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Chapter Text

Harry vaguely remembers his head dropping onto a pillow, his mind too focused on pushing down the knowledge that his bed was too cold, too lonely, too-

And then all he sees is dead, dead, dead, dead-

(In the back of his mind, he remembers his mother's voice yelling out, “Take it, Harry! Take it and run!” while he was sleeping. But...that is for his future self to worry about, even though he knows from experience the nasty tendency his dreams have of becoming true.) 

All he sees is a dead body clutched in his hands. No. Not just a dead body. Cedric Diggory. How could this be happ-

He finally notices the unsteady silence around him, and he feels like he’s drowning, like all the air was sucked out of him and then pushed right back down for him to choke on.

He lets go of his grasp on Cedric-

(“Take my body back to my parents, Harry, please.” “I will, Cedric. I will-”)

-to check himself for any injuries. There’s blood on his right arm.

(“B-Blood of the enemy...forcibly taken...you will...resurrect your foe.”)

(Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless - and nothing he can do about it. A shining silver dagger, gleaming in the corner of his eye. A splatter of crimson, drip, drip, dripping down his arm.)

Fresh from how relatively bright its crimson color is, but the blood’s dried off. Huh. That’s going to be hard to scrub off, but at least it didn’t end up on his clothes. 

A pair of hands suddenly grab him and turn him over, almost giving him whiplash from how hard he flinches away. 

“Harry! Harry!”

Fuck. Dumbledore - Dumbledore’s alive and moving towards him. He saw him die, he remembers it in the smallest of things, he-

Why the fuck does his life seem to be out for his blood?

He’s as still as a corpse - like the corpse he was holding in his hands again - as he stares wide-eyed up at Dumbledore. If - if he touches Dumbledore, he’s not so certain that he isn’t just going to go poof like that magic act he once saw on the telly when Dudley wasn’t paying attention to him.

As his eyes trace each and every one of Dumbledore’s movements, Dumbledore finally meets his eyes. He sees Dumbledore’s eyes momentarily lose a bit of that mystique they had in them. He suddenly stops what he’s doing and - and takes a step away.

Harry lets out a breath. And then inhales. In and out, like Hermione taught him.

He’s finally managed to calm down (as relative as that is), only for Cornelius Fudge to appear, looming over him pale and affronted like one of the more snide castle portraits. 

"My God - Diggory!" he whispers, as if he is unaware of how the others following right after him can hear him. Probably is, if Harry thinks about it. "Dumbledore - he's dead!"

The words resound throughout the group of shadowy spectres, first as a spatter of whispers before erupting into shouts, screeches, wails.  

"He's dead!" "He's dead!" "Cedric Diggory! Dead!"

They bombard him from all sides, yelling and yelling and yelling until he can’t take it anymore - he bends his knees, curling up into a ball and clutching the top of his head as tightly as he holds onto Cedric. 

He numbly hears Fudge yell, “He’ll need to go to the hospital wing, Dumbledore. Clearly not well,” and can’t even be bothered to hear what Dumbledore says, or even pay attention to the conversation at large.

At least, until a gruff voice interjects with a, “I’ll take him to the hospital wing, Dumbledore.” A voice belonging to Professor Moody. Or at least, Barty Crouch Jr. polyjuiced up to his head to pull off posing as Professor Moody.

Shit.

Before he can really process how badly this might fuck up things if he really is where he thinks he is, he’s snatching his wand from where it was lying on the grass and stands up, shouting, “Accio Marauder’s Map!”

As much as he doesn’t regret leaving the job of an Auror behind him-

(Even though that was when everything started going wrong in his life. Or maybe things had started going wrong long before that.)

-that doesn’t change the fact that a lot of the survival tactics he learned during that time and during the war are ingrained in him. That’s not something he can ever change, no matter how much he wishes he could. 

Fudge lets out an indignant squawk as the piece of parchment nearly misses him, but Harry simply ignores him in favor of not dropping the map when it smacks dab into his hand.

“Mr. Potter, whatever is the meaning of th-”

“That man standing right in front of you isn’t Professor Moody,” Harry interrupts.

“Whatever do you mean by that, Mr. Potter?”

Ah. And here is a voice belonging to someone that was previously dead to his 23-year-old self. Severus Snape. 

He can’t be bothered to glance at Professor Snape at the moment, though, focusing his attention on Barty Crouch.

“I meant what I said, Professor Snape. That man isn’t Professor Moody. It’s Barty Crouch Jr., our resident Death Eater spy.”

Shouts erupt once again, but Harry continues to stare at Barty Crouch, whose posture has become immensely stiff. Not taking his eyes off the man, Harry unrolls the map and taps it with his wand. Taking advantage of everyone’s distraction, he whispers to it, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” He does need to keep some of his secrets close to his chest, at least.

He only finally takes his eyes off Barty Crouch to look at the map. After the customary message of “Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs - Purveyors of Aid to Magical Mischief-Makers - are proud to present the Marauder’s Map” disappears, Harry stares down at the map, considering what lies before his eyes. He moves his eyes from the castle to the Quidditch patch farther away from it. There he finds the golden ticket: the name belonging to the man imitating Alastor Moody, Bartemius Crouch Jr.

He finally realizes that the group is staring at him, some with looks of disdain and others with looks of intrigue. Harry sighs before raising the map above his head. 

“Well?” he shouts. “Here’s your proof!”

Fudge splutters, “Mr. Potter, we will be needing more evidence than a piece of parchment to support such an outlandish claim.” He turns to Dumbledore, “Honestly, Dumbledore, he clearly needs to be taken to the hospital wing. He is severely unstabl-”

“This map shows everyone at Hogwarts right this second, Minister Fudge. It’s able to identify them by name, even if they’ve never been here before. So before you run off to Rita Skeeter with tales of how I'm ‘unstable,’ at least listen to what I have to say.”

He sees Fudge open his mouth to speak, but interrupts him before he can. “You can see the names of people at the Quidditch Pitch on this map. Professor Dumbledore, Cornelius Fudge, Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall - you get my point. All the names match, except for one. Bartemius Crouch Jr. And Professor Moody’s name just so happens to be missing from the Quidditch Pitch?”

“How can we trust this map to begin with, Mr. Potter?”

Yeah, no. He and his 14-year-old self would be in agreement when it came to hating how bloody cynical Professor Snape. Thanks for making things more difficult than they had to be.

“Professor Snape, I can’t-”

“Professor Snape, sir.”

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, Professor Snape: there’s no need to call me sir.”

Professor Snape takes a deep breath like he’s extremely, extremely perplexed - and that's the important bit as Harry's just realized he only made the comment in his 6th year - but isn't going to let that stop him from wanting to murder Harry. Harry genuinely smiles at the sight; antagonizing the portrait of Professor Snape was just not as fun as antagonizing the real thing.

Professor Snape snipes, “Get to the point, Mr. Potter. Why should we trust this map to be telling the truth?”

“If the map is lying, then Professor Moody should have no problem going under Veritaserum. I’d say he’d encourage it in fact,” and Harry directs his attention to Barty Crouch, “wouldn’t you Professor?”

Barty Crouch gruffly replies, “Of course. Constant vigilance must be kept at all times, after all.”

Fudge exclaims, “You may be the Boy-Who-Lived, but you cannot simply give Veritaserum as you wish. There - there is paperwork you have to fill,  evidence you have to submit…”

Snape crosses his arms, probably trying to intimidate Harry. Harry remains unperturbed but does try to pay attention to what Snape says next. 

“One also has to acknowledge that Veritaserum is unreliable to use. It’s easily resisted if you take the antidote beforehand or already practice Occlumency.”

They probably mentioned this sometime during Auror Training (and he probably should have picked up on this during his time as an Auror), except it’s been too long since being an Auror consumed his focus for him to actually remember any of that.

Harry cards his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. “Okay. Doesn’t stop someone from casting Revelio or waiting for the potion to wear off. And Professor Snape, if you don’t believe me, check what’s inside his flask.”

Professor Snape rolls his eyes but makes an aborted motion towards Barty Crouch. At that, the man places his hand over his flask, blocking it from unwanted touch. 

Professor Snape glances up at him. “Professor Moody, as aggravating as it may be, I would appreciate it if you could momentarily depart from your flask.”

Barty Crouch purses his lips, which looks ridiculous when it takes place on Professor Moody’s face. “Interrogate Potter on his whereabouts before you decide to entertain the possibility of a Death Eater in our midst.”

Snape scoffs. “Whatever happened to constant vigilance, Professor Moody? Professor Dumbledore may be a trusting man in your eyes, but I have survived too much to do you the same.”

Snape begins to close in on Barty Crouch, his curiosity piqued now that Barty reacted the way he did. Barty Crouch unconsciously takes a step back, before taking another, until he’s breaking out into a full-out sprint. Dumbledore immediately jumps into action, shouting, “Stupefy!” as he points his wand at Barty Crouch. 

Once he is incapacitated, Harry casually walks up to where everyone has gathered around Barty Crouch and mildly says, “Well, if that doesn’t prove that that man isn’t Professor Moody, then I don’t know what does.”

Fudge clears his throat. “Now then Mr. Potter, that is not substantial enough to support your outlandish claim.”

Professor McGonagall pushes up her glasses. “You must admit however, Minister Fudge, that it is rather out of character for Professor Moody to act in such a manner.”

“Still-”

But before Fudge can say whatever he was going to say, Professor Moody’s face began to disappear, replaced by features belonging to the man Harry knew to be Barty Crouch Jr. The wooden leg was replaced by real muscle, the clunk it made as it dropped to the floor softened by the grass underneath. The magical eyeball did the same, popping out as a real eye grew in. It swiveled on the grass, eventually rolling to a stop but continuing to stare ominously at the group.

Fudge gawks at the sight below him. Harry would laugh except he doesn’t want the man to turn against him so quickly. Well. Perhaps that’s already inevitable with how Fudge is acting right now.

“Well. I’d say that’s substantial enough, wouldn’t you, Minister Fudge?”

His head shoots up from where it was fixated on Barty Crouch Jr. to look at Harry. “Uh, yes, of course. I will be needing to get in contact with the authorities, request for the presence of De-”

Dumbledore interjects. “Dementors, Minister?”

Fudge looks at Dumbledore as if he is not seeing something that is obviously in front of him. “Of course, Dumbledore. Dementors will be needed if we want to give Barty Crouch the Kiss-”

McGonagall’s voice is sharp as she says, “Without a trial, Minister?”

(And the thought of that makes his blood run cold, reminds him of his godfather who never got a trial, never got to see happiness in his future, never got to live a full life, never got to-)

Fudge only has to say, “Ah, yes, I suppose so,” for McGonagall to rip him a new one. “I understand the sentiment, but we need to interrogate the man and investigate before we can even think of letting him go. Might I remind you that a Death Eater has managed to infiltrate Hogwarts of all places?”

Fudge looks properly cowed after McGonagall scolds him. But, uh. Harry should probably draw their attention to something of more priority. “Professors?”

Dumbledore inclines his head. “Yes, Harry?”

“Professor Moody might be located somewhere in the castle, so maybe we should worry about finding him first? I mean, he must be close by if Barty Crouch Jr. kept up his disguise for so long.”

Dumbledore nods and turns to McGonagall. “Professor McGonagall. Can you comb the castle for Professor Moody’s body? Look in his office first and go from there if you can.” McGonagall gives a short, “Of course,” before turning around and heading towards the castle. The group takes that as their cue to begin following after her, murmuring to each other with voices fraught with distress. 

The only ones left are him, Dumbledore, Snape, Fudge, and the immobile body of Crouch. It’s quiet for only a moment before Dumbledore rubbed his forehead and put out, “We best be heading to the castle to discuss matters further, Minister.”

Fudge cautiously says, “Yes, yes, of course,” his face scrunching up as if the thought offends him.

They turn around and start to leave the pitch. Harry looks down at the ground, only realizing that Cedric Diggory’s body is gone. ‘The Diggorys must have taken him,’ Harry thinks. He can’t help but hope that his meeting with the Diggorys isn’t as heartbreaking as it was the first time around, but he knows that it’s only going to get worse from here.

And it is then that he finally - finally - realizes that he’s no longer a 23-year-old man who’s recovered from the war for the most part. 

(Or at least he tells himself.)

He’s - he’s 14 again, experiencing the one event that forced him to realize that-

(A flash of green appears under the lids of his closed eyes. “Avada Kedavra!” reverberates, the glee in the voice saying it bouncing around in his head and never letting him just be.)

-this was war and...there were never going to be zero casualties. 

“Coming, Harry?”

He looks up and meets Dumbledore’s eyes, flashing a tight smile. “Yeah, Professor Dumbledore. Just...got caught up in thinking about the future.” Dumbledore smiles in response before turning around and walking ahead. 

Harry looks down as he follows after him, watching his feet as he walks. One step at a time, his feet move forward. 

Huh. At least he can’t fuck that up. 

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up, warm and comfortable and not wanting to open his eyes just yet - an odd experience considering how empty his bed typically was. 

Huh. This - this bed is way too comfortable. 

He shoots straight up, his breaths harsh and rapid as he clutches onto the linen sheets. The memories of the last few hours return to him, not that he could ever really forget them. 

Right. So, he’s in the past in his 14-year-old body who’s just fought Voldemort and had to hand Cedric Diggory’s dead body over to the boy's parents - and fuck, he is going to have to have a good scream about that later - only to have to deal with revealing the Death Eater spy hidden in their midst. Yes, definitely sounds like a normal day in the life of the Boy-Who-Lived-Again. 

Harry looks around, remembering that he somehow ended up in the hospital wing sometime in the middle of all the chaos and that Madam Pomfrey forced a Dreamless Sleep potion down his throat. He’s surprised it actually worked, considering how much of a resistance he built to it from how often he used it as an adult. It might just be that his 14-year-old body didn’t have the countless fuck-ups clouding his mind that his 23-year-old body did. 

He’s really sounding more and more pathetic the longer he thinks about how he is as an adult. 

Wait. Did he talk to Shacklebolt and Fudge already? He must have from how peaceful the hospital wing is. He doesn’t remember it being this quiet the first time around. 

‘Okay,’ he thinks, ‘what exactly did I tell them, then?’ He recalls telling them about the Cup being a portkey, about Cedric being killed by an Avada Kedavra, about-

Shit. He didn’t tell them about Voldemort or the Death Eaters, probably because he had the fact that he fucking time-traveled to deal with. Fudge - and he knows it’s definitely Fudge and not Shacklebolt that’s going to come to the conclusion - must have written Cedric’s death off as a casualty of some Death Eater fanatic who wanted to avenge his Lord’s death. And with Barty Crouch Jr. having done what he had, he probably had just called it a day when it came to finding the murderer.

Okay. He - he can fix this. With the situation being what it is, this just means that Fudge and the Prophet aren’t going to be defaming him. He - he just has to tell Dumbledore so that they can come up with a plan of action. 

Merlin, he’s only been in the past for only a few hours and he’s already wrecked things. 

Harry nimbly gets out of his cot, listening for signs of Madam Pomfrey’s distraction - and there it is, her puttering about as she straightens out some of the shelves in the back filled with bandages, potions, or whatever - before rushing out of the hospital wing. He hears her let out an indignant squawk in the distance, but pays no mind to it as he runs to Dumbledore’s office.

He’s doing exactly that, albeit with the distraction of the painful twinge of his ribs as he runs, until he plows straight into something. Harry can feel the thing shifting and elongating at his legs, clasping a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he tilts forwards. 

“Woah, Harry! Slow down there.”

Ah, wonderful. Another person to join his collection of dearly beloved who are miraculously somehow the opposite of dead. 

He only has to meet Sirius’ eyes for a moment before deciding that was a horrible mistake that only serves to make him suffer. So, all he can do is awkwardly say, “Sirius! It’s, uh...nice to see you? In human form?”

Sirius smirks as if he’s in on some joke Harry’s unaware of, which, uh, not cool at all, Sirius. “Whatever you say, Harry. Now, you know it’s not my thing, being responsible and all that, but...shouldn’t you be in the hospital wing?”

Harry squeaks. Honest-to-Merlin squeaks, which he hasn’t done since he was going through-

Well. It’s for the best if he doesn’t think about that. 

“You don’t say, Sirius?!?!”

Sirius shoots a clearly unimpressed look. “Harry.”

He lets out a short breath. “I have to talk to Professor Dumbledore, Sirius. It’s - it’s really important.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so, Harry? Come on, I’ll take you to him. What kind of godfather would I be if I didn’t?”

Harry lets a small smile creep onto his face at that. Merlin. He’s missed this - his godfather - so much.

Before Sirius turns into his Animagus form and they head to the office, Sirius blurts out, “If the sh-I mean, if the stuff that happened hadn’t gone down, I would have congratulated you. It takes guts to share the victory with someone else, especially when-” Sirius pauses, before shaking his head and continuing on, “Well, forget that. What I’m trying to say is that I’m proud of you, Harry, and I’m sure your parents would say the same if they were here.”

Harry lets out a laugh, rough and wet. “Too bad they didn’t get the chance, huh? Getting me away from Voldemort must have been too important, I guess.”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “Wh-What-”

Harry realizes his slip. “I-I’ll explain it to you later. It’s actually what I have to talk to Professor Dumbledore about, so you should definitely come with me.”

Sirius’ nod is hesitant, but he still shifts into the shaggy dog belonging to his Animagus form. 

As they walk, the silence between them no longer the comfortable one Harry was once used to,  Harry can’t help but pay attention to the magic emanating from the castle walls. He remembers how magical the castle was for 11-year-old him, but - he had no idea about how true that was. This castle rebuilt itself out of sheer will when it fell, or maybe when it falls-

And. It - it was almost admirable. How a colossal, breathing castle was better at putting itself back together than most humans.

Harry shakes himself out of his reverie as their steps eventually slow down upon reaching Dumbledore’s office. And it is there that he comes to an unfortunate realization: he does not know the password to the office, and he highly doubts that Sirius does either, especially with how, well, out-of-the-blue this visit is.

He knows that the password is definitely candy-related given, well, to put it mildly, how obsessed with candies Dumbledore was. Sirius seems to have come to the same conclusion, given how he’s shifted out of his Animagus form in order to shout as many names of Wizarding World candies as possible while trying not to rip out his hair.

“Jelly Slugs!”

The gargoyle shakes his head. 

“Shock-a-Chocs!”

Again, the gargoyle shakes his head. 

Sirius pouts. “Come on, my gargoyle friend! Not even a hint?” He even puts on his puppy eyes, which are pretty effective if Harry’s being honest. Not effective enough to convince the gargoyle though, who doesn’t even try shaking his head at this point. 

Yeah, maybe he should help his godfather out. But...it’s pretty hilarious watching Sirius attempt to get into the head of a candy connoisseur. Or maybe a candy maniac is more accurate.

Sirius lets out a long, dramatic wail and falls to his knees which, um. He should probably help him out. 

He steps forward and considers the gargoyle in front of him. “Um, would you be willing to let us in by virtue of asking nicely?”

The gargoyle glances at the drama queen that is his godfather before replying, “If it means getting rid of him, then sure.”

Harry beams. “Thanks! Um, actually, what’s your name? I just realized that I never asked for it even though I’ve been coming to Professor Dumbledore’s office for 4 years at this point.”

‘And many more to come,’ he can’t help but think.

Surprise spreads across the gargoyle’s face, before embarrassment replaces it. “Well, yes, you see - I was never given a name. I’m actually the sixteenth of my kind to be given the job of guarding the office of the Headmaster.”

Harry lets out an excited gasp. “Does that mean that you know the stories about the founders? And previous headmasters?”

The gargoyle nods. “Passed down obviously, so the accuracy of the stories do come into question, but they do mer-”

Sirius, who seems to have finally stopped moping, interrupts, “Not to interrupt this...fascinating conversation, but we ought to get going. Sorry, truly sorry,” except the saccharine smile planted on his face does a real good job of communicating how not sorry he truly is. 

The gargoyle only sighs and steps out of the way, letting them in. They both enter, with Harry inclining his head and flashing a smile as farewell to the gargoyle. The gargoyle waves before returning back to his original position as the door closes behind them. 

As they walked down the stairs, Harry becomes aware of Sirius’ eyes resting on him, which he just dismisses since it’s probably due to the fact that 14-year-old him did not show an interest in anything, much less the Hogwarts founders, other than not getting killed by Voldemort, but-

That’s probably just wishful thinking on his part, especially considering the bomb he just dropped on him. 

“Harry? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital wing?” Dumbledore says, looking up from the papers he was shuffling. Harry spies the names of quite a few significant players on the Wizengamot, so it probably has to do with Barty Crouch’s trial.

“Professor Dumbledore...Minister Fudge and Auror Shacklebolt have - they’ve already talked to you about what I told them, right?”

Dumbledore clasps his hands and nods. “Yes, Harry, they have. Why?”

“You probably know what Minister Fudge thinks then, right?”

Dumbledore’s expression doesn’t change, except - except there’s a blaze in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Yes. Minister Fudge has come to the conclusion that the events following the end of the Triwizard Tournament were the result of Barty Crouch Jr. wishing to avenge his Lord. But...what do you think, Harry? You were, after all, a firsthand witness.”

Harry’s voice is soft and ragged as he says, “Voldemort is back, Professor, and the Death Eaters who escaped Azkaban the first time around are back with him.”

Sirius lets out a breath. “Harry, I knew something horrible happened, but - this?”

Dumbledore seems to share the same sentiments. “Yes, Harry, this is quite different from what Minister Fudge has told-”

“That’s because I didn’t tell him about Voldemort.”

Dumbledore inclines his head in question. “Whatever would you do that for, Harry?”

Harry sighs. “He was already questioning how stable I was, Professor Dumbledore, even before I revealed that Professor Moody was Barty Crouch. If - if I had blurted out that Voldemort had come back, he’d have probably shoved me into St. Mungo’s or at least discredited me in the Prophet. A man like him, who refuses to even consider that a Death Eater spy could be among us, is not gonna wanna hear some, some kid saying that Voldemort is back.” 

“That’s a rather low opinion you have of Minister Fudge, Harry.”

He crosses his arms. “Let’s - let’s just say I know people like him.”

And he does, now that he thinks about it. He spent the first 11 years of his life around them, waiting with bated breath for just one of them to notice what he was going through. But no one ever did, content with their happy lives not being tainted by the nephew the Dursleys had so graciously taken in. 

Sirius clears his throat. “We can’t just let people not know about Voldemort. That’s - that’s just wrong, Harry.”

Harry cards his fingers through his hair. “I - I know, Sirius. I just couldn’t see any way of convincing Minister Fudge that Voldemort is back so I...just didn’t try.”

A comforting hand is placed on his shoulder and Harry looks up to meet Dumbledore’s eyes. And as much as he resents some of the decisions Dumbledore made, especially when it comes to him, he still finds comfort in the warmth in those eyes - those eyes that made him believe that those same decisions were the right thing to do when, maybe, just maybe, they weren’t - and relaxes.

“Harry, we’ll figure this out. I - I admit, I would have expected you to be honest under those circumstances,” and Merlin does the disappointment in Dumbledore’s voice hurt, “but perhaps it is for the better. The Ministry won’t actively be working against us and we have the upper hand if Voldemort is tricked into believing that the Wizarding World is kept in the dark.”

He can’t help but murmur, “Tell people you know are going to listen, Professor Dumbledore. We - we need people on our side, I can’t have another death on my hands, I - I don’t want anyone else to have to become just a name in a speech like Cedric-”

Dumbledore squeezes his shoulder. “Of course, Harry. I’ll try my best.”

Harry knows that that isn’t a promise, that that will never be a promise, but-

But it’s the best he can ask for, and sometimes that’s just going to have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Okay. So, Harry may not have informed the entire Wizarding World of Voldemort’s return, which. Great. Well, not great. In fact, it was the opposite of great. Now that he thinks about it, he should probably be freaking out about it more than he already is, but-

He’s exhausted. Both emotionally and physically. Which makes sense given that he just got flung back in time-

(And Merlin, is he ever going to get over that? The answer, of course, is no.)

-but still. He should be better than this. Or, at least, he should just have to worry about normal things. Like stopping an illegal potions ring or providing some poor soul protection from dark, mysterious - yeah, you get the point. 

But he doesn’t get to have that. No, instead he has to worry about the fact that people who were once dead in his recent memory are now breathing and teeming with life. He has to worry about convincing people he’s not insane, whether it be because he’s a Parselmouth, whispering about Voldemort’s return, or casually mentioning something from the future without realizing.

None of these were exactly helpful when it came to him surviving the month following the end of the Triwizard Tournament. He barely remembers the 1000 galleon prize being handed into his unsuspecting palm, but it was not long before he numbly passed it off to Fred and George-

(Fred who was still alive and breathing, still around to make George cackle at his more daring antics and sarcastic comments, still around to make Ginny beam with glee in her eyes when he’s around her, still around to put a softness in Molly’s smile even when she’s berating him. And George, who no longer walked as if he had lost his other half, whose eyes no longer kept on darting to his left to make sure no one was sneaking up on him, who no longer looked as if every step would be his last because it was only inevitable that he’d tilt on his axis.)

-armed with the knowledge that the Diggorys wouldn’t dare take it. Either way, he couldn’t bear to keep it until the school closed for summer break - the pouch jingling with the coins only served to remind him of what victory had cost him. 

Often during the month, he would find himself staring into space, his mind caught on the happy looks on everyone’s face, not marred by the war and its aftermath. He just couldn’t comprehend how things had changed so quickly in his first life, even though he was there himself.

He would do that, at least until he noticed the identical looks of worry on Ron and Hermione’s face, and as much as his heart panged to see his friends so young, so carefree, he couldn’t handle their looks of pity - he just couldn’t handle the thought that his own sadness was reason enough for his friends to be sad themselves.

But even then, his eyes would often catch on other students, the Slytherins in particular. They seemed...solemn, though many did their best to mask it. There was an air of tension clouding Slytherin House and Harry was well aware that Voldemort was responsible for it.

He couldn’t help but wonder how many of the Slytherins actually believed in pureblood supremacy. He couldn’t help but wonder how many of the Slytherins were forced to keep their heads down, their mouths shut, and their feet firmly planted to the ground just because the loudest voices in their house were those advocating for the wizard’s version of Hitler. It made...sense, in a fucked-up way, because Harry knew this wasn’t anything new, knew that purebloods had been the loudest in the Wizarding World for a bloody long time and Voldemort was “smart" enough to take advantage of that.

(All Voldemort really wanted was to hurt - to hurt others like he had been hurt. So, at the end of the day, it didn’t matter what cause the prick was fighting for. All Voldemort wanted was for others to suffer and latching onto the dissent that had long since been brewing amongst the purebloods was the easiest way for him to do exactly that.)

‘It’s not like it matters,’ Harry would constantly think to himself. It’s not like he could actually convince them to come out of hiding when that would be suicide to their social standing in Slytherin House. Draco-

(And Merlin was it weird to think of Draco as the boy who believed in everything his pureblood father told him, as the boy who tried his bloody hardest to ensure no one got their way if he didn’t allow it, as the boy who was a fucking spoiled brat that had no idea what the cost of war really was. He hated 15-year-old Draco and didn’t know what to do about it.)

-and various others would bloody well make sure of it.

Harry couldn’t spare that much thought to...all of that, though, what with his meeting with the Diggorys. Not because the meeting itself was genuinely better than it was the first time around - far from it. It still remained to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences in his life. 

No, it was the discovery he had made during that meeting that piqued his interest.

It was the day after the Triwizard Tournament was done with once and for all, and Harry was not at all enthused. Today was the day that he would have to meet with the Diggorys again for the second time in his life-

(Or was it for the first time in his second life? Whatever, that’s too much to think about.)

-and he was ready for a sneak attack from McGonagall informing him of such to come any moment during breakfast. 

Someone tapped his shoulder and he - he did not jump out of his seat at the Gryffindor table. No, he simply turned around and flashed a smile that, judging from McGonagall’s narrow eyes, came off as more of a grimace than anything like a smile.

“Yes, Professor?”

McGonagall looked down at him from the glasses perched precariously on her nose for only a moment before deciding he was not even worth the confusion. Or at least, that’s what it looked like from his perspective.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Dumbledore has told me to inform you that you are to meet him in his office.”

“Of course. Um,” and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as he says, “what’s the password, Professor McGonagall?”

McGonagall pointedly looks around at the rowdy kids he is standing next to and raises her eyebrows.

Harry laughs awkwardly. “Oh. Makes sense.”

“I’ll escort you Mr. Potter, so there’s no need to worry.”

He sharply nods and gets up, waving goodbye to Ron and Hermione before hurrying to catch up with McGonagall. 

As they came to a stop in front of Dumbledore’s office, the gargoyle in front of the door lit up at the sight of Harry. Before the gargoyle could move out of the way, however, he quickly shook his head from behind McGonagall and let her say the password. 

He chuckled internally at the thought of the odd acquaintance he had managed to make, but his silent amusement quickly disappeared at the sight of the Diggorys standing at the foot of the staircase. His steps trailed after McGonagall upon seeing them, hesitant and unsure.

Dumbledore speaks from where he stands behind his desk. “Harry. Thank you for coming.”

He numbly says, “Of course, Professor Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore turns to McGonagall, his eyes meeting hers, before turning. “Yes. Professor McGonagall and I will be leaving the room momentarily,” the intent of giving him privacy was implied but not said, “so call us once you are done.”

Harry doesn’t respond, only vaguely noticing their presence moving farther and farther away from him.

He looks up and sees Mr. and Mrs. Diggory standing there.

He opens his mouth, blurting out an, “I-I’m sor-” before pausing, not knowing what to say that wouldn’t sound superficial, wouldn’t sound forced, wouldn’t sound-

After all, how do you apologize to someone for being the reason their son is dead?

In the end, he doesn’t have to. Mr. Diggory simply raises his hand to stop Harry from saying more, and in the silence of the moment, Mrs. Diggory asks for him to tell them how their son died despite-

Despite how much it clearly hurts her to do so. 

Harry does the best he can, knowing they deserve that from him if not more. The relief and pain and anger and - all that they are feeling is palpable, so clearly visible on their faces and it hurts. 

Before they leave, he stops them and quietly says, “Cedric Diggory died a hero. I know that - that doesn’t change things, but-”

“But I didn’t want to die to begin with!”

Harry sucks in a deep breath, and when his eyes look to the side, he can feel his heart stutter at the sight before him.

Cedric Diggory hovers next to him, fists clenched and his eyes bright and furious, only barely clouded by the hint of grief surrounding the boy.

The Diggorys glance worriedly at him before looking in the direction of his gaze, their eyes passing right over their son.

He lets out a breath and turns to the Diggorys. “It was nice meeting you Mr. and Mrs. Diggory, though I wish it wasn’t because of-” 

He doesn’t have to say it for the Diggorys to get what he’s trying to say, which he’s thankful for. Earnestly, he says, “Cedric was lucky to have had parents who cared about him as much as you two do.”

They nod, tears still pricking at Mr. Diggory’s eyes as Mrs. Diggory guides him gently out of the office.

The silence becomes unbearable, waiting to be broken by a pin dropping to the floor, or more likely, with the entrance of Dumbledore and McGonagall.

Except he is of course proven wrong. Instead, the thing breaking the silence is Cedric huffing as he cards his fingers through his hair, looking very much like he wants to break down into tears. His voice breaks as he murmurs to himself over and over again, “I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to-”

The door opens, but before Dumbledore and McGonagall come in, Harry finds himself saying, “I know, Cedric. I know,” even though he knows, he knows...how much this is going to destroy him.

Cedric’s head whips in his direction, shock spreading across his face, but before he can say anything and force Harry to drown in his sorrows, Dumbledore and McGonagall enter.

Harry plasters a smile onto his face-

(“Keep your head down, boy, and stay out of the way. No one wants to see you, much less hear you whine like a selfish brat.”)

-despite how much it feels like he’s killing himself in doing so.

Chapter Text

He began to see the others around the castle after that. 

Bertha Jorkins, he would see jabbering at whatever poor soul she latched onto, having likely already forgotten once again that no one could hear her. The old man would wander around the school, eyes glimmering with awe at all the magic surrounding him, before quickly becoming filled with anger and hate at the reminder of the man who had killed him. His - his parents, he would see tucked away in some corner laughing at some joke his dad must have made, before their eyes would wander from each other and latch onto him, pricking the back of his neck.

But the worst of them all was Cedric, who knew Harry could see him, could hear him, could talk to him, but refused to. The look on his face when he opened his mouth to speak to him only to be promptly ignored as Harry rushed past him was hard to bear, but it was a burden that he would bear if only it meant not having to be reminded of how badly he failed the Hufflepuff. 

It’s the night before he must return to Privet Drive and he simply hates.

He doesn’t know exactly what he hates. Maybe himself for doing absolutely bloody nothing this entire month - simply going through the motions every second he breathes. Maybe Dumbledore for not letting him go with the Weasleys-

(He knew not to get his hopes up when Ron fumbled out that his mum had asked Dumbledore to let him spend the summer, but - but he just couldn’t stop his useless heart from dropping into his stomach when Ron had said that Dumbledore wanted him to go back with the Dursleys.)

-because he was so sure that Harry would find no fault in him. Maybe the Dursleys for hating him because magic flows in his blood, the same magic that flowed in his mother that Tuney hated because she couldn’t have it-

(It’s only in the darkest and quietest of nights that he lets himself wonder what he would have been like if his parents raised him. Would they have coddled him and spoiled him like Dudley was? Or would they be lovingly stern with him and set boundaries like the Weasleys? Maybe they would have been a combination of both. But he’ll never know because they’re dead.)

-and so she chased her yearning for an impossible future away by settling down for a bland, monotone present. 

Harry finally begins to feel sleep’s grasp on him, his eyes fluttering shut every few seconds from the struggle of staying awake, and so goes to cast, “Muffliato,” before he forgets. He remembers vividly how visceral his nightmares were as an adult and he’s not willing to use the other fourth year Gryffindor boys as test subjects. 

“You’re still awake,” someone quietly says, as if they can’t believe it themselves. 

Harry’s eyes shoot open and he sits up, grabbing his glasses and putting them on so he doesn’t have to go grasping blindly for his wand. 

Ah.

Cedric is sitting, or floating, on the edge of his bed, hands clasped in his lap as he looks down at them.

Harry plasters a smile on his face and cracks a joke to fill the awkward silence. “Gee, Cedric, if I had known you liked me enough to follow me to my own bed, I wouldn’t have asked Cho out like an utter dumbass.”

Cedric chuckles awkwardly, as if he doesn’t really find the joke funny but doesn’t want to offend Harry. The tips of his ears are tinted red, though not as ferocious of a red as the color of the Weasleys’ hair.

“Then you’d be more traumatized than you already are, wouldn’t you? Imagine having to carry the body of the dude you went out with at the Yule Ball! I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’d have to say that running while spells were fired down on me and as I had to carry your body has to be the most riveting experience of the year.”

Oops. He probably went too far with that one.

Cedric’s face twists like he wants to laugh but also doesn’t because Harry has to admit that laughing about your death is kind of an all-time low.

Especially when you only died a few days ago.

Harry looks away, grasping his wand tightly, upon remembering that. He doesn’t know why all the spectres that had poured out of his wand are now here in the castle, but - maybe he doesn’t want to know.

Cedric rubs the back of his neck. “So, ah, does this mean you’re done ignoring me, Harry?”

Harry stiffens. 

“So no, I’m guessing.”

Harry’s fingers dig into his palms. “What do you want me to say, Cedric? That I’m just fine and dandy talking to the ghost of the one person I failed? That I’m ecstatic to be reminded of how I bloody rui-”

“Harry, it’s not your fault I died. Why can’t you get that through your head? It was no one’s fault but You-Know-Who and he’s going to get what he deserves in the end. I know he will.”

“Why are you so sure about that? How can you be so sure about that when you’re dead and-”

“What? Do you think I like being dead? Do you think I like not being able to even talk to my bloody parents because they can’t even see me? Harry, just because I’m bloody dead doesn’t mean I can’t hold onto some hope.”

“But that’s the problem! When you were actually dead, I could just - I don’t know, think of you as a martyr and honor your memory. Linger in my sorrows and then move on, holding onto the hope that the future will make up for this. Because, that’s what everyone’s going to do. Host a ball in your honor and mourn you before deciding that politics and prejudice are more important. But now that you’re - here, I can’t stop thinking of how you were a real person that I never knew and that so many other people never knew. And it’s just so unbelievably fucked up that people just think that the future is enough to erase our failure because you had so much to live for and now you can’t even do that.”

Cedric looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Harry doesn’t know what to say either, so he guesses that they’re in the same boat. 

Except that Cedric crosses his arms around his chest and stubbornly says, “Okay then, Harry. Would you like to get to know me? Because I can tell you a lot.”

And Harry can tell that this is an olive branch, but for once, he’s not afraid to accept it. 

“My birthday’s on September 29, for one. I was born to Amos and Samaira Diggory, you’ve already met them. My abba always thought I was going to be a Ministry official like him. If not, he thought that maybe I’d even become an Auror, but I always wanted to become a Healer like my imma. I just - one of my best childhood memories is my imma helping me heal whatever animal I decided to bring into the house that week, and...I just loved that. Helping people just helped me feel at peace with myself, I guess.

“I never told my abba this, though. He always wanted me to go into the Ministry and make a name for himself, become great , and I just...didn’t want to let him down. He was always so bloody proud of who he thought I was and not who I actually was. But he was still a great abba, and I’m...going to miss him and my imma.

“Um...what else...oh! When I got my wand, it was 12 ¼ inches, made out of ash wood and with unicorn hair. It was an ordinary day spent shopping for school supplies, but what Mr. Ollivander had whispered to me that day stands out. ‘Some day, the loss of your innocence is needed to keep the balance of things.’ I guess he was talking about my death, but my parents had just written him off as an old man who didn’t know what he was talking about. Maybe...maybe they shouldn’t have.

“Ignore that actually! Let’s...let’s talk about happier things. Like...I met Cho in my second year! She was so bloody worried that she’d be a horrible wizard and that she wouldn’t make friends so I just...jumped in and comforted her. We hit it off from there, and we started dating only this year because Cho was afraid she would never get to be with me before I left Hogwarts. I - I loved her, I guess, even though I was still so young. She was so radiant and sharp and - just, how could I have not fallen in love with her?”

Harry can’t help but agree. Even though he doesn’t have feelings for Cho anymore - and the thought of having feelings for any of the Hogwarts students feels bloody weird because they’re just so bloody young - he remembers how present Cho had been, even after their relationship had fallen apart. 

Cedric is pulled out of his reverie when he realises he’s talking about the girl Harry had asked out, only to be rejected. “Oh, sorry mate, it’s probably insensitive of me to be talking about Cho-”

Harry laughs at Cedric fumbling together an apology. “It’s fine, Cedric. You guys made a cute couple, and it matters more that she’s happy than what I feel. Besides, I guess I knew we weren’t meant to be, so it’s nice to at least have the confirmation.”

He suddenly remembers the time when he notices how dark it is through the curtains surrounding his bed. Casting a quick, “Tempus,” he pales to see how late in the night - or early in the morning if he’s being honest - it is and Cedric lets out a small laugh. 

“Okay, I’ve clearly kept you up longer than I needed to-”

“Gee, thanks for realizing that Cedric.”

“-so good night, Harry.”

“Do ghosts even need sleep?” Harry muses. 

Cedric huffs, “Hell if I know, but they haven’t removed my bed from the dormitories yet so I’d like to think it’s calling my name,” before turning around and floating out of the room.

Merlin, he is never going to get used to that.

He wakes up the next morning at 6 am, feeling like utter shit. It doesn’t help that the thought of who dead people were when they were alive is prevalent in his thoughts for some reason. 

Harry gets up and sighs at how dark it still is, before forcing himself into the bathroom. The water is cold on his face, refreshing enough to force him into a semblance of wakefulness.

He stares at the mirror. Lily Potter’s bright green eyes stare back, taking in James Potter’s messy hair, her delicate nose, and James’ thin lips.

They were real people before they became dead. They were more than just stories told to him by people who did and didn’t know them alike. They were his - his parents and they cared about him and they cared about each other and-

He turns around and breaks out into a run, not paying mind to any of the boys he may wake up. They’re probably too deep in their slumber to even hear him.

Harry passes by Hermione in the common room, who looks like she wants to ask why he's running, but he ignores her, rushing out the entrance and sprinting down the steps. 

He - at least whenever he sees them - always sees his parents tucked in an alcove on the fourth floor and so his feet take him there without him guiding them.

His steps stutter to a stop as his parents’ eyes latch onto him.

“Hi Mum, Dad. It’s nice to finally get to talk to you, I guess, even though-”

His dad smiles. “Even though we’re dead? By Merlin, you do not know how much I agree, Prongslet. I guess it’s nice to know that great minds do think alike, though.”

His mum lets out a sigh, even though there’s a smile on her face. “Don’t listen to him, Harry. I’m just glad that we can talk to you now.”

His dad lets out an offended gasp, “Prongslet, you should always listen to me. The advice I could have been giving you on pranks-” before his parents fall into playful banter.

Harry lets himself smile, and things feel-

Not right. But-

Better. 

(Harry, of course, would not have thought that if he had realized that the ghosts of Bertha Jorkins and the old man had simply faded away, as if they were erased out of existence, no longer necessary for the order of things.

They had served their purpose, though it would be a long while before Harry would begin to realize what that purpose may even be.)

(But still. 

“Better” is...fitting for Harry’s circumstances.)

Chapter Text

But it is not long before Harry has to leave his parents for the harsh atmosphere clouding Hogwarts. And, as horrible as it is to say such a thing, Harry can actually relate to Tom Riddle for once in his life.

Oh, not because he agrees with pureblood supremacy - honestly, it is bloody terrifying how genocidal some pureblood supremacists could be. 

No, it is because he can finally see what it feels like to want something enough that you would die for it but still never be able to have it. 

Tom had wanted an escape from the orphanage dooming him to dying forgotten and a freak.

And now, Harry wants the life he would never get with his parents - all because he had gotten a single taste of the forbidden fruit. For once, Dumbledore’s words to him as a first year rang true in his mind because his desires were now as real as they could be.

Harry sighs, shaking his head as he levitates his trunk and Hedwig’s cage towards the Great Hall. 

He settles down at the Gryffindor table. And eventually, Ron and Hermione sit next to him. Ron is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes whilst lazily making grabs at the food on the table. Hermione’s cloudy eyes, as much as she would profusely declare otherwise, show how tired she is, even as she voraciously reads a book titled Runic Rituals in Various Cultures.

Harry perks up at the sight. He may have never been much interested in runes for their magical purposes as a teenager - same for him as an adult - because of how bloody theoretical the class was, but he enjoyed glancing at the various runes that existed. Oddly enough, they really gave him a good look into other cultures, something he took solace in given that he never got a long enough vacation as an adult to even bother thinking about leaving the country.

But, wait, he can’t exactly just ask Hermione to take a glance at it because Hermione is really oddly protective of her books - which, from the lens of a 23-year-old was both amusing and highly worrying. Then, there is the fact that he hadn’t exactly...liked learning. Well, for the sake of it, at least.

Merlin. Being his typical 14-year-old self was hard sometimes.

Dumbledore stands up at the staff table and everyone quieted down.

The speech is the same as it had been the first time around, the only difference being that Barty Crouch Jr. is now held responsible for Cedric’s death - which, as indirect as it was, was the man’s fault. Still, blaming a Death Eater avenging his Lord for Cedric’s death rather than the Lord himself does nothing to sway people away from following him. But, it does protect Harry from a smear campaign that would make any normal person kill themselves and gives him more mobility to do as he pleased. So, as far as Harry could say, he wasn’t going to be complaining about the end result of his fuck-up. 

Dumbledore ends his speech once again with, “Remember Cedric Diggory,” and this time around, Harry knows that he would. 

Harry clenches his fist at the thought, staring down at his trunk. Why couldn’t he have traveled to before the third event? To before he had to face Voldemort? To before Cedric died? To before-

“‘Arry!”

Harry glances up to see Fleur running towards him, pushing through the crowd of students as she did so.

She slows down upon reaching him, barely looking out of breath. Harry can’t help being impressed. Fleur is bloody athletic and her running that distance with as little effort as that just continues to prove it to him.

"We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope," Fleur says as she holds out her hand. "I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my Eenglish."

Harry jabs Ron in the stomach before he embarrasses himself with whatever he was going to warble. 

And then he pauses. And thinks.

“We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.”

A smile curves onto Harry’s face as he accepts Fleur’s hand. “Of course Fleur! I can’t imagine how it must have felt like for a 14-year-old to somehow enter into the Triwizard Tournament, so it’s really nice of you to say that. In fact, how about we write to each other? I just can’t imagine falling out of contact with you and Victor after the shitstorm,” Hermione lets out an offended gasp at that, but Harry ignores it in favor of watching the sharp smile that graces Fleur’s face, “we went through together, you know?”

Fleur nods thoughtfully. “Yes. Ez true that it would be foolizh to let go of such a strong bond.”

“Especially in such trying times. Who knows who could come back to haunt our dreams this very second?”

Maybe, just maybe, Fleur would understand what he was trying to convey. Veela, after all, were able to entrance people like it was nobody’s business; that had to rely on some form of...understanding of their admirers on their part. 

And she does. 

A glint appears in Fleur’s eyes. She sighs mournfully, drawing the eyes of many of the boys around her. The fools. They can’t recognize a viper poised to strike.

“Yez, wizarding history does lend itzelf to horrible people.”

Harry hums. “Especially megalomaniac dark lords, wouldn’t you say?”

