Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The orphanage was cold. Chillingly so. There seemed more warmth to be found outside in the drizzling rain. 

“We’re not open to the public right now,” droned the short, middle aged woman who’d let him inside as she bustled back behind her counter. Harry kept a hand to his wand, but was hopeful that this could be a quiet exchange done without the use of any unnecessary persuasions. Though it was a risk he’d been willing to take. “I’m looking for a nephew of mine,” he informed her in a practiced tone, “Tom. Tom Riddle? He… I was told there might be a boy here by that name.” 

Harry watched her lift her head, expression shifting from bored to something that looked frighteningly hopeful, both eyebrows rising. “Tom? You mean,” she said carefully, “if you found your nephew, you’d take him away from here?” 

Harry looked in around himself, eyeing first the steps of a dark staircase, then the stark cracks in black marble squares of wall. 

He could have grown up in a place like this, if he hadn’t been given to the Dursley’s that was. The thought had nagged at him for hours. He still couldn’t decide if that had been better or worse than what this might have been. “I would. Do you believe he’s here? Black hair, brown eyes, he’d be around ten now.” 

“Yes yes,” said the woman, growing more excited by the second. “They’ve all just finished supper, I’ll send for him right away."

Harry did his best to keep from revealing his emotions. This was the fourth orphanage he’d tried, so he had enough practice, but he knew the clock was always ticking. It seemed, however, that he’d finally found the right boy. At the very least, none of the other adults he’d spoken to had been so accommodating, so excited at the prospect of ridding themselves of an occupant. They’d been more concerned with the monetary cost of losing a child in their care. It had been a trial for Harry, who’d been disgusted with the lot of them but unable to do a thing about it. It was far, far too late for all of those boys. 

“Please do,” Harry replied. She needed no more encouragement, promptly disappearing up the wide steps and leaving him to wait. 

As he stood, he eyed the worn down tile floors, scuffed with years of use. There was an engraving high on the wall—simple words, a cross to accompany them. I will not leave you as orphans, it read. I will come to you. John 14:18. Harry’s jaw flexed, but he dropped his eyes to his nails until he again heard the click of footsteps on the stairs—two sets this time. 

The woman had returned, and trailing behind her was a small boy. He had hair nearly as black as Harry’s, though not as unruly. And his skin was so white it could only be from almost never stepping outdoors. His eyes were a light shade of brown, but there was nothing to be found in them except scorn and distrust. Harry had attempted to prepare, but he’d never thought he’d have much success with that anyway. It took a good long moment to get hold of himself. 

“Is this him?” asked the woman eagerly, seemingly unable to mask it. Harry knew for fact that the boy had brought her a lot of trouble, but standing here before him, he looked so young. Not innocent, not even now, but certainly not the destroyer of lives and families he was to be. This unassuming boy, who would become evil incarnate. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” said Harry. 

The boy lifted his chin defiantly, scowling. “That would be me.” His voice was cold as ice. He looked over Harry with a carefully blank, yet still expectant expression. 

Of course Harry’s mind brought him back to the last time he had seen Tom. He could still see Hogwarts in ruins, recall the smell of death that had hung in the air, picture the bodies of people he’d cared for. It was as though it’d happened yesterday. He knew then that Hermione had been right. He couldn’t let that happen now he had this chance to stop it. The price, in the end, didn’t matter as much as he’d thought. 

Slowly, never taking his eyes off the boy, Harry removed the wand from his pocket. Tom’s eyes went straight to it and hardened, as though he somehow understood. Perhaps he did. The woman beside him appeared too bewildered to react. 

“You took so much from so many,” said Harry quietly. “I know exactly who and what you are, all the hurt you cause. And still, somehow, I find that I’m almost sorry.” 

And then he cast. 

Chapter Text

Two days earlier (and 68 years later)

Ron was clearly exhausted, so much so that he appeared close to nodding off on his feet whilst doing nothing more than standing with his palms flat on Harry’s desk. There were prominent bags beneath his eyes, made starker by his fair skin. Harry didn’t ask what was the matter, he already knew. As did everyone else they were even slightly acquainted with, including the entirety of the Auror department. The break up with Hermione was continuing to take its toll, impacting Ron’s social life and, arguably more important, his ability to do his job. Nevermind that he’d technically been the one to end things. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t think that had been the right decision, mind. If Harry had been in Ron’s shoes, he’d have done the same thing. Probably far sooner, even. Hermione had postponed their wedding for the fourth time two months ago. She hadn’t bothered to give a new excuse and, if Harry was honest, he suspected that she might’ve simply forgotten the date this time. At a point like that, there was really nothing else a self-respecting bloke could do. 

Harry felt for Ron, truly he did, and had no shortage of frustration with Hermione for the way she’d handled things. Really, Harry rather thought she could have at least pretended to be a bit distraught, if only for the sake of the years the two of them had been together. But Harry also knew Hermione wasn’t one to feign something she didn’t feel—that just wasn’t her. 

She’d told Harry she understood why Ron had done it because, try as she might, she simply couldn’t be what he needed. She was too distracted, she said, for the sort of life she knew Ron wanted, entirely too devoted to her goal to be devoted to him. Not that Harry was privy to what that goal was, only that she’d been at it since she’d been made an Unspeakable. That was shortly after Ron had proposed, and it’d been downhill for them ever since. 

Which, given the present state of Harry’s world, was all but par for the course. 

In the near seven years since the war, the wizarding world hadn’t recovered. Harry didn’t like to think it had deteriorated, but in most ways it had. Social divides were deeper than ever, the majority of the populace unable to stop blaming and resenting each other for the loss of their family members, friends, and property. 

Rebuilding and the government’s attempts to compensate for losses and destruction had severely impacted the Ministry’s financial stability. None of which was helped by the abysmal relationship with the goblins. Worse, the lack of trust in the wizard community had then lead to a steady decline of businesses, resulting in a terminally suffering market. 

There were less wizarding children being born than ever, with the only exception being muggleborns. The pureblood population was at its lowest in centuries, the most prominent dynasties having fled across oceans, and those who remained either unwilling or unable to have heirs given how such children would doubtless be treated. 

At Hogwarts, Slytherin House had long been demolished by an ill-advised majority vote, and the affected kids were perpetually out of place and bitter because of it. They could hardly be blamed, in Harry’s opinion. His words had not been enough to reverse the decision, despite how very grateful to him everyone still pretended to be. 

Overall, European wizarding society had been teetering on the brink of collapse for several years, and there didn’t seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel. Kingsley was a good man, but not even the Minister’s best intentions could force people to trust each other again. And he couldn’t be expected to create money from nothing. 

Harry was a decorated and respected Auror, but even he saw little action. It wasn’t for lack of crime—that alone had actually gone up since the dust settled. It was that the department was hardly more than three rooms and a desk lamp, and that was the barest of exaggerations. There simply weren’t enough who wanted to spend all hours doing thankless work for so little pay. And when Harry wasn’t on the clock—because he was unfortunately still famous enough to have articles about him in the Prophet every other day, especially because gossip was the only thing that sold these days—he often retreated to the muggle world. 

This had been a factor in the ultimate end of his and Ginny’s relationship, though it was not by any means the only reason. The war had inflicted damage that had altered them too much to still be compatible.

Ginny had moved to Brazil nearly four years ago, just three weeks after they’d broken up, and since then he’d seen her only for a couple of awkward Christmases. It saddened him, but it was too difficult to remain friends in circumstances like theirs. As far as Harry had heard, she was better off where she was, anyway. 

Harry had remained single ever since. He could never be certain that he wasn’t being pursued for his fame or how much money people believed him to have. Though even he knew that was only the most obvious excuse. The sour truth was that Harry couldn’t find it within himself to be interested in anyone for more than the occasional one off. He often felt that his ability to emotionally connect with people on that deeper level was simply gone. 

Or there was the chance it hadn’t ever been there at all. 

There seemed to be very few wizards and witches in Europe who seemed genuinely happy and recovered presently. He, Harry, was certainly not among them. Ron’s current attitude was not unique to him alone. Harry had been there—was still there, really, albeit for vastly different reasons. The realisation that he’d given all he had to his world and it hadn’t been enough was a wound that he had let fester in himself. 

It was simply harder to watch someone else’s spirit wane, especially if that person was Ron, who had done his best to remain positive for so long despite having gone through more than most. 

“Mate,” Harry said aloud. While he’d been lost in thought, the redhead’s eyelids had drooped. Ron blinked at him blearily in response. 

“Sorry,” he said, “‘m tired.” 

Harry did his very best not to sound pitying, knowing how little he appreciated that himself, when he said, “You know, there are potions that would–”

He didn’t get to finish his carefully worded advice, though, before the door to their small office opened inward, and Hermione zoomed in. 

She stopped short as soon as she saw Ron, evidently not having thought her actions all the way through. That was odd for Hermione, but she also looked more frazzled than Harry had seen her in a couple of years. Ron stared at her as though he’d been fully awake all along, whilst Harry’s eyes darted between them. Eventually, Hermione shook herself off and took a deep breath before shutting the door softly behind her and focusing on Harry. 

“We need to talk,” she said, “urgently.” 

“Anything you can say to Harry you can say in front of me, ‘Mione,” said Ron, and Harry could hear the hurt plain in his voice. 

Hermione clearly could too, because she sighed heavily and looked momentarily towards the ceiling. “Ronald,” she began briskly, “I don’t have time for this right now. If you insist on staying, that’s fine, since I will admit you have a right to hear this as well. But this is not the proper time to treat me like your ex-fiancée. In this moment, I am an Unspeakable, and I am placing a great deal of trust in you by allowing you to remain present as I break my oath. Do you understand?” 

Ron set his jaw, but nodded nonetheless. Harry kept his relief in check and moved on. “What is it, Hermione?” 

“I’ve done it.”

It only took Harry a few seconds to realise she was referring to the ever elusive goal. “Does this mean I get to know what it is?” 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, actually, I didn’t manage it ” she backtracked a bit, “but I’ve done something monumental.” 

Harry and Ron waited, unsure what to expect but unbearably curious after being kept in the dark. 

“It’s a bit of a long story” she began. “You see, for years, myself and the other Unspeakables have been attempting to work out a way to… create wizards. We’ve done what we could to study what might decide it. How does a muggleborn receive their magic whilst some of wizarding decent are born Squibs? We set out to answer these questions, in the hopes that we might gift magic to those we believed worthy of it. Hubris, perhaps, but it was one of many potential solutions to our dwindling population problem, and the most viable. I’m sure you can clearly see why it’s been kept top secret. Many would accuse us of attempting to play gods, and even I had my reservations.” 

Harry was still processing when Ron spoke, sounding surprisingly level headed. “You said you didn’t quite manage it, though.” 

Hermione shook her head. “We didn’t. We… well, we actually accomplished the opposite,” she admitted. “We know how to take someone’s magic away. Permanently.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Harry after a long moment had passed. “How would that do anything but reduce our population further?” 

“It wouldn’t,” confirmed Hermione. “The spell is effectively useless in regards to our current economic and social trouble. Not only that, but the information itself would cause chaos, mass paranoia. My having told you of its existence just now would be enough to have me removed from my position or worse.” 

“Then why did you?” asked Ron. “You’ve never had a problem withholding information before.” 

Hermione shot him a warning look. “Ronald,” she said, and that single word appeared to be enough. Then she sighed again. “You’re both going to think I’ve taken leave of my good sense. A significant part of me believes the same. But I want you to know to start with that I did not come to this lightly.” 

“Just tell us what’s going on,” Harry said, growing weary. 

“My friend, Thompson, was the one who gave me the idea, and I reckon she’d be horrified if she knew,” Hermione told them. “It was shortly after we realised what this new incantation would truly do. She said that it would have been nice if we’d had this during the war to use against Voldemort. Without magic, he’d have been just a man, easily dealt with before so many had to suffer. It looks less and less likely every day that our society will recover from the damage he wrought.” 

“You sound like you want to convince us of that,” said Ron, appearing as apprehensive as Harry felt. “We were there too, ‘Mione.” 

“And we didn’t have that spell yet,” added Harry, “so what is the point?” 

Hermione took a breath, then spoke in a rush. “It means that we could have. It means that we can change history, without anyone having to murder anyone.” 

For several seconds, Harry and Ron could only blink at her. Harry considered that so many long hours might have finally cracked even Hermione. Ron sent him a look that indicated he’d have to take this one, and Harry swallowed. 

“Hermione,” he started cautiously. “You know better than anyone that the past is the past. The war is over.” 

Her eyes had narrowed at his tone, and she did not look pleased. It was all Harry could do not to flinch as she snapped, “Yes, Harry, I am quite aware how time works, funnily enough.” 

“Then–” Ron tried to cut in, but Hermione wasn’t finished. 

“But you two,” she spoke over him, “should know better than anyone that time is a rather tricky thing, having quite literally messed about with it before.” 

“Time turners don’t work like that, though,” said Ron, and Harry winced. 

As expected, Hermione glared darkly at the redhead. “I’ll forgive you that because you are not an Unspeakable and are therefore ignorant of the truth. But I would have thought you’d have a bit more presence of mind than to assume ignorance of me.” 

Ron downcast his eyes. Harry refrained from another sigh, knowing he’d likely be hearing all about this moment for weeks. 

“Just spit it out, Hermione,” he said. 

“Time turners are extremely complicated mechanisms, with far too much potential for damage,” she explained. “That’s why they are highly regulated and unlawful possession can earn you time in Azkaban. That’s why the general populace has never been permitted to use them as Unspeakables can, or even know of it. According to any writings you’d ever be able to find, with the exception of top secret documents in the highest levels of government, time turners cannot truly alter events. In reality, that is all but a child lock. Unspeakables have been capable of genuine time travel since long before Albus Dumbledore was ever born.” 

Harry and Ron blinked at her stupidly, momentarily stunned. 

“Real time travel,” Ron whispered quietly, disbelieving. 

Harry could empathise, but found himself slightly more skeptical. “How do they know it works? Have they actually gone back in time? How would you even prove it?” 

Hermione looked proud of him for a moment. She even nodded her approval at his questions, which was rather disconcerting given the topic. “It had to be tested, naturally,” she told him. “In bassist terms, all we have is the meticulously documented word of several different experimenters, who went to disclosed periods in history and altered something minuscule in order to track the butterfly effect upon return. Indescribably risky, as once time is altered it is all but impossible to go back and return things to exactly the state it was previously. Such experiments would therefore under no circumstances be legal today, given that only the person who altered the timeline is capable of remembering the previous one. Unfortunate for scientific purposes, but good for us.” 

“Us,” repeated Harry, unease setting in more firmly. “Why exactly have you told us all of this? Are you suggesting we go… oh Merlin.” 

He stared at her in horror as it all clicked together, and she finally had the decency to look sheepish. 

“Harry,” she said quietly. 

“Wait,” Ron interjected. “Are you suggesting that we go back and–and what?” 

“Not we,” Harry corrected sourly, “me. She wants me to go back and stop Voldemort before he ruined everything. You want me to go back and stop him again.” He directed that last part toward Hermione, his voice strong and infused with all the anger and exasperation he felt. How dare she? 

Hermione looked guilty, but she still held his gaze. “Harry,” she repeated. “I know what you gave. Everything you went through, I was right there with you, wasn’t I? Me and Ron both were. But–”

“But it wasn’t enough,” Harry finished bitterly. He knew that. He’d known that for years. And he hated himself for it. 

“No,” she agreed sadly, “it wasn’t. But we didn’t know. We were children stumbling round blind. We weren’t capable of better.” 

“And now we are,” he spit. 

“And now we are,” she confirmed, apparently forgiving him his reaction. “You can stop him before he rises to power. Before he creates any horcruxes and sinks his claws into our society. And you can save everyone, Harry. They don’t have to die. Your parents, Sirius, Remus and Tonks,” she glanced at Ron, her eyes sad as she added, “Fred.” 

The redhead flinched, his eyes on Harry now, looking like he hadn’t looked at him in years. Pleading, like Harry was a hero again. It made something dark and hateful rise in his chest, its taste like bile at the back of his throat. 

Ron dropped Harry’s gaze, and the brunet looked back at Hermione. “If you’ve known all this since you became an Unspeakable,” Harry said coldly, “why didn’t you ask me sooner?” 

Hermione’s back straightened. “Did you miss my entire speech about the risks of time travel? The only way to stop Voldemort would have been to kill him, Harry. And killing, killing anyone, it affects the people around them in ways you wouldn’t even think of. Even isolated individuals. If people witness death, if people they expected to be there go missing, it would create an effect that ripples outwards and cannot be contained. You might for instance have gone back and tried to kill Voldemort as a young man, or an orphan boy, and you could come back and discover that the caretaker changed her mind about taking in more kids. The kids that should have been there therefore also died, or didn’t have children. Suddenly you’ve erased the existence of dozens or hundreds of muggles you’d never met. And that’s just best case scenario. Godric, Harry this is illegal! Just this conversation could bring down the entire Ministry on my head. It’s not so simple as ‘ why didn’t you tell me before?’!” 

“So what changed?” Harry demanded harshly, thoughtlessly. “If I couldn’t go back and kill him before, why are you asking me to now?” 

“Because, as I just said, we now have a way to remove Voldemort as a problem without causing large scale indirect issues! We can take his magic, not his life. The changes to the timeline will therefore be isolated to his actions alone. Only the wizarding world would be drastically changed, and for the better, if my extensive unsanctioned research on the matter is correct.” 

“Enlighten me,” replied Harry, and Hermione obliged. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle was born December 31st 1926. His mother, a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin, died in childbirth. He was raised in an orphanage until the age of 11, where, according to the records of Albus Dumbledore, he tormented other boys for entertainment. Dumbledore then brought him to Hogwarts, where he became a well respected and academically successful student, though had reportedly very few acquaintances, much less friends. In 1944, following his graduation, nearly all record of him ceases for approximately twenty three years, with the sole exception being a single meeting with Dumbledore regarding a teaching position near the time of his return. He rose by word of mouth in the very late 60s and early 70s, and by 1980 was an extremely prominent figure in pureblood culture. All of this leads me to believe that the best moment to travel to would be the mid-1930s, before Tom could be collected by Dumbledore and introduced to the wizarding world at all. That is the best way we can ensure the least amount of people be negatively impacted, including the muggles who look after him. His staying with them for the remainder of his adolescence still has the potential to ripple, but it is a risk I’ve deemed acceptable due to his notorious distaste for human connection. And as far as Wizarding society goes, based on what records I could access of those who knew him best during his reign and prior to his first demise, I have come away with a 96.97 percent certainty that we, and those we know, will still exist upon your return. And if we don’t…” she paused and took a deep breathe, “if we don’t, I’m alright with that. I set out to fix our world by whatever means possible, and I have had time to make peace with sacrificing for that cause if need be. I know you both, so I know you would do the same.” 

When she finished, there was silence. Ron was clearly at a loss for what to say, but Harry’s mind was racing. He trusted Hermione’s intelligence if nothing else, but his role in things was overwhelming. 

Finally, he spoke. “We’ll probably still exist,” he said, “but it could be we won’t be us. You might not know me, neither of you.” 

At this, Hermione’s eyes went glassy. “I’m so sorry that it has to be you who will remember differently, Harry. If there was another person that I trusted, who knew what Voldemort looked like in his youth. Anyone else who had a chance not to be prosecuted if something went wrong. You’re the only one who can do this. And… and you always were.” 

Harry breathed in, breathed slowly out. “I know. Just… I need a couple of days, okay?” 

“Mate,” began Ron, but then seemed to think better of whatever he’d planned to tell him. He looked at Harry for a long moment, before he quietly said, “Thank you.” 

Chapter Text

Three days later

Ow, Harry thought forlornly. He couldn’t have predicted where he’d be when he woke up, such as it was, but he supposed he had expected better than somewhere that smelled like gin and stale urine, his head pounding something fierce, cheek pressed painfully against the crease of a cold floor. He was sure he hadn’t been this hungover—or possibly still semi-drunk?—since he’d spent his twentieth birthday in Moscow. 

Cracking his eyes open proved to be as bad an idea as he’d assumed it’d be, and it took a measure of willpower not to just continue laying there in protest. If it hadn’t been for the ever-increasing pain on the right side of his face, he wasn’t sure he’d of been able to manage it. As it was, he slowly got himself to his fours, and then to his knees, and took stock of his surroundings. 

He was in the filthiest loo he’d ever seen in his life. And he wasn’t alone in it. A strange girl with heavy makeup and cheaply dyed blonde hair was out cold, but at least still breathing, in the corner; her head rested against one of many suspicious stains on the walls. Her clothing did not leave much—or well, anything—to the imagination, and Harry averted his gaze as best he could considering the space couldn’t have been much bigger than a closet and there weren’t many safe places to look. 

Not helping matters was the riotous sound of drums and electric guitars coming from somewhere in the background; Harry thought, after a moment, that it was likely some sort of horrendous rendition of Nirvana’s You Know You’re Right.  

Brilliant, he thought, I’m in some dingy nightclub. 

Harry sighed to himself. This was a hell of a place to start navigating his new life. Couldn’t he have woken up in a nice bed in some well-broken-in flat like a respectable person? It had to be this? 

He got to his feet with great reluctance, sparing a regretful glance for the girl on the floor before slipping out the door. He checked himself as he walked, finding that he was clad in torn muggle jeans, and his mouth tasted unmistakably of vomit. Neither of these things surprised him, however. What did was that he wore no glasses, though he was able to see fine, and that there was a muggle cellphone in his left pocket. The small square on the little device claimed he had eighteen missed calls and seven messages, all from the same person. All he had to do was flip it open and the line of info flooded the screen, forcing him to keep clicking downwards to see it all.

(02:07)please

(02:05)u better call me back 

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

(00:12)I hate u sometimes

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

(23:56)Harry! im just gonna keep calling

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

(23:32)tell me where u r at least

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

— Missed Call: Ayesha —

(22:09)just answer ur fckin phone 

— Missed Call: Ayesha —

— Missed Call: Ayesha —

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

(22:04) Harry

— Missed Call: Ayesha — 

The most recent message was nearly two hours old. Brilliant, he thought again. Some girl he was clearly supposed to know was worried sick about him, and he’d been passed out drunk on the disgusting floor of a club bathroom not three feet from a half-naked, unconscious woman.  

Merlin, why couldn’t it have been a warm bed? Alone? 

Harry figured the nightclub was more subdued because it was nearing four in the morning, but there were still plenty of intoxicated people to shuffle through. When he finally made it outside, he found himself on a bustling pavement. The street was alive with people—even in his state, he could tell they were very clearly muggles—apparently undeterred by the late hour. The lights were blinding; Harry could see hotels, massive buildings, and a number of clock towers in several directions. It was raining lightly, and people moved around him on the way to their early morning jobs or back to their flats. 

For long moments, all Harry did was look about himself. Then reality set in: he had no idea where he was; he had no idea where home was; he had no idea how far the aforementioned were in relation to each other. He was effectively stuck. 

A horn honked, breaking him from his mounting panic. “Are you getting in?” an older man asked him from behind, and Harry realised he was standing before an empty cab that someone was clearly waiting on. He swiftly moved aside—at least he thought it was swift; the alcohol still in his system wasn’t doing him any favours. 

Alright, he thought slowly, what can I do? 

Not much, was the answer. He hadn’t located a wand on his person when he’d checked. It made him want to slap the version of himself who’d chosen to get into this situation. What wizard doesn’t have their wand on them at all times? Honestly. 

Unfortunately, his irritation didn’t change how all he apparently had was the phone and the clothes on his back. He sighed to himself and then pulled it out again. Hoping it wasn’t too late, he pressed the little green call button. 

She answered on the first ring. 

“Harry?” 

“Uh,” he began carefully, “yeah, it’s me.” 

“Are you okay? Where are you?” 

Harry’s stomach twisted at the concern in her voice. “I don’t, er, actually know.” 

There was a long-suffering sigh. “Well at least you called,” she said, clearly trying to mask her relief behind irritation. “Look around you, what do you see? I’m gonna come find you.” 

“There’s a lot of buildings,” Harry replied. “It’s really bright. I see um, there’s water in the distance?”

“Wow. I’ve no idea why I thought that would work.” Harry could practically hear her eyes rolling over the phone. “Just ask somebody, ullu .” 

This was how Harry discovered he was in Greater Manchester—in all his visits to the muggle world, he’d never quite made it this far out of his way. The muggle woman he’d stopped had given him a pitying look and the name of an intersection, which he had then repeated over the phone and was thus ordered to stay exactly where he was until he was found. He was given no choice but to agree and end the call. About twenty minutes later, an oddly coloured cab pulled in front of him and a girl stepped out into the morning drizzle. 

As soon as she got close enough, Harry’s eyes widened. He knew, despite his somewhat muddled perception, that she was not his girlfriend. 

Her ebony hair rested down her back in a thick braid, contrasting with her soft-olive skin that he was sure would match his own. Even from where he stood, he could see the shape of her face was intensely familiar. That unnamable something was there in her cheekbones, nose, browline. She was… family. 

He had tried to prepare himself as much as he could for the high chance of his having a family here. It was only logical after all. But it was another thing entirely to see someone he’d never met and yet know, instinctively, that they shared blood. It seemed impossible that he wasn’t alone in that way anymore. 

Oblivious to his marveling, to the significance of the moment for Harry, the girl—Ayesha— wasted no time gripping his hand and yanking him back towards the idling vehicle. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” she demanded after all but tossing him bodily inside. “I mean, I saw your face when you left—you looked ready to take a dive off the nearest bridge. You’re so lucky mum didn’t see any of it, Harry. For all our sakes.”

Harry swallowed, unable to take his eyes off of her. His sister, apparently. “I’m sorry,” he forced out, proud his voice stayed steady. 

She scoffed. “Right. I take it you lost your wand again? No way you’d have called back if you didn’t.” 

“I–yeah,” he said lamely, hating that he had no other response to give. It wasn’t fair, he thought petulantly, to have met his actual sister just seconds ago and to already be disappointing her. 

Her lips tightened, but she didn’t respond. In the proximity of the cab, Harry was captivated by the smallest details. Like how, even though he would have assumed they’d be green as his were, her eyes were actually a dark hazel closer to brown. He took in as much as he could while they drove the ways in silence—Harry watching her from the corner of his eye. That was until the car suddenly veered to the right, straight toward the solid barrier between lanes. He didn’t even have time to tense before they’d passed through, and Harry grasped with embarrassing relief that it had been a hidden entrance. It wasn’t too long later that the car stopped and they were asked to exit. Ayesha handed the driver some galleons before shutting the door behind them. 

Harry looked around warily, afraid he’d give away that he didn’t know which flat was his, before she said, “You’re staying at mine tonight. You can go home after you’ve slept it off,” and his shoulders relaxed. Harry noticed with a guilty cringe that there were bags beneath her eyes; she was clearly exhausted, and the sun had to be close to rising. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, knowing it was futile but unable to help it.

She didn’t say anything in reply as she walked toward the door. When they’d stepped inside she said, “Get whatever you want from the fridge, just stay quiet, I’d like Jameel to sleep until six at least.” 

Harry nodded dumbly into the dark. It wasn’t difficult to guess, based on that statement, who Jameel was, and he had no idea what to do with the idea that he was likely an uncle, too. The closest thing he’d ever had was Teddy, and Harry hadn’t spent as much time with him as he probably should have. 

His sister disappeared quietly around the corner without another word. 

Having nothing else to do and his mind on overdrive, Harry tried pulling out his phone. He thought he might glean some information from its contents. Unfortunately, it became clear that he barely used the device for anything. Ayesha and someone named Amjad were the only imputed contacts, and it looked as though he’d never replied to any of the former’s text messages. The latter seemed to have never texted him at all, and he had no way of figuring out who they were to him. 

With a hopeless sigh, Harry laid on the couch and stared up into the darkness, watching the ceiling fan above his head swirl round and round. He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until he was blearily opening his eyes to an odd noise. 

He discovered that he was laying on his side, a blanket draped over him, his back towards the couch. And that there was a pair of large brown eyes regarding him expectantly, set as they were into a small, dimpled-chin face. Harry quickly blinked the sleep away, the smile he felt spreading across his face uncontrollable. 

The baby’s answering smile revealed a handful of visible teeth, the front two with a distinctive gap between them. He wore a zipped up, white footsie with a lion head on the front, and his hair was in wispy tufts that had clearly not been brushed this morning. Given how dim it was in the front room still, there was every chance the boy’s parents had fallen back asleep. 

“Sneak out of bed, did you?” Harry asked, to which Jameel gave a downright adorable giggle that could only be a yes. 

Not questioning the urge when it took him, Harry reached out and grabbed the little boy, balancing him above in the next moment, aeroplane style. Jameel squealed in delight at this turn of events, his small fists flailing excitedly in the air at the sudden play time. After a minute or so, Harry pulled the boy down to blow on his tiny stomach as loudly as possible, and the baby screamed with laughter and fidgeted hard. 

Harry chuckled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so content to be in a moment. The little boy was practically the cutest thing Harry had ever encountered, with his massive cheeks and pudgy limbs. He didn’t look like Harry himself, or even like Ayesha. His skin was lighter, his hair brown instead of black, his eyes a different shape entirely. Harry wondered briefly who he did look like. 

He received an answer he wasn’t prepared for when, not a minute later, a man came around the same corner Ayesha had disappeared behind the night before. “I’d say it’s a bit early for all this excitement.” 

The man—and why was Harry tensing up?—was smiling at his son as he said this, and was thankfully already reaching to take him from Harry’s arms when Harry recognised him completely and the strength abandoned his limbs in shock. He sat upright with a stifled gasp, eyes following the grown man that was a ghost as he patted away into the kitchen with a baby balanced against his side. 

He opened a cabinet behind him to retrieve a very small orange bowl and took a baby spoon from the drawer beneath it. 

“I’d say oatmeal sounds good this morning, huh tiger,” Colin Creevey said to his baby conversationally whilst Harry stared. Thankfully, he managed to get himself mostly back under control before Colin looked up at him.  

It was surreal. His face was unquestionably familiar, even after so long. The same features, only sharpened. He looked every inch a well-kept man in his early twenties, wearing pyjama bottoms and a maroon t-shirt that claimed ‘ it’s a dad thing.’ 

“Didn’t know you stayed the night,” he said, and, preoccupied by shock, it took Harry a moment to pick up on the edge in his tone. 

“Er, yeah. It was late, so…” he trailed off a bit helplessly. 

“Did she give you hangover potion?” Colin inquired, still with that unmistakable edge. Harry didn’t know how to diffuse it. He still couldn’t believe he was expected to have a normal conversation with his biggest fan—the one who had died for him at sixteen. A boy who, in this life, Harry’s own sister evidently loved enough to have a child with. 

“No that’s okay,” said Harry, struggling to sound normal. “I’m fine.” 

Colin went back to feeding Jameel. Like this was a normal morning. 

“I hope you can understand that I’d rather you not still be here when my wife wakes up.” 

The statement was delivered calmly, with no change in inflection, and Harry could only blink. He realised all at once how naive it was to assume that just because Ayesha had gone looking for him things couldn’t be that bad between them. The reality was that he didn’t know these people, and he had no idea how much he was involved in their lives or what their relationships were like. 

That would be up to him to find out. But now, clearly, was not a welcome time. 

“Right,” said Harry, standing up from the sofa and wincing at the uncomfortable tug of his slept-in jeans. “No I understand. I’ll just go now.” 

Colin’s eyebrows went up slightly. “It’s all right,” he told Harry before he could make a move towards the door. “She’s still asleep for the moment. There’s cereal in the pantry.” 

Harry mutely nodded his thanks. 

For a handful of minutes, there was only the sound of breakfast and Jameel’s babbling. Harry was in the midst of wondering if or how he should begin a conversation, when Colin spoke again. 

“Are you planning to show on next Saturday?” he asked, glancing briefly at Harry whilst giving his son another bite. 

Harry swallowed. This was already going poorly. He needed to be clever here, he thought, or it was all going to go down the toilet. “Do you not think I should?” 

A muscle in Colin’s cheek twitched with obvious annoyance, but at least he didn’t look suspicious. “I think your brother deserves better than that answer.” 

Harry’s— what? He had a brother, too? Merlin, he was going to be blindsided every five minutes at this rate. 

“I’m going to come,” Harry promised, hoping that was the right answer. He decided it must have been when Colin’s shoulders relaxed, just the slightest bit. 

Harry took a bite of cereal. He looked around a bit, trying not to observe too blatantly for fear Colin would realise Harry had never seen his own sister’s home before. It had seemed smaller last night in the dark, but now Harry could see the hallway beyond the living room went a ways down, towards and past a set of carpeted stairs to another living space. Harry reckoned where he’d slept was built to be a dining room, but Ayesha or Colin must have opted not. What’s more, there was no shortage of little items to be found every handful of feet. Colourful blocks and rings, a binkie, tiny shoes, even a miniature broom. 

He felt another pang of regret for not being as familiar with these things as he ought to have been; he hadn’t been a present-enough godfather to Teddy—he didn’t even know if Teddy still existed, but was valiantly working not to think of it. 

Harry returned his attention to his nephew. The baby was, evidently, full to his satisfaction, because he made small noises of refusal to each bite Colin persisted to give him, attempting to whack the spoon whenever it came too close to his mouth. Harry couldn’t resist smiling. 

Eventually Colin sighed, though it lacked any real peevishness. “Fine, fine,” he told his son. “I get it, all done.” 

Jameel grinned widely as his dad stood up to put the only-half-empty bowl of mush in the sink. Then he spun around with sudden, exaggerated excitement. “You wanna go wake up your mum?” he asked in the way one might ask ‘wanna go to Disney?’ Jameel gave a very enthusiastic cross between a gurgle and a squeak to this and put his chubby arms up in the universal gesture for ‘get me now.’ Colin laughed and began to unstrap him from the chair. He glanced over at Harry then, who abruptly recalled that this was his cue to leave, and stood awkwardly. 

“Right, I know,” he said, and turned for the door. 

“Harry,” said Colin, halting the older man once again. Except this time when he turned back in inquiry, Colin lifted his brow and said, “You could just use the floo.” 

Chapter Text

He must’ve hired some sort of interior designer, Harry decided almost immediately, because he couldn’t imagine himself putting together a place like this. The flat— his flat, was effortlessly modern. 

After awkwardly standing at his sister’s floo for several seconds, he’d decided to just wing it. He’d stepped in and called out for his flat—hoping profusely that their homes were connected enough not to require an address—and been dumped onto hardwood flooring. Now he stood surrounded by pale grey walls. The space was wide open, the majority of the far wall made of quality glass that allowed for looking out onto a quaint balcony with white railing. The wall to Harry’s left had bookshelves built into it, all filled with various volumes he couldn’t imagine having had the time to read. 

Before him was a smart living area—a thick white rug rested in front of a flat, black sofa and matching loveseat. A look to the right revealed a small but impressive kitchen, a white-marble island in the centre. Farther beyond the kitchen space was a door which could really only lead to a bedroom. 

Harry opted to put that one off, heading instead for the way onto the balcony: a small door set into the section of wall that separated the expansive panes of glass. 

He found that he couldn’t have been lower than the tenth storey. The street below him was already crowded due to work traffic, a main intersection relatively close by. He thought the buildings around him had the look of London, and relaxed at the familiarity. 

The early morning air was crisp, making Harry further regret his former choice of clothes the longer he stood there. Really, he needed to just go inside and find something suitable to change into. Or sleep more. There was no reason to be intimidated by a bedroom. 

There wasn’t much point to the balcony itself anyway. Despite spanning the whole length of the outer wall, it was thin and parse—only a single black coil chair and a matching glass table occupied the space, the latter bare except for a used ashtray. Harry paused at that, assessing himself. He’d woken in the club hours ago, and he didn’t seem to be craving anything. Not an addict then, he decided. Though, given that he apparently partied like an alcoholic, he supposed it wasn’t too much of a surprise he’d also smoke for the fuck of it. Sparing his former self an internal eye roll, he picked up the tray from the table and went back inside to find a trash bin.

After depositing the dish into the kitchen bin, he turned to stare at his bedroom door in trepidation. It was entirely likely that he was about to find out exactly who he’d been. He took a step forward, and nearly flew out of his skin when his fireplace roared to life. 

“POTTER!” shouted a voice that had Harry’s spine locking up instantly. A voice he deeply despised. He turned, unwillingly, to find Rita Skeeter’s face staring upwards at him from the flames. 

“You’re here this time, how lovely,” she said a moment later, blatantly irritated in a way she’d never been directly to his face. For as long as Harry could remember, she was always a kiss-arse, always hounding him to give her just the ‘tiniest little tidbit’ about himself so she could have something frivolous to publish that week. Apparently his lack of fame meant things were quite the opposite here. 

“Can I help you?” he asked coldly. 

“You can clean up your tone, to start,” she practically hissed; Harry nearly took a step backward, unprepared for the vitreol there. “I have half a mind to pull you off this story for how long it’s taken you. Do you think I’m paying you to do nothing?” 

Harry could stare, his face slack, as she went on. There was nothing he could do; if he said so much as a single word, she would surely know he hadn’t the faintest clue what she was on about. His mind was far too sluggish in putting together everything she was telling him, anyway—too dumbstruck by the very idea that he would ever work for Skeeter. 

“—anything!” she was ranting, sounding distant to Harry’s ringing ears. “You and Brown have until tomorrow morning to put the Longbottom story on my desk . Do not test me further, Potter.” 

She vanished before Harry could formulate any response whatsoever. He stood there, immobile for several moments. 

This complicated things, he thought. Immensely. 

Not only did he have to be his family’s black sheep party boy, but, on top of that, his job was to follow people around and take photos… just like people used to do to him. And then write out stories about those people for delivery to the woman who had slandered him for half a decade and been a relentless thorn for the rest. 

Harry barely made it to the kitchen sink before he was suddenly retching. 

After he’d emptied the contents of his stomach, he slid slowly down to sit on the floor. He stared at the dark cabinets in silence, allowing himself time to just breathe like Hermione would tell him to. And then, he knew, she would tell him to get it together. Figure it out. Adapt. It was along the lines of his earlier thoughts, before he’d been properly thrown off by the full reality of his life. He had to get better at rolling with these punches because he was sure they were going to keep coming. It was going to get worse if he wasn’t at least trying to prepare himself. 

New determination overtaking him, Harry stood up and stalked towards his bedroom. He threw the door open without any further hesitation and looked around. He quickly assessed that it had the same smart sort of setup as the rest of the flat: the walls the same neutral grey, white trim between it and the dark wood. Beyond that, there was a massive black bed, its dark-green duvet made up plainly in the center of the room, beneath which silvery silk sheets peaked out to match the pattern on the pillows. A carpet that was twin to the one in the outer room was on the floor to the side. Unlike what he’d seen so far, though, the bedroom showed more signs of being lived in. 

A used white towel had been tossed onto the bedding, and there were pyjama bottoms that had been kicked into the corner. The door to a small bathroom was ajar; a quick glance inside revealed a green shower curtain left open and various items strewn about the sink. Harry returned his attention to the bedroom, going deeper inside. He paused by the dresser, distracted by two framed pictures sat one in front of the other. 

The first was of his parents, his dad holding his mum bridal style and spinning her around in what looked to be an empty room. Lily’s hands covered her face while her scarlet hair swung with the movement. James laughed brightly, face full of adoration that made Harry’s chest constrict. 

The other picture was of Ayesha. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen, her arm being tugged by a small boy who was probably seven at the oldest. If it’d been a different photo, Harry might’ve thought that the boy was him. If not for the brown eyes, that was. There could be no doubt this was his little brother. As Harry watched, Ayesha rolled her eyes and conceded to picking the boy up—obviously quite the effort by the momentary strain on her young face. But Harry could see the small smile playing on her lips as she glanced in the direction of whoever had taken the photo. 

It was only because Harry had been bending so close to see the details that he noticed the small line on the dresser where dust hadn’t gathered. There had been another frame there, he realised, and it couldn’t have been moved very long ago. 

Wasting no time, he set to opening the dresser drawers before him in search of the missing photo. It was beneath a layer of pants and socks in the second one down that he located a wand. Relief threatened to buckle his knees, especially when the magic within him seemed to relax at the feel of it. He privately thanked Merlin and then pocketed the wood. 

When a further search of the drawers turned up only more average clothing, he directed his attention to the other open door in the room. Through it there was a moderately-sized walk-in closet. 

In the next fifteen minutes, Harry came to understand two things about himself. The first was that he or someone close to him had a distinctive interest in his appearance. It seemed that the normal, muggle shirts and trousers he’d found in his quick search of the drawers must have been for blending in or avoiding attention—probably whilst polyjuiced—because the costly, tailored pieces in his closet indicated very different taste. Suits and dress robes with obscene price tags were in abundance, along with closely fitted designer trousers and button-up shirts. All around him was cashmere, silk, linen. Even the shoes were of nice, supple leather. The overarching style remained deceptively simple, but the expense was still mind-boggling. The clothes had become less of a concern, though, in the face of the second thing: he was terribly good at his terrible job. 

This realisation came along with the discovery of the files, which nearly sent him into panic territory again. 

There were so, so many pictures. 

Currently, he was sat on the white carpet looking at the files spilled all over his closet floor. Photo after photo of people, evidently celebrities. Quidditch players on the pitch, those same players walking down the street, or kissing people he didn’t recognise, or on their front stoops looking over their shoulders. Band members, performers, athletes in every manner of living—all with that familiar expression of annoyance. And there were papers throughout: statements, transcriptions, stories he must have started on and then discarded when they proved not captivating enough. 

It was when he’d found what Skeeter had been demanding that he’d had to sit down. It was a thicker folder than any of the others, and it was full of Neville. Neville, who was evidently quite a famous singer. He looked very different from the Neville Harry had last seen—the quiet, worn down Herbology professor. This Neville looked inexplicably younger. His hair had been dyed a dark brown, and he seemed fond of smart clothes and cosmetics. According to what Harry’s former self had captured and written, Neville was also rather fond of one of his managers, who Harry very much recognised as well. Having seen more than enough, Harry hastily shoved everything back inside and slapped the file closed. If Skeeter thought he was going to give her this, she was mental. 

Harry looked at all the pictures and folders a moment longer before his resolve hardened and he grabbed for his wand.

“Incendio,” he said, and it was all ashes. He vanished the mess a second later with not a single regret. Nodding to himself, he stood up and left the closet, shutting it behind him with a firm click. Harry was in somewhat of a daze as he grabbed the rumpled pyjama bottoms from the floor, the towel from atop the bed, and set towards the bathroom for a shower. 

Ten minutes later, heedless of the bright sun flooding through his bedroom window, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

—Dad had that frown he always got when he was mad but didn’t want to say so. Even mum didn’t look happy. Harry didn’t see what the problem was, it was just the Malfoys. Harry had been fine playing with their son sometimes when they were little. He was sure the resort was big enough for everyone. 

“Didn’t know you had lodging up here, Narcissa,” Harry’s mum was saying, sounding how she did whenever Dad’s boss came over. 

Miss Malfoy smiled, but it looked a bit weird. Harry looked at Ayesha, to be sure she saw it too. His sister just shrugged at him in her too-big coat. 

“We usually reside in my family’s cabin in the north, actually. This is to be a one time excursion.”

“Draco’s latest whim is to ski. My wife decided to indulge him,” added Mr. Malfoy. Harry thought he must have forgot how mean Mr. Malfoy sounded when he talked, or else just never had heard him before. He didn’t like how the man looked when he said that, either, and resisted shrinking behind Mum. Harry would be ten this year already; that was much too old to be afraid of someone’s weird dad. 

The familiar blond boy the adults were talking about came running up to his mum a couple minutes later, asking in really fast words if he could finally go outside now their family was all set up in their room. 

Miss Malfoy let him go with a wave, and then Harry’s mum suggested they should go outside and play too. Harry and Ayesha didn’t have to be told twice before following Draco out into the snow. 

It was really bright outside, and Harry had to cover his eyes for a second. He held onto Ayesha’s hand as they walked further. 

It was freezing. 

When they found Draco, he looked up from the half-snowman he’d started to make and smiled, big and dimpled on both reddening cheeks. 

“Hi,” he said to Harry, his very grey eyes sparkling. “It’s Harim, right?” 

Ayesha giggled at that, and Harry glared at her before he looked at the other boy again. “Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly. “But um, it’s just Harry, yeah? Only Dhadhi- er, my grandma calls me Harim.” 

“And Dad,” Ayesha said. 

“That’s only when he’s mad,” Harry said, wishing she’d stop talking before she made him sound thick. 

Draco blinked at them. “Oh well, cool. So, you want to have a snowball fight?” 

Harry absolutely—

Harry blinked his eyes open, the dream vanishing as abruptly as it had begun. It was like he’d been there, he reflected as he sat up in bed. It’d felt too real, far too detailed. 

As though he’d really just been a little boy, at a family ski resort with Draco Malfoy, explaining why he didn’t go by his real name anymore. 

Never mind that he—the conscious him—had not known it. 

Harim . 

“Harim,” he said aloud to his bedroom, testing it. It seemed odd in his mouth. Although it made sense, he supposed, that he’d have a culture. Roots. One’s racist aunt wasn’t likely to tell one much about one’s father’s ethnicity, after all. It shouldn’t be so ground-breaking. But still, how was it that no one ever saw fit to tell him his own name? How could no one have known it? 

He realised then that he couldn’t recall seeing his own birth certificate, not even once. 

Harry shook this off the best he could for now as he crawled out of bed. There were more pressing things to deal with.

And the other thing, Malfoy… well, he’d deal with that if ever he had to.

No, what mattered right then was the dream itself. Because it surely wasn’t one. It was a memory— his memory. From a life he hadn’t lived. And he didn’t need Hermione to tell him that if something like that happened once, it was going to happen again. The problem was in that there was no way to know if this was a good thing or a very, very bad one. 

A glance towards clock on the dresser informed him that it was 13:07. As he sifted through the drawers for something to wear, he wondered at where he was meant to be right now. All he wanted to do was go find the Hermione of this timeline and find out if she could help him. He knew it was a knee-jerk reaction—his Hermione had already told him everything she knew and wouldn’t have withheld something like this. Still, he didn’t have anybody else to tell him what his next step was supposed to be. 

He certainly wasn’t going in to work, wherever that even was. Skeeter could go right ahead and fire him as far as he was concerned. 

So Harry found himself in his kitchen. Cooking had always been his way of dealing with things, he reflected, or not dealing with them. After the war, Ginny would come home to find him surrounded by various roast dishes and lancashire hotpot, whilst shepherd’s pie cooled on the counter and a cake baked in the oven. She would just shake her head, and then later on take the heaps of food upstairs to the neighbours. 

It never mattered, the cooking allowed him to think. And it did now, as well. He was mid-way through shortcake, flour on his wrists, and mentally reviewing everything he’d learned so far, when his thoughts turned to Neville and it struck him. Sure, Skeeter could fire him, but then she’d just get someone to find out what Harry already had. 

Which meant that Neville needed to be warned; he had to be told to be more careful. 

With a new goal in mind, the anxious buzzing in Harry’s mind lessened considerably. He took his time finishing up, using it to consider how he might go about this. He already knew where Neville lived and even frequented—a begrudging thank you to the meticulous efforts of his former arsehole self—so finding him wasn’t to be much of an issue. It was more how Harry would approach and, most importantly, convince Neville that he was trying to help, not issuing some sort of threat. 

Harry was cleaning up to head out when he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective toaster on the counter and had the thought that he looked exceptionally normal. A look down showed him the plain trousers and blue t he’d picked out an hour ago, along with some worn trainers he’d found in the hall closet. And wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing he must wear when he was out stalking for money? It was a lot like what the paparazzi was always wearing when he used to spot them watching him get his morning coffee, after all. 

And perhaps it wouldn’t have fazed him if his fully stocked closet hadn’t more than indicated that this wasn’t how he regularly dressed. If he walked up to Neville like this, there was a high chance he’d end up sending the opposite sort of message he was aiming for. 

Harry sighed aloud before turning and setting resignedly for his closet. 

He’d thought it was going to be a nightmare putting together anything suitable, seeing as he’d never in his life had an eye for fashion. But, in the end, the selection was somehow simple, like maybe it’d been arranged to require the least amount of consideration from him. Whatever the explanation, it took him less than ten minutes to throw together an outfit that of course screamed wealth, trading in the ratty shoes for some rich brown oxfords. It was distinctly odd, he was thinking on his way out, looking down at his navy pullover, how second nature it’d been—

And then his contemplation was derailed when he pulled his front door open only to find a girl standing there, her fist raised in the air, obviously having intended to knock quite aggressively. 

She startled a bit, and Harry had that single moment to think that she was likely the most conventionally beautiful girl he’d ever seen, before her wand came up and she hexed him viciously, totally without preamble. 

Harry’s breath released in a harsh gust as the biting pain put him right on his arse. It was as though he’d been severely tased, directly in the gut and face. It took him several long moments to get his bearings again, all the while staring up at the terrible girl in shock. 

She gazed down at him callously, bringing to mind images of particularly pitiless deities. He took in her height, quite tall with high heels boosting her further. Her lips were full, perfectly shaped, and her cheekbones seemed sharp enough to cut glass. She had exceptionally fair skin, the colour only beat out by hair so blonde it was nearly white. And it was wrapped up into a high bun, like a perfect halo above her head. 

If goddesses wore plain pencil skirts and blazers, there would be no doubt. 

“What in Godric’s name—?” Harry croaked as he finally pulled himself back to his feet—only to earn the same wand being jammed painfully into his jugular. 

It’s bearer sneered at him in utter contempt, ice blue eyes blazing. “That is what I should have done Friday night, you maggot.” 

At that, Harry did all he could to force himself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to harm this girl, especially since Harry so lacked all context. “I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to you,” he tried to say evenly, despite the painful aftershocks still causing him to wince. “But—” 

The girl’s nostrils flared; her eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m sorry,” she said in disbelief. “I’m sure you did not just say whatever you’ve done to me.” 

Harry promptly floundered. 

It didn’t take long for her to realise he would not be offering explanation. 

“Wow,” she said in amazed tones, dropping the wand back to her side. “I’ve actually no idea why I even expected better.” 

When Harry remained helpless to respond, her gaze cooled impossibly further. “Fine,” she said through her teeth, stepping harshly into his personal space. “I didn’t come to hear any wretched excuses anyway. Listen carefully, because I’ve decided this is the only warning I’ll be offering you, Potter. I have had it; you are utterly out of chances. So if you dare to humiliate my brother one more fucking time, know that you’ll be thinking fondly of my hexes. Because instead, I will be painfully, permanently castrating you. Do I make myself clear?” 

Harry blinked, and blinked again. “Yes,” he said, because there was no other option. “Crystal.” 

Her slight hesitation was the only sign of her surprise at his agreement, before she controlled her expression again. “Good,” she said in her posh accent, and then jutted out her chin. “Now move aside, I need to use your floo.” 

Mostly due to his still reeling, Harry did as directed. She didn’t spare him another glance as she stepped into the fireplace, called some unfamiliar address, and vanished into green flame. 

Harry stared at his empty flat. “What the hell.”

Chapter Text

It was extremely lucky, Harry thought to himself, that he’d spent significant time in muggle London. All the entrances to the wizarding world were the same, so once he’d pinpointed exactly where his flat was, it had been simple to find the nearest one to it. And from there, the information about Neville had held up. 

Harry had only had to check three other places before he eventually found Neville at Lewis & Williams, a popular wizarding club for elites. In his timeline, Harry had been invited to patron on no less than fifteen separate occasions since the end of the war. But now, as a non-celebrity, the front staff only eyed him with calculation and informed him he was not allowed in. In response, Harry had handed over a ridiculous amount of galleons with a tight smile, for which they’d looked the other way while he’d slipped inside. 

He was glad he’d had the feeling to put on better clothes before leaving his flat, or even the money might not have done it. 

The atmosphere was quite relaxed for such opulence; high society members mingled about in fine dress robes or slacks, drinking lightly whilst jazz music played low in the background. Wait staff escorted other guests to tables with dim lighting, from which comfortable laughter could be heard. It was easy to see the appeal from the perspective of a celebrity who didn’t get much in the way of peace. 

It took hardly any time at all to spot a certain singer, even with how different his hair made him look in person. He was sitting alone at the bar, eyeing the whiskey in his glass with an absent expression. Harry took a deep breath and sat down on the stool next to him. The other man looked up at the movement, and his fingers visibly tightened around his drink. 

“‘lo Neville,” said Harry, hoping if he was calm, things would go smoother. 

“You lot are getting bolder,” Neville said flatly, not bothering with pleasantries. 

“I’m not here for… anything like that,” Harry began, but Neville cut him off with a scoff. 

“I’m sure,” he said, and then downed the rest of his drink in one gulp before starting to stand. 

Harry abandoned all pretense and reached out to grip Neville’s arm. “Wait, please,” he said. “Hear me out, just this once. Please.” 

“Two pleases? That’s something from the man who called me a talentless interloper not two weeks ago. You losing your touch or something, Potter?” 

Harry wished he could punch his former self in the face. “I’ve been an arse,” said Harry, “and I want to try to make it right. All I want is for you to sit back down and let me help you.” 

He deliberately kept his gaze locked with Neville’s, trying to force as much sincerity into his expression as possible. Amazingly, it must have worked, because Neville wordlessly did as asked. He watched Harry expectantly, suspiciously. 

“Muffliato,” Harry cast; Neville’s expression shifted into a quizzical one. 

“What does that—” 

“It doesn’t matter,” dismissed Harry. “Just trust me that no one can hear anything we’re saying.” 

“Imagine if that spell went mainstream, eh. You might be out of a job.” 

“I don’t care about my job or I wouldn’t be here,” Harry told him bluntly. 

“Well that’s certainly new.” 

“You have no idea,” responded Harry. “Now look. I want to make it clear that I’m not trying to threaten you. I’m not going to do anything and I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I’m just here to warn you.” 

“Warn me,” repeated Neville, wariness flashing across his face. 

Harry sighed. This was definitely going to be the hard part. “I know. I figured the two of you out.” 

Neville did a remarkable job of keeping his expression neutral, but Harry could see the way his face whitened just the slightest bit. “I don’t know what you mean,” he lied. 

“You and Blaise.” 

Neville just looked at him. 

“Neville,” Harry sighed. “Listen to me. You have to be more careful if you’re going to keep doing this. He’s not just your manager; he’s the head of your label. And that might just be one thing, if he wasn’t married.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Harry retorted, getting frustrated now. “I had the story all written up. I had photos.” 

“You keep saying had,” Neville pointed out after a long moment of silence. “You had. But you don’t anymore?” 

“I destroyed them,” Harry explained, dismissive. “It’s ashes. But that’s not the point. If I could find out, if I could have taken that many pictures, then someone else could too. My quitting isn’t going to stall Skeeter for long. And if you don’t stop, or at least start being more discreet, you’re going to get found out by someone who will actually run with it. You’re on top of the world right now; we all know you’re this close to hitting the muggle charts, even. But you’re not going to be everyone’s favourite rock star anymore if you let yourself be painted as a home-wrecking whore.” 

“It’s not like that!” Neville exploded, and then looked around in momentary horror before realising he, in fact, couldn’t be heard. He took a deep breath. “They have an open marriage, okay? Kelsey’s known about us all along and she doesn’t care because now Blaise’s dad is dead they’re going to get a divorce as soon as their marriage contract is up, anyway. Seven months. I’m not some side piece. He loves me.” 

It was a short moment before Harry ceased gaping and cleared his throat. “Be that as it may,” he said finally, “I was only saying how it would look. Don’t let the Prophet slander you like this.” 

“You say that like you aren’t one of them,” Neville said, sounding genuinely confused now. “It doesn’t make sense. Since when would you even care about anyone but yourself? This story would have been a goldmine for you.” 

Harry felt his cheeks flush, hating that he couldn’t refute it. Hating the lie. “I’m not here in defense of what I’ve done. I told you, I’m trying to make it right.” 

