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Chapter Text

Harry’s retirement cottage, Saturday, 31 January 2099

Harry looked around, and realised that he was happy. The simplicity of that emotion was a surprise, and he took a moment to just experience it. This was safe. This was comforting. This was his Retreat.

In his younger years, he had thought the very custom of a Retreat absurd. He had thought it superannuated and sexist and sad. If a man didn't wish to retire, then he shouldn't. If he did want to retire, then what was wrong with staying in the house he lived in? Leaving every morning to spend the day somewhere else had seemed such a pathetic mockery of working life. But now he looked at the soft dragonhide couches and the diricawl rugs -- which didn't match the couches or each other -- with a great deal of satisfaction. This was his place, and the first place in his entire life he could truly call his own.

The protected courtyard had been set up for the house-wakening ceremony. He didn't need the extra magic from his friends to raise the wards, of course, but he found himself wanting to share the moment with the people he loved. It was a chance to relax, a chance to show off, and a chance to be himself. Not even the disapproval of his wife was going to take this away from him.

Ginny herself stood in the courtyard, stiff and solemn, glaring up at the decorations. By convention, this was the first time she had seen the place, and she would not return until it came time to strip everything away again after his death. It was the one thing Harry hadn’t been forced to fight for, even though Ginny had been visibly unhappy. Retreats were a tradition that even the lightest and most progressive of families respected. Molly had certainly never invaded Arthur's shed without explicit permission, and Ginny bowed to that convention.

Ginny whirled when he stepped out, gesturing to the middle of the courtyard. “Couldn't you have put your foot down about the... the... that?”

Harry grinned at the 'that' – a fountain made of cake. Layers of vanilla and strawberry and chocolate and pumpkin and mint, reaching from the floor to all the way to his shoulder. Over them all, founts of fudge and caramel and butterbeer cascaded from one level to the next. Charmed chocolate and marzipan and sugar rocks clinked into each other with the sound of bells. It was absurd and wonderful and ridiculously indulgent.

“It was a gift from Ron, Ginny. It would have hurt his feelings if I'd refused it,” said Harry.

Ginny moved he arms to her hips. “We both know the only thing it would have hurt was his stomach, because he would have eaten the whole thing by himself. In fact, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if that’s what Ron had intended in the first place.”

“Oi, oi! Who's using my name as a hex, then?” called Ron.

Harry moved to the entrance to rescue some further trays of food from him. From how harassed Hermione was looking it wasn’t the first time they’d nearly come to disaster.

Ron walked over to the fountain and sighed in deep satisfaction. “You can’t be saying anything bad about the cake. That’s against some sort of rule, that is. I mean, that’s the King of all cakes. You can’t just go around criticising a king.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and then deliberately turned her back on Ron to re-arrange the already adequately arranged trays.

“Hi Hermione, Ron. Where are Rose and Hugo?” asked Harry.

“They got waylaid by your own kids and conscripted into bringing through more tables,” replied Hermione, accepting a hug and kiss from Harry now that her hands were empty.

“More tables?” asked Ginny. “How are we going to fit more tables anywhere? Don’t you think you’ve over catered a bit?”

Harry refrained from pointing out he hadn’t catered anything, and that it would be ungracious in the extreme to refuse the offerings his guests brought with them. Ginny already knew that.

“And another thing,” continued Ginny, swinging around to face Harry again. “I thought we agreed you wouldn't have fairy lights at events.”

“I like them,” said Harry calmly. “In fact, I'm considering keeping them up permanently. They're friendly.”

“Harry,” said Ginny. “Please, try to be a little serious. What will people think of you? This whole place looks like you’re throwing a children's party.”

Harry replied, “They aren’t going to think anything of me. Everyone coming already knows exactly who I am.”

“You have your position—“ started Ginny.

Harry immediately cut her off. “No I don’t. Not anymore, and definitely not here. These are our friends and family, Ginny. If any one of them still expects me to be the next coming of Merlin, then it’s about time they learnt better anyway.”

Ginny didn’t look mollified. “It will get out into the papers, and you know it will. You can’t afford this. In the current situation –”

“Oh, not that again,” groaned Ron.

“Oh, yes, this again!” said Ginny, still looking at Harry and pretending Ron wasn’t there. “You know how scared people are getting. What possessed you to have a house-wakening of all things?”

Harry closed his eyes and recited the alphabet backwards in Elder Futhark. “Firstly, house-wakening is just a name. No-one has ever actually tried to waken a living land at one of these things. 'Everyone' knows that. Secondly, I didn’t fight my entire life just to give into bigotry at my age! There's nothing wrong with living lands.”

“It isn’t bigotry, Harry!” hissed Ginny. “If there’s nothing wrong with them, then why are they getting stronger while places like the Redlands have been robbed of magic?”

Hermione sounded as impatient as Ron with the argument when she interrupted. “They aren’t getting stronger. They just aren’t failng as quickly. They have higher intrinsic levels of magic, so they have more protection against the information dense wireless technology the muggles are using these days. In fact, the main reason we are so exposed at the moment is because all the lands orphaned during the Second Voldemort War are now reaching the end of their Sleeping Beauty centuries, and are no longer living. We should be trying to waken the land. If we had more of them around, we’d be better off.”

The table bearing brigade had arrived during the speech, and James said in his ‘official comforting the masses’ tone, “the ministry hasn’t found any evidence that the problems have anything to do with the actions of muggles.”

That immediately raised Hermione’s hackles. “The ministry, present company excluded, are a bunch of idiots. They just can’t bring themselves to believe that the muggles have finally become stronger than us.”

Harry could see the whole evening in jeopardy, and spoke to keep things calm. “Perhaps the ministry wants to wait until they have a solution before they announce anything. You have to admit, Hermione, there are still people around who would use it as an excuse to speak out against muggles and muggleborns. The last thing we want is to raise new tensions in that direction.”

“Well, there is that,” she replied.

Harry hurried to start giving directions on table placement to prevent the conversation from restarting. It seemed to work, and by the time the last of the guests had arrived, everyone was once again cheerful, or at least doing a convincing job of acting like it.

Harry probably should have remembered that nothing ever went his way. He felt the shift, but he refused to believe it. Everyone knew that the number of people present put stress on the magic of a place, but even Ginny had been worried about the appearances of things, not about the risk they were running. He had powered the wards personally, and Harry’s magic did not fail.

But within minutes, it was too obvious to deny. Harry’s magic was failing, disappearing like water into a sinkhole.

Harry had heard this process described, and he was ashamed to realise how dismissive he’d been of the experience. He’d imagined it to be like going through Thief’s Downfall. Disorientating and embarrassing certainly, depending on how much one relied on support spells, warming charms, glamours and the like. But ultimately harmless. After all, Harry went without magic every time he stepped into the muggle world.

He’d underestimated how much difference it made when the process was involuntary. He’d underestimated just how much of his every day surroundings depended on magic. He underestimated how much it would hurt. Chairs and tables cracked and crashed as they took full weight for the very first time. Winter howled in through the missing barriers. Streamers fell from the air like dying swarms of birds.

Harry and the more sensible of his guests froze in place. Spells would just make things worse and there was nothing to do but wait for it all to finish and settle in a new equilibrium. In the chaos and the screaming and the fear, the only thing Harry found himself paying any attention to was the cake. The ‘That’, the ridiculous every-colour every-flavour fountain cake. Bereft of their support, the layers slid off one by one to drown in the growing pool of muddy sauce, like a caricature of a murder scene. At last, the cake simply gave way, and collapsed into a mess of colours.

Harry took a deep breath, and judged it finally over.

There would be no more celebrations after this. After a brief census, Harry was reassured that his guests were more shocked than injured. From habit borne of a lifetime of crisis management, Harry calmed them all down and arranged transport for them back to a still magical environment. Hermione cast an apologetic look over her shoulder as she left, but Harry waved her off. She had to get Ron home, and it wouldn’t be safe to start the clean up here without magic. Eventually, it was just Harry and Ginny left, and Harry had nothing left to take his mind off things.

Harry stooped to pick up a fragile sphere that still tried to glow. He blew on it, hoping that at least this one little living thing would survive. For a brief moment, the light swelled and Harry hoped… but it faded away just as quickly. His second breath had less effect, and his third had none at all. It went dead in his hands, and he laid it carefully back on the ground to rest amongst its brethren.

He looked up to find Ginny glaring at him, her hair a fright of frizzled whiteness after the collapse of her glamour charms. “I told you not to have fairy lights. Now look what you’ve done.”

Harry bit down hard enough on his lip to draw blood, then followed Ginny as they apparated back to their house. His Retreat was gone, and nothing he could do now would change that.

Chapter Text

St. Mungo waiting room, Sunday, 15 March 2099

Six weeks later, Harry had still been debating what to do with his retreat with Hermione when they’d been summoned to St Mungo’s. They strode through the bare corridors filled with hard lines and ozone, courtesy of heavy duty cleaning charms, to the appointed family waiting room. They found most of the Weasley clan already there. Harry felt irrationally guilty about wasting Hermione’s time with complaints about the unobtainable prices of magical land and his repeated lack of effect on refilling any magic on his own. If they’d left the tea shop earlier, or hadn’t gone for lunch at all, Hermione would have found out about Rose much earlier.

Harry closed the door behind them and glanced around the room. It must have been St. Mungo’s largest, and it still wasn’t enough. There were plenty of seats. The spindly chairs set against the avocado coloured walls contained only an elderly in-law and a nursing mother – one of Victoire’s granddaughters, Harry thought. There wasn’t much floorspace. Everyone else was packed into the centre, the mass of family members even further augmented by friends and co-workers. 

Hermione threaded her way to Ron. “How is Rose?”

Ron just shook his head and turned away from her, leaving her hand still outstretched towards him. Harry took it instead and pulled her into a side hug.

“They don’t want to commit to anything yet,” said Hugo instead, his voice breaking over the words. “But it doesn’t sound good, Mum. She was so pale…”

Hermione said, “Have you seen her? What happened to her?”

An official – Harry vaguely thought he might be Jareth Grant or Grahams from the research division – sniffed disapprovingly. “I’m afraid we can’t say. She was on ministerial business.”

“You can’t say?” asked Hermione, her voice climbing. “What do you mean, you can’t say? What did you do to my daughter?”

Jareth drew himself up so that he could look down his nose. “Her professional duties are confidential, as you should be aware.”

“Her research is confidential,” said Hermione impatiently. “Not whatever…”

Hermione trailed off and made eye contact with Harry as they made the connection at the same time.

“Unless the ministry has been violating protocol about conducting secret experiments,” said Harry, his voice instinctively resuming the disapproving tone he had perfected as Head Auror.

Jareth quailed for a moment, before recovering and looking twice as angry for his instinctive response. “For the good of the magical world, we removed the overly restrictive protocols you crippled us with during your term in office, sir. We did nothing wrong.”

Hermione said, “You most certainly did do something wrong if Rose was injured!”

Hugo interrupted, “Don’t blame Jareth, Mum. He did everything he could, and this wasn’t the Ministry’s fault. This was Draco Malfoy. His land killed my sister.”

“Rose isn’t dead,” said Ron quietly.

“How could it possibly be Malfoy’s fault?” asked Harry, ignoring him. “He isn’t part of the ministry. He barely steps foot outside of his clubs and his own manor these days.”

But Hermione narrowed her eyes. “His land killed her? You mean to say that this experiment took part on Malfoy land? How did you ever get him to agree to that?”

“Rose isn’t dead,” said Ron repeated. No one paid any attention that time either.

Jareth tried again. “I’m afraid we can’t—”

Hugo spoke right over him. “Of course he didn’t agree. That’s why he set it all up. The coward set up a bunch of booby traps, and then ran for it. He left Astoria and Scorpius behind to lull us into a false sense of security, and then—”

“Are you seriously trying to say that Malfoy left his only son—“ interrupted Harry incredulously before getting interrupted again himself.

“—just another sacrifice to his precious land, no doubt feeding it with the blood—“

There was a choked sound, almost overwhelmed by the volume of their own voices. But the emotion in that raw utterance was enough to draw everyone’s attention to the door. Framed in the unforgiving doorway was the man himself, a monochrome contrast between his white face and his severe robes.

“You bastard!” said Hugo, making for Malfoy. “You’ll pay for what you did.”

Harry grabbed Hugo and used his momentum to swing him around in the opposite direction. Hugo was substantially bigger and younger than Harry, but there were some skills Harry had never forgotten. Harry looked towards Ron and swiftly determined that Ron would be of no use in keeping his son under control. At least Ron wasn’t going after Malfoy himself, Harry told himself in resignation.

“Enough!” Harry said when Hugo moved to go around him again. “This isn’t the time or the place. You will control yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Hugo, his fists gradually loosening. “But you’ll get what you have coming to you sooner or later, Malfoy.”

An anxious assistant hurried over and put a tentative arm on Malfoy’s arm. “Our apologies, Mister Malfoy, your waiting room is further along the corridor. The healer dealing with your wife and son will be with you in a moment.”

Malfoy didn’t seem to register the words for a long while, still staring at Hugo like he was Voldemort reborn. Then Malfoy shook his head abruptly and walked passed the doorway without saying a word.

Harry moved to close the door and stand in front of it, glaring at anyone who looked like they wanted to follow Malfoy. “No one deserves to be attacked when they’re waiting to find out if, come tomorrow, they might be all alone in the world. Remember your decency.”

Hermione spoke, her voice precise and restrained. “We need to be concentrating on Rose right now. Not on getting into fights. We need to be strong for her, alright?”

“I am being strong for her, Mum!” said Hugo. “You’re the one that seems to want to let the people behind this get off scot-free.”

“That’s the last thing I want,” said Hermione. “We will make sure the ministry—“

Hugo interrupted her. “The ministry had nothing to with this. This is all Malfoy, and I’m surprised that you can’t seem to see that.”

Harry wasn’t in the habit of fighting Hermione’s fights, but Hugo was going a little far. “Hugo, think things through logically. You must know how much Malfoy dotes on his son. If he’d done anything deliberately, he would have taken his family with him.”   

Nothing in the last century had done much to change Harry’s opinion of Malfoy as a selfish coward with occasional moments of common sense, but it was absurd to accuse him of having deliberately endangered his son.

Hugo turned to Harry with a look that bordered on contemptuous. “I should have known you would defend him. You people all stand up for each other.”

Harry blinked in shock. “My people? In what possible reality are Malfoy and I in the same category of people?”

“You’re both dark families,” said Young Molly unexpectedly. Young Molly, who had been saddled with an increasingly inappropriate nick-name for almost as long as Harry had been the boy-who-lived, was greeted with protests and exclamations, but they weren’t as shocked as Harry would have expected.

“Look,” she continued, with pedantic determination. “I apologise to James and Lily. We all know you’re both very good people. It isn’t your fault who your relatives are. But we can’t keep ignoring the truth to spare your feelings. Everyone knows that the Potters are dark.”

Harry’s disbelief was not only that Young Molly would say such a thing, but that none of the audience looked particularly surprised by the attack. Not even his own children.

“The Potter family has been light for generations,” Harry said. “Did you all forget that my father and grandfather died fighting Voldemort?”

“Yeah,” said one of the great-grandchildren. “I bet they laughed themselves sick, playing both sides like that. They played the perfect Gryffindors, making out like they were all just and noble, and all that time they were just doing everything they could to make sure they came out on top of the heap. Making sure The Great Harry Potter ended up on top of the heap.”

“Be fair, everyone,” said James, but he sounded weak. “Dad didn’t know anything about it. They were all dead before he was a year old.”

Young Molly firmed her position and lifted her chin. “But he would have gone right along with them if he had. We all heard it. You can’t deny it now. I was right there when the Potter living lands died seventeen years ago. Uncle Harry didn’t say a thing about how ashamed he was to find out his family had owned it. No, he went on about what a tragedy it was that he hadn’t found out about it in time to save it. Uncle Harry didn’t care that they’d been dark. He just cared that they’d messed up so badly that they hadn’t let him in on that little secret.”

“That’s absurd. There’s nothing to suggest living lands are dark just because some dark families had them,” said Harry.

“Which is just what someone dark would say, isn’t it?” said Young Molly triumphantly.

Hugo said, “Probably would have been perfectly happy to slaughter some people on his alter, the way Malfoy slaughtered Rose—“

“Stop talking about Rose like she’s already dead!” screamed Ron.

They all froze. Harry felt himself go white, and then red. No matter what hysteria had overcome the younger Weasley’s, he should have had more control and taken his own advice. This wasn’t the time. Harry felt ashamed of himself.  

The door opened, and they all turned as one.

The healer’s expression didn’t lend itself to hope. “I regret to inform you that the magic has departed from Rose Weasley. There was nothing we could do for her.”

Down the hall, Harry could hear similar words being repeated to Malfoy until they were drowned out by the wails of the Weasley clan. Hermione’s weight was suddenly heavy on his arm and the world that much colder.  

Rose was dead, and nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

Weasley Burrow, Friday, 1 May 2099

The argument had been abandoned to take care of Rose’s funeral, and had not been picked up again in the following six weeks. Whatever vendetta may have been pursued against Malfoy, it was below the level of Harry’s attention. Harry didn’t worry about it too much. He doubted Malfoy was even in a state to notice, let alone care about, yet more Weasley prejudice.

Now that Harry was paying more attention, he could see the fault lines between him and the younger generation Weasleys. There was a hint of formality, a careful avoidance of topics, and an excess of sympathy for Ginny. They were treating him like a racist grandma whose wildly inappropriate comments were better ignored than challenged. Harry wasn’t sure what had led to it all, but he had more sympathy for the stereotype now. He was simply too old and too settled into himself to pander to their hysteria. He had more than a hundred years of people adoring him or condemning him. When he had retired, he had promised himself that he would never worry about his public image again. He wasn’t going to break that promise just because the judgemental herd was closer to him than he’d previously realised.

But Harry still appreciated his duty, and his duty required him to attend the annual Weasley Summer Day Celebration with his wife and his oldest two children. The clan was entirely too large for it to halt all activities every time someone happened to die. This death, though, was affecting the general atmosphere to a greater degree than Harry had seen since the war. More than one adult stood around glaring at anyone who seemed to be having too much fun. The baker’s dozen of pre-Hogwarts children ignored them to run wild around the Burrow garden.

Harry paused to watch them. Their white robes were slowly staining multiple colours from traditional berries and untraditional chocolates. Their shrieks and calls blended seamlessly into the racket from the tormented gnomes. Their sprigs of Hawthorn were abandoned every which where, with only unravelling strands of ribbons to indicate their original owner. As if to join in their rebellion of the attempted solemnity, the decorations were aggressively festive. The flowers over the door knobs bloomed with fragile and improbable vigour. Unattended Morris bells jingled with no external cause. The ribbons of the maypole reached out to passers-by with greater urgency than Harry could remember them having before. Harry stepped carefully, not wishing to be caught and forced to dance, and made his way into the kitchen.

In slow steps after the war, the house had been rebuilt to the exact mismatched mess it had been before. Physically, it matched his memories of the first time Harry had visited. Emotionally, it more closely matched his memories of Privet Drive, and had for a long time before Rose’s death.

He could not forget the slow tragedy of Fleur Weasley, and his own gnawing guilt about not having done more. When she had first become mistress of the Burrow, she had spoken about what she wanted to do with the place once the family had moved past the worst of grief for Molly. Then she had spoken about what she planned to do with the place once whatever current crisis in the Weasley family was over. Then she had spoken about what she planned to do once she finally got out of the place.

And then it had been too late.

Fluer had passed away still doing the sacrificing, without ever being the one sacrificed for. Harry had sat with her in the orchard, on one of the good days, as she wept her frustration at being forced to live her last moments in a shrine. The Burrow belonged to the clan, and no one couple could have the strength to stand against them. Harry had wondered whether the obvious love she’d had for Bill had made giving up her own life worth it, but he had never been cruel enough to ask.

After that, Percy had taken over the role as paterfamilias with his wife. They had fewer illusions perhaps, and had therefore fewer disappointments. Percy had always known it would be a grim penance, and had resigned himself to paying it. Harry thought Molly would have been horrified at what her beloved higgledy-piggledy house had become.

Young Molly was waiting for him in the kitchen with some of the rest of her generation. They regarded him from the other side of the kitchen table, like a jury facing a defendant, or chickens objecting to a fox. Harry clenched his teeth, but it was too late for him to politely retreat.

“Okay,” said Young Molly with her hands on her hips. “This has gone on long enough. There’s something you need to know. You have a duty to your children, no matter what you might think.”

“Molly!” said Hugo, through clenched teeth.

“Hugo!” she mocked back. “It’s true and you know it. What were you and James going to do, present him with some papers and ask him to sign them without reading them?”

“No decisions have been made yet,” said Hugo. “There might still be other options for Lily and James.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the exclusion of Albus from Hugo’s list. Harry doubted it was simply because Albus had not returned to the British shores in years. Harry had tried very hard not to have any favourites amongst the cousins, but Hugo’s obvious contempt for Slytherins and Harry’s youngest son had always made it hard for Harry not to dislike Hugo. Hugo might have been a polyjuice copy of Ron when he had been younger, but Ron had outgrown the worst of his prejudices. Hugo never had.  

“Pipe dreams,” said Young Molly. “There’s no way the ministry would let them keep the money unless the whole family is redeemed, and you know it.”

Hermione and James slipped in through the inner door, and carefully shut it behind them.

“Somebody,” said Harry, “talk to me.”

Young Molly turned to him. “What happened to poor Rose and the others was just the last straw. Everyone knows we aren’t getting anywhere with our experiments. And everyone knows we’re running out of money.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “The research cannot possibly be putting that degree of strain on the ministry budget.”

“We’re not supposed to be speaking about this,” said Hugo with a glare towards Young Molly.

“You say that like it isn’t obvious to anyone with a brain,” Young Molly said to him before turning back to Harry. “It’s not just the research. Every time a new place loses magic, there are recovery costs. More importantly, every time, the government loses that tax revenue, forever.”

Harry stilled at that. Young Molly was right. It was an obvious consequence, but not one he’d considered. Because the government always complained about not having enough money. Because no one was dying from it. Because the problem itself was short-term, surely.

“Alright,” said Harry. “I can believe there’s a genuine problem. What’s being proposed to do something about it that needs my input?”

Hugo cleared his throat.

Young Molly ignored him entirely. “That’s equally obvious. Everyone knows that not everyone is suffering from the difficulties. Some families having been doing very well out of our disaster. The ministry thinks that it is only fair – and really, only practical – that those families bear the burden of the increases in taxes that we need.”

Harry could see multiple ways in which a philosophy like that could go wrong, but he had no desire to debate it with a hostile audience. “And how does this affect me? I’m retired from a life of civil service. I’ve never owned a business to profit of anything.”

James edged forward from where he had been hiding by the door. “It’s the definition they’re using to determine those families, Father. Any family that owns, or has owned, living land. That includes the Potters.”

Harry had to replay that in his head to make sure he understood it correctly. “Any family who has ever owned a living land? That’s probably everyone, including the muggleborns, if you believe the re-kindled squib line theory.”

The lines around James’s mouth tightened. “They can’t check forever, obviously. But anyone who has owned one in the recent past.”

“Then it doesn’t apply to the Potters,” pointed out Harry. “No-one has been on the land in more than a hundred years. I donated the whole thing in its entirety without ever having set foot on it.”

Hugo snorted. “You and apparently everyone else.”

James didn’t look at Hugo, but he didn’t speak against him either. He continued in his customary precise tone. “The ministry has reason to believe that a number of families have recently been fraudulently pretending to give up their lands to avoid the stigma. They sell a worthless piece of land with an unused house for an over-inflated price, and claim it’s all that remains of the living land they used to own. Since magical census data does not function on living land, they think they can just lie about it and get away with it. They’ll soon discover that they’re wrong about that.”

Harry was unimpressed with both the sentiment and James himself, but that was an emotion he had long practice at suppressing. “So you are saying that the Potters are going to get caught out by a technicality. Dare I ask about this plan you didn’t want Molly to speak to me about?”

James and Hugo shared a look. Hugo shrugged, and James continued. “The ministry is trying not to penalise people who have been accidentally included. They’re proposing to strictly link it to the family name. It will only apply to those who still have the same surname as the original owners of the living land.”

“It’s brilliant,” said Hugo. “Everyone knows how those dark bastards get about their legacies. They’d rather be tortured to death than abandon their precious pride. We’ll be hitting them right where it hurts.”

“So,” said James, bringing the attention back to himself, “All we need to do to avoid everything is take on Mum’s surname instead of yours before the bill is finalised.”

“You want us to stop being Potters,” said Harry. “To cater to the ministry’s inability to formulate a proper tax plan.”

“It’s the best solution—“ said James.

“It’s a coward’s solution,” said Harry. “And an over-reaction. More-over, a reaction that makes us look guilty. We have nothing the Ministry can tax. What is the Ministry planning to do? Throw me in Azkaban? Refuse to pay my pension? What on earth will that gain them? They can’t take what we don’t have.”

The group shifted, and Harry remembered Young Molly’s mysterious comment about money.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I hate to break it to you, James, but there is nothing else. Your mother and I are living off our pensions. The only thing you’re going to get when we die is a third-part of the house – should that still be standing.”

This time the looks exchanged made a spider web of silent communication. Harry suspected he had not convinced them of anything, but found himself indifferent to that fact.

“We know that,” said James, with at least an attempt to sound sincere, “But surely you can see why the Ministry would be suspicious in general. We need to handle this the right way.”

Harry found himself at the end of his tolerance. As cold and formal as if he was talking to strangers, Harry said, “And the right way is with courage and integrity. Not using privileged information to attempt a legal subterfuge. If you will excuse me.”

Harry left the kitchen before anyone had a chance to protest. Harry couldn’t leave the property until the end of the day, not without leaving the clan open to malicious gossip. He could, however, hide. He dropped down between the same two trees where he had failed to comfort Fleur those many years before. After half an hour, a no doubt carefully judged time to allow him to cool down, Hermione came to join him.

Cautious of her hips, she sat down carefully on the bed of dying flowers. “I don’t think Ginny agrees with them, you know. She likes being a Potter.”

Harry laughed, low and painfully. “Ironically, she’s the one person I would quite like to make a Weasley again. Just, you know, leaving me still a Potter.”

“Because of all this?” asked Hermione, startled. “I don’t—”

Harry interrupted, “Oh, no. No, since back when Lily first moved out. Unfortunately, in all that time, she’s never once done anything to contravene our marriage vows.”

“You haven’t loved her in decades,” said Hermione, making it a statement rather than a question.

Since it seemed the occasion for inappropriate confessions, Harry made one he usually hid even from himself. “To be honest, I can’t figure out why I ever loved her.”

Hemione gave that the time it deserved. “Do you suspect potions?”

Harry grimaced. “I don’t know. From a legal point of view, you know, it doesn’t matter. Not with the wedding vows we took. The solicitor said I’d only be able to do something if I convinced my younger self not to be such a complete idiot and put a proper Potter betrothal contract in place. Since I didn’t, I am completely, magically, screwed. Or not screwed, to be more literally accurate.”

Hermione rewarded his terrible pun with a nudge to his shoulder. “It might not matter legally, but it makes a big difference emotionally.”

“True,” said Harry, “But probably in the exact opposite direction that it should. If I was under the influence of potions, it would feel better. I would be a victim. I wouldn’t be equally guilty for the mess we both got in to when we were too young to know better. It isn’t just me who suffered, you know. Ginny isn’t happy either. We’ve both spent a lifetime trying to convince ourselves that we could be happy.”

“Ginny seems happy enough to be the famous Mrs Potter,” said Hermione.

Harry leaned back. “She finds what rewards she can out of the situation, as I do. Merlin knows, it isn’t very much. Even if she did potion me, she’s lived to regret it. This isn’t the life that anyone would have planned for themselves.”

There was nothing to say, and they sat there saying nothing.

Eventually Harry stood and pulled Hermione up beside him. “Come on. This place is making me maudlin. Let’s go see if there’s any lemon mead left.”

They both constructed their happy faces, and walked towards the sounds of playing children. They could pretend to be content for the day. They’d had plenty of practice at it.

Chapter Text

Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Sunday, 10 May 2099

A week and a half later, the trio met up for lunch at Fortescue’s. Fortescue’s had expanded after the war. They’d expanded in terms of the space they had absorbed from the burned out and abandoned properties alongside them on Diagon Alley. They’d also expanded in terms of the food they provided. The menu was no longer limited to ice cream, but had every and any sort of confectionery the inner child could want, and had been the supplier of the doomed fountain cake. It still wasn’t really a suitable place for a meal, but Ron and Harry together could usually talk Hermione into an occasional dessert-only lunch. It helped that Fortescue’s had always been one of the few places to treat them all with privacy and consideration.

Sitting there had been bitter-sweet even before the cake. It was a reminder of the more innocent days before the war, but it was also a memorial to the war itself. The history was inscribed in the very floor. Scorch marks from the Second Voldemort War had been preserved and polished up, with the names of victims inscribed in every damaged stone block. Everything from that time that could be rescued and recycled, had been. Sitting down was always an experiment. The table they had been led to had one leg that was just subtly off from ninety degrees, and another that looked like it had been intended for a different, more decorative, piece of furniture. Harry drew up his chair gingerly, and was relieved when nothing rocked or creaked.

Ron looked around to make sure no one could overhear them in a manner disgracefully obvious for his experience, and said, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I promised the kids I'd say something to you about the name change thing."

Hermione face-palmed. Harry’s momentary spike of anger drained away into unwilling humour. Trust Ron to be that clumsy about it. Harry attempted to sidestep it. “Well, you can say you’ve talked about it, and now we can have the rest of our lunch in peace.”

Ron ignored him. “I just don’t get what all the fuss is about. You know that we’ve always thought of you as one of the family, even before you married Ginny. Is taking the Weasley name something you’re suddenly too good for?”

“Don’t be absurd, Ron,” said Harry. “You know it isn’t that. It’s not about being good enough. If I’d been adopted by the Weasleys as a child, I would have been thrilled. If Ginny and I had sat down and decided to take her name when we got married, I would have been alright with that too.”

“Then what’s the problem?” asked Ron.

Harry sighed. “I’ve been Harry James Potter for almost a hundred and twenty years now. They’re not just asking me to throw away my name. They’re asking me to throw away my entire sense of self. They want me to pretend to be so ashamed of myself that I’ll abandon my link to everything I’ve ever done in my life. They want me to pretend to be so ashamed of my family that I’ll write them out of history. They want me to pretend to be so ashamed of my Mum and Dad that I’ll act like them sacrificing their own lives wasn’t good enough for me.”

Maybe Young Molly had been right about his leanings. She might feel scornful and morally superior about 'those' dark families willing to be tortured to death rather than change their name, but a fury Harry didn't want to acknowledge agreed perfectly with the sentiment. An even more hidden impulse was to torture his enemies to death instead. But Harry somehow suspected the Weasley clan would be even quicker to water the earth with the blood of anyone suggesting they give up their family identity. Harry found himself clutching the sides of his chair a little too tightly for the potentially fragile wood, and slowly loosened his grasp. 

“Harry,” said Ron, looking towards Hermione. Hermione had moved on to staring at her menu with complete preoccupation, and didn’t look up.

Harry waited, hoping that Ron would let it drop, but it seemed the pressure that had been applied to him by the other side of the family outweighed the awkwardness of the current conversation. They had chosen their spokesman well. Anyone else, and Harry would have just walked away. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Ron deserved more than that from him.

Ron started again. “I’m not trying to argue you out of doing what you think is right, but I’m not convinced this is important enough for you to stick your neck out for.”

Which, to be fair, wasn’t anything Harry hadn’t told himself in the last week. Accept the minor irritant, and live to fight another day. It wasn't like people would stop recognising him.

“We don’t know for sure that the Ministry won’t be reasonable,” said Harry. “But if they’re not, then I shouldn’t be running from it. I won’t be the only victim. There will be plenty of other people the Ministry are equally unreasonable about who don’t have the advantages that I do. I can’t just abandon them because I can.”

Ron fiddled with the sugar container while his ears heated up. It was a tell-tale sign that he knew something he wasn’t supposed to. Harry, wanting the entire conversation to end, almost ignored it. But a macabre curiosity set in. Considering what they’d already told him, it would be interesting to find out what could be worse.

“What is it?” asked Harry.

“Well, you know, it isn’t everyone,” said Ron.

Harry kept his expression neutral. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

“It’s just,” continued Ron, “When it comes to the big things, you know? Considering everything that’s going on. People are scared. They aren’t going to want to rock the boat.”

“And?” said Harry, with a raised eyebrow. The fact that the wizarding world was composed of sheep was hardly dramatic enough to provoke that much unease.

“Just…” Ron the red flushing down his neck and into his cheeks. “Damn it, Harry, don’t make me say it out loud.”

Harry didn’t give an inch. “I think you’re going to have to.”

“People are angry with you, alright?” said Ron, angry now himself. “You’ve been out of sight since your retirement, so there’s been nothing to stop the rumours about what the Potters were really like. You’re more likely to hurt any cause you join than help it.”

Hermione emerged from behind her defences and placed the menu down precisely. “That’s ridiculous. Even if you buy into the whole 'living lands are bad' thing, it’s not like Harry gained any advantage from it. Blaming him is even more illogical than the wizarding world usually gets.”

“You don’t understand,” said Ron impatiently. “People didn’t just support Harry because they liked Harry. They supported him because they saw him as Dumbledore’s heir. A lot of people owed Dumbledore some serious debts, and they felt like they were paying it back by helping Harry. But then it came out that the Potters had living lands, and everyone knows how Dumbledore felt about those. Dumbledore would never have handed over his mantle to Harry if he’d known. People feel like they’ve been tricked into backing Harry.”

Ron swung back to Harry, “And don’t give me that bit about donating it again. If you’d gone out in public and told everyone how shocked and horrified and ashamed you were, then that might have been one thing. But you didn’t. You were more upset that the cursed thing had died than it had existed at all. Did you think people didn’t notice? Dumbledore gave you the ultimate honour, and you just pissed all over it. They’re afraid that, now that we’re so close to succeeding in wiping them out, you’ll somehow manage to bring them all back again. And yes, I know that last bit is bullshit, but they believe the legend. They still think you can do anything. It’s just that now they're worried that you'll do the wrong thing. So now is not the time to hand them a weapon to use against you.”

Harry leaned back, as if physically distancing himself from Ron’s words. People had really been supporting him because of Dumbledore?

How dare they.

They were supposed to be doing things because they’d agreed it was the right thing to do. They were supposed to be looking at the facts and not the people. They were supposed to have left the old boy’s network behind when they’d locked up the death eaters. They’d lied to him.

While Harry was trying to reconcile his memories with this new point of view, Hermione pounced on a part of Ron’s speech Harry hadn’t even noticed. “How close ‘we’ are to succeeding? You mean you’re actively trying to kill them?”

Ron’s complexion drained from red into white. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

Hermione was openly horrified. “Why would anyone do anything like that? The living lands are the only thing keeping any magic available!”

“Oh, for…” said Ron, throwing up his hands. “This is the damn house elves all over again. Once you get an idea into your head, you just refuse to listen to anyone. Living lands are evil, Hermione! It doesn’t even matter if you’re right. I mean, if we could keep the Wizarding World stable by performing human sacrifice once a year, would you?”

Harry laid a hand on Hermione’s arm. They held eye contact for a second before she shrugged.

“I’m listening, Ron,” Harry said. “Explain it to me. All I was told was that living land was just property that has gained enough sentience to bond with its owner. Like your Dad’s car. Nothing as terrible as human sacrifice.”

Ron’s eyes were fever bright. “That’s the official line, but it's mainly so they don't give anyone any ideas. Human sacrifice isn't necessary, but that doesn’t mean people didn’t do it. You don’t understand how bad it got in the Grindelwald war. Dumbledore himself was almost killed when the old guard turned the lands against the Light. The people who control living lands? They used to be called kings, and it wasn’t just because they were pretentious berks. It was because they had absolute power. Once inside, nothing left their lands without permission. Not information, not their families, and most definitely not their enemies. All those muggle stories about witches stealing children? Where did you think they were all going? One of Dumbledore’s most cherished aims was to save everyone by getting rid of the living lands and the dark wizards who owned them.”

Hermione leaned forward before Harry could decide what he thought about that. “And because Dumbledore was the only source of information for generations of magic users, I’m guessing that no one in the last century since has bothered to question it? Seriously, Ron, the wizarding world needs to stop defining themselves by one man. Even the people who hate Dumbledore define themselves by opposition to him. It’s pathetic, and it's lazy.”

“Dumbledore was a great man,” said Ron, redness recovering the ground it had lost on his face.

“Sure,” said Hermione. “And he’d hate what people are doing in his memory just as much as I do. Curbing the excesses and wrong-doings of those ‘kings’ sounds like a worthwhile and noble goal. But Dumbledore wasn’t all-knowing. He couldn’t see the future. If he had been, he’d have tried to figure out a way to do that without killing the lands themselves. We should be trying to do what he would have wanted, rather than what he said.”

“Like what?” challenged Ron with his arms crossed.

“Like creating living lands that act like Hogwarts with an appointed owner,” said Hermione. “Or creating communication spells that work across the boundaries. Or even just creating a ring of empty living lands to protect a non-living common area in the middle from muggle tech.”

Ron snorted, “If it were that easy, someone would have done it.”

“Have they tried?” asked Harry. “From what you and the kids have been saying, Ron, the Ministry isn’t just keeping quiet about what they’re doing. They’re honestly making no progress towards any kind of solution.”

“Because they refuse to admit the root cause of the problem in the first place!” said Hermione, flinging her hands up.

“If you’re so smart, why aren’t you solving it then?” asked Ron.

Yes, thought Harry with sudden clarity. Yes. That was the answer to what they should do about the name change fiasco. Never mind the thing about whether living lands were dark. Never mind about whether he was honouring Dumbledore or not. They would find the solution, save the wizarding world, and make everything else irrelevant.

Harry interrupted Hermione’s retort without even hearing it. “He’s right.”

