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Chapter Text

It had been a rather long day for one thirteen year old Harry James Potter and it had only just started. He had just found out moments ago that the escaped prisoner and murderer Sirius Black was his father's betrayer, and was hell bent on trying to kill him. Even the days of freedom spent in Diagon Alley didn't sate his brooding mood, and the constant bickering between his two best friends was not helping in the slightest. They had chosen a compartment that was empty sans for the scraggly looking sleeping man (whose name they found out from his briefcase was named R. J. Lupin) that Harry surmised was their new Defense teacher, and the Boy Who Lived prayed dearly that he wasn't going to be like the last two.

Currently Harry was sitting in silence, watching the rain thud against the train window as Ron and Hermione talked about Malfoy, who had just barged into the compartment to look for trouble, only to leave in haste after realizing there was a Professor in there with them.

"I'm not going to take any crap from Malfoy this year," Ron growled angrily. "I mean it. If he makes one more crack about my family, I'm going to get hold of his head and -"

He made a violent gesture in midair.

"Ron," hissed Hermione, pointing at Professor Lupin, "be careful…"

But Professor Lupin was still fast asleep.

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept. Harry wondered in passing if the man was really sleeping.

"We must be nearly there," commented Ron, leaning forward to look past Professor Lupin at the now completely black window.

The words had hardly left him when the train started to slow down.

"Great," said Ron, getting up and walking carefully past Professor Lupin to try and see outside. "I'm starving. I want to get to the feast…"

"We can't be there yet," Hermione interrupted, checking her watch.

"So why're we stopping?"

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows. Harry got up to look into the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments. The Hogwarts Express came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they were plunged into total darkness.

"What's going on?" shouted Ron's voice from behind Harry.

"Ouch!" gasped Hermione. "Ron! That was my foot!"

Harry felt his way back to his seat.

"Do you think we've broken down?"

"Dunno…" the red head mumbled.

There was a squeaking sound, and Harry saw the dim black outline of Ron, wiping a patch clean on the window and peering out.

"There's something moving out there," Ron said, "I think people are coming aboard…"

The compartment door suddenly opened and someone fell painfully over Harry's legs.

"Sorry! D'you know what's going on? Ouch! Sorry -"

"Hullo, Neville," said Harry, feeling around in the dark and pulling Neville up by his cloak.

"Harry? Is that you? What's happening?"

"No idea! Sit down -"

There was a loud hissing and a yelp of pain. Neville had tried to sit on Crookshanks.

"I'm going to go and ask the driver what's going on," came Hermione's voice from somewhere in the darkness.

Harry felt her pass him, heard the door slide open again, and then a thud and two loud squeals of pain.

"Who's that?"

"Who's that?"

"Ginny?"

"Hermione?"

"What are you doing?"

"I was looking for Ron -"

"Come in and sit down -"

"Not here!" said Harry hurriedly, "I'm here!"

"Ouch!" yelped Neville.

"Quiet!" said a hoarse voice suddenly.

Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last. Harry could hear movements in his corner. None of them spoke. There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked alert and wary.

"Stay where you are." he said in the same hoarse voice, and he got slowly to his feet with his handful of fire held out in front of him.

But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could reach it. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering flames in Lupin's hand, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Harry's eyes darted downward, and what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, grayish, slimy-looking and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water, but it was visible only for a split second. As though the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry's gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its black cloak. And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings.

An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart. Harry's eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn't see. He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his ears as though he was in the middle of the ocean. He was being dragged downward, the roaring growing louder…

He heard a woman's scream, saw a bright flash of green light, before he drifted even further. It felt like he was sinking into an endless ocean, but the place felt oddly familiar. Harry felt a tug in the back of his mind, and he felt something come loose.

New sensations came to surface, and he tried to pinpoint them all.

A girl's scream, raw with emotion.

A flash of brilliant white light.

A girl's (woman?) scream of fright, then her scream of rage.

The sound of a revving machine.

Pain in his middle section as if a blade had just cut him in half.

Emotions bubbled up to his mind, anger, betrayal, sorrow, fear.

The sensations stopped and Harry was left floating there in pain and confusion. These weren't his memories, were they? He was Harry James Potter, son of two war heroes and the Boy Who Lived, a wizard. Harry had never experienced any of those sensations, he was positive. So where had they come from?

The object in the back of his mind was tugging again, and this time Harry felt with his thoughts to help pull the thing completely free. Perhaps if it was free, he thought, he would get his answers. Harry felt the thing grow looser, and doubled his efforts. Then suddenly, whatever he was tugging was free, and he was overwhelmed by an onslaught of slivery water that poured forth from the hole he had made.

Memories came to surface, names to faces, faces to voices. Harry saw skies that were purple and trees that were blue. He saw animals that were exclusively white, and he saw creatures on unimaginable horror creeping from magenta leaves. He saw lighting that was pink and two moons that hung in the sky. He saw constellations that were unlike anything on Earth, yet he felt like he could call their names up to navigate this place if he wished to. He saw insect-based humanoid beings with grey exoskeletons and yellow eyes and sharp teeth and three fingers. He saw different colors of blood flow down into the ground at his feet. He saw some of these beings hold the zodiac signs on their clothing.

And Harry began to remember the life he once had.

He remembered a planet called Alternia and a race called trolls. He remembered scouting the night sky because the daytime sun could boil the ocean at noon. He remembered hunting in the place of a girl he once loved because she refused to kill. He remembered a ship that he used to call home, a floating white seahorse he used to call dad. He remembered the island, the ocean, the lonely emptiness of home. He remembered blue scarves and violet capes and violet blood. He remembered lighting shaped horns and two sets of teeth and a rifle that was always by his side.

He remembered the game called Sgrub, the meteors that destroyed his home. He remembered a Land of Wrath and Angels, and he remembered killing every single one of those disgusting, rotten-skinned creatures. He remembered the meteor, losing his sanity bit by bit. He remembered gaining a wand, and wanting to survive. He remembered his offer, his fight with a mustard blooded hacker, killing the girl he once loved, killing the girl he respected and wanted to help. He remembered that same girl returning the favor with a chainsaw through his abdomen.

These memories mixed in with the ones that he had from this new life. The cupboard under the stairs, magic, Hogwarts, Ron, Hermione, Voldemort. Who was he now? Now that he knew what he was, he could feel the mindsets clashing and mixing until they merged into something that reflected both of them.

His name was Eridan Ampora, the Prince of Hope. A troll from Alternia. Dead at the age of thirteen.

And he remembered everything.

Chapter Text

Eridan found irony in the fact that his memories awoke at the same age at which his life was taken. Considering there was no calendar on the meteor, September 1st might as well be the anniversary of his death. He could hear the muffled sounds of people above him, but his mind was in disarray after his sudden memory flood. He pulled out Harry's wand (it was his as well though, wasn't it?) and began to clean up the place that he used to stay in just to have some semblance of normalcy whist on the meteor.

Harry was probably in such a state of confusion that he never noticed his surroundings until he and his past had become one again. Teal wood walls rose high in the recreation of the place he used to call home all those sweeps ago, back when there was no Earth, no Sgrub. A brilliant chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, giving the room a vaguely violet tinge. Bookshelves from his private library filled every nook and cranny, all sorted away by his photographic memory. There were copies of books he had read, which he put back in their place with a quick tap of his wand, books that dictated what he knew about people and places, which he put back much slower, pausing at a few and sighing.

Then there were the books that have never been sorted, simply because of the fact that his reincarnated self did not know how to access this place. Storybooks and textbooks that Dudley had refused to read, Harry's Hogwarts books, the books on everything and everyone that Harry had ever seen, met, spoken to, knew about. This all had to be sorted manually, as Eridan had to go through each of the memory books to make sure he could sort them properly. He used this time to refamiliarize himself with his life as Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Always-Gets-Into-Mountains-Of-Trouble-And-Has-Hyphenated-Names. Flipping through one book, he called up the memory of Harry talking with Dumbledore about his House placement, and the fact that Tom Riddle had told him that they were very much alike.

Tom Riddle was more right than he could ever imagine. If one were to put together Harry Potter and Eridan Ampora, the present and the past, then they would be the closest to emulating the so-called Dark Lord. Harry had grown up an orphan and despised by his relatives until he was saved by Hogwarts. He knew Parseltongue and was almost sorted into Slytherin. Eridan Ampora was a highblood from a society where killing was a normal happenstance, where bloodthirst in people like him was encouraged. He was genocidal, had built machines of doom. He had murdered in own friends in self-defense, and was killed for it. The history of one and the personality of the other would have made a very passable copy.

But Eridan didn't want to be a copy of someone else, no anymore.

He was tired of having his life compromised by the rules he had placed on himself simply because he was following the footsteps of another. They told him magic wasn't real, so he found something else to hold onto in his pitiful existence as a child. Orphaner Dualscar, his ancestor. He emulated the man as best as he could, trying to be a carbon copy of the great warrior. But that was the thing, a warlord like that was not who Eridan was.

Eridan Ampora was a quiet, studious troll who holed himself up in his hive for weeks at a time reading about military and Alternian history and the odd magical theory book. He was an excellent fighter, don't get him wrong, but his intellect outweighed his capacity to fight. Unfortunately, wits were not something that Dualscar had. So he pretended to be someone he wasn't and everybody seemed to just hate him more for it. It confused Eridan to no end. Who did they want him to be if it wasn't himself? He had lost any semblance of friendship from any of the others, his social ineptness making him come off as 'creepy', and he was cut in half with a chainsaw by someone he used to discuss fashion trends with over grubjuice.

Harry Potter was also quiet, but not as studious as his past identity. Since he had no idea what his parents were like, he couldn't emulate them at all. He was slacking in school because of the trouble he constantly got into during the year and therefore was falling behind on most of his classes. Though to be fair, Eridan had always considered 'falling behind' to be when he never tried hard enough. Harry was, in fact, an average wizard, but with the impending reemergence of his new arch nemesis and Dark Lord Voldemort (what an idiotic name, thought Eridan as he read through the man's file) 'average' wasn't going to be good enough.

He needed to be stronger, smarter. He needed to be able to pick out enemies from the friends and vice versa. He needed to be able to remember spells and curses and jinxes. He needed to have a good head on his shoulders and know when and when not to run into the face of danger. He needed to study hard in his work so that perhaps he could build a future for himself outside the Dursley home. He needed to understand that the world was going to use him anyway, so he might as well twist it to his own gain as well.

What he really needed right now was to be Eridan Ampora.

And that was what he was, is, and will be forevermore.

Sure, he was Harry Potter, but the past had an understanding of the world around him that seamlessly merged in together. But that also began to beg another question.

Who was he, Eridan or Harry?

Who was he more of, as they were now both of equal age? Both were of the same mind, body, soul, but not of thinking and personality. Would one become the past and the other the future? Could they bleed into each other until red and violet made something more comprehensible? Will they become some sort of patchwork soul? Will one dominate the other or will they take turns?

Or was he thinking all wrong?

There was no Eridan Ampora and there was no Harry Potter. There was only him, an individual with both those names and both those memories. They were interchangeable not because they were separate, they were never separate, but because they were always the same.

He decided he liked that.

Finally all the books from his new life were sorted, and lamented at the fact that Harry Potter had a significantly smaller selection than Eridan Ampora. Oh well, he thought, he could fix that easily enough. They were going to a magic school, after all. Even though he had been so for two years now, he felt his heart leapt. Magic, oh how he missed using that term. How he missed being the intellectual troll trying to learn magic, even when his later years were dedicated into calling it fake. But this was real, it was all real, and he was going to make to most of it.

He examined the rest of the room, righting things that had fallen, before he realized something rather strange. The room was not how he remembered it last, and tried to pinpoint what was different. A cozy rug covered most of the floor now, which was violet with gold lining, and a fireplace crackled where there had only been wall before. Some plush chairs that were originally a violet hue had changed into red and gold, Gryffindor colors. The mindspace had merged his most coveted places in either life – Eridan's Library and the Gryffindor Common Room. He smiled at this. It truly felt like home, the place in his own mind.

Something shone on top of one of the desks that sat around the edges of the room. He walked up to it and picked the object up. It was his old Sylladex. A quick examination of the contents showed that it still held all of his belongings. Ahab's Crosshairs was still thankfully tucked away in its Strife Specibus, and his husktop still had everything on it. Not expecting anything, he checked Trollian. No one was online. He didn't expect there to be any, but one would never know until they checked. He set the Sylladex to 'Hands-Free' mode so that none of the people outside could access it as he didn't want to have to explain why he was carrying a sniper rifle with him.

A door that was never there before stood near the back corner of the room. It was pitch black with something nasty oozing from the cracks. He felt the negative energy that was behind the door, and locked the thing tightly, putting a couple of chains around it from good measure.

Looking around, he saw that he was done for now, and allowed himself to be pulled to the surface.

"Harry! Harry! Are you all right?"

Someone was slapping his face.

"W-what?"

He opened his eyes. There were lanterns above him, and the floor was shaking. The Hogwarts Express was moving again and the lights had come back on. He seemed to have slid out of his seat onto the floor whilst inside his mind. Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to him, and above them he could see Neville and Professor Lupin watching. How long had he been inside? He felt rather sick, as if he had all the joy sucked out of him by some sort of emotional vacuum cleaner. Small violent spasms came over him, and he realized that he was shivering. What had caused this?

It was then that he remembered the creature that started this chain of events, causing Harry to remember who he was. Ron and Hermione heaved him back onto his seat.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked nervously.

"Yeah," he replied, looking quickly toward the door.

The hooded creature had vanished.

"Wwhat happened? Wwhere's that… that thin?"

Drat, his voice was taking on his old wavy accent, this certainly would not do. Hopefully they would just chalk it up to some stuttering. Eridan looked around the bright compartment. Ginny and Neville looked back at him, both very pale. A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces.

"Here," he said to Eridan, handing him a particularly large piece, "Eat it. It'll help."

Eridan took the chocolate but didn't eat it, his emerald green eyes (wouldn't Kanaya be proud, he now had the same shade of green she did) regarding the candy critically.

"Wwhat wwas that thin?" he asked Lupin.

"A Dementor," replied Lupin, who was now giving chocolate to everyone else, "One of the Dementors of Azkaban."

Dementors? They looked more like those dratted Wrath Angels back on LOWAA, with their grey rotting skin and their ability to make you feel like you would never be happy again… And the others had said that killing them all was wrong. Everyone stared at the man. Professor Lupin crumpled up the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.

"Eat," he repeated, "It'll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me…"

He strolled past Eridan and disappeared into the corridor.

"Are you sure you're okay, Harry?" asked Hermione, watching Eridan anxiously.

"I'm…fine. Could someone explain wwhat just happened?" he said carefully, wiping some sweat that had formed on his face at some point during his trip down memory lane.

"Well…that thing…the Dementor…stood there and looked around, I mean, I think it did, I couldn't see its face…and you…you…"

"I thought you were having a fit or something," picked up Ron, who still looked scared, "You went sort of rigid and fell out of your seat and started twitching…"

"And Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked toward the Dementor, and pulled out his wand," said Hermione, "and he said, 'None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go.' But the Dementor didn't move, so Lupin muttered something, and a silvery thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around and sort of glided away…"

Silvery thing? He had to learn what that 'silvery thing' was. If it could keep away those Dementors, Eridan would be just fine. A murderer bent on killing him was easier to deal with at the moment than those creatures. After all, those things didn't look like they could be killed easily…perhaps he should introduce Ahab's Crosshairs to them?

"It was horrible," said Neville, in a higher voice than usual, "Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?"

"I felt weird," said Ron, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, "Like I'd never be cheerful again…"

Ginny, who was huddled in her corner looking nearly as bad as Eridan felt, gave a small sob. Hermione went over and put a comforting arm around her. He heaved a heavy sigh, contemplating their words. If what he could gather was true, only he was greatly affected by this Dementor attack, considering that he had fallen out of his seat.

"Did any of you fall out of your seats?" he asked carefully.

"No," said Ron, looking anxiously at Harry again, "Ginny was shaking like mad, though…"

Perhaps the Dementors called up one's worst memories? Eridan, even as Harry Potter, had an overload of horrible memories. It would explain why some were more affected by others - Ginny was probably forced to relive the nightmare of Tom Riddle's diary. Eridan's attack was so bad it called up memories from his past life, though perhaps that was a good thing.

Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he entered, looked around, and said with a small smile.

"I haven't poisoned that chocolate, you know…"

Eridan took a bite and to his great surprise felt warmth spread suddenly throughout his being. Chocolate was an antidote for Dementor attacks? Curious, very curious, why was that? If those things were going anywhere near him anytime soon, he might just become a chocoholic.

"We'll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes," said Professor Lupin, "Are you all right, Harry?"

How did the Professor know his name? His memory dictated that he had never really seen the man before during his years with the Dursleys or anytime in the magical world.

"I am better, thank you." he intoned.

Eridan saw a flicker of confusion run through the man's amber eyes, before Professor Lupin simply smiled kindly at him. The smile was like that of greeting an old friend, which sent Eridan into a frenzied search other whether he had actually met the man before. Nobody talked much during the remainder of the journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, and there was a great scramble to get outside. Owls hooted, cats meowed, and Neville's pet toad croaked loudly from under his hat. It was freezing on the tiny platform and rain was driving down in icy sheets.

"Firs' years this way!" called a familiar voice.

Eridan turned and saw the gigantic outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform, beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward for their traditional journey across the lake. Poor children, they had to pass through the lake in the freezing rain. Eridan was grateful that Harry's journey was much drier, which was rather ironic coming from a person that used to have fins and gills.

"All right, you three?" Hagrid yelled over the heads of the crowd.

They waved at him, but had no chance to speak to him because the mass of people around them was shunting them away along the platform. Eridan, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the school along the platform and out onto a rough mud track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited the remaining students. Each were pulled by a creature that Eridan would have assumed came from a child's nightmare. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring as if they were dead things. Wings sprouted from each wither — vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister.

Eridan wracked his memory, and tried to remember if he had seen those creatures the first time around. Pulling a memory to surface, he realized that Harry saw them as being pulled by invisible horses. Why were they visible now? What had changed? Could a Dementor attack allow him to see these creatures? He turned to Ron and Hermione, gauging their reactions. Their eyes passed over the strange horse beings, as if they couldn't see it. So a Dementor attack was out, what else had changed?

Quite a bit, really, now that he had his memories back. He stared at the horse creatures and they stared back at him. They did not give off any aura that suggested malicious intent, (wait, aura? He could sense those again?) so he gave them a pat on the neck and joined Ron and Hermione inside the coach.

The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Eridan felt better since the chocolate, but still weak from whatever else the Dementor had done to him. Ron and Hermione kept looking at him sideways, as though frightened he might collapse again. As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars, Eridan saw two more towering, hooded Dementors standing guard on either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf him again, and he leaned back into the lumpy seat and closed his eyes until they had passed the gates. The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping drive up to the castle. Hermione was leaning out of the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer. At last, the carriage swayed to a halt, and Hermione and Ron got out. As Eridan himself stepped out of the coach as smoothly as he could, he heard a drawling, delighted voice in his ear.

"You fainted, Potter? Is Longbottom telling the truth? You actually fainted?"

Draco Malfoy elbowed past Hermione to block Eridan's way up the stone steps to the castle, his face gleeful and his pale eyes glinting maliciously. Eridan, with his personality and memories back, smirked.

"At least I had the decency to faint. I heard rumors about you screamin like a little girl."

Malfoy's face turned beet red, and Ron began to laugh from behind.

"Ah, so it's true then, you did scream. Tut, tut, wwhat happened to bein the strong pureblood scion?" Malfoy sneered at Eridan, his face still redder than Karkat when he found that Terezi had scribbled on his rom-coms.

"At least I'm not stuttering like Professor Quirrell did!"

Stuttering? Oh, his accent. It seemed that since his defenses were down, he couldn't stop talking with it. Maybe when he was better he could go back to speaking like all the other humans.

"Is there a problem?" said a mild voice.

Professor Lupin had just gotten out of the next carriage. Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the dilapidated suitcase. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he said.

"Oh, no…er…Professor." then he smirked at Crabbe and Goyle and led them up the steps into the castle.

Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, into the cavernous Entrance Hall, which was lit with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors.

He was back at Hogwarts, and this time nothing would be standing in his way.

Chapter Text

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right. Eridan followed the crowd toward it, but had barely glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and cloudy tonight, when a voice called out.

"Potter! Granger! I want to see you both!"

Eridan searched his memory, and realized that it had to belong to Minerva McGonagall, Head of the Gryffindor House, Deputy Headmistress, and Transfiguration Professor. She was one of the few people that Harry would trust, and Eridan still had a grudging respect for the woman. Professor McGonagall reminded him vaguely of an older version of Maryam in a way, at least with her stern personality. He wondered what she wanted with him, surely he wasn't behaving that strangely… He and Hermione pushed through the crowd to get to her with nervous dispositions.

"There's no need to look so worried — I just want a word in my office," she told them, "Move along there, Weasley."

Ron stared as Professor McGonagall ushered Eridan and Hermione away from the chattering crowd. They accompanied her across the entrance hall, up the marble staircase, and along a corridor. Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned Eridan and Hermione to sit down. She settled herself behind her desk before speaking abruptly.

"Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Potter."

Before Eridan could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came bustling in. He internally rolled his eyes. By the Empress, he had only fainted; it wasn't as if he died.

…Okay, technically he did, but not as Harry Potter. Besides, who knew how long it had been since he had been sliced in half? Six sweeps? Ten? Or perhaps Paradox Space struck again and he wound up in some other time?

Eridan wasn't an idiot, he knew where he was. This was Earth, the planet he and his friends poured their hearts into making during the game, the centerpiece of Bilious Slick. He knew that the humans he conversed with had just had their own Armageddon, and had more advanced technology than the muggle world Harry Potter lived in. So that meant that he had been placed in a time before that, on Earth before the 'Sburb' humans were probably even born. What a curious thought.

He wondered what these humans would have done if they ever found out what he had given them.

"I'm alright." he said, trying to avoid any words that would show his accent, "I don't need-"

"Oh, it's you, is it?" interrupted Madam Pomfrey, ignoring his words and bending down to stare closely at him, "I suppose you've been doing something dangerous again?"

"It was a Dementor, Poppy," answered Professor McGonagall.

They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly.

"Setting Dementors around a school," she muttered, pushing back Eridan's hair (messy and completely black with no violet highlight in sight) and feeling his forehead, "He won't be the last one who collapses. Yes, he's all clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate —"

"I am not delicate!" Eridan squawked indignantly.

"Of course you're not." soothed Madam Pomfrey absentmindedly, now taking his pulse.

"What does he need?" asked Professor McGonagall crisply, "Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?"

Eridan forgot how…weak humans were. On Alternia you just pulled yourself up and continued beating the shit out of your enemies. On Earth young humans were coddled every time they fell. At Hogwarts, the coddling was lessened to some degree, as you could actually get seriously injured in this castle (see: Stairs, Fluffy, Dragons, Professor Voldesnore, House Elves, Professor Imbecil Lockhart, Cursed Diaries, Basilisks, and the entire game of Quiddich).

"I'm fine, Professor." Eridan said groaning.

"Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very least," said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to peer into Eridan's eyes (they were still green when he checked his reflection in the coach window).

"I'vve already had some," Eridan muttered with narrowed eyes, "Professor Lupin gavve me some. He gavve it to all of us."

"Did he, now?" said Madam Pomfrey approvingly, "So we've finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?"

At the same time as the Mediwitch had said this, McGonagall asked Eridan sharply, narrowing her eyes.

"Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?"

"Yes." he replied testily.

"You were stuttering before, when you were talking about Professor Lupin."

Drat. Why did his accent have to make people think he was unwell?

"I'm fine, Professor." Eridan answered, and gave her a convincing, bright smile.

"Very well." Professor McGonagall said with a sigh, "Kindly wait outside while I have a quick word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, then we can go down to the feast together."

Eridan was about to leave the room before he stopped. Schedules… Oh right, third years could take elective courses. What did Harry pick now? Something to do with Ron and easy courses…

Divination? Eridan understood prophecy, so any type of foresight was welcome. Care of Magical Creatures? Hm…perhaps I would be rather useful to learn about the magical wildlife. Plus Hagrid's gift to him during the holidays suggested they might be dangerous, and Eridan was not going to miss out on an opportunity to learn how to tame them. He'd never be as good as Nitram with animals, but he might be sufficient enough to use them eventually into battle. There were other electives that were offered, but Harry and Ron wanted to do the minimum amount of work required.

Obviously, Eridan was different. Arithmancy caught his attention when he flipped through the memory of the electives list, and so did Ancient Runes. Muggles studies seemed rather redundant for someone who lived in the muggle world during his summers, but the others held merit.

Perhaps he should talk to the Professor about adding subjects…

"Actually Professor," he started, causing McGonagall to raise an eyebrow at him, "Could I talk to you about my schedule? I w-anted to add tw-o more electiv-es."

There, and he even made sure not to double his Ws. Fortunately, his Head of House did not comment on his strange speech, but instead nodded slowly.

"Alright Mister Potter, what is it that you wanted to add?"

"Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."

Professor McGonagall blinked a couple of times.

"And here I thought you and Mister Weasley were going to put in minimum effort. Very well, Mister Potter, I will add those two courses, but please see me after Miss Granger and I have finished talking. We will have to rework your schedule."

Eridan nodded brightly, and went back into the corridor with Madam Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to herself. He had to wait only a few minutes before Hermione emerged looking very happy about something. The Gryffindor was then beckoned back in, and saw that McGonagall had his schedule out.

"Now, I am going to give you the same talk I had given Miss Granger. With the added two classes, you will have class overlap. Miss Granger, bless her heart, has decided to tackle all the electives offered. While you are Muggle studies, the extra two classes will overlap your first two. Because of this, the school has these in special order."

She held up what looked to be a small hourglass suspended in golden rings, hung on a golden chain. The sand inside the glass was of the purest white, finer than any granule Eridan had ever seen.

"We usually hold these for exceptionally studious Ravenclaws, but it seems both you and Miss Granger will be using these. This is a Time Turner. You hang the chain around your neck and spin this little hourglass to go back in time. One hour per spin, and this particular time turner only allows for you to go back twelve hours in a true twenty four hour period. Remember not to run into yourself whilst reliving the past to get to your other classes, terrible things happen to those who mess with time, Mister Potter. I trust that you will study harder than you have for the past two years and that you don't take advantage of this device. I call easily take it away if I see you abusing it."

Eridan looked at it with wide eyes. A palm sized time machine? How incredibly useful, as long as he didn't use it for nefarious deeds like she warned him against. Perhaps he could get some extra study done with this, perhaps hide in the Chamber of Secrets? He would have to clear out the giant Basilisk corpse, but a quiet reading place would be rather nice…

He carefully took the Time Turner from her hands and nodded to her solemnly.

"I w-on't, Professor, you can trust me."

She gave him a tight smile, a hint of pride flickering across her features. Then Eridan turned around and walked out of the room to where Hermione was waiting patiently, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the three of them made their way back down the marble staircase to the Great Hall. It was a sea of pointed black hats. Each of the long House tables was lined with students, their faces glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, which were floating over the tables in midair. Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a shock of white hair (Eridan wondered in passing if the man was entirely human), was carrying an ancient hat and a three-legged stool out of the hall.

"Oh," said Hermione softly, "we've missed the Sorting!"

Professor McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the staff table, and Eridan and Hermione set off in the other direction, as quietly as possible, toward the Gryffindor table. People looked around at them as they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of them pointed at Eridan. Had the story of his collapsing in front of the Dementor traveled that fast? Were their minds so obsessed with the business of others that they couldn't mind their own business?

That was one thing Eridan missed about Alternia, everyone minded their own damn business. This was why most trolls got away with not being culled for simple things, and the reason why nobody caught on of Vantas's true blood color. Everyone was too busy trying to survive the harsh habitat they lived in that paying attention to another's troll's business was considered incredibly rude.

He and Hermione sat down on either side of Ron, who had saved them seats.

"What was all that about?" he muttered to Eridan.

Eridan started to explain in a whisper, but at that moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he broke off, giving the wizened old man his full attention. Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave an impression of great energy. From the amount of times he's been sent to Dumbledore's office, Eridan wondered if it had to do with the amount of sugar he ingested.

Trolls he knew had a high tolerance for sugar, as most of their native fruits were incredibly sweet. As an insect based race, sugar was a large part of their diet, and rarely were there any effects if ingested at a high rate. But humans were different, humans were mammal based. While their diet contains sugar, too much sugar could lead to an excessive energy high before they crashed when that energy ran out.

"Welcome!" chortled Dumbledore, the candlelight shimmering on his beard, "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast…"

The headmaster cleared his throat, and suddenly his expression turned serious.

"As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business."

The Ministry was behind this? Eridan looked back at Harry's memories at his most recent stay at Diagon Alley, and picked out the one with Fudge in it. Now that he remembered, the man seemed a little off. Staring at Dumbledore's face, it was evident the man was not happy with this arrangement. Perhaps the Ministry was slowly trying to take control of the school? That was never good.

"They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises — or even Invisibility Cloaks," Dumbledore added blandly, and Eridan and Ron glanced at each other, "It is not in the nature of a Dementor to understand pleading or excuses."

Yep, that definitely sounded like the wrathful angels back on LOWAA, those dirty, rotten…

"I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the Dementors,"

Percy, who was sitting a few seats down from Eridan, puffed out his chest again and stared around impressively. Dumbledore paused again in his speech. He looked very seriously around the hall. Nobody moved or made a sound.

"On a happier note," he continued, "I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause. Only those who had been in the compartment on the train with Professor Lupin clapped hard, Eridan among them. Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes. Perhaps he couldn't afford any? It added to Eridan's theory that the man might have a serious or terminal illness.

"Look at Snape!" Ron hissed in Eridan's ear.

Professor Snape was staring at the new teacher the way Eridan used to stare at Sollux. That was never a good sign for anything. While he understood jealousy, what was between the sallow Potions Master and Professor Lupin must run deeper than that. Because what Snape was giving Lupin was the glare of uncomprehendable loathing. The parallels between the two seemed to disgust the part of him that still hated Snape, while the rest of him couldn't bring himself to care about the man's hatred toward himself anymore. He had been through much worse in his younger life, survived the end of the world, and even fucking died, a man who was strict in a volatile subject and a loathing for a single student was nothing compared to Jack Noir. The only thing Eridan wanted to do was hope that Lupin survived the year without being poisoned by Professor Snape, he seemed to be a competent enough teacher from what he could see from the train.

"As to our second new appointment," Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away, "Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties."

Oh my. Eridan, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another, stunned. Then they joined in with the applause, which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in particular, considering the giant of a man used to be one of their own before he was expelled. Eridan leaned forward to see Hagrid, who was as flushed as Karkat in the middle of a touching scene in one of his rom-coms and staring down at his enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of his black beard.