Neville swallowed. “What can I really do, though?” he eventually asked. “You lot— er I mean, Skeeter’s people are vultures. I can’t just stop seeing him. Do you reckon I ought to get out in front of it?” 

Harry realised that Neville was asking him for expertise now, and abruptly floundered. He had no expertise to speak of, because he wasn’t actually a journalist. “I’m not… sure…” he hedged carefully, “I’ll uh, I’ll figure it out okay?” Harry barely hid his wince at the implied promise. “Just, be as careful as you can until we speak again, all right?” 

“Oh um, okay...?” Neville said, like it was a question. Likely because Harry seemed barmy all of a sudden. He cringed to himself; leaving immediately was probably a good idea. Unfortunately, someone else had other ideas. A feminine hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, and he startled. 

Harry checked himself right on time, managing not to lose his composure at the sight of Lavender Brown, very much alive. She was clearly dressed appropriately for their surroundings: a pink cocktail dress and heels so high and thin it seemed impossible to look so effortless in them. And her face was strained into a smile, contrasting with the promise of violence in her eyes when she shot Harry a look. It felt like it was a warning, one for which context was a mystery to him. 

“Neville Longbottom,” she was saying now, “it’s wonderful to officially meet you.” 

But Neville was looking at her with the same coldness he’d shown Harry when he’d first sat down. “Perhaps to you,” Neville allowed. 

Lavender laughed like this was an adorable joke instead of a barb. “Good looking and funny,” she said. 

Neville looked at Harry with a raised brow. “What, is she in on your change of heart?” 

“No,” Harry answered at the same time Lavender said, “Absolutely.” 

Harry looked her over, took in the calculation plain in her gaze, and got it. 

You and Brown have until tomorrow morning to put the Longbottom story on my desk, Skeeter had said. Him and Brown. Lavender was his partner, but she didn’t know what he knew, or she wouldn’t be here. 

Neville was glancing between the two of them cautiously, and Lavender was barely keeping her false smile on her face. 

“Don’t say anything to her, Neville, ever,” Harry warned, and Neville’s back straightened. He nodded. 

Lavender gave Harry a look of outrage. “You prick!” 

Harry stood up, wishing Neville a quick farewell before heading towards the exit. Lavender stormed after him, her heels clacking loudly against the floor. He had half a mind to avoid the coming confrontation entirely and apparate away before she could catch up to him, but he knew that was only a delay. And besides, he needed all the information he could get at the moment. So once he reached the pavement outside, he slowed and allowed her to grab his arm and yank him around. 

“What the fuck was that?!” she demanded. 

Harry shrugged, trying to seem arrogant and hoping that would suffice. 

“Oh no. You owe me an explanation for why I had to come into work to find out that not only did you not give Skeeter your ‘epic’ story, but now she’s hounding my arse and accusing us of slacking off for the whole month,” Lavender yelled. “And then I go in to see what exactly you think you’re doing, and you tell Neville Longbottom to never even speak to me?!” 

Harry stood his ground. “I wish I had a better reason for you. But you would have tried to trap him into telling you something and then you would have gone right to Skeeter.” 

Lavender looked at him incredulously, her eyes wide. “In case you’ve forgotten, that’s our job.” 

“It won’t be mine for much longer,” said Harry. 

At that, her mouth opened into a small ‘o’ of surprise, face slacking somewhat. “Harry,” she said slowly, her voice softened considerably. “Is something going on?” 

Harry hadn’t expected her to become so gentle. Her concern seemed so real. He found himself telling part of the truth. “I decided I don’t want to… be like this anymore. I’m trying to change.” 

Lavender blinked several times. “Is this about Draco?” she asked finally, throwing Harry off completely. 

“Huh?” he said dumbly. 

She waved her hand in the air in some sort of all-encompassing gesture Harry suspected he was meant to interpret. “I mean, I assumed you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I did overhear it. You have to know everyone there did, really. But Harry, if you feel guilty, whatever you’re doing here isn’t the solution. You can’t just quit your job. I need you.” 

Harry didn’t have the first clue what to say to any of that. 

“Look,” she went on patiently, “what say we go back to yours and talk things out. I could go for some tea about now.” 

That was a bad idea of insane proportions, he knew. It was safer to make a quick exit and find somewhere to be alone, to sort through this mentally. But she was giving him such a worried look that, somehow, Harry heard himself agreeing. Relief crossed her face. And then they were apparating into his flat. 

She sat on his sofa without hesitation, curling her legs up onto the leather like she had done it a thousand times before. And Harry was beginning to get the sense that perhaps she had. She patted the space beside her with an expectant look. Warily, Harry obeyed the unspoken command. 

“Giffie!” 

Harry nearly jumped a foot in the air at the abrupt shout, and the immediate resounding crack that followed. 

“Madam Lavie be wanting something?” asked the exceptionally small house elf. 

Lavender smiled kindly. “Just some tea for us if you would, Giffie.” 

After the elf had gone and returned and gone again, Lavender turned back to Harry. “So if it isn’t Draco, do fill me in on why you’ve suddenly gone mental.” 

“I don’t know what you’d like me to tell you,” admitted Harry. “Like I said, I want to be different. I’m tired of ruining people’s lives for money or whatever.” 

Lavender’s expression shifted into one of offense. “Hey. That kind of sounds like you’re judging, like, everyone at work, including me. Suddenly you have a problem with telling the truth?” 

“One person’s business isn’t everyone’s business, even if it’s the truth,” Harry retorted harshly. 

The girl looked at him for a long time. “Wow. You’re serious about this aren’t you,” she said. “You’re really just going to throw away four years of hard work and dedication, when you’re a few big name stories from the top, just because what? Some sanctimonious Sally got in your head?” 

“No one got in my head,” Harry defended. “I just woke up and realised that it was wrong.” 

She stared hard at him, as if searching his face for something. A moment later, she seemed to have found it, because her face smoothed deliberately. “What did you do with the story, Harry.” 

Harry stood up, walking towards his kitchen. She followed him, watching him from the other side of the island. “Harry.” 

“I destroyed it,” he told her, looking her straight in the eye. “I destroyed all of it. Every picture I had. Every story I’ve written. I realise that plenty of them have been out in the world for a long time and I can’t take them back, but I can certainly not add to it.” 

“You’ve gone mad,” Lavender breathed. 

Harry shook his head. “No, I-”

“Yes you have! How dare you?! You’d like to get me fired too, is that it?! What the hell am I supposed to give Skeeter?!” 

“That’s the only reason you came over here, wasn’t it?” Harry shot back. “All about the story, huh. Don’t even actually care what might be going on in my life if it gets you closer to—”

“You shut your mouth!” Lavender cut him off, enraged. “You are really something else today! Throwing accusations at me like I’ve not been your best friend for ten years! Since when have I ever cared about a story more than I care about you?! You’re the one who’s throwing me under the bus right now you bastard!” 

That rendered Harry silent. Lavender Brown was Harry’s best friend? How had that come to be? 

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally said. “I… things are just really complicated right now and—”

“Then explain it to me, Harry. You know that’s all you have to do.” 

But he couldn’t. There was no way to explain without revealing everything. 

After so much silence, Lavender spoke quietly. “I can’t remember the last time you kept secrets from me.” 

Harry abruptly felt awful for how hurt she sounded. “Lavender,” he said uselessly. 

“I’ll let Skeeter know you quit.” 

She disapparated without further comment. Harry sat down on one of his kitchen stools, his mind once again a jumbled mess. 

Chapter Text

“Harry, buddy, you wanna come in and see?” 

Harry gestured at his sister helplessly. He didn’t want to move if it meant she’d wake up. They’d been here forever. 

Dad chuckled quietly before coming over and gently lifting Aya from Harry’s lap and into his arms. She stirred but didn’t wake. 

Harry followed Dad into the room, where Mum smiled at him from the bed. She looked very tired to him. But there was a blanket in her arms.

Harry had seen babies before, but he’d never seen one that small. His eyes widened in amazement. 

“Harry, this is Amjad.” 

“Can I hold him Mum?” Harry asked quietly. 

“Of course you can honey. He’s your brother.” 

—

After three days of being stuck in his flat, Harry thought he was going to combust. He’d explored the place from top to bottom, more than once. He knew all the titles on his living room shelf and even started to read a few. He’d tried on every piece of high-priced clothing that he owned in several different combinations. He’d searched everywhere for photo albums and come up empty—the only exception being the missing frame he’d noticed that first morning. He’d found it in a box at the bottom of the hallway closet and been surprised into loud laughter. 

Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass had been on a tilt-a-whirl. The photo was an endless loop of a teenage Malfoy sticking out his tongue as he flew by, followed up by Greengrass, her middle finger in the air. 

Harry had spent a long time wondering at why he’d have hidden it away before shrugging and deciding to put it up on the shelf. 

But Harry was still bored and restless. After that, he’d gone on to clean the whole place despite it not being actually necessary. He’d made a truly exuberant amount of food for the neighbours across the way from him. And, most importantly, he’d dreamed. The clearest had been one about the day his brother—Amjad—was born. But there had been another that was vague, almost as though it were a memory of a feeling instead of an event. He had the impression that Malfoy was involved. Malfoy’s obvious presence in Harry’s life was becoming more distressing due to the fact that Harry hadn’t yet seen him at all. 

Harry was sitting on his sofa that evening, trying to force his mind to focus on the novel he was reading—a muggle-written story about firemen who weren’t really firemen—when an owl tapped against the glass. He hadn’t gotten any of them, only a couple of texts from Ayesha on his phone, which he’d eventually figured out was for sibling-only communication. Glad for something to do, he stood quickly and allowed the barn owl in through the centre door. It rested lightly on his shoulder, allowing him to remove the folded up parchment from its leg and waiting while he found it a treat. 

He waited until it’d disappeared back into the night before opening the note. 

I lied. I told Skeeter you’ve been ill—she’s seconds from sacking us both, I’d imagine. But I’ve been handling it. I was gonna give you more time to get over your do-gooder kick but Parvati bailed and I really need backup tonight. If you love me at all you’ll meet me outside Abraham’s cafe asap. 

Lav

Harry glared down at the parchment, extremely irritated. It took a good handful of minutes to convince himself to go. It would throw more red flags at her if he didn’t, he reasoned, and then she might become even more of a bother. If nothing else, it wasn’t like he had other plans. 

As he walked through the cold streets in his plain garb, he reflected that it was lucky she’d defined the meeting place instead of saying something along the lines of ‘our spot’ or what have you. Then he’d have had to stay home and make an arse of himself—or more of one, that was.

When Harry reached the cafe, there was no one waiting outside for him, and he was far too cold not to go in. He sat at an empty table and ordered a black coffee when the barista came by, mostly to warm his hands. 

It was a quaint little spot, he decided. Ordinary wizards and witches mingled around, standing in groups and drinking coffee, enjoying their evening sheltered from the cold weather. 

The bell above the door jangled, and Harry looked over instinctively, only to catch his breath. 

Hermione was laughing as she entered, her eyes bright and smile wide as she held the door for whoever was following her in. Her hair was in thick braids that were pulled into a long ponytail falling down her back. She wore a stylish, red trench coat tied with a bow that cut off at the knees. 

It was all he had time to notice before her companions came through the door one after the other, and Harry‘s eyes widened. George and Fred—and Fred— were grinning, their fair skin flushed bright red. One of them said something, and all three chuckled again as Hermione started toward the front counter. Before Harry eyes, one twin reached out—Harry was sure it was Fred—and gripped Hermione around the waist. She didn’t resist as he pulled her back into his chest and then spun her around, bending down to plant a quick kiss on her smiling lips. Hermione lightly smacked his chest, rolling her eyes, but the movement drew Harry’s eye to the massive diamond on her finger. 

George shoved Fred in the shoulder and quipped something, and Fred laughed. 

The whole thing wasn’t more than thirty seconds, but it left Harry utterly floored. Fred wasn’t only alive and happy, he was with Hermione. Who had never looked so openly carefree in all the time Harry’d known her. 

He was still staring while they ordered, George chatting up the barista behind the counter, their group’s very presence filling the room. People seemed to gravitate toward them, coming up just to chat and wandering off with smiles. Fred kissed Hermione no less than five times in just the minutes Harry sat watching them. 

And then, of course, they noticed him. Harry’s stomach dropped when Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her mouth setting into a straight line. 

“Didn’t see you there, Potter,” said George, not overtly hostile, but close. 

“Think that might’ve been the point, mate,” Fred pointed out to his brother, stepping slightly closer to Hermione. 

“No,” Harry promised quickly. “I wasn’t, like, I mean—I’m not doing anything. I’m just getting coffee, s’all.” 

“Good,” said Hermione after a tense moment. “Keep it that way.” 

With that, she set towards the exit, allowing Fred to take her hand as they walked out. Harry was out of his seat before he’d consciously decided. 

“Wait!” he called after them. The trio paused on the pavement, turning to face him as he caught up. George’s look was hard, Fred’s suspicious, but Hermione seemed unable to hide her curiosity. “Something you need?” she asked, tone neutral. 

Harry cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. This was his best friend, and he might not know a thing about her life now, but it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t know her. 

“I just wanted to say, um, I’m sorry. I know I’m not a popular person, and I know I’ve no one to blame but myself, but I’ve recently decided that I want to be different. And so I just wanted to say that I was sorry, for however many times I might’ve offended you. Any of you,” he added for the twin’s benefit. 

They all stared at him with raised brows. It was an awkward moment before Hermione spoke. “All right, Potter. Well, I hope that’s true.” 

“Reckon a different job might be a good idea there,” George suggested. 

“Right, yeah,” Harry nodded. “That’s—I’m going to quit. Soon. And then, I don’t know, see if I can’t make amends somehow.” 

Hermione eyed him speculatively, pursing her lips. “You’ve a lot of apologies to make, I’d imagine, but I don’t have any personal grudge against you. I remember you used to be a rather nice boy, before…” Oddly, she seemed to backtrack a bit. “When we were all at Hogwarts, I mean. I wish you luck, Potter.” 

“Could you call me Harry please?” he blurted before he could think better of it. 

“Don’t push it, mate,” Fred told him. 

Trying not to show his disappointment, because that wouldn’t have been a sensible emotion, Harry just nodded. They left him standing there after that, and it wasn’t too much longer before Lavender finally showed up. 

“Why do you look like a kicked crup?” she wondered as she approached him where he was sitting atop the curb. 

She sat down beside him, though. 

He looked up at her, and he wasn’t sure what did it, but the words came tumbling out. “I don’t know anything. And I’m trying but I can’t seem to learn fast enough and everything is just so shocking, even though I know it shouldn’t be. Everything was going to be different, I knew that going in. But knowing and experiencing are so much different. And I can’t even ask anyone for help because—” 

He cut himself off just in time, abruptly realising where this was going to lead him if he didn’t shut up immediately. 

Lavender stared at him, her face creased with concern. This was all absurd, he thought. Here he sat with Lavender Brown, who as of four days ago had been dead for near to seven years. It was mental. How he’d managed to accept that like it was normal… with Lavender, and Colin, and now with Fred. He knew, deep down, that this reaction was why he hadn’t gone seeking his parents yet. Or Sirius or Remus. Or, Merlin, Dumbledore. It was one thing to know they all were alive, but it would be quite another to deal with it face to face. He didn’t know how to be ready for that, so he’d avoided it entirely, pretending he was helplessly stuck despite having a fully functioning floo in the next room over all along. 

“Harry,” Lavender said gently, drawing him back to attention. “I’m worried.” 

Yes, he could imagine she was. Harry was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, telling one person might help. Just one person he could trust who would explain everything. But could Lavender really be that person? He barely knew anything about her. 

“You can talk to me,” she said, an edge of desperation in her voice. Her next admission came quietly. “It’s scaring me that you won’t talk to me.” 

Harry’s resolve crumbled completely, then. This was too hard; he couldn’t keep doing this all by himself, anyway. Telling her was looking like a risk he’d have to take. 

“It’s hard to explain,” he hedged, and hope immediately lit her eyes. 

“I’ve got time,” she insisted.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t I summoned because you needed my help with something tonight?” 

Lavender waved him off. “This is more important. Parvati didn’t really bail on me; I just told her me and you needed to talk.” 

Harry could only shake his head. “Slytherin of you,” he said. 

Lavender cracked a smile. “I learned from the best.” 

The best being him. Damn, he thought, even though he’d had plenty of clues.  

“Now tell me what’s going on for Merlin’s sake,” she demanded. “I’m listening.” 

“Alright,” he conceded. “But I’m cold.” 

Lavender rolled her eyes and stood, offering him a hand up. Which was how, seconds later, he found himself in her flat. The interior was somehow Lavender’s personality in physical form—warm and cute, small and a little quirky. 

The walls were a soft lavender, of course, with thin, ash-grey carpet. A cream and purple sofa with a rumpled blanket and remote was placed next to a matching loveseat with a round backing, set before a clunky muggle television. A stone’s throw away was a little kitchen with quartz countertops and plain white fridge. 

It was a calming, comfortable space that had Harry naturally relaxing a bit. Lavender plopped down onto the sofa and patted the spot beside her, reminiscent of days ago. And, like last time, Harry did as directed. 

“I’m still waiting,” she reminded him when he’d been quiet for too long, thinking how he was going to word it all. 

“I’m not the Harry you know,” he finally began. At her raised brow, he simply started spewing the truth as it came to him. How he’d come from a timeline where his parents had been murdered by a madman when he was a year old, and the abridged version of how Harry’s upbringing had gone as a result of it—how he’d been given a destiny he didn’t ask for, and carried it out as best he could have. How it wasn’t good enough, really, when all was said and done. How it all had eventually led him here, to a place where none of it had ever happened, and how he wasn’t the same person but had to act as such anyway because he didn’t know if risking the potential consequences would be safe. 

Harry had assumed that, at some point, Lavender would interrupt him and demand he seek professional help at St Mungo's. Or that she would be so horrified by the things he was saying that she would demand proof from him. Or even order him to leave until he got his head back on straight. But she did none of that. In fact, Harry couldn’t help but notice as he spoke, she looked fascinated. 

“I might have accused you of going mad,” she told him when he finished, “but I can’t really believe you’d just make all of that up for a laugh. It’s too elaborate.” She seemed to pause for a moment, a considering look crossing her face—then: “Fuck journalism, you ought to write a book.” 

“Lavender.” 

“What? Circe, could you imagine Skeeter’s face if you wrote a bestseller and—”

“Lavender,” Harry interrupted, stronger. “I’m not writing an autobiography and pretending that it’s fiction. Or did you forget the part where all of this is real?” 

“Of course not. Sorry. It’s just sort of hard to—” 

She broke off suddenly, clapping a hand over her mouth. 

“What?” Harry asked, startled. 

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I just realised, does that mean… Harry is just, what, gone? Like you just replaced him and he’s dead?” 

The question caught Harry completely off guard—he realised after a moment of thought that he hadn’t truly contemplated it, and, what’s more, it’d been intentional. That much was obvious when his answer took even him by surprise. “I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t think so?” Lavender repeated, dubious. 

Harry had no idea how he’d explain this before he started speaking. “It doesn’t feel like I’ve just replaced me— him and he’s gone,” Harry told her. He paused for a moment, and then blew out a breath. Might as well finish coming clean, he thought. “I’ve been having these, er, dreams. But I’m almost positive they’re actually memories of my life here, like they’re the other me’s memories. And when I’m in them it’s not like I’m me watching, it’s like I’m him living through it right then. And I’m not surprised by anything because I already know everything as him, somehow . Until I wake up. But it’s more than just the dreams. It’s like, sometimes I have these vague—this awareness that I can’t really hold to. And I reckon I’ve sort of been ignoring it, because I don’t know what any of it means.” 

Despite Harry’s turmoil, he was glad to see Lavender seemed relieved at this. The sudden tension in her body dissipated, at least. “So you think you’re going to remember more and more,” she surmised. “The Harry I know will come back.” 

She seemed to notice Harry’s stiffness then, and the concern came rushing back. “Oh Merlin,” she swore, “I get it. That’s what you’re afraid of. You think he might come back and then you’ll be gone.” 

Harry didn’t see any sense in denying it, so he nodded. 

“I don’t think that’ll happen,” she said decisively, forcing Harry’s gaze back to her. 

“That just doesn’t seem like it would make sense,” she explained. “I reckon eventually you’re just going to remember both of your lives. Sounds cool if you ask me.” 

“S’pose,” said Harry hesitantly, trying not to let her confidence put him too much at ease. 

“But right now it’s like you don’t know me, huh?” The words were regretful and a bit sad, though she clearly tried to disguise it. 

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could offer. 

“You’ll remember me,” she said quietly a moment later. Then she seemed to shake herself off. “But you told me all of this because you said you needed help, yeah? If I’m going to help you, I need to know what you know. And it probably wouldn’t hurt if you told me more of the smaller details about yourself and how it was where you came from, too.” 

Harry looked at her in surprise. “That’s it?” he blurted. “You’re just going to help me?” 

She gave him a quizzical look. “Did you not want me to?” 

“I did!” Harry said quickly. “It’s just, er, I suppose I didn’t think it’d be so easy that you’d just take me at my word…” 

Lavender rolled her eyes. “Come on. Start with why you were upset earlier.” 

Harry sighed at the reminder. “I saw Hermione.” 

“Granger?” 

He nodded. “I guess it could’ve gone worse. But she was… her and Ron were my best friends.” 

Lavender had that look of fascination back again, demanding that he explain better. Harry gave up trying to skirt around all the war details and just came out with how many times they’d saved his life and made it worth living, too. 

“I guess you figured out about Granger and you not being friends here, then.” 

Harry nodded again, a bit pathetically. “She wasn’t mean, she just wasn’t… her.” 

Lavender pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Now I think about it, she actually was something of a know-it-all when we first got to Hogwarts, if I’m remembering right. Kept to herself for a while,” she explained. “But that was before the Weasley twins took her under their wing, because then she was this fun girl. I mean, Parvati knew her better than I did. But Granger and the twins were like legends with the stunts they came up with. Really impressive stuff. Granger snuck off campus a lot in sixth and seventh year, because the twins had gone. Last I heard she’s engaged to one. I think Fred—there were bets about that when we were upper years.” 

“Fred, George, and Hermione,” Harry said, still awed even though he’d seen the evidence for himself earlier. 

“As for the youngest boy Weasley, I’m sorry I don’t know much about him personally. Gryffindor, of course. He was a different crowd than us, though. Very popular.” She broke off to chuckle.“Draco basically tried to kill him once.” 

Harry sat up straighter. “What?” 

Lavender grinned wider, waving off his concern. “Just something to do with little Ophelia having a crush.” At Harry’s blank look, she was quick to explain. “Oh, right. So Ophelia is Draco’s younger sister. She had a kiddie crush on Weasley when we were seventh years and she was in, like, third or something. So Draco, being the drama queen he is, went all overprotective and…” 

But Harry wasn’t really hearing what she was saying anymore, too caught up by the mental picture of Draco Malfoy having a sister. 

And, now that he was, it was stunningly obvious who’d been at Harry’s door a few days ago. “I think I met her,” Harry said aloud, interrupting whatever tangent Lavender had been on. 

“Pardon?” 

“Malfoy’s sister. I’m pretty sure she came to my flat the other day … She was so familiar, but I had no idea.” 

Lavender’s look suggested Harry could not be serious. “But she looks just like him!” 

Harry scowled, his ears burning. “It’s not my fault Malfoy pissed off to Russia soon as he could. How was I to know when I’ve barely seen the prat in the last seven years?” 

This earned him an eyeroll. “Nice excuse, but I think you’re just a bit dense.” Harry sputtered indignantly, but Lavender ignored him. “Not sure I even want to think what she must have said to you.” 

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, er. She’s good with a wand. Kind of went off about never daring to speak to her brother again… But I didn’t know who she was and I didn’t understand any of it. Makes sense now,” he muttered. 

“Exceptionally dense,” said Lavender with mock amazement.

Harry gave her a flat look. “Just tell me why she hates me, will you?” 

For some reason, Lavender bit her lip. She glanced at the floor a second before meeting his eyes again. Harry had gone tense. “So,” she began. “I sort of got the sense from your whole story that maybe you and Draco aren’t, er, on the same sort of familiar terms there as here.” Harry must have looked even more apprehensive, because Lavender blew out a frustrated breath. “Merlin, this is so not my place. Look. The short version is that Ophelia hates you because you act like you hate Draco. That’s nothing new. Except Friday night you… well, let’s just say you did— said— another arsehole type thing, but it was, like, worse this time. We’re talking majorly embarrassing for the many unlucky witnesses. So it’s not a surprise Ophelia’s out for your blood.” 

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, feeling more out of his depth the more she spoke. He had assumed, with what he’d gleaned so far, that he and Malfoy weren’t enemies here.

“I know,” Lavender snapped, but then she just sighed. “Sorry, it’s just there’s kind of a lot to tell you before we even get near the utter catastrophe that is you when it comes to Draco.”

“Start somewhere then,” Harry suggested, not too willing to let the matter drop. 

“I—”

But it was at that moment Lavender’s fireplace came to life again, and in strolled Parvati Patil. “You won’t believe what just happened with Lindsey Rh— oh. Hi, Harry.” 

Lavender greeted the other woman happily, but shot Harry a guilty look, obviously aware that they could no longer speak freely. “Can we raincheck? I promise I’ll still help; what’s one more day right?” 

Harry stood up smoothly. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s alright.”

Chapter Text

It turned out, of course, that one more day might not have been alright. Because said day was Saturday, and it had admittedly slipped Harry’s mind that that meant anything. He received his reminder in the form of his sister that morning. He was in the middle of the kitchen beating eggs, clad in just his pants, when his floo roared to life. 

Harry gave a surprised yelp, but Ayesha didn’t even blink. “I hope you weren’t planning to give the student body a show,” she said mildly, eyeing her watch. “Doubt Amjad would appreciate that too much.” 

Harry looked at her blankly. 

She raised her brows, her expression asking ‘well?’ Then she seemed to take everything in, glancing at the glass bowl of eggs on the counter, the pan on the stove, the dogeared novel on the kitchen table. She exhaled through her nose. “You weren’t going to go,” she said. She sounded painfully unsurprised. 

It was then that Harry finally recalled his conversation with Colin, a week ago now. Your brother deserves better than that answer. Harry had promised he’d go wherever it was today, and now Ayesha thought he’d only been lying, which must have been terribly in character for him. 

She’d already turned back towards the floo without a word. 

“Wait!” Harry shouted, which at least got her to pause. He hurried to explain, wordlessly turning off the stove and sending the eggs into the fridge with magic. “Please just give me a second. I just forgot what today was, I promise. I want to go.” 

Ayesha looked at him again, doubtful and irritated. “Fine,” she challenged. “Hurry up then.” 

Harry rushed into his bedroom and tossed on the first shirt and trousers he came across, slipping on his trainers at the last second. His sister looked slightly surprised—maybe even a bit pleased—when he bounded back into the front room where she waited. He gestured that they could go now, and she grabbed his hand. 

The whirl of apparition caught him up—and then they were landing on weathered, near-frozen grass. The air was biting despite the bright sun overhead, and Harry had a moment to regret not thinking to grab a jumper before his first look around revealed where they were. 

He and Ayesha stood at the visitor’s entrance to Hogwarts. The great castle towered in the distance; the trees all around were whistling in the mountain breeze. And before the gates, smiling in greeting, waited Remus Lupin. 

Harry’s throat closed. 

“Hey uncle Remus,” Ayesha called with an answering grin; she strode towards the older man and gave him a familiar hug. 

“Always good to see you,” he said, “and you too, Harry.” 

Harry swallowed hard, unable to speak yet. Remus was older, but he looked healthier. Vibrant with age instead of run down. The scars on his face were enough to be sure he was still a werewolf, but he had a positive energy all around him. It was overwhelming. Harry would never, could never forget what it was to look down at this man’s lifeless body, taking in his sunken face and his closed eyes. Laid out in the middle of the Great Hall next to his dead wife. 

To his horror, Harry could feel his eyes beginning to prickle with tears. “It’s good to see you, too,” he finally managed to croak. Ayesha and Remus gave him twin looks of concern. 

“You alright, Harry?” Remus asked. 

Harry couldn’t fully meet his eyes. But he was having trouble looking away. “Yeah, um. I’m sorry, it’s just I was stupid to forget a sweater. Just cold, s’all. We can go on in now,” he told his sister. 

Neither her nor Remus looked convinced, but thankfully let it go. Harry sternly ordered himself to get it together. How many times was he going to do this?

“I’ve got to stay to let in any other guests,” Remus said, “but I’ll see you when the match starts.” 

So they were here for quidditch, Harry realised. That made sense; his brother would be Hogwarts age now certainly. Ayesha agreed, and then they were walking onto the grounds. 

They were nearly to the pitch when Ayesha spoke. “You going to tell me what that weirdness was about?” she inquired. 

“Wasn’t planning to, actually.” 

She flicked him on the side of the head. “I’m being serious, chutiye.” 

Harry rubbed the side of his head, dismissing his automatic understanding of the unfamiliar word as something he was sure he’d have to deal with later. “So was I,” he said, then sighed. “I just… I feel like I don’t see Remus enough. Maybe we could visit more often?” 

Shock flashed across her face, there and gone in a blink. Then she offered him a small smile and nodded, almost hesitant. “Yeah, we could. If he’s on break from Hogwarts, I’m sure Sirius would like to see you too.” 

Harry’s heart squeezed painfully. He fought to keep it from showing on his face, but must not have quite. This seemed to result in the wrong impression. 

“Or not,” she was swift to add. “We could just visit Remus here more. Amjad would be happy, and I’m sure Dumbledore doesn’t mind.” 

That time, Harry utterly failed to prevent a flinch. Good Merlin, he thought, everyone died. And now they were all alive, and he was just supposed to greet them with smiles and clap them on their backs like they’d just seen each other last month for tea and it was all perfectly normal. He’d been a complete idiot to think he could manage to act so well. If he saw Sirius and he didn’t cry, he was pretty sure the muggles would have to give him one of their awards. 

But that was another problem for a different day; right now he had to stop his sister from thinking he had some kind of problem with Dumbledore. Even if he did, just not in a way she’d ever understand. 

“No no,” he insisted quickly. “I mean, yeah. Let’s do all that. I’d like to see everybody. It’s fine.” 

“Ooo-kay,” Ayesha said dubiously. She hesitated then, her next words exceedingly careful. “You know you can always talk to me right? About anything that’s going on. I know you’ve got friends, but… I can be here for you too.” 

“I know, pyari bahn ,” Harry said automatically, and then nearly tripped over his own feet in shock. It was one thing to understand when someone else spoke a foreign language, but he hadn’t even consciously thought those words before they’d just come out of his mouth. That was significantly more alarming. 

His sister had evidently been satisfied with that response, though, because she didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Her eyes were busy scanning the quidditch stands for a place to sit. She must have found one, because she gestured for Harry to follow her up. The majority of the crowd were students, with only a few adults—probably mostly faculty—scattered within. Harry was eventually caught up in his surroundings. The closer to the start of the match, the more students filled the stands. It was clear there were significantly more than there’d been when Harry had gone to Hogwarts, in the other world. There was also the nostalgia of watching quidditch, hoping your house would win out. 

That was the first time he thought to ask. He leaned over so Ayesha would hear him above the crowd. “Hey, who’s he playing against?” 

She grinned at him mischievously. “Slytherin. Try not to be too disappointed when baby brother wipes the floor with your house, yeah?” 

Harry could only roll his eyes. 

When a team of blue-clad boys and girls walked onto the field, Harry learned his brother was a Ravenclaw. 

“Mind if I use those real quick?” he asked Ayesha, gesturing to her special glasses. “I’ll give them back when the game starts.” 

With that promise, she handed them over. Harry took them and looked down, zooming in and trying to catch a glimpse of someone who could be his brother. 

It turned out he wasn’t hard to find. As suspected, he still looked a lot like Harry himself. He was probably fifteen or so now, and looked it. He was smiling widely, confidently. And he was very obviously imparting his team with one last pep talk. Probably captain, then. Harry felt a surge of pride—as if he was at all involved in that, he chided himself. 

Ayesha eventually took the glasses back, and Remus joined them. 

They were about a quarter into the game—Ravenclaw up by 20—when Harry’s eyes began to wander. He could see a figure a ways down with long white hair and colorful robes who could only be Dumbledore. It had taken him about five minutes solid to look away from the man’s back. Also from where he sat, he could see Madam Hooch, standing next to a slightly-older looking professor Flitwick and a dark haired, tall woman. It hit him, then, that there was no sign of Snape. 

“Who’s Slytherin’s Head of House?” he asked aloud, thoughtlessly. Both Remus and Ayesha turned to give him matching quizzical looks. 

“It’s still professor Barringer, Harry,” Ayesha answered. “She’s standing right down there.” 

“Oh, er. Right.” 

Harry spent the next ten minutes wondering about Snape, until finally getting irritated with himself enough to get back into the match. A lively half hour later, the Ravenclaw seeker caught the snitch, ending the match 360 – 210 in their favour. The Ravenclaw stands exploded into applause, including Harry and Ayesha. Remus clapped along, smiling at their antics.

“Come on,” Ayesha said, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the stands to the edge of the field. Amjad lit up when he noticed them, shoving his friends off so he could bound over. Harry didn’t have the time to prepare himself before he had his arms full of teenager. “You came!” shouted his younger brother, still exhilarated. “Did you like the game?” 

He went to give Ayesha a hug, too. 

“Of course we did. You won didn’t you?” she teased. Amjad rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop beaming until Harry and Ayesha had to leave. 

As they walked off the grounds, Harry thought how lucky he was to have avoided seeing Dumbledore face to face, but he knew he would have to some day. He wasn’t ready right now for how that would feel. It was an effort not to be too visibly relieved when they landed back in his flat. 

But that didn’t seem to be too much of a problem, since Ayesha had become somewhat awkward since they’d told Amjad goodbye. Harry figured he would wait for her to say whatever she was thinking, and started getting the stuff out to resume making himself a now-late breakfast. It had been easy to ignore, but he’d been hungry the entire match. 

“You were telling him the truth, right?” his sister finally asked, sounding almost unwilling. 

Harry looked up from his pouring. “What?” 

“Amjad. You told him you’d go to more games. That you wanted to see him play,” she explained. “And I really want to believe you weren’t just saying that. But seeing as how I had to practically escort you there this time…”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He still hadn’t quite got the hang of apologising for things he hadn’t even done. When he failed to say anything, as was becoming the usual, she went on. “Look. I get on your case, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how it is for you to be around family. No matter what you think of me, I have always understood why you do what you do, even if you don’t want to hear that. But you have to know that Amjad is different; he’s always thought you hung the moon. So I don’t want you to lie to him if you’re just going to hurt him later when you realise you can’t handle it.” 

Harry took a breath. He recognised that even if he didn’t understand, there was really only one way this could go. All he could do was be honest about his intentions, even if he couldn’t be honest about anything else. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he promised solemnly. “I meant what I told him and I plan to keep my word. Things are going to be different from now on, alright? I’m going to quit my job at the Prophet and start… sorting myself out. It might take me awhile to do that, but I want to. I want to go to Amjad’s matches sometimes and I want to visit Remus, and Sirius too. I want to go home more often. I’m tired of being this person that everyone hates, so I’m going to try– oof.” 

Ayesha had her arms around him, her face pressed to his chest. After a moment of surprise, Harry tentatively hugged her back. He rested his chin atop her head, his body relaxing instinctively. 

It was some minutes before she pulled away, clearing her throat. Still, she seemed to be cautiously hopeful as she was leaving. Harry thought that maybe fixing things wasn’t so impossible a task after all. 

He was sitting on his sofa later that afternoon when the owl came through. 

Potter, 

I know you said you would get in touch with me, this isn’t me just pestering you. Trust me, I can’t quite believe you’re the first person I would owl for help either, even if you did offer. But I messed up just like you told me not to. There’s nothing in it for you, but please come anyway. 

I’ll be at Thompson’s. 

NL

Harry released a deep sigh, exasperated and guilty at once. If he were honest, he hadn’t thought about his mission to help Neville since he’d last seen him. It had simply gotten buried beneath everything else that was going on, just as he’d hoped it wouldn’t. Which meant, of course, that he really had nothing to offer the man. 

He had no real expertise with media— discounting years of harassment. And he couldn’t owl Lavender and ask, because—agreement to help Harry or no—he still couldn’t be sure where she stood when it came to Skeeter and the Prophet. The only safe option Harry had was to go with his gut and hope it didn’t get Neville into even deeper trouble. Extreme trepidation gathering within him, he apparated out. 

Thompson’s wasn’t quite as esteemed as Lewis & Williams, but it was certainly still noteworthy. He’d actually been here a handful of times over the years, though the place proved far better kept in this world. What was more, the patrons were more relaxed, and the dress code wasn’t so strict. There were people dressed like Harry, and then there were people dressed like Neville—wholly sophisticated. He was sans his typical eye makeup, and instead wore a plain pair of glasses.  

He sagged with relief when he caught sight of Harry, and Harry tried not to grimace at his obvious hope. Harry slid into Neville’s booth. “What did you do?” 

Neville put his face in his hands, and Harry waited. “I think someone got a photo,” he said finally. “I’d like to believe it was just of a kiss but...  I can’t believe how stupid I am.” 

Harry sighed, having expected as much. He reminded himself of his decision to follow his gut. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you were right before. You might just have to get out in front of it. You can’t wait for him to be divorced. It might be that this is the only chance left.” 

Neville looked crestfallen. “You don’t think it’s too late already?” 

“I think…” Harry started, but he trailed off when something in his periphery distracted him, and his gaze strayed beyond Neville to see what had caught his attention. It turned out to be someone’s white-blond hair, gleaming under a stray light. And of course it wasn’t just someone’s, but Draco Malfoy’s. 

Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy in person for years. He could still remember the end of the war, how beaten down and frail the blond had looked at his trial. How his emptiness had unnerved Harry. 

That Malfoy bore no resemblance to this one. Not only was he, of course, older, having grown into all of his features, but this Malfoy was also inexplicably… captivating. His cheekbones and jawline were defined instead of just sharp, and his hair was cut into a smart, top-heavy style that managed to be professional and loose at once. There was no denying that his dark slacks and light blue button down hugged his body in all the right ways, muscles shifting minutely beneath the fabric as he gesticulated to the group around him. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing an arresting variety of tattoos that curled around his forearms and up into his shirt. 

The word beautiful sounded in Harry’s mind, and he found that he could not look away. 

Until Neville loudly cleared his throat, that was, breaking Harry from his unintended stupor. He blinked, snapping his gaze back to Neville to see the man’s brows raised, a small smirk playing on his lips. 

“Wish I could show you what you looked like just now,” he said, and Harry recognised that he was being teased. 

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. How long was I just gawking at Malfoy like a loon? 

Neville put his hands up in a far be it from me sort of gesture. “I mean, not exactly news that you want him mate. I did go to school with you, in case you forgot.” 

Harry gaped at him. Want— what? “What?” he said aloud. 

Neville rolled his eyes, but then he got a serious look about him. “Heard about what happened with him the other night. Makes a bit more sense now why you might’ve had your change of heart. Don’t take it the wrong way, but it’s what made me feel better about trusting you.” 

Harry tried to keep the frustration off his face. It seemed everyone in his life had heard ‘what happened’ with him and Malfoy, and yet Harry hadn’t actually been told anything substantial. What the bloody fuck could he have said that had suddenly made him and Malfoy everybody’s favourite gossip? “Right,” said Harry flatly. “Well there’s that at least. Let’s just go back to talking about your issues, yeah?” 

Neville scowled. 

They were in the middle of deciding what exactly Neville should tell Blaise Zabini in the coming days when an awareness came over Harry, and he glanced over to see Malfoy had finally taken notice of his presence. The blond gave him a dark look as he excused himself from his group of companions. 

Harry was all too familiar with Malfoy’s sneering at him and the like, but this felt leagues off from that. Harry internally squirmed, complicated emotions creeping through him as he worked not to shrink away, and he didn’t know why. 

He broke away first, finding himself unable to maintain the eye contact for a moment more. When he managed to look back a few seconds later, Malfoy had gone. 

Neville whistled low, pitying. “Harsh,” he said, all sympathy. 

Harry waved him off, doing all he could to ignore the uncomfortable feelings lingering in his chest. 

Chapter Text

—focus on small things, he ordered himself. Just loosen your fists. It wouldn’t do for Draco to catch him worked up over absolutely nothing. So bloody what if Draco fancied Daphne’s sister? Really, that was probably a good thing, since he had to marry her anyway. Eventually. 

Harry made himself picture it for the millionth time—standing up at Draco’s wedding, watching him smile rapturously at Astoria while she did her slow walk down the aisle in her massive gown. Harry would be forced to grin and bear it then, so he might as well start getting used to it now. 

It was better for Draco that he liked the girl. Harry would just have to get over this- this hurt that kept beating at him. Being best mates didn’t make Draco his. It didn’t matter how much he wanted Draco, it would never make Draco want him the same way. 

That had been made exceedingly clear this afternoon, if nothing else. 

Harry could still see the two of them walking out of the library together, their surprise when they ran into him, like they’d been in a world all their own with no room for anyone else. Least of all him.

Harry had survived a whole year pining after his best friend, he reminded himself sternly. Astoria couldn’t make that any worse. He’d adjust to the steady hum of jealousy, just like he’d adjusted to living with his one-sided crush. It wouldn’t be any different. Draco would still be his best friend, always. He wouldn’t let himself ruin that for his useless feelings. 

“You finish your Charms essay?” Draco inquired as he walked into their dorm room, coming over to squish onto Harry’s mattress beside him, his feet towards the pillows so he could see Harry’s parchment. Which was quite blank. 

“Guess not,” he observed. “Pince didn’t help?” 

Harry scowled at the reference to his being at the library earlier, his quill digging into the parchment a bit harder. Ink stained harshly in its wake. “No,” he said shortly, and then winced at his own tone. 

“Er, all right…?” the blond said, like a question. “Well, um. So, I was going to tell you earlier before you said you had to study. I’ve been talking to Astoria Greengrass–”

“I noticed,” Harry couldn’t help but quip sourly. 

Instead of telling him whatever he’d been about to, Draco paused; the silence thickened as he slowly pushed himself up with his elbows and sat back. Harry didn’t dare look over his shoulder at him, knowing everything would be written all over his own face and mentally scolding himself for it. 

“Harry,” Draco said. That was it, but Harry tensed up anyway. There was something particular in the blond’s voice that immediately set Harry on edge. Something knowing. 

So Harry ignored him, determinedly staring down at his not-essay and willing his shoulders to relax. Nothing was wrong. 

“Harry,” Draco said again. “Do you have a problem with Astoria?” 

Harry swallowed. He did his level best to sound neutral, normal. “I don’t really know her, do I. I mean, I’m sure she’s a nice girl,” he went on. “Daphne’s her sister, so how bad could she be, really. Wouldn’t make much sense not to like her. Plus, I mean, I know you have to, like, m-marry her. When you’re older, I mean.” Shut up, he begged himself. 

“That’s a lot of words for a non-answer,” Draco observed, and Harry realised that he sounded amused. Harry forgot his own rule and looked back towards Draco. Who was smiling. 

“Something funny?” Harry snapped. 

To his instant regret, the grin fell from the blond’s face right away. “No,” he said seriously—too seriously. “It’s not funny that you’re obviously upset with me and won’t say why. It makes me think…” 

“Think what?” Harry demanded. “I’m not upset. You asked me a question and I don’t know what other answer you wanted.” 

For a long moment, he watched Draco watch him. But then the blond swallowed, and Harry saw his face shift, looking suddenly as afraid as Harry was, but also determined. Like Harry wasn’t. “Harry… are you jealous?” 

Harry hadn’t even formed the conscious decisions his next actions supposedly required; his body had decided for him. Flight, it had selected. And so he was somehow up and passing swiftly through the common room and out and passed the Slytherins dawdling in the corridor and up a stone staircase and away, away, away from the beautiful blond boy who was usually Harry’s favorite person in the world. 

And he didn’t stop moving, didn’t start thinking again until he’d reached an empty classroom and dropped into the far corner, all the adrenaline leaving him in a rush. Leaving him cold. 

Great, he thought. I’m an idiot. He’d done exactly what he’d managed not to do for a year, just because he’d seen Draco around with Astoria a few times. And now his best friend was going to—

“What is wrong with you?” 

Harry looked up in surprise to find Draco staring at him from the open doorway, his face flushed like he’d just gone a mile. Which, since he’d clearly followed Harry, he must have. Harry didn’t answer; he couldn’t do much more than gawk. 

Draco huffed, letting the door shut unceremoniously behind him. His wand lit up, cutting through the dimness as he walked over to Harry’s corner and sat down in front of him. “You are incredibly dramatic, have I ever told you that?” 

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “Once or twice.” 

One side of Draco’s mouth quirked up for a second before smoothing over. He looked at Harry intently. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to finish our conversation now.” 

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor. “I…” 

“You’re jealous,” Draco said. It certainly wasn’t a question this time. “And since you ran away like you were doing an impression of Ophelia, I would guess you aren’t jealous of me, are you?” 

Harry clenched and unclenched his fingers, doing all he could to steel himself. Gathering all the courage he possessed. “I didn’t ever want to make things weird between us. I promise it doesn’t have to be a big deal. I just…” 

“You just?” Draco said, and Harry looked up again at how breathless he sounded. Draco’s eyes were wide, imploring. It was absurd, but it set a kaleidoscope of butterflies off in Harry’s stomach. 

He took a deep breath, before the words poured from him in a rush. “I just want you so much that it’s all I can ever think about anymore, so seeing you with anyone but especially her, I co–” 

Harry gasped at the feel of Draco’s mouth on his, everything in his body jolting to life. It took precisely half a second to understand that Draco was kissing him. And then Harry was kissing back with everything he had. It was sloppy and off-kilter and the most perfect thing Harry had ever felt in his life. 

Which is why he was a complete idiot to stop it. “Wait,” he said, hating himself. “Wait, wait.” 

Draco backed off instantly, and Harry thought he looked unravelled. But he needed to be sure, or he didn’t know what he’d do. “Is this pity?” 

Draco stared at him dumbly for a second, before he slowly shook his head back and forth in disbelief. “Harry,” he said softly. And then he brought his hands up, cupping Harry’s cheeks in his palms and brushing his lips gently against Harry’s own, feather light, utterly simple. “It was always going to be you for me.”

Chapter Text

Harry stared up at his bedroom ceiling, far too overwhelmed by the most recent of his memories to even think properly, much less move. 

It wasn’t like the dreams before—those were temporary, just key moments and fleeting emotion. Practically informative. This, though, this… lingered. Even now, awake, he could remember not just the way Draco Malfoy had looked at him, but what Harry had felt for him in those moments. He thought he could still feel the echoes of it in his heart, threaded together with a sourceless pain so intense Harry almost couldn’t breathe past it. 

He felt wetness on his cheeks, and startled a moment before he became aware they were tears. Merlin, this could not be his real life. How had he gotten here? Who was he anymore? 

It was all so incredibly confusing. He’d thought he was beginning to understand things here. One, everyone was alive. Two, his former self had been a morally awful person and a terrible brother; three, he was best friends with Lavender Brown, and four, he and Draco Malfoy had some kind of feud going that all evidence indicated was his fault. Troublesome surely, but relatively simple. 

But it couldn’t be right. 

Not if they’d once been… that. 

And fine, Harry wasn’t stupid. He’d figured out somewhere between Ginny leaving and his swearing off all actual dating that he was never going to find what he wanted with a woman, all excuses aside. So it wasn’t his being interested in men that was surprising in the least. It was that it was Malfoy who had made him feel that much. 

Perhaps it was the years that had passed since, but Harry didn’t think being with Ginny had ever made him feel like that single memory with Malfoy had. And maybe it could be blamed on the cloud of war, on the fear he’d grown up with, or even just on how long it’d been since Harry had felt anything so strong at all, but somehow when he’d woken up… he’d felt more achingly alive than he could ever recall being. 

And it knocked the wind out of him. It was more than he could handle. He needed answers. Someone had to tell him what everything meant, or he didn’t know how much longer he could go before he cracked. 

He dragged himself out of bed, quickly scrawling a fire-message for Lavender that she answered within minutes with ‘ my floo’s open.’

“I was about to head into the office,” Lavender told him as soon as he arrived, in explanation for her Sunday business attire. 

“I’m not going with you.” 

“Clearly, even though you should be and are going to get us fired if you keep screwing around,” she grumbled irritably. 

Harry just looked at her, having no energy to reiterate how little he cared for Skeeter’s good opinion. Lavender seemed to see this and much more on his face, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m not working today, am I?” she asked uselessly, and then set down her bag. 

Harry sat wordlessly on her sofa, and Lavender joined him a moment later. 

“I need you to tell me about me and Malfoy,” Harry said without preamble. 

Lavender sighed, long and heavy. “More of your memories, I take it.” 

“I just… had no idea that me and him were… together.” 

Lavender snorted, and Harry turned to look at her incredulously. “Seriously?” 

“Sorry,” she said insincerely, her expression shifting into nostalgia. “It’s just. You were a bit more than ‘together.’ Merlin when were at school, it was almost sickening how in love you two were. Classic childhood friends to lovers trope rubbish…” 

She trailed off then, looking at Harry sympathetically, and he silently directed her to continue. 

“Right well, you’d been best friends for as long as I’d known of you two, at least. I’d say you probably knew each other before Hogwarts, since your lines were both very inner circle—your godfather being cousins with Draco’s mum, etcetera. All I can tell you is that, at school, it’d been Malfoy-and-Potter since you’d stepped off the train first year. Princes of Slytherin and all that rot. You and I weren’t so much in the same circles.” 

“But you said we—”

She waved him off. “Be patient. I’m getting there, aren’t I?” 

Harry obediently went back to silence. 

“Anyway,” she said, “best friends. But I mean, it was pretty clear the older you got that it was gonna be how it was. Draco was so openly in love with you, Harry , like, good Merlin. But I got why you didn’t see it; everyone knew the Malfoys were really traditional and shite. Most elite families are. You were probably the only Slytherin boy that didn’t already have his wife hand picked for him since the age of, like, two. It was common knowledge that Astoria Greengrass was Draco’s. But when you finally went for him in fifth year, it was obvious to basically everyone but Draco’s parents that he definitely wouldn’t be marrying anyone but you. For a while, it was all terribly sappy displays and always getting caught in the corridors. Pansy was like… uncomfortably obsessed, so I heard things now and again. Your parents were supportive, supposedly, according to your sister. Like, we all thought: happy ending, you know. This ideal of teen love…” 

Harry waited, knowing from how she was looking at him now that there was a ‘but’ coming. There had to be didn’t there, or he would have woken up in bed with Malfoy or something—and wouldn’t that have been an experience. 

“Harry,” Lavender said gravely, snapping him from his errant thoughts with the seriousness of her tone. 

Harry’s back straightened with the realisation this was going to be worse than he was expecting. 

“Just come out with it,” he said. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It was selfish of me to put off telling you this at all. I thought, maybe, since you would probably see your sister and she would allude to something, or you’d have one of your dreams and remember on your own, that I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell you.” 

“Lavender.” 

“Harry,” she said, “your dad died.” 

For a long minute, Harry felt like a foreigner in his very skin. It was the first real instance since he’d altered time that he truly felt like two completely separate people. The first, the version who’d grown up an orphan, was overcome with a deep and terrible disappointment. He had never met his father, not really, and now he never would. He was simply not meant to, it seemed. The other, though, he was impacted with an immeasurable sort of grief. Like the remnants of an old, near-fatal wound had just been harshly ripped open again and he was now bleeding all over the floor but no one could see it except him. 

It didn’t seem normal, that sort of pain. Not when the grief was only so debilitating because of the aching, incomprehensible guilt mixed in. 

“Oh,” he breathed through it, somehow. 

When it passed, and he felt put together enough to look up again, Lavender’s eyes were glassy. 

“How?” he asked, dreading the answer sure to come. “It feels… it feels like it was my fault. Was it my fault?” 

He certainly didn’t expect her to fairly growl at him. “No,” she said harshly, batting her face to get rid of her tears. “It wasn’t. You just think it was. But you were a stupid kid. You couldn’t have known.” 

Harry took that in as he waited for her to explain better. 

She shook her head. “Mind that I only know the details from your sister, alright. You never talked about it,” she told him, then sighed. 

“His name is Sigmund Ulbrich,” she began. “He was some twenty-something, flat broke potions master. Started selling the bad sort to kids, sometimes muggle kids. Your dad put him away when he was just starting out, barely in the field. The guy got fifteen years and everyone went home happy. But fifteen years goes by... They let him go like nothing because his offenses weren’t violent. 

It’s Azkaban, though, and you go mad in there… I don’t think his release was even on your dad’s radar. Who’s gonna remember that one guy you caught as a trainee, you know? It was— you were sixteen. And grounded for something, I guess. Theo Nott was throwing this killer party over the summer and you probably just wanted to see Draco. So you snuck out. Most elite kids have traces and such, but Ayesha says your mum was more the progressive type. Didn’t want you guys to have one. That’s why they didn’t know where you were. Your dad went out looking for you and… Ulbrich must have been waiting. It was all just timing, Harry. Really bad chance.” 

“But I didn’t see it that way,” Harry said quietly. He could feel it, even now, how much he blamed himself. “If I’d stayed home…” 

Lavender’s sorrowful look said enough. “When you came back for sixth year… it was like you weren’t even there anymore. It’s still the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“Did Malfoy try to…” Harry trailed off, not even certain what he was asking. 

“He tried,” Lavender replied sadly. “We all saw how hard he tried. But what happened changed you. Your sister was grieving too, but the self-blame… you were just different. You broke up with Draco. You lashed out at all your nice, caring friends. You got mean, nasty. And well, we decided you’d fit right in.” 

“We?” 

“Me, Parvati, Pansy,” she listed off, and then sighed wistfully. “I know now we’re adults that you were always having a rough go of it on the inside, but that… it didn’t seem that way then. You got good at acting fine. And most days, we had fun. In that way that being gorgeous and mean is fun when you’re young. The late nights, the gossip, your family’s money—it was a good time.” 

In his mind's eye flashed image of himself, young and sitting centre in a hall alcove with Lavender, Parvati, and Parkinson leaning at his sides, gossiping and snickering in his ears as a classmate walked by, picking at herself insecurely, driven faster by the whispers and snide grins. It was there and gone in a blink, but Harry had the familiar sensation that it’d been real. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I’m sure it was.” 

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he finally made the decision to see his family, his mum in particular. 

He’d been putting off going home, not ready to meet the people who had given their lives for his. Who he had spent a lifetime mourning and revering. He had told himself it was best not to risk a strange, emotional reaction too soon. 

But now he knew his dad was gone, well… At least in this world, he still had a mother to meet. And doing so had suddenly felt a lot more important than keeping his secret wrapped up tight for longer. 

So in the morning, he’d gotten up early, dressed, and stepped right into his floo with as little second-thinking as he could manage. Lavender had mentioned yesterday, after a while, that he’d grown up in a manor befitting his family line. So Harry defaulted to chance, merely calling out ‘Potter Manor,’ and had been promptly whisked off—to find himself here, where the fireplace he stepped from was tall enough that he didn’t even need to duck his head on the way out. 

But that was a minor detail soon forgotten. 

Harry looked around in amazement at the open, extravagant space. 

It felt as though he were intruding in a palace. He took a careful step across the unbroken marble, so fine it was practically reflective. 

The walls gleamed around him, lightly accented through with gold. Only a slight ways off was a series of high columns meeting in a row of arches, past which several wide hallways could be seen leading off to different parts of what was clearly a vast home. 

Harry continued his slow perusal, reaching to reverently run his fingers along the gold, half-curved backing of the sofa and feeling, inexplicably, at peace. It’s very shape made him want to lay sideways across the flat, white-velvet and never get back up. 

