Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry made a loud grunt as he slammed heavily onto the granite floor, banging his head with such force that he saw a flash of white across his vision. Blinding pain erupted on the side of his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, left in a daze on the hard floor. After a long moment, he blinked his eyes open and experienced a second of panic when his roving eyes met only darkness.

He quickly realized, however, as he blinked several more times, that he could see the silhouette of his hand, outstretched and relaxed in front of his face. The room he was in was void of light and eerily quiet.

He rubbed at his eyes under his glasses as another spike of pain shot through the side of his head. He grabbed at it with both hands and let out a small groan as it continued to throb.

After a few long minutes, the pain subsided enough that he was able to move. Harry swiped his hand blindly across the floor as he pushed himself up onto all fours to search for his wand. He had it clutched in his hand just moments ago, he was sure of it.

His hand landed on something soft and warm.

He froze.

A red flash of light, then a high pitched, triumphant shriek.

Two dark eyes widened in shock.

A rush of wind, a flutter of ragged cloth.

No.

‘HARRY!’

He quickly recoiled back, landing sharply on his bottom. His breaths came out in heavy gasps as memories came rushing back of what had happened just moments ago with his friends, the Death Eaters, Dumbledore… and…

His hand closed firmly around the handle of his wand as he located it behind him. In a swift but unsteady motion, before he could think to stop himself, Harry yelled, “Lumos!”

The end of his wand lit up brightly, illuminating the space in front of him in a bright white light.

But as quickly as the light appeared, it extinguished just as swiftly as his wand fell from his slackened grip in sudden shock, clattering loudly against the floor with an echo reverberating outwardly across the room.

Harry was plunged once more into darkness as he let out a loud, distressed cry and threw himself forward onto the still form in front of him.

“Wake up! Please, wake up!”

Heart hammering rapidly in his chest, he shook the form with all his strength, causing it to shift roughly back and forth against the ground as a well of anguish burst forth from deep within him.

“Please, please! You hav—you need to wake up!”

He attempted to slap the pale face on both cheeks to consciousness, with no success. His eyes began to burn and well up as he turned frantically to retrieve his wand. His vision blurred as he pressed the wand firmly against the figure’s chest.

“Rennervate!”

A bright red light shot forward and landed true, absorbing seamlessly into the body. Harry paused with bated breath, but everything remained as it was. Blood was pounding in his ears as he felt a violent lurching in his stomach.

“Rennervate!”

He tried twice more, three—no four—until finally—“RENNERVATE!”—the last incantation was uttered with such force and intensity that the very air surrounding the figure became charged with electricity, causing every strand of hair to stand on end and a zap of heat that made the skin glow with warmth. But, within moments the face returned to its ashy pallor, and the form remained silent, unmoving, and worryingly—cold. It was rapidly cooling in the chilly darkness of the room, and Harry felt hysteria quickly take hold as he was hit with that horrifying realization.

“No, no, no, NO!” he cried, as he fell bonelessly over the body, clutching at it with trembling hands, forehead pressed deeply into the soft folds of the robes below him.

His breaths spilled forth forcefully from his lips, picking up rapidly as he suddenly felt a heaviness in his chest that pressed down harshly against his lungs, constricting them and leaving them feeling simultaneously too big and too small for his ribcage. He gasped desperately for air as he tried to straighten from his curled position, but his legs spasmed below him, causing him to collapse with a heavy thud onto the hard ground.

Harry grabbed frantically at his chest and throat, feeling as if he were drowning in a vat of poisonous water. Blackness began to seep into the very edges of his vision.

He lost consciousness.

James stifled a yawn as he arrived at Level Two of the Ministry, walking briskly past several offices and groups of men and women milling about between rooms, deep in conversation. He pushed past two particularly enthused wizards, who were discussing the merits of using a Muggle vacuum cleaner as a mode of transportation (but honestly, who wanted to deal with all those wires and bits hanging off of it?), into a quiet hallway devoid of activity. Several additional doors lined the walls on either side, however James headed straight for the set of double doors at the end of the hall.

As he approached, a tall figure in navy stepped forth past the threshold of the double doors to meet him, followed closely by a stocky man with short trimmed brown hair, who shut the door behind them before James could catch a glimpse of what lay beyond it.

“Potter,” Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted solemnly but not unkindly.

“Sir,” James responded to the older Auror with a nod, and then looked at the man at Shacklebolt’s side.

“Merlin, kid! What happened to you?” he asked, eyes wide.

The boy flushed a dark red, a sheepish look on his face. “Just a couple of cuts, sir. It looks worse than it is.”

James eyed the boy. It certainly looked bad. There were hundreds of tiny cuts and scrapes spread all along the exposed parts of his body—his face, neck, and hands. He had a few large bruises along his arms that were visible from the holes of his torn sleeves. The way the boy was stiffly holding himself, James suspected it probably looked much the same along his chest and back as well.

“Williamson here had a run-in with a large shelf full of glass artifacts while chasing down a criminal. Was positively rained on by tiny glass shards,” Shacklebolt stated, giving the boy a sidelong glance. “Insisted on staying when our team arrived to help with the investigation.”

James was somewhat impressed by the kid’s dedication, as foolish as it was.

Williamson was on the younger end of the Aurors currently active, at the ripe age of twenty-three, only three years out since completing formal training. Though he had never worked directly with the boy himself, James had picked up on the praise and positive remarks over the years. Overall, Williamson demonstrated great promise as an Auror, with a good head on his shoulders and a fierce drive to learn and succeed.

He could see hints of a young James Potter in the boy—still wet behind the ears, eager, passionate, and filled to the very brim with excitement for a life not yet lived. These days, James struggled to recall what it was like to be so unburdened and free from the horrors of the world. But then, he thought cynically, by the time he and Lily had reached their twenty-third year, they had already experienced some of the worst monstrosities that life had to offer—war, destruction, betrayal, loss—

“I appreciate you agreeing to come on such short notice,” Shacklebolt stated sincerely, snapping James back to focus.

“Not at all. Although you might have to explain to my aggrieved wife why my first weekend off in several weeks has suddenly been cut short,” James said lightly with humor. “And at the ungodly hour of 4am too.”

Shacklebolt grimly replied, “I’m afraid it couldn’t wait. The situation is rather urgent.”

James looked up at him with a furrowed brow. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve been assigned Lead Auror to an investigation surrounding an incident that occurred late last night in the DoM. A break-in—of some sort—possible theft, and a murder. We have two witnesses who had contact with the perpetrator, however at the moment the perpetrator remains free and we have no clear idea who it is. From their accounts, we’ve deduced that he’s a white male, young—possibly underage, average height, with dark hair. We’ve had our full investigative team on-site for a couple of hours now to process every bit of evidence we can find to uncover a clear motive.”

“A break-in, theft, and murder? Sounds like a fun night. But it looks to me like you have a good handle on things here. Investigation isn't really my line of work, not anymore. So what do you need me for?” James asked, still processing the rush of information provided to him.

“Listen, Potter.” Shacklebolt ushered him to the stretch of wall beside the double doors before stating, “Before we go any further—this isn’t your usual assignment, but I thought it important to include you because you might be able to provide us with some important insight. Otherwise, it isn’t typical procedure for us to allow someone with such close personal ties to be so involved with the investigation itself.”

James frowned. “Personal ties? Who are you talking about, exactly?”

Shacklebolt appeared to hesitate for just a second, an uncharacteristically odd behavior for the normally self-assured and experienced wizard. The flash of uncertainty disappeared just as quickly as it appeared, and he asked, “When was the last time you saw or spoke with Sirius Black?”

He was thrown by the words at first, not expecting the question. James resisted the urge to sneak a glance at Williamson as he replied, “I spoke with him two nights ago over Floo. He’s on leave for personal reasons.” Officially, anyway. Unofficially, Sirius had volunteered to go on a reconnaissance mission for the Order and wasn’t expected back for at least another night. Shacklebolt had been present during the meeting when the mission was discussed at length. He knew this, so why the question?

Thoughts racing, he asked, “Why? Did something happen to Sirius?”

Shacklebolt hm’d quietly at his response in contemplation. He glanced over at Williamson at his side and bobbed his head in James’ direction, “Tell Potter what happened.”

Williamson straightened and stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Late last night—it was close to midnight, I believe—I was assigned as one of the night guards for the lower Ministry floors. I had just completed my rounds of Level Eight—it was all clear. But, when I went down to Level Nine, I heard a commotion from a few rooms over. It was faint, but the floor was quiet, so the noise traveled. I went to investigate it.”

James cut in, “The DoM usually handles its own security. You didn’t think to check in with them first?”

“I tried, but I didn’t see anyone at their post. It didn’t matter anyway. Just as I stepped into the entrance room, the trespasser escaped through another door, and the room reset itself,” Williamson said with a frustrated voice. “I searched two other rooms before I located him again.”

He continued, “I found him lurking about in the Hall of Prophecies. It was all very odd. I thought he’d try to nick one of the Time-Turners in the Time Room—those are rather valuable. But the prophecy room? Most wouldn’t find much value in there.”

It was odd. Most modern witches and wizards placed little stock in seers and fortune-telling because the study had become abound with old quacks spouting absolute malarky for easy money. Not that that stopped people from being utterly fascinated by them, or from paying bags of money for bogus readings to boost their egos. Sadly, it was exceedingly difficult to separate the true seers from the fake ones, largely due to the reputation that seers (whether real or not) had built up over the years for their eccentricity and, consequently, their solitary nature. Meeting a true seer was a rarity—so much so that most witches and wizards live their whole lives without encountering one.

“But it gets odder still. The trespasser attacked me when I forced him out from hiding. He’s young—I didn’t think it would be difficult to detain him. But—I underestimated him. It was—his magic—” Williamson’s face was pinched in deep thought as he recounted the incident.

“His magic…?” James prompted.

“It was unlike anything I’d seen before. The power he put in his spells—he launched me across the room with a Disarming Charm.”

James’ eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

“You’re telling me he gave you all of those—” he gestured at Williamson’s injured body. “—with a Disarming Charm?”

“It’s difficult to believe,” Shacklebolt interjected. “But our second witness corroborated Williamson’s account. He encountered our trespasser not long before Williamson did, and he came out of the encounter looking the worse for wear. He’s been sent to St. Mungo’s for recovery, but his preliminary statement suggests that the trespasser sent him hurtling down a flight of steps with a Stunning Spell.”

James found himself at a loss for words. For a Stunning Spell to send someone flying—it was inconceivable.

“Alright,” he voiced after a moment. “So he sends a Disarming Charm your way, you get flung across the room, and then he makes his grand escape?”

“When I finally left the DoM, the trespasser was already gone,” Williamson explained. “He left through a fireplace from the Atrium, though no one actually witnessed him leave. Rookwood was unconscious when I found him—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Rookwood? You mean Augustus Rookwood? The same Rookwood that won the National Dueling Championship way back in his heyday? He’s your other witness? And he got beat by some truth-seeking half-wit kid?” James asked incredulously.

Williamson protested, “The trespasser attacked him from behind. He had the element of surprise. And Unspeakable Rookwood hasn’t dueled professionally in over twenty years. He’s got this hand injury—”

Shacklebolt shot him a look. The boy shut his mouth with a click.

The older man continued, “We’ve managed to trace his destination to The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. We’ve just sent out two Aurors to investigate. It’s unlikely that he stuck around, but with any luck, someone will be able to point us in the right direction.”

“Okay,” James remarked. “This information is all fine and dandy, but what does this have to do with Sirius?”

“I—” Shacklebolt stopped. Again, he hesitated. “As part of the investigation, we are searching each of the DoM’s chambers—we’ve yet to figure out how exactly he got in, and we want to ensure he didn’t take any sensitive artifacts or documents. In the Death Chamber, we found a body.”

His heart lurched at the words, followed closely by a heavy sense of foreboding.

“What are you saying?” He asked tightly, body tense with the beginnings of fear.

“As of now, nothing’s been confirmed. We’ve sent for a Medi-witch to fully examine the body and determine the cause of death—our initial assessment indicates it was the Killing Curse—but they’ll also be able to confirm the identity. Since it was found in the DoM, we’ll be keeping it here until—”

“Tell me,” James snapped, dread and anger twisting tightly in his gut. “Whose body did you find?”

“We think it's Sirius’.”

He inhaled sharply at the reply. His body grew unnaturally still, blood rushing loudly in his ears.

“That's impossible. I just spoke with him over Floo and he was doing perfectly well. I'd know—he's my best mate. I'd know if—if—”

The words died in his throat as he struggled to process the news. He swallowed thickly, hands clenched tightly against his sides. 

“Potter, listen. We suspect it's his, but as of now it's not been confirmed.”

“Not been confirmed?" James gave a sudden bark of laughter. “Are you having a laugh? Have you even seen the body? Either it's his or it's not. You're talking about Sirius Black, of the bloody Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. There's not one person in this blasted building who wouldn't recognize him at a glance.”

“Normally I'd agree with you. But there's something unusual about all of this—about the break-in and the trespasser. It'd be best to wait for confirmation before we continue.”

“I want to see it,” James said abruptly.

“Sir, with all due respect, it's not procedure—” Williamson spoke up with a look of disagreement.

“It's alright.” Shacklebolt placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, before turning back to James. “I suspected you would.”

He beckoned him over to the double doors.

“Before we head in there, I want you to be prepared. The body in there—it's in bad shape. You said you spoke with him two days ago, and he looked healthy. If it is Sirius, then something truly unfathomable must have occurred over the course of those two days.”

James clenched his jaw, grimly meeting the man's gaze.

Their eyes remained locked for a few long moments, then, “Williamson, go wait by the Floo for the Medi-witch to arrive. Send her my way. After that—and I want to hear no more of your complaints—you’re dismissed for the rest of the day.”

The young Auror pressed his lips thinly into a line as he nodded tightly, pivoting on his feet before striding down the hallway.

Shacklebolt pushed the doors open, signaling James to step in first, before shutting it and following closely behind. The room they stepped into was small but brightly lit. It was clearly once an office, now haphazardly rearranged and repurposed. Filing cabinets and bookshelves lined every wall, and pieces of office furniture were pressed tightly up against them. The center of the room had been cleared of all objects, where a large metal table had replaced it.

Upon it, half-concealed by a heavy cloth from the waist down, laid the body of Sirius Black.

Chapter Text

A breeze of cold air blew gently across his face, coaxing Harry gently into consciousness once more.

The world around him remained dark, though Harry didn’t feel the rush of panic he did before. Instead, a wave of calmness overtook him, even before he remembered that the lights were off in the chamber. Unlike the first time, Harry awakened with none of the feelings of disorientation that he had before, and had a level of clarity that allowed him to quickly take stock of his person and surroundings.

He was slumped over the granite floor on his right side, legs splayed at an awkward angle and his arm tucked below his hip. His body ached in multiple places, particularly his upper chest and throat, which felt tender and raw as he lightly touched it.

The pain from his head was still present, though it was now a low, dull throbbing that was more a nuisance than a hindrance.

How long had he been unconscious? Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

Distantly, Harry felt that he should be feeling more about his current situation than he actually was.

That he was forgetting something, something important, though in that instant, Harry couldn’t muster up enough feelings to care despite the undercurrent of wrongness he felt low in his gut.

He heard a clicking sound in the distance and had an immediate thought: There must be a clock in here somewhere.

For surely there must be a reason the world was so dark?

It wasn’t until the noise was nearly upon him that Harry realized it was not, in fact, a clock.

Footsteps.

Something deep in Harry screamed at him to run, to hide—to escape before they captured and killed him.

Harry scrambled to his feet as quietly as he could, which admittedly, was not at all. He swiped his wand from the ground in front of him and gripped it tightly in his hand as he spotted a nearby set of stairs, eyes having adjusted to the dark. He rushed up each of the steps, leading to the single doorway within the room. With no time to cast any protective spells, he pressed himself up against the wall beside the hinge of the door, waiting with bated breath as the footsteps became so loud that their owner must have been right on the other side of the door.

A beat.

The door slammed open as a tall bulky man stalked forward through the doorway, light spilling into the room from behind him. Harry just barely managed to stop the door from slamming into his face with an outstretched hand and ducked further into the shadows.

The man raised his glowing wand, directing it every which way while sweeping his eyes.

Distantly, Harry realized he could see now that the room was actually a fairly large chamber built to resemble an amphitheater.

“There’s no use in hiding. I know you’re in here. Reveal yourself at once and I may just show you mercy!”

Harry remained ducked behind the door as he heard the footsteps stride further into the chamber. He peeked around it as the steps continued away from his hidden position and observed the man’s backside. He had on dark, well-fitting robes that stretched comfortably over his wide shoulders. Harry glimpsed several large, gold rings adorning his left hand, suggesting a high level of affluence. Long, gray hair bound together with a dark band hung loosely down his back.

There was an itching at the back of his mind, a hum of familiarity, and somewhere in him knew that he had seen this man before.

It wasn’t until the man turned his head to the right, attention captured by something at the center of the chamber, down where Harry had woken up, that he caught a glimpse of the man’s profile.

A sneering mouth below a pale, pock-marked cheek and dark eyes.

An unbidden memory came rushing to the forefront of his mind: standing within the glimmering coldness of a chamber lined with endless rows of glowing glass orbs; and from the shadows, twelve dark, imposing figures emerged, led by a towering blonde-haired man. At the very back, a large figure with long, greasy gray hair stood proudly, with that same sneering mouth looking down at him.

Augustus Rookwood.

Suddenly, Harry understood. The swell of unease and wrongness.

Because, he thought with mounting horror, if Augustus Rookwood, the sneering Death Eater accompanied by a host of dangerous psychopaths and killers, was here—unmarked and unscathed—then where were his friends?

He had woken up in the dark, cold chamber alone, knowing with absolute certainty that he had not been on his own before he blacked out. That they—he and his friends—had all been locked in a deadly fight against the Death Eaters and had sustained injuries that had left them all in a dangerously vulnerable state, open to further attack. Hermione in particular, he recalled with a pounding heart, had been in a very bad way after Dolohov’s curse. So where was she? Had his friends fled? Left him to seek medical help? The chances of that were slim in the state that they had all been in. Captured, then. Or killed, a small voice whispered despondently.

With icy terror in his veins, Harry rounded the door with renewed urgency, taking aim at Rookwood’s exposed back.

“Confundo!” he bellowed, not bothering to lower his voice. Bright pink light shot across the chamber towards the man, lighting up the darkened room. With surprising swiftness, Rookwood spun on his feet hardly a second before it hit, a powerful shield already fully formed by the time he faced Harry, deflecting the spell.

“Potter!” he hissed, before releasing his shield and rapidly firing several non-verbal spells in quick succession.

Harry moved quickly on his feet, dodging as best he could, and narrowly avoided the piercing blasts produced by two of the spells before aiming once more, “Stupefy!”

The spell erupted violently from his wand with much greater force and power than he had intended, causing him to jerk back in surprise as it knocked Rookwood so forcefully off his feet that he traveled several paces forward before tumbling down the steep steps of the amphitheater-like chamber. He landed in a heap at the bottom of the steps with a loud ‘CRACK!’

Harry didn’t stop to wait before fleeing the chamber, and soon found himself in the entrance room where he and his friends first got held up after entering the Department of Mysteries. He realized his mistake as the door shut behind him and the walls began to spin, leaving him with little clue as to which door would lead him to an exit.

As he stood in indecision, not knowing if he needed or even wanted to find an exit—what if his friends were still here?—one of the doors to his left wrenched open.

Startled into action, Harry dashed towards the door to his right, catching only the barest of glimpses of a man with short brown hair at the doorway before he forced his chosen door open.

Distantly, Harry heard the man shout, “Stop where you are!” before the door slammed shut behind him.

Harry pressed his back against the door as he caught his breath. He hadn’t recognized the man by voice or face, but he was likely in league with the Death Eaters, if he wasn’t already one himself. He had no doubt there were Death Eaters crawling all over the Ministry at this point, if his friends had been captured or forced to flee. And it seemed they were aware that he was still here, raring to hunt him down.

His best bet was to stay out of sight, or to cause a distraction so he could slip away to find his friends.

A sudden thought came to him. Wait. He had a means of contacting them. He almost smacked himself on the head. The contact Galleon!

Harry dug around in his pockets until his hand closed around the small coin. He pulled it out and placed his wand against it and crafted a message. The words faded as he stared in anticipation.

No response. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He tried to calm himself from thinking the worst. A slow response didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. It could be anything, or nothing. He shouldn’t be too hasty. Last time he ran into things head-first, he had gotten someone ki—

Harry thumped his head back against the door, feeling a shot of pain. Hogwarts. He needed to get to Hogwarts. If his friends had retreated somewhere for help, it would be there. It was a gamble, to leave when his friends could still be here, but the Ministry was much too large for him to take on alone against a dozen Death Eaters. He needed to regroup—with his friends or with anyone willing to help. He knew now that it had been a mistake to come so unprepared.

But he needed to move quickly. Closing the door on that man in the entrance room likely only bought him a few minutes of respite.

When Harry finally looked up to take in the room he had entered, he found himself surrounded by clocks and time-related devices of every type and size. He was back in the Time Room.

But… it wasn’t possible. Hadn’t they just blasted their way out of this chamber?

And yet, the contents of the room remained just as undisturbed as the first time he had lain eyes on it.

It didn’t make sense.

A chill worked its way down his spine as he was struck by a disturbing thought. Had he gone mad? Banged his head so hard that he’d jumbled his memories and forgotten what was real and what wasn’t? He quickly shook his head in refusal—and immediately regretted it, as he felt a painful jab at the side of his head.

Knowing he had little time to ponder over the state of his mind—just thinking of it further intensified the throbbing in his head—Harry moved into the room and stopped as he spotted a familiar door, situated beside a large display of Time-Turners (‘Stupefy!’ Neville yelled, spell flying too far left and missing its target, exploding the entire rack).

He felt a fluttering in his chest as he realized the room before him.

The Hall of Prophecies.

During the ensuing chaos brought on by the Death Eater attack, Harry had forgotten about the tiny prophecy orb that had been so important to Voldemort. It had fallen from Neville’s pocket and shattered against the ground, its contents left unheard amongst the confusion and mayhem.

If the Time Room had reverted back to its original, untouched state, then surely the same must be true of the other rooms…

As he suspected, all of the towering shelves in the room were intact. Hundreds of shiny glass orbs glittered starkly against the blue flames set in intervals beside the ends of each shelf.

Harry turned right and made a beeline for the shelf that contained row 97.

Within moments, he stood in front of the prophecy orb with his name engraved below it. His eyes drank in the glass sphere sat atop a wiry stand before him, gaze carefully tracing over each letter of his name, as if he could uncover its mysteries from sight alone.

As easily as he had done before, he gently removed it from its perch, and it glowed a misty blueish-gray within his palm.

A loud bang sounded from behind him, startling him. Someone had entered the chamber.

He stuffed the orb hastily in his pocket before ducking into the shadows of the shelf.

Light footsteps echoed across the expanse of the chamber. Harry edged towards one of the walls, remaining shrouded in darkness as he moved towards the door.

He finally spotted the brown-haired man from earlier when he was several paces away, his wand held aloft. The man took several cautious steps forward, eyes carefully scanning along every bump and crevice in the chamber.

“Homenum revelio,” the man uttered.

An odd sensation came over Harry, as if something was swooping low over him, immersing his body in its shadow.

A Human-presence-revealing Spell. Harry bit back a curse as he crouched down low. There went any hope of getting out undetected.

“Drop your wand to the ground, then come out with your hands up, now!”

He certainly couldn’t do that.

Harry glanced around him, searching for anything that he could use to his advantage. Unsurprisingly, the Hall of Prophecies was sorely lacking in anything and everything that was not, well, a prophecy.

Fuck it.

“Alright, alright, I’m stepping out!” Harry shouted, waiting a beat before stepping away from his hiding place, hands raised up high. His wand remained tightly held in his right hand.

The brown-haired man looked at him intently, eyes drawn immediately to his face. Though his wand was aimed at Harry’s chest, he appeared distracted, eyebrows furrowing as he continued observing Harry’s features. He didn't once glance up at the wand held tightly in Harry's fist.

He resisted the urge to squirm under the deep scrutiny.

When the man opened his mouth to speak, Harry whipped his wand forward, bellowing, “Petrificus Totalus!”

The man’s distraction did little to slow his reaction time, as he rapidly produced a shield with a quick swish of his wand. On impact, however, the spell exploded destructively, breaking the shield and knocking the man back several meters.

What the hell was that?

Harry frowned as he recalled the spell he had used on Rookwood.

Ahead of him, the man was taken aback for just a moment, but he quickly found his footing and shouted, “Immobulus!”