"We should've known!" Ron roared, pounding the table, "Who else would have assigned us a biting book?"

The red-haired boy had a point. Only Hagrid would have thought up of something like that. The three of them were the last to stop clapping, happy for their friend, and as Professor Dumbledore started speaking again, they saw that Hagrid was wiping his eyes on the tablecloth.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," said Dumbledore, "Let the feast begin!"

The golden plates and goblets before them filled suddenly with food and drink. It was a delicious feast, as usual. The hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Eridan got to experience the strange tastes of human food for the first time since regaining his memories, and was still impressed and amazed by how colorful all the dishes were. Everyone seemed to be taking their time to enjoy their warm meals in light of the coldness that they all felt during the Dementor attack. Eridan, Ron, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew how much being made a teacher would have meant to him. Hagrid wasn't a fully qualified wizard, so it would have taken quite a bit of string pulling to get him that position.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they got their chance.

"Congratulations, Hagrid!" Hermione squealed as they reached the High Table.

"All down ter you three," said Hagrid, wiping his shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them, "Can' believe it… great man, Dumbledore… came straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he'd had enough… It's what I always wanted…" Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away.

Eridan joined the Gryffindors streaming up the marble staircase to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower, where a large portrait of the Fat Lady asked them in a sleepy tone.

"Password?"

"Coming through, coming through!" Percy called from behind the crowd, "The new password's Fortuna Major!"

"Oh no," mumbled Neville Longbottom sadly.

He always had trouble remembering the passwords. Eridan felt a little sorry for him, so he sidled up to where the shy Gryffindor was standing dejectedly.

"Hey Nev-ille," he whispered and the boy looked up at the mention of his name, "Fortuna Major means 'Greater Fortune' in Latin, like most of our passwords. Think about it this w-ay, w-e all w-ant a greater fortune at the start of the year. Do you think you can remember it that w-ay?"

"Yeah..." Neville replied with a small smile, before looking at Eridan worriedly, "Are you alright though, Harry? You're talking weird. The Dementor must have done a number on you."

Apparently fixing his double letter accent wasn't enough, he'll practice his speech problem in the morning.

"Yeah, I'm fine." he replied with a smile of his own.

Through the portrait hole and across the common room, the girls and boys divided toward their separate staircases. Dean, Seamus, Ron and Neville all changed into their night clothes mechanically before collapsing into their beds and shutting their curtains. Eridan followed suit as he changed into his pajamas, but realized when he laid in his bunk with the curtains drawn tight that he was wide awake.

Thoughts were zooming in his mind, as usual, and Eridan cursed the fact that his insomnia had carried over. This most certainly would not do in a study-heavy environment like Hogwarts, so he ended up laying on his back, staring at the roof of his bunk, breathing in slow, measured paces. He cleared his mind, and entered the familiar room decorated in violet. Walking over to the bookcases, he sorted the books on the new information he had gathered, one book for Dementors, one for Professor Lupin, and one for Time Turners. Then he took the first book dictating Harry's life and settled down in one of his mind-chairs to read.

Three hours into the night and he had skimmed the entire bookshelf's worth, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least now he was up to date with everything once more, and didn't have to frantically search the shelf just to find simple answers that he as clueless Harry Potter could easily recall. His mind began to wander to other things, like what had happened to the others. How much time had passed? Was it even possible? Did he even want to attempt it? Kanaya had made it pretty clear that he was about as welcome as Jack Noir on the meteor.

Speaking of his killer, he wondered what she was doing now. Last time he had seen her, she had smashed Serket in the face, kicked Makara in the bonebulge, snapped his science stick (what was that thing, really?) and cut him in half with her chainsaw. Granted, all three of them had sins to answer for. Serket had killed Nitram, Makara had murdered both Zahhak and Leijon, and he had blinded Captor (stupid pissblood wanted a fight and he lost, what was the deal in that?), shot Peixes through the sternum (she was trying to run him through with her trident, that was self-defense), destroyed the Matriorb and shot Maryam through the stomach (okay, he would admit, that was uncalled for). But Eridan was a little miffed at the fact that his punishment did not fit the crime in light of his other sinner friends.

All Vriska got was a punch to the face and she murdered a paraplegic pacifist in cold blood. Knowing Equius, he wouldn't have put up a fight and Nepeta was not as strong as the purple blooded maniac. What did Gamzee get? A kick to the groin. He accepts a duel from Sollux and wins (he was only blinded too, and Terezi managed just fine) and suddenly he's had to act quickly and defend himself from his ex-moirail. Then he saw Kanaya reach for her lipstick and he decided to make her pay for even thinking about trying to fight him, but unfortunately that just riled her up even more.

He made sure she knew that going against him was a terrible idea by beaming her through the stomach.

When he came across Vriska, he was ready to kill her for all the wrongs she had committed against him and everyone else, and she had come to him for the reverse reason. Then Gamzee tried to throw a monkey wrench into the duel by arriving, and then they all got their shit kicked out by a newly resurrected Rainbow Drinker who was literally and figuratively out for blood.

Thinking about his past life as a troll started to make his brain hurt, and Eridan started to wonder if reminiscing about the past was doing anything good at all. As far as he knew, he had died on a sour note with each of his friends, deceased or alive. Were any of the others here? He doubted it. So in essence Eridan had been given second chance, a fresh start.

Albeit a fresh start as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Crazy Lucked Wizard, but a start nonetheless.

That had to count for something, Eridan thought as his eyelids finally fluttered closed in slumber.

Chapter Text

Eridan opened his eyes to see a familiar gray ceiling. He was lying on his back, arms and legs splayed out as if he had passed out from another round of intense FLARPing. Lights flickered on and off in an algorithmic fashion, giving him the visual stimuli that probably roused him from his unconsciousness in the first place. Every part of his body was aching, but the area around his lower torso was searing in pain.

Groaning, Eridan managed to drag himself up to a sitting position and looked around. He was on the meteor, alone. A stab of pain forced his attention back on his current state, and the troll looked down, lifting his shirt up.

It looked like someone had stitched him up after Maryam's Chainsaw Massacre on his abdomen. His torso and legs were neatly sewn together with some sort of black thread, crusted with his violet blood. Well, that would explain the pain…

Did that mean he was alive?

Painstakingly he shifted to a standing position and walked to where the remains of his Science Stick laid. Gingerly picking them up, Eridan examined the broken pieces before pocketing them. Looking around, he decided to search for any other people that might be around. As he passed an empty ectobiology container, he caught sight of his reflection. His cape was gone (damn that Maryam, she made it into a sash, didn't she) and his eyes were a milky white.

Not alive then.

Eridan continued walking, noting in irony that this was the same route he had taken when he had decided to confront Feferi on joining Jack Noir. Speaking of which, where was she now? If he was dead, would he see her in this recreation of the meteor? Would she hate him?

That was a stupid question, of course she would. Everyone probably hated him by now. Eridan knew that everyone had a lower tolerance for his personal brand of bullshit for some stupid reason, and even though Makara would get off relatively scot-free, he would be persecuted to oblivion. Vantas had written him off as dead, he had blown a hole in Peixes, he had permanently blinded Captor, if Maryam ever found him again he would be double dead, Serket was a bitch anyway, and the other trolls had always considered him strange and creepy.

Why bother finding people that hated you? He had ruined his life, both living and dead, with the shit that he had pulled. Nobody would probably even talk to him, never mind welcome him with open arms. Did he have any friends at this point? Eridan tried to find one, but his mind came up empty.

Now what? If he bumped into someone they would probably try to kill him and, knowing his luck, the news of his misdeeds would have spread through this afterlife like wildfire already. There was nothing for him here, nothing to hold onto. No reason to stay. But where would he go? Was he able to leave this place? If only he could get away from this place, away from his ex-friends and this world that had royally fucked him up physically, mentally, socially.

The shards of his Science Stick started vibrating, and the dead troll quickly scooped the pieces out of his pocket. From the two snapped halves to the small splinters covering his grey, four fingered hands, the shards of the stick started to glow. They began to float up, flying to a place that was five inches in front of his face before merging in a flash of light. Eridan's vision was momentarily compromised, and when the spots in his sight finally dissipated, he was met with a floating solid replica of his Aspect.

The white wings of Hope rotated slowly in front of his face, as if waiting for him to take it.

What did this mean? Was this supposed to be Hope for the future, Hope for the trials he would have to face in the future? Was it courage to face his old friends, the nerve to be able to talk the again? Or was this entirely different? Was this, instead, a Hope for a second chance? Eridan narrowed his eyes in determination before his hand clasped around the floating insignia.

Whatever this was, he would make the most of it.

A brilliant flash of white light engulfed him, before that light suddenly turned jade green.

"No! Not Harry! Don't take my son!" screamed a voice before it was silenced by the light.

Eridan's mind started to cloud over, started to forget. He felt a stab of pain in his forehead, something worming its way into his mind. A man screamed in pain over him, but he found that he could not move. He felt so tired, so groggy, and started to close his eyes.

As Eridan Ampora closed his eyes on October 31st, Harry Potter slept on with dreams of magenta leaves, grey skinned horned beings, and a warship that felt like home.

When Eridan, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they saw was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be entertaining a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As they passed, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter.

"Ignore him," muttered Hermione, who was right behind Eridan, "Just ignore him, it's not worth it…"

"Of course he isn't." Eridan replied to Hermione's surprise, rolling his eyes, "If he w-ere, then he w-ouldn't be doing that. Look at him, he's making a fool of himself."

Ron and Hermione grinned, but their smiles dropped when a certain green-clad bitch approached them.

"Hey, Potter!" shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl with a face that reminded Eridan of a flat-nosed barkbeast, "Potter! The Dementors are coming, Potter! Woooooooooo!"

"Aaaak!" Eridan mock-shrieked, recoiling away, "W-hat is that? It's hideous!"

He waved his arms dramatically, and Parkinson looked as if she was slapped in the face. The Gryffindor table broke out into peals of laughter. Malfoy glared at Eridan, and the Gryffindor did an impression of Malfoy squealing in fright, earning another round of loud laughter from his House-mates. Eridan dropped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, next to George Weasley, with a smirk.

"New third-year course schedules," said George, passing them over, "Good comeback, by the way."

"Thank you, but it didn't last v-very long, did it?" Eridan replied, reading over his schedule.

George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to faint with terror again.

"That little git," he said calmly, "He wasn't so cocky last night when the Dementors were down at our end of the train. Came running into our compartment, didn't he, Fred?"

"Nearly wet himself, and screamed like a little girl, but you knew about that second one didn't you Harry?" said Fred, with a contemptuous glance at Malfoy before giving Eridan a wink.

"I wasn't too happy myself," continued George, "They're horrible things, those Dementors…"

"Sort of freeze your insides, don't they?" muttered Fred.

"Yes, they seem to have some rather negativve effects…" Eridan mumbled, before his eyes widened as the Twins looked his over with worry.

Shit. His accent!

"I…the stutterin wwill pass…" he stated nervously, inwardly cursing as his accent became more prominent.

Fred and George however, seemed to take his speech pattern differently.

"Forget it, Harry," whispered George bracingly, "Dad had to go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he said it was the worst place he'd ever been, he came back all weak and shaking… They suck the happiness out of a place, Dementors. Most of the prisoners go mad in there."

"Anyway, we'll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quiddich match," added Fred with a grin, "Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?"

Ah yes, Quiddich. It was exhilarating, flying on a broom, something he was never able to experience quite like that in his past life. Eridan gave the Twins a smile before helping himself to some pancakes and cream.

Hermione, on the other hand, was smiling at her schedule.

"Ooh, good, we're starting some new subjects today," she said happily.

"Wwe chose our electivves durin the holidays Hermione, wwe kneww that already." remarked Eridan, before Ron craned over to see what they had.

"Hermione, Harry," started Ron, frowning as he looked over their shoulders, "they've messed up your timetable. Look, they've got you down for about ten subjects a day. There isn't enough time."

"Wwe'vve looked it ovver wwith Professor McGonagall, it's fine." Eridan said with a roll of his eyes.

"I'll manage. I've fixed it all with Professor McGonagall." Hermione sniffed at the same time.

"But look," declared Ron, laughing, "see this morning? Nine o'clock, Divination. And underneath, nine o'clock, Muggle Studies. And…" Ron leaned closer to the timetable, disbelieving, "look— underneath that, Arithmancy, nine o'clock. I mean, I know you're good, Hermione, but no one's that good. How're you supposed to be in three classes at once?"

"Don't be silly," answered Hermione shortly, "Of course I won't be in three classes at once."

"Well then-"

"Pass the marmalade," interrupted Hermione, who wasn't looking at Ron anymore.

"But-"

"Oh, Ron, what's it to you if my timetable's a bit full?" Hermione snapped, "I told you, I've fixed it all with Professor McGonagall."

"Relax Ron, wwe'vve sorted it all out. After all, magic can do wwonderous thins." Eridan told an upset Ron, "Let us study like nutters in peace, alright?"

Hermione let out an indignant huff at being called a nutter, but Ron cracked a grin.

"Alright Harry, but if you two start to overwork, I'll pull you away from your books by force!"

Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was wearing his long moleskin overcoat and was absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one enormous hand.

"All righ'?" he boomed eagerly, pausing on his way to the staff table, "Yer in my firs' ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up since five getting' everthin' ready… hope it's okay… me, a teacher… hones'ly…"

He grinned broadly at them and headed off to the staff table, still swinging the polecat.

"Wonder what he's been getting ready?" mused Ron aloud, a note of anxiety in his voice.

"Seein the cat, probably somethin big that likes meat."

"Harry, most of Hagrid's beasts are 'something big that likes meat'." Ron retorted with a groan.

The Hall was starting to empty as people headed off towards their first lesson. Ron checked his schedule.

"We'd better go, look, Divination's at the top of North Tower. It'll take us ten minutes to get there…"

They finished breakfast hastily, said goodbye to Fred and George and walked back through the hall. As they passed the Slytherin table, Malfoy did yet another impression of a fainting fit. In retaliation, Eridan crossed his legs and pretended to squeal like a baby. Shouts of laughter aimed toward the blond Slytherin made him smirk all the way to the Entrance Hall.

The journey through the castle to North Tower was a long one. Two years at Hogwarts hadn't taught them everything about the castle, and they had never been inside North Tower before.

"There's…got…to…be…a…short…cut…" Ron panted, as they climbed the seventh long staircase and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of grass hanging on the stone wall.

"I think it's this way," offered Hermione, peering down the empty passage to the right.

"Can't be," replied Ron, "That's south. Look, you can see a bit of the lake outside the window…"

"Ron," Eridan started, "since wwhen did anythin at Hogwwarts make sense?"

The red-haired Gryffindor groaned.

"You've got a point there, mate…"

Eridan saw motion out of the corner of his eye, and turned to the wall to see a large framed painting. A fat, dappled-gray pony had just ambled onto the grass and was grazing nonchalantly. As Harry, he was used to the subjects of Hogwarts paintings moving around and leaving their frames to visit each other, but he always enjoyed watching them. A moment later, a short, squat knight in a suit of armor had clanked into the picture after his pony. By the look of the grass stains on his metal knees, he had just fallen off.

"Aha!" he yelled, seeing Eridan, Ron and Hermione, "What villains are these, that trespass upon my private lands! Come to scorn at my fall, perchance? Draw, you knaves, you dogs!"

They watched in astonishment as the little knight tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in rage. But the sword was too long for him and a particularly wild swing made him overbalance, and he landed face down in the grass.

Eridan had a feeling that this portrait wasn't of a real knight, but of a caricature. There was no way someone could be that stupid.

…Right?

"Are you all right?" asked Ron, moving closer to the picture.

"Get back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!"

The knight seized his sword again and used it to push himself back up, but the blade sank deeply into the grass and, though he pulled with all his might, he couldn't get it out again. Finally, he had to flop back down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop his sweating face.

"Listen," Eridan said, taking advantage of the knight's exhaustion, "wwe're lookin for the North Tower. Do you happen to knoww the wway?"

"A quest!" The knight's rage seemed to vanish instantly, and he clanked to his feet and shouted, "Come follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or else shall perish bravely in the charge!"

He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and failed to mount the fat pony, gave up, and cried out-

"On foot then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!" And he ran, clanking loudly, into the left side of the frame and out of sight.

So he really was that stupid. Hopefully he could memorize the path to the classroom so that he never had to deal with the painting again. They hurried after him along the corridor, following the sound of his armor. Every now and then they spotted him running through a picture ahead.

"Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!" yelled the knight, and they saw him reappear in front of an alarmed group of women in crinolines, whose picture hung on the wall of a narrow spiral staircase.

Eridan, Ron, and Hermione climbed the tightly spiraling steps, the ex-troll noticing that his friends seemed to be at their limit. Ron looked out of breath and Hermione's hair was frizzier than normal. Both were panting when they finally reached their destination. Eridan stared at them, confused. Didn't he have the same stamina as them, or did that time on the train bring back more than just his memories?

"Farewell!" cried the knight, popping his head into a painting of some sinister-looking monks, "Farewell, my comrades-in-arms! If ever you have need of noble heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!"

"Yeah, we'll call you," muttered Ron as the knight disappeared, "if we ever need someone mental."

They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a tiny landing, where most of the class was already assembled. There were no doors off this landing, but Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on it.

"'Sybill Trelawwney, Divination teacher,'" Eridan read, "Howw are wwe supposed to get up there?"

As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended right at Eridan's feet. Everyone got quiet.

"After you," said Ron, grinning, so Eridan climbed the ladder first with a roll of his eyes.

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he had ever seen. In fact, it didn't look like a classroom at all, more like a cross between someone's attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small, circular tables were crammed inside it, all surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little beanbags. Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the curtains at the windows were all closed, and the many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large copper kettle. The shelves running around the circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a huge array of teacups.

Ron appeared at Eridan's shoulder as the class assembled around them, all talking in whispers.

"Where is she?" Ron asked.

A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft, misty sort of voice.

"Welcome, how nice to see you in the physical world at last."

Eridan's immediate impression was of a large, glittering insect, and not the type troll came from. Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight, and they saw that she was very thin. Her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were encrusted with bangles and rings.

He thought the woman was trying a little too hard to come off as a mystical seer.

"Sit, my children, sit." she said, and they all climbed awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto beanbags.

"Welcome to Divination," whispered Professor Trelawney, who had seated herself in a winged armchair in front of the fire, "My name is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner Eye."

Nobody said anything to this extraordinary pronouncement. A recluse then? No… Eridan discreetly sniffed the air. The scents of the room were covering something. He tried to pinpoint the smell that wasn't being broadcasted. Ah, there. Alcohol. So the Professor stayed up here drinking? Hardly a role model for such impressionable young humans.

Professor Trelawney delicately rearranged her shawl and continued, "So you have chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you… Books can take you only so far in this field…"

At these words Ron glanced, grinning, at Hermione, who looked startled at the news that books wouldn't be much help in this subject.

"Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future," Professor Trelawney went on, her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to nervous face, "It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy," she shouted suddenly to Neville, who almost toppled off his beanbag. "Is your grandmother well?"

"I think so," whimpered Neville tremulously.

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," said Professor Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long emerald earrings.

Neville gulped.

Professor Trelawney continued placidly, "We will be covering the basic methods of Divination this year. The first term will be devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear," she shot suddenly at Parvati Patil, "beware a red-haired man."

Parvati gave a startled look at Ron, who was right behind her and edged her chair away from him.

"In the second term," Professor Trelawney continued, "we shall progress to the crystal ball — if we have finished with fire omens, that is. Unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever."

A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but Professor Trelawney seemed unaware of it.

"I wonder, dear," she said to Lavender Brown, who was nearest and shrank back in her chair, "if you could pass me the largest silver teapot?"

Lavender, looking relieved, stood up, took an enormous teapot from the shelf, and put it down on the table in front of Professor Trelawney.

"Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are dreading, it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of October."

Lavender trembled.

"Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it. Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs remain. Swill these around the cup three times with the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then give your cup to your partner to read. You will interpret the patterns using pages five and six of Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, helping and instructing. Oh, and dear," she caught Neville by the arm as he made to stand up, "after you've broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to select one of the blue patterned ones? I'm rather attached to the pink."

Sure enough, Neville had no sooner reached the shelf of teacups when there was a tinkle of breaking china.

Professor Trelawney swept over to him holding a dustpan and brush and said, "One of the blue ones, then, dear, if you wouldn't mind… thank you…"

When Eridan and Ron had had their teacups filled, they went back to their table and tried to drink the scalding tea quickly. They swilled the dregs around as Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the cups and swapped over.

"Right," said Ron as they both opened their books at pages five and six, "What can you see in mine?"

"Right, you havve got a crooked sort of cross…" he consulted 'Unfogging the Future', "That means you're going to havve 'trials and sufferin', but there's another part that could be the sun. Hang on… that means 'great happiness'… so you're goin to suffer but be vvery happy about it…"

"You need your Inner Eye tested, if you ask me," chirruped Ron, and they both had to stifle their laughs as Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction.

"My turn…" Ron peered into Eridan's teacup, his forehead wrinkling with effort, "There's a blob a bit like a bowler hat… Maybe you're going to work for the Ministry of Magic…"

"I sure hope not." Eridan quipped, making the redhead guffaw.

Ron turned the teacup the other way up.

"But this way it looks more like an acorn… what's that?" Ron scanned his copy of Unfogging the Future, "'A windfall, unexpected gold.' Excellent, you can lend me some. And there's a thing here," he turned the cup again, "that looks like an animal… yeah, if that was its head… it looks like a hippo… no, a sheep…"

Professor Trelawney whirled around as Ron let out a snort of laughter.

"Let me see that, my dear," she said reprovingly to Ron, sweeping over and snatching Eridan's cup from him.

Everyone went quiet to watch. Professor Trelawney stared into the teacup, rotating it counterclockwise.

"The falcon… my dear, you have a deadly enemy."

"But everyone knows that," said Hermione in a loud whisper.

Professor Trelawney stared at her.

"Well, they do," sniffed Hermione, "Everybody knows about Harry and You-Know-Who."

Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered her huge eyes to Eridan's cup again and continued to turn it.

"The club… an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup…"

"I thought that was a bowler hat," commented Ron sheepishly.

"The skull… danger in your path, my dear…"

Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and then screamed. There was another tinkle of breaking china. Neville had smashed his second cup. Professor Trelawney sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at her heart and her eyes closed.

"My dear boy… my poor dear boy… no… it is kinder not to say… no… don't ask me…"

"What is it, Professor?" asked Dean Thomas at once.

Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly they crowded around Eridan and Ron's table, pressing close to Professor Trelawney's chair to get a good look at Eridan's cup.

"My dear," Professor Trelawney's huge eyes opened dramatically, "you have the Grim."

"Excuse me?" asked Eridan.

He could tell that he wasn't the only one who didn't understand. Dean Thomas shrugged at him and Lavender Brown looked puzzled, but nearly everybody else clapped their hands to their mouths in horror.

"The Grim, my dear, the Grim!" cried Professor Trelawney, who looked shocked that Eridan hadn't understood, "The giant, spectral dog that haunts churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen… the worst omen… of death!"

A little too late for that, Eridan thought, should have told me that before I got cut in half by a jade-blooded rainbow-drinking fashionista…

Talking with the Seer of Mind had cleared certain obscurities of future sight up, one of them being that some omens are actually warnings from the past. He didn't know how he knew this, but the moment Professor Trelawney had told him of his death omen, Eridan knew that it had already passed. One factor of this may have had something to do with the fact that he had already died, and he wasn't going to be leaving his new home anytime soon.

Lavender Brown clapped her hands to her mouth. Everyone was looking at Eridan, everyone except Hermione, who had gotten up and moved around to the back of Professor Trelawney's chair.

"I don't think it looks like a Grim," she stated flatly.

Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with mounting dislike.

"You'll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future."

Seamus Finnigan was tilting his head from side to side.

"It looks like a Grim if you do this," he surmised, with his eyes almost shut, "but it looks more like a donkey from here," he finished, leaning to the left.

Eridan discreetly surveyed the room. Everyone seemed to be avoiding the prospect of even glancing in his general direction, something the ex-troll internally snorted at. His demise had already passed; painfully, humiliatingly, but passed nonetheless.

"I think we will leave the lesson here for today," said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice, "Yes… please pack away your things…"

Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor Trelawney, packed away their books, and closed their bags. Even Ron was avoiding his eyes.

"Until we meet again," said Professor Trelawney faintly, "fair fortune be yours. Oh, and dear," she pointed at Neville, "you'll be late next time, so mind you work extra-hard to catch up."

As he descended the ladder, Eridan grudgingly wondered if the class was worth taking after all, because he was rather sure that even Pyrope could have made better predictions than her.

Chapter Text

It took them so long to find McGonagall's classroom that, early as they had left Divination, they were only just in time. Eridan chose a seat right at the back of the room, feeling as though he were sitting in a very bright spotlight. The rest of the class kept shooting furtive glances at him, as though he were about to drop dead at any moment. Absentmindedly he wondered what they would think of had they known that he had already suffered a gruesome death.

While the other students were still frightened from their class, Eridan listened in rapt attention to Professor McGonagall's lecture on animagi. To better explain to the class how it was done, she transformed herself in front of their eyes into a tabby cat with spectacle markings around her eyes. Eridan raised his eyebrows at this. The ability to turn into another animal at will was a rather useful ability to have. Thinking along those lines, since Eridan wasn't a human in his past life, could he perchance find a way to turn back into his troll form at will?

This was a cause for some serious research.

Professor McGonagall turned back into herself with a faint pop, and stared around at them all.

"Really, what has got into you all today? Not that it matters, but that's the first time my transformation's not gotten applause from a class."

Everybody's heads turned toward Eridan again, who internally rolled his eyes, but nobody spoke. Then Hermione raised her hand.

"Please, Professor, we've just had our first Divination class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and-"

"Ah, of course," said Professor McGonagall, suddenly frowning, "There is no need to say any more, Miss Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this year?"

So predictions of death were normal in that woman's class? Well in hindsight, Eridan mused, death was rather simple to predict. Everyone eventually dies. Everyone stared at her silently.

"Me," Eridan answered finally in a bored tone.

"I see," muttered Professor McGonagall, fixing him with her beady eyes, "Then you should know, Potter, that Sybill Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her favorite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues —" Professor McGonagall broke off, and they saw that her nostrils had gone white.

She went on, more calmly, "Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and Professor Trelawney…"

She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "You look in excellent health to me, Potter, so you will excuse me if I don't let you off homework today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand it in."

Hermione laughed and Eridan snorted. Not everyone was convinced, however. Ron still looked worried, and Lavender whispered more to herself than anyone else a 'But what about Neville's cup?'

When the Transfiguration class had finished, they joined the crowd thundering toward the Great Hall for lunch.

"Ron, cheer up," sighed Hermione, pushing a dish of stew toward him, "You heard what Professor McGonagall said."

Ron spooned stew onto his plate and picked up his fork but didn't start.

"Harry," he mumbled, in a low, serious voice, "You haven't seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?"

"I havve, actually." Eridan answered, confused, "The night I escaped from the Dursleys, there wwas a large black dog standin in my path. Rather friendly beast, if not a bit too thin."

Ron let his fork fall with a clatter.

"Probably a stray," commented Hermione calmly.

Ron looked at Hermione as though she had gone mad.

"Hermione, if Harry's seen a Grim, that's… that's bad," he whispered, "My… my uncle Bilius saw one and… and he died twenty-four hours later!"

It had been quite a while since he had seen that dog, and Eridan highly doubted he would be dying anytime soon.

"Coincidence," replied Hermione airily, pouring herself some pumpkin juice.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" shouted Ron, starting to get angry, "Grims scare the living daylights out of most wizards!"

"There you are, then," said Hermione in a superior tone, "They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim's not an omen, it's the cause of death! And Harry's still with us because he's not stupid enough to see one and think, right, well, I'd better kick the bucket then!"

At the mention of buckets, Eridan spat out his goblet of pumpkin juice. Because of this violent reaction, both Ron (whose face was starting to turn a bright red) and Hermione (who had looked as if she were about to leave) stopped immediately in their tracks to stare at him.

"See?" Ron whispered, frightened, "he's dying already!"

"B…bucket…" Eridan sputtered suddenly, to the confusion of everyone around him.

The problem wasn't the fact that Hermione had even said the word 'buckets' (okay, it was still part of the problem), it was that even now he was still affected by troll vocabulary. Humans wouldn't understand why he… oh dear… He stared at their confused and alarmed faces.

He had to make an exit, and fast.

"Er, Harry? What's going…?"

"I need…I need to go…" Eridan muttered out, still coughing from the pumpkin juice he had accidentally inhaled, and nodded at Hermione, "I'll…I'll see you in Arithmancy…"

With that, the ex-troll jumped straight over the Gryffindor table and absconded from the Great Hall with agility that none of the students had ever seen him have before, leaving them to simply stare at the space he once occupied in shock. Eridan ran into an empty classroom and hung the Time Turner's chain around his neck. He flicked the small hourglass four times and watched in fascination as the dust particles in the room floated upwards as time itself rewinded to a set point. After the dust started to fall in the proper direction once more, Eridan took out his Invisibility Cloak and wrapped it around himself.

What was wrong with him? He tried to act like Harry, he tried not to let his troll nature shine through. This was his second chance, and he had friends who legitimately seemed to worry and care for him no matter how many mistakes he made. If they ever found out how…murderous and nasty he could be they'll leave him for sure, just like Karkat and Feferi did. Why go back to being a person everyone seemed to loathe with their very being? Not even the incidents in the previous two years of Hogwarts compared to the disgust in his ex-friends eyes during that dratted game.

Like the silent hunter he used to be, Eridan stalked down the halls, navigating his way to the Arithmancy classroom. The walls were covered in number circles of varying complexity, some similar to the designs he had seen in LOWAA. He shoved his cloak back in his pocket, and scoured the back cupboard for an extra textbook (since it was a last minute change, he would just have to order one later). Luckily he managed to find a decent copy, and sat down behind one of the tables, sighing heavily. After a few minutes other students had begun trickling in, including a rather excited Hermione. Judging by her lighthearted canter into the classroom, Eridan surmised that she had taken this class before using the Time Turner to get to Divination.

"Morning, Harry!" she happily greeted, seating herself next to him before taking out her own books.

"Mornin, Hermione." he greeted back, internally sighing in relief that he wouldn't have to explain his sudden departure from the Great Hall if she hadn't witnessed it yet.

That bought him enough time to think of a decent excuse when he met them for Care of Magical Creatures later. Hopefully he also managed to find a way to quell his accent before it started to worry people. That or he could say that it was some sort of temporary brain damage due to Dementors. The question, again, was if he should choose to use his troll history or if he should continue with the way he had been for the past thirteen years. Or perhaps he should take a Gryffindor stance and just power through as best he could.

He decided he liked that.

