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Chapter Text

This was a bad dream. 

It had to be. It must be a nightmare, purgatory, something . Anything, anything at all except for what his sneaking suspicions were saying. 

There was no way – there was no way – Harry James Potter had been hit by the Killing Curse and promptly been transported back in time.

And yet.

No.

This had to be hell. Hell was real, and this was it.

Harry went through the motions, preparing meals for the Dursleys in a body too small, gardening in sweltering summer heat, inhaling fumes of toxic chemicals as he scrubbed the floors and bruised his knees. He sunk into a depression so deep he was barely alive, except for when he slept, when nightmares of all sorts haunted his every step. 

This had to be hell.

Hell was real, and this was it.

And then, on July 24 th , a heavy letter with a green wax seal upon the back lay innocently on the Dursley’s welcome matt, and Harry awoke.

Surely there would be no Hogwarts letters in hell?

*

The owl awaited him outside when he emerged with a response, in which he simply wrote: I would be delighted to attend. It was the truth, and he didn’t know what else to say. Requesting an escort to Diagon Alley would mean bringing wizard-folk to Surrey, and that would only bring pain to Harry… and once in Diagon Alley, he’d need to act like he was new and impressed and not like the last time he had seen the street, it had been a mess of ash and smoke. He was too depressed to act.

He was too horrified to act.

Because surely, there would be no Hogwarts letters in hell. Which, surely, meant only one thing: Voldemort still lived, and Harry would have to do everything again.

*

Over the next week, Harry spent every free moment stealing. Whenever the Dursleys looked away he had a hand in their pockets, or their purses, or their wallets – only small amounts, never enough to be noticed, and mostly from Dudley who would never notice anyway. He was an easy target: he had no grasp of finances at all, and would never realize a couple of pounds were missing.

And then Harry made his way to London. A ten-year-old child on their own. 

He was lucky he was more mature than a ten-year-old. It took some cheeky smiles and “you’re not the first to say that, sir, but I have a condition – I struggle with nutrients, see, means I’m a few years behind in the puberty department”, and people left him alone.

He made it all the way to the Leaky Cauldron, where he snuck past Tom – and he tried not to think too hard on that, on last time he’d seen poor Tom, cowering from a Death Eater – and into the portal passageway.

And promptly remembered a wand was required to open it.

“Fuck,” said Harry, aloud. His heart hammered. He would not turn back – maybe he could wait for someone else to open it?

Hagrid could open it with a broken wand. Would a broken wand work ? Ron’s had, if poorly, and so did Hagrid’s, but maybe… what if it was less about the wand itself and more about the magic within it?

Harry looked down on his hands, flexing his fingers. This is a bad idea , he told himself. But there was merit in it: he was young, very young, and he’d never touched a wand in his life, never had to focus his strength in it – and now that he was feeling for it, he was positively bursting with energy.

Slowly, cautiously, Harry siphoned magic into his fingertip. It burned hot and electric, and he hurried to tap the bricks in the right order so he could withdraw the magic again, lest he spontaneously combust. 

And the bricks folded aside to reveal Diagon Alley.

Harry stood there, rooted to the spot, at the sight of all that joy and cheer. It had been a month, now, since he woke in his younger body, and still he tasted ash on his tongue, still he smelled metallic blood, still he heard the cries of battle upon Hogwarts grounds.

This was… 

He shook his head, raised his chin, and marched onward. He had a bank to visit.

*

A familiar face sat by one of the tills, only a short line of wixen before him. It was a face Harry had last seen sunken and sallow from starvation and grime; twisted in pain under the foot of a dragon, blood smeared across the lips, a distant look in the eyes.

Harry approached. As the line shrunk, he tried to recall what little he knew about Goblin culture, and Goblin greetings, and behaviours. The last thing he wanted to do was commit some horrid social faux pass.

“Evening,” said Griphook the Goblin, peering down his thin nose to give Harry a curious look. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Good evening,” Harry replied. “Harry Potter. I’d like to make a withdrawal from my account.”

Griphook’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in possession of your key?”

Fuck. The key. 

Dumbledore. Dumbledore, still alive, not yet touched by cursed horcruxes or darkness. Dumbledore – who had lied and occluded and sent Harry to his death, Dumbledore who had loved him, who had sacrificed him.

“I’m not,” Harry admitted, shoving all complicated thoughts of Dumbledore’s complicated character from his mind. “Are there any other ways to prove who I am?”

There had to be. There had to be ; without access to his account, there was no way at all Harry could proceed with his vague summer plans. “Indeed there are,” said Griphook, “although it shall cost a fee, whether you are who you say or not. And believe me when I say…” He leaned forward to level Harry with an intense look. “You do not want to be indebted to Gringotts.”

“I understand,” Harry said. “I don’t intend to be.”

Griphook nodded and waved his hand; a prickling sensation washed over Harry, then receded. “Excellent, Mister Potter. A withdrawal, you say? Follow me.”

*

The sight of his vault, the mountains of gold towering taller than him, made him sick. When he had first seen it, he had been overjoyed, but now – there was no need for all this, surely, he had no need for money like this. Were there charities he could donate to? Or, God forbid, investments he could make…?

“Griphook,” he said, spinning on his heel to look at his guide. Griphook startled, baring his teeth in a snarl, and Harry realized belatedly that he had not yet shared his name. Fuck. Shit. “Sorry,” he smartly said. “Er – does Gringotts – do you provide any financial advice? I’m not sure what to… do , with all this.”

“Certainly, Mister Potter.” It was utterly impossible for Harry to decipher the look that followed. “As your account manager, I am in a position to offer such services. For a fee, of course.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” said Harry. “Just a second, let me…” He grabbed several handfuls of galleons, sickles and even some knuts to shove in his pockets before he scurried back to the door. “Could you, er… do it right now? For an extra fee? I… I need some help.”

Griphook eyed him with something akin to approval. “Follow me, Mister Potter.”

*

Harry had never been in Griphook’s office before, but he did not get much time to look around before Griphook turned to him and said, “I must inform you, Mister Potter: since you are underage, it is my duty to relay this meeting to your magical guardian.”

“Magical guardian,” Harry repeated. And then, before he could stop himself, he sighed. “It’s Dumbledore, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“And you have to report to him?” Harry asked, giving Griphook a pleading look.

Griphook did not move a muscle. “By Ministry Law, yes.”

Why was Harry so set on not letting Dumbledore know about his status? Perhaps it was just a sense of childish revenge; Dumbledore had kept so many secrets from Harry, playing his game of chess made from the grand scheme of things – perhaps some part of Harry buckled down and said, quite stubbornly, that he could play, too .

It was that part, the rapidly growing part, that said, “and by goblin law?”

Griphook bared his teeth in a wicked snarl. Harry recognized it as a grin. “By goblin law, any meetings held between a vault manager and the vault holder regarding the vault itself require full client confidentiality. No matter the age of the client.”

Harry saw the issue at once: this was not a meeting regarding his vault. He eyed Griphook, wondering if he was supposed to say it aloud or if ‘implicit’ was ‘plicit enough. When Griphook merely eyed him right back, he hesitantly said, “I’d… like to request a meeting with my vault manager. Er… regarding the vault under my name, as the only surviving Potter.”

There was a gleam to Griphook’s eye when he said, “it is done.”

Harry got the very peculiar feeling of having passed a test.

Griphook took his seat at last. Harry waited for a signal to sit, and when Griphook nodded, he gathered his limbs into the chair. “Now,” said Griphook. “You may begin by informing me of Dumbledore’s wrongdoings against you.”

Carefully, Harry considered his options.

Where a different version of him intended to keep the Sword of Gryffindor after the theft of the Cup of Hufflepuff, this Harry informed Griphook, in hushed tones in a cottage by the seaside, of Voldemort’s horcruxes – and why it was so essential, so important, the sword remained.

Griphook had taken the secret to his weighted grave, cutting short their plan of him remaining with the three of them as they continued the hunt. Harry had not wept for him, but he had grieved nonetheless. 

With all this in his thoughts, joined by the echoes of Griphook’s last rattling breaths – Harry’s promise that he would return the sword to its people at the war’s end, sworn with blood and magic – it all led to him blurting, “I’m from the future.”

Griphook… blinked.

“I’m from the future,” said Harry again, slower this time, with more conviction. “And if Dumbledore knew – if anyone knew – they’d surely lock me up in the Department of Mysteries.”

“Mister Potter,” said Griphook slowly, and Harry fisted his hands into his oversized shirt. “You do understand this is quite the… outlandish claim.”

“The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff is in Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault as we speak,” said Harry, at once. “It’s a horcrux. Voldemort’s horcrux.”

Griphook’s face darkened with fury. Whether it was aimed at Harry, he couldn’t tell. “A grave and serious accusation.”

Harry nodded. “I’m well aware. He made six others, one of which…” He swallowed. “One of which resides in me. At least it did, when I died.”

“…when you died , Harry Potter?”