Harry flung himself away from the spell’s path and, glancing up, yelled, “Diffindo!” as he took aim at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The chain split cleanly apart, and the chandelier descended rapidly from above, forcing the man to dive out of its way. It landed on the granite floor with a thundering crash, pieces of it shattering outward in every direction.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry cried, taking aim at his opponent’s wand.

The brown-haired man was suddenly yanked forward with a tremendous force, dislodging his place on the ground and brutally propelling his body into one of the towering shelves. It caved like a deck of cards under his weight, and dozens of glass orbs rained down on him, shattering against his body.

Harry stared in shock. He looked down at his wand as if seeing it for the first time.

It’d been a very long time since he fumbled the Disarming Spell. And certainly never so catastrophically.

But he had no time to dwell on it as he heard a low groan from the pile of shattered wood and glass beside him.

He took his chance and escaped from the chamber.

Soon, Harry found himself in the entrance room once more.

For once, it appeared luck was on his side because one of the doors was left ajar, and he recognized the corridor it led out to. An exit, finally!

He rushed forward before the door could close in on itself. However, he nearly lost his footing when he saw a familiar figure stumbling towards the end of the corridor.

Augustus Rookwood appeared pale and disoriented, hair mussed and robes in disarray. He moved as if drunk, movements slow but erratic and aimless. Harry could only assume it had been due to the painful fall he had taken down the stairs. Which he had caused.

Harry quickly cast the Disillusionment Charm on himself as he watched Rookwood nearly topple over, leaning heavily against the wall. He seemed unaware of his immediate surroundings, not having noticed Harry’s noisy footsteps when he dashed into the corridor.

Carefully, Harry tip-toed around the man, leaving a wide berth as he followed along the opposite wall.

Whether Rookwood heard him or not made little difference—the man had slid down the wall and remained stock-still from his place on the floor, even as Harry activated a lift and stepped into it.

The last thing he saw as the lift doors closed was the man slumped over, unconscious.

It was Sirius. But it wasn't.

The man laid before him was very much the Sirius he had always known, familiar in every way that only someone who had grown and matured beside him could be. Who had celebrated with him at his best and consoled him through his very worst.

And yet, for all the ways that James could see someone warm and familiar—like recognizing like—a brother in every way but blood, there were equally as many that were strange and unknown.

Ashen gray skin stretched thinly and tightly over a frail, emaciated torso. Long, narrow limbs laid bare with little fat or muscle, ready to snap under a quick and heavy hand. Dark lackluster hair hung limply beneath a head that appeared too big on the slim, bony body.

The face was gaunt and creased with heavy lines, casting dark shadows around the eyes and mouth that betrayed the exhaustion and anguish buried deep within the skin.

It was Sirius. But it wasn't.

James couldn't stop his eyes roving carefully over every detail of the body.

This was his best mate, his brother, and yet he felt like he was looking at a stranger in familiar clothing.

"I don't understand," he uttered blankly.

James felt the heavy weight of Shacklebolt's gaze, but he couldn't look away.

“It’s as you said,” stated Shacklebolt softly. “We’ve had multiple people who could identify this man within seconds of seeing his face. And yet, not one person can definitively say that this man is Sirius Black.”

“The body—it’s too thin, starved. The killer couldn’t have done that in a matter of days. It’s impossible!” James exclaimed.

“That’s why we called for a Medi-witch. The condition of this body—it points to some type of chronic abuse or neglect, not something that can be done within two days of captivity. Which means… either this body did not belong to who we think it does—which is still a possibility that we can’t rule out, or—”

“Or, Sirius was taken weeks or even months before,” James uttered with slowly dawning horror. “But I saw him. Saw him with my own eyes just two days ago!”

“Over Floo.”

“What?”

“You only saw him over Floo, correct? Head only?” Shacklebolt pressed.

“Yes, I saw only his face,” he conceded reluctantly.

“Then a person could have easily been sitting right beside him, feeding him words under threat.”

“Fine, maybe I didn’t see his body, but that doesn't mean anything! His face was like night and day compared to—to this,” he said, waving his hand at the form on the table. “He looked healthy, normal.”

“You know as well as I that that could have easily been fabricated. A Transfiguration spell, or Polyjuice Potion—hell, even a Metamorphmagus, as rare as that is!”

“But I know Sirius—” James maintained with conviction. “I think I’d know if some tosser tried to impersonate him.”

Shacklebolt sighed. “We really can’t rule out anything.”

“No, we can’t,” he stated in agreement. “Including the possibility that this isn’t Sirius at all and that he could still be out there, somewhere, in danger.”

With everything up in the air, James couldn’t let himself settle into the idea that this was Sirius—he couldn’t. Not when his best mate had stood right in front of him not even a week ago at his home—healthy, strong, and alive. It would be too much to bear.

Shacklebolt looked at him with doubt. “Perhaps so, but we also need to prepare for the worst. Sirius was born to one of the most prominent wizarding families in Britain. It’s not illogical to think that someone would look to harm him.”

“But for what reason? Sirius was disowned years ago!”

“Disowned or not, Sirius was the last to bear the Black name. That gave him access to considerable wealth and power, regardless of what his family intended. It's power I don’t doubt You-Know-Who would be vying to take, now that he's returned.”

James glared sullenly towards the ground, jaw clenched.

“What about the trespasser?” he then asked. “It couldn’t have been a coincidence that both showed up at the DoM on the same night.”

“With where the trespasser was first seen in the DoM and the location of the body, he is our most compelling suspect. I was doubtful at first, knowing his young age. But hearing the feats of magic that he can perform only incriminates him further.”

“So we have a suspected murderer on the loose.”

“We currently have several Aurors out searching in Hogsmeade. There are few places he can turn to at this time of night without causing a disturbance.”

“Will that be enough?”

“It’ll have to be. We’re stretched thin as it is,” Shacklebolt commented. “I know what you’re thinking, Potter. You are not to be involved with this search. I brought you on specifically to observe and advise. I need you here for your mind and your knowledge.”

“Personal ties, right,” James recalled resentfully. 

“If the situation arises where we need more hands, you'll be the first to know."

James found his gaze drawn back to the body. It looked as cold and motionless as a statue, suspended forever in its place. Sirius had never been so still.

He looked away with barely contained emotion. He glanced down when his eyes caught movement from below, and he found his wearied face mirrored back at him from the table’s shiny surface. He inhaled sharply as he was struck with a sudden idea.

“Fine,” he stated as he turned abruptly away from the center of the room. “But I want to be kept up to date on everything—and I mean everything."

He walked briskly towards the door, speaking over his shoulder, “There’s something I need to check on at home that may be useful to the investigation. I’ll be back!”

“Wait a second, Potter. Before you go, there’s something else that I thought you should know.”

James paused with annoyance, hand resting on the doorknob. “About Sirius?”

“About last night,” Shacklebolt said. “When we arrived on the scene, we obtained a detailed statement from each of our two witnesses about what had occurred. They both gave a rather interesting description of our trespasser."

“Oh? Anything useful?” James asked with mild interest.

“Yes, actually. Oddly enough, both Rookwood and Williamson mistook our trespasser for the same person.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me?” James exclaimed in disbelief. “That’s absurd. I was nowhere near the Ministry last night. Just ask my wife!”

“Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. Your wife provided a rather solid alibi for you and your presence last night,” Shacklebolt explained, hands raised placatingly.

“And what do our dear witnesses think?” he asked in irritation.

“Lucky for you, both realized rather quickly that the trespasser was much too young to be you,” the older man responded with a hint of amusement in his tone.

“I don’t know if I should be relieved or insulted.”

“Maybe just surprised. Do you know of any other Potters currently living right now?” Shacklebolt asked seriously.

“I’m a Pureblood. You know that’s a complicated question no matter what our family records show.”

“Well, whatever records you do have, perhaps you should review them again closely. If this trespasser is a Potter, I’m willing to believe he’s more closely related to you than you think. As Williamson said, ‘it was uncanny.’”

“Right,” James replied with a frown. “I’ll look into it.”

Chapter Text

Harry was spat forward from the fireplace, landing on the floor with a small “oof!” A cloud of ash puffed up around him, forcing a series of coughs out from deep in his lungs as he stayed situated on his knees.

When it subsided, he pushed himself up from the floor, and nearly fell on his face from the sudden wave of nausea. Distantly, he recalled the numerous bangs to the head he had taken while escaping the Ministry. The turbulent ride through the Floo certainly didn’t help.

“You alright there, dear? That looked like a rough landing,” a concerned voice spoke from across the room.

He slowly eased himself up onto his feet as he glanced over.

Madam Rosmerta stood behind the bar, drying a glass in her hand with a worn rag.

The Three Broomsticks Inn was dimly lit with several low lights located over the bar, casting large shadows around the edges of the room. The pub was empty of its usual patrons, a contrast to the hustle and bustle that Harry was used to seeing. It must be late, he thought offhandedly as he noticed the darkness outside the windows.

“The Floo tends to disagree with me. I should be fine,” he uttered slowly. Paused. Then uttered, “Sorry, I didn't mean to barge in uninvited. Your fireplace was the closest I could think of.”

“Not at all,” she said, a concerned look in her eye. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

Harry stared unblinkingly at the bar for a long moment, before he registered her words. “Just tired is all.”

His head was pounding repeatedly in a sharp staccato, and there was a light ringing in his ears that seemed to be growing in volume.

He continued a little sluggishly, “I—er, I should be going. My friends are expecting me.”

“At this hour? Goodness! You're a little young to be wandering out there alone,” she stated, placing the glass down on the wooden surface in front of her. “Where are you trying to go?”

Her eyebrows pinched together when he didn’t immediately respond.

The edges of Madam Rosmerta’s fair features began to blur, colors blending together. He blinked slowly and deliberately to try to clear his vision, but it hardly made a difference. When he opened his eyes again, he flinched back when she suddenly appeared much closer to him than before. He knocked into the closest chair, and immediately lost his footing. He pitched over to his left and would have knocked his head onto the hard ground (again!) if not for Madam Rosmerta’s quick hands catching him under his arms.

“Careful there! You nearly—” she stopped abruptly as her eyes wandered over his face.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, feeling his face grow hot at the attention. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

She frowned at him as she continued studying his face, gaze moving slowly over each of his features.

She then shifted, lips pursed, “You must think me stupid if you believe I’d fall for that. I’ve owned this bar far longer than you’ve been alive. You think I wouldn’t recognize the injuries from a fight when I see one?”

If not for the nausea he was feeling, Harry would have had the energy to feel chastened by her words.

Madam Rosmerta dragged him into a chair—“Sit, and don't you dare think of leaving!”—and then disappeared into a doorway behind the bar. Moments later, she returned holding a glass bottle filled with a blood red liquid. She thrust it into his hand and stared down at him with her hands on her hips.

“Now listen here, child. I want to hear none of your excuses or lies. I can plainly see the red of your robes—so I know you're a student from Hogwarts,” she remarked pointedly. “Just what were you thinking, sneaking out of school at this hour to come to Hogsmeade?”

Harry stared down at the potion in his hand. “This is… ?”

“A healing potion, yes. Go on, drink up! Be grateful that I keep several of these stocked in the back. Heaven knows how many lazy sods come here just to pick a fight while utterly smashed.”

Harry swirled the potion around in the bottle, taking a sniff of it. Deciding it was probably safe—and really just wanting the pain in his head to go away—Harry gulped it down in one go.

The effects were immediate, and he felt instantly better. The intense throbbing in his head receded almost completely, and with it, the nausea. He hadn't realized how bad the pain had become until it was no longer there.

“Well?” she asked after a moment, looking down at him.

“I feel a lot better now. Thank you,” he voiced gratefully.

Madam Rosmerta continued only to look at him, one eyebrow raised in askance. Harry resisted the urge to sigh. “We had to leave Hogwarts—Voldemort took my godfather!”

As soon as he said those words, he regretted it. She had been rather fond of Sirius when he was a student at Hogwarts. But he recalled rather distinctly overhearing the conversation between Madam Rosmerta, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Minister Fudge in third year when they had revealed Sirius' supposed betrayal of his parents to Voldemort.

But now that he had said it—and perhaps the potion had provided him with clarity—he realized with a jolt that he had been looking for Sirius. That it had been the whole reason he and his friends had been at the Ministry in the first place. But where was he?

He seemed to be asking himself that question a lot lately.

She looked at him in alarm. “You-Know-Who? You speak dangerous words there, child. He's been dead for more than a decade.”

Of course. There was no way she was going to believe him, not when pretty much the whole British wizarding community had spent the entire past year slandering him and calling him a liar. The back of his right hand ached at the thought.

Harry looked away in muted anger and bitterness.

“And if your godfather is missing, what did you expect to do? Stage a rescue on your own?” she asked in bafflement.

He kept his gaze low, silent.

“If he truly is in danger, you can't expect to handle this on your own. You need help,” she continued. “That's not meant to be an insult to you. You're but one boy—most adults wouldn’t attempt to go off on their own.”

What she couldn’t have known was that Harry had told an adult about Sirius. He’d informed Snape of the truth, hadn’t he? Perhaps not in the best of circumstances, trapped as he had been in Umbridge’s office, under threat of forced interrogation. But he had reached out to the man in desperation, in a bid to save his godfather from Voldemort’s clutches.

A fat lot of good that had done him.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” he interjected. “I'm not headed anywhere anymore except for Hogwarts. So may I please go? I promise I'll head to the Hospital Wing and get checked out.”

Madam Rosmerta appeared reluctant at first, but finally agreed when she uttered, “Oh, alright. But you'll head there the moment you get back to school, you hear me? And you'll find someone to talk to about your godfather.”

Harry bobbed his head in agreement, knowing he was not going to follow through on that promise. He had much more pressing matters to attend to.

“You should be fine to go now. Did you want to grab a quick bite before you headed out? You're practically skin and bones,” she commented, eyeing him again.

He was reminded of Mrs. Weasley and the determined look she'd get in her eye whenever she saw him in his loose robes at the end of summer.

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I should be alright. I really do need to go now.”

He pushed himself up to his feet. To his relief, he didn't feel his head ache from the movement.

“Thank you again for the potion. I'll be sure to come by with Ron and Hermione during our next Hogsmeade trip,” he said as she walked him to the door.

“Of course, dear. Now please, do try to stay out of trouble in the future. No more sneaking out,” she stated strictly to him with a pointed look.

She then continued in a lighter tone, “It's a shame you can't stay for a drink. Our butterbeer is an absolute wonder the first time you try it. Next time you stop by, I'll serve you one on the house.”

Something about her choice of words struck him as odd. It nagged at him in the back of his mind, even as he expressed his thanks to her again.

“Not at all! Students of Hogwarts will always be welcome here.” She opened the door and allowed him to step out past the threshold. “Oh! I guess I never did properly introduce myself. You may call me Madam Rosmerta, and you are… ?”

He stared incredulously at her, eyes wide with astonishment.

She didn't recognize him, he thought with shocked realization.

They had only interacted sparingly in the past, but he’d been by The Three Broomsticks enough over the years that he thought he’d be familiar to her. She should’ve recognized Harry Potter, at the least.

That familiar sense of unease washed over him with full force once more, leaving him feeling rattled and wrong-footed.

He needed to get to Hogwarts, quickly.

He muttered a short, “Harry,” before he turned and rushed his way urgently up the dark and barren street.

If she questioned him on his lack of a last name, he didn't hear it. But distantly, he heard a “Be safe!” echo across the empty space as he continued hastily on his way.

Lily stared intently down at the woman seated in front of her, moving to walk in a circle as she waved her wand to cast a diagnostic spell.

Positive.

A crease formed between her eyebrows as she regarded the results, before she returned to her seat across from her patient.

“Well, Mrs. Longbottom, I am sorry to say, but you’ve got pneumonia,” she informed her gently, looking at the woman’s seated figure.

Mrs. Augusta Longbottom was a tall and formidable witch, known by those who knew her for her kind but strict and no nonsense attitude. She had lived most of her life strong and healthy, marrying young and living on to birth a healthy son, all while maintaining a modest but successful shop until the hospitalization of her boy had forced her into early retirement. It therefore came as a shock when—towards the latter half of her 74th year—she was admitted to St. Mungo’s for a severe case of Spattergroit. Though she recovered fully after weeks of aggressive treatment, Mrs. Longbottom had since been in and out of hospital recurrently, exhibiting a rotating series of symptoms.

“Oh? Another one of those Muggle diseases, I presume?” Mrs. Longbottom asked with a thin eyebrow raised.

Despite her light tone, the older witch had just recovered from a small case of the measles, so it was with misfortune that she seemed to have contracted another illness so soon again.

“Yes,” Lily confirmed. “Pneumonia is an infection—it causes inflammation in the air sacs of your lungs, which leads to fluid build-up.”

“Ah, so that’s the cause of my inconveniently bad cough. Dear Maisie accused me of feigning sickness to avoid her weekly visits,” Mrs. Longbottom expressed with a sniff and petulant tone.

Lily looked at her patient fondly. “I’m afraid it’ll be for the best if you and your neighbor keep your distance for now. Pneumonia can be contagious. Her magic’s perfectly healthy as I am to believe, but we don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.”

She stood and reached into one of the overhead cupboards for a bottle full of pills. She held the bottle out for Mrs. Longbottom. “I can give you an antibiotic for it—it’s similar to the medicine I gave you before, but it's the best Muggle treatment that we have. You’ll want to take one pill, twice a day, with food or water.”

Mrs. Longbottom eyed the bottle as she said, “I suppose it’s nothing worse than the potions you have me on already.”

Lily smiled down at her. “No, I suppose not. Report back to me if you feel unwell or your symptoms start to worsen. If not, I’d like you to check in with me in about a week. I believe we’re due to restock your other potions.”

She helped Mrs. Longbottom to her feet and walked the older witch out the door and down the hallway to the lift. “How has Neville been doing?”

Mrs. Longbottom pinched her lips together in disapproval. “Studying hard for his O.W.L.’s, I would hope so! His father achieved O’s in nearly all his subjects during his fifth year. A tall order to live up to, but the boy would go far if he’d only apply himself.”

Lily sent her a kind smile. “Neville lacks confidence in himself, but he is such a bright boy. His aptitude in Herbology is unmatched amongst his peers. I’m sure he’ll do very well in the coming weeks. Frank and Alice would be so proud of the man he’s becoming.”

The older woman looked up at her with something like gratefulness in her eyes, though she only waved her hand in a small show of acknowledgement. 

“Please give Neville my regards the next time you see him,” Lily stated. “I’d love for him to help out here again over the summer. If he’s feeling up for it.”

“Perhaps. My summer is looking to be a busy one,” Mrs. Longbottom remarked, giving Lily a meaningful look.

“All that aside, Mrs. Longbottom, please try and get some rest. Your house will not suffer from a few days without care.”

“We shall see about that,” the witch uttered with a sniff as the lift doors closed.

Lily waited until the doors fully closed before walking straight to the main desk, leaning heavily against it while sighing. She looked silently over at Marlene McKinnon, the only occupant seated behind the desk. The brown-haired witch scribbled quietly onto the parchment in front of her.

“How is she?” Marlene asked as she continued to write, left hand reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

“She’s getting worse,” Lily commented in dismay. “Her magic’s gotten weaker, and she’s contracted pneumonia.”

“It’s not unheard of for a witch to get a Muggle disease,” her friend commented carefully as she dipped her quill.

“Maybe not today, but just twenty years ago it was practically unheard of unless you were at death’s door. And for someone as healthy as Mrs. Longbottom was? That’s the second Muggle disease she’s had this year,” Lily stated with a deep frown.

Most witches and wizards were born with a natural resilience against mundane illnesses, imbued with a type of magic that protected them against the diseases that often afflicted Muggles. But, while still relatively uncommon, it did happen, and usually with disastrous results. By the time most wizards contracted a Muggle disease, it was usually because they were dying or at great risk of dying, their bodies failing to fight off even the most mundane of illnesses.

“You’re sure of this?” Marlene asked, looking sharply up at Lily.

“I did a full diagnostic—I checked her lungs, her blood, even her oxygen. I’m certain of it,” she responded with a troubled tone. “The pills I gave her will help with the symptoms—it may even clear the pneumonia—but she won’t get better if her magic continues to decline.”

“So, a continuous decline in magic power, an increase in sickness, multiple Muggle diseases… You think it’s the Muggle-Born disease?”

Lily pursed her lips in disapproval. “Please don’t call it that. It’s a horrific name.”

Marlene looked apologetic, turning her body to face her. “Sorry—just about everyone calls it that around here. I’m really trying, I swear! You think—you think she may have it?”

Lily continued to frown. Muggle-Born disease was a disgusting name, coined by one of the early Pureblood Healers who had first identified it. As the story went, his most infamous patient, an elderly Cantankerous Nott, was woken from a two year magically-induced coma after suffering immensely for months from the disease. Famously, not ten minutes after realizing his magic had depleted to levels indistinguishable to a Muggle’s, he had exclaimed with great misery and despair, “I have awakened in hellfire—a vile degenerate! Born again a despicable Muggle!”

Cantankerous Nott declined rather quickly after that, and died two short weeks later.

The newly coined Magic Mutilating disease was then quickly overtaken by the name Muggle-Born disease, eliciting widespread fear amongst wizards that they would one day wake up without magic—a Muggle reborn.

For someone like Lily, it was a grave insult—to imply that being a Muggle or Muggleborn was equivalent to a disease.

Lily sighed once more, returning to the topic at hand. “There’s no doubt about it. I’ve been monitoring her magic levels for months now, and they’ve continued to steadily decline. I’ve already ruled out all other illnesses with a similar presentation.”

In truth, she had been assigned Mrs. Longbottom all those months ago specifically because her previous Healer had suspected that she had the disease.

“Have you given her your trial potions? Have they not helped at all?”

“Yes, and no,” Lily replied with frustration. “We’ve found a way to slow the decline, but it’s been eight years since that breakthrough, and we’ve found nothing since.”

“Hey,” Marlene called to her softly, “Don’t beat yourself up over this, okay? It’s a complicated illness, and a poorly understood one at that. No one expects finding a cure will be easy. Dragon Pox existed for centuries before one was found.”

It was hardly the comfort that Marlene intended it to be, but Lily appreciated the sentiment all the same.

The Magic Mutilating disease was only about twenty years old, a relatively new disease compared to other magical illnesses. It first drew attention when cases began to crop up of witches and wizards who experienced a strange phenomena: an unexplained decline in magical power. It was a slow, insidious sort of decline, leaving many unaware of a change occurring until it was at its later stages. By that point, those affected began to fall sick.

“I just can’t stop thinking about Neville—the poor boy. She refuses to tell him the extent of her illness,” Lily revealed quietly, looking down at her hands.

Marlene gasped softly. “She can’t possibly think she’ll be able to hide it from him forever. What about during the summers?”

“She’s been lucky. Last summer wasn’t so horrible for her. And when it was, well—you saw him here plenty over those weeks. It’s a lucky coincidence that he has an interest in healing. But you’re right—she won’t be able to hide this forever, not while she continues to decline.”

“Hasn’t that boy suffered enough?” Marlene exclaimed in a sudden burst of anger, but then she deflated. “Has she made any plans for—?”

Lily shook her head silently. The room fell quiet between them.

“By the way, Head Healer Rowe wishes to speak with you,” her friend stated in a much needed attempt at changing the subject, glancing in the direction of the hallway that led to the offices.

“What about?” Lily asked, standing straight, following her friend’s gaze.

“A new assignment,” Marlene said. “For the Ministry, I believe.”

Chapter Text

James apparated in a quick rush, landing smoothly in the middle of his dark living room. Dawn was approaching fast through the curtained windows, casting the room in a dark blueish tint.

He paid the dimly lit space little mind as he sprinted up the single flight of stairs to the second floor of the house.

James ran into his bedroom and made a beeline for the side table to the right of the bed. He fervently searched the top drawer, and after a moment, he stood up triumphantly, his two-way mirror in hand.

“Sirius!” he called, holding up the small mirror to his face. “Sirius, pick up! Are you there?”

He paced restlessly around the room, waiting for a response.

“Sirius!” he shouted, frustration coloring his voice. “Answer me!”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

He didn’t take his mirror with him, or he’s too busy to respond, he told himself desperately.

Or, he’s dead.

James yelled loudly in frustration, furiously throwing the mirror against the wall. The glass shattered upon impact, exploding into hundreds of tiny pieces. He dropped down heavily onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands, as a mix of frustration, dread, and helplessness washed over him.

It didn’t mean anything. A missed call could be explained away by numerous reasons.

When they were still boys at Hogwarts, they had carried their mirrors with them everywhere, thinking it clever that they had ways to stay in constant communication despite their professors’ attempts at separating them. Nearly twenty years later, Sirius continued to carry it with him in nearly all of his missions—as did James—but communication was often sparse due to their missions’ unpredictable and often dangerous nature.