Fleur opens her mouth as if to suck in a deep breath, but stops short, instead smiling pleasantly at Harry. “Yez, it would zeem zo.”

Harry nods, expecting for Fleur to say her farewells and go. But instead-

Instead, she sweeps him up in a hug, clasping him tightly. Harry stiffened in her grasp, but when she whispers, “I’m zo zorry you had to go through that, Harry,” he lets himself relax.

Eventually, she lets go of him, shouting out, “Good-bye, 'Arry. It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!" before she sprinted to Madame Maxime. 

Ron puts out, “What was that about?”

Harry smiles. “I made a friend.”

Ron looks like he wants to ask more, but instead he redirects the conversation. “Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting back. D' you reckon they can steer that ship without Karkaroff?"

"Karkaroff did not steer," Krum’s gruff voice interrupts. "He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork."

Ron jumps and looks up, eyes wide as if he was a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. 

Harry takes pity on Ron and distracts Krum. “Krum! It’s good to see you before you go!”

Krum nods solemnly. “Yes. It is nice to see you, too.”

“I was wondering - do you want to write to each other this summer? It’s just, after all we went through, it’d feel odd if we didn’t, you know?”

“Yes. I vould like that very much.”

Harry claps his hands together. “Great! You should probably ask Fleur too, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

The conversation stutters to a stop, as Krum’s eyes dart to Hermione and then back to Harry. He abruptly says, “I liked Diggory. He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang. It’s just - horrible that he vos murdered by a Death Eater.”

Harry lets out a breath before steeling himself. “I’m sure he would be happy to know that. Though...I’m sure he would want everyone to remember him for more than the man who murdered him.”

Krum frowns, probably at how vaguely he had referred to Cedric’s murderer. “I suppose that is true.”

Harry nods. “Of course. That coward doesn’t deserve such credit, having fled from death even though he marks others with it.”

There. That should be blatant enough that Krum can get it, but subtle enough that it wouldn’t draw the attention of everyone else.

Krum jerkily nods. This time around, Harry holds out his hand, which Krum firmly shakes. 

Harry leans back as Krum lets go of his hand, amused at the thought of how Ron is going to react when Krum offers him his hand to shake.

Except. It doesn’t go exactly the way he expected.

Krum offers his hand, yes, and Ron accepts, vaguely looking like he wants to vomit.

But then, Krum puts out, “You are a good man, Ron - stubborn and villing to defend your friends vhen it matters most. I am happy that Hermione has you as a friend. I vould hope that ve could be friends as vell.”

Ron smiles, probably because this is his Quidditch icon asking him to be his friend, before he realises what he’s doing and his expression becomes neutral - which is better than what he would have done before, if Harry thinks about. It’s not a scowl at the least.

Krum seems to pick up on the change in facial expression too, it seems. 

Clasping his hand onto Ron’s shoulder, he says, “You should smile more. It’s nice - just like Hermione’s.”

Harry’s mind is racing. Does - does Krum realize what he’s implying?

Ron blushes, almost as red as the freckles splattered over his face. Krum doesn’t even notice, too busy staring at Ron’s eyes to notice.

Huh. Maybe not.

Krum seems to realize what he came here for, and turns to Hermione. Ron is too speechless to even protest, which Harry silently thanks Merlin for.

As they leave to talk in private, Harry catches Ron wistfully staring at both of their backs and decides to pull him out of his pining.

“I don’t know about you, but that was pretty smooth, especially coming from Krum.”

“What?” Ron squeaks.

Harry steadily stares at Ron. Ron desperately stares back.

“No. No. He couldn’t have been flirting with me. Could he? No! He’s with Hermione anyways, so it doesn’t even matter.”

Harry pats Ron’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Ron. I’m sure once you and Hermione pull your heads out of your asses, the three of you can be happy together.”

Harry turns and leaves, heading towards the carriages. While it’s probably pretty heartless of him to abandon Ron in his time of need - more like during his sexuality crisis - he’s sure that Ron deserves some time alone to do some tremendous soul-searching.

Well. It was bound to happen eventually.

He pulls to a stop in front of one of the carriages, deciding to just dutifully wait for the others. 

The castle catches his eyes.

This is his home, the one place where he can feel like himself.

And he is leaving the two people that would have been his home in there.

The Mirror of Erised was right. “I show not your face but your desires,” but in the end, it was just a useless mirror that couldn’t bring his parents back to life and with him, no matter how much he wanted it.

He can feel his legs cramp up and finally gives up on waiting for Ron and Hermione, turning around to head inside.

“Hey, wait! Prongslet!”

Harry turns around, almost getting whiplash. The sight he sees - 

It feels like he’s breathing fresh air for the first time.

“Hi Mum, Dad.”

“Harry, I’m so glad that we didn’t miss you before you left. Your dad just refused to wake up this morning like the absolute child he is,” his mum says, glaring at his dad.

Harry smiles before catching a glimpse of Cedric behind them. “Cedric? What are you doing here?”

Cedric shrugs. “Well, it’s going to be pretty lonely in the castle, and being around my parents is just - well, I’m sure you know. So, I thought I might as well follow you home, since you’re the only one who can see me.”

Harry swallows, a pit forming in his stomach. “I’m not sure you - or any of you guys - want to do that.”

His mum’s face is mournful as she says, “I know, Harry. I know. I wish that - it didn’t have to be this way, that my past has to ruin your present, but-”

His dad interrupts. “Sometimes you need people around to help you get through it, no matter how horrible,” and he says this viciously, like he hates the fact that it is the way it is, “it may be.” He turns to Cedric. “Don’t you think, Cedric?”

Cedric chimes in, realizing the skeletons in the closet he had brought up to the surface. “Yeah. I mean, I’m pretty sure this - me dying, I mean - would have been much worse if it weren’t for you being able to see me, Harry, so...Let us help you, I guess. It won’t change what I think of you. I mean, you saw me at my worst, so there’s not much lower you can get.”

Harry drawls, “Hah. I guess you haven’t seen Tuney when she gets into one of her fits, then.”

His mum’s eyes grow dark, and his dad clasps her shoulder. She, well, she doesn’t relax, but she looks like she pushes down any urges to commit murder. 

Huh. He can see where Snape got his glare from.

She eventually pulls herself out of her murderous rage, instead floating up to Harry.

"Can I hug you, Harry?"

"...H-hug me? Mum, why are you even asking-"

"I think you've spent more than enough of your life dealing with the horrible decisions people made by assuming, Harry."

"Oh."

His dad chimes in. "Well, Prongslet? What do you say? And don't think that once you let your mum hug you that you'll be able to escape from me!"

Harry shakes his head, not trying that hard to hide his amusement.

"Well, I guess I can't leave you hanging, Mum. Who knows what Dad will do to me?"

His mum scoffs. "Ignore your dad. It doesn't register in his head th-"

Harry interrupts her, sweeping her up in a hug and clutching tightly to her.

"Well," his mum says wryly, "I guess that's at least one thing that hasn't changed."

Harry huffs. "Mum, why do I feel like you weren't sure if I would just pass through you?"

"Now, where would you get an idea like that from?"

"Okay, Mum."

A few moments pass. 

"I know a lot of things have changed, Harry. Since you were a baby. Since you entered Hogwarts. Since this year. But...you're still Harry. And that's never going to change."

His voice is light as he says, "I don't know about that, Mum. Since I'm from the future and all that."

Harry doesn't know what possessed him to admit to that. Maybe the thought of carrying such a burden was too much. Maybe he knew that these three that only he can see are the only people he can tell his secret to. 

Well, whatever it was…

His mum squawks in surprise. "Harry, what-"

"I'll explain it all to you and the others later. But...not right now."

His mum narrows her eyes. "You better explain yourself later, Harry."

Before he can reply, Hermione shouts his name, and he looks up, amused to see Ron numb as he is dragged by her. The three of them - his mum, his dad, and Cedric - move towards him, trailing after him as he climbs up the steps into the carriage.

The chatter during the ride is inane, the only remarkable thing being Rita Skeeter’s status as an animagus, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

His parents and Cedric are following him to the Dursleys, and given how dead they are, they probably won’t be able to change what he’s going to have to suffer through. They probably won't be able to change the fact that he's a man pushed out of his own time and into another. They probably won't be able to change-

But maybe that doesn't matter. Because at least for now, he had people to pick him up when he fell down.

Chapter Text

The summer at the Dursleys was hot and humid, far more than he remembered it being the first time around. The large hydrangea bush near the open window of the house, on the other hand, was just as uncomfortable and prickly as ever.

It wasn’t like there was any need for him to be paying attention to the news, especially since it was practically seared into his memory. In fact, he could probably guess how much more violent the Death Eaters had become in their attacks since there was no one declaring that Voldemort was back and all that. 

He vaguely hears Aunt Petunia loudly whispering to Uncle Vernon about a famous actress's divorce, “As if we're interested in their sordid affairs.”

“Please, Tuney, as if I can forget how much you obsessed over those teen magazines when we were children. You had so many you could have suffocated me with them,” his mum drawls, shuddering in disgust at the memory. 

Oh. And then there’s that. 

He pretty much has the perfect agents for espionage and he didn’t even ask for them. Not that he’s not grateful for their presence - no, in fact, it’s the opposite, since they made a summer with no contact from his friends nearly bearable - but it was just a rather...jarring experience.

Especially since his mum looks like she wants to strangle Aunt Petunia. His dad was nowhere in sight, meaning he couldn’t talk her down-

(Seriously, anyone who thought that Lily Potter was the more responsible of the two was wrong. She was just better at getting off scot free when she put her mind to it.)

-which, great. Cedric, on the other hand, was quite obviously ignoring his struggles in favor of “poking”-

(Cedric can’t even interact with any solid objects other than Harry.)

-at the plants Aunt Petunia had in her garden. Yeah, whoever said that Hufflepuffs were supposed to be loyal was, once again, wrong.

Harry sighs, seeing no point in listening to the news when nothing is even happening, before crawling away from his spot underneath the window. He gets up and dusts off whatever dirt was still stuck to his clothes, even though that didn’t do much to change the fact that they were still Dudley’s shitty hand-me-downs.

“I’m heading inside,” Harry quietly calls out, receiving a perfunctory glance from his mum who’s still glaring at Aunt Petunia. Cedric looks up at him and glances back at Harry’s mum as if considering his options.

He gets up.

It seems that Harry is the more reasonable choice of the two. 

Harry opens the door and closes it quietly behind him and Cedric. Cedric, unfortunately, cannot float through solid objects like typical ghosts-

(Is he even a ghost? Or are Cedric and his parents just remnants of Priori Incantatem? Do they even exist? Maybe they’re just figments of his imagination and he should prepare himself-)

-as they learned from several times-

(Yes, several times. Harry never said that they particularly had any common sense.)

-of him slamming quite viciously into walls, doors, and other assorted solid objects. All of this means that Harry often has to hold open doors for what looks to be air. Of course, once Harry figures out if the three of them can manipulate matter around them-

(Seriously, why is it so hard to open a bloody door?!?!)

-then they should be fine...ish.

Creeping up to his room is an easy feat, especially since Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are enthralled by whatever is playing on the telly. Cedric makes a face at them as they pass by the two and Harry has to shove his laughter down lest they get caught.

They somehow make it to his room without any mishaps, and with it comes an unsteady sense of safety. Unsteady by virtue of it being the Dursleys he has to unfortunately put up with it, but it still provided some form of escape from them so Harry would just suck it up and take what he could get.

There was also the fact that Harry had managed to scurry his school supplies into his room, even when being yelled at by Uncle Vernon about where his supplies were and that he better not even think of doing any of the things those freaks do and-

Yeah, not a particularly enjoyable experience.

He had taken advantage of the last Hogsmeade weekend - while simultaneously being surprised that they even had one to begin with - to go to Dervish and Banges and buy a bag with an Extension Charm on it. Which led to him spending the entire train ride back to Kings Cross trying to shove his trunk into the bag, a feat he somehow managed even though the opening of the bag was so bloody small. 

Honestly, shrinking his trunk probably would have been easier and require less effort, but - and there always was a but - he would have had to unshrunk it at the Dursleys if he wanted to not have his supplies locked up. All of this would have resulted in another warning from the Improper Use of Magic Office which was just too much of a hassle. He still hadn’t gotten the chance to test if wandless magic would have the same effect, but given that the Ministry would just likely equate that to accidental magic from a 14-year-old, it would just mean another visit from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. 

Let it never be said that Harry Potter actually appreciated all of the bureaucracy involved with the Ministry. 

Cedric interrupts his thoughts, “So, uh, what are we supposed to be doing here exactly?”

Harry sighed, placing his palm on his forehead. “Honestly, I have no idea, Cedric. It’s not like I can go out hunting Death Eaters since that’s, for one, highly suicidal, and two, none of you guys would let me do that. Hermione and Ron aren’t telling me anything about what’s going on in the wizarding world, like my first time around, which makes for a bloody wonderful situation since the Prophet’s just so helpful. You’d think maybe they’d have changed the second time around, but no, they still have to publish subpar articles.”

Cedric chuckles. “Not everyone’s travelled back in time like you have, Harry. And besides, you have to admit that the articles the Prophet’s writing about what I got up to during my life are pretty amusing. Though,” and he sighs dramatically, “they could never reach the level of scandal that Rita Skeeter’s articles had.”

Harry huffs. “Yes, Cedric. I never knew that Cho and the two of us were secretly involved in a sordid affair. Or that your father had secretly trained you in the elusive Muggle practice of accounting. Or that-”

“Okay, okay Harry, I get it. The Prophet is bloody useless and should not be trusted against all costs.”

Harry smirks. “Really, are you sure? Because I’d love to regale with more tales of your feats! There’s this absolutely perfect one about how you had been consorting with the Hogwarts house elves so they can help you-”

“Harry, as much as I love you, you really ought to stop bullying Cedric. Look at what you’ve done to the poor boy!” his mum interrupts.

“Of course, Mum,” he says sweetly. 

His mum groans, “Merlin, you’re just as much of a menace as your dad sometimes.”

His eyes are innocent and wide as he says, “Whatever could you mean, Mum? Me? A menace like Dad?”

Cedric chokes on his breath, trying not to laugh. His mum glares at him without much heat-

(He would know what a heated glare would look like, having often been on the receiving end of Snape’s famous glares.)

-but it quickly softens into an amused smile. His mum leans over to ruffle his hair, and he has to resist the urge to flinch away. His mum still picks up on how stiff he is, her eyes darkening as a result.

He directs her attention elsewhere. “Speaking of Dad, where exactly is he?”

His mum smirks, “Oh, I told him I’m on my period.”

Harry chokes while Cedric nods, “Ah, he’s gonna have to hunt down sanitary products. My imma made me do it all the time for her cause my abba just over thought it way too much.”

(Harry had to do the same for Aunt Petunia in the past because both Uncle Vernon and Dudley are, unsurprisingly, utterly useless for that sort of thing. Doesn’t mean he actually knew what those products were for when he was a kid. Or that he wants to think about it now of all times.)

Harry cannot even be bothered to think about how calm Cedric is as he says, “Um, are you on your period?”

His mum flaps her hands at her, waving off his concern, “Nope. I’m pretty sure I can’t even get my period what with me being a ghost and all that. But with him gone, no one’s gonna stop me from decimating the Dursleys.”

Harry pales. “Ah, have fun with that, Mum!” 

His mum nods. “Obviously, I can’t do it right this moment, but planning their doom is just as satisfying. Anyways, what are you doing?”

Cedric dryly puts out, “Harry here is trying to figure out what to do with himself.”

“Did you at least finish your homework, Harry?”

Harry groans. “Mum, I’ve had so much free time that I could do my homework five times over and then still have time to read all my textbooks three times over. At the rate things are going, I’m actually gonna have to be good at Potions.”

(He doesn’t mention that much of this is stuff he’s already learned in his first life. He’s pretty sure everyone here is aware of that.)

His mum scrunches her nose at the thought of her son not being good at Potions-

(Honestly, some people have just never blown up a single cauldron in their life and it shows.)

-but crosses her arms. “Harry, that doesn’t answer the question.”

“Yeah, Mum, I did.”

“Then why don’t you just head over to Diagon Alley?”

Harry hits his head with his palm. “By Merlin, Mum, you’re a genius!”

His mum grins. “While I am already aware of that, it does feel nice to have someone recognize my efforts.”

Cedric worriedly says, “But what about the Dursleys? They’re not...exactly gonna like you ditching.”

“It’s fine, Cedric. They’ve spent this entire summer forgetting that I even exist after I give them breakfast. As long as I get back by dinner time, I should be fine.”

Harry purposefully does not mention the guards Dumbledore might have watching him, pretty confident in his ability to lull them into the idea that he was moping inside 4 Privet Drive where he’s “safe.”

Cedric only says, “...Okay, if you say so,” to this before changing the topic, “Well, if you’re heading to Diagon Alley, you might as well take the Knight Bus. It’s actually pretty ingenious, just having to stick out your wand arm-”

He trails off upon seeing Harry looking like he wants to vomit. “...Or not.”

Harry tersely states, “One time was enough for me, I’d say.”

His mum enthusiastically says, “This is where the beauty of Muggle transportation comes into play!”

Famous last words.

“You said that this is where the beauty of Muggle transportation would come into play, Mum!” Harry quietly hisses, trying not to draw the attention of the rest of the people shoved up against him in the train car. 

His mum taps her chin in contemplation as she floats above the crowd. “Did I really? I can’t seem to recall if I did.”

His dad can only offer a shrug in response. “Sorry, Prongslet, but the first thing you have to learn is to never trust your mum, especially when she says something with enthusiasm of all things.”

His mum sniffs. “I resent that.”

“Doesn’t stop it from being true, honey.”

Cedric is pulled away from his wide-eyed inspection of the train car as he floats on his back. “I would have thought that you had used the railway before.”

Harry shakes his head, ignoring the few people that are warily eyeing him. Great , now people think he’s insane . Not like he isn’t already used to that. “The Dursleys never let me go with them when they were travelling. Usually, they just passed me to Ms. Figg.”

His dad’s eyes widened. “Arabella Figg? Isn’t she a Squib?”

Harry nods, feigning shock as he doesn’t want to mention his encounter with Dementors. “Really? I hadn’t realized in the first timeline since all she did was leave me with her cats, but I guess that means Dumbledore at least has someone watching me.”

His parents exchange a glance. His mum opens her mouth, but his dad shakes his head before she can speak.

Instead, his dad leans forward to tell Harry, “You know, I saw in the Prophet you got today that Barty Crouch Jr. was sentenced to lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban. Honestly, I’m surprised that Fudge didn’t just execute him before a trial could even happen, what with the psycho’s appearance drawing people’s attention to You-Know-Who again.”

Harry pales. “Shit! I didn’t even think of that when I exposed him. I-I just thought everything would be fine cause everyone was ready to stop Fudge before he set Dementors on the bastard.”

Cedric interrupts before his worries become too big. “Well, Barty Crouch Jr. isn’t directly connected to Voldemort, you know, coming back to life, at least as far as law enforcement can tell, so it’d look really bad if Fudge executed him without a trial.”

“Besides, Harry,” his mum says in a mollifying tone, “Dumbledore wouldn’t let things get that far. He’s Supreme Mugwump.”

Before Harry can make a retort about how Dumbledore’s position in a corrupt government didn’t spare Barty Crouch Jr.’s neck the first time around,  the conductor announces, “This is Waterloo Station.”

Harry gets off, jostled by the crowd of people getting off. 

“Harry! The bus is in the opposite direction!” his mum shouts after him.

He shouts, “I know!” before beginning to sprint the mile from the station to the Leaky Cauldron, leaving his parents and Cedric to chase after him.

Hey, he has to keep in shape somehow!

Harry takes a step into Gringotts Bank.

No alarms ring. No goblins rush up to him with excessively pointy goblin swords. No sphinxes spit scathingly complex riddles that are too much for his brain to handle.

He lets out a breath. 

And then promptly chokes on his spit when his dad says right next to him, “Jeez, it’s like you’re trying to hide a stiffie with how still you are.”

Cedric looks more and more like he wants to die, no matter how impossible that is, while his mum only screeches, “James! Not around the children!”

His dad scoffs, folding his arms, “Yeah, it’s totally not like they haven’t heard that stuff from their roommates…” and seems to mutter under his breath, “And besides, you’ve said way worse.”

Yeah, Harry really didn’t need to know that. 

He hisses at them, “If you don’t mind, can I please get some money? I would like to have some while I’m living with the Dursleys!”

His dad rolls his eyes, “Whatever you say, Prongslet! Though, honestly, I don’t see why you can’t send an owl to withdraw money from the Potter family’s Swiss bank account. It’s far more efficient than-”

“Wait. I have a Swiss bank account? Like in the movies?”

His dad stops, “Like in the...movies?”

His mum waves off his dad with a muttered, “It’s a Muggle thing,” before she puts a hand on his shoulder, “Yes, Harry, exactly like in the movies.”

Cedric interjects, “Mr. Potter, does the Potter family have accounts in other banks? Cause I know my dad alone has accounts in 3 different ba-”

“Wait...there’s more than one wizarding bank?”

Cedric blinks, “Harry, where the hell did you get the idea that there’s only one wizarding bank?”

“From...Hagrid? Look, I was an impressionable 11-year-old - you cannot judge me for this!”

Cedric stares at him, judgingly Harry might add. “I literally can judge you for this, Harry.”

Harry lifts his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Can we just please ignore how dumb I am and get some money?”

His mum interjects with a, “Oh, Harry, how could you ever think you’re dumb?” but Harry turns around and heads to the goblin tellers seated up ahead.

Yeah. He’s still sometimes not used to people calling him out on his self-destructive behavior.

The goblin at the stand only spares him a perfunctory glance before shouting, “Griphook! Potter is here for ye!”

Well. It seems they already knew of his arrival.

Harry then hears a loud crash. Out of a door exits Griphook, murmuring rapidly under his breath in Gobbledegook. 

He stops in front of Harry, and though he is shorter than him, the goblin still manages to be extremely menacing.

“Ye called?”

Harry’s not sure if he should just nod to match the nonchalant behavior of the goblins or shake Griphook’s hand because why would he want to disrespect the beings that controlled his money-

‘Harry!” his mum hisses. “Get to it! He’s walking away!”

So that was already decided for him.

Rushing to catch up to Griphook, he vaults over the frame of the cart and lands on his feet. Only to be met with Griphook’s unimpressed stare.

Ugh. The things he has to deal with from some people. 

The ride down is the same as always, but just as enjoyable. Well, with the addition of three apparitions using all their willpower to keep up with his cart. But yeah, for the most part, it’s the same.

He tries to actually take in everything in his trust vault this time around. Not just the big picture, but the smaller details. The books left behind for him to read, the pictures of family members, the relics of a time long gone-

He picks up one of the books before glancing up at his parents. “Which one do you recommend?”

His mum claps her hands together. “Oh, Harry, you absolutely must get this book on Charms, and Potions, and, oh, I can’t forget-”

He nods. “So everything, right?” before collecting any of the books that garners his interest and dumping them into his Infinity Bag as he has dubbed it. 

Harry glances back at Griphook who is very much minding his own business.

“Griphook?” The goblin in questions inclines his head, indicating for Harry to continue. “Is it possible for you to convert,” okay, well, the conversion rate is five pounds for galleon, “40 of these galleons to pounds?”

Griphook looks like he would rather do anything but that, but he still sighs before snapping his fingers. A pile of galleons disappear, causing Harry to widen his eyes. 

“You can get yer pounds at the desk.”

“O-okay...I guess?”

Harry quickly snatches up some galleons to use during his time today at Diagon Alley. Glancing around to see that his parents and Cedric are still with him, he finally nods at Griphook and jumps into the cart. 

He can’t help but muse on how the dragon is doing after catching a glimpse of its scaly back.  Merlin, it’d be so cool to have a dragon-

As the cart pulls to a stop, Griphook not so inconspicuously pushes Harry out, leaving him to gawk at the goblin’s back.

His dad snorts behind him. “Prongslet, looks like Griphook doesn’t like you!” Harry glares up above him, before dusting his clothes and picking himself off the floor. 

Harry heads to where the goblin tellers are seated, spying a bag tied up in a knot. He grabs it and puts it in the Infinity Bag. 

Before he turns to leave, however, his eye catches on someone’s blonde hair. That someone being-

Draco Malfoy.

He viciously shakes his head, unsure if he’s imagining, but Draco still doesn’t disappear. 

Okay. He can deal with this. Just because Draco Malfoy might hate him as a 15-year-old doesn’t mean they can’t return - or arrive - to the friendship they have as 23-year-olds...Right? Who knows! Maybe he can even take advantage of this encounter and convince Draco to join the side of good and all that jazz.

Yeah. Not going to happen. 

Well. Draco still hasn’t noticed him and Harry has no intention of doing anything to change that. Instead, he turns to leave Gringotts, leaving Harry to follow after him.

‘Wait,’ his mind thinks unbidden, inconveniently in Hermione’s voice to boot,  ‘follow him? This isn’t Sixth Year, Harry!’

‘So?’ he can’t help but think at himself, ‘Just because it isn’t Sixth Year doesn’t mean I can’t do this for old times’ sake.”

Before he gets into an argument with himself, his dad interrupts. “So Prongslet, what exactly are we doing?”

“Following Draco,” is his curt reply.

His mum tilts her head. “Draco? Isn’t that the Malfoy heir?”

“...Yeah.”

Cedric suddenly ends up cackling. “H-Harry, I had heard about your supposed...rivalry with Malfoy, b-but-”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “But what? And what do you mean, supposed rivalry?”

“I never knew it was this serious! Like, you’re stalking him! And, um, I’m not sure you want to know what people think-”

His dad interrupts, “They think you have a crush on the boy, Prongslet.”

Harry considers this. Maybe if he was actually 14 he would sputter at the thought, but-

“I mean, I guess he’s attractive, in a pointed way, but...he’s, like, a kid.”

Cedric and his dad both snort. It's actually creepy how in sync it is.

His mum, on the other hand, looks like she is questioning her life decisions. “Harry...you’re a kid!”

“Yeah, Prongslet, is there something you wanna tell us? Like, maybe, an attraction to ol-” but his dad is unable to finish when his mum smacks his dad’s shoulder.

Understanding dawns on his face. Oh Merlin. Do...do they think he’s attracted to older people? He profusely shakes his head, “No...no...no! W-what in Merlin is wrong with you, dad? I just - I’m just not interested in anyone anymore, what with everything that’s going on in the wizarding world. A-And it’s bloody creepy chasing after teenagers when I’m an adult.”

Harry can acknowledge that some - okay, a lot - of his actions towards Draco were probably because he had some kind of...twisted attraction to the prat, but...just no. Everyone in Hogwarts was just too young, too innocent, too free of sin-

He would just taint them like everything he touches. 

Harry doesn’t have time for this, especially since he spies Draco heading into Knockturn Alley. 

He immediately knows where the boy is going. It’s the most obvious option and Draco was not that inconspicuous as a Hogwarts student.

Borgin and Burkes, it is. 

He pulls his hood up tighter around him before pushing the door, of course waiting for everyone else to filter through.

Draco is inside, browsing through the store. His ear visibly pricks at the sound of the bell ringing but he doesn’t even spare Harry a glance.

Harry mirrors Draco’s actions, carefully looking through the collections of knicks and knacks Borgin and Burkes has collected. 

A door further back opens and closes. When Harry glances in that direction, he sees the person he assumed to be the manager has left.

Showtime.

“Draco, awfully pleasant place to be in, don’t ya think?” he loudly says. Harry obviously ignores the vicious, “By Merlin, why are you so dramatic, Harry!” that Cedric whispers.

Draco flinches before stiffening his back. “Potter. I would say I’m surprised that you’re here, but you have an unfortunate habit of following me around.”

Harry snorts, at which Draco shoots a glare at him. “Look, Draco, I’m not here for a fight. I’m-”

“You’re asking for one if you insist on using my given name,” Draco says, folding his arms and unaware of his dad floating behind him, yelling, “Holy shit!”

“...Okay then, Malfoy. Now, I’m not here for a fight, just a...conversation.”

Draco arches his brow. “A conversation.”

“Yes, a conversation.”

“And what would this conversation entail?”

Good question. What the bloody hell was Harry thinking, chatting up Draco?

“...We would be discussing recent events.”

Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. Just saying that sentence makes him cringe, but...it meant that maybe he could actually give a go at trying to convince Draco to join his side. Not that he has any actual hopes for that happening. But Draco was the puppeteer of Slytherin and...his support would help in the war effort-

He shakes his head. No, it can’t work. But what if-

Draco interrupts his thoughts, “And these recent events are?”

Um. “The type that shouldn’t be discussed in Borgin and Burkes of all places.”

Draco considers Harry’s slouched stance, his hands shoved into his pockets, his bent knee as he rests his weight on a shelf. He considers all of this for only a few seconds before sighing. 

“Fine. Yes,” Draco bites out, pinching his nose.

Harry steps forward and Draco steps back unwittingly. He rolls his eyes before shoving his hand towards Draco.

Draco yelps before covering this up, clearing his throat. “What in bloody hell is this for?”

“Shake on it,” Harry says. 

“And what would I be agreeing to, Potter, by shaking your hand?”

Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing much. Let’s just call it...a truce. You agree to listen to everything I have to say, even if you don’t agree with it, and I’ll do you the same. Or, you could just take it as a new start for us.”

 “A new start?”

“Well, I never accepted your handshake in first year, did I? Let’s see what would have happened if I did.”

Draco refuses to look at Harry before sighing. “Yes, I suppose if you insist on it, I cannot do anything but accept.”

A smile graces his features. “That’s all I could hope for.”

They shake hands, Draco still looking apprehensive all the while.

Harry can’t help but try to assuage Draco’s worries, “Who knows, Draco? Maybe this will be the beginning of something new.”

A new beginning. He could get on board with that. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s first thought is to head to Mr. Fortescue’s ice cream parlor - especially considering the pleasant memories he has of the man giving him advice on his truthfully abysmal essays and consistently providing him sundaes - but then Draco clearing his throat reminds him of the company he keeps. 

He inclines his head. “Yeah, Draco?”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Would you do me the pleasure of informing me where we are heading, Potter?”

Oh yeah. They’re back to - or still at, rather - last names.

“Oh, would you mind giving me a recommendation for a restaurant? I would suggest Mr. Fortescue’s ice cream parlor but...” and his eyes glanced pointedly at Draco’s attire which, while tasteful, is clearly expensive, “considering the company I’m keeping, I wouldn’t dare dream of suggesting such an establishment.”

Draco scoffs. “It is wonderful to know that you have some common sense in your brain, Potter, even though you hardly use it.”

Harry shrugs. “I wouldn’t know about that. I mean, I managed to survive the Dark Lord and I’m sure common sense had some role to play in that.”

Draco’s voice is suspiciously flat as he says, “Oh? Is that what this so-called conversation is about?”

He hums. “Perhaps. But we won’t be getting to that conversation if you don’t bloody recommend a restaurant, Malfoy.”

“I don’t know, Potter. Not getting to that conversation is sounding increasingly more appe-”

“By Merlin, Malfoy,” Harry hisses, “how ‘bout we actually get to the conversation before you bloody decide it’s not appealing!”

Draco’s lifts his eyebrows, voice lilting as he says, “Potter, if you seriously want this conversation-”

“Wow, Malfoy! Did you just realize that?”

“-it would do you well to not bloody mock me.”

Harry tries to stifle the sigh he knows is building. “Merlin, Malfoy, are you aware of how irritating you can be?”

“Well, it’s not as if I didn’t have to deal with your foolishness for 4 years-”

“Well, you wouldn’t have had to deal with my so-called foolishness if you didn’t go around insulting the first friend I ever made!”

Draco pulls to a stop and Harry quickly realizes the misstep he made.

“...First friend, Potter?”

“It’s nothing, Malfoy,” he quickly murmurs, even though he knows it does absolutely nothing. 

“No, no, do tell, Potter.”

The words leave his mouth without him realizing what he’s giving away. “What do you want, Malfoy? For me to give you the fucking satisfaction that the Boy-Who-Lived’s childhood wasn’t bloody perfect? For me to-”

“Harry...calm down, you can’t just go spilling your secrets like that. Don’t give him the satisfaction,” his mum murmurs into his ear and he jolts, only now recalling who else is listening to the conversation.

His fingers bite into the palm of his hands. The sounds of Diagon Alley are heightened now, wrapping around him, choking him, drowning him-

He sighs, “No, Malfoy. I won’t ever give you that satisfaction, so don’t bloody go asking for it,” before beginning to walk away, no attention paid to if Draco is following him. Pointless, he knows, especially with how bloody long the prat’s strides are, but he still tries.

A sharp smile creeps onto Malfoy’s face. “Oh, of course not, Potter. You gave me just enough, though, so-”

Yeah, he can’t fucking deal with this emotional whiplash right now, especially considering how fucking prickly a 14-year-old Draco Malfoy is in comparison to his 23-year-old counterpart. Harry loudly interrupts, “As pleasant as this has been,” and isn’t that the biggest lie he’s ever heard, “I would highly appreciate it if we could at least settle into a restaurant. You are capable of that, right?”

“I’d worry more for yourself when it comes to that, Potter. Though, considering we’re heading to The Sterling Kneazle, I suppose you could be as uncouth as you normally are.”

“Uncouth?” he can’t help but protest, to no avail, as Draco promptly ignores him.

“Well, it is rather too plebeian for my tastes, but it at least pays no mind to who comes and goes. The food is...adequate, so there’s that, I suppose.”

“Gee, Malfoy, it's not as if it costs money that not everyone has to make food that suits your patrician tastes,” Harry can’t help but mutter.

Draco opens his mouth, probably to deliver some scathing remark, but before he can, the restaurant appears in front of them, with an animated kneazle cheerfully playing with a ball of yarn on the restaurant’s sign.

They pull to a stop, but before Draco heads in, Harry calls out, “I need to handle something out here, Malfoy, so why dontcha go in and grab us a table?”

Draco stares for a second, eyes flicking to behind Harry as if expecting to find someone there. Harry almost expects for him to do so, to catch his eyes on the ghosts hovering behind him. But instead, Draco’s eyes pass right over them and the boy is forced to simply head in.

Harry sighs. Time for a conversation with his friendly neighborhood ghosts.

“Harry, what in the bloody hell are you doing?” his dad exclaims before a single word even leaves his mouth.

Harry opens his mouth, but pauses as he realizes that he doesn’t know how to answer his dad’s question.

Still, he tries his best.

“I-I...don’t know. I have no bloody idea what I’ve been doing since the end of the Triwizard Tournament, I feel like nothing I do is en-”

His mum floats up to him while Cedric lingers behind. 

“Harry, it’s okay to not know what you’re doing sometimes. That’s just part of growing up. But...I think what your dad wanted,” and at this his mum glances at his dad pointedly, “is to know exactly what you want from this conversation with Draco.”

Harry turns what she said over in his head, letting his thoughts spiral around like a washing machine.

(He spent hours sitting in front of the washing machine before he went to Hogwarts, letting the round-and-round tossing of the clothes numb his awareness of the world around him. He wishes he could do that right now.)

The words feel stuck in his throat, thick and sticky like molasses. But finally, he speaks.

“I...need to convince Draco to support my - well, me, at the least, if not my...side. He holds a lot of influence over Slytherin House which could be a great help in the fight against Voldemort-”

(Especially considering how most of Slytherin fought with Voldemort the first time around. Or...that's not fair to them, he knows, but they certainly didn't do anything to stop Voldemort.)

“-and besides, his dad ended up returning to his ‘master’ the first time around. I might as well take advantage of that and get to Draco before Voldemort can.”

Harry knows he’s - probably - making this up as he goes, but he can tell that he’s put thought into this. Maybe in those moments he’d stare at the Slytherins or while he dreamt again of the war, but-

He had thought about this.

But that also meant that he already had some idea of what Draco might say, and...it wasn’t pretty.

“Maybe...you guys shouldn’t come in with me. I mean, Draco’s probably going to say some crap that…isn’t exactly the most progressive of things. You guys shouldn’t have to put up with that and, as harsh as this is gonna sound, I don’t want to worry about holding you guys back from punching him while I'm trying to convince him he’s wrong.

His mum scrunches her nose at the thought of being left out of this conversation between him and Draco, which makes sense given her history with...pureblood supremacists.

His dad, on the other hand, is nodding. 

“Listen Prongslet. I’m not gonna say I’m entirely in support of this choice, but...I can see where you’re coming from. Sometimes the best way to approach one of those types - and Merlin have I had to interact with them - is to be as calm as possible. Yelling isn’t going to help at the end of the day, even as infuriating as they can be.”

Harry blinks. “Oh.”

Cedric nods in agreement. “Yeah Harry, as long as you’re sure about this, I’m fine with sitting out on this one. I think this year has been a bit taxing and I should maybe take a break.”

Harry snorts. “A bit?”

“Okay, it’s been a bloody nightmare, but I’m not trying to make this about myself, Harry. It’s a good trait of mine.”

Harry raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, Cedric. I am totally not judging you about this.”

“Huh. I guess I shouldn’t have judged you about the banks, huh?”

“Probably.”

Harry enters the Sterling Kneazle, immediately scanning the patrons of the restaurant for Draco. His eyes eventually catch onto the prat’s pale blond hair, finding him nestled in a corner booth. 

Harry plops down across from Draco who continues to examine his nails as if they possess the secret to immortality.

(Maybe Draco could ask Voldemort for some tips!)

“You know, Malfoy, if you really wanted to avoid this conversation, you should have picked a better booth. One that could, oh, I don’t know, allow for a dramatic exit. Or you could have just left...but seeing as you are here, why don’t we cut to-”

“Welcome to the Sterling Kneazle! Would you two be interested in refreshments before I bring you the menus?”

Harry jumps from his seat at the waitress’ peppy voice, swearing under his breath. Draco, on the other hand, only manages an unimpressed glance in his direction before saying, “Water would be appreciated, thank you.”

The waitress nods before making her way to the kitchen in the back. An uncomfortable silence settles between them.

“Uh...well, as I was saying, we should cut to the chase a-”

“I’d much prefer if we have a meal first, if you don’t mind, Potter. It could do the two of us wonders, especially with how jumpy you are.”

“I don’t like people sneaking up on me, you prick,” Harry can’t help but mutter.

“Pardon? I couldn’t hear what you said over all of your Boy-Who-Lived rot.”

Harry stifles a deep sigh.

“Malfoy.”

“Yes, Potter? Are you planning on contributing anything useful to this conversation?”

“I don’t think you’d consider it exactly useful when it’s something we both know.”

Draco folds his arms. “And what would that be?”

Harry can feel the buzzing in the back of his head crescendo at this question.

“He’s back.”

Draco sucks in a breath, before leaning forward and grasping Harry by the collar.

“Listen Potter, I don’t know if you were dropped on the head as a child,” no, actually, Voldemort shot the Killing Curse at me, thank you very much, “but I refuse to get involved with your bollocks. My family is of an exceptional standing and will be on the right side when things come to a head.”

Harry can’t help but laugh. Hysterically, of course. “Oh, and did your family tell you exactly what they plan on doing when ‘things come to a head’?”

Draco opens his mouth, and Harry hopes that he’s finally getting somewhere-

“Here’s your water and your menus. Call me over when you’ve decided what you want to order!” their waitress interrupts.

Draco quickly lets go of his hold on Harry's collar like he's been scalded, leaving Harry unable to help but cringe at the interruption. 

“I’m really starting to regret letting you choose the restaurant, Malfoy.”

“Please Potter, it’s as if you’re not used to decent customer service.”

‘I mean, when it comes to the Dursleys, decent customer service is nonexistent, but it’s not like you care, Draco,’ flashes in his mind.

Yeah. Maybe that’s something he shouldn’t say out loud.

Harry opens his mouth, trying to find something to say, "So-"

"I would say that the spaghetti aglio e olio sounds delicious, but considering the barbaric conditions we're in….Ah, never mind that. Potter, what will you be ordering?" Malfoy makes sure to look adequately innocent, all wide eyes and soft smiles, but Harry sees the glee in his eyes when Harry glares at him for interrupting. 

(Never mind that he probably wasn't going to say anything of importance. It's the essence that matters, anyways.)

"I'll have that as well, I suppose."

"Wonderful. I'll wave the waiter over then."

A cloying atmosphere settles as they wait for their food, leaving Harry unsure of how to break the silence. How is he supposed to get across to Draco? With how things are going, Draco will probably prod at one of his sore spots and he'll end up revealing too much of his hand with how pissed he is. 

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Harry is, rightfully, unwilling to give up too much of himself. He can't be reckless, he can't be arrogant, he can't let others give up their lives at his expense-

(Sirius would have lived if he had known better. He doesn't care what anyone says, he knows it's true.)

-but he still latches on to the Draco he once knew, the Draco who he could talk to when everyone wanted to move past the cost of war, of prejudice, of becoming an adult too goddamn fast, the Draco who was dripping with venom at times but was still trying his best to become better.

The Draco in front of him isn't the man he once knew and he has to accept that.

(But it's so hard to let go, when he knows the boy in front of him has the capability to become better, to do good in the world, to rewrite the wrongs of the past. It's so hard.)

So when their food arrives, Harry bides his time. He can tell from how Draco scrunches his nose that he distrusts the silence that has settled, clearly expecting Harry to say something, anything, everything. Well, Harry isn’t going to give him the luxury. The ball’s in Draco’s side of the court and all he can do is wait and see what Draco does with it.

This is a Draco he doesn’t quite understand, after all.

Draco casts Muffliato before proceeding, “‘When things come to a head,’ Potter? What exactly...were you referring to?”

If this was the Draco Harry knew, he would have gone ahead with this conversation without any regard for the consequences. But...this isn’t the Draco he knows, so…

“Before we begin, we should probably make a Vow,” leaves his mouth after some thought.

Draco leans back against the frame of his chair and scrutinizes Harry. “I wouldn’t have expected for you to possess a modicum of thought, Potter.”

Harry scoffs. “I can really feel the respect you hold me in.”

Draco raises an eyebrow in question. “Are you referring to the lack of?”

Harry lets a saccharine smile appear on his face, popping the ‘p’ in, “Yep!” knowing that will probably annoy Draco due to his lack of reaction.

It does, considering the tick that momentarily appears in Draco’s forehead. 

“Anyways,” Harry says, having gained some satisfaction from pissing off Draco, “my conditions for the Vow are that you don’t reveal the contents of any conversation you have made with me today to, well, anyone. At least, until I agree to it. Actually...just, you know, don’t even reveal you had a conversation with me.” He adds, “Unless they’re already aware of it, of course,” after recalling his personal spectres, before continuing, “And please don’t mention that you even saw me. Just to be on the safe side, you should understand.”

“The safe side? Coming from a Gryffindor?”

“But do you agree? To the conditions of the Vow, that is.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes Potter, I agree.”

With agreement on both sides, they get the Vow out of the way. Draco comments right after, “You know, Potter, I’m surprised you even knew what a Vow is, considering your blatant disregard for the culture of the wizarding world at times.”

Harry shrugs. “I only disregard things about the wizarding world that are outdated. You know, wanting to actually progress and all that.”

“I suppose you’re referring to my family’s position on various issues.”

“Yes, I suppose I am, Malfoy.”

“Well then, would you mind explaining to me what you meant by, ‘When things come to a head’?”

Harry lets out a shaky breath. Here is the moment he’s been waiting for.

“What do you think will happen when Voldemort makes a bid for power, Malfoy?”

“Well, he’ll succeed, I’m assuming, and then he’ll restructure society so that those truly deserving of magic are rewarded.”

“But that’s after, Malfoy. What about during?”

Malfoy says nothing.

“Of course. Of course! Did you really think, what, that Voldemort would just reveal himself and bam, the wizarding world bows before him?”

“Of course not Potter, but...Voldemort is one of the greatest wizards of all time. He will have the wizarding world lying at his feet sooner than later. I’m sure of it.”

“War isn’t like that, Malfoy! War isn’t as quick and simple as you seem to think it is. It’s...it’s horrible, a tumor that you can never remove.”

“Well then, that is something I am willing to deal with for the sake of preserving the traditions of the wizarding world. It has to be worth it. Everyone will eventually come to understand-”

“It doesn’t matter if they come to understand! Of course they’re bloody going to understand because they’re the ones benefiting from it. Who do you think Voldemort is going to target first, Malfoy? Who?”

“Well, Mudbloods, of course. Honestly, Potter, I don’t understand your confusion about this-”

“Oh, you don’t understand? Do you even realize the bullshit that’s leaving your mouth? I’m not confused , Malfoy. No, I’m just fucking disgusted that you don’t even seem to care or even realize that when Voldemort targets Muggleborns, people are going to suffer. It might start innocent enough - and even that is understating it - but we’re gonna have a fucking genocide on our hands!”

“That’s absurd, Potter, we’re not like those Muggle brutes-”

“Has it even crossed your mind that being a Muggle or a wizard plays no role in this? We’re both equally capable of horrible things!”

“The Dark Lord is above such...base desires-”

“Like he was when he decided to preach the extermination of Muggles despite having spent his early life in an orphanage in Muggle London? Like he was when he proclaimed his belief in pureblood supremacy despite being a half-blood himself? If he’s so above human fallacy, then why is everything about him the epitome of insanity, Malfoy?”