There were an array of carved vases atop various matching side tables with gold trim decorating the room. And above one, he soon noticed, hung a portrait. 

The woman framed within held herself proudly; her kohl lines were defiant. Her hair wasn’t covered, but pinned back to display her jewelry. He took in the rest; her diamond studded gown nearly hid all the silk underneath, but her crimson scarf was draped over her shoulder—the edges cascading to her feet. Her hands were decorated—traditional mendhi , his mind supplied; the bold patterns peaked through the bracelets on her wrists. 

Harry had the thought that she looked much like Ayesha. But her skin was the warm colour of copper, a shade or two deeper than Harry’s or his sister’s. And, he’d noted, her eyes were a dark ebony instead of hazel. 

At the moment, the woman in the picture winked at him happily, her expression having shifted into a smile at his presence. And then she walked hurriedly out of frame, leaving only an empty black background in place of her splendour. 

It wasn’t a minute later that there was the sound of footsteps off to his left, and he spun back around in time to see a much older woman—whose deep laugh lines and simpler clothing did not diminish her beauty, even if the days of her portrait’s origin were long gone—come through the columns, opening her arms wide at the sight of him. 

“Chiriya!” she exclaimed with delight, pulling him into her unexpectedly strong embrace.

“Dhadhi,” he greeted with a grin, squeezing her shoulders in an instinctive return of affection. He had the thought that, even without the too-few memories he had, he would have known who this woman was. And he wondered, fleetingly, at the story of why his grandmother had called him bird. 

“It has been much too long, my Harim,” she admonished lightly, releasing him. “I am so glad you’ve come.” 

“I’m sorry for how long it’s been.” And more sorry that I didn't even know to think of you all my life.

She waved his words away with her hand. “You’re here now, mera beta. Join us outside. We’ve been enjoying the warmer air today; they’ll be so happy to see you.” 

He wasn’t given the time to really consider who ‘ we’ might be or brace for it before she was off, and he had to keep up with her or be left behind to probably end up giving a shoddy explanation for how it was he’d got lost in his family’s own home. 

Harry tried not to gawk at everything he passed on their way—the array of beautiful artwork and tapestries along the walls; the shining light of the sun filtering through enormous windows; the massive dual staircases leading up to floors unseen.

And, before he knew it, they were outdoors, standing on a stone-made porch and looking out upon miles of green, spanning as far as the eye could see and broken only by a winding pathway that led all the way up to the steps just before him. 

“Look who’s found his way home!” his grandmother called out merrily from beside him, and Harry tore his gaze from the expansive grounds to notice the outdoor table near a quaint, secondary structure a ways out—and who occupied it. 

He took in her red hair first, one of the trademarks everyone had always referenced; it was tied up now into a messy bun, a pencil stuck haphazardly through it. Lily wore a light blue cardigan over a flowy pastel sundress, and a startled smile that said she was happy to see him. 

Harry swallowed as she stood, his every muscle tight with emotion. He had barely registered the man that’d been sitting across from her until he rose to follow, and Harry’s eyes flicked momentarily over before refocusing—and felt himself blanch. Harry couldn’t blame himself for not immediately recognising him. Not when he was…  nothing like the gaunt, fragmented man Harry’d lost as a child. This man glowed with health and confidence, his blue eyes bright and clear instead of sunken and haunted as in his memories. 

For a split second, Harry cursed himself for finding the nerve to seek out his family, the helpless thought that he wasn’t ready filling his mind. His mother alone was nearly too much, but his mother and Sirius at once? Walking towards him where he stood on the back porch to his massive family estate like it was a regular Tuesday? 

Harry resisted the instinctive, overwhelmed step backward, at the same time as he fought the urge to launch himself forward and wrap his arms around his godfather like he was a fifteen year old boy again. Or to hold onto his mother with the force of years of boundless gratitude and never let go. But he did none of those things, only stood still as a statue, scarcely breathing until, finally, they were there. And Sirius had his hand on Harry’s shoulder, grinning and asking how he’d been. And Lily gripped his hand, and called him honey, and inquired, with sincerity, how he was faring at the Prophet, wanting to be sure he was happy even though she couldn’t possibly approve. 

And somehow, all at once, tears blurred Harry’s vision. He did not have it in him to be embarrassed or afraid. Because here was his family—his living, breathing, caring family. And nothing else seemed to matter.

“What’s wrong?” said his mother, concerned.

Harry gave in, pulling Sirius—who was closer—into a hug. He was shorter than Harry was, now.

“Harry?” asked the older man, clearly bewildered even as he returned the embrace. 

“I missed you,” Harry admitted in a breath. A desperate, clawing part of him needed to say the words. He closed his eyes, his voice breaking on them. “I’m so sorry.” 

Sirius pulled back to look at him, his hands on Harry’s arms. “You’ve got nothing to apologise to me for.” 

But Harry did, for things he could never explain. Didn’t want to, because they could never be fixed. But, he realised, this—the here and now—could be. All he had to do was try.  

“Harry, what happened honey?” his mum asked gently, her face creased with growing worry.  

Harry shook his head, getting himself under control. He let his resolve strengthen him. “No, nothing,” he assured them with a sniff. “I just. I know that I have been… that I haven’t been myself in a very long time,” he explained, his eyes fixed on the ground as he tried to remain as honest to his jumbled mess of feelings as he could. “I know that things since Dad… I have a lot to make up for. But, if it’s possible, I want to do better. I’d like to come around more, if you’d have me.” 

“Oh sweetheart,” said his mum quietly, joyfully, and wrapped her arms around him. Sirius put his hand on Harry’s shoulder again, squeezing comfortingly. And Harry, for the first time in years, felt almost entirely whole. 

oOo

An hour later, Harry found himself on the sofa in his grandmother’s lavish sitting room—having spent the time encouraging the adults to catch him up on the minor details of their recent lives before he tentatively broached the suggestion of photo albums. 

His attempt at subtlety had fallen flat. When he received three identically questioning looks, Harry had ducked his head and tried to appear embarrassed as he expressed how he missed his father and was ready to talk about him if the others were so willing. 

His grandmother had practically apparated from and back to the room, her arms suddenly and overly full of the requested picture volumes. 

From the pictures and the steady stream of fond commentary coming from the others, Harry discovered that his father’s childhood did not have too many obvious divergences from what had been related to Harry in his original world. Sirius, for instance, was still in half the photos from age eleven and beyond—an honorary Potter, confirmed by Dhadhi herself. In fact, it was all confirmation that the Marauders had still been inseparable. Unfortunately, this also meant Harry had to fight to keep his face from twisting the first time he saw Pettigrew in a picture. Harry listened politely to some prank-related tales involving the man, all the while dreading having to see him in person, knowing it would eventually happen. 

His mother wasn’t in pictures until later, of course. 

“Remind me again how you finally fell for Dad,” Harry asked quietly, smiling at a picture of his parents as teenagers, his mother squirming, halfway on his father’s lap in an unfamiliar living room, long hair spectacularly stuck in James’ glasses. The photo shook like the person behind it had been laughing. 

Now, his mother wore a wistful expression. Harry let himself get lost in her stories, grateful for every little detail. 

“Your father was a persistent man,” she was saying now, “as I’m sure you well know. He used to tell me he loved me all the time when we were very young, I believe third year was when he endeavored to do so every day” —this was directed at Sirius, who nodded through fond laughter. 

It didn’t take long for his mother’s smile to fade a bit, though, her features getting a more sombre look about them. 

“I’d thought that while I was with someone else, James would have gotten over what I assumed was nonsense at the time. And, of course, he never made any passes at me or really even looked at me too closely when I was with Sev. I didn’t realise until later how much effort he put into respecting my decision as he did. But even after I’d rejected him a million times and been someone else’s for nearly two years, he was still right there when I needed him. I was young and grieving so deeply and he didn’t try to replace anyone or take advantage. He just comforted me. It was the darkest time in my life and he put what I needed ahead of his feelings. I like to believe I’d have eventually chosen to be with James, even if Sev hadn’t died. We were never… what we should have been. I didn’t really know what love could be until I had it with your father, Harry.” 

Harry had quickly pushed past his surprise over the fact of Snape’s premature death. More important was the revelation that he hadn’t understood how much his mother had lost in her life until this moment. He didn’t give it a second thought before he stood up and crossed to the other sofa, wrapping his arms around Lily. It felt both familiar and not, but right. Harry realised that the ability to comfort her was a gift, and he didn’t intend to waste it. 

“Your father would be proud of you, Harim,” his grandmother said gently. 

Somewhere deep within, a contentment began to spread. 

Chapter Text

—Draco’s skin was the colour of alabaster beneath the moon’s light; Harry could see its reflection on the water mirrored in those silver eyes, unchanged by the years hovering between them. Draco didn’t look away from the lake, but Harry could never seem to look anywhere but at him, no matter how hard he tried. 

He hated himself for it every day.

But that wasn’t what mattered right now.

On the surface, Draco looked calm, betrayed only by the flat line of his mouth and the bruises already starting to darken his knuckles. 

“What do you want?” 

And Harry was aware he deserved that—that he had no right to insert himself this way, now, after so long— but his heart twisted all the same. He worked to keep his voice similarly even, and honest, regardless.

“I wanted to see that you were okay. I only caught the tail end but… I’ve never seen you look like that before.” 

Draco’s mouth twisted. “Like what?”

“Scared.” 

Finally, Draco looked at him. “What would I be scared of, Potter?” 

It was thanks to much practice that Harry successfully buried the urge to flinch. He shrugged. “You tell me.” 

For a time, there was only the water gently lapping on the shore. Then, slowly but somehow all at once, Draco deflated. He looked back to the lake. “I don’t know when she started growing up,” he said, so quietly Harry had to strain to hear him. “It’s like I blinked and…” 

Ah, Phee, thought Harry, for approximately the millionth time in his life. He ought to have known this was about her. He’d known that Draco—pureblooded, serpent-tongued Draco—wasn’t the type to go about throwing his fists at Gryffindors. Unless he was afraid. But of course the only reason Draco would ever be afraid was Ophelia. 

“She’s only just thirteen,” Harry pointed out diplomatically. “Hardly an adult.” 

Draco just shook his head, going on like he hadn’t heard him. “I’m not ready. I’m not ready for her to be a teenager, for her to not let me protect her anymore. I’m not ready for her to resent me like that. You- Merlin, you should have seen her face after I hit the Weasel, like I- I’d betrayed her or something. It makes me physically ill to imagine what chances she might’ve thought she had with a seventeen year old boy. She’s… I’m not ready for this.” 

Harry wanted to reach for him, comfort him. Wanted to promise that everything would be okay and have Draco believe him. But that wasn’t something he could allow anymore. That belonged to another time, another place, another him. So instead, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. 

“She’ll understand someday,” he said. It wasn’t enough, but Harry knew he had to get away before he risked saying something more genuine. 

He’d taken all of a step back the way he’d come from before Draco spoke. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” 

Harry didn’t move, already kicking himself before he heard the scoff. 

“Well thanks ever so much for coming all the way out here and acknowledging my existence to deliver such a stunning line. Please pat yourself on the back for the daring issue of comfort that was.” 

“You’re right,” Harry sighed. He hadn’t turned around again. “I shouldn’t have. It’s not my place.” Not anymore. 

He thought Draco might let him walk away, then, that they could pretend this had never happened. He’d even managed a few more steps towards the castle before Draco said, “I won’t, you know.” 

That time Harry made the mistake of glancing back at him. 

“I won’t understand someday.” 

And Harry knew that was true. After all, how could he? Draco was a protector; he had no idea what it was like to be a thing people ought to protect themselves from. 

But that was alright. It was better that way. 

Harry walked back to the castle alone. 

oOo

Harry couldn’t call himself a stranger to wealth. He’d known since he was a boy that he was the last heir to a proverbial dynasty, even if it had taken him well into his teenage years to fully grasp what that meant on a financial level. He never truly needed to work, but he had in large part because he’d been forcibly humbled by a childhood of neglect, and because he was responsible enough at least to recognise the importance of making a living for oneself. 

And, honestly, being an auror had provided for him enough to scrape by—which meant he’d never had too much cause to mentally justify touching the fortune that had been left for him. 

So, while Harry had technically always been rich, he’d never felt it. That was, until he’d woken up in a world where only a fraction of the family vault was his to spend, and was able to see how much even that fraction had gotten him. His chiche flat, designer clothing, and tailored shoes certainly hadn’t been bought on a journalist-underling’s salary. 

The position with Skeeter struck Harry as a probable means to pass the time whilst feeling like he was accomplishing something; that, or an excuse to be near the group of women that seemed to comprise his closest friends. 

Now, as someone who held nothing but contempt for the profession of journalism, and also who barely knew and had no outstanding plans to really get to know the aforementioned women with the exception of Lavender, he had no regrets about studiously avoiding his job until he was officially terminated. The problem was that he did not have the credentials in this world to do anything else; he couldn’t even go try to get a ministry position—nevermind how uncertain he was that he even wanted one—as he possessed none of the NEWTs he would need without Kingsley’s deal. Only Merlin knew what, if any, NEWTs he did have that would pertain to anything he’d actually be interested in. Which was all just the long way of saying that, presently, Harry had no choice but to keep spending his family’s money. 

The subsequent, additional problem was that said funds did not, as far as Harry had been able to tell in the past few weeks, seem to have a reasonable limit. He quietly wished he was able to simply appreciate it, adapt to his new lifestyle of lavish excess, and get on with finding some sort of hobby to occupy his mind. But, instead, he just felt useless and undeserving.

This, of course, proved inordinately difficult to express sans explanation of how he’d, in fact, been raised. The result was him effectively blurting out how he was thinking about going back to school over dinner, and his sister staring at him with a look that suggested he’d just announced his attempt to produce a third arm from the centre of his forehead. 

Ayesha’s face eventually fixed itself into expectancy, and she said with remarkable calmness, “Pardon?” 

Harry floundered a bit. “Er, it’s just that I haven’t really been doing anything since… um, since I stopped writing for Skeeter and I– I figure I need to be making money somehow.” 

At that, Ayesha snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re fine in that department, brother mine. And it’s not like you’ve ever been concerned about contributing before. What’s really going on?” 

Harry bit his cheek, wondering how to back out of this before he was in too deep. He decided to switch tactics. “All right,” he said, trying to seem caught out, “I’m bored.” 

It shouldn’t have surprised him how easily that worked, and it definitely shouldn’t have stung. But, nonetheless, Ayesha’s expression cleared, and she shook her head at him fondly. “So join a club or something. Or, better yet, you can come over and watch the baby so me and Col can have a bit of fun sometimes.” The last statement came with a wiggle of her brow that sent the obviously intended, unpleasant images through Harry’s head. He wrinkled his nose, and she laughed out loud. 

Harry sighed, though, and she seemed to pick up on his less-than-jovial mood. “Okay, okay. I get it that you might be tired of living off the vault. I mean, I sort of hated it too when I was on maternity leave,” she admitted, placating. “But, honestly Harry, it’s not like there aren’t other avenues. No one ever said you had to run a gossip rag. And, I mean, if you want a challenge, you could always go work for Mr. Lovegood. You have to know he’d give you anything you needed to make that into a respectable paper. Write about important shite—get political, or environmental, or what have you. I could help out sometimes, even, if you went the first route. Or, hell, you could do anything you wanted in your field with your resume by now, right? Like, be an editor, or write a book yourself, maybe. So Skeeter is a bitch and you’re tired of the hostility—turn it around. I’m just trying to tell you that torturing yourself in a classroom with a bunch of nineteen year olds doesn’t have to be the answer to your problems, alright?” 

Harry was saved from having to reply when the wait staff returned to fill their salad and remove empty plates. All the while, he stared at the table in an effort to mask his frustration. His sister very clearly meant well, and a part of him loved that she was trying to prevent him from experiencing unnecessary stress. But Harry didn’t actually have experience, and he couldn’t quite explain his resistance towards learning to write like he had clearly been capable of—even to himself. It felt like a concession, or something. One he stubbornly did not want to make. He didn’t want to have a talent for this. 

“You’re right,” he said anyway, once they’d been left alone again. “I’ll figure something out.” 

His sister smiled, thankfully satisfied with his non-agreement. “Now can we please talk about m— ah, hullo Parkinson.” 

Harry straightened in surprise, finding the woman in question at his left shoulder, and did a double-take. She was stunning, he struggled to reconcile her with the pug-faced teen Harry grew up alongside. She wore an indigo cocktail dress with red stilettos, black curls falling near to her stomach. Somehow, even painfully overdressed, she didn’t look foolish. It was bizarre, he thought, how it was as if that was simply what she was meant to be wearing. 

Parkinson cut Ayesha a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Potter,” she replied, all sweet dismissiveness, before she turned her attention to Harry. It wasn’t until her smile became genuine that he recognised that it hadn’t been before. Huh, he thought with some bemusement, we really are friends. 

“Harry,” she said warmly. “You really don’t stop by often enough, love. I’ve not seen you since that dreadful business at the ministry.” 

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but his sister beat him to it. “Why not just take a seat, Parkinson? Or were you planning to just stand there lording over us?” she said, almost cutting. 

Harry looked at Ayesha in surprise, unable to understand her sudden hostility. 

“Honestly, Potter,” said Parkinson with an eye roll, “must you be quite so rude?” 

“My last name is Creevey, as I’m certain you’ve been well aware for several years now.” 

This earned a razored smirk. “Oh, yes, I’ve not forgotten,” she promised. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you. I’m only over to pass this on.” 

She handed Harry a folded piece of parchment. “From a favourite client of mine,” she explained cheekily, before winking and excusing herself with a self-invite to visit his flat soon. 

“Client,” Harry repeated aloud, thoughtlessly. 

“Rather a sugary word for a man who pays her to bed him,” Ayesha scoffed, not seeming to care whether Parkinson was out of earshot or not. 

By sheer force of will, Harry kept his jaw from falling slack. “Rather,” he parroted after a moment, hoping his shock didn’t reach his voice. Of all the facts and things he’d learned or remembered thus far, one might’ve imagined that his friend being a high-end escort ought of been among them. Several seconds went by before Harry remembered the note. He unfolded it carefully, quickly marking the sender. 

Potter, 

I need to talk to you. Nowhere public. I’ll be out of time sooner than later. 

Please come to my flat as soon as this reaches you. I’ve set my floo to admit you. 

NL

P.S. Sorry if Parkinson was weird. I sort of had to imply that we were seeing each other, or she’d not have ‘played owl’ for me. 

“What’s wrong?” Ayesha asked, eyeing the creased parchment. 

Just looking at the address Neville had written at the bottom already had Harry exhausted. “Probably everything,” he sighed. 

“It’s alright,” his sister assured him. “Go. I’ll take care of the bill. But you owe me a lunch.” 

Chapter Text

Neville’s bachelor pad was absurd. One might’ve thought the person who lived here was overcompensating for something, if that person wasn’t Neville. The art on the walls alone must’ve cost someone a limb. The rest of it—the square shaped white-leather sofa, secondary storey above his head, and vintage record players—just drove it home. Harry briefly wondered where the indoor pool was, because he couldn’t put it past. 

“You actually came,” said Neville, cutting Harry’s assessment short, and proceeding to stumble down the wall-based staircase in a fur robe. Harry started; the man looked wrecked. His face was pale, kohl smeared off around his eyes; his hair was a disaster, the slightest touch of blond roots visible in the mess. He wore nothing beneath the open robe except his pants. 

“What happened?” Harry breathed. 

Neville laughed—it was by no means a happy sound. “What happened is that I am a fucking joke who fell in love with a snake,” Neville spit; his bitter smile becoming near painful to look at. 

Dammit, Harry thought. I should have seen this coming. At the very least, Harry felt he ought to have considered the possibility that Blaise wasn’t all Neville believed him to be. Harry didn’t even know the bloke, in this life or his previous one. And perpetuating an affair from a position of power didn’t exactly scream good guy. 

“I take it you spoke to him?” Harry said evenly; someone in this room had to keep his head, after all. 

Neville scoffed, turning and walking towards the corner of the room. Harry watched him pick up a decanter of what was probably scotch and fill a glass with it. He downed it in one, before refilling it and heading towards the sofa. “Something like that.” 

“What exactly did he say?” Harry asked. 

Neville peered up at him. “Oh, nothing really,” he said blithely. “Only that he ought’ve been more careful where he put his cock and that if he goes down because of me he’ll make sure I get put down first, blah blah blah.” 

Harry gaped, lost for words. 

Neville laughed at him and took another long drink. “Merlin,” he breathed after a minute. “I’m such a fool. I thought he was in love with me. I thought all I had to do was wait and then we would have been happy. And now… this time next week I’ll be the scandal of the wizarding world. I’ll never see the inside of a studio again.” 

No, thought Harry, sudden fury coursing through him. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t the truth. “No,” he snarled aloud. “That’s not happening.” 

He wouldn’t let it. 

Neville looked startled by his adamence—the foreign part of Harry was as well, but he shut it out easily. 

“What do you mean?” Neville asked cautiously. 

“I mean,” said Harry, his voice dangerous to his own ears, “I’m not going to let him ruin you like that and get away with it. It’s a fucking lie. And he’s going to pay for even trying. I’m going to ruin him.” 

Neville looked like he was desperately trying not to become hopeful. “How are you going to do that?” 

Harry’s mind was already working, thinking around the variables in play. But he knew he couldn’t manipulate them as well on his own. 

“I need Lav.” 

oOo

Lav had been exceedingly caught off guard when Harry had burst into her flat to demand she help him on his latest story. Honestly, you’d think she wasn’t a bloody journalist, he’d thought. 

“Have you ever even written a story before?” she’d asked him, bewildered. 

Harry had given her an incredulous look before telling her to focus, and since then she’d been monitoring him out of the corner of her eye. Like he was the one acting weird. Like they hadn’t done this a million times. He couldn’t fathom why she wasn’t more excited. Where was the devious sparkle in her eye? The appropriate enthusiasm for the information he’d given her? 

At least she was helping, he reminded himself as he furiously blacked out another line. They’d spent hours trying to work out how to get around how Rita would want to spin this. She didn’t care about the truth the way they did—she’d just want the most scandalous version of events. That wouldn’t do here. After however long debating back and forth, it was decided that they’d have to take this to another paper. Rita’s retaliation wouldn’t be able to touch them after the praise they’d get for this, Harry was sure. They’d have new job offers faster than a blink. 

Plus, Neville Longbottom was likely to prove a very useful friend to have. 

From there, it became about how to turn a tabloid article into an interesting and trustworthy-sounding source. It all came down to making the public’s heart bleed for Neville—destroying Zabini’s entire reputation was just the carefully-laid fine print, Harry’s subtle, driving purpose. 

Merlin and Salazar but he’d missed this. He knew Lav must have too, which was why her cautiousness was so vexing. 

They had most of it together, a plan mapped out, when she turned to him warily. “Who’s name goes on this, Harry?” 

He blinked over at her, not cottoned to her meaning. “Sorry?” 

She squared her shoulders. “I thought that you didn’t want to do this anymore… all that rot about trying to change, or something. And—well, I reckon I thought you said you wouldn’t know the first thing about any of this. What’s going on?” 

Harry stared at her for what felt like minutes, his mind sluggish to process her words. It was a bit like coming awake. And then it fully hit—his eyes widened. 

He shook his head back and forth in denial. Disbelief. It was an excellent question, he reflected in horror, what was going on? “Merlin,” he breathed, looking about himself at the fruits of the last several hours. Hours in which he hadn’t thought about his former life, his real life, even once. He realised he could remember the exact moment he’d shut it out—like he’d willingly forgotten. He hadn’t been… him. 

“You don’t look well,” Lavender said, reaching for him in concern. 

Harry stumbled instinctively backward, away, and her arm dropped slack at her side again. 

“I…” he started, but he didn’t have the first idea what to say.

“It was like you were you—er, the friend I grew up with again. I mean, you came in, calling me Lav, firing off plans and ideas, demanding my input…” 

Harry swallowed. “I know,” he breathed. “I remember it. It was me, but…” 

“This isn’t as bad as I know you’re thinking,” she was quick to say. Clearly she was doing what she could to ease the panic he was sure was all over his face. 

“Not as bad, is that right? Evidently, I’m in a battle for my own bloody will,” he snapped. 

Lavender shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I think you’ve just… got to find a balance somehow,” she theorised. “This has got to be because you just took over and started suppressing everything about yourself—or, about the you that I know. Knew. Whatever. Point is, you tried to just shut him out and forget about him, so I bet this is you’re being pushed back.” 

Harry’s heart was racing. It was a struggle to regulate his breathing. 

“Nothing’s any worse than it was,” she reminded him. “It was just kept to your dreams and such before. Your subconscious memories. But that didn’t work, and you kept on trying to take his place. That wasn’t going to work forever; you said yourself you knew he wasn’t just gone.” 

Harry shook his head slowly. “You’re telling me that I have to let someone else into my head,” he said. There weren’t words for how much issue he took with that. 

But Lavender disagreed. “No. I’m saying you need to stop thinking of yourself as Real and Other. I’ll bet anything it’s that distinction that’s driving the problem.” 

It might’ve sounded logical, but Harry couldn’t accept it. There had to be a way out of this without letting himself become an entirely different person. 

“You can put your name on the story,” he told her, needing to go home and think. To get away from her ideas of what might be happening to him. “Take it to Xenophilius, or someone else trustworthy. Don’t let them change a single detail—they try and you don’t take any deal.”

Lavender looked exasperated with him, but Harry apparated out before she could say anything else. 

Chapter Text

“—aco.” 

“...Draco.” 

Harry blinked his eyes open groggily, nearly groaning aloud at the pitch black that met him. It felt as though he’d only just fallen asleep. 

“Draco,” the voice that had disturbed him whispered yet again, soft and desperate sounding. 

Harry had a mind to toss a pillow in the direction of Draco’s bed, but he thankfully didn’t have to. 

“Phee?” came the low reply. Draco’s voice was thick with sleep. 

“Draco,” the little girl murmured back, sounding much closer now. “Can I… sleep here tonight?” 

Draco sighed, the sound barely audible to Harry’s ears. “How did you get in here, Phee?” 

“P-Professor Sprout let me, since we only just got here,” was the quiet response. “She said the first night in the castle is hard… and if you’d let me than it could be okay. Just for this time.” 

It was silent for a moment, and then there was shuffling. Harry heard the creak of a mattress, and whispers too quiet for him to catch. 

He’d nearly fallen back asleep by the time he heard Draco’s voice again. “You know I’m always going to be here for you, but you really don’t need to be afraid of anything here, alright?” 

“I’m not afraid of the castle,” came the small voice. “I’m afraid… I’m just afraid.” 

“Why? You’re safe here. Safer than ever, because I’m here too.” 

“I’m afraid of… oh, what will Father say, Draco? He’s going to be so upset with me. I shamed the family again, like always. Oh M-Merlin, what if he comes here and—”

“Shhh, hey,” Draco interrupted, his tone gentle and soothing. “Father is not coming here. You’ll never have to be by yourself with him again, okay? Never without me.”

“But—” 

“I don’t give a damn what Father thinks,” Draco said, his whispered tone furious. “You’re a Hufflepuff. That’s who you are. You don’t ever have to wish you were anything or anybody else. And if Father doesn’t like it than he can shove right off, yeah?” 

Ophelia sniffled quietly. “Yeah, okay… I love you, ’co.” 

Who wouldn’t, Harry would remember thinking, just before he slipped back into unconsciousness. 

“This doesn’t mean anything,” said Harry, looking her over as she dropped her panties to the floor. 

Pansy scoffed at him. “This is what I do, Harry. Besides, it’s your vault.”

—Harry glanced back at the tent where Ayesha still stubbornly slept. 

Harry would never understand her dislike of camping. There was nothing quite like forest air in the earliest hours of morning. 

The sun rose steadily in the distance, gradually bathing his surroundings in a bright yellow glow. Dad stood next to him, both of them soaking up the moment in silence. 

“Let’s go kayaking today,” the older Potter suggested. 

Harry smiled his excitement up at him. “Ayesha hates kayaking.” 

His dad gave him a conspirator’s look. “She doesn’t seem to be awake to give her opinion.” 

Harry laughed brightly, the sound echoing into the trees.

—Parvati grimaced at him. She always hated when he was drunk, but tonight Harry didn’t care. 

He could still feel Draco so close to his skin. Those gorgeous grey eyes so wide, the crippling hope in them still visible beneath the surface. Nothing short of a miracle. Harry had wanted so badly to just—

—Harry kicked the ground viciously, tossing his broom away from him. “Ugh!” 

Someone cleared their throat, and Harry looked up to find his dad evaluating him. He’d clearly been watching the whole time. Harry’s cheeks flushed with shame. 

“That was an almost perfect wronski feint you did,” Dad observed evenly. “Just gotta dive a few seconds longer, really.” 

“I can’t get it right,” Harry sniffed, eyes firmly on the ground. “You had it down by eleven, I thought. I’m already three years late.”  

His dad sighed. He came closer, calling the broom to his hand and offering it back to Harry. “Harry, you’re my son. I know you don’t need a pep talk about quidditch right now. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” 

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Draco’s barely talked to me since he got here,” he mumbled finally. “I thought… I dunno. I don’t get why I’m out here playing by myself.” 

Dad put a hand on his shoulder, waiting until Harry had looked up at him to speak. “Our home is very different from anything Draco has ever seen, son,” Dad told him patiently. “The sorts of things you’ve grown up with are all very new to him. I’m sure it’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time with you. But being introduced to many different things and people at once can be very distracting.” 

Harry allowed himself to relax a bit, considering. He imagined what it would be like to talk to Dhadhi for the first time, if you didn’t know her. She had a lot of stories, he thought. Harry himself hadn’t even heard them all. And the Manor was very big; Harry had loved pretending to be an explorer as a kid. He’d uncovered everything piece by piece, spoken to a hundred portraits of past Potters and Najafis. He supposed it made sense enough for Draco to be distracted—Harry knew firsthand there wasn’t much he was allowed to do in Malfoy Manor. 

Harry nodded a bit, and his dad gave him a proud grin, reaching out to ruffle his hair a bit. 

They walked back towards the manor together. “You know, I had a single-minded crush too, once upon a time,” his dad said, all nonchalance but for the mischief in his sideways grin. 

Harry stumbled, looking up at his dad with wide eyes. “Too?” he choked. 

At that, James Potter laughed aloud. “It’s all right, son. Draco’s not noticed yet. But I’m always here for you if or when you start thinking you’d like him to, okay?” 

Harry’s heart clenched in panic at the very thought. 

—coffin was wooden, a dark brown. Smooth to the touch. 

Time passed sluggishly as he stared down at it. Eyes fixed to the roses. 

A touch grazed his sleeve, its owner’s voice came from far away. He didn’t hear it; he flinched away, stepping bodily out of reach. 

“What’s his name then?” Harry asked, lips curving cruelly. 

Draco’s eyes rolled in the restroom mirror’s reflection. “His name is decidedly none of your business,” he said, always with that infuriating calm. 

“I’m just making conversation,” Harry replied lazily, rage simmering beneath his skin. 

“Please,” the other man retorted. “Have you nothing better to do with your nights than stalk nightclubs for me?” 

“I’ve just as much a right to be here as you.” 

Draco turned towards him, the beginnings of a sneer making an appearance. “His name is Anthony. We’ve been fucking for a handful of weeks now. He rather likes my accent and loves to hear me go on about nonsense for hours. But mostly he just likes to hear me scream his name. Are you satisfied with that information, Potter? Did you learn what you were so very desperate to know?” 

Harry imagined he could smell the blood from where his nails were cutting into his own palms. “You’re a fucking slut, Malfoy.” 

Draco spit at him, then turned and walked out—slamming the door so hard that the bang of metal echoed in Harry’s ears for long minutes.

—Merlin and Salazar, this is what heaven must be like. 

Draco thrashed below him in his ecstasy, ivory hair spilled across the pillow. 

Why had they waited to do this? Nothing could be better. Nothing in the world felt as good as being inside. 

“Circe, Circe, Circe—Harry!” 

Harry’s mind went white, Draco’s name falling from his lips. 

Pansy kissed his forehead, collecting the pouch of galleons from the bedside table. 

“Ta, darling.” 

Harry had the thought that his life disgusted him. He also had the surety that he deserved it. 

Harry could see the roses. They were the colour of blood. 

Chapter Text

Harry thought he’d gotten to be rather brilliant at compartmentalising. He was somehow managing to cope with a new reality, after all. And with being an entirely different person. This, though, seemed to work only so long as there were certain things he did not allow himself to think about beyond surface level. For the most part he was successful; he did not think about his dead father—and he did not ever acknowledge his unwanted, utterly hopeless feelings for Draco Malfoy. 

And he’d been certain he would have been able to keep it up. He told himself that it didn’t matter how much he dreamed—the borderline vicious delivery of memories he’d been dealt the past night would not be allowed to disrupt him. 

He was not going to think about it. 

But that had been before he’d opened the front door to his flat—on his way out to congratulate Neville for what he’d learned earlier that morning—to be ambushed with Malfoy himself waiting. Now, Harry’s heart had kicked into overdrive, and he seemed to have forgotten how to do anything except stare. 

Malfoy didn’t allow that for longer than a second, however. He shoved the paper he was holding into Harry’s chest and proceeded to elbow his way inside. 

Dumbly, Harry looked down. 

PERPETUAL MISCONDUCT LEAVES POP SENSATION DEVASTATED! read the headline. 

He knew every word that followed, of course; he’d written them. And, if he’d been fully aware of what he was doing at the time, he’d even be somewhat proud of them. Which made what was to happen next even more startling. 

“Explain what the fuck you think you’re doing with that hippogriff shit,” Malfoy spat from the middle of Harry’s sitting room. 

Harry could only blink, unable to gather his wits quickly enough. “I-”

“Salazar, I told you I never fucking wanted to see you again, so I ought to have known, hadn’t I? Of course you would go and start slandering my fucking friends. Because you’re pathetic—a child who needs everyone’s attention to feel important. And don’t even give me any shite about how you didn’t write that; I’m not your common halfwit, contrary to what you must believe.” 

“M- Draco,” Harry said, helplessly floored. “I didn’t… I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong this time.” 

The other man stared at him, rage and distrust carved on every harsh line of his face. “You’ve sunk Blaise into the bloody gutter,” he said, eyes blazing. “You can’t possibly claim ignorance.” 

Harry shook his head, some inkling of understanding setting in at last. Evidently, some friendships persisted against all odds. It was ridiculous that such a thing would bother him, but jealousy bubbled up nonetheless. Later, he could tell himself it was because he wished the same could’ve been said of him and Hermione, or Ron. 

“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t mean every last word,” Harry replied, using truth as a counter weapon. “I wanted to take Zabini down, and I did—he damn well deserved it.” 

Malfoy’s jaw fell open; it was clear Harry had delivered the very last defense he’d expected. “For what?!” he demanded. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. He looked pointedly back down at the paper the other man still held before meeting his gaze again. “Did you not read it?” he inquired. 

Malfoy looked genuinely startled now. “You… But that’s a load of rubbish!” he insisted, though he sounded decidedly less confident now. “You can’t expect I’d believe Blaise would cheat on Kelsey? With some boy-toy celebrity?” 

Harry gave him a flat look. “Just because I didn’t use any pictures for this doesn’t mean I didn’t have them.” 

Malfoy searched his face; Harry saw the exact moment he recognised that Harry wasn’t lying. “That’s… that idiot,” Malfoy breathed. 

Harry nodded solemnly. “Neville’s a decent bloke,” he told Malfoy. “He didn’t deserve to be crucified just for ‘that idiot’ to go on like nothing happened.” 

“Merlin,” said the blond, his gaze somewhat far off. “We’re going to have words. I didn’t even know he still liked men.” 

Harry blinked at that, and Malfoy seemed to register the situation all at once. He glanced around at Harry’s flat, clearly feeling the awkwardness setting upon them both now the initial conflict had been subverted. 

“Well. Fuck,” he said. 

Harry felt his own lips quirk up minutely, unable to help it. The display of amusement proved very much a mistake, though, because Malfoy noticed immediately— and his eyes hardened. 

Harry nearly flinched at how familiar a sight it was. 

“Well, I can hardly complain about being proven wrong all of once,” Draco said, passing Harry on his way back to the door. “I’ll not be holding my breath for another miracle.” 

Very much without his own conscious will, Harry’s hand shot out to grip Malfoy’s wrist as he went by, stopping the blond in his tracks. A shock went through Harry at the contact, and he locked eyes with the other man—sure it must be written all over his face. 

All he found in response was cold disdain as Malfoy ripped himself away. “Do not touch me.” 

Harry hand went slack immediately. He swallowed hard. “I- I’d really like to talk to you.” 

I would? he thought at the same time. 

“We have nothing to talk about.” 

He was right, Harry told himself sternly. He ought to just let him leave. It should be all too easy. 

After all, there hadn’t been many points in Harry’s life—his real life—that Harry had thought positively of Draco Malfoy. They’d been on opposite paths, fought tooth and nail against one another on everything small and devastating large. There had always existed a near-insurmountable chasm between them—trains, sneers, a bathroom, an astronomy tower, a trial. Harry owed that Malfoy, his Malfoy, absolutely nothing. 

And while Harry was no longer blissfully ignorant of the many ways they might’ve fit together, even then, the recent bouts of memory indicated Harry had treated the other man horrendously in this world regardless. For many years. The blond had every right to leave, and should surely be able to do so without Harry fussing about it. 

But for all that, for every bit of logic Harry could muster, he couldn’t ignore the way his heart ached at the sight of Draco’s hatred for him. It was as though his very self was begging, demanding to know how he could bear letting Draco walk away. 

In his mind, there were snowballs flying, and riotous laughter. There was a tree house, a blond boy swinging from its rope. Massive hallways, quiet footsteps, a family tree with holes blackened in. The comforting grip of hands. Summer breeze and polished brooms. Wands lit under covers. Two boys locked in embrace on the floor of an empty classroom. 

Whatever determination Harry had gathered splintered and slipped away under the onslaught. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hardly above a whisper. 

Draco’s spine straightened. “What have you done this time?” 

Harry didn’t let himself react. He was a Gryffindor, he reminded himself. Harry could manage this. He didn’t have to win Draco over—that wasn’t what he wanted anyway. And Harry would tell himself that until he believed it, besides. “I meant for… for more than just one thing. I’m trying to say that I- I don’t even know how to begin making up for how I’ve hurt you,” he said, letting the words spill from somewhere within. Harry took in a breath, rallying. “But I want to.” 

Draco regraded him for an excruciatingly long moment. “What are you playing at?” he demanded at last, though the words were hushed. 

Harry withheld another flinch; he couldn’t afford being affected—it had hurt, though. He swallowed. “It’s not a game, or a ploy, or a plot. I just need you to believe that I’m sorry. If there was anything I could ever… what can I do?” he asked quietly instead. “Please.” 

“You want me to believe that you’re sorry?” Draco asked, disbelieving, after too much silence had gone by. “To know what you can do?” 

Harry’s hand clenched and unclenched as he managed a nod, the trepidation seeping into his bones. 

“Let me go.” 

And Harry knew that he did not mean from the room; he did not even mean today. “I…” 

“I don’t want to be miserable anymore , Harry,” Draco admitted, his pain suddenly all too clear. Harry didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it. “I want to trust people. I want to fall in love again. I want to be happy, because I deserve to be. And if you gave a damn, you would want that for me. But you never have.” 

Harry shook his head, the tightness in his throat making it difficult to speak. “Is that really what you want?” he heard himself ask, somehow. 

Those storm-coloured eyes had never left his. “You know it is.” 

Harry did know. And he thought he’d never hated himself more than he did just then. This was no one’s fault but his own. “Then I won’t stand in your way anymore,” Harry told him, a quiet promise. “I hope you find… all that you want.” 

He couldn’t know if Draco believed him, but he’d meant it. And he watched Draco leave, all the same.

Chapter Text

Harry was tired. It was nearly all he could feel, an exhaustion so acute it overrode everything else. 

He couldn’t live like this anymore—with no reprieve, nowhere to go that he didn’t have to perform, playing at being some version of himself he was no closer to understanding than he’d ever been. He was so tired of not knowing who he was anymore. And he wasn’t so naive as to be unaware that he wasn’t always in charge, that maybe he hadn’t been since the beginning of it all. Even when he slept, he did not get to have peace. There was nowhere he could escape the torrent for even a moment. 

He imagined, sometimes—as this morning, when he had watched a man he’d resented for years leave him, and had felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest, because he also loved that same man fervently—that perhaps he had simply gone mad. 

He cared deeply for people he barely knew. He loved family that he hadn’t had even a month ago. He responded with emotions for which he couldn’t locate the source. He was himself, but he wasn’t. Not anymore. He was constantly being yanked in so many directions, there was no control. No autonomy. If he was not mad, he was surely well on his way. 

He needed an escape, needed to feel real again. To remember what it was like to be only Harry, to feel comfortable with and trusted by those around him. Merlin, he wanted to go home.

Just home. 

But there was no home here. There was this flat, or his family’s manor, or Lavender Brown’s. But none of those places carried the familiar, worn comfort of being where he belonged. He was still without. Bereft of the truest friends he had, those he grew up with.

He missed Ron. He missed their shitty, shared office space in the Auror department, and spending the afternoon throwing bits of paper at each other from across the room like school children. He missed Hermione’s hurried hugs when she would drop by in the mornings on the way to Mysteries, hair wild and coffee in hand. He missed taking a day off here and there just to pay McGonagall a visit, walking the grounds of the first place he’d called… 

Slowly, Harry emerged from beneath the bed covers, the realisation and spark of hope pushing him into action. 

Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts was home, and it was a constant. The other version of himself had grown up loved and cared for by family. He’d had a home. But Hogwarts had been an attachment for Harry, the first safe haven. The first home. It was his more than it was the other’s, he knew, and it always would be. 

He’d been too overwhelmed when he’d been there last, he thought. Seeing his ghosts alive, being preoccupied with his little brother, helplessly distracted by his emotional state as he always seemed to be lately. He hadn’t considered approaching. Hadn’t taken any moment for himself to absorb what comfort the castle offered. A missed opportunity—one he would rectify now. Because if there was anywhere that could provide peace or necessary perspective, anywhere that could ground him again, it would be Hogwarts. 

He was going home. 

oOo 

It was bitingly cold outside, the wind stinging his cheeks in welcome as he arrived outside the gate to the grounds minutes later. This time, it was early evening, the light still not fully receded though the sun was no longer in sight. And there was, of course, no Remus posted to collect guests. 

That was for the best, as Harry was not here to see the Marauder. 

In actuality, he had not come prepared with an excuse for his visit. He’d cast a disillusionment charm, simply aiming to take in what he could for his limited time. Admittedly, he had the hope that McGonagall would agree to see him should anyone see past the charm and question him directly on why he was here. McGonagall was safe, practical, and had always been understanding. He couldn’t imagine her being so different from that, despite any circumstances. 

He would deal with that only if necessary, however. 

Holding his breath just a bit, Harry stepped forward, half expecting to trigger an alarm or to be ejected upon entrance. 

Instead, the wards seemed to caress him, gifting him a surge of warmth and undeniable comfort as he passed easily through. Harry reopened his eyes, unsure when he’d shut them, and his lips parted. He was left with no doubts that the castle and its grounds had happily permitted him to be here, and was nearly overcome with gratitude and relief. 

Hogwarts knew him. 

Harry moved forward, breathing the distinct smell of grass and aged stone he’d always known in with the frigid air. It was quiet and calm. He had the thought that if he closed his eyes, he could pretend everything was the way it’d once been. 

Before he’d fixed it. Before he’d had to. 

The first thing Harry realised upon opening the castle door—well, the second thing, just after the fact of the doors themselves still being ludicrously loud and his being lucky no one was around to see past the charm if they looked too hard for the source—was that it was dinner time. The scent of pumpkin, cooked roast and vegetables, and fresh pie reached him where he first stood, a good way from the Great Hall. Harry was glad to have come at such a simple time, when there wouldn’t be too many students meandering through the corridors to avoid. 

For nearly a half hour, Harry wandered through his memories—the one he’d really lived. He let the staircases shift randomly, taking him wherever he was supposed to end up. 

When he reached a wide, empty corridor that called to him, somehow, he followed along until he found a trophy stand. At the forefront was a great gold medal for an exceptional chaser. The name engraved was Ginny’s. 

Harry smiled. Sometimes, he reckoned, people were consistent; they just needed a chance to cultivate themselves. A chance to live instead of fixating on survival until they didn’t know how to do anything else. So many opportunities destroyed. 

He’d done the right thing, he understood that best in moments like these. As hard as this different world had been in some ways, it was better. For everyone, including himself. 

A throat cleared, and Harry startled harshly in response. He whipped his head around, and then stilled completely, his mind blanking when he saw the source of the noise. 

The old man smiled, a familiar twinkle in his eye as he looked directly at Harry—who immediately felt the disillusionment surrounding him dissolve. The professor, Harry recalled through the descending fog of mental static, had always had a sight of some sort. 

Harry swallowed. He could not muster a smile in return.

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore greeted him warmly, unconcerned. 

“Professor.” 

“An odd night for a visit, my boy,” he observed, too knowingly. 

Harry didn’t move. This hadn’t been what he came for. He hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone, but much less the man who’d given him everything and nothing at all. The man he could never fully decide to revere in light of so many stark truths. 

“I’ve been having a time of it,” Harry said, his palms beginning to sweat. “I thought Hogwarts might offer some… guidance.” 

Dumbledore nodded sagely, as though this was very wise. “As it is wont to do. Accompany me to my office, dear boy,” he gestured for Harry to follow along, turning his back as though there was no doubt this would happen. And it was true, of course, because when had Harry ever had a choice when it came to Albus Dumbledore? 

“Yes, Professor.” 

Thankfully, they did not run into anyone else on their way. There was no telling how that might have gone with Harry being in his current state. Everything inside him was locking up, as if he were preparing for a battle. However absurd it was, he felt every bit like the scared teenager he’d once been. 

It was only when Fawkes’ caw echoed in his ears that Harry actually noticed they had arrived. He could not say whether it was a comfort or a distresser that the space he stood in looked exactly as it once had in his previous world. 

When at last he managed to tear his eyes away from the organised mess, it was to find the old man quite blatantly assessing him. Harry had not forgotten that while Dumbledore might appear jovial and kind, he was a brilliant and severely threatening master of the magic arts. Voldemort hadn’t risen, but Grindlewald had. And he’d fallen at that now-withered hand just the same. 

Harry was no longer a naive child blinded by trust and hero-worship. He understood the tactic, callous manner in which such a dangerous man could think in order to achieve the ends he sought. Harry had lived on this man’s chess board, once. He’d not soon forget the set up nor the culmination of that lifelong match. 

“You are not the young Harry Potter I’ve met,” said Dumbeldore, calm as only he could be when delivering such a statement. 

Instead of allowing himself to freeze, Harry forced his body into motion, though he imagined he must look something of an automaton. He did not look at the older wizard, focusing his eyes on the teetering stack of books he’d approached. He touched the cover of the uppermost tome as he answered. Thankfully, his voice didn’t waver. “What does that mean?”

“Are you familiar with magical signatures, Mr. Potter?” 

Harry merely opened the second book. “They’re unique to every wizard,” he said, attempting blandness. 

“Yours is strong, much stronger than it was projected to be when you were a student under my charge.” 

Harry looked over his shoulder at that, unable to help it. “Maybe I’m just a greater talent than you could have predicted.” 

“Your signature is not only far stronger than average,” Dumbledore responded, seeming almost amused with him, “it is not altogether pure. Only partially familiar to me. You are not as you once were.” 

Harry set down the book, fully facing the professor again. “You couldn’t prove that,” he pointed out. “You’re only guessing.” 

“I am perplexed as to why I would be expected to guess, as you say.”

Harry said nothing to that. 

“Once,” Dumbledore went on, releasing a sigh as he took the seat behind the cluttered desk before him, “I knew of a boy. He was a half-blood—had been written in on the list of future students the very moment of his tragic birth. I admit to having looked forward to the day myself or someone else may be able to help him. But that day was never to come. He’d have been about ten years of age when his name vanished from my records. I wondered over young Tom Riddle for many years, Mr. Potter. Would you like to know what became of him?” 

“Yes,” Harry admitted, voice lowered in dread. 

“He spent his last days in a prison, the murders of no less than twelve muggles attributed to him. Though many believe there were more.” 

Harry took that for the blow it was. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“I came to learn that every one of Tom’s victims were men, Mr. Potter. All of a similar look. Tell me, would I be incorrect in the belief that you already know whom they each resembled?” 

It was so quiet, Harry imagined he could hear the wind blowing through the rafters. 

“Me,” said Harry. “He killed men that looked like me, didn’t he?” 

Dumbledore looked at him levely. “Who are you, Mr. Potter?” 

Harry set his jaw. “I’m someone who did what I had to,” he said. “I always did what had to be done. You should understand that.” 

Dumbledore observed him. “I have harmed you somehow.” 

Harry scoffed, desperately trying and failing to swallow the bitterness crawling up his throat. “Don’t,” he warned. 

“Do I not deserve to understand the hatred you harbour in my name?” 

“Hatred,” Harry repeated, an admission of a sort. “I don’t know if that’s right. I think maybe I ought to hate you. But I also mourned you. I trusted you, believed in you. But it was always you pulling the strings. I grew up in a cupboard, Albus. You left me there, with monsters you pretended were my family to make yourself feel better for how I suffered. But I didn’t know, then, to blame you. Not a hero like you. Not someone who had always seemed to believe in me. And then you died and left me alone to learn how the man I believed would always protect me had actually planned my every step toward a premature death. And I’ve spent every year since going over it in my mind, justifying it all as being for the greater good— just like you must have. Only for it all to mean nothing, because all along there was another way,” Harry told him. “You just didn’t care to find it. So maybe I hate you, but I’d have the right to. Because your good intentions don’t change what a cold bastard you are.” 

Long moments passed in silence before Dumbledore stood, approaching Harry like he was a threatened animal that might spook. In truth, he was beginning to feel like one. 

“You’ve come from a dark place,” the older man finally said. “I regret the shaded part you believed I played in that, my boy.” 

Harry held his gaze steadily. “I don’t want anyone to know that I’m not… fully me. Where I came from, any of it. I don’t want anyone to know about Tom.” 

“You have my word,” Dumbledore replied, having offered no hesitation. “Though I must ask that you might consider telling me.”

Chapter Text

To call for hands of above 

To lean on 

Wouldn’t be good enough 

For me, no 

This sort of environment was rather captivating, Harry thought. It was exceedingly easy to just sink into the music, the motion of other bodies on the floor, the simplistic ambiance. Spell light pulsed; it brightened the floor into sections of colour, though Harry had no idea what they meant, and the music was supposedly heard at desired volume for every patron in the space. 

Harry carelessly occupied the space between Neville and his drummer—Alex or Alfred something or other. He’d forgotten shortly after being introduced. 

He took another sip of whatever fancy drink filled his glass, giving his latest glance towards the red rope surrounding their section. Only a handful had approached so far, in truth, and Harry had the inkling most of those that had were likely some manner of celebrity themselves, if only due to the way they side-eyed him distrustfully before dismissal in favour of paying their full attention to Neville. The man was the talk of the city, and everyone seemed to want a piece of the fame. 

At the moment, an unfamiliar young man was sat rather ostentatiously on Neville’s thigh, looking very much like the only factor preventing his straddling the singer right then and there was the girl perched on the side of the armchair, giggling obnoxiously at Neville’s every other word. Neville did not seem in the least uncomfortable with any of this, all but preening giddily at the amount of positive attention. 

He’d confided earlier, shortly after Harry had arrived, that Zabini had been a large reason that Neville had so rarely put himself directly in the public eye prior to now. The ex-manager had evidently claimed to have been worried about the risk to the singer’s reputation, and everyone else had fallen in line. 

This was all expressed by way of explanation before Neville had cottoned on to Harry’s mood, and left him mostly to himself. 

Having come practically straight from Hogwarts, he’d not been in frame of mind to chat about much of anything, really. 

He’d spent a half hour letting Albus Dumbledore use legilimency on him, fighting every trained instinct to occlude, so that the older wizard could get all the information he sought ‘to help you in your predicament if I can, dear boy.’

Then, of course, he’d wanted to discuss many things Harry actively worked to forget. But he’d not just let it end there, either. He’d had to go on and inform Harry how he believed ‘ Miss Brown would be correct in her assessment of your turmoil. You must begin taking steps to bridge the gap between your two selves, Mr. Potter—he is you and you are he. This stubbornness is sure to result only in your detriment should it continue much longer.’ 

Harry had left hastily after that, but not before Dumbledore had gotten several more unwelcome statements in. None of which Harry wanted to revisit. He’d sought to avoid thinking after that. Contacting Neville was the clear option, given that’s what he’d planned to do that very morning, so he had. And had thankfully received a prompt reply to come join in on mindless late night celebration. 

Harry had never imagined he’d be much for the club scene. It had sounded like somewhere for people to come hawk at him, in his previous life. Those that had still given a toss what he did and who he did it with. Direct attention like that was never appealing, so he’d not had much significant social interaction outside of Ron and Hermione. 

Here, though, he was barely somebody. Not a celebrity in his own right—infamous at best. Certainly not a saviour or hero. And that, somehow, made all the difference in an environment like this one. It was… relaxing. Unexpected. At least from the safety of the VIP couches, that was. 

“Why don’t you go dance?” Neville asked, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

Harry looked up to find both Neville’s companions had disappeared. He shrugged in reply. 

“You look like you could use a good time, mate,” said the singer. “Plus, you deserve it. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you and that genius article.” 

Harry looked at him in speculation. “I wondered if you might’ve been offended, honestly. Or… sad.” 

For a second, Neville’s face fell. But he plastered on another smile another so quickly, Harry did him the favour of not commenting. 

“I’m not offended,” he said dismissively. “You didn’t lie, and you saved my arse.” 

He did not say anything more, and the absence of a response was confirmation enough. Harry reminded himself that he was not the only person here dealing with difficult things, and he didn’t have a right to sit sullenly and pretend to be alone. It was accomplishing nothing of what he’d intended when heading here, either. 

“I don’t reckon I’m much of a dancer,” Harry finally said. 

“You don’t need to know how to actually dance,” Neville told him. “Everyone’s here to have fun. But if you insist on babysitting me all night, I’ve a proposition for you.” 

Harry smirked, suggestively wiggling his brows, and Neville immediately elbowed him. “Not that kind, aresehole,” he said, and Harry threw his head back laughing. Perhaps, he considered the next moment, he’d already drunk a bit more than he realised. 

“What is it then?” 

“Work for me.” 

Harry blinked. “Pardon?” 

“It’s nothing serious,” the other man explained. “It’s just… I guess it’s been awhile since I had someone in my circle I could really trust, you know. Or felt like I could, besides. Brown really did save my arse, and I know it was mostly you. But I also know you said you’re not so much into that whole situation anymore, and I reckon you might want something else to do, yeah?” 

“Something like that,” Harry admitted hesitantly. “But… what would I even do?” 

Neville bit his lip. “I was sort of going to leave that part up you. Be one of my bodyguards, maybe. Or my publicist? I don’t much care.” 

“You want to pay me… to hang out with you,” Harry summarised. 

“Is that bad?” asked Neville cautiously. “It could be real work if you wanted it to be. I do actually have a publicist I could sack, considering they’re rather shite at the job anyway. You at least wouldn’t bend the knee to whichever prick the label will send in next. And then you’d more be monitoring me, deciding when I go where and who I talk to and how. Which I’d appreciate, since I trust you. That could end up being taxing, though, especially whenever we’re on tour and such. Or just be a really close bodyguard and go where I go for a chunk of the time. Lots of parties, mate.” 

Harry was a bit too taken off guard to formulate a response. And the drink surely wasn’t helping. “Can I think about it?” 

Neville smiled, and now it looked genuine. “Definitely,” he said, then made to get up. “I could use another drink.” 

