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Chapter Text

July 19th, 1988

Michael Wright believed himself to be a good person. He paid his taxes, was polite to his neighbours, friendly at the workplace, and made regular donations to charities he became involved with within his line of work. On the other hand, his line of work was the law, which for many might sour his argument on goodness. Still, as a self-proclaimed decent member of society, he believed himself aware of good and bad characters, and a reasonably sharp judge of it, which is why he had a feeling his current client was of the latter sort. Michael’s work at Macfarlanes is usually with private clients, which is why he finds himself slightly wrongfooted in attempting to lay out the terms of a merger along with a representative from Grunnings - and a new one at that, given he does not remember his past dealings with the company being as unpleasant.

“I’m not sure about this, Mr Dursley” he held back a sigh and attempted to mentally word an argument as to why the offer was not acceptable in a way that didn’t tell his client it would be acting in bad faith.

He’d learned in the past two hours that Mr Dursley took exception to being referred to as anything other than a pillar of society, nevermind that the supposed offence was an offhand comment on the number of employees being replaced as opposed to incorporated into the company, which would prove both time-consuming and wasteful.

“I advise you to reconsider” Dursley insisted, propping large hands on the desk before standing from the chair and looking down at him “Why not come by the house and discuss this over dinner, tomorrow night? It’s a big deal, boy… unless you think you can’t handle it? I’m sure your boss could assign someone more experienced for the job.”

“Of course, I can handle it,” Michael assured the man, not taking as much offence to his workability as he probably hoped. Truth is, while some of his clientele was quite similar to Mr Dursley, his preferred cases were pro-bono, of which he had the highest amount in the company, and thus left him unused to following the whims of big businesses and their representatives. Unfortunately, to be able to continue taking as many pro-bono cases as he liked, he had to continue dealing with less-than-desirable paying clients.

“Then it’s settled, I’ll let Petunia know to expect a guest” The man smiled in satisfaction and walked out before Michael could get a word in.

“Wait, I didn’t mean-” he attempted anyway but to no avail. With a sigh, he let his shoulders drop and ran a hand through his dark hair. If Dursley thought being fed would make him blind to the joke of an offer their company wanted to present, he had another thing coming. Macfarlanes may do many things, but knowingly negotiating in bad faith is not one of them.

There was, at least, a good side to the end of that meeting, he noted as he parked his car in the garage of the large house, and it was that he was able to get home earlier. Not that there was anyone, in particular, waiting for him, at least not until morning when Marie would come by to tidy things up and prepare a week’s worth of meals. Other than that, there was nothing but a large and empty house left for him after his mother’s passing. Uncaring of his solitude, Michael went through the motions of washing himself and reheating some dinner, the long hours of the week seeming to catch up to him, and, soon enough, he’d fallen into a restful sleep.

Proper rest would definitely be necessary if he hoped for the dinner the following day to be anything close to tolerable.

July 20th, 1988

Harry didn’t like it when people came to visit. Uncle Vernon was always more mean, and Aunt Petunia kept shrieking about everything being perfect so they could impress whoever was visiting. At least it’s not Aunt Marge, he thought as he dipped his hands in the cold water from the sink to grab another plate to wash. Not even the nice plates, but the ugly ones from lunch with all the flowers in vomit-green, he’d have to finish washing them before cleaning the nice ones for his Uncle’s important dinner, and would still have to help Aunt Petunia cook it! Visitors always, always gave him more and more chores, that’s why he didn’t like them. Besides, he always got locked into his cupboard early when there were important dinners, and sometimes Aunt Petunia forgot to let him out until the next day, without even going to the bathroom. So yes, Harry really wished people would stop visiting his Aunt and Uncle, and maybe Dudley, his friends were even worse and he didn’t like playing with them, not when all they wanted to play was Harry Hunting and he was the only Harry in the street. It wasn’t fair!

“Wash faster, boy!” his Aunt’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard behind him and he flinched, dropping the plate into the sink “That better not be broken!”

Harry hurriedly grabbed for the plate, raising it back up to show it was whole, glad the water hadn’t let it break. He wouldn’t want to upset his Aunt today. Well, he never wanted to, but it seemed like all he could do sometimes.

“Oh, look at the mess you’re making,” his Aunt said instead of being happy about the plate, and Harry looked down to see water going from his hands down to his arms and then dripping to the floor, starting a little puddle under the stool he had to use to reach the sink “shoo, out! Go grab a mop, now! ”

Harry nodded and got down from the stool, taking care not to slip in the puddle, and ran off to find a mop. Aunt Petunia hadn’t been happy about anything yet, so he knew he was better off not talking back, or not talking at all.

He’d just got the mop from his cupboard - his Aunt said it was faster to sleep with the cleaning things, since he’d use them when he woke up anyway - when Dudley ran past him, zooming around with a toy plane and muddy shoes. Oh no…

“Boy! ” He turned around to find his Uncle glaring at the floor and back at him.

“’m cleanin’ it” Harry quickly put his head down and walked to the start of the mud patch by the door, his body feeling like a plank of wood, really hoping Uncle Vernon wouldn’t get more mad.

He barely raised his head as he finished his other chores, he ended up cleaning all of the floors again because Aunt Petunia didn’t think it was shiny enough, then he cleaned the nice plates with the gold on the sides and all of the tall cups before helping Aunt Petunia with the roast. The smell of food made him want to steal just a little piece, but his hands were still hurt from the last time he tried and Uncle Vernon had put them right on the hot stove, it hurt so bad he didn’t even want to try getting food again. Maybe if he did really, really good, Aunt Petunia would let him have some before going to his cupboard, it happened sometimes, but not much.

It felt like forever until Aunt Petunia told him to shower and get ready to sleep, he didn’t take long - Uncle Vernon said water’s really expensive - and was soon in his too-big pyjamas, handed down from Dudley like all his clothes were. Aunt Petunia looked at him with a pinched face when he walked into the kitchen, and he felt his body go cold.

“What are you doing here? Go to your room!” Aunt Petunia pointed at the cupboard “Mr Wright is almost here and I don’t want you laying about!”

Harry opened his mouth to ask about dinner, but before he could say anything, a big hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him backwards.

“You heard your aunt, boy” Uncle Vernon shoved him towards the cupboard a bit too hard, but luckily Harry fell on top of his mattress “Away with you, and don’t you dare make a sound or you’ll be sleeping in the backyard!”

The cupboard door closed with a bang just as Harry pulled his knees to his chest and he heard the clicking that told him it was locked, like every time someone visited. He sighed and laid back on his bed on the floor, curling up on his side and watching the little light that came in through the gap under the door.

Harry really, really didn’t like visitors.

Privet Drive was unnervingly uniform, with too-similar houses lined up side by side as the picture of conformity, at last in the point of view of someone that’s lived in a colourful and ornate neighbourhood all their life. Michael parked his car - an Aston Martin V8 he’d indulgently acquired due to a love of speed and a weakness for James Bond movies - in front of number four and made his way to the door, which opened barely a second after the doorbell was rung.

“Mr Wright, welcome!” Mr Dursleys greeted him with a smile, moving to the side as he holds the door open “Come in, let me introduce you to my family.”

A thin, long-faced, blond-haired woman with a long neck and a thin-lipped smile was introduced as Petunia Dursley, while a smaller version of Vernon Dursley, lacking a moustache and with blond hair instead of brown, was introduced as Dudley Dursley. Michael privately found it a rather unfortunate name, but doubted the boy’s size - seeming to follow his father’s example - left much room for any bullying to take place.

Small talk was made over dinner, in a mutual decision to enjoy the food before talking business, and while Michael could think of better company - and with much better jokes - he did enjoy the food well enough. Unfortunately, as Mr Dursley would discover after the meal, not enough to change his work ethic. They were well into an argument, making use of the living room for dessert when a knocking sound brought Michaels’s attention out of the matter at hand. Glancing to the side, he failed to notice the other man’s face reddening as the sound was repeated, slightly more urgent.

“Aunt Petunia I really gotta go!” Michael turned his head from the door, where he'd assumed the knocking had come from, to the cupboard under the stairs.

“Tuney!” Mr Dursley called, but Michael was still looking at the cupboard door, frowning slightly. He snapped out of it when Mrs Dursley descended the stairs “The boy managed to lock himself in the cupboard again. Get him out, would you?”

The request brought his attention back to Mr Dursley, who looked quite upset, his face had acquired a faint purplish tone and his eyes were narrowed at the door. Petunia opened it and there was an exchange of whispered words before Michael saw a boy walking out of it. He was small, looking around six years old, with messy dark locks and round-framed glasses, wearing clearly too-big clothes and no shoes at all. Michael barely caught a glimpse of something inside the cupboard - were those drawings? - before the door snapped closed and the boy was running upstairs, shoulders hunched and head low but with the tight lock on his legs that told he really needed to go to the bathroom.

“Don’t mind him” Mrs Dursley turned on him with a smile more plastic than the one he’d been greeted with, which he considered quite a feat “boys like to play in the strangest places” she added with a shake of the head.

“Is he your son?” He asked, still not sure what to make of the whole scene except for nothing good. Mr Dursley looked offended at the question.

“Nephew” He answered in a tone Michael interpreted to mean it was an unfortunate fact instead of familial pride, which made him wonder what such a young child had done to deserve it.

“My sister’s son, we kindly took him in after she and her husband passed away” Mrs Dursley elaborated

“My condolences” He offers, to their dubious acceptance.

The conversation moves on, with Petunia moving upstairs a few minutes later. There were no further signs of the boy and in half an hour Michael is escorted to the door by Vernon Dursley, promising to think on what they’d spoken about. It’s not until he’s sitting behind the wheel and ready to leave that his mind goes back to the child from the cupboard. Had he been there the entire time? Dinner was served just a room away, he would have heard the cupboard door opening or closing, and after the meal, they’d spent a few hours in the living room in full sight of it. Not a sound had been made until the urgent knocking, which led to Petunia opening the door. For all of Mr Dursley’s claims that the boy locked himself in, it had been easy to spot the key in his wife’s hands, and he wondered if they thought him stupid or merely inattentive, when he is neither. Something is rotten at the Dursley household, and he can’t help but want to figure out what.

The sight of the boy’s bright green eyes, which he’d barely caught a glimpse of as he left the cupboard, hardly leaves his mind for the remainder of the night.

July 21st, 1988

Harry knew he shouldn’t have bothered his aunt last night, but he really needed to go to the loo, and Aunt Petunia would have been mad if he made a mess in the cupboard like last time. It was his fault for forgetting to go before going to bed anyway, so he didn’t complain when Aunt Petunia took him to the garden by the ear and told him not to come back in until she couldn’t see another weed in it, and everything was watered. It would be hard, his wrist was hurting from landing on it wrong after Uncle Vernon got mad about him bothering his important talk, but he could do it before lunch for sure.

He was halfway through weeding around the rose bushes, barely feeling the prickling from the thorns anymore when he heard footsteps coming close. He kept his head down, hoping his aunt would see what a good job he was making of it, maybe she’d let him have a fruit or a sandwich before lunch if he did really good. He wasn’t really thirsty, the water from the hose took care of that, but he was starting to feel a bit hungry already.

“Hi there, little guy” a voice surprised Harry and he fell back from his crouch and to the ground, looking up and over the fence to unfamiliar blue eyes. It took him a moment to notice the man was talking to him, and another to realize why. He didn’t know if he should talk, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always told him to be quiet and not bother people, but the man was talking to him so it couldn’t make them mad if he answered.

“Hi,” he noticed he was still on the floor and stood up, but didn’t clean his muddy hands on his shorts, he’d be in trouble for that “Uncle Vernon‘s not here,” he told the man since that’s probably why the man from the important dinner was talking to him.

“I wanted to talk to you, actually” the man’s answer makes Harry’s eyes widen slightly, the man couldn’t be mad about him interrupting dinner, could he? “What’s your name? Mine’s Michael”

“’m Harry” he mumbles, glancing around and at the house. If Aunt Petunia saw him talking instead of working he’d be in so much trouble.

“Nice to meet you, Harry” The man leaned on the fence, crossing his arms over it, and Harry wondered if he could go back to his work while the man talked “You like working in the garden?”

“’s alright” he answered while kneeling back down in front of the rose bushes, flinching slightly when his wrist twinges at the weight he puts on them.

“Is something wrong?” the man asks, and Harry shrugs, squeezing his wrist a bit so the pain would go away before going back to weeding “where did you hurt your wrist, Harry?”

“Fell on the stairs” He replies without looking up, not sure why the man would care.

“Do you fall down the stairs a lot?”

“’m clumsy,” Harry said, though it’s not really true. He’s been pushed more times than he’s fallen, but he can’t tell the man about that.

He told a teacher once. Miss Davies was nice, she always told him he was too small and would let him spend his lunch break with her in class instead of having to run from Dudley and his friends, so when she asked about the bruises Harry told her Uncle Vernon had been mad and pushed him a bit too hard. She asked about some other things and, a couple days later, his Aunt and Uncle came back from school furious with him, yelling about him lying to a teacher and how he should get the belt for talking bad about them. He did get the belt, but just a couple times because Uncle Vernon didn’t like to hear crying, and he got locked into his cupboard all day the next day. On the next Monday, he went to spend the break with Miss Davies and she had a talk with him about lying and how he should spend the lunch break with his cousin from now on because family was important and they needed to get along so he would stop being jealous of him. She wasn’t nice again later, and he started spending his lunch break in the library instead.

“Alright” the man didn’t sound like he believed him, but not a lot of people did, so it was okay “what about the cupboard, can you tell me why your relatives locked you inside?”

“No sir” Harry raised wide eyes to meet the man’s, shaking his head in denial “they didn’t, really.”

“It’s alright, I won’t talk to them, you can tell me the truth” Harry looked back at the house, then back down at the bushes again. He didn’t understand why the man was asking so many questions.

“Why?” He asked as he looked up once again

“Because I’m working with your Uncle, so I have to know about his family, but only if it’s true. That’s why I won’t ask him, I know he’d lie, but I don’t think you really want to lie, do you?” the man explained, and Harry looked down with a small frown.

“How d’you know I’m lying? Or if Uncle Vernon’s lying?” He didn’t think Uncle Vernon lied much, he was always so sure of everything, so Harry always thought all he said was true. Well, almost all he said. He’s pretty sure Dudley’s only fat because he eats too much chocolate and doesn’t do any sports, not because he’s a growing boy. They’re the same age, so he’d also be a growing boy, and he’s not fat at all!

“I’ll tell you a little secret,” The man said, and Harry looked up in curiosity “I always know when someone’s lying to me, it’s my superpower”

“Really?” Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and his voice fell to a whisper “Uncle Vernon says powers ‘n magic aren’t real though.”

“He was probably lying, then,” the man says as if calling Uncle Vernon a liar wasn’t the worst thing in the world to do, but he’s just as tall as Uncle Vernon so maybe he’s not as scared of him as Harry is “so if you tell me about the cupboard, and about falling down the stairs, I’ll know it’s true. Say, I think I saw some drawings in the cupboard, were they yours?”

“Aunt Petunia says I can keep them there!” Harry says in defence of his drawings, but his voice is too loud and he looks at the house for a moment, making sure no one’s coming to look at the noise, before continuing “they’re too ugly for the fridge, but I get to keep them in my cupboard, even if Uncle Vernon doesn’t like it.”

“Your cupboard?” The man is frowning a bit when Harry looks up again, but he’s not looking at him, just at the house.

He pulled out a few more weeds just so it won’t look like he was slacking, wiping his forehead with his arm since his hands are all dirty. The man said his superpower knows when he’s telling the truth, and if Uncle Vernon lied about powers, then he can’t be mad Harry didn’t know about it, can he?

“’s my room” He shrugged, “Aunt Petunia says I better sleep with the cleaning stuff ‘cause I’ll use it in the mornin’ anyway, Dudley needs the other room for toys”

“And the stairs?” Harry looked up at the tone, recognizing when someone was on their way to being angry, he’d had plenty of practice watching out for it.

“Uncle Vernon just pushed me ‘round a bit, ‘m not lying” he insisted, not sure why the man was getting angry at him “Dudley does it too, but he jus' thinks it’s funny, Aunt Petunia told him to stop though ‘cause I almost broke something”

“I know you’re not lying, I’m not upset with you” the man assured, “you almost broke a bone?”

“No?” Harry frowned in confusion “almost broke the… thingy” he motioned with a hand since he couldn’t remember the name, before remembering he shouldn’t flap his hands about “on the stairs. Aunt Petunia doesn’t mind if I hurt if I can still do chores”

“Oh” the man took a deep breath, the next question coming a moment later “What about chores, which ones are yours?”

“The garden” Harry started with the most obvious “dishes, dusting, floors, folding clothes, cleaning Dudley’s toys, uh- cooking? I help, cut stuff ‘n all that. Can’t cook ‘cause I can’t see inside the pans yet”

“That’s a lot, what does your cousin do then?”

“Homework?” Harry answered, not sure what else Dudley did besides lay about on holidays and do homework when they had school.

The man looked about to ask something else, but Harry paid no attention because just then there was a noise from the house behind them. Harry sat up straighter, realizing the noise had been the door opening.

Chapter Text

He could claim to hardly believe the child’s words, but it was all too easy to tell he was being truthful. Michael had woken up with troubled thoughts and decided to postpone any merge paperwork to instead look into the Dursley family, with a special focus on their nephew. A stop by Grunnings with the excuse of double-checking the written reports - which he did end up doing if only not to waste time in another visit later - told him Vernon Dursley sometimes complained about his good-for-nothing nephew to employees, often using the child as a comparison if any delivered subpar work.

He could hardly look into their school, which Mr Dursley bragged about his son’s outstanding grades for an eight-year-old, given it was not in session at the time, but talking to their neighbours was also an option, which is what eventually brought him to the Dursley’s garden once he caught sight of their nephew working on it, no gloves on sight. He was still not sure of the boy’s age, but one of the employees had implied he was the same age as the Dursley’s son, which in itself was worrying given the child’s size. He was just about to ask on the topic of meals when the sound of a door opening had him looking up.

“Boy, are you don- Oh, Mr Wright” Mrs Dursley’s shrill tone softened somewhat at the sight of him, and keeping his disgust from showing in his face was probably the hardest feat he’d ever accomplished “What brings you back so soon? I hope my nephew wasn’t disturbing you”

“Not at all, I was just in the neighbourhood and saw these beautiful roses. I was asking him how they stay so healthy” He lied with ease, though he had been in the neighbourhood.

“Oh, he wouldn’t know about that” she waved a hand dismissively “I only have him weed the garden, hard work is good for building character”

“You’re right, of course” he nodded in agreement, figuring she’d never done a hard day’s work in her life then, to develop such a character, “Harry said as much, but unfortunately I must leave. I only stopped by at Eliza’s for an early lunch”

He had not, but he did learn that Elizabeth, one of their neighbours, hated Petunia and would sooner spit on her than hold a dialogue, so it was as good an excuse as any. Besides, it was worth it to see the woman’s smile grow colder, probably wondering if his association with her next-door neighbour would influence his opinion of them. As if it could get any lower.

“Of course, It was a pleasure to see you again” She offered.

“Likewise” he returned politely “Do tell Vernon to expect a call by Friday, at the latest” he added before leaving without a second look towards the child. He doubted a goodbye would help the boy’s standing with his aunt.

He entered his car and let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as his head rested back on the car seat. He had enough information to bring to the Social Services Department, but something told him he would need more assurance than a simple investigation. He couldn’t possibly be the only one to notice something was wrong. In fact, Elizabeth had mentioned the authorities visiting the house before, once after her own call, but nothing had come of it. No, whatever in him that seemed to push him towards the boy was telling him to act with a better, surer plan of action.

With that in mind, he started the car towards the closest library.

July 24th, 1988

Harry woke up to the knocking of wood on wood at the door of his cupboard, and Aunt Petunia yelling at him to get up already and help with breakfast. He didn’t change out of his pyjamas before following the order, hurrying to the kitchen. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been in a really good mood since the day before when Uncle Vernon got an important phone call - which he knows because he accidentally made some noise while taking the folded laundry upstairs - but that could change any time, so he made sure to go fetch the eggs when his aunt told him to and got up on the stool to watch the bacon while she woke Dudley up. He wouldn’t complain, just the smell was great and he was sure he’d get at least some of it if nothing happened to make them mad again.

Uncle Vernon took until the middle of breakfast - where Harry got to eat a toast with eggs and a piece of bacon and even some milk! - to come to the kitchen, and he was smiling. It wasn’t even those mean smiles he gave when Harry realized he was in trouble and he knew it, but one he saved for when things were going really well at his job. Harry didn’t trust it though and shoved the rest of his bacon down like Dudley usually did, swallowing the rest of the milk before Uncle Vernon could even think of taking anything away.

“Tuney, you should start on that chicken of yours for lunch, it takes a while, and Mr Wright will be joining us to sign the contract,” Uncle Vernon told her, and went on to brag about something that Harry decided to tune out as he got up and picked up the used dishes to wash.

He remembered Mr. Wright, that was the man that asked him about the cupboard and the chores, and he was happy to know he hadn’t talked to Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia about it, at least it didn’t look like he did since Harry spent the rest of the week with only two threats of the belt instead of wincing every time he sat down.

Aunt Petunia ended up making him stuff the chicken, and it was kind of gross, so that’s probably why she didn’t want to do it in the first place. He didn’t have to do much else for lunch besides cut the stuff that went into the chicken, so his aunt told him to go clean the table after Uncle Vernon finished eating and dust the low shelves in the living room, then go clean Dudley’s toy room.

Dudley had gone off to play with Piers after breakfast so Harry didn’t have to put up with him complaining about the Freak touching his toys, and Harry could play - but just a little bit so he wasn’t caught - with some of Dudley’s toys while he cleaned. He didn’t like the toy fighters with silly masks or the cars but thought the toy train was really cool and liked to make up places he’d go to if he could just get on a train and leave. He’d pick up Dudley’s little toy soldiers and put them on the train, send them off to have awesome adventures like the characters in Dudley’s books. He liked the books, and Dudley almost never read them, so he sometimes sneaked one into his cupboard and read it at night, or when he got locked up for too long.

“Harry!” Uncle Vernon’s voice made him drop the toy train and his eyes widened in fear, picking it up and looking it over before realizing it wasn’t broken anywhere.

He ran out the door in a hurry then, because his uncle never called him Harry, just Boy or Freak, and hoped really hard that it didn’t mean he was very mad at him. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Uncle Vernon was red in the face and glaring at some people in the living room. He didn’t know any of the people, except-

“Hello, Harry,” Mr Wright smiled at him, and he didn’t want to be impolite, it always made Aunt Petunia would be upset, so he smiled back.

“What lies have you been spreading this time, boy?” Uncle Vernon asked, making Harry’s whole body go cold and still “wasting the good people’s time, I say”

“We’ll be the judges of that,” a stern-faced woman said, walking closer to him “We’d like to ask you some questions, Mr Potter. Would that be alright?”

He glanced at her before looking at Uncle Vernon, who had his meanest look on and shook his head a bit. The woman in front of him sighed and he looked back to see her watching Uncle Vernon too.

“If you would please join your wife in the kitchen,” She said, but Harry didn’t think her request had left much choice at all. He watched a large-shouldered man, that he also didn’t know, follow his uncle to the kitchen, and then the woman was looking at him again “My name is Helen Jones, Mr Potter, and I need you to answer a few questions for me. Come, let’s sit.”

He didn’t want to move, he wanted to run back upstairs and stay very quiet and pretend he wasn’t there for Uncle Vernon to find with his belt when everyone left. But he couldn’t do that, so he went with the woman to the couch.

“It’s alright, Harry, you just need to tell them what you told me,” Mr Wright said, and Harry’s head snapped to the side to glare at him.

“You said you wouldn’t tell!” He couldn’t believe Mr Wright had done this, he promised!

“I said I wouldn’t talk to your relatives, and I didn’t” Harry blinked, was he lying just like that? “I talked to the Social Services Department, and they’re the ones talking to your aunt and uncle.”

“Why?” He asked, confused but figuring that meant that he’d talked to these other people he’d brought with him.

“Because they’re wrong, and someone needed to do something about it” Mr Wright answers, sounding so sure that Harry can’t help but believe him a little.

“Mr Potter, would you like me to send Mr Wright away before starting with the questions?”

He looks at Mr Wright, but he doesn’t do anything to tell Harry the right answer, not like Uncle Vernon. The woman could probably make him leave like she did with his uncle, but… he didn’t want her to, for some reason. He shook his head and tried not to move much when all her attention was on him, he didn’t like the feeling at all, it was so much better when people didn’t see him. When people don’t see him, they can’t be mad at him.

Watching Mrs Jones interrogate the child was an exercise in self-restraint, and Michael should probably be awarded a medal for not storming into the kitchen and trying to cause at least a fraction of Harry’s pain back on his relatives. Besides all he’d heard at the start of the week, they also learned Harry was often given the bare minimum of food, if not outright denied, and while thankfully nothing of sexual nature had ever been done to him, it was a small mercy given everything.

“Thank you, Mr Potter, that’ll be all for now,” Mrs Jones said, pulling him out of his musings as she turned off her tape recorder and put away her notebook, standing from the couch “Murray, are you done?” She called towards the kitchen.

“Just about!” Came the man’s answer, followed by the sound of chairs scraping on the floor, and the man came out of the kitchen followed by the Dursleys “As we’ve discussed, an investigation has been started and the case has the possibility of reaching the court, which will allow you legal representation, but only then, given this is not as of yet a criminal investigation unless the law enforcement becomes involved.”

“So you’re not taking the boy?” Vernon Dursley asks, and Michael does not appreciate the man’s angry expression, no matter how restrained due to the current company.

“Not without a court order, but we will be making a follow-up visit in the next week, without warning” Mrs Jones assured the couple, to little change in Mr Dursley’s disposition.

He risked a glance at Harry to find the child looking at nothing in particular, but with such resignment in his expression that constricted his heart. That was the face of a boy who’d hoped before and had it shattered, he realized. Good thing Michael was not solely dependent on the SSD’s actions. He watched the two workers leave without moving away from the couch, waiting until the sound of the front door closing reached them before opening his briefcase in his lap just as the couple turned away from the door.

“What are you still doing here?” Mr Dursley bellowed, and he noticed Harry flinch at the sound, which only hardened his resolve.

“I have a proposition for you” He answered, grabbing six slips of paper from the briefcase before closing it “We could let this be dragged into court, doubtlessly wasting both valuable time and money, as well as allow your reputation and career to take quite a plunge if, let’s say, the media took an interest in the case”

“Or?” Mr Dursley asked in a venomous tone as he stepped towards the couch, no doubt expecting some form of monetary extortion.

“Vernon-”

“Let the shark speak, Tuney” Mr Dursley cut off his wife’s protest “no harm in hearing him out”

“Or you could both sign these” Michael held up the papers “granting me temporary guardianship of Harry for the next year, as well as a motion for permanent custody to be filed at my discretion once a suitable guardian is chosen. I’ll tell the SSD the matter’s been resolved, and when the custody hearing comes, I’ll make sure it’s as discreet as possible.”

“That’s it?” Mr Dursley sounds surprised “you take the boy off our hands, no catch?”

“I’d strongly advise Grunnings to maintain our firm on retainer but place a request for an alternate legal representative” He adds because he would rather not lose the business, but definitely did not want to deal with Vernon Dursley for longer than strictly necessary “that’s all I ask. No monetary compensation will be asked for at any later moment, and my fees are already covered by the company.”

“Deal” Mr Dursley doesn’t even hesitate, and Michael wished he had not expected as much.

“Vernon, what about the- letter?” Mrs Dursley questioned in a worried tone.

“We won’t need anything from those freaks if the boy doesn’t even live here anymore” Mr Dursley was quick to reassure her, and Michael narrowed his eyes at the exchange “good riddance, I say. Where do we sign?”

Michael stood, with one last glance at Harry’s clearly confused and worried expression even though he clearly wouldn’t dare speak, and walked with them to the dining table, presenting the papers to the couple. Three copies of the same petition for temporary guardianship, already passed by a close friend of his who happened to be a judge and only lacking the current guardians’ signatures, while the remaining three were copies of the petition for permanent custody, lacking not only their signatures but the information on the guardian-to-be as well. While temporary guardianship had been reasonably easy to arrange through less conventional means, a change in custody to a non-parent can only be granted at a hearing, but it’s not bound to be any trouble when the previous guardians have nothing against it.

“There,” Mr Dursley said after signing the last dotted line.

“I will, of course, be needing any of Harry’s belongings as well as any remaining belongings of his late parents before I take him off your hands” He reminded them, placing the papers back in his briefcase.

Mr Dursley only motioned towards the cupboard before walking to the kitchen, and Michael could hear him muttering about needing a celebratory beer. Mrs Dursley was looking at the briefcase, seeming conflicted, but seemed to pull herself together when he cleared his throat.

“I’ve got nothing of theirs, there’s probably some stuff on the old house back at Spinner’s End if the house wasn’t ransacked by the local delinquents, but it’s not mine and if the boy inherited it, I didn’t hear about it” She informed him “his things are in the cupboard, be quick”

He let his distaste show in his expression as he turned his back to her, refusing to thank such a woman for anything, and moved back towards the couch, kneeling in front of Harry.

“Harry, I need you to do something for me,” he said in a soft tone, given the boy had leaned away when he came close. He waited until green eyes met his before continuing “I need you to go to the cupboard and grab anything you want to keep. You won’t be coming back here.”

He could tell the moment his words registered in the child’s mind, eyes widening in hope and awe as if a miracle had just been performed in front of him. For all Michael had learned that morning, it might as well have. He watched the boy nod rapidly and run to the cupboard, grabbing things noisily and, if the ripping of paper was what he thought, pulling his drawings from the walls. It took barely a minute before the boy was back, all of his belongings folded inside a sheet and bundled up in his arms. He reached to help Harry carry it but aborted the motion at the slight tightening of the child’s arms around the bundle.

“Good,” he declared, grabbing his suitcase “goodbye, Mrs Dursley. Do let your husband know I hope to never see him again” he declared, motioning for Harry to follow him to the door. The child walked subduedly a step behind him, and they made it to the car before he spoke another word.

“Am I going to the orphanage?” the soft tone was still full of worry and fear, no matter how glad the child had seemed to be about leaving “Aunt Petunia said that’s where bad boys go, and Uncle Vernon said it’s nightmare stuff- I don’t wanna go to the orphanage, Mr Wright, please”

He could see the tears starting to well up in Harry’s eyes and quickly crouched down in front of him, not touching him but not looming over him either.

“You’re not going to the orphanage, I promise” He assured, “did you hear what I talked about with- them?”

“I-I don’t get it,” Harry answered, sniffing slightly and seeming to hold his breath for a moment.

He would need to assure him it was alright to cry. Actually, he had a feeling he’d need to assure Harry of a great many things as soon as possible. But not out in the middle of the street.

“I made them sign a paper that says I’m your guardian, at least for now” he explains “that means you’ll be living with me for a while, so no, you won’t go to an orphanage, Harry”

“Oh” was apparently all the child had to say on the matter, and he got into the car in silence after the door was opened for him.

Michael watched Harry put on the seatbelt without prompting and closed the passenger door, sliding into the driver’s seat a moment later. He’d done it, he thought as it finally sunk in. He took Harry away from his abusive relatives. And apparently acquired himself a temporary ward, he realized in a more conflicting mood. He knew very little about children, never having planned on one of his own - though he wasn’t sure why his mind was so made up about it - and considering himself too young to think of any other arrangements given he’d only just turned twenty-seven, but there were no regrets in his mind at this course of action.

He glanced to his side at Harry, noticing the child leaning against the door with heavy eyes, and nodded to himself. He’d done the right thing, and they’d be just fine for it.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up to the door opening, blinking the sleepiness away as he climbed out of the car. He never got to ride up front before and was a little sad he'd missed it, but the car only had two seats so he might get to do it again, right? Though any thoughts and sleep went right out of his mind when he looked at the house they’d parked at, and his very wide eyes quickly turned to the neighbours’ homes as well, taking in all the sizes and colours. Every house seemed to have a different colour, and they were all so big and tall, at least two times as big as Aunt Petunia’s! Mr Wright’s had white and blue coloured wood and big, strange windows that seemed to come all the way out of the house¹ instead of just being on the wall.

“Come on, let’s go in” Mr Wright’s call snapped Harry out of it and he hugged his things a little closer, walking behind the man.

He almost couldn’t believe Mr Wright had taken him away from the Dursleys, and not even to an orphanage! Instead, he was walking into a big, bright house, not even knowing what he had to do. He stopped in surprise at the big living room, with lots of white on the floor and the walls, and blue couches spread around a big fireplace. Mr Wright really liked blue, he thought while looking around. When he looked at Mr Wright again, he was already halfway up the stairs and Harry hurried to catch up, careful not to run but walking quick.

There were a lot of doors upstairs, and Harry was curious about what could be inside the rooms but knew better than to ask. They stopped in front of one of the doors, the fourth one, he counted. Mr Wright opened the door, walking in, and Harry followed after him.

“You’ll be staying here” Harry could only blink up at the man, confused.

It was a big room, bigger than Dudley’s, with a pretty soft blue on the walls and a big bed in the middle of it with dark blue curtains around it and white sheets and fluffy-looking pillows on top. There were square windows on both sides of it, not like the ones downstairs, with the curtains open to let the sun in, and a big wooden box was put right in front of the bed, like the ones Dudley kept some toys inside. There was also a wardrobe in front of the wall on the left and on the right one was a desk with a chair, and a dresser too, closer to the door they came in through. There were even some bookshelves on the wall in front of the bed, with some books on them but not even close to full. It was such a pretty room, Harry thought, maybe Mr Wright went the wrong way?

“It’s a room,” he said, a little sad that Mr Wright would remember who he was and correct himself now.

“Yes, your room” Mr Wright insisted, making Harry a little upset.

“Freaks don’t get rooms,” he told the man, not sure how he didn’t know this already.

Harry looked up, watching as Mr Wright seemed to realize something, and waited for the directions to the cupboard, or the attic, Aunt Petunia sometimes told him she’d make him sleep in the attic if he made too much noise. Instead of talking, Mr Wright walked out of the room. Harry fixed his hold on the bundled-up sheet in his arms and followed behind a moment later. They went to the other side of the corridor, two doors in, and opened it. Harry frowned at the sight of dark walls with a lot of bookshelves and a big brown desk with an armchair behind it and two in front of it. This wasn’t it either, was Mr Wright okay? He almost asked, but Mr Wright had started opening drawers and Harry thought maybe he was looking for a key or something like that.

“Aha!” Mr Wright seemed to find what he was looking for, and Harry was glad he managed not to jump at the loud sound, watching the man pull a little box out of a drawer and sit down on the chair behind the desk “here, sit down, we’re going to… play a game. You can put your things there” he pointed at one of the two armchairs in front of the desk.

Harry didn't like games much, at least not the ones he’d played before. Maybe Mr Wright’s game doesn’t hurt, he told himself and made his legs move, but didn’t let go of his things when he sat down on the armchair. Mr Wright opened the box and turned it so the things inside would fall, and Harry watched a bunch of red pins, like the ones he saw on the corkboard in the school corridor, fall out of the box and spread on the table.

“Now, what… oh” Mr Wright reached for something on the wall and pulled a tiny corkboard, or at least tiny compared to the one at school since this one looked the size of a big notebook on top of the desk. He took the stuff pinned to it out and put it to the side, leaving the corkboard empty. “Now, take some of these” he put a few pins in front of Harry, who couldn’t be more confused “here’s how the game goes: We’re going to talk about something we don’t agree on, and when we start, we put a pin on the board” Mr Wright picked up a pin and stuck it on the corkboard to show him, “if while we talk, we find something else we need to talk about before the first thing is solved, we put another pin on the board” he picked up another pin and put it next to the first one. “We need to remember what the pins are for, and when we decide on something, we take off the pin” he took both pins out, putting them back on the desk “when we talk about something, you’ll tell me what you think and I won’t get mad, and I’ll tell you what I think, then we’ll both think about what we said and figure out what makes more sense. Got it?”

Harry nodded numbly, head reeling at the idea of the game, especially when Mr Wright said he wouldn’t be mad about things. He could lie and say what he thought Mr Wright wanted to hear, but- Mr Wright’s superpower would tell him Harry’s lying, so he couldn’t do that. Maybe he really wouldn’t be mad? Harry could only hope.

“Now, we’ll always try to take off all the pins before leaving, but in case something happens and we can’t, we’ll write what the pin is about on a piece of paper and get back to it whenever we can” Mr Wright added “alright?”

“What’s it called?” Harry asked, not sure if he should, but all games have names, right?

“Wha-oh, well, let’s call it… Pin-It” Mr Wright smiled slightly “unless you can think of a better name?” when Harry shook his head, Mr Wright picked up a pin “now, I think you should sleep in the bedroom I picked for you.” he put the pin on the board.

“Freaks don’t get rooms” Harry explained again, frowning a bit.

“Why do you think you’re a freak?” Mr Wright asked, putting a second pin on the board.

“Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia say so” Harry mumbled “I do freakish things, so I’m a freak”

“What did they call freakish things?” Mr Wright put the third pin on the board and Harry wondered if they’d ever leave the office. But he had to answer, and he couldn’t even lie!

“Aunt Petunia tried to put an ugly jumper on me, and it got more small every time she tried,” Harry said in a low tone, not really wanting to talk about it “and one time she cut almost all my hair off, and it was all back the next day. Uncle Vernon said I did something freakish to get him in trouble with his boss too, and Aunt Petunia says my parents were freaks, so I’m a freak too”

Mr Wright frowned and Harry looked down at his lap, sure that now the man got it and would be sending him off to the cupboard. He jumped when something hit the desk and looked up to see a really big book in front of Mr Wright.

“You know what a dictionary is?” When he nodded, Mr Wright opened it, eyes narrowing at the book as he turned the pages “here we go. Freak: someone who looks strange or behaves in a strange way” he peered down at Harry, who shrunk back on his chair “you look pretty normal to me, Harry. Now, about the things you say happen around you, I think I can find a different name for that” he starter turning the pages of the dictionary again before stopping on another word “here, it means ‘special powers that can make things happen that seem impossible’, do you know what I’m talking about, Harry?” he shook his head again “I’m reading the meaning of the word ‘magic’”

“Uncle Vernon says there’s no such thing as magic” Harry points out.

“Is your uncle always right?” Mr Wright asked, pinning the fourth one.

“He says he is,” Harry shrugged.

“What if he said… the sky is green?” Mr Wright suggested, raising one brow, and Harry smiled just a bit at the silly question.

“It’s not true,” He said, shaking his head.

“How do you know?” Mr Wright asked, and Harry thought he’d never answered this many questions ever, not even at school.

“‘Cause I can see the sky, it’s blue, ‘cept when the sun’s going away, then it’s pink n’ orange n’ yellow n’ then black” Harry explains.

“So you know it’s a lie because you’ve seen it, but what if he lied about something you have no way to know about? Like magic?”

“So magic’s real?” Harry’s eyes widened.

“It could be, growing back your hair sounds pretty magical to me,” Mr Wright says and Harry’s hand immediately moves to his hair, looking hopeful “so how about we forget that word your uncle used, and call it magic instead? Is that alright?”

Harry can only nod.

“Great!” Mr Wright says, taking off a pin “so we agree that your uncle isn’t always right, that’s one pin off the board. And now we agreed that there are no freakish things, just magic, so that’s two pins” he says, taking off the other “and what do we call someone that does magic?”

“Magician?” Harry whispers, legs bouncing in place as this man he only just met seems to want to turn everything he knows on its head.

“That’s right, so what are you, then?” Mr Wright asks with a smile.

“I’m a magician?” Harry answers with a small, unsure smile of his own.

“Exactly!” Mr Wright says, taking out the second to last pin “and I think magicians need bedrooms, don’t you?”

“I- um- yes?” Harry stutters out, eyes slightly wide, and grip loosening on his things as he leans back on the armchair.

Mr Wright didn’t think he was a freak, he thought he was a magician! And Mr Wright had superpowers of his own, so maybe he was right. Maybe Harry did have special powers too, that sounded too good to be true.

“Mr Wright?” He called a moment later.

“You can call me Michael, y’ know? Or Mike, my friends call me Mike” Mr Wright said as he took the last pin from the board.

“W-what if I’m not a magician?” He asked, past the fear pooling in his belly. What if he wasn’t what Mr Wright said, just a freak, and he was wrong?

“Well, then that's okay too” Mr Wright smiled “you don’t really have to know it right now, not even grown-ups always know who they are. I do know that you’re a child, and children sleep in bedrooms, so you need one too. How about that?”

He looked down at his little grey sheet wrapped around everything he had. The room was so big, the bed was so big, Uncle Vernon would say he’s wasting a good room on him. But… maybe Uncle Vernon didn’t have to be always right, maybe he could sleep in his own room, just for a bit. Mr Wright did say he was only here ‘for now’, so maybe he would go somewhere else later, and could have the room for now.

“Thank you” Harry mumbled, not really sure what else to say. Mr Wright looked a little mad, and he almost said he didn’t really need the room, but when he was about to say it Mr Wright started talking again.

“You’re welcome, Harry” he watched Mr Wright get up from the chair “come on, let’s get you settled”

“Why don’t you put your things on the bed and I’ll show you where everything goes?” Michael suggested, not yet over being thanked for providing a child’s basic needs. Oh, the temptation to go back to the Dursley household was almost too big, but he had more important things to focus on at the moment.

He watched as Harry hesitantly placed his bundle on the bed and unfolded his makeshift sheet bag to show the contents inside. He could see a couple of shirts, looking as big and worn as the pyjamas the boy still wore, a pair of trousers and some shorts, along with underpants and socks that had clearly seen better days, and a pair of worn black sneakers. The clothes seemed to be most of the sheet’s contents, leaving only a small pile of folded papers and a couple of plastic toy soldiers. Hell probably had a special place reserved for this boy’s relatives.

“You can put your drawings anywhere you like, and you can keep the clothes on the wardrobe on the dresser, whatever’s easiest to reach,” Michael told the boy, he’d organize things himself but had a feeling the child would not feel comfortable with him taking his things from him at the time “you can put your toys on the chest by the bed, and your shoes go on the shoe rack” he pointed at it, sitting empty under the bookshelves. He could tell Harry might need some time alone, and he really needed to talk to Marie and explain some things “I’ll let you put your things away, and you can meet me downstairs for lunch, alright?”

Harry nodded and he took it as his cue to go, leaving the door slightly ajar before making his way back down to the living room. So much had happened already, it was hard to believe it was barely past midday. He stepped into the kitchen to see the white-haired woman waiting for him, hip leaning on the kitchen island and arms crossed over the front of the yellow apron.

“So?” Marie prompted, looking at him expectantly.

“He’s putting his things away in his room,” Michael said, sighing and running a hand over his hair “if they can even be called that. The few clothes he has are old and too big, I’m pretty sure they were his cousin’s before, and only one pair of shoes, I- how can people treat a child like that?”

“You can hardly call them people” She shook her head and placed a hand on his arm “you did the right thing, she would be proud of you. So am I.”

“Thanks” He smiled slightly, knowing she was right. His mum was one of the best people he’d ever known, always happy to help those in need, she would have been the first in line to slap some sense into Harry’s family if she was still around.

Marie Fellowes had been with them since he was a child himself, working on the house and as his nanny when his mum was busy at the studios and dinner parties he only got to attend when he was older, she was just as much a part of the family as he was. Hearing she was proud of him felt just as good over twenty years later as it did before.

“Now go get some plates and help me set the table, I’m not as young as I used to be” She instructed with a pat to his arm, letting go of it to grab a bowl from the kitchen island and walk out towards the dining room.

“Lies and slander” he replied with a chuckle, going to grab the plates.

The table had a little bit of everything, with both chicken and meat, rice and mashed potatoes, two different beans, and some roasted vegetables, and he had to smile at Marie clearly having gone all out in an attempt to cook something the boy would like. He appreciated the effort, even if he had a feeling Harry was unlikely to refuse any given food, at least for a while. With his thoughts back on Harry, he decided to check on the boy and walked into the living room to see him just coming down the stairs.

“Did you finish settling in?” the boy only nodded, so he continued “come here, I want to introduce you to someone, and then we’re having a late lunch.”

He waited until Harry reached him to make his way back to the set table, watching Marie place the last utensils and turn to them with a smile.

“Hello, darling” She greeted with a smile “I’m Marie, it’s lovely to meet you”

“Y-you too, ma’am” Michael could easily hear the nervousness mixed with curiosity in the child’s voice.

“Marie is a friend, she used to be my nanny and the housekeeper, but now she just comes around to cook way too well and nag me into eating” He explained with good humour, earning a slap on the shoulder for his trouble. He caught Harry’s flinch at Marie’s action and held back a sigh “If she’s around and I’m not, you can ask her for help with anything”

“With that said, let’s eat” Marie prompted, taking the seat on his left.

He’d already sat down and put his napkin on his lap when he realized Harry had yet to move from his initial position at the entrance.

“Harry? Is something wrong?” He asked, noticing Marie had also focused on the child.

“I can’t eat yet, I didn’t help” Harry explained, and Michael froze, wondering if he’d ever stop getting angrier at his former client.

“You don’t need to earn your keep here, Harry. Marie does the cooking, she’s paid for it” though he knows the pay is hardly why she sticks around “you just have to sit down and enjoy the meal, and thank her once you’re done.”

Harry still didn’t move and was instead looking at Marie, who was quick to smile at him.

“He’s right, I quite like my job, young man. If you want you could help me take the dishes back once we’re done?” She offered.

“Alright” he still seemed confused but sat down on the chair to Michael’s right, looking at the napkin for a moment before glancing at their laps and copying its placement.

“Now, tell me what you’d like to eat so we can fill that plate of yours, you’re much too skinny” Marie requested, for which he was glad. She was much more used to children, and Michael’s head was still getting around the fact that he’d acquired one of his own for the time being.

“A-anything’s fine, really” Harry answered quickly “I don’t eat a lot, I promise”

Michael clenched and unclenched his fists on his lap before cutting into whatever response Marie was about to give - though by her look she was much too stunned to say anything at all.

“Harry, do you see how much food there is on the table?” He waited for a nod before adding “If we don’t eat it, it could go to waste, so there’s no reason not to eat. So what I want you to do is eat anything you’d like until you can tell me you’re not hungry without lying, can you do that?”

“Anything?” Harry asks incredulously

“Anything, but I’d like it if you ate at least some vegetables, they’re good for you” he assured and proved it by grabbing a spoonful of mashed potatoes “here, would you like some?”

“Yes sir” Harry answered with a little awed nod, and he went on to offer some of each dish until the bottom of the boy’s plate wasn’t visible anymore.

Marie’s proud smile was only overshadowed by her clear upset at having to explain to a child he’s allowed to eat. Lunch goes by quickly after that, and while Harry didn’t refuse most dishes, he’s sure Marie’s already filed away the fact he seemed to like mashed potatoes a lot more than rice and ate his carrots a lot earlier than the peas. Michael himself kept an eye on the boy’s plate, and whenever Harry seemed unsure about eating more, he asked if he was still hungry. It was amusing to see how the child believed wholly in his power to tell truth from lies and didn’t answer until the third time he asked. Once Harry was done, he immediately got up and tried to take Marie’s empty plate from when she’d finished earlier than the boy.

“I can take this one, dear,” she told him “you can help by bringing your own plate, fork, knife, and cup up to the kitchen, but that’s all. And don’t argue with me.”

He watched with some amusement as Harry seemed to swallow a possible response and nod, grabbing the requested items. Michael himself gathered his dirty dishes and a few empty bowls to take to the kitchen as well, following behind the two. Once the table had been emptied, he called Harry to the side and left Marie to her work.

“Harry, are you tired?” he asked as he moved their conversation over to the living room, setting himself on one of the comfortable couches and watching as Harry hesitated before sitting on the one facing him.

“No Sir, I can work, I promise” Harry was quick to answer, and Michael sighed at not explaining himself very well.

“You don’t have to work, I just wanted to know if you were up to going shopping. You need more things since you’re going to be living here” he explained, and Harry started to shake his head.

“I don’t, really” He seemed eager to assure, and Michael’s heart broke a little at the sight “I won’t be expensive at all, I have stuff already”

“You’re not-” he paused and held back a sigh, standing up instead “come with me to the library, let me show you something”

Harry followed without question, and he wished it didn’t bother him as much as it did. He entered the room on the opposite side to the kitchen and dining room, moving towards one of the large, filled bookshelves, and browsed a few of the titles before finding the small book he was looking for. He sat down on the closest sofa and patted the spot by his side. Harry seemed a little nervous but sat down by his side quickly enough.

“Do you know what laws are?” he saw the boy nod, but that wasn’t enough “tell me, then.”

“It’s rules and if people break them, the police arrest them,” Harry said, in more of a questioning tone than he’d like.

“That’s right, and these rules most of the time keep people from doing bad things, but some people just ignore the rules and they’re wrong. The Dursleys ignored a lot of those rules, can you read these for me?” he asked, offering the book open on a specific page, not sure if the boy could read already or not, he didn’t quite remember at what age he’d learned to read.

Harry looked at the book with bright, curious eyes and nodded, so Michael let him put it on his lap. He did notice that even with his glasses, Harry seemed to squint at the words for a moment before reading.

“De-cla-ra-tion of the Rights of the Child” Harry started and went on to read the ten following principles that made it clear that the Dursleys were not following most of those rules.

Michael explained each right as it went, simplifying the legal language for the child, and watched as he looked blankly at the book once they reached the end of the page. He was starting to feel a little worried and was about to speak when he was startled by Harry standing up and running from the room. The book fell to the floor, entirely forgotten as he hurried to follow. He could now hear hiccups in the distance and paused in front of the stairs at the sound of Harry’s bedroom door being forcefully closed.

“What happened?” He heard Marie ask and turned to see her hurrying to his side.

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s long overdue” Michael admitted with a shrug that didn’t do anything to disguise his worried tone.

Marie huffed.

“You take care of this boy, Mike” she instructed, giving him a little push towards the stairs “I’ve got a feeling you’ll be good to each other.”

He blinked as she simply turned and left after that cryptic statement, but he had more to worry about at the moment and chose to go up the stairs instead of asking what she could possibly mean by that. Reaching the door to Harry’s room, he knocked softly on it.

“Harry? May I come in?” He asked, not sure if his presence would be welcome or not.

“‘S yo-our ho-ouse!” Came the answer in between hiccups, and he opened it just slightly.

“But it’s your room, and I won’t come in if you don’t want me to unless I think you’re in danger” he declared, not doing more than peek into the bedroom to find the boy’s curled-up figure wedged between the bed and the nightstand, knees pulled up to his chest as he sobbed into them. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong”

“T-they t-took it!” the loud answer from the usually subdued child startled him, and he took a step into the room “I-It was mine ! I c-could have it a-all the time a-and t-they t-took it a-and no o-one said-” the yelling was lost to indistinguishable sobbing and Michael’s heart broke a little more, no matter that he didn’t understand exactly which right the child was so upset about. Not that he shouldn’t be, but it would be easier to reassure him if he knew exactly what was wrong.

“What did they take, Harry?” He asked, walking a few steps closer and kneeling in front of the crying child.

“M-my n-name!” The answer was muffled against the boy’s arms, but he could hear it loud and clear.

“Oh,” he spared a moment to curse the Dursleys to the ninth circle of hell for the tenth time that day, before softly placing a hand on the boy’s arm “com here, Harry” he requested, and the boy limply let himself be pulled into a hug not solely to his comfort “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he whispered into his hair, letting the child’s sobs shake their bodies and his tears soak into the fabric on his shoulder “You’ll never go back there again”

“P-promise?” The tone was filled with reluctant hope, as were the green eyes which suddenly met his.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t think he’d had a hug before, not one he remembered, he thought once his chest didn’t seem as tight and he didn’t feel like his hiccups would make him choke. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always avoided touching him, unless he did something wrong, and he thought he’d remember feeling so warm and safe. If this was what hugs always felt like, it was no wonder Dudley always glued himself to Aunt Petunia after the smallest upset. He really didn’t want to move, but then he remembered he’d just yelled at Mr Wright, a bunch of times! Oh, he was in so much trouble.

“Sorry” he mumbled, scrambling back and ending up with his bum on the floor, looking up at Mr Wright.

“Don’t be, it’s alright,” Mr Wright said instead of being mad, and it was so weird, but not bad. Harry didn’t mind the kind of weird that didn’t end with a belt on his bum “What did you mean, though? You said they took your name?”

Harry sniffed and looked down at his hands on his lap, feeling more sad than mad like he’d been when he ran off. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t call him Harry when he was small, just ‘boy’ or ‘freak’, then he was five and had to go to school and when the teachers called his name, he didn’t know it. He told them, but when Aunt Petunia came to the school she told the teachers he was playing and being silly, but he really didn’t know! He had a name all that time, and they took it away, and no one did anything, and it wasn’t fair! Of all the things they did that broke the rules from the book Mr Wright showed him, he hated them the most for this one. His mum and dad gave him his name, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon shouldn’t have taken it away. He doesn’t look up while he tells this to Mr Wright, not sure he’ll even believe him, but his superpower has to tell him Harry’s telling the truth, right? Maybe he’ll be the one that believes him.

“I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry you ever had to live with those people” is what Mr Wright says when he’s done talking, and Harry looks back up to see him looking angry.

He doesn’t like angry adults, at least not when they’re mad at him, but Mr Wright wasn’t even looking at him so maybe it wasn’t about him? Maybe Mr Wright was mad at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon too? but Harry didn’t know why he’d be mad, it was so long ago and it wasn’t about Mr Wright’s name anyway, but for whatever reason it was, it made Harry feel a little better, thinking someone else was angry too. But he had his name for three years now, that was a lot of time too. Maybe he was being silly.

“It’s not silly,” Mr Wright said, and Harry’s eyes widened as he realized he’d been mumbling out loud “it was your name, you can be as upset as you want. But you’re never going back, so don’t let them make you so upset you can’t enjoy that.”

“I won’t,” he said, not wanting to let his Aunt and Uncle have anything else of his. They’d taken enough already.

“Good” Mr Wright smiled, and Harry thought he looked like when Dudley told Aunt Petunia he’d read a whole book on his own, but why would Mr Wright look proud of him or all things Harry wasn’t sure “now, I know today’s been full of a lot of changes, so if you want to stay in and rest, we can always go shopping tomorrow”

“’s okay” Harry shook his head, he didn’t go shopping before unless it was for groceries with Aunt Petunia, and maybe if he left it for tomorrow Mr Wright would change his mind like Uncle Vernon did sometimes, so they should go now “can we go today?”

“Of course we can,” Mr Wright said, standing up. Then his hand was reaching for Harry and he flinched away before realizing Mr Wright wanted to help him get off the floor and was now looking more upset.

“Sorry” he mumbled, taking the hand to help him up.

“Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong” Mr Wright assured him “now let me show you to the bathroom so you can take a shower before we leave.”

July 26th, 1988

Harry never understood why Dudley liked the days Uncle Vernon took him to work with him until he was being walked around a huge office by Mr Wright, holding on to his hand and trying not to hide behind him too much when Mr Wright kept introducing him to more people than he’d ever met in his life.

Mr Jacob was the first person Harry met, he worked in front of the building and only let people who worked there walk into the elevators. Mr Wright told Mr Jacob to keep an eye out for Harry if he wandered out of the building, but he was quick to tell them he really wouldn’t, he promised. Mr Jacob smiled and let them go up, with Mr Wright pressing the button for the 7th floor on the elevator.

“And who’s this little guy?” A pretty woman with red hair was looking at him when they stopped in front of one of the large offices and Harry froze, looking up at Mr Wright.

He never had to introduce himself to adults before, most of the ones he met had already heard all about him from Aunt Petunia.

“This is Harry, he’s my ward,” Mr Wright said, and Harry wasn’t sure what that meant but it made the woman’s eyes widen and narrow up at Mr Wright “Harry, this is Sarah, she pretty much runs my work life.”

“Not enough of it, you found time to get a child,” She poked Mr Wright in the chest but it didn’t look like it hurt, since he chuckled. She then looked right back at him “It’s very nice to meet you, Harry” she held out a hand.

It took him a moment to realize she expected him to shake it, and he did his best to copy what Uncle Vernon did in his important meetings.

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am” He answered, and it was probably right since she smiled, but then she moved her hand at his face and he couldn’t help but flinch, missing the look exchanged between her and Mr Wright. 

“Sorry” He mumbled, but she probably heard it since she smiled again, saying it was fine. She had a pretty smile, much prettier than Aunt Petunia’s, not that he’d ever had those directed at him.

“You can ask her for anything you need if I’m busy, she usually sits right there” he pointed at a little cube-like office in front of the glass wall “If she’s not there, just wait on her chair, got it?” Mr Wright asked and Harry nodded “come along, let me show you my office.”

They walked past Sarah’s cubicle and into the office behind the glass walls, it was bigger than he remembered Uncle Vernon’s being from the photo in their living room, with beige walls and dark furniture, including a very comfy-looking couch Harry got led to. There were pictures on the walls, with people on them, but he couldn’t see them all and probably didn’t know the people anyway, and that thought was pushed out when Harry realized the couch was as soft as it looked.

“You can tell me if you’d like to leave any time, alright?” Harry’s eyes widened, they’d just got there! Mr Wright chuckled and continued “I don’t mean right away, since you didn’ want to stay home, but I’m not sure here will be any fun either. So if you get too bored, just let me or Sarah know and we’ll walk you outside for some air and a snack or something. If you still want to come back tomorrow, we’ll get you something to pass the time.”

He wasn’t sure what the right answer was, but… He didn’t want to be all alone with Marie at Mr Wright’s house, even if that might be silly of him, so he nodded. Mr Wright had taken him away from his Aunt and Uncle and he was nice and believed Harry when he said things, so he wanted to be around Mr Wright whenever he could.

“Great!” Mr Wright smiled, and Harry was starting to find it easier to smile back.

What followed was a tour, with Mr Wright showing him to the books and magazines around the office and where some snacks were stored so he didn’t have to go to the break room. Mr Wright had a record player near the shelf, and he told Harry he could pick what music to listen to if he wanted, so long as it wasn’t very loud. In the end, he sat down by the centre table with some printed-out activities, a lot like the school ones he remembered, and a few papers to draw on if he wanted to, though Mr Wright didn’t have coloured crayons yet.

Harry tried to only pay attention to his things, he really did, but sometimes Mr Wright would talk on his phone and he couldn’t help listening in. Mr Wright got lots of calls, Harry realized, and he seemed to help a lot of people with a lot of things. He also seemed really busy, so Harry tried his best not to bother him. He was good at that, being quiet. He did look at Mr Wright when he went to grab a snack, but he didn’t seem to mind it so Harry went back to his work while munching on custard cream biscuits.

Sarah tried to take him to see the rest of the office, but Harry liked it better in Mr Wright’s office and didn’t really want to leave. He did finish the printed activities after a while and didn’t want to draw more, so Mr Wright let him pull up a chair by his desk and watch him work. Harry didn’t understand a lot of it, but Mr Wright explained things well and told him how he was helping a woman get money for losing her job in a way that wasn’t fair, just because her boss didn’t like women working on big jobs as other people’s boss. Harry thought it was a really silly thing to not like, and Mr Wright agreed. When they left the office that night, Harry knew he wanted to come back the next day. It had been fun to see how Mr Wright would help people like he helped Harry.

July 29th, 1988

“Your four o’clock is here” Sarah’s voice made Michael pause his explanation on medical malpractice to the boy sitting on his lap.

“Have them come up, please. It should be quick” he told her, before turning his attention back to the explanation.

Harry had been coming with him to the office since Monday, and besides a brief and strained conversation with his boss, nothing much had come of it. He would leave him with Sarah to go to meetings and when in the office, humour Harry’s growing amount of questions as he realized he would not be punished by voicing them. Harry seemed genuinely interested in his explanations of his work, and whether it was because Michael was the first adult to treat him decently or an actual growing interest in law, he wasn’t about to complain, especially since brainstorming his cases out loud sometimes helped him think through them better. All in all, things seemed to be going well, though he would soon need to introduce Harry to other children so he could have friends to enjoy his summer break with instead of staying with Michael at the office all the time.

“They’re here” Sarah announced a moment later, and Michael looked up with a smile at the couple walking into the room. He noticed Harry tensing in his lap, but not sliding off of it.

While most clients were met in one of the available meeting rooms, this couple, in particular, were his friends as well as clients. He’d met them when working a pro-bono for wrongful dismissal and working closely with the wife to prove one of her coworkers had been wrongfully dismissed. When the case was won, she ended up in a higher post and they kept in contact. Since then, they’ve grown a lot and keep him on retainer for any legal work necessary for their clinic.

“Oh, Michael, who’s this little darling” The woman walks into the room in a beeline for Harry. Michael locks eyes with her husband as they chuckle.

“Jean, meet Harry, my ward” He introduces with a small push to Harry’s back which finally has him sliding off Michael’s lap and to the floor in time to shake the woman’s hand “Harry, these are Hugo and Jean Granger” He adds as he stands up himself, walking around the desk to be greeted by a hug from Jean before turning to shake Hugo’s hand, only to see someone else hiding behind his legs “hi there, Hermione” he adds with a smile.

“She refused to stay home when we mentioned stopping by,” Hugo explained with a smile.

“I just wanted to say hello” The small, bushy-haired eight-year-old explained in an annoyed tone, stepping away from her father’s legs “hello Mr Wright!”

“Hello” He repeated with a chuckle “you wanted to look at some books, didn’t you?”

“Pretty please?” She asked with a sheepish grin, made more adorable by the empty space between her teeth where her canine was supposed to be.

“Let me introduce you to someone first, maybe you can look at books together” He answers, waving Harry over “Harry, this is Hermione, why don’t you show her to the bookcase?”

He watched as Harry and Hemione shily interact on their way to the bookcase for a moment longer before turning back to Mr and Mrs Granger.

“I’m glad you brought her, I’ve been meaning to introduce Harry to more children, and this way he’ll already know someone in his new school” Michael confided.

“You’re enrolling him in Sandwood then?” Hugo questioned as the couple sat on the chairs facing his desk while he took back his seat behind it.

“Most likely, yes” Michael answered, leaning back on the chair “Kensington isn’t too far off my way, and I know most of the staff. He’ll probably be glad not to go back to St. Grogory’s, since I couldn’t drive to Surrey every day.”

“I’m interested in hearing about how you came to have a ward in the first place,” Jean pointed out with narrowed eyes.

“That’s… a bit of a long story” He admitted, and proceeded to explain the situation.

July 30th, 1988

Harry was still getting used to the big room he now slept in. In fact, he was still getting used to a lot of things. Regular meals and physical contact that didn’t hurt being a few of them. He could even ask for things now, when he wanted them, and Mr Wright didn’t even mind all the questions while he was working. He’d even made a friend! Well, at least he thought Hermione was his friend, he wasn’t sure since he’d never had one before. But she was nice and liked reading even more than he did. All of the changes in the last few days sometimes kept him awake at night, worrying it was all a dream or just being so, so glad for them, which is why he was still awake near midnight to hear a tapping against his window.

Harry sat up on his bed, looking around for the source of the sound, but it was too dark. He got up and walked a practised path to the door until his hand hit the light switch, brightening all of the room.

Tap tap tap

It seemed to come from the window on the left side of the bed, and Harry tip-toed towards it, not sure what could be causing the noise. He pulled the curtains slightly to the side to peek out-

And immediately fell on his bum with a yelp.

Standing again, he got the curtains out of the way to reveal a big brown owl standing on the flower box outside the window.

“Shoo,” he said, with the accompanying hand motion. It didn’t move “What are you doing there?” he whispered, unlocking and opening the window. It took him a moment to realize there was something by the owl, a letter sitting on top of the flowers “...did you bring that?”

He blinked, then picked it up, looking at the back to see if the owl had maybe made a mistake. ‘Harry Potter’ was written on the back of it in shiny red ink, but nothing else, not even an address. He shrugged and moved back to the bed, glancing at the owl still standing by the window before ripping it open.

30th July 1988

Dear Harry Potter,

Mum said the letter will get there after midnight, I wanted to say happy birthday before everyone! I know you’re busy with lots of adventures with dragons and mermaids, but I hope you read this, even if you never answer.

Happy birthday!

Ginny Weasley.

Harry frowned and put down the letter, not sure about what he’d read. It was almost his birthday, he knew that from the clock on the wall pointing to eleven forty-five, but he didn’t know any Ginny Weasley and definitely wasn’t having adventures with dragons and mermaids.

The owl was still there, he realized after a moment before walking back to the window.

“Why won’t you go away?” He asked it as if it would actually answer.

Surprisingly, the owl did fly off the window, and Harry followed with his eyes as it took to the sky. Only when he looked back down did he realize it hadn’t been the only one.

The tree next to his window was filled with owls.

Chapter Text

July 31st, 1988

Tap tap tap

Harry burrowed further under the covers and pressed the pillow over his ears. If he ignored the birds, they would go away, right? He thought with a sigh, pressing his eyes closed and pointedly ignoring the noise.

Tap tap tap

“Go away!” He whisper-shouted at the window, shoving the covers aside. This wouldn’t work.

Harry stood up again and opened the window, seeing a different owl had taken the place of the last one on the flower box. It was actually a very pretty owl, with white feathers in her face and belly and brownish ones on her wings and in a circle around her face. But Harry still wanted it to go away before his guardian woke up to the insistent tapping, and he needed some sleep himself.

“Shhh!” He put a finger to his mouth when the owl hooted as if it would understand him. It didn’t do it again, so maybe it did.

The owl did pick up the letter on top of the flowers and pointedly held it out to him. Harry sighed and took it, watching the owl as it seemed to wait instead of flying off again. He jumped back on his bed and opened the letter, again only simply addressed to ‘Harry Potter’.

30th July 1988

Dear Harry Potter,

I read your last book today because Pansy wouldn’t shut up about it, and it’s really fun but I don’t think it’s true because you’re supposed to be the same age as me and even if you have some super special magic, dragons are an XXXXX beast and really hard to fight, magic doesn’t work on them as easy as on other beasts and they have big teeth and huge wings and are a lot bigger than I am, so you’re probably small next to it too. I know a lot about dragons, they’re my favourite! And there’s one in your book, so does that mean you like them? If you do, we could be friends and go to a reserve to see some, then I could tell you all about them!

Father says you’re not going to answer because famous people get lots of letters and can’t read them all, but I think you should read my letter anyway so I can tell Pansy you did and she’ll be jealous. I’m not being mean, she did it first when she bought the book before me and didn’t let me read it. So please answer me so I can know you read my letter, and tell me if you want to go see dragons with me, I’m sure father can take us, he can do anything, the other day I wanted to see a game of quidditch and father came home with tickets for a Puddlemore game!

Oh and happy birthday! I’ll tell Cito to be even faster so you get my letter first thing, Cito is my owl and mother says her name means quick so she’s the quickest owl around. I’ll tell her to wait for you to answer, maybe give her a treat before she flies back since we don’t know where you live and she might be tired from flying.

Best wishes,

Draco Malfoy.

Harry was still looking at the letter when the tapping started again, and he saw the owl- Cito tapping her beak on the wooden frame of the open window.

“Uh, I don’t have any treats,” He told the owl, looking around his room.

Even if the letter wasn’t for him, it wasn’t fair to leave Cito hungry, he decided. Standing from the bed, leaving the two letters behind, he went to open his door and tip-toe downstairs. The house was mostly dark, but the light in the kitchen was on, so the stairs weren’t very hard to see. Harry didn’t think to question the state of the lights until he stepped into the kitchen, squinting slightly at the light, and found himself under a curious look from Mr Wright, who was doing- something.

“Still up, are you?” Mr Wright asked, putting a large bowl down on the kitchen island, which had some packages open on top of it. Harry spotted flour and chocolate before Mr Wright spoke again “or did something wake you up?”

“Didn’t sleep yet” Harry answers a little nervously, glancing around the kitchen. He knew he could eat, Mr Wright kept reminding him he didn’t have to do anything to earn it, but he wasn’t sure what kind of snack an owl would like.

“Well…” Mr Wright glanced up at what Harry figured was the clock on the wall before continuing “given it’s already past midnight, I wish you a very happy birthday” he smiled at Harry “how does being eight years old feel?”

“Thanks,” Harry said with a smile before shrugging “the same?”

“Fair enough” Mr Wright looked down at whatever was in the bowl and then back at Harry “it’ll hopefully feel sweeter once this cake is done, I was planning on making it for breakfast but I might have to wait for Marie”

“A birthday cake?” Harry’s eyes widened slightly as he stepped closer to the kitchen island.

“It’s supposed to be” Mr Wright smiled sheepishly “but I think I’ve missed something. I don’t suppose you’d know what?”

Harry tried to see what was inside the bowl and couldn’t quite reach it, but suddenly he was lifted up by the waist and deposited on top of the counter next to an egg carton. The bowl had a brown batter inside but it looked clumpy and hard, not like you could pour it. Looking at his new sitting place, he saw sugar, yeast, and oil there too.

“I think you’re missing the milk” Harry pointed out, having seen Aunt Petunia bake cakes before.

“Oh… right you are” Mr Wright moved to the fridge to get the milk, and once he added it the batter looked more right “wait, did you come to get something from the kitchen?”

“Um…” Harry hesitated, not sure what to say. He could ask for a cup of milk but he didn’t think owls drank milk. Maybe they liked cookies? He could ask Mr Wright what owls ate, but then he’d know Harry wanted to feed an owl and ask about it, and he’d have to tell him about Cito and all the owls outside.

“It’s alright if you want a snack before sleeping, Harry. Or some hot chocolate? I could make that” Mr Wright assured, and Harry felt guilty about wanting to lie to him about the owls.

It’s Mr Wright’s house after all, and… Harry didn’t think he’d be blamed for the owls, not like Uncle Vernon blamed him for every little thing. Owls are their own animals and Harry can’t tell them what to do, so there’s no reason for him to be blamed for it. He didn’t do anything freakish. He takes a deep breath before speaking.

“There’s an owl in my window” He admits, kind of ignoring the offer even if hot chocolate sounds great.

“...what?” Mr Wright paused his pouring of the batter into a cake pan.

“Uh, there’s owls. Two had a letter, I think they all have?” Harry fidgeted with his hands on his lap “I dunno who they’re for, but there’s lots of them on the tree outside my window”

“That’s- strange” Mr Wright finished pouring the batter and moved with the pan to the oven.

“The letter says the owl needs a treat” Harry adds since Mr Wright didn’t seem mad, just confused “what do owls eat?”

“Meat” the oven closes and Mr Wright starts putting the ingredients away, “I think there’s some chicken we didn’t use for lunch in the fridge, let me cut that up and we can go check on those owls of yours.”

Harry watched Mr Wright cut a few pieces of chicken and put it into a little bowl before asking to be shown to the owls. He walked up to his bedroom while Mr Wright followed and hoped the owls were still there, he didn’t want to look like a liar. Once they came in, Harry was relieved to see Cito was still on the flower box, though there was another owl by her side with a letter on its beak.

“Oh my” Mr Wright blinked in surprise at the sight before walking a little closer “aren’t you beautiful, can I take that?” he reached for the letter, but the owl moved away.

Harry walked closer too, holding out his hand, and they watched the fully brown owl move closer again and drop the letter right on it before hooting and flying away.

“Curious” Mr Wright pointed out, watching Cito, who was peering interestedly into the bowl “oh, yes, here you go” he pulled out a chicken strip and held it up to the owl, who happily gobbled it up. He then turned back to Harry “well, let’s have a look at those letters then?”

Harry glanced at the back of the new letter, once again only seeing his name on it, before handing it to Mr Wright and fetching the other two. Mr Wright opened the third letter and pulled out a small piece of the same strange brownish paper he’d seen in the others, along with two coloured, smaller pieces that looked like tickets to something.

“What in the world is quidditch?” Mr Wright asked, putting them aside before moving on to the opened letters. By the time he was done reading, another owl was already on the flower box next to Cito “this is quite peculiar, I don’t suppose it could be someone playing a prank?”

“I think my relatives would say it’s… freakish” Harry points out since they’re the only people he could think might want to prank him.

“Nonsense, it’s simply very unusual, but people do use birds to communicate sometimes” Harry took Mr Wright’s word for it since he’d never heard of such a thing “still, I suppose you’re right. And training owls for delivering letters seems very time-consuming for a simple prank, doesn’t it?”

“I guess” Harry shrugs, looking back at Cito as an idea struck him “I could answer it? And say I think the owl found the wrong person” his voice diminished as he spoke, not as confident as he’d started.

“It’s a good idea,” Mr Wright said, bringing a smile to Harry’s face “There’s no harm, and the Malfoy boy’s letter did say his owl was waiting for a response, unlike the others.”

With that settled, Mr Wright fetched Harry some envelopes and paper, while he grabbed one of his pens. The work turned out to take longer than they thought it might since more owls just kept coming after the ones already there left, and at some point, Harry leaned into Mr Wright’s side where they were both working on the letters and ended up falling asleep.

Michael was glad most of his Saturdays rarely saw him in the office, given the letter business had kept him up past a reasonable hour. It did make for an interesting read, with letters varying from complimentary tickets to something named quidditch and requests for sponsorship to birthday wishes from people Harry had clearly never heard of, most of them mentioning his parents in one form or another, and thanking Harry for apparently vanquishing… someone they should apparently already know the name of, given he was only referred to as “you-know-who”.

They did not, in fact, know who.

The whole ordeal was quite puzzling, to say the least, but their response letters would hopefully shed some light on this conundrum. Most letters had been from children, a few referencing some sort of book and magical creatures like dragons and mermaids, and some from apparently grateful adults and varied well-wishers. He hoped for at least a few replies if only to let them know the letters had reached the wrong person, but he wasn’t sure how long those would take to arrive.

It should at least prove amusing to tell Marie what the leftover chicken had been used for.

“Comin’” He heard Harry’s sleepy voice after knocking on his door. He’d put the boy to bed after he fell asleep on his side while they read the apparently infinite amount of letters the night before, but it was now nearing lunchtime, and Harry should wake up to enjoy his own birthday.

“Good morning, sleepyhead” Michael greeted jovially “ready to commemorate your birthday? We’re leaving in half an hour to have lunch with the Grangers.”

“Oh” Harry looked surprised but smiled all the same “thank you” he seemed to wake up fully once his mind processed the warning, running right back inside before coming back and smiling sheepishly at him “good morning” he answered belatedly and promptly closed the door.

Michael shook his head with a smile and went to find the car keys.

They met up with Jean, Hugo and Hermione at a nice restaurant in Kensington, and he watched as Harry took in their hugs and birthday gifts with a surprised sight of someone who’d probably never had a birthday party of his own. Well, he still technically wouldn’t have one, given this was a simple lunch, but by next year Michael was sure Harry will have made enough friends to invite for a birthday party and he could-

Oh.

He was unusually silent for the rest of their lunch and, while the Grangers didn’t question it, Marie’s knowing look told him she might have an idea of what was going through his mind. Once lunch was done, they sang happy birthday to Harry, ate some cake - which Michael had brought once Marie was done decorating it - and took their little group to Kensington Gardens for a walk.

Watching Harry and Hermione talk excitedly, the latter pointing at the Peter Pan statue and probably regaling Harry with the tale of lost children and faeries from the known old book, only solidified his decision. Yes, he’d never quite wanted children of his own blood, but something in him felt he could never let go of the little boy he’d only just taken in. Incredible, he mused, how much one could change in a week.

“Mr Wright” Harry’s voice snapped him out of his musings and he looked down to see the boy’s hopeful look turned on him “can I get the book Hermione was talking about? With Peter Pan and the fairies in the garden? Please?” 

“Of course, we can stop by a bookshop on the way home” he answered, and couldn't help smiling at the sight of the boy’s resulting grin at his answer, watching as Harry runs back to Hermione’s side.

Incredible indeed.

“I might need a hand around the house” Marie pointed out, and Michael realized she’d been standing by his side this whole time “since I have a feeling your temporary ward won’t be temporary for long.”

“We’ll hire some help, then” Michael refused to get flustered by how well she knew him anymore.

“You’re doing good, Mike” She assured him with a smile and a sideways hug.

“I hope so,” he admitted in a whisper, returning the embrace.

His decision, however, is not the one that matters, and he finds himself strangely reluctant to bring up the subject with Harry. His analytical mind points out it would be better to ask once the boy is more settled, probably in a month or so after he’s been in the new school long enough to form friendships and is more familiar with their little family and dynamics, but it feels awfully manipulative of him. On the other hand, the boy just had his first birthday celebration and is likely riding a happiness high, so asking right now would be equally manipulative. He sighs, cursing his habit of overthinking, and decides to ask when it feels right.

His instincts had yet to fail him, after all.

Their return to the house comes late in the afternoon, given Hermione had insisted on accompanying them to the library to retrieve Harry’s book and the Grangers could hardly say no to their little girl. A simple book retrieval turned into an afternoon of reading for the children, and Hugo shared with him his pleasure that his daughter had met someone as avidly interested in the written word as she is and thankfully near her age. Michael returned the sentiment fully, hardly thinking of anyone better to have become Harry’s first friend in this new environment. The group finally dispersed by six, with Marie leaving them for an apparent date, and Michael drove back an ecstatic Harry in possession of at least a dozen more books besides the one he’d asked for.

