walls almost instinctively against her nonverbal Legilimency attack as he answered her question. “I feel pretty confident, actually. It wasn’t half as bad as I’d worried it might be.”

She grinned. “Good job, Harry. And good block. I could barely tell you were Occluding as you answered me.”

Harry grinned back at her, relaxing now.

“Yes, good job, Harry,” Bode said briskly. “You can rest for a bit here if you like, but you’re free to go for the rest of the day, otherwise.”

Harry frowned. “Wait, what? But I haven’t taken my practical yet.”

Bode and Rowena both turned to look at Gus, who was smirking. “You didn’t tell him,” Rowena said, disapproving.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Gus said.

“Wait,” Harry cut in, annoyed, “what are you guys talking about?”

“Harry,” Rowena said, “your duel on Tuesday was technically your OWL practical.”

His eyes narrowed. “Technically?”

Gus clapped Harry on the back. “Don’t worry, kiddo, she said that because it’s technically also your NEWT Defence practical. What it actually was, was your Mastery application duel.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Uwha?!?” He shook his head, occluding to compose himself. “What do you mean!? My mastery? I’m not in an apprenticeship yet! Can I even get my mastery?”

“Well,” Gus said thoughtfully, “that’s the brilliant thing about Defence Masteries. You don’t need to have a recorded apprenticeship period first. To get a Mastery in Defensive Magic and Duelling, you have to have an application duel on record where you either win or draw against anywhere from three to ten opponents. Once that duel is on record and graded by either Ministry or ICW examiners, you have to log a certain number of hours of practical experience with Dark creatures and wizards—which your school history, even your false one with Gringotts, adequately covers, and Rowena’s vouching for you as a government-registered Master Legilimens who can confirm those memories are real and not fabrications—and then be cross-examined by first the local Auror Office and then the ICW’s Wizarding Examination Authority. And, of course, for your Mastery application to be confirmed both nationally and internationally you need to have both an OWL and NEWT score of Exceeds Expectations or higher on record.”

The Unspeakable grinned slyly. “What many people don’t realize, though, is the process has a loophole. If you submit your application duel before taking your OWLs or NEWTs, and you pass, all practical examinations for standardized tests in Defence are waived because you’ve essentially been judged to be post-NEWT level already. You still have to take the written tests to show you’ve got the research down along with the skill, but that’s no big deal.”

Harry was still slack-jawed. He shook his head slowly. “So…you had those examiners there for…that? But wouldn’t the blood-soul protection waking up have rendered the duel invalid?”

“We picked people able to judge contested matches, just in case they saw something they shouldn’t or in case we had some sort of emergency that interrupted the duel,” Bode said reasonably. “Our Unspeakables were given free rein in what they taught you, after all, which includes a good deal of restricted spellwork. Most of it could be legally covered by a Defence Mastery, though, so we felt expediting that would be a good idea.”

“So…so… What do I still have to do? For my Mastery?” Harry asked, dazed.

“We submitted your practical experience through Gringotts once your duel record was approved,” Rowena said, “and you just took your Defence OWL. Now you just need your written NEWT exam and your cross-examinations. We figured that by the time you reached graduation, you’d be finished with your Mastery as well. It was Augustus’ idea.”

Gus let out a surprised sound when Harry grabbed him in a hug. “Thank you,” Harry said, muffled, into the man’s chest. “Thank you so much.”

He’d not even known it was possible, getting your Mastery while you were still in school. But it would be so useful—he’d be able to focus on other things more. If he studied hard this year, he might even be able to take his NEWT exam next summer and be done with it early. It was the sort of thing a family member or a parent might do, to make their child’s life easier.

And Harry was so, so grateful.

*          *          *

That next Sunday came after two days of steadily growing excitement. The Hogwarts term was ending this week, and the Hogwarts Express would be pulling into King’s Cross station late Sunday evening. Accordingly, Harry spent his lesson at Grimmauld Place instead of Arcturus’ French chateau. The two older Blacks planned to bring Harry and Bellatrix to the station, where they would meet up with the Potters to collect James, Sirius, and the sixth-year twins.

After the events of the Wednesday meeting, Harry had quietly told Arcturus his knowledge of what would have happened to Andromeda in his absence. When Harry had admitted he had no idea when Andromeda and Ted had actually eloped, only that their daughter had been born shortly afterwards, Arcturus had elected to send a quick letter to the twins to ensure Andromeda didn’t do anything rash. Orion, for his part, was simply quietly pleased his son was returning home, though Walburga seemed less enthused.

Harry had known it was coming up, but still—he found himself unspeakably nervous to actually meet his father—his twelve-year-old, not-yet-a-parent, father. The prospect of meeting a tiny, not-yet-scarred Sirius was rather alarming as well, for all that he’d already glimpsed the boy once.

That morning it was maddeningly difficult to focus on his lessons. This was not helped by the fact that said lessons focused on table etiquette for various sorts of parties: buffet-style, banquet-style, restaurant-style…and, of course, on socialization and dance. Harry was given an entire list of topics he could or could not mention, for various reasons, and he had to memorize the do’s, the don’ts, and the wherefores of those restrictions. To his surprise, the only part of the day he actually enjoyed was the part he’d supposed he would like the least—the dancing.

Bellatrix was clearly a fabulously talented dancer, and her enthusiastic grace combined with her witty charm kept Harry more focused on matching her word for word than on how his feet were doing, and to his surprise he didn’t step on her toes more than twice.

Little Regulus Black was in attendance to this lesson. Harry had only glimpsed him before, as well, but found the boy was a smaller, more waifish version of his older brother. Regulus was thin and slight where Sirius was stocky and (eventually would be) broad-shouldered. He seemed in awe of Harry, and he squeaked amusingly like Ginny had back when she’d been all star-struck every time Harry spoke to him or sat near him. Harry honestly thought Regulus was a sweet but strikingly clever little kid. And knowing this boy was magically his uncle, well, that just made Harry more protective of him.

When lunch came and both Bellatrix and Regulus were chivvied to a different room to eat by Melania, leaving Harry alone with Arcturus and Orion, however, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. The two Black men sat down with Harry at a little table in Orion’s office to eat their meal. Arcturus had a strict policy of never discussion anything but neutral or academic topics while eating, and so the pair continued to quiz Harry on party etiquette until they’d reached dessert.

When Arcturus set his fork down, Harry did as well. He’d come to know these two men enough to know they wanted to talk about something important with him without having to be told. Orion was the one who spoke first.

“As you know, the children are returning from Hogwarts this evening.”

Harry simply nodded. They’d gone over meeting up with the Potters and all tomorrow the previous afternoon. It would be quite the political statement, considering the animosity Euphemia and Arcturus had long shared over the Lycoris soulmark scandal. But the goblins had given both the answers they needed, and Harry’s backstory almost required reconciliation to some extent besides, so both were putting aside their personal feelings to move forward in this new timeline Harry was creating with his presence.

“When you first arrived,” Orion continued, “both my home and my household was scoured for items which had been transposed with you. It was during this investigation, you recall, that we learnt your Heirship had been transferred to the past.” He hesitated. “What you were not told, was that your godfather bond had transferred as well—to Sirius.”

Harry blinked. “Wait. What?”

“Sirius is, magically, your godfather. His bond transferred over. If it had not, say, if he had been at Hogwarts at the time, it is likely your actual godfather would have been pulled from the future with you.”

“Like Hedwig was,” Harry murmured. He’d been told Sirius could have been pulled back as well, only he hadn’t been, but Harry had never been told why. This was… “What does this mean, though?” Harry asked. “I mean, Sirius is twelve. He can’t be my godfather, can he?”

Orion shrugged. “Magic does not care that he isn’t old enough. Your version of Sirius made a permanent, binding magical contract when he accepted his role as godfather to the child of a soulbonded couple. That contract is bound to you, and so since you are in this time, so is that bond.”

“But…what does that mean?” Harry pressed. He’d not ever really asked that before. Sirius had said he was Harry’s godfather, so it was his duty to protect and care for him. Sirius had quietly admitted he’d known when Harry had been nearly killed by the basilisk. It was somehow sensing that, combined with the newspaper revealing Wormtail’s presence in Harry’s life, that had really spurred Sirius on to escape where he’d not been able to muster the conviction previously. But beyond knowing Sirius had some nebulous idea of when Harry was in lethal danger, the teenager really didn’t know anything else about the magic binding him to his godfather.

“Well,” Arcturus said gruffly, “contrary to what you claim to have heard from Ministry officials in your third year of school, if it was known Sirius was your magical and legal godfather there should have been no doubt he was innocent. Such a contract will kill the godfather if he ever knowingly endangers the life of his ward. His magic would be stripped from him if he ever knowingly mistreated his godchild or allowed his ward to be mistreated, and he is automatically the legal guardian of his godchild upon the deaths of the child’s parents.”

“It is possible,” Orion added, “that the Ministry thought Sirius would not have magically bound himself as godfather, that it was a legal status only, to keep such penalties from falling on him, but anyone who knew either the Potters or the Blacks well should have insisted that a godfather bond be checked for before he could legally be thrown into Azkaban.”

Harry huffed grumpily. “I think we’ve worked out there was not really anything legal about Sirius being sent to Azkaban,” he gritted out.

“Indeed,” Arcturus agreed darkly. The knowledge that these two men would ruin the careers of everyone Harry had knowledge of being involved in this—from future Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold, to Head of the DMLE Barty Crouch Senior, to the incompetent and even more distant future Minister Cornelius Fudge and his stooge Delores Umbridge—Black vengeance was a thorough thing, and not something to be taken lightly. And yet…Harry honestly felt they deserved what they had coming to them. They had been the ones to condemn an innocent man to prison without trial and based on hearsay and the ravings of a man who’d clearly just lost his mind from grief, and then do everything in their power to make sure he could never be found innocent.

Arcturus shook himself out of his fury, and Harry did his best to as well. “That being said, however, it is prudent that we inform young Sirius of his bond. He is honestly too young for the responsibility, but magic does not recognize age in this situation. If he acts against his magical mandate to protect, nurture, and educate you, his magic or his life could be forfeit.”

Harry suddenly realized where this was going. “You’re going to tell him the truth about my history.”

Orion nodded. “Indeed. It seems the prudent thing to do.”

Harry nodded back slowly. “Will…will he be able to keep it a secret? I don’t mind my actual parents finding out, but Uncle Flea and Aunt Euphie decided James shouldn’t be told yet, because he’s so young. James and Sirius are best friends. When I was twelve, I couldn’t keep any secrets from my best friends.”

It wasn’t as if Hermione and Ron had just taken Harry’s word for not being the Heir of Slytherin, or the twins, or the Quidditch team. But he’d been pants at lying as a kid, to people he cared about at least. He’d gotten better at it recently, because of Occlumency and tutelage from the DoM, but he knew he’d have problems around, say Dumbledore or the Weasleys, just because of what they’d meant to him in the future.

Orion raised a single eyebrow. “He was raised a Black,” the man said simply. “He knows how to follow orders.”

And that was apparently that.

The afternoon dancing lessons were distracted but fun, turning into very nearly an impromptu miniature party when Cassiopeia arrived, plans for her cottage’s wards in tow, and bulled her way into Harry’s attempts to memorize the complicated gavotte, a traditional dance for the Summer Soirée. Arcturus and Melania even joined in for one of the dances, displaying the perfect synchronism of soulmates in their steps. The lively atmosphere was only soured by Walburga’s brief appearance at home. Apparently she was out visiting friends that day, and would not be joining them for the evening trip to King’s Cross.

Regulus’s look of mingled upset and relief was all too indicative of the woman’s unpleasant demeanour.

But finally it was time for the thing both Harry and Regulus had been waiting for—the time to go to King’s Cross and greet the Hogwarts Express as it pulled into the station. It was a flurry of hurriedly getting dressed and ready, and then Arcturus cloaked the entire group (himself, Melania, Orion, Regulus, Harry, a newly arrived Pollux and an eager Bellatrix) in a notice-me-not enchantment that would hold all the way to the station so long as nobody wandered too far from the group.

Today was a day of firsts, Harry thought to himself as they finally set out. To begin with, he’d never been to Platform 9 ¾ from this side of things. For another, Grimmauld Place was close enough to the station that they were walking there instead of Flooing or driving a car, hence the reason for the notice-me-not enchantment. Harry hadn’t ever walked to the station before, so this would be a new experience. And finally, of course, Harry would be meeting a version of his father for the very first time.

He was as excited as he was apprehensive, and though it felt childish to admit even to himself, Harry felt better when Regulus grabbed his hand and held it tight. He squeezed back, aware the ten-year-old was likely full of nerves of his own.

The walk to King’s Cross Station was surprisingly peaceful. They were all in wizard robes and such, not even bothering to blend in a little under the protection of Arcturus’ notice-me-not, but only Harry seemed to find that odd as they walked down the sidewalks and other pedestrians avoided them without noticing. He did still find it odd to wear robes regularly, though. Both the Potters and the Blacks wore wizard fashions more or less all the time, though since Harry’s wardrobe mostly consisted of the sort of things cursebreakers wore, most of his wardrobe looked like a weird cross between Victorian Steampunk and traditional wizard battle robes. Arcturus and Melania had insisted on having him fitted for several Black robes, one set of which he’d worn to the Gathering on Wednesday, and another of which he was wearing right now. They’d recently also ordered him dress robes.

Apparently even though Harry’d still had the bottle green robes Mrs. Weasley had gotten for him to wear to the Yule Ball a little over a year ago, he still needed new robes. The green ones were a little tight in the shoulders by now, and short at the ankles—and it had been a definitely out-of-time robe style in the 1970s, as they were the most modern thing that could be bought in 1994. Still, Harry had protested and quite disliked the fitting for the new robes.

But at least the additions to his wardrobe meant Harry fit in to this group quite well, blending in as another dark-haired, sharp-featured Black, only his strikingly green eyes and darker skin setting him apart from the others with their eyes of grey or black and their paper-pale tones. The entire group walked straight through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾ without so much as a glance around, secure in Arcturus’ enchantment. The station was fairly crowded with families, and many whispered amongst themselves as the Blacks waltzed onto the scene.

Regulus’ grip tightened on Harry’s hand and the boy clung to his robes. Harry looked down at him, concerned.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“They’re all staring so,” Regulus whispered.

And so they were, Harry suddenly noticed. He’d not realized before—four years as the most easily recognizable celebrity in the known wizarding world had inured him to stares and whispers for the most part. The half-year of unkind whispers and wary stares after Voldemort’s resurrection had only further deadened his ability to notice when he was the centre of attention.

“They’re probably curious about me,” Harry said to the boy. “Sorry.” They were probably also all intrigued by whatever they’d heard of Harry’s backstory, the teenager thought sourly to himself. The Unspeakables certainly had picked a controversial pair of people to be Harry’s cover parents.

Regulus just grimaced at the reply and tried to creep further into the folds of Harry’s many-layered robes where he couldn’t be seen.

Thankfully for poor little Regulus’ nerves, the Hogwarts Express steaming into the station had everyone’s eyes turning to the lurid scarlet engine and away from the product of the biggest soulmate scandal of the 1950s.

The magnificent train pulled into the station to great elation, children and teenagers tumbling out of cars towards parents, chattering excitedly while the train staff called names for families or family elves to come pick up student luggage. Harry noticed that Kreacher had appeared as they entered the Platform, popping up next to Taffy, who’d led the Potters over to the cluster of Blacks staring disdainfully over the crowds.

The two elves popped off together to collect the luggage. It was so strange seeing Kreacher here. He was much younger and healthier looking right now, his ear hair and the little bit of hair still on his head grey instead of snow-white. He was also a good deal less toxic, to be frank, speaking respectfully and politely and never so much as uttering the word mudblood or even filth. Regulus seemed to have a special bond with him that reminded Harry of himself and Dobby, honestly, and some part of Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the poor old elf had simply been senile and insane with loneliness in Harry’s time, after being locked up in Grimmauld Place with only a mad portrait of Walburga for company for so many years.

Harry saw his cousin Caelum first, speaking quietly with a girl Harry recognized as a young Narcissa Malfoy—Narcissa Black, right now. Caelum had the typical Potter looks: the dark brown hair alongside the long face and fingers, but he had the colouring and pale grey eyes of a Black. Andromeda was in their wake, nervously gripping the hand of a mellow-looking boy with mousey brown hair. Harry felt certain the girl he’d noticed was Andromeda, because she bore a striking resemblance to Bellatrix, even more than to her twin.

Tagging along in the back were two little dark heads tucked together, chattering. Two brunettes tripped alongside them, sandy brown hair so long it almost hid the face of a young Remus Lupin, and the badly combed brown locks of a not-yet-rat-like Peter Pettigrew. Harry frowned upon seeing that one, but closed his eyes and took a breath, Occluding away his anger and mistrust.

The group of students collided with the group of adults chaotically. Narcissa and Caelum were talking to both Bellatrix and Dorea (who’d come with the Potters, Charlus alongside her), eagerly discussing the gossip of the school year, while Andromeda nervously stopped in front of her grandfather and Lord and introduced them both quietly to her soulmate. Ted Tonks looked unspeakably nervous, but was holding his own pretty well, Harry thought.

He could see his dad jumping up and down in front of his grandparents excitedly, clearly telling them some sort of story. Regulus had let go of Harry to fling himself at his big brother, begging for stories of Hogwarts already. Pettigrew was dragged away by a witch in mauve robes who was loudly exclaiming over how much he’d grown, while Sirius imitated Andromeda, to Harry’s surprise, by dragging Remus up to his grandmother and saying both defiantly and loudly, “This is my soulmate, Remus Lupin, Grandmama.”

The Blacks all paused in conversation, giving the nervous and sickly looking twelve-year-old boy a once-over, before turning back to their own discussions. Melania instantly began to exclaim proudly, already mothering the quiet boy. The weary, sandy-haired man who’d nervously approached the large group of rabid purebloods for his son looked startled, thoughtful, and relieved all at once. Over Mr. Lupin’s shoulder, Harry’s blood ran cold as he accidently locked eyes with a narrow-eyed blonde teenage girl. He swallowed, his eyes automatically ducking down at her clear displeasure with the situation.

Harry couldn’t quite look at her again, almost afraid despite the irrationality of the feeling, but he did track the pretty little red-haired girl back to the couple the blonde girl was determinedly standing apart from. She was dragging a little dark-haired boy along with her, clearly a close friend and probably also a muggleborn as the Evans had collected both Lily’s and the boy’s trunks. Harry wondered who he was.

A squeeze to Harry’s hand made him look down to see Regulus by his side again. “What’s wrong?” the little boy asked.

Harry blinked and shrugged rather helplessly. Regulus just clung to Harry’s arm in a subtle hug. “I think it’s a lot going on too,” the little Black said. “And I was here at the start of last school year as well.”

A loud voice made him start.

“Oh, wow, are you my new cousin!?”

It was his dad—it was James, Harry told himself firmly. Jamie Potter, his aunt’s son. Jamie was beaming up at Harry, curious and eager.

“Yes, I am,” Harry said simply. He held out the hand Regulus wasn’t holding captive. “Pleased to meet you.”

Jamie laughed gaily, delighted and amused. “We’re cousins! No need to be so formal!” But the preteen took Harry’s hand anyway, grasping it with a fairly firm grip for a kid and shaking it up and down almost like Fred and George might have in this situation, mimicking pompousness. Perhaps James intended to say something funny, but both boys were derailed when magic rose almost invisibly from Harry’s skin.

It was the most subtle effect it had taken yet, barely visible as a distortion of the air yet surging so strongly around James and Harry that Regulus could undoubtedly feel it too, his grip on Harry’s other hand suddenly bloodlessly tight. The protection slid over Harry’s hand and down into James’ skin—searching for something, Harry thought. Whatever it was looking for, it found, seeping back under Harry’s own skin and settling back to sleep.

James’ mouth had fallen open, but to Harry’s surprise, when he finally managed to let go of Harry’s hand, wet his lips, and then begin to talk, he didn’t comment on the odd surge of magic. Instead, Jamie blurted out, “You have the same eyes as my soulmate!”

The boy’s whole face flushed, his ears and neck darkening as well. He looked rather like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Harry just smiled at him warmly. “Really? Usually I only ever get comments on how unique the colour is.”

James shook his head firmly. “No, they’re like hers!” he said insistently. “The same shape…and the colour is similar too…um…”

Harry patted him on the shoulder. “When I come to Hogwarts in the fall, you’ll have to introduce me.”

Jamie blinked up at him. “You’re coming to Hogwarts next year?” he gasped out. At Harry’s nod the boy cheered and ran over to tell Sirius the good news, handily distracting the other boy from the fact that his soulmate had been taken home for the summer.

Harry got a chance to speak to his eighteen-year-old cousin Caelum once they’d arrived at Potter Manse for a late supper. The older boy reminded him of Percy Weasley, but with what Harry was beginning to recognize was a familial air of mischief shared by all the Potters. Caelum had been kind and welcoming, and more than happy to tell Harry what he thought were the important parts of Hogwarts—descriptions of the teachers, the points system, the various clubs and activities.

“I was in Gobstones and the Debate clubs myself,” the older boy said. He sighed. “It’ll be odd, not having those any longer.”

Jamie had been yawning all throughout dinner, and his parents picked him up to carry the twelve-year-old off to bed when he dozed off into his bowl of soup. Everyone else gave early goodnights as well, all departing for their respective rooms.

It wasn’t until Harry had reached his own bedroom that he realized the blood protection had allowed him to go off alone. He sat down hard on his bed, staring down at his hands. Something had changed. But what?

He remembered the odd magical feeling he’d gotten when he and James had first met. Had that been it? Had meeting a real, living James Potter somehow caused the magic to recalibrate itself somehow?

He sighed.

This would be a question for the Unspeakables to work out. This meant his morning was going to be so busy. And that on top of Orion’s plans for he and Harry to tell Sirius the truth tomorrow afternoon. Well, if tomorrow was going to be a full day, he might as well go to sleep so he’d be well rested.

“G’night, Hedwig,” he murmured, darkening the candles in his room with a flick of his wand. He could hear his owl’s wings rustling in the darkness as he laid down to sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry sat and watched curiously as he was poked at by numerous Unspeakables.

“So, something’s definitely changed?” he pressed. One of them nodded to him.

“For sure. It’s just…eh…” the man trailed off.

A female Unspeakable snickered. “Hard to quantify? Bloody confusing?”

The man who’d spoken first flapped a hand at her in a mixture of exasperation and agreement.

“But you think it’s calmed down some?” Harry pressed.

The entire group nodded. “Oh, definitely,” the woman agreed. “When we set those Bludgers loose in the room your protection didn’t go berserk like it did last time, it activated but stayed just under your skin while it assessed the situation. We discovered spells aimed at you will still be stopped but you can swim now without it freaking out, and people can smoke near you again.”

She smirked as another Unspeakable muttered, “Thank Merlin.”

“If I had to guess—you said it went weird when you met this time’s version of your father? If I had to guess, I’d say your protection recognized him as one of its creators. It was either able to view you for a moment through his eyes, giving it a sense of your actual age and capabilities, or having a creator appear alive and a child confused it enough that it pushed it to settling early by mistake.”

“Do you think I can duel again? Play Quidditch?” Harry asked.

“Probably ought to hold off on duelling in public until you learn how much control you have over it,” one of the other Unspeakables cut in. “We’ll be doing testing of that. We know it still works to disable your opponents and shield you automatically, but you’ve managed to order it in how it did those things, so it’s possible you could work something out.”

“Quidditch should be fine though,” the first Unspeakable said.

Harry grinned.

“Brilliant.”

*          *          *

Something very strange was going on in his family, Sirius Black thought to himself, and it had been going on at least since their return home for the summer. Actually, it likely had begun even before then.

Sirius recalled how Andromeda had acted right after bonding with her soulmate. She’d vanished from the Slytherin dormitories and had spent an awful lot of time in the Hospital Wing when she wasn’t in class. It had been theorized among the older students that she’d found her soulmate, but nobody had known for sure until one day less than a week ago when she’d grabbed Sirius and cousin Cissa and taken them to the Hospital Wing, where she’d introduced them both to her soulmate Theodore Tonks.

Sirius had instantly understood the issue. Ted was a mudblood, after all. But—astonishingly—Andy claimed she’d received word from Grandfather that Andy and Ted’s bond was going to be allowed. Grandfather was even writing up a marriage contract for them!

And Uncle Cygnus was in big trouble. Apparently he’d tried to lie to Grandfather, and now Andy and Cissy were living with Grandpapa Pollux. The biggest change, though, seemed to be in Grandfather himself. The man came over to Grimmauld Place more times in three days than he had in the past three years, barring official family meetings. He and Father would hole themselves up in the study for important talks.

It must have something to do with Henry Travers, his and James’ new mutual cousin. Sirius had been informed, of course, that Harry was a Black Heir just like Father, and so would be learning all the boring stuff Sirius himself would start to learn in only a few years. But even if Harry was a Black Heir, Sirius didn’t see how he could have changed things in the family so much in such little time. It was bewildering.

As was being given permission to eat lunch with Father in his study. Sirius usually ate with Regulus in their playroom, or with the entire family in the dining room. Father occasionally took meals alone or with business associates in his study, but Sirius had never eaten there. Strangely, it felt a bit like a milestone.

Even more strangely, Grandfather and Cousin Harry were both there as well with their own plates of food. Cousin Harry looked oddly nervous, and he kept sneaking little glances at Sirius like he didn’t know what to make of him. That was okay. Sirius didn’t know what to make of Harry either.

The click when Grandfather finally put down his utensils was a decisive one, and it made Sirius gulp. He had a very serious expression on his face, that was mirrored by the one in Father’s face. Cousin Harry just looked even more nervous.

…was this about Remus? Grandmother and Grandfather had seemed fine with his soulmate when they’d been introduced at the train station, but Sirius supposed they could have waited to object until it wouldn’t cause a scene. Sirius’ heart and soul ached at the idea of not being permitted to spend time with his soulmate. They weren’t even old enough to know what kind of bond they had. Grandfather couldn’t forbid Sirius to spend time with him just because Remus was a halfblood! It wasn’t fair!

“Sirius,” Grandfather said quietly. “We have something important to tell you. I need you to listen, and not interrupt until I am finished speaking.”

…what could it be besides Remus? Sirius’ heart squeezed in a vice and he managed a nod.

“This involves some things you wouldn’t have learnt until you were seventeen, or even older,” Grandfather began. “Do you remember Morgana Black from your family lessons?”

Sirius blinked, wracking his brain. That…didn’t have anything to do with Remus. “Um, didn’t she build the first family house on this property?” Sirius had remembered because it was the last time in the past several hundred years that a woman had been Lord Black. He’d always thought she must have been really impressive to run the House all by herself, with a husband from outside the family.

“Indeed,” Arcturus agreed, “and she was an innovator of several kinds of magic. In fact, she was an Unspeakable like your father was before his retirement.”

Father grimaced at that. Sirius still didn’t know why Father had retired, just that he had, and he wished he hadn’t.

“One artefact she crafted has not moved from the place she put it, in fact, here in the basement of Grimmauld Place.”

Sirius blinked. Oh. Definitely nothing to do with Remus. This was Family Lore stuff. But why were they all so serious?

“An artefact?” he asked, to be polite. His Grandfather just nodded.

“Yes.” He breathed out slowly. “It is a device that allows travel backwards in time, without worry for paradoxes.”

Sirius stared.

“We have a time machine?” he asked dumbly. That made Grandfather’s brow furrow, and Father looked confused, and Sirius scrambled as he realized he’d used a muggle phrase. It was just that those books Mary McDonald had were so interesting and oh no he’d messed up—

Cousin Harry laughed. “Yes, exactly,” he said. “Only it can only go backwards, not back and forth.” He sounded sad saying that, for some reason.

“Why do I need to know about it?” Sirius asked, cutting to the point. Sirius hated the delicate dance everyone always took getting to the important things. He knew a good Heir would let everyone dance around it and wait patiently, but he’d been sorted into Gryffindor, so clearly he wasn’t a good Heir.

For some reason, Grandfather and Father turned to look at Cousin Harry. Sirius realized in alarm that Harry looked like he was about to cry. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Instead, he thrust a book into Sirius’ hands.

Sirius looked down at warm leather and opened it slowly, confused. He blinked down at the photograph on the first page. This was…a photo album. A man who looked very much like Aunt Dorea’s husband was smiling into the camera with a woman whose eyes were as green as Evans’. Between them was a baby with messy dark hair and those same green eyes. The caption made his breath catch in his throat. Not just because of the words, but because—

That’s Remus’ handwriting.

It said, in his soulmate’s familiar cursive, ‘Baby Harry’s First Birthday’. He turned it over to see the pictures on the next page, and he stared even longer.

Sirius recognized the first photograph. James had taken it. He’d claimed to want to commemorate their friendship and had taken a picture of the two of them out by the Quidditch pitch. And there was another James had sneakily taken of Sirius and Remus holding hands and quietly talking. Their dormmate had run away cackling about blackmail and how adorable they were. Sirius hadn’t found it in himself to be angry, not when James’ own soulmate was still firmly ignoring him.

There were other pictures on this page he didn’t recognize, but that were clearly of Evans. Some had her and Snape. Some had just her alone. She really was beautiful, Sirius thought. James would be lucky to have her, whenever she let herself accept the bond. Sirius turned back to the first page, to the couple holding the baby version of Cousin Harry.

You have my soulmate’s eyes. Sirius hadn’t thought much of that, at the time. James was obsessed with Lily’s eyes, obsessed with her as a whole as she continued to push against her soulbond even as he leaned into his. But…it was true. The woman and the baby had the same green eyes. The man, Sirius realized with a jolt, had the same cowlicks James did in his hair.

Sirius flipped as fast as he could through the photos. Only the first few pages were pictures of James and Lily. Sirius stared in amazement at the wedding page. An adult version of himself—looking so much like Father, like Grandpapa Pollux—was laughing joyfully, Remus beaming at him. James and Lily were radiantly beautiful in a way that made his stomach uncomfortably squirmy and his cheeks warm. But past the wedding page were only a few dozen—mostly of baby Harry.

The photographs shifted abruptly to an eleven-year-old Harry in the muggleborn uniform, Gryffindor scarf around his neck and two grinning friends at his side. As Sirius continued to flip, he noticed none of those pictures had James or Lily any longer. He and Remus weren’t, either. Not even Pettigrew, who’d been in several of the earlier photographs. And then, Sirius reappeared.

His older self looked awful, sickly and gaunt and haunted. But he looked at the young Cousin Harry in the photos like he was a mirage, a soap bubble he was afraid would pop and leave him alone. Sirius didn’t think he’d ever looked at anyone like that before. Cousin Harry looked like he adored the older Sirius as well, staring at him the way he knew he sometimes looked at Uncle Alphard. Remus was in a few of those pictures, and he also looked at Harry like he was something precious. He looked at older Sirius like he wanted to never let him go.

Sirius didn’t know how he felt right now. His emotions were all twisted and knotted up, too many things to name. He’d figured it out, though he wished he hadn’t. Where were older James and Lily in the photographs? Surely they hadn’t been gone. Surely Cousin Harry hadn’t been alone.

The silence in the room was heavy. Sirius looked up.

Cousin Harry was picking at his robe sleeves. Sirius could see, now, the resemblance to James. It had clearly been disguised with transfiguration, and his skin had been darkened to help hide any identifiable marks, but that was Sirius’ nose shape, James’ ears. Lily Evans’ eyes were unchanged.

“You’re from the future,” Sirius said. He had so many questions, but he was afraid of the answers. Cousin—no, not cousin. Harry just nodded.

“You’re my godfather,” Harry whispered. “Siri—you made me your Heir, in the future. It’s why I’m Heir now.”

Siri. He’d never had a nickname before. Then he registered the present tense in Harry’s first statement.

“What do you mean, I am your godfather? Surely you mean was? My—future self?”

Grandfather cut in. “It’s part of how Morgana’s Clock works, Sirius. Pre-existing bonds are brought back in time. Even soulmarks always seem to work themselves out, no matter the circumstances. If the bond hadn’t been able to transfer to you, your future self would have been dragged back wholesale.”

“This is very important, Sirius,” Father said. “You might not have made the oaths, but a version of you did. You made a magical contract. We’ll be giving you materials to read and you must study them. If you break your oaths, you could lose your magic or your life.”

Sirius was a godfather. The thought didn’t quite compute. James was a father. Sirius was a godfather. The older boy sitting in front of him, who was almost the same age as Cousins Cissa and Andy, that was his son, by magic and oath. Sirius felt dizzy.

But, shouldn’t he be able to feel it, if he was? Godfather bonds worked like soulmate bonds a little—at least, according to his godfather Uncle Alphard. Sirius closed his eyes and searched his magic the way he’d been taught. There was his link to Uncle Alphard, a comforting weight like a hug. And there were his family links as second Heir to his father and grandfather. And brightest was his soulmate bond. He tugged gently on it, sending Remus his worry and confusion and bewildered delight. Curiosity and reassurance trickled back. That was when he noticed it, because that was when he realized the towering pile of nerves that he’d been feeling wasn’t his. There was another bond, almost as bright as his soul bond. At the other end was apprehension and nerves and fear of rejection, all twisted around a bright, fragile hope and deep sorrow. Sirius grasped it firmly.

It’s okay, he thought, sending the reassurance Remus had just given him down the magical thread. Harry sucked in a breath, startled. Green eyes met grey. Sirius smiled at him, Harry’s fragility making his smile trembly.

“Well, I’m glad to meet you properly.” He hesitated, and then added, “Godson.”

Harry felt an awful lot like he wanted to start bawling, but he looked perfectly calm. Sirius wondered where he’d learnt that. Had Sirius finally figured out how to not be obvious in the future and taught his godson?

His godson’s emotions were a tightly reigned in storm, and Sirius wasn’t the only one that could feel it. His connection to his godson was suddenly blanketed in so much love Sirius abruptly burst into tears. Harry let out a little gasp as two shimmering ghostly figures wrapped arms around the two boys.

Sirius shuddered, staring up at the indistinct form of his best friend’s adult face, unable to keep his eyes from flickering over to the feminine figure hugging Harry tightly.

“Jamie,” he choked out.

“I know you’ll take good care of my boy,” the ghost whispered in his ear. “You promised, and you always keep your promises. You will always be my dearest friend, brother of my heart. Care for him, and he will care for you. He has so much love to give but he doesn’t know how.”

Sirius nodded, tears streaming down his face. Then he hiccuped a laugh as a thought occurred to him. He decided he was brave enough to ask, since Harry had caught and liked his other muggle reference.

“Is this what Mary meant when she talked about a “come to Jesus” moment?” he asked.

His bond with Harry lightened, and to his astonishment the woman ghost laughed aloud. The two figures shimmered to dust and Sirius stumbled up from his seat.

“They died,” he said, with keenly painful awareness. “But they did something to stay with you?”

Harry just nodded, curling in on himself in his seat. Sirius saw what ghost-James had meant now. Harry felt like he wanted a hug, but he was trying to hug himself. That wouldn't do at all.