He sat there for several long moments, trying to calm his breathing.

Eventually, he forced himself to stand as he drew his wand.

“Reparo,” he uttered at the pile of broken glass. Within moments, it was whole once more, but he didn’t try to use it again. He stuffed it in his robe pocket as he glanced around the room, aimless.

His eyes flitted towards the small bookshelf in the corner, filled mostly with medical tomes that Lily insisted on keeping nearby for late night reading. However, laid atop were several framed photos of him and Lily, of her parents and his own, of—

He allowed his gaze to trace over familiar features that remained burned in his mind’s eye. Dark wild hair, soft baby skin, big bright eyes, and a large smile that spoke only of joy and happiness.

An old but ever present heaviness in his heart made itself known as he was thrown back to days that had long gone by. He and Lily had lived in constant, ever-encompassing fear and paranoia in those days, and yet they were also host to some of the most precious and cherished memories that they had.

He looked away before he could be pulled further into the well of memories that could keep him prisoner for days.

James found his eyes drawn to a photo of him with his parents, taken about a year before their passing. His mum and dad both wore big grins on their faces, having learned moments before that he and Lily had plans to marry. His dad had thrown an arm around him, and together the pair of them were a sight to behold.

‘“It was uncanny,”’ Shacklebolt had quoted from Williamson’s report of the trespasser.

James entertained the idea of looking back at the old Potter family tree for clues. But he knew it would be for naught.

As with all the old Pureblood families, the Potter genealogical lines stretched out far and wide, going back centuries in great detail. And yet, like all Pureblood families, the records they maintained were undoubtedly modified and polished over the generations to tell a particular story—to maintain the purity of the line. James had no delusions as to the attitude of blood purity amongst the Potters of old—of nearly all wizards before Muggleborns and Half-Bloods began to outnumber them.

It was only within the last four to five generations that Half-Bloods began to appear in the Potter line, and Muggleborns within the last two. Whether that reflected the truth with any accuracy was hard to say.

James had personally known all the Potters from the last two generations because there had been so few of them. While still a possibility, it was unlikely that the trespasser was connected to James through one of his close relatives.

If this trespasser was a Potter, even distantly, he could easily have been born from a line six generations removed from the tree. At that point, he was about as close in relation to him as any other Pureblood was.

A distant stranger, for all that he supposedly looked like him.

“Potter!” he heard a voice from a distance.

Shacklebolt.

James hurried back down to his living room and turned to the fiery green head in his fireplace.

“You have an update?” he asked.

“The Medi-witch has completed the examination. She’ll have the results soon. I think you’ll be interested in what she has to say,” Shacklebolt stated, looking intently up at him. “Have you learned anything from your search?”

“No,” James responded. “Nothing.”

---

Shacklebolt opened the door to the repurposed office just as James stepped up to it, giving him a nod in acknowledgement before directing him inside.

As soon as he passed the threshold, James was nearly knocked off his feet from the force of the fast-moving body that collided with him.

“James!” A head full of red hair filled his vision, and he instinctively brought his arms up and tightened his hold.

“Lily?” he asked with surprised confusion, gently pushing her back so he could look at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Head Healer Rowe asked me to perform the autopsy,” she replied, as she rested her hands comfortingly on his wrists.

Then, her face shifted into one of anguish, and she voiced with barely controlled emotion in her voice, “Oh James, why didn’t you tell me? They fire-called me at work earlier about your whereabouts late last night for an investigation, but I never would have dreamed it was because—” She cut off, words lost.

“I didn’t know until they called me here,” James stated, voice thick. “But you’ve examined the body. You can confirm that this is just a–a fraud—an imposter—”

He stopped when he saw the devastated look on her face.

“James…” she uttered despairingly. “I’m not sure I have the answer you’re looking for.”

Lily hesitated, flashing a look at Shacklebolt before continuing, “I used a number of different tests to match and verify his identity. I checked them two, then three times over to be sure.”

Her hands unwittingly squeezed with tight pressure around his wrists. “Based on my results, I can say with certainty that this is—was Sirius. The blood matches perfectly.”

Her words were like a heavy punch in the gut. 

“No,” he said immediately, taking a step back. “It can’t be.”

Lily maintained a steadfast grip on his arms and reeled him into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m so, so sorry.” She pressed her face into his shoulder, voice heavy and shaky with melancholy.

He stood frozen in shock. The world seemed to fall away as his vision tunneled until all he could see was the dead body laid bare before him and her words echoing in his head: Is—was Sirius. Is—was—

The pale corpse remained stagnant on the cold table, unaffected, uncaring, as if to mock James of what he once had, what he had lost.

“NO!” James yelled, pulling away from Lily’s arms. “How could this have happened?! He was just gathering information. He wasn’t meant to be in any danger! ”

Lily looked at him with a worn and troubled face, looking as if she had aged years within the span of minutes.

“You’re right,” she agreed with a somber tone. “Nothing about this adds up. Everything I’m seeing suggests something impossible—and yet—”

“What did you find?” he asked insistently, desperation coloring his voice.

A heavy hand landed solidly on his shoulder, but he hardly reacted at all, so intently was he looking into his wife’s eyes.

“Potter—Potter! Let’s slow down for just a second,” Shacklebolt exclaimed with command in his voice and determination on his face. “This is a lot to take in. Perhaps you should take some time—”

He frantically shook his head. “No! I can’t leave now! I need to know what happened. Sirius—he—he wouldn’t want me to just wait around.” He swallowed with difficulty, throat dry. “He deserves this much at least. I owe it to him to hear this out.”

“He’s right. He should be here for this,” Lily conceded with a small sigh. “He’ll think of nothing else if you send him home now.”

After a tense moment, Shacklebolt released a heavy breath.

“Alright then,” he stated reluctantly in acquiescence, giving James’ shoulder a squeeze in support. He then turned to Lily: “Healer Potter, what did you find from your examination?”

“It’s as you suspected. Chronic malnutrition and neglect—and not just weeks or months of it. The extent of the muscle atrophy, the brittleness of the bones, the quality and thinness of the skin—it’s a kind I’ve seen only in long-term kidnap victims or prisoners of war—this is likely a result of years of suffering.”

James felt sick at the words, as Lily stood in front of the body, pointing at different areas as she spoke.

“And do you believe this to be the cause of death?” Shacklebolt inquired.

“I don’t, actually. Strangely, I found signs that he was in the early stages of recovery—he has a layer of fat around his body—and superficially, trimmed nails, clean hair and teeth, scrubbed skin—” she listed, wordlessly casting a spell to raise one of the hands and present both sides of it. “He was living decently—at least for a while, prior to his death.”

“There are no obvious markings around the body that I can see. Do you suspect the Killing Curse?”

“I considered it. The Killing Curse would be the most obvious conclusion when looking at an unmarked body. But there are also a number of poisons—both fast and slow acting—that could do the job just as well. However, I very quickly ruled those out.”

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”

“Yes,” Lily replied with a pensive look, “All poisons wreak some type of internal damage, if not external. But the body is perfectly intact—inside and out—so it couldn’t have been from anything ingested, inhaled, or absorbed from the skin. That led me back to the Killing Curse as the most likely cause. But, from my analysis, the last spells that were cast on him were the Stunning Spell and the Reviving Spell. In fact, the Killing Curse never even touched him.”

James looked at her, stunned. “What? No evidence of injury or trauma of any kind and it’s not the Killing Curse?”

“I didn’t believe it at first either. This body exhibits all the classic signs of having been a victim of it, and yet, it’s not.”

“Could the killer have found a way to cover traces of it from the body post-mortem?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Maybe temporarily, but never to this degree. Magic always leaves a trace. Especially spells as dark and potent as an Unforgivable Curse,” Lily said seriously. “Regardless, I’ve effectively ruled out the Killing Curse as the manner of death.”

The older man looked at her questioningly, “Explain.”

A look of uncertainty flashed across her face, but her voice remained steady. “When someone dies from the Killing Curse, the body is left physically untouched—there are no injuries, no markings, no disturbances to the body internally or externally. It’s as if they’ve fallen asleep and their soul just simply ups and leaves. This wasn’t the case here.”

James saw Shacklebolt’s eyebrows draw together in contemplation, a look likely reflected on his own face.

She continued, “Rather, there’s evidence that the soul was violently torn from the body.”

Souls were a tricky business, not one that many wizards understood well. The bits that James did know about were in connection with soul magic, which was often complex and incredibly powerful—dark more often than not, but still capable of truly awe-inspiring things.

“And this is something you can confirm?” Shacklebolt asked with incredulity.

“Souls are not made of magic, despite what many believe—otherwise Muggles wouldn’t exist. But, the two are intrinsically tied to one another in magical beings. In studying the bodies of wizards who’ve had their souls consumed by Dementors, Healers figured out years ago that magic acts as a safeguard for the soul—a last resort, really, to protect it from being destroyed or forcibly removed from the body. These protective properties do little to protect against dark and foul creatures like Dementors, but as a result, victims of a Kiss will always exhibit scars—magical scars—left behind by their reactive magic.”

James was stiff and pale with horror. “You think he was subjected to a Dementor’s Kiss?”

“I would, except he’s dead,” Lily responded, pushing strands of hair back from her face. “As barbaric and horrid as it is, a Dementor’s Kiss doesn’t kill—not directly at least. It always leaves behind a functioning, soulless body. The only recorded case of a person dying from a Kiss was back in 1892—but from the records, the victim had been terminally ill for months. It’s hard to say how much the Kiss really contributed to his death.”

“The man was in poor physical condition. Could he not have died from the stress of such an encounter?” asked Shacklebolt.

“It's unlikely. People rarely die from stress alone. And usually not instantaneously. Regardless, the man was in clear physical recovery at the time of death. If he had received the Kiss, it would not have been what killed him.”

“So we have a man with a stolen soul but no apparent cause of death.”

“I’ve been scratching my head over this for ages, but there’s just no method I know that results in a death like this. I’m starting to suspect that the manner of death could be… experimental in nature.”

Shacklebolt’s gaze sharpened.

“A new method of killing? Like a new spell or ritual?”

“Yes. But what I can’t fathom is why? What purpose would it serve? Who—” 

James nearly lunged forward as he spat, “Voldemort, who else? It’s as you said, Shacklebolt. Get rid of Sirius and who else is left but the Malfoys or the Lestranges to inherit the Black family legacy? Rookwood was the first wizard on scene. That bloody bastard is Voldemort’s Ministry attack dog! Who’s to say he wasn’t the one who left the body there in the first place? Both he and that damned trespasser could be working together!”

“But the Killing Curse is Voldemort’s signature spell. Why bother straying from that?” Lily asked.

“Because he’s a sadistic murdering psycho? Does he need a reason for finding new and ghastly ways to torture or kill people?”

Shacklebolt turned to look at him with a frown. “I’m the last person you need to convince of You-Know-Who’s likely involvement, but it’ll be a tough sell without evidence. Rookwood was the assigned guard overnight for the DoM. He had every reason to be there, and every right to try to defend the DoM against someone breaking and entering.”

“Anyone with half a brain would know he’s Voldemort’s loyal minion.”

“I don’t think anyone believes Rookwood is the law-abiding Ministry worker he pretends to be. But far more people fear the thought of You-Know-Who returning, so feigning ignorance is easier. The more pressing question, I think, is—what was Sirius doing in the DoM in the first place?”

It was a question asked with little expectation for an answer.

“Before we wrap up,” Lily cut in. “I feel I should mention that the body was not entirely unmarked, as you believed. There were some light burn marks and lingering bursts of static running along the hair and extremities. They were minor, mind. But I’m not sure what to make of it.”

She hovered her hand above the corpse’s hair. Bright, thin streaks of electricity jumped from hair to hand, shocking her.

“Careful!” James exclaimed, stepping forward.

“It’s alright. It’s harmless,” Lily remarked, retracting her hand. “I would say he was hit with some sort of lightning spell, but there’s nothing in his magical exam to support that.”

Shacklebolt looked long and hard at the body with narrowed eyes. “I think it may have been a side-effect of the Reviving Spell that was cast on him.”

“How do you figure?” asked Lily.

“I’ve seen something similar before in inanimate objects hit with a Reviving Spell. It’s meant only for living beings, so rather than absorbing the spell, the object becomes a conductor.”

“You’re suggesting that someone tried to revive him post-mortem?” James asked.

“It seems so. From what I’ve observed, Stunning Spells usually disintegrate objects,” the other man remarked, hand resting below his chin in thought.

“Well, whoever attempted to awaken him wanted it desperately. That’s a powerful bit of magic left behind,” Lily stated.

“But,” James said with a furrowed brow, “Why would someone attempt a Reviving Spell on a dead body?”

“Maybe shock? Or denial? Whichever it is, it seems clear there was at least one person with him who didn’t want him dead.”

A high pitched, triumphant shriek.

Two dark eyes widened in shock.

A face frozen mid-laugh, as it disappeared behind a ragged cloth.

A rush of wind pressing in from all sides, then, white-hot, searing pain—

Harry jerked awake.

He was laid flat on a cold, bumpy rock floor, pressed up against a dusty wall in a shaded, abandoned alleyway.

Harry pushed himself up to lean against the wall as he rubbed at his eyes, sleep pulling at him from the edges of his vision.

Light shined onto the floor several meters from where he sat, and he realized with a jolt that it was early morning.

What… ?

When had he fallen asleep?

Harry thought back to what must have been a few hours prior, when he left The Three Broomsticks in a half-crazed frenzy. He had run straight to Honeydukes, the secret passageway to Hogwarts clear in his mind, only to be met with a locked door and a “CLOSED” sign posted on the window. Cursing, he had considered breaking into the shop, but dismissed it when he thought back to the mess he and his friends had made in the Ministry. Mr. and Mrs. Flume didn’t deserve that.

Instead, he had veered off to his more dangerous option—the Shrieking Shack. However, upon closer inspection, Harry had come to the realization that the shack had no working doors or windows. Admittedly, he had only ever entered the Shrieking Shack from the Whomping Willow. But the extreme reinforcements to the building made sense, considering the purpose it was built for.

Still, Harry had attempted to blast a hole into one of the boarded up windows to make himself an entrance, but—almost predictably—his magic continued with its odd temperament, and a large fire broke out instead. In a panic, Harry had tried to cast a strong Water-Making Spell to quickly quell the flames, but had instead flooded the area, leaving the shack submerged in a deep layer of water.  

With little hope of getting to the school through the secret passageways—he didn’t dare try to break into Honeydukes for fear of destroying it—Harry had briefly entertained the idea of sneaking back into Hogwarts using the main path. He’d nearly snorted. Word was probably out about what had occurred with Umbridge. He’d probably get arrested or expelled the moment he stepped onto the school grounds. Although, with how carelessly he had been casting magic outside of Hogwarts—coupled with his break-in to the Ministry—his expulsion was more than likely guaranteed.

Harry had taken refuge in a tiny alleyway near Honeydukes that was far away from the mess that was the Shrieking Shack, finally finding a moment to breathe. With the adrenaline of the day gone, he had felt the full weight of exhaustion pulling him down until he was nearly laid flat on the ground. 

Hours must have gone by, Harry guessed as he looked up at the position of the sun.

He pushed himself up onto his feet and peeked out from the alleyway to check for any bystanders.

Hogsmeade was relatively quiet at this hour, though Harry could see that several stores were open.

He made his way over to Honeydukes, which now had a clear “OPEN” sign displayed on the front window. He walked in as casually as he was able, spotting old Mr. Flume seated behind the counter with a newspaper opened in front of him.

The bald man glanced over at him and nodded in greeting before returning to his paper.

Harry responded in kind as he crept along the shelves, thinking quickly on how to cause a distraction.

It seemed he stalled for too long in the same place as Mr. Flume looked up again and inquired, “Looking for anything in particular?”

He looked as if he was preparing to stand and walk over to him.

Not wanting to attract too much of the man’s attention, Harry swiftly grabbed a few Sugar Quills and a Chocolate Frog, before hastily approaching the counter.

“Just these, please,” he said as he placed his items down.

Mr. Flume eyed the sweets for a second before folding his newspaper and laying it on the counter beside him, ringing him up for his purchase.

Harry did a double take when he caught a glimpse of the headline.

A NEW ERA: BARTEMIUS CROUCH, JR. SECURES WIN TO BECOME MINISTER FOR MAGIC

What.

“That’ll be four Sickles and ten Knuts,” stated Mr. Flume, looking over at him.

“Is that today’s paper?” Harry asked with worry, staring down at the article’s printed image of Barty Crouch Jr., standing at a podium in front of a large crowd. In his head, Harry saw a flash of a gaunt face and manic eyes that overlaid the image. He looked much healthier than he had a year ago.

“Just came in this morning,” Mr. Flume responded, following Harry’s gaze. “Exciting news, eh? Our newest Minister for Magic, youngest in history.”

“Wasn’t his dad aiming for Minister?”

“Old Barty Crouch Senior? Maybe once, but Junior wouldn’t have made Minister without his father’s support. He must be proud—his boy has done very well for himself. Completely turned his life around—and now he’s made Minister!”

It was a chilling thought—the loyal Death Eater, Barty Crouch Jr., Minister? With the supposed help of his dad? Hadn’t Crouch Sr. personally overseen his son’s trial and had him thrown into prison?

Either way, it couldn’t be true—as far as he knew, Barty Crouch Jr. was dead—or as good as dead, after receiving a Dementor’s Kiss.

His dad as well—Crouch had murdered his dad in cold blood, and had admitted it under Veritaserum after the Triwizard Tournament.

So what rubbish was this? He felt sick as his mind whirled with all of the strange occurrences and realizations he’d experienced since waking up in the Ministry.

He was pulled from his thoughts when a family of five—a couple and their three young children—walked through the door.

Harry paid the total and then quickly stuffed the sweets into his pocket, stepping aside for the young mother and father as they approached the counter, their children scattering throughout the shop.

This was as good a chance as any.

He crept towards the back of the shop and—seeing Mr. Flume engaged in conversation—slipped down the steps into the cellar.

He pulled the concealed trap door open and slipped inside.

Chapter Text

Harry glanced around the hallway of the third floor as he emerged from the hidden passageway entrance. It was still very early—classes must be starting soon.

He made his way up the castle to Gryffindor Tower. With any luck, he’d find someone who could explain to him what the hell had happened at the Ministry (and what the hell was happening, full stop).

Harry stepped up to the Fat Lady and uttered, “Wormwood.”

The Fat Lady looked down at him and her face warped into one of annoyance.

“I’m afraid not, boy. Gryffindor students only.”

His mouth fell open in surprise.

“What do you mean? I’m a Gryffindor!” he said with trepidation, tugging at his red accented robes to show her.

“I may be a mere portrait, but my memory is sharp. I’ve met every Gryffindor student here, and you, boy, are not of this house,” she replied.

“You're serious,” he remarked flatly.

She raised a thin eyebrow. “Unreservedly so.”

“But you know me! You've seen me nearly every day this term and for the last several. How can you not recognize me?” Harry exclaimed with irritation.

“Lying will do you no favors. I've not mistaken a child of this house in all the years I've guarded this entrance. Now shoo, return to your dormitory and perhaps I won’t inform the Headmaster of your attempt at breaking and entering,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, turning her attention away from him.

Harry could only gape up at her for several seconds before quickly realizing that any attempt at catching her attention would be brushed aside.

Fuming, he stomped his way down the hallway. 

Just what was going on?

It was becoming evident that the oddities he was encountering were not unique or isolated in nature. They were connected in some way, and he couldn't continue to write them off as nothing.

But what could he do?

He needed more information first.

He'd continue as he intended—he'd find his friends, and they'd catch him up on everything he had missed, then perhaps he could finally do away with the haze of confusion that was suspended stubbornly over him.

But first, finding a way into the common room.

The answer was obvious: he’d just have to sneak his way in.

If he only had his Invisibility Cloak with him!

It had been left behind when he and Hermione had been caught in Umbridge's office, he recalled. He'd need to collect it before she stumbled upon it, though it was hard to say when she'd be back (or in what condition) after being swept away by the centaurs.

Still, Harry needed to find another way to conceal himself. He could cast a decent Disillusionment Charm, but it usually concealed him only when he stood still, otherwise he'd get spotted the moment he moved. The spell worked best when he had the cover of night to fully obscure him—or when faced with wizards half way to unconsciousness as Rookwood had been.

Harry turned back to look at the Fat Lady's portrait. Well, it was as good an idea as any at this point. He quickly pulled out his wand.

He waited several minutes near the portrait, under the cover of his spell, until, finally, it opened as a young girl rushed out in a hurry.

He didn't recognize her, but he hardly knew any of the younger students anyway.

Harry froze as the girl turned her eyes upon him—could she see him?—but her eyes slid away just as quickly as she scurried by. Right as she slipped past him, he dove hastily through the open entrance.

He felt a wave of ease wash over him as he entered, finding comfort in the familiarity of the Gryffindor common room. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until he felt his body visibly loosen.

The room was empty of students—as he suspected—most of them likely in class or at breakfast.

Damn.

Harry figured he should check the dormitory anyway—Ron had developed an unfortunate habit of oversleeping since the start of O.W.L.s, a result of his late night study sessions.

As his thoughts turned to his best mate, a familiar head of ginger hair entered his view, followed by another with a round face and light blond hair. Both stumbled down the stairs in a rush, speaking frantically towards one another.

“—gonna kill us!” Ron finished, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.

“I hope he doesn’t take too many points.” Neville responded worriedly, hand picking at the lopsided tie around his neck.

“Thank Merlin you're both alright!” Harry exclaimed with relief as he stepped toward them, feeling a tightness in his chest loosen.

Both boys jumped at his voice, recoiling back as they searched the room.

“Who’s there?” Ron asked, hastily pulling his wand out.

Oh. The Disillusionment Charm.

“Sorry, it’s just me,” Harry stated, dispelling his charm.

Two pairs of eyes snapped immediately to him as his form came into view.

“I must have blacked out at the Ministry during the fight,” he stated quickly. “Because I woke up on the floor on my own. I remember the Death Eaters chasing us through the department, but not much after. Where…” he trailed off as his two friends stared uncomprehendingly at him.

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

“Who the hell are you?” Ron finally asked, face scrunching in consternation. “And how did you get in here?” His wand remained pointed straight at Harry.

“Hey, careful where you point that!” he remarked admonishingly, looking down at it. “And did you have a rough night? It’s me!”

“Mate, I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you in my life,” Ron responded with bewilderment. 

“What? This isn’t the time, Ron!” he said with a frown, unamused. Why would he make jokes at a time like this?

“Time for what? How do you know my name? And who gave you the password to the common room?” Ron asked in equal displeasure.

“How do I know your—?” he started, gobsmacked. “Oh, I don't know—We’ve only known each other for years! Been friends for years!”

He didn't understand what game Ron was trying to play at, but he had astronomically poor timing. What purpose would feigning ignorance serve? Or had he been hit with a Confundus Charm?

Harry turned to the only other person in the room. “Neville, please tell me what is going on.” He gazed searchingly at the blond for an explanation, but Neville continued to look at him with the same wary expression.

Harry felt his body stiffen as they both stood before him, silent. Why were they acting like this?

Neville then cleared his throat, stating in a gentler tone, “Maybe you should go speak with a professor. They’ll be able to help you much better than us.”

A well of exasperation and disbelief rose quickly within him.

“What would be the point? We already tried talking to the professors before, you know this!” he responded accusingly. Frustration and anger came rushing back as he thought once more to the desperate plea he had made to Snape, and the man’s blatant disregard of it. He followed with an impulsive outburst, “Snape knew I was talking about Sirius and he did bugger-all to help. He left us to hang! It was useless!”

Ron frowned. “Sirius… you mean Sirius Black?”

Harry made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. “Yes! Sirius Black, my godfather. Who we went to save at the Ministry!”

The two boys shared a look.

“Listen, I think you’ve got us confused for the wrong people,” Ron responded carefully, eyes fixed on Harry’s tense form.

“I haven’t!” he stated loudly in distraught. “Just—what is the point of this? Why are you bothering with this act?”

“Only one of us is acting off, mate, and it's not us,” Ron commented pointedly.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath, calming himself, and returned his focus back on the Ministry.

“Look, I know yesterday didn’t go the way we’d planned. Everything went wrong, and I—I thought for sure the Death Eaters were gonna kill us. That curse that got Hermione in the chest—I don't know what it did, but she was in horrible pain—it–it looked bad.” He swallowed. “And Luna and Ginny—they were both unconscious when—”

“Shut up! Don't you talk about her!” Ron shouted explosively, face quickly flushing red with rage.

Harry felt his mouth snap close at the outburst, stunned.