Eridan was brought out of his musings by the entrance of the Arithmancy teacher, Professor Septima Vector. She wore a dark crimson robe and witch's hat, and had straight long dark brown hair. Perhaps it was simply his sentimentality, but Eridan couldn't brush off the similarities he saw between his Professor and Megido. He shook his head to clear away those thoughts. It was best to focus on the lesson starting in front of him first, and he felt the old troll side of him grin widely as he surveyed the curriculum that was being outlined by Professor Vector at the front. It was going to be rather difficult and complicated, but Eridan knew he could do it. He was a book nerd, after all. Complex calculations and ridiculous explanations were part of the reason Vriska hated him so much when they FLARPed.

The time spent in Arithmancy seemed to pass much more quickly than it did in Divination, which conveyed the level of interest he had in this class compared to that one. After the lesson had finished, Hermione had bade him goodbye and told him that she would see him in Divination shortly. Seeing as that meant his past self was still walking from Divination to Transfiguration, Eridan decided to make decent use of his time.

Which was why he was standing in front of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He heaved a sigh. Well, he did promise to get some extra reading done, and now seemed like an excellent time to do so. With that he cautiously entered the bathroom, creeping past where Myrtle was wailing in the far right stall. His eyes fell to where the serpent was engraved on the side of the entrance, absentmindedly wondering why Slytherin would ever put the entrance to his Chamber in a girl's lavatory.

A hiss in parseltongue granted him entrance once more, and Eridan steeled himself for the rigorous cleaning that he was about to do, and leapt into the pipeline. The slide down was about as much fun as the first time, except for the part where the end was covered in tiny animal bones. Eridan grumbled slightly as he brushed off his clothes of the bones, taking in the state of where he hoped to make his sanctuary. Surveying the damage done to it during the incident last year, and the giant rotting corpse of the Basilisk, Eridan concluded that he wasn't going to get any reading done in here for a while. Even so, he rolled up his sleeves, and brandished his wand.

Time to get to work.

His wrist ached, and his arms a little weak, but he was happy with the progress he ha made with the cleanup of the Chamber. He managed to clear up the entrance a little bit, and had resorted to using Ahab's Crosshairs to blast away most of the fallen rock and debris. It had felt good to use his rifle again, even if it was for something mundane.

He even managed to get some more reading done, which was difficult once he got to his Care of Magical Creatures textbook. Eridan only remembered after he procured the bound biting book of its beastial nature, but refused to give into such a small nuisance. Amporas were nothing but stubborn, and he finally managed to find the key in calming it down. He had stroked its spine in an effort to calm it down the same way he would Seahorsedad all those sweeps ago, and lo and behold, the book gave a shudder before dropping limp. A feeling of victory bubbled inside him, and he had managed to get through a fifth of the book before he had realized it was time for his next lesson.

This was his mood when he headed to the forest. It was rather nice to get out of the stifling castle for a change, Eridan decided, as the rain from the previous day had already let up. The sky was a clear, pale gray, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot as they set off for their first ever Care of Magical Creatures class.

Surprisingly, neither Ron nor Hermione questioned him on his absconding during lunchtime. Instead, they seemed to be pointedly ignoring each other, telling Eridan that they had some sort of fight after he left. They walked in silence as they went down the sloping lawns to Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Not that he wasn't worried about them, but Eridan thought the silence was rather nice, if not for the palpable tension between his friends.

It was only when he spotted three all too familiar backs ahead of them that he realized they were going to be having these lessons with the Slytherins. Malfoy was talking animatedly to Crabbe and Goyle, who were chortling. Eridan was quite sure he knew what they were talking about, and rolled his eyes. Wasn't there anything else for these people to talk about? Hopefully the lesson will take up most of their attention.

Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut. He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the boarhound at his heels, looking impatient to start. The nervousness was clear in the chemicals his bod let out, though Eridan could sense excitement as well.

"C'mon, now, get a move on!" he called as the class approached, "Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin' up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!"

They were led to the edge of the forest, a little ways inside. A paddock was open to them, though Eridan didn't see any beasts inside. He wondered if they were invisible, or if they were simply too far off at the moment for them to see.

"Everyone gather 'round the fence here!" he called. "That's it... make sure yeh can see... now, firs' thing yeh'll want ter do is open yer books-" Hagrid began, before he was interrupted by Malfoy.

"How?" he drawled.

"Eh?" Hagrid asked.

"How do we open our books?" Malfoy repeated.

He took out his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters, which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other people took theirs out too. Some had belted their book shut, and others had crammed them inside tight bags or clamped them together with binder clips. Eridan, however, procured his now-docile textbook smugly. Hagrid seemed to noticed this, thankfully, and beamed.

"Ah! Looks like 'arry's got it!" he said happily, and the class all looked to Eridan incredulously.

"It's an animal book, you're supposed to pet it." Eridan deadpanned, flopping the book in Malfoy's face.

To further his point, he dragged his finger down Neville's copy, which immediately fell limp in the boy's hands. Neville whispered his thanks to Eridan, of which the troll wizard nodded to. He smirked smugly at Malfoy, but the Slytherin boy was not done yet.

"Oh, tremendously funny!" Malfoy sneered, "Really witty, giving us books that try and rip our hands off!"

"Well, Malfoy, at least you know how well you're going to do in this class." Eridan sneered back, "If you can't handle the book, what are you going to do up against an actual magical creature?"

The Gryffindors began to guffaw as they all stroked the spines of the books, the Slytherin silently doing the same. Malfoy's face was as red as Vantas when he realized Pyrope had drawn in the discs of his Rom Coms. Hagrid, on the other hand, beamed brightly, and gave the Gryffindor House ten points for 'smart thinking'. He then went to go collect the creatures that they would be learning about for the day, walking further into the paddock.

"Merlin, this place is going to the dogs!" exclaimed Malfoy loudly, trying to gain back some ground, "That oaf teaching classes, my father'll have a fit when I tell him!"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Ron growled out, before something in the distance caught the entire class' attention.

"Oooooooh!" squealed Lavender Brown, pointing toward the opposite side of the paddock.

Trotting toward them were a dozen of the most bizarre creatures Eridan had ever seen. They had the bodies, hind legs, and tails of hoofbeats, but the front legs, wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant cawbeasts, with cruel, steel-colored beaks and large, brilliantly, orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a thick leather collar around its neck, which was attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came jogging into the paddock behind the creatures.

Eridan marveled at the sight. These were strong, powerful creatures that were probably incredibly dangerous. This was exactly why he wanted to take this class. To have even one of these beasts under his control would increase his chances of winning future battles. He may not have the ability to control animals like Nitram, but Eridan was good at finding and luring dangerous Lusii to their deaths.

"Gee up, there!" Hagrid roared, shaking the chains and urging the creatures toward the fence where the class stood.

The beasts were even more massive up close, and everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached them and tethered the creatures to the fence.

"Hippogriffs!" Hagrid exclaimed happily, waving a hand at the beasts, "Beau'iful, aren' they?"

And indeed they were. Proud and noble looking creatures they were, with gleaming coats changing smoothly from feather to fur, each of them a different color. Eridan could spot stormy gray, bronze, pinkish roan, gleaming chestnut, and inky black. Each were staring at the apples that Hagrid had in his hands. Of course, they were part hoovebeast and cawbeast, they would be omnivores. He wondered absentmindedly if these creatures were the fate of the dead polecat that Hagrid was carrying early that morning.

"So," said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and beaming around, "if yeh wan' ter come a bit nearer…"

Eridan, showing his Gryffindor side completely today, stepped forward eagerly to get a better look at these incredible beasts. Ron and Hermione followed him cautiously while the rest of the class stayed back, too afraid to move closer.

"Now, firs' thing yeh gotta know abou' hippogriffs is, they're proud," explained Hagrid, "Easily offended, hippogriffs are. Don't never insult one, 'cause it might be the last thing yeh do."

This only made Eridan lean forward more. Proud and dangerous, just like him. Perhaps one of these hippogriffs could even work as a temporary Lusus. Even though Hedwig tried her best all these years to do so, Eridan can't exactly ride his owl into battle. His ears, however, picked up hushed whispering from behind him, curtesy of Malfoy and company. He would have to pay attention to them too, the last thing he wanted was for this lesson to be ruined by idiots who held a grudge.

"Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs' move," Hagrid continued, his smile getting more prominent on his face,"It's polite, see? Yeh walk toward him, and yeh bow, an' yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh're allowed ter touch him. If he doesn' bow, then get away from him sharpish, 'cause those talons hurt. Right… who wants ter go first?"

Eridan immediately raised his hand, eyes transfixed on the hippogriffs, while most of the class backed farther away in answer. He could see why, they were very intimidating beasts, but it would be cowardly and weak to not want to face such powerful creatures. There was an intake of breath from behind him.

"Oooh, no, Harry, remember your tea leaves!" both Lavender and Parvati whispered.

Ignoring the sounds of worrying behind him, Eridan skillfully jumped the rather low fence of the paddock, eliciting sounds of shock from his classmates. Really, the fence wasn't that high. The hippogriffs probably could easily cross it with a single flap of their wings.

"Good man, Harry!" roared Hagrid in approval, "Right then! Let's see how yeh get on with Buckbeak."

Buckbeak turned out to be the hippogriff with stormy grey coat. It reminded him much of the shade of troll hide. Hagrid untied Buckbeak's chains and pulled it away from the other ones, towards Eridan, before slipping off the leather collar around its neck. The class on the other side of the paddock seemed to be holding its breath, Malfoy's eyes narrowing maliciously.

"Easy now, Harry," said Hagrid quietly, "Yeh've got eye contact, now try not ter blink... Hippogriffs don' trust yeh if yeh blink too much..."

Eridan fought down the instinct to blast the beast like he would hunting Lusii, approaching the creature called 'Buckbeak' with the confidence of one who has laughed in the face of death on a weekly basis. Buckbeak, from what he could tell by the expression on its birdlike face, was not only proud, but vain. The way the creature would preen its feathers whilst ignoring the frightened children that Eridan was sure it knew were standing just a few feet away was almost breathtaking.

Unblinkingly he stared down the beast, green eyes unafraid and curious. A single orange eye regarded him with tempered ferocity, which piqued his interest even more. These creatures had so much personality, no wonder Nitram loved them.

"Tha's it," said Hagrid from somewhere behind him, "Tha's it, Harry... now, bow."

Harry's penchant for listening to Hagrid's every word somehow overcame Eridan's own indignation and pride. As he bowed to the creature, he forced himself not to think about what had just internally transpired, deciding to ponder on it once he wasn't in front of seemingly imminent danger. When he straightened back up once more, he saw that the hippogriff had not moved.

He heard Hagrid's say something from behind him, but he paid the man no heed. Determined green eyes glittered as he dared the hippogriff attack him after he showed the beast the respect it was due. In reply, Buckbeak instead bent down his taloned foreleg, an unmistakable bow to the boy who was once a prince. A smile spread across his features.

"Well done, Harry!" shouted Hagrid, ecstatic. "Right! Yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!"

Pale fingers felt the curved beak in front of him, patting the beast down in a manner similar to how he would treat Seahorsedad. Old habits kicked in as he began to groom his fingers through feathers like he used to with filamented fins. Buckbeak closed his eyes, enjoyed the preening from obviously practiced hands. Forehead touched the top of the beak like an old friend, memories of pale white scales and flapping fins flitting within.

Applause broke out from the students behind him, though he was quite sure Malfoy and his bodyguards were distinctly disappointed in the fact that he wasn't torn to shreds yet. A booming voice quieted them down and broke Eridan out of his reverie.

"Righ' then, Harry," said Hagrid happily, "I reckon he might' let yeh ride him! Yeh climb up there, jus' behind the wing joint, an' mind yeh don' pull any of his feathers out, he won' like that..."

Just like he used to with his Lusus, he leapt onto Buckbeak's back in one swift motion, situating himself on the beast's back as the hippogriff began to stand up. Before Hagrid could even tap the hindquarters of the beast, Eridan had already dug his heels into Buckbeak's sides, urging him into flight. Long wings unfurled on either side, and in a single large wingbeat the two of them were airborne.

The familiar rush of air took Eridan back to magenta skies and flashes of pure white beams, back to a time that he was at least tolerated by friends and before that accursed game. Buckbeak's flight was clunkier than his Lusus but wasn't any less exhilarating as he twisted and turned in the air, remembering the joy of riding a living creature as opposed to a silent broom. It was a kind of bonding one had, the rider and their beast, the troll and their Lusus. He couldn't help but let out a whoop of joy, the flight of Buckbeak so nostalgic, yet so very new. Fingers ran through the feathers on the hippogriff's neck as legs held the body in place on the flying beast, which seemed to make Buckbeak very happy.

Eridan looked down below the hippogriff, expertly driving the beast above the lake and around the tops of the forest. He wove through the trees at a speed that his Lusus could never achieve, in ways that a floating seahorse could not even try to match. Needless to say, his affinity for beasts wasn't quite on par with Nitram, but Buckbeak's seemed to be responding to him very well.

The sound of gasps and cheering could be heard from down below, as his classmates watched as he urged the hippogriff to finally land. Hooves and talons collided with the grass and dirt, and Eridan expertly dismounted Buckbeak as he used to Seahorsedad, petting the beast's feathers and beak one last time before he heard Hagrid's booming voice once more.

"Good work, Harry!" came the groundskeeper's voice above the noises of the rest of the class, "Okay, who else wants to go?"

It seemed that his mastery of the hippogriff gave everyone else the courage to approach the rest of the flock. Hagrid untied the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were bowing nervously all around the paddock. Eridan helped Neville to muster up enough nerve to make the pinkish roan beast bow, before his ears picked up the mumbling and chuckles coming from where Malfoy and his twin idiots were. They had taken over Buckbeak, who was regarding the boys in slight curiosity. Eridan did not like the haughty looks they were giving the hippogriff, and wondered if the Slytherin boy's plan was as stupid as he was thinking at the current moment. Buckbeak seemed to sense the dislike coming from the ex-troll as Eridan shook his head from behind Malfoy, and refused to bow.

Malfoy was, understandably, irate with this, backing away and glaring at the defiant hippogriff. Eridan slowly prowled closer, knowing Malfoy's penchant to insult those he didn't like might put him in danger of inciting Buckbeak's wrath. As much as it would be funny to watch the blond human be torn to shreds, his own human side of Harry held Hagrid in a high regard.

"This class is a right sham!" Malfoy drawled out with a smirk, "These beasts obviously can't tell the difference between decent wizards and… unsavory ones." at this, he sneered in Ron and Hermione's direction, who were patting the neck of a chestnut hippogriff, "Can't even bow to your betters, can you, you big ugly brute?"

Buckbeak reared back almost immediately, but Eridan had expected such a reaction and so was in front of the hippogriff, shushing the beast down and patting his beak. Gasps and quite a few screams elicited from behind him, but he paid them no heed as he shushed Buckbeak into submission once more. Once the hippogriff had backed away, he turned around to see the horrified looks of his peers.

It was only when Hagrid rushed forward and picked him up did he realize that he was bleeding from a large gash on his arm. In his haste to spare Malfoy from an injury that would have surely cost Hagrid his newfound job, Eridan had forgotten the very fragile and fleshy nature of Harry Potter's body. The pain that coursed from his arm was nothing compared to some nearly fatal wounds that he had sustained during Sgrub or even FLARP, which was probably why he barely noticed it. The Harry part of Eridan also ignored the pain in favor of helping Hagrid.

"I'm fine, Hagrid. You don't havve to wworry about me." Eridan told the giant man, inwardly cursing how his accent made it sound like he was stuttering, "I can get to the Hospital Wwing on my owwn, you havve a case to teach."

Malfoy had a constipated look on his face as he stared up at his 'savior', with the rest of the class at a loss for words as Eridan wrenched himself from Hagrid's grip and waved his injured arm at them to show that he was fine. Hagrid looked both relieved and dubious, his beady eyes staring down at the ex-troll in worry.

"If yeh'r sure…" he began with no little amount of trepidation, only for Eridan to quickly placate him.

"It's not as bad as it looks, and besides, it wwas just an accident." he said, forcing a smile to his face.

The giant of a man looked immediately relieved, buying his act in a way that the rest of the class didn't seem to. In truth, the students were probably too spooked by the attack to try with the hippogriffs again. Hagrid managed to heard them all back inside the paddock, the children looking nervously at the hippogriffs as if they were to rampage in any second. Neville, who was looking a little green around the gills (ha, fish puns. It's been a while) was selected to escort Eridan to the hospital wing. The two of them walked to the castle in silence, listening as Hagrid gave an impromptu speech on the importance of respecting the beasts.

With the immediate danger to Hagrid's job gone, the oppressive feeling of Harry's protective nature faded back into the recesses of his mind. Eridan resolved to take a closer look at what was really happening between the clashing personalities of Eridan Ampora and Harry Potter later. For now, he needed to get to Madame Pomfrey.

Chapter Text

The merry crackling of the Gryffindor Common Room fire soothed his nerves somewhat as he stared at the two figures who were glaring at each other from across the room. His eyes shifted nervously, having never witnessed something quite like this before. Then again, his second chance was an anomaly in itself, so he shouldn't be that surprised at the sight before him.

Startling emerald green eyes gazed defiantly at indignant amethyst violet.

"Stupid landdwweller." Eridan Ampora sneered from his violet chair, his arms absentmindedly clutching where his two halves were haphazardly sewn together, "You should havve let your enemy take the fall. You could havve wwiped out three potential future threats in one fell swwoop!"

"Not everything is about killing!" defended Harry Potter from his red and gold chair, hands fidgeting with a golden snitch, "Malfoy may be a right git, but nothing is worth jeopardizing Hagrid's new job! Besides, it's not like the arm hurts that much."

"You are missin the point! Your enemy wwas right there ready to die!" Eridan screeched.

"He wouldn't have died! He would have gotten scratched just like us and Hagrid would have lost his job!" Harry retaliated with equal force.

The third person in the room, the one that was the true amalgam of the two people verbally duking it out, stayed silent, watching. He wasn't sure what to call himself, or if it even mattered. Currently, his past and present life had manifested into physical forms in his own mindspace, somehow, and he knew both lives well enough to be certain that 'can't we all get along' wasn't going to be an option.

"Wwhy do you evven care about that giant dimwwit?" came the scathing question from the violet blooded troll, "There is little to no tactical use of him!"

"Because he's my friend!" Harry all but screamed, "Because not everything has to be about tactical advantages and winning a war! Friends are important, too! You can't just forget them in the name of battle! You did that in your life and that worked out so well for you didn't it?!"

Both Eridan and the Observer both winced. That hit low. It did the trick, however, and Eridan Ampora went silent, holding his stitched up wounds, a low hiccup coming from his form. Seeing that there wasn't going to be much of a fight anymore, Harry slumped back in his chair and turned to the Observer.

"How did we get like this?" grumbled the Boy Who Lived, "How can we be the same person?"

"Sometimes circumstance molds a person into who they'll be." the Observer replied softly, noting that with Harry holding the 'dominant' position, he no longer had his quirk, "Choices, too, can pave the path."

"So wwise," sneered Eridan from his chair, "for someone wwho's supposed to be a mixture of the twwo of us."

"I'm just curious as to how you two are here now." said the Observer, "I thought that I was neither and both of you, a single entity with both lives and memories."

At that, Harry Potter shrugged.

"No idea. I just came around during the incident with Malfoy." replied the green eyed boy, "But since I'm here and he's there, what do we call you?"

"I'll figure it out." was the only thing the Observer could say.

Silence reigned for a moment, the kind that allowed for tensions to simmer. Once he had finished his stewing, it was the troll who was the first one to speak up again.

"Wwell since wwe're all stuck like this for the foreseeable future," started Eridan, eying the other two occupants of the room warily as he tried to hold himself together, "wwe should probably wwork out some sort of system. The twwo of us most likely came about because of a dissonance in the psyche, as up until noww both the past and the present had been in agreement, an I don't think wwe'll be leavvin anytime soon."

"That makes sense, I guess." muttered Harry, turning to the Observer, "Do you think we'll disappear once we're in agreement, or should we start planning some sort of system like... past me said?"

"I have no idea." replied the Observer, who wasn't doing much observing anymore, with a shrug, "I would assume so, since you both seem to be the manifestation of the dissonance, and once we come to an agreement, you will most likely be integrated back into the psyche until there is another moral dilemma."

"So all we have to do is come to an agreement and see what happens." Harry thought aloud before he faced a no longer sulking Eridan, "While I don't agree with your methods, I accept the fact that your reasoning was for our good, and that your memories have helped me since the train incident. Malfoy's such a pain in my side."

Eridan stared at Harry for a moment, blinking slowly with a blank look on his face. The Observer, whose existence was half made up of the troll, assumed it was because he wasn't used to being told he was right. When he finally shook himself out of his stupor, the violet seadweller looked his reincarnated human self in the eye and sighed.

"Yeah, I guess you havve a point as wwell." muttered the Alternian, "It's best to keep loyal to the friends you havve, an I'll try not to fuck it up this time an lose friends again."

The two halves gave each other a crooked smile, and within a blink of an eye, the Observer was alone in his mindspace again. He was certain that this wasn't going to be an isolated incident, and that Eridan Ampora and Harry Potter would eventually fight again. They were simply too different of people not to. And yet... where did that leave him?

Before he could get into the issue that was his own identity, his consciousness was being prodded at. Someone was trying to wake him. Deciding not to push the issue until later, he relinquished his hold upon his mind and opened his eyes, noting his place upon the Hospital Wing bed. Beside him sat a worried Neville Longbottom, who breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he cast his eyes on the round faced boy.

"Oh thank Merlin." Neville sighed out, "I thought you'd lost too much blood. That hippogriff really did a number on you."

Ah, yes, that was what had caused the two halves of his lives to appear. Such an injury meant little in either life, so he wasn't quite sure of the panic that had spread through the class. Even so, he and Neville had marched to the Hospital Wing in peace, Madame Pomfrey tutting over him as soon as he got there. She had given him a few potions and assigned him to bed rest as his arm healed. Perhaps that time had allowed him to come to terms with himself in the mindspace.

The Observer, though now alone in his mind, simply nodded at his worried classmate.

"It's not that bad, Nevville." he replied, trying to placate the boy, "It really didn't hurt that much, and I probably wwouldn't havve noticed it if it wwasn't pointed out."

It appeared that despite the fact that both halves of his lives were once more in peace, his accented w's and v's were still very much present. He supposed that meant that calling himself Eridan (at least in his mind) was still an option. Though he did wonder if he could switch back and forth between them at some point. It was a topic worth experimenting with... at a later time.

Neville didn't appear entirely convinced.

"You're still stuttering." the round faced boy noted with a hint of worry, "I know you said you're fine, but it just feels like it's getting worse. Are your sure you're alright, Harry?"

Eridan sighed softly. He wasn't sure how to breach the subject of his quirk to anyone. As far as he knew, only trolls spoke in true quirks, and only because their physiology allowed for it. And yet, he was on the tame side, using only two duplicated letters instead of a barrage of numbers and symbols, like Pyrope, or the Morail thing that Leijon and Zahhak did. A grimace crossed his face. It wouldn't do well to dwell on his ex-friends. He had made mistakes, big ones, but now he had another chance with new friends and he wasn't about to let it go to waste.

"Yeah." Eridan sighed out, trying to pick out words that wouldn't use his quirk, "I'm alright. I'm w... I'm gettin better at it. It might take some time to get back to normal, though."

The fact that he stopped 'stuttering' didn't seem to placate Neville. In fact, Eridan noticed that he instead narrowed him eyes slightly, as if trying to figure something out. A few seconds passed like that, with Neville staring at the bedridden Eridan, who felt like a deer caught up in the headlights.

"You're different, too." the round faced boy finally stated, "Since you came back from the Dementor attack. Not just the stuttering either. You've...changed. You don't take Malfoy's baiting and you've been studying as if you were Hermione's twin, and no offense, but you're a lot more observant than you were before... it's just..."

A frustrated sigh came from the fellow Gryffindor. Eridan was slightly stricken, however. He hadn't thought Neville had noticed all that much. Maybe he should give the boy more credit.

"You're right." Eridan began, gearing himself up to at least tell part of the truth, which made Neville's eyes go wide, "The Dementor unearthed some memories I w... I'd rather not remember. It made me...regress? Regress back to w... someone I had been before."

Neville's expression now was one of confusion, but before he could question Eridan any more, the doors to the Hospital Wing opened to reveal his best friends.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted, her hair frizzier than normal, "Are you alright?"

"Everyone's saying Malfoy owes you a life debt." Ron added with a laugh, "You should have seen his face! It looked like he'd swallowed a lemon!"

"Ron!" Hermione almost shrieked, "Aren't you a tiny bit worried about his arm? Hagrid had said he could have lost too much blood!"

"I'm fine, guys." Eridan said with a smile, interrupting what was the start of another bickering match, showing his previously injured limb, "Look, my arm's all fixed. Madam Pomfrey's a miracle w... she's really good at her job." he finished lamely.

"See?" Ron crowed proudly, "He said he's just fine. Now let's go get dinner. I'm starving!"

The walk from the Hospital Wing to the Great Hall was an odd kind of quiet. Not entirely awkward, but not comfortable either. Neville had been giving Eridan looks throughout the trip, and on occasion had opened his mouth to say something only to change his mind at the last second. Ron and Hermione had tried to carry on as normal, but the mild tenseness charging the air was making that difficult. When they blessedly reached their destination Eridan was immediately scooped up by a blubbering Hagrid, who was happy to see his small friend all healed up.

Somehow that seemed to snap everyone around him out of the mood they were in, allowing them to sit for dinner in relative peace. Relative because everyone wanted to know what had transpired for Eridan to get sent to the Hospital Wing on the first day, with the reincarnated troll brushing them off and telling them that the gash had been superficial and that he'd been far more injured during last year's Quidditch game. This seemed to calm down a few people (though Colin had begun snapping pictures of the gash-less Eridan), but others were still whispering about the ordeal.

A quick glance at the Slytherin table told the Observer that Malfoy was indeed donning a rather uncomfortable expression. Their eyes briefly met, with the blond haired boy turning away in embarrassment, though he did seemed relieved about something. Thinking back to the conversation in the Hospital Wing, Eridan was going to assume it was because of the supposed 'life debt' that no longer proved to exist. As Harry had argued in the mindspace, Malfoy would only have been hurt as much as he had, coming out with a gash that he would have most likely milked for all it was worth. At best, Hagrid would have lost his job. At worst, Buckbeak would have been put down as being a 'dangerous beast'. With Eridan fixed up in only a few hours, the prospect of a life debt dropped to zero.

Focusing on his treacle tart, Eridan continued his musing, missing the looks that his friends shared with each other.

"Did he say anything?" Hermione asked as soon as Harry went up the stairs to fetch Scabbers.

Ron had used the excuse to get their friend momentarily out of the way. He didn't like to do that kind of thing behind his best mate's back, but even Ron understood that this little meeting had to happen without Harry's knowledge.

"Yeah," Neville answered with a small frown, "but it didn't make much sense."

It was strange, really. All the students present for Harry's sudden change were all sitting in this room, trying to figure out what the bloody hell had happened. After the Dementor attack, something about Harry shifted. Dare Ron say it, but it's almost as if his friend had some divine epiphany or something.

"Really?" asked Ginny from her place on the scarlet carpet, a roll of parchment spread in front of her, "What did he say?"

Neville grimaced.

"He said that the Dementors uprooted memories that he'd rather not remember, and caused him to regress to someone that he was before."

There was a moment of silence as the group absorbed the message.

"You're right." Ron muttered eventually, "That makes no ruddy sense."

Well, at least that settled his nerves slightly. Something was off its Harry, confirmed by his best mate himself.

"Before...?" Hermione whispered under her breath before muttering something unintelligible as she returned to her book.

But why had he told Neville instead of coming to him? Surely after two years of adventures together he would have seen how far the redhead would go to help him! You didn't ask, a part of him argued, But now that Neville has, he'll most likely clam up about the subject. Just like he does when anyone ask about those relatives of his. Even then, hadn't he and the twins fund out about the bars on the window, the horrid way they treated him? If Harry trusted Ron with that secret, then the youngest male Weasley was sure that he'll learn this newest secret too. He'll find a way to get the information himself.

"Found him!" called Harry's voice as the rest of him thundered down the stairs with Ron's familiar in his hands, "He w... he had been nappin on your bed, like alw... as usual."

With a grin Ron takes the offered rodent, noting that the rat was shaking like a leaf. Looking around, he found that Hermione's hideous cat was not present. In fact, Scabbers seemed to be shrinking away from... Harry. Well, that certainly called for some further investigation, though said investigation could be planned when the subject wasn't standing right in front of him and smiling in a way that made Ron almost believe that nothing had changed in him.

"Thanks, mate." Ron replied finally, pretending for now that everything was normal, "I was worried that menace had gotten to him and had him for supper."

"Ron!" Hermione shouted in indignation, his jab at her cat seemed to have momentarily taken her attention away from her book (no, no she was still reading...was she chastising him on autopilot?), "Crookshanks isn't a menace!"

"No," Harry conceded with a conspiratorial smile that Ron mirrored, "But he is the ugliest thin I'vve evver seen."

After saying this, the green eyed boy frowned, mildly upset that he had stuttered. Ron discreetly caught Ginny and Neville's eyes and they exchanged a look. Somehow, though, Harry had seen that brief moment anyway and appeared to be more distraught than before. Something squirmed inside Ron. Whatever Harry was going through, it was obvious that he was self-conscious about it, more so than than anything else, really.

Strangely enough, Hermione had not noticed anything off, too engrossed in her book. She broke the brief silence with another indignant shout.

"Harry! Be nice to poor Crookshanks! He's a sweet cat!"

At that outburst, Ron rolled his eyes before looking back at Harry, who now had an expression akin to exasperation with a wry smirk on his face. He said nothing in reply, however, as if he didn't trust himself to answer. Ron sent him what he hoped was an expression of support his way, clamping a hand of his best mate's shoulder and squeezing it a bit. Whatever Harry had gone though (and was still going through), Ron is sure he'll learn what it is. And when he does, he'll be right there to help Harry through it.

Because that's what friends are for.

They eventually transversed the stairs up to their beds, casting a light charm so they could see in the pitch dark. Harry gave him a grateful look, and nodded to Neville, who made a gesture of support. After exchanging a smile, the three boys went to bed. Or at least, Ron tried.

Kan had finally done it.

The genesis croakbeast was finally near its completion, and with it would begin a new universe. However, she required something from each of them for the ultimate amphibian to come into being. A wish, of sorts, cast in their blood. A 'gift' from every troll to create what would become part of the universe's natural order. All twelve of them stood around a crystal small bowl on a raised stone dais, peering down at the creature inside.

The croakbeast wriggler was small and white, easily mistaken as a baby Lusus. It's legs were not yet formed, still swimming in the water, its large bulbous eyes staring up at them. As if it were waiting for them. Or judging them.