“Harry?” asked Hermione, sounding a little hurt.

“Ron’s right,” Harry repeated. “We shouldn’t be sticking our heads in the sand either. If the Ministry is going down the wrong path, then we need to step in ourselves.”

“But…” said Hermione, but Harry could see the spark of enthusiasm lighting in her eyes. “We don’t have their resources. Still, I suppose there’s no harm in doing a little research.”

Ron groaned, but there was a grin twitching at his lips. Argument averted. “Just like old times, then?”

“Exactly,” said Harry. “For the sake of the wizarding world. For Rose.”

Harry put his hand in the middle of the perfectly stable, perfectly reliable, table, and waited until Hermione and Ron covered it.

"For Rose."

Chapter Text

Teacher's Section of Hogwarts Library, Sunday 14 June 2099

Harry looked up at Hogwarts, remembering his first glimpse of the towering castle. Even after all these decades and all those adventures, there were parts of the building he had never seen. Parts, perhaps, that he would never be permitted to see. Hogwarts was older and larger than any mere witch or wizard, and she kept her own secrets. She had been home to Harry, his dearest, most beloved home, but he had never made the mistake of thinking her tame. She might not consider humans prey, but they’d never control her either.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts as they entered the library by Ron and Hermione’s bickering.

Ron was saying, “You know, I would have thought you would have outgrown the impulse to solve all problems by spending the weekend at Hogwarts library.”

Harry glanced sharply at him. The tone was teasing, but the words bordered on something less kind.

“Does that mean you’re volunteering to check the main section?” asked Hermione.

“No, no,” said Ron with a laugh. “Save me. I’m sure the teacher’s section has everything we need.”

The teacher’s section was a mezzanine of the main library, and both it and the stairs leading to it were warded by age-specific charms. They worked similarly to the muggle ones around public apparition points - not only couldn’t students see them, they would also fail to notice staff appearing and disappearing. They were so successful that Harry had had no idea the section had even existed until he came back as an adult.

“Imagine if we’d known about this section while we were still at school,” said Harry, deciding to reinforce the light-heartedness. “We’d have permanently misplaced our brown-haired friend. I would never have had the chance to use my invisibility cloak.”

“Of course I wouldn’t have spent all my time here, Harry,” said Hermione. Harry opened his mouth to express his disbelief when she continued, “At the time, it wouldn’t have taken me more than a few months to completely consume the contents. But now look at it.”

Harry did, his heart sinking at the prospect. Hermione had every reason to be proud. Harry wasn’t the only one she had convinced to donate his family library. In the mess of living land after living land dying as they hit hundred and one years mark without an owner, she had been right there, advocating for Hogwarts. Harry was sure that the more expensive books had disappeared into private collections, but the bulk of the truly unique stuff was now here in the teacher’s section. That was why they were there. Since the ministry hadn’t found anything, they knew there was no point checking any published books. The answer, if there was any answer, would be in the personal papers. The raw diaries, journals, accounts and letters of generations of kings and lords.

Harry paused for a moment on the edge of the railing, looking down at the students getting in some final studying for their exams. He wondered just how often teachers had watched the trio from there, desperately trying to solve that mystery and save the world. Hermione had always been so convinced that any information they needed back then had been in one of those books. At the time, she’d always been proven right.

With an impatient sound, Hermione summoned him to where she was setting up. She had positioned them next to the high arched windows that ran the far length of the mezzanine. It was a beautiful summer’s day. Warm sunlight streamed through the stained glass to create a mosaic of golds and purples on the table and chairs, with the coolness of the open space preventing it from becoming oppressive. Inside this ancient oasis of magic, it seemed impossible to believe their way of life could ever be threatened.

Hermione pulled out a large index with columns just waiting to be checked. “Since we decided we’d start with investigating why living lands seem to be immune, I went ahead and separated out the papers dealing with them, with a highlight on the relevant passages. I think I’ve managed to fine-tune it enough, and I’ve excluded all the times it was used in the sense of ‘living off the lands’, but let me know if you’re coming across a lot of false positives in a similar theme. Harry, why don’t you take the Potter journals. I’ll take the Lestrange’s. Ron, do you want the Blacks?”

“No,” Ron said, but he took them all the same.

Harry imagined his own expression wasn’t too different. He had tried and failed to read the Potter journals before. He felt guilty about that. If he was the person he liked to think he was, he would have found them fascinating. In reality, the bragging of yet another person with yet another idiosyncratic take on spelling bored him to tears. One Potter after another who had considered themselves to be the most important person in their world, only to fade into obscurity as soon as they were entombed. But he wasn’t trying to read them for some sort of personal improvement this time, so it would surely be more interesting?

It wasn’t.

Oh, Hermione’s spell had done an amazing job, but there were still tediously many Season’s Change celebrations described in excruciating detail. And while intellectually he was interested at how the Weasley’s maypole was an echo of a ritual to encourage growth in a Sacred Tree, it was something he’d much prefer to read summarised and pre-digested. If there’d been even slightly fewer mentions of deeper understandings and more powerful connections, he would have lost hope entirely.

But the occasional mention was there, so Harry sat in Hogwarts library, feeling like he was cramming last minute for an exam he had skipped all the classes in. Every journal expected the reader to be familiar with so much context Harry was finding difficult to place. He knew the bare bones of the history, painfully self-taught many years after Binns had ceased to be the counterpoint to his naps, but the daily rhythm of a Lord tending to his land and his tenants was unfamiliar to him. It was coming together, but slowly. Very slowly.   

“And this place is making me hungry,” Harry complained to himself in a quiet voice.

A small nudge, and Harry noticed a house-elf had placed clotted cream scones on the side-table. Now there was something that hadn’t happened as a student. Harry grinned and nudged Ron in turn, who had resorted to turning pages while staring out the window. Neither of them drew Hermione's attention to the food. Part of it was to avoid bringing up bad memories. Hermione still felt guilty for how skittish the Hogwarts house-elves still were around her. More of it was to avoid bringing down a lecture about eating around books on their heads. There were protection spells on each and piece of paper that meant they would have survived a trip through the Great Lake without a smudge, but for Hermione, it was the principle of the matter. Ron and Harry succeeded in surreptitiously polishing off the snack, and Harry was in a much better mood when he went back to work.

Hours later, there was a tingle of magic when he picked up a workbook. Not from the book itself, but across the back of his neck and down his spine, in a way that Harry had only become sensitive enough to recognise towards the end of his career. People had told him it was a mistake to anthropomorphise magic like it had any thoughts or desires or its own. ‘The wand choses the wizard’ was a platitude, he had been told, not a description of intent. Random events were just that, random. Good luck and bad luck were just luck. Imagining something deeper running below the surface was an indication of mental illness. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to reveal his sensitivity to anyone.

But he paid attention when it happened. Instead of skimming through the experiments, he read them thoroughly and with close attention. One ritual jumped out, and he re-read it with excitement. Then a third time, with growing dread.

“Hermione?” he said in a small voice.

“Yes, Harry?” she asked, without looking up.

“Is the Potter land really dead? All the way dead, not just mostly dead?” Harry asked.

Hermione sat back and met his eyes. “Yes. You know that. What’s this about?”

Harry let his head fall forward to hit the journal. “A lost opportunity.”

Hermione asked, “What is it? Did you find an answer?”

Harry shook his head, his hair sweeping across the pages as his forehead rocked on the surface. “Not an answer, but I did find a way of getting one. One of my ancestors developed a ritual that let the owner ask any question of the land. Anything that had ever happened on the land could be shown to you in a vision. And it wasn’t just things like ‘where did I lose my keys’, either. Some of the experiments this guy tried were truly abstract. I figure if anyone knows how living lands stop the muggle encroachment, then it would be the living lands themselves.”

“Let me see,” said Hermione, pulling the book away without warning.

Harry’s head bounced on the table as it was abruptly deprived of its previous support, and he leaned back to rub his head. “Hermione!”

“I think you’re right,” said Hermione. “This might be it. This might really be it.”

“You just said that the Potter land was really dead,” said Harry.

“It is,” said Hermione with a wave. “But you aren’t the only person we know who owns living land."

Ron looked confused, but Harry was a little quicker on the uptake. "We're not asking Malfoy."

The horror on Ron's face would have been amusing in other circumstances. "Hell, no. Have you forgotten he's the person who got Rose killed?"

“His family died too, Ronald,” said Hermione. “This is hardly the time to indulge in childish prejudices.”

Ron started flushing. It wouldn’t matter if it was anger or hurt, if he erupted, Hermione would take it very badly. Badly enough that Pince’s many times successor would take offence with even a guest, and badly enough that at least one person would be sleeping on the couch.

Harry interrupted, “I don’t think he would have done anything to kill them either. He’s a victim too. Which is why it’s probably a bad idea to disturb him. He's in mourning, and three guesses who he's probably blaming for that. I doubt he would be willing to cast crucio on us if we were caught in a numbing trap. He can’t be the only one left with living lands. We can find someone who isn’t as involved.”

Hermione looked determined. “That’s precisely why it has to be Malfoy, don’t you see? We can’t risk asking someone who buys in to the ministry line too closely. We want someone who has the same reasons we do.”

“And you think that person will be Malfoy?” asked Ron. “Like that time you were convinced he’d help support you with that silly University Bill because Albus told you that Scorpius told him that Malfoy thought it would be a good idea? It will be exactly like that. Just instead of ‘Oh Malfoy, pretty please donate a hundred acres and two dozen house-elves so that the muggle-borns and riff-raff you despise so we can take away the educational advantages of you and your friends,’ it will be ‘Oh Malfoy, please let us use your living lands to figure out a way to take that advantage away from you and your friends.’”

“He did support the University Bill,” said Hermione. “The ministry were the ones who didn’t trust him enough—“

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what he told you,” said Ron. “And you just believed—“

“Guys!” interrupted Harry. “This isn’t the time to rehash old arguments. We can ask. If he says no, we aren’t any worse off than we were before.”

Malfoy would never be Harry’s first pick to ask for assistance, but he didn’t have Ron’s knee-jerk reaction either. Hermione had a good point. They did want someone who was as distrustful of the ministry solution as they were themselves. And the University Bill aside, Hermione had a way of powering through to get what she wanted. She might succeed with Malfoy.

Before Ron could come up with another argument, Harry said slyly, “Unless you want to carry on looking through these papers?”

Ron looked horrified and Hermione took that as a win.

“I’ll make a copy of the ritual,” said Hermione. “You write a letter to Malfoy. He’s most likely to respond to you.”

Harry composed the letter with interjections from Hermione, the sunlight was warm on Harry's head and neck. Quite probably this wouldn’t go anywhere. Malfoy would refuse, or the ritual would fail, or the land would tell them nothing meaningful. But it was good to have a direction. To be a team again. To be out there, doing something, and making a difference.

Chapter Text

Guest lounge of Malfoy's Club, Saturday 20 June 2099

Malfoy agreed to a meeting the very next week, but insisted it be at Umbratiles Arx rather than anywhere more personal. Ron had complained about the location all the way there. Apparently, Malfoy was showing off his wealth and his political connections in choosing the club. Harry thought Ron would have complained just as much about Malfoy not being sensitive to their feelings if he’d offered to meet at the manor, or being presumptuous and condescending if he’d offered to meet at the Weasley’s or Potter’s.

“This just proves things, doesn’t it?” continued Ron. “Being a good person practically disqualifies you from membership at these sort of places.”

Harry was glad he had never mentioned that the club had once offered Harry himself membership. Never mind that Harry suspected they’d only offered because they knew he would refuse. On paper, he had been a good fit, as the club had been a haven for Moderate Reformists at the time. But Harry had only survived his career with a policy of strict political neutrality, and they would have known that. Ron would have taken it as yet another betrayal, and Harry couldn't even predict if Ginny would have been disgusted at Harry being asked, or at Harry turning it down. With how little influence he now had over the current stupidity, Harry was coming to regret his decision to step back and let the connections fall where they may.

The staff made it very clear that they were not members. There was there was nothing overtly rude in their behaviour, but an affected surprise and suspicion coloured their interactions. It made Ron seethe, but Harry was more amused than offended. He might personally find it a little odd to be a snob by proxy, but he’d rather the staff showed an incomprehensible form of job satisfaction than that they showed no job satisfaction at all. They were led into a guest lounge, and Harry had to pause to let his eyes adjust. The heavy burgundy curtains were fully drawn, and the room was lit only by a single candelabra in the centre of a low mahogany table. Everything was old and solid and infused with the scent of decades of bitter coffee. Harry could well imagine that asking for milk or sugar in a place like this would get you promptly asked to leave.

Once they were seated, Hermione presented their theory on the cause of the magic failure, and how the Ministry refused to consider that the muggles might have anything like that sort of power. She stepped delicately through the observation that living lands didn’t seem to be affected. She concluded with a concise explanation of their research and the results thereof. Malfoy waited her out.

“I’m sure that’s fascinating, Granger,” Malfoy said, “but my entire family is dead. It won’t be many years until I join them and my line ceases to exist. What do I care if the rest of the Wizarding World fails as well?”

“See what I mean?” said Ron. “He’s just the same selfish prick he always was.”

Harry internally rolled his eyes. If Ron had been a little less emotionally involved, he would have recognised Malfoy’s words as a typical Slytherin opening position. Malfoy was telling the truth – the raw pain was clearly too deep to entirely conceal – but it was an invitation to begin negotiation rather than a dismissal.

Hermione said in a nagging tone that Harry hadn’t heard in a while. “Ronald Bilius Weasley, you need to show respect for our host—”

Ron leapt to his feet. “Respect? Respect? I’ll show this bastard exactly the kind of respect he deserves!”

Hermione stood up to intercept Ron, and Harry and Malfoy stood with her. “Please, don’t make a scene, Ronald. You’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m embarrassing you?” asked Ron, indignant.

The shouting must have attracted attention, because a staff member eased his way into the room.

Malfoy smiled, and Harry flinched back despite himself. “I believe Mister Weasley was just leaving. If you could show him the way out?”

Hermione looked at Harry in appeal. Harry said, “Maybe let us handle it alone, Ron? I understand why you’re upset, but this isn’t going to help, and we really need to do this.”

Ron glared at them. “Fine. Whatever. You guys have fun.”

He stormed out with the attendant shadowing behind him like a sheep dog.

Once the door closed, Malfoy sat down like nothing had happened. Hermione looked just as unconcerned as she retook her seat, followed by Harry.

“And why my land?” asked Malfoy, “People might be hiding it now, but I'm not the only one who owns any. I'm sure at least one of them would jump at the chance to be a hero.”

"Because on your land,” she said, “then there's a second question we get to ask. Someone in the ministry got our children killed, and I want those fuckers to pay."

Harry and Malfoy had a moment of open mouthed disbelief at Hermione's vulgarity before her anger registered.

"You got Ron sent away deliberately, " said Harry with sudden realisation.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy and Harry blushed at having revealed something like that. Usually, Harry was a lot more circumspect in front of strangers.

Hermione answered almost too calmly, "We disagree about who is most likely to blame for the incident. Under the circumstances, I thought it was more important that I put my effort into convincing Malfoy than Ron."

Malfoy collected a biscuit and tapped it against the side of his cup. “Weasley blames me for killing my own family. How charming."

Hermione slammed a hand down on the table. "Malfoy, are you honestly telling me you care in any way for what Ron thinks?”

Malfoy was shocked to silence, and Harry imagined it had been many years since Malfoy had lost control of his expression twice in such a short period of time.

“I didn’t think so,” said Hermione. She picked up the parchment and handed it to Malfoy. “Let's get back to more important matters."

"Revenge?" asked Malfoy, raising an eyebrow.

"Revenge and saving the Wizarding World from itself," answered Hermione primly.

Malfoy took the parchment, and read through the ritual slowly and deliberately. Harry could tell nothing from his expression. When he had finished, Malfoy rolled it up and re-tied it with a careful knot. “This is a family ritual. Even if it weren’t for the inherent power levels, family spells work best for family.”

He made eye contact with Hermione, looking for something. “You know this.”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione.

“To get the results you are looking for,” said Malfoy. “This ritual needs every advantage it can get.”

“Yes,” repeated Hermione.

Malfoy leaned forward. “Do you honestly believe that the reward will be worth the sacrifice you are asking for? Worth it to me?”

Hermione mirrored Malfoy’s actions, their faces only inches apart. “I do.”

“You do?” asked Malfoy.

Hermione nodded sharply. “I do. Despite what Ron might think, I know you have a strong sense of duty. Succeed or fail, this is a way for you to perform that duty. And, forgive me for being indelicate, but everyone knows about Harry. You cannot claim that the advantage will be one sided.”

Everyone knew what about Harry? Harry wished he could ask without upsetting the delicate negotiation Hermione was in the middle of. Despite having completely lost track of their arguments, Harry found himself holding his breath. Malfoy stared at Hemione without expression for a very long time, and then he seemed to relax, all at once. The perfect posture was still perfect, but it became a centred stillness rather than the tension it had been before. Malfoy stood, and with a century of etiquette pounded unwillingly into his head, Harry joined him.

Harry was half expecting Malfoy to call another waiter to escort them out. He wasn’t expecting Malfoy to drop gracefully to one knee and offered his wand with both hands.

“Harry James Potter,” said Malfoy, “I entrust my magic, my body and my land to your safe-keeping. I swear to be faithful to you above all others, and serve the needs of our lands in diligence, honesty and faith.”

Of course, thought Harry, feeling strangely light-headed. That was what the whole exchange had been about. It was a family spell. A Potter family spell. For the best result, he would have to perform the ritual as the owner of the living lands – or at least, as the liege lord. Harry realised abruptly how neatly Hermione had trapped him. To deny Malfoy now would be an offence many times greater than refusing that initial handshake all those many years before. This was the practical exam for his previous week’s studying, and like many exams, it had blindsided him with an unexpected topic.

But he was good at improvising. Harry straightened his spine. He could not afford to be timid. He lay his hands on Malfoy’s wand. Exact words weren’t important here, he knew, but the sentiment would eternally affect the bond. As the magic swelled under his hands, he chose his words carefully.  “Draco Lucius Malfoy, may all know that I receive you under my protection from this day forth. As I safeguard and guide us all, so may you safeguard and guide me. May the lands you care for prosper under your stewardship. May magic grant us this.”  

“May magic grant us this,” chorused Hermione and Malfoy.

The glow swelled, throwing shadows on the panelled walls, before contracting around their linked hands to form a narrow band around Malfoy’s wrist. The band faded under Malfoy’s skin, and a presence flickered to life in Harry’s heart. His breath caught at the depth and the rage and the loneliness. Harry stepped back and helped Malfoy to his feet. With the wording they had both used, nothing would change legally. Malfoy would continue to manage the lands he owned and would owe tribute of nothing more than occasional advice. But magically – magically – the lands now answered to Harry. Harry shuddered under the weight of that presence.

The Weasleys could never find out about this.

Malfoy tidied his already neat hair, and affected nonchalance. “Well. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Me neither,” admitted Harry, not confessing he’d had no more preparation than Malfoy himself.

“You can perform the rituals immediately after I formally introduce you to the land,” said Malfoy. “Autumn Day? That gives me six weeks to prepare.”

Harry looked helplessly at Hermione.

“Sounds perfect,” she said.

“Very well. I will send you the details closer to the time. Madame Granger,” said Malfoy with a nod, and then with a deeper bow and a gesture to the door, “Sire.”

There was a wry twist to Malfoy’s mouth, but his words weren’t mocking. Whatever Harry might have thought about the old traditions, he might have guessed that Malfoy would take them seriously. Malfoy had just given up more to Harry than his father ever had to Voldemort, even if it was just for these final years of their lives. This wasn’t the time for Harry to be precious about terminology or etiquette. Harry nodded gravely back, and preceded him out of the room and then the club.

It would be worth it. It would be worth it for all of them. Six weeks. Just six weeks, and they would know.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Land, Saturday 1 August 2099

The Weasleys didn’t celebrate Autumn Day, and Ron had been convinced to only arrive after the ‘boring sleeping bit’, so it was relatively easy for Hermione and Harry to slip away. They followed the paths into the woods until they reached the innermost grove. The heart of the Land was laid out in green for Autumn Day, and the altar held a riot of colourful apples, squash, and intricately shaped breads. The aroma of the food, the scent of the pine needles and the heaviness of age and magic was like water in humid air. The tree at the centre had leaves too metallic to pass as natural in the muggle world, and a presence too aware to pass as natural anywhere. It did not seem to mind Harry and Hermione’s presence. It was not, however, fully golden. Either Malfoy could not, or had chosen not to, perform that last binding and become a full king of the land.

It was the simplest of turn of the season celebrations, and the ritual was the simplest of requests. There was no resistance. Harry collapsed under the kaleidoscope of colours and sounds; the land reaching out to stuff memories into him. It was a moment and an eternity until he could detangle his own sense of self from that immensity.

“And?” asked Hermione, when Harry sat up. “Did you get anything?”

“A lot,” Harry said. “To both questions. We’ll need the pensieve for me to even make any sense of them.”

That, and Harry didn’t want to tell grieving parents himself.

“Personal one first,” said Hermione. “Then we call Ron.”

They all nodded, and Hermione and Malfoy wordlessly assisted Harry back through the paths to the conservatory and the prepares pensieve. The memory started with Scorpius and Astoria facing off against the ministry officials in front of the woods. Malfoy’s attention was immediately riveted on him, while Hermione had to move around a bit before spotting Rose hiding behind some colleagues.

Rose’s colouring never reaching the vividity of her cousins, and Harry remembered the teasing she had received because of it. But what had been washed out as a child had transformed into porcelain clarity as an adult. After the baby fat had melted away, the high cheekbones and the crystal eyes had highlighted her intelligence and curiosity. She had never been a pretty girl, but she had grown into a striking woman. Harry had supported and admired Rose’s dedication to her research, but he’d always hoped she would one day trust enough to reach out. Now, that would never happen. Now she was a footnote in a Ministry incident report.  

Harry’s attention turned to Scorpius. “I’m not denying that the paperwork is in order, but surely this can wait until the owner is present. What you hope to do might need--”

“The entire point,” said Jareth Whatisname, “Is not to need the owner, not that I expect you to approve of that.  Be grateful we're even investigating how to disconnect the land. If I had my way, we'd free everything by executing the lot of you.”

Scorpius paled, and moved to stand more firmly between the official and his mother.

“Let’s get going,” said Jareth, turning to face his own crowd. “Move it!”

Harry turned away. He could not watch again as Rose was bullied into doing what she knew was wrong. He could not watch the expressions of fear and uncertainty on everyone else’s face. He could not watch the violent movements of the ritual the Ministry had unearthed. But despite himself, he turned back when the final moment came. There wasn’t anything subtle about it. The land shuddered, flocks of birds took to the sky, animals filled the undergrowth with sounds of panic, and the vista faded into sepia. On the edge of the woods, one pine lost the battle. Like popcorn over heat, the cracks grew closer together until the tree toppled in a rush.

A pause –- a brief eye of the hurricane.

Then the leader of the ritual staggered and fell, colour draining from him back into the leaves of the surviving trees. One by one, each participant in the ritual dropped into heaps of robes. Finally, Scorpius and Astoria collapsed. The birds returned to the trees, and the animals settled. If not for the uprooted tree and the pale scattered bodies, one might have thought nothing had happened at all. Harry didn’t have to be an expert to tell that the more enthusiastic of the participants were already dead, but the chests of Rose and the Malfoys rose and fell. Maybe if they’d been treated right away. Maybe if the Ministry had admitted to St Mungo’s what had happened to them. Maybe if none of this had happened in the first place.

Harry tore his eyes away and pulled them out of the pensieve. He still didn’t know what to say, but he knew he had to make an attempt. "I don't think the land intended anyone to die.  It didn't feel like it was trying to attack or anything. It was just that it was taking all the magic it could to heal itself, and they were there."

Draco laughed, too loud and too long. "It's not like I could blame the land if it was. What they were doing to it was horrific, and Scorpius failed his duty. You can't expect a land to understand about decrees and politics and centralised governments. They were torturing it, and it made them stop."

“What are they-- were they cutting off a piece of land?" asked Hermione.

Draco grimaced. “That would have been too kind. They were paralysing it. Neither the land nor the owner would have any control, but they would still feel all the pain and distress. This is my fault.”

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice.

“If I hadn’t been so fucking modern. So weak. Then I would have performed the proper ceremonies and known what was happening before they could have done any damage. Then Scorpius would have understood his duty and fought for the Land. Instead, we just stood around, obeying the law."

There was no answer to that. Not yet. Maybe once they had time to process it more, they could see it more clearly.

Hermione said at last, “We’d better call Ron. It’s getting late.”

Within short order, they were within the memory of the official question –- what to do about the survival of Magic. Unlike the previous answer, this was no simple memory. This was flashes of things. Voldemort, rituals, people. The longest scene featured people Harry was quite sure he had never met, and if the styles of their robes was anything to go by, were long dead. Frustrated, Harry was watching the others more than he was watching the visions, so he noticed Malfoy’s expression change.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“Do you know something?” asked Ron, more aggressively.

“I suspect something,” corrected Malfoy. “I suspect that’s the rite of the Normani. It fits the descriptions.”

Harry looked at it with new eyes. It did fit the descriptions. Now that it had been pointed out, he wondered how he hadn’t noticed before.

Ron snorted. “The wrong of the who, now?”

“Really, Ron?” asked Harry. “Even I’ve heard of it, so I know you have too. I mean, I thought it was just a thing they made up for plays, but I’ve heard of it.”

Ron crossed his arms and looked stubborn. “Well, I haven’t. Want to fill me in?”

Hermione took over from him. “We don’t know much of this for sure. Like Harry said, most of the information we have is stories told about the Normani, rather than primary sources. Before every major war or event, the Normani would perform a rite that involved either an actual, or symbolic, murder of a child.”

“Either? That’s quite a difference!” said Ron.

“Stories go both ways. Anyway, if the war or event didn’t go the way Normani would have liked, legend has it that they would go back to the same place, and enact the second half of the rite. Supposedly, that would send all the participants back in time to the moment the first half was completed. With greater numbers and all the information they would succeed the second time around.”

Ron turned to Harry, “And you’ve watched plays about this? What kind of dark magic have you been exploring?”

“It’s just a literary device, Ron," said Harry. "Everyone uses it. They don’t promote dark magic, and they don’t kill the kid. If you note, the child in this ritual walks away just fine, as well.”

Ron was now in full righteous indignation mode. “I’m not talking about the dark magic of the death of a single kid. I’m talking about the dark magic of time travel. This isn’t a timeturner, where the only person whose reality being changed is the one using it. This totally rewrites history for everyone. That’s the same thing as sacrificing the lives of every person on the planet for their selfish gain.”

Malfoy disregarded Ron entirely. “If this has something to do with the Normani rite, then why was the land showing Harry all those splintered images of the dark lord?”

Hermione frowned in turn. “I think… I think because it was trying to show something that didn’t happen on the land, so it was putting things together to suggest it instead. It shows Voldemort doing things, but the order isn’t chronological. It shows Nagini and the diary. It shows the Normani Rite. What if it’s trying to say that Voldemort performed the equivalent to that first half of the Normani rite when he turned Harry into a horcrux?”

Like was when Malfoy had first mentioned the rite, Harry felt a sudden certainty of rightness. It wasn’t just that the conclusion made sense, although it did. It was like the land – or magic – was standing just out of earshot screaming ‘yes!’.

“Oh Merlin,” said Ron. “Let’s never mention that again. Not ever. If you were upset about people saying things about the Potters being dark? It’ll be nothing compared to what they will say if they find out you’re the centrepiece of a dark ritual like that.”

Harry wanted to disbelieve that anyone would blame him for the things that were done to him against his will, but he’d lived too long in the Wizarding world. That’s exactly what people would do, and in the most irrational and self-defeating way possible.

 Hermione puffed up herself. “You’re afraid of what people are going to think? Is that what you care about most from what we just learned today?”

“What am I supposed to care about?” asked Ron.

Hermione spoke slowly and patronisingly. “Harry asked how to save magic. The land answered with images about time travel. That means that the land thinks it’s already too late to do anything.”

“The only thing that means is that the land is dark and can’t be trusted,” replied Ron. “Big surprise there.”

Ron looked at them all in turn. “Please tell you agree with me. Tell me that none of you are contemplating for even a single moment trying to enact this travesty.”

Harry shuffled, and even Hermione looked a little uncomfortable.

“Of course not,” she said. “Not yet. But if we investigate further and it turns out there is no other way to save magic, don’t you think--”

“No!” said Ron. “Some things are too steep a price to pay for anything. If there is no other way, then we die. This is evil, Hermione. What’s more, this is stupid. Dark rituals take their price, and I shudder to know what price something this powerful would demand.”

“We’ll find another way, Hermione,” said Harry. “We’ve only just started investigating. Even if we're right and Voldemort did the equivalent of the first half of the rite, it’s not like it means we can do the second, even if we wanted to. Come on. Let’s get home.”

But as soon as Ron turned away, Harry placed a conspiratorial hand on Hermione’s shoulder. His instincts were shouting at him, and none of them were screaming that time travel was impossible.

Chapter Text

Office in ministry of Magic, Monday 14 September 2099

Hermione and Harry didn’t stop looking for other potential solutions while surreptitiously investigating the Normani ritual. Time travel would never be there first resort to their problem, with or without the implication of dark magic. They were, however, willing to make it their last resort, if they could do so without sacrificing their morals in the process. But they weren’t finding much else.

Harry was further distracted by the political manoeuvring going on to blacken the Potter name. Ron had been right – after decades of sacrifice and service, Harry was once again a pariah. Harry was furious with himself. He should have known better. He should have remembered that being honest and proving things with his actions was never, ever, enough. Not when the other side had bad faith and a plan. Harry knew he was being targeted, but it still felt like an unnecessarily humiliating slap in the face to find out that the Ministry intended to permanently ban people from his parents' old property from the Daily Prophet.

Closing some properties to the public was inevitable and sensible. If the loss of magic would also cause a major structural failure and the potential injury of everyone within it, then being a little proactive made sense. His parent’s property, shrine as it was, was not one of those cases.

After weighing his options, Harry went in person to the ministry to file a protest. It was not that he thought it would do any good, but it would threaten them with public admission of their own awfulness. Maybe his presence would shake free information he could use. So, he had gone with the expectation of an intervention. Some comradely advice not to make a fuss. Perhaps even some offer of a concession or a bribe. He had not expected that intervention to come from his oldest son, James. Harry found inside himself that cold stillness he used when he went into battle. He tried to shake the feeling off. This was a conversation with his own son, not a wand fight with an enemy.

At James’s very first day at his first job, James had insisted that Harry treat him entirely as a stranger when they were away from home. Harry had told himself at the time that it was a good thing that James wanted to stand on his own two feet, but Harry had been lying. He hated the gulf that had opened between them. He hated that their relationship had never matured into friendship. He hated the suspicion that James kept his distance because he was actually ashamed of Harry. So now, more than six decades later, when James wanted to lean on that familial connection for the very first time? Show him to his office for the first time? Consult and advise together for the first time? Harry was more than hurt. He was angry.

The office James led them to was pristine. The desk contained precisely the ministry mandated equipment and not a stray quill or photograph more. The bookshelf contained clean-spined ministry-recommended books in ordered categories, with no personal fiction or dubious books with conveniently obscured titles. If it hadn't been for the framed certificates on the wall, Harry would have thought the office unused. Harry wondered if the tidiness was meant to imply wonderful things about James's organisational skills, but all Harry could think was that James clearly didn't have enough work to do.

After they sat down, James sighed. “I know you’re upset. I understand, I really do. But this is not the hill to die on. If you make a fuss about this, people are going to wonder whether you still have an attachment to the other land you donated. And none of us can risk that. Not now."

“Yeah, no,” said Harry.

“Pardon?”

“No,” repeated Harry. “That’s obvious bullshit. The property in Godric’s Hollow is not now and has never been a living land. Even if they’re desperate to push this bizarre narrative that I am somehow guilty for once owning living land I never even knew existed and saw precisely once in my life, they aren’t going to go after a war monument. The whole thing is disrespectful to every single person who fought in the Voldemort Wars, not just me. The anniversary is in six weeks’ time, and we have the right to pay our respects. I have a right to pay my respects. Try again.”

James puffed up in indignation. It had been cute in a five-year old but ridiculous in a man that would soon see a century. “I don’t need to explain—”

Harry half stood up, “Then I’ll just go file that protest—”

“Stop!”

Harry sat back down again. The two stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

“Alright,” said James. “I really shouldn’t be telling you. This is need-to-know stuff.”

Harry felt a moment of contempt. On one hand, it could be a standard Auror ploy. Harry was supposed to be thrilled at being included in the secret club and regard the speaker as an ally. He would therefore be easier to trick information out of, and easier to subvert. But if James thought that kind of basic level manipulation would work on him of all people, then James didn’t know him at all. On the other hand, it could be exactly what it seemed, and James really did lack professional integrity and discretion. Perhaps Harry was the one who didn’t know James at all.

“You’re right,” said James, “It isn’t about the magical failure, or about the living lands. It’s part of an ongoing investigation. We received a credible threat that a group of people are intending to use it to perform a dark ritual, and we needed to nip that in the bud.”

"Are you serious? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What idiot is running this operation?"

From the faint flush over James’s cheekbones, Harry suspected he’d found the idiot. James asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Because it's terrible auror-craft. You don’t just close down the place. You set a trap and catch the people in the act. Now they’re still out there, still planning a dark ritual, but now you have no idea when or where.”

Harry didn’t have to fake the irritation. Just because he would personally benefit wasn't any reason not to be offended by the incompetence. And it was to his personal benefit. It didn’t take an experienced auror to realise just which dark ritual they’d had a credible report about. It also didn’t take an experienced auror to notice James relax just slightly at Harry’s response. It seemed likely this whole production had been a test whether Harry had ‘bad’ intentions. That hadn’t been a terrible idea, but Harry wasn’t sure why they thought he’d turned into some amateur idiot at the same time, to just give away whatever intentions he had.

“Oh no, we don’t have to worry.” At Harry’s look of disbelief, James continued, “it’s not the kind of ritual that can be done just anywhere. Just removing the temptation will be enough.”

Definitely targeting the Normani ritual. There weren’t many rituals that were so location specific, and none that Harry knew of that would need the old Potter house.

Harry continued complaining, “But that still leaves someone or some group of people out there with bad motives. It’s an unnecessary loose end. It doesn’t make much sense. Unless…”

“Yes?” prompted James.

“Unless this is some sort of political decision. Covering up a scandal the ministry doesn’t want the public to know. Or keeping someone’s favourite son out of trouble.”

“Something like that,” agreed James with a smirk.

“Very well,” said Harry, standing up. “I don’t like it, but it isn’t my circus anymore. I won’t dig up the hatching doxy nest just yet. But I hope you have this all cleared up by next year. My parents deserve that much.”

“Yes, yes of course,” said James with a politician’s smile. “The ministry is deeply committed to honouring our past heroes.”

Wanker, thought Harry, with a politician’s smile of his own.

He walked out, maintaining control of his expression until he was safely behind wards. They’d been betrayed. They hadn’t committed to finishing the ritual, true, but that had been the most vital of their fallback plans. As week after week continued without any other solution, it was fast becoming their only hope. And only four people had known about the ritual to betray them.

Chapter Text

Malfoy's study, Tuesday 15 September 2099

The very next day, Harry and Hermione made their way to Malfoy Manor. Harry was in no mood for letters and appointments and neither the wards nor the lands put any obstacle in his way. A nervous house-elf showed him into an unfamiliar room. It was small by standards of the Malfoy’s, but sunlight streamed into it through floor to ceiling French doors. The white marble flooring and large mirrors doubled and redoubled the light, making it look like Malfoy was glowing.

Malfoy stood up and said with heavy irony. “What a pleasure to see you, sire. I would say, unexpectedly, but I do read the Daily Prophet.”

Harry was too old to blush, but he allowed his head to dip slightly in the barest of apologies.

“We have a problem,” said Harry.

“We should have memory charmed Weasley,” agreed Malfoy. “That was an oversight.”

“How do we know it wasn’t you who reported us?” asked Hermione. “You aren’t invested in saving the Wizarding World. You just wanted to know what happened to your son. Maybe you hoped to earn a few political points.”

“Please,” drawled Malfoy. “If a member of the ministry asked me what the weather was like, I would inform them to consult my legal representative. Neither of you are idiots, so please do not insult my intelligence. There’s a reason you came to me without your red-headed attachment. You already know who the traitor is.”

“I thought I did,” said Hermione, “but I’m changing my mind seeing how calm you are. We just lost our final hope, and you don’t seem to care.”

“You’re panicking,” said Malfoy. “That doesn’t help anyone. Please, sit down. Would you care for any refreshments?”

A different house elf immediately began to lay out tea, fruit juice, and miniature cakes. The house elf worked with enough pointed reproach that Harry was reminded of the excruciating etiquette courses the ministry had kept sending him on.

“I—” started Hermione, but Harry cut her off.

“Yes, please,” said Harry, taking a seat. “That would be appreciated. I apologise for bursting in on here unannounced.”

Malfoy waved that away with a languid hand movement he had no doubt spent many hours practicing. “Frankly, I’m relieved. You see, I took you both seriously when you said you wouldn’t consider a dark ritual. I had begun to wonder if you’d asked for Godric’s Hollow to be warded yourselves.”

Harry had a knee-jerk reaction that he would not do a dark ritual, but he realised how silly that sounded before he said anything aloud. He wanted to pick up a finger of cake to give his hands something to do but he had to wait for Malfoy, as the host, to pick up something first.

“But it’s too late!” said Hermione. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We can’t do the ritual even if we wanted to.”

“Granger. Think. What does the ritual need? The literal requirements.”

Hermione frowned, looking down at her hands, while Harry kept an eye on Malfoy. After the pause had become noticeably awkward, Harry realised abruptly that Malfoy was waiting for him. Harry was now the higher ranked of the two and was no longer just a guest. Harry took a hurried bite of a Victoria sponge rather than open that particular box of doxies. It would be hypocritical to complain about something he had just taken advantage of.