“Yeah, in the future. By Voldemort’s wand. It was…” Harry swallowed. Images of Hogwarts rose, blinding in their horror, bright with fire and dark with blood. He closed his eyes. “If you have a pensive, Griphook, I’ll show you.”

Slowly, Griphook removed the frail glasses which rested upon his nose, holding them in shaking hands. “Harry Potter. Of all people – of all creatures – why would you come to a goblin with this information?”

Harry laughed. It was not an amused laugh. It was dry, and meek, and broken, and still he smiled at Griphook, and said, “because you died my ally, and I swore by our blood to end the war, so the Sword of Gryffindor would be returned to its rightful people.”

Griphook dropped his glasses.

*

An entire hour later, Griphook emerged from the pensive. He did not seem shaken, though Harry knew he must be: he looked on Harry in a new light.

Harry hadn’t shown him everything. Just snippets, pieces of the last year. Hunting for the horcruxes, destroying them, drowning in scorching false-gold. The battle of Hogwarts; Voldemort’s cold eyes; the flash of green light.

Dobby’s grave. Griphook’s death.

Blood.

“I see,” said Griphook quietly. “Gringotts will… take care of the Cup. The snake – ”

“Hasn’t been made yet,” Harry hurriedly interrupted.

“Yes. As for the Locket and the Diadem – they are outside Gringotts’ reach. The diary…”

“I s’pose Malfoy’s got it,” said Harry. “I’ll figure it out. Is there… do you know if there’s a way? To remove the one in my scar? Without killing me, I mean.”

Griphook splayed his hands out, showing they were empty. Harry’s heart sunk. “I shall look into the matter for you. If there is a way, we will have it done, Harry Potter. You must, after all, fulfill your vow.”

“And the Locket?” said Harry, offering a meek smile at Griphook’s words. “It’s at Grimmauld Place, number thirteen – the Black house.”

Griphook snorted. “One of many Black houses.” He turned to his papers, flitting through them hurriedly. “As it stands, you are the heir to House Black. As the current Lord Black is currently imprisoned, you are able to accept the Heirship and have the Black properties granted to you until the Lord passes or becomes available.”

“How do I go about freeing him?”

Griphook paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sirius,” Harry clarified. “He’s innocent. Never got a trial.”

There was a long pause, hopefully because Griphook was seriously considering his options. “I shall inquire with the DMLE to receive a copy of his trial documents on behalf of a client. That is all I can do.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. Hopefully it’d be enough to get the ball rolling. “Right. So, the heirship?”

Ten minutes later, Harry had the Black House Sigil marked in dark ink upon his breast, far more money to his name, several residences, and, most importantly, a House Elf at his disposal. “Kreacher!”

*

Harry had never seen Kreacher this happy or grateful before, which was a little scary. The ruined Slytherin Locket was sent back with Kreacher to Grimmauld Place, with orders to be on standby in case Harry had need for him at a later date – and permission to choose one of Regulus’ old keepsakes to keep for himself, which sent him into a fit of sobs before he at last left.

And then Harry sat down with Griphook to go over his finances. Finally .

*

After purchasing several glamouring items from Gringotts and sending Kreacher out for some muggle cosmetics – foundation in Harry’s skin tone as well as liquid latex, to cover his scar – Harry settled in a rented room above an inn in Knockturn Alley.

Then he slept. 

It had been an exhausting month since he woke, and tomorrow was his birthday. He could do his shopping then.

*

The first thing he did was get a wand.

“Ah,” said Ollivander, the moment Harry stepped into his shop. Harry swallowed thickly; Ollivander, last Harry had seen him, had just started to look alive again after a long imprisonment in the Malfoy cellar. “Harry Potter. I thought I might be seeing you soon.”

Yeah, because of course Ollivander would know without ever seeing his scar. He should’ve expected it. “I plead client confidentiality, sir.”

“Of course, of course. Come right this way, I shall find you a wand that fits…”

Harry was, quite honestly, a bit surprised his old holly wand returned to his hand. He’d held so many, known so many, and it hadn’t really worked for him ever since he became the Master of the Elder Wand – but his magic wasn’t that of an eighteen year old martyr; it was that of an eleven year old child.

And still, the holly wand buzzed oddly in his palm, as though it knew it would never perform quite as well as the Elder Wand held with the same fingers. What had previously felt like friendship now felt like nothing more than coworkers . Still: a wand was a wand, and it seemed pleased to work with him nonetheless.

Next on the list was a trunk, which was simple enough. For an extra fee, Harry got a few extra charms on the regular Hogwarts student trunk – some for privacy (called the Slytherin kit), and some for extended space (called the Ravenclaw kit, this one included an extra compartment with a surprising amount of shelves) – and then he bid the shopkeeper farewell and went on his merry way.

He worked his way down the list of other equipment on the list. Soon a telescope, brass scales and crystal phials had found their way into his trunk, along with several quills with different enchantments, different types of ink and copious amounts of parchments and leather-bound journals. A pewter cauldron joined them, and Harry, remembering Ron’s cauldron was nearly worn through, went to grab a second.

And he halted, hand hovering awkwardly mid-air. He hadn’t met Ron yet. Ron . He’d managed to avoid thinking about his friends up until now, and it had its consequences as Harry desperately tried to not sob openly in the middle of the store.

What point was there, even? He’d have to die to let Voldemort die. As soon as he got rid of all the Horcruxes – second year at the earliest, as he needed the diary, though the ring would prove trickiest – he would have to turn his wand upon himself so someone could finish Voldemort off for good.

Second year at the earliest , thought a part of him. That means we’ve still got a whole year. Get the extra cauldron. Can’t hurt .

Harry couldn’t argue with that logic. So, faithfully, he shoved all thoughts of Ron and Hermione and Neville and Dean and Seamus and Luna and Ginny and oh, God, the twins – he shoved all those thoughts away and resolutely brought the two cauldrons to the counter.

Next on the list was robes. Squinting at the crumpled list of what the uniform required, Harry wondered if muggleborns were informed about all the other robes they could buy, too – a single winter cloak and plain work robes wasn’t really enough to battle the Scottish winter chill. He’d be getting more clothes than just that – something with pockets, and charms, and protections against weather and theft and whatnot else. Maybe some of the tights some of the girls used under their skirts; Hermione’s had always been warm and soft to the touch, and it would be nice under robes or trousers in the cold. Oh, to hell with it, why not get a whole new wardrobe?

Madam Malkin’s was the only place in Diagon Alley that sold Hogwarts uniforms, and so Harry went that way first. 

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.” And saying so, she led a horrified Harry to the back of the store.

Of course. He’d forgotten – his first trip to Diagon had been on his birthday, too – his first trip, the trip where he met –

Draco Malfoy, eleven years old and unmarked, stood on a stool looking horribly bored. 

He was so young. He was so young , only a child, and Harry could muster no hate, no disgust, for that little boy with the chubby cheeks and pointed chin – the boy who hadn’t yet stood on a burning pile of tables, the boy who hadn’t thrown all caution to the wind and sobbed for Harry’s help – the boy who hadn’t slipped from Harry’s grasp and fallen to the flames far below.

The boy who now looked at Harry and said, “hello. Hogwarts, too?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, and hoped he didn’t sound as small and scared as he felt. 

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy, who was definitely Draco Malfoy, who Harry – a young man by all rights, worn by war and death – now realized was desperately trying to impress. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry tried to find his voice. “You’ll bully him? Isn’t your dad Lucius Malfoy? I wouldn’t think you’d have to bully him to get a broom.”

Excellent work, Harry , thought Harry, exasperated. That would definitely endear Malfoy to him, and not at all push him further into prejudice and misgivings.

Malfoy’s pale face colored. “Well, no – ”

“Don’t you have a broom already?” There was no way Malfoy hadn’t had a broom since before he could walk. Even Harry had a broom that young, when his parents were in hiding in the midst of a war. “I don’t see why you’d need two. Unless you’re in a habit of crashing?” When Malfoy’s face darkened, not with embarrassment but with anger, Harry giggled. “I’m pulling your leg, Malfoy. Still, I’d not want to start breaking rules on day one, if I’m being honest. Not with something as risky as a smuggled broom – you’d cost Slytherin way too many points for that.”

Now Malfoy eyed him with interest, and Harry regretted engaging him in conversation at all. Malfoy was eleven ; Harry couldn’t be friends with an eleven year old, there was no way. He didn’t need friends – he needed to destroy Voldemort, and he’d die prematurely, on that path. “You’re Slytherin, too, then?”

Harry tried not to grimace. If Gryffindor had been hard throughout the years, he had no hopes for Slytherin not eating him alive. “Can’t say for sure until I’m sorted,” he said airily: a non-answer, which nonetheless seemed enough for Malfoy.

“Play Quidditch, then?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Seeker. You?”

“I prefer Chaser,” said Malfoy.

Harry stared. 

“What?” said Malfoy, frowning at him as though Harry was being ridiculous. “Something wrong with Chasing?”