Naturally, Fef was asked to go first. Back then, they still held a tentative friendship, though it was beginning to strain. Already their moraillegance had been dissolved, but the bubbly troll had still kept sporadic contact with him. Later he would wonder if she did this out of obligation rather than because she actually considered them friends. A drop of fuchsia spread out into the liquid, tinging it with the royal hue. Eridan opened his mouth to ask what she had given, but the blood had been devoured by the tadpole, and on the side of the bowl something was being carved. Her symbol in fuchsia, and below it...

Life.

Her smile was beautiful as their gaze turned from the word writ in Alternian to her, but the joy was not aimed at him, but at the mustard blooded troll that she now called her Matesprit. A stab of pain went through his center and he tore his eyes away from the sight to watch Ara, still in the robot that Equ had made for her, approach the bowl. Briefly Eridan wondered how she was to give her own blood when she now had synthetic blue blood running through her circuitry before a vial appeared from Megido's sylladex. It's contents of deep maroon were tipped into the bowl (with the robot-bodied troll mumbling something about the spirits and their warnings) and mingled with the clear pink, quickly sucked in by the swimming genesis croakbeast wriggler. Ara's symbol was carved in her blood color, and below...

Death.

Nobody was surprised with this wish. Whether alive or dead, Ara would have chosen to have the new universe's inhabitants have a natural end, rather than an unnatural immortality. After all, how could one study skeletons and ruins if none existed? Violet eyes tracked as one pair of robotic legs were replaced by clicking wheels. Tav approached the bowl with a surprising amount of confidence, and soon brown blood was devoured by the hungry tadpole. Below his symbol was the cryptic-

Courage.

Of course, Eridan thought to himself, such an obvvious desire. Many yellow sclera eyes watched as Nitram wheeled away, but only one pair narrowed at Captor's hunched form shuffling up to the bowl. Eridan's duel-set sharklike teeth were clenched together behind black lips, but the look coming from Fef prevented him from baring his disdain. Even so, he couldn't help that bloomed with the drop of urine colored blood into the bowl, tainting the carmine liquid with his disgusting color. Below the yellow symbol of Captor was-

Duality.

Eridan's gaze softened slightly when Kar stepped up to the crystal bowl and watched in unhidden fascination as the bright red seemed to overwhelm all the other colors with its solid hue, the tadpole (was it just the liquid, or was the dam thing shifting between reddish hues?) sucking it up greedily. The sign of the Sufferer glowed crimson above Kar's wish of-

Red Blood.

Olive blood joined the bowl as Nep bounced around in her usual energetic cattish demeanor. Something in her eyes sparkled as the olive letters carved themselves below her symbol.

Love.

Kan's jade blood flowed through the liquid as gracefully as the troll herself, her deep green sign seared into the crystal and elegant Alternian spelled out her wish for the new universe to have-

Color.

Everyone winced as Pyrope's stick tapped upon the bowl, creating a loud ringing noise that reverberated through the chamber. Unabashedly she let her teal blood join the translucent rainbow soup...was the tadpole growing? Unsurprised Eridan watched as below her scales-like sign was the word-

Justice.

A roguish smirk met a sneering snarl when cerulean joined the swirl of colors, Vris' sign standing proudly above the desire for the universe to have-

Luck.

Equ's royal blue blood was devoured by a tadpole that was no longer white or young, its legs kicking behind it as the significantly smaller tail swished about. Below the ultramarine arrow symbol was Equ's wish for-

Order.

Wary (and tired) violet eyes watched as Gam's stoned and loping gait neared the dais. Makara stood there for quite some time, entranced by the shifting colors in both the liquid and the small croakbeast that lived in it, only adding his own purple (nearly black) blood when urged by Kar's shouting voice. Beneath the dark symbol of the Grand Highblood was a single, horrid word.

Chaos.

"WHY DID YOU PICK THAT?!" screamed Kar with wide eyes, "ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!"

"I JuSt aLl uP AnD WaNtEd sOmE MoThErFuCkInG MiRaClEs." answered the troll, a small frown on the face that was heavily caked in white clown makeup.

"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE SPECIFIED IT MORE, BULGEWIT!" Kar seethes, though his tone had lost it's malice.

Vantas could never get mad at Makara for long. His tolerance and care for the purple blooded troll was what led him to forgive the troll after he murdered two of their friends in cold blood. He should have suspected something was wrong then, because he was certain Makara knew exactly what he was doing. A sopor induced mind only blocked so much, but from what the seadweller could tell, the Grand Highblood's descendant was well aware of what he wished for.

After that, the others began to mingle away. Eridan called out to Kar, who was shoosh papping his moirail, and was ignored. Fef had gone off with Captor at some point between Kan and Vris' turn, and most of the trolls had left as soon as they finished donating their blood to the now multicolored croakbeast.

Only Kan was left with him, being the one to breed the croakbeast after everything was given. She arched a single, poised eyebrow at him which prompted Eridan to finally approach the bowl. The croakbeast was sitting at the bottom of the bowl, staring at him with an intensity he returned. What is it that you want? It seemed to ask, What is your desire for your new universe?

What could he give that the others hadn't already? What did he want to offer the universe that they may not have otherwise?

A memory rose in his mind. One of happier, simpler days before Sgrub, before FLARP, before he stopped believing in it.

Like the others (sans Megido), he drew a claw over his palm and watched as his own violet blood dripped into the bowl. It swirled, mingling with the other colors, yet not mixing, never mixing. Just like him. The croakbeast seemed to wait a second, letting the new color coat its skin before devouring a large glob of his blood. Only then did the violet seem to weave into the thrum of colors, united yet still apart. Like an outsider among friends. The ever familiar zig zag lines of his sign carved themselves into the final space on the bowl, and in the color of his blood spelled his wish out for all (present) to see.

Magic.

Kan snorted slightly. Eridan rolled his eyes. He expected this reaction, after all. Only he would have such a childish wish. He just hoped the new universe would like it.

With a sigh, Eridan continued to fix the Chamber of Secrets up bit by bit. Once again, he couldn't sleep. Unfortunately his insomnia had returned since his memories, and when he did finally fall into the arms of Morpheus, his dreams had taken him back to times he was a troll, on the day he and the others had given a part of themselves to make this universe. Eridan's eyes momentarily darkened at the thought of the dream, at the memory that it caused to resurface. That day was the day he started to realize that the others held him to a different standard. Despite being one of them, he had somehow become an outsider, drifting farther as the days passed.

It made him think of his friends here. The unyielding loyalty in Ron's eyes, even when he knew something was off, the genuine worry in Neville's creased brow, the casual bickering and mothering of Hermione. They made him feel happy. Worthy. Like he wasn't just a burden being carried around for the sake of others or paradox space's butt monkey. They made him feel like the days spent traipsing around his warshiphive, waving self carved wands and believing in magic, back when he and Peixes were close. Here magic was real, solid, tangible. As were his friends.

He wondered, briefly, if the humans knew he as Eridan Ampora had given them the very magic their entire livelihoods were based on, grown from the blood he had willingly spilt for it.

Ah, magic... who knew that he would be able to make use of his own gift after he died? Certainly not Eridan himself, he mused as the small ex-troll Scourgified another part of the wall, removing the centuries of gunk that had caked upon the marble. And what a gift magic turned out to be! He broke into a satisfied grin, one that looked rather fitting on Eridan's pale, Jade-eyed human face.

The corpse of the Basilisk was now captchalogged, clearing up a large amount of space. The ex-troll leaned against a scoured wall to admire his handiwork. Most of the Chamber has been cleared of debris, and the only thing Eridan needed to do now was clean the bloody place. Grime was harder to destroy without accidentally wrecking the rest of the marble, and he could only do so many cleaning charms before his wrist began to hurt. Tired jade green eyes surveyed his work, trying to commit the layout to memory.

Although...

Now looking at the place without the threat of impending doom hanging over him or a stinking giant snake lying dead on the floor, the Chamber actually looked... familiar.

Maybe it was just the type of architecture used, but this place reminded him of the Sanctuary in the Land of Wrath and Angels. Granted, the ugly statues of serpentine angels were now replaced with stone serpents and everything's a broody dark shade (though that might just be the grime) instead of the bone white marble he was used to in LOWAA but the basic layout appeared the same. There had even been a giant fucking green snake boss he needed to defeat here. Abraxas, the Denizen of Hope, really did resemble the Basilisk now tat he thought about it.

Out of curiosity he sat down on the cold stone floor and delved back into his mindscape. How ironic. It was Abraxas that taught him how to enter his mindscape in the first place, before the serpent denizen had given him The Choice. He took the memory of the Chamber and the Sanctuary and put them side by side.

As he suspected, they were almost identical. Eridan wondered if Fate just enjoyed irony.

Well, at least he wouldn't need a map to navigate the place. Eridan had already memorized the layout to the place that had become his own sanctuary before the Jack Noir incident. He wondered if the hidden places and storerooms were also here as well.

But before he could explore the Chamber in more depth, he needed to repair the broken entrance.

Sighing once more, Eridan raised his wand. He wanted to get as much restoration done before class started. Hermione would be cross if he was late to Arthithmancy, after all. Condesce forbid, he'd never hear the end of it. Ron would then step in to defend him, and then the two would get into another bickering match. A smile made its way up to pale lips that once were black as he casted the repairing charm over the archway again and again, thinking about the impending fight were he to be late.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter Text

"Checkmate."

Ron stared at the board blankly for a good minute, ignoring the angry shouts coming from the pieces.

"Mate," he began slowly, "How did you get so good at chess?"

Oh, you know, a history in tactical warfare and surviving a game that employed life or death odds if one made the wrong move. Not that he could tell Ron that right now unless he wanted to sound crazier than Makara. Wait... was he talking about FLARP or SGRUB? Did it even matter? Is it sad that despite the dangers of Quirrelmort and the Basilisk, they seemed tame compared to games that he had willingly subjected himself to at an age where humans were still trying to sound out their letters?

As much as he felt that humans were physically weaker as a race... it was nice living each day without the threat of death looming over his shoulder. From the culling if he could not find a bucket filler by the time of adulthood to the culling for just not watering your own lawn (according to Captor anyway, as much as he hated the annoying pissblood the heterochromic eyed troll gave him interesting insight into what 'communal living' looked like in their society), Alternia was a deathtrap. Worse so, the law was enforced by drones which did not care about circumstance on a planet of children and adolescents.

After some private deliberation, Eridan had realized this was partially the reason why Harry was so loyal to Hagrid - he was the first adult in either life to care about them. Even if Harry hadn't known of his previous life then.

"Does it have to do with..." Ron began again in a quieter voice, dragging Eridan from his thoughts, "...you know, the dementor thing?"

Eridan noted that the redhead was leaning in close after having looked around to see if anyone was watching them or listening in. It would have been highly conspicuous if anyone had noticed. A cursory (and far more discreet) check told the ex-troll that those in the Common Room were focused on their own lives and troubles to be worrying about what two third years played Wizard's Chess were doing. As it was, Hermione was deep in her book while she helped a nervous Neville with studying for the next Potions lesson so that he didn't get psyched out by Snape, and Ginny was chatting with her dormmates.

He couldn't help but quirk his lips in a crooked half-smile. Ron may have no tact, but it was obvious he cared. Was there any harm in telling some of the truth when he'd already revealed some (albeit cryptically) to Neville?

A part of him, the Eridan side, the side that was jaded and wary of friends when the ones of his past had let him down, told him yes. Yes, he wwill turn his back on you the moment he thinks of you as an outsider, just like the others did. The other part, the Harry side, the one that argued that Ron had been with them thick and thin for nearly three years, who championed the loyalty and virtue of his first-ever friend in this life, told him no. No, it's Ron, our best mate, of course we can trust him!

He was beginning to feel a headache forming at the internal dilemma. Great. Now wasn't the best time to have an identity crisis, especially since Ron was waiting for an answer. What was probably just a few seconds (but felt much longer) passed and one of the warring sides won the fight.

"Yeah." Harry Potter told his best friend with a slightly sad smile, "It does. I'm still w... trying to find out what's changed and what's stayed the same."

The boy paused, jade eyes blinking a couple of times in surprise. Right. More Harry-esque, no quirk. This time, though, it was outside his mindscape. He wondered why that was. Was the quirk more something ingrained in a troll's psyche? It wasn't the soul, that's for sure, or Harry Potter would've been dealing with the quirk from birth. But this also begged the question of how ingrained the quirk was in the mind of a troll. Was it possible for a troll, despite having the physical capacity for some admittedly crazy sounds, to lose their quirk? Yes, a troll's quirk was a part of their identity, but he was as much Harry Potter as he was Eridan Ampora, maybe more so now that he was human. And humans saw his quirk as a stutter.

"So anything big that changed happened because of what the dementors did?" Ron asked aloud, a knowing look in his eyes as he stared his best friend down like he would his chess board, "Like the stuttering?"

So he knew. While it wasn't clear on how much Ron knew, he picked up on something and had come to that conclusion. The dark haired Gryffindor shifted in his seat nervously. This felt like he was in some proverbial chess game and he wasn't sure who was winning. His pause when answering, however, gave Ron enough information as far as he could tell. Sometimes, he's reminded that the youngest Weasley son wasn't an idiot, despite his aversion to homework.

"You know it doesn't matter, right?"

Harry blinked again a couple of times, this time in confusion, managing the universally eloquent reply of:

"What?"

"It doesn't matter to us if you're a bit different." Ron elaborated, pinning the green eyed boy with an earnest expression, "You're still my best mate. We fought a troll together and we talk about Quidditch together. We still laugh and joke together, and you're still putting Malfoy in his place!" the redhead elaborated with a wide grin at the last part, eliciting a chuckle from Eridan, "So you're studying more and you stutter. That's not something that would make us go away! We're still your friends, Harry. We always will be."

Something in Harry's chest felt warm as his head buzzed a little at Ron's sincerity. A wide smile was on his face, making him look like a loon. After his dreams about Eridan's old Alternian 'friends', this felt like a moon lifted off of his shoulders.

"Thanks, Ron." Harry told his friend with shining jade eyes, "I needed that."

"You're welcome, mate. Now how about another round? This time I'm sure I'll beat you!"

"Oh, it's on!"

Peter Pettigrew was terrified.

He didn't know how else to explain the feeling he got when he was anywhere near Pron- the Potter boy now than sheer, primal terror. He never got that kind of feeling from anyone before. Not Snape. Not Pad- Black. Not M- Lupin. Not even McGonagall in her cat form or Mrs. Norris. Sure, there was a natural fear when it came to them, especially the new cat the Granger girl bought, but nothing like this. Not since after the train ride. He didn't know what that boy was, but whatever he... it was now, it was something unnatural and perhaps even inhuman.

The man disguised as a rat skittered through the walls of Hogwarts, easily blending in with the other rats that were either vermin or familiars. It was really hard to tell which was which half the time, as the Hogwarts rats had long ago learned how to mimic the behaviors of the students' pet mice, which had proved to be a good way to wreck havoc if one were to perchance cast a Geminio Charm on them...

Good times, good times.

Still, reminiscing about old friends turned south when he recalled how it all went bottoms up. What their friendship turned into. When he started to feel like an outsider even amongst the Marauders. At some point the four of them unspokenly became the three. When his ideas were either ignored until another one of them repeated it and they were credited with it.

Peter was not the smartest of them, one could even say he was the dimmest, but he had an imagination. An overactive one, sometimes, but in the past it had been used to not only plan the most interesting pranks, but also to keep in mind any setbacks. At some point though, he was ignored. Cast aside.

When did he not become good enough in their eyes? Why? It had hurt, to realize they were drifting apart in their seventh year after seven years of friendship. By the time Harry was born, Peter almost felt like they were strangers, despite everything. He was just there. A filler, maybe, or out of necessity. Obligation.

Then everything changed when Snape caught that prophecy. A half-baked prophecy. 

For a single, shining moment he was useful again. He was going to be Secret Keeper! He’ll be the one to keep Prongs and Lily and little Prongslet safe! Peter had watched those little green eyes and held that little hand and his heart had swelled. It felt so good to be needed. Yes! He was a Marauder, one of four, and he’d stick with them to the very end!

Only to overhear Sirius laughing with James about why he’d been picked. Oh, Wormtail can be Secret Keeper. Nobody would suspect! Why would nobody suspect? Why was he only an option because Sirius had been asked first and Remus had already fled into hiding? Did they not care that he would be risking his neck too?

The day came when Death Eaters ambushed him, taking him to their master who treated them like dogs at his beck and call. They’d been making the rounds, he’d overheard, trying to get to the Potters and the Longbottoms. Killing off those that didn’t obey. And Peter had been the most vulnerable of their friend group. Perhaps the Marauders had forgotten that.

What was he to do? He’d been cornered by Death Eaters with no back-up. He was the 'only one' who could get to the Potters' cottage at Godric's Hollow, and if he didn't the Dark Lord would've killed him right then and there. Would’ve killed his mum. So he caved. Caved into their torture and was branded by their Dark Lord. That Mark of shame. 

Maybe he should've died. But then what would he have died for? Friends that looked at him like one looked at a trinket on a mantelpiece, as if just realizing it was there the whole time? Maybe it was his fate. He was a Rat, after all. It used to mean that he was innovative, rats were bright little things that needed to socialize or else they got lonely. But they were also test subjects and killed to further the goals of other people. Peter was like that. Just a tool. Be it for Dumbledore or Voldemort, at some point he felt himself... stop caring. Go numb to everything.

Even so, he couldn't help the pang of regret when it happened. He knew Black had every right to be angry at him, but even that felt like nothing. At some point Peter Pettigrew couldn't feel anything but the drive to survive. No matter the cost. No matter how many he hurt along the way.

Two paws, one missing a digit, clamped around a large crumb that was dropped in the back of the Kitchens. The elves always left a few morsels out for the rats, be it pet or Hogwarts-residing. It was a kindness that Peter couldn't fathom, a kindness he knew he wouldn't get from anyone else were he caught. He'd long past the point of no return. For anyone. What he did was unforgivable. Even, in a way, to himself.

Whiskers twitching, he scuttled off into the crevices of the halls of Hogwarts once more, mingling with the rats that lived in Hogwarts all their lives. Pondering, thinking, reminiscing, agonizing. Like he always seemed to do. Trying now to figure out why he now feared the son of the man who was once one of his greatest friends.

Once again it was nighttime, and once again he couldn't sleep. But this time he had his hands full with a smug Harry Potter in the red plush chair and a mystified Eridan Ampora in the violet one. The Observer (he really needed to find a better name for himself. Harridan? Nah…) sat in his own chair, one that was white and a light cream - the colors of the Hope aspect. That which bound him, that which made Eridan Harry and Harry Eridan.

The two dissonating parts vanished quite quickly, this time with no words being exchanged. He understood this, as Ron had essentially solved the dissonance with his promise to stick by Harry, no matter what. It was something Eridan Ampora never heard. Not from Maryam, not from Peixes, not from Vantas. Certainly not Serket.

This was what friends were supposed to be like, right? Was it possible that because of his past behavior he simply didn't have any? Just a filler, just there. Just a member of twelve, trying to fit in with anyone and eventually finding no one. How pathetic he was to have not realized sooner.

He shook his head of those depressing thoughts, instead donning his invisibility cloak and heading down to the Chamber of Secrets. Three days and nights of solid cleaning and fixing had restored the Chamber to its former glory, and it was now undeniably the Sanctuary he found in LOWAA. However, these were all serpents instead of Angel statues. Upon closer inspection, he realized all the snakes on the right side of the room had eyes inlaid with emeralds, and the ones on the left side were set with rubies. Odd, for sure. He was certain there was some symbolism that went beyond the Gryffindor/Slytherin dichotomy, but he lacked the information to make a proper deduction.

Tonight he decided that if he wasn't going to get any sleep, he might as well explore the places now that the cleaning was all finished. Perhaps he could find answers to the questions he'd been pondering all this time.

The young green eyed boy began to go further into the Chamber, with only the light from his wand lighting the way. If he recalled correctly, this direction was the way out of the Sanctuary and to the stairs which lead up and out into the Citadel that the Sanctuary was located inside. A sliding pipe would have been a more fun method back then, but the rat bones at the bottom could be done without. Come to think of it, he never saw any proper skeletons in LOWAA. He didn't have any proper enemies on the planet to fight either. Just the angels. Those awful, awful angels and their screams of prophecy.

Instead of finding an archway with stairs here, however, what he was instead faced with was an archway with a wall. Filled in with the stone was a relief depicting a double ouroboros, looking quite similar to Captor's Mobius Double Reacharound. Like the serpents in the main part of the Chamber, one had Ruby eyes and the other emerald.

"Open." The thirteen year old attempted in parseltongue, and as a surprise to no one the snakes began to move. Shrinking to the center where they ate the other's tail, making the odd clicking noises reminiscent of clockwork machinery. Much like the opening to the Chamber itself, it creaked open like a large bank safe.

A set of stark white marble stairs led upwards.

Getting an intense sense of deja vu he continued higher, higher. It spiraled, twisting around as the once-troll took in the familiar sight of the white marble that began to turn black as he ascended. That marble that was devoid of all color - and to be honest that entire planet was devoid of all color. Only shades of black and white in stark contrast to one another. As opposed to literally everyone else's world where there was color puked everywhere as if a full Mother Grub had decided to have a waltz around the place. Why was it only his world that was robbed of all color and joy? Why was his the only world that didn't feel like a fun adventure with friends but a lonely march towards a responsibility no one would tell him about?

Was the game mocking him by making a world just as unpleasant and hostile as the player that lived in it? When all the others got fantastical treasures and quests, all he had were the screeches and screams and whispers of beings that were more like Gl'bgolyb and dementors than things than those friendly little helpers the other trolls and even humans had. Was it a stretch to see why he thought the Game had it out for him?

He was met with the white sky of the Land of Wrath and Angels once more. The black marble of the Citadel towered around him, and dark stars hung in the sky as if watching the night through a photo negative. It was silent, so very silent, like it had been after he killed all of those wrathful angels and made their eyes and wings into a wand (not a science stick, no, a wand by any other name is still a wand). The dead silence like when he had descended those stairs the first time. The feeling of being crippling alone came creeping back into his mind as he heard his own heartbeat loud and clear.

Feet pounded back down the stairs, the only sound echoing through the stone walls. The door with the snakes was shut tight, the boy breaking out into a cold sweat.

Nope. Nope nope nope nope NOPE.

"Harry, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost. Or a Grim, if Professor Trelawney's getting into your head." Hermione practically sniffed out that last portion, but her brows were still knitted together as she regarded Eridan as they waited for class to begin in Ancient Runes.

"'ts alright, Hermione. I just… didn't sleep wwell." Eridan muttered, too tired to care about his quirk.

To say he didn't sleep well would have been an understatement. It felt like the bags under his eyes that had eventually become a permanent fixture on his face as a troll were also claiming their place in this life as well now. What little sleep he did manage to get the night before was tainted by nightmares involving his past experiences with LOWAA.

Hermione tutted at that, citing that it seemed that the dementors were causing many people to have nightmares and that she had overheard that Madame Pomfrey was getting upper year potion students to help keep up with the amount of Dreamless Sleep and Pepper Up Potions that she had to make now. She pulls a Pepper Up from her bag as she speaks, handing it to Eridan, who gratefully took it and downed it before Professor Babbling waltzed into the classroom with a large smile on her face. She was carrying a large stack of tomes, which appeared to be old textbooks. With a flick of her wand, these books flew to the students desks.

"Good morning class! Today is going to be an interesting lesson. I managed to convince Cuthbert - that is, Professor Binns, to lend me some of his old books from back when Ancient Runes and History of Magic were jointly taught by him. On that note, these textbooks are at least quite a few centuries old, so please be careful with them. I am to return them to him after we've completed the topic." Professor Babbling babbled out, beginning to write something on the board.

"This is an introduction to the Runes of Creation, but in order to understand what they mean and how they work, their history was taught in conjunction." Was the explanation given, and Eridan's stomach dropped as he saw the symbols on the board and on the cover of the textbook, "You all know them as the Twelve Signs of the Zodiac, but in Ancient Runes they have a different history and a different meaning than in Astrology."

Beside him, Hermione appeared to be vibrating in excitement in her seat. Eridan, on the other hand, was stuck between terror and fascination. How much did they know? What did the trolls, him and his past friends, mean to these people?

"One of the many tales found in the ancient ruins around the world explain that our world as we know it was created by twelve gods. Each of these gods are represented by a sign of the zodiac - hence why they are called 'Runes of Creation'." Babbling began as they all flipped to the first page.

Eridan was rather confused. As far as he recalled, none of the four humans playing Sburb even had an inkling that it was the trolls who created their universe. Was it possible it was a closely guarded secret of the magical population?

"Each god also had a title that I want you all to commit to memory. The Maid of Time, the Page of Breath, the Mage of Doom, the Knight of Blood, the Rogue of Heart, the Sylph of Space, the Seer of Mind, the Thief of Light, the Heir of Void, the Bard of Rage, the Prince of Hope, and the Witch of Life." The Professor spoke each of their mythological roles as she pointed to each of their signs with her wand, making the symbols glow in their blood color as she tapped them.

A kind of sickness started to spread from his stomach. His mind went to each person as their title was called, remembering how he'd wronged them or how they'd wronged him. Perhaps since his recent nightmares, his memory of them had soured. All he could seem to recall was the bad, the loneliness, the times when he'd done or said the wrong thing and how they'd drifted away from him.

"…from the heavens, upon a shooting star…" Babbling continued. Hermione ribbed him to make sure he was paying attention, snapping him out of his negative reverie, "They gave the world each an important aspect of existence. Life, Death, Courage, Duality, Red Blood, Love, Color, Justice, Luck, Order, Chaos, and most importantly for us… Magic. That is correct. It is said that Magic was a gift given to us by one of the gods."

The conflicting emotions that welled up within him made him feel like a fish in the noon sun of Alternia. So they knew, to an extent. They knew what they had been given. In a way he felt a kind of pride to be recognized for his efforts, even if it was simply a drop of blood and a selfish desire. None of them knew the gravity of what they were doing, not really. They were barely teens, in human terms, playing a game that ended their own world, with the power to make a new universe.

Far from gods, they weren't even adults.

Eridan felt Hermione prod him again. Apparently the lesson was over. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Malfoy sneering at him, looking smug about the fact he had caught 'the great Harry Potter' spacing in Ancient Runes. He fought the urge to roll his eyes, though his mind quickly returned to the issue at hand. If the wizarding world knew about the trolls to some extent (be it gods or devils or whatever it may be), then what else did the game create for their history that could be a bridge to the timeline in Paradox Space he came from?

Not that he wanted to go back, but it might explain how and why he came back as Harry Potter. This had to be connected to the entrance to LOWAA under the school somehow. This could not be mere coincidence. No… he would need to investigate this. Something was afoot and he didn't like not knowing what was going on.

The pressure from the Eridan side made his head hurt, as he was forcefully pulled into his mindspace.

Beside him, Hermione gave her friend a considerable look as she tried and failed to get his attention. He seemed to have been out of it all morning. Hopefully he'd be more attentive in the next class, but she would still relay his mood to Ron and the others if he hadn't snapped out of it by then.

In the meantime, Harry Potter was currently watching Eridan Ampora have an absolute meltdown. The three of them were sitting in their respective chairs again, althougn the troll was holding his head in his hands and screaming bloody murder, making both Harry and the Observer wince.

"So… any idea what set him off?" Harry finally managed to ask, having conjured some earmuffs that he recalled from the mandrake lessons the year before.

"I assume the trauma from LOWAA and the delayed impact of both our death and subsequent resurrection on top of the unknown connections between this world and the previous world have finally got to him." The Observer responded, who also took a pair of earmuffs over finned ears. He was thankful he got all that out without the quirk seeing as it was obvious now that Harry was more or less in control of the mind space as the other personality was still screaming his head off.

"What even happened there? I saw the place from the Chamber and that was creepy enough, but it kind of looks like he was plagued by dementors or something." Harry grumbled out as it felt like the troll didn't even stop to breathe.

"That's pretty accurate, actually, the rotted angels of LOWAA are kind of like their faster, angrier cousin. More snakey. With wings. And many squirming eyes." The Observer tried to explain, wincing at the unpleasant memory and quite sure that the only reason why he wasn't joining screaming was because Harry was currently sitting in his chair quite sane.

Thank the forces of paradox space for this unwitting compartmentalization.

Harry winced in his red and gold chair at the thought of things worse than the creature from the train. "Maybe if we sic those outside Hogwarts they'll catch Sirius Black and they can return to Azkaban. I hate getting those chills when we go outside…" he said this more out of a misplaced sense of humor, not really sure what else to say.

"With the proximity of the LOWAA entrance, I wouldn't be surprised if some started showing up." The Observer shrugged. "Then we'd have a bigger problem on our hands."

Eridan at least seemed to have run out of breath, slumping in exhaustion into his violet seat. "Wwhy is it alwways me…?" the troll bemoaned, his voice scratchy from all the screeching he had been doing.

Both Harry and the Observer just shrugged. That seemed to be something that stretched across both lives. A shit kind of luck and destiny.

"Wait… if I'm here… and he's here… and you're here… who's piloting the body?" Harry suddenly asked.

They all blinked in unison.

Harry was definitely out of it.

Hermione had warned him coming into the classroom that he was acting a bit off since their last class of Ancient Runes. Ron was convinced that taking extra electives was finally driving Harry crazy, and decided to partner up with him as usual to keep an eye on his best mate during the entirety of the double potions class, marvelling at just how strange Harry's new behavior was when the Boy Who Lived wasn't constantly monitoring his own actions. But nothing prepared him for the weirdness that came to follow.

Because while being immersed entirely within his own mind, Harry's automatic reactions were almost the stuff of legend.

They were supposed to be making a Shrinking Solution, and Ron had resigned himself to doing most of the work with Harry spaced out and unable to be roused, but to his surprise Harry had not only gotten all the ingredients, but he seemed to be prepping them on autopilot. Ron had waved his hand in front of his face to make sure he wasn't just getting the mickey taken out of him, but Harry didn't even react one bit. The daisy roots were chopped with a precision that Ron was sure Harry didn't have before when the black haired teen actually concentrated, never mind when he was on autopilot.

Experimenting, Ron also handed Harry his shrivelfig, which was also methodically peeled. When the caterpillars were placed in front of him, it was quickly sliced and added, all while with that faraway look in his eyes.

"Hey, Harry," butted in Seamus Finnigan, leaning over to borrow Harry's brass scales, "have you heard? Daily Prophet this morning - they reckon Sirius Black's been sighted."

"Where?" Asked Ron, watching as not even that prodded a reaction from the green eyed Gryffindor.

"Not too far from here," answered Seamus, who looked excited at the news. "It was a Muggle who saw him. 'Course, she didn't really understand. The Muggles think he's just an ordinary criminal, don't they? So she phoned the telephone hotline. By the time the Ministry of Magic got there, he was go- Harry? Harry, are you listening?"