After that silence, Hermione replied with realisation, “Creating a horcrux from a child. Any child.”

“Moaning Myrtle,” said Harry, realising in turn.

“Exactly,” said Malfoy. “They haven’t closed down Hogwarts.”

Harry leaned back and stared at the ceiling, thinking that one through. It was a very pretty ceiling, continuing the marble pattern with veins of green and silver. “That would take us very far back. Even 1981 was risking that we wouldn’t live long enough.”

“Live long enough for what, exactly?” asked Malfoy. “What were you intending to do? Change the outcome of the war so fewer families died out?”

“No,” said Harry. “Ron wasn’t entirely wrong about how we are sacrificing the life experiences of others with every change we make.”

“Wait,” asked Hermione incredulously. “You meant to just… I don’t know, hide somewhere and pop up here and there at the end of the living land’s hundred-year periods?”

“Well,” said Harry with a shrug. “In essence, yes.”

“I don’t think that would help,” said Hermione, almost apologetically. “The research I’ve done into the Normani suggests that history is very flexible. We’d be affecting everyone no matter how little we tried to do. Small changes ripple out quickly. Even matters of Fate… adjust.”

Harry said, “I guess it just feels… wrong to want to try make any particular personally motivated changes. Like we’ll be punished for our selfishness.”

Harry half-expected them to laugh at him, but they straightened up and looked more serious instead.

“There were always those rumours that Potter has access to the true will of magic,” said Malfoy to Hermione.

“Yes,” she agreed. “All that Potter Luck had to come from somewhere. Perhaps we lost Godric’s Hollow just so that we wouldn’t be tempted to meddle too directly.”

Malfoy grimaced. “That… rather puts a damper on my hopes.”

“You were hoping to use the ritual to save Scorpius.”

“Yes and no,” said Malfoy. “I wasn’t expecting to change events specifically to save him. But…”

“But?” prompted Harry when the silence drew on.

Malfoy said, “This has been a closely held secret for a long time, so it feels odd to just speak about it. There’s a curse on the Malfoy line. Someone stole our ability to have children so that they could have more sons themselves. My grandfather paid a very high price to have my father, my father paid the same price to have me, and I paid the same price to have Scorpius. And Scorpius… All the other branches of the family have fallen off, one by one, and I don’t get a second chance. If I don’t go back in time, the Malfoy line dies with me. I realise you find the idea of duty to the family a little suspect—”

“I appreciate it more now than I used to,” said Harry, thinking of the demand to change his name away from Potter. He also felt guilty about all the nasty things he had thought about Malfoy’s seeming to have a strict single child policy.

“I’ve spent the last half-century trying to find a gentler option Scorpius would agree to, one to allow him to have children, even one to have multiple children, but I always ran into the problem of how entrenched the curse already was. The price we all paid had the side effect of empowering the curse still further. We knew that, but we equally didn’t see any better option. The cures I found didn’t work on Scorpius, but I hoped they might have worked on me if started while I was still young enough. If I can go back one hundred and fifty years, when the curse was weaker still, and many more Malfoy lines still existed…”

“You can save the whole family,” said Harry.

“Exactly,” said Malfoy. “But that’s a selfish change. It isn’t for the good of the whole magical world, at any rate.”

“It might be general enough,” said Hermione, “It is helping to create more magical people, at least.”

They both looked towards Harry.

“I’m not a dowsing rod,” said Harry with irritation. “I don’t know. But it at least seems something achievable we could give a shot. I don’t see how we can succeed at anything else in 1943. It’s too early to save more than one or two lands directly, even with brute force. We won’t be able to stop any of the wars that caused them to be orphaned in the first place. We don’t have much time to even influence how living lands are seen by the general people. We’ve already seen from Dumbledore’s legacy how easy extremism warps the original beliefs. I mean, we have, what, thirty years maximum?”

“You realise you can easily wait out the full century and a half alive?” asked Malfoy, with an eyebrow raise. “You can be any age you want, for as long as you want. This isn’t an either / or decision. You can both change public opinion, and champion claiming lands at the end of their Sleeping Beauty periods.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Harry.

“Huh,” said Malfoy. “I had wondered. I figured you were too ‘noble’ to use it, but I guess you’re too ‘noble’ to even consider it.”

It was clear from his tone that Malfoy was using the word noble as a synonym for stupid. Harry asked with rising irritation. “Consider what?”

“The philosopher’s stone. Eternal youth, with the right formula. Ring any bells?”

Harry frowned. “Dumbledore destroyed it.”

“Dumbledore claimed to have destroyed it,” corrected Malfoy. “But you can’t just hit a philosopher’s stone with a rock. It takes a complicated ritual, and you have to be pure of magic. Dumbledore was a kinslayer.”

“We don’t know that,” objected Hermione. “You just want to believe the worst of Dumbledore. It’s much more likely that Grindelwald was the one who killed the sister. And even if true it would have been an accidental death.”

Malfoy waved that away. “The point is, I doubt he had either the ability or the desire to actually destroy the thing. I’m willing to bet he hid it away somewhere.”

“And then just failed to use it when he was poisoned?” asked Hermione, raising her own eyebrow. “The one time it would have most been to his advantage to use it? Just in absolute pure commitment to the ruse?”

“Why not? He didn’t—”

Harry interrupted, “Even if he did hide it, how does that help us?”

Malfoy stared at him, unimpressed. “Oh, are we still pretending you don’t have full control of the Deathly Hallows?”

Harry flushed. He was. He had pretending very hard for more than a century. The resurrection stone, like the invisibility cloak and the elder wand, was always with Harry, finding its way back no matter what he did. He had spent his life resisting the temptation to use them. But this wasn’t a selfish request. This was in order to save magic itself. If there was ever a time to make an exception, then this was it.

“It would be easier to integrate into society if we all appeared as recent school graduates,” mused Hermione. “Suddenly appearing adults need considerably more explanation.”

It seemed like somewhere along the line, they had begun to speak as if completing the Normani ritual was an inevitability, and it was only the practical details that remained to be decided.

“Alright,” said Harry.

“You’re going to ask the spirit of Dumbledore?” asked Malfoy.

It was Harry’s turn to give him an unimpressed look. “No. I’m going to ask Nicholas Flamel. Even if he is dead, he still deserves the right to decide who is allowed to use it.”

Without giving himself any time to talk himself back out of the decision, Harry twisted the disguised ring and the ghostly form of Nicholas Flamel appeared. Hermione and Malfoy recovered from their shock quickly enough to assist Harry in filling the man in.

Nicholas smiled. “Did you know, the elixir will only be properly effective with the permission of the stone’s creator? You have my permission, all three of you, for as long as you work to protect magic. It’s hidden in the top left-most brick of the wall behind the game-keepers cottage in Hogwarts.”

He pulled against Harry’s hold, and Harry let him go.

Harry realised abruptly that saving the philosopher’s stone from Voldemort had been completely unnecessary after all. He had come to wonder whether that whole affair in first year had been some sort of trap that the three of them had unintentionally messed up. Harry put aside that distraction.

“Given that, it was extraordinarily ‘lucky’ you decided to ask Flamel,” said Malfoy. “I think we can conclude that magic is on our side. When do we want to do this?”

“It’s a death ritual at its core,” said Harry. “We should complete it on Halloween if at all possible. Does that give us enough time?”

“Yes,” said Hermione decisively. “I’ll gather together all the information we need for when we get there and find us a good base. Malfoy, if you can collect the materials we need for the ritual. Harry, you memorise the words. We’ll collect the philosopher’s stone at the last possible minute and meet eleven-thirty PM in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“Agreed,” said Malfoy. “But no more private meetings. In fact, no messages about this at all. We shouldn’t even have met now, so let’s not raise any further suspicions.” 

On that note, Harry and Hermione took their leave. As they reached the ward lines, Harry paused and turned to Hermione.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Harry. “Personally, I mean? There’s every chance we will disrupt things enough that Rose won’t even be born.  You’ll be permanently leaving your family. You’ll be permanently leaving Ron. It’s okay for you to be selfish too, you know.”

Hermione sighed deeply. “This was never just about saving Rose for me. It isn’t even just about saving magic. You aren’t the only one with a marriage bond it would take time travel to get out of.”

“Is this about Ron betraying us to the Ministry?” asked Harry tentatively. “Because I’m sure he meant well.”

“He always means well,” said Hermione bitterly. “Every time he does something it’s never malicious. It’s always just well-meaning, or thoughtless, or misguided. But it just keeps coming. We’ve put a lot of effort into making our relationship work, and I keep saying things like ‘there’s nothing wrong with Ron’. That he ‘means well’. I never say that ‘there’s everything right with Ron.’ Or that he ‘does well’. My dreams growing up had nothing to do with being a wife and mother, but step by step that’s what he reduced me to.”

“I don’t…”

“Yes,” replied Hermione to his unspoken objection, “Obviously I am also to blame for going along with it and taking the easier path. I know that. It doesn’t make it easier knowing I failed myself as well.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, and could only offer, “It’s not like I did any better in my life to judge you for it.”

Hermione nodded. “To answer your question, if I want to be selfish, then that’s going back in time. Not staying here, even if I will grieve the loss of my family.”

“So, we’re doing this,” said Harry.

“Yes, we are.”

As serious and tragic as it was, it was also positive action and a reminder of what type of person he used to be. Harry felt the excitement pool inside him and had to resist the temptation to grin like a loon.

Chapter Text

Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, Friday 30 October 2099

Harry decided that Hermione had been right, and that small changes to the timeline were impossible. The life experiences of everyone else would already be permanently sacrificed by the ritual. Trying to pussyfoot around it would do no additional good. Instead of trying to stop this particular event or save that particular person, he would do his best in the new environment as a new person, and let Fate and Magic handle the rest. Perhaps it was only his own self-delusion, but that was a decision that felt comfortable.

Unfortunately, Malfoy had also been right. They were being monitored. Badly. Harry had been spied on by experts, and the people spying on him now were not experts. They had stationed a very junior auror to follow him under an invisibility cloak and called it a day. Harry hoped that the person in charge had decided the whole thing was pointless and was doing the bare minimum to technically follow his orders. Otherwise, he had done everyone a grave disservice in not improving the abilities of ministry workers.

Harry did absolutely nothing suspicious, and set up the most boring routine imaginable, until that final day. Then he simply entered a coffee shop as always, but immediately walked out a different exit. No one followed him, or challenged him, or in any way appeared to notice.

He took the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack and collected the Philosopher’s stone. Minutes later, he was back in the tunnels and into Hogwarts itself, under his invisibility cloak and warded against everything. It wouldn’t do to run into some firstie violating curfew. He felt all of twelve again himself, sneaking around to meet with Hermione in Myrtle’s bathroom. The dripping water and the cold stone brought back memories he thought long forgotten. He had been so hopeful back then. As terrified as he had rightly been, he still imagined that all things were possible, and that it would all turn out alright.

“Oh, that does sound exciting,” said Myrtle to Malfoy. “I saw the Harriers Over Hartpury when I was still alive, you know. The lead actor was ever so handsome.”

Harry removed his cloak and came into view. “Malfoy. Myrtle.”

“Sire,” greeted Malfoy.

“I remember you!” said Myrtle. “You’re the boy who was always in the wrong bathroom. Like now. What a naughty, naughty boy you are.”

Myrtle giggled in appreciation of her own wit. Harry was too relieved that she was in a good mood to care about century old slander. Harry paced the space, setting up various detection wards that almost immediately pinged. The door opened and closed again, and Hermione came into view. Harry and Malfoy casually let go of their wands, but Hermione was too overloaded with stacks of shrunken trunks to notice. Two of the trunks were even the expensive Verdant type, rated safe to carry live animals.

“What on earth are you carrying?” asked Harry.

“Essential supplies for when we arrive. Stored food, wizarding tents, furniture, tools, saplings, cuttings, extra fabric, treated wood—”

“Hermione. We’re travelling in time, not to the outer frontier.”

Hermione corrected primly, “We’re travelling to the second world war, so it’s much the same thing. Rationing, remember? Without proper ration cards, we aren’t going to be able to buy anything from the muggle world. If we fake them, the supply and purchase lists will come out different, and there’s every chance we’d be investigated as foreign spies. And there’s no way the magical world is producing enough by itself to supply everyone who is in the same boat. We are not stealing food.”

“Fair enough,” said Harry, raising his hands in surrender, and didn’t ask about the rest of the list.

Malfoy grinned at him, then returned to laying out the bowls with all the ingredients needed for the ritual. Hermione knelt down next to him, double checking each one in turn. Harry left them to it. He pulled out his cheat sheet and read over the words one last time. He had long since memorised them, but it was always worth confirming his memory against the source. Once they had confirmed and double checked everything they possibly could, they took their positions and Hermione cast a Tempus visible to them all. They watched in silence as the minutes count down. Even Myrtle was drawn into the atmosphere and floated forward until she was almost touching the red shining numbers.

There was a ping as the detection spells went off again. Then the ping turned into a small arpeggio.

“A group of students?” asked Hermione hopefully.

“The tone for students or professors approaching is different,” said Harry. “Those are unrelated adults entering Hogwarts.”

“The Ministry.” It could only be the Ministry.

“It’s a long walk to get here from the main doors,” said Malfoy. “Start the ritual early. If we get caught, they’ll be doing something permanent. They aren’t going to risk giving us another chance to try again.”

Harry went through each step of the ritual as quickly as possible.

Nothing happened.

He took a deep breath and started again, this time calmly and precisely. Every step precisely as indicated, with no careless mistakes.

Nothing happened.

The Tempus went abruptly green and the clocks in the hall started chiming midnight. This was the time they had been waiting for originally. Perhaps that was what was needed. Harry restarted the full ritual for the third time.

“It’s not working,” said Harry. “Why isn’t this working?”

“I don’t know!” said Hermione, her voice rising in panic. “I know exactly what you know. Maybe you aren’t putting enough magic into it?”

“I’m pouring enough magic into this cursed thing to paralyse a dragon, I couldn’t—”

They stilled as a sound penetrated even the muffling charm they had up. The ministry group had reached the bathroom door and they were out of time. The door boomed once more and then shattered into a thousand pieces with the sound of an entire Box ‘O’ Rockets igniting. Myrtle squeaked and jumped backwards, not noticing or caring that Harry was directly behind her. For an instant Myrtle and Harry were overlain.

The ritual completed and the faces of their pursuers swirled into nothingness.

Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, Sunday 13 June 1943

The swirling slowed and finally stopped, and Harry found himself face to face with a young boy standing over a dead young girl.

“What—”

Riddle didn’t get to finish speaking before Harry cast a throat-cutting charm on him. Without turning around, Harry conjured a rooster and let it crow. Everything went silent, and Harry cast a life-detector spell.

“It’s safe to look,” said Harry. “The basilisk is dead.”

“Oh good,” said Hermione, and slid down to a floor now empty of the ritual materials, letting the trunks collapse into an untidy heap.

Harry spent a few minutes himself with his hand pressed to the centre of his chest, as if he could manually force his heart to calm down. He was looking forward to being young again.

“Well,” said Malfoy, trying to sound unaffected. “I’m glad one of us remembered we’d be transporting ourselves directly into a murder scene.”

“Actually,” said Harry. “I didn’t remember.”

“That was instinctive?” asked Malfoy, a little high pitched.

“I’ve just had a really long time to consider how much easier I could have made life for myself over the years,” said Harry. “It turns out I’m not much of a good guy. Almost none of my solutions include turning the problem over to the proper authorities.”

Hermione laughed breathlessly. “Well, we could hardly turn Riddle over to the authorities now. You aren’t blaming yourself for the time travel, are you? We’re doing the right thing.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “But that’s exactly what every bad guy also thinks. If the system is broken, we’re supposed to work to fix the system, not just decide that we’re above the law.”

“Harry—”

“Relax, Granger,” said Malfoy. “It’s not like Potter is exactly broken up about it. It’s not exactly new behaviour, either.”

“Being the hero for good is a childish fantasy,” said Harry, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “But we’ll have to do a better job of managing our reputations this time around.”

Malfoy was right that Harry wasn’t very bothered, but Harry didn’t want this to be an ongoing trend either. Once they had the luxury of morals, he did want to start fixing the system. There was the concern that he had mentioned – that one person’s judgment could never be trustworthy – but there was a more selfish element to it. If he never trusted other people to solve the problems, then he’d always have to solve the problems himself. Always and forever, standing watch, with one hand on the tiller. Another Dumbledore, but with added immortality. The living lands was the most urgent symptom, but the real illness was a systemic inflexibility, complacency, and lack of critical thinking in the magical community.

Just a minor fix they could knock out after lunch one day.

Harry swept a glance around the room, summoned the diary, and impaled it on one of the basilisk fangs. Might as well get that out of the way. He doubted that killing one madman would solve the socio-economic factors that had led to the Voldemort wars in the first place, but that was a problem for later.

“So…” he said, looking at the basilisk that was about a quarter of the way out of the pipes. “Room for a basilisk in one of those trunks?”

“No,” said Hermione. “They’re magic resistant, remember? Just push it back down. Or even leave it, to explain the bodies.”

“That will cause more of a fuss than we want,” said Malfoy. “We don’t want experts paying too close attention as to what happened here and finding traces of the Normani ritual. I suggest we stage a murder-suicide scene. They won’t put much effort into investigating that.”

After a minute, Hermione nodded. “I hate blackening Myrtle’s name, but we could only do it if we made her the murderer. Riddle was popular and well-liked, wasn’t he? No-one’s going to believe someone like Riddle was emotionally invested in someone like her.”

Harry said, “How about we stage it to make it look like Riddle was bullying her, and she snapped and killed him? Then in her horror at what she had done, she took her own life. At least that is somewhat sympathetic to her.”

“But will she agree? Where is her ghost, anyway?”

Harry cast a battery of detection spells. “She’s gone. Permanently.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “I… what changed? We arrived after her death, didn’t we? If she became a ghost before, then why wouldn’t she this time?”

“The ritual only completed when she became a participant,” said Harry. “I think she was the price.”

They stood in silence in respect for that unwitting sacrifice. If they’d known that would be the cost, would they have performed the ritual? After all, was there really a very large difference between permanently altered as compared to banished? Harry was shamefully glad he didn’t have to find that out about himself.

“That’s what the Potter Luck was all about,” said Malfoy. “If we’d completed the ritual in Godric’s Hollow, it would have been your existence that was erased.”

“And the Malfoy land didn’t warn him at all,” said Hermione. “It was perfectly happy to let him die.”

“You’re not buying into the Ministry propaganda about living lands being evil, are you?”

“No,” replied Hermione, “but that doesn’t mean the stories have no basis in fact either. We’ve seen it disregard human death twice now for its own survival. We do need to be cautious.”

“That isn’t a conversation for now,” interrupted Harry. “We need to clean this scene up and get out of here as soon as possible. Malfoy?”

With Malfoy directing them and several treasure chests worth of raw materials courtesy of Hermione, they quickly had the clues in place. If anything, the work they were doing was overkill. Harry knew just as well as Malfoy that the magical world would always accept the easiest answer as true. Perhaps that was even a result of how easy it was to fake things using magic. If you accepted that an infinity of scenarios was possible, then where would you even start?

Before they left, Harry did a quick check of his own inventory and was relieved to find his invisibility cloak, as well as the other two Hallows. He could have managed without them of course, but their presence was comforting.

“Are we all ready, then?”

“Yes. Let’s go save magic.”

Chapter Text

Outskirts of Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Sunday 13 June 1943

They apparated to the location Hermione had given them. Harry looked around with interest at the trees and the last fading remnants of bluebells. Off to one side was the now-familiar distortion of a living land. No human civilisation was visible from where they were standing, but he hadn’t expected anything different from Hermione’s research.

After a round of revelation spells, the distortion fluttered, just slightly. The woods looked superficially unchanged until Harry looked deeper and thought more. The undergrowth had long, metallic looking thorns, the branches linked to form barriers, and the leaves lay silent and still, unaffected by wind or time. Harry shivered in the gloom that had nothing to do with a lack of sunlight.

“Where are we?” asked Harry.

“About a mile downhill from the mixed village of Knoll-amidst-the-Wold. I originally chose this as our base since it’s one of the earliest known orphaned living lands. It’s been dormant for almost sixty years already, so I thought it would be easier to take over than the lands of any recent Grindelwald victim.”

“Which family did it belong to?” asked Malfoy, frowning.

“That’s another reason why I chose it. No-one ever figured it out. No record was ever found that it even existed before it fell. It’s much smaller than a typical living land, so it might have just … gone missing. It would have gone under the sleeping beauty curse in 1885, but there aren’t even any records of a family falling that year. I thought if we claimed it, no one was going to be able to prove it wasn’t always ours.”

“You sound like you’ve changed your mind about us claiming it,” said Malfoy.

“No,” said Hermione. “Well yes, but no. We need to claim lands at some point to achieve our goal. We can hardly encourage other people to claim lands if we’re not willing to. And I’ve already done all the research on living lands that it’s possible to do without hands on experience. So, it doesn’t make any sense to delay the matter. It’s just…”

Harry nodded. He knew what she meant. “It feels riskier now that it did when you first made that decision.”

“But it’s less risky than trying to awaken a land in the first place,” said Hermione. “Not to mention just how long that would take. And, realistically, that’s our only other option. We need to be on a living land. I’m just not comfortable with how… selfish the Malfoy land turned out to be.”

Harry considered that. “I don’t think it’s fair to hold a living land to a higher standard than we would a human in the same situation. I would have done much the same, I think. What do I do? Just prick my finger on a thorn?"

“That’s only if we were trying to claim the land legitimately,” said Hermione. “The land would use that blood to assess your claim. Since we have no rightful claim and we have no way to get to the heart of the land to make an appeal, you’ll have to do it the hard way. Magic."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought we were going to use a muggle chainsaw on the place."

Malfoy rolled his eyes in sync with Hermione and answered for her. "Pure magic, Sire. You will have to flood the area with enough magic that the land loses its connection with its real family. We’ll keep you safe from counter attacks from the land until it settles. We might have to try again tomorrow, though, if the ritual earlier has left you too drained to succeed on the first attempt."

Harry hated been treated as some sort of magical battery, but he could hardly deny he had significantly deeper magic reserves than others. It would have to be him who made the attempt, and it was silly to fuss about it.

“Maybe we should wait for tomorrow anyway,” said Hermione. “Get some sleep first. We’ve all been up for a long time already.”

“I… don’t want to risk sleeping on unsafe ground,” said Harry, not exactly knowing what discomfort was driving him. “Let me at least give it a try.”

Harry focused internally, drawing out his connection to the deep pool of magic within him. He then shoved the magic towards the line of branches and thorns. It crashed against the treeline and tried to bounce back, but Harry didn’t let it. There was a rushing in his ear, but Harry couldn’t tell if that was the wind rising or just the blood in his veins. With more and more magic, he forced the flow to batter against the barrier, like waves hitting a pier.

Harry could feel the resistance build and build, and then, like the steepest point of the Wronski Feint, relax. And, like the pull-up, it took every moment of Harry’s concentration to gather all that energy and channel it back into safe paths.

“You’ve done it,” said Hermione sounding a little confused.

Harry opened his eyes and looked around. The thorns had faded back into the branches, and the leaves rustled as they settled back into life. Harry could feel it nervously brushing against the edges of his mind, completely unlike the determined presence of the Malfoy land.

Ironically, the visual difference between the living land and the rest of the wood was now more obvious. Everything within the living land showed signs of yellow and brown patches. The branches had knots and gashes all along their twisted lengths. A brave bird sung out, fell into uneasy silence, and then resolutely started singing again.

“How are the two of you?” asked Harry.

“Fine,” said Hermione, still sounding off.

“There was one evil, evil, thorn tried to scratch Granger, but luckily I managed to save her from it.”

“Thank you for your brave sacrifice, Malfoy,” said Harry. “So, tell me, why do neither of you sound particularly happy that we succeeded?”

Harry hadn’t expected a medal or a parade, but some sort of congratulations would have been nice.

“I am happy,” said Malfoy. “I’m just surprised. Lands are supposed to be loyal to their families until there’s literally no other hope left. The sleeping beauty grace period lasts another forty years. From what I’ve read, as soon as it felt what we were was doing, it should have thrown every predator, every poison, every tree at us to make us stop.”

“I’m surprised too,” said Hermione. “And I’ve never much liked surprises. This on top of everything makes me wonder just how loyal living lands really are.”

“Perhaps it already knew the family could never come back to claim it,” said Harry.

“I’ll add that to my list to investigate,” replied Hermione, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised to find she had a physical list.

Harry felt drawn forward, with the branches and undergrowth pulling away to give him room. He led Hermione and Malfoy deeper in until they came to a small clearing. Two trees had fallen over some time prior, and no new saplings had grown to replace them. The termite tracks in the dead wood looked crazed, and some ambitious grass grew in sad tufts.

“Shall we start searching for the heart of the land?” asked Malfoy.

“Not immediately,” said Harry. “I need a shower and a nap first. Let’s set up here for the time being.”

“Shower yes,” said Hermione, pulling out a tent, “But we need to de-age ourselves before we do anything else. It’s an unnecessary risk to let anyone see us in our current appearance. I have it all prepared except for the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Once inside the tent, Harry handed over the stone, and Hermione pulled out robes in the correct style for the time period. Harry and Malfoy followed her directions to the shower room. Harry stripped off his unpleasantly sticky robes, contemplating simply burning them to save himself the effort of trying to clean them and then alter them to be the correct fashion.

“You’re bleeding.”

Harry opened his mouth to reassure Malfoy that it wasn’t his own blood, when he realised that wasn’t entirely true.

“One of those evil, evil thorns must have slipped past you and Hermione.”

Harry healed the small wound on his thigh. He turned his robes inside out to fix the corresponding tear but couldn’t find it. He shrugged. It would be easier just to burn them after all. They were quick and efficient and were soon back in the common area. Hermione was waiting for them impatiently in her own new robes, her hair showing evidence of a quick-dry spell.

“What age do you wish to be?” asked Hermione.

“As young as possible,” said Harry. “But I think we all need to be at least eighteen. We don’t want to give anyone ideas about what happened to our legal guardians in the muggle or wizarding world.”

Hermione crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Are you two confident in taking the NEWTs this year?”

Harry cringed. It was already June, so NEWTs would be right around the corner. “No. Honestly, I don’t think I can remember a single thing from my course-work.”

Malfoy looked unhappy with having to agree with him. “I would also prefer to have more time.”

“Then you can’t be eighteen because you need to still be sixth year ‘now’. I’ve been revising my NEWT materials these past weeks, so I can be a seventh year and keep my 19th September birthday, 1924. You can either keep your birthdays in 1926 or chose new birthdays in September or October of 1925 to be eighteen as soon as possible.”

“We’ll be staying clear of muggles anyway, I guess,” said Harry. “And we can keep ourselves to ourselves for a few months. Let’s keep my birthday. I’m pretty used to it by now.”

“That’s… end of July, right?” said Malfoy.

Harry was a little startled that Malfoy remembered, but he supposed the whole prophecy nonsense made it a little more memorable than most.

“It will suit my backstory better to be slightly younger than you. Make mine 5th August 1926.”

Harry wondered about that backstory, but they could go into that later. Hermione counted drops into a flask, and they were all shortly standing holding gold shimmering flasks.

“Will this hurt?” asked Harry.

“It’s apparently a slow change, so it might all happen while we nap. But very likely, yes.”

Harry laughed. He wasn’t sure what else he had expected. “Bottoms up.”

They drank. And that was it. A major life-altering event, completed with no more ceremony than watching a toast to a winning quidditch team down at the local. He’d shortly be sixteen again, at least for a few weeks. It would be interesting to rediscover what that was like.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s tent, near Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Sunday 13 June 1943

Harry had to force himself fully awake, but he still felt better than he could ever remember feeling. He had assumed that magical healing had taken away all the physical negatives of growing older, but it was clear that was just because he had been slowly readjusting ‘normal’ downwards. When he run into the corner of the bed accidentally, that brief flash of pain was all there was. No bruises, no lingering aches, and no long-term punishment for a moment of stupidity.

Harry spent too long looking in the mirror. It was odd. When he had first been sixteen, he had felt himself to be an adult in every way that counted. A warrior whose responsibility it was to stand between innocents and danger. Now, he looked at this near-stranger’s face and could see nothing but a vulnerable child.

Harry was the last to return to the common area, and Hermione and Malfoy were waiting for him around the table. He narrowed his eyes at one of the boxes. He recognised the logo from the most extreme and unreasonable of his fan groups.

“What’s that for?” he asked, not even wanting to come near it.

“If we are to live together without scandal,” said Hermione, utterly unrepentant, “then I have to be related to one of you in some way. And apologies, but I have no desire to marry either of you. I’m going to become your sister.”

Malfoy dropped his teaspoon, and the uncharacteristic clumsiness made them both look towards him.

“You do not wish to marry Potter?” he asked. “Not just at your current apparent ages, but you wish to cut off that possibility forever?”

As much as it surprised Malfoy was how little it surprised Harry. “After a hundred years as friends, it isn’t likely that it will be something we change our minds about.”

“I always assumed—” said Malfoy, before cutting himself off abruptly.

“No,” said Hermione. “I think a lot of people did, but we never felt that way about each other. It would have been much easier if we had, to be honest. We would never have made marriages with the Weasley’s.”

They both flinched a little at the reminder.

Harry edged into a chair, still eying the box suspiciously. “What’s your plan?”

Hermione tapped another box first. “I brought a life-time supply of muggle permanent hair-straightening products for us both. We break the association with the Potter hair. You’ll still look related to them – there isn’t much we can do about that – but you won’t have the family dominant trait. There’s nothing in this time that could fake that, so at most they’ll assume you’re a distant cousin or something.”

“And?” asked Harry.

“Nothing too terrifying,” said Hermione. “Maybe just coloured permanent contacts for me, but we can see how we both look and make adjustments.”

That made sense. There had been speculation about whether his eyes were a new magical family trait even in the future, after Harry had inherited them intact from Lily, and Albus from Harry. Harry had discouraged the speculation so that Albus would not feel even more isolated from his siblings. In retrospect, Harry thought he should instead have stood up more for Albus’s right to be different, but that was just one more thing in a long line of poor parenting decisions. The sudden reminder that Albus wasn’t just out of touch but no longer even existed threatened to overwhelm Harry in grief and guilt. Harry pushed through. He didn’t have a right to complain.

“It might be more difficult to make Malfoy look like us,” said Harry.

Harry then realised that Hermione’s plans only involved the two of them. He further realised that his and Malfoy’s birthdays didn’t even allow for them to be siblings. Hermione hadn’t said a thing at the time. Harry supposed that could always be corrected by making one or the other younger.

“I’d say it would be actively impossible,” said Malfoy. “That’s why I never planned to.”

“What is your plan, Malfoy?” asked Hermione

“We can start by using first names,” interrupted Harry, a little surprised by his irritation. “Even in private. Otherwise, we’re going to end up slipping up.”

Hermione nodded and turned back to Mal-- Draco.

“I’m going to need to be an unacknowledged illegitimate child,” he replied. “It’s the only explanation why someone who looks like me is living with you both. Since it would be rude to enquire too deeply and risk the reputation of my ‘parents’, everyone will politely pretend they don’t even notice. There’s only one family that won’t accept that.”

“The Malfoy family itself,” said Harry.

“Precisely. They’ll be aware they don’t have a young lady who was on a convenient vacation, and they’re the only ones who know that the Malfoy men cannot have an accidental child.”

“So, what do you plan to do about that?” asked Hermione.

“I’m planning to use it,” said Malfoy smugly. “I need to get the cure into their hands. After all, they were hardly likely to allow some random stranger to walk up to a baby Malfoy and use unknown magic on him. This will work far better. I’ll need Young Master Harry’s assistance with some things, then let them come to me.”

Harry interrupted. “Young Master Harry?”

Malfoy’s back stiffened. “You said first names. I assumed you meant me as well.”

“It’s the ‘Young Master’ I was questioning, not the ‘Harry’.”

“Are you casting me off?” asked Malfoy, letting no emotion enter his voice.

“No! I mean—” said Harry, “I just thought that since neither of us owns the Malfoy land anymore the liege bond would no longer apply.”

“I have less to offer now,” said Malfoy, still sitting as stiffly as the chair would allow. “But I would … appreciate continuing under your protection.”

Harry was coming to appreciate how isolated Malfoy was here. He had his goal of lifting the Malfoy curse, but he would never reap the benefits of it himself. Harry and Hermione had each other, and they could (if they wished) start new families. Malfoy could not.

“Of course, if that’s what you want,” said Harry. That seemed a little insufficient, so he added, “It would be a privilege to continue holding your faith.”

“Thank you, sire,” said Draco with a seated bow he somehow made look elegant.

“And how are we going to explain that relationship to other people?” asked Hermione.

“Easily,” said Malfoy. “Young Master Harry’s parents took me in to serve him. It isn’t at all an uncommon practice at this time for discarded children. The patron gains a companion-servant, and the beneficiary gains a reputable home. Practicality and charity all in one transaction.”

“I see,” said Harry.

Harry did not want to say anything about that horrific backstory until he had thought it through. He didn’t want to unintentionally threaten Malfoy twice in a row.

“Then we just need to decide which family we’re from,” said Hermione, determinedly cheerful. “I was hoping to get some details from the magical newspapers, but—”

Draco frowned. “Wait, how, exactly, are you picking a family?”

“Well, I thought we’d be recent orphans of the Grindelwald war. We just need to pick one of the German pureblood families with appropriate details.”

“You’d never get away with being a German pureblood,” said Draco flatly.

“What?” asked Hermione. “Because I’m a mudblood, people will just be able to see my inherent inferiority?”

“No, they’ll be able to see that they don’t already recognise you. If you tell people you’re from Germany, they won’t say ‘I’ve never met anyone from Germany.’ They’ll say, ‘Strange how I never met you before on the many, many times I visited.’”

“We could have been kept quietly at home or something,” said Hermione stubbornly. “It isn’t more suspicious than being trained muggleborns. Just how many muggleborns home-school magic?”

“Most of them,” said Harry at the same time as Draco. He shot an apologetic look at Hermione before explaining. “Well, they do extracurricular work after their normal muggle school. I used to help with accidental magic problems all the time. Hogwarts is expensive, and parents want their kids home.”

“That might be true,” said Hermione. “But we can’t be muggleborns. What kind of muggleborn family would gift their son at birth a pureblood – what did you call it, companion-servant?”

Draco paused and then actually blushed. Harry wondered if their new, younger, ages had made them all more susceptible to such physical indicators.

“Didn’t think of that, did you?” crowed Hermione.

“Yes,” said Draco, but with some bite. “You’re right. The two stories do not work together. Which leads us further behind in trying to come up with an explanation.”

“Why explain it at all?” asked Harry, a little impatient.

The other two looked at him blankly.

Harry said, “People like making things up for themselves. I just suggest we let them.”

Draco looked confused and then calculating. “That’s actually not a bad plan. We just have to consider whether what they will come up with is worse than what we can imply.”

Hermione looked similarly thoughtful. “With how much magic Harry has, I suspect they’re going to be rather flattering, at least to our faces. Remember how Voldemort managed to convince people he was a pureblood, when all his contemporaries knew for a fact that he was not? If you’re powerful enough, people want to co-opt you into their own narrative.”

“If we’re using that path. We need to take it one step further,” said Malfoy. “We make an actual vow to never reveal our family past. If we are ever pressed on the matter, we can fall back to that.”

“And we give ourselves an obviously fake surname. Named after the living land, maybe. We don’t need to conceal that we’re hiding something, just what it is we’re hiding. If we’re obvious about it, then people will think we can’t possibly be ashamed of it.”

“And have Young Master Harry grow out his hair. We look and act like purebloods, while claiming nothing overtly.”

Harry looked from one to the other, noting the matching expressions of troublemaking. Harry was relieved that if the two were joining forces, it was for him and not against him.

“Give Draco the green eyes as well,” suggested Harry. “Give people multiple possible scandals to gossip over.”

If Draco was a family member, even an unacknowledged family member, then that would give Harry the excuse to treat him more as a brother than as a servant. Harry found that it was important to him to give Draco that extra connection. From the uncertain look Draco shot him, it looked like he might have some suspicions as to Harry’s motives, but they didn’t discuss it further.

Under Hermione’s enthusiastic prompting, they treated their hair and placed in their contacts. They stood in a group before a large, conjured mirror.

“Cheekbones,” said Malfoy cryptically, but Hermione seemed to understand him.

“We’ll use yours as a base,” said Hermione. “I have the cosmetic surgery kit in here somewhere.”

Harry wanted to protest but stopped himself. If everyone except him had to make a permanent change to their appearances, then it would hardly be fair.

At last, they were entirely done, Harry looked at them all again. The changes were more subtle than the difference caused by the aging, but they were profound. If he didn’t know different, he would never doubt that Hermione was his full-blooded sister. Draco was less similar, but not so much that he would doubt the family connection. They were still themselves, and then again different.

“What name are we picking?” asked Harry.

“Greenhurst,” suggested Draco. “Green for the supposed magic-dominant trait we share and ‘hurst’ as a synonym for to Knoll-amidst-the-Wold.”

It was a little sappy, but Harry didn’t have anything better to suggest.

“The Greenhurst family,” said Hermione out loud, as they looked back at their reflections.

And that was what they were, now. A family they had made for themselves.

Chapter Text

Greenhurst lands, near Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Monday 9 July 1943

Their initial optimism had been somewhat dimmed by the sheer scale of the task and their first visit to the heart made that abundantly clear. The pond was an algae-choked puddle, with trails of slime all around its edge to show the falling water levels. The tree barely had any leaves at all, and none of them were metallic. The rock that might once have been an altar might still be a flat surface, but it was half covered in rotting leaves and straggly weeds, and by the smell of it, Harry rather thought there was the body of a small animal in there too. Harry had felt every part of his skin prickling in dismay, as if he was being scratched by phantoms of the land’s protective thorns.