“What the bloody hell are you on about—spewing that load of bollocks! Don’t you mention her name again, you filthy liar!” Ron uttered furiously with increasing volume, stepping forward threateningly.

“Ron…” Harry uttered with great uncertainty, at a loss for words. “I don’t…”

Ron glared down at him with rage, hand trembling around his wand.

Before either could say more, Neville stepped up, pushing Ron’s wand hand down, a determined look on his face. “Alright, you've said your piece, so I think it best if you leave now.” He moved in front of Ron protectively—as if to defend him from Harry. “It’s not right to make up lies about someone who’s passed.”

Harry felt a piercing shock through his system at those words.

Someone who’s passed.

A quick flash of a body materialized before his eyes, bushy-brown hair laid askew, skin flushed, and a face contorted with immeasurable pain.

Hermione, he thought with terror.

It felt as if the floor dropped out from below him, while his heart lurched painfully in his chest.

No, she couldn’t have. Hermione may have been in the direst condition of the six of them, but she couldn’t have just died. She was one of the strongest people he knew. He would’ve known if she’d died—felt it in his bones.

“But–but when—how?” Harry cried in horror, despite already knowing the answer.

It could only have happened when he was blacked out. Hermione had been in intense pain when he had last seen her, but she had been alive. What had changed? The curse Dolohov used hadn’t caused any visible injuries. So how could she be dead?

Harry dropped his head into his hands, pulling roughly at his hair as he struggled to comprehend. “How could she be gone? We were with her—she was hurt, but she was breathing—”

His ramblings were interrupted by a loud, enraged scream, as Ron suddenly lunged at him from across the way.

Harry startled at the unexpected burst of movement, pressing back instinctively against one of the armchairs, wand in hand and spell at the tip of his tongue.

Ron was nearly upon him before he was tackled to the ground by Neville, who wrapped his arms around his torso in a restraining hold.

“Calm down, Ron! He doesn’t know what he’s saying!” Neville yelled, tightening his grip as they rolled on the floor. Ron fought to break loose with a crazed fervor, shouting, “Let go!” and “I’ll bash his face in!”

However, Neville's grip remained steadfast with surprising strength. He uttered reassuring words to the other boy, who continued to rage below him. After several long moments of struggling, Ron finally collapsed limply onto the floor, breathing hard.

The two remained entangled as the room fell quiet, Harry frozen in stunned silence as he tried to take in what happened.

Neville slowly pushed himself up, and he pulled a sullen Ron up onto his feet.

He kept a steady hand on his friend’s arm as he turned and shot Harry a disapproving look.

Harry felt himself recoil back. He’d never seen that look on Neville’s face before, and it was jarring to be on the receiving end of it.

“I don’t know what you think happened, but we don’t need to hear it. Please, leave.”

“But—Hermione—she wouldn’t just—”

Ron scowled darkly at him from beside Neville. “Just keep talking, you prat. You’re really asking for it, bringing her up too.”

The venom in his voice when he said “her” made Harry pause. From his tone of voice, it almost sounded as if—

“Did Granger put you up to this? To play this sick twisted game with poor old Ron Weasley? You think she’s actually your friend?” Ron sneered.

Neville sighed quietly, giving his arm a light tug. “Ron, you know she didn’t—”

Ron deflated with muted anger, and looked away, glaring heatedly at the floor.

“I know, alright? I know. I’ll leave it alone,” Ron responded quietly to him in irritation.

Harry was thrown by the turn in conversation and the intensity of negative emotion displayed by his friend. Ron had never spoken about Hermione like that before, not even in those early months of their first year when he had only just tolerated her presence.

And yet, they spoke as if she—

“She’s okay?” Harry straightened as he asked, a spark of hope growing within him.

“Who? Granger?” Ron asked. He scoffed.

His friend’s unusual attitude was concerning, but he could hardly spare the thought because—

“Yes, why wouldn’t she be?” Neville asked, frowning once more.

Relief surged through him, and the tightness in his chest unfurled. He collapsed onto the stuffed arm of the chair behind him. Thank Merlin.

“I thought—you said—you said she’d passed,” voiced Harry in a daze.

Neville looked worriedly at Ron, who responded with a glower, “You really are off your rocker. Why the bloody hell would you think that?”

“She was hit with this ghastly purple spell right in her chest,” he explained, but stopped when he was met with looks of skepticism from Neville and cold impatience from Ron. “But… if not Hermione, then who?”

He realized it was a fruitless question even as he asked it, as he stared up at Ron’s furious, grief-tinged expression.

The redhead bared his teeth at him, stating, “You’re rather thick, aren’t you?”

“Ron!” Neville exclaimed chidingly, gripping his arm tightly.

“What? He says he’s our mate, so he should know, right? Or d’you suppose he meant the other Ron Weasley? Because if he was talking about me, then he’d have known to shut up about his daft Ministry story and instead wondered how the bloody hell he’d forgotten that Ginny’s dead?”

Harry flinched at the cutting tone, looking away as his gut bottomed out with renewed guilt and anguish.

“Ron,” he said with a small, shaky voice. “I’m sorry—”

“Sorry? What do I need your apologies for? You didn’t even know her!”

Harry could do nothing but accept the cruel words thrown at him, knowing he deserved every accusation. He had been the one to drag everyone to the death trap that was the Ministry. Her blood was on his hands.

He shook his head. “It’s all my fault. It was my stupid idea to begin with. I shouldn’t have let her come—”

“Let her? Let who? What are you going on about—you’re absolutely nutters!" Ron shouted with utter disbelief. “She's been dead for three years!”

Silence immediately followed, descending heavily upon the room like a large thick blanket, suffocating Harry under its great weight.

Harry stood stock still, blood roaring in his ears.

It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

The redheaded boy breathed heavily, eyes glassy with wetness and exhaustion lining his face. He hardly looked at Neville when he announced stiffly, “I'm headed to class.”

Ron promptly stormed out of the common room, without a second glance at Harry.

Neville was silent for just a second, concern in his eyes, before he quickly stepped away to follow.

This can't be right. It can't be.

He knew Ron though, and he wouldn't lie. Not about this.

But then, what did it mean that Harry couldn't remember any of it?

That what he remembered in his head seemed to contradict what he was seeing in the world?

It was frightening beyond belief.

James cursed in pain as he stubbed his foot on a heavy side table, nearly dislodging it from its place. He scrambled to hold down the ceramic art piece that sat atop it as it wobbled dangerously, threatening to fall off.

Although it was early morning, the room remained cast in darkness due to the heavy curtains that were drawn over each window, concealing the deep colors and intricate detail of the antique furnishings.

In his younger years, Sirius had always scoffed at the old-timey gothic aesthetic that his family liked to keep in their ancestral home, complaining of the antiquated and pompous look of it.

‘It’s like living in the bloody medieval period!’ he had cried at fifteen, grumbling about his mother’s growing collection of ornate and old-fashioned furniture. ‘I think it would actually kill her to own anything made in this century.’ His face had turned contemplative at that thought, causing James to snort with laughter.

Sirius had run away from home not six months later, taking up residence with the Potter family. James’ parents—who had at that point been much closer to Sirius than his own ever had—generously gifted him his own room, allowing him to furnish it any way he desired. Sirius had thanked them graciously, but refused to borrow their money, relying instead on the sizable inheritance he had gained from his Uncle Alphard to buy the loudest and oddest assortment of furniture that James had ever seen.

By the time he had purchased this flat, Sirius had largely outgrown his need for outward defiance, and had purchased a set of lavish furniture that was (only slightly) more suited to his personality.

The first time he had visited, surrounded by finely carved wood pieces and intricately patterned walls, James had laughed out loud and cracked a joke about how the Black family blood lived on not just in its purity, but also in its ability to imbue its members with a dramatic flair for excessively grand and pretentious furniture. Sirius had sputtered indignantly, stating with great offense, ‘They’re vintage, you prat! It's tasteful, not–not pretentious!’ and proceeded to wrestle James to the ground, refusing to admit that his taste in decor ran so closely with his estranged family’s.

Sirius had stubbornly kept the set of furnishings, though he pointedly adorned his home with an unusual set of decor ranging from plainly humble to downright whimsical in an attempt to prove James wrong.

The strange mismatched appearance of the home was a comforting sight.

Perhaps that was his real reason for being in Sirius’ flat. He had thought originally to see if he could find evidence of a kidnapping, as Shacklebolt had speculated, after making a swift escape from the Ministry once Lily had concluded her report.

She had tried to convince him to return home to rest, concern lining her brow, but he rebuffed her suggestion, reassuring her that she could return to St. Mungo's without worry because he just needed some fresh air.

The moment he had left the repurposed room, he became restless with inaction, needing to do something. Something to distract him from what he had just learned, as he found himself unable to face what seemed increasingly like the truth.

But now that he was here, standing alone in the comforting familiarity of his best mate’s flat, he had no desire to rummage around his possessions. He didn’t want to disturb the one place that remained wholly intact of Sirius’—everything frozen in place just as he had left it.

Instead, James tried again to contact Sirius with the two-way mirror, to no avail.

Perhaps there was no other reason for his absence besides the one that was most obvious.

James dropped heavily onto the couch, sighing as he ran his hand through his hair with distress.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to think.

If Shacklebolt's theory was correct, how could something so horrifying have been happening to Sirius right under his nose?

They saw each other nearly every day. At what point had he come under threat and started concealing the abuse he had endured?

He'd also shared many meals with Sirius—so how could he have possibly been starving? Could his kidnapper have made him regurgitate his food? After every meal?

James felt his stomach roil horribly at that image.

If what Shacklebolt speculated was right, truly, then what kind of worthless, awful, sorry excuse for a friend did that make him? That Sirius had been in turmoil for months, possibly years and the entire time he, who claimed to be his closest mate, his brother, had remained none the wiser?

James didn't have the right to call himself Sirius' friend. Sirius deserves—deserved—so much better.

He buried his face in his hands as he held in a scream.

A loud ‘CRACK!’ resounded from the center of the room, shocking James into action.

He jumped to his feet, his wand drawn with deft hands, ready to defend against any attacks.

James narrowed his eyes at the dark silhouette that occupied the once empty space, his wand aimed pointedly at its chest. After a moment, the form shifted and turned, allowing James a better view of it. 

His wand promptly fell from his hand, his eyes impossibly wide.

“This is technically breaking and entering, you know,” the genial voice of Sirius Black said. “Especially if you're going to creep around here in the dark like a common criminal.”

Chapter Text

Ginny was dead.

Had been dead for three years, according to Ron.

This was all that ran through Harry’s mind as he sprinted down the empty hallway.

Try as he might, he could no longer ignore the glaring signs that signaled him from every corner: Something was inexplicably and horrifyingly wrong.

Ever since he had awoken alone in the Ministry, he had been faced with encounter after strange encounter that seemed to challenge the well of knowledge that he knew to be the truth.

Preoccupied as he had been with finding his friends, Harry had pushed the problem to the back of his mind in the hopes that it would either turn out to be inconsequential, or it would naturally resolve itself and require no action on Harry's part.

What an absurd line of thinking that had been.

When has life ever been easy for him?

Coming to Hogwarts was supposed to have provided him the answers to the questions that had been plaguing him, not raise more. But with the way his disastrous encounter with Ron and Neville had gone, Harry was forced to acknowledge the possibility that all of these things were connected.  

But what was most confounding about this was the fact that Harry, as far as he knew, seemed the only one unaffected. It was presumptuous to assume that there were no others, but something in Harry’s gut told him that he was alone in this, particularly when thinking of Barty Crouch Jr., who had managed, impossibly, to become elected the most powerful man in magical Britain by popular vote.

Harry hadn’t even been aware that Fudge’s term as Minister was coming to an end. Had he been so caught up in his own troubles this year that he had missed word of the election entirely?

Even if that were the case, the election must have been rigged, and the results falsified. But, Mr. Flume had seemed approving of the outcome. Harry didn’t presume to know the political leanings of a humble sweets shop owner, but Mr. Flume didn’t seem the type to support a publicly known criminal (not to mention a dead one).

And whether it was rigged or not, how was it connected to Ron and Neville’s behavior?

The only thing he knew for certain was that it had all started with the Department of Mysteries. 

That was, perhaps, the crux of his problems. Had this been Voldemort’s plan all this time? To lure him to the Ministry so he could turn Harry’s world completely on its head?

It was a chilling thought.

Voldemort was frighteningly powerful, but he'd need to be positively god-like to be able to affect the world on such a large scale, and to achieve it within those few measly hours that Harry had been out... Impossible. He couldn’t and wouldn't believe it.

And yet, his paranoia pushed him to avoid seeking out anyone else. He desperately needed answers, but he could no longer trust speaking with others to find them. If his hunch was correct, and he was the only one who was free from whatever magic was in effect, then who could he trust?

Was there anyone left?

Harry didn’t dare go down that line of thinking.

Instead, he focused on finding the answers to his immediate questions.

So, the library. 

But right as he rounded the corner, he smacked into something solid, causing him to fall backwards and land roughly on his bottom. He heard a soft groan from across from him, as whoever he had run into similarly lost their footing, and they both ended up on the ground with a stack of books strewn around them.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said apologetically, reaching out for the closest books.

“Just what were you thinking, running in the halls? You hurtled right into me!” a familiar voice said reprehensibly.

Harry snapped his head up in surprise.

Across from him, Hermione rubbed at her side where, presumably, she had fallen onto after Harry ran into her. She looked just as she had always, (mostly) unruffled and free of injury.

Hermione quickly gathered the books around her and got to her feet. She then stepped forward and stretched a hand out, raising an eyebrow at him as he remained seated on the ground.

It was one thing to hear it from someone, it was a whole other to be able to see with his own eyes a vibrant and healthy Hermione.

“I—”

But then he paused, thinking of what had occurred in the common room.

Would she be just as Ron and Neville had been?

Was it too much to hope that she had escaped the enchantment that had affected his other friends?

“Well?” Hermione asked as the silence stretched on. She studied him closer, and then her hand dropped to her side as her eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

Apparently, it was.

Heart sinking, Harry replied weakly, “No, I guess not.”

She wasn't the Hermione he knew. He stood up and thrust the two books in his hands forward for her to take. He couldn't trust her.

She reached forward to accept the offer, but before stepping back, she looked him up and down, a frown adorning her face. “You’re not a student here.”

“I’m just visiting,” he replied, arms slipping casually into his robe pockets. He forced his body into a relaxed pose.

“While dressed like a Gryffindor.”

“Yes, er—I’m transferring here. Next term. I’ve been sorted to Gryffindor,” he lied with little thought. “I wanted to get a feel for the school, but I didn’t want to stand out amongst the students.”

“Without someone to guide you?”

“I declined when they offered. I like exploring alone.”

She pursed her lips as she moved away several steps. The expression was one Hermione often made at him and Ron when they did something she didn’t approve of. He felt a deep longing even as she watched him with sharp eyes.

She was suspicious of him, he thought, as he felt her laser-focused gaze penetrate his face.

If not for the fact that both of Hermione's hands were kept busy holding her books, Harry suspected she'd have had her wand at the ready. Harry forced himself to loosen the grip he had on his own in his pocket.

Even if she did attack him, could or would he fight back? He couldn't trust her state of mind, but she was still Hermione at her core, wasn't she?

“Right.” She continued her line of questioning. “Are you lost? Where are you trying to go?”

He realized then, as he watched her speak. She had her large front teeth again.

It was a small difference, but it made Harry uneasy. Whatever had been done to her, could it have regressed her body to a previous state?

If this was not the work of Voldemort—and perhaps it was, regardless—could he have traveled back in time? To a point before Hermione had been hexed by Malfoy and required her teeth to be shrunken down? That would have been more than a year ago.

But no, she didn't look any younger. Besides the teeth, Hermione looked exactly as she had a number of days ago. It didn't account for why she didn't seem to know him. And it certainly didn't explain why someone he knew to be dead was suddenly alive, while someone who should have been alive was now dead.

Ginny, he thought with despair. Was she really dead? Ron's behavior suggested yes, but it was clear now that something greater was afoot. He couldn't trust the information being fed to him by just anyone anymore. Not if they had been affected by the magic at play.

The sound of a throat being cleared tore him from his musings.

He then registered the question she had asked him.

Something in his gut urged him to keep the truth to himself. “I'm headed for the kitchens.”

“I could show you the way.” Her voice was visibly lighter when she offered, almost friendly, though the keen glint in her eyes remained.

“Don't you have class to attend?” he asked, looking for a way to escape her mistrustful gaze.

“My class was dismissed early.”

“I don't want to take up your free time.”

“But I insist. What kind of student would I be if I let you wander around here alone? It's easy to get lost if you're not familiar with the castle.”

He was reminded that Hermione could be incredibly stubborn when she put her mind to it.

So what could he say?

Ron had been set off so easily by his words earlier and had stormed off without a single glance. Harry recalled the way he had spat the word 'her' as he spoke of Hermione.

“Earlier today,” he said slowly with a relaxed tone. “I ran into another student, Ron. He seemed an alright bloke, but I noticed he got rather heated at the very mention of you. I don't mean to pry—”

“Then don't,” she snapped, body visibly tensing at the turn of conversation. 

“It’s just—he seemed very upset,” he replied, some of the genuine concern he felt trickling into his voice.

“And what business is this of yours? You hardly know him,” she retorted sharply. Her hands were pale from how tightly she clenched the books in her grip.

“I didn’t think it was fair, the way he spoke of you.”

He wasn't sure what he was expecting by pushing this topic of conversation. Anger, perhaps. To rival that of Ron's. Hermione and Ron frequently butted heads and bickered about things, sometimes (often) to the point of distraction.

What he didn't expect was for Hermione to shrink in on herself, becoming almost timid in her demeanor. “What exactly did he say about me?”

Harry suddenly felt bad. Hermione was not always as confident as she appeared to be, but she had certainly never been timid.

But this distance between her and Ron didn't really exist, did it? They were fine the day before when they had left for the Ministry together.

So, he forged ahead.

“Not much. But he seemed to think you enjoyed playing mind games with him. Something about his sister—”

Hermione cringed just as Harry did. Though he wasn't wholly convinced of Ginny's fate, Harry couldn't stop the feeling of anguish that twisted his gut at the mere mention of her.

“I would never do that!” Hermione cried, backing quickly away from him. Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes. “I could never be that cruel. Not again.”

Her body trembled as her back met the far wall. It was a mistake bringing this up, and Harry regretted it immediately. Ginny could very well be alive, but Hermione didn't know that. Even if she was changed by some spell, she was still Hermione. It was vile to try to get a rise out of her using a friend's death.

Harry felt disgusted with himself for attempting to use it as leverage for his own gain.

He reached a hand out. “Hermione, I—”

But before he could finish his sentence, she bolted past him and disappeared around the corner.

He dropped his arm down to his side, wracked with guilt.

James stared at him with wide eyes, jaw slack and mind blank.

The silence stretched on, and the air between them shifted into something uncomfortable, awkward.

“James?” Sirius asked lightly as James remained silent and unmoving. The man waved his wand, and the curtains in the room drew apart, allowing light to filter into the space.

James remained suspended—stupefied—as the sunlight unveiled the details of Sirius' lively, youthful features—a stark contrast to the stiff, empty body laid out on the metal table in the Ministry.

The worry on Sirius' face deepened once he got a glimpse of James' expression. “Prongs?” he inquired softly.

The sound of his old nickname finally snapped him out of his stunned daze, and he tightened the grip on his wand, asking tensely in a gruff voice, “When we were at Hogwarts, I covered for you during Charms in sixth year so you could work on a spell—what was the spell and what excuse did I give our professor?”

Sirius straightened as James asked the question, responding with a look of contemplation. “A spell? Hm, that’s a tough one.”

James watched intently as the man rubbed his chin in thought. He braced himself for attack.

“I’d say you got me there,” Sirius continued with a half-hearted shrug, but then he locked eyes with James and shot him a knowing look, “if it had been a spell. But I recall rather distinctly that it was the Marauder’s Map that needed work. And I told the professor that you had a minging pie that made you sick so that you could fix the Map after lighting it on fire.”

James felt his heart flutter at the response, as he was hit with a warm rush of emotion. His answer was spot-on.

In their sixth year, he and his friends had searched relentlessly for a way to make the Map impervious to destruction after it was nearly destroyed on one of their late night excursions. After many weeks, James finally located a spell in an obscure book at the library that appeared promising. However, in his excitement, he tried to cast the spell on the Map without taking proper care or preparation. The parchment caught fire and burned away the outer rims before James was able to put it out with a hastily cast Water-Making Spell.

Needless to say, salvaging a wet piece of parchment was much easier than one that was burnt. Sirius had laughed himself silly at James' idiocy while Remus had been mightily annoyed at the both of them. So, he had promised to fix the Map before the full moon the following day and had recruited his best mate to help excuse him from class.

“When did we return to our dormitory after our first trip out with Moony?” Sirius asked in turn.

“Three in the afternoon,” James replied matter-of-factly, “a whole half day later than planned because you tackled me into a river in the Forbidden Forest that took us miles from school.”

“I didn't tackle you, I tripped!” Sirius voiced in dissent, shoulders relaxing as the thick tension between them fully dissipated.

James allowed the overwhelming relief wash over him like a wave. He closed the gap between them in three large steps and pulled Sirius into a tight embrace.

The heavy weight of his turmoil appeared to lift away from his shoulders as James released a shaky breath, tears of sheer relief clouding his vision. 

"If I'd known you'd miss me this much, maybe I’d have pawned the mission off onto Mundungus instead,” Sirius joked, though he gripped James tightly in return.

“You dolt, I thought you’d died!” James cried.

“It’ll take more than some beastly Dementor to kill old Sirius Black,” he said with false bravado, though James only tightened his arms, allowing his rapidly beating heart to slow.

Sirius grew silent as they stood in place, until James finally let go and pushed him back to see his face.

“Where were you? I called for you through the mirror and you never responded!” James uttered, looking intently at his friend.

“I got held up. I ran into some trouble while I was scouting,” remarked Sirius, face becoming grim. “The situation in Azkaban is worse than we’d believed.”

The news was troubling, but James found it hard to care.

Sirius was alive.

“James, what’s wrong? Why are you—did you really think me dead?” Sirius asked, eyebrows pensively pinched together.

“You have no idea. There was an incident at the Ministry last night. It’s—I don’t know if I have the words to describe it,” James said. “Disturbing,” he concluded after a beat.

“What happened?”

“There was a break-in at the DoM—a kid, apparently, found lurking around the Death Chamber. We're not certain what his motive was, but he was powerful. Managed to fight off two Ministry workers pretty handily. One of them was Williamson, but—get this—the other was Rookwood—”

“The bastard Unspeakable?”

“He got sent tumbling down a flight of stairs by a Disarming Charm—”

“I’d have paid to have seen that.”

“That aside,” James continued sedately, “a dead body was also found.”

Sirius straightened, interest piqued, “You think this kid murdered someone?”

“It’s the most logical assumption. He’s our only viable suspect.”

“Did he reveal anything during questioning?”

“That’s the problem. He escaped before the rest of us were alerted. We’ve got a team out searching for him in Hogsmeade.”

Sirius grew pensive. “And the murder victim? We have any idea who it is?”

“Yes,” James said with some hesitation, glancing away.

Sirius picked up immediately on his uncertainty, showing alarm. “What? Who was it?”

“It’s—this is going to sound insane,” he started, “But we’re best mates, so I want you to trust me when I tell you this.”

This seemed only to concern Sirius more, who began to look simultaneously fearful and impatient.

“You don't need to butter me up, Prongs. I trust you.”

“Alright.” James let out a breath. “But maybe you should sit down first.”

“Sit dow—I’ll be fine! You’re really scaring me here,” Sirius exclaimed. “Who was it?”

“Itwasyou,” he let out in a quick breath, sounding much closer to 'itwassew' as the words blended into one. 

Silence.

“What?” Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “I think I misheard you, or you’ve gotten really desperate in your attempt to out humor me!”

“No, I’m serious—”

Sirius huffed out another laugh.

“Quit laughing and let me explain!” James yelled, placing both hands on Sirius’ shoulders. “His face was identical to yours! It sounds impossible, but Lily was brought in to examine it, and she confirmed that the body was yours.”

Sirius continued with a small snigger, “I think you need to take a longer vacation, mate. Work's really getting to your head.”

“Sirius! I'm not playing around here! The body—” James felt the catch in his voice as his mind flashed back to the cold, metal table. “It was horrifying. It was you, but it wasn’t because there was evidence of abuse and starvation—and Lily said it couldn’t possibly have been short-term. It looked like it had been going on for years.” There was a rawness in his voice that betrayed his lingering despair as he remembered the haggard state of the body.

The humor from Sirius’ face slowly dropped as he took in James’ grave expression and tone. “You’re not joking. You actually believe—?”

