Chapter Text
Harry James Potter, age 28, had long since grown accustomed to danger. He had faced life-or-death situations from the moment he could remember, fought dark forces, witnessed death, and survived the impossible. But now, for the first time in his life, he was terrified. And not for himself.
It had started with his godson, Theodore—an innocent, wide-eyed boy of ten—attacked while Christmas shopping. Harry had brought him out, in what he now realized was a desperate, reckless hope that the festive crowd would obscure them enough to keep them safe. The strategy had backfired, and it was only sheer luck that an Auror stationed nearby had been quick enough to intercept the unknown assailants. Theodore, a metamorphmagus like his mother, was lucky to be alive, but the trauma was evident. The boy had always been sensitive, but now he seemed even more distant, his usual joy replaced by a quiet, eerie fear that no one could shake.
Harry looked down at his six children now. Six. The weight of their safety, the crushing responsibility of being their sole protector, weighed on him heavily. His heart clenched when he thought of them, but nothing hurt more than the absence of Ginny, his beloved wife. She had been his rock, his everything. And now, she was gone, killed just months earlier in a brutal attack, a calculated strike that seemed designed to shatter him. She and Andromeda Tonks had been shopping for food in the Muggle world when their lives were taken—both women killed in a way no one could trace, their deaths leaving behind an impossible, unbearable emptiness.
As he thought about those he had lost, Harry's mind raced through a chilling series of events. The deaths had begun with the Weasley family, his second family. Percy and his pregnant wife, Audrey, had been killed by poison while dining at the Ministry’s cafeteria. Then George, his brother-in-law, who was supposed to be planning a future with his fiancée, Angelina, had been struck down by a curse from a rooftop just after lunch.
The loss had snowballed. One by one, the Weasleys fell. First, the unthinkable blow—Molly and Arthur, his surrogate parents, poisoned like Percy and Audrey. No one knew how it was happening, or who was behind it. Everyone became paranoid, but the deaths continued.
Then came the massacre. His best friends—Ron, Hermione, Rose, Hugo—and Charlie, who had been staying with Ron after the funerals of his parents, were all killed in one devastating attack. Their house was bombed to rubble. There were no bodies to bury, no chance to say goodbye. The loss hit Harry like a tidal wave, knocking him sideways with grief.
Bill and Fleur had fled to France with their children in a desperate attempt to escape the bloodshed, but even that hadn’t been enough. They had been murdered by someone unknown—this time, bullets, of all things. There was no logic to any of it, no pattern other than the fact that the Weasley family, every single one of them, was being targeted. The reason was unknown, but the consequences were undeniable.
But the worst, the absolute worst, was when Ginny and Andromeda had died. Harry’s thoughts darkened as he recalled the gut-wrenching image of his wife, disguised and shopping for groceries, suddenly struck down in a violent attack. It felt like the world was closing in around him. His heart felt hollow, his soul ripped out, but at least—thankfully—his children had been safe at home.
At that point, Harry knew something had to change. He couldn’t stay in Britain. Not anymore. The Ministry had been useless, refusing to protect the Weasley family, claiming that they weren’t important enough to justify resources. After losing Molly and Arthur, Harry had no faith left in the system. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had kept things stable during the war and its aftermath, had stepped down after eight years, and everything had started to crumble. Corruption had spread, and it was clear to Harry that whoever was pulling the strings had no problem using the Ministry's own apathy to carry out their attacks.
He’d liquidated everything he had at Gringotts, trying to move his family out of Britain. But he couldn’t just pick up and leave. The world was a dangerous place, and he couldn’t risk putting his children in even more danger. They were still so young, so vulnerable.
As the days turned into months, Harry had grown more resolute. He left his position as a senior Auror after George’s death, unable to bear the weight of the Ministry’s indifference. He had already begun to plan for their future, for a life outside the reach of those who wanted him gone. He was going to take them to America, far away from the threats that lurked in Britain. They would start over—though it wouldn’t be easy.