The heart reflects the land, and the land reflects the heart.

The land was very, very, ill, and had been so since before it went under the sleeping beauty curse. Harry had been doing everything to repair the land with Draco while Hermione took her NEWTs. They had used the tools Hermione had brought with to plant fields and establish animals and trees, bringing back the farm areas into life piece by piece. It was an ongoing effort.

For the last few days, however, they had been a little more selfish and had started on the house. Hermione’s tent was luxurious, but they could hardly live in one for the rest of their lives. They had found a long, gradual rise that provided such perfect views that Harry could only assume it wasn’t natural. Harry had rejected the top of the hill, where the remains of a previous building still stood, in favour of the more sheltered, not to mention tasteful, terrace two thirds of the way up. Harry’s design might have gotten away from him a little, but he had no desire to build a castle. After all, if future muggles ever invaded, they would not be carrying torches and pitchforks, and a stone wall would not do much to stop them.

Normally, even magical folk would hire specialists for something this complex. To enhance the Greenhurst mystery, however, they wanted to spring into existence fully formed. For the land to have always been there, even if it hadn’t always been there the day before. Draco had a vast knowledge of the architecture of every major pureblood house, and some ideas of how they had been constructed. When Harry had built his retreat, he had chosen to do everything himself and therefore had some practical experience in building. They had decided that they could manage without the aid of professionals.

Unfortunately, their competence turned out to be just enough to get them into real trouble.

There was a certain point when they could have extricated themselves safely if they’d just been prepared to abandon the work they’d already done. Unfortunately, that point was well in the past. By the time Hermione came looking for them, even Harry was starting to feel the strain.

"Help?" he asked her, trying to seem nonchalant. 

"How did the two of you...” said Hermione, “You know, never mind."

She raised her wand and they both shouted, "not that one! "

Draco didn’t hesitate to throw him under the bus. "Young Master Harry decided to brace that column by linking it to the opposite diagonal. If you move it, the whole southern side will fall down."

"But it's twisted around," said Hermione, and Harry would have face-palmed if he wasn’t too busy keeping masonry from collapsing.

"Yes,” said Draco dryly. “A fact we only discovered after Young Master Harry had linked it, when we tried to meet up with the other side. Now we can’t unlink the columns while they’re supporting the sides—”

“—and you can’t move the sides from where you are because the columns are in the way. And if either of you let go—”

“—the whole lot will fall on our heads,” concluded Harry, giving up his dignity as a lost cause.

Hermione was too polite to laugh at them, but Harry could see the desire. With three wands, and Hermione’s eye for solutions, they slowly managed to pick apart the knot he and Draco had created and return the building to the state they had been earlier that day. Harry collapsed with limbs outstretched on the lawn.

Hermione and Draco sat down next to him. Hermione frowned as she looked at the plans she had been consulting earlier for where to move blocks.

“This must be wrong,” said Hermione. “You have the equivalent of Hogwart’s Great Hall here. Including the mirrored basement-layer for a kitchen and serving area.”

Harry sat back up carefully. Malfoy had politely not asked about the scale of the building, and he’d rather hoped Hermione wouldn’t either.

“It isn’t a feature unique to Hogwarts,” said Harry. “A lot of ancient buildings had them, and we want Greenhurst to seem much older than it is. How were your NEWTs, by the way?”

“Oh, seven O’s.” said Hermione.

“Congratulations!” said Harry. “I knew you could do it.”

Harry was quite sure she would. The one E she had achieved the first time around had infuriated her. She would never have allowed herself that a second time.

"Congratulations,” echoed Draco. “May I ask why you don’t sound enthusiastic? I realise this is the second time you’re doing them, but those are still excellent results."

"It wasn’t the results,” said Hermione. “It was the co-ordinator. Well, I suppose it was the co-ordinator because of the results. He said it was a pity such intellect was wasted on an anonymous girl who would never have the power to do anything with it.”

Harry breathed in with a slow whistle. “You overheard him?”

“He said it right there in front of my face like I didn't even exist,” said Hermione. “Everyone always told me that the Wizarding World had never been as backwards as muggles about gender rights. It’s been little bit of a shock to realise they’d been lying, although I suppose I should have predicted it.”

Harry had too much experience to try and derail Hermione when she was in full steam.

Draco, however, made the attempt. “It might not be quite that. He could have been commenting on the unfairness of you not having the magical reserves or political capital to fully express your ideas.”

“Mal— Draco,” said Hermione. “Believe me, I’ve had a lot of experience with being condescended to. I know the difference.”

“I apologise,” said Draco stiffly. “I did not mean to invalidate your experience.”

Hermione crossed her arms, looking very much the eighteen-year-old she was posing as, and Harry was concerned she had really taken offence at Draco.

Instead, she said, “And honestly, do I look like someone who needs to do my own grunt work? That's what I have minions like Harry for."

"Hey!" said Harry, but he grinned in relief. If she could joke this soon, then it was more indignation than hurt.

"Better than other potential reactions,” said Draco. “We are still trying to remain unnoticed."

"There is no excuse for that kind of rudeness,” said Hermione. “Or that lack of imagination. Having said that… Thank you for asking, Harry, but don’t think you managed to distract me. Yes, we agreed to make Greenhurst Hall ambiguously ancient. We did not agree to make it an ambiguously ancient castle. "

“It isn’t a castle,” protested Harry. “It has nothing in the way of conventional defences.”

“Strangely,” she replied, “I am less than reassured by that technicality.”

“There’s also all the trunks you brought,” said Harry. “We needed a proper library, for instance.”

“All things that could very easily have been housed by the more modest country house. You know, the one I was expecting when I bought those things in the first place. Honestly, Harry, this thing is huge. How much room could the three of us possibly use?”

“I was thinking not to keep it to just the three of us,” admitted Harry at last.

“Okay,” said Hermione, rather blankly. “… who else, exactly, were you intending to invite?”

“You know I still have – well, had – that backdoor access to the criminal and legal archives. I went through a lot of them for the next decade to get a feel for what we’d be walking into.”

“Makes sense,” said Hermione cautiously.

“Some of the most tragic cases were abuse of wards. The orphans and foundlings were taken in by some of the more powerful families in exchange for all their worldly belongings. They’d have all the rights that a parent would have for the rest of that ward’s life – but none of the responsibility of financially or socially supporting them. The ones who didn’t have much money to offer were often treated as little better than slaves. And except in some very rare cases, the courts usually came down in favour of the abusers. I was hoping we could track down some of those children and at least be a second option for them.”

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione. “That’s very kind of you. But we couldn’t possibly look after a bunch of children by ourselves.”

“They won’t be young children,” said Harry. “The infants did a lot better in the system than the older kids, I think. It would be more of a school than an orphanage. I’m not expecting you or Draco to step in, either. I mean, unless you want to. You see, the children are only half of it. There’s also the house-elves. Some of the most one-sided bonds date back to this time because the house elves were just so desperate after their families die out. If we could break that, we could make lives better for all house-elves, for generations.”

Hermione knew he was talking around the situation with Dobby, and they both avoided looking at Draco.

“Within a few years, we will be able to feed hundreds of people,” said Draco tentatively. “Thanks to you, Hermione, we have everything we need to make this land a fully sustainable community. I think that by itself is a worthwhile goal. That might be exactly what went wrong, the first time. We let communities slip away and turned living lands into isolated islands for the wealthy. Living lands were never meant to be ornamental hideaways.”

“I want to at least… try,” said Harry after a minute.

Harry knew he was putting them into an awkward position. The provisions and tools could be said to be Hermione’s, and the new Greenhurst Hall could be said to belong to all of them, but the lands were very much his. The ownership of a living land was absolute. The three of them had not fully defined the boundaries of what exactly that meant, and what the power dynamics were. Harry wanted that to happen organically without discussion. But continuing to lie by omission about his medium goals was even more inappropriate.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione repeated. “I guess we can see.”

The words might have been ambiguous, but everyone knew it was a surrender. Harry stood up and reached out both hands to pull up Hermione and Draco. The three walked back to the tent for the much-delayed supper, passing by one of the newly planted fields. The health of the sprouts stood in stark contrast to the grasses, bushes, and trees surrounding the field. It worried Harry. If the land was recovering, then Harry would have expected to see more signs of it. But Autumn Day was approaching. Perhaps the land first needed their sacrifices to begin recovering. They could only do their best and see.

Chapter Text

Greenhurst lands, Sunday 1 August 1943

Autumn Day came both quickly and slowly. They hadn’t done much for Harry’s birthday. It might officially the day he came of age, but he had no desire to relive those memories. They instead went to bed early in preparation for Autumn Day. Harry had never lived or work on farmland before, so this part was entirely unfamiliar to him and rather thrilling for that unfamiliarity.

It was just starting to be light enough to walk without a Lumos when they exited the tent in their ritual yellow-gold robes. They yawned as they walked, but teenage resilience was astonishing. By the time they reached the fields, Harry was wide awake and feeling good.

“I still think it should be the middle field,” complained Hermione.

“It should be the field in the middle of the magical flow, not the geographic middle,” repeated Draco patiently.

“If this was the correct field, then shouldn’t it naturally have ripened first?” asked Hermione. “I don’t like that we used extra magic to speed up the process.”

“It would have if we’d planted it in time,” said Draco. “These things happen. Using magic to encourage the correct field has plenty of tradition of its own.”

Harry watched them argue with a slight frown. The light wasn’t quite enough to be sure of facial expressions, but the body language was odd. He was not concerned that the argument was going badly. He was concerned that it was going too well. He didn’t doubt that Draco had tempered the excesses of his pride and self-certainty over the years – they all had, including Hermione. And Harry really had no desire to be stuck watching screaming matches like Hermione and Ron had often shared. But he couldn’t help but feel that Draco was being a little too accommodating.

A sliver of gold appeared on the horizon, and they turned to him. He smiled back. “On the count of three?”

Traditions about who harvested the first grains differed from place to place. The oldest member of the community, or the youngest, or the ‘home-maker’, or the most recently married, or the landowner, or the person voted Autumn Queen or Autumn King. Harry had suggested they postpone the question entirely and cut together instead. Lacking any good arguments for or against any other tradition, the other two had indulged him.

“Frumenti messi!”

The wheat and the barley stalks separated cleanly from the ground and wove themselves into doll-like sheaves. Each sheath walked over to the prepared buckets in turn, shaking their ‘hair’ violently against the sides until all the berries had fallen off, then returning to lie back down in the field. Once the queue of little dolls was finished, Hermione activated the buckets. They jumped up and down until there was nothing left but the grains. The final product was transferred to the wide ceremonial trays.

Still without any additional words, they carried the trays to the newly finished kitchen, passing through the small kitchen garden and supplementing with some small summer squash and berries from previously feral trees and bushes. The hearth was cheery and festive in golds, reds, oranges, and greens. While it was more ‘by magic’ than ‘by hand’, Harry felt thrilled to make them personally. It didn’t matter that the loaf turned out to be rather misshapen, and the beer a rather odd colour. They were using their own magic, in their own kitchen, with raw ingredients from their very own fields. It was a distinct experience from simply purchasing the result from a specialty store.

They loaded the trays back up and walked through the ancient forest, step by step, still in silence, until they reached the Heart. While not even a muggle would have noticed anything unusual about the area, at the least the water, the stone, and the tree were now visible and clean. They laid out the green cloth, arranged the offerings and made their prayers.

Included in Harry’s prayer was an invitation to the house-elves. Legend had it that lands could communicate with each other, at least in a certain sense, and then with the elves. None of them were entirely sure this would work, not even Draco, but they’d all agreed it was worth the attempt. The rest of their plans had to wait until they were more established, but this was something they could do immediately.

“May all lands know that Greenhurst will stand as a sanctuary for all house-elves that are left without family or place to call home,” prayed Harry. “May they be cradled in the magic of the land until they chose to leave, or rest forever with us if they chose.”

Harry breathed deeply, then continued with the dedication to the land. “We present the offerings of the first fruit, the loaf and the beer. We thank you for cradling the grain seeds, the acorns, and the fruit pips to become the harvest that fills our storehouses and feeds our bodies. We are you, and you are us. So mote it be.”  

Harry was used to the rush that came with pushing out too much magic at one time. This felt different. It was like the magic was pulled out from him instead of him pushing it out. The tree shivered and the colours of the leaves sharpened. It would have been too far to call them silver, but they were noticeably more metallic. Harry watched in awe as the flow of change crested, then in grief as it ebbed back.

The formal part was now over, and they split the first bread between them and took a drink of the first beer to start the feast. It tasted about how it looked, but simultaneously, it tasted wonderful.

“That was lovely,” said Hermione.

“Yes,” said Harry. He couldn’t let what he hoped would happen take away from the joy of their first celebration.

Harry swayed, and Draco was instantly by his side, guiding him away from the alter to sit on a blanket. Harry turned to Draco to thank him when he noticed Draco’s odd expression.

“You’re bleeding,” said Draco flatly. “Again.”

“I am?” said Harry, following Draco’s gaze to look down at himself.

Draco was right. The golden fabric just above his thigh was darkening with what could only be blood. Like the cut from a potions knife, the pain only arrived after the awareness of the injury. Harry hissed and fumbled with his wand to heal himself.

“What do you mean again?” asked Hermione.

“Young Master Harry,” said Draco, the formality almost threatening, “had the same injury after he first claimed the land.”

“What?” asked Hermione, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t think it was anything important,” said Harry. “I’m still not sure it is anything important. It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse shaving cuts.”

Learning not to use certain grooming charms while drunk had been an interesting lesson.

“It doesn’t matter how serious it is,” said Hermione. “It’s the land actively hurting you.”

“Maybe,” replied Harry.

“Probably!” said Hermione. “We can’t just ignore it. We have to find out why it’s happening and how to stop it.”

“I think,” said Draco carefully. “It might be worth at least asking. Since you have the ability to. Start an Autumn Day tradition of our own.”

Harry looked from one to the other and agreed. They gave him a little time to recover first, but with the pressure of their worried looks, he hurried up. His question was simple enough – why was he getting wounded? The answer he received was anything but.

“Well?” asked Hermione once his eyes were open and focused.

“No real answer,” said Harry. “It’s… I couldn’t feel the same intelligence in the land that I did in Malfoy’s. It was trying, but I could feel it didn’t really know how to respond to me. All it could give me was just impressions. Cold and darkness and pain. Leaves being torn off trees and banks crumbling into water.”

“Younger lands are said to more instinctive than sentient,” said Draco. “We don’t know how recently the land was awakened.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Hermione.

“The land is ill,” said Draco. “Not just a little bit. Something is seriously wrong.”

“We need to find out more information so I can ask better questions,” said Harry.

“But there isn’t any more information,” said Hermione, wringing her hands. “I searched everywhere when I chose this place. There is no mention about it whatsoever.”

“It’s comparatively easy to scrub records,” said Draco. “It’s much harder to scrub memories, particularly about things that were in common gossip. There are people still alive in Knoll-amidst-the-Wold when the land went into dormancy. They might not realise the significance of what they remember, but they remember.”

“We agreed to stay out of sight as much as possible until after the war,” said Hermione. “Interact with the Wizarding World only as much as is necessary to take our NEWTs.”

Harry looked up at the tree that was losing even the small amount of metallic tone it had gained.

“I feel like it would be a mistake to wait much longer.”

The other two followed his gaze and couldn’t disagree.

“I should go alone,” said Hermione. “I’m the ‘oldest’, and I already have an established presence in the Wizarding World. People aren’t going to pay much attention to me.”

“At your apparent age, in this time period?” asked Draco. “I don’t believe it would be appropriate to go out unescorted.”

“And how would you explain our existence if we only popped up later?” asked Harry. “The NEWT examiners might not have quizzed you about your family members, but the villagers certainly will.”

“Young Master Harry needs to with you,” said Draco.

“We both need to go,” said Harry. “We’re not setting a precedent that we are not united. After Draco’s seventeenth ‘birthday’ on Thursday. We can always claim we’ve been here forever but where waiting until we were all legal.”

“We go out for Draco’s birthday,” said Hermione. “A shared celebration to the local pub, now that the two of you are both of age.”

Draco looked conflicted but eventually agreed with a nod.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Harry cheerfully.

They were going to get this pinned down, and return the land to its rightful state, even if it would kick off the gossip a little early.

Chapter Text

Local Pub, Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Saturday 7 August 1943

The pub was an octagonal Tudor tower right in the middle of the main road. Literally. The building was like a pebble dropped into a small stream. One lane flowed around to the left of it, and another to the right. Harry had to stop to admire it. It was true that he had seen far more odd buildings in the purely magical enclaves, but this was a mixed village. The building had muggle-avoidance wards on it, but not a notice-me-not charm. The muggles could see it plain as day, and still thought it was a perfectly normal place to construct a pub.

Before Harry could continue on towards the wide steps leading down to the large main doors, Draco reached out a hand to redirect him to the external half-flight of stairs.

“The lower area is for the working class,” Draco said quietly. “Gentlemen— and ladies— use the snug.”

“I think I’d feel more comfortable with the normal people,” grumbled Harry.

“Perhaps,” said Draco dryly. “But they won’t feel comfortable with you.”

It offended Harry’s middle-class sensibilities, although he suspected even that desire for egalitarianism was anachronistic. But he had agreed to their cover story, and their cover story was not that of tenant farmers or day labourers. When in Rome.

They stepped into the upper room, and one of their new house-elves, Bayker, popped in to take Hermione's wrap. The house-elves had appeared shivering and huddling in the kitchen, one by one, from the very day of Harry’s invitation. They were all starving and desperately eager to please, so the three were just letting them do whatever it took to make themselves feel more secure. There were two people already within the room, and they both rose to meet them. One was a very elderly lady dressed much in the style of Augusta Longbottom, and the other a middle-aged man in prim robes.

“I don’t think that in these trying times we need concern ourselves overly with the propriety of introductions, do you?” said the man with an engaging smile. “This is Madam Irene Wakefield, and I am John Strout, the resident medi-wizard here in our little community.”

Draco, as the youngest, took the lead in introductions. “May I present my cousins, Hermione and Harry of the Greenhurst lands? And I am Draco.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both, Madam Wakefield, Healer Strout,” echoed Harry.

He managed the bow Draco had drilled into him, and Hermione executed a very pretty curtsey.

“We’ve come out to celebrate Draco and Harry’s birthdays,” explained Hermione. “They’ve recently turned seventeen.”

“Well, congratulations on your coming of age, young men!” said Madam Wakefield, “Wonderful to see young new faces in the community, just wonderful.”

“Greenhurst lands, you say?” asked Healer Strout, “I can’t say I’m familiar with it.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, in a convincing display of surprise.

Harry turned to her and said, only just loud enough to be overheard, “It must have been under some sort of forgetting charm. It has been some time since the family was resident.”

Since he didn’t specify which family, it wasn’t as if he was even lying. The original owners (or perhaps their enemies) most probably did do something for it to have been hidden from the history books.

Madam Wakefield immediately followed with, “The very last thing I wish to be is indelicate, my dears, naturally, but if I might ask, for you to be alone on an occasion like this. Your parents…?”

“I’m afraid they are no longer with us,” said Hermione quietly.

“Oh, you poor, poor darlings,” said Madam Wakefield. “Terrible times we live in, just terrible. Please do forgive a nosy old woman for bringing up such painful memories, Miss…”

Madam Wakefield trailed off leadingly.

“Ah… Greenhurst,” completed Hermione with a bland smile.

The two ‘elders’ blinked at that.

“But where are our manners?” asked Madam Wakefield. “You poor dears, come and take a seat at once. Young John, be a love and summon the publican, would you? I can’t imagine what’s keeping him. He must surely have been alerted to the entrance of the children.”

The room had scattered armchairs of every possible style in various groupings, separated by wooden screens to allow both more and less privacy. It looked lonely and incongruous with so few people. The three of them had more than doubled the capacity, and they still were lost in the room. They followed Madam Wakefield to one the larger tables built into the large bay window, opened wide to allow the warm evening air to fill the room. The medi-wizard dutifully rung the handheld bronze bell, and they were shortly supplied with ale for the boys and a wine punch for Hermione.

Hermione said, “We have been rather out of touch with the community. It’s lovely to reconnect with the true locals.”

“Were you parents from here?” asked Healer Strout. “Before they were taken from you so prematurely?”

Hermione once again spoke with nothing but the blandest of expressions. “I’m afraid we’re not in a position to share that information. The family insisted we participate in the oath to keep family matters strictly confident before we were permitted to leave our original lands. I’m sure you understand how ah… certain … families can be.”

“Of course,” said Healer Strout, doing his best to conceal the fact that he had no idea what Hermione was apparently implying.

“I’m not strictly a local myself, as it happens,” interrupted Madam Wakefield. “I came here from Wiltshire as a young bride in… oh, what was it. Well, a very long time ago now, I don’t mind letting you know. My sweet husband was the local. He left this world twenty years back, come next March.”

“And your children?” asked Harry. “Are they still living here?”

Madam Wakefield whipped out a handkerchief with the ease of long practice. “Unfortunately, we never did have any children of our own, poor blessed little souls. Not for lack of trying, I can assure you. The things we used to get up to, practicing! But sometimes that’s just the way of it, I suppose. Somethings are just not meant to be.”

Harry murmured polite commiserations. The healer looked vaguely horrified at the idea of sexual escapades amongst the elderly, and Harry couldn’t help but be amused. Harry and the rest may not have reached Madam Wakefield’s age, but the thought didn’t exactly upset them the same way.

“But, oh, you should have seen us in my youth!” continued Madam Wakefield. “Bright Irene, they used to call me, because of my hair you see. No one had hair quite as fair as I did. We used to dance the night away, the two of us—”

With very little effort, Hermione prompted more and more reminisces out of the elderly lady, both helped and hindered by Madam Wakefield’s tendency to wander off into tangents. Harry hoped Hermione was gaining more from it than he was, or they’d have to sift through all of this with a penseive. At some point Healer Strout retreated with a paper, and Harry was almost lulled into a state of hypnosis.

Suddenly an unexpected name caught his attention.

“The Dumbledores –“ said Madam Wakefield, “— you may have heard of the elder, he teaches at Hogwarts now, can you believe it? Never would have expected such a thing of him – now they were a rowdy pair of boys. They were forever getting into things they shouldn’t. They drove young Rowle – that would be the current Warden Rowle’s father, you know – quite spare, I tell you, quite spare.”

“The Dumbledore’s lived here when they were young?” asked Harry.

Harry couldn’t say that he’d ever known where Albus Dumbledore grew up, but surely Hermione would have mentioned it if he’d grown up here.

“Well,” said Madam Wakefield, “Not literally here in Knoll-amidst-the-Wold. They lived in Mould-on-the-Wold, proper. Before they relocated it, you know, it was only a mile or so downhill from here. We were always in and out of each other’s villages, attending each other’s markets and feast days and such. Ours were better, naturally, but I suppose I shouldn’t say so. The poor dears were trying their best.”

“Mould-on-the-Wold was relocated?” asked Hermione, carefully.

“Merlin, yes! It was such a fuss, I can tell you. Some muggles decided they simply had to build a lake in the valley, you see. The Ministry sent some folk came down, and they calculated things out and decided that it was cheaper to just up and move the whole village rather than try to construct wards to keep the water out and hide the whole place from the muggles. So that’s exactly what they did!”

“I didn’t realise there was a lake so close by,” was Draco’s contribution.

“Oh, and isn’t that just typical? Once it was all done on our side, the muggles decided not to make the lake after all, and it was all for nothing. Naturally, the Ministry didn’t want to spend the money to move the village back, so they just left it where it was. Left it there, and pretended it had always been there.”

Harry couldn’t figure out if laughter was an appropriate reaction. “What about the people with living lands?”

“They had to remain with us, of course,” said Madam Wakefield. “The ministry wasn’t about to assist with their affairs, and they weren’t about to assist with any Ministry nonsense. Always the case, isn’t it? But I do think it was just one of the Travers family who would have been affected. I remember Lord Fingal— or was it Torquil? – was quite disappointed that he didn’t get the extra waterfront. He’d been quite looking forward to it. Not that the family came into either village much, to be fair. But speaking of our markets, my dears, please do say that those lands of yours will have excess harvest.”

“Only a modest amount this year,” said Hermione, seemingly perfectly happy to be diverted to the new conversation topic. “Although I do hope to have an additional mid-winter harvest from the orangery and greenhouses.”

“Then I do hope we'll be seeing some of it ,” said Madam Wakefield. “With the ridiculous muggle rationing thingamabob, I have to tell you, dears, we've been at rather dire straits when it comes to food. And the Ministry has been less than helpful, I don’t mind telling you.”

Hermione smiled at Madam Wakefield without looking at them, though Harry was willing to bet Hermione was storing away that particular victory of her planning skills away to use against them for any years to come.

"Of course," said Hermione. “I wouldn’t sell them anywhere else.”

They sat through more diversions and meanderings, with Hermione doing her best to guide the conversation down useful paths. Nothing further stood out. At length, it was late enough for them to excuse themselves and apparate home.

As soon as they were safely on their lands, Harry asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Are you thinking we just stole the Dumbledore land?” asked Hermione. “Then yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking. It isn’t the Travers land, at any rate. That one didn’t go dormant until much later and I know the location of that.”

“Rather ironic,” said Draco. “It appears that Albus Dumbledore left out his own personal piece of ‘dark history’ when preaching to his minions.”

“If it is his,” said Hermione.

They paused to acknowledge that had not yet been confirmed. Arguably, it wasn’t even more likely than any of the other names that Madam Wakefield had mentioned. But they all were familiar with how the Potter luck worked.

“If it is his,” repeated Hermione with slightly different emphasis, “Then we’re going to need to find some way to return it to him.”

“We will not,” Draco snapped back, sounding horrified. “If Dumbledore – any of the Dumbledores – had wanted it, they should have looked after it better. No decent family would have just abandoned it just because it became inconvenient.”

“You can’t blame Albus Dumbledore personally for that,” said Hermione. “He would have been all of four years old at the time it went dormant! We agreed, after the war, that we would try to convince Dumbledore away from his extremist position. We’re going to have a challenging time doing that while in possession of his rightful property. Maybe the loss of the land was the very thing that prejudiced him against them in the first place.”

That wasn’t quite how Harry remembered the discussion. As far as he remembered, Draco had not agreed to actively attempt to convert Dumbledore. He had simply agreed to the general idea that it would make their task easier if Dumbledore was not antagonistic to them. Still, it was not the time to re-tread worn ground. Draco was never going to trust Dumbledore, and Harry thought it was unreasonable to expect him to.

Harry therefore interrupted their brewing argument. “Let’s see if we can find out what happened first. Don’t forget that the land is ill. I highly doubt it was just a matter of the Dumbledore’s moving away.”

After all, despite the disturbing revelations, they had rather magnificently achieved their goal. They now had more than enough information to ask some meaningful questions.

Chapter Text

Greenhurst Land, Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Sunday 8 August 1943

Harry never had much patience for debating the hypothetical, but he knew that it was a way of relieving stress for both Hermione and Draco. He didn’t try to stop them as they walked to the heart.

Hermione was continuing to defend the idea of giving the land back to Albus Dumbledore. “Did it occur to you that if we do change public opinion of how valuable living lands are, Dumbledore might want it again? What kind of impression would that give of us if he sues us for ownership? We’d lose all our credibility.”

Draco wasn't prepared to back down either. “Living lands have never had the protection or the burden of the courts. If Albus Dumbledore wants to stake a claim, he must appear in the heart on Spring Day to present his case to the land itself. If he doesn’t have an existing invitation, or even know where the place is, then he has no case by default.”

The argument continued in the background as Harry made the final preparations for asking the questions. This time the flow of memories was substantial and not at all symbolic. They were disjointed and out of order, but the land was eagerly pushing them at him almost before he finished asking.

“Well?” asked Hermione eagerly as Harry returned to consciousness.

“It worked,” said Harry. “There's a few things we should watch in the pensieve.” 

He didn’t prepare Hermione or Draco. That was probably cowardly of him, but he didn’t know what he could say to make anything any better.

The first important vision was the most indistinct. It was fuzzy images without much recognisable in the way of sound. It featured an elder Dumbledore, Percival, and his wife holding an infant while a toddler clutched at her robes. Hermione exclaimed for a while at how cute the tiny Albus Dumbledore was. But slowly she became aware that the ritual Percival was performing was familiar. One they’d seen in a pensieve of a land’s memory before. When it finished, Harry pretending to be interested in how the pond was recovering to allow Hermione and Draco some time to recover.

“I did wonder where the Ministry found the ritual to disconnect a piece of land,” said Draco, trying and failing to sound unaffected. “I’d never heard about it, and the Malfoys had some of the oldest living lands left in England.”

“We don’t know that Dumbledore was the one to pass on the information,” said Hermione, but it was weak.

“The land didn’t try to defend itself,” said Harry, even more struck by this the second time around. “It just… let it happen.”

“The ritual was being performed by the owner,” said Draco. “Not just some ministry official. And it was only a small piece of the land that was disconnected. Percival also didn’t seem like he was performing a newly invented ritual – he had too much confidence. He’d done, or seen it done, before.”

“I suppose I can think of valid reasons that required for disconnection,” said Harry. “Reasons that would be in the land’s best interest, even.”

“Do you think that’s what happened here?” asked Hermione.

“No,” said Harry, not willing to raise her hopes. “The next one has more details.”

It was the same set of characters, except the boys were older and standing by themselves. Perhaps the land had been more suspicious the second time around, because it seemed to have been paying more attention. The details were considerably sharper, and the memory started earlier.

The wife, Kendra, was trying to get in Percival’s way. “We can’t do this again.”

“We don’t have any choice,” said Percival, pushing her out of the way. “The money’s already gone from the last time. And it’s not like your family’s willing to do anything to help, is it? Should have known better than to marry a bloody foreigner.”

“Percy, we can’t,” repeated Kendra. “We barely convinced Young Master Samuel that it was just genuine bad luck and not an undeclared curse on the land we sold him. If the same thing happens again—”

“What kind of a fool do you take me for?” interrupted Percival. “I’m not going to sell it to anyone who knows us. There’s that muggle company trying to buy up land, isn't there?”

“But won’t the same thing happen to the muggles?” asked Kendra.

“So what?” asked Percival. “Do you want our children to starve? Is that it, woman? Are those random muggles more important to you than your sons? Than your husband?”

“No, of course not, but Percy—” said Kendra.

“Shut up, woman,” said Percival. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

The ritual repeated in much the same way, except this time the remaining land rippled, as if in pain.

Draco and Hermione were both looking rather white around the edges. Harry decided not to put them through more painful scenes. Harry didn’t want to force himself through them again either.

“There’s more, but they’re much the same,” said Harry. “Let’s skip to the end.”

This time Kendra was heavily pregnant and the two young boys were left to play on a blanket behind them. The land was now the image of the infected leaves and dying crops they had seen when they had first arrived. Percival himself was looking unwell with yellow skin and eyes. Kendra cradled her stomach and stood well clear of Percival.

“Percy, no,” she called from the side-lines. “You promised. You said that last time was the last time.”

“It should have been,” he said. “Those fucking bastards cheated me.”

“We can find other solutions,” she said.

“Why do you keep trying to make things hard for me?” asked Percival. “Who do you think I’m doing all this for? This is for you and the kids. How am I supposed to look after our future daughter like this?”

“At least let me send the boys back inside,” said Kendra. “They cry for days afterwards, you know they do.”

“For the last bloody time, woman, everyone needs to be here. The ritual won’t work with—”

Percival froze, blinking his eyes rapidly. The toddler – Aberforth – began to wail, high pitched and desperate. 

Albus stood up. “Mummy, why can’t I see?”

The land was still visible to Harry and the rest, and it was rippling and tearing in a way that made Harry feel uncertain in his own footing.

“Hush, Albus,” said Kendra. “Look after your brother for Mummy.”

Albus obediently pulled his brother into a hug, which muffled the cries only slightly.

The vision blurred as it shifted focus to outside the heart, on the very edge of the forest. The Dumbledore family and the small patch of ground they stood on moved with them. It was obvious when Percival and Kendra regained their sight, as they looked around with dismay and disbelief.

“Mummy, Mummy, where’d the trees go?” asked Albus.

“Shhh,” said Kendra. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going back to the village now, okay? Everything will be fine.”

“But Mummy, the trees!” insisted Albus. “Why’d the trees go away?”

“They’re still there,” said Percival. “We’re the ones that moved.”

“Are they hiding from us?” asked Albus. “Is it our turn to look for them now?”

“No,” snapped Percival. “We’re never going to see those bloody trees again. That Merlin cursed, dung-filled— ”

Albus promptly burst into tears, encouraging Aberforth into new hysterics. Kendra was too pregnant to bend down to their level, but she offered what comfort she could. Percival cursed again and stormed off, fading out of the range of the land’s sight. The tiny Albus Dumbledore, leading the even more tiny Aberforth, tried to walk back towards the heart. Kendra stopped him, time and again, as the children grew ever more upset. Eventually the boys were too exhausted to resist as Kendra pulled them in the direction her husband had gone. The vision ended as they faded out.

“Well,” said Draco. “Dumbledore – Albus Dumbledore, I mean – did not take that well.”

“None of the Dumbledores did,” said Harry dryly.

“I didn’t know that lands could do that,” said Hermione. “I mean, it seemed like it just threw them out.”

“You hear the stories,” said Draco. “But nothing definite. But I guess we wouldn’t. No family would want to admit to being kicked out by their own living land. The land is potentially condemning itself to death by invoking the Sleeping Beauty condition itself, so the family would have to have done something pretty extreme.”

Hermione said, “I guess it just kicked them out. It didn’t try to kill anyone. Not like—”

They all stopped. The raw edges of that memory still capable of cutting them.

“We know the lands remember,” said Harry after that silent beat. “And we’ve proved with that message to the house-elves that the lands communicate with each other in some way. This might have drained away all the goodwill lands might have had.” 

“At least we now know why Dumbledore hated the living lands so much,” said Draco.

“Do we?” asked Harry. “He’s a bit too young to remember much, surely?”

Draco shrugged. “Four is a delicate age, memory wise. Young enough to forget the details, but old enough to remember all the trauma. And we have no idea what lies his parents might have told him about what happened when he was growing up.”

“You know…” said Hermione, her expression going a bit dreamy. “No, that doesn’t work.”

“What?” asked Harry.

Harry knew she was most probably pursuing a puzzle to avoid the intensity of her emotions, but he was more than willing to be distracted himself.

“You were speaking of lies and childhood trauma,” said Hermione. “That story of Ariana – you know, the Dumbledore sister – never made much sense to me. So I was wondering if this was what really caused the damage to Ariana’s magic.  A side-effect on Kendra's pregnancy. But that doesn’t make sense either. Percival Dumbledore wouldn’t have gone to jail for muggle-baiting if there was nothing to the original story.”

Harry had only the vaguest memory of that piece of history. “What didn’t make sense about the original story?”

Hermione said, “That they didn’t take Ariana to St Mungo’s, or report the boys who attacked her, or anything, in those first few hours. What kind of parent immediately jumps to the conclusion that their child’s magic is irrevocably broken and must be kept hidden in a basement for the rest of her life?”

“What was supposed to be wrong with her again?” asked Harry.

“It wasn’t very clear,” said Hermione. “But it was implied that the trauma had left her psychologically unable to control her magic. But why did they assume that? Why didn’t they assume it was normal accidental magic? Why did they assume that the damage was permanent?”

“We always just assumed she was raped,” said Draco, “and that’s why the family wanted to keep it quiet.”

“She was six!” exclaimed Hermione in horror.

None of them spoke the truth that sometimes, age was no protection.

“We don’t know what they were hiding,” continued Draco instead. “But I do believe they weren’t doing it for Ariana. Being confined to a basement and kept isolated from everyone outside her family is not a better fate than being made a permanent resident of St Mungos. They kept her away from treatment to protect a family secret. And Albus Dumbledore kept that secret up, even after his parents were no longer around to stop him.”

“He could have been lied to himself,” said Hermione. “And they were his parents. He would have trusted them to do the right thing.”

“I don’t care,” said Draco. “We’re not letting him back. We cannot ask that much of the land. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“I agree,” said Harry. “The Dumbledore’s had many chances to stop and do the right thing. Now it’s our turn. We have to buy it back. Every last piece of land they sold off. We buy it back and re-unite it with the heart.”

This was his land now. Harry was going to do right by it.

Chapter Text

Greenhurst Land, Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Sunday 8 August 1943

Harry, Draco and Hermione returned to the comfort of the tent before discussing how to reclaim the land. Or more accurately, how to fund reclaiming the land.

“If the land is cursed,” said Harry, “then I can’t imagine it’ll be expensive. Sure, the muggles won’t realise why, but they couldn’t have any successful use for the land either. We might pick some up for back taxes.”

“‘Not very expensive’ is not the same thing as ‘free’,” said Hermione. “We have no money. We can’t sell anything we own except the food we’re farming, and that isn’t going to generate much. Not unless we want to upset our neighbours by profiteering.”

Harry knew they were trying to be as self-sufficient as possible, but he had not fully realised they were broke.

“Why can’t we sell stuff?” asked Harry.

It was Draco who answered. “Anything of value is instantly recognisable as stolen property or an unauthorised duplicate. Anything unrecognisable won’t sell for much. I didn’t even bring anything valuable back with me.”

“Same here,” said Hermione. “I brought practical things that wouldn’t invite any speculation. And do I need to go into why none of us have many galleons?”

She didn’t. Harry had extracted the pre-1943 coins from his vault, and it hadn’t been much at all. “How about we sell spells and potions that haven’t been researched yet? It’s a little immoral, maybe, but maybe the people we’re stealing from will go on to invent even better things.”

“No money in it,” said Hermione. “Grants and awards are more about your connections than the value of the research. And anyway we’d need to apply for the money in advance, most of the time.”