“I saw the body with my own eyes. It was you.”

“But I’m standing right here!” Sirius fervently said, face lined with disbelief.

“It sounds bonkers, I know, but Lily did a host of tests to confirm the identity. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

“You sound absolutely mad, James. Deranged.”

“I know! I feel batty just saying it! But you've got to trust me when I say it's the truth. Shacklebolt and Lily were both there with me, and they'll say the same if you ask them.”

“And you’re sure it couldn’t be someone else? A well-brewed Polyjuice Potion? A long-lost twin that my mother hid from me?” Sirius asked with exasperation.

“If it had been another Healer, maybe. But this is Lily we’re talking about.” His wife was meticulous in everything she did, particularly when it involved human lives. “Perhaps we should drop by the Ministry so you can see this for yourself. We need to notify Shacklebolt that you’re alive anyway.”

Sirius nodded absently, muttering quietly to himself. “Visiting my own dead body? Utterly insane!”

As James prepared to Apparate, a large silvery figure appeared through the north wall, running gracefully in a circle around them both before stopping beside James. The lynx remained suspended in the air as Shacklebolt’s voice boomed from within it.

“I’ve got an update from our Aurors about Hogsmeade. Meet me in Albus’ office.”

James glanced at Sirius, who shrugged, “I was headed there anyway. The Ministry will have to wait.”

They both turned to the fireplace and made their way to Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

Harry snuck his way through the library's entrance, as he spotted Madam Pince with her back turned to the door, speaking with a Ravenclaw student.

He made his way over to the Archives, rifling through the neatly lined newspapers as he glanced over the various titles. He didn't know what was most important to look for, as there were too many possible events that could have changed.

Just how far did this magic spread?

Harry wasn't fully convinced there would be any changes to the Archives.

If Voldemort had managed to cast a large-scale spell or perform a ritual that affected the wizarding population, surely that only extended to their minds and not the physical world? There were simply too many objects—hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions—for Voldemort to have possibly rewritten or altered for his own benefit.

But hadn't Hermione demonstrated a physical change? It was a minor one, but it spoke to the subtle workings of the intricate but powerful piece of magic at play. That level of power was something Voldemort would relish in wielding and flaunting in front of everyone else.

If, of course, it was even possible to attain. Harry was still ignorant to a lot of the ways of magic and its capabilities, but even he was relatively sure that one person couldn't possibly wield the scale of power needed to change the entire wizarding world.

But that also raised the important question: what was even the point? Even if Voldemort did manage to pull this off, why would he even bother? Voldemort wanted him dead. He wouldn't waste the time or effort to hatch this grand, elaborate plan just so he could—what?—watch Harry squirm and flail around in confusion? Torment him with the dubious and contradictory death of a friend?

Back in the graveyard, all of the old, regurgitated spells that had come out of Voldemort's wand when it had connected with Harry's had been murders, including his mum and dad's. Voldemort had enjoyed toying with Harry during their duel, but there was no question that if not for Priori Incantatem causing the distraction he needed to escape, Harry would have met his death that very evening. 

No, Voldemort had far greater goals in mind, and tormenting Harry for an extended period of time would do little towards achieving them, especially now that Voldemort had returned from his near fifteen year absence, his vast resources depleted and circle of followers scattered to hell. It just didn't make sense for him to waste that time and effort for small-scale results.

Besides, if Voldemort did manage to achieve that level of power, surely it would have already guaranteed his victory over Britain? There would be no need for any elaborate schemes.

So perhaps it really was time travel? But even that couldn't fully explain things because there were diverging, impossible events occurring that didn't follow what he knew.

His head started to pound with all of the possibilities and theories.

Harry blinked several times in an effort to focus on what was in front of him.

He moved down the shelves to the newspapers with titles dating back several years. He could, at the very least, find answers on one thing.

Ron had said Ginny had been dead for three years, so it wouldn't be too difficult to locate the newspaper detailing it if it had been a death significant enough to be reported on.

His gut instinct told him that it must have been significant. A death in a Pureblood family? Perhaps if Ginny had been sick for a long time, and imminent death had been expected, then there would be less to talk about. But Ginny had been a healthy, thriving Hogwarts student.

Harry sifted through the stack of newspapers from roughly three years ago. Most of the titles were trivial, or as trivial as breaking news articles could be.

Then, his eyes latched onto a headline towards the back of the paper stack.

TRAGEDY STRIKES: AN UNFORESEEN DEATH AT HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

He inhaled sharply.

His hands began to shake as the weight of what he was seeing began to push down on him. He grabbed and spread the paper out before him.

For thousands of years, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has served as a powerful protector for the magical children of Great Britain. Generations of parents have entrusted their children to the school with the assurance that they would thrive within the castle walls and under the protection of its esteemed headmaster and staff. But has this line of protection failed?

Eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley, of the prolific Weasley family, one of the oldest Pureblood families within magical Britain, was found dead last night in an old, unused second floor classroom. She was found by a fellow student, who immediately alerted the school staff.

Madam Poppy Pomfrey, the matron of the school, was one of the first staff members on-scene, and was able to complete an initial examination of the body within the first half hour. Based on the report, Ginny Weasley’s corpse was found cold but largely intact, showing little evidence of injury besides one notable detail: two deep, vertical gashes to the wrists.

The manner of death was suicide, and the cause, a Severing Charm to each arm, dealt by Weasley’s own wand. Time of death was approximately a quarter to seven in the evening, two hours prior to its discovery. The reported results of the examination and the subsequent investigation of the crime scene have been verified, respectively, by the Ministry-sponsored Healer and Lead Auror Gawain Robards.

So far, no witnesses have been identified or forthcoming who may have seen the event occur.

The investigation remains ongoing to determine the full details surrounding the tragedy. Though the current evidence overwhelmingly points to suicide, the investigation will focus on determining the following: 1. the presence of foul play, 2. whether the death was accidental or intentional in nature, 3. Ginny Weasley’s well-being leading up to her death, and finally, 4. the extent to which Hogwarts staff can be held responsible.

As Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore and his staff have a sworn duty to protect all of their students from harm, whether that be from outside forces or within. This death shows, without question, how catastrophically they have failed not only young Ginny Weasley, but the student population at large, leading to—

Harry put the paper down, unable to stomach reading any further.

Suicide. Ginny had taken her own life.

How had things gone so wrong?

What could have driven her to such drastic measures?

Harry rummaged desperately through the other papers. There had to have been a follow-up at some point. He needed more information because Ginny would never have—

But no, this couldn't have been the Ginny he knew, could it?

This wasn't real.

Ginny was alive. She was alive and happy with her family and friends and a whole life to look forward to.

She had lived to the age of fourteen—a healthy, growing, and thriving witch.

Had gone on to become an excellent Quidditch player, even replacing Harry as Gryffindor seeker.

Had grown to be a brave and loyal friend, choosing to fly with him to the Ministry and battle it out against the Death Eaters.

None of this was real.

Right?

Yet, this line of thinking did nothing to quell the churning in his stomach.

Because not too long ago, on the night Mr. Weasley had been bitten by Nagini, hadn’t he, for one very long moment, believed himself a snake and wanted to attack Dumbledore?

Though he had eventually learned the truth from Moody, that it was likely Voldemort attempting to possess him, which initially helped to soothe his fears that he was going inexplicably mad, it also made him feel much, much worse because Voldemort was in his head.

And though he didn’t experience the blanks in memory as Ginny had, making possession unlikely, that didn’t mean Voldemort wasn’t watching. He had failed to learn Occlumency, so his mind was fully unprotected. Who’s to say that Voldemort wasn’t manipulating him, making him see what he wanted Harry to see?

He had blacked out for hours at the Ministry, surrounded by Death Eaters from every corner. There were any number of things that they could have done to him while he lay there, exposed and vulnerable.

He jumped up from his seat as he felt a restlessness settle deep into his bones. He began to pace briskly back and forth across the small space.

But how far could that manipulation possibly go? How deeply could Voldemort get inside his head? Possession, to him, seemed pretty damn extreme. Who's to say Voldemort wasn't just a step or two below that, with the ability to dictate what he saw, what he heard, what he dreamt—what he felt? Because hadn't that been the case for months? Voldemort had been obsessed with the Department of Mysteries, to the point where he disrupted Harry's dreams. Could he do that to Harry while he was awake?

And then, when he had looked at Dumbledore, he had felt a rage so intense that he wanted to reach out and hurt him. But even worse than that, perhaps, was the absolute glee that he'd felt on those few occasions, which—knowing Voldemort—was no doubt at the expense of people’s lives.

What if Voldemort had caught on and figured out a way to fully influence his feelings? Would Harry even be able to tell?

In the past, he had known when Voldemort was feeling something strongly because his scar would hurt in response. The feelings would also come abruptly and often in conflict with the ones Harry felt at the time. But, he thought with unease, his scar hadn't hurt at all since he had woken up in the Ministry.

It should have been reassuring. It could mean Voldemort wasn't involved in any of this.

But, their connection had changed since the ritual at the graveyard and Voldemort’s resurrection. Was it not possible that the Dark Lord had done something to Harry while he was unconscious, causing his scar to no longer work the way it did?

Or maybe, whispered a tiny voice from deep within him, maybe this was no one’s doing except his own.

Harry had assumed that he was the only one unaffected, but what if—what if it was the reverse and it was he who was changed, and everyone else who was normal?

Maybe he’d gone mad.

Harry felt a rising panic at the thought. If this was all in his mind, how could he trust any of what he saw? Or heard?

Was there anyone he could trust? More importantly, could he trust himself?

His body began to tremble, his hands clammy. White spots appeared at the edges of his vision; he was falling, he was sinking—

His left foot met the leg of the table, and the unexpected burst of pain on his toe caused him nearly to keel over as he cursed under his breath. He caught himself with both hands before he banged his face against the wooden surface.

Distantly, he heard a familiar, but hushed voice from across the room, on the other side of the Archives shelf. He pushed himself up into standing.

“—no cause to believe he poses any danger yet—”

Harry crept closer as the words became clearer, pressing himself up against the nearest shelf and listening closely to the voice.

It was Professor Sprout.

“—don’t want to cause alarm, but we must be sure all students are accounted for. Most are still in class, so there are only a handful still wandering about. How many have you got here?”

“Just the two, I believe,” Madam Pince responded in a low tone.

“Check again. And be sure to adequately identify them. I’m told the boy’s dressed as a Gryffindor—”

They were talking about him.

And it seemed they were trying to track him down.

This must be Umbridge’s doing. She’d want revenge after what he and Hermione had done to her with the centaurs. The Ministry must also be out to expel him for underage use of magic. Would they throw him into Azkaban for breaking into the Department of Mysteries as well? Did they know?

Harry remained stock-still until he heard Professor Sprout's fading steps. He quickly peeked around the shelf and saw Madam Pince start to make her way over.

Shit.

Harry scrambled to duck behind a bookshelf one row over. He took careful steps as he circled around the shelf, keeping out of sight as he remained obscured by it. He kept pace with her, rounding the shelf just as she did on the other end.

He heard a pause in her footsteps, but—and he breathed a sigh—she continued on, moving further into the depths of the library.

Harry ran out the entrance, spotting no one within the vicinity.

If a search for him was being conducted, then he couldn't stick around.

What would they do to him if they caught him? Interrogate him? Torture him?

Throw him in the loony bin?

He needed time to think and to get his head on straight.

But where could he hide?

Harry had little time to think as he heard footsteps approaching rapidly from down the hall.

He ran.

James dusted himself off as he landed in Albus’ office, moving quickly forward as he took in the room. He spotted Shacklebolt and Albus seated across from each other, the headmaster’s large desk between them.

In his periphery, he noted Minerva and Snape’s presence as well, seated beside the Auror.

He turned his attention to the older man.

“Shacklebolt, before we begin, I’ve got news,” he said urgently. “It’s about the body. It’s not—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the fireplace roared to life once more, flaring bright green as Sirius stepped out.

Everyone except Albus was suddenly up from their seats in visible shock. Shacklebolt had his wand brandished as he yelled, “Bloody hell—!”

“Goodness!” Minerva exclaimed, also whipping her wand out in one quick smooth motion.

“I’m not dead!” Sirius announced with cheer, arms spread wide open as if to offer himself up to the room.

“I told you to wait so I could explain it to them first!” James stated with an exasperated voice, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Sirius responded. He looked towards the rest of the room. “Here I am—the one and only, Sirius Black, in the flesh!”

James hastily stepped in front of his friend when the tense thickness of the room remained, placing his hands up placatingly. “Wait a second! I’m just as confused as you are, but I checked, and he is Sirius. He just returned from his mission, and he found me at his flat.”

“And who knew how badly you all were chomping at the bit to rid me from your lives? I leave for two days and suddenly I'm dead to you! Snape here I can believe, but Minerva!” Sirius said from behind him, peeking his head out.

“Welcome back to the living, Mr. Black. It appears you continue to be a stubborn fixture in my life, whether I agreed to it or not,” Minerva stated dryly in response.

“You’re certainly a sight, Black,” Shacklebolt said as he recovered from his shock. “I’ve seen a lot over the years, but a dead man walking after personally witnessing the autopsy? That’s a first.”

“I like to keep things exciting,” Sirius quipped.

James shook his head. “I don’t know who the body is supposed to be, but it’s not Sirius.”

Shacklebolt kept his eyes trained on his friend. “We'll need to re-examine it. I’ll recruit other Healers to get different eyes on it, but I'm not sure there's much else to find there.”

“It is curious indeed,” Albus spoke up for the first time from his seat, his hands interlocked and resting on the desk. “But a re-examination is not without merit.”

The old wizard waved his hand and conjured two chairs on the other side of Shacklebolt, so that all the seats created a half circle around the large desk. “James, Sirius, please sit.”

Albus continued as he watched the two men sink into the chairs, everyone following suit. “I assume, Sirius, that there is a reason for your premature return?”

“Yes,” Sirius replied, his face solemn. “The Dementors are becoming restless, just as you suspected. They’ve started to venture further from Azkaban, much more than is necessary for guarding the prison.”

“Then it may be as we feared,” Albus stated. “The Dementors have little concern for the politics of wizards. If they come to an agreement with Lord Voldemort, they will not hesitate to betray the Ministry.”

Shacklebolt crossed his arms. “If Azkaban is compromised, then we must prepare for the moment they abandon their posts. The Dementors will pose a great danger to the public, including the Muggles.”

“He’s working much quicker than expected.” James furrowed his brows. “And with Crouch elected Minister, there’s no chance the Ministry will interfere. We’ll not be able to stop it.”

“All the more reason to be ready for when the situation makes a turn.”

“But, it’s not the reason—the only reason—that I returned early.” Sirius looked at Albus with concern. “Last night, I noticed the Dementors suddenly became—agitated—excited—by something.”

“Excited by what? How could you tell?” James asked.

“At what time did this occur?” Albus inquired at the same time, a look of interest on his wrinkled face.

“Around midnight, I believe. They started flying around like mad, er—more so than usual. I don’t know by what—but they were all over the place. They looked like they wanted to abandon the prison altogether. I had to duck out of there—” Sirius snapped his mouth shut.

“What? Were you on the island? Are you mad?” James shouted furiously at him with angry concern.

“You can’t see a damn thing from across the water when it’s dark, and it seems the Dementors deviate most in the evenings. Look, I figured out early on that they hardly give animals the time of day. I was Padfoot the whole time I was there. I was fine!”

“Of all the reckless things! You are a fool, Sirius Black!” Minerva chided. “You could have been Kissed!”

“If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have seen how abnormal they were being.” Sirius jutted his chin out stubbornly.

“The information you gathered is invaluable Sirius, however, you must not risk your life so carelessly. It would not do for us to lose you so soon again.” Albus stated that last bit with a light tone, though his face remained stern. It then turned contemplative, as he seemed to think over their conversation.

“But it is odd, as you stated,” Shacklebolt responded contemplatively. “I’ve not heard of behavior such as this from Dementors before.”

“Not any stranger than Dementors drifting from their posts,” Sirius muttered.

“Dementors are poorly understood creatures, but not unpredictable. We will continue to monitor their behavior closely.” Albus turned to the remaining member of the group who had yet to speak up. “There is a chance this could be in connection with Lord Voldemort’s plans to court them. Have you heard word of anything?”

Snape remained stoic, arms crossed, as he responded, “Nothing of this, no. The Dark Lord has turned his focus to recruitment, indeed, however, he has been much less forthcoming on the details of his plans since his return.”

“It is to be expected, unfortunately. But keep your ears open, Severus.” The old wizard said gravely. He then turned to Shacklebolt. “Now, I believe Kingsley has news from Hogsmeade.”

James perked up as he was reminded of the reason for the meeting. “What did the Aurors find?”

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “It appears our trespasser has been busy. He left a trail of clues behind as he traversed the village. The Aurors swept through Hogsmeade and found two witnesses who interacted with him: one from the Three Broomsticks and the other from Honeydukes. But, they also found property damage—there was evidence of a recent fire at the Shrieking Shack.”

James and Sirius glanced at one another at those words, before Sirius asked, “A fire? Are they sure it was related?”

“Dawlish seemed to think so. The fire was small, so he was able to locate the point of origin. It started approximately one and a half meters from the ground, which is—”

“About chest height for an average sized male,” James finished with realization. 

“While holding a wand, yes. But, the fire was put out relatively quickly, likely by the trespasser himself, or by someone accompanying him. Either way, whoever spelled the water was... enthusiastic.”

“Oh?” Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“The Shack was submerged in a large pool of water,” Shacklebolt responded. “The fire occurred around the time the trespasser would have been in Hogsmeade. We haven't figured out why he'd go for the Shrieking Shack, however.”

“Ah, yes,” Albus stated, running his hand down his beard. “The Shrieking Shack was installed after your time, Kingsley. It contains a passageway into Hogwarts grounds, through the Whomping Willow. Naturally, there are only a few who know of its existence.”

“Then the trespasser must have known of it,” the older Auror concluded.

“But from whom?” Minerva asked with concern.

“From someone with personal knowledge of the school,” Shacklebolt responded. “He’s the right age that it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to befriend students.”

“Just about every major wizarding family in Britain has personal knowledge of the school,” James interjected. “It could have been anyone. Besides, the passageway between the Shrieking Shack and Whomping Willow may be heavily protected, but it’s not impossible to find if you’re determined enough.”

“Or pigheaded enough,” Sirius muttered.

Minerva shot Sirius a quick look before speaking. “We’re meant to believe that his goal was to travel here then? To the school?”

“From what the Aurors gathered, the trespasser traveled by Floo and appeared at the Three Broomsticks early morning, about half two, and Rosmerta, the owner, questioned him regarding his intentions. He claimed he was visiting friends in the village, but Rosmerta believes he’s a student here at Hogwarts. He was wearing school robes,” Shacklebolt explained.

“A Hogwarts student? Surely not! We’ve not heard word of any missing students.”

“We have not,” Albus said in agreement. “However, less than a half hour ago, I received word from the Fat Lady that an unknown student dressed as a Gryffindor attempted to enter the common room.”

Minerva looked shocked as she asked in alarm, “Is that the reason you have Pomona and Filius out securing the students?"

“Apologies,” Albus said lightly to her, “for pulling you all away from your classes early. Alas, there is no reason yet to believe the boy poses any danger—”

“No reason? You’re saying we have a suspected murderer on the loose at the school!” Snape burst out from his chair, nose flaring.

“Albus, I have to agree with Severus on this. We must think of the students’ safety. We can’t afford another incident,” said Minerva critically.

“If this boy is dressed as a student, he could easily traverse the halls, posing danger to anyone he walks by, without any of us the wiser!” The dour man snapped, face contorted in a downward direction.

“All staff have been informed of the boy’s presence and are taking measures to protect the students. For now, I implore you to listen to Kingsley. The information he has will assist us in locating him.”

Shacklebolt looked between them before continuing. “He arrived with a severe head injury. It’s likely he sustained it at the Ministry, though neither Williamson nor Rookwood reported causing him any significant damage. Rosmerta provided him with a healing potion—her last, in fact—because—” and his eyes flicked over at James, “—she thought he looked rather like a young James Potter, whom she remembered fondly from his school days.”

James felt the weight of four other sets of eyes flit over to him, and resisted the urge to squirm.

“A Potter?” Sirius asked curiously. “You didn’t mention this before, Prongs!”

“Because it’s not important.” James pursed his lips. “If he is, it’s a distant relation.”

“Or perhaps Potter here has been remiss to mention an illegitimate child,” Snape snidely remarked.

James scowled at him, hackles raised. “I’ve only had one child, you git, and you of all people know perfectly well why I haven’t had another!”

Snape glared, ready with a response.

“Severus,” Albus uttered sternly. “Please.”

Snape shot James a dark look, but remained silent.

“As for why he was in Hogsmeade—” This time, Shacklebolt looked at Sirius intently.

“What?” Sirius asked.

“He said he was compelled to leave school because You-Know-Who kidnapped his godfather.”

Something about the look on the older Auror’s face caused the hairs on the back of James’ neck to rise.

Sirius must have felt the same, as he straightened stiffly in his chair, though he heedlessly responded, “That’s a cock-and-bull story, now isn’t it? We all know he didn’t come from the school, so what merit is there to his words?”

“It is not implausible that the boy could be speaking with some truth. Many men and women were taken under orders during the First War,” Albus said.

“Regardless, the trespasser left in a rush, with the intention of coming here. Before he went out the door, however, he did provide Rosmerta a name.” Shacklebolt brought his gaze back to James, and the man seemed to be speaking directly with him now. He tensed under the weight of his gaze.

“He said his name was Harry.”

James’ hands clenched tightly around his armrests as the blood drained from his face.

An image of his young son’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. One that had burned hot and deep into his memory with a permanence that he could never hope to erase. The brush of his hand through soft downy hair before the half-disfigured body—pale, cold, lifeless—disappeared behind a wooden lid as it closed for the last time.

Rarely during waking hours did he allow his thoughts to linger for long on his baby boy. The tightly caged, deep-seated grief that lived within him was always at the cusp of bursting, a heavy, all-consuming, and powerful monster that would ruin him if he allowed it free. It was only at the dead of night, when he was alone, that he allowed himself any leeway to ponder over times long past. Those nights were often hellish, leaving him exhausted but with little hope for any sleep.

However, already at edge as he was from Snape’s remark and Shacklebolt’s look, James pushed hard to rein in that grief and allowed forth another well-worn feeling instead. Anger.

“—is this wanker? If he thinks playing this disgusting trick will do anything except piss us off—”

From beside him, Sirius was on his feet, his chair toppled over against the floor, off on a furious tirade.

James removed his hand from where it had drifted into his hair, as he was wont to do during times of stress, and it slammed hard onto the armrest in a tight fist.

Sirius stopped mid-rant at the sound made from James’ hand.

“Let me see if I’ve heard you right,” James said slowly, rage burning in his chest. “You’re saying our suspected murderer from the recent and unprecedented DoM break-in is a single boy, seemingly of Hogwarts age, who bears some freakish likeness to me—probably stolen, for all we know—and now has the gall to call himself Harry?” 

“I’m not inclined to believe a word that comes out of the trespasser’s mouth, not until he’s been properly interrogated,” commented Shacklebolt.

“I don't care if he's believable—he's lying! ” He yelled, trembling in his seat. “He’s trying to goad me—to mess with my head and make me angry!" And it’s working, he didn’t say. “Where the bloody hell did this little shit come from? If he's looking to attack me personally, I'd be more than happy to curse him out!”

“Don’t be so hasty, Potter,” Minerva said severely. “He’s still a boy, and I will not tolerate injuring a child on Hogwarts grounds.”

“Minerva is correct. It is unlikely this boy is working alone. I suspect this may be the work of Lord Voldemort,” voiced Albus, his mouth turning downward. Of course. Because who else would be looking to taunt James with his dead child other than his murderer? “A boy his age would have little reason to attack you, and he would likely lack the knowledge or resources to execute such a plan. If this boy is truly under the Dark Lord’s influence, he must be held in high regard to be entrusted with breaking into the Ministry on his own.”

Despite the fury in his veins, James had to stop himself from wincing. A child—sixteen, seventeen, maybe younger—under the influence of Voldemort and his Death Eaters for what he could only assume was years… What twisted things could they have done for him to be judged ready for such a dangerous mission?

“Or,” Shacklebolt interjected. “He could be seen as disposable, and You-Know-Who is testing the waters by sending him in. If he failed, it would hardly be a loss, but if he succeeded, well…”

“The boy is powerful,” the old wizard responded, “The Dark Lord is not one to look away from that, or to waste potential when it could be used for his gain. Nevertheless, if Lord Voldemort sees him as expendable, it is all the more reason to find the boy and offer him protection from further harm.”