Harry stopped him with a gesture. “You stay. I’ve got it.” 

Neville had already attracted another set of admirers by the time Harry had reached the bar. Harry sighed and took up a spot at one of the stools to wait. He nearly fell off of it when the bartender turned to face him. 

“Longbottom after more Hebridean gin?” Ron asked. 

Too many seconds went by in stunned silence. “You’re a bartender,” Harry said stupidly. 

Ron gave him a look that said he was both amused and slightly offended at Harry’s tone. “It would appear that way, wouldn’t it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry told him. “It’s just… it’s the last thing I’d have pictured. But I can see how it works, almost.” 

“Potter,” said Ron. “We’ve not so much as spoken since we were seventh years. I’ve got to say your evaluating my career choice is a bit odd, mate.” 

Harry flinched. Of course, this man wasn’t his best friend. He should be, but he wasn’t. 

“I’m sorry for your losses, my boy.” 

“They’re all alive and well, now, even you. I’ve not lost anyone but my father.” 

“There are many reasons that’s not true.” 

“Sorry,” Harry said, holding his emotions in check. “You’re right. I’ll get out of your hair.” 

Ron raised his brow, looking a touch concerned for Harry’s mental state now. “Did you not want the liquor?” 

“Oh. Er, right. Yeah.” 

Harry sat back on the stool. It wasn’t very long before the drinks were set before him. “You know,” said Ron idly, “I remember not too long ago they wouldn’t even let your lot past the door. And now you’re with Longbottom behind the velvet rope. Well played, Potter. I imagine you’re spinning quite the stunning web in that head of yours.” 

“I’m not,” Harry denied, heart sinking. “I’m done with all that.” 

“Sure,” Ron said with an easy grin. “You’re just lucky you never wrote anything about my sister.” 

Harry furrowed his brows. “Ginny? Why would I?” 

“Dunno,” shrugged Ron. “Why’d you write about Angelina Johnson? She’s on the Harpies, too. Wouldn’t have put it past you, is all I meant.” 

“Johnson just doesn’t have the talent to support her posi-” Harry started automatically, and then abruptly stopped, horrified. He hadn’t even remembered anything about that before he’d opened his mouth. And who was he to talk about someone else’s talent? 

“So you really do think she’s buggering the coach then?” Ron inquired, seeming moderately entertained. “I’d have sworn you just made all that up for the subscriptions.” 

Harry hadn’t, he remembered that now. It was terrible. “It doesn’t matter,” he said harshly. “I’m done with all of that. I’ve just been hired as a publicist, in fact.” 

Ron merely pushed the full glasses toward him with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever you say, Potter.” 

Harry dutifully delivered the alcohol to Neville and his new companions, and then made an excuse to leave. He promised the singer he’d get an answer in the morning, but Harry had already decided. Something safe to put his mind to would be a relief. 

Chapter Text

—bloody exhausting, really. Rita was something of a bitch at the best of times, but she’d been a terror of a different sort since Harry had hinted at the Longbottom thing. He shouldn’t have said anything before it was all finished, really. Still, how she genuinely expected him to stay home all night and write up a presentable, polished story, instead of going to his own sister’s speech was beyond him. Harry didn’t truly think himself a particularly good big brother, but he wasn’t going to miss Ayesha’s being recognised by the Minister himself in front of half the bloody city. Rita could bugger off. 

Ayesha was incandescent tonight, he thought, as she well should be. She was obviously in her element, surrounded by politically powerful figures in the centre of Whitehall and not so much as breaking a sweat. They all had to know she was on track for Minister herself, now, if they hadn’t already. Reeves was practically issuing a promise for the mantel to her someday with an award like this, it seemed like. And she deserved it. Not many had the bollocks to do what she had with so little time. 

Harry stood mostly out of the way of the crowd, watching as she and Mum mingled about with whomever sought them out. Mum was practically radiating pride, and Harry knew it was all she could do not to stay glued to Ayesha’s side and introduce her as ‘My Exemplary Daughter’ at every opportunity. Colin, who was right by Ayesha’s side, looked like he knew everyone envied him the spot and didn’t blame them a bit. Harry smiled at the sight, taking another sip of his champagne. 

And then, of course, they arrived. 

Harry couldn’t help it—it was like he could sense him. Draco. 

He looked immaculate, as always. His fine dress robes were freshly pressed over tailored trousers; silver cufflinks winked under the lighting. As expected, Ophelia was on his arm, ever his perfect complement. A stunning silver number was on display beneath her sky blue robes. There wasn’t a doubt that Draco had fashioned every bit of fabric the both of them donned. 

Admittedly, Harry preferred Ophelia as Draco’s companion, at least to the rest of his familial options. Or worse, an actual date. But Harry still looked away when she met his eyes. 

It seemed the Malfoy siblings had arrived in the nick of time, because it was only a handful of minutes later that the crowd began to congregate toward the stage area, Ayesha slipping dutifully away from her admirers as she was beckoned. 

Harry remained near the back as the Minister of Magic greeted them all from behind his podium. Ayesha beamed from her seat to his right, exuding her natural humility and charm. 

“As you all know,” Minister Reeves was saying, “we are here together this evening to honour one of the most brilliant minds we at the Ministry have ever known. The character of this particular young woman is unparalleled, and I am personally grateful for the staunch dedication she has shown in the few years we have had her with us. She has been passionate, often to the effect of controversy. But she has never wavered. I am immensely grateful for the determination it took this young woman to create such needed awareness and change, and am incredibly proud of that progress. So without further ado, it is my great pleasure to present the Prize for Outstanding Policy Contributions to Mrs. Ayesha Creevey.” 

Ayesha stood confidentially, her smile blinding as she accepted the framed certificate and pin from the Minister and shook his hand. Pre-approved photographers near the front immortalised the moment, and Harry allowed himself a small smile at the sight of his sister’s joy. 

Good things hardly ever lasted, though. 

It was at that same moment that Harry was distracted by a flash of blond hair, and honed in on Draco where he stood near the edge of a middle row. His sister was to his left, but to his right was a man Harry didn’t recognise. The way they were standing, shoulder to shoulder… Harry’s jaw flexed. 

“—people that have gotten me here,” Ayesha was saying, forcing Harry’s attention back to her. “Without the amount of faith and support shown to me, I never would have gotten even that first bill before the Wizengamot. Because that bill was heard, and passed, all prisoners residing in Azkaban have seen increasingly humane treatment, and I firmly believe this has made us as a society so much the better for it. The successful reintegration of some of those individuals is vital to our future, and we are at last on the right track. There is much more to be done, of course, and I am unspeakably grateful each and every day for the opportunity to affect further change. Because I believe every government has a responsibility to create the best country possible, for all of its people. Inshallah hum sare apne awaaz mile . Thank you, Minister, friends.” 

All around him, hands clapped together enthusiastically. Harry could see his mother’s profile to the left of him, tears shining on her cheeks. Colin put his hand on Mum’s shoulder in shared pride. Glasses raised to the sky in toast as Ayesha bowed and smiled. She weaved through the guests, shaking hands and graciously accepting congratulations. Harry should go over to her, he knew, to tell her that he was proud of her and that he’d known all along how incredible she was. But he didn’t. He kept his distance. As hard as he tried, his eyes kept drifting to where Draco and that man’s hands were joined, fingers intertwined. 

It made him sick. 

He wanted to break that link. Needed to, just so he wouldn’t have to see it anymore. And before he knew it, he’d drifted into their vicinity. Not too close; waiting for an opening. 

It came all too quickly. 

Harry snatched another glass of champagne off a near server’s tray, watching Draco and Ophelia mingle with a group of vaguely familiar, high society women, the gap between the two of them and Draco’s man ever widening. He had evidently gotten caught up in conversation with someone else, not noticing the Malfoy siblings straying from his side. 

Harry stepped in effortlessly. “Champagne?” he offered the woman Draco’s companion had been speaking with. She was older, perhaps fifty or so, and denied the offer amicably. 

“I believe I’ve had enough, young man, but I thank you. Perhaps you would, though?” This she’d asked to Draco’s man. 

Harry looked him over, as though for the first time, letting appreciation gleam in his eyes. “Evening,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

The lady, as intended, noticed the deliberate change in Harry’s tone. “I’ll leave you two gentlemen to chat,” she said, and went off.

Harry grinned, tilting his head just so. “Knows how to read a room, that one,” he said. 

Draco’s man swallowed, and Harry knew he had him. He had gotten used to the convenience of his looks, and now was no exception. He knew perfectly well the effect he had.

“I’m Edwin, pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

Harry allowed his gaze to heat. “I’m Harry,” he replied, low. “I don’t suppose you did want this extra glass of mine, did you?”

Which was how, not five minutes later, Harry found himself being shoved into the coat closet, Edwin dropping to his knees before him. Harry watched, as if at a distance, as the other man went to work on him. He barely felt it. Bored, he let his eyes shut and his head fall back. 

He knew when their intended audience had arrived, though. Harry let a few more seconds pass, waiting for a throat to clear. When no such sound came, he opened his eyes directly into steely grey ones. Draco stood at the open door, his face like stone. 

“I do believe that’s quite enough, don’t you,” he inquired icily. The sound of his voice startled Edwin so badly that he choked on Harry’s cock before pulling off with an obscene noise and proceeding to cough up his guts. He looked up at Draco in horror, face turned an unattractive of red. 

Harry watched it all with a sort of detachment. “I’m not sure,” he said in response to Draco. “Is it?” 

Harry’s body was tense now, anticipation for what would follow building. For Draco to rage at him, maybe even put hands to him. 

But, instead, there was none of that. No, he merely reached for the door handle with shaking hands, and closed it—the soft click leaving Harry floundering. 

No. 

“I don’t…” Edwin started. 

“Shut up,” Harry spat, yanking up his trousers and following Draco from the room. 

Harry caught up to him easily, grabbing his arm to halt him. Draco ripped himself away with such savagery that several heads turned to look at them in response. “Keep your fucking hands off me!” 

“Aren’t you going to fucking say anything?” Harry demanded. 

“And just what would you like me to say?” Draco hissed. “That I’m surprised? I’m not. You’re as predictable and vial as they come.” 

Harry’s upper lip curled. “You didn’t want him anyway, you know; he sucks cock like a virgin.”

A collective gasp rang through the bystanders, filling Harry with a heady, terrible satisfaction. At least his efforts hadn’t gone to waste. 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You are sick, do you know that? What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re an embarrassment, and a stain on your family; you don’t deserve even to be here with them. They deserve better than you.” 

I deserve better than you, said the look in his eyes. 

Anger flooded Harry’s veins, and he laughed cuttingly. “I’m a stain on my family, hm?” he said. “Last I checked I wasn’t the one disinherited for being a fucking fa-”

Agony exploded in Harry’s nose, his hands flying upwards to cradle his face. Blood streamed over his lips as he stared at Draco in shock.

“You are a poison, Harry Potter,” Draco told him coldly. “All you’ve ever done in your life is cause pain. I should know it’s all you’re capable of.” 

Harry stopped, his entire body going numb. There was nothing but static in his mind—the truth tearing through him with searing precision. His own apparition was so compulsory it might’ve surprised even him, were he able to feel anything at all. He didn’t think after that, just disappeared into the night. 

“—Potter? Mr. Potter? Are you still there?” shouted the reporter whose head was still currently occupying his fireplace, finally snapping Harry out of the latest waking memory. 

“I apologise,” he croaked. “I’ll need to get back to you.” 

Harry shut down his floo with a wave of his shaking hand, before putting his head down on the desk where he sat and letting waves of shame and embarrassment take over for a time. 

The last handful of weeks had been, for the most part, good. Productive. He hadn’t had time to dwell on any unwanted thoughts or involuntary feelings. Fielding reporters, planning interviews and meet-and-greets with fans, meeting with producers, and scheduling studio time on Neville’s behalf had been more than enough to occupy him and make him feel he was accomplishing something with his efforts. In part because it was for someone he cared about, as well as it being a means of holding his own financially for the first time since he’d stopped working for Skeeter. 

And he was good at it. He’d assumed, initially, that there would be an excess of fumbling and awkwardness as he got into the groove of things. But, as it turned out, he’d fallen into routine almost immediately. Somehow, he was quite adept at communicating with people—especially those with more influence and power than he had. A few well conducted conversations and the label executives had taken to him like fish to water. So far he was able to get rid of reporters with ill-intentions with few hiccups, some of which had even been former colleagues of his. He’d prevented undue negative press, even in the direct aftermath of the Zabini Scandal. Neville’s prospects were rising, and there was every chance his next single would make it onto the muggle charts. From there, superstardom. And Harry was helping to make that happen. 

It was a lot, and it was worth it. As long as he didn’t ever sit still for too long, and kept his mind occupied with the present, things were relatively okay. 

The only exception were times like now, where his other self’s memories crept up at random, no longer restricted to his unconscious hours as they’d been. The occurrences were increasing worryingly in number as the days went on, and Harry realised this was the longest of them yet. As well as arguably one of the worst. That was, he knew beyond a doubt, the last chronological memory belonging to this timeline before he’d disrupted it. And he understood now, finally, what everyone had been referring to all this time. 

Merlin and Morgana, how could he possibly have been such an unspeakable wanker? If he were Draco… there was no saying what he’d have done to someone who’d treated him like that. How Draco had the ability to look him in the eye, never mind come to his flat and display any civility at all after an event like that was mind boggling. 

God, and now Harry was dwelling. Which was exactly what he’d managed not to do for weeks now. Even when the memories hit, he hadn’t reacted, merely apologising for the lull in whatever conversation and swiftly moving on. He was so tired of it, but it had been working. Somewhat. 

Until five minutes ago. Because that had been… unbelievable. Terrible. All of it—the dark satisfaction, the breathtaking fury, the cold detachment, the pure devastation. 

Harry swiped his tumbler off the desk before him and hurled it at the opposite wall in frustration, the sound of its shattering deafening to his ears. He watched as the pieces shook and settled into their places on his wooden floor. Embarrassment and anger were still running through him in equal measure. He shouldn’t have had to recall something like that; it was hideously unfair. He hadn’t done that. 

Harry looked at the mess, and back to his floo—which surely was holding back a call or two at this point, being that it was afternoon. In the end, Harry left both as they were, and picked up his sibling phone. 

Ayesha answered on the second ring.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. 

Harry was quiet, whatever he’d planned to say abandoning him. 

“Harry?” 

“I ruined that night for you, didn’t I?” 

“What?” 

“At the Ministry,” he said. “When you got your award. I made a spectacle of myself and I ruined it because I’m an awful person.” 

The pause spoke volumes to Harry. 

“I’m coming over there.” 

“No!” he said immediately. “I mean… I’d rather you didn’t right now.” 

“Either I’m coming over there or you’re coming here. I know what it sounds like when you’re spiraling, Harry. I’ve not seen you in weeks.” 

“I’ve been—”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ve a proper job, now. Except normal people don’t use their jobs to avoid their families and friends, Harry,” she pointed out. “They do that when something’s wrong.” 

Harry winced. He was regretting this call more by the second. It was looking like he’d need to cut his losses, before he was actually roped into being interrogated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve a meeting.” 

For a moment, the other line was quiet. “Fine,” Ayesha finally sighed. “But please do find a way to fit the charity luncheon in your schedule tomorrow. I imagine Mum will be quite hurt if you don’t at least make an appearance.” 

Harry closed his eyes, running his free hand over his face in exasperation. “I’m not sure why Mum would want me at another public gathering,” he muttered bitterly. 

“I’m choosing to trust that you’ll behave this time, Harry,” Ayesha said sternly. “I don’t think the past weeks have been an elaborate act of yours. Unless I’m wrong?” 

And so Harry hung up following a promise that yes, of course he’d be there, and then he stood to clean up his mess. 

Chapter Text

The gardens were beautiful and vast, and Harry almost had to resist the urge to ooh and aah with the first time visitors. This was, after all, his family’s estate. Looking out at the endless coloured rows and clusters of all breeds of flower and plant should offer nothing new for him. 

The pavilion where he’d found himself was spacious, surrounded by various types of blooming lilies and daffodils, and scattered with guests of all ages. Harry realised that the start of spring had very much escaped his notice. 

Wizards and witches mingled about in neutral, casual pastels that built up the carefree atmosphere. Their wide smiles and polite murmurings confirmed that everyone was here for a good cause and a pleasant afternoon shielded from the sunlight more than anything else. 

Harry’s mum didn’t take very long to spot him, and then she was ushering him over and pulling him into a hug—her small arms just barely made it around him, but it was still such an immediate and intense comfort that it took Harry’s breath away. He did not think he would ever get used to having a mother alive to smile at and hug him and kiss his cheek, to tell him she was so happy to see him, not even if decades passed.

Distracted by his mum as he was, Harry only belatedly noted the man standing by her side. 

“Kingsley,” blurted Harry awkwardly. “Erm, hullo.” 

The man Harry had once called his friend and his boss smiled easily and extended his hand, as though he didn’t find Harry strange at all. “Harry, I presume. It’s an honour to finally meet Lily’s son. She speaks of you often.” 

At least he doesn’t know the other me, Harry thought with no small measure of relief. It was much preferable to have a clean slate with someone than to have the usual low-quality precedent to overcome. “Not too bad, I hope?” he checked, just this side of too casual. 

“Good things, darling,” Lily promised, kind but firm, and Harry gave her a grateful smile. 

“It’s nice to meet you, as well,” Harry told Kingsley, and could see his mum’s plain relief by the way her stance relaxed just so. 

This is a big deal, Harry realised then. It wasn’t until that moment that he began to consider what Kingsley had to do with Lily. He had the errant thought that he might not want to know. 

But Ayesha arrived before Harry could think of asking. His sister happily inserted herself into their circle by giving Mum a hug and an excited grin. “Everything looks great, Mum.” 

“It’s all just the garden, darling,” Lily replied, but she was clearly pleased. 

Ayesha waved her off. “I’m your daughter; I’m allowed to be proud of you. You’re going to help so many kids today.” 

“You are always far too modest, Lily,” Kingsley agreed. “We’d have never gotten off the ground without your vision.” 

Lily’s pleased smile widened. “Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better team.” 

“Speaking of, I think everyone’s just about arrived,” said Kingsley. “We should gather the others and get the program started.”

“The sooner we can all eat, the better,” agreed Lily. She pecked both of her children on the cheek again before heading off, Kingsley following along. 

“So what do you think of him?” Ayesha asked, practically as soon as they were out of earshot. 

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “He seems a decent bloke, helping run a charity and all that.” 

Ayesha’s expression said she was not impressed with him in the slightest. “I meant for Mum, ullu.” 

Harry blinked. “For Mum?” 

“Do you just tune me out whenever I’m talking to you?” Ayesha demanded, then sighed. “I told you how I’m almost certain they’re dating.” 

“Oh,” Harry said, voice faint to his own ears. “That… makes sense.” 

Ayesha watched him with sad, wary eyes. “When you didn’t really react I was hoping it was because you were alright with it,” she admitted quietly. “Mum’s probably scared.” 

Harry did his best to keep a neutral tone through the lump that had begun forming in his throat. “If she wants to move on…I reckon it’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” 

“That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt, Harry. It hurts me too, really. I just…” 

Harry nodded tightly. “Want her to be happy,” he finished. “I do too. He’s a good bloke.” 

“I hope so,” Ayesha said lightly. “For his sake.” 

Harry grinned. In a spur of the moment, he reached out to exaggeratedly ruffle her hair, to which she squawked indignantly as expected. Harry laughed and moved to evade her retaliation, turning away before she could properly swat at him. 

Before he realised what had happened, his momentum had slammed him right into another body, and a glass fell and shattered between them. He looked up, an apology already halfway out of his mouth, only to stumble at the sight of familiar, gorgeous grey eyes. 

“... sorry,” finished Harry, suddenly breathless. 

Draco was already pulling a handkerchief from his lapel and dabbing at himself. “I’ll recover,” he said, flat. 

Harry understood immediately that this was where Draco would simply turn and forget their interaction. He’d made himself very clear what he wanted, after all, and Harry had promised. 

“How have you been?” Harry blurted before Draco could walk away. He shouldn’t have—it wasn’t fair, but he wanted to talk to him, if only for a little longer. He cursed himself for his selfishness whilst waiting with bated breath anyway. 

He was barely aware of his sister having ducked away. 

Harry couldn’t even be sure which part of himself wanted Draco to talk to him, really. He was partly in love with him; that wasn’t deniable any longer. But he was almost certain he could deal with that, given time. It seemed he was more so fascinated with the idea of a Malfoy he hadn’t always known. He wanted to know how much was different, and what might just be the same. 

Draco’s gaze scrutinised him, likely trying to determine his angle. “I’ve been well, thank you,” he finally said, formal. 

Harry worked to keep his disappointment from showing. “I’m glad,” he said, quiet and honest. 

He wasn’t to know what the blond might have said next, though, as that was the moment Harry’s fragile world-axis was to take a jarring and terrible turn. 

“Draco dear,” said a falsely-saccharine voice, “we seem to be missing the function you so kindly requested I attend.” 

Harry felt the blood drain from his face, his heart stop-starting before taking off at an alarming, panicked gallop in his chest. 

She was different, he registered dimly, even as his vision tunneled about the edges. So very different. Her hair was glossy and kept; her teeth straight and white as pearls; her robes understated and finely made. He saw it all, took in the details, but the image flickered on and on. A blink, and she was cackling madly in his ears, her hair knotted, tangled; he could see a tattered black dress, could smell the taint of her. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tell which was real, only that she was here. 

Not dead.

Here. 

Get away, screamed Harry’s mind, feverish. It’d been so long since he’d felt like this. 

Someone might’ve been saying his name. He didn’t know. His instincts were carrying him away, as far away as he could get. 

He couldn’t remember the journey from the gardens to the manor. It must’ve been autopilot that had got him there, to the large bathroom he currently occupied. He’d barely managed to slam the door behind him before he was scrambling forwards to violently sick up into the toilet. 

Ages passed whilst Harry gasped and shuddered, his mind a mess of images he’d thought locked tightly away. The burrow was burning, bright flame licking against the sky above. Bolts of magic shot all about him, the chaos of the Department making it impossible to catch his breath. Triumph lit deranged brown eyes when the figure next to Harry fell to shadow. He could hear himself screaming. The woods surrounding him were quiet, but his hands shook in his lap. 

A touch. The lightest impression of a hand against his back had Harry startling harshly. 

For the barest moment, he expected Hermione. But of course it wasn’t her. 

Harry rushed back to the present moment at the sound of Draco’s voice.

He found himself sitting in a fetal position to the side of the toilet, his back to the wall and knees tucked up to his chest. The bathroom reeked of vomit. He stared up at Draco through a fog. He imagined he looked a fright, if only based on the blond’s expression. 

“What happened?” Draco breathed into the silence. 

Harry wished fervently that he knew what the right thing to say might be. 

“I… I don’t know,” he croaked. He wanted to say, I was afraid. I forgot what it was like to be so afraid. 

Draco watched him, skepticism and worry warring in his eyes. “You don’t know what triggered it,” he said, but his clear doubt turned it into a question anyway. 

Harry could only shake his head. A non-answer. Draco didn’t miss it. 

“Harry,” he said, forcing Harry’s eyes back to his. “It looked like…” 

He didn’t finish, visibly swallowing down what he’d meant to say. Harry was relieved that Draco couldn’t bring himself to voice what he obviously suspected aloud. Harry couldn’t have explained why the presence of Draco’s—aunt—would send him into an intense panic. Not coherently. And not without telling so much of the truth that the blond would think Harry barking. 

“I’m okay,” he said in place of all the things he couldn’t, though his throat still felt like gravel. He drew in a breath, attempting to hold a semblance of calm. “I’m sorry to have concerned you. You can—I won’t bother you further today. Or ever; that was what you… I’m sorry.” 

Draco just looked at him. “You can’t think I’d just up and leave you after witnessing that.” 

“I honestly don’t know how you can stand the sight of me,” Harry admitted slowly, his gaze fixed on his own clasped hands. “Let alone anything else.” 

“Despite my best efforts, I care about you,” came the quiet answer. 

Harry looked up in surprise, unknown words caught in his throat. 

“It’s exhausting pretending not to, Harry.” 

“Draco, I…” 

Harry swallowed hard, taking in breath after breath to maintain control. There was so much, all at once. Draco gifted him the time. 

Finally, he managed to meet the blond’s eyes again. 

“I wish I could take it all back,” he whispered. “More than anything. If I could change it, you have to know I would.” 

“I don’t know that,” Draco responded. Harry’s heart dipped, until, “But I’d like to.” 

Harry gave his best effort to pushing down the blinding hope daring to break through. 

When he spoke, every word was an effort, prepared as possible to be shut down at any moment. “I know you don’t want… me, in your life like that, anymore. I’ll keep my distance, if that’s still… I’ll keep keeping my distance. But if— If we could be friends. Just friends again, I’d…” 

Harry trailed off at Draco’s barely perceptible nod. 

“Yes,” he said then, the single word rewriting Harry entirely. “On one condition.” 

“Anything.” 

He’d answered without hesitation, and something unidentifiable flashed through Draco’s storm-grey eyes. There and gone. 

“You’re to tell me what happened to you just now, someday,” he stated. “Not right now; not before you’re capable. But at some point I’ll need to understand, alright?” 

Anything, Harry had said. 

It was almost ironic; Draco had no idea the scope of what he’d asked for. Still, he thought. Anything. 

“Alright.” 

They returned to the pavilion side by side. And if Draco noticed Harry tense perceptibly at the sight of Bellatrix, he chose not to comment on it. For the time being. 

Chapter Text

“And then what?” Lavender demanded, almost shrill. 

Harry shifted his gaze to her couch cushion, and then to the small island countertop just over her shoulder. “And then, nothing,” he replied. “I’ve been busy. I just had a meeting today with Martha and Quinton. Martha is demanding that the band finish the single they’ve been dragging their feet on within the next four days, or she’s going to hire someone to do it for them. But Neville isn’t going to stand for that—they write their own tracks or they don’t perform. And Quinton is pushing for a name change, to improve marketing,” Harry groused, mimicking the old director’s overly stressed accent. “I can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that’s going to get. Alfie came up with Catatonic Howlers back in the day, he’s going to be upset and probably blame me. I can already hear it now. ‘Everything was fine until he took charge of our lives,’ he’ll say. Which will set Neville’s nerves. I can’t have them like this when we’re trying to brand towards the Muggles—especially with Rita still after me for what happened with the whole scandal. She’ll—”

“Harry!” Lavender cut him off, exasperated with his rambling. “Neville is going to be fine. The band is going to be fine. You’ll sort things with Martha and that Quinton bloke because it’s your job and you’ve done great with it so far. And Rita is just about the last thing to concern yourself with. You ought to be a bit more focused on Draco. You know, the love of your life, who you’ve just informed me has agreed to speak to you again. Regularly. And you’ve not done anything since!” 

The love of your life, she’d said. Like a given. 

Harry gave her a hard look. “To start, it’s only been a few days. And more importantly, Draco’s not the love of my life. That’s him, okay? The other me. It doesn’t affect now or how I feel and we’re going to be friends.”

Harry deeply wished it didn’t feel so much like he was lying. The further he got from Draco, the easier it was to say those things. But it wasn’t necessarily going to convince. 

Lavender obviously thought along the same lines. She let out a sigh through her nose, weary. “Harry,” she said gently, “I really don’t think you should keep ignoring what I said like this. Even Dumbled—” 

Lavender’s sitting room abruptly faded away from him, the feeling of vertigo sudden and harsh. Like he was falling through nothing. 

Harry blinked his bewilderment as the space around him lit up. 

The silence was eternally complete, so still it was oppressive. 

Deja vu set his head spinning, even if it surely wasn’t a train station that he’d found himself stood in. 

The Potter Manor was vacant, the walls and arches a bright white he was all too familiar with. This was his mind, then, as surely as the immaculate version of King’s Cross had been years ago. 

There wasn't any reason to guess at the change in scenery: this wasn’t fully his. 

“At least you understand you’re the invader, that’s promising.” 

Harry whirled around, eyes flying open wide. 

And there he was, only a few short paces away, glaring at him with an intensity that made Harry flinch.  

“I figured it was past time we have a chat, Harry,” he said, bitingly flippant.  

This was mad. It was like a mirror, only flipped. Harry understood that this was what he looked like to everyone else. 

Except it wasn’t, quite. His counterpart wasn’t at all how Harry thought of himself. Because his robes were some sort of traditional design that Harry faintly recalled seeing in the walk-in closet, and pressed to perfection besides. 

Harry himself was in joggers, and his t-shirt had a hole in the collar. It was how he understood himself—comfortable and unconcerned with finery. 

In contrast, his hair was somehow a touch more controlled, even styled. No glasses, no scar maring his forehead, none of it. He was even a bit taller than Harry imagined himself. 

He was not the same. 

“You can call me Harim, if you prefer,” he said smoothly, the undercurrent of anger only marginally detectable—in his voice, at least. 

“Alright,” Harry managed. He could do that. 

Harim leaned against the wall, his jaw clenched. “I’ve had an interesting time of it, in here,” he said, his play at idleness entirely false. “You’ve a great many terrible memories.” 

It was likely due to them occupying the same mind—or some nonsense like that which Hermione would surely have been able to explain—but Harim could not hide how he felt. Fury rippled from him. 

Harry knew, inexplicably, that the other man was remembering being afraid. 

“I didn’t realise that you…” Harry began, but wasn’t sure how to finish. 

“That I what?” Harim spit, his form rigid. “That I was still here? That I was real? Let’s not lie to each other, Harry.” 

Harry swallowed. He hadn’t known. Not really… He’d thought of the other him—of Harim like an echo of some sort. Something that existed, but not consciously. Or, a voice whispered to him, maybe he’d only been telling himself that. After all, why try so hard to remain separate from an echo? 

“How was I to know, or even guess at your… confinement here?” Harry questioned, if only for some small defense. 

Harim’s eyes narrowed to slits, his lips curling into a sneer. “Please,” he hissed. “You didn’t care to know. You wanted to erase me and take over my life, so you could allow yourself to blissfully forget your own as well. But I don’t care how dreadful it was; it doesn’t excuse you, not by half. Not when I—” 

He cut himself off, but Harry heard the rest as if he’d not stopped. The black thoughts rushed him—being suddenly nowhere at all, falling through rooms full of nightmares with little in between. The bewildered terror of watching someone with your own face be starved, neglected. Abused, cast out. Hunted, and martyred. 

Harry pitied him, which was far too mind boggling an acknowledgement. 

“I don’t want your damned pity,” Harim growled, suddenly in his face. “I want out of your hell, you fucking prick. I’ve had enough. Throwing scraps of my own memories at you. Using whatever I can to make you care about my life, my family, the things that mattered to me. Trying to force you to give a toss that I was a person before you buried me.” 

The rage was catching. Harry felt it press down on him, seeing red. 

Because it had all been on purpose—Harim had admitted it. Every blasted memory, just a series of manipulations. 

He recognised that it wouldn’t have been so infuriating, if it hadn't worked. But it had—Harry had been so confused, stressed, felt so utterly helpless. And for what. The pity he’d felt just moments before had evaporated like so much smoke. 

“A horrible one!” he shouted right back. “You were a horrible person. You think I’m just going to roll over, become you?! Not bloody likely. You’re a fucking wanker. I have exhausted myself trying to make some semblance of a life out of your damnable mess!

Your excuses about—about James don’t actually excuse you!” he went on doggedly. “So you can save your bloody sob story about how you’re responsible so naturally you had to destroy every bit of good left in your life afterwards. You had a father! You get to remember how he taught you to fly, and took you on trips. You get to remember him cheering for you on the stands and laughing with you in the grocery aisle and telling you to hide when you’d done something ridiculous and your mum was likely to be upset. Your mum that you also had and still have, since you seem to have disregarded that as well. Your father was killed, but not because of you. Not for you. Mine was. And my mum too. I didn’t get to be held by them after a nightmare, or hugged when I’d hurt or scared myself, or told that everything was going to be okay. I didn’t get a family to love me, and you did, you fucking git. You wanted me to care that you had a life?! I have done! You’re the one that doesn’t.” 

Harim stood scant inches from him, visibly shaking with indignation in the wake of Harry’s tirade. His fists were tightly clenched at his sides. “You want to be very careful, Harry,” he warned, low. 

“I don’t think I do,” Harry challenged, his own anger still pulsating. “I’ve not even got started, believe me. You pulled me in here, to talk you said. Well, I’m talking now. So you best listen carefully when I tell you the very last thing I am going to do is give you anything. I didn’t know you were here, but be assured you’re certainly going to stay. If you’ll excuse me now, I’ve got to get on continuing to fix the shit show that is your life.” 

Beginning with Draco, is what he didn’t have to say. Harim shifted minutely, having heard the unbidden thought between them.

“Draco,” Harim said aloud, the syllables all but cradled on his tongue. 

And Harry very nearly fell over with the tidal wave of emotions it invoked. He’d never imagined that a name could be said that way—with so much attached to it. Regret, and bitterness, and hate. And such an intense, concentrated longing it almost overpowered all the rest. 

The love of his life, indeed, Harry thought with something like awe. 

“You’re mental,” he breathed after several stunned seconds, entirely at a loss. 

Harim’s eyes flashed. “You don’t understand.” 

“You’re too right I fucking don’t,” Harry agreed in disbelief. “You’ve… what you’ve put him through is unforgivable, you realise. I can’t imagine I’d want to understand how you could love him that much and still…” 

Harim stared at him for a long time. Harry watched as calm neutrality overtook his features. “He wants to be close again,” he finally said, in an almost hesitant way. “Because of you.” 

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that, really. It was both true, and not.

And there was simply too much going on at the minute to even begin dealing with this. 

Harim looked him over, the emotion between them shifting into determination. “Things will be different from now on,” he said, far too purposeful for Harry’s tastes. “I’m through playing nice with you.” 

Harry wasn’t given the time to parse the full intention there, to read the thoughts flickering between them, before—

“Harry!” 

His name was said frantically, the feminine voice laced with anxious worry. Harry could feel soft hands pressed to his cheeks. And, for a dazed moment of relief, he thought Hermione. 

The delicate hands vanished abruptly, as though scalded. 

Harry’s vision cleared as he fully came to, finding Lavender across from him—her eyes shone with unmistakable hurt. Harry realised with a wince that he must have said Hermione’s name aloud. 

“Lavender…” 

Lavender looked away. “What happened,” she said, her voice now flat. 

Harry sighed. “I spoke to him—me, I mean. Harim, he, er, told me to call him that. He’s in my head.” 

Harry couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from his tone at that. Once again, someone in his head set on controlling him. 

He wasn’t going to let it happen. 

Lavender regarded him for long moments, clearly intending to be unfeeling but not altogether managing it. Harry swallowed against his guilt. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself. 

“I would offer my advice,” she eventually said, a sight colder than she’d ever spoken to him before, “but I think that’s become rather a lost cause. You might as well just leave.” 

She stood from the sofa and made to walk away, evidently expecting him to see himself out. 

Harry gaped for a moment. “That’s just it, then?” he demanded, near to shouting across the room. “I miss Hermione, so I can piss off?” 

Lavender rounded on him. “You don’t even know her!” she hollered. “You’ve spoken to Granger all of once! In case you’ve not noticed, we aren’t the same people, Harry! You’re not the Chosen One,” she began, exaggeratedly ticking off her fingers. “Neville doesn’t spend his days dallying amongst the plants, Draco doesn’t have a criminal record, and I’m fucking well not a bloody dead girl! You’ve not the first fucking clue who Granger is!” 

Harry flinched, Lavender’s words shredding him. He didn’t accept it, though, not completely. They couldn’t know if she was right, he determined. It had to be more complicated than that. “She was—she’s still my best friend,” he told her, his jaw tight. 

“No,” she said, her tone defeated even as she said, “That’s me.” 

His next words were practically automatic. “You were his friend, Lavender,” he pointed out. “Not mine.” 

She’d moved so fast, then, that Harry felt the sharp stinging in his cheek almost before he’d put together that he’d been slapped. He stared at Lavender, wide eyed. 

“You are an arsehole, Harry Potter,” Lavender told him, the crack in her voice barely perceptible, but heard all the same. “An obnoxious bellend! Which is disgustingly ironic, since you clearly fancy yourself so much the better person. I’m not your friend?! I’m not sure who the bleeding fuck has been there for you every minute since the start of this thing, then. For all I really could know, you got rid of the man who’s been one of my closest friends since I was fifteen. And yet I’ve still been here. Doing my damndest trying to help you from the moment you confided in me. Dealing with your outrageous stubbornness and your complete unwillingness to help yourself! And it means nothing does it?! The last months don’t count, because I was his friend, so I couldn’t possibly be arsed to care about you. 

Well fine! Go find your real best friend, and tell her everything while you’re at it. I’m sure she’ll take you right in, believe you straight away. Surely won’t think that you’re a nutter at all. Because she’s Hermione, right?” she went on venomously, relentless. “And there’s no reason at all you’ve not sought her out despite knowing how for ages. Why you’ve avoided all your supposedly wonderful friends. It’ll all work out splendidly—no Janus Thickey Ward in your future, certainly! You know what Harry? You’re right, I don’t give a damn. Get the hell out!” 

It took long seconds for Harry to work out how to even close his mouth. And by that point Lavender had already turned her back, marched towards her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her so hard the dust on the fireplace mantel shifted. 

Chapter Text

Not in a fit state of mind to do any travel magic, Harry had left Lavender’s flat the muggle way—his movements robotic, mind in a whirl as he’d shut the front door and walked down a flight of stairs to the first level before he’d come to a stop. 

Now Harry sat, back against the masonry, his eyes fixed on someone’s welcome mat just across the way. 

Guilt settled in his bones along with the certainty that he’d just lost something very important. Thrown it away, more like. And he couldn’t even blame his alter ego this time, bastard that he was. 

You do so flatter me. Say, stellar job you’re doing there, ‘fixing my life.’ It’d been what? Five minutes? I’m impressed. 

Harry jerked violently—banging his head against the wall behind him in a most unfortunate manner. The pain barely registered, though. There wasn’t room for anything but his shock. 

He was already in the process of fully denying having heard that voice just then. Because the comment couldn’t truly have been… 

I did warn you. 

“No,” Harry said aloud. You can’t have been able to do this all along, he thought desperately. You’d have talked me off a ledge long before now. 

I don’t fancy dying, funnily enough. 

It was a metaphor, you prick. You can’t be doing this! 

Oh, but I can. See, your mental defenses are quite weak the further in you get, interestingly enough. And I’ve managed a few things before—there is an article to show for it, in case you’d forgotten. 

Horror was steadily spreading; the more his—Harim’s voice echoed through his head, the more panicked Harry became. This was, he thought, exactly what he’d feared all this time. 

Do calm down. You’re the one that decided this. 

I did no such thing! 

You refused to let me in— out, whichever. I don’t know any more than you. Point is, you wanted to remain two, remember? So here we are, the two of us. It’s not ideal, admittedly. I quite long for the use of my limbs and what have you. But this will have to do, evidently. While you’re in charge, at least. I for one am curious how long that’ll last; aren’t you? 

Harry was shaking. Disbelieving. Terrified. He had a voice in his head. He had someone in his head. And they were talking to him. Threatening him. It was like a long-ago nightmare had resurfaced and then come to life in its vengeance. 

You and your bloody trauma. Hey! Alright, alright, I’ll shut up. I’ll be quiet a while. Pretend I’m not here. 

As if Harry could just do that! 

Harry could feel his hysteria rising, higher and higher until, all at once, it collided spectacularly with anger. Here he was tearing at his seams, twice in the space of one week. 

Well sod it, he decided viciously, his heart still galloping in his chest. Sod Lavender’s theories, and sod bloody Dumbledore. 

Lavender had patched her ideas together through blatant guesswork, and Dumbledore had always been a cryptic old tosser who pretended to know far more than he actually did. The only person Harry had ever entirely trusted with the truth in all his life had been Hermione. 

And Harry latched onto that thought for all it was worth. 

Lavender had been hurt, perhaps rightfully. But that didn’t mean she had to be right. Lavender had also called him on avoiding all his friends from before, though, and she’d had a point. 

And maybe that was a part of the problem. Harry had been trying to take over his other self’s life, in the sense of dropping in and acting like everything was perfectly normal. Letting everyone believe the lie. Maybe it had caused this, in part. He missed his friends, his life—but he hadn’t made any effort to reacquaint himself, really. 

He’d told himself it had been a bad idea, because he was afraid. 

But he decided right then that he was through with that. Hermione would help him. 

She was Hermione, somewhere deep down, surely. Different world or no, it was something Harry was beginning to need to believe. 

And even if Lavender was right about the consequences, well. At this rate, Harry was practically speeding towards the Janus Thickey Ward anyway. He had everything to lose, regardless of what he did next. 

Resolved, Harry pulled himself up off the concrete and went to see some Weasleys. 

He pretended not to hear the put-upon sigh that echoed through his head. 

oOo

In the middle of the field, the grass was wild; it came up tall, Harry’s fingers grazing the tops of shifting blades as he made his way steadily toward the Burrow. The closer he got, the more he could hear. A window or several might have been open, as Harry picked up the chatter of many voices and their intermittent, easy laughter carried on the wind. 

Harry spared himself a moment to wish he might have come upon a mostly empty house, in which Molly might’ve been making pastries or engaged in something equally simple to pass the time, and wouldn’t have minded the interruption of a little company. 

But the hum of sound made it clear there was quite a lot of company here already, and that he was surely to be intruding. 

There was unfortunately nothing for it. The silent but undeniable presence he could sense in his mind maintained his resolve. 

Harry steeled himself a bit as the front porch came into view. 

It wasn’t until he’d almost gotten near enough to knock on the door that it suddenly flew open, and a small, giggling blur shot through. Or tried to. Rather, the form all but bounced backward off of Harry’s legs, very clearly not having expected the way to be blocked. 

Wide blue eyes snapped up to meet his in surprise. And, for a moment, Harry simply forgot himself. 

“Victoire!” he exclaimed happily. 

The rush of relief at seeing Vee felt like twenty stone being lifted right off his shoulders. It meant Bill and Fluer had to be just as happy here as they’d been before Harry had changed the past. 

And he really wasn’t sure he could have handled knowing he’d erased another kid, not after finally confirming for himself some weeks ago that Teddy well and truly did not exist anymore. 

Harry had taken a few dark hours to cry at the time, and then he’d gotten back to work to stop himself thinking of it. 

But here stood the bright-eyed, dimpled proof that he couldn’t of torn everything apart for everyone. 

For her part, Victoire had relaxed almost immediately upon him calling her by her name—as a four year old with a near-endless number of family members whom she couldn’t possibly keep track of remembering was liable to do. 

He knew her, ergo she must be meant to know him. The assumption suited Harry perfectly, and he might have pressed the advantage and questioned her about where to find someone more useful, but it was only a few seconds later that someone joined them. An intensely familiar voice had called out after the little girl, and then Ginny was standing behind Victoire, just inside the door, saying “oh, can I help you?” 

“Er,” Harry said. 

It’d been nearly two years since the last time Harry had seen Ginny, and the time had an effect, but it was overshadowed by the less subtle differences. Her curtain of fiery orange locks was missing, for one—hair instead cut into a pixie look that curled gently around her ears. It heightened her somehow, bringing out the angles of her face and lending more maturity. She looked feminine and entirely comfortable, and it made her seem, to Harry, even more a stranger than when last he’d seen her. 

Before he had the chance to say anything more, her expression had already shifted from expectancy to recognition and had settled rapidly into indignation. 

“You were one of Skeeter’s little rats,” she said testily. “You’ve some nerve showing up to a Holly’s doorstep after you wrote that shite about Angie and Coach.” 

I can’t fathom how you were so besotted with her. 

Harry suppressed a shiver at hearing Harim’s voice again, and ignored it as best he could. 

His wretched counterpart was wrong, anyway, or exaggerating. Harry had fancied himself in love with Ginny once, sure, but the whole thing had lasted longer than it should have, and wasn’t even very long, besides. Moreso, after the urgency of the post-war had faded, it had been perpetually lacking in meaningful intimacy. 

That’s called being bent, mate. 

We’re not mates, Harry mentally growled. And I thought you agreed to shut up. 

“Hello?” Ginny snapped at him then. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said automatically, wincing. He noticed belatedly that Victoire had wandered back inside. “I’m- look. I really regret all of that, all of it, and I would appreciate the chance to prove it to you eventually. I don’t work for Skeeter anymore,” he added, already weary of saying these things again and again. “But right now it’s really important that I find Hermione Granger. I need her help with… a lot of things. Is there anything I could say to get you to tell me where I could find her?” 

Ginny had pursed her lips at the mention of Hermione, and eyed him for a prolonged minute after he finished before her expression settled carefully, and she gave a shrug. “Convenient for you, she’s already here.” 

And she turned abruptly and retreated into the house, clearly expecting him to follow. He hurried after her, awkwardly shutting the door behind him before catching up. 

For one blessed minute, as Harry glanced around, he saw only what was familiar. They were still the Weasleys, and this was still their Burrow. 

But then they reached the den, where everyone looked over at their entrance practically in sync, and the momentary comfort he’d felt evaporated. 

“He’s here to see you,” Ginny said casually to Hermione as the younger woman crossed the room towards the far sofa and plopped down across from her and the twins—next to a man Harry hadn’t seen in years. 

Harry could only stare as an adult Cedric Diggory put his arm across the back of Ginny’s seat. 

Harry noted with necessary detachment—because why did this never seem to get any less shocking?—how kind age had been to the man, producing a squared jaw and broader shoulders than in youth. But there was the same dark-hazel eyes, the same deep brown hair, the same grin. 

Harry forced himself to shift his focus, taking in the rest of the room. The whole family was here; Bill and Fluer were sharing a centre loveseat—and Harry spared a moment to feel almost warm at seeing Bill’s face unmarred for the first time in so many years. Charlie was on a stool nearest where Harry stood at the edge between what was considered the kitchen, a half-eaten slice of pie on the counter behind him. 

Ron raised an eyebrow at Harry from where he sat on a moved armchair, by the looks of it waiting on Percy to decide his next move in their nearly-finished chess match. 

Molly had been bustling about the kitchen, but had paused to look when Ginny had unceremoniously introduced Harry to the room. 

Harry felt predictably ill at ease under the scrutiny. 

He could hear others still all throughout the rest of the house, as the stairs creaked and voices occasionally carried. Presumably Victoire had brought little friends along, or was off badgering her grandfather somewhere. 

“Something we can help you with mate?” G- no, Fred asked him, seeing as how he was holding one of Hermione’s hands in his lap, and that shiny diamond visible on the other where it rested on her thigh. 

Harry admittedly didn’t have much of a plan beyond this point. He was hoping to avoid having the entire family think he’d gone mad if he could manage. But if he couldn’t, well… He looked at Hermione a touch desperately. “Right. If I could speak to you, erm, privately, just for a few minutes…? Please.” 

She only gave him a quizzical look in return for his efforts, apparently unmoved. “What’s this about?” 

“He said he needed your help with something,” Ginny put in, just the slightest bit too flippant. “Figured we weren’t exactly busy here, so you wouldn’t mind.” 

Harry looked at Ginny, her tone setting off distant alarm bells in his head. When Hermione’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, his brow furrowed. It almost seemed like they… 

“Right, of course,” Hermione said briskly, and then shifted to more fully face the room. “Well, as Ginny has now so kindly brought me something else to attend to, I suppose I’ll just have to make the announcement so you can all get on going home as everyone clearly wants to.” 

“Hermione dear—” Molly started gently, sending a look like ice in Ginny’s direction. 

“No that’s all right, Molly. It’s already been an entire half hour after all. Wouldn’t want to keep anybody. So, Fred and myself are expecting. I’ll be due in November.” 

Harry went completely still. In his mind, Harim’s low whistle echoed, and went determinedly unacknowledged. 

Several moments passed in which Harry was unable to entirely process Hermione as pregnant. 

Everything got rather loud after that, as well. Most of the Weasley brothers were clearly ribbing after Fred, who had a wide smile on his face despite the shaky atmosphere. 

Ginny, though, was in the midst of receiving a tongue lashing. 

It wasn’t hard to make out the gist of it. 

“... supposed to know —?!” 

“... time with your family!” 

“ … and she … !” 

“... unspeakably rude ! … raised you better ..!” 

“ … drama! … total princess—!” 

“Might wanna get your girlfriend out of here at some point, mate,” Harry heard Ron suggest lightly from behind him. Instinctively, he turned—deja vu making him forget that Ron wouldn’t have any reason to be referring to him—and found the red-head elbowing Cedric in the side, because that was the reality. 

Harry didn’t know what to do with his body. He was so tired of the feeling. 

Hermione stalked up to him in the midst of it all. Displeasure laced her every feature—and what only a select few who knew her, like Harry still did, as guilt. 

“Come along then,” she said tiredly, and Harry was confronted again with the thought that she was pregnant. “The afternoon’s ruined anyway. I’m for tea.” 

Harry glanced over at her fiancé—or was he her husband now?—to see him still looking altogether happy and bashful. 

“Are you sure…” Harry questioned, rather against his own interests. 

“You can tell me what it is you came for on the way out,” said Hermione, and brooked no argument.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s hands were curled around her mug; she stared down at its liquid contents as though searching for the answers to an unknown question within.

The cafe around them was quiet and nearly empty, in the lull between lunch hour and the evening crowd. 

Hermione didn’t look back up at him when she spoke. She hadn’t said much of anything until now. 

“I can’t figure out why.” 

“Why?” Harry prompted cautiously. 

“I can’t work out why I believe you,” she said, finally meeting his eyes again. 

Harry felt for her; he wouldn’t want to believe it either. “It’s all true.” 

“It’s ludicrous,” she countered bluntly. “You come from an alternate reality wherein you’re the mystical chosen one who was destined to defeat the wizard wanna-be-Hitler. And then you time traveled and now no one remembers anything of it except you. Surely you’re aware how that sounds.” 

“Very,” Harry assured her. “But you believe me…” 

Hermione sighed in the face of his blatant hope. “I shouldn’t. I don’t know why you even told me any of this.” 

“I need help, Hermione. I have another me in my head, remember? I need someone I trust, and that’s always been you.” 

She looked at him for a long moment. “It’s strange,” she said slowly. “I barely know you, but I can see it in your eyes that you care about me very much. That’s why I even kept listening.” 

“You’re my family, Hermione. You’re my best friend, my sister, practically,” he told her, feeling terribly vulnerable. “I love you.” 

“I’m not that person you knew and loved,” she replied, and Harry hated how deeply that cut. He couldn’t have helped his slight recoil. 

To her credit, Hermione’s eyes widened momentarily, and then all her features softened. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand and clasping it tightly across the tabletop. “I should have realised how insensitive that would have sounded. And you deserve better than that, if even half of what you told me is true. You saved… I mean, I wouldn’t even want to exist somewhere that Fred…” 

Harry mustered a smile for her, though it felt shaky. “Congratulations, by the way.” 

She grinned back, and Harry at once understood that nonsense about glowing. “Thank you. I know how it must have seemed back there, but I really am happy about it. It’s only that Ginny and I have just… never seen eye to eye,” she sighed. “I’m going to have to apologise to Fred for overreacting and ruining our whole day.” 

Harry swallowed. “It’s hard to think that you and Gin aren’t friends,” he said quietly, “even if I’ve seen it.” 

Hermione quirked her lip, looking contemplative. “I suppose if, since where I come from I was with … Ron,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “then Ginny was probably closer with Fred and George, wasn’t she?” 

Harry blinked. “Come to think of it, yeah.” 

Hermione slumped her shoulders. “I always thought she was jealous of my having their attention,” she explained after a moment. “But I didn’t mean it; I tried to include her. Georgey even listened sometimes when I told him to make time for her. But Fred… well. I do understand why Ginny and I don’t get on. I just wish she wasn’t so…” 

“Yeah,” Harry said weakly, starting to put together some things about this world. If he thought on it, probably a lot more would start to make sense. But that wasn’t what was pressing at the moment. 

“Anyway,” said Hermione, giving his hand another grateful squeeze. “I reckon I owe you a thank you, and if you really think that I can help you—”

“Harry?” 

Harry truly wasn’t to be held responsible for his full-body jerk of surprise. He snapped his head towards the sound of Draco’s voice, to find the blond suddenly standing in the centre of the cafe, holding a cuppa and looking quizzically from Harry to Hermione—gaze soon coming to a stop on their joined hands. 

Harry immediately yanked his hand back into his own lap, a flush of utter mortification spreading up his neck right afterwards. 

In his head, Harim had gone utterly mute, Harry getting nothing but static from him where just moments ago there had been a bored but persistent presence. By all rights, that absence should have meant that Harry felt little regarding Draco’s presence. But instead he was practically drinking in the sight of the other man. 

Draco was in a light, neutral grey v-neck that revealed those odd, swirling tattoos on his arms that Harry wished he knew the meaning of. Draco had on muggle blue jeans and black, quality shoes. His bright hair was loose in a way that Harry found undeniably sexy, and therefore distressing. 

He simultaneously wanted to disappear, as well as to have Draco come closer. 

And it all seemed to be just him, only Harry. 

He got one half of his wish—sort of—granted as Draco took a few steps towards them, until he was standing beside Harry’s table, looking down at them curiously. 

“Hullo Malfoy,” Hermione greeted amicably, clearly trying to get a read on the situation. 

A little crease formed in the centre of Draco’s brows. “Granger,” he said. “Or—Weasley? Is it Weasley now?” 

She smiled a bit brighter at the question. “Not quite,” she corrected easily. “A few more weeks.” 

Harry might’ve imagined the way Draco relaxed slightly at the words. Or else was thinking wishfully. 

“Ah, right. What’s the, er, occasion today?” Draco asked carefully, which Harry heard as what could the two of you possibly be meeting up for? 

“Oh, Harry and I were just chatting about recent developments,” Hermione said breezily. “Fred and I are expecting.” 

Draco blinked in surprise, clearly derailed from whatever train of thought he’d been on. “That’s … congrats.” 

“Thank you,” she said happily, almost-believably oblivious. “Why don’t you join us?” 

Harry pulled his eyes off of Draco’s profile to give her a panicked look. She paid him no mind. 

Draco looked a bit baffled as well. It was very clear that he never imagined Harry was friends with Hermione, or even knew her at all. But here she was, evidently on first-name basis and divulging personal information without so much as batting an eyelid. 

“Er, I wouldn’t want to intrude…?” The sentence came out sounding like a question, for which Harry couldn’t blame him. 

“Oh, no. It’s no bother,” she assured, a knowing glint in her eye as she looked back at Harry. “Actually, though, do you mind terribly if we cut this short, Harry? I really should be getting back to my fiancé at this point, I expect.” 

“But what about—?” 

Hermione’s eyes flashed, a warning to be quiet and take the gift she obviously thought she was providing. Harry couldn’t even say she was wrong, which added to his distress. 

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it and be in touch.” 

It was suitably vague, and her meaning was at least clear. Not that Harry was left any room to protest further. 

“Right,” Harry said, only a touch doubtfully. “Thank you.” 

And before he knew it, they were alone, and Draco was sitting almost hesitantly in the chair Hermione’d just vacated. For a moment, the blond merely watched Harry with an indecipherable look on his face. 

“I wasn’t aware that you and Granger were… so closely acquainted,” he began, statements still sounding like questions. “I can’t imagine you frequenting the same… circles.” 

Harry twitched just a bit. He hadn’t the foggiest clue what Hermione’s profession was, or how she even spent her free time; he hadn’t thought to ask. 

“It’s a recent thing,” he replied, careful. “While you and I were… not on speaking terms. So I couldn’t really, er…” 

Harry had trailed off with a small wince, certain Draco had gotten the gist. 

The blond stared at him. “Right,” he said. “Of course. In any case, I’m sure a good influence couldn’t hurt you. Phee has always spoken highly of the Weasleys.” 