“No!” Harry blurted. “No, not at all, it’s just – ” It’s just, you flew against me, you were my enemy, a Death Eater, and the flames swallowed you whole . “ – you’ve got a Seeker’s build, is all.”

“You think so? Well, I’m a much better Chaser, I’ve been told. Not half-bad at Seeking, though. Are you any good?”

That made Harry smile. “I’m alright.”

“Think you’ll make the House team?”

Harry’s smile widened. “Oh, I don’t know. I might not be that good.”

“That’s you done, my dear,” said Madam Malkin, giving Harry a smile. 

“Oh, great, thank you.” Harry hopped down from the stool, going to the counter to pay. “Would it be too much a bother to get some extra robes? And some of those warming charms on the winter cloak, maybe? Oh – and the tights, for the girls’ uniforms, could I have some of those, too?”

Madam Malkin gave him a bit of an odd look he failed to decipher, then smiled and added it to his order. 

Before Malfoy could be finished and hound him for more talk, Harry made for Twilfitt and Tattings, whom he knew had a line of multi-purpose daily wear. After, he would go to Sew Bold, who specialized in altering garments to the wearer’s purpose. His Hogwarts robes sorely needed more pockets.

*

His last stop, as noon swelled into late afternoon, was the bookstore. He made quick work of gathering his coursebooks – though he wasn’t sure he’d actually be needing them, considering all he knew already – then browsed a little, looking for other books that caught his interest. Anything to do with the Dark Arts, in particular: he wasn’t so naïve as to think there’d be no repercussions for destroying Voldemort’s horcruxes, whether from the man himself or his followers. Slightly vindicated, and with a fond thought to his younger self, he put Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue- Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian in his basket.

Other, far more complex books joined the first. Books on curses, on rituals, on amulets, on protective magic, defenses, duelling – but also simpler books he thought he might benefit from. A book of household spells for muggleborns, introductory runic literature for children, and a massive tome that required a featherlight charm just to be held: a self-updating lexicon of all Ministry registered spells, charms and curses. The latter cost nearly a hundred galleons, but Harry was more than happy to pay that for such an impressive and helpful tool. Hermione would go nuts if she saw it.

Harry rested his head against the nearest shelf, exhaling softly. No; his Hermione would go nuts, but this Hermione… this young Hermione, she would veer from it, from the danger of the curses, from the off-chance of something going wrong. Would Harry live to see her grow up? Or would Voldemort’s fall happen far before that?

He wasn’t sure what he hoped.

The hairs on his neck rose. He stiffened. 

Someone was watching him.

Fuck. Death Eater? Someone had recognized him, someone knew, he was alone, young, he must be an easy target – he had to move fast. But he couldn’t fight back, not in public, not like this –

Forcing a calm stroll, Harry went to pay for his books, stowing them away in his trunk as the teller rung them up. After paying, he headed outside, trailing down the alley as he kept a watch out for his pursuer. Yes; they were still following.

With the knowledge and patience of someone who had been down this very street a billion times before, Harry followed the alley’s turns, casually leading the follower down a narrowing path, winding its way toward a deserted dead end.

And then, when he felt sure – when his quiet steps were echoed only by a second, lighter pair – then he struck.

He spun, wand in his palm at once, crying, “Stupefy! ”

The figure in the alley dropped to the ground at once, but there had been no need: Harry’s wand spat a bright red light, but nothing more. Horrified, he shifted into a combat stance – of course, his magic wasn’t ready, wasn’t grown, hadn’t matured, just like his body was weak and frail like it hadn’t been in years. Of course, of course, he’d have to fight tooth and nail to –

His brain caught up with his eyes. 

In the alley stood a young girl, with big brown eyes, dark skin, lots of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth.

“Hermione?” Harry blurted.

Hermione’s chest was heaving with heavy breaths. “Second year,” she said, wand leveled on Harry. “We brewed a potion. Which, where, and for what purpose?”

“Polyjuice potion in the second-floor lavatory, to find out if Draco Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin,” said Harry, at once. “Though it was mostly you brewing it, Hermy.”

For a moment they just stood there, staring at each other. 

Then Hermione’s face crumbled, and she flung her arms around Harry’s neck with a sob of “Harry! ”

A month’s worth of grieving collapsed onto him all at once, and Harry buried his face in her curls and wept.

*

“You’ll get the hang of magic eventually,” said Hermione quietly, as they sipped milkshakes in front of Fortescue’s. “I spent a week at home practicing before I got back to things. Theory helps a lot, but our cores are so unsettled it’s hard to pull off anything too powerful.”

“This is bloody insane ,” said Harry. 

Hermione frowned. Her foot bumped into Harry’s underneath the table; he pressed back into it comfortingly. “It’s perfectly normal for young wixen to – ”

“Not the cores, I knew that – I mean everything else .” Harry looked down on his milkshake, hands clenched into fists atop the table. “I’m going to have to die again, Hermione.”

“You did get rid of the Horcrux,” said Hermione, and her expression of grief and horror looked entirely out of place on her young face. “When he killed you.”

Harry gave her a sharp look. “Did you get him?”

Hermione closed her eyes. Harry pressed harder against her foot; she pressed right back. “We lost, Harry,” she whispered, voice meek and thin and crackling. Harry was immensely grateful for her earlier mufflatio . “Hogwarts fell. Neville got the snake, but – but no one could get him , he wouldn’t let anyone close enough to…”

He reached across the table to squeeze her hand. It was such a juxtaposition, talking of this in the bright sunlight. “What’s the last you remember?”

Hermione laughed hollowly. She didn’t meet his eye. “After the battle – we tried to run, and we did, for a while… but they found us. And… and Greyback – ” She snapped for breath; closed her eyes. Her nails, bitten down to the skin, tightened on Harry’s fingers. “He got Ron. We couldn’t get Wolfsbane – we got out, before the first full moon, but – but – ”

“But it was war,” Harry softly said. “Did he…?”

Tears slid silent down Hermione’s cheeks. “He got them. He got them all. And I had to – he was about to – there was so much blood , Harry!” She tore her hand from his grasp, burying her face in her palms as she sobbed. 

Harry rose, sweeping around the table to kneel beside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head on her hip, muttering, “it’s okay, Hermione, you’re okay, you’re safe, you’re fine…” This was something she had mostly done for him, in the tent on the hunt – and the reversed roles, so abrupt out in the open, was enough for Hermione to calm down.

“I tried to continue,” Hermione admitted quietly. “I tried to. I knew someone had to take him down, but – but I was so sure, I was sure he’d made more, and… and I couldn’t live with myself, not after killing …” Her voice faded. Her hand found its way into Harry’s hair, petting him slowly. “I drank poison. It was easiest. It can’t have been… more than three months than you died. Everything crumbled.” Hollowly, she said, “we failed.”

“No,” said Harry. He was emboldened by her pain, the words coming from somewhere deep within. “No, we didn’t fail. You didn’t fail. We’re here again, we’re here now – we’ll do it right, this time. We’ll make it right.”

Hermione turned watery eyes on him and whispered, “how can it be right, if you have to die?”

“The goblins might figure something out,” said Harry, managing a small smile. “I mean, if anyone can figure it out, it’s them, right?”

After a long moment of imploring stares, Hermione sniffed, nodded, and took his hand again. “Tell me again, what’s your plan?”

*

“I convinced them to take me shopping today, since I knew you’d be here – I didn’t think you’d be here, but I figured I could try and be Harry Potter’s friend again, help him… you… but – ” Hermione pulled at her own fingers, glancing nervously over at her parents. “But I can’t convince them to take me every day of August , Harry, I’m not sure what to do.”

Harry pulled her into yet another hug. He inhaled her scent, the woody scent he knew so well from the weeks in the tent – a note, now, of exotic spices from her father’s cooking – something floral, in her shampoo. It was so familiar and comforting he nearly burst into tears again. “It’s okay, Hermy,” he muttered. “It’s okay. If nothing else – if nothing else, I’ll see you on the Express, yeah? Let’s just use the summer to get back to where we were, magically, okay?”

Hermione nodded, faking a cheery smile for the sake of her parents. “Okay. You’ll write, right?”

“Hedwig!” Harry shouted. “Merlin’s tits, I forgot about – yeah, I’ll write, bye, Hermione, I gotta go – ”

Her bright, startled laughter followed him as he ran for Eeylops Owl Emporium. 

He spotted Hedwig at once, sitting tall and proud and regal on a perch at the back of the room. Her large amber eyes locked on Harry the moment he stepped through the door and gave a hoot, as though to say “ took you long enough!” before she took to the air, swept through the room, and settled on Harry’s shoulder.

“ Hedwig ,” Harry breathed. When he lifted his hand to stroke her soft feathers, she nipped his ear affectionately. She hadn’t acted like this when he got her the first time around – could it be…?

“Why, I’ve never seen a familiar choose their bond so quick!” called the clerk, blinking at the two of them. “You’re a lucky lad, mister. Familiar bonds are on pay-what-you-can offer, and this girl here is usually fairly expensive.”