Sirius stumbled around the table. He had to half-climb into Harry’s lap, feeling as though the world was oddly backwards. Sirius hugged Harry the way he would hug Regulus, the way he would hug James or Remus. He wrapped his arms around the older boy’s neck and clung tightly.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m here, James and your mum are here, it’s okay. I know you miss everyone and I can feel you’re upset, but you don’t have to be brave. Gryffindors can be sad too. I’m here, I’ll be your friend. It’s okay.”

Sirius didn’t love Harry the way those ghosts did, or the way the man in the pictures did. But he could feel that Harry was sad and lonely and a little bit broken, like Remus, but even worse than Remus, because Harry had lost everyone he’d ever cared about when he’d come back in time. Sirius didn’t know the hows or whys, but he could feel how hurt Harry was and it made his heart ache. Sirius didn’t love Harry like a grown-up, but Harry was his godson. It was like gaining another little brother, in Sirius’ mind, for all that Harry was older. So Sirius loved him, and he made sure Harry could tell.

Harry was completely silent, but Sirius could feel his emotions fracturing like glass breaking. Harry was completely silent, but his entire body wracked with sobs and Sirius could feel tears soaking the top of his head. Somehow, he knew this was the first time in a very long time Harry had let himself cry.

Sirius held on, let his godson cry, and breathed for both of them.

*          *          *

James was delighted when Cousin Harry brought Sirius over for dinner one day. Harry was cousin to them both, which was awesome, it meant they were that much closer linked and Harry was awesome himself. James’ first day home he’d tried to see what Cousin Harry thought of Quidditch. Caelum had always been passing fair, and he was on his House team, but he’d never been passionate about the sport.

James was therefore delighted to find that Cousin Harry might not know much about current rankings or teams, but he was perfectly happy to talk about it. And Grandpa Henry had harrumphed at Harry’s modest description of his own skills, launching into a play-by-play of Harry’s first game with the Potter family. James had hung on every word, and immediately Cousin Harry was his new favourite relative.

Cousin Harry was his favourite, and Sirius was his very best friend, so of course he was ecstatic to have them both at his home at the same time. He was, however, a little bit concerned over the fact that Harry was holding onto Sirius’ hand like a lifeline, and how they both looked like they’d been crying. Harry looked awful, actually, like Remus after one of his ill bouts. Sirius had given James the same help, happy distraction please look he often had with Remus as well.

James, being an excellent friend, had obliged.

He’d played up his excitement and dragged his cousin and best friend outside to the broom cupboard.

“Papa says I’m not allowed to fly unsupervised, but he also said Cael was supervision when he was fifteen, so you probably count too,” James chattered along, bouncing from Harry’s free side to hovering at Sirius’ shoulder.

Harry looked to be relaxing, which was good. Sirius gave James a subtle thumbs-up, which was better.

“And Papa said you could actually control the old family Silver Arrow!? The one time I tried flying on that broom I almost died, for real! I almost hit the house! How do you fly on it when it doesn’t stop?”

“You just have to slow down carefully,” Harry said in a tone that was somehow knowledgeable without becoming bossy like Cael so often was. “I’ve ridden a really fast broom before, so I already kind of knew how to fly on that sort of model.”

“Ooh, what make was it!? Do you still have it?”

That, unfortunately, made Harry deflate. His hand clenched into a fist and James realized with dawning horror that faint imprint across the back of it was actually faint scarring, like words had been carved into the back of his hand.

“I don’t have that broom anymore,” he said lowly. Then he shook himself, and he smiled. “Besides, it’s not a brand you would have heard of. I don’t think the company exists in Britain yet.”

A weird way to word it, but that was okay. “Was it better than the Silver Arrow?” James wanted to know.

“A bit,” Harry admitted. “It did have better braking charms. And the cushioning was more comfortable.”

They all trooped into the family broom cupboard and began sorting through brooms. Cousin Harry made a beeline for the Silver Arrow. James wondered if they could get Harry a new broom, since something bad had happened to the old one. He should suggest it to his parents, James thought.

“When’s your birthday?” he asked abruptly as he picked up his own broom and Sirius nabbed Aunt Dorea’s Comet.

Harry looked startled by the question, but answered automatically, “It’s October thirty-first.”

James blinked. “Wait, your birthday is Samhain?”

Cousin Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

“Man, that’s rough,” Sirius said in a tone so cheerful James knew it was fake. He just wasn’t sure why. “How can you get people to come to your parties if everyone’s already got parties to go to. If you could have another birthday, what would it be?”

Harry blinked, his brow furrowing. “Um.” He hesitated, and then said, “Maybe, July thirty-first? Summers are better for parties.” His final sentence was sure, and he quirked a smile.

Sirius looked satisfied, for some reason. James knew then something was going on. No matter. He’d try to get it out of Sirius that evening. Sirius was staying the night, so it shouldn’t be that difficult.

For now, James just beamed at his cousin and his best friend. “Last one to make the lap around the pitch is a garden gnome!” he sang out, leaping onto his broomstick halfway out the door. Indignant shouts behind him petered out as the other two took to their air, and James did a playful loop around Cousin Harry.

“Race you!” he shouted, laughing.

Harry laughed too, looking wild and free and for a moment he looked just like James’ soulmate when she’d done a brand new spell, joyous and at peace with the world. Those green eyes sparkled at him and James grinned back.

“Prepare to lose, Jamie,” Harry said challengingly.

“Catch me if you can!” James shouted back.

The two took off and James didn’t notice how Sirius didn’t join in, how he simply watched the two fly together like it was a wonderful thing. James did notice, however, that Grandpa Henry had been right.

“You’re brilliant!” he cheered. “Merlin, you should play for England!”

Harry beamed.

Chapter Text

Harry breathed out nervously, smoothing down his dress robes. Arcturus clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine, lad,” he said. “Try to have fun. Meet some other young people.”

Harry nodded and reached into the decorative ceramic jar on the mantle, grasping a handful of Floo Powder. He threw it into the fireplace and spoke clearly as he stepped into green flames. “Ministry for Magic!”

The green flames of the floo swirled around him and grate after grate flashed by until he found himself stepping out with confidence into the Ministry atrium. Harry was glad he’d been given lessons on Flooing, so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself any longer.

Apparently the trouble he’d always had was something known as Floo Aversion. It happened rarely, generally to witches and wizards with a great deal of magic. They simply had too much magic for the Floo to handle, so it overloaded a little on them, causing them to be violently spat out, sent one or two grates past their requested destination, or even (on the rarest of occasions) exploding a fireplace. Harry was honestly relieved the last had never happened to him, though Arcturus had told an amusing tale he had heard from an older relative of how Headmaster Dumbledore had ruined one of the Ministry fireplaces the first time he’d flooed there as British Youth Representative. Harry’s Occlumency training had been the key to smoothing over his Floo travel—an associated technique you had to use Occlumency to learn known as magic regulation. Now he could literally hold his magic in until the Floo had stopped, keeping it from going mad on him. It was a little like holding his breath for a while; uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

Harry stepped out into the now-familiar Ministry atrium, stepping to one side of the fireplace to wait on the other Blacks who would also be coming to this party. Arcturus had declined to attend because Melania was ill, but many of the other Blacks would be attending anyway. Harry was waiting for Orion, but he’d been told Pollux would also be attending with Narcissa and Andromeda, Bellatrix would likely be there with her husband, and even Cassiopeia might be venturing from her reclusive cottage to mingle. The Potters were wealthy enough to receive invitations, but apparently the last time any Potter had bothered to go had been when Old Henry was still in politics and held his elected seat on the Wizengamot.

James had demanded Harry tell him all the details afterwards, but Sirius had merely rolled his eyes and scoffed—he’d been to formal parties before and had hated them.

Harry sighed faintly in relief when a nearby Floo flared and Orion appeared, Walburga on his arm. “Cousin Orion!” Harry called out.

Orion smiled, but Walburga’s expression soured. The two Black Heirs clasped hands while Walburga looked resentful behind them.

“Henry! How is Sirius? Regulus has been most put out his brother’s been gone most of the week.”

Harry smiled easily at the reminder of his godfather and god-uncle. “Well next time I’m sure he could come along. Aunt Euphie always says the more the merrier, and Potter Manse has more than enough room.”

Orion nodded agreeably and began to subtly steer Harry in the proper direction. Harry was glad of it. Arcturus had told him where the Ministry ballroom was, but he’d already forgotten. Pollux called out to Orion as they walked through the Ministry halls, and Harry and the two Blacks greeted Pollux, Narcissa, and Andromeda. Narcissa looked glacially beautiful in a pale silvery gown that complimented her loose platinum blonde hair, and Andromeda directly contrasted her with her wild black curls twisted into an updo and her robes a deep purple. The twins smiled at Harry in a friendly way as the adults all greeted one another and Harry smiled nervously back.

Pollux clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Ready for your first ball, lad?” he asked with a hint of a cackle. Harry’s grimace made him laugh aloud and the older wizard patted Harry on the shoulder again, this time with enough force to make him sway.

“You’ll do well, son. Just don’t let the vultures see when they’re getting to you,” he said. Harry nodded faintly and Orion cleared his throat.

“Henry, you’ll enter with Walburga and me. Come along.”

Harry hurried back up to stand beside him. Walburga on his arm and Harry at his opposite shoulder, Orion stepped forward into the ballroom. It was a massive space, filled with glittering chandeliers and floating candles, waiters and waitresses walking about with silver trays covered in fancy food or crystal goblets. And the people—wizards in robes of all colours and cuts, witches in both traditional robes and long elegant gowns, jewels dripping from ears and necks and encrusted on fingers. For a moment, it all took Harry’s breath away.

Then Orion had subtly steered Harry into the greeting line and he had to pay attention once again, shaking hands with or bowing over Ministry officials and Wizengamot dignitaries.

First was the current Minister, a woman named Euphemia Jenkins. According to what Arcturus and Orion had told Harry she was pro-squib and muggleborn rights, though decidedly neutral on topics concerning interaction with muggles. She’d dealt competently with a number of pureblood riots led by Voldemort’s party in the late sixties but was currently waning in popularity as the Knights of the Walpurgis grew more and more daring and she began failing to halt their actions. Harry had been warned she would not look favourably on a Black Heir but would be desperate to curry favour anywhere she could to ensure her ratings stayed high enough to carry her through the next election year.

To either side of Minister Jenkins were the most important Ministry Department heads: one of whom Harry recognized. It was party protocol for the guests to greet the Ministry officials, but it was vassalage protocol for the vassal to speak first, according to Harry’s lesson on vassalage the previous Sunday. Barty Crouch was clearly hoping that leaning heavily on Ministry procedure would prevent his faux pas as a vassal from being noted—or possibly he was wilfully ignoring it. The head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation was looking awkwardly between the determinedly waiting Barty Crouch and the equally stubborn Heirs Black. In the end, the man elbowed Crouch, who scowled and gave a stilted and insincere bow.

“My Heirs Black,” he said. His gaze lingered on Harry, who had been the one who’d laid a hand on Orion’s arm and prevented him from speaking. Harry, feeling an awful mixture of furious dislike over the man’s future actions and uneasy guilt over the man’s potential fate, raised his chin and looked challengingly back.

“Mister Crouch,” Harry replied. He was tempted to use the term vassal instead of mister, but that mode of address hadn’t been used in about three hundred years, so it would have been overly inciteful. But an Heir Black, as ranking over a vassal, did not have to use any other formal titles when addressing said vassal. Harry would just take the insult of referring to the man as mister instead of Department Chair, as was his ministry title.

Crouch’s jaw tightened and his tongue darted over his lips as his eyes narrowed. Orion smiled pleasantly and echoed Harry’s greeting—including the use of mister.

They moved down the line to the three Wizengamot dignitaries, most whom had been watching this drama unfold with entertainment. The first in the line, however, had not been. Like with Crouch, Harry found himself immensely conflicted as he stepped forward to bow and greet Chief Wizard Albus Dumbledore. He was still resentful over the way the man had ignored him for half a year—and this resentment was compounded by the things he’d learnt about how soul-bond protection worked, and how the Dursleys hadn’t. Yet, the man had been there for him for years, a constant but distant support in his life since he was eleven and they’d first discussed their deepest desires one New Years’ night in front of an enchanted mirror.

Harry smiled at him blandly, like he was a stranger, Occluding as he’d been taught.

“It is an honour to meet my future Headmaster,” he said. Technically edging out of the boundaries of protocol, since the man was here in a Wizengamot capacity and not a Hogwarts one, but permissible since it was about school, and he was so young.

Dumbledore didn’t look like he knew what to make of Harry. He’d been the only one looking disapproving of Harry’s silent pressuring of Barty Crouch to ensure the man followed traditional protocol, and Harry’s sly insult afterwards. Now, he looked Harry up and down like Harry was a puzzle he meant to solve.

Still, the man smiled at the reference to his beloved school. “Hogwarts will look forward to having such a talented young Heir walking its halls,” he said smoothly in reply before handing Harry off to the next dignitary, the Wizengamot scribe. Harry and the rabbity man exchanged pleasantries, as did Harry and the Wardholder for the Wizengamot chamber. This woman had been at his trial, older and greyer. She’d looked utterly disgusted every time Fudge opened his mouth, and she had smiled encouragingly at Harry while Miss Figg had given her testimony. She was just as nice in person, and Harry was glad the long line of greetings ended with her.

Harry sighed faintly in relief as they stepped out of the greeting line and into the throng. Orion gave him a minute smile. “That was the difficult part,” he murmured. “Go enjoy yourself, now. Try to dance with at least two Heiresses or society ladies and hold political discussions with at least two Wizengamot or Ministry persons. Father will be quizzing you later, but try to enjoy yourself regardless. And do try the canapes, they’re always delicious.”

He clapped Harry again on the shoulder and swept his wife off to dance. Harry watched the duo for a moment, as always stymied by their dynamic. They weren’t soulmates—Walburga’s soulmate was an old school friend, and Orion had mentioned that his mate worked at the Department of Mysteries still. And yet they did fit together surprisingly well. They were good friends, and fond of each other even though Harry wasn’t positive they loved each other. But that was the pureblood way, Harry had been taught. Soul-bond matches were the ideal, of course, and love matches were always sought after, but purebloods married to better their family and their personal standing. Most marriages were more business arrangements than wedded bliss, and so it was much more common for purebloods to be friends than in love.

Arcturus had told Harry he was lucky. Since he technically wasn’t supposed to exist, there would be no urgency for him to bear more Black Heirs. If Harry took ages to marry, or simply never had children, Sirius or Regulus would take over, and their offspring would in turn after them. Sirius, at least, would have right to the lordship over Harry’s own children because of Harry’s and Sirius’ relationship in magic. So Harry had been told he could date and look for love “like the common classes” if he so wished.

Harry had rolled his eyes and given Arcturus the most unimpressed look he could at that wording.

A sigh beside him drew Harry out of his thoughts. “They do look elegant together, don’t they?”

It was Narcissa. The older girl smiled at him shyly. “Sorry. Andy was allowed to bring her soulmate, so they’ve already gone off together.”

Harry blinked. “Really? And where’s Pollux gone off to?” he asked.

Narcissa shrugged. “He saw a group of friends and went to chat.”

Harry blinked again and then summoned his courage and held out his hand. “Well it simply won’t do for a lovely Daughter of our House to be left unattended,” he said. “Care to dance?”

Thank God, Merlin, and all the Founders of Hogwarts that Orion had spent sometime coaching Harry in ways to ask for a dance without sounding like an idiot. Even the thought of the Yule Ball the previous year made him wince.

Narcissa let out a tinkling laugh from behind a fan. She folded it up and it vanished into a sleeve. “I’d be delighted, cousin,” she said with a curtsey. Harry bowed in return and swept her onto the dance floor.

The two danced for a bit, and then they migrated to the buffet. Most of the food looked exotic to Harry’s eyes, and he had to quietly ask Narcissa what half the dishes were. She was entertained to be his instructor, and the two soon fell into a debate over what constituted fancy food, and what of the foods at the table here went more than a little overboard.

“But the escargot is exquisite!” Narcissa defended.

“It may well be,” Harry argued, “but the decoration is ridiculous. I mean, gold leaf might be alright under certain circumstances, but encrusting the shells with jewels is just gaudy and wasteful.”

Narcissa looked at the gaudily gold-painted, jewel-encrusted shell sitting on her plate and wilted somewhat. “Well, I suppose you have a point,” she pouted.

“Cissy?” a female voice spoke from behind them. “My, that dress is gorgeous!”

Harry turned to see a dark-skinned girl close to his own age standing with her own plate of food and bowl of punch. Her dress was as lovely as she’d complemented Narcissa’s to be, a deep green that complemented her skin tone, trimmed in silver.

Narcissa smiled at the girl. “I see you’re doing our House proud,” she said. The girl beamed.

“Do you like it?” she asked. “Mother had it imported from Italy.”

Narcissa hummed approvingly. “Quite lovely,” she said. “Your mother has good taste.”

The girl nodded. “I’ll be sure to tell her you said so,” she said. Her dark liquid eyes slid curiously to Harry and Narcissa started.

“Oh, how rude of me. Cousin Harry, this is Rhiannon Lament, one of my fellow students at Hogwarts. Rhian, this is the new Heir Black, Henry Travers.”

Harry bowed over the hand presented to him, kissing the air above the back of it. She smiled at him.

“I’ve heard so much about you!” she exclaimed. “It’s all anyone has been able to talk about since your uncle made the announcement.”

Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Clearly news has been slow lately,” he demurred before changing the subject. “So how do you like Hogwarts, Miss Lament? I will be attending myself in the fall. I assume based on your robe colours that you are a Slytherin like Cousin Narcissa?”

Rhian nodded in reply. “Oh, yes, I’m a Slytherin. And Hogwarts is wonderful! The teachers are fantastic, and the school has the best library in Europe, you know. Beauxbatons comes close, but it has nearly two thousand fewer volumes.”

“I had heard,” Harry said, his heart aching as he thought of Hermione. He continued to smile, though, continuing to move the conversation forward. At one point they fell onto the subject of Quidditch and Narcissa interjected to inform Harry that Rhian was the Keeper for the Slytherin team. The girl smiled secretively.

“Have you heard who the new Captain is, Cissy?” she asked.

Narcissa blinked. “No, I hadn’t. I know there was some debate—both Andromeda and I were offered the position, but we’ll be preparing for our NEWTs. We felt captaining the team in addition would be an unnecessary distraction.”

Rhian nodded, leaning forward as if to impart fascinating gossip. “That’s what Lestrange apparently said as well, and you know I can’t be captain because I’m already captain of the Equestrian Club.”

“Hogwarts has an equestrian club?” Harry blurted out before flushing. He just. Hadn’t known that.

The two girls blinked at him and giggled a bit, but thankfully didn’t mention his faux pas. “Yes, it does,” Rhian said. “Hogwarts has the only domestic herd of Thestrals in the world, you know, and there’ve always been winged horse farms in the hills of Scotland. We do races and other events. I hope to race professionally, one day.”

“Wow,” Harry said, impressed. “That’s neat. But I apologize for interrupting, you continue your conversation.”

Rhian smiled at him and turned back to Narcissa. “Well,” she said, “Without any of us upper years agreeing to the captaincy, it went to Emma Vanity. I heard Evan Rosier was beside himself that she was chosen instead of him, but I’m personally not surprised. Professor Slughorn’s already introducing her to professional team recruiters, you know. She’s a fantastic Chaser.”

The two girls launched into a long discussion of the social implications of such a young appointment, and Harry bowed out gracefully as he could. The girls just waved him off, and Harry wandered away from the food tables and back towards the dance floor. He was stopped at one point by the Wizengamot Wardholder.

She wanted to welcome him to Britain and inquire about why it had taken him so long to be identified. It took Harry a few minutes, but he realized her husband was in Wizarding Child Services and so she had a personal investment in his answers. Harry kept to his cover story, but he did drop a few comments based on his actual experiences that wouldn’t be too suspicious. Even with Headmaster Dumbledore doing the actual placement, there still should have been follow-ups that never actually happened.

Harry took a chance as their conversation began to wind down and asked her to dance. The older woman looked amused but agreed. During the dance they mostly talked about the crash course in society manners Harry had received in the past few months.

“Well, you dance quite well,” the witch said. “I never would have guessed you only learnt two weeks ago.”

Harry beamed at her, pleased.

*          *          *

Surprisingly, he was actually enjoying himself at this party, Harry thought as he headed back away from the buffet with a fresh glass of punch. It was as different from the Yule Ball as night was from day—open where that party had been rigidly structured, engaging where before he’d been unspeakably nervous.

After the dance with the Wardholder, Harry had run into Bellatrix and her sour-looking husband Rodolphus. Whereas she was beautiful and wide-eyed and nothing like the version of her Harry had seen in the Pensieve memory of her sentencing to Azkaban, Rodolphus looked so much the same it was almost alarming. Even his heavy-lidded glare at his surroundings was the same.

Bella was as vivacious as always and had chattered on at Harry for quite some time while her husband had eyed the younger boy like he was planning the best way to take him apart. Harry had escaped when he saw the opportunity and stumbled across a young and fresh-faced Arthur Weasley, who’d gotten an invitation to come as one of the aides to his department head.

Young Arthur Weasley had looked almost alarmingly like Percy—curly hair and all. But unlike Percy, Arthur spent nearly as much time talking about his pregnant wife and young son William as he did about his political aspirations.

The two got into a lively discussion about the necessity for research into the muggle world, Arthur delighted to find a supporter of his lifelong dreams and desires, even in a teenager. The two had gabbed for nearly an hour, drawing in dozens of curious individuals to weigh in their own opinions, before Harry started to feel rather hungry again and had gone off in search of food.

He’d walked off with Arthur’s contact information, as well as the information of nearly eight other people, all with offers to owl them for further political debate. With Arthur, at least, Harry was highly tempted to take him up on the offer. He almost felt they could be friends.

While a part of him would always find it strange to befriend people he’d known as adults who had once taken care of him, Harry was glad of the familiar face. And Arthur was so like his children—as earnest as Ron could often be, as clever and witty as the twins, as steady and comforting as Bill—even as ambitious as Percy, at this young age.

He wasn’t part of any one office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement yet; just an aide and paper-pusher at the moment, acting as secretary to multiple higher-ranking officials while he tried to work hard enough to be recognized and promoted. He had aspirations to revamp the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office that Harry had found fascinating. Some of the changes he would clearly succeed in implementing based on comments he recalled Mr Weasley making about his job. It was…kind of cool.

Harry’s head bobbed in time to the music. This wasn’t a traditional party song, from the sound—it was much too lively and sounded almost like a muggle pop song without the words. Many of the older people around had sour faces, but the younger attendees at the party were happily combining dance moves from some of the dances Harry had been taught to match the beat. One pair of couples near the centre of the dance floor were having a swing-off.

He craned his neck to keep the dancers in sight, rather awed by the fancy movements and smooth dancing. His preoccupation was ended abruptly when Harry slammed into another partygoer just as distracted by the dancers as he was. Harry had the vaguest impression of tall and dark-haired before he was on the ground, his drink all over his robes and the floor, staring dazedly at the hem of elegant dark robes with startlingly lifelike snakes embroidered around the hems that were enchanted to slither back and forth.

“Harry, you idiot,” he hissed under his breath. Really, situational awareness was public protocol 101 that Arcturus and Melania had hammered into his head in preparation for this party. With his luck he’d bumped into a pureblood lord he’d been expected to make a good impression on and would end up disappointing his relatives.

“Merlin,” a rich voice said loudly, “I am so sorry—that was entirely my fault. Let me help you.”

Harry blinked at the hand that entered his vision and accepted it tentatively, struck by the strangely familiar leather band that covered an unrealized soulmark instead of the wizard-typical enchanted silver bracelet. He felt his soul-blood protection thrum under his skin. His eyes followed the arm up to the man attached as he was pulled upright by a strong grip and his blood ran cold. Harry looked over the familiar handsome features—merely older and more well-defined than Harry had last seen them—set under wavy mahogany hair. He gazed into eyes so red it was like the owner had stared into hell and Hell had stared back and occluded his panic away as best as he could.

Voldemort waved his yew wand and Harry’s robes were instantly cleaned of the mess made by his spilled punch. The man smiled at Harry charmingly in much the same way his clone-like sixteen-year-old magical construct had.

“I am sorry about that, young man. I suppose we were both off with the pixies, weren’t we?”

Harry, uncertain of what to do but absolutely determined to keep his mouth shut, nodded hesitantly.

“This has been a grand event, though, has it not?” Voldemort continued. Harry almost wanted to hit him. It was so strange hearing him sound like a normal human being that it nearly felt unnatural. Those burning red eyes looked Harry up and down. An elegant dark eyebrow winged up.

“Oh, but you’re the young Heir Black, aren’t you? Lycoris Black’s son?” He bowed shallowly. “My apologies again.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably, waving his hand in a “don’t mention it” sort of way. He nearly signed that very thing, but stopped himself at the last moment, uncertain if signing would end up as words on the man’s wrist and not willing to chance fulfilling his soulbond.

Voldemort started to look concerned and now Harry really wanted to hex him. “You don’t look well, lad,” he said. “Are you here with anyone?”

He was so freaking tall all he had to do to look over the crowd was stand up just a bit straighter and turn his head from side to side. He’d thought all that height was because he was clearly some unholy amalgamation of dark magic and snake fetishism after his resurrection, but no, Voldemort really was that tall. Harry noted with resentment that he didn’t even come up to the future Dark Lord’s shoulders. The top button on the man’s dress robes was above Harry’s head. Damned unfair.

One of those large, elegant hands descended on Harry’s shoulder and he was unable to repress a flinch. The man looked even more concerned now and used his strong grip on Harry’s shoulder to guide the teenager through the crowd. Harry was aware he was shaking now. He was occluding so hard he felt numb and likely had no expression.

“Madame Potter!” Voldemort called, and Harry nearly sobbed with relief when Dorea came into view.

She turned to them and blinked. Harry wondered what sort of sight they made: Voldemort, tall and politely concerned; Harry, short and so disturbed he probably looked ill.

“We had a collision and he’s been acting shell-shocked,” Voldemort said softly in Dorea’s ear.

Her eyebrows went up. “Oh! Henry had some traumatic run-ins with the South Pacific gangs as a youth, the oddest things can trigger bad recollections.” She stepped forward and curled a comforting arm around Harry’s shoulders. He was relieved both because Dorea gave nice hugs, and because it made Voldemort finally let go of him. “Did you lose your voice again?” she asked in a motherly tone.

Harry grimaced and thought fast. “Knew him in future,” he signed. “Kind of freaked out. Sorry.”

She smiled comfortingly as though he’d agreed with her and squeezed him in a hug. “Well, would you like me to stay with you to translate or would you prefer I return you home?”

He grimaced again but was more thoughtful and less panicked. “Stay,” he decided. “Haven’t finished assignment.”

Dorea laughed. “Assignment? Oh, did Uncle Arcturus give you homework at your first party?”

Harry nodded in a hangdog fashion and Dorea giggled again. This friendly moment was interrupted when Voldemort spoke again. There was no way Dorea missed how his voice made Harry stiffen.

“What is—” he made vague hand gestures in the air “—this?”

Dorea smiled at him pleasantly. “Oh, Henry knows sign language. Since I do as well, I translate for him often.” She leaned close to him and said in a low tone, “I am sorry if you wanted to make his acquaintance, but now is probably not a good time. When he starts signing he’s not likely to speak again for a while.”

The man nodded slowly. He turned to Harry and pulled out a contact book much like the one Harry had been given by Orion in honour of his first soiree. “Might I have your contact information, then? I had so hoped to meet you, and these were not the ideal circumstances.” He smiled winsomely and Harry hated the stupid dimple that appeared below the left corner of his mouth. He had no right to look so charming and innocent. “Perhaps we could correspond at a later date, and start over?”

Harry knew why he wanted this, of course. Harry was the new Black Heir and would be an immensely powerful political figure as he grew. It had apparently long been common knowledge that Orion was unhappy fulfilling Heir duties. He’d compromised in the past by first allowing his older sister to frequently act in his stead and, after the scandal of her disappearance, by marrying a cousin much more politically minded than him. Now that he had someone else to foist said duties off on entirely, it was well-anticipated that he’d do so. For Voldemort to claim the alliance of the young and presumably more gullible Heir Black would be quite a coup.

Some part of Harry wanted to refuse on principle, but he remembered the conversations he’d had with the false Tom Riddle with a twisted sort of longing. That hadn’t really been his soulmate, just a collection of memories and information given a rudimentary consciousness, but it had been a frightfully intelligent consciousness that reflected Tom’s own genius at that age, and they’d had some fascinating conversations before Harry had grown wary of the diary and Ginny had stolen it again. Despite how much he hated the feeling, hated the wistfulness he couldn’t repress, he almost couldn’t help but pull out his own booklet and hold it out.

The pair conjured quills and each wrote down their owling contact information. Harry closed the black booklet and was nearly amused by how similar it was to the man’s boyhood diary. Clearly the man had been feeling nostalgic when he’d acquired this. Even the monogram was the same, his true initials penned onto the cover in gold ink.

Harry tucked his own red booklet back into his robe pocket. He’d been glad of the nod to his original Gryffindor heritage Orion had made. In lieu of words he bowed, managed a pleasant expression at Voldemort’s answering bow, and then hurried off to the edge of the ballroom, Dorea following close on his heels. He waited to speak until they were shadowed and not easily seen.

“You alright, Harry?” she murmured. Harry shrugged.

“Sorry I freaked,” he murmured back. “I just…wasn’t expecting to see him.”

“How did you know Lord Voldemort in the future?” Dorea asked, fascinated. It was so weird to hear other people use his name without squawking and flinching.

“We’d met several times,” Harry said quietly. “We had an…interesting kind of relationship. I frustrated him greatly. I…I didn’t really like him. I dunno. It was complicated.”

She squeezed his shoulder bracingly. “Do you really want me to stay with you, or would you like to hide for a while? Look—” she pointed. “Your Cousin Charlus is over there with the orchestra. If you like I’m sure he’d let you hide in the musician’s corner for a while.”

And so he was, Harry noticed with a blink. He was the conductor for the orchestra. “I didn’t know Charlus was a musician,” Harry said. Dorea nodded.

“Oh, yes, he’s a professor at the Wizarding Academy for the Dramatic Arts, you know. He teaches musical theory and magical conducting. He’s highly sought after for these sorts of events, but generally only the Ministry can afford to hire him.”

That was…really cool, actually.

“I think if I stay here for a bit I’ll be fine,” Harry said. “I really am almost finished with the assignment Arcturus gave me. If I can finish soon I think I’ll go home early. You can go back to the party, if you want.”

Dorea hugged him. “Just remember, if you get overwhelmed, it’s alright to need a break,” she said. “It’s why the Ministry always has the roof gardens open during big events: so anyone who wants to get away from all the noise and lights but not actually leave can have a quiet moment.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll go up to the gardens,” he said. “I didn’t know about them, but that actually sounds nice right about now.”

Dorea walked him to the lifts nearest them, out a side door from the ballroom and down a narrow corridor. She waved him off and Harry stepped into the golden grated lift. The music was quiet and peaceful, and Harry slowly felt himself relaxing now that his soulmate was out of reach. By the time the bell dinged and the doors slid open to reveal the roof of the Ministry building, Harry was mostly calm.

He stepped out into the dimly lit gardens with a sigh of relief. The gardens were lovely in midsummer, and the building was tall enough to provide a sparkling view of London in the evening. Fairies flitted about and knarls trundled along in the flowerbeds. Harry walked curiously to the wrought iron fence lining the roof. A thin film rose up from the fence line, only barely distorting the air. Wards, Harry supposed, to keep this magical garden hidden from the muggle public.

Even the sounds of the London nightlife were muted through the wards, and Harry sighed again in relief as he leaned on the fence and looked out over the vast city.

A voice made him start.

“Oh! Are you hiding from the party as well?”

Harry turned to see a pretty girl about his own age. She wore burnished golden robes trimmed in a pale blue that made the red of her hair seem even more fiery. A silver soulmark band peeked out from the edge of one sleeve. She was quite pretty, with her long glossy red hair, Harry thought to himself. And there was something vaguely familiar about her face.

“More or less,” Harry said in reply when he realized he’d not answered her immediately. “This is my first big party, and it all just became overwhelming, you know?”

The girl blinked. “Your first party?” she asked in bewilderment.

Harry nodded and bowed. “I am Henry Travers, Heir Black,” he said.

Her blue-grey eyes flew wide behind gold-rimmed glasses. “Oh!” she said in surprise, clearly recognizing his name. She curtsied elegantly. “I’m Amelia, Heiress Bones,” she replied.

Right, Harry remembered. The Bones were a matriarchal family. Harry recalled Susan Bones from his own time and realized now why the round-faced girl looked so familiar. She certainly looked nothing like the square-jawed witch with close-cropped grey hair and a monocle who had spoken up at his trial. The only thing the same was her rather loud voice, which Harry knew she’d eventually perfect into a courtroom-piercing boom. And Harry also knew why her soulmark hadn't yet been activated—her soulmate was her as-yet-unborn niece, with whom she would share a mentor-student bond. Susan had been immensely proud of her bond with her aunt, and hadn't hesitated to pledge the older witch's support to Harry along with her own.

“A pleasure,” Harry said. “I suppose this is all old hat to you, isn’t it?”

Amelia snorted ungracefully and leaned against the fence Harry was still standing beside. “Tell me about it. I bloody hate parties, but I’m the heiress, so I have to go. And lately Father’s been after me about betrothals and whatnot. I just want to graduate with good enough grades to join the Auror force. I don’t care about dating or boys!”

Her vehement reply made Harry laugh aloud and she grinned at him, pinking a bit. “I completely understand,” Harry said. “Can you believe Uncle Arcturus gave me a homework assignment for the ball? I was to speak with at least two political dignitaries and dance with at least two eligible young women. Being introduced to pureblood society is such an ordeal.”

Amelia giggled. “Oh, growing up in it’s no picnic either. You never escape!” she exclaimed dramatically. Harry grinned at her.

“So what do you do when you’re not bemoaning the obligations of society?” he asked. “You’re Hogwarts age, yeah? What year?”

“Just finished my OWLs,” she said promptly. “I’ll be going into sixth year.”

Harry blinked. “Oh, we’ll be yearmates, then,” he said. She looked curious.

“Really? You’re coming to Hogwarts?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, I’ve been attending Chrónia Akadimía since I was eleven via letter correspondence, but since I’ve been returned to England and my family’s custody we decided I should spend at least a year or two at Hogwarts to network. So I’ll be starting sixth year in the fall.”

“Wow, that’s amazing!” Amelia exclaimed. “Chrónia Akadimía—I’ve heard of that school. Aren’t they very exclusive?”

Harry shrugged modestly. “Yes, but they have a deal with Gringotts. Some cursebreakers have families, it’s difficult for the children to attend any one school when they don’t belong to a specific nationality and they move around so often, so Chrónia does letter correspondence for them. I’m lucky they do. If it’d been up to the cursebreakers that took care of me for the past few years I’d have the most lopsided education in existence.”

Amelia sniggered. “Oh, I can imagine. My older brother Edgar’s training to be a cursebreaker.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “So what House do you suppose you’ll be in? I’m a Hufflepuff, and our dorms are pretty comfy.”

No mention of house prejudices, just that her dorms were comfortable. Harry decided then and there Amelia was cool and he wanted to be her friend.