The last statement was said with a quirk of his lips, and Harry was almost painfully grateful to understand an intended reference, however small and long ago it was. Harry couldn’t help but smile back. 

“How is Ophelia doing?” he inquired, latching on to the safe topic. 

Or so he’d thought. 

Draco’s grin spread a bit more, and Harry had the thought that smiling could truly increase beauty. 

Due to this, it took Harry a beat to process that Draco had said, “Well, I believe. Oxford seems to keep on giving, as far as she’s concerned.” 

Oxford, he’d said. A prestigious educational institution… for muggles. 

“Why would she be at Oxford?” Harry blurted, the absolute imbecile that he was. He was already cursing himself even before Draco’s eyebrows slammed down. 

“Still,” Harry corrected hastily, scrambling to fix it immediately. “Why would she still be at Oxford, I meant.” 

Draco looked dubious, but Harry prayed he’d let it slide. “While I can appreciate your faith in my sister’s intellect and will to do the impossible, she is only twenty, Harry. Even muggles—with the advantage of having learnt maths and science in their schools—don’t tend to master electronics and advanced technical engineering within a year or two.” 

“Of course,” said Harry, desperately hoping he didn’t appear as lost as he felt. “’course. Sorry, thoughtless of me, I guess.” 

Draco frowned. “It’s all right,” he assured; Harry was anything but that, unfortunately. 

Echoes of Harim’s memories circled the edges of Harry’s mind. Harry ignored them on reflex. 

“I’m glad to hear she finds Oxford a positive setting.” 

All at once, Draco huffed loudly through his nose. “All right, I can’t say I’m for much more of this.” 

“This?” 

“We’re making small talk, Harry,” Draco pointed out, a hint of exasperation appearing in his tone. “The Weasleys, my sister. It seemed like you were gearing up to blandly discuss the merits of post-secondary education just now. Or was it to be the weather next?” 

Harry gaped a bit. “What do you want me to talk about?” he questioned, probably a bit stupidly. 

“I was under the impression that you wanted to be in each other’s lives again,” Draco said evenly, his expression settling into careful neutrality. “Did you not mean that?” 

Harry’s eyes widened, his heart lurching. “What?” he breathed. “I mean- of course! I meant everything, I- it’s—”

“Then why keep avoiding me?”

Harry’s automatic denial was met with a very unimpressed look, and he deflated a bit. 

“I don’t… I don’t think I know how to be around you,” Harry admitted quietly, eyes fixing on his long-cold tea. “I don’t feel like we… know each other, anymore. I’ve spent a long time at a distance and—the only times I’ve gotten close were… There’s so much to avoid when I talk to you. The idea of being close to you, it-it feels daunting.” 

Harry risked looking back up, finding Draco’s too-grey eyes. 

“It doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” he added. “I just don’t know how.” 

The moment stretched between them, then. 

“We shouldn’t avoid it,” Draco eventually said. “I don’t expect that. I just don’t want… you to keep apologising again and again every time we broach something uncomfortable. There’s too much. You’ve already said that you were sorry; I’ve already… accepted the sincerity of that. I don’t need you to say it anymore.” 

Harry swallowed, gratitude flooding him. “Okay. Yeah I- yeah.” 

The beginnings of a smile formed on Draco’s lips, and a pressure in Harry’s chest loosened a fraction further. 

“I know you meant before, about not knowing me as you once did,” he told Harry softly. “Sometimes I look at you, recently, and you do things or say things and it’s like… maybe we’ve never met.” 

Harry stopped breathing for a moment. He hadn’t got his bearings before Draco was going on. 

“But then other times, I think that I recognise something. From… like you’re younger. Like the Harry I lost.” 

A quick, compulsory mental prod found a wall thick as stone between himself and wherever Harim was. 

It should have been a relief. 

“I don’t want to be at a distance anymore,” Harry said. “I shouldn’t have left you to wonder if I’d been honest.” 

“You shouldn’t have, but I understand it’s easier to say than do,” Draco replied. “Just… from now on let’s, let’s change. Do things mates do. You can come round the shop when I’m there, maybe, or we could go for a pint. If you wanted.” 

His earnestness warmed Harry to his bones. It was almost a giddy feeling, like a high. It should have scared him; he should have expected it. 

Feelings like that only ever served to make Harry reckless. 

“You know,” Harry told him, excitement overtaking caution, “I have a different sort of connections now. An open invite to practically every exclusive thing, really. It could be fun, a night here and there.” 

“Going to introduce me to your all your new celebrity friends?” Draco teased, beautiful eyes sparkling. 

Harry really only had Neville, if it came down to it. But it was close enough for Harry in that moment. 

“If you’d like that,” he confirmed anyway, only a touch breathlessly. 

Then Draco laughed, and it felt like a gift. Harry fell in love with that sound instantly, with an intensity that knocked the wind out of him. 

“I suppose meeting loads of rich people would be rather beneficial,” Draco smiled, oblivious. “Why not.” 

Harry’s heart was galloping at a pace that made him feel almost faint. 

“Yeah,” he managed. “Why not.” 

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this?” Harry asked under his breath, looking about himself in apprehension. 

Hermione sent him a quelling look, but didn’t otherwise respond. The message was clear: if she weren’t sure, they wouldn’t be here. 

To Harry, it was surreal to be inside the Ministry—a place in which he had so much personal history—as an outsider. Just another guest without a badge. 

And the woman behind the front desk was, of course, not Abatha Norris, who had greeted Harry nearly every morning for over six years. Instead, a young stranger sat there; she asked Hermione’s name and purpose, and then Harry’s, and supplied them both with temporary identification and directions in a painfully bored voice. 

Hermione had not taken long to contact Harry—he’d only sought her out less than two days ago—much to his initial relief. 

That relief had taken something of a hit when Harry realised she’d only gotten back to him so quickly because she hadn’t intended to solve his problems by herself, as he’d assumed on habit. Instead, she’d evidently contacted someone else on his behalf. 

Hermione, Harry had learned, was a well-respected financial adviser, and therefore had more good will than she knew what to do with. It was a blessed stroke of luck, as far as Harry was concerned, since it had evidently led to her acquaintance with someone who might be able to help him. 

All this trouble just to get rid of ickle ol’ me. 

Harry gritted his teeth, not pausing in his progress towards the lift. 

Last I checked, you’ve not got a better plan. So while we’re here, put a sock in it. 

Thankfully, the only response was wordless irritation. And Harry could manage with that. 

“Destination: Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Level Two!” 

Harry looked curiously at Hermione, not having expected to hear something so familiar. “You reckon the Aurors could help?” 

Harry himself knew he’d have been hopeless if someone had ever come to him with something like this. Hermione dispelled his concerns immediately, though.  

“My friend just works on this level. I’m hoping she won’t be the only one we speak to today,” she told him as the lift doors reopened. 

Harry followed after her. As they walked, Harry felt the need to thank Hermione again—he knew the wedding was soon, and she must have other things to attend to. 

Hermione seemed to appreciate his sentiment, but she waved him off. “It’s soon enough that there’s not much left to do, anyway,” she assured him. “If anything came up last minute, there’s Molly.” 

It made Harry feel a bit better about the whole thing. 

“You haven’t told me how things went with Malfoy after I left,” she said after a minute, nonchalant. 

Harry cleared his throat, unprepared for the topic of Malfoy. Not that he ever was. “Er- good. We… talked. We’re going for drinks with some of his mates tonight, actually.” He said the last bit nervously, unable to help it, and hoped she wouldn’t be able to tell. 

The band’s latest single—which Harry hadn’t even gotten round to listening to yet—had begun distribution early this morning. The wireless would be playing it on repeat before nightfall. And so Neville was to be celebrating at Charleston’s this evening. It gave Harry the opportunity to get Draco—and whoever the blond wanted to take along—into the private club with him. 

Hermione looked altogether pleased for him. “Hopefully we’re not held up here all day then,” she replied. 

It didn’t seem like they would be, at first. Almost as soon as Hermione had opened the door to the Improper Use of Magic Office, she was warmly greeted by an older woman with long dark hair. 

Said woman looked vaguely familiar to Harry. 

“Oh Ms. Granger,” she exclaimed happily, coming round her haphazardly-crowded desk to give Hermione a hug, “it’s so lovely to see you.” 

“Likewise, Dorcas,” Hermione replied with a smile. 

A glance at the placard on the desk confirmed Harry’s thoughts.

‘D. Meadows’

Another now-living member of the Order. He’d only ever seen her younger, adjacent to his parents in a few photos. There was no personal connection beyond that. 

But she was someone else saved. 

“—for Harry,” Hermione’s voice registered, then. 

He’d clearly missed introductions. 

“Well I do hope I can be of assistance for you, dears,” Meadows said. “Is it a matter for Legal?” 

“A touch more complicated I’m afraid,” Hermione replied, getting right down to business. “The issue requires the involvement of Unspeakables. We need your help… getting in touch.” 

Meadows’ face fell a bit. “The Department of Mysteries is—” 

“Please, Dorcas,” Hermione interrupted, already prepared to explain. “This can’t wait that long; we can’t be put on hold with having to go through the proper channels and dodge endless delay tactics. It’ll be months before we see anyone, that way. And even then it’s not likely to be someone knowledgeable. If there is anyone you could potentially reach out to on our behalf, I plead that you do. For me.” 

For a long moment, they both stood under Meadows’ scrutiny. She looked back and forth between them several times, likely weighing her connection with and debt to Hermione against the potential ramifications of carrying out the request. 

Finally, the older woman let out a resigned breath. “Very well. Might as well make yourselves comfortable, then.” She gestured to the individual, cushioned sofas to the left of the door they’d come in through. “This is likely to be a while.” 

They did as they were bid in thankful silence. Harry took a moment to consider the situation for its incongruity, and huffed a short, humorless laugh. 

“What is it?” 

Harry smiled at Hermione, a touch sad. “It’s just… you took me straight to the Unspeakables,” he said, and Hermione’s brows knit in confusion. 

“It seemed logical to try, at least, given my connections,” Hermione asserted. “I was sure you must’ve considered it.” 

Harry sighed a little. “You- I mean, Hermione. The other one. My friend, she… she was an Unspeakable herself. That’s how she knew about everything and how I was able to… fix things.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “An Unspeakable.” 

“That’s why I didn’t consider coming here for myself, even though I should’ve,” he admitted slowly. “You- I mean, she. What she did was illegal, really. I know that you surely couldn’t be held accountable, now. But I suppose I might’ve subconsciously just… avoided.” 

“Well yes, I imagine that real time travel would be rather illegal,” Hermione responded after a beat, biting her lip. “She risked a lot, then.” 

Harry nodded. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m still nervous, even. What if they dispute what I say for the sake of their secrecy? Or what if they don’t, and I’m… removed, or something. It’s the Department of Mysteries.” 

Anything could happen there, and no one would know, is what he didn’t have to say. 

Hermione’s eyes shone with sympathy, and a bit of worry. “Whatever happens, you’ve got me in your corner,” she promised. “If this doesn’t pan out, we’ll figure out something else. And if they try to… well. I won’t let anything happen without a fight.” 

Harry just looked at her, heart full of both gratitude and grief. “Some things aren’t so different,” he said quietly. 

There was a moment of quiet between them. 

“Would you want to… tell me more about her?” Hermione asked kindly. “The Hermione you knew, what she was like?” 

Harry looked down at his clasped hands. “She was… headstrong. Defiant in specific ways,” his lips curved upwards at that. “The brightest witch of her age. She wasn’t just smart, she… Hermione loved learning. She loved knowledge. She wanted to understand everything that there was to understand. She felt… I think she felt better when she could make sense of something. Even if it was terrible, it was a bit better if it at least made sense.” 

The reply was slow to come, and tentative. “She sounds like the devoted type.” 

“She was,” he confirmed. “She devoted herself to knowledge, but also to what was good, and right. She could be incredibly brave. Braver than me, certainly. She always did exactly what she felt like she needed to, and nothing less. It was… hard to watch, at times.” 

“Why was that?” 

“Because… she could never be still while the world suffered,” he explained. “And the way things were headed… I don’t think she could ever let herself rest. I don’t think she let herself recover from the war, or be happy. I wasn’t any better, believe me, but it hurt knowing she… hadn’t really ever stopped fighting.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” was the quiet response.

Harry met her eyes again, pretending for just a moment that he was talking to the woman he knew. “But I’m still sorry.” 

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said, then huffed in frustration at lack of acceptance she must’ve seen in his eyes. “Hey, don’t do that. I want you to listen to me. It’s okay now,” she stressed, “even if it wasn’t then. Because you did it. And I can’t speak for her life up until you… changed things. But I am happy. I like learning, always have—I went to a muggle university and taught myself mathematics, for Christ’s sake. And I love using what I know to help people, just like her. But I’m not anxious; I’m not traumatised. I have a good life, with an incredible family. And I have a wonderful fiancé who loves me and who I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with. I’m not her, but I’m Hermione Granger. And I’m happy, because of you.” 

Harry put his head down on her shoulder, hiding his face from her view. 

“Thank you,” he croaked a while later. 

She gingerly put her arm around him, and, gradually, he relaxed. 

They sat like that for a long time. 

oOo 

The Department of Mysteries would always give him the creeps, Harry was sure. When he’d worked for the Ministry, he had done his damnedest not to have to come here for any reason. So it had been a rarity, for which he was thankful. 

Dorcas had eventually returned to Harry and Hermione looking rather put out, but she’d bid them follow her here anyway. 

Currently, the older woman was in a whisper-shout match with a sour-looking young man in Unspeakable’s robes. And, given they were stood about three metres away, Harry and Hermione were privy to every word—the majority of which had been rather insulting up to now. 

“They are asking for five minutes,” Meadows hissed, gesticulating wildly. “If—”

“They are not owed five minutes of any of our time,” the man fired back, equally venomous. “And they are an imposition. The sheer nerve of barging in here sans report, or approval, or scheduled meeting time is outrageous! I say, you are lucky—”

“Okay!” Harry said loudly, clapping his hands together. The bickering pair turned toward him reflexively, startled. Hermione sent him an alarmed look, which he studiously ignored. 

This was the only way he was going to keep his gathered nerve, and likely the only way he’d get an Unspeakable to take him seriously. 

“I’m aware you’re frustrated mister…?” 

“Queue,” was provided through clenched teeth. 

“Mr. Queue,” said Harry, doing what he could to project calm and confidence. “My name is Harry Potter. I can’t imagine you wouldn’t want to speak with me, seeing as how I’ve recently time-travelled. And no, I do not mean a two-hour turn backwards with the child-lock on. You and I, as well as my companion and now Mrs. Meadows here, know that Unspeakables have been capable of genuine time travel since not long after the Ministry was founded. And I’m rather certain there’s someone in your Department that would be all too eager to chat with me about all the events only I can now recall.” 

Mr. Queue stared at Harry in utter shock for several seconds, before finally blinking. He cleared his throat, over-dignified, and swallowed. 

“Do follow me.” 

Chapter Text

“Mr. Potter, I do apologise for the wait. This is quite an unprecedented situation, I’m sure you understand.” 

The Unspeakable known as Lucille Reid accompanied the statement with a placating smile, just as she dropped a nondescript file onto the desk that separated them. She hadn’t lost the excited gleam in her eye since their introduction more than an hour ago; if anything, it was more pronounced now. 

Looking at the woman was enough to bring the compounded ticking sound of the Time Room to one’s ears. 

Mr. Queue had led Harry and Hermione straight to her, as she was the overseer of the chamber, and she had—upon her colleague’s whispered explanation—looked at Harry as if the holidays had all come again and at once. 

And then, before he was even given a chance at protest, he had been forcibly relocated to a small, undecorated room and ordered to wait. Frankly, Harry had been surprised they’d not just cuffed him and saved themselves the bother of pretense. 

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked in lieu of a real reply, prepared not to give an inch if he didn’t care for the answer. 

“Your friend is waiting in Unspeakable Queue’s office,” Reid said through her plastic smile, and Harry could read between the lines: Hermione had refused to leave him. 

He would hold onto that. 

Harry watched with growing impatience as the Unspeakable went about setting her parchment and ink. She pointedly slid the file closer to Harry, but he had little interest in discovering its contents—assuming it was simply compiled, irrelevant details of Harim’s life, along with rampant speculation. 

“Why did you separate us?” he asked instead, curious of what assumptions they’d made that had led them to dismiss Hermione as important. 

Not that he wasn’t grateful they had, however unwittingly. As far as Harry was concerned, Hermione didn’t need to be more involved than she had already made herself just by bringing him here. 

Reid lifted a sculpted brow at him, as if in admonishment. “Mr. Potter, by your own admission, you have led us to believe that you illegally procured or else purchased unauthorised access to a highly restricted device not modified to acceptable safety levels, and which you then used to alter time and space. Is this false?”

“Yes it is!” Harry cried immediately, before quickly checking his temper. The last thing he needed was for these people to write him off as deranged. “What I mean is, it wasn’t some scheme. Honestly, it was practically a mission, and I hardly wanted anything to do with it at first. And I certainly didn’t go out of my way to purchase the thing.” 

Reid made a note. “You will need to elaborate.” 

Harry flexed his jaw. He was more certain by the minute that information was the only thing he could provide that these people would consider of value. He’d come here for their help; he couldn’t give away his only potential leverage with no promise of them taking his predicament seriously. The ever-present awareness of his alter ego in his head left him with few options. 

“Look,” said Harry, blunt, “I won’t tell you anything else unless you’re going to guarantee you’ll try to help me however you can and not just put me away.” 

Reid’s expression soured just enough to notice. 

It took a bit more convincing after that to assert his perspective, but eventually he got through to her. And so it was that the next hour was filled with signatures, carefully composed language, and high level magical vows until, at last, Harry felt secure enough to accept the dose of Veritaserum they had stipulated he initially take in good faith. 

A colleague had joined them now—an older man with peppered-grey hair and a slight frame who had elected to stand near the wall—and Harry had been made aware of still more Unspeakables in the vicinity who had been ordered to listen in. 

“It’s not infallible,” Reid began to explain. “But the potion will–” 

“I know how Veritaserum works,” interrupted Harry. “I was an Auror.” Among other things, he thought. 

They allowed a few moments for the serum to take effect, and then began. 

“Please state your full legal name for the record,” she prompted, her quill poised to write on its own. Several inane questions to test the potion came after, but eventually they set in on him. 

“Did you, in fact, time-travel with the intent of significant timeline alteration?”

“Yes.” 

“Why did you previously classify this action as a ‘mission’?” 

“We were trying to fix the Wizarding World,” Harry answered automatically, momentarily relieved at having not said anything convoluted.

“Meaning that something transpired which led to its destruction,” she surmised. “What was it?” 

“War.” 

The Unspeakable blinked at him. “A war regarding what?” 

“Blood supremacy.” 

At that, she paled slightly. He dared to hope that they might begin to understand how deadly serious this was. Her next question seemed to be presented far more carefully, at least. “What was the direct objective of your mission as related to preventing such a war?” 

Harry allowed the explanation to flow from him without resistance: about the need to stop Tom Riddle ever learning of magic, and thus preventing him ever becoming the Dark Lord who would try to bring Wizarding kind to its knees. 

He expected any number of questions about Voldemort to follow, but he didn’t expect to confront the implication that Harry had victimised Tom. 

“You mean to say that you… removed this individual’s magic, when he was still a child?” 

Almost properly affronted at her clear lack of comprehension skills, Harry only said, “Yes.” 

The quill ceased its scratching and lowered to rest on the desk. Reid’s next words held the most trepidation of anything she’d asked so far, and Harry tensed further in response. “Mr. Potter, in what chronological year was this carried out?” 

Harry said, “1937.” 

And after that, all hell seemed to break loose. Unspeakable after Unspeakable came, jamming themselves into the limited space with single-minded determination. Harry was quickly dispelled of the notion that Reid had ever really cared about Tom or the removal of his magic. What she—and her entire Branch, as evidenced by their loud and riotous disbelief—had cared solely about was the timeline itself. And not one of them had realised prior to Harry’s answer that he hadn’t simply altered it. In their eyes, he’d erased it. 

Unspeakables of the Time Chamber, Harry learned—even back before written sanctions and prohibitions—had always adhered to unspoken lines that they’d not crossed, even for research. Traveling back more than even a single decade had been considered taboo even at the height of such travel, they insisted. And Harry had travelled back decades plural, nearly seven of them.

That, he was brought to understand, was apparently far more unthinkable than his Hermione had let him assume. The cacophony of voices around him seemed wholly unable to decide whether they were utterly horrified or overcome by fascination. Except Reid, who was firmly in the latter category on account of her practically salivating at the mere thought of studying Harry in earnest now. 

He would never be more immensely relieved to have insisted on guarantees. It was the only thing that gave him the courage to jump at their inclination when it was said. 

“I would!” he shouted. 

Everyone went silent, finally, all eyes shifting to him. 

“You would what, Mr. Potter?” Reid asked eagerly, obviously aware on some level of what he would offer next. 

“I would submit to your studies,” he confirmed for her. “I’ll take Veritaserum again. I’ll provide pensive memories of my original timeline. Whatever you want. You gave me assurances that you’d help me,” he added pointedly, “so I imagine you’ll need all the information you can get to do that.” 

One of the Unspeakables, a short woman with unexpectedly kind eyes and strawberry hair, stepped towards him. “Frankly, what I am most interested in is why you placed yourself at our mercy in the first place, Mr. Potter,” she said. “You surely were aware of the possibility of trouble, or you needn’t have made certain demands of us. What sort of help are you seeking that only we could have possibly provided you, at such a risk?” 

Still there? Harry had to check, however futile. 

You wish I wasn’t. 

“The version of myself from this timeline…” Harry said aloud, his shoulders slumping. “I- I didn’t take over. Not completely. He’s in my head, basically trapped. But he… talks to me. Makes me feel things, and even remember things that I never would and that I never did. He’s an entirely different person.” 

Harry noticed with mixed emotions that even the angriest of the bunch now watched him with grudging intrigue. As though they couldn’t help it. 

“I’d say that settles it!” Reid all but crowed, turning to the red headed woman when no one contradicted her. “You up for this, Wells?” 

The woman sent Reid a brief, quelling look. 

“Unspeakable Sheila Wells,” she then said, extending her hand for him to shake. “Served nine years in the Mind Chamber before transfer. I imagine we’ll be getting to know each other.” 

Harry took her hand. 

“Thank you.” 

oOo 

It wasn’t long after that Harry was allowed to leave the Ministry. 

Upon seeing him, Hermione looked near to tears. “I didn’t really believe they’d just let you go,” she admitted tightly. “What happened?” 

Harry summarised everything as best he could, finishing with how they’d ordered him to return the next day to begin working on episodic timeline construction and classified research with Unspeakable Reid. He’d also get to have his first meeting with Unspeakable Wells about his trouble with Harim.

“That means you did it, Hermione,” he reassured her. “You got someone to help me.” 

At that, she hugged him, telling him sternly that he was her friend now and so had better be in attendance at her wedding. 

Harry was all too happy to accept the invite. 

“Harry,” Hermione said a few minutes later, as they were walking out. “It’s almost seven. Didn’t you say you were going out tonight?” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “Shite! I’m supposed to meet Draco! Are you okay getting home?” 

“I’m pregnant, Harry, not an invalid,” she reminded him. “Go.” 

Grateful, Harry grinned and wasted no time apparating away. 

There was a line a kilometer long outside the club when Harry arrived seconds later. Thankfully, Draco hadn’t gotten in it, or it might’ve taken ages to find him. As it was, Harry’s eyes honed in on Draco’s familiar shock of white-blond hair in no time at all; he stood on the pavement a few paces from the front of the line, talking to two others that Harry would need to get closer in order to recognise. 

But Draco spotted him before he could take a step in their direction. A grin overtook his face, and he was in front of Harry in seconds, his friends trailing after him. 

“Hey,” he said happily, stealing Harry’s breath away effortlessly. “Right on time.” 

Draco was always attractive, but tonight seemed like something else. He was wearing jeans that hugged him perfectly, for one, and that was not mentioning how his silver top shimmered a bit with every shift. His hair was loose, fringe falling in his eyes. It drew Harry’s attention to the bit of charcoal around them that Harry had only ever seen Neville sporting. He’d never been personally struck by how bloody sexy it was when Neville did it, though. That was exclusive to Draco, apparently. 

“Hey, Potter,” said another voice he’d not heard in a while. It was enough to help him focus, though. 

Harry greeted Dean Thomas with carefully concealed surprise. He wouldn’t have pictured him as being friends with Draco—or Daphne Greengrass for that matter. But there they stood, obviously a close-knit group. 

Harry was already resolved to get used to weird, so it was easy to go with the flow. 

He got them all in without trouble, merely giving his name to the bouncer and indicating they were his guests. An associate led them through a sea of bodies and straight to the band’s roped section within minutes. Only three out of four were there—all sitting with a bit of distance between them. Harry was sure their wayward back-up vocalist wouldn’t show until at least half the club’s patrons were legless. 

“Quite the turn out!” Harry shouted over the sound of Neville’s own voice blaring from a multitude of speakers—an older hit that Harry didn’t know well. 

“Harry!” Neville hollered back, getting to his feet and throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Glad you could make it, mate!” 

His eyes darted to Draco with significance, smirking a bit as he looked back at Harry. His eyebrows rose in exaggerated insinuation. 

Harry hoped no one could see him well enough in the dim lighting to notice the silent exchange, or his flushing in response. 

“You brought mates,” Chris observed aloud from where he slouched on a plush, red lounge chair. “Didn’t know you had those.” 

He was already eyeing up Daphne as he spoke, like she was a new shiny toy or a piece of meat, and Harry casually stepped between them to obscure the guitarist’s line of sight as he let everyone have their good-natured laugh. 

“Yeah yeah,” he grinned. 

Privately, Chris’ comment had sparked a small sting of guilt—since up until a couple of days ago, Harry had had a friend: Lavender. But he’d never brought her along or invited her to do anything, hadn’t even thought of it. 

He still hadn’t come up with a way to mend that rift, despite the realisation that he wanted to. 

He was pulled out of his temporary gloom when Alfie suddenly stood, swaying only a little as he lifted his glass in Harry’s direction. “I say we toast to this arsehole! Doubt we’d ever have finished the bloody song without your tongue-lashing.” 

Harry winced. After he and Draco had first talked at the cafe, Harry had went and called an impromptu meeting at Neville’s to issue Martha’s deadline and get everything over with—because he still had a job to do. As expected, the ultimatum hadn’t been taken well. But instead of backing down, Harry had dug in his feet and let loose on the lot of them for their inability to communicate or dedicate themselves despite their inflated sense of importance. 

The guys played their parts, but Neville was the only one who had real ambitions beyond the surface level. It had taken Harry no time at all to surmise that Chris, Alfie, and Bradley were just addicted to the lifestyle that supported their habitual drinking and, especially in Chris’ case, overactive libidos. 

And so, Harry had seen fit to remind them, rather forcefully, of what lifestyle they’d have after the label dropped them on their collective arses. 

Harim had had far too much fun with Harry losing his temper—had made it worse, in fact—but it had all meant one headache taken care of. 

“I’m just the messenger,” Harry corrected lightly, now. “You ought to be glad you got me instead of Martha Xavier jumping down your throats.” 

“To Martha then!” Alfie amended, slurring only slightly. “Bitch knows her shit.” 

Chris grunted and followed suit, while Neville just grimaced and shot an apologetic look at Harry’s guests. 

“I’m already fairly sick of it,” Neville said, his accompanying smile not quite reaching his eyes that time. 

Harry bit his lip, unable to disagree.

The track might’ve been in progress for a while, but it was a rushed effort. And it didn’t sound all that appealing, objectively. It might’ve been due to it having been slapped together during the proclaimed ‘ultimate all-nighter’ and produced the next day—but it also probably had more to do with Neville being the real talent and the others holding him back. 

Harry had determined a while ago that Neville’s chance of success was slim unless he went solo, and he was starting to think maybe Neville knew it too, despite all the many well-meaning assurances to the contrary he’d surely received over his time in the spotlight. 

Blessedly, Neville changed the subject after that, asking Dean what he did for work—which was how Harry first learned that Draco ran an interior design business, and both Dean and Daphne worked for the blond in some capacity. 

“Good benefits, being friends with the boss?” Chris interrupted, leering at Daphne. 

Harry practically felt Dean’s spine straighten, even with several metres plus Draco sat between them. It occurred to Harry for the first time that Dean and Daphne might be more than coworkers. If the way his hands curled into fists was any indication, at least. 

Daphne herself, though, turned a look on Chris that ought to have singed his eyebrows off. 

“Just fuck off Chris,” Neville said tiredly. 

Harry was all too relieved to see Alfie follow. 

“Well, that was rather awkward,” said Draco.  

There was a beat, and then the tense atmosphere evaporated, and they were all smiling and laughing at the ridiculousness. Harry relaxed into the couch, his eyes drawn to the charismatic way that Draco talked and gestured among friends. 

They all chatted for a long time about easy, trivial things, and Harry let himself just be in the moment. For the first time in a good while, he wasn’t consumed by the stress of this new world. He felt welcome in it. 

“I say,” Daphne said loudly, her eyes on Dean, “we go dance!” 

“I say,” breathed Draco, his eyes suddenly wide and fixed somewhere on the opposite side of the club, “I’m quite sure that’s Jon Kortajarena.” 

Harry said “Who?” at the same time that Daphne shouted in disbelief and scrambled towards Draco to look over his shoulder. 

Dean gave a sigh at Daphne’s theatrics. “He’s like, a famous model; even the muggles know him now,” he told Harry. “Real pretty type bloke.” 

Harry’s heart sank into his shoes, the thought that he’d never be able to compete with a model burrowing itself in his brain unbidden. He forced it away, chastising himself for imagining he would be competing for that type of affection from Draco anyway. That ship had sunk, long before Harry even technically got on board. They were friends now, and that was already asking quite enough. 

“Ah,” Harry choked out. 

“Salazar,” he heard Draco say, “I have to get over there. Imagine the galleons if we did his place… that recommendation alone.” 

Harry blinked, taking in the eagerness on Draco’s face in a different light. The bolt of relief that went through him once he understood was entirely out of line, but Harry couldn’t help it. 

Draco didn’t want a pretty face for a boyfriend, he wanted a pretty face to make him money. 

And, what was more, this was exactly the sort of thing Harry had implied he could do for Draco in the cafe. It was a chance to do something for him, a chance to make him happy. 

“Neville,” Harry blurted. “Why don’t you go introduce Draco?” 

Neville sent Harry an amused look that said he knew exactly what Harry was thinking, and nodded agreeably at Draco. “Dunno the bloke personally, though,” he warned the blond. 

But it hardly mattered. Neville was still a somebody, especially here and on this night. They all knew that. 

Harry watched them walk over, rather pleased with himself. 

“Think he’ll manage it?” he asked of Dean and Daphne. 

The latter gave a little huff of a laugh. 

“It’s Draco,” said Dean, grinning. “No question.” 

It wasn’t long after that they were proven right. Draco and Neville came back with tales of success, and Draco’s beautiful eyes sparkled warmly at Harry, like a thank you. 

Eventually, Daphne got her wish to dance. They all ended up on the floor, dancing with each other all together or broken up in ever changing ways. Harry danced with Draco and Daphne together, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He shared a dance with Neville, movements uncoordinated and absurd. He would later watch Draco lewdly gyrate in between the singer and Dean, laughing all the while. 

Draco dancing—carefree, his hair wild, sweat gleaming on his skin—was an image Harry knew he would come back to. 

So Harry laughed, and he drank, and he danced—and if he memorised Draco’s smile in the meantime, well. No one really needed to know. 

Chapter Text

Buzzing. 

Something was buzzing. 

Harry wished it would stop. He was warm, his mind comfortably fuzzy in that way only uninterrupted sleep could provide. For a moment, he basked in the memory of the night before. Of saying goodnight afterwards—Draco’s bright eyes, his playfulness, the all too brief embrace he’d gifted Harry in farewell. 

It was the best Harry had felt in ages. 

Again, that buzzing erupted—he could feel it, he realised. Somewhere on his side. 

Through one cracked-open eye, Harry confirmed he was wrapped in his own sheets. More importantly, though, was that he was still fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and that the buzzing was coming from his pocket. 

He fumbled quickly for his phone—he often forgot he had it on him, it was so habitual to grab even despite his rarely using it. 

Muscle memory, he supposed ruefully. 

When he saw the screen, though, he released a string of expletives so colourful it banished any lingering sleepiness.

Amjad had sent him multiple texts in a row, the earliest of which threw a spectacular wrench in Harry’s rather important obligations for the day. 

(07:02)gtg bck on grounds tho by bro thx

(07:01)o & tell evry1 hi & miss u 4 me 2

(06:59)i did txt but need u 2 say n person @ party l8r! thx

(06:58)tell sis happy bday 4 me pls! 

A mental image of his brother waking up to sneak off Hogwarts grounds before class on a Friday morning, just to send those messages before his classes, flitted through Harry’s mind. 

His guilt prickled. 

He hadn’t seen Amjad since the latest Quidditch match—which Harry had managed to remember to go to, but had left part way through, at the time occupied with something apparently not even important enough to recall now. 

He could too-easily picture his little brother searching for him in the crowd after the match, and finding an empty seat where Harry had been before. 

There had been a text here and there since then, and Harry had sent a couple of owls with merchandise sometimes, from the label—or unsolicited bribes from his former Prophet coworkers that he still received with some frequency—but it didn’t excuse the lack of sufficient thought Harry had spared for his youngest sibling. Or the rest of his family, for that matter. 

Aside from the luncheon, he’d barely been around. He still didn’t even know where Sirius lived. 

And now there was this. It was, evidently, his sister’s birthday, and he hadn’t even paid enough mind to know. 

Worse, a memory had sparked at the thought, and Harry was out of bed in a flash, suddenly a man on a quite unfortunate mission. As soon as he reached his front room counter, Harry fell onto the haphazard stack of mail he tended to riffle through and leave for later. 

It didn’t take but a moment to find the small, modest invite that had to have come at least a week ago. 

Even knowing it would be there, thoughtlessly tossed in, Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the paper before him. 

He had made promises, he thought bleakly. Why did it seem so hard to properly care about his own family? 

How about because they’re not your family, they’re mine. 

Harry’s jaw clenched at the unwelcome, petulant voice, hot anger flaring through him in response. In his heart of hearts, he knew he was looking to place blame, but he couldn’t stop himself. Where were you then? Seems you might’ve bloody told me what today was at some point, if you cared about your family! 

The indignation was swift and brutal. News flash you fucking parasite, you’re not actually entitled to my memories. 

Harry heard the rest as well, even if it was purely feeling and no words. Harim might’ve given some of his memories away to Harry when he thought it was necessary—much to his current regret—but he certainly was not going to make Harry privy to anything else if he could help it. He had virtually no intention of making anything at all easier for Harry, then, no matter who it might hurt collaterally. It was, as expected, astoundingly selfish in Harry’s opinion. 

Oh sod off! Harim’s voice was vicious as he lashed out. All your posturing about mending fences I broke is obviously a steaming pile of hippogriff shit anyway! Or have you forgotten I know what you think. I know you don’t care about my sister, or my brother for that matter. You don’t care about any of them. 

If every word was a blow, they fell short of their target. Harry did care, he thought, or he wouldn’t be so frustrated with himself. He was beginning to think it was that he didn’t know… how. He had never had a family to be a part of. He’d never been someone’s brother, or son, or grandson or uncle. He was a godson once, and that hadn’t lasted long, but it had been as close as he’d ever come. 

It was too ingrained, he suspected, being on his own in that sense. 

It wasn’t his fault. 

Rather familiar excuse, that. 

Harry ignored the jab. Paying any mind to Harim was pointless, so far as he could ever tell. 

No, what he needed to do now was contact the Department of Mysteries and inform them they would not, in fact, be starting on any of their laid plans today. He could deal with any consequences later. 

oOo 

Babies, Harry thought, changed rather quickly. 

Not that he hadn’t known that in a way, but it was another thing to see it himself. 

Jameel was proving an infinitely energetic little creature the bigger he got, his steps and movements much surer than when Harry had first met him some months ago. He was quite quick on his small feet as he screamed delightedly and ran from his laughing grandmother. 

Lily had happily commandeered the tyke from the birthday girl as soon as more guests had begun trickling in, and Harry had followed along to watch the two play—strategically avoiding strangers he’d be expected to know, as well. 

They eventually settled in Ayesha’s sitting room, Lily and Harry watching from the sofa as Jameel unceremoniously dumped over quite the collection of toy cars and trains and set to smashing them about. “Your sister is so happy you came today,” Lily told him, her tone light and content. 

She was right, Ayesha had been happy. And the best of it was, she hadn’t looked at Harry like his being there was a shock. She’d looked like she’d expected him to show, just like every other guest. She trusted him. 

Harry could only thank Merlin that Amjad had texted him that morning. 

He’d passed along their younger sibling’s birthday wishes immediately, to which Ayesha had sighed and said that she knew, and that she didn’t think he should have a phone that required he break school rules to use it. It wasn’t safe. But Harry could tell that she was too pleased to be truly upset. And besides, when had Potter kids ever played followed the rules? 

“I’m glad she did something for herself, today,” Harry responded to his mother. It was easy to think of Ayesha as a professional, she was a mum already and everything as well, but she still deserved to have fun, too. She was only 23, after all. 

Lily nodded wistfully, agreeing with the sentiment. “She grew up the quickest of all of you. I’m always happy when she decides to be young every once in a while.” 

A small plastic car landed in his lap, and Harry jumped a bit, then chuckled. Jameel was currently struggling to pull himself up onto the sofa, and Harry reached out to dutifully assist him. 

The baby showed his appreciation by squirming into a more comfortable position on Harry’s lap, picking up the car he’d thrown, and beginning to bang it against Harry’s chest. 

His mother was in the middle of teasing him, shamelessly egging Jameel on in her amusement, when a familiar, regally feminine figure entered the room. 

“You’re lucky you’ve a baby there to protect you Potter, since I came almost solely to throttle you,” Ophelia Malfoy informed him sweetly, before sending a small smile Lily’s way. “Sorry, Mrs. Potter.” 

“How are you, Ophelia dear?” Lily said pleasantly, obviously not taking the girl seriously at all. 

“I’m well, thank you. Ayesha knows I’ll need to leave a bit early to make it back for my evening classes, but I’m glad to pop in. Especially since I do need to have a chat with this one,” she finished with a look at Harry. To him, her smile was all teeth and her eyes glinted dangerously, but Lily did not seem to think anything amiss. That, or she thought it was a joke between them, more like. 

Harry’s shoulders tensed further as Jameel inevitably tired of his game and slid back to the floor, leaving him exposed. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Lily said, standing agreeably. “Do keep an eye on him darling.” 

And then his mother was gone. It was a bit mad that Harry would be relieved for the continued presence of a not-yet-two year old, but he certainly was. 

Ophelia dropped all pleasantness. “Good night last night?” 

Harry felt himself pale. “Oph—”

“I thought we agreed that I made myself very clear,” she cut him off, her voice low in warning. “It wasn’t so very long ago that you wouldn’t recall.” 

“But I’m not going to hurt him again,” Harry rushed to defend himself. “I can’t even hurt him again, that way. We’re friends, all right? Just friends. I’m trying to make up for… everything. But I don’t expect anything like that. Not anymore.” 

Ophelia stared at him and stared at him, her expression shifting from the barely contained rage of before into one he couldn’t quite parse. It wasn’t anything good, though; that much was clear. “Helga,” she finally said, “but you are truly a halfwit.” 

Harry blinked. “I-”

“Just remember Potter,” she snapped, “you don’t have anymore chances.” 

And with that, she turned and left the room. Harry started after her, so lost in thought—replaying the conversation for whatever he’d missed—that he didn’t notice someone else had joined him until the sofa dipped at his side. 

Harry looked over—and swallowed at the smiling face he found waiting. Seeing his godfather this time was certainly better than the first, but it still took him a moment. Harry was doubtful that it ever truly wouldn’t, with Sirius. 

“Lover’s spat?” he inquired without preamble, a teasing grin at the edge of his lips. 

At the sight of Harry’s abrupt horror and nausea, he descended into barking laughter. Jameel, who seemed to enjoy the silliness immensely, giggled along obliviously and proceeded to tottle over, holding his arms up to indicate Sirius should hold him now. 

Sirius dramatically wiped an invisible tear from his eye. “Ah, priceless, that was,” the older man said, clearly pleased with himself.

Jameel tugged on Sirius’ long hair in a way that looked painful, but he just kept on grinning. 

“Not funny,” Harry said with a shiver. “That’s just—wrong.”

Sirius wiggled his eyebrows perversely. “Talk about keeping it in the family.” 

Harry shoved his elbow into Sirius’ side. “Thanks for the nightmare fodder.” 

“You’re welcome,” his godfather said guilelessly. 

Harry rolled his eyes, then sighed. “I’m not sure how I’m meant to make her not hate me,” he confided. “It’s easier with just Draco. But I can’t very well just ignore his whole family.” 

Sirius’ face wrinkled, the way people tended to do when Harry had said something minorly incorrect. “Family is a bit of a stretch,” he countered. “It’s not like you’ve got his parents to contend with. Who else has he got? Me? Andromeda? Well,” he allowed thoughtfully, “maybe ’Meda might actually present some difficulty. Stubborn, she is. Still, I mean, I’ll admit you’ve got a problem with Phelie, but it’s not like you’ve the whole neighborhood to please for Draco.” 

Harry stared at him, taken completely off guard by the wealth of information he’d just been presented with. Not the least of which was the reminder that Sirius was related to Draco and Ophelia. 

Moreso, he’d just listed himself among the—apparently quite limited—family that Draco had, and then he’d called Ophelia ‘Phelie.’ 

It all came together to form a revelation. Sirius and the Malfoy siblings must be close. Throw in an apparent relationship with Andromeda as well, along with the insinuation that they were estranged from their parents, and it was quite clear. Draco and Ophelia Malfoy were among the Black outcasts. 

‘...obvious to basically everyone but Draco’s parents that he definitely wouldn’t be marrying anyone but you’

‘Draco was a protector…’ 

‘... oh, what will Father say, Draco? He’s going to be so upset with me. I shamed the family again, like always.’ 

And Harry understood, in that moment, what he’d been privately questioning for months: why Draco was so different from the Malfoy Harry had known. The answer had been right there. Ophelia was why. Draco was different because he had a sister. 

During the war, Malfoy had protected his parents at all costs. But Draco, in this life, he’d protected his sister, even if that was from his parents. 

And it had apparently made all the difference. 

You don’t even know him, whispered across his mind. Harry, for the first time, could not truly tell if it was Harim’s voice or his own. 

But no, he thought then. That wasn’t fair. He did know some of who Draco was; he was learning. And more importantly, he wanted to know more. And he wanted Draco to know him in turn. 

It would have to be a process, and a careful one. But it couldn’t be impossible. 

“All right?” Sirius inquired, alerting Harry that he’d been silent too long. 

“Yeah, I just…” Harry hesitated. “I suppose I didn’t consider that it might’ve been a bad spot for you. Me being a prat to Draco for so long.” 

To his interest, Sirius looked a bit uncomfortable at that. “Oh, er, it—I mean,” he sighed in resignation. “It wasn’t quite because, well, you know you didn’t come ’round much, Harry. I honestly even figured you gave me to Draco in the divorce, so to speak.” 

The explanation was given in delicate tones, but a wave of guilt crashed over Harry in response. It was brief, though, and followed almost immediately by the feel of Harim furiously shutting himself away. 

Finally, Harry thought, he was alone in his head. He usually didn’t get to enjoy this unless Draco was actually around. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

It made sense that Sirius had never questioned it when Harry had told him he missed him. 

“Oh, it’s water under the bridge, Harry. Though I wouldn’t fuss if you were to say that to my husband one of these days,” he added pointedly. “He’s missed you a lot, even if he never says so.” 

Harry blinked stupidly, his mind still processing that statement. Husb—? 

“Why are you two hiding over here?” Ayesha’s voice broke in. 

“Mumma!” Jameel exclaimed happily. 

Ayesha’s grin widened as she rushed over to grab him off Sirius and into her arms. “Hullo my little superstar,” she cooed. “Did nana steal you away? Do you want to see auntie ’Rora? I think you do.” 

Jameel babbled affirmatively. 

“And I think you two ought to join the party,” she directed at Harry and Sirius. “My friends are politicians; they’re not going to bite you.” 

Which was how Harry was pulled into the fray. It was a friendly atmosphere, and Harry wished he wasn’t so distracted. But the idea of Sirius being married at all was mind-boggling, and made it hard to pay much attention. Not only that, but Harry had a suspicion that he knew who Sirius’ husband was. Which was just—of course. Who else but Remus, honestly. 

That was what Ayesha had been talking about months ago, he realised, when she suggested visiting Sirius as well if Remus were off from Hogwarts. Because they lived together. 

Privately, Harry reflected that it wasn’t as intense a surprise as it ought to have been. Perhaps that was because a part of Harry had always wondered, back before Tonks. And she’d only come into Remus’ life after Sirius had—

No. 

There was no reason to be thinking about any of this, he told himself sternly. If anything, it was a tragedy that Harry had rectified. 

Except that Teddy wasn’t—

Enough, he ordered himself. That was enough. That train of thought was as unwelcome as one could get. 

“Harry? You look a bit pale, mate.” 

He snapped out of it, focusing. Colin looked back at him in concern. 

Before he could respond, Harry’s eyes were drawn automatically to the overlarge camera settled around his neck. 

A bright grin spread across Harry’s face at the sight, and he was powerless to stop it. He almost wanted to hug the younger man. 

“I’m fine, Colin, thanks,” he said, meaning it. “You should go take some more pictures.” 

Colin looked dubious for a moment, but soon nodded and wandered back towards his wife. 

Colin Creevey with his camera, Harry marveled. Somehow, it was just enough to set him to rights. 

Harry relaxed after that, much to his own relief. He even managed to avoid contact with Ophelia well enough—though he did release a small breath when she had to go. 

He did indeed meet new people and pretend to know them—including Ayesha’s closest friend, a witch named Aurora McKinnon, who made fun of his nose like it was an inside joke. 

They undoubtedly had some manner of relationship, though, because when the cake came out, a single shared look was enough for them both to simultaneously reach out and smash Ayesha’s face into it. 

Gasps and gleeful laughter followed, and Harry, of course, ended up with frosting in his own hair, courtesy of his giggling, vengeful sister. 

It was a life more than worth fighting to keep. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s head hurt. 

Well, it actually felt more like his brain had been put through a beef grinder. Which wasn’t too off the mark, given the long hours Unspeakable Reid had just spent mucking about in his mind. 

Harim, having known what was coming, had been staunchly absent since she’d begun. Harry himself had already made an agreement, and so hadn’t had much choice. 

He still hated legilimency, deeply, as a result of his Sixth Year. And having to suppress the now ingrained need to use Occlumency and throw Reid out had made the whole ordeal that much worse. 

That wasn’t to say he’d been docile about it. 

After all, he’d wanted to know what the point of barreling through his mind with seemingly no direction could’ve been. 

Reid had not been pleased with his incessant questioning. She’d first tried to placate him with tripe about how they weren’t actually looking for anything specific to begin with, but would supposedly have more targeted questions developed for him later. 

Harry had been clear he wasn’t having it. And eventually, Reid had cracked. Before he knew it, she’d been laying into him about his ‘thoughtless disregard for the structural integrity of spacetime’ and the people, like her, that had ‘dedicated their lives to the study of it.’

She’d followed this by all but wrenching the rubber band from her hair and holding it up for him, as though throwing something in his face. Do you have even the slightest concept of time theory, Mr. Potter? she’d demanded. Are you familiar with any of the hundreds of hypotheses that exist? I strongly doubt that you are. 

Harry hadn’t thought that was a very fair question. Why should he know theory they’d likely made up and altered day in and day out since the Department itself opened? 

But he hadn’t replied, merely watched as Reid had taken her rubber band and stretched it, pulling it out of shape with all of her strength. When she’d let go, Harry winced in sympathetic pain as it snapped back harshly against her palm. But she didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she merely held up the band again. 

Here’s one you’ll not like much:, she informed him, superior. Time being a closed curve. Meaning that it very well might not matter how much you’ve stretched it and bent it to your will; it could still be beyond you. It could self-correct. It could be straining, this very moment, to return to its natural shape, by whatever means necessary. 

Harry had stared at her as he took in the implications of that. As she told him that what they needed from him now was any and all information that he could possibly provide. So that they could make comparisons; so that they could properly evaluate sociodemographics, population growth rates, inter and transnational Magical relations, reportable prejudices, and everything in between. 

Because they couldn’t dismiss any theory without study, apparently, no matter how unlikely it seemed to him. 

They—the team behind this dreadful endeavour—wanted him to consider the possibility that what he’d done was merely a delay, a temporary subversion. What if, Reid asked of him, the world was still primed for war—and Voldemort had merely been a catalyst, not the root cause? 

And if that was just one of hundreds of possibilities, as implied, then some were surely worse. 

So Harry had conceded, had stopped being difficult. 

He’d even found it within himself to be somewhat thankful that he’d at least been an Auror—one who, despite the general dissatisfaction his career had brought him, had nonetheless paid attention—and so had something to offer. 

He mightn’t have wanted to be participating in something like this, mightn’t have been the most ideal person for it, either. He hadn’t studied history or the political atmosphere in depth, but he had lived to personally witness Britain’s Wizarding society cough and sputter and begin a slow collapse around him. And he was plenty familiar with most of what had gotten them to that point. 

He hadn’t spent the whole of his previous career sitting around doing nothing. 

Essentially, he’d managed to let Reid see whatever she needed. 

There were some specific memories of the prior timeline he thought she’d seemed to pause to watch in full—probably intending to transfer her memories of his into a pensieve or some other device, where she could study it without his actual presence interfering. 

Such a thing would be fine with him, he’d decided. Anything to put off a repeat of the splitting ache in his head that allowing continuous mind-magic had left him with. 

It was making it difficult to concentrate, which had the unfortunate side-effect of wasting Unspeakable Wells’ time. 

She currently sat before him, her legs crossed at the ankles. She wore an ever-patient expression, even though he’d probably been staring into space for going on five minutes and hadn’t heard a single word she’d been saying to him. 

He put considerable effort into tuning back in. 

“... frustrating,” she was saying, “but I assure you that my central role is your well-being, Mr. Potter.” 

“Harry.” It was the first thing he’d said since he sat down. “Just Harry, please.” 

She smiled, genuinely pleased, it seemed like. “Very well. I would like it if you’d call me Sheila in return.” 

Harry blinked. “Erm, isn’t that—I mean. Is that professional, or?” he floundered. “I’m sorry, I guess I don’t know the rules here.” 

She nodded her understanding. “Neither do I, really,” she replied, surprising him. “But I’m glad you said that so we can get ourselves sorted. While I have spent quite a large portion of my life studying the mind, and so was rightfully selected to meet your stipulations, you must understand that I am not a Mind Healer. 

As an Unspeakable, I am first and foremost a theorist,” she explained. “So while I am technically learned and probably quite a bit beyond educated enough, it was not required that I become a licensed medical practitioner, and so I did not. Regardless, you’ll find I am perfectly capable of meeting your needs. It just need not be so formal. Simply put, you are here to put forth what concerns you, and I am here to listen and offer possibilities that might explain, and hopefully even resolve them over a period of time. It all hinges on your cooperation and willingness to put your trust in my expertise.” 

She waited expectantly, and Harry realised she needed some sign of acceptance from him. 

He took in a breath, let it out slowly, and nodded. This was, he thought, what all the trouble was for, after all. 

She brightened. “Brilliant. So, I believe it prudent we begin with the crux of what initially brought you to us,” she suggested. “How about you tell me more about this other version of yourself.” 

oOo

Harry looked about himself in admiration. 

As soon as he’d walked in, he had been impressed by the array of decour before him. The colours and styles were aesthetic and appealing in unique ways that somehow didn’t clash at all within the space. 

Displays of various rooms offered something for a multitude of tastes—and even looked to reorient themselves a bit to suit his own innate preferences the closer he came to them. 

Harry took an experimental step towards the latest one he’d come to—which so happened to be a bedroom—purposely imagining the wooden night stand a different shade. A blink, and it was as he’d pictured. 

It must have been the product of dutiful spell- or charmwork. 

“You’ll find the shop’s been through quite a few upgrades since you’ve last been here,” said Draco’s voice. 

Harry turned to find the blond leaning against a near white-marble bookshelf, obviously having been watching him explore for a while. 

Draco looked incredibly fit in his for-work clothes—professional, off-tan slacks beneath faux-casual robes that were clearly of the latest fashion. Harry was not so naive to things like that, anymore. Spending so much time amongst and or discussing the celebrity of London and surrounding areas—both Wizarding and Muggle—had left him plenty informed on what was ‘in’ and what was not, in everything from music trends to designer clothing lines. 

He admittedly knew not a whit about interior design, though. 

He knew Neville must have had gotten someone who knew what they were doing, and that was the extent of it. Though looking around, he now suspected that whoever they were, Draco was better than they were. 

“I’ve got to ask what you think.” 

“It’s all amazing,” Harry said truthfully. He gestured to the nightstand. “How do you get it to change like that?” 

“A lot of time and stubbornness,” Draco answered with a grin, seeming to appreciate the praise. “It was rather a pain, I do admit, but it's certainly paid for itself since.” 

Harry nodded. “You’re clearly doing really well,” he told him. “Thanks for having me come check it out.” 

“I’m glad you wanted to,” Draco replied, his grey eyes warm; then he straightened up and came closer. “Come on, I'll show you around a bit more.” 

The blond led Harry around the sizable studio, pointing out which displays he personally favoured and which ones he intended to be rid of soon whether they caught someone’s fancy or not. 

“It’s good you came when no one was here,” Draco said eventually, watching Harry sit down on one of the plushier office-chairs. “I’d not have been able to give you the full tour.” 

“Is it ever overwhelming?” Harry wondered. 

“Oh not at all,” Draco answered, leaning against the companion desk. “We don’t get most of our clientele just waiting for people to stop in. More they come looking for us specifically and with an idea of what they want already. It’s usually fairly easy to manage, especially when Dean and Daphne are available.” 

“Well, I’m glad you get to do something you really like,” Harry told him. 

It was rather nice, he thought, not for the first time, to get to see Draco Malfoy living a respectable life—free of things like war trauma and scars that everyone in Harry’s first timeline had carried with them. 

Not that there wasn’t pain between himself and Draco in this one. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Draco asked idly, blessedly drawing Harry away from those colliding trains of thought. 

Harry very much wanted to say he was doing nothing of import, of course, so that he could enjoy whatever Draco must have in mind. But he couldn’t in good conscience. 

“Ah, I was actually planning a visit to Hogwarts in the afternoon,” he said, hurrying to explain. “My sister suggested I could pay my brother a spontaneous visit at some point. And I kind of liked the idea.” 

Merlin knew he’d let his relationship with Amjad slip through the cracks enough times already to the boy off another week. 

Draco nodded. “In that case, I’m sure he’ll love to see you.” 

And though Harry easily convinced himself he must have imagined the disappointed note in the blond’s voice, it wasn’t enough to stop him. “Want to come along?” he blurted. 

Draco blinked. “Oh. Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to step on your time,” he said. “I remember what it was like when I finished school and Phee was still at Hogwarts.” 

Harry swallowed. He was not, in fact, sure this was a good idea at all. Though not just because Draco might be an intrusion on his time with Amjad. “Of course,” he said anyway. “I mean, I doubt he’ll mind.” 

It was a small lie, simply due to Harry not having a very solid concept of what Amjad would and wouldn’t mind. But when Draco smiled again, it made it all but impossible for Harry to regret the decision. 

oOo 

“Merlin, it’s strange to be back,” Draco said the following morning, as they stepped onto the grounds. 