“How-”

“And the scary thing is, I’m probably not exaggerating things here, Malfoy. Voldemort, he, he was around during the Blitz. He was around during the Holocaust. I’m not going to say that what will happen to Muggleborns if Voldemort gains even a shred of power is going to be the wizarding world’s version of the Holocaust because one, I think it's in poor taste to make Holocaust analogies and two, six million Jews died and I’m not trying to be a fucking Holocaust denier today of all days. And sure, let's say things become so far gone that 40 percent of the Muggleborn population is decimated like what was done to Jews, but, that's besides the point. Why do I even need to compare what's going to happen to Muggleborns to the Holocaust in the first place? It’s, we’re seriously sitting here and debating whether Voldemort is doing the right thing by plucking Muggleborns out of their lives and putting them to the chopping block? You’re seriously trying to tell me that you’re fine with a genocide happening in front of your own eyes? I can’t even-”

“I think you’ve made your point, Potter,” Draco interrupts. 

His voice is cold. It should be. Harry’s heart feels cold at the thought of letting a genocide happen right before his eyes. 

“It’s good to know I’ve made a point, Malfoy, but I doubt you’ll be keeping anything I said in mind.”

“And why is that, Potter?”

“You know why.”

“Oh, do I? Might it be the centuries of tradition instilled in me by my father? Might it be the foul crimes committed by Muggles, with wizardkind as their victims? Might it be the audacity of Mudbloods to ask me to give up my culture when they refuse to give up theirs? Might it-”

“I’m not saying that...that seeing wizarding culture as we know it diminish more and more doesn’t suck, Malfoy. I-I have no right to say that when I can hardly begin to comprehend the depth of the situation. But...Malfoy, you have to admit that the reason a lot of Muggleborns don’t know bollocks about the wizarding world is because you don’t give them the chance to learn. I mean, imagine you’re discovering this entirely new world and the first thing you hear about yourself is a slur telling you your blood is dirty and tainted. Or someone casually mentioning how you have less magical power because of who you are, so what’s the point in even trying? Imagine dealing with that for years, at the hands of even the most well-meaning of people. The wizarding world is beautiful, majestic even, but I don’t blame Muggleborns for not wanting to learn about its culture when it’s one where they don’t even matter.”

Draco folds his arms. “And what do you expect me to do about that, Potter? Why should I even care?”

Harry can’t help but snort. “I don’t expect you to care, Malfoy. I know how hard it must be for you to do that when for years you’ve benefited from not caring. But...we’re the future generation and that means we carry the sins of our ancestors, so to speak. Maybe that means you’ll join up with Voldemort like your father. I know that that’s probably going to be the case despite my efforts. But...there’s a better future for you out there. I know there is.”

Harry pauses, thinking about how to proceed, before speaking again. “Did you know, Malfoy, that Muggles first landed on the moon only a decade ago? Imagine that! The same moon we all see in the sky, and there were people on it, even if it was only for a short time. I want to do something like that one day. Push the limits of what’s possible. Defeat Voldemort even though people don’t dare to speak his name. Prove that people other than purebloods are worthy of acknowledging. I know I can do all of that. And I will. But I need all the help I can. And, as much as I hate to say it, you hold influence over Slytherin House, the house that Voldemort will sink his claws into bit by bit.”

Draco nods. “I do.”

“You’re in the perfect position to start a fucking revolution, Malfoy. And, I mean, I won’t be surprised if you don’t because not just anybody can start a revolution, but...I hope you do. Start a revolution, that is.”

“And besides,” Harry leans back in his seat, wondering if he’s going to regret what he’s going to say but knowing it’s the only possible lynchpin he has, “you don’t have to worry about your dear Dark Lord coming back from the dead again. I know exactly how to make sure that the bastard stays buried in his grave, and without someone to rally themselves around, his forces will be remarkably weakened. Isn’t it Slytherin logic to side with the faction that you know is going to win, Malfoy? So why not do that from the get-go, right?”

Harry expects Draco to immediately decline, even despite what he said at the end. It’s the sensible thing to do for any “respectable” pureblood. But he doesn’t. He just...sits there, staring at Harry and not saying anything.

Harry can’t help but fidget.

Eventually, Draco lets out a breath and pushes himself out of his seat. 

Shit.

Harry struggles to come up with something to say, and resorts to the only thing he can say: “Draco! W-What about your food?!?! You were talking about how delicious the spaghetti aglio e olio is, so you can’t just-”

“Merlin, Potter, why are you blabbering on about the food? I already paid for it like a gentleman so you don’t need to worry.”

“But-”

“If I don’t have to hear your voice ever again, it will be too soon, Potter ! But unfortunately for me, I have decided to write to you in the future. I don’t know what poltergeist has possessed me to make such a decision, but it is a decision I have made.”

Harry splutters. “Y-You could have just said that to begin with!”

Draco only spares him a glance. “I thought it was obvious from the fact that I did not decimate you verbally for how you spoke to me. Honestly, Potter, you should be grateful.”

“Grateful?!?!”

“And besides, it’s not like I agree with you. I just..found it interesting. It’s a good skill for when I become a Wizengamot member.”

A smile’s starting to make its way onto Harry’s face at that.

“After all, if Muggles of all people managed to make their way to the moon, I’m sure Mudbloods must be somewhat helpful.”

Ugh. Things were starting to look up, yet Draco still had to use that term.

“Here’s a suggestion, Malfoy. If you want those ‘helpful’ Muggleborns on your side, maybe don’t refer to them with a slur.”

Draco’s eyes widen for a few seconds, before he stoutly says, “Fine, if you insist. Making concessions is another helpful skill for when I become a Wizengamot member, so I suppose I should get into the habit of it. Not that I would ever be in such a position as a Malfoy, of course, but...I presume I will have to come up with far lethal insults for your Mud—I mean, Muggleborn know-it-all.”

Not the best, but...at least it’s better than nothing?

Harry sighs. “Well, that’s the best I can hope for coming from you, Malfoy. I’ll be heading off, then.”

“Without finishing the food, Potter? With how passionate you were about me leaving without eating it, I’d thought you’d at least stay to finish it.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, I’ll just ask the waiter to put it in a container so I can take it home.”

Draco scrunches his nose. “How utterly plebeian.”

Harry huffs. “You don’t know the half of it, Malfoy.”

Harry is immediately bombarded with questions the moment he left the Sterling Kneazle, long after Draco had.

(For some reason, wizards found the thought of takeout intriguing and spent several minutes interrogating Harry about the mechanics of it. He has a feeling they did it to get an advantage over their competitors.)

“How was it, Harry? Did it go well?” That’s his mum.

“Did you start a brawl? Or did you at least punch him?” That’s his dad.

“Merlin, I can’t believe I missed my chance to see the famous Potter-Malfoy rivalry in action!” And that’s Cedric.

“It went fine, Mum, thank you for asking. No, Dad, I did not punch him. Or start a brawl. Honestly, I have no idea why you think I’d start a brawl. And Cedric, I can’t believe you’re trying to monopolize on something I took really seriously the first time around. It was a legitimate rivalry, you know. It’s not the joke you seem to be making out of it.”

Cedric snorts. “I can’t believe you can actually say that without laughing.”

Harry loses his composure. “I think I should receive a prize for that.”

His mum interrupts. “Unfortunately, Harry dear, I don’t believe there is a prize for that.”

“In your dreams, maybe, Prongslet!” his dad says.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe Ron and Hermione didn’t tell me this is what having parents is like. Both times around.”

“But you still can’t help but love us, Prongslet!” his dad pipes in.

“It’s the coming-of-age ceremony for everyone, Harry,” his mum says with a smirk on her face.

Harry looks to Cedric for support, though his hopes are nonexistent.

Cedric shrugs. “Hey, if I had to go through excessive coddling, then you have to go through excessive coddling.”

Wow. He had already lost all hope, and yet here he was, losing the last additional bit of hope he didn’t even know he still had.

“All of you are insufferable.”

Everyone pauses for a few seconds at that, exchanging meaningful glances, before devolving into laughter. Harry can’t help but laugh either.

‘This is nice,’ he can’t help but think, aware of how much of an understatement that is. Harry can only hope that his good fortune continues.

Chapter Text

The first indication that it’s his birthday in this timeline is the Honeydukes chocolates Hedwig is carrying this morning.

(‘It’s nice to see Hedwig alive again,’ he can’t help but think. He missed her crisp chirps, her gentle nudges, and even her reproachful stares when he was doing something they both knew was stupid. He never got around to buying a new owl after everything had...settled down, instead making up excuses for why he didn’t need one or why he didn’t have the time to buy one or-

It’s nice to see Hedwig alive again, is all he’s trying to say.)

He remembers throwing the package away unopened and regretting it when presented with the wilting salad Aunt Petunia thought was enough for dinner. 

Birthdays-

(His, that is.)

-stopped mattering long before he was 17, but it was odd how willing everyone else was to dispense of such pleasantries.

It doesn’t matter, of course. He doesn’t need people to remember his birthday because that—that’s just asking for it.

(What it’s asking for, he does not know. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.)

So you can’t blame his surprise when his parents float into his room through the open door and promptly make a big deal about it. 

“Harry, dear,” his mum says as she scrutinizes the package, blatantly ignoring his attempts to dodge his dad as the man tries to ruffle his hair, “what’s this?”

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking at the package, “um, that’s...Honeydukes.”

“Really,” his mum drawls, “Honeydukes?”

Before he can say anything, his dad stops whatever attempts at ruffling Harry’s hair he had going on and says, “Oh, Honeydukes! Harry, if you don’t want them, mind giving them to me?”

Harry offers his dad an unimpressed look, “Dad, you’re a ghost. I don’t think you can eat food. And also, can you stop trying to ruffle my hair? It’s enough of a mess as it is because of your Potter genes.”

His dad deflates, rolling his eyes, “Gee, Prongslet, I thought you already went through your angsty teenager phase.”

“It’s not a phase,” Harry and Cedric coincidentally deadpan at the same time, given that Cedric has just floated in through the open door as well.

Cedric perks up at the sight of the Honeydukes chocolate. “Oh, Honeydukes! It’s your birthday, right Harry?” Cedric says, turning towards him, unaware of the fate he just doomed Harry to.

Harry’s head whips toward his mum, who folds her arms and quietly asks, “Your birthday, Harry?”

“Um...yeah?”

“Why did it only come to our attention now that today’s July 31st, dear?”

“...Because I didn’t tell you?” Harry says, cringing as the words leave his mouth.

His dad snorts in the background like the traitor he is, whispering, “Because I didn’t tell you!” to himself.

Cedric is also declaring himself a traitor as he backs out of the room, shouting something about how he doesn’t want to involve himself in family matters.

His mum’s eyes soften at Cedric’s behavior, thoughts on how to adopt the teen into the family probably on her mind, before they return to Harry.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“I didn’t remember it myself, is the thing,” he says cautiously. 

Maybe, if he knew how, he’d explain that his birthdays used to represent another year where he didn’t matter, where he was just a freak, where-

But he doesn’t, of course. 

Even then, he thinks his mum understands somewhat. She might not understand entirely-

(Nobody can, really.)

-but she understands. She floats over to him, caressing his cheek as she moves the loose hairs on his forehead out of the way, before straightening up and planting her hands on her hips. 

“Well, even if you didn’t remember your birthday, it doesn’t mean we can just let the day go by. James!”

His dad jumps to his feet, jokingly saluting his mum. “Yes, sir!”

His mum rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Go get Cedric. We will be planning the best birthday Harry has ever had and we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Sir, yes sir!” his dad shouts as he rushes (as much as a ghost can rush) out of the room.

His mum turns towards him. “While we wait for them, Harry, why don’t we talk? That is, if you want to, of course.”

Well, looks like he hadn’t managed to get out of this scot-free then.

Words are hard for Harry, especially when they’re his.

(That’s why he’s only managed to have one serious conversation with Cedric about the boy’s death. That’s why his parents only know the bare bones of what life was like for him living with the Dursleys. That’s why he has no idea why he was tossed back into his 14-year-old body. That’s why-)

Maybe that’s why it’s for the best that his mum is the one who starts the conversation.

“You know, Harry, your Aunt Petunia called me a freak once. Well. Not once. More than a few times, really.”

“Really,” Harry snorts, “that sure does sound like Aunt Petunia.”

“I’m guessing she did the same to you, then.”

Harry pauses. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for you, especially considering I was her sister who knew what made her tick and you were...just the nephew she didn’t ask for.”

“Yeah. You probably can’t understand, Mum.”

“I know that,” she says, letting out a sigh. “I know that and it hurts, sometimes, to know that. But, just because I can’t understand doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. I mean, that’s the reason why you talked to us that day, right? Because you wanted to understand us even though we had been...gone for all these years.”

Harry says nothing because, well, there’s nothing he could say.

Instead, he gets up from where he was sitting on his bed and heads out of the room, looking for his dad and Cedric

He knows his mum follows after him, seeing her out of the corner of his eye, and-

That’s somehow the best feeling ever.

Obviously, given the resources at hand, his birthday party isn’t extravagant. Hell, they barely manage to purchase a treacle tart and a candle to shove on top, what with the bakery worker and the cashier both eyeing Harry with suspicion as he doles over his money.

Just because the children in the neighborhood were scared shitless of Dudley’s ability to punch them real good (what, like it’s hard?) doesn’t mean Harry wasn’t regarded as a hardened hooligan. 

Ugh.

Still, they somehow managed, and that wasn’t even the highlight of his evening.

No, that went to the stories his parents and Cedric had passed around as they lounged in the park, with Harry digging into his treacle tart with fervor and his dad making jabs at Harry’s face to wipe the syrup still unwittingly there.

Cedric had now moved onto a story of Oliver Wood’s reaction to his offer to replay their match in their third year.

“Well, obviously, I didn’t think it was fair that Hufflepuff only won because Harry was experiencing his worst nightmares. Like, what kind of Hufflepuff would I be if I didn’t offer to replay the match? So I go up to Oliver Wood and tell him my idea. He says something along the lines of me winning the match fair and square, so, well. Nothing I can do about that. I start to leave, thinking that’s done with, except he just begins monologuing at me about the virtues of Quidditch as a sport and his moral integrity and what not. And he just expects me to stand there and what, listen? I may be a Hufflepuff, but even we have limits.”

“Imagine what it must have been like for the Gryffindors that had him for Captain,” Harry says. “Literally, Peeves once had to drop a Vanishing Cabinet from up high to distract Filch and help me get away. And you wanna know why I was out late? Cause that Quidditch maniac bloody had me practicing past curfew!”

His dad snorts, “I’m surprised you’re angry about being out past curfew. It’s almost like you’re abandoning the Marauders’ tradition of causing mayhem!”

Harry folds his arms. “Dad, I get into trouble because it’s out to get me! It’s not like I wanted to get dragged into all those hijinks.”

His mum says, “James, please don’t enable our son to commit misdeeds. McGonagall probably had to go to therapy because of you bastards so let’s just hope Harry doesn’t cause her to continue.”

Harry shouts, “Hey!” at that, but his mum’s attention has gone towards Cedric who had gone alarmingly silent. 

“Cedric, honey,” his mum says, tilting her head in question, “what’s the matter?”

Cedric points towards a different part of the park. “Um, not to ruin your celebration, but...isn’t that Harry’s cousin beating a kid up?”

Harry squints, as if trying to convince himself that that isn’t Dudley beating up Mark Evans. What was the reason for that again? “Cheek”? 

“Um...it appears so, Cedric.”

His dad gets up and rolls up his sleeves. “Well, what are we going to do about it?”

His mum puts out an arm to block his dad. “We aren’t going to do anything. We’re ghosts, might I remind you?”

Harry sighs. “Guess it’s up to me then. I’m really excited to explain to Dudley why beating up a 10-year-old kid is wrong.”

His dad pats him on the back. “That’s the spirit, Prongslet.”

Merlin, why is this his life?

Harry approaches Dudley tentatively, as if dealing with a wild animal, because, well-

No need to explain that.

Okay. Harry can acknowledge he’s probably not being fair to Dudley.

The Dursleys may have ruined his childhood, took it away and ripped it to shreds in front of him, setting it on fire like it didn’t bloody matter. But…

All it took was adulthood for him to realise that they fucked up Dudley just as much, that they cultivated him to be just as horrible as them. All it took was one civil conversation for them to finally see eye to eye and he’s glad he got that in at least one life, even if it may not be this life. That isn’t going to stop him from despising Dudley because he is, unfortunately, an utter prat as a teen but still. Maybe the future isn’t so bleak.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact that Dudley is beating up a 10-year-old and that’s not right.

‘Now, how to go about explaining that to Dudley?’ Harry muses to himself.

‘Maybe just piss him off,’ niggles its way into his head.

Harry nods to himself. Piss him off it is!

“Yo, Big D!” Harry shouts as he jogs towards the scene of the crime.

Dudley’s head shoots up in Harry’s direction, allowing him to see Harry waving at him sardonically. Hopefully that and the nickname pisses off Dudley enough to give the poor kid some leeway to get the fuck out of dodge. 

“What are you doing here?”

Harry snorts. “What does it look like, Ickle Diddykins? Trying to get you the fuck away from Mark Evans.” Harry turns to the kid in question and mock-whispers, making shooing gestures all the while, “Go. Run! You’re free from the grasp of Dudley’s big, bad fists.”

The kid sees the opportunity Harry is offering him for what is and scrambles out from under Dudley’s grasp, running as fast as his little legs can take him.

Dudley grunts as the boy’s elbow accidentally collides with his chest but manages to stay in place, watching the back of Mark Evans before turning his glare onto Harry. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know if you realize this, Dudley, but punching kids is bad. And kind of pathetic,” Harrys says as if he’s talking to a 5-year-old about to touch an open flame.

Dudley folds his arms, looking impressively not scary. “I don’t know why you care. You’ve been off in your head this entire summer.”

Harry stifles a hysterical shriek. “Whatever, Dinky Diddydums. If you can’t get it into your thick skull why you shouldn’t be punching kids, you’re already a lost cause.”

Dudley eyes him suspiciously, looking remarkably close to losing any restraint he had and punching Harry. “What are you even doing in the park?”

Harry shrugs. “Oh, you know. Angsting over the fact that this dictator came back to life, screaming internally because my friends are telling me jackshit, that kind of stuff. Not that you would understand, given how much your parents coddle the living fuck out of you.”

Dudley glares, opening his mouth to growl at Harry, but stops.

“Wait. Did...did you just say...a dictator?”

Harry blinks. He never did tell Dudley explicitly about the genocidal maniac hunting him down, huh?

“I guess I did say that.”

“What the fuck, Harry? You freaks have a bloody dictator freak?!?!”

“Well, yeah…” Harry says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Dudley starts pacing. “Wait? Is he the reason your parents are dead and you were shoved onto us? D-Does that mean he’s after you? Why the fuck don’t you have guards or something? Literally, any VIP worth their salt has them in the movies!”

“Um, Dudley, not that I don’t appreciate it, but this is a really weird time to be having moral quandaries.”

“It is the perfect time to be bloody freaking out when a dictator is after you!” Dudley screeches, sounding impressively like Aunt Petunia.

Harry begins to back away, his mission to save Mark Evans having been completed, but Dudley grabs onto his arm before he can.

‘Don’t panic, don’t panic, he’s not going to do anything, he can’t do anything-’

“Um, Dudley, can you let me go?”

“Not until you explain what the fuck is happening on your side of things. I know I may be dumb, but even I know that shit like bloody dictators ain’t good.”

“Merlin, I’ll explain everything to you later, so chill, will ya?”

Dudley finally lets go of him, thank goodness, and begins to head back to Privet Drive.

Now that Harry thinks about it, since it’s his birthday, shouldn’t the Dementors be showing up in 2 days? He remembers mentioning Mark Evans during his argument with Dudley back then, right before Dementors showed up. 

Or is that just...not going to happen? Given that he never declared to the wizarding world that Voldemort was back, probably not, but...there had to be rumors and if Dumbledore was doing what Harry asked of him, something incriminating might still end up making its way to that pink toad.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ Harry thinks as he shouts at Dudley.

“Dudley!”

“What?”

“I know this might seem like it’s coming out of nowhere, but...can you make the effort to not be out and about this Wednesday? Your gang either? It’s related to the shitshow happening in the wizarding world and I’d really prefer that you or your gang not get caught up in it.”

Dudley stares at Harry for a few moments before huffing, “Fine, lameass. Whatever you say.”

Geez, the kid could at least act grateful that Harry’s trying to save his fucking arse.

Harry doesn’t even bother explaining the situation to his personal spectres before rushing back to Privet Drive with them behind him. 

“Prongslet! Good job dealing with that bully-”

“Sorry, no time to talk! I gotta get back to Privet Drive and explain what’s happening in the wizarding world to Dudley!”

“W-Wait, Harry, dear! You’re not serious, are you?”

His parents and Cedric, of course, get no answer from him as he instead rushes into the house, ignoring Aunt Petunia’s squawk at the noise, and sets about locating Dudley.

“Diddykins!” he shouts when he finds Dudley sitting in what was once the boy’s second bedroom, poking at the rubbish still remaining from his use of the room.

Dudley says nothing at the nickname so Harry plops himself next to the boy. 

“So. Dictators, ay?”

Dudley punches Harry in the shoulder, but, lightly, you know?

“Ow! What was that for?”

“A dictator freak?!?!” the boy hisses.

“Well, yeah. I mean, you got the gist of the situation. He tried to kill me because of some prophecy,” that he technically shouldn’t know in this timeline, “but fucked up and ended up dying himself. Except, somehow, the dick had a failsafe and came back to life this year after he kidnapped me for my blood. Also, he, um, killed a kid in my school because he got kidnapped along with me. Though, actually, his minion did. Who, now that I think about it, was also the reason my parents died because he revealed the location of their hideout. Anyways, no one knows about him coming back to life though cause everyone just thought it was one of his minions that had been posing as a teacher at my school and-”

“You know what,” Dudley says, voice faint, “I think you’ve said more than enough,” and leaves the room.

His dad rushes into the room just as Dudley leaves, yelling, “What the bloody hell happened, Prongslet?!?!”

“I think I traumatized him, “ Harry offers.

Cedric groans. “Harry, you traumatize everyone. That doesn’t tell us anything about what happened.”

His mum nods. “I’m going to have to agree with Cedric here, Harry. Now, what exactly were you talking about with Dudley?”

Before Harry is forced to reveal the oddity that is his current situation, he hears a tap on his window. Harry turns around and, seeing an owl with a letter in its beak, rushes to open the window.

The letter is from Draco, which...

Well. Draco always did have a habit of making inopportune entrances, whether it be through a letter or in person.

It was on his birthday that he met Draco again in his timeline, after all. 

He had just stumbled out of the bar that he had spent most of his night in, gulping alcohol like it was water, with no friends in sight.

(He had isolated himself long before that, after all, blocking any requests from his friends to meet up and talk. How could he talk when he had failed again? What had he even fucking done as an Auror? Nothing, that’s what.

The only indication he got that his friends remembered he existed, even though he didn’t deserve their recognition, were the letters mailed to him.

Letters. That’s all he had as proof that his birthday was even worth caring about.)

As he left the bar, he had to lean against the wall to recover from the bout of nausea that had hit him like a sledgehammer. Fuck , he hopes he doesn’t vomit. He doesn’t think he can even manage a Scourgify if he does, let alone something as simple as a Lumos. Merlin, why-

Wait. Where the fuck are those stifled grunts coming from?

Harry finally notices the alley next to the bar and tells himself not to look into it because who knows what kind of fucked-up shit he’ll see-

He looks.

Oh sweet Merlin how he wishes he didn’t.

He has no problem with sex - heavily enjoys it, in fact - but being a voyeur to two other people is not his thing. And that’s exactly what he’s found here in this alley, with a wizard on his knees very...enthusiastically sucking at the other’s...cock.

Merlin , why is he in this situation?

Harry quickly drags his eyes away from the...bobbing motions the wizard was making with his mouth and makes to leave except…

“Malfoy?!?!” he blurts out at the sight of the iconic pale, blond hair, before he realizes that, you know, he said that out loud like a bloody moron.

The wizard - no, Malfoy - stops in his motions and removes his mouth off the other wizard’s cock, making a popping sound as he does so.

(Harry resolutely does not think about how swollen Malfoy’s mouth looks. He does not.)

Malfoy sighs harshly, turning to the other wizard he had been previously...engaged with with a curt, “Scram.”

The wizard squawks, “Y-You...I haven’t even come, you-”

Malfoy gets to his feet, wiping dust off his pants, before closing the already short distance between them.

“If you don’t scram now, I will gladly chop off your tiny prick because it’s clearly not doing you any favors. Now, leave.”

The wizard looks shaken and scrambles to leave, apparating away at a further distance.

“Now! Potter, do you have any reason explaining why you prevented me from giving that man a blowjob?”

That’s right. He’s still here.

“But you called that man’s prick tiny!” is the only thing that comes to mind, and, well, that’s not exactly a reason. 

“It is. Miniscule, in fact. But I can’t afford to be picky when people still think of me as Death Eater scum. Besides, that’s not the point.”

“You know what,” Harry says, hysterically laughing because he can’t fucking deal with this right now, “I think I’m just going to leave and, well, let you get back to giving men blowjobs!”

Except he trips over thin air and falls flat on his face. Because bloody of course.

“Merlin Potter, you’re clearly doing great. With that kind of luck, it must be your birthday or something.”

Harry screams. Internally, of course, but some noise still manages to leave his mouth.

“Wow, is it actually your birthday? That’s hilarious, Potter,” Malfoy says, peering over Harry and not helping.

“Can you bloody help me up, Malfoy?” Harry hisses.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Fine, Potter. Far be it from me of all people to not do what the Boy-Who-Lived-Again says.”

Malfoy hefts Harry so he rests on his shoulder and then asks, “Where do you live, Potter?”

Harry eyes the man suspiciously. “Why?”

“So I can rob you blind, Potter,” Malfoy says before muttering to himself, “Merlin, how did you even survive this long with so little intelligence?”

Harry kicks Malfoy in his shin. 

Malfoy levels an unimpressed look before drawling, “You know, Potter, I could just leave you here to rot.”

“Grimmauld Place,” he mutters.

“Oh,” Malfoy scoffs, “that place.”

Harry squints at him. “Not a big fan?”

“I doubt you’re a big fan either, Potter. Don’t get a big head about it.”

Malfoy somehow manages to get his arse to Grimmauld Place, though Harry is kind of out of it for a large portion of this escapade because of, you know, nausea and trying not to vomit his lunch.

Harry tries to convince himself that that’s the end of it, except a missive pops up the next morning-

(Even though Grimmauld Place is supposed to only let in letters from those he approved of.)

-with a cheeky, “You bloody owe me for last night, Potter,” written on it.

So yeah, Draco is a humongous drama queen. What’s new there?

Harry is dragged out of his odd reminiscing when his mum clears his throat. “And what's that you have there, young man?" she says, taking on an imperious tone that is only ruined by the snickers his dad is making right next to her.

“A letter from Draco," is all he says.

His dad now speaks, adopting the same tone used by his mum, “Young man, we cannot have...suitors making advances towards you without screening them. A letter is the very opposite of screening them and is extremely…" pausing here and letting his voice drop to a “whisper," “scandalous."

Harry raises his eyebrows and turns to Cedric, offering an incredulous expression. 

Cedric shrugs. “Gee, Harry. I don't know what to tell you. Maybe your parents should screen all your mail because we all know what kind of naughty deeds the Boy-Who-Lived gets up to! I read it in the Prophet, you know?"

Harry groans. “You know, Cedric, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten the jokes I made about you and the Prophet-"

“What? That? I'd completely forgotten about that!" Cedric says, sounding undeniably smug.

His dad pipes in, “Young man, we simply cannot let things continue as is. What with these letters, articles about you in the Prophet, and your possible desire for sugar daddies and sugar mommies-"

"Dad!" he squawks, blushing profusely.

His dad cracks up. “Don't worry, Prongslet, I'm just messing with you."

His mum interferes. “Perhaps we went a little too far with this joke. Though," she says, turning towards Harry, "I am entirely willing to beat off any undesirable suitors with the newspaper that continues to defame our dear Cedric."

Cedric smiles at the sound of “our dear Cedric," nodding in agreement.

Good. He deserves it after the shit he's gone though at 17.

His mum continues,  “Now, Harry. I'll leave you to write a polite response to Draco's letter." She then orders his dad and Cedric, “Come along, children!"

His dad grumbles at the thought of being called a child, only stopping when Cedric nudges him and grudgingly follows after his mum who has already left his room.

At their departure, Harry peers down at the letter in his hands, thinking for a moment, before finally opening it.

Chapter Text

Dear Harry,

How have the Dursleys been treating you? I hope that things haven’t been too horrendous on your end, though I can never tell with your relatives. Everything is fine on our end, if you were wondering, though obviously we still can’t say much about the you-know-what. Honestly, it is rather hard to talk about something without actually talking about it, and having to do so in my letters to you have made me think I might pick up cryptography and the like. I find myself especially interested in it after having read a book about the role of cryptography in World War II earlier this summer.

We’ll be seeing you sometime in the near future so please hold out before doing anything reckless, Harry!

With love,

Hermione

・・・

Hermione,

The Dursleys have been like always, though I’m really starting to like Aunt Petunia’s hydrangea bush! Funny that you mention cryptography, actually. I’ve been spending some time in the local library since I finished all my homework for the summer and came across a few how-to books on it. They were pretty interesting, so if you want, I can give you some recommendations?

Actually, speaking of recommendations, do you mind sending me some for books on Ancient Runes? Not on how to do them, cause that just sounds way too tedious, but...maybe something on their meaning in relation to their cultural and historical significance? I totally understand if you can’t cause it’s kind of a niche area, but please owl me if you find anything!

Harry

Harry,

How’s it going for you? Once I figure out how to work this fellytone thing the Muggles talk so much about, I’m sure I’ll be stupefying you with conversation! Though...don’t wait on it, maybe? This fellytone thing is kinda hard to figure out. One time, it just...started BEEPING at me! BEEPING, of all things! It gave Mum a massive fright and set her off on Dad for no reason, though the atmosphere here has been feeling like our Potions practicals for a while now, what with us cooped up in this nasty place. Well, at least you’ll eventually join us in this hellhole, ay? I’m sure you’re buzzing with excitement at the thought. 

Speaking of exciting things in this place, um...what should I do if I received a letter from Krum? Hypothetically, of course. It was actually rather well-thought out. And kinda funny. Though not that funny, obviously. In this hypothetical situation, I mean. Of course, right?

Asking for help,

Ron

・・・

Ron,

I hope you realize I’m cackling as I write this.

Anyways, in this “hypothetical” situation, I’d say that you should, I don’t know, WRITE BACK? Hypothetically, of course.

Please remember me when you’re happily dating a famous Quidditch player, okay? And remember to invite me to the wedding!

Harry

Dear Harry,

I know this must be frustrating for you, this experience of waiting for information to come and being confronted with a feeling that you are useless. I cannot possibly imagine the isolation you must be experiencing as you live with the Dursleys during these trying times. Still, I am sure you have come to realize that I cannot tell you anything beyond these no-doubt useless placations. I can only give you one piece of advice: keep your nose clean and everything will, hopefully, be okay.

I’ll write again soon,

Sirius

・・・

Sirius,

You’re right when you say you have no idea what I’m experiencing right now. It’s fine though; I expect you’ll soon make it up to me when we see each other again.

Harry

Harry Potter,

If you imply what I think you imply, I will do my best to help you. At the moment, there is much I cannot do, but I try to ask my father for information. I will do same for Grindelwald supporters at school, though it is not likely that Voldemort has many influence outside Britain. Perhaps he still has old connections that he use? If Karkaroff still remains, many others might too.

Waiting on information,

Viktor Krum

・・・

Krum,

The information is highly appreciated! Though Voldemort has not made any obvious moves as of now, he is sure to do so sometime in the future. Any and all information on the political climate outside of Britain will prove useful if Voldemort ever moves beyond Britain. Reparations and new alliances will have to be made after the war ends, and my position as the Boy-Who-Lived likely will force me to be involved in the aforementioned.

Thanks,

Harry

P.S. I know you’re probably wondering about him, so don’t worry about Ron’s reply to your letter! He’ll reply to you eventually; he was just really surprised to get a letter from you and it’s taking him a while to figure out how to respond. Hermione, of course, continues to be pleased with your letters, so please keep up whatever it is that you’re doing!

Harry Potter,

Gabrielle has developed quite a crush on you; it has me worrying for pedestal I am on. Hopefully she does not replace me! She begin making many jewelry as she is quite advanced with metallurgy. She even had funny idea of making you one sword and asked me for how to enchant it. Veela magic can be very powerful, as it is quite inflexible without approval of Veela.

I mentioned in past that I apply to Gringotts. They come back to me to tell me they accept my application. I am very excited to start the job and hopefully I see you in Britain!

Write to me soon,

Fleur Delacour

・・・

Fleur, 

It is quite flattering to know that Gabrielle idolizes me as much as you seem to think she does. Thank goodness Rita Skeeter can’t jump on this info in the future any time soon, ay?

If Gabrielle ever gets around to making that sword you mentioned, I’d leave the enchantments to your discretion. I’m sure you would know what one might need from such a weapon. Maybe you could practice a few enchantments you have in mind on the pieces of jewelry Gabrielle made?

And congratulations on the job! It will be interesting to see you at Gringotts; I went there recently and I’m pretty sure the goblins were making fun of me…

Thanks,

Harry

Dumbledore,

Why? Why didn’t you tell me yourself what I was? WHY?

I couldn’t help but hate you after everything was done and over with, but it wasn’t even hate that I was feeling. It was just...the feeling of being duped. I thought you were a mentor to me, even though you had always done a shit job of it, but...maybe I was wrong. Maybe what you were wasn’t a mentor but a shepherd herding me to my death.

Even then, I want to understand the why of things. But I don’t think I ever will. 

Harry

Harry Potter,

I have mulled over the offer you previously made me and have come to my decision. I am willing to offer you some manner of aid in diminishing the Dark Lord’s influence over Slytherin, though not at the expense of my standing, of course. I would prefer that we meet in person once more to go over the specifics of this agreement. Kindly owl me a time and location at the earliest convenience.

Draco Malfoy

・・・

Malfoy,

Um. I didn’t realize there was more than one decision to be made, but, uh, good to know?

I’ll give you a time and location as soon as possible, but I can’t give it to you right now cause there are a few things I still have to confirm.

Harry Potter

Chapter Text

'This is probably really fucking stupid,' passes through his mind as he hunkers down near Mrs. Figg's house, tired of pacing back and forth to uphold the illusion of him not deliberately placing himself in front of the house.

The Dementors still haven’t arrived, which Harry wants to take to mean they wouldn’t be arriving at all but...that was probably not the case.

It is in situations like this that Harry can’t help but wish for the “adults” in his life to actually give him some information. He had asked for Dumbledore to discreetly spread news of Voldemort’s return, after all, but he has no idea how that is actually working out.

Are people even listening to Dumbledore? Has the Order of the Phoenix once again been reinstated? Have whispers of Voldemort’s return reached the Ministry? If so, would they connect it to him and send Dementors to ensure his silence? 

Fuck, he didn’t know. How is he supposed to know anything when Dumbledore couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes the first time around? So what if he had a connection to Voldemort? So what? Harry needs answers this time around and he needs them fast.

(Even though he knew he would still willingly head into a dangerous situation in the hopes of helping someone, of not being useless, of anything-)

Maybe the Dementors haven’t arrived because he isn’t in an isolated enough area. It was alarmingly quiet as it was, but apparently it wasn’t isolated enough for the picky bastards. What did they want from him next, refined seasoning on his fucking soul?

He should start heading away from Mrs. Figg’s house, though, and towards a more isolated area. He can’t let anyone else get hurt. It’s fine when it comes to him because he can handle it, even though he doesn’t want to continue to be the reason for the desolate expressions on his friends’ faces, his family’s faces, his-

There’s a ringing in his ear, crescendoing sharply and forcing him to his knees.

He looks up.

The abyss looks back.

He runs. Of course he does.

His breaths run ragged as he scrambles out from under the lone Dementor, oddly reminded of Mark Evans struggling under Dudley like prey only a few days ago. He somehow manages to reach Mrs. Figg’s door and knocks harshly against it, ignoring the pain from the red marks that emerge.

The door doesn’t open. The door doesn’t open.

“Mrs. Figg!” he shouts desperately, voice cracking. “Mrs. Figg! Please! You—You don’t have to open the door, but please contact the Order! Please!”

The door doesn’t open. He hears no sounds of Mrs. Figg puttering about inside.

That can’t be. That can’t be. Maybe...maybe the Dementors are just...fucking with his head, making it so he can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, can’t feel anything but fear.

He has to get away from here. He...he just has to run until he can’t run anymore, and then run some more, and then, maybe, everything will be okay. Everything has to be okay.

Fuck. What was he thinking, pulling something like this?

Maybe he ends up in the alley he was in the first time around. Maybe it’s another alley in the neighborhood. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

Or does it? Merlin, why can’t he think logically? He can’t process what’s happening to him.

There are Dementors at the foot of the alleyway. They’re...waiting, he thinks, but for what? For him to make his next move?

He needs to try, at least, even though he knows it won’t work. It hasn’t worked ever since he first died.

He tried to cast the Patronus once, right after he finally managed to get out of his bed in the morning, right after he could manage talking to his friends without wanting to prick little holes into himself all over, right after his life was supposed to be perfect, right after-

It didn’t work.

But...things are better now, aren’t they? He has his parents, he has Cedric, he has his friends, he has Sirius, he has Dumbledore, he has everything he ever lost-

(Loss is such a funny word, don’t you think?)

His fingers grip his wand tightly, faces flashing through his mind even as the chill of the Dementors seeps deeper and deeper into his blood. His wand draws circles, forceful, infinite, majestic, and he can feel his Patronus, feel it as it begins to seep out of his memories and into his wand and out towards the Dementors-

But then it is just as quickly shoved right back into him, the torrential wave of magic that had been building inside of him dripping out, drip, drop, drip.

He hears nothing. It didn’t work. His sight is becoming blurry. It didn’t work. It’s so cold. It didn’t work. Why-

It didn’t work. It didn’t work. It didn’t work. Itdidn’tworkitdidn’tworkitdidn’tworkitdi-

And then-

There’s white all around him, but the iridescent haze that has settled over his vision makes the endless white waver and bend in certain places.

He gets the feeling he’s being watched, but he doesn’t see anything in sight. There’s just...nothing.

Where is he? Did the dementors get to him? Then...why isn’t he at King’s Cross?

His breaths are becoming shorter and shorter. He’s dead. He has to be.

Spots appear in his vision, but as they waver and bend like the endless white had done before, Harry comes to realize that something’s happening to the white surrounding him.

The spots become larger and larger, creeping closer and closer towards something.

The endless white has almost been swallowed up by these dark spots, by these deepening voids.

Harry closes his eyes shut, squeezing them tightly out of fear of what’s to come.

He shoots up, his eyes fluttering open. His hands clamor for something to grasp on, landing on the craggly pebbles on the floor beneath him.

“Harry!” he hears, and he turns to see Mrs. Figg rushing towards him.

“Oh, you idiot boy! What were you thinking? You could have died!” she says, fidgeting with her purse to pull out a napkin and wipe his face with it.

Harry stares, not saying anything. There are no Dementors in sight, even though the alleyway was chock full of them only a few moments earlier. His body feels warm, almost as if he’s running a fever, when only earlier he felt like he had been shoved into a freezer.

Mrs. Figg continues to stare expectantly at him for an answer, but...that’s unimportant when only one thing seems to be passing through Harry’s mind.

What the fuck just happened?

Chapter Text

Harry pays little mind to Mrs. Figg trotting off to her house after dropping him off at number four, mind instead swirling with thoughts of what had just happened.

He had just died. There’s nothing else that could have happened, what with his inability to perform the Patronus-

(Of course life would take that away from him. When had he ever deserved to be happy, after all?)

-to deal with the shit ton of Dementors surrounding him. So why was he here in the land of the living? And it wasn’t even like when he first let himself die at Voldemort’s hand. No, it was entirely different. There was no King’s Cross, no Dumbledore to speak to him, no train to get on, nothing. All there was was an endless sea of white, a peculiar iridescent haze coating it, and the voids that were building up like a bomb about to blow.

Harry rings the bell, expecting to be met with Aunt Petunia’s suspicious face. It’s Dudley’s face that peeks out behind the door, however, cautiously examining Harry’s surroundings before gesturing him inside. 

Maybe Harry would have made a quip or something to deal with the oddity of his newfound alliance with Dudley, but, well, he doesn’t, his mind too preoccupied to spare any attention to the fuckery that is currently his life.

Dudley does a decent job of filling up the silence on his own though, immediately pouncing upon Harry once he’s inside to ask him questions.

“Did you deal with whatever...problem you had?”

Harry numbly nods, not entirely aware of the words leaving Dudley’s mouth.

“And it’s done, right? Like, there’s no chance of it biting me...I mean, us in the arse?”

Harry nods again.

“A-Are you going to be staying with us still? Like, it doesn’t make sense for...them to keep you here for much longer if you’re in danger or something.”

Harry shakes his head, even though Dumbledore has yet to send anyone to check in on him. 

Dudley exhales deeply, “Okay then. Um, I’ll be going now and leave you to whatever it is you’re thinking about so much,” before leaving Harry with barely a glance. 

Harry wanders over to the kitchen, thinking that maybe a glass of water will drag him out of the fugue state he’s in, when a barn owl swoops through the open window and deposits a letter into the sink before audibly colliding into something.

Harry turns around, scooping the letter out of the sink as he does, and is met with his dad’s worried face.

“Oh. Hullo, Dad.”

His dad exclaims, “P-Prongslet! Where have you been?!?! Your mum, Cedric, and I have been driving ourselves bloody insane worrying about where you were.”

“Just a second, Dad,” Harry says, lifting a hand to stop him. “I have to check this letter. It’s from Arthur Weasley.”

His dad floats over as he opens the letter.

Harry,

Dumbledore is investigating the situation at Privet’s Drive. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSE. We will be sending someone over to pick you up and escort you to a new location, so please make sure that you are ready.

Arthur Weasley

“Situation, Prongslet? W-What the bloody hell is Arthur talking about?!?!”

“I’ll explain it to you later, Dad. There’s no need to worry. No one was hurt.”

His dad begins to back away, clenching his fists. “No one was hurt?!?! That doesn’t exactly instill much confidence in me, Prongslet! What-”

His dad’s stopped talking. Harry lifts his head, staring inquisitively at him. “Dad?”

His dad’s face has gone pale, as if a Dementor is sucking his soul out of him.

“What the fuck happened to you, Harry?”

Harry lets out a shaky breath. “W-What are you talking about, Dad? Look at me, I-I’m fine!”

His dad’s voice wavers as he speaks. “Y-You can’t see it, can you? That...thing that’s behind you.”

Harry quickly turns around but...there’s nothing there. 

(Nothing, like that sea of endless white. He’s drowning in it, he’s drowning, he wants to live, please let him live-)

His dad grabs onto his wrist so suddenly that Harry can’t cover up his flinch, but his dad pays little mind to it, dragging him up the stairs and into his room. 

His mum and Cedric look up from where they were quietly having a conversation, eyes latching onto Harry before wandering over to...whatever his dad thinks is looming over him.

His mum lets out a gasp. “Harry, dear...what happened?”

Harry can’t withhold his emerging frustration at his confusion, feeling more and more like the angry kid he was at 14. “I-I don’t know! What are you guys talking about? There’s nothing behind me. T-There can’t be! There can't. I’m...I’m normal. My life was supposed to go back to normal after everything happened. But it didn’t! Of course it didn’t. I-I...can’t do this again. I can’t. Merlin, I was so fucking stupid. I shouldn’t have gone off without telling you guys. M-Maybe if I just fucking told you guys...I didn’t want to die. You know that! Everyone knows that! But I did. And not just once, but twice! Twice ! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And all because I wanted to do better. I should have told you guys-”

“Twice?” Cedric interjects, his face shocked. His dad places a placating hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Harry,” his dad says, exchanging glances with his mum and Cedric. “Have...have you talked to anyone about...what you just said?”

Harry blinks. “I-I talk to you guys! T-That has to count, right?”

His mum sighs. “Harry...you don’t talk to us. Not really. You told us that you’re from the future, yes, but...you haven’t told us anything about what happened to you.”

“A-And that’s fine, Prongslet!” his dad adds. “We didn’t want to pressure you or anything just because you’re going through a lot, but…”

“You can’t keep bottling things up like I...no, the both of us did when it came to my death,” Cedric finishes.

Harry laughs hysterically. “B-But...I don’t need to, though! I can’t just burden you guys with my issues. They’re...they’re done and over with! They are. So, really, there’s no need-”

“But there is, Harry,” his dad says. “You said you’ve died twice, and I’m getting the feeling that your deaths are not just in the future for you to leave behind.”

His mum stands up off the bed. “We need to address the elephant in the room, Harry. And the elephant is...that thing looming behind you that only we can see.”

Cedric agrees, “Yeah, can we please talk about that thing? It’s a thing out of nightmares.”

Nightmares. When had his life already become a nightmare?

No one seems to be aware of how his breathing’s just...stopped. Nothing seems to leave his mouth, his throat becoming tighter every passing second. 

His dad speaks, “You know, now that I think about, it looks a little like a Dementor. Though...not as present? It’s starting to fade, actually, if I’m being honest.”

Dementors. Does he even have a soul anymore? Is this just a...nightmare concocted at the behest of Fate’s fucked-up whims? Is this what his life amounts to? 

“Fucking Dementors,” he shouts, kicking his bed frame even though he has no expectation of the wood splintering like he really wants it to. What the fuck does it matter when this is all just...just a dream where he suffers in an endless loop?

He’s breathing heavily, his vision becoming blurry, unable to still his trembling body, when he feels someone approach him and tap him on his shoulder before tentatively wrapping their arms around him in a hug.