“A hundred galleons,” said Harry at once. The clerk’s eyes went wide: snowy owls, Harry knew, usually cost twenty-five. Even Hedwig chattered, vaguely impressed. Beaming, Harry told them both, “it’s no less than she’s worth. Thank you for keeping her.”

*

The very next day, Harry sent off his first letter to Hermione. In it he wrote what he’d realized about Hedwig: that their familiar bond, which Harry hadn’t discovered until his fifth year and he’d felt Hedwig’s fury and fear at being attacked by Umbridge, had survived the time travel. The returning letter included a separate parchment – ( “I managed to put a Protean Charm on it, but it took a lot of tries! I’ve drained my magic, I think, so I’ve paused my training for now.” ) – on which she’d written down everything they knew about the travel.

It was a measly list.

• Harry and Hermione dead, turned back at the same date

• Magic weaker than before, stronger than normal first year?

• Same wands

• Familiar bond remained (find Crookshanks?)

• Master of Death??

Harry added, after the last point: Elder Wand still loyal to Harry. As a separate point, he also wrote: vow on mixed-shed blood and magic, Griphook, active. 

Hermione added a few days later: research horcruxes more thoroughly, send letters overseas, contact Department of Mysteries?

(“ And how do you expect that to work? ” Harry asked in his next letter; Hermione didn’t answer.)

It was an utter relief, having Hermione back. They didn’t speak about the hole in their conversations, the third voice lacking from the letters, and Harry tried to tell himself it was enough. It was fine, it was enough , to have Hermione – to not be alone in this. He’d have a companion, a friend, an ally from day one. 

But he knew she missed him, too. There was no way she had forgiven herself for saving her own life – for taking Ron’s.

The 25th of August was a full moon. Harry sat by the tiny window in his rented room and looked up to the sky, where the glow of the moon ringed the distant clouds, and he thought of all the ways he could’ve helped them, if only he hadn’t been a horcrux. 

If only he hadn’t had to die.

*

Harry arrived early at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, having borrowed the Inn’s Floo (they asked no questions about a child Floo’ing alone, which Harry feared Tom might), so he could meet Hermione at the station before the worst clamour could start up. He still wore his makeup and fake-skin, but he’d have to remove it soon – hopefully, he’d be settled in a compartment before then.

“Ready for this?” said Hermione, already dressed in her Hogwarts robes. Harry knew they held bottomless pockets and secret compartments, just like his, though they didn’t at all show. It was strange, seeing the robes be black and not trimmed with red – but it was stranger, seeing her without blood or fear. “A new year?”

“I’m going to ace the exams,” Harry promised. “O’s in everything, I swear.”

Hermione grinned and stepped aside to allow him into the train. Neither of them had their trunks visible: they had been shrunk to sit comfortably in their pockets.

“Don’t put up any wards,” Harry warned, as they found a suitable compartment. “It’ll raise suspicions.”

“I don’t like it,” said Hermione, scowling at the door like it could be intimidated into submission.

“Me neither,” said Harry, “but we make do. How far have you got in the curriculum, again?”

Hermione lit up. “Actually, I decided to get really in-depth for the first year topics – ”

*

Right before the train was scheduled to start moving, there was a knock on the door and a boy poked his head through. He was tall, thin and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose. “Hey,” he said, bright and charming, “mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”

“Not at all,” said Harry, at the same time as Hermione said, “please, come in!” – and Ron Weasley beamed at them both before he sunk into one of the seats beside Harry. He leaned forward and offered his hand to Hermione. “Name’s Ron. Ron Weasley.”

Harry blinked. Had Ron shook his hand when they first met? He couldn’t remember. “Hermione Granger,” said Hermione, smiling even as her eyes were calculating.

Ron turned to Harry and shook his hand, too. Harry, dreading his reaction a little, said, “Harry Potter.”

“Nice meeting you both,” said Ron, and Harry’s jaw dropped. “Granger, that’s a muggle surname, isn’t it? Muggleborn? Welcome to the Wizarding world.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione politely. “Yes, I am muggleborn, in fact, my parents are dentists.” Saying so, she pulled a wrapped candy from her pocket. “Would you like a candy?”

Ron’s expression didn’t change; he was still grinning. “Nah, thanks, I’ll pass.”

Hermione met Harry’s gaze. They both knew Ron would never turn down a piece of candy – unless it was sugar-free. But how would Ron know it was sugar-free, when he’d never heard of dentists before in his life?

Harry flicked his wand into his hand, though he kept it hidden under his sleeve. Either this was Ron, or it really wasn’t Ron . Mustering a casual tone, Harry said, “hey, Ron – the Forest of Dean, I was diving in a lake. What’d you bring up from it, and what did you use that for?”

Ron’s jaw went slack, his eyes wide. He croaked, “no way.”

Tersely, Hermione said, “answer him.”

“ You ,” said Ron, looking from Harry to Hermione frantically. “And – and the Sword of Gryffindor. I destroyed the – Slytherin’s Locket – with it.”

“The Locket,” Harry repeated, “which was really…?”

And it spoke volumes of the lengths they went for secrecy, in the future past, when Ron only breathed, “Voldemort.”

With a shriek, Hermione threw herself into Ron’s lap. Harry was quick to wrap his arms around them both, and soon all three of them were crying into each others’ robes. “Ron,” Harry moaned. “Ron, Ron , mate, I’m so happy to see you –”

“I’m sorry,” Ron whispered, hands buried in Hermione’s hair, “I’m so sorry, what did I do, what happened, Hermy, what did I do ?”

“ I’m sorry,” Hermione wept, clinging to him, to Harry, to both of them, to whatever her arms could reach. “I’m so sorry, Ron, I had to, I had to – it was quick, I promise, I was quick – ”

“You killed me?”

“ I’m so sorry .”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron sighed, “thank fuck, oh, sweet Morgana – how about – how about you, then, how did you –?”

Hermione sniffed. Slowly, they began to untangle their limbs, though all three remained close, sides pressed flush together, hands clasped between them. “Poison,” she said. “I couldn’t…”

Ron pressed a kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “You’re here, now, you’re fine. I’m fine. Harry’s fine .” He sniffed, giving Harry a meek, wobbly smile. “We missed you so much, mate.”

Knowing Ron meant after Harry had died, Harry grinned and said, “so did we.”

And so, they settled to fill each other in as the Hogwarts Express awoke and began the journey to their home.

*

Sometime after the cart went by – and Harry pestered both Ron and Hermione into picking whatever they wanted, citing, “I’ve seen the Gringotts records, I’m only going to keep earning more, you’re practically family anyway – ” – the blotchy face of an embarrassed Neville Longbottom poked in through the door. 

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

Harry sat ramrod straight and gasped, “Wormtail!”

Ron’s face turned grim. “Ran off just some days ago. Must’ve seen my notes about…” He trailed off, looking up at Neville with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, mate. A toad? I’ve not seen anything. You?”

Harry and Hermione both shook their heads.

“Oh, I’ve lost him again,” Neville sighed. “I don’t know what to do , he keeps getting away from me!”

“What did you say your name was again?” said Hermione kindly. When Neville gave it, she flicked her wand, saying clearly: “ Accio Neville Longbottom’s toad.”

Ron rushed to open the door fully, letting Trevor fly through and into Neville’s waiting hands. He beamed at Hermione. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“No problem,” said Hermione, beaming right back. “I’m Hermione, by the way.”

“You know me, of course,” said Ron, grinning at Neville. “Sorry about that thing I said, by the way, last Yule.”

Neville blinked, surprised. “It’s – it’s fine. Thanks.” 

When he turned, expectant, to Harry, Harry smiled. “Harry Potter.”

Trevor croaked in distress when Neville tightened his grip on him. “B – blimey, really? Oh, gosh, er – ”

A voice further down the hall called, “Neville?”

“Sorry,” Neville squeaked, and fled the compartment.

Harry, Ron and Hermione watched as the door slowly slid shut. “Well,” said Ron eventually, “I think we can cross him off the list.”

Hermione made an intrigued sound. “The list?”

“Of time travelers,” said Ron, as light and casual as though he were discussing the weather. “And I’m sorry about Pettigrew, Harry – I’d made some notes about how to get him handed in to the Ministry before shit hits the fan, he must’ve come across them…”

“Oy,” said Harry, and cuffed him over the head. “That’s okay, I’ve got Griphook on it – as much as he can, anyway. We’ll make it work.”

Ron echoed, “we’ll make it work.”

*

They were not to get peace just yet; Draco Malfoy, of course, showed up with Crabbe and Goyle in tow. He narrowed in on Harry at once. “You didn’t tell me you’re Harry Potter,” he said, accusingly. 

Harry, who had removed his cosmetics after Neville left, shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Who’re your friends?”

“Crabbe,” said Malfoy, “and Goyle.” To Ron, he said, “you’re clearly a Weasley. And… you?”

“Hermione Granger,” said Hermione coldly. “If you’re going to be a prat about me being muggleborn, you can leave.”