America didn’t have a goblin-run bank, so he would have to start from scratch. He couldn’t even go ahead to scout the country without risking their safety. It would be on-the-spot planning from here on out. He couldn’t leave the children behind to assess the situation for themselves. He had to protect them. His only priority was their survival, and he would do whatever it took to make sure they could live without the shadow of the past hanging over them.
But Harry couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that even in America, they wouldn’t be safe. Someone out there had a vendetta against him—against everything he represented—and would stop at nothing to make him pay. They’d already attacked those closest to him. The loss of his wife, the deaths of his friends, the brutal murder of his family—they all pointed to one inescapable conclusion. Harry Potter was being hunted.
And the worst part? He didn’t know why.
Harry James Potter stood in the dark, cool quiet of the Forbidden Forest, his heart a storm of conflicting emotions. His six children, transfigured into small snakes, lay nestled in the unshakable terrarium he'd placed them in, safe for now. The only sound was the distant, comforting song of a phoenix, a song that sent shivers down his spine and stirred something deep within him—something he hadn’t felt in years.
His life was packed away in enchanted bags—courtesy of Hermione, his friend, and one of the few constants of his world. The bags, though practical, now felt like the weight of a thousand lost memories. Hermione was gone. And with her, so many other parts of the world Harry had once known had crumbled. He tried not to mourn too much as he slipped the last of his belongings—items from the Weasley house, from Grimmauld Place, from the remnants of a life that seemed increasingly like someone else’s—into one of the bags. The house that had once belonged to his godfather, Sirius, no longer existed in either the magical or Muggle world. It was a non-entity, a piece of history erased, and under heavy wards and a modified Fidelius charm, it was safe—for now.
But nothing felt safe anymore.
He had sold everything. Every connection to his past. He had even sold the Burrow, and with each item he’d packed away from that beloved home, his heart ached anew. He mourned the people he had lost, and more than that, he mourned the life they should have had. A life where his children could grow up safe, without the threat of death constantly hanging over their heads. He hated that, even now, his every decision was shaped by fear. Fear of losing them.
Kreacher, the house-elf who had once been bound to the Black family and later to him, was long gone. His loyalty, though painful at times, had been a fixture in the home. But with the death of Andromeda and Ginny, Harry had made the painful choice to release the two elves he'd contracted after their passing, even erasing the memories of the last few months from their minds. He couldn’t leave any trace that could be connected back to him. Not now.
His children were asleep. Small snakes, each one wrapped in layers of magic. Their tiny forms nestled in the terrarium, hidden from the world. He had put them there with trembling hands, applying a sleeping charm to keep them calm. But his heart ached as he watched them, knowing they would never be the same after all this. He wished more than anything that they could live a life free from danger, but that life was slipping away from them, piece by piece.
The last item in his hand was a spoon—an illegal, yet reliable, portkey that would take him and his children to safety in the new world. His heart raced as he prepared for the final step. He had no other choice. His future was set in motion by this single, irreversible action.
And yet, as his fingers closed around the spoon, a sudden flash of fire erupted around him. The song of the phoenix grew louder, its melody familiar and ancient, echoing through his mind in a way that only Fawkes could. The phoenix had come for him, and Harry knew, deep down, that something far beyond his understanding was happening.
In that instant, his mind was flooded—an overwhelming rush of information, memories, and warnings. He didn’t understand it all at once. It was like someone had attacked his occlumency shields with full force. His mind swirled, and his vision blurred with flashes of light, sound, and images that didn’t belong to him. His heart pounded, and his fingers tightened around the portkey, his grip becoming the only thing grounding him in the chaos.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the torrent stopped. His body lurched forward, as though he’d been spun through space and time itself.
Harry opened his eyes, blinking against the pain that throbbed in his head like a hammer striking his skull. The world around him was quiet, still. His first instinct was to check on his children. With a quiet wave of his hand, he cast a series of diagnostic spells. They were all still in their snakey forms, nestled together in the terrarium, sleeping soundly, just as he had left them. The relief he felt was momentary. His heart still thundered in his chest as he checked his other possessions, making sure everything was in order. His bag—heavy with the weight of his past, his future—was still secure on his back.