He feels like a wild, unrestrained thing finally meeting its match, his breaths finally slowing down to match the deep inhales and exhales of whoever is hugging him.

Maybe he’s finally having the breakdown he should have had when he first came here. Maybe the horrible shit that happened to him is finally catching up to him. Maybe-

“I fucking died,” he gasps out. “I-I didn’t want to, but...it happened. Again. B-Because I couldn’t cast the Patronus. I used to be able to, you know? But...But I can’t anymore.”

The person hugging him drags their hands slowly through his hair and over his back, murmuring, “I know, Harry. It’s going to be okay,” over and over again.

His hands make their way towards the person hugging him, clasping desperately onto their shirt to ground him. He can feel tears prickling at his eyes, but they don’t fall out, making streams on his face. All it does is make his vision blurry and his head nauseous from how dizzy he feels. He can feel a headache begin to build from how tightly he’s clenched his teeth, but he does nothing to remedy the issue.

Eventually though, he manages to dislodge himself from whoever is hugging him, hefting himself back away from them.

He slowly lifts his head, and is met with his dad’s hazel eyes staring back at him.

“Oh,” Harry breathes out.

“Oh indeed,” his dad replies back, the shakiness of the smile on his face now more prominent.

“Are you feeling okay, Harry?” his mum asks, scanning his face.

Harry opens his mouth, but he finds himself unable to even croak out a reply.

“That...Dementor thing has faded away, if you were wondering. Looks like your dad was right, Harry,” Cedric adds when Harry doesn’t say anything. 

“T-That’s...good to know.”

“It is,” Cedric says, nodding assuredly. 

Harry digs his fingers into the floor to stop from sagging forward. It’s done and over with. It is. He’s had his required mental breakdown, and he doesn’t need or want anymore.

“But how are you?” his mum tentatively asks.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect. And him?

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You’re not,” his mum sharply tells him, her eyes narrowing.

‘Huh,’ he wonders, ‘had they always been able to see through me like that?”

He got so good at pretending after the war ended, after he had died, after Avada Kedavra green rebounded, colliding into Voldemort’s chest, after-

(He couldn't swallow the fact that maybe, just maybe, he had killed Voldemort. It was Voldemort's Avada Kedavra that had rebounded, but he had cast Expelliarmus, knowing what would happen.

His hands were the hands of a murderer, digging into Quirrel's skin, burning everything he touched until there was nothing left.

But maybe, just maybe, he hadn't killed Quirrell too.)

He wasn’t an orphan, he wasn’t a Horcrux, he wasn’t the sad bastard who couldn’t cast a Patronus, he wasn’t a dead man walking-

No, he was just the Boy-Who-Lived-Again and that’s all he ever was.

He got so used to pretending because who was he to ruin the happiness of the people he cared about? They deserved it, they had fucking earned it after everything had gone down. So, he had just...straightened his shoulders, held his head up high, plastered a smile onto his stupid face, and-

Well. He put on a show for everyone to see.

Everyone wanted one from him, after all. No one wanted to confront the knowledge that they had a 17-year-old walk to his fucking death when he had already lost so many. No one wanted to confront the fact that they let their children fight a war while they watched, as if it was a fucking circus. No one wanted to confront the fact that it was their actions that let the war escalate to the extent it did in the first place.

“Look!" they would say. “Look at the Boy-Who-Lived-Again. Don't you just love the smile on his face? He's lost the most out of all of us, yet he's perfectly fine, isn't he? There's nothing for us to worry about! We did nothing wrong, don't you see?”

People never wanted to see what they didn't want to see. And that was what Harry was in every single way that mattered.

And yet, here he was in his 15-year-old body, surrounded by the spectres of his parents and Cedric Diggory peering over him, and it was somehow so easy to just...give his face free reign in its expressions, give his mouth the authority to verbalize his cries for help, give his body the ability to seek comfort in their arms.

So.

“You’re right,” he says, letting out a short laugh that is distorted into a wrangled gasp, “you’re right. I’m not fine. I’ve never been fine.”

“So talk to us, Prongslet,” his dad pleaded, voice pitching forward in volume. “Tell us what’s weighing on you like the world did on Atlas. I don’t care that you think you would be burdening us because you wouldn’t , okay? You wouldn’t.”

“Start from anywhere you want, Harry, like you did for me,” Cedric says.

His mum’s hand comes up to his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. “We’re here for you, Harry. No matter what.”

“The first time around,” Harry ventures, before pausing. “The first time around, the Ministry sent Dementors after me because I had told the entire Wizarding World that Voldemort had returned. Obviously, I didn’t do that this time around, but that’s more so because of...me forgetting to do so more than anything.”

He continues, “I cast the Patronus in front of Dudley, and ended up discovering that Mrs. Figg was a Squib keeping an eye on me for Dumbledore. Yet, for all my efforts, that day became even worse. The Ministry sent me a note telling me I was expelled from Hogwarts, but Dumbledore somehow managed to get me a trial instead of immediate expulsion. Not that he told me that himself, which...was horrible. No one was telling me anything, and...I was just stuck in my house for 3 days, waiting for any news, any sign that they even remembered I existed. I was the one who had seen Cedric die after all. I was the one who had seen Voldemort come back to life. And, well, I didn’t have you guys around back then. You guys...only existed for the duration of my duel with Voldemort, after all.”

“But what about this time, Prongslet? What happened?” his dad says, voice soft.

Harry swallows, throat dry, before speaking. “Well. I wasn’t sure if the Dementors would be coming after me this time, but I had to make sure. So I hung around Mrs. Figg’s house, just so I could ask her to get the Order if things went to shit, but when they finally did come...It was like—like they were just sucking out all the noise around me and replacing it with pure fear. I couldn’t feel anything and had no idea if Mrs. Figg had even heard me. So I ran. But eventually they cornered me and, and I tried to cast the Patronus, but I just can’t ever since Voldemort killed me the first time around. I just can’t. And, well, the next thing I know is that I was surrounded by nothing.”

“Nothing?” his mum gasps, questioning.

Harry nods. “Yeah, nothing. It was—It was this endless sea of white, and I had this odd feeling I was being watched, like someone was boring right into me, but there was nobody there. Nobody. And then I open my eyes and I’m...lying on the pavement.”

“Prongslet…” his dad says, voice anguished. “Why didn’t you tell us you were planning on doing something like this?”

“I couldn’t get you guys involved,” Harry responds, voice terse. “I couldn’t.”

His mum opens her mouth, but Cedric speaks before she can.

“Harry,” Cedric says cautiously, “you...you said that Voldemort killed you the first time around. Is-Is that why you were sent back in time?”

“No,” Harry says, not adding anything more.

“No?” his mum says, frustration seeping into her voice. She leans back, pinching her nose. “Harry, if Voldemort killing you isn’t what sent you here, then...what is?”

“I don’t...know. I never really, well, tried to think about Voldemort killing me. I came back, after all, and everything seemed normal after Voldemort died so there was no point in thinking about it.”

“But how? How did you come back after...after dying?” his dad asks.

“I…” Harry says, unable to even speak when he feels like he’s drowning in his memories of King’s Cross.

“Did…”  his dad says, eyes widening as if he already knows Harry’s answers. “Harry. What—What kind of magic did you have to use to come back to life? Blood magic? Necromancy? Po-”

“No. No no no. I-I didn’t, Dad, you have to believe me. I-”

But before Harry can explain, before he can redeem himself in front of his parents and Cedric, he hears a loud crash in the kitchen, soon accompanied by an odd amalgamation of voices. Eventually the people downstairs quiet down, their voices now replaced with footsteps making their way up the stairs and towards his room. 

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Especially not in the form of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry supposes that that’s just simply another law of the universe that no longer applies to him.

Cedric whips his head in the direction of the sound, voice panicked. “W-What was that sound?!?! Morgana’s tit, are De-”

“It’s just the Order of the Phoenix, Cedric,” Harry lightly puts.

“Wotcher Harry!” Tonks shouts, proving him right. He feels himself relax momentarily, but then he remembers who just spoke to him.

Tonks.

He misses Teddy, is the thing. He misses being able to see the kid grow up under his watchful eye. He misses making faces at the boy that would be met with transforming features, feeding him only for the boy to spit it back onto him, and more.

But he never should have had to raise the tot. Tonks should have survived. She didn’t deserve to die at Bellatrix’s hand, but she had.

Tonks, though, is seemingly unaware of his internal struggle, peering into his room and examining it. Harry raises an eyebrow when her searching gaze meets his, and she leans back, letting out a sheepish laugh.

She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. “Sorry, you must be confused, aintcha Harry? I-I...just thought you were talking to someone else, but, well, there’s no one here, of course. Maybe I just imagined it!”

“Maybe.”

“Anyways!” Tonks says, clapping her hands together, “I’m here to bring you to the Order’s headquarters. There are other members downstairs waiting for you.”

“We should hurry then,” he comments, brushing past her. “I don’t know why Aunt Petunia or Uncle Dursley haven’t come to yell my ear off for your racket, but if we’re lucky, Dudley’s probably distracting them. Not for long, though.”

He scoops up his Infinity Bag, thankful he had shoved his trunk into it earlier that morning. He glances at Hedwig in her cage before handing her to Tonks, rolling his eyes at the squawk Hedwig lets out at being passed off to someone else so easily.

“Is...Is that all you’re bringing, Harry?” Tonks says, squinting her eyes suspiciously at the bag.

“Yes,” he says, leaving Tonks behind in his room before she begins to ask more questions.

He doesn’t know if his parents and Cedric are trailing after him like they did for most of the summer. He wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t. 

He doesn’t know if he could ever entirely explain how he came back to life, though.

His feet thump on the stairs as he makes his way down.

(The kitchen where his dad first saw that monstrosity looming over him, face pale and voice wrecked. Oh, how long ago in a distant past that seems to be now.)

He takes note of the people scattered across the room, unaware of his probing gaze.

“Where’s Moody?” he says, causing more than a few of them to flinch as he makes his way further into the kitchen.

“Harry!” Remus shouts, getting up from the seat he had taken at the kitchen table. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he answers curtly. “Where’s Moody?”

The tentative smile that had been on Remus’ face wavers, making Harry bite his cheek for causing the change in expression. But he needs to know if Moody is around, acting as a useful asset, or if things have changed so much in this timeline because of his actions that the man died an early death.

“Moody...is handling something else at the moment.”

“Something you can’t tell me about because of Dumbledore, right?” Harry asks wryly.

He hadn’t planned on being so rude when he first ended up shoved into this timeline, but he has no fucks to give with the knowledge that he’s died again still prevalent in his mind.

Remus says nothing.

Harry sighs. “Whatever. Let’s just get going then.”

“But what about introductions?” one of the other members, Dedalus Diggle as far as Harry can remember, yelps.

“You can introduce yourselves at HQ,” Harry says bitingly.

He whips out his Firebolt from where it had been residing in the Infinity Bag during the summer, Harry not wanting for it to be broken or taken away by the Dursleys.

“I’ll let you handle the Disillusionment Charm, just so you know,” Harry says, turning to meet Remus’ eyes.

Before Remus begins to twirl his wand around Harry as if he’s constraining him up with rope, Harry feels a whisper of a touch grace itself across his shoulder.

‘At least they still think I’m worth sticking with,’ Harry thinks about his parents and Cedric, before he is met with the sensation of a raw egg being cracked upon his head.

He shakes his head at the thought. ‘These spectres bound to me will change their mind one day,’ passes through his mind before he strides towards Aunt Petunia’s pristine lawn.

The alarm bells that had been blaring in his head when he had first left Privet’s Drive for Grimmauld Place are no longer there, his body running on auto-pilot as he makes the necessary swerves and dives. 

He feels insignificant in the vast, starry sky that is blotted with clouds here and there. He feels insignificant, just as insignificant as he had felt the night he had been tossed back into a time he didn’t belong to.

His troubles had started a few months before, if he really thinks about it.

He had quit his job as an Auror after one too many fuck-ups-

(The mausoleum bore down upon him, Harry finding himself unable to breathe in the unbearable stench of rotting bodies.)

(The naked body of a girl laid before him, her skin mottled with blue and purple patches. Her skin felt bitingly cold when he brushed against her. Her eyes were unseeing, staring at a distant figure that had her mouth contorting into a silent scream.

He had to swallow back his bile, stepping away from the body as quickly as possible, when he heard the door knob twist behind him.)

(At least the bodies were returned to their families.)

-but hadn’t expected having to deal with what followed next.

Ginny had been confused by his sudden choice to leave the Auror Department, memories of his passion as he taught other Hogwarts students new spells during the meetings of Dumbledore’s Army warping her perceptions of him.

(“Harry,” Ginny said, voice strangled, “I-I just don’t understand. I thought it was your dream to become an Auror! So-”

“Maybe you just don’t understand me as well as you think you do, Ginny,” Harry said coldly, the words leaving his mouth unbidden.

‘That isn’t true!’ he felt like screaming at himself, gripping his wrist tightly.

‘It’s your own fault, so own up to it.’

‘The only reason you’re alone is because-’)

They fought. It wasn’t world-ending, but it had felt like at the time. He had thought he’d lost not just Ginny, but Ron and the Weasleys. He didn’t know why, but he had.

(“Uncle Vernon was right, boy. Nobody wants to hear you whine like the selfish brat you are,” a voice whispered in his ear. “Did you really think Ginny would care enough to put up with your whining? When your own parents couldn’t be bothered to stay?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but could only let out a strangled gasp when he felt hands come up to grip his throat, tightening more and more every second.

“Now go, boy,” the voice hissed, “before you ruin more lives.”)

He ran. Of course he ran. 

(Like the fucking coward he was.)

And then they appeared. 

The Deathly Hallows.

(He had thought his brush with death was done and over with when he had come back from the dead. He had paid little mind to the disappearance of the Resurrection Stone and the Elder Wand, too caught up in the fact that he was alive, he was breathing, but he felt so fucking empty. How could he move forward when so many had died? For him.)

(He had cast the Patronus, breath hitching in anticipation of a spell that served to be a reminder of his dad when he had so few memories of his own. 

Nothing came out. And nothing would come out for a very long time.)

(Just another loss in his life at the end of the day.)

It didn’t matter what he did to them. Toss them into the fireplace, throw a Severing Charm at them, plop them into the ocean, anything.

They always came back. 

He could have left Grimmauld Place-

(And he wanted to. Oh, how he had so dearly wanted to.)

-but something was holding him back, clutching his heart and pulling him back with every step he took towards the door.

He was trapped, stuck simmering in his shame at what his actions had done to Ginny, to Ron, to the only family he had. 

(He had Andromeda and Teddy still, though. Hermione and Draco as well. Why hadn’t that registered in his mind? Why?)

His nights weren’t his anymore, instead filled with nightmares. Mournful voices, chilling laughs, and the odd, odd feeling that someone was watching.

(No matter how far he ran, he could never reach them.)

He broke. He had to, if he wanted to live more than a facsimile of a life.

(“Please,” he said, pleading.

Nothing.

“Please,” he tried again, voice strangled.

Nothing.

“P-Please.”

Nothing-

“My body, my mind, my soul. Whatever it is, just…please let me be. Please.”)

(Hermione had once told him when they were on the run, the light of a crackling fire reflecting off her face, just how important the number three was for Light Magic. 

Talk someone down from committing a dark deed you know they didn’t want to do, asking, pleading with them three times not to do it, watching all the while as delicate, glowing chains crept up their body, holding them in place.

Refuse to let yourself live when asked three times just for the sake of your loved one, ultimately protecting them in body, mind, and soul.

Even a declaration of love spoken three times had a way of imbuing the speaker with something more. 

Perhaps a simple “please” said three times, no matter how desperate he was, was not enough reason for him to wake up in his 14-year-old body. Maybe an offering of his body, his mind, and his soul was not enough to satiate the cruel beings haunting his nights.

But there were forces already at work that made such things possible. And possible they became.)

And finally, the Deathly Hallows disappeared, leaving him with a tentative exhilaration thrumming through his veins and a newfound clearness in his mind.

He went to bed, his head dropping onto a pillow. He tried to sleep, but his bed was too cold, too lonely. All because of his own foolish actions.

And then all he saw was dead, dead, dead, dead-

(His life never did change for the better.)

Chapter Text

And so, they arrived at Grimmauld Place with their bodies intact, landing onto a patch of unkempt grass and dismounting. 

Where in the first timeline it had taken a helpful note and a few essential seconds for 12 Grimmauld Place to unceremoniously plop itself between number eleven and number thirteen, Harry could already see 12 Grimmauld Place in all its shabby and unappealing glory in this timeline. 

It was likely a minute crossover from one future to another, whether it be because he had already once been told of its location or that the Fidelius Charm had vanished with Dumbledore’s death in his timeline, but it was one that left him wondering what else had crossed over from his timeline to this one.

Not for long, though, when a piece of parchment is thrust into his hand, pulling him out of his thoughts.

His dad comes up behind him, resting his chin on his shoulder to get a look at the parchment. Harry could feel the faint sensation of his mum and Cedric on his sides, and, latching onto the comfort the touch provided him - especially when he had no assurance that it was to be a permanent fixture with what had only earlier been revealed about himself - he lifted the parchment above his head so they could read it properly.

“A Fidelius Charm, right?” he says out loud to make it obvious what his parents and Cedric should be doing.

Remus blinks. “Ah, yes, that’s...right.”

“Good to know,” he says, amused, before promptly setting it on fire with his wand tip. 

(This is, of course, regardless of the possibility that the Ministry might “erroneously” send him a warning despite the presence of multiple registered wizards around him.)

Remus lets out a vaguely concerned laugh at the sight, and they finally begin to make their way up the worn stairs. 

He hears his dad mutter to himself, “God, I can’t blame Sirius for hating this place. It’s just as ugly as I remember it being,” and Harry lets out a snort at that.

Hate was an understatement when it came to this place.

Remus tells Harry not to touch anything inside, not that he needs to when the mere thought of his skin on this house’s rotting walls has him holding back bile.

This crumbling relic of a house was once meant to be his grave, he thinks, before circumstances changed drastically for him at a rate beyond which he could comprehend. 

12 Grimmauld Place is still shrouded in darkness, but even then, Harry can sense it. 

There, the spot where he passed out from dehydration because any time he tried to drink water from the tap, it felt like he was dripping acid onto his tongue. And there, where he continuously saw glimpses of his dad’s dead body, lying limp on the floor as if it was the night he had first died for him. And just downstairs, where Harry found a Boggart, not in the form of a Dementor despite what was at this point a permanent inability to cast the Patronus, but him, surrounded by the cacophony of whispers, laughs, and mocking jeers that had settled into his nightmares.

The lights suddenly flare up, blinding his vision momentarily, before sputtering into a lower hue. Harry ends up having to blink rapidly for a few seconds to recover, and is hence unprepared for the sound of hurried footsteps signalling Mrs. Weasley’s entrance through the far door at the end of the hall.

“Oh, it’s so lovely-” she says before stopping in her steps. “Where exactly is that boy?”

“Oh right!” Harry says, rapping himself hard over the head and shivering slightly as he feels something slimy trickle down his back.

Mrs. Weasley smiles, promptly pulling him into a hug, before sighing exasperatedly when her eyes catches on the group of wizards behind him as she pulls back and holds him at arm’s length.

“He’s just arrived. The meeting’s started, in fact,” she says urgently. The wizards make noises of interest in varying volumes, filing past Harry toward the same door Mrs. Weasley had just come from. Harry makes sure to grab Hedwig’s cage from Tonks,  and as he does so, Mrs. Weasley darts a quick glance to his figure, as if worried that he’ll make a fuss and try to follow after the group of wizards Tonks had stopped behind.

Not that she has to worry about that. ‘With how much they want to keep me in the dark,’ Harry muses when he feels Mrs. Weasley’s eyes on him, ‘you would be surprised at how much they wanted to introduce themselves only moments earlier.’

It seems pointless, really. 

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley says, exhaling, “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping then, Harry. I’m supposed to be at the meeting too, so it’s best that we hurry,” before ushering him up the stairs past the grotesque figures that had long been gone when Harry had settled down here as an adult. 

Mrs. Weasley pauses for a few seconds when they reach the landing, as if waiting for several accusing questions to be tossed at her by Harry, only to shake her head at the silence in favor of indicating where his room is to him before hurrying downstairs. 

Harry turns to the bedroom’s doorknob, careful not to hold it for too long when it used to prick sharply at his fingers when he was older, and prepares for his breath to be knocked out by Hermione’s awaiting hug.

“Harry! Oh, Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! Oh, how are you, Harry? I-I know you must be furious, our letters must have been absolutely useless, but, oh-”

“Dumbledore made you swear not to tell me anything useful, yes, I know,” Harry cuts in, grinning.

Hermione’s eyes widen and she lets out an “Eep!” that has Harry’s grin widening.

“Bloody hell, mate!” Ron says. “You’ve made Hermione speechless!”

“Well, I always aim to please,” Harry says, adopting a haughty tone. Ron snorts at that, clapping him on the back. 

“Merlin, it’s good to see you again, mate. I was half-expecting you to bite our heads off when you finally came here.”

His smile slips off once he hears that. “I...I think I would have gone on a tirade, have the both of you close to tears, if...it were a different time. But honestly, I’m not pissed off at you guys, don’t worry. I’d much prefer to give Dumbledore a good wallop for the nonsense he’s put me through.”

Hermione lets out a scandalized gasp at that. “Harry!”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Come on, Hermione! I appreciate Dumbledore as much as the next wizard, but you know he deserves it!”

Hermione huffs, whipping her eyes toward Ron as if asking for him to back her up.

Ron does the exact opposite, backing away from her with his hands raised up. “Hermione, I’m not touching this conversation with a long pole anytime soon.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Of course, Ron.”

Ron laughs at that. “Yeah, besides, it’s about time that Fred and George pop up here to listen in on the Order.”

As if saying their names had summoned them, Fred and George materialize out of thin air in the middle of the room with two loud cracks.

Harry cackles at Hermione’s weak protest, before heading further into the room with Hedwig’s cage in tow to get away from the glare she gives in response. 

“Y-You’re not coming, Harry?” Hermione says, tilting her head.

He shakes his head. “I’d like to set my stuff down first.”

“But weren’t you just complaining about how Dumbledore has been telling you nothing, mate?” Ron adds.

Harry lets out an amused breath. “Well, it’s not like I can’t guess what they’re talking about. It’s pretty obvious. Probably if they’ve been successful at recruiting new members and informing others of the situation, debating who could have set the bloody Dementors on me, confirming that Voldemort is merely continuing to gather information rather than make a move, that stuff.”

“Huh,” Ron says. “Well, whatever you say then, mate. It’s probably for the best if one of us is still innocent in my mum’s eyes.”

“That it is,” Harry says, nudging Ron in his abdomen with his elbow.

Ron heads out of the room along with Hermione and the twins, leaving Harry to set Hedwig’s cage and snatching a piece of parchment from the pile scattered across Ron’s bed to quickly scribble a missive to Draco on.

Malfoy,

Sorry for the short notice, but is it possible for us to meet tomorrow in two days’ time? At 8 or 9 in the morning, maybe? I’m finally at where I’ll be spending the rest of my summer at, so it’s honestly the best time for me. Just head to the rear of the Leaky Cauldron (in the Muggle world, just to remind you) and you should see me around that area. Owl me if you can meet then!

Harry Potter

Harry straightens up from where he had been hunched over the note, assessing its contents with his hands on his hips. After deciding that it’s good enough, he picks it up and unlocks Hedwig’s cage, gesturing the note to Hedwig.

“Hedwig? Can you get this over to Draco Malfoy?” he asks in the sweetest tone he can manage, hoping Hedwig still has some energy despite what was probably, for her, a hectic ride to Grimmauld Place.

Hedwig hoots reproachfully, giving Harry a look that makes him feel idiotic in a multitude of ways, before turning away from the parchment pointedly.

Harry sighs, not knowing if he expected any better.

How exactly is he supposed to get the note to Draco now? If Harry thinks about it, an owl so late would have probably drawn the attention of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, so...apparently he needs a more discrete way to get information to Draco as well. Harry searches for any possible options when his mind finally comes up with one, having just noticed a poor house-elf’s head lying discarded on the floor from times long gone.

Dobby. 

And it’s the perfect solution, after all, that had just been sitting there, waiting for Harry to use it.

“Dobby!” he shouts, before wincing when he realizes he probably should have said that more quietly.

“H-Harry Potter! Oh, Harry Potter is calling Dobby! And Dobby came!” Dobby wails once he apparates into the room, clasping onto Harry’s leg.

Harry blinks, before patting Dobby on the head. “Er, yes. Thank you, Dobby!”

Dobby peers up at him. “What is Harry Potter asking of Dobby?”

Harry immediately feels bad at that, recognizing the implication being that he only calls upon Dobby when he wants something done. The poor house-elf deserves better, especially with a contorted house-elf’s head lying only a few steps away.

He should...probably get that out of the way.

“Um,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “can you give this to Draco Malfoy? Directly? You can still apparate into the manor, right?”

Dobby squints up at Harry. “Harry Potter knows that those Malfoys are the worst sort.”

“I do. But I still need you to get it Draco. I’d really appreciate it if you did.”

Dobby nods enthusiastically at that, “Of course! Dobby will be doing that for Harry Potter right away!” then grabbing the piece of parchment and apparating out of the room.

Harry sighs. Well. At least that’s one thing dealt with. 

Harry lets his shoulders slump from the exhaustion now catching up with him, when he hears someone whisper-shout his name outside the room. 

Harry glances cautiously around the room, before opening the door. This time, unlike when he first opened the door today, he is unprepared for the overwhelming hug that he is swept up in, and he lets out a squeak at the suddenness of it.

“You...you, Merlin, Prongslet, I-” his dad exclaims.

“He’s trying to say you’re a bloody idiot, Harry,” Cedric chimes.

“Oh, I’m sure there are better terms to describe Harry right now, Cedric dear,” his mum huffs. 

“Um,” Harry says, laughing at the oddness of it all.

His dad lifts his head from where it had burrowed in his shoulder to glare at him. “If you really thought we’d abandon you because of-”

“Uh.”

“No, let the man speak, Harry,” his mum says imperiously.

“Because of Dark Magic, you’re more of a bloody moron than I thought. A bloody moron that I will love forever, mind you, but a bloody moron nevertheless.”

Harry feels his heart swell at the sound of the word “love” leaving his dad’s mouth, when he never thought he’d ever hear that from the man in question for his entire life.

And then his mind processes the other half of what his dad just said, and all he can do is grab onto the sides of his dad’s shirt, clutching it desperately for stability.

“Oh Harry,” his mum says, floating towards him and wrapping her hands around them. “Of course we love you. No matter what, we’ll always love you.”

Cedric lingers around the edges before squaring his shoulders and joining the hug, not saying anything.

“How-” he chokes out. “How can you guys read me so easily?”

“It’s what...it’s what happens when you’re family, Harry, ” Cedric starts, before pausing and meeting his mum and his dad’s gazes.

“And we’re family, Harry. We always have been,” his mum finishes, her eyes shining with tears.

“I’m sorry I pressured you like that, Prongslet, and jumped to conclusions,” his dad says, voice muffled as he speaks into Harry’s hair. 

That statement draws them closer together, each grasping the other more tightly.

Maybe it’s okay to be vulnerable amongst these three. Just a little, at the least. He thinks he’s already given his heart to them, after all, and they haven’t broken it yet, with a harsh snip-snip-snip.

That’s more than he ever expected when he was younger, living with the Dursleys, and when he was older, screaming for help as he was buried alive in this house. 

“Have you heard of the Deathly Hallows?” he says, putting the words into the comfortable silence.

His dad shifts, lifting his neck from where it had been burrowed in his hair.

“Because,” he says, swallowing.

“Because,” he manages somehow, not caring how his voice cracks, “boy do I have a story for you guys.”

Chapter Text

Harry has to pause in his explanation to his parents when Ginny’s face peeks into the room. 

“Oh hello, Harry! Sorry I didn’t say hi earlier, I really wanted to listen in on the meeting, you know how it is. Anyways, Mum wanted me to tell you to come downstairs for dinner.”

Harry’s eyes soften at the sound of Ginny’s voice, so earnest and steadfast like he remembers it to be.

“Okay, Ginny,” Harry replies, hefting himself off the bed and slightly inclining his head so his parents and Cedric know to follow after him.

As he walks down the stairs, shoulder-to-shoulder with Ginny, he asks her, “How’s your summer been so far, Ginny?”

Ginny snorts. “I don’t know if you can call it a summer with all the cleaning my mum’s been making us do.”

“Well, at least it’s not Aunt Petunia,” Harry muses.

“Your aunt?” Ginny asks, tilting her head inquisitively.

Harry blinks. “Oh, well, she used to screech at me quite a bit whenever she had me, um...cleaning. Honestly, Snape reminds me of her so much that I’ve just learned to tune him out like I did her.”

Ginny laughs. “Merlin, can you imagine how Snape would react if you told him that?”

“I think he’d have an apoplectic fit. He actually knew her growing up, did you know that? And my mum too, obviously,” Harry says, clearing his throat to cover up his laugh when he hears his mum mutter, “And yet he bloody called me a Mudblood.”

There might be some lingering resentment there. Maybe.

Ginny’s eyes widen at Harry’s statement, however. “Bloody hell, Harry. Really?”

Harry nods, smirking. “Really.”

Before Ginny can interrogate Harry some more, they hear a loud crash, quickly followed by a tremendous screech capable of breaking glass.

Harry sighs. Good old Walburga.

If there’s one thing that makes him grateful for his time spent going bloody insane in this house, it’s that it wrecked whatever inhibition had been holding him back from blowing up the wall Sirius’ mother’s portrait had been stuck onto so it was no longer attached to the house itself and just...Vanishing it.

Maybe he should suggest that to Sirius. His godfather would certainly be quick to try it out.

Speaking of Sirius, the man in question is currently having a shouting match with the portrait.

“Shut up, you horrible old hag. Just shut up!”

“You! You, you, you, you blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!”

Sirius roars, “I said shut up!” before forcing the curtains shut with the help of Remus.

At that, Sirius turns to Harry, sweeping his long hair out of his eyes all the while.

“Hello, Harry,” Sirius says grimly, “I see you’ve met my mother.”

Harry grins. “That I have, Sirius, and I’m beginning to wonder why you haven’t thrown a Reducto at the wall she’s attached to.”

Remus chokes a little hearing that, but Sirius ignores what would normally be expected from him after hearing such a statement and sighs. Mournfully. 

“I’m pretty sure the walls of this hellhole are reinforced to protect against those kinds of spells.”

“Well, then, can’t you just...cut the wall your mum’s on out? I can demonstrate it for you, if you want,” he says, beginning to pull out his wand.

Remus coughs pointedly. “Maybe we can...save that for later, Harry. For now, let’s go settle in for dinner, okay?”

Harry pouts, enjoying the concern he’s likely causing in Remus, before following him down into the kitchen.

The kitchen in the basement. The basement where he first met his newly distorted Boggart. The basement where-

Harry has to actively work to prevent himself from letting out a frustrated groan at the thought. 

Still, he settles into a seat that he soon has to dive out of to avoid the large cauldron of stew, the iron flagon of butterbeer, and the heavy wooden breadboard that had been flying through the air straight towards the table. Once he’s resituated himself, he finds himself clacking a knife against a fork out of boredom at the background noise provided by Mrs. Weasley yelling at Fred and George.

Eventually though, those sounds are replaced with the chink of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as everyone settles down for dinner. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, there’s something trapped in the drawing room,” Mrs. Weasley says, turning to Sirius. 

“Do you think it’s a Boggart, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry chimes in.

Mrs. Weasley blinks, before continuing to speak. “Um, yes, Harry. Anyways, Sirius, I think we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it before we let it out.”

“Whatever you like,” Sirius says indifferently.

“The curtains in there are full of doxies too. I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow.”

“I’m buzzing in excitement at the thought,” Sirius says sarcastically.

At this point, Harry decides it’s probably for the best that he focuses on his meal. Maybe if he ignores the mounting tension between the two adults, they wouldn’t burst and take it out on each other.

‘Or not,’ he thinks when Sirius turns to Harry later, pushing away his empty plate.

“You know Harry, I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort.”

“Um,” he squeaks out with a slightly hysterical laugh, trying to somehow communicate mentally to Sirius to not follow that line of conversation.

“No! Harry is too young, Sirius," Mrs. Weasley interjects.

“And what does that matter,” Sirius scoffs. “Harry’s been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s got the right to know what’s been happen-”

“Hang on!” George interrupts loudly.

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?” Fred adds angrily.

‘Ouch,’ Harry thinks at that question. It’s not like he’s even been asking any questions, he’s just had all the answers to them…

Okay, yeah, Harry can see why Fred would think that this time around.

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing, but Harry-”

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry,” Mrs. Weasley says sharply. “Have you forgotten what Dumbledore said, Sirius?”

“Which bit, Molly?”

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know!”

“Well, lucky for you, Molly, I’m not doing that. But seeing as Harry was the one who saw Voldemort come back-”

“That doesn’t mean the boy should go out of his way looking for another fight with him!”

“Voldemort will come after him whether or not Harry wants him to. Molly, he’s not a child!”

“He’s not an adult either! He-He’s not James!”

His dad utters, “Sweet Merlin,” in the background at that.

Same. What a fucking mood.

“I know that! I know that you think I’m an irresponsible godfather who acts like I’ve gotten my best friend back, like I’m a bloody idiot who deserves to be cooped up in this hellhole.”

Mrs. Weasley lets out a loud exhale. “I-I didn’t say that, Sirius. But Dumbledore has given you explicit instructions-”

“Instructions that don’t involve you, Molly,” Sirius hisses.

“Arthur!” Mrs. Weasley says, rounding on her husband. “Arthur, back me up!”

Mr. Weasley speaks cautiously, “Dumbledore...knows the situation has changed, Molly, and that Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent-”

“Yes, but there’s a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes!”

“Personally,” Lupin says quietly, “I think it’s for the best if Harry seeks us out for all the facts rather than find himself dissatisfied with the facts he gets from...others.”

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley says, clearly offended. “Well, if that’s what everyone thinks, I’d like to remind you that Dumbledore had reasons for doing what he did. Speaking as someone who’s got Harry’s best interests at heart-”

Harry flinches at that, especially when Sirius follows, saying, “He’s not your son.”

“He’s as good as. After all, who else has he got?”

“He’s got me!”

“Yes,” and it's so painful for Harry to hear the cruel derision in her voice. “The thing is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him while you’ve been-”

Harry bursts out desperately then, trying to prevent the destruction they were quickly hurtling towards. “Um, did everyone try the chicken? I thought the chicken was lovely!” he says, hysterically looking around the table.

His mum is wheezing in the background for some reason, the traitor. 

Mrs. Weasley stops what she was going to say. “Harry, dear. We didn’t have chicken for dinner.”

Harry blinks. “Oh. Um, if that’s so, I think I’m going to go up to bed, if you don’t mind me doing that.”

Mrs. Weasley and Sirius both gape at him, but Harry ignores them, instead collecting his plate and cutlery, trotting off to place it in the sink, before rushing up the stairs to his bedroom.

If this is what it means to be in 12 Grimmauld Place again, Harry doesn’t know how much more more of it he can take.

Harry finally manages to finish explaining how shit hit the fan in his life to his parents after that dinner, but that is not entirely conducive to him getting a good night's sleep.

Especially when he finds himself waking up at some godforsaken time early in the morning, unable to huddle under his blanket and go back to sleep.

Harry ambles his way down the stairs, not even remotely surprised that no one is out and about at this time of day. 

He sighs, pressing his fingers into his forehead. It’s not even like he has anything productive to be doing at the moment, especially when there’s no feasible way for him to defeat…Voldemort...

The Horcruxes.

Specifically, Slytherin’s locket. The one that Regulus and Kreacher had stolen from right under Voldemort’s nose. The one that Mundungus stole again, passing it off to Umbridge.

Merlin, Harry feels himself getting goosebumps just at the thought of the pink toad.

Harry tentatively calls for Kreacher after mulling over the idea for a few seconds, but nothing happens.

Huh. Seems like Harry’s ability to call upon Kreacher didn’t crossover from his timeline to this one. Or more likely, Kreacher just doesn’t bloody want to listen to him.

Harry groans. Looks like he’s going to have to find Kreacher the good old fashioned way.

Glancing around the house, Harry’s starting to think that maybe he should get his parents and Cedric to help. It’s not like they sleep or anything, so it’s not like they have any right to complain about how early in the morning he’s pulling this shit.

It’s probably for the best, especially when Harry gets the feeling that him interacting with the locket will probably end like...his “run-in” with the Dementors.

Reminded of the rather traumatizing yet preventable aftermath of that time, Harry rushes up the stairs to find his parents.

“So...what have you gathered us here for, Prongslet? Are we planning a prank? Ruining Snape’s day? Or-” his dad asks, stroking his chin pensively.

“We’re going to be looking for a Horcrux,” Harry bluntly states.

Cedric wheezes.

His dad blinks. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

Harry spares his dad a dry look. “Yes, Dad. You don’t need to remind me about the Dementors. I learned my lesson.”

He ignores Cedric’s muttered, “Hopefully,” and continues to speak, glancing behind his dad’s shoulder. “Anyways. Where’s Mum?”

“She saw Snape coming in to give another report to Dumbledore and decided that muttering rude things about the bastard in his vicinity was more important. Honestly , I don’t remember her being so openly spiteful towards your Aunt Petunia or Snape when we were alive.”

“I don’t know, Dad,” he drawls. “Maybe it’s just because she’s a ghost.”

His dad hums. “That’s a good point there, Prongslet.”

Harry shakes his head, letting out a huff. “Okay, so, going back to what I have you guys here for. We’re going to be looking for a Horcrux, but to do that, we need to find Kreacher, the only house-elf here in Grimmauld Place.”

Cedric nods. “Sounds good, Harry. We’re going to be splitting up then, right?”

“Right. Just...zoom over when you find him, I guess?”

His dad snorts. “Zoom over.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Or just improvise however you want, then.”

“Okay, Harry, we’ll call you over somehow,” Cedric says, patting Harry on his shoulder before floating away. His dad soon follows, and Harry takes that as enough incentive to begin his search as well.

Harry walks about the house, drawn more so to the damp and gloomy places in his search in hopes of finding Kreacher in one of those nooks and crannies. Entering the drawing room, Harry is distracted by his ponderings on whether doxy-infested curtains are more likely to attract Kreacher when he sees Sirius lounging on a chaise sofa.

Sirius lifts his head from where he had been resting it on the arm of the sofa at the sound of Harry’s footsteps, face brightening once he sees who it is.

“Harry! It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who couldn’t get any sleep today.”

“Well, I don’t know how nice it is when I feel like I’m about to fall asleep standing.”

Sirius snorts. “Tried it once after I pulled an all-nighter in Hogwarts, and honestly, I don’t recommend it.”

Harry laughs, and the two of them settle into a comfortable silence. 

Merlin, what he would do to ensure that Sirius continues to keep making jokes like that.

At that, he feels himself frown, reminded of why he is in the drawing room to begin with.

Right. Kreacher.

“Sirius?” he asks quietly, glancing up from his clenched hands.

“Hm?” 

“C-Can you summon Kreacher here?”

“I can,” Sirius says, snorting derisively, “but I don’t know why you would want the foul little bastard around.”

“Just...trust me, okay?” Harry says pleadingly, meeting Sirius’ gaze.

“...Okay,” he finally says cautiously, before calling Kreacher’s name.

“What does Master desire from Kreacher?” Kreacher says once he apparates into the room, bowing.

Sirius darts a glance at Harry before speaking. “My godson, Harry, will be giving you an order.”

Harry cringes at Sirius’ use of the word “order,” but speaks nevertheless. “I-It’s not an order, Kreacher. But...I need you to bring the locket Regulus gave to you before he died.”

Sirius turns to Harry questioningly. “Harry? What are you-”

Harry shushes Sirius, focusing on Kreacher who had descended into nigh maniac muttering at the mention of his previous master.

“Kreacher,” he says gently, aware of Sirius’ shocked gaze on the back of his neck. “I know Regulus told you to destroy the locket before he died, but that...you’ve never managed to do that, despite your best efforts. I can destroy it for you, though.”

Kreacher’s head shoots up at that. “H-Harry Potter can do that for Master Regulus?”

Harry smiles sadly. “Yes, I can, Kreacher. But I need you to bring the locket to me.”

Kreacher nods desperately, “Yes, yes! Kreacher will be doing that immediately for Harry Potter,” before apparating out of the room.

Harry lets out a relieved breath at that.

“Harry.”

Right. Sirius is still here.

“You probably have questions-”

“You’re right I have questions! A locket? Regulus ? W-What were you talking about, Harry?”

Harry sighs, taking in Sirius’ narrow eyes and downturned mouth before speaking. “A long time ago, Sirius, Voldemort took the first step to ensuring his immortality, allowing him to return last year. And the thing he used to ensure it was...a Horcrux.”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “A Horcrux,” he breathes out, shocked. “Merlin, of course.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Harry comments.

Sirius lets out a weary laugh. “I don’t know if you realize this, Harry, but my family was...Well, they were the worst kind of pureblood there could be. And I grew up among them. Even, even if I didn’t want to learn what I did, I still picked up a few things here and there. Of course I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Before Harry can reply, not that he has any idea what to say to that, Kreacher apparates once again into the drawing room, this time with Slytherin’s locket in hand.

Kreacher tentatively steps closer to Harry, clutching the locket all the while.

“Harry Potter...will destroy the locket, then?” Kreacher asks.

“Yes,” Harry says.

Kreacher’s eyes crinkle as he says, “Then Harry Potter will be needing this,” before handing the locket to him.

And just like that, Harry has a Horcrux in his hands.

Harry half expects for Kreacher to stick around in the hopes of seeing Harry destroy the Horcrux now , but he doesn’t, instead apparating out of the room, as if he’s finally laid to rest whatever had been tormenting him because of the presence of the locket on his mind.

Maybe it was the locket itself. Sure, it isn’t doing anything to Harry at the moment, but it certainly wouldn’t serve him to forget what exactly it is he is holding in his hands.

“Harry,” Sirius says, drawing his gaze away from the locket to glance at Sirius, “how...how did you even figure all of that out? Not just the Horcrux, but...That stuff you said about Regulus earlier. Was that true?”

“It was. Regulus died trying to steal this locket from Voldemort, Sirius.”

“And? There has to be more. My...my idiot brother wouldn’t just suddenly change his mind about Voldemort like that. Not to the point that he’d die to stop him.”

Harry looks down once more at the locket, feeling immeasurably guilty. “I...I’m not the person who should be telling this. But—Regulus wrote everything down in his journals, Sirius. I know you don’t even want to go into his room, much less be reminded of the fact that he existed in your life sometimes, but...but you have to. You have to if you want closure.”

“How do you even know all of this, Harry?” Sirius asks, voice pitching forward in desperation.

“I can’t tell you that, Sirius. Not now, at least. One day, maybe. Hoping, more like,” Harry says. 

He lifts his eyes to look at Sirius, shifting closer to his godfather.

“Just...trust me for now, okay?”

Sirius’ eyes widen and he lets out a startled laugh. “Of course, Harry. Of course I trust you! I-I just don’t want you getting in way over your head, like Regulus did.”

A sad smile creeps onto his face. “I think I already am, Sirius. But thanks. I appreciate the thought.”

Sirius’ hands waver as he raises them, before they’re suddenly grabbing him by his shoulders and pulling him in close for a hug. Harry immediately reciprocates the hug, letting out a fond huff.

It is only with the sounds of others puttering about that they disentangle themselves from each other. Sirius pushes himself off the sofa, carding his fingers through his hair.

“Are you going to destroy it now then?” Sirius asks, twisting slightly to look down at Harry still sitting behind him.

“I can’t right now, since I don’t have the sword of Gryffindor.” Harry raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’re planning on tossing this into a random room and using Fiendfyre on it.”

Sirius laughs. “I’m pretty sure if I did that, I’d end up setting the whole bloody house on fire with how much I hate it.”

“I’m guessing not, then,” Harry remarks dryly.

“Right you are, Harry,” Sirius says, winking before ruffling his hair.

“Well,” Harry says, finally getting off the sofa, “I should probably put this somewhere safe for now.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sirius waves him off, before wandering out of the drawing room.

Harry stares at the locket for a few seconds more before he leaves the room as well.

Here in his hand lies a piece of Voldemort’s soul, once a young boy desperate to not die and now the monstrosity taunting Harry endlessly.

It’s odd how easily everything is coming together if Harry lets himself think about it for even a second.

Well.

With how his life seemed to hit rock bottom-

(And still is hitting rock bottom in certain aspects.)

-it is no surprise that the only way for Harry to go is up.

Up. What an odd concept.

Chapter Text

When he heads up the stairs, expecting for Ron to be sprawled across his bed, Harry is somewhat thrown off to see Dobby standing in his room, staring intently at Ron’s prone body.

Um. It’s probably best for Harry’s mental stability if he ignores that for now.

Dobby looks up at the sound of the door clicking shut and immediately squeals, about to shout Harry’s name.

Harry fiercely shakes his head to indicate to Dobby just how bad of an idea that is, and Dobby, thankfully, stops in his steps in that. 

Harry quickly tosses the locket into his trunk for lack of a better place to put it, before gesturing his head towards the door. 

...Only for him to be met with his dad and Cedric’s floating figures.

Harry sighs, suddenly remembering that he never told them that he had found Kreacher and the Horcrux. Merlin, his dad is probably pissed that Harry forgot to do such a simple thing.