“Hear, hear,” said Ron darkly.

Malfoy scowled and turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are – ”

“Listen,” Harry interrupted. “I really don’t want to hear you spewing shit about my friends, Malfoy. If you can’t tolerate them, I can’t tolerate you . Kindly begone.”

Pink in the face and rather disgruntled, Malfoy left.

Harry let his head fall to rest on Hermione’s shoulder. “That’s it, right? There’s not gonna be any more interruptions?”

“Not that I remember,” said Ron. 

“Excellent,” said Harry. “Wake me when we’re at Hogwarts.”

And then he promptly fell asleep.

*

In the midst of the First Year cluster, Harry held Hermione’s clammy hand in his. When McGonagall called her name, he gave a firm squeeze and a reassuring smile. She strode confidently across the hall, used, after years of Harry’s friendship, to all eyes on her. 

The Hat was lowered unto her head.

The seconds dragged on. Ron’s hand found Harry’s; they clung to each other as the seconds became minutes. “Ravenclaw, do you think?” Ron murmured, quiet in Harry’s ear. “’s fine if we get separated, right? I’d never go to – ” 

“SLYTHERIN!”

Hermione’s expression revealed nothing. After the initial burst of surprise, the tickle of horror, neither did Harry’s or Ron’s. She joined the sea of black and green under the Slytherin banners, head held tall as she sat alone on the end of the table.

Harry had the sudden, surprising thought that Hermione would do great in Slytherin.

When McGonagall called his name, he drew a breath, accepted Ron’s squeeze of his hand, and marched on.

Ah. Harry Potter. Again?

“Yeah, hi,” Harry muttered. “You sent Hermione to Slytherin, you git.”

Why, of course. You plan to take down a powerful Dark Lord, and you are doing so by hiding your true selves. Ambition and cunning. 

“Yeah, and bravery. And plenty of brains. And hard-working loyalty.”

The hat chuckled. Are you defending her case, or yours?

Harry thought of Hermione, alone in Slytherin. He thought of Ron, yet unsorted, a mystery on two legs. “Whatever,” he said. “You know best, or some nonsense like that. We’ll figure it out.”

Excellent, said the hat. Then it better be “SLYTHERIN!” 

The hall remained silent. Harry lifted the hat from his head, peering out at the staring eyes, the gaping mouths. 

And then Ron began to clap. Wildly. The twins cheered, too, which dragged some scattered, polite applause from the rest of them.

“Thank God ,” Hermione whispered, when Harry slid onto the bench next to her. His mouth was dry, tongue heavy against his teeth as he eyed the rows of enemies glaring at him. “I was terrified I’d be here alone, they’d devour me!”

“Like I’d leave you alone,” said Harry, and winked at her. Beneath the table, he pressed his shoe against hers. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Ron joins, either. Though he’d do good in Hufflepuff.”

They got their answer soon enough, when the hat settled onto Ron’s head and, within seconds, cried, “SLYTHERIN!”

The Gryffindors exploded . Harry went for his wand at first, then realized it was the Weasleys cheering and clapping and George shaking Percy violently by the shoulders. 

A sheepish Ron found his place by Harry’s side. “Told the hat it better put me here, or I’d send it to the Ministry for dissection.”

Hermione gasped, sounding outraged, though she was grinning. “Ronald! What’d it say to that?”

He shrugged. “Thanked me for making its job easier.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed. And if it was a bit hysterical, well… he figured he deserved it.

*

“So,” said Terence Higgs, leaning against the doorframe to the First Year boys’ dormitory, looking at Harry, Ron and Theodore Nott in turn. The rest of the Slytherin boys – Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini – had the other boys’ dorm and had already received this talk. “You sorted Slytherin. Congratulations, and my condolences.”

Harry was sat on his bed, listening intently to his new Prefect’s speech.

“Being Slytherin means being an enemy,” Higgs continued. “Tonight you’ve been branded as cruel, unjustified, and evil. It’s up to you to do what you want with that information, but it’s generally an unspoken rule that we present a united front. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry and Ron, in unison.

Nott said, “what happens if we don’t?”

Higgs’ eyes flashed, much in the fashion of a goblin, and he pushed away from the doorframe. “You’ll see.” Without another word, he was gone, and the door shut.

“Uplifting,” said Ron drily. 

“Unsurprising,” Nott added, with a thin smile. “I don’t think united front will be a problem. I’m Theodore Nott.” Saying so, he held out his hand to shake. It was such an obvious attempt at an alliance, and yet surprisingly subtle for a child, that Harry decided to humour him.

“Harry Potter.”

“Ron Weasley.”

With a nod to both of them, Nott climbed into his bed, shut the blinds, and cast a simple privacy charm.

Harry looked at Ron.

Ron looked at Harry.

“Sleep?” said Harry.

“ God , yes,” said Ron.

*

They went to the Chamber of Secrets during their first free period the very next day. “Blindfolds in place?” Harry asked, looking back on his friends to make sure, though they both responded in the affirmative. “Right. Ready? Open. ”

The Basilisk did not come out to greet them before Harry called for it. “ Great Serpent, ” he greeted, eyes shut tight. “ I have allies with me who cannot look upon your greatness without danger. Will you close your eyes, Great Serpent, so that we may bask in your glory ?”

Jesus, Parseltongue was pompous. 

“ Certainly, Heir who Speaks. I have closed my eyes. You may open yours .”

“Great Serpent,” Harry continued, nudging Hermione gently to signal she could look if she wanted. “We are destroying dangerous artifacts that anchor great evil to this world, but there is little that can truly damage them – would you be so kind as to grace us with a few drops of your great venom, so as to make our burden lighter?”

The Basilisk coiled and curled and lowered its head to rest before Harry. “ I can indeed, Heir who Speaks, though I do have a request to make in return. ”

“ If it be in my power, it will be done. ”

Sounding miraculously sheepish , the great serpent said, “ visit me sometimes, so I’m not so lonely? ”

*

It was an easy thing to promise, and a promise easy to keep, once Harry, Ron and Hermione explored the Chamber with lit wands and protective gear – finding secret passages that spread across the entire school, some clearly meant for the Basilisk, and some for human feet. “Well,” said Harry, peeking through the path that led straight into the Slytherin common room. “We know where to go for some privacy, at least.”

“It’s shorter than the Room of Requirement,” Hermione agreed.

Still, they made it to the Room the very same evening. Harry paced before the door, thinking, I need Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. I need Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. I need Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. I need –

Half an hour later, they were back in the common room, the diadem a melted, twisted mess. Harry wrote, the very same night, to inform Griphook he had “taken care of the first object, as discussed”. That left the ring, the diary, and… 

And us , thought Harry. Wait, us?

Whatever. The Horcrux probably counted for something in that department. As for the ring… the ring was trickier. They knew how to get there – the Chamber was outside Hogwarts wards, and Kreacher could therefore reach them and pop them to the Gaunt shack, but the protections on both the shack and the ring itself were strong, tricky things to break.

“It’ll take me a while to get through this,” Hermione warned them, when they first visited the shack the first Wednesday of September. “I think, between us and the library, we should find what we need, but…” She gnawed on her lip. “If you two could read up on Arithmancy and Runes, that would be great. I’ll need someone to bounce ideas off.”

Stunned, both Harry and Ron agreed: it was exceedingly rare that Hermione asked for help . “How long do you think it’ll take?” asked Ron, peering over Hermione’s shoulder as she took notes on the wards.

“Worst case scenario, Christmas at the earliest.”

Ron grinned, tucking a curl of Hermione’s hair behind her ear. “I love it when you go all focused.”

Hermione’s cheeks darkened. She lifted her gaze to his, abashed but smiling. “You do?”

“Always have,” Ron declared. 

Harry watched them, smiling warmly, even as something uncomfortable twisted in his chest. When they’d kissed during the Battle, he’d thought it came from impatience – they were at War – but now, without that excuse, he withdrew like a wounded animal to lick his wounds. 

Life at Hogwarts went on. After a bit of gentle rejections, Nott stopped trying to join Harry, Hermione and Ron’s close-knit trio. It was hard to become one of them anyway, with their hidden age difference and seven years of familiarity. In the end, Nott was just a child – Slytherin or no. Mrs. Weasley wrote Ron an awkward, albeit supportive letter where she congratulated him on the sorting and asked how Slytherin was treating him. Harry was genuinely surprised at the halting, warm tones of the letter: Mrs. Weasley had never come across as a particularly Slytherin-supportive woman. 

The greatest shock came, perhaps, during their first Potions lesson: Snape, who had always been poor with them before, now seemed to take outright joy in their knowledge. He didn’t call on Harry at the start, nor did he mock Hermione for her willingness to answer any questions. 

All in all, the class might’ve been a success – if it weren’t for Neville blowing up his cauldron and promptly breaking into furious boils. Ron was by his side in a second, pulling something from deep in his robes – “here, mate, put your head back – ”

The whole classroom stared in shock as Ron held up a silver phial and dripped something onto Neville’s face, all while Snape vanished Neville’s mess.