They were barely out of the car when a hoot stopped them in their tracks, and Michael looked up to the sight of an owl descending on them, landing on top of the car with a letter in its beak. He reached for it only to have it raise its talons at him.

“Oh, Cito!” Harry smiled, reaching up but not quite managing to reach the owl on top of the car.

“And she has something for you” Michael pointed out, a little put out for not being allowed to take the letter, but he supposed it was a good thing the owl somehow knew to deliver only to the recipient.

“Can you follow us in?” Harry asked, and he realized the boy was talking to the owl, who incredibly enough nodded at the question.

He resignedly took out his keys and unlocked the door to the house, leading Harry and the unusually smart owl into the sitting room, where Cito landed on the centre table. Taking his time in locking the door and putting Harry’s gifts away on one of the couches, he watched the boy take the letter and open it, sitting on the armchair to read it. A few moments later, Harry held it out to him.

31st July 1988

Dear Harry Potter, 

I’m very sure Cito didn’t deliver my letter to the wrong person. She’s the smartest owl around, plus there’s no other Harry Potter in magical Britain besides you, and you can’t be a muggle because father charmed the letter so no muggle could read it. I asked father if the spell could have failed, but he said it couldn’t, and he’s always right.

Father asked me to ask you who you’re living with if you don’t know what I was talking about. Does that mean the books really aren’t true? I knew it, of course, but It would be nice to really know. Pansy will be disappointed, I'm sure. Anyway, do you live with muggles? That must be awful. Father says that if you give us an address, we could meet, and then we could teach you all about the magical world! Plus I could tell Pansy I met Harry Potter since she didn’t believe you wrote to me, but I’ll prove it’s true and then she’ll stop bragging about her new broom all the time.

I’ll tell Cito to wait on you again since Father said you might not have your own owl to answer me with. We should get you an owl, the owlery in Diagon Alley has the prettiest ones!

Best wishes,

Draco Malfoy.

“What in the world…” Michael muttered as he puts down the letter, finding it too sincere to be some sort of elaborate prank, and yet having no idea what to make of its contents.

“What’s a muggle?” Harry asked, looking up at him from his seat, an open book already having found its way into his lap.

“I have no idea” he admitted “but I suppose there’s only one way to find out”

Leaving the letter on the centre table, amused by the owl’s attempt at pecking his hand, Michael went to fetch a pen, some paper, and an envelope.

Chapter Text

August 1st, 1988

The approaching footsteps that grabbed his attention were quick, too quick for someone simply walking. Hadn’t he told his son enough times not to run in the hallways? Lucius sighed and stood and moved just as the footsteps stopped at his door, opening it before his son could.

“What have I said about running?” He raised one brow down at his son, who was still in his blue pyjamas filled with golden snitches buzzing about.

“Not to do it” Draco answered with an apologetic look, but seemed to forget it an instant later as he raised his hand to show off a piece of white paper that did not look like parchment, “Harry Potter wrote again! Well, not Harry Potter, his guardian wants to talk to you and mother! We’ll get to meet Harry Potter!”

“Does he?” Lucius took the letter from his son’s hand, glancing at the white piece of paper quite unlike the parchment they used to send their own letters.

How… muggle.

He turned back to his desk, sitting down to regard the letter properly, only then noticing his son’s continued presence.

“Do dress yourself properly before leaving the bedroom, Draco” He instructed and the boy left with a sigh, probably realizing he was not about to declare an impromptu visit to Mr Potter due to a mere letter.

Unfolding the piece of muggle paper, he began reading.

31st July 1988

Dear Mr and Mrs Malfoy,

I have recently acquired custody of Mr Potter, who says never before to have received this sort of correspondence in his life. Given your son claims his owl could not possibly be mistaken, I suppose some sort of explanation would not be amiss as to the motivation behind Mr Malfoy’s request for Mr Potter’s place of residence and request for a meeting with a child who has no idea of who you are.

Yours truly,

Michael Wright, Mr Potter’s concerned guardian.

Lucius took a deep breath and put down the letter, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his mind at once. No one in the Wizarding World knew quite where their supposed saviour was hiding, only that it was safe and supposedly in a recluse magical family. Rumours did fly around about adventures no child could possibly be living due to the most likely unsanctioned books that popped up here and there, but those were dismissed by anyone with some amount of sense. If he was staying with muggles, it would explain his continued absence from the spotlight.

“Dobby” he called after a moment, watching the creature pop into existence in front of his desk “Do tell Narcissa to come down to my office” he ordered and turned back to the letter, dismissing the elf.

They had plans to make, which would hopefully result in better standing for their name and house.

August 7th, 1988

The days preceding the scheduled meeting with the Malfoy family were unusually unproductive, causing Michael an endless amount of frustration. Of course, most matters related to Harry personally were quickly resolved once the temporary guardianship papers came through, which meant the boy had been thoroughly checked out at a hospital as well as by an optometrist - which resulted in an eating regimen and a visit to an optician for a new pair of glasses respectively - and was successfully enrolled in Sandwood for the term after the summer break. The matter of the child’s biological parents, on the other hand, was a complete mystery.

Lily Jocelyn Potter née Evans had a birth certificate as well as a consistent address history that led him to find her primary school, but from the moment she turned eleven, there was little record of her. Eight years later, a marriage certificate had been filed to one James Fleamont Potter, whom Michael could find nothing about in England. There was no registry of a post-marital address nor a single word of their death in any papers he could get his hands on, let alone a will to be read. It was, all in all, quite unusual and off-putting. A reluctant call to Petunia Dursley merely revealed the child to have been dropped on their doorstep without so much as a by your leave, which did nothing to justify their treatment and only aggravated his befuddled state.

The Malfoy family was another curious subject, given they were clearly extant and yet there was little to be found on any member of the family they had exchanged letters with. In fact, the most he could find were property deeds belonging to people he might loosely assume belonged to the family. It was as if, for all intents and purposes, they did not exist. This realization was vexing, to say the least.

When Friday came, Michael had very little to go on in regard to the meeting he was about to step into. The exchange of letters had increased once Draco Malfoy’s father reached out to schedule a meeting, likely once his son relayed Michael’s letter to his parents, but had remained a distant and formal thing, not unlike those he exchanged with potential clients. The meeting had been scheduled for three o’clock, and Sarah had announced he was expected in the meeting room only a few minutes before that. Harry was left in his office, given he wasn’t sure what would come of it, which left him to enter through the glass doors on his own and feeling distinctively unprepared.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said as he stepped into the room, eyes finally falling upon his guests, a man and a woman standing by the wooden table, both sporting unusually pale blond coloured hair.

The man - whom he assumed to be Lucius according to their correspondence - had hair as long as his wife’s, reaching far past his shoulders, and wore a tailcoat suit more suited to a few decades past. His expression was one Michael had seen many times before from across the courtroom, with hidden disdain and a sense of superiority, fitting when matched with his pointed features and hinting at a habit of looking down his nose at others.

The woman had a more pleasant expression, if still familiar in an entirely different way due to the calculating glint behind her eyes. Her hair was up in an elegant top knot, hardly looking as if anything was keeping it up, and her dress was also more reminiscent of the last century than anything modern, but simple and muted enough not to call for a ridiculous amount of attention.

“Not at all” her reaction to his greeting was a polite, close-lipped smile, while her husband remained quiet.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here,” he added, closing the door behind himself “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, I’m Michael Wright” he extended a hand to the woman, who was standing closest to him.

“Narcissa Malfoy,” she placed her hand in his, but clearly not for a handshake. Unfazed, he raised it to his lips, bowing only slightly, before straightening himself again.

“A pleasure,” he assured her “Lucius Malfoy, I presume?”

“Indeed” the man nodded, not seeming inclined to offer his hand, so Michael didn’t bother holding his own out to shake.

“Make yourselves comfortable, please” he motioned to the chairs and walked to the opposite side of the desk, facing them as he usually does his clients for witness preparation “Now, as I mentioned in my letter, Mr Potter has recently come into my custody and had never before received the number of letters that reached him on his birthday. You claim to know the reason for it?”

“I don’t claim- ”

“Is your guardianship legally verifiable?” Mrs Malfoy interrupted her husband, looking conflicted, though he doubted she often let her emotions show as transparently and no doubt wanted him to notice this in particular.

“Yes, his relatives were quite happy to sign every document” he answered, his distaste probably showing at the mention of the Dursleys.

“You surely don’t mean to tell him…?” Mr Malfoy turned to his wife, expression and tone hardly changing, and yet Michael’s years in court have taught him to read people like books, making it easy to tell the man does not agree with whatever course of action his wife has decided on.

“He is Mr Potter’s guardian, surely he has the right to know” She argued, both acting as if he isn’t sitting a few feet away.

“He is a muggle, Potter should be living with his own kind,” Mr Malfoy refuted, and Michael frowns at the term.

“Whatever a muggle may be, I was able to read your son’s letter” he pointed out, remembering their son’s use of the word in his last letter to Harry, whatever it meant, caring little for having interrupted the argument.

Both pause for a moment before turning their eyes back towards him.

“Quite right you are” Mrs Malfoy settled on answering, quieting her husband’s incoming protest with a look “The first thing you need to know, of course, is that magic is real”

“Can you prove it?” Was Michael’s instinctive response, sidestepping disbelief almost by default, with no idea of what prompted him to do so.

“Of course” she placed her hands over the table, shifting her wrist, and suddenly a stick slid out of the long sleeve of her dress and into her waiting hand.

With a discreet movement, she pointed it at a resting cup of water in between them and promptly turned it into a vase, the glass seamlessly transforming into what Michael assumed to be porcelain. It held familiar blue patterns on its surface, reminding him of vases he had seen decorating the Li household - that of another of his clients - at the times he went over for business dinners.

He blinked once, then twice, and followed it up by reaching out to touch the vase. It was solid and smooth and filled with the same water as the cup, he realized after tapping on it. He huffed in surprise when, after another flick of the stick he could only assume to be a wand, the vase returned to the previous form of a glass cup.

“...well then, magic is real” he stated unnecessarily.

Somehow, it didn’t feel like an unexpected revelation.

It felt like a piece of an incomplete puzzle being found.

It felt the same way it felt to have Harry in his life: as the way it should be.

“That’s it?” Mr Malfoy asked, sounding incredulous even as his expression revealed very little.

“Well, I can hardly refute obvious evidence” Michael raised one brow “should I be doubting you?”

“Not at all” Mrs Malfoy seemed to get over her surprise quickly “It’s simply an unexpected reaction, but appreciated. The next thing you need to know is that there is an entire magical society hidden from the eyes of those who can’t practice it, and Mr Potter is quite a public figure in it…”

What followed was an almost unbelievable tale of dark lords and magical warfare, with such unimaginable details it could be nothing but the truth, if a slightly biased one given he had no other sides to corroborate their story. The idea of an entire magical society did sound preposterous, and yet would explain the lack of records of these people’s existence. The idea of a grown wizard, dark as he may have been, going after a single child did seem ridiculous, what threat could a one-year-old pose to a so-called dark lord? He voiced his question but received no answers, only able to listen and attempt to assimilate the fact that his ward was famous for outliving his parents and thus regarded as the saviour of this hidden magical world.

The tone of the tale changed once Michael began asking about further details of this hidden society, such as government - apparently, they were still under the purview of her majesty the queen but with a treaty of non-interference except due to certain key emergencies - and schooling - Hogwarts was an unusual name for a school - and especially where to obtain more information about them, which led to directions to Diagon Alley, a magical shopping district seemingly hidden in plain sight.

“I will need some time” Michael announced at a lull in the conversation

“Of course, it’s understandable” Mrs Malfoy assured him “I don’t suppose you’d allow us to meet Mr Potter?”

“Not yet” He stood, ignoring Mr Malfoy’s hint of a sneer “Thank you for this meeting, there’s certainly a lot to think about”

“It was our pleasure” Mrs Malfoy assured with a sharp smile “I would like for us to keep in touch, I’m sure you’ll have more questions”

“I don’t suppose you have a telephone?” Michael asked, earning a slightly derisive and a confused look each from Mr and Mrs Malfoy respectively “Well, arrangements can be made until Harry has an owl of his own”

They parted ways before Mr Malfoy could manage to get another word in.

No words were exchanged between the platinum-haired couple as they left the building, walking down a block before slipping into an alley and disappearing from view. Only once they appeared in their apparition room, under the protection of their own wards, did Narcissa turn to her husband with an openly unsatisfied look.

“You are often more polite when dealing with civilized people, muggles or not” She pointed out, not quite understanding her husband’s behaviour at the meeting.

They’ve long since worked with muggles when necessary, wizards were a dying breed after all, no matter how the ministry chose to paint their diminishing numbers. Lucius had always been distantly polite, even charming if the situation called for it, which is what made his recent demeanour slightly out of character.

“Harry Potter cannot be raised by a muggle!” Her husband exclaimed, walking out of the room and into the foyer with a frustrated gait.

“Is he, though? Your spellwork doesn’t tend to fail” She pointed out, following after him in more measured steps.

“He could have had the child read it to him, and a squib raising the Boy-Who-Lived is hardly any better” He rebutted, moving toward the stairs and clearly leading the way to his office.

“What would you have us do? Take him ourselves?” Narcissa barely refrained from rolling her eyes “the ministry would make a spectacle of the whole thing, and Dumbledore would hardly let matters lie when hearing a ‘dark’ family hopes to adopt the light’s little hero”

“You do have a point,” Lucius admitted with a sigh, breaking his stride halfway through the corridor “at least this way we can exert some influence over Mr Potter’s introduction to the wizarding world, I suppose.”

“Don’t make it sound so political, he’s only a child” Narcissa huffed out an annoyed breath, walking past her husband with a shake of her head “and besides, he’s family.”

Chapter Text

August 8th, 1988

The issue with forgetting to ask for specific directions, Michael mused, was needing to take the time to locate where he needed to go, but also the difficulty of landing a parking spot once said destiny was reached, he noted a good five minutes after spotting the dingy pub in Charing Cross Road, between a bookshop and a record store, and circling past it a least twice in search for somewhere to park his beloved Aston Martin.

Michael was unaccompanied when he finally stepped past the worn threshold of the Leaky Cauldron, having left Harry at the office under Sarah’s supervision for the moment. For the entrance to the main magical shopping district of London, it didn’t look very impressive, with a dark atmosphere and shabby furniture, but for some reason, the small pub also felt homey, like a good place to put your feet up and have a good meal after a long day.

Mentally shaking off the urge to ask for a drink, he focused instead on the people in the pub. There was a man hidden behind a newspaper sitting in a corner and nursing what looked like beer while two older ladies in peculiar dresses were making their way towards the back of the pub, it wasn’t a lot of movement but, given the time of the morning, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find they’d just opened up.

“Can I help you?” a friendly-looking fellow asked once he stepped further into the pub, startling Michael from his observations.

“Oh, right, I’m looking for Tom?” He replied, having searched for a man with a nametag and found none.

“That would be me,” the mostly bald man replied, wiping his hands on the side of his 1vest. “What can I help you with, young man?”

“I was told you would open the passage to the Alley for those who can’t. I’m a squib, you see.” Michael explained, sticking to the story that had proved convenient so far, even without proof of the fact or the contrary.

“Of course, it’s no trouble, just follow me,” Tom agreed with a smile, though Michael still spotted the pitying look in the man’s eyes before he turned to lead the way.

Fortunately, he’d hardly associated himself with the definition of a squib before Mrs Malfoy explained it was probably the reason he could read Harry’s letters, or he had a feeling he might take some offence to such a look.

Tom led him through the bar and out the back into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds near a high brick wall. He watched as Tom reached into his sleeve and pulled out a wooden stick much like Mrs Malfoy’s, if slightly different in design, striding towards the wall and tapping a couple of bricks in random order.

“There you go, and have a good day.” Tom wished as he made his exit. Michael was about to voice his confusion when the bricks in the back wall started to fold outwards into each other, slowly creating a passageway wide enough to pass through and revealing the most chaotic shopping district he’d ever laid his eyes on. 

He took a deep breath and stepped through the archway.

Walking into Diagon Alley was tantamount to travelling at least a couple of centuries back and then skipping sideways into a fantasy novel. With their pointed hats, low-hanging sleeves, gowns and long cloaks, Michael felt like his work suit made him stand out more than he’d expected amongst the more old-style clothes in the bustling street.

The stores were something else entirely, he noticed as he went further down the alley, even what seemed familiar was completely foreign. Piles and piles of books proclaimed to teach from how to hex your friends to the history of werewolves - those are real too? - and what one could at a glance think to be a food stall had jars with pickled eyes and cut-out tongues. What had the apparent popularity of a sports store, with children hectically buzzing around in excitement, sold flying brooms of all things! Distracted as he was, the walk to the large white building at the other end of the alley barely registered and he only took notice of the marble structure once he caught sight of the creatures at the front in scarlet and gold uniforms.

Those must be goblins then, he thought back to Mrs Malfoy’s instructions.

Michael walked up the stone steps without hurry and, when the short creatures at the entrance bowed, he bowed back before continuing past the burnished bronze doors and towards the large silver one. Once closer, he noticed words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

An unwitting shiver slithered down his spine as he was once again bowed through the doors, reciprocating the respectful gesture and stepping into the vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, and examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Browsing the nameplates, he soon found the one he was looking for and approached the goblin who didn’t appear overly busy.

“Good morning Mr Gornuk, I would like to exchange six hundred pounds into galleons, as well as acquire some information,” he announced, likely a little too cheery for someone who was about to lose a fourth of the value of their money.

“You can ask, sir. The money?” The goblin held out his long-fingered hand.

“How would one without their key go about regaining access to their vault?” Michael enquired while passing the required notes to the teller, not having asked the Malfoys given the last thing he should do is expose a child’s financial situation to perfect strangers, no matter how informative they proved to be.

“A quick blood test can be performed, for a small fee, to confirm one’s ownership of any Gringotts vault. If there is one, a new key will be made and all others will be rendered useless.” Gornuk informed while hovering a hand over the bills before placing them somewhere behind the counter.

“Thank you, and would you be able to explain what are the advantages of having a Gringotts vault over keeping my money in a muggle bank?” he added out of idle curiosity.

The goblin huffed and offered a sharp, sardonic smile as he finished counting coins and deposited them in a beige fabric pouch, tying it up and reaching under the counter again, his hand returning with a rolled-up parchment which was placed by the coin purse.

“Here’s the list of benefits and services Gringotts has to offer, feel free to keep it,” Gornuk instructed, and Michael swiftly placed both items in the leather satchel hanging from his shoulder.

“Thank you for your service, Mr Gornuk,” Michael added with a bow to the goblin, which earned him a parting nod, before turning and leaving the bank.

Fighting the temptation to explore every single shop in sight, Michael headed at a swift pace towards where he’d seen the bookshop, entering Flourish and Blotts with a one-track mind. The sheer amount of books gave him pause for a moment, noticing that shelves upon shelves lined the walls, from ceiling to floor. The books were of all sizes and different varieties, and almost just as many signs seemed to be posted throughout the shop to help one find their way. It took a moment to identify the history section, but soon enough Michael approached the counter with a few dozen books carefully balanced in his arms, nearly obscuring his vision.

Knowledge is power, after all, and nothing made someone feel as powerless as finding out an entire world existed right under their nose, with a completely different culture, customs, and rules he did not know well enough to bend to his safety and advantage.

A glance at his watch instilled Michael with a little more urgency and he stopped marvelling at the shrunk and nearly weightless books - which would be returned to their normal state as soon as he unwove the thread tying them together - to hurry towards the candy store.

Better to have a little treat for when he inevitably turned Harry’s world on its head once again.

The remaining time of his day was unfortunately spent in a less magical way, having arrived at the office by lunchtime and promptly gone out to eat with Harry in tow, who still looked too surprised when faced with the prospect of eating at a restaurant for his comfort. The afternoon, of course, was spent catching up on the work he should have done in the morning, oftentimes with Harry sitting on his knee and asking a plethora of questions as he’d taken to doing from the first day he had allowed it. Riding back home took around thirty minutes and it was enough for Harry to take a nap, which he was unfortunately startled from when Michael attempted to pick him up from the vehicle.

During dinner, Michael’s eyes kept straying towards the satchel he’d thrown on the couch on arrival, hyper-aware of the books stored inside of it and testing his patience with all their might, but he held on to the routine for Harry’s sake, feeling both of them would need this taste of normality to cling to once their dive into the magical world began. Once the table was clean and the dishes put away, nothing else was keeping him from moving on to the next order of business.

“Harry?” He called after collecting his satchel and held back a grimace when Harry tensed in his place on the couch before lowering the fairytale book and looking up at him “I need to talk to you about something, could you come to the office with me?”

“Yessir” Harry hopped off the couch and Michael was a little to preoccupied with the incoming conversation to notice the apprehension in the child’s eyes and climbed the stairs two flights at a time, soon enough sinking into his office chair, watching Harry sit across from him a moment later “a-am I in trouble? I-”

“What?” He interrupted, the child’s scared tone completely took precedence over his own worries and he mentally berated himself for not being clearer, noticing how this could look from Harry’s point of view “No, not at all, I’m sorry for not explaining, it’s just- we’ve got quite a… delicate conversation ahead of us. It’s about the Malfoys and what they’ve told me” he assured, not wanting to cause any undue worry.

There would be enough due worry in their future.

“Oh?” Harry seemed to deflate in relief, leaning back on the chair instead of the tense, straight-backed position he’d held a moment ago.

“Well, remember when we established that you were a magician?” Michael prompted, to a nod from the boy “It seems we were nearly correct.”

“What’s that mean?” Harry braved to ask.

“It means you’re a wizard, Harry” he explained “At least, that’s what magical people call themselves, witches and wizards. Which is what the Malfoys are, and apparently so were your parents, and so are you.”

“My parents?” There was an eagerness in his tone that nearly broke Michael’s heart.

“Their names were Lily and James Potter, and I’m afraid the Dursleys lied once again when they said your parents died due to a car crash. The story of how they died is a lot more complicated. I’m sorry,” he elaborated somberly.

“H-how did they die, then? Was it m-magic?” Harry’s hands had a strong grip on the arms of the chair, but Michael could clearly see tears starting to form even as he looked hungry for any knowledge.

“The Malfoys told me a version of the story, but I bought some books that may explain it better than I could. I thought we could look at them together?” Michael reached into the satchel and grabbed the tied-up books, depositing them over the mostly empty desk.

“I- huh?” Harry frowned and Michael held back a chuckle at the adorable look of confusion.

“Just a little bit of magic,” he pointed out as if it was a regular occurrence and pulled at the knot, untying the books and promptly having his desk piled up in now regular-sized tomes blocking his view of Harry. “I should probably have planned this better.”

The slight chuckle from the boy made him smile and he motioned for Harry to move around the table, grabbing for the book he’d skimmed over in the bookstore and mimicking the usual office arrangement that would allow them to read at the same time. Opening Modern Magical History and locating the correct chapter, he settled in for an emotional read.

It was past midnight when Michael managed to put an exhausted Harry to bed, the redness in his eyes and nose just beginning to fade. He’d been quite overwhelmed and Michael was almost sure it was not only due to the newest revelations, given such a sudden change in environment can be rather jarring for a child this young in a psychological sense, even if a change for the better. At least in the end he had enjoyed catching a couple of chocolate frogs before devouring them and was asleep nearly as soon as his head touched the pillow.

With a tired sigh, Michael closed the bedroom door and headed back to his office, which was still filled with books, if on the ground and chairs rather than in their initial position. He glanced at the titles still remaining on the desk: Legislative Guide to the Proper Use of Magic, Magical Misdemeanors and the Modern Law and A Legal Compendium 198 were a few of the titles in the small pile, but given the subject of the evening, he reached for Unforgivable Curses and Their Legal Implications instead, grabbing a notepad and a pen from one of the drawers before settling in for a long, long night.

Tap tap tap

Or at least it would be, if he managed to get to it, Michael sighed as he stood to open the window to his office, letting the waiting owl fly in and land on top of one of his chairs.

“Hello, Cito, is that for me?” He reached for the letter she’d dropped on his desk on the way to the chair and, once his eyes were back on her, received the most deadpan look he’d ever seen on an owl as if she couldn’t believe such a dumb question needed answering.

It took a minute for his chuckles to abate. God, he needed some rest.

“I’ll get you some chicken in a minute, okay?” The answering look could not be interpreted in any way other than an annoyed if you must, but he took it as permission and proceeded with breaking the seal in the letter.

8th August 1988

Dear Mr Wright,

Given our very brief acquaintanceship, I have found it prudent to extend an invitation to visit the Malfoy household with your ward, not only to familiarize yourself with the daily matters of a wizarding household but also to allow young Mr Potter to become more familiar with the magical world and all it has to offer.

My wife and I shall be very much pleased if you would join us for lunch on the 13th, and will be awaiting confirmation by letter so that we may provide you with a means of transportation, most likely a portkey.

I hope you will take the time to come and expand your horizons.

Sincerely,

Lord Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

Only after the second time reading the letter did Michael huff out a slight chuckle and shake his head in disbelief. Lord Malfoy? Talk about laying it on thick. If the blond expected him to kowtow to his every unreasonable request - and it was unreasonable, to visit through a means of transportation he could not control and arrive at a location he knew nothing about and with still very little knowledge of magic and its capabilities - he was in for a surprise.

Grabbing an envelope, some paper and a pen, he started composing a response.

Chapter Text

August 11th, 1988

“Run!” Harry yelled at his companion, pulling her by the wrist and into the cave, crouching behind a rock and barely escaping the dragonfire now scorching the ground they’d previously stood on.

“What do we do now?” Ivy asked, wide eyes darting around the darkened cave

“We need to-

Knock Knock Knock

“Hm?” Harry stops bouncing his legs on the edge of the bed and looks up from the book he’d been reading to see Mr Wright through the crack of his slightly open door.

“We’re going out in thirty minutes” Harry nodded at the reminder and looked back down at the book as he heard the leaving footsteps get quieter outside the door.

There were books about him, he repeated in his mind, still not understanding it even after reading the past editions. Some were kids' books like the ones he’d read when he was little, with barely a phrase per page, but some like the one he was looking down at were full-on storybooks that made him seem like some sort of superhero like… like spider-man or something. But he was eight, and the most heroic thing he’d ever done was tell Dudley to stop when he went to beat up some other kid during recess, and even then he’d only done it once because Dudley went to beat him up instead until he hurt his head really bad, and had Harry tell the school nurse it was because he fell from the swing when it was too high. He didn’t want Dudley to beat anyone up, but he didn’t want to get beat up either. Not very heroic of him.

Sighing and putting the book face-down on the bed after he read the same line three times and didn’t get it into his brain, Harry twisted and turned on the bed until his back was to the headboard, knees pulled up to his chest, suddenly feeling like he needed to take up less space.

He’d been so confused and jumpy the first few days, and then everything felt like a dream, like he wasn’t really awake because it was so different that it couldn’t really be happening. Then he learned about magic and his parents and maybe it was a nightmare for a bit, but at least he wasn’t a freak anymore, he was a Wizard. There were thousands of people like him out there, and a whole school he’d get to go to once he was eleven… and they’d all know him. Or know of him, more like it.

Harry didn’t like people knowing of him, because before it meant the Dursleys talked to them, and they’d look at him like he wasn’t supposed to be there and wanted him gone, or look so disappointed when he had no idea what to do to stop them from looking at him like that, especially the teachers or neighbours, and the lady in the public library who’d looked so angry at the torn-up books - all Dudley’s fault - and called him a brat and said not to come back again. So he really didn’t want people knowing of him, even if it was a bit different with these people.

These were people that read about his parents being heroes in their history books, who maybe read their kid a bedtime story about Harry Potter, who decided it was a good idea to write about an eight-year-old kid swimming with merpeople and fighting dragons and being all these things Harry couldn’t hope to be and piling up all these expectations he couldn’t possibly live up to. He wasn’t sure he could walk around this wizarding world, his parents’ world, and deal with the number of people he would disappoint by being just Harry.

It made him a bit angry at Mr Wright, knowing he was the reason Harry now had so many things running through his head and making him nervous about the future, but then he got angry at himself because Mr Wright had done nothing but be incredibly nice since the moment they met. Mr Wright got him away from the Dursleys, and gave him a bedroom and clothes and new glasses and toys and books, he answered all the questions and let Harry sit on his lap to read like Dudley used to do with Aunt Petunia before he got too big, and he gave him a birthday party and gifts and even told Harry he didn’t have to say thanks because that’s what he should have had all along, but he didn’t feel like that most of the time so he only nodded and pretended he didn’t feel like every second since he stepped out of Privet Drive was like one of his dreams coming true. Of course, it wasn’t his parents that came for him, or the long-haired man or the beardy ones from his dreams, but someone had come. And being angry because this someone told him the truth would be unfair, and he didn’t like unfairness.

Knock Knock Knock

“Harry?” Mr Wright peeked in once again, making him raise his head from his knees with a jolt “May I come in?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, “are we leaving already?” he felt his body lock up slightly after the question and let out a slow breath to make it stop.

He can ask. He knows it. Sometimes it just takes a minute to remember.

“Not yet,” Mr Wright stepped into the room, walking over to the bed “we don’t have to go today if you’re not up for it.”

“I am!” Harry winced at the loudness and looked down at the bed “sorry. I wanna go, it’s just-” his eyes drifted back to the cover of the book still open on the bed, with a little boy with a lightning scar and a blonde girl his age facing off a fire-breathing dragon with just a wand and their courage.

“It’s a lot to take in, I suppose,” Mr Wright nodded in understanding, sitting by the foot of the bed, “but no one needs to know, not yet anyway. They’ll just see what we want them to see. We can even get you a pointed hat if you think Marie’s makeup and your hair won’t be enough to cover up the scar.”

It pulled an almost smile out of him to think of the silly witch hat on his head.

“No, thank you” he answered, but didn't take his eyes off the book. “I don’t want them to think I’m a character in a book though, I’m not- that.”

“Oh, Harry, you don’t need to worry about that,” Mr Wright sounded a little scary, but somehow he didn’t think it was a bad kind of scary “If I can’t find a firm in the magical world to sue these writers and publishers for every penny made by misappropriating your likeness, I’ll find a way to do it myself.”

Harry somehow didn’t doubt it, with the amount of wizarding law books he’d seen Mr Wright fly through in the past couple of days. He didn’t really know what to say to that though, not used to being so easily protected by any grown-up in his life. Still, Mr Wright hadn’t done anything to make him doubt his word, even if he didn’t get why he’d do these things for him.

“I do think we should go before nighttime though, if you’re sure you want to.” Mr Wright reminded him and he nodded, moving from his curled-up position to stand up from the bed.

“I do” Harry insisted, slipping on his shoes “I wanna see the magic books and the flying brooms. And you said we’re getting an owl.”

“I did say that,” Mr Wright smiled and stood up as well, leading the way out the door. Marie had already done her own kind of magic on his forehead earlier and made his scar almost invisible with her makeup tricks, so Harry had no reason to be so nervous. He didn’t even think he looked much like the Harry in the books really, so thinking people would immediately know who he was might be a bit of a stretch to worry about.

The car ride took long enough for Harry to think about the magical world tutorial Mr Wright had given him after lunch, explaining how it would be a bit like visiting a different country even if they lived in the same space as people without magic. Not that Harry knew how it was to visit another country either. But there were customs and rules and things they needed to know and respect, at least that’s what Mr Wright said. Some stuff wasn’t even anything he’d use now, like never breaking someone’s wand or giving it back tip-first if you got it from them, or not using your wand to point at things or people, but some stuff was about greetings and bowing and things he didn’t usually think about. Mr Wright did tell him to always bow back if someone bows to him, because of respect, and that it was a bit like a handshake, and to not call magical people by their first name unless they said it’s okay. He also said not to touch anything he wasn’t sure was safe, but Harry figured it was more because they didn’t know what kind of magic it might have than because it was some sort of rule for everyone to follow.

Harry barely noticed they’d arrived until Mr Wright prompted him to get out of the car and took his hand to walk them to their destination. A hanging sign looking as old as the door in front of them told him the place was called Leaky Cauldron, and the people’s curious looks once they walked in had him inching closer to Mr Wright as he talked to the man behind the counter. It didn’t take long for the bald man to step out with them to the back of the pub and pull out a stick, poking the red brick wall a few times before moving back to where he’d come from.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Harry” Mr Wright whispered as the bricks folded over themselves up and to the sides to show the brightest coloured street he’d ever seen in his life.

“Wow” Harry couldn't help but let out in awe, eyes darting around to every corner of the street as they step into it, wanting to run off to stare through all the windows and glue himself to Mr Wright’s legs because of the number of people around them at the same time.

Everything looked magical, even the bookshop had a duster moving on its own to clean the floating books by the window, like something out of The Sword in the Stone. The candy shop had so many different things it was hard to pick, even if Mr Wright said it was okay to take a lot and save for other days, and the flying brooms made him want to try them out so bad Mr Wright had to remind him they had somewhere to get to before exploring the alley.

Harry tried not to stare at the creatures bowing them through the doors of the bank, bowing back like Mr Wright had told him to do and huddling closer when a couple of goblins looked at them with interest. He let himself be pulled to a counter and didn't pay much attention while Mr Wright talked a goblin into taking them through one of the many doors he’d seen inside the building. Only when he’s told to sit did Harry manage to stop looking around at everything - so much gold and white and interesting paintings - and pay attention to the conversation.

“We’ll need nine drops of his blood in this vial,” the goblin behind the desk told them and Harry stared at the sharp knife he had just pulled out of a drawer and placed on top of the desk, along with a glass vial like the ones he’d seen in the potions shop.

“Harry?” Mr Wright didn't look happy with that, and Harry frowned before realizing why.

“'s fine,” he shrugged. “Had worse than a little cut before.”

“Shouldn’t have” he heard Mr Wright mumble while picking up the knife and he held out his hand. It took almost no pressure for the skin to break, and Harry barely flinched at the sting, watching as the red droplets splattered into the bottom of the vial one at a time. At nine, Mr Wright handed the vial back and cleaned the knife on the inside of his jacket before handing it back blood-free.

Bringing the bleeding finger up, Harry absentmindedly sucked it into his mouth as he watched the goblin bring out a large roll of paper as well as three more vials and mix his blood up with a few drops of the stuff on two of the vials and all of the liquid in the third, larger one. Even the paper looked magical, with scribbles on the borders that Harry had no idea about, but could be something like the runes he’d read about in one of the magic books.

The goblin then poured the whole final vial, with a reddish-brown coloured liquid inside, onto the paper. Harry almost jumped back on the chair to avoid the wet mess, but somehow the liquid stayed inside the borders of the paper, pooling up just before the symbols in the borders that looked like they glowed a bit if he looked a little closer. And just like magic, the liquid flattened out over the entire paper and then looked like it’d been sucked right in, leaving only lines in reddish-brown behind, which Harry noticed were actually words after a moment.

“Wow,” he said again, and not even the goblin’s showing pointy teeth kept him from standing up to read what the paper says.

Harry James Potter

son of

James Charlus Potter and Lily Jocelyn Potter (née Evans)

Status: alive

Extant Vaults:

359

498

508

687

711

931

Accessible Vaults:

687

498

931

Last Bonded Keys:

Vault 931 - August 7th, 1980

Vault 498 - August 7th, 1980

Vault 687 - August 7th, 1980

Warded Magical Properties:

No. 8 Upper Shrewsbury Street

No.  3 Godric's Hollow

Potter Manor

No. 12 Grimmauld Place

No. 18 Hogsmeade

Harry blinked at the sight of his parents’ full names, he hadn’t seen those in the history books, they got called The Potters a lot instead. Besides that, he was pretty clueless about the numbers and names on the rest of the paper, so he turned to look at Mr Wright, not quite sure what any of it meant for him.

“Well, first things first, Harry will need new vault keys, I’ll cover any fees,” Mr Wright told the goblin, and they watched as said goblin rummaged through another drawer and drew out three golden keys, placing a few drops of one of the remaining liquids in the vials on each and watching as they glowed slightly one by one before returning to regular gold.

“Hand” The goblin held out his long fingers in Harry’s direction and he stared for a second before realizing he was being talked to, but quickly took his finger out of his mouth and held out his hand to the goblin.

Reaching over the table, the goblin guided his cut finger to the first key, holding it there for a second until Harry flinched slightly in surprise at the little shock it caused him, but didn’t move the hand. Two more little shocks later and he got to shove the three keys in his pockets, a little worried they’d fall out or get stolen, but he didn’t want to point it out and interrupt Mr Wright’s conversation with the goblin. He tried to pay attention instead.

“A more comprehensive list of assets in each available vault can be printed out, of course, and the properties wards have not been reinforced for a while, due to the lack of a valid signed contract.” The goblin said, and Mr Wright nodded.

It took a few more minutes until they stood to leave, with Harry reaching his non-cut hand up to Mr Wright’s before they left the safety of the private room.

“Here, child” The goblin walked to his side and held out his hand, with Harry holding out his own almost automatically after all he had to do for the keys.

“Oh” Harry stared at his finger, the cut completely healed once the goblin let go of his hand “Thank you”

The goblin only grunts in response and he and Mr Wright bow again before leaving the bank, stopping a few steps out of the building to look around the alley.

“So, where to now?” Mr Wright asked, and Harry hesitated before answering with a sheepish smile.

“...Can we go look at the brooms again?”

Chapter Text

8th August 1988

Dear Lord Malfoy,

I regret to inform you we shall not be joining you on the 13th, having an entirely unavoidable prior engagement to attend to. Furthermore, I am nothing if not considerate of my ward’s comfort and welfare, therefore it would be remiss of me to not take our current circumstances under consideration, for as swiftly as I can absorb the written word, it shall take a longer period of time to become acquainted enough with the particularities of our newfound place in society to find myself capable of ensuring my ward’s continued welfare in an unfamiliar environment.

Yours truly,

Michael Morgan-Wright QC.

10th August 1988

Dear Mr Wright,

It is heartening to witness such fierce protectiveness over one so freshly acquainted with, and I commend you for your attentiveness. While I assure you that my husband and I bear no ill will towards your household, your prudence is entirely reasonable and understandable, and we shall endeavour to present future opportunities accordingly.

Bearing in mind our own unique position to contribute to a seamless introduction into our society, we are still inclined to extend our invitation for lunch, however in a location of your choosing, bearing in mind the proper discretion towards the possible subjects of our conversations.

Kind regards,

Narcissa Malfoy née Black.

10th August 1988

Dear Mrs Malfoy,

We appreciate your offer of insight into our society and would be honoured to host a private lunch in the upcoming weeks, at a time and place to be defined at a later date as I have found myself immersed in the responsibilities of my positions both as a guardian and a Queen’s Counsel.

I would, however, be interested in prolonging our correspondence on matters regarding other subjects, such as clarification in a few observations made note of while perusing my newly procured reading material. Flourish and Blott’s literature has proved considerably helpful in attaining some understanding of what lies ahead but is hardly able to accurately sate my curiosity.

Yours truly,

Michael Wright.

12th August 1988

Dear Mr Wright,

I am honoured to accept your invitation on behalf of the Malfoy household, and am available for consultation regarding possible venues, with full trust in your discernment. Time and place can be discussed once you find yourself less encumbered by circumstances, of course.

While not opposed to prolonging our correspondence, I must insist you call me Narcissa as we shall inevitably become more familiar with each other while discussing literature, given I possess very strong opinions on a variety of subjects sure to be touched on eventually and do not hold myself back from expressing them. I will be glad to answer any questions you have encountered in your readings and may recommend a title or other myself.

Kind regards,

Narcissa Malfoy.

13th August 1988

Dear Narcissa,

I hope Cito’s early return did not cause any concern, my ward and I have recently attained our own means of communication, which will surely smooth out any further correspondence. His name is Peregrin, but Harry insists on calling him Pippin, and the stubborn creature will respond to nothing else. As I have no estimate of the distance he’s had to travel, I’ll leave it to your discretion whether or not he deserves a treat for his efforts.

I suppose it is only fair if you call me Michael in return, and I have always appreciated the opinions of those passionate about their beliefs since I am no different. I would greatly appreciate any suggested publications, especially on the matter of culture and traditions. In fact, I have found these four contradicting texts on the subject of Samhain and I would appreciate your opinion on…

 

August 17th, 1988

“Is everything alright?” Sarah’s unusual question startled Michael out of his swirling thoughts, attention snapping up from the document he’d been staring at for who knows how long and up to his secretary’s seemingly worried blue eyes.

“Does it not seem like it?” He replied with a slight smile, attempting to do away with any assumptions she may have come up with.

“Mike,” the stern tone gave him pause and he let out a deep sigh, leaning back on his chair and taking note of the lack of Harry’s presence in the office, “he’s in the bathroom, quit worrying,” she added, apparently noticing his discovery at the same time. “The bags under your eyes have their own bags, that is the third cup of tea you’ve had today, and I’ve had to repeat myself more times this week than in the past three years. I’m well aware that parenting is hardly a walk in the park, but this is a little extreme, isn’t it? What could possibly be causing this much exhaustion? It surely can’t be work, I’m the one scheduling your appointments, after all. Four of which I’ve had to reschedule with very short notice.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” the joking tone fell flat against the worry in her tone, and he tried not to feel guilty for not noticing his behaviour sooner, not realising how it might affect those around him.

He has been overwhelmingly busy, but it was hardly his own fault! He blamed the bloody secret magical society and their difficulty in providing him with proper answers.

Since the discovery of Harry’s true origin, Michael has had to work twice as hard to accomplish all that needs to be resolved in time. Not only did he need to concern himself with his own guardianship scheme but apparently the magical ministry would have no magical child be the responsibility of a ‘muggle’ under their laws, given they were not technically considered citizens under their purview, thus creating the need for a magical guardian. Children born to one or both magical parents were naturally their responsibility, but those lacking any magical relatives fell directly under the purview of the ministry until the moment they received their Hogwarts letter, which then transferred their magical guardianship to their Heads of House during their stay in the school. Given the age of majority in the wizarding world was seventeen, all Hogwarts students proceeded to leave the school entirely responsible for their own actions under the eyes of the law.

As if not enough complications had presented themselves already, Michael’s inquiries as to Harry’s magical guardian led him back to Gringotts bank - which was proving more and more helpful - only to find the position technically empty. The technicality was the fact that his would-be magical guardian was a man called Sirius Black III, who was currently incarcerated under very dubious conditions, and he refused to think for more than a moment about the wizarding prison least he started planning a full-on revolution to combat their infringements on basic human rights. Harry was his priority at the moment, uprooting the magical incarceration system would have to wait a few years.

To top it all off, the amount of shady and borderline illegal dealings surrounding Harry’s position in the wizarding world was the origin of more than a couple of Michael’s headaches. Harry’s parents’ last will and testament had been entirely ignored based on the technicality that his guardian had to be the one to organise the reading and, given the man was incarcerated, no one had bothered to step up to the plate and get it done. The Dursley household had apparently been warded against any and all magical correspondences and caused a ridiculous eight-year backlog of letters and packages that had Michael paying a large fee to the Owl Post company to resolve for him under a very strict on-the-fly magical contract - since he could apparently write and be subjected to those due to his unofficial status as a squib - based on the secrecy laws he’d read about thus far, as well as exchanging letters with said Owl Post and Gringotts alike to arrange for the warding of his own household after having been introduced to the larger amount of danger his and Harry’s life was subjected to due to their newfound position in this society. All of this while juggling his need to become intimately acquainted with magical laws and regulations without slacking off on his own job, which already included two upcoming patent disputes and a particularly nasty divorce hearing as a favour to a friend and a way to get reacquainted with family law as a precaution for the future.

All throughout, the same name kept popping up repeatedly in the most unexpected of circumstances. A visit to the Dursley household showed the man’s name at the end of a letter that was nothing less than a thinly veiled threat to any with a keen enough eye to read between the lines, a visit to the bank showed the same name as a witness to the Potters’ will and a glimpse at the public trial records in the ministry had him reading said name more times than he could count, nevermind the amount of time it appeared in the history books he’d brought home since discovering the existence of magic. Michael could not concisely communicate, in any of the four-and-a-half languages he was fluent in, the amount of annoyance the name Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had since instilled into his psyche.

So yes, he may have bitten off a bit more than he could chew, and trying to stay on top of things was clearly taking a toll on his appearance enough to be noticeable, at least by Sarah. He hoped Harry was not as perceptive but had a feeling it might be in vain.

“Michael!” Sarah’s call had him straightening on the chair with a jolt and the tone of it made it clear she’d been trying to get his attention for some time. “That’s it, you’re taking Harry home and staying there for the week even if I have to personally confiscate and lock away every bit of paperwork you might try to get your hands on.”

“I thought I was your boss, not the other way around,” he pointed out without heat, earning only a roll of her eyes.

She knew he’d never pull rank like that after all they’d been through.

“You should clearly leave the thinking for me then,” she quipped in a more teasing tone, probably noticing he wasn’t about to argue as if he didn’t know by now it was a losing bet most of the time. “You have way too many vacations piled up anyway, what with being such a workaholic, so I doubt even Treves would argue against it.”

“I have court on Tuesday,” he pointed out, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Harry had tip-toed back into the room and curled up on the couch with a mysteriously acquired mug of what was possibly hot chocolate.

“You have a list full of other fully capable barristers that can sub in for you at a moment’s notice,” she raised one eyebrow.

“One week?” he caved with a sigh, shoulders dropping slightly in relief.

“I don't want to see your face until next Monday, and it better not look like I need to let you borrow my concealer by then,” Sarah warned with a slight victorious smirk that had long stopped bothering him.

“Yes ma’am” he stood from the chair with a groan, stretching up his arms before walking up to the couch Harry was curled up on, reading one of his many books. Not a magic one, of course. They’d talked about the statute of secrecy by now, and Harry was well aware of what he could and could not bring outside the privacy of their home. “Wanna finish that at home? I’ve apparently been kicked out of my own office for the time being.”

“For your own good!” Sarah added as she crossed the doorway on her way back to her cubicle, making Harry’s lips twitch slightly.

The book ended up staying in the office’s bookshelf since Harry pointed out he had others to read at home, and they didn’t take long to make their way out of the building. Even Jacob seemed happy to see the back of him, and the unsurprised look on his face told him more about Sarah’s gossiping habits than he cared for.

Michael was hand-in-hand with Harry on the way to the car when, while glancing at the street, he felt himself collide with something and inadvertently let go, tripping backwards and landing his backside on the asphalt before he could catch himself.

“Oh god” Michael’s eyes, which at first met polished brown shoes, made their way up beige slacks and a white dress shirt to meet the slightly wide blue eyes of the man he’d apparently collided with. “Sorry, I didn’t look where I was going. Here,” the man extended a hand, making him realise his continued position on the ground and immediately accept the help to stand.

“It’s alright, no harm done” He pointed out, noticing Harry standing out of the way by the wall of a building as he brushed off his suit.

“Hope everything’s in one piece,” the man added, holding out the suitcase Michael had been holding in his free hand and had let go of to break his fall.

“Just papers really,” Michael assured him with a slight smile as he took the suitcase back, “thanks.”

“My fault in the first place,” the man pointed out awkwardly at the thanks, nodding to himself and moving to walk past them before stopping in his tracks “I’m sorry, just- have we met before?”

Michael’s brows furrowed slightly, taking in the short, slightly wavy brown hair and square, stubbled jaw of the man that seemed at least a few years his senior before concluding it to be entirely unfamiliar.

“I don’t think so,” he answered, his free hand already reaching for Harry’s.

“My mistake, then. You and your son have a good day,” the man added before continuing down the sidewalk.

Michael had probably only imagined the hopeful look in his eyes. Getting some proper rest seemed more appealing by the second.

Chapter Text

August 20th, 1988

“What’s that?” Hermione dropped down on the couch by Harry’s side, frizzy hair now pulled back in a bun with the scrunchie she’d gone to ask Mr Wright for after forgetting hers. It was probably Marie’s since Mr Wright’s hair wasn’t that long yet. It was getting pretty long though, and Harry’s too, he wondered if he’d have to get a haircut.

“Hm?” He looked away from the screen when his arm was poked and saw Hermione looking at him as if waiting for something.

“What’s the show?” She pointed at the television, bumping him with her knee as she crossed her legs.

“Puddle Lane!” Harry replied with a smile, but it fell a bit at her frown and he held out the remote control, “um, we can watch something else, if you want?”

“That’s a show for babies,” she pointed out and took the control from his hand, “don’t you have documentaries? Ooh, or mystery movies! Mom said I can watch murder mysteries if I promise to close my eyes if there’s blood.”

“Why’d you wanna see something with murder on the name?” Harry couldn’t help but ask, “and I’m not a baby, my- I just couldn’t watch anything with magic before.”

“Why don’t you? ” Hermione replies as if it had been a dumb question, but at least she’s nice enough not to tell him that to his face. “Plus magic isn’t real, murder is!”

“It could be!” He crosses his arms, sinking into the couch and feeling upset but not sure why.

Did he want to tell Hermione about magic and was upset that he couldn’t, or was he upset because she said it didn’t exist and if he told her she’d think he was freaky? Emotions were confusing.

“Science says it doesn’t,” she changed the channel a couple of times but didn’t stay long in any of them.

“Yeah, but people tell what science says, maybe people just don’t know how to, um, how to science magic?” He shrugs.

“...I guess,” Hermione said after a bit and turned off the television, “there’s nothing good. When you come to my house we can watch Young Sherlock Holmes, mom bought me all the tapes. Maybe if you ask your dad, we can have a pyjama party and watch them all!”

“He’s not my dad,” Harry corrects, wide-eyed.

“But he said you’re his ward, that’s just law speak for being his son,” she pointed out, dropping the remote on the centre table, “he takes care of you and buys you stuff, doesn’t he?”

“Is that what dads do?” he can’t help but ask, curiosity winning over the fear of Mr Wright listening in and not liking being called his dad, “my, um- my parents died, so I don’t know…”

He saw Uncle Vernon be a dad to Dudley, but it wasn’t the same as having one.

“Oh,” Hermione whispered, looking at him like she was thinking hard before turning more on the couch to face him, “dads… ask about your day, they make sure you have all the stuff you need and that you’re eating right, they hug you when you’re sad, and it’s like nothing can hurt you, and if you do get hurt they always help, even if it’s your fault. And they love you no matter what.”

“What- what about moms?” Harry leans in slightly at the warmth the description brings.

“Moms make the yummiest foods,” she starts, smiling a bit, “they sing you to sleep, or read you stories, and they help you dress so you look good! They ask about your feelings if you’re happy or sad, and they make sure you’re studying and they know all the things so they can help you. Moms always smell really nice, and their hugs are warm, and they also say they love you, all the time.”

“Sounds nice,” Harry says, bringing up the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes.

Hermione just stares at him, looking a little lost, maybe just as lost as he felt.

“Wanna play tag?” She asks out of nowhere, standing up from the couch so quick he bounced a bit in place.

“Yeah,” he nods with a small smile.

“You’re it!” she taps his arm and runs, and he can only hurry to chase after her.

August 27th, 1988

“If they say anything that upsets you, I want you to tell me, alright?” Michael instructs as they park in front of 35 Maiden Lane in Covent Garden, only receiving a nervous nod from Harry.

They get out and he hands the key to the valet before walking into the restaurant. He had made a reservation for one of Rules’ private rooms for their lunch with the Malfoys. It would have felt a bit ostentatious if it hadn’t been one of his mother’s favourite restaurants when she was alive and Mr Mayhew, the owner of the restaurant, wasn’t a family friend and someone he’d personally worked with on a few occasions. He figured if Harry had to sit through this - hopefully not uncomfortable - meeting, he may as well be introduced to one of the family’s regular eating spots.

They find their way to the side entrance without issue and are led up the stairs by a hostess, who unlocks the door to the John Betjeman Room and returns outside to wait for their additional guests. The room feels almost as much of a step into the past as walking down Diagon Alley, with its dark wooden walls and intricately printed carpet in mahogany red and cream to the six armless, ruby-red lined rococo chairs placed around the set table, three on each side. He pulled a chair for Harry on the side of the table facing the oval mirror on the opposite wall, sitting by his side a moment later. The boy looked even more nervous and the side glances he was sending at the silverware gave him a clue as to why.

“Don’t worry about that, it’s pretty easy to learn,” he leans over to point out each piece of cutlery “we use them from the outside ones to the inside, that spoon is for soup, the first fork and knife for fish, the next one for the main course and the inside ones for dessert. If you don’t know which one to use, just watch me, but you don’t have to be embarrassed if you get it wrong,” he assured.

“Alright,” Harry nodded, seemingly to himself, as he watched the boy sit up straighter and offer him a slight smile that just about melted his heart.

Their guests stepped into the room a couple of minutes later, and he could easily see Narcissa’s approving look and Mr Malfoy’s reluctant resignment while taking in his chosen venue. Trailing behind them, a child-sized copy of the man but with short gelled-back hair was looking around in interest.

“Narcissa,” he stood to greet them, bringing her offered hand up to his lips as he learned was custom, “Mr Malfoy,” he was pleasantly surprised to find a hand offered for him to shake, and only put a fraction of warning strength into the handshake to keep the man on his toes, “And you must be the one that wrote to Harry,” he offers the little boy a hand.

“Yessir,” the child did his best to mimic his father, shaking his hand with probably as much strength as he could manage without looking like it. Adorable. “I’m Draco Malfoy!” the boy’s attention was clearly on something over his shoulder and Michael stepped to the side slightly once his hand was released.

“Hi,” Harry’s shy tone came from the boy nearly hiding behind his legs, “I‘m Harry,” he belatedly offered a small bow, probably not wanting to shake hands with anyone and remembering Michael’s words about greeting customs.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter,” Narcissa offered with a smile and a small curtsy while Malfoy Snr returned the bow in silence.

“You’re really Harry Potter?” Malfoy Jr blurted out, to an amused look from his mother and an exasperated one from his father.

“Um, ‘s just Harry,” Michael felt the boy’s hand brush the back of his knee as if wanting to grab into the fabric and figured maybe this was enough introductions for now.

“I’m just Draco then!” the other eight-year-old offered with a smile, and he couldn’t help but relax slightly at the simplicity of children and clear lack of need for interference so far.

“Well then, let’s take our seats,” it was all the prompt needed for them to move to the table, with the Malfoy family seated on the opposite side of the rectangular table. The lack of chairs at the ends had been a deliberate move, one which he noticed the blond wizard take note of with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

He quickly engaged the Malfoy couple in conversation, way more equipped to debate wizarding matters than in their first meeting, and they fell into a discussion over the distribution of power in the Ministry, which he had looked into recently. There was little to no political separation between the executive, legislative and judicial branches of power, with a governing system comprised in part of representative democracy and hereditary politicians, not quite a monarchy if only due to still being beholden to her majesty the Queen. A Minister for Magic - and that had been an interesting distinction to look into - was elected by votes from any ministry-registered witch or wizard of age and had to receive majority approval from the Wizengamot to be able to take up the position. The Wizengamot, which he’d discovered had originated from the Witan - or Witenagemot - from the seventh century, functioned as a combination of court and parliament and was composed of fifty seats and a Chief Warlock - elected by themselves - that presides over it all. The issue he had with it was that of all fifty seats, most were inherited by those born into Ancient and/or Noble Houses, with only ten attainable by witches or wizards not born into one of their own. Of course, Ministerial Heads of Department and other senior figures also sat in the Council ex officio but held little power beyond a consultant position.

Michael refrained from asking whether or not the Potter family held any such inheritable seats, not willing to impart any sort of political power over them to the couple, but did drag the senior Malfoy, who was more involved in day-to-day ministry occurrences, into what was essentially an interrogation over the workings of the Council of Magical Law and how his job would look like in the Wizarding World given his full practising certificate as a barrister even though he works as a solicitor the majority of the time. The couple seemed surprised at his inquiry into job opportunities, which seemed strange, shouldn’t they be used to parents of half-bloods or muggle-borns wanting to become a bigger part of their children’s world? Not that Harry was his, but he would still like to be aware of the society they were attempting to integrate into.

One of the biggest surprises he faced during the talk was the realization that the term Magic Circle, a popular informal term used to describe the five most prestigious multinational law firms with London headquarters, was somewhat literal. Each of the firms apparently hosted its own magic-related department which took on any clients in need of legal representation in front of the Council. The ability to represent another witch or wizard in court was acquired entirely through a sort of mentorship that granted one a certificate of Mastery of British Wizarding Law at the end of its duration and anyone could partake in it provided they convinced a certificate-bearing Master to take them under their wing and were a citizen of the British magical community in the eyes of the Ministry. This form of apprenticeship seemed in fact like the closest thing to superior education available in the wizarding world, which was slightly worrying and prompted Michael into adding a look into Hogwarts subjects to his continuously expanding to-do list.

The lunch went without a hitch and Michael had no regrets in leaving the menu selection to the chef, merely pointing out Harry’s nutritional needs and letting the professional do the rest. The kids seemed to be enjoying themselves, even if one or both sometimes paused and stared for a moment before continuing their chatter parallel to their adult conversations. Michael didn’t worry much since his ward seemed less nervous by the minute, and even a couple of blunders - thankfully going unmentioned - with cutlery didn’t seem to bother him as much as expected. All in all, he considered it a success.

Chapter Text

September 4th, 1988

“Harry, you’ve double-checked everything four times,” Mr Wright pointed out as he put his pencil case back into his brand-new backpack. It was a dark blue colour that reminded him of his bed curtains or the sky at night and he told Mr Wright he could just carry his books but he insisted so he had to make sure everything was in it for his first day at the new school. “You’ve quadruple-checked, I’m pretty sure they won’t mind if anything’s missing on the first day.”

Every teacher he’d had so far would disagree, but he didn’t say that to Mr Wright. He knew Hermione would let him borrow anything he forgot, she told him so, but he didn’t want to forget anything!

“Fine,” Harry huffed but put the backpack on top of the trunk at the foot of his bed.

“Come on, we can read a book or watch something until bedtime,” Mr Wright offered and he followed the man to the television room, “want me to grab the recording of today’s Puddle Lane episode?”

“No!” he winced when it came out louder than he meant to but still shook his head in denial. At Mr Wright’s questioning look, he looked down at the floor, “Hermione says it’s for babies, ‘m not a baby.”

There was a sound of movement but he didn’t look up until having to hold back a flinch at Mr Wright reaching for his hands to hold them in his larger ones, not at the contact but because he could see a bit of blood where he’d pulled at the skin around his nails.

“We’ll get you something to fidget with later,” he heard Mr Wright say before meeting his eyes, “did you get to watch it when you were smaller?”

“No,” He looked back down at their hands, not sure if he’d said something wrong or- “please don’t be mad at Hermione!”

“I’m not mad at all,” Mr Wright assured but Harry just had to look at the adult crouched in front of him to be sure. Mr Wright mostly seemed sad, even if he was smiling a bit. “But Hermione probably got to watch all the shows for babies when she was one, and you didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with liking something that’s supposedly for younger kids, just like there’s nothing wrong with Hermione being a precocious little thing and reading my law books. People can enjoy different things at different times, and watching Puddle Lane or Rainbow doesn’t make you a baby, okay?”

“I like the law books too! You know all those things and help people with them,” Harry had to add because it sounded like Mr Wright was saying could like little kids' things just fine if he wanted, but what about what Hermione liked? Could he like those too? “What’s pre-con-tious?”

“Pre-co-cious,” Mr Wright chuckled, “it’s when kids do things they’re usually meant to do when they’re a little older. You can like things meant for younger kids just as much as what’s meant for older ones, there’s no tutorial for growing up, Harry.”

“Then it’s a pretty bad game,” Harry quipped, eyes immediately widening and trying to bring his hands up to cover his mouth, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud! He’s not supposed to talk back to adults.

Mr Wright’s laugh cut through his panic enough to hear his response, “You’re not wrong, kid.”

September 5th, 1988

“You do all that ?” Harry had eyes like saucers as Hermione dragged him into Sandwood by their joined arms, dark blue backpack bouncing against his back at every quick step.

She’d been waiting for him at the entrance when Mr Wright led him to it and told him to go with Hermione while he went to talk to the Headmistress. His friend took it as a sign to tell him all about the things they got to study and the optional subjects, and she did four of the six optional classes! He’d told Mr Wright he wanted to do Latin since Hermione did it and he was learning that most spells were cast in it according to his new books, and maybe a sport now that Dudley wouldn’t be there to run him off during Phys Ed, but not everything.

“Of course!” Hermione’s grin was just a bit scary and Harry wondered if all girls were a little crazy or if it was just his friend. “Come on, let’s get good seats! Miss Fernsby makes the seating map on the first day.”

They ended up in the front row, close to the teacher’s desk, where Hermione could ask all the questions she wanted without yelling from half a room away. Harry didn’t like being so close to the teachers but started relaxing by the last period when not a single one of them looked at him like they wanted to throw him out the window and lock it behind him. They mostly did introductions and, while it seemed like most of the class knew each other already, he wasn’t the only new student. A loud red-headed girl called Zoe was also new, along with a shy blond boy named Daniel that didn’t talk with anyone in class but got dragged to lunch by a smaller brown-haired girl that Hermione said was called Emma and was in the year below them.

Harry didn’t know school could actually be fun , not when he was used to keeping his head down and running away from Dudley and his friends whenever he saw them. The teachers were all so nice and none of them said he was cheating even when he got things right. He made sure to get some things wrong when he saw Hermione do it, they had only been friends for a bit and he didn’t know if she would get mad at him or not for getting right a question she got wrong like Dudley would have. He didn’t really want to find out either, so he didn’t bring it up, not even when he was telling Mr Wright all about his first day while they drove to the office for the afternoon.

“So I take it you like the school,” Mr Wright opened the office door and Harry trailed behind him after waving hello at Sarah, who was on the phone. She was on the phone a lot, but he figured that was her job as a secretary.

“I do!” He skipped the rest of the way to the couch, leaving his backpack on the floor and dropping down to it on his back, staring at the ceiling, “Hermione wants to join the book club, but there’s lots of big kids on it.”

“You could go once and see if you like it before joining, you don’t have to do everything Hermione does just like she doesn’t have to do everything you do,” Mr Wright pointed out and Harry nodded to himself. “I have a meeting at a different firm by five, and you can come with me or I can drop you off with Marie.”

“What’s it for?” Harry rolled to his side on the couch to look at Mr Wright, who was already sitting down at his desk. He didn’t really like staying alone at home, even with Marie there. She could be a bit much sometimes.

“Remember what I talked about with Mr Malfoy during dinner?” Mr Wright asks and he just shakes his head in denial.

He hadn’t really paid attention to the adults during dinner, not when Draco was talking a mile a minute about dragons and magical creatures and quidditch , everything sounded so fun and magical and he couldn’t wait to see some of it! Draco said his dad could get them to a dragon reserve to see actual real-life dragons and Harry really wanted to talk to Mr Wright about it but didn’t know how to bring it up. Mr Wright did say he could keep sending letters to Draco, so maybe the other boy would know how to bring it up? Or he could ask his dad to talk to Mr Wright and then Harry wouldn’t have to ask and find out the answer. Asking for a book had been so much easier, especially with Hermione by his side and outside with other adults, but this was different and he didn’t really know how to deal with it on his own.

“Well, turns out there are five law firms that have a magic department, and I have an appointment at Slaughter and May to see about magical guardianships, those pesky books using your name, and maybe try to get an apprenticeship out of it,” Mr Wright explained, but Harry already perked up at the magic part.

“There’s magical lawyers?” He sat up, draping himself forward over the arm of the couch.

“Apparently,” Mr Wright nodded, “If you want to go with me, we can borrow some of Sarah’s makeup.”

“Please?” Harry asks, not about to turn away any chance to see more magic or lawyer work.

“I’ll talk to her in a bit,” Mr Wright said after noticing her on the phone and twirled on his chair twice, making Harry chuckle, before stopping, “alright, you can do your homework if there’s any or grab a book, I’ll let you know when we’re getting ready to go.”

Harry nodded and dragged his backpack up to the couch, settling in to read ahead on some of the school subjects. He had to know the right answers to figure out how to get them wrong.

“Mr Wright, what a surprise,” The female voice that rang behind him made Michael hold back a sigh. Of course.

They had been led to a small meeting room by one of the paralegals at Slaughter and May and told that someone would be talking to them shortly, but Michael should have known it would be just his luck that Lei Chang would be the one to greet them.

“Ms Chang, always a pleasure,” he greeted as he turned around, Harry practically hiding behind his legs due to the new environment.

“At least outside the courts,” the older woman conceded with a small uptick of her lips before noticing their additional guest, “and who are you, little one?”

“Harry,” his ward offered and he could practically see the gears in the woman’s head turning as she took in the sight of them.

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” she offered the boy a rare smile before turning around, “if you’ll follow me,” she called as she walked out of the room and they hurried to catch up.

They were led to the same lift they came in through, but Chang made sure they were the only three inside before pressing the button for the doors to close. She then took out a golden coin from her pocket - Michael quickly identified it as a galleon - and pressed it to a spot under the buttons which seemed to melt into the shape of the coin perfectly and hold it in place. The circle around the coin lit up slightly in gold and Chang pressed it before turning to them, taking hold of the handrail on the side of the lift.

“You might want to hold on,” she warned.

Michael hurried to grab onto the handrail and hold Harry close in front of himself, the boy also grabbing on to be safe. There was a small ding as if they had arrived at their destination, and then the floor went out from under them. At least that’s what it felt like as the lift started dropping down at an alarming speed, the floor numbers rushing past like a roulette until a sudden stop at negative five. Michael took a deep breath and looked down to check on Harry, meeting his wide eyes and an excited grin.

Children, Michael thought in amusement.

“Welcome,” Chang announced as the doors of the lift opened to a room with white flooring and brown marble walls, a large wooden front desk occupied by a busy-looking brunette greeting them, “to Slaughter and May’s Magical Law division. Follow me.”

The older woman led them past the dividing wall behind the receptionist’s desk, leaving them to the sight of the back of her white suit and in a rush to catch up once again. They walked past cubicles that looked familiar enough to Michael except for the presence of typewriters in place of computers and a constant stream of flying paper planes coming and going around the ceiling. Finally, they are led to an office, not unlike Michael’s own but much more old-fashioned looking. He can’t help but stare at the floor-length window, figuring they were in the underground, so how -?

“Illusion, rune-based,” Chang stated as if reading his mind, and Harry took half a step towards it before retreating back to standing behind him, “You can look if you want, I’m sure the adult talk will be quite boring.”

Harry looked up at him for confirmation and, after a nod and reassuring smile, the boy ran over to inspect the window.

“Right, please sit,” Chang invited as she sunk into her own chair behind the wooden desk and Michael grabbed one of the seats facing it. “Now, would you care to tell me how you came to have custody of Harry Potter?”

Chapter Text

“This could turn out to be incredibly complicated,” Chang declared after a couple of minutes of contemplation.

Michael had refused to even entertain her question unless a binding non-disclosure agreement was signed, which took nearly an hour of back and forth and made him glad that he’d brought one of Harry’s current reads along to entertain the boy, who was currently curled up on a couch near them and entirely entranced by The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Only once the ink was dry on the signed paper did he start recounting the entire situation from the beginning to the older woman’s bewilderment.

“I don’t doubt it,” Michael sighed.

“I hate to say it, but you might be competent enough to get through it,” she added, looking decidedly disgruntled at the admission.

“Careful, I just might grow an ego,” He can’t help but quip sarcastically.

Michael and Ms Chang knew each other long enough not to take any jabs too seriously unless they were made during billable hours. From the moment he met the woman during his first year in Macfarlanes, she had insisted he was too soft and unfit to advise any company looking for a successful merger. They found themselves on opposite sides more often than not, even when working towards a common goal, but he liked to think he’d earned some of her respect over the years. Michael mostly worked as a solicitor in his firm, though he usually dabbled as a barrister for pro-bono cases and by request, while Chang usually worked on M&A and disputes and often made headlines that he preferred to avoid. Rivalry aside, he had a lot of respect for her, which only increased with the knowledge that she worked on the magical side of the law as well.

“If you grow any more I’ll have to start looking up at you, so save me the effort,” Chang huffed and Michael chuckled. She wasn’t wrong, he was already half a foot taller than her.

Even the light-hearted joking couldn’t quite break the tension in the room, and the older woman sighed, leaning forward on the desk to level him with a more serious look.

“You are currently less than a second-class citizen in the Wizarding World. I can expedite a Ministry registration, but Squibs are hardly granted as many liberties as full-blooded wixes in the eyes of our laws,” she declared. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised. “From what you’ve told me, the matter of Mr Potter’s guardianship is completely bungled, but it’s no use to pull on that thread without a viable magical guardian, which can’t be you.”

“I’ll look further into family relations, there’s got to be some alternative,” he suggested, “worse comes to worst, we can draft up a deal for nominal guardianship with no power of attorney and pay someone to sign, wrap them so tight in NDAs that they’ll sneeze small print.”

The laugh that followed his sentence surprised both of them.

“I suppose you have grown up, haven’t you?” Chang chuckled, shaking her head, “It’s a possibility, but still leaves you open to ministry interference unless it’s very particularly worded, so let’s put it as a last resort.”

“How should we proceed, then?” He can’t help but ask, deferring to her superior knowledge of magical law.

“No one currently knows where Mr Potter is, at least according to every article written about him, so there’s no immediate rush to solve everything at once,” she pointed out, “Let’s take care of your registry first, and I’ll start looking into the issue of the wills while you try to track down any remaining family. We can go from there.”

“Right,” Michael nodded to himself, “thank you, Ms Chang.”

“You’ll be paying me, I’m not exactly doing this out of the kindness of my heart,” she smirked and he shook his head in exasperation.

“Still,” he insisted, “this means a lot, to both of us.”

“Children should be with those who care about them,” she looked down at the desk for a moment before standing up, “if that’s all?”

“Actually,” he hesitated for a moment, not quite believing what he was about to say, “I wanted to enquire about an apprenticeship.”

Michael swore he was stared at for a full minute before the woman managed to speak.

“You do realize this would mean getting Treves to let you go without a non-compete clause?” Chang asked, tone tinged with disbelief.

“Not necessarily,” he smirked, “I’m not on the payroll as a barrister, so as long as I didn’t work as a solicitor for the duration of the non-compete…”

“That’s flimsy, and unlike you,” she scolded.

“But could work,” Michael shrugged and stood up, “besides, can’t exactly compete when I’ll be working in an entirely different field.”

“I’ll think about it,” she conceded after a minute.

“Doesn’t have to be under you,” he pointed out.

“Kid, If you think I’d trust anyone else to kick you into gear for magical court, you’re delusional,” Chang scoffed, making him roll his eyes.

“Not a kid,” he quipped as he often had to for the past five years.

“Move it, kid,” she ignored him, as usual, and shooed him toward the couch to retrieve his ward.

Harry enjoyed the lift ride up just as much as he had on the way down.

September 7th, 1988

“Is this for me?” Her husband approached the dinner table and plucked something from the pile of correspondence, something noticeably muggle given the bright white of the envelope. He turned it around and she watched his eyebrows climb up, “No, very clearly for you, though it’s addressed to Andromeda Black .”

“Who would-?” She shook her head and held out her hand for the envelope, opening it with a single motion of the sharp letter opener and unfolding the letter inside.

6th September 1988

Dear Andromeda Black,

I must apologize if that was the wrong form of address, as it was the only name I was able to link to the family in question. I am writing to you on the subject of your cousin, whom I will refrain from naming, in the interest of requesting a meeting. Startling information has come to light and in the name of discretion, I would prefer to only disclose it in person, at a time of your choosing, as your aid could prove invaluable in the matter.

With best regards,

Michael Morgan-Wright, QC.

 

“What do you think?” Ted asked as he finished reading over her shoulder.

“I think someone went to great lengths to make me think they are talking about Sirius,” she hummed in consideration.

“You’re curious,” he concluded.

“A muggle lawyer, who could only find me through my previous name, wants to schedule a meeting to talk about information on an unnamed cousin,” she presented the facts and shrugged, “it’s intriguing enough, and with Nymphadora off to school there’s little to keep me occupied.”

“I’m coming with you,” her husband announced, predictably.

“Of course you are,” she huffed, it should be obvious.

Her Ted knew she hardly needed protecting, but he was oh so fond of watching her deal with people who thought themselves smarter than her. Her curiosity may have a chance of getting her in trouble, but the Slytherin in her would hardly allow her to come unprepared.

September 10h, 1988

Michael couldn’t keep himself from pacing inside his office, though it was an improvement on the foot tapping he had been doing a few minutes before. Getting in contact with Andromeda Tonks - as she had instructed him to call her in the response letter - had been a risky move, and the tone of her reply told him she probably knew something was afoot and decided to go along with the meeting anyway.

“You’ll pace a hole down into Rachel’s office,” Sarah warned from her spot by the door, looking amused but still a little annoyed, “will these clandestine meetings become a regular thing?”

“They’re hardly clandestine just because I didn’t have you schedule them,” he pointed out, shoving fidgeting hands into his pockets, “I’m just dealing with a lot of Harry-related stuff.”

“I could still help,” she crossed her arms, “It’s literally my job.”

“I wish, but I’m kind of legally bound to keep anyone else out of the loop for now,” Michael explained. It wasn’t as if he could go around telling everyone about magic, after all. It would be a surefire way to land himself in trouble with wizarding law enforcement, “I promise I'll fill you in as soon as I’m allowed to.”

He had plans, which mainly included talking Ms Chang into allowing him to bring his secretary along if he ended up changing firms and pretty much talking his way into getting her authorization to know about the wizarding world. It was a work-in-progress type of plan.

“...fine,” she sighed but let it go for now, “I’ll go wait by the elevator.”

“Thank you!” he called at her retreating back.

It took a couple more minutes until Sarah announced that he was expected in the meeting room, and he made his way to it with quick steps. The first thing he realized upon entering was that these were a different type of wix, evidenced by their entirely unremarkable appearances and clothes that blended in with the current fashion instead of the Malfoys’ old-fashioned style. The black-haired woman he assumed to be Mrs Tonks was wearing a grey trouser suit and white blouse while her husband, a brown-haired man with a short beard, was wearing a dark blue suit with a grey tie. If he passed them on the street, he would be entirely unable to point them out as part of the magical community.

“Mrs Tonks, Mr Tonks, thank you for your time,” he spoke as he made his way to the standing couple, bringing Mrs Tonks’ extended hand to his lips as he did when greeting Mrs Malfoy and trading a handshake with her husband.

“I hope it won’t be wasted, Mr Wright,” Mrs Tonks warned as Michael motioned for them to take their seats around the table, placing his suitcase beside him.

“Me too,” he muttered under his breath before going straight to the point, “as you may have guessed, this meeting is not about your imprisoned cousin. I need to talk to you about Harry Potter.”

“No,” Mrs Tonks immediately stood from her chair, her husband following her lead, “I don’t know who hired you, but I know nothing about the boy and if I did, I wouldn’t talk. You should be ashamed of going to such lengths for some celebrity gossip.”

Michael couldn’t help but smile at their retreating backs, calling out to them before they opened the door, “Good, because I have him in my custody!”

“What?” Mrs Tonks turned around with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“You may want to start explaining, mate,” Mr Tonks advised.

“I removed Mr Potter from an abusive home situation on the twenty-fourth of July, and have since begun the process of ensuring whoever placed him in that household is entirely unable to get their hands on him again,” he explained, motioning once again for the couple to return to their previous seats. The woman looked like she would need it once he was done explaining. “For his safety, I will not disclose any more information unless you agree to sign a binding non-disclosure agreement regarding anything discussed during this meeting.”

Michael gave the couple some privacy to exchange looks by turning to his briefcase and opening it, pulling out the contracts and placing them on the table between them. They only hesitate another moment before Mrs Tonks pulls them to herself so they can read through it. A couple of minutes later, he stores one signed copy in his briefcase while leaving the other to them. He then proceeds to outline the entire story of how Harry came to be in his custody for the second time that week.

If he was made to tell it one more time, he may decide to put it in writing to spare his voice.

Chapter Text

“I see,” Mrs Tonks’ expression gave little away as to what she might be thinking, though her husband was openly frowning down at the table.

“I have Ms Chang from Slaughter and May looking into a way to execute their wills, but our efforts will refocus on Harry’s guardianship if we find someone with any claim as his magical guardian, since one will be necessary for any sort of healing procedure and I don’t want him walking around without any immunity to magical diseases,” Michael explained.

“So you’ll just sign him over to a magical guardian?” She raised one brow, but her tone didn’t change from mildly curious.

“Of course not,” Michael shook his head, “Harry is under my care, I’ll be vetting any possible guardians and working with them,” and he can hardly be signed over to someone that doesn’t exist to the muggle government, he muses, not that he would do it either way.

“What if I were to obliviate you of this conversation and claim custody?” Mrs Tonks posed but made no movement to reach for any wand that Michael could see.

“If you believe it to be the right course of action, and that you could get away with it, then go right ahead,” he refuses to falter in his answer, knowing he has notes of the meeting in at least three different places and Ms Chang was entirely aware of the date and time, awaiting any news from him as soon as it was done.

Michael had no illusions that wixes were any more trustworthy than the average person he dealt with, which is not much at all, and was entirely aware of the dangers of dealing in this brand new world that opened up before him, so faltering at the first idle threat was not in his plans. 