He gave a gallic shrug. “No idea. Cousin Dorea insists I’ll probably be in Slytherin. I know most of the Travers on my side of the family have been in Ravenclaw. But several of the cursebreakers that raised me were Gryffindors. I dunno. It’s not like it matters, though. I’ll only be there for two years.”

The girl nodded in reply. “Yes, I suppose not. It just depends on what colours you like best, I suppose.”

Big Ben chimed in the distance and the redhead slumped down. “Uggh, I should get back. Mother and Father will be so disappointed if I ditch the party entirely like I did last time.”

A thought struck Harry and he held out a hand to her. “Well, I still have to dance with one more eligible young lady, and I’d love to talk about Hogwarts some more. Your parents can’t object to you dancing with Heir Black, can they?”

She looked surprised, and then she grinned in a mischievous way Harry had seen Ginny grin several times. “No, they can’t. Good idea, Travers.”

The two headed back to the elevator, still chatting, and Harry decided that in the end, the party had been worth it after all.

Chapter Text

A gold-edged eagle feather quill was dipped into emerald green ink, a pale hand transcribing elegant words to parchment. A smirk hovered around the corners of the author’s mouth, sure and confident in a positive reply. The missive was sent off after he gently stroked the head of his great owl, the destination whispered to the bird. It winged off into the distance until it was nothing more than a sooty smudge on the horizon, and the letter-writer turned his attention to other pursuits. He was so very busy, after all.

A golden-skinned boy sitting in a window seat was startled when the massive black owl rapped its beak on his window. A long-fingered hand reached up to allow the bird entrance while his own snowy owl puffed up indignantly in the background and hissed at the dark interloper. The big black bird just hissed back, clacking his beak.

The boy shook his head at the pair, turning the missive over with shaking hands. The script was familiar, but different, refined with age and long years of practice. Before he lost his nerve, he unrolled the scroll, green eyes scanning the page.

To the Honourable Heir Black, Henry S. Travers, greetings.

It is a shame we were not able to be properly introduced at the time, so I shall introduce myself now. I am Lord of the Fens, Head of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Gaunt, though I act under the pseudonym Voldemort in most of my work. I have both personal and political reasons for choosing the unconventional route of building a political career under an assumed name. Perhaps, if we come to know one another better, I might tell you a few of my reasons.

I do apologize once again for the tumble I gave you at the soiree this Friday last. I am not myself a practiced dancer, but I have always been fascinated by the elegance and the partnership excellent dancing requires. Have you heard the legends that the first dances were devised by soulmates in order to display the breadth of their bond to their society? Jacques Gavotte’s On the Influences Soul Bonds Have Had on Modern Magical Society is a fascinating source of knowledge on such information. I would be glad to lend you my copy if you are interested. Personally, I find such a thrilling study. You can learn a great deal about how to influence people in the present by seeing the factors which have been influences in the past.

I expect you have experienced at least a taste of what I mean, in your introduction to our society. It must have been a great change to go from being a ward of Gringotts to the Heir of one of the richest and most politically powerful families in Britain. I myself am a bit of an outsider, as well—I do not know what you have heard of me, but I expect you at least know I was a relative nonentity before I officially entered British society two years ago. Claiming my own heritage as the last member of House Gaunt and proving myself worthy of the Lord of the Fens title as few of my Gaunt ancestors had, were both difficult ordeals thoroughly stymied by men who oppose my political views and resent my power. Truly, I only gained the right to use either title in recent months—it is the most obvious of the reasons why I entered politics under a pseudonym, so that my political goals would not be drowned in the prejudices against my family name and heritage.

As one outsider entering the stage to another, do feel free to write to me should you have difficulties your British-raised pureblood relatives cannot understand. I had rather hoped to discuss ideologies and values with you in person, but I suppose this medium will suffice. I would never so baldly ask for your views in whole, as if we were brash Gryffindors or earnest Hufflepuffs wearing our hearts on our sleeves, but I am curious. As one who is entering society so late, what do you think of the obligations thrust upon you? I personally find all the restrictions of polite society a bore. They are so very constraining, though there is amusement to be found in working around them.

I hear you are to attend Hogwarts in the autumn. As a proud alumnus, let me congratulate you on an excellent choice for your continuing education. I must admit, however, that I am impressed at your prior attendance of Chrónia Akadimía. I have heard little of the esteemed Greek academy, but what I have heard is quite impressive. Another question, if you will indulge me: what House do you see yourself sorted into? I know much of your family has been Slytherin in the past. Where do you suppose you yourself might be placed?

I quite enjoyed Slytherin myself. But then, I am of his bloodline. One could say I have an affinity for snakes. Have you ever felt the same? I noticed you spoke most slyly when we first collided. I do not believe the Sorting is ever determined by blood instead of personality and personal preference, but if it were, I wonder if we would find ourselves akin in more ways than one.

Do write back soon. I expect you shall be too busy for much correspondence once you begin boarding school, and I would greatly appreciate hearing from a potential new ally.

May the sun rise on your wards and may the moon bless your rituals,

Lord Voldemort of House Gaunt

*          *          *

Cousin Harry had been fidgety all afternoon. He’d gone off in the morning to take his OWLs at the Ministry, and had returned before lunch tired, but satisfied. Then he’d gone to his room for a bit after lunch, and when he’d emerged afterwards the fidgeting and weird behaviour had started. He kept touching his soul mark, fiddling with his silver bracelet, but he would put his hand behind his back if he noticed anyone watching.

James couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong. Maybe he’d thought of something about his exams that had worried him later? James knew exams were really hard—he’d just had his first set, and was not looking forward to four more years of them until the reputedly very difficult OWLs.

Of course, it could be the whatever-it-was Sirius had refused to explain to him. Sirius had given James a long look when he’d needled the other boy and told him it was family business, very secret, and that he’d been explicitly told he wasn’t allowed to tell his friends yet—even James. James wasn’t overly disheartened by that. Sirius had said ‘yet’. That meant he could maybe learn later.

Still, right now it was his job to cheer Cousin Harry up since Sirius was at home with his family again and Cousin Cay was spending all his time out at meetings getting ready for his move to France for his apprenticeship. Accordingly, James skipped up to his cousin and grasped his hand. Harry looked up, startled, from where he’d been worriedly nibbling on his fingernails.

“Can we go flying, Cousin Harry, please?” he asked.

He beamed at how that made his cousin light up cheerfully, worries seemingly fading away. But even flying, Harry was still distracted. At last, after the second time Harry nearly flew into a goal post, James decided he probably ought to ask.

“Is something bothering you, cousin?” James asked.

Harry slowed and began to drift mid-air. He grimaced. “I got a letter from one of the people I met at the soiree and I’m…not sure what to think of him.”

James blinked. Oh, was that all it was?

“Well, why don’t you write back and learn more about him?” he asked as if the answer was obvious. Harry laughed.

“Yeah, I guess I should.”

That made him turn distracted again for a long moment, quiet and pensive.

“Harry?” James said, an idea striking him.

“Hmm?” Harry was looking at him, but those green eyes (just like Lily’s) were still distant.

“Would you mind if I invited my friends for our shopping trip tomorrow? I know you’ve never been to Diagon Alley before, but…”

But Sirius seemed to just know what Harry was feeling, and James was feeling out of his depth.

Harry thankfully didn’t hear any of his unspoken words, instead brightening at the idea for some reason. “Sure!” he said. “I’d like to meet your friends. Tell me about them?”

The rest of their time in the air was spent with James regaling his cousin with tales of his first year, and the two friends he and Sirius had made—well, one friend and Remus, who was something more because he and Sirius were soulmates. Harry hung on his every word like James was the older one and Harry the younger. His preoccupation with the person from the party never returned.

James couldn’t help the secret, prideful smile at a job well done.

*          *          *

Adding four other preteen boys to the shopping trip—four because Orion decided if Sirius was going to the Alley he could help his little brother shop for his first set of Hogwarts equipment—seemed to complicate things exponentially, Harry learnt. Euphemia bore it all with a warm smile and the patience of a saint as the boys tumbled over each other, running and shouting and gathering their money bags and other possessions in preparation for their trip. Regulus had long since taken refuge with Harry, once again half-hidden inside Harry’s robes.

Sirius and James had been whispering and throwing unsubtle glances at Harry since the Black boys had been flooed over. Euphemia was trying and failing to catch James and get him to put on his cloak. Remus—who at twelve was tiny, adorable, and not yet horribly scarred—was politely apologetic about absolutely everything unless it had to do with Sirius, at which point he started to good-naturedly scold his soulmate. Wormtail—Peter or Pettigrew, Harry, don’t be suspicious and rude—was round-faced and blond and the grubbiest of the boys. Euphemia had already caught him once and scrubbed his face, but he’d immediately pulled out a sticky bag of sweets and gotten his hands all messy instead. He was currently caterwauling about having misplaced the money bag his mother had entrusted to him.

Harry sighed. “Accio Peter’s money bag,” he said tiredly. The little sack came sailing through the air. Harry caught it deftly and tossed it at Pettigrew. The boy stopped panicking in surprise. “There,” he said. “Everything’s fine now.”

He felt uncomfortable being looked at with big, grateful brown eyes in that mousey little face. This was almost as bad as running into Voldemort had been. He just wanted to run away, but he couldn’t because he shouldn’t be weirded out by a twelve-year-old Gryffindor kid.

James walked over scowling about the cloak fastened firmly around his shoulders, Sirius pattering at his side and looking amused. Euphemia winked at Harry.

“Alright, everyone!” she said loudly in her sharp voice. “Line up at the Floo, please. Regulus—ah, yes, Harry dear, would you keep him with you. He’s a bit young to floo alone.”

Harry glanced down at Regulus, who made a face up at him. He just smiled back apologetically and stuck out his hand. Regulus considered it, but eventually consented to twine his fingers through Harry’s.

“You two first, Harry,” she said. “Remember, the shopping district’s Floo address is Diagon Alley. Just step out of the way when you arrive and wait for us so I can show you the entrance.”

Because even though Harry naturally knew how to get in and out of the Alley, that had been in his own time. Officially, he’d never done this before.

“C’mon, Reg,” he murmured, stepping forward into the large fireplace set up exclusively as a Floo entrance. Once he was sure they were both inside the fireplace together, Harry threw down his handful of Floo powder.

“Diagon Alley!” he called out, much clearer than he had when he himself had been twelve.

The spinning and grates made him dizzy, but Harry focused on Occluding and holding his magic in until he and Regulus could step forward into the dingy pub. The two promptly stepped to the side and waited as first Sirius and Remus, then James and Peter, flooed in together, stumbling slightly as unbalanced boys tended to. Euphemia stepped through last, stately and smooth. She and Harry again exchanged smiles.

“Alright!” his grandmother said again sharply. “Everyone have their pocket money? Wands? Supply lists?”

The boys brandished each item as it was called out, Euphemia nodding approvingly each time. Harry had his own supply list, provided by Narcissa and Andromeda. His official acceptance letter hadn’t arrived yet. Bode had told him it would likely arrive a week after his OWL results were submitted, but other than the special circumstances being involved in his Defence Mastery might cause, all he needed were the standard NEWT supplies. Any special purchases could wait until he’d gotten his proper list.

Harry squeezed Regulus’ hand. “Come on, Reg,” he said again. “I’m excited to learn how to get to Diagon Alley.”

The tapped passcode forming the brick arch caused a surge of nostalgia for Harry, but he did his best to look as though this was all new to him, gazing around as though curious. Regulus pulled Harry forward.

“Let’s get the boring stuff done so I can get my wand!” he exclaimed, bouncing.

Sirius barked out a laugh, materializing on Harry’s other side, Remus sandwiched between him and James. “Lookit my little brother having a good idea!” he proclaimed proudly. “Yeah, let’s do robes and supplies first. Then we can go get your wand.”

“Books and potion supplies later, because I know you boys won’t want to leave those shops,” Euphemia added.

“Can we visit the Quidditch Supplies Shop at the end of the trip, Mum?” Jamie asked with big pleading eyes.

Aunt Euphie smiled. “If you boys behave, we can get ice cream and visit the shop,” she agreed. “And you might even be allowed to purchase your own. You are eligible to apply for your house team this year, boys.”

That caused a flurry of excitement in the proto-Marauders. “Let’s go!” Sirius cheered, dragging Harry and his soulmate forward. Harry, still holding onto Regulus, pulled him along as well, James laughing at the back of the group, elbowing Peter happily.

A pack of determined preteens can do a good amount of shopping in a surprisingly short time. They first dipped in and out of Scrivenshaft’s for quills, ink, and parchment. James had snuck colour-changing ink into Harry’s basket when his mother scolded him for trying to use his own money on it. Harry’s eyebrows went up but James just grinned unrepentantly and gave him a pleading look.

Harry caved immediately, Sirius snickering at his elbow.

They breezed equally quickly through a cauldron and scale shop for the non-perishable sorts of potion supplies, though James and Peter got into an argument over whether the new French cauldrons were too thin-bottomed or not.

“I’m telling you,” James said in exasperation. “The first time you light a hot fire under that new cauldron your potion will explode, and Professor Slughorn will give you detention for disrupting class. It’s a waste of money. Grandpa Henry always says the best cauldrons are thick enough they sound like a church-bell when you rap a stirrer against the side.”

“James, let your friend buy his own cauldron if he needs a new one,” Euphemia cut into the argument. She patted Peter on the shoulder. “And dear, I know that one costs less, but it is lower quality. Why not buy one of these nice Irish cauldrons? They’re on sale.”

The pet supply shop was equally swift, with Harry and James picking up some owl treats and Sirius whispering to Regulus to pick out an owl and he’d buy it for his birthday. The eleven-year-old walked out proudly carrying the cage of a great horned owl, debating owl names with his brother.

They went together to Madam Malkin’s, but as that stop would likely take the longest for Harry and Regulus, who both needed brand-new Hogwarts robes, Euphemia told all the boys she would be setting up shop at a café not far from the robe store. As each of them was finished, they were to head to the café for lunch. The boys all nodded dutifully and Aunt Euphie kissed James and Harry’s foreheads before heading out. James immediately began to rub the kiss off as his friends snickered, but Harry just smiled faintly, rather warmed by the experience.

The boys who only needed alterations in their old robes went first, the ones still waiting playing with the rack of pre-made robes with Regulus giggling at how outlandish they were acting. First Peter went off, then Remus, and then James and Sirius together and finally Madame Malkin turned to Harry.

“Two complete Hogwarts sets?” she asked briskly. Harry nodded. “I need mine unsorted, like his,” he added. Madame Malkin nodded, eyes bright and curious.

“Transfer student?” she asked. Harry just nodded as she and her assistants got to work.

It was odd how she didn’t even pull out the casual uniform. Wait, no, it wasn’t actually considered a real uniform yet. It was still a cheap or muggleborn option only supplied on request. It had been a carry-over from Grindelwald’s War when the muggle world war had caused a wool shortage in Britain, necessitating a cheaper alternative that the prefects and Head Boy and Girl of the time had fun modelling after muggle boarding school uniforms. It was during Voldemort’s War that the alternative would gain popularity, originally as a political statement by students from pro-muggle rights families and later becoming an official alternative to the dress code robes in 1981 by Dumbledore’s decree—according to what of Hermione’s lectures on the topic Harry could remember.

He’d liked the casual uniform. It was like a muggle school uniform—just dress trousers and a button-down with a cardigan or jumper and tie—with an open robe thrown on top. Though most pureblood students were sent to school with the plain black robes, even they tended to wear the casual uniform or more muggle-esque styles in Harry’s time except at school feasts and special events. Harry had never worn the official uniform for anything but the Sorting, but even at fifteen it made him feel uncomfortably like he was wearing a layered dress.

The black top layer wasn’t so bad, you just had to mind the billowy sleeves. It was the dark grey under-robe Harry disliked. The dozens of buttons from collar to ankle were a pain to do up and undo, and the tight high collar and tight sleeves were restrictive. And, of course, you didn’t have trousers to wear under it, just underpants, so if you tripped on the stairs or had an accident on your broom you were flashing all and sundry.

But he was a Black, now, and he supposed no Black would be caught dead in that muggle-inspired casual uniform. At least most of his casual robes were in cursebreaker styles, meaning leather trousers and tunics under open robes, or a simple cape instead of an entire robe. Arcturus and Melania had thankfully gotten his family robes in similar styles, with only a few more layers and finer fabrics. He’d just have to suffer through the school robe in class and change out of it as soon as possible each day. Maybe he could get away with wearing his trousers underneath. With his leather boots, it would be harder to tell than it had been his first Sorting when he’d just pulled the robes over his jeans and trainers.

Harry sighed as the assistant pinned around his shoulder and Regulus gave him a bright but commiserative smile from his own fitting. There was a commotion at the front of the shop and both boys craned their necks curiously.

“I demand to be seen at once!” an imperious voice that was more than a little familiar insisted. “I am in a hurry, and I need these alterations begun immediately!”

It took a moment to see the person complaining.

As he’d suspected, it was a Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy, to be precise, sixteen years old and looking just as haughty and petulant as his son would in twenty years. Those pale eyes were trailing over the shop scornfully, but he blinked when he saw the two boys being measured, one familiar and young, the other unfamiliar and close to his own age.

Malfoy tossed a look at Regulus. “Lost your minder, little Black?” he asked in a mocking tone. Regulus flushed at once, and Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m his minder,” Harry said sharply. “Not that he needs it. He’s a responsible young wizard.”

Lucius was doing his level best to look disinterested. It was a sight better than his son would be at the same, but still plainly obvious. “And, you are…?”

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “Quite rude, don’t you think? You come barging in here making a scene, insult an eleven-year-old, and then demand my name without offering your own.”

The future Death Eater pinked and Harry relished his embarrassment. Served him right, the prat!

“My apologies,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. “Lucius, Heir to the Noble House of Malfoy.”

He’d even added his House title, good Merlin. Arcturus said if the other person gave out their own house standing along with their name and status, they likely didn’t expect you to know it as any good pureblood would. It was, essentially, a subtle insult. Well, two could play at that game.

“Henry Travers,” Harry said, “of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” he added with a healthy touch of sarcasm. Malfoy flushed a deeper shade of red, now actually looking as though he’d realized he’d messed up.

“And I’d say it’s a pleasure, but frankly it hasn’t been,” Harry said, revelling in his status as a new member of polite society and his slowly circulating backstory allowing him to step outside of the polite pureblood dance of words whenever he liked. “Now if you don’t mind, the Madame and her ladies are busy. You’ll have to take a seat to get service when we’re finished.”

Malfoy threw Harry a poisonous look, but did as Harry had suggested, clearly realizing he had little choice in the matter.

Harry waited until he and Regulus were out of the shop and halfway to the café to break into a fit of giggles. Regulus was staring up at him wide-eyed.

“You told off Heir Malfoy good!” he said. “Sirius says he’s horridly rude with no sense of decorum.”

“I agree with Sirius, then,” Harry said, prompting more giggling from Regulus. The two approached the café. Harry noticed Euphemia in a corner with the four boys eating and chatting and steered his tiny god-uncle in that direction. Aunt Euphie looked up as they sat down to the food she’d ordered them.

“You took longer than I expected,” she observed.

Harry only planned to shrug, maybe make a noncommittal comment. Regulus had no such qualms.

“Heir Malfoy was rude and Cousin Harry told him off!” he burst out, clearly delighted.

Four twelve-year-old eyes swivelled around to fixate on Harry.

“What? Really?” Sirius asked eagerly.

“What happened?” James jumped in as well.

“Did he cause you any trouble?” a fretful Remus wondered.

“He’s mean, did you hex him?” Peter blurted out, bouncing and wide-eyed.

Regulus immediately set in on the story—rather exaggerated in the telling. Harry flushed in embarrassment as Aunt Euphie hid a smile behind her napkin.

After lunch all the boys were excited. The not-quite-Marauders because Aunt Euphie was sending them to the Apothecary without supervision. Regulus was excited because he, Aunt Euphie, Harry, and Sirius were going to Ollivander’s, where he would pick out his wand.

The shop was as quiet and creepy as it would be in the future, though thankfully Ollivander simply gave Harry a familiar smile and a nod as he went on about Aunt Euphie’s wand characteristics and began picking out wands for Regulus to try.

It took a while, for sure, though not as long as Harry remembered his own wand choice taking, back when he was eleven. The most interesting part of the visit was when little Regulus accidently set Ollivander’s desk on fire. The man had immediately hurried to put it out while Harry and Euphie had reassured Regulus he wasn’t in trouble. Sirius even launched into the tale of how he’d blown out the shop windows last year on one of his own tries.

“Yeah, I know Sirius, I was here,” Regulus retorted, annoyed.

The old wizard looked amused and had gone directly to the back of his shelves as the brothers argued, returning with a blue box.

“I only keep a small stock of wands in this wood,” Ollivander said, “but I think this will do you. Acacia, unicorn hair, twelve inches exactly.” He held the long, elegantly carved wand out to the boy, who took it hesitantly in a pale hand.

Ollivander smiled at him reassuringly. “Well give it a wave,” he said expectantly.

Regulus flicked the end and his expression went slack in shock as black and white sparks erupted from the end.

Euphemia, Harry, and Sirius clapped as Ollivander said, “Bravo!”

Harry and Sirius shared happy grins as they both congratulated the quietly awed eleven-year-old.

*          *          *

Painfully red eyes looked up curiously as a white owl tapped at his window. One leg was stuck out and he removed the letter there, turning the parchment over in his hands. Curiosity turned to amusement as the lovely post bird hissed intimidatingly to his own owl to convince him to share his water dish.

He looked down at the missive. It was high-quality parchment, tied tightly in a scroll. His eyes widened as he saw the name written on the outside in lieu of an address.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

His heart nearly stopped, and then began beating fast as a rabbit’s. Who could have written this? Only a very few knew of his true name, now that he’d officially Renamed himself with an alias. The Ministry officials who were his allies and followers would use a Ministry owl for the delivery, not this lovely exotic specimen. Albus Dumbledore, of course, had very distinct handwriting and was not wont to write him besides.

The letter had been sealed with red wax; a crest pressed into the putty. Black. That was the Black family crest. How did a member of the Black family know his true name?

He broke the seal hastily, unrolling the scroll and skipping to the signature at the bottom.

Henry Travers, Heir Black

What.

He blinked down at the signature, utterly bewildered. Sure, he’d been hoping for a reply letter soon, but this—

Lord Voldemort shook his head. No reason to run off half-cocked, even mentally. This was…unexpected, but nothing to worry about. Surely Alphard had simply been indiscreet. He’d have to send him a strongly worded letter reminding him to keep his mouth shut about his former dormmate’s origins.

Still, the unease lingered as he shook out the parchment and went back to the top to read it properly.

To the Lord of House Gaunt, T.M. Riddle, greetings.

His lips quirked at the near-copy of his own letter’s introduction, but his brow furrowed at the further reminder of the boy’s strange awareness and seeming insistence on using his true name.

I was surprised to receive your letter. Honestly, when we exchanged contact information I was not expecting anything to come of it. Why would you want to begin a correspondence with a schoolboy, one unschooled in politics and social niceties? You wrote of studying ways to influence society. If you were hoping to influence me, I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. I might not know much about the things an Heir Black is supposed to know, but I’m not stupid.

I’ll admit, if your offer to borrow that book you mentioned was sincere, I’d enjoy the read. I’ve—

And here there was an odd squiggle, as though Heir Black had put quill to paper and twitched it in his fingers and he tried to work out a sentence in his head.

I’ve always liked researching things about soulmates and soulmarks. I’m not one for research ordinarily, but that is one thing that’s caught my interest. I’m not really sure what soulmarks have to do with influencing society, though.

To answer your other questions, in brief: I agree that the obligations of polite society are—what did you put?—a bore. It’s like this complicated dance everyone else knows the steps to and I’m just miming along. I feel horridly like a performing monkey much of the time, honestly. I’m looking forward to Hogwarts, even though I’m not sure I understand what the big deal with the Houses is. I suppose I understand your preoccupation, if you’re related to Salazar Slytherin, but most people seem to put way to much stock into an apprentice system-turned dorm organizational system. I have mixed feelings on snakes. Most are fine, but I’ve been almost eaten by a basilisk before, so that puts a bit of a damper on my liking for the scaley sort of creatures. I did have a cool conversation with a runespoor before, though. My cursebreaker caretakers nearly had a heart attack to find me wrapped up in them having a lovely chat about the local plant life.

Now I have a question for you: why did you decide to go the political route if it was such a bother you needed to work under an assumed name? I’ve done some research into you, and you’re brilliant and talented, a record-breaker at Hogwarts and in international scores. You could have done anything you wanted. Why politics?

May the sun rise on your wards and may the moon bless your rituals,

Henry Travers, Heir Black

It was a short missive. Brief and unpolished, clearly written by someone unfamiliar with social manoeuvring. Still, there were some good elements. He was clearly a blunter individual than most, exerting just enough effort to avoid intentional insult while putting all his cards on the table at once. And while Voldemort wasn’t certain the note about the basilisk and runespoor were an admission of Parseltongue, they were definitely another clue. At least he had some answer as to how the young man knew his true name. He had been researched, though to what extent he was unsure. It would be worthwhile to tease out how much the young Heir truly knew of him, to make sure of where they both stood.

A smile curled his lips—a true, fascinated smile instead of a sly smirk as was his wont. He had a young enigma on his hands. Heir Black pushed all his cards forward to hide even more under the table. It was a flashier but honestly subtler form of cunning than his own. Nobody ever suspected a brash child of cunning, after all, whereas a genius was always somewhat suspect.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Lord Voldemort pulled out a piece of parchment and dipped his quill, intent on writing out his reply at once.

Chapter Text

Harry did his best to not fidget nervously as he sank into a well-stuffed plum velvet armchair. A kind but reserved bearded smile was directed his way under twinkling blue eyes. Harry averted his gaze as naturally as he could.

“Well, Mister Travers, I do have to say, your OWL scores were most impressive. Hogwarts will be proud to host such a talented young wizard in his final years of study.”

Harry smiled weakly. “Thank you, Headmaster,” he said. A musical call rang out through the office, warming Harry to his toes as a large feathered body settled into his lap. Fawkes blinked liquid black eyes up at Harry, trilling happily and relaxing everyone in the room. Fawkes craned his long swan-like neck and butted his head against Harry’s chin. Harry hesitantly began to pet the phoenix as Headmaster Dumbledore beamed from behind his desk.

“Ah! I see Fawkes approves of our new student as well!” The old wizard’s unusually reserved nature seemed to melt away and he was all warmth and smiles and happy twinkles like he’d been every time he and Harry had spoken in the future. Harry supposed he must really put stock in his phoenix’s judge of character. Still petting the humming warm weight on his lap that was magically relaxing everyone in the room, Harry didn’t have to wonder why.

Dumbledore shuffled the papers on his desk and passed the stack over. “We just need your signature on these, since you’ve completed your OWLs. And you’ll co-sign, of course, Mrs Potter.”

There was a beat of silence as Dumbledore sat back, clasping his hands over his stomach while Harry dipped his quill and began to flip through the pages, signing on the dotted lines. Professor McGonagall, who was sitting to one side and who had been confirming Harry’s enrolment in her role as Deputy Headmistress, cleared her throat loudly. She and Dumbledore exchanged long looks, holding an entirely silent argument with eyebrows, frowns, and smiles. Harry, signing busily, just lifted an eyebrow as he watched this little drama out of the corner of his eye. Finally, Dumbledore seemed to relent, unclasping and refolding his hands on the surface of his desk and leaning forward slightly.

“Mister Travers,” he asked, “what would you like to do about your sorting?”

Harry blinked over the last page of the sheaf of parchment; quill suspended in mid-air. “Um. I beg your pardon?”

At least he’d managed to swallow his initial what. If there was one thing Euphemia and Arcturus could agree on, it was how a young House Heir should speak and conduct himself. Aunt Euphie had taken to using a stinging charm on his knuckles any time he messed up in public. That would have just been embarrassing here.

Dumbledore just smiled pleasantly. “Well, you must be sorted into a school House to be a student at Hogwarts. First years are sorted at the Welcoming Feast, but as a transfer student you can choose whether to participate in the ceremony or be sorted early.”

Harry blinked again. “Early…you mean, today?”

The old wizard nodded happily. “Yes, that is what I mean. I personally prefer to simply allow students to experience the traditional sorting ceremony, but as I was just reminded, it is policy to offer a private sorting for transfer students.”

Not having to sit on that dinky stool in front of the entire student body with a bunch of eleven-year-olds? Yes please.

“I’d—um—prefer the private sorting, if you don’t mind, Headmaster,” Harry stammered as he handed the pile of signed documents over to his grand—aunt.

Remember your history, he reminded himself. He couldn’t let himself slip up even in his mind if he was going to fool the entirety of Hogwarts and Headmaster Dumbledore.

Dumbledore seemed to sag slightly in disappointment, but he nodded and stood. “Very well, then.” Harry’s eyes followed him over to the Sorting Hat, which the old wizard lifted from its spot on the shelf.

“Transfer student sorting, Hat!” Dumbledore proclaimed cheerfully.

The Hat grumbled. “I heard. No time for a song, I suppose?”

Before Dumbledore could do more than open his mouth, Professor McGonagall cut in. “No, I’m afraid not, Hat. Just sort the lad, please.”

The Hat continued to grumble as it was carried over. Dumbledore stood over Harry and smiled down at him. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Mister Travers,” he said as the Sorting Hat was dropped down over Harry’s ears.

It fit much better now than it had when he was eleven, but still obscured his vision and slid down past the tops of his ears. Godric Gryffindor had either had magnificently massive hair, or a really big head.

A chuckle sounded out in his mind.

A bit of both, if you ask me, the Hat whispered. Now, I seem to have sorted you already, young man. Ah, Morgana’s Clock, I see. But why did my future self ever put you in Gryffindor? You would do so well in Slytherin!

Put me there now, I suppose, Harry thought back. It wouldn’t have been the best idea in my future, but in this time I suppose whatever you think is best. He paused, and uncertainty rose in him. You really still think I’m a better Slytherin than Gryffindor?

Oh, indubitably. I mostly see political ambition and deceitful cunning in this century’s sortings, but those are not the only types of ambition and cunning that exist. You have the cunning of one who learnt to rely only on yourself, to portray yourself as lesser and meek in order to not only avoid confrontation, but to get what you want. You are every bit as sly and conniving as Salazar himself, but you direct all that cunning towards either self-defence or the care of those you trust. You seek knowledge, but as a means to an end to accomplish whatever goals you have set for yourself, not for the sake of knowledge itself as your young bookish friend does in your memories. And your ambition is great, for all that you feel your dream is a simplistic one. You wish for happiness and peace—difficult things for a young celebrity in a world filled with strife, even more ambitious to seek when you desire such for not only yourself but those you care for.

You made a good Gryffindor, but you do not have the bravery of one who fears for their own life and steps forward anyway. You have the bravery of one who does not value his own life over the lives of others. You never fit into the mould of the brash and impulsive adventure-seeker—you may not think several steps ahead like some Slytherins, but each action is deliberated before it is taken with a ponderousness not out of place in a statesman. You avoid conflict wherever possible, and adventure comes to you more often than you deliberately seek it out. You were anonymous in Gryffindor: you were safe as the quiet one among a sea of loud voices.

Harry had never considered his own actions in that light before. It was odd to see the way the Hat thought, separating things into like this House or unlike that House. And, as the Hat said, there were many types of cunning, many sorts of ambitions, many shades of bravery.

Okay, he thought quietly. Whatever you think is best.

My future self would likely weep with joy to hear that, young man, considering we apparently spoke on the matter twice. But don’t worry, I am confident you will thrive as a member of—

“SLYTHERIN!”

Harry sighed near-inaudibly. That was that, then.

*          *          *

“Oh, come on, Harry!” Sirius whinged, pouting outrageously as he watched his cousin create streamers from the end of his wand. “I want to know what House you were put in!”

Harry smiled down at him indulgently. “Once everyone is here, I’ll tell you and anyone else who wants to know. Alright?”

Sirius continued to pout and Harry pushed amusement down their godfather bond. He’d been practicing grasping the tie to his mind and his magic, separating the feel of it from his partial soulbond and the gentle hum of the soul-blood protection bound to his skin. It was a useful thing, and Harry wondered why Sirius hadn’t really used it like this in the future. Maybe he felt his mind wasn’t stable enough, because of the dementor exposure?

Sirius blinked as the amusement hit him, and he blushed. “I just want to know,” he muttered rebelliously.

A gay laugh rang out as lights strung themselves along the streamers Harry had just created. “Don’t we all?” Cousin Pandora laughed, winking at Sirius. She was helping Harry set up the decorations.

This party had been her idea, a way for Harry to meet all the cousins in his age range and have fun with his family before all the school-age relatives went back to Hogwarts. Pandora had sent out a series of invitations to a bunch of Travers cousins and Harry had recruited Sirius to help him write invitations to the Blacks and Black cousins.

Harry had to keep from beaming when Cousin Charis arrived, her tiny tow-headed grandson in hand. He’d finally get to meet Barty!

Charis immediately struck up a conversation with the other older woman there, Cousin Callidora. Callidora had only recently recovered from dragon pox, and she had asked to accompany her grandson since she had missed meeting Harry at the last Black Gathering. Harry himself would miss the next one, as it would happen just after the start of school.

Callidora’s grandson was almost startling to look at. Harry recalled thinking that Neville looked a lot like his mother when Mad-Eye had shown him that group photo months ago, and it was even more obvious now because the young Frank Longbottom looked more like a male version of Augusta with Black coloration than like his round-faced future son. Frank had, upon arrival, been immediately drafted into helping Pandora. Harry was startled to learn the two had been friends in school.

“I’m so glad to see him again, now that we’re both adults doing our own thing we’ve been drifting apart, you know?” Pandora had prattled happily to Harry.

Harry had just shrugged in reply and Pandora had patted his shoulder with a laugh. “Well, you’ll see eventually,” she said with a cheerfulness that somehow made that sentence even more ominous than it normally would have been.

“So, you’ll be starting at Hogwarts as a sixth year?” Frank asked with interest. For all that he didn’t look at all like Neville, he certainly sounded like him. Minus Neville’s stutter, they had the exact same soft, even voice that managed to sound confident even with the lack in volume. “That’ll certainly be different, won’t it?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, I guess so. Boarding school will be weird after traveling so often.” Actually, it would be a relief to be back at Hogwarts, but Harry could hardly say that. He realized almost glumly he’d have to pretend he didn’t know his way around. Well, pretending to get lost could lead to some entertaining castle wanderings, he supposed.

“I can imagine,” Frank said. “Well, if you ever need advice on schoolwork or house politics or the teachers or anything, feel free to owl me, Cousin. I’d be glad to help.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, his smile warming.

The Floo chimed four times in quick succession, the Black twins stepping out elegantly just before James came tumbling through. The fourth chime heralded a shy, nervous-looking blonde girl who looked to be younger than Pandora but old enough to have graduated from Hogwarts. She stepped out, wringing what Harry recognized as the invitations Pandora had sent out to their Travers cousins between her hands, eyes darting about.

Pandora pounced on her.

“Ree!” she squealed, spinning the younger girl into a hug. “Ree” spluttered.