Neville’s acute boil outbreak calmed, but something had gone wrong – the boils burst, instead of receding, leaving several open wounds on his face. He whimpered, which prompted Ron to mutter soothingly, “don’t worry, Nev, it’ll – it’ll heal in no time at all – ”

Hermione was at his side in a heartbeat, fumbling in her own pockets for – “Here,” she said, holding out a tin to Ron. “Dittany.”

“Brilliant, Hermy. Hold still, mate.” 

The moment Ron dug his fingers into the dittany, he gasped shrilly, went eerily still, then cursed softly and went right back to tending to Neville’s wounds. 

“There,” Ron muttered, rising before helping Neville up, too. “All good, yeah? No pain?”

Neville, looking a bit dizzy but no less relieved, nodded. “No pain. Thanks, Ron.”

“Yes,” Snape drawled, and Ron’s eyes went wide. “Ten points to Slytherin for quick thinking and coming prepared. Ten points from Gryffindor for wasting your classmates’ time. We carry on.”

The second class finished, Ron grabbed Harry and Hermione’s hands and dragged them into the first alcove he could find. “We have a problem,” he said. He drew a deep breath, looked from Hermione, to Harry, and back again. “I think – I think that just – my silver phials, the dittany – ”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “You don’t think – ?”

“I felt it,” Ron whispered, and looked every bit the scared eleven-year-old he pretended to be. “ Feel it. It’s in here, it’s…”

Pulling him into a hug, Hermione whispered, “we’ll make it work, Ron. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

“Can someone explain what’s happening?” Harry asked, worried and exasperated in equal measure.

“Dittany and silver,” Hermione said, meeting Harry’s gaze over Ron’s shoulder, “is used to close the bite of a werewolf, ensuring the victim survives… at a cost.”

And then Harry darted forward to hug Ron, too, as tightly as he could, because this was bad . “Wolfsbane,” he declared. “Hermione and I, we’ll do it, we’ll brew it for you, in the Chamber – I can afford the ingredients – fuck it, I’ll set up a fund for it so anyone can afford them – we’ll make it work. We’ll make it work .”

It was a setback in their plans, but nothing major. Nothing major. They’d make it not be.

*

“It’s so strange, though,” Hermione muttered, taking notes as they made their way into the Chamber. “He’s never been bitten before this, and the silver and dittany has to be a powdered mixture, not just… randomly touched at the same time – there has to be a wound , they have to close the wound…” She sighed, pulling a hand through her frayed hair. “I hate that we don’t understand this! There’s nothing in the books!”

“I’ll put it on the list,” Ron promised. Arriving to the entry door for the Chamber, he tried to hiss open , but failed spectacularly.

Harry grinned. “Here, Ron, try again – open .”

Even as the door swung open, Ron frowned hard and hissed, “ exposed .”

“Er… almost, mate. Good try.” They stepped into the Chamber, and Harry nudged at a dead rat before he sighed and called, “Kreacher!”

After a beat, Kreacher appeared before the three of them, giving the Chamber a disdainful look.  “What does Master Harry want?”

Harry glanced at Hermione. This was her plan, after all, and he knew she’d never forgive him if he ignored it. She beamed at him, then turned to Kreacher and said, “how would you like to be free, Kreacher?”

Kreacher looked shocked. “Free? What has Kreacher done to warrant being punished so?”

“It’s not a punishment, Kreacher,” said Hermione gently. “We just want what’s best for you.”

“Master Harry and Master’s friends are ridiculous,” said Kreacher, and sniffed. “Kreacher is a Black elf. Serving the Blacks is what’s best.”

“Would you like being paid?” Harry tried, wanting to give this an earnest shot. “Er – say, a galleon a week? To use on whatever you want?”

Kreacher furrowed his heavy brow as he thought. Then, “ten sickles.”

“Ten sickles a week?”

Kreacher nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “Kreacher shall accept no more.”

“Alright,” said Harry. Hermione, though, didn’t seem overly pleased – so Harry added, “but if you ever want to be freed, you can tell me, Kreacher. I won’t be mad. I’d like to know if you want to be free.”

Hermione beamed. Kreacher, though, glared. “Master is offending Kreacher’s Black honour.” 

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, raising his hands with a grin. At least it had all been said in the open. “How about this, then – can you clean the Chamber for us? We need somewhere safe and sanitary to brew potions.”

Kreacher’s eyes lit up. “Kreacher will see it done.”

*

Harry was dying. He was standing before Voldemort, and he was dying, and he was in his cupboard, and he was dying, and there was a hand in his, his own hand in his, and he was watching himself die, was wrenched from himself, returned, rebuilt, remade, reborn –

Hermione, crushed under a giant’s foot on Hogwarts battlegrounds, her empty eyes Griphook’s, Ron, torn to bloodied shreds by Greyback, Malfoy, burning, Neville, beaten, the twins, crumpled.

“Harry!”

Harry shot awake, wand in his palm at once, and blinked owlishly at Ron’s pale face, cast in sickening shades of green and blue from the Great Loch. “Ron?” he murmured. Nott’s curtains were drawn, as they always were. “s’wrong?”

Ron clambered into Harry’s bed. “You had a nightmare,” he said. “C’mon. Move over.”

It was a relief, having Ron in his bed again – it had been so long, so long since the shared beds in the tent, even longer since the Gryffindor dormitories. Harry shifted over to make space for Ron under the covers, even as he said, “what if Nott sees?”

Scoffing, Ron pulled the curtains shut and shuffled under the duvet next to Harry, resting his head on his shoulder. “Then he’ll see a guy supporting his mate after a nightmare, no biggie.” He yawned. Harry shifted his weight so he could glance over at him, their hands coming together in a tangled mess on Harry’s chest. “G’back to sleep, Har.”

“Mmhm.” Harry nudged his head against Ron’s, stray strands of hair tickling Harry’s cheek. The nostalgic smell of wood and Mrs. Weasley’s cooking, the rich, earthy scents that had always made Ron seem home , were more present now than ever. His warmth seeped through their pajamas and into Harry’s skin, past sinew and flesh and bone, until it settled into his core with a low hum.

Harry slept. 

*

It really was quite good they knew the first year curriculum well: between brewing Wolfsbane, research on Horcruxes, cracking the wards around the Gaunt shack and reading about Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, there was scarcely time to do their homework at the end of the day. They practically lived in the Chamber between classes, having furnished it with couches and bean bags and even a fireplace, charmed to dispel any smoke from the flames. It became their safe place and sanctuary, especially with the lunar cycle as it was.

Ron’s first full moon came about on a Sunday; the 25 th of August. He gulped down the last of his potion, gave them both a weary thumbs-up, and sat within the wards Harry and Hermione had raised between them. Kreacher stood guard as well, ready to whisk Harry and Hermione away if anything went wrong.

Harry’s heart broke, seeing Ron twisting, breaking, reforming – yowling and shrieking in pain before he collapsed on the floor. His flanks heaved as he breathed, a healthy, gleaming rusty that Harry wanted nothing more than to run his hands through. Yet he waited, and waited, and waited –

And finally, the rusty wolf sat up, peering at them with Ron’s blue eyes.

“Ron?” called Harry.

The wolf’s tail began to wag. 

Harry smiled.

*

“Rustie,” said Harry the following morning, nodding at both Hermione and Ron, the latter of which looked utterly exhausted, but happy. “Moony’s taken already, and anything with ‘luna’ would be weird with Luna starting Hogwarts soon. But Rustie could work.”

“Rustie,” Ron repeated, tasting the word. He cocked his head, gaze flicking aside for a moment before he smiled. “Yeah, the wolf likes that. Rustie it is.”

*

Another full moon came and went without anyone suspecting a thing. It wasn’t hard, when no one suspected First Years of casting glamours to hide tired eyes or brewing Pepper-Up potions for the local post-change werewolf. Why would they suspect anything? There was nothing suspicious going on, after all. And so October’s full moon also passed, with Rustie sleeping on a mattress on the floor, flanked by Harry on one side and Hermione on the other. 

A week later, on Halloween, Quirrel let the troll in as a distraction. Harry, Hermione and Ron were on the cusp of a breakthrough in the Gaunt shack wards and couldn’t let the troll be an issue – so Harry subtly called for Kreacher and told him to poise as one of the school elves and alert the teachers to the troll’s position, if it were to be close to any students.

Kreacher bowed low and did as told, reporting later that there had been no danger and the troll had been dealt with, and the event disappeared into the vast pages of Hogwarts’ history.

*

Halfway through November, Ron cracked the code. “Here,” he said, breathless and awed as he vaulted over the couch to show Harry and Hermione a shaky Arithmetic graph. “Here, mates, look .”

Harry looked to Hermione, wide-eyed. “Is it…?”

“That’s it! ” Hermione cried, jumping to her feet. “That’s it , we can do it , come on, come on, let’s go – Kreacher!”