“I think we should consider releasing some things anyway,” said Draco thoughtfully. “Not as new inventions, but as ‘re-discoveries’ we’re releasing for free.”

“What about when they ask where they came from?” asked Hermione.

“My father taught me how to conceal a murder,” reminded Draco. “Believe me, he also taught me how to fake provenance.”

“You think you could fake, I don’t know, an inquiry with veritaserum?” asked Hermione.

“I could fake pensieve testimony with enough preparation,” said Draco. “Veritaserum is relative child play.”

Harry nodded agreement. “You can craft a lie out of pieces of truth, and you can alter your memory so even you think the lie is truth. Aurors don’t usually bother with veritaserum. Maybe as a psychological trick to put pressure on a naïve suspect, but not as a normal part of investigations. Maybe we should consider using the philosopher’s stone. Just this once.”

“No,” said Draco firmly. “The goblins monitor the origins of gold even more closely than those muggle miners monitored their diamonds. We’d be dead before we even had time to finish the sale.”

In the future, a witch had accidentally almost broken the Statute of Secrecy by publicising a spell to speed grow diamonds. The muggles world had gone into an uproar over the influx of undetectable ‘fakes’. They had, ironically, been saved by muggle technology replicating the process soon after. The diamond mines started marking ‘real’ diamonds rather than trying to identify fakes.

“We could always just … get jobs,” suggested Harry. “And then mortgages. After our NEWTs, I mean.”

“Did you forget our cunning plan to be hidden and mysterious purebloods?” asked Hermione, a little high pitched. “We can’t just get jobs. The only professions that would be ‘seemly’ for people of our apparent rank are ones that need connections or reputations or influence that we don’t have. Just like we can’t get grants, or write books, or convince people, or …, or…”

Hermione abruptly stood up and walked straight out the tent.

Harry and Draco looked at each other for a long moment in surprise. Then Harry got up. He gave her a little time by first preparing a picnic blanket and two cups of hot chocolate. He found her, as expected, on the top of the rise, glaring down at the almost completed Hall. He didn’t make eye contact, instead laying out the blanket just beside her and pushing the hot chocolate towards her.

After a few moments, she sighed and joined him on the blanket, wiping her eyes clear.

“Is there something else going on?” asked Harry. “It just seems like this isn't a reaction to the problem of the money.”

“I guess,” said Hermione. “It's just that we can’t get money for the same reasons I can’t see a way to get anywhere with anything else, either. This was going to be my grand second chance to get it all right, but I can’t see how. People aren’t going to take us more seriously this time around. They’re going to take us less seriously.”

Muggles had a belief that people grew increasingly more content after forty, as they accepted the limits of dreams and ambitions. But was that genuine acceptance, or just resignation? Wasn’t it just an example of sour grapes, that since they couldn’t achieve their dreams, they told themselves they didn’t really want them anyway? The three of them were there as teenagers again, with all the theoretical ability to do anything, but with none of that same protective teenage arrogance, none of that lack of imagination about consequences and failure, and none of that untested belief in their own personal capability.

He paused too long and Hermione continued.

“It’s like when you and Draco keep treating converting Dumbledore as if it’s some optional extra. It’s not. If we don’t convince him, we’re going to fail. We’re not special here. No one knows us or has any reason to believe us more than any other random witch on the street. We won’t be more convincing than Dumbledore. We’ll fail, and everything we did will be for nothing, and magic will die, and it will all be my fault.”

Harry breathed in sharply. It seemed he'd been having too much fun building the Hall to pay proper attention to how everyone else was doing.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry sincerely. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been taking your concerns more seriously, and I’m sorry that you’ve felt responsible for the entire plan going right.”

“Are you’re going to tell me that I’m not responsible?” asked Hermione.

“Not alone,” said Harry, keeping his voice gentle. “Remember when my plan was to hide away and sneak in and one by one claim the lands dormant from the Voldemort wars?”

“Yeah,” said Hermione, laughing a little wetly. “That was an incredibly stupid plan.”

“Maybe so,” said Harry, “but that’s our baseline. Not totally rewriting magical social opinions. If nothing else works, someone can save the lands and wait. Eventually, either the ministry will accept the truth, or the ministry will fail altogether. At the end of the day, we don't need to convince everyone. We just need to convince one person.”

Hermione considered the point for a long time, and Harry let her.

“We’re not doing that,” said Hermione abruptly. “I have never once in my life accepted doing the bare minimum, and I’m not going to start now. We can do better.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry with a fake salute and a smile. “Ready to go back? I think you scared Draco.”

“He’s been married,” dismissed Hermione. “I’m sure he’s seen worse.”

Nevertheless, she got up and helped fold up the blanket. They returned to the tent and Hermione sat back down at the table with a renewed look of determination.

“That diamond witch you mentioned earlier?” she asked with no other preamble. “She only got into trouble because she was selling them to muggles. What about we sell them strictly to magicals? Remember that craze for embedding magic in them to make them glow? We can do that and pretend they’re an entirely new type of magical gem.”

“That craze was brief for a reason,” objected Draco. “No one trusts something with someone else’s magic inside it.”

“And no one but the three of us are going to know that’s how it works,” reminded Hermione.

“That’s true,” said Draco with a smirk of his own. “That’s very true.”

“I was thinking we could market them as something like challenge coins,” said Hermione. “Have you ever heard of them?”

Harry and Draco shook their heads. 

“They originated in multiple places, and there's a rather charming story about a prisoner in World War I —” Hermione cut herself off. "— never mind. They're specially minted limited muggle coins. They identify people in a group, or represent non-official awards, or even just serve as the equivalent of an autograph. If an embedded diamond is carved during creation, it literally cannot be altered with destroying the whole thing. It would serve perfectly as something personalised and identifiable."

"So, you’re not thinking of collectable designs?" asked Harry. “Something more like business cards?”

“Nothing to stop us from doing both,” said Hermione.

“And also have an option to blood-lock the sparkle,” suggested Draco. “Then the diamond only glows when the rightful owner holds it. It can serve as a means of identification for magicals, too.” 

“We might need to build up a bit of a reputation for honesty first,” said Hermione thoughtfully, the semi-dark nature of using blood magic not slowing her down at all. “People need to trust us not to remake their designs for other people. We’ll also need unobtrusive ways to wear them.”

“And a way to show only one of many that they might own at a time,” said Draco.

Hermione took out some parchment and began jotting down notes. “What do you think about a pendant with a sort of miniature bottomless bag on the face? The wearer can display one at will.”

“And a more masculine bracer option,” added Draco. “And maybe a signet ring with smaller stones?”

“How do we sell them though?” asked Harry, wanting to make some contribution. “Isn’t trade also looked down on?”

“Oh,” said Hermione with a hand-wave. “That’s the simplest part of our plan. Owl orders, through advertisements in newspapers and magazines.”

“Something where you are expected to provide direct customer service is a trade,” explained Draco. “Like clothing or potions. Something highly magical and creative is a craft. Jewellery making is a perfectly suitable hobby for young pureblood lady, no matter how successful she ends up being.”

After being dismissed so thoroughly, Harry sat back and left them to it. They were on their fourth parchment of cross-out and re-annotated plans, with no significant changes from the third parchment that Harry could detect, when a house-elf popped in. Harry was rather ashamed to admit that he did not remember this one’s name.

“Letter for Young Master Dragon,” said the house-elf, popping out as soon as the letter was on the table.

They’d set up a mail delivery location at the edge of the wards, but Harry had not expected it to be used so quickly. Everyone stared at it in some fascination as Draco tentatively opened it up and read it.

“What is it?” asked Harry when Draco finished.

“It’s—” his voice broke and he started again. “It’s an invitation to come and have a chat with the head of the Malfoy family.”

“That was … fast,” said Hermione. “You only left the lands yesterday for the first time. And we only met two people.”

“How long before we have to meet him?” asked Harry.

“You’re coming with me?” asked Draco.

“Naturally I’m coming with you,” said Harry. “I’m not letting you go into something potentially dangerous alone.”

Harry then reconsidered. Was that being too pushy? Maybe Draco didn't want Harry involving himself in private Malfoy business.

“Unless you’d prefer that I don’t attend?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Draco. “I mean, yes, I mean, I would be honoured by your presence, sire.”

“Good,” said Harry cheerfully, ignoring the sudden reversion to formality. “What do we need to do to prepare?”

Waiting for the war to finish was a good idea in theory, but getting out there and getting things done was a lot more satisfying in practice.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Reception Room, Sunday 7 November 1943

Hermione had thrown herself into the plans with an almost desperate enthusiasm. Harry had been mildly concerned that a failure would break her confidence, but thankfully for many reasons, it had been a tremendous success. Having a personalised set to distribute had become a must-have item for all the young gentlemen entering the Grindelwald war, and every high society group had commissioned their own proof of membership. The middle class had followed suit in purchasing the much cheaper ‘ready-made’ designs, customised by initials. Best of all, much of the work could be done by house-elves, giving them an additional purpose while freeing up time.

In between, they were organising for the Malfoy meeting with Harry and Draco. They managed to push it off for three months without seeming suspicious – the social diary of the Malfoys themselves went a long way in providing good excuses. Harry didn’t put the pieces together to appreciate how many people that implied until they walked into a full jury of various Malfoys in an unfamiliar reception room. Harry had managed to keep the mental impression of the Malfoys being a small family even though he should have known better.

The room was cluttered with couches and side-tables that looked far more comfortable and practical than anything Harry remembered from when Lucius had been the master of the place. The floor and the walls might well already have been marble, but they were entirely invisible behind tapestries and rugs, all of them lovingly embroidered with scenes of stylised Malfoys, some flying with dragons, some calling down water on fires or walls on floods, and some fighting absurdly large snails. Harry hadn’t known that was a thing.

Draco himself was a little pale, but Harry had no idea whether that was from nerves, from the emotional impact of seeing the Malfoy estate, or from the emotions of seeing so many live Malfoys all at the same time. Harry looked around carefully but didn’t see a good candidate for Draco’s grandfather, Abraxus. In fact, Harry was somewhat disturbed by how elderly the Malfoys were.

“My dear loves, it does see the heart good seeing you young people here,” said Madame Wakefield, pushing her way out of the huddle. “You are most welcome, most welcome indeed.”

Madame Wakefield. Of course. There had only been two witnesses to Draco’s appearance – who else had Harry imagined had spread the news? Now that he was looking for it, he could see the Malfoy identifiers beneath the neutralising effects of age. And there had even been an Empress Irene, hadn’t there? Or was that the wrong roman empire?

Harry pushed that aside. “Thank you, Madame Wakefield.”

“Lord Malfoy, may I introduce Henry and Draco of Greenhurst? Harry, Draco, Lord Antoninus Malfoy.”

Well, that introduction put them firmly in their place, didn’t it? The rest of the room was introduced to them in turn, and Harry hoped none of them would expect him to remember their names. Of come interest was that only about two-thirds were even surnamed Malfoy, so the family was clearly taking this very seriously. That, or Madam Wakefield had told absolutely everyone before Antoninus had a chance to stop her and they’d insisted on coming.

Harry took the chance to hand over the rack of potions, as negotiated in their communications, although Harry still wasn’t entirely sure why the matter had even come up. He politely looked away as Lord Malfoy sent them off with a house-elf. The potions in question, a general mind-cleanser, had already been certified safe by the ministry, but Harry was unsurprised that the Malfoys weren’t willing to place all their trust in them. He was surprised, however, that the Malfoys would care in the first place

Lord Malfoy gestured them to seats opposite him that did at least a respectable job of including them within the Malfoy group rather than treating them as opponents.

“Forgive me for a degree of impoliteness,” said Lord Malfoy with the smooth voice of a very well-trained speaker, “but under the circumstances I would feel reassured if we used a truthoscope. Are you agreeable?”

“Certainly,” said Harry.

Lord Malfoy could have placed one visible to him and unnoticeable to Harry and Draco. Him announcing it was not politeness or morality. Displaying it was the point. He expected Harry and Draco to be more honest than they might otherwise have been simply because they feared being accused by the ‘scope.

“Let us not stare at the quaffle while aiming at the bludger,” said Lord Malfoy. “Young Draco, are you a Malfoy?”

“I believe that my father was,” said Draco, “but we can’t be entirely sure.”

Harry continued with the first part of the prepared script. “You may know that our family required certain magical oaths from us. We have attempted a few times since then to create a magical family tree or use one of the hereditary potions for Draco, without any success.”

“Oh, you poor, poor, soul,” said Madame Wakefield, reaching over to pat his hand. “Have you had no contact at all with your father?”

“At least not within the last twelve years, no,” answered Draco. “But I can’t blame him.”

“Whyever not?” said one of the other female Malfoys fiercely. “No matter what the circumstances, any decent man takes responsibility for his children.”

Draco looked down. “Young Master Harry’s parents said anything about my father to us directly, but I was given to understand by others in the family that he currently has no memory of me. Or of ever meeting my mother, for that matter.”

Since Draco’s father would not be conceived for another decade, he ‘currently’ didn’t have any memory of anyone. And Harry’s parents hadn’t said anything to Draco about any matter that they knew of. It was all in how one worded their statements, and any over precise wording would be excused as a natural consequence of people with an inflated idea of how truthoscopes worked.

“That wouldn’t be an uncommon way to hide an illegitimate pregnancy,” said one of the others to the female who had spoken earlier.

Harry didn’t know whether to be happy or upset that the ‘obliviate everything’ excuse was so widespread as to be instantly believable.

“Do you mean you know nothing whatsoever about your father?” asked another elderly Malfoy.

Draco looked at Harry as if for reassurance or permission. Harry nodded back at him.

“Just one thing. After all of our parents passed away, I came across a set of research journals that seem to have been written by a Malfoy. Given, well, my appearance, I made a few assumptions.”

The research journals had been written by Draco himself while fully a Malfoy, and he didn’t go into any details about what his assumptions were. Not a single untruth. Draco pulled the journals from his bag and after a moment of visible reluctance, handed them over. Lord Malfoy leafed through them without much expectation. Harry noticed the moment Lord Malfoy stopped trying to find clues to the authorship and started to read them for content.

“They mean something to you,” said Draco when Lord Malfoy closed them and handed them over to the person Harry vaguely thought might be his son.

“Yes,” said Lord Malfoy.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, simply tapping his fingers on a side table. A murmur spread through the ranks of the accumulated Malfoys, jumping from one to one with growing excitement and disbelief. Lord Malfoy looked around and then nodded to himself.

“As the person most immediately effected, I think you have the right to know,” said Lord Malfoy. “And naturally I wouldn’t ask you to keep any secrets from your liege lord. But I would like you both to take an oath not to reveal the Malfoy secrets we tell you today.”

“Of course,” said Draco, after collecting another nod from Harry.

It was a casual oath, and they took it easily. Harry wasn’t surprised. It would not have taken much insight on their part to come to right ‘conclusion’ eventually anyway, and this way Malfoy had more control over what they said and did with that information.

“The Malfoys are suffering under a curse that damages our ability to have children,” said Lord Malfoy. “We were so eager to make contact you because we knew that you could not possibly be an accidental child.”

Draco sat open mouthed for a moment, giving a convincing impression of being startled. “Did you believe I was abducted?”

“We felt that your existence deserved additional investigation,” replied Lord Malfoy diplomatically.

“But the journals…,” said Draco, as if putting together the clues for the first time. “They were about how to weaken or break a curse. My father was using my mother as part of an experiment. Trying different methods to see if she could become pregnant.”

Another fact that was literally and cruelly true – Lucius had made attempt after attempt with Narcissa, both before and after the birth of Draco.

“It may well have been simply that he wished to ensure that they could become pregnant together before marrying her,” said Lord Malfoy. “He perhaps didn’t want her trapped with him if they would prove to be childless. He might have fully intended to marry her. We do not know if he had any chance to explain himself before your mother’s family memory charmed him.”

Harry had to admire how sensitive Malfoy was trying to be to Draco’s feelings.

“Do you have any idea who he might have been?” asked Draco.

Lord Malfoy scanned the faces of those present, but none of them suggested anything. “I do not know. There are a number of possibilities of the right age and inclination, but none stand out. If he ever succeeded in breaking the curse again, we certainly never heard of it.”

Harry cleared his throat, and they all looked towards him. “I think we must consider the possibility that all details of the solution were removed from Draco’s father at the same time as he lost the memory of the pregnancy.”

“Surely not,” said Draco. “Do you really think they…”

“If your father had left with those memories intact,” said Harry. “Then it doesn’t make much sense that he would have left the journals behind.”

Neither Draco nor Harry was making any sort of definitive statement that would be subject to the judgement of a truthoscope one way or another.

“Do you believe that your family would be that…” Lord Malfoy paused to pick the best word, “… unkind?”

Harry flushed and looked away, which would seem confirmation in itself.

“I would say,” said Draco, sounding even more careful. “That I was very thankful when Lord Harry accepted my vow. I had not experienced much protection in the years before that.”

The various Malfoys shifted in their seats, some exchanging comments in voices too quiet for Harry to pick up on.

“My dearest cousin,” said Madam Wakefield, “How unhappy you must have been! If only we’d known about you, we would have moved heaven and earth on your behalf, believe me, no matter what the unfortunate circumstances of your birth might have been.”

Draco was visibly unsettled by the sudden upgrade in personality status, and Harry didn’t think it was an act. On the other side, Harry wondered whether the Malfoy’s inclusive attitude would still exist if not for the decades-long drought in legitimate children.

“Perhaps—” began one of the other Malfoys.

Draco shifted so that he was half-hidden behind Harry, and Harry obliged him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m very glad that you are happy now,” said Lord Malfoy with finality. “We have no desire to uproot you against your will.”

Draco ‘relaxed’. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if a Malfoy – even Lord Malfoy himself – later reached out to Draco personally, but they wouldn’t be making a scene about it now, in front of Harry. Harry was a little embarrassed to be glad. Harry was happy that Draco was finding some acceptance from his extended family, he really was. He was just more happy that Draco didn’t seem to have any desire to abandon the more intimate family they’d created together, even with other choices.

Chapter Text

Village Square, Knoll-amidst-the-Wold, Sunday 19 December 1943

On the last Sunday before Christmas, they headed towards the village Christmas market. They had been honoured with a stall of their own, and Madame Wakefield had gone so far as to confirm their attendance by letter. The preparations had distracted them for weeks. The stall itself would be managed by house-elves, but their personal presence was expected for a walk-around.

“I just don’t understand why they have it at all,” complained Harry. “No-one here even believes in Christ.”

That, amongst some other Wizarding peculiarities, was a long-standing complaint from Harry. Draco, a new audience, was still willing to engage.

“We’re still culturally Christian,” said Draco primly. “We have more knowledge than the poor muggles, but that doesn’t make us not British.”

Harry was not impressed. “We’re just stealing the fun-sounding parts with no concern for their deeper context and meaning.”

“And what if we are?” asked Draco. “It doesn’t matter what the original meanings of a tradition are. Christmas for us is about community. Coming together to celebrate our bonds and our shared ideals.”

Harry waited for Hermione to interject with her usual point that most of the Christmas and Easter traditions had been stolen from other religious groups anyway. Instead, he looked at her to see she was surreptitiously reading, even as they were in the act of walking towards the village.

“Hermione!” said Harry.

“What?” asked Hermione. “This is important. It’s personal correspondence with that instant-army person I was telling you about. These letters that explicitly reference the ability to have non-contiguous living lands.”

“That’s great,” said Harry. “But it isn’t written in disappearing ink or anything. It will still be there when we get home.”

“And isn’t it a bit soon to give up hope?” asked Draco.

They had had tremendous success in purchasing back the land – and probably some extra besides – from a defunct muggle water company and hiding it from muggle records. But that hadn’t been all of it, and they were left with a gap between the heart they already owned and the new lands they had just purchased.

“What are you suggesting we do next?” asked Hermione. “Go door to door?”

Draco was not given time to respond as they were engulfed in light and noise. Massive wreaths with candles at the cross points adorned every door, and small schools of smaller floating candles darted every which way.

“There used to be muggle lights out as well,” commented Hermione. “But they’re still under black-out. Muggles have been prevented from attending the markets entirely since the start of the war, instead of the previous use of notice-me-nots on the magical elements. I wonder if that led to the decline of the mixed villages.”

“Hermione,” warned Harry under his breath.

“Sorry,” said Hermione.

They entered the village square on the quieter side, where the stalls were more displays than shops. The biggest one, in pride of place, was an entire miniature town. A train departed from a station, disappeared into a mountain, and then returned. The ‘cliff’ facing them hosted the tiny figure of a nesting dragon, and the surrounding forest containing an active quidditch field, with tiny players.

“Greenhursts!” welcomed Healer Strout, looking uncharacteristically enthusiastic. “Your scene is just lovely. I don’t suppose I could commission some new streetlamps for the model next year?”

“Naturally,” said Hermione. “You must give me the details.”

They exchanged further pleasantries and compliments, didn’t mention the egregious violations of rules in the quidditch ‘game’, and moved on.

Their own display was next, made, naturally, of their new diamonds. They’d gone with a representation of the castle of the Snow Queen, with the colours of the northern lights softly undulating through them. Perhaps unimaginative, but Harry was still impressed with their efforts.  They’d also decided to provide some out-of-season fruits that could be taken in exchange for a small contribution to charity. The suggested donation made the fruits an act of charity in themselves, but one that allowed the villagers to keep their pride. Next to the fruit boxes was a pile of pamphlets and samples about their newly released potions.

A man Harry didn’t recognise was reading a pamphlet at arm’s length as if it might burst into fire at any moment. He was overdressed for the occasion. Harry and Draco might have owned clothing that expensive, but they did not wear it to a village market. Harry had fallen a bit behind Hermoine and Draco, and was alone when the man looked up and caught Harry staring.

“You must be Greenhurst,” said the man, clearly expecting Harry to recognise him without any introductions of his own. “You’re encouraging this cleanser as part of a person’s general routine.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest the description of ‘encouraging’, but then stopped. It wasn’t untrue. They would like it to become more common place. He just didn’t want to risk seeming like a paranoid revolutionist for suggesting that compulsion magic was in common use.

“I think it would be a good idea, yes,” said Harry. “Many people cast spells on us or near us, without any real consideration for the long-term effects.”

“Don’t you think it’s important to keep family potions and spells within the family?” asked Lord Someone.

“Certainly, sir,” agreed Harry. Remembering to be more formal with his ‘elders’ was still a work in progress, but he doubted this man would be as understanding as Lord Malfoy.

Harry continued, “But we don’t see the point in keeping things secret simply out of habit. If revealing it doesn’t hurt us, but does help others, then why not? A rising tide lifts all boats.”

Lord Someone followed with, “Are you expecting others to do the same?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Harry, still trying to figure out where the man was going. “Still, if others are inspired to investigate their personal family legacies to see what advancements are languishing unused, I would hope that we would all welcome that.”

“In other words, you are trying to form a political movement,” said Lord Someone.

Harry was caught unprepared for this twist. Admitting it would send the wrong message. Denying it would seem damning down the line. Anything he said would provide ammunition for future enemies, but he couldn’t say nothing either.

“My current aim is to achieve good results in my NEWTS, sir,” said Harry. “It is possible that I may choose to pursue my duty within the political sphere at some point in the future, but I have no definite plans in that direction yet. The potions are simply a by-product of our own studies and investigations, nothing more.”

Lord Someone hummed a non-committal agreement before walking on like he had never stopped in the first place. Harry cursed to himself. This was Draco’s field of expertise, not his own. He hurried to catch up.

Hermione and Draco had found their way to the stalls selling hot butterbeer, roasted nuts, and flying gingerbread pixies trapped by strings, where they had met up with Madame Wakefield.

“— dear Albus to join us, you remember him, I’m sure, but he was just entirely too busy. But not too busy to share a little time with an old woman like me from time to time and catch up on the concern of his neighbours, I can assure you! I was telling him—oh, Harry dear, there you are.”

“Madame Wakefield,” greeted Harry politely.

“We were just waiting for you,” said Madame Wakefield. “I have something distressing that I feel you simply must know. You know of course that I would be the very last person to gossip.”

“Of course,” said Hermione with a straight face.

“But one nevertheless hears things, if you know what I mean. And one usually dismisses most of it. After all, people must entertain themselves somehow, and what harm does it cause for the commoners to imagine fantastical things of their betters? Some houses get quite irate, quite irate, at insults towards them, but I can assure you that doesn’t solve the problem at all. At best, you just won’t find out what’s being said about you. At worst, the treats make the gossip significantly more mean-spirited, and who could blame them?”

“Perfectly natural,” said Hermione. “But something is concerning you?”

“Well, yes. You understand that there are always different rumours, some which outright contradict each other, that’s just the way it goes, but … well, forgive me for being blunt. They say that you are actually the illegitimate children of Grindelwald, here to foment trouble, and that’s why you boys are not involved in the war.”

Harry took a moment to just breathe. When they had decided to let people make up their own stories, this was not what they’d had in mind.

“The boys are underage!” said Hermione.

“And I can assure you,” said Draco, “None of us are in any way descended from Grindelwald.”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Madame Wakefield. “Even if I didn’t know more, just one look at you all would reveal just what nonsense that is. I’m so glad you could join in on our little market so that more people can see that for themselves.”

Harry had a suspicion. “Any rumours about us forcing or tricking other families out of their family secrets?”

Madame Wakefield said, “Well, yes, but that isn’t as popular as the others. You understand, most people don’t have any family secrets worth stealing, so it doesn’t really concern them.”

Hermione shot him a questioning glance, but Harry indicated he’d explain later.

“Were some of the other rumours why Lord Malfoys wanted to test all our potions?” asked Draco in turn.

Madame didn’t quite confirm it. “Lord Malfoy is a bit of a paranoid fuddy-duddy, even at his young age. I can assure you my dears, the only concern I had was for their taste.”

Draco smiled, but there was ice at the edge of it. “I can assure you, they taste just fine. Would you care for a sample from our stall?”

Madame Wakefield’s own smile was open. She linked arms with Hermione and said “I would love to. Let’s go immediately.”

It wasn’t conspicuous, but Harry thought that Madame Wakefield made sure she had an audience when she downed the potion. This was more than just an implicit apology to Draco. Madame Wakefield was making her support of them all very public.

They had started back towards the main part of the market – Harry had spotted a stall selling carved leather Christmas tree decorations – when Madame Wakefield came to a sudden halt.

“Oh, my dears!” she said. “I’ve just realised how scatter-brained I have been. Every time I expect to see you, I say to myself, ‘Irene, you must remember to tell them about that property!’ and then every time I actually see you, it goes clean out of my head. Oh well, better late than never, as I always say. A friend of mine, Constance Burke as she was then, has exactly the type of land you’ve been looking for, and I’m sure she’d be happy to sell it. It was bought as part of her marriage settlement, but she’s never had much luck with it. I’ve heard you were hoping to expand your lands, and it would be just perfect, just perfect. Shall I invite her to tea? So much better, don’t you think, than having to go through financial agents.”

“That would be marvellous,” said Draco. “Thank you so very much, Madam Wakefield.”

Harry pushed aside the uncomfortable feeling about being spoken badly of. That was hardly anything new, after all. This was what was important. This might be the piece of the puzzle they needed most. Madame Wakefield was proving to be a better friend than any of them deserved.

Chapter Text

The heart of the Greenhurst lands, Wednesday 22 December 1943

Madame Wakefield’s friend was very willing to sell the land. She pushed through the legalities as if terrified that Harry and the others might change their mind if given a second to think about it. By the very next day after the market, the Greenhursts were the proud owners of a patch of land that provided a sufficient bridge to all they had previously bought. The resulting shape suggested it wasn’t quite the original boundaries, but they suspected it might be a little larger in total area.

Harry decided to take the very next mid-holiday as an opportunity to unite the lands, even though they didn’t usually celebrate them. Midwinter Day was a particularly minor holiday in the Wizarding world, seeing as it typically lost in competition to Christmas. But it was better than doing the ritual on just any random day, and Harry actually found it rather appropriate. If Winter Day about death and Spring Day about new life, then Midwinter Day was about the moment between.

They had darkened their robes to the more appropriate fir-green, and put together handmade wreaths of holly, ivy, and mistletoe for the altar. As they walked to the heart, they carried a stunned live chicken. All celebrations included feasts and offerings, but midwinter was overtly about sacrifice. The offering had to be their own livestock, not bought, not magical, and not wild-caught. Chicken is what they had. After slaughtering and butchering the poor bird – fortunately using magic, and not by hand— they sprinkled the blood over the wreaths, the tree, and then over each other.

The muggleborn in Harry still recoiled internally. The idea that blood could be unsanitary was treated as silly by purebloods, of course. Dangerous? Certainly. Dark? Possibly. But unsanitary? That was as ridiculous as being worried about breath being poisonous. Technically possible, but hardly likely. Still, he was very relieved that the blood misted out and up in the smoke of the ritual fire as the sacrifice finalised.

The feast was not complete until all the meat and ale was consumed. Harry had read journal entries of seven-day long orgies, but the three of them had brought only just for enough for a single meal and planned absolutely no additional recreational activities. Draco and Harry were a little too distracted to be very merry even at that, but Hermione made a valiant attempt to keep the conversation going.

“Interesting news,” she said. “We just got an order for a dozen blood locked diamonds… inscribed with a very distinctive phoenix.”

Draco laughed harshly. “I suppose we should have guessed he started his little personal cult long before there was any justifiable reason for it.”

“Are phoenixes… phoenices? phoenixii? … distinctive?” asked Harry. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen a second one. Maybe they all look exactly alike, and this is some other phoenix.”

Draco and Hermione ignored him.

“We can’t know that,” said Hermione to Draco. “This might well be just a personal calling card. People tend to stick to symbolism they like for a long time.”

“Wait, no,” continued Harry with determination, “that one quidditch team has a phoenix as a mascot, I think I did see it once. Not up close and personal, of course, but I don’t remember that it looked notably different from Fawkes. Maybe the order is for a quidditch fan club. Maybe the original Order of the Phoenix was also just a quidditch fan club.”

That turned out to be too much for Hermione. She sighed and turned to him.

“It was that stylised phoenix pose Dumbledore always used,” she said. “You remember, the silhouette inside a torch? Not a painting or a photograph of a phoenix, Fawkes or otherwise.”

“The Moutohora Macaws insignia is quite different,” agreed Draco.

Harry was a little disappointed that his speculation about the other phoenix had come to nothing, but glad that he had distracted them from another argument about Dumbledore.

“Ah,” said Harry. “Do you think there’s any way we could safely bet on future quidditch events, do you think?”

Draco and Hermione united in dismissing that idea. Before they could fall into more awkward silence, the last of the offerings had been consumed or burnt.

“Shall we?” asked Harry.

“Do we have to?” asked Hermione. “This just feels so fast.”

“We finished all the research weeks ago,” reminded Harry. “There’s no point in waiting.”

“We could tear down all the buildings first,” said Hermione. “Restore the properties more to their original form before the unification.”

“Actually,” said Harry. “I was thinking we should keep them.”

“Why in Merlin’s name would you want to?” asked Hermione. “They’re useless and ugly and derelict. To be honest, they’re kind of creepy, even without being haunted.”

“The buildings themselves are ghosts,” said Harry. “The corpses of the frustrated dreams of the previous owners.”

“Exactly!” said Hermione. “That’s why we should knock them down.”

“That’s why we should keep them,” said Harry. “They’re reminders of things that deserve to be remembered. Come on.”

Harry pulled Hermione to her feet, and she reluctantly joined them and helped collect two large bowls of water from the pool. Draco had spent the previous day calculating the existing magical flows in the land, and they walked the paths they needed to join them and open up the full land. Draco collected scoops of soil into a bowl while Hermione and Harry walked behind him and dripped the water into the newly created holes.

An hour later they returned to the heart and could feel the anticipation in the air. The leaves rustled against the wind, and patterns of ripples appeared and dissipated in the pond without any cause. Draco and Hermione handled the wording as Harry provided the raw power. His senses seeped into the land, feeling as it delicately expanded and explored – and then he was falling. The land enveloped him and consumed him. Harry battled to hold on to his own sense of self in the vastness of the land, the depth of its emotion, and the agony of its pain. 

Hermione screamed, and Harry forced open the eyes of a body he knew to be his own. Standing in front of him was a tree spirit. This was no half-naked seductive dryad like those depicted in a certain genre of fiction. The spirit may have been undressed, but the lack of clothing revealed a form that was very overtly male. He was also holding a long wooden lance. Harry followed the line of the lance to see that the pain he was feeling was not just an echo of the lands pain. Or perhaps it was, just more literally than he had first realised. Draco and Hermione had raised their wands, but Harry knew that would not help. They couldn’t even approach, kept at bay by a wall of light and air. 

The spirit spoke in a rustling of leaves and a creaking of branches, but somehow perfectly comprehensible.

“The king bears the pain of the land. The land bears the pain of the king.”

The tree spirit started flowing back into the wood, leaving the lance behind. Harry felt his own consciousness likewise pull back into the confines of his body. Draco and Hermione tumbled forward as the barrier faded. Draco stabilised the lance with one hand while casting spells with the other. The lance was removed, and the wound stopped gushing blood, but a few drops continued to leak. Spells didn’t help. Ointments didn’t help. Not even the muggle method of applying pressure did anything to slow it.

“We need to take him to St Mungo's,” said Hermione. “Or at least take him to Healer Strout.”

“I don’t think it would be safe to remove him from the land,” said Draco.

Draco sounded like panic had occurred to him but been dismissed as being too understated a reaction.

“Wasn’t this ritual meant to stop the land from injuring Harry?” asked Hermione. “We were supposed to be stopping the bleeding, not making it permanent.”

Harry looked up from where he was now lying. The heart looked good. The tree was silver and healthy with an overt promise of protection. The altar had a sense of age and depth that waited for offerings. The pond glittered in an invitation to scry with it. It wasn’t fully invested in its power, but it was unmistakably Other. Harry didn’t think he was at any risk. He didn’t think that anything could harm him while he was cradled in the power of the land. Hurt him, on the other hand… that was entirely possible.

“I think it was always trying to do this before,” said Harry. “It just couldn’t succeed until now because it was too weak.”

“That’s just great,” said Hermione. “So what are we meant to do to stop it?”

“The ritual of the lance and the grail,” replied Harry. “That’s why we were given the lance. Remember all the accounts after the Norse invasions? We need to complete a full re-dedication as an act of atonement.”

Hermione frowned. “Re-dedication could only be done on Spring Day. That’s weeks away. You can’t possibly be suggesting we just wait.”

“I don’t think we have any other choice,” said Draco.

“We most definitely do have another choice,” said Hermione, “We can cut off the land entirely and start again somewhere else.”

That did seem simple and easy. Wasn’t Harry usually in favour of simple and easy?”

“You cannot be serious,” said Draco.

“Of course I am,” said Hermione. “Look at the damage it’s doing to Harry. How long are we just supposed to watch him bleed for? It’s taking his magic from him as we speak. And we don’t know that the rededication will even solve things. It might make things worse. Why are we risking all of this and wasting this much time with a land that is out to get us? We could find another land in suspension that is already perfectly healthy. We could even just buy one and have the previous owners hand it over properly. We don’t need to do this.”

“We do need to do this,” said Draco. “Do you have no sense of responsibility? Of duty? The land isn’t just some sort of disposable convenience. It’s a sentient being. It’s a sentient being that we forced into existence to serve our purposes. We have an obligation to protect and care for it in return. If you just cut it off, then you’re no better than the ministry.”

There was not a single trace of hesitation or caution in Draco’s voice. Harry hoped that indicated a greater level of trust Draco had in them, and not just desperation.

“This isn’t just about this one piece of land,” said Hermione. “We have a duty to all the living lands, and we aren’t going to succeed if something happens to Harry now.”

“You mean that sacrifices need to be made for the Greater Good?” asked Draco sarcastically. “Even against its will?”

“No!” said Hermione, before shaking her head. “Yes! You’re twisting my words. And besides, the land didn’t ask Harry if he was willing to be a sacrifice before it stuck a sharpened branch into him. It can’t be upset if we do the same thing to it that it did to us.”

“It’s in the inherently weaker position,” said Draco. “It’s unreasonable and unfair to expect it to hold to the same standards we hold ourselves to.”

Hermione’s proposal was tempting. Harry couldn’t deny that.

But Draco was right.

“I have deep magic reserves,” said Harry. “Very deep magic reserves. Seriously, neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore compared.”

Draco and Hermione paused at that utterly uncharacteristic boast from Harry.

“I’m sure, but—” said Hermione.

“So,” said Harry. “I will be fine. I am not Rose. The land is not lashing out in the final throes of desperation. I will be fine.”

“Harry,” she said in appeal, holding one of his hands in between hers. “We don’t have to risk it.”

“Think of it this way,” said Harry. “Imagine someone euthanising their personal pet because the money it would take to cure them can be spent curing three other animals with milder problems. Technically, yes, they’d be doing the most good for the most number of beings if they did. But would you ever trust them with another animal if they could do that?”

“I…” Hermione trailed off. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure.”

Chapter Text

The heart that is to come, Tuesday 1^st February – Wednesday 2^nd February 1944

Every day for the next six weeks was a new temptation and a new commitment. The house-elves hovered around him with anything he might need, which helped practically, but meant that Harry was forced to moderate his anger, fear and misery to avoid worrying them. The technical aspects of changing the pads collecting the blood and consuming the restorative potions became nothing more than a time-consuming routine, but the fatigue was harder to handle. Every minute during the day was looking forward to when he could rest again, and every minute during the night was looking forward for when he could escape the nightmare-filled quicksand of sleep. Harry came to rely almost entirely on naps – both voluntary and involuntary.