“Um, I’m really sorry-”

“About what, Harry?” his dad asks, blinking.

Or not.

“Never mind, I guess," his dad says when he doesn't answer. "We didn’t manage to find any sign of Kreacher. How about you, Harry?” his dad continues, unaware of Harry’s gaping face.

“Oh, um,” Harry chuckles awkwardly.

“I bet Harry found Kreacher and forgot to call us over,” Cedric snickers to his dad.

“Well…” Harry says.

Cedric’s eyes widen. “Wait. Really?”

“I had Sirius call Kreacher, and, well, I couldn’t exactly call you guys over without making the man more suspicious of me, could I? He was already suspicious of me as it was, but...”

“But?” his dad asks.

“Well, I think I kinda distracted him by mentioning his dead brother?”

His dad whistles. “Wow, Harry. I’m starting to think it’s not trouble that’s attracted to you, but mental trauma.”

“It just came up in the conversation naturally!”

“You brought up Regulus in a conversation with Sirius naturally? Merlin, I’m starting to think you have a talent.”

Harry groans, throwing his hands up in annoyance. “Forget it, Dad! I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, I-”

“Um. Pardon me, Harry Potter, sir? Dobby is wondering who you are talking to,” Dobby voice squeaks out.

Harry stifles a low scream at the likelihood that Dobby was probably there for the entire conversation, his mood only improved by the yelp his dad lets out. 

“Merlin! Is that a fucking gremlin?!?!”

“Um, Mr. Potter, it’s a house-elf,” Cedric says.

“I told you to call me Dad, Cedric! And anyways, it doesn’t matter what it is, but how did it get in here?”

“Dad,” Harry says, amused. “Dobby’s a house-elf I sent to Draco. He’s not a gremlin.”

“Dobby can be a gremlin if Harry Potter wants it of Dobby,” Dobby inconveniently pipes up.

Harry smiles down at Dobby, even though he knows it looks maniacal more than anything. “That’s nice, Dobby, but not right now.”

His dad lets out a dramatic gasp. “So it admits to being a gremlin!” he says, pointing accusingly at Dobby.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Dad.” 

“Fine,” his dad says, huffing. “I can tell when I’m not wanted,” before his dad turns his head away with a mournful sigh, floating away.

Cedric spares an amused glance at his dad’s back before turning to Harry. “I...should probably follow after him,” he says, jabbing his thumb in his dad’s direction. “Maybe I can convince him to help me look for your mum before she gives Snape anxiety because of ghostly activity.

“Please do,” Harry says, sighing before waving Cedric off.

“Anyways,” Harry turns to Dobby, “did Draco give a message for you to pass on to me?”

Dobby nods his head rapidly. “Yes, Harry Potter, the little Malfoy did! He told Dobby to tell you this: ‘Apologies that it took so long for me to reply, but I had to determine how exactly Dobby ended up with you and was shocked to find he works at Hogwart. And that he’s paid. Regardless, I am amenable to meeting you at your preferred location and time, though I hope that you have a more legitimate plan beyond meeting at the rear of an establishment like the Leaky Cauldron. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t, of course, as you seem to have little of value in your brain most of the time.’”

Harry snorts. “That...that was enlightening.”

“Dobby told the little Malfoy not to insult the great Harry Potter like that, but he only laughed,” Dobby bursts out, frowning. “That’s why it took Dobby so long to get the message to you. The little Malfoy had to convince Dobby to give the message with such rude language. Oh, he really did, Harry Potter!”

Harry Potter smiles, this time more genuinely. “I appreciate it, Dobby. The prick needs to be taken down a notch from time to time.”

“If Harry Potter is pleased, then Dobby will be leaving for Hogwarts,” Dobby says cheerfully before apparating off the landing. 

“Is the gremlin gone?” someone whispers.

“Dad!”

Harry spends the rest of the day coerced alongside all of the other kids in 12 Grimmauld Place into “sprucing” the place up. Not that that is actually possible, given that not even Aunt Petunia and her all-consuming desire to be envied by all for her award-winning household would have been able to “spruce” Grimmauld Place up. 

(Though maybe that was because she always made Harry do the actual sprucing.)

The day of his meeting with Draco quickly dawns upon him, given that, well, it is literally the day after.

Harry had, for once, told his parents and Cedric his plans for the day ahead of time even though this time there would be no life endangerment involved.

(Hopefully.)

His dad had advised him to wear the Invisibility Cloak while leaving the house-

(And when Harry says “advised,” he more so meant something along the lines of, “shoved the Invisibility Cloak right onto him.”)

-and so here Harry is, Invisibility Cloak in hand, about to sneak out of the place like a bloody teenager.

Harry’s lack of normal developmental milestones really seems to bite him in the arse sometimes.

Harry, however, has a policy about not thinking too long on things that ruin his peace of mind, and so instead he swoops the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and quietly heads out of his room. 

He walks down the stairs, making sure to skip over-

“The second-to-last step from the bottom is quite a squeaky one, isn’t it?” a voice says.

He promptly stumbles at the sound, barely not falling flat on his face out of sheer luck.

The voice lets out a small, “Eep!”

Harry’s head shoots up and he is quick to study his surroundings suspiciously.

Nobody is around. 

Except for a voice fussing over him: “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize how jarring it must be to hear me out of nowhere?”

What the fuck?

“I understand your confusion, I really do, Harry. I can’t tell you much though, beyond the fact that I’m the Invisibility Cloak.”

Harry snorts. Yeah, right. He’s wearing the Invisibility Cloak.

“Well, not the Invisibility Cloak itself, per say, but...the persona of it.”

‘A...persona?’ he thinks.

“You’re probably wondering why you can’t see me, right?” the voice asks gently.

Harry nods warily.

“Well, that requires much more...specific circumstances. The presence of the Deathly Hallows, to be specific.”

At the mention of the Deathly Hallows, he can feel his mind fuzz up, like television static.

‘W-Why can I hear you now, then? I definitely don’t have all three of the Deathly Hallows on hand, nor do I want to,’ he thinks bitingly.

“Well, to answer your question, you’ve...always had a connection to the Invisibility Cloak, more so than you ever did to the Resurrection Stone or the Elder Wand, and that was...enough, I suppose, for you to at least hear my voice when you entered this timeline.”

“You-” Harry says, eyes widening at the reference to...to whatever this is.

“Yes, Harry. I...was involved with your being sent back in time. And I...I understand your hesitation about the Deathly Hallows, Harry, as it is well-deserved. But you must gather the Deathly Hallows in one place if you’re to have any hopes of learning more about this timeline and why you’re here.”

‘Why can’t you just tell me?’ he thinks bitterly, narrowing his eyes as if the voice belonged to a person actually in front of him.

“Fate does not want it for some reason, Harry. And that is all I can tell you.”

Harry huffs. Of course. He shouldn’t have expected anything better.

“You best be heading off to your meeting with Draco, Harry,” the voice - no, the Invisibility Cloak - says tentatively. “I’ll unlock the door for you, since that’s the most I can do for you at the moment.”

At that, the Invisibility Cloak unlocks the multitude of locks and bolts on the front door, though it’s not as loud as Harry expected from earlier experience.

“I muffled them for you,” the Invisibility Cloak remarks as Harry passes through the door, clearly referring to the locks on the front door.

Harry says nothing, instead whipping off the cloak before they can say anything more.

He doesn’t think he’s going to be using the Invisibility Cloak in the future. Not if it’s only going to serve as a constant reminder of his circumstances.

Harry doesn’t know how he should feel about that.

There’s not many people out and about as he makes the walk to Charing Cross Road, what with Grimmauld Place being a feasible distance from the Leaky Cauldron.

Not that the Blacks would have ever entered Diagon Alley through such a characteristically Muggle location, but Harry’s not going to complain when he’s reaping the benefits.

Harry’s feet come to a stop as he nears the Indian takeout place directly opposite the rear of the Leaky Cauldron, a location he had spent quite a bit of his adulthood just devouring the food available. Not spying Draco anywhere in sight, Harry leans against the brick wall, picking at his nails distractedly. 

He catches a glimpse of a medium-sized group of, what he assumes to be, university students who had claimed the tables outside the restaurant for themselves. A few of them are pouring over a sizable stack of papers, others speak casually to the people next to them, their bright laughs audible even from here, while one dozes off, head resting on the shoulder of another.

Harry’s oddly reminded of the various times where Hermione had dragged him and Ron to the library, forcing them to study with multiple large piles of books for additional company.

One of the people, a boy with warm brown skin and closely cropped black hair, meets Harry’s gaze, head tilting in question. Harry immediately looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. He finds himself scowling when one of his hands graze over the cloth of the Invisibility Cloak, but resolutely keeps them in his pockets.

A few moments pass, before he hears a voice shout.

“Hey, white boy!”

Harry glances around and his eyes stop at the group of university students he had just been staring at earlier. 

He points at himself. "You talking about me? I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not white." 

(Harry doesn’t think about how he was simply “brown” in the eyes of the Dursleys and how he was simply “white” in the few brown people he managed to encounter in his childhood. Merlin, even in Hogwarts, he wasn’t brown enough or white enough. He was just other.

(What an impostor he is. He remembers the shame of not being able to understand the fast-paced Hindi the Parvati twins spoke to each other with, a shame that had momentarily broken through the searing jealousy he felt at the sight of Cedric and Cho dancing together. He remembers the twinge of guilt, a guilt he didn’t understand, when met with Parvati’s judgemental stare when he pulled up to the Yule Ball in a robe rather than a sherwani.)

(He can’t even fucking string together more than a word of Tamil despite it being one of his only remaining threads to his family. Because he has nobody to teach it to him, because he’s not sure if he even deserves the chance to ask for help, because -)

The boy, the same one whose gaze he had met, rolls his eyes, "Yes, obviously I know that. But, have you seen yourself? You look like one of the most whitewashed brown boys I've ever seen, Wallahi."

Harry winces. Great. Just another brown kid telling him he’s not brown enough to even interact with them. 

(It’s not as bad as the the white kids who liked to call him a fucking currymuncher and make fun of the color of his skin because of its “similarity” to dirt, but still.)

The boy then pauses for a second, pensively cupping his chin with his hand, “Though, in retrospect, calling you whitewashed isn’t doing any favors for the community. It accomplishes the opposite, more so.” The boy turns back to Harry, now questioning him, “Would you say that the stereotypes associated with the South Asian community have had a largely harmful impact on your life because of such things?”

The East Asian girl sitting next to the boy, previously having been highlighting the paper in her hand quite vigorously, looks up and jabs the boy between his ribs with her elbow. “Jesus Christ, Mohammed, leave the poor kid alone! He doesn’t need you talking to him. And can you stop dumping political rhetoric onto random strangers for once in your life?”

The boy, which Harry now knows to be Mohammed, pouts. “Hana! First of all, you do realize I’m a political science major, right? And besides, I’m just trying to make conversation. The kid looks so lonely standing by himself right next to us.”

“Gee,” Harry interrupts, starting to feel more comfortable after everything Mohammed’s just said, “really appreciate the compliment.”

Mohammed brightens at that, turning to Hana. “See! He has a backbone, Hana!”

Hana sighs, pinching her nose, before glancing at Harry. “I suggest you run as fast as you can before Mohammed here drives you bloody mental.”

Harry laughs, waving her off. “It’s fine. I’m waiting for someone anyways, so I have nothing better to do.”

Hana offers Harry a dull stare, before shaking her head. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you,” she says, before returning to her notes.

Mohammed claps his hand excitedly. “Finally! Anyways, what’s your name? I’ve literally never seen you around, but you have to be from around here cause only locals are smart enough to come to this place,” he says, gesturing at the restaurant at large. 

“Name’s Harry Potter. And on the matter of your implied question, I’m staying with my godfather who lives around here for the summer. He’s the one who recommended this place to me, actually.”

“I’m guessing you don’t live around here, then?”

“Got it in one. I live in Surrey with my aunt and uncle during the summer normally, and then I’m at a boarding school up in Scotland for the better part of the year.”

“Aunt and uncle?” Mohammed asks curiously. “Not...auntie or uncle?” he follows up, speaking in an accented voice.

“Um...no? Should I be doing that?”

Mohammed blinks. “Sorry, never mind. I really gotta stop forgetting that people won't have the same experiences as me, even if we’re both brown.”

“They’re white, if you were wondering. From my mum's side,” Harry says.

“Oh. Oh. That makes...sense.”

Harry can hear the unspoken question, and sighs. “My dad’s family was the one who moved from India a lot of generations ago. They were...pretty rich.”

“Wow, we must run in really different circles then,” Mohammed says, the slightest hint of intrigue in his voice.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Harry comments, not unaware of the irony.

“What...what about your parents, then?” Mohammed asks hesitatingly.

“They’re dead,” Harry stiffly says, looking down.

“Oh. I’m, well, I’m-”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it at this point,” Harry interrupts before he hears another apology he doesn’t want.

It’s fine, now. They’re here with him, even if it’s only in spirit, so...it doesn’t hurt anymore. That much, at least.

Mohammed frowns. “But, that doesn’t mean-”

Before he can finish, he hears a familiarly posh voice sharply yell, “Potter!” from across the street.

Harry turns around, lifting a hand in a halfhearted wave as Draco crosses the street, suspiciously eyeing the cars parked on the sides.

Draco hurriedly walks up to Harry. “Potter, you didn’t tell me about these infernal contraptions the Muggles have. I swear I can feel them watching me.”

Harry lets out an amused, “Huh,” before remembering the people literally right next to him. At that, he groans audibly, dragging his palm over his face.

“Malfoy,” he hisses, eyes darting from Draco’s haughty face to Mohammed's curious stare.

“What, Potter? Are you trying to tell me how lovely it is to see me? Because I am already aware of the fact. You should be honored-”

“No, Malfoy, I’m trying to tell you that you should be more aware of your surroundings,” Harry says, voice low.

Malfoy narrows his eyes, but the brunt of his glare is drawn towards Mohammed who coughs awkwardly as if to remind the two of them of his presence.

“And who are you?” Malfoy says imperiously, folding his arms across his chest.

Harry steps in front of Mohammed. “Malfoy, how about you go wait over there for a moment, okay?” he says, jabbing a thumb towards the brick wall. 

Draco sniffs, turning his head away from Harry. “If the Boy-Who-Lived says I must, then who am I to argue?” he says, before stomping - no matter how much Draco would deny it - towards the brick wall.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mutters to himself, rolling his eyes, before turning to Mohammed.

“So…” Mohammed ventures, resting his cheek in his palm.

“Yeah,” Harry says, sighing.

“He’s the friend you were waiting for?”

“We’re not friends,” Harry says defensively, ignoring his unsaid, “not yet.” “We just have to put up with each other for a while because of extenuating circumstances.”

Mohammed offers him an unimpressed stare. “I sure hope so, cause he legitimately looks like one of the gits who would have bullied me in high school.”

Harry lets out a short, unamused laugh. “It’s funny how much that isn’t an overstatement.”

“Best of luck then, mate.”

“Thanks, I guess, though I don’t know how much that’s going to help me.”

“Wait, actually,” Mohammed says, shuffling through his bag, pulling a pen that had seen better times out. He continues rifling through his bag before shaking his head, sighing, and grabbing a napkin from the table. Mohammed scribbles something onto it, before slapping it onto Harry’s chest.

“What…?”

“Here’s my number! Feel free to dial me up when you have the time.”

“Um...the thing is,” Harry explains, delicately handing the napkin back to Mohammed, “there aren’t actually any...telephones in my boarding school. Cause, you see, it’s a castle?”

“A castle?” Mohammed repeats.

“Yeah. A castle.”

Mohammed gives him an incredulous look that seems to be trying to communicate the question of exactly how rich Harry is, before looking down at the napkin and scrutinizing it intensely. After a moment spent doing this, he suddenly furiously scribbles over the writing on it and writing something else underneath his number. Once again, Mohammed slaps the napkin back onto Harry’s chest.

“Fine then. I’ll give you my address so you can write me a letter or something. I’d appreciate it if you don’t go breaking into my apartment.”

“Okay then. Not that I’d have the time to be breaking into your apartment, of course,” Harry says, amused. 

“Whatever you say. Now, off you go then! I think your pretentious rich boy is trying to kill me right now with his eyes.”

Harry waves a farewell at Mohammed before turning to head towards where Draco is sulking.

He hears Hana ask, “Really? You always did pick up the odd ones, Mohammed,” before their table leaves his range of hearing.

“He just has a...flare to him, don’t you think?” Mohammed lightly replies.

Well. That’s certainly better than the plethora of other ways he’s heard himself be described throughout the years.

“Potter,” Draco snarls once Harry’s footsteps come to a stop near him. “What are we doing here in a Muggle establishment?”

“Meeting up with each other,” Harry drawls, just to be contrary.

“We could have met up with each other in a more pristine-”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry says, starting to become annoyed with how distrusting of Muggles Draco is. Especially when Draco had let go of such inhibitions by the time they started up their friendship as an adult.

“You know any pureblood worth their salt wouldn’t dream of entering the Muggle world, which makes this establishment the perfect place for us to discuss possible plans.”

Draco leans back, his stare assessing. “If you say so, Potter,” he finally stiffly offers.

“Come on, then,” Harry says, sighing. “We should head into the restaurant.”

Draco looks peaky at the mention of actually entering the place, leaving Harry to wonder what exactly his father had fed him about Muggles to warrant such a reaction.

Draco quickly dispenses of whatever inhibitions he had about entering the Indian takeout place once he digs in voraciously into the naan and methi chicken Harry had ordered for him.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d start to think your father’s starving you,” Harry amusedly comments as he watches.

Draco straightens up, coughing delicately. “O-Of course not, Potter. My father wouldn’t…” He gets a distant look in his eyes, as if somewhere else, before shaking his head. “My father wouldn’t do that.”

“Okay,” Harry simply says, attention caught more so by the hesitation in Draco’s voice. Had Voldemort already started holding prisoners in Malfoy Manor? Or is it something else that made Draco already unsure of his previously unshakeable confidence in his father?

His time is likely better spent worrying about other things, especially since there is no way for Harry to ask Draco about whatever is plaguing his mind without causing the boy to react defensively.

Harry tears off a piece of the naan, chewing on it as he considers the Draco before him, cheek in palm.

Draco glares at Harry’s unabashed staring. “What, Potter?”

“Nothing.”

Draco scoffs.

“Did I say something wrong?” Harry asks, entirely aware of the reason for Draco’s frustration.

Draco stares at Harry for a few moments, before returning to his methi chicken, daintily wiping off the green flecks left on his mouth all the while.

A tense silence settles, filled only with the sound of Harry chewing on pieces of naan and Draco stabbing aggressively at the methi chicken with a plastic fork.

“Potter,” Draco says, not looking up from where he had now begun to dig his fork into the paper plate the naan is on.

“Hm?”

“You said...that you know how to ensure the Dark Lord remains dead.”

“I did.”

“What exactly did you...mean by that?”

“The Vow is still in effect, I hope you’re aware, Malfoy,” Harry chilly says.

“I’m aware, Potter. I know you might not realize this, but I am still one of the top students in our year.”

Harry snorts. “You certainly don’t act like it.”

“Potter. Whatever it is you know, it certainly isn’t worth this much hassle.”

"No, Malfoy. It certainly is. You could think of the worst possible method one might use to ensure their immortality, and what Voldemort has done is even worse," Harry cautions Draco.

"Worse than drinking the menstrual blood of 72 virgins, or eating the testicles of 12 serial hedonists?" Draco gasps, agog.

Harry narrows his eyes, wheezing. "What? No. No! W-Where the fuck did that come from?"

Draco lets out a sigh of relief. "Then everything must be fine, then. Voldemort's immortality must be extremely unstable if he didn't use such reliable methods."

"A-Are you fucking with me, Malfoy?”

Draco smirks, leaning forward and resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Oh, of course not, Potter."

Harry groans, not even trying to hide how bloody confused he is at the bollocks leaving Draco's mouth.

“Never mind, then,” Draco eventually says when Harry refuses to give in. “You clearly refuse to tell me any more, so I’ll just leave you to it. I doubt whatever information you have is as good as you actually seem to think it is.”

“I’m ever so thankful, Malfoy.”

“Of course, Potter,” Draco primly says. “Now, can you please explain to me any plans you have on...reducing Voldemort’s influence in Slytherin, as you so succinctly put it?”

“Um…” Harry says, blanching at the realization that he, well, doesn’t. Not exactly, at least.

“You don’t have any then, I’m assuming,” Draco monotonously states.

“Well,” Harry says, scratching at his cheek nervously, “I was kind of hoping that you-”

“You do realize that this is a cooperative effort, yes?” Draco sharply interrupts. “You’re the one who asked for my assistance, Potter. I could just as well retract it here and now.”

“Well, I’ve been through some trying days lately, Malfoy. If you’re that obsessed with getting a plan out of me, then how about you, I don’t know, start a pen pal system or something like that?” Harry says, refraining from shouting despite the frustration evident in his tone.

“A...pen pal?” Draco asks, somewhat successfully masking his curiosity with how steady his voice sounds.

“Yeah, a pen pal. I bet you’d have loved to be mine in first year before I rejected you. Maybe that’s why you were giving Mohammed the death glare.”

“Oh, Mohammed? Was that the Muggle you were talking to earlier?”

“Are you jealous, Malfoy?” Harry asks without much thought.

But when a vaguely pinched, annoyed face begins to form on Draco’s face, Harry can’t help it. He laughs.

“Wait! Merlin, you are!”

“No!” Draco denies profusely, not that Harry believes him.

He clutches his stomach, shaking with laughter. “Morgana’s tit, Malfoy, does, does this mean that all the shit you did to me and my friends at Hogwarts was out of jealousy?!?!”

Harry’s laughter trails off, however, once he realizes how silent Draco had gone.

“Forget about it, Malfoy,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Of course you wouldn’t actually need a reason to do something petty like that.”

Harry leans back in his chair, placing his arms behind him to rest his head against. He only needs to see the tight grip Draco had on his fork to think, ‘Fuck it,’ and change the subject.

“A pen pal is, usually, a stranger you write to via the mail, with the intention of talking to the person receiving the letter without fear of being judged or mocked. Well, they can still judge or mock you, but the consequences are less dire.”

Draco nods pensively. “That...might very well work, Potter.”

“Thanks, though...I’m getting the feeling there was a backhanded compliment hidden somewhere in there,” Harry says, smirking.

“But the question is, Potter,” Draco says, ignoring Harry’s remark, “how exactly would we implement this system?”

“I could always mention the idea to Professor McGonagall in the spirit of Interhouse Unity and the like,” Harry muses, mind jumping from one thought to the next. “She’d probably be quick to pitch the idea to the other Heads of House, and, well, no one can stop Professor McGonagall when she sets her mind to it.”

“And then? How are we to ensure that Slytherin is impacted by this? Or that they even continue writing to their pen pal?”

“We take control of it, of course. The Heads of House likely won’t be able to actually manage the system with how many responsibilities they have, so I’ll...conveniently offer to handle it since I was the one who suggested it. And given that I’m handling it, I can easily match up various Slytherins, and other aggressors in Hogwarts if I’m being honest, with those whose perspectives they may benefit from. You on the other hand will be stirring Slytherin interest in it. I’m thinking that you present it as a chance for them to take out their frustrations on some unwitting soul without repercussions.”

Draco furrows his eyebrows. “I’m not...sure everyone would find that much appealing.”

“Well, you reign supreme in Slytherin, don’t you? Well, from an outside perspective, at least. You endorsing it, regardless of how petty the reason is, would be enough to give a push to any Slytherin who had been wanting to do it for a legitimate reason.”

“This is surprisingly well thought-out, Potter.”

Harry snorts. “The Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin to begin with, Malfoy. I just don’t advertise it for the whole world to see.”

Draco lets out a shocked laugh. “Let me guess. You didn’t because of me?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re rather insufferable, you know that, Potter?”

“Bold words coming from you of all people.”

“Anyways,” Harry says before they devolve into a pointless argument, “any ideas for who we should pair up together?”

Draco lets out an irritated breath. “As long as you don’t pair up Blaise with Longbottom, I could care less, Potter.”

“Zabini with...Neville?” Harry says, extremely confused.

“Blaise bumped into Longbottom at the Ministry event they were hosting in Diggory’s memory and has been infatuated with him ever since. Merlin, the extent to which Blaise can wax soliloquies about Longbottom of all people is enough to drive me bloody mental. We don’t need to enable them even more , Potter.”

“Zabini with Neville,” is all Harry can breathe out, mind still caught on the fact that the two are apparently…

Dating? Or is Zabini chasing after Neville? Is Neville even aware of Zabini’s supposed affections for him?

“Merlin, what is with this summer that it’s making everyone get dates all of a sudden?” Harry says, trying not to shriek. 

Draco perks up in interest. “What, Potter? Do you know someone else who’s gotten themselves a partner all of a sudden? Jealous, maybe?” Draco sardonically remarks.

“No, it’s just...well, I’m pretty sure Viktor has this weird thing with Hermione and Ron?”

Draco snorts. “Merlin, that...that’s priceless!”

“It’s wonderful to know that you take such enjoyment in my suffering, Malfoy,” Harry deadpans, beginning to collect the paper plates, plastic containers, and the like to dispose of.

Draco watches as Harry does this, not offering to help like the bastard he is, but Harry manages to make quick work of the mess and soon they are heading out of the restaurant.

Draco stops in his steps before entering the Leaky Cauldron, something he had only moments earlier been eyeing with evident distaste before his eyes caught on the cars parked nearby.

“Potter, those...things aren’t going to attack me, are they?”

“Merlin no, Malfoy. They don’t even turn on without a Muggle putting a key and turning it inside of them.”

Draco gets a contemplative look on his face. “How...quaint,” he remarks, before sweeping into the pub.

Quaint. That’s one way of putting it.

Chapter Text

Harry had half-expected for someone, anyone, to question him about his whereabouts when he had slinked into 12 Grimmauld Place, door conveniently already unlocked by...something he refused to acknowledge, but no one did. Harry was unsure if he should feel more affronted, but, well, at the end of the day, he certainly wasn’t complaining.

The last month remaining before Harry was to return to his fifth year at Hogwarts-

(‘Again,’ he did not think.) 

-was characterized by excruciatingly meticulous efforts on his part to somehow clean the grime out of Grimmauld Place and him handing off letters to Dobby to be taken to Draco that were filled to the brim with debates on a variety of topics.

(It seemed to Harry that Draco was becoming less conservative with his opinion on Muggleborns, but he was still an obnoxiously classist bastard. Whether that be because of his astoundingly privileged upbringing or not, it didn't matter when it was so painfully obvious from the derisive manner in which he viewed the Weasleys.)

It was a rather boring month if Harry was being honest, leaving him to wonder why he hadn’t had more outbursts the likes of which he had when he had first arrived at Grimmauld Place in the first timeline. Harry only barely managed to be cognizant of time passing by because of the bits of the outside world that managed to seep in through the cracks of the dull purgatory that was this house.

These are those moments.

Harry is seated at the foot of the stairs late at night, memories of the Deathly Hallows in the first timeline dragging him forcefully out of his slumber and leaving him unable to do much more than toss and turn futilely.

The Invisibility Cloak had told him that he must acquire all of the Deathly Hallows. Not that he had any intention of abiding by that order, but if he had, it was definitely going to be a hard task. The Elder Wand was in Dumbledore’s possession, and the Resurrection Stone would be much the same sometime in the future, though ultimately at the expense of Dumbledore’s life.

Harry couldn’t just let Dumbledore die once more. He just couldn’t. No matter the endless depth to his conflicted feelings towards Dumbledore, he still...cares about the man. It is impossible not to for Harry when he had spent so much of his life idolizing the man.

Dumbledore was a general, Harry a mere soldier, a weapon at some point, but…

But nothing.

Harry shuts his eyes tightly, almost wanting to claw his chest open, but quickly flicks them open when he hears footsteps coming from the hallway. Carefully, Harry lifts himself off the stairs, clutching his wand in the pocket of his pants.

“Potter,” a familiar voice says distastefully.

“...Professor Snape,” Harry says monotonously.

“I see you still continue to think yourself above the rules set in place.”

Harry huffs bitterly. “I suppose you would, Professor.”

Snape scrutinizes Harry for only a second before turning to leave.

But…

Harry’s eyes catch a glimpse of his mum’s red hair as she drifts into the room. Words leave his mouth, unbidden. 

“Professor Snape. You...knew my mum growing up, right?”

Snape’s head whips toward him, vitriol prominent in his eyes.

“You-”

“I just wanted to confirm it, Professor Snape. I apologize if I offended you,” Harry says gently, lifting his hands in front of him placatingly.

Snape takes a step closer to him, leaning into his space. “No, Potter. I highly doubt you much care. You are very much like your father, after all.”

“My dad must have been a monster to you, huh?” Harry says, smiling sadly. “But I still love him, is the thing, even knowing all that. We can’t help who we love, can we? It was the same for you with my mum. It must have been. Even after you called her a...a Mudblood, you still cared about her.”

Harry feels his smile waver at the sound of the gasp his mum lets out behind him.

“How? How do you know that? Has Albus-”

“No, Professor Snape. You know Dumbledore can’t even look me in the eyes now,” Harry says, avoiding the subject at hand.

Harry rubs his thumb against his wand as he speaks. “You know...sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had let the Sorting Hat sort me into Slytherin like it wanted to.”

“I would have reminded you of your place, Potter, before you let your fame get to your head,” Snape hisses.

Harry laughs hysterically. “That! That exactly is the problem, Professor Snape. I know you wouldn't do that because, well...you care about Slytherin and wouldn’t let something as unimportant as bias ruin the sanctity of it. But, you still put up a front for reasons I don’t understand. Don’t you realize ? I’m not my dad. I’ve never been! And I’m not my mum either, even though we have the same eyes. I’m just...Harry Potter, the obnoxious upstart who gets everything he wants because Dumbledore lets him get away with too much from your point of view.”

Snape says nothing, only offering Harry an unimpressed stare. 

“It’s fine, Professor Snape. You were never obligated to care about me beyond whether I was still breathing, and I prefer it that way. But...Merlin, my mum’s memory deserves better than that. She deserves more than-”

“I’ve think you’ve said more than enough, Potter,” Snape frigidly interjects.

“I guess I have,” he says, pressing his lips tightly together.

Snape turns around in a sweeping motion, silently leaving the room.

“Harry,” his mum says mournfully.

“I know, Mum,” he says. “I know.”

“I didn’t realize…”

“You still care about him, don’t you?”

His mum drifts from behind him, leaning her forehead against his as her hands cupped his cheeks.

“That doesn’t matter, Harry. I may have thought of him on his birthday or when I saw a Potions book I thought he might have liked, but...I care about you, Harry. No matter what, I’ll always care about you.”

Harry leans into the palm of his mum’s hand. “...Okay.”

“Come on,” his mum says, straightening and letting her hands fall onto his shoulders. “You should try to get some sleep at the least.”

He doesn’t get any sleep that night, of course, but…

At least he has his mum.

Harry asks Dobby to pass a message onto Draco the next day, asking the boy to explain to him exactly Slytherin in structures and the specifics to Snape’s methods in handling Slytherin as Head of House.

(Partly in an attempt to try to gain further insights into the man his mum had cared about for so many years of life.)

Draco offers him this:

Potter, 

The moment the Sorting Hat shouts out “Slytherin!” for you, you must dispense of all that you previously were and adopt all that is associated with being a Slytherin.

Know this: the first thing Professor Snape told us as first years is, “Slytherin stands together.”

You may not be able to comprehend his reason for saying such a thing, so I’ll state it in simpler terms. Slytherin must present a united front for all of Hogwarts to see, no matter what disputes or qualms we may have. No fractures can ever make their way to the public, or we will all suffer for it.

There is much good to this, despite how morbid I make it sound. After all, you will always have allies when surrounded on all sides by peers and adults who will judge you, all because of our ambitions.

But often this translates to an unwillingness to go against the grain. The influence that pureblood politics holds in Slytherin is something one must never consider going against. I suppose you would view a situation like this with scorn, but it is ultimately for the best if we are to preserve the sanctity of our culture.

...Before you ask why I am being so open about this, I would like to clarify that this “openness” as your Gryffindor mind would perceive it is simply me trying to show to you what exactly you missed out on in not letting the Sorting Hat send you to Slytherin. 

Perhaps you would have been great if it had.

Draco Malfoy

There is a melancholy that seems to diffuse into the letter as Harry reads it, leaving a pit in his stomach.

Draco hadn't been so open and...carefree, almost, with his manner of writing in the first timeline. Well, not without having endured immense pressure as a result of the war, and even then, this was when they were adults. 

Maybe nothing bad had really happened to Draco. Harry hadn't changed Draco's life so much with just two vaguely neutral interactions, after all.

Everything is fine. It has to be.

Hermione sat on Ron’s bed, flipping lazily through the pages of the book on Ancient Runes and their cultural significance that only days earlier she had lended to Harry because of his request in his letter to her. Harry and Ron were near her, seated on his bed and playing a game of Exploding Snap without exerting much effort to prevent the flying sparks from touching the bedsheet.

Ginny’s head pops in through the crack of the open door. “Guys! Du-” she says, only to be interrupted by the cracks of apparition now recognizable for their association with Fred and George.

Hermione jumps back, hissing as she rubs the back of her head that had collided into the bedframe. 

“You two-”

“Not now, Hermione! Dumbledore just came in,” Fred interjects. Ginny scoffs, folding her arms across her chest, clearly having intended to be the one to deliver the news to them.

George leans forward, arm resting on his brother’s shoulder. “There’s no meeting going on, so we’re thinking he came in to talk to someone. Our best guess is you, Harry.”

“Fantastic,” Harry deadpans.

Fred rolls his eyes. “Now, Harry, do try to hold back some of your excitement-”

Mrs. Weasley’s kind voice interrupts. “Harry, dear. Dumbledore is asking for you.”

Harry’s eyes twitch despite the smile he plasters on his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.” He turns to everyone else as he gets off the floor, leaving his Exploding Snap cards in a neat pile beneath him. “Guess that’s my cue, guys.”

Ron amicably pats the side of Harry’s leg as he remains seated. “Make sure to tell us what Dumbledore talks to you about, okay, mate?”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Harry says before leaving the room and following after Mrs. Weasley from where she had been waiting on the landing.

“Do you know why Professor Dumbledore wants to talk to me, Mrs. Weasley?” he asks curiously, wanting to gain some insight before he’s dragged into who-knows-what.

“Ah...no, Harry, I don’t.”

“Oh. Um, that’s okay, Mrs. Weasley.”

They reach the door to the room Harry recalls to be where the Order of the Phoenix normally convene and pull to a stop. Mrs. Weasley steps forward to fuss over the state of his attire, before huffing to herself and letting go.

“Dumbledore is waiting for you in there, so you best not leave him waiting, Harry.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” he says, before twisting the door open and closing it behind him.

Dumbledore is seated at the long table, looking down at his clenched hands that he rests against his lips, but he looks up at the sound of the door.

“Harry.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry says. “Um...what exactly am I doing here, sir?”

Dumbledore lets out a tired sigh, pressing his fingers against his forehead before he gestures for Harry to take a seat across from him. Harry complies.

“Harry. I’ve...heard some concerning things pertaining to you.”

Harry’s eyes widen and he unconsciously leans forward. “What...concerning things?”

“When did you find out about the Horcruxes, Harry?”

Oh.

Well then.

How had Dumbledore found out that he knew about the Horcruxes? He hadn’t even told anyone-

...Except for Sirius.

Sirius probably hadn’t even done it with bad intentions. Maybe he had confronted Dumbledore about it, wanting to know when the man had provided Harry with such vital information, only to be met with confusion. Maybe he had just wanted to learn more about what Dumbledore knew about the Horcruxes, wanting to have the ability to help Harry rather than remain cooped up inside this blasted house.

Harry doesn’t know what to say. There’s no easy way of explaining that one has been tossed back into the past where such knowledge was expected of him by people in the know.

He can’t lie his way out of this, but neither does he think telling Dumbledore about his peculiar status as a time traveller is the best plan of action at the moment.

It doesn’t help that nothing has changed too dramatically in Harry’s situation from one timeline to the next to warrant his newfound knowledge. Nothing-

Except for the Deathly Hallows and the personas behind them.

Huh. Dumbledore can’t exactly refute anything that Harry had to say about the Deathly Hallows because the only fucking reason they even bothered to acknowledge him was because he was their lovely play toy. 

Harry could work with that. He has to.

Words leave his mouth rapid-fire. “I-It...as odd as this sounds, it was the Invisibility Cloak. I put it on while I was at the Dursleys. I don’t know why, but it felt like it was telling me to, so I just did. And then...a voice spoke. It said that..that it was the persona of the Invisibility Cloak and that I had to gather the Horcruxes if I ever wanted to defeat Voldemort. It didn’t say anything more after that, so I thought it was just some fever dream I had, but then when I put it on here, it told me to find Kreacher and ask him about the locket and, and...I just did what they told me to do because, well, I couldn’t exactly tell anyone about what was happening without sounding crazy. Sirius only got dragged into it because he was just there.”

“I see, Harry,” Dumbledore says, the caring smile on his face only overshadowed by the glinting look of understanding in his eyes.

Ah. So it had somehow worked. Thank goodness that the Invisibility Cloak had-

Harry rushes to squash whatever gratefulness his brain had the audacity to conjure up for the Deathly Hallows, but pauses before he disperses the thoughts of them he has in his mind.

The Invisibility Cloak had mentioned something about his fate when they had conversed. A fate contained in the three Deathly Hallows.

He can’t just ignore that when knowing more could be the difference between life and death for him.

He had been unaware of his fate in the first timeline and look where that got him.

Harry begins to fidget as he looks down at his curled hands, aware of the image he must present. 

“A-And, Professor Dumbledore. The Invisibility Cloak, well, it also told me…” he pauses, hoping that would garner more of Dumbledore’s attention.

And it does. “What did it tell you, Harry?” Dumbledore says, placing his arms flat on the table.

“It...It told me,” Harry says, before lowering his voice enough so that it appears he’s trying to prevent Dumbledore from hearing what he was about to say when the opposite is true, “to take your wand.”

“My wand, Harry?” Dumbledore says, surprise evident in his voice.

Harry’s head shoots up as if he hadn’t thought Dumbledore would be able to hear that. “I-It said something about how your wand was like it, that it could talk to me if I just retrieved it. I didn’t believe it, of course, but...why would it say that, Professor Dumbledore?”

Dumbledore sighs. “It would appear that the Invisibility Cloak forgot to tell you about the most important thing: its identity as one of the Deathly Hallows.”

“The...Deathly Hallows, Professor?” Harry says, pitching his voice forward in hopes of preserving the illusion of his ignorance.

“Yes. They are three highly powerful magical objects supposedly created by Death, though I never would have thought the rumors were entirely true. Your Invisibility Cloak is one of them, as is my wand, the Elder Wand.”

“But...that doesn’t explain why the Invisibility Cloak would want me to...to get your wand and the Horcruxes. Why would it even care about those things?” Harry bursts out.

Dumbledore nods, stroking his chin. “It seems that there are forces at work that go beyond either of our understanding, Harry.” The man gets out of his sheet, clasping his wand as he pulls it out. “But for now, Harry, disarm me.”

“Disarm you?!?!” Harry says, jumping out of his seat, his surprise not false this time around. He hadn’t... expected for Dumbledore to legitimately pass the Elder Wand into his possession.

“That will hopefully be enough for the Elder Wand to come under your control. And considering the interest the Deathly Hallows seem to have taken in you, Harry, I am of the mind that they will continue to let me use it. If not, well...I have certainly never been the fondest of this wand. Perhaps a new wand void of the memories associated with the Elder Wand will serve me better.”

Harry nods tentatively. “...Okay,” he says, before casting the Disarming Charm, breathing out a sigh of relief at the pale red light that comes out of the wand in place of a blinding scarlet jet of light.

The Elder Wand flies out of Dumbledore’s hands, clattering to the floor, an underwhelming finish.

“Pathetic. Why don’t you hurry on and find the next one, boy?” a gritty voice whispers, one that doesn’t belong to the persona of the Invisibility Cloak.

(Harry would even say that it sounds like the voice whispering to him during his fight with Ginny, but..

No.

Thoughts like that are better left ignored.)

Harry grips his right wrist tightly with his left arm, looking down as Dumbledore picks up the Elder Wand off the floor. He sees the flash of a spell coming out of the wand, proving that Dumbledore can still continue to use his wand.

Harry turns around, not wanting to stick around any longer, when he’s stopped by Dumbledore’s voice.

“Oh, and Harry? Please make sure to bring me the Horcrux you found. I’ll be heading to Hogwarts shortly after and destroying it with Gryffindor’s sword.”

‘Things never work as well as they should,’ he thinks as he pauses in opening the door, staring at Dumbledore in quiet shock. He suddenly has the feeling that Dumbledore knows Harry was still hiding something from the man and was doing something about it. Well. Harry doesn’t know what exactly he even expected. He certainly isn’t that adept at manipulation to begin with. 

“Harry?” Dumbledore asks, concern laced through his voice despite it all.

But even then, he must regain his footing.

Harry shakes his head. “Professor Dumbledore, would...would it be fine if we went to the Chamber of Secrets once school starts up?”

“Why do you ask, Harry?”

“Well...Tom Riddle’s diary was a Horcrux, wasn’t it? It seems obvious in retrospect. And I was able to kill it with the basilisk fang, so that must work on Horcruxes.”

Dumbledore steeples his fingers. “You raise a good point, Harry.”

“Well, I’ll be getting the Horcrux then, Professor,” Harry says, turning around.

Dumbledore says nothing as he closes the door.

“Sirius?” Harry asks, peeking into the man’s late mother’s room.

Sirius looks up from where he’s crouched next to Buckbeak’s beak, a bloodstained bag filled with dead rats lying at his feet. “Yeah, Harry?”

“Did...did you talk to Dumbledore about the Horcruxes?”

Sirius’ eyes widen, answering Harry’s question all on their own.

“It’s fine that you did,” Harry quickly says. “I didn’t tell you not to talk to anyone about them, so it’s not like I shouldn’t have seen this coming.”

“I just...needed to know more about them, Harry. To help you. That’s all, I swear,” Sirius replies.

“Sirius. I believe you. Dumbledore just asked me about why I know about them, so I wanted to confirm his source. Besides, it’s good to know someone cares about me.”

“Of course I care about you, Harry.”

Harry laughs awkwardly. “Of course I know that, Sirius.”

“I...I know this might be from out of left field, but...once everything with Voldemort is done with, do you want to live with me, Harry? Definitely not in this hellhole of a place, but-”

“Yes,” Harry interrupts, the most sure he’s been about a decision.

Sirius whips his head up. “Yes?”

“I’ll stay with you, Sirius. Of course I will.”

And this time it’s not just because Sirius is the first parental figure in his life to even offer such a thing. He has his parents and Cedric by his side, after all, so if he wanted, he could just buy an apartment, or a cottage by the seaside, or just anything and live out his days with them for company. 

It’s just...his painful awareness of the opportunities he lost in the first timeline or something contrived like that. Harry never got to truly know Sirius as a person, and…

Maybe he deserves that chance.

(Harry just has to keep Sirius alive for long enough to allow such plans to come to fruition. It shouldn’t be so hard, right?)

The last day of holidays soon arrive, instilling Harry with a hope of more exciting events to come in this timeline.

“Still not finished?” Mrs. Weasley asks as she peeks her head into the cupboard where they had been relentlessly toiling to divest it of all its mold.

(That is, if them joking around and trying not to be eaten by the mold that seems more alive than not at this point counts as them “toiling.” But Harry digresses.)

“I thought you might be here to tell us to have a break, Mum!” Ron complains. “I’m starting to think that the mold is watching me with how long I’ve been staring at it,” he adds, shuddering dramatically. 

“And here I was thinking you were so keen to help the Order. You’re doing your bit by making the headquarters fit to live in.”

“Mum!” Ron pouts.

“Well, if you’re that worried that the mold is alive, you can deal with that new bout of doxy infestations on the other side of the house.”

Ron groans, muttering to himself, “Maybe I shouldn’t have opened my mouth…” 

He ruffles his hair, before straightening and turning to Harry and Hermione.  “Guess I better get going then,” and then he shimmies out of the cupboard, leaving Harry and Hermione behind to face the mold alone.

They share an incredulous look.

“I don’t think Mrs. Weasley was being serious when she said that,” Harry says.

“I don’t think Ron exactly realized that, Harry,” Hermione replies.

Harry sighs, sparing a distasteful glance to the bit of mold that has attached itself firmly to his finger. “Well, Hermione, I don’t think Ron realized that we can’t exactly clean up this cupboard with just us two either.”

“We’ll manage somehow, Harry.”

And miraculously, they somehow do manage, and Harry heads up to his room.

As he enters, Hedwig hoots at him, making Harry look up. He groans when he sees the owl droppings on the top of the wardrobe, realizing he’ll have to do even more cleaning after having had to clean the cupboard. As he paws his way across the room, looking for the broom that had ended up underneath one of their beds, Ron comes in with a couple of envelopes, smelling distinctly of Doxycide.

“Guess dealing with doxy infestations wasn’t as fun as you thought it would be,” Harry says as he looks up, pausing in his search for a broom. 

“Don’t even talk to me about it,” Ron grumbles. “Anyways, booklists have arrived,” he then says, tone considerably lighter, tossing an envelope to Harry. “About time, really, I thought they’d forgotten or something.”

Harry gives up any hope of cleaning the top of the wardrobe now, deciding to leave it for later in favor of opening the envelope.