“You intend to protect him? Underage he may be, but this murderer is no child.” Snape rose from his seat, looking irate.

“He has not yet been convicted of any crime, Severus.”

“No, perhaps not the murder, but he broke into the Ministry and attacked Ministry employees without care, and now he roams freely through these halls with the ability to attack any inhabitant of this castle!”

“If the boy is under the Dark Lord’s influence, then he is as much a victim as any other man or woman taken by Lord Voldemort.”

James sharply cut in, “Whether he is working under Voldemort or not, we’ve got to put a stop to him. I won’t have him running around acting as if he’s—” He choked out with poorly contained distress and ire, “my child.”

Sirius placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly as he addressed the rest of the room. “We could sit here and speculate on this kid all day, but he’s somewhere here in the castle, as you said. We'll find the arsehole and expose him.” There was a determined glint in his eye.

“This I can agree with,” Minerva said, standing from her chair. “We must not dally any longer.”

“You are to speak with the boy—try to reason with him. If you must, you will subdue him, not injure or maim, do you understand?” Albus stated commandingly.

James nearly bristled. Despite the angry threat he had bellowed just moments before, he would never intentionally hurt a child.

As they each stood from their seats, Sirius didn’t remove his hand from James’ shoulder. His friend shot him an expression of concern. “We’ve got this handled if you need to sit this one out.”

“I’m fine, Padfoot.”

“Really, I could—”

“Sirius.” Then, with some forced humor, he uttered, “This imposter has my face. I’m not so ugly that I can’t look myself in the mirror.”

Sirius stared at him searchingly. After a beat, he gave him a strained smile.

“We're off then.”

Chapter Text

Harry sprinted down the corridor, searching for—what, exactly? He didn't know.

But the distant footsteps he heard behind him spurred him on, and he continued to move away from it, placing as much distance between them as possible.

He spotted the Trophy Room and—after glancing back and seeing his pursuant out of sight—threw himself into the room, shutting the door behind him.

He ducked behind the closest wooden and crystal display case, and remained still as he listened for the footsteps growing in volume.

They became louder and louder until—Harry held his breath—they passed the door and then quickly began to fade.

Harry relaxed in his place, allowing himself to glance around the room. Shiny trophies, statues, and trinkets winked silver and gold from every which way.

It looked much the same as he remembered, except there was a thin layer of dust collecting on various surfaces. Though, it had been many years since he had last been in this room long enough to look at it with any detail. Back in second year, Ron had been forced to polish the trophies as punishment after they flew Mr. Weasley's car into the Whomping Willow. It looked as if no one had been back since to clean them.

The glint of something along the wall at the edge of his vision had Harry turning his head, and his gaze met a gold badge seated neatly on one of the shelves.

AWARDED TO T. M. RIDDLE FOR SPECIAL SERVICES TO THE SCHOOL, 1943

His eyes traced each letter of the familiar name, oddly riveted. He hadn’t put much thought to it back in second year after uncovering the truth about Moaning Myrtle’s death, but it was strange to see the award still on display. It would have made sense to have it removed, especially since he and Ron had each been given the very same award for their work in helping to defeat Riddle. Harry had never seen them for himself, though he imagined they’d look similar. They didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby.

A cold smoothness beneath his fingers startled Harry from his trance, and he realized he had stretched his hand out to touch the engraved letters of Riddle’s name. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. Still, he was drawn to it, and he made to grab hold of it, his fingers stretching open—

“What’s this? An ickle Gryffindor, lost?” A voice suddenly spoke from beside him, shocking him so badly that Harry instinctively threw a stunner in that direction.

The voice made a strangled “Ack!” before its body went barreling backwards into one of the display cases, creating an explosion of noise.

Harry brought his hands up to cover his ears as he flinched away from it. Silence followed, and he took several steps towards the door as he realized the sticky situation he was about to be in.

He looked down at the still body, inspecting it with a long glance.

Peeves, he thought with no small amount of relief. The poltergeist would be fine.

He needed to leave, now.

Harry ripped the door open, intending to run back towards the library, away from where the earlier footsteps had disappeared. He needed to put distance between himself and the Trophy Room. No doubt more than one person heard the commotion and would be on their way to investigate.

But after only a few short footsteps, he heard voices approaching him from an alarmingly close distance. Harry silently cursed, backtracking towards the Trophy Room door, and then past it, hiding himself in the adjacent storeroom, shutting the door behind him. His entire body was on high alert as he pressed his ear closely to the door, listening for the noise on the other side.

His ears picked up on a conversation that quickly became clearer the closer the speakers got.

“—went on about Death Eaters chasing him in the Ministry!” A familiar voice exclaimed. Neville.

“Raving mad, I tell you!” Ron’s voice followed.

“This occurred in the common room?” A third voice questioned perceptively. McGonagall. When had she returned from St. Mungo’s? “And he was a student?”

“Yes. Well—no, he looked like one, but we didn’t know him. He had on—he had on Gryffindor robes, didn't he, Neville?”

“He did! But—”

“And neither of you imbeciles thought to inform a professor of this immediately?” A man’s voice snapped sharply in the air like a whip. Snape.

“We didn't intend to keep it a secret!” Ron protested. “He kept going on with these outrageous stories and we didn't think—”

“Evidently,” Snape interrupted acerbically. Harry could practically see the ugly sneer on the man’s face.

Just as easily, he could imagine the answering look on Ron’s face, red with embarrassment and anger at Snape’s snide remark.

He would have responded with an equally biting response, if he had been there. 

It shouldn't matter. Yet, he couldn't stop the sinking disappointment that he felt listening to Ron speak as if they hadn't spent all their years at Hogwarts as best mates.

It didn't matter. Whatever was going on with his friends, and whatever was happening with himself, it wasn't the truth.

“We will finish this discussion later. I will escort you both to my office, where you will wait—patiently—until I've returned for you. Come,” McGonagall instructed strictly. Three sets of footsteps branched off towards the nearby stairway, while a lone pair continued in Harry's direction.

They stopped short of his door, right in front of the Trophy Room.

The wooden door slammed loudly against the wall as it was opened, and Harry heard Snape step into the adjacent room.

The Potions Master was going to find Peeves’ stunned body and realize that Harry couldn’t have gotten far, not so soon after the attack. Order member or not, Snape hated him enough to spite him, just as he had done when Umbridge had him captured in her office. There was no question that Snape would report Harry the first chance he got. 

This was his only opportunity.

Harry pushed the door quietly open and tiptoed into the corridor, keeping an eye on the open door that Snape had left ajar.

He couldn’t risk being spotted while running past to the library, so there was only one direction to go.

With quick footsteps, Harry made his way towards the left corridor. When he reached the end of it, there were two staircases. If McGonagall was taking Ron and Neville to her office, then they were headed down to the second floor. He’d go up then.

If there was any doubt that his presence in the castle still remained relatively unknown, it was gone now. McGonagall, Snape, and Sprout were all patrolling the halls, so it was more than likely that most of the staff in the castle was on the lookout, if not all of them.

He hadn't wanted to consider it, but it was apparent now that Hogwarts was no longer safe for him, not with Umbridge at the helm and the professors unable or unwilling to listen.

But Professor McGonagall would help him if he approached her, wouldn’t she? She couldn’t stand Umbridge, and she was part of the Order.

Harry wanted desperately to believe it, but something deep in him retreated viscerally from that idea.

Because he didn’t know with certainty if she would. McGonagall was his professor, yes, but how much of her life and career would she be willing to put on the line for one student? Especially one as problematic as him? Hadn’t she already been injured severely enough by the Ministry when attempting to intervene with Hagrid’s sacking? She owed him nothing.

Despairingly, he thought, what’s the point of staying anyway?

His expulsion from the school was imminent. He had come to Hogwarts mostly to ensure that his friends were safe, with the assumption that they would be able to fill in the gaps of what had happened in the Ministry for him. He hadn’t considered what he’d do if that plan didn’t pan out, and he certainly hadn’t put thought to what he’d do about his expulsion after reuniting with them.

But ultimately his plan had ended in utter failure. His friends didn’t remember a thing—didn’t remember him. And Ginny was dead. What was he to do now?

There was something fundamentally wrong with all of this—his friends, the Ministry, the world—and whether that was external or internal, Harry needed somewhere to go—somewhere safe—to figure things out.

But if not Hogwarts, where could he go?

His instincts pulled at him from multiple directions, telling him where to go, where not to go. 

However, there was only one place that Harry truly wanted to be.

Grimmauld Place.

But was it a risk to go somewhere as important as the Order's headquarters? Voldemort was likely watching his every move.

However, the Dark Lord had known of their connection even while Harry had stayed at Grimmauld Place for Christmas. If he'd been watching him, then surely he'd have gleaned the location of the headquarters already?

So why hadn’t he done anything about it?

Unless… Voldemort didn’t have an easy entry into his mind as he had believed. Perhaps it truly was only when he was asleep or at his most vulnerable, as Snape had told him. Or, there was something preventing him from taking action against Harry’s friends and the Order.

Or someone.

Dumbledore. Of course.

Perhaps it didn’t matter in the end. Dumbledore and Moody had known long before he had that Voldemort might try to access his mind, and yet they had allowed him to stay in close quarters with the members of the Order. 

What greater risk was he imposing by going?

Harry tried not to think what it could mean if their connection truly had strengthened, ever since the mysterious events at the Ministry.

Still, Grimmauld Place was one of the most secure places in Britain. Where else could he possibly go to find safety and help?

In order to get there however, he'd need to find a fireplace connected to the Floo Network. More importantly, he'd need to figure out how to bypass the fact that all of the fireplaces in the school were being monitored closely, except for the one in Umbridge's office.

He didn't dare go back there, not now that Umbridge had returned.

Harry racked his brain as he tried to recall which rooms had working fireplaces. There were hundreds in Hogwarts, but only a handful that could actually take him anywhere.

The professors all had active fireplaces in their offices, didn’t they? Binns’ office was the closest—the only one on the fourth floor. But Binns was a ghost. Would his fireplace still be connected? Perhaps he could—

A hand shot out from behind him and latched tightly onto his right wrist as his wand was ripped from his hand.

“I got you now, boy,” a gruff voice said, pulling roughly on his arm, dragging him back towards the direction of the stairs.

It was Filch.

“Let go!” Harry said, tugging against the tight grip on his wrist as he tried to dig his heels into the ground. He had been just a short distance from Binns’ office, but now he was being wrenched away. The caretaker held on with surprising strength, largely unphased by Harry’s attempts to escape.

“Thought you could wander the halls and stir up trouble, did you? The Ministry's on the hunt for you, and it seems I've struck gold.” Filch eyed him critically as he yanked Harry along. “A killer, they say. But you look too soft for cold-blooded murder.”

“A murder?” he asked, dumbstruck.

“It’s always the ones who look innocent though, innit?” Filch remarked mostly to himself.

“I’m not a murderer!” Harry yelled, aghast. He was struck with unease as a tightness wound in his chest, even as he vehemently denied the accusation.

“The Ministry says you are, boy. Seems they’ve got a dead man lying in wait, and you’re the prime suspect.”

“The Ministry's wrong. I've got nothing to do with it!” Harry exclaimed distressingly.

“Shout all you want. They’ll take you in, and soon you'll be left to rot in Azkaban with the Dementors,” Filch stated with glee, as they progressed closer down the corridor towards the stairs.

He blinked hard as something dark flashed across his vision. Dark eyes and a billowing, ragged cloth.

He felt ill.

“Let. GO!” Harry shouted, causing Filch to pause on his feet with the force that he was jerked back.

He felt a surge of magic rise up from beneath his skin.

His wrist was suddenly released as Filch yowled in pain, gripping the hand that had been like a manacle around Harry’s. His wand was released, and it promptly dropped to the ground, bouncing twice before rolling across the smooth floor. 

Harry frantically swiped it up before jumping back to put as much distance between them as possible, trying to catch his breath as his eyes stayed glued to Filch’s form. 

“Filch, what are you yelling about?” A smooth voice came up from behind the man.

Harry tensed.

Snape had caught up.

Fuck.

“The killer! I’ve found him!” Filch choked out in an angry tone.

Snape took in the scene with a careful eye before his gaze latched onto Harry. He seemed to pause, his sallow skin appearing to pale as he studied Harry with intense scrutiny.

“Get the headmaster,” Snape said swiftly, not taking his eyes off him.

“You've got the wrong person! I haven’t killed anyone!” Harry responded with a scowl, anger brewing.

“And yet,” Snape spoke after a long pause, eyes glinting, “you were spotted in the Ministry fleeing from the very room where the corpse of a man was found. Terribly suspicious behavior for someone claiming innocence.”

Harry clenched his jaw hard at the words, very deliberately looking away from the man’s dark eyes and focusing on his hooked nose instead, remembering the awful, ineffective Occlumency lessons he had been forced to endure the last couple of months.

“You can’t possibly believe all of this!” Harry replied with great indignation.

“Can’t I? You injured two Ministry workers during your little traipse through the Department of Mysteries. One of them nearly died from blunt force trauma to the head. That would have been two deaths on your hands. You’re as dangerous a criminal as any of the lowlifes found in Azkaban’s cells.”

“I'm not—I didn't mean—” he stammered, feeling guilt flood him as he realized who Snape was referring to. Had he truly almost killed Rookwood? The man had been dying in the corridor and he had walked past him as if the injured wizard were merely dozing off.

But Snape had said nearly, so Rookwood was alive. He hadn’t killed him.

“You didn't mean to?” Snape mocked. “Unfortunately, lack of intent does not absolve you from your violent actions. A man still lies dead in the Ministry.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean!” Harry snapped with mounting frustration at the man. “If anyone’s committed murder, it must be one of the Death Eaters! Even Rookwood! They were all there!”

Though spoken with great conviction, his words didn’t feel quite right. There was something brewing right beneath his skin, but he didn't know what.

“You are a pitiful liar. Do you fancy yourself a clever boy? The only disturbance in the Ministry was you.”

“You know it’s not true! I told you that Voldemort would be there. That he had Sirius—if you had just listened, then maybe—maybe—”

His heart was pounding furiously in his chest, and his breaths were quickening. Why was it getting so difficult to breathe?

“Your level of delusion is astounding. Just barely outmatched by your extraordinary arrogance. To claim innocence after the ridiculous scheme you've pulled—breaking into the Ministry, attacking three people, and then leaving a trail of destruction leading directly from the Ministry to this school. And now to lay blame for your crimes with me?” Snape then remarked pointedly with a sneer, “Perhaps you truly are Potter's bastard son.”

Years of lapping up any information related to his father meant the words grabbed Harry's attention immediately, breaking him out of the strange state that he had fallen into. The fact that it was Snape, who took every opportunity to disparage his father, had Harry snapping his eyes up in a furious flash, meeting the man's dark and knowing eyes.

“B-blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will… resurrect your foe.” A slash of a knife at the crook of his elbow, dark red blood in a vial. A simmering cauldron, white steam, then—the outline of a man. A bone-white serpentine face, wide scarlet red eyes. 

“Bow to death, Harry…”

NO! Harry fought to wrestle Snape out of his mind, but the man attacked him with an aggression he had not used before, causing a sharp stabbing pain in his head.

A rowdy crowd of students laughing and cheering, gathered around a boy suspended in the air, upside down, robes falling over his head and gray underpants out on display. Three boys stood below him, roaring with laughter.

“Let him down!” A girl with dark red hair yelled.

Just as quickly as the memory began, it ended, as he felt his magic rear up protectively once more to shove Snape forcefully out of his mind, causing the other to stagger back several large steps, hand moving up to clutch at his greasy head.

Harry had never managed that before.

He had his wand pointed at the man, blood rushing loudly in his ears. His head throbbed from the brutal assault. In all the times that Snape had used Legilimency on him during their lessons, it had never felt like that. The man had savagely attacked his mind with little care for subtlety. Snape's animosity towards him had always been vicious, but Harry hadn’t realized until then that the Potions Master had been going easy on him all this time.

Now, Snape was out to hurt him.

“Where did you find that memory?” Snape snarled with a murderous rage. His whole body shook—and Harry was reminded of the truly scary visage of Snape after he had been caught watching the man’s memory in the Pensieve.

It had frightened him before. But this time, left with the throbbing pain of Snape's violating assault of his mind, Harry felt his own rage rise to meet it.

“Feeling ashamed?” Harry asked cruelly. “You never did get over your poor treatment in school, so now you've wasted the last twenty years of your life picking on kids half your age!”

Snape’s face warped into an ugly glare as he slashed his wand in a downward motion, a dark blue light flying straight at him.

Harry dodged just in time, hearing a loud crack behind him. He jabbed his wand forward, yelling, “Impedimenta!”

The Potions Master created a shield, which held together at first as Harry's spell struck true. However, within seconds, he was forced to move deftly out of the way as his shield disintegrated under the spell.

Snape retaliated with barely a pause, moving with brutal efficiency, sending a bright, pulsing spell that exploded before Harry could move, blasting him backwards against the opposite wall.

Harry groaned as his back slammed against the hard surface, feeling a burning sensation on his face and hands.

“You insolent boy. You will learn to keep that mouth of yours shut.” Snape snapped his wrist, and the movement of his wand told Harry it was a stunner.

Harry rolled hastily to the side, feeling the wounds on his hands scrape painfully against the ground, but he’d managed to avoid the spell. He stopped in a crouched position, but he rapidly aimed and yelled, “Petrificus totalus!”

Snape deflected the spell, causing it to veer off its intended path and blast into the wall, creating a large crack that extended to the ceiling, bits of stone crumbling off of it in a small cloud.

He needed to end this, somehow. Though his wild magic was giving him a leg up, Snape was far more skilled in dueling. The corridor was much too narrow, and they were in too close quarters for Harry to continue dodging the attacks. This could become deadly very quickly if they kept at it. 

Not to mention, Umbridge would be on her way at any second, undoubtedly prepared to take full action against him.

Snape sent another stunner at him non-verbally.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry yelled. The two spells met at the center, ricocheting off each other, with Snape’s burning the ends of a hanging tapestry and Harry’s exploding a large statue against the wall, sending several large pieces flying in the man’s direction and forcing him to take a step out of the way.

This gave Harry the second he needed. Swiftly, he shouted, “Lumos maximus!” and slammed his eyes closed.

He felt the pull of his magic as the spell activated from the tip of his wand, an intense heat emanating from it and warming his body.

Harry heard a discomforted noise from Snape, and he knew his plan had worked.

He released his spell and wrenched his eyes open, gaze immediately locating Snape’s hunched figure, arms still raised up in a futile attempt to protect his eyes from the blinding light.

“Stupefy!” The greasy-haired man fell over, unconscious.

He took just a second to catch his breath before sprinting down the corridor, barreling into Binns’ office. There was no time to ponder over whether the fireplace was active or not. He’d just have to assume it was.

Harry shut the door behind him and quickly spelled it shut.

He spotted the fireplace across the room, a fairly nondescript feature of the wall. But then, the entire room seemed to lack any character, looking about as plain and boring as Binns himself.

As expected, there was a heavy layer of dust on all the flat surfaces. Harry searched the fireplace and was relieved to find a small pot of Floo powder seated on its ledge.

He dusted it off and lifted the lid. It was half filled.

It was likely the same supply of Floo powder that had sat there when Binns was alive in the late nineteenth century. He spared a thought to wonder if Floo powder could go off, but there was no time to investigate.

Now, he just needed wood. Harry glanced at the lone wooden chair in the room. It would have to do. 

He startled when the door suddenly rattled loudly against the doorframe. Someone was pushing on the door handle from the other side.

In a panic, Harry spelled the door handle with a Fire-Making Spell, realizing too late that it might be a bad idea with the way his magic was acting up. Luckily, his spell mostly came out in a controlled stream, causing the metal to heat up and then melt, only moderately charring the wooden surface around it. The person on the other side—a man—cursed loudly.

A Ministry worker?

“Alohomora!” the man shouted. Nothing.

Harry could hardly spare even a second to feel relief at that as he promptly blew the chair to pieces.

A hand slammed loudly against the door, startling him.

“Open this door!”

Harry threw several pieces into the fireplace and pointed his wand at it, shouting, “Incendio!”

There was a loud roar and a large fire sprung up from the pile of wood.

He stared at it for just a moment, thinking. This fireplace, along with all the others at the school, was being heavily monitored by the Ministry. They’d find him easily if he used it. And he knew he wasn’t knowledgeable or skilled enough to know how to dismantle the magic that allowed them to do that.

Still, he was out of options.

Quickly, he tossed a handful of the old glittering Floo powder into the flame, and it turned a bright emerald green. With the pot in hand, Harry practically jumped into the fire.

No, he couldn’t undo the magic weaved into this fireplace, but maybe he didn’t need to. There was a far easier solution to it.

Across from him, the door blasted open with a powerful spell, the heavy wooden slab falling off its hinges.

Harry stated loudly and clearly, “Leaky Cauldron!”

The fire roared once more around him. As the green flames rose up to consume him, he caught a glimpse of the man that stepped forth through the open door frame.

A man with his face.

Chapter Text

James swore loudly as he cradled his left hand against his chest, the skin of his palm pulsating with pain where he had held the handle of the door as it heated and melted.

In frustration, he banged on the door with his fist, yelling, “Open this door!”

Behind him, an unconscious Severus Snape lay slumped over on the floor, exactly as James had found him when he had arrived moments before.

Just minutes prior, he had been patrolling the sixth floor of the school, having split off from Sirius to cover as much ground as possible. The corridor he passed through had been largely silent, so his ears had easily picked up on the hurried footsteps when they ascended the stairs from nearby. Interest peaked, he’d glanced over at the stairwell and recognized Filch’s stumbling form as the man passed by.

When he’d inquired about the man’s urgency, Filch nearly bowled him over in his rush to get by, his face lined with irritation.

“Dumbledore! Where is Dumbledore?” Filch had asked impatiently, hardly sparing James a glance.

“He’s not in his office. He was on the seventh floor, last I saw. What’s happened?” James had questioned.

“The killer! Found him lurking on the fourth floor! Snape’s heading him off!” Filch had brusquely responded, voice echoing as he disappeared up the stairs.

James had rushed down the flight of stairs without a beat, anticipation pumping through his veins as he made his way two floors below, wand in hand and resolve settling on his face.

However, though he had burst onto the scene prepared to defend against a barrage of Dark spells, he’d been met instead with utter stillness and a heavy silence in the air. Rather than a deadly battle between two wizards, he had come upon a damaged corridor, abandoned except for Snape’s unconscious body, with no suspect in sight.

Against his instincts, James had spared a moment to ascertain the state that the Potions Master was in. There were no major injuries as far as he could see.

Assured, he had moved forth down the corridor, determined to intercept the imposter’s plans for escape.

Three empty rooms later, with his left hand held protectively against his chest and pain radiating from the searing burn he had received gripping the handle of the locked door, James was reminded once more that the imposter was not a petty criminal. He was certainly younger than most criminals James was used to dealing with, but that did not make him any less dangerous. He was a trespasser, arsonist, and suspected murderer. A powerful one, at that. He needed to tread lightly.

Still, what James lacked in raw power, he liked to believe he made up for in hard earned experience, having served as an Auror for well over a decade.

Yet, as he stood alone in the quiet corridor, he felt the heavy presence of Snape’s unconscious form behind him, knowing full well that the man would not have been defeated so easily.

James could hardly stand to be in Snape’s presence during the best of times, but even he could acknowledge the man’s high competence and skill as a wizard. After all, Snape had been spying on the Dark Lord for years now with Voldemort still none-the-wiser.

But besides his lack of consciousness, Snape looked mostly intact and unharmed. Had the imposter caught him by surprise? Had he used a type of advanced (Dark) magic that left little physical evidence on the body? The state of the corridor suggested that a struggle had occurred.

Urgently, James whipped his wand up towards the door and blasted it clean off its hinges.

If luck was on his side, then Snape would have found a way to slow the imposter down, either by injury or fatigue.

He was moving forward before the heavy door met the ground, stepping past the threshold into the small room.

The room—Binns’ office, if he recalled correctly—was bathed in a bright green light emanating from the opposite wall, the furniture casting harsh shadows against the floor. At the center of the room sat a small pile of broken wood, the remnants of a chair, if the shape of the backrest was any indication.

A flash of movement in the light caught his attention, and he gazed up at a figure standing in the blazing fire, his gaze locking with a pair of bright, almond-shaped eyes.

The air stuttered in his chest as James stumbled back in shock, eyes wide.

“Leaky Cauldron!” The figure yelled with a clear, youthful voice.

Before he could release the indignant shout at the back of his throat, James was nearly blinded by the bright green luminescence bursting up from the fireplace and consuming the figure.

The bright light disappeared as quickly as it came and James was left standing alone in the empty room, the fire a soft warm yellow.