It didn’t help that he didn’t have much to distract himself with. Harry was losing magic with his blood, and losing magic to maintain the house-elves, and neither of those could be stopped. He couldn’t risk spending any on anything else. The final touches on the hall had to be put on hold, as well as clearing any of the new land. Harry wasn’t even allowed to practice spells. That left him with only the theoretical topics he needed to learn for his NEWTs, a topic that was of no more interest to him at his age than when he had first studied them. He had found himself instead designing better ways to learn them instead. In a world of pensieves, animated models, and sentient paintings, why in Merlin’s name were all students being forced to study from textbooks? The magical world should be killing it when it came to self-study options, and instead was mostly dead. The indignation carried him a little further than interest would have alone, but that still wasn’t far.

At length, the number of days dwindled to single digits, then to one, and then to none at all. Previous Spring Eve celebrations seemed like childish parodies compared to this one.  Harry had lit a few candles, splashed a little water and re-voiced his commitment to whatever organisation he’d been with at the time. They’d mostly been excuses to get drunk on Ministry sickles. This time they were doing things appropriately according to Draco’s standards. They dressed in long tight gowns of white, green and silver, only allowed to walk because of parallel slits reaching almost to their waists. The robes were decorated with corsages (they were entirely too elaborate to be considered buttonholes) of yellow, white, and purple crocuses. They had everything researched, and planned, and prepared.

As the sun began to set, they made their way to the heart of the land.

“Are you sure about the full ritual, Harry?” asked Hermione quietly. “I don’t want you to feel you have to sacrifice yourself. Not ever again.”

Harry paused a little too long before answering yes, and Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t say I’m not nervous,” said Harry. “On one hand, everything I’m going through is inconsequential to the six decades of pain the land had suffered. On the other, if we don’t succeed today, then I’m not sure I could endure for another year and expect to come out the same person afterwards. I’ve experienced more pain before, much more pain, but this unending, unrelenting onslaught… I admit I underestimated it.”

“Do you think we might fail?” said Hermione.

“It’s happened before,” said Harry, “even in just normal rededications, sometimes the land refuses the owners.”

“Not without a competing claim present,” said Draco. “I’ve never heard of a land refusing their only option.”

“Until you heard of the Dumbledores being kicked out,” reminded Harry.

“Is this a genuine concern?” asked Draco, coming to a halt. “Are your instincts—”

“No,” said Harry. His instincts, such as they were, was that this was very much the right thing to do. “I’m just anxious. The lack of sleep is getting to me, I think.”

“We’ve practiced—” said Hermione, starting to sound a little anxious herself.

“I know,” interrupted Harry again, feeling guilty that he’d mentioned anything at all. “And I don’t want you to worry about that. It’s the intent that matters. If it goes wrong, it won’t be because you did anything wrong. Either of you. I’m aware that your jobs will be harder than mine. After all, all I have to do is lie there.”

Neither of them laughed at his joke. Draco looked particularly pained, but Harry didn’t have anything to say to him. He wasn’t understating that they were doing the harder part of the ritual. Emotionally, this would all be harder on them than it would be on him, and there was nothing he could do to make that better. Harry could only continue walking.

The heart was a little oasis of spring in the otherwise winter-bound land. The tree was covered in small buds, with just a shimmer of something other-worldly about them. The pond glowed in the reflected light of the three-quarter moon. The altar was left clear for the later dedication but had its own internal gleam. They set up the trestle table with heavy wooden support legs. They had all spent hours working and reworking the carvings to display just the right scenes of their wish for the future of the land.

Draco retook his oath to Harry, and they then carried water from the grove all the way back to their unfinished house and anointed every threshold and windowsill. They took it slowly, for Harry’s sake, but they all knew they had to fully complete their task before sunrise.  Once complete, they returned carrying all the feast items. On top of the trestle table, they laid out roasted goose, salmon, parsnips, cabbage, beer, and every kind of bread – even a gingerbread that was named for its colour and contained no ginger. The scent of the fresh bread, the cooked fat, and the alcohol would probably have been wonderful to Harry in any other circumstances.

Hermione placed the last flask of mulled wine down. “Time to start?”

“Go ahead,” said Draco, activating the status charm on the table.

Harry removed the bandages from his thigh, leaving the wound fully exposed. He leaned into position behind the altar, moving his robes fully out of the way. Hermione started chanting. The altar became liquid in a way that drew uncomfortable parallels with the arrival of the tree spirit. The pain increased, but it grew wider, somehow. Harry knew it was there, but it was becoming less concerning. It was the ocean he was floating within, rather than a predator attacking him. An inner click, a sudden certainty and balance, and within Hermione’s cupped palms was a bowl. One that was significantly larger than Harry had been anticipating. She pulled it free from the stone and stood. The morning chorus of birds awaking in the surrounding trees reached deafening levels, and Hermione looked uncertainly to the lightening horizon.

“Easy,” whispered Draco. “Don’t lose your focus. We still have time.”

Hermione breathed in deeply and moved to the other side of Harry from Draco. Draco picked up the lance in a way that made Harry suspect formal training in using one.

Draco faced Hermione and asked, “Who will be served with the grail?” 

Hermione took a mirror position, bracketing Harry between them. “Why does blood fall from the lance?” 

Harry answered, “The lance drips with my blood, so that we may fill the grail and serve the land with it.”

“So be it,” they replied.

The original plan had been for Harry to guide the lance into the wound himself, but as the lance touched his skin, the formless pain concentrated into an explosion. Harry’s hands trembled, but no matter what he told himself, he could not force himself to move the lance any deeper. Harry could not believe after all he had been through that this would be the bludger he’d fail to dodge. As the despair started to rise within him, there was a shift in both the pain and the magic.

Grim-faced but determined, Draco was inserting the lance himself. Harry could sense Draco’s conviction through the land. This was not something Harry had to do by himself. This was not something that Harry could do by himself. Unlike his walk to face Voldemort those many, many years before, he was not left with only with the cold comfort of ghosts. This was no surrender to desperation. This was an active desire to grow, to heal, to be better, to make a family and future together with and on the land. Draco removed the lance, and the blood poured from him in an impossible flow into the grail Hermione was holding. Harry, lost to anything else, allowed it to continue. Emotions mattered. Intent mattered. Sacrifice mattered.

The blood, thick and pungent, reached the lip of the bowl. Without any external assistance, the wound stopped bleeding. Hermione, tears still rolling down her cheeks, carefully moved the bowl to the altar. In time with Draco, she placed the bowl down while Draco laid the lance against the length of the tree. The stone and the wood eagerly reached out to accept them, flowing out and over, and pulling them back within. The surfaces calmed, and there was no trace that the bloody lance and the blood-filled grail had ever existed. 

There was a moment of calm when even the birds and the wind in the trees seemed to pause. Then, one by one as the morning light touched it, every leaf on the tree unfurled in fireworks of gold. The pond became mirror-still, revealing things in it surface that were not entirely visible when viewed directly. The altar became granite so black that it seemed an absence of being, a portal into the unknown.  The land remained in winter, but it was perceptibly richer and more energetic. Instead of appearing exhausted by the summer, it seemed eager for the spring.

As Harry pushed away from the altar, even the memory of the pain leaving him. The site of the wound was unmarked and unbruised, and he absently smoothed his robes back into place. This was his domain. Nothing within it could happen without his consent, and no one could attack one without feeling the power of the other. The bonds with the house-elves were lighter than gossamer. Every little pain one would only notice when it was gone, was gone. Harry stood in the reds and golds of the rising sun and gave the toast to open the feast.

“The king and the land are one,” said the land – or perhaps said Harry himself.

Chapter Text

Ministry of Magic, Monday 10 July 1944

Harry would never have chosen to run a farm, and had never been much of an academic, but those weeks leading up to the NEWT exams were some of the happiest Harry could remember. The land was a quiet companion in every still moment, the house-elves were a joy to work with, and Hermione and Draco had blossomed into enthusiastic researchers of every whim that took their fancy. Even things Harry idly wondered about could end up as an innovative improvement to the farms, their new Hall, or their lives in general. While this quiet work was not of the world-saving nature, but it didn’t lack purpose. Small tasks, with tangible results, and people who were happy with it, with him, and with each other. It was satisfying on a level that Harry didn’t realise he had been missing.

The NEWT exams themselves had gone smoothly. Hermione was probably more anxious than either Draco and Harry about their results, and they agreed to go and pick them up from the ministry in person. Madame Wakefield promptly insisted on meeting them afterwards with some of Draco’s newly ‘discovered’ relatives, so it was going to turn into a proper celebration (or commiseration). It was all charmingly light-hearted compared to his first time around.

They arrived just as the doors opened. The desks and workstations had been replaced by a maze of ropes, marking out a long and winding path around the reception desk, swirling and looping its way to the centre. The path led directly towards the desk from the door, then traced a semi-circle before doubling back. There were many relicts of once-rituals like this in the ministry, dating from back when worship was more communal, but this, like many others, had long since been cut adrift from its roots. Harry reached the centre, and put out a hand to lift the rope, but Hermione stopped him. 

“Hermione,” said Harry, “We’re the only people here. I’m not queue jumping.”

“I know,” said Hermione, “But if we try to skip any part of the route, it’ll take even longer. I promise.”

Harry carefully spread his magic out and did not encounter any magical restriction. Still, for Hermione’s sake he wouldn’t make a fuss. He thought back to the first time, trying to recall if he had gone through this before. Still, avoiding it might have been because he was the Chosen One, rather than an attack of common sense on the part of the officials between this date and that. It had taken him a long time to even notice the special privileges he was being shown, and longer still to figure out which he should reject.

The length of the path gave Hermione enough time to worry. “What are we going to do if something went wrong?”

Then realising that might have sounded insulting, she added, “Not that the two of you aren’t brilliant, of course.”

“Hermione, all I really need are my OWL equivalencies, and you know they give you those practically for writing your name at the top of the paper.”

Harry wasn’t exaggerating by much. A failing NEWT student without an OWL was given an OWL equivalent two ranks higher than their failing score. Taking NEWTs were too expensive for the average magical citizen to use the loophole, but it was an effective way for the children of wealthy children to legally use their wands in public. And what more did Harry really need? He was intending to live out his life in what amounted to as a gentleman scientist. Or even just a gentleman farmer. There would be no one examining his results to decide whether to hire him or not.

Draco also attempted to reassure Hermione. “I know for certain I excelled at Potions, and that’s all that matters. The potions guild really isn’t going to care how I score on Care of Magical Creatures.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced, but they reached the desk before she had time to reply. After some bureaucratese, Harry was reading his results. He then swapped his scores with Draco.

“Well?” asked Hermione, impatient with their silence.

“Well…” said Harry, sounding deliberately glum.

Draco picked up his intentions and said, “Remember how we said we’d at least get high enough scores to do magic?”

“You couldn’t possibly have received Dreadfuls!” said Hermione.

Harry shook his head. 

“Trolls? You got Trolls?” asked Hermione, her voice steadily rising.

The official behind the desk sighed. “They received two Outstandings apiece, and five Exceeds Expectations. It isn’t nice, boys.”

They exchanged a grin and chimed somewhat insincere, “Sorry, Hermione.”

Hermione pulled away both results, carefully read through them as they made their way back through the maze. Once they were out of earshot of the official, Hermione turned to Draco.

"The results…” Hermione said hesitantly. “I mean, they’re fine, but I thought you, at least, would do better. Why didn’t you do better? "

"No offence intended, I'm sure," mocked Harry quietly, but he'd been curious too. Harry had neither the need nor the desire for excellent academic results, but Draco…

Draco waved as hand in a move that was too elegant to have been unpractised. "I knew Lord Harry would get an O in DADA and Transfiguration, so I chose Potions and Arithmancy. The aim for the rest was good, but not remarkable, scores.” 

The statement awoke long buried memories in Harry of being punished for beating Dudley at school.

"You didn't have to do that,” said Harry. “If you could have scored all Os, then you deserved them. You shouldn’t have been catering to me.” 

Draco was gentle in his reply, making Harry suspect he'd revealed more than he'd intended. "How well a person does in NEWTs in our circles is a statement of intention as much as ability. I didn't do anything that might jeopardise a career, I assure you."

Didn't, rather than wouldn't. If Harry had been even less academically minded, would Draco have silently lowered his own results to compensate? It was an uncomfortable thought. 

Hermione asked, sounding unsure herself, “What do my results say about me?"

"That you prioritise a career outside of the family home," replied Draco promptly.

"Oh," replied Hermione.

That probably was what Hermione would have chosen to say, so Harry could see why Draco didn’t think to mention it before. Or perhaps he simply had not been aware they hadn’t thought the same way from the start. Even after a hundred years, there were still parts of the Wizarding World that took Harry by surprise.

They stepped out into the now busy hall to find that Madame Wakefield had come to meet them, with an unfamiliar man. With his reddish hair, it didn’t seem likely that he was a Malfoy, and Harry tried to place him. Madame Wakefield was visibly conflicted about what to say first, but eventually good manners won out and she ignored the results they were still holding.

“Dear Albus, the young family we were just discussing, Harry, Draco and Hermione of Greenhurst. Darlings, may I introduce my most dear friend, Albus Dumbledore?”

Harry blinked and looked more closely. Dumbledore. Harry had both been dreading and looking forward to this meeting and it was already nothing like he expected. He’d known that Dumbledore was not yet an old man, but it still somehow came as a surprise. He wasn’t completely unfamiliar, but different enough to be uncanny. Dumbledore’s robes were bordering on eccentric, but they weren’t yet the loud explosion that made it hard to even look at him. His belt was already strung with a chaos of keys and knick-knacks, including one familiar little phoenix sunstone, but not the large Hogwarts’ keys he’d kept as headmaster. His beard was long, but not long enough to tuck into his belt. Dumbledore was just somehow incomplete.

Harry breathed in and out through his teeth, clamping down strictly on his emotions. Meeting a stranger with tears in his eyes would raise eyebrows. Harry thought that had long outgrown that blind worship that had him so confidently declare himself to be Dumbledore’s man, but seeing Dumbledore again brought back all that childhood faith and awe. They would never be able to regain that relationship, not that Harry really wanted to, but perhaps… perhaps they could form a new one, as fellow adults.

“Good to meet you, boys,” said Dumbledore. “And can I just take the chance to congratulate you on your results? Hector was just saying that you’d done wonderfully well for private students.”

Harry didn’t know who Hector was, but he was prepared to bet it was someone very high up within the education department by the way that Dumbledore was casually name-dropping him. Harry was also a little disturbed. Dumbledore was explicitly ignoring Hermione, who had done even better. And Harry didn’t particularly care for that back-handed little jibe to private students. It was just that it was a little too perfectly set up to make Harry feel inferior, while diverting any indignation to the missing ‘Hector’. It was a painful reminder that Dumbledore was also already a politician.

“Thank you, sir,” said Draco, cloying as whipped cream, and Harry echoed him. Well-brought-up boys in the forties were respectful of their elders, after all, even when they were being rude.

“Now that you’re done with schooling,” said Dumbledore. “I’m sure you’re both eager to do your part in the war.”

Harry felt increasingly cold. There was nothing innocent about that comment. Would a teenage Harry have noticed the manipulation? Had the teenage Harry been similarly pressured?

“A terrible thing, what is happening,” said Harry, not committing to anything.

Draco jumped in after him, “It must be very frustrating for you, sir, sending untrained children to fight, while you remain safe within Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore’s benign smile didn’t shift at all. “How could any one of us be happy to do nothing while innocent people are dying, no matter how meagre our own contributions? But wiser minds have insisted my best service in the fight is right here, training young people, and I have to sacrifice my own desires to duty.”

“Of course,” said Harry. “Very wise of you. But if you would excuse us, sir? I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry. We are running late for a reservation at Morgana’s Café.”

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “I’m sure I’ll see more of you in future.”

Dumbledore held out his hand, and Harry had no choice but to take it. It was an offer of trust and respect and refusing it would be unconscionably rude. As they made contact, Harry could feel the tell-tale tingle of a power assessment charm – one of the very reasons why handshakes were so rare in the wizarding world in the first place. Harry didn’t react and tried not to take offence. Dumbledore had no doubt heard the rumours about them being the illegitimate children of Grindelwald and knew almost nothing else about them. If Harry had been in the same situation, he might well have done the same thing.

But Harry was glad to leave, and a quick glance at Hermione showed she was even more upset. The three left with Madame Wakefield without offering any further contact. That had not been what Harry had hoped for in a meeting with Dumbledore.

Chapter Text

Morgana’s Café, Diagon Alley, Monday 10 July 1944

On the trip to the café, Madam Wakefield finally gave in and abandoned her polite reserve. “You just can’t keep me in further suspense, my dears! How did you do?”

They passed their results to her, and she scanned them even as they walked.

“Some very appropriate results,” she said approvingly, and Harry thought she might also have been a Slytherin. “Very appropriate indeed. Congratulations, boys. I am so very glad you accepted our invitation to be here as representatives of your family. It must be so hard on you, being by yourselves. Not that I don’t think you’re doing a wonderful job there, Hermione, naturally. Raising the two boys as you have has been very much to your credit.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione. “Oh, is that the café?”

It did seem highly likely it was. It would have been very odd, after all, for some other business to be in the correct spot with a sign outside reading ‘Morgana’s Café’. Madame Wakefield didn’t embarrass Hermione about her misdirection, simply pulling them along with enthusiastic commentary. It was well worth the reputation as a place kept outside of the war. It was elaborate and bright and magical in a way not many places were anymore. The café was themed to be within a lake, and the spell-work was so well done that Harry could not tell which parts were still on the street off Diagon Alley and which were literally under water.

The private room they were led to was filled with an assortment of Malfoys and other acquaintances in a semi-circle. Harry had learned to tolerate being the centre of attention, but never to like it. He reminded himself firmly that everyone here meant well, and it would be unkind to hint that he didn’t appreciate their efforts. Madame Wakefield announced their results in a meandering speech, but thankfully the following rounds of flattery and embarrassment were shorter, and the celebration became more informal. ‘Waves’ crested into white around them. When they settled back, the semi-circle had been replaced small groupings of chairs and tables made out of live kelp. Harry, Draco and Hermione took plates of sea-themed finger-foods while the living counterparts glared accusingly at them from between illusory fronds, and obligingly separated to mingle.

“It was very sensible of you boys to finish your education,” said an elderly Malfoy to Harry earnestly, herding him towards a sheltered corner. The Malfoy seemed to expect Harry to already know his name, but Harry could not place any previous introduction. It would, Harry judged, be too rude to reveal his ignorance by asking.

The elderly Malfoy continued, “Too many youngsters decided that it could wait until the war was over, ignoring just how much more they could do if they waited until they were fully trained.”

To avoid having to say something, Harry took a bite of what looked and tasted like smoked salmon pate. Given the state of the war, it was probably charmed potato.

“Wasn’t that what you were saying, Valerius?” continued the older man. “Valerius? Valerius!”

Eventually, the summoned man came into comfortable conversational distance. He was one of the youngest Malfoys Harry had seen, in that indefinable thirty to seventy range where magical people seemed to pause.

“Young Master Harry, have you met Lieutenant Valerius yet? He’s usually off fighting with Captain Yarrow’s group on the continent, you know, but he had a little bit of leave now and we convinced him to come along.”

Harry was embarrassed that he was surprised. He hadn’t realised that the Malfoys had fought on the ‘light’ side during the Grindelwald war. Then he was even more embarrassed when his instant suspicion was that the Malfoys might have followed the advice to participate on both sides of every conflict, and then erase all evidence of the poorer decision afterwards. Even if there were Malfoys fighting for Grindelwald (and he had no evidence that there were), Malfoys were individuals as much as any other family. They could have their own thoughts and opinions on what was the right thing to do.

“Not fighting,” protested Valerius with a self-mocking smile. “Protecting. That’s quite a different thing, I’m assured.”

They exchanged greetings and sat back down, Valerius taking possession of a kelp chair like a large cat claiming a sunny spot. Or perhaps more on theme, like a shark taking possession of anything at all.

“I was just telling Harry that he was very wise to finish his training,” said Malfoy. “You were just telling us, weren’t you, about the all the untrained boys who you have to look after?”

“I was indeed,” agreed Valerius. “Our recruits are supposed to be at least seventeen, but if one was of a cynical nature, one would naturally suspect some are some years short of that. One cannot help but suspect they acquired their wands with, well … let us just say, something short of official permission.”

Malfoy frowned at that. “Should sent them back home. War is no place for children playing games.”

Valerius shrugged, an unnaturally graceful movement Harry recognised from Draco. “All teenagers consider themselves to be adult enough to make decisions about important matters. It is almost impossible to convince them otherwise.”

Harry thought back to conversations very much like this, where Molly Weasley had tried to forbid them from participating in the fight against Voldemort because they were too young. At the time he had been irritated and dismissive – and with good reason, considering that Voldemort was hardly leaving him any choice in the matter. But Valerius was right. With the advantage of a century’s experience, Harry would probably pick mid-twenties as reasonable age to start appreciating the consequences of life-altering choices. Possibly early thirties. But when he’d been sixteen and seventeen, he’d considered himself plenty adult enough to make decisions about life and death, about having children and killing enemies, about staying home and going out to fight.

“And as much as it pains me,” continued Valerius, “we’re taking anyone we can get at this point.”

Harry didn’t quite know how to ask, but he had to understand the full scope of the unexpected calamity that was facing them. “Are any women—”

“Thank Merlin, no, it hasn’t come to that,” interrupted the elder Malfoy on Valerius’s behalf. “There have been all these terrible attacks on the muggles even here on our noble shores, of course, but we have not needed to call upon our women in defence of magic. You needn’t worry about your dear sister. Madame Wakefield will be keeping a close watch over her, I promise you. And Madame Wakefield is quite daunting. I would defy even Grindelwald himself to succeed against her if he was foolish enough to attempt to invade Knoll-amidst-the-Wold.”

“Madame Wakefield is very formidable,” agreed Harry.

“And we might find out sooner rather than later,” said Valerius, his tone joking but his eyes sharp.

“Oh, no, surely not. We don’t hear much about what is happening on the continent, but…” The elder Malfoy trailed off meaningfully.

“One doesn’t want to be accused of damaging morale, naturally,” said Valerius.

“We’re all family here,” said the elder Malfoy. “If there was ever a place to speak bluntly, surely it is in this company. We wouldn’t dream of repeating it to unfriendly ears.”

“Of course not,” said Harry obligingly.

“Then, in brutal, honest, truth?” asked Valerius. “We are hovering at a stalemate. On the reassuring side, Grindelwald is no longer winning. We can—and do—defend the innocent against his followers. But when the man himself takes to the field, we have no choice but to give way to him.”

“So we are waiting for him to realise that he cannot succeed?”

“Just the opposite. We are hoping that he does not realise how fragile his position is. We pray that his followers are lying to him about their own successes and are doing a very good job about it.”

“I don’t—”

“Because currently,” said Valerius, “he is still operating with some discretion and restraint. If he loses all hope, he is going to act out in ways that cannot be hidden from the muggles any longer. He is going to reveal the wizarding world and bring us all down with him. If he can’t have it, he will ensure that no-one else can either.”

A curious octopus snuck closer, and Harry resisted the urge to shoo it away from the food, seeing as it probably didn’t really exist at all. The conversation was a surreal experience for Harry. He knew the war would be over within a year. That certainty had been infecting his entire outlook, and he had subconsciously expected everyone else to feel the same way. He remembered that Dumbledore had eventually been forced to fight Grindelwald because of how desperate things had become, but he hadn’t made the connection to the realisation that people would be desperate.

Valerius must have realised that he had been a little too honest, and he smiled reassuringly. “But no need to worry about that. We have the best minds and the most powerful fighters on finding a way to neutralise Grindelwald permanently. And until then, we have plenty of energetic young boys that can hold the line and preserve the statute of secrecy.”

Harry had reached the limits of his ability to play innocent. Only a fool or a politician could continue to ignore the subtext, and Harry did not want to be seen as either.

“You have given me a lot to consider,” said Harry. “Can we stay in contact?”

“Naturally,” said Valerius. “I can’t accept owl letters on the battlefield, of course, but if you send to this address, it will get to me within a few days. I look forward to hearing from you.”

Valerius flicked a calling card towards him with the assistance of a little bit of wandless magic.

“Thank you,” said Harry, putting it carefully away.

Harry desperately needed to talk to Hermione and Draco. They all needed to know exactly what they were going to do and say, and they needed to say just that. This was an issue that could make or break their reputations forever. He excused himself and walked towards Hermione and Draco, his heart almost beating out of his chest. But any warning he could have given was already too late.

“Are the boys going to stay long enough to help with the harvest, Miss Greenhurst?” asked one of the bystanders.

Harry could see Hermione’s reaction retreat to bland politeness just a moment too late. By the expressions around them, everyone else noticed as well. The octopus from earlier had followed him, and was now making a fair effort to mimic the unnatural patterns of Madame Wakefield’s robes.

“It’ll be hard to watch them go off to fight, my dear,” said Madame Wakefield, patting her hand. “I know that better than anyone. It is harder on those of left behind than those who leave, isn’t that always the case? But you can assure them that you won’t be left unsupported here, not left unsupported by any means. We’ll make sure to take care of you, won’t we, Nelly?”

“We will indeed,” agreed the acquaintance from the village.

“But as you say,” said Hermione with a deep breath. “I cannot handle the harvest by myself. Food for children and families to eat might not be very glamorous but it is still an important part of the war effort.”

"Aye,” said yet another ancient Malfoy (and Harry really needed to set up some flashcards for them), “I do not wonder that the boys would mislike to leave you alone, not when you’re all each other have in the world, and all. It is quite natural that you be in the habit of mothering them. But you cannot tie the apron strings too tight. They will come to resent you for that, you know. Boys that age have desires that are going to seem quite odd to those of you of the fairer sex."

"Of course,” said Hermione from between her teeth. “I would never want to do that."

Harry managed to recall enough gossip about Nelly to divert the conversation into a question about her newly pregnant niece, and the moment passed. Most of the audience were tactful enough to avoid prodding again a potentially painful topic of conversation, but it was still a terrifying hour more until it was late enough for the three guests of honour to take their leave.

“I must simply congratulate you once again on passing your NEWTs and fully earning your wand rights,” said Madame Wakefield. “I look forward with eager anticipation to the adults you will be come, my dears.”

“Thank you,” said Harry weakly, as they escaped the artificial opulence of the café.

After they apparated, Harry took a moment to just breath, and not to cry. Why, oh why, had they decided to take their NEWTs still within the war? They could have made themselves one or two years younger when they arrived and avoided the whole matter. Surely it would have been safe enough for just Hermione to be an adult. Harry didn’t want to be an adult. Not when it came with expectations like these.

Chapter Text

Solar, Greenhurst Lands, Monday 10 July 1944

There was only one topic that could possibly be on their minds, and Draco voiced it as soon as they’d removed their cloaks and sat down in the very top chamber of their new hall. “You’ve virtually promised that we’ll be off fighting in Germany as soon as the crops are in.”

Draco’s tone was more wry than critical, but Hermione reacted as if she’d been attacked.

“What else could I say?” asked Hermione. “‘Sorry about your apocalypse, but I don’t think we’ll be very keen. We’ve already got one, you see.’? ‘We have a strict one-dark-Lord per decade policy, and we’ve already used up our quota.’? ‘The war with Grindelwald is the inevitable result of the more socially mobile muggleborns disaffecting the historically oppressed magical working poor, and winning the war will do little to nothing to solve the underlying class tensions.’?”

Harry almost wished she had. That would have been hilarious. And a bad idea, naturally. But hilarious all the same. Hermione lost her indignation and deflated into unhappiness, and Harry felt bad at how lightly he was taking it. He pulled himself more upright in his comfortable arm-chair. They had re-coloured the chairs white in deference to the already eclectic colour scheme of the room, but the gold embroidery gave away its origins as something Draco had brought, rather than the more practical furniture Hermione had packed.

“But I did imply…” Hermione trailed off. “Oh, what are we going to do? I am so sorry, I just couldn’t think of anything—”

“I implied things even more strongly to some other Malfoys, Hermione,” interrupted Harry. “Don’t blame yourself. I’m starting to think that we may have, just a little, in a small way, completely and utterly underestimated the social expectation that we would join in the war against Grindelwald.”

“They were just so confident that you’d be off to go fight,” said Hermione, sounding lost and confused. “They weren’t even asking if you would volunteer, they skipped straight into asking about the details.”

Harry raised a hand in a so-so gesture. “They aren’t really that confident. They were using it as part of a recruitment effort.”

“You think we were being recruited?” asked Draco, his own posture effortlessly perfect as he draped diagonally over his own chair.

“I’m pretty sure, yes,” said Harry. “I doubt that Valerius Malfoy usually spends his rare leave tagging along to celebrate a distant relation he’s never met before. And it seems too much of an extraordinary co-incidence that we met Dumbledore by accident.”

“Wait, you think Dumbledore was trying to recruit us?” asked Draco. “I thought he was just being insulting.”

Harry couldn’t blame Draco. Harry had thought so as well. But it was a well-known tactic to subtly insult someone at the beginning of a negotiation to put them into an inferior position. Dumbledore could have been insulting them as well as trying to recruit them.

“We did go a little off script,” Harry reminded Draco. “He was probably anticipating we’d be eager and flattered at the attention. When we weren’t, he decided to let it drop for the time being.”

“And Valerius Malfoy?” asked Hermione.

“He had a more delicate touch,” replied Harry, “but he was essentially saying the same thing. How, as decent people, we need to be out there, defending the poor innocent muggles from Grindelwald.” 

Harry briefly summarised the conversation he had had with Valerius.

“I don’t get it,” said Hermione. “They think you’re children. You two are only seventeen. Okay, almost eighteen. But still, children.”

“Generational gap,” offered Draco. “Death is still common, and families are still large. They don’t have the same protective philosophy about childhood. Not the muggles, and not the magical.”

“Well yes,” agreed Hermione. “But that wasn’t my point. I meant that they think you are children, so why would two different powerful men come in person to recruit you?”

Harry thought about that. Was he being unduly arrogant? His fame had severely warped his perception of normal, he knew. Not many seventeen-year-olds had the minister of magic gate-crashing their birthday, for instance. Would he have gone out of his way to recruit a pair of virtually unknown kids, even if they were rumoured to have a greater than average amount of magical power? Unlikely. Teenagers would be more of a nuisance than a help. Harry had felt strongly that they’d been deliberately targeted, but perhaps that was his experience was working against him.

“That’s a fair point,” said Harry. “Valerius did imply they’re suffering attrition, but still, you’re right. It does seem unreasonable for them to go to that much effort to pick up two extra untrained fighters.”

“No,” said Draco. “I think you were right. You’re thinking too short-term, Hermione. We won’t be much use in the war, but bonds formed in battle are strong. Strong enough to conceivably influence at least the first decade or so of our adult ambitions. The person who we serve under now would reasonably anticipate shaping our entire political careers. We’re young, rich, powerful, and apparently without any existing ties to any other influence. We are important enough for powerful men to try recruit us.”

They sat in silence, not even touching the tea a house-elf had popped in to provide. It was a last moment of denial. If they didn’t examine the truth, then they wouldn’t have to do anything about it. They could hang on to their naïve delusions for at least that moment more. The fireplace crackled and spat, sounding like the echo of some distant battle, and the full length curtains rustled in some unfelt breeze.

But none of them were the type to indulge for long, and Draco eventually said what they’d all been thinking. “We aren’t going to be able to avoid this, are we? We’ve already drawn too much attention to our existence. If we don’t volunteer—”

Harry finished for him, “— then people will notice, and we’ll get a reputation as cowards.”

“We can fake it,” said Hermione. “We would only have to keep it up for a year. We can fake a Wayfarer group in Eritrea or something for you to try to protect. If you stopped appearing in the village, no one will know any different.”

Wayfarers were the first unrecognised victims of the loss of magic. It was already too late to save them. The multitude of nomadic tribes had survived tens of thousands of years in the most dangerous wild spaces of the world, disdaining dark lords and light bureaucracy alike, but they had not survived technology. The magic became too weak to fuel their magical camps, the forests became too fragmented to hide them, and their prey too scarce to feed them. Grindelwald had vilified and targeted them, but he had just sped up their extinction. Their history and traditions disappeared, even when the people themselves survived. No-one could possibly say whether a small group had retreated to East Africa, and no one would be surprised if they were never heard from again.

It was tempting. It was very tempting. But…

“We can’t,” said Harry. “I can’t. I can’t go through life as a tourist. Dumbledore and Valerius might have been manipulative and maybe even self-serving, but they weren’t wrong. We want to keep the living lands alive, but if half my plan is to look the other way while their families are killed? I don’t like what that says about me as a person.”

“And just pragmatically,” said Draco, “I think that we need to be seen to be helping. We’ll need the social capital if we want to change opinions.”

“We can rely on our other plans,” said Hermione. “That isn’t worth risking your life.”

Draco looked at her, the indecision visible on his face. At last, he said, “Hermione, Dumbledore is going to start fighting personally soon. Ties forged in battle go both ways. If we join the Order of Phoenix, it could be the chance you’ve been looking for to gain his confidence.”

Before Harry could even process that extraordinary offer, Hermione reacted first.

“No,” she said strongly. “Dumbledore was a horrible commander. I will not risk either of you to him. Nothing would be worth it.”

“I agree,” said Harry. “We should not serve with Dumbledore. But I think maybe we should join Valerius Malfoy. He’ll look out for us, both during the war and after, when we try to introduce more pro-living land initiatives.”

Hermione frowned at him. “That won’t work either. Didn’t Valerius outright tell you that his group doesn’t accept women?”

Of course Hermione would expect they all join together. Harry should have expected that.

“Yes,” said Harry. “But I need you to stay here anyway so that you can help us cheat.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious of his real motives. “Cheat how?”

“You have an entire wall of histories in that secret library of yours,” reminded Harry. “We haven’t made any major changes yet. It will probably all be fairly accurate. We need you to take in the current reports, compare it against the written histories, and feed us information.”

Harry was briefly amused that he’d just labelled killing Voldemort as a minor change, but it was true. It was far too early to tell whether it would be enough to stop the future wars – had Voldemort caused them, or simply triggered them? – but the disappearance of Tom Riddle would have no effect whatsoever on the current one.

“I can do that from the battlefield,” said Hermione. “I don’t need to stay in the library. I can bring the library with me.”

“No,” agreed Draco, an unexpected support. “But you do need to stay here to use the mirror pool. Since the rededication, we have one of the finest mirror pools I’ve ever heard of, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

“I can place a charm on a paper plane from anywhere,” said Hermione. “Which is just as useful.”

“As useful as bird’s eye scrying,” said Draco. “But mirror pools can show anything the land’s people feel strongly about, regardless of time or place.”

Hermione looked at him in some disbelief. “We don’t have any people.”

Draco did not look offended at her tone. “Being considered a dependent of a living land doesn’t require any loyalty. It doesn’t even require them to have set foot on the land itself. It just requires them to be marked by Harry’s magic.”

“But Harry hasn’t…” Hermione trailed off as the realisation hit her. “The diamonds. No one would trust something with someone else’s magic in it, but we managed to sell them anyway because nobody here knows they do.”

“You were concerned that bad people were buying our diamonds?” asked Draco rhetorically. “Well, I really hope that they have.”

Harry wasn’t comfortable with spying like that on ethical grounds, and even more concerned about consequences to their reputation should it be discovered. But it wasn’t a spying charm. No one could ever say it had been intentional. It hadn’t been intentional. For the duration of the war, on their enemies? Ethics were a luxury they couldn’t indulge. If you weren’t cheating, you weren’t trying.

“Alright,” said Hermione, pulling up her legs to curl them beneath her. “If you really think I can do more to help you here, then I’ll stay behind. But in return the two of you must promise that you will take every precaution possible. I can’t do this alone. Remember that the whole future of the Wizarding World depends on you coming back alive and act accordingly.”

“I promise,” said Harry.

He was now one of the best trained people in the world. Someone with a century of experience and the reflexes of a teenager. He really didn’t think it was going to be hard to keep himself alive.

In a few months, they’d be off to war. Harry found himself looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

Captain Yarrow’s camp, Germany, Monday 25^thSeptember 1944

Harry and Draco let Hermione pack and re-pack their trunks without complaint as the muggle D-Day invasion happened, as first Harry then Draco’s birthdays passed, as autumn day passed, as the harvest finished ripening, as they finished gathering it. Finally, they had all run out of things they could conceivably complete or prepare. The three of them set off to the edge of the wards. With unspoken agreement, they took their time, appreciating the last of the autumn sun.

“Remember, you promised to stay safe,” said Hermione.

“We will,” Harry and Draco said patiently.

“And you!” said Hermione to Harry. “Keep a handle on your people-saving thing!”

“I will,” agreed Harry.

“And no showing off,” she continued. “Either of you. The last thing we want is for Grindelwald to notice you.”

“We won’t.”

“Keep an eye on each other,” she said.

“We will.”

“And remember to contact me regularly. All the information in the world isn’t going to help if you never hear about it.”

“We will.”

“Well,” said Hermione, with her hands on her hips. “Go fight the good fight, then.”

Harry gave her one final hug, and Draco surprised them all by following suit. With a final goodbye, they activated the portkey and arrived at the camp.

Harry had been impressed by the literature Valerius had provided them in advance. Well defined routines, expectations, and punishments. A clear history and overview of the most common tactics used by the enemy. Rules of engagement that clarified the mess of laws – the minimum force possible to temporarily subdue attacking muggles, but anything short of unforgivables in self-defence against attacking magicals.

But as they walked through the camp Harry suspected he had been conned. When Valerius had encouraged them to bring their own armour and supplies, Harry had assumed it was because they’d be able to afford something better than what the group was supplying. Now, it became apparent that the group didn’t supply anything. Some of the boys standing guard looked like they were wearing hand-me-downs from the rebellion of Urg the Unclean.

Valerius came to meet them and brought them to Captain Yarrow’s tent. When Harry stepped through, his breath was taken away by the juxtaposition to the cold and threadbare atmosphere outside. It wasn’t enough for Draco and Harry to remove their cloaks, they had to adjust the heating charms on their robes as well. The overheated space was domed marble, each wall elaborately carved and gilded in gold. The floor covered with bright detailed mosaics, partially obscured by deep pile rugs. They walked past a singing fountain and indoor garden just to reach the seating area.