The witch traded a look with her husband before turning back to him with a small smile, shoulders falling slightly from the tense stance they’d settled into from the moment he told them he had Harry in his custody.

He passed her test, then.

“Good, Mr Wright. You’ll need that spine if you plan to continue meddling into wizarding affairs, especially regarding Mr Potter,” Mrs Tonks offered with what Michael identified as reluctant approval, “do you have any other candidates for his magical guardianship?”

“There are other options,” Michael informed, not seeing any harm in being open about it, “The Black family have the strongest claim, but I would prefer if it did not go to Narcissa, as helpful as she’s been so far. Cassiopeia Black would be another option but I have been unable to get in contact with her and Arcturus Black.”

“You may as well discard the last two. Grand aunt Cassie is never in the country and Arcturus locked himself in the Black castle and hasn’t come out in years,” Mrs Tonks explained, leaning back slightly on her chair, “Narcissa would be a decent option, but you’re smart to keep her husband’s hands far away from any influence on Mr Potter. Malfoy will use anything as a piece in his political games.”

“I take it this is you volunteering?” He can’t help but ask once she’s done shooting down every other option he had been able to come up with, and only after convincing the goblins that Harry’s status as Sirius Black’s godson and his own status as his guardian entitled him to information on the Black family. They wouldn’t part with monetary information, of course, but it wasn’t too hard to get a couple of names of extant members of the family.

“We would need some time to discuss it,” Mrs Tonks pointed out, “even if we don’t end up housing him, it’s still a big responsibility,” she added with a knowing look.

“Dora would probably enjoy someone to play with during holidays,” Mr Tonks added, seemingly more at ease with the possibility than his wife.

“Of course, we can keep in touch until you’re able to come to a decision, and this will also hinge on Harry’s opinion. I won’t put responsibility over my ward in the hands of anyone he doesn’t agree with,” he agreed, “so I suppose this meeting is adjourned.”

“Yes,” Mrs Tonks nodded and they got to their feet, letting him lead the way out of the meeting room and to the elevator.

“Feel free to tell your daughter about the possibility of becoming a younger child’s magical guardian, but let’s keep names out of it, shall we?” He offers as they wait for the elevator, earning himself an amused look from Mr Tonks and a considering one from his wife, followed by a nod.

They had no choice, of course, since anything discussed in the meeting was magically bound not to be discussed outside of it. His allowance was the only thing making them able to talk about the subject with someone else, and they all knew it.

Magical contracts were fun like that.

6th September 1988

Dear Harry,

School sounds fun, I have tutors every other day and no one to suffer with, so a class with so many people would be nice even if they’re muggles. Father says muggles are dumb, so you must be the best in class!

I don’t have latin but I am learning french, since we have a vacation home in France, and football doesn’t sound half as fun as quidditch but I suppose we could teach each other. When will Mr Wright let you come to the manor?

Best wishes, 

Draco.

7th September 1988

Dear Draco,

Muggles aren’t dumb! They’re just as smart, they just don’t have magic but they have science and it’s a lot of fun too, almost like magic but not really, I’ll have to show you. Hermione is the best in class, but I’m right behind.

Tutors sound fun, what sorts of things do you learn? Do you get to do magic? That would be so cool! Mr Wright says I can’t come over yet, because of classes and his meetings, but maybe later! Can you tell me more about the dragon place?

Sorry if this letter is a bit blotchy, Mr Wright is having me practice with a quill.

Kind regards,

Harry.

8th September 1988

Dear Harry,

If you say so, I guess I’ll have to see. Who’s Hermione? Is she your friend? Did you tell her about me? I told Pansy we’re friends but she doesn’t believe me, maybe when you come over I can invite her and then she’ll have to believe it.

I have etiquette classes and magical history, as well as beginner potions and magical theory. My godfather teaches potions, and he’s the best! I don’t get to do magic yet, but mother said I can practice with her wand once I’m ten.

There’s a dragon reserve in Romania, it’s not the only one but it’s the biggest one and father gives them money sometimes, so he says we could get to go there anytime. I’m going to ask my father to ask Mr Wright if we can go, then we can see them up close. I bet they’re bigger than the manor.

Your writing needs work, but it's not too bad.

Best wishes,

Draco.

10th September 1988

Dear Draco,

Hermione is my best friend! She really likes books and she’s super smart, but I can't tell her about you since she doesn’t know about magic. Is Pansy your best friend? You talk about her a lot.

You’re so lucky! I only get to read about that stuff, but Mr Wright says I could get tutors later if I really want to learn. Potions looks like fun, kind of like cooking but with lots of gross stuff. Mr Wright doesn’t have a wand so I guess I’ll only get to practice when we go to Hogwarts.

I hope Mr Wright says we can go, I can’t wait to see real dragons! Do you think we could fly on them?

Thanks, I’m working on it.

Kind regards,

Harry.

September 13th, 1988

“It’s likely unaffiliated with the Advocates to the Wizarding World, so your best bet is settling the guardianship first and then enquiring about it at the bank, sometimes wills are left with the account managers and I don’t have the authority to look into that since I’m hired by a third party,” Chang explained as they sipped some tea in her office to discuss her findings, thankfully in the morning which meant Harry was occupied by school. “I took the liberty of looking into his current guardian and there doesn’t seem to be any record of a trial for Sirius Black, unless it’s been sealed from public access, which is still a possibility.”

“That’s… something,” Michael settles on with a sigh, “I talked to Mrs Tonks and we’ll probably start the process of guardianship change to her if they get along well enough, but I still want him to stay with me for as long as he wants to.”

“You realize any wizarding court will laugh you out of it for trying to keep him if she changes her mind, right?” Chang warns, not from a place of malice but simply wanting to be realistic, which he understands.

“I know, but a good contract will buy me enough time to pull something else out of thin air,” he shrugs, it’s the best he can do for now.

“Only you, Wright,” Chang chuckles a little incredulously, “I’ll start on the guardianship papers then, the transfer should be easy enough if I keep it simple, barely needs to pass through the ministry except for a signature or two so there’s no reason for any red flags on their end yet.”

“Good. I’ll need to figure out a discreet healer to work with once that’s done, but I suppose Mrs Tonks might have a better idea on that end,” Michael mused, “what about the other paperwork I sent you?”

“Already registered, number seventeen Cherry Tree Lane in Chelsea is officially registered as a magical household. You’re lucky the wards made it so the ministry didn’t have to verify it, Wright. That could have been a complete mess,” she shook her head and sent him a disapproving look, but he only replied with a satisfied smile, “don’t get cocky, you don’t know half of what you need to know about wixen laws and regulations yet. Speaking of, did you talk to Treves?”

“We’re talking,” Michael nodded but didn’t offer anything else. He wasn’t about to discuss his contract termination with the current competition, no matter that she was also the one that might take him on after the fact.

“Alright, fair enough,” Chang conceded, not about to pry. “You should come over for dinner sometime,” Michael only stares at her, probably long enough to become uncomfortable, “Don’t look at me like that, kid. I’ve got a ton of books you’ll have to read through and my daughter is only a year older than Mr Potter, he might appreciate another friend in the know. Let me know when you sort out a floo connection and we’ll schedule a little playdate, how’s that?”

“Sorry, yeah, sure,” he agreed after a moment. Why not? He’d been so used to seeing Ms Chang as some force of nature in court that the fact that the older woman had a family and a daughter at home went completely over his head for a second. Harry did need more friends in the wizarding world, Draco was a good pen pal from what he heard from his ward but Michael didn’t think he was the best of influences. “Right, floo, I need to get on that. Do I need to worry about the ministry?”

“They’ll just verify the address is a wizarding house and open a connection, squibs can work the floo so just don’t let them see Mr Potter and you’ll be fine,” Chang assured, “They’ll probably assume you know how to work it or leave you in the dark on purpose so I’ll mail you the instructions on how to lock it down and open the connection when you’ve got it sorted.”

“Thanks,” he said in clear relief, slumping slightly in his chair, “there’s just so much work to do.”

“Don’t tell me it’s too much for you, Wright?” She raised one brow, the challenging tone clear.

“Nah,” he smiled and shook his head, thinking of the little boy at his home that was learning to ask for things and so excited about any minor hint of magic, “It’s worth it.”

Chapter Text

September 16th, 1988

“Did she know my parents?” Harry can’t help but ask when Mr Wright says someone is coming over to meet him and she’s a witch like Mrs Malfoy.

“I don’t think so, but you can ask her if you want,” Mr Wright answers as he finishes setting up the table.

This time they’re not meeting at a restaurant, and Harry had been worried for a bit since visitors had never been good news at the Dursleys until Mr Wright, but he didn’t have to do anything but pick up a few books he left out of place. No mopping, cooking or dishes to clean, not even a single one! He thought he was getting used to his new life, but sometimes things like this happened and he suddenly felt like laughing, or crying, or throwing himself on Mr Wright’s lap and letting the adult hold him until everything stopped feeling like too much. He did none of those things, of course. Instead he tried his best not to get in anyone’s way as Marie and Mr Wright tidied up the house for their guests.

“Oh, that’s weird,” Mr Wright said out of nowhere after putting down the last plate. Harry probably looked confused, because he explained a moment later, “They’re here, I think? These wards sure are something. That felt like a little poke straight into my brain. I’ll go greet them before they get hurt.”

Harry muffled a chuckle behind his hands at the thought of some invisible creature poking people in the head to let them know they have visitors, only nodding in response. Mr Wright walked out the front door, closing it behind him and leaving Harry to fidget with his hands from his spot on the sofa.

Mr Wright comes back a couple minutes later, and Harry notices he’s followed by a lady with curly brown hair and a pretty blue dress that reminded him of the one Mrs Malfoy had on at dinner that one time. Maybe witches don’t have lots of clothing stores? Can’t they buy muggle dresses? Before he can even think of asking any of the questions going through his mind, the lady is followed in by a man, he looks kind of older than her but maybe it’s the beard. He’s wearing clothes more like Mr Wright than Mr Malfoy, but he did come with the witch lady so he’s probably magical too.

“Harry? Want to come say hello?” Mr Wright asks and Harry doesn’t really want to but he also doesn’t want to disappoint Mr Wright, so he steps forward to greet the couple.

“Hi, ‘m Harry, ‘s nice to meet you,” he bows the way he’d read in the wizard book and rehearsed in the mirror, hoping it’s right.

“It’s very good to meet you, Mr Potter,” the lady does her own bow back, “I’m Andromeda Tonks, you can call me Andy if you’d like.”

“Look at all that bowing,” the man by Mrs Tonks chuckled, making Harry’s cheeks heat up as he looked down at the floor, “not a bad thing! I’m just not for the formalities, name’s Ted Tonks, feel free to call me Ted.”

“How about we sit? Dinner will be done in a moment,” Mr Wright saves him from having to figure out what to say and leads the way to the table, sitting at the end with Harry right by his side and the Tonks couple in the other.

Harry stays quiet at the start, even with the couple insisting on asking him questions. He gives short answers and eats fast enough to finish quickly without choking, but their eyes on him make his skin tingle and he feels like they’re looking for something and he’s not doing it. It’s not how it felt with the Malfoys, they’d talked to Mr Wright and left him and Draco to talk on their own, but now there wasn’t another kid to distract him and there were only so many different ways he could answer “I don’t know” to Mrs Tonks’ questions without feeling like he’s probably the dumbest kid they’ve met.

“Harry, how about you go play for a bit? I need to talk to Mr and Mrs Tonks in my office,” Mr Wright asked, though Harry knew it wasn’t much of a question and nodded, leaving the table with a short bow and hurrying up to his room as fast as he could without running.

Visitors may not be all that bad here, but he would still rather not have any.

Michael kept his expression neutral as he led his guests up to his office, ignoring the man’s apologetic look just as much as the woman’s displeased one. He led them to the chairs facing his desk and closed the door behind himself, watching with some satisfaction as the small carvings around the doorframe glinted for a fraction of a second. What would be the use of magical warding if he couldn’t make his office entirely soundproof?

“Mrs Tonks, I’m going to need you to cease this behavior,” he declared as he turned back towards the couple and made his way to the office chair on the other side of the desk. “Harry is not obligated to know the answer to any questions regarding what you or anyone else in the magical world thinks an eight-year-old should know. He bowed because it’s polite and he wants to be a part of this society, his parents’ world, but I’m not about to overwhelm him with information he’s not at fault for not knowing. If your interest in my ward is solely due to thinking I might neglect his wixen education, I might have to reconsider my offer.”

“The boy needs to know his culture, there are rituals and respects to be paid, I hardly expected him to be an expert but he has no plans for Samhain, or even knows what it represents!” Mrs Tonks insists, tone raising slightly.

“Andy, he’s eight ,” Ted Tonks helpfully points out.

“I was participating in rituals by the time I was six, age is no excuse,” she insisted.

“I don’t disagree,” Michael calmly informs, watching as his lack of argument clearly takes the wind out of her sails, “but you and Harry were different people being raised in different environments. I’m not going to overwhelm him with tutors in order to catch up to wixen-raised children, but I’m doing my research to take advantage of any learning opportunity. He’s just been removed from a hostile environment, started at a new school, has a new friend and learned he’s not who he thought he was a few months ago, I will not have you come into my home and make him feel inadequate.”

“I apologize,” she concedes, looking slightly sour at having to do so, “but surely you don’t think you are fit to introduce him to his culture? You’ve just found out about it yourself, it would be prudent to turn to more appropriate instructors.”

“I don’t pretend to know everything I need to, but regarding delicate matters such as Samhain there would be no point in handing him over to a stranger. Unless you have any personal connection? Maybe tales of his parents?” Michael explained, though something about her phrasing rubbed him the wrong way.

“I was already out of Hogwarts by the time they attended, and we hardly frequented the same circles,” Mrs Tonks admits, huffing out a breath that rang to him as annoyance, “still, as a witch-”

“So the issue is my status?” He raises one brow, entirely unimpressed. She’d expressed some respect for him at their meeting, and their letters were nothing but polite, but this felt like an entirely different issue, “a Squib couldn’t possibly teach a child to connect with their magic, right?”

“Hold on, she never said-” Mr Tonks tried to defend, but his wife cut him off.

“It’s only common sense,” she answered in a tone of finality, “it’s hardly fair to damage his introduction into his world by having it through you . Don’t get me wrong, you seem like a capable young man. I respect your protectiveness over your ward and this is clearly a good environment for the child, but some things can’t be learned from books.”

“I see,” he refuses to let any of his thoughts bleed into his expression, only nodding at her response. “I won’t argue over this, but I will insist you apologize to Harry for your behavior during dinner. Whether I’m fit to teach him or not, none of it is his fault and he shouldn't be made to feel like it is.”

“Of course,” she agrees easily enough as they stand, waiting for him to open the door for the couple. Mr Tonks seems like he wants to say something, but if the look he’s sending his wife is any indication, it’s nothing Michael should pry into.

“If you could wait at the entrance, I’ll go fetch Harry,” he tells them and leaves the couple to make their way down the stairs while he walks to the kid’s room, knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Harry calls from inside and Michael opens the door to find the boy laying across the bed with a book in hand, clearly already halfway through it.

Where did he get The Baker Street Boys? I don’t remember buying those… probably Hermione.

“Mrs Tonks would like to apologize to you before they leave,” he tells him, crouching by the side of the bed, “you’re not obligated to accept it, but she is in the wrong and shouldn’t have acted the way she did during dinner.”

“I- why-” Harry clearly struggled with the concept of being apologized to by an adult, which is why Michael felt completely justified with pressing the point with Mrs Tonks. Harry needed to learn that adults shouldn’t get away with acting however they wanted to towards him.

Harry could only stare at the door as it closed behind the couple. He knows he answered to the woman’s apology, but can’t quite remember what he said, though Mr Wright doesn’t seem upset at him so it can’t have been anything bad.

“I’m also sorry, for not stepping in sooner,” Mr Wright offered, suddenly crouched in front of him, and Harry just couldn’t anymore, “Harry? What’s wrong?”

The sobs that burst through him took them both by surprise, but even more when Harry followed it by moving forward to burrow into Mr Wright’s chest, hands clutching at his shirt and muffling his sobs against it. He felt the man sway slightly, moving a little before feeling arms wrap around him and hold him close like on that first time in the bedroom.

“Tha- thank yo- ou,” Harry said in between sobs and hiccups, still pressing his face to Mr Wright’s chest.

“Nothing to thank me for, darling,” Mr Wright assured, one hand moving to brush through his hair and only making Harry cry harder, “alright, up we go,” Harry felt the man’s other arm move from around his back to behind his legs and suddenly his feet were off the floor. He was being picked up, like a baby, and really had no energy to get embarrassed about it, “I’ve carried boxes of files heavier than you, someone needs more snacks,” Mr Wright comments, but Harry is too distracted by being held, hiding his face on Mr Wright’s neck, and the hand petting his hair to care much about it.

It takes the better part of an hour for Harry to settle down and part of Michael wonders if his ward isn’t making up for every time he should have been able to just cry or throw a tantrum like a normal kid but the Dursleys made him swallow it down in fear. If that’s the case, he doesn’t mind dealing with the result of Harry feeling comfortable enough to be a child. Said child was still on his lap, cradled in his arms, breaths more controlled and all out of tears. His shirt was probably filled with snot but that was an issue for another time.

“Harry?” He called softly, not wanting to disturb the boy if he happened to be sleeping.

“Hm?” The soft hair under his chin moved as Harry sat up slightly, face still flushed from all the crying, “s-sorry,” he tried to slide off to the couch but Michael only held him closer.

“Nothing to apologize for. Do you want to get down? I don’t mind,” Michael feels more than hears the boy’s response as he sags against his chest once again, shaking his head in denial, “that’s alright, everyone needs to be held sometimes, it’s okay to want and ask for hugs or any other form of affection, okay? No one decent is going to be upset about it.” he says, not for the first time and probably not the last.

He feels his ward nod once and lets the silence last a few more minutes before bringing up the topic that’s been bothering him since their guests had left.

“Would you like to know the things Mrs Tonks was asking about?” He starts with, hoping it’s safe enough to bring up.

There’s a moment of silence, but then another nod, Harry’s hair tickling his chin.

“There’s a couple of ways we could make that happen,” he continues, keeping his own insecurities out of his tone, “I could study up on things, consulting with the people I know from the wizarding world, and do my best to teach you what you should have been taught by now,” he gives his ward a moment to think on the first option before adding, “I could also hire tutors, people that already know these things and have taught other magical children, they’ll probably know more than me since we both found out about this world nearly at the same time.”

“You,” Harry answers without taking any time to think, which brings a smile to Michael’s face even as he feels guilty for it.

“Well, I can try my best, but do you remember what magical people said I am?”

“Squib?” Harry asks after a moment, “what does it mean?”

“It means I can interact with magical things, but I don’t have any magic myself, so I’m not the same as a wizard. Mrs Tonks was worried that I wouldn’t be able to teach you properly to connect with your magic since I don’t know how it feels,” Michael tried his best to explain, “A proper tutor would already know things I might not even notice because of it.”

“That’s dumb,” Harry mumbles, making him let out a surprised chuckle, “I don’t know what swimming feels like, but I know you don’t do it by staying still.”

“That’s not quite the same,” he points out, sad about the swimming comment and already planning a few outings in order to remedy it but a little glad Harry isn’t afraid of talking about this with him, “you can learn to swim by watching others’ movements.”

“I can watch wizards too,” Harry argues, “can’t you have a tutor then teach me after?”

Michael has a feeling there’s more to the question than wanting to learn from him, maybe his ward is growing tired of the onslaught of new people entering his life, or doesn’t want to be alone with a new and unknown teacher, but whatever it is does give him an idea.

“Maybe,” he answers after a moment, “I’ll look into it. Until then, we can try to add more magic to our days, how about that?”

“Um- like a wizard bedtime story?” Harry’s tone is so soft it’s nearly a whisper, and it would be a cheeky suggestion if it wasn’t so uncertain and shy.

“Exactly like that,” Michael agrees lightly, not wanting the child to feel bad about asking, “How about we go up and find one for tonight? Or do you have one in mind already?”

“Beedle the Bard?” the boy offers.

“Alright, let’s put you to bed then. You’ll have to get down, we’ve got stairs to climb and I’m scared of dropping you,” Michael admits, making Harry chuckle as he slides off his lap.

He leaves the boy getting ready for bed and takes a moment to breathe. Mrs Tonks wasn’t entirely wrong, at least not in any way he knew how to prove yet, but it didn’t have to mean that he couldn’t be part of Harry’s magical education. He already had plans for Samhain, carefully discussed with Narcissa through their regular correspondence, but it couldn’t hurt to get a hold of one or more tutors to ask about lesson plans and figure out Harry’s magical education accordingly.

Later.

“Ready?” Michael asks after knocking on the bedroom door, receiving an immediate positive response and walking in to find his ward in pajamas and curled up under the covers on the left side of the bed, a slightly thin book labeled ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’ on top of the covers by his side.

He takes a seat on the right side of the bed, kicking off his shoes and stretching his legs on top of the covers. Harry only looks at him for a moment before scooting over and slotting himself right by Michael’s side, earning a fond smile and a hair ruffle. He shifted to accommodate Harry by his side more comfortably and finally opened the book.

“Let’s see, The Tales of Beedle the Bard: The Wizard and the Hopping Pot…”

Chapter Text

September 18th, 1988

“Harry!” a brown blur tackled him barely a step into the house, sending them both falling backwards into Mr Wright’s legs, only saved from hitting the floor by him reaching down to steady their surprise hug.

“Happy birthday ‘mione,” he wished, muffled against her hair, “I gotta breathe though.”

“Sorry!” His fuzzy-haired best friend chuckled and let go of the tight grip her arms had around his neck, stepping back with a grin, “I’m just excited. We’re going to the zoo! There’s so many animals I want to see, do you think they have guides? I have so many questions.”

“Uh- I dunno, never been to the zoo,” Harry shrugged.

"Let's go, mom! Dad!" She turns to the door and smiles up at Harry's guardian, "hi Mr Wright!"

"Hello, happy birthday Hermione," he smiles down at her and ruffles her hair like he does Harry's, getting an annoyed look for it, "excited?"

"I'll show Harry all the coolest animals!" She announces, nearly vibrating in place and making them chuckle.

"So long as you don't run off on your own," Mrs Granger warns as she comes to greet them, her husband right behind her.

"We have lunch reservations, so there's no time to get lost in the zoo," Mr Granger adds.

"Yessir," Harry nods along with Hermione only to get pulled by the hand right past Mr Wright and out of the house.

"Hurry up!" Hermione yells behind them at the adults, making Harry giggle at her unusual energy. She grins at him and squeezes his hand, and he can't help but grin right back, "this will be the best birthday."

He can only agree.

“They’re cute,” Michael heard his ward point out from where he, Jean and Hugo hung back a few steps, letting the kids enjoy the tour with some relative privacy.

“Did you know Lemurs have a female-dominant society?” Hermione asked. Another tidbit of animal trivia, something that hadn't stopped leaving her mouth since they stepped into the zoo. It was kind of adorable, especially when Harry clearly hung on to every word, “they also have two tongues!”

“How does that work?” Harry asks, looking like he’s trying to imagine the logistics of having two of the same appendage by moving his own tongue around his mouth.

“Um- I don’t know,” Hermione frowned and the parents traded looks, seeming a little worried.

“We can look for a book about it later,” Harry suggested with a shrug and Michael watched Jean and Hugo’s postures relax slightly when their daughter answered the suggestion with a bright grin and a nod of agreement.

“Come on, the nightlife habitat is this way!” Hermione drags Harry away from the lemurs and out the door, the adults obligingly following behind.

“Thank you for doing this,” Jean’s voice caught his attention and he looked away from the kids to look at her, a little confused, “Hermione hasn’t had many friends, it means a lot to see her get along with someone her age.”

“Nothing to thank me for, I’m glad they get along,” Michael shakes his head, “they’re good for each other, I caught them climbing the front yard trees the other day.”

“Bless that boy for making her leave her books for even a moment,” Hugo jokes, but he can tell from their expressions that they are indeed happy with their daughter’s friendship.

“Mom! Mom! Look!” Hermione’s call cuts into their conversation and they step closer to the kids as they enter the nightlife habitat, the change in lighting taking them a moment to adjust before they can spot what the almost nine-year-old is pointing at.

“It’s tiny,” Harry points at the bush baby. It’s sitting on a tree branch, though it’s quickly spooked away by a larger one.

“That’s a male one, they’re bigger,” Hermione whispers and Michael absently wonders how many animal books the child had consumed in preparation for the birthday excursion.

“What’s that?” Harry asks after a few more steps.

“Naked mole rat,” Hermione informs after reading a plaque. They trade a look, “It’s ugly.”

“Really ugly,” Harry agrees and the children’s giggles last all the way to the next exhibit.

“It’s huge,” Hermione whispers, pulling him to the next enclosure. It’s a forest-like one, with a fallen log and a very long snake wrapped around a branch, looking as bored as Harry guesses a snake can look.

“I wish we could see it unrolled, I bet it’s longer than Mr Wright,” he points out.

“King Cobras are usually around 19ft, it’s probably longer than both my parents combined,” Hermione corrected, moving a little to the side to read the plaque.

Harry stared at the snake as it moved its head, turning from staring at the right to the left and still looking kind of sad.

“Bet it’s not fun to be stared at all day,” He taps the glass slightly to try and grab its attention but nearly jumps back when the snake suddenly rears up and looks straight at him.

“You ssspeak! ” A wispy, male-sounding voice leaves the snake’s mouth and Harry can only stare as it slithers down the tree branch, eyes not leaving his.

“Y-you understand me?” Harry whispers, wide-eyed and confused.

The snake shakes its head up and down on what he figures is a nod for something without a neck. Or are snakes all neck? He should ask since apparently, he can talk to it.

“How come you can talk?” He steps forward again, nearly pressing his face to the glass.

“I could alwaysss ssspeak, hatchling,” The snake coils up and raises its head until it meets the height of his eyes, “but you are the first to underssstand.”

“Whoa!” Hermione exclaimed, bumping into his side to stare at the snake, “It’s so shiny, I bet it just moulted.”

“What?” Harry breaks the staring contest with the snake to look at her, a cold feeling spreading over his belly at the thought of his friend having seen him talk to the snake.

“It’s when they change skins,” She explains, and he nods, trying not to look like he wants to puke.

The snake seems to lose interest after a moment, slithering back to the tree trunk and slipping into it through a crack in the wood.

“Come on, let’s see the lizards,” Hermione drags him away.

Michael had been waiting for his ward to approach him since the end of their zoo trip. Something had clearly spooked him, likely when he excused himself to the bathroom and left the kids in the Grangers’ hands to visit the reptile house - for some reason the idea of seeing snakes didn’t appeal to him - and came back to a very quiet Harry. The boy had apparently shrugged it off by lunchtime and the kids enjoyed Hermione’s birthday meal with the usual enthusiasm, filling themselves up with cake at the end, but he could tell there was still something nagging at Harry if only by the number of glances being repeatedly cast his way on the ride back home.

He leaves it alone, letting the boy come to him on his own time and instead sending him up to check on his homework before classes the next day. Hermione’s birthday fell on a Monday and they had to celebrate a day early, but he also bought the girl a little something for Harry to hand her at school since he figured it usually went by unremarked due to her previous lack of friends.

“Mr Wright?” He looks up from the book resting on his office desk, leaning back on the chair as he does. Harry didn’t knock, but they had an agreement that open doors needed no knocking and closed ones were to be respected which had worked out well enough so far.

Getting the child to call him Michael or Mike, on the other hand, seemed more like a hopeless cause every day that went by.

“Yes?” He prompts, scooting the chair back from the desk to give the boy his undivided attention.

“I- something happened,” Harry started, fidgeting in place by the door, “at the zoo. Something frea- um, magic, I think?”

“That’s alright,” he assures in an even tone, catching the correction but not remarking on it, only glad it was there in the first place and his ward was on his way to stop calling himself or magic things freaky. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He watches those wide green eyes dart up at him to study his expression and keeps it as open as possible, but is still surprised when Harry steps fully into the office and sort of shyly waddles over to him, climbing sideways into his lap and hiding his face on his shirt, knees bent and bare feet tucked between his thighs and the arm of his office chair. There’s no crying this time but a sudden surge of affection for the child seeking his comfort still makes him wrap his arms around the boy a little tighter.

“You won’t be mad?” Harry asks, mumbled but still audible.

“Of course not,” he assures, resting his chin on top of the boy’s head, “promise.”

“I talked to a snake,” Michael can’t help but freeze for a moment at the declaration, but hums in response when the child in his lap tenses up at the lack of an answer.

“Did it talk back?” He asks after a moment, frowning slightly.

“Mhm,” Harry nods, “It said it always talked, I was just the first to understand it.”

“That’s interesting,” he says distractedly, mind going a mile a minute through his memories of every wizarding book he’d read so far in search of something to do with talking to snakes, but coming up blank, “we’ll have to see if it’s any snake or just that one, it could be magical for all we know. Still, if you can talk to snakes, there’s nothing wrong with that,” he makes sure to point out firmly.

“Really?” Harry all but whispers, all insecurity due to expectations created by the Dursleys.

“Really really,” Michael insists, “it’ll probably be dead useful if one ever attacks you.”

“I guess,” small shoulders shrug and drag against his shirt but the boy makes no move to leave.

“We can run some tests another time, how about that bedtime story now?” He suggests, wanting to get his ward’s mind off of things before the child started overthinking, “Which one should we read today?”

“Dilly the Dragon Learns to Fly!” Harry answers enthusiastically, the boy’s fascination with dragons clearly growing at every letter exchanged with Draco.

He knows the two are in cahoots to convince the Malfoys and himself to visit a dragon reserve, but Michael refuses to cave before at least next summer, or before having read any and all dragon-related literature in order to make sure Harry would be safe during such an adventure.

“Dilly the Dragon it is,” he agrees.

16th September 1988

Dear Draco,

I met another witch today, but she wasn’t as nice as your mum. She asked all sorts of questions about rituals and holidays and made Mr Wright sad, so I don’t really like her. He wants me to have tutors now, to know the stuff she asked about. Do you know any good ones?

Did you ask your parents about the dragon reserve? I’m going to the zoo this weekend and it’s sort of like a place for animals where you can see them up close, I’ve never been but I’ll tell you all about it after! It’s for Hermione’s birthday so it’s gonna be great.

Anything fun happen this week?

Kind regards,

Harry.

18th September 1988

Dear Harry,

Mother says she’ll send Mr Wright a list of tutors. I guess it makes sense that you don’t know any holidays since you lived with muggles, I’ll have to ask father to invite you for Yule.

Father said we’re too small to go see the dragons but I think that’s silly, everyone’s small next to dragons! He did say maybe next year though. You have to tell me what sorts of animals are at the Zoo, I bet none are as cool as magical ones. Maybe we can go to the reserve on my birthday.

Pansy got in trouble with her parents and can’t visit, so I’m really bored.

Best wishes,

Draco.

19th September 1988

Dear Draco,

The Zoo was so fun! They have all kinds of animals, there’s tigers and monkeys and even penguins! They’re so cute and like to swim, and the monkeys throw stuff sometimes but there’s a glass so it doesn’t hit anyone. There’s also snakes! Are there any magical talking snakes?

Kind regards,

Harry.

21st September 1988

Dear Harry,

I guess muggles can have some decent ideas. You’ll have to show me to a zoo sometime since we can’t go to a dragon reserve yet. There’s no talking snakes, but father said there’s a language some wizards speak called parseltongue that lets you control snakes and it’s a rare magical gift. Did you talk to a snake? That would be so cool! It would only be cooler to talk to dragons.

Best wishes,

Draco.

September 24th, 1988

He was trying to sit still, he really was, but it was hard to stop fidgeting as they parked by the zoo. He waited almost a whole week for this since Mr Wright was busy with work, and they decided it would be fine to go back to the zoo and test their theory since talking to it in a place full of people was better than having some shop person’s attention on them. Besides, they had no idea where to find a snake shop, so the zoo was really the best bet unless they wanted to go hunting for a snake in a forest or something.

“We’re almost there,” Mr Wright pointed out when Harry kept pulling his hand forward to the snake place and he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment at giving him trouble, “you’re fine, just slow down a bit for this old man, yeah?”

“You’re not old,” Harry frowned up at him and earned himself a laugh as they stopped right in front of the place they came to visit, “um, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Mr Wright didn’t sound quite fine but Harry was too excited to be almost at the snake cage to ask more about it. He pulled on his guardian’s hand again and pretty much dragged him inside.

“Look, it’s here!” He rushed them to the glass, tapping it once to get the snake’s attention but failing to even make it open its eyes, “Hi, Mr Snake!”

He felt Mr Wright let go of his hand and looked up to see his guardian bring it up to his head, looking like he was in pain.

“Mr Wright?” Harry reached up a hand, but didn’t quite know what to do with it and put it down, not liking the sight of his guardian hurting one bit.

“Fine, it’s just a headache,” Mr Wright waved him off and he nodded, looking back toward the snake.

“Can you understand me, Mr Snake?” He tried again to get it's attention.

The snake finally opened its eyes and uncoiled from its bead of leaves on the floor, raising its head up.

“Hello, ssspeaker,” it hissed back, and Harry jumped when a pained noise came from behind him, looking to the side to see Mr Wright leaning on the glass with one hand and pressing against his forehead with the other, “you returned.”

Harry heard Mr Wright take a deep breath before he started to kneel by his side, still looking a little pained, eyes wide and staring at the snake. Was he scared? Did Harry speaking to the snake scare him?

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t have to-” he tripped over his words, looking back at the snake to avoid Mr Wright’s eyes, “It’s too freaky, isn’t it? I won’t do it aga-”

“Not freaky,” Mr Wright cut him off, wrapping an arm around his back and making Harry snap his head back up and towards him, “you’re magical, it’s fine, I promise. It’s just-” his guardian squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a bit before opening them again, entirely focused on the snake.

“Your nessst mother ssseemsss dissstresssed,” the snake pointed out in the background.

“What is it, then?” Harry insisted.

“I can understand it too.”

Chapter Text

September 30th, 1988

If Michael had a cent for every time something in the wizarding world frustrated him, he would be tempted to open a vault in Gringotts. Actually, he should probably do that anyway, but the point was that he was once again exasperated at not being able to find the information he was looking for. He knew the ability to talk to snakes was referred to as being a parselmouth , which made no etymological sense as far as he could tell, and that it was rare, thanks to one of Harry’s letters to Draco, but where Diagon Alley’s libraries were concerned, it may as well not be something that exists, especially given the looks his questions earned him no matter how politely he phrased it.

“Oi, suit guy!” Someone called from behind him as he exited the bookshop and he turned to look for the origin, not sure if it was meant for him or not. His eyes meet narrowed brown ones a couple of inches lower in height, belonging to a gangly teen leaning against a nearby wall, “yes, you, come here.”

“Yes?” He raises one brow, looking more closely at the teen.

The boy had long-ish brown hair reaching slightly past his chin and framing a thin face, probably left loose to hide the scar he could see starting at the corner of his cheek and likely spreading upwards. His clothes were a mix of something resembling dark robes but too short to cover his full frame, though the slightly faded grey trousers - looking like something he might have owned and thus not quite as wizardly - made sure to cover up the legs of the young stranger. Still, if the legs looked anything like his half-exposed arms, they were sure to be bony and thin.

All in all, Michael was pretty sure he’d never seen the teen before.

“You’re not gonna find what you want over there, y’know?” The teen jutted his chin toward the bookstore as he spoke in a tone of conspiracy, “Dunno what you’re asking for that's got the boss lady in a tizzy but you’ll have better luck in Knockturn.”

“Where?” He frowned before mentally realigning his priorities and adding, “and who are you?”

“Names have power, mate. You ain’t getting mine, just some free advice,” the teen answered, stepping away from the wall and riding up the robes to shove his hands in the trousers’ pockets.

“I suppose,” he left the suspicion out of his tone as much as he could, not sure if this was a wizarding thing or a this particular teen thing but not willing to ask about it to the stranger, “what did you mean by nocturnal?”

“Knockturn Alley,” the teen elaborated, though his expression told Michael it was supposed to be obvious, “I’ve seen ya leave this place with a crap ton of books, thought it was some mastery research project, but guess not. You a muggle then? Don’t get lots of muggles this eager for a read.”

“Squib,” Michael explained, slightly annoyed at the look of understanding that was levelled at him a moment later, “care to show me this nocturnally, then?”

It seemed pretty harmless to let some random advertiser show him to a different store, the kid did seem old enough to work and definitely looked like he needed the money. The chance to find some actual answers, too, was tempting enough to spur him on.

“ Knock -turn,” the teen corrected, “like knocking on a door, or getting knocked up,” the wiggling eyebrows sent his direction did little but make him roll his eyes, “fine, the best example for it is knocked down anyway. Follow me, mate.”

“Seems a tad out of the way,” Michael can’t help but point out after he’s led through a few twists and turns into a seedier-looking part of the alley.

“Right where they like us,” he barely caught the teen’s mutter, sounding resentful but resigned.

He opened his mouth to inquire further into the subject but was interrupted by the boy’s sudden stop in front of an old-looking door - though no older than everything in this alley looked - before he opened it and walked in, holding the door from the inside and looking at him expectantly.

Michael followed.

If Flourish and Blotts felt crowded, the room he stepped into felt like you may be drowned by books at any given time if he took a wrong step. Literal floor-to-ceiling – magic makes some gravity-defying things possible – bookcases lined every available surface in the walls, while the floor was filled not with shelving units but square wooden boxes filled to the brim with used-looking books. It was clear at first sight that this was the more likely place to find all sorts of materials usually hard to get a hold of than any of the bookshops he’d stepped into that morning.

“Back already? Did the aurors run you o- oh, hello! Welcome!” The female voice that came from behind a shelf-covered door was quickly given a face as it opened to let the woman into the room, closing behind her and becoming indistinguishable from the other bookshelves once again.

“Thank you,” he smiled, offering the older woman a nod. She was also very thin and wore worn-looking robes, but they at least fit her right. The brown eyes coupled with the same shade of hair told him she was probably the boy’s mother. “I’m looking for any books that mention parseltongue, I was told I might have better luck in here,” he explained, motioning at the boy that brought him.

“Trey was right to bring you here, you’re definitely not about to find any ministry-approved titles about parseltongue of all things, not after You-Know-Who,” the woman shook her head in disapproval and moved over to a particular shelf, “let’s see… certainly with magical languages… somewhere in here…”

“Trey, huh?” He mouthed at the teen, who rolled his eyes.

“Never said the power my name had wasn’t the one to get me arrested if you decided I was too much of a bother,” Trey explained in a flippant tone, “happened before.”

“Why would you be arrested for advertising a business?” Michael can’t help but frown, he noticed the difference between the two alleys but surely simply mentioning a store on this side wasn’t cause for arrest.

“Aurors take any excuse to rough up some knockers,” the teen shrugs, “plus barge into the stores to take away anything they deem too dark .”

“Sounds like a serious abuse of authority,” he points out.

“You must be new here,” a mocking tone bleeds through Trey’s response.

“Here you go!” His view was suddenly filled with a small pile of books being held out to him, “take a look, some are in different languages but nothing a translating glass can’t fix. Unless you read Greek, Japanese or Sanskrit?”

“Just Japanese,” he replied as he accepted the books, “anything in French, Italian or Latin also works,” he added as his focus went to scanning the covers and contents of the books.

The English ones were on magical languages in general, barely sparing a full page for parseltongue, though one did have an entire chapter on Salazar Slytherin and his doomed legacy , as they put it. The Japanese one was more of a story than any sort of factual information, but he still set it aside to buy since reading to Harry about a hebi-ben-sha - the Japanese term for snake-speaker - and a shapeshifter stuck as a snake sounded like a fun way to reinforce that it was alright to have this ability. He leafed through the Greek book and it was some sort of illustrated children’s story with a parselmouth as the main character, while the Sanskrit one looked like a more medical type of text, at least from the drawings depicting the human body.

“Oh, here’s one more,” a small booklet was dropped on top of his current read as the woman resumed her hurricane-like search through the store, “French regulations on animal communication, there's some on fourchelangue .”

“I’ll take it too,” he decides after another moment of looking through it, mostly because it's related to regulations than the two pages on what a fourchelang is allowed to use their ability for in the French magical industry, “how does a translation glass work?” he adds, immediately earning himself a weird look and sighing, “squib, never seen it.”

“You shouldn’t go around volunteering that around these parts,” the lady chides as she takes his chosen books off his hands and starts to run her wand over something on the back cover before setting them aside on top of each other, “some people will take offence and make it your problem. This,” she shoves a hand into a robe pocket and pulls out a square glass the size of her palm, “is a translating glass. Just put it on top of the words and it’ll read as English, only works with my books though. Still cheaper and less painful than a language potion.”

He frowned at the warning but nodded in understanding, holding back from asking what exactly was a language potion and, if it was what he thought it sounded like, where to find some. He was here for a reason and not about to be sidetracked by the wonders of magic, no matter how much he would rather stay and look through every single book in sight.

“I’ll have two if you’ve got them,” he decides, figuring Harry would appreciate reading on his own.

It doesn’t take long for galleons to trade hands and Michael makes a point of leaving a little more as a tip for Trey. The woman introduces herself as Claire and tells him to come back anytime, but he keeps his own name to himself at her warning, having his feelings confirmed that Knockturn Alley wasn’t a place he should be heard of or seen at unless he lived in it. It reminded him of the areas around Red Bank or Devil’s Acre, overpopulated slums filled with people society loved to forget, and where most of his pro-bono clients usually came from.

The ride back home is filled with anxious energy and Michael is itching to look through the books for some sort of explanation, but he has other things to do such as pick Harry up from school and join him for lunch before heading to work. It’s only at the end of the day that he manages to find the time to sit in his office and peruse his findings, gliding the translating glass through the pages he wouldn’t be able to understand without it and flying through the ones he would read perfectly well.

His frustration had yet to abate once he was done reading, since few of the books spoke about the origin of the language and the few that did mention it being a trait belonging to descendants of some notable dead figure depending on the language it was written in, ranging from Salazar Slytherin to Asclepius. Still, he would at least be able to tell Harry with complete confidence that it was a normal - if uncommon - wizarding trait and nothing close to freaky. The connotations of the language’s association with Voldemort couldn’t be ignored though, and he planned to explain to his ward that it would be better to hide the ability if he didn’t want to call any undue attention onto himself.

As for why he could understand it, having no magic of his own? He was no closer to an answer.

Chapter Text

October 1st, 1988

Harry was starting to get tired of lunches and dinners. Not the food, he loved getting to eat as much as he wanted, but the ones with new people always made his belly feel weird and loopy, plus he didn’t like the last people Mr Wright brought over to meet him so he had no idea what might happen this time. At least they were going to have lunch with the new people instead of inviting the people to visit them at home.

“Thirty-eight…forty-one…forty-four Eaton Square, here we are,” Mr Wright announced as he parked in front of the white columns with the house number in the centre of them. All of the houses in the street were painted white on the outside with black doors and windows and Harry couldn’t help but think it looked much less fun than Mr Wright’s colourful neighbourhood. “Why the long face? We don’t have to go if you really would rather not, y’know? I just figured… it bothers you, not being able to share magic with Hermione, and Chang has a daughter her age, you might feel better having a wixen friend closer to home.”

“But Hermione’s my best friend!” Harry crosses his arms, looking down at his swaying feet that don’t quite reach the floor of the car.

“I’m not telling you to stop being friends with Hermione, just that having more friends could be good,” Mr Wright explains and it does make him a bit less upset. He doesn’t want to replace his friend. “If you don’t like her, you don’t have to see her again, she’ll even be one year above you in Hogwarts.”

“...fine,” Harry can’t help but smile just a bit at the proud grin Mr Wright gives him, still a little giddy at getting to choose things, and maybe he pushes a bit every now and then but Mr Wright had yet to yell or hit him.

“Great! Let’s go say hi then,” they leave the car once Mr Wright has the gift for their host in his hands and make their way to the door of number forty-four. Harry doesn’t see a doorbell and figures that Mr Wright doesn’t find one either since he uses the knocker to knock on it three times instead.

The door opens a moment later, though no one is behind it, as if it opened on its own by magic. Harry trades a look with Mr Wright and his guardian shrugs before walking in, Harry only a step behind. The room they walk into kind of matches the outside, with white walls and dark wooden floors, but there’s a fireplace just to their right and a couple of coat hangers to the left, with a large, black wooden door just ahead of them, as if they haven’t really gone into the house yet.

A popping sound makes both of them look to the right, eyes meeting a little creature half Harry’s height with short, choppy brown hair and huge ears nearly the size of its skinny forearms and with large round eyes that took up nearly half of its face.

“Qiao takes yours coats, misters!” The creature exclaims in a squeaky voice that makes Harry think of babies and he steps back a little to hide behind Mr Wright.

“Uh- alright,” Mr Wright shrugs off his coat before handing it to the little creature, who disappears in a pop after seeing Harry had no coat of his own.

“Please tell me you’ve read about house elves,” an exasperated voice calls from the now open wooden door and Harry can only look at Ms Chang with confusion since he hadn’t heard of house elves either, “come in, I’ll find you a book on them later, just know you can call for Qiao or Kuai if you get lost or need something.”

“Yes ma’am,” Mr Wright mock salutes and Harry smiles a bit at how it makes Ms Chang roll her eyes before she turns around and guides them inside.

Stepping past the wooden door makes Harry have to blink a few times as he stares at the very large living room, the floors are still the same as the room before but the walls went from bright white to light brown and there’s paintings spread around, some even moving. He barely even notices Mr Wright guiding him to the large cream-coloured couch, eyes wide and focused on a painting of a boat in a stormy sea on the wall behind it, the paint moving just like strong waves and even brightening when a steak of white makes it past the grey painted clouds almost like real lightning and he nearly expects to hear the thunder after it, feeling surprised when it doesn’t come.

“I see you like my painting,” an unknown male voice makes him take his eyes away from the struggling boat and look up at the man entering the room. He’s got blond hair and blue eyes and looks nearly a head taller than Ms Chang, “that’s in the South Pacific. Tiny little boat heading out of Chile, hoping to make it to New Zealand, nearly didn’t get there in one piece, as you can see.”

The five in the room watch as a large wave nearly swallows down the boat to the bottom of the canvas’ painted sea before it surfaces once more, soaked but still holding on.

“You were in there ?” Harry has to ask, looking between the man and the painting.

“Yup, I’m the reason we made it to shore, not that they know it,” is the answer he gets, along with a wink, “Sorry, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Christopher but feel free to call me Chris, any friends of my muse are friends of mine.” he puts an arm around Ms Chang’s waist in a hug.

“Right, now you’ve met, you can stop pestering me,” Ms Chang pushes him away but Harry figures Mr Chris doesn’t mind since he’s still smiling.

“I may have bothered her a bit about meeting you,” Mr Chris says and Harry realizes after a bit that he’s talking to Mr Wright, “with how much she talks about you, I would think I had competition if it wasn’t in the same tone she talks about our little Cho.”

“Chris!” Ms Chang grabs Mr Chris’ arms and pretty much pushes him out of the room to the sound of his laughter before coming back looking a little red in the cheeks, “ignore him, I just talk about cases, it’s merely a sign of general incompetence that you happened to be the only one close to challenging. Don’t go getting a big head, kid.”

“I’ll take the compliment,” Mr Wright replies with a grin that has even Ms Chang smiling a bit, even if it’s gone in a second.

“No compliments for someone who doesn’t even know about house elves, I thought you’d been reading?” Harry watches as she scolds Mr Wright and leads him to a bookcase on the other end of the large living room, leaving him alone on the couch.

“Hi,” he nearly falls off the couch when a small voice greets from right behind him but catches himself as he turns to see who spoke, “are you Harry Potter? Like in the books?”

“Those aren’t real,” Harry immediately responds, frowning a bit at the girl behind the couch. She’s got her black hair up in a ponytail but it still looks really long, all straight and nothing like Hermione’s brow fuzzy mess.

“Of course they are, I have two,” she crosses her arms as she walks to the side of the couch.

“I mean- they didn’t happen,” Harry explains.

“...I know that, silly. It’s why they’re called stories not history books, ” she rolls her eyes and Harry realizes she looks just like Ms Chang if she shrunk a couple of times. Maybe there’s a spell for that. “So, are you? I hope you are ‘cause mama said Hary Potter was coming and if you’re not him I might have to kick you out.”

“I’m him- I mean, me. Nice to meet you?” He stumbles through the introduction, already feeling his cheeks heating up. He hasn’t had to introduce himself yet unless it was in front of a class, the Dursleys and now Mr Wright always did that part.

“I’m Cho Chang, call me Cho,” she smiled, arms uncrossing and falling to her sides so she could do a short bow.

“Um-” he hurried to his feet and bowed back, “call me Harry.”

“Harry, do you like flying?” She asks, looking him up and down like it would tell her the answer.

“Never tried it,” he admits.

“I can teach you! And then you can help me train to be a Seeker! You do know quidditch, right?” she doesn’t even give him time to think of an answer before continuing, “I can teach you too, I need someone to play with and Li is too much of a baby to fly, so if I teach you, you have to, right? It’s called squid cocoa-something, mama said so.”

Harry just stares at her, still taking in the rant and offer, and maybe she’s not that different from Hermione, he realizes when the weird wording actually reminds him of some book of terms his best friend had made him read with her at Mr Wright’s office.

“You mean quid pro quo? ” he asks after a moment, still a little dazed.

“Yes, that! I teach you to fly, then you play with me, right?” She insists, and he can only nod. It can’t be that bad, and he really wants to learn how to fly so playing a bit after he learns should be fine, right? “Great! Mama, we’re going to the flying room!”

Harry’s arm is suddenly grabbed and he’s left to stumble after the girl dragging him out of the room, almost like when Hermione sees an interesting book in the school library and wants to show it to him.

Not too different at all.

“Flying room?” Michael looks up from the book that had been thrust into his hands to see a tiny version of Chang dragging his ward out of the room.

“They’ll be fine,” Chang waves a dismissive hand and pulls out another book, dropping it on his lap, “these four are the basics to wixen legalese. Well, the British counterpart at least, you’re far from needing to learn about the ICW and foreign laws.”

“Is this a yes to that apprenticeship?” He can’t help but ask in a hopeful tone.

“Have you ever not jumped with two feet into any situation?” Chang asks, almost rhetorically if her exasperated tone is to be taken into account, “you’re what, twenty-five? I’ve watched you throw yourself into every new situation like a brakeless train since Macfarlanes fished you straight out of law school. You just found out about an entire society hidden from the naked eye and took on the responsibility not only for a whole other human being but one with enough baggage to fill a bottomless trunk, and you want to immediately quit your job and enter an apprenticeship in magical law without even being sure if you’ll get to keep the child? Is there a way to pencil in some thinking time into that busy calendar or are you just jumping from task to task in hopes of forgetting all about it?”

“I- ” his mouth opens but he can’t quite figure out what to say and ends up closing it, eyes falling from Chang’s reproaching eyes and to the books on his lap. “I’m twenty-seven,” he protests after a moment, but her words still sink into his mind and refuse to leave until he considers them.

Does she have a point?

It was hardly the first time he was called out for going at things too fast, even Sarah had recently kicked him out of the office for overworking himself, but… it was really all he knew to do. Since he was the strange adopted child of the eccentric actress and the failed director he’d been rushing through things, not out of any desire to be done faster but because a subject or the other just came to him, and the ones that didn’t were quickly engraved into his mind just as easily. His freaky memory let him breeze through classes and it didn’t change when he got to university as most people said it would, so he was hardly about to stop taking advantage of it, especially when it made his mum so proud to see him succeed in his chosen field, never mind that the reason he chose it was that his dad had taken nearly everything in the divorce. After her death, he just continued working harder and harder, there was hardly a reason to stop.

Michael remembered that finding out about magic felt somewhat like the way he took to Latin at school, or playing the piano. As if the knowledge just fit in, almost as if it should have been there already, like any of the other subjects he took to a bit too easily throughout his life. It felt natural to jump right into the thick of it, especially with Harry depending on him to make good choices for his wellbeing, and becoming more involved in the wixen community was just a natural step towards being allowed to keep Harry, since he was hardly about to keep his ward from the world he belonged in.

Why overthink it?

His feelings were always what led him forwards, sometimes to his detriment but more often on the right track, and if he felt like immersing himself in this new culture and taking a leap of faith, who was Chang to question it?

Besides my maybe future boss, that is.

“It’s not a no, kid. Just a not yet,” she adds after a moment, tone softer probably due to something she saw in his expression, though he had no idea what.

“It’s just how I do things,” Michael finally replies with a shrug, “I’ve thought about it, but thinking without acting only does so much. I’m good at the action part.”

“I can tell,” Chang sighs, but he can tell it’s mostly for show. He hopes. “Well then, you better get to acting on having a working floo connection, don’t think I forgot about it.”

“Right, I did get a little sidetracked,” he admits with a sheepish look, “there have been… developments.”

“Anything I’d need to know?” she raises one brow, though he can tell she’s curious.

“Attorney-client privilege?” Michael holds out his hand, having become more used to the quick vow after a couple of meetings with Chang.

“Fine,” she takes his hand and twists her wand out of the forearm holster and into her palm, pointing it at their joined hands, “ fideli verba nostra .”

There’s a small tingle that goes up his arm as he takes back his hand but it’s still much more practical than writing one contract per meeting, even if she took a while to show him and was probably laughing at him in private, not that she didn’t do it to his face too.

“Harry is a parselmouth,” he tells her, and only thinks for another moment before adding, “and for some reason, I can also understand snakes.”

“Wright… you’ll never let things get boring, will you?” Chang shakes her head but he can tell she’s hiding her surprise behind amusement.

“Boring is overrated,” he quips with an unapologetic grin.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she pauses for a moment, looking as if she’s considering something before continuing, “I believe this changes things.”

Chapter Text

“But how does it know you’re talking to it?” Harry frowns, looking down at the broom near his feet on the grass.

“Magic?” Cho shrugs, “just do it, then we can fly!”

“Alright,” he looks down at the broom and puts his hand out hovering over it, “up!”

The broom hits his hand so fast that he jumps back a little but keeps holding it, smiling at Cho after his success.

“Nice,” she smiles back before calling her own broom up to her hand, “you get on it like this,” she swings one leg to the other side of the broom before putting both hands on the handle, “and you push off real slow, or else you go too high too fast,” she kicks off the ground and Harry can only stare as she flies up higher than his head.

“Wicked,” he looks up with wide eyes as she hovers on his left.

“Come on!” She yells down, making him look back at his borrowed broom.

Right… sit and don’t kick off too hard.

“Whoa!” even without kicking off too hard, he ends up flying higher than Cho, though the broom stops after a few seconds of him staying very still.

“Great!” Cho flies up to his side, “feet on the pedals, pull up to go higher, lean forward to go faster, pull down to go lower, lean back to slow down, and lean to the sides to turn, got it?”

“G-got it!” He nods, leaning forward a bit to get the broom moving, a grin slowly spreading over his face as he gets the hang of it and speeds through the air like a bird.

This is the best feeling ever!

“Harry!” Cho’s voice reaches him and he pauses in the air, looking down as she comes up to reach him, “you learn quick. Come on, let’s play a seeker match!” she flies down and he follows after her.

She leads them back to the ground, pulling something small and golden out of her pocket. She pokes it a couple of times and it suddenly grows two thin golden wings that start flapping very fast.

“How do we play?” He’d read about Quidditch but just the basics, nothing about a game made for a specific position.

“I let the snitch go and we count to ten before leaving the ground, whoever catches it first gets the point,” she explains, holding her arm out with the snitch, “first to five points wins.”

“Alright,” he moves his broom to hover by her side and they both put their feet on the ground.

She opens her hand and the snitch hovers for a second before speeding away from them almost too fast for his eyes to keep up as he counts to ten under his breath.

“Go!” Cho yells, already pushing off the ground.

Harry grins and flies after her.

“I thought we needed a definitive guardian before contacting any healers?” Michael can’t help but ask after Chang’s explanation of their change of plans.

“To walk the boy into St Mungo’s, but a private healer operates under different rules than a medical institution,” she explains, turning back toward the bookcase to shuffle through a couple more volumes, “it’s also covered over patient confidentiality. Magically,” she adds at his doubtful look, “we aren’t a very trusting lot, believe me. There are oaths for everything under the sun, you still have a lot to learn.”

“So I’m constantly being told,” he sighs, accepts another book as she holds it out to him, and adds it to the growing pile in his arms.

“Deal with it,” Chang deadpans before patting his shoulder somewhat encouragingly, “let’s check on the kids and get you an extended pouch for those, I have a couple laying around somewhere in my office.”

“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief, arms already starting to strain under the weight of the tomes.

He’s led through a corridor toward a slightly ajar door, which is promptly pushed open by Chang. The inside of the room makes Michael’s breath catch for a moment. Instead of the expected four walls, floor, and ceiling, the ground seems to seamlessly shift into a grassy field only a few feet from the door and extends much further than he would have expected. He knows that magic can manipulate spaces, and had even seen a few small hints of it, but nothing prepared him for the sight of a cloudy sky and trees like a park planted on what was supposed to be a simple room in someone’s home.

The sound of childish laughter snaps his attention towards it and he catches sight of two figures zooming through the air nearly neck-to-neck, appearing to reach for something. His eyes widen as they lead each other on a merry chase over something he can’t quite see from the distance, though his heart nearly stops when they start holding on to their brooms with only one hand , the other extended forward for some unfathomable reason. He has half a mind to yell at them to come down that instant when the chase seems to turn their way, bringing both kids closer by the second. They’re only a yard or so away when their light shoves take a turn for the worse and he can only watch in panic as Harry seems to tumble out of his broom, speeding towards the ground.

His feet are moving before he can think, even though he knows he can’t make it in time, but instead of splattering against the ground as one normally would, Harry curls into himself and bounces upon contact with the grass.

What in the world?

“I told you they would be fine,” Chang calls from behind him with humour in her tone as if he had not nearly suffered a heart attack at the sight of his kid plummeting to the ground.

“Are you trying to give me a heart condition ?” He exclaims, not sure if aimed at Harry or Chang, maybe both.

Harry’s giggles as he slowly bounces less and less until the ground becomes entirely solid once again do help the air filter back into his lungs, and he’s less frantic as Chang’s daughter lands near him, one broom under her and the other in her hand as if used to pushing people to what looks like their deaths.

“Mr Wright, I was flying !” Harry exclaims as he comes closer, a grin so bright on his face Michael doesn’t have the heart to cast a shadow over it.

“I saw, you were great,” he assures, ruffling the boy’s hair, “but please be more careful in the future, the ground isn’t usually as soft as it is here.”

“Yeah, I got scared when Cho fell first but then she just bounced back!” Harry nods as he prompts him to turn around towards the exit where mother and daughter are now talking while waiting for them, “we played seekers! She won though, but I got two points. It was fun!”

He can only smile at the mood his ward is in, all bouncy and happy. Maybe he should find a way for Harry to fly more often, nothing so drastic as modifying a room but there were some trunks… well, that was a thought for another time, added to a long list of things to do.

“Forget something?” Chang raises one brow as he approaches and his eyes fall to the books previously held by him, now held in place by a levitating spell where he had let them go in a scramble to reach Harry.

“You could have warned me,” he hissed in response, collecting the books in order for her to let go of the spell.

“Where would be the fun in that? ” Chang smirked slightly, turning back to the corridor to the sound of the children’s giggles, “shall we head to lunch?”

“Yes, please!” the tiny Chang - whom he now knows is called Cho due to Harry’s words - voiced their thoughts, skipping to keep pace with her mother.

“Show Harry to the table, will you? We’ll catch up in a minute,” as easy as that, her daughter grabs his ward’s arm and steers them away, “come, let’s put those away.”

They reach the office in a couple of steps and Michael is led to a chair facing the large desk in the centre of it. The bookcases lining the walls dwarf the few in the living room and he wishes he could browse every single title but Chang probably knows best where to begin.

“Any news in regard to the Sirius Black situation?” He asks after dropping his pile of books onto her desk and taking a seat, watching as Chang inspects a couple of titles and pulls even more books out of the shelves for him. There will be a lot of reading in his future.

“There are officially no records of a trial. I put someone in charge of tracking down a charge sheet and, if that also seems to be missing, at least a request for transport into Azkaban with the signature of the one responsible for such a miscarriage of justice,” her tone sounds as frustrated as he feels over the whole deal, “In other news, I have three contract options to go over with you and Harry pertaining to the book publishers, but that’s a talk for after guardianship is sorted.”

“When do you think the healer might be able to meet us?” He follows Chang with his eyes as she drops even more books on top of his already high pile and grabs something out of one of the drawers behind her desk. It turns out to be a brown leather pouch, and she immediately starts to deposit the books inside of it, her arm nearly disappearing into it with every book added.

“The first meeting will probably be over the next weekend, I’ll owl you with the exact date and time once I get a response myself,” she explained, placing the last book inside and closing the pouch before handing it to him, “she’ll sit down with both of you and discuss what needs to be done and what the process will look like, then probably schedule a different date to execute the plan.”

“The weekend works, I’ll make sure to keep them free,” Michael takes the pouch, it’s barely big enough to fill both his hands held together and light as if it was empty even with the books inside of it.

“Come along, tome for lunch, you need more meat in those bones,” Chang chides as she leads him through the door and closes it behind them, “you just might need a couple of nutritional potions yourself.”

“I’m not that thin!” he protests, swatting away a finger meant to poke at his ribs and pretending not to smile when she chuckles at his tone.

This sort of teasing more than anything told him she didn’t doubt him as much as her earlier questions made it seem, and he wasn’t about to be upset over being worried about. It wasn’t a novel feeling by any means, but never one he was inclined to ignore.

“There you are!” Chris’ voice is the first to greet them once they step into the dining room, coming from the end of the already set table. The man is smiling and the kids are sitting one on each side of him, they probably interrupted an interesting tale going by their curious looks and the fact that they seem entertained enough not to be running around. “I thought I might have to fetch you from a pile of books.”

The room they walked into is in the same tones as the living room, though there is a large light rug in the centre to contrast with the dark tone of the table and the floor under it. Much like the other rooms he’s seen so far, it looks too big to fit into the outwards size of the house.

Bigger on the inside, huh?

“That hasn’t happened in years,” Chang shook her head, walking up to the chair on her daughter’s side while Michael moved to sit by Harry, “what are you up to?”

“Telling the kids about my last trip to France,” Chris grins, “and how your cousin’s croissants are so good they saved a life.”

Michael’s brows raise a bit at that, a little curious himself. He hasn’t travelled much, so any tales of international adventures always amuse him, though they do bring up a bit of wanderlust every now and then.

“Any sweet will save the life of someone with low blood sugar,” Chang rolls her eyes, “Qiao.”

The house elf appears in the room with the same pop they heard it leave with last time, startling him and his ward, though he hides his reaction better.

“I’ll be sure to tell Sabine what you think of her baking,” Chris quips at her response but goes entirely ignored.

“Lunch can be served now,” Chang tells the elf, who pops away once more.

A second later, the decorations on the table disappear only to be immediately replaced by dishes containing different kinds of foods, eliciting a gasp from his ward and a slight widening of his own eyes.

Magic is amazing.

October 9th, 1988

“Won’t it burn?” Harry grabs Mr Wright’s arm almost out of reflex when the man makes to step forward, eyes narrowing at the fireplace. The small smile it earns him doesn’t make him any more inclined to let go.

“Not with the floo powder,” Mr Wright assures, patting the top of his head, “you shouldn’t just step into fire, that’s true, but this is the exception. I need you to stay and watch how I do it so you can work it on your own later.”

“And you’ll be back?” He insists, grip tightening slightly before he manages to let go and cross his arms in front of himself.

“In a jiffy, I promise,” Mr Wright reaches for the container on top of the mantelpiece and grabs a handful of the green powder Harry had seen him pour into it a couple minutes earlier, throwing it into the fireplace.

There’s a whooshing noise when it hits the bottom of it, and a burst of green fire appears out of nowhere, making Harry step back with wide eyes.

“Chang Chambers,” Mr Wright calls once he steps into the fire, disappearing in front of his eyes right along with it.

Harry isn’t sure how much time goes by, and he’s starting to get worried when finally there’s a second burst of green fire that Mr Wright steps out of with only a bit of a stumble.

“It worked!” He grins, seeing no burns on his guardian’s skin or clothes.

“Takes a little practice, but it works just fine,” Mr Wright nods, “Chang said I could carry you if you don’t feel like trying on your own, but it’s good to know how to use the floo just in case.”

“I wanna try,” Harry insists, he doesn’t want to make things difficult just because fire can be a bit scary.

“Alright. You saw me doing it, so you know you need to throw the floo powder and step into the fire before speaking,” Mr Wright explains, fetching the powder container from the mantelpiece, “speak very clearly and hold your mouth closed right after or else you might end up coughing out soot as I did,” he chuckles but agrees that isn’t something he wants in his mouth, “Chang said that tucking in your elbows and speaking right as you take another step helps with not falling on your bum on the other side too. Ready?”

“Ready,” Harry grabs a handful of powder and takes a deep breath before throwing it in the fireplace. The fire makes him step back again, but the warmth of Mr Wright’s hand on his back gives him some more courage, and he steps right into it, eyes pressed closed, “Chang Chamber!”

The world feels like it’s turning upside down for less than a second before he’s suddenly tripping over his feet. He nearly falls face-first into the dark wooden floor of Ms Chang’s house, but thankfully a pair of hands grab him before that can happen, helping him stand back up.

“Not too bad for your first time in the floo,” Ms Chang assures, messing up his hair with her hand like adults seem to like doing lately.

The same whooshing sound from before makes him jump a little before realizing it’s just Mr Wright coming out of the fireplace right behind him, smiling down at him in a way that makes Harry feel happy for choosing to try it on his own.

“I hope we’re not late?” Mr Wright looks at Ms Chang, who shakes her head.

“Healer Greengrass is waiting in one of the guest rooms, I’ll take you there,” She answers, walking ahead.

Harry follows by Mr Wright’s side, eyes finding even more moving paintings along the hallways, none of people but all of really interesting-looking places. He doesn’t see Mr Chris or Cho anywhere, so he doesn’t ask about the paintings or getting to fly again, but maybe when they’re done with the healer Mr Wright would let him? He’ll make sure to do everything right so he can ask later.

“She’s waiting inside,” Ms Chang tells them when they stop at one of the doors, and Mr Wright thanks her before opening it and bringing him in.

There’s a lady standing by the window, wearing a light green dress - or are those robes? Some of them just look like dresses - and with her brown hair in a bun, who turns to look at them right as they walk in. Harry’s met a couple of doctors before and she doesn’t really look like one, there’s no heart-listening thing around her neck and she doesn’t look very old, but maybe witch doctors are just different like that.

“Hello, I’m Dahlia Greengrass,” she gives a small bow instead of holding out her hand like Mr Wright said some older ladies do, so they just bow back, “I take this is my patient?”

“This is Harry,” Mr Wright nods, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You can call me Michael. Chang said today is mostly for explanations?”

“Mostly,” she nods, “Please take a seat, and feel free to call me Dahlia,” Harry looks around but there’s only the bed and a chair by the corner, so he pulls himself up to sit on top of the bedcovers, careful not to mess it up. Mr Wright grabs the chair and drags it to the end of the bed, making him feel a little better with him close by, “Lei told me you want to do a bloodline tracing ritual, so I’ll be explaining what that entails. I’ll also be performing basic diagnostic charms and determining what potions will be needed, if any. Is that okay?”

Harry waits for Mr Wright to answer but realizes they’re both looking at him.

“Ye-es,” he nods, cheeks heating up at the stutter. He’s not used to getting to make choices !

“The ritual for tracing your bloodline can be a little off-putting, it involves putting a few drops of blood into a potion and drinking it, basically inducing you into a trance and letting your magic speak,” she probably notices their wide eyes and backtracks, “it’s called spirit writing, you won’t be speaking but your body will know what to do by itself, and it will make you write the names your magic recognizes as those of your predecessors as far as it can trace for as long as the effects last.”

“Why-” he glances at Mr Wright but he doesn’t stop him from speaking so he continues, “um- the bank test showed my parents, can’t I do something like that but… backwards?”

“It’s not quite the same,” Ms Dahlia shook her head slightly, “the Gringotts key test pretty much only shows the vaults you’ve had your blood bound to at some point in time and anything else associated with the accounts they belong to, but if you were never added to a vault that should be yours to inherit, it won’t show up in there. This sort of bloodline test is usually what you would bring them to try and claim other assets, though it’s mostly used every other decade or so to either update personal records or provide a starting point or update to family tapestries.”

He thinks he understands that, kind of. If his blood was used in any vaults it was probably when he was a baby, by his parents. They obviously didn't have to figure out their own relatives, probably even grew up knowing their grandparents or more, and wouldn't have needed this sort of ritual.

“Why is this performed by a healer and not the ministry? Don’t they keep a record of births and marriages?” Mr Wright asks, and Harry can see how that might make sense too.

“They do keep a close record of ancestries, though usually only old houses have anything past the last ten generations, and there’s no tracking at all of squibs or muggles, as well as very little point to a ritual when one would need to read through piles of paperwork instead,” she explains, “in this case, what the ritual pulls on is the family magic. Every wix has it, no matter what the noble houses would like others to think, and it allows for a unique link to every member of the family, so long as they share blood by any means.”

“Alright, seems straightforward enough,” Mr Wright says, looking at Harry, “It could be a bit scary not to be in control of your own actions, we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but it would really help.”

He can’t really imagine not controlling his own body, so he can’t quite tell if it will be scary or not, but if it’ll help Mr Wright, then it’s an easy answer.

“I’ll do it,” Harry grins at the nod and smile that earns him.

“Then I’ll have the potion prepared for our next appointment,” Ms Dahlia adds, “should I also include the usual potions taken by wixen children? Lei implied they might be out of date, and the last thing we need is an entirely avoidable case of dragon-pox.”

“Right, he’s up to date with his vaccines but probably only took any potions a newborn would take,” Mr Wright agrees, “and is there something we can do about his eyesight?”

“I’ll take a look,” she looked at him, “Those are muggle clothes, yes? No embedded charms?”

Harry looks down at the dark jeans and white shirt he’s wearing before nodding at the healer.

“That’s good then, for future reference any clothing with magical properties such as dirt-repellant or size-adjusting have to be taken off to perform diagnostic charms,” Ms Dahlia explains and they nod in understanding, “what I’ll be doing now is using my wand to examine a couple of things, like recent injuries, if your bones are in the right place, and your eyesight,” she adds with a tilt of the head to Mr Wright, “is that okay? All you have to do is sit still.”

“Mhm,” he nods, a little curious but mostly wanting to get it over with so he can ask to play with Cho.

“Very well,” Ms Dahlia takes her wand from her sleeve and starts waving it around him, and it would look a little silly if there wasn’t also a bit of light leaving it and sometimes even some lighting up around him when the spell seemed to hit, but nothing hurt so he stayed still until she put her wand back where it was, “there we go, that wasn’t terribly long, was it?” he shakes his head and it earns him a smile. He likes adults smiling at him, it’s much better than the looks of anger or disgust, “Your bones seem to be just fine, and you could use some more iron but that’s easily fixed with some meat and spinach, no need to add potions to the mix. I can’t be more thorough than that without a diagnostic ritual or spending nearly three hours casting, so if there’s anything you feel needs to be looked at more closely, we can schedule one of the two.”

“Why would anyone choose to stay still for three hours?” Mr Wright asks, and Harry wrinkles his nose just thinking about sitting in place for that long.

“Certain conditions make it dangerous to perform the ritual, and some healers don’t know how to perform it and correctly interpret the results,” Ms Dahlia explains, “but Harry is perfectly able to undertake it if you feel the need for more specific results. As for his eyesight, there is a potion that could make it good as new, though I don’t carry it around. You’ll have to check the stores or get in touch with a potions master for Aspectum and put three drops in each eye before going to sleep for a couple of months.”

“Thank you,” Mr Wright says and Harry echoes it, “we’ll hold off on the diagnostic ritual, focus on the bloodline first if that’s alright?”

Harry nods and the healer too.

“He shouldn’t take part in back-to-back rituals at this age, so it would have been my recommendation to put a couple of weeks in between,” Ms Dahlia adds, “one last thing, his baby block was still somewhat active, if a bit frayed, but I took the liberty of dispelling it.”

“Baby block?” Harry asks before Mr Wright can even open his mouth.

“Some couples put a block on the magic of young children, usually to avoid any stances of accidental magic, especially if living in muggle areas,” she explains, “that’s why we call it a baby block. I suppose no one took the time to dispel yours after… well, it’s done now. Usually, only whoever cast it can take it off but it was frayed enough that a bit of a push was all it took. You might have a couple of days of more active accidental magic but it’ll settle just fine by the weekend. Any other questions?”

Harry looks between the healer and Mr Wright but no one says anything, so the lady just nods.

“Then we're done here. I’ll be seeing you in… six days?” She asks and Mr Wright nods.

“Yes, Saturday works,” Mr Wright gets up and Harry also jumps down from the bed, vibrating a little in place but trying his best to wait, though his best probably isn’t enough since his guardian turns an amused look at him, “Do you want something, Harry?”

“Can I please play with Cho?” He blurts out, cheeks heating up slightly but not enough to make him regret asking.

“Sure, just ask Ms Chang if it’s okay,” Mr Wright chuckles and Harry doesn’t wait for another second before rushing out the door to find Ms Chang.

Having friends was the best !

Chapter Text

October 15th, 1988

As much as Michael would have liked to have a quiet week before the day of Harry’s bloodline ritual, it was sadly not in the cards for him. The business side had kept him freer than usual, a few of his contracts were passed down to other partners as he attempted to negotiate his exit from the firm with the senior partner, but Treves was holding tight to his metaphorical leash. He wasn’t the most valuable partner, but he was aware enough to know he was up there, high enough to be left to his own devices most of the time since he had a habit of delivering exactly what he promised and never promising more than he could deliver. It seemed that the boss didn’t want to see him go with or without a non-compete clause, and the raise hinted at during their last meeting only backed up his observations.

If those negotiations weren’t time-consuming enough, he spent a good chunk of the week reading the books provided by Chang, when not exchanging e-mails with her about the content of said books, and dedicated some time to corresponding with Healer Dahlia about the ritual. They settled on performing it at his address, where she would be arriving by floo, and on getting Harry’s done with before anything else in case a new guardianship opportunity presented itself and did away with the need for Michael to undertake the ritual as well. Chang did suggest performing it either way, but a couple of conversations involving the treatment of squibs in magical society made him wary of figuring out what kind of family would abandon their child at a stranger’s door. He doesn’t regret being raised by his ma, she had been the best parent he could ask for, but the knowledge that he could finally find out where he came from if he so wished had his stomach in loops every time his thoughts turned in that direction.

He’d also owled one of Chang’s recommended potion masters to put in an order for Aspectum drops, the price had been steep but nothing that put too much of a dent in his savings - coming from a rich background already and not having much to spend his above-average salary on other than books and the occasional car repair had left him with a more than decent amount of money - and the potion would arrive in a month since it apparently took a long time to brew, something that probably contributed to the price tag as well.

Harry had, surprisingly, also been a bit of work. The kid simply adored flying and went as far as whining for a visit to the Changs, only deterred by a reminder that he had other friends to play with, Hermione would surely miss him if he spent every evening with Cho, and when had he last written to the Malfoy child? It worked well enough to distract him, but Michael really needed to work up the nerve to tell the boy no to those almost unnaturally bright, wide green eyes when they turned to him with a request, rare as it was, since redirecting his attention might not work the next time.

After such a busy week, the weekend couldn’t come fast enough, and Michael almost sags in relief at the sound of the floo activating around the exact time he’d told the healer to come around. He puts aside the half-chopped chocolate bar - Healer Dahlia had told him to have something ready for Harry to wash off the taste after the ritual and hot chocolate seemed like a good option - and walks over to the living room to greet their guest.

“Welcome to my home, Healer Greengrass,” he bows in greeting, earning himself an exasperated look.

Dahlia’s second letter had been half-filled with a plea to drop the formalities and to ‘stop writing as if you’re drafting a wizengamot bill’, which was fair when he wrote to her in the same vernacular he would have used when writing to Malfoy, and an explanation that while politics may benefit from tricky wording, the healing arts did better with clear and concise communication. She did go on to warn him that Chang had informed her of his ‘condition’ - he tried not to be offended by that and mostly succeeded - and that she would not look down on him for it, no matter how he worded his letters.

It did take three letters, the first of which was Michael assuring her that he did not have any medical condition she needed to be aware of, the second with an apology - she really did not seem to mean any harm in her wording and conveyed it well enough when given the chance - followed by the third with his reply, until they got back on track to discuss the upcoming ritual and what preparations would be necessary. Harry had a light breakfast and nothing more, he had tidied up the living room and put a couple of pillows on the ground for Harry to kneel on during the process, and hot chocolate was underway for a tasty finale to the morning proceedings.

“It’s Dahlia,” she corrects, one hand moving to adjust the strap of the brown cross-body bag she carried with her, “did you choose a location?”