“Two new ones,” he says conversationally. “Goshawk, Grade 5, and...Slinkhard,” and at that name and all of its implications, Harry scrunches up his nose in disgust.

Fred and George, as expected of them, apparate right beside Harry.

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,” Fred says.

“Because it means Dumbledore’s found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” George adds.

“He didn’t find one. The Ministry shoved one onto him,” Harry says.

“Whatever do you mean, Harry?” Fred asks, tilting his head in interest.

“Educational Decree 22. It allows the Ministry to appoint a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher if Dumbledore hasn’t found one past a certain date.”

“That certainly doesn’t sound good,” George says, stroking his chin.

“And you’d be right.”

“Hey, what’s up with Ron over there?” Fred loudly says, pointing over to where Ron was standing, gaping at his letter from Hogwarts.

Fred moves around to look over Ron’s shoulder at the parchment, annoyed at the lack of answer, but his facial expression rapidly morphs into one similar to Ron’s in a matter of seconds. 

“Prefect? Prefect?!?!”

Oh, right. That is a thing Harry is supposed to care about at the moment.

Harry pays little mind from that moment onward, even as the twins begin jabbering at him from then on.

Hermione then comes tearing into the room, surprising Ron enough that he drops the badge that he had apparently been holding out to Harry while he had been off in his own thoughts.

“Did you—did you get-”

Hermione comes to a stop.

“What’s your prefect’s badge doing on the floor, Harry?” Hermione asks, leveling an unimpressed stare at Harry.

“Ron’s the prefect, Hermione, not me,” Harry duly says, picking up the badge and passing it on to Ron. “And I don’t think you’re helping his self-esteem by making assumptions like that.”

“I…” Hermione says, a bewildered look on her face. “I...well...wow! Well done, Ron! That’s really-”

“Unexpected,” George says, nodding.

“Oh shut up, George. Ron deserves to be prefect just as much as the rest of us. Right, Ron?” he says, grinning as he knocks his shoulder against Ron’s.

“Right…” Ron says, still looking extremely out of it. 

The door opens a little wider as Mrs. Weasley backs into the room with the laundry.

“Ginny said the booklists came in. If you give them to me, I’ll take them over to Diagon Alley and get your books. I’ll have to buy more pajamas, also...what color would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” George says, smirking as he deftly dodges the elbow Harry aims for his ribs.

“Match his what?” Mrs. Weasley says absently, rolling up a pair of socks and placing them on Ron’s pile.

“His badge,” Fred says, letting out a wheeze as Harry’s elbow successfully collides with his ribs and bending over to rub at it.

“Merlin, Harry-” he hisses, but is interrupted as Fred’s words penetrate Mrs. Weasley’s mind.

“His...but...Ron, you’re not...?”

Harry lifts Ron’s arm, presenting the badge for Mrs. Weasley to see.

“Ahh! I-I don’t believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! Th-That’s everyone in the family!”

George folds his arms indignantly, “What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?” but his complaint is drowned as Mrs. Weasley pushes him aside and flings her arms around Ron.

With George no longer slightly blocking the door, Harry finally sees a large package placed right outside the door.

“Mrs. Weasley? Who’s that package for?” he asks, pointing down at it.

Mrs. Weasley pauses in her exclamations of delight. “Oh, dear! I almost forgot in all my excitement! Harry, the package is for you, it just came in.”

“Okay…” Harry says, vaguely bewildered at the sudden package coming in for him. He didn’t ask Draco for anything since that just wasn’t how their written exchanges work, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who would give him something.

Mrs. Weasley enthusiastically returns to Ron as Harry steps halfway into the landing, eyes widening at the size of the package.

‘Merlin, Dad would probably be making a dick joke once he saw this,’ he thinks, huffing to himself as he maneuvers the package into his arms.

Mrs. Weasley bustles out of the room just then, leaving Harry with two grinning twins, a scowling Ron, and a defensive Hermione. 

“Going to put us in detention, Ronniekins?” Fred taunts.

George snickers. “I’d love to see him try.”

“He could if you don’t watch out!” Hermione says angrily, stepping forward and accidentally knocking against the package as she does.

Fred’s eyes are drawn to the package. “Whatcha got there, Harry?”

“A smoothie,” he deadpans.

George rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright, enough of that, Harry. Who’s the package from?”

“No idea.”

“Then check!” Fred exclaims, leaning in.

Harry looks over the package, finally finding a delicate tag with precise curlicues surrounding the writing.

“It’s from…” he says, squinting at the tag, “Fleur.”

“Fleur,” George says in disbelief.

“Is this the same Fleur that Bill’s been giving a lot of private lessons to because she wants to eemprove ‘er Eeenglish, or is there another Fleur running about that we don’t know about?” Fred chimes in.

“Fleur actually knows a lot about economics, I’ll have you know,” Harry snaps. “And besides, I don’t see you making jabs at Ron for writing to Viktor Krum, so I don’t see why you pull this shit when it comes to Fleur.”

“Hey!” Ron shouts, offended.

“Oh,” Harry says, realizing what he had just said. “Sorry, Ron,” he sheepishly says, turning to Ron as he rubs the back of his neck.

“Viktor Krum?!?!” Fred shouts. “You’ve been holding out on us, Ron!”

“Oh, leave him alone, Fred. I don’t see you saying that kind of stuff to me when Viktor’s also writing to me,” Hermione says, sounding annoyed.

“Bleh,” Fred says. “All of you guys are no fun. Well, whatever.”

“You should open the package, Harry,” George says, leaning backwards on the heels of his feet.

“Ah, right.”

He rips the wrapping on the package as quickly as he can, only coming to a stop as he gawks at what was actually inside it.

“Is that…” Hermione voices.

“...A sword?” Ron finishes.

“It would seem so,” Harry says breathlessly, blinking at it to make sure it’s not just a dream.

“A sword? Why is Fleur Delacour going around giving people swords?!?!” Fred bursts.

“She mentioned that her sister Gabrielle wanted to make a sword for me, but I honestly kind of thought she was joking,” Harry says thoughtfully.

“Only you would be able to think someone offering you a sword was a joke and still get a sword out of it,” George mutters.

“Harry…” Hermione says, gaze voracious as she stares at the sword as if it’s something she wants to devour. “Can...can I look at the sword?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. He deposits the sword carefully into Hermione’s waiting hands, except it goes translucent like a ghost’s body and passes through them, only solidifying as it clatters to the floor.

Everyone stares down at the sword.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron says, letting out an awkward laugh.

“We need to figure out how to do that,” Fred breathes out, and George nods in agreement. 

“Harry, did Fleur put any enchantments on the sword?”

“Now that you mention it...Fleur did write something about how Veela magic is rather inflexible without the approval of the Veela casting the spell,” Harry says, clasping his chin.

“You don’t say…” Ron huffs at Harry.

“Veela magic! That’s where properties like that come from,” George comments to Fred. and the two are dragged into a frenetic conversation debating whether they need a Veela to cast enchantments like that for them or if they can manipulate Veela hair and the like to achieve the same effect.

“Um,” Harry says, focusing on Ron and Hermione. “What should I do with the sword then?”

“Just...um, leave it, I guess?” Ron squeaks out.

“Okay?”

It’s odd to think that he’s reached the point in his life where the only thing he can do with a sword with awesome properties due to a Veela’s enchantment is to just leave it .

 A scarlet banner with “CONGRATULATIONS RON AND HERMIONE - NEW PREFECTS” written on it hangs over a heavily laden dinner table that Harry lingers near, keeping an ear open to the conversations around him.

“Oh, Harry! What was in the package that came in for you?” Mrs. Weasley says after finishing her conversation with Moody, catching Remus’ attention at the question.

“A sword!” Harry says brightly. Remus blanches in the corner of Harry’s periphery, likely reminded of recent occurrences where Harry said mildly (and that’s the key word) concerning things.

“A sword,” Mrs. Weasley breathes out, visibly unsure of whether Harry is joking or not.

“Yep!”

“Well...good for you, Harry, dear!” Mrs. Weasley says, before wandering off to talk to someone else.

As Harry takes in the view before him, he feels a warmth billow up in his chest, a comforting presence enveloping him.

‘Congratulations,’ he thinks to himself suddenly in the spirit of the festivities going around him. ‘I’ve made it this far, and hopefully, I’ll make it a bit farther.’

Chapter Text

“Filthy half-breeds, besmirching the house of my fathers-”

Wow. What a lovely thing to wake up to in the morning.

Harry groans as he sits up in his bed, doing the best to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“What I wouldn’t do to shut that old hag up,” his dad mutters to himself darkly as he lingers near Harry.

“I literally gave them a solution on how to get rid of her! And they still haven’t taken it into consideration,” Harry complains.

“I think that’s because most people aren’t excited to jump at the opportunity to blow their house up like you are, Harry,” Cedric says, scratching at his chin.

“Enough of the chit-chat. You need to get ready now, Harry, or you’re going to miss the train,” his mum says, changing the subject.

‘Ugh,’ is the only thing he can muster at the thought.

A large black dog, reminiscent of the Grim Professor Trelawney had predicted to be in his future as an omen of death, appears at Harry’s side as he clambers over the various trunks cluttering the hall to get to Mrs. Weasley.

“Sirius isn’t planning on coming with Harry to the station, is he?” his mum says incredulously.

His dad sighs. “Knowing him, probably.”

“Oh honestly,” Mrs. Weasley says despairingly when she catches sight of the two of them (unaware, of course, of the spectres accompanying him). “Well...on your own head be it!”

She wrenches the front door open, stepping out into the weak September sunlight, but Harry remains where he is alongside the dog.

“I don’t think you should come, Sirius,” Harry says carefully, steadfastly staring at the street in front of him.

The dog snuffles in an aggravated tone, but Harry continues. “I don’t want you to put yourself in danger, for me of all people, especially when we can’t control the people who see you. If...if you really want to get out of this house, and honestly, I don’t blame you if you do, I’ll try my best to convince Dumbledore to at least let you into Hogwarts. I doubt he’d let you just roam all over, but there are probably some places in Hogwarts you can go to. I have to meet with him anyways at the start of the school year for another matter, so I might as well take advantage of the opportunity and do that for you.”

The dog looks down for a few moments, rubbing his snout against his fur, before finally giving a weak bark. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Sirius. Well, that’s the best that we can hope for at this point.”

“Harry! Hurry up, dear!” Mrs. Weasley says from outside 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry huffs, carding his fingers through his hair.

Before he goes after Mrs. Weasley onto the street, he twists his body to speak to Sirius.

“You and my dad used to talk to each other through two-way mirrors, right? You should send me one when you get the chance!” Harry shouts, grinning, before rushing to catch up to Mrs. Weasley with the spectres of his parents and Cedric behind him.

In the last carriage of the train, Harry sees Neville, his face shining from the effort of pulling his trunk along while maintaining his grip on Trevor.

“Hi Harry,” he says, panting. “Hi, Ginny...Everywhere’s full...I can’t find a seat anywhere.”

“What are you talking about?” Ginny says, squeezing past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. “There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here-”

Harry coughs pointedly. “Luna Lovegood, Ginny. I don’t think anyone much likes being called by something other than their name.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, blinking. “You’re probably right. Makes me wonder why Luna hasn’t said anything about it though.”

“We can worry about that later, I think,” he says, before sliding the door open. He blocks the entrance, ignoring Ginny’s confused stare, to provide his parents and Cedric enough time to float in, before pulling his trunk inside. 

“‘Ello Luna. It okay if we take these seats?”

Luna surveys the people behind him, before her eyes come to rest heavily on him.

“You’ve come, I see.”

(Luna’s always been an odd one, if Harry is being honest. So if that statement has the implications of her predicting his entrance into the compartment? Well, it is probably for the best if he meets expectations.)

Harry grins. “That I have. I take it we’re allowed in, then?”

Luna nods, and they file into the room, stowing the three trunks and Hedwig’s cage in the luggage rack before sitting down. Luna watches them over The Quibbler, which she is holding upside down.

“Does reading upside down work better for you, Luna? I’ve never been able to read upside down myself because Aunt Petunia would die before she let me onto the couch,” Harry says conversationally.

“I do think so.”

Luna says nothing more, so Neville opens his mouth. “Guess what I got for my birthday?”

“What?” Harry asks.

“I think you’re supposed to be trying to at least guess, Harry,” Ginny remarks with a snort.

“No, it’s fine, Ginny,” Neville says with a shake of his head. He rummaged through his schoolbag, finally pulling out a rather unnerving plant to look at, what with the boils it had in place of spines.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” Neville says proudly.

“Is it just me or does that plant look like a pe-” his dad begins to say, but is promptly stopped by his mum slapping a hand onto his mouth.

...Except his dad evidently licks the palm of his mum’s hand, resulting in his mum to shout, “What the...James, did, did you just lick me?!?!”

“So what if I did?”

“You...you can’t just do that!”

“Um, guys…” Cedric says, but goes ignored.

“But I just did, Lily. And I’ll have you know that licking someone’s hand is a perfectly decent tactic to-”

“Guys!” Cedric shouts, just as liquid squirts from every boil of the plant, caking Harry’s face even as the ghosts who had distracted him from preparing for such an outcome escape unscathed.

Harry spits out a mouthful as Neville frantically offers an apology. “S-Sorry, I didn’t realize it would...Don’t worry though, Stinksap isn't poisonous.”

And to make matters worse, the door of the compartment slides open, allowing for another person to bear witness to the mockery being made of his life.

“Oh...hello, Harry,” Cho Chang asks. “Um...bad time?”

“Probably,” Harry says.

“Well...bye then, I guess,” she says before quickly shuffling out of the compartment. 

“Wow, Harry, I didn’t realize that that was how you’re like when you’re around Cho,” Cedric chimes in.

Harry spares Cedric an aggravated glance, not able to do so for as long as he wanted when Ginny casts the Scouring Charm, leaving his skin with the impression of it being rubbed raw.

Ow.

The compartment door opens. Again.

Draco smirks down at Harry from where he leans casually against the frame of the compartment door.

“Malfoy,” he says noncommittally, taking a modicum of pleasure at how Draco’s face contorts due to him not following the script dictated by their earlier interactions in Hogwarts.

(Not that their interactions had been rife with such vitriol and disdain since this summer, but still, the point stands.)

“...Potter,” Draco finally acknowledges.

Harry rests his cheek against the palm of his hand. “I’m surprised to see you here without your cronies. What, are you trying to be nice to me for a little while or something?”

“Potter,” Draco hisses. “What are you doing?”

Hmm. A good question, probably, considering they’re at Hogwarts.

“Well, I’m sure everyone’s expecting for us to get into another one of our petty cat fights, but that seems a little stupid considering everything that’s changed. I’m thinking that it might make for a more fun year if we don’t do that, don’t you think?”

“Slytherin-”

“Don’t worry about that, Malfoy! I’m not going to be that obvious about it. Honestly, it’s saddening to know how little faith you have in me…”

“I’m leaving, Potter,” Draco says, giving him a malicious look before departing.

Oops. Maybe he went a bit far there.

“...What was that?” Ron asks, voice faint.

“Nothing for you guys to worry about!” Harry says, grinning.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Ginny says, folding her arms as she eyes him from the corner of her eye.

“Um,” Hermione says, trying to alleviate the awkward atmosphere. “How has everyone’s summer been so far?”

Ginny shoots Hermione an annoyed look, but when Hermione only offers a steady gaze in return, she rolls her eyes and her face settles into a more neutral expression. 

“Um,” Neville says, scratching his cheek, “I went to the event the Ministry held in honor of...Cedric…”

A gloomy atmosphere implants itself in place of the previously awkward one at the mention of Cedric’s name.

“Huh,” Cedric says in a joking tone, “I didn’t realize you guys care that much about me.”

Well. At least someone gets something out of this shitfest of a train ride.

“What was the memorial like?” Luna asks, suddenly making her presence known to the others who had forgotten she was there.

Hermione’s head whips towards Luna, but before she can scold the girl, Neville tentatively speaks.

“It was...disheartening, really. Everyone said they were there to honor Cedric, but it felt like...I don’t know, that they could care less about Cedric in the first place.”

Ginny lets out a gasp, covering her mouth. “Merlin, Neville, that sounds horrible.”

Neville drops his head down, a weak smile on his face. “Yeah, it really was. I got fed up with it, honestly, and left for the outdoor grounds when I ran into...um, nevermind, actually. Forget I said anything!” Neville says, apparently having mentioned something he didn’t want to bring their attention to.

Neville ran into someone? But who ?

Merlin, had Draco actually been telling him the truth?!?!

Ugh. Worrying about teenage romances is more than he’s being paid for, and he isn’t even paid to begin with.

The Thestrals stand tall, their sleek black fur clinging to their skeletons, the continuity of it only interrupted by the leathery wings sprouting out of them.

That, and the malformed monstrosity that wraps around the Thestrals. 

“You can see them, then,” Luna says as she comes to stand next to Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice faint as his eyes struggle to comprehend the thing wrapped around them. 

Maybe this was what his parents were talking about when he came back from the dead.

...Or maybe not.

“I expected as much,” Luna says airily, before climbing into the interior of the carriage before them.

Expectations. What a weighty thing to carry.

Chapter Text

“Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!” Umbridge says with a sickeningly saccharine smile. “And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!”

Great. It’s so satisfying to know that at least one thing hasn’t changed in the timeline. Not.

Umbridge begins her spiel about how the Ministry is ultimately interfering in the educational standards of Hogwarts for the greater good and what not, not like Harry would have believed the woman even if he had actually been listening to the bullshit leaving her mouth.

Even as Umbridge speaks in an aggravatingly patronizing tone, Harry has to deal with another annoyance, coming in the form of the gazes of his peers weighing heavily on him.

He did emerge from the maze built for the third task of the Triwizard Tournament with Cedric’s dead body limp and cold in his hands. Even if he had made no overt claims about Voldermort’s return to power, with his kind of luck, half of Hogwarts probably thought that he was partially responsible for Cedric’s death and was just too scared to say anything. To his face, at the least.

Fucking fantastic, really.

Harry is just beginning to settle into the dormitory-

(Obviously, he’s doing so as far away from Neville’s Mimbulus mimbletonia as is physically possible.)

-when they hear a knock on the door. Seamus, who’s the closest to the door, jumps to open it with how their idle conversation had been veering towards the topic of how his summer had been.

(Harry has a hunch that it probably wasn’t the best from how ready the boy was to get out of the conversation.)

Euan Abercrombie, the first of the first-years to have been called forward by McGonagall earlier that evening, tentatively peeks his head past the door frame into the dormitory.

“Um!” he squeaks out.

Seamus tilts his head. “Yes? What didja want?”

“The...the Headmaster told me to tell Harry Potter to meet him!”

Harry lifts a hand to stop Seamus from interrogating the poor kid for whatever the reason and moves closer. “I’ll take it from here, then,” he says, before leaving the dormitory with Euan.

“So...did Dumbledore give you the password to his office?” he asks Euan outside of the dormitory. 

“Oh, um! No...H-He told me to tell you that...you’ll know where to meet him? Ah, sorry! That probably doesn't help, does it? Knowing myself, I probably just missed it like an absolute idiot, agh! I-I’m so sor-”

So, the Chamber of Secrets then. He hadn’t expected for the meeting to happen so early into the year, but, well, nothing he could really do about it at this point.

“Euan. It’s fine, you didn’t miss anything. Anyways, thanks for getting his message to me, and, I mean...I know I’m not a prefect, but you can always ask me for help if you’re having any problems! Only if you want to, of course.”

“That’s...that’s really nice of you! But...but you shouldn’t waste your energy on someone like me! I have to go unpack now, so...” Euan cuts himself off, instead quickly rushing down in the direction of the first-year boys’ dormitory with barely a glance spared in Harry’s direction.

Well.

Time to head down to the Chamber of Secrets then.

Harry hesitantly peeks into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, hoping beyond hope that the bathroom’s namesake isn’t here at the moment.

Not that he had anything against the girl, of course, especially if he spends more than a few seconds contemplating the sorry lot she had in life, but…

“Oh hello Harry!”

Well. Too late to back out now.

“Hello...Myrtle.”

“Long time no see...I swear I’m beginning to think that you forgot about me!”

“Um...sorry, Myrtle, but I have go talk to Dumbledore, so-”

Myrtle pouts. “Really?!?!”

Harry levels a blank stare.

Myrtle humphs. “Fine! I can tell that...that you don’t want to see me! Just...just be grateful that I don’t flood the bathroom again.”

Um. “...Okay, Myrtle.”

Myrtle floats off to sulk in the bathroom stall where she died, a morbid thing to be doing that seems to fit Myrtle perfectly.

“Certainly an interesting conversation to listen to, Harry.”

He does not yelp. He does not yelp.

“Professor Dumbledore!” he says, turning to face the man with a casual smile on his face.

Agh, he’s starting to feel like Tom Riddle the more and more he talks to Dumbledore. It’s not a great feeling. 

Well. 

He’s certainly not planning on becoming a genocidal maniac any time soon, so maybe not.

“We should get going, Harry.”

Harry nods, stepping towards the snake-engraved sink tap.

Ugh. Just how gaudy can people really be when it comes to decorations?

Rolling his eyes, Harry whispers in parseltongue, “Open,” taking a slight step back as the sink lowers itself right out of sight, exposing a large pipe fashioned to mimic a slide.

“Should I-” he begins, about to ask Dumbledore if he should try using Parseltongue to do something about the gunky slide, when the man in question plops himself down at the mouth of the slide and just pushes himself forwards.

Well. Guess that that question is answered for him.

Harry groans, cognizant of the fact that he can’t do anything about the slide with no assurance that Dumbledore has gotten off of it. Well, he could, but he’s not that much of a dick.

Getting suspicious-looking shit on his body it is then.

Harry refuses to think about the stuff clinging to the back of his robes, wobbling in his efforts to touch the floor and the pipe and literally anything as little as possible as he stands up.

“Professor Dumbledore, uh, why did you take the slide? I could have probably done something about it with parseltongue.”

“I think that it’s important that one takes advantage of any opportunity available, no matter how juvenile they may seem,” Dumbledore says, flashing a smile at Harry.

Merlin, the glare coming from Dumbledore’s teeth is too bright to look at directly.

“Well, Harry, having said that, if you could direct us to where the basilisk remains?’”

“Okay,” he says, before heading down the corridor where Lockhart had once tried to erase his memories. Finally, he and Dumbledore catch sight of the towering pillars emblematic of the Chamber of Secrets, confirmed by the presence of the Statue of Slytherin.

Harry scrunches his nose at the faint smell of the basilisk’s remains, covering his mouth as he coughs.

“I’ll be handling the retrieving of the basilisk fang, if you don’t mind, Harry. I’m unwilling to push such a task onto a student, even if it’s you,” Dumbledore says, glancing at him, before striding towards the skeleton.

Harry lets him.

Honestly, he’s kind of starting to think that suggesting this to Dumbledore was stupid on a lot of levels. But, if he’s lucky, his willingness to “help” will distract the man from the secrets he persists in hiding from him.

He doesn’t even really understand why he’s acting like this around Dumbledore. There’s no point, he’s starting to think, other than being able to direct the events pertaining to the Horcruxes and the Deathly Hallows as he wishes.

Which means he should probably get Ravenclaw’s Diadem next.

Harry sighs. And to think that his life continues to be like this, even after Voldemort was defeated.

This Chamber was just a reminder of that, since he would have almost died in it if it weren’t for Fawkes.

The basilisk’s carcass is getting sad to look at while he thinks. It’s not even a great background for the gears in his brain turning.

Did the basilisk even realize what it was doing? Probably not. More like, it was just fixated on where it was going to get its next meal at the time.

It must have sucked to be asleep for, like, forever, only to be awakened to murder some kids.

Or maybe not. Harry probably shouldn’t be applying human logic to a dead snake, no matter how big it is.

“What should we do with the corpse, Harry?” Dumbledore asks, Harry not realizing the man had returned with a basilisk fang in hand.

“Hold a funeral for it,” Harry says abruptly, blurting out what he had just been thinking about.

Dumbledore’s mouth quirks, and he pats Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t think many people would be enthused by such an idea, Harry.”

“Well then, it can be just us.”

“Do you have any ideas in mind? I don’t think a eulogy would be fitting in this instance-”

“We can do that, though! I’ll start.”

“Um, Harry-”

“So. Um, you tried to kill me, Basilisk, but I don’t think you had any choice in doing that, really, since...Tom Riddle was controlling you at the time. Maybe...you wouldn’t have done that if someone else was controlling you? Maybe you might have even done... big things in life, though probably not the most morally upright. I mean, would morals even matter to you as a Basilisk? No, right? Um, this is going off the rails right about now, so I think I’m gonna stop. But I hope you’re having a good time in the afterlife or wherever you are!”

“...That...that was a very heartfelt eulogy, Harry.”

“Thank you, Professor Dumbledore!”

Maybe...maybe he should hold an actual proper funeral for the Basilisk. 

Eh. He can worry about that later.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry voices as they make their way up the (now inconvenient) slide.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Well...uh, it’s kind of a dumb idea, I guess, but I was wondering if it was possible for Sirius to...be allowed to roam Hogwarts?”

“...I see,” Dumbledore says. And that’s all he says.

Well, that’s certainly...helpful.

“Um, Professor? I understand if you can’t let Sirius into Hogwarts at all, but there must be some places where he can go around freely, right? I-I wouldn’t even be asking if I didn’t know that Sirius would do something even more risky if he’s forced to stay cooped up in Grimmauld Place.”

“I’ll think about it, Harry,” Dumbledore says, not entirely meeting Harry’s eyes. So probably not is the answer then.

“...Okay, Professor,” Harry says half-heartedly.

He has the feeling Sirius just got screwed over by his efforts, but he doesn’t know how to go about fixing things.

(As long as Sirius doesn’t die, maybe it won’t even matter).

Chapter Text

After giving Hedwig a short letter with only the curt, disheartening message of, “He didn’t agree. I’m sorry,” meant for Sirius that morning-

(Harry tells himself that it’s for the sake of disguising the contents of the letter when Umbridge persists in laying down the foundations for a Ministry takeover of Hogwarts, but if he’s being honest…

It’s because he has no idea what to tell Sirius. Merlin, he had promised the man this one thing and he hadn’t even come close to succeeding with it. How is he supposed to explain that?)

-Harry leaves the familiar comfort of Gryffindor Tower for the purpose of talking  to McGonagall about the pen pal system. 

“Professor McGonagall!” Harry shouts to catch her attention, having found her in the hallway near her office. 

“Yes, Potter?” she asks, raising a questioning eyebrow as she scrutinizes him.

Harry grins. “I was wondering if I could talk to you, Professor.”

“You already are, Potter.”

“Sorry, you’re right. Um, anyways, I had this idea I was hoping you could pitch to the other Heads of House. I mean, I totally understand if that’s asking for too much, but-”

“Perhaps you should tell me what the idea you have in mind is before saying more.”

“Oh, sorry! So, pretty much, the concept is a pen pal system set up between Houses. Obviously, participating in it would be entirely voluntary, but I thought that allowing students to get new perspectives from other Houses would be a good way of lightening up the mood after...everything that happened next year.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Potter,” McGonagall says, pushing her glasses up higher on the bridge of her nose, “but I hope you do realize that the other Heads of House and I have several duties that we must handle. I sincerely doubt that we could make the time to undertake such an endeavour.”

Harry lifts his hands in front of him placatingly, pleased with the progression of events so far. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that, Professor McGonagall. I’ll be handling all of the logistics with some help from a friend,” knowing McGonagall will assume that the friend he is referring to is Hermione rather than Draco, “but I just wanted to get approval from you and the other Heads of House before going ahead with it.”

“Well, if that’s all, Potter, I can certainly manage that. I’ll try to talk to the Heads of House at breakfast, in fact. Do keep in mind, though, that our...new Defense Against the Dark Arts might interfere.”

“It’s fine. I’m certainly not doing anything wrong by setting this system up, so I don’t see why she should be complaining.”

“If you say so. I suggest you head off to breakfast. You will certainly need it if you're intent on going forward with this project.”

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall!” he says.

McGonagall huffs. “You shouldn’t be thanking me, Potter, especially when I haven’t even done that much. Honestly, the idea you pitched to me is worth investing in, so I appreciate the fact that you did.”

“Whatever you say, Professor,” he chuckles, before waving her goodbye and rushing off to the Great Hall.

That night, after a rather traumatizing class spent in Umbridge’s presence, and a less traumatizing class with McGonagall giving him the go-ahead to begin working on the pen pal system, Harry heads to the Room of Requirement in order to retrieve Ravenclaw's Diadem.

(Why is he heading there now of all times? Well, first of all, it is the year of O.W.L.s. And not the animal type. Which meant that he got a lot of homework on the first day of the school year. And sure. Harry might have completed...most of his schooling at Hogwarts and gained interests beyond not dying, but that did not make him an expert on the underlying reasons for the Five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. Even with the peculiar advantage that his parents’ knowledge and experience has given him.

Secondly, he had already disappeared on Ron and Hermione the day before. He really isn’t jumping at the thought of garnering their suspicions around his behavior more than he already has.

Better to let Ron fall into a deep slumber that not even a dragon can pull him out of.)

(And if Ron were to ever wake up in the middle of the night, as unlikely of a possibility that is, well, the spectres he had left behind to their gossip, probably about him, would be able to do nothing. But hey, it’s the thought that counts!

If it wasn’t already obvious, Harry most certainly did not think things through.)

There’s a basilisk fang in his Infinity Bag, though it would not be obvious to Harry if not for him delicately placing it in the bag only minutes earlier.

The presence of a dangerous substance in his vicinity would not be obvious to any student wandering in the middle of the night, though that’s more due to the Invisibility Cloak enveloping his body.

The voice hasn’t said anything. It hasn’t said anything for a long while.

Maybe Harry was finally having some luck in his life.

He finally reaches Barnabas the Barmy’s tapestry, squinting at the odd details he’s only beginning to notice now after so many years. He shrugs off the Invisibility Cloak, not seeing any point in wearing it any longer so close to his destination.

“Potter.”

Never mind.

“Malfoy, how lovely to see you again so early into the school year! My buddy, my pal, my-” he says, clapping his hands together as he turns to face the prat.

“Enough of that, Potter. I’ll be taking...hmm, let’s see. How do you feel about 50 points? You agree with the number, of course?” Draco interrupts, speaking quickly enough to not allow Harry to pettily answer the rhetorical question posed.

“Sure,” Harry says.

Draco narrows his eyes. “No comment?”

“Well,” Harry drawls, casually lifts his hands as he shrugs, “I could protest the amount of points you’re taking away because it really is starting to feel like you have a vendetta against me sometimes despite our...connection. Or I could give you a lecture about how the points system is inherently flawed as rather than encouraging a healthy sense of competition between Houses so to ensure students excel in their studies, it in fact does the opposite by escalating existing tensions and grudges between Houses-”

“Thank you for that scintillating lecture, Potter. Now, I suggest you head back to Gryffindor Tower before I’m forced to take off more points.”

Harry flaps a lackadaisical hand at Draco, before beginning to walk past the wall three times. “Sheesh, don’t let the power get to your head so quickly, Malfoy! I mean, I knew that would happen, but still. Anyways, just give me a sec so I can get something from this room.”

“Potter-” Draco hisses, just as the door to the Room of Requirement comes into existence.

Draco stops and stares at the door for a bit. And then he shakes his head and just pinches his nose.

Yeah, that seems to be Draco’s signature reaction to literally anything that Harry does.

“Well then, I’ll be heading in, so don’t wai-”

Draco tightly clasps Harry’s shoulder before he can escape, a vaguely maniacal smile on his face. “ Wait just a second, Potter. I’ll be joining you.”

“...Fantastic.”

“Now, please do restrain your enthusiasm, Potter.”

“Will do, Malfoy,” he duly says, before opening the door and heading in.  

They are met with towering walls that look close to toppling, making Harry associate the tremendously large room with a deteriorating city. Only the shafts of misty light wandering towards them erases that impression, brightening the atmosphere of the room. 

Harry doubts he’s going to be buried alive under piles upon piles of junk, but, well, best to play it safe.

“What...what is this place?” Draco voices, something close to awe miraculously tinging his voice.

“This...this is the Room of Requirement. It changes to meet the desires of the occupant. A rather nifty sort of magic designed by...Helga Hufflepuff, I believe?”

“How’d you find it then, Potter?”

“Dobby,” Harry says, as that isn’t a lie.

“You said you were looking for something here? What is it?”

“I’ll know when I see it. Come on, we should get moving.”

Despite saying that, Harry stops in his steps a few moments later.

“What?” Draco caustically says after colliding into his back. “You were just telling me to get moving only moments earlier, so why would you stop?”

Harry points to the rusting swords lying near his feet. “Malfoy, do you, by any chance, happen to know how to use these?”

Draco scrunches his nose. “I wouldn’t touch those foul things in 100 years, Potter. But, if you’re talking about if I ever had fencing lessons? No. That’s something that’s becoming out of fashion amongst pureblood families. It used to be more popular during Europe’s Middle Ages, though. Something to do with wanting to see why the Muggles were so fanatic about their swords.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

“Why do you ask?” Draco asks, indelicately kicking the swords further away from him.

“Fleur and her younger sister crafted a sword for me, but I have no idea how I’m supposed to train with it. I mean, I guess I could just leave it lying around, but I feel like that’s a disservice to the sword, you know? And, well, it’s not exactly like I have an abundance of teachers to choose from, since fencing isn’t as popular with Muggles like it was in Europe during the Middle Ages.”

“A sword? From a Delacour? How’d you manage that?” Draco questions avidly, eyes wide.

“Good question! No idea, though. I guess I’m just really lucky, huh?” Harry says, sheepishly rubbing the back of the mop of hair on his head.

“Potter, you are aware of the prestige associated with the Delacour family, yes?” Draco says, leveling an unimpressed look in his direction. 

“Um…”

“So no, then.” 

“Well…”

“Honestly, I think my explaining just how prestigious they are would be wasted on the ears of people like you, so I won’t. Just understand that they are very prestigious, and that their expertise on spellcrafting, enchanting, and the like are extremely sought after, even more so after the introduction of Veela magic into their bloodline.”

“So, pretty much what you’re saying is that I am really lucky, right?”

“I’m not even going to reward that with a reply.”

Harry pouts.

“Anyways, if you truly have no idea of how to use your sword, just use this room. Didn’t you say that it changes to match the occupant’s desires?”

“You’re right…” Harry distractedly breathes out, mind now overrun with images of him doing cool moves with a sword. A swish there, a swoosh here, and voila! He’s going to be a fencing prodigy!

“And besides, if you’re distracted with training with your sword, all the better for me. That just means that the Quidditch Cup is Slytherin’s now!”

And there is Draco, ruining Harry’s daydreams.

“I’ll have you know, Malfoy, that I could catch the Snitch with my eyes blindfolded. No underhanded plan of yours will change that.”

Draco hums in agreement, mocking him all the while with his “easy” acquiescence. 

“It’s true.”

Draco hums again. Bastard.

“Well, we best be off, Potter. Didn’t you say you have something to find ?”

Harry scoffs at that, before rushing off into one of the many alleyways in the Room of Requirement. He turns right past an enormous stuffed troll, something that had stood out in his memory of the first time he entered here, before taking a left at the Vanishing Cabinet that had ruined his life for being something so unnoticeable, and finally finding the large cupboard where Ravenclaw’s Diadem should be stored.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to run away from me, Potter.”

“I’m not even going to reward that with a reply, Malfoy,” Harry mutters.

He shuffles the junk near and in the cupboard around, letting out an excited, “Yes!” once he finds the tarnished tiara few would suspect to be Ravenclaw’s diadem.

Draco included. “Really, Potter? A tarnished tiara? If you wanted to feel so much like a princess, you just had to ask.”

Harry ignores the jab, instead carefully pulling a basilisk fang out of his Infinity Bag.

He makes to stab the diadem, except a wiry, delicate hand scoops it up from right under him.

“Malfoy!” he hisses. “Give that back!”

Draco speaks while meticulously scrutinizing the diadem in his hands. “Hmm...I don’t think so, Potter. After all…”

His words taper off to a stop, his eyes widening as they glimpse the blue oval-like sapphire and the words etched onto its surface.

“Potter...This, this is-”

“I know, Malfoy, but I need you to give it back.”

“Do you realize how absurd your words are?”

“Just trust me on this, Malfoy.”

“No.”

That hurts. But only a little, he swears. It’s understandable. Still aggravating, though.

Harry steps towards Draco. Draco takes a step back, unaware of the cupboard that still exists behind him.

Harry takes a few steps forwards. Draco takes a few steps backwards, knees buckling as his back collides into the frame of the cupboard and letting him fall to the floor, Ravenclaw’s diadem clattering to the floor a short distance away from him. 

Harry quickly grabs onto it, an odd sensation filling his fingers as he does so, and just stabs .

A crack forms in the surface of the diadem, a dark, rumbling energy seeping out of it.

Harry stabs the diadem again, and again, and again-

(Just to be on the safe side.)

-before the Horcrux’s soul falls flat and dissipates entirely.

“This is why you should have just trusted me the first time, Malfoy,” Harry groans, sending a glare at where Draco is still lying on the floor, surrounded by the piles of clutter that were knocked down as a result of his collision.

“What...”

“That was a piece of Voldemort’s immortality, the thing you wanted to know so much about when we met at that restaurant.”

Draco is beginning to look a little queasy, so Harry offers him his hand, helping him get up.

Harry gives Draco a hearty pat on the back, snickering at the undignified “Oomph!” the other lets out. “Don’t worry so much about it, Malfoy. I did promise you that you were going to be part of a revolution and here I am, keeping it. Just think of how lucky you are to be doing something that will go down in history, right?”

“...Sure, Potter.”

They begin to make their way through the twists and turns of the Room of Requirement, a dazed look on Draco’s face as they do so. Ravenclaw’s Diadem is left behind by them, forgotten by all.

“Oh! I almost forgot...McGonagall approved our idea for the pen pal system, so I think we should start meeting here to work on it.”

“I think that’s the least of my worries at the moment, Potter,” Draco croaks out. 

Harry laughs. “Maybe.”

Harry listens to Draco’s suggestion-

(Like he should have in the first timeline when it came to many things.

But enough about that.)

-and begins using the Room of Requirement to practice with his sword.

(It’s becoming obvious to him that he’s spending a lot of his time in the Room of Requirement. And some part of him knows it’s him distracting himself from things, more than he should.

Maybe it’s because of the anxious energy determinedly buzzing in him. Seeing that, well, he’s been waking up in the middle of the night more frequently, his body’s previous reliance on Dreamless Sleep potions to make it through a single night now finally catching up to his 14-year-old body.

Or maybe it’s the fact Sirius has yet to reply to the letter he sent at the beginning of the school year, and Harry’s worried about whether or not this is going to persist. 

Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t good.)

Or, well. He doesn’t exactly start practicing with his sword yet, as it’s too much of a hassle to lug the sword to the Room of Requirement and back, especially when he’s of the mind that the fewer know about it being in his possession, the better.

It helps that on the wall on one side of the room, there is a lineup of fencing swords, with oddly-shaped masks resting above them. When Harry takes one of the masks in hand, his eyes catch immediately on the insulated mesh likely meant to protect the face, before rubbing the polyester material attached to the mesh between his fingers. This polyester material makes a reappearance again as Harry rifles through the rack of jackets-

(Though, in Harry’s opinion, they look far more like a one-piece swimsuit a woman might wear at the beach because of their design.)

-the Room of Requirement placed off to the side against the wall where the fencing swords are located, though with the addition of a thin, interwoven metal overlaid on top that gives it a grayish hue. 

When Harry begins to wonder about where exactly he’ll be practicing with those swords, the floor of the room manifests what Harry later figures out are fencing pistes, made from what looks to be a relatively lightweight material with a rubber backing and laying them out side-to-side. There are 5 solid blue lines marked on the white material. 2 of them are around 2 metres from either end of the piste, while there are 2 other lines similarly around 2 metres from the line marked at the center of the piste.  In order to answer his question of who he’ll be practicing against, the Room of Requirement additionally plops a cream-colored mannequin-like figure at the end of each piste, giving off the impression that the...mannequins are entirely capable of wielding a fencing sword. 

Opposite the wall holding all of the items Harry had inspected earlier, there is a large chalkboard, the kind one would expect to see in front of a classroom. On the chalkboard, there is a detailed drawing of a person wearing one of the jackets on the rack now behind him with a fencing sword in hand, with words above the figure capitalized and underlined several times for emphasis.

“En...garde…” Harry reads out loud, and having spoken such words, Harry feels he has no choice but to lean in closer to the chalkboard to inspect the notes written around the figure.

The figure drawn on the chalkboard has one foot facing forward and another out to the side, this positioning made more obvious by the respective “pointing forward” and “pointing to the side” designated to them with cartoonish arrows. For the foot facing forward, there is an additional note provided, telling Harry that it’s the same as his dominant hand.

“So, my right foot, then,” he answers out loud for himself.

The final note the chalkboard provides about the figure’s posture is that the knees are bent right over their toes. Seems simple enough, all things considered.

‘Fencing is turning out to be far more technical than I thought it would be,’ he thinks to himself as he shoves one of the polyester jackets over his body, wanting to mimic the figure on the chalkboard as much as possible. ‘But that’s no reason for me to just give up on it, probably.’

He tries out the stiff stance, getting a feel for it and shifting his body parts here and there when he feels they don’t line up with the figure on the board. After shifting in and out of it a few times, everything on the board is erased, with the pointed sound of a nonexistent eraser being clacked against the slate marking their disappearance.

Harry straightens as he watches the words, “ADVANCE AND RETREAT,” be written on the board. The figure is drawn again, as quick as the snap of a finger, but it’s quite literally far more animated this time around, moving back and forth.

Harry sighs after he studies the figure for a few moments. 

Back to work, then.

“Planning” sessions with Draco become relatively commonplace in Harry’s schedule, to the point where he can almost pretend that he’s newly 21, doing weird shit with a Draco Malfoy who had lost any fucks he might have wanted to give as a 15-year-old.

Harry’s aware of how far from the truth reality is, but, well, a man can only hope sometimes.

“So, obviously, I’m aware that Zabini and Neville must not be paired up with each other as pen pals, no exception, but I don’t think it really makes sense to be planning out which other people to match or not match up and what not when we don’t even know who’s going to be signing up to get a pen pal,” Harry says lightly, leaning back in the grandiose chair and putting his weight on the palms of his hands.

Draco eyes him judgmentally, eyes flickering to Harry’s chair despite the equally (or more likely, far more) grandiose chair he is seated in. His eyes return to meet Harry’s gaze as his voice takes on an imperious tone. “It’s probably for the better to come up with multiple possibilities of people to match up rather than to do as you suggested and merely twiddle our thumbs to while the time away.”

“You seem awfully confident that my idea is going to fail,” Harry remarks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Draco says, not saying anything more as he inspects whatever far more interesting thing happens to be on his nails.

Great.

“...You’re not going to say anything more then,” Harry sighs, sighing. 

“I believe it would be helpful if you could write up a few notes on the members of Gryffindor House and people from other Houses that you’re close to. Think of them as character analyses,” Draco says, quite obviously sweeping past Harry’s comment.

Harry nods at first, believing it to be for the best for the odd peace of the conversation, when he realizes what exactly Draco had just said.

“Wait...character analyses?”

“Potter, I know you have something rattling inside your brain, no matter how miniscule it is. You very well know what a character analysis is.”

“ Merlin , I know what a character analysis is, Malfoy. It’s used in Muggle courts and probably wizard courts if I were the type to believe in the common sense of the wizarding world. But, I just...have some qualms about me in particular writing one.”

“What qualms? I’m simply asking you to tell me how your Gryffindorks make bloody fools of themselves. It’s not hard, Potter.”

“You do realize that I don’t really talk that much to many people in Gryffindor, right? Considering that they’re, well, just as swayed by public opinion as the rest of Hogwarts?”

“I find that rather hard to believe,” Draco says, purposefully obtuse as he folds his arms across his chest.

“Malfoy. Second year, everyone thought I was going around petrifying students because I was the bloody Heir of Slytherin or some bollocks like that. Me. A 12-year-old. And then fourth year, everyone thought I had purposefully entered a competition where I could die, even though I already had too many near-death experiences to worry about. And we all know that there’s at least one idiot out there that thinks I murdered Cedric.”

“Well, Potter, with the information the public has at hand, it does look like that.”

Harry groans. “That is literally the most fucked up thing—You know what, it’s not even worth trying to convince you, especially when I get the feeling you’re being purposefully obtuse. Anyways, the moral of the story is that I don’t really talk to that many people in Gryffindor because of shit like that.”

“...That’s really sad, Potter,” Draco says, the almost pitying expression on his face ruined by the mocking tone his voice takes on.

“You really don’t have to be so blunt about it.”

“Well, who else is going to be blunt about it? Your hordes of admirers?”

“I feel like they’d be nicer about it, at the least,” Harry says mournfully, lifting a leg onto the chair and bending it at the knee where he rests his chin.

Draco doesn’t say anything, but Harry can tell he’s silently judging him from the scrunch to his nose.

Harry sighs. “What?”

“Even if you don’t take much heed of the people in your House, I still think it shouldn’t be that hard for you to simply...take note of their ideologies.”

“Malfoy,” he hisses. There is not a whining tone to his voice, he swears to Merlin. He is simply expressing his emotions of discontent.

Ugh, he really sucks at duping even himself.

“Potter.”

Harry lets his head fall onto the back of the chair, lifting his hands placatingly. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it. I’ll do your stupid character analyses and push myself out of my comfort zone or whatever.”