Captain Yarrow was enthusiastic in a rather vapid way, and Harry and Draco nodded obediently to his hyperbole. Harry was relieved that Draco and Harry would be permitted to go home for all the turn of the season celebrations as practicing living landowners. But it didn’t take long for Harry to notice a less reassuring omission.

“Ah, sir, what kind of training—”

Yarrow waved that away. “No need for all that fuss and bother. The work for your NEWTs must put you leagues ahead. The men will be jolly glad to have you as soon as possible.”

Harry rather hoped not, or that would say terrifying things about the men’s own abilities. Defence against the Dark arts bore almost no relation to actual fights. But Harry was not in a position to complain, and he reminded himself that the Order of Phoenix would have been more amateur. Harry smiled and nodded, until he realised that Captain Yarrow intended to throw them in as the sole junior officers in charge of separate teams. Harry looked at Draco’s horrified, and perhaps terrified face, and spoke up to nip that idea in the bud.

“Draco will stay with me,” Harry contradicted flatly.

This was a volunteer organisation that had actively recruited him. They could indulge his whims.

“Oh, but surely not.” said Captain Yarrow. “One does realise that he’s… but under the circumstances..."

“Draco is my sworn vassal,” interrupted Harry. “I have a duty to protect him. I will not have him on the battlefield without my supervision.”

It was the first time Harry had ever claimed sovereignty over Draco so absolutely. He could feel the weight of Valerius’s—Lieutenant Malfoy’s, rather – gaze, and wondered if he’d be receiving a lecture on the proper treatment of his cousin in future. But the look of relief on Draco’s face hardened his resolve. Draco’s aversion to liability originated in the Second Voldemort war and cemented in the decades afterwards. A real teenager might have lacked the imagination to fear having the literal life and death of others in his hands, but Draco had a thorough appreciation.

“You mean to bring him along as your batman?” asked Captain Yarrow, looking like the thought physically pained him. “But his education, his upbringing! It wouldn’t be proper. It would be just terrible for morale, by-the-by. We couldn’t have the boys getting ideas, now could we? Even if his birth…”

Harry let Captain Yarrow trail off without doing anything to help him. He was completely uninterested in Captain Yarrow’s opinions on the finer points of class, education, and illegitimacy.

“If I might make a suggestion?” said Lieutenant Malfoy at last. “We can appoint Greenhurst Secondus as a subaltern and Greenhurst Primus’s assistant.”

Captain Yarrow’s expression cleared, and he agreed to that with relief. Lieutenant Malfoy rushed them through the rest of the courtesies, perhaps afraid of what else Harry might say. Perhaps afraid of what else Yarrow would say. He then left Harry and Draco outside the tent while he went to fetch someone. Even from the outside, the tent looked more like an Arabic bath than anything suitable for an army.

Draco leant over and asked, “So… what exactly is the difference between a batman and a subaltern assistant?”

Harry snorted. “Honestly, I suspect Lieutenant Malfoy just invented a new rank. I’ve certainly never heard of any organisation that had lieutenants, ensigns, and subalterns all in the same command structure. I think we’ll get to make it up as we go along. We can start as more-or-less the same responsibilities as a batman – part bodyguard, part personal assistant – and go from there.”

“If we’re just going to treat it as the same thing, then why did it make so much of a difference to the captain?” asked Draco.

Harry was tempted to shade the truth, but it wasn’t anything Draco wouldn’t be able to find out for himself from someone else. “A batman is a servant. A subaltern is an officer – a gentleman.”

“Wait, I’m still an officer?” asked Draco, looking as young as the age of his body. “I thought that was what we were trying to avoid. What if something happens and I’m expected to do something officer-ish?”

“If that happens,” said Harry, careful not to seem dismissive of Draco’s fears, “and I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t, you have options. Most likely, it will be apparent the team needs to continue with the existing orders. Otherwise, ask for opinions from the specialists and the sergeant and pick the best course from that. If all else fails, you can always lean on the sergeant to provide suggestions. Baby-sitting baby officers is part of his job.”

“We don’t quite phrase it that way, sir,” came a voice behind him.

Harry turned to see Lieutenant Malfoy and an older man in much cheaper robes.

“Ensign Greenhurst, Subaltern Greenhurst, may present Sergeant Fletcher of the Diricawl team?” said Lieutenant Malfoy. “Fletcher, Greenhurst Primus is the new leader of Diricawl, assisted by Greenhurst Secondus. Please attend to their needs.”

With that, Lieutenant Malfoy disappeared back into the tent, and Harry thought he looked somewhat guilty. Good, thought Harry. He should be.

Their first stop was to set up Harry and Draco’s much more modest three-bedroom tent on the end of the officer’s row. Then, instead of summoning the team to meet him, Harry asked to go and see their camp site. When they arrived, it was to the sight of a scraggly grid of tiny tents, and a ring of men sat around a fire. Harry was puzzled why they’d be outside at all – it wasn’t freezing, but it was hardly pleasant either. Then the penny dropped. The more elaborate the tent, the more magic it used to keep them expanded. The tiny tents the boys were living in were probably little better than muggle tents, and just as big.

Seargeant Fletcher called out the nine who made up the Diricawl team, and Harry shared the expected motivational sentiments while sizing them up. They looked to be in decent health, but impossibly young and earnest. They should be at home, trying to find romantic partners. They should not be out here, dealing with the consequences of other wizard’s egos.

Harry knew better than to make major changes when he had just arrived, but he could start making plans. Fletcher escorted them back, and Harry took the opportunity to ask some questions. Draco followed with concentrated attention.

“Why haven’t we built barracks and recreational halls?” Harry asked the most obvious question first. “It couldn’t possibly be too expensive if we’re doing the work ourselves.”

“Directive from the Johnnies at the top, sir,” said Fletcher with a shrug. “We’re ‘to create no impact that might alert the muggles, including, but not limited to, the construction of permanent buildings.’”

“They do know we can just remove them again when we leave,” said Harry in disbelief. “We can set things back to pristine conditions afterwards.”

“Ours not to reason why,” replied Fletcher, rather macabrely.

Harry frowned. It probably wasn’t worth fighting, but the weather was only going to get colder. Even if they literally used muggle tents, there was no excuse for forcing the men to socialise outside. He’d be writing a list of things to search for in Hermione’s warehouse of provisions the next time they were home.

“How is the team doing with armour and wands?” Harry asked. “Is there any system in place for that kind of thing?”

“If you’d be up to casting protective and temperature charms for the boys, sir,” said Fletcher. “That would help plenty. Public donations are passed out by seniority, but you hear about some officers in other camps who want all their boys dressed up special in their own personal uniforms.”

That seemed a little too narcissistic for Harry’s tastes, but he still wanted to do something. “And how is the food supply?”

“Not half-bad, sir,” said Fletcher. “Don’t let the boys convince you otherwise. They’re just whinging to entertain themselves. They’re eating more and better food out here than they would back home, I can tell you. If you have a little extra, better save it for the other officers. If you go and host some decent suppers, and we might even get a decent schedule of patrols for a change.”

Oh goody. He’d have to bribe his ‘fellow officers’ into doing the right thing. Harry was abruptly glad he’d indulged Hermione by allowing her to pack excessive amounts of provisions.

“And here we are, sir,” said Fletcher as they returned to Harry and Draco’s tent. “I’ll send a boy to wake you up for breakfast first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Harry, glad for the privacy.

At least Fletcher seemed like someone Harry could work with. The whole thing was shaping up to be less auror-training and more tea-room intrigue, but Harry could adapt. It wasn’t the first time the job description had only a passing resemblance to the actual job. Besides, he wasn’t there to win the war. He was just there to keep as many people alive as possible. He could this.

Chapter Text

Germany, Tuesday 30^th October 1944

Harry was holding off on making any major changes, but the Diricawl team was already starting to come together and trust each other. They weren’t fighting anything that Harry would have described as a battle, but they had many encounters Harry was familiar with from fleeing criminals. Grindelwald supporters were interested in doing the most damage with the least effort, withdrawing as soon as they were opposed. But that didn’t make them harmless, and Harry was immensely proud at how quickly his team was improving with some small suggestions and the provision of a few tricks and pre-charmed items.

In last hours before Harry and Draco could go home, Diricawl was sent out again. An informant had encountered wards in what was supposed to be a grouping of muggle farm buildings in a wooded area, and Captain Yarrow had decided to investigate. The other ensigns raced their teams to be the first to burst through the entrance. Harry left them to it.

Instead, Harry used the magically enhanced hand-signs they’d developed to alert his disillusioned team to go around to the back. If it was a base, then it would have a second exit, even if the wizards had to create one for themselves. And sure enough, the back was some sort of service entrance. The cobblestone road led right up past an oversized water trough to full-height double doors. Harry had his team settle into place. Any noise they might have made was thankfully easily covered by the noise of the trough filling and spilling over.

Before they could do anything further, the huge doors slammed open. The Grindelwald supporters, properly uniformed and equipped, proceeded out of the building quickly but with discipline. And in number. In a much greater number than the worst-case assumptions they’d made. A number that could do serious damage to the whole company if they’d chosen to take offence instead of evacuating. A number that could run over Harry’s little team without even noticing them, like a rampaging Ukrainian Ironbelly suffering from conjunctivitis.

Harry signalled to limit the team to invisible tracking charms and held his breath, hoping against hope that they all had sufficient control to obey. The group was just about made it into the woods without having detected them, and Harry could breathe again.

Then a lone figure in normal, if expensive, robes came running out the door, throwing spells.

Harry closed his eyes in disbelief. He might not be able to see the dark wizards would be moving into place to safeguard their retreat, but he knew they were there. Not because that was what the tracking charms were telling him, or because this incident had been important for Hermione to warn them about. He knew because that’s what Harry would have done himself, and nothing about this group suggested they were anything less than professional.

Harry watched as the idiot pelted after a group of dangerous killers, all alone. Surely, he would regain his senses any second. Surely, the rest of his team would notice his absence and retrieve him. Surely, Harry wouldn’t have to intervene.

Harry sighed.

Harry signalled his team to stay in place while he started running. By the time he reached the water trough at the entrance, he had completed the complex spell chain to create two water gryphons out of the flowing water. Any expert would consider transfigured animals to be little more than a crowd-pleasing trick – especially animals transfigured from soft materials. They were flashy and magic intensive, but very close to useless. In other words, the exact thing likely to appeal to a young man with more power than sense. Someone that was no serious threat to anyone of consequence.

His work was instantly justified. The griffins rippled and reformed as they were splashed with spell-fire from the nearby trees. The boy went down from an unseen spell. Harry released the griffins to go hunt. They took to the air, the ice crystals shedding from their wings sting him and shredding his disillusionment. For an instant, the griffins seemed to pause in the air, their beaks opened in silent screeches. Then they descended, wings and claws outstretched, threading their way through the branches. Harry dodged under a spell, not even bothering to cast a shield, and moved towards where he’d last seen the boy.

Harry placed a shield over them both and started first aid.

It was an odd situation where Harry was forced to pray that the enemy maintained their discipline, but he was rewarded. A series of loud pops indicated the wizards had reached the edge of the wards and disapparated. The noise from the trees lasted a little longer, but that slowly went silent as well. Harry let the shield fall, and the rest of Diricawl joined him.

In the aftermath, Harry handed over the tracking charm anchors, assured himself the idiot would live, and left for Greenhurst. And almost the very moment they entered the hall, Draco ratted him out to Hermione.

“It’s a lost cause, Hermione,” said Draco, as he started decorating his Winter’s Day mask. “Just today, he was throwing himself into danger and heroically saving people.”

“He’s exaggerating,” said Harry. “It wasn’t that dangerous.”

“Opinions may differ,” said Draco. “Some idiot decided to attack two score of dark wizards all by himself, and Harry decides he simply has to save him from the consequences of his own actions. By himself, with only a couple of conjured griffins to provide a distraction.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry. “I knew I’d be fine. The enemy was leaving, not attacking us. And come on, you can’t blame me for saving someone’s life.”

“I definitely can,” said Hermione. “I know the Potter luck. One of the dark wizards will have a crippling childhood phobia of griffins and will spend the next decade delving into forgotten forbidden magics to take his revenge against you. Or the boy you saved will be the magical Russian prince, fighting the war incognito, and you just foiled the assassination attempt by his long-lost twin brother. Or—”

“—or no-one is going to notice or remember anything in particular,” interrupted Harry. “And how is the living lands legislation going?”

The first piece of the major anti-living lands was coming up, amounting to an effective ban on creating new ones. Last they spoke, Hermione had been tentatively confident that she had nudged things in the right direction.

“Oh!” exclaimed Hermione, too indignant to care that she was being so blatantly redirected. “That’s so irritating. I could throttle Grindelwald.”

“Ah,” said Harry. “Not that I don’t agree with the sentiment, but…”

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione with a wave. “I mean, obviously I want the war to end as well. But he just timed things so badly for us. The debate was going nowhere until the Grenich attack happened. I don’t know if you heard – Grindelwald took the loyalty of their living land from beneath the very feet of the former owners. The previous lord was killed and the rest of the family evicted. That changed the minds of the fence-sitters. I didn’t see it coming at all. This didn’t happen last time. Do you think our claiming of Greenhurst changed things for the lands?”

“How is that spelt?” asked Harry.

“Bizarrely,” said Hermione, “As it is pronounced. G-r-e-n-i-c-h. Why?”

“Because that death did happen the first time around,” replied Harry. “It just wasn’t attributed to the war. It was marked as an unsolved mystery for a half-century until magical forensics was eventually used to solve it. It’s a classic textbook example.”

“What did happen?” asked Draco.

“The lord’s brother and his wife were having an affair, and the lord only found out when he was teaching his ‘daughter’ to brew a hereditary potion. Things went downhill from there. It wasn’t an interesting crime, just an interesting investigation. The brother and the wife were willing to lie themselves magicless to protect each other, but they only got away with it because no-one cared. Everyone had more important things to worry about, and they were the only adults close enough to the deceased lord to protest.”

“Do you think that Dumbledore knows it wasn’t the land at fault?” asked Hermione.

Harry was willing to bet that the same thought passed through all of their minds. That Dumbledore had actively encouraged the new form of the couple’s lies when his new legislation had encountered unexpected resistance.

“I don’t think it would matter to him,” said Harry instead. “Not if it meant achieving what he thinks is such an important goal.”

There was another awkward silence, before Hermione shook herself. “So about you throwing yourself into danger—”

“I had a full team backing me up,” interrupted Harry. “They’re very skilled, all things considered. And they’re only getting better. Do you think we can extract the NEWT revision illusions we created into portable training modules from them?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Hermione, frowning in thought.

“Also,” said Harry, “I’d like to donate a bunch of large portable rooms for the boys to use for recreation. It’s miserable, Hermione. They’re stuck outside in the cold every time they leave their tents, and we can’t even use some of the tents we do have, because it’s considered a safety risk for them to have used their magic if we get attacked. Do you remember that range of magical tents that could be used even in dead-magic areas? Could we make something similar?”

“Sorry,” said Hermione. “No. Those actually were just muggle tents, and they faked the magic aspects. It will be a while before the muggles develop the materials again.”

“But they did all sorts of things,” protested Harry. “They were lightweight, durable, insulated, sound-proof. And they almost pitched themselves! How…”

Harry trailed off when he realised he was beginning to sound a bit bigoted.

“… about we replicate it with magic for real?” Harry said instead, to cover up his faux pas. “If it’s a muggle thing, then that means it’s a type of plastic, right? And that’s basically just carbon? And the diamonds we make are basically just carbon.”

“Pretty much everything is basically just carbon, when you come down to it,” said Hermione, repressively. “I mean, maybe we could do something? But also maybe not. You want something you can take back with you tomorrow. I’m sure we can find something more conventional in our stores that will work.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” said Harry.

“Harry…” she started again, and this time Harry resigned himself to letting her. “Just… Please be careful. I worry about you. I hate sitting here completely secure while you’re getting yourself into danger. I know you said I’d be helping you stay safe, but I just don’t see it. I don’t have enough to go on to really get much information, and there’s only so much you can even do with it when I do.”

“That isn’t true,” said Draco, “you’re one of the finest data analysts I’ve ever met. In fact, how do you feel about becoming a genuine spymaster? Expand the scrying to find people we can convert, and feeding that information back to Captain Yarrow in person? Incognito, of course.”

Hermione looked thrilled at the idea. Harry was less so.

“Would we be able to hide my identify from Captain Yarrow?” asked Hermione.

“I think Captain Yarrow would fall for anything,” said Harry dryly. “As long as you refuse to meet with Lieutenant Malfoy, you’ll be just fine.”

Draco and Hermione indulged in plotting as they finished their costumes. Harry wasn’t comfortable with the idea of Hermione going into danger without him, but he was aware enough of his own hypocrisy not to say anything. At the very least, it did seem to have done the trick in diverting Hermione away from lecturing him any further.

By nightfall they were dressed and ready to go. In the future, Voldemort had destroyed the celebration by using the hooded cloaks and painted masks as inspiration for deatheater costumes. Now, back in the past, Harry was determined to reclaim both the festival and the symbolism. The three leaned heavily into folk aesthetics that had little in common with the overdramatic starkness of the petulant dark lord. Their cloaks were deep orange rising to flame tipped deep hoods. Their skull masks were additionally decorated with yellow, orange, and red leaves. Their gloves, charmed to reveal their underlying bones, were laced with fairy lights that seemed to dance above their skeletons.

This was death. The day to mourn those who and that which was lost, and all that would never come into existence. The day to remember the good that was no longer with them, so it could be kept alive in their hearts and their magic.

This was death. The day to set aside bad ideas, to free oneself from the things that had gone wrong in the previous year, and to let go of regrets. The day to clear the old away, so that new could grow healthier and stronger in its place.

This was death. And Harry was glad to be able to share it with his family.

Chapter Text

Captain Yarrow’s camp, Germany, Monday 25^th December 1944

Harry had been expecting Christmas to be grim. The weather was miserably cold, the food was limited in both quantity and variety, and most of the camp was stuck alone far from their families. Harry might know that this would be the last Christmas of the war, but the other wizards didn’t. Out there, not even that far away, tens of thousands of British, American, and German muggles were dying in the Battle of the Bulge. This would be the last major offensive by the Germans before they were forced to start retreating. The last time Grindelwald could still delude himself that he could succeed without extreme measures. The camp should be terrified and miserable.

But they weren’t.

It was approaching Christmas lunch, and Harry watched the new recreational area from a distance. At the head was the new training / reading room, constantly being added to with new modules sent by Hermione and even others being crafted by the men themselves. Down one of the long sides was the rehoused canteen. Down the other was the enlisted club, complete with darts, cards, music, and illicit alcohol. The whole rectangle was decorated with home-made Christmas decorations and lights, from whatever materials the boys had to hand. The result was inventive and quite charming. A group of boys spill out in a raucous mass, and Harry withdrew before he could be spotted. His presence would not be welcome.

He headed instead to the officer’s club. Draco had been entirely correct that providing one made it possible for the enlisted spaces to pass with objection. The house-elves he had asked to staff it had been dismissive of any danger they might be in. Harry made his way through the tables, stopping to greet and exchange well-wishes as he did. Just short of his destination, he was stopped by a certain idiot of an ensign.

“Merry Christmas!” said Asher Doge, presenting him with a rather sad looking banana with both hands.

“Thank you,” said Harry, taking the fruit automatically. “Merry Christmas to you as well.”

Doge darted away before Harry even had time to feel awkward about not having anything to give in return. Harry slipped into the chair next to Draco and put the banana down carefully on the table.

“What was that about?” asked Draco.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Harry. “Christmas present? I didn’t think we were doing Christmas presents.”

“You did save his life,” reminded Draco. “I think that probably overrides standard conventions.”

“That was weeks ago,” said Harry. “He hasn’t done anything before this. He didn’t even say thank you.”

Draco shrugged. “Perhaps he was waiting until he could find something suitably impressive to give you? He probably just received that as a Christmas present himself.”

They stared at the banana lying innocently on the table.

“So, are you going to eat it?” asked Draco eventually.

Harry poked at it and let it roll over. “I… I mean, I probably should, shouldn’t I? They’re stupidly rare. It was a very kind gesture for Doge to give it to me.”

“But?” asked Draco.

“But,” said Harry, lowering his voice to make sure he wasn’t overheard, “I don’t like bananas. They have this weird texture. They make my mouth and tongue feel all slimy.”

“That is a whole piece of Harry Potter trivia I had not encountered before,” said Draco with a smirk.

Harry sighed. “I eat them when necessary. Even when I was a kid, it was made perfectly clear how weird it was to avoid them. But maybe I’ve been spoiled by the shortages? Just the thought of eating it now is making me feel queasy.”

Draco was battling not to laugh. Harry could tell. Harry picked up the banana and held it out towards Draco.

“Do you want it?” Harry asked.

“And crush poor Doge’s heart?” said Draco. “I think not.”

Harry sighed and put it away in his bag of holding. He’d figure out what to do with it later.

After lunch, Harry’s team was on duty in the new portable guard tower. Sergeant Fletcher had been excused to go home, but Harry was unconcerned. Harry had been willing to take the duty in exchange for more practical benefits. He was confident he could do the duty entirely alone if needed, but fortunately a few of the more conscientious men had even stayed sober for it.

“What in Merlin’s name is Ensign Doge doing?” asked the eldest.

Harry casually walked over to see. Doge’s head was occasionally visible over some scrubby bushes, just outside the camp perimeter.

“He looks like he’s on a pogo stick.”

“You think he has the runs?”

“Maybe some-one pranked him.”

“I think he might be trying to be sneaky. Think he’s found some girl outside?”

“Leave him be,” said Harry, although he was curious himself. “We have our own work to do.”

“Yessir.”

The men dutifully started scanning the horizon or the alert-mirrors, but more than one kept shifting their gaze to keep track of Doge.

“Okay, okay,” erupted one, pushed past control. “Why has he put a mask on?”

“He almost looks like he’s one of Grindelwald’s followers, if you squint,” said another with due consideration.

“You don’t think he’s trying to sneak into a Grindelwald base, do you?”

“I dunno, but I do know he’s going to get himself killed, looking like that.”

“Wait here,” said Harry with a sigh. “I’ll go check on him.”

Harry climbed down from the tower before remembering his training. It was almost one-hundred percent certain that it was something completely harmless and stupid. But proper procedure existed because everyone always thought they were completely safe and there was nothing to worry about. Harry wouldn’t be helping to make the war more professional by being dismissive himself. Harry sent a Patronus message to Lieutenant Malfoy to inform him what was happening and what Harry intended to do about it. Only then did Harry approach the bushes that had suddenly stopped rustling.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting, precisely, but a dark hex coming his way wasn’t it. Harry ducked and threw up a small shield, while simultaneously firing around it. Without knowing the circumstances, Harry didn’t want to jump to a powerful response, and run the risk of hurting Doge. Instead, Harry cleared the area of bushes while concentrating on defence.

His caution seemed to embolden Doge, who cast increasingly uncontrolled curses. Doge was now fully exposed, dressed in a bad imitation of a Grindelwald supporter. Harry was resigned to waiting out Doge. He wouldn’t be able to hold that pace for long.

Then Harry heard running footsteps coming from behind him. Harry kept his attention to the front, but and whoever it was startled Doge back into common sense. Doge started to rummage around in his clothing, and Harry almost instinctively cast a tether charm to keep him from using a portkey. Within a minute, Lieutenant Malfoy arrived next to him, and Harry used the distraction to safely stun Doge.

With unspoken agreement, they disillusioned Doge’s body. Lieutenant Malfoy then took him back to his tent without alerting the rest of the camp – other than the entire Diricawl team, of course, who had been watching everything play out with fascination.

On his return to the tower, Harry said firmly, “Don’t speak about this. Lieutenant Malfoy will be investigating and will tell everyone anything they need to know.”

“Yessir,” said the team.

Harry had absolutely no confidence they would obey him but making even more of a fuss would be counterproductive. Harry completed the rest of the guard duty without any impression of urgency, hoping to make the entire event seem less interesting. Harry and Draco maintained their apparent indifference as they casually strolled over to Lieutenant Malfoy’s tent. Doge was still unconscious, although his mask and cloak had been removed.

“I waited,” explained Lieutenant. “I thought you rather deserved to witness this.”

Lieutenant Malfoy positioned Doge on a comfortable chair and behind a one-way screen from Harry and Draco. Then he woke him up slowly.

“Ensign Doge,” said Lieutenant Malfoy, softly and sympathetically. “How are you feeling?”

“I can explain!” said Doge.

“I’m afraid that I think you’re going to need to,” said Lieutenant Malfoy. “Do you want to talk me through what happened? Because I have to say it looks rather bad. It will really help me to help you if I know all the facts.”

Harry approved of Lieutenant Malfoy’s interrogation style. Sometimes being aggressive could work but being an understanding confidante was more likely to be successful.

“I had to protect everyone else from him, you see,” said Doge. “I knew that no-one would believe me, so it was all down to me.”

“Who is ‘him’, Ensign?”

“Greenhurst Primus,” spit out Doge. “He’s a secret Grindelwald supporter.”

“That sounds very concerning,” said Lieutenant Malfoy. “How did you discover that?

“It’s the only explanation for what happened at that base. He was out back of the base with all the people we were there to defeat, and he didn’t do anything to stop them.”

“It would have been ten against fifty,” said Lieutenant Malfoy. “You don’t think it was reasonable to hold back?”

“What kind of real fighter doesn’t attack because it would be too dangerous? And not only that, he stopped me when I was doing the right thing and attacking them myself. And then pretending he was saving my life! I didn’t need saving.”

Lieutenant Malfoy gently but thoroughly questioned all Doge’s evidence, but that seemed to be the whole of it.

“May I ask,” said Lieutenant Malfoy. “If you thought he was a dangerous dark wizard, how did you intend to defeat him?”

Harry was curious about that as well. No matter how little self-awareness Doge had, he shouldn’t have been that indifferent to the power difference between them.

“He was supposed to be magicless!” said Doge. “I injected enough suppressor into that banana to put down a dragon! Instead… instead…”

And that was when Asher Doge burst into tears.

“How about I fetch us a cup of tea,” said Lieutenant Malfoy with a pat to Doge’s hand before fleeing.

The three convened past the shield with a sound-proof charm activated.

“A banana?” asked Lieutenant Malfoy.

“Whoops?” offered Harry, pulling the banana from his bag and handing it over.

Draco broke into hysterical laughter. It shouldn’t have been funny. It wasn’t funny. Doge had been trying to kill Harry. Trying to kill him with a banana. Harry could feel himself hiccough, and then it was over for him as well. They were both howling in uncontrollable mirth. The sweet assassination. The laced banana attack. The case of the deadly fruit.

“Perhaps he was hoping,” said Draco, between gasps of breath, “hoping that you’d slip, on the peel, and then, and then hit your head?”

That naturally set Harry off again.

“Boys,” reprimanded Lieutenant Malfoy, but his lips were twitching as well. “You’re taking this very lightly.”

“He’s just a boy with hurt feelings,” said Harry. “I doubt he would have really gone through with it, even if I had eaten the banana.”

“But he still did attack you. What do you think is appropriate to do with him?” Lieutenant Malfoy asked.

“I’m inclined to let it go,” said Harry. “Send him home, and advise he consult with some mind healers.”

“I hate to agree,” said Lieutenant Malfoy with a sigh, “but it would be bad for moral to get law enforcement involved, and a logistical nightmare besides. I do want to find out if anyone else knew about his ‘plan’. His possession of magic suppressor does concern me. But if it is just him being foolish, then best we keep things as quiet as possible.”

Lieutenant Malfoy returned with the promised tea and continued the questioning. After a mild question about who else Doge had spoken to, Doge suddenly slumped over. Harry and Lieutenant Malfoy jumped forward with diagnostic spells while Draco summoned the camp medi-wizard. All traces of their previous humour were entirely gone. Twenty minutes later, a grim-faced Lieutenant Malfoy returned from the infirmary.

“We couldn’t save him,” said Lieutenant Malfoy. “As far as we can tell, he died from breaking an oath.”

They all knew what that meant. This wasn’t the delusions of a petulant boy. This was an assassination attempt. An assassination attempt by someone who was ruthless to manipulate the ego of a child and then left him to die. Harry had screwed up somewhere and made himself noticeable enough to be a target. Doge’s death was down to him. And that’s when Harry realised it would get even worse – because they would have to inform Hermione. This was exactly the type of thing she was spending so much time trying to detect, and this was going to hurt her very badly.

This had been a very miserable Christmas after all.

Chapter Text

Greenhurst tent, Captain Yarrow’s camp, Germany, Friday 29^th December 1944

It was an unpleasant few days for them all, with terrible auror-craft. The investigation had started with the conclusion and worked backwards to construct the proper narrative. Doge had cracked under the pressure of the war and tried to trick his teammates into killing him. When that didn’t work, he had killed himself. Harry didn’t protest, because he was aware it was technically true – dying from violating an oath was legally classed as suicide, with very little regard for the circumstances.

With black humour, Harry thought that Hermione and Draco had been right. Harry had been thoroughly punished for his saving-people-thing. Draco was kind enough not to suggest anything like that and Harry was grateful for his restraint. Still, in his heart, Harry did not regret it. Saving Asher Doge had been the right thing to do. Harry had control of his own actions. Only Doge had control of his response. He was young and manipulated and lied to, but he wasn’t under an Imperius curse. Doge could have – Doge should have – just reported Harry like any sane person would have.

Harry collapsed into the chair of their little sitting room, letting the warmth of the crackling fire sooth him.  The familiar furniture was a comfort. Harry just sat for a while, enjoying some tea and ginger snap biscuits. It took a while for him to notice that Draco’s expression was unusually tense, even for the situation.

Harry considered letting it go but decided to be the better person. “What is it?”

Draco pulled out a vial. “Hermione sent a pensieve memory for us. She said to contact her after we’d seen it.”

Harry hadn’t expected an answer so quickly, even knowing how Hermione was. Harry should have been eager to discover the truth, so his reluctance puzzled him.

“No other message?” asked Harry.

Draco wordlessly shook his head.

As tempting as procrastinating was, it wasn’t going to help. Draco and Harry solemnly took the memory to their large pensieve. Harry took a moment before starting just to appreciate the sight of their Heart. He ran an insubstantial hand over the black altar and pressed it against the bark of the golden tree. He missed being home. Finally, Harry turned to the mirror pond and let it start.

The vision flickered to a view of a private room in a pub or a hotel, every detail finely drawn. Harry wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with scrying, but the mirror pool brought the whole experience to another level. It was many-fold larger than even the largest tool the ministry had. The surface showed details in crystal-sharp clarity. The depth of the water gave the visions weight and substance. It was, without question, better than being there in person.

The exposed wooden beams and columns should have felt the same as the ones in their own local pub -- solid and reassuring. Instead, Harry wanted to put his back to the wall to guard against their heavy threat. The bare stone floor looked infested with mould, and the wooden surfaces were layered in centuries of unidentifiable spilled substances. Rain beat against a thick glass window, and a shutter banged in the wind. The figures became more solid as the memory progressed. One was seated, gripping a mug hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. The other was looming over him. This time it took less time for Harry to recognise the standing figure.

Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore.

Harry paused the memory to gain control of his emotions. Some part of him wanted to believe that Dumbledore was just present because he had found out about the assassination attempt, or because he had been trying to stop it. That they had to see the vision from Dumbledore’s point of view because he was the person carrying the little phoenix carved diamond, not because Dumbledore himself played any part in it. Harry’s common sense disagreed.

Draco walked over and pulled him into an awkward sideways hug. Harry let him.

“You’re not surprised,” said Harry, glad he couldn’t make eye contact.

“No,” agreed Draco, “Families don’t always think alike, but I did wonder if Asher Doge was influenced by his older cousin.”

“Elphias Doge,” realised Harry. “The most rabid supporter Dumbledore ever had.”

Was that why Harry had been so hesitant to find out the truth? Because some part of him already knew? But as much as some part did not want to know, more of him needed to know. He had to have it confirmed beyond any conceivable doubt. After a long moment, Harry restarted the memory.

“I do not appreciate being summoned in this manner,” said Albus Dumbledore to the other man.

“I have no other way to talk to you about the Dumbledore land, thanks to those stupid vows you forced on me,” replied the man.

“You agreed to them,” said Dumbledore, staring down over the top of his glasses.

The gesture was so familiar that even after the gulf of a century, Harry still felt like a poorly performing student. He hated Dumbledore for causing that emotional reaction and hated himself for feeling it.

“I was only a child when I agreed,” said the man who Harry assumed was Aberforth. “I did not understand that I was agreeing to having permanent, binding, silencing vows placed on me. I certainly had no idea you would take advantage of them time and time again.”

Harry hissed between his teeth. Permanent binding charms would only dissipate at the death of the caster – or the death of the victim. If that was what had been done to Asher Doge, then the boy had never had a chance.

“I had to do what is in the best interests of the family,” said Albus. “You were, as you say, a child, and prone to speaking without thinking. A trait I have yet to see an improvement in.”

Aberforth partially stood up, before sitting back in frustration. “I need to be able to speak. You can’t just carry on pretending everything is going to be alright, Albus. Not with those newcomers living on our land. It was bad enough when it was just that girl, but I’ve heard the news from the battlefield, same as you. It’s no squib line or impoverished exiled family they come from. They’re descended from the powerful pureblood lines and have real resources behind them. They are going to find something out any day and have the power to do something about it. We need to get ahead of the information they might reveal.”

Harry felt light-headed. Aberforth had signed their death warrants so casually. Surely, he could not have been so innocent not to realise how Dumbledore would take it?

But then again, given how long Harry had held onto his own delusions, who was Harry to judge?

“You need to remove the vows,” continued Aberforth. “I need to be able to do damage control at the very least. We might have been children when it all started, but that doesn’t mean I won’t get thrown me into Azkaban if I do nothing to defend myself. I have no intention of following in Father’s footsteps."

Dumbledore sighed, acting like he was dealing with a particularly irrational firstie. “There is no need to be so precipitous. The problem may well take care of itself. We are at war, after all, and there’s no saying who will live through it.”

Aberforth let the mug slide from his hand to hit against the table. “Albus. They’re just children. You don’t need to go that far. If you just admit—”

Dumbledore allowed his magic to crackle into audibility around him. The window rattled even more violently. From a corner, water started to trickle in.

"Aberforth,” said Dumbledore. “Why must you always do this? It is as if you are determined to paint me as a villain. Can’t you see that I am just trying to make the world a better place for all of us?”

“You have a limited definition of ‘us’ there, don’t you think?” asked Aberforth. “Not when it doesn’t include those children.”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good,” said Dumbledore. “Those poor children have been corrupted by the land. And as you say, they show obvious traces of pureblood ancestry. I shudder to think what kind of other secrets they might be hiding.”

Harry laughed aloud at that, quietly and painfully. Dumbledore wasn’t wrong there. The three of them did have other secrets that would greatly alarm Dumbledore.

He paused the memory again and closed his eyes. Harry thought of a saying – ‘no man considers himself the villain of his own story’. Perhaps Dumbledore was a true believer. A fanatic who felt so responsible for protecting the wizarding world that he did not realise his own arrogance. Or perhaps Dumbledore had been lying to himself so thoroughly he might have even convinced himself. Or perhaps, at the end of the day, Dumbledore’s motives did not matter. Not when his actions were evil.

Dumbledore was not a great man, and he never had been. Everything that Harry had done in faith to that man had been in service to a lie. All Harry’s sacrifices and pain as a child had been entirely pointless. He had been the dancing marionette on the strings of another selfish bastard. Harry had not been a brave hero, fighting for what was right. He’d been a fool and a sucker.

Harry would have to accept that and move on.

Draco’s arm was a grounding weight across his shoulders and Harry took what comfort he could. He compulsively restarted the memory. It was nothing but pain now, but Harry couldn’t resist pressing at it, like nudging a sore tooth that was keeping one awake.

"You really are a piece of work, Albus,” said Aberforth. “You preach the eternal value of redemption, but you really mean people should forgive you anything. People you deem to be dangerous or dark are a permanent threat no matter what they do – or do not do.”

“I do believe in redemption,” chided Dumbledore. “But I have sadly come to learn that there are some who refuse to seek it. Children come to Hogwarts already broken inside. They will grow up to be broken adults unless they are strictly monitored and carefully guided. When they wilfully escape that guidance, then it becomes the responsibility of all good men to protect the innocent.”

It was a macabre thought experiment – if Draco and Harry had joined Dumbledore’s group to fight, would they have been kept safe, because Dumbledore would have considered them securely under his control and ‘guidance’? Or would they be dead already because of precisely that same control and guidance?

“Now,” said Dumbledore. “I’m afraid I can’t spare any more time on such insignificant matters. I trust that you will remember your duty, and leave worrying about such things to me.”

 Dumbledore swept up the mug and exited the room, not noticing – or perhaps simply not caring about – the steadily growing pool of water threatening the legs of the furniture. The great Albus Dumbledore did not need to explain or justify himself to his inferiors. And he considered himself superior to everyone. The vision dissolved and the pool returned to mirroring the mid-winter sky.

Harry pulled himself out of the pensieve and went back into his seat. He fumbled with a blanket to ward off his chills. But the blanket, the fire, a hot chocolate, and the presence of Draco was not enough to warm him. Harry needed just a little time to mourn his childhood self.

Chapter Text

Greenhurst tent, Captain Yarrow’s camp, Germany, Friday 29th December 1944

Harry felt disconnected. He fingertips tingled with phantom pins and needles, and his head and heart were filled with clouds that concealed his emotions. It would pass, eventually, he knew. But then, for a while, it would be worse. He would rather discuss their plans while he was still feeling like this. They’d be making some decisions he did not want to make, after all.

They contacted Hermione through the full-length two-way mirror, and she responded instantly. Her eyes were red, but her expression was furious.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked Hermione.