“Dora! Let go!” she protested. Her voice was…oddly familiar, strident and almost grating as she shouted. She wasn’t a particularly pretty girl, her hands almost mannish and her face plain and hidden behind large square glasses. She made up for it with robes an almost obnoxiously bright shade of green that somehow still managed to look good on her.

Pandora dragged the new girl over. “Henry!” she exclaimed. “This is Rita, she’s a Travers cousin from the other side of the family.”

Harry could do nothing but blink and clench his teeth to keep his jaw from unhinging. “Um, well, I’m Henry Travers, if you hand’t guessed,” he said as evenly as he could, bowing. Hopefully she wouldn’t offer him her hand. Hopefully.

Holy mother of Merlin, Rita Skeeter’s my cousin!

And…really young looking.

The girl gave a shy smile, almost hiding behind her long blonde hair. “Rita Skeeter,” she mumbled.

“Her mother’s our…cousin once removed? Second cousin? Something like that,” Pandora added.

Harry managed a smile. “It’s always nice to meet new relatives,” managed to sound sincere enough.

That was when the young Rita’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! You’ve lived abroad, haven't you?” she asked, her personality doing a one-eighty from shy to gushing. “I’ve always wanted to travel, not that my family ever had the funds. Oh, could you please tell me some stories of places you’ve been? I’m a writer, you see, but it is ever so difficult to write interesting stories when you’ve hardly gone anywhere but Hogwarts, the Alleys, and the Ministry.”

“A writer?” Harry repeated, dazed by the torrent of words.

Rita’s nod was almost puppyish. “Yes! There’s such an awful lack of good fiction in the wizarding world. And biographies and histories are always written the same way, it’s so boring—”

“And you want to do them one better?” Harry asked, torn between horrified and amused. This was…not what he’d ever thought to expect, if he ran into Rita Skeeter in the past. It was almost dizzying to realize she didn’t start out life as a blood-sucking gossipy journalist. A preference for fiction writing did explain why she cared more for writing a good story than for the truthfulness of her work.

Rita blushed. “Well, I’d like to try at least,” she said, back to the shy mumbling. She sighed. “My mum’s always telling me off for it, though. She says if I want to write I should write for the Daily Prophet as a journalist, or for the Ministry as a scrivener. But I don’t want to do that sort of boring writing.”

“Didn’t Newt Scamander just go off and write his textbook?” Harry wondered aloud. “If you’ve got a topic you’re interested in, you could just do that.”

The girl rolled her green eyes. “Yeah, as if I could find a publisher willing to take on a no-name author with a muggleborn father,” she scoffed. “At least Master Scamander had his bloodline and family connections going for him when he was trying to get started. And it’s not like I have a printing press in my backyard to just do it myself, either.”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, there’s no harm in trying, is there?” Impulsively, he added, “And I’d be curious to see what sort of things you write.”

So long as it wasn’t tearing down celebrities, he’d fund her writing efforts himself. At least he knew she had a good turn of phrase for fiction. She’d been nationally acclaimed as a journalist in his time, so she’d likely have at least half that many people as a following if she wrote fiction instead of “fact”.

The young Rita just beamed at him for the perceived compliment. Sirius, thankfully, was an impatient boy, and unknowingly rescued Harry moments later.

His preteen godfather grasped him by the hand, James handily claiming his other hand, the two boys dragging him to the centre of the lawn.

“Everyone’s here, Harry!” Sirius exclaimed. “You should tell us what House you were sorted into, now!”

“Yes!” James agreed as he helped his best friend tug the older boy along. “Tell us!”

The Travers sisters all wandered over, Frank Longbottom in tow.

“Oh, I’d nearly forgotten about that,” Pandora said in amusement.

“Yes, don’t keep us in suspense, Cousin,” Atalanta agreed, bouncing on her toes.

“Oh, you’ve been sorted?” Narcissa cut in with interest, Andromeda and Teddy at her shoulder. “I thought you’d be sorted at the Welcoming Feast.”

Harry shrugged, feeling rather overwhelmed at being the centre of attention. “It was an option,” he said, “but I opted to be sorted early.”

Sirius and James were bouncing on each other like a pair of frogs. “Well?” Sirius demanded.

It made Harry laugh. “Slytherin,” he announced loudly. “I’ll be joining the twins in Slytherin.”

Cissa and Andy high-fived as the young Marauders groaned in dismay.

“Aww!” James moaned. “But the Slytherin dorms are so far away!”

“And we won’t just see each other all the time!” Sirius complained.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh again and ruffle both boys’ hair. “We’ll still see each other,” he promised. “I won’t abandon you just because I’m in Slytherin. You’re my little cousins!”

James beamed up at Harry, but Sirius gave him an almost solemn look. “I won’t abandon you either, Harry,” he said quietly.

“Or me!”

Regulus had wiggled his way through the crowd of teenagers and young adults, a tiny Barty Crouch in tow.

“Because I’m definitely going to be a Slytherin, big brother!”

Sirius turned to his younger sibling with a teasing grin. “Oh, yeah? You could be a Hufflepuff, you know. You’re squishy enough to be a Hufflepuff!” To emphasize his point he poked Regulus in a ticklish spot, and the eleven-year-old yelped and then ran to hide behind Harry with an affronted expression.

“Father says Hufflepuffs are only good for drudgery and grunt work,” a timid voice said dubiously.

Harry looked down at ten-year-old Barty. His blonde hair was combed into submission and he wore fine robes, but he was fidgeting and looking around at the large crowd of chattering cousins with wide blue eyes. Harry had the urge to kidnap him away from his awful father and spoil him rotten, but wilfully repressed it.

“I think what he probably meant was that Hufflepuffs work the hardest, so they do work best. Hufflepuffs aren’t flashy, so lots of people don’t realize they’re important.”

It was why everyone had been so up in arms over Cedric’s appointment as Hogwarts Champion, after all, and why Hufflepuff had so resented Harry stealing the older boy’s limelight.

Barty just blinked up at him.

“You lot clear off,” Harry called out. “I’m starved but I can’t reach the table with everybody ringed around me. Go on, clear off!”

The crowd parted agreeably and Harry guided Barty—Regulus still clinging to his robes and sticking his tongue out at his brother—over to the snack tables. Sirius and James bounced along in his wake.

“We’re going to play a game or two of Quidditch, right, Harry?” Sirius demanded.

Harry grinned. “Of course!” This would be a final test of his soul-blood protection, to see if he’d be able to play at school without his protection getting riled up. If, that was, Slytherin had any team positions free. Seeker or Beater would be just as fun, Harry had decided. He had his fingers crossed he’d luck out and get to be Seeker again, though.

“Can we play?” Regulus asked with keen interest. Barty looked shyer still but nodded firmly and excitedly when Harry looked over to him.

“Sure,” Harry said. “Maybe we can divide into teams based on House, or family affiliation, that way it doesn’t end up older students versus younger.”

“I wanna be on your team!” Sirius insisted.

Harry pushed amusement down their bond and said slyly, “Oh, but both Regulus and I are seekers. I think you should have Reg here on your team. I’ll take James and Barty.”

Sirius blinked, but wasn’t given a chance to protest before Regulus cheered and leapt on his older brother. “Yes, that sounds amazing! We’ll be an awesome team, won’t we, Sirius?”

“Are we discussing Quidditch positions?” the Black twins demanded in unison, materializing behind them.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Here, to be fair, one of you can be on my team and the other can be on Regulus’ team.”

The girls looked at each other, then back at Harry. Still in twinspeak, they protested, “But we’re used to working as a team!”

Harry grinned good-naturedly. “All the more reason to play on opposite sides!” he said. “These aren’t competitive games, just fun with family. Try something new, come on!”

“Ooh, can I play?” Rita asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m working on a Transfiguration apprenticeship right now and I haven’t gone flying in ages.”

“You might need different robes,” Cissa observed. “It would be a shame if anything happened to the ones you’re wearing. Andy and I brought extras in case the younger kids forgot their Quidditch robes, if you’re a Transfiguration apprentice you can probably alter the size to fit you easily enough.”

The others went off, chatting about robe changes and Quidditch formations, Regulus bouncing about and asking who wanted to be on his team. Barty tugged Harry’s sleeve.

“Can I be a Chaser?” he asked quietly. Harry smiled down at him.

“Sure you can! Jamie’s a Chaser too, aren’t you? You can give Barty some pointers.”

His dad blinked and then nodded. “Yeah, sure thing! Have you ever played before?”

Barty shook his head. “Not with other people,” he whispered, “but I love to fly.”

James grinned. “That’s awesome, me too! Here, I’m gonna show you a basic Chaser formation…”

Harry couldn’t help the smile as the others all darted back and forth, arguing over broomsticks and positions. It was amazing to see just how large his family had once been. The Travers and the Blacks—and this wasn’t even counting the Potters, because Jamie was here as a Travers cousin and Caelum wasn’t even here! It was sad to think of, in regard to his own time.

So many people dead or with their lives ruined. Even Rita—she’d wanted to be a fictional author. Harry knew from the memory he’d seen of the Lestrange trials that she’d been a Ministry scribe during the war. She’d likely put off her own dreams to help the war effort, and then found later she couldn’t get out of her new role long enough to get her dreams back. Harry wondered if the reason she wrote so outlandishly in the Prophet was because it was the closest she could get to being a fictional author. Still not okay, but...understandable if she was bitter.

And Barty—Harry could see how timid and beaten down he was. It was just like Harry had been with the Dursleys, before Hagrid had rescued him. Maybe Harry could be the one to rescue Barty.

Harry wondered if this party would change anything. He’d been changing time knowingly and probably unknowingly since arriving. This big gathering of Black and Travers cousins from the close to the distant was just one more change out of many. Harry couldn’t help but muse over what sort of differences this party might bring about. It would be fun to see, as he moved forward.

“Henry, you’re playing Seeker on Team 1, right?” Frank called out to him.

Harry was startled out of his reverie. “Yeah, coming!”

It was a silly thing to worry about, he decided.  For all that his every breath changed time, it wasn’t like he had any real control over how it changed. The future would take care of itself.

For now, he should just focus on the present.

Chapter Text

The whistle of a steam engine and the hiss of the hydraulics brought back a rush of memories. Harry’s eyes trailed over the painfully scarlet locomotive and across the platform of dallying parents and hurrying children, hooting owls and floating luggage. He did his best to keep the ear-to-ear beaming grin of nostalgic joy that wanted to escape toned down to a simple smile of excitement. After all, Henry Travers had no reason to be so very joyful at the sight of the Hogwarts Express.

Aunt Euphie was going over James’ packing list with him for the hundredth time. “And you’re sure you packed your cauldron, and your owl treats?” she asked.

“Yes, Mum,” James sighed.

Old Henry clapped Harry on the shoulder.

“Glad to be going back?” the old man murmured in Harry’s ear. Harry nodded instantly, but then paused.

“It’s weird,” he said just as quietly, “but I think I’m going to miss Potter Manse, and weekends with Uncle Arcturus. I’m excited to go home but…I almost feel like I used to at the start of the summer, right now.”

He puzzled over the feeling for only a moment before his great-grandfather clarified things for him. “It’s because that old castle isn’t your only home any longer, boy. You’ve got a home with us, and you’re going to miss it.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed companionably. “Feel free to write if you get homesick.”

Homesick. What an odd thought.

“Okay, I love you too, can I go now!?” James proclaimed loudly. He grasped Harry by the hand and tugged him forward. “We’ve got to go find good seats, okay Mum?”

Aunt Euphie exchanged amused looks with Harry and then she and the old man with her were waving the two boys off. Harry wished Uncle Flea had been able to come, but he’d had a problem at his company and had to go in to work.

Harry stepped onto the Express with a nostalgic sigh, holding only Hedwig’s cage and the small basket of snacks and books that Taffy had helped him put together. James immediately ran off, probably looking for the other Marauders. Harry ducked into the compartment he had always used with Ron and Hermione.

Thankfully, it was empty, and he could sit for a moment and catch his breath. If he imagined hard enough, he could almost see and hear his two best friends here with him, chattering happily about the upcoming school year as Pigwidgeon flew about the compartment and Crookshanks purred in Hermione’s lap.

Harry sighed and stuck a finger into Hedwig’s cage, stroking her feathers as she sat dozy eyed on her perch. “I miss them, Hedwig,” he said softly.

The sleepy owl didn’t answer, but Harry didn’t need her to. He sighed again and pressed his nose against the window.

He caught a glimpse of the Black entourage boarding, Cissa and Andy chattering happily with each other as Sirius and Regulus bounced impatiently beside them. Gazing at the platform had him spying familiar faces, cousins and parents and aunts or uncles of people Harry had once known, like a kaleidoscope of noses and shoulders and chins and eyes all mis-matched in a strange mosaic of half-recognizable people.

Harry noticed his mother again, Aunt Petunia and the people who were presumably his grandparents thankfully absent. Lily was instead with the dark-haired boy, a woman who was probably the boy’s mother guiding the pair to the train. The boy’s long lank hair hung about his face and, to Harry’s surprise, he wore Slytherin robes. He and Lily were arguing about something. Harry wondered what.

The compartment door opened and Harry turned.

“Found you!” Sirius sang out happily. “Here, Reg, you stay here with Harry.” He turned to address his godson. “Do you know where James went?”

Harry shrugged. “You’d have a better chance of finding them than me. He went off looking for your friends.”

Sirius darted forward to claim a hug from Harry—hesitantly returned, because the adult Sirius had done this too but Harry still wasn’t accustomed to hugging—and then ran out of the compartment happily shouting his “see you later”-s over his shoulder.

Regulus crawled onto the seat next to Harry, ooh-ing at Hedwig, who had been awakened by Sirius and was now ruffling her feathers grumpily.

“Excited for Hogwarts?” Harry asked the eleven-year-old. The boy beamed.

“Of course! Are you?”

Harry nodded good-naturedly. “With how everyone’s talked it up, how could I not?” he mused aloud.

There was a knock at the door. “Hello, stranger,” a cheerful voice said. Harry looked up with a blink to see Amelia Bones sticking her head into the compartment. “Mind if we join you?” she asked.

Harry couldn’t help the bright smile he gave her in reply. It was great to see a friendly face. “Yeah! Of course, come on in.”

The red-haired girl stepped in confidently. Amelia was followed by a much shyer and more hesitant girl with flyaway brown hair, round spectacles, and a twitchy sort of face. Harry stood to help the two girls put their trunks into the racks above the two seats. The one over Harry and Regulus’ heads stood empty because the two Blacks had expensive models shrunken down in their pockets that could be resized with the tap of a wand, so there was plenty of space.

“U-um, I’m really sorry to intrude…” the second girl said meekly, so quiet Harry could only barely hear her.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” he said, bowing as his months of etiquette lessons had taught him. He didn’t have to use titles since they were on the Hogwarts Express. At Hogwarts social rank was officially ignored in the school bylaws, ensuring that no favouritism or discrimination could be had based on family history. “I’m Henry Travers, and this is my cousin Regulus Black. We’re both attending Hogwarts for the first time.”

The shy girl blinked watery pale eyes up at him, pushing her glasses up her nose in a familiar motion, though Harry no longer needed glasses. “O-oh, yes, Mellie did say you were a transfer student. She didn’t s-say you were Henry T-Travers, th-though.”

Harry grimaced. It seemed like the one thing he couldn’t escape here in the past was his notoriety. It was just a different sort of fame than he’d suffered through before.

“I’m just a kid with weird luck,” he said, “I’m not anything special. Really, I’m only Heir right now because Mother was Grandfather’s favourite. I never met Grandfather and from what I remember Mother had no plans to accept the title herself, so you see it’s all just a bunch of coincidences that I’m even interesting enough to have news stories posted about me.”

“I-I n-never thought of it tha-that w-way,” the shy girl managed to stammer. She was starting to remind Harry of Neville, back when they were all first years. Even by thirteen Neville had stopped stammering this much, but this girl was sixteen and so anxious she shook like a leaf as she spoke.

Harry smiled at her warmly. “It’s alright, I just get tired of all this silly business about the ruddy news posting stories about me. I spent half my life as a ward of the bank, and suddenly I’m newsworthy.”

She was relaxing now and had loosened the grip on her trunk enough that Harry could put it away as well. The girl stammered her thanks and Harry just smiled again as he sat down next to Regulus, who was watching this all unfold shyly with wide eyes.

“What’s your name, by the way?” Harry asked.

The girl squeaked and jumped up as she’d been sinking into her seat. “Oh! How rude of me! I’m Mafalda Hopkirk! I’m a sixth-year Hufflepuff just like Mellie—um, Amelia.”

Amelia pulled her back into her seat with a fond smile.

“Pleased to meet you,” he managed to say in a natural enough tone. But then Mafalda and Amelia were sorting out their purses, and peering out the window to catch glimpses of friends and family, and Harry was left with his thoughts.

He wondered if Mafalda was always this jumpy or if it was the new person making her anxious. And it was starting to get really weird to meet people he’d met in some way in the future. Of course, this woman had just sent him letters from the Improper Use of Magic Office, but still—she’d signed the letter that had expelled him! And right now she was a teenage girl that reminded him strongly of an eleven-year-old Neville. What was his life.

Oh, he’d had some good experiences. He and Mr. Weasley were exchanging weekly letters now, discussing politics and the Ministry and even their personal lives, as Harry had taken to asking after his wife and young son and Arthur had been happy to share his family goings-on along with his work life. Rita (Harry was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that she was a close enough relative their grandmothers had been first cousins) also wrote him frequently, and Harry was continuing to encourage her to keep looking for a publication willing to post fiction. He’d suggested she try to get a column and post in serial fashion. He and Hermione had discussed the way old muggle novels had originally been published in magazines once, when a question from Harry about a book she’d been reading had set Hermione off on a long informative lecture. Rita was over the moon with the idea and had promised to write Harry back as soon as she’d heard back from the Prophet and the other magazines she’d written to about her idea.

Harry was still on the fence as to whether his ongoing letter correspondence with his unknowing soulmate was a good thing or not. They mostly talked politics, dancing around other topics with high society double-speak. He’d had to start thinking of the man as Riddle because calling him Voldemort, even in his head, sounded so strange when his soulmate wasn’t trying to violently threaten his life every year. Riddle was apparently infuriated by it, constantly dropping subtle questions about where Harry had learnt the information, but Harry only found that further incentive to keep using his birth name and not his made-up one. Voldemort just sounded silly for every-day use anyway, when you got down to it. Probably why people had begun calling him You-Know-Who when he’d begun to get really scary instead of finding other nicknames and euphemisms for him.

Harry had recently begun to coach Riddle through sign language, as the man had expressed an interest and—Harry just hadn’t been able to help himself. It didn’t escape his notice the man was only asking because Harry had what appeared to be a panic attack in front of him at the ball. He had the feeling Riddle was beginning to consider him something of a friend and possible protégé which just made Harry feel all kinds of weird.

But some of his meetings with old-new people had been wholly negative, like Barty Crouch Senior, or Mr. Malfoy, or the run-in he’d had at the ministry with a younger Alastor Moody, who’d insisted he was up to no good when he passed the register without presenting his wand, and would have put him into a holding cell if Gus hadn’t seen the Auror harassing him for being a “suspicious character” (which had clearly meant “Black Heir”, judging by the frequency with which he glanced at Harry’s Heir ring) on his way into work. Bode had ensured an Unspeakable was always there to escort him to make sure it didn’t happen again.

It was beginning to feel like his life was a strange series of déjà vu encounters, and it was honestly exhausting. He wondered if living in the past would ever feel normal.

Harry’s melancholy thoughts provoked a warm buzz under his skin and he knew if he wanted, his parents’ echoes would come out to comfort him. But he was in public, so he was glad when Amelia and Mafalda stopped their quiet chattering and Amelia turned to Harry with a smile.

“So are you excited to finally be headed for Hogwarts? You’ll be in sixth year, right?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “Yes, I will be. And I’m excited.” He grinned a bit and elbowed Regulus. “Not as excited as this one is, though. He’s been insisting everyone in the family tell us both stories so I’ll know what to expect.”

“Harry!” Regulus whined, embarrassed. Harry smiled down at him, amused.

“Do you know what house you’ll be in?” Amelia asked. “Well, I mean, nobody really knows, but—surely you have an idea?”

That made Harry laugh. “Actually, I was sorted a few weeks ago when we sorted out my transfer paperwork. I’ll be in Slytherin.”

“I’m gonna be a Slytherin too!” Regulus announced insistently. “My big brother Sirius keeps saying I’ll be a Gryffindor like him, but I’m definitely going to be a Slytherin like Cousin Harry!”

Harry flushed a little. This was one of those times it was nice to have a slightly darker skin tone than he’d had before. It was more difficult to tell when he was blushing. “You’ll go wherever you fit best,” he said reassuringly as Amelia and Mafalda clearly repressed the urge to coo at the adorable eleven-year-old.

They all looked up at the door opening again.

“There you are, Harry!”

It was the twins, Andromeda and Narcissa. Andy was in the front, her soulmate at her shoulder and her twin sister at her back. “Just wanted to make sure you were doing alright,” Andy said. “But I see you’ve already made friends.”

She nodded in a distantly friendly way. “Bones, Hopkirk.”

“Have a nice summer, Black?” Amelia asked. Her eyes darted up to Ted Tonks and back to Andromeda, clearly curious but unwilling to pry.

Andromeda smiled. “Very good, thank you. Take care of my younger cousins, now. That should fit right in with your future career, shouldn’t it?”

Amelia laughed. “Oh, I think Travers can take care of himself.”

Andy hummed noncommittally. “Well, if you’re alright we’re going to go find our friends. So you know, your Travers cousins are looking for you. They may drop in sometime soon.”

“Th-they’re back!?” Mafalda stammered out. Andy looked at her and she squeaked, jumping in her seat. Harry was the one that spoke, though, making them both turn to look at him.

“Yes, they’re all recovered from their vanishing sickness. Atalanta’s been insisting I check out the club she’s in—apparently Pandora’s fiancée founded it?” And really, what kind of name was Xenophilius? He’d founded an Unusual Flora and Fauna club that sounded like something straight out of one of Luna’s stories. Harry honestly wondered if the club had been discontinued sometime in this time period, because if it had existed in his time Luna would definitely have been in it. Harry’d not even met the man yet (he was invited to the December wedding, though) and he was already wondering what kind of person he was.

Mafalda nodded. “Oh, yes, I have a friend in the Unusual Flora and Fauna club! It’s very interesting. That’s how I met Atalanta. She’s so clever, and we talk about her club activities all the time!” Harry was impressed she’d said all that without stammering or squeaking, but she turned red as soon as she realized she’d spoken and hid her face so it was kind of a wash.

“Well, see you later, Cousin,” Andy said.

“Bye, Harry!” Narcissa said from behind her, Ted waving as well. The trio trooped off, but nobody had time to speak again before the door slid back open.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?” the old trolley-woman asked. It was the same person that would sell sweets in Harry’s time, just grey-haired instead of white and with a few less wrinkles.

They all spent a minute buying up snacks. Harry and Regulus didn’t really need any, as Kreacher had packed each of them a perfectly good lunch, but Harry felt it was part of the train experience, and told Regulus it was alright to buy a few treats to eat once they’d had their lunches.

The four of them ate and began to chat cheerily, Amelia dragging Mafalda into a discussion of the various clubs Hogwarts hosted, telling Harry and Regulus about them as they spoke. Atalanta and Selene poked their heads in the door at one point and spent a moment chattering happily with both Harry and the two girls in the compartment. The third-year Selene eventually moved on to find her own friends, but Atalanta joined them to argue with Amelia Bones over whether the Duelling Club or the Debate Club was the better one to join.

Harry couldn’t help but notice Mafalda turned into a nervous wreck again with Atalanta in the room, blushing and stuttering so badly her words were hardly intelligible. He wondered if she was intimidated by Atalanta—she was incredibly clever and witty, sometimes Harry found himself floundering in conversation with her. He was amazed Amelia was matching her word for word in their heated argument.

It was as the sun was setting that they began to reach familiar locations. Of course, Harry had to pretend to be surprised when Amelia glanced out the window and exclaimed, “Oh, I think we’re almost there!”

Regulus clambered onto Harry’s lap to look out the window as well, both boys craning their necks. Of course, Harry knew you wouldn’t be able to see the castle from the station, but he was still excited to see the train slowing down and coming to a halt in Hogsmeade station.

Already being dressed in school robes made things so much easier, Harry thought to himself. Normally he and his friends would have had a moment of scrambling where they tried to get dressed and put their trunks back away as quickly as possible. The only one who’d needed to change on this trip, though, was Mafalda, who’d mumbled something embarrassedly about how she lived in a muggle neighbourhood and had dashed off to the girls’ loo.

Hagrid’s familiar booming voice rang through the station and Harry couldn’t repress the fond smile. “Firs’ Years! Firs’ Years, this way!”

 Harry had to give Regulus a push to get him going, but the first year ran off soon enough.

“Do you go with them or with us up to the castle, Travers?” Amelia asked.

“With you,” Harry replied, “and you can call me Henry if you like. Or Harry, honestly. I like Harry better than Henry.”

“Oh!”

She looked startled for reasons Harry didn’t quite understand—he had noticed it was less common for kids their own age to use first names, but surely it wasn’t that odd? But then she and Mafalda exchanged glances and she smiled at him.

“Then I insist you call me Amelia,” she said. Mafalda mumbled her own agreement to the use of her first name at Amelia’s shoulder.

Harry nodded. “Alright, then,” he replied agreeably.

Atalanta clapped her hands together. “Great! Now that’s settled, let’s get a good carriage.”

There were the Thestrals again, standing at the head of the carriages. Harry reached out and stroked one’s leathery neck. It crooned at him gently.

Atalanta was staring. “Cousin Harry?” she asked quietly. “What…what are you doing?”

Harry shrugged. “Petting the Thestral.”

She sucked in a quick breath, breathing out a quiet “oh”. She was pensive and quiet as they all climbed into the carriage, and it was after it began moving that she said softly, “I didn’t know Thestrals drew the carriages.”

Amelia and Mafalda blinked at her, both startled. Harry shrugged. “Yes, all the carriages had them. I did read that Hogwarts has the largest tame herd of Thestrals in the world. It makes sense you’d put them to good use, I suppose.”

“I read that too,” Atalanta said, “But I suppose I just never thought—”

She cut herself off. “Oh, but I’m being rude. Anyway, Harry, make sure you’re watching that direction as we go around this hill.”

“Really?” Harry asked in mock-confusion. “But why?”

“You’ll see.” He could hear the smile in his cousin’s voice, and he appreciated her just a little more for doing this when she thought he’d never seen Hogwarts from the outside before. Once again, Harry wondered what would happen to his Travers cousins in the war, that the only Travers he’d ever heard of in the future was a Death Eater.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as the school came into view. The carriages were rounding the edge of the Black Lake. They’d just passed the edge of the Forbidden Forest, which was why the castle had finally come into view. It was perched atop the high mountain they were fast approaching in their line of carriages, glittering like a jewel. The windows sparkled in the starry sky between the shadowy towers and turrets, and the flicker of distant torches and lamps gave the whole building an otherworldly look.

Harry was staring, eyes reflecting the lights above, drinking in the sight. He didn’t notice the indulgent and pleased smiles on the others in his carriage, nor their delight at his amazement. They didn’t understand what he was really feeling anyway, as they thought he was seeing this for the first time.

But he’d been waiting for this. Harry loved this old rambling castle so dearly and being back again was the first thing in this strange time-traveling experience that just felt right.

It really was like coming home.

The procession of carriages trundled toward a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars. Their carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping drive up to the castle; Harry leaned out the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer. Atalanta grasped the back of his over-robe and tugged gently when the carriage swayed to a halt.

“Come on, Cousin Harry, let’s go in and get good seats.”

Harry let the three girls herd him up the stone steps to the castle, sighing in relief as he felt the magic of Hogwarts settle over him. He paused and blinked rapidly in surprise as the warmth under his skin thrummed and flared around him in a red and golden glow for a brief moment. His mother’s echo pressed her cheek against his and he felt a hand brush through his hair before they sank back under his skin.

…had part of his comfort at Hogwarts had to do with his parents’ protection? He could feel it drawing on the magic of the castle, somehow interacting with the wards. He’d have to tell the Unspeakables about this. Harry wondered, abruptly, if this synthesis was what had allowed his touch to burn Quirrell to dust when he’d never experienced such a violent protection either before or afterwards.

“Harry!”

Atalanta pulled him along. Amelia and Mafalda were staring, wide-eyed and a mixture of curious and concerned. “What was that?” Atalanta hissed as she prodded him up the steps, now at the back of the crowd streaming into the castle instead of the middle.

“Blood protection my parents left me,” Harry said in a daze. “I think it likes the Hogwarts castle wards.”

“It was beautiful,” Mafalda murmured. “Were those your parents?”

Atalanta and Amelia both threw her sharp looks, but Harry just shrugged. “Something like them. Echoes, probably.”

The four went through the giant oak front doors and into the cavernous entrance hall, lit with flaming torches, the others still throwing wide-eyed glances at Harry. They passed the magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors and had almost reached the open doorway to the Great Hall when he heard a voice calling his name.

“Mister Travers! Mister Travers, this way!”

The entire group paused and Harry turned. It was Professor McGonagall, hurrying over in her fine dark emerald robes and pointed witch’s hat. She was so much younger-looking than only twenty years’ time difference could explain. Her hair, pulled back into its usual tight bun, was black without a hint of grey. Her sharp eyes had much fewer wrinkles behind her square spectacles. He wondered what all she’d lost in the war, how much she’d fought. It was the only think he could think of that would have aged her so rapidly in such a short time.

Harry blinked and walked over to her curiously. She had a way of making students feel like they’d done something wrong, but Harry knew there wasn’t anything he could have done yet. She smiled briefly at him in relief.

“There you are! You’re going to be announced before you go to your seat. Come on, we’re going to go into the Hall through the staff entrance.” She glanced over at the three girls. “You three go and sit with your Houses, now, move along.”

They slunk into the Great Hall, Atalanta grinning at Harry and Amelia waving goodbye to him as they went.

“Come along, now, Mister Travers,” the professor said briskly.

Harry followed after her. He was surprised when she spoke as they walked.

“It’s good you’re making friends already. I hope you’ll be quite happy in your two years here with us at Hogwarts,” she said. “Your Head of House is Horace Slughorn—he should introduce himself to you tonight—but if you ever need anything feel free to come to me for help. My office door is always open to students in my capacity as Deputy Headmistress.”

He was surprised to realize he’d missed Professor McGonagall too. Harry had always been fond of how fair she was. He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, Professor.”

He blinked, realizing something. “Oh! Is there Floo out of the castle?”

She turned and regarded him strangely. “Only in my office and the Headmaster’s,” she said. “We do not permit students to Floo in and out willy-nilly. Each Common Room and the other professor quarters allow Floo calls, but no actual travel.”

Harry shook his head. “Oh! No, that’s not what I meant. I just—I have an internship with the Department of Mysteries. I realized I may need to do one last check-in before school begins, maybe sometime tomorrow.”

The professor looked curious and rather impressed, but simply said, “If that is what you need, just come to my office tomorrow morning. My first class of the day begins at ten o’clock, so as long as you arrive well before that time I should be available.”

She came to a halt in a narrow corridor in front of a small wooden door Harry recognized as the one behind the staff table. Professor McGonagall laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Now, do keep in mind that the rest of the year you’ll need to use the main entrance to enter the Hall. This door is ordinarily staff only. The Headmaster is announcing you now. You’ll go in, let him introduce you, and then take your seat at the Slytherin house table. Understand?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Good lad. I’ve got to go take care of the first years, now, so I’ll be leaving you. Enjoy the feast.”

The click of her heels faded into the distance and Harry turned the knob of the side door quietly, opening it just a crack. He could hear the roar of conversation and the sound of the Headmaster tapping a spoon against his glass, asking everyone to settle down.

Harry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. This was it.

Even if it was going to be different, he was ready to come back home.

Chapter Text

“This year, we have a very special addition to our student body,” Harry could hear the Headmaster say through the crack in the door. “Our first transfer student in nearly a decade. He formerly attended the prestigious Greek school Chrónia Akadimía but has elected to complete his post-OWL requirements a little closer to home. Mister Travers, would you please come in?”

Harry opened the door and stepped through cautiously to see the Headmaster angled to be partly facing him. The professor at the end of the table inclined her head in the direction Harry was supposed to walk, and he went around the end of the staff table and down the short flight of steps to the front of the Great Hall.

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. There were the banners, hanging over their four tables, and there were all the students. The hall seemed almost packed it was so full, and it took Harry a full minute to realize it was because there were simply more children present because the war hadn’t even begun yet. It was sobering to realize how many of these people would die in the coming years.

“He has been sorted already and is a proud new member of Slytherin House! Please, Hogwarts, join me in welcoming our new sixth-year transfer student.”

The Headmaster and staff began to clap, and the other students slowly joined in. Harry caught sight of Sirius and James jumping on each other over at the Gryffindor table, whooping in a way that would have had them both reprimanded for a breach in etiquette back home. It just made Harry need to repress a laugh. Instead he smiled and bowed to the student body and the staff table before sliding to a seat at the end of the Slytherin table.

Headmaster Dumbledore raised his hands again and the applause quieted.

“And now for our pre-feast announcements. This year’s Head Boy is Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Head Girl is Narcissa Black. Prefects, remember they will be organizing your patrols and will be available if you need help in your duties. Students, the Head Boy and Girl are always available if any of you need aid as well. Finally, please remember to be quiet and respectful during the sorting. Thank you.”

He sat again and quiet murmurs filled the hall for a second time. Andromeda and Narcissa waved at him from a few seats down.

“Have a nice ride up, Cousin?”

Harry grinned at them. “You never told me you’re the school’s Head Girl for the year, Cissa!” he shot back.

Narcissa laughed. “Well, I wanted you all to be surprised,” she said.

“Don’t feel slighted, Harry,” Andromeda snickered. “Until we were getting ready to go this morning she didn’t even tell me. Her own twin sister!”

“Quite a feat,” the girl Narcissa had spoken to at the summer soiree joked, but then they all fell silent as the doors to the Hall boomed open again.

Professor McGonagall walked in briskly, trailed by a wide-eyed gaggle of First Years craning their necks at the ceiling and turning around and around to look at everything in the room. Regulus, in the middle of the line, caught Harry’s eye and waved excitedly.

Harry tried to recall what the Great Hall had looked like when he’d come in for the sorting. He had a feeling he’d been much too anxious to really pay attention to his surroundings, but he did remember the similarly beautiful starry sky above—and he recalled Hermione’s mutterings about its enchantment. Harry looked around now at the golden plates and goblets which gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in mid-air. It was a beautiful sight even after having seen it five times already.

Harry could just see the ghosts floating about. Nearly Headless Nick was on the far side of the hall watching the procession of eleven-year-olds with interest, occasionally leaning over to the Hufflepuff table to exchange words with the Fat Friar. The Ravenclaw ghost, aloof as usual, was perched in the rafters next to the Ravenclaw banner instead of at the table, and the Bloody Baron, pearly white and semi-transparent but for his dark bloodstains and the chains which, Harry realized for the first time were real objects and not part of his ghosthood, drifted to the end of the table to peer at Harry curiously. He wondered if the ghosts had given these first years a scare like they had his own first year.