“I figured the living room would be fine,” he motions at the centre table with a couple of pillows by it, “you didn’t say it had to be anywhere specific?” his statement comes out as more of a question.

“It doesn’t, it’s an entirely internal process so there’s no need for a ritual room,” Dahlia nods, moving over to the table and setting her bag down beside it before lowering herself onto one of the pillows. She opens her bag and pulls out a deceptively small roll of parchment and a quill, though no inkwell is in sight.

“He’s not the best with a quill yet,” Michael warns.

“He won’t be the one writing,” she dismisses easily, and he tries not to misinterpret the phrasing. He’d been repeatedly assured that there was no form of possession going on, no entity would take over Harry’s body and use it, only his own magic, which Dahlia assured would never hurt him.

“Right,” he clears his throat, “I’ll call Harry down then.”

He won’t overthink this, he doesn’t have time for it.

“You do that,” he ignores the slight amusement in her tone and climbs up the stairs to Harry’s bedroom, knocking on the door.

“Harry? Dahlia’s here,” the door opens a moment later, his ward looking up at him through the opening, bright green eyes filled with uncertainty, “It will be fine, there’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t you go talk with her while I finish up the hot chocolate for later?”

Harry nods, still seeming a little tense but apparently choosing to trust him. Michael only hopes the trust is not misplaced, he doesn’t know enough about this to offer any concrete guarantees, but his brain reminds him that he doesn’t know medicine either and yet doesn’t question his doctors when he receives treatment. There’s no reason to be more apprehensive of magical healing than he would be of walking into a hospital.

They go down the stairs in silence, though it’s quickly broken when they reach the living room and the healer greets his ward with a small smile. Harry quickly returns the greeting and walks over to occupy one of the pillows on the floor, asking something Michael doesn’t get to hear as he makes his way back to the kitchen. Finishing the chopping and dropping all ingredients in a pan on low heat doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes and he soon walks back to the living room, thankfully finding his ward less tense. Dahlia must be good with children, which explains Chang’s choice of her daughter’s primary healer.

“Are we ready?” Dahlia asks, and they turn to Harry.

“Mhm,” the boy nods, apparently tight-lipped with nervousness but no longer seeming worried.

Harry holds out his left hand to the healer when she asks for it and Michael watches as she pricks his finger with a needle right over a glass cup on the table, twisting it down as blood starts to pool out of it and letting the drops fall into the cup. He loses count of the drops, but they’re well over twenty when she shifts Harry’s finger away from the cup, cleaning it and tying a strip of fabric over the small wound.

“I’d heal it but it’s better to wait for after we’re done,” she explains, pulling the cup to herself and taking a purple-ish vial from her bag before opening it and pouring the content into the glass. The moment it touches the blood, the potion acquires a golden hue, shiny yellow intertwining with the initial purple as she stirs it but the colours seemingly refuse to fully mix together. She waits a couple of minutes before nodding to herself and sliding the cup back toward Harry, “you need to drink it to the last drop, alright?”

His ward eyes the cup for a moment before nodding and picking it up, nose scrunching at the smell Michael can’t scent, and pinches his nose before bringing it to his mouth, drinking it in large gulps as if it couldn’t end soon enough. As soon as the last drop of the potion leaves the cup and Harry sets it down with a grimace, letting go of his nose, his ward goes unnaturally still.

Harry didn’t think the stinky potion would make him feel warm. The taste in his mouth isn’t any better than the smell, but it kind of stops being important when his chest starts warming up, then his arms and legs and head, and it’s not a hurting sort of warm but one he only remembers feeling a couple of times before, one time when Aunt Petunia had to leave for a week and he spent all of it locked in his cupboard without food and just the water he brought in the night before and one time when Dudley blamed him for breaking a vase and Aunt Petunia made him sleep outside in the cold.

He doesn’t even know when he closed his eyes but when they open again, everything feels a little far away. Mr Wright is looking at him and Ms Dahlia too, but he doesn’t look back at them, just reaches for the quill with his right hand - he didn’t mean to do that? Or did he? He doesn’t know what he’s doing with the quill but doesn’t want to let go either - and puts it on the top left of the paper - parchment, that’s what Ms Dahlia called it - in front of him. He’s not really good at writing with a quill and almost says it when a sudden flash of green and red nearly out of his sight distracts him. When he focuses back on the parchment, there’s something written on it.

Harry James Potter, Lily Jocelyn Potter née Evans

That’s his mom’s name, he realizes, and a flash of black and dark brown appears in the corner of his eyes again before his hand moves, writing another name.

James Charlus Potter

That’s his dad, he blinks, watching as his hand starts moving much quicker, more colours flashing right at the edge of his vision and warmth running through his body but he can’t turn his head to chase them or do anything other than watch the quill scratching names into the parchment.

Magnolia Ann Evans née Reid, Henry Ian Evans, Dorea Nova Potter née Black, Charlus Fleamont Potter, Hazel Tiamat Reid née Bishop, Nicholas Alan Reid, Diana Lucile Evans née Lewis, Stephen Owen Evans, Cygnus Black III, Violetta Agnese Black née Bulstrode…

The names start to blur together after a while, but he keeps writing, not sure how long it’s been since he started. It’s a little weird how he doesn’t really feel like stopping but doesn’t think he’s the one making his hand write these names, even if it doesn’t feel like someone else moving his hand either. He’s just warm and kind of sleepy, but not to the point of closing his eyes, just enough to feel the way he feels when he’s just waking up but still trying to hang on to a nice dream - those are more frequent since Mr Wright took him in - and his body can’t tell if he’s sleeping or awake yet.

“Harry?” he blinks at the table, his hand isn’t holding a quill anymore and there’s a huge pile of parchment on the table in front of him. His hand kind of hurts, probably from all that writing, but it’s not bad enough to make him complain. “Back with us?”

“Hm?” Harry looks up at Mr Wright, still feeling a little fuzzy in the head, though the warmth is gone and his mouth tastes like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a week, or maybe a month, “ew.”

There’s a chuckle, and then something warm is touching his hand- oh, that’s a mug.

“Here, that ought to help with the aftertaste,” Mr Wright presses the mug to his hand and it takes a couple more blinks for Harry to lift it to his mouth, though the moment the chocolate touches his tongue he feels much more awake.

“Thanks,” he mumbles before going back to sipping on his hot chocolate.

“He’ll be just fine in a couple of hours,” Ms Dahlia says, and Harry wants to tell them he feels better than fine right now but it’s too much effort to stop drinking his chocolate to say it.

“What about those?” Mr Wright points to the pile of parchments on the table.

“I’ll need a couple of days to detangle it, there’s bound to be any number between twenty and thirty generations in them,” she says, picking up the papers and looking through them, “they are written in a specific order, but just looking at it won’t give us- oh.”

“Is that a good ‘oh’ or a bad one?” Mr Wright leans over to look at the papers.

“I suppose it depends on how you view it,” Ms Dahlia shakes her head slightly and pulls the second to last parchment to the front so Mr Wright can see it, “look.”

“Sylvye Ashdown née… Slytherin?” Mr Wright reads, brows rising in surprise.

Like the Hogwarts house?

“The seat has been empty for a long time, most figured there were no descendants left once the Gaunts wiped themselves out,” she says, and Harry has no idea what she’s talking about, but Mr Wright just nods so he figures his guardian understands better than him, “it could be nothing, Lei will probably look through the final list for closer claims, but if anything this might give him some social credit in certain circles eventually.”

“We have more immediate issues than future popularity contests,” Mr Wright points out, and Ms Dahlia replies with a ‘fair enough’ before starting to gather everything on the table back into her bag.

“May I heal your finger, Harry?” He hears her ask after a moment and realizes she’s all done packing up and holding out her hand. Harry puts down his mug - oh, it’s empty now - and holds out his left hand with the fabric tied to his finger. It still stings a bit but not much, and once she points her wand at it, the sting is gone.

He thinks she might have said something, but he’s feeling a little heavy and resting his head on top of his arms on the table seems like a good idea, so he does that instead of asking her to repeat herself. People don’t like repeating things anyway.

October 22nd 1988

The bloodline tracing was not as helpful as Michael had expected it to be. When Chang suggested testing Harry in case they were related due to their parseltongue abilities - even if he could only understand it and not speak it like his ward - he had hoped for an easy fix, something that would let him keep the child he’s been housing for three months and keep any wix from poking their noses into Harry’s life, but he should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

There was some good news, such as the confirmation of relation to the Black family both by blood - through Dorea Black - and by being named the heir - thus having access to what he’d learned were some of the Black vaults at Gringotts - to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… whatever that meant. Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy did have the closest claim to guardianship along with the incarcerated Sirius Black, and while a couple more interesting names did show up on the final list - Slytherin and Peverell being some of them according to Chang - there were no other relations that might solve the issue of a magical guardian.

One unfortunate fact was that the tracing apparently only worked in a linear pattern, which meant that even if one of Harry’s descendants had a sister or brother, their names would not be written on the parchment and instead it would skip to their mother and father and so on, leaving a lot of room for interpretation. He could see why it was usually done the other way around, but that also means that he had to take it too if there was any hope of finding a connection to Harry through Slytherin. If even one of the names overlapped in their results, Chang assured him that there might be a way for him to keep Harry from being taken away.

That is what brought him to this moment, a week after the day Harry had undertaken the ritual, holding his bleeding finger over a crystal cup.

“That’s enough,” Dahlia pulls his hand away, repeating the same process he’d watched last time of cleaning it and tying a fabric over the small injury. She proceeds to pour the purple potion into the cup and stir it.

“It’s different,” Harry points out from his spot leaning against Michael’s left side.

He was right, where the potion had acquired swirls of golden yellow for his ward, the contact with his blood almost didn’t change colour, the red only lightening slightly and acquiring some shine as it mixed in with the purple.

“Unusual,” Dahlia mutters under her breath, though she’s close enough for him to catch it.

“Is something wrong?” He can’t help but ask, not knowing anything about the potion besides some of the ingredients.

“Well, this has never happened before, but I’ve also never administered it to a squib,” she replies, not looking too worried, “given that squibs can use potions, the floo, and see through muggle-repellant wards just like any wix, I’m inclined to pin the colour change on an inactive magical core, but I’m a healer and not a potions mistress.”

“Is it safe to take?” Michael insists, not wanting to risk anything, especially with Harry by his side.

“It should be, there doesn’t seem to be any change other than the colour and it’s not as if the added ingredient changed, it’s still blood with all the properties of it,” she places the cup back in front of him, “you did read the ingredients list for any allergies?”

“Yes,” he nods, grabbing the cup and wrinkling his nose at the smell. It’s not pleasant. “Cheers,” he brings it to his mouth, trying his best to swallow it all while holding his breath. He finishes it and puts the cup down, grimacing at the taste - he should have made hot chocolate for himself too - and tapping at the table, “so… when…?”

“Any second now,” Dahlia says dismissively, though he can see a small crease starting to show on the centre of her forehead the longer he takes to grab the quill.

“I could just…” he reaches for the quill himself. He’d asked about using at least a fountain pen, but there’s apparently a magical component about the quill and parchment used too.

There’s a niggling feeling that something should be happening, but all he feels is a bit hot and it shows when he drops the quill to pull up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Nothing?” Harry quips from his side, staring at his hands like they should be doing something else, which isn’t entirely wrong.

He shakes his head, fiddling with the quill that’s back in his hand. He should really open a window or two, it’s way too hot to keep everything closed, he muses as he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“I’m opening a window,” he says after a moment when the heat takes a turn for the unbearable.

“It’s not the outside heat,” Dahlia quips, and he can only stare as his hand moves to the parchment instead of bracing on the table to help him stand up as he meant for it to do, a slight itch starting to surface under his skin.

“It’s too hot,” he gasps out, hand trembling with the quill on the centre of the parchment. He tries to make it go still, but it itches and burns and his clothes never felt more uncomfortable against his body, any slight drag making him fight back a flinch.

“Michael, I need you to breathe,” she tells him, but he is breathing, it’s just that everything is too hot  as if his veins got injected with magma and it’s now trying to pour out of his pores and his hand won’t stop twitching.

“What’s wrong?” Harry sounds distressed, he shouldn’t be making his kid worry, his whole objective is to not let Harry worry about anything anymore, and he’s failing spectacularly.

“I need you to step back, Harry,” Dahlia instructs, and he feels some of the heat leave as Harry detaches himself from his side, though it comes back with a vengeance a moment after, making him curl up on himself. Still, his right hand never leaves the parchment, “Michael, I’m going to put something up to your mouth and you have to drink all of it.”

Drinking something you gave me caused this in the first place.

He doesn’t have the time to verbalize those thoughts before cool glass touches his lips and liquid starts pouring down his throat, blessedly cool against the heat taking over his insides. He swallows reflexively until there’s nothing left to swallow and has very little time to think before he’s suddenly and forcibly pulled to the side, the quill flying from his hand and clattering to the floor as he moves his arms to keep himself from falling face-first on the floor and tries his best to keep the budding heat on his throat from spilling over.

“Stop holding it in,” the healer’s voice sounds a little far away but something suddenly tickles the back of his throat and he loses the battle against his gag reflex, letting every single drop of the potions he’d ingested come pouring out of his mouth, along with whatever was left undigested from his breakfast, “good, good.”

“Mr Wright!” Harry calls, he wants to turn around and tell his kid that everything is fine but all he can do is finish emptying his stomach and continue dry heaving when that’s done.

At least he no longer feels a few seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

“He’ll be fine, he just needed to push the potion out,” her voice is closer now, but not like she was standing by his side, so he breathes deeply e couple of times before wiping his mouth on his forearm and turning to look behind himself.

Dahlia was crouching on the ground, one arm holding a hyperventilating Harry to her chest so he couldn’t move and the other busy with wand-waving, which turns out to be some spell that vanishes his vomit a moment later.

“Let me go, let me go, let me go!” Harry’s trashing in her arms but she holds firm, he tries to stand up to go check on him but only makes it as far as using the arm of the sofa to hold himself up before collapsing on the cushions.

There’s a sudden bang and a second later he has an armful of crying child, with Harry’s arms going around his neck and his head tucked under his chin as he sobbed, small pleas of please don’t leave muffled against his skin. One look over his kid’s shoulder and he sees the healer starting to stand up with the help of the wall, a few feet away from where he’d seen her last and looking a little frazzled as she brushed herself off.

“That is some strong accidental magic,” Dahlia points out, making her way toward her bag.

Did Harry throw her back? Huh.

“I’m fine, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, focusing on calming down the crying child in his arms, sagging against the back of the couch with a relieved sigh as he realizes he’s saying the truth, “I’m staying, I promise.”

“Drink this,” she holds out a vial for him with something white inside, but Harry suddenly sits up, turning to glare at her in all his snot-covered glory.

“No,” he makes to push her arm away, but Michael grabs his hand before he can.

The full-body flinch from Harry at that makes guilt instantly flood him, especially with the way his kid tucks in his chin and raises his shoulders to his ears as he curls in on himself a moment later as if expecting to be hit.

Christ, I hope his relatives rot in Hell.

“It’s not her fault,” he says as evenly as he can over the soreness of his throat, “one potion went wrong, but the other one helped, this one probably helps too. We did something she hadn’t done before and it didn’t work, but we both agreed to it and it’s not her fault, alright? There’s no need to yell at her.”

It takes the boy a moment to normalize his breathing again after holding it in fear but Harry eventually nods in understanding.

“‘m sorry” Harry mutters just loud enough for them to hear and Michael offers him a smile, only putting up with the following reluctance for a moment before lightly pulling his kid back toward him.

Harry falls back into the hug, still breathing a little quickly but slowly melting into his chest in a way that makes his chest feel warm, and not the boiling warmth from the potion. He gives it a few seconds before holding out his hand for the white vial.

“Slow sips,” Dahlia cautions, handing it to him.

He only obeys, adjusting his hold on Harry so the kid had his head on his shoulder instead of glued to his neck and starts to sip from the vial, immediately feeling his throat be soothed by the liquid as it went down to calm his stomach. He could guess what this potion was for, at least.

“Thank you,” he offers after a couple more sips to finish the contents of the vial, handing it back.

Dahlia only sighs, taking it back to the bag before looking him over and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sorry, that was not supposed to happen,” she shakes her head, hand falling back down as she crosses her arms, “It didn’t look like an allergic reaction, and I know for a fact that squibs can safely take that potion, but a muggle would be dead, so I have no idea of what could possibly have gone wrong and I apologize for endangering your life.”

She bows, and he can tell by her tone which is genuinely apologetic that she means it.

“As I said, we both agreed to it,” he waves it off, not acknowledging any sort of debt, “Is there some other version of it?”

“I refuse to take part in experimentation,” she warns in the most serious tone he’s heard from her yet, “I can see that all other potions worked just fine, but I won’t be the one to hand you or recommend any core-related potions, for both your safety and that of my Healer license.”

“Alright, I won’t insist,” he placates, not feeling up for round two either, though he needs a way to keep Harry safe with him, “is there anything else?” he asks as his fingers lightly brush through Harry’s messy hair.

“Not at the moment, but I’ll be in contact,” Dahlia replies before starting to gather her things, her back to them in an illusion of privacy.

“I’m all better now,” he whispers to Harry as reassuringly as he can, “think you can look at me?”

There’s a few seconds of pause before he feels a nod against his shoulder and Harry moves away from it, readjusting in his lap to sit more comfortably and finally letting those shining green gems his kid has for eyes meet his own.

“Sorry,” Harry says, looking away.

“What for?” He taps Harry’s chin up, making him raise his head and meet his eyes again, though they’re clouded with confusion and fear.

“I did so-someth-thing freaky,” Harry stutters out.

“No you didn’t,” Michael instantly assures, glad to see the confusion overwhelming the fear in his kid’s eyes.

“But I pu-pushed Ms Dahlia.”

“And it wasn’t something freaky, it was accidental magic. That means it was an accident,” he clarifies, “no one is mad about it.” He looks to the healer for confirmation but only sees the end of a whoosh of green fire that signals that she had already left.

Harry just stares at him for a good minute, maybe looking for some sign that he’s lying or just taking the time to process that no , he will not be punished for something he did as an accident, before giving a small jerk of the head that could be called a nod and promptly laying back down on his chest, no longer clinging to him but not making any movement to leave his current spot.

“Please don’t do that again,” it’s almost a whisper with how low and hesitant it sounds, as if Harry isn’t sure he can even ask it of him.

“I need to find you a magical guardian or find a way for them not to take you away,” he explains with a sigh, not very happy about the situation himself.

“What if-” there’s a hitch in his kid’s breath before he continues, “what if I don’t have to be magic? Can they take me away if we don’t tell them?”

“Oh, kid, that wouldn’t work,” he rests his chin over Harry’s head. Maybe that would have been possible before the Malfoy meeting, before he went poking into the magical world and contacted the Tonks and Chang and a healer, but the cat is definitely out of the bag now or will be eventually, no matter how many contracts and vows they throw around. People talk, and he can’t exactly stop them. Not that he feels in any way inclined to deny Harry his magical heritage, the thought of depriving the child of magic had never even crossed his mind.

“I don’t wanna leave,” the whined complaint felt like a confession, and he hated how it made him both happy and sad at the same time.

“That’s why we need to find a good magical guardian,” he clarifies.

“I don’ want anyone else, I don’ wanna go ,” Harry insists, hands tightening around the arm he’d put around him, “ please let me stay .”

“I don’t want you to go either darling,” he starts rubbing the child’s back in what he hopes is a soothing manner, “you can stay as long as you want, and I’ll be trying my best to make sure you get to choose, alright?” he promises. Harry just nods against his chest and Michael places a light kiss over the crown of his head, “you’re not going anywhere as long as I have anything to say about it.”

He chances a glance at the table, eyes falling on the sole piece of parchment still remaining on the edge of it, with some traces gathered in the middle where his trembling hand had stayed for most of the process. He narrows his eyes at the writing, trying to distinguish any readable words in it, but all it looks like is a repeated letter.

The cluster of shaky ‘M’s seems to mock him from a distance.

Chapter Text

October 23rd, 1988

Harry really didn’t like not knowing things. He’d learned ever since he could remember that knowing things meant life got a little easier and not knowing made it a whole lot harder. He had to know every chore in the right order to get done so Aunt Petunia would let him eat his leftovers, had to know every right answer to get them wrong so his grades wouldn’t be better than Dudley’s, the times Uncle Vernon came back from work so he’d hide in his cupboard until his uncle had eaten and was too full to move for a while so he wouldn’t get punished for anything his cousin decided to blame on him. Knowing things was important, the best places to hide, what sort of food wouldn’t go bad if he hid it under a floorboard, how to get stains out of clothes before Aunt Petunia saw them, he used to make sure he remembered everything that he’d ever gotten in trouble for so he wouldn’t do it again.

Leaving the Dursleys had been like a dream come true, even though it wasn’t his parents showing up to rescue him from his cupboard like he’d wished for many times while lying in his cupboard at night. It also meant needing to learn a bunch of new things, like that he could go get food if he got hungry any time of the day, that his showers didn’t have to be ice cold and quick, that reading wasn’t just to be done behind the door of his room - a whole room just for him was still amazing - and that his door would never be locked unless he locked it himself. There were so many new rules to know and others to forget that sometimes he felt a little lost, like not having to hide in the library during break at school but sometimes still going there anyway - only after eating his snack that no one even tried to throw on the floor - because Hermione was trying to read every book in it by the time they left the school, and that he could and even should ask questions and Mr Wright would never get mad about it, even if they were silly ones, he’d tested it. He could even disagree with his guardian and instead of a walloping, he’d get to sit in Mr Wright’s office and argue about it over a pinboard like a game.

He also got to know things that weren’t super important but still useful, like how to use a coffee machine! Uncle Vernon couldn’t drink it for some reason his doctor said, and Aunt Petunia liked tea, so he never learned how to use one, but Ms Sarah liked coffee better than tea and made it sometimes when she took him to get snacks in the break room at Mr Wright’s work, so he watched her do it enough times to remember. The first time she was really busy and he brought her a mug of coffee with milk and lots of sugar the way he’d seen her do it, she’d smiled at him and messed up his hair and called him her little hero, even gave him some chocolate she’d been hiding in her drawer, so he figured it was a good thing to know. She even asked him to get coffee for her once or twice, though only if he got himself a snack, and she always had something else for him on her desk when he came back. He also learned that he shouldn’t make anyone else coffee even if they asked, Ms Sarah and Mr Wright got really upset - not with him but still - the one time it happened.

Even with all the new things he had to know, there was still so much he didn’t, like how to make his hair stop growing back from a new haircut - he felt so bad for wasting Mr Wright’s money but all he said was maybe they should let it grow out instead of cutting it - or how long it would be until he had to learn a whole new set of rules. He knew he couldn’t stay with Mr Wright, he was there for some of the talks of magical guardians and how the witches wouldn’t let him stay with a squib - what’s wrong with squibs? Mr Wright is the best and not having magic doesn’t change that - and he even remembered Mr Wright said he’d be living with him for a while , not forever. Except that for the first time in forever, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Maybe that’s why he’d been so scared the day before when Mr Wright looked in pain and got sick all over the floor. He only remembered feeling like that one time when Aunt Petunia killed his little spider friend that kept him company in the cupboard, but even then it hadn’t been quite as scary as thinking that Mr Wright might get badly hurt and leave him. He didn’t want Mr Wright to leave, or to be taken away by the witches, he wanted to stay with the man that rescued him from the Dursleys, that let him ask every question he could think of and never got mad if Harry climbed onto his lap while he was working, who asked about his day and took him to make friends even if he didn’t really think he’d know what to do with so many of them when he’d never even had one before. Mr Wright was like– like what Harry wanted a dad to be like, and he didn’t want anyone else to take his place.

Harry doesn’t usually get what he wants, but since his life took this turn for the better, he hopes he gets to keep it like that a little longer.

Mr Wright also doesn’t seem to want to get rid of him, for some reason. He doesn’t know why the man would want him, but he isn’t going to complain about it any time soon, and will just believe that Mr Wright meant it when he said that he would do what he could so Harry could stay , even if it could have been said just so he would stop crying like a baby on Mr Wright’s shirt. He hadn’t even meant to cry, but it there had been so much fear just all at once and the relief and he didn’t know what to do with it, not when he didn’t have to push it all down and hide it anymore so his relatives wouldn’t notice and taunt him for it or make it worse. Maybe Mr Wright being so nice was turning him into a crybaby. If he gets to stay, it might even be worth it.

All the crying and hugging didn’t mean the nightmares went away, this time about Mr Wright dying and Harry having to go back to the Dursleys. Maybe Mr Wright heard him at night - he really tried to be quiet even if it didn’t always work - because the first thing he said during breakfast was that they were going over to the Changs.

That means flying!

“You look about to vibrate through your seat,” Mr Wright says, but he’s smiling so Harry figures it isn’t a complaint.

“Sorry,” he mumbles between bites of his eggs, just to be sure.

“Don’t be, but they’re not going anywhere, you can afford to chew and swallow your breakfast instead of inhaling it,” this time it does have a bit of a tone, so Harry nods and tries to slow down, even if he’s excited.

He really likes flying, even if flying with Cho means helping her train for Quidditch. Harry doesn’t really didn’t mind the games but it doesn’t make a lot of sense to him, then again he doesn’t get football either, it has way too many rules and he would rather watch a cartoon instead. Cho doesn’t really mind if he takes off to fly between their games and sometimes even shows him tricks like how to hang upside-down on his broom without it flying off. He did it with Hermione once on the tree behind the house, but hanging from the broom was so much more fun!

“Done!” Harry says after washing down his last bite of toast with the rest of the orange juice, almost standing up before remembering to look at Mr Wright for permission.

“Alright, let’s go,” Mr Wright chuckles and Harry doesn’t know what’s funny and is too busy running to the fireplace to ask, “careful!”

“’s not that high,” he mumbles while reaching for the floo powder on the tip of his toes, grinning when he reaches it and grabbing a handful before passing it over to Mr Wright and throwing his share down on the fireplace before stepping into it, “Chang Chambers!”

“Well, that’s certainly unusual,” Chang set down the piece of parchment on her office table, looking just as puzzled as Michael felt, “At least I think it is, I’m no healer or potions expert.”

“Healer Dahlia did say it was unexpected,” Michael confirms, sighing at the sight of the scribbled ‘M’s in the centre of the parchment, wondering why it hadn’t managed to struggle all the way through his name at the very least.

“Nothing to do but move on,” she advises dismissively, unsheathing her wand just long enough to vanish the parchment into non-existence, “I had hoped to explore other options, but I suppose we’ve reached our last resort.”

“Not ominous at all,” he tries to joke, though the thought that he was running out of choices was unsettling enough to turn his tone from light to wary.

“Doesn’t have to be, it’s simply fallen out of practice,” Chang assures, pausing for a moment in thought before continuing, “you could perform a blood adoption ritual, it wouldn’t make you his magical guardian but it would make you as good as his father and much harder to dismiss from his life.”

“That would be the third time in just as many months that blood has been involved in rituals of some sort,” he points out a little incredulously, “I thought blood magic was banned?”

At the very least, every magical law book he’d read so far had told him so, in varying vernacular but still with the same essence.

“Most of it is, except for the ones that rely on intention and only affect the ones to donate it,” she explains with the same patience he’s glimpsed from their exchanged correspondence, “Gringott’s business isn’t up to us, and the bloodline tracing can only be done with blood freely given by the one meant to drink it. The adoption ritual sits on a thin grey line in that it does affect someone other than the donor, but can only take hold with the subjects’ clear intention and consent, which is why it’s managed to remain legal, as well as being out of sight enough to be mostly forgotten by any but a few old families.”

“I see,” he nods, though it’s still a little confusing and he’ll definitely brush up on said law before even considering it, “what would be an example covered by the law, then?”

“Something like using blood to brew targeted potions. Imagine what one could do with a poison that only affects a single person,” she doesn’t need to elaborate for him to get the message, the thought of something like that being added to food or drink and only affecting its target was enough for him to agree that it should indeed be jail-worthy.

Even if any thought of the wizarding prison still made him shudder and question the morals of every person that never thought to change the current system, especially with the recently introduced Criminal Justice Act. Section 134 isn’t there just to look pretty, even if he is still a little lost on when muggle laws apply in court and in what cases wizarding law takes precedence.

“So, blood adoption?” Michael prompts, not wanting to dwell on his thoughts for long.

“The custom was to blood adopt any heirs once they came of age to take part in the ritual,” Chang starts in a lecturing tone, “It’s main objective is to integrate the parents’ magic with the child’s and, in most cases, it was used when a child was suspected of being a squib, like an attempt to kickstart their magic by adding more to it, or in hopes of triggering any specific family magics into existence.”

“Family magics?” He frowns, not familiar with the term except for the healer’s vague mentions.

“Parseltongue, for example,” Chang explains, “natural occlumency, metamorphmagic, even a particular affinity for certain branches of magic can be inherited through family magic. The Chang family, for example, is very good at healing, though that hardly kept me from following my own path as you can see,” she motions pointedly at the space around them, “returning to the point, the adopted child will be magically recognized as the offspring of the adopters after the ritual,” she pauses in thought for a moment, frowning slightly, “I don’t suppose the result has ever gone through muggle DNA testing, but any wizarding method will show the same result and the child may even come to show some characteristics of the adopters in time, such as having dark hair, being adopted by blondes, and then starting to grow slightly lighter hair, or having some of the parents’ eye colour slowly mix into their own, though those are only the more noticeable signs.”

“That seems… very permanent,” he muses, amazed at what magic can make possible.

“You could always drop the child at the door of the closest police station,” Chang suggests, her tone dripping sarcasm and making him roll his eyes.

“I get it, and I do want it to be permanent,” he elaborates, the memory of Harry begging to stay still fresh in his mind, “but I don’t want to erase his parents, he never even got to meet them.”

“Are you deaf?” she mocks, “I never said anything about replacing one’s parents, merely adding to them. If anything, they would be thankful for someone choosing to take in their child instead of leaving him to the muggles.”

“And this would make it so they can’t take him?” He insists. It is the whole point of their efforts.

“They can try, and maybe even succeed in appointing a fully magical guardian, but there would be no grounds for removal from your custody,” she clarifies a bit more patiently, likely sensing his impatience, “for the same reason the Ministry cannot simply remove muggleborns from their homes solely based on their parents’ lack of magic.”

“I see,” Michael hums, considering it, “I won’t do anything Harry doesn’t agree to, but I wouldn’t be opposed to a more thorough explanation of how this ritual might be performed.”

“Don’t wait too long to consider it,” Chang warns somberly, “you never know when you might run out of time.”

Chapter Text

25th October 1988

Dear Narcissa,

I realize that I still owe you a reply regarding our latest subject but I have yet to find enough time in my hands to delve into the recommended titles. Instead, I am writing to inquire into a more personal matter, as I have been recently reminded that you and my ward share a familial connection. Samhain quickly approaches and as we discussed once before, I have devised a fitting schedule for the celebration with my ward but still found myself wondering about familial traditions, especially since he is sure to feel the loss of his own quite keenly given the date. As you both share a connection with the Black family, I reach out in the hope that you may still remember any traditions they may have practised during Samhain that could be beneficial for my ward to take part in.

In addition, if I may impose on your generosity, I plan to get in contact with suitable tutors and wondered if you could offer any recommendations.

Yours truly,

Michael.

27th October 1988

Dear Michael,

I do hope you are not disregarding your own needs due to lack of free time, for your ward's sake as well as my desire to continue having a decent debate over the political structure of the Wizengamot. There is no rush, take the time to breathe in something other than the smell of ink and parchment.

In regards to the Black family’s approach to Samhain, it has been many years since I’ve dwelled on it, some have fallen out of practice and in parts even been outlawed, but I remember the simplest of rituals always did bring me the most comfort, especially as a child. In any case, your ward has yet to reach the age of enough magical maturity to participate in the more elaborate ones we’ve previously discussed and it would be my pleasure to share some of the family’s customs with our second youngest member.

The package that arrived along with my letter contains a few rosemary and mugwort candles, to place on each bedroom window and at the table by the seats put aside for those we honour on that night. They are usually lit by children once they learn the ghost flame spell, but any flame will act as a guiding light when the veil is the thinnest, and there is no need to worry about leaving them overnight as their flames will be extinguished come the first rays of light.

Another common custom during Samhain is to…

26th October 1988

Dear Mrs Tonks,

I’m aware that we parted ways on unfriendly terms and, while I have no regrets for standing up for my ward, I would hope to establish more amicable relations with those related to him, as a family by blood can be just as important as the family one chooses.

I have mailed your sister with a request for examples of the Black family’s Samhain traditions which I would like to slowly introduce to my ward’s life, as well as a request for any possible recommendations regarding appropriate tutors, and figured you should be extended the same courtesy.

I await a response, be it to request that I cease correspondence or elaborate on my requests.

Yours truly,

Michael Morgan-Wright.

28th October 1988

Dear Mr Wright,

I take no part in traditions belonging to the Black family, but that still leaves a plethora of Samhain rituals to choose from, most of which can not be performed without the use of magic, leaving very few options to consider. I suppose burning your offerings to the ancestors in a fire is simple enough to execute.

The second parchment is a list of tutors I considered for my daughter along with their contact information, some may yet be in business.

I propose a meeting after the holidays to discuss where we stand on the matter of guardianship.

Sincerely,

Andromeda Tonks.

October 30th, 1988

“What’s this?” He hears Harry ask, followed by a dull thump that tells him the boy is poking around the parcels on his desk. He finishes shelving the two books he’d been studying and turns back toward his ward.

Harry’s sitting in a chair on the other side of his office desk, nearly hidden by the half a dozen packages spread over it, as well as the odd pile of books. Over the last months, the office had filled up more and more with books - nearly all magic ones - in every nook and cranny, over the table and on the floor, even on the chair if he wasn’t using it, leaving very little open space. He can hardly move them to the downstairs library - can’t have magic books just lying around - but needs to find a solution before the only means to enter the office includes trading over the tomes.

“Some things we’ll need over the next two days,” He answers, picking up the small pile of books from his chair and balancing it on top of a taller one by the wall before sitting down, “if you’re sure you don’t want to go trick-or-treating?”

Harry shakes his head no, not that it surprises him. He’d come back from school on Friday looking conflicted and revealed that Hermione had asked him to go trick-or-treating with her but he refused due to it being the day his parents died, and it seemed that even though she understood his ward still appeared guilty about it.

“Alright, then how about I teach you a little about Samhain?” He suggests, “It’s also commemorated on the 31st of October, but it’s all about remembering those who are gone.”

“Like my parents,” Harry mumbles, looking down at his feet as he swings them back and forth under the chair.

“Yes, and mine too,” Michael agrees softly,  “Wixes say it’s the day the door between where the dead go and our world opens up just enough to let us feel our loved ones close a bit better. It’s also one of eight occasions where they perform certain rituals-”

“Like the one that made you sick?” Harry interrupts, tone filled with worry.

“No, not like that,” He shakes his head, “we don’t have to take any potions, it’s just words and actions, maybe some tea depending on the ritual, but nothing likely to make me sick, alright?”

“Mhm,” Harry nods, thankfully believing him.

“This is one of those things you would probably learn better from a tutor, but I think we can handle it on our own this year, yeah?” He asks, earning loud agreement from Harry as well as a smile, “I’ve picked a couple of things for us to prepare for tomorrow, and there’s a book for you to read if you want, but I thought we could leave the history for some other time. So, how about you pick a box and I can tell you about what’s inside?”

“Alright!”

October 31st, 1988

The flowers smell nice.

The whole car smells of them after two hours of driving, but at least Harry gets to sit up front - there’s only two seats anyway - and stare out the window, the booster seat Mr Wright put under him letting him use the seatbelt without it hurting his neck. He might have used the time to take a nap any other day, but knowing where they were going sent all the tiredness out of his body, leaving him fidgety and a little cold, though that’s probably his thoughts instead of the weather.

Mr Wright told him the day before, but he sort of let it slip from his mind when there was magic to talk about and words to memorise, only to remember again when Mr Wright took them to buy a bouquet before the long drive. It’s a pretty one too, with lots of purple and blue and some white and light yellows, nothing like ones he’d seen Uncle Vernon buy for Aunt Petunia, full of red roses and carnations, at least that’s what he thinks they’re called. He knows some of the flowers in their bouquet too, from doing all the gardening for Aunt Petunia and a bit of flipping through a few herbology books, but besides the rosemary and light yellow marigolds, he can’t really tell the others apart.

He’s not supposed to be thinking about the flowers anyway, the long drive was probably so he can think about what to say or do later. It’s not like it’s a ritual he can learn, they’re just going to his parents’ graves, but he’s never done that before so how is he supposed to know what to do? Mr Wright said there’s no wrong or right thing to do, that he could talk to them or just place the bouquet and leave if he wanted, but he just can’t decide what’s best. Should he talk to them? Can they listen? Does he have anything to say to parents he can’t remember? All these questions distract him so much he barely notices they’ve stopped until Mr Wright is opening the door for him.

They’re at what looks like the edge of a forest, and Harry remembers passing the last house he’d seen more than twenty minutes ago, so it’s a little far out from the city.

“We have to walk a little to get there,” Mr Wright says as he climbs out of the car, locking it behind them before turning back around. Harry just nods and grabs his hand as they start to walk into the forest, following a path between the tall trees all around them.

It’s only a couple minutes into the walk when Harry starts seeing lights through the trees ahead, and a few more steps have them stepping out of the forest onto a large stone road, with light posts every few feet with what looks like blue fire inside instead of lamps. He can see a couple of houses ahead, each looking different from the others but all light and colourful, or maybe they’re stores? He can’t see any signs but some do look like their doors are open.

“Huh, that was easier than I thought,” Mr Wright mutters before leading them into the road, following it past the houses and a bridge, until they reach what looks like a small square. There’s benches and what looks like a fountain, but he forgets all about that when Mr Wright tugs them closer to a tall stone pillar and it just vanishes , turning into a statue instead.

It’s a couple, Harry realizes after stepping closer only to almost trip on the flowers that suddenly appeared on the ground, all looking fresh like they were put there that day. He blinks down at them but doesn’t waste time trying to figure out all the flowers before looking back up. The man in the statue is tall, at least a head taller than the woman he’s hugging close, and he’s got untidy hair and round-framed glasses that kind of look like Harry’s old ones, while the lady has long hair and a kind, pretty face smiling down at the baby in her arms. They look young, even younger than Mr Wright, and the baby also looks very small, all wrapped up in its stone blanket.

They look happy , he thinks as he looks down at the pedestal of the statue, squinting at the writing on it.

In memoriam

The Potters

“Oh,” he barely hears himself exhale, head snapping back up so quickly his neck nearly hurts, “are they-”

“Lily and James Potter,” Mr Wright whispers, and he doesn’t remember letting go of his guardian’s hand but it’s suddenly on his shoulder so he doesn’t complain, only stares up at the statue as if he could will it to life given enough time

The baby in the statue is smiling and grabbing onto his mum’s hair with a hand that escaped the blanket, and Harry wonders if that’s what he looked like as a baby, or if that was how his parents looked at him, with smiles and enough love in their eyes that he can almost feel even though the stone statue. Did they hug like that often? Did his mom not mind that he pulled her hair? Did his dad let him try on his glasses?

“Had you never seen them?” Mr Wright asks after what feels like hours .

“Aunt Petunia didn’t have any pictures,” Harry answers with a shake of the head.

He thinks the hand in his shoulder tightens just a bit at that, but he doesn’t ask and hopes Mr Wright won’t either. He’s free from them, he doesn’t want to think about them, not today.

“Want to stay a little longer or visit their graves?” Mr Wright settles on instead.

“This isn’t-” He turns around, frowning.

“It’s a memorial, something for people to remember them by,” is the explanation he gets, which makes sense, his parents wouldn’t be buried in the middle of a square, “their old house is also here somewhere, but we can’t go in without talking to the goblins first about the wards. The cemetery is a few minutes that way,” Mr Wright points to a different road that curves around the houses and goes closer to the forest that seems to be all around the little town.

“Let’s go,” He grabs Mr Wright’s hand to pull him toward the path, only slowing when he meets a little resistance and looks back to see his guardian tip-toeing around the flowers on the ground so he won’t step on them, “please,” he adds as he remembers to be polite too.

“Of course,” Mr Wright smiles slightly down at him, but it looks sad and his eyes are a little far away so Harry doesn’t bother to pretend to smile back when he doesn’t really feel like it.

They walk the path to the cemetery in silence, Mr Wright seeming deep in thought and Harry busy looking all around them, wanting to remember the exact path to his parents’ graves. He’s never been to a cemetery before so he doesn’t really know what to expect, but once he catches sight of the tombstones spread over the ground it’s pretty easy to tell they’ve arrived. His stomach feels like it’s turning upside-down and his hands are sweaty even though there’s a nice breeze in the air, and when they stop just at the gate he’s almost relieved.

“Here, why don’t you go ahead?” Mr Wright crouches in front of him and hands him the bouquet, it takes him a bit to grab it without letting it fall, “It’s the seventh to the right on the third row, I can see you from here. You can wave if you want me to go over, but I think you should see them on your own first.”

He only nods, hugging the flowers close to his chest and breathing them in for a moment before turning toward the cemetery and stepping into the small path down the middle. He counts in his head, three forward and seven to the right, and it brings him to a stop in front of a large tombstone that’s nearly his height. It’s not sculpted prettily like some others he’d walked by, but instead just plain and square. He crouches in front of it, his fingers reaching out to feel the letters in the stone.

In Loving Memory

of

James Potter & Lily Potter

Something wet drips into his arm and startles him into looking down, but it looks like it’s just water, so where-

Oh .

He brings a hand up to his cheek, wiping away the tears, but it doesn’t take long for more to start filling his eyes and making it hard to see.

They’re really gone.

It’s not like he thought they weren’t, Aunt Petunia always told him they were dead and that’s why she was burdened with him, and then Mr Wright found out the truth and he learned they died by magic instead of a car crash but were no less dead than in the past eight years. Somehow it didn’t feel as real until now. They’re buried right here, and he’s never going to know how it feels to be hugged by them, what his mum’s food tastes like or how his dad sounds reading him a bedtime story.

“I miss you,” he whispers to the stone, moving from his crouch down to his knees to sit back on his ankles. It’s weird, missing people he doesn’t remember and things that never happened, but he still feels it tight on his chest, like someone grabbed his heart and squeezed it, “um- I’m Harry. Your s-son,” he adds a moment later, breath hitching as he holds back a sob and not sure how to go about talking to the dead but hating the silence around him, “I’m eight now, so you- you’ve been gone for a while. I wish you hadn’t.”

A cold gust of wind makes him shiver and hug the flowers closer, not minding that he’s probably crumpling a few of them.

“I lived with Aunt Petunia,” he tells them, “I don’t like her very much, and I think that’s okay ‘cause she didn’t like me either, but she’s still your sister so I’m sorry mum,” he shrugs, not sure how his parents would have felt about the way the Dursleys treated him. Would they have ignored it like everyone else or would they be like Mr Wright, who saved him and was mad at the Dursleys? “Mr Wright took me away though, I like him,” he admits in a whisper, “I really like him, and I think he likes me too, he buys me things and hugs me and I can eat anytime now, I don’t even have to work for it. Like you would have if you weren’t dead.”

Is it bad to tell the dead they’re dead ? He thinks as he stares at the bottom of the tombstone, only now noticing something written there.

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death

What’s that supposed to mean ? Harry wonders, but there’s obviously no one to answer him so he shakes his head and looks back up at his parents’ names.

“I know about magic now,” he continues, feeling like they might want to know more about his life, “Aunt Petunia didn’t ever tell me, but Mr Wright found out and told me all about it. I can’t tell anyone though, but that’s okay since I have magic friends and normal friends too. I have three friends now, but Hermione is my best friend, and Dudley can’t scare them away.”

Would his parents have taken him to meet their friends and other kids like Mr Wright did? Would he have made different friends?

“Mr Wright’s tryna find me a magic guardian, ‘cause the wizards don’t like that he’s a squib and doesn’t have magic. Do you mind that he doesn’t have magic? I don’t, he’s still the best and he saved me without it,” he looks back at the gate, seeing Mr Wright leaning on it and looking in his direction, watching over him while he talks to his parents, it makes him feel warm, “he’s kinda like a dad, but you’re s’pposed to be my dad,” he feels his stomach churn with guilt, he has parents, they’re just gone , “I-Is that okay? I don’t want you to be mad at me wherever you are.”

There’s a noise by his side and he glances up at the tree by the wall that goes around the cemetery, it’s kind of far away but the branches hang over the graves and leaves keep falling around him and making noise, he might have been a bit scared if he didn’t have Mr Wright looking out for him.

“I’ll bring Mr Wright to meet you next time,” Harry tells them finally, tired from crying. He puts the bouquet down on their grave, right by a blue flower lying on the right side of it. He thinks it looks like an Iris, but that could be wrong. “I love you.”

Chapter Text

The ride back home is quiet, which has him worrying until he realises Harry is fast asleep. Michael can’t blame him, it’s only four in the afternoon but his ward has had quite an emotional time so far and if all of it was making him tired just thinking about it, he can’t imagine how the eight-year-old must feel.

He’d never seen his parents , he sighs at the thought. The constant anger at the Dursleys, which had reduced to a simmer, burning steadily stronger.

Michael hadn’t thought to ask, and it’s not as if the few history books that mentioned the Potters had ever provided an illustration. He should have thought of that, but at least there’s still time to correct this mistake. He will reach out to Chang first, of course, to be sure any inquiries won’t raise the wrong sorts of questions, but it should be fine if he’s suitably discreet about it, maybe look for some equivalent of a Hogwarts yearbook, some old newspapers, or ask around for their old acquaintances to part with copies of any pictures they might have. That is, however, something he can’t fix in a rush and thus a worry for another day.

The lack of urgency doesn’t stop him from trying to think up strategies on how to contact the necessary people, without alerting the wizarding world that he has custody of Harry, until the moment he parks in front of his home. The door closing behind him doesn’t startle his ward out of his impromptu nap and even opening the boy’s door doesn’t disturb his sleep at all, so he resigns himself to unbuckling the seatbelt and pulling the child into his arms, a little glad when the weight is a bit more significant than the last time and with a passing thought to thank Dahlia for the nutritional potions. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips when Harry loops his arms around his neck, face pressing on his shoulder, clearly not too asleep but not wanting to wake up fully, it brings back memories of his own childhood habit of feigning sleep so his mother or father would carry him to bed, though it hardly worked once he’d aged over five.

He ignores the stairs leading up to Harry’s bedroom once he’s made his way inside and just tucks the boy onto the couch with a throw blanket, not seeing the need to wake him up when they’ll both need to be awake later than usual for the ritual at midnight, Harry could definitely use some rest to ensure he doesn’t fall asleep in the middle of it. Said ritual still requires a couple of preparations, so he leaves his ward and starts on those, looking into the fridge to find his requests to Marie had been fulfilled during their outing and various dishes for their dinner were properly stored to be finalised at the correct time. Setting the table takes some time and it’s the last of the indoor tasks, allowing him to move on to the back garden.

They had taken care of some of it the day before - though most of it had been spent studying the holiday and memorising the ritual along with Harry - and the garden now sported a makeshift fire pit where they’d dug out the grass and made a circle of stones, in the centre a pile of wood waiting to be lit in a few hours. There are some leaves strewn about that were not there the day before, so he goes to fetch the rake from the shed to clear them out. Opening its wooden door, his eyes stray to a few items he hasn’t made use of in a while and an idea crosses his mind, solidifying by the second.

Hopefully, Harry will enjoy it.

Harry wakes up nearly rolling out of the couch before actually realising where he is and panicking just enough to make him fall out of it, legs tangled on the throw blanket but his arms at least protecting his head while he gets his breath back from his spot on the floor. He hears footsteps coming close quickly and sits up in a hurry, nearly making himself dizzy all over again.

“Everything alright?” Mr Wright stops a couple of steps away, wiping his hands on the frilly pink apron that Marie usually wears while cooking. He’s caught him wearing it before so it doesn’t pull a laugh from him anymore, but it’s still funny to see something so girly on his guardian who only wears suits nearly all the time.

He doesn’t look upset about carrying Harry from the car, so he pushes that thought away and smiles up at his guardian instead.

“Fine, jus’ fell,” he replies, untangling the throw blanket from his legs and standing to place it back over the couch, “dinner?”

“Reheating it, and some mixing. We both know I can’t cook,” Mr Wright says and Harry chuckles, he’s seen proof of it enough times not to disagree. His guardian gets distracted and forgets things or adds them in the wrong order unless there’s a written recipe to follow, and even then Harry sometimes reminds him to read again and not skip any steps.

It turns out that when he’s not forced to do it by the Dursleys, Harry actually doesn’t mind cooking, especially if it’s only every other weekend and with Mr Wright being the one to do the things he’s gotten hurt doing before, like cutting up stuff and taking care of the stove. The results are mixed, with half the time ending up with them eating leftovers from the fridge or ordering something from a restaurant, but the few successes always earn him thanks from his guardian for saving the dish and make him a little proud for helping out.

“Can I help?” He asks anyway, rubbing any remaining sleepiness out of his eyes.

“May,” Mr Wright corrects, “and I’m just about done, so how about a shower before we light the candles?”

Harry just nods and hurries up the stairs to do as told, trusting Mr Wright to at least not mess up reheating . He comes back with damp hair and in black trousers and the light grey jumper he’d put aside for the dinner and ritual, remembering it would be a bit cold outside. The clock by the fireplace tells him it’s nearly ten and he rushes to the dining room, stopping at the door and staring at how just a couple of changes made it look different from what he was used to. They didn’t usually have dinner in it for starters, only lunch with the windows open and outside light coming in, but now the big chandelier on top of the table lights up the whole room. There’s also a lot more places set up instead of just two or three, with all the cutlery Mr Wright taught him to use, and Harry feels his eyes sting a bit remembering those are set up for his parents and the other two for Mr Wright’s – as if they all just might stop by for dinner – but he refuses to be more of a crybaby. There’s one of the candles Mrs Malfoy gave them in front of each seat, leaving only their seats without, and the centre of the table has a vase with the flowers he and Mr Wright picked when buying the bouquet for his parents’ grave, they’re not the same ones but it’s still pretty with a little less blue and some more red with the purples and light yellows.

“There you are,” Mr Wright says from behind him and Harry steps into the room so he can walk in and put down the bowl he’s carrying, “Alright, all done. I’ll just grab something to drink and we can light the candles,” he ruffles his hair when he walks by again and Harry smiles slightly, walking up to the table.

There’s almost as much food as he remembers seeing the day Mr Wright brought him home, most of them his favourites even if he hasn’t told anyone that. It makes his chest feel warm, the way Marie and Mr Wright pay attention to what he likes or doesn’t and make sure he has things he likes every meal, even if they make him eat some stuff he doesn’t like just because it’s good for him. At least they say it’ll make him grow, so he doesn’t mind eating some icky stuff as long as it helps him stop being shorter than Hermione and Cho.

Mr Wright comes back with their cups full – he can’t have more than one cup of juice or else he’ll spoil his dinner so Mr Wright doesn’t leave the bottle at the table – and sets them down on their places, motioning for Harry to step closer. He quits nervously swaying on the balls of his feet and moves over, trying to calm down. He knows what to do, they went over it three times, he won’t get it wrong.

There’s suddenly a hand lightly squeezing his shoulder, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Looking up at Mr Wright earns him an encouraging smile, he can only nod back, too jittery to smile, but Mr Wright probably takes that as him saying he’s ready since the hand on his shoulder slides off and his guardian moves over to stand behind the empty seats. He follows the lead and walks over to the other two, standing between the chairs.

“Joan Morgan,” Mr Wright breaks the silence as he strikes a match and lights up one of the candles, “Hoc est in domum suam. Et receperint vos hic.” he moves over to the next seat, lighting the second candle, “Walter Wright. Hoc est in domum suam. Et receperint vos hic.”

Harry fidgets nervously when the matches are handed to him, scared of messing anything up. Mr Wright had helped him rehearse the words and told him that they could do it in English next time, because of something like magic getting used to them the same as they’re getting used to magic, but this first time has to be in Latin and he doesn’t want to get it wrong and ruin the whole thing.

A hand closes over his and squeezes a bit until he looks up at Mr Wright, who’s smiling at him and tilting his head at the candles. Right, I can do this . He lights the match and takes a breath before holding it to the candlewick and speaking, “Lily Potter. Hoc est in domum suam. Et re-receperint vos hic.” he looks back at Mr Wright after stuttering, but he doesn’t seem upset, so Harry moves to light the next candle, “James Potter. Hoc est in domum suam. Et receperint vos hic.”

“Good job,” Harry shivers slightly when a sudden coldness passes through him, but then smiles at Mr Wright’s praise. “Come, let’s sit.”

Harry glances at the empty seats nervously before moving over to his own right across from Mr Wright. It feels a little strange, to tell his and Mr Wright’s parents they’re welcome home and then just go about dinner, maybe that’s why Mr Wright had asked if he wanted to do this part too, but since it will help with the ritual later – something about bringing the souls closer before calling for them – Harry wanted to do it.

Dinner is more quiet than usual, everything feels a little more serious, and Mr Wright doesn’t even need to remind him to save a bit of food on the corner of the plate for later. When they’re done eating, Mr Wright collects the candles and Harry brings over their plates, all the way out to the back garden, before stopping at the door when he sees the big tent set up a few steps away from the fire pit.

“Like it?” Mr Wright sends him a smile from where he’s placing the candles on the ground around the fire pit, making sure they’re pointing in the right direction. Harry would have needed a compass to tell West from South at night, but Mr Wright doesn’t seem to have any problem with it. “I thought we could make a night of it and camp outside.”

“I’ve never been camping,” Harry mumbles, blinking at the tent and then looking back at the fire pit. He shakes his head and sets the plates down on opposite sides where Mr Wright told him they’d have to sit before sitting down with crisscrossed legs on the grass by his plate. It’s soft enough, and a bit chilly, but his jumper keeps him warm and when he looks up, the sky is shining with more stars than he’d ever seen at night before. “I think I’ll like it.”

When he looks up at Mr Wright, he has that sad-happy look on his face again, one he tries to hide when Harry tells him he hasn’t done something before, but he still catches it sometimes. He doesn’t mind it, not having done a bunch of things before while putting up with the Dursleys, if he ends up doing them now and never seeing the Dursleys again. To Harry, it feels like an alright trade.

“My dad liked it,” Mr Wright says after a moment, “Mom hated it, but we’d still go camping twice a year on this spot up in Charlesworth so he could get some peace and quiet from the city. There’s this spot, I’d complain the whole walk there, but when we got to it I’d jump in the ponds and make the biggest fuss about leaving. Mom had a hard time keeping me away from the waterfall…” he has this far-away look as he speaks, but blinks it away. “I’ll take you there sometime.”

Harry smiles slightly, “I’d like that.”

A moment later, the fire pit suddenly bursts into flame, making Harry’s eyes widen. From the look on Mr Wright’s face as he steps back from starting the fire, that’s not how it usually lights up. It’s very warm, Harry notices as he leans forward toward the brightness of the flames, very yellow and red and nothing like the fire on the stove. He kind of wants to touch it.

“Don’t get too close,” Mr Wright warns, making Harry lean back again, and looking down at his wrist before continuing, “It’s a quarter to midnight, I suppose we should start. You remember everything?”

“Mhm,” Harry nods, glad he doesn’t have to speak as much as Mr Wright so remembering his part was much easier. He gets up, picks up his plate and goes over the words in his head before speaking, “Messem gratias dicimus et hiemem gratam.” He says it slowly, careful about every word, before tipping his plate over the fire so the food he’d set to the side during dinner slides off his plate and into the flames. They burn stronger for a second, and that feeling of wanting to touch it comes back, but Harry blinks it away along with the brightness of the fire and puts the plate out of their little candle-lined circle before going back to sitting.

Mr Wright does the same thing with his plate, and Harry could swear the fire turns entirely red for a moment before going back to normal. Once Mr Wright is sitting just like him on the opposite side of the fire pit, their eyes meeting over the flames, he starts speaking again. “Coram magica stamus, in hac die ubi velum inter vitam et mortem tenuissimum est, spiritualem audientiam petendi.” Harry doesn’t really understand most of it, even with Latin classes having started, but he knows what it means from when Mr Wright was telling him about it. They’re asking magic to let him see his parents since the dead are closer to the living world during Samhain. He just doesn’t know how that’s supposed to happen, but if magic can make it happen, he’ll ask as many times as it takes. “Carissimi nostri planum spirituale transeant, et sapientiam suam nobiscum communicent, quandiu velum permittit.”

“In nomen magicae,” Harry says at the same time as Mr Wright and closes his eyes. It’s not like he has to, but it makes it easier to ignore whatever else Mr Wright is saying, even if he’s gone back to a lower tone now that Harry doesn’t have to hear it to speak his own part. “Audientiam peto cum Lily et James Potter,” he whispers, thinking back to the image of his parents in the statue, but nothing seems to happen.

A sudden chill makes him shiver and inch closer to the fire, opening his eyes, only to blink and rub his hands over them when the fire suddenly grows taller than it probably should, almost as tall as the cherry trees in their street, and turns a nearly-white blue colour. It’s also not hot, or at least doesn’t seem like it since all the warmth is gone , and Harry can’t help but reach for it.

“You shouldn’t go around touching fire,” someone suddenly says, and Harry finches back before looking all around for who was speaking. It was a woman’s voice, so it couldn’t be Mr Wright.

“Over here,” another voice says, this one a man but not Mr Wright either, and Harry’s wide eyes turn back to the fire, except it’s not a normal fire anymore, it looks more like someone tried to make an ice sculpture but with blue fire, one that looks like a woman with long hair and a man with glasses, just like-

“Mum?” His voice nearly gets stuck in his throat, “Dad?”

“Hello, little love,” his mum says, and the fire doesn’t show their faces quite right, doesn’t translate their smiles like he thinks they should look, but her voice is soft and caring just like he imagined it.

“It’s good to talk to you, son,” his dad tells him, and Harry loses his fight against the tears, hands coming up to cup his mouth and muffle the sobs but not covering his eyes because he just can’t look away. They’re here , and he can’t miss a second of it.

“ Oh , my baby,” his mum’s fire moves like she wants to walk over to him, but they’re stuck in the flames. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you were left alone for so long, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Harry makes a questioning noise since it’s the most he can make at the moment and tries to hold back the tears, holding his breath so he’ll stop looking like a crybaby in front of his parents and maybe talk to them.

“Don’t- you can cry, son, it’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with crying,” his dad sounds a bit lost, looking at his mom, who just shakes her head.

“Your dad is just terrible with crying people,” she says like she’s telling a secret, “threw a bar of chocolate at me once, trying to make me stop, but he’s right, you can cry as much as you need, darling.”

A little giggle breaks through the sobs at the thought of his dad just throwing chocolate at anyone that cried and how that would just make people cry more just to get chocolate, making him let out the breath he’d been holding and stop trying to hold back the tears and instead breathe through them.

“There we go,” his dad is clearly smiling even if the fire makes it hard to tell. “We don’t have much time, but we had to answer your question. We can’t have you holding back because of us, son.”

“W-what?” Harry asks, feeling confused. He doesn’t remember asking any questions.

“You asked if it was okay to think of Mr Wright as a dad,” his mum explains, and it takes a minute for Harry to remember-

“You were i-in the cemetery? I’m so-orry,” he breathes out, feeling awful for hurting his parents like this, what kind of son-

“Of course it’s okay,” his dad hurries to say, “I mean- of course, I wish we could be with you, but-”

“You deserve a family, little love. A living one, that will be there for you when you need them. Mr Wright seems to be doing well so far,” mum cuts him off, “we’re grateful for him, for taking you away from my sister. You were never supposed to be there, but that meddling-”

The fire turns slightly red, interrupting his mom’s speech, before settling back on the ghostly blue colour.

“Well, he could do with a little distance from the Malfoys ,” his dad points out as his mom calms down, but it just seems to earn him a fiery glare, “but whatever makes things better for you, son. It’s your choice, the family you make in life, but if you needed to hear it, he’s got our seal of approval.”

“Tha-anks,” Harry whispers, his sobs mostly turned to sniffles, and smiles up at them. The fire may have turned cold, but he’s feeling warm enough that it doesn’t make much difference. “Y-you said- I wasn’t s’pposed to be with the Dursleys?”

“Of course not, we’d never leave you with that hateful b- woman!” his dad tells him, his mom nodding along.

“It’s all in the w-” The fire flickers again as his mom speaks, and she sighs. “The dead aren’t supposed to interfere with the life of the living,” she tells him, “so I can’t say much. We just wanted to tell you we love you, darling. That’s all that matters.”

“And we do love you, son.” his dad assures, and Harry’s smile feels impossibly wide, “we’re always with you, okay? Remember that.”

“Even when you can’t see us,” his mom adds softly.

“I love you too,” Harry tells them while the fire flickers a lot more forcefully, hiding the image of his parents until it’s gone even as he’s reaching for it, thinking please stay while the flames turn back to a warm yellow and red, making him hiss when they burn his fingers.

“Careful,” Mr Wright is suddenly crouching next to him, taking his hand and looking at his stung fingertips, “let’s go put some cold water on that, then we can talk about the ritual, alright?”

Harry just nods, still feeling a little cold even with the return of the fire’s warmth.

Michael tries not to show, between taking care of Harry’s burns – which thankfully aren’t bad enough to even blister – and pulling out the air mattress from the tent to let them lay down and stargaze, that all the ritual did to him was cause a very persistent headache. Well, not all it did, he’d definitely felt- something. Maybe. Unless his expectation of feeling something is what’s causing him to think anything at all happened, though in any case, it’s all a little anticlimactic.

At least Harry seems to have gotten something out of it, he muses as the child lays with a head on his arm and asks about one star or the other, making him pull on any minuscule astronomy knowledge he may have buried in his mind. He doesn’t talk about the ritual besides mentioning that he talked to his parents, and Michael doesn’t ask for more details. Harry is just as entitled to his privacy as anyone else, and as long as there are no side effects from the experience, he doesn’t mind not knowing all about it.

It doesn’t take long for his ward to fall asleep, and he pushes the mattress all the way back into the tent before closing it up and lying back down, smiling slightly when Harry curls up to his side like a small heat-seeking missile. It takes him much longer to fall asleep, racing thoughts warring against the headache that refuses to go away, and just because he hadn’t managed to talk to his own parents doesn’t mean the whole experience hasn’t brought up memories he hadn’t thought about in a long time, of camping trips and family dinners. He’d never considered a child of his own to make the same sort of memories with, but glancing down at the eight-year-old sleeping peacefully at his side, he wouldn’t trade this chance for anything in the world.

When sleep finally claims him, he prays for the headache to be gone in the morning.

“Sometimes you do puzzle me.”

“You never fathomed me out?”

“No.”

“I always thought if things had been different we would have been good friends.”

“Yeah”

“If you weren’t such an arrogant, pompous dollop head.”

“Pfft.”

“That’s what you have to remember. Things never turn out how you expect… you’ll see.”

Chapter Text

November 2nd, 1988

“Get down,” Harry hisses up at Hermione while she climbs up one of the library’s bookcases, their second try at getting a book they wanted but couldn’t reach.

They would have asked Mr Wright for help, but he’d left a while ago after warning them that he needed to take an important work call in his office and Harry didn’t want to bother him just for a book, so Hermione decided they could just get it themselves. Actually, she would get it since she’s the taller one. They’d dragged one of the chairs from the dining room over to the shelf, but she still couldn’t reach it, so she started climbing up the shelf closest to her feet.

“I almost have it,” she’s leaning to the side with the tips of her fingers brushing the book but not any close to grabbing it.

“You’ll get the shelf dirty,” Harry insisted with a frown when she raised her foot to climb a second one, “Mr Wright’s gonna be mad,” he’s never seen Mr Wright get mad, not at him at least, but he’s never left shoe marks on a bookcase either and doesn’t want to find out if that’s what makes him mad the first time.

He’s been so careful not to break or damage anything so far, not wanting to test his luck, and now here comes Hermione climbing up stuff that shouldn’t be climbed on.

“Got it!” Her happy shout makes him look up from her shoes just in time to see her hands slip and make her lose her balance, falling back with a yelp.

“Mione!” He tries to grab her, but he’s on the other side of the chair and can only watch as she hits the ground and- bounces? “Wha-” she bounces another two times before the ground stops looking like the one in Cho’s flying room.

He walks over to where she’s lying on the floor, eyes wide and hugging the book to her chest, but she’s standing before he can even try to help her up. “H-here,” she holds out the book but it’s trembling a bit, like her hands.

“The floor bounced,” Harry tells her as if she hadn’t noticed, since it sure looks like she didn’t. Did he do that? He didn’t feel like he did, he’d sort of felt it the other times he’d done magic on accident.

“No it didn’t,” she glares at him and pushes the book into his arms, “let’s put the chair back.”

“It did,” Harry insists in confusion, “you’d get hurt if you fell from that high and didn’t bounce. Did you forget? D’you remember falling?”

“‘Course I remember,” Hermione crosses her arms, looking down at her feet, “you won’t, so leave it alone,” she walks past him and starts dragging the chair toward the door.

“What?” He stares at her before putting the book down on one of the sofas and walking over to help her carry the chair without it making that awful dragging noise.

“You’ll forget about it, you’ll see,” is all she tells him while they take the chair back to its place.

Harry frowns all the way back to the library, not sure what Hermione’s talking about, but she didn’t say she didn’t bounce, just that he’d forget about it, but why would he forget? If she did make that happen, since it wasn’t him, is she- “You’re a witch!”

“What did you call me?” She turns to him looking upset, but why-

“You didn’t say you didn’t bounce, just that I’d forget,” Harry explains, “so it was you, wasn’t it? You’re magic, like-”

“You didn’t-” Hermione tries to interrupt with a frown but he doesn’t let her continue.

“Like me! So you’re a witch since they’re the girl wizards!” He’s almost bouncing in place, so excited about his best friend maybe being magic like him.

“Like you?” Her eyes go so wide she almost looks scared.

“Yeah! Here, I’ll show you.” He grins, grabbing her hand and forgetting all about the book they’d gone through all that trouble to get as he drags her up to his bedroom.

“What-” She tries to ask but is quickly pulled over to a trunk by the end of his bed, which he lets go of her hand to open and pull something from inside.

“Look, it’s magic!” Harry grabs the book at the top of the pile and flips it to a page with the animated drawing of a dragon spewing fire, the most obvious magic he could think of at the moment since he didn’t – couldn’t – have a wand yet.

Hermione grabs the book from his hands, eyes wide as she turns more pages and finds another animated drawing. “I-I’m a witch?” her voice’s shaky, nothing like Harry’s excited tone, and it makes him twist his hands nervously. “I’m not crazy.”

“Of course not!” Hermione’s the second smartest person he knows, of course she’s not crazy!

“I’m a witch!” She exclaims with a teary grin, throwing her arms around his neck and poking his back with the edge of the book cover. “I thought I was headed to the loony bin. Thank you!”

Harry hugged her back, his own grin nearly hurting his cheeks. “Now you can meet my magic friends too!” she let go of him and looked back at the book, closing it and noticing the title with a frown.

“Harry Potter and The Dragon’s Bane?” She read in a confused tone.

He felt his cheeks start to burn at the reminder that he’d been reading the books about his supposed adventures and that’s why they were at the top of the trunk. “Uh… there’s a lot I have to tell you.”

Hermione was the one to grab his hand this time, dragging him over to sit on the bed. “Tell me everything!”

A loud squeal followed by childish laughter breaks through Michael’s concentration, interrupting his second read of the contract that had been emailed to his home computer. He had just ended a very productive call with his boss, closer to settling the employment issue than ever before, and was busy making suggestions and notes to the freelance-like contract they’d sent him for evaluation when the lively sounds reached past the one-way silencing ward on his office door.

Are they in Harry’s room?

He stands with a groan, stretching his arms and shaking out his legs from the prolonged time spent still before stepping out of the office in curiosity, figuring he should probably check on the children and maybe prepare them a snack, he hadn’t meant to spend so long on the phone so they were probably hungry unless they’d taken a break and decided to feed themselves, which is just as likely when it comes to Harry now that he is growing used to being allowed to eat anytime he wants – to a reasonable degree that is. Harry is, thankfully, more prone to snacking on fruits than sweets for some reason – though the size of the Dursley child does come to mind – and Michael isn’t about to complain.

Exiting the office, he makes his way toward his ward’s room to ask for their snack preference, their voices becoming clearer at every step.

“But how does it do it?” He discerns Hermione’s annoyed tone as he reaches the slightly open door, “Just magic isn’t an answer!”

Harry’s following giggles do very little against the sudden feeling of his stomach falling, a chill of fear coursing through him as he opens the door further and spots the source of Hermione’s frustration: a large plush dragon – supposedly an Antipodean Opaleye according to the tag when they’d bought it – with iridescent wings was currently flapping them and flying around the room in a display only possible through magic. Magic which he’d made clear that Harry was not allowed to show anyone who didn’t already know about it.

“Harry James Potter,” He subconsciously imitates the tone his mother used when he’d been in trouble as a child, trying to reign in the fear that this would be the last straw resulting in getting his ward taken from him. If he can’t even get him to keep magic a secret, what business will he have raising a wizard?

The kids visibly jump at the sound, the giggles dying down from Harry’s spot on the bed and Hermione’s arms falling back down, no longer trying to reach the flying dragon looping circles near the ceiling. A couple of steps bring Michael closer to it and, reaching up a hand, he interrupts its path and renders the flight effect – which activates whenever the toy is tossed up in the air – dormant again.

He turns to Hermione in an attempt to mitigate the damage, not willing to discuss magic in front of the child who should not be aware of it in the first place, “Please go wait for us at the library.”

“Mr Wright-” she tries, but he’s quick to interrupt.

“Hermione, I need to talk to Harry,” he warns, finally getting through to her as she gives his ward a backward glance before walking quickly out of the room, the door falling closed behind her. He lets out a sigh, stepping closer to the bed and placing the now inanimate dragon into the open trunk at the end of it. There are magical books strewn around, animated drawings broadcasting the existence of magic at every movement, and it all had been seen by Hermione.

Lord, what a mess.

“I’m s-sorry,” Harry’s slightly choked-up voice makes him turn his attention back to the child curled up at the head of the bed, knees hugged close to his chest as if to make himself seem smaller, the sight of it cutting through the fear for a moment long enough to realize he might be scaring the kid.

“Harry,” he softens his tone, seeing no use in being harsh when time couldn’t be turned back around and the mistake had already been made, “I thought you’d understood that magic was supposed to be a secret.”

“I know,” Harry mumbles, “B-but Hermione-”

“Will have to be obliviated,” he explained, knowing they’d been through this before. “It’s the law, Harry. I’m having enough of a hard time keeping custody of you without it being broken. I’m sorry that you can’t tell your best friend, but-”

“She’s a witch!” Michael is taken aback by the loud protest, and Harry’s eyes immediately widen with fear, but he watches as his ward latches on to stubbornness even in the face of it and refuses to back down, “She- she fell from the bookcase and bounced, like the ground at Cho’s! And then- then she thought I’d forget, ‘cause it happened before, but I didn’t so I had to tell her, she’s like me.”

The words Harry was saying took a moment longer to process after the fact that his ward was standing up to him – though in defence of someone else. Hermione is a witch?

“And you’re sure it wasn’t your accidental magic acting up?” He feels the need to confirm, glad when his ward uncurls slightly to reply.

“‘S not, I feel it when I do it,” Harry insists, “she’s magic too.”

Unfortunately, he has absolutely no idea what to do with that information.

“Alright,” Michael declares, the previous panic dying down to an apprehensive simmer. “I’m not sure what the protocol is when dealing with children without magical parents, so- wait, why was she climbing a bookcase?”

Harry’s previous worry quickly seems to return, “uh- she wanted a book up there.”

He sighs again, taking a seat on the bed, and wonders at what age children acquire a sense of self-preservation. Was he climbing up furniture at this age? He didn’t think so. “I know I said I had an important call, but you can always come get me for anything, especially if the alternative might get you or someone else hurt. The shelf could have fallen on top of her, or both of you, and that would be much worse than putting my call on hold for a minute or two, or even waiting until I was done to fetch the book since it isn’t going anywhere.”

“Sorry,” Harry offers again, looking a little lost.

Michael spares him a soft smile, “Luckily, it was fine. Come here,” he motions for his ward to come closer and Harry wiggles over to his side, letting him wrap an arm over his shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” wide emerald eyes stare up at him incredulously at that with a quick jerk of the kid’s head. “You should have talked to me before telling Hermione about magic, but I understand that you were excited. Still, you defended your decision, as you should.”

“‘M sorry ‘bout yelling though,” Harry mumbles into his side, hiding his reddening face on Michael’s shirt as if he’s never had a compliment directed at him before.

Then again, knowing the Dursleys, he probably hasn’t.

“It’s okay, though you shouldn’t do it again. Still, never let an adult treat you in a way you think is unfair, not even me, got it?” He ruffles the boy’s already messy hair.

“Mhm,” is all he receives in response, but it will have to do.

Michael stands up from the bed, “Well, just to be sure, I know just the place to go grab a bite with Hermione,” he prompts Harry into sliding off the bed and back on his feet, “but you should probably grab a hat.”

Having some butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron, a location which is supposedly invisible to muggles, should be enough to prove whether or not she is a witch. After that, he’ll have to write a letter to Chang, since he has no idea what is the protocol around children with non-magical parents.

5th November 1988

Dear Michael,

There’s hardly a moment of peace with you, is there? Thankfully, while British muggle-borns are usually introduced to the wizarding world on their eleventh birthday, there is no law prohibiting their awareness of it before then. Their immediate family is allowed to know about magic at any time so long as it stays between them, it’s just unfortunate that Miss Granger’s magic has never noticeably manifested in their presence but you are free to inform them of her status and offer whatever form of proof you think is best.

About your inquiries regarding the blood adoption ritual, I’ve corresponded with Dahlia on the subject and it shouldn’t be incredibly complicated. It only requires five witnesses, and she recommended renting a Gringotts ritual room for the occasion. It shouldn’t take more than an hour in its entirety and, since it has no direct core effects on the adopter, it will be safe for you to partake in. I’m forwarding her letter along with mine in the envelope and recommend directing any further ritual-related questions her way.

On the matter of the apprenticeship…

November 6th, 1988

“Harry, I’ve got something I’d like to discuss with you in the office,” Mr Wright tells him once they’re done with breakfast. It’s a Sunday, so Marie isn’t eating with them – Harry had memorized the times she’d be around by now and it was never during the weekend unless Mr Wright asked – and they’d just finished bringing all the plates to the kitchen sink.

His belly still makes a loop at the phrase, but he doesn’t feel scared like he’d been the last time since now he knows Mr Wright likes to talk about magic in the office to be safe and it doesn’t mean he’s in trouble, “Okay,” he nods, following Mr Wright up the stairs.

Even if I was in trouble, Harry thinks as he walks and remembers the last time he’d messed up even if it had been because he was excited, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst.

“So,” Mr Wright starts once they’ve sat down and then stops, moving around some papers on his desk. Harry thinks he looks nervous, and it makes him nervous too since he doesn’t know what Mr Wright is nervous about. “Remember the talk we had about you staying with me?”

Oh, he looks down at his swinging feet, “I-It’s okay if you changed your mind,” the last three months were the best of his life, so he’d almost forgotten it wouldn’t be the same forever.

“No, of course not,” Mr Wright says and Harry looks up only to see him frowning for a moment before he reaches over the desk to take Harry’s hands, looking all soft again the way he does every time Harry’s gotten something completely wrong, “I’m not changing my mind, I promise.”

He only nods, relieved but mostly confused, “Then… what about it?”

“There’s a thing we can do called a blood adoption, Ms Chang told me about it as a last resort in case we didn’t manage to find a blood connection between us or a good magical guardian,” Mr Wright explains, “It’s a ritual involving a potion,” Harry was the one frowning this time but, before he could say he didn’t want Mr Wright in pain because of potions again, Mr Wright squeezed his hand a bit and smiled slightly, “it isn’t supposed to channel a magical core, so it won’t be the same as last time, okay? It’s not dangerous at all.”

“When do we do it?” Harry asks instead, sliding off the chair and back to his feet. If Mr Wright thinks it’s safe then he’s not too worried.

Mr Wright is frowning again, did he get something wrong? “Harry, I need you to understand what this would mean. You know how adoption works without magic, right?”

“You’d be my- my dad,” He stutters, leaning forward on the desk and nearly pulling his hands back to himself but Mr Wright just squeezes them again. “In the eyes of the gover-ment.” He adds, remembering something he’d read in Mr Wright’s office before.

“Government,” Mr Wright corrects and pauses before letting go of his hands and motioning him over. Harry hurries to the other side of the desk, climbing onto Mr Wright’s lap, and it’s much better than sitting on the chair on the other side of the table talking about this. “The magic version though, would make it seem like you’d always been my son. That’s why I want you to think about it carefully, alright? It won’t erase your parents, I’d never do that, but I’d- well, be one of them too, according to the magical government.”

It didn’t take very long for Harry to remember the talk he had with his parents and reply, “I wanna do it.”