Mind furiously racing, he was drawn forth with an intense urgency, scrambling forward to follow. The fire flickered weakly as it continued to burn through its fuel, but it should have been enough for him to travel through. He stopped in front of the fireplace and made a grab for—shit!

Where was the Floo powder?

James frantically searched the mantelpiece above the fireplace and found only a round imprint in the dust where an object once rested. A jar, he thought. For Floo powder.

But where was it? He briskly combed through the wooden desk and the shelves along the wall nearby. Still, he came up empty. It must have been discarded somewhere nearby, yet he couldn’t find evidence of it—whole or in pieces—anywhere in the room.

Unless, he thought unbiddenly, the imposter had taken it along to stop anyone from following after him.

He cursed loudly before racing out of the room.

James sprinted down the empty corridor, but just as he passed Snape's unconscious form, he nearly ran into long white hair and a purple patterned robe.

“Albus!” He exclaimed, stopping in his tracks.

“James, how is he?” Albus asked, an expression of concern adorning his face as he approached Snape’s body. “Argus urged me to come quickly.”

“He’s unconscious, but nothing life threatening,” James replied hastily, before pressing forward with his thoughts. “The imposter escaped through the fireplace in Binns’ office. But I couldn’t pursue him because—”

“You need more Floo powder?” Albus finished wittingly.

The old wizard waved his hand in the air, casting a wandless spell. Within moments, a small pot flew into his outstretched hand from down the stairway, likely summoned from one of the offices below. James quickly reached for the pot offered in one wrinkled hand, forgetting—in his haste—to thank the man, and quickly returned to Binns’ office.

The small flame in the fireplace had shrunk to a near nonexistent size. James flicked his wand at it, casting a non-verbal spell, and the fire grew in height.

He took a fistful of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, plunging the room into a greenish hue once more, before dashing forward and yelling, “Leaky Cauldron!”

A wall of flames engulfed his vision as a deafening roar filled his ears. The familiar sensation of spinning rapidly in place overtook his body as a blurred stream of fireplaces sped by.

It ended within seconds, and James tumbled out of the fireplace on deft feet, taking a moment to secure his footing as he started to swiftly but carefully eye his surroundings. Immediately, he noted the presence of Tom the barman seated at one of the stools to the side of the bar, a stack of papers laid out in front of him. Beyond the barman however, the Leaky Cauldron was empty, its patrons likely out working or shopping in Diagon Alley at this time of day.

“Ah, good day Mr. Potter! How can I be of assistance?” Tom said with a jovial voice. A smile adorned the man’s face, a pair of small, rectangular wireframe glasses resting lightly on the bridge of his nose.

“Tom! Did you see or hear anyone come out of the fireplace before me?” James questioned urgently as he continued glancing about. “He would have been maybe fourteen to eighteen years of age. Average height, short dark hair, glasses, and—”

My face.

He stopped short, a heavy, uneasy feeling settling low in his gut.

Three separate people now had spoken of their likeness, which—if they were to be believed—was strong enough that they had all easily mistaken the imposter for him. Despite knowing that, something in James had steadfastly refused to believe it and would not ponder the meaning of it beyond its most basic implication—that perhaps he was a distant relation, or that, somehow, it was a freak coincidence (‘A coincidence? A muggle now, are you?’ asked Moody) that this stranger was born with features so similar to his. The world was vast, was it not? It wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibilities that two people of little to no relation be born looking so alike.

But, when he had stood in Binns’ office, aglow with emerald light from the dancing green flames, facing down the murderer, the imposter, the boy—because that’s what he was, wasn’t he?—James had glimpsed something of the imposter that had aroused a deep and visceral feeling within him.

What he’d seen—well.

He didn’t want to think too deeply about what he’d seen just yet.

Tom was staring worryingly at him, and James realized that he had been silent for too long. He cleared his throat and continued weakly, “He was wearing Gryffindor robes.”

“Yes, a boy—I didn’t get much of a look. Heard the fireplace ignite while I was in the back room, but by the time I’d come out to greet him, he’d already started heading off to another location. Disappeared into the flames as suddenly as he came,” Tom stated with mild exasperation. “Only caught a tiny glimpse of his face, really.”

Tom’s gaze then sharpened imperceptibly as he eyed James. “Now that you mention it, I’d say he looked a fair bit like you.”

James forced himself not to tense at the comment, having subconsciously anticipated the words.

“Did you hear where he went?” he inquired stiffly instead.

“I’m afraid not,” Tom responded apologetically with a shake of his head. “The boy was quiet. If not for the sound of the Floo activating, I doubt I would have noticed at all.”

James felt a deep well of frustration rise within him at the words.

He’d been so close.

But the imposter got away, again.

Some fake walking around with his face, using his boy’s name.

If he’d only moved faster, not wasted time checking on Snape—

A sharp pain from his right palm startled him from his raging thoughts. James peered down at his hands, both clenched tightly into fists. Moving his wand to grip with his left hand, he forced his right open, revealing a palm that was red and raw from the burn that he’d received earlier.

“You need help with that? It's a nasty wound you got there,” the barman commented sympathetically.

James curled his right hand into a fist once more as he placed it in his pocket and away from view. 

“It's nothing. Just an accident.”

---

When he finally stepped out of the fireplace to Binns’ office after conducting a thorough interview of Tom and inspection of the pub, James was in a foul mood.

Teeming with pent-up energy, he made to leave the room when two hands reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Prongs! You’re alright!” Sirius exclaimed, inspecting James’ person.

“Get off, Padfoot. I’m fine,” James muttered irritably, shrugging the man off of him. He marched across the room to the door, which—to his annoyance—was back on its hinges. He reached his right hand out for the door handle, but stopped when he glanced down at it. It was perfectly intact.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Sirius asked from behind him.

James continued staring at the handle, feeling the smarting rawness of his injured right palm.

“Prongs?” Sirius inquired softly at his back. He began to step around him, rousing James into action.

He lifted his left hand instead and yanked the door open with great force.

Sirius followed closely at James’ heels, staring pointedly at him. “What happened?” 

“The bastard got away is what happened,” he responded bitterly, heading down the corridor. “Where’s Albus?”

“Hospital Wing. Seems dear old Snape took a tumble and got an awful bump to the head. Had to be levitated out of here like a sleeping baby. I’ve never seen him so agreeable,” Sirius said with amusement, before asking soberly, “What happened in the corridor exactly? Filch said Snape faced the kid down, but by the time I’d spoken to Minerva about it, you’d already gone after him.”

“Bugger all,” James voiced with a scowl. “I should’ve stuck around here for all the good I did scurrying after him.”

“But where did he go?”

“The Leaky Cauldron,” James stated tersely as they descended the stairs. Reluctantly, he continued, “It was a bloody feint. He traveled there as a jumping point to throw me off his scent. He was gone before I even arrived.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He’s a clever one, I’ll give him that. Tom didn’t see anything?”

“Nothing,” he said unhappily, continuing down the steps at a rapid pace.

“Hey,” Sirius placed a light hand on his arm, stopping him. “I know you’re pissed about this, but we’ll catch him. The kid’s slippery, but he’s been leaving a trail a mile wide since he left the Ministry. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Yes, a matter of time. Meanwhile he runs around freely with a stolen name!” he choked out, turning away from Sirius’ gaze.

He faced the wall of the staircase, leaning heavily against the handrail while taking deep breaths.

“Listen, I want to catch him as badly as you, but you can’t let this get to you or else Shacklebolt might believe you unfit for the case.”

“I know, I know,” he said with displeasure.

Silence fell upon them as he forced his eyes closed in an attempt to clear his head. But, try as he might, hundreds of thoughts continued to run through his mind, and he found himself unable to ignore them.

“Sirius,” he uttered solemnly and with forced calm, eyes snapping open and focusing on the corner of a hanging portrait. “When I broke into Binns’ office…” He trailed off, discomforted by the fluttering in his chest as he relived the moment in his head.

He felt the other man’s interest pique from behind him.

“I couldn’t do a single thing to stop him,” he continued tightly, “but I saw him for just a second before he disappeared in the fire. The others—they weren't exaggerating. It was like looking in a mirror.”

Sirius didn't immediately respond. Then, perceptively, he asked, “You don’t really believe he’s some far distant bastard down the Potter line, do you?”

James paused and turned to face the man.

“No,” he finally acknowledged. His eyebrows pushed together as his mind raced through the same cycle of thoughts since stepping into Binns’ office. “What is the likelihood of two wizards in Great Britain being born with such strong likeness yet no significant relation in any way?”

“Nearly zero,” Sirius stated contemplatively. “Some might say it’s an unexpected coincidence, except coincidences don’t exist. Not in this line of work. Not with magic.”

James only looked away as he continued onward with his steps.

Sirius gazed at him sharply, keeping pace with his brisk walk as they neared the Hospital Wing. “But if not a distant relation, then… a doppelganger?”

James frowned immediately with dismay. “A piss-poor one, if you ask me. If he intended to impersonate me, he should have gotten rid of me first.”

“You know you’re not who I’m talking about,” Sirius uttered delicately, his gaze heavy with expectation against the side of James’ head.

He paused and locked eyes with his friend, who only stared pointedly back, a peculiar expression visible on his face. James swallowed thickly in an attempt to assuage the sudden dryness in his throat as it became abruptly clear what Sirius was working himself up to say.

“I know you don’t want to speak of it again, but you said it earlier yourself. The kid’s running around with a stolen name and face. He’s young enough to pass as a student, which would put him right at the age that Harry—”

James scowled, hands curled painfully into tight fists.

“—would have been. The intent is clear as day.”

“But what would be the point?” He erupted angrily. “Parading around as a dead child? ”

“Beyond provoking anger? Your guess is as good as mine, but this ruse was clearly aimed at you.”

“Well it’s a shite attempt,” he spat, nostrils flaring with barely contained rage. “To presume to know even the slightest what my son would have looked like when he’d never been given the chance to grow!”

Sirius shot him a pained look, before placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

“We’ll find him, Prongs. We won’t stop searching until he’s brought in. With everything that’s happened, the Ministry will be on high alert, and the Order now as well. He can’t run forever.”

James deflated at Sirius’ words, exhausted.

They both stopped in front of the door to the Hospital Wing, allowing James a moment to collect himself.

“When did you get so level-headed, Padfoot?” James asked softly.

“You insult me. You and I both know I’ve always been the most sensible among us,” Sirius responded fondly.

Chapter Text

Harry stumbled forward from the fireplace and fell onto his hands and knees, a plume of ash kicking up around him and triggering a painful coughing fit. The space around him became dark as the light from the flash of green flames died out.

How was it that he was, once again, on the floor covered in dirt and grime? With how many times he had traveled by Floo recently, it was starting to feel painfully routine.

Below him, Harry felt the sharp pieces of the ceramic jar that once held Floo powder dig into his robes, shattered from his fall, the remaining powder scattered on and around him.

His plan had gone off without a hitch—rare it seemed, these days.

He’d made two jumps through the Floo Network—one more than he had intended. The first was to the Leaky Cauldron, and the other to Borgin and Burkes’ in Knockturn Alley. The decision to go to the seedy antique shop was a poor spur-of-the-moment decision because it was the first place he could think of that was likely to fall under the radar, as he recalled the relative ease with which he was able to leave the shop without being detected in the summer before his second year at Hogwarts.

The last minute change in plan had been a consequence of the fear and paranoia he’d suddenly felt as he left Binns’ office.

The man he’d seen…

Strange. Unsettling. Familiar.

But it was impossible.

And it was just as impossible as it had been when he thought he’d seen the man on the shore of the lake back in his third year, as he lay at the edge of unconsciousness, staring up at a magnificent creature of light.

His dad.

‘What’s he done to you?’

‘Well, it’s more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…’

The bully, something deep within him whispered dejectedly.

Who was just about as mean and callous as all of Harry’s tormentors had been.

The wave of pride and affection that he’d always associated with his dad throughout his life didn’t come. Instead, his stomach twisted with misery.

He furiously shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

Because what did it matter how he felt in the end?

James Potter was long dead and gone, and nothing Harry thought of the man would change what he did.

He'd only seen himself across the lake all those years ago, he thought forcefully. And he'd saved himself.

So could that have been him again in Binns’ office? From the future?

His mind spun with the possibility—what it could mean that he’d eventually feel the need to travel back in time to fix things—but above all, he remembered Hermione’s words: ‘Awful things have happened when wizards have meddled with time.’

What awful thing must have occurred in the future to make a later version of him deem it necessary to reveal himself to a past-Harry? To risk the catastrophic results?

Ultimately, it was useless to dwell on, and the world hadn't imploded yet from him seeing his future self again. Understanding would come in the hours (or days? Weeks? Harry had never asked Hermione how far back a Time-Turner could travel) to come when the need presented itself.

For now, he could only focus on what was in front of him.

Harry pushed himself up onto his feet, dusting off the front of his robes, and lit his wand with a quick, “Lumos!”

The tip of his wand lit up with great intensity, forcing him to shield his watering eyes with a hiss. He released the spell and tried again, but this time concentrating hard to control his magic as tightly as possible. His second attempt was much better.

Harry looked around at his newly lit surroundings and nearly fell back in shock.

Wand aloft, he stood in the dim and cold kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place—or, what should have been the kitchen, if not for the thick layer of dust, grime, and cobwebs that had taken over the room, leaving it nearly unrecognizable.

Grimmauld Place had always been a dark, gloomy place, despite the hard work that Harry and his friends had put into cleaning and brightening it up, much to the frustration of Mrs. Weasley. Still, when he had last visited during Christmas, it had been a much livelier place.

Now, it seemed to have deteriorated considerably. In fact, it looked significantly worse than it had when Harry had arrived in the summer.

It looked… abandoned. As if no one had lived there for years.

Frantically, Harry sprinted out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the entrance hall—and, finding only more filthy emptiness, threw the door open to the dining room to find—nothing!

Heart racing, he dashed up the stairs to the next floor, slamming the doors open to each room to check for signs of the Order, of someone, of anyone living in the house. When that proved fruitless, he went up the next flight of stairs, to one of the upper floors. But like the kitchen, the rooms remained unused and untouched. Deserted.

There was no one.

He was alone. 

Harry’s steps slowed in the hallway as he came to the realization. He leaned a hand against the withered wallpaper, catching his breath. What was he to do now?

He made his way to the room he and Ron had shared during their summer here, knowing he’d find nothing useful. One of the twin beds was missing, and the portrait that housed Phineas Nigella Black was empty. He dropped down heavily onto the edge of the musty twin bed, not caring how dirty it made his (already filthy) robes.

Grimmauld Place had been his last hope. If not Hogwarts, where else would he go to find a familiar face? But the state of the house hit him like a fast-moving train. Somehow, despite all that he had seen and heard since waking up in the Ministry, it was this—the dilapidated state of this house—that made him realize just how drastically things had changed. And how absolutely fucked he was.

Because, if nobody recognized him—if Ron and Hermione, his best friends, couldn’t remember the last five years they’d spent together, and Sirius—

He groaned as a rush of queasiness and horror seized him, forcing him to lean his head down between his knees.

—then how was he meant to go on?

The world had turned completely on its head, and he was terrified.

Seconds after they stepped into the Hospital Wing, a greeting at the tip of his tongue, James launched himself to the side as a flash of blue light came hurtling across the room. From nearby, he heard Sirius’ shout in surprise, followed by a loud thump.

James landed with a grunt as he fell heavily onto his right shoulder. Within moments, he felt a rough yank by the front of his robes, lifting him from the floor, and then he was forced to look upon Snape’s snarling face, a wand thrust forcefully beneath his chin.

“I should maim you for your audacity,” Snape snarled, the magic hold tightening severely around the collar of James’ robes, cutting off the air to his windpipe.

“The fuck is your problem?” James choked out with a strangled voice, hands coming up to claw at his collar.

“Let him go, you slimy bastard!” Sirius shouted as he jumped up from the floor, his wand pointed threateningly at the Potions Master.

Snape ignored Sirius’ words and continued to glower at James with a murderous expression. “I should have expected you’d find some way to flaunt your brutish actions to any thick-headed idiot willing to see. So utterly desperate you are for attention.”

“What—the hell—are you—on—about?” James gasped.

“That is enough,” a familiar voice boomed from the doorway behind him. Albus. 

Two sets of feet started forward from Albus’ direction, and from his periphery, James caught sight of a short thin woman in a robed uniform, a steely look on her face.

“Severus! You will let Potter go and return to bed! I will not see anyone come to harm in my Hospital Wing. I did not take the time to heal you just so you could undo my work not ten minutes later,” Madam Poppy Pomfrey said fiercely, before turning her heated gaze on Sirius. “And you, Black. There will be no dueling in the Hospital Wing, or you will leave.”

After a long moment, Snape released his spell with an ugly sneer, dropping James to the floor with little care. He backed up several steps, but remained standing as he continued to glare daggers at both James and Sirius.

Albus turned to Madam Pomfrey, who stood sternly with both her hands on her hips. “Poppy, thank you. I’d like a moment with these gentlemen, if you please.”

The woman nodded, throwing a steely look at the three of them, before slipping out the door.

Sirius came up beside James and helped him to his feet. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” James rasped, rubbing the back of his neck where his robe had cut into.

Sirius turned furiously on Snape, looking just about ready to attack the man. “What are you playing at, you git? James helped you when you were unconscious!”

“I’d hardly call leaving me unconscious in a corridor ‘help’,” Snape said jeeringly.

“You ungrateful—”

“Enough,” Albus said, stepping further into the room. “There will be no more arguments here. What has transpired at the school today was unforeseen and dangerous for us all. We must gather our wits and focus on locating this boy. Severus, I understand you are upset—”

“This boy has access to memories that are not his to see! My memories! There is someone—a traitor—feeding him information,” Snape retorted irately, eyes moving accusingly between James and Sirius.

James bristled at the words.

“You think it’s us? Ha! I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Snivellus, but James and I don’t give a toss about your life,” Sirius spoke disparagingly.

“Only you and Potter—” he spat, “would stand to gain from this, feeding your disgustingly large egos. Certainly you’re both foolish and dim-witted enough to try.”

Sirius opened his mouth furiously to respond, but stopped when Albus raised a hand up to stop him.

The old wizard turned to Snape. “I have little expectation for you to become friends, however, I ask at least for civility. I trust James and Sirius, just as I trust you, and I can assure you they would not betray any of us—particularly on a whim.”

The two shared a long look before the Potions Master looked away with pursed lips.

“Severus,” Albus said after a moment, “What did you uncover about the boy?”

“That boy,” the man snapped immediately, “is unstable. He engages in flights of fancy—believing himself innocent of any crimes in the Ministry. In fact, he deigns himself a heroic rescuer, so convinced was he that the Dark Lord had kidnapped Black.”

James straightened at the words, seeing Sirius jerk up in a similar manner beside him.

“What? Me? You’re saying he was trying to save me?” his friend asked in bewilderment.

“So he’d like us to believe,” Snape said with scorn. “His dear godfather.”

James felt the blood drain from his face, stunned into silence.

“T-that—that’s impossible,” sputtered Sirius.

“He said this to you?” asked Albus seriously.

“Mr. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom,” Snape explained, “had an encounter with the boy in the Gryffindor common room. The boy had clear delusions of a rescue effort that he, along with five other school children, took part in at the Ministry to rescue Black from the Dark Lord.”

Madness. Utter madness.

James struggled to wrap his mind around the man’s words.

“I am not—and—I was away on my mission at Azkaban. Why would anyone possibly think—?” Sirius attempted once more, stumbling over his words.

“Are you incapable of listening? The boy is touched in the head. He lies! The Dark Lord had no plans to be anywhere near the Ministry! The boy has spun a fancy story in his head that he’s convinced himself to be real.”

“So it’s true,” James finally said in a stiff tone, “He’s out there… impersonating Harry.”

Instead of the wave of anger he expected to come at this revelation, he felt only bone-deep exhaustion.

“None of this makes any sense!” Sirius shouted. “Why would he impersonate someone who’s dead?”

“I cannot deign to understand all of the Dark Lord’s decisions, not without the necessary information. However,” Albus began, pointedly meeting Sirius’ eyes, “he is highly skilled at manipulation and coercion. He could have toyed with the boy’s mind and driven him to believe his godfather was in danger to ensure his cooperation.”

“I’m not his godfather!” Sirius yelled angrily.

“No, but Sirius Black was found in the Ministry.”

James looked up, turning to Albus in surprise.

“The body?” James asked. “So you believe the imposter was trying to save him, not kill him?”

“Yes,” the old man replied calmly.

He could only stare at the Headmaster with heavy skepticism. But still, it hardly made any sense because that would mean…

“You think he truly believes he’s Harry,” he said with a dawning realization.

“Yes,” Albus repeated gently.

If that were true, then was the imposter—the boy—indoctrinated by Voldemort to believe he was Harry Potter? Was this all an elaborate mind game for the man’s sick pleasure? He wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to get a kick out of twisting a person’s mind in such a way, but it hardly seemed a good use of his time. Why would the Dark Lord even care to target James at this point? Revenge for his downfall?

“And what about Sirius?” He shot his best friend a look. “The corpse, I mean.”

“That remains in question,” Albus uttered. “Kingsley will have the body re-examined. If the results remain the same, we have not yet ruled out the possibility of time travel, or—”

And here, the old wizard went quiet with a soft ‘hm’, getting lost in his thoughts.

It was not an idea James had considered, time travel, but it didn’t reassure him in any way. If time travel were the cause, that could only mean that his best friend would be dead in a number of years. The corpse had looked older, but it was difficult to tell with how gaunt and weary the body had been. With the high levels of stress the man had no doubt experienced prior to his death, he was likely aged beyond his years.

James felt a dull pounding take form in his head. This was all too much to process in a single day.

“And what of the memories that you saw?” Albus asked after he pulled out of his deep musing.

“His mind,” Snape began brusquely, “was a jumbled, unprotected mess, but I glimpsed two memories. The first—one of my own. It… occurred when I was still a student, after the O.W.L. exam for Defense Against the Dark Arts, near the lake—”

James tried to rack his brain as the man continued to describe the memory. An incident between the three of them at the lake? It was so long ago that he struggled to remember that particular day. But wait—and slowly, it dawned on him exactly which memory Snape was alluding to.

A day that he’d hardly call significant in any way, for either him or Sirius, but he recalled it if only for one reason:

‘It was one of the worst days of my life,’ eighteen-year-old Lily remarked unhappily. ‘You were horrible to him, and he didn’t deserve it.’

‘But he was just as terrible to you too!’ James stubbornly exclaimed.

‘Maybe, but I lost my oldest friend that day. We’d been having a rough time for a while, but I could see he was still the same boy I always knew him to be when we were together. So what happened between us that day should have stayed between us. I didn’t need you to defend me.’

‘Of course not, Lily. I was just a jealous berk desperately trying all the wrong ways to impress you.’

That incident had held importance for Lily, whose close and long friendship with Snape deteriorated almost completely after that day.

It was little wonder why the man blamed them for passing the memory along.

James blinked as Sirius began to speak, “But there were loads of people there that day. It could have been any one of them! Or Pettigrew, the filthy rat. He’s certainly got the track record for being a traitorous scumbag!”

Some time during his recount of the memory, Snape had become flush with anger, and he seemed to grow only more aggrieved when Sirius spoke.

“He makes an excellent point,” Albus interrupted, flashing a look at the Potions Master. “The boy could have obtained that memory from any of the former students who were present that day.”

Snape looked ready to argue the old man’s words, but remained silent as a flash of bitterness lined his face.

Instead, James asked, “But for what reason? This memory holds no secrets nor any significance to an outsider.”

“Not obviously, no. But the person he received the memory from believed it to be of importance,” Albus responded.

“Then perhaps we need to speak with all of the former students who were there,” he concluded.

“It would be a waste of time,” Sirius argued. “There’s no need to wonder—it was Pettigrew! He’d race to share all the information in that useless head of his just for the chance to grovel at his Master’s feet.”

“Or perhaps,” Snape finally snapped, “it was that feral wolf—”

“You shut up about him!” Sirius yelled indignantly. “Remus would never betray us! He’s twice the man you could ever hope to be!”

“Gentleman,” Albus stated loudly with a disapproving stare. “Remus is a good man. You know this, Severus. There is far more cause to believe Pettigrew was responsible, though it will be difficult to confirm. He has not strayed far from Lord Voldemort’s side since his return.”

Snape paled at that, his body visibly tensing, drawing the old man’s attention.

“The second memory,” the dour man began urgently. “It was a Dark ritual—of the foulest kind. It required blood, forcibly taken from an enemy.”

“Blood magic,” the Headmaster said, eyebrows furrowed. “Did you discern its purpose?”