It was around noon; Harry had wanted to go earlier, but had unfortunately been obligated to spend the morning checking on his affairs regarding his actual, current job. 

It had not been a good morning, frankly, but it was shaping to be a nice afternoon. 

He couldn’t echo Draco’s sentiment, of course. He’d explored the castle fairly recently, that day he’d met with Dumbledore, enough to suspect that the very foundation of the building remembered what had been inflicted upon it, even if the proof were wiped away. 

It was only a suspicion, though. And one he didn’t particularly want proven, besides. 

“I’m glad you wanted to come,” Harry told the blond, earning a grin. 

It slipped after a moment, however. “You look nervous.” 

Harry shrugged, hands in his jean pockets. “Doesn’t make much sense, I know,” he replied as he walked. “I just… it’s strange with him. I mean, he’s home in the summers, right, but I’ve not truly been home until recently. I’ve seen a couple of his matches lately, and I suppose we chat, but I feel like it’s been a long time since we… got on. Like there’s something missing and I don’t even know how to be his big brother.” 

It was close enough to the truth that Harry didn’t chafe much. 

Draco didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he nudged Harry’s arm with his, reassuring. “Come on,” said the blond, “it’ll be fine. You’ll see.” 

Harry hoped so. 

He had half-expected someone to pop out and escort them inside once they’d gotten close enough. But he knew that wouldn’t make sense. They’d been suitably checked by the—unfamiliar to Harry—professor at the gates, already. 

In any case, the great doors opened wide and welcoming at Draco’s touch. 

They slipped inside. Harry watched, charmed, as Draco turned in almost a full circle, head tipped back and taking it all in as though he were in a movie. His smile spread, wide and full of childlike excitement, and Harry’s chest quietly ached. 

It wasn’t always so bad a feeling anymore, really, the wanting. Sometimes he even thought he might be getting used to the inevitably of its presence. 

Unfortunately, that was to be the last time he would feel anything positive for a while, though he didn’t yet know it. 

There were only a handful of children about that he could see. He imagined the majority had better things to do than wander the corridors on the weekend, but there were bound to be exceptions to anything. 

They gave him and Draco curious looks as they passed, but ultimately dismissed them. Visitors surely weren’t enough of a rarity to warrant gawking, after all. It wasn’t like Harry was famous. 

He would reflect later that, as he and Draco got closer to Ravenclaw Tower, there had been an inexplicable shift in the air. Like a sense of foreboding had come over Harry for seemingly no reason. 

It intensified when they passed a small, auburn-haired at the bottom of the staircase; she gave Harry a once-over, followed by an indecipherable look, and a raised eyebrow. 

Not long after was when he heard the voices. 

“... rest of them, sticking around to watch like it's some kind of show. It’s sick, I say. What Antony said to him wasn’t even that bad. He’s just a bloody menace.” 

“Potter’s got it in good with the professors, must have done. He can do no wrong, I expect.” 

“Turns my stomach, that does.” 

“I heard rumours his dad was, like, murdered. Reckon he’s gone mad ’cause of it?” 

Harry couldn’t help looking to Draco, hoping against reason that he might’ve been hallucinating the conversation. But the expression he found was one of caution and, worse, sympathy. 

“I hardly think—”

Two young boys, one in Ravenclaw robes and one in Hufflepuff, appeared above them on the spiral—the Ravenclaw had cut himself off as soon as he caught sight of Harry. 

Two sets of eyes widened. 

“I thought his dad was dead!” the Hufflepuff exclaimed. 

His friend punched him in the arm. “That’s not his dad you halfwit; look at him. Tosser is like, thirty.” 

Harry felt a brief flare of indignance, and must have made a noise to that effect because the boy said, “See. Not even thirty, then.” 

“Well, how’m I to know?” the Hufflepuff boy defended. “He looks just like him.” 

“Why’re you talking about my brother?” Harry demanded, impatient in his anxiety, and probably put a bit too force into it since both boys blanched. 

The Ravenclaw, though, was clearly the more stubborn, as he immediately rearranged his face into a scowl again. “Your brother is a psycho, mate, that’s why. You ought to do something about it, but I’ll not hold my breath.” 

Then the kid very decisively bulldozed past him, his friend scurrying after him, though making sure to give Harry and Draco as wide a berth as possible on the narrow steps. 

“Harry,” Draco said into the resulting silence.

But Harry was already on the move again, taking the steps three at a time now. The higher he climbed, the more noise reached his ears. 

Someone—several someones were shouting. It was all garbled, and the anxiety in Harry’s chest increased exponentially before, finally, he came upon the frenzied cluster of students. 

And smack in the middle of what Harry could see, was his brother, on the ground, his fists repeatedly beating down onto the body of a boy Harry didn’t know. 

Amjad’s cheek was split, and a fledgling bruise around his eye was darkening with every terrible second that passed. Blood fairly streamed from his nose as he rained down punch after punch. 

The other boy had clearly given up fighting back, because his arms were up, as unmoving as possible against the blows, protecting his head. 

Harry faintly thought that most wizards had to be unfamiliar with physical fights. 

And suddenly he couldn’t breathe. 

Draco, having evidently realised that Harry had been rendered useless in his shock, shouted Amjad’s name loudly, thunderous with authority. The youngest Potter stopped. 

But when he turned towards the source, he met Harry’s eyes first—and immediately went slack. Something akin to horror washed over his face. 

“Harry,” he choked. 

Blood kept dripping from his nose.

Everyone in the vicinity looked back and forth between the brothers, utterly silent now; the only sound was the laboured gasps coming from the battered boy on the ground. 

Amjad rose. His knuckles… Godric. They were grotesque to Harry, a bleeding collage of colours. 

“One of you take him to the hospital wing immediately,” Draco directed the rest of the small crowd, effectively snapping them all out of it. “And get a professor, for Salazar’s sake. Better, get Ravenclaw’s Head of House.” 

“Shit,” Amjad breathed. 

Harry thought that ‘shit’ was quite right. 

Chapter Text

Harry stared down at the letter in his hands, resisting the urge to crumple it worse than he already had. He wanted to shred it. He did his best not to think of the spell, lest he cast wordlessly on accident and the parchment burst into flame. 

Maybe to someone else, there wouldn’t seem to be anything to be angry about, but Harry could read between the lines well enough. 

Dear Harry, 

I’m sorry I’ve not been able to write much. We knew how it was going to be. I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t, really. Father’s gone a lot further than just blocking most of your owls. I miss you. I hate that I couldn’t see you on my birthday. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to be at yours. 

I’ll make it up to you once we’ve gone back to Hogwarts. You’ll see. 

My birthday was a dreadful affair anyway. I didn’t expect a celebration, what with things as they are. But still. I spent most of the day in the gardens being ‘supervised’ by Mother and Mrs. Greengrass. Astoria fell asleep in the Gazebo, and I didn’t even get to eat her slice of my cake. 

The least they could have done was let Daphne along, but that would be ‘improper.’ I’m rolling my eyes, should you require a visual. 

Not that Astoria is so bad. She’s rather like Daphne is, only daintier and such. You know. I’d imagine we might even be friends, were things… different. 

I can’t believe how long it’s been since you and I were together. 

It won’t always be this way, I promise. Astoria may be resigned to whatever happens, but she knows I’m not. 

I’d not ask this of anyone, but I know I can say whatever I have to and you’ll be there. Is it foolish of me, holding out hope that Mother might forgive me when she learns of us? I’ve no illusions that Father won’t punish me severely, and I would be lying if I said I was not at all afraid. You could always see right through me, anyway. 

But I can’t shake this hope that perhaps Mother will understand. 

Marriage contracts are broken sometimes, after all. Aunt Bella had one bef      that’s a terrible example 

I just wish it was somehow all going to be okay. 

Ridiculous, surely. 

I’m planning to send this letter as soon as I’m certain it’ll reach you. If I manage it before the 16th, Astoria informed my mother and I that Theo is hosting a ‘gathering’ at Nott Manor, and I’ve actually been permitted to go. Astoria told me later on that Theo’s parents will be in Italy for that weekend, so it’s actually just a party. 

I’m picturing you there. I want to see you—need to, more like. 

I love you. You know, every so often it still amazes me that I’m able to say those words to you. 

Entirely yours, 

Draco 

Harry hated this feeling. He missed Draco all of the time. Constantly. They’d never gone this long apart from each other before. It’d been the two of them since they’d met. 

And now there was this. 

He loved Draco, but his parents were terrible. Lucius treated Draco as though he were hardly better than the dirt beneath his shoe, but then had the nerve to plan out Draco’s entire life like it was something he had the right to. And Narcissa was no better, despite what Draco had always wanted to believe so desperately. She would smile and be polite, had always done, but she ended up doing whatever her husband wished. 

Harry was sure it would be no different if Draco refused to marry. 

If. 

Harry especially hated that there was an if now. It cut at him. But it couldn’t be denied, not with the evidence right here in his lap. 

Astoria this and Astoria that. 

They’d not spoken since the end of term, and all Draco could talk about was Astoria eating cake? 

Pureblood courting rituals were extensive. All that time together was intended to make the parties more amenable, and what if it was working? What if Draco was weighing his relationship with his mother and his budding friendship with Astoria against his future with Harry, and it was Harry being found wanting? 

If Harry weren’t grounded, he would march down the stairs right this second and tell his parents he was going to the Nott’s. Today was the 16th; it had come in time. Draco would be at Theo’s tonight, expecting him. 

Harry didn’t have many regrets in life—aside from the time he’d wasted pining—but he’d have given anything just now to stop himself a week ago. 

He didn’t even know why he’d yelled at Amjad like that. He’d been no more annoying than usual. It just felt like Harry had been upset and lonely all summer, and so the whinging had set him off. 

He’d regretted his harshness as soon as Amjad’s little face had scrunched up tearfully. No one had been happy with him, least of all Dhadhi, who’d seen the whole thing. 

His parents had grounded him until term started, which seemed entirely disproportionate to Harry. 

His bedroom door opened, then, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

Dad’s head popped in. “Hey,” he said gently. “Can I come in?” 

Harry shrugged. He didn’t say anything, just kept his arms folded as his dad sat down on the side of his bed. 

“Whatchya got there?” the older Potter asked, trying to break the tension. 

Harry wasn’t in the mood to allow that so easily. 

“Letter from Draco,” he said shortly. 

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Dad said, beaming. “I know how much you’ve missed him.” 

Harry shrugged again. “Doesn’t seem brilliant.” 

Dad looked at him quizzically. “Why’s that then?” 

“It’s rubbish!” Harry fairly exploded. “It’s been months, and he barely writes me a page. And spends most of it talking about bloody Astoria Greengrass, besides.” 

“Language, son.” 

Harry clenched his jaw and went silent. 

“I know you’re upset with me and your mum right now. We don’t like having to punish you, either,” his dad said a moment later. “But I’m still here if you need me. Do you wanna talk to me about it, or would you rather I leave you be? It’s up to you.” 

“Talk about it,” Harry mumbled, glancing up quickly to catch his dad grin a little. Harry always wanted to talk about it, in the end. And his dad always listened. 

“So, what’s really wrong? Would you rather he’d not written?” Dad prodded. 

“No I-” Harry made a sound of frustration. “I just wanted more I guess. Like, he said he loved me. In the letter. But he’s been spending practically all day every day with Astoria. I know he is because she’s all he could manage to talk about and he barely wrote anything to begin with,” Harry explained. “That means he knows I don’t want to hear about her very much but he hasn’t been doing anything else to even tell me about.” 

“I see,” Dad said neutrally. 

“And he kept talking about how Lucius is going to do awful things if they find out Draco won’t marry her. And about how he doesn’t want to lose his mum. It seemed like every word was just a reason he was having second thoughts but couldn’t tell me outright,” Harry admitted quietly. “And he wrote that he’s not resigned, but what if that just means he isn’t yet? Astoria wants to marry him, someday, Dad. He might not think so but I know she does.” 

The older Potter sighed heavily and pulled Harry in by the shoulder. 

It was quiet a while before Dad spoke again. 

“You know, when I was your age I was already in love with your mother.” 

Harry nodded. He’d known that, of course. He didn’t know what that had to do with now, though. 

“She was… she was very close to someone else,” his dad said. “Your mum’s told you about her best friend growing up, Severus.” 

“Yeah. He died, Mum said, while you guys were at school.” 

Dad nodded. “He did. I didn't like him—not just because he had your mum and I didn’t. I just didn’t like him. I thought he was rotten and would hurt her. I knew he had… opinions, about certain people, for whatever reason.” 

“What sorts of opinions?” Harry asked, hesitant because of his dad’s tone. 

Dad looked so uncomfortable. “That he was better. He thought he was better than muggles, and muggleborns, too, most likely. He wasn’t outspoken about it or anything. But I… I could recognise the type.” 

“That’s terrible,” Harry said empathetically. “I thought Mum loved him?”  

His dad just nodded, as if he understood exactly what Harry meant. “She did,” he confirmed, to Harry’s bewilderment. “And in his way he loved your mum; I can’t tell you that he didn’t, even if it wasn’t in the way I felt I loved her.” 

Harry tensed, the conversation suddenly taking on a different meaning. His father watched him knowingly, practically confirming his intention. 

“Are you saying that… that Astoria is like Severus was to you?” Harry asked, something ugly settling in his chest. 

His dad sighed. “Well, I don’t presume to know what sort of person young Astoria is,” he clarified delicately. “But you yourself said she has feelings for Draco. And even if it's not the way you think he ought to be loved—or the way you love him, you also need to consider Draco’s happiness in all of this. Even if it’s hard.” 

“You’re saying I’ve got to let him, what? Choose between us?” Harry thought he might be on the verge of a heart attack. This was everything he’d been afraid of, every fear he thought he’d gotten over. 

His father’s eyes were sad. “Not quite. There are also other factors in play beyond your feelings or Astoria’s, son. Draco may not have the best of relationships with his parents—his family isn’t like ours—but there will always be a part of him that wants to please them. Your uncle Padfoot’s parents are gone, but I know there’s a part of him that misses them despite all they did to him. That’s the nature of people when it comes to their parents.” 

Harry was shaking. “I don’t want to lose him,” he choked. 

That earned another mournful sound from his dad. He tightened his arm around Harry. “You’re such a good man, son,” he said gently. “I’ve so much pride in you. No matter how you handle this, that’s how I know you’re going to be okay.” 

His dad left his room quietly a while later, and Harry decided. He understood why he was grounded. He wasn’t the type to disobey. But no one could truly expect he would just sit here and not fight for Draco when there was so much at stake. 

He cast a strong colloportus at his bedroom door, and then he went to the window, and opened the latch. 

oOo

—Sleep did not come easy, and it was hardly pleasant when it did, anymore. But it was still an escape, and Harry despised being pulled from it. 

His side was jabbed again, the wandpoint pressing harder this time. 

“Bloody wake up,” hissed that irksome, contemptuous voice yet again. 

Harry wondered why none of his roommates had thrown a pillow at the little ant yet. 

Opening his eyes confirmed that it was so early as to still be pitch black out. 

“How the fuck did you even get in here?” Harry hissed back. 

Colin’s black eyes glittered at him with disdain in the shadows of the room. He wordlessly held up Har- Ayesha’s invisibility cloak. 

Harry reached out to wrench it from his hand, scowling. “I didn’t give her this so you could use it,” he spit. 

“I took it from her like five minutes ago, you twat, keep your fucking pants on.” 

“What the fuck do you want?!” Harry whisper-shouted. “It’s the middle of the bloody night.” 

“Yes it is!” Theo snapped from across the room, voice muffled by his bed curtains. “So shut your godsdamned pie holes or take it somewhere fucking else!” 

Harry gave Colin a look of loathing. 

“I snuck in here because your sister needs you,” the boy hissed, apparently not paying Theo any mind. “She won’t listen to me right now. It has to be you.” 

Harry rolled his eyes in immense exasperation. “I’m not going anywhere,” he growled, dropping his head back to his pillow. “I’m sure she’s fine. Go away.” 

“If you don’t get your fucking arse—” Colin started, at the same time Theo shouted, “Potter I swear to fucking Merlin if you don’t shut him the hell up-!” 

Groans sounded throughout the room. 

Harry threw aside his blanket, muttering expletives that could curdle dairy as he angrily yanked on his shirt. 

He made sure to slam the door behind him as he left the room, before he rounded on Colin with fury. 

“What?!” 

The little insect looked about five seconds from spitting on him. “I already said Ayesha needs you,” he said through his teeth. “She’s in the Restricted section of the library.” 

Harry’s fists clenched tighter around the cloak. He glanced at the grandfather clock atop the Common Room mantel. 

It was gone 2. 

“If you ever come into my room—while I’m sleeping, no less—for shite like this again, Creevey, I’m going to incinerate you.” 

Colin just stared at him, the bags under his eyes making him look even less than unimpressed. “You don’t scare me,” he said, flat. 

They stood there for a long moment, just glaring at one another, before Harry gave a tremendous huff and went. 

He threw his cloak around his shoulders and vanished into the corridor; he didn’t give a shit how Colin got out. 

A few minutes later, he saw what had driven the insufferable runt to go and trouble him. 

Three candles sat burning on the floor. Ayesha was sitting cross-legged in front of them for light, her pyjamas riding up and her hair was mussed and tangled. Harry could see the shadows beneath her eyes. She held a great tome in her arms, tired eyes roving across the pages. 

Other large, dusty books were stacked in piles or left open, strewn across the expanse of ground amidst partially-crumpled and flyaway pieces of parchment. Scrawl filled some of them to cramping. 

Harry came closer, exhaustion lessening with his rising concern. 

He picked a page off the floor at random—and promptly dropped it as though it burned him as soon as he caught sight of the words. 

… as stated by Co-Director Yaxley, Fiona G., regarding Azkaban Wizarding Prison Inmate-D0041: Uldrich, Sigmund K. enclosed, (October 8, 1996). 

Harry’s vision tunneled. The trial. He couldn’t fathom how she could have a— a transcript of… 

“What the hell is going on here?” He meant to say it like a demand, but it came out nothing of the sort. It wasn’t much more than an exhale. 

Ayesha looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, like she’d been crying on top of not sleeping for days or weeks. 

“Oh Harry,” she said brokenly, “it’s just so awful.” 

He could see the title of the tome she held in her hands now. Before and After 1718: A Comprehensive History of Azkaban Gaol. 

“Ayesha,” Harry said harshly. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

She clutched the book to her chest. “Reading,” she whispered. “I’ve been reading about it all—that terrible place. It’s… impossible. It’s all their fault!” 

Harry flinched. “Their fault,” he repeated. “Who’s they?” 

“Everyone! Everyone who had a hand in it! I- they wouldn’t let us attend the trial,” she bemoaned. “But I was so… I had to know! It didn’t make sense! They said D-Dad put him away for operating on the Potions black market. But that’s classified as a Nonviolent offense. How does that escalate to—?” Harry watched her cringe around the word murder. “They wouldn’t tell us anything! But I know the truth now. It’s so they could continue keeping everyone ignorant of their atrocities while families like ours have got to live with the consequences!” 

Her eyes were wild as she spoke. Harry could hardly wrap his mind around what she was even talking about. 

“Are you… are you honestly trying to, what, defend him?” The words tasted like bile. 

His sister looked more desperate with every passing second. “Sixteen years ago that man was poor, living on the streets. He was out to make money, to survive. And what did they do? The same thing they do to every convict; there’s no differential of punishment aside from time. But torture is still torture whether it lasts a year or a lifetime. They lose their minds, Harry, all of them. Perfectly sane people who commit minor offenses are practically tortured alongside the likes of child-predators and serial killers! They made him insane and then they just released him into the world without so much as a notification! And then he killed our father! Don’t you see what they’ve done?!” 

She was crying—tears rained down her cheeks, and she didn’t hardly look aware of it. 

He realised with horror that she was losing it. His sister, who couldn’t bear to blame him, was blaming something else instead. Something much bigger than her, something that she could kick and scream at but that would never budge. 

“Ayesha,” Harry said, even. “That— that thing was a criminal. He was probably out of his mind long before he was put away.” And Harry’s Dad was an Auror. He knew that there was a target on his back and there always would be. But he was out walking in places he shouldn’t at a time that he shouldn’t have been; he wasn’t being careful because he’d been worried about Harry. 

Because Harry had left, not bothering to tell anyone where he was going. 

He’d taken advantage of his parents trust in him, and he’d ignored his father’s advice about selflessness. And everything that had happened wouldn’t have happened if Harry had listened, and had stayed where he was meant to be. 

“He wasn’t,” Ayesha cried. “He wasn’t. They did it. They caused this. Those selfish people giving leave to those godless creatures!” 

Her shoulders shook with force; Harry looked at her shadow flickering on the wall, forcing his mind blank. 

“You need to go back to Gryffindor, and go to sleep,” he told her flatly. “You need to get rid of these transcripts—and I never want to know how you got them in the first place. Burn them. Burn them and be done with this and go to sleep.” 

She looked up at him, her expression betrayed. “I-no,” she shook her head, almost dazedly. As though that was the last thing she expected him to say. “I want you to help me, Harry. You, you of everyone have to understand. Don’t- don’t you want to make it right?” 

That was impossible for him, and she must have known it. Despair and guilt raged, and he went hot with hate for himself. 

“There is no making it right,” he spat. 

Harry turned, then, but not fast enough to miss the way her face crumpled and her hands flew to her mouth. He could still hear the sound of her muffled sobs all the way back to the dungeons. 

Chapter Text

Harry stared down at his hands. He’d been waiting outside the Headmaster’s Office for a half hour, already. He’d wanted to go in with his brother, had been invited to, in fact, but had felt wrong. He wasn’t Amjad’s father. 

He was the reason he didn’t have one. 

Harry’s breath caught as that thought crossed his mind. He mentally snarled at Harim for it, and his alter ego quieted again. But his walls were a far cry from the impenetrable fort he usually erected between them. 

There was too much. Harry’s seams were tearing. 

What was he supposed to do?  

Footsteps crossed the floor towards him, and Draco sat at his side a moment later. 

“How is the other boy?” Harry asked; his voice sounded dead to his own ears, though in truth he could not be farther from it. 

Draco hummed. “We’re wizards Harry,” he offered gently. “He has a minor concussion that’ll take a bit longer for Poppy to handle, but otherwise he’s fine. Wounds all closed up.” 

“A concussion,” repeated Harry. “My little brother beat some kid so hard he has a brain injury.” 

Harry couldn’t get the image out of his mind; it blurred distortedly with so many from his own childhood. His real childhood, the one where his cousin did things like bruise his ribs and break his arm, and never saw an ounce of consequences. Rather, he saw rewards. 

But Harry could not explain any of this. He had no way to word how it felt to see a boy who looked so like himself doing the beating, whilst someone else suffered. 

“Kids can get a concussion from tripping on the stairs, Harry,” Draco said. 

“That’s not the point,” Harry said quietly. “I didn’t even know he was violent. There’s no way my family knows, not with the way they talk. Which… how long has this been going on? How has he not gotten in trouble if he’s pulling shit like this?” 

Harry knew that what he was really asking was if Amjad got away with everything, too. 

But Draco didn’t have time to answer anything at all before another voice interrupted. 

“He has.” 

Harry and Draco looked up; Remus stood before them, looking world-weary, and a touch guilty, and it all suddenly made sense. 

“You’ve been covering for him,” Harry said flatly. 

Remus released a great sigh. “I’ve been looking after him, trying to help him. It’s not as bad as it looks to be today.” 

Harry half-way stood. “Not as bad—?!” 

“Harry,” Draco said. And Harry went utterly still, not because he’d said his name. But because he’d taken his hand. 

It was amazing the way the buzzing inside him flared and then calmed at that simple action. He thought that maybe if he listened, Draco wouldn’t let go. So Harry carefully sat back down, and, wonderfully, their hands remained clasped. 

Harim was all but intoxicated by the feeling of Draco’s hand in his–theirs? So much so that he couldn’t hide it or hide from it. Harry could feel his mixed pleasure and panic; closing himself off from the unexpected contact was evidently unthinkable. Harry didn’t attempt to shut him out, either. It was doubtful it would work. 

And yet, the outrage of the situation had not abated at all. 

He examined his uncle in all but blood for a long moment. “Tell me what you mean.” 

“Amjad has always had a certain… streak,” Remus began, tired. “I began to notice it in his third year; it’s truly not been so long. It’s not that he is a bully. I like to think I’d have troubled your mum with it if he were malicious. But he isn't. He simply has a… temper.” 

“Must run in the family,” Harry said bitterly, unable to identify where it had even come from. 

Remus looked aggrieved. “It didn’t used to,” he said quietly. 

Harry knew that, too. 

“Regardless, I’ve tried to be there for him. Defuse certain situations before they could start. But there have been a handful of times when—well. He’s been serving bi-weekly detentions with me for some time. I had hoped I’d begin to get through to him, that I’d not have to involve your mother or sister. But in some ways, I doubt Amjad is making conscious choices. It’s more that he just reacts.” 

“He hurts other kids,” Harry spit. 

He couldn’t hold the statement in. He had no way of communicating his pain, because no one in the world knew about the Dursleys, or that Harry knew exactly what it was like to be the kid who’s hit so many times that they can’t do anything but stay still and wait it out. 

“Yes,” said Remus, infuriatingly plain. “He does. Though it’s never, that I have observed, been without provocation. The young man in the hospital wing is Antony Selwyn. He has a penchant for antagonizing marginalised students, your brother included.” 

Selwyn. Harry knew that name; it used to mean something. Briefly, he thought about Unspeakable Reid, and wondered if it still might. 

Then he realised what he was trying to justify and how, and buckled down. 

“It doesn’t matter what the kid said,” Harry bit out. “That was completely… it wasn’t a fight, it was assault. If he wasn’t my brother, I’d say he should be expelled.” 

“Harry,” Remus admonished, sounding taken aback, of all things. “I hardly doubt it was severe enough to warrant that word. They are teenage boys, fisticuffs is not such a rare occurrence among that age. And of course Dumbledore wouldn’t expel him! He’ll see consequences; he always does.” 

Draco flexed his fingers, grounding Harry enough for him to realise he was squeezing hard enough to cut off the circulation in the blond’s hand. He pointedly loosened his grip, but didn’t let go. A part of him was still in amazement that Draco hadn’t yet either. 

It was somewhat astounding how many things one could feel at once. 

“Usually wizards fight with wands, Remus,” Harry countered. “Hexes. Jinxes. Maybe I could see those things. Fists, though. That says something different than ‘we don’t get along’ in a place like this, and you know it.” 

“What would you have me do, Harry?” Remus asked, the slightest frustration creeping in now. “Aside from what I’ve already been doing. You can’t actually suggest I argue for Amjad’s expulsion.”

“I think you need to stop pretending it isn’t happening!” Harry snapped. “I think you needed to tell us what was going on a long time ago!” 

Remus’ eyes flashed, and finally Harry recalled that he was talking to a werewolf. “Oh? And just what would you personally have done, hm?” The words were practically a growl. “You forget yourself. Sweeping in now when you’ve been absent for that boy’s entire adolescent life?! He does not have a father anymore to help him become a man. But he was meant to have you! And he didn’t. And the first you learn of anything that he’s going through, you would have him punished to the greatest extent possible. As though he was some child, and nothing to do with you. I’ve no idea why I’m even surprised!”  

The words were a bucket of freezing water being dumped over his head. 

It was like he was being shot in slow motion. 

Everything inside Harry seemed to recoil, stop, break apart. Harim was immediately too present in his mind ; Harry couldn’t separate his own feelings. What were his own feelings? 

A tidal wave was crushing him; he couldn’t hardly even see past guilt, rage, pain, grief. 

“Astagfirullah,” Harry breathed, too low for them to hear. 

He wasn’t sure what more he would have said, if he’d have managed to get his bearings enough to respond properly at all, before the statue moved aside and the Headmaster’s quarters opened. 

Professor Flitwick walked off in a huff, leaving Amjad standing there, Dumbledore at his shoulder. 

There was silence. 

Harry did not look at the old man, didn’t want to know what judgement he’d find there—did not know or want to know what he’d feel. 

Not that it was difficult to ignore him and everything else, in that moment. 

His brother’s eyes had gone to his own straight away; there was such nervousness in that expression that it brought everything to a sudden and piercing clarity. “Harry?” the teen asked, heartbreakingly timid. 

Harry stood, sacrificing Draco’s hold. For no other option, he let instinct tell him what to do next. Which was how he ended up with his arms around his little brother, cheek resting atop his dark hair. 

He was vaguely aware of Dumbledore and Remus heading back into the office, exchanging whispers just before the statue cut them off. 

“I reckon we need to talk, yeah?” Harry said quietly. 

Amjad sounded so sad. “Yeah.” 

oOo

Draco had gone. He’d quietly told Harry that he understood, and that he would be along a different day. 

Harry had tried to apologise for dragging him into this mess, but Draco had assured him they couldn’t have known. Besides, he’d said, he didn’t regret coming along. 

“I got to be here for you,” the blond had admitted. “That was all I wanted, once upon a time.” 

He did not have the capacity to dwell on or unpack that statement currently, but he surely would later. At the present moment, Harry sat on his brother’s dorm room bed; the teen beside him was silent. 

It almost hurt Harry to look at him; their likeness was so stark. 

The differences—aside from his dark eyes—were micro. His cheekbones were a bit higher, his hair a bit thinner, but it seemed to be, fundamentally, Harry’s own adolescence looking back at him. 

It was unnerving in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. 

  “I’m sorry,” Amjad finally broke the silence. 

“What are you sorry for?” Harry asked, cautious. He could admit to himself that part of him—the part that was abused as a child—wanted Remus to be right, wanted some proof of remorse for the right thing. 

“That you were here to see that,” his brother whispered back. “That you know I’m like this now.” 

As promising as the admission was, it wasn't enough. 

“Are you sorry for hurting that kid?” 

“Of course,” Amjad said, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Antony might be a prick, but…” 

The obvious reluctance to finish making an excuse was an immense relief. It gave Harry what he needed to try looking for, not an excuse, but a reason. 

This boy was Harry’s family, and he deserved better than Harry’s knee-jerk reaction to think the worst. Remus was right about that. 

“You want to tell me what he said, to set you off like that?” 

“You don’t get it,” Amjad told him. “It doesn’t matter what he said. He says shite like that to everybody. It’s just—me. There’s something wrong with me. They told you, must have done. He’s not the first one I—I mean. I don’t know if it’s ever been that bad. The way the Headmaster talked, it seemed like it was worse.” 

Harry furrowed his brows. “Seemed like?” 

Amjad bit his lip. “I don’t really… I don’t always remember all of it, after. It’s like I just… I just snap, or something. And for a while all I can see is red. I don’t know why I’m like this. Where it comes from or why.” Harry watched his fists clench in his lap. “I’m just so angry.” 

And Harry was hit by the immediate understanding that he was not the person that Amjad needed to talk to. He didn’t need a man who didn’t actually know him, who needed him to defend himself before Harry could manage the ability to defend him. 

Amjad needed his brother. 

He couldn’t describe the feeling of it. It was like, all at once, he faded to the background. Like he was still there, but not. 

Harry had felt this once before, he realised, but hadn’t been able to identify it at the time—not until after the fact. At the time, it’d seemed horrific for what seemed like another entity to have had the reigns. 

He could never have imagined he’d allow it to happen again. 

“... You’re a Potter,” he found himself saying. “We lost something, Amjad. Something really important. And now we’re all just a little … wrong.” 

His baby brother shook his head. “No. No, look at you,” he denied, his eyes desperate. “And Aya? She’s fine. She’s great. You— it’s not like this. It can’t be.” 

“Amjad. You.” Memories flashed through Harry’s mind, then. All that he’d hoarded, that could never be taken back—

… in his dad’s arms, hearing so many things he didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t have known that it was the last time he’d ever be there, the last time he’d hear that voice. He’d have listened better… 

—illuminated only by candlelight, on the floor of the Hogwarts library, sobbing into her hands as he so callously walked away… 

—Hari- Harry blinked away the past. 

“You haven’t seen it, really, because most of the time, you’ve been here at school. But if you were with us all, you’d recognise. I am so completely… I can’t even put into words how much is wrong with me,” he admitted softly. “And that wouldn’t have taken a whole lot before it was obvious.” 

He’d made so many mistakes, after all. And it was beyond painful, the slow recognition that his father was only the beginning of his wrongs. 

“But even our sister; she may seem like she’s all together. It might seem fine. But every single day that Aya wakes up, she thinks of law. She thinks of convicts. She has dedicated long days and sleepless nights to making sure that criminals are looked after. On the off chance that one of them may turn out like Sigmund fucking Ul—” he broke off, unable to finish the name. He never could; it was like poison in his mouth. 

“Everything she does is to try and make sure that no one ever has to feel like we do, ever again. And it’s not just her work. It’s her life. 

Our family broke, Amjad,” Harry said. “We all know it. Our sister, though… she built another one, as fast as she possibly could. Young, just like Mum and Dad were. And it’s a great family she’s got—but the truth is what it is. I just… It’s not your fault that you’re not okay. None of us really are.” 

Amjad blinked quickly, betraying the effort of holding back tears. “But I should be,” he whispered. “You and, even Aya—you were older, closer. I was just a little boy, right? I mean, I don’t even always remember him.” 

Harry only looked at him. “Is that true?” 

Amjad stared down at his hands, his answer a quiet exhalation. “No.” 

Harry knew as much. “This is our fault,” he said. “I guess because you’ve been at school, off being taken care of by other people, we just wanted to believe that you were the one who was alright. That you, of all of us, would somehow…” He shook his head. “It wasn’t fair to you.” 

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” his brother said brokenly. “It’s so fucked up. I’m so fucked up.” 

“I was way more fucked up when I was young, right after. I still am.” 

Amjad shook his head, still not quite believing despite an ample amount of evidence. “I mean, I guess it’s like you said. Maybe I just don’t see it. You’re my big brother, you know.” A faint pink tinge crawled up his neck. “I’ve always thought you were so cool and, and strong. You wouldn’t have done the things I do when… You’d be better than that.” 

“Amjad,” Harry sighed, his chest tight. “I got our father killed. The person in this world I loved the most died because he loved me and I was too selfish…” 

Harry allowed that particular explanation to trail off, and refocused on the point. 

 “I got up one day, and I started on making it as difficult as humanly possible for anyone else I loved to care about me. I purposely became the worst version of myself that I could be—” he couldn’t finish, it was too much. He didn’t want to acknowledge these things. The loathsome interloper in his brain was probably thrilled. Though, ironically, it was probably the interloper that gave him the strength to even ponder all this in the first place. “I’ve hurt a lot of people.” 

Amjad released a harsh breath, like he’d been punched. “Harry, you didn’t…” he sounded horrified. “That’s not true, about Dad.” 

“It’s true to me.” 

A long moment passed, the only sound in the dorm was that of their breathing. 

Amjad didn’t seem to know what to say, but eventually he settled on what he must’ve thought worked best. “I’m sorry you’ve been so sad.” 

Harry’s mouth quirked up a bit on one side, before he sobered again. “I’m sorry you’ve been so angry.” 

Amjad moved, and suddenly Harry had an armful of teenage boy. 

The next moment, he spoke into his chest, voice muffled. “You’ve been angry too.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I have.” 

Amjad didn’t move for a long time, until tears were shed and dried—on both of their faces. 

Eventually, they detached. 

The next time his little brother spoke, it was melancholy. “Does it get better?” 

Harry wasn’t sure. He couldn’t say that he’d ever gotten better. But he wanted it to; he wanted to say something that would be soothing, too. “In some ways, yes. When you’ve hurt people… you’ve got to try to make it better. And then maybe that’ll make your own hurt seem a little less.” 

He hoped so, anyway. 

“Like Draco, huh?” 

Harry looked at him, caught off guard. He actually didn’t know how much his little brother knew about any of that. “Yeah,” he admitted, reluctant, “exactly like that.” 

Amjad looked thoughtful. “He was one of those people you loved, wasn’t he? The ones you hurt so they’d not love you anymore.” 

It was more than a little difficult to answer. “Yeah.” 

“Well, looked to me like maybe it didn’t work.” 

And that was far enough past Harry’s limit, to be quite honest. “What about if we talk about your love life hm?” 

Amjad wrinkled his nose. “I’d rather not.” 

Harry’s brows shot up, his intrigue turning genuine. “Are you saying there’s something to tell?” 

His brother blushed to the roots of his hair. “No!” he exclaimed forcefully. “I- all that is rubbish. And the girls here are scared of me, besides.” 

The humour left as quickly as it’d come. “Scared of you? All of them?” 

“I mean, no,” Amjad fumbled, backtracking. “I just… some girls do avoid me, ’cause they know I get into fights. Ravenclaw ones, mostly, since they know me best. But some of the Gryff’s think it’s cool, I reckon. They’re like that. And Slytherin’s don’t seem intimidated by much, I don’t think, so it’s not really that.” 

“And you’re a quidditch captain. I can’t imagine that hurts your chances,” Harry added, fishing. 

Amjad nodded along. “Yeah, s’pose. At least I hope so. But it’s not so serious as—hey.” 

Harry grinned broadly, laughing when Amjad swatted him. Harry needled him about having a crush on some Slytherin girl, ruffling his hair whilst he squirmed dramatically and uttered denials. 

But the mood didn’t last. 

“Are you gonna tell them? Mum and everyone, about me?” 

Harry sighed. “I don’t know, chota bhai.” 

Amjad was quiet for a minute. “Would it be okay if—I mean. Would you wait?” he asked, rushing to explain. “Just until I come home for the summer. I just think, maybe, it would be better if it was me telling them. And we could talk about it and stuff, you know?” 

Pride in him swelled in Harry’s chest. “You sure you’ll be able to do that?” he checked. “It might be a lot, face to face.” 

Amjad smiled slightly. “Maybe I might have to practice or something,” he mused aloud. “Not on Uncle Padfoot, since I don’t want him to be cross at Moony for keeping it from him, or something. They’ve enough to deal with being apart all the time. So maybe Uncle Wormtail, though that’d be almost too easy to really be helpful.” 

Harry stopped, feeling as though he’d suddenly been electrocuted. The ease that his brother said that was… He stared, unseeing—

… ropes tight around him, gravestone freezing against his back. 

‘Flesh— of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your m-master.’ 

Wailing filled Harry’s ears, Wormtail’s begging, groaning in pain—

… choking, staring in utter horror, as if in true disbelief that the end had dared come when he had spent all his pathetic life somehow escaping it—

—“Harry?” 

Harry blinked, reality sweeping back in. 

Amjad was looking at him in growing concern. 

Harry swallowed down bile. 

It was just like the time before, Harry reflected; he could recall it all. Had been here the whole time, but it hadn’t been him. 

Or… 

Had it? 

It was different this time, he realised apprehensively, because he almost couldn’t quite tell. 

Harry shook his head in an attempt to clear it, feeling strange and uncomfortably bereft. 

“I think you ought to just go straight to Mum.”

Chapter Text

“Well, Harry,” Sheila finally said, “I have to admit I think this is rather a good thing.” 

Harry just looked at her. “A good thing,” he repeated slowly. “I tell you that I think I’m well and truly on the way to being erased, that it’s getting that much harder to keep my mind my own, and you say it’s a good thing? Weren’t you listening at all to what I said happened yesterday?” 

Harry was struggling to keep himself in check. This was not a good day, and he’d not wanted to come in. Reid, at least, had apparently gotten enough from Harry a few days ago that he hadn’t had to endure her ransacking his brain today. She’d just asked him a couple of seemingly random questions and sent him on to Sheila. 

He’d gotten lucky there. But today was not a day that made him want to appreciate small victories. 

“I was,” Shelia confirmed, perfectly frank. “I’ve already ascertained based on our short time together that you are operating under several false assumptions regarding your situation. If you want us to be able to move forward to your benefit, you are likely going to need to put aside your preconceived worst-case scenarios.” 

Harry had the thought that his entire life was a series of worst-case scenarios, and said as much. Muttered it, really. 

Sheila sighed. “Let’s try something different,” she suggested patiently. “I’d like to see if perhaps I could talk to him—Harim, as you refer to him as.”  

“No,” Harry said, blunt. 

For one thing, he very much doubted that would work the way she thought it would. Things were… strange when Harim had any control, as evidenced twice now. But he had absolutely no intentions of a third occurrence happening any time soon. Or ever, he swiftly corrected mentally. 

There was, of course, no response from Harim. 

She fixed him with a look. “I believe it would help–”

“I don’t care,” Harry cut her off immediately, resolute. “I’m not risking that again. For my little brother, yeah, but not for the sake of- self-improvement, or whatever you think it's going to accomplish. Besides, he’s not even here right now anyway.” 

She’d been clearly prepared to retort as soon as he finished, but she paused at that. “How do you mean?” she asked, appearing genuinely stumped. “Based on your account I imagined it was becoming more difficult to maintain such a staunch separation—especially with regards to your emotions and bonds.” 

Harry’s expression darkened. First she was telling him to drop his concerns, as though they were the problem, and then in the next breath confirming they were all well founded? 

“He doesn’t want anything to do with me today, evidently.” 

Harry had taken one look at the calendar that morning and fallen into an understandably dark mood, as was the trend for years now. It wasn’t long after that he noticed Harim had made himself quite deliberately scarce. 

Her brows furrowed. “Today, specifically,” she probed. 

Today was May 2, 2005. Exactly seven years ago, Harry had ended the Second Wizarding War. But that didn’t really answer the obvious question she was asking, so instead he said, “This is the day I… died.” 

Sheila blinked at him. Harry saw the exact moment she realised he was completely serious, and the gravity sunk in. She sat up straighter, crossed her legs. “I think, Harry,” she said carefully, “that the best thing I can do to help you today is listen.” 

It would be a long time before Harry left that day. 

oOo

Uh huh, life’s like this 

The carpet was comfortable, Harry thought, fingers brushing minutely through the coloured wool. He was currently lying on Neville’s carpet, languid, eyes fixed on just one of the framed vinyl records hung high on the singer’s bedroom walls. 

Neville himself lay next to him, his hand lightly tapping along to the music streaming from his sound speakers. 

Chill out, whatchya yellin’ for?

Lay back, it's all been done before

And if, you could only let it be, you would see 

Merlin, but Harry was tired. He was tired of all of it—of being so anxious and guilty and uncomfortable all of the time. 

It was easier being here, wasting time, not having to deal with his own problems. 

Neville sighed audibly. “I’m never going to be anything, am I?” 

Harry turned his head to the side to look at the other man. He wasn’t looking at Harry, just kept staring at the ceiling. 

What he said hadn’t come from nowhere, of course. Harry’d had concerns for a while now. And, in hindsight, it couldn’t be entirely denied that part of the reason they’d gotten past the scandal with Zabini earlier that year relatively unscathed might’ve had a bit to do with the band’s recent decline in popularity. The numbers were getting harder to ignore, especially after the latest release. 

The recent marketing campaign direction really wasn’t helping matters, in Harry’s opinion. 

“You know, we used to be friends,” Neville said wistfully. “Me and the guys. They welcomed me right in, just after I’d finished Hogwarts. Said with me at the mic, they’d finally make it big.” 

Harry knew this, of course. He had to be aware of the group’s history before he’d signed on as publicist. Chris, Alfie, and Bradley were a few nobodies from Lincolnshire, who’d moved to London and been playing in pubs for roughly three years before Neville—fresh out of Hogwarts and looking to make himself known—responded to a poster they’d put up a few months prior about seeking a lead singer. 

Since then, the three had ridden on the coattails of his talent, as far as Harry saw it. It was a year or so before they’d been signed on with the ‘Magical’ sublabel of Sanctuary Records, swiftly receiving high praise by Kirley Duke and Myron Wagtail of the Weird Sisters as being the next big thing. 

And they were, for a time. The Catatonic Howlers still had a loyal audience, enough that papers like the Prophet had someone consistently assigned to Neville. Harry had been that someone at several points, which Harry was now aware had rankled Harim a bit—though not near enough to quit like Harry had up and done. 

“You already are somebody, you know,” Harry reminded Neville, matter-of-fact. “And you never needed them.” 

Neville just shook his head. “I’m just the lead singer of that one okayish band,” he corrected tonelessly. “Blaise was right.” 

Harry sat up. “If Zabini said it, that’s how you know it’s wrong,” he asserted. 

Neville rolled his eyes, not moving from his position. “He said that I’m going to be forgotten. I wasn’t talented enough to maintain what we had going, and I ought to be working on my backup plan for once we ran out of C grade hits. Isn’t that what’s happening now?” 

Harry’s hands were clenched in fists. He wanted to find Zabini and bash his face in, even all these weeks later. But instead, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When he spoke, he sounded collected. “What’s happening now, apparently, is that you’re self-fulfilling a shite prophecy. Yes, Alfie and the rest of them are arseholes who probably never cared about you past what your voice could offer them,” Harry admitted frankly. “And yeah, you fell in love with a selfish prick who didn’t want you to reach your full potential. But it’s all just baggage, and it’s holding you back. None of them at the label know what’s best for you, either, believe me,” he scoffed. “You have to be the one who knows best for you, mate.

“You’re talented, Neville. You could make it on your own. You just have to decide you want to try, and then go for it. Don’t let your so-called friends or your dickwad of an ex be the reason you miss the chance.” 

“You would sort of be out of a job,” Neville pointed out. “If you’re wrong about me.” 

Now it was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “I like this job because we’re mates,” he said. “I’d hardly want to work on behalf of some pompous arsehole who thinks he’s Merlin’s gift to wizard kind.” 

Neville cracked a smile. “I used to think you were like that,” he told Harry, thoughtful. “Now I reckon you’re probably the only person outside my family who gives a damn about me as, like, a person.” 

Harry laid back down beside him. 

He thought about the Neville Longbottom he’d grown up with. That man had been a gentle soul, fearful as a child but fiercely loyal and extraordinarily brave when he’d needed to be. 

This Neville here with him was not so different, he suspected. He didn’t want to be disloyal, and he let what people said get to him, but he had bravery in him. That had been what Harry was appealing to. 

“Say the word,” Harry told him. 

Neville was quiet, picking back up on his tapping along to the music. “Okay,” he finally said. “Tell me what we need to do, then.” 

And despite the storm this would mean, Harry smiled, even as it occurred to him how much easier it was to know what to do regarding someone else’s issues. 

He desperately wanted his life to be as easily fixable as Neville’s. A series of steps to take—people to talk to, press to manipulate, and potentially lawyers to contact. And then, for Neville, everything would be alright. 

Harry, though, had a lot more convoluted of a personal path. And he didn’t have anyone to ‘tell him what he needed to do.’

But, he privately realised, he had people who made the attempt to help him as best they could. 

Hermione barely knew him in this world, and she had still done what she could for him. And—regardless of the reason—Sheila was doing what she could, even despite his not making it easy. 

Most important, though, was the fact that they weren’t the only ones who tried. 

And it was maybe time he appreciated it. 

oOo 

“Oh, hi Harry.” 

Parvati stood on the threshold of Lavender’s flat, clearly surprised to find he’d been the one knocking later on that evening. But she didn’t look visibly upset at the sight of him. Lavender must not have verbally shredded him too harshly—or so he hoped, at least. 

“Hi, is Lav not here?” he asked. 

She pursed her lips. “I’m chopped liver then, am I?” she said, brow raised. 

Except then, before he had time to properly panic, she was bursting into laughter at his pained expression. 

“Oh Harry I’m just teasing,” she laughed. “Lavender did say you were a bit barmy these days. Come in.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying not to show the full force of his relief. He would have felt like a right bastard if she’d been serious. Especially since he hadn’t given her specifically much thought. 

She’d been his friend too. Harim’s. 

Whichever.

Merlin, he was tired. 

“Lavender's not in,” Parvati said when she’d reached the sitting room. “Something for Weekly.” 

Harry wasn’t paying attention, though, distracted by the moving boxes strewn about. “What’s all this for?” he asked curiously. 

Parvati smiled wide. “I’m finally moving in!” she said excitedly. “My lease is up on Thursday. Never thought I’d see the day, if I’m honest. I shouldn’t have renewed it even last time, but Lavender was still… well, nevermind all that now.” 

Harry hoped his confusion didn’t show on his face. 

Wow. They’re together, you nitwit, Harim’s voice echoed through his head, apparently too exasperated to keep silent as he had been. Honestly. You’re bothered I keep things from you? You barely pay attention! 

That… was fair, Harry thought, wincing even through his surprise. Small things clicked into place, like how Lavender had a standing dinner date with her that one time. And how there tended to be strands of long black hair on the sofa the times Harry had visited. And the two toothbrushes he always saw in the bathroom near Lav’s bedroom. 

Not to mention the picture of Parvati he remembered seeing in the kitchen. 

Wow was probably the correct assessment of Harry at that moment. It couldn’t have been more clear that he’d been a shite friend, and a selfish arsehole to top it off. 

“I’m really happy for you two,” Harry said sincerely, feeling sheepish. 

Parvati beamed even brighter, somehow. “Thanks, Harry. So, how come you haven’t been round the past few days? Lavender wouldn’t say… a lot, really.” 

Harry smiled wryly. “I’m sure she said enough to get the point across.” 

Parvati laughed, conceding the point. “True, but ‘he’s a complete knob’ doesn’t give me much actual information.” 

Harry shrugged. “I mean, that’s the gist of it, honestly. I was kind of a wanker the last time we talked. I actually came to apologise.” 

Parvati gave him a sympathetic look. “She should be back soon. I can clear out for a bit if you like?” 

Harry smiled gratefully. Parvati seemed like she was a good friend. Harry felt a pang of regret about his sort of writing her off. 

If he was honest, he’d assumed that Harim’s other friends weren’t worth knowing, if based only on the limited memory and minimal interaction he’d had with them. 

And he’d been incredibly unfair to Lavender, too. 

“I would appreciate that, thanks.” 

“No need to thank me. It’s in my best interest you two work things out. We miss you, you know,” she added gently. “And Pansy does too; I can tell.” 

With that, she left, giving him a quick peck on the cheek on the way out. If he wasn’t already aware they’d been a relatively close-knit group, the casualty of the gesture would have made it clear. 

It was really no wonder he’d felt so inexplicably lonely sometimes, he thought. 

Bloody Harim—just as attached to his mates as Harry was but unwilling to give an inch. 

In any case, Parvati had been right. It wasn’t twenty minutes later that the floo flared up and Lavender came through. She didn’t notice him immediately, heading straight to the kitchen and setting her purse on the island. 

“Hey,” he said. 

She startled, whirling around to face him. Her wand in her hand and pointed at him almost as fast as any Auror he’d seen. “Bloody hell!” 

Harry winced, putting his hands up. “Sorry! Parvati let me in, I swear.” 

Lavender narrowed her eyes. “Manipulating my girlfriend, who doesn’t know any better, into helping you ambush me.” She dropped her wand arm and put the other on her hip. “Not a good look.” 

Harry cringed a bit. “I- you’re right,” he admitted. “I wasn’t trying to…” he cut himself off, fumbling awkwardly. “I’m sorry. That’s, er, that’s all I came to do is say that, actually.” 

There was a short silence, and Lavender set her jaw. “That’s it?” she demanded. At his blank look, she let out a sharp, exasperated breath. “I’m gonna need a little more than your half-cocked, vague as hell apology, Harry. What are you even sorry for, huh?” 

Harry’s hands were stuffed into his pockets, chastised. “I meant that I’m sorry for taking advantage of your help and then not appreciating you as a friend,” he explained quietly, his eyes on Lavender’s carpet. “I’m sorry that I didn’t… that I kept myself at arms length and disregarded you when you were trying to be there for me all along. It’s not an excuse, but I want you to know that it wasn’t to do with you. Not truly. It was me. I’m still— it’s still hard for me to believe sometimes that this is my real life and not some sort of dream that I’ll wake from one of these days… and because of that it was hard to accept that it couldn't all just stay as simple as I ne- wanted it to be. The longer I go on the more things blur, and I… it’s difficult to put into words, even in my own head.” At that, he gave something of a bitter laugh. “Anyway, I was an arsehole to you. You are my friend. Or, or I mean, you were, to me. Before I bollocksed it up by acting how I did. I understand if you wouldn’t want to be, anymore,” he finished lamely, feeling very small. 

When he looked up, expecting Lavender to be sneering at him, he found the opposite. She looked weary with relief, of all things. 

Harry’s heart lifted.

“I missed you, you great prat,” she mumbled. And next he knew, she had her arms around his waist. She looked uncertain when she pulled away, but then relaxed at the sight of his smile. 

A minute later, she sat down on the sofa, and Harry felt warm at how much lighter she seemed compared to when she’d first come in. 

He felt lighter, too. 

“So did you get on with Granger?” she asked after a moment, trying to appear unbothered. 

Harry nodded carefully. “I did. She believed me, and because of her I’m… getting some help.” 

Lavender grimaced a bit, and Harry felt another twinge of guilt. But she encouraged him to go on just the same. So Harry sat down, and he told her about the Unspeakables, and some of what he’d been doing for them in exchange for his time with Sheila. 

“I don’t know how much good it’s actually doing,” he admitted afterwards. “But yesterday… I feel like maybe the more she understands the more we can see eye-to-eye, or something. It’s just— I hate drugging up everything from my past.” 

“But you need to,” Lavender said, understanding.

“But I need to,” Harry confirmed tiredly. “Sheila says it’ll get easier the more I do it.” 

“Well,” Lavender said brightly, gifting him the opportunity to move away from his melancholy, “at least since you’ve someone else to be your faux-therapist now, I don’t have to anymore. So let’s talk about what else you’ve been doing. Catch me up.” 

“It’s not been that long, Lav,” Harry reminded her, nevermind how long it felt when he thought it all over. 

“Oh but certainly other things have happened. You’ve made new friends with your former best friend, for one.” She said that bit a touch too brightly, but Harry pretended not to notice, for both their sakes. “And things better have progressed with Draco, else that’s just sad, Harry.” 

Harry couldn’t help his blush, and Lavender made a delighted sound. 

“Thank Merlin,” she said exaggeratedly, learning foeward on the armrest. “Tell me everything.” 

“Erm,” he started. “I mean, we’ve had coffee, and I- I invited him and his friends out with Neville and I.” 

“I can’t believe I missed that,” Lavender pouted, though her eyes were sly. “Surely you know you’ll have to take your real friends out now.” 

Harry briefly pictured himself taking Draco clubbing with Lavender, Parvati, and Pansy Parkinson, and cringed. He was certain that could not go well for him. “We’ll see,” he hedged, and Lavender snorted, clearly seeing straight through him. 

“What else then,” she pressed, making a go-on gesture with her arm. 

“Nothing much,” he answered truthfully. He’d seen the blond’s place of work, and they’d had that moment at Hogwarts—but that felt too private to gossip about, really. Not to mention wrapped in things he’d rather not discuss. He gave her something else instead, taking the opportunity to seek friendly advice. “I was… considering inviting him to Hermione’s wedding, actually. She said it came with a plus-one, but I don’t know if that’s too… you don’t really invite your mates as a wedding date, I mean.” 

Lavender blinked. “Okay, first of all, you didn’t tell me she invited you to her wedding,” she exclaimed. “When is it?!” 

“Sunday.” 

Part of Harry still didn’t believe he’d be watching Hermione get married just days from now. It had been a long time since he’d imagined that was something he’d ever actually witness, nevermind that this was an entirely different groom. And, Godric, but Ron was going to be at the wedding, being Fred’s brother and all. It was just too strange to think on for very long. 

“Fine, I guess we’ll just move on from that,” Lavender said with a small shake of her head, “but secondly: are we honestly still pretending you don’t want to date him?” 

And that was one of those areas Harry was not ready to address head on. 

It was all too tied up in Harim and everything else, somehow; Harry never quite knew what to feel or what was acceptable to feel, really. 

And he hated how much that sounded like an excuse, even to himself. 