“It’s okay if-” Mr Wright stares at him looking surprised, “are you sure? I can still try to figure something else out, I just thought you should know this is something that can be done. You can take some time to think about it, Harry.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, not wanting to risk Mr Wright changing his mind even though he said he wouldn’t. He just wants to keep this, the hugs and friends and room and gifts, and he really wants to have a family, a real one, “Please?” he asks because maybe it’s Mr Wright who doesn’t want to adopt him, but then why would he bring it up just to tell Harry he can’t do it? He’s not mean like the Dursleys. “Please be my dad?”

Mr Wright chuckles but he’s smiling when he pulls Harry to his chest in a hug, “I’d be honoured to, kiddo.”

I’m adopting a kid, Michael can’t help but rehash the decision in his mind once he’s in bed that night. An eight-year-old child will be entirely my responsibility.

Even though it feels entirely right, that doesn’t mean the concept isn’t a scary one. He’d never planned on children, never even thought of the possibility throughout his life, which had been the deal-breaker in great part of the few romantic relationships he’d had before, and now he would become the father of a little one all on his own. How is this my life?

The fact that his impending parenthood – or at least its officialization given the fact that Harry has been living with him for a few months now – is somehow more baffling than the existence of actual magic probably says something about him, though he’s not sure exactly what.

With a sigh, he turns over on the bed and tucks the covers under his chin. He would have time to overthink things tomorrow.

“And you remember all the words?”

“Yes, brother, just as I did the last ten times you asked.”

“Well, then it should be no hardship to repeat them one last time.”

“I willingly ask, with the blessing of our goddess, to be accepted into…”

Chapter Text

November 9th, 1988

Harry is on the edge of his seat, almost vibrating out of his skin in excitement as Mr Wright tells Mr and Mrs Granger about magic. They had come over for lunch after school, the couple picking him and Hermione up while Mr Wright got everything ready at the house once he came back from work, and had lunch with Marie while Hermione talked about the work they’d done in class that day. Then they’d gone to the office – it wasn’t drowning in books since Ms Chang gave Mr Wright that cool bag that never got full so they had chairs for everyone this time – and Mr Wright had started telling them that magic existed using moving drawings and flying toys just like Harry had done with Hermione.

Mr and Mrs Granger are shocked, but it isn’t like they can explain away the magic so they have to believe it. They ask why Mr Wright is telling them this and Harry can’t help but blurt out that it’s because Hermione is magical like him –  she’s a witch! – and then his best friend takes over, telling them all the magic she’s done before and how everyone else who saw it forgot about it.

“It’s called being obliviated,” Mr Wright explains when they ask about it, “They make non-magical people,” Harry notices Mr Wright doesn’t call them muggles like he’s heard wizards do before but he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t like the word much either. Just like squib , it sounds like a bad word, something Dudley and his friends might have called him, “forget about these incidents to preserve the Statute of Secrecy. I’ve been studying their laws-”

“Of course you have,” Mr Granger sounds like he thinks it’s funny and Hermione sits up straight the way Harry’s seen her do in class every time they start on a new subject, and he just knows she’ll be making him read the magic law books with her and tell her anything Mr Wright explained to him already.

The adults keep talking some more but Harry keeps looking at Hermione, who’s shifting on her feet and looking excited and nervous at the same time. He holds his breath when she asks her parents if they hate her now that she’s a witch, but they only hug her and tell her they love her. They don’t call her a freak, or a burden, or say she should have died – like your drunkard parents- no, they’re happy for her.

They hug her like Mr Wright hugs him when he’s scared he’s done something wrong and he’ll realize Harry’s not worth it and send him back.

The Dursleys were never normal, were they?

November 13th, 1988

“I’ll have full control over the appointment of a magical guardian, then?” Michael asks for clarification as they sit in Chang’s office.

They had scheduled the blood adoption for that Sunday afternoon and decided to spend the morning at the Chang household, especially since it would be providing him with three of his five witnesses. Lunch had been a quiet affair, especially with Chris locked in his studio apparently working on a piece none of them were allowed to see, and they’d let the children have fun in the flying room while retiring to Chang’s office to discuss what would happen after the adoption.

“Yes,” she replies while leafing through some files, “as a squib, you won’t have most of the benefits a wix would receive in your position, which honestly makes it look better from the outside. As Harry’s father, you’ll be able to appoint and appeal any magical guardian of your choosing, as well as have access to most assets in his name and the power to manage them accordingly. You won’t be able to claim his Wizengamot seat, but it will be your duty to appoint a proxy and set them in a general voting direction if you don’t plan to take a more hands-on approach to their policies.” Her tone makes it clear that the latter is the more advisable option.

“We’ll be able to look into his owned properties then,” he realizes, remembering his talks at the bank when he’d taken Harry to reclaim his keys. They had only been able to see the available information because Harry was with him, clearly of his own free will, but had no access to anything on the list and wasn’t about to let Harry visit any vaults or properties on his own. “And his parents’ vaults,” because surely one of those had to belong to the late Potter couple.

“You’ll also be able to organize the reading of his parents’ wills,” she reminds him since it was filed with Gringotts and only available to Harry’s appointed guardian, the intended executor. Unlike outside of the magical world, where everyone is served with a copy of the will to read on their own time and will readings have no legal authority, most wixes seem to insist on in-person will readings often executed by a member of the family, even if a distant one.

Chang had explained it before as mostly a custom of old houses to prevent misappropriation of their seats and property – forgeries are a much bigger issue in the magical community than one would imagine – since once heard for the first time by the beneficiaries, certain parts of the will – only those applicable – become magically binding.

“Right,” he nods to himself. The upcoming ritual would definitely settle many issues, but just as well fill up his schedule with other matters to take care of. He was in for a busy end of the year.

Chris emerges from his studio almost an hour later, with paint on his hands, cheek, and robes colourful enough that it was hard to tell whether or not they had been touched by stray colours as well. By the time they round up the children to leave, the man looks more presentable and they step through the floo into the Leaky Cauldron, marching straight towards Gringotts bank to meet with Healer Dahlia.

A goblin leads them through the white-marbled and gold corridors to the rented ritual room, hidden behind one of the large wooden doors. Michael doesn’t exactly know what to expect from the space, but what they step into feels like the inside of a sphere, with tall walls that converge seamlessly into a rounded ceiling. They look like solid stone, in bluish tones as well as brown and grey, but almost iridescent under the bright enchanted lights lining the bottom of the walls and keeping the room from plunging into complete darkness.

“It’s labradorite,” Dahlia’s voice pulls his eyes from the wall and into the centre of the circular room where she’s kneeling on the floor, coal in hand as she slides it over the contrastingly light stone floor leaving precise black lines in its wake. “Come in, careful with the circles,” she invites as they walk closer, the wooden door snapping shut at their back.

“Cool,” he hears Harry whisper as he steps over to the drawn-up runes at the edges of the circle.

Stepping closer, Michael does a short inspection of his own, lacking the knowledge to discern whether or not it had been done right – though he trusts Dahlia not to jeopardize her license – but having grown slightly more familiar with runes through his recent readings, enough to be able to identify a couple of the ones used to form the inner of the two concentric circles, mainly othala, inguz and gebo. Outside of the circle drawn from runes was a larger one only delimited by a line linking five large runic arrays that he couldn’t hope to interpret but seemed to be placed in what would be the five points of a star if one had been drawn instead of the spiralling lines linking the outer circle into the central one.

“Aren’t we missing one?” Chris points out, having posted himself by the wall near the door to watch the kids explore the room from afar.

As if on cue, the large wooden doors swung open once again – and had they vanished after closing? –, allowing inside the last witness for the proceedings.

“Well met,” she greets the occupants of the room as the door comes to a final close behind her.

“Hi Mrs Malfoy,” Harry is the first to reply from a spot behind him, stepping over to Michael’s side to sketch a small rehearsed bow.

“You can call me Cissa, dear,” She offers with a smile that has Harry hiding behind him once again.

“Thank you for coming, Narcissa,” Michael pulls the attention away from his ward, “are you acquainted with everyone else?”

“Some more than others,” she replies and turns her attention toward the couple by the door, engaging in some small talk as Dahlia finishes positioning the last items on the floor.

There is one candle to each of the five spots of the outer circle and what looks like a spiral of chalk at the centre of the inner one, with a crystal-clear vial and a dark stone goblet sitting right at its side and a silver blade glinting from its place balanced on top of it. They’ve been through the motions with the healer before – at least Harry and him –, rehearsing their actions and lines, so he knows right then that all is in place for them to begin.

Dahlia still sends him a pointed look, discretely wiping away the chalk staining her fingertips.

Michael audibly clears his throat, easily gaining everyone’s attention, “Thank you for joining us for this joyous occasion,” he recites with honesty, incredibly glad for the continued support of the people in the room. “If everyone could take their places?”

Harry is quick to grab onto his hand and Michael leads him toward the inner circle, crouching to uncork the vial containing a silvery-looking potion and pouring it into the goblet before pocketing the vial, placing the goblet at the centre of the spiral, and taking up the silver dagger as he kneels more comfortably. They’d positioned themselves behind the spiral, facing the array he remembers being told was placed towards the south, the only one properly pointed toward a cardinal direction. Their five witnesses step over once they’ve found their place, each picking up a white candle and standing at the centre of one of the five runic arrays of the outer circle with it in their right hand.

Dahlia, the witness facing them at the south array, takes their placement as her cue to begin, “As I have been called, I stand as magic’s witness to the birth of a family,” she closes both her hands around the candle, “should your intentions be true, be blessed with stability to weather oncoming changes.”

The candle wick lights up as soon as she stops speaking, recognizing her place as a witness. They go through the circle in a clockwise motion, stating their role as witnesses and each presenting a different blessing: creativity, strength of spirit, mastery of their emotions and protection.

Michael watches entranced as every candle lights up, not sure if the heaviness in the air is a product of his imagination or a tangible thing. Once the last candle is lit, he speaks, “I willingly take Harry James Potter to become blood of my blood, a son of my house with all that entails, to cherish and protect to the best of my ability,” he pricks his finger with the tip of the dagger and lets three drops of blood fall into the goblet on the ground. By some miracle – or work of magic – they fall directly into it without missing their mark, slowly changing the silvery potion into a copper tone. “With magic as my witness, this is my wish.”

The words feel incredibly familiar, as he figures they should after rehearsing as many times as he had.

He offers Harry the dagger and an encouraging smile as his ward – soon to be magically recognised son – starts on his part, a little wobbly but thankfully well-rehearsed. “I willingly take Michael Morgan-Wright to become blood of my blood, my father to guide me, protect and provide,” he keeps an eye on the dagger, but Harry works it just fine and soon enough three more drops of blood hit the surface of the potion, giving the coppery liquid a slightly golden hue. “With magic as my witness, this is my wish.”

As soon as Michael picks up the goblet, something like static makes every hair in his body stand on end, a fleeting feeling of deja vu making itself present for a moment as he takes a sip of the potion, grimacing slightly at the taste before holding out the goblet.

Harry’s hands close around the cup and, unbidden, the word cnēoris spills from Michael’s mouth in a low whisper just as he releases it, eliciting a curious look from the boy that goes unanswered. Another sip is taken, Harry’s distaste of the potion much more visible, and the goblet is returned to the centre of the spiral.

They take each other’s hands over the cup, leaving a wide space between them and speaking in unison as soon as Michael gives a slight nod as a cue, “Sanguis meus per magica.”

There’s something warm under his skin, but unlike the last time, it feels comfortable and mild like sitting by the fireplace on a cold night.

“So mote it be,” he distractedly hears the witnesses chant and observes, from the corner of his eyes, as they simultaneously lower the lit candle wicks into the chalk line closest to them and light them up, the fire – which burns a bright ember but doesn’t seem to grow in size or strength from the moment it leaves the candle – consumes every rune and line laid out on the floor, following the five individual streaks into the central circle around them and slowly devouring it as well before making its way to the centre, burning up the spiral until only the goblet remains, its contents lighting up in red-white fire under their hands right as a breeze seems to blow the warmth from his body like it was never there.

“Did it work?” little Cho Chang is the first to ask as she leaves her now unmarked position. The others walk over with interest in their gazes as Michael lets go of one of Harry’s hands and stands up, pulling the boy with him.

Harry looks up at him with the same question clear in his expression.

“I believe so,” Dahlia is the one to reply with an undertone of surprise that makes him wonder whether she’d been prepared for it not to, “regardless, it’s quite easy to verify,” she adds with a glance toward the goblet, where the flames had finished consuming the remaining potion and extinguished themselves, leaving the goblet empty just as it had been before the ritual.

She picks it up off the floor, along with the dagger, placing it into one of the pockets of her robes, returning the room to the state it probably had been before they’d entered it.

Rituals that clean themselves up, how convenient.

“Here,” she continues, muttering something under her breath and pulling a different potion from her pocket – it looks to be extended like the bag Chang had given him and the idea of going around with unlimited pocket space is especially tempting – and pouring it into the now empty goblet. “Just a hair from each of you should be enough,” she holds it out expectantly.

Michael raises one brow – she did come prepared for all possibilities didn’t she – but nods, ruffling Harry’s hair with a smile at the small chuckle and whine of complaint it elicits on the child as he plucks a strand from it before pulling one from his own head and holding them over the potion, dropping them into it at the healer’s nod.

She swirls it a couple of times – anti-clockwise, is that relevant? The entire affair has left him curious about potions – and they watch as the liquid, previously a light yellow colour, turns into a deep blood-red. “Congratulations,” she wishes them with a small smile, “it’s a boy.”

The sudden stutter of his heartbeat leaves him ill-prepared for the collision that happens as Harry launches himself into him, but doesn’t stop him from hugging the child as tight as he can.

I’m a father, the slightly hysterical thought makes itself known as if he hasn’t watched it happen in real-time. A smaller, more hesitant thought follows it, Mum would have loved to be here.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur, with Michael and Harry receiving what he assumes are the usual formal congratulations from every one of their witnesses as well as a reminder to keep in contact with Healer Dahlia in the case of any – entirely unexpected but possible nonetheless – side-effects of the ritual. They apparate – Chang with Harry and Chris taking him side-along – straight out of the entrance of the building, with Michael not willing to brave the masses and risk Harry being recognized. Thankfully, while the goblins did not allow floo or apparition directly from the bank, there were no such restrictions to the outside. They end up having dinner at a wixen restaurant Chang had secretly reserved to commemorate the occasion.

Harry refuses to eat something they tell him is a stuffed Niffler nose, and Michael can’t quite blame him for it.

By the end of the night, Michael resigns himself to carrying a nearly asleep Harry through the floo back home, not willing to risk the boy mispronouncing ‘The Tree House’ and ending up somewhere else entirely. He shuffles up the stairs carefully, still not secure in climbing them with a child in his arms but unwilling to break the tight grip his ward – his son – has around his shoulders. It doesn’t take long to coach Harry into some sleep-appropriate clothes and tuck him into bed, sitting by his side over the covers as he burrows into them.

“What’s that you said?” He hears the boy mumble and hums in question, not sure what he’s talking about. “At the ritual? Y’ said a word…”

Michael only blinks in puzzlement, casting his mind back into the ritual and remembering nothing out of what they had already rehearsed beforehand, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he admits truthfully.

“Hm, ‘kay,” Harry shuffles until he’s lying on his side, “g’night Dad.”

No magic is necessary for his chest to fill with warmth at those words, and he runs a hand over Harry’s hair before placing a kiss over the side of the sleepy child’s head, “Goodnight.”

He gets himself to bed nearly half an hour later, after making sure there’s no pending work due the next day, his swirling thoughts attempting to keep him awake against the tiredness brought on by the hectic and emotional day. In the end, the need for a good night’s sleep triumphs over his tendency to overthink the future.

"He's like a father to you, isn't he?"

"The only father I ever really had"

"You're lucky... I wish I had somebody like him."

"...We need to keep going."

"Yeah."

Chapter Text

November 15th, 1988

Tuesdays aren’t exactly the best day of the week to initiate a new routine, but that’s exactly what Michael had to do once the owl carrying the eye potion he’d ordered arrived, a medium glass vial containing a bright yellow liquid in iridescent tones. It came with a dropper in order to facilitate applying three drops of the potion into Harry’s eyes, three times a day, for thirty days, and completely convinced Michael that the reason some wixes might choose not to fix their eyesight is because of the sheer inconvenience of it. Still, for his son, he’ll handle another change in his schedule.

He’d mistakenly thought there would have been some sort of change after the ritual, an indication from the universe that he was now a single parent of an eight-year-old, maybe a change in Harry’s behaviour if anything, but had been pleasantly surprised that, other than now being addressed more as Dad than Mr Wright – as if Harry is taking advantage of the novelty of it –, nothing else had changed in their life.

Of course, being the boy’s father through magic was all well and good, but it held little sway over the non-magical court and so he’d proceeded to forward the paperwork for adoption on the next available work day after the ritual and is currently waiting to hear from the judge. Only once his claim is ironclad – in the wixen world and out – will he risk starting to look into Harry’s parents’ will and his properties.

The second delivery of the day, which had arrived sometime after the potion, was a letter that reminded him of the need to appoint a magical guardian soon. Andromeda Tonks saw fit to remind him that they were due for a meeting about Harry, and her assumption that he owed her some sort of satisfaction about his son only served to cement the decision that she would be an unsuitable magical guardian. If she couldn’t respect his authority, especially due to prejudice, he wasn’t about to let her influence the child in his care.

It doesn’t take long for him to pen a letter in response, equally verbose and empty paragraphs saying much but nothing at all regarding what she truly wants to know and informing her of his very busy schedule and that maybe they can have this meeting at the end of the month, as he is bound to have more free time then. Another fifteen days should surely be enough to appoint a suitable magical guardian and be ready to inform Tonks that her services will not be needed after all. Of course, he won’t keep her from visiting Harry if his son agrees to it – they are family after all – but she had lost her chance to have any influence in his upbringing through her unyielding opinions and discourteous letters.

The letter does serve to remind him to look into the tutors’ responses to his request, a good dozen envelopes have been waiting for his perusal for a few days and he figures it’s as good a time as any to finalize a selection. From the wording in their letters alone, he discards a Yaxley and an Alderton, followed by Travers, Dowson, Bellchant and Miller after a look at their prices since Narcissa had sent him an estimate of the adequate price to keep him from being ripped off for it. Lupin – recommended by Tonks – seems promising but only covers Hogwarts subjects, which is of little use for someone hoping to introduce their child to customs and traditions instead, and a couple of other tutors in the same vein are quickly discarded. In the end, he chooses to schedule evaluation meetings with Farley, Montgomery, Prewett and Edgecombe, near the end of the month but with enough time before Christmas – or Yule as he’s learned the wixes call it – to plan something that includes Harry’s wixen heritage.

With that taken care of, he’s free to focus on the work front. He’d had a meeting with his boss first thing the day before and they were slowly closing in on an agreement for his new contract, which would put him in a similar position to a freelance solicitor, assisting with the legal work on a flexible project basis. He would lose his right to the firm’s resources for his pro-bono work, but the lack of a billable hour quota would be worth it to make time for his son.

On the subject of his son, Sarah had stared at him for a full minute after the revelation of the impending adoption before demanding a shopping spree with said child to commemorate the occasion, and it went unsaid that she simply didn’t trust his fashion sense and hoped to remedy any damage before Harry became too used to it. Marie’s reaction, on the other hand, had been a tight hug and congratulations, along with assurances that he would manage just fine and that it was about time for her to hear the pitter-patter of little feet running through the house again.

November 18th, 1988

Magic people’s food, Harry decides, is kind of weird.

It’s not always obvious that it’s magical, they’ve got some pretty normal-looking stuff that tastes great – he especially loves Butterbeer, Fizzing Whizzbees and Every Flavour Ice-cream – but then sometimes he gets to eat at magic restaurants like the one Ms Chang took them to after they left the bank, a place called Perit Plate or something like that, and gets grossed out by stuff like stuffed Niffler nose, Bicorn stew – which is actually tasty but smells weird – or Flobberworm pudding. He hopes the fancy magic cafe he’s visiting with Mr Wright and Ms Chang has something he can eat without making a face and looking impolite.

He’s not so sure where they are exactly, since they'd taken the floo to the Changs and then again to Glacial Garden, but they step out of the floo into what looks like a reception room, with white walls and light blue chairs and couches, as well a couple other fireplaces besides the one they had to quickly step away from in case anyone else came in after them. There’s only a big central door in white wood and pretty glass drawings of a blue tree in a garden that looks like it should be in a church or art museum, and he’s so busy looking at it that he doesn’t even notice the little house elf that pops up right in front of them until it squeaks out a question, asking their names.

“Reservation under Chang,” Ms Chang tells the elf, who only nods and starts walking toward the big glass door.

The elf looks younger than the ones he’s seen at Ms Chang’s house, and it’s wearing a white dress covered with a blue apron. It’s all so small that it makes the elf look kind of cute, with the huge blue eyes and mop of black hair to boot, a little like a strange doll with very big ears.

When the glass door opens, Harry realizes the image on the glass is just a painting of how it looks inside. They step into what looks like a huge garden, it looks a little like the glasshouse in the botanical garden he’d visited with Hermione before, but most of the plants look nothing like anything he’s seen before, and everything’s a little bit covered in snow like it’s been sieved over it all like powdered sugar, and the season outside doesn’t seem to make a difference on the inside. It’s obviously not somewhere they go just to see plants though, since they’re mostly spread along the glass walls – he can’t really see outside of them except for some tall, snow-covered trees, and are they even in London still? – and spread all over the room are transparent-ish tables with what looks like glass chairs, or maybe ice, making him scared of accidentally breaking any.

The plants, or their vines, sort of climb the glasshouse walls all the way to the ceiling, with bright lamp-ish flowers shining light down from where they’re hanging up there. He already feels like he walked into a fairy tale book, but the coolest thing in the room though, which he saw as soon as the door opened, is a huge tree in the middle of the room that looks like it’s made of pure ice, with small glowing dots floating around the top of it. Just as they walk by it, there’s a small noise and Harry looks up to see a small branch of it break and float over to an occupied table where a witch moves it into their cup and twirls it with their wand like it’s just a very cold spoon. Another look at the tree and he sees the spot where the branch broke from start to form a new one right away.

Something almost runs him over and he blinks at the floating tray carrying food to a table

Magic is so cool!

“Ms Chang, Mr Wright, it’s a pleasure,” he hears someone greet and realises they’re already at their table, it looks like a snowflake and he wonders if they’re all the same or different like every snowflake is supposed to be. There’s a little silver bell in the middle of it, but when he looks around he spots one on every table he can see so it’s not something someone else forgot.

There’s a woman there waiting for them, wearing brown and beige robes and shaking Ms Chang and Mr Wright’s hands, “and you must be Mr Potter, it’s an honour, truly! My name’s Joanna Dodderidge.”

He almost flinches back at the hand suddenly in his face, but shakes it with slightly wide eyes, glancing around. Somehow, no one seems to have heard her saying his name.

“There are privacy wards around the tables,” Ms Chang whispers to him as they take their seats. Harry’s happy to notice the chairs aren’t cold as ice since they look like they should be, but still pulls it and sits carefully, just in case. “No one can hear us talking, just like we can’t hear them.”

When he stops to listen, just to be sure, the only noises in the room are the buzzing of the little lights floating around the ice tree – are those the fairies he’d read about or a spell? – and some tinkling from plates and cups touching when the floating trays fly to their tables. Huh.

He wishes Cho was here so he could ask her about the lights and trays, she might just say ‘magic’ to mess with him but most of the time she did explain how stuff worked if she knew it, not like Hermione did – repeating lines from one book or other – but like she’s had it explained to her before, too bad she’s spending the day over at her friend Su’s house. She did promise to invite her over when he’s around one day so they can all play together, and though Harry’s still not sure what to do with all the friends he’s making, it makes him feel warm and bubbly inside that she wants to share her friends with him too. He told her she’ll have to meet Hermione too – maybe even Draco, though he writes to his friend more than he gets to see him since Mr Wright doesn’t really seem to trust the Malfoys – and he would have invited her when he had Hermione over if her house wasn’t the one with the flying room. Hermione would probably prefer to read all the books in there than fly though, but he’d at least have something to do while they read.

The voices around him get louder and he tunes back into the conversation only to hear the lady sounding upset, “You can’t do that, this is my life’s work!”

Huh, I think I missed something.

Mr Wright only raises one brow at her, “As you’ve just told us, it’s not your work.”

“Oh, please,” Harry doesn't think her sharp tone means she's asking for something, “as if this would have amounted to anything without me. She’s a squib, she’s lucky I bothered to invest in her silly little stories.”

“These silly little stories, as you claim, have certainly been lining your pockets well,” Ms Chang cut her off, “but it’s no matter, the true issue is your use of Harry’s name and likeness without permission, as we’ve already stated.”

“He’s a public figure,” Ms Dodderidge argues and turns to him with a weird smile, wide brown eyes and raised brows like she’s expecting something, “It’s alright, right Harry? Don’t you like the stories? Everyone loves those books.”

“They’re- I like them,” he wishes he wasn’t the main character, but the stories are fun and he has the whole collection – all four of them so far – on the trunk by his bed. “But- you didn’t write them?” he should have been paying attention before, but from what he did hear it’s not really her work.

She scoffs, “It’s the ramblings of my little sister, I could hardly allow her to go against the Statute and release it to muggles. My editor revised it, of course, so it was at least worth something, and who better to star in daring adventures than our own little hero?”

The more she talks, the more Harry feels like he’s dunked his whole body in something slimy like the aloe he sometimes took from the Dursley garden, “So we can’t stop her from making them ‘cause it’s not hers?” he asks Mr Wright and Ms Chang, ignoring the woman. He knows it’s rude, but the way she talks about him makes him want to find a place to hide.

“We can definitely stop her from publishing,” Ms Chang assures, “You’re a minor, which means that your questionable status as a public figure does not excuse free use of your name and image. We were considering other options because you’ve said that you like the books, but if you want them gone, they will be.”

Harry’s cheeks warm up at the realization that they’re only doing this for him, to do what he wants. He looks at the woman again before pulling at Mr Wight’s sleeve so he’ll lean closer, feeling brave enough to say something but not out loud in case the woman decides to yell at him. “Can we make the money from the books be just for her sister instead?” He whispers in his dad’s ear.

Mr Wright nods and gives him a small smile before turning to the lady, “Our work is done here, we will be getting in contact with your sister soon. Meanwhile, this is a request for an overview of your earnings based on these publications so proper royalties can be calculated as it’s long overdue.” he grabs a paper from the messenger bag he’d put on the chair by his other side, “I’m sure we would both like to avoid this becoming a warrant.”

Ms Dodderidge’s face keeps getting redder and redder the more his dad talks, and Harry wonders if magic people can explode like balloons if they get angry enough. He sure hopes not.

“She can’t negotiate anything, this is my business!” The lady finally yells, then turns to him in a slightly softer and strained voice, “Harry, every child loves reading about the Boy-Who-Lived and his adventures, you wouldn’t want to upset them, right? Think about this, boy.”

He flinches out of habit at her last word before the sharp, hot feeling that had been growing in his belly starts to feel more like it’s boiling over, making him look up at her with a glare, “I don’t want you to make money off of me! You’re rude and mean and- and I feel bad for your sister if you’re like this. I wanna talk to her instead.” he crosses his arms, trying to hide his shaking hands and looking at his feet instead, not sure what Mr Wright will do with him for yelling.

A hand touches his shoulder and he forces himself to stay still, but it only squeezes it a bit. “You heard him, Ms Dodderidge. We will not be doing business, and if you don’t want us to come back with a warrant, you’ll send that report in a week and pay your dues.”

“And not a word of this to anyone,” Ms Chang reminds her, “remember the agreement you signed.”

The lady looks like she wants to yell some more, but just gets up fast – her chair almost falls – and stomps away instead. Harry finally breathes out, glad that there wasn’t more yelling, and hears a chair scrape on the floor while Mr Wright’s hand moves to his back and- oh, he’s kneeling in front of him.

“It’s alright, Harry. No one’s mad, you did good,” Dad tells him, pulling him into a hug that Harry’s happy to melt into. “She was a nasty one, I’m sorry for putting you through that, I’ll make sure to meet them alone first from now on.”

He’s not sure if he’s happy or sad about not going to the meetings, but decides to figure out another time since he’s just happy there will be no punishment for yelling at another adult. “Can I… uh- when you meet her sister, can I be there? She- she’s a squib, right?” He thinks he remembers hearing that. “Like you? So she’ll be nice.”

He hears Ms Chang scoff and looks up from Mr Wright’s chest, he seems to think Harry wants to get out of the hug –  he doesn’t but he’s too embarrassed to say so – and goes back to his chair. “She’s not nice?” He asks, not sure why Ms Chang made that sound.

“Oh, she could be, but it won’t be because she’s a squib,” she explains, voice going softer at the end. “Not all squibs are nice, just like not all wixes are mean, people are just people. We can’t be sure of their temperament until we experience it ourselves.”

Harry frowns at the big words but figures she means he can’t know what people are like ‘till he meets them. “Like how Hermione’s parents are nice but the Dursleys are mean and they all don’t have magic?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Exactly like that,” Mr Wright ruffles his hair but stops with his hand on Harry’s head, making him look up at him through the mess to see what’s wrong, “Huh. Your hair looks curlier.”

“It does?” He asks excitedly, the bad feelings left behind at the thought of his hair changing and he pulls on a lock trying to see it from the corner of his eye. Ms Dahlia had explained that sometimes the adoption changed people’s looks or magic, but since Mr Wright is a squib it might change just his looks, and he was excited to look a bit more like his dad since Mr Wright’s hair is soft and curly when it’s not all tidied for work instead of the straight-ish but messy hair Harry has.

“It could be the new products,” Ms Chang says with a pointed look at his dad, who smiles sheepishly. She’d heard all about how Hermione’s mum had given him some hair products and said Mr Wright doesn’t know how to take care of hair that’s not covered in gel every day.

Still, Harry hopes he’ll look more like his dad, maybe his eyes too. People always tell Mr Wright that his eyes are pretty, they’re this light blue sort of grey that’s brighter and bluer than Draco’s grey eyes but not as blue as Mrs Malfoy’s. He would like it if people thought his eyes were pretty, and then they wouldn’t be looking at his scar.

“Well, no use wasting a reservation, right?” Mr Wright says in a happier tone, poking Harry’s side and making him twitch – it was kind of tickly – but also smile and nod to agree. The foods he’d seen in the trays had all looked pretty and yummy so far and he really wants to try some. “Is there a menu?” he asks, and Harry notices there’s nothing on the table besides the little bell.

Ms Chang nods too, reaching for the little silver bell and shaking it so it chimes with a sound like the one his knife and fork make when they touch during lunch. There’s a small popping sound and the house elf from before is standing right by their table. “Menus, please.” She says and the elf pops away just a second before three menus appear on top of the table.

Harry searches the menu for anything he knows, but he’s never been to a cafe, he’d never even been to a restaurant before Mr Wright took him, so the only things he’d recognize are things he’s cooked before or eaten in the past three months, and he doesn’t always ask what he’s eating so the names don’t really help. He does spot a hot chocolate in the middle of the funny-named drinks, though the menu says it’s spicy for some reason. “Why’s the hot chocolate spicy?”

“Hm?” Ms Chang looked at her menu before answering, “Oh, it’s not very spicy, but it’s got fire-lily powder so it’s a bit like… sharper cinnamon, maybe? Makes your tongue tingle for a bit,” she explains. He just shrugs since it’s kind of hard to explain the taste of something to someone who’s never eaten it. “I think you’d like the Astract Pie, the plum’s sort of sweet but has a zing to it.” She looks annoyed that she can’t explain it better.

“How about we order a couple of different things to try, it’s fine if we don’t like them,” Mr Wright offers and Harry nods, reading the menu again from the top to find whatever sounds the funniest or most interesting.

Later, when he finishes a cup of Boom Berry juice and it fills up again when he puts it back in the cup coaster, all he can think is, again, Magic is awesome.

November 19th, 1988

If Michael’s being entirely honest with himself, after the whole fiasco the day before, he doesn’t have high expectations for that day’s meeting. He won’t be taking Harry, and it’s supposed to take place in a rented room at the Leaky this time, since according to Chang’s recommendation they shouldn’t give the woman they’re meeting – one Rita Skeeter – anything on them if they can help it.

He understands the usefulness of going straight to the top columnist, it only makes sense to aim for higher visibility when they do decide a story needs to be told, but he’s read the woman’s past works and can’t muster a better description than sensationalist gossip. He hopes to be pleasantly surprised, but won’t be holding his breath.

“Dad!” The exclamation – doesn’t seem to be of pain or panic he notices quickly – is followed by quick approaching footsteps and Harry nearly slams open the door of his office in a rush to his desk.

“Harry, careful,” he starts to remind him but freezes in place once he catches sight of him properly.

“Look, look, we match now!” Harry’s eyes are wide as his grin and entirely the wrong colour.

Instead of the dark emerald he had just the day before, they resemble the light blue he usually sees in the mirror.

“I- can see that,” he mutters, surprise and confusion coursing through him. It warms him to see Harry so excited about sharing a trait, but he doesn’t think it was actually supposed to be happening this way, or at least not this quickly. Dahlia had mentioned slow, nearly imperceptible changes if any at all, not an overnight switch of eye colour. Actually- “Is your hair curlier than yesterday too?”

Where Harry’s hair was usually a mostly straight and unruly mop, it now seemed still messy but surely wavier than he remembered, reminding Michael of his own hair, and maybe even slightly lighter.

“Is it?” Harry shifts in place from foot to foot, his grin slowly falling, “‘s it bad?”

“No, it’s not bad,” He’s quick to reassure the child, “But that’s- um, why don’t we ask Dahlia if that’s what’s supposed to happen, just to be sure?”

“Oh, ‘kay.” He loathes to hear the disappointment in that little sigh, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

With only a thought to the fact that he’s never used the floo for a call, he stands and heads down to the living room. No time like the present to learn.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up excited for the trip to Digon Alley – he really wants more of those Whizzing candies that make him float – before remembering that Dad won’t take him to the interviews about him anymore. He’s not that upset, not when he thinks of how mean the lady from the last interview was. Thinking about the day before does remind him to look in the mirror to check if his hair’s any curlier like Mr Wright said, but it kind of looks the same to him even when he wishes it didn’t, and his eyes are still the same dark green as always.

It’s not fair , he thinks.

Hermione has her mom’s hair and Draco’s eyes are just like his dad’s, but Harry doesn’t have anything to tell anyone who looks at him that he has a family now. He’d been glad to have nothing that made him look like the Dursleys, but now that it’s about Mr Wright, he doesn’t think a different eye colour is too much to ask from magic . He thinks he’d look just fine with light blue eyes, a bit like-

Oh!

A bit like what he sees in the mirror right then, eyes widening in surprise before blinking to check if they didn’t go back to being green, but they don’t. Instead, they stay the same greyish light blue he remembers Mr Wright having, and he can only grin at the mirror before running out of the room to show his dad.

That doesn’t really go as planned, and he tries not to be upset or fidget much while Ms Dahlia kneels in front of where he’s sitting on the living room couch and stares like he’s some sort of experiment from his science class.

“It should be just another bout of accidental magic,” She tells them, “though self-transfiguration is quite uncommon… Well, a finite should do it, wouldn’t want the muggles questioning it.”

Harry doesn’t even get to say anything before she pulls out her wand and waves it at him, frowning a little after. He knows he’s frowning right back too, he wants to keep the blue eyes, but she’s not wrong that people at school would ask about it since they pay a lot more attention than his old teachers and he actually talks to his classmates now that his cousin isn’t there to bully everyone away from him.

“Is something wrong?” Mr Wright asks, stepping closer and standing right behind Ms Dahlia.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Ms Dahlia waves her wand a few more times and a few coloured lights – spells – hit him, looking like the ones from that first examination she did. “No variations of the finite seem to be working, but I can’t diagnose any third-party charms either. Are you wearing anything different from yesterday, Harry?”

“I’m not,” he shakes his head, he’s even still in pyjamas since he’d been so excited to show Dad their matching eyes he’d forgotten to change beforehand.

“When did this happen, exactly?” She asks, and then they’re both looking at him.

“Few minutes ago,” Harry replies, “was lookin’ in the mirror and then they were blue.”

“Hm,” She sends a few more spells at him before putting the wand away again, “I need you to try something for me. Can you close your eyes, Harry?” He closes them with a nod, “Good, I want you to think about looking in the mirror and how your eyes usually look. Don’t open them, but can you imagine the colour they used to be?”

“Mhm,” he nods again, remembering how his eyes match the colour of one of his favourite jackets. He figures it’s not a bad colour, and he doesn’t want to make trouble for his dad, so he should probably figure out how to make them green again.

“Now, I know matching with your father would be nice, but your eyes are just as pretty the way they were,” there’s a little pause before she adds in a softer tone, “They look just like your mother’s.”

“They do?” Harry’s eyes open without him meaning to, he’d never had anyone tell him what his parents looked like. Sure, he’d seen their statue on Samhain and their fire figures during the ritual but they didn’t have colour, not the right ones anyway.

“There we go,” Ms Dahlia smiles and reaches into her purse, pulling out a small hand mirror and holding it up to his face. His eyes, he notices, are back to their normal colour. “And yes, she had very beautiful green eyes, your father James surely waxed poetically about them at school, enough for everyone to hear about it.”

“You went to school with them?” Harry asks, tilting his head to look at her past the mirror. He pauses and looks at Mr Wright right after, not sure what he thinks about Harry asking about his parents now that he’s his dad too, but he just gives him a small smile.

“I didn’t, but my sister was only a year above them and liked to gossip,” Ms Dahlia smiled at him, putting the mirror down. “Do you want to try another experiment? I’d like to make sure I’m not guessing wrong.”

He looks at his dad but only gets a shrug, “Sure,” he says since Mr Wright doesn’t seem to mind.

“Okay, then close your eyes again and let’s try to imagine something else,” Ms Dahlia tells him and he obeys, “How about your hair? Can you imagine a way you’d want it to look that’s not the way it is right now?”

He nods again, it’s kind of easy when he’d spent the morning wishing it looked another way, a little lighter and more curly, the way his dad’s hair looks without gel. He kind of wants it a little bit longer too, so it will cover the scar on his forehead all the way and he can stop wearing hats to magic places. Maybe a bit below his ear? But not too long-

“Yes, that’s it,” Ms Dahlia says and he blinks his eyes open to find a mirror in front of him again. His eyes are back to blue – he didn’t mean to do that – but his hair now definitely looks like Mr Wright’s, if a bit longer, just enough that he can’t even spot the scar in the mirror. “Well, almost, but you know how to fix that now.”

“Right,” He closes his eyes again and thinks about how his eyes looked like before, paying more attention to how it feels. It’s kind of like when he does magic by accident, but still not the same, more like a feeling of pulling instead of the strong pushes that his magic does.

When he opens his eyes again, the mirror tells him they’re green. It also shows him that his hair is back to short, messy and not curly at all. He leans into the back of the couch and crosses his arms in front of him when his dad and Ms Dahlia chuckle.

“It’s okay, I don’t expect a lot of control from an eight-year-old metamorphmagus,” Ms Dahlia says as she puts the mirror away, making them look at her with curiosity. “But it’s a good thing you didn’t just wait for it to go away on its own, we might never have noticed the talent and it would continue dormant without any training.” She tells Mr Wright, “Though, for future reference, I don’t appreciate emergency calls. That is what a magical guardian is for.”

“Sorry,” Mr Wright says, “Haven’t figured that out yet, and a letter would have taken too long.”

“Meta-mop-what?” Harry mumbles with a frown, wondering if he’s done something else wizards aren’t usually supposed to do. Isn’t Parseltongue enough?

“Metamorphmagus,” Ms Dahlia says a bit slower while focusing back on him, “I wouldn’t have tested for it on normal circumstances, but you did already inherit a Slytherin bloodline trait and your grandmother was a Black, whose ancestors liked to brag about the gift being in their family, so I figured it might be possible.”

“What does this mean, exactly, for Harry?” Mr Wright asks and he sits up straight again, paying more attention.

They’d talked about the parseltongue before, and how most people in Britain say it’s bad because Voldemort could talk to snakes too, but that it isn’t the same all over the world – he has the books to prove it! – and it doesn’t mean Harry isn’t allowed to use it or tell people. Still, Mr Wright had warned him that he should probably keep it to friends and family – and healers – just like he will about understanding snakes too even if he can’t speak it. Harry agreed because he’s not about to do something that makes his life more difficult, and it’s not like he has a pet snake or anything to keep talking to so there’s no way for people to find out on their own.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Ms Dahlia replies as she stands up. “But it’s a rare talent, and especially useful to someone who doesn’t want to be recognized in public,” she adds with a wink in his direction. “If you want to keep training it, try to do something like we just did before going to sleep every night and you’ll slowly get used to it enough for it to become as easy as breathing – or speaking to snakes.”

“What if I can’t turn it back?” Harry has to ask because as much as he wants to learn how to keep his hair the way it was – he doesn’t mind his eye colour so much anymore – he doesn’t want to end up looking weird forever, imagining if he turned his hair purple and had to go to school that way.

“You can always take a photograph of how you look right now and use it to remember how to change back,” She suggests, “and any skilled transfiguration master should be able to put you to rights until you can do it yourself. Besides, it’s still your magic, it won’t do anything you really don’t want it to.”

“Oh, okay,” he figures that makes sense, his accidental magic is also always things he wants to do at the time like get away from Dudley or make the teacher stop yelling at him. “Thank you, Ms Dahlia.”

“Yes, Thank you,” Mr Wright repeats, “and I’m sorry for the unexpected fire call.”

“You’re welcome, and It’s forgiven,” she narrows her eyes at Mr Wright, “this time. Maybe arrange for a letterbox? I always check my first thing in the morning-”

The two start walking off and Harry’s not interested enough in the conversation to follow. Instead, he runs back to his room and finds the mirror again, closing his eyes and imagining the right hair-

Not again , he thinks and sighs at the sight of his now blue eyes that came with the longer and curlier hair.

This might take a while.

“I wish this wasn't the best we can do,” Michael complains with a sigh from his spot on one of the chairs in their rented meeting room at the Leaky Cauldron.

“Well, until any of them slips, it will have to do,” Chang repeats in an appeasing tone.

It’s incredibly frustrating, but unfortunately the truth. Of all of the articles they’d tracked down about Harry so far, dating from the moment he was declared the Boy-Who-Lived by the masses, only a few had made use of a baby picture – something probably taken after the first few months of his birth – and none of it could be legally classified as libel. Of course, they were reporting on a literal child and exposing him to hundreds of strangers, but the few who tried to intrude on his privacy – speculate current guardians or even track him down – had been swiftly dealt with and the ones that didn’t – yearly reminders of Voldemort’s defeat and recurrent birthday articles of well-wishes – technically fit into the public interest rule. It leaves him little to work with and, until a journalist changes their tune and decides to defame their media-proclaimed child saviour, there is nothing he can do to stop them.

It doesn’t take long for their guest to arrive, a middle-aged blonde witch with shoulder-length curls and large jewelled spectacles that oddly make him think of a knitting grandma, a visual not helped in the least by her green and pink robes that, while not exactly clashing – or so he figures with his limited fashion insight – is definitely eye-catching. The smile she offers them is one he’s seen a hundred times before, something that looks almost genuine but has been polished for public consumption, and her eyes are sharp even though her greetings sound smooth.

He already doesn’t like her, and they’ve barely exchanged half a dozen words.

“To business, then?” Ms Chang suggests after the proper greetings and niceties have been observed, sliding their proposal over the table toward Ms Skeeter, who adjusts her glasses and begins examining it.

She takes her time reading through it, but Michael – and surely Chang as well – is used to hours-long meetings discussing contract wording and clause adjustments. Still, it’s not a very long or wordy contract, simply a proposal on the type of news she would be allowed to report – and most importantly the ones she wouldn’t – on his son, as well as an agreement to run every article mentioning it by them or an appointed third-party before publication. In short, an exclusivity contract with just as many advantages as restrictions, and their best attempt to stay on top of what information is spread.

Skeeter finally leans back and places the contract down, “entirely unacceptable.”

Michael lets out a quiet sigh, realizing he was not about to be pleasantly surprised. “What part, exactly, are you objecting to Ms Skeeter?”

“All of it,” she informs in an outraged tone, “why, you might as well declare the Boy-Who-Lived off-limits until majority! I ought to be able to report the truth of what happens in Hogwarts, the public deserves to know who their saviour is as a person!”

“Children shouldn’t be looking over their shoulder and worrying about their public image while at school,” Chang cuts off her rant, “any articles that infringe on his privacy or impact his studies would be a breach of contract, but we were generous enough to leave out public appearances and events.”

“Generous,” Skeeter scoffs, “this is censorship and I will not stand for it,” she ironically proceeds to stand.

“Your columns don’t seem to have an issue with censorship when it’s in favour of the highest bidder,” Michael points out lightly, having read a few of the many kiss-ass articles regarding the Ministry when anyone with a modicum of critical thought is able to do their research and come to a very different conclusion from what was presented.

An example is the case of Sirius Black, something they are still working on in the background but has taken a backseat now that Michael has the ability to sort out Harry’s interests. Skeeter is one of the few journalists who made a spectacle of the man’s betrayal, praised the Ministry’s swift action, and yet wrote no words about the trial whose transcription they have yet to find in the public records and have already sent a request for access to the private ones.

Skeeter rolls her eyes, “I write what the public wants to read, Mr… Wright,” the slight wrinkling on her nose tells him she’s one of those types, “And speaking of, how did you come to be representing Mr Potter’s interest?”

Michael trades a look with Chang, who nods with a sigh, “I believe our business is concluded then,” he says, ignoring her question, as Chang summons the contract back to her hands. “It’s clear to me that we won’t reach an accord on what constitutes appropriate reporting.”

“You can’t silence the press, Mr Wright,” She taunts with a smirk, “now, why would you have any trouble sharing your relationship with our dear boy saviour? Maybe it’s something I should look into?”

Tired of the pointless questions, he stands from his chair followed by Chang, “Good day, Ms Skeeter,” he says with an equally practised smile as they make their way out the door.

Only once they’re safely back in Chang’s office does he dare to drop down on a chair with an annoyed groan, massaging the sides of his temple with the tip of his fingers as if anticipating the headaches this little meeting will most likely cause in the future.

“It was worth a shot,” Chang informs him needlessly. He knows Skeeter could have proved useful, she already has the ear – well, the eyes – of at least half of the British wixes if not more, given that no one is quite immune to gossip rags, which is the essence of her work.

“Who’s the next one?” He asks, hoping for someone more reasonable, which isn’t a tall bar to reach. “Preferably someone who has kids.”

“Well,” he hears the sound of papers shuffling before she answers, “How about one Edvard Limus? He’s also a published author and has two kids Hogwarts-age.”

“Can’t go any worse,” he replies with a shrug.

With that settled, they send a letter with the request for a meeting and move on to other matters, discussing when Michael would go to Gringotts and attempt to retrieve the Potter wills now that he is Harry’s proper guardian – he schedules it for the following Monday – and how his search for a tutor is going – he has interviews scheduled throughout the whole week except for the weekend as they made plans to visit Diagon Alley with the Grangers. All in all, the day ends up being productive regardless of the failure of a meeting with Skeeter and he even manages to get Harry to floo back home on his own instead of half-asleep on him like most days.

Not that he minds carrying the kid, but Harry needs more practice to get used to it.

It’s only when Harry’s already ready for bed and he’s sitting at the foot of it with the book of the night in his lap – the Japanese parselmouth story that Harry had already read on his own but wanted him to do the voices for it – that he thinks to bring up a subject that’s been rattling around in his mind for a while.

“Harry,” Michael starts and the kid stops his shuffling under the covers to look at him, “What do you think about having Ms Chang as your magical guardian?”

“But you said-” Harry’s eyes widen and Michael interrupts when he realizes what his son is probably thinking.

“Nothing would change, but the wixes don’t let squibs be magical guardians for lack of- well, magic,” he shrugs, “she would get to make some important decisions for you, but I trust her to work with me on it, and if something like today happens again she would be the one we’d call instead.”

Harry just frowns, looking like he’s thinking about it before asking, “Isn’t she married?”

“I- what’s that got to do with anything?” He splutters, entirely confused about where his child’s thoughts have wandered to.

“If you’re my guardian and she’s my guardian won’t she be…” He can’t help but let out an incredulous laugh when he realizes the assumption that’s been made, did Harry think he would what, Marry Tonks too if they’d decided on her being his magical guardian?

“No, no, nothing like that ,” he assures once he manages to stop laughing, “it’s just for the government and emergency purposes, we’re not getting married !

“ Oh ,” Harry breathes out, his face turning an adorable cherry red, and they dissolve into helpless giggles at the misunderstanding. “Uh- I’d like that, I like Ms Chang,” is his reply once they’ve calmed down. “Does that mean I get to visit Cho more?”

Michael snorts at the boy’s priorities, “Well, I’ll have to ask her first, it is a lot of responsibility,” he explains, “but maybe.” he would surely feel better about leaving his son with Chang if she had the legal power to make decisions for him as well if anything unexpected were to happen. “I’ll invite them over for lunch tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.”

“‘Kay,” Harry nodded before hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“Alright, story time,” He gets them back on track and opens the book on the last chapter they’d read.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to fall asleep to the story, and he marks the chapter before putting it aside, tucking in his son properly and heading to his own room for a much-awaited rest. He could worry about things again in the morning.

“Stay still, let her smell you.”

“What is that? I’ve never seen one like it.”

“A most powerful beast, little brother mine.”

“...It’s the size of my thumb.”

“Well, she has yet to reach her full potential, but will certainly be formidable once she does.”

“What’s her name?”

“I’ve named her Sinnhite, in honor of her scales as dark as the night.”

“Lovely, she’ll grow as vain as you.”

Chapter Text

November 20th, 1988

Their change in meeting location – convening at the Wright household for the first time – had probably been what tipped off the Changs to the fact that the invitation for lunch wasn’t quite as simple as it would seem, or so Michael thinks once they’ve abandoned the dining room – which was finally seeing some use – and reconvened in the library without Harry or Cho so much as trying to sneak off to play in his room. Instead, they’re comfortably settled into the couches in the centre of the room when he brings up the subject.

“I actually wanted to ask something,” He starts, not entirely sure how to go about it. With Tonks, it had been a necessity, something he needed to keep Harry safe. Now it’s less of an emergency and more of a choice, a safety net he could definitely use and would prefer if his friend – because they are friends now, he’d realised recently – was the one holding it.

Chris smiles slightly, a knowing tilt to it, “We figured.”

“Subtle you are not ,” Chang teases with a motion of her hand for him to hurry it up, “out with it, then.”

“Right. I realise that this might be an unwanted responsibility, so I’ll understand if you refuse,” he prefaces with assurance, “what I’m getting at is… I want you to be Harry’s magical guardian, Chang. Since this would technically affect your whole family, well…” he glances pointedly at the other two people on the couch with her.

Chris and Chang trade a long look before she speaks, her tone hardly changing. “Well, I’m already responsible for two children, one more should be fine.”

“Two?” Michael frowns, only realising the implication when Chris chuckles and Chang brings her hand up to hide a smile, “You- I am not a kid,” he rolls his eyes in exasperation, “but I’ll take that as a yes.”

“So is Harry my little brother now?” Cho butts in, looking at her mom.

“That’s not how-” Chang starts, but Chris elbows her lightly on the side and interrupts.

“Sure, why not? If he doesn’t mind,” He tells her with a grin and Michael realizes that out of the two, Chang is definitely the only one immune to the kid’s puppy eyes.

“Ha, now you have to do what I say!” Cho stands and turns on Harry with a grin, clearly ignoring the second part of the answer. “Come on, show me your room.”

Harry only frowns slightly as he stands, “but I already do?” he mumbles, making the adults’ laughter follow them out of the room as they leave.

Once the laughter dies down, Michael sends the couple a grateful look, “Thank you, Chang. Really. I feel better knowing that if I somehow can’t be there to advocate for him, there’s someone I trust to take care of it.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” Chang nods in response, “and I feel like it’s about time you call me by my first name, isn’t it?”

Michael smiles sheepishly, having grown too used to calling her by her last name in court over the years, “That might take some time to get used to.”

1st November 1988

Dear Draco,

I saw my parents! We did a Samhein ritual and they showed up in the fire and they were really nice! I can’t wait to do it again next year. Did you do any rituals? Can you say thanks to your mum for me for the candles? They smelled really nice.

Kind regards,

Harry.

2nd November 1988

Dear Harry,

Father says that’s impressive, not everyone gets to talk to their loved ones when doing that ritual. And it’s Samhain, with an A. We did one too, but it’s a different one, I might tell you when you finally come to visit me. Mother said you’re welcome and that she will send a couple of others that aren’t for a ritual next time.

When can you come over?

Best wishes,

Draco.

4th November 1988

Dear Draco,

Hermione is a witch! Sorry I didn’t answer earlier, Hermione was over yesterday and then she did magic by accident and we went to the Leaky Cauldron to see if she could see it so she’s a witch for sure! I’m really happy that all my best friends are magic now.

Mr Wright says maybe next month, we’re still very busy, but I really wanna go.

Can Hermione come too?

Kind regards,

Harry.

4th November 1988

Dear Harry,

I can’t invite a mudblood to my house! I have other friends, so I can invite them instead, they’re better anyway. Maybe if you ask Mother she will let us ride the Abraxans, and we can play Quidditch too, since the manor has a field for it.

Next month is too far away!

Best Wishes,

Draco.

5th November 1988

That’s a rude name and I’m not talking to you until you apologize. Hermione’s my best friend and I won’t let anyone talk bad about her.

Harry.

6th November 1988

Dear Harry,

But that’s what she is, and I should be your best friend, not her! She’s not going to take you to a dragon reserve, is she?

Best wishes,

Draco.

8th November 1988

Dear Harry,

Why haven’t you sent a letter back? Cito came back without it, so I know you got it.

Best wishes,

Draco.

10th November 1988

Dear Harry,

I’m sorry I called Hermione a bad name, I thought it was the same as muggle-born but Mother explained that it’s not and I shouldn’t use that word just because I heard it before. I still think I should be your best friend though.

Mother says it’s better if you don’t bring her when Father is home.

Best wishes,

Draco.

11th November 1988

Dear Draco,

It’s okay, just don’t do it again. You can both be my best friends, and Cho too, she always lets me fly with her when I go to her house. We need lots of people to play Quidditch anyway, don’t we? So we can have my friends and yours too.

I don’t know if her parents would let her go anyway, but they don’t mind that she’s magic so maybe. I’ll ask later.

Kind regards,

Harry.

12th November 1988

Dear Harry,

Fine, I guess. What position do you want to play? I like Chaser better.

Why would they mind that she’s a witch?

Mother won’t tell me what your guardian’s letter was about or where she’s going tomorrow, do you know?

Best wishes,

Draco.

14th November 1988

Dear Draco,

I play a lot of Seeker with Cho but Beater sounds fun, I want to try beating stuff with a bat.

Some muggles don’t like magic, my old guardians hated it, I’m just happy she’s not in trouble.

Sorry, I couldn’t tell you before but she was coming to see me get adopted. Mr Wright blood adopted me and now I get to call him Dad! I wish we could have invited you but we needed more adults in the ritual.

Why is some wizard food so weird?

Kind regards,

Harry.

16th November 1988

Dear Harry,

You’re too tiny to play Beater.

That’s stupid, but I guess it makes sense, father says they’re all unevolved anyway.

More adults? What other kids were there then? And you want to call a squib your dad? He doesn’t even have magic, how did he blood adopt you?

Our food isn’t weird!

Best wishes,

Draco.

17th November 1988

Dear Draco,

I’M NOT TINY

Your dad is very rude and mine says that’s not true, it’s just prejudice, but I’m not supposed to say that so don’t tell your dad.

Just Cho, since she knew the ritual already. The other four were adults, and it wasn’t me who invited people anyway. Mr Wright is the best dad and if you keep being rude I won’t forgive you this time. The ritual works just fine for squibs too.

It is too! Niffler nose looks gross and Flobberworm pudding sounds icky, who would eat that?

Kind regards,

Harry.

18th November 1988

Dear Harry,

Yes you are, you’re smaller than Pansy and she’s tiny.

That’s fine then since you weren’t the one inviting people. I’ll be mad if you don’t invite me when it’s you that’s doing something though. And sorry, Mother told me squibs can drink potions and do rituals just like us if they don’t need a wand so I suppose it’s not the worst, at least he’s not a muggle.

Only Mother likes Niffler nose, and Flobberworm pudding is okay, I just don’t like it much because I cut them up in potions with my godfather. Did you start studying potions? Maybe he could teach us both if you don’t have a tutor yet.

What food did you like, then? I love Boom Berry tarts.

Best wishes,

Draco.

19th November 1988

Dear Draco,

I’ll grow up and get bigger than you, then I’ll call you tiny.

Muggles are people too, and I won’t invite you to things if you keep being rude to my friends and family.

Good to know, I didn’t like the pudding though, but Bicorn stew was yummy and I had spicy hot chocolate that I forgot the flower they use and I think that’s my favourite. I like Boom Berry juice so I’ll have to try a tart next time.

I don’t have any tutors yet but Dad’s working on it, he sent a bunch of letters the other day. I’ll ask him anyway.

Did you know it’s a squib that writes those books you like about me? Her sister is a mean witch that won’t be getting money for it anymore but I think they’re fun so I’ll ask her sister to keep writing anyway, but with a big letter warning that it’s not real so other kids stop thinking I met merpeople and dragons and vampires. What other books do you like? I want to buy more magic ones.

Also, something really cool happened today but it’s a surprise for when you see me so I guess I can only tell you next month.

Kind regards,

Harry.

20th November 1988

Dear Harry,

That’s going to take forever, I’ll wait and call you tiny until it happens.

Sorry, Mother says it’s unbecoming of a Malfoy to insult my peers’ families no matter who they are.

Bicorn stew smells awful and I don’t like spicy food, but I guess that’s better than nothing. I’ll ask the house elves to make Boom Berry tart when you come over, Mimsy makes it the best.

I’ll ask my godfather too, he doesn’t like surprises.

I didn’t know that, and only dumb kids think you’re actually fighting dragons and meeting merpeople, so I guess they need the help of a big letter warning. I like The Misadventures of Mini Merlin, it has a lot of magical creatures from everywhere. Pansy gave me Enchanted Encounters to read and it’s fine too but it’s a girl's book with kissing and stuff.

That’s not fair! I want to know now. It’s still ten days until next month and you still didn’t tell me when you’re coming over! It better be on the first day.

Best wishes,

Draco.

November 21st, 1988

[02:05 p.m.]

“Thank you for meeting me,” Michael bows in greeting to the woman who’s just joined him in the Leaky Caldron meeting room. She looks at least a decade older than him, with hair so black it seems to veer into the blue side of the spectrum and neatly styled up in some sort of bun-braid he couldn’t hope to understand how it came to be.

“Thank you for the consideration,” She replies in a bland tone, glancing around the poorly decorated room before taking a seat in one of the available chairs and brushing off what must be imaginary dust off the lap of her expensive-looking burgundy robes. Her answers are satisfactory, if not slightly away from the point, and he gets the impression that she’s mostly humouring him and would have preferred the entire arrangement to have happened through letters.

[03:34 p.m.]

“It’s no hardship, Sir.” It’s a little strange to interview a barely out-of-school young adult for a tutoring position for himself and his son, but then again age is hardly the main requirement for the job. He’s a thin little thing hiding behind dark blue robes and square-framed glasses, a little reticent with his replies. He doesn’t seem shy or hesitant in his words, but rather someone who’s been taught to be concise in their use.

[04:41 p.m.]

“Of course,” The gruff reply is coupled with a nod as the older man – much older than he’d expected – walks in, sparing nary a glance toward the room and quickly grabbing a chair to make use of instead. Michael would be intimidated by the man’s demeanour and appearance – the prospect tutor is at least a head taller than him and his shoulder-length red hair and beard make for a rather striking sight even at his advanced age – if a small smile didn’t follow suit, “Wanna tell me ‘bout the wee one I might be dealin’ with?”

It doesn’t take long for the reason why a man in his sixties is volunteering his time to tutor young children on what he calls the Old Ways, with audible capital letters. “Haven’t got any of my own,” the man tells him “A whole Quidditch team of nephews though, but there ain’t one willin’ to sit an’ learn ‘bout how things are done proper.” There’s a wealth of knowledge to be had just from the man’s tangents into small tales of his life, and Michael can’t help but think there’s a certain element of loneliness in it.

[06:27 p.m.]

A hum and a short nod are the only acknowledgement the young woman spares him in response, walking through the door in quick steps that lend a graceful bounce to the wavy, dark-blond hair that nearly reaches her hips. She waits for him to be seated before pulling a chair for herself with a slight nose scrunch, tanned legs crossing over each other as she accommodates herself.

“Tell me about your tutoring history,” He prompts when it’s clear that she won’t initiate any small talk, and the glacial look directed at him says exactly what she thinks about justifying her experience even though he’s the one doing the hiring. What follows are a couple of well-known names and references he assumes are supposed to impress him but only tell him this will either be a very long or a very short interview.

[02:21 p.m.]

“What do you think should be the priority for a child who is almost entirely unfamiliar with the wizarding world?” He asks as he jots down the woman’s most recent answer, fountain pen gliding through a small journal that is only present to give them the semblance of a shift in his focus throughout the interviews.

She hides her shock well, only a slight widening of her eyes betraying how unexpected the question is, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as she straightens her spine before answering, “Etiquette, of course. There’s no use in being aware of ritual work without knowing how to greet those who join you for it, the correct way to respond to a gift or how to avoid complete embarrassment during a meal. Of course-” she goes on to highlight everything she believes a child should know before being allowed to speak in anyone’s presence other than their parents, outlining very strict expectations.

[03:49 p.m.]

“How to not start a feud without realizing would be a good start,” The teen replies in a pensive tone, “Kids can be rude, I would know,” A slightly sheepish smile follows that declaration, “but the wrong word on the wrong ear could get back to an overprotective parent and just might be the stir that explodes the cauldron, so caution is the best policy.”

Michael stares for a moment at the idiom, realising there’s probably a lot more to wixen society than reading books and learning the rules, some things that probably sound or seem commonplace for any witch and wizard and yet Harry will be entirely unfamiliar with through no fault of his own. All he can do is help and encourage the kid to catch up and hope the difference isn’t as glaring as it feels right then.

[05:02 p.m.]

“Grooming charms,” the answer is delivered with a chuckle, “poor tyke’s gotta know how to look put-together and it’s half the work done, people will always judge the witch by the state of the hat no matter what they say.”

“I thought children only got their wand once registered into a magical institution?” Michael prods, earning himself a knowing but indulging look from the redhead.

“Their own wand’s the word, nothing ‘bout the parents or an heirloom,” He explains with a shrug, “‘s good for training movements, and learning the tidbits they won’t study in class like how to keep mud from clinging to a sole and whatnot. There used to be a class for it but it got cut with the costs I suppose, so you either learn at home or get side-eyed by the ones who did.”

[06:39 p.m.]

“Everything,” is the woman’s incredulous reply, “an eight-year-old, was it? They just might manage to catch up to proper behaviour with the right schedule, but it won’t be easy.” With the way she goes on to outline the shortcomings of the children who come into the wixen world without a traditional at-home education, it’s crystal clear what her opinions are on muggle-borns or muggle-raised half-bloods – he muses with the customary distaste for the words.

Michael allows her to drone on with indignation for a while, already aware that she will not be the one to teach Harry but hoping to at least reach the end of his planned questions before dismissing her if only to say it was not for lack of trying.

[02:41 p.m.]

“And there would be no issue with my presence and participation in the class?” Michael inquires, mentally crossing off the last relevant question from the list. Of course, there’s scheduling and materials to figure out, but that won’t be discussed until he settles on a definite tutor.

“Why would that be necessary?” Farley frowns slightly, probably wondering why, if he plans to be there, why not teach the child himself.

“Well, you see, I’m what you refer to as a squib,” he makes a point to say it while scribbling on the journal, yet entirely focused on her reaction instead of his aimless traces. There’s no disguising the flash of  distaste that crosses her face at the revelation, but he pays it no mind as he continues, "I’ve only just learned that my son is a wizard, so naturally I must become as familiar with this world as he should be, if not more.”

A considering look takes over her expression, not entirely positive but still enough to keep her in the running unless a more fitting candidate reveals themselves. She goes on to explain that his presence may affect the child’s behaviour and responses during the tutoring, but something could certainly be arranged.

[04:06 p.m.]

“I think I can handle an eight-year-old on my own, Sir,” Montgomery replies, looking a little nervous at the question. Whether it’s at the possibility of his classes not living up to the expectations or genuine offence at the implication that he could not handle himself, Michael isn’t entirely sure.

“I never implied otherwise,” he assures, “The issue is that I’m a squib, so I would probably benefit from learning anything my son needs to know as well.”

The teen’s eyes shift, looking anywhere but in his direction, “Er- I’m not sure I’d be the right person to teach a s- I mean, to paint the correct image of what society looks like for you, Sir.”

It’s a mostly politely worded way of saying the kid has no idea what someone with no active magic of their own may or may not need to know in wixen society, and only makes it more evident that there’s hardly been a place for squibs alongside witches so far. It causes an unpleasant twist to his stomach, but he ignores it in favour of continuing the interview.

[05:28 p.m.]

“‘Course not, the more the merrier,” Prewett assures, but the curiosity Michael spots in his expression is quick to manifest, “why though? If you’re around, might as well do the job yourself, no?” He’s grown comfortable over the course of the conversation, but still tenses before adding the next issue to the table.

“You see, I’m actually a squib,” he informs, pleasantly surprised when the man hardly reacts besides a slight rise of his eyebrows. “I can’t expect my son to be more familiar with the wixen culture than I am, so I was hoping to arrange something in that regard.”

There’s a short period of silence in which he can’t help but tense, but it’s quickly broken by a humoured huff, “you pass better than my cousin, I’ll tell you that much,” the man informs him with amusement, “Good for you, lad.”

“I take it this wouldn’t be an issue, then?” Michael goes for verbal confirmation, though that’s what it sounds like. It’s a pleasant surprise after the last two reactions he’s received, which weren’t exactly terrible but certainly not favourable.

“Nah, might be good for you to know stuff to help the wee one,” the redhead replies with a dismissive wave of the hand, “but if he ain’t got a parent’s wand to train with…”

“I’ll take care of that,” he promises, probably as early as the next day considering his plans for it.

[06:47 p.m.]

“That would hardly be appropriate,” Edgecombe harrumphs, “It would be a complete challenge to my authority as a teacher, and certainly detrimental to the child’s learning. Why would you possibly need to be present?”

“As a squib, I figured I should familiarize myself with the wixen world as well,” he replies with a slight shrug, torn between amusement and offence at the way the witch recoils in visible distaste before hurriedly rising to her feet.

“I don’t believe this job would be the right fit,” she announces, turning up her nose so far at him that she may as well be talking to the ceiling, and promptly marches out of the room, leaving the door completely ajar.

“Well,” he mutters at her exit, closing the journal for a final time, “you’re not wrong.”

Chapter Text

November 22nd, 1988

Harry tries to pay more attention during this visit to Gringotts, feeling less scared to be recognised now that his hair is a bright blond and his eyes blue. He still can’t really manage something he hasn’t seen before but copying people he knows – Mr Wright’s eyes and hair or Mr Chris’ like he’s done this time – feels a little easier whenever he tries. He still wants to turn his hair blue to surprise Hermione during their trip to Diagon next weekend, but maybe he’ll settle for making himself look like her instead.

Holding his dad’s hand through the crowd, they walk past the goblin they trade non-magical money with and head for one of the ones in the back. He doesn’t hear exactly what they say, but they get guided to a room like the one where they did the first blood test, though the desk inside is much bigger and there’s already a goblin in there.

He bows in greeting along with his dad and they get a nod in return. “I am Relret, the Potter House manager, take a seat,” the goblin motions at the chairs facing the desk and they move to take their seats. “Documents?” a clawed hand extends towards them.

“Here,” Mr Wright grabs a huge stack of papers from his messenger bag – how did it all fit in there? – and separates it into three piles on top of the desk, “The adoption certificate, muggle and magical, a copy of the magic guardianship papers that were submitted yesterday, the Stewardship authorisation form signed by Harry, his bloodline test result and the healer’s notes on it for inheritance checks, the signed ward-renewal request forms for the Potter properties and- well, these are for the Black account manager,” he corrects himself and stores those back, though Harry’s already lost track of which pile is which.

That’s a lot of paperwork, he thinks to himself, glad he doesn’t have to do any of it even if Mr Wright did explain it all before they came to the bank.

The goblin hums – though it could have been a small growl – and pulls the papers closer, looking them over in silence before nodding, “All seems to be in order, I’ll have you registered as the Steward of the House of Potter and forward the necessary information by owl unless you’d rather wait for it.” Harry thinks that by the goblin’s tone, the wait might be a long one.

“I actually added my letterbox number at the bottom of the files,” Dad tells the goblin who just nods at that, “But what I came to request, as Harry’s official guardian, is access to the Potter wills. I was led to believe they have yet to be read?”

Harry looks between Mr Wright and the goblin nervously when the latter just stares for a bit, but Mr Relret just huffs and starts looking through the drawers on the desk, pulling out a piece of parchment a moment after, “Here, these are the steps to request and schedule a will reading, about time someone took care of it,” the last part is muttered under the goblin’s breath but Harry still catches it and frowns. It’s not his dad’s fault that he didn’t have an official guardian before! “Will you be taking the heirship ring?”

“Yes,” Mr Wright replies, “and a meeting with the Black House manager if possible.”

Harry waits until the goblin nods and hops out of his chair, walking out of the room and leaving them alone inside, before speaking, “What’s a ring for?”

He doesn’t really mind jewellery, Hermione wears earrings and he’s seen teachers at school with necklaces, bracelets and rings too, but most of them were girls and the boys only wore the marriage rings, and he’s not about to get married. Right?

“Remember how I mentioned the Lords of certain houses?” Dad asks, and Harry nods. He’d spent a whole day making sure he knew the names by heart so he would recognize them if he heard them and remember to be extra polite and bow the right way. “You can’t be Lord of House Potter because you’re eight,” he should have guessed that, “but until you’re old enough, you’re the Heir to the House, and the ring is meant to show that to people so they know you’re protected, besides using it to- you know how I sign my name on documents?” Harry nods, “You can use it to sign things that you want people to know are from the Potter Heir, and any official documents too. I remember Chang mentioning some of them also have actual protective spells, but we’ll have to ask Relret when he comes back.”

Harry nods, understanding most of it and mostly hoping the ring isn’t a big ugly thing that people will make fun of him for at school.

The door of the room opens a minute later, “Heir Potter, Potter Steward,” the goblin’s voice makes them look over only to see Mr Relret being followed by an older-looking goblin as he walks back into the room, “This is Astraxe, the Black House manager. Given you’re the Black Heir’s Steward, we might as well get everything done more efficiently.”

“Well met,” Mr Wright greets and they’re quick to stand and exchange the bows before sitting back down. “I’ll get the Black account paperwork then,” his dad says and retrieves the papers he’d put back on the bag the first time. “Pretty much a copy of what I gave Manager Relret, along with a few things our solicitor unearthed during a search for a suitable magical guardian. The current Lord Black may be interested, though I’ve failed to reach him about it myself.”

“Lord Black enjoys his privacy,” Mr Astraxe says, taking the papers, and Harry figures that’s the most they’re going to get. Mr Wright probably does too, since he continues.

“In any case, I won’t have much to steward at all if my assumptions are correct,” Dad tells him, reminding Harry of the talk they had about his godfather. He didn’t even know he had one and asked why that was, but Mr Wright couldn’t know what had happened before they met. He told Harry that people think Mr Black got his parents killed and then killed some muggles before getting caught, but he never got a trial for it so they can’t really be sure it’s true. He doesn’t know what he wants to be true or not, since a friend of his parents getting them killed would be bad but the wizards sending someone to prison without being sure they did it was just as bad. “Are we permitted to visit the Black family vault?”

Oh? Harry sits up straighter, curious about seeing inside a wizard vault. He’d already seen the money, but Mr Wright told him they’d be looking for wands this time, and he could only imagine what else could be in there.

“As Steward to the Heir presumptive to the House of Black, you are allowed to accompany Mr Potter into the family vault,” Mr Astraxe explains, “No monetary withdrawal is authorised before the majority and any items will be registered if removed.”

“I’m sure Lord Black wouldn’t begrudge the Heir of his House a try at their heirloom wands,” Dad tells the goblin, and Harry wishes they didn’t have to speak with all the fancy words, though he figures it’s still better to hear the decisions than have them just happen to him later.

Mr Astraxe just huffs, “I’ll have a key delivered promptly. If there’s nothing else?”

“That will be all, Manager Astraxe, thank you,” Mr Wright nods and the goblin leaves, closing the door behind him. “The ring?”

Mr Relret sits back down on his chair and puts a small wooden box with gold corners on top of the desk right in front of them, “The Potter Heir ring,” he says like he’s introducing someone and leans back.

“Are there any spells on it?” His dad asks before Harry can even move to pick up the box.

“Resizing and infrangible charms, much like Lordship rings, and standard mind shielding,” the goblin replies and Harry has no idea what he’s talking about, something changing sizes maybe? He doesn’t know the second word and a mind shield just makes him think of someone using a knight shield like a hat.

Harry looks up at his dad when it looks like the goblin won’t talk anymore, and Mr Wright just motions for him to go ahead. He looks at the box instead and picks it up, it’s the size of the palm of his hand and not very heavy, and he doesn’t wait any longer before opening it. The inside of it is made of fuzzy red fabric, with the ring sitting right in the middle. It’s big, bigger than any ring he’s ever seen, not that he’s seen a lot of them. It’s silver and thinner at one end while it gets bigger up to the other flat and round side. There’s a P on both sides next to the flat bit and the front of it has an image on it like one of those knight shields from television, with drawings a bit too small to tell apart, but the one on top does look something like an animal with two pointy, curved horns maybe like one he’s seen int he zoo before, and some of the stuff inside the shield looks like a boiling pot and some sort of flower. It’s not ugly , but it’s big and different, though he’s getting used to different things now, what’s one more? Harry thinks and puts the box down on the desk, keeping the ring.

“Left pinky finger,” his dad whispers.

Harry’s eyes widen a bit because that ring is too big for his pinky, but didn’t they say something about sizing? He shrugs and puts it on anyway, and the metal stays the same size for a second before it starts to shrink. He’s scared, for a second, that it will keep shrinking and squeeze off his finger, but it stops getting smaller once the whole thing is touching his skin but not too tight.

“Cool,” he smiles at his hand, it doesn’t look that bad now that it’s the right size for his finger, and it’s something from his family , so he doesn’t think he’ll mind if people notice it at school. It’s his ring, something he realises his dad – the one married to his mum – probably got to wear before. He likes it and looks up at Mr Wright to tell him so with a grin.

“Will there be anything else or shall we head to the vaults?” Mr Relret asks and Dad shakes his head.

“That’s all for now,” he replies, “Actually, how long does it take to check for inheritances?”

They’d talked about this too, Ms Dahlia had told his dad that he had some interesting names on his bloodline test and some might have vaults he could take, he didn’t want to take other people’s things but Dad had explained that if he could take them, they were already dead and Harry could take care of their money and things instead of letting it go to the ministry or the bank. He didn’t mind that.

Mr Relret hums and opens a drawer in the desk before dumping one of the paper piles in it, then opening another one and another until all the documents are gone, “Should be a couple of hours, we’ll mail you with the results,” He opens another drawer and pulls something small and metal from it, that Harry notices are keys when he hands them to Mr Wright. “The keys to the Black and Potter family vaults,” Dad nods and picks them up, as well as the knife that the goblin holds out. A little cut into his fingers, a touch to the keys, and the knife is given back while Dad puts the keys in his pocket. “Shal we?” The goblin prompts and they stand up, following the goblin out of the room and through a different door.

“Griphook,” Mr Relret calls when they’re back in the front and Harry hears a language he doesn’t understand – it makes sense that they’d have their language though – before Mr Relret tells them that the other goblin will take them to their vaults.

The new goblin guides them back into the hall and through another passage. Harry expects more marble and gold, but they walk into a small stone passageway instead, lit with torches on the walls. It slopes downward and there’s little train tracks on the floor, which he almost asks about but Mr Griphook whistles before he can, and a small cart somehow comes rushing up the tracks towards them. Awesome .

He gets in the cart after Mr Griphook and Mr Wright and they’re off. The cart goes fast like a rollercoaster –  or at least he thinks so since he’s never been in one – and his dad wraps his arms around him, pulling Harry’s back into his chest as they get hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. He doesn’t mind it, it feels safe, and he grins at the strong wind making his face tingle. It doesn’t look like Mr Griphook is even steering the cart, so Harry doesn’t try to remember all the turns they take, especially since they take a lot of them.

Harry doesn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opens them again when the cart stops, noticing they’re in front of a big, round metal door that looks a bit taller than Mr Wright and probably ten times heavier. It’s got some carving on its sides, and the same animal from the ring in the centre – he remembers the name now from when he’d seen it in the zoo, an antelope – next to where he could see was the keyhole.