“I’ll—yes,” said Hermione. “But oh Merlin, Harry, don’t worry about me. I mean, the most you could say about me is that I suffered a little hero-worship. But you – he acted like he thought of you as his grandson. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

That was a question Harry had no intention of answering honestly. Or at least, not with the full truth.

“He was a man who saved me and defined me,” said Harry, carefully. “A man who I was willing to die for. A man I named a child after. And now that I’ve learned that he’s just a dark wizard with unusually good PR, do you know what my strongest reaction is?”

“What?” asked Hermione

“That makes so much sense,” said Harry with a painful smile.

That startled a laugh out of both Hermione and Draco.

“You’re right,” said Hermione. “We should have been more suspicious. Draco, I’m sorry for what I said to you before. You were right all along after all.”

Draco shrugged. “Not really. I was equally as convinced he was honestly working for the Light. I just didn’t think that was a good thing. I wasn’t any more immune to his legend than anyone else. Honestly, I resented that I wasn’t one of the golden children he claimed to care for so much. I didn’t suspect he didn’t care.”

Harry thought that was a generous thing for Draco to say, and kind of him not to take satisfaction in Harry and Hermione’s disillusionment.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Hermione, the question Harry had been dreading. “If he wants to kill us, then this won’t be the last time he tries.”

Harry snorted. “If this is the level he’s working at, he isn’t much of a threat. I’m in more danger from one of Grindelwald’s random minions. Or a stray curse from my own side.”

“I agree that Doge isn’t much of a fighter,” said Draco, “and a bit of an idiot besides. But he might have succeeded if you’d eaten the banana and landed a curse before you started defending yourself against him. It was pure luck that you didn’t.”

“Not really,” said Harry. “The aurors have a saying – ‘you can’t poison a wizard without their consent’. Forgive me for the reminder, but do you remember all those fantastic co-incidences that prevented you from poisoning Dumbledore back in school? None of that was happenstance. It’s passive magic from the victim changing the playing field. It’s the reason why muggles can kill each other from halfway around the world, but wizards still have to face each other one-on-one over wands.”

It was also why Harry thought the average Witch or Wizard was so casual about love potions. Sure, they were illegal, but on some level everyone accepted that it was the target’s own fault for drinking it. It wasn’t strictly true, but it was true enough that most people just turned a blind eye.

“Didn’t Weasley drink the mead?” asked Draco, who had clearly been dredging his memories for those almost-forgotten days.

“You can trick people into consenting,” acknowledged Harry. “But Dumbledore has no-one close enough to me to pull that off.”

Ron had consumed a love potion meant for Harry that day as well, but Ron had stolen the chocolates and broken school rules to consume the mead. When a wizard knowingly did something immoral, it confused the magical defences.

“I’m not as confident as you. But even if Dumbledore doesn’t manage to get us killed,” said Draco, “we can’t just let him be. If he takes a position as the leader of the light and actively works against us, we are going to fail.”

Harry knew what Draco was going to suggest, and a skittering swarm of anxiety threatened to pierce the clouds.

“I think we need to stop him from gaining the reputation as the defeater of Grindelwald,” concluded Draco.

“I can’t,” said Harry.

“It wouldn’t be easy,” said Draco, “but with Hermione’s spy network—”

“I can’t,” repeated Harry. “You don’t understand what it was like. The reputation of killing Voldemort poisoned my whole life. It infected each and every interaction I ever had. I lost my friends, my family, and my own sense of self to it. Everyone had a set of expectations before they even met me, and they were furious and upset when I didn’t meet them. Everyone wanted something from me. I could not rely on a single person to be honest.”

Harry saw the expression on Hermione’s face, and hastened to add, “Expect for you, of course, Hermione. And you too, Draco, if for different reasons.”

Hermione didn’t look much reassured. “There isn’t all this stuff about you being the boy-who-lived and the chosen one this time. Surely that will make it different.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “This is going to be worse. Voldemort was an amateur compared to Grindelwald. People feared Voldemort because he was insane, and he’d torture people just for the fun of it. Grindelwald isn’t that irrational. People fear him because of how much raw power and knowledge he has. If I can beat Grindelwald, that makes me more dangerous than him. That will give me a reputation and a responsibility greater than I had for defeating Voldemort as a child.”

“Harry…” said Hermione before trailing off.

“You said I shouldn’t feel like I have to sacrifice myself again,” said Harry. “This is a sacrifice I’m not prepared to make. If you think it’s so important, why don’t you become the defeater of Grindelwald yourself? Or Draco? I’m sure either of you would make an excellent leader of the light.”

Harry was aware that he was being childish. They all knew why, socially, neither Hermione nor Draco could take the mantle. But it was also true that neither would want to, and Harry wanted them to acknowledge that.

There was a moment of silent shuffling before Harry sighed.

“I didn’t come back just to become Dumbledore,” said Harry. “And don’t you see? We’re half-way to that already. We don’t want the magical world to constantly be following the whims of one powerful wizard or another. We want people to think, and consider, and chose the right path for themselves. We aren’t going to achieve that by creating the myth of another powerful wizard and putting me in that place.”

The silence was longer this time.

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione. “And you’re right. It was always absurd that people put that much faith in one man. Most of my muggle friends wouldn’t even be able to remember their high school headmaster or headmistresses’ name, let alone follow their political ideals for the rest of their lives.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Draco. “I shouldn’t have tried to pressure you.”

Harry just nodded in acceptance.

“We’ll find another way,” said Hermione with determination. “We don’t need to take his place. We just need to strip away the fame and adoration Dumbledore received. It shouldn’t be that hard, considering all we know about him. Revealing the relationship between the two should go a long way to down-play the impact of Dumbledore defeating Grindelwald. After all, Dumbledore never did publicise his method, did he? People might have claimed it was the most amazing duel of all time, but Skeeter established that none of the so-called eyewitnesses were even present. For all we know – for all anyone knows – Dumbledore took Grindelwald to bed and slipped a sleeping potion into the lubricant.”

“Hermione!” exclaimed Harry in shocked amusement.

“What?” asked Hermione. “I am supposed to pretend I don’t know how these things work at my age?”

“Dumbledore and Grindelwald together are not a mental image I need stuck in my head,” said Harry, and Draco nodded his agreement.

Harry shook his head again. “But you’re not wrong. Part of the mystique was that Dumbledore didn’t kill Grindelwald. He defeated him without killing him. Defeating a wizard without any lethal spells is a much more overwhelming victory. If we reveal he had a selfish motive, that changes thing.”

“Hermione might even be on to something with the lubricant theory,” said Draco. “How did Dumbledore manage to defeat Grindelwald? Dumbledore is brilliant and powerful, sure, but he’s a schoolteacher. He’s not a trained hit-wizard or a competitive duellist. Grindelwald is one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time, and right now, Grindelwald is the one carrying the elder wand.”

“Perhaps,” said Hermione slowly, “all we need to do is scry Dumbledore during the confrontation and release the recording anonymously.”

They all paused to consider that wonderful scenario. Dumbledore brought down by his own actions. His hypocrisy exposed for all to see.

“We can’t rely on that,” said Harry regretfully. “Look at how Dumbledore never once stepped out of character, even when dealing with his own brother whom he had already oath-bound to silence. Dumbledore either actually believes his bullshit, or he’s fully committed to his persona. He might easily defeat Grindelwald in such a way that he could explain his way out of.”

“Also,” said Draco, “even the wizarding world is not entirely gullible. A recording of a scrying of a memory, with no-one having access to the originals or any explanation for the source? Dumbledore’s version will be more convincing. And people will investigate where it came from. If they track it back to us, that would be disastrous.”

Hermione subsided with a frown, and Harry could feel dread press down on him. As much as they were saying that exposing Dumbledore’s past would be enough, they all knew full well that it wouldn’t. After all, it hadn’t, in the future. Rita Skeeter’s biography had barely made a smudge on Dumbledore’s power. As much as Harry fought against it, killing Grindelwald himself might well be the only reasonable option they had.

“Draco,” he said slowly, the idea forming slowly. “You said that your father taught you how to fake pensieve testimony?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “It boils down to Polyjuice potions, a few illusions, and some decent acting. Are you thinking about faking memories of the confrontation? Dumbledore would just be able to contradict them with his own memories. And while tracking it down to us is less likely, the source of the memories is even more problematic.”

“Not quite,” said Harry. “Would the Elixir of Life work on a poly-juiced form? And not affect the original body?”

“I… don’t know,” said Draco. “All physical affects are usually removed at the same time as the expiration of the Polyjuice potion, but I don’t know of any experiments with the Elixir of Life, specifically.”

“The theory is sound,” agreed Hermione, “but we’d need to do some testing. What are you planning, Harry?”

“We don’t fake the death scene,” said Harry. “We fake everything up to that. Going back years, if we can, but only more ‘recent’ memories if we can’t. We create a reality that this whole war was Dumbledore and Grindelwald working together. That Dumbledore has always been a dark lord, and the suggest that they had a falling out and Dumbledore was coming over to discuss it. The ‘source’ will be Grindelwald’s own pensieve, right there, at Nurmengard Castle.”

Draco didn’t look convinced. “What’s the plan for when both Grindelwald and Dumbledore repudiate the memories? It might all backfire, and taint even the reveal of the things that are true.”

“Oh,” said Harry with a wave. “That’s the easiest part.”

Harry had allowed himself to remember who he really was. The person who at the height of his power as an Auror had made life and death decisions in an instant, without asking permission or begging forgiveness. The person who hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep over killing a teenage Riddle.

“It is?” asked Hermione, similarly sceptical.

“Yes,” said Harry. “We don’t leave Grindelwald or Dumbledore alive to contradict us. We kill them both and stage it as mutual destruction, or murder-suicide, or such.”

Draco burst into laughter. “The easiest part.”

“Well, yes,” said Harry, at a bit of a loss over that reaction. “Killing people isn’t particularly difficult, you know. What’s difficult is making sure that the death helps you long-term, rather than hurting you.”

“Getting hair from Dumbledore will be easy enough,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “But Grindelwald is more paranoid. He doesn’t actually live in Nurmengard, you know. Most of the time, he’s safely confined in the middle of living lands that he controls absolutely. He might be willing to let Dumbledore close to him, but why would he let us?”

“Because we have something he wants,” said Harry. “Something both Grindelwald and Dumbledore want. Something they would absolutely keep secret from their followers.”

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. Harry reached into his storage and retrieved the resurrection stone.

“You still have that?” asked Draco.

“Yes,” said Harry. “I don’t know if they’re copies or not, but I still have all the Hallows.”

Draco said, “Grindelwald might not have the elder wand anymore.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Harry. “Either way, he’ll want this. I’m sure that our resident spy-mistress will be able to negotiate some sort of very private trade for it, well in advance of his confrontation with Dumbledore.”

“We need to find an excuse to be away from the army,” said Draco, equally thoughtfully.

“Or chose a day we’re already away from the army,” said Harry. “We need to have something convincing that we want badly enough to trade away the resurrection stone anyway. Why not offer a formal duel for the ownership of his living land during the rededication?”

Draco grinned.  “Having ownership of his living lands would make it easier to fake convincing pensieve memories.”

“I have some work to do,” said Hermione. “I’ll let you know.”

She disconnected the mirror without any further courtesies, and Harry fell back into his chair with a laugh. The clouds had cleared, and he was feeling warm again. They weren’t just going to survive this. They were going to make this work for them.

Chapter Text

Heart of Grindelwald's land, Tuesday 2^nd February 1945

Everything was in place by Spring Day, the day of re-dedications and oath takings, and the anniversary of Harry becoming a king. Harry, Draco and Hermione spent Spring Eve celebration quietly with the most practical possible version of the white gowns. It was pitch dark when they left their own land, but the sky was just moving to blue as they walked towards the Heart of Grindelwald’s land for the confrontation.

It didn’t help. The path was subtly and disquietingly unreal, and the view faded rapidly into unnatural shadow on either side. Harry’s negotiations had at least given him a degree of feeling for what the land felt like beyond the limits of their safe-conduct, so he suspected it was even more disconcerting for the others. Even wearing dragonhide armour over their ceremonial robes, they were underdressed for the weather. Harry shivered as the pre-dawn chill found the gaps between his heating charms. Not soon enough and too soon, they reached the heart. It was lit by a grid of raised lanterns powerful enough for a game of Quidditch, and Harry blinked in pain. The morning twilight was rendered nothing by the lanterns’ strength. Even more overtly now, the world ended a few steps beyond the bounds of the heart.

Instead of the wild beauty of their own heart, the clearing was formal and severe. Every edge lined up with every other, and every plant pruned to the same shape. The ground had been swept clear, and the snowbanks lining the cleared area were so neatly stacked as to require magic to stay that clean. The tree was the only thing there that hadn’t been beaten into perfection. Instead, its leaves were sparse and mottled brown and black.

Grindelwald stepped forward, his dirty blond hair and blue eyes almost colourless under the lighting.

“Your wager for the duel?” he asked, without any courtesies.

Harry laid out the resurrection stone without coming any closer.

“Do you want to test it?” said Harry, sounding casual but feeling anything but.

“I think not,” said Grindelwald. “Since I intend to kill you either way, I can take my time to examine them in more secure circumstances.”

Harry didn’t let his dismay show in his face. This wasn’t the only card they had up their sleeves.

“Very well,” said Harry. “With the permission of the land, I lay challenge for dominion.”

Grindelwald laughed. “You are a romantic, I think. I have to tell you, I do not require permission from anyone or anything. But enough talk. Let us begin.”

Grindelwald turned, and before Harry realised something was wrong, Grindelwald had cast a freezing charm that hit both Hermione and Draco. They had no time to shield themselves. Grindelwald smirked when Harry gasped in protest.

“I promised their safety,” said Grindelwald, “not their comfort. They will be quite safe until we conclude this little duel. Or did you really think I was naïve enough to leave you the advantage of their conscious presence?”

Harry could not protest. Firstly, because it would do no good. If the magic of the duel had allowed it, then it was allowable. But secondly because Grindelwald was right. They had been intending to take advantage. Harry could hardly demand Grindelwald allow them to cheat. Harry felt his heart begin to speed up in his chest. He was running out of trump cards.

Harry let the elder wand fall into his hand. He cast hard, fast … and without success.

Grindelwald almost negligently diverted his stunner with a small shield. Then Grindelwald responded with curses of his own. Harry had faced a half year of foot soldiers, and perhaps their expectations for this battle had come to be shaped by that low standard. Hermione and Draco had paid lip service to how dangerous Grindelwald really was, but none of them had actually expected Harry to lose. Not even if every single one of their back up plans fell apart. But they had all fallen apart, and Harry was losing. People were drawn to the dark arts because it achieved the same results with less power and skill. Grindelwald was not using the dark arts to cover a weakness. Instead, he was using them to move his abilities a level higher than was possible with normal magic. With his range of spells, with his commitment, and with his sheer viciousness, Grindelwald was simply a better fighter than Harry. The only reason Harry was still alive, Harry realised, was because Grindelwald was still enjoying himself.

An unfamiliar bludgeoning hex passed through Harry’s own shields like they weren’t there and impacted hard enough on his armour to break some ribs. The force carried him back until he wrecked the precision of a snowbank. At the speed he was travelling, the snow was only enough to spare him further broken bones as he was driven deep into it. The last remaining charms on his armour gave way, allowing trickles of ice-water to penetrate his clothing, stinging against his injuries. Then the tunnel he had created by his fall collapsed. Harry was momentarily blinded, and the snow made moving his wand and arm slow and difficult.

Harry knew he had brough this on himself. It would have been easy to kill Grindelwald. Starting with a lethal spell before Grindelwald had his guard up. Taking him in ambush and overwhelming him three-on-one. Just plain cursing in the back. But no. Harry had to get clever. He had to set up a duel where Harry was aiming to defeat Grindelwald without killing him so they could use Polyjuice. Confronting him face-to-face when Grindelwald had all the time in the world to prepare had been stupid.

Harry still had his training, and never stopped moving, even with the weight of the snow. Using that very snow to shield his movements, he cast spell after spell to conceal himself and burrowed in a random direction away from the fight. Grindelwald cast a few unsuccessful spells in Harry’s last location before stopping. Harry had bought himself a few minutes to think, but he could think of nothing. It was already too late to move onto lethal spells, even if he wanted to. That chance had already come and gone. This might really be it, thought Harry. Hermione and Draco would die. His land would once again be orphaned and starving. Dumbledore's prejudices would once again endanger the entire wizarding world. All because of his arrogance in assuming he could beat everyone in this time period.

Harry could feel Grindelwald reach for the power of the living land to target kill Harry, perhaps forgetting that Harry was also a challenger and could feel it as well. Grindelwald was yanking at it with demanding, ungracious force. But Harry was a challenger. This was a contest for the right to command that power, and that challenge had yet to be finalised. This was Spring Day, when old oaths expired and new oaths had yet to be made. And as they had come to find out, living lands could have opinions of their own.

Harry opened his hands, pushing the snow carefully out of the way, and gently, respectfully, invited the land to join him instead.

The power held still for a moment, vibrating in place. Then it crashed through Harry, filling him and redefining him, and the snow vaporised in the fire of that energy. In that instant, Harry became both more and less than human. His invitation had been without constraints, and the land admitted none. His vision blurred as he could see too much, from too many angles. He reached out to push himself upright, and a tree erupted from the ground to wrap around him. Grindelwald voiced something – perhaps a complaint, perhaps an attack – and Grindelwald was silenced as the very air moved away from him.

At last the tide ebbed, and Harry regained enough of himself to talk to the immobilised wizard. “By the terms of the challenge, you are defeated. Do you acknowledge my victory and swear service to my rule?”

A little belatedly, Harry returned Grindelwald access to air. Grindelwald spent the first few minutes simply gasping and coughing, and when his speech returned it wasn’t any more comprehensible. Harry wondered if Grindelwald might be attempting spells, but with the land silent and smug within Harry, Harry wasn’t concerned that he was in any danger.

“Do you submit?” Harry repeated.

“Never, you—”

Harry didn’t even wait for the insult before silencing him again, this time with a more traditional spell. Harry had made the offer in good faith – the ritual might not have worked if he had not -- but he was relieved not to have to offer the man any sort of protection. If Grindelwald had accepted, he would have held the same position as Draco, and Harry was revolted by the very idea. Harry didn’t notice his ribs or his torn armour as he approached Grindelwald’s body with proper caution and an extra stunner just to be sure. He pulled the wand from Grindelwald’s hand and backed off again. Harry unfroze Draco and Hermione and granted them full permissions to the land, allowing them to see unrestricted for the first time.

“Are there two Elder wands?” asked Hermione.

“No,” said Harry, with one in each hand. “They do look identical. I don’t think I’d even notice myself without holding both at the same time, but only mine has the extra magical depth. Grindelwald was beating me even without that advantage.”

Harry found himself laughing, even though there wasn’t anything to laugh about, which had him grabbing his ribs in pain. Hermione tsked and cast enough healing charms to get him through the rest of the formalities. Harry walked to the tree to lay a hand on it and thank the land one more time. They waited out the growing light to complete the dedication. Harry could feel the extent of the land. It was not anywhere as ill as Greenhurst had been when they’d first arrived, but there were still many things Harry solemnly promised to tend to. Harry would guide and safeguard the land from any and all that would hurt it. The power retreated into the land, content.

Then the two apparated back to Greenhurst to redo the commitment ceremony there. Greenhurst was warm and understanding. As part of the ceremony, Harry offered the power and the pathways to allow the two lands to meet and form a physical connection, ignoring the trivialities of geography. They were not only willing, but eager. Harry thought that they might have been starved of companionship for longer than they had starved of magic.

Harry, Draco and Hermione paused there just one more moment. With Grindelwald a captive and Hermione’s set of potions already prepared, they had a lot to do, and not very much time to do it in. Still, they could take the chance to appreciate their continued existence. They had been foolish and arrogant and had succeeded only through the grace of the living lands they had sworn to protect. They had done almost everything wrong, but none of that mattered now. They had survived. They were ready for the next step. The morning sun shone brightly down on them as they basked under their second sunrise of the day.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley, London, Sunday, 8^th May 1945

They did just curse Dumbledore in the back.

And it was considerably easier.

After they prepared all the memoires, they then lured Dumbledore to Nurmengard with the same bait –pretending Grindelwald had just come into possession of the resurrection stone. When Dumbledore was confused by the unconscious body of his former lover, they killed him using Grindelwald’s back up wand. After that, they took Dumbledore’s wand to kill Grindelwald with something more subtle and slow acting. While murder-suicide would have been easier to stage, they had all concluded that neither man would be the type to kill themselves. Much better to pretend Dumbledore had tried to assassinate Grindelwald on the sly, but Grindelwald had noticed and killed him in return. A few hours later, Harry and Draco were back at the army camp without anyone even knowing they’d left.

Part of Harry had toyed with the idea of leaving Dumbledore alive long enough to realise how he had brought it all on himself. That if Dumbledore hadn’t targeted Harry, Harry would have been willing to work with him. Maybe even in the right circumstances, to have worked for him. Not unlike Hermione, Harry had come back into the past with the belief that if Dumbledore had realised that killing off the living lands would eventually cause magic to collapse, they’d all be on the same side. If Dumbledore hadn’t been so smug and judgmental, then everything would have worked out fine.

But more of Harry realised that the impulse was silly and stupid and unlikely to give him closure even in the best possible case. They could not justify risking the worst possible case.

Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about his own actions. Every previous person he had killed had been justifiable as defence of himself or others, even Voldemort. And he could think of these two deaths the same way. Grindelwald was an obvious threat. Dumbledore had wanted to kill him and was a danger to practically everyone Harry knew. But it felt a step too far. Harry could have left them alive and still achieved many of Harry’s goals. If Harry was willing to justify this act so easily, then what would he tell himself was alright in future? Oddly, it felt safer, morally, to consider it a murder. Harry had murdered them, and he had done so because it made his life easier. There had been reasons for it, good reasons, selfless reasons even, and Harry didn’t think he was going to lose any sleep over it.

But it couldn’t happen again.

Fighting didn’t immediately end with the elimination of Grindelwald. Some of Grindelwald’s supporters quietly found other things to do, but some true believers held on to the bitter end. They fought on as Russia invaded, as Italy and Germany collapsed, as Hitler committed suicide. It wasn’t until the muggles fully surrendered that they lost their support and their coherency. The official powers reclassified the remnants as common criminals, and the men came home.

Diagon Ally was magically expanded to allow for the largest parade in living memory. Every piece of hoarded cloth and decoration was brought out to celebrate. The boys themselves were dressed in robes transfigured to look like the battle-robes they’d never gotten to wear in real fighting. They were plainly thrilled, so Harry tried not to mind about the implied lie. They marched and cheered and stood through vapid speeches about how brave they had all been and how good had ultimately triumphed, because that was what good just did.

The exact details of Grindelwald’s defeat were glossed over for the occasion, but Harry could still hear snatches of gossip.

‘I heard that Dumbledore lured Grindelwald to bed before—"

‘—killed him as he was walking away, you know. Gathered all his energy—‘

‘— was just so heart broken he didn’t even try to heal himself—'

It was officially a secret, so naturally, everyone knew all the details.

Before saying goodbye to his team, Harry took a moment with each of them. He handed them a bracer already containing one of Harry’s Greenhurst diamond and gave them instructions on how to owl him. In return, he collected contact details for all of them. Seargent Fletcher was last.

“If you need something,” said Harry, trying to convey his earnestness through his tone, “if you hear about any of the men needing something, reach out to me. I can’t promise to be successful, but I will promise to try. Or contact me even if you don’t need anything.”

Muggles and wizards both were in for rough times for almost a decade, and the returning fighters would get the worst of it. The Ministry would use their official status as volunteers to justify ignoring any of their needs as veterans.

“Thank you, sir,” said Fletcher. “I might take you up on that to get access to the library tent you created.”

“You’ll always be welcome to use it,” assured Harry. “I’ll speak with my siblings, and we’ll arrange a way to keep it available.”

After they all shortly scattered to their own friends and families, Hermione, Draco and Harry apparated to Malfoy Manor.

“Miss Greenhurst, Greenhurst Primus, Secondus,” said Lieutenant Valerius Malfoy, gathering them up and bringing them into the gathering. “I think you know most people here.”

The celebration was not in the great hall, but in the series of interconnected reception rooms to either side. Every space was set up with comfortable seating areas, faux appetisers and entirely too much alcohol. Especially considering the number of babies who were also present. Babies held in arms, playing on magical blankets, and sleeping in silenced cots. So many babies.

“They managed to improve on the cure I provided,” said Draco in awe. “They managed to dislodge the curse entirely from everyone.”

Somehow, Harry had never imagined Draco as the kind of person to want to hold every infant he saw, but he stopped to greet each and every one. Draco’s increasing joy and triumph was obvious as Malfoy after Malfoy greeted them with attached extras.

“Aren’t they… aren’t most of them a bit old to be having kids?” Harry asked Draco under his breath.

“There’s other options other than natural pregnancy,” said Draco. “And believe me, the Malfoys are experts on all of them.”

Harry and Hermione pushed through to the back areas that were at least somewhat more adult company, leaving Draco behind to the parents group. Harry could not resist pausing to listen to a Malfoy who had been an investigator into the Nurmengard.

“Dumbledore’s lot tipped us off,” said the Malfoy with clear distain. “We were fully expecting to have to witness the Triumph of Dumbledore. You know, the tragic death of a self-sacrificing hero and all. I cannot tell you how shocked we all were to review Grindelwald’s memories. Thing is, Dumbledore had set it up for Dumbledore to become the conquering leader of the light. Just Grindelwald wasn’t as big a fool as Dumbledore had expected and cursed him in the back before he could put the finishing touches on his plan.”

Harry had to control his expression as the Malfoy didn’t simply narrate the scripted narrative of love and betrayal that Hermione, Draco and Harry had created. He continued into other details. The death of Ariana was presented as the combined trigger for Dumbledore’s slide to the dark, and a pattern for future actions – having an enemy around to blame for anything that went wrong. Harry begun to wonder if they might have accidentally framed Dumbledore with the truth.

“It’s going to take us forever to clean up all the damage,” complained a different Malfoy as soon as he had a chance to steal the spotlight. “There’s a bunch of measures Dumbledore claimed was to oppose Grindelwald. Turns out, they’re just targeting living lands.”

“I thought Grindelwald was in favour of living lands.”

“That’s just what Dumbledore wanted us to think! Grindelwald’s lands actually disinherited him when he became too dark, the same with Dumbledore’s father, back in the day. They were desperate to hide that and so came up with the scheme to have them painted dark.”

Hermione was interested in the finer details, but Harry was not. Harry continued on alone and found Madame Wakefield holding court in another corner, recounting her own experiences.

“—I've known the family since before young Albus was born, although that is giving away my age a bit, I do realise. Albus was always an odd boy. You know the type – cold and unfeeling. ‘Irene,’ I used to say to myself, ‘you be careful around that boy. There’s something not right about him.’”

Harry remembered the enthusiastic introduction of her ‘dear friend Albus’, and barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

“— Percy, that is, Albus's father Percival Dumbledore, had a high regard for gambling, and it did not have a high regard for him, as the saying goes. But people wanted to believe –”

Harry collected a plate of food, keeping half an ear on the conversation.

“—these weren’t strangers Percy had defrauded with ex-living lands that were cursed against him, you know. These were schoolmates, old friends and neighbours, people who saw them every day. The whole Dumbledore family was—”

Harry knew Hermione had planted some information, but Madam Wakefield was making it sound like that had all been common knowledge. Perhaps it had been, and everyone had just stayed quiet in public out a misplaced sense of respect.

“—He was always quick to offence, that boy, and even quicker to use magic to revenge himself. He developed as a legilimens at a shockingly young age, quite shocking. I was just one of many people tried to speak to his parents about his use of mind magic—”

All at once, it was too much. Harry retreated again. All of this, all those signs and suspicions, had been there the first time as well. But still the wizarding world had let the man hijack their own morals and common sense. A hundred years of steadfast public service from Harry had not been enough to elevate him to anything more than Dumbledore’s man – and then Dumbledore’s betrayer – in the eyes of the public. But now, as he worked his way through the rooms, he encountered guest after guest who now had never trusted Albus Dumbledore, had examples to share, and had always been in favour of living lands. Harry pretended to believe them and accepted their congratulations for all the wrong things. Harry’s anger against Dumbledore had faded and been replaced with anger against everyone else, himself included.

Harry, Hermione, and Draco had cured the symptom. Whatever else they might succeed or fail in, Dumbledore’s reputation would never be the same, and living lands would not be subjected to the same degree of distrust again. But the weaknesses that left the wizarding world so vulnerable to the words of Grindelwald and Dumbledore and Voldemort were still there. Harry could not, should not, would not, simply murder each rising Dark Lord in turn. They’d used up their easy solution. They had to do better. The wizarding world had to do better. And it was their job now to make sure that happened.

Chapter Text

Extended Greenhurst lands, Sunday, 31^st July 2044

It was officially Harry’s 120^th birthday, and Harry was once again retiring. It was time. He could honestly say that the wizarding world now had all the tools he could think to give it. It was up to the next generations to find even better solutions than Harry could have ever imagined. His role was already mostly symbolic. The Vice Chancellor was the person who did any of the meaningful work at the university, and that was by design. By university charter, the VC could not be older than forty-five, or serve for longer than five years. That wasn’t to say that Harry had been doing nothing. He’d been talking and travelling and representing and even teaching from time to time. But while experience had its own value, they’d all decided that institutionalised stagnation and cult of personality was too dangerous when it came to education.

Harry paused obediently under the main arch of the university for some final photographs. It was built on what had originally been Grindelwald land. It had been somewhat satisfying to repurpose the land that way when they’d first set up their open library, and then even more when it became the campus of a free correspondence-based NEWT college. By the time Greenhurst Free University was opened, it was an inevitability. The orphanage and free boarding school for younger children they kept within the original Greenhurst hall, but this land had been filled with exactly the kind of adults Grindelwald would have despised.

Between the arch and the main administrative building was a Japanese themed garden that normally contained dry waterbeds and symbolic waterfalls. The land had retained a certain fondness for formality, and Harry had worked hard to cater to that without reducing it back to sterility. For this occasion, and on Harry’s request, they ran with chocolate, fudge, caramel and butterbeer. Many of the children had abandoned any pretence of using the fruits on long sticks lining the rivers, and simply dipped their hands directly into the heat-spelled liquid – much to the horror of their parents.

It was Harry’s small, private memorial for Ron, who had never been born. Ron’s grandparents had only one son in this timeline, and while the Weasley family still existed, it was not the huge interwoven mass it had been before. There were two new Draco Malfoys, but both were named after his own Draco, rather than being him reborn. The young Hermione had never entered the wizarding world at all, and Harry knew nothing about her. With the magic confined to the living lands, fewer and fewer muggleborns came into any power. Their Hermione had asked them to leave her counterpart entirely alone, and they had complied. A young Harry Potter existed, but was born almost a decade later, probably a result of the absence of the Voldemort wars. It was a different child, raised by different adults, in a different time. Harry found he shared no more connection to him than to anyone else who happened to share his name.

Valerius Malfoy, now a visibly old man, joined them for a round of handshakes and photographs.

“Lord Malfoy,” greeted Harry.

“Lord Greenhurst,” replied Valerius with equal irony. “Well. You certainly did it.”

“I did, didn’t I?” agreed Harry, not without satisfaction.

“It’s strange to remember how certain I was that you’d fail,” Valerius said. “And now it seems like it couldn’t possibly have been any different.”

“To be fully honest with you,” said Harry. “I wasn’t all that confident when we started either. Children were working ten hours a day just to help feed their families. It was a genuine testimony to their dedication that they were willing to study on top of that.”

“Really?” said Valerius. “You always struck me as being so assured. No matter what I advised, you always maintained your absolute conviction that the school couldn’t be limited to just practical courses. Every time you faced an objection in the Wizengamot, you were right there, fighting your case. Comparative philosophy, practical ethics, ritual craft, forms of government, practical limits of power, and all the rest.”

Harry snorted. “Whatever objections they claimed to have, they really meant they thought it was dangerous to give the people ‘ideas above their station’. I wasn’t going to back down to the likes of them. My concern was more that the students themselves would find the subjects valueless.”

“Instead,” said Valerius, “these days children argue over our fundamental beliefs like they’re selecting a favourite Quidditch team.”

“It’s a mess,” acknowledged Harry. “But then, I’ve always been quite fond of messes.”

Lord Malfoy laughed and gave way to the next well-wisher. At length, Harry was free to head back towards the Greenhurst Hall, where the community was waiting for him. The trip, into a different country and different weather, was a simple matter of walking through a moon gate. Lands made their own decisions about which other lands to neighbour with, and the wizarding world had learnt to adapt. It unified wizarding parts of the world, and Harry could go weeks or months without ever stepping on to dead land. Compared to Harry’s previous life, the difference to his health, magic, and even his mood was stark.

Harry, Hermione, and Draco worked very hard in the background to make sure it wasn’t a privilege unique to them. This time around, the increasing influence of the muggle’s flooding the air with information was well-known and well-understood. While the damaging effect it had was still small, it was already measurable. The result of their manoeuvring was a strong social expectation that any lord of a living land would generously create and hand out the artificial diamonds. With that little snippet of identifying magic, carriers could freely enter their lands as part of the family. By the time a child reached their second majority, they should already have a decent collection.

The system wasn’t perfect. Some lords abused their power. Some holders were lied to, or were coerced, or were simply left with no choice but to take the diamonds of lords they already knew would use it against them. But there were tens of thousands of living lands across the globe, and emigration was as easy as walking through a gate and dropping the diamond on the way out. The worst actors were typically isolated or forced to reform – sometimes by their very own living lands.

There were a few more rounds of greetings and congratulations as he walked up the slope beneath the Hall. Harry was still proud of it, every time he looked at it. It looked both ancient and eternal, perfectly merging into the surroundings. The slope was even prettier than usual, covered with out-of-season wildflowers. Harry didn’t think the land quite grasped the occasion, but it was willing to celebrate with them anyway.

About halfway up, Harry joined Hermione and Draco at a picnic table they had claimed. Harry collapsed into one of the garden chairs, the metamorph cushions turning purple and gold as he sat. Hermione came to lean against him.

Also present was their youngest daughter Emilia, nursing the most recent of their grandchildren. Harry had many wards, but the youngest three children they had raised were biologically theirs. Over time, better systems had become available, and the Greenhursts had gradually stopped receiving orphans. After they had grown up and grown away, Draco had finally cracked and expressed a wish for more children of their own. None of them had ever married. That wasn’t to say they had lived lives of celibate monks, but a real relationship was hard without trust and equality, and trust and equality were hard with the gulf of age and experience between them and others of their apparent cohort.

They had decided instead to collectively have two daughters and a son, all carried by well-paid surrogate mothers. Draco and Hermione had thrown themselves into research to create the prefect blend of the three of them, combining both muggle and wizarding advancements. All three children had green eyes, high cheekbones, and straight brown hair. There were only four grandchildren so far, but it seemed like the looks would indeed breed true.

“I still wish we could have used the occasion to awaken another land,” said Hermione. “Make a proper conclusion.”

“This isn’t any sort of house-wakening,” replied Harry. “I hardly need to open a Retreat for myself, not with all the work I still intend to do on the land.”

“Still,” she said, “the symbolism would have been nice.”

“But failing would have been terrible symbolism,” said Draco. “And it probably would have failed. It was something of a miracle that the last attempted awakening succeeded.”

“Which is exactly why we didn’t try. I just…” Hermione trailed off unhappily.

“I know what you mean,” said Harry. “It hurts that we aren’t even trying anymore. It feels like we’re giving up on earth.”

“But we will awaken land in space,” said Emilia. “Soon. Me and Mum will make sure of it.”

The muggles would not manage sustained human colonisation even in the next fifty years, but magic solved a lot of problems. Significantly, magical transport simply did not care about gravity. Now that Hermione and Emilia’s team had their beachhead, growing that into whatever they wanted was just a matter of time.

“I’m sure you will,” said Harry. “I saw that your work got an excellent write up in About Magic Today.”

“Yes,” said Emilia ironically. “Right under the article about the tragic loss to the wizarding world as the great Heir of Avalon retires.”

Harry snorted. “And they’re supposed to be a respectable news-source. That doesn’t even make sense. If I really was the heir of Avalon, I’d be there and not here. And to still be heir at my age? Just how old do they think our ‘parents’ are?”

“To be fair to them, there are the legends that everyone in Avalon is immortal,” said Draco. “If that’s true, then last one hundred years could be little more than an adolescent grand tour for you. It isn’t the silliest theory. Remember when someone claimed the muggle royals that had been deliberately breeding magic into their line with scions of the noble families, and we were the result?”

Harry theatrically cringed. It had perhaps been a mistake not to come up with their own backstory. The rumours about being descendants of Grindelwald hadn’t gone away either, although time had dulled the negative consequences.

“We can’t stop people from gossiping,” said Hermione. “And it’s a harmless thing for them to speculate about.”

Emilia had left to put the infant to bed, the original three had a moment of privacy.

“A century since we came,” said Draco. “It’s hard to believe our previous life was even real. Everything is so different. We achieved a lot.”

“More than we even wanted to,” said Hermione. “We’re more separate from the muggle world than even the most fervent blood purists could have dreamt of.”

“We have your teams keeping an eye on the muggle research, education and entertainment for any clever ideas we can pillage,” said Harry. “We aren’t just disregarding them entirely.  It’s at least a healthier separation than we had last time.”

“I suppose,” said Hermione. “We’ve made a good place, anyway. Even if it is a bit isolated.”

“I agree,” said Harry. “I think we’ve done as well as we possibly could. I think we can all be proud of ourselves, and of the wizarding world.”

A house-elf popped in to offer them all a glass of strawberry and mugwort wine.

“To a second Avalon?” Draco offered as a toast.

“A second Avalon,” echoed Harry and Hermione.

They sat together in the evening summer sun, watching the people enjoy the lands, and the lands enjoy the people.