Harry glanced up at the head table, where the professors were happily watching the approaching students. He only recognized some of them. Hagrid was just sliding in the side door to take his usual seat at the end of the table. There was a whole range of unfamiliar professors on that side of the table. He did see Professor Vector, Hermione’s Arithmancy professor, next to a very old woman with constellations on her robes. He’d not realized Professor Vector was so young. She looked almost his own age, and she had on the robe style used exclusively by assistant professors. Speaking of, there were a startling number of assistant professors at the table. He’d say there were more than twice as many people at the staff table for that reason alone.

A fat professor with a bushy grey moustache sat between Professor Sinistra and McGonagall’s empty seat. Next to it, and in the very centre of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent sea blue robes embroidered with waves and bubbles and fish. The tips of Dumbledore's long, thin fingers were together and he was resting his chin upon them, smiling benevolently down at the students below.

Professor Flitwick was on the other side of the table than he’d usually sit in the future, and more grey than the white he’d been Harry’s first few years. The startling transformation the half-goblin professor had undergone after a long spa vacation the summer before Harry’s third year had been Harry’s first exposure to the odd way wizards aged. Things like stress, inbreeding, and weaker magic would all age a person faster, while strong magic and certain treatments would keep a wizard young-looking for years yet. Of course, the drastic way Professor Flitwick had deaged by decades had been a result of the interaction of his wizard magic and his goblin heritage, but it was still not uncommon for older wizards to look much younger than they would without magic. Harry carefully did not think of a certain soulmate of his.

Harry saw that Professor Sprout was still present, lacking the grey in her hair like Professor McGonagall. He realized, for the first time, they were probably close in age to one another.

Everyone’s attention turned to the front of the Hall as Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song.

It wasn’t anywhere near as doom and gloom as the one in Harry’s fifth year—just a typical sorting song about the four founders and the four houses. Harry listened with enjoyment as the song drew to a close and Professor McGonagall unrolled her long scroll of names.

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.”

The professor shook out her scroll and called out, “Abbot, Bernard!”

A little blonde boy trudged up to the stool, looking terrified. The Hat was placed on his head and barely seemed to deliberate for a moment before calling out, “HUFFELPUFF!”

Bernard Abbott sighed with relief and went off to the Hufflepuff table. Harry could see Amelia and Mafalda both clapping for him from their seats at the table.

Both “Accrington, Maria” and “Bassenthwaite, Reginald” went to Ravenclaw, one after another.

“Belby, Damocles” was on the stool so long he was nearly a Hat-Stall, but it finally announced he was to be a Slytherin and the boy went off as well. Harry scooted down the table some and the first year sat next to him, staring around wide-eyed. But Harry’s attention was back at the line of first-years, because now it was Regulus’ turn.

“Black, Regulus!” was called out, and the slight dark-haired boy went forward in his high-quality school robes.

The Hat deliberated for a long moment, a look of intense concentration on Regulus’ face. Harry wondered what sort of conversation they were having. Finally—

“SLYTHERIN!”

Harry and the two other Black cousins at the Slytherin table clapped for him, loudly. Regulus squeezed in between Damocles Belby and Harry, grinning up at him.

They ignored Professor McGonagall shaking out her parchment as she called out the next name.

“Burbage, Charity!”

“I said I’d be a Slytherin!” he whispered triumphantly in Harry’s ear.

Harry grinned back at him but was unable to answer as Gryffindor made an outrageous racket at gaining their first student of the year.

He replied once the sound had died down some. “I never doubted you,” he said. Then, curiously, “Did you get any options? The Hat said I could have done well in several houses but chose Slytherin as my best fit.”

Regulus wrinkled his nose at Harry. “It thought about putting me in Hufflepuff,” he whispered even quieter, looking disgruntled before brightening. “It said I’m cunning enough to be an excellent Slytherin, though,” he said.

Belby, who had clearly been eavesdropping, tapped Regulus on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. It couldn’t decide between Slytherin and Ravenclaw for me. It’s why I took so long.”

The two boys began whispering and Harry was glad Regulus seemed to have made a friend. He glanced across the Hall and caught Sirius’ eye. The twelve-year-old looked worried, and Harry smiled reassuringly at him. He sent his joy at the evening across their godparent bond and grinned as Sirius relaxed.

It was almost cute, how much of a worrywart young Sirius was. It reminded him of older Sirius insistently coming to the castle despite the danger to himself just because Harry was worried and in danger.

Harry blinked at Professor McGonagall suddenly as she called out yet another name halfway down the list.

“Lockhart, Gilderoy!”

Harry stared at the eleven-year-old boy with his curly blond hair, cherubic reddish cheeks, and bright blue eyes. Lockhart bounced up to the stool excitedly and crammed the Hat on his head. The Hat deliberated for a few minutes. The rip at the brim opened wide—

“RAVENCLAW!” it called out. Harry blinked. He had not been expecting that.

He awaited the ending of the Sorting impatiently now, more hungry than interested. Finally “Vane, Severin” was sent to Gryffindor and Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll. She picked up the Hat and the stool and carried them both away.

Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. “Welcome,” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Now, let the feast begin!” He made a brief gesture and the food appeared on the plates up and down all the tables. Everyone clapped and cheered briefly before immediately beginning to tuck in.

Little Regulus was staring open-mouthed at the dishes in front of them that were now piled with food. Harry thought back to his own first year. He’d never seen so much food on one table before, he recalled. It was still, twenty years earlier, a marvellous spread: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for reasons Harry still did not understand, peppermint humbugs. In another hour or so this food would all be replaced with desserts: puddings and treacle tart and towering mounds of ice cream, candied nuts and fruits, cakes and biscuits and all sorts of sweet things.

As he began to eat, Harry surprised himself with exactly how much food he could put away. Those nutrition potions—which he’d been told he could quit taking in January if he had a growth spurt by then—had clearly been doing their job. That first feast had been wonderful, but Harry’d been sick long into the night from overeating, and every year afterwards he’d always been careful about how much he ate after leaving the Dursleys. Third year, when he’d spent most of the summer at Diagon Alley, had been his best experience, but even then he’d eaten half as much as everyone else at the table, and he’d left with half his meal in his pockets.

Harry had always hoarded food, a legacy of the Dursleys’ habit of never giving him as much food as he liked and frequently using withheld meals as a punishment. He still didn’t really think the Dursleys had starved him, no matter what those healers or the Unspeakables had told him, but he’d always been cautious about food. Even now, after months of getting as much food as he liked, Harry hardly noticed himself setting his crusts to one side on his plate, palming an apple and a dinner roll. Thankfully, Gus had come up with a solution. The Unspeakables had bought him a small wallet enchanted so that only the owner could touch it and had cast space-expansion and food-preservation spells on it so Harry could keep his food in a safe place.

Regulus cast Harry an odd look or two as Harry put his thieved food into the wallet under the table. They’d never had a real meal sitting beside one another, so this was likely the first time he’d noticed Harry’s habit. Harry paid him no mind and continued to pile his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints, eating happily and stowing away odds and ends he couldn’t bear to throw away. It was, as usual, all delicious.

“So,” another boy at the table said as they all ate, “you’re in sixth year?”

He had horn-rimmed glasses like Percy’s covering yellowish eyes and that combined with his wild curls made him look a little bit like a beardless lion.

Harry nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

The boy held out a hand across the table. “I’m Rufus Scrimgeour. We’ll be sharing a dorm, it looks like.”

Harry shook his hand briefly and then passed Regulus the potatoes. “Good to know. Anything important I should be aware of?”

He meant it half-jokingly, but Scrimgeour just chewed his roast contemplatively and then nodded solemnly.

“There’s seventeen boys and sixteen girls in our year—there are two rooms for each. We have one less person in our room than the other room does, which is why it’s likely you’ll be rooming with me. My dormmates are decent enough, I suppose. Lestrange is a closet Ravenclaw, Higgs is a Quidditch nut. The Flint cousins look inbred, but they’re actually quite intelligent—”

“Gee, thanks, Scrimgeour,” a beefy guy that looked a lot like Marcus Flint said sarcastically. Scrimgeour just made a face at him.

“And our other two dorm-mates are Brocklehurst and Warrington, and they pretty much keep to themselves,” he concluded. “The other sixth-year boys’ dorm has Malfoy and all his groupies, so if you’re in the dorm with us just avoid the people you don’t room with and you’ll be fine.”

“Malfoy?” Harry parroted, his heart sinking. Wait. Malfoy was a sixth year? They were in the same year and the same House!? (Harry was not confident in his ability to avoid committing homicide for two school years, if Lucius was as bad as his son would be in the future.)

Scrimgeour made a face. “Yes, he’s awful. He’s at the other end of the table down there, with the fake-looking blond hair.”

Harry snorted in startled amusement.

Flint snickered. “You’re right, it does look fake,” he laughed. He turned to Harry as well.

“I’m sure you know the Malfoy family’s rank. They’re one of those bourgeoise families that likes to pretend they’re wealthier and have higher standing than they actually do. Malfoy’s so spoilt even the other noble families don’t like him. And he’s a prefect, because he constantly sucks up to Professor Slughorn, so we just avoid him now instead of shutting him up with a hex.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Brilliant,” he muttered.

“But hey,” the other Flint said, leaning across his cousin. “You’re the Black Heir! You outrank him! You could shut him up easy by pulling rank!”

“We’re not supposed to acknowledge familial rank at school,” Scrimgeour said disapprovingly, but he also looked over at Harry hopefully.

Harry rolled his eyes again. “I mean, sure, if he tries to start something with me, I’ll shut him down,” he said.

It was then that Regulus piped up. “Heir Malfoy was awful rude when we ran into him shopping this summer. Cousin Harry told him off good and he had to go sit in the corner!”

There was a brief silence at their end of the table and then the boys all erupted in snickers. Regulus just beamed earnestly at Harry as he dropped his face into his hands.

*          *          *

Harry stared up at the emerald canopy to his bed. This dormitory was about the same size as the one he’d lived in whilst in Gryffindor Tower. The beds were similar, if Slytherin themed instead of Gryffindor themed. There were two fireplaces, because they were in the dungeons, and since there was more room underground the bathroom was larger: they had actual baths as well as showers, which was nice. But overall, it was still Hogwarts.

Scrimgeour had been right about where Harry would be placed. Harry was in the room with him and his dormmates, rounding the number out to nine. He’d met the others in their dorm, and they were basically as Scrimgeour had described them. He thought he’d like Higgs the best, even though to his surprise Lestrange seemed nice enough. He was really not much like his older brother. The eight—now nine, with the addition of Harry—teenage boys had gotten ready for bed and dropped off to sleep in that dazed stupor of the very well fed, but Harry remained awake, staring up at the ceiling.

It was so strange being here at Hogwarts in his bed and not being able to hear Ron’s chainsaw snores or Neville’s quiet sleep mumbling about his gardens. Dean and Seamus weren’t whispering long into the night. Even Hedwig was absent, since having the dorm under the lake instead of in a tower meant there were no windows to allow owls to fly in and out.

Harry sat up, unable to fall asleep. He felt anxious, jittery almost, like he needed to get away from everything. He went digging in his trunk and pulled out his Invisibility Cloak, the Marauder’s Map, his real photo album, and the fluffy sleep robe and slippers his grandmother had purchased for him. It was easier than ever to sneak out of the dormitory down here in the dungeons—Slytherin House had no nosy portraits and since everything was made of stone there wasn’t even a chance of creaky stairs.

He ghosted his way out of his dorm and into the castle, searching for some way to settle his overactive brain. Harry wandered for over an hour before finding his feet had taken him to the Owlry. Hedwig barked at him softly from her perch, flying down and landing on his shoulder. She settled down carefully, mindful of her sharp claws.

Harry stood very still and stroked her feathers.

“’lo, Hedwig,” he said softly. She ran her beak through his hair a few times, pulling at tangles, before taking flight and winging over to one of the large stone ledges. Harry sat on it beside her, peering down the tower into darkness. He sighed.

“I miss them, Hedwig,” he whispered.

A voice spoke softly behind him and Harry braced himself on the ledge so he wouldn’t accidently fall in his shock.

“Is that you, Harry?”

Harry turned to see Sirius, looking concerned. Harry realized he’d left the Invisibility Cloak on and so he couldn’t be seen. Harry pulled the hood of the cloak down, jumping lightly back into the tower. Sirius was startled into a laugh.

“I wondered where the Invisibility Cloak had gone,” he said. “James’ grandfather gave it to him last year, and he’s been panicking since March over it going missing. Did you find it somewhere?”

Harry blinked at the twelve-year-old, glancing down at the liquidy material and back up at his miniature godfather.

“James’ version went missing?” he finally asked.

Sirius nodded, walking up and rubbing the edge of the Cloak. “Yeah, and this is the same one, I can tell. It doesn’t look anything like Father’s.”

“It doesn’t?” Harry asked, bemused. “This is Dad’s—I mean, Jamie’s—but I’ve had this since I was eleven. Apparently Dad lent it to Professor Dumbledore to study not long before he died, and so the Headmaster returned it to me my first Christmas at Hogwarts.”

Sirius blinked up at him and then back down at the Cloak. “Huh. Do you think it’s a singularity?”

Harry frowned. “A what?”

The twelve-year-old sat down on the ground and Harry sat with him, curious. Sirius was rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I dunno all the details,” he said. “It’s something Father told me about, when I asked about Unspeakables and time travel after I was told about Morgana’s Clock. Singularities are magical artefacts that can’t exist in two places at once. Like—a Philosopher’s Stone. Or a Phoenix. Or anything to do with Malaclaw venom. The types of magic those have doesn’t allow for more than one version of whatever to exist at once. We already knew Jamie’s cloak wasn’t normal—it’s not made of woven Demiguise fur, for one, and we tested it out last year and normal detection charms don’t work, even if his grandfather says Seeing the Unsighted spells do.”

Harry mulled all this over. “And you think maybe…the Cloak’s a Singularity. So when I brought mine back with me, Jamie’s vanished because mine is the only one that exists now.”

Sirius shrugged. “Maybe. I guess you should write to Mr. Potter and ask. He’d probably know.”

He would do that, Harry thought faintly.

Sirius leaned against him, a small but solid warmth at Harry’s side. “I could feel you were upset,” he whispered.

“I miss my friends,” Harry whispered back.

“Tell me about them?” Sirius asked simply. Harry pulled his photo album out of his robes and opened it to the first page Harry had added photographs to. His eleven-year-old self beamed up at him and waved frantically alongside a red-cheeked Ron, Hermione laughing as her frizzy hair escaped its scrunchie.

“That’s Hermione Granger,” Harry said, pointing. “She’s a muggleborn but she’s crazy smart. She’s been breaking records since we got to school and third year she took all the available elective classes just because she could.”

Sirius sniggered. “She sounds like more of an overachiever than Remus,” he said softly.

Harry laughed quietly. “Well, Professor Lupin did always like her, I think.”

“You always call him that,” Sirius observed. “Was Remus really a professor? Even—I mean—”

Harry smiled as Sirius tripped over his words. “Professor Dumbledore could care less about his furry little problem.” Sirius paused and beamed up at Harry. “And yeah, he was a professor. The best one I had out of five.”

Sirius wrinkled his nose. “Five? Our professor last year died and so we had substitutes, and now we’ve got a new person this year, but—surely you didn’t have a new professor every year?”

“We did,” Harry said. “And it’d been going on for a lot longer than just my five years. Apparently somebody cursed the post around the sixties or early seventies—I mean, a few years ago,” he corrected himself, flushing faintly.

Sirius grinned at him. “It’s so weird when you talk about the decade we’re in right now like it was ages ago.” He pounced on Harry and pointed back at the photo album. “Who’s the redhead? Is he a Prewett or a Bones?”

Harry shook his head. “No, a Weasley.”

Sirius blinked at him. “He could afford to attend Hogwarts?” he asked.

“I am pretty sure that’s where all their money goes,” Harry said dryly. “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are going to have seven kids. They’ve only got two right now. Mr. Weasley ends up working at some little department in the DMLE, and I think Mrs. Weasley sells potions to apothecaries when she’s not taking care of their kids, so they manage somehow.”

Sirius was flabbergasted by that. “Imagine having six siblings,” he whispered.

“I can’t even imagine having one,” Harry admitted. “But the Weasleys were great. They basically adopted me. For some reason you and Mrs. Weasley weren’t too fond of each other, but it wasn’t anything mean, just, you know, you rubbed each other wrong or something. You still helped each other out.”

Sirius hummed at that curiously, as he did whenever Harry revealed anything about his older self.

Harry stared down at the happy photographs of himself and his friends. They’d had no idea what was coming. They’d still been so innocent—even him, though looking now he could see how wan and fragile and shadow-eyed he was in comparison to his two best friends. He wondered what the world would look like for them, without him in the middle dragging them both into danger.

…Harry missed them so much.

Sirius rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder and hugged his arm. “Harry?” he asked gently.

Harry shook his head. “I just…Hermione will still be born. She’s muggleborn. Ron and Ginny will probably still be born. Their two older brothers are already alive. I accidently made friends with their dad at the party in the summer. Neville—I don’t have any idea. His dad’s a Black cousin, but I don’t have any idea who his mum was. What if something in how I change time keeps him from being born? Or Luna?”

“I don’t want things to change that much,” he said, feeling Sirius’ arms cling to his own, “but I don’t want things to stay completely the same. Mum and Dad died when I was a baby. You were framed for their murders and sent to Azkaban right after. I didn’t even meet Professor Lupin until I was thirteen, and he looked awful. He was torn between you and me, because everyone thought you were a murderer, and it was killing him. I don’t want things to end up the same!”

Sirius made a small, pained noise when Harry mentioned his soulmate, but just hugged Harry’s arm tighter.

“It won’t,” he said, such confidence in his voice that Harry could almost imagine the adult Sirius saying the same thing in his deep voice, his confidence giving Harry confidence as well. Then the illusion was broken and it was just tiny twelve-year-old Sirius sitting at his side, staring up at him with determined grey eyes.

“You don’t know that,” Harry whispered. “The person most of it depends on probably won’t change for anything.” He slumped. “Not even me.”

There was a whine in his voice at that, a weary grief and reluctant acceptance.

Harry wanted a soulmate. Sometimes, he even wanted Tom Riddle as his soulmate. But every time the thought crossed his mind, he would recall the vicious monster the man would turn into in the future, and it all just felt so hopeless.

“Even if the big things can’t change, the little things can,” Sirius rebutted, still just as determined, pushing his resolve down their familial bond. “You said I got framed for—for Jamie an-and Evans’ murders. How did that happen?”

“I was just a baby,” Harry whispered. “But I heard other peoples’ stories. You showed up at the house. You were the one who found me. I was the only thing alive in the house, and it had been all blown up. You took care of me, but then Hagrid showed up. Dumbledore had sent him to check on things. You had a flying motorbike you’d enchanted yourself.”

Sirius’s mouth fell open, wide-eyed, but he just stared harder as Harry talked, looking a mixture of sick and entranced.

“You gave it to Hagrid and told him to take me somewhere safe,” Harry continued. He frowned, thoughtful. He didn’t know the exact chain of events from there—not on his own end, at least.

“I think he took me to Hogwarts, first. You went off after the only person who’d been able to give away our location, to find out what happened. You confronted him in the middle of the street. He started shouting about how you’d killed Mum and Dad, about how you’d betrayed everyone. Then he cut off his own finger, blew up a gas main, and disappeared. The Ministry officials found you standing there having hysterics, laughing and raving. You told me once you thought you’d gone insane for a while. You and Professor Lupin had used a potion to dampen your soul bond so you could both fight in the war. Lots of people used it then, because everyone was terrified all the time and the constant feedback loops between soulmates was apparently overwhelming. Adult-you told me he thought that was part of why he just—went crazy. Too much emotional stress and no soulbond to buffer him.”

And then came the truly awful part.

“Barty Crouch senior was running a kangaroo court in the aftermath of the war. He sent his own son to Azkaban with just a show trial. You didn’t even get a trial.”

They were quiet for a long minute after that. “So,” Sirius said quietly, “I definitely shouldn’t use that bond dampening potion ever then. And…” he looked up at Harry with wide, frightened eyes. “You said somebody—gave away your location? That was how Jamie and Evans died?”

Harry nodded slowly. “You thought he was your friend, and I guess he was—when you were all younger. But the war was. It was awful. Everyone was frightened, and he didn’t think the Ministry could win. So he joined the other side. After that, I think he was only your friend so long as he didn’t get anything out of being your enemy.”

“Do—do you know their name?” Sirius breathed.

“I don’t know if I should say,” Harry breathed back. “He’s a kid right now, Sirius, just like you. He’s not a traitor yet.”

Sirius just looked up at him solemnly. “But, Harry,” he argued. “Wouldn’t it just be safer for us to never trust him that much? If we know now that he’s a wishy-washy friend, we won’t ever put him in a position to betray us. Or, I won’t. And Jamie listens to me. We’ll stay friends with him, I’ll just…make sure we don’t trust him completely.”

Harry grimaced. Those were all good points, and Harry almost felt more guilty about not feeling guilty when he said, “It’s Peter Pettigrew.”

Sirius made a small, pained noise and Harry knew why. Pettigrew wasn’t as close as Sirius-and-James the dynamic duo, and he wasn’t anywhere near as close as Sirius-and-Remus, the soulbonded pair. But he was their friend. Their best friend in their dorm outside those two tight-knit duos.

“Why?” Sirius asked in a small voice. “Why would he? He’s not brave, but—we’re such good friends now. I can’t imagine what we’ll be like when we’re all grown up. And James is the one that made friends with him first, that brought him into our group. He was part of our group before I found out Remus was my soulmate. Why would he betray Jamie like that?”

Harry hugged him. “I don’t know,” he murmured into Sirius’ dark hair. “I-I only met him twice. The first time was when I learnt he was the traitor and not you, and the next time he was involved in kidnapping me for a dark ritual to resurrect the person who led the war when I was a baby. I never knew him as anything but an awful person, but Adult-you and Professor Lupin would both get so sad and angry talking about him I know you must have really cared about him.”

“Can I tell Remus about all this stuff you’ve told me, Harry?” Sirius whispered. “I haven’t yet, but he’s cleverer than I am and he’ll know what to do. Can I tell him? Please?”

Harry hesitated, thinking that over. “James might feel left out,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to upset him.”

“We could tell him too? A little bit? You could just say you’re his kid from the future, and tell him you can’t tell him details yet for…reasons, I don’t know. We can figure something out.”

Harry continued to hesitate. “Aunt Euphie wanted to wait until Jamie’s older to tell him. I’ll write home and ask what they all think, okay? Right now, you can tell Remus…you can say who I am to you. Not to Jamie.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “You’re my godson and Heir from the future. And…I can talk about Peter? At least vaguely?”

Harry sighed, resting a hand on his head. “I’m going to trust your judgement, Siri,” he said seriously. Sirius sat up a little bit straighter and nodded firmly.

“I’ll be careful, Harry. Thank you.”

He couldn’t help but blink down at his miniature godfather sounding so grown-up and solemn. Harry pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes.

“Love you, Siri,” he whispered. He couldn’t help but send his affection down their link and Sirius trembled before wrapping his arms around Harry’s narrow shoulders and squeezing in a parody of the bear hugs he’d one day be an expert at giving.

“I think I love you too, Harry,” he said, wonder in his voice.

Harry just hugged him tighter.

Chapter Text

Greetings and salutations, Mister Travers.

I do hope you are settling in well in your first days at Hogwarts. I have heard through the grapevine that you have been sorted into my ancestral House. From a Slytherin alumnus to a current student, congratulations! A friendly tip: the water in the dormitory bathrooms runs most pleasantly warm before dawn and after sundown. In addition, the student baths have privacy wards built into their alcoves, so you don’t have to share if you don’t want to.

I believe you will have many of the teachers that once taught me. Professor Slughorn of Potions, your new Head of House, is most agreeable with application of candied pineapple and open-faced compliments. It’s a wonder old Professor Fancourt is still teaching Astronomy, but I have no doubt she is as no-nonsense and severe as ever. I would not advise fooling around in her class, if you receive the urge.

I admit to not knowing much of the current Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. She’s a good seven or eight years younger than me, you see. She has some history in the DMLE, I know, and she returned to Hogwarts initially to complete a Transfiguration Mastery before she discovered a passion for teaching and remained there. You should count yourself lucky to not have Dumbledore as your professor. He was always most unfair in his attitude towards Slytherin students and I doubt based on your prior writings that you wish to engage in such partisanship. Hopefully his inclinations have not rubbed off on his former apprentice.

If they have, do feel free to write me about the matter. I may not be Lord Black, but I do have some sway in the Ministry and I am a firm believer that teachers should be present to teach, not to take out childhood prejudices on innocent youths. Honestly, I would be delighted to hear of your experiences as a student at Hogwarts in general. It has been quite some time since I was a student there myself, but Hogwarts holds a special place in all its alumni’s hearts. And, as always, if you need advice on any topic I am glad to provide my aid.

Now, back to the topic we were discussing prior to your entrance to Hogwarts’ hallowed halls. I was most intrigued by your ideas concerning more oversight for muggleborn and muggle-raised children. I agree that the current Ministry structure is woefully inadequate. I do pose a question for you, however. How would you define “muggle-raised” and how would that affect your proposal?

I look forward to your reply,

Lord Voldemort

Harry folded the letter up and tucked it into his robes thoughtfully, considering his answer. As always, there was the mingled discomfort and quiet thrill of talking to his attempted murderer-cum-soulmate, but Harry was learning to push that feeling down in favour of challenging everything Voldemort ever said in his letters.

He and Voldemort had somehow fallen into the topic of how magical youths should be cared for when they’d come into argument over muggleborns. Voldemort thought they should all be removed from their parents and forcibly adopted into pureblood and halfblood families as young children. Harry thought that was much too drastic a move, but agreed the current system was less than useless. They had been discussing ideas for over two weeks, now, and Harry’s brow furrowed as he considered what his reply should be.

Orphans, definitely—magical children put in the muggle world for whatever reason. That category would have encompassed both Harry and his soulmate. Half-bloods as well, those who lived in the muggle world, Harry decided with a sudden burst of inspiration. He recalled a few of Seamus’ comments about his home life. His mum hadn’t told his dad about magic—hadn’t even hinted—until after the wedding. Apparently when Seamus was quite young his father hadn’t been too fond of magic used in their house, but as their son had grown up, he’d discovered a wonder of magic even as his child grew into his powers. It was really a best-case scenario. What if Mr. Finnegan had reacted more like Uncle Vernon?

Or what about Hermione, who loved her parents dearly but who had been taken to doctors constantly as a young child, and who had been continually pulling away from them because they had no desire to follow her into the magical world?

If a magical child lived in the muggle world, with fewer than two magical adults in the household, they should count as muggle-raised, Harry decided. Blood status didn’t matter in this instance—only the ratio of magical adults to nonmagical adults in a household.

“Deep thoughts, Cousin?” a voice asked as a hand lightly tapped Harry on the shoulder. He turned and smiled to Narcissa.

“Just considering a reply to a political acquaintance’s letter,” he said smoothly.

Narcissa blinked but smiled faintly. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” she said reassuringly, bumping their shoulders.

Narcissa had taken to saying hello to him each morning, checking up on him. Over the course of the day, she would check on each of her other siblings and cousins in turn. She also kept a constant eye out for younger students that needed help. Narcissa really was an excellent Head Girl.

The two cousins walked into the Great Hall together and Narcissa drifted over to speak with her twin sister. Harry sat down alone, as he had whenever Regulus didn’t insist Harry sit with him.

Harry blinked and looked up in surprise as one of his dormmates sat down next to him.

“Hello, Higgs,” he said in mild curiosity. “Do you need something?”

Higgs grinned at him. “Hey, Travers. Your baby Black cousin’s been bragging on your Quidditch skills. Seeker, right?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yes, even though I’ve been told I also make a decent Beater. I have good aim.”

“Team doesn’t need Beaters,” he said. “Just a Seeker. Even though Vanity’s apparently going to hold a full try-out, so if you want to try for more than Seeker it’s up to you.”

Harry blinked and turned to look at him fully. “Okay, what?” he asked.

Higgs rolled his eyes. “I was on the team for two years, then I was ill last fall and couldn’t attend try-outs, so that brat Rosier took my spot on the team. I’m going to try out again, and when I heard you were a Seeker, I thought I’d suggest we try out together. We can practice against each other and whatnot.”

“What?” Harry asked dryly, “out of the goodness of your heart?”

Higgs snorted. “Hardly. I want my Chaser position back, but if I don’t get it Seeker will do. If I do get my post back, though, I’d rather ensure someone I can tolerate joins the team with me. I hear Malfoy’s trying out for Seeker and I refuse to deal with him outside of necessary class time.”

Harry was startled into a snicker. “Yeah, okay, understandable,” he laughed. “Sure, I’m game,” he agreed. “Why not?” Then Harry paused and frowned. He didn’t have his Firebolt. “I’ll have to write home for a broom,” he realized. “I don’t have one.”

Higgs was startled. “What, at all?”

He said it the same way Oliver Wood would have, like it was inconceivable that a person wouldn’t have their own broom and be into Quidditch. It made Harry crack another grin.

“I had a broom for a while, but I got knocked off playing Quidditch in bad weather and it flew into a full-grown Whomping Willow.”

Higgs whistled. “Rotten luck, that,” he said. “Where’d you see a fully grown Whomping Willow, though? Sprout’s trying to grow a sapling on the grounds right now, and she’s having a devilishly hard time keeping it alive.”

Harry just shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been all over the world,” he said. “I think this was somewhere in Europe, though.”

“Nice,” Higgs said. “Well, you write to your family and ask for a good broom, alright? I’ll skin you if I have to work with Malfoy.”

Harry laughed aloud at the threat before both boys turned to their breakfasts. Harry’s eyes wandered over the sparsely inhabited Head Table—the few professors either engrossed in last-minute paper-grading or conversing quietly over steaming cups of tea or coffee—and his mind drifted back to Voldemort’s most recent letter. His eyes settled on Professor McGonagall, strikingly youthful and chatting companionably with Slughorn, the Head of House who’d spoken to Harry briefly his first morning at Hogwarts but hadn’t called on him since.

He hadn’t known Professor McGonagall was so young. He’d thought she was of a similar age to Hagrid and Voldemort, not nearly a decade younger. And the advice on the other professors was useful. Voldemort had clearly pointed out the most difficult and the most pliable of all the professors. Slughorn was certainly a friendly fellow for a professor, and Harry had already assumed you goof off in Fancourt’s classes at your own peril.

This first week back at Hogwarts had simultaneously been easy but bizarre. The first morning had begun with Professor Slughorn walking up and having a quiet chat with each of the Slytherin sixth and seventh years while the prefects passed out schedules to the younger students. He’d passed over Harry’s schedule with a smile and a conspiratorial whisper.

“We managed to work out your special circumstances, Mister Travers, do tell me if it meets your approval.”

Harry had looked his timetable over with excitement after that comment. When his OWLs had been completed, he’d been satisfied with his grades—all Outstandings and Exceeds Expectations, except in Arithmancy where he’d gotten an Acceptable that was very nearly an EE, and in Ancient Runes where he’d also gotten an Acceptable, but which was essentially almost a Poor.

He’d taken both the Arithmancy and Ancient Runes exams based on “informal study”. His Arithmancy grade was good enough to be accepted into the sixth year Hogwarts class on probation. If he passed the year with higher than a fifty percent in his overall grades, he’d be able to move on to the NEWT class and if not, he’d be required to drop it.

For Ancient Runes, he’d not done quite as well because most of the first two years of the course were memorization, with students beginning to do basic runic magic in fifth year. Harry knew several runic combinations taught to him by the Unspeakables and cursebreakers but had little exposure to the theory and details behind those combinations. He’d expected the poorer grade, there, but his role as a transfer student allowed for a loophole in the process. Based on that score, Hogwarts would have normally required the class be dropped, as they didn’t allow repeats of classes. But Harry had never, even in his falsified transcripts from Chrónia Akadimía, taken Ancient Runes. Since he would be joining it as a new student, he was allowed to take a placement test to determine what level he would be in. Harry had tested into fifth year, and so would be taking class with OWLs students.

He hoped to perhaps get extra tutoring in the subject next summer as well, and he could join his own year group in seventh year.

Aside from Ancient Runes, the other oddity in his schedule was his Defence course. Because he was an official Defensive Magic Apprentice, with his Mastery half-done, he’d technically tested out of his own year level in Defence Against the Dark Arts. He would be taking the seventh year DADA course and would sit the written NEWT at the end of the school year. Then he could go to the Ministry and be cross-examined by the Auror Office and an ICW representative, finishing his Mastery requirements.

Harry had noted with examination of his schedule that he had double DADA twice a week, but he had frowned when he saw a notation next to his Thursday class time.

“Um, Professor? Why does this say I’m both in Defence and Potions for this hour?” Harry pointed to the appropriate spot on the timetable.

Professor Slughorn hummed. “Well, we mostly managed to get your schedule done without conflict, but that one was unavoidable. If there were a larger number of schedule conflicts we’d take more drastic action—”

Which probably meant Harry would have gotten a time-turner, the teen translated in his head.

“—but as there’s only the one you have two options. Either you and I can find one of your free periods and one of mine that match up and we will have a little one-on-one class and you will simply attend Defence instead of Potions on that day, or you can alternate attending both classes.”

Harry’s brow furrowed in thought. “I think I like the first option better,” he said slowly. “It means I won’t be missing any class. I don’t want to inconvenience you, though.”

The portly professor waved a careless hand. “Stuff and nonsense, lad, that’s my job. Now, what say you hang back after your class with me this afternoon, and we will work out the details then?”

Harry nodded promptly. “Alright,” he said in an agreeable tone. The wizard clapped him on the shoulder and beamed. Harry saw what Voldemort meant. This guy was kind of…goofy, wasn’t he?

“Also,” the man had added, slipping a sealed envelope on top of Harry’s timetable. “I have a little social club I run. The first dinner of the year will be in two weeks, if you wish to attend. Please RSVP by the end of the week.”

Harry had blinked down at the invitation. “Oh, okay!” he said in bewilderment. Slughorn had beamed at him again and meandered off to catch Scrimgeour and talk about his timetable. Harry had looked down at his own schedule again.

He had two free periods first thing every Monday, which was nice. Harry also had more free periods than he was used to, though the teen had the unfortunate feeling these would end up being homework or study periods instead of naptimes. He’d dropped Divination, History of Magic, and Care, picking up Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and his schedule seemed an encouraging sign for the coming week.

He’d leapt into his classes eagerly, and marvelled at how everything could feel familiar but brand new at the same time.

The primary Arithmancy professor was an older man called Wakefield who had a joking manner and did his best to make the equations and exercises seem fun despite the dry subject. He began class with a rather dumb maths joke that still made Harry and some of the other boys snicker, and promised a joke for every class that year. Harry was relieved to find he wasn’t too behind the other sixth-year Arithmancy students. He was also glad of a friend in his class—Amelia Bones was also taking Arithmancy, and they immediately partnered up when the professor assigned them to form groups for projects later in the year. Septima Vector showed up a few times as an assistant to Professor Wakefield, but according to Amelia she’d been assigned to teach the third year classes and assist in the fourth year ones, so the sixth years wouldn’t see her as often.