But there was something wrong.
Harry instinctively reached for his wand, scanning the surroundings. He was no longer in the place he had prepared for. Instead of the quiet of his home, he found himself standing in a familiar clearing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, just beyond the wards of Hogwarts. The remnants of a runic ritual lay scattered on the ground, old magic lingering in the air.
It wasn’t by accident. Fawkes had brought him here, for a reason, but Harry couldn’t make sense of it. His breath caught in his chest as he realized that the phoenix had led him back to a time before his own—before everything that had happened in the last few years. Before the death of Ginny. Before the horrors that had plagued the Weasley family.
A tempus charm flashed in front of him, revealing the date: 23 December 1980.
The prophecy had already been made. It was in motion. Harry knew, instinctively, that the chain of events had already begun to unfold. He couldn’t stop it. He could never stop it. His heart twisted in agony as he realized the depth of his inability to alter the past, to change the fates of those he loved. His parents, James and Lily, had already been marked for death. Their time was coming, and he knew that nothing he did could prevent it.
His mind spun in horror, realizing that in this moment, he was older than his parents by several years. The weight of this truth sank in like a leaden weight in his chest. He was no longer the child who had been saved by their sacrifice, the boy who had grown up in the shadow of their love. He had become the man who would never have the chance to know them as anything but a memory.
He wanted to rush forward, to save them, to make things right—but his children. His children depended on him now, and he had already made promises to them. His priority was their future, not the past.
He couldn’t change history. He could only survive it. Harry knew that, in his heart, the path before him had already been set in motion, and the choices he made from here on out would carve out a future none of them could predict.
But for now, there was nothing to do but wait. Watch. And listen for the next steps. Time was slipping away, and there was no telling where it would take him.
Harry James Potter stood in the middle of the dusty, forgotten townhouse, surveying the space that was now home for him and his children. The echoes of his past life seemed to follow him, haunting every corner. He had worked tirelessly, transfiguring, cleaning, warding, arranging, doing everything he could to make this new place feel like a home. But nothing felt like home anymore.
His children—his precious, irreplaceable children—needed to be settled, needed a sense of security, a place where they could sleep, grow, and find a semblance of peace amidst the madness of war. For the first time in years, Harry was faced with the daunting task of building a life from the ground up, with no clear answers, no allies, only his love for his children and the memories of a life lost.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The portkey had worked as planned, depositing them safely in the alleyway behind the Leaky Cauldron. He had moved quickly then—cast his notice-me-not spell, tucked his children in their terrarium deep inside his cloak, and made his way to Diagon Alley. But it wasn’t the bustling place he remembered. The war had left its mark here, too. The alley was filled with hushed conversations, tight groups of witches and wizards moving with purpose but wariness, and an air of suspicion that hung over everything.
His eyes scanned the alley, taking in the tense atmosphere. Aurors patrolled, their presence a silent reminder that the Wizarding World was under siege. Harry had seen this before, during the final years of his schooling, but now it felt even more dangerous. He kept his head down, moving swiftly toward Gringotts, where he knew he needed to begin the next phase of his life—secure his new identity, access his family’s wealth, and find a safe haven for his children.
The waiting line at Gringotts felt longer than it should. Harry kept his mind sharp, sorting through the disorienting memories Fawkes had implanted in him during his chaotic transport. His name was Henry Grey now, not Harry Potter. A recent widower, much like in his original timeline. His wife had been lost in a raid not long ago. He had no children with her, but his new identity had been carefully crafted. According to Fawkes’ memories, he was now the heir to the Grey family estate, having inherited it after his father, Charlus Potter—his real father, not the man who had raised him—passed away.