Mr Wright hands a key to the goblin, who then walks over and twists it inside. Harry wants to ask why his dad didn’t do that himself, but doesn’t want to upset Mr Griphook so he stays quiet instead, watching the door open on its own – good thing too since it looks so heavy – and let out a lot of green smoke. As it cleared, Harry gasped at the sight of what was inside. There were huge golden mountains of Galleons and some of the other two coins he always forgot the name too, but also other stuff like silver armour, lots of shelves with things that looked like potions and books, some jewellery drowning in the middle of the coins or stored in glass boxes, even what looked like animal skins as well as a bunch of boxes, trunks and other knick-knacks spread around.

“Come on then, let’s take a look,” his dad says, taking his hand and leading him inside the vault.

It looks bigger once they step inside, and Harry barely knows what to look at first, letting go of his dad’s hand to step closer to the piles of books closer to the ground since the shelves were a bit too high to reach. Some of them looked like ones he’d seen in the bookstore before, but others looked much older and some didn’t even have titles on the side or on the cover.

Hermione would love this.

“Find anything interesting?” Dad’s voice coming from behind him a few minutes later almost makes him drop a book he’d picked up.

“Can I take things out?” Harry asks, not sure if he’s allowed since it’s Mr Wright who got the key.

“Sure, we can put any books in my bag,” he says, taking it off his shoulder and holding it out so Harry can take it.

He grins and starts sliding a few books into the bag, which he realizes is definitely magical. Did Ms Chang get it for him?

He hears Mr Wright walking and muttering around the vault before he comes back again, this time with a dark red fabric in his arms. “Here we go, the reason we needed to come here,” he puts the fabric down and pulls it open, showing a bunch of different wooden sticks inside like the ones Harry’s seen Ms Dahlia and Ms Chang use before. Wands!

Harry grabs the closest one, but drops it when it stings his palm, “Ouch,” he complains, rubbing it on the side of his pants.

“I guess that’s a no,” Mr Wright says with a small smile, “only… eleven more to go.”

He picks up the one he dropped on the ground by the tip and throws it back on the fabric before picking up another one, and the next, and the one after that. All he does is a bit of a mess – though he’s glad nothing flew off the shelves, probably some magic keeping stuff stuck to it – with flying coins and flapping fabrics, but other than some weak stings, a shock that almost made Mr Wright stop him from trying more, there was no reaction at all and none of them felt right.

“It was worth a shot,” his dad tries to make him feel better, though Harry’s too busy worrying about no wands working for him at all and being kicked out of the magic world to smile back. “Hey, it’s fine, there’s still the Black vault and if that doesn’t work out, we wait to get you a wand when you go to school.”

Harry hums and nods but doesn’t feel like picking up any more books, in a rush to go to the next vault. They get back into the cart and head even further down, the cold air from the quick ride calming him down a bit. It’s not like he doesn’t have magic, he’s done it on accident a lot and he can even feel it a bit sometimes, even more now that he’s doing his metamorph thing before sleep, so people can’t say he’s not a wizard.

The Black vault door has darker metal on it, the Potter one looked like bronze but this one looks almost… well, black. It’s got scribbles on the edges too, but where there was an antelope on the other one, this one has a bird with its huge beak, wings and claws open almost like it’s going to attack anyone that tries to open the door without permission. When Mr Griphook opens the door, the smoke that comes out of it is a dark blue that reminds him of the night sky.

“I don’t think you should touch anything but the wands,” Mr Wright tells him as they walk inside and he nods, definitely agreeing. Some of the stuff on top of trunks and shelves looked scary, and some of the ones that didn’t just felt kind of weird. The wands are easier to find this time, all of them on a wall-mounted metal stand on the right side of the vault and Harry nearly trips on a rug – it has some animal head on it! – in a rush to get to them. “Careful,” Mr Wright reminds him and Harry hears something scraping against the floor before a bug trunk gets dragged in front of him, “Here, wait,” he watches as his dad pulls the strange animal skin rug from the ground and throws it over the trunk, “now you can reach them.”

Oh, right , “Thanks,” he says, realizing the wand stands really are too high to reach and immediately climbing on top of the trunk, his dad’s arms hovering near in case he falls.

They don’t look much different from the Potter vault wands, mostly in dark brown and black woods with a few light ones thrown in, some of them with fancy-looking handles and others looking like someone pulled a branch out of the nearest tree and put it there. He reaches for the top one- and stops before touching it, something in his chest feeling weirdly fizzy. Maybe not that one .

He tries a couple of them, more careful before touching the others, but other than another small shock, nothing much happens. Harry’s about to give up and ask to go home – how long has he been trying these wands anyway? There’s a lot more than in the Potter vault – when a wand on the next stand gets his attention. It’s nearly white, a very light-coloured wood, and the carvings are little circles that remind him of an octopus tentacle, looking like it might be fun to hold. He stands on the tip of his toes at the edge of the trunk to reach for it, and he’s almost got a hand around it when he loses his balance, knocking off a few wands and almost falling to the ground if his dad didn’t catch him in time.

“Maybe let me grab the top ones for you,” Mr Wright suggests with a chuckle and Harry huffs, annoyed that none of the wands have worked for him, but nods.

He picks up the white one off the floor, and the little circles in the wood do feel kind of different on his hand, but nothing happens. He puts it on top of the trunk and crouches to grab the other wand that fell almost behind it, some dark wood that goes a bit purple near the handle, and falls on his bum when his hand touches it, pulling it right back and hugging it to his chest with a yelp of pain.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Mr Wright kneels next to him and pries his hand away from his chest, making a face at it. Harry looks down only to see the tip of three of his fingers have gone black, and still sting even though he let go of the wand quickly. “Maybe we shouldn’t be messing around in here, come on. We can ask Ch- Lei about a wand to practice later, let’s get that checked out.”

They hurry out of the vault, Harry more upset at not having found a wand that works for him than at his tingling fingertips.

“I don’t know about letting you touch even more unfamiliar magical things,” Michael frowns down at Harry. They were once again in a Gringotts meeting room, having been called back only a few hours after leaving for the first time, and his son was swinging his legs back and forth under the chair in excitement at the news they had received.

The first subject of the meeting had been a note from Astraxe, letting him know that Lord Black would be looking into the trial of Harry’s godfather – or lack thereof. He hadn’t had the time to look more into it yet, the curious case of Sirius Black, but Chang had informed him that she had been approved to look into the private Ministry files and found a whole lot of nothing besides a request for transfer of custody – a transport to Azkaban. No arrest sheet, no trial records, not even a crumb of indication that it had been a lawful arrest despite every newspaper at the time claiming it so. Hell, the only files with the man’s name other than the transfer request had been his birth certificate, apparition license and OWL and NEWT certification results. It was about time someone looked into it, for better or worse.

What followed the note was Relret’s declaration that there were indeed a few inheritances available to Harry due to the results of his bloodline ritual. Not many, he had explained, a few of them had gone over the lawful waiting period and been dissolved – he did not inform them of which ones and neither Harry nor Michael cared to ask – but Harry had gained immediate access to two vaults, with keys being immediately handed over and bonded to Michael as the kid’s guardian since neither of the vaults were designated Heir vaults. Up until then, there had been no objections other than telling Harry they would come back on a different day to look at the Ollerton and Blume vaults, leaving only a request for a list of the items in the vault and whether any properties were still linked to their respective accounts, and then Relret informed them of two more possible inheritances.

Apparently, even though they were well over the time allowed to claim a stagnant account, these two specific vaults were exempt from that particular rule. The Peverell and Slytherin vaults, names he recognized from a passing mention by Dahlia, did not work quite like the others, he was told. If any client became eligible to inherit them, they were expected to present themselves for some sort of evaluation at the vault doors and would only then be judged deserving or not of whatever lay beyond their gates. Michael was, understandably after the small scare with the wands, quite hesitant to let Harry submit himself to the whim of any more magical objects.

The effect of the wand’s rejection – a black tint to the tip of three of his son’s fingers – had faded back to normal after a few minutes and a short visit to Chang had confirmed no lingering effects, as well as earned him an earful for letting Harry have free reign of the wands of in the Black vault. The last thing he wanted was another magical scare he could do nothing about.

“But what happens if I can’t- uh, make the door let me in?” Harry asks the Potter account manager.

“Well, there have been no attempts to access the Peverell vault in my lifetime,” Relret replies in a pensive tone, “but the Slytherin vault will merely refuse to open, I believe. Any rejection will hardly be anything lethal or even particularly harmful, at least to those who have the right to attempt their claim,” the tone at the end of the declaration makes it very clear that anyone not supposed to try their hand at those vaults may end up meeting an untimely end.

“Can I try, please?” Harry looks up at him with unfairly effective puppy eyes, and Michael has half a mind to give Cho a talking-to for being a bad influence since this had hardly been done on purpose before.

“...fine,” he caves with a sigh, “If the goblins say you won’t be hurt, I’m inclined to trust their word,” a pointed look is still sent toward said goblin, who only nods in response.

“Follow me,” Relret climbs off his chair to lead them out of the meeting room and back into the mine carts of hell.

Michael appreciates a good rollercoaster as much as the next person, but he had not signed up for a repeat performance so soon and didn’t enjoy the constant fear of Harry somehow managing to fly out of the cart. It feels like an eternity until they finally come to a stop, and he may have hallucinated a flash of flame before one of the turns and the way it feels much colder than before, which he simply attributes to being further underground than the first time.

The door they have parked by is smaller than he expected, at least in comparison to the Potter and Black vaults, and is shaped more like an archway, although a jet-black one. There are still runes, as he’s noticed in the outline of every door so far, but instead of an animal or even a keyhole, there is only a large silver symbol contrasting with the dark metal behind it. It’s not a familiar one, a triangle with a circle inside it and a line cutting vertically through both, and gives no hint as to how his son is supposed to claim whatever lies behind it.

“He won’t get hurt?” Michael feels the need to confirm once Harry steps closer to the vault, earning a huff followed by an unintelligible grunt from Relret

“Uh,” Harry mutters after touching the centre of the symbol only for nothing to happen, “I don’t think it’s mine,” he says in a questioning tone, poking around its edges and then the door itself to no avail.

“It was worth a try,” Michael placates, mirroring his earlier words regarding the wands, and motions for them to get back in the cart. “Slytherin is next, then.”

It had been explained to them, once he’d asked about this particular vault’s association with Hogwarts, that while inheriting it may come with a fourth of Hogwarts attached, the vault itself was not considered a property of the wizarding school. Given all of the paperwork regarding Harry’s accounts that he had yet to get through, he hardly wanted to imagine the headache that would follow if his son inherited one-fourth of a school.

Please let this not work , he mentally pleads once the cart stops in its tracks for the second time, this time facing a much larger round door in aged silver, with obvious snake imagery in the form of an ouroboros circling the entire thing.

As soon as Harry steps close to the door, said ouroboros ripples from the tail to its head, whose closed mouth previously latched onto its tail opens and moves away from the door, slithering against the silver until it reaches Harry’s eye level and then completely detaches part of itself from it, hovering in front of his son.

“Harry,” It takes tremendous self-control not to pull his son back by the arm or step in front of him, and he only manages to hold himself back due to a lack of clear intent to harm from the metallic snake construct.

“ What’s it doing? ” Harry asks, not moving from his spot and just staring right back at the snake, whose metallic tongue darts out and nearly brushes his son’s nose.

“ Speaker, ” The snake’s sibilant voice greets and only then does Michael realise Harry had asked his question in parseltongue. “ Have you come to claim my treasure?”

“ Um- if I can, yes, ” Harry somehow manages to stutter out in the magical serpent tongue. “ What do I have to do? ”

“ Your actions matter not,” the snake’s response is hardly reassuring, especially as it starts swaying slightly from one side to another as it continues, “ only your magic, and your blood .”

Before Michael can get close enough to do something about it, the snake strikes. It clamps its jaw around Harry’s right hand, obviously piercing the palm by the startled yelp that leaves his son’s mouth, and retracts just as he frantically pulls the boy away, trying to inspect the damage, but instead of finding multiple punctures made by the snake’s metallic fangs, there’s only a small drop of blood gathering at the centre of his son’s palm as if he’d been poked by a sharp needle.

“ Welcome, Slytherin Heir, ” The snake’s declaration pulls their attention towards it just in time to see it flatten itself against the metal once again and slither in what, after a moment, seems to form a figure eight in the centre of the door before biting its tail as soon as the shape looks perfect.

With a short high-pitched screeching sound of metal scraping against metal, the door slowly slides open on its own, pitch-black smoke pouring out of the vault before starting to clear.

Harry seems to forget all about the scare, pulling his hand from Michael’s grasp and rushing forward into the vault, “Wait!” He warns, making the kid pause just a step over the threshold, “Harry, we need to be careful, we don’t know what’s inside,” to be fair, half of the entrance seemed to be covered by mountains upon mountains of fabric and wooden chests with galleons strewn randomly in between, nothing very dangerous-looking. “How about we go back up now that we know you own this vault and come back another time?”

“Can I just have a look?” Harry turns with a pleading look, “I won’t touch anything, promise!”

“... right, just a quick look, but stay close,” he warns, stepping over the threshold and taking Harry’s uninjured hand in his. He can admit, if only to himself, that he’s just as curious.

If the two vaults they had entered before this felt old, walking further into the Slytherin vault feels like stepping back in time. There are honest-to-god swords and shields mounted on the walls, chainmail and armour gathered into a corner, glistening jewellery peeking out from beneath piles of colourful fabrics, and the few complete garments he can spot look like something that wouldn’t be out of place in a royal court. Every book in sight looks like it should have been preserved in a museum, leather-covered and aged with time, and the few visible titles are not in any language he can read.

On the leftmost corner, the ancient chests and books give way to what seems like fabric-covered easels, and he can’t help but reach for one of the red fabrics to uncover the hidden painting, wondering what works of art have been locked away all this time.

“ Finally! ,” A deep voice that can’t possibly belong to the goblin at the entrance makes him jump back, dropping the fabric to the ground and pulling Harry closer to his side as they stare at the moving figure of a man in the painting, his arms crossing in front of himself as if upset as he narrowed bright green eyes at them, “ Took you long enough! ”

Chapter Text

As fast as his dad pulls him back to his side, Harry wiggles out of his grip and steps closer when he realizes it’s just a painted person talking, “You can talk!”

“Why, yes, I’m even quite the decent singer if I do say so myself,” the man in the painting says with a smirk. Harry knows he’s sort of making fun of him for something that should be obvious but Mr Wright always tells him not to let people make him feel bad for not knowing all about magic yet, and a talking painting sort of counts as people so he refuses to be upset about it.

When Harry thinks about why there would be a talking person painting inside the Slytherin vault his eyes go wide without him meaning to, “Are you Salazar Slytherin?" he asks, because that’s the only famous Slytherin he remembers the name of and this man is obviously not Sylvie, the only other Slytherin he knows from his bloodline test

It feels like a dumb question when he thinks about it, the man in the painting doesn’t look old like the Chocolate Frog card or the drawings in the books about him. Sure, he’s older than Mr Wright, though it could just be the long hair and short beard, but his hair’s not grey and he’s not wearing the dark green robes people draw him in, his clothes kind of look like armour if it was made of dark leather instead of metal. He does have a big snake wrapped around his shoulders like the lord of a house of snakes might have, but it looks like it’s sleeping.

“Of course, in the- well, paint, I suppose. And who might you be, little one?" The man in the painting – actual Salazar Slytherin! – asks, narrowing his eyes at him, “It’s been a while since my little brother has brought anyone else into this vault."

“Little brother? ” Harry asks, confused, and looks back at Mr Wright, who’s still standing a step away from them with a frown on his face, looking either upset or in pain. He knows his dad can understand them, but… maybe he hasn’t said anything because the painting won’t know English? Mr Slytherin is supposed to be really old after all, maybe he can just speak snake. Or Latin, that’s also pretty old, but Harry can’t really speak it just read it. “So this wasn’t your vault?” He blinks when he realizes it came out normal instead of the snake language and looks back at Mr Slytherin to repeat the question in the language he knows he’ll understand, but gets interrupted.

“What? Of course not, it’s his,” Mr Slytherin looks over Harry’s shoulder, making him frown.

“You speak English?” Harry asks, narrowing his eyes at the painting. How does Mr Slytherin, who lived before the years had four numbers, know English?

“Hm?” Mr Wright grunts out and Harry turns back around to see him rubbing a hand on his forehead, “Well, yours or your brother’s, they said Harry could claim it and he did,” his dad explains, “though we really should leave, this place is giving me a migraine.”

“You’ve claimed this vault?” Mr Slytherin asks looking back at him and sounding surprised, before glancing over his shoulder again and back at Harry, “Before you go, if I may ask, how are the two of you related?”

“He’s my dad,” it makes his chest all warm to say it for the first time to someone else – if a painting counts as someone –outside of a letter, and he knows he’s smiling when he does it.

Mr Slytherin’s eyes widen before he lets out a laugh loud enough to make the snake on his neck hiss in annoyance and slither out of it, vanishing from the painting. “Oh my,” he says between breaths, looking like he’s just heard the best joke in the world and making Harry cross his arms and step back so he’s closer to his dad, “I’m sorry, little one, I’m not laughing at you,” Mr Slytherin takes a deep breath to calm down but there’s still a smirk pulling at his mouth, “This is just a very unexpected situation, you see…” he stares for a moment before shaking his head a little, “Well, it hardly matters, I’m only a painting after all. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I’m Salazar Slytherin, at your service.”

“Are you, really?” Mr Wright asks, sounding curious. Harry knows his dad heard the painting introduce himself – itself? This is complicated – but doesn’t mention it, figuring there’s probably a reason he doesn’t want the painting to know he understands snakes too. Maybe the goblin outside can hear them? Harry should have thought about that before speaking parseltongue in front of Relret. He hopes goblins don’t like gossip.

“Since the day I was born,” Mr Slytherin is still smiling like he thinks something’s funny, “If I could trouble the Slytherin Heir and his father for a favour, would mind bringing me along when you leave? This place is dreadfully boring.”

Harry thinks it would be awesome to have a talking painting at home, imagine all the questions he could ask Mr Slytherin! “Can we, Dad?” he looks up at Mr Wright and grabs his hand for good measure, “please? I bet he can teach me lots of magic!”

His dad blinks like something’s gotten into his eyes, hand falling from his forehead and letting Harry notice he looks a little surprised, “Huh,” he mumbles before looking between the painting and Harry, “I suppose there’s no harm in relocating for a while, though our home is mostly non-magical,” it sounds like a challenge or a warning.

“Better keep me out of sight then,” Mr Slytherin advises, not looking bothered at all.

Mr Wright just nods and Harry grins in excitement, already making a list in his head of all the things he wants to ask about Hogwarts. “Would you happen to know whether or not something is dangerous in this vault? I didn’t want to let Harry explore without being sure,” his dad asks, making Harry look a little worried.

“Didn’t your head hurt? We can come back later,” He tells his dad. As excited as he is to explore, he doesn’t want Mr Wright in pain.

“It’s gone now,” Mr Wright shrugs, and Harry narrows his eyes at him for a second, making him smile, “I promise, it’s fine, don’t you want to look around? If Lord Slytherin says it’s safe, that is.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Mr Slytherin – does he have to call him Lord? Are people going to call him Heir? – tells them, not looking very worried about it. “The weapons are out of reach and charmed not to move, anything unsafe is stored in locked chests, and none of the jewellery is cursed,” he adds and Harry looks up at Mr Wright again.

“Alright, you have…” his dad looks at the watch on his wrist, “fifteen minutes. Explore away and make a little pile of anything you want to take home, don’t touch any wands if you see them. Remember what Lei said.”

“Wait for someone with magic to be with me if I want to do any,” Harry repeats Ms Chang’s words, a little annoyed but too excited to explore to disobey. He barely waits for his dad’s nod to run off to the closest pile of books.

Michael can’t shake the strange sensation from his mind, something like déjà vu, from the moment he steps into the vault. He tries to put it out of his mind, but when his eyes meet the green ones on the portrait the feeling only intensifies, before it turns into something like a needle trying to burrow into his brain. It’s miraculously gone the moment Harry takes his hand, as if it never happened in the first place, and he wonders if it’s something like a ward against anyone but the owner being in the vault, though the needle-like feeling is very different from the bare brush against his awareness that his own home wards cause when a visitor arrives.

He doesn’t even mind it when Harry rushes off to explore, keeping a cautious look over him but for some reason trusting the man in the painting – supposedly one of the founders of Hogwarts – not to have lied in his assurances of safety.

“So, may I have the name of the current Heir’s father?” There’s something in the man’s tone, his expression too, a hidden amusement as if he knows something they don’t, and he has a feeling it might end up getting under his skin soon.

“Michael Wright,” He introduces himself all the same with a slight bow, “A pleasure, Lord Slytherin.”

“Please, Salazar is fine,” the man is quick to offer. “And the lytling? Harry, was it?”

“Just Michael then,” Michael reciprocates, casting another glance towards where his son is looking through a pile of clothes and jewellery, “Harry Potter,” he reveals. It should hardly mean a thing to a painting stored in a vault.

Something like recognition seems to cross the portrait’s eyes, but it’s gone so fast he thinks he imagined it. “Not Slytherin?” Salazar asks, sounding simply curious instead of offended by the lack of use of his family name.

“Many generations back on his mother’s side, one Sylvie Ashdown who married into the family,” he explains. “We only found out through a bloodline ritual, and the bank said he could try his chance at accessing the vault.”

Salazar simply continues to look at him, his expression something between amusement and confusion, “The mother?” he tries his best to glance past Michael, or at least the best an image on a canvas can do.

He’s glad the lack of eyes on him when the question almost makes him choke on air, “no, he’s not-” he clears his throat before continuing in a calmer tone, “I adopted him, his parents passed away.”

Something in his answer seems to both settle the ancient wizard and baffle him in equal measure. “Magically?” he inquires further, making Michael frown in annoyance.

“Yes, it was a blood adoption, though I’m a squib,” he quickly clarifies, “I trust that won’t be an issue?”

“No, of course not,” Salazar is quick to assure, his near-constant smirk softening into a more understanding smile, “my little brother was one and never lesser for it.”

He only stares in astonishment at that information, something he hadn’t read anywhere during his literary exploration of anything available on parselmouths, if anything most books had alluded to the contrary if not outright stated the man’s hatred for anyone not blessed with magic.

Goes to show that history really is written by the victors, he muses with an inaudible sigh.

“Dad, look!” Harry saves him from having to come up with a reply as he comes barreling back with a thick book held to his chest, holding it out for his inspection. Hogwarts, an unedited History is the title he reads on the cover, lacking any signs of being anything but a first edition. “Hemione’s gonna love this!”

Michael chuckles at the enthusiasm, handing back the book, “Let’s stop by Chang’s first to duplicate it just in case, okay?” he suggests, having no idea how rare the book might be when it’s been locked in this ancient vault, and an animated nod is the only response he gets before the boy runs off once again.

When he looks back at the portrait, Salazar sports an almost wistful smile. He wants to ask – he’s too curious for his own good on his best day – but he’s had enough revelations to last him the week at the least. Interrogating a historical figure will simply have to wait.

“Well, since you’re coming with us, I should probably fit you into the bag,” he tells the founder, who acquiesces to the course of action, and a slight struggle later his messenger bag closes just fine with a portrait inside.

I had better find Chang a damn good gift , he reminds himself as he often does whenever the enchanted bag comes in handy.

The next couple of minutes are spent adding a few more books to his bag before they make their way back up to the bank under the puzzled stare of Relret. Michael doesn’t claim to be an expert at reading goblin expressions, he’s much better with humans, but the Potter account manager definitely looks like something unexpected occurred.

They leave the bank not long after, assured that Relret will get in contact with the relevant goblins – does Slytherin still have its own manager even after being dormant? – and mail out an update on whether there are any properties attached to the inheritances as well as the full extent of each of them. Michael holds off on merging them all under the Potter name – at least the two that can be merged – and decides to wait it out until he has a little more information, just in case. He’s had his fill of surprises, and patience is a virtue even if it’s not one he employs very often.

“It’s nice to see a different set of walls for a change,” Salazar comments once Michael has exchanged one of his still paintings for the man’s portrait inside his office, the safest place to put a talking piece of art is an office that’s magically silenced once the door closes after all.

“It’s here or my room and I don’t want someone watching me sleep,” Harry points out from where he’s sitting on the rug and pulling books out of Michael’s extended messenger bag.

Salazar looks over at Harry and stares for a moment, “Weren’t you blond just a moment ago?”

Michael chuckles, the founder had probably already assumed magic – maybe not the exact kind – but still asked for his son’s sake, “He’s a metamorphmagus,” he explains and Harry looks up at the painting, closing his eyes for a bit and letting them see his hair lengthen and lighten until it’s the same blond Salazar had seen in the vault, paired with bright blue eyes once they open again.

“Two bloodline gifts?” Salazar muses aloud, “You are a very lucky child, Mr Potter.”

Harry just looks up at him instead, “Yeah,” the small smile on the kid’s face warms his heart. Lucky indeed, though maybe not for the reasons the founder assumes. “Can I take this one to my room?” his son holds up a medium-sized book with the title Behind The Throne of Camelot , a more modern-looking book with what seems like a sketch of a sword and a crown on the front as if it’s still a draft of what might become a real book someday.

“Sure,” he has no use for fairy tales at the moment – never really had, they all felt just slightly off his whole life, not as tangible as languages and science, not like the wards that now protect his home from real magic – there are still many law books to get through, “it can be your bedtime story.”

Harry stands up with a grin and rushes out of the room, probably to immerse himself in the medieval fantasy until it’s time to sleep. Salazar chuckles at the quick exit, “Full of energy, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” he agrees with a fond smile at the door, walking over to push it closed the whole way before picking up the books off the floor and starting to place them on the table, “I don’t want you talking to him without me around,” he doesn’t look at the painting as he says it, “you may be some famous founder, but your written legacy paints a hard picture to ignore and I have no knowledge of who you were as a person, so unless you want to go back to staring at a read fabric for a few more hundred years, you’ll follow my rules,” Michael finally turns to look at the portrait, expression twisting in annoyance at the poorly hidden amusement in the man’s face, “It’s nothing personal,” he assures, because it isn’t , he hasn’t let his son be alone with the Malfoys either for much the same reason.

“Understood,” the Hogwarts founder assures him and, even though he doubts Salazar feels intimidated in any way by the threat, Michael believes him. “You know, there’s a way to remedy your lack of knowledge.”

“Hm?” He takes a seat on his chair once he’s finished picking up all the books.

“What better way to get to know a person than talking to them?” The teasing tone and raised brow do very little to endear the older man to him, but the wizard does have a point.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

When he finally goes to sleep, he figures he probably knows more about the Hogwarts founder than most historians combined. He wonders why the man’s painting isn’t displayed at the Hogwarts castle instead of left alone in a vault.

“What's wrong, lytling?”

“Are you leaving again?”

“You know I am, I’ve taken a contract-”

“Then take me with you!”

“Father would have both our heads, and you know how Mother worries.”

“Teach me to fight! Then they won’t worry and I can travel with you. I'm not useless just ‘cause I can’t do magic!”

“I never implied you were… Very well, if you prove not to be entirely hopeless with a sword, I will make the time to train with you before leaving.”

“Yes! Thank you!”

“You may not be ready by the time I depart.”

“Then I’ll train while you’re gone and go next time! You’re not getting rid of me, Sal.”

“That’s hardly a new development.”

Harry goes through the day’s classes and lunch in a rush, wanting to get back to his dad’s office and chat with Mr Slytherin. When he asks his dad if he can, he gets reminded of homework – there’s a list of words to find the meaning of, a line from their Latin book to translate and a couple math problems he already did half of in class – but Mr Wright says it’s fine to do it in the office while he reads through all the stuff the goblins sent him since he might need to talk to Harry about it.

“Hi Mr Slytherin,” Harry greets with a grin, walking into the office and dropping his notebooks and Latin book on the side of the table not full of Mr Wright’s papers.

“Good afternoon Mr Potter,” The founder replies with a smile, “Please call me Salazar, there’s no need for formalities between family.”

“Family?” Harry frowns, wiggling on the chair to get comfortable.

“Well, you are the Slytherin House Heir,” Mr Salazar points out. Harry blinks and turns his head to look at Mr Wright, but his dad just shrugs.

“Uh- call me Harry then,” he offers with a little smile. A few months ago, his only family were three people who hated him, now he has his dad, Mr Chris, Ms Lei, Cho, Hermione… and apparently a very old portrait of a Hogwarts founder too.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The silence when he starts to do his homework doesn’t last long, Mr Salazar asks him about it so he explains it, and when his dad doesn’t complain he continues to do his homework while explaining it, looking through the dictionary and writing what words mean what and how to use them, with Mr Salazar helping some of the time. They help with the Latin too, since both know it even if only Mr Salazar speaks it and sounds like he knows more than his dad.

“Huh,” Mr Wright mutters and Harry looks up from his book, curious. “You own part of a broom company, from the Ollerton inheritance. Cleansweep?” he looks up from the files.

“That’s the one Cho has,” Harry realises with a smile, “does that mean I can have one?”

His dad chuckles, “Maybe, we need to figure out a safe space for you to fly, maybe something like an enlarged trunk? Healer Dahlia mentioned having a mobile potions lab.”

“Why not simply choose another property?” Mr Salazar asks, looking interested in the talk too.

“Well, I don’t want my son flooing somewhere on his own to fly without supervision,” Mr Wright informs, making Harry feel warm at being cared about even if it makes it harder to go flying. “But speaking of properties… Nadre Frit? Is that right? It’s unplottable, the goblins are only aware that it comes with the inheritance, along with… Wyrm Wick?”

“Nædre Friþ and Wyrm Wíc,” Mr Salazar corrects, it sounds almost the same to Harry but he guesses that’s the point, “Stands for Snake Refuge and Snake Village respectively, and they are indeed unplottable and not goblin-warded, so that makes sense. Nædre Friþ is a hidden location in Hogwarts, built as a last resort for the protection of its residents, and Wyrm Wíc is an entirely magical settlement composed of residences and commerces rented out by- the last Slytherin Lord.

Harry watches as his dad frowns before his eyes widen, “Voldemort?” he asks, and Harry gets why he seems upset. The man who killed his parents – and a whole lot more people – was a monster, not some businessman.

“No, of course not,” Mr Salazar assures with a scoff, “That vain little upstart with delusions of grandeur was never the official Heir of House Slytherin, nevermind its Lord!” Harry holds back a chuckle at how offended the man looks since it’s a serious talk, “No, the Slytherin lord is- was Ash Slytherin, though I suppose it’s now clear why he hadn’t been to the vault in a long time.”

Oh , “sorry,” Harry mumbles and his dad repeats it a little louder.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Mr Wright tells the portrait, who doesn’t look all that sad really. Maybe it’s been a really long time.

“Thank you,” Mr Salazar nods his head, “But enough of that, are there instructions on how to access the properties?”

Mr Wright frowns again, “Not really. I’ve hired the goblins to renew the wards on Harry’s unoccupied properties and activate their floo access while they’re there if they have one, but if these aren’t goblin-warded… well, there’s no floo address, even if they happened to be open.”

“Hm… I can’t think of a way to access them besides visiting their location, which is unknown by the goblins,” The portrait informs. “Better leave it for now,” Mr Salazar suggests, and Harry sighs as he goes back to his homework.

He kind of wants to see what a magic-only village looks like.

Chapter Text

November 24th, 1988

“Is there something the matter? You seem… distracted,” Salazar’s voice makes him look up from where his face had been buried in his palms for the past five minutes or so.

“It’s nothing,” Michael assures, rubbing his temples and returning to the letter-writing necessary to organise the reading of the Potter wills. He could have delegated it all to the bank but decided that, other than doing the reading on one of their rented rooms and making use of their standard contracts – where one acknowledges the will and is bound by it or entirely forfeits their right to any possible bequests –, he should be the one to explain in detail why this had yet to happen until now and what his role is in all of this. “Just another headache, it’ll pass eventually.”

“Is it a recurring issue?” He would appreciate the concern if the tone was less curious and more worried. As it is, the questions are simply distracting, mildly annoying and entirely unhelpful.

“In the past few months at least,” he absently informs, blinking down at the next name on the list. Hadn’t Remus Lupin been one of the suggested tutors? Huh. ”Haven’t been sleeping too well either, so that’s probably why.”

Salazar hums in understanding and he gets a few more minutes of blissful silence before it’s once again interrupted, “Where’s little Harry?”

“At school,” he tries not to sound too annoyed, the man had spent a long time with no one to talk to after all. “As he will be every morning of the week,” he adds to prevent a repeat of the question the following day.

“Shouldn’t you take the time to rest then?” the founder suggests and Michael doesn’t hold back a loud sigh at it.

“I don’t have time to rest, there’s work to be done.” He impatiently informs, “I need to send out a bunch of letters for the Potter’s Will reading, finish scheduling with a tutor for however many times a week both Harry and I can be home, figure out a way to get Harry a training wand with no more incidents, send the latest version of my freelance contract to my boss for approval, read through the rest of Harry’s finances since they’ve been stagnant for eight years, figure out when we can visit his properties, finish a draft for a proposal I’ve been delaying for a week but need to get done before I can leave the firm, send an apology gift basket to my secretary for leaving so suddenly and buy some sleeping medicine so I’m not plagued by fantastical dreams every night that I only half-remember in the morning!” if not for his practice in delivering long speeches to a jury, he may have been out of breath at the end of the tirade.

“... have you ever heard of delegating?” Is the portrait’s entirely unapologetic reply.

“Which part of that could I possibly delegate?” Michael asks in a disbelieving tone.

“The gift basket for one,” Salazar tells him in an amused tone, “can’t some servant get that done instead? And as for the wand… I have a suggestion, and you could send a trusted friend to the bank with the lytling to fetch it.”

“..servants aren’t a thing,” he informs the founder, though he figures house-elves may count, not that he has any. “But I guess there are delivery services,” he reluctantly agrees, because as much as he likes giving personalized gifts Sarah will probably understand how swamped he is with responsibilities at the moment. “And what suggestion would that be?”

“There’s a wand in the Slytherin vault, stored in the back right corner inside a trunk with a dragon clasp on it,” the older man tells him, “it’s in a white wooden box, he can’t miss it. I have a feeling it just might work for him.”

He wants to argue that he should be the one to take Harry and that means taking time off his day to visit the alley which might end up turning into a shopping trip, but- he trusts Chang to get it done, at least. And Harry wouldn’t touch anything else in the vault if he was told not to – hell, Michael had been the one to reveal a painting even after telling the kid they shouldn’t mess with anything.

“Right,” he mutters to himself before offering the portrait a small smile, “Thank you, I’ll get someone to take him today or tomorrow.”

The constantly smug look the founder seems to sport softens slightly, “You’re welcome. Now, about the tutoring, can’t it be done late in the afternoon?”

“Well, it could, but that’s hardly an acceptable working hour for a tutor,” Michael frowns, “And it might end up getting too late for Harry to sleep and still go to school in the morning.”

“Have you asked ?” Salazar inquires with a raised brow, “And from my experience as a professor, you may want to break it up into many short sessions instead of one or two longer ones, the lytling may be well-behaved but children hardly appreciate continuous hours of lectures, especially ones already studying elsewhere.”

He opens his mouth to say that he had asked, actually, but closes it at the second suggestion. While Michael is entirely used to long lectures and hours spent studying, he does need to take into consideration the needs of an eight-year-old, even an extremely well-behaved one such as Harry. “That’s… fair, I suppose.”

In fact, he can probably schedule something like an hour-long – at most – tutoring session for Harry two times a week in the late afternoon and ask Prewett for a flexible meeting time to ask questions for himself regarding Harry’s lessons where they can discuss details an eight-year-old doesn’t need to know yet.

Salazar only hums in response, “And those letters, what exactly stops you from writing a single draft of the body and having someone duplicate it so you can add the recipients later? Do any of them need to be specially personalized?”

“I- don’t think so?” He reads through the list of names, not recognizing any other than his son’s name, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and the reason for a third of his headaches called Albus too-many-names Dumbledore. Severus Snape also sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. “That’s- huh. Okay, I need to get used to thinking of magic when coming up with solutions.”

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” Salazar assures him, thankfully not rubbing it in his face that he’s just cut Michael’s work in half. “And I’m glad to be of help.” There it is.

It’s humble enough not to grate and he’s hardly about to turn away freely offered advice, even when coming from a talking painting older than his house. “Thanks,” he repeats, and proceeds to grab a blank parchment – he’d rather use paper and a ballpoint pen but Chang had advised him to follow wixen customs whenever possible if he wants to ease his way into wixen society – and start on transcribing the body of the Will reading invite. He’ll send it for Lei to duplicate along with the request to take Harry to his vault whenever she’s available.

Once he's done with that, he reads over the draft one last time.

Dear [blank]

On behalf of the Potter Heir, I would like to invite you to the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Lily Jocelyn Potter and James Charlus Potter, in which you have been listed as a beneficiary.

Due to Mr Potter's lack of a suitable guardian, this invitation has been long delayed, as said guardian would have been the one in charge of organizing the reading. It regretfully never came to pass but, having recently acquired guardianship of Mr Potter, I have taken it upon myself to make sure the last wishes of the Potters are seen to as they should have been at the time of their passing.

The reading will be held at Gringotts Bank, on the 10th of December at 3 pm, and we ask you to provide us with the signed contract no later than the 8th to confirm your presence at the venue. Ask for Relret at the counter and, if your signature has been accepted, you will be led to the reading room.

In the case of unavailability, a proxy can be assigned provided both signatures are present on the contract. In case there’s a need for further arrangements or clarifications, please direct any letters to the Owl Post Office box under the name signed below.

Sincerely,

Michael Morgan-Wright.

He figures it's probably good enough, and he doesn't owe anyone more of an explanation than what he's made available either way.

With the time that gains him, he manages to get most things done. The gift basket is ordered, the contract sent, the proposal drafted and the letters sent – both to Chang for duplication and the one to Prewett for scheduling –, leaving him free to look through Harry’s finances for the rest of the morning – the kid owns part of a lot of businesses and just the payments from some of the potions patented under the Potter name could have set him up for life – and discuss with Salazar about his experience with wixen society so far, what is different from what the founder remembers, and how Michael came to know about it.

Somehow, that turned into complaining about how Harry’s case had been handled and badmouthing the wixen government.

“They left him on the doorstep, like a bloody bottle of milk,” He clarifies, finding it preposterous that such a thing had even been approved.

“You’re hardly one to talk,” Salazar points out, which gives him pause.

“What?” Michael stares for a moment, trying to remember if he’s ever mentioned this to the portrait before.

“It was the same with you, wasn’t it?” The founder elaborates, “I thought you’d said so the other day.”

“...right, I must have,” he shakes his head slightly with a frown, not used to being forgetful. The past few months have changed a lot of things, it seems. The unintentional throwback to how he came to be in the Morgan-Wright household in the first place does bring a slight smile to his face, “Well, it wasn’t on a cold November night, I’ll tell you that much.”

Salazar lets out an amused huff, “Did your mother ever mention how she reacted?”

“Ha, she did,” Michael chuckles at the thought, “Gave her quite the fright at first, but she was ecstatic. They’d been trying for a baby for a while and then one gets delivered right to her doorstep? Good thing they had the contacts to keep me.”

“Sounds like a good woman,” Salazar offers, smiling at his reminiscent tone.

“The best,” He agrees with a small nod, “I’m pretty sure she kept the blanket I arrived in, told me I wouldn’t let go of it for anything but she was afraid I’d cut myself on the brooch… I wonder if I still have it.”

“Did Harry have something like that?” The harmless question turns his smile into a scowl.

“If he did, it’s long gone,” Michael admits, “his relatives were awful people.”

He wonders if Harry might like to know how similar their stories are – at least the part about being front porch babies – or if it would make him sad that his own family didn’t react like Michael’s mum. Maybe he could give him the blanket, if it’s in any state to be used as a gift… where did he put that, anyway?

With a quick muttered excuse to the portrait, he makes his way out of the office, too curious not to act on it before he forgets about it. There’s nothing in the bedroom – his own which used to be his mother’s – or the closet, so the attic is his next guess. The whole room is littered with boxes, wooden chests, old rugs and some clothes and shoes he never got around to throwing away, but once the light turns on it’s easy to spot the one chest with a carved letter ‘M’ on the top.

He doesn’t mean to tear up at the sight of the baby-sized clothes that greets him as he opens it, but his eyes stubbornly sting anyway, entirely against his will. Past the little onesies and tiny shoes, he finds a couple of toys he remembers having played with, and one of the smaller boxes inside the chest contains his old school reports. He finally finds what he’s looking for at the bottom, a tightly folded crochet blanket in gradient shades of blue. It looks no worse for wear than he remembers, though it does fittingly smell like it’s been stuffed in a box for two decades and could use a good wash.

With that in mind, he tidies up the items he’d moved and makes his way down to the laundry room, hands absently brushing over the blanket. He unfolds it carefully, checking for any damage and thankfully finding none, though the timely clink of metal hitting the floor makes him look down to find the brooch he had been thinking about in the office.

He crouches to pick it up, turning it over in his hand as he stands. It’s not one of those delicate brooches he’s seen women wearing before, but a flat silver circle slightly smaller than his palm with a frill-like pattern over the border of an inner circle, which is filled with a cross and overlaid by a bird – maybe a dove? –, and the only discrepancy in colour is the gold detail at the inner part of the four ends on the inner cross. He turns it around to check if the hinge and catch are still in good condition and winces when the pin ends up pricking his finger.

The sight of a drop of blood welling up on his index finger is the last thing he sees before the floor looks like it’s rushing up to meet him and everything turns black.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“If you feel like something might happen, close your eyes, okay?”

“I didn’t mean to do that!”

“That’s why your dad didn’t want you!”

“Never talk to the knights, just hide.”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone, they’re all stupid anyway.”

“You do know they kill people like me there, right?”

“Do I know you?”

“A half cannot truly hate what makes it whole.”

“If this were a time of war, I’d have you flogged.”

“I just didn’t fit in anymore.”

“It’s been an honour.”

“What kind of meat is this?”

“I think there’s someone watching over me, keeping me from harm.”

“You’re a prat… and a royal one.”

“He does not deserve your loyalty. He treats you like a slave!”

“Where do you get the idea you can sit around all day and do nothing?”

" I'm scared, Merlin."

"Everything that's good and right about magic I've learnt from you."

“Hello, Emrys.”

“You really are a complete idiot, aren’t you Merlin?”

“I want you to know that, I never doubted you.”

“I don’t understand. Do you want to die?”

“What if my father’s attitude to magic is wrong?”

“You’ve already saved me, you made me feel loved.”

“What now Merlin?”

“But what I saw... it was so real.”

“You must eradicate the source of the disease.”

“A dragon's heart is on its right side, not its left.”

“Why does a lowly servant continue to risk everything for Arthur and for Camelot?”

“Doing this, using magic like this, will only harden his heart.”

“He has the ears of a donkey. And the voice. H-he's braying.”

“You two have got yourselves in a bit of a pickle, haven't you?”

“You look like a startled stoat.”

“Destinies are troublesome things.”

“You'd do well, Merlin, to stay out of things that do not concern you.”

“You followed me. How dare you!”

“You know, Merlin, you couldn't keep a secret if your life depended on it!”

“It's lonely... to be more powerful than any man you know and have to live like a shadow.”

“What part of the word "secret" did you not understand?”

“We cannot defeat an immortal army.”

“Sometimes you puzzle me.”

“I have no choice. I must take his place.”

“You're a loyal friend, Merlin.”

“A white dragon is, indeed, a rare thing...and fitting.”

“You have no idea what it is to make these decisions.”

“To kill Arthur.”

"He's like a father to you, isn't he?"

“So why haven't you fallen under her spell?”

“This man is a shadow of his former self. A shadow with ill intent.”

“I'm done trying to be nice to Arthur.”

“One thing I've learned since being here is that Arthur values your opinion above almost all others.”

“Are you saying I'm fat.”

“I've never heard so much rubbish in my life”

“You know, if Morgana doesn't kill you, I will.”

“Merlin, I've always known you were stupid, but not that stupid.”

“Did you just give me an order?”

“The future is never clear, Merlin.”

“I am who I am. and I am who I was, and I am who I will always be!”

“You just have this way of seeing things.”

“Merlin! What are you doing?”

“It is the cycle of life. No more, no less.”

“Me? I was born to serve you, Arthur. And I’m proud of that.”

“I know you’re hurting Merlin, but I lost him too.”

“He forgave you, didn’t he? Maybe try to forgive yourself.”

“Help me make it better for your people too.”

“Stop this! Just stay out of my head!”

“Where are you going? I still need you.”

“We all know he didn’t stay for Arthur, he would have wanted me to keep an eye on you.”

“So this is where it happened?”

“You know, when he told me not to change, I didn’t think my magic would take it literally”

“Don’t waste your life by the lakeside, alright?”

“Avalon is closed to you, Merlin. I’m sorry.”

“Might want to slow down on those drinks, buddy.”

“He has to come back, right? There’s a prophecy.”

“So you’re the supposed kingmaker?”

“He won’t let you go, the only way out is six feet under.”

“What a waste.”

“I guess that answers the question.”

“You were supposed to free us!”

“Don’t condemn them for their lack of faith.”

"What were they talking about?"

“I never asked for this! I wanted a purpose, not… not this.”

“I can’t always keep you company, and I hate to think of you alone out here.”

“Long time no see, old friend.”

“I don’t think they would want you to spend your life waiting.”

“I suppose eternity is better with company.”

“I wonder… could you teach me?”

“They don’t sound very pleased, do they?”

"I think we should avoid the druids for a while."

“That doesn’t look like any magic I’m familiar with.”

“Are you Emrys? Mother told me about you.”

“You’re free to go… but you’re welcome to stay.”

“You don’t need their blessing to be happy, but I’m sure you’d have it.”

“Which god is that one?”

“Stay?”

“Do you think you could love me?”

“Not even a goodbye? Harsh.”

“The rest of my life is way too long to spend being afraid to live.”

“Which of their gods gives marriage blessings?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’d think two would have been enough.”

“You’re not allowed to be taller than me.”

“...He didn’t come back.”

“We don’t have to talk about it. Come here, let’s not talk.”

“I thought I’d come by to check on you from time to time.”

“There’s nothing for me here anymore.”

“Aithusa! I’m… I’ll fix this, somehow.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a cave, and you shouldn’t either.”

“What? You’ve seen a dragon before!”

“I’m never doing that again.”

“This type of magic comes with a price.”

“I think you’re a fool, but when has that ever stopped you?”

“I- I don’t remember.”

“Well, that didn’t take too long.”

“Might want to make sure you live long enough first.”

“...This is ridiculous. You’re unbelievable.”

“Ma?”

“I’m no one, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s intrinsic to you, I can’t just remove it.”

“I don’t think you should… but if Morgana did it, you can surely find a way.”

“We’re going on a little trip to a cave.”

“Are you sure that this is what you want?”

“Just so you know, I’m doing this to show you it’s a bad idea.”

“You’re much cuter like this, causing less trouble.”

“Oh, what in the world?”

“Dad?”

“Dad!”

“Dad! Wake up!” Something’s shaking his shoulder and he groggily opens his eyes, squinting against the light which is promptly covered by a face closer than he’d expected, bright green eyes looking down at him with visible worry. “What happened? Dad?”

Merlin frowns slightly, trying to remember what he’d been doing before- oh. Oh no. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

It takes Harry nearly an hour to realize his dad isn’t coming to pick him up at school, and it’s only because he knows he’s wanted – Mr Wright adopted him! He wouldn’t just forget about him! – that he doesn’t panic about it, figuring he’s pretty lucky this time around. The last time he got left behind at school he had to walk himself all the way back to the Dursleys since none of his teachers would listen to him, but now he can just go back to the library and ask Miss Tracy to phone Hermione’s parents. He would ask for Ms Lei, but he doesn’t know her number and neither does the school.

Mrs Granger insists on walking him in but gets back to her car once he’s past the doorway, leaving Harry to find Mr Wright on his own. He checks the dining room, and the food is there for lunch but none of it has been eaten. Marie says hi when he finds her in the kitchen and asks what took him so long, so he tells her something made his dad busy at work and they’ll eat in a bit. The office is empty and Mr Wright’s bedroom door is open so he peeks inside but there’s no one there either. The guest rooms are empty, and so is the library, but when he walks into the laundry room his eyes widen in surprise.

“Dad?” He calls, kneeling by Mr Wright’s body where it’s sprawled on the floor, “Dad! Dad!” he shakes his shoulder, feeling like he’s breathing a little too fast but not getting enough air, “Wake up!” he feels his panic calm a little when his dad’s eyes open and he leans over him to make sure he’s awake, “What happened? Dad?”

Mr Wright frowns, looking a little confused, before muttering, “ Fuck. ”

Harry doesn’t even chuckle at the bad word, “Are you okay?”

There’s a short silence and he almost asks again, but his dad answers a moment later, “Fine, I’m just fine, perfect even, everything’s great!” it sounds forced, the way his dad’s smile looks, but he starts sitting up and Harry steps back so their heads won’t hit each other. “Just slipped, there was uh- water. Slippery. Might have a concussion.”

“What’s a concussion?” He asks, though by the way Mr Wright is rubbing the back of his head he probably hit it when he fell.

His dad finally looks at him properly and his frown softens into a slight smile, “a strong hit in the head,” he groans under his breath as he stands up, picking up a blue blanket off the floor and a round metal thing that was next to it, “no need to worry, it’ll go away on its own. Did you need something?”

I needed you to pick me up at school, he thinks, but it doesn’t leave his mouth. He just shakes his head instead.

“Alright, how bout you go- go have lunch, okay?” Mr Wright ruffles his hair as he walks past him, “I need to do something in my office for a bit, I’ll eat later.”

“‘Kay,” he mumbles, frowning in confusion as he watches his dad go up the stairs to his office.

Harry shrugs and makes his way back to the food, his tummy already complaining from the extra hour of wait.

He’ll ask his dad what’s wrong later.

Merlin manages to hold himself together until the door of his office closes behind him, which is when the weight of the swirling memories still slotting into place in his mind drives him to the floor once again, back sliding against the thankfully warded door and head falling back to hit it with little care for the bump caused by the previous fall.

“Fuck you, Sal,” he declares emphatically with his eyes closed. It’s the easier emotion to deal with at the moment, and it earns him a startled laugh from the enchanted portrait.

It’s not truly his brother’s fault, he knows that. He was the one to set every single trigger, always improving each time he received his memories and magic back. It had started as something rudimentary, a de-ageing spell that would let him escape his curse for a while. It had backfired, as spells done without complete knowledge are wont to do, and left him with many years of memories and a five-year-old’s body. Explaining that to Leon had been a pain.

He’d mastered it eventually, finding a way to remove his memories, but had died shortly after due to being a child with magic in a world that feared the unknown. His death, as expected, had returned his memories, which left him free to find a way to remove his magic. Aithusa couldn’t do it, she said it was too intrinsic to him to be separated but Leon reminded him that if Morgana managed to take his magic, he could find a way to get rid of it temporarily, and a memory of the crystal cave had risen unbidden in his mind at the time.

With the help of the cave, it had been much easier to seal away his magic with the same ritual that sealed away his memories, leaving Leon to do the lighter work of the de-ageing spell and drop him off somewhere to be found. The eternal knight didn’t approve and told him that running from his past wouldn’t work forever as it would eventually catch up to him, but he wasn’t the one straining under the weight of a failed prophecy, with entire druid camps clamouring his name in either hatred or adoration, believing him to have failed his duty or still capable of helping to bring about Albion.

Shifting through his memories, his mind the disorganized mess it always became whenever his memories returned, he tries to recall the latest triggers. His death will still return both memory and magic, but he had given up on tying his memories to a certain age or the mere presence of magic around him. If he remembers correctly, only being in constant contact with magic for upwards of three months would allow him to remember the existence of Ygraine’s sigil-turned-brooch and compel him to prick his finger on the pin once he found it, which checks out with the math of when Harry came into his life.

Oh goddess, Harry.

He has a son again. A son! A blood-adopted eight-year-old who clearly looks at him with stars in his eyes and didn’t sign up for the mess that his mind has become. He hasn’t had a son in centuries, having long instilled the repulsion for it into his regression spell, not willing to recuperate his memories only to watch the blood of his blood inevitably wither away and leave him behind, forever unable to cross the gates of Avalon as he’d been told by Freya. He’s not sure if he can do it again.

“Might want to take a breath there Merlin ,” Sal’s voice easily cuts through his spiral of doubt, as it had many times before, prompting him to hold it in instead and let it out slowly, repetitively, something controllable amidst the sudden chaos.

“It’s not like it matters,” he grumbles, slowly rising back to his feet. It isn’t as if he’ll die of lack of oxygen- or of anything else for that matter.

“Well, seeing you die once was one too many times, so pull yourself together,” the words are callous but the tone is warm and worried. “Say, I had never seen this part of the whole ordeal, is it always as overwhelming as it looks?”

“Regaining fifteen hundred years of memories is hardly a tame endeavour,” Merlin replies with a roll of his eyes, walking to his desk only to carefully collapse onto the chair. “Ugh- why couldn’t this have happened months ago?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. He set the time to three months after all, late enough that his memories wouldn’t return on a whim simply due to passing through some warded region but soon enough that he wouldn’t find himself unknowingly interacting with magical society without a clue. Unfortunately, not quite soon enough, as he reminds himself that he’s already established his status as a squib to a variety of wixes.

That thought makes him chuckle, imagining their reactions if he were to tell them who he really is. He won’t, of course, but the thought is still an amusing one. That is until he remembers the fact that wixes have become used to swearing by his name and drops his head into the arms he’s crossed over the desk with a groan.

Is it too late to just leave and do the ritual again?

“Is the lytling home yet?” Salazar asks absently, though it’s anything but.

“Yeah, he-” Merlin frowns, how was he home yet? What time- a glance at the clock above the door tells him it’s more than an hour past the time to pick him up, “Shit, I passed out, how did he even get here?” Does he think I forgot about him?

“He’s a smart one,” Sal assures, “but you can ask him during lunch, I’m sure.”

Merlin narrows his eyes at the painting, “Will you ever stop that?”

“Caring for you?” His brother smirks, “Not really. Off you go.”

With a sigh, he stands from the chair and heads to the office door, “We’ll be having words later, Sal.”

“I can’t wait!” the portrait calls as the door closes behind him, tone filled with amusement.

Bloody prat.  

Something’s going on with his dad.

It’s not about forgetting to pick him up, which didn’t actually happen since Mr Wright explained that he slipped in the laundry room and passed out and that’s why he didn’t show up, but something else is bothering him.

He doesn’t ask, even though his dad has said lots of times that he doesn’t mind questions. It’s not one big thing he can point at, it’s more a lot of little things. Dad eats very little, doesn’t smile much and keeps looking like he’s lost inside his head all through lunch. When Harry asks about the potion for his eyes, it takes some time for him to remember where it is and apply it, even though it’s always in the same place.

Harry asks if he can do his homework in the office again but Dad says he needs to take some important phone calls and maybe he should do it in the library instead. Harry doesn’t have Mr Wright’s truth-telling superpowers but he still has a feeling that’s not all true, though he’s not going to ask either way.

Once the afternoon is gone and he gets into bed, Harry waits for his dad to come read him a bedtime story and only realizes he didn’t show after waking up in the middle of the night from a loud noise, his book about Camelot – his new favourite story – on the floor. The noise comes again, and it’s a loud scream that makes him jump off the bed and rush out the door only to follow it to his dad’s door.

“Dad?” Harry calls through the closed door, knocking on the wood.

There’s a rustle and a thump before the door opens to show his bleary-eyed dad, “Harry?”

“Um- You were screaming,” He tells him, not so sure if he should even be there saying it.

“Sorry,” his dad mumbles, sleepily running a hand through Harry’s hair, “it’s fine, just bad dreams, go back to bed.”

He nods but doesn’t obey at first, instead stepping forward to give his dad a quick hug and only then rushing back to his room. He doesn’t go back to sleep right away, not when he hears footsteps outside, and when they stop he swears he can hear the door to the office close right before it’s all completely silent again.

When he wakes up the next day, he has breakfast with Marie and she drives him to school, telling him that Hermione’s parents will drop him off again since Mr Wright isn’t feeling good. He smiles at Mrs and Mr Granger and tells them his dad will be fine and thanks for the ride, though he has no idea if it’s true.

He used to like eating lunch on his own – the less Dursleys the better – but now it’s just too quiet, even with Marie scolding him for playing with his food around the plate instead of eating it. He does his homework in the library, plays with a magic train set that lets him build impossible tracks for it to drive through, eats the snacks Marie saved for him in the fridge, reads some more, heats up his dinner in the microwave and goes to bed without a story for the second day in a row, all the while waiting for his dad to come out of his office.

November 26th, 1988

“Mr Wright?” Harry’s voice rings through the door alongside his knocking. He sounds unsure and isn’t taking the opportunity to call him dad. Merlin hates himself a little more for it.

He knows he’s in the wrong – hadn’t stopped hearing it from Salazar until he shoved the painting back into his enchanted messenger bag –  but having lunch with the kid that day had been the last stretch of his mental and emotional capacity, and he’d promptly locked himself back into the office for another untimely breakdown as his memories continued to settle.

The mind isn’t a straightforward thing, it’s not like a book or even a neatly labelled filing cabinet, especially not his mind. Occlumency helps – he’s forever grateful for Salazar’s teachings of that particular art – but what happens every time – what he keeps doing to himself – is thousands of years of memories being made available to his brain in no particular order, close to the surface and prone to being brought to his attention at the most inopportune moments as if they’d just happened the other day. He’s lucky that the most recent memories usually remain at the forefront of his mind or else he may not even have recognized where he is or who Harry was, but once fifteen centuries of experience – over five hundred thousand hours of memories – become available for his brain to shuffle through at its leisure, it’s a little hard to focus on the child he’s supposed to be responsible for, or anything else really.

The nightmares are expected, and he’s only thankful for the lack of magic or his room may have ended up akin to a hurricane site. Harry’s knocking is less expected – he’d forgotten the kid for a moment there – and he makes a point of spending the rest of the night in the room warded not to let any sound out.

The following day was spent in the home office as well, though all he had accomplished was rescheduling the meeting with Tonks since he clearly wasn’t in the right mind for it. He’d debated getting Salazar out of the bag – his brother won’t be pleased at all when he does – but left him in there for another day, not at all ready for the confrontation. For all that he loved his brother, Sal had never seen him on the first few days after regaining his memories, only heard about the process in a highly edited fashion. He hadn’t had to go through it as much recently, usually managing to die before anything triggered his memories, and waking up after his death – always at the crystal cave where he’d anchored his body to return – was less overwhelming than having entire lifetimes crammed into his mind while he was still supposed to be living through one.

It’s the third day of avoidance – he can at least admit it to himself if not to anyone else – and apparently, Harry’s had enough of it.

When he thinks he hears a sigh and retreating footsteps, he rushes to open the door, “Sorry, I was- doing a thing,” bravo, Merlin. Thank the goddess this is a child who won’t question poor excuses. “Is everything alright?”

“Is it?” Harry quips back with an upset tone, immediately wincing and looking apologetic for it, “Marie says you’re sick.”

It doesn’t sound like a question, “I’m just not feeling well,” it’s not exactly a lie.

“But you haven’t gone to the hospital,” Harry points out, “Or called Ms Dahlia.”

For a moment, a different set of stubborn green eyes overlap with Harry’s and he has to take a deep breath, blinking for a moment longer than necessary before managing to reply, “I don’t have to, it’s nothing serious.”

How am I supposed to do this? He mentally asks himself while Harry frowns, wishing he could shove his newly regained memories into a box at the back of his mind and go back to being Michael Wright.

Michael Wright can handle an eight-year-old magical child, a solicitor’s workload, and figuring out the magical world in his free time.

Merlin is just a patchwork of memories that won’t stay dead.

“Okay,” Harry mumbles, looking down. “I hope you feel better soon,” he says to the floor before turning around and heading towards his room.

Fucking hell.

He sight and moves back into the office, sinking into his chair and burying his face in his hands. He should have handled that better and reassured the kid in some way, but just looking at him makes his heart ache something fierce for another child he’d lost to time.

The ringing of his phone snaps him out of those memories and he absently picks up. It takes a moment to place the voice on the other side as Jean Granger, a friend of Michael’s – of his, he reminds himself – asking about the time of their outing.

What- oh. Right.

He’s supposed to be introducing the Grangers to Diagon Alley that afternoon, along with Harry. Something about the thought of being around as much magic as the alley exudes, even though he still lacks his own, appeals to him despite the fresh – or should that be old? – memories just waiting to come forth at any time.

“How about meeting at Charing Cross Road in an hour?” He suggests, accounting for the time to shower, get ready and drive over.

If it also happens to make up to Harry for his recent avoidance, it’ll be a nice bonus.

Chapter Text

Harry’s surprised when Mr Wright tells him they’re meeting the Grangers, not because he didn’t know but because he thought it had been cancelled or something after the last few days. He still gets ready and sits quietly in the car while they drive to the right street, and when Dad reminds him to get in disguise, he changes his hair and eyes to something he’s been practising for a while. Hermione’s high-pitched squeal when she sees his hair – longer, slightly lighter brown, and as curly as hers – hurts his ears but he’s grinning too hard to mind it when she says he looks like he could be her brother, especially since his eyes are also dark brown.

She asks how he does it and sighs when he tells her it’s a bloodline thing and not every wix can do it, but Mr Wright distracts her by saying that if she gets good at transfiguration when they go to magic school, she can do the same too. They don’t ask why he’s in disguise since Harry explained to Hermione that he’s sort of famous because of how his parents died and he didn’t, and she probably told her parents too.

Showing Diagon Alley to Hermione almost makes Harry forget how Mr Wright had vanished into his office for almost three days. His best friend squeezes his hand so tight it kind of hurts and she’s got the biggest grin on her face, her head swinging from one side to the other like she’s trying not to miss anything while they walk to the bank. Mr Granger almost picks her up to keep her from dragging them to Flourish and Blotts, and she asks so many questions that he’s not even sure how his dad is managing to answer them all.

Harry pokes her side so she bows back to the goblins at the door – she does it but immediately asks why they do that and Harry struggles through explaining that it’s just a thing they do because it’s polite, like their version of shaking hands – and Mr Wright leaves them with a teller to exchange non-magical money for the magic kind while he goes somewhere – he doesn’t tell and Harry doesn’t ask, figuring he’s got a vault by now and maybe went to get some money to spend – before coming back a few minutes later.

Hermione wants to rush to the books, Mrs Granger wants to stop at a little jewellery stall and Mr Granger is curious about the potions shop, but they compromise on going from the closest to the bank to the furthest. That leaves the bookshop for last, which makes Hermione pout, but she gets distracted by the potions a few minutes later, asking questions faster than Harry can even think about the answers.

Mr Wright keeps answering them, and it makes sense with all the books he’s been reading since finding out about magic, though Harry didn’t know he’d read about potions too besides all the law books Ms Lei gave him. He pays attention to all of it, though he knows he’ll forget some by the time he actually needs to know this stuff in school, and tries not to laugh when his dad gets into an argument – a polite one, not anything like Uncle Vernon might have done – with one of the other people buying from the store. The man’s got a crooked-looking face and hair tied in a low ponytail like some girls do – or like Mr Malfoy if he tied his hair, though not nearly as long – and looks like he’s even enjoying the argument, though Hermione interrupts it with a question that makes the man give her an annoyed look and they end up leaving not long after.

Harry points out Pilliwinkle’s Playthings to Hermione, telling her it’s where he got the toy dragon and the magic train set, so they stop by the store to take a look. He knows she likes books more than toys, so he’s a bit surprised when she buys a stuffed black cat, though it’s a moving one and when she holds it out telling him to feel the fur, he pets its head and the toy starts purring. Cool. Harry leaves the store with another stuffed dragon, one that spits fire except it’s just colourful smoke, a gift from Mr Wright who didn’t want Pearl – who got her name because she reminded him of one of Aunt Petunia’s necklaces – to be lonely. This dragon is bigger than Pearl though, and dark brown nearly black, so Harry calls him Brownie. It makes Mr Wright chuckle for some reason.

They stay so long in the bookstore with Hermione having him carry books for her that Harry thinks he might be turning into a bookshelf soon, though she rolls her eyes at him when he tells her that. He shows her all the books he has that help understand magical people, like the ones that teach how to be polite and the ones they sell to muggle-borns explaining stuff like owls and the Hogwarts Express, plus some story books he thinks she’ll like even though wizards don’t have a lot of those. Mr and Mrs Granger don’t look too worried about the growing pile, so Harry figures dentists must make a lot of money.

The trip to Pick-A-Book doesn’t take as long since most of their stock are books from Hogwarts that old students gave away, but it’s starting to get dark out when they leave the second-hand book shop. They stop at the tea shop near the exit of the alley when Mrs Granger sees something about telling the future and they end up having a snack there even though Mr Wright doesn’t look too happy about it. The lady serving them, Madam Clare, looks at their tea leaves and says they tell her things, which Harry thinks is a bit silly since tea doesn’t talk. She still says that Mr Granger should be careful next week, Mrs Granger will find something that’s gone missing, and Hermione has a disagreement in her future. When she looks at Harry’s tea, she frowns a bit, and he can’t help but be curious.

“What’s it say?” Harry asks, because silly or not he still wants to know.

“It’s not very clear,” She tells them, though it’s not like her other predictions were too clear either. “A big upheaval is coming,” Harry frowns and then nods when Hermione whispers in his ear that it means change, “Things might change, but they still stay the same, you’ll be just fine dear, remember that.”

Harry just hums in agreement and decides Divination sounds a lot like the daily horoscopes in the papers.

“I’d rather not,” Mr Wright tells her when she reaches for his cup, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“It’s not the future you’re afraid of, is it?” Her look softens while his dad frowns. “No, it’s the past repeating itself,” she blinks, eyes widening a bit as if she’s surprised, then shakes her head slightly and pats his hand, “It won’t, not if you learn from it.”

She’s gone just as suddenly as she appeared, “She sounds like a motivational book,” Mr Granger decides and they chuckle, not disagreeing.

By the time Harry makes it back home, he’s forgotten all about it.

November 27th, 1988

“I’m not apologizing,” It’s the first thing he says once the portrait is back in place.

Sal just looks at him, the same look from centuries ago when he’d closed himself up in his room with locking and silencing runes for five days until he managed to rune-bind a sword not to lose sharpness. If anything ever said ‘I’m disappointed but not surprised’, this look is it.

“I don’t expect you to,” his brother assures, a knowing look in his eyes, “but you may want to ward your bedroom similarly instead of moving into your office whenever you need constant privacy.”

… fair point, he admits to himself and makes a mental note to get it done soon.

“I went to the bank yesterday,” He says instead, not subtly but still changing the subject as he picks up the white wooden box – retrieved from the Slytherin vault the day before – from the desk. “You think it might work for him?”

“He’s blood of your blood,” Sal replies simply, “we both know that’s a lot more complicated when it comes to you .”

Merlin can only sigh, lacking any counterargument.

He opens the box, eyes flicking to the content within. The wand lying on a red fabric could be mistaken for a fallen tree branch from afar, with its slight curve and the small burr near the handle, but looking at it closely leaves no doubt that the thirteen-inch piece of wood is a carefully crafted wand with discretely carved runes scattered through the spiral-like slightly darker part of its length.

He remembers painstakingly drawing each one of them over and over, hidden within various failed designs, before selecting the correct wood to work with. He should have expected the wand with an Old Dragon’s scale for a core would accept no other wood than a fallen branch from the Rowan tree at the centre of the Isle of The Blessed, but his efforts were sufficiently repaid when the magical focus finally bonded with his magic and did not possess its predecessors’ propensity to explode at any minor spell channelled through it.

It had served him well while blending in with other magic users, and he hoped it would serve his son – and he’s still not over that particular realization, he has a son – just the same. He absently picks it up off the box, frowning at the lack of connection. The absence of his magic now that he has the memory of it feels as it always has, like a limb is missing or one of his senses has been dulled to nothingness, but he’s experienced it so often that it’s no longer as noticeable as the first few times. Still, he will need to retrieve it sometime soon, maybe if he can arrange for Harry to spend the weekend at a friend’s house. It’s dangerous to remain in the magical world without the proper means to defend himself, no matter what he knows squibs are capable of. He could risk his unending life by using runes and potions, but he’s not about to put Harry’s safety on the line for the sake of proving a point.

Placing the wand back in the box, he goes to call Harry into the office.

The kid seems surprised at the invitation, which has him hiding a grimace. Merlin had been too deep into his own head to notice it for the past few days but it’s now clear that his momentary isolation has affected Harry, even if it’s not too overtly noticeable. He regrets it some, but knows he needed the space to come to terms with the current situation, to let his memories as Michael settle as another fragmented part of himself as a whole and accept that these are the decisions he’d made with what he had been given at the time.

He doesn’t regret Harry, though. It had been easy, once he’d finished organising his mind, to go back to the moment he met those wide green eyes from across the room as the kid left the goddamn cupboard he’d been locked into. There was a noticeable pull there, which he figures Michael may have felt even while lacking any magic of his own. It’s not something he’s felt before, not entirely, but it’s slightly similar to what he felt when Kilgarrah called for him, at least if it could be done unintentionally. It speaks of some sort of kin, though obviously not the dragon kind, and he wonders if regaining his magic might change his perception of it. He doesn’t feel the same pull in any of the memories after the first, as if it had only meant to pique his interest that once, but he’s still glad for it.

Harry is a surprisingly bright kid, who was dealt a bad hand by fate, and the thought of the boy’s possible future without his interference is enough to make him want to pull the child into a tight hug for at least a whole day. While it’s true that Merlin had purposefully embedded into the ritual the lack of want for a child, too scared of the prospect of outliving any possible offspring, he’s no longer reeling from the revelation that his magic hadn’t quite accounted for the adopted kind and can’t find it in himself to regret it either way, not when he remembers the boy’s grateful eyes and tearful hugs and pleading requests for him not to leave. The thought of handing Harry’s care off to another guardian is painful and one he puts out of his mind after the first time it crosses it. For better or worse, this is his son now, and he’ll stay by his side for as long as the child will have him.

“Good morning, Harry,” Sal greets the child who offers the portrait a small smile, “I believe your father has something for you.”

The kid’s eyes fill with surprise and confusion as Harry looks back at him, “But I already got a gift?”

“Well,” he starts, picking up the once again closed white box, “this isn’t exactly a gift,” he can tell the exact moment it clicks in the boy’s mind, leaving his eyes wider, though they turn downcast at an alarming rate. “Hey, it’s okay if it doesn’t work, but Sal thought it was worth giving it a try.”

Harry looks back up with a slight frown, glancing between the portrait – who gives an encouraging nod – and Merlin, before shrugging. “Now?”

Merlin remembers Lei’s instructions to only attempt magic with someone who has it, but he knows for a fact that his wand’s rejection isn’t likely to hurt Harry if he doesn’t try to use it against its will. “If you want to,” he replies, leaving the choice open.

His son fidgets with his hands for a moment in thought before reaching for the box, which he promptly hands over. Harry opens it with the same care he afforded his heir ring, looking at it for a moment before reaching into it and pulling out the wand. The reaction is instantaneous, a few golden sparks leaving its tip, their reflection lighting up Harry’s eyes in a similar colour.

“ Oh ,” the kid breathes out with a slowly widening smile and Merlin can’t help but feel the absence of his magic much more keenly for a moment.

A glance toward his brother’s portrait makes him pause at the significant look aimed at him and pointed motion toward the child. What? He mouths back and raises his brows slightly in question, unsure of what Sal is trying to communicate.

“Congratulations Harry,” Sal offers with a smile, making the kid direct his grin at the portrait instead. “How about trying a spell, then?”

“Can I?” Harry turns toward him with an expression that’s too excited to be pleading but seems to do its job all the same.

“A simple one,” he warns the portrait, who surely remembers he still doesn’t have any magic to fix any casting mishaps.

“Of course,” his brother’s tone somehow conveys an eye-roll without him having to do so, “there’s no wand movement needed for this one, just say the word and imagine a small sphere of light, like a lamp without the glass.”

That’s not- He frowns, narrowing his eyes at the portrait, quite aware of what spell his brother is describing. He also knows Harry won’t be able to do it… will he? No, that was just a reflection. He hadn’t-

“The word is leoht ,” Sal continues, and Harry nods before holding the wand in front of himself and repeating it perfectly.

Merlin barely pays the marble-sized orb of light glowing at the tip of the wand any mind, not when his eyes are pulled toward bright green ones which are now shining like molten gold.

Fucking hell.

So that’s why his brother was looking at him like that.

“I did it!” Harry’s excited tone is enough to bring him back to the moment and he returns the child’s smile with one of his own, hiding the inner turmoil plaguing him at the sight of his son’s obvious use of magic mirroring his own.

“Well done,” Merlin compliments, focusing on Harry and avoiding his brother’s continued pointed looks.

Unfortunately, this isn’t something he can ignore. If Harry can do his kind of magic, he’ll need all the training he can get, who knows if he inherited the lack of control that Merlin had as a child as well? It could be dangerous if left to develop on its own.

But how is he supposed to explain Old Magic and his knowledge of it without revealing himself? And does he even want to keep secrets from the kid? It will surely be easier to reveal his past now than once Harry becomes more immersed in the magical world, and… he’s had enough of lying to his loved ones to last several lifetimes, hasn’t he? It’s better to avoid repeating the past, if given the chance, so that only leaves him one choice.

“Harry…” He starts hesitantly, not wanting to curtail the excitement over magic but needing to do this now instead of during the week since it will give Harry the rest of the day and a night to process before going to school on Monday. “Something happened that I think you should know about. Can we sit down for a bit?”

Harry looks at him, thankfully just curious instead of looking nervous, and puts the wand away with a small hum of agreement, hugging the boxed wand close as he moves to sit on the chair facing the desk.

Merlin takes a seat on his own chair behind the desk, trying to figure out how to word what needs to be said. “I think a story about a time long ago would be the best way to start,” he admits, “It will make sense in the end, I promise, but it might take a while.”

His son nods with a cute attempt at a serious look, “Okay.”

“I suppose… it all started in a little village called Ealdor,” He begins because out of any other start, this is the one closest to his heart. He could explain from the beginning of the purge or his arrival on Camelot, but recounting how his mother turned away from her child’s golden eyes toward the window only to spot a merlin falcon landing by it and name the baby after it only felt right.

He doesn’t linger in Ealdor for long, of course. He explains only the necessary, how magic was forbidden and Merlin was sent away to learn control from Gaius in Camelot, how he met a prince and a dragon and a destiny written decades before his birth. Their adventures over many years are easily summed up by mentioning that the warlock usually saved the prince's life without his knowledge and they gathered some friends over the years to help with that. When his explanation reaches the final battle, he tries not to choke on his words as he recounts the prince’s final words to Merlin and how the warlock sent his other half into Avalon.

Harry doesn’t interrupt much other than to ask for small explanations – what was the name of the dragon? Why were people trying to kill the prince? – seeming immersed in the tale being weaved in front of him. Merlin recounts a little of the years after the prince’s death – Guinevere’s reign and the slow repeal of the magical ban – as well as the moment he realised the years were failing to change him. He explains that the warlock chose to go away, leaving out that it only happened after druids were starting to inhabit the citadel, only to be accompanied by one of the few round table knights left – Percival, he replies to his son’s question – in his trip to the Lake of Avalon.

His tone is forcefully kept even as he recounts Freya’s words to the warlock – Avalon is closed to you, Merlin. I’m sorry. – and doesn’t go into much detail when the story reaches his first real death at the hands of a wannabe conqueror hoping to make himself into the Once and Future King by kidnapping Emrys, only highlighting that the warlock was struck a deathly blow and somehow remained in the land of the living after the fact.

He doesn’t mention that he sometimes still hears the goading whispers calling him kingmaker in his sleep.

It’s as if he can’t stop now that he’s opened the dam, and the words just keep pouring out. He tries his best to make them concise and only barely brushes a couple of incidents such as a group of druids luring him into a sacrifice – to be fair, he doesn’t quite remember a great part of it, having died again and all that – in an attempt to take the reigns of their fate, as if he’d asked to be born with this power in the first place. He mentions that the warlock ran into a fellow immortal – His name is Leon, Merlin informs anticipating Harry’s question – and eventually taught him magic at his request; they found a tribe that practised some magic he’d never seen before – his first experience with runes – and stayed with them for a while; Merlin married and had children and lived well until they all started to die and leave him behind; the warlock left and found a dragon that had been missing for a while – Aithusa, it means light of the sun in the dragon language, he explains – and helped it reach its full potential after having grown up stunted, getting an idea of his own after having to de-age the dragon to undo the damage.

He slows down as he recounts in a few phrases how the first few lives of the de-aged warlock with no memories went, with more accidental deaths than he would have liked, and skips many of them that aren’t quite relevant to the story at hand, only mentioning that one time the warlock was found under an Ash tree by Salazar Slytherin’s mother and eventually blood-adopted as Ash Slytherin. Harry seems to remember that was the name of the old Slytherin Lord by the way his eyes widen, and Merlin goes on to mention how the kid was a squib – he tries not to wince when his son points out that Michael was like him – and learned rune magic to keep up with his travelling brother, but snuck out of the magically isolated village one time and was caught doing it – a healing ritual of all things – and then killed for it.