Lavender must have read enough in his expression, because she sighed heavily. “Merlin, Harry. Well, I say you had better invite him, anyway. There’s not many opportunities you’ll get to do something like this. Maybe the setting will help you finally work out how you feel, or something.” 

It was clear that’s what she was hoping for. But privately, Harry thought that might be what he was afraid of. 

Chapter Text

Harry had only been to two weddings in his life, which could be considered quite tragic when one thought on the amount of funerals he’d been to. The first wedding had been Bill and Fleur’s, back when he was seventeen and gearing to go on the run. The second had been a year or so post-war, when Cormac McLaggen and Katie Bell, of all people, had invited him for some bizarre reason he hadn’t tried to parse at the time. Both weddings had been somewhat understated and private—the first due to necessary safety precautions and the second most likely a consequence of slow economic erosion. 

Hermione and Fred’s wedding, in contrast, looked extravagant enough to be a set from some romantic film. The beautiful venue was outdoors, the spring-green grass beneath his chair giving way to a sandy beach in the not-so-far distance. The sound of ocean waves provided a light, comforting backdrop to the soft melody flowing from the grand piano. The sun had decided to shine uncharacteristically bright; the array of delicate flowers atop the arch were blooming wide. 

It was the kind of setting that spoke to a measure of wealth, and Harry thought perhaps Hermione’s parents had put in substantially as well. 

Harry had never met Joseph and Rhonda Granger before today, which seemed strange when Harry thought deeply about it. Now, Rhonda sat in the closest chair to the arch, tears already flowing freely as Victoire released pastel pink petals onto the pebble-hedged pathway. Once she reached the end, she dropped the pretty basket to the side and went off to sit on Fleur’s lap. 

The piano music shifted, then, swelling exquisitely as Hermione came into view. She was resplendent in white, her steps sure and graceful, her arm tucked into her father’s. Harry was close enough to the front to see the way the groom released a shuddering, awed breath, the emotion in Fred’s face saying that he was getting everything he ever wanted. 

Unable to help it, Harry’s thoughts turned to the man next to him. 

Despite what Lavender had insisted, Draco hadn’t seemed to think anything special of Harry’s invitation. Or, if he had, Harry couldn’t be sure. When Harry had finally managed to choke out the desire for Draco to accompany him, the blond had been agreeable, maybe even pleased, but that could’ve meant anything, surely. Really, Harry had thought he’d looked amused. Harry hadn’t known if that was a good thing, but he had since decided it was, because at least Draco would be there. 

Now, standing inches apart and witnessing the beginning of a marriage, Harry couldn’t stop himself picturing his own wedding. 

In his mind’s eye, there was no bride in a white dress moving angelically toward him. There would be no bride at Harry’s wedding at all—only Draco and him. 

It didn’t feel like imagery he’d just created, though. It felt old, well-worn, and something just shy of brittle. It was how Harry knew that it was Harim who’d imagined that future, long before Harry had ever conceived of it on his own. 

It would have taken a moment, a single second to give in, and Harry would have reached out and taken Draco’s hand into his own. Instead, Harry gained necessary control of himself just in time, and kept both his stubborn hands at his sides. 

In the next minute, Hermione reached the arch, and her father gently pressed her hand into Fred’s. 

As one, the crowd was seated, a hush falling. The speaker addressed them all jovially, welcoming them while Hermione and Fred stood facing each other, hands intertwined. 

Harry was struck with joy for them both. 

Hermione, when it was time, didn’t look away from Fred once as she spoke. “There are many in attendance—well, actually probably everyone, who assume that Fred proposed to me, oh, a handful of months ago. Probably somewhere picturesque, flowers in the distance and what have you. Or, those who know Fred a bit better, you think he created some mad thing that perhaps blew up, or some other such nonsense, to make the moment extra memorable,” she went on with a watery laugh. “But, in fact, Fred first proposed to me when I was a little over thirteen. And he did it in a beaten-up Ford Angelina that could fly. Yes, Georgey, he stole the flying car without you, I’m so sorry.” She tossed the words over Fred’s shoulder, and George just grinned more broadly from his best man’s position. “I’m sorry to Molly Weasley as well, though I’m sure you already knew all about it.” 

Molly, on the opposite side of the aisle from Hermione’s mother, looked on with her own tearful smile as the audience chuckled. 

Hermione went on, tightening her hands around Fred’s. “I remember every second of that spontaneous flight. My Hermione, you said, would you want to be my wife, someday? I thought—at first I thought you were kidding, of course. Being thirteen and all, it should have been preposterous. But all it took was one look over at you, and I knew. And I thought…” Hermione cuts off, choked up. But she gives a grin and goes on. “I thought Wow. That’s going to be real. It wasn’t even a question. And I just want you to know, I want everyone to know that I knew right then: we’d be here someday. And I’m… there aren’t words, for how happy I am—we made it here, finally.” 

And a few minutes later, after Fred made it through his own heartfelt vows, their sweet, sealing kiss was the very portrait of finally. 

oOo

Fred and Hermione danced slowly, wrapped up entirely in each other as Christina Aguilera crooned for a love to keep her safe and warm. 

Harry watched from one of many mostly-empty round tables. Draco had temporarily abandoned him to make friends with the abundance of strangers that Harry had subjected him to. 

It wasn’t that it bothered Harry. He was sure there would be plenty of time to spend together without attaching himself to Draco’s hip for the whole reception. Plus, this was not a day to indulge a petty need for attention from his maybe-hopeless crush. If it could even be described so trivially. 

Someone pulled out the chair to Harry’s left a bit too suddenly, and he jumped before he got a look at the table’s new occupant. Then Harry sat up straight. 

This time, he was completely sober and, more importantly, not so overwhelmed by any number of things. It was enough to note the subtle differences he’d missed the first couple of times. The small earring in the left ear; the sort of longer hair he hadn’t seen in years. 

Ron raised an eyebrow, looking a lot more like Charlie than he ever had. “Invited by the bride,” he said. “Guess you were serious about turning over a new leaf.” 

“You should have believed me.” 

Ron just shrugged, unapologetic. “Why aren’t you pretending to have fun?”

“Why aren’t you? I’m not the brother of the groom.” 

“The groom has four other people to handle all that, and a sister besides. Can’t say I’m much in the mood. What’s your excuse?” 

Harry didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure why, really. He could probably go mingle like Draco was doing, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to kick himself for being disappointed that Draco didn’t see this like a date. And kick himself doubly for having the nerve to be down at Hermione’s wedding.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” suggested Ron. 

“You go first,” Harry countered immediately. 

At that, the redhead bursted out laughing. “Damn, Slytherin’s are always the same.” 

Harry pursed his lips. “Whatever.” 

“Fine,” Ron relented. “I don’t really have a sob story. I was just trying to trick you into talking.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I used to lie for a living,” he found himself saying. “You’ll have to do better than that.” 

Ron abruptly laughed again, the pretense falling off. “I’m just jealous of all of you,” he admitted with remarkable ease. 

“What?” Harry said, dumbfounded. There was nothing about Harry to be jealous of, especially not now he was just an average man. 

“The ones who have it figured out,” said Ron, which was only more confusing. 

“You think I have it figured out?” Harry asked, so incredulous that he proceeded to blurt out the truth. “My life is a mess.” 

“Not your life,” Ron dismissed. “No one has that figured out. I’m talking about love. My family—almost all of them—have their person. And so do you, if we’re judging by the glare I’ve been feeling on the back of my neck for the past five minutes. But I don’t. I’m just Ron, waiting around.” 

Harry’s eyes had darted over Ron’s shoulder as soon he’d said that, but all he saw was Draco chatting animatedly to a girl Harry didn’t know. He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” 

“I think it is, mate,” Ron returned easily. “I think you can complicate it all you want, but you know when you have the one. Take it from my new sister-in-law. Thirteen; now that’s mad.” 

There was so much to say to that, that Harry found he couldn’t say anything. He studied his hands. 

A couple minutes of companionable silence had gone by before Harry asked, “Do you think we could ever have been friends? You and I, I mean—if I’d been a gryff. Think we might’ve been close?” Are you still you? is what he’s asked, even if Ron couldn’t know that. 

For a disheartening moment, Ron’s face scrunched up like he was going to make a joke of it. But then he met Harry's eyes, and must’ve seen something Harry hadn’t intended. Ron, it seemed, had retained his natural intuition for certain things. Harry could feel the exact moment he processed that the question was actually important. 

And, even though he must not’ve had the slightest idea why, his voice was completely sincere when he said, “I don’t know, Potter. Maybe, I think. But what-if’s are useless in my book. You have to make the best of what you’ve got.” 

“Would you be willing to be, then?” Harry risked. “Friends?” 

“As long as it’s not the type of friends you are with blondie.” 

Harry cringed automatically in disgust, and then cringed more intensely at Ron’s triumphant look. 

“Sorry to interrupt all the fun,” a voice interjected, not sounding sorry in the least. Harry looked up at George, who was wearing a jovial grin. “Bride told me to come over and tell you—well, order you more like. Says you need to ask your boy to dance. She’s got a special song lined up or something. I don’t know; best not to argue with Hermione, and definitely not today.” 

Harry couldn’t deny the logic to that. So, bidding goodbye to the two Weasley brothers, he stood and started towards Draco. 

Dread and excitement warred within him, but the latter was winning out. 

A brief memory flashed before his eyes, then, only a second but feeling much longer. 

—Nineteen looked good on Draco. So good. 

Harry was drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn’t stop himself if he’d wanted to. He didn’t want to, though. Not after he went through all the trouble of combing every one of the blond’s favourite haunts for where he’d be spending his birthday. Now Harry wanted to dance with the birthday boy, if only once. 

It’d been so long since Draco did anything like hold him—and that wasn’t even a good memory. He couldn’t  waste the opportunity to replace it. Another wasn’t likely to be forthcoming. 

So he made his way through the throng of bodies that swayed to a hip-hop singer’s smooth tones. As soon as grey eyes locked on his, he was confident there wouldn’t be a fight. 

He was hoping for something much more pleasant. 

“Dance with me,” he said when he was close enough to be heard. 

He wasn’t expecting to get the response he wanted, not at first. But the hesitation—the lack of immediate dismissal, that was what he needed. 

“You’ll only regret this, and so will I.” Draco’s words clearly fell short of talking himself out of it. 

It wasn’t a no, and that was more than enough. 

“Do it anyway. It’s okay with me if it hurts in the morning. Do it anyway.” Harry repeated, then swallowed. “I’ll even say please.”—

The second ended, the memory halting abruptly, and Harry was completely aware that that was Harim’s blessing, unexpected though it was. He was even more desperate than Harry, it felt like. 

The people Draco had been talking to had found reason to make themselves scarce by the time Harry crossed the floor, for which he was immensely grateful. 

Harry cleared his throat, holding his hand out and praying it wasn’t shaking. “Dance with me?” 

A grin began on the edges of Draco’s lips, and turned into a full blown smile after Harry nervously added, “I’ll even say please.” 

Draco took his hand. 

They didn’t speak as Draco led him to the floor, far enough off centre to not make a nuisance of themselves as guests. 

And then, just as Draco had put his hands in place—which was rather an embarrassingly euphoric sensation for Harry—the music shifted. 

Harry had forgotten about Hermione’s mysterious song. 

But Draco didn’t falter. 

It made it remarkably easy for Harry to lose himself. 

It felt like a dream, Harry thought, the way they danced. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Harry was amazed at his own ability. He was keeping up with the other man perfectly, their movements flaring and syncing dramatically, like consummate professionals. He’d been trained—they both had been. 

But that wasn’t important just then. 

I can barely recall 

But it’s all coming back to me now 

And, for Harry, it was. 

Every movement of his body felt punctuated with memory, a million colliding memories of the man in his arms. Past, present, and future had never felt so tangled. And in every single one of those moments, Draco was beautiful. Magnificent. 

—his body, bare back and tattooed arms on display, blond hair fanned out across Harry’s pillow, was so stunning Harry’s heart nearly seized in his chest upon waking—

—his eyes hardened like glaciers, as unforgiving as the arctic sea, and somehow still exquisite—

—the feigned disinterest was cutting. Harry wished he could ignore him back. But instead he felt distracted, anxious, and furious. Draco’s cheekbones were brought into high relief as he turned—

—long, nimble fingers combed gently through Harry’s hair, and almost nothing calmed him so—

In the present, Draco was spinning him flawlessly, and Harry followed and returned without effort. It was as simple and elaborate as breathing, this dance. 

Harry never wanted it to end. 

Which meant, of course, that it had to. 

The music slowed considerably, gentling and forming to encompass the softer words. 

If you forgive me all this… 

If I forgive you all that… 

Harry doesn’t try to stop the thought. That they will kiss, right there. That he will finally know what it’s like to kiss Draco Malfoy; not from a memory, but real. 

He’s almost overcome with the explosive agony of wanting. It feels like time has frozen with the force of it. He wants to kiss Draco more than he believes he has ever wanted anything, in either of his lives. Such a thing seems impossible, but it’s there. Undeniable. Breathtaking. 

He thinks it will happen. 

The song bleeds out with a final note, a whispered if we hanging in the air. And still, he thinks it will happen. 

But an even softer whisper breaks through the desperate haze. It was so quiet it could hardly be called one, instead closer to the sound one makes merely by pressing their lips together. 

But it might as well have been a bomb for Harry. Because the single, pleading word was Draco’s. 

“Stop.” 

Harry opened his eyes, unable or unwilling to recall when they had fallen shut, to see the shocking pain in Draco’s expression. 

No, Harry thought. He had made an unforgivable mistake. 

As though to prove it, Draco choked out, “I can’t.” And Harry was unable to move, to even respond, before he rushed away, leaving Harry standing in the middle of the floor, alone. 

Chapter Text

Two days earlier Harry had been in Sheila’s office, his skull practically splitting open. 

“I feel the need to apologise for the severity of my colleagues’ ambition,” she’d said, gently sympathetic. “Reid, in particular, has never been one to delay for the sake of others’ comfort.” 

Harry had shaken his head. 

Reid hadn’t done much. Her examinations of his mind had thus far been conducted with clinical professionalism, and they hadn't been invasive on a personal level. The Unspeakables had proven that they didn’t much care for Harry’s life and experiences beyond the necessity for relative data acquisition. In fact, when Reid had stumbled upon something of purely sentimental value, she had avoided it. 

The only person in the Department of Mysteries who bothered with Harry’s personal life was Sheila. 

But his mind… it was too disasterly a place with Harim in it. Every time Reid went in, Harim locked down even harder. Gone, inaccessible. 

It made it hurt. 

Harry was sure it suited Reid just fine. She didn’t need anything from Harim’s lifetime, and so the black hole where Harim typically dwelled had been unlikely to register with her. 

But the resulting pain from legilimency lingered without anyone’s notice. 

He had tried to describe this to Sheila, and an extrospective look had come over her face. 

“I think,” she’d began, “the source of the pain—the headaches and nausea you feel, is an almost direct result of your intense dislike for mind magicks when compared to your counterpart.” 

Harry had furrowed his brows, and she’d taken this as an invitation to go on. “You’ve had unpleasant experiences with both legilimency and occlumency in the past, yes? Therefore, you’ve cultivated a distaste with regards to both forms of mind magick—and likely maintain fundamental misunderstandings of how each of them work. Harim, however, seems to have a very different opinion. I’d wager he was trained earlier, and with significantly better effectiveness. If his staggering talent is anything to go by, at least.” 

“Staggering talent,” Harry had repeated, too flat to be a proper request for clarification. 

She’d merely ignored his tone. “Not that there is a precedent to go by, but I’d imagine anyone who proves capable of performing occlumency against a second occupant of their very own mind would be considered talented indeed.” 

Harry had given a slow blink. “He’s occluding against me.” It had been a revelation accompanied by almost no shock. Of course that’s what the prat had been doing! How many mental walls had Harry tried and failed to construct against Snape, back in sixth year? And yet Harim could throw a wall up between himself and Harry, shoving him out like it was nothing, retreating behind it like it was an iron shield. Vanished, Harry had assumed. 

What other explanation could there have been? 

“With great efficiency, as well,” she had confirmed. “Basing off your own accounts, it may even be that some part of Harim is actually occluding relatively constantly, and so experiences a burnout when someone external is actively using legilimency.” 

Constant? Harry had mentally questioned. “But he talks to me sometimes,” Harry’d then pointed out. “When he’s there, I can tell.” 

“Hm, indeed. But,” she’d countered, “he has deliberately withheld the bulk of his memory base from you, has he not? He has even offered some to you at will. That speaks to complicated mind magick, keeping oneself confined to a certain amount of mindspace, if you will.” 

“He’s not confined,” Harry had scoffed automatically. “He’s certainly been through my memories, remember? Thinks they’re all horrible and avoids…” Harry’d trailed off, locking eyes with Sheila as it had occurred to him. “That has something to do with all of this, too, doesn’t it? This entire situation. He vanishes—er, occludes more forcefully when I think about my past… everything. The bad stuff, I mean.” 

Sheila had nodded, following Harry’s train of thought. “It’s a very real possibility that, although he has dressed it for you as a desire to make your life difficult in revenge, he may actually be exercising a defense mechanism against your pain—potentially even inadvertently.” 

Harry hadn’t been sure how to take any of that in, but Sheila hadn’t appeared concerned by his distress. She’d simply plowed on, theorising as only she could. 

“Consider Harim. One has to wonder if he, however unintendedly, assumes he lacks the coping skills to abide your particular traumas. So perhaps he occludes not only to keep his memories in his sole possession, but so that he can avoid confronting yours any further than he has already. All the while telling himself his change in tactic is to spite you… It’s speculation, of course this is all speculation, but it is undoubtedly sensical.” 

It hadn’t fit together, though. Harry had found he couldn’t process it, not with such a glaring detraction. “But the first time Harim shut me all the way out, completely and deliberately, it was because of Draco. And I wasn’t the one in love with him for a decade.” 

Sheila had cocked her head to the side, calculating. “Tell me, Harry, what was the nature of your original relationship with Draco Malfoy,” she’d asked bluntly, “in your past life?” 

Harry had sucked in a sharp breath. 

Sheila had looked satisfied. “Just as you struggle with the disparity between your own feelings and Harim’s, it is likely the same on his end. He loves Draco deeply —perhaps you have even succumbed to the strength of it, in a way. But if, in another life, your feelings with regards to Mr. Malfoy were less than pleasant…” 

“It would be messing with Harim’s head too,” Harry had finished in amazement. “He’s trying to block that off. He doesn’t want to think badly of Draco.” 

“You may want to do something about that,” she suggested. 

But Harry had not done that. 

What need was there, he’d concluded far too quickly, when Draco wasn’t Malfoy anymore, anyway. When Draco was now a good man, was someone he could gladly call his friend.  

The worst of it, really, was that Harry had honestly wanted to believe—ridiculously—that what he felt for Draco was friendship. Or, at the very least, that the affection he felt for Draco was not at all a product of Harim’s. 

Which, he understood now, as he stood in his tux, abandoned in the centre of the floor at Hermione’s wedding, was outrageously naive. 

How easily he had just gotten caught up in it, he marveled—the seemingly bottomless well of love for Draco that truly could only have come from over a decade of wanting. The sheer magnitude was too powerful; it swept him away without producing even a single dissenting thought from him. 

And it had been doing so for weeks. Months, even. Even this very second, as he attempted this shoddily detached introspection, he could feel it—the devastation. Devastation at a degree that was too intense to be warranted. 

For all Harim’s efforts—and perhaps Harry’s own efforts—emotion was the one factor that could not be entirely smothered. Even when everything else seemed to separate adequately, Harim’s emotions bled through. They always had, from the very second Harry’d woken up in this world where Draco Malfoy was the love of his life. 

And perhaps it was that some small part of Harry, the part that had so secretly wanted that type of all consuming, awe-inspiring love story, had not put up enough of a fight. 

Even when it was laid out for him, point blank, by the only person that could possibly be called a professional in this, he’d swept it under the rug. Had refused, with the sheer power of the subconscious, to even question why he, Harry, loved Draco. 

He was relieved, admittedly, that questioning it now did produce answers. 

But they were nonetheless the sort of answers that came from a budding relationship—the almost innocent angst of will-they-won’t-they that would hardly have registered, wrapped as it was inside the temperamental ocean that was Harim’s love. 

Answers like how beautiful Draco was, especially when he smiled, and the calming sound of his voice. Like his selflessness when it came to his sister and his dearest friends. Like the way he’d get so excited about his job, and how he would encourage Harry to do what made him happy. Like his honesty, his self-confidence, his stunning capacity for forgiveness. 

These were things Harry had been given the opportunity to have seen and learned and recognised on his own, in only the relatively short time since his life had been so thoroughly rewritten. 

But none of this changed the fact that he had not confronted it—the things only Harry knew was between them. The things that this version of Draco never did, and so could not be held accountable for, but that Harry would never be able to forget, nonetheless. Draco—no, Malfoy was forgiven. He had been for a very long time, even if Harry had never had the chance to tell him. But it was a darkness that he’d spent too long pretending didn’t exist. 

The darkness didn’t begin or end with Draco, but he was a part of it. And that would always be true. It was high time Harry began acknowledging it. 

And so he knew that this moment, this devastation, could not be allowed to go to waste. 

He would not walk off this floor, accepting his losses, to go privately lick his wounds and hope that tomorrow they could act like it hadn’t happened. 

Harry had to be better than that. 

So he took a deep fortifying breath, ignoring all the eyes he could feel looking on sympathetically, and followed after Draco. 

With what Harry recognised as no small amount of irony, he found the blond in the restroom—standing in front of the mirror, his back to Harry. His black jacket was discarded on the ground, his dress shirt a bit loose. When they locked gazes in the mirror, Harry was hit with such a wave of deja vu, it was almost unsettling. 

For a moment, all he could see was a sixteen year old boy. One that was crying. Anxious. Terribly afraid and turning to lash out with the brand of astounding violence he’d been raised on. 

And Harry remembered how it felt to be there, at that moment in time—helplessly, righteously angry and so very stupid. 

Harry was not innocent of affecting pain. He was not immune to making mistakes. 

Accident or no, that would have been murder, had he not been ludicrously lucky. 

In the present, Harry was newly certain that Sheila had been right, because the presence almost constantly in his mind was so suddenly and thoroughly absent that Harry could barely feel a wisp of him. Harry was, in that moment, no one but himself. 

And looking at Draco, he still felt love. Not thoughtless, not maddening, but soft. Though still plenty strong enough that his double vision brought a haunting sadness he had no words to properly describe. 

But he blinked it determinedly away, and took a step forward. 

“Hi.” 

Draco turned to face him, releasing a small breath. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

“No,” Harry said. “Don’t—don’t be. That was unfair of me.” 

Draco shook his head. “It wasn’t,” he whispered. “It wasn’t. I wanted—I just don’t know how,” he let out a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying any of this right.” 

Harry crossed the space between them in three strides; he was close enough to take Draco’s hands, but he didn’t. Instead he spoke, low and comforting. “You don’t owe me anything, Draco. We talked about it, even. We decided we needed to know each other, as who we are now. And then I just tossed it out the window, just now. It was unfair.” 

“I left you stranded, like an overdramatic preteen.” 

Harry barked a laugh, unable to stop it. “It’s okay,” he promised. His smile faded a bit, but he forced the next words out without the hitch that threatened. “I forgive you.” 

Draco’s eyes sharpened, and Harry was filled with the disconcerting notion that Draco could see right through him. That the blond somehow, inconceivably, would have a sense what those words meant to Harry. 

But he couldn’t possibly. 

His next words undermined Harry’s certainty. 

“Sometimes, you look at me with this… something. And I can’t help thinking who is this man? I couldn’t explain it, but it’s there, right behind your eyes.” 

Harry dropped his gaze. Slowly, infinitely careful, Harry took Draco’s left hand. Then, before his mind could catch up, he gently began to lift the sleeve of Draco’s shirt, baring his forearm to the space between them. 

Some part of him was sure that he would have opened his mouth right then, would have spoke the truth into the air, would have risked it. 

But what he found when he lifted the sleeve derailed him. 

He’d not forgotten about Draco’s tattoos. The presence of this one alone did not surprise him. 

It spiraled jaggedly around his wrist, the width of a wire, and upwards, wrapping again and again around his arm until it disappeared into his sleeve at the crease of his elbow. 

But Harry could now see what the dark, inked lines concealed. The scarring would have almost blended in perfectly, had it not been ever so slightly raised. 

Thoughtlessly, in his confusion, he traced a small part of it with his thumb. 

“I can’t remember the last time you willingly touched that,” Draco whispered. 

What is this? Who did this? What happened to you? Harry wanted to ask all at once, so desperately. Instead he said, “I hate knowing you were hurt.” 

It was honest. Even if he didn’t know anything more than that. 

“I wouldn’t change it,” Draco admitted quietly. “If anything, they remind me I’m freer than I ever would have been.” 

Harry looked up, hoping the question in his eyes would be interpreted the way he hoped—and not as total ignorance. 

“You never asked why I had it tattooed. Why I’d make it stand out more,” Draco answered what he thought unspoken. “So I’m telling you now. My father wanted me to look at the scars and think horrible things. How I had no money, no status, no—no children in my future. But instead I made these my own. Now they remind me that who I am, I chose to be. That despite what he took from me, I have choices that I never would have had.” 

Harry couldn’t breathe for a moment. All he could picture was Draco on his knees before Lucius, cut off, sterilised, his arms leaking streams of blood onto pristine flooring. 

He was going to be sick. 

“He never deserved you as a son.” 

Draco looked at him warmly. “I know,” he said simply. “Besides, he got what he deserved, if Aunt Bella’s graphic account of things is anything to go by.” 

Harry dropped his hand. “Bellatrix got revenge for you?” 

Draco looked at him, surely unimpressed by his reaction. “Hardly. She got revenge for the potential blood heirs she lost. She punished him for daring to think his children were his own pawns instead of hers.” 

“You’re not her pawn,” Harry hissed, familiar hatred rushing through him with such ferocity he felt almost lightheaded. 

Draco’s eyes widened. “Every legitimate Black left alive is her pawn, Harry. She’s the Matriarch. If my father had disowned instead of just disinheriting me, she’d have murdered him,” he said, like it was a gentle reminder instead of an abhorrence. “She’d have murdered him anyway, if Ophelia wasn’t there to carry on the blood.” 

And that was it. Harry had imagined that perhaps people could be fundamentally different here. In some ways, at least. But he was a fool to ever extend such a thing to the likes of Bellatrix. She was clearly just as much a psychopath here as she was there. Nice clothes and proper hygiene did not sanity make. 

Harry had, like with everyone else, given her a second chance at life. Unintended, but a consequence of his actions nonetheless. If she had proven herself an even somewhat acceptable person, he might’ve found the strength to leave her be. But here was the proof she was certainly not. And that was all he needed. 

“Were it up to you,” Harry said with lethal calm, “would you want her gone?” 

Draco searched his eyes, his own grey ones widening at what he must have found. 

“Are you… are you seriously asking me if I want you to murder my aunt?” 

Harry just looked at him, waiting patiently for an answer. 

As far as Harry was concerned, Bellatrix was already dead. She should not still be capable of hurting or abusing anyone. It was an affront—one that was his fault, one that he should rectify. Sure, maybe he wouldn’t do it himself, but if given the slightest go-ahead, he’d do anything necessary to make it happen. Which was almost as good as, according to some. 

Draco’s horrified words cut through the silence, and his thoughts. “What did she do to you?” 

There was an answer to that, one that a few minutes ago, he’d thought himself prepared to give. But now—it was the way Draco said the words that made Harry pause. He had spoken as though that was something he’d been waiting to ask for some time, not something that had only just come to mind and been blurted out. 

It was like he could no longer contain the question. No longer stomach it. 

On one condition. 

Anything. 

You’re to tell me what happened to you just now, someday. Not right now; not before you’re capable. But at some point I’ll need to understand, alright? 

Harry very nearly gasped with the terrible clarity. 

This. 

This was how Draco had managed to let him back in. Because his aunt, who had frightened Harry into delirium right before his eyes, was a psychopath in this world as well. It was why he hadn’t been anything like insistent, or even visibly curious where Harry would notice. He thought… 

“You think she did something to me,” Harry breathed his understanding. “You think I treated you like I did… because she did something to me.” 

Something cracked in Draco’s face at the words, so deep that Harry very nearly heard it as well as saw it. 

“But she didn’t, did she? Oh,” Draco whispered, his eyes shining. “She had… she had nothing to do with it. It was all you. It was always just you.”

Harry tried to speak, but no words would come. His throat closed, a damnable heat building behind his eyes. 

“Draco…” 

But Draco had turned away from him, allowing long moments to stretch on before he spoke again. “I need some time with this,” he said, his voice now flat, detached. 

But Harry couldn’t just walk out. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to make it better, not worse. 

“Draco please,” he begged, ready to go to his knees. “I never lied. I swear I didn’t try to—it wasn’t some kind of trick. I didn’t even know that that was what you assumed until just now. There is a reason for Bellatrix, and I will tell you. If you want to know, I’ll tell you everything right now. Just please—please don’t think this was a game.” 

He couldn’t allow Draco to think that it had all been just another game, not when Harry had been falling in love for the first real time. Not when this was so infinitely special. He told himself he wouldn’t care if Draco thought he was insane, or wanted him on truth serum, or whatever he would think, just as long as he didn’t think it was a game.

A hand touched his chin, lifting Harry’s eyes back up. Poignant grey eyes bored into his while Harry held his breath. 

And finally, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Harry asked, letting every ounce of hope he felt bleed into the one word. 

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked determined. “Okay, I believe you. Okay, I won’t take my willful naivety out on you, now. Whatever my original reasons for allowing you to prove it, you do seem to have changed. I won’t just throw that away.” 

Harry very nearly slumped with relief. 

“But,” Draco annunciated, slamming the tension right back into Harry’s body. “I do expect you to tell me about Bella. Not right this very minute, because we’ve been in here for ages and people probably assume we are doing something inappropriate—” Harry felt all the blood rush to his face and neck at that, and Draco looked minorly derailed. “Merlin, what, are you shy now?” 

Harry opened his mouth to object, but Draco shook his head. 

“Nevermind that, as I was saying: you’ll tell me. And soon. Understand?” 

“Yes.” It was essentially what he’d planned to do, anyway, he told himself. 

He could only pray he’d not lose the second chance Draco had given him over the truth. 

oOo 

That night, Harry returned to his flat. He sat on his plush lounge chair, staring off into the middle distance for a long while, before he stood and exited through the floo. 

Everything he saw was somewhat familiar now; he didn’t have trouble finding his way in the dim light. Dhadhi’s portrait was asleep, snoring softly as Harry imagined her flesh-and-blood counterpart was at that moment, as well. 

He made his way up the left staircase quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping manor, and slipped into the massive ancestral library he had only recently learned was there, evidently seeing little use. 

A faint glow lit the cavernous space as soon as he’d stepped inside, greeting him with acceptable reading conditions. Perhaps it knew what he was here to learn; everything before him was a part of his inheritance, after all. 

The library taught him many things that night; they were things he ought to have already made it his business to know, long before then. 

Like how Bellatrix Black, at the ripe age of twenty nine, had ruthlessly terminated her betrothal contract to one Rodolphus Lestrange, by allegedly—and in this case allegedly meant certainly— murdering her father, Cygnus Black—the then Head of House Black—and her mother, Druella, in their sleep. 

Bellatix’s younger sister, Narcissa, had already been married off, and her other sister, Andromeda, had been disowned by Cygnus as well as was married to a muggle. Neither of them stood to inherit anything. 

Bellatrix’s next closest male relative, Sirius Black, had at that point been long disowned—this by his late father, Orion Black, whom was believed to have likely been assassinated by his cousin Cygnus, who stood to gain the title of Head—unaware, of course, that he would maintain it for only a handful of years. A footnote indicated that Orion’s wife, Walburga, was said to have died of heartbreak. 

Orion and Walburga’s single remaining legitimate son, Regulus—incidentally the only one of Bellatrix’s relatives that might have then contended for the title—had been reported missing by his elder brother only three days following the murder of his aunt and uncle, and had since been presumed dead. 

Harry placed the last of the records back onto the correct shelf, and silently left before the sun began to peak over the horizon. 

Pawns indeed, Harry thought. But not for long.

Chapter Text

Not a full four hours after Harry had finished sifting through the library of Potter Manor, he sat in a conference room, regretting his lack of forethought when it came to scheduling. 

Martha was steaming in her chair, spitting corporate vitriol in their direction. 

Harry could understand, really, as much as he disliked the woman. 

Representatives of the legal department and of business affairs were present, along with a man who might’ve been CEO of Sanctuary Records for the Muggle world, or someone of near-equal importance—who appeared quite bored. 

And even though she held the most powerful position within their sublabel, these Muggle men were effectively Martha’s bosses, or else present on their behalf. They were the ones who made the decision to terminate Zabini when everything had broken to the Wizarding press. And the ones who evidently chose to hand Martha all his responsibilities, Harry was relatively sure. 

At this point, the very existence of their little sideshow might be on increasingly thin ice. After all, the way things had been run, since the days of Zabini’s own predecessor no less, couldn’t paint things in a positive light for the people with the financials. Especially given how many hoops they’d surely had to jump through with the Statute of Secrecy to even set up shop, as it were. 

And now they had been called in on a random Monday morning to the news that one of their scant few Wizarding artists was attempting to wiggle out of his contract. 

It was not shaping to be a good day for Martha. 

Quinton, her favoured lackey, kept shooting nervous glances at the small time lawyer Harry had contacted, as though fearful of what the man would say once he finally offered a retort to her tirade. 

“—contract! And who does this boy think he is?!” Martha continued ranting, her furious eyes shifting to Harry now. “He doesn’t even understand how things work around here, clearly, or he would be handling whatever there is to handle within the department he works in! Not trouncing in here with an unapproved representative like he’s someone’s manager!” 

“And who is?” 

The question was the first that Ralph, Neville’s lawyer for the day, had spoken in many minutes. 

It brought Martha up short. “Pardon?”

Ralph made a show of putting on his spectacles, looking down at the document before him as though checking his facts. “I asked who is currently responsible for the management of this young man’s career , Mrs. Robinson. Is it you? Here, at least, it indicates that the individual in question is now one Killian Wright. Have you met Mr. Wright, Mr. Longbottom?” 

Neville mutely shook his head. Harry had no idea who that was either; it was being implied that Martha had just written in a name and left the bulk of Neville’s affairs to Harry—aside from the music itself, of course. And that was probably only because Harry didn’t know how to produce, or anything of the sort. 

It wouldn’t be surprising, was his thought. 

“I thought not,” Ralph affirmed. “See, the ousted Mr. Zabini held quite a lot of power over Mr. Longbottom’s group due to his position within the company, the position that you now currently hold, Mrs. Robinson. Which I’m sure I don’t have to tell you was a factor that allowed for misconduct on the part of Mr. Zabini. This—I have to assume—is why you seem to have placed nonexistent personnel between yourself and Mr. Longbottom on paper, presumably so that you can never be accused of having, shall we say, too much authority.” He punctuated this with a disappointed, chiding look towards the others at the table. Some visibly bristled. 

“I actually find it rather interesting that you would accuse someone else of not ‘knowing how things work’ in comparison to yourself. Since, put frankly, the structure here is in shambles and evidently has been for years. Really, it speaks to a lack of concern for the Magical contingent of the music industry overall—as Sanctuary is hardly the only record label with these sorts of issues popping up. Pray tell, why bother to search for talent among Wizardkind, to generate interest at all if…”

Harry, at some point, had begun to tune out a bit. It wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying the proceedings. It was just that he knew Neville was in good hands; he’d picked those hands out days ago, and there were more pressing matters on Harry’s mind now. Ones that didn’t have to do with his ‘professional’ responsibilities. 

Draco was expecting answers. If not today, then tomorrow, the next day; soon, the blond had insisted. And for all Harry’s bravado, he actually had no idea what he was going to say. 

He’d managed with Lavender, and even with Hermione, because there hadn’t been any consequences beyond their potentially not believing him. Harry had known he was telling the truth, and would have proven it somehow if he’d needed to, surely. It wasn’t like he’d had to tell them everything if he hadn’t wanted to, either. And he hadn’t, fully. 

With Draco, it was different. Because Harry didn’t know what he’d do if Draco did believe him, or what the consequences would be. And Draco needed to hear everything Harry could bear to tell him. 

And then, of course, there was Bellatrix to think about. Throwing a wrench in everything, just like she had in his past life. 

Harry had to get rid of her, and quickly, so that she’d never see it coming. He would be damned if he was going to Azkaban over the likes of Bellatrix Bl—

Harry felt the room around him fade, the sensation of falling jarring and familiar. 

When his vision righted, he took in his stark white surroundings with a put-upon sigh. 

He didn’t have the time or the patience for this right now. 

“Well?” he prompted aloud, his voice echoing a bit. “What do you want that you couldn’t just—” 

Harim appeared from nowhere, just popped into existence in front of him between one blink and the next. 

And then he punched Harry in the face. 

“Ow!” he shouted indignantly. “What the f—!” 

“Are you completely off your nut?!” Harim demanded manically, like he wasn’t the one who’d dragged Harry into their head just to break his metaphysical nose. 

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about!” 

Harim looked supremely unimpressed. “Really? You’ve just begun actively thinking about assassinating the Black Matriarch, and you’ve no idea why I’m questioning your sanity? You’re trying to get us killed, is that it?” 

Harry reeled. “Are you trying to protect her?” he demanded, disbelieving.

Now Harim looked at him like he thought Harry was dumber than cardboard. “I’m trying to protect us from your idiotic hero complex! Do you have any idea what will happen when she catches you?! How about what will happen to Draco?!” 

“I’m doing this for Draco,” Harry protested. “He’s not safe if she has that much power! Do you think I know nothing about Purebloods? Draco’s a male Black. He can’t have children, I know that now, but for all we know that just decreases his value in her twisted mind.” 

He was so busy thinking of how Draco must be placating her constantly—inviting her to luncheons, playacting at a good relationship for years—that Harry almost didn’t catch the slight shift in Harim’s expression before it smoothed over again.

“What was that about?” he demanded, willing the thought into the space between them. It was much harder for Harim to conceal things here. 

Knowing that on his own, Harim relented. “He’s not sterile, really,” Harim said through his teeth. “He can still have children. Lucius’s curse just made it so he couldn’t pass on magical genes, somehow. Draco’s children would be squibbs, if he ever had them. But he won’t.” 

Harry’s stomach sank. “Because he’s…” he couldn’t even say the word prejudiced, didn’t really believe it even as he thought it, but Harim heard it anyway, and his face contorted in anger. 

“No,” he fairly spat. “He’s not like that and he never has been! Merlin! I mean because he’s not allowed. That the Black Family’s inheritance might one day fall into the hands of squibbs was deemed an unacceptable risk. Draco promised… her that he’d keep the line ‘pristine.’”

Harry blinked at him incredulously. “And yet you’re just fine with letting her carry on?” 

“You can’t understand,” Harim stated definitively. “You’re too blinded by hatred for her, too preoccupied with your memory of a deranged lunatic, kissing the foot of a madman. You’re not grasping how powerful she is. How sharp.” 

“She’s a psychopath.” 

“Right in one,” Harim said dryly. “But she’s not a psychopath who spent thirteen years in Azkaban with dementors for guards. You’re banking on her being someone she isn’t, and it will be the end of us, and of anyone else she blames if you fail.” 

But Harry wouldn’t have it. “I’ve ended worse than her.” 

Harim looked amused in a pained sort of way, or maybe pained in an amused sort of way. “Ah yes, I know, you were called the Saviour. So righteous, so brave. Ever the prophetic Gryffindor warrior, hm? I understand why he hated you.”

Harry furrowed his brows, his jaw tight. 

“Your Draco,” Harim said more coldly. “You know, the one you only bothered to save after it was too late. Because he wasn’t worth it, was he?” 

Harry recoiled, the words cutting into him. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. It hadn’t been. 

“Sure.” 

The bland word only infuriated Harry further. “Just because you’re too much of a coward to handle a threat, doesn’t mean that I’m going to be. Bellatrix’s days are numbered.” 

“You are a fool,” Harim yelled furiously. “What, you think you can do this and keep blood off your own hands?! You’ve killed one human being—more a thing by that point, and now you think you can murder a flesh and blood person?! You’re going to choke, and then we die. And then Draco most likely dies! And then—!” 

“I’m not going to do it myself!” Harry hissed, more exasperated by the second. “I’m not an idiot, despite what you think! I’ll need someone else, anyway; someone who can get close enough to her.” 

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that that was the best bet for everyone. 

And anyway, Bellatrix might be powerful, she might have connections. But she had also been rather secure in her place at the top of the food chain for a reasonably long time. When one goes so long without opposition, vigilance is the first thing that slips. She wouldn’t anticipate betrayal, because she wouldn’t believe anyone had the bollocks. 

Harry was going to prove her wrong. 

“Lovely, so now you’re going to recruit someone else directly into your suicide mission,” Harim said. “Who do you even imagine she keeps close enough to her for that to work?” 

Harry just looked at him, allowing him to see his intent. 

Harim’s eyes widened, something akin to horror playing across his face before his expression hardened. 

But Harry didn’t have any other choices. Bellatrix might suspect even Draco. Ophelia was the only person Bellatrix couldn’t just kill on the spot. She’d be the safest of anyone if it all went wrong, surely. 

“What would I have to do,” Harim asked, flat, “to make you give up this recklessness?” 

“What do I have to do to get you to fight for something—for him, for once?” Harry countered savagely, indomitably frustrated. 

“Ha!” Harry’s counterpart barked sardonically. “You honestly believe that? Tell me, how do you figure putting his baby sister at risk for the sake of your crusade as being for Draco?” 

“Well this is about Ophelia’s life too!” Harry shouted. “What if she doesn’t want to be Bellatrix’s broodmare, what if—?!”

“Oh come off it!” Harim cut him off. “You don’t even know Phee. So don’t for one second act like this is about anyone but yourself! You seem to be under some absurd notion that I don’t know you, but I assure you: I do. You’re a bloody soldier, tried and true. Trust me, I know. Look at you—one night, and you revert right back into it.” 

Harry stared at his mirror self, chest rising and falling with phantom exertion. “You don’t get it,” he said at last. “You don’t. I can’t just let her alone. She didn’t have the opportunity to be a Death Eater, but she’s still a monster. It’s not right.” 

“She’s not the only one alive who used to be among those ranks, though,” Harim pointed out, no longer so biting—simply matter-of-fact. “And yet I don’t see you entertaining the idea of serial murder.” 

Harry swallowed. He had a point, of course. 

Harry knew that there were likely plenty of would-be Death Eaters who’d been given a second chance as well. There’d been nothing in his bout of research to indicate Rodolphus Lestrange was dead, for one. And there was Lucius, for another. There was even the man who likely thought of himself as one of Harry’s uncles, alive and well. 

But the thing was, Harry could live with that, really. 

At least for now, he could allow himself to imagine the lot of them—however many there were—as normal people going about their lives. However distasteful it was, he was capable of it. 

Even Voldemort—knowing that Tom had rotted away in some muggle prison somewhere seemed to be enough for him. Harry still hated him, to be sure. He was a cold-blooded maniac. 

But Bellatrix—she’d always been a different beast entirely. She’d seen to that personally. Had deliberately made it as personal as she could, whenever she could. 

… Aaaaaah… did you love him, little baby Potter?—

Perhaps Harry was imagining things, but Harim did seem to soften as the memory flashed in the space between them. 

“He’s alive now, you know,” Harim said, and Harry was a bit disarmed at the somewhat gentle note in his voice. “Sirius is fine. Most of those she and—and the others… hurt, they’re okay here, now, because of what you did, right? I mean, you—you fixed it as much as you could have. You don’t have to soldier on anymore.” 

Harry stared him down, for some reason needing Harim to get it even more so now. The sign of compassion… he had to. If anyone would. 

“I didn’t sacrifice everyone and everything I’ve ever known to live in a world where my dad is still dead, but she, of everyone, gets to bask in riches and power. I can’t. Not now that I know she’s just the same sadistic wretch she always was.”  

For a long, tense moment, Harry braced for another jab. Some new lashing that would tell him that no one would ever understand. That he would have to go it alone, being fought every step of the way, no less. 

But then, miraculously, Harim heaved a long, drawn out sigh. And Harry dared to hope for what just moments ago seemed impossible. 

“Well, then I suppose we’ll have to go about this carefully. That means a plan,” Harim then stressed, like the Slytherin he clearly was. “Reckon you’re capable of one of those, at least?” 

And Harry was so relieved—grateful, even—that, for the first time, he gave him a genuine smile. 

oOo

Harry had been unsurprised to find, when he’d returned to the conference room, that nothing much had progressed. Certainly no one had noticed that he’d sat there zoned out for ages. 

Altogether, though, the meeting ended well for Neville—just as intended. He was free, under the stipulation that he could no longer use his real name nor any references to the Catatonic Howlers in his future career. 

It was really all they could hold him to, and it wasn’t a loss, if Harry did say so himself. ‘Longbottom’ didn’t exactly say ‘superstar’ anyway. Frankly, Harry had guiltily wondered a time or two how the man had even gotten away with not using a pseudonym of some sort before now, band name notwithstanding. But that didn’t matter now. 

It would all be looking up from here on that front. 

In the meantime, Harry needed to begin abiding by his new plan—which meant he had a friend to speak to. 

Chapter Text

Admittedly, there had been moments in Harry’s life, wherein things had gotten quite spectacularly out of hand. Moments that warranted a particular type of self-reflection, in which he was forced to mentally review all the small decisions that had led him there, and curse each and every one in turn. Moments that necessitated his asking himself, with all manner of helplessness, how is this my life? But sitting on a lounge chair in this club, giggles ringing in his ears, covering his flaming face with both hands as Pansy Parkinson sensuously rocked in his lap, his would-be lover sat less than two feet away, well. It damn near took the cake. 

And Harry was absolutely cursing each and every choice that had brought this utter humiliation upon him. 

He had known, had known, that clubbing with these heathens was a bad idea of epic proportions. He’d had no intention of ever even hinting at amenability to it. He ought to have listened to his gut. 

But no, instead he’d been trapped into socialising. 

First, Pansy had taken his very simple request— It’s been a while, dinner? - H. —to be a touch more of a suggestion than Harry had intended, if the answer was anything to go by: Sounds boring. Let’s go have fun instead xo. And she had then, evidently, taken it upon herself to inform Lavender and Parvati that Harry wanted to ‘hang out, like old times.’ 

Lavender, like the crup with a bone that she was, had immediately insisted on the club, and not even Harry’s pointing out that he’d no longer be able to provide a velvet rope scenario had been able to deter her. 

It was, however, Parvati who was to blame for the worst of it, shockingly for Harry. The woman had seen fit to insinuate that Harry had probably only suggested going out as a means of avoiding Draco—after her girlfriend had informed her he was ‘open to reconciliation’ with Harry. Which of course resulted in Lav pestering Harry to invite the blond along, of all bloody things. 

I know we have a lot to talk about, but my friends are dragging me out tonight. They’d like you to come too, Harry had written, much against his will. And, because the universe hated him, Draco’s agreement had been swift to follow. 

It was a recipe for disaster if there ever was one. And right then was the proof. 

To be fair, it hadn’t been so bad at first. 

Harry was familiar with the club scene now—even if Neville wasn’t here. And on top of that, Harry did have a certain intrinsic level of comfort among the three women, however odd a group they made. There was familiarity that couldn’t be manufactured. Harry had a number of Harim’s memories as evidence of how much they meant to him, of how close they all were. And with that came the implicit assurance that they wanted him to be happy. 

And they clearly believed that Draco would make him so. 

So it had not been so bad, initially. They’d been friendly with the blond—who in return gifted them awkward half-smiles that made Harry’s heart behave erratically. There had been an abundance of drinks, and ribbing, and endless chattering as they all settled in amongst the music and the pulsing atmosphere. Draco feeling them out; them evaluating him in turn. All through wide smiles and glinting eyes. 

And then the blasted song had started up, and Harry had known that gentle ribbing was not all he’d be subjected to, unfortunately. 

The effect had been instantaneous. Three identical gasps of delight; three identical cheshire grins spreading. Harim’s startled, loud laughter had echoed through Harry’s mind in response, and Harry had tensed with horror at the flash of embarrassing memories invoked. 

I’m just a bachelor 

I’m looking for a partner 

Someone who knows how to ride-

“Pansy,” Harry had warned as he’d attempted to scoot away, spurred by the predatory gleam in her eyes and the way that Lavender cackled uproariously, both she and her traitor girlfriend encouraging the madness. 

And then Pansy had been right there, straddling him shamelessly even as her body shook with unrestrained laughter of her own. 

Harry’s cheeks, neck and ears had flooded with heat, his hands flying to cover his embarrassment as the nightmare continued. 

Let’s do it

Ride it-

Pansy licked a stripe up the side of Harry’s face then, his resulting explicative sounding more like a squeak. He did not want to even look at the man to his right, did not want to even acknowledge his presence. 

It had been a long time since Harry hated his life as much as he did in that moment. 

Finally, Pansy could no longer maintain the composure 

necessary for her little show, and she dissolved into broken giggles right there on top of him. 

A glance confirmed that Lavender had collapsed into her girlfriend’s lap, tears of mirth streaking down her cheeks. None of the three seemed capable of speech beyond intermittent exclamations of ‘remember-’ and ‘gods’ and ‘ride it!’ 

It was even stranger to be able to feel the tendrils of lingering amusement coming from within himself, even as the accompanying embarrassment still stained his face. 

“I hate you,” he managed weakly, which only sent the women into additional peels of laughter, Pansy at last sliding off of him and to the side. 

Harry chanced a look at Draco, and was marginally relieved to note the slightest lift of his lips, even if the humour wasn’t quite matched in his eyes. 

For a long second, they simply looked at one another, and Harry thought that the blond might say something. Might make some quip about not even wanting to know what that unfortunate display was all about and allow it to pass without excuse. But in the end, the moment slipped away. 

Lavender got up to fetch another round for their group, jostling them on her way—and before Harry knew to resist, Pansy was pulling him up out of his seat and insisting on dragging him towards the packed dance floor. 

Harry allowed himself a moment to push away the disappointment and anxiety in his chest, assuring himself that he would deal with it later, and then he focused on the opportunity presented. 

In his past life, Harry knew he would never allow himself to be in the centre of the floor at a nightclub. But Harry was able to recognise, however grudgingly, that Harim had quite a bit more coordination than he’d ever had, and that it was now possible to dance without looking like a pillock. 

“We need to talk,” he told Pansy, leaning in so that he’d not have to shout. 

Pansy only nodded, the movement appearing to match the beat of the music. But her eyes were assessing. “We’re talking now,” she pointed out, at equal volume. 

“I mean that this is important.” 

Her body shifted fluidly so that she stood right up against him, giving the appearance of grinding against his body, close enough to feel her breath as she asked into his ear. “I’m listening.” 

Harry took a deep breath and said, “I require your… skill set.” 

At that, Pansy took an aborted step backwards, her only sign of surprise, concealed by their surroundings. “Oh um,” she said, appearing the most flustered Harry could recall seeing her. “I had assumed…” she trailed off, but Harry clocked the significant glance she threw in Draco’s direction—and he nearly recoiled himself, face flooding with heat for the second time that night. 

“No!” came out louder than intended, as a few people nearest to them looked over with raised eyebrows. Quieter, Harry reeled her back in and clarified, “I-I mean your other skill set.” 

By her momentary stillness, Harry ascertained that Pansy understood. “I see,” she replied, sounding aloof once again. “I rather thought we’d agreed you’d… ignore that bit of what I do, on principle.” 

Of course, Harry hadn’t known about any of it until Harim had seen fit to share, suggesting they make use of what Pansy could do. 

His alter ego had indeed not seemed comfortable. But still, as far as Harry was concerned, “There are worse things. And your methods might, er, prove helpful in this case.” 

“I see. And who has earned your… displeasure. If I might ask?” 

Harry shook his head, not willing to chance that in a public place, no matter how loud or crowded. “We can discuss the details at some point. For now I—”

“I’m going to have to steal him away now, Parkinson, if you don’t mind.” 

Harry hadn’t noticed Draco cutting through the mass of bodies to approach them, but he was suddenly there, and Pansy did nothing but obediently step back. She gifted the blond a smirk and winked at him, and then she was heading back towards the other girls. 

Draco slid into the space she previously occupied, which was very close to Harry. 

Harry swallowed. 

“You’re trying to piss me off, is that it?” Draco demanded, and Harry—distracted as he was by the sudden reality of Draco’s hands on Harry’s hips and the soft strands of his hair against Harry’s cheek—took a moment to register the meaning of his words. 

“Huh?” he said stupidly. “No. Why would—” 

“You invite me out with your best mates—who are all women, because of course they are—have them flaunt the fact of your very obvious sexual history with probably all but at least one of them,” he said, and Harry didn’t get the chance to vehemently deny any part of that before Draco was plowing on. “And then you let that particular one drag you away and practically glue herself to you right in front of me? How exactly am I meant to take any of this?” 

Harry gaped uselessly. This really was the worst possible scenario, and he’d done it all to himself. The worst of it was he couldn’t even insist that he and Pansy had never done anything. 

Harim had actually bedded her for weeks following their seventh year—just another in a long line of decisions that could only be read as altogether masochistic, given that Harry was reasonably sure neither he nor his alter ego were actually attracted to women—before Pansy had put her foot down and demanded that he either attempt a real relationship or start paying her like a proper client. And that was to say nothing of all the low moments afterwards in which Harim did, in fact, pay. 

Still, even if he could not deny everything, he could defend himself somewhat. Just not here. So he grabbed Draco’s hand—ignoring the ridiculous thrill that caused—and led him towards the back of the club, slipping into a restroom where at least he could think a bit better. 

They really had to put a stop to this odd pattern with restrooms, he thought, but not just then. 

“I’m sorry,” is what he started with once he’d faced Draco again. 

The blond looked suitably unimpressed, and Harry rushed on. 

“First off, I know how it looks. Believe me, I do. That stupid song—” he huffed. “Look. They’re my best friends. And you’re right, obviously they’re girls. We used to—I mean, at school, you maybe remember how we sort of, er, played up the rumours and such. I won’t make excuses for that. And yeah, obviously there’s some level of—I mean, we did fool around, like, a bit, but,” seeing the darkening look on Draco’s face, he skipped over. “Lavender and Parvati are together. They’re gay. Even back then, so it was never anything like how you think. And yes, Pansy. I—that is to say, we might have. She was safe. Because I hated myself and she knew that and especially with what she wanted to do for work! I mean—and that’s not to say there’s anything wrong with that! I just wasn’t in a good place, and she was the only one I knew wouldn’t expect um, so—Godric can you please make me shut up? None of this is coming out how I want.” 

It was at this point, though, that he realised Draco appeared to be fighting back a smile, now. His grey eyes were dancing, even, as he kept his face straight. 

“You never did excell at speech.” 

Harry nodded in gratefulness for the small reprieve. “The short of it is, I never intended for tonight to make you uncomfortable. Or upset. I didn’t even intend for there to be a tonight like this.” 

Draco rolled his eyes at that. “Yes, I gathered that by your lackluster invite.” 

Harry winced. “But you came anyway.” 

Draco didn’t look amused anymore. “Yes, well, I figured you were going to make good on your promise to talk at some point,” he said blithely. “That you’d suggest we leave. But that has yet to happen, clearly. And instead I’ve been made to watch Pansy bloody Parkinson give you a lap dance and then all but shag you on the dance floor.” 

Harry winced again. “Okay, that’s fair. I—” 

Draco held up a hand. “Yeah, I heard your bumbling explanation the first time; just go tell those harpies that we’re leaving would you?” 

And Harry nodded, rushing off to do just that. 

oOo 

The anxiety curling in his gut became more acute with each passing second; Harry wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers as he stood in the centre of his flat, looking anywhere but in Draco’s direction. 