*

Ten minutes later, the Gaunt ring lay twisted on the floor of the worn shack. The Resurrection stone lay, undamaged, amidst the melted metal. It whispered , calling Harry forth, the memory of something once lost – and Harry knew, knew as surely as his heartbeat, that it still called him its master.

The trio stared at it glumly, their hands brushing between them. “Is it… is it clear?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Yeah, mate, go ahead.”

Harry bent, rolling the cold stone into his palm. He swallowed thickly, tracing the sigil with his thumb. “Should we – I mean, it’s – ”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, a stutter in her determined voice. “We have research to do.”

*

Huddled before the fire in the Chamber, mugs of hot chocolate courtesy of Kreacher, Ron and Hermione watched as Harry twisted the Stone thrice.

Whispered shades of Lily and James Potter appeared, half-translucent, at the hearth. There was no visual difference from the ones that had seen Harry to his death – indeed, mum’s look of gentle despair was very similar. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, “my son, I’m so sorry.”

“Mum,” Harry croaked. To his horror, his sight blurred with tears. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Are – are you…?”

Dad shook his head. “Not from the life you led before this. But we’ve known – we’ve heard – ” His ghostly hand finds mum’s, and squeezes. “I’m proud of you.”

Harry closed his eyes. Hot tears slid down his cheeks. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ve gotta let you go.”

“We love you, too, darling,” said mum softly. “If you ever need us again…”

“I know,” Harry said, and his heart was breaking seven times over. “I know.”

Let them go , thought part of him, and Harry did.

Hermione and Ron held him as he wept. Then Harry and Ron held Hermione as she wept, whispering apologies to parents who would never hear her – and Hermione and Harry held Ron as he wept for the lives they’d lost – and then Harry wept again, too, because he had far too many reasons to weep.

A box of tissues appeared on the table next to their cups of hot chocolate, which startled wobbly laughs from them all. They dried their tears and blew their noses, and sipped their hot chocolate, and Hermione pulled her feet into the couch as she cuddled into Harry’s side, and Ron rested his cheek against Harry’s head.

*

Christmas had come to Hogwarts, and Harry took to wearing skirts when he could – they were far more comfortable with the tights than his trousers, and he didn’t mind the looks he got. He’d been stared at for far worse. Hermione thought it was brilliant, and Ron ran his hands over Harry’s calves reverently, exclaiming, “it’s so soft ! I never knew wool could be so soft !”

Despite knowing he meant the tights, Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks. Doubly so when Hermione placed a hand on his calf, too, and slid it up to his knee, just beneath the hem of his skirt. “I’ve been telling you for years, Ron,” she said, exasperated, as though feeling Harry up was the world’s most natural thing. “It just has to be made from the right materials, is all.”

Dumbledore sent him the Invisibility Cloak again, thankfully – Harry was worried he wouldn’t do so, since he was a Slytherin this time around, but it seemed that didn’t matter. He gave it to Hermione, so she could use it to sneak into the boys’ dormitories: on Christmas night, the trio slept in the same bed again for the first time since the War.

*

Minerva had been looking forward to Potter’s first year at Hogwarts just as much as she had dreaded it, but she was pleasantly surprised at the boy’s behaviour. He was kind and polite, though a touch quiet, and did well in all his subjects – all the professors agreed that he, and his two friends, showed much potential.

“I’ve never seen any of them struggle,” said Pomona, smiling at the gathered professors. “They take to it all like sponges!”

“I have noticed the same,” said Filius, nodding. “Although I must admit I worry about them, sometimes – they seem quite isolated from their peers; they sit alone at mealtimes, and I scarcely see them around the castle outside of classes. Do they spend their time in the common room, Severus?”

But Severus shook his head. “I see them little. They have, undoubtedly, found some abandoned classroom and made it their den – I cannot say I’m surprised.”

Minerva frowned. “Why, you can’t have expected this from Mister Potter?”

“I did not expect Mister Potter to be one of mine,” said Severus coldly. “And although his behaviour in class pleases me, there is no question in my mind why they avoid the rest of their House. Miss Granger is muggleborn; Mister Weasley a blood traitor; Mister Potter the poster boy of the Light.” He shook his head. “As long as no problems arise, I see no issue with their arrangement.” 

“But Severus, surely – ”

“Enough, Minerva,” Severus interrupted. “It is their first year and I have seen no need to interfere. Shall more serious – or, indeed, any real – issues arise, I shall handle it. Until then, I believe we have more students than just Potter and his ilk to care for.”

Albus inclined his head, smiling. “I trust you know your House best, my boy. Yes, let us move onto the other students – the Hufflepuffs, perhaps?”

But as Pomona began reporting on her First Years, Minerva couldn’t shake the concern. There might be nothing worth taking note of on the surface, but she knew how cruel children could be – Potter and his friends might have found companionship in each other, but they were not immune to being ostracized. 

*

“Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Miss Granger – may I speak with you for a moment?”

The trio shared a tense look, watching the rest of their class disperse from the classroom. What had they let slip? What would the consequences be?

Under the table, Hermione’s foot pushed against Harry’s. Harry’s elbow knocked into Ron’s and stayed there. “Is something wrong, Professor?” asked Hermione, showing the bravery that had gotten her into Gryffindor first time around.

McGonagall’s face softened, ever so slightly, as she peered at them over her glasses. “Not at all, Miss Granger. Forgive me for holding you back; I only wish to talk about some… concerns.”

Ron shifted. “Concerns, Professor?”

“The other professors – and myself – rarely see you talk with your classmates. I would like to ask if everything is alright? You understand Hogwarts has a no-bullying policy – ”

“Oh!” Harry blurted. “Oh, no, Professor, it’s nothing like that! It’s just… we just…” He looked to Hermione.

But it was Ron who sheepishly said, “they’re a bit immature, Professor. We’d rather do homework than… what was it this week?”

Hermione sighed, theatrically rolling her eyes skyward. “Whose jewelry was the most expensive, which skirt the cutest, and, surprisingly, the Gobstone tournament.”

Harry, who hadn’t heard any of this, snorted. “You’d think they’d be more worried about their futures.” They had noticed, over the few evenings they spent in the common room, there was a far more intricate political system within the Slytherin ranks compared to Gryffindor. It made sense, he supposed, when looked at through a Ministry lens.

“Or their grades,” Ron added, to a pleasantly surprised sound from Hermione. “No offense, Professor, we appreciate the concern, it’s just…” He shrugged.

It’s just hard , thought part of Harry, to pretend. Isn’t it? It’s too hard; we’ve got more important things to worry about.

“I understand,” said McGonagall, although she looked more pensive and puzzled than understanding. “You will let a teacher know if the situation changes?”

“Of course,” said Hermione. Harry knocked his knee against Ron’s; they both knew if anyone tried anything nasty, they’d get hit triple in return. Malfoy had learned fast enough.

*

“Can we get away with sleeping down here?” asked Hermione, one day early March, when the trio huddled around the Chamber fireplace, writing their homework in relative silence.

Her face was flushed, almost discoloured, and the bruises beneath her eyes had never been this pronounced. “Nightmares?” he asked, putting down his quill.

Hermione shook her head and wiped at one of her glassy eyes. “No, I just – I just miss you. And I know you’re sleeping in the same bed, and I – I miss you.”

“We’ll make it work,” said Ron, nodding decisively.

“’course we will, Hermy. Nott’s not gonna rat on us.”

Hermione sniffed. “The girls couldn’t care less about my whereabouts. Let’s – come on, then. Let’s make a bed down here.”

“My, Hermione,” said Ron, grinning. “Invite a man for dinner first! – ow !”

*

“April,” Harry muttered, squinting out at Hagrid’s hut. His chest hurt, thinking about his old friend, but he couldn’t afford to reforge that friendship – not when he was in Slytherin, and Hagrid was so kind, and Harry would die within a year or so. “Guys, is it just me, or is there smoke coming from his chimney?”

Ron squinted, too, then sighed and clapped his hands together. “Right. Let’s go to Snape, then.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“To report Hagrid’s illegal dragon , Hermy, are you nuts?”

“Oh, shit,” said Harry, who had forgotten about Norberta ever since they finished writing their lists that summer. “Yeah, okay, let’s go.”

*

“...you think Hagrid might what ?” said Snape, voice low and cold.

“Have a dragon egg, sir,” said Harry.

“We heard him mumbling to himself in the library, sir,” Hermione supplied, “while looking at books about dragons.

Snape raised a pale hand to his pale face and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “That utter, complete… rest assured, if he has an illegal dragon egg on school grounds, I shall ensure it is taken care of. Get back to the common room. It’s nearing curfew.”

“Yes, sir,” said all three at once, and left.

*

“I just hope he doesn’t get fired,” said Hermione morosely.

“Nah, he’ll be fine,” said Ron, clapping her on the shoulder. “He’s Dumbledore’s man. There’s nothing Dumbledore won’t do to keep him at the school.”

“For better or for worse,” Harry muttered, thinking of dangerous dragon bites and acromantulas and hunting unicorn blood and dragons and hippogriffs and blast-ended skrewts.