Merlin pointedly doesn’t look at the portrait as he mentions the warlock waking up at the Crystal Cave as he’d weaved into the ritual for his body to do so after a certain level of damage – Harry compares it to a videogame checkpoint and he chuckles because what else is there to do but laugh at his own misery, crying never solved anything – and spending a while reorganizing his memories before going to look for his brother because he had to see what happened, he had to know if Salazar came back from his latest travel safely. He doesn’t mention what actually happened once he came back, how he found out that Salazar was hunting down all that dared see a child burn for the sin of witchcraft, laying waste to the neighbouring village with sword and wand alike. He doesn’t say that the only thing that made him interfere was the sight of molten gold in his brother’s eyes as he raged against the loss of his little brother with wind and fire bending to his will against those who would see him burn as well. Instead, he explains that the warlock revealed the truth to his brother and got to know him as himself instead.

Few facts are relevant after that, and he doesn’t touch on the subject of Hogwarts much besides short mentions of meeting the other founders – he’ll admit to himself that, bypassing his clear bias for his brother, Helga had been his favourite – and helping them secure a location to serve as a haven for their various apprentices. He skips ahead, instead, to the warlock’s return from his latest life in the US. Nathan had lived to see his forty-sixth year before perishing for the sin of doing his job properly no matter the colour of people’s skin, which may no longer be lethal but certainly was in the forties. Merlin had remained in the States for a while longer, adding a discrete magical touch to the civil rights movement from the sidelines – as he firmly believes that whether it’s due to their skin colour, gender or ability to do magic, no person shouldn’t be treated as lesser – but made his way back to the UK in the fifties, where a fortunate meeting during the plane ride back helped him choose where to start his next life.

The warlock located the immortal knight – he tells Harry – and Leon had luckily been on the same continent, still willing to help him with his ritual, still waiting with a word of caution against running from the past. Once again, Merlin locked away his memories and siphoned his magic into the Crystal Cave, going through the de-ageing as he had many times before, and leaving Leon with the job of wrapping the resulting baby in blankets with the brooch of Ygraine de Bois’ sigil fastened to it and delivering him to the correct doorstep; that of Joan Wright née Morgan.

“They named him Michael,” Merlin relayed cautiously, watching for Harry’s reaction. “Michael Ian Wright, but he changed it to Michael Morgan-Wright after his parents’ divorce.”

“You can change your name?” It’s the first thing that leaves Harry’s mouth after the revelation, leaving him unsure of whether the eight-year-old truly understood the story presented to him.

“Yes, you can, but… Harry, do you understand what I’ve just told you?” He enquired in a more serious tone, wondering if he’d maybe overestimated the child’s comprehension ability.

“I think so?” Harry replied with a slight shrug, eyes avoiding his. “Do I–  should I call you Merlin?”

He can only stare for a moment, blinking in astonishment at the easy acceptance. This isn’t what he expected at all, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “I don’t plan on telling anyone, so it’s better not.”

“Why-” his son seems to hesitate, fidgeting in place before speaking again in an unsure tone, “You told me. Why?”

Merlin didn’t expect to bring this up right then, figuring the previous revelation might be too much already. Still, Harry seems to be taking it well, so there shouldn’t be any harm in informing him fully. “When you touched the wand, and when you did magic right then, it wasn’t quite the same magic as most witches and wizards,” he finally admits out loud. “Your eyes glowed gold, just like mine,” he pauses and adds sheepishly, “when I have my magic, I mean.”

“They did?” Said eyes, now entirely green and no less bright, widen. “So my magic’s different?”

“You still have the same magic as you did before,” he’s quick to assure, having experienced something similar with Salazar before and knowing it hadn’t fundamentally affected his brother’s ability to perform the more common form of wand magic “but a little extra something, too. And I’ll have to train you if we want to keep it a secret.”

“Oh,” Merlin can’t quite read the child’s tone, but Harry is quick to nod in understanding before looking up right past his shoulder, “Um- I’m tired. Can I take a nap before lunch?”

“Of course,” He smiles slightly. “Leave the wand, we’ll have it here for your tutoring sessions. I’ll call you when the food’s ready.”

His son mumbles a quick agreement under his breath as he slides from the chair and shuffles toward the door, leaving the wand behind and closing the door after himself.

“... Alright then,” Merlin says to himself with a sigh. The revelation may have taken a little more out of his son than he was able to tell, but he’s not too worried about it. The nap will probably help.

Chapter Text

Holding the wand from the box feels like the first time he had hot chocolate, that one time his dad woke him up from a nightmare and made him some before reading him back to sleep. It’s new and nice and makes him feel a little warm all over, and even after it’s gone – the golden sparks going away as quick as they appeared – it’s like he can still feel it a little bit.

His smile doesn’t go away when Mr Salazar teaches him the spell, turning into a grin instead when he gets it right on his first try. He’s doing magic ! Real magic, with a wand! And it’s really pretty, like a little star of his own, even looks like he could hold it if he wanted to. He kind of wants to.

Before he can actually try to grab the little light ball, his dad gets serious about something that happened. It doesn’t sound like something he did, so he doesn’t get as nervous as he would have been if Mr Wright had just said they needed to talk or something. He puts the wand back in the box – the light gone as soon as he stops thinking about it – and hugs it to his chest as he sits down to listen.

At first, it sounds like his dad decided to read him his bedtime story in the office. There’s a warlock, a dragon, a prince, knights and a king – everything he’s read about in fairy tales and now knows is real – but he doesn’t interrupt, enjoying the story even while having no idea why he’s hearing it right then.

It’s a sad story, really. He’s heard of Merlin from a couple of magic books, but nothing with this much detail, and he wonders if it’s the real story of the famous wizard and why it would even be important for him to know it. After a while, he stops worrying about it, just listening to Mr Wright talk about Merlin living lots of different lives because he erases his memory and takes off his magic – how can you even do that? It’s not a shirt ! – and turns himself into a baby whenever he remembers his old life again. It sounds like a lot, Harry can barely handle being Harry, never mind being a lot of other people too.

His eyes widen when Mr Wright says Merlin was actually Ash Slytherin too, the one he remembers Mr Salazar saying was the last Lord of the Slytherin house. He was a squib like his dad and still got killed for doing the little magic he could do, which sounded scary but very real. If the Dursleys didn’t like him because of his magic now and that made them not feed him, hurt him, and let his cousin beat him up, he could imagine people like the Dursleys from hundreds of years ago doing way worse. Is this why his dad is telling this story? Because he’s related to Merlin ?

But the story doesn’t end there, the years keep going up, which makes sense since the story says Merlin is immortal but Harry just can’t imagine him being alive right now, at the same time as him, since he feels more like a fairy tale than a person.

“They named him Michael,” His thoughts all stop when he hears Mr Wright say that. That’s his dad’s name! Is his dad–  “Michael Ian Wright, but he changed it to Michael Morgan-Wright after his parents’ divorce.”

“You can change your name?” It’s the first thing he can think to ask, the thought of changing his name – he won’t mind people expecting things out of Harry Potter if he can just stop being him – is much better than the thought of his dad, of Mr Wright, being Merlin.

But that’s the reason he’s telling the story, isn’t it?

“Yes, you can, but… Harry, do you understand what I’ve just told you?” Mr Wright asks, sounding serious. He really means this.

Mr Wright is Merlin. Mr Wright is the immortal warlock from the story who’s been alive for so, so long. Harry doesn’t quite know what to think about that.

“I think so?” Harry replies with a slight shrug, eyes shifting down to his swaying feet. “Do I–  should I call you Merlin?”

Mr Wright – Merlin? – stares at him, blinking once before replying. “I don’t plan on telling anyone, so it’s better not.”

What? “Why-” Harry hesitates, unsure if he should ask, but he wants to know. “You told me. Why?”

“When you touched the wand, and when you did magic right then, it wasn’t quite the same magic as most witches and wizards,” Mr Wright explains, and something in Harry’s chest tightens, “Your eyes glowed gold, just like mine,” Harry frowns a little until he adds, “when I have my magic, I mean.”

Right, because Merl- Mr Wright doesn’t have magic, but Merlin does. And he can have it again, according to the story. He’s not too sure on the how – does Mr Wright have to die? He doesn’t want Mr Wright to die! – but he knows it can happen.

“They did?” He asks, eyes wide as if he could make it happen again on command, “So my magic’s different?”

“You still have the same magic as you did before,” Mr Wright tells him, “but a little extra something, too. And I’ll have to train you if we want to keep it a secret.”

“Oh,” Harry nods, keeping his eyes down. That- that makes sense, as much as anything makes sense after that story. The room feels smaller than usual thought, and he really wants to move- to leave. “Um- I’m tired. Can I take a nap before lunch?”

“Of course,” Mr Wright agrees, “Leave the wand, we’ll have it here for your tutoring sessions. I’ll call you when the food’s ready.”

Harry mumbles an agreement and places the wand box on the table before trying not to run out of the office, closing the door behind himself. Leaving doesn’t help as much as he thought it would, he still feels like there’s less air to breathe than there had been before, and his legs take him to his bedroom before he can decide to go anywhere else. He runs over to the window, opens it and tries to breathe the air from outside. It helps a bit, but the feeling doesn’t go away, the same feeling he gets some nights of falling that makes him wake up with a scare, except it’s not going away now that he’s awake.

He wants to ask for help, he can do that now – right? – Mr Wright says it’s good to ask for help, but Mr Wright is Merlin and he doesn’t want to see him right now. He doesn’t know what he wants, really. He wants- he wants to not know that Mr Wright remembers years and years of living now and that he’s not Mr Wright anymore. He wants his different magic to go away because that’s what made Mr Wright tell him – he wasn’t going to tell him? Ever ? – and maybe if Mr Wright hadn’t told him he’s Merlin, Harry wouldn’t be sliding to his bedroom floor and hugging his knees, feeling like he’s all alone again.

Mr Wright is Merlin, who locked himself up in the office for days without talking to him – that’s when he thinks Mr Wright remembered things anyway –  and then took him to Diagon Alley with the Grangers – is that how he knew all those things about potions? – before having him try a wand – that’s Merlin’s wand! – that showed his magic was different. That had all been Merlin .

Harry doesn’t know Merlin.

He doesn’t like not knowing things. He thought he knew Mr Wright by now, or at least he knows that Mr Wright would never hurt him and is trying to do the best for him, but Mr Wright isn’t just Mr Wright anymore, he’s also Merlin, and what if- what if he isn’t the same as Mr Wright? He wouldn’t have ignored him for days before – he wouldn’t ! Would he? – but Merlin did… what if Merlin is a bit too different from Mr Wright? He can’t-

Knock knock

“Harry? Lunch’s ready,” Mr Wright – Merlin – announces from the other side of the closed door and Harry holds his breath out of reflex. “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” he doesn’t breathe out until he hears the footsteps fade away from the door.

“That went well,” Sal quips from his spot on the wall once Harry’s gone, and Merlin can’t quite place his tone.

“Tad too well maybe,” he mutters to himself but sets the feeling aside. Harry will come to him if he’s got any questions or worries, there’s no reason to hover before letting the kid process everything on his own time.

Instead, he heads down to the kitchen, aiming to get their lunch ready. Much like every Sunday, he finds the portions in the fridge left by Marie – blessed be that woman – and starts to reheat it all. He gets a little side-tracked – Michael couldn’t cook to save his life but Merlin remembers centuries of recipes and misses certain tastes he can’t wait to try again – with modifying a sauce and setting some vegetables aside for supper – a stew, maybe? He doesn’t want to reheat the same dishes a second time – but it all comes together in a timely manner.

He calls Harry down and goes back to wait by the kitchen island where they usually eat most weekends. Lunch is a quiet affair, slightly uncomfortable, but he doesn’t prod Harry about it. He’ll give him space, he’ll talk when he’s ready.

They go their separate ways after the meal, with Merlin retreating to his office once again because as much as he wishes otherwise, the world doesn’t stop when one is going through a minor crisis – not even a major one, he would know – and he has letters to reply to. Most are the contracts pertaining to the will reading – all dutifully signed and quickly redirected toward Gringotts via letterbox – while one is a strongly worded admonishment for sending the letter to the person addressed – how has he supposed to know Alice Longbottom is incapacitated? – as well as the contract signed by one Augusta Longbottom as her proxy.

The second unexpected letter is from one Arcturus Black, the current Lord of his house, politely demanding a meeting on the third of December and throwing off his plans to retrieve his magic that same weekend. He agrees but adds that he won’t be bringing Harry – there had been no outright request, only a vague implication referring to the current Black Heir, but he wasn’t about to risk it – and requests Chang’s presence if the subject is the legal side of the Sirius Black issue, given that he’s still not entirely acquainted with the wixen legalese.

He responds to the letter from Ignatius Prewett confirming the tutoring schedule – every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from five to six in the afternoon – and arranges a meeting to sign the contract that Sunday, and also introduce him to Harry, the day after the meeting with Lord Black.

The third unexpected letter was the most baffling of all. One Albus Dumbledore – who unironically signed his letter as Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards – was politely enquiring about how the hell Michael had come to have Harry Potter in his custody, given that he still has a loving living family – as spoken by someone who’s never met the Dursleys – who surely misses him. It’s easy to tell this is the same man who wrote the letter that was left at the Dursley’s doorstep by the subtle threat of investigating the matter thoroughly thrown in between the numerous requests to return his son to his blood relatives for apparently his own protection. However, the letter refused to elaborate on what said protection entails.

Slightly miffed at the man’s intrusion into his family matters, Merlin replies with simple facts: that the answers to Dumbledore’s posed questions are, honestly, none of his business. He words it more politely than that of course, much like when he questioned the elder Malfoy for requesting a minor’s address through his son’s letter. Anyone reading the letter would hardly fault him for making it very clear that, despite his numerous titles, Albus Dumbledore is not in fact owed information on a minor’s private affairs, whether they are famous or not. Besides, what better protection will there be for Harry than living with him? At least once he regains his magic.

He should really get around to that, but it’s clear he’ll only have the opportunity to do it the weekend after the will readings.

Once he’s done dealing with the Harry side of his duties, he turns toward Michael's end of it. Honestly, he’s not sure he wants to continue as a solicitor. He is particularly glad Michael hasn’t managed to enter a master-apprentice contract with Chang before he regained his memories, which leaves one less thing for him to worry about. Not that he has anything against the job, he knows more about Magical law than he did before regaining his memories and the non-magical side – which he’d gained through Michael – is just as fresh in his mind. Still, it’s simply not the career he would like to pursue now that he has other options and the responsibility to care for a child. He leaves the freelance contract with the firm alone, realizing he can simply refuse any cases he wants and slowly fade from their focus – a little magic may go a long way in helping this along – and decides not to mention his change of mind to Chang yet, hoping to ease into it over the course of a few weeks.

Other than that, Merlin doesn’t fundamentally disagree with any part of Michael’s life, which is a pleasant surprise. The issue of nurture versus nature is always considered whenever he recovers his memories, but he’s learned over the years that no matter how deep he shoves everything that makes him himself into the back of his mind, something always finds a way to bleed through, and his recall is always exceptional no matter what kind of life he lives. Perks of being immortal, he supposes, is having a constitution suited to living for as long as he has, for better or worse.

He does need to make some magical arrangements, since the brief visit to the Slytherin vault – thankfully linked to his blood and not his magic – was not nearly enough to get his affairs in order. Merlin pens a letter of greeting to the Slytherin manager – a goblin named Glosak whose clan has faithfully guarded his belongings as well as his secrets for centuries – requesting an overview of his estate, planning to go through his investments and see what has flourished and what has become obsolete in the past thirty years. In times like these, he almost misses being a peasant who was not expected to read nor write, and then he remembers indoor plumbing and modern medicine and such delirious thoughts are once again delegated to the back of his mind.

It’s hours later when Merlin realizes Harry has not once come to his office, though he figures that’s part of leaving him to process things on his own time. He leaves the room and focuses on supper instead, soon finalizing the stew and calling Harry down to eat. The evening meal is a little less silent, but only due to Harry asking about the food – his son frowns slightly at the fact that he’d decided to cook but doesn’t comment other than to say it’s good – and he feels a little lighter once it’s done.

“I’ll be up later for your story,” he absently tells Harry when the boy starts to head back up.

“Uh-” He glances up from the dishes when his son hesitates, but doesn’t manage to meet the boy’s eyes, “I think today’s story was enough.”

“Oh, okay,” he replies for lack of what else to say. “Goodnight.”

“G’night,” the response is barely more than a mumble.

He debates for a moment if he should go up anyway, maybe bring up the story – that of his life, that is – and try to gauge his son’s thoughts, but forces himself to wait.

Harry will talk to him when he’s ready… right?

Chapter Text

November 28th, 1988

Harry doesn’t mean to wake up late for school, but when it lets him eat a quick breakfast in the car without talking instead of quietly sitting at the table for twenty minutes, he’s a little glad for it. He thinks Mr Wright might have realised how much he’s staring – he tries not to, but it’s so hard now that he knows – because he hasn’t even looked at him once after their eyes met and Harry looked back down at his breakfast sandwich.

The reason he’s staring is because he’s trying to tell all the ways Merlin isn’t Mr Wright. It’s not hard to start the list – he doesn’t smile as much, he knows stuff about potions, he doesn’t hug him anymore – and it keeps growing with a lot of little things, and Harry’s not sure if he’s making some of them up because he wants there to be differences or if they’re really there. Still, the list is in his head, telling him that Merlin isn’t the same as Mr Wright, so if all these little things are different… what else might be?

He tries not to think about it in class but still gets distracted, and when he gets a question wrong it’s not even on purpose this time. Hermione probably notices something’s wrong because she asks him about it in whispers when they go to the library.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, hiding behind his book.

“Nothing wouldn’t make you make that face,” she insists with a frown, nudging his book back down to the table.

She’s not wrong, but how is he supposed to explain this? Especially since Merlin wants it to be a secret. “‘Mione… if I was someone else would we still be friends?”

“Uh?” Her frown goes away but she’s looking confused instead, “I dunno, would they wanna be friends?”

“What?” He’s the one frowning now, not sure what her question means.

“If you were someone else, that person would have to want to be friends too,” Hermione explains, “Not just me. Trying to be friends on your own doesn’t work,” she adds in a lower voice, sounding like she’s tried it before.

“Huh,” he looks down at the book, feeling no better about his problem. What if Merlin doesn’t want to be family like Mr Wright did? And what can he even do about it?

“What’s that got to do with anything, though?” Hermione asks, but Harry just shrugs.

He manages to distract her with a question about their Latin schoolwork and they talk until the bell rings, telling them to go back to class.

Merlin picks him up this time, asking about his classes, but Harry doesn’t talk much, mostly worrying in his head about what Hermione said. He nearly misses when Merlin mentions he’ll be working that afternoon but nods in time for him not to notice his mind’s somewhere else. They have a quiet lunch with Marie and Harry helps her bring the dishes to the sink and clear the table until he hears the door of the house close behind Merlin while he’s leaving.

“I’m gonna study in the office,” He tells Marie, who shoos him so she can wash the dishes on her own.

Harry hesitates in front of the office, but he knows he can go inside, Mr Wright said so. Merlin didn’t say so, his mind reminds him, but he shakes his head and opens the door.

“Hello lytling,” Mr Salazar greets him from his painting.

“What’s that mean?” He asks as he walks closer, he’s heard the founder call him that before.

“It means ‘little one’,” Mr Salazar explains with a smile. “Now, what brings you here this fine day?”

“Um-” Harry stops in the centre of the room, swaying on the balls of his feet. He knew what he wanted to know – is Merlin still Mr Wright? Does he still want me? – but would Mr Salazar even know the answer to that? He’s still just a painting… but he was Merlin’s brother, well- Ash’s brother, right? Or- “Is Merlin your brother?”

Mr Slytherin states for a bit before replying, “Yes. I thought you’d realised in the story?”

“No, I mean,” he fidgets with his hands behind his back, “Ash was your brother,” Mr Salazar nods but doesn’t interrupt, so he continues, “Is Merlin your brother?”

“Oh,” The painting says, sounding like he’s figured something out. That makes one of them. “Harry, do you want to know what I did when I saw Merlin after my brother’s death?”

“What?” He asks, curiosity getting the best of him even if the man still hasn’t answered the question.

“I tried to kill him,” Mr Salazar deadpans and Harry nearly chokes on a gasp.

“Why would you do that?” He exclaims, upset at the thought of Mr Wright dying.

“My little brother had just been killed for healing a child’s broken arm,” the founder explains in a quiet voice, looking away from him. “I thought, if he deserved death for healing one of their own, they deserved it even more for killing him. But then he showed up, in the middle of my revenge, face reminding me of my little brother but fighting against me… of course I attacked him. But then he spoke to me- in parseltongue, my family’s tongue.”

“And then you stopped?” Harry asks, hoping for it.

Mr Salazar scoffs, “Hardly. I became even more upset, my magic was going wildly out of control – something I prided myself on never having an issue with, and then I passed out. When I came to, I realised Merlin had brought me to the middle of a forest and out of reach from the objects of my ire. I was not very happy about that and refused to listen to his explanations until he quite literally forced me to with but a flick of a finger to keep me in place.” The portrait gives Harry a thoughtful look, “Our situations may be outwardly similar, but I cannot deny that your predicament is vastly more favourable.”

“...What?” Harry frowns a bit at the painting.

“You have it better than I did, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a hard thing to deal with,” Mr Salazar explains. “It took me months to accept that Merlin was who he had been, and even more to convince him to tell our parents, and I was only able to do that because somehow, through the blood adoption, I inherited some of his magic and needed to be trained in how to handle it properly and that forced him to stick around far longer than he’d probably meant to.”

“Right,” Harry mumbles to himself, glancing down at the ground. Merlin did say he only told him because he’ll need to teach him magic. Does that mean he’ll leave once Harry knows how to use it?

“So yes,” Mr Salazar’s voice makes him look up again in confusion. “To your question,” he reminds him. “ Merlin is my little brother, no matter how old the immortal fool is, it just took some time for both of us to come to terms with it.”

“Hm,” he doesn’t know what to say to that, so he looks back down at his feet while swaying a bit from one to the other. “Is he… still my dad?”

It’s what bothers him the most and finally saying it feels like he’s stopped carrying something heavy in his chest.

“Sé unwita,” Mr Salazar grumbles and Harry looks up in confusion only to spot the frowning portrait shaking his head. “Of course he is, lytling. He didn’t stop being Michael, just like he didn’t stop being Ash, he’s just… more than them, too. I think-” he pauses and Harry leans closer, curious about his opinion and feeling a little better already at the assurance that at least Mr Salazar thinks Merlin is still his dad even if he’s a little different from before. “I believe that recovering his memories is a little harder on him than Merlin’s been letting on, not that it justifies his lack of consideration for what you might be going through. When Ash passed, Merlin only confronted me weeks later, once I had returned from my travels and tracked my little brother’s possessions only to find him gone and turn my wand toward the guilty village for it. Now, on the other hand, he’s had but a few days to adapt himself to centuries of memories, it’s no wonder if he’s a little more scatterbrained for it.”

“That makes sense,” Harry mutters, nodding to himself. He’s still not sure if remembering he’s Merlin will make Mr Wright not want him anymore, since he never knew why Mr Wright kept him around in the first place, but maybe… maybe he can try to be extra good so Merlin will want to keep him too? Or, since he won’t leave until Harry knows how to do his special magic, he could keep being bad at it so he stays longer… but that might make him not want to keep him, too.

“It’ll be fine, lytling.” Mr Salazar tells him, distracting Harry from the plans forming in his mind. “Give it a little more time, I’m sure things will work themselves out.” he doesn’t know what Mr Salazar’s tone means but nods anyway.

“What’s that language?” He asks, a little curious. It’s not Latin, since he knows how to say little in Latin. “And what’s… see uni-ta?” He adds, remembering he didn’t understand that either.

“Sé means ‘that’ and the other word you’re not learning until you’re older,” Mr Salazar replies and Harry figures it’s a bad word then. “It’s Old English, one of the main languages of Merlin’s type of magic and one I had to become fluent in to attempt the creation of my own spells.”

“So I’ll have to learn it too ?” He asks, already feeling tired at the thought. Latin is a lot of work already, and Hermione keeps making him study French with her because she has relatives there and wants to know it when she visits, how’s he supposed to learn another language on top of that? He’ll be doing homework for forever!

Mr Salazar only laughs at his troubles, “Don’t worry, you won’t be creating spells for at least a decade. Memorising the ones we teach you will be quite enough for the next few years unless you feel the need to have yet another secret language.” At his confused look, the founder adds, “Parseltongue.”

Oh, right. He keeps forgetting it’s a different language because of how it sounds like English to him and tells Mr Salazar as much to explain his confusion.

“We should work on that,” Mr Salazar tells him, “Parseltongue can be quite useful once you master it voluntary use instead of slipping into it by accident at the sight of a snake or in response to its use,” a pointed look tells Harry he’d done just that without realizing. “I’ll talk to Merlin about it. While it’s an exclusively spoken language, it’s good for disguising spells that must be chanted, especially before you learn non-verbal magic. Someone can’t undo a spell if they don’t know which one was used.”

Harry just nods, figuring if Mr Salazar says so then it’s probably true, plus it will help to keep the language a secret if he can control when he’s using it.

“Now, how about that homework?” Mr Salazar reminds him with a narrow-eyed look that tells him he’s not leaving until it’s done.

“Can you tell me, ungeþwære múl, why you haven’t talked to Harry yet?” is what greets Merlin once he walks into his office after coming back from work much later than expected, having run late on a case which was, thankfully, his last one for the foreseeable future.

Harry’s nowhere to be seen but hopefully had something for supper already and is playing in his room or the library. He planned to reply to a few more letters before checking on him, though being greeted by being called a mule tells him Sal may not approve of that particular course of action for some reason.

“I have” He replies in a questioning tone, unsure what he’s being insulted for.

“No, you’ve told him his magic is different, regaled him with a long and wild tale then proceeded to inform him the story was true,” Salazar pointed out, “but have you talked about what that means to him? For magic’s sake, the boy came to me to ask if you’re still his father! That should not be a doubt he has. ” The last part is sharply hissed parseltongue, a clear show of his brother’s temper if he can’t help slipping into it. “I assumed the conversation had taken place somewhere other than your office, not failed to happen at all .”

Merlin drops onto his chair with a small frown, “Well, I was giving him time to process it, surely he would come to me if he had any questions?” even as he says it, he knows that’s not quite right, and memories from the past are probably clouding his judgement of his son’s expected behaviour.

“He is eight years old,” Sal insists pointedly, which- isn’t wrong. Maybe he did have the wrong expectations, especially of a kid previously from an abusive household.

There’s just been so much on my plate, but-

“I- you’re right, of course,” he mutters more to himself than the painting, overanalyzing the past few days in his mind to determine how badly he’s messed up.

Now that he’s looking for behavioural discrepancies, they’re almost blindingly obvious. He’d absently noticed the lack of being called ‘Dad’ before, but even ‘Mr Wright’ had been noticeably absent from Harry’s vocabulary recently. Too wrapped up in everything he’s had to do and think about recently, he’d hardly noticed the lack of calls for his attention or the slim to none questions even about homework help. The lack of want of a bedtime story should have been more of an alarm than it proved to be. Harry always wanted a story, and looking back on it he suspects that being able to cuddle to his side as he reads is half the reason for it.

“I usually am,” is the none-too-humble reply from his brother. “What, are you waiting for a written invitation to put the kid out of his misery? Go talk to your son.”

“Right,” he shakes his head, trying to put his thoughts in order as he rises from the chair and exits the office.

He steps up to Harry’s door a moment later, knocking lightly in case he’s asleep.

“‘S open,” a small voice tells him from inside, and he twists the handle to peek in but doesn’t step forward.

“May I come in?” He asks, spotting Harry in bed with a book – the Camelot one, from the vault.

He remembers writing it, sometimes during boring council meetings where Lords spoke over each other about territory issues or the price of grains, other times registering pieces of gossip overheard from the servants’ entrances spread all over the castle, out of sight and out of mind enough to let them overhear many things thought to be private, and even some of the more dangerous adventures since Morgana’s death had hardly put a stopper to all magical threats. He’d eventually gone back through it and cleaned it up into something more book-like instead of random paragraphs, short stories about the happenings behind the throne before and after Arthur’s death – the former in some misguided attempt at something supposedly therapeutic –  that was never meant to see the light of day but could be read at any time he felt like reminiscing, rare as those are. He wonders what Harry thinks about it now that he knows.

“Sure,” Harry replies after a moment’s delay, glancing up at him before returning his gaze to the book. “Did all this really happen?”

“Mhm,” he nods, stepping over to the bed and sitting at the edge of it when Harry doesn’t protest his presence. “At least that’s how I remember those things happening. Every story has more than one side to it, so I can’t account for other people’s point of view.”

His son glances up for a second again, then a second time, before seemingly finding the corsage to ask- “Did a goblin really make the king go bald and start farting everywhere?”

The unexpected reminder of that series of events makes him chuckle slightly, “Yes, though technically it wasn’t a goblin. We’ve seen those at the bank, haven’t we?”

Harry nods, “What’s it then?”

“It’s a creature mostly referred to as a hobgoblin, which is why some call it a goblin, though the correct name is just Hog. They look like a cross between a House Elf and a Cornish Pixie and are mostly mischievous instead of malicious, but this one had been imprisoned for a very long time.” He explains, keeping it short lest he slips into a lecture.

“Huh,” his son hums and looks back down, frowning a bit. Should he not have answered? “You know a lot about magic animals?”

Should I answer this, then? He asks himself rhetorically, not about to deny his son’s curiosity even while unsure of where it’s leading. “Magical Beings,” he corrects almost out of habit, smiling sheepishly. “I have- well, Ash Slytherin has a mastery in Magizoology – the study of magical creatures – from Ángatekó.” At the sight of Harry’s visible confusion, he continues to explain, “The Brazilian school of magic, their equivalent of Hogwarts,” he adds for it to make more sense, “I guess most people refer to it as Castelobruxo, just like Nagumo is popularly known as Mahoutokoro to foreigners. Castelobruxo’s official name is Academia Ángatekó, which roughly translates to ‘academy of the spirit way of life’.”

He moves his wandering eyes, which had strayed to the wall during his short explanation, back towards Harry only to find suspiciously bright eyes and pursed lips. “You’re not Mr Wright anymore,” It sounds like a question, but it’s said like he already knows the answer, and something in Merlin’s chest tightens at the tremulous tone.

“I can’t say I am,” he has to admit. It’s the truth, after all. Michael didn’t have fifteen hundred years of memories crammed into his brain, while he most definitely does. “But he’s still a part of me, just like Ash and Nathan and many others,” he placates, dreading the sudden lost look that’s slowly taking over his son’s expression. “I’m sorry,” he’s felt apologetic for his existence before, but the current reason is a new one if nothing else. “I didn’t mean for you to lose him, I don’t want you to, but I can’t be just Michael anymore, not really.” dozens of languages at his disposal and he’s still at a loss for words to explain who he is, if he’s ever really known.

He could, theoretically, bury his additional memories once again and forget most of who he is, but as tempting as the notion is, that option would not be in Harry’s best interest as a young wizard just entering magical society, especially one in possession of Old Magic. He needs protection and training, which means being Merlin, no matter how much both of them would rather it didn’t.

The first sob catches him off-guard, it’s a pained, breathless thing that he doesn’t expect but quickly takes over his son’s lungs as he hides his face inside the book perched over his knees. He reaches toward the child but hesitates halfway, unsure of how helpful the sudden touch would prove.

“Harry,” he tries softly, none of his own hurt bleeding into the tone. He has no right to it. “I’m sorry, I mean it, but this- it doesn’t have to change anything,” he pleads, entirely lost on how to resolve the whole situation.

The closest he’s come to something similar was his life as Ash, but the previous experience still proves useless in this particular scenario. He doesn’t know how to lessen Harry’s grief for someone who still exists but isn’t the same person anymore. How else can he apologise until the words start to lose their meaning? How can he fix this?

“‘Co-course it change-ges,” the boy manages to stutter out between sobs. “Y’ don’ wa-want me any-mo-more!”

The sorrowful exclamation hits him like a punch to the chest, momentarily knocking the air out of his lungs. “What?” he rasps, clearing his tight throat before repeating more audibly, “What do you mean? Of course I do!”

“Mr Wri-ight did,” Harry tilts his head up slightly, narrow red-rimmed eyes peeking from behind the book and a messy fringe. “ Merlin d-doesn’t.”

It probably says something about him that it took him so long to realize the real issue. The way his heart tightens painfully at the realization is the reason he’s quick to throw caution to the wind and scoot over, carefully reaching for the crying child. “Harry, darling, that’s not true,” he softly assures and tries not to see it as a small victory when the eight-year-old lets him set the book aside and pull him into his side. “ Dyre, you’re my son, no matter what. This changes some things, I’ll admit, but never that,” he whispers soothingly. “ Blood of my blood, remember? To cherish and protect to the best of my ability, and the only thing that’s changed is my ability, nothing else, I promise .”

His words ring true to his ears as he speaks them, assuring him that the attachment to the little green-eyed child isn’t exclusive to Michael but something he also feels, most definitely beyond the sense of responsibility brought on by the blood adoption and the fact that Harry now shares his magic. It’s only been four days, but it’s also been months, and he considers the boy his son just as much as he was Michael’s even if in hindsight he’s apparently been neglecting to show it enough, allowing for these seeds of doubt to take root as deeply as they seem to have.

He doesn’t stop repeating the same soft promises and reassurances as he calms Harry down and adjusts their positions so he’s not in danger of sliding off the bed, smiling slightly into the boy’s hair when he doesn’t hesitate to fully climb into his lap and cling to his torso, hiding his face against the shirt on his chest.

It takes him a few minutes to realize that the reason Harry’s calmed down is he’s cried himself to sleep.

“Harry?” he calls lightly, to no avail. The child is probably exhausted, especially if he’s been thinking about this since Merin told him the truth, which is likely.

He tries to carefully dislodge the sleeping boy only to receive a small whine in response, arms tightening slightly around him as if of their own accord. With a resigned sigh, he shuffles slightly back instead and turns slowly to lie with his back on the bed, the eight-year-old only shifting enough to sprawl further on top of him like a particularly tired starfish. A quick glance down lets him spot lightly fluttering eyelids just falling still and his suspicion grows, but he can hardly begrudge the boy some comfort after that.

Instead of calling attention to the not-quite-sleeping boy, he hums softly under his breath, familiar lyrics coming to his lips as he lightly brushes his fingers over the messy curls under his chin. “Slǣp deoplic swǣs cild, mæġe þín swefnu āfyll in wynn…”

In the morning, he’ll hold him close as they finish the conversation properly, and reassure Harry as many times as necessary that he is still wanted, and that Merlin isn’t going anywhere. For now, he’ll work on proving that by staying with his son for the night.

“... Gyden bewara þín ferhþ, láð se nihtbealu to ābrecenne…”

Chapter Text

November 29th, 1988

Harry really doesn’t feel like waking up. Sometime during the night he’d rolled off of Merlin and ended up tucked into his side instead, face still pressed into his shirt and an arm thrown over his chest, and way too cosy to move. Waking up will mean more talking and he really doesn’t want to cry any more, not so soon after last night.

He stayed, he realises slowly, blinking his eyes open and moving his head slightly to look up as if to make sure Merlin’s still there.

His eyes widen when they meet the soft blue gaze aimed back at him, making it obvious that his dad – he is still his dad, even if he’s not just Mr Wright anymore, he said so – had been awake already. “Good morning little sleepyhead,” he says softly when Harry quickly hides his face again, as if not seeing him means he can’t tell he’s awake yet. “Feel like waking up yet?” He feels the arm around his back bend up so the hand can reach his hair and the light brush over his hair just makes him press his face into Merlin’s shirt further with a wordless grunt of disagreement.

Awake is bad, his brain decides and he doesn’t really disagree.

Merlin chuckles and it makes his chest move, and with it Harry’s arm, so he lets out a small annoyed whine to tell him to stop that. From the short laugh that answers him, it doesn’t work.

“Alright, I think you can afford to miss a day of school,” he’s told a moment later.

Oh, right, school! “‘M I late?” he mumbles, voice slightly muffled by fabric.

“Not yet, but maybe it’s for the best if we take a little day off to talk things out properly,” Merlin says, making him almost want to go to class. “I’ll call and tell them you have a stomach bug or something,” he adds, trying to start sitting up, but Harry refuses to move himself or his arm. He doesn’t wanna talk, just sleep. “I’ll be right back, déore.” He leans over to press a kiss to Harry’s head and it makes him give up on his quest to never move again with a sigh, turning over and hugging a pillow to his chest instead.

With his eyes still closed, he feels it when Merlin gets off the bed but isn’t even awake enough to hear it when the door closes behind him. When they open again, it’s because of the smell of bacon – which is closer than usual – doing the job of making him want to get up better than his alarm clock ever did, and when he turns his head toward the door he sees Merlin closing it behind him with a push of his shoulder while carrying a tray. That explains why the smell is in his room.

“‘S that breakfast?” Harry asks, already starting to sit up.

He gets a small smile for it, “I thought we could eat and talk,” Merlin replies, moving his alarm clock down from the bedside table to leave the tray on top of it before tidying the covers over the bed, and Harry notices he’s got sleep clothes on instead of work ones. “I figured you could ask me questions?” the last part comes out more unsure than he’s ever heard him be.

That’s another difference, Harry thinks. Mr Wright always seemed so sure of everything, even when it was about magic, but Merlin, who should be even more confident – he’s been alive for longer after all, probably knows much more stuff – sounds more unsure about things than Mr Wright ever did sometimes. Maybe it’s only when it’s about Harry? but he doesn’t want to think about that. Nope, what he wants is some bacon.

“What questions?” He asks while Merlin brings the tray over, sitting on the other end of the bed and putting it down between them. There’s two plates on it – with bacon and eggs and toast and all – and two little bowls with some fruit too, plus a cup of some yellow juice – apple, maybe? – and one of chocolate milk that Harry knows is for him.

“Whatever you want,” he picks up the fruit bowl to eat first. “If I don’t want to talk about it I’ll say so, but I figured you could use this to… get to know me better, I guess. I mean, if you want to,” another small shrug.

“And you won’t ask me questions?” Harry frowns a bit. Does that mean he doesn’t want to get to know him too? But then again he is still a bit of Mr Wright and he knew Harry, maybe that’s why.

“I could, but I do know you better than you know me, I’d think,” Merlin sounds a little amused and a little sad all at once and Harry narrows his eyes at him.

“What’s my favourite food then?” He asks, crossing his arms.

Merlin raises his brows a bit, “Sticky toffee pudding,” he replies with a small smile and Harry tries not to pout or smile at the fact that he got it right.

“Fine,” he mumbles with a sigh, biting into a piece of bacon and not even getting upset about it since that just means Merlin does know him better – since Mr Wright did – and Harry gets to ask all the questions he wants. He kind of wishes Mr Wright had done something like this too, but guesses he is doing it. Kind of. It’s too complicated to think about so he tries not to. “What’s your favourite food?” he asks, a little curious.

“Hm…” Merlin hums while his mouth is full, tilting his head a little like he’s thinking. “Honey on toast,” he says a moment later and Harry stares for a moment, surprised.

“Of all the foods?” His eyes widen a bit in surprise since Merlin has probably tried a lot more foods than him.

He nods, “I know, it’s not some complicated dish, but that’s the point,” the explanation doesn’t make much sense to Harry until the rest of it comes, “there are endless ways to prepare food nowadays, thousands of spices and ingredients, much more than we had back in Camelot, but know what we did have? Bread, and honey, on the few times someone managed to find a beehive in the forest worth bothering to get some. It doesn’t taste exactly the same, but it’s still a piece of home,” he smiles slightly and then adds with a wink, “but I’ll admit that Chocolate is a very close second.”

Harry smiles too, but the story makes his chest hurt a little, another reminder that this is Merlin and not Mr Wright. He’ll have to get used to it, but- “How do I know you won’t change your mind about being my dad?” he blurts out, looking down at the plate where he’s poking a runny bit of yolk with a fork.

A light tap under his chin makes him look up, and he feels a little bad for putting that sad look on Merlin’s face with his question, but he needs to know, if he knows how to keep something then he won’t have to lose it, and he doesn’t want to lose his dad, even if he’s not just Mr Wright anymore. “I won’t,” Harry frowns a bit, that doesn’t help any even if it makes him a little giddy to hear, “I promise, okay? I’m not leaving, you’re my son and you’re not getting rid of me,” he pokes Harry’s chest like it’s a threat instead of exactly what he wanted to hear. “As long as you don’t change your mind about being my son, we’re stuck together. And even if you do, I’ll still take care of you, got it?”

Harry nods like his life depends on it, wiping his eyes before he starts to cry again. “Got it,” he says and his voice just trembles a little. Enough crying, he thinks to himself with a huff, filling up his mouth again instead while thinking of another question. “Why-” he starts, but at his dad’s warning look he finishes chewing before talking, “Why don’t you have your magic back yet? Can’t you go get it?”

“It would take at least a weekend to travel to the place I need to go and get it back,” he replies, “I had plans to go this weekend, but something’s come up, and the will reading is set to the weekend after that, so…” he trails off with a sigh, “the earliest I’ll be able to leave is the sixteenth. I’ll talk to Chang about you staying with her that weekend, or would you prefer to stay with the Grangers?”

“Ms Lei’s fine,” Harry tells him, already looking forward to all the flying he’ll do with a whole weekend at the Changs. “But why can’t I go with?”

“It would be dangerous,” it sounds pretty serious, so Harry doesn’t push it, instead thinking of another question.

“What are real dragons like?” he asks after noticing Pearl tucked next to his pillow and remembering the story about there being a dragon – he forgot the name of it – under the castle in Camelot.

“Well, I’ve only met a few of them. Kilgharrah couldn’t give a straight answer to save his life, always speaking in riddles,” Merlin tells him with a huffed chuckle, earning his undivided attention. “Aithusa is more of an adventurer and her children are all a little different too, so a bit like people, except the size of a building and with the ability to spit fire,” Harry chuckles at that but figures it makes sense, especially if they’re really smart and can talk like Merlin told him. Except-

“Wasn’t Aithusa the last Great Dragon though?” He asks, remembering it from the story.

“I thought so back then, but as much as Uther would have liked to think so, he could hardly extinguish every dragon on earth,” Harry’s glad to hear that, not understanding why someone would want to kill all the dragons in the first place. “He did put a sizeable dent in the species, and the European ones were close to extinction, but I stumbled upon a few Great Dragon eggs over the years and Aithusa was only too happy to take them under her wing. They’re not the only species of dragon either, as you well know, but the modern ones aren’t quite the same, more of a cross between a Great Dragon and a Wyvern, the latter of which actually has mostly gone extinct, which makes them usually more violent but thankfully smaller.”

“Where does Ai-two-sa live?” He asks in excitement, bouncing a little in place and almost spilling some of his chocolate milk, “What’s the name of her kids? Can I meet them?” Harry pleads, because how cool would that be? Never mind the dragon Zoo, he wants to meet the talking dragons!

“Aithusa,” Merlin corrects, “and they like to move around, but there is a sort of home base where I can usually find one or more of them if I go looking,” Harry’s enthusiasm makes him smile, “You can meet them eventually, but not any time soon,” he can’t help pouting a little at that, earning an amused look. “I need to get my magic back and settle some things first before we can go visit,” Harry nods in understanding and figures later is better than a no. “Their names are Revna, Neirin and Signý, and their children are named Vaiya, Taral, Elentári, Candrā and Naakla.”

“So many talking dragons,” Harry whispers to himself and Merlin grins. “Can I turn into a dragon? With the gold magic?”

“I-” Merlin pauses and Harry holds his breath in anticipation because it’s not an instant no. “Actually, I’m not sure, but that would be a spell for much later, unfortunately.” Still, it’s not never, Harry mentally cheers.

“Why’s your magic like that, anyway?” He asks not that he’s thinking about it, “Why’s it different and makes my eyes glow?”

“That’s… a complicated explanation that I’m also not entirely sure about,” Merlin starts, and he starts to wonder if all the magic questions will get an ‘I don’t know’ until Harry learns more of it. “Well, for starters, my magic was never the same as everyone else's,” he stops himself from asking another question when he realises his dad will still try to explain. “My mother told me that when I first opened my eyes, they were gold. I could move stuff around with magic before I could sit up, like I’d been born with it, which is not how magic worked at the time. People had to study, practise and learn spells to control it, even if some were born with more affinity than others, and any stronger talents would still mostly manifest in the teenage years, not as a baby, so I was… different.”

“Why?” He can’t help but ask, eyes wide and curious.

“I don’t know for sure, but…” he takes another sip of juice before setting the cup back on the tray. “Remember the purge?” Harry nods, remembering Uther’s quest to erase magic from the land that Merlin mentioned in his story, “well, a lot of magic users and magical beings were killed. I figured that magic had to go somewhere,” he shrugs. “As for why Old Magic is different from what you’ve seen wizards use… I’ve been told they blame it on the old druids, who tried to force the hand of destiny and were punished by succeeding but losing their connection to the magic of the earth,” Harry frowns slightly, a little confused, but his dad doesn’t explain this time, looking off to the side instead like he’s thinking about something else. It takes him a moment to come off it, “anyway, I have no idea why it makes our eyes glow, just like I can’t see a reason for certain wands spell to give off randomly coloured lights,” he sounds annoyed by it and Harry chuckles.

He focuses on his breakfast for a bit, trying to think of a good question but all he comes up with is, “Did they really not have bathrooms before?”

His dad almost chokes on apple juice trying not to laugh, “Not like we have today,” he explains between chuckles, “The plumbing that lets us flush the toilet and take showers was only invented over a thousand years after Camelot times. The castle did have a privy chamber for the nobles, and there were chamber pots in their rooms, like a potty chair for adults.”

Harry wrinkles his nose at the explanation, he can’t even imagine living without showers. “Hm…” he hums and finishes his chocolate milk before asking the next question, “Did you travel a lot? What places have you been to?” He asks since Merlin has a mastery – is that like a degree? – from Brazil, and he learned in class that’s all the way across the ocean, though he doesn’t remember which one.

“Not at first,” his dad piles an egg, some bacon and fried tomato on top of a toast before taking a bite and Harry kind of wishes he did that because now he’s all out of bacon. “The only way I knew to travel at the start was on foot or horseback, and I hadn’t heard of anything outside the kingdom’s borders to reach by boat, so I wandered through Europe for a long time. When I did start travelling, It was mostly to nearby places like what we now know as Ireland, France, Germany… I did start travelling further once I got a taste for it though, Russia is very cold, Egypt uses some interesting magic and India has great food.”

“They all have magic schools?” Harry leans forward without meaning to and Merlin chuckles, moving the tray a bit so he doesn’t bump into it.

“Most of them have at least one I think,” he looks pointedly at Harry’s plate until he starts eating again. “I didn’t really attend though, since I was erasing my memory and living as mundanely as possible,” right, Harry nods to himself while chewing, there’s that.

“But you went to the Brazil one?” He reminds him when an explanation doesn’t come.

“I was curious about it,” Dad shrugs, “I got my memories when I was ten because one of my father’s servants had magic, they went to Ángatekó and wrote to me about it. Once I had my magic, I decided to go back and find a way to attend,” he pauses for a moment in thought, “I have been to a few other magical schools though, Nagumo and Ilvermorny – the Japanese and American ones – most recently, but I’ve visited Beauxbatons and Koldovstvoretz – the French and Russian schools – before.”

“What’s your favourite one?” Harry asks, wishing he could go to all the schools too, it would be much more fun than doing normal boring homework with no magic on it.

“Well, I’m biased towards Hogwarts,” Merlin admits with a small smile, “and I haven’t exactly attended many of the ones I visited, but Ángatekó is the runner-up.”

That just makes him more curious about it, and he ends up finishing breakfast while hearing all about the school and the magic beings his dad studied over there. Going to school on a boat sounds fun, and living in tree houses would be so cool, but when he asks if he can go there, Merlin reminds him that he can’t go to both Hogwarts and another school, and Harry does want to go to the school his parents went to – the school his dad helped exist – so he doesn’t make a fuss about it.

It’s when Merlin comes back from taking the breakfast dishes to the kitchen that he thinks to ask, “D’you always look like Mr Wright?”

“Huh, good question” Dad sounds surprised as he sits back down on the bed, this time by his side and leaning back on the pillows and headboard. Harry’s quick to tuck himself back under his arm, still not feeling like getting up even though he’s awake now. “Kind of?” he doesn’t sound too sure, “I don’t change my appearance when I do the memory ritual, but I’ve dyed my hair before getting my memories back a few times, and I don’t look quite the same as I did in Camelot after the Slytherins blood-adopted me. My hair used to be straighter and my eyes a bit darker,” Harry tries to imagine it but doesn’t make that much difference, and he’s just glad to know he could still look like his dad even if he didn’t always look like Mr Wright.

“D’you miss them?” He wonders out loud, thinking about how he likes being able to look like his parents. “All your parents?”

It takes a moment for his dad to answer, and his voice is a little less cheery when he does, “not all of them,” Harry doesn’t ask, because if Merlin ever had parents like the Dursleys he wouldn’t miss them either. “I miss my first parents the most though,” he says and Harry turns around on the bed to throw an arm over his dad’s chest again in the closest thing to a hug he can get while lying down. “Morven and Sorcha too. Slytherin,” he adds when Harry looks up in confusion. “They accepted me even after knowing everything and I’ll always be thankful for it.”

“What about Mr Salazar?” Harry asks, thinking of the one he’s sort of met, “Is the one in the painting the real one? How’s it work?”

“I do miss Sal. The portrait helps,” Dad replies with a small smile. “He’s not the real Salazar, but he’s much closer to the actual person than most portraits nowadays.” Harry feels his dad’s chin rest on top of his head but since it doesn’t poke him much he doesn’t complain. “Rowena was the one to come up with it, actually. Smartest witch I knew. They’re much simpler nowadays, with some animation runes and memory copies, still require talent but not years of work. The ones she made, though? It was the most incredible magic I’d seen in a long time.”

Harry tries to absorb all of the information as his dad talks about how Rowena Ravenclaw – the youngest Hogwarts founder apparently – made the canvases herself, using lots of blood potions that are against the law now, hairs from some animal called a tea-straw that they raised in Hogwarts, and sewing runes on the sides with gold thread like in the fairytale he’d read with a gnome that turns straw into gold and steals a girl’s first baby. He doesn’t understand a lot of it, especially about putting memories in the painting – how do you get those out of your head? – but his dad sounds like he’s enjoying talking about it, so he doesn’t interrupt until he stops by himself with a chuckle and apologises for rambling.

“‘S okay, I asked,” Harry smiles, feeling warm inside that he’s getting to know his dad better, that he still has a dad and won’t lose him. Not even if he wants to, Merlin said, but Harry knows he’ll never want to. “She made paintings of all the founders?” he asks since it sounded like it, “Where’s all the others?”

“She did,” his dad pauses for a moment before adding, “I’m not entirely sure. Hogwarts should have a version of them, though they’re made to look a little older and more professor-like instead of the ones she gifted to me. I don’t believe they’ve been seen in quite a while, not when Slytherin’s reputation is so bad, they’d never stand for it.” He sounds a little upset and Harry tightens his arms around him for a bit just in case he needs a hug. Mr Wright didn’t usually sound like he needed a hug, but Merlin does sometimes and Harry doesn’t mind since he likes hugs too. “I’ll have a talk with Salazar about it, he should be able to tell me where his painting is located in the castle. As for the others, they’re also in the Slytherin vault, probably next to where Sal was. There’s also a set of accessible paintings for them in the Slytherin castle and another one with Leon, wherever he is.”

Harry sits up in a flash, hitting his head on his dad’s chin without meaning to and wincing a little but not enough to make his eyes any less wide, “Leon! Can I meet him?” he begs, doing his best attempt at puppy eyes, “Please? Where is he?”

His dad rubs his chin where Harry hit it, looking amused instead of upset, “I’m not sure, but we can find out after I get my magic back,” he tells him, “better not delay another weekend. I’ll make do with some of rune-work until then but it’s not the best alternative.”

“Can he teach me to be a knight?” Harry asks, already leaning back again, this time to put his head on Merlin’s lap. His dad holds him up before he manages to with one hand but it’s just to cross his legs and put a pillow in the middle and then he lets Harry fall on it with a smile.

“Maybe,” he says, and Harry grins at the thought of using a real sword like the knights in the storybooks. He can’t wait.

“D’you miss being Mr Wright?” he asks, because being Merlin sounds so much more fun. He gets to go to a lot of magic schools and meet so many people and have a forever knight friend! Mr Wright was cool, he saved Harry from the Dursleys and wanted to be his dad first, but being a solicitor isn’t as cool as all the stories he’s heard about Merlin so far even if he did help a lot of people with his work.

“I little,” his dad says but it’s so low he almost doesn’t hear it. “But I’d rather be able to protect you with my knowledge and magic than go back to forgetting it all again,” a hand brushes softly through his hair and Harry closes his eyes for a bit, trying to think of more questions.

They open full of curiosity a moment later after he realises Merlin’s been alive for all the stuff he’s heard about in his history class. “Dad, did you meet the Queen?”

Merlin huffs out a laugh, “Which one?”

Chapter Text

November 30th, 1988

As far as Wednesdays go, Merlin’s was turning out to be a pretty good one. He’d dropped Harry off at school, stopping to talk to a few teachers about any missed work from the day before – nothing much, he’d pass it on to Harry when he came back from school – and thanking them for the understanding with the assurance that yes , his son was feeling much better already. He’d endured with waning patience every quip and jab about the need for a female influence in his son’s life – a young English teacher was particularly insistent and it was slowly becoming more annoying than amusing – and finally made his way back to the house.

There was little room for regret in regards to letting Harry skip school the day before, their talk – or more accurately their long game of more-than-twenty questions – had been a necessary one, on both ends. Michael knew Harry, from observation and cohabitation, but Merlin had felt the need to create some memories for himself, and his son had clearly needed the assurance that he was not going anywhere and the freedom to ask anything that came to mind in order to get to know Merlin as more than someone that has Michael’s memories. All in all, he thinks they’re both much better for it, even if certain questions had skirted around painful memories.

“I take it you’ve finally talked to Harry?” Sal quips as soon as he enters his office and Merlin only nods in reply. “Good,” there’s a short pause before the portrait chuckles, “you have a kid ,” he says as if it’s only now dawned on him. “Somehow I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Perhaps because I assured you it would never happen,” Merlin reminds his brother with a pointed look, “repeatedly and at length.”

“Yet you and Helga still loved to try,” the teasing reminder – an awfully overused one at that – earns the portrait a glare and a roll of his eyes, but somehow the memories it brings up don’t hurt quite as much as they used to. “Well, what are your plans now? I’m sure having your memories back has changed them.”

“No more courts, for one,” he informs the portrait, moving from the centre of the room toward his desk and grabbing a notepad as well as a pencil before walking toward his closed door. “I’m sure there are other solicitors around willing to do the job. I need to focus on Harry, not be worrying about deadlines,” he opens the door and narrows his eyes at the top of its frame, finding nothing, which is both good and frustrating. He grabs the pencil and sketches a revealing rune over the deceivingly clear wood, lips twitching up at the corner in satisfaction when it works as intended, turning the sound-sealing array visible. “I’ll need a way to use magic once I have it, but all of my ideas inevitably converge into a headache,” he adds, sketching the array into his notepad before erasing the revealing rune and letting the hidden runes fade back into the wood. Just by reading the array, he can tell the corresponding rune carved on top of the door, saving him the time of climbing up something to search for it. “Too many people know I’m a squib, suddenly having magic would be highly suspicious.”

“Do they know you’re a squib, or know you think you’re a squib?” Sal points out as he closes the door behind himself, satisfied with the knowledge that the silencing seal won’t interfere with any other rune work he decides to apply to the office. “Surely no one’s proved it personally?”

Merlin pauses mid-sketch, realizing that his brother is annoyingly right. “Huh,” he hums and erases a rune that would clash against the effect he needs, thoughts swirling two ways as he keeps drafting seals. “They haven’t, Narcissa simply assumed my status and I sort of ran with it,” he admits with a shrug, “I suppose that’s easier to explain, then. Maybe I missed my letter?”

“With your baby-in-doorway scheme, there’s no way to guarantee you would have been in the Book of Admittance in the first place,” Sal adds. “Easy enough to get mistaken for a Squib if you’ve never known better.”

He nods in agreement, wondering if something of the like has actually happened before. “And the search for Harry’s wand is as good an excuse as any for finding out I do have magic,” he continues the thought, finding it much better than having to erase minds or change memories to let him protect Harry properly. Of course, he could always play the fool and use his magic in secret, but it would feel too close to the past for comfort.

“It should work well enough,” his brother agrees, “any other details are no one else’s business in the first place.”

“Ms Ch- Lei might not buy it.” That woman is a sharp one. “And Dahlia knows there’s something about my core, though it can’t quite be linked to being a squib if she decides to test it, I think.” he tilts his head slightly, frowning at the runic array he’s come up with. It could work… might as well test it.

“Details,” Sal waves it all away dismissively, casting an interested gaze toward where he’s crouched, scribbling on the side of his desk with a pencil. “What are you doing down there?”

“Hm?” It takes his brain a moment to register the question, “I’ve got to teach Harry magic somewhere , might as well make it as safe as possible,” he finishes his work and stands, moving over to one of the desk drawers and pulling a thin wooden band out of it. His old wand hadn’t been the only thing he’d retrieved in the Slytherin vault.

It’s a simple-looking ring, something Ash had come up with before dying and Merlin had ended up reworking later for a few Squibs under his tutelage. The band is small and slightly thicker than a wedding ring, made out of Hazelwood and carved with runes on its inner and outer sides. He slides it into his left little finger and touches it to the recently drawn array near the desk, watching as it glimmers slightly with the contact. It should work fine… but just in case.

“Where are you going?” Sal asks as he crosses the room toward the door, sounding amused.

He smiles over his shoulder at the portrait, “Gotta test something, I need matches!”

Harry goes up the stairs so fast he almost skips a few steps when Merlin tells him it’s time to have a magic class. He’ll get to do magic on purpose, and the cool eye-glowy kind too! He gets into the office right behind his dad, trying not to jump in place, looking around for the wand box and spotting it on the desk next to a candle, which makes him hurry over to get it.

“Slow down,” his dad tells him with a chuckle once he’s got the wand in hand, and Harry just smiles sheepishly up at him since he doesn’t sound upset. “Alright, let’s sit down, the rug’s fine,” they both sit down on it with crisscrossed legs before he continues, “Still remember the spell Sal taught you?”

Harry looks over at Mr Salazar but he doesn’t say anything to help, so he has to think back before he can remember, “Leoth?” he asks, not too sure of it.

“ Leoht ,” Merlin corrects. “It means light, and I want you to do it again. Just think about that sphere of light, like last time.”

Harry nods, not wanting to disappoint, and holds up his wand. “ Leoht ,” like last time, a little ball of light appears next to the tip of his wand, floating bright like it’s a big firefly.

“Now try to pick it up with your other hand,” Merlin says, and Harry looks away from it to stare up at his dad, but he just looks like he’s waiting so Harry shrugs and does it, reaching over and trying to grab the light. It doesn’t feel like grabbing a lamp or a bug, more like when he moves his hand underwater in the bathtub, it’s not really grabbing anything but he still feels it a little bit, but then he moves his hand away from the wand and the little light goes out. “Again,” Dad says when Harry looks up.

“Merlin,” Mr Salazar calls from the portrait but Harry doesn’t pay attention, trying the spell again, and then- nothing. He can’t grab the light!

He casts it again, trying to feel what’s happening the way he feels when his magic just pushes by accident, but it’s not really pushing into the wand, it’s a bit like the wand is the one pulling , and his other hand isn’t doing anything at all when he tries to grab the light. Maybe it should be? He thinks and tries to push a little bit of magic into his hand when he grabs the light, and- “Whoa!” he scoots back on the rug, dropping the light and covering his eyes with one arm until the brightness is gone.

When he blinks his eyes open again, Mr Salazar’s eyes are a little wide and his dad is grinning, “Well done!” he tells him and Harry can’t help grinning right back, “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to, but I’m glad to be wrong”

Harry blinks, “I wasn’t s’pposed to?”

“Sal couldn’t,” Merlin explains with a glance at the painting, “but I didn’t adopt him , they adopted me , so I had to be sure, and I’m glad I checked.” he stands up and goes to his desk, grabbing the candle Harry had seen next to the wand box and bringing it back to put it on the floor in front of him. “Because if you can keep that spell going without the wand, even overpower it, that means you can do without it.” he holds out a hand, looking at the wand.

He doesn’t really want to give it up, it feels nice to have it with him, but if his dad says he can do magic without it… he’s gotta try.

“What do I do?” He asks after handing it over, looking down at the candle. Is it a fire spell? Can he spit fire like a dragon? That would be wicked!

“First let’s practice how to say it,” Merlin replies, “the spell is onǣl, it’s meant to set fire to the candlewick,” Harry repeats it a few times until his dad says he’s got it right, “now I want you to look at the candle and imagine how it’s supposed to look when it’s lit. It might help to put your hands like this,” he moves Harry’s hands so it’s like he’s holding the air around the candle from a distance, “but not too close, don’t want to burn yourself,” he frowns slightly and holds up a hand, “actually…” he walks over to the desk again before coming back with a pen, “here,” he turns Harry’s palm up and writes something on it. It just looks like a bunch of crossed lines to Harry, but Merlin nods to himself before sitting back down on the other side of the candle. “Good, now try the spell. The important part is visualizing it, don’t try feeding it magic like the light.”

It takes around seven tries for Harry to get a tiny little flame, and it’s gone just as fast as it came. He doesn’t know if he’s happy or annoyed when it happens, it’s so much work! He thought they’d all be like the light spell, and did that one on his first try. When he says that, Dad tells him it’s harder without the wand at the start, but he needs the control so he won’t have any dangerous accidents with his different magic, so he gets back to practising.

“Good job!” Merlin says when the flame stays long enough to actually light the wick and keep itself alive. Then he blows on it, undoing all of Harry’s work, then chuckling at the face he knows he’s making. “Sorry, but it needs to be gone for you to keep going,” he reminds him when Harry’s still glaring. “How about changing things up? It’s still the same spell, but you say Igni instead.”

“That’s… fire, right?” Harry asks, recognizing the Latin word. “But- isn’t it s’pposed to be Old English?”

Dad shakes his head slightly, “Magic doesn’t speak a language,” he says, going back to sounding like one of Harry’s school teachers. “Magic users do. You could cast the same spell in Chinese, French, or even English after enough practice. Or did you think Japanese wizards had to learn Latin to do magic?” Harry just shrugs since he hasn’t really thought about it much. “Most of the spells I learned were in Old English because it was the spoken language at the time. It wasn’t old. ” he jokes and Harry chuckles. “But another thing about magic is that it works a lot through repetition, kind of- hm.” He stops to think for a moment and Harry leans in a little, curious about what he’s trying to explain. “Imagine there’s a big restaurant, and they get a new cook in the kitchen who’s going to make your food every time you order it. If you ask for something that’s already on the menu and the restaurant’s been doing it for a long time, the new cook will have less trouble making it and soon enough he’ll have enough practice with the dish that he won’t even need to read the recipe anymore. Now, if you walk into the restaurant and ask for something they’ve never cooked before, it’ll take a long time until they get your order exactly right.”

Harry frowns slightly, thinking hard about it. “So… the spells you tell me are stuff that’s used a lot, so magic already knows what to do when I say it?”

“That’s right,” Dad smiles and Harry sits up a bit straighter at getting it right. “It still needs to get used to you , but it’s a lot easier when it already knows what it should be doing,” Harry nods, he’s got that part now. “That’s why I think the Latin spell might be better,” Merlin’s smile turns a little sad, “it’s been a long time since people stopped casting the spells I learned, but the Latin is still around.”

What he doesn’t say, Harry realizes, is that all the people who used his spells are dead now. “I wanna learn it in Old Engish,” he decides, smiling up at his dad. “It’s better if people don’t know what I’m saying anyway… right?” he glances at Mr Salazar’s painting, who’d been the one to tell him that the other day, and catches the man smiling down at them.

His dad grins at him and Harry can’t see the sad in his face anymore, so he doesn’t regret the choice at all even if he’ll have to learn a whole other language. “That’s very smart thinking,” he praises and Harry doesn’t feel too bad for not saying he stole the idea from Mr Salazar. “Old English it is, then. Let’s get back to it.”

December 2nd, 1988

When a familiar owl flies through his office’s open window with an unfamiliar newspaper in its claws, Merlin already knows it won’t be anything good. Once he unfolds what is apparently that day’s edition of the Daily Prophet and runs his eyes over the cover article, he is quickly proven right.

THE BOY-WHO-LIVED, but WITH WHOM?

In a twist as bewildering as a befuddlement charm, the wizarding world remains in the dark about the life of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, thanks to the secretive dealings of his guardian, Michael Wright – not the name of a wizard, as one would expect, but a Squib who only recently discovered the existence of the magical world. This revelation comes on the heels of my own refusal to sign an exclusivity contract that would have muzzled the truth and stifled the voice of true journalism.

Mr Wright, astonishingly lacking magical abilities despite his custody of our young hero, attempted to restrict the flow of information with a contract more binding than an Unbreakable Vow. Naturally, this intrepid reporter will not be silenced by such draconian measures. The public has a right to know about the boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and I intend to deliver the truth, unfettered by the constraints of a Squib’s censure.

He sets the article down with a groan of annoyance, not reading any more of it. He had expected that woman to cause some problems, but not quite this soon.

“Bad news?” Sal asks, casting a curious gaze towards the newspaper.

“Bad reporter too,” Merlin agrees with a sigh. “Rita Skeeter decided that the magical community simply must read all about her speculations around myself and Harry,” he gives the rest of the article a second look with a deepening frown. “How did she even get some of this information?” He wonders aloud, focusing on a particular paragraph.

In a development that has set tongues wagging across the wizarding community, it has come to light that the reading of the Potters’ wills is finally set to take place soon. This revelation raises many questions: Why has it taken so long for the wills to be read? What secrets might they contain about Harry’s rightful guardianship and his future in the magical world?

Speculation abounds. Some suggest that the delay in the will reading was due to complex enchantments or protective measures placed by James and Lily Potter, intended to safeguard their son in the event of their untimely demise. Others whisper of bureaucratic inertia within the Ministry of Magic or even deliberate obfuscation by those with vested interests in Harry’s fate.

 

She does a good job of injecting intrigue, he’ll admit that, and her fact-collecting would be almost impressive if it wasn’t at the expense of an eight-year-old’s right to privacy. Besides that, all correspondence regarding the will reading was supposed to be tamper-proof, so she’s either managed to intercept a letter – unlikely but not impossible as he has yet to receive all confirmations – or one of the beneficiaries has leaked the news of the reading, though he can’t possibly imagine for what purpose.

Merlin grabs a piece of paper and a pen, intent on writing to Chang and figuring out what to do about the issue as soon as possible, but a quick thought has him checking the receiving compartment of his letterbox to find a letter from the woman waiting for him already.

Hopefully, whatever reaction magical Britain has to the article will have died down in a week.

“Stay tuned for further updates as I continue to delve into this perplexing saga, peeling back the layers of secrecy that surround young Harry Potter.” Ms Lei reads from the newspaper and puts it down on the table of her office, where he and his dad have been for the last ten minutes since flooing over after lunch. She scoffs, waving her wand at the paper and making it cut out the front page from the rest of it, folding it and setting it down on an open drawer, “the only update she’ll find is a lawsuit for interfering with the life of a minor. This just painted a target on your back,” she tells his dad.

“Can’t be helped now,” Dad shrugs, “but we’ll go ahead with the suit if only to discourage more speculation.”

Harry frowns, shifting from his place on the couch, “She should say sorry,” he insists, remembering some lines from the article. “She was mean, and said you have li-mi-ta-tions and shouldn’t be my dad!”

Merlin shakes his head, “I doubt we’ll get a retraction,” Harry doesn’t know that word but figures it’s a fancy way to say apology. “But maybe a call to Limus is in order?”

“She means to throw you into the spotlight, you’ll be playing into it with a responding article,” Ms Lei warns. “But putting your voice out there could be useful… maybe after the reading? It’ll be enough time not to look like a hasty reaction, and raise less speculations of retribution.”

Harry sees them not do each other and slides off the couch, “So… can I go fly with Cho now?”

They chuckle and Ms Lei waves him away with a smile, “Go on, she’s in the library.”

He runs out of the room with a grin. Let the adults figure out the adult things, he’ll be having fun instead!

Chapter Text

December 3rd, 1988

The room he steps into the moment he’s out of the floo isn’t like others he’s seen before. Gone are the modern touches of the Changs or the delicate furniture of Glacial Garden, instead in its place he finds dark hardwood floors that match the tone of the walls and ceiling, both equally lacking in colour and only revealing a purplish tone to their black hue due to the sun rays shining through the gothic-style windows. If he wasn’t already dressed in one of his work suits and wearing a simple open wizarding robe on top of that, he might have felt underdressed for the location.

He had planned on being accompanied by Chang, but an emergency at her office left him to brave the meeting on his own. A small change of plans, but a significant one.

“Master Lord Black is waiting,” a squeaky voice informs and he barely catches sight of an ancient-looking house elf – is it wearing a pillowcase? - before it starts leading the way out of the room.

The path to wherever the man is turns out to be no less opulent than the flooring room, spiralling pillars of dark wood and dark ceilings decorated with large candle chandeliers, furniture in dark woods with details in purple, blue or green, and a long flight of stairs leading to the meeting point, which is apparently the master bedroom.

He holds his judgement until the door opens and is glad for it when, stepping into the bedroom, his eyes meet the tired grey ones of the sickly man on the bed. “Lord Black,” he greets with a polite bow.

The man in the bed is old, but not nearly as advanced in age as he knows wizards can be – for all that his hair and beard are completely white, his skin doesn’t seem to show the years he would expect on someone bedridden for it – so Merlin has to attribute the sallow skin and seeming inability to get out of bed to some sort of sickness. Still, he chooses not to ask.

“Wright,” the greeting is half sneered and he holds back a resigned sight, already starting to reap the issues sowed by Skeeter’s article. “My solicitor looked into what you sent me. It would seem my House’s Heir has been imprisoned for seven years without a trial,” there’s a short pause during which he can feel the man’s eyes assessing him, “but you already knew that. What exactly do you expect to come from this?”

“Justice,” he’s quick to reply, earning a scoff from the bedridden wizard.

“Might want to come up with something more tangible,” the man advises mockingly, “I refuse to owe a debt to a Squib .”

It takes a monumental effort for Merlin not to roll his eyes, “Was this the conversation we would have had before that article or does my supposed status entirely blind you?” he feels the need to ask, wondering if this delay to the retrieval of his magic would be a complete waste of time.

“ Supposed status?” The man arches one brow imperiously as if waiting to be proved wrong, and he figures it would be impolite not to comply.

Merlin doesn’t have his magic, not really, but he does have several years of experience living as a squib during certain previous lifetimes, and he’s come up with ingenious ways to use magic in some of them, one of which is the wand he takes out of his robe’s pocket at the silent taunt, a little tool he’d retrieved in the bank before making his way over. Something of a prototype instead of a true wand, lacking a being-based magical core of its own, but the wooden stick – dark, smooth and much better carved than his initial wand – is covered in runes for energy retention and precise means of redistribution.

A small cracking noise gives away a house elf’s presence somewhere in the room, but it doesn’t show itself, which tells him that the room is most likely warded so no harm will befall the Black Lord. He pays it no mind, having intended no harm from the beginning, and points the makeshift wand at the cup of water on the nightstand. Making sure his thumb is pressing into the correct rune on the handle, he pointedly flicks the carved stick and watches as the cup floats for a few moments before setting it back down with no loss of its content.

That should do it, Merlin thinks as he pockets his ‘wand’ once again. A completely silent levitation spell, as far as the man will be able to tell. It ought to prove his point better than any insistence on the value of Squibs would since he’s learned over the years that prejudice can’t always be fought with logic, as it doesn’t quite originate from a place of intelligence.

To his credit, Lord Black doesn’t let the surprise show on his face for more than a short moment. “And why has the paper not printed a retraction yet? Such accusations can’t be left to fester.”

He lets a small smirk twist his expression, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to give anything away before the lawsuit.” it’s not even a lie, he and Chang are working on a suit, but not quite due to the papers referring to him as a Squib.

Lord Black nods approvingly, seeming to understand Merlin’s supposed plan. “it’s your own business,” he decides, putting an end to that particular subject. “But I did mean to offer you something for the information, my House inevitably owes you for it,” a small sigh betrays the man’s displeasure with the fact. “Even if he refuses to act like it, the boy is the Heir to the House of Black.”

With prejudices out of the way, the meeting becomes much more civilised, and Merlin manages to wrangle a vow that Harry – Dorea’s grandchild, Lord Black recalls with a slightly fond tone – will remain the appointed Black Heir after Sirius, only to be removed if the man turns out to be innocent and ends up having a child since the last thing the Lord seems to want is his House’s power and fortune within reach of the Malfoy heir. Merlin also garners enough respect to be invited to call the man Arcturus instead of Lord Black – though he doesn’t take any pride in earning a bigot’s regard besides its usefulness – and floos back home satisfied with the results, a little glad for the lack of Chang’s presence since it would have stopped him from trying that particular ‘wand’ trick.

“Now there’s something I haven’t seen in a long time,” Sal comments once he enters the office, already slipping out of the wizarding robes and draping them over his chair. “Rifled through my wardrobe recently?”

“Not like you can wear it,” Merlin points out with a shrug, running a hand over the soft fabric. The black and silver robes are quite simple, something their mother had gifted them ages ago on one of their birthdays, and once Merlin’s had been irreparably damaged after a duel, he’d sneakily attained Salazar’s instead. “Besides, you didn’t notice it missing,” he adds with a sheepish smile, very aware that it’s not the first or last of his brother’s garments that he’d appropriated over the years.

“Just because I didn’t say it doesn’t mean I didn’t notice,” Sal rebuts in good humour, “I know you love those flimsy fabrics with no protection whatsoever,” Merlin rolls his eyes at the familiar argument from the man who always preferred heavy leathers and enchanted cloaks. “Well, how did it go?”

“As well as it could have,” he pointedly fishes the rune ‘wand’ from its pocket, earning a knowing look from the portrait. “Mostly a matter of settling debts. I tried securing Harry’s place as the heir, he could use the protection.”

“Being Heir to two houses can also put a target on his back,” Sal unhelpfully reminds him.

“He would be that anyway. Potter and Slytherin, remember?” He puts the ‘wand’ into a drawer and touches his ring to the rune drawn by the handle in order to lock it. “Adding Black into the mix won’t widen the target much, but it’ll be significant once he grows up. All of this is speculation anyways,” he waves the subject away dismissively, “Black, Sirius that is, could still prove to be innocent and end up providing an Heir, I just made sure Harry continues to be the primary option otherwise.”

“If you think that’s best,” Sal states, annoyingly noncommittal.

December 4th, 1988

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Harry asks when his dad tells him that his tutor is here to meet him.

Merlin told him when he left for the Leaky Cauldron that he was meeting with his tutor to sign the paperwork – some stuff that wouldn’t let him share their secrets like the gold magic and Mr Salazar’s portrait – and then bringing him here for Harry to meet before their classes start, so he’d spent all this time thinking about what his tutor would be like.

“Impossible,” Dad messes up his hair and Harry doesn’t even try to fix it, it’s always messy unless he changes it anyway. “Come on, we don’t want to keep him waiting.” They suddenly stop before making it to the stairs and Harry looks up in question. “If you don’t like him, we can always find someone else,” Merlin tells him in a serious tone, “but how about we give it a chance first?”

That makes him feel a little better and he nods, following his dad out of the bedroom and down to the living room where a man is sitting on the couch but stands up just as they walk closer. He looks old like Marie but his hair – that goes down to his shoulders – and beard are the same colour as Ms Sarah’s, except a bit more orange, and he’s wearing clothes like the ones he sees wizards in Diagon Alley, that look like a dress but not those tight ones. They call it robes , he remembers.

“This must be my student,” The man says and Harry hides behind his dad’s legs. He’s got a deep voice, kind of like Uncle Vernon’s, and he’s big . What if he does something wrong in class and makes him mad?

“Harry, this is Ignatius Prewett,” Merlin introduces, reaching for Harry behind him and lightly pushing him forward with a smile, “Ignatius, this is Harry Potter, my son.”

“Well met, Heir Potter,” Mr Prewett greets, giving a short bow.

Harry gives one of his own, already used to it, but fumbles a bit at the greeting, “Well met, uh- Lord Prewett?”

“That would be my older brother Braylon,” Mr Prewett corrects with a smile, “Just Mr Prewett’s fine, lad. Master Prewett if ye knew I have a mastery and wanted to be more polite, but we’ll get into that during lessons, won’t we?”