He had known the history well, had studied it when his own children were born, desperate to understand the lost legacies of both the Potter and Black families. The knowledge was coming back to him now in fragments, piecing together a new life, a new identity in this strange, unfamiliar timeline. But it was also overwhelming. His head throbbed with the pressure of it all, the constant tug-of-war between the past and the present. His memories—his true memories—were clouded by this new flood of information, and he knew it would take time for his mind to settle, to fully integrate this new version of himself.
His turn finally came at Gringotts. He greeted the goblin with a cool, practiced tone, asking to be taken to the Grey family vault. The goblin led him down into the bowels of the bank, and as Harry walked, he felt the familiar pang of dread that always came with visiting family vaults. The Potter vault, the Black vault—they were both filled with things he could never reclaim, filled with legacies that were now nothing but shadows.
But this vault—this one was his.
The door to the Grey vault was gaudy, overdone, much like the Potter vault had been, though less personal. The ritual to open it was quick and efficient—blood magic, the traditional way to enter family vaults. Harry did it without hesitation, knowing the procedure by heart. Inside, he quickly retrieved the necessary items: the family ring, the document chest, and the portkey chest. The rest—gold, jewels, heirlooms—was left untouched. For now, he had what he needed.
Once outside, Harry made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, his mind racing through the possibilities. The documents would reveal more about his new life—about Henry Grey, a man who had lost everything, just as Harry Potter had. But Harry couldn’t allow himself to dwell on that. Not now. His children were the priority. The future depended on them.
A quick meal was brought to him in his room, but he barely touched it. Instead, he focused on the documents, scanning them for anything that might give him an advantage. He needed to find a safe place for his family. The townhouse, purchased through muggle means for his squib sister, was perfect. No one knew about it. He had checked. It was the ideal place to lay low until the war calmed down—or at least, until they were able to move again.
After carefully studying the documents, he activated the portkey to the townhouse and found himself in a dusty, welcoming foyer. His senses immediately began to map the area—light wards, flimsy but enough to deter most. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.
The house was large, old, and in need of work, but Harry wasted no time. He activated powerful cleaning charms, clearing away the dust and cobwebs, turning the sterile space into something that felt more like a home. His children were placed in the living room, and one by one, he lifted the sleep spells from them, his heart swelling as he watched them stir.
First was Theodore—Teddy—his godson, his eldest. Ten years old, soon to be eleven, and already growing into the fine young man Harry had always known he would be. A metamorphmagus like his mother, Nymphadora Tonks, and Harry's late wife Ginny. His hair, black and messy, was already shifting to match Harry's own appearance.
Then there was Dorea Lucy, his creative little girl, the one who had inherited so much of Ginny's spirit and sharpness. She had always been a force, even as a child. She could command a room without saying a word, and Harry smiled as he watched her move, her dark brown curls bouncing with every step.
The twins—Miriam Lilian and Naomi Holly—were next. Mischievous, bright, and quick-witted, they were an inseparable duo, and Harry could already see in their eyes the spark of their late uncles, Fred and George. Their hair, a mix of Ginny's fiery red and their father's darker black, shimmered in the light as they woke, their identical green eyes wide with curiosity.
Jameson Sirius, his quietest child, followed. Just three years old, but with a soft, loving nature that endeared him to everyone around him. He was his older sister Dorea's favorite, and Harry smiled as he watched her run to him, scooping him up in her arms.
Finally, Jaques Harvey, his youngest. Barely a year old, Jaques was loud, excitable, and already starting to mimic his older siblings. He was a perfect mix of Harry and Ginny, his face a stunning blend of their features. Harry watched him toddle around the room, his heart full of love and longing.
He had created this life for them—his children, his family—out of the ashes of his past. And now, he would do everything in his power to protect them. The world had changed, but Harry knew one thing for certain: no matter what, he would keep them safe.
The house was ready for them. They would have a place to grow. And Harry would make sure they never knew the horrors that had shaped his life. He would never let them suffer the same fate.
He mourned his lost loved ones—his parents, Ginny, the Weasleys, and everyone else who had fallen—but for the first time in a long time, Harry felt a glimmer of hope. He was ready for whatever the future had in store. For them. For his children. For his family.