A short woman in a hijab Harry vaguely recognized from his own time was the Ancient Runes Professor. Bathsheba Babbling was nervous and began her introduction by repeating an announcement made at the Welcoming Feast—that the previous Runes professor had retired and Babbling was now the full-fledged instructor instead of merely Assistant Professor. Harry didn’t know any of the fifth year students in the class, and they all looked askance at the sixth year sitting in their midst.

Professor Babbling had explained his presence due to previous informal study, and the pair had spent the beginning of class in group discussion over how Harry’s experience with Ancient Runes compared to the regular class teachings. He hadn’t made any friends by the end of it, but he felt confident he would do well in the class, at least.

Harry had double Potions on Mondays, a familiar feeling, only thankfully this time it was at the end of the day instead of first thing in the morning. He became aware almost immediately as class began that this man was a very different sort of Professor from Snape. Their lesson was in the same classroom that had so long been Snape’s to Harry, but that was the only thing the same.

The class, like all his NEWT classes, was larger than any Hogwarts class Harry had ever been in, due to the larger number of students in this year. Even so, it was smaller than any other class Harry would attend that week other than his seventh year Defense course, with less than two dozen students present.

Harry had smiled in a friendly way to Amelia, who was chatting quietly with Mafalda Hopkirk. Scrimgeour and one of the two Flint cousins were here, along with a pair of female sixth-year Slytherins Harry didn’t really know yet, but neither Malfoy nor any of his posse was present. Harry immediately found his arm claimed by his cousin Atalanta, who smirked at him and told him they would be partners for projects whether Harry liked it or not. Harry just rolled his eyes. The largest number of students present was surprisingly the Gryffindors, who managed to have ten students present, none of whom Harry knew.

Almost immediately after the last students wandered into the corridor outside the classroom, the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. His great walrus moustache was curved above his beaming mouth and he took the time to greet each and every student as they came inside. Harry couldn’t help but note, however, that some got more notice than others. Amelia was greeted enthusiastically while Mafalda was practically ignored. Maybe, Harry thought, the professor was fonder of students he knew were the best brewers.

The dungeon was, most unusually in Harry’s experiences, already full of vapours and odd smells. Harry sniffed interestedly as he and Atalanta passed large, bubbling cauldrons set up to one side of the classroom. The two Slytherin girls grabbed the other two Slytherin boys and claimed a table together, and the ten Gryffindors split into groups of five. Atalanta dragged Harry over to share a table with Amelia and Mafalda, which Harry was fine with. Mafalda turned bright red and tried to hide in her robe collar when she realised she was sitting next to Atalanta.

They found themselves at the table nearest a gold-coloured cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a broomstick handle, and something almost cinnamon-y he thought he might have smelt at the Ministry’s summer soiree. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him, but Harry frowned and began to occlude. He blinked as his mind suddenly cleared.

His three table-mates were all looking very relaxed now, but Harry, now clear-minded, realized that the potion didn’t seem to be imminently harmful, just soporific in effects. It only took a moment to identify after that, as he had stumbled into a room studying emotion and mind controlling potions in the DoM last spring. Harry made a face at the cauldron and inched his chair away from it, elbowing first Atalanta and then Amelia so they would shake off its effects. Mafalda kept glancing between the cauldron and Atalanta, bewildered.

Professor Slughorn, on the whole, taught in a much more relaxed manner than Professor Snape had. There was the usual call to set out their ingredients and scales, but Professor Slughorn also asked them to get out their books, instead of writing the recipe on the board and insisting they decipher his handwriting. The book for this year was Advanced Potion-Making. Old Henry had made a face at the textbook’s title on Harry’s supply list.

“Borage, the author, is a contemporary of mine,” he’d said. “He’s a decent enough potions brewer, and he’s got his Mastery, but—he tends to leave out instructions in his publications, and in his brewing he cuts corners to ensure faster brewing times, which doesn’t give as perfect results. I’d take his instructions with a grain of salt and a dose of common-sense.”

Opening up the book to page ten and skimming down the instructions for the Draught of Living Death, Harry realized what Old Henry had meant. Harry was only just now coming to understand how much he’d learnt brewing over the summer with Henry and Fleamont. The corrections that would need to be made to this recipe to produce optimal results seemed obvious. He’d have to crush the beans instead of cutting them here, and then he needed to add at least one clockwise stir every…three counter clockwise stirs? Harry glanced at the next set of instructions and adjusted the math in his head. No, every seven. He could also do another stir in a figure eight pattern every second round of seven-plus-one to keep the potion brewing at the speed Borage seemed to want it to brew at.

Harry’s attention was drawn away from the textbook and his mental reworking of the recipe when Professor Slughorn finally drew attention to the cauldrons set up along the side of the classroom.

"Now then," the potions master had said, inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off as he spoke, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your NEWTs. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?"

He had indicated the cauldron farthest from Harry’s table, next to one of the groups of five Gryffindors. Harry raised himself slightly in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.

Harry was utterly unsurprised when Atalanta’s hand hit the air before anyone else’s in an unknowing mimicry of Hermione’s well-practiced hand raising. Slughorn smiled indulgently and pointed to her.

"It's Veritaserum,” his cousin recited, “a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth.”

“Excellent as always, Miss Travers,” Slughorn said happily. "Now," he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table, "this one here is pretty well known... Those of you aspiring to be Aurors should have at least heard of it. Who can—?"

This time Harry managed to beat his cousin’s speed, punching the air. She lowered her own hand with a grin at him as Harry opened his mouth to speak.

“That’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” he had said.

Harry had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike substance in the second cauldron with ease. It was hard to forget a potion after helping to brew it illegally as a twelve-year-old.

“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn, looking delighted. “I suppose you recognized it from your experiences with cursebreaker missions?”

Harry just smiled in a shy way, neither confirming nor denying. Slughorn took it as agreement anyhow and moved on to the next cauldron.

“Now, who can identify this one here...” But nobody answered at first, all looking back and forth between one another. Harry finally raised his hand slowly. He recognized it from the Department of Mysteries, but he’d not wanted to answer two questions in a row. Slughorn just smiled at him genially again. “Yes, Mister Travers?”

“It’s Amortentia, Professor,” he said quietly. Harry thought it was a disgusting sort of potion, and was relieved when the Unspeakables who’d been brewing it told Harry it was actually a restricted substance and illegal to use under most circumstances.

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask," said Slughorn, who was beginning to look impressed, "but I assume you know what it does?"

"It forces someone to feel infatuated with another person," Harry said with a scowl. “Depending on the dosage and how well it’s brewed, the effects can range from minor attraction and silly behaviour all the way to endangering oneself to impress the person the potion is attuned to or even bending entirely to that person’s will.”

Slughorn’s smile slipped away, clearly recognizing the disgust in Harry’s tone. “Quite right, lad. I suppose you recognized it by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”

“And because everyone breathing it in starts acting like they’ve taken a Draught of Peace,” Harry pointed out. “The smell’s distinctive as well, since it’s supposed to smell differently according to what attracts each person who comes near it.”

“Very true, Mister Travers. Take fifteen well-earned points for Slytherin. And five points for Ravenclaw for you, Miss Travers. Yes, Amortentia is quite a dangerous potion, as you said, Mister Travers. It does not create real love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes," he said, nodding gravely at a pair of Gryffindors who were smirking sceptically. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love…”

Slughorn trailed off ominously for a moment, and then the professor had clapped his hands together. "And now," he said, "it is time for us to start work."

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," said Rufus Scrimgeour, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the colour of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.

"Oho," said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. In his own way, he was really as dramatic as Professor Snape. He was just less of a sensitive bully, so it was amusing rather than obnoxious. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he turned, smiling, to look at Harry and Atalanta, who had exchanged wide-eyed glances as Atalanta let out an audible gasp, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, you two?"

"It's liquid luck," said Atalanta excitedly. "It makes you lucky!"

Harry had actually gotten to use a little before. He’d been given very small doses when he was studying certain subjects with the cursebreakers and Unspeakables. Anything you learnt under the influence of it would be retained with improved skill even after the potion wore off, so they had used it along with the time turners to hasten Harry’s learning back when they’d still been helping him build the identity of Henry Travers.

The sensation wasn’t really one he appreciated—it made you giddy and overconfident—but the effects were definitely a good thing.

All around, the whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Even the previously slouching Gryffindors were at last giving Slughorn their full and undivided attention.

"Quite right,” Slughorn chuckled, “take another ten points for Ravenclaw. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis. Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed…at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" said a Gryffindor whose face looked almost exactly like Professor McGonagall’s, eagerly.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," Slughorn replied. "Too much of a good thing, you know…highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally…"

"Have you ever taken it, Professor?" asked one of the Slytherin girls with great interest.

"Twice in my life," said Slughorn. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days."

He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good. Dramatic, but effective.

"And that," said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson." The silence was so profound that every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold. Professor Slughorn had warned the class that the potion was banned in organized competitions or such events and then set them loose to brew Draught of Living Death.

Of course, from there all the class had been absolutely determined to win the tiny vial as their prize. It was only enough for twelve hours’ luck, but Harry had been given only enough for two or three hours at a time and he knew the potency of the potion’s effects. It was definitely a prize worth winning.

There had been a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody had spoken. The concentration within the room had been almost tangible. Students were riffling feverishly through their copies of Advanced Potion-Making and triple-checking their ingredients. Harry had pulled out a quill and notated the corrections he wanted to make on a piece of parchment.

He noted to his annoyance that even the ingredients list wasn’t quite correct. Borage had substituted faster acting ingredients for ones that would produce better effects. Harry knew this was a textbook, meant for classroom brewing, but how were they supposed to learn to brew well if the instructions were intended for hasty brewing and not instructing properly? To make matters worse, his description of the potion on the next page clearly described ideal brewing stages, not the stages as they would occur in this hastened and less perfect recipe. Generations of students were probably confused by that.

Harry fetched the ingredients he didn’t have from his kit in the store cupboard as the others were beginning their brewing. Scrimgeour was cutting up his valerian roots as fast as he could, a look of intense concentration on his face.

Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole classroom was full of bluish steam. Naturally, Atalanta seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the "smooth, black currant-coloured liquid" mentioned as the ideal halfway stage. Harry repeated Henry’s mantra to himself as he chopped his valerian roots long minutes after everyone else. It doesn’t matter if your brewing looks different so long as it turns out well.

It was insanely difficult to cut sopophorous beans, Harry already knew. They bounced all over the place when you tried, and the skins were resistant to cutting. Harry had broken a window with one once, brewing in the attic of the Potter Manse. Uncle Flea recommended either using a pestle and mortar or at least finding some way to crush the beans instead of struggling with the innate enchantment that made the plant resistant to cutting. Accordingly, he pulled out his silver dagger (silver also had magic-dampening properties, which should help make the crushing easier) and crushed the bean under the flat of the blade.

He smiled, pleased, when it immediately exuded a mass of juice. Harry scooped the whole mess into the cauldron with a cooking spell Mrs Weasley had taught him once; glad Slughorn honestly seemed to like him. Even if Malfoy had been using a wand right next to him, Snape still would have barked for Harry to put his wand away.

Harry was even more pleased when his deep purple potion turned the exact shade of lilac described by the textbook. Bloody Borage.

Next was the stirring. Seven counterclockwise, one clockwise, repeat, and then one figure eight stir before starting the cycle all over again until the potion turned as clear as water. He counted out carefully, holding his breath and hoping his calculations were correct. Despite being told all summer that Harry was just as good at potions as any Potter had ever been, he still had Snape’s disdainful jeers echoing in his head, and was nervous about going off-recipe.

After the seventh counter clockwise stir Harry held his breath as he stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink. His breath released in a whoosh and he smiled shakily. Seven more, another clockwise, then a figure-eight. The potion was turning translucent now.

Harry almost lost count when he felt a poke on his shoulder, but managed to keep his stirs up as he glanced over to Atalanta.

“How did you do that?” she demanded, her tanned face red and her hair curling horribly from the cauldron fumes just as his was. Her own potion, Harry noted at a glance, was still resolutely purple. She must not have gotten enough bean juice from cutting them.

“Add a clockwise stir every seventh and then a figure eight every sixteenth,” Harry said as he did his second figure eight. His potion was turning clear with rapidity now.

“Thanks!” she whispered. Both Amelia and Mafalda immediately changed their own stirring as well. Just behind Harry, Flint was cursing in what sounded like three languages under his breath. Harry had no idea what his potion looked like, but it smelled like it was burning.

As Harry’s own potion grew clear enough to see the bottom of the cauldron he pulled out the stirring stick and glanced around the classroom. As far as he could see, no one else's potion had turned as clear as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon. Was this what it was like, he wondered, to be good at potions?

 When Slughorn had called time’s up, the portly professor had waddled slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He didn’t comment as he walked, only occasionally giving the potions a stir or a sniff or, on rare occasion, a rueful smile at a complete failure. The few potions that were middling lilac shades or paler received approving nods.

Then Slughorn saw Harry’s, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.

“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. "Excellent, excellent, Mister Travers! Good lord, I don’t believe Hector Dagworth-Granger could have done as well on his first try.” He peered over his round cheeks and bushy moustache at Harry. “Are you sure you haven’t done this potion before, lad?”

Harry flushed. “No, sir. My Uncle Fleamont and his father let me brew with them over the summer, that’s all. It was always fun, and I learnt a lot.”

Slughorn boomed out a laugh. “I should have known!” he said cheerfully. “Fleamont’s boy doesn’t have the flair he does, but even he’s got excellent brewing instincts. A summer under Potter tutelage would do any student of potions a world of good!”

Harry had accepted the tiny bottle of golden liquid and slipped it into his inner pocket, embarrassed but delighted at the praise being heaped on him. The class had ended with a discussion of everyone’s faults, and to Harry’s surprise they had even gone into the problems with the textbook recipe. Apparently part of NEWT potions was learning to brew without a recipe, or with incomplete instructions. This had been the first taste of that.

The three girls who had been at his table had all chattered excitedly over Harry’s accomplishment, Amelia jokingly insisting he had to be their study group leader for all potions assignments. It had felt…nice, being the best at something. Hermione was his best friend, but with her around you were never the best at schoolwork. Oh, Harry might outdo her in a spell or two, but in studying and classwork she was always the best.

The girls had been confused when Harry hadn’t left the classroom with them, but he’d shooed the trio away and gone back to discuss his schedule with Professor Slughorn. They eventually decided they would meet on Thursdays before lunch, when the other sixth years had their Defence course and Professor Slughorn didn’t have any classes to teach. He would go over the class Harry would miss with him, Harry would turn in homework and do any assigned brewing, and then they would both go to lunch.

That matter settled, Harry went to grab a bite of dinner before heading to the library to work on his first day’s homework assignments. The next two days had been business as usual, Harry found, with familiar faces leading his classes. Flitwick was a good deal less grey, and thus more energetic, but his classes were both routine and easy to get through. Professors Sprout and McGonagall were quite young still, but already taught the same way they would still be teaching in twenty years.

Astronomy, despite having a different teacher, was also taught quite similarly to how it would be in the future. Professor Fancourt was likely of similar age to or older than Professor Dumbledore, a wispy-haired elderly witch with wide dark eyes that always seemed to be drinking in the world. Despite her rather absent-minded appearance, she was a strict, clever instructor and Harry had a sneaking suspicion Professor Sinistra simply used this woman’s lesson plans instead of having ever created her own. Astronomy classes were at night again for the first time in two years for Harry, which was both nice—night classes were always more hands-on than daytime ones—and kind of annoying because having to stay up late to watch the stars in a cold tower would not exactly be fun come wintertime.

The previous day had been Harry’s first time attending the seventh year Defence class. The professor was new this year (not an unusual thing to Harry, but he gathered it wasn’t the norm quite yet to the other Hogwarts students) and he was an older, haggard looking man who was surprisingly spry despite his appearance. The old fellow had a rather lackadaisical approach to teaching, as he insisted that as seventh years his class would be able to do most of their own research. This class had a lot of long research-intensive essays, but on the flipside the professor let the class go early because he got through his lecture so quickly. The old wizard had also hinted they would have duelling later in the term, which Harry was definitely excited for.

Today Harry had repeats of classes he’d had earlier in the week—Herbology, Charms, Double Transfiguration, and Potions to end the day once again. He only had the one free period, which he figured he’d use to take care of his morning homework. If he wanted the time to write for a broom for tomorrow, however, Harry figured he should write that immediately.

He pulled out a sheet of parchment and a quill.

Dear Aunt Euphie, his letter began. I was wondering if you could send me that old Silver Arrow in the broom cupboard for Quidditch try-outs. And maybe a broomstick kit. It’s kind of old and needs some polishing if I’m going to fly on it regularly. Don’t worry about my blood protection. I’ll warn Madame Hooch, and if it acts up I’m sure we’ll find some way to keep it from interfering with the game…

Chapter Text

Harry was almost vibrating out of his skin with excitement. Aunt Euphie had sent him a brand new broom instead of the old family Silver Arrow. James and Sirius lurking at breakfast had made him curious, but he’d just assumed they were waiting to see if Aunt Euphie sent the broomstick on time, as both had clearly heard that Harry was planning to attend Slytherin tryouts. He had been surprised, however, at the package when it arrived, wrapped in nice packing paper instead of old paper and tied with a fancy green ribbon. There was a shiny silver tag with his name on it, and the inscription Happy Early Birthday, Henry.

The teenager had blinked down at his broom and then up at his two tiny “cousins”. James was bouncing up and down. “Open it, open it, open it!” he had shrieked out, and Harry had obliged, still bewildered.

He’d stared down open-mouthed at the brand-new beautiful broomstick. The metal spell engravings and the footholds were all in silver, with the main broomstick made of walnut wood and the bristles of chestnut and blackthorn contrasting well with the silver additions. Harry’s name—his new name, Henry Travers—was carved into the head of the handle. It was as sleek and elegant as the Nimbus 2001 would be in twenty years.

James had beamed and kept bouncing. “Ooh! They picked out the one I recommended!”

Harry had blinked at him. “Um. What?”

“Mum and Dad let me help pick out your birthday present before we left for school!” James exclaimed. “Since your birthday is before Christmas, they were going to give it to you then and mail you something small, but I guess they decided to buy the broom early since you want to join the Quidditch team.”

“Damn,” Higgs drawled. “I forget how much money the Potters have sometimes. That’s an Air Wind Silver, Travers. It’s the best Seeker broom on the market right now. Current analysts say it’ll take Nimbus a good decade to top this broom—it’s worlds above Air Wave’s usual stock, and there was only a limited release of them last year and over this past summer as a twenty-fifth anniversary release for their company.”

The other Slytherins at the table had been listening in just as nosily as the Gryffindor table always had, and Higgs had sniggered and called down to Lucius Malfoy, who was pretending not to listen despite the growing indignation on his face.

“Tough luck, Malfoy. What broom do you have again? Nimbus 1001? Plenty good for a Chaser, or as a racing broom. Not so good against an Air Wave when you’re trying to catch a Snitch.”

Malfoy sniffed and shot back, “Air Wave Silver is a professional model. I’ll have fun laughing as you turn yourself into a smear on the castle walls because you can’t control your broomstick.”

It was so like something his son had once said regarding Harry’s Firebolt that Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Care to wager over that, Malfoy?” he asked in amusement.

Malfoy sat up, his eyes sharp. “What sort of wager?” the other boy wondered. That was the only downside—Lucius was cleverer than his son would be in years to come.

“If I can’t control my broomstick I’ll forfeit my chance to try out for the team and I’ll lend you my broom for all the school games. If I win the Seeker position, I get one unspecified favour to be collected before we both graduate Hogwarts.”

Malfoy looked smug. He clearly didn’t believe Harry would be able to control his broom. “Done,” he said, standing up and walking over to Harry. The two teens shook on it. Malfoy didn’t stop looking smug until James and Sirius erupted into a fit of giggles and whispers, clearly recalling how Harry had flown the Potter Silver Arrow over the summer. Even Narcissa was hiding an amused smile behind her hand—which her betrothed clearly noticed.

Malfoy’s overconfidence faded a little but he didn’t allow doubts to show on his face, instead stalking off to the pitch.

Harry had followed more sedately, his broom on his shoulder. He was grinning and couldn’t help it as Higgs clapped him laughingly on the shoulder and followed him down to the pitch.

The captain was a tiny fourth-year girl named Emma Vanity, because none of the older members of the team had wanted the position. Despite, or perhaps because of, her youth, the dark-haired girl was no-nonsense and as strict as Angelina had been as a captain.

“Everybody shut your mouths!” the girl barked out with astonishing volume for someone who barely came up to Harry’s chest. “Seekers, you’ll stand here. Chasers, over there, Beaters, by the stands, Keepers, back this way.” She gestured as she snapped out orders and everyone sorted themselves out.

Funnily enough, the group of younger students—burly boys and lankier students of both genders—who were in the Beater group alongside Narcissa and Andromeda took one look at the brightly smiling twin Blacks and vacated the group with alacrity, leaving only the two girls to compete for their posts.

Vanity sighed with exasperation from where she was flying Chaser formations in groups of two with various students from that group. “You two are still going to compete for the post!” she bellowed down at them.

“We wouldn’t expect anything less,” Andy laughingly called back.

Rabastan Lestrange and Higgs became the two chasers—Lestrange was a return to the team from the previous year, from what Harry had heard. The third year Evan Rosier was miffed, but Vanity promised him he’d be the immediate reserve so long as he showed up to practices. Harry also learnt by watching Rosier scoff and scowl at Vanity that the third year apparently did not appreciate Vanity being picked as captain over him. Harry thought that was rather silly. She was a year older and had been on the team a year longer. Of course she was chosen when all the older fliers refused the post.

Higgs, meanwhile, was smug over the restoration to his old position, and continually shot the younger Rosier superior looks, which only infuriated the younger boy more. Finally, Rosier stormed off the pitch. Everyone stopped to watch him go and then began to whisper and giggle over the drama until Vanity dragged everyone’s attention back to tryouts with a well-placed bellow.

As promised, Vanity put the Black sisters through their paces. Cissy and Andy took it in good humour and laughingly showed off their teamwork for the entire pitch. They were really good, Harry thought admiringly. It was a wonder neither had gone on to play professionally, but maybe they were like the Weasley twins and their teamwork was partly because they were twins who knew each other inside and out.

The Keeper try outs took a bit longer than the previous ones had. To start with, there were close to fifteen people who wanted to try out for the post. The girl Harry had met at the Ministry Soiree, Rhian Lament, had been the second-string player last year, Harry learnt from Cissy, who’d waited to watch the Seeker tryouts with her sister, first-year Regulus, and a James and Sirius who clearly thought they were sneaky in borrowed Slytherin robes.

The actual Keeper had been a year above them and so had only just graduated. Rhian was a shoo-in for the position, but Vanity was determined to be fair. And it was a surprisingly difficult choice. She quickly narrowed it down to four individuals, but the four Slytherins were very closely tied in talent.

Vanity ran drill after drill, finally narrowing it down to Rhian Lament and a scrawny second year that had still managed to save every goal set to him. After two more drills in which the pair tied, the second year laughingly bowed out.

“I’ll accept defeat if you let me be second string and if I get dibs on the post when Lament graduates,” he said.

Vanity rolled her eyes. “Sure, whatever. If somebody puts Lament out of commission you’ll be our Keeper for the game.” She turned suddenly piercing eyes on him. “But if she’s damaged before a match, Fawley, you’ll be banned from playing for the rest of the year. No sabotage so you can play, you hear? I’m sure she’ll be knocked unconscious at least once.”

“Gee, thanks,” Rhian said dryly as Narcissa squealed in her ear over getting to be on the team together properly this year.

“And now Seekers!” Vanity bellowed, and the much smaller group stepped forward. Like with the Beaters, the others seemed intimidated by the two competing sixth year students. Unlike with the Beaters, there were still four others determined to try out—a fifth year named Richard Burke, a nervous looking second year Harry recognized as the Slytherin boy who’d been hanging around Lily Evans, and two fourth years who seemed to be friends. They were giggly and didn’t seem to be taking it seriously at all. Burke kept throwing the pair ugly glares, but Malfoy seemed determined to ignore them.

Vanity had to bark orders at the fourth years three times to get them to stand at attention, and then she revealed her strategy for choosing a new Seeker. “I’ve got six Snitches in this bag here. Madame Hooch gave me the bag and the recall spell for them. Each of you is going to fly up there two at a time and see how many of these you can catch. The one who can catch the most will get the post. You are allowed to sabotage your opponent, obviously, but only in ways that would be allowed in an actual Quidditch game. That means no cursing your opponent, Burke. I’ve heard about you. Treat it like a real Seeker competition. Once we’ve got three of you left we’ll do a free-for-all, with the same rules applying.”

She then paired them off—by age, presumably to be fair. The second year—Harry’s neck whipped around when he heard the kid’s name was Severus Snape, what the actual fuck—was paired with the male giggly fourth year, with Burke paired with the female one. Burke looked furiously disgruntled. And, naturally, Harry and Malfoy had been paired together from the start. Malfoy sniffed superiorly and Harry had to conceal a grin. It was obvious Malfoy still didn’t believe Harry would even be able to fly his broom.

“I’ll bring you to the hospital wing when you break something,” Lucius said in a mock-friendly tone as twelve-year-old Snape thoroughly trounced the fourth year in the air. He actually wasn’t a half-bad flier, though Harry could tell just by watching him fly he’d be a better Keeper or Beater than a Seeker. It was a wonder he hadn’t tried out for Chaser, as well. Harry knew James and Sirius had made Chaser and Beater respectively on their own team, and didn’t they have some massive pranking rivalry with Snape according to the things Sirius had told him?

Well, maybe Snape thought he’d have a better chance at Seeker. Poor kid. He certainly wasn’t getting the post this year, unless Vanity had a soft spot for him (which didn’t seem likely).

Harry smirked over at the blond as Vanity recalled all the Snitches that hadn’t been caught. “Thanks, Malfoy,” he said in a sincere tone that seemed to throw Lucius off. His smirk turned wicked. “Unfortunately, Vanity said no spell-casting against one another, so I can’t attach an arm to the end of your broom to catch the Snitch for you.”

Just like his son, Lucius was instantly outraged, unable to take what he dished out. Harry just shared a smirk with his relatives all huddled at the corner of the pitch. Amusingly, Regulus gave Harry a thumbs’ up of encouragement.

Burke handily destroyed the other fourth year, who hardly seemed bothered, dropping down to giggle some more with her friend in the stands. Snape took one look at the triumphant Burke and the two sixth years that had yet to compete and meekly dropped out of the competition for the post. He wandered over to the stands to sit with a cloaked figure, away from the small crowd of Blacks watching Harry eagerly. Harry had to bury a smile as he noticed a curly lock of red hair escaping the cloak.

That was cute. Harry had no idea how or why his mum and Snape were friends, but her supporting him like this was adorable and really sweet. He wondered if they’d had some bad friendship break-up like he and Ron almost had, and that was part of why future Snape had hated him so much.

Food for thought, at least.

Then it was Harry and Malfoy’s turn to compete. Vanity released the Snitches and Malfoy almost carelessly flung his leg over his broomstick and slid into the air with a smirk. “Come on, Travers, don’t go chicken on me now,” he called down laughingly. “I want to watch them scrape you off the castle walls.” Malfoy wasn’t even trying to get any of the snitches, yet, too interested in seeing Harry injure himself.

His loss, Harry thought with a smothered grin. Harry could see three right now in the air, and was fairly certain he could nab them all in a row if he flew fast. Harry let go of his broom and it hovered in the air beside him like his Firebolt once had. There were a few whispers—probably both at his expensive broom and at how it hovered for him. That sort of feature wouldn’t work if you weren’t well-attuned to flight magic.

Harry flung a leg over and was gone in a flash. Malfoy barely had time to blink before he was spinning from the force with which Harry had zoomed past him. The blond managed to right himself with a snarl on his face, his hair in disarray, but Harry wasn’t paying attention as Malfoy finally began looking.

He’d just snagged two snitches in one go and lightly plucked a third out of the air as he completed his upwards spiral, coming around and swooping lightly across the pitch. As he’d caught each practice Snitch it had folded its wings away and curled back up into a ball. Harry tucked the three golden balls into his robe pocket as he scanned the pitch for another one.

Malfoy, below, was chasing one. Harry smirked and gave chase as well.

This broom wasn’t as fast as his Firebolt, and the brakes weren’t as feather-light precise, but it was a much safer broom than the Silver Arrow while being just a touch faster, so Harry thought it was a good enough broom. Especially for school games. He was coming up behind Malfoy, who was beginning to throw glances back at him with regularity and alarm as Harry’s broom inched forward.

Malfoy had a smug look when his hand closed around the Snitch mere moments before Harry’s hand had come up to grasp at empty space, so Harry decided to knock that cocky smirk off. He swivelled his head around and plunged into a steep dive as though he was chasing a Snitch.

The observers in the stands cheered or groaned as Malfoy ploughed into the ground a second later and Harry circled back above. Harry whipped around and chased a Snitch around a goal post, around and around until he managed to snag it by the wings. The practice Snitch obediently shuddered and folded back up so Harry could pocket it.

Vanity called up to him. “Hey, Travers!” Harry flew back down, but didn’t dismount his broomstick.

“Yes?” he asked politely.

“How many have you got right now?” she asked.

“Four, but I can see the last one flying over there,” Harry pointed over to a spot in the stands. It took long minutes of squinting and staring for the others to spot it and begin nodding.

Vanity nodded once herself and turned to Burke. “Well?” she asked impatiently. Burke put his hands up.

“Alright, alright, I know when I’ve been beat. I only caught three myself, and I had no idea that one was there until you mentioned it. I forfeit, but I want to be second string.”

Vanity smirked. “Fair enough,” she said. “You mind taking Malfoy to the hospital wing? My morbilicorpus needs some work.”

Burke nodded agreeably and stuck out a hand for Harry to shake as he finally came down to the ground. “You’re a brilliant flier, Travers,” Burke said sincerely. “I can stand being second to you, if it means we’ll win the Quidditch Cup for the next two years.”

Harry laughed. “Bit premature, isn’t it?”

Burke rolled his eyes as they shook hands. “Not with how you fly. Now, I’d better get Malfoy out of here before he wakes up or he’ll start tantruming.”

Harry snickered in surprise and Burke just smirked. Burke wasn’t that bad, Harry decided. And he was actually closer to Harry’s real age than the other kids in sixth year. Maybe they could be friends.

Vanity grinned as Harry handed four Snitches back to her and the recall spell pulled the last two out of the air and Malfoy’s hand respectively. “Good flying, Travers,” she said. “I’d wager you’ve played Quidditch before.”

Harry nodded. “Gringotts wizard employees have their own Quidditch competitions, you know,” he said.

Vanity blinked. “I didn’t, actually.” She looked intrigued despite herself. “You really lived as a ward of the bank for years?”

Harry shrugged. “More or less.”

Vanity shook off her curiosity like a dog shaking off water. “Well, it’s none of my business, anyway. First practice is next Thursday at seven in the evening. You only have to show up for that one and let me see your drills. After that, if you want to skip you can so long as I see you signed up for pitch time at least twice a week to practice.” She punched him in the arm. “Good flying, Travers,” she said before walking away.

Harry took only two steps and was immediately surrounded by Blacks, a still disguised Sirius and James in tow.

“That was so amazing,” James gushed.

Andromeda was crying she was laughing so hard. “Malfoy’s face, and he just got hammered afterward, oh dear Merlin!”

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Regulus demanded, bouncing up and down.

Harry felt a hand curl into his and looked down at Sirius with a grin. “You really are a brilliant flier,” his miniature godfather said admiringly. Remus Lupin, bundled up in a Slytherin robe, elbowed his soulmate in the ribs.

“You lot are going to lose,” he said laughingly. Sirius scowled and shoved him.

“Oh, can it, you! You don’t even play Quidditch!”

Remus continued to snicker and Harry smiled down at them both. “Well, I certainly won’t go easy on you both, but when Gryffindor plays other teams I’ll be cheering for you and Jamie.”

Sirius beamed up at him.

The Blacks were all dispersing now as they were heading back to the castle. Harry could see Snape and the still-hooded redhaired figure walking ahead of them, heads together quietly. Sirius noticed Harry looking and grabbed James and Remus by the arms, beginning to chat loudly about what they’d seen of the Slytherin team and how were they ever going to fight them on even footing. The three second years blocked the Black twins from moving forward as well. Harry smiled quietly and sped up his own walk.

He came even to Snape and his friend and smiled down into green eyes identical to his own.

“Don’t feel bad,” Harry told the young Snape. “You flew pretty well, but I’ve been told several times I could go professional already.”

Snape nodded glumly. “That’s why I dropped out,” he said. It was a squeaky child’s voice like all the others’, so Harry didn’t know why it startled him so much to not hear the deep, sarcastic cruelty coming out of that little mouth.

“You flew more like a Keeper or a Beater than a Seeker, anyway,” Harry mused. “Hey, you should try out for Beater when Cissy and Andy graduate. They’ll be gone next year, so you’ve still got a chance.”

The boy blushed brick red. His embarrassed flush was different than the angry flush Harry was familiar with, the colour taking over his entire face instead of remaining as two slashes of red rage on pale cheeks. “Y-you think so? I-I’m really not Quidditch crazy, I just tried out because, um—”

Because Harry’s dad and godfather had tried out. Like Draco Malfoy had done with Harry in their second year.

He kept the friendly smile on his face. “Well, think about it. We could use a good Beater next year.” He then turned his attention to Lily. “And good for you, supporting your friend. Maybe do what Jamie and his friends did next time, though. The cloak is kind of obvious.”

Lily stared up at him open-mouthed and then looked between him and the three Gryffindors in Slytherin robes. “Oh, right,” she said. She twisted her hair between her fingers. “You don’t think I was spying?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know Jamie and his friends were spying. But they were also there to see me trounce that ponce Malfoy, so it was all in good fun you know. You were there to support your friend, it was obvious.”

Lily beamed up at him and Harry beamed back at her. Neither noticed Snape looking between them in bewilderment, black eyes flickering in confusion.

*          *          *

Good afternoon, Lord Riddle.

I want to thank you for the advice you provided me on teachers. I see what you mean about Professor Slughorn—he’s certainly an interesting character. Honestly, I really enjoyed his class. The cursebreaker team that raised me had a very talented potioneer on their roster, but he was an awful teacher and I only started to realise how badly he’d coloured my view of potions over the summer, living with the Potters. They seemed to brew almost constantly, and the idea of someone not enjoying potions was nearly foreign to them. I was surprised at how easy the brewing came to me in class, after months of tutelage with Henry and Fleamont Potter. It was…a really nice experience.

Also, just wanted to brag, I managed to win the Slytherin Seeker Position and put that tosser Malfoy in the hospital wing in one move. He was only there for a little while (in addition to knocking himself unconscious, he also broke his nose, ha!) but now he’s steaming mad. I will be thoroughly entertained to see what he tries. It’s like he doesn’t realize I won. Egotistical moron.