“Excellent.”

“...This year really has me having to be nice to you of all things, huh.”

“You’re the one who started it, so you better follow through, Potter.”

“Harry!” he hears someone saying in the distance, though he’s not entirely sure with how intensely focused he is on the people occupying the Gryffindor table. 

Who are they talking to? Who are they glancing at? What words are leaving their mouth? What words are being left unsaid?

He is going to prove Malfoy absolutely fucking wrong.

Ron and Hermione are making light, comfortable conversation next to him, laughter filling the small space between them. Harry can’t help but think that the inclusion of Viktor in whatever aspect the boy now occupies in Ron and Hermione’s lives has done them a whole lot of good. It’s entirely different from Harry’s experiences in the first timeline, but...a good kind of different.

“Harry!” the voice calls again, this time with the addition of a flick of a finger at the back of his head.

Harry rubs the back of his head, leaning back to look up at the spectre floating above him.

“What are you thinking about, Harry?” his dad asks, an unapologetic smirk on his face as he peers down at Harry. “You’re staring everyone at the table down so hard. Even that little first-year over there looks close to tears because of you.”

Harry’s eyes jump to where his dad is pointing at, feeling vaguely shitty at how close to passing out the first-year, Euan Abercrombie, looks. He can’t be the reason for the boy’s state, right? His stare isn’t that intense.

“Euan,” he says, pitching his voice forward in volume. “You okay? You...you’re not looking that well.”

Euan jumps in his seat, eerily reminiscent of Harry at the end of the previous year when McGonagall had tapped his shoulder to take him to his meeting with the Diggorys.

The boy’s hands go all over the place, like he’s fraying at the edges. “O-Oh! It’s nothing. I-I’m totally fine, you don’t need to worry about me of all people. I-I’m...I was just-”

Harry offers a gentle smile in hopes of it coaxing Euan to speak further, but it just causes the boy’s fearful look to deepen. Which is, well, not exactly the greatest thing in the world.

Harry’s aware that Euan believed the Prophet’s smear campaign the first time around, but there isn’t really a smear campaign in this timeline. Just...rumors flitting one person to the next.

Euan isn’t even looking at Harry, but past him. Like he’s staring at someone who isn’t even there.

Harry can understand the feeling.

“Okay then,” is all Harry can manage at that point because of how uncomfortable Euan is becoming.

His dad is snickering above him. “Wow, Prongslet, good to know that you’re capable of giving even a first-year mental trauma.”

Harry says nothing, puzzling over the oddity of Euan’s reaction.

Just another mystery to add to the many already on Harry’s plate this year, perhaps.

He comments about the situation, if it can even be called that, with Euan to Draco at another one of their “planning” sessions.

“I thought you’d be pleased that the pitiful masses are fearful of you, Potter,” Draco haughtily remarks.

“No,” Harry says profusely, vigorously shaking his head in denial. “It...it’s just. His reaction was different,  it’s like he wasn’t even looking at me, but through me. I don’t think he even paid much attention who I actually was at the time.”

“Well,” Draco says after clearing his throat, voice now considerably more placid, “you are rather intense. Not that I would back down from it, of course, but…”

“Oh.”

Draco narrows his eyes, an aggravated look on his face. “Why are you even asking me of all people, Potter? I’m clearly not your precious weasel or your annoying Muggleborn know-it-all.”

Harry stiffens, suddenly aware of just how odd their situation is. How does one explain to someone they once hated as a teenager-

(A long, long time ago for Harry, in truth, no matter the age of the body he was now occupying.)

-that they would come to be someone they cared for, trusted in, believed in?

You don’t, is the thing.

(Or more accurately, Harry can’t.)

Nothing else of value is said that night. Harry doesn’t even know why he’s surprised anymore.

Chapter Text

That’s it. He’s going to kill Umbridge. Either that, or kill himself first.

His parents would say that’s probably an exaggeration, but, well, they would be wrong.

First, just—just the course aims she had outlined at the beginning of the school year. They weren’t even worthy of being referred to as such when they were just the vaguest bullshit to have ever passed before his eyes. Even he, with Dumbledore’s Army serving as his only legitimate teaching experience, could come up with better course aims.

And then, Merlin , the woman was so utterly condescending. Harry doesn’t know how he forgot about that bit of her unfortunate personality, but he somehow did. And now he’s been reminded of it. Again.

Harry thankfully managed to not garner himself a detention the first day of term because he’s not a great fan of being tortured, but he doesn’t know how long his hair’s going to survive with how hard and how frequently he had been tugging at tufts of it. He’s only 14 (physically). He’s too young to be experiencing male pattern baldness! He’s already starting to see some bald spots beginning to appear after just a few days of attending her classes.

He can’t put up with any more of this. He’s gonna have to do something, well. Drastic.

At that, his eyes catch on the not-so-inconspicuous sign on the notice board of the Gryffindor common room that had been put up there by Fred and George at who knows what ungodly hour.

So. Skiving Snackboxes.

A great option! Well, his only option, really, but a great option nevertheless.

He should go ask the twins about the product, then. 

Before he stabs someone, of course.

“It’s not that bad, Harry,” his mum comforts him. 

“It is that bad!” Harry whines as he falls face first onto his bed, struggling to not let out a scream into his pillow.

“I think you’re understating things here, Lily, if Harry’s acting like this,” his dad remarks.

“Thank you, Dad? I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment, but. Um, anyways! Cedric, you agree with me, right? Like, you were there for her class with me, though honestly it shouldn’t even be called that.”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“And to make matters worse , Fred and George aren’t even done with testing out the Skiving Snackboxes! How long can experimenting on first years really take? Do they not realize this is a matter of life and death? How am I supposed to survive until then?”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Harry,” his mum says, placatingly patting his cheek even though she’s clearly enjoying his suffering.

“Ugh!”

The moment the twins tell him they’ve finalized the Skiving Snackboxes, he promptly takes a bite of the Nosebleed Nougat and takes immense pleasure in the shriek Umbridge emits at the sight of his blood.

Though, his problems do not end there, especially when they come in the form of Umbridge.

“Mr. Potter, I cannot help but notice that you have consistently been unable to attend my classes because of various ailments. Is there something you wish to tell me?” Umbridge asks him after cornering him after dinner, an extremely irritating smile plastered onto her face.

Um.

“Because I certainly hope that you are not purposefully making yourself unavailable, hmm?”

Ah, fuck. 

What can he even do in this situation?

Well, the only thing he can do.

Bullshit his way out.

“I apologize, Professor Umbridge, if it seems that way,” Harry says, working hard to not grind his teeth together.

“Oh, it’s perfectly fine, Mr. Potter, as long as it’s immediately remedied.”

“Well, I am unable to fulfill your desires in that aspect because of my...condition.”

“Your...condition, Mr. Potter?”

“Ah, yes, my condition. It developed this summer, you see, after some rather traumatic events. They were so traumatic it almost felt like my soul was being sucked out of me. I now find myself unable to cope with large amounts of the type of magic associated with Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Mr. Potter, I hope you’re aware that this class is purely theoretical and you have not been exposed to such magic at all.”

“I agree with you, Professor Umbridge, but...don’t you think that the classroom is just simply imbued with such magic? It is as you said. We, the students, and the classroom have been exposed to spells that are entirely complex, inappropriate to our age group, and potentially lethal.”

Umbridge awkwardly clears her throat. Good. “Well then, I suppose I will have to let you not attend my classes then. Please keep up with your studies and make sure to pass me a note from your primary Healer on your ailment sometime this week.”

“Of course,” he says, internally screaming at the last condition set in place by Umbridge.

How the fuck is he supposed to get a note from a Healer?

From Draco, apparently.

“Malfoy, I need you to forge me a note from a Healer from St. Mungo’s so I can skip Umbridge’s classes.”

“What?” Draco says, clearly not expecting to be ambushed by Harry in this isolated nook in Hogwarts.

Foolish mistake. Draco better be prepared the next time.

“I need you to fo-” Harry begins to repeat.

“No, I understood what you said, Potter. I’m not an idiot and it would be in your best interest to not imply something of that sort. But what I’m asking is why .”

“Well.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Are you planning on explaining anytime soon?”

“Don’t rush me, Merlin! You know how I’ve been skipping out on all her classes, right?”

“Yes, it is the talk of many students in Hogwarts.”

“Well, she kinda figured it out.”

“Really? I hadn’t guessed,” Draco drawls, a look of faux surprise on his face as he covers his mouth. Probably hiding a smirk, ugh.

“Well, I think that’s a you problem, Malfoy. Anyways, I made up some lie about how I have a condition that makes me unable to cope with the ambient magic in the classroom.”

“...And she believed that?”

“I don’t think so, since she asked me to give her a note from my Healer in a week or so.”

Draco’s starting to look a bit cross-eyed there. “I don’t know why I should help you.”

“Well, doing this won’t harm your standing in Slytherin.”

“Not doing this would accomplish entirely the same thing.”

“I’ll pay you?”

“Are you trying to bribe me? Me? A Malfoy?”

“Ugh, fine. What do you want?”

“A favor for my later use that I can call upon for you to fulfill.”

“As long as it isn’t life-threatening or that embarrassing, sure, I guess.”

Draco offers Harry a look of distaste. “You really shouldn’t be so trusting of others, Potter.”

Harry shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a Gryffindor, aren’t I?”

“Yes...unfortunately, you are.”

Harry turns to leave, but remembers something of importance he should probably mention to Draco.

“Oh! Before I forget to mention this...McGonagall told me the Heads of House were thinking of springing the pen pal system on the first of November. Which means that we’re springing it on the first of November.”

“And you have everything worked out? You’re not winging it like you do for most things, yes?”

“I have...most of it ready. I do have a lot of free time on my hands since I stopped attending Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been spending your free time with your sword instead. Well. Send me what you have, if you’re so confident. And, please tell Dobby not to bombard me with chatter in the bathroom of all places.”

Harry chuckles. “Sure, sure, whatever you say, Malfoy. I’ll be off then.”

Dobby gives him a freshly minted note from a well-regarded Healer working in St. Mungo’s in record time. Harry basks in the feelings of annoyance and aggravation emanating from Umbridge as he enthusiastically hands it to her.

“Well then, Mr. Potter. I see your description of your condition was highly accurate.”

“Of course , Professor Umbridge. I would never dream of lying to you.”

The irony of his words really does make the situation just that more sweeter.

“From today onwards, I am deemed physically unfit to attend Umbridge’s classes!” he declares as he plops into a seat next to Ron and Hermione.

“Good for you, Harry,” Ginny dutifully comments across from him, pouring some pumpkin juice into her goblet.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him from where they are peeking up at him from behind the pages of her book. “Really, Harry? I wholeheartedly agree with you that Umbridge should not have been employed in the first place, but…”

“Hermione, we all know that if I continued to go to class, I’d end up in detention for the entire year.”

“I’m with Harry on this one, Hermione,” Ron says. He sighs mournfully. “Now, if only I could get out of her classes like you did. How’d you manage it, Harry?”

“ Ron ,” Hermione scolds.

“Well, I don’t think most people can forge a note from a Healer from St. Mungo’s and get away with it, so bad luck for you, mate.”

Hermione’s head rotates slowly in Harry’s direction. “That was a joke, right, Harry?”

He shrugs. “Who knows?” His eyes catch on a pale, blond head. “Actually, Hermione, do you mind if I borrow some parchment from you?”

“No? But, why-” she begins.

“Thanks!”

Hermione yelps as Harry snatches a piece of parchment lying near her on the table, possibly serving as a temporary bookmark, and quickly scribbles a few words of thanks to Draco on it. He crumples the parchment up into a ball before carefully eyeing Draco and taking aim.

He throws the crumpled ball of parchment.

It hits its target on Draco's head with the aid of a helpful Ventus Jinx.

“Harry! W-What are you doing-”

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione!”

“Don’t worry about it? Are-”

Hermione stops when Harry lets out a strangled shout, clapping a hand onto his left cheek at the stinging sensation that appears there.

A Stinging Hex, huh.

Does he deserve it? Maybe. Does he still wish Draco hadn’t reacted like that? Possibly.

Maybe throwing something at Draco with no warning was a bad idea.

Well, hopefully Draco still had at least read the note.

With his luck, probably not.

Hermione sighs at how quickly the situation is getting out of hand, standing up and picking up her bag before dragging Harry and an unwitting Ron out of the Great Hall.

“The swelling should go away in a little bit, Harry, but...what did you even write in that note for Malfoy to react like that?”

“I thanked him!” he says cheerfully, still rubbing at his cheek.

Ron leans into Hermione. “Hermione, do you understand what he just said?”

“Unfortunately, no, Ron.”

“I kind of was hoping for the opposite to be true. Bloody hell, do you think that a year’s worth of bad luck is going to be hitting us now? The kind of luck Harry needed to get away with something like skipping Umbridge’s classes for an entire year can’t come from nowhere.”

Hermione huffs, folding her arms. “Ron, as much as I would like to tell you that what you just said doesn’t make sense, I won’t. Anyways, it’s more obvious that all this so-called bad luck is because Harry decided to throw a ball of my parchment at Malfoy.”

“Sorry about that, Hermione,” Harry chirps. 

“You’re not helping your case, Harry.”

“Anyways, mate, how did Umbridge rea-”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Let’s not talk about Umbridge, yeah? Or at least, let’s not talk about her around me. I could go a century without hearing that woman’s name leave anyone’s mouth.”

“Oh, yeah, go ahead and forget about us poor folks who still have to attend her class. You know what? Umbridge Umbridge Umbridge Umbridge-”

Harry quickly covers his ears, singing, “La la la la la la,” at what is hopefully a louder volume than Ron’s voice.

Hermione’s probably muttering about how idiotic they are because they really are being idiotic right now.

Well, whatever.

He’s having the time of his life.

Chapter Text

Harry licks the flap of the envelope in his hand, crisping the line of its fold before dropping it sideways into the small, rectangular hole of the box designated for Muggleborn mail (and mail to Muggles in general). He does the same for the other envelope still left unsealed on the wooden table on which the box is placed. The large, overarching windows of the room provide light, but it is early enough in the morning that is not the kind that would fill Harry with enough joy to write a coherent letter. Thankfully though, he had written the two letters the night before. 

The first envelope contains a letter to Mohammed. After Harry had realized he had somehow not written anything to the university student despite the boy’s generous offer to act as a pen pal for Harry, he had written a rushed letter, fueled only by his anxiety about looking like a shitty person and his guilt about actually being a shitty person.

Hi Mohammed,

I’m really sorry for not having written to you until now! I was really busy that last month of summer break, and then, well, school started. You know how it is. Speaking of school, what’s university like for you? And...how was high school for you, actually? Honestly, I think the image I had of high school drama, all of which was based on stuff from BBC broadcasts, was kind of wrecked when I entered the boarding school I go to in Scotland, especially because it’s oddly...old-fashioned and stuff. So, I thought a look into how things are on the other side might be interesting. 

Not that I’m only writing to you for something like that! You seemed like a cool dude when I talked to you. I mean, the fact that you were willing to even talk to a random lonely-looking stranger (not that I was lonely, of course) is really...surprising, I guess, especially because I’m not even remotely used to stuff like that from the people around me. That’s not to say that my friends are like that, but...there are a lot of people who give off the vibe that they care more about what I can offer them than who I am. 

...Sorry if that’s kind of depressing to read. I swear my life isn’t like that for the most part!

Hopefully, this letter didn’t scare you off continuing to be my pen pal?

Write to you soon,

Harry

It’s obviously not the best letter, and Harry would most certainly be the first to critique it. Harry was working on a (self-imposed) deadline though, so it should be enough for now.

The second envelope, on the other hand, contains a short letter, a missive more like, to Dudley. Harry’s pretty certain the boy won’t appreciate the unwanted contact, but he thought that Dudley at least deserved some insight into how the Voldemort situation is going.

Dudley,

I’m pretty sure your first instinct is to crumple this letter and toss it in the bin, but don’t do that. I thought you might appreciate some insight into that dictator freak I mentioned, especially since you went bloody mental when I first mentioned him to you.

He has not made any overt attacks on society, so don’t worry about that. However, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, a society established to fight against the asshole, was arrested while protecting something the dude has set his eyes on. As well, the Ministry of Magic, the government in our world, has started interfering in my school because of rumors of his return (yes, I know how stupid they sound, but honestly, can you really trust any government?) when they previously had no authority to do so and it’s getting rather annoying.

Obviously, none of this has much to do with you, so feel free to tell me to stop sending you letters. Just...do it politely, maybe?

Harry

Harry should probably care more about the explicit information he’s providing in the letter, but he doubts Umbridge would even think the mail in the Muggleborn mailing system to be worth the attention of her keen eye. 

At the least, Harry’s long since stopped having to send poorly-worded letters meant to conceal his meaning from outsiders, having received the two-way mirror once used by his dad from Sirius.

(Not that he used it that much. Things had become... awkward between him and his godfather ever since Harry had told him he was to continue being suffocated by the overbearing atmosphere characteristic of 12 Grimmauld Place, despite Harry’s grandiose promises of freedom. And…

Well, Harry knows that he’s not his dad, that Mrs. Weasley had just laid that accusation upon Sirius out of momentary anger. But Sirius still spent 12 years in a torturous situation, barely kept alive by clinging to the knowledge he was innocent despite what others said, by desecrating the hope that he’d get out one day, by-

Sirius is not the most stable adult amongst the peculiar cast that encompasses all the “authority” figures in Harry’s life. But it’s fine.

Harry will just have to be enough.)

(The presence of the two-way mirror wasn’t all bad, however. After all, his dad’s face took on a fond expression at the sight of the two-way mirror, reminiscing upon the many times they had exchanged quick whispers when in separate detentions.

It was nice that someone could have fond memories of the thing.)

(But all Harry can sometimes think about when he looks at the damned thing is how Sirius wouldn’t have died if he had just used his brain and contacted him with the fucking mirror.)

(His parents still don’t know that Sirius died in the first timeline. And if Harry has anything to say about it, they aren’t going to learn about that.)

It was a risky maneuver, not that Sirius was aware of the fact, and they were lucky that Umbridge had yet to start reading his mail when he had received the mirror. 

The thought of Hedwig being injured, all for Umbridge’s petty fucking political games , fills Harry with an undeniable rage that he has no place to release. The woman’s lucky that nothing like that has yet to happen in this timeline because that would just be another nail in her coffin.

He’s aware that thoughts like that are cruel, sadistic even. 

He doesn’t care though.

Harry ducks past the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, feet stuttering to a stop when he sees Hermione curled up on an armchair near the dying embers of a fire. 

Hermione’s eyes flick up from her book, and they take a determined glint when she realizes it’s Harry who’s entered.

“Harry!” she shouts, placing the book in her hand face down on the arm of the chair. “Come here,” she says, patting the empty space next to her.

Harry plops down, settling in comfortably.

Hermione twists to get a proper look at Harry. “What were you doing out and about so early in the morning?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Hermione. I don’t think you should be sacrificing sleep for books.”

Hermione offers him an unimpressed stare, raising an eyebrow. “Harry.”

“I was sending some letters to some people,” Harry easily concedes.

“To?”

“I don’t think you’d believe me even if I told you.”

Hermione sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine, be that way, Harry. I wouldn’t want to ruin your aura of mystery anyways.”

Harry snorts. “I have an aura of...mystery?”

“Yes, Harry, you do. Though I’m not surprised that you’re unaware of it.”

Hermione then returns to where she left off in her book. Harry slides his head down the back of the armchair, sinking deeper into the cushion as he closes his eyes.

“It feels like it’s been forever that I’ve seen you, you know,” Hermione says conversationally, most likely with her eyes still on the words of her book.

Harry hums, not opening his eyes yet.

It’s true, after all.

“And I suppose it doesn’t help that you don’t attend Umbridge’s classes anymore. Not that I blame you, of course, the woman is absolutely deplorable.”

Harry huffs. “That she is, Hermione. Now that she’s High Inquisitor, I have to pretend to be queasy around her because she’s imbued with the magic that I can’t cope with due to my condition.”

“Your acting’s quite horrible, I’ll have you know, Harry,” Hermione says dryly.

Harry lets out an offended gasp, eyes shooting open. His head whips in Hermione’s direction, the girl now with a slight amused tilt to her mouth. “Hermione! T-That can’t be true, can it? My acting is phenomenal!”

Hermione says nothing, only letting out a short laugh. Harry groans.

“I know you don’t want to hear about Umbridge…” she then quietly voices.

Oh no. Oh no.

Is this what he thinks it is?

It is, isn’t it?

“...but she’s stunting our education. More importantly, we need to be prepared for...You-Know-Who, Harry. It’s past the point where we can recover by just learning straight out of the books. We need a proper teacher.”

“And you think I’m good enough for the job,” Harry finishes quietly.

Hermione perks up. “So you’ll do it, Harry? Oh, I’m-”

“I didn’t say I’d do it, Hermione,” Harry sharply says.

The joyful expression on her face falls. “But-”

“I’ll think about it, Hermione. Just give me that one thing, okay?” he breathes out.

He can’t be so callous with the lives of fucking kids like he was when he was a reckless teen. He needs to grow the fuck up, and fast.

Hermione probably says something, but Harry doesn’t hear what exactly leaves her mouth as he sweeps out of the common room.

Harry finds his parents along with Cedric in the little nook he had first seen them at the end of his fourth year. 

“Harry?” his mum questions as she turns away from his dad and Cedric.

“Hi Mum.”

“What are you doing here, Prongslet?” his dad asks, floating over and using Harry as a shoulder rest. Harry bats his dad’s arm away before speaking. “I just...have a question. Or, well, a problem, I guess.”

“Well, good to know you’re at least telling us about it,” Cedric jokes, concern still obvious in his expression.

Harry rolls his eyes despite the truth in Cedric’s statement. “Okay, so, pretty much in the first timeline, I kind of ran this...illicit organization called Dumbledore’s Army because of Umbridge’s shitty teaching skills.”

“So you were continuing my legacy as a troublemaker!” his dad bursts.

Harry’s mum hushes his dad. “Let Harry speak, James.”

“Anyways. Hermione asked me to start it up, well, not again, but you get the idea. Except...I kind of handled it really poorly the first time around. At least, in retrospect. I was kind of all caught up in the idea of me sticking it to the institution that I didn’t realize that I was likely endangering the kids under my tutelage if they got caught by Umbridge.”

“Harry,” Cedric says, “I think a lot of the kids in Hogwarts would be willing to take the risk. More than you might realize.”

“But they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t have ever been involved in a fucking war to begin with. Especially in this timeline, where no one’s really aware of Voldemort’s return except for a select few. I’m not just going to be secretly training them as soldiers without telling them.”

He’s a fucking adult, even if he sometimes doesn’t really act like much of one. All of this means he’s going to fucking handle this shitshow of a situation like the adult he is. No kids are going to be involved. They never should have been. 

“Then why don’t you just change the way you taught them, Harry?” his dad remarks, tilting his head.

“You’re working on a pen pal system, right, Harry, dear? Why don’t you just use that?” his mum adds.

His dad excitedly turns to his mum at that comment, clapping his hands together. “Yeah, it could be like one of those courses done by mail! Harry could just send them, like, notes or Pensieve memories or something. And the pen pal system would just act as a cover for why they’re receiving mail so frequently. Umbridge can’t do anything about that, right?”

“Huh,” is all Harry can say.

“Huh?!?! Harry, you should be more impressed!” his dad yelps.

Harry snorts. “Dad, I literally came to you for help solving my problem. You just got the job done.”

“Harry,” his mum says sweetly, “do be softer on your dad. He’s a tad sensitive.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Cedric says.

“I didn’t want to call him a drama queen to his face, Cedric, dear. I do have to maintain some of my je ne sais quoi.”

“Well,” Harry loudly interrupts, “I’m going back to the common room so I can talk to Hermione, so I’ll leave you guys to your...I don’t even know what it is, but I’ll be leaving you to it.”

“You do realize it’s time for breakfast, Prongslet?” his dad says.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “How do you know that? There aren’t any clocks around, and last I checked, you can’t exactly cast spells as a ghost.”

“I just do,” his dad says, grinning wider as he folds his arms.

“Very impressive, darling,” his mum deadpans, giving his dad a light knock on the back of his head.

His dad pouts. 

Cedric floats away from the bickering couple towards Harry, now probably used to the oddity that is life as a ghost that’s been adopted by a new set of parents. “Let’s just get to the Great Hall, ay?”

“Let’s.”

“I’ll do it, Hermione,” he says as he plops down next to the girl at the Gryffindor table, reaching across the table to grab a piece of toast as he makes himself comfortable.

“Do what?” Ron asks, looking up from his plate filled to the brim with food, but Hermione interrupts before Harry can respond, not that he really would.

“You will? Oh, Harry, that...that’s wonderful! I’m going to have to-”

“You’re not going to have to do anything, Hermione. Well, that’s an understatement, but my point is, let me handle it.”

Hermione blinks, clearly not expecting for Harry to have any objections.

(Harry has a lot of objections, though, the most prominent being the fact that their recruitment took place in Hog’s Head of all places. A huge group of kids heading into a place with that kind of reputation is just asking for trouble. Hermione may have chosen that place with the intentions of not parading their lofty goals of fighting the institution, but that was the end result all the same.)

(Harry is taking all of that into consideration, of course, but more so, he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to be anywhere near the pungent smell of alcohol. He doesn’t want to take any chances, especially when it had taken him so long to recover in the first timeline. He still isn’t entirely certain if he’s actually fully recovered, and if not, if he’d even be able to survive that first, tantalizing sip of the forbidden fruit.)

Harry sighs. “Just...get a list of people who have an interest in me teaching them and give it to me. Oh! And remember to tell them that we’ll be starting on November 1st. They’ll get why when the day comes.”

Hermione scrutinizes Harry for several long seconds before sighing. “If you say so, Harry. But you will be explaining what you have in mind to me later, understood?”

Harry grins. “Sure, Hermione,” he says, taking a bite of the piece of toast in his hand.

Ron is looking suspiciously at the two of them. “What are you guys talking about?”

Harry twists his head towards Ron, deflecting. “Hermione will explain it to you later, Ron. Anyways, you wanna practice some Quidditch? The game against Slytherin is coming up in a few weeks.”

Ron pales, the fork with a piece of sausage that was just about to reach his mouth stopping midair. “Really, mate? Bloody hell, I need to practice more then, if I’m going to have any chance of surviving the game.”

Harry chuckles. “You’ll be fine, Ron. You just need to remember that you can get the next goal, even after you flub the first one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ron grumbles. “You’re already a bloody fantastic Seeker, and somehow your reflexes have improved even more this year. What are you even doing?”

Harry leans forward, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand. “I’ve been practicing with the sword the Delacours sent me. Well, that’s an overstatement, seeing as I still suck at it, but it’s certainly forced me to use muscles I didn’t even know existed.”

Lunges are the worst perpetrators of this in his humble opinion.

(Speaking of muscles he’s been forced to use...

He can still feel the strain in his legs from doing lunges the day before, too many lunges if he had any say over his workout routine. Unfortunately, he doesn’t, since he’s practically become a slave to that chalkboard in the salle d'armes. 

It doesn’t help that he almost toppled over after he tried pulling off a lunge by kicking out with his front foot and using that momentum to push off with his back leg, having decided that the forward movement of the lunge depicted by the figure on the chalkboard didn’t let him go as low as he thought he could. 

He doesn’t know exactly why he tried doing a lunge that way, but he’s certainly experiencing the consequences of it, since the chalkboard had rather pettily - and that’s a thing of surprise given that it’s a chalkboard - made him run through that movement he had casually utilized with the hellish addition of making sure his torso remained upright every single time.)

Hermione side-eyes him, possibly because of how strained his smile has become after reminiscing about lunges of all things. “Where have you even been practicing, Harry?”

Harry’s grin widens. “Oh, you know. Places.”

(What? He can’t exactly give Hermione the name of a location where he’s been consistently meeting up with Draco, can he?)

Hermione huffs. “Fine, Harry. Be purposefully obtuse if that’s what you want.”

Harry shrugs. “Fine by me, Hermione.” He turns to Ron, inclining his head towards the hallway. “Now, it’s about time that we head to the Quidditch pitch, ay?”

Ron groans, heaving himself off his seat and sparing his quarter-full plate a mournful look. 

Harry pats him on his shoulder. “You can eat as much as you want at lunch, Ron.”

Ron says nothing, only sparing Harry a withering look that indicates just how much he believes the shit leaving his mouth.

Harry’s about to leave Gryffindor Tower, half-heartedly draping the Invisibility Cloak over himself with how Draco will likely react to the drastic changes made to the pen pal system on his mind, when the portrait’s back swings open, Neville stumbling in while clutching tightly at his hand.

“Neville,” Harry blurts out, whipping the Invisibility Cloak off as his eyes dart to the boy’s hand.

“Harry!” Neville yelps, eyes whipping towards him.

“You…”

Neville lets go of the hand that he was clutching at as if burnt, quickly hiding it behind his back.

“I...T-This is nothing, Harry, it-”

“Let me see your hand, Neville,” Harry says, voice quiet and dark.

He should have realized that Umbridge would use blood quills on people other than him, but he hadn’t thought anyone would attract her ire as much as he did.

Neville’s hand remains behind his back, the boy’s eyes flitting from place to place, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze.

“ Neville ,” Harry breathes out. “It’s fine. I just need to look at your hand, okay?”

Neville furrows his eyebrows, before letting out a long, tired sigh and presenting his hand before Harry. 

“I must not disrespect my superiors,” is written on Neville’s hand, a deep, vibrant red that makes the wound look more inflamed.

That’s not a reason for Neville’s punishment that Harry would have expected, but then again, he wouldn’t have expected for Neville to be punished to begin with. 

Just how much has things changed in this timeline?

(Fear, oh fear. It has always been a good method by which one can suppress another, but what happens when fear no longer works? What then ?)

“You had a detention with Umbridge, didn’t you?” he softly says, taking Neville’s hand into his.

Neville flinches at the mention of Umbridge, wrenching his hand away from Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry quickly puts out. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her name, huh?”

Neville huffs, leaning his head back to stare pointedly at the ceiling. He looks down, shaking his head. “No, it’s fine. Y-You shouldn’t have to-”

“It’s not a big deal, Neville,” Harry firmly says.

Neville says nothing, distractedly rubbing the words engraved into his hand.

“I didn’t even know you got a detention from Umbridge,” Harry says.

“I-I’m not exactly best mates with you, Harry,” Neville bites out.

“No, but, well...Sorry, you’re right, aren’t you? Have you told anyone about...what she’s doing?”

“Not...r-really.”

“Why’d she even give you detention in the first place?”

Neville lets out a wrangled gasp, clutching even more tightly at his hand.

Harry feels like shaking himself for asking such an insensitive question. “Sorry, fuck , I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

Harry’s getting the feeling that he’s not the person who should be trying to help Neville, especially when he keeps on putting his foot in his mouth. 

He says as much to Neville, adding, “Ask Hermione to make you some Murtlap Essence tomorrow morning at the least, Neville. It’ll take some time, but... still ,” before turning towards the entrance.

“She reminds me of my...great-uncle Algie sometimes. And...and, well, Gran too, I guess,” Neville quietly says before Harry can leave.

Harry stops, resting a palm of his hand on the wall of the entrance.

“I’ve always been scared, just plain scared, ever since I was a kid, you know? Because I didn’t know when I’d get hurt because…because my magic just disappeared into thin air. I can barely look at the Black Lake, and it took me forever to get a proper night’s sleep my first year because of how high up we were. All because of...”

Harry hears a hitch in Neville’s breath. “And she’s just the same. S-She makes me so scared that my magic is going to disappear today, that I’m going to be a Squib, that I’m going to dishonor the memory of my parents, that-”

Neville stops. He takes a breath.

The words leaving Neville’s mouth have been blending together. Harry’s unsure who the boy’s truly talking about at this point. Umbridge? Or...his gran.

Perhaps some small part of Harry was always aware that Neville didn’t have the greatest of childhoods. No, he was definitely aware of it, given how openly Neville had spoken about it in their first year. But he had ignored it, just like everyone in Privet Drive had scornfully ignored him.

One would think that despite his refusal to accept help, he’d make up for it with his flawless skill in offering help. And sure, he did help out, as his yearly adventures could not be perceived as anything but him helping out. That doesn’t matter, though. 

He clearly doesn’t know how to offer help in the times it most matters. All he can do now is just listen .

Neville finishes talking while Harry ponders this entire situation. “So I took it out on her. Since...well, she’s certainly not anyone I’ll be running into at home. And then she gave me detention, just like that.”

Harry turns around, finally looking Neville in his eyes.

“I’ll fix this somehow, Neville,” he breathes out desperately.

“How?”

“I don’t know how, but...I will, okay?”

“...Okay.”

It’s not enough. Harry knows it will never be enough.

(That he’ll never be enough.)

“You’re late.” 

Draco’s voice rings loudly in the room as Harry tentatively enters.

“I know,” Harry says, aggravated.

Maybe if he was in a better mood, he’d make a wry comment about if Draco missed him or something, but, well.

He’s in a shitty mood. 

“Why did you even want to meet? We’ve pretty much gone over the logistics for the system.”

“We’re changing it.”

“We’re...what?”

“Changing it.”

“Are...are you bloody mental? I knew you were an idiot, Potter, but not to this extent. Do you realize the amount of work that we’re going to have to put in to entirely upheave-”

“We’re not dumping what we have. We’re just...adding a few side features.”

“Side features,” Draco says, the epitome of unimpressed as he leans back against his chair and folds his arms across his chest.

“Yes.”

“Any interest in explaining these so-called...side features?”

“Sure,” Harry says, clasping his hands behind his head.

“Umbridge is ruining our education. I’m sure everyone in Hogwarts is aware of this fact.”

“I...see.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy. I know all about Umbridge’s Ministry connections, which means you don’t have to go up against her. Not openly, at the least. That’s where the pen pal system comes into play. Hermione’s already getting a list of people who are interested in the concept, and she’ll also be handling the more theoretical aspect of DADA by writing study guides for distribution. I, on the other hand, will be handling the more practical side of things with Pensieve memories of me demonstrating the spells.”

“And where will this Pensieve be coming from?” Draco asks, raising an imperious eyebrow.

“I’ll either order it, or beg McGonagall to let me borrow the one she’s bound to have. I’m going to have to talk to her anyways, to inform her of the changes we have in mind for the pen pal system.”

“And you’re certain she’ll agree?”

Harry smirks. “Of course. She hates Umbridge as much as I do.”

“Well.”

“Impressed, are you?”

Draco sniffs. “Of course not, Potter. I’m certain your little Muggleborn won’t be able to get everyone who might benefit from your...teachings to sign up.”

“Just get a list of any Slytherins who are interested if you’re so worried about that, Malfoy,” Harry says, bluntly addressing his underlying message. “Tell them it’s from their local good Samaritan.”

Harry pauses at the confusion creeping into Draco’s expression. “Or anonymous benefactor, whichever works for you.”

“It all seems to check out,” Draco manages. “Now, you said ‘side features,’ which is plural. What’s the other aspect you have in mind?”

“Murtlap distribution.”

“Murtlap distribution,” Draco repeats. 

“Well, considering Umbridge is torturing Hogwarts students with blood quills, I’m betting it’s a pretty profitable market. Not that we’re profiting off of it, of course, but hopefully you get the idea.”

Draco says nothing, an expression of... something on his face. Harry’s guessing it’s probably confusion and disconcernment about the state of their lives, though maybe he’s just projecting.

“Well…” Draco breathes out. “That certainly isn’t going to be easy to put on a poster.”

“Posters? Yeah, posters! Of course . T-That makes sense!” Harry asks, his voice squeaking.

It does not make sense. When had they even been discussing posters?

Draco perks up, clearly driving them further away from the purpose of the conversation. “I made a draft for a poster about the pen pal system that we could put up all over the school-”

“Are we allowed to do that?” Harry interrupts.

Draco narrows his eyes. “Yes, Potter. Anyways. Obviously, it would be the opposite of subtle if I plastered stuff like that all over the school, but that raises the question: how exactly are we getting this information out to people?”

“Well, the DADA tutoring program is pretty much handled, but I was thinking...more word of mouth for the distribution of Murtlap essence, perhaps?”

Draco gives Harry a look of distaste, before sighing. “That will have to be enough, I suppose.”

Harry starts to get up, taking that to be the end of the conversation for tonight, except Draco voices a question.

“How exactly did you even come across this information?”

“What information?” Harry says, purposefully deflecting.

Draco stares at Harry. “About Umbridge’s use of blood quills, Potter.”

“Well,” Harry huffs, carding his fingers through his hair, “I hadn’t thought she would use it on anyone because…”

“Because?”

‘Because I’m the only one who really pissed her off the first time around,’ he does not say. 

Harry shakes his head. “Sorry, forget I even said that. I ran into someone coming from a detention with the pink toad, and connected the dots together from there.”

Draco doesn’t say anything more. That will have to be enough for Harry at this point.

Harry is making his way to McGonagall’s office when he sees Snape turn across the corner, entering the hallway Harry is currently in.

They both stop in their steps, oddly enough, though Harry could not begin to even explain why he instinctively does so.

Snape’s looking down on him, scrutinizing him in the most obnoxious way possible and making no attempts to hide the fact.

“...Potter,” the man finally manages.

“Professor Snape,” Harry warily replies, inclining his head.

No other words are exchanged between them, leaving Harry fidgeting from the sheer awkwardness permeating the hallway that they continue to remain “stranded” in, though Harry does not know why he would have any expectations for something entirely different.

Harry racks his brain for something to fill the silence, though he’s rather unsure why he’s even trying. 

What to talk about with a Potions Master? Potions, obviously. Except, of course, there was the minor, inconvenient fact that he fucking sucks when it comes to Potions. Still does, despite his (unknown, for the most part) status as a 23-year-old stuck in his 14-year-old body.

Well then, he doesn’t have to talk about the mechanics of Potions, right? Not that he has any concrete idea what those are, but still . He could talk about...other Potions-related topics. Like rare potion ingredients!

Which just reminds him of the fact that he has to get Murtlap Essence somehow, because Harry doubts Neville is planning on asking Hermione for it. The way the boy reacted with the knowledge that only Harry knew gave him the premonition that Neville would get hives if more people knew of what Umbridge is doing to him.

That just means he has to talk to the only person who would have a rare ingredient like Murtlap tentacles on hand. Wonderful .

“Um, Professor Snape?” he tentatively voices.

Snape offers him a look that tells him just how much he doesn’t want to talk to Harry right now. Harry, being himself and (theoretically) very much immune to such looks at this point in his life, ignores it and reciprocates with a pleading look meant to effectively demonstrate his innocence.

Snape’s eye twitches.

Harry begins to smile even wider, giving a thumbs-up despite being aware of how stupid that probably makes him look.

“What do you want, Potter?” Snape says, finally cracking.

“Do you happen to have any Murtlap Essence on hand?”

“Why?”

So Snape does have Murtlap Essence on hand and is just unwilling to admit to it, likely due to the identity of who he’s speaking with.

Harry sighs at that understanding. “It’s fine if you don’t want to part from it. Do you mind directing me to other places where I could acquire some, or Murtlap tentacles at the least?”

Snape’s face takes on a pinched look. Maybe inadvertently guilting the man is effective. Not that Harry is guilting Snape, of course.

“I will give you a small amount, and only a small amount. Do not take this as an excuse to acquire as many injuries as possible.”

“I appreciate the concern, Professor,” Harry wryly remarks.

“It’s not for you, Potter.”

“I’m aware,” Harry airly states.

“See me after class today to pick it up then. And...if you are so set on continuing to act like a Gryffindor, do go to Granger with your concerns about acquiring further Murtlap Essence.”

“Will do, Professor.”

“Have a biscuit, Potter,” McGonagall says after he explains the situation to her.

“Have...what? Why?”

“You’re growing into a fine young man, Potter. ...Just like your father, even. I’m happy to know you’re sticking to your ideals.”

“It’s good to know someone thinks that,” he huffs. 

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t know,” he says noncommittally. “What was my dad like then?” he instead asks, already knowing the answer that’s bound to leave McGonagall’s mouth.

“He was...a polarizing individual. Sometimes you adored him, sometimes you hated him, but…”

Or maybe not. Polarizing. That was certainly one way of putting it, though Harry knows many people who’d profusely disagree with the descriptor.

He’s painfully reminded of his encounter with Snape over the summer with such a thought.

“Snape hates me because of him, right?” he bluntly states.

He doesn’t know why he asks the question but...

“Professor Snape, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall chides.

And so that is McGonagall’s answer then.

“Right. Professor Snape hates me because of my dad.”

“Potter…”

Harry smiles bitterly, lifting himself off the chair. “It’s fine, Professor McGonagall. You don’t have to answer, it was a stupid question to begin with. I don’t even know why I asked it! Thanks for the biscuit, though.”

“Potter.”

Harry hums, tilting his back towards McGonagall. “I’ll pass over a magazine where you can mail order a Pensieve after class if that helps.”

Harry’s smile softens like putty. “That’ll help.”

“And...I don’t think I’m the person to ask when it comes to Professor Snape’s animosity towards you, but...I hope you do find an answer.”

“I hope I do too, Professor McGonagall.”

Chapter Text

Neville is not stupid, is the thing. Yes, he is not good at Potions, explosions seemingly engraved into his cauldron. And yes, he takes classes like Charms and Herbology, the "soft" subjects that his grandmother openly scorns to his face.

But he is not stupid. And it because he is not stupid that he can tell that Blaise is not his salvation. Just like how his grandmother and uncle and every single person in his life being proud of him would not be his salvation. Just like how his parents, happy and alive in the ways that truly matter, would not be his salvation.

But Blaise represents a choice, maybe, mirrored by the hand he had once offered Neville. A path, maybe, following the curve of his smile, putting on a show for everyone around him.

And that is enough for Neville.

But Neville is more than "Neville and Blaise," even then.

He is the pureblood boy born hours before the Boy-Who-Lived, consistently failing to meet expectations, to honor accomplishments, to do anything right.

He is the foolish boy born to tortured war heroes who stare vacuously at him as they delicately place candy wrappers in his hand, candy wrappers that he holds tightly on to, desperately on to. 

He is the boy who drowned rather than floated, as if the expectations of those around him were pushing down further and further until he was choking on them.

He is the boy that was forgotten, tossed aside until the only thing he could do was bounce back. 

And he has always been lost, hasn’t he? Even though he has no idea when that became a fact of life. 

Like Trevor who hopped, hopped, hopped away, unseen but still there, still present.

Like the Remembrall that his grandmother had meticulously chosen to send to him, well aware of the implications.

That first fight between Malfoy and Harry was not about the Remembrall, just like it was not about him. It was about them, them, them, always about them. 

But Neville has no right to make them think otherwise.

He is unseen and forgotten, but still painfully present.

Neville does not immediately tell Blaise about what...what Umbridge did to him after the fact.

But, he does find solace in Harry’s, well, confidence. It is not a healthy confidence, that much Neville can tell. It is one rooted in hysterics, in desperation, in the pure desire to survive.

But it is something Neville can’t help but admire, when for so long it felt like Harry was an unreachable being, a god amongst the common masses.

Maybe years spent listening to his grandmother rail on him for not honoring his parents’ accomplishments have gotten to him.

Neville sometimes lets himself think that his grandmother would have been happier if Harry was her grandson rather than him.

Harry can do so much, can help so many, can-

So what is an hour spent telling the truth in the face of all that?

Growing up has done some good for Neville, maybe, and growing up is what allows him to talk about the during to Blaise in the after.

But let us not focus on the after or the during, but rather, on the before.

Because it is in the before that Neville comes to a quiet understanding.

Perhaps to be unseen and forgotten is not so bad of a thing.

Because the way Umbridge pauses on his last name, turning it into something put up for inspection-

Nobody notices because why would they? Why would they? 

But Neville can still feel the way she drawled out his last name in his very bones and it’s not...it’s not good.

Maybe it was the snide comments Umbridge made during class about the Ministry’s efforts to preserve the sanctity of the wizarding world’s culture by interfering in Hogwarts when someone acted out. Maybe it was the patronizing remarks she directed at him in their meetings discussing his abysmal DADA grades.

(“Perhaps I should not be surprised that you’re having such issues considering it is only now that you’re dealing with an adequate professor. It is such a shame though, wouldn’t you say, Longbottom? Your parents were such heroes to the wizarding world and now, well, there’s just you.”)

Whatever it was, in the end, Neville broke. 

He left Umbridge behind him while she was in mid-sentence, trying to quell his frantic gasps and his trembling body and the tears pooling in his eyes.

And the next day?

Umbridge simply offered him a saccharine smile and told him, “Detention with me tonight, Longbottom.”

Chapter Text

“There’s more people signing up for your DADA tutoring program than I expected, Harry,” Hermione offers as he and Ron sit down, breakfast having started long before.

Harry should probably be worried about a blatant mention of the newly reborn version of the DA.

Harry would be worried, actually, except that Educational Decree 24 had yet to be passed in this timeline. That, of course, does not change the likelihood that Umbridge would jump on the opportunity to pass it once a meeting like the one he once had in the Hog’s Head occurs, with all the blatant disrespect to authority figures that such a meeting entails.

Thankfully, such a meeting is yet to happen anytime in the future, so Harry dryly replies to Hermione’s statement.

“I’m sure you’re not that surprised by such an outcome, Hermione.”

Hermione lets out a short laugh. “Of course not, I suppose, what with the deteriorating state our education is in. I was a tad bit surprised at first that Michael Corner and his friends signed up, especially since I barely talk to that lot. It makes sense when you think about the fact that he’s dating Ginny, though.”