Seamus only just then realized that Harry was not exactly present in the moment as was working on autopilot. He looked to Ron, mystified at the fact that Harry of all people was doing potions while in La La Land.

"I don't think he's all there right now, mate." Ron explained, motioning to the far-off look he had, "Been like that since this morning. Been working on autopilot I reckon - watch this."

Ron handed him a leech and Harry simply… crushed it into the cauldron with his hand, not even flinching as the juices dripped from his fingers. An expression of disgust passed Ron and Seamus' faces, looking around to see if anyone noticed but it seemed like Snape was too busy bullying poor Neville, who was doing his best to put on a brave face in front of the greasy git even as his potion bubbled bright orange instead of the lime green of the Shrinking Solution.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron watched Malfoy smugly open his mouth to butt in on the conversation before Harry crushed the leech, a look of shock and horror now coating his features. Looks like even Malfoy cottoned on that something was definitely off about Harry today.

Unluckily enough, Snape whirled around to see that Harry was still holding his hand aloft with the crushed leech. "Potter! Five points from Gryffindor for unsanitary practice! Using your hands instead of a mortar and pestle for leech juice? Is my class a joke to you?!" The Potions Professor barked out, and only seethed as the teen seemed to ignore him.

All fire that had been aimed toward Neville was now completely directed towards Harry now. Before Ron could retort to defend his best mate, Snape continued his attack.

"Potter! Are you listening? Ten points from Gryffindor for ignoring a Professor!"

Harry didn't even move a muscle, seemingly frozen. This only incensed Snape further, "Look at your Professor when they are speaking! Potter!" He snarled out, grabbing Harry's suspended wrist.

A second later, Snape was flung into the far wall. It had happened so quickly that all it took was a blink of the eye and the potions Professor went from their table to the wall with the blackboard. The resounding crash alerted everyone to what happened, all eyes darting from the Professor to Harry to the Professor again, unsure of what was going on. Neville and Hermione looked alarmed, Malfoy had turned as white as a sheet. The rest of the class was in various levels of shock. Parkinson was screaming. Seamus was mystified, Dean was gaping. Lavender had let out a short shriek with Pavarti. Crabbe and Goyle… looked as confused as ever.

"….uh, Harry? Harry!" Ron tried once more, careful not to touch him after what just happened.

This time, miraculously, Harry snapped out of whatever funk he was in, blinking once and looking at Ron with a confused expression. "…Yeah?"

"You just threw Snape across the room."

A cursory glance at the knocked out Professor.

"So I did." Was the answer, as if mystified of his own actions, going over and… was he checking for a pulse?

"He's not dead." Harry said, sounding relieved, "Just unconscious. Nothin to wworry about."

Not for the first time did Ron question whether Harry's stutter was a stutter. There was not a single hint of nervousness in his voice, nor hesitation. But Harry's smile was still the same, lopsided, strained.

"...Mind helpin me carry him to the Hospital W- to Madame Pomfrey?"

Chapter Text

Snape was out of the count for the rest of the day, freeing the first year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs from his wrath. The Observer was discharged from the Hospital Wing right before lunch ended after Madame Pomfrey checked him over and found he had not pulled something while throwing a full grown adult across the room. Ron had explained to him in a mystified voice what he had done on autopilot while they had made their way to the Hospital Wing in the first place. 

Which told the Observer (he really needed to find a better name) that his troll physique was starting to bleed into his human side (which would explain the quirk, now that he thought about it). Would fins start growing? Would horns? Would his skin turn grey and would his blood once more run in that shade of royal violet that he’d been so proud of for thirteen years?

A part of him, the part that was Eridan, felt excitement and even longing at that prospect, while Harry faced the idea with trepidation and a worry that he was losing himself as it was. Perhaps it was something to think about at a later date. 

In the current moment, he was being accosted on all sides by the Gryffindors who had heard through the grapevine of what he had done. He’d decided to go straight to the Common Room to avoid much of the attention (he could always find a way to get his food earlier—he had a time turner now after all) but it looked like the damage was only mitigated slightly. Many were hailing him as a hero, some, who had seen it in person or had gotten a more detailed explanation, looked at him with slight fear. Others like Hermione and Percy were tutting at him for manhandling a teacher. The Observer could only squeak out that it was an automatic defense tactic, but shut up as soon as someone questioned why that never happened in the two years prior. 

He could tell that his friends were getting frustrated with the situation as each new thing popped up. There was only so much he could get away with explaining cryptically and really, he owed them all an explanation. The truth, even. But with the new addition of the ‘Signs of Creation’ (as they were called in Ancient Runes) and the knowledge of the ‘gods’ that the wizards apparently had, would they even believe him?

Would they leave, once they knew the extent of his sins?

The angsting was put on hold as the Gryffindors and Slytherins prepared for their second joint lesson (Runes didn’t count, as that contained all houses) for the day—Defense Against the Dark Arts. The Observer was rather curious as to how this lesson would go, since as far as Harry was concerned the previous two were utter failures (one tried to kill him and the other tried to wipe his memory). Eridan did not see the issue, but then again there weren’t adult teachers in Alternia and everyone was trying to kill each other anyway even after the planet blew up. 

Everyone had already sat down and were chatting amongst each other when Professor Lupin walked in. The man looked less shabby than he had been on the train, which brought some credit to the previous poverty theory going on in his head. Briefly the Professor’s eyes locked with the Observer’s. His smile grew ever so slightly, as if recalling something funny. 

Oh right, Snape hated this man’s guts for some reason and the Potions Professor was currently unconscious in the Hospital Wing instead of whatever he might have been planning to do to the new DADA Professor. 

“Good afternoon,” Professor Lupin finally stated with mirth swirling around his form, “Would you please put all your books back in your bags? Today’s will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands.”

A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put away their books. They had never had a practical Defense Against the Dark Arts class before, unless you counted the memorable class last

year when their old teacher had brought a cageful of pixies to class and set them loose. 

“Right then,” said Professor Lupin when everyone was ready, “If you’d follow me.”

Puzzled but interested, the class got to its feet and followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led them along the deserted corridor and around a corner, where the first thing they saw was Peeves the Poltergeist, who was floating upside down in midair and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum.

Peeves didn’t look up until Professor Lupin was two feet away; then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and broke into song.

“Loony, loopy Lupin,” Peeves sang. “Loony, loopy Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin —”

Well that was odd. Despite the Poltergeist’s lack of respect to the Prefects and Head Students, Peeves generally gave way somewhat to the teachers. A wave of fondness came from Professor Lupin, and his interest was piqued, especially when the man continued to smile. 

“I’d take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you, Peeves,” the professor said pleasantly, much to the surprise of the students “Mr. Filch won’t be able to get to his brooms.”

All he got in return was a wet raspberry that made ectoplasmic spittle fly everywhere. Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his wand.

“This is a useful little spell,” he told the class over his shoulder. “Please watch closely. Waddiwasi!” he intoned, pointing his wand at Peeves.

With the force of a bullet, the wad of chewing gum shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves’s left nostril. The Poltergeist fled, cursing loud enough to cover the laughter members of the class were trying to hold back. It was rare to see anyone one-up Peeves. Not to mention, that spell was something he’d have to look into.

“Cool, sir!” shouted Dean Thomas in amazement.

“Thank you, Dean,” said Professor Lupin, putting his wand away again. “Shall we proceed?”

They ended up going to the staffroom, which was empty at this time of day. Professor Lupin guided them further in, stopping at a wardrobe where the spare teaching robes were kept. As Professor Lupin went to stand next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, banging off the wall.

“Nothing to worry about,” Professor Lupin assured calmly as a few people jumped backward in alarm, “There’s just a Boggart in there.”

Despite the ‘just’, some of the wizarding kids paled at the name. Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of pure terror, and Seamus Finnigan eyed the now rattling doorknob apprehensively. The Observer didn’t recall meeting such a creature, but the name was familiar as he thought back to the textbook he read. When it finally hit him, he paled as well.

Oh shit.

“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces,” he heard Professor Lupin say, “Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks—I’ve even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one—” he tapped on the side of the shaking wardrobe, “moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my third years some practice. So, the first question we must ask ourselves is: What is a Boggart?”

“It’s a shape-shifter.” Hermione answered, hand aloft to no one’s surprise. “It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Professor Lupin, and Hermione glowed. “So the Boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. He does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a Boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears.”

Both Eridan and Harry were now panicking somewhere in the mindspace for similar reasons. Which was making the Observer panic. What shape would his take? Would it be something from Harry’s memories? Would it be from Eridan’s? What is it that he most feared? There were so many things it could be, so many things that could be revealed to everyone in the class, and then everyone would know about it. 

“This means,” continued Professor Lupin, choosing to ignore Neville’s small sputter of terror, “that we have a huge advantage over the Boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?”

He quashed down the panic as much as he could before trying to figure out the answer. Everything will be fine. Everything is going to be fine . 

“There’s too many of us.” The Observer answered after a few thundering seconds. “The Boggart wwon’t knoww wwhat to transform into. It’ll get confused until it’s able to isolate one of us.”

“Precisely!” Professor Lupin commended with a smile, “It’s always best to have company when you’re dealing with a Boggart. He becomes confused. Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a Boggart make that very mistake—tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening.” 

A chuckle rippled across the gathered students in red and gold. 

“The charm that repels a Boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind.” He turned to face the students completely. “You see, the thing that really finishes a Boggart is laughter . What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing. We will practice the charm without wands first. After me, please... riddikulus!”

Ridiculous? Was all the Observer could think as the class related the incantation with a kind of squashed derision. It did the trick of alleviating his panic, though, so maybe there was some merit to it. Then could it be said that by finding the opposite ‘element’ of whatever the magical effect was, the magic would reverse in a way? 

Was the enemy of fear ‘laughter’, or something deeper than that? Boggarts and Dementors both relied on fear and bad memories, and he doubted those floating rotting corpses could be turned with a mere Riddikulus. That would be… haha. 

Neville was pulled aside to be the first to test his mettle against the Boggart. He walked forward as though he were heading for the gallows.

“Right, Neville,” began Professor Lupin. “First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?”

At this, Neville lowered his head, and seemed to ponder something. “Professor Snape.” He mumbled, the sound so quiet that even with what the Observer could assume was his troll hearing could barely hear. The Professor even had to ask him to repeat it, much to the lad’s embarrassment. Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked thoughtful. Before he could speak though, Seamus piped up.

“Got a sure way to get a laugh out of that!” the Irish lad chuckled out, and all eyes turned to the Observer. That wasn’t going away anytime soon, was it? The Observer waved a bit, feeling his face flush in his own embarrassment. 

“Maybe something a bit less… violent. Sorry, Harry.” Professor Lupin commented, looking not sorry at all and instead as if he were about to laugh. “Perhaps… well, I recall your grandmother was notorious for her fashion style.”

“Er, yes,” Neville nervously mumbled. “But I don’t want the Boggart to turn into her either.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” there was now an almost conspiratorial smile on his face, “Imagine her clothes in your mind’s eye… and then imagine Professor Snape in those clothes.”

A louder wave of laughter rippled across the class.

“If Neville is successful, the Boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn,” continued Professor Lupin, smiling wide. “I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical...”

Well that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Neither Harry nor Eridan were good at looking on the bright side of things. The Observer wondered what might pop up. 

Beside him he saw most of his classmates with their eyes shut tight. Ron was chanting “take its legs off” under his breath. That seemed like a good counter to his arachnophobia.

Maybe a Dementor or Voldemort (but Eridan wasn’t scared of him), or a LOWAA Angel or Jack Noir (but Harry didn’t seem to care about him). 

The lesson began with Neville actually putting Snape in an absolutely horrible attire. Eridan was more afraid of the fashion faux pas than anything else. The laughter surrounding the Boggart gave the not-Snape a confused expression. Pavarti strode in next with a mummy, and then Seamus with a banshee.

He supposed the Eridan route to any of those popping up would be imagining them with a gaping hole in their chest. Like Fef-

A rat. A rattlesnake. A floating eyeball. Dean’s fear was a severed hand. Ron came next, taking the legs off of the Acromantula that the Boggart became. The body dropped at the Observer’s feet. Clammy hands raised his wand.

Oh god, what if it was one of Eridan’s dead friends? Coming back, chanting about his sins? What if it was Feferi dripping fuchsia from her sternum? What if it was Kanaya with white glowing skin and a chainsaw OH GOD THE CHAINSAWW -

“Here!” shouted Professor Lupin suddenly and Eridan felt something move in front of him.

Crack!

Eridan opened his eyes to see Professor Lupin in front of him. The Boggart had become silvery-white orb hanging in the air. Was that… Earth’s moon? He didn’t get to ponder it much as the professor turned it into a cockroach, allowing Neville to once again grace the class with the image of Snape wearing a dress before the sound of laughter literally made the Boggart explode. That got a bark of laughter from Eridan, whose nerves had become frazzled thinking of his fear.

“Excellent!” cried Professor Lupin as the class broke into applause, “Excellent, Neville. Well done, everyone... Let me see... five points to Gryffindor for every person to tackle the Boggart—ten for Neville because he did it twice... and five each to Hermione and Harry.”

“But I didn’t do anythin.” Eridan stated in confusion. While he was grateful he didn’t have to show whatever fear he had in front of the class, it felt a bit like he was being coddled. 

“You and Hermione answered my questions correctly at the start of the class, Harry.” Was the light reply from the Professor, which mollified him somewhat.

Well fine. He’ll take the blow to his pride if it meant not having to deal with a manic rainbow-drinker. The real nightmare would be explaining the Boggart’s form if it turned out to be anything from Eridan’s past. If it was a troll, he’d be screwed. If it was Jack Noir… he could probably blame it on Trelawney and the whole Grimm thing. Still, he’d rather not dig himself too deep a hole. Sometimes it was better to omit things than to lie outright. 

He let the chatter of the surrounding students calm him down. Professor Lupin certainly knew how to teach a class. This was the best one they had so far. Hermione was chastising Ron as they walked back to the DADA classroom, the redhead having joked that her boggart would have been a less-than-perfect test. Neville was practically glowing, far from what he’d been before the class began. 

A silent sigh of relief. For now his secret was safe. For how long, he didn’t know. But there was work to be done, secrets to unveil, and questions to answer. Absentmindedly he touched the time-turner under his robes. 

Hopefully he’d do it all in time.

September passed far quicker than it had the prior two years. Professor Lupin proved his worth as a more superior Defense teacher with continuously interesting and fascinating lessons—though the death glares from Professor Snape had only intensified for the poor defense professor. 

Speaking of Snape, the Potions Professor was now on some kind of warpath. After recovering from being hurled into a wall by a spaced-out thirteen-year-old and learning that another thirteen-year-old had subjected both Gryffindors and Slytherins alike to the image of him in various dresses, it was a miracle the Gryffindor House was staying afloat with all of his bullshit excuses for taking his anger out on children. Poor Neville was getting the brunt of his rage along with Eridan (the Observer was sticking with that misleading name for the time being, the Harry Potter side of him hating titles). Though, nowadays he kept a short distance from the bespectacled teen. Probably didn’t want a repeat incident to happen. Ha. He was sure the only reason Neville was getting by was by imagining Boggart Snape or the Potter Suplex, as the Hogwarts grapevine had started to call it. 

The other core classes had become easier for him since his past memories had surfaced, many of the theories taught having been in the previously-deemed ‘bullshit magic’ books that Eridan Ampora had been fond of reading. Especially Transfiguration and Charms. Potions, too, which had previously been proved on the autopilot incident, came from Eridan’s muscle memory back in his little laboratory on the WarshipHive and on the Meteor. 

Eridan ended up surpassing Hermione in Arithmancy, which had shocked the bushy-haired girl and nearly spurred another study session if he and Ron hadn’t convinced her that the reason he was doing better was due to proper rest. Which wasn’t entirely truthful, but the girl looked ready to keel over at any moment. He was sure she was taking entirely too many classes and even with the time turner wasn’t taking a breather at all. 

After the little incident with the Hippogriffs, Hermione had apparently worked with Hagrid to implement a few safety measures for Care of Magical Creatures, stating that he got lucky with Harry brushing off the injury. If Malfoy had been the one injured, Buckbeak could’ve very well lost his life to ease the hearts of the school board. Instead things were dialed down initially as they worked with Bowtruckles, Porlocks, and Pixies (which everyone from the year prior already had some experience in due to Lockhart). While he was a little disappointed to be starting with such small, weak little creatures after having a taste of the power of beasts like hippogriffs, the lessons weren’t bad at all. If anything they showed how much hands-on experience Hagrid had being the groundskeeper. 

Watching Pixies tug at Malfoy’s shiny hair had also been a huge plus. 

Troubles were more prevalent in Divination, where Professor Trawney kept glancing at him as if he were already walking to his grave. Lavender and Pavarti, who had taken to spending most of their time with the alcoholic Professor, had taken to whispering to him as if he were on his deathbed. This would’ve been annoying enough had it not been for the fact that they behaved like Serket when she got new blackmail information. Eridan wasn’t sure if keeping this subject was worth the hassle, since it seemed he had no talent for it. 

Strangely enough, Ron did , not that the redhead noticed. The predictions he came up with (a Cathedral-a lonely march of great responsibility; a pair of wings-there is hope in your darkest time; a harpoon-your enemy is far bigger than you realize) spooked Eridan to no end. Ron just laughed them off as being ridiculous, and he'd laughed too to cover the spike of fear. 

The worst by far was Ancient Runes, which had gotten more in-depth with the "Runes of Creation". 

Eridan sat with Hermione as usual, though the studious girl glanced at him every so often, waiting for him to go out of it again. Luckily, he was able to quash the meltdown the actual Eridan side had every time anything related to his life or his ex-friends and anything to do with that damned game. And the Observer found it more fascinating how the lives weaved into one another in such strange ways. It was both fascinating and terrifying to know that they were the basis for more complex Runes, even moreso than Nordic Futhark.

Everything about them meant something in this world. Not just the 'zodiac' signs either. The color of each was important (their blood color, which defined them even here, even now) as were their titles, what they 'gave' (or the way the professor had stated excitedly, presided over , which caused Eridan Ampora to break out into almost hysterical laughter within the mindspace and gave the Observer a huge headache), and their names . 

He was never so grateful for reading ahead then that day, having realized what the lesson would be about and skipping class entirely. It's not like that knowledge was new, and it would only bring pain and suffering to relive that. To hear those names in this place. His name in this place.

At the end of the month, Eridan was given blessed distraction in the form of Quidditch. Yet another experience that was both new and old for the reincarnated troll. He supposed it was better said that he was seeing it now from a different point of view. Oliver Wood had corralled the members of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team into the locker rooms one cold, dark October morning. 

“This is our last chance— my last chance—to win the Quidditch Cup,” he told them, striding up and down in front of the yawning teens. “I’ll be leaving at the end of this year. I’ll never get another shot at it.”

Since regaining his past memories, Eridan hadn’t been on a broom even once—and doubted the ride on Buckbeak counted. Wood was doing his best to hype the team up for the season.

“Gryffindor hasn’t won for seven years now. Okay, so we’ve had the worst luck in the world—injuries—then the tournament getting called off last year.” Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. “But we also know we’ve got the best — ruddy — team — in — the — school!” he hollered out, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.

It really wasn’t an issue of skill. Something always seemed to happen on game day, at least for when Harry Potter was involved. With the broom issue (courtesy of Quirrel) and the rogue bludger (courtesy of Dobby), Eridan’s pessimism and pattern-seeking superstition was certain something was going to happen this year as well. 

“The Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it these last two years.” Oliver continued, pacing back and forth again, “Ever since Harry joined the team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get to finally see our name on the thing...” Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George looked sympathetic. 

“Oliver, this year’s our year,” said Fred consolingly.

“We’ll do it, Oliver!” piped up Angelina with energy.

“Definitely.” Eridan added, if only to put his two cents in. Already he was trying to figure out the most possible issue to arise in the games, and if the past few years said anything, there were a lot of possibilities. 

Full of determination, the team started training sessions, three evenings a week. Training with the team confirmed some of his suspicions — seeing as the likes of Quidditch athletes were in better physical shape than Ron or Hermione — of the changes to his person brought on by his past-life recollection. What had previously been absolutely grueling physical training at the hands of Captain Wood, had become… laughably doable. 

Harry Potter had been so used to getting in the zone in order to survive the trainings before that Eridan hadn’t realized how fast he was going until he passed the Twins and then Oliver, then Angelina, and Katie, and Alicia (many of whom heckled him that they weren’t even halfway across the pitch yet) and heard their Captian’s maniacal whoop of joy. 

Eridan winced. Looks like he accidentally set the bar a smidge too high for his still-human teammates. 

The weather was getting colder and wetter and the nights darker, but it didn’t faze Eridan as much as it should have. Now that he had a new benchmark to go by, Eridan noted (half excited, half terrified) that his troll physique really was bleeding in and the Snape thing wasn’t just a fluke. His eyesight in the dark had improved to troll standards (though unfortunately his normal eyesight was garbage across both lives anyways, so it looked like the glasses were staying…) and during dinner time one night he glanced his reflection on a bowl and was shocked that his mouth sported a much sharper canine than he was used to. A trip to the bathroom revealed that his canines were indeed slightly larger and sharper. Not as bad as his seadweller chompers (which had an extra row of teeth), but certainly more so than a human's.

In his mindspace that night he had to try to console his Harry side, who was now doing his first freak-out over the possible loss of his humanity. The Eridan side scoffed at the idea that being human was somehow considered ‘sacred’, and the Observer felt like he was once again corralling the two of them so they didn't beat the other up into a pulp. 

How could one soul be so different in two lives?

Ronald Billius Weasley was generally considered to be an unobservant person. 

He would beg to differ, though he was rarely the type to beg. Was he opposed to more studious habits? Yes. Did he prefer a more practical approach to things? Of course. Was he usually more crass than publicly polite and blunter than a bludger? Absolutely. But he wasn’t unobservant. Anyone playing chess with him would know that. 

So it bothered him a tad that Harry was shouldering some unknown and unspoken weight… again. You would think that the incident with Snape would have opened him up a bit more, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. If anything, he’s clammed up more than usual. Harry’s never been the most forthcoming with information, but he’s never been this avoidant before.

He’d talked to Neville about it, who said much of the same thing but also didn’t know what was going on with him other than what was already (cryptically) revealed to them. What was more puzzling was that Fred had grumbled something about extra drills and George had elaborated that Harry was doing excellent in Quidditch practice, but Hermione had complained that Harry wasn’t showing up to Ancient Runes at all recently (but had remarked that she wasn’t surprised since apparently the stuff they were learning was hard to memorize). Ginny said she swore he looked shaken whilst looking at his spoon (which… Ron wasn’t going to comment on that one) and had dashed out of the Great Hall as if a Grimm were chasing him (he remembered that Harry seemed rushed, but was he really that scared?). Everyone was worried about him, but no one knew how to brooch the subject without the chance of Harry bolting like a terrified mouse. 

Then again, Hermione was barely keeping her eyes open these days. Last week her bag tore and they had to carry her things. Both her and Harry had become wrecks and he doubted they were for the same reason. Hermione could be coaxed at times with nagging to rest, or food, or that godforsaken beast she called a cat. Harry… well he usually didn’t turn down a game of chess, but he’d been hard to find lately. Physically, he’d be there, but it was like the first Potions lesson where it was like his brain had grown legs and walked off somewhere. 

It had been evening when it happened.  

Ron had to make a detour to the bathrooms after dinner, and had told Harry and Hermione that he would catch up with them later. After doing his business he'd started off towards the corridors that usually led to the Gryffindor Common Room, but ended up going through one of those trick doors and ended up in an area he wasn't familiar with. Not uncommon even after two years of living in the castle. He wasn't sure if anyone was able to map out the entire place with all of its moving parts. But if anyone did… well, maybe Fred and George could since they seemed to be able to sneak around everywhere.

But he wasn't Fred and he wasn't George. He wasn't Bill, who was an amazing Chaser like Charlie and a wicked Curse Breaker. He wasn't Charlie who worked with dragons. He wasn't Percy, who memorized the entire list of rules and regulations on the school before he even started going to Hogwarts. 

He was just Ron. And now he was also lost. 

After wandering around and muttering out language that would have had his ears boxed by his mother and scolded by Percy and Hermione, he heard a noise coming from a door on the right. It was slightly ajar. Was someone doing weird shit in an abandoned classroom again? Something in his gut told him he should go in though, just like something had told him to go in that train compartment during the first ride to Hogwarts. It hadn’t led him astray yet, right?

Just like that day two years ago, Ron Weasley opened the door to reveal the room’s lone occupant—Harry Potter. 

Harry jumped a few feet in the air and whirled around like Hermione’s feral cat, pointing his wand and him in the dark before immediately lowering it with a sigh of relief. 

“Oh… hullo Ron. You wwere supposed to be back at the Common Room by noww…” the black-haired boy mumbled, though his tone did not indicate he was upset by the fact Ron was here with him instead. “Howw did you get here?”

And there it was again. That Not-Stutter. Too smooth and sure. Not like Quirrell. More like an integral part of him; like a weird accent. 

Before Ron could reply, a cabinet in the room began to lurch as something banged around inside. Both boys jumped again, and Harry trained his wand in its direction. They looked at each other.

“Boggart?” Ron asked. Harry nodded silently, grimacing. He could see the bead of sweat down his face, his friend’s haggard appearance. Remembering back, Harry wasn’t able to tackle the Boggart in Professor Lupin’s first class. Was he trying to deal with it alone? “Mate, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we can let the teachers handle it…”

“No… I… I need to face them.” Harry sounded adamant, but there was something just below the determination. Fear. 

Ron trained his wand on the cabinet as well. “Look, I’m not letting you face it alone. Whatever it is, I have your back, remember?”

He was expecting Harry to get cagey again. The Boy-Who-Lived certainly looked like he was considering turning him down for a moment. His face went completely blank again as some internal struggle warred behind his eyes. In seconds it ended. Harry nodded. With a flick of his wand, the cabinet unlocked. 

There were a few things that came to mind for what Ron thought was going to come out of the cabinet. Maybe You-Know-Who, maybe a dementor, or Snape, or a Basilisk, or his relatives. What did come out was a strange-looking girl. She seemed to be about their age with rather short black hair, dressed in a red skirt and a black shirt (with a green symbol that Ron vaguely recalled from somewhere) and a violet sash around her waist. But her skin was a distinct grey, with strangely shaped horns on her head that reminded him of candy corn. The ‘whites’ of her eyes were yellow, though she had Harry’s green eyes. Undoubtedly inhuman, but she didn’t look all that frightening. 

Beside him Harry tensed, wand trained on the weird girl. Green paint leaked from her middle, staining the sash, as her expression turned furious. Suddenly her skin was no longer grey, but a blinding, glowing paper-white. Her black lips opened to reveal sharp fangs, and the object in her hand (it was too small for Ron to see what it was) transformed into a large metal thing with whirring teeth, revving it at Harry. 

“You Did This!” The girl howled in an odd accent as she lunged, and Harry looked frozen in place in terror. 

“Riddikulus!” He heard Harry scream out, a beam of light coming from his wand and seeming to bore a hole through her, causing the girl to fall backwards and turn into… another grey skinned girl? This one had long black hair and pastel clothing and… fins? Her eyes were unseeing, and there was pink paint everywhere, mostly centered around her middle where…

Oh .

That wasn’t paint. 

Ron felt ill, but he couldn’t turn away. This new dead girl lifted her eyes, slightly glassy, to Harry.

“You did t)(is.” she whispered, her voice strange, making a sound that he couldn’t quite explain with her words. 

“Riddikulus.” He heard Harry whisper. The girl turned into Hermione, the pink blood becoming red. 

“You did this.”

“Riddikulus.” Hermione became a screaming grey-skinned boy with a black shirt and grey pants and nubby horns.

“YOU DID THIS!”

“Riddikulus!”

The strange boy became Ron, and he felt odd seeing himself scream abuse at his best mate, blood pouring from his chest. 

“YOU DID THIS! YOU MONSTER!” Boggart-Ron screamed, “You think you could change? I hate you! We all hate you!”

“Harry!” Ron shouted, barreling through to put himself between Harry and Boggart-Ron, “That’s total bullshit! Riddikulus!” He found himself faced with the giant spider again, and promptly took its legs off. A small chuckle escaped him seeing that again, and the Boggart rolled around helplessly for a moment. “You have to think of something that’ll make it funny!”

“I’m tryin!” Harry said in a shaking voice, eyes wide and wand clutched tightly in his hand “Nothin’s wworkin! I can’t fix this-”

“Don’t try to fix it!” Ron hollared as the Boggart flew towards Harry again, “Just focus on making it look as stupid as possible!” 

The first girl in the red dress and the loud whirring death-machine in her hands had returned. Once again she lunged at Harry.

“Eridan!” She screeched. 

“ Riddikulus!”

This time, paint came out of his wand in a myriad of colors, coating this girl head to toe in what Ron hoped was paint. The girl stopped, looked down at herself, and screamed at Harry in rage again.

“You Did This! My Dress! It’s Ruined! It Took Me Four Perigees To Finish The Design!” She wailed out in her strangely graceful accent, causing Harry to burst out laughing to Ron’s surprise, but he found the situation absurd enough to laugh along. The boggart appeared equally confused before exploding into nothingness. Silence befell the dark classroom between the two boys, whose laughter had petered out. 

“Mate,” Ron began, but Harry put up his hands in resignation.

“I owwe you a thorough explanation of evverythin.” He said, taking the words out of Ron’s mouth. A small sigh escaped him, and Ron saw how exhausted and nervous he was. “Thanks… for helpin me. I’d havve been screwwed if it wweren’t for you.”

Ron smiled. He felt like this was a big step in getting his friend back. 

“No problem, mate. Now what the hell is going on?”

Chapter Text

“Bloody hell.” 

Eridan had been watching Ron closely as he began to explain his situation, as much as he could without getting into the confusing details like Sgrub and Paradox Space. So he started small, simple, with the things he knew were mostly true. Like who he was and what he was, and who the people the Boggart took the form of were. Ron took it all like a champ. Perhaps it was because he didn’t fully understand, but that was alright. 

“So you had a past life where you were an alien on another planet?” The redhead reiterated, eyes wide. “And all this crazy shit happened and you got killed by the glowing screaming girl and you regained all of those memories during the Dementor attack?” The Observer shrugged. 

“Pretty much.” 

“That’s mental.”

“There’s like, the ‘me’ an the… old ‘me’? In my head.” The Observer added, “An they don’t agree on a lot, especially Runes but that’s another issue.”

They talked for a while before they realized curfew was probably over by now and they should probably sneak back to the Gryffindor dorms. Just like old times they hunkered down beneath the Invisibility Cloak, making their way past Filch and Mrs. Norris unnoticed. It was nice to be back doing such things. He hadn’t realized how much he missed being ‘Harry’ until that moment. Once again he felt the identity crisis of who and what he was surface, and he pushed it down to ponder another day. 