He nods, offering a slight smile back, noticing Mr Prewett doesn’t look as scary when he’s smiling, especially when he sits back down and stops looking so tall – he’s taller than Dad!

“Right, there’s no class today,” Merlin assures, taking a seat too, and Harry kind of wants to climb onto his lap – Mr Prewett isn’t as scary as before but he’s still a little bit scary – but sits down as close to his dad as possible instead. “This meeting is just so we can get to know each other better and Mr Prewett can tell us what to expect from the lessons, which will start tomorrow.”

“‘Kay,” he nods with a little frown. He’d already forgotten about that, but… dad would be there. It would be fine.

“Ain’t no need to look so glum,” Mr Prewett said, making Harry’s cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “We’ll have a fair share of fun, lad. I’ve got some nifty spells to teach ya.”

December 5th, 1988

“You’re sure here’s fine to practice?” Merlin holds back a sigh at Ignatius’ questioning tone as the man looks around the guestroom he’d turned into their tutoring room.

He could hardly have the man poking around the books in his office or Sal’s painting still hanging there, secrecy contract or not. Instead, he’d pulled an all-nighter and magic-proofed one of his guest rooms, setting up a dresser as a desk and stealing a few chairs from around the house for them. He didn’t have a blackboard, but he’d trusted Prewett to make do. The bed had been put away with a storage rune array since he couldn’t very well get it out of the room on his own, and everything else had been left mostly as it was.

“Cast something at the wall,” he suggests to hurry things along, earning curious looks from his son and the tutor.

Prewett pulls out his wand and casts a silent spell, though the wand movement and flash of light green give it away as the severing charm. It hits the wall, as intended, but doesn’t affect it at all. “How-?”

“Runes,” he can’t quite keep a slight smirk from showing in his expression, “I’ve been reading,” he adds in response to the man’s surprise. “I figured you’d be able to transfigure whatever else was needed? I’ll have something set up by the next lesson, it’s just been a busy couple of days.”

The man only hums, eyes still on the unharmed wall. “May I see the array?” He asks eventually, and Merlin shrugs but complies, grabbing a pencil from the materials assembled over the makeshift desk and sketching a revealing rune in the centre of the wall, making the array visible. Prewett’s eyebrows nearly rise to his hairline, “Huh, my wife might enjoy talkin’ to ya.”

He takes a small eraser and does away with the revealing rune, letting the array vanish back into the wall. Ignatius sends him a long look but he feigns ignorance of it. “So, will this do?”

The other man lets out an amused huff, “It sure will,” he points his wand at the trunk by the wall and transfigures it into an additional table, moving it toward the two chairs Merlin had put aside for himself and Harry. “Sit down then, we ought to get started.”

“I have to know all of them?” Harry whines at the list of names Mr Prewett puts in front of them.

“Eventually,” Mr Prewett chuckles, “but your dad has to if he wants to avoid more Prophet appearances. Wouldn’t want to disrespect the wrong Lords or Ladies,” Harry sees his dad nod and narrows his eyes at the book.

“I’mma learn it too ,” he tells Mr Prewett, who just nods.

He doesn’t want the people from the papers saying his dad shouldn’t be his dad if he doesn’t know the names of who’s the head and who’s the heir of all the important houses in the magic government.

“Can ya dance?” Ignatius asks, looking at Harry.

“Like in musical chairs?” His son asks, confused.

“I can teach him,” Merlin informs since he’s familiar with a fair amount of styles. At Prewett’s curious look, he explains, “My parents were invited to many events, I had to learn early.”

He doesn’t like the mischievous look that enters the man’s eyes at that. “Ain’t no trouble with testing your knowledge, then?”

When Merlin ends up getting twirled around for a couple of minutes by the amused redhead, Harry’s laughter makes it all worth it. That doesn’t mean he won’t rope Hermione or Cho into their future dance lessons so they can step on his son’s little feet. Only because he’ll have to learn how to lead, of course, and not for a chance to get back at an eight-year-old for laughing at him.

December 7th, 1988

“Penicillos!” Harry nearly yells, standing in front of the mirror and pointing the wand at his open mouth, immediately pouting when it doesn’t work for the fifth time.

“Almost. It’s penicillos , like in chi cken,” Mr Prewett corrects with an encouraging nod, “and no need to open your mouth that much, the incantation already ends with it open, just don’t close it.”

He nods, cheeks reddening a bit at having looked like a snake trying to eat his wand for nothing, then tries again. “Penicillos!” He coughs, almost choking in surprise when something a bit cold goes through his whole mouth like he’s just swished some cold water around on it. His teeth feel a bit weird when he rubs his tongue on the back of them. “I did it?”

“Don’t think this gets you out of using an actual toothbrush,” his dad warns 

“But isn’t the spell s'posed to do it?” His son complains, frowning at the mirror where he’s trying to replicate the knot they’ve been teaching him.

“Remember how you have to imagine the spells?” Merlin cuts in to explain and Harry nods. “Well, how can you imagine tying a tie if you’ve never done it? Here, let me show you again,” he calls his son over.

“You’ll learn more knots as you grow, but this one should be fine for now,” Ignatius adds, watching from the side. “When you can do it a few times in the mirror, we can try the spell.”

It takes almost twenty minutes and some more pouting but Harry eventually seems to memorise the sequence of movements, grinning victoriously at them when he has a near-perfect knot for the fourth time in a row.

“Can I try the spell?” He asks when they make him do it at least one more time to prove he’s got it.

“Alright, come see the wand movement,” Prewett motions for him to come closer, “it’s a circle, you start at the top and go back to it, then jab it down like you’re pulling the tie, and you’ve got to aim at it,” he demonstrates, then undoes his own tie before pointing his wand at it and doing the movement as he calls out the spell for Harry’s benefit. “Focale ligare,” the fabric around his neck swiftly twists itself into a perfect Windsor knot.

Merlin kind of wishes he’d learned that one himself, a few centuries ago.

“Not everything you wear will be dirt-repellant or have self-cleaning charms,” Mr Prewett explains, “even in the wizarding world, most of the enchantments on clothes are to make them grow with you or shrink to fit. The Impervious charm is an option, but it’s mostly used to make things waterproof and that unfortunately includes sweat, so don’t use it on clothes unless you want them to be unbreathable.” He makes a face like he learned it from experience and Harry holds back a chuckle. “This one makes things not want to stick to whatever you cast it on instead, so if you step on a puddle and then out of it, your shoes will be dry.”

“Cool,” Harry admits, wishing he had something like that for when Dudley used to throw him into the mud and he’d have to wash his clothes on the hose outside so he didn’t make the house dirty.

“No wand movement to this one,” Mr Prewett adds and Harry cheers in his mind because remembering those is hard . “You just touch the tip of the wand to the thing and- nonaffigo,” he taps a book on the desk in front of him.

“Did it work?” Harry leans over to see if there’s anything different about the book, but it looks the same.

“Let’s see,” Mr Prewett grabs the cup of water he’d been sipping from and tilts it so some of the water hits the book, but it doesn’t wet the pages and just slides off it instead, pooling at the desk. He waves his wand at the water and it vanishes. “Now why don’t you give it a try?”

He nods, picking up his wand and touching his shirt with it instead since he didn’t want to try it on his books in case it didn’t work. It takes a few tries to say it right, but when Mr Prewett says it’s good, he tries again. “Nonaffigo! ” he pokes the sleeve of his shirt. It kind of feels like the magic did something but he’s not sure, “uh-” he looks around, but there’s no cup of water next to him since he wasn’t drinking any.

“ Aguamenti ,” he hears Mr Prewett say and yelps when a spray of water hits him and soaks his hair and his clothes. “Oops,” his tutor grins when he glares at him and at his dad who looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “I guess I should teach you the hair-drying spell too.”

December 9th, 1988

“This one’s got stars!” His son points at one of the drawings in the book, looking intrigued. “Can they move? Glow in the dark?”

Ignatius chuckles, “If you want it, sure. That’s the beauty of the pointy hat,” he pats the design book he’d brought along, “long or short, curved or straight, brimmed or brimless, if it’s a pointy hat then wear it with pride, it’s the mark of any witch or wizard!” An annoyed huff follows the enthusiastic exclamation, “I ain’t got much against muggle-borns, but they ought to stop trying to change our traditions just because they’re not confident enough to take part,” he leans back on the chair, “you don’t go up to a Mahoutokoro exchange student and tell him his kimono is outdated and to put on some western clothes, do ya?”

Harry hurriedly shakes his head and Merlin gives the man a warning look, but it goes unnoticed when his son asks, “Exchange student?” with a curious tone.

“Hogwarts has a program with other schools,” Prewett explains, “Got suspended after the last war took off but I hear it’s been up and runnin’ again for a few years now. Fourth years only though, since they’ve had a year of electives but are a year away from their OWLS. A student from another school comes to Hogwarts for six months to a year and one of ours goes over there. I had an Ilvermorny boy in my year, a shy little thing. Tried to go unnoticed but the accent gave him away every time.”

“Can I go?” Harry asks him, looking excited about it already. That’s one way to go to two schools, he supposes.

Merlin smiles, “Maybe wait until you’re at Hogwarts to start thinking about it,” he suggests and Harry nods distractedly, already looking back at the wizard clothing catalogue.

He looks at the design his son was staring at and chuckles, remembering a few of the hats he has stored in his vault, one of which is a red-feathered mess that always reminds him of Camelot’s servants' ceremonial robes. It was, unsurprisingly, a gift from Godric. Salazar had laughed for ten minutes straight when he wore it, but Helga said it looked fetching so he didn’t really mind.

“For now,” Ignatius interrupts, “you need a wizard hat, and a few robes to go with it, lad.” He lightly poked Harry’s head.

Harry’s eyes light up at that, “Can I have the stars?”

“It’s kinda like a dress,” Harry twirls around in the plain black robes his tutor had turned his shirt into, watching it puff up slightly with air.

“Careful, you’ll get sick,” Dad warns when he stops and almost falls on his butt.

“Witches and wizards of all ages wear robes,” Mr Prewett informs. “I know it’s not what muggles do, but it’s what we do,” he stands and turns to show his own clothes, opening his cloak a bit. The robes under the pretty blue and red cloak are a shiny grey that’s almost silver and looks pretty soft, and it’s shaped a bit like what he transfigured Harry’s clothes into except they’re not as loose. He still thinks it looks like a dress, but doesn’t say anything. “There’s a variety of styles and fabrics to choose from, to wear with a cloak or not, and many variations have been adapted to include some more… muggle-like styles,” he huffs. “What ya need for sure is a formal set to match the hat, in case you’re invited to any events. We don’t wan’ any reporters saying your dad can’t even dress you like a proper wizard, do we?”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head with a frown at the thought of that old newspaper. Reporters are mean.

“Events like the will reading?” Dad asks, and Mr Prewett nods.

“Would be best,” his tutor says, “The Potters are an old name, the wee one’s representing them all now.”

Harry wrinkles his nose at being called little but doesn’t complain out loud, “That’s tomorrow though!” he says instead, figuring that’s a bit of a problem.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Merlin assures him with a wink, so Harry figures he doesn’t need to worry about it.

“Careful,” Merlin tries not to wince at the strength his son applies to the wand with the soft cloth.

“Ya dad’s right, don’t be too rough with it,” Ignatius thankfully backs up his warning. “Wands are sturdy but not unbreakable, something kids forget when they run around with them in their pockets.”

“Sorry,” Harry mutters, reducing his enthusiastic movements.

“Didn’t break, no harm done,” Prewett assures. “You’ll do that once a week, you take care of the wand and it takes care of you. And better get yourself a holster, no wands in pockets, ya hear?”

“Yessir,” his son nods and he does the same at the man’s look, since he’ll be the one to buy it.

He probably has something usable in his vault, it’s where he’ll get the robes for the reading so it won’t take much effort to look into it too. Not that Harry’s allowed to carry a wand, but he should probably take his prototype rune wand with him just in case, there’s no such thing as too many safety measures after all.

Not that he thinks something might happen at the will reading, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

Chapter Text

December 10th, 1988

Harry’s a little bit nervous about the will reading. He was a lot more nervous, but Merlin had taken him to Diagon Alley just after lunch – over two hours before the reading – so they could look through the stores and the Slytherin vault for something more wizard-like to wear. Dad couldn’t disguise himself like Harry though, so they tried to be quick on the shops they did go into. After getting cool-looking boots that the witch at the store said were made of dragon skin – Harry was upset about it until the witch and his dad assured him it was from dragons that already died and wixes didn’t kill them just for it – and really, really soft black robes – still looks like a dress to him but that doesn’t mean Harry doesn’t like it – that cost a lot because it’s made of some magic spider silk, they went down to the Slytherin vault to find something for his dad to wear and a cloak for him to use on top of his new wizard robes.

Looking around the closed chests and piles of clothes in the vault with his dad was kind of fun, there were a lot of different ones, not like the suits Merlin used to work or the clothes he used at home but stuff that looked like it would fit in on the streets of the Alley just fine, or in one of those mediaeval films he’d seen on TV before but Dad didn’t let him put on what he said was chainmail even after Harry said he wanted to look like a knight. They do find him a cloak though, it’s grey with slits on the sides for his arms and some pretty silver drawings on the bottom of it that look like smoke, it also shrinks to his size when he puts it on so Merlin tells him to keep it. He kind of feels like one of the dwarves from that Hobbit book.

When Dad finally finds something without snakes on it – a cloak that’s so dark blue it looks black and it even closes up at the front so it hides his suit – they go back up to the bank and let Mr Relret take them to the room where they’ll read the will. They’re the first ones there and get to sit at the end of a big empty table with a box in the middle, Mr Relret next to them explaining something to his dad, though he doesn’t catch a lot of it, distracted with all the nervousness that’s just come back now that they’re in the room.

“Harry?” Merlin calls and it takes him a second to look up at him. “Did you pay attention to Relret’s explanation?”

He looks down, cheeks heating up in embarrassment, and just shakes his head. He does look up when a hand runs through his hair and sees his dad isn’t mad about it. “Sorry,” he says anyway, realising the goblin’s gone and can’t explain it all again.

“It’s okay, you won’t have to do anything,” Dad tells him and it calms him down a bit. “The Potters left a joint will. That means your parents wrote it together, so there won’t be two different readings and just a big one,” he pauses and Harry nods to show he understands. “Relret was here to explain this,” he motions at the big wooden box. It’s bigger than his dad’s magic letterbox but not even close to the size of a trunk, and just a bit too tall to be a square. “It’s got a recording of the will in it, which means you’ll hear your parents speaking when I open the box and break the recording orb inside it,” he stares at the box, not sure if that’s nice or not, but the warning’s good so he doesn’t think his parents are really there like they were on Samhain. “People will start showing up soon, only nine of them though, and you don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

“I don’ wanna be rude,” he tells his dad with a small frown.

“If they upset you, it’s not rude to not respond,” Harry hesitates but nods. “Also, Relret said not to talk while the will is being read, so let’s try to be quiet when it’s time, okay? We can talk about it after.”

“‘Kay,” he nods again, standing from his place to look better at the box and trying to ignore how his lunch feels like it might come back up from how nervous he’s getting.

He climbs on the chair closest to it  – staying on his knees so he won’t make it dirty with his shoes – and looks down, seeing a long slit at the top made to fit something thinner than his finger. When he turns the box around – it’s a bit heavy but he’s careful – the bottom part of the front sort of looks like a drawer without a handle. He pokes at it, but it doesn’t open.

“It’ll only open when all the contracts are inside,” Merlin tells him, almost making him jump at the sound after being quiet for a few minutes. Harry nods before walking back over to where his dad’s sitting. Just in time too, because that’s when the doors start to slide open.

Merlin has a bad feeling about all this.

He thinks it’s just Harry’s nervousness rubbing off on him, even though he’s tried to calm his son down by distracting him in the Alley. They spent some time at Twilfit and Tattings, getting Harry’s measurements and ordering a couple of robes – he made sure to ask for something with stars that glow in the dark and a matching pointy hat even though it’ll probably look like the world’s most cliche outfit for a wizard – as well as getting a plain black robe for him to wear at the reading, which he figures is the appropriate colour for something related to mourning. He buys Harry some dragonhide boots – after making sure they’re ethically sourced – because they’re ridiculously durable, and a wand holster for his own forearm so he can take his rune wand out of his pocket and shut up the annoying voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Ignatius telling him off for it since they flooed out of the house.

The wand might not be of much use for delicate work – it’s not a real wand, just a similar-looking construct that can somewhat believably pass for one in very specific conditions – but it’s more defence than he’d have without it, so he slips it into the holster as soon as it’s fastened into place. He tries to memorise which rune in the handle will be facing his thumb if he draws it but inevitably forgets it a few minutes later, his mind occupied with finding something wearable in his vault.

Once they make it into Gringotts, most of the tension inside him vanishes, probably because they’re closer to the reading time. Still, there’s enough time to make their way down to the Slytherin vault. Stasis wards are his best friends, the whole explanation as to why nothing in a Gringotts vault deteriorates, and the only reason the clothes he’s stored in it don’t smell as old as they actually are. With Harry’s help, he eventually locates a cloak for his son and one for himself, though Harry’s is light and sleeveless while his own is slightly heavier – more velvet-like – and long-sleeved enough to hide the holster strapped over the suit sleeve on his forearm.

They make it to the meeting room twenty minutes before the scheduled starting time, finding it empty by design as the beneficiaries are only allowed in at the ten-minute mark. Relret – the Potter manager – explains the whole process, which he’s not familiar with but isn’t incredibly complicated, and leaves them to their devices. Once he’s explained things to Harry – who thankfully doesn’t seem as nervous as he’d been during lunch – it’s only a matter of waiting for the others to arrive. It’s not a big number of people, only nine have confirmed their presence, but a depressing number of letters hadn’t even been sent due to their recipients being deceased.

As always , he muses , war leaves no true winners.

The sound of the doors opening makes him look up from where he’d been studying his son, who is quieter than usual, not that he can blame him. His attention instantly shifts to take in the group as he stands and moves closer to the entrance to greet them, Harry following his example with just a moment’s delay.

Leading the small group is a very old man, evidenced by his snow-white hair and beard, both of which reach the middle of his torso. His flowing robes are a colourful mix of purple and yellow that he can’t quite look at for too long, and might have come off as a result of a playful personality if not for the shrewd look that meets his eyes from behind the man’s half-moon spectacles, though it’s only half a second before they’re trained on his son instead. “Harry, dear boy,” the jovial greeting makes a stark contrast against the sombre mood. “It’s good to see you again.”

Harry, for his part, doesn’t seem to recognize the man, instead stepping slightly behind Merlin with a small frown as he whispers, “Again?”

“I’m sorry, you are…?” Merlin interrupts, having an inkling but still hoping the minimal requirements for polite interaction will be followed and he’ll be provided with an introduction, especially from someone who’s chosen to speak to his son so informally.

The old wizard blinks and a small smile stretches his lips, “Of course, pardon me, I am Albus Dumbledore,” he confirms Merlin’s guess. “Allow me to introduce my fellow Hogwarts professors, Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick and Severus Snape,” he motions toward a dark–haired older woman to his right who’s watching the proceedings with pursed lips, a much shorter grey-haired man looking up from his spot slightly behind the witch, and a dark-haired man to his left that is noticeably quite younger than the other two professors.

Merlin spares the Hogwarts faculty a cursory glance, committing them to memory. The witch has her dark hair done up in braids, half-hidden by a curved hat that matches the tone of her plain forest green robes. Her posture is impeccable, a sign of confidence, but he wonders why her lips take a slight downturn when her eyes stray towards Harry. The scowling man looks familiar, and it takes a moment for Merlin to place him as the wizard he’d engaged in a debate with at the potions store during the Grangers’ visit to the Alley. He normally wouldn’t have such an easy time placing a face, but the man looks exactly the same as last time, with all-black robes and black hair pulled into a low ponytail.

Almost lost within the group, the final professor is only slightly taller than Harry, though his facial hair — a neatly trimmed moustache — keeps him from being mistaken for a child at a glance. His robes are beige and brown, though he wears no hat, and Merlin visibly notices his eyes soften behind his round glasses when he lays eyes on Harry.

These are people who care about Harry, he realises with a bitter tinge, so where have they been for the past eight years?

“Well met,” he offers a shallow bow and watches his son mumble the same greeting with a slightly deeper one, “As you may have surmised from our recent correspondence, I am Michael Wright,” he doesn’t give them time to speak before adding, “If you’d kindly take a seat so we can continue with the introductions?” he requests with a pointed look at the rest of the group behind the trio.

“Of course, let’s not dawdle,” Dumbledore agrees with a nod, leading the four towards the seats closest to the will’s storage box and clearing the way for three other guests.

A tall, severe-looking older witch introduces herself as Augusta Longbottom. She wears a very eye-catching hat which seems to hold a stuffed bird on it — is that a pheasant ? — though the colour underneath — a muted sage green — matches her heavy fur-lined robes. Her mostly grey hair is done up, the bun likely inside the hat, and only very few strands betray its original dark blond tone. Her face is closed off – she doesn’t seem glad to be here – but he doesn’t blame her for it when he remembers the reason she’s had to attend as a proxy.

Remus Lupin is the next to speak but, unlike the others, the man’s expression is visibly pained. For all his height — which Merlin estimates to be approximately the same as his own — he holds himself as if trying to occupy the least space possible in the room, hunched shoulders and slightly lowered head either brought on by the grief of the occasion or a notable lack of confidence. He’s dressed entirely muggle, a simple white shirt tucked into khaki pants and a dark brown jacket — the same colour as the man’s hair — that looks as old as the loafers on his feet.

The youngest-looking of the group tells them her name is Mary Cattermole. She has slightly past shoulder-length brown hair falling in waves, not restricted by any hairdo, and her clothes are the second most muggle-looking, a blue-toned floral dress that could be mistaken for a robe if it didn’t seem somewhat familiar and a knitted beige coat worn open over it. Her eyes are blue, and hold a tiredness to them that makes him wonder if she’s had any sleep in the past couple of nights.

Once the trio has found their seats, the two final guests step forward. Cassiopeia Black has hair as white as Dumbledore’s, though only half the length, and carries herself with a similar energy to some of Michael’s more high-paying clients. Her clothes don’t look like something from the Alley, but not entirely muggle either. The cloak over her shoulders looks like melted silver, and the long dress underneath matches the colour, though it’s less flowing metal and more ribbed satin, with some hip detail that makes him think of armour. With a raised chin and cold grey eyes, she looks like the kind of woman he’d rather not cross.

In contrast, the petite witch who introduces herself next, one Pandora Lovegood, is pale, blonde and light-eyed, which shouldn’t work with her pastel yellow ruffled robes and the brimless, cream-coloured pointy hat but it all somehow conveys a light and slightly ethereal look, which matches the not-quite-here and slightly dazed appearance. She’s the first to offer Harry a slight smile, which he’s glad to notice is reluctantly reciprocated.

Once all nine have taken their seats, though Harry still lingers slightly behind him and peering curiously at their guests, he walks back to stand by the storage box – though his messenger bag is currently occupying the seat facing it – and prepares to move on with the reading, though his mouth barely opens before he’s interrupted.

“Pardon me, but I believe we would all prefer to have some answers before proceeding” Dumbledore informs him as if that Prophet article and Dumbledore’s letters haven’t been intrusive enough, though a glance at the other guests tells him not all of them seem to agree. “How exactly did you come to be Harry’s guardian?”

“I fail to see how that’s more important than the reading of his parents’ will,” he points out, hardly about to discuss the upsetting endeavour that led to him adopting Harry in front of these strangers.

He feels his son’s hand grab the back of his robes and it only enforces his decision not to answer.

“We’re only concerned for the boy’s safety,” the Headmaster insists, “James and Lily were dear friends of mine, I can’t imagine they’d be pleased to know their son isn’t residing with family.”

“And with a Squib no less,” Longbottom interjects, face twisted in disapproval.

“Shut up!” Harry’s outburst causes eyes to widen and incredulous gasps as his son steps forward to stand by his side, though one of his hands is still clutching the fabric of his cloak. “He saved me! Stop saying bad stuff ‘bout my dad!”

“Why I never-” a few outraged comments reach his ears but Merlin doesn’t pay them any mind, looking down at Harry instead and running a hand over his hair in an attempt to calm him down.

“Harry,” he sighs when the boy only spares a glare toward the other occupants of the room before using a hug to hide his face on his cloak. “You have a right to be upset, but that wasn’t very polite,” he informs with his mouth pressed to his son’s head.

“Sorry,” it’s muffled against his clothes and he lightly pushes Harry off with a pointed look. His son caves and turns back toward the room with a pout. “Sorry, I get upset when people talk bad about my dad.”

“That man is not your father ,” Snape informs with a sneer. McGonagall’s expression betrays her agreement and  Longbottom and Lupin don’t seem very pleased either.

He tries not to smile when his son only blinks and nods in response, “I know,” he assures with the simplicity of a child who’s already decided their truth. “He’s my dad .”

Flitwick, Cattermole and Lovegood seem to understand, nodding slightly. Black simply looks entertained by the proceedings – he remembers Mrs Tonks mentioning the woman travels a lot, she probably is the most distant from the subject at hand – while Lupin and McGonagall’s faces twist like he’s personally offended them. Snape, to his credit, seems surprised enough to back down from his argument with a child, and Dumbledore’s impassive mask remains the same from the moment he entered the room.

“What did you mean, Harry, when you said he saved you?” the source of many of Michael’s past headaches continues his interrogation as if the interruption had never happened.

“You don’t have to tell them anything,” Merlin makes a point to remind him, “We’re here to listen to your parents’ will, not for people to interrogate you.”

Unfortunately, the situation seems to have roused his son’s protective streak, because he nods but still sees fit to respond. “Dad saved me from the Dursleys,” he tells, and Merlin sees McGonagall’s eyes widen slightly before falling to her lap. Interesting. “They were bad . They didn’t give me ‘nough food, hurt me, and made me work all day, so he took me away and now I have a room and I know I’m magic and- and people keep saying mean things ‘bout my dad but they’re the mean ones.” the little tirade seems to sap most of Harry’s energy, his hand dropping from the back of Merlin’s cloak and moving to fidget with the sleeve of his robes instead.

“Good for you, kiddo.” His head snaps towards Cattermole, who seems satisfied enough with the response, if justifiably upset. “Now can we move on?”

“I agree, this isn’t the time or place,” Black adds and Merlin offers a nod in thanks.

“I was simply-” Dumbledore starts, but Merlin cuts him off.

“Enough,” he declares sharply. “Harry, can you fetch the contracts from my bag?” His son rushes over to the messenger bag occupying the seat next to him and quickly retrieves a small bundle of parchment tied with a string, handing it over with a curious look. “Want to take a seat?” he asks, and Harry looks around before pulling the closest chair to him – the one he’s not standing directly behind – and climbing up on it on his knees, peering at the will’s storage box. “Alright then,” he frees the parchment slips and starts inserting them into the slit at the top of the box, which shines slightly in yellow as he does.

“What’s it doin’?” Harry asks in a whisper, though not a very discrete one.

Merlin notices with amusement that the curious question seems to put most of their guests more at ease. “It’s matching the signatures on the contract to the people supposed to get something in the will,” he informs his son, slipping in the last of the ten signed contracts. “If someone didn’t sign, they don’t get what was left for them.”

The box suddenly splits down the middle, stopping at the drawer-like compartment which in turn slides open. He pulls both sides of the top open to reveal a crystal ball – the type one might associate with witches seeing the future – filled with what looks like swirling blue-ish grey mist inside of it. It has a silver base holding it in place and a small hammer – the glass-breaking sort that usually sits next to emergency boxes – in the same colour rests by its side. He picks it up off the box and places it at the centre of the table with the hammer by its side before turning back toward the box and opening the drawer completely. It holds a long parchment and a quill, which he places next to the sphere before picking up the small hammer.

“Ready?” he asks Harry, who nods but still reaches over to hold his free hand a moment later.

Following Relret’s instructions, he taps the sphere with the glass-breaking hammer and watches as a slight fissure opens at the point of contact, not enough to shatter the whole thing but enough for the mist to start escaping, condensing into shapes above the sphere, shapes that quickly become very familiar to some of those in the room by their slightly choked gasps.

Lily and James Potter’s ghostly images solidify over the sphere, slightly transparent but still more real than any image he’d seen of them so far and so, so painfully young. He remembers thinking so as Michael, but it’s even more evident now that he can see the lack of age lines in their faces and hear how young they sound as they start to speak.

The quill sitting by the parchment comes to life, dutifully transcribing every word.

“We, Lily Potter and James Potter, husband and wife, being of sound mind, magic and memory, do hereby declare this to be our Joint Last Will and Testament, revoking any and all former wills and codicils made by us either jointly or separately.” The redhead declares, bright green eyes much like her son’s and too young to be so filled with resignation.

Her husband follows right behind with the same oath, adding the date of their marriage, the details of their son and all the necessary family information. Lily chimes in with a few more legal matters, their appointed executor – who was supposed to be Remus Lupin and yet this is the first he’s hearing about this –, the man’s address – which at the time was a room at the White Wyvern in Knockturn – and their leave for the executor of the will to use their respective estates to pay for any outstanding debts, funeral expenses, and the costs and expenses of administering said estates.

Who had them buried? He wonders, eyes perusing the guests as they watch the recording. Was there even a funeral?

“Now we get to the fun part,” James informs, earning an elbow to the side from his wife. “Sorry, no morbid jokes… cross my heart and hope to die,” the glare he receives does its work to wipe the smile off his face and he throws an arm around her instead, pulling her closer when she whispers for him to take things seriously.

He clearly doesn’t expect to need the will they’re recording, a common fallacy of youth – the almost subconscious belief that they’re invincible until they’re not – and it somehow makes the whole thing more tragic. This is a couple of twenty-year-olds barely out of school, recently married and – from the date of the submission of the will – with a two-month-old baby to take care of, barely started on a new life before it was violently taken away.

“To Pandora Florakis,” Lily starts with a small smile, “my favourite Charms tutor and future Spellcrafter, I leave all of my notes on experimental spell creation, may they serve you well.”

The blonde’s eyes widen slightly, a small but sad smile forming on her lips. She looks more present, eyes focused on the couple’s image, and he can see them welling with unshed tears at what are likely memories of their tutoring sessions.

“To Sirius Black,” James continues, “my brother in all but blood – not for lack of trying,” he adds with a smirk, “I leave our little joint project, the enchanted motorbike. You already keep her most of the time anyway, you-”

“And I’m leaving you my mug collection,” Lily cuts in, “but you better not fill them with brandy.”

Cassiopeia Black doesn’t react with much other than a slight uptick of her lips, it makes him wonder if she’s already acquainted with either the motorcycle or the mug collection the heir of her house has just inherited, and whether or not she expected something different.

“He’s gonna do it just to spite you,” James warns with amusement and Lily huffs, but the corners of her mouth still twitch upwards as she seems to hold back her amusement.

“To Mary Macdonald,” she continues their alternating arrangement, “I’m leaving my jewellery box, the silver one with the roses. You know how to open it.”

He can’t tell much from Cattermole’s reaction, half of her face hidden behind her hands, but she does let out a huffed laugh – muffled by the coat’s fabric over her hands –  that implies the contents are probably something of an inside joke, or at least nothing too serious.

“Women and their secrets,” James mocks playfully in a whisper. “To Remus Lupin, we’re leaving a collection of rare Defense Against the Dark Arts books, as well as a letter from both of us.”

“You better finish your mastery,” Lily threatens. “Speaking of, to Filius Flitwick, I leave my Charms Mastery thesis,” she offers them a slightly sad smile, “which I haven’t quite completed yet, but I don’t think it should go unseen if things don’t turn out as we hope, and you’re the one who taught me all I know.”

Lupin’s smile is pained, though the look in his eyes speaks of adoration, and he wonders if the man ever did finish his mastery in the past eight years. He remembers Michael not considering him as a tutor for covering only Hogwarts material, but that doesn’t say much when the subject is part of said material.

Flitwick, on the other hand, bows his head slightly after discovering why he’s here. If in respect or to hide tears, Merlin doesn’t try to find out as the couple keeps speaking.

“To Peter Pettigrew,” James continues, lightly squeezing his wife’s waist. “We leave a letter from both of us.”

Unfortunately, that was one of the names he’d been informed belonged to someone deceased, and so the invitation to the reading was never sent. Two more names of those no longer among the living follow, their bequeaths inevitably going undelivered.

“To Severus Snape,” Merlin sees James’ nose wrinkle in distaste for a moment, but it’s gone in the next. “I leave my part of our Potions notes and two letters, one from each of us.”

The young professor’s expression remains the same, hidden behind a mask as good as that of the Headmaster, and Merlin might have assumed it to be indifference if not for the intensity of his eyes, though he’s not quite sure what emotions lie in their depths.

“To Minerva McGonagall,” James starts with a grin, “we learned a lot from you, Minnie, but I think you might learn a little something from us too with the notes I’m leaving you. It’s all on a red pouch, you’ll know what it’s about when you see it.”

A complicated mix of annoyance and fondness seems to radiate from the dark-haired professor, who discretely dabs a handkerchief over a few stubborn tears that insist on falling. It only drives the point further, as the young couple continues to leave things for their school friends and old teachers, that they barely had the time to live long enough to make closer friends outside of school.

“To Petunia Dursley,” Lily’s tone isn’t as fond as before, falling into something neutral. “I leave the old Evans home at No. 8 Upper Shrewsbury Street and a letter from me. You always did love that place.”

He’ll admit, in the safety of his mind, that he’s pleased that the woman refused to accept anything from the people she calls ‘freaks’ and didn’t even touch the contract he’d presented to her. This means that the old Evans home will continue belonging to Harry, and maybe they can pay a visit to see if his mother left anything behind.

“To Richard Carter, my one true captain,” James offers a playful salute, “I leave my vintage broom collection, “knock ourself out, mate.”

Merlin recognizes the name of another deceased, and Lupin and Cattermole’s reserved but noticeable reaction to the name tells him they used to know the man as well.

“To Albus Dumbledore,” Lily continues in a more sombre tone, “we leave a letter from the both of us, and our thanks for doing what you could to protect us.” James nods in agreement and takes over from there.

“Everything else under our possession, we leave to our son,” his mouth stretches into an involuntary grin, “Harry James Potter.”

“In the event that we both die while our son, Harry James Potter, is a minor,” Lily cuts in with a small smile at her husband’s silly grin, as if not even the fact that they’re recording a will can make the man get over how thrilled he is to have a son. “We nominate Alice Longbottom as a Guardian of the person and property of our son.”

James only sighs – had they disagreed on who to nominate first? – before continuing from where his wife left off, “If she is unable or unwilling to serve, we nominate Sirius Black as Guardian of the person and property of our son.”

Merlin frowns slightly at that as the couple goes on to the No Contest Clause and Binding Effect but chooses not to fixate on it right then, as his blood adoption invalidates the appointment of a Guardian. His status as a Squib, however, might permit them to argue Sirius Black into the place of Harry’s Magical Guardian, which could become an issue but is a worry for another time.

Once the couple’s misty image fades, leaving the crystal sphere empty, Merlin turns to his son. There are a few tear tracks on his face, and his eyes are slightly puffy, but he hasn’t done much about it other than squeeze his hand a few times during the reading. Bright green eyes meet his own and Harry offers him a slight smile, which he responds to in kind and with a slight squeeze of their joined hands. “Okay?” He asks, to be sure.

“Mhm,” Harry nods, though he can tell he misses the couple’s image when he looks at the sphere with longing. “So Aunt Petunia’s not getting my mum’s old house?”

“She’s not,” Merlin assures, and he’s not sure what exactly goes through his son’s mind at the answer but he receives another nod and a small muttered ‘good’ in response. He turns his attention toward their guests, most seem to be taking the time to process what’s been left for them but a few are watching their interaction with inquisitive eyes. “Can you do me a favour?” he asks and Harry nods eagerly, “Take that parchment,” he points to the parchment next to the cracked sphere, now filled with the written will, though only the parts that apply to the contracts inserted into the storage box, “to Relret and bring the copies back, would you? He’s right outside.”

His son, probably aware of every eye in the room on him, is quick to grab the parchment and roll it up as he walks out of the room, the massive gold doors dwarfing his eight-year-old stature as he opens them to leave and closes them behind him. Once he’s sure Harry is out of hearing range, Merlin stands and addresses the room.

“This reading is concluded,” he declares, mentally remarking that it was more of a viewing but the name is probably well established by now. “Harry will return with copies of the will, which you can present to a teller in order to receive your bequeath, and we will be leaving ,” he raises a hand to stop any protests, he could almost see them forming, especially in Lupin and Dumbledore. “Because I’m sure this has been an emotional enough day for him. If you’d like to keep in contact, you can send me a letter explaining who you were to his parents and I’ll ask him if he’d like to either meet or correspond with you.”

“Mr Wright, you keep evading the matter of guardianship,” Dumbledore protests, “you are not his appointed guardian, surely you see why we might be worried when you’ve apparently whisked the boy away from his family ?”

“None of this ‘we’ business,” Black corrects, “I for one have no objection to the child’s placement,” Merlin figures that Arcturus probably informed her of his supposed ruse, or else she would most likely also be objecting to a supposed Squib having guardianship of a wizard.

“Thank you, Madam Black,” he says with a nod to the older woman before turning his attention to Dumbledore and the other slightly outraged guests. “And I didn’t simply whisk him away ,” he holds back from rolling his eyes at the implied kidnapping, “I went through the muggle process of guardianship and adoption, with his relatives ’ approval.”

Any response to his explanation halts at the opening of the doors and they watch as Harry skips back into the room, a small pile of rolled-up parchment in his arms. “Dad, did you know the goblins make swords ?” he asks excitedly.

“Oh, do they?” he asks with amusement, curious as to what sort of questions his son had asked the Potter Manager as the goblin copied the wills and marked them as authentic. “Do you want to hand those out?” he offers as an olive branch to the guests who seemed upset at leaving without talking to Harry, after realizing his son may not be as affected as he’d imagined.

Harry looks around the room and hesitates slightly before nodding and heading toward the closest person.

Harry’s mum was very pretty.

He’d seen her before, in the statue and on Samhain, but this was the first time he got to see that her hair was a pretty red shinier than Ms Sarah’s, and her eyes were the same colour as his, though Harry’s hair – without him changing it – is almost the same as his dad’s. Their voices are the same as he remembers coming from the fire, and he really tries to pay attention to everything but keeps getting distracted with how they keep smiling and touching, and he doesn’t notice he’s crying until they’re gone and Merlin’s asking if he’s okay.

He nods – and he’s not even lying – and asks about the first thing on his mind. He shouldn’t be happy that Aunt Petunia won’t get to have something of his mom’s, but he is anyway. She didn’t let him know their names, or what they looked like, and it took them years to let him have the name his parents gave him, so she shouldn’t get anything of his parents either. It might be mean of him, but they were mean first .

Mr Relret actually was waiting just outside the room when he got there to deliver the parchment, and he gets to explore a bit when Mr Relret takes him to his office to make the copies his dad asked for. He just puts the first parchment in a drawer and opens the one under it and the copies are there, Harry figures it’s done with magic and doesn’t ask about it, but he does ask about the swords and axes in the walls that he didn’t notice the first time. Mr Relret smiles – his teeth are very sharp – and tells him all about making the swords and using them in the wars to kill wizards but the smile goes away when Harry just nods – it’s not like he hasn’t heard about wars before, it makes sense that goblins would have them too – and asks if he can have one for himself. The way back to the reading room is filled with Mr Relret explaining how buying goblin-made things works – they’re still goblin things, you’re just borrowing them until you die – and warnings about not giving back stuff they’ve made.

Harry thinks he should ask his dad if their vaults have any goblin things and if they can give them back because it seems very rude not to follow the rules if they’re explained before you buy.

He brings back the copies Merlin asked for, and when his dad asks if he wants to hand them out, he looks around the room at the people who knew his parents enough that they left them things after dying. Even if the old man with the big beard that reminds him of a dream he had in the cupboard was mean to his dad, it doesn’t mean they’re all the same, right? So he nods and walks over to the lady in silver closest to his dad.

“Here, uh- Ms Black?” he tries, still not sure of what title goes to which person. It’s a big book and he can’t remember everything on it all at once.

“Thank you, Mr Potter.” She gives him a small smile and takes her copy, placing it into a purse hooked on her elbow that he hadn’t noticed before since her silver cloak covers it. “And you can call me Aunt Cassie, my great-nieces already do.”

He’s already moving over to the next person when she says that, and it makes him stop halfway and turn back around, “Aunt?” he asks, confused. He has another aunt?

“Well, great-aunt, but that’s a bit of a mouthful,” she explains. “Your father’s mother was my sister, Dorea.”

“Oh,” he thinks he remembers that name from the time a potion made him write a bunch of his ancestors’ names. He doesn’t really know what to say to that, since the only aunt he’s had in his life was mean and never liked him. Ms Black doesn’t seem mean so far… but doesn’t seem nice either, she’s just someone he didn’t know before today. “Um- ‘m just Harry,” he says instead of deciding right then.

“It’s also alright if you don’t,” she waves a hand like she’s batting something away and stands up. “Lovely to meet you, Harry. Mr Wright,” she nods at his dad and starts walking to the door to leave. Harry thinks it’s sort of rude that she doesn’t say bye to everyone else but it’s not his business to tell her that.

He hands a copy to Mrs Lovegood next – he guesses she’s married since his mum called her a different last name in the will – and gets a smile and a thanks for it. She and Mrs Cattermole leave together when he hands over the other parchment, but they’re polite about it and say bye to everyone else. When he gets to Mrs Longbottom, she looks at him like Mrs Tonks did, like he’s about to say something wrong if he opens his mouth.

“Your mother and Alice put each other as their sons’ potential guardians,” she tells him, “I’ll write to arrange a time for you to meet Neville,” he doesn’t have time to say if he even wants to or not before she’s already leaving. He looks at his dad, but he’s now talking to the old man who was asking questions earlier, so he probably didn’t even hear what the old lady said.

“Here, Mr Lupin,” he hands another copy over to the man who looks like he’s still a bit upset. Harry thinks he should maybe be more upset, but he’s just happy he finally got to see his parents in colour. Maybe he can draw them at school now? He only knew the colour of his mum’s eyes before – Ms Dahlia said it was the same as his – but now there’s lots more colours to draw with.

“Thank you,” Mr Lupin says with a little smile, leaning over a bit and whispering like he’s telling a secret. “Y’know, I was one of your dad’s best friends.”

“Really?” He whispers back, excited to hear more.

“Really,” Mr Lupin nods, “Is it okay if I write to you? I can tell you about him, and you can tell me about Mr Wright.”

Harry looks over at his dad, he looks a bit upset, and the older black-haired lady looks like she’s joined their talk too since she got off her chair and is standing between Mr Dumbledore and the professor with a ponytail, so he figures he shouldn’t bother them with this, “Okay!” He agrees with a nod since he really wants to know more about his parents.

“It was nice to meet you,” Mr Lupin tells him before standing to leave like everyone else who got their copy so far.

Mr Flitwick, who’s just a bit taller than him, also takes his copy and leaves after shaking his head at the three other teachers and saying he’ll be seeing Harry at Hogwarts soon. There’s only the people talking to his dad left – he hears them saying stuff about what his parents would want and something about safety and blood – so he walks up closer, a little scared to talk to the scowling man in black, and just holds up the copy for him in silence instead.

“His spawn seems just fine to me,” Mr Snape says, taking the parchment without even looking at him, and stands up so fast that Harry has to step back so he won’t get pushed over. “For once in your life, just leave well enough alone,” he snaps at the other teachers before walking away with heavy steps.

“Don’t mind him, Mr Potter,” the older lady tells him, reaching down to grab her copy. “I believe we are all a little emotional,” she adds with a look at Mr Dumbledore, who stops talking and nods instead.

“Indeed,” the old man agrees, and Harry holds out the last copy for him. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Shall we go?” Merlin asks but he’s already grabbing his bag and slipping it on under the cloak so Harry just walks past the teachers to get to his dad’s side.

When he looks back at the table, the little crystal ball that his parents spoke from is still there, “Can I keep it?” he asks, looking up at his dad. “Or do the goblins need it back?”

“Hm?” his dad turns his head to see what he’s looking at and shrugs, “It should be fine, they didn’t make it, only store it.”

Harry smiles and climbs on a chair to grab the ball, holding it close to his chest when he slips back down. He feels a hand on his back and looks up, but it’s just his dad guiding him out of the room so he looks back down at the crystal ball instead. Looking closer at it, there’s little silver letters at the front of the base that he couldn’t see before since it was turned away from him, with the name of his parents and a date under it that he figures was when they recorded it, with the name Sirius Black under it for some reason? Maybe he was there too, or he took the recording? He doesn’t really know how magic ball recordings work so he can’t say, but maybe he’ll ask his dad later since they’re walking out of the bank now and there’s too many people around for him to hear him if he answers.

“Mr Wright, Mr Wright!” Harry hears a voice call and looks up, there’s a blonde woman in neon pink robes walking straight at them, almost pushing people to get to the stairs of the bank. Why are so many people around anyway? “Any comments on the will reading? Will you be surrendering the Boy-Who-Lived to his intended guardians?”

“Ms Skeeter,” his dad looks upset when the woman gets to them, and glares at the parchment and quill floating right next to her. “That will be a no comment .”

“How about you, Harry?” She’s suddenly leaning too close and he has to step back, but a bright flash makes him close his eyes and he misses the step, yelping when his bum and back hit the stairs, almost covering the noise of glass breaking.

“Get away from him,” he hears his dad order, but all he pays attention to when the flash is gone and he opens his eyes again is what’s left of the crystal ball that fell from his arms and shattered on the last steps of the stairs to the bank. “Skeeter-”

“Look at that, he let poor Harry get hurt!” a voice he doesn’t know yells out from the crowd- so many people, why- “Squibs shouldn’t get to raise wixen children!” it’s not the same voice, but someone else, and then another one agrees and someone’s booing and Harry’s not sure if there’s air enough for this many people because he thinks he’s not breathing right.

“Dad!” he calls but he’s already there, crouching in front of him, helping him stand back up, “c-can we leave?”

“We’re leaving,” his dad nods and takes his hand, pulling him along past the mean blonde lady and the photographer with the strong flash that made him trip, but they’re walking into the crowd and the comments aren’t stopping and why are they being so mean? “Almost there,” his dad says and he tries to keep breathing and ducks a hand reaching for him, holding tighter to his dad’s hand.

That’s when something pushes his dad away, the pull on his hand making him trip forward and have to let go to protect his face from the ground. “Dad!” He yells, sitting up to see his dad lying on the floor away from him, some spots on his cloak getting darker while he tries to stand back up and Harry rushes to do the same.

Someone pulls him back when he tries to get to his dad, there’s a loud scream- his dad is screaming like he's in pain from where he fell again on the floor, and the crowd’s not crowding them anymore, everyone stepping back like they’re scared, and he’s scared too but he needs his dad! He doesn’t know what’s happening, why- “why is no one helping? Dad!”

“Harry!” His dad yells. He’s sitting up and pupping something out of his sleeve and- he has a wand- he doesn’t have magic though, why- “Run, now!” and then there’s fire coming out of the wand, and Harry thinks he hates how he can’t help but obey the order just a little bit, because instead of staying and helping he’s slipping out of his cloak so the person holding him back can’t do it anymore and he’s running like Dudley’s playing Harry Hunting again, squeezing through the crowd and ducking when people try to grab him until he runs into the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry thinks someone calls his name, but people have been doing that since the bank and it just makes him keep going, running out the front door and away from the wizards- away from his dad. There's still footsteps following him, so he runs across the street when he sees no cars coming and zig-zags around the people, looking for somewhere to hide. He spots the big underground sign right away and runs into the station, wishing for no one to find him while he runs down the stairs and slips under the ticket gate.

There's a train there, the doors are still open so he slips inside, wiggling past people until he's on an empty spot next to the wall and sliding down to the floor when the doors close without any wizards walking in. Pulling his legs close and putting his crossed arms over his knees, he lets his head fall on top of them. He’s out of breath, his heart feels like it wants to jump out of his mouth and he can hear it thumping inside his head, and his dad- what happened to his dad?

He holds back a sob – don’t make any noise, don’t let them find you – and thinks he’s not sure if he wants to find out.

Chapter Text

His blood starts boiling when he hears the crash. It makes him turn around immediately, telling the reporter and her basted photographer to get away from his son, eyes searching Harry over for injuries as he crouches in front of him. There’s no bleeding, and his head didn’t hit the stairs so there’s no concussion, but he’s staring fixedly at something and when he follows Harry’s gaze, all he finds is broken glass around the now empty silver base of the will recording sphere. So that’s what made that sound.

Someone yells something from the crowd forming around them, most likely a result of Skeeter’s loud questions and exclamations of his name – something she’d made sure anyone who reads the Prophet would recognise – and Harry’s as well. He ignores them all, cursing himself for not having arranged for someone to apparate them out of the door of the bank like they’d done after the blood adoption, and becoming even more upset for letting Dumbledore and McGonagall’s questions about his suitability as a guardian get to him enough that he forgot to ask Harry to disguise himself again.

Instead of wallowing in the guilt, he follows his son’s request to leave and takes his hand, pulling him along toward the Leaky Cauldron where they’ll be able to floo back home. The crowd is only growing, no doubt due to the commotion getting the attention of those browsing the stores, and he tightens his grip as they weave through the crowd. “Almos there,” he tells his son, already spotting the open archway to the pub, where two witches have just let themselves in.

Dear Moony,

I know you’re probably beating yourself up right about now, so stop that. You’re one of my best friends, never doubt that, and whatever happened wasn’t your fault. We all made a choice, and we have to live with it- or not, I guess, if you’re reading this.

What my tactless husband means to say is that you’re smart, so don’t be stupid enough to blame yourself for a war that’s been raging since before we were born. I don’t know when you’ll read this, since you already left for another assignment and we’ll have to cut all contact for a while. I hope you don’t blame us for the coices we’ve made, but we both love you too much to put you in even more danger than you’re already in.

Yeah mate, you’re already risking your hide with visiting all those packs, we’re not about to send even more enemies after you. We have a plan (Lily made it, not me, so you know it’s a good one!) but we can’t tell you what it is, I guess if you never get this letter it must have worked. If you’re reading this, though… I’m sorry.

We are sorry, but not for not including you in the plans. We wanted to protect you, you’re doing enough as it is, but never think it was because we don’t trust you, because we do. Thank you, Remus, for being a good friend. I hope you never get to read this, but if you do, I want you to know that you mean a lot to us, and I’m glad to have met you.

Not to get mushy, but she’s right (as always). When you find out the plan, you better not think we didn’t choose you because of your furry little problem, you know we never cared about that. We love you the way you are, fleas and all!

Speaking of fleas, James named Sirius as Harry’s guardian in our will, right after Alice. I don’t know exactly what they’re doing to protect themselves, but in case we’re gone and she can’t take care of Harry, you better be right at the mutt’s side to keep our baby from turning into a motorcycle-driving delinquent or I’ll come back to haunt you.

You heard the wife, Moony, don’t let Padfoot be too much of a bad influence. And take care of yourself, okay? I had Lily help me out with some stuff in the muggle world, we were all saving this for your next birthday, but in case we never get to see it, there’s a deed to a little place in Twickenham along with this letter. All muggle, so the ministry can’t get their hands on it if we leave it to you, but that means it’s got no wards so you better use some of the money we left there to get yourself some, and you’re not allowed to give any of it back.

Really, Sirius helped pay for it with some of what he took from his vault before his mother cut him off, you know how he loves spending their money on things they would hate. Do us all a favour and just accept it, Lupin.

Tell Harry about all our pranks, would you?

Tell my son he’ll be grounded if he becomes a prankster, would you?

With all our love,

Lily and James.

The people on the train aren’t looking at him, Harry notices when it feels like he’s cried all the water he ever drank. It doesn’t help him feel less lost and scared, doesn’t make his dad show up to get him, doesn’t make the wizards stop being so mean, so he holds his breath until the sobs stop then just breathes for a bit before lifting his head from his arms and looking around him. There’s a brown-haired lady in a pretty blue dress holding a baby on her lap on the seat closest to him, a man in a suit next to her, four girls on the seats on the other side are looking at a magazine and whispering, and none of them even look his way when he stands up on shaky legs.

The train stops – he almost falls back down, he didn’t even notice it was moving – and when the girls get up to leave he walks out right behind them. The station isn’t as busy as the one he’d gone in through, but there’s still some people coming and going when he gets out of it and back to the street, looking around to see if he knows where he is. The name in big white letters above the exit says Kennington Station, but he doesn’t really know where that is and nothing around – a lot of brown buildings with white windows and very tall trees on the street – looks like something he’s seen before.

He doesn’t even remember the name of the statin where he got on the train, so he doesn’t know where to go back to, and when he tries to talk to a lady walking into the station, she doesn’t answer him and acts like she didn’t hear anything. He tries again and pulls on a man’s jacket to ask for help, but the man just looks confused and keeps walking and it makes him want to start crying all over again because why won’t anyone help him?

Dear Severus,

I recently learned we have you to thank for the early warning, and for that, I am truly grateful.

I want to apologise for not reaching out sooner. Initially, my stubbornness helf me back, I had no plans to forgive you for calling me that awful name, I never expected it, not from you. Later, after I’d had weeks to let go of the anger and try to figure out why you’d lashed out, I noticed you were no longer the target of your housemates’ ridicule. It seemed that distancing yourself from me had brought you some peace, and with James trying to win me over along with his friends, you were spared of their grief, so I did what I thought would be best, and stayed away. Looking back, I now wonder if it was truly the right choice, but I suppose we’ll never know.

I hope this doesn’t sound pretentious, but I wish I could have done more to help you choose a different path. While I can forgive you for name-calling, I cannot forgive any harm you might cause in the name of your new master. I am grateful for the warning, but one right doesn’t erase other wrongs, so I hope you have yet to do something you truly regret.

If you’re reading this, it means I am gone. Please don’t blame yourself for our fate, you were not esponsible for it, this conflic has been brewing since before our time and I fear it may still outlive most of us.

Goodbye, Severus. I hope you live a life you can be proud of.

Sincerely,

Lily.

He doesn’t see it coming. The spell hits him on the side, pushing him to the ground and away from Harry, and it feels like a hundred knives slicing into his skin, the sudden pain so unexpected he barely notices the fall. His side is bleeding, his head hurts and the world is spinning, but his Harry calls for him so he tries to stand, eyes searching the crowd for his son and for who cast the spell and praying they’re nowhere near each other.

“Crucio!” Someone yells, and his eyes meet cruel dark ones and his world burns .

Whether it’s five seconds or five hours, for a painful eternity he feels like lava has somehow entered his bloodstream, every nerve alight with a kind of pain he hasn’t felt before, enough to leave his throat raw from screaming, eyes watering as his arching back finally hits the floor again, but not enough to keep him from reaching a twitching hand into the sleeve of his cloak, grasping the rune-wand’s handle and praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that his thumb isn’t on the water rune.

“Harry!” He yells, he hasn’t found him and doesn’t know if he wants him to be here to hear him or very far away from the sudden attack, “Run, now !” he urges, jabbing his makeshift wand forward with nothing but intent fueling the rune under his thumb, watching as a jet of fire tries to burn off the woman’s cruel smile.

Fire. He can work with fire.

Snape,

I heard you warned Dumbledore about Voldemort targeting us. While I don’t completely trust it, I still wanted to say thanks. It’s a big deal, and I’m grateful.

I also owe you an apology for how I treated you at school. I know I gave you hell, and while you gave back as good as you got, it doesn’t excuse my behavior. I was an arrogant prat, and I like to think I did some growing up since then, so I’m sorry for that. I think we all elarned the hard way that there’s a lot worse out there than stupid school rivalries.

I still don’t like you, I don’t care what Lily says, you’re a sour bastard who chose the wrong side. But you also chose to warn us, so I suppose you can’t be all bad. Since you’ll only read this if I’m dead, I doubt you care either way.

Don’t get killed, I don’t wanna see your ugly mug any time soon.

Reluctantly,

James Potter.

“Look at me!” Harry yells at the people passing, but it’s like he’s invisible to them. It’s worse than the ones trying to hold him back from reaching his dad, these ones don’t even know he’s here , how is he supposed to get back if no one will help him?

He holds his breath so he won’t start crying again. Crying doesn’t help! I just want them to see me!

“Are you okay?” He jumps at the hand that touches his shoulder, turning around to see a black-haired woman looking down at him. She frowns when he looks up at her, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you lost?”

“I’m-” he starts, but a sudden popping noise makes him flinch back, wide eyes looking around and spotting a man walking up to them. A wizard.

“Harry Potter!” He’s blond and upset and wearing very dark red robes with a silver letter M on it, and Harry takes another step back when the man tries to grab him.

“What are you doing?” The lady that saw him asks, but another popping noise tells him there’s another wizard and Harry doesn’t know if they want to help or if they’re like the one that attacked his dad, so he runs .

“Get the kid, I’ll obliviate her,” he hears behind him and his eyes go wide at the thought that these people just decided to erase someone’s mind like that, she just wanted to help.

He turns a corner, looking behind him and not seeing anyone, but then there’s a popping noise again and he hits something- someone. There’s a hand on his arm – too tight – and then the world feels like it’s upside-down and he can’t find the ground anymore.

Dear Albus,

James and I wanted to leave you something in case the worst happens to show our gratitude, but we never figured out the right thing. I think the best we’ll leave behind are our memories, so hold on to those with care, even the ones that hurt. The losses we’ve suffered are our own, and to ignore them would be a dishonor to those who fell so we could live another day. So, if you’re reading this letter, know we leave behind our best wishes for this war and those we’re leaving behind.

On the matter of choices, I only wish to remind you that me and my husband made ours, but our son has not. This conflic, this plan and this prophecy are not a burden I wish for him to carry, and should he outlive us, I trust you to respect our wishes and leave him out of it. Let his guardians take him away, hide him if they must, but my baby will not be a weapon in your arsenal, not like we chose to be.

You’re our headmaster and our friend, Albus, but you’re also our general, and I want my son to live to be older than we will have been if you’re reading this. Lily was always better with words, so all I’m going to say is: you better make sure Harry gets to make his own choices, instead of putting all your faith on divination.

Best wishes,

Lily and James.

Except Merlin doesn’t get to do anything, not when another spell hits him and his wand goes flying away. He tries to stand, but the slices on his side never stopped and breathing is turning into a real challenge. The cloak feels heavy – it’s soaked with blood – and the next spell that hits him makes the invisible knives spread up toward his chest and throat – one second he’s struggling to breathe and the next he’s choking on liquid iron.

When the blurry world around him starts getting dark, his last thought is that he hopes Harry made it out.

Chapter Text

As soon as he can feel the ground again, Harry scrambles away from the hand gripping his arm and falls on all fours, puking out the little food he’d managed to eat that morning. His head feels like the time Dudley pushed him so hard on the playground spinner he hadn’t managed to get up without the world feeling topsy-turvy for a while, and his throat hurts from trying to throw up more than he’s got on his belly, and he’s too scared to look up because someone’s just kidnapped him off the street – that’s what Dad said it’s called if he goes with strangers but not because he wanted to – and what if they get mad that he puked all over their floor?

“That’s why I don’t let you side-along me,” a woman’s voice says somewhere behind him and Harry looks over in time to see a woman with very short hair and matching robes to the men that grabbed him walking into the room. The room that’s not the road he’d been on. Harry’s been apparated before, but it didn’t feel like that.

“Don’t you have a job to do, Fye?” The man next to him says, sounding annoyed, and then a hand grabs Harry’s arm again and pulls him to his feet.

“I’m on my way to it, Dear” The way she says it doesn’t sound like when Dad does, more like she’s making fun of him. Harry’s eyes meet hers – they’re weird, he’s never seen eyes look like metal before, they're shiny and silver – and she continues, “That’s a child, not a prisoner.” there’s a wand in her hand the next second and then the vomit vanishes from the floor and Harry’s mouth feels a bit tingly and less yucky. “Ease up,” she warns before spinning on the spot and disappearing with a crack.

The hand on his arm gets a bit tighter before it’s gone, “Follow me, Mr Potter,” the man says, walking past him. He’s got brown hair, a beard, and a scowl on his face that makes Harry rush to follow even though he doesn’t want to.

“Who‘re you?” Harry asks, trying to keep up on his short legs. “I want my dad!” He adds, remembering the crowd, the spells, and the order to run. “Where’s my dad?”

“Quiet,” The man orders and Harry closes his mouth with a flinch, looking around instead. The room outside of the empty one they’d shown up in is just a big corridor, though it’s weirdly round instead of square like rooms should be, at least as far as he knows. The floor, walls, and ceiling all look the same, covered with dark tiles, though the ceiling and walls have lots of glowing gold symbols that keep changing like they’re being erased and written again every time Harry blinks.

They pass a bunch of gates that are sort of sunk into the rounded wall – he can’t tell what’s behind them even after he squints through his glasses – and then stop at a bigger, golden gate at what looks like the end of the corridor. The man does something with his wand and the gate opens, enough for them to go through it even though it almost closes on Harry’s heels. The man walks to the right of the gate and then vanishes into a wall. Harry can only stop and stare, eyes wide and looking around for where he could have gone.

A hand suddenly comes out of the wall and grabs his arm, pulling him into it, and he closes his eyes with a yelp, bringing his other arm up so his face won’t hit the wall. “Oh for Merlin’s sake-” He hears the man grumble and slowly puts his arm down, realizing he also went right through the wall and they’re now in a different room.

There’s more people there, and another gate too, but this one gets opened by a lady on the other side of it, who holds out her hand to the man pulling Harry along and gets the man’s wand for a moment before doing something and handing it right back.

“Cathmore,” someone says and Harry looks away from the woman’s paper-filled desk right by the gate and at whoever spoke. It was a bald, dark-skinned man in robes like the ones the man pulling him is wearing, and he’s walking toward them.

“Kingsley,” The man replies, so Harry figures those are their names. “Here,” he pretty much pushes Harry at the man and he nearly trips over his feet, but Mr Kingsley reaches out a hand to help him stay up. “Don’t let him wander off ‘til the hearing.”

Mr Cathmore doesn’t even wait for a response before walking right back through the still open gate and into the wall that’s not a wall.

“Come along, Mr Potter,” Mr Kingsley tells him, but he doesn’t grab his arm or push him to walk faster so Harry takes a deep breath — they haven’t hurt him yet, his dad’s not around, he can’t really do anything other than what they say — and nods, following a step behind while they walk out of the room.

There’s a big corridor on the other side, tall enough to maybe fit his house inside, with lots of large wooden doors on both sides. Mr Kingsley walks past a couple of doors before stopping in front of a smaller one he almost hadn’t noticed and opening it, waiting for Harry to get inside before closing it behind them. Harry looks around the room, noticing it’s a big office with a big desk and chair in one corner and some other armchairs and a couch around a center table like the ones in Ms Lei’s house, and a tall curtain in one of the walls.

“Please take a seat, Mr Potter,” Mr Kingsley tells him, but he doesn’t want to sit down. He wants to leave and find his dad, but he doesn’t know where he is and all this time not knowing what’s going on is making him want to throw up, or cry, or run — or maybe there’s something running inside his belly, at least it feels like it — so he doesn’t sit down and instead glares up at the adult still standing in front of the door.

“Where’s here?” He doesn’t like that he sounds a bit like Dudley with how whiny his voice goes but he doesn’t know these people who apparated him away from the middle of the street and he wants his dad! “Who‘re you? Where’s my dad?”

“Mr Potter- Harry,” He sounds sad, why? “Your father, he- he passed away. I’m sorry.” Mr Kingsley kneels in front of him but Harry’s too busy shaking his head to step away.

“No, he didn’t!” Harry insists, almost choking when his voice gets too high, “Dad’s not dead! He can’t- he’s not!” He didn’t lie! He reminds himself. Dad doesn’t lie, and he’s Merlin, and Merlin can’t die, so Dad’s not dead.

“I’m sorry,” Mr Kingsley repeats like he doesn’t know any other words and Harry stomps on the ground, wanting to run but he knows they’d catch him and there’s nowhere to run to until his dad comes to get him because he’s not dead! “I know it’s difficult to understand, but-”

“He’s not dead!” Harry insists, crossing his arms and hiding a sniffle. He won’t let these people make him believe his dad’s gone, no way. “Dad’ll come get me, you’ll see.”

Mr Kingsley takes a deep breath, looks at the ceiling, and then back at him again. “Okay, Mr Potter,” he says, and Harry’s glad that the strange man agrees with what he knows is true. “Then why don’t we sit down and wait?”

Harry takes a deep breath, then another one, and then nods.

He doesn’t mind waiting.

Merlin comes to with a gasp, scrambling to his feet more out of urgency — he needs to get to Harry! — than actual awareness of his surroundings, uncoordinated limbs nearly causing him to sprawl right back on the carved stone floor of the familiar cave he’s found himself back in. The need to get to his son is probably what keeps him from realizing, for the fraction of a second it takes him to stand up, that he’s whole again.

The tears well up unbidden at the feeling of life coursing through him, the awareness of every speck of magic inside the cave nearly overwhelming after having once again lived many years without it, and the customary wonder of why he would ever give up such a thing monopolizes his mind for a moment before everything manages to go back into focus.

Despite the worry for Harry, he can’t help the grin on his face.

I’m back.

Welcome back, Emrys . A voice unlike his own interrupts his thoughts, echoing in his mind as he looks around in search of its origin in the low light of the Crystal Cave.

“Who’s there?” He asks, because it’s not a voice he can recognize from any previous encounters.

I’m afraid it is not your fate to meet me at this time , the voice comes again as if from every corner of the cave even though he knows, from the lack of an echo, that it’s all inside his head.

It sounds… vaguely female, and not noticeably young but lacking the slight raspiness of an old person’s voice, which still leaves too many possibilities to consider.

He takes in a calming breath, chances another look around — nothing, as expected, except for the slight call of the gleaming crystal shards embedded into the walls and ground — “Alright,” he quips, deciding that he really doesn’t have the time for mysterious disembodied voices when his kid might be thinking that he’s dead at this exact moment. Actually, he has no idea how much time has passed, which only increases the need to simply leave.

Merlin turns on the balls of his feet, with little consideration for the tattered state of his ripped and bloody clothes, and starts heading toward the exit of the cave.

Not so fast , the voice quips and a wind cold enough to give him shivers brushes against his skin as if passing through him, making him halt his steps. First, you must see.

It takes him a moment to realize what they mean but he eventually shakes his head in denial, pointedly staring down at his feet and away from the crystal-covered walls, “not happening. I need to go.”

Must you be so stubborn? It chides with a distinct lack of annoyance, as if whatever entity decided to accost him in the birthplace of magic already knew what to expect and was anything but surprised.

“There’s no point in seeing the future,” he insists, having already learned his lesson about attempting to change it, and marches on.

Except when there is , the voice insists and something thin, cold and invisible grabs a hold of his chin, forcibly raising his head as a bone-chilling wind pushes him toward a wall and he can’t help but raise his hands to minimize the impact, just in time for his eyes to catch on a small figure reflected in one of the crystals. See.

“Harry?” He gasps, stepping back slightly as his stomach turns to stone at the sight of his son being involved in whatever the crystals want to show him. “No, not him, please-”

See , the voice repeats, and he does.

Three knocks on the door make Harry look up from the book he’d curled up with on the couch while waiting, and whoever knocked doesn’t wait long before opening the door.

“Madam Bones,” Mr Kingsley stands up from the chair behind the desk, but Harry doesn’t move from his spot, not even when the lady walking in — she’s got a uniform like Mr Kingsley’s so she probably works with him — just nods at Mr Kingsley then looks at him instead.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Potter,” she tells him and he glares at her.

“My dad’s not dead,” he lets her know, trying not to be too annoyed that no one’s told her yet, maybe only he knows? Dad said Merlin’s a secret, but he doesn’t die! So… they’re talking about just Mr Wright without the Merlin part? “He’ll come get me,” he insists anyway, because he will.

The two adults trade a look and Harry looks back down at his book. Mr Kingsley had let him pick one from the bookshelf in the corner, It’s called Gamp’s Guide to the British Wizengamot and it’s got a bunch of strange words — like all the books he found so he just picked one at random — but Hermione can probably explain them to him, so he’s trying to remember all of it to tell her later.

“Mr Potter,” the lady’s kneeling in front of the couch now, he didn’t even notice her moving. She’s pretty, but her frown makes her look like one of Harry’s old teachers. “Michael Wright was hit by many fatal spells,” there’s a noise from Mr Kingsley but a look from the lady — is she really called Bones ? — keeps him quiet. “There was nothing anyone could do. He’s dead, Mr Potter, I’m sorry.” He looks up at that just to glare at her again, but she doesn’t stop talking. “Which means you’ll need to live with someone else, and that’s why my Aurors brought you here, do you understand?”

She doesn’t sound like when Dad or Ms Lei are explaining something to him, more like when one of his old teachers just decided something was his fault and tried to explain why he was being punished. She doesn’t really want him to understand.

“Mr Wright’s dead,” he mumbles back even if he doesn’t agree, “so you’re getting Ms Lei?”

“Who would that be, Mr Potter?” She asks and he frowns.

“Lei Chang,” he says like she taught him, “Is my magical guardian and legal res- represtative.”

“Representative,” Ms Bones corrects with a little smile and a nod, “I’ll attempt to contact her, then. Kingsley will stay with you until she gets here,” she looks around the room, “I’ll get someone to bring you some snacks.”

A broom jerks wildly as a boy clings on

A growling beast in the dark

A mirror and its reflection

A trap laid in flames

A hand burns to dust

Fingers clench around a blood-red stone

A spider scuttles away

A book drinks in any ink that touches it

A serpent’s yellow gaze inches closer

A sword gleams in trembling hands

A fang sinks into flesh

Familiar features twist into rage with the start of a curse

A spectral dog vanishes in mist

A breathless stumble on frozen ground

A hand trembles over a rat

A wand raised in betrayal

A howl splits the night

Claws and fangs flash under the pale moon

A dragon roars

A lone figure on a trembling broom as fire surges

A ripple in murky water

A twisting maze’s walls continuously shift

A circle of wands

A spectral whisper

A desperate retreat

Lifeless eyes staring up from the ground

A silent corridor

A veil flutters

A duel of light and shadow

A scream swallowed by the void

A serpent strikes

A figure writhes on marble

A whisper of possession

Momentary surrender

A silver blade slices water

A tower’s peak

A wand aimed

An oath whispered

A scream trapped in silence

A green flash of inevitability

The fall

A house explodes in fire

A snake lunges in the dark

A forest stills

A woman’s voice

A green flash

A body crumples onto leaves

A wand raised in defiance

A final curse

Victory

But at what cost?

He sits up with a jump at the noise, looking at the door while Mr Kingsley went to open it. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but his book is on the couch next to him and there’s a fluffy blue blanket on top of his legs, so it might have been some time ago.

“Harry?” He blinks, looks around and grabs his glasses from on top of the open book before almost launching himself at the woman he now recognized.

“Ms Lei!” Nearly tripping over the blanket, he somehow manages not to fall face-first on the ground, though that’s probably because Ms Lei catches him halfway and pulls him close.

Harry knows he just woke up but he still feels tired , so he just hides his face on her robes instead of saying anything else. Ms Lei will make sure everything’s fine now.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” she whispers over his head. “Let’s get going, alright?”

There’s a sound of someone clearing their throat and the voice he remembers being Mr Kingsley’s speaks, “But the hearing-”

“Which hearing?” Ms Lei asks in a low but hard tone. “Surely not a custody hearing? I’m his lawful magical guardian, after all.”

“Still,” Mr Kingsley insists, “He’s-”

“A child who just lost his father and will not spend another moment here,” Ms Lei interrupts. “Unless you’re detaining him?”

“No one’s being detained,” this time it’s another woman speaking and Harry leans back a little to see who it is, spotting Ms Bones standing in the doorway. “You’re free to leave, Madam Chang.”

“Thank you, Madam Bones.” Ms Lei looks down at him for a moment before running a hand through his hair. “Ready to go, Harry?”

“Mhm,” he nods, slipping his hand into hers and letting her guide him back into the maze-like building.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the elevator, exit on level eight and make their way to a floo connection.

“Chang Chambers,” he calls and steps into the fireplace.

Merlin allows his trembling legs to lower him to the ground, one hand rubbing against his eyes now pressed closed after being bombarded with so many visions in close succession. “Why?” he whispers.

When no response is forthcoming, he raises his voice. “Why did you want me to see that? I didn’t want to know!”

And yet, now you know.

“I won’t let it happen!” He insists, eyes open and narrowed in determination. It might be helpless, but- he hadn’t been in any of the visions. They can’t possibly be true.

He refuses to believe he’d ever let his son fight without him by his side.

Exactly.

The almost glad tone catches him off-guard and he can’t help but ask once more, “Who are you?” As he climbs back to his feet, eyes no longer avoiding the crystals now that their call is almost nonexistent but still failing to find any other presence in the interior of the cave.

An interested party , it whispers with a final brush of cold air against his skin.

He’s suddenly as aware of its absence as he had been of its presence.

With a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and walks out of the cave and into the forest. It takes a few minutes to reach the edge of the wards but as soon as he does, the already frigid wind picks up around him, stirring the snow-covered soil as he’s quickly whisked away from the location.

Harry’s feet barely touch the floor on the other side of the floo before he’s being squeezed by thin arms and almost swallowing a tuft of black hair as Cho pulls him in a hug.

“Are you okay?” She’s off of him, grabbing the side of his arms, as fast as she appeared and he almost stumbles back from all the movement. “Mama said you got attacked!”

“I-I’m fine,” he mumbles, not sure what she wants him to say.

“Cho, let him into the house first,” Ms Lei chides from behind them and shoos them into the living room.

In a flurry of movement he doesn’t pay much attention to, Harry finds himself curled up on a comfy couch, a mug of hot chocolate on his hand and leaning on Mr Chris while Cho cuddles close to his other side. The hot chocolate’s moving- or maybe it’s his hands, and he can’t quite breathe in right, but that’s okay.

Dad’s gonna come get him, and it’ll be fine.

His eyes meet saddened green ones in a portrait as he appears in the center of his office.

“How did it happen?” Salazar is quick to ask, immediately followed by, “where’s Harry?”

“He’s fine,” Merlin replies, because he refuses to believe otherwise. “But it was very visible,” he adds with a small wince.

Under the low simmering rage over those wizards daring to attack him when he was with his son is an undercurrent of annoyance at how inconvenient it is that his identity as Michael is well and truly dead.

“What now?” His brother prompts as he shuffles through the drawers of the office in search of where he’d stored his wand after Harry’s last tutoring session.

“I’ll cast a locator spell and get Harry back,” he informs as if it’s obvious, because it should be.

“No you won’t” Sal rebuts and he turns to him with a glare, “don’t look at me like that, take a minute to think things through. Don’t fall into bad habits, little brother.” What? “Deep breath, now.” he reflexively obeys the stern command, “There you go, the office didn’t do anything to deserve a trashing.”

Many thumps from all around the office startle him into looking around, realizing he’d let his magic go a little out of control with his emotions and made many objects float in place before they fell back as he controlled his breathing.

Great, now there’s that too.

“He saw it, Sal.” He explains through gritted teeth.

His brother’s portrait grimaces at that, looking as angry as Merlin currently feels. “Still, take a moment,” he insists. “Where should he be right now?”

“I- Ministry? Maybe? Unless he’s been kidnapped-” He reasons, starting to feel even more anxious about the attack. What if that had been the objective all along? What if-

“Locator spell, then?” Sal drags his mind back to the present. “Just do it old-school, Merlin.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, pretending he hadn’t been a hairsbreadth away from panic just a second earlier and going back to looking through the drawers again, this time pulling out a folded piece of paper that he unfolds into a large map on top of his desk.

He makes sure the paper is completely flat, moving things from under it, before grabbing the letter opener and making a quick cut into his palm, letting the blood pool in the centre of the map. "Séce mín cnōsl!” he orders, watching as the blood puddles together before a small line starts to leave the puddle and run through the map of London in search of the correct location.

The sight of the spell working makes him doubly glad for the blood adoption, since otherwise he may have needed more than his own blood to track down his son. It doesn’t take long for it to stop in a familiar region, and the sight of Harry’s current location being the general Belgravia area fills him with enough relief that he allows himself to drop into his chair with a deep sigh.

“Lei’s got him,” he informs his brother with a small smile, glad for that particular friendship.

“Good,” Sal voices their common thought. “Then there’s time to plan,” at his incredulous look, his brother raises one doubting brow, “unless the plan is to eliminate the threat with prejudice? I simply thought you’d rather Harry still be able to attend Hogwarts in the future.”

“Just because you have a point doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Merlin grumbles, especially since eliminating the threat would be a little difficult when he hadn’t quite seen who cast some of the spells. Rita Skeeter, though? She’ll have to go, and soon.

“Story of our lives,” his brother teases, earning a slight twitch of his lips in response. “Now, I may have a suggestion…”

“Of course you do,” He still turns to his brother expectantly, not about to turn down the tactician’s help when it comes to the welfare of their family.

They’ll get their due for crossing him in a way that endangered his son, especially when it was out of bigotry. It just might take a little longer than he’d prefer.