The silence went on, becoming oppressive, but still Harry said nothing—didn’t know where to even begin. 

“Harry,” said Draco. 

Harry still did not meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he offered, and then fell silent again. 

“My aunt,” the blond prompted. “Start there.” 

At that, Harry gave a hollow bark of laughter. If only it were so simple. If only he were Harim. But no, Harry’s counterpart was locked up tight behind walls hard as iron, wanting no part in any of this, as expected. 

No, he couldn’t start with Bellatrix. That would make little sense, in the scheme of things. What really mattered was—was them. That was what it felt like, at least. 

“Well bloody start somewhere then, if the crux of it isn’t suitable.” 

Harry did all he could to steel himself. 

“When I first met Draco Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, his eyes fixed on the blond’s shoulder, “I was eleven years old. I’d just learnt that there were wizards, real people who could do magic, and he was—he was the first one young, like me. But he was… a prat. Superior. Everything I didn’t like. But even then, part of me was… enchanted by him. It was something I never quite managed to shake off, even when I despised him. Even knowing how he despised me right back. Draco was always a part of me. That’s what I wanted you to know, first. And that I don’t… that I forgave him, a long time ago, for everything.” 

Harry looked up then, morbidly curious what he’d find. He’d expected confusion, perhaps curiosity akin to Hermione’s. But instead, Draco’s eyes were flat, his expression unreadable. 

The words were delivered calmly, neutral. “What are you talking about, Harry?” 

It was unnerving. Harry didn’t know what to do with it, and so he turned away. 

His feet padded across the flooring until he reached the glass wall. For a moment he stood, looking out into the darkness of the night, spots of bright light scattered throughout. People going about their evening, oblivious to his troubles. Oblivious to all the ways he might’ve altered their lives. 

He turned to rest his back against the smooth surface, slipping down until he was sat on the ground, elbows resting on knees. 

He clocked every movement as Draco neared, saying nothing as he joined him on the floor. Waiting, still, for Harry to explain. 

There was no other way to say it, and it needed to be said. “I’m not your Harry. Not entirely.” 

Draco seemed determined not to react in the ways that Harry was expecting. Not that he knew what reaction that pronouncement ought to have caused. Still, he expected something. A flinch, a tick of Draco’s jaw. Something that would tell him how to go on, what to say. 

This mask, it could mean any number of things. But Harry hoped, nonetheless. 

“You knew that,” Harry said. “I guess not consciously, but I think you did. When you said it was like you didn’t know me. And when you asked me who I was. On some level, you knew.” 

“I knew you were different,” Draco acquiesced, giving nothing more away. “But that doesn’t mean what you said makes sense.” 

“It–What would you say,” Harry asked, “if I told you that I came from somewhere else. A world that was… unwritten. That I’m a remnant, in that way.” 

For a terrible moment, Draco was silent. But then, “I suppose I would ask how it was unwritten. And why.” 

“A Time-Turner, to answer the first. The why’s a bit more complicated.” 

“A Time-Turner,” Draco echoed. “Right, of course.” 

Harry clenched and unclenched his hands. “You don’t believe me.” 

“I never said that,” was the response, still maddeningly neutral. “I’d prefer to save my judgement for the end, for both our sakes.” 

At least his disbelief was something Harry could work with, he counseled himself. “Unspeakables can time travel. Like, actually time travel. The Time-Turners normal wizards can access are like training wheels. And Hermione—she was an Unspeakable—she gave one to me, a real one, so that I could fix everything.” 

Draco looked at him, the skepticism in his eyes becoming more apparent. “And this Unspeakable Hermione, she couldn’t do it herself because?” 

Harry gaped. “Because–what? Because it has to be me. Like always.”

Draco nodded, as if this confirmed something for him. But it did not seem to bode well for Harry. “Naturally. And what is it that only you could possibly fix?” 

Harry was feeling more defeated by the second. “There was a war,” he stuttered. “A wizard—like, like Grindlewald, but worse. He ruined the world.” 

At this, Draco sighed. “Harry…” 

Harry hadn’t wanted to do things this way, but he’d prepared nonetheless. And he took advantage of the only opportunity he was likely going to get. 

He pointed his wand, casting legilimens with as much strength as he could. There was no time for Draco to occlude, caught off-guard, but he was still Draco, and the counter-attack came swiftly. Harry allowed it, pulling Draco in with relief. 

It was the only way he would see. 

—A brown haired young man stood in a vast chamber, his expression euphoric as he waved his wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT — 

—The Department corridor was dark and cold, but Lucius’ long, blond hair was unmistakable even in shadow, his face hidden behind the same unsettling mask his companions wore—

—a memory of a memory not his own. The young man was not much more youthful than he’d been in the diary. He examined his elder through cunning eyes. 

“Professor, what do you know about horcruxes?”— 

—Bellatrix’s mad hatred, her face twisted grotesquely. Spittle flew from her mouth of crooked, cracked teeth. “You dare speak his name with your unworthy lips, you dare besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue–!”—

—That voice, calm as anything, on the edge of cold fury. “Harry Potter.”—

—a flash of a black-inked, coiled serpent on familiar pale skin— 

Draco yanked away, detracting himself in his shock. When Harry came out of it, blinking slowly, Draco was on his feet again, his wand gripped in a fist at his side. His face had drained of all colour, his breath coming in small bursts. 

“That…” he trailed off, words understandably failing. 

Harry waited for him to gather his bearings, before he began to explain. 

“He ruined the world,” Harry said again, certain that now Draco would truly listen. “He wanted the… respect he felt was due to him, for being so powerful as he was. He wanted it all, the reverence, influence, prestige he felt had been denied him as a consequence of… well. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is, to get it, he built a following. He found those equally dissatisfied with what they had. Those who thought themselves pure.” 

Draco swallowed, his eyes still wide. 

“He told them, of course they were better. Of course they ought to have what they wished, above those so clearly inferior to them—creatures and degenerates and Muggle-borns and traitors,” Harry said, and Draco’s jaw clenched at the rhetoric that was likely all too familiar. 

“He worked them into a frenzy,” Harry went on, “and they elevated him, just as he intended. Joined his ranks. Became his Marked soldiers in exchange for what he offered them—a society where they alone would be properly elite. All they need do was torture, and murder, and betray. And so they did.” 

Draco was carefully reconstructing his mask, and it wounded Harry to see, even if he could hardly blame him for it. 

“So you are someone else,” he said eventually, clearly choosing to focus on what was simpler, just then. “Someone who lived through a war. That other place, that was your life. Not this.” 

“I’ve come to discover that it’s more complicated than that,” Harry replied carefully. “In some ways, I’m still the man you know. It’s only that in other ways… I’m not. There were a lot of things that were different, where I’m from.” 

“Like me,” Draco said, his look all but indecipherable, now. 

Harry could only nod, not wanting to push Draco to confront something he might’ve not been ready to. 

“And what were we to each other?” he asked quietly, coming dangerously close regardless. “For you to have said you despised him—me. And likewise?” 

Harry leaned his head backward against the glass, suddenly so tired. “I was a famous, orphaned war hero,” he answered with equal quiet, “and you were the prejudiced, pure-blooded son of a Death Eater. We didn’t altogether get on, even as children.” 

Draco swallowed at that, but again dodged the implications. “Orphaned,” he repeated instead. “When?” 

“When I was one.” 

A moment passed, and then the blond returned his wand to his sleeve, and sat once again at Harry’s side. 

“So I suppose you had no… brother or sister, then.” 

Harry shook his head. “I had no one. I was raised by my Muggle aunt and uncle,” he told him. “I didn’t even know I was a wizard until I got my letter for school. They… my relatives were not good people.” 

For a while, there was no response. And then, like a terrible revelation, “I don’t know anything about you.” 

Harry did not care for how he’d said it at all. He maneuvered himself so he faced him, legs crossed in between their bodies. Slowly, so as not to startle, he took one of Draco’s hands in his. 

“You do,” he promised. “And even if the person you knew was gone, erased—he isn’t, but even if he were—you do know me, still. These past months—” 

“Months,” Draco cut him off. “It’s been months, since this happened?” 

At Harry’s silence, he pulled his hand away. “Of course it has,” he realised. “Your brand new attitude. How you suddenly wanted things to be better between us. Merlin, I’m such an idiot.” 

“What? Draco, no—” This was exactly what Harry had feared, the reverse of all their progress. 

“It all makes sense now,” he said, his expression flickering between devastation and betrayal, pain and anger.  

“No,” Harry insisted, desperation surfacing. “It is not the way that you’re thinking right now. I’m—he’s still here. We’re here. There’s just so much of it to explain. But I’m—I love you,” he blurted, needing to voice it. “That’s not gone, or fake. And I know it’s difficult to comprehend how that works, trust me I do, but it’s real, okay? I’m in love with you. And if… if you still love me—” 

Draco stood, between one blink of the eye and the next. His expression shuttered. “I don’t know what that means right now,” he told Harry. “I don’t know what you expect me t–to think. But I can’t do this. I thought it all meant something—your apologies. Your promises and… and everything, your guilt. I thought you’d changed, or gotten help, somehow. That–that I don’t know. But you didn’t, did you. You’re just an entirely new person who somehow still loves me even though the only me you’ve ever known was apparently just some piece of shit to you. And I don’t know what you expect me to make of it. Why grovel? Why try to win me? Why make me think you actually—gods.” 

Draco turned away, apparently no longer able to look at him. 

“Draco,” Harry said. “Please. I told you I’m still—” 

“I can’t hear anything else right now, okay?” Draco cut him off. “I just can’t. I have to go.” 

And he left without another backwards glance, Harry’s flat silent as a tomb in his wake.

Chapter Text

It hadn’t been a snap decision, even though it might have appeared that way to some. But it hadn’t been. It had been Harry, standing in the ringing silence of his flat, and coming to the uncomfortable realisation that he was very, very alone there. 

It was true that his flat was chic, thoughtfully decorated, and something that was entirely his own. That had been the point after all: somewhere to seclude himself, to be his own man—which was really just a prettier way of saying that it was somewhere he could best avoid his family. 

But Harry had not gotten the impression it had ever been a place to entertain. 

Harim did not come off as much of a host, for one thing. And for another, there was very little wear and tear on the place. The hardwood floors retained their polish; the plush, centre rug was still the colour of fresh paper; the kitchen’s marble countertop displayed no cracks or scuffs. Dust had begun to collect where his books sat within the wall. 

It was not altogether a space that indicated much use. 

Typically, Harry returned to sleep—and the majority of other times had found himself various places to be, without it even being a deliberate choice to do it. 

And so it had, at last, occurred to him that he had been holding onto something that was keeping him isolated and was contributing to his unhappiness. 

He’d known immediately that it was the right decision to leave, and the hours he’d since spent packing up and clearing out had brought a sense of acute relief. It was almost as if Harim was actively encouraging him, for once. 

And now, as the door before him opened and a smile bloomed across his mother’s face, he was even more certain than he’d been the night before. 

“Harry!” she said, with what was clearly pleasant surprise, and Harry’s heart lifted. 

“Hi, Mum.” 

“You didn’t mention you’d be coming by today, dear,” she admonished fondly. “Shamim will be thrilled.” 

“Actually, I–” he started, then stopped, suddenly feeling awkward and shy. He turned out not to need to say much else, though, because her eyes had finally strayed to the rucksack hanging off his shoulder. 

Many of his material possessions had been shrunk down and tossed into it, in fact. 

“Has something happened?” she asked, expression morphing into concern. 

“No—not as such. I just…” he paused, preparing to take the leap. “Do you think I might be able to move back home? I miss it. And I—I don’t want to… be by myself anymore.” 

Lily’s eyes—so like his own—misted, and before he knew it, she had all but yanked him down into her embrace, like he was still a little boy in need of mothering. 

Maybe, in some ways, he was. And maybe, he thought, that was okay. 

“Of course you can,” she said fiercely, her arms wrapped tightly around him. “Of course you can.” 

oOo 

Harry had not considered how his interactions with the Department of Mysteries might become more difficult once he had to monitor his level of transperency. 

Reid was a more immediate concern, of course, what with the possibility of her actually probing his mind at any moment. 

Thankfully, she had done so less and less as time had gone on, seeming more content simply to talk with him about what details he found important. None of which had to do with his current everyday-life, anyway.

He was not too surprised to get away unscathed there.

Sheila was different, though. Even though the most they ever did was talk, Harry hadn’t had much reason to deliberately omit anything before now. He’d become used to saying whatever was on his mind, and it was odd not to do so. 

Plus, a part of him wanted her advice. He knew better, though. 

It wasn’t that he thought Sheila would ever share what he told her. Harry was actually fairly sure she would understand what he’d chosen to do about Bellatrix. But that wasn’t what mattered. 

No one could know. For her own safety, Sheila was better off in ignorance of Harry’s plotting. Especially when the plan was still on relatively shaky ground and there was no telling what could go wrong. 

So while Harry filled Sheila in on the events of the past few days, he made sure to brush over anything that might lead in that direction. It proved easier than he’d expected, much to his relief. He had plenty of happenings with which to drown out the need for certain minor details. 

“And how has that been so far?” she asked lightly, after he’d told her of his decision to move back to his family Manor. 

Harry smiled. It had only been a handful of days since he’d settled into his new—old—rooms. Really, it was his own wing; there was plenty of space for practically all of his belongings, so nothing had needed to go into storage. And nothing that had already been there—waiting for him to return, apparently—had even needed to be removed. 

Despite how massive the place was, it felt welcoming. Like he belonged there. His mother and Dhadhi were always about—the latter usually to be found carrying on long, friendly conversations with the house elves and insisting on helping in the kitchen. Making a good-natured nuisance of herself, surely, but the elves clearly adored her.

His mother, for her part, was most often in what was designated the study, writing out whatever it was one did when one ran charities. 

Harry did not feel lonely, and he did not feel the compulsive need to be so occupied. He’d spent his time thus far contacting people about Neville, taking on an agent role, and had already gotten some inquiries. But it didn’t feel overly urgent. 

He related all this to Sheila, who hummed. “And Draco?” she asked, seeming to brush away Harry’s joviality. “I assume you’ve not heard from him since your confessional.” 

Harry deflated. “No,” he answered, weary. “He needs space; I ought to give him that much.” 

Again, she hummed. 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

She pursed her lips. “I’m honestly not sure what more there is for me to tell you, Harry,” she admitted. “You’re progressing. You’ve taken pains to reconnect with your family, and you’re willingly spending time with your friends—when every time before you were rather adamant that they were Harim’s and not yours. I think you’re beginning to soften towards your counterpart, maybe even enough to cooperate with his wishes. On top of that, you’ve told arguably the most important person in your life the truth. However he might have taken it, that is a glaring indication that matters are beginning to resolve themselves within you. I might even dare to say that I’ll soon be free to end my tenure, yet.” Then she sighed. “Were it not for the fact of your continued, willful separation from Harim.” 

Harry’s attention had snagged, though. “End your tenure?” he repeated, unreasonably surprised. “As in, you’re leaving the Unspeakables?” 

Harry wasn’t aware that that was… done. He supposed that there probably weren’t rules against retiring. But Sheila had seemed a ways off from that. 

She blinked, as though just realising that he hadn’t known. “Ah, well. It’s not as shocking as all that, really. I am something of an oddball amongst my colleagues.” 

Harry’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t known that. Sheila didn’t give an odd impression at all. She was maybe more relaxed than the others, but just as tidy. Just as sharp. His doubt must have been obvious, because she chuckled. 

“You know I switched subdivisions,” she explained. “That alone makes me stand out—it’s expected that Unspeakables remain in the Chamber they initially select upon entry to the Department. There’s never been a rule made that you can’t switch, obviously . It’s just that most never desire to. We enter with an idea of what we seek to learn, and we dedicate our lives to the pursuit of that knowledge. But, much to the disapproval of my superiors, I felt I had already learnt everything I wanted to about the Mind, and I wanted to pursue something else—highly unusual to my colleagues, as well, of course. To them, there is always something more to learn.” She paused, shrugged. “But Time had called to me as much as the Mind had those years before, and so I simply made the transition. For years, I was renewed. No longer bored; there was a world of knowledge at my feet all over again. Somewhat recently, though, I’d begun to feel that perhaps I’d exhausted myself with Time, also. Except that… well. There was a puzzle piece that was missing, is the only way I can explain it. There was something I didn’t know, so I stayed. To be frank, I was not even certain how to approach leaving, either. It’s virtually unheard of to retire so young as I am.” 

She winked, and Harry grinned. “Of course,” he said. “But now you’re set to go?” 

“Because of you, actually,” she replied, taking him by surprise again. 

“Me?” Harry asked. “I haven’t been that much of a burden, have I?” 

He abruptly felt horrible. This was her job, and he had been yammering on ceaselessly about his problems since the very beginning. This conversation alone was enough to showcase how little Harry had learnt about her, in return. 

But she dispelled him of his notions immediately. “No, Harry,” she promised. “The opposite, in fact. See, I was waiting for something. At my wits end with the stagnation. Knowledge, it turns out, is useless with nothing to apply it to. And then, like a gift, there was you. A perfect riddle, tailored just for me. A combination of both of my life-long pursuits—Mind and Time. Talking to you and helping you, Harry, has been… I cannot describe it. It has fascinated me, more than you have realised, perhaps. Once we finish here, I believe I will have fulfilled what I was meant to.” 

“Oh,” he said, ineloquently. He hadn’t realised she was waiting around for he and Harim to…

“But what about—all the rest of it?” he blurted. Not everything was about the state of Harry’s mind, here. 

For a moment, Sheila looked confused. Then she seemed to understand, and her face smoothed. 

“Ah, I see the issue,” she said. “My colleagues have led you to believe that you’re here to accomplish something of grave importance, yes?” 

“Er–”

She tsk ed. “I’m not surprised. But you see, Harry, someday—and I very much expect it will be soon—Reid and the others will have acquired all that they ever will from you. There is only so much to be found, is there not? And on that day, you will be expected to simply leave. And they will use what you’ve provided them for years, perhaps even decades to come, to study the infinite possibilities that normal people have no interest in pursuing. You were under the unfortunate impression that they would actually provide answers to the hypotheticals they no doubt lobbed at you—with no shortage of threatening hysterics I’m sure—to obtain your cooperation, yes? It won’t happen,” she informed him, almost pitying. “Answers, definitive ones of the nature they so doggedly seek, are not found in months, or even in years. There is no sense in relying on the Department of Mysteries for guidance on anything that might be considered urgent. It would be folly.”

Harry absorbed that information, too slowly. Of course, he thought. What had he been thinking? That they were somehow going to stop a coming war using the information in his head? It sounded incredibly naive now that Sheila had laid it before him like that. They just wanted to know, for themselves. Because they wanted to know everything. In his past life, Hermione had often complained about the lack of action taken in her line of work. But he hadn’t given it much weight. He’d been living in his own haze at the time. 

“So, you’re really just waiting on me,” he finally said. “To get my… mind in order?” 

“So to speak, yes.” 

“But what if that never happens?!” Harry burst out. “I–I still don’t know… Harim’s not—! I mean… you shouldn’t be waiting for something that I don’t….” 

Sheila heaved a sigh. “Oh, Harry. It will be alright. I see now that I have allowed you to retain your misunderstandings, to your detriment. I had hoped that you would eventually see on your own, and I would not have to be so direct.” 

“I think I need direct,” Harry responded, his voice small. 

She nodded. “Very well. You and Harim—as you and now I refer to him—are, in many ways, separate entities. When you visit him in your mindspace, you are each a manifestation of your respective experiences and thus the memories of those experiences. 

Because, Harry, all people are who they are due to their knowledge base and formative occurrences. What we perceive and go through build our preferences, solidify our fears, desires, intentions, aspirations, you name it. This, as well as all the many reasons why we behave as we do in accordance to certain positive or negative stimuli. 

Yourself and Harim have led vastly different lives, and have, therefore, remarkable differences. This is exacerbated in your current circumstances as you have thus far proven frankly unwilling to make sense of one another. The antagonism between you is what keeps you from merging as you should have long before now. To stress the point: you are capable of merging. 

And this is because, despite what you would very obviously prefer to believe, you and Harim are fundamentally the same person. That is why there is only room for one entity in the long run. Setting aside the factors placing you on opposite sides of the metaphorical spectrum, you actually share an array of intrinsic traits. These are unchangeable. They are the nature element of the nature versus nurture debate, if you will. I don’t expect you to have a working concept of neural science, of course, so allow me to paint you a picture. 

You share your temperament; this is the scale at which you feel and process emotion. 

You have virtually the same sense of sight, smell, taste, hearing; you experience touch in the same way. Most importantly, you share your brain’s methodology towards memory formation and its functional storage. 

Essentially, if your mind was occupied by any person that was truly other—as you and I have talked about a form of possession before, think of that—it would fragment under the strain of housing incompatible structures, especially for such a sustained period of time. 

That is even to say nothing of the cost to your magical core. Magical signatures notwithstanding, and to be explicitly, abundantly clear, Harry: you share the same soul,” she said, and it was final. “It is complicated, messy—as I said, I’ve been utterly fascinated over the course of our time together. But at the end of the day, your fear and inability to reconcile with Harim is still causing you harm most unnecessary. 

And so, as someone who has gotten to know you well enough to care for you genuinely, I will say that this is no longer a suggestion, it is an order—one that I make despite your discomfort and your pride, for the sake of your well being: merge. You should not go on this way, and you don’t have to.” 

Chapter Text

(07:33) u would be the best big bro evr

Harry chuckled down at his phone screen, where the latest message from his little brother had popped up. 

Amjad had recently come to the conclusion that having an older brother who works for and is friends with a celebrity may benefit him socially. Apparently, the first logical course of action was to bribe Harry into owling Neville’s autograph to him. It wasn’t going to happen, of course. No teenager needs quite that much power, in Harry's opinion—and he certainly would know. But he was still greatly entertained by each progressive text message. 

He had just sent off a reply when the floo before him lit up and Ayesha stepped out. She was clad in her Ministry robes, Jameel resting against her hip. His shirt, a little green tee that proclaimed he was Buzz Lightyear, had an orange-hued stain on its collar. 

“You’re up early,” she noted, setting her son on the ground and letting him wander throughout the room. He came to a stop before the miniature train track and began inspecting one such train by banging it on the ground a few times in quick succession. “Where’s Mum?” 

Harry shrugged. “The study, I think. And it’s almost eight, hardly the crack of dawn.” 

“For normal people with normal jobs, maybe,” she said cheekily. 

Harry gave an exaggerated, fake yawn. “Sounds boring.” 

Ayesha rolled her eyes, her smile bright. “It so is. I don’t know why we all don’t just befriend pop stars; seems much less restrictive.” 

Harry’s phone buzzed again before he could reply, and Ayesha sighed. There was only one person it could be when she was standing right there, after all. “Shouldn’t he be in class by now? Tell him I said he uses that phone too much.” 

“You could text him, you know.” 

“I do,” she said. “But he’ll actually listen when you say it, cool big brother.” 

Harry laughed. “Is this you admitting I’m cooler than you?” 

“This is me admitting that my brothers are idiots.” 

“You love us,” Harry countered. 

Ayesha smoothly ignored him, turning to the side and crouching down to where Jameel sat playing. “Mummy will see you later, okay? Be nice to Uncle Harry today.” 

The toddler nodded solemnly, accepting a kiss on the cheek before going back to banging the small toy trains together. 

“Remind Mum that I won’t be back until late tonight because of the thing,” Ayesha told Harry. “And tell her thanks again.” 

Harry didn’t have a chance to ask what ‘the thing’ was before she was waving and heading back through the floo. He supposed it didn’t matter. 

After a few minutes, he swung down to grab Jameel off the floor and went in search of Lily. 

Her eyes widened when he slipped into the study holding his nephew. 

“Oh dear,” she said. “It’s Thursday.” 

Harry nodded. 

“I’ll have to… hm. Can you go see if your grandmother can watch him for a little while, honey? Tell her I’ve just got to rearrange a few things—er, and maybe cancel. And then I’ll take him.” 

“Mum,” said Harry, almost affronted. “I’m here, too. I don’t have anything to do, anyway. I can watch him today.” 

She nearly sagged in relief. “Thank you, love. I just completely forgot that Aya even told me—” 

“It’s fine,” Harry cut in gently. “You get back to it. I’ve got him.” 

Harry walked out of the study feeling uncharastically great. It wasn’t often he got to feel so helpful or needed. “What say you we go on some adventures today?” he asked his nephew. 

The baby giggled in delight. 

oOo

It had been a few days since Harry had been to the Ministry for his latest session. He didn’t feel the need to return, now, as Sheila had seemed to have said all there was left to say. And Harry was still struggling to come to terms with what she had told him. 

She had made it sound like it was meant to be easy. Merge, as if it should take no effort at all. 

Harry didn’t know if she was right, and didn’t much want to know. 

When it came down to it, she had not offered him any reassurances on what he could expect post-merger, either. She believed he would still be himself, supposedly, but Harim would no longer be powerless, surely. 

What if he swayed Harry? What if, once they were just one person, Harry no longer had the desire to follow through on his plans? And what if his priorities changed so drastically that nothing would be done about Bellatrix? 

Harry told himself that he couldn’t risk it—at least not yet. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could try after that business was taken care of. Maybe then. 

He already had most of what he needed, anyway. The rest would have to wait until the next time he saw Ophelia, though. Likely in a few weeks. 

Oxford courses ended around the same time Hogwarts students returned, Harry had learnt. And he wasn’t quite eager enough to show up on her campus and try surprising her with his presence. He wasn’t under any illusions that would go over well, especially if she’d already been made aware of his latest falling out with Draco. Knowing how close the Malfoy siblings were, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, regardless of the details.  

“Quit brooding,” Lavender ordered, startling him. “You can’t be brooding right now; look how adorable that is.” 

Harry obediently followed the direction of her pointed finger. Parvati was holding both of Jameel’s hands, helping him stay upright as he made small bouncing motions in the miniature blow-up fun house. 

When Harry had taken his nephew over to their flat an hour before, he had not actually expected the couple to know exactly where to take a baby to have fun around the city. But they had, which was how Harry had ended up in the 1 and Up section of a building containing about a hundred trampolines and bouncing houses of various shapes and sizes. 

And so Harry had simply taken one of the seats and let the couple have the baby for the time being. 

Somewhat stripped of his temporary responsibility, though, and without any new messages from his little brother to distract him, he’d fallen right back into the foul mood he’d been in since Sheila had lectured him and sent him on his way. 

“I’m sorry,” he said out loud. “I was just thinking about… a few things.” 

“Draco?” Lavender guessed. 

Harry wasn’t really in the mood for denial, either. “Yeah,” he admitted. 

“What happened now,” she said, obviously catching on that she was missing an update. 

Harry abruptly realised that he hadn’t told her. 

“I, er, told him the truth.” 

Lavender’s jaw dropped. “The truth?” she repeated. “Like the truth, the truth, about you being– only sort of you?” 

“Yes Lav, that truth.” 

“Oh Merlin,” she breathed. “And he…” 

“It went badly,” Harry answered shortly. 

“I mean, I guess I knew you’d have to come clean sometime, but… wow,” she sighed. “What are you going to do now?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry, frustrated now. “What am I supposed to do? I’m giving him space. If he never wants to see me again, then I just have to… live with that.” 

“Damnit Harry,” she said a bit too loudly, and then visibly shrunk when one of the Muggle parents in the vicinity shot her a dirty look. She cleared her throat. “You can’t just give up on him!” she hissed quietly. 

“I don’t want to.”

“I mean, he’s the love of your life—”

“I know.” 

“—basically your soulmate. You need to– wait, did you just say you know?” She looked so dumbfounded that Harry nearly smiled. 

Instead he said, “Yes, Lav, I know. I love him. I’m in love with him, whatever, all of it. That’s not the problem anymore. The problem now is that he doesn’t think he even knows me. So he definitely doesn’t think he loves me. Not me, me, I mean.” 

Lavender opened and closed her mouth a few times. Then she deflated. “Ah, well, yes. I can see how that’s a bigger… issue.” 

Harry nodded morosely. 

“You still can’t give up,” she told him after a few minutes, sounding newly decided. “Promise me that, if he still hasn’t come round after a few weeks, that you’ll at least owl him. Something. Don’t just let him freeze you out. You deserve a chance to explain better.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry said, for her sake. But he wasn’t so certain that he did.

Chapter Text

“Lev Neil,” Neville repeated flatly, from where he sat next to Harry. 

Barbara, who Harry had been in contact with of late, nodded at them both from across the table. “’fraid so,” she said, unapologetic. 

“Why?!” the celebrity burst out, clearly baffled. 

“We can’t market you with your real name, Mr. Longbottom,” she replied calmly. “Legally or commercially. But you’re going to be a solo-artist now. You have to have a name. We—myself and your agent, Mr. Potter—assumed that you would prefer something… familiar. An anagram seemed better than a complete rebranding, at least. Is there a particular objection you have to being called Lev?” 

“Come on, Nev,” Harry encouraged. “It’s just a letter.” 

Neville glared at him, but then he sighed in obvious concession. “I guess.” 

He had barely got the lackluster agreement out before Barbara had closed the folder in front of her and said, “Marvelous. You’re scheduled to perform under your new name on the 5th; you’ll be opening for one of our other acts.” 

“But that’s in two days!” Neville objected. 

It’s also Draco’s birthday, Harim supplied. 

Yes, thank you, I’d not forgotten since the last time you said, Harry snapped back, irate. 

“Indeed,” agreed Barbara, not seeing the problem. “They’re just starting out, still gathering an audience. Your stepping back onto the scene will gather a lot of attention—attention that can be put to multiple uses. Two birds, and all that. We expect you to carry your weight here, Mr. Neil.” 

Neville groaned at the title. “I don’t even have anything prepared.” 

She waved that away. Harry knew they had planned for that, and so wasn’t surprised when she said, “That’s not a concern. You’ll be performing covers of popular hits from the last few years. You can pick which ones, however. Otherwise we’ll have a list.” 

“I can pick,” Neville grumbled, crossing his arms and looking generally petulant. 

“Marvelous,” she repeated. Then she was out of her seat with a flourish and an “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Potter.” 

The door swung closed behind her, and Neville rounded on Harry. “Some warning might have been nice, mate.” 

Harry clenched his jaw. “You want me to apologise for trying to do my job? I’m trying to get your career back for you. I’m so bloody sorry to have inconvenienced you along the way.” 

Neville reared back, and Harry immediately felt terrible. 

“I’m sorry,” he said straight away. 

“Are you doing okay?” Neville asked gently, surprising him. “Something going on?” 

“I—” Harry didn’t even know where to begin. He hasn’t been a very good friend to Neville, in terms of honesty at least. Maybe, he thought, he should attempt to start now. In some small way. There couldn’t be too much harm in letting his friend a bit further into his life. “A lot, actually. It’s… it’s Draco. We’re… not talking again.” 

“Ah,” Neville said, relaxing in a way that implied Harry's vague statement had clearly explained everything. “Love sucks.” 

Harry could only nod. 

“So you’re admitting you’re still in love with him, now, huh?” Neville asked, his eyes sparkling. 

“Seems useless not to.” 

“You going to talk to him? Try to fix it?” Neville asked curiously. 

“I don’t know how,” Harry admitted, weary. “I don’t even know if I should.” 

“You should. I mean, you didn’t… what did you do, anyway? Something the old you would have done?” 

“No!” Harry denied. “I– not anything like that. I guess that’s the problem.” 

Neville raised his eyebrow at him, and Harry sighed. 

“It’s kind of the opposite I guess. I’ve changed but… he doesn’t think it’s genuine, really? Or something like that. He found out some things and now he doesn’t even think I’m… me.” 

Godric, Harry thought. This was difficult to explain without coming clean completely. Hopefully he’d given Neville the right impression of things, at least. 

Neville still looked slightly confused, but also thoughtful. “I guess it makes sense. You two were a certain way for years. Had a dynamic, a painful one sure, but now I bet he’s spooked because he doesn’t know what he’s meant to feel for you, anymore. Maybe he just doesn’t want to believe that you’re for real about him this time, because that’s almost scarier?” 

Not really, Harry thought even as he nodded along dubiously. “I guess,” Harry said faintly, feeling utterly defeated. 

“You should reach out though, mate,” Neville encouraged. “How are you going to prove yourself if you’re just avoiding each other? You gotta do something. Maybe invite him to my debut: take two? Concerts are fun, low pressure and everything.” 

That was along the lines of what Lavender had said as well, but Harry still wasn’t planning to contact Draco in any persistent way. Merlin, he was still vehemently debating on even sending a birthday card. Harim wanted him to, was bloody insistent about it, but Harry was cautious. He didn’t want to put any pressure on the blond whatsoever. Much less invite him to a concert on his birthday. 

“Draco probably already has plans that day… turning twenty-five and everything.” 

“What seriously?” Neville demanded, looking actually excited now. “That’s even better, mate! Seems perfect to me, actually. Tell him to bring whoever he wants and make it a thing.” 

“I’ll consider it,” Harry said. Privately, though, there was no way that was going to happen. Short of Draco showing up at his doorstep, Harry was relatively certain he was not going to speak to him at all. 

Which was why he was understandably shocked when, the very next morning, Draco did actually appear at his door. 

Harry was in the sitting room when it happened. 

It was the first Saturday in June, and so most of the close family was there. Sirius had come round at about noon to visit with Harry’s mum, and Ayesha was out in the gardens, chatting with Dhadhi. 

Colin was on the sofa beside Harry, Jameel in his lap. The other man had begun to cautiously accept Harry, no doubt due to his wife’s many assurances. And Harry volunteering to watch their son whenever Colin couldn’t was certainly not harming their progress. 

They were casually discussing Quidditch, one of few comfortable topics available to them, when Harry heard the doorbell ring. Someone went to get it—Sirius, from the sound of it. 

But then Harry froze, as a very familiar voice had responded, “Is Harry here?” 

Harry turned just in time to see Draco being led into the room, and their eyes locked. 

Sirius broke the suddenly charged silence by quietly beckoning Colin to follow him out. 

It effectively snapped Harry out of it, somewhat. “No,” he said. “Let’s just—I mean. My rooms? We could go upstairs, I mean, if that’s all right,” he fumbled. 

Draco nodded, looking almost amused—if Harry wasn’t just imagining that—and followed.

They were so silent all the way up that Harry nearly startled when Draco spoke practically the second Harry had closed the doors behind them. 

“You moved back home,” he said. 

Harry cleared his throat, attempting to gather his wits. “Yeah,” he said lamely. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Draco pointed out, his voice quiet and careful. “I went to your flat and it was empty. At first I thought—well. It doesn’t matter. I wish you’d told me.” 

“It was the day after we… talked,” Harry provided, looking down at his shoes. “I was trying to—I dunno. Give you space? I thought that was what you wanted.” 

Draco moved further in the room, eyes taking in what was the same and what might have been different from what he remembered. It occurred to Harry that Draco had likely not been in this room since they were children. 

He stopped before Harry’s dresser, reaching out to pick up one of the frames resting on top. It was the same photo that had given Harry pause months ago—of himself, Draco, and Daphne on the tilt-a-whirl, their youth and joviality obvious even behind false sneers. 

“Do you remember this day?” Draco asked quietly. 

Harry considered lying only briefly. “There’s a lot that— he won’t give me. So no, I don’t.” 

“He,” Draco repeated. “Meaning, you?” 

“I tried to… explain it to you,” Harry began. “He’s still here. And I know a lot of things, I have a lot of memories from this life. But not all of them, and where I come from originally… it’s still front and centre.” 

“Sounds complicated.” 

Harry just barely tamped down a quirk of his lips at the massive understatement. “Suppose it would.” 

Draco sighed. He set the picture back down and made his way over to the edge of Harry’s bed. Once he’d sat, he looked back up at Harry. 

“I came here to say that I was sorry.” 

Harry blinked. “What?” he said. “Why? You’ve nothing to apologise for.” 

Draco was shaking his head in disagreement, frowning. “Yes I do. I let you think that I was upset because of your honesty. Because of you not being… because of the question of your identity. And I am upset about that,” he corrected, eyebrows scrunched together. “I don’t know what to feel about it and I suspect we have a lot to discuss about what it means, about whether our… relationship recently means what I had thought that it meant. But that’s not why I ran out. And it’s not why I’m apologising.” 

Harry swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “Then why?” 

Draco dropped his gaze. “What you… what you showed me,” he whispered. “Your—That was your life, wasn’t it? And in your world I… that was real. I had something to do with that, didn’t I? Something terrible.” 

“You were only a child,” Harry told him immediately. “It wasn’t up to you.” 

Draco closed his eyes. “I was afraid you’d say something like that. But I saw it. My arm—I know what my own arm looks like, Harry. And I know that what was on it… made me something. A Death Eater, you called it.” 

Harry wished there was something he could say, that would help Draco understand. He didn’t deserve the weight of choices unmade. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Like hell,” Draco snapped at that. “Like hell it wasn’t. I’ve known, I’ve always known the sort of man my father is. And you’re admitting that I just obeyed, but telling me not to blame myself?” 

“Rebellion is not the same when the cost is the death of your only family,” Harry hissed, surprising even himself. “Lucius, maybe, if it was just him. But your mum? You can’t stand there and tell me that if it was between that and your mother dying, you can’t understand doing whatever you had to do.” 

“What about my sister, hm? You think I shouldn’t have considered her safety, her future, more so than any of that?” 

Harry deflated. There it was, he thought, that fundamental distinction. “Draco… you were an only child, like me.” 

The words may as well have been a slap, for the way the blond recoiled. “What.” 

“I don’t know for certain why,” Harry admitted. “But it was a war-torn world, maybe your mum just didn’t want to risk it. A lot of people didn’t.” 

“Gods,” Draco whispered, his anger visibly draining. “Without Phee…” 

“Yeah.” 

“It doesn’t excuse it,” Draco insisted. “It doesn’t make it better.” 

“No,” Harry agreed gently. “But it makes it make sense.” 

Carefully, Draco sat back down beside him. It was long moments before he spoke again. 

“Tell me everything,” he requested, his voice quiet once again. “Tell me about you—us.” 

So Harry did. He told him what it was like, being raised like a servant. To be a hungry, lonely child who was in pain. About what it was like to discover that magic, this impossible, incredible thing, was not only real, but that he had it. About finding out that the parents he’d grown up knowing next to nothing about were actually heroes who had given their lives for his own. 

He told Draco again about that first day in Diagon, when they had met. How Draco had been prattish, but Harry had been intimidated and unfair. 

He told Draco about Hogwarts. About himself, Ron, and Hermione becoming the very closest of friends, and how Draco was their opposition. 

Harry told him that he had never wanted to recognise that he’d thought about Draco in ways that one doesn’t normally about their secondary school bully. He promised Draco that he’d given as good as he got—that he’d forgiven him for the petty stuff long, long ago. And the not-so-petty things since then. 

And then he spoke about the war. How everything changed when Voldemort had truly risen again. He did his best to explain that Draco was as much of a child as Harry himself had been. That they had both been assigned roles, and that choices were few and far between. He assured the blond that, nevertheless, some of the choices he’d made had been good ones—refusing to kill Dumbledore at the last moment, stalling and refusing to identify Harry in his family Manor, where every second had counted. Harry admitted to Draco that he didn’t know—and would now never fully know—why Draco had done those things. Why he would have taken those risks that had ultimately contributed to Harry’s victory. But Harry told him he was grateful regardless, and that those moments made it easier to forgive him in the end. Not Draco’s family—probably never his family, regardless of Narcissa’s split second decision in the Forest—but Draco. 

He told Draco, most importantly, that the world Harry had come from had not been a good one. It’d had good parts, memories that Harry would not trade, but that he had lost so much more than he could ever fully convey. That the scars of it all haunted him, even unwritten. And that he didn’t want any part of it to haunt Draco, too. 

It was the burden Harry bore to spare everyone else. He wanted more than anything for Draco to take that as a gift, to respect and appreciate it and to not ask for more. It didn’t matter any longer. That was the whole point, he explained, and Draco seemed to listen. 

“I can’t promise that I won’t ever bring it up,” Draco warned him once he’d reached a natural end. “It’s too much a part of you for me to have no concerns, Harry.” 

Harry nodded. “I know,” he said, feeling a bit guilty as he thought again of Draco’s aunt. “I don’t expect that. Only that it not be… constant. That you not blame yourself or dwell like I do.” 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself either,” Draco pointed out, sounding sad. 

“I try not to,” he said, and then deliberately changed the subject. “Your birthday is tomorrow. I’ve concert tickets for you; it’s at seven, if you want to come and bring anyone, maybe. I mean, if you’re not already busy.” 

“Would you have sent a card?” Draco wondered aloud, evasive. “You always have. Even that year we… well. I suppose you wouldn’t remember that.” 

Harry gazed at the floor, unable to look at the man beside him and speak the next words at the same time. “I remember everything I’ve put you through,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Those memories… aren’t the type that you hoard.” 

“Oh. That… that kind of sucks, a little, for you.” 

Harry managed a small smile for him, but said, “Not in some ways. If I couldn’t remember what I’ve done, then my apologies wouldn’t really mean anything to anybody, would they? I wouldn’t even know what I was trying to make up for. That’s what you were most afraid of, isn’t it?” 

Draco was silent for a moment before he stood. “I’m going to go now,” he said, but then seemed to pause. “I don’t… I don’t need space, or whatever, though, okay? I– I’ll think about tomorrow.” 

“All right,” Harry said, and watched him go. 

Chapter Text

The chances that Draco really would come that night were slim, Harry was well aware. For all the reasons Harry almost hadn’t invited him to begin with. 

Draco likely had his evening planned already, with an abundance of friends and acquaintances who were unlikely to think very highly of Harry—for various reasons. 

Some might be on good terms with Harry, like Daphne or Dean, but Draco surely wanted to spend his birthday with a greater number of people. And it wasn’t like he could roll out the welcome mat for an entire party, if that was what Draco had wanted. Harry didn’t even know if Draco still considered Zabini one of his best mates; he hadn’t spoken about him since the article was published, but that didn’t mean anything, necessarily. He could have very well been avoiding the topic for Harry’s sake. He was hardly obligated to inform Harry of everyone he spent time with, in any case. 

The more people gathered in the crowd, the less Harry expected to catch sight of that particular shade of blond hair. 

“I haven’t even gone on yet, mate,” Neville said at Harry’s shoulder. “There’s still time for him to show.” 

Harry shrugged, but he knew his doubt was obvious. The minutes ticked by.

“Ah, don’t be so defeatist,” Neville was mid-cajole. “I bet–”

“Mr. Neil,” interrupted the stage manager. Harry assumed that she was there to lead him on, and released a disappointed breath, but instead she said, “There’s a group of people at the entrance insisting they know you personally. Would you like me to call security?” 

“No!” Harry and Neville shouted at the same time. 

“Sorry,” Neville explained sheepishly, shooting her an apologetic grin. “Those are my friends, actually. Harry will go with you to see them inside.” 

She merely nodded, already turning. “You take the stage in three minutes,” she said. 

Harry knew the smile on his face was something to witness, because Neville laughed merrily at him before reminding him he was meant to follow the rapidly retreating woman. 

Harry did so gladly. 

It was not a large party that awaited him, either, thankfully. In fact, there were only the five of them. 

They stood a little at a distance from the fans trying to talk their way in. 

Draco’s appearance was always difficult to miss, even in a crowd, but with his sister at his side, it would have been impossible. 

Harry did not stop short at the sight of Ophelia, but it was a near-thing. He had to work to cover how idiotic he immediately felt. There he was, waiting around for her to return from school before he could set anything in motion—not even considering where he might clearly find her before then. It wasn’t as though she was confined to her campus, after all. 

The truth of it was, even after half a year, Harry was still not altogether used to there being another Malfoy. Merlin, he was not even necessarily used to there being multiple Potters . He could be forgiven for lack of foresight, he thought. 

He avoided having his eyes on Ophelia for too long, and instead smiled in welcome at Daphne, Dean, and another man Harry hadn’t yet met in this life. 

Andrew Pucey, he recalled. He had a few vague, throw-away memories of the Pucey brothers. 

Daphne and Dean had spoken a bit of Andrew amongst mentions of their other friends that night at the club, but Harry hadn’t known who everyone was at the time and so had simply rolled with it. 

A look at the man was enough to be sure, as the family resemblance to his older brother was strong. Harry greeted him like they were old friends, and hoped he wasn’t too stiff about it. 

Judging by the look on Draco’s face, though, he had just realised that Harry hadn’t truly remembered the other man well. The blond looked as though he’d just confirmed something for himself, and was disappointed about it. 

But at least he was there, Harry had to remind himself to keep his heart from sinking. 

“You came,” he said, ushering them all in. 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Daphne wondered, seeming genuinely baffled. “It’s a free concert.” 

“Why, indeed,” Ophelia said, sardonic. 

“Phee,” Draco warned shortly. 

Harry didn’t miss the way her eyes rolled before he turned, and he just barely kept his chin up. He led them along in awkward silence for a few moments before he heard an aggressive sigh—and then Draco’s hand was grasping his own. 

Harry kept walking, but the gesture made him feel about a million times better, as was clearly the intent. His grin returned in full force. Draco smiled back at him, fondly exasperated. 

They came to the right door soon enough and the volume of hundreds of people screaming in welcome hit them full force as soon as Harry opened it. Neville had clearly just taken the stage—and was riling up the audience as one did. 

“How’s everyone been?” he asked cheekily into the microphone. He allowed them to scream for just under another minute before he said, “Well that’s good to hear! I’ve had a lot going on, but I missed you! Did you miss me?” 

Harry pushed past a young girl who was nearly crying with excitement, trying to squeeze his group through. He had to flash his badge at glaring fans more than once before they made it to the section at the bottom of the stage. 

Neville was probably six or seven metres away when they stopped. 

“My new friends call me Lev,” he told the crowd conversationally. “Think you can all do that for me?” 

They roared their agreement, and Neville flashed his brightest celebrity-watt smile back at them. 

Harry could practically see the tension bleeding from his friend’s shoulders. This was his element, Harry thought not for the first time. He loved this. And Harry knew personally that Neville hadn’t been certain that he’d get it back. 

Harry felt a surge of pride that he’d managed this for him. 

“Nice!” Dean yelled from Harry’s right. “When you said right up front you really meant it!” 

Harry nodded, glad for their enthusiasm. 

“Are you staying?” Draco asked into his ear. Harry almost shivered, but thankfully caught himself. “Or do you have to go back there?” 

“My job’s done,” Harry answered back, perhaps a bit shaky. “I’m gonna watch with you if that’s alright.” 

Draco’s eyes sparkled as he squeezed Harry’s hand. “Good.” 

“So,” Neville continued into the mic, “due to some contracts I had to sign, I can’t really play the tracks you all are probably expecting!” 

There was a smattering of boos and Neville just nodded. “Exactly, I feel the same!” he assured them. “But I love music, so I’ve gotten permission to play some hits most of you’ll be familiar with! That sound good to everyone?!” 

This time there was a return of cheering. 

“Awesome!” he yelled. “Let’s get started then, huh?!” 

The relentless hollering from the crowd was met with the first strings of a recent Coldplay song. 

Harry and Neville had sat up the night after their meeting with Barbara to select the tracks—a healthy mix of Alternative and Pop music, so that he could build an audience from having a wider sound range. On top of that, Harry had already listened to this performance during rehearsal, and he’d already known how talented Neville was, of course. 

It seemed that Draco and his friends were taken a bit by surprise, however. 

“I have to admit,” Draco told him over the music, “I thought at least some of it was… the technology they use? That computer magic to change voices. But he’s actually good.” 

Harry laughed, delighted. “You better tell him that,” he ordered, “just the way you said it. He’ll love it.” 

Draco bumped him in the shoulder. For a while, Harry allowed himself some space to enjoy himself. Draco and his friends swayed along, or danced, mouthing some of the words here and there. Even Ophelia seemed to loosen up around Daphne and appeared to be having a grand time herself. 

There was really nothing quite like this atmosphere, in Harry’s opinion. It was easy to forget, for a bit, how much still needed sorting out between himself and Draco. 

Then, after several tracks had gone by, the music paused for slightly too long of a moment. People looked about themselves in confusion, but then relaxed at the sound of Neville’s voice. 

“All right everyone,” he said. “My time’s about up, and then I’ll have to make way for the people you all actually came to see.” 

There was a scattering of applause and laughter, as if agreeing only partially. 

“I’m going to do one last song, though,” he went on. “And this one is actually special.” 

Harry furrowed his brow, shrugging at his friends’ questioning looks. The entire audience had perked up, though, awaiting an explanation. There was always going to be a certain charge in the air when something ‘unplanned’ occurred in a setting like this. 

There was minor grumbling to just turn the music back on, however, and Harry didn’t necessarily disagree. 

“See there’s this friend of mine and, well, I’ll spare you the details. But this is sort of for him, actually,” he said, and Harry paused, looking up at Neville with wide eyes. 

“Mate,” Neville went on, clearly addressing him even though his eyes were on the crowd. “I think he should hear it for once. And since you won’t say it, it sorta looks like I gotta do it for you. Since I’m a good friend that way.” 

And then he had the audacity to wink as the first chords came through the speakers. 

Harry stood completely still, cheeks flooding red with the mortification of immediate understanding. 

“I’m not a perfect person,” Neville sang, and the crowd went crazy in seconds. 

Draco was still looking up at the singer in clear confusion, so Harry got to witness the exact moment when he registered what was happening, and the hand in Harry’s went slack with disbelief. 

The blond turned, slowly, to look at Harry. 

There was an avalanche of emotion in his eyes. Not only incredulity—and some embarrassment—but vulnerability, and even something that looked like hope. Like he didn’t quite trust reality. 

Harry could feel their friends' wary eyes fixed to the side of his face. 

“Are you grand-gesturing me right now?” Draco asked finally, over the music. “Is that what this actually is?” 

“I’m sorry that I hurt you 

It’s something I must live with everyday” 

Harry swallowed. “Not on purpose?” he tried. 

And then Draco was laughing, short and helpless, like he was stunned. “Circe,” he said, his smile wide and almost awed. “You haven’t done something even close to this ridiculous for me since we were fifteen.” 

“It wasn’t even me this time!” Harry protested, but was unable to control the answering smile spreading across his face. 

“Gods,” said Draco with a shake of his head. “You just really make me want to kiss you. To just… give in and fall in love with you again.” 

Harry blinked, his heartbeat stuttering before it suddenly kicked up rapidly. “Really?” 

Draco reached out gently, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s cheek. “So much,” he confided, and Harry was aware of little else but that touch. “It’s like after all these years, you’re just… you’re suddenly right there.” 

Harry took in a breath. “Draco,” he said, his own hope crashing. “You know that I’m not… you know.” 

“—to change who I used to be” 

“I think I do,” agreed Draco. “And that’s why I can’t. You need to understand yourself, and everything you are now, before I can… before I can let you all the way in again, Harry. I have to know you and trust you. And you need to figure out who you are before that could even be possible. You understand that, don’t you?” 

“I do,” Harry said honestly, just as the music came to its close in the background. “But I also know that I love you. I might be a mess—my mind might be a mess. But I know that I love you and I would never hurt you again.” 

“I know, Harry,” Draco promised. “And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not pretending anymore that there would be anyone else for me. You don’t have anything to be afraid of in the meantime. All right?” 

Harry understood what the blond was truly saying: that, ideally, it would be only a matter of time. That it didn’t matter if Ophelia rolled her eyes in disapproval, or if Harry might not get along with everyone in Draco’s life. Whatever the reason. Ending up together would depend on Harry and Draco, and no one else. 

“And is that really what you want?” Harry said, a bit breathless, needing to be sure. 

Draco’s grey eyes softened as he remembered the same conversation that Harry was. There was an apology in them—one that Harry didn’t deserve but was immensely grateful to receive regardless. “I hope you know it is.” 

“All right,” Harry accepted, stealing Draco's hand back just shy of desperately. The blond smiled again, squeezing, and their companions seemed to relax. 

While they had been talking, Neville had introduced the headliner—a band of boys led by a female singer with coloured hair, who were welcomed with a healthy level of enthusiasm—and then exited just as planned. 

Harry knew that in a few minutes he’d join them and Harry would have to choke out a thank you before doing what he really wanted to do and hitting him upside the head. 

Eventually Neville did, and Harry did both, and everyone laughed uproariously—themselves included. 

oOo 

It was about an hour or two later that they were all getting ready to head to their respective homes for the night. Harry had already said goodbye to a smiling Draco and had wished him a happy birthday for the nth time. 

Now he stood just outside the women’s restroom, waiting casually until, finally, it opened. 

Ophelia flinched in surprise when she found him in her path. “Merlin, Potter, you scared me,” she chastised, irritated. “What?” 

“I need to talk to you,” Harry told her. “It’s important.”

Chapter Text

To Harry, that month seemed to pass between one blink and the next. There was more than enough to keep him occupied. 

For one, Neville had returned to his former status, or maybe even surpassed it. Harry didn’t necessarily see a lot of him personally, as Neville was hard at work—both at home writing and in the studio with his new team—crafting track after track for his upcoming album. The celebrity’s first solo album didn't yet have a release date, or a title for that matter, but wizarding social circles were waiting in vocal suspense. Which meant that Harry was fielding a lot of anticipation and press already. 

The especially good part was that he only had to do his job for Neville instead of picking up everyone else’s responsibilities. It meant that Harry also had plenty of time for other things in life. 

Part of that was spending time with his family and, of course, seeing Draco. 

Harry would be dishonest if he said that things between the two of them weren’t stilted every now and again. Draco never shut him out, and they made every effort to continue their endeavor of getting to know one another again. But underneath the flirty banter and playful jibes, Harry knew Draco was waiting. And Harry wasn’t ready. 

In the meantime, he had opened up a lot more. About two weeks ago, Harry had told Draco about his time in the Department of Mysteries. He knew he could trust Draco never to mention anything to anyone else, and he wanted as few secrets between them as possible. 

“Why did you stop going?” Draco had asked, curious rather than judgemental. 

Harry had shrugged. “Sheila seemed to be finished,” he’d said. “And Reid hasn’t summoned me for anything else since then, so I figure Sheila was right and they’ve got what all they need out of my head.” 

Draco had caught him off guard by asking, “What would you have done if your sister had run into you?” 

Harry had tried to pretend that had been a possibility he’d considered. “I probably would have told her I was there to visit her or something?” he’d said, sounding more like he’d been asking. “She works mainly in the lower levels, anyway.” 

Draco had looked fond but had let it go. 

Harry had thought that once he’d gotten used to seeing Draco on a regular basis—Harry liked to think of it as them going on unofficial dates, even when others tagged along—that it would become less exciting. But the sight of him talking to Harry, smiling at him and laughing with him, proved impossible to get used to; it left him breathless with wanting, each and every time. 

It made him long for things to be simple. 

Unfortunately, nothing about Harry’s life was simple. Not even his family, really. 

And nothing proved it quite like when, the first Saturday morning of July, his little brother came home from Hogwarts. 

They had been expecting him all morning, naturally. Ayesha, Colin, and Jameel had come round about an hour beforehand. And Sirius had gone to King’s Cross to get Amjad, since Remus always came back on the train with him. 

From the moment the front doorbell rang, there was commotion. 

Amjad was engulfed by Lily first, enduring a million little pecks all over his face. 

“Mum!” he laughed, but his expression betrayed how much he welcomed the attention. 

Then he was passed to Dhadhi, who squeezed him so hard that he wheezed dramatically for breath. But Ayesha barely had a chance to ruffle his hair and pull him in before he’d squirmed out with another laugh and threw himself at Harry. 

“You really are here!” he said, his smile bright and brown eyes delighted. 

Harry chuckled, holding him by the shoulders. “I live here!” 

Impossibly, his little brother’s smile widened at that. “You said so! But it’s still mad! Does your room have all your new stuff in it?!” 

“You can come check it out later, okay?” 

Amjad nodded vigorously before turning back to everyone else.