Snape appeared almost sick. “A resurrection. A vile creature born from the depths of a cauldron. At first I believed it to be a beast, but it was a man.”

“A man? Resurrected from the dead?” James asked skeptically.

“He did not look to be fully human. He appeared to be a half-breed snake,” the dour man stated stiffly, and he seemed to brace himself for his next words: “With red eyes.”

James inhaled sharply as Sirius immediately exclaimed, “You don’t mean—?”

“Are you certain?” Albus asked, a look of grave concern on his face.

“There is only one man with those eyes, and only one who has ever been brought back from the dead,” Snape burst out sharply. “Only a select few from the Dark Lord’s inner circle were present during his resurrection. I know little of what occurred that evening.”

The circumstances of Voldemort’s return the previous year had been a tightly kept secret, and not even Snape, who had once been one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted men, had been privy to the details. One could make a reasonable guess however, after the Philosopher’s Stone had gone missing from Hogwarts last year. James assumed the Dark Lord had used it to gain his much desired immortality.

Once resurrected, Voldemort had been quick to gather his Death Eaters around him, and had doled harsh judgment on those who abandoned him after his apparent defeat.

Snape, to his misfortune, had been one of them.

“Many years ago, dear Nicolas described the steps for the Elixir of Life to me,” the Headmaster stated. “It does not rely on the blood of another.”

“And yet,” Snape said, “I am certain. It could be no other. His appearance aside, I recognized his voice, his manner of speech, and—”

He paused as a new thought seemed to come to him, “Pettigrew. It was he who carried out the ritual!”

James was dumbstruck by the implication of their words. “Do you mean to say Voldemort found another way? Separate from the Stone?”

“But why steal the Philosopher’s Stone if he had no plans to use it?” Sirius asked with befuddlement.

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” Albus explained, “is known for its ability to grant its user immortality, but what is less spoken of is its potential to restore a physical body. I suspected that when Voldemort came after the Stone, that this would be his immediate use for it. I had always believed the Elixir of Life would suffice to create a body, however, Nicolas never had need for that use of the Stone, and so he rarely spoke on it. It is not unreasonable to believe that… more was needed.”

“And you believe this Dark ritual Voldemort performed was the key?” James questioned.

Albus only frowned, neither confirming nor denying it.

“Even if this were true, why bother to conceal his true appearance? Voldemort doesn’t strike me as one to care particularly about his looks,” James continued.

“Fear, perhaps. The First War was not so long ago. No one will have forgotten his face and the widespread fear it incited.”

Voldemort had been resurrected a year ago now to little fanfare and attention. He had yet to reveal himself to the world at large, choosing instead to operate in the shadows. However, Snape had confirmed early on that the Dark Lord had returned looking much the same as he had before his downfall, as if he had never left and his reign of terror never ended. The Order had quickly assembled after that, working to thwart the Dark wizard’s recruitment efforts across the world, one of his greater priorities since returning.

However, with Voldemort taking a more covert approach, his movements remained harder to track, though whispers and rumors remained abound. The man was operating with far greater care, keeping even his closest Death Eaters at arm’s length and left in the dark about his larger plans. Though, there was one Death Eater in particular who remained in close proximity with the Dark Lord, if not for his usefulness as an obedient servant, then certainly for his willingness to do just about anything to save his own filthy skin…

“It was Pettigrew’s then,” he spoke up with realization. “The memories. He was present for both of them.”

“No,” Snape responded after a long moment. “It was the boy’s. The Dark Lord bid him to bow… to bow to death.”

Chapter Text

Harry jerked awake when he heard the loud clattering of his wand against the floor as it broke the heavy silence in the room. He was slumped awkwardly over on his side against dusty covers, his legs stretched out off the side of the bed.

He must have fallen asleep for some time, as he raised his head to look towards the single window in the room, glancing out the crack between the curtains at the sliver of dark orange from outdoors. Not enough, he thought, because he felt his exhaustion weigh him down like a heavy anchor. He hadn’t slept properly in days, except for the unconsciousness he experienced at the Department of Mysteries and then the little sleep he’d gotten outside in the alleyway near Honeydukes (had it just been earlier that day?). In fact, Harry thought, smoothing his hand on the dirty bed covers, he struggled to remember the last time he’d laid down on a proper bed.

Harry felt the uncomfortable press of something against his side, and finally pushed himself up into a seated position to relieve the pressure. He rummaged around his robe pocket, and his hand brushed against a smooth object.

Pulling it out in front of him, Harry’s eyes widened minutely when he set his gaze upon it.

The prophecy orb.

In his haste to escape his pursuers, he’d pushed this to the back of his mind and forgotten that he'd gained something from his time in the Ministry. If nothing else, at least he’d gotten this out of the madness of the past day.

He stared down at it, the glass sphere hardly bigger than a Snitch, mesmerizing blueish-gray mist swirling endlessly within it.

It was this—this tiny object that fit so easily into the palm of his hand—that had triggered all of the events that had occurred this past year. His endless dreams of a corridor leading to a single black door, the attack on Mr. Weasley, the torturous Occlumency lessons, the Ministry—

A light scuffing noise behind him had him tensing, and he quickly scooped his wand up from the floor before ducking low and twisting his body so he properly faced the door, pointing his wand defensively at the threat. (When had the lamps in the room come on? He’d been sitting in near darkness before he’d nodded off.) He held the orb tightly in his other hand.

Just as quickly as he had moved, a small figure ducked behind the short dresser near the door, its small stature perfectly hidden behind the smooth wood except for two pointy ears.

Two familiar pointy ears.

Harry blinked. “Kreacher?”

Silence. The two ears remained stock-still.

“Kreacher,” he repeated with a sigh, lowering his wand. “Come out now. I’m not going to curse you. I thought you were an enemy.”

The elf did not come out, though Harry could clearly hear his muttering, “There’s a boy here, Kreacher doesn’t know his name, what is he doing, Kreacher doesn’t know…”

Harry nearly rolled his eyes at the house-elf’s antics.

“It’s me, Harry. Harry Potter,” he said pointedly, though he knew it would be futile.

Kreacher did not respond to him, though he continued speaking to himself in a furious undertone, “A Potter? A nasty blood traitor he is, oh if my Mistress could see the filth in her house…”

As with everyone else, Kreacher did not seem to recognize him. This thought passed through his mind with surprising bitterness.

And how sad was that? He’d barely tolerated Kreacher throughout the summer when he had spent most of his time in Grimmauld Place. The elf had been very strange (‘Nutter!’ Ron said. ‘Never met one like him.’) and mostly harmless, however his tendency to make hateful comments towards his friends, no matter how quietly spoken, incited a general feeling of dislike from Harry.

Now, however, he was simultaneously relieved to see him and disappointed that the house-elf had forgotten him. After all the running he had done—through the Department of Mysteries, through Hogsmeade, and then through Hogwarts, he wouldn’t have minded seeing a—not friendly face, per se, because no one who’d ever met Kreacher would think friendliness as a trait that the miserable elf possessed, but perhaps a familiar one that lacked offense. Certainly it was much easier to look upon his face and not feel the loss of shared memories, as he did with Ron and Hermione.

‘CRACK!’

Harry flinched at the sudden noise, and realized half a second later that Kreacher’s pointed ears had vanished from behind the dresser.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Get back here!”

The house-elf did not return at his behest. He stood up from the ground, knowing that Kreacher had likely disappeared somewhere else in the house.

He quickly left the bedroom, going through each room and searching for the house-elf. He had questions, and it seemed Kreacher was the only one here who could answer them.

But, if he were being really honest, Harry was feeling rather lonely, a somewhat foreign experience for him. He’d never had issues with being on his own before, having grown up largely alone for the first ten years of his life. In fact, he’d preferred it when he was younger, knowing that being without company was the only way he was assured safety from the anger and ridicule of others. But since the Ministry, he’d felt an oppressive loneliness press down on his heart as he realized that, with each attempt to reach out to his friends, his already short list of people he could turn to had dwindled down to zero. Perhaps it was knowing—and he swallowed thickly at this thought—that he didn’t have anyone to turn to that had bred this madness in him to seek out Kreacher’s presence.

His search, unfortunately, was for naught. Harry checked all of the rooms that he knew Kreacher tended to lurk in, including the attic and his den beneath the boiler, but there were no signs of the house-elf’s presence. The rooms appeared so untouched and so quiet that Harry almost began to question if he’d imagined Kreacher’s presence in the first place.

With a sigh, Harry shut the door to the boiler and stood up, as he glanced around the dark kitchen. At that moment, almost knowingly, his stomach made a low rumble, reminding him that he had not eaten since… well, since before his History of Magic exam. That must have been about two days ago now, he realized with a jolt.

Half-heartedly (and against his better judgment), he rummaged through the pantry and cabinets in the kitchen in an attempt to find something to eat. It was almost guaranteed that anything he found would be inedible, but he made a sweep of the room anyway. As he suspected, there was nothing except an old box of Liquorice Wands and a few bottles of Firewhisky.

Looking at the Liquorice Wands, however, he remembered the sweets he had bought at Honeydukes earlier that day. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the Chocolate Frog and made his way to the dining room.

Harry dropped into one of the rickety seats at the dining table, and fully emptied his pockets, placing all his possessions on the large table in front of him.

Besides his wand, he had the Chocolate Frog, a few Sugar Quills, some loose change, the prophecy orb, and…

He paused as he stared down at the wooden item held in his grip. His hands began to tremble as he recognized what it was.

Sirius’ penknife.

Harry had taken it with him when grabbing items from his dormitory because he’d thought it would come in handy. He was right, for the most part—it had been extremely useful when breaking into Umbridge’s office. But, when he had attempted to use it on one of the locked doors at the Department of Mysteries, the blade had fully melted.

There were still several attachments on the knife that were completely intact, but still, Harry could not stop the wave of despair that he felt wash over him as he looked down at it.

How could he have been so careless? This knife was special, a gift. What would Sirius think—

His head began to throb, followed by a horrible rush of nausea, and he released the knife to wrap his arms around his stomach. The penknife clattered loudly against the table. He curled forward and felt his forehead thump against the surface of the table, allowing the coolness of it to relax him. Slowly, the nausea subsided.

Maybe… maybe his hunger and exhaustion were finally getting to him.

Harry reached for the Chocolate Frog and removed it from its box. He grabbed hold of the Frog before it could hop away and stuffed half of it in his mouth.

As he munched on the chocolate, he removed the card inside the box and looked curiously down at the wizard displayed.

HIPPOCRATES SMETHWYCK

The name was familiar, though Harry couldn’t place the face of the elderly wizard depicted on the card. Smethwyck was a balding man with short silvery hair and a thin face. He was dressed in white Healer’s robes with a pair of small rectangular glasses resting on the bridge of his long nose. His face was set in a grim expression.

Harry flipped the card over and read the short description printed on the back with mild interest.

One of the most renowned Healers of this century, Hippocrates Smethwyck is best known for his work in curing toxins, creating the first broad-spectrum antidote for common snake and spider venoms in 1954. Most recently, he is credited for his identification and extensive research into the fatal Muggle-Born disease, one of the most dangerous illnesses of this generation.

Antidote for common snake and spider venoms…

Smethwyck was the wizard who healed Mr. Weasley after his attack in the Ministry, he realized, recalling the wizard’s name on the placard he’d seen during his visit to St. Mungo’s.

That last bit though… He hadn’t heard of this Muggle-Born disease before. Harry hardly knew much regarding magical diseases beyond the very basics, but surely he’d have heard about “one of the most dangerous illnesses of this generation”?

And its name—his thoughts went worryingly to Hermione. He’d never thought much on the physical differences between Purebloods and Muggleborns, but surely it wasn’t enough that a fatal disease only affecting Muggleborns developed?

After looking over the card once more, lost mostly in thought, Harry put the card down. He grabbed a Sugar Quill, making quick work of it before reaching for a second, leaving the last one untouched when he began to feel sick from the sugar.

His head was a little clearer now that he’d eaten something, though if his aching stomach was indication, it was nowhere near enough. He was still ravenously hungry. He wet his lips, suddenly aware of how dry they were as well.

But Harry didn’t dare try any of the faucets in the rooms, not trusting the pipes to have held up if they were anything like the rest of the house.

Glancing about, he spotted an old brass candlestick towards the center of the table. It would have to do. He swished his wand to transfigure the candlestick into a cup, but then, unexpectedly, he felt his magic sputter and give out partway through, leaving the item only half transfigured.

Harry stared at it uncomprehendingly.

He attempted it again, focusing on accessing the well of magic from deep within him. But this time, his magic went out even quicker.

This is different, he thought worryingly. Different from the large bursts of magic he was experiencing before. At the Department of Mysteries and at Hogwarts, his spells had come easily—so easily that he overcame his opponents by sheer magical power. Now, it was almost like he was attempting to use the incorrect wand. If not for the fact that he was using the correct one.

Heart racing, Harry switched tactics and tried a Water-Making Spell instead.

Nothing.

The Summoning Charm.

Nothing.

What in Godric’s name was happening?

In desperation, he performed a Levitation Charm—one of the easiest spells he could think of—but when nothing happened, he began to panic.

What the hell was going on with his magic?

With a frenzy, he threw spell after spell at the wall across from him, trying desperately to call forth his magical power.

Finally, as if in response to his distress, Harry felt a sudden and wild surge of magic rise from beneath his skin, and everything in the room lifted from the ground, hovering about half a meter in the air.

Mouth hung open, he was left feeling confused and unsure, but more than anything, he felt overwhelming relief. It was nowhere near normal, but he still had his magic.

Carefully, Harry lowered the objects until they gently touched the ground.

But what had changed? Since the Ministry, his magic had been off—coming out in large and barely controlled bursts. While inconvenient, it had worked to his advantage when dueling. Now, he seemed to have the opposite problem.

However, perhaps it was premature to assume a pattern—he’d only used spells on two occasions since coming to Grimmauld Place, and the first time, he’d succeeded in lighting his wand after multiple attempts.

Was it Grimmauld Place affecting his magic? With how dilapidated and abandoned the house was, he was skeptical.

Perhaps what he needed to do was scour the books in the Black family library. There had to be a way to fix this, whatever it was. If he could only remember exactly what had happened to him (what had been done to him) when he’d been out cold in the Department of Mysteries.

But that was for later, Harry thought, as his stomach made another low rumble.

He needed food and water.

With the amount of attention he’d garnered these last two days, it would be unwise of him to continue running about. Harry had planned to lay low for a little while, until he could at least figure out what his next steps were.

But, it seemed that plan was not to be. If there was nothing for him to eat or drink here, then he’d have to get it from outside.

It would be stupid and reckless to leave. But he needed real sustenance soon. Sweets could only hold him over for so long.

Luckily, Grimmauld Place was located in a Muggle neighborhood. It’d be much easier to get something from a Muggle shop while remaining undetected by the Ministry.

Harry stuffed all his possessions back into his pockets as he stood to leave. With any luck, he’d find a shop nearby that was open.

He took another moment to lament the fact that he didn’t have his Invisibility Cloak with him. But there was nothing that could be done now.

His best option was to cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself. The sun would have set by now, so with any luck, the spell would allow him to blend in well in the dark. If only he could get it to work.

Apprehensively, Harry gripped his wand and cast the spell, putting every bit of his concentration into it. With a silent sigh of relief, he felt the strong, familiar pull of magic from within him. However, rather than camouflage his body by making it take on the color and texture of his surroundings, as it was meant to do, sparks flew from his wand and he saw his hands and arms disappear from view.

Shocked, Harry nearly dropped his now invisible wand. Looking down, he saw that his entire body had gone completely transparent. It was as if he was wearing his Invisibility Cloak.

He continued to inspect his body with astonishment and tried to check his reflection against the glass door of a cabinet along the walls. His body was completely gone.

Perhaps not his intention, but he could work with this.

He tip-toed delicately down the main hallway past the moth-eaten velvet curtains that covered Walburga Black’s painting, remaining as silent as possible to avoid waking her up.

Once the front door shut behind him, Harry looked out at his dark surroundings. There were no people in the vicinity. Several streetlamps stood tall along the pavement, stretching out towards the left and right. With no map and no visible indication of where to go, he decided to turn left, hoping it would lead him to a shop.

After traveling down three long streets with no signs of any businesses, he started to wonder if he should turn back. But it was then that he started to see more people milling about outside. With surety, he continued walking along the pavement, until he finally spotted several shops with “OPEN” signs displayed at the windows.

Harry walked past the first row of shops, taking short glances into the windows and noting all the people shopping. Finally, he sidled up to the window of a mid-sized supermarket, looking through the large window to observe the inside. It was brightly lit with multiple sections stocked full of food. More importantly however, there were at least ten Muggles browsing along the aisles. Perfect.

With no Muggle cash and no way of converting his meager handful of wizarding money, he supposed taking the food would be his best option.

It had been a while since he’d had to resort to stealing, not since the summer of ’94, before his aunt and uncle learned he had a mass-murdering godfather who was at large. Since then, they treated him marginally better out of fear, more often than not ignoring his existence, but at least he got fed meals somewhat regularly. If one could call leftover scraps meals, that is.

Following quickly after a couple walking through the automatic doors, Harry made his way towards the bread section and, instinctively glancing around for onlookers, grabbed a fresh loaf, stuffing it inside his large robe pockets. As he suspected, the loaf vanished from view once covered by his robe.

It came as easy to him as breathing—easier even, because of magic. As a child, he’d had only his small size and his wits to rely on to obtain the food he so desperately hungered for, and he’d been good at it. But he was never this good, to steal this many items at one time, though it was not for lack of trying. 

With the home life that he had, he was taught rather early as a child, one of life's harshest lessons: how to provide for oneself by any means necessary.

Harry remembered quite vividly when he’d learned that he was to attend St. Grogory’s Primary School with his cousin Dudley, shortly after his fifth birthday. He’d been wary at the thought of being around new people, but he was cautiously optimistic at the idea of school and looked forward to the reprieve from his family.

That is, until he was hit hard with the realization that his aunt had not bothered to pack a lunch for him, and she did not intend to do so for the foreseeable future. At least when he was at home, Harry was usually given a portion of the Dursley’s meals. But with his days suddenly spent entirely at school, he was left either to scrounge up his own food, somehow, or to starve.

At that age, Harry could hardly think of a proper solution that didn’t involve begging others for food. But Aunt Petunia had strictly pressed it upon him that he was not to bother or complain to teachers, or to speak of his home life with the Dursleys.

Surprisingly however, he’d found rather quickly that not every student was as mean as Dudley, so he attempted to ask his peers—politely, as Aunt Petunia had drilled into him—for food. Astonishingly, it worked, and Harry was alight with happiness that perhaps he’d finally made friends.

But, within a few short weeks of the term, Dudley had discovered his love for terrorizing others, particularly him, which scared all of the other children from hanging around him.

Bereft, and left with no other options, Harry had watched miserably from a distance as the others ate their meals. But then, after three long days of surviving on just miniscule breakfasts and dinners, he came upon one of his peers throwing half of a ham sandwich away in the bin. Desperate, Harry walked up to the bin after the other children left to play, reaching into it and pulling out the intact piece of sandwich. He scarfed it down with little thought or hesitation.

After that, he spent most of the lunch hour every day searching for food, rummaging through bins around the school and saving everything that looked halfway decent. None of the adults at the school ever seemed to notice him—at least, not at first—but when one of them made a comment to Aunt Petunia about Harry’s foul odor, her face turned a dark red, and the look she threw in his direction made him tremble where he stood. When they got home, she snapped at him, loud and angry, using long words he didn’t understand at the time. She then forcefully scrubbed him down in the bath, despite Harry’s terrified yelps of pain.

Petrified, he didn’t dare go near the bins again, overcome with fear and paranoia that his teachers would report him to his aunt again.

His hand tightened harshly around the apple he had grabbed, a frown marring his face. The year following that incident had been a long and hellish one, filled with periods of grave desperation and crushing despondency.

Because it was not until he was about six or seven, more than a year after he’d been reported on, that he came upon a life-changing solution—one that ensured his continued survival.

Like a strange, slow-moving dream, the memory came to him of that day:

Harry ambled alone down the busy street, quietly observing the building fronts in interest as he trekked behind a group of older women. The overcast sky was a reflection of his mood after a long and miserable school day enduring Dudley’s new favorite game, Harry Hunting. The moment his class had been dismissed for the day, he had immediately set off on his own, not bothering to wait around for his aunt and uncle. They would not come. With Dudley frequently staying for after-school programs or heading over to Piers Polkiss’ house to play, Harry was, more or less, left to manage on his own.

The first time Dudley went to Piers’ house, Harry had waited around the school for his usual pick-up, but after two long hours with no sign of Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon, he quickly realized that he’d have to find his own way home on those days.  

Luckily for him, he remembered well the route Uncle Vernon took to get them to school every day, and so he was not particularly concerned about getting lost that first time. In fact, it was during that first walk home that he made an eye-opening discovery: streets full of corner shops and supermarkets, where hundreds of different kinds of foods were sold that Harry had never seen, let alone tasted.

He walked by them for weeks, looking hopefully through the windows each day. He did the same now, cupping his hands over his eyes and pressing his face and body against the glass. With a curious gaze, he watched a young girl pick up a large chocolate bar, an older man drop a whole chicken into his basket, and finally, a woman with a trolley holding what must have been every item under the sun!

Stepping back, Harry almost continued on his way. But then, his stomach rumbled with overwhelming hunger, and before he knew it, he impulsively walked in, following closely behind an elderly couple. Aunt Petunia had begrudgingly taken him to a corner shop once or twice over the years when Mrs. Figg had been too busy to watch him. She’d forbidden him from leaving her side or from touching anything, but he remembered well the wonder of it all.

Harry glanced around the supermarket with unfettered awe, the sights and smells overwhelming his senses from every direction.

There was just so much to see, so much to smell and to touch! He didn't know where to look. There was candy and crisps and juice and—

He shivered, as he registered the number of people around him. Just as quickly as he had been filled with wonder, the feeling vanished, and he realized how exposed and out of place he felt. In a panic, he ducked behind a small shelf before rushing down an empty aisle.

Harry continued through the shop at a brisk pace, but then, he caught a whiff of something—something magnificent and mouth-watering.

Glancing nervously about, but filled with curiosity, Harry followed his nose until he found the section exuding the enticing smell.

Bread.

He’d never had bread that smelled that good.

‘You dare steal from us, you ungrateful brat? You should be glad we haven’t thrown you out like the street rat that you are!’ Uncle Vernon’s voice boomed loudly in his head—words he’d shouted at a five-year-old Harry after school when he’d tried to take food from the fridge.

But then his stomach made a painful growl, and before he could stop himself, he grabbed a fresh loaf of bread, stuffing it deep inside his baggy pants and holding it tightly against his side with his arm.

Heart racing, he curled into himself instinctively, making himself as small as possible. But when no immediate punishment came, Harry felt immense relief, along with another rare feeling—confidence.

Empowered, he reached forward for another and another, until—

‘Hey! You stop right there, kid!’ A hand came up from behind him and latched onto his arm, turning him roughly around in one swoop.

‘I saw what you took there. Give it back, now.’ A tall man with a thin mustache looked sternly down at him, a displeased frown on his face.

Stomach sinking, Harry shakily removed two loaves from under his clothes, passing it to the man’s outstretched hand. He was sure he would throw up right then and there. But then when he thought to go for the third, he hesitated.

‘These aren’t free, you know. If it were, just about everything would be gone by now, wouldn’t it?’ The man started speaking before Harry could reach back into his pants. ‘If you want something, come back with your parents and they’ll buy it for you.’

The man dragged him to the door, hand still latched firmly on his upper arm.

‘I’ll let you go this one time, but I won’t be so kind if you do this again. I don’t want to see you back here unless you’re with an adult, alright kid?’

With his heart in his throat, Harry nodded frantically in agreement before scurrying away, making a mad dash in the direction of his house. He didn’t stop until he was four streets away, hiding behind a tree in the park. He took a short moment to catch his breath and to calm his rapidly beating heart before pulling out the mushed loaf of bread to stare at it in awe.

A smile grew on his face.

He never did return to that supermarket, but it became the first of many trips to the shops for him.

He didn’t get caught again.

Now, at fifteen, Harry cared little if anyone or anything spotted him, not with magic protecting him. A bystander would think they’d gone mad. And what would a camera capture—a moving piece of bread that disappeared into thin air? They’d think the camera was malfunctioning, surely.

But oh, how easy it all was with magic!

Harry continued walking smoothly down the various aisles, grabbing packs of cured meats, cheese, fruit, and canned foods that disappeared into his pockets. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt the bulge and weight of the items continue to increase in his pockets until he could no longer stuff anything else inside them.

Finally, he grabbed two large jugs of water, holding one under each arm, covering them effectively under his robe.

He walked out the