“So that Not-Stutter you do, that’s a part of it as well?” Ron asked curiously, whispering as they snuck through the dark and empty Gryffindor Common Room. 

Luckily nobody seemed to be around, even as Eridan listened for footsteps other than their own (his quieter than Ron’s but that was to be expected). 

“It’s called a ‘quirk’.” Eridan explained as they sat on one of the couches. “It’s different for evvery troll, it’s like a marked distinction betwween our identities. Like fingerprints.” He held up his peachy, fleshy hand. Trolls had mostly carapace, and they didn’t rely on fingerprints for identification much. The symbols and the quirk were usually enough for the most part — unless there was a crime. But that was Pyrope’s thing. “My quirk has to do wwith doublin my ‘ww’s an ‘vv’s amongst other thins, but that’s the most obvvious. It does sound like a stutter, doesn’t it?”

“So that’s why it’s not always there, okay.” The redhead began with a few nods, his tone indicating that he understood, “So when you don’t have the ‘quirk’, you’re more like ‘Harry’, and when you do you’re more like you are now?” He started, before something else caught up to him. “Hold on, you’re a troll? Like the mountain troll we fought in first year?”

“That’s howw it seems to wwork in the basics of the psyche situation, though I’m still wworkin out the details myself.” Eridan answered with a shrug before trying not to laugh at his best mate’s gobsmacked expression. “Spelled that wway, yeah. No biological relation to the giant, stinky creature you knocked out wwith its owwn club. Wwe’re more like… wwell, I’m sure you saww a feww examples wwith the Boggart. I’m a seadwweller so I suppose I havve a closer relation to mermaids?”

“Huh.”

“I think… I think I might be turning more into a troll. Gradually.” Harry admitted, flexing the hand in his lap. Fingernails. Not claws. Not yet. “My teeth are sharper. My stamina and my night vision’s gotten better… and, well, you saw what happened to Snape.” 

“No quirk now.” Ron mumbled to himself, though he still heard it. He took the reincarnated troll’s hand, gripping it. His eyes (blue, with white sclera, like all humans) burned with resolve. 

“It doesn’t matter. No matter what you change into, no matter what you become. You’ll still be our friend, Harry.” He paused, blinking vacantly for a moment. “Do you still call yourself Harry? Is Harry a troll name too?” 

“Sometimes.” The Observer (back to that again…) answered with a shrug that was more Harry-esque, “Depends on who I feel like at the time. Who’s… piloting? It’s hard to explain. But no, Harry’s not a troll name. Troll names are pretty rigid. Six letters in the first name, six letters in the last. No deviations.”

“So the word that the troll girl with the scary teeth machine-“

“Kan wwith the chainsaww?” Eridan corrected, though he seemed to pale at the memory.

“-Kanaya the chainsaw girl. That word she screamed at you.” Ron corrected with a roll of his eyes, “What did that mean?”

“That’s my name.”

“Your name is Eridan?”

He paused, really considering the question. It seemed philosophical, even if it was a simple question. He was the Observer, a mix and union of all memories across both lives. Would saying he was Eridan deny his identity as Harry? Was he angsting way too hard over this?

“Yeah.” Eridan sighed out eventually, “For noww. Until I figure more of this out.”

The redheaded Gryffindor looked thoughtful, his eyebrows scrunched up. “Can I still call you Harry?” 

“Don’t see why not.” The black-haired Gryffindor responded with a shrug, “That’s my name too.”

Eridan tramped into the Gryffindor Common Room, better than he had been in a while. Talking to Ron the night before had done wonders for his inner dilemma. 

His troll half wouldn’t stop crying for the rest of the night. And neither Harry nor the Observer could really blame him, though Harry certainly had the expression of holding onto this moment for later to rub it into the troll’s face about what real friendship was supposed to look like. 

But here he was, hearty and whole again for the time being, and wondering why the Common Room seemed more lively today than usual. 

“Wwhat’s happened?” he asked Ron and Hermione, who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the fireside and completing some star charts for Astronomy.

“First Hogsmeade weekend,” explained Ron, pointing at a notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin board. “End of October. Halloween.”

“Excellent,” said Fred, who had followed Eridan through the portrait hole. “I need to visit Zonko’s. I’m nearly out of Stink Pellets.”

“Ah.” Eridan muttered, mood slightly dampened as he recalled that Vernon never signed his form before the whole Aunt Marge fiasco, “Forgot about that.”

“Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” Hermione placated. “They’re bound to catch Black soon. He’s been sighted once already.”

“Black’s not fool enough to try anything in Hogsmeade,” added Ron, but was cut off with a shake of Eridan’s head.

“Not the problem. Relativves didn’t sign the permission form.” 

Ron’s mouth dropped open and Hermione made a tutting noise. 

“Regardless, it would be safer if you stayed in the castle since Black is still at large.” The bushy-haired girl powered on as her logical way of comforting him. Eridan appreciated it. “I’m sure the hunt will be over soon.”

“I hope the hunt’s over soon.” Grumbled Ron, “Damned dementors…”

Crookshank’s chose this moment to reappear, jumping into Hermione’s lap with a large, black spider clenched in his jaws. The arachnophobe shuddered in his seat, glaring at the cat. 

“Does he have to eat that in front of us?”

“Clever Crookshanks!” Cooed Hermione at her hideous familiar, completely ignoring Ron, “Did you catch that all by yourself?”

Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow eyes fixed insolently on the indignant redhead. There was certainly a sort of intelligence in its eyes. Perhaps that’s why Hermione liked the mangy thing so much. 

“Just keep him over there, that’s all,” said Ron irritably, turning back to his star chart. “I’ve got Scabbers asleep in my bag.”

“Do you need help wwith that?” Eridan asked curiously, poking his head over to glance at the chart. Ron shook his head as he labeled his last star with a flourish.

“Nah, I’ve got this. When did you get the time to do yours?”

Eridan shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep much last night." The redhead gave him a look of understanding.

Suddenly, a wave of murderous intent washed over him. The troll wizard’s head snapped towards the source, only to find that it was coming from Crookshanks. The squashed-face orange cat was still staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his bushy tail. No, not at Ron…

Crookshanks pounced. 

“OY!” Ron roared, seizing his bag as the hissing cat sank four sets of claws deep inside it and began tearing ferociously. “GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!” He tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but the cat clung on, spitting and slashing.

“Ron, don’t hurt him!” squealed Hermione.

The whole common room was watching by this point. Ron whirled the bag around, Crookshanks still clinging to it. Scabbers came flying out of the top-

Quicker than the human eye could follow, Eridan’s arm lashed out and caught the rat, holding it up in the air so Crookshanks couldn’t reach it. He could feel the crippling fear emanating from the elderly rodent, the same kind he felt when he’d been asked to fetch Scabbers a while ago. Could the rat sense his inhuman nature?

Crookshanks jumped off a howling Ron and landed on the couch, glaring at the troll with the squirming rodent. Predator acknowledged Predator as their eyes met. 

Neville, who was right in front of him, froze as he saw Harry’s pupils turn to narrow slits. Like a cat’s, or a snake’s. Or something much worse. As the whites of his eyes began to discolor into an orange-yellow.

For a moment, all was silent.

A couple of blinks, and Harry Potter’s eyes were normal again. Ron was the first to recover from his stupor, having already expected this. Eridan passed the shaking rat over to him without hesitation, the redhead holding frightened familiar to his chest. 

“Look at him!” he said furiously to Hermione, glaring at her. “He’s skin and bone! You keep that cat away from him!”

“Crookshanks doesn’t understand it’s wrong!” Argued Hermione, her voice shaking, “All cats chase rats, Ron!”

“There’s something funny about that animal!” Hissed Ron, who was trying to persuade a shivering Scabbers back into his pocket, “It heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!”

“The cat kneww wwhat it wwas doin.” Eridan spoke up to their surprise, having already sat back down with his fingers folded and touching his lips, “It wwas definitely starin right at Ron’s bag before it pounced.”

“Oh, what rubbish,” grumbled Hermione impatiently, “Crookshanks could smell him, how else d’you think-”

“Havve you considered that the cat might be an animagus? Like Professor McGonagall?” 

Hermione paused, then looked towards Crookshanks, who was cleaning his paws. 

“I’ll ask Professor McGonagall.” was all she had to say on it, though her tone indicated that she doubted his words.

True to her word, Hermione did put her hand up the next day in Transfiguration during McGonagall's lecture on animagi. That was after the fiasco with Lavender's rabbit, and also the problem of Eridan’s permission form. Nothing could be done about either of those things, but everyone was in a sour mood by the time the question was actually asked. Despite this, the Transfiguration Professor provided a description of the spell that could be used on an animal to force them back into a human form. 

“Now, I will demonstrate the charm on your familiar.” McGonagall said to Hermione, who begrudgingly put Crookshanks on her desk. Ron watched the cat intently, as did Eridan. “ Homorphus! ”

A bright blue spell hit Crookshanks dead on.

Crookshanks glared indignantly, and licked his paw.

“Well, it appears your cat is not an animagus, Miss Granger.” The usually stern teacher’s lips twitched up at Ron and Eridan’s shocked expressions. “But felines are also incredibly intelligent creatures, if I do say so myself.”

Hermione’s triumphant expression remained on her face for quite some time — as did Ron’s stormy one.

Halloween couldn’t have come fast enough. 

Sure, he wasn’t able to go to Hogsmeade. The Harry part of him mourned a day of fun and relaxation, but the Eridan part had been stressing out over the Ancient Runes Class (which was still on the topic of the Runes of Creation) as the Observer’s curiosity of how the humans viewed them was greater than Eridan’s aversion to his past. 

Interestingly enough, not a lot was known about ‘the gods of creation’ (as the wizards called them). There were drawings of what they may have looked like — with their carapace skin becoming ‘silver armor’ and their horns becoming ‘gilded crowns’ — but there were few mythological stories outside the basic ‘The Maid of Time presides over all Time and Death’ or other bullshit like that. And Eridan was certain it was bullshit because if that were true, then that meant he presided over all Hope and Magic and that was obviously a load of poppycock. So he compartmentalized. He mentally separated his past from these strange and mysterious ‘gods of creation’, which were called by their titles more often than not, so that he could focus on learning the use of the signs. 

It was… easier said than done. 

Regardless, what he did learn was that this was at least a version of the world inside Bilious Slick, the universe they made as the end goal of Sgrub. And if that was true, was the Chamber of Secrets an entrance to another version of LOWAA? The thought plagued him as the days passed in a dementor fog-like haze. 

“We’ll bring you lots of sweets back from Honeydukes!” said Hermione, bringing him out of his brooding and looking desperately sorry for him.

“Yeah, loads.” added Ron, watching him with worry. 

He and Hermione had put aside their argument over the murderous nature of Crookshanks after seeing that their friend had once again shrunk into a kind of shell. Ron may have learned more about his true nature, but they hadn’t had time to really talk about it since that night. Things ended up getting busy on all fronts, with Quidditch practice and classes and calming down the two halves of his psyche… the Observer was also getting quite tired. 

“Don’t wworry about me,” Eridan tried to placate, even while his stomach was apparently winning Olympic medals in his gut, “I’ll see you at the feast. Havve a good time.”

He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front doors, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.

“Staying here, Potter?” shouted Malfoy, who was standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle. “Scared of passing the Dementors?”

Eridan ignored him and made his solitary way up the marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, to the abandoned second-floor girl’s bathroom. He passed Moaning Myrtle, who sniffled and threw a ‘Back again?’ at him as he leapt into the pipe. 

The pure white walls of the Chamber were a stark contrast to how it looked last year, when he fought the Basilisk with less preparation than Eridan had when facing his Denizen. White marble serpents seemed to judge him as he walked down the path, ruby eyes on the right of him and emerald eyes on the left. When he stopped at the giant door with the double Ouroboros, Eridan steeled himself. 

He needed answers. 

Echoing footsteps amidst the eerie silence, the trip up the marble staircase was as lonely of a march as it had always been. Dark stars hung in the pale white sky of the Land of Wrath and Angels, the spires and archways of the citadel a confusing myriad of black and white. Very little existed within shades of gray. 

He made his way through the gothic (architecturally speaking) halls. It was just as he remembered. Hauntingly beautiful, deceptively horrifying. He could hear his heartbeat between his ears, the pounding ricocheting off the stone. 

It had been far more terrifying when this place was plagued by the Angels. Beings that rotted, eyeless faces with gaping maw, serpentine bodies, and wings with eyes growing between flesh and feather. Screeching, singing, taunting, warning, chanting . They attacked imps and other Dersite-Requested Denizen Underlings with great prejudice, their very presence made the air grow cold. Where they flew, the feeling of death and despair followed. 

Music. The sound of a church organ. He jolted at the sudden appearance of another sound. In his heart, he knew where it was coming from. He’d always known. With a destination now, he began his next lonely march. 

Each planet had their own symphony that created a more thematic backdrop for their player. 

Megido had singing quartz and tinkling music boxes. Nitram had the rustling sand, the sound of flutes as the wind moved through the windmills. Captor had weird psychedelic techno music spawning from the floating brains. Hell, even Fe- Peixes had the clinking of shells. 

The sound of the organ grew louder, louder, as he made his way towards the center of the Citadel. Apprehension rose in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to return there. 

Eridan Ampora had gone to everyone else’s planet at one point. His quests required it. As all their quests required cooperation at some point on another player’s planet. Theirs were colorful, fantastical, filled with lore and whimsy, with cute and helpful consorts. He’d tried to find reasons to stay there, helping the others out. Most often he was rebuffed. 

The other trolls never stayed long in LOWAA. Not many would, off-put by the crushing silence amidst the sound of organs, of whispered prayer, the chanting from the Angels. He’d even seen terror in Makara’s eyes, the first time Eridan realized the clown troll was more lucid now than he’d been before the game.  

There, at the center of the Citadel, stood the Cathedral. The haunting chords from the pipe organ floated from its arches and buttresses, from its unstained-stained glass which held the Hope symbol. It looked over him, judging him, a monument that held the secrets within close to its chest. Just like he had been. 

Padding up to the triple archway, he felt so very, very far from the bright and magical halls of Hogwarts. 

His heartbeat quickened as he passed the arches and the foyer, and stood at the foot of the colossal double doors. They opened without him even touching them, clanking black slabs that creaked outwards, the music growing so loud it shook the walls and he felt like he was drowning again-

Silence. 

Silence as soon as his foot passed the threshold. Sudden, damning silence. As if he didn’t belong here as if they were waiting for him. The hall before him was silent, pews of marble on either side, leading further in. He resolutely stared straight ahead. Looking at the pews did no one any good. Looking at the pews was a bad idea. Don't look at the-

The curiosity firmly ingrained inside Harry Potter caused him to turn his head towards the benches. 

Empty husks of Underlings sat still, their hands propped up in a mockery of prayer. Empty eye sockets could be seen in the bowed heads of the larger ones, all slumped like rejected dolls. Where they had once been a myriad of colors, like the blood colors of the Lusii that had been prototyped into Sprites, they all now sat devoid of color. And yet, as still as they seemed to be, they were not dead. Not really. 

It was the signature execution of the Angels, to take the very force that binds a being to existing, to swallow that which could be called a ‘soul’. Leaving only the husk of a breathing body behind. No grist came from them, no prize was given after they’d been rendered into that state. There had been only a single quest regarding them, and that had been to place them in the pews of the Cathedral. A monument for something, or perhaps a sacrifice. 

Eridan hadn’t been too sure of its purpose, only that after he’d done so, the husks all shifted into the positions they were in now. Sitting, head bowed, palms together. And after that…

“You have returned, Child of Hope.”

Jolting, the Observer whipped his head around to where the voice emanated from (which wasn’t easy, this damn place was an echo chamber). On the altar now sat a snake the size of a thousand-year-old Basilisk, emerald scales the only color in this forsaken place, the corona of light behind its head so bright it was hard to see its face. Though smaller than the other denizens, Abraxas’ presence was no less humbling to behold. 

“You’re alivve.” Eridan replied, puzzled. 

“Do I have a reason not to be?” The Denizen of Hope responded, humor in his echoing voice. 

“I… Kar told me he killed you. Or… Jack Noir should havve killed you. He destroyed evverythin.” The Prince of Hope spoke slowly, trying to understand how the being in front of him could be real. “Is… is this a neww session?”

A chuckle reverberated the walls of the Cathedral. It shook Eridan to his bones. 

“I am not a being that can be slain with such permanence. You of all people should know that.”

It took a moment for Eridan to piece together Abraxas’ words into something more coherent before he shook his head. He was starting to get another headache. 

“This is wwrong. This is all wwrong…” he grumbled, his palms clamping against the sides of his head. 

“As to your previous remark — yes... and no. This is not a ‘new’ session in the way that you fear.” Abraxas’ tone was as calm as ever. Old yet mirthful, but not in the same way Dumbledore was. “ Think of it more as a… continuation of where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted by that series of unfortunate events.”

“So wwhat does this mean for me… for… us?” He floundered, unsure how to explain what was going on with his own personal brand of identity crisis. 

“You are the Hope I have against the destruction of universes. But that may be too much for you to take in at this time. For now — know that your current state is not a mistake. In fact, one could say that it is a long Time coming. As you well know, all things are intertwined in the machinations of Paradox Space.”

The boy standing before Abraxas tried to process the denizen’s words. This second chance was purposeful, given to him by whatever pulled the strings of fate beyond this demented play. And they expect him to perform accordingly. He was no stranger to this, in either life this was what he’d been given. A role to play in whatever divine comedy or tragedy encompassed this world. 

Abraxas spoke of more things to the Observer as the child sat himself, resigned, in an empty pew. From what he could muster from the denizen’s somewhat inscrutable words, this was indeed the same Land of Wrath and Angels that had (apparently) narrowly avoided being sliced up by Jack Noir due to Abraxas himself transporting it here, to this ‘pocket dimension’ hidden inside Earth, connected via the Chamber. Because of this, it existed outside of time still within the confines of Paradox Space. 

It wasn’t easy trying to understand the specifics, and the Observer was, for once, doing most of the driving. 

“So wwhat does that make me then?” The Observer asked Abraxas, trying not to stare straight at the bright light that emanated from behind the serpent’s head (like looking into Earth’s sun, which he had on a couple of occasions and had stared in awe that he wasn’t being burnt to a crisp or immediately going blind). 

“You are the amalgam of two ‘pasts’ of the same soul. ” Abraxas rumbled, “ A composite, a Unity. A truly beautiful thing. You are something that I had assumed would only come later, after many fights in your psyche. But to my surprise you opened your eyes the moment your memories combined. How marvelous.”

“So I’m… neither Harry Potter nor Eridan Ampora?”

“And both. But you’ve already come to that conclusion already, haven’t you? You are also something entirely different. And One and the same. You are you. It is up to you to figure out what that means to you.”

He left the Cathedral with more questions than answers, but knowing full well that he could return again when there weren't a million monkeys slamming cymbals between his ears. Surprisingly, during their entire conversation, the Observer had been alone in his mind. He didn’t know if that meant anything, but was too tired to try and figure it out now. 

The reincarnated no-longer-a troll felt light and heavy at the same time as he emerged from the Chamber, returning back up to Hogwarts with troubled head and heart. 

So many questions. So many uncertainties. LOWAA hid beneath the ground of Hogwarts. Abraxas lived to impart more riddles. And he… who was he? What was he now? What purpose does Paradox Space have for him? Could he handle the responsibility? He could barely stand being faced with his past in Ancient Runes and he doubted they were through with him yet. It was all becoming too much, far too much. 

“Harry?”

His thoughts screeched to a halt as he heard a voice from one of the rooms he’d passed. Doubling back on his steps, he found Professor Lupin poking his head out from his office. The young boy blinked and stared at the Professor for a moment, which seemed to worry the man before him. 

“What are you doing?” Asked Lupin, his tone full of concern. “Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Hogsmeade.” the not-troll responded flatly, too tired to really hide much of his frazzled nerves.

“Ah,” answered Lupin, his eyes washing over the form of the boy before him. “Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a Grindylow for our next lesson.”

The Gryffindor said nothing, but followed the Professor into his office. In the corner stood a very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers. His eyes noted the gills on its neck, and unconsciously his fingers brushed his pale, fleshy, bare neck. Nothing. Why did he think he’d have them? 

“Water demon,” explained Lupin, surveying the Grindylow thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with him, not after the Kappas. The trick is to break his grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong, but very brittle.”

The Grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner. Green eyes turned from the Grindylow to the older man again. There was something he couldn’t put his finger on the man that very suddenly bothered him, as if his mind was desperately clawing at distractions from the revelations he’d just be privy to. He sniffed. Yes. Something odd that he hadn’t smelled before, or at least had been too panicked to notice. 

“Cup of tea?” Lupin asked, looking around for his kettle. “I was just thinking of making one.”

A small nod. Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. “I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid — but I daresay you’ve had enough of tea leaves?” His eyes twinkled.

Green eyes blinked in confusion. 

“Professor McGonagall told me,” Lupin chuckled, answering the unspoken question and passing over a chipped mug of tea. “You’re not worried, are you?”

A small shake of the head. It seemed at this point that there was something deeply troubling the young man before him. 

“Anything worrying you, Harry?”

For a moment, the boy sat in silence, contemplating which of the many things bothering him he would vocalize. He shrunk in on himself, nursing the cup close to him as he took small sips.

“Professor… havve….havvvvvve…” the child heaved a great sigh of frustration at his quirk. “I don’t feel myself.” The Observer finally settled on, speaking at a far slower pace than he usually would, sounding out every syllable as if he was speaking for the first time in his life. “I don’t understand the person that is me. I look in the mirror and the person reflected is both a stranger and a friend.”

It was Lupin’s turn to blink, before his expression became sorrowful. The grindylow in the tank brandished its fist. He could snap its little hand if he were in the water. A troll was stronger than a human, and a seadweller was stronger than a normal landdwelling troll. But he was human. But not human. And not troll. If he bled right now what color would it be?

“Harry, this is a time where you’re learning about yourself and who you are.” Lupin finally said, his tone gentle. “It’s natural to feel like a stranger to yourself sometimes. It’s best to take the time to learn who you really are.”

“Havve you evver felt scared that your wwere losin your humanity, but another part of you questions wwhat’s so damn important about that anywway?” Eridan finally seethed out, frustrated that the adult with the weird smell wasn’t getting the problem.

Lupin froze.The professor’s nose twitched, and then he felt it. The palpitating fear, the growing horror. Something akin to understanding.

A knock at the door jolted them both from the sudden tension between them. Snape had come into the room, seen Eridan there, and raised his proverbial hackles. He’d ignored the teen entirely and had spent an entire conversation with Lupin glaring at either of them, handing the defense Professor a smoking goblet of a potion the reincarnated troll didn’t recognize. But there wasn’t any malicious intent at the moment, not the immediate kind anyways. 

There was always a disgust and hatred pointed towards Lupin and Eridan wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t exactly like how he’d been with Captor. It was worse, somehow. Snape was afraid of Lupin. 

“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” Lupin explained to Eridan once the potions Professor left. “I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

“Wwhat does it do?” Eridan asked curiously, wondering what was in the goblet that Lupin was so trusting of to know it wasn’t poisoned. 

Lupin pulled another face as he downed the entire thing before looking at him with a wry expression. 

“It makes me feel human.”

And somehow, Eridan got the feeling that Lupin did understand him, just a little bit.

Eridan enjoyed the Halloween feast in a much lighter mood, listening to Ron and Hermione regale their trip to Hogsmeade. It sounded nice, and made him want to find a way to get the permission form signed so that he could join them. But he’d enjoyed the sweets they’d brought back for him, and they’d all lifted their spirits with the marvelous feast. There were just some things that were better on Earth than on Alternia. Plus there was magic here. That was a huge plus. 

Things took a turn when they headed to bed. The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn away completely. Students and teachers alike were panicking, especially when Peeves, who Eridan doubted was a reliable witness, revealed that her attacker was none other than Sirius Black. 

And just like that, Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused. This elevated the murmurings and panic and curiosity to new heights when Dumbledore told them all they were to sleep here while the professors searched the castle. The waves of emotion were giving Eridan a massive headache that he’d thought he’d shaken from his brief trip to LOWAA. 

As he tried to stave off the throbbing migraine, he allowed the chatter of his friends to wash over him. 

“Do you think Black’s still in the castle?” Hermione whispered anxiously. 

“Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be,” murmured Ron.

“It’s very lucky he picked tonight, you know,” said Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows to talk (Eridan being the exception because he was at his limit with all the bullshit today). “The one night we weren’t in the tower...”

“I reckon he’s lost track of time, being on the run,” muttered Ron. “Didn’t realize it was Halloween. Otherwise he’d have come bursting in here.”

Eridan felt the wave of fear from that statement and decided that now was a good time to tap out. He leveled his breathing and entered the mindspace, finding it empty. There was no dilemma, no fight for the psyche, just him. Whatever that meant now. 

The warm flames crackled in the fireplace. He paced the room, feeling the soft carpet beneath padded feet. Predatory. Inhuman. Meticulously he sorted the books on the information he had learned, sighing as he noted the state of the books on Runes and LOWAA. The information was in different sections. He’d need to reorganize. Maybe it would help him come to terms with… whatever was going on. Between his changing nature, the fact that he hadn’t completely escaped the Game, and the weird looming threat of Sirius Black, he felt like he wasn’t going to get much proper rest anytime soon. 

A flash in his periphery caught his eye, and he padded towards the source. A mirror. Gold, ornate. Like the kind he had in the warshiphive. 

Emerald eyes stared back at him. Pale pink skin with a lightning bolt scar. Messy black hair and round glasses. The visage of Harry Potter. He blinked, and everything shifted. Violet eyes with slitted pupils and orange sclera. Grey carapace and lightning-shaped candy corn horns. Wavy black hair with a lock of violet amid hipster frames. His reflection as Eridan Ampora. He blinked again and was Harry, again and was Eridan. Switching over and over again until he was sick of it. 

With a growl of frustration, he slammed his eyes shut. He couldn’t feel the difference. His surroundings and senses were the same. Both those names and both those people. A stranger and a friend. A human and a monster troll. His existence was an affront to Paradox Space. And yet here he was. 

He liked his green eyes. They were his mother’s eyes. But he also liked his fins and gills and dammit he liked being a troll. There was something wonderfully wild and untamed about messy hair, more so if it were wavier. He liked his horns, ironically enough they held the same shape as his scar. His scar that also tied him to his ancestor, in a way. 

When he opened his eyes, his reflection had changed. He still wore his Hogwarts robes and his Gryffindor scarf, but his carapace was a slightly paler shade of gray, like porcelain. Earfins flapped experimentally, the hues between the stems became a more muted violet. The gills on the side of his neck were the same way. His teeth were sharp, the same neat row that Eridan Ampora. A violet tongue poked his double set of teeth, razor sharp as they had been on Alternia. Lightning-bolt candy-corn horns bent back more over his head and reared up behind him like a crown of sorts. Clawed hands combed through his wavier, messier raven hair with a few locks of violet falling in front of the infamous lightning-bolt scar and large round frames. 

And finally his eyes… his eyes. Glowing orange sclera that could see even in darker areas – the extra lid that could protect his eyes underwater while still allowing him to see – and round pupils that could narrow to slits at a moment’s notice. One iris was emerald, the other violet. When he’d blink sometimes, they’d swap places. Curious. 

A sharp toothed grin was reflected back at him. Yes, he could work with this. It was a good start to something that made sense. This is who he was. The Stranger and the Friend. The Prince of Hope and the Boy-Who-Lived. The Troll and the Human. 

The Observer. The Amalgam. The Unity. 

He decided he liked that.

Chapter Text

They didn’t find Sirius Black that night. 

Of course they wouldn’t. The man escaped Azkaban and hadn’t been found yet — Eridan doubted the convict would slip up now. Dumbledore had held a clandestine meeting at three in the morning with Head Boy Percy Weasley and Eridan had overheard every word. 

“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Percy in a whisper.

“No. All well here?” Dumbledore responded with little of the joviality that usually permeated the wizard’s very being.

“Everything’s under control, sir.” came Percy’s sure response.

“Good. There’s no point moving them all now. I’ve found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You’ll be able to move them back in tomorrow.” 

Eridan wondered who the replacement was. Was there a lottery drawing? Was one forcefully coerced? Did someone volunteer?

“And the Fat Lady, sir?” Percy’s voice once again brought Eridan back to eavesdropping.

“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked. She’s still very distressed, but once she’s calmed down, I’ll have Mr. Filch restore her.”

Dumbledore sounded quite grave, but the boy-that-wasn’t-sleeping suddenly wondered if all damaged pieces in the castle went to Filch. Is that what being a Caretaker meant? Eridan doubted one man could clean a whole castle by himself — it was more likely that Hogwarts had House Elves like Dobby to do the major things, right?

Enter Snape, stage left. 

“The whole of the third floor has been searched.” Snape’s quiet tones echoed in the silence of the Great Hall. “He’s not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either.”

“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawney’s room? The Owlery?” 

“All searched...”

“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to linger.”

“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?” asked Snape.

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the next.”

Eridan cracked his eyes open a fraction and squinted up to where they stood. Dumbledore’s back was to him, but he could see Percy’s face, rapt with attention, and Snape’s profile, which looked angry.

“You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?” murmured Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.

“I do, Severus.” There was something like a warning in Dumbledore’s voice.

“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed —”

“I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it,” cut in Dumbledore — his tone making it clear that the subject was closed. 

Snape didn’t retort. Eridan wondered offhandedly if Snape suspected Lupin of all people to be aiding Black. It was the only way his babble of offhand implications made sense. That was odd. Why would Lupin help an escaped mass murderer? Or did Snape really hold that much of a grudge that he was willing to pin any shred of blame on the new DADA Professor?

“I must go down to the Dementors,” continued Dumbledore, “I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” asked Percy.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly. “But I’m afraid no Dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am Headmaster.”

Something cold settled in Eridan’s chest at that. It seemed that like the Angels, dementors could be conversed with. They were capable of speech and reason. 

…He had a sinking feeling that whatever awaited him in LOWAA involved them somehow. It was too much of a coincidence not to be so. 

He didn’t get any sleep at all — both Harry Potter and Eridan Ampora too worried for completely different reasons to allow him any rest.

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days. The theories about how he had entered the castle became wilder and wilder. Hannah Abbott, from Hufflepuff, spent much of their next Herbology class telling anyone who’d listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub. 

The Fat Lady’s ripped canvas had been taken off the wall and replaced with the portrait of Sir Cadogan and his fat gray pony. Nobody was very happy about this (in fact, Ron had groaned in disappointment as soon as the frame had been put in place). Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously complicated passwords, which he changed at least twice a day. According to Percy, none of the other portraits wanted to volunteer as the Fat Lady’s replacement for fear of becoming like her if Sirius Black were to strike again. Eridan felt the entire situation was overblown, or perhaps he simply refused to panic about this with all the other issues he’d been saddled with. 