“He’s what?” Ron shouts, after having sprayed the pumpkin juice he had been drinking down his front. Ron looks like he has more expletives he wants to shout, but Ginny interrupts from across the table.

“I'm dating Michael Corner, Ron,” Ginny sharply says, a harsh look on her face goading the boy to say anything more about it.

Harry watches Ginny even as Ron splutters, “B-But, I thought you fancied Harry!”

Ginny’s head whips toward Harry, an anxious look evident in her eyes. Harry offers her an awkward smile, and he can feel his heart thud when he sees the wavering tension in the thin line of her mouth soften into a genuine smile.

Man, has he missed that smile.

Next to him, Hermione is explaining the situation to Ron, acting as Ginny’s representative. “Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him months ago, Ron.”

Harry hadn’t realized what exactly was going down with Ginny while he was 15, but it was rather...amusing in retrospect. Cute even, in a brash way that was just so Ginny.

Oh.

But Ginny is still a 14-year-old and he’s just a...23-year-old mess of a human being.

He misses being in love. And what an odd thing to say when some part of him is still in love with Ginny.

(Ginny gives him a peck on the lips, short and sweet, before grabbing his hand and entwining their fingers. Harry feels a warmth bloom in his chest, a smile mirroring the one on Ginny’s face gracing his features.

“You seem happy,” Ginny says, tilting her head towards him.

“I am,” he says simply.

Ginny nods assuredly. “Good. You deserve it.”)

Better to let her experience the ups and downs of love without him.

He suddenly feels so lonely.

Harry is in Dumbledore’s office, though he has no memory of entering it. No, he has no memory of entering it, after all, when it feels like he was resting in an armchair in the Gryffindor common room only moments earlier.

Gryffindor’s sword lies at his feet, a dark, viscous liquid coagulating on its surface. A basilisk fang is near it, venom dripping down in intermittent intervals into the puddle growing below it.

“You’ve arrived, then,” a crisp, posh voice says in a lilting tone behind him. 

Harry turns around.

Tom Riddle’s deathly pale visage meets his gaze, a calm, expecting look on his face. Harry sees a flash of that monstrosity that had been haunting his every step resting on the man, but when he blinks, it’s gone.

A deep-seated feeling of fear wells up in Harry at the possibility of such a sight.

“W-What-”

“Changes have been occurring in this timeline, at the behest of the Deathly Hallows and in consequence to your actions. Or lack thereof, I suppose,” Tom Riddle, or a facsimile of him, says, letting out a derisive snort. “This,” the thing says, gesturing at his body, “is merely one of them.”

Harry understands the words entering his ears separately, but can’t even begin to fathom their meaning when spoken in conjunction.

“Th-That can’t be all. It can’t. When have you of all people known about the, the Deathly Hallows-”

Harry’s mouth is slammed shut without his own volition, magic coating it like thick molasses. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking questions of me, Potter,” the other occupant in this room says darkly, a measure of glee tingeing his voice at Harry’s muffled shouts.

“If you really are desperate for an answer, though...” Riddle says, taking a step closer to where Harry’s standing, almost frozen.

“Think of it as a reminder not to get too cocky,” Riddle breathes out, before tightly squeezing his hand around Harry’s face and propelling his head backwards into the glass case where the sword of Gryffindor once lay.

“Harry Potter, sir!”

Glass does not shatter underneath his head, piercing his skin. And Harry awakens with a start, unable to see in the room with the fire having been extinguished.

“Who’s there?” he asks warily, still working his jaw to rid it of the sticky, glue-like sensation he was experiencing.

“Your owl, sir! Dobby has your owl!”

Harry lets out a shaky laugh, feeling it so fittingly jarring that the only reason he was no longer talking to Tom Riddle in a dream was because he has to deal with the consequences of Umbridge intercepting his mail and hurting Hedwig in the process.

Talking to Tom Riddle never led to good things. Just look at his second year at Hogwarts.

Maybe this was just meant to act as a substitute for the visions that had been plaguing all throughout fifth year the first time around. Wouldn’t do for the Boy-Who-Lived-Again to catch a fucking break, after all.

Dobby continues to talk, proudly unaware of the peculiar sight he makes with all the hats Hermione had been knitting (with an improved color scheme based on input from Harry) piled on top of his head and with Hedwig as a neat ornament, hooting joyously.

“Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter’s owl!” the elf says squeakily. “Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well now, sir!”

“...Thank you, Dobby,” Harry says for lack of anything better to say. “You don’t need to call me sir, though. I haven’t done anything to warrant such a title.”

Dobby profusely shakes his head. “No! Harry Potter is the most deserving!”

Harry huffs. “If you say so. Anyways, I...know the rest of the house elves refuse to clean Gryffindor Tower because of the...clothes Hermione’s been making, so please try not to take on more than you can chew, okay?”

Dobby’s eyes widen. “Oh! Harry Potter does not need to worry about Dobby! Dobby will be fine. Yes, Winky is still drinking lots and the other house elves find Dobby odd, but everything is fine. Dobby is doing it for himself, after all.”

The reminder of someone who is in a similar position that Harry was once in is harsh but perhaps necessary. “I...all you can do is make sure to be there for Winky. It’ll take time, I think, for her to stop relying on alcohol to the extent that she is, but with a friend like you, there’s no doubt she will.”

“Harry Potter is too kind! But why does Harry Potter look sad, then?”

“I...I guess I’m having some bad dreams, Dobby. It’s nothing you need to worry about, but I appreciate it nevertheless.”

Dobby comes closer, clasping Harry’s waist though his two arms are not big enough to go entirely around. “Sleep better, Harry Potter, sir.”

“I’ll try my best.”

The next morning, Harry finds two envelopes lying on the nightstand, likely placed there by Dobby after the house-elf had made sure Harry was comfortable underneath the blankets.

Harry plucks one of them into his hand, squinting his eyes at Dudley’s name written on the front.

He opens it.

Potter,

I know I’ve done some messed up shit to you when we were kids, but please never write to me about that dictator freak ever again.

Dudley Dursley

Harry snorts. “Messed up shit” doesn’t even begin to cover it, honestly. Well, whatever. Harry’s all about turning a new leaf and letting bygones be bygones. He’s not entirely sure he’s good at it, but he’s trying, okay?

Admittedly, Harry should have probably realized that Dudley probably didn’t want to hear any mention of Voldemort after Harry dumped all of his trauma onto the boy. Not that what he told Dudley about counts as trauma, but Harry’s willing to let the point go.

With all of that in mind, Harry’s starting to think that any major reconciliations with Dudley are better left to when they’re both adults.

He picks up the other envelope, quirking his mouth at Mohammed’s name on it. 

Harry,

It’s fine that this letter came in so late. I totally understand what it’s like to get bogged down by life, so I would be a hypocrite if I nagged at you about it being a sorry excuse. Admittedly, your letter is pretty rushed from the looks of it, but hey, it’s better than some of the papers I’ve handed in for a grade.

Okay, so onto the first few questions! My high school experience was...rather sad as well? You could say that I could join you when it comes to BBC broadcasts raising our expectations. I mean, part of it comes from me having to work my arse off to make sure I got a full scholarship (which I did!) and having to meet the expectations of my extremely brown parents. Honestly, the fact that you haven’t experienced the disappointment only a brown parent is capable of producing makes me kind of jealous of you.

University, at the least, is way more enjoyable because I don’t have my mum and dad breathing all over my neck. I know a lot of people (I guess you can call me a social butterfly), though I’m only really close with a select few. You’ve met one of them actually! Hana, remember? Well, even though I’m not that close to many people, the people I do know do throw banging parties. A LOT OF THEM. I’d invite you to one, but you’re up in your fancy boarding school in Scotland, so oh well.

It actually sounds like you’re in the same boat as me when it comes to knowing a lot of people, so I’ll just give you this helpful advice. Stop caring about what they think. Just, like, tell them straight to their faces that they’re pissing you off. Sure, it might hurt some of their egos and give you a bad reputation, but what does that matter when you’re living your best life, right?

Best of luck,

Mohammed

Harry lets out an amused breath, and before he knows it, he’s full-on cackling.

That...that honestly is the best fucking advice he’s ever heard. It’s so simple and obvious, yet...damn it, he’s going to stop caring about what other people think.

Harry’s starting to think he already has if he’s being honest.

“Dear Merlin, shut up, Harry!” Seamus shouts sleepily from inside his bed.

Harry shuts up.

Okay, so maybe that’s still something he’s going to have to work on sometimes.

The morning of the first Quidditch match of the year dawns bright, bringing with it a biting cold that is unable to rouse him from the subsequent exhaustion that comes with handling a school wide pen pal system only the day before.

(Not that Harry isn’t normally tired from nights spent tossing and turning on his bed, but this time, he’s even more exhausted.)

Harry at least has the assurance that Draco is just as exhausted as he is and that Gryffindor had never lost to Slytherin. And, if Harry has anything to say about it, they still aren’t going to lose.

Yes, Harry can acknowledge that Ron is not handling the pressure of the relentless campaign of insults, jeers, and intimidation that well, but there is still hope.

Sure, Malfoy isn’t helping with how he seems to be uniting Slytherin under the common cause of giving Ron enough anxiety to make him explode, but hey, what is Harry even expecting at this point?

All this situation means for Harry is that he just has to be the fucking best friend to ever be a best friend.

And the fact that that statement does not entirely make sense to Harry certainly does not bode well for Gryffindor’s bid for the Quidditch Cup.

Ron seems to be of the same mind, as he whispers more to himself than anyone else. “I must’ve been mental to do this. Mental.”

Harry rubs Ron’s shoulder placatingly while simultaneously side-eyeing his parents and Cedric who are talking amongst themselves right above him. “It’s fine, Ron. I believe in you, Hermione believes in you, the twins believe in you, hell, all of Gryffindor bloody believes in you. And you know what that means?”

“What?” Ron croaks out.

“We’re going to fucking win. Together, got it? So don’t go around putting the weight of this entire match on your back, understand?”

“Fantastic speech, Harry. Though I only caught the tail end of it, admittedly, ” Ginny comments wryly from where she and Hermione are settling in opposite them.

“Thank you, Ginny. I’m hoping it’s enough to earn me Captain next year,” a bright smile on his face that makes Ginny flush.

Fuck. Fuck. 

‘Stick to the fucking plan, moron,’ he shouts at himself.

“Hello,” a light and dreamy voice says, interrupting Harry’s attempts to berate himself for continually accidentally seducing a 14-year-old. 

Harry looks up, a grin forming on his face at the knowledge of just who is behind him. 

Luna stands tall (or at least as tall as one can be when you’re only 5′2″) in front of the Gryffindor table, a hat shaped like a life-size lion’s head perched precariously on her head.

“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” Luna remarks, then pointing at her hat. “Look what it does…”

With a tap of her wand, the lion opens its mouth and gives a tremendous roar that makes everyone in the vicinity jump. Most prominently of which includes his dad, who lets out a loud, squeaky yelp and devolves into mutterings about demon spawn.

Harry lets out an excited whoop at the noise, leaning in close to peer at the lion.

“That was astonishingly realistic, Luna. Do you think if I put my head in its mouth, it would try to bite me?”

Hermione lets out a hissed, “Harry!” that Harry steadfastly ignores. His mum is most likely glaring at him, but Harry just had to ask the question.

Luna’s face takes on a considering look. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t have enough time to charm the lion to perform such things, which meant I couldn’t include a snake getting chewed up by it.”

Harry sighs, before a bright idea suddenly pops into his head.

“Scared, Malfoy?” he shouts across the Great Hall, pointing obviously at the lion that Luna conveniently has roar again.

Draco’s face takes on an incredulous look to it, and the Slytherins around him are all shooting equally incredulous looks, murmuring amongst themselves, likely about his audacity to make such an open declaration of war.

Draco’s eyes dart to the Slytherins around him and back to Harry’s admittedly dramatic posturing. He wavers for only a moment before steeling himself.

“You wish, Potter!” he shouts back in reply, suavely leaning back to observe the cacophony the Great Hall is thrown into.

Harry is pretty sure he’s just lost Gryffindor House 15 points. Whether it be on Snape or Umbridge’s behest, he has no clue. He is also pretty sure Hermione and Ginny are making conversation amongst themselves, commenting about the suspicious lack of fights with Draco that Harry has had. He’s even pretty confident that Cedric has just made a mocking comment about exacerbating his rivalry with Draco.

None of that matters. Or, rather, it does, but not as much as the steady assurance Harry has that he really ought to get Ron the hell out of dodge before his mate sees what's on the Slytherins’ badges.

Hermione has the same idea, whispering urgently to Harry, “Don’t let Ron see what’s on those Slytherins’ badges.”

Harry smiles comfortingly. “I will.”

Ron ambles over, looking lost and desperate. He looks even more lost but thankfully less desperate after Hermione kisses him on the cheek. 

As they head to the stadium-

(A stadium where only last year he had emerged the victor of the Triwizard Tournament with a dead body in tow.)

-Harry makes conversation to fill the silence. “How are things going with Viktor?”

“Huh?” Ron asks, his head shooting up in confusion.

“You. Viktor. How’s it going?”

“Uh, fine. At least, I think? Why’d you ask?”

“No reason,” Harry says with a secretive smile on his face that leaves Ron staring at him suspiciously.

They reach the pitch and head to the lockers to change, finally settling in to listen to Angelina’s pre-match talk.

Or, at least, Ron does, and Harry becomes distracted by the singing coming from the stands. This is heightened with the added presence of the Slytherin team as they make their way onto the Quidditch pitch. 

“I’m really sorry for this, Angelina!” he shouts unapologetically before turning to the stands and amplifying his voice with a Sonorus charm.

“That’s right, you obnoxious bastards! Weasley is your fucking king and you better act like it and shut your sorry mouths! No one wants to hear your pathetic excuse for singing, because honestly-”

Angelina grabs Harry by the scruff of his Quidditch robes, dragging him away from the stands that have fallen eerily silent at Harry’s screaming demands.

“Harry, mind explaining to me what that was?” Angelina hisses, a smile that is starting to look more like a grimace on her face.

“I was just trying to boost team morale!” he chirps.

Angelina lets out a low, drawn-out scream, pinching her nose tightly. “Right. Well, you can do that when you’re Quidditch Captain next year. But for now, you better get your sorry arse onto a broom or I swear-”

“Okay, okay, I’m getting on!” 

But before he does, Ron stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks for that, mate,” the other boy says, a weak smile on his face despite everything Harry’s said.

That’s not entirely a surprise, of course. Even with all the support in the world, it’s easy for someone to feel so painfully alone, as if they’re barely able to keep afloat under the pressure.

Harry’s mouth quirks up nevertheless. “No problem, Ron. You are our king, after all.”

With that, Harry mounts his broom, kicking off with as much force as possible at the sound of the whistle.

Harry zooms up, a Bludger streaking dangerously close past his face as he keeps an eye on Ron’s figure slowly becoming smaller as he heads to the hoops. 

Okay then. It’s probably for the best that Harry stops worrying about Ron and actually fucking trust him. Which means that it’s about time that Harry starts scouring the field for the Snitch.

Despite Harry’s resolution to do exactly that-

(He cements this by sticking out a childish tongue at Draco, causing the other to stop in his search for a few seconds and give Harry a confused, speculating look.)

-Harry still winces internally at the singing that has started up again amidst the hoops of joys coming from the Slytherin stands.

Ron hasn’t let in as many goals yet, filling Harry with a modicum of hope. But the points are still steadily climbing, only offset by the sporadic goals made by Gryffindor, when Harry finally sees the Snitch. 

The problem is, though…

Draco has seen it too.

Harry dives forward, despite being just that small bit behind Draco. Despite them being neck-to-neck as they swerve this way and that to accommodate the Snitch’s movements, Harry remains painfully aware of that small, small distance distinguishing his head from Draco’s.

Draco extends his arm towards the Snitch now, reaching for it, so close he could almost snatch it if he just closed the gap.

Harry needs to win, if only to prevent the dilemma Ron’s confidence plummeting will present in future games. Harry needs to win, if only for the sake of winning. Harry needs to win because he was born to fucking fly.

What if-

With no regard for the safety of his body and the delicate balance he’s been maintaining while seated on the Firebolt, Harry kicks his leg out to the side, letting his foot give the Snitch a little nudge that moves it just that bit closer to him.

Harry probably has underestimated his strength as instead, the Snitch collides with his face after he kicks it. He scrambles to grab it, his grasp on it tenuous at this point, when his broom realizes that one of his legs is off to the side and that it should shove Harry off at this point.

Only Harry’s close proximity to the grass beneath him, something that comes with the territory of diving in for the Snitch, protects him from any major injuries.

‘And a Bludger heading for my back, apparently,’ Harry thinks as a Bludger slams into the ground next to him, forming an impressive dent  in the pristine grass.

“Holy shit,” Harry breathes, feeling jittery from the ecstatic joy that’s filling him up. And probably from the adrenaline of not getting hit with a fucking Bludger.

Harry lifts himself up off the ground, grasping the Snitch more tightly now as proof of what he’s done. 

Angelina rushes up to him, shaking him by the shoulders. “What was that, Harry? What was that? That was bloody amazing! By Merlin, we won! We-”

Harry hears a snort behind him. When he turns around, he sees Draco with his broom in tow, sneering down at Harry despite the odd look in his eyes.

“Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you?” he says. “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper...but then he was born in a bin. Did you like my lyrics, Potter?”

“Malfoy…” Harry says quietly, unable to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. He had thought that things had changed enough between Draco and him that stuff like this wouldn’t happen, but...maybe not. “What are you-”

Harry’s interrupted as Katie and Angelina fall onto him with hugs, blocking his line of sight so that he barely sees Ron head out to the lockers alone.

Draco continues speaking.

“We wanted to write another couple of verses, you know?” Draco says, tapping his chin mockingly. “But we couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly, which is an honest shame since it describes his mother perfectly.”

Harry lets out a harsh, bitter breath.

“And we couldn’t fit useless loser,” Draco says, pouting so mockingly it grits against Harry’s ears like coarse sand. “For his father, obviously.”

And he loses his fucking shit.

“Oh, that’s fucking priceless, coming from you, Malfoy,” Harry hisses, taking a step closer to Draco despite the shouts everyone behind is emitting amidst grunts to stop Fred and George from flying forward. “Useless loser? Aren’t you trying to describe yourself when it comes to your father, pal? Honestly, half the time now, when you talk about the bastard, you look like you wanna wet yourself. So why don’t you grow the fuck up and admit you’re just jealous that Ron at least has a fucking loving family, ay? Because it’s a honest fucking shame that you’re 15 and still haven’t realized it.”

Draco’s face goes deathly pale, the fingers on his broom quivering now. “What did you say, Potter?”

Harry should shut his mouth. He should shut his fucking mouth as soon as possible before he makes the situation worse.

But instead, he shouts, “I said-”

And his eyes catch on the scared, wavering look in Draco’s eyes and he stops.

“I said nothing, Malfoy,” he bites out before heading off the pitch.

“Hem, hem.”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge?” he says through clenched teeth, not even bothering to mask his distaste for her nor the lack of his professed inability to cope with the magic she is imbued with.

“After serving as a witness to the tomfoolery that Quidditch presents in this school, I was of the mind that the High Inquisitor should have the ability to strip unruly pupils of their privileges, especially when one takes into consideration how utterly negligent the other Professors have been.”

“What number of Educational Decree is this then, Professor Umbridge?” Harry asks sarcastically.

“Number 24, Mr. Potter. And you will be the first to experience its effects, considering your horrendous behavior today.”

“Fantastic,” he duly intones.

“I’m happy you agree, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge says with a saccharine smile on her face, before leaving.

The Snitch is still in his hand, fluttering madly. It wants freedom just as much as Harry wants it sometimes, but Harry doubts it’s going to get it anytime soon.

Just like him, then.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t apologize to Draco the first opportunity he has. Of course he doesn’t.

“I think I fucked up.”

This is too late of a thing to say, when Draco is nowhere to be found because of a shitfest of a conversation, Umbridge has just banned him from playing Quidditch, and he can feel his life quickly spiraling down the drains.

“You don’t say, Harry?” his mum drawls, raising a judgemental eyebrow. Which, well, he probably deserves.

“You’re right, Mum,” Harry sighs as he paces back and forth in front of his bed. “I definitely fucked up.”

“Well, if you already realized that, then you should do something about it.”

“I...I don’t think I can, is the problem.”

“You crossed a line that you can’t go back and hide behind.”

It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

And that’s not an answer.

Nothing more is said. And nothing more can be said as Hermione calls him down into the common room with the hopeful news of Hagrid’s return.

(But is it really hopeful when Hagrid narrating his encounter with the giants and Umbridge’s subsequent arrival at the hut only serves to remind Harry of how little control he still has over his life?

And what of the malformed monstrosity, a twisted concoction of Harry’s worst nightmares wrapped up in one, still lingering near the herd of Thestrals in the Forbidden Forest? Harry hadn’t been avoiding coming out there, per say, as there was certainly no reason for him to be in the area when Hagrid was absent, but...

And Harry knows that the thestrals don’t deserve his fear as unwitting victims of whatever was haunting them. He knows, okay? But that thing haunts his dreams sometimes, now beginning to settle just as chilling laughter and that uncomfortable sensation of being watched had once settled into his bones.)

“What’s even up with you and Malfoy, Harry?” Cedric asks as they amble around the Great Lake, having been an unfortunate witness to the humiliation that was Umbridge’s inspection of Hagrid’s class.

(The humiliation and the fear and the pain-

When Umbridge had begun asking Neville for his thoughts on the thestrals, the boy had begun trembling. Not as obviously as he would have once done when he was younger, but still, enough that at least Harry noticed. Subtle tremors plagued Neville’s body, like the squiggly lines produced by a lie detector machine - like the lie Neville was telling the entire world - and the boy had blanched profusely, looking close to passing out with how little he was breathing.

“‘Students...are...too...intimidated...to...admit...they...are...frightened…’” Umbridge had muttered, indifferent, indifferent, indifferent-

Neville had let out a short breath at that, a small, miniscule gasp.

Their eyes had met. And Neville had offered Harry a shaky smile that filled him with nothing but dread.)

(And Draco’s words at the end had cut. They were directed towards Ron, biting into the boy’s dwindling belief in himself. But Draco’s choice to ignore Harry, as if nothing had happened, as if Harry was nothing like Aunt Petunia had always scornfully hissed at him…

It was purposeful, corrosive, deafening.)

“I remember how you guys were always at each other’s throats all the time while I was alive, so it’s kinda odd to think about how much that’s changed. Or well. Had changed.”

“I...I met him again after the war ended. Well, after reparations had been handled by the Ministry of Magic, to be more specific. And, Merlin, it was in front of a Muggle bar, and in the oddest way possible.”

“Want to shed light on exactly how it was odd?” Cedric voices, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“No.”

The fact that Draco was sucking someone off is not relevant to the situation. At least, in Harry’s mind.

Cedric huffs. “Fine. Don’t think I didn’t hear Hermione talk about you wanting to preserve your aura of mystery.”

“You agree with her?!?!” Harry whines.

“Yes. And you’re getting away from the point, Harry.”

Harry sighs. “It wasn’t exactly the best time for me. I think you guys already get that I’m not the...happiest of people. Well, back then, I had been starting to question my choice to join the Aurors. It was all just so...corrupt, you know? That’s an understatement, obviously, but...But I still stuck with the job, even then. I wish I didn’t. Things got worse around when I was 21, when a child died under my watch. And it isn’t even that he died, you know? It was just how...unnecessary his death was. How preventable it was. And you know what my supervisor told me after all of that went down? ‘We’re the good guys. That means we’ve gotta keep up the work or else people will get hurt.’ You know what that told me? That that kid died because I didn’t put in the work, because I fucked up, because-”

“You know that’s wrong, Harry,” Cedric interrupts.

Harry lets out a short, harsh breath. “Of course I know that’s wrong now. But it took me a fucking long time to figure that out. I put in the work instead like my supervisor told me to. Too much of it. And while I was ruining all of the relationships I had, I picked up a nasty little habit. I’d get bloody shitfaced often enough that I quickly found several Muggle bars that I would think of as my ‘favorite.’ It wasn’t fun. The exact opposite, if I’m being honest. I was all over the place, even though there were so many people around me that just were willing to listen if only I’d just opened my fucking mouth. But still. It’s what got me talking to Draco again. And…”

“Malfoy seems to have done a lot of good for you then.”

“Yeah. Yeah. He’s not my...my savior or anything contrived like that, but I guess you could say that. But...he’s just so fucking infuriating sometimes. I know the Draco in this timeline isn’t my Draco. Of course I fucking know that. But when he started spewing all that bullshit about Ron and his parents, I...it just hit me all of a sudden, you know? If he’s going to be such a fucking bastard, what’s wrong if I act like a little bastard right back? And this is coming from a 23-year-old.”

“You fucked up, Harry, That’s all there is to it, sometimes,” Cedric says plainly.

Harry snorts. “Welcome to my life, Cedric.”

“Sometimes I think I’m a horrible person.”

“Wow. That’s...dark, Prongslet,” his dad replies, clearly uncomfortable.

“I know. That’s why I’m talking to you specifically about this.”

“That’s an odd reason you chose there, Prongslet.”

“Well, I mean, Sirius was kind of like me, right? It’s not like his childhood was the happiest of things or anything. I mean, it couldn’t have been if he ran away from them and lived with you for a while.”

“That doesn’t make you a horrible person, though.”

“Does that mean you think Sirius is a horrible person, then? You didn’t deny me attributing that to Sirius, after all.”

His dad narrows his eyes at him. He must have recognized the deflection for what it is then.

And yet he answers the question.

“We were...not the best of people growing up.”

“Sirius said you two were ‘arrogant little berks,’” Harry recites.

His dad huffs. “Yeah, pretty much. I...I was the self-professed rival of Snape for some of the most moronic reasons in existence. Well, not that those reasons felt moronic at the time, but the point still stands. We went about hexing innocent students for no other reason than some fun. And you know, sometimes I think about what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped Snape before Remus got him. And not just because I didn’t want to get expelled like Snape was so convinced was my reason. Nor because I didn’t want shit like that on Remus’ consciousness. No, it’s...I mean, what were we thinking? Snape was a living, breathing person and we almost killed him. He could have died and for fucking what?”

“I…” Harry says, unable to muster any words.

His dad lifts a hand. “Don’t say anything, Prongslet. I’m aware that I did some messed-up shit growing up and there’s nothing I can do to change the fact.”

“...Okay.”

They simmer in a pensive silence for a few moments before Harry speaks again.

“It was this year in the first timeline that I saw that memory of Snape’s, actually. You know the one. You used Levicorpus on him and made a mockery out of him, Mum came to his defense, he ruined their friendship with one horrible word out of twisted pride. And...I was so horrified seeing that memory that I felt like vomiting. Here was my dad, a man who I kept tucked away in the memories I cobbled together from story upon story upon story. And to find out he was just...this? A petty bastard who took pleasure from someone else’s suffering, from someone else’s humiliation? It was so painfully similar to what life was like for me with the Dursleys that I...I just couldn’t reconcile it in my mind.”

“Good. You shouldn’t try to reconcile it in your mind, Harry.”

“Not going to try to defend yourself?”

“Of course not, Prongslet. You and I both know that doing that is just the height of idiocy.”

Harry closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the walls of the castle, savoring the refreshing chill. “This was supposed to be about Sirius, I think. Remember that?”

His dad snorts. “Well, it seems to be a trend amongst us Potter men to make any conversation about ourselves.”

“Seems so.”

“...You can change, you know. If you think you’re that much of a horrible person, Prongslet.”

“...Sure.”

“I know you don’t really believe that at the moment, but...you can. Maybe you’ll end up in a better place than me if you just try.”

“So, not dead?” Harry says, slightly irritated.

“Not dead, Prongslet. That’s the least you can hope for.”

Harry seriously doubts that, considering how many times he’s died before.

“There seems to be much turmoil in your life, Potter,” Tom Riddle says, rolling his shoulders.

Harry rolls his eyes, partly out of actual irritation and partly to mask the fear buzzing around in his head like flies around a rotting corpse. “Great. This is the second dream I’m having of you, and you’re already commenting on how much of a fuck-up I am?”

A thin, placid smile is what his question is met with. “Well...if the shoe fits, yes? I suppose it speaks to the state your life is in if you have to ask such a question.”

Harry screams, harsh and aggravated and just straight-out pissed.

And things were going so well with Draco before Harry opened his stupid mouth, if he really thinks about it.

There is a smattering of posters all over the school. And if anyone had been up and about the night before, they would have realized that the reason for these posters was a Draco Malfoy jabbering at nothing while going about his prefect duties.

Well. Perhaps “nothing” is an understatement. Especially considering one would also realize that a stack of posters were floating in midair. With no one holding them up.

This is, of course, Harry Potter underneath his Invisibility Cloak, as requested by Draco. How Draco had figured out that Harry had an Invisibility Cloak was anyone’s guess, but Harry was certainly not going to believe Draco’s claim that it was a “logical conclusion” to come to.

The persona of the Invisibility Cloak is humming a light, breezy tune, after spending a long time in radio silence. Maybe it’s pleased with the progression of events that is Harry’s life. Harry, of course, doesn’t mention any of this to his companion.

Harry must have made a stupid comment about one thing or the other at some point. It’s this comment that makes Draco huff and roll his eyes, before letting his gaze settle on where Harry should be for a few, drawn-out moments.

“You’re staring at me, you know.”

“It would seem so,” Draco says then, before looking away.

Odd.

“Now, please remember, if you’re going to be practicing any of these spells, please make sure to seek out someone you trust to spot you and practice them in a secluded area where no one can come to harm from a stray spell,” Harry says loudly.

Draco snorts from where he’s lounging on a grand chair, tapping the feathered-end of his quill against a magazine providing an owl order service for potion ingredients. “You’re starting to act like you’re a real professor with that kind of talk.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Oh, hush, Malfoy. I need to get this in one try to be able to actually mail it to anyone.”

Draco waves an uncaring hand. “Oh, fine, whatever the Boy-Who-Lived says.”

“You’re still going on about that?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “I never stopped, did I?”

Harry rolls his eyes and sighs, before repeating what he said earlier. He continues to speak. “We’ll be starting with the Disarming Charm. It’s incantation is Expelliarmus. I’ll repeat it again for anyone who might be confused about the pronunciation. Ex-pel-lee-ar-mus.”

“Potter.”

Harry groans. “What? Can’t you see that-”

“Oh, Potter, it’s a simple question. I was just wondering...why Expelliarmus of all the spells in existence?”

Harry pauses, not sure if he should respond.

“Well...I used it against Voldemort when he was reborn. It...it saved my life in June.”

“Oh.”

“You’re the one who asked the question, Malfoy,” Harry says defensively.

“I’m well aware, Potter. Now, off you go. You better finish your lesson.”

That’s...clearly deflecting on Draco’s part.

But what he said is true. Harry really does need to finish the lesson, especially since storing his memory of giving the lesson into bottles after reviewing them in his Pensieve and altering his voice in the memory to sound more like Hermione’s tends to be a tedious process.

“While practicing this spell, it’s probably for the best that you practice it in pairs. There’s no point to a Disarming Charm if you’re not knocking a wand out of someone’s hand, after all.”

“Despite Dumbledore not making an announcement, there has been a large quantity of people signing up for your quaint pen pal system,” Draco pointedly remarks.

“You are part of this just like I am, Malfoy,” Harry replies, ignoring the jab at him forgetting to ask Dumbledore to make an announcement about the system.

Draco sniffs in distaste. “Sometimes I wonder why.”

“Oh, shove off. We’ve spent enough time around each other that we can at least consider ourselves acquaintances.”

A vaguely pinched, queasy expression makes its way onto Draco’s face. “The very thought of-”

“Okay, clearly even the thought of us being acquaintances is unacceptable to you. Ouch. It’s not like I said we’re friends or something.”

“Potter, it would be in your best interest to dispose of the mere possibility that we are anything more than accomplices.”

“You make it sound like we’re committing a crime or something.”

Draco doesn’t even bother to muster up a reply to his query.

“Okay then...Well, we finished setting everything up for the pen pal system, right?”

“...It would seem so. The boxes where one can drop off a letter have been placed all over the school and the aforementioned letters are automatically charmed upon entering the box to appear in front of their predetermined recipient during breakfast the following day. In addition, the students that signed up for your DADA tutoring program will also receive the Pensieve memories around the same time, with the bottles being charmed to ward away any unwanted attention. The distribution of Murtlap essence will be done on a more case-by-case basis, on the other hand.”

“Well then, considering all the hard work we did-”

Draco coughs very loudly.

“Well, considering all the hard work you did tonight,” Harry concedes despite feeling that he did contribute...something at some point in this, “it’s about time we get some sleep. You’re gonna need it, Malfoy, if you’re going to have any hope of beating me tomorrow.”

“I do hope you’re not relying on something so minute as some lack of sleep to assure your win at tomorrow’s Quidditch match. Because I will have you know that that would only prove sufficient in your dreams.”

“Aw, you’re hoping I dream about you tonight then, aren’t you!” Harry chimes in.

Draco flushes brightly. “No.”

“I don’t believe you!” Harry says in a cheerful, singsong tone.

A tick appears in Draco’s forehead. Wow, sometimes the boy really lets some of the shit Harry says get to him. If only Harry had realized that when he was actually 15-

But an apology has to happen at some point.

Right?

“Meet me where we usually do, Potter. Tonight. Same time as normal,” Draco murmurs to him after he had forcefully knocked Harry down while passing by him in the hallway. He sweeps away, an audible sigh released by the student body following in his wake as no dramatic fight occurs in the aftermath.

Harry stares after him, still sprawled over the floor.

So that’s how it’s going to be then.

“Draco told me to meet with him tonight,” he announces to his parents and Cedric during his free period.

His dad wheezes and whispers loudly to his mum, “Lily, aren’t teenagers supposed to try to hide any illicit meetings they’re planning on having with their crushes from their parents?”

“Now, James, while that statement is generally true, now is not the time.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say, darling. I’d do anything for you, after all. Just ask the question and-”

Harry scrunches his nose, mimicking a gagging motion at the sight of his parents being lovey-dovey. You know. Normal teenager things.

Cedric just sighs wistfully next to him. “Ah, aren’t your parents just adorable, Harry? I miss being able to do stuff like that with Cho.”

“Anyways,” Harry loudly interrupts, “how should I go about this, guys? I need a game plan if I don’t want to ruin my apology to Draco.”

“Maybe let Malfoy control the flow of the conversation?” Cedric suggests.

“Really? That sounds...well, a bit-”

“Well, the reason you’re in this situation is because you refuse to accept that Malfoy is sometimes going to be like...that. You literally said as much while we were walking around the Great Lake.”

“Oh yeah. I did, didn’t I?”

“Harry, dear,” his mum adds, “I also think it’s important that you establish more concrete boundaries for yourself and Malfoy with this conversation to avoid problematic situations like...well, you know the one I’m talking about.”

Harry hums in understanding before looking to his dad.

“What are you looking at me for? Your mum and Cedric pretty much said everything you needed to keep in mind. Way to make me feel useless, guys!”

“You are very useful as a source of encouragement, James,” Lily placates his dad.

“Oh, really? Good to know!”

Harry finds himself in front of Barnabas the Barmy’s tapestry, keeping the thought of the room where he used to converse with Draco in mind as he walks back and forth in front of the wall three times.

Draco is sitting in one of the two chairs present in the room.

(And Harry is thankful that Draco didn’t somehow “will” Harry’s chair out of existence.)

He doesn’t look up when Harry takes a step inside, so Harry guesses that the responsibility of getting this apology going has been shoved onto him. Great.

“So, um,” he starts, before promptly coming to the realization that he should have probably gathered his thoughts before opening his mouth. Well, it’s too late now for that, so he’s just going to have to wing it.

“Okay, so, I had this entire game plan in mind for how I was going to apologize to you,” obviously this game plan exists only in his brain for the price of 0 galleons, “but now that I’m here, I’m starting to realize that it’s probably majorly shitty so I’m just going to wing it,” wait, no, he isn’t supposed to admit to the fact that he’s winging it, “and hope that I don’t ruin whatever this is more than I already have-”

“Potter,” Draco interrupts with an uncaring tone.

“Yes?”

“Please do my ears a favor and shut up.”

Harry shuts up. Merlin, he needs to actually use his backbone if this is how he reacts when someone tells him to shut up.

But then again, considering what happened the last time he didn’t shut his mouth, maybe it’s for the best that his backbone remains nonexistent.

“Good,” Draco says, a smirk gracing his features as he remains unaware of Harry’s mental dilemma. “Now, Potter, do you remember what you promised me in return for me helping you no longer attend Umbridge’s classes?”

“Um.”

“It was a favor, in case you forgot.”

“Ah. Right.”

“I will take your fulfillment of this favor as your apology. You have no issue with this, I’m assuming.”

That last bit is not a question, despite how much Harry wishes it was.

Whatever. It’s not like he has any choice.

“Um, sure, that’s...fine. Just remember you promised to not ask for anything life-threatening or too embarrassing.”

Merlin, Harry’s starting to regret the vague wording he had used to restrict Draco’s possible options for a favor.

The smirk on Draco’s face widens. “Oh, well, rest assured, Potter. This favor of mine certainly constitutes neither of those.”

“Um. What...is the favor you want then?”

It can’t be that bad, right?

“A kiss.”

Oh. So it is that bad, then.

If Harry was drinking something, he would have immediately spat that out. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t drinking anything and instead is forced to choke on his spit, an experience that is considerably more painful and awkward.

“Take your time, Potter,” Draco crows from above, still watching Harry die from mortification.

Does...does Draco think Harry’s going to agree? He can’t, right? That’s, like, the definition of insanity!

Harry thought he just had to worry about Ginny’s crush on him, but now this?

What’s Draco’s angle with asking for a kiss of all things? Is...is he trying to assert dominance over Harry? Because this is certainly not the way to be going about such a thing.

“So?” Draco asks after Harry’s finally calmed down, raising an expectant eyebrow.

Oh fuck. Draco totally thinks Harry’s going to agree.

“So...what?” Harry says, voice leaping up in pitch.

“Do you agree? Not that you have any choice, of course, if you truly do want my forgiveness.”

“Um…”

“Yes, Potter? Do spit it out.”

“The thing is…”

“I can’t,” Harry mumbles.

“What? I can’t hear you, Potter,” Draco says mockingly, leaning forward with a hand next to his ear.

“I...I…”

“What? Did you never learn to enunciate, Potter?”

“I can’t!” Harry shouts suddenly.

“You...can’t?” Draco asks incredulously.

“I can’t,” Harry repeats, more confidently this time.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I can’t give you what you want.”

“Why? You seemed desperate for my forgiveness, and, and this is the only way you’re getting it, don’t you-”

“I’m not going to be coerced into something like that just so you forgive me. Th-That’s not how forgiveness works!”

“You seemed perfectly willing to do whatever favor I asked of you before I told you it was a kiss. What’s the problem? Are you still panting after Ravenclaw’s Seeker? Chang, was it? Well, sure, maybe you have a chance now, but don’t you think it’s rather pathetic that you’re second to her dead boyfriend?”

Oh, great. Draco’s going into hysterics now.

“Malfoy, Cho has nothing to do with my refusal to give you a kiss and you know it! And, if I’m being honest, don’t you think it’s pathetic that you’re freaking out so much over this?”

And here Harry is, making the same mistake that got him into this situation in the first place.

“I just don’t understand why,” Draco hisses. “There’s no reason for you to refuse me. In fact, you should feel grateful. So, explain to me why, Potter, or I swear-”

“Oh, great, now you’re becoming fucking egotistical, all over a fucking kiss-”

“Then just give me a kiss if you don’t like my behavior, Potter!” Draco screeches.

“I won’t.”

“Why?”

Harry says nothing.

“Why?”

Still nothing leaves his mouth.

“Why? Why? Why-”

“I can’t, okay? What more do you want from me, Malfoy? Do you want me to give you a list of every single person I might have had a crush on? Compile at least 200 reasons why I wouldn’t be attracted to you, with all my childhood trauma included amongst those reasons? Because you just have to ask and I’ll fucking answer.”

“Then consider this over, Potter. That’s my answer, ” Draco says, abruptly rising out of his seat.

“Wait. Wait. You can’t be serious. Right, Malfoy?” Harry says, jumping out of his seat.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that you were just using me for your pen pal system and are now disposing of me after everything’s been handled. It seems so befitting of the Boy-Who-Lived. Don’t you agree, Potter?”

“Malfoy, th-that’s not what happened. I-I...wasn’t using you, I swear. You have to-”

“I have to, Potter? You think you can order me now, in this situation? I’m past the point of caring. You can rot for all I care.”

The door slams behind Draco, leaving Harry behind. Alone.

Harry lumbers into the Gryffindor common room, his body feeling tremendously heavy because of a combination of sleep deprivation and his mind relentlessly mulling over...whatever just happened with Draco.

“Harry,” someone says, surprise evident in their voice.

Harry sighs. And then he turns around.

“Oh,” he blurts out, letting his shoulders relax once he realizes who it is, “it’s you, Neville.”

Neville winces, burrowing deeper into the armchair he’s seated on.

Harry quickly realizes the fumble he made with his phrasing. “Sorry, I...tonight’s just not a good time for me, I guess.”

Neville says nothing, instead fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves and persistently refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.

Yeah, he probably deserves that.

With nothing better to do-

(Well. Except talk to whoever out of his parents and Cedric are still out and about, which he really doesn’t want to. He just doesn’t want to think about Draco at the moment, plain and simple.)

-Harry situates himself on one of the sofas in the common room, tossing a throw pillow to partially cover the top of his face as he lets himself sink into the cushion.

“Um, Harry? Are...are you okay?” Neville finally manages, breaking the silence.

“I’m perfectly fine! Don’t need to worry about me, that’s for sure.”

Wow. Even the energy Neville’s exuding feels incredulous. Is it really that hard to believe that he’s fine?

‘Well, considering that you say you’re fine in shitty situations that include you coming back from the dead, it really is no surprise no one takes you seriously,’ he chides himself.

And then the gears in his brain take a momentary pause when he realizes he’s arguing with himself.

He groans internally, but Neville’s, “Are...are you sure, Harry?” seems to indicate that his groan made its way into his physical reality.

“I’m probably not fine,” he decides to admit, “but we can worry about that later. Right now, I don’t want to think about anything related to that at all.”

“O-Oh.”

Harry does not reply, instead grasping his hands onto the sides of the throw pillow and pushing so it covers his face entirely.

“Um. Would it help if I talked about something else?” Neville inquires.

Merlin. Some kids are just too pure for this world.

Harry lets out a wrangled sound from underneath the pillow that he hopes Neville can recognize as agreement.

“Um, well...I never did thank you for helping me with...everything, did I? Well, um, thanks for that, Harry.”

“It’s what anyone would have done,” Harry inputs, voice still muffled under the throw pillow.

“You’re right, but...not everyone would go on to distribute Murtlap essence to other people.”

“Then...I’ve never been normal.”

“Yeah! But...that’s one of the things I admire about you, Harry. You just...take things in stride, don’t let them affect you as much.”

“Neville, I am literally internally screaming all the time.”

That’s...probably too honest, right? Merlin, Harry’s probably scared Neville off, but...it just feels so easy to be honest around the other when Harry’s been witness to some of the other boy’s worst moments in this school year alone.

“But you don’t show it, do you?” Neville says, confidence, rather than the expected trepidation, seeping into his voice.

“That’s not exactly something to be proud of.”

“Well, it’s better than how I handle my problems,” Neville says bitterly in a tone that feels so out-of-place for the boy.

“How about we both agree that the two of us are not exactly the picture of effective coping mechanisms?”

Harry hears Neville let out a small, shocked gasp. There’s a...sense of delight to it, somehow.

“How have we not been talking to each other like this before?” Harry muses.

It’s a good point Harry’s raising. Things weren’t like...this in the first timeline.

“Well...I guess we’ve both changed, maybe?”

“I guess. I mean, I’ve definitely changed, but...what about you?”

“Ah, that’s…”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to answer, Neville.”

“No, I’ll answer! It’s just...is it okay if I’m a bit vague?”

“Neville, you’re speaking to someone who apparently has an aura of mystery. Well. At least, according to Hermione.”

“...Okay then. Well, do you remember how on the Hogwarts Express, I...accidentally mentioned that I ran into someone at the memorial for Cedric?”

Harry nods, before realizing that Neville can’t see him doing that from underneath the throw pillow and that the throw pillow is bloody inconvenient at this point in the conversation so it’s got to go.

“Yeah, uh, you mentioned that,” he says after tossing the throw pillow to the other side of the sofa.

“Well, I, uh, started talking to him way more frequently this summer despite...never talking to him that much before. And, I guess, well, he sort of introduced me to some new perspectives on things in my life.”

“That’s an understatement, I’m assuming,” Harry comments wryly.

“You’re right there. I’m still me, but…” Neville lets out a forced laugh. “I guess it’s just a part of growing up or something.”

“Have...have you talked to this person about everything that happened, then?”

“I think I will. Pretty soon, maybe.”

“Good. That’s...that’s good.”

Neville smiles brightly, comforting Harry.

Well, at least Harry doesn’t seem to be actively ruining all of his relationships.

“So…” his mum begins as he haphazardly falls onto his bed.

“Mmph.”

“How did...things go with Malfoy, Harry, dear?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles after the weight of the consequences of, well, everything slams into him with full force.

“Ah.”

What an understatement.