*

With June came exam season, and with exam season, the knowledge that Quirrel would soon be going after the stone. “It was the day of the History exam, wasn’t it?” Hermione hissed under her breath, as they moved from the Charms classroom to the Transfiguration classroom. As expected, they’d all done splendidly. “I think I remember that…”

“Yeah,” said Ron, “it was the last day of exams. I remember, because I was pissed he couldn’t have been a little faster so we’d all miss the blasted things.”

“History exam’s tomorrow,” said Harry darkly. “You think you’re still up for a game of chess, Ron?”

Ron frowned. “You don’t think we should tell the professors?”

“Yeah, cause that went so well the first time,” said Harry. “No – I don’t know if they’d ever have the nerve to do what it takes to stop Voldemort, this time. Quirrel…” He swallowed, remembering the night, when he’d stood before the mirror and feared for his life, when his hands had become weapons for the first of many times. “Quirrel has to go. And – it has to be me.”

“No,” said Hermione, squeezing his shoulder. “Not you, Harry. Not you alone. Never again alone.”

Harry put a hand over hers, shooting her an exasperated, grateful look. “I don’t s’pose I can change your mind?”

Hermione flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Dream on, Harry Potter. Dream on.”

*

They snuck out from the Slytherin common room hunched under Harry’s cloak, spread out wide to accommodate for all of them. Knowing it was a Hallow made the feat somehow more impressive, and Harry thought fondly of all the times it had hidden the three of them without issue.

Fluffy was already asleep by the time they got there, of course – and with a quick Lumos Maxima and a cushioning charm, the Devil’s Snare was taken care of. Together they caught the key – Hermione in particular was far more confident on the broom than she’d been seven years ago – and then, in the Chess Room, they were caught off guard.

“Shit,” Hermione muttered, tracing her wand over the silver shields that’d appeared. “We don’t have time to untangle these, the protections are too good…”

“That makes sense, I guess,” said Harry, a bit disgruntled that all their plans of blasting the whole chessboard to smithereens just evaporated. “Ron? Think you can make it work?”

Ron lifted his chin. “Course I can, mate. Same positions as last, come on.”

“ Try not to sacrifice yourself this time,” said Hermione, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she went to find her place.

And then, to Harry’s surprise, she made a detour to kiss his cheek, too.

“I’ll do my best,” said Ron. When Hermione gave Harry a pointed look, he echoed the statement.

*

When Ron stepped up to the king and announced, “check mate!” both Harry and Hermione cheered.

“Knew you could do it,” said Harry, grinning at him before heading on through the next room. The troll, of course, was knocked out – Snape’s riddle was as easy for Hermione to crack as last.

“You’re not going in alone,” said Hermione, and without broking any room for argument, she multiplied the phial of potion – although the original phial hadn’t allowed for multiplication, both she and Ron carried empty phials they transferred it to.

And Harry, to everyone’s great surprise, including his own, said, “I don’t want to go alone.” Then, a bit more in character for him, he pulled out the Invisibility Cloak. “But I can’t let him hurt you. Put this on.”

So surprised were Ron and Hermione by the lack of fight, that they slipped the cloak around their shoulders without complaint.

*

Harry’s hands sunk into Quirrel’s flesh; smoke stung his eyes, he coughed on it, and did not let go. Quirrel’s screams rose in tandem with Voldemort’s as the scent of burning human filled the chamber – Harry grunted, following as Quirrel sunk to the floor, pushing as much as he was pulled. He was far more aware now than he had been, seven years ago in this very room, and there were details he had forgotten that swam before his mind: blackened skin peeling back to reveal yellow fats and blood-red muscles, sinew, bone – 

The remnant of Voldemort’s horrid soul fled Quirrel’s body, abandoning its vessel with a wail. Quirrel trembled and shook and stared at Harry with wide, bloodshot eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” said Harry hoarsely. He swayed on his feet. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry , don’t you see I had to? I had to, I had to, I had to – ”

For the greater good ?

There were arms around him, and he struggled until he recognized Ron’s grounding scent, the texture of Hermione’s hair, and Harry pressed his face into their shirts and sobbed as they held him, as they rocked him, as Ron’s hands – already so broad – carded through his hair, as Hermione muttered soothing words in his ears.

When Dumbledore arrived, Harry was too far gone to realize what was happening – but Ron rose to confront him, asking how he could let this happen, how Voldemort could be withing the school undetected a whole school year, how, how, how –

Next Harry knew, he was waking in the Hospital Wing, Hermione and Ron in beds beside him. 

Dumbledore wanted to speak with them. Harry avoided his eye and acted like a traumatized child – it wasn’t hard – and before long, they were left alone.

“It’ll be summer, soon,” said Harry, when the silence had stretched on for long enough. “Dobby’ll be intercepting my letters… I’m not going back to the Dursley’s.”

Hermione scoffed. “Obviously.”

“I’m guessing Grimmauld’s Place?” said Ron somberly. “We can’t be visiting you, mate – they’ll be wondering how you got there – why you’re not at…”

“Privet Drive,” Harry finished. He sighed. “Yeah, I – I know. But I’ll have Kreacher, and… well, the portraits, I guess. Hey, reckon I can make that old hag Walburga like me?” 

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, mate,” said Ron, grinning. He was no doubt thinking of how Harry had made Kreacher like him. 

Hermione gasped and sat ramrod straight in her bed. Both Harry and Ron had their wands out within seconds, though they sheepishly put them away just as quick. “Ron! What about your – your condition ? Over the summer – I mean, how are you going to…?”

Surprisingly, Ron smiled. “Well… y’know how the twins have been trailing us the whole year, complimenting me on being all evil overlord and cunning snake?” When they nodded, he continued: “turns out they’re willing to take me way more seriously when I’m not just another lion. And they owed me a favour, and just to sweeten the deal I told them about the Room of Requirement…”

“Ron,” said Hermione lowly. “What did you do?”

“I, er, told them? Just about my – my condition! And that – that you, er, Harry, won’t be able to receive letters over the summer, and they – well – they’re bloody clever , they figured out the Protean charm really fast, and…” Ron bent over the side of the bed to reach his school robes, where he shoved his arm all the way to the shoulder into a pocket. From it he drew three journals: Harry recognized them as a set he’d bought for the three of them, and wondered at once how Ron had managed to steal not only Harry’s, but Hermione’s, too. “Well. These’ve got the charm on ‘em, now.” He shrugged. “No owls needed.”

“ Ron ,” said Hermione, staring wide-eyed at the journal when Ron handed it over. “I love you.”

Ron flushed. “Naw, Hermy, it’s just a little bit of brother trickery… nothing, really.”

“How did you explain your – er – condition?” asked Harry, even as he ran his fingers over the front of his book. It was embossed with a simple H , distinguished from Hermione’s as her H was golden, and Harry’s silver.

“Oh, that’s the best part,” Ron grinned. “Told ‘em I was out taking a midnight stroll in the Forbidden Forest. Said you two saved me. It’s the most believable story I could come up with, and I’ve got scars to show for it, too…”

All three winced at the reminder of the November full moon, which saw Ron forgetting a dose of the Wolfsbane – leaving Kreacher to whisk Harry and Hermione away, and Ron to fend for himself. It was a good thing the Basilisk knew about his presence, and to not disturb him: otherwise he’d be eaten.

Alone, frustrated and confused, Rustie had been left to claw at himself all night. Ron awoke the next morning with a scar across his nose, which he hid with the help of Harry’s muggle cosmetics – but he also woke with several bites and slashes across his arms and torso, many of which could be explained away as the bite-wound, if asked.

“But I thought the dittany would heal the wound completely?” Harry asked, frowning. “Not after, of course, but the initial bite…”

“It’s a fifty fifty,” Hermione explained. “Depending on how long since the bite occurred, the werewolf in question, the natural antibodies in the victim… he could have said the wound healed, but if we were the ones to ‘chase the werewolf away’ it would’ve taken a while to get powdered silver, even with dittany at hand, so – er, yes, in short: Ron’s explanation works.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, looking pleased with himself. “So – er – yeah. They’ve promised to cover for me, long as I can still get my hands on wolfsbane.” Here he shot Harry an apologetic look. “You think you can do me a favour there, Harry?”

“Course, mate,” said Harry. He’d helped Hermione with it plenty of times over the year, he’d be able to make it himself… with some guidance, over the journals. “You want me to just Owl it to you, or…?”

Ron shook his head. “Nah, use the Floo. We’ll find a time that works over the journals, we get Floo calls all the time, there’s no alarm ward on it.”

“Sure, yeah. We’ll make it work.”

Ron reached out into the chasm between their beds. Harry met him halfway, clasping Ron’s hand in his. “We’ll make it work,” repeated Ron.

Hermione, on Harry’s other side, cleared her throat. She had her hand extended in the air as well; Harry grinned, reached out, and took it. “We’ll make it work,” she said, with a firm nod.