Perhaps that was why he’d been surprised when teachers started to make excuses to walk with him. As if he were a fragile, breakable thing. Delicate. He tried not to be offended by it. There was no way to know of his other changes, no way to know that he’d regained six sweeps worth of combat experience. And as far as they were concerned Black was a mass murderer who was able to tear a magical painting and was probably still targeting him.

At least, that’s how the Observer attempted to placate BOTH halves of himself ( that had been a weird feeling to deal with). 

But it wasn’t all bad. Eridan was able to converse with his professors on a more personal level, not used to doing so as easily with adults considering he’d never met one as a troll. So he just continued to ask questions, and they obliged answers from his genuine curiosity. It gave him a respite from the fear of what lurked beneath his feet or under his very skin. 

“Are you alright, Harry?” Percy Weasley asked as the boy in front of him checked his reflection on a goblet for the third time at breakfast. “Is there something wrong with the pumpkin juice?”

The Head Boy had been following him around since, probably on his mother’s orders. Or perhaps his honor as a person of authority forced him to watch the boy-who-was-targeted-by-a-murderer like a hawk. It was hard to ignore since despite Percy physically resembling Mr. Weasley with his tall, reedy stature, he’d always been a bit more of a mother-hen like Mrs. Weasley. A little more pompous, sure, but so was Eridan so he tried not to hold it against him (or think about the fact that the older boy was a lot more like the troll than the Harry part of him would like to admit). 

His eyes flickered from the goblet. 

“No, nothin’s wwrong wwith it.” He responded, resigned to his quirk by now. “There’s just been a lot on my mind.”

No more changes had happened yet, Eridan still looked human. Like Harry Potter. And a part of him was relieved. Another part felt vulnerable. It wasn’t enough to garner a dissonance in the psyche. 

They left early, Eridan having been called to see McGonagall in her office. Ron and Hermione stuck with him for most of the time, but with all the eyes around them there was little for them to speak about privately. So they kept their heads down. It was just Percy walking him down to the office, and the hallways were deserted this time of the day. 

“Hey Perce… Head Boy has a lot of responsibilities, right?” He ventured slowly, trying to think of how to brooch the subject. 

Percy puffed up his chest immediately. With the horn-rimmed glasses, Eridan noted privately that perhaps if Eridan Ampora himself were turned into a human he’d be like the middle Weasley child. He felt a twinge in his psyche at the thought. 

“Oh yes.” Percy explained, chin up. “Loads of responsibilities! You know, if you want to become Head Boy, Harry, you have to do well in your studies and set an example for your peers. Though I’ve heard that you’ve been applying yourself in your classes this year, so you’re on the right track! Just don’t go around throwing Professors again and you still have a chance.”

Eridan let out a small laugh, sheepishly scratching his head. He didn’t understand why Percy’s siblings thought he lacked a sense of humor. Or perhaps Eridan Ampora’s sense of humor was just that bad. 

“For sure, yeah.” Eridan responded with a nod, deciding to just get on with it. “Do you… talk… to the dementors? Do they listen to you?”

The Head Boy blinked, surprised at the question. It wasn’t one people usually asked him. He shook his head.

“Headmaster Dumbledore is the one who speaks to the Dementors.” Percy explained, his tone dropping the usual pompousness like it did when he really needed to think. This tone was more flat, somewhat lacking cadence. Eridan wondered if it was his real voice. “It’s likely because Dumbledore is powerful enough to where they know he can’t be crossed. Though I’m sure any of the professors could hold their ground against a few — as long as they can cast a Patronus, that is.”

Ears proverbially pricked up; if he had his fins, they would have actually pricked up.

“Wwhat’s a Patronus?”

Aaaand the pompous look returned with full force. Eridan now understood why his former friends thought he was unbearable if this was how he acted. 

“The Patronus is one of the most powerful charms known to wizardkind.” Percy began to explain with vigor, obviously having studied up on it. “It’s immensely difficult to cast. The charm conjures a magical guardian, a projection of all your most positive feelings. Many witches and wizards are unable to produce a full, corporeal Patronus — which is a guardian which generally takes the shape of the animal with whom they share the deepest affinity. It’s the only known spell that is capable of warding off Dementors.”

Eridan mulled the answer over in his mind. A Patronus… that must have been what Hermione saw Lupin cast on the train. 

“D’you knoww howw to cast one, then?” Eridan asked curiously, watching Percy's reaction.

“Yes! Er, well, no…” he admitted sheepishly, “I know the theory but can’t cast one myself. Not yet… I don’t think anyone really does yet, not with our past Defense Professors…” he trailed off with a grimace and that flatter tone, “Though Professor Lupin has mentioned that he will teach it to us. I think I saw it on the syllabi for fifth year up to seventh. Rather handy considering our current situation…”

Yeah, fifth year was nowhere near third year. Eridan didn’t want to wait that long, dammit. 

“Could you teach it to me? Evven if it’s just the theory.” Eridan asked, adding the last bit as he watched Percy open his mouth to retort something. The Head Boy pursed his lips together. “They do say the best wway to learn is to teach.” Eridan entreated.

“I… don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with some extra study…” Percy finally acquiesced, unable to say anything more once they reached McGonagall’s office.

Inwardly pumping a fist at the small victory, Eridan entered the office to see McGonagall regard him with a grave expression. Uh oh. That was never good. Did she know something about Eridan’s lack of attendance in Ancient Runes? 

“There’s no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter,” McGongall stated in a very serious voice, “I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black —”

“Oh! Sirius Black!” Eridan exhaled with relief, “Yeah he’s after me an all that. Ovverheard that from Ron’s dad. He wworks at the Ministry. Forewwarned wwithout Divvination, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback by this. She stared at Eridan for a moment or two.

“I see! Well, in that case, Potter, you’ll understand why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only your team members, it’s very exposed, Potter —”

“What?!” he exclaimed, the Harry in him coming out in full force panic. “No! We’ve got our first match on Saturday! I’ve got to train, Professor!”

Professor McGonagall considered him intently. He knew she was deeply interested in the Gryffindor team’s prospects; it had been she, after all, who’d suggested him as Seeker in the first Place. There was an odd glint in her eye and he wondered if she would bring up his sudden lack of stuttering — or perhaps she would attribute that to nerves.

“Hmm...”Professor McGonagall stood up and stared out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible through the rain. “Well... goodness knows, I’d like to see us win the Cup at last… but all the same, Potter... I’d be happier if a teacher were present. I’ll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions.”

“As long as I can play, I don’t care.” He told her resolutely, and the strange look she held was replaced with a kind of reminiscent exasperation.

“Very well, Mr. Potter.” McGonagall said at last, “I won't hold you here any longer. You are dismissed.”

With a grin, the green-eyed Gryffindor nodded and made his way out of the office to find Ron and Hermione waiting for him instead of Percy. 

“What did McGonagall want?” Ron asked curiously. 

“Wanted to talk about Sirius Black, and then tried to stop me from practicing Quidditch because she thought I might get attacked.” The black-haired teen explained as they walked to their next class together.

Ron’s brows knitted together as he spoke before his expression morphed into one of outrage. “No!”

“Don’t worry, I’m still playing—”

“I for one agree with Professor McGonagall, Harry.” Hermione sniffed out, “What if Sirius Black attacks you on the field?”

“Then I’ll do to him wwhat I did to Snape.” Eridan said in exasperation. “I can handle this, Herm, I promise. Besides, there’s gonna be a Professor present — Hooch is gonna be chaperonin’.”

That seemed to placate Hermione, who just nodded. Ron high-fived him as they walked.

“Brilliant! Maybe you’ll catch the Snitch and a criminal!” The redhead snickered out.

“I reckon there’s no Quidditch where Eridan comes from, yeah?”

Eridan looked up from where he and Ron were playing chess. Ron’s quiet question made electricity go down his spine. Nervously he looked around. Most people had gone to bed already, although Hermione was studying feverishly at a desk, and a few other scattered conversations were happening. It didn’t look like people were paying attention to them.

“…There wwasn’t any magic wwhere Eridan came from.” he admitted quietly. “Wwhat made you come to that conclusion?”

“You didn’t have a quirk when you talked about it after seeing McGonagall.” the redhead pointed out quietly, “Now that I know what to look for, it’s really easy to see the difference between ‘Harry’ and ‘Eridan’.

“Is there a difference?” he asked curiously.

“Not big ones.” Ron assured, “Mostly just the quirk thing, but you also shorten people’s names down when you’re more Eridan. Like… you call Hermione ‘Herm’ and Neville ‘Nev’, or I guess ‘Nevv’. And Eridan sometimes uses bigger words like Hermione does.”

Jade green eyes blinked. He hadn’t even realized he was doing that.

“It’s no big deal.” Ron continued, nudging his bishop along. “We never finished talking about that stuff since the Boggart. I remember you said you died. D’you reckon that’s why you got the Grim in your cup at Divination?”

“Yeah.” Eridan mused. 

He wondered why a Grim was even an omen of death. From what he could tell from the ‘Runes of Creation’, shouldn’t death be Megido’s thing? Why was it a large black do-

Oh.

Oh.

“Fuckin’ hell! ” Eridan hissed out quietly, “I think I understand the cup noww.”

Jack Noir. 

Their own personal harbinger of destruction.

Ron looked at him quizzically. Eridan glanced around again, decided this was not the place to have this conversation, and shook his head. 

“Later.” he grumbled, “I’ll… explain evverythin’ later. Not here. Not noww.”

Ron ended up winning that match.

True to McGonagall's words, Madam Hooch began overseeing their Quidditch training. She apparently was not pleased with waking up before the crack of dawn, but one could not dissuade Oliver Wood from his fervent methods. The weather was only getting worse, which meant Eridan was in his element. Seadwellers were built for this weather. How many times had he FLARPed in raging storms? How many times had he taken to the air on Skyhorse to get Lusii for Peixes while the wind howled and the lightning struck? 

Eridan had always loved the rain. The way it made the tides and waves high, the way such tiny particles can batter much larger things into submission. Rain was unrelenting, just like he had been. A force of reckoning that he had embraced.

It was times like these where the itch to swim in the lake nearly drove him mad. He didn’t have fins anymore; or gills. Maybe he should look closer into Animagi. But what little of the troll in him had manifested was enough to run circles around the other members of the team (and he was certain all but Wood were cursing Eridan under their breath). 

The mood of the team mirrored the stormy weather as Oliver Wood told them some rather unwelcome news during the practice session before the game.

“We’re not playing Slytherin!” Wood raged, “Flint’s just been to see me. We’re playing Hufflepuff instead.”

“Why?” chorused the rest of the team.

“Claims his Keeper ‘accidentally’ broke his arm and is now in the Hospital Wing.” Wood seethed out.

“Wasn’t us, Oliver!” Fred immediately shouted out against the downpour.

“Honest!” echoed George.

“I know!” Oliver hollered with the roar of the distant thunder, “It’s obvious why they’re doing it. Don’t want to play in this weather. Think it’ll damage their chances. We’ve been practicing all those moves assuming we’re playing Slytherin, and instead it’s Hufflepuff, and their style’s quite different. They’ve got a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory —”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie suddenly giggled.

“What?” asked Wood, frowning at this lighthearted behavior. 

“He’s that tall, good-looking one, isn’t he?” said Angelina with a knowing grin. 

“Strong and silent.” added Katie, and they started to giggle again.

“He’s only silent because he’s too thick to string two words together,” grumbled Fred impatiently. “I don’t know why you’re worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff is a pushover. Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in about five minutes, remember?”

“We were playing in completely different conditions!” Wood shouted, his eyes bulging slightly. “Diggory’s put a very strong side together! He’s an excellent Seeker!”

“I actually like the rain.” Eridan admitted with a shrug during the tirade, watching the team stare at him like he’d admitted to having a crush on Snape instead. “I think I might play better in these conditions. All Flint did wwas set Hufflepuff to lose first, that’s all.”

“Gred, I think the dementor took all the sense out of our Harrykins.” George muttered to his brother in a mock-grave voice.

“The damage was worse than we thought, Forge.” Fred replied with a serious nod.

But Eridan had more important things to ponder about than the twins questioning his sanity or Quidditch (though his Harry side twinged at the thought). Instead of seeing the kind, calm form of Professor Lupin, he was instead met with the sneering glare of Professor Snape.

According to the dungeon bat, Lupin was ill. A shame, Eridan had hoped to speak with the man on possibly learning the Patronus after the lesson, but it appeared he would have to wait until the man was well again. Another shame is that they would have to deal with Snape again, though at least the dour Potions Professor still kept a wide berth of Eridan. 

Something about Snape’s tone rang odd, though. Especially when he easily dismissed Lupin’s lesson planning as lackluster (which everyone knew was a lie, Lupin was an incredibly organized Professor with detailed notes — Eridan had seen so himself that Halloween in his office) and decided they would learn about werewolves instead.

Why werewolves?

There was a distinct obsession in Snape’s tone when he discovered they didn’t know how to distinguish between a normal wolf and a werewolf. So much so that Eridan was rather suspicious. Snape’s Slytherin ‘cunning’ was coming off rather strong today, and the not-troll pondered this throughout the disastrous lesson even when the greasy old bat started bullying the Gryffindors because apparently hating on Lupin alone wasn’t enough.

Seriously, how was this guy qualified to teach?

The homework given out made even less sense. Two whole rolls of parchment on an essay was excessive, but to have it on ways to recognize and kill (not deal with. Kill . Eridan knew the difference rather well) werewolves. His brow furrowed as they waited for Ron, who Snape had given detention because Ron had defended Hermione, who had been getting ridiculed by a grown adult.

“That wwas… particularly harsh.” Eridan noted quietly to Hermione, “I knoww Snape has a wweird hate-boner for Lupin, but I wwanna knoww wwhy the lesson wwas so… intense. ”

Hermione wrinkled her nose at Eridan’s wording, but sighed nonetheless. “I don’t know,” she murmured back pensively. “But I really hope Professor Lupin gets better soon...”

“I do too…”

Back in the Common Room, Eridan read the portion on werewolves again, wondering what was so important about it that had Snape on a warpath. Nothing of note seemed to jump out at him. With a sigh, he shut the textbook. Tired eyes took in the sight of the glowing moon, its soft rays having been his reading light for some time now. Alternia’s moons were green and pink, and their phases tended to match. But they weren’t like the silver orb that hung in Earth’s sky. Seeing it helped ground him once again to the fact that he was here, with a second chance of some kind. 

A yawn exasperation from this throat. It was getting late, and he had the Quidditch match tomorrow. The black-haired Seeker doubted that ‘doing homework using the light of the full moon’ would placate Wood much if it affected the game…

In the light of the full moon…

His eyes snapped back to the moon in dawning understanding. Lupin was ill today. Snape hated Lupin’s guts. In Lupin’s absence, Snape obsessively made sure Lupin’s class knew how to recognize and kill werewolves. 

Lupin had that odd smell to him.

“It makes me feel human.”

Professor Lupin was a werewolf.

That revelation on top of his regular insomnia made it hard to fall asleep. And worse still, Eridan had nearly blasted Peeves in the face for waking him up by trying to blow in his ear before the sun even rose on Game Day, but had narrowly recalled that he was a) at Hogwarts and b) ‘Just Harry’ here. No bringing out Ahab’s Crosshairs willy nilly. That would make people ask questions that he wasn’t ready to answer just yet.

Instead he got dressed, picked up his Nimbus 2000 and invisibility cloak and padded out of the dorms (stopping Crookshanks from yet another assassination attempt on Scabbers — really what kind of animosity did the feline even have with the old rat?). Silently he snuck out of the Gryffindor Common Room in the wee hours of the morning, the thunder rocking the castle outside hiding his quiet footfalls. Even Sir Cadogan was only half-awake and let him out without his usual bravado.

Making his way aimlessly in the halls, Eridan sighed as he closed his eyes, listening to the crashing and howling of the storm outside. If he stood here, with his eyes closed, breathing the storm in, would he remember the days in his WarshipHive before the game? There had been fond memories there, too — of watching a storm block out the sun and the feeling of the rain against his fins and gills as he ran about on the upper deck at the tender age of three sweeps, waving a wand that would never work and shouting incantations that would do nothing?

His troll-vision allowed him to see just fine in the darkness — useful when one wanted to navigate the halls without alerting the portraits or any patrolling prefects. Eridan was about to pass by the hallway where the Hospital Wing was located until he saw the shambling figure of Professor Lupin, who was not only haggard, but sporting visible wounds and looking as though someone sucked all the meat from his bones. Lupin was being half-carried by Madam Pomfrey, who tutted at his condition but wasn’t admonishing him. 

So… Lupin had shifted back. Must be officially morning now. Eridan decided to follow him to the Hospital Wing, where Pomfrey gave him a few potions and cleaned his wounds. She had insisted he stay in the Hospital Wing, but Lupin insisted back that he would be fine and would rather get some light reading done in his own quarters. How he had the nerve to say that to Pomfrey was a mystery — the Harry side of him shuddered at the thought of crossing the Mediwitch. All the same, he watched Pomfrey strong-arm Lupin onto a cot anyway. When the mediwitch finally left, Eridan watched Lupin heave out a sigh.

“I know you’re there, Harry.” Lupin whispered out tiredly, “Invisibility Cloaks only hide sight.”

Eridan wondered if Lupin smelled his presence. Like a barkbeast. His head popped out from behind his Cloak, and he noticed a flicker of… something… in Lupin’s eyes as he did so. His non-existent-yet-functioning horns told him it was mirth and sadness, which made very little sense. Eridan sat on the chair next to Lupin’s cot, still mostly wrapped in the Cloak in case Pomfrey returned. He wanted to say a good many things, but ended up staying silent.

“It’s rather early for you to be out and about.” Lupin began gently, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m like this-”

“Snape told us you wwere ill.” Eridan managed out finally, cutting Lupin off from whatever excuse he probably had at the ready, “An then circumvvented your curriculum to make us study wwerewwolvves.” He winced internally on how much that sounded like a stutter.

Painful recognition shown in Lupin’s eyes. But Eridan wasn’t done yet.

“Nobody seems to knoww wwhy. It wwas a dick movve an wwe all desperately wwant you back. Snape’s the wworst.”

A chuckle, tired, but still holding amusement, escaped Lupin. “I’m honored you all feel that way. I promise I will be back to teaching come Monday.”

“Good. You’re the best Professor wwe’vve had on the subject an Snape’s alwways been an unreasonable prick wwho has it out for any Gryffindor that questions his lackin’ personality.” Eridan muttered.

The next laugh was more pronounced. Some of the lines on Lupin’s face smoothed out, like an unspoken weight was slightly lifted.

“You may look like your father, Harry, but that right there was pure Lily.” Lupin chuckled out, shaking his head.

…Eh?

“You… you knew my parents?” The young Gryffindor asked with wide eyes.

Bittersweetness and nostalgia seemed to reek from the man in front of him. “Yes. I… I was friends with James and Lily. We were all rather close, but James and I were a part of the friend group, much like you are with Mister Weasley and Miss Granger.”

He let that sink in. It made sense. It would certainly explain the level of familiarity on the train and would also explain why Lupin was alright with him sneaking around and talking to him in the wee hours of the morning.

Madam Pomfrey chose this point to shuffle around, forcing Eridan to hide behind the Cloak again until she left. The Invisibility Cloak sure was a handy device, he’d admit. Would’ve made quite a few things easier in Sgrub…

“You’re much quieter under the Cloak than James was, though.” Lupin’s voice stated softly, as if reminiscing, “He and- and… well… he would always scuffle his feet a little bit. Could never quite stay still. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but…”

“…You have enhanced hearing.” The boy replied quietly, nodding his head that was poking out from under the Cloak, “Because you’re a werewolf.”

Somehow, Lupin was shocked that he managed to come to that conclusion. There was a wave of agony and fear from the man.

“Harry… I-I…”

“Does it hurt?”

Lupin blinked in shock.

“Does it hurt wwhen you transform?” Eridan asked again, looking intently at the Professor, “Does your wwolf havve a mind of its owwn? Does it coalesce until you sometimes can’t tell wwhich is wwhich? Are you afraid a’ your humanity slippin’ awway?”

Lightning flashed behind the curtains, illuminating the room in stark white and black. Something in Lupin’s eyes shifted. Eridan wondered what he looked like to the man at that moment.

“Perhaps those questions will be better answered at a later date.” Lupin finally stated softly, his expression having morphed to one of exhaustion.

Ah, right. The man must’ve been dealing with being a werewolf for a full night. Eridan nodded.

“A’ course. Havve a nice nap.”

He could feel Lupin’s eyes on him as he left, donning the Cloak proper as he reached the door and slipped out of sight once more.

Eridan was sure a hurricane could pass through Scotland and Quidditch would still be held. This lot was nuts enough to keep kids flying in deadly weather, but one little old murderer had them panicking. It made no sense to him. Such was the popularity of Quidditch that the whole school turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran down the lawns toward the Quidditch field, heads bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being whipped out of their hands as they went. Just before he entered the locker room, Eridan saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, laughing and pointing at him from under an enormous umbrella on their way to the stadium.

Eridan had donned his old glasses for the match (they were around the same prescription, thankfully) which was specifically designed to be worn while flying out in stormy weather. Glancing at the mirror in the locker room, he was hit with a small wave of nostalgia. The eyes behind those glasses were still Jade-colored, still whites and round pupils — not gray fading into violet, the glowing yellows and slit pupils. But it was still him. And he would do as both Harry and Eridan did best.

The team changed into their scarlet robes and waited for Wood’s usual pre-match pep talk, but it didn’t come. Their Captain tried to speak several times, made an odd gulping noise, then shook his head hopelessly and beckoned them to follow him. The wind was so strong that most of them staggered sideways as they walked out onto the field. If the crowd was cheering, they couldn’t hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder.

The Hufflepuffs were approaching from the opposite side of the field, wearing canary-yellow robes. Wood had pointed out Cedric Diggory to Eridan in the corridor earlier that week; Diggory was a fifth year and a lot bigger than the scrawny Gryffindor third year. Seekers were usually light and speedy, but Diggory’s weight would be an advantage in this weather because he was less likely to be blown off course. 

With the shrill of Hooch’s whistle, they were off.

It was obvious the main issue for this game was going to be his broom; the Nimbus wasn’t suited for strong winds like Seahorsedad was. On the other hand, at least the broom wasn’t his custodian so he could push the limits a little more. 

Green eyes darted over the skies and the field. Finding the Snitch in this weather would prove to be difficult, dodging near-blind teammates and bludgers even more so. In a rare fit of unity Harry’s Seeker skills and Eridan’s FLARP skills meshed together to keep him from getting toppled. At times he would spot the Snitch in between flashes of lightening, but it would always escape him. Masked by the thunder, the Gryffindor Seeker growled in frustration. He could vaguely hear the commentary over the wind — Lee shouting that Gryffindor was currently in the lead.

Water battered at him, soaking into his clothes and chilling him. Damn, humans had extremely porous skin; he forgot how suceptable they were to weather. If only he had his troll carapace…

Another bludger zoomed at him and he flew higher to dodge it, the rain and wind fighting against him. He raised a hand to brush his raven hair out of his way, only to feel the familiar brush of his earfins against his gloves. Shock ran through his body. In the dark of the storm he could see clearly that his exposed skin had become grey (not as grey as it once was, but enough, it was enough), the carapace hardening to repel the water clinging to his clothes. 

And he could feel the rain against the gills on his neck.

For a moment he stopped; for a moment he closed his eyes and breathed . Breathed in the air and rain and wind. For a moment he was both on Earth and on Alternia. Flying, free. Racing against the storm.

For a moment, Harry Potter did not fear the change within him.

For a moment, Eridan Ampora was alive again.

A flash of lightning lit up the stands. What he saw almost made him lose grip on his broom — the silhouette of an enormous shaggy black dog, clearly imprinted against the sky, motionless in the topmost, empty row of seats. Its eyes reflected the lighting, and for a moment he’d thought of Noir. He froze, paralyzed, for a second. When he gathered his wits to look again, the dog had vanished.

“Harry!” came Wood’s anguished yell from the Gryffindor goal posts. “Harry, behind you!”

His neck twisted back to see Cedric Diggory pelting up the field, a tiny speck of gold shimmering in the rain-filled air between them.

Shit!  

The panic of losing jerked away his initial shock from seeing the dog. Eyes zeroed in on the prize as he bolted towards it, hand outstretched. Everything else didn’t matter; the noise of the crowd and the rain fading away as he got closer to the Snitch…

“Ha!” he cried triumphantly as his fingers finally closed around the small golden ball, his grin threatening to split his face it half.

It was only then that he realized the silence from before wasn’t just from his focus; an eerie silence had fallen across the stadium. Like the wind, though as strong as ever, had forgotten to roar. As though someone had turned off all sound completly, as though he’d suddenly gone deaf. 

What was going on?

A horribly familiar wave of cold swept over him, inside him, just as he became aware of something moving on the field below. Fighting every instinct in his body, he looked down and immediately regretted it. At least a hundred Dementors, their hidden faces pointing up at him, floated beneath him. Ice seemed to crawl up through his chest, freezing him in place.

Like the angels. Just like the angels…

His body became rigid, his muscles tightening as he felt numbing, swirling white mist filling his brain and clouding his thoughts. Waves of fear slammed into him, bolts of anguish, arrows of dismay.

And he fell.

Eridan Ampora was one of the few trolls that had to find out that Jack Noir had attacked Prospit and Derse by eavesdropping on Kar’s panicked shouting. He’d gotten an excuse ready in case anyone asked how Noir had killed him — slashed from behind. Instant, like the others had said.

No one asked, of course. So no one heard the lie that never was.

He’d always thought they were lucky to have the Game, in a way. Dreamselves specifically. It was like an extra life if one died tackling the perils of Sgrub. Kar didn’t have to use it, neither did Nep or Fef. Sol, that cheater, had two dreamselves because of his stupid fuckin’ bifurcation. So when Noir killed their dreamselves, he destroyed their safety net, their fall-back plan. 

Not so for Eridan Ampora.

Three days into the game, climbing gates as fast as he could build them, Eridan had been ambushed by the creatures on his planet called the angels.

Initially, he’d assumed they were his consorts — if unpleasant ones. They’d left him alone the first two days while he blasted away at the denizen-made imps and the like; and they, too, attacked the creatures without fear, with their whispers and chanting as they flew amongst dark stars.

There had been no fight. It was so sudden. One moment he was opening the doors to the empty Cathedral for the first time, admiring the architecture as he made his way towards the altar. The next, what felt like hundreds of angels swarmed him.

Not a single drop of violet blood was spilled.

He’d awoken in his dreamself screaming, still feeling the ice crawling up his chest and seizing his throat. He’d felt the waves of despair crash into him, memories of everything he’d ever done wrong dragged to the forefront of his mind. He’d still felt the largest Angel grab him, hold him in place as something in him tugged .

After that, Eridan knew those angels were not friendly, and had taken to wiping out every last one of them. It wasn’t easy. They were fast, angry things. Rotting torsos that lacked eyes on their face with wide, toothy maws. Tattered wings with eyes poking out between feathers. A single Angel had to have taken the blast of Ahab’s Crosshairs for a full minute to be reduced to ash.

Kar had thought he was doing something evil, but Eridan’s warnings to the others fell on deaf ears. Don’t kill the Angels, but we don’t want to be near them either.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that he had died and no one noticed. It wasn’t fair that he had to find his original body in a sarcophagus in the Bell Tower, breathing, alive, but dead to the world. It wasn’t fair he had to do his part mostly alone because nobody wanted to deal with LOWAA for more than a few minutes. 

No blood was ever spilled. Color was too much for this stark world.

Even the Angels didn’t bleed…

The Angels didn’t bleed like he did when Kan cut him in two with her chainsaw, painting the ground violet…

Harry Potter didn’t remember much of his childhood. But he found himself sitting in a crib. Everything was big. The mobile above him, the windows, the lion plushie beside him.

There was a woman. Tall, slim, with the reddest hair he’d ever seen. She stood in front, her back to him. He could not see her face.

And she was screaming.

“ Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry! ”

“ Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside, now... ” 

Another voice. Male. High and cold and cruel. He couldn’t see anything but a towering dark figure.

“ Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead — ”

She looks back. She’s beautiful. Alabaster skin, paler in fear, makes the freckles on her cheeks stand out. But what caught his attention was her eyes. Jade green.

His eyes.

Their eyes.

“ Avada Kedavra .”

Green light, sickly and almost yellow, and she slumps. Gone.

And he can do nothing as the man walks up to him and points a bone-white wand at his head.

“ Avada- “

He had observed in detachment as Eridan Ampora and Harry Potter witnessed their own demise in what looked like two separate bubbles before they collided.

His head hurt from the first person view, and then the sudden shift to third-person where he was floating in a vast dark void.

This… didn’t feel like his mindspace. This felt like the place Eridan Ampora went to when he dreamed after he’d been attacked by the angels. The vast void of paradox space.

He’d forgotten how frightening it was to dream of this place.

And now he was alone in the nothingness.

Alone…

Wait.

Where were the horrorterrors? Where were the vast entities beyond comprehension that plagued the void? Usually he could at least hear their whispers this far into this place, but there was silence.

After a few moments of frantically looking around for clues of whatever the hell was going on, his eyes picked up an anomaly in the distance.

Light. Multicolored cracks in the void that glowed brightly, decorating the black expanse with a spiderweb of rapidly changing hues.

What the hell was that?!

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, or perhaps before things like Time existed to bind Space and Space to mark the ticking of Time, there was Paradox Space.

To say Paradox Space was the Beginning and End of this universe would be both correct and incorrect. It permeated and ruled and destroyed and twisted everything that it was and would never and always be. Within it are aspects like Time and Space, Life and Doom, Void and Light, Mind and Heart, Blood and Breath. All existed to balance each other, all existed to combat each other. Such powers make up the tangible and intangible of Paradox Space, what is and is not, what will be and what never was.

What we do know is that it bends to the rules of the Game.

We don’t know why the Game was made, or by whom, or for what greater purpose. What we did know is in the earlier versions of the game, there were only those ten aspects. The Players were Chosen by the Game, to watch their world die and to fight to make a new universe for themselves. A cycle of Skaia and frogs and Vast Croaks and eventually new gods. They were given a limited kind of dominion over an aspect of Paradox Space, molded perfectly into their class.

What made us any different than the carapacians the Game made?

Was Skaia ever a real place or was it always meant to be a Medium of which the Game set its tests?

We were once Players in that Game. What it called itself then doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered. What mattered was what it did to us, and what we did to ourselves and each other because of it.

Back then, I think, the Game was still new. It’s a strange, evolving thing. It kept changing its own rules, as I’m sure you’ve seen. Before such a thing as ‘denizens’. It kept adding new modes. Or perhaps, it just started picking favorites. 

My brother and I were the first to gain the new aspects.