Back to our other topic, I thought over your questions and I think I have a solution. “Muggle-raised” should have nothing to do with blood status. Instead, it should be dictated by how many magical adults are in the child’s household, and the location the child lives. Fewer than two magical adults living in a muggle region should have a child count as muggle-raised, for sure.

The reason I’m so adamant that blood status shouldn’t matter, is because in times of conflict any number of children might end up scattered in the oddest of places. I knew a friend through Chrónia Akadimía who was a halfblood—pureblood father and muggleborn mother—who, upon the death of his family, had been placed with his closest living blood relatives instead of his closest living magical relatives, and so was sent to live with his maternal muggle family. His muggle family was jealous of his magic and most certainly hated it, and so they never told him anything. When he got his school letters, he thought he was muggleborn. It was only luck that had him transferring to Chrónia Akadimía and getting a proper education.

I think families living in muggle areas should be monitored, but the current system is wildly unfair. The current government assumes if a child is known to have magical parents that the child needs no proper introduction, and can be treated like a pureblood. My friend was only lucky he was advised to take a test at Gringotts to determine if he had any chance of inheritance of older vaults. The government should take into account the number of magical adults in the household and shouldn’t rely on muggles who only have hearsay with which to explain the magical world to such children.

Honestly, I kind of wish the Ministry had an orphanage or foster system. That would solve a lot of these problems—children wouldn’t be sent to live in the muggle world at all, and we could take elements of your thoughts on muggleborns. For instance, you mentioned most muggleborn children are discovered before they are six months old and are recorded by the local ministry for later introduction. Have trained officials monitor the situation. When the child begins having blatant accidental magic that official could introduce the magical world to the child and their parents. Those whose parents begin to react negatively could be removed from the household, put in the Ministry system (which does not currently exist), and the parents would be obliviated of knowledge of their child.

Honestly, the entire muggleborn system is a mess. Supposed muggleborns aren’t contacted until the summer before they are eligible to attend Hogwarts. That’s backwards thinking, honestly. Plenty of muggle families are distressed by accidental magic without knowing what causes it—I even heard of a muggleborn who was nearly institutionalized. Not because her parents were malicious, but because they simply had no idea what to do and hoped professionals would be able to help their child where they could not. I think it would make more sense to contact the children earlier, don’t you?

Anyway, I hope you’ve had as good a week as I have.

Until next time

Henry Travers

*          *          *

Greetings and salutations, young Henry.

For the last time, I go by Lord Voldemort. If you won’t explain how you even know my birth name, will you please at least do me the courtesy of using my current political alias instead? I have a feeling you’re trying to make some sort of pointed commentary with your insistent use of that name instead of my official title, and it’s growing annoying.

Well, now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I must say you made a number of interesting points in your previous letter. A bit of advice, however. I am sure your points were unstructured due to the letter format—we both do tend to write whatever comes to mind, and it lends to a less structured format. But I would advise that if you plan to present those arguments to anyone else, you should put them into a more coherent formatting. Treat it like an essay—structure it and write it out, and then memorize the important points. Notecards might be useful, if you know what those are. If not, write important talking points on small cut-out squares of parchment. It’s the same concept.

I thought your concept of a monitoring system from the moment a muggleborn is identified most intriguing. I presume children considered “muggle-raised” by your definition would also be observed by this system. Have you considered, however, that some children identified as magical as young children do not grow up with enough magic to attend Hogwarts? Most magical schools only accept students with full sorcery powers, excluding hedgewitches and squibs alike. If contact is made with a family and the child is a hedgewitch, they will need additional provision as they will not receive a letter from either Hogwarts or the state-run day school in London.

I have a few solutions I think might work for such a system. Here, what about this…

Chapter Text

So here was the thing.

Harry Potter had been famous since his life had come crashing down around his tiny toddler ears at the age of fifteen months. He was the terrifying kind of famous, the kind where people track him down for just a glimpse of him, where a single shake of his hand or word of acknowledgement could give the recipient a first page spread in the papers. He was the kind of famous where the whispers never ended, in his sight, out of his hearing, and in every newspaper in Britain and all across the world, Harry Potter was a household name.

There were cults that followed his every move avidly. Though he did not know it, Dumbledore had sent back dozens of marriage and betrothal requests without reply before Harry’s tenth birthday—and they continued to come until he vanished from his own timeline. While several of those individuals who appeared to wave merrily at Harry on busses or shake his hand fervently in department stores were old acquaintances of his parents or members of the Order, happy to see him doing well, several more were avid admirers who would build shrines around his lost shoes or thieved locks of hair.

He was in history books and essays, the object of magical speculation. There were fictional books written about him, and merchandise. Only in his fourth year had Harry gotten the barest glimpse of the mountain of fan mail and hate mail which Dumbledore had carefully kept him safe from, and it was even then an intimidating behemoth. Even Ministers for Magic in far-off nations like Bulgaria knew exactly who he was, and were excited for a glimpse of him.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was the sort of famous of saints and demigods and idols, the world kept distant from him by both others’ admiring awe and his own uncertainty. Harry Potter had been unable to walk down a street without stares and pointing and whispers, and only the most unobservant people had neglected to recognize him at only a glance.

Harry Travers, on the other hand, was not famous at all—but for a bit of brief, temporary notoriety for being the unexpected Heir of a major family who had been raised in the custody of Gringotts. Even that was dying down, however, and by Christmas people would acknowledge his existence as “Heir Black” but the hype around his unexpected existence would have mostly died out.

Harry had always supposed he was popular at Hogwarts, but now, he was coming to realise that being famous and being popular were two different animals. Harry Potter had been famous.

Harry Travers, by some inexplicable fluke, was popular.

People smiled at him in corridors and seemed comfortable talking to him. It wasn’t like before, with the wide-eyed whispering held at arms’ length. Younger students—mostly led by Regulus’ innocent trust or the nascent Marauders’ boundless enthusiasm—would come up to him asking for help on class topics or even personal things. People gave him high-fives walking down the hall after he’d come out the better in another confrontation with Lucius Malfoy. (A verbal spat, not one ending in the hospital wing this time.)

It was just…bizarre.

Even the teachers seemed affected by whatever was in the water here at 1970s Hogwarts. Before, in his own time, the teachers had been fond of him in a nostalgic sort of way—he could see the same thing happening with his fellow students, some of whom had parents who had been the favourites of various teachers. And he could see both his father and his mother blazing their own trails until they were nearly every teacher’s favourite, a legacy Harry was more than familiar with. But they seemed less distantly fond with Henry Travers and more—impressed.

Yes, that was the word. They were impressed by his skills, his habit (formed in the DOM) of casting nonverbally more often than not, and by his ability to help his classmates when they were struggling. To Harry, the tutoring had been almost accidental. He’d gotten into the habit of helping the other students during the DA, and extending that aid to class time really wasn’t too much of a stretch.

I’ve never been popular before, but I hear you were a school favourite after you became a prefect. Any advice for someone not used to this sort of attention? He added to one of his letters to his soulmate.

Tom Riddle’s response had been highly amused, and had mostly gone into the benefits of networking popularity into  future political favours. A good portion of the letter was spent warning Harry that making enemies of Hogwarts Professors was the death knell to any future career—Harry had a feeling Dumbledore had done something, and that was why Riddle was going into politics under the title Lord Voldemort, based on the way the letter had sounded.

It was a shame. The thing about legal alias was that they were entirely separate from a person’s true identity in a way that was legally binding. Nothing the man did under the guise of Lord Voldemort could be attributed to Tom Riddle—honestly, if his soulmate hadn’t been completely insane by his resurrection, it would have been the perfect out. All he would have had to do was make himself look human and claim to be Tom Riddle, dropping the Lord Voldemort title entirely. He could have started over and he probably would have taken the Ministry over within the year, considering how wishy-washy Fudge had been.

If Dumbledore had caused that, they’d really dodged a bullet with how far round the bend Voldemort had gone. It all could have gone horribly, terribly wrong once Voldemort was embodied again.

For the hundredth time, Harry wondered what it was that had made his soulmate go insane. It clearly hadn’t happened yet, whatever it was. The man was frighteningly rational, his mind like a steel trap, calculating and cunning. Harry wished that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to keep it from happening at all—but he wasn’t hopeful.

Still, some of Riddle’s advice had been useful to Harry, so he found himself considering restarting the DA. In retrospect, it had been a great networking opportunity, and it had given him the chance to teach as well. Harry was beginning to realise he really did enjoy teaching, and he missed the DA something fierce—and not just because it was Defence against the Dark Arts, his best subject.

Of course, Harry’s favourite part of this new version of Hogwarts was his Defence class. He was in the seventh-year NEWT Defence class, with students all nearly two years older than him, as he wasn’t even sixteen yet. The professor was new this year, but seemed determined to be a permanent addition to the school.

Harry just hoped he didn’t end up hurt by whatever ended up making him leave.

Professor Wolper was enthusiastic about Defence but he also took the attitude towards his NEWT class that they were old enough to take care of themselves. He assigned weekly essays that were twice as massive as any assignments given by their other classes, and would cut short class time if his lecture ended early.

The first class had the older students eyeing Harry’s presence in bewilderment. Wolper had walked right up to Harry and clapped him on the shoulder.

“I hear you and Slughorn worked out your schedule problems?” he asked cheerfully. Harry had nodded. “Right then!”

One of the other students had spoken up, then. “Um, professor? What’s he doing here?”

Harry stared as Professor Wolper beamed and began to explain Harry’s defence apprenticeship. That was Aurora Sinistra, maybe barely seventeen in Ravenclaw robes. He had to resist the urge to shake his head in bewilderment. Perhaps one day this would become less shocking, Harry thought to himself.

Once he’d used Occlumency to clear his mind, Harry noticed the other students were all looking at him, impressed.

“You’re really a Defence Mastery apprentice?” another student asked, this one a Gryffindor.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I performed my application duel this summer. It ended in a draw for me, not a win, but the administrators said I still did well enough to qualify. All I need now is my NEWT exam grade and a cross-examination by the Auror office or the ICW and I’ll have completed my mastery.”

The others burst into questions and their professor had to set off a sound like a firecracker with his wand to get attention back on the class and not on Harry.

“Okay, okay, let’s stop harassing Travers and get back to this week’s topic—the rules of duelling.”

Immediately, Professor Wolper had the class’s undivided attention. He smirked.

“Right, anybody know basic etiquette for a duel?”

After the others stood shifting uncertainly for a long moment, Harry reluctantly raised his hand.

Wolper nodded to him. “Travers?”

“You salute with your wands and bow, turn on your heel and take a set number of paces while being counted off. You’re supposed to start the duel after the mediator says to begin. Casting before the count off is over is bad form, but I don’t know if it’s actually allowed or not.”

The professor clapped his hands at the explanation. “Brilliantly succinct! Well done! Take five points. Hmm, yes, casting before the count off is over does get you a penalty point or three at the score tally depending on how badly your judges were offended by it, but it’s not actually against the rules. Really, the only rule on the matter is that there is no casting before the count off begins! There are other pre-duel rules, and even more rules for the actual event. I’ll be handing you all lists to study for our next several classes on the way out today. For now, we’re going to have a mock duel. I’ll tell you after the fact what was done right, and what was done wrong. Hopefully the visual aid helps you remember the rules instead of mentally tossing them in the bin.”

There were some chuckles at that, and the professor gestured the students to the edges of the classroom.

“Now, I know you’re all eager to volunteer for the duel, so I think I’ll just pick instead of asking for hands. Hmm. McLaggen, you’ve got the highest OWL score out of this class. I want you against our resident apprentice.”

Harry stepped up with a mixture of reluctance and amusement. Tiberius McLaggen was a big Gryffindor fellow, his blond hair shaggy. He looked vaguely like a boy Harry thought might have been in the same year as Katie Bell. Harry supposed this must be his father or possibly an uncle. McLaggen was looking Harry up and down and seemed unimpressed.

Harry just pulled out his wand.

The professor cast a variety of spells in a wide oval to separate the duellists from the rest of the class. It was the same sort of spells they had used to protect the audience during Harry’s duels at the DoM. The pair was told to stand across from each other. Harry held his wand up to his face in salute and bowed. McLaggen did the same, but his bow was shallow and lazy.

“I’ll be counting your paces in a moment,” Professor Wolper said. “It’ll be on the count of three. Now, since this is an instructional duel and we know that the judges aren’t fond of early casting, we’re not going to do any of that today. Later we’ll study circumstances in which early casting would be a good idea. Today, I just want you to wait until I say begin.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, while McLaggen nodded his head jerkily, his brow furrowed and focused.

“Turn. On the count of three…two…one…begin!”

They had turned and walked away from one another as the professor counted, and at the last word both spun about again, wands raised.

“Tarantallegra!” McLaggen shouted.

Harry sent back an Expelliarmus, a Stupefy, and an ice-spell to make the floor slippery in quick succession, all nonverbally.

McLaggen managed to raise a nonverbal shield to block the two spells aimed at him while Harry side-stepped the dancing feet jinx, but he slipped on the conjured ice and landed on his arse. The others in class all laughed aloud.

Harry set another two disarming spells at him as the Gryffindor stood, and the second one hit. Harry caught McLaggen’s wand with the ease of a Seeker. McLaggen’s face was red and he looked a mixture of angry and embarrassed. Harry bowed to him.

“Good match,” he said. Harry held the other boy’s wand out hilt-first. “Here,” he said.

McLaggen snatched his wand back, still red-faced. “How’d you do that?” he asked furiously.

Harry blinked. “Um. What?”

McLaggen flung his arms up. “You did all your spells nonverbally and you didn’t even have to shield! You acted like this was easy.”

…it kind of had been, but Harry knew that was the exact wrong thing to say in this situation.

“All my defence practice for my correspondence course with Chrónia Akadimía was basically just me mock-duelling with Gringotts cursebreakers,” he said in a sheepish tone. “I’m used to having my opponents constantly wipe the floor with me because they’re adults with masteries already.” He smiled disarmingly. “You did pretty good, though. You got that shield up with no problem.”

McLaggen snorted. “Yeah, whatever,” he said grouchily.

Professor Wolper tutted. “That was a friendly classroom duel, kid, and you’re going to be duelling your classmates a lot this year. You start off with this sort of attitude and you’ll not have much fun in my class.”

He nodded to Harry. “He’s right, your shield was excellent. His silent casting threw you off, but I’ve seen a recording of part of his Mastery Application duel. This kid is used to fighting multiple opponents better than him. I knew he’d win before I called you up. You two were a demonstration, not a competition.”

Wolper turned to the rest of the class. “Now, what did you lot observe about how the duel went?”

It was a pretty fun way of teaching duelling, Harry thought. They spent the rest of the class answering questions and being lectured on technique. Harry had ended the duel too quickly for any rules to unknowingly be broken as an object lesson, but Wolper didn’t let that stop him. He called up the two students with the lowest OWL scores in the class next, and their duel went much longer, with multiple rule infractions before one finally caught the other with a leg-locker.

Harry was grinning as he jumped in with his classmates to discuss the second duel. McLaggen hung back, still glowering at Harry. Harry didn’t know what his problem was, but he was enjoying himself too much to care.

*          *          *

“…and now he’s being an arse every time we pass in the hallways, and he keeps insisting he’ll beat me next time the professor has us duel. In this week’s classes we only had two mock duels, and McLaggen practically had a tantrum when the professor chose me to duel Sinistra instead of him. What is his problem?” Harry asked over a week later, frustrated, as he tugged at the sleeves of his dress robes.

To his surprise it wasn’t Narcissa or Andromeda who answered, but Lucius Malfoy, smoothing his platinum hair back with one hand.

“McLaggen’s a pompous loud-mouth who’s been the top of his year’s Defence class since starting Hogwarts,” Malfoy said dryly. “You humiliated him. Of course he wants to get you back. He’s just an idiot Gryffindor so he’s announcing it to all and sundry like a fool who wants to get detention over something the professor already said wasn’t something to quarrel over.”

Harry was startled into a grin. “What, should I be worried about your nefarious plans, Malfoy? Considering the Quidditch tryouts, and all.”

Andromeda snorted, burying her face into her twin’s shoulder.

Lucius smirked. “Of course, Travers. We’re Slytherins. Cunning and revenge schemes are to be expected.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the warning, I guess. The Hat did say I’m an unconventional Slytherin.”

All three of the others perked up. “Oh?” Narcissa said curiously. “You conversed with the Hat? It spoke to me a little—it, ah, considered me for Hufflepuff—” she flushed at the admission “—but Andy had already been sorted and it said my ambitions would be served better in the same house as my twin. Which was true, since we’d been planning to play Beaters together since before we got to Hogwarts.”

Harry shrugged. “It said a lot of stuff about how it usually gets…politically ambitious or deviously cunning Slytherins, but I was…more of a survivalist, I guess it meant. My cunning is directed towards self-defence, and my ambitions aren’t dramatic but they’re not easily achievable for someone like me, or something like that.”

Lucius hummed. “Fascinating. I suppose it makes sense. You weren’t raised as an Heir, or even as a Black.” He side-eyed Harry. “I heard you were kidnapped more than once.”

Harry nodded. “The second time my captors were idiots enough to make a two-way portkey, thankfully, so once I managed to get untied all I needed was my wand and a summoning charm to get away.” His mouth twisted as he deliberately Occluded away the memories of an eerie graveyard and the agony of the Cruciatus Curse. “Let’s…change the subject, though. I don’t want to get to this party thing mute.”

He’d gone deliberately nonverbal a few times, so most of Slytherin was peripherally aware it was something that happened to him on occasion. Thankfully, a disability of the sort was considered a crass thing to use against a fellow classmate, so not even Malfoy had dared try to rib Harry about it. He definitely had more tact than his son would in the future.

It was like Draco had inherited his dad’s nastiness, but also ended up with Sirius and Andromeda’s loud mouths. Lucius was an arse, but he knew when to be tactful and when to push his luck. His son just had no instinct for atmosphere—which, when his opponents were no-leash-on-my-temper Ron Weasley, Harry’s own just-dare-me-to-fuck-you-up, and the brilliant but scary could-probably-kill-you-by-accident Hermione, had meant he was both spoiled for choice of things to be an arsehole about but he was also in for a world of hurt every time he opened his mouth.

As Harry expected at this point, Lucius just inclined his head in agreement and turned to compliment his betrothed on her dress robes. Harry smiled at Andromeda.

“I still don’t know why I agreed to come to this,” he said.

When Slughorn had given him the invitation Harry had really just planned to toss it, but both the twins had insisted Harry come along. Apparently these parties were both “lots of fun” and “good practice politicking”, and thus exactly the sort of thing he should aspire to attend as an Heir to the Black family. So here he was in dress robes, following the girls and Lucius Malfoy from the Slytherin Common Room to the large room Slughorn apparently had set aside for Slug Club events.

The professor himself was sitting at the head of a largish round table, the golden buttons on his waistcoat straining against his rotund belly. He was dressed in casual robes that looked a bit like a muggle velvet smoking jacket with accompanying waistcoat and pocket-watch, cheerily directing the people entering the room to take the available seats. It wasn’t an over-large gathering—Andromeda said Slughorn liked to keep these meet-ups small unless it was a party, so he usually only invited students from two or three years at most at a time. If he had a particularly large group of students in one year, he might only invite that year’s class.

Aside from Harry himself and the twins, Lucius Malfoy and Rufus Scrimgeour were the main other pair from sixth year. The only other sixth year was Hufflepuff Amelia Bones. Harry also saw fifth year Richard Burke with a Slytherin girl and a few fifth year Ravenclaws he’d never met before, and, naturally, Tiberius McLaggen was one of only three seventh years present, all Gryffindors.

McLaggen threw Harry a filthy glare which Harry easily ignored. Thankfully they weren’t seated anywhere near one another: Harry ended up between Andromeda and Burke not far from the professor, and McLaggen was down at the far end of the table with the other seventh years bracketing him.

Once all the students had taken a seat Slughorn looked around and beamed. “Everyone here? Ah, no Miss Travers again? Such a pity. Well, our guest should be here soon, and then we’ll get to supper. I know that’s what you’re all here for.”

That comment prompted a round of chuckles from the students.

The mysterious guest arrived in a flash of the Floo from the large fireplace in the corner of the room, a no-nonsense looking woman in auror robes. She was introduced as the current head of the DMLE for those who weren’t aware, and once she had sat down the food appeared and the dinner party commenced.

The professor introduced all the students to their guest, mentioning connections and personal talents and name-dropping relatives at rapid fire. The students were mostly quiet at first, nodding to the DMLE head as they were introduced and otherwise concerned with filling up their plates and goblets and beginning to eat their suppers. Once introductions were over with, quiet conversation slowly picked up steam until it was almost like having dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry had to admit, it was more entertaining than he’d supposed it would be. They just sat and chatted while they ate, and students would periodically present the guest or the professor with curious questions on relevant topics. The food was as good as Professor Slughorn’s earlier joke had implied, and Harry found himself getting a bit of everything on his plate, eating it all with relish. He was glad of the nutrient potions which had been slowly increasing his appetite. If he’d attended one of these parties in his own time he’d only be able to eat about half as much as he had on his plate at the moment.

Listening to the conversations, it was obvious that Professor Slughorn only invited students with good connections, wealthy families, or some notable talent. McLaggen apparently had family high up at the Ministry, as did Lucius and one of the fifth year Ravenclaws. Plenty of the students, like Burke and the two seventh year Gryffindors and the one fifth year Slytherin girl, had relatives outside the Ministry who had invented or discovered unusual items.

Harry was curious to learn Burke’s grandmother had helped create the Wizarding Wireless Network. Harry hadn’t had any idea it ran on an entirely different frequency to normal muggle radio. Burke’s grandmother had studied muggle radio in the nineteen-teens and nineteen-twenties, eventually discovering a type of radio wave transmission known as Magical Modulation. All Wizarding Wireless Network channels were transmitted on MM waves, so even if a muggle was tuning a radio at random they wouldn’t be able to pick up a wizarding network, because wizarding radios had to be specially enchanted to pick up MM as well as AM and FM.

Amelia Bones was across from Harry, and as far as Harry could tell was in this club on her own merits. It seemed to happen occasionally, but not as commonly as students with external connections. Amelia and Scrimgeour had a lively discussion with the head of the DMLE about the sorts of things you need to know if you want to make a career in the department. The woman dabbed her lips with a napkin and then looked directly at Harry.

“And of course, if you’re considering joining the Auror department we’d be glad to have you, Mister Travers. Your Defence Mastery will actually allow you to skip about half of the Auror training academy courses, if you apply to become an Auror.”

Harry blinked, put on the spot. “Um, well, I had considered it when I was younger,” he said quietly, “but lately I’ve been thinking I’d rather be a teacher. And of course Uncle Arcturus wants me to go into politics as one of his Heirs.”

“Both worthy goals!” Slughorn boomed, “though bad luck for you, eh, girl?” He chortled as he elbowed the witch beside him, who looked like she was repressing the urge to roll her eyes with difficulty. Slughorn leaned forward.

“Well, Travers, if you want to become a professor—word of advice—you don’t actually need a mastery to teach, but it’ll serve you in better stead if you have one. And Headmaster Dumbledore follows Dippet’s old policy of not hiring children just out of school. Perhaps take a few years to do politics with your uncle and then return to teaching.”

“Unless the current population of instructors continues to drop like flies,” the head of the DMLE muttered. “Then Albus might have to hire him for lack of better options.”

Slughorn laughed jovially. “Now, it’s not been that bad, really.”

“Actually, sir,” Amelia said. “It kind of is. I remember when Professor Jigger had that accident. We haven’t had a professor for more than a full year since—and most of them don’t even last that long. I’m a sixth year and I haven’t had a full, uninterrupted year of teaching in Defence Against the Dark Arts since I was a second year.”

The others around the table were all nodding, and the head of the DMLE with them. “Albus keeps stealing my semi-retired and convalescent Aurors to finish out years and each time he returns them in worse condition than he received them,” she said grumpily. “Once or twice is just coincidence. Three times—which is where we’re at now—is enemy action. Ten times is a curse. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see which this is.”

“Could a curse really be doing something like this?” Lucius drawled sceptically.

The witch took a sip from her goblet and then gestured to Harry again. “Well, why doesn’t our resident Defence journeyman tell us?”

Harry was startled out of the bewildered realisation that he was seeing the beginning of the rumours (still unsubstantiated by anything but experience in twenty years’ time) about the Defence curse. He blinked at the woman, unused to the use of the official title he had as a student halfway through his Mastery.

“Well,” Harry said slowly, collecting his thoughts. He had to be careful not to use evidence he shouldn’t rightly know, nor evidence that hadn’t happened yet. Twenty years of dead, reputation-ruined, or injured professors was fantastic evidence, but wouldn’t make sense to mention if it had only existed for a few years at this time. Even that much—when it had started—was more information than they’d had in the future. Amelia and his other year-mates had all been second years from 1967 to 1968, so that meant the accident Amelia had mentioned probably happened either in the fall term of 1968 or the spring term of 1969. That meant the curse had only existed for three or four years.

Which, Harry realised in sudden epiphany, was about the amount of time Lord Voldemort had been politically active, according to Arcturus. Was Voldemort behind the curse on the Defence position? Harry wondered.

He didn’t let any of his unforeseen insight show on his face, instead taking the question at face value. “Even if it isn’t a curse, it certainly is behaving like one. Long-term curses tend to all follow a very set pattern. If the trigger is someone teaching defence, the curse will start acting upon them after a designated amount of time. Presumably, this would be a curse to incapacitate instructors of Defence at Hogwarts, so that would be the end goal every time. Magic always works along existing lines of fate, so how the teachers are incapacitated would change every time, but there would never be a “normal” year if this was a curse. Possibly the incapacitation could be side-stepped if a teacher wasn’t planning to remain for more than a year anyway, but most curses aren’t that sophisticated. It’s more likely that if a person is teaching Defence, that person would be targeted regardless of how long they actually plan to stay—which would also explain why interim teachers like loaned Aurors are also put into damaging situations.”

The head of the DMLE nodded briskly. “Yes, exactly. Couldn’t have put it better myself.” She smiled at Harry. “Are you sure I can’t lure you to the Auror Department, lad?”

Harry smiled back. “Sorry,” he said. “I think I’ve already had enough fighting for my life for the next century or so.”

She nodded, sympathy and understanding clear on her face but mingled with regret.

“So if this blight on our Defence instructors is a curse, how is it anchored?” Burke asked. “Don’t all curses have to either have an anchor or be on a specific person to work?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, that’s true. Of course, it could be anchored in the classroom, if you keep the same classrooms for the various classes over extended periods of time here at Hogwarts. It could possibly be a curse on the Headmaster, as the one who hires the professors, but that’s unlikely because—well—Headmaster Dumbledore’s not the sort of slouch you would imagine not noticing he’s been cursed with something attacking his staff. I bet if it exists it’s either anchored to the classroom or to the castle ward room.”

“You missed one,” the head of the DMLE cut in. “It could also be tied in to the title.”

Harry blinked and his brow furrowed. “You mean like a Taboo?” The Department of Mysteries was studying Taboo magic, so Harry knew a little bit about it, but not much at all. They’d come to the conclusion based on studying Harry’s memories that during the first wizarding war it was possible Voldemort had put a Taboo on his name and title. It would explain why even a decade later people were terrified to say his name—because with a Taboo, you could literally summon the boogeyman by calling out his name.

The witch was nodding. “Exactly like that,” she agreed. “It uses the same principles, but it’s a devilishly difficult magic to cast, detect, or undo. Most people don’t bother with language-triggered curses for that exact reason.”

Harry leaned forward, curious. “Could you recommend literature on the topic?” he asked. If he could prove the curse existed twenty years early, it would improve people’s chances against Voldemort greatly. And a tricky, rare, complex magic sounded exactly like the sort Voldemort would have used if he’d wanted—for whatever reason—to curse the Defence position. There was even possible evidence he had used Taboo magic before, so it made it even more likely.

Harry still had no idea why Voldemort would have bothered casting a curse on the Hogwarts defence position (other than the clear tactical advantage, but that still left how he’d gotten in to cast it), but for the first time since really beginning to believe the curse existed as a second or third year, Harry had some idea of what could be done about it.

He could feel—something. It was like a tingle in the tips of his fingers, the feel of wind on his face just before he dove for the snitch. He was about to do something that would change time. What was left was to see how drastically he could effect change.

The witch just smiled and nodded and before Harry knew it they’d exchanged correspondence information, Professor Slughorn beaming happily. Harry would have to send him a gift over this, he decided. What had Riddle said the man liked? Candied pineapple?

Harry would be sure to send him an entire box. Maybe two.

*          *          *

Greetings Lord Riddle,

I just had my first Slug Club dinner party, and I’ll admit you were right. I was sceptical because anything that smacks of socialisation always seems to be long-winded and either stiff or boring, but Slughorn kept a surprisingly lively atmosphere going. It was pretty entertaining. We had the head of the DMLE as our guest, and she kept on trying to recruit me for the Auror department, but other than that it was an enjoyable night.

Our most interesting topic was on the plight of recent Hogwarts professors. Did you know that since nineteen-sixty-seven or nineteen-sixty-eight three out of three Defence professors have been involved in dangerous accidents that forced them to stop teaching? All five of the Aurors borrowed from the DMLE by Headmaster Dumbledore to fill in the post when a professor was taken out partway through a school year either were also injured or were otherwise ousted. Thankfully nobody’s been removed from the post for legal reasons. It’s all been injuries or financials. Could you imagine if a professor was discovered to be obliviating students or soliciting favors?

The current theory on the matter is that it might be a curse, but as disaster has only struck thrice there’s a lack of evidence. Apparently the DMLE is adopting a “wait and see” attitude on the subject. We all got a good education on curses and how they might work during supper—I really enjoyed myself.

Speaking of curses, I’d never heard of Taboo-based curses until this dinner party, and now I’m absolutely fascinated on the topic. If you were to hypothetically set a curse on the title of Hogwarts Defence Professor, how would you do it? I’m wondering because I think I’d really like to be a professor, but I’m determined to prove or disprove the existence of a curse before I pick Hogwarts as my future place of employment. If the option is teach for one year and then suffer debilitating injury or move to another country, I’d rather just go back to Australia. I might even convince myself to learn a foreign language and teach at one of the non-English schools instead.

By the way, you mentioned that Professor Slughorn likes candied pineapple, right? I got him an assortment box of candied fruit for introducing me to the head of the DMLE. I was wondering if you remembered any of his other favourites for future reference.

Until next time,

Harry Travers

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort stared down at yet another oddity in his correspondence with the young, recently discovered Black Heir and turned the wording of the paragraph over in his mind. He hated this, how infuriatingly knowing Henry Travers always sounded no matter the topic. It was as if the young man had some dossier of every action Lord Voldemort had taken since his youth—even the things nobody should know.

The phrasing was just ambiguous enough that it could possibly be a genuine academic inquiry, but Lord Voldemort knew better. As much as the Travers boy seemed to have come into their correspondence with a pre-existing knowledge of his own quirks and thought processes, Voldemort had been slowly learning to read Travers through text as well.

And so he knew it wasn’t as simple as an innocent academic inquiry. The boy directed those first at his Uncle Arcturus, second at his Uncle Fleamont, and third to his teachers and political acquaintances. Travers was a clever boy, with a good sense for what resources to utilize in what situation. That he’d asked Lord Voldemort about such matters indicated that he knew something about Voldemort’s own interests in Taboo magic, or even that he suspected Voldemort of casting the as-yet-unconfirmed curse on the Defence post.

It was useful receiving an update on public opinion concerning the phenomenon, at least. That curse had been his crowning achievement, a fitting revenge against Dumbledore for all the man’s treatment of him while at school. He’d have preferred to curse the Transfiguration post for irony points, but in the end decided applying his Taboo curse to the title of “Hogwarts Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts” would ensure that it lasted longer.

The position of Defence professor had always been a transient post. Professor Merrythought was one of the longest-lasting in centuries, and she’d only stayed on so long because of a debilitating curse injury that meant she couldn’t travel and act as the curse-breaker and Warder she had been in her youth. Voldemort knew Dumbledore was aware of that fact—from the old codger’s own youth to the hiring of Professor Merrythought there had been four separate defence professors alone. Dumbledore himself had subbed as professor for one year when the school hadn’t been able to hire a replacement before autumn.

Laying the curse on the Defence post would keep Dumbledore’s suspicions low at first—for all that others were already whispering about it, Travers had said that Slughorn had poo-pooed the idea. As old Sluggy followed Dumbledore’s opinions frequently (which had been infuriating when Voldemort was a schoolboy), that meant that Dumbledore was likely also not yet willing to admit the recent string of accidents was more than a bizarre sequence of coincidences.

Of course, the second Dumbledore acknowledged that Voldemort had something to do with it he would still have a search to undergo working the curse out. Dumbledore was a rigid sort of fellow, and even now he tried to counter Lord Voldemort’s politics and tactics in the same way he had when Voldemort was a Hogwarts student. He seemed utterly unaware that people do grow and change—which, of course, Voldemort was taking flagrant advantage of. Dumbledore’s first instinct would be to go through the sorts of magics Voldemort had studied as a child before he would expand his theories, and even then the odds of him realising Taboo magic had been employed was slim. It was such a rare, niche thing—which made it all the more confounding that Henry Travers had somehow jumped to the correct conclusion without even trying.

He inhaled and exhaled, letting the letter fall to the table and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lord Voldemort was accustomed to being in control of every social situation he stepped into—with the rare occasions of being equally matched by an older or wilier opponent like Albus Dumbledore or Arcturus Black. This sensation of being continually wrong-footed by a mere child was starting to grate on his nerves.

And yet despite his aggravation, his mouth quirked at one corner. Utterly infuriating, yet persistently fascinating. The Travers boy argued with him in a way that few others did, without showing the hard-headed political opposition or refusal to debate ideals so common across party divisions in wizard politics. Every letter was like a breath of fresh air, full of new and interesting ideas, utterly engaging.

He had begun this correspondence as a bid to gain influence and favour with the new Heir. Everyone knew Orion hated his own role as Heir, and now that another, apparently more skilled candidate had surfaced, everyone was just waiting for him to relinquish his Heir title in favour of his younger cousin. But the more Voldemort conversed with Harry Travers, the more he enjoyed the correspondence. There were few social acquaintances he had from his youth who had been even barely edging into the friend category instead of followers—Alphard Black and Aaron Goldstein were the primary ones—but despite his youth, the Travers boy was swiftly being placed into the same category.

He had to be cautious, of course. The mystery of how Travers knew so very much about Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort was still unsolved. Alphard had denied any involvement in the release of information, and Lord Voldemort was inclined to believe him, as he knew the man had been out of the country for the better part of two years and hadn’t even met his new cousin yet.

And yet the young Travers had to have gained the information somehow. It was a confounding puzzle. Still, he thought with a sigh, turning away from the letter on his desk. A mystery for another time.

For now, he had work to do.

Lord Voldemort stood, dark robes swirling around him as he strode to the conference room across the hallway. It took a mere pulse of magic to activate his vassalage mark, and he waited impatiently for his followers to arrive.

They were all old school friends and their relatives, some recruited while still in school and some joining the Cause in the last few years since his return from abroad. He had been campaigning for years now: at first through others, but then as himself, under the identity of Lord Voldemort—but the time for peaceful political discourse was drawing to a close. The Knights of the Walpurgis had grown increasingly overt in their protests, in their calls for action. Dumbledore blocked his efforts at every turn, but Lord Voldemort was certain that if he could merely intimidate the people into giving even a single small concession, that would be the foot in the door he had so far failed to acquire.

As such, today they would not be planning some boycott of all businesses that used muggle goods instead of wizard-crafted ones, nor would they be violating the Statute of Secrecy in protest of some new pro-muggle law. Today required more…decisive action.

If the people would not listen to peaceful protest, he would show them what violence awaited them if they continued to ignore him. If Dumbledore refused to face him in the political arena, to let him act as a citizen and politician openly without harassment, well…it was his own fault if he was forced to confront Lord Voldemort in less congenial arenas instead.

This would be the opening move, the first act.

Samhain would be an auspicious date to announce the new goals of his organization. After all, if he couldn’t reach leadership in government the legal way, there was always the illegal.

The first of his knights walked into the room, and Lord Voldemort smiled.

Let the games begin.

*          *          *

Twelve-year-old Severus Snape was pretty sure he was going crazy, and it was entirely that new transfer student’s fault. He’d not met Travers properly until the Quidditch try-outs, but the oddities had begun on the train ride to Hogwarts. He’d only caught a glimpse of Travers out of the corner of his eye and had to do a double-take, sure Potter had gotten his hands on ageing potion as a prank somehow. But Travers had different facial bone structure to Potter, and a different nose. It was only in the distance that they seemed as if they could be the same person. Still, the fact that somehow the two cousins had identical cowlicks was bizarre. It was difficult to tell with Travers because he kept his hair long, but it was pretty obvious before he brushed his hair into a tail for the day, whenever Severus saw him in the common room.

Still, Travers and Potter were cousins, so Severus supposed it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing in the world. No, the ridiculous thing was how much Travers resembled Lily.

They had the exact same eyes. Same shape, same colour, even their eyebrows were shaped exactly the same (only in that case Travers had dark eyebrows and Lily ginger). Their ears were the same, too. Travers didn’t have attached earlobes like the Potters and Blacks did, he had unattached like Lily.

And then there were the less obvious physical similarities. He’d noticed instantly after the try-outs that Lily and Travers had the exact same smile, with a dimple in the same spot on their left cheeks. Whenever Travers was talking to his friends, he would make big wavy hand gestures with his hands in the same way Lily did when she was excited. When Travers spoke, he curled some of his letters in the same peculiar way Lily and every member of the Evans family did as well, despite having an entirely different accent.

The weirdest thing was how much Travers sounded like Lily’s da.

The first time Severus had heard Travers laugh, somewhere in the common room, he’d nearly had a heart attack. He knew what Mr. Evans sounded like, of course, as Lily brought Severus over to her house frequently. He’d heard that loud, cheerful laugh explode out of the usually quiet man with all the force of a bombarda—and now here it was in the Slytherin Common Room.

It had taken him three days to figure out the laugh was coming from Travers, and he spent those three days in a state of bewilderment because even his speaking voice was uncannily similar, if only heard in snatches of conversation.

It was all just…inexplicable.

Travers himself was a very peculiar person, as well. He was nice to everyone in a way Slytherins usually weren’t. Maybe it was because he’d been sorted so late, but Travers seemed to ignore House boundaries as though they weren’t even there. He was kind and indulgent with Potter’s band of idiots, though he had a special fondness for Black and his first-year brother. That detail alone would have been enough to make Severus write him off and put him in the “people I hate” category, except that Travers showed the same tenderness and interest in Lily.

Severus was pretty sure it was because of what had happened the first time Travers had touched Lily. The Slytherin and Gryffindor duo had discovered that if Severus sat close to Travers and Lily came over, Travers would nudge the mini-Black one seat over and let Lily eat with them, despite the whispers and glares from other Slytherins. The first time it happened, Travers and Lily had brushed fingers passing the salt, and it was like they had temporarily been caught up in a magical tornado.

Gold and red magic had risen from Travers’ skin and swirled around him and Lily, sparking and glowing before fading away. Everyone around had been startled backwards and people were standing up all around the hall to see what was going on. Even the teachers had stood up curiously, with Headmaster Dumbledore even coming down to investigate personally.

Severus would have been terrified to be interrogated by the man’s steely blue eyes and superficially friendly smiles that spoke of danger if you took one wrong step, but Travers had took it all in stride. He had laughed sheepishly and admitted his magical protection—what magical protection!?—sometimes reacted oddly to meeting certain people.

“I think my magic likes you,” Travers had beamed down at her. Lily had smiled shyly back up at him, and Severus had again been struck by the identical expressions the two very different individuals were directing at one another.

There had been a lot of talk between Travers and the Professor, hidden behind privacy wards. Severus and Lily had stood outside, frustrated they couldn’t hear, until Travers had dismissed the ward, but that hadn’t prevented Severus from watching. He could see their expressions, even if the privacy ward prevented him from reading lips. Dumbledore was probably making his usual complaints about Slytherins and Dark Magic, but Severus noticed the moment Travers decided he had heard enough. Travers’ smile had tightened and his green eyes so much like Lily’s had sharpened, and oh, Severus knew that face. That was Petunia’s face just before she did something cruel and cutting.

Whatever he said made the Headmaster’s face go blank and still. The two had spoken only a little bit longer before the privacy ward was dismissed. The Headmaster condescendingly patted Lily on the head and made her promise to see the nurse if “anything unpleasant materialised” while Travers glared daggers into the man’s back.

The sixth year had turned back to Lily afterwards. “Nothing bad should happen,” he said firmly. “The same thing happened with James the first time we met. You can ask him about it if you want.”

Lily threw a shy and reluctant look towards her soulmate, who was on his feet with wide, worried eyes bouncing between Travers and Lily. Severus scowled, but his expression lightened when Lily shook her head.

“I don’t need to, but thanks,” she said. “I felt that magic, and it was…wonderful. But sad.” She stepped forward and hugged Travers around the waist. “I’m sorry you’re so sad.”

He had stood frozen for a long minute, an expression Severus greatly sympathized with on his face. He clearly was unused to hugs. Eventually his shaking arms came down to wrap around Lily as well, and he hugged her tightly. Severus was helpless before yet another person falling withing his wonderful best friend’s orbit, but at least Travers was more tolerable than Potter. How the beautiful wildfire that was Lily Evans could be soul-bonded to that spoiled prat was still completely beyond Severus’s comprehension.

After that incident, his fellow Slytherins had been less inclined to chase Lily away when she tried to spend time with Severus or with Travers, who seemed to be taking a mentorship role with Severus’ best friend, dragging him along in her wake.

Lily was just flattered an older student was taking an interest in her, and she took full advantage to obtain homework help and to keep from being chased away from the Slytherin table when she was looking for Severus.

Severus had overheard Malfoy try to give Travers the same speech the prefect had given Severus his first week of school, about not fraternizing with undesirables and about keeping poor company. Travers had almost looked amused, despite Malfoy’s attempts to seem threatening.

“Damn, and I’d actually started to think you had a brain under all that bleach,” Travers had drawled. “Malfoy, she’s a twelve-year-old girl. She’s not a leper.” He’d then, still cool as a cucumber, sent a nonverbal hex at Malfoy that shimmered over his skin despite the prefect’s attempt to dodge. “But if you use the word mudblood in my hearing again you’ll be in for more than hair loss,” he had added, turning away. Malfoy had squawked in outrage as his hair began to fall out in large clumps.

Travers didn’t even have to guard against an attack from the rear. The same gold and red magic that had so gently greeted Lily surged out of his skin and caught the spell, dissipating it. Malfoy’s wand flew across the common room so quickly it lodged itself into an armchair and the apoplectic sixth year had to go trudging after it.

Severus thought he might be a little in love. Travers was everything he wanted to be when he was older—clever, confident, and completely unbothered by the opinions of others. And he was funny and nice in the same way Lily was, too. And that magic—how had he even blocked that spell? Severus didn’t know of any magic that could do something like that. It almost looked like soulmate magic, but Travers had the silver band of an unbonded person, the same as Severus himself.

Still, his oddities made Severus watchful. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something going on, he was sure of it.

Travers drew his attention yet again on Halloween—or Samhain, as it was properly called here in the wizarding world. Lily spent the entire day at Severus’ shoulder cheerfully observing all the proper Samhain customs, just as Severus and his mother had taught her to do only a few years ago. The other Slytherins seemed to slowly grow less and less hostile with every “Blessed Samhain” Lily said, clearly beginning to realize she wasn’t the usual arrogant mudblood trampling over wizard custom like an imperialist passing through a foreign country.

Meanwhile, Travers spent the day jumpy as a person sneaking through the cave of a sleeping dragon. His eyes leapt wildly, shifting from target to target as people moved around him, and he startled every time someone spoke to him or got too close. He only seemed to relax marginally around the Bones heir and his cousin Atalanta Travers, but the sixth-year’s hand still hovered alarmingly close to his wand for someone who didn’t even need a wand to defend himself.

Everyone in the school had heard by lunchtime that Travers had wiped the floor with McLaggen in a duel and the Gryffindor was out for blood. The other sixth-years in the class claimed it hadn’t even been an effort for Travers, as if he was moving on instinct, seeing an enemy much more lethal than McLaggen could ever hope to be.

As cool and awesome as Travers usually was, there was something frightening about him today. Ghosts always gained a bit of an edge on Samhain, with the thinness of the Veil drawing the gap between death and life far closer than usual. Travers felt like a ghost when Severus had the misfortune of sitting next to him at lunch.

It had been the usual strategic decision to ensure Lily was allowed to sit with him, since they would be separated at the Feast that evening, but Severus regretted it immediately.

There was something chilly and otherworldly about Travers today, an edge of death to the usually warm and lively older boy. And it was affecting Lily too, whatever it was.

She sat sandwiched between Harry Travers and Severus himself, and the longer she sat the stranger she seemed. Her shadow wavered and vanished for the rest of the day, and she complained in the afternoon that a visit to the girl’s loo had revealed the mirrors weren’t showing her in their reflection for some bizarre reason. Her green eyes nearly glowed with a golden light, and her red hair left trails of red magic as she moved.

She left ghostly after-images in her wake and just like Travers, she felt like a ghost walking around in a borrowed skin.

Just before the Halloween Feast began, Black and Potter hurried over to the Slytherin table, Lupin and Pettigrew trailing behind them. Lupin was frowning at Travers with an unhappy, suspicious expression. Severus usually didn’t pay Lupin any attention, but he vaguely realized Black’s soulmate had been watching Travers with the same displeasure every time Black went bounding over to his older cousin like a puppy. Jealousy, Severus realized, like recognizing like. It was how he felt the few times Lily deigned to talk to Potter.

Black gave Travers a tight hug, whispering to him and clinging to him as though he couldn’t feel the cold that Travers had left in his wake all day long. Potter hugged him as well, wishing him happy birthday (oh, wow, it was his birthday?) and when Potter stepped away Lily’s soulmate also seemed oddly bright, his brown eyes glowing a faint reddish hue and his golden skin dripping sparks. As he and Black returned to the Gryffindor table, Potter left behind the same eerie after-images.

Why Lily and Potter? Severus wondered. Black and Lupin were also bonded soulmates, but they hadn’t been affected, so he didn’t think it was a soul magic thing specifically. Whatever it was seemed to be something specifically tying his best friend and her soulmate to the strange, foreign sixth-year boy.

Headmaster Dumbledore also watched Travers with narrowed, piercing eyes all day. He could clearly sense the aura of death Travers gave off like a thick miasma. The man had started off the year neutral to Travers, but the incident with Lily had soured his opinion of the Black Heir. Now he watched Travers like a hawk.

Travers himself remained jumpy and nervous, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, to use the muggle expression. Whatever sword of Damocles hung over his head never materialized, and the evening passed quietly enough. Severus enjoyed the Halloween feast, but he would have liked it better with Lily by his side. After the feast was over, Slytherin as usual held a quiet vigil in their common room, since the usual Samhain bonfire night had been discontinued when Professor Dumbledore became headmaster.

Travers stayed at the vigil until the candles had burned down and everyone else had gone to bed. Severus almost left, but in the end he stayed just as long as Travers did, feeling some odd sense of obligation. Finally, well past midnight, the cold that had followed the sixteen-year-old all day faded away to nothing. The faint glow to his skin shimmered away and he seemed normal again.

Travers breathed in and out, deeply, his body relaxing minutely.

“Are you okay?” Severus dared to ask.

Travers startled. “Wha-huh—Prof—err, Snape?”

“Everyone else has gone to bed,” Severus said.

Travers looked bemused. “But you stayed up with me?”

“Lily would have sat with you,” Severus tried to explain uncomfortably, “but she’s not here.”

The older boy’s face relaxed back into a gentle smile, the exact expression Mr. Evans made when he was touched by something Severus had said or done. Severus couldn’t help what came blurting out of his mouth even if he had tried to contain it.

“Why do you look so much like her?”

Travers blinked. His mouth fell open. “I—what? I don’t look anything like M-like Lily. Everyone says—I mean, anyone would say so.”

“It’s not your face shape, or anything,” Severus tried to explain badly. “It’s the faces you make. And you sound just like her da.”

Travers made a funny sort of face, almost like he was sad and eager at the same time. His Evans-green eyes shone.

“I do?” he asked softly, as if the idea of sounding like Lily Evans’ common muggle da was wonderful.

Severus nodded, the softness on the other boy’s face robbing him of his voice.

Travers smiled. “Thank you,” he said, even though Severus hadn’t done anything worth being thanked. The sixteen-year-old stood, stretching his arms above his head. His shoulders and back popped and creaked.

“We should get to bed,” he said quietly. “It’s well past curfew.”

“S’not like Slughorn ever checks,” Severus couldn’t help but snark. “And tomorrow’s the weekend.”

Travers laughed aloud, that Evans laugh bursting out of him. “True. Well, I’ve got Quidditch practice, so I need to try and sleep at least a few hours.” He wandered in the direction of the sixth-year dorm rooms, leaving Severus alone in the common room.

After a long minute turning the very odd interaction over in his mind, Severus went on to his own bed.

The next morning the newspaper was late in arriving. It didn’t reach the Great Hall until after the Slytherin Quidditch team had returned from practice for a late breakfast. Travers acted completely normal, if a bit tired, laughing and joking with the Black sisters. He sat down in the empty seat that had been left between the mini-Black and Severus himself out of habit and began to eat. He had half-eaten a piece of toast when the owls arrived.

The papers were dropped to the table and Severus knew the exact moment Travers saw the headline, because his glass goblet shattered in his grasp.

Gold and red magic began to spill out from the older boy like smoke from a cauldron. His grip tightened on the paper so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t rip, and the temperature rose so high directly around Travers that the air was hazing and Severus could feel sweat dripping down his temple.

Travers stood up silently and threw the paper down on the table, stalking furiously from the Great Hall with his breakfast unfinished. The students entering the hall parted around him like the Red Sea.

Severus was left looking at the blaring headline on the Daily Prophet:

Lord Voldemort and Allies Destroy Ministry Atrium in Violent Protest!

War Declared If the Ministry Continues to Ignore the Demands of the Walpurgis Party!

It was only when Travers had left the room, taking all the air with him, that Severus noticed all the windows in the hall were cracked.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was silent as Harry Travers stormed from the room. It was what Remus imagined it would be like if Dumbledore was furious about something—even from across the hall, he could taste the ozone of angry magic on his lips. Sirius immediately sprang to his feet and hurried after the older boy. Aggravatedly, reluctantly, Remus ran after him.

Sirius had been so strange since this summer. Remus could feel something different; something had changed in Sirius, that shifted how their soulmate bond was settling into the back of both their minds. And Sirius was so preoccupied with Travers, all the time! Remus could admit he had been jealous of how much attention Sirius was giving this random long-lost cousin. It felt like Sirius had barely any time for Remus himself, this year. It was either all the Marauders together (and Sirius kept giving Peter strange looks whenever they were all four together, too) or Sirius and James were tagging along after Travers like a pair of puppies.

And Sirius couldn’t seem to find the right time or place to just tell his soulmate what was going on! Since coming back to school Sirius had tried more than once to explain, but he always cut himself off when James or Peter was around, or when there were portraits, or whatever. It was like he was afraid of being overheard.

Remus desperately wished their bond was developed enough for telepathy so he could interrogate his soulmate. As it was, he could only sense Sirius’ emotions and guess at their meanings. It wasn’t like you got a translation booklet with your soulmate bond.

He caught up to Sirius standing lost in the corridor, frowning. He had a look, like he was peering inwards. It was the same look they both shared when tapping into their soul bond, but Remus couldn’t feel the slightest tug on their bond. Another flare of frustration sprang up in him, and Sirius’ eyes opened, looking apologetically at him.

“Remus, is something wrong?” he asked.

Remus avoided the confrontation by answering with another question. “What were you doing just now?”

Sirius worried his lip between his teeth. “I’m trying to find Harry,” he admitted.

“How?” Remus demanded.

Sirius looked around and then pulled Remus into a hidden corridor just off the Great Hall. He’d had no idea this was here, and looked around the darkened, dusty passageway in bewilderment.

“When did you find this?” he asked.

Sirius shrugged. “Harry showed it to me,” he said, walking rapidly down the corridor. Remus had to jog to keep up.

“Why are you so obsessed with him!?” burst out of the twelve-year-old werewolf. “What’s so special about Travers, anyway?”

Sirius paused, looking back at Remus. He glanced around, and apparently deciding they were alone enough for once, he said, “He’s my godson.”

Remus became aware his mouth was hanging open. “What?”

Sirius shrugged. “Apparently we’ve got some weird time turner cupboard in the basement of my house,” he said plainly. “When Harry was pulled back in time by accident all his bonds came with him. Including his bond to me.”

Remus felt like he was about to explode with questions, and Sirius’ lips quirked, clearly sensing his turmoil.

“I meant to tell you earlier, but Harry only said I could tell you, not James or Peter. Jamie’s mum and dad don’t think James is old enough to know. Honestly, I don’t think they feel like I’m old enough to know, but I had no choice. My older self swore the traditional godfather oath, so if I’d broken it by accident it would have been…” Sirius grimaced, trailing off.

“Really bad,” Remus said numbly. “It could have killed you.”

It had been Remus’ godfather who revealed to Greyback the location of the Lupin household. His godfather had thought Greyback was a muggle about to be obliviated, not knowing that as a werewolf he was immune to obliviation, so he hadn’t meant to get his godson bitten, but it didn’t matter. He had still died painfully from being the direct cause of Remus’ near-death experience.

Sirius just nodded, visibly unconcerned. “Yeah. But it’s not that bad. Harry’s awesome. He’s a great godson.”

Remus sighed explosively. “No wonder you’ve been so clingy with him. If the bond only just formed on your end, you’ve got parent fever. I was starting to wonder if you had a three-way soul bond.”

Parent fever was a joking term for how soulmate parents reacted to having biological children together. Because of their own strong magical and mental bond, most parental worries and focuses were magnified, making soulmate parents kind of obsessive helicopter parents for the first year or two until the kid started to develop enough magic of their own to interact with their parents’ soul bond in that way unique to soulmate children. Since the godparent magical oath was designed to imitate a soulmate parent’s relationship with their child, a new godparent got a lesser version of parent fever just like a biological parent would.

Three-way soul bonds, on the other hand, were much rarer. When a group of people all shared soulmarks, they usually had one for each of the other members of the group, meaning such people had multiple soulmarks. Even more rarely, one person could have two soulmarks to different people, but those two people would not have marks with each other. That sort of lopsided bond was almost mythical, it was so unlikely, but it hadn’t stopped Remus from catastrophizing in his mounting anxiety over Sirius’ odd bond with Harry Travers.

Sirius’ eyes went wide. “Oh, no, Remus, no! I would have told you upfront if I had another soul bond. The only reason I didn’t tell you this from the start was because I wasn’t allowed. Harry gave me permission, but he said James and Peter couldn’t know yet, so I had to figure out a way to tell you without them overhearing. I’m so sorry!”

Remus slipped his hand into his soulmates and smiled. “You’re forgiven,” he said, unable to stay mad in the face of Sirius’ big grey eyes. “Now let’s find your godson.”

Sirius wove through dark, dusty passageways unerringly until they were in a large, empty chamber. A tall figure in Slytherin robes was crumpled in the corner, and it looked like he’d rendered a collection of old school desks down to kindling before collapsing.

Sirius hurried over to climb into the older boy’s lap, Remus hovering behind him. Harry was staring dull-faced at the floor, his eyes a teary red like he’d been crying. He blinked and looked up.

“Si’rus?” he asked faintly. “Prof’ss’r Lupin?”

Remus blinked. “Professor?” he asked, startled. Sirius grinned up at him.

“You taught Harry the Patronus charm, right?” He looked to Harry for confirmation.

Harry nodded, running his sleeve across his eyes. “Y-yeah.” He quirked a shallow smile. “Best defence professor I’ve ever had,” he said.

Remus gaped. “What? Me? Even with—even though—?”

Harry shrugged. “Damocles Belby’s going to publish a potion in 1987 that helps a werewolf keep their mind while transformed. Part of your teaching contract was having to take it every month and being locked in your office. Your status was still a secret until some jerk outed you at the end of the school year, but as long as we get that stupid curse on the Defence post taken care of first, you could still do that. Or maybe you could be the Care of Magical Creatures professor. You were always more interested in those parts of Defence, and that position doesn’t come with a curse that’s guaranteed to ruin your life sometime in the school year.”

The two boys were open-mouthed. Remus was delighted. “Me, a professor,” he whispered.

Sirius, though, was more interested in the Defence curse. “So the Curse is real?” he asked. “You told me people were talking about it at the Slug Club dinner back at the beginning of the month.”

Harry snorted. “By the time I started Hogwarts in 1991, the school had consistently had at least one professor in Defence a year for the past nineteen years. By the time I was sent back here, we’d had one professor possessed by V-a Dark wizard, one managed to wipe his own mind trying to obliviate a pair of twelve-year-olds to take credit for rescuing a kidnapped girl, Remus got outed for being a werewolf after somehow forgetting his potion after a whole year of taking it, and then there was the one who was a terrorist under polyjuice potion to look like an auror. And this last year we had this sadistic cow from the Ministry who was running a smear campaign and torturing students who didn’t support the current Minister’s regime. We hadn’t gotten rid of her yet, but I honestly wouldn’t have put it past some of the students to accidently on purpose murder her. Somebody did let nifflers loose in her office.”

Both boys winced, clearly aware of how vicious nifflers could be when on the hunt for gold, but also visibly shell-shocked by Harry’s rant.

“That sounds like a curse, alright,” Sirius said. Remus just nodded.

Sirius hugged Harry carefully. “What made you so upset?” he asked.

Harry scowled at the ground. “The war,” he mumbled.  “I know I couldn’t have changed enough to make it never happen, yet, but I just—I want—” He struggled to get any words out.

Remus sank down next to his soulmate and his godson—because even if Sirius was the one with the bond with Harry, Remus would of course have been his secondary godparent in the future if Sirius was his bonded godfather. You could only have one bond, but even if his and Sirius’ bond wasn’t romantic—his cheeks pinked at the thought—there’s no way he would leave Sirius to godparent a kid alone. That’s what being good soulmates was all about.

“There’s going to be a war?” Remus asked.

Harry’s eyes squeezed shut and tears trickled out. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I just—I might be able to stop it. I could. Maybe. If—if I weren’t such a coward. Or if he cared.”

Remus was confused by that, and Sirius was as well, he could sense. “You can still give it your best shot,” Remus suggested. “And if you can’t stop it completely, we can still keep our families safe. If you know what’s coming, we can try and stay safe. Like when a seer gives warnings.”

Harry gave him a watery smile. “Sorry, but I’ve always thought Divination was kind of bunk.”

Remus laughed. “Me too.”

“But you’re a time traveller,” Sirius protested. “That’s different.”

A fire began to kindle in Harry’s green eyes. Odd. They looked a lot like Evans’. Remus suddenly put together that Sirius was Harry’s godfather, James wasn’t allowed to know about Harry yet, and Lily Evans was James Potter’s soulmate. Oh. They weren’t only like Evans’ eyes, were they?

Remus thought of how Harry had taken Evans under his wing, something that he had found strange before but now made perfect sense. Of course he wanted a relationship with his mother, even if she was a child.

“You’re right, Sirius,” Harry murmured. “I’m a time traveller. If I want things to change, I have to make it happen.”

Remus was pretty sure Harry had gotten that ability to be ominous and inspiring at the same time from Evans, too.

*          *          *

The whispers were endless, and it made Harry want to scream. It was starting again. It was like the aftermath of Voldemort’s resurrection, only instead of disbelieving the Dark Lord was really back, it was just that nobody seemed to think it would actually come to war.

The Slytherins were smug and confident, sure their parents had secured the political leverage they needed, sure the Ministry would bend to the demands of the Walpurgis Party. Those on the opposite side of the argument continued to whisper about Lord Voldemort’s audacity, but none of them were truly concerned. Nobody thought it was serious.

The teachers had better instincts, but of them only Dumbledore and Slughorn looked truly worried. Dumbledore was absent from the high table constantly, probably at the Ministry trying to do damage control. The Order of the Phoenix probably didn’t exist yet, Harry had realized at some point.

Had Gus already taken the Dark Mark?

To avoid having to think about the havoc his soulmate was about to unleash, Harry had thrown himself into the Quidditch season. He attended practices religiously and went flying at every spare moment, doing dangerous stunts that cleared his mind of anything but his flying.

It was actually helping his Occlumency, the flying. It was a much easier method to clearing his mind than the meditation Rowena had taught him. And working on his Occlumency was giving Harry clarity of thought as his emotions were worked through and dismissed, giving him the chance to think about his options.

He couldn’t just write to Voldemort and claim to be his soulmate. Voldemort might believe him, or he might not. Even if he did believe, he would want tons of explanations Harry didn’t dare put in a letter. No, if Harry wanted to try to end the war by igniting his soul bond, he would have to wait until they met next and just…speak to him properly that time.

Harry hated the idea of it. He didn’t want to.

It was awful all around, how conflicted he was. He actually kind of liked this sane version of his soulmate. Even if they disagreed on several political points, they also agreed on a surprising number. And Tom Riddle was funny and witty, gave excellent advice, and was a good letter correspondent. But—but this was also the man who would one day tell him to “bow to death”, who would murder his family and torment him endlessly.

Harry didn’t want to have a soul bond to the man willing to start a war for his political ideals. But he did want a soul bond with the man he exchanged weekly letters with.

There were many instances of wars being ended because key members of opposing sides ended up being soulmates. But there were also plenty of instances of soul bonded pairs dying in wars due to being trapped on opposite sides. Maybe Voldemort would even reject the bond if Harry tried to manipulate it that way. If he used some forbidden magic to break apart their bond the way Grindelwald had broken his bond to Dumbledore, it might explain why he was so insane in the future.

So maybe using his own soul bond as leverage wasn’t the best idea after all.

Was there anything Harry Travers could do, even without using the leverage of being the man’s soulmate?

Well, the only thing Harry Travers might have the ability to do was write a strongly worded letter. It didn’t seem enough, but it was better than nothing and channelling his energy into letter drafts meant he wasn’t using it to perform dangerous stunts on his broomstick, so was probably a better idea anyway.

Two weeks and nearly a hundred drafts later, it was time for the first Quidditch game of the season: Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

The Slytherins and Gryffindors marched onto the field. Harry couldn’t help but grin at his dad and Sirius, who were both new chasers on the team. The team captain for Gryffindor, unfortunately, was seventh year Tiberius McLaggen. He was also one of the team beaters, and Harry had a sudden foreboding this wouldn’t be the fun low-stakes game he had been anticipating.

As soon as Madame Hooch blew the whistle Harry had taken off like a proper Seeker. All the practice he had done in Godric’s Hollow over the past summer had improved his strategy by leaps and bounds, and the other Seeker, a blonde girl he didn’t know, took only moments to decide to tail him instead of doing her own search pattern.

The Slytherins were operating like a well-oiled team due to Vanity’s obsessive teamwork exercises for the members of the team that actually had to work together. As Seeker, Vanity had often used Harry to be the disruptor messing up their team plays, to help them practice under difficult conditions. It was impressive to see that all coming together.

It made Harry kind of sad there was no way he would be captain. Maybe in his own time, after Angelina had graduated…if Katie hadn’t wanted it…but in this time Vanity was only a fourth year and was a brilliant captain, while Harry was only the transfer student with excellent Seeking skills. He wouldn’t have a chance to be captain while Vanity held the badge, even if he had wanted it badly.

As it was, the thought was only a wistful passing fancy he shook off in favour of doing a disruptive play weaving in and out of the Gryffindor Chaser formation. The Chasers scattered and Harry heard the whistling of a Bludger. He dove out of the way and began to make evasive manoeuvres when another Bludger went flying right by his ear.

A chanced glance back showed McLaggen smirking, Beater bat still aloft.

Harry rolled his eyes and flew high above the crowd, spiralling erratically so he would be more difficult to hit. The Gryffindor seeker girl circled in less complex patterns just below him, neatly blocking McLaggen from sending any more Bludgers his way, but unfortunately also preventing him from having an easy route down if he saw the Snitch. He would have to do something about that, Harry decided. A Wronski Feint or some other ploughing manoeuvre?

…well, the Wronski Feint was easiest—for him at least.

Harry dropped unexpectedly like a stone, plummeting past the circling girl below him and past the Chasers fighting over the Quaffle. Gryffindor’s Seeker came plunging after him. He pulled out of the dive at the last second and was impressed when the girl did the same. She was actually pretty good.

And now that he’d done an obvious feint, she wasn’t following him as closely, too afraid of being caught out again.

As Harry pulled back up he was forced to dodge another Bludger, and then it was batted back at him again. Now that Harry was back in the formation range McLaggen didn’t seem to want him to escape again, dogging his tail with repeated Bludger strikes.

Boos began to surface from the stands as it became obvious McLaggen was targeting him.

Slytherin scored and the Slytherin chasers took possession of the Quaffle again before the second Gryffindor Beater seemed to abandon his captain’s strategy and go back to hitting Bludgers towards the chasers. McLaggen backed off slightly, but Harry was still forced to dodge the occasional Bludger sent his way.

Harry sighed in exasperation. Couldn’t he go just once without a drastic injury on the Quidditch pitch? It was as much to prove he could get out of this injured as it was a taunt to McLaggen that Harry decided to begin harrying the Gryffindor Beaters.

He would drop in front of them, swooping in from odd angles to throw them off their strike, before vanishing again either above or below the rest of the players. McLaggen grew redder and redder in the face as Harry continued to evade him.

Then—a glint of gold.

Harry was off like a shot, zooming across the field so fast the world around him was a blur. Everything narrowed down to that tiny golden ball. He reached his arm out and plucked it out of the air.

He gasped and nearly fell off his broom as a Bludger was caught by his blood protection just before it ploughed into his back. It rebounded the opposite direction.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Harry frantically held up the Snitch, waving it around. The whistle blew again, ending the game.

Cheers rang out from the Slytherin side of the stands, and disappointed groans from the Gryffindors. Sirius and James flew frantically over to Harry, Narcissa and Andromeda close behind.

“Harry! Are you alright?” Sirius gasped out, pale and frightened looking. “You got hit by that Bludger pretty hard!”

Harry coughed. “Oh, um, it didn’t actually hit me. It hit my blood protection. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t see the red light or stuff that showed up when it was acting up on Halloween,” James said suspiciously.

Harry shrugged. “It just all happened really fast, was all. But I’m fine. I swear.”

They landed on the pitch and Vanity came down next to the group of Blacks and Potters. “Do I need to call a healer, Travers?” she asked with a gimlet eye.

“No, I’m good!” Harry said. “I doubt I’ll even have bruises.”

The young captain grinned. “Good show, then. I’ll see you in the common room for the party!” and she hurried off, chattering to friends coming onto the field to congratulate her plays. The students were pouring out of the stands and onto the pitch now, either congratulating the players or commiserating them depending on the team.

The Gryffindor Seeker ran over. “Hey, good game, Travers!” she shouted out in a thick Scottish accent.

Harry grinned back, good-naturedly. “You’re pretty good yourself,” he said.

“You’ve got that right,” a tall Gryffindor said in an equally thick Scottish accent, slinging an arm around the girl. “I’m Lorcan Wood, Cassie’s boyfriend.”

Harry blinked, suddenly seeing the resemblance between this couple and his former Quidditch captain. “Good to meet you,” he said. “And I meant it. Cassie’s good enough to go pro, if she keeps practicing for another year or so.”

Cassie beamed at him. “That’s the hope,” she admitted. “I want to play for either the Montrose Magpies or the Pride of Portree when I graduate.”

“I hope you get the position,” Harry said.

Cassie laughed. “Me too. And you know, you could go pro yourself if you tried out. Any team would be lucky to have you.”

A scoff came from off to one side, and Harry looked over to see McLaggen, looking spitting mad.

“Problem?” Harry asked.

“You really think you would make pro?” Mc:aggen asked scathingly.

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “I’m sorry, which of us won the game for our team? Oh, sorry, you must have been so distracted by your own stupid grudge you didn’t notice. Next time try actually playing with your team and you might make a better showing.”

McLaggen snarled in disgust. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you Travers?” he demanded, pointing a finger at Harry’s chest.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I really don’t know what your problem with me is, McLaggen,” he sighed. “And honestly, I don’t care. Go cool your head. I’ve got a party to get to.”

“I want a proper duel!” McLaggen burst out. “Not one of those stupid classroom displays with Professor Wolper standing over us.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh in his face. “McLaggen,” he said patiently. “You’ve never won in a duel with me. Why do you think trying outside the classroom would make any difference?”

McLaggen just growled. Harry rolled his eyes again and turned to walk away. He had bigger problems than a sore loser. McLaggen shouted some spell, but Harry didn’t even bother turning around. He knew his parents’ blood protection would catch it.

He had a party to go to and a letter to work on. He didn’t have time for some idiot teenage rivalry anymore.

*          *          *

They learned the next morning that there had been another attack the day of their Quidditch game, on the house of one of the biggest political opponents to the Walpurgis Party. They only hadn’t attacked the biggest political opponent because that was Dumbledore, and he had been at the Quidditch game with all of Hogwarts.

The Daily Prophet headlines screamed about how Lord Voldemort had now been officially declared a Dark Lord by the Ministry. The Walpurgis Party had been declared an illegal organization enacting rebellion. Harry had thrown up half the morning, skipping all his classes in favour of begging a nausea potion from the hospital wing and going back to bed.

A brief, scathing letter went winging its way from the Owlry late that night and Harry let out a sigh of relief at having actually done something.

He had no idea how effective his withering criticisms of Voldemort’s tactics would be, nor his insistence he would not correspond with the man any longer so long as he was inciting war. It was all he could do, though…or, Harry realized suddenly, not all.

He hastily scribbled out another three letters—one to Arcturus and Orion, one to the Potters, and one to the Department of Mysteries. He could at least try to keep the people he cared about out of the fight, if they would listen to him.

Harry hoped they would listen to him.

Merlin knew his soulmate likely wouldn’t.