We’d reached a part of Paradox Space that perhaps the Game was ill-prepared for us to find. Or perhaps we were the Game’s beta testers for them, our Fates sealed long before we were even hatched. Even now I wonder if we were predestined into our roles, just as you are to yours.

We discovered the other two aspects by accident, confused and frustrated to not know our mythological roles. Upset, watching our friends flounder in the confines of Paradox Space, unable to truly bring about any order or purpose to it. 

So they gave us that which we desired.

You see, to control something as wild and chaotic as Paradox Space, to overcome the odds constantly laid against us, required an overpowering force of determination. To bend it into shape upon one’s desires.

It was once simply called that. 

Determination.

I had it. My ‘brother’ had it. Back then we were two in one, or perhaps one into two. Perhaps blessed with unity, or cursed to predominate the other in the future. But like us, all things must be called to balance. All things have a duality to them, and so they were bisected into two ideologies, two new aspects. 

One for each of us.

Yal was given the aspect of Rage. That which denied Paradox Space as it was and chose to dismantle it into his image. With it, he was convinced that power and strength were absolute, that proven ability overrode anything else. Other than those of his own Aspect, he sought out players that have the potential to override the status quo by breaking beyond the confines of Paradox Space. I think, deep down, he was as upset that we were cleft in twain as I was, a refusal to be fenced into mere Rage. If throwing Paradox Space into Chaos would achieve his goals, then so be it.

I… was given the aspect of Hope. That which encompasses Paradox Space. It simply… is, I suppose. The belief that it is, which creates the reality of Paradox Space itself. The Order of which the universe, multiverse, Paradox Space, what-have-yous… that which is. Was meant to be, I suppose. I have my own methods of trying to go beyond the confines the Game has put upon me, but I also know that making it obvious will only make the Game all the more eager to make things go awry. Slowly tighten the knot. Find the beings that can do great good not for themselves, but for the Hope that those after them will continue the torch until it is done.

I believe in the potential of things, even if they’re not obvious to many. 

Like you.

…Do you understand your true nature yet, Child?

WAKE. UP.

It was a miracle he was alive. 

That’s what Madam Pomfrey had told them when Harry was floated off to the Hospital Wing. With the way the storm had been going, it was impossible for anyone to slow him down when he plummeted fifty feet to the field below.

Ron had been one of the first to reach him, pushing past the crowd and sprinting across the mud. Harry was lying on his back, unresponsive, limbs splayed out. For a moment in the wind and rain and confusion, he’d thought Harry’s skin had turned gray. But by the time Hermione, Dumbledore, and the rest of the team stumbled to him, it was clear that wasn’t just his imagination. 

Harry's skin had indeed turned a light gray, as if all the blood had been sucked from his body. Or as if he'd been covered with ash. When Ron had tried to check for a pulse (like Harry had with Snape), he was shocked to notice violet slits on the sides of Harry’s neck, and what appeared to be fins sprouting from thin, narrow, pointy ears. The gray skin was… not skin. It was something harder, solid. Like a… 

Ron shuddered, trying not to think of the shining shells of the Acromantulas last year.

As Harry was checked for signs of life by an experienced adult, no one made any comment about it as the fins had receded but the grey not-skin had remained. Ron couldn’t quite make out the expression of Hermione or the Headmaster or anyone on the team in the rain. How much could they see?

Hooch had seen the glint of the Snitch clenched in Harry’s fist as he was being levitated. Oliver Wood fainted on the spot when he’d been told, so he was also carted to the Hospital Wing along with Harry.

Madame Pomfrey had declared it a miracle. Ron wasn’t too sure.

Harry, er, Eridan, had mentioned trolls were stronger, more resilient, than humans were. They had a gray carapace that allowed them to withstand more damage than normal, and he'd also specified that his type of troll was also more resilient than normal trolls. Resilient enough, apparently, to survive plummeting from that high up. It would explain the not-skin (and the fins, and the… gills?) Ron had seen. He remembered Harry's fears of becoming a troll. Was that what was happening now?

Wood woke up minutes after being given a Pepper-Up, whooping loudly before getting scolded by the scary mediwitch for causing a ruckus and nearly chased out of the Hospital Wing.

While the rest of Gryffindor celebrated their win, many of them stayed in the Hospital Wing to check on Harry since Pomfrey seemed to think he’d wake up soon. Ron, Hermione, and Neville had gathered next to Harry’s cot, taking turns to stand (or rather, sit) vigil and watch for signs of waking up. Ginny was chatting with Katie, Angelina, and Alicia about possibly joining the Quidditch team. Fred and George were trying to calm down Oliver, who was wearing a hole through the floor with his pacing. Even Percy poked his head in “to make sure everything was alright” and had left some Honeydukes chocolate for them (“-And make sure Harry eats some as well as soon as he wakes up! Honestly, Dementors…”). 

All of them still drenched from the wind and rain, and yet Harry seemed remarkably fine despite getting splattered in mud. His skin was still the same — ashen gray and smooth. Like the outside of a bug.

Madame Pomfrey had stated it might have been accidental magic. Everyone else seemed to believe it.

As he sat in one of the chairs by the cot, Ron fiddled with the bag Flitwick had given them. While Harry had survived the plummet, his trusty Nimbus had not survived a tango with the Whomping Willow. Ron doubted the splinters inside could be fixed. Broomsticks were pretty tricky, and even if a teacher casted Reparo on it, it wouldn’t fix the enchantments and potions that were poured in on its creation. 

Selfishly, he hoped it was Eridan who was ‘in control’ when Harry (Eridan?) woke up because Harry would lose his shit as soon as he found out. As much as he’d hate to admit it, Eridan’s disinterest in Quidditch was preferable at the moment, and he could probably count on the bloke (past life version? Ron wasn’t sure if they really knew either) to calm the ‘Harry half’ down.

It wasn’t that Ron didn’t like Eridan — he did, really. Eridan was like Harry in most ways, down to the meat of things. Endless sass, couldn’t sit still if there was something important going on and constantly trying to face off against things that might be over their head, their need to keep those around them from leaving them (Ron had seen that in Harry back in first year, Eridan’s just more… scared… desperate… about it). They carried the weight of the world a lot, hated asking for help, and had a natural distrust of people. 

Eridan was… smarter, in a way? More strategic, certainly. It’s more fun playing chess with him. Eridan also used bigger words and fancy phrases that sounded like quotes; he’s more observant than Harry, too, and preferred to bury his nose in a book than play exploding snap or gobstones. He cared more about the nature of magic, but not much about anything social.

There were also times where Ron had trouble figuring out which one ‘Harry’ was — he’d say a bunch of big words and turn around and start talking about chocolate frog cards. Ron was starting to suspect there may be an unknown ‘third’ that answered to both names — the same person that explained everything to Ron that night with the Boggart. It was hard to figure out when he was ‘in control’ since he had habits from both of the other ones.

Lately, though, Ron felt like sometimes when Eridan looked at him, he’s seeing somebody else instead. Ron’s seen him do it to Neville, too, and even at McGonagall, though neither of those were as frequent as when he talked to Ron. It’s always worse after Harry’s supposed to have had Ancient Runes. Hermione says he’s been skipping the class entirely for the last few times, and couldn’t get an answer as to why. All forms of catch-up study attempts for the subject were rebuffed with a vehemence, something that almost looked like fear or panic to Ron.

Made him look like some cornered animal. Something primal. Or just bestial.

He remembers the carapace-like skin and shudders. 

The redhead looks toward the sleeping figure, the features blank so it was hard to tell who’d be there when he awoke. The fins and the gills were gone, and the skin… carapace… could be chalked up to accidental magic.

He hadn’t said anything to anyone about what he saw out there and the conversation Ron had had with Harry/Eridan (or whoever they were). Not Hermione, not Neville, not even to any of his siblings. He knows they’ve been curious but he promised and he just… can’t seem to form words about it when he tries. How does he even start with what he’d found out? About Eridan and what he is? Something that was way beyond anything they’d even thought of? 

Ron liked Eridan, but at the same time there was something about ‘Eridan’ that was… unsettling. Like… like how he’d picture a werewolf to be, really. Looking human until they’re clearly not, those teeth and claws just tucked away in hiding…

Harry’s eyes snapped open.

They were violet.

Light. 

Noise; the sound of footsteps and scuffling feet and hushed whispers. Of clinking small glass bottles. Of plates and silverware.

Smells; stale, fresh linen, off to the side… pastry, sweets. Salt of sweat and rain and mud and natural odor. People. Human beings.

Touch; fabric clumped into his fists, tucked around him like a cocoon (but not a recupracoon and not the cocoon grubs spin for their first molt, nor the ones a juvenile spins for the adult molt). 

Taste; iron, metallic, blood (whatcolorwhatcolorwhatcolorwhat-).

Aura; Worry, fear, trepidation, relief, awe, anxiety.

Shock.

Too much. Too much at once. His head ached something fierce.

And yet he still opened his eyes to that which was not the Void, with its glowing technicolor cracks and the whispers of Abraxas and Yaldabaoth echoing in his mind over and over and over and over and-

“Harry!”

Oliver Wood was the first to approach, throwing his arms around his prone form and nearly squeezing the air out of his lungs had it not been for his harder carapace skin.

“You did it! Harry you did it! We won!” their Captain cried out and was subsequently pulled back and admonished by his teammates.

He took the chance to feel for his glasses, finding familiar purchase and sliding the frames back on.

“Harry!” breathed Fred, who looked extremely white underneath the mud he hadn’t bothered to wipe off, pulling the protesting Wood back. “How’re you feeling?”

He blinks. 

And blinks again. 

“Fine.” he stated. 

“Fine? FINE?! Harry, you fell off!” Fred was practically shouting now, “Must’ve been—what—fifty feet?!”

“We thought you’d died…” said Alicia, who was shaking.

“You’re gray!” George’s voice was high pitched at the end.

Hermione made a small, squeaky noise. Her eyes were extremely bloodshot. 

They were all there. The Gryffindor Quidditch Team, Neville, Ginny, Hermione, and…

“Dumbledore was really angry,” she practically whispered in a quaking voice. “I’ve never seen him like that before. He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the Dementors. Shot silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away... He was furious they’d come onto the grounds. We heard him-”

And…

“Then he magicked you onto a stretcher,” continued Ginny when Hermione clearly couldn’t go on. “And walked up to school with you floating on it. Everyone thought you were...”

No…

“You looked like you’d turned to stone.” Neville finished for them.

That’s not right.

“Harry?” 

He blinks again, but the image of a gray-skinned troll with nubby horns refuses to remove itself from where it was superimposed on the boy in front of him. He can see so clearly the black, wiry hair, the black turtleneck with the gray symbol the humans called “Cancer”, the gray eyes and orange sclera.

Worried, concerned. When was the last time any of them had looked at him like that?

“…Kar? Kar, wwhy are you here?”

The Karkat Vantas in front of him knits his eyebrows in confusion. The voices of those around them started to fade away.

Hands roughly grip his shoulders as Karkat stares into his eyes, flinching a bit. What did he see? He brings him into a hug regardless. He’s taller than he remembered. Was Karkat always this tall? 

Why didn’t he seem angry after everything he’s done?

“Kar, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I knoww I fucked up, okay?” Eridan started, “It’s all my fuckin’ fault-“

“Harry,” says Karkat, but his voice is strange. He’d never had an accent like that, and he wasn’t shouting like usual. “I’m Ron, remember?”

Ron…

He blinks.

And blinks again.

The boy in front of him is tall, with peachy pink skin and fiery red hair and blue, blue eyes with white sclera.

“Ron. Ron Weasley.” he mumbled to himself, sitting back down on the cot with wide eyes, hands letting go from where he’d been gripping Ron’s sleeves. “For a moment you looked just like-”

“The Whomping Willow broke your Nimbus.” The redhead deadpanned before he could say much more.

A moment of dead silence passes.

“WHAT?!”

“Good to see you back, Harry.” Ron sighed out as the gray carapace became soft and peachy and violet eyes receded to green, orange sclera fading to white.

They wanted answers. 

Of course they did. He apparently survived a fifty foot fall and was carted here with his troll carapace in place. Worse still, Eridan chose this very moment to have a massive mental breakdown after mistaking Ron for Karkat Vantas. Which he supposed he could see since they both shared similar traits like anger issues and being a good friend and-

“Harry?” Hermione’s frazzled voice broke him from his derailing train of thought.

He looked around again. Ron was here, as was Hermione, Ginny, and Neville, as well as the entire Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was, as Eridan would probably put it, completely and throroughly fucked all the way to Twelfth Perigee. 

“…I think the fall addled my brain a little bit.” Was what he said in response. 

Mentally he was corralling Eridan (who was still in shock after mistaking their current shouty best friend for their previous shouty best friend) and Harry (who was freaking out over his Nimbus being wrecked by the wrathful spirit of its ancestors) while trying his best to stay present and not in the mindspace so that another Snape Suplex™ didn’t occur. Was this what parenting was supposed to be like? Why was he the most stable out of the three of them?

Fred snorts. “Mate, you just called our baby brother a car. Did you think he was the Ford Angelia?”

Ah, thank Paradox Space for phonetic miscommunication.

“You also dropped like five F-bombs in a single sentence.” George added to further lighten the mood, “Good thing McGonagall isn’t here but now you’ve ruined little Ginny’s innocent ears-”

“Hey!” Ginny shouted indignantly, “I’ve already heard you and Fred say it plenty!”

Thank Paradox Space for arguing sibling dynamics as well. It gave him time to do the mental equivalent of a shoosh-pap with Eridan and Harry and things felt a bit calmer now that he didn’t have to deal with a pounding headache. Someone gave him chocolate, which also helped with whatever panic either side was dealing with. Damn dementors. The shenanigans of the siblings also seemed to break the tension a bit, and he had a moment to himself to collect his thoughts.

“I remember being surrounded by dementors.” was what he admitted to, trying to piece together the various recounts. “So I fell, and I was gray.”

“You stopped being gray just now after Ron told you the Nimbus was totaled.” Ginny stated helpfully, her hand still shoving at Fred.

He nodded. Okay, so when Harry took control back, his body became human again. Good to know.

“Harry, you could have died.” Hermione said in a small voice, but he shook his head.

“It would take much higher than fifty feet to kill me,” he muttered. 

He’d know. Eridan had leapt from higher elevations to do what he needed to do. Trolls, especially seadwellers, had strong exoskeletons and could absorb a lot of shock. That and the crushing pressure of the ocean deep. 

Hermione and the others looked dubious. Well, not Ron, Ron looked contemplative and slightly ill. He’d have to talk to the youngest Weasley son about that in a more private setting. 

“This isn’t time for bravado, you silly boy!” 

Madame Pomfrey made herself known, shooing the surrounding teens away to check him over, tutting to herself at what she saw. He wasn’t able to read or understand what the colors and symbols meant, but they seemed… favorable? She harrumphed and stepped back, crossing her arms.

“Well Mister Potter, you seem to have recovered much better this time than the year before — but I still want to keep you overnight just to be sure.” Madame Pomfrey stated with a frown, before turning to everyone else. “Now shoo, all of you, you can speak to Mister Potter in the morning! Let the poor boy rest!”

And with a couple muleish looks from the others before they left, he was freed from the pressure of explaining himself right then and there to them. Which could potentially lead to disaster if explained wrong.

Thank Paradox Space for fussy matrons.

With a deep, aching sigh, he pressed himself back into the cot, and closed his eyes again.

Being kept the entire weekend in the Hospital Wing was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, he could always feign exhaustion when people tried to get answers he wasn’t ready to give. On the other hand, much of his time was spent genuinely wrestling with the both halves of his psyche. Whatever the Dementors did caused a further schism between Harry and Eridan, and he was caught in the middle of it. 

So why did he feel fine?

Shouldn't he be in some kind of madness due to his two halves being at odds and freaking out? By all accounts, it shouldn't make any sense.

Maybe in some weird equilibrium, because they were freaking out over different things he was more or less left to his own devices?

He raised his head as he heard the footsteps come his way. By the time Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny walked in, he was already sitting up with his hands in his lap. Time to face the music, as it were. He'd been putting it off for long enough.

“I owwe you all an explanation.” He began carefully as each of them began to sit around them with expressions that were practically demanding one anyways. “So I'm assuming Nevv told you all about the dementor unearthing memories from a past life, yeah?”

Nods all around. Ron gave him a thumbs-up for moral support.

“So… I'm not sayin all a ya are gonna believve me, but I wwant you to stay wwith me through the explanation.” was the soft forward before a deep breath. “So I wwas… kind of an alien in my past life. I… wwasn't the best person, and due to certain things happening at the time, I wwas killed by a friend I had wwronged. My species, as some might say, wwas called ‘Trolls’, though as far as I knoww, there's no relation to mountain trolls. I'm a… rarer vvariant that is seadwwellin, so I guess I'm closer to mermaids, though unlike humans wwho are mammalian, trolls havve insectoid ancestry.”

For a moment there was silence as the three humans (since Ron knew already, this was what they covered during the boggart incident) absorbed his words.

“The… thing you all see as stuttering is wwhat wwe call a ‘quirk’, kind of like an accent of sorts. But I double my ww's and vv's wwhen I'm… more the other one.”

Ron's eyes narrow. 

“So you're not Eridan, because you're using the quirk but you just referred to him as ‘the other one’.” the redhead immediately clocks. “And you're definitely not who we call Harry. So who are you?”

A soft gasp from Hermione as some things click into place for her.

“A secret third thing. I… so… I, er… I don't have a name.” The green eyed Gryffindor replied awkwardly, “Not like that. I'm sort of the amalgamation of Harry and Eridan. I go by both those names and have both those memories. And when things are good I'm alone in my head but right now they are both… erm… not in the best mental state. I usually just call myself the Observer, though I suppose I've been doing more than merely observing for quite some time now.”

“Harridan?” Ginny immediately offered with a grin.

“Please no.” he sighed out in a dramatically pained tone that cut the tension as the others began to laugh. “But… yeah, I'm dowwn to answwer any- dammit, I still don't knoww howw the quirk thing wworks wwhen they're both freaking out-”

“Over what?” Neville asked curiously, scooting his chair closer.

“Wwell Harry predictably is deeply upset and mourning his Nimbus’ untimely demise vvia the Wwhomping Wwilloww. Eridan is upset he mistook Ron for an old friend that… yeah, he fucked up all his friendships, but Karkat wwas kind of… his vversion of Ron?” was the explanation, causing Hermione to inhale sharply. 

“Eridan Ampora and Karkat Vantas.” she breathed. “But… those are…”

“Do you understan noww, Herm, wwhy I havve trouble attendin the class wwith wwhat they're teachin?” Eridan sighed out, running a peachy hand through his messy hair.

At Neville, Ron, and Ginny's puzzled looks, Hermione explains what is being taught in Ancient Runes (and as Professor Babbling implied, might soon bleed into other classes like Arithmancy and History of Magic, which did not bode well for Eridan). He closed his eyes as she explained the Runes of Creation. About the ‘gods’.

“But if that's true, that means you must be very old.” The bushy-haired girl dedected, but he shook his head.

“Most a’ us wwere killed at thirteen human years by each other. I wwas sawwed in half by Maryam.” Eridan corrected her with a wince, powering through even when they gasped. “Wwhich, to be fair, wwas my fuckin fault for blasting through her sternum in the first place. As I said. I wwasn't the best person. You could compare me to a more murderous vversion a’ Malfoy, as pained as the Harry side a’ me wwould feel about that.”

There was a beat of silence. Ron was staring at him as if trying to puzzle something out. Neville and Ginny looked shocked by all the information they were getting at once but also refusing to back out on this exposition train to hell.

“You were our age?” Hermione gasped out, tears forming in her eyes.

“The planet wwe came from, Alternia, wwas not a kind place. But there wwas a Game, see, wwe all played it. Wwe didn't knoww it wwould kickstart Armageddon. Or, wwell, most of us didn't knoww until wwe wwere told. This Game made us powwerful… tested our limits.” A hand goes to his stomach. “As the Space Player, it wwas Kan's job to ecto-clone frogs to breed the neww univverse, an-”

“The Universe is a Frog!?” Ginny and Ron wheezed out simultaneously.

“Yeah, so anywways-”

“No, no, we're not skipping over that!” Neville said, rather high-pitched as Hermione appeared to be staring off into space questioning Existence. “A frog! How can the universe be a frog? Like… is Trevor the Universe?”

“I suppose for trolls, both are considered croakbeasts, so…” Eridan mused, then shrugged helplessly, “Sorry, I forgot howw crazy this part sounds since wwe had to just get used to it durin the Game, but yeah. Anywways, Kar, as the Knight, wwas meant to help her wwith it, but he rushed the process. Somethin wwent wwrong, but wwe hadn't knowwn at the time.”

“But you made it, didn't you?” Hermione whispered, “The Universe still… but then what about the Gifts? The titles? The symbols? The colors? Do they actually mean anything or is it all nonsense?”

At this, Ron perked up. He knew some of the things Hermione was talking about, and was piecing together things from the other way around.

“It's… wwell the titles wwere our mythological titles, as I kinda alluded to. Some a’ us wwere able to reach the godtier, wwhich grants a conditional kind a immortality. I wwas not one a them, before you ask. I wwas… unable to complete my hero's quest.” The ex-pseudo-troll explained with a sigh, “The gifts wwere… a wwish. Cast in blood — wwhich are all different colors an there's a hemospectrum hierarchy an evveryfin — an givven to the tadpole that wwould become the Universe, you knoww, thins wwe wwant for it to havve.”

“And you chose Magic.” Hermione finished softly, which definitely got the attention of the others.

“Wait, does that mean you're the- oooooh Aquarius. The Water Bearer. I get it now.” Ron said with a nod of dawning comprehension.

“Wwhat?” was all he could say, and even Hermione looked perplexed but the purebloods looked as if they were having an epiphany. 

“You're the Font of Magic?” Neville said incredulously. “The Originator of Magic, who poured out the Violet Ichor that gave the world magic?”

“It's the fairytale told to pretty much every kid when we eventually ask our parents where magic comes from.” Ginny explained to Hermione and Eridan while Ron nodded in agreement. 

“He's basically a bigger deal than Merlin but we can't use the Font's name in vain and stuff or else magic might reverse on us or something.”

“A vvery embellished explanation of somethin that took all a’ ten seconds an barely anyone wwas there to wwitness because they couldn’t be bothered stickin around for it, but yeah.” There was a tinge of bitterness to Eridan's tone.

Everyone sat there in silence for a little bit. It was a lot to take in for them, after all. It was a miracle Madame Pomfrey didn't show up for the whole time, but then again, there wasn't much to fear and it was visiting hours. 

“...So the grey.” Hermione started, breaking the silence, “It's not armor. It's your… skin. Carapace? That's why you turned grey when you fell?”

“I wwas mostly troll in the air.” Eridan admitted. “The wwind, the storm, the rain… it wwas all thins I wwas used to flyin in on Alternia. My fins wwere back, my gills wwere back, though I guess those vvanished wwhen I hit the ground.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, bit of a scare, that was.”

“So you can, what, just survive plummeting fifty feet no problem?” Ginny asked, and he shrugged.

“I'vve jumped from larger heights. Vviolet bloods. Royal. Almost impossible to kill unless you're a rainbow drinker wwith a vvendetta an a chainsaww.” Eridan answered dryly.

It was at this point that Madame Pomfrey did bustle in, tutting about straining himself despite him still being in bed, so they dropped the subject for the rest of the visit. Eridan felt the weight lifted off his shoulders. He told the truth and they believed him so far, and they weren't hating him yet. That was a good sign, right? When the specifics sink in, there might be issues, but for now, it felt like telling them the truth was the right thing to do. 

Eridan laid back on the cot, watching his friends laugh about the look on Malfoy's face knowing that even in shit conditions, Gryffindor had won the match, and thus were a step closer to winning the Cup. Even worse for them, despite having fallen from a great height, it seemed that Gryffindor's Seeker would be released from the Hospital Wing with a clean bill of health come Monday.

By Sunday, his friends appeared to have absorbed the exposition dump the size of planet Jupiter the day before, and had instead come in with various questions. Which ranged from what Eridan looked like in full troll form (and him promising to show them if he ever managed a ‘full shift’), what the Game was like (awful), and various other inquiries. 

Ron had asked about the Game as well, but specifically, what Eridan's Hero Quest was. So Eridan told them about the Land of Wrath and Angels, told them about the damned angels that plagued it, to having already dealt with getting his soul sucked once by them. He told them about Abraxas, his Denizen, and the Choice. Everyone's Choice was different, but the one his Denizen had given him was “to complete the normal hero's quest and ascend to godtier now, or to Become something greater than the Sum of all parts by completing an extra task”. Eridan, being who he was, chose the second option, and was given the new hero's quest to “Turn Darkness to Light”, which somehow required the cooperation of the angels, which he'd already wiped out by this point, so it was an impossible task. After explaining, the red-haired third year went silent, with an expression usually only seen when playing chess against him and he was taking in the board.

Hermione had been the most exuberant, but also knew how to prod a little more gently around the sore spot that was his ex-friends. The Gift of Red Blood made more sense when in the context of Karkat's mutation on the hemospectrum, and Eridan also tried to explain each of their mythological roles as best as he understood them. Not that he knew much. But troll society he was well versed in for the royal bloods, and learned more from his ex-friends how the lower-bloods lived. She also asked about how the Game worked, which he could also explain better, and she adopted a similar pensive expression.

He didn't mind giving all the information. The Game was aborted when Jack Noir attacked… right?

Right?

And yet, the sight of LOWAA and the whispers of the Denizens indicated the Game was far from over.

By Monday, things were more or less back to normal. Especially since Professor Remus Lupin was back to teaching DADA, and even told the class they didn't have to do the essay on werewolves, which led to many cheers from students all around. He certainly wasn't looking to be in the best health – then again, he doubted recovering from painfully shifting forms was particularly pleasant. 

After an interesting lesson on hinkeypunks, the werewolf in hiding asked for him to stay back a little while, to which the ex-troll obliged.

 "I heard about the match," began Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, "and I'm sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

He felt an eyelid twitch from where Harry Potter was still exceedingly passed about losing his beloved broom to the thing that nearly killed him last year. “Unfortunately no, it was smashed to bits. Nothing can be done with it. Wouldn't have expected there to be.”

A pause. He looked at the professor and weighed his options. 

“Wwhat can you tell me about Dementors?” He asked slowly. Lupin took a deep breath and blew out a sigh.

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth.” The professor explained, “They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can't see them. Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself... soulless and evil. You'll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life.”

Once again he thought to those husks in the pews of the Cathedral. Dementors exist in darkness, they thrive in it.

“An the Patronus Charm keeps them at bay?”

Lupin turned to him sharply.

“Yes,” the older man admitted. “You've been doing your own research, I see.”

“I really don't like them, Professor.” Eridan replied in earnest, “An I wwanted to learn howw to cast it in self-defense. I wwas wwonderin if you wwould alloww me to sit in wwhen to teach the upper years or somethin. Because they're only gettin angrier an they seem to either really like me or really hate me.”

At this, Lupin's hummed in consideration. “I start teaching the Patronus next term, so if you would like, come to my office hours then and we can work on it. Does that sound alright to you?”

A fervent nod. “Thank you, Professor.”

A warm smile. “Of course. Take care, Harry.”

“And you, sir.”

“Hey Ron, hey Herm.” he greeted them as he came from his Time-Turner scheduled break, which he used to get some more reading done on his subjects ahead of time in case any of them decided to use the gods of Creation. Turns out, it was embedded in the undertone of nearly every subject, just… not really seen unless you were looking for it.

It just meant he had to get over Eridan's trauma as soon as he could, which he started to frack at by reading the lessons he'd missed in Ancient Runes. Which had… not been easy, but the incident with the Quidditch match had really helped with shoving both voices in the back of his mind if need be.

He was trying not to think about what that might imply about him now.

“Harry! Er, Eridan, er… which one are you again?” was Ron's form of greeting with a grin, as Hermione glared at the taller Gryffindor for his lack of tact.

Life has been good. Wood had been invigorated by their win, and their training persisted in the wind and rain into December. The team was working hard, and still couldn't seem to understand how the hell their Seeker was now running laps around them. There wasn't even a hint of a Dementor on the ground. Whatever Dumbledore had threatened them with, they made sure to listen for the time being.

“You can call me either, I don't mind.” Was his response.

Sometimes, when the storm was too great and everyone else was huddled inside the castle walls for warmth and reprieve from the howling sky, he would stand outside and try to feel the shift of carapace and fins and gills. He'd go where he couldn't be seen, where no one dared to go in this weather. Felt the carapace harden as the cold no longer bothered him, the fins and gills fluttering at the water drenching him. Felt wind swirl around lightning bolt horns. He'd always return, dry and human, trying to find ways to switch on command.

A work in progress.

“Ah, Number Three, the Observer.” Ron replied in a mock-sage voice, the both boys laughing at the tone.

It was nice to have it treated lightly instead of as a heavy basket case.

“We should find a proper name for you, you know.” Hermione sniffed as the three of them made their way to the Forbidden Forest for their next lesson. “You deserve one, even if you think you're just a mix, you're a unique individual that can be picked out. You're our Harry, and also Eridan. But I think for posterity you should have your own moniker.”

Ron and him blinked at her. He didn't know she felt so strongly about it.

“Observver is a moniker. So is Three.” the Observer replied with a lopsided grin as she wrinkled her nose. “And I don't wwant something too obvviously portmanteau. The last thing I need is people thinking I'm just comparing myself to the Font of Magic.”

Snow crunched beneath their feet. In the distance Seamus and Dean were pelting snowballs at each other while some other students waited for Hagrid to arrive. It was a nice morning. The snow was new and white and covered the ground anew.

“What about Hal?” Hermione offered.

A scuffle of boots in the snow as he paused to look at her.

“Hal?” he repeated.

“It's another diminutive form of Henry like Harry is.” The muggleborn explained, flushing a bit more than just the cold as she continued with a smidge of sheepishness, “And, well, my parents are very big fans of Shakespeare, which is why they named me Hermione from one of his plays, and I grew up listening to a lot of them. There's a character based on King Henry the Fifth who was referred to as ‘Prince Hal’ who was a bit of a delinquent in the early plays who cleaned up his act once he became king, during which point he's referred to as ‘Harry’.”

Both Ron and him stared at her since she barely even took a single breath saying the whole thing, but she powered on.

“You're the Prince of Hope, and you're also Harry. You weren't a great person before as Eridan, but you are now as Harry, and even more now that you are who you are. Both those names, both those memories, as you said.” she finished with a wide grin, as if she just solved a particularly difficult puzzle.

He blinked.

“That does sound like you.” Ron agreed with a nod.

“Hal.” The Observer tried the name on his tongue with a growing smile.

Hal. The boy who was both Eridan and Harry, stranger and friend, amalgam and unity. So simple, but given with so much thought and meaning by friends that were both old and new. Someone that was an in-between, someone that was both and yet his own person, seen at last.

And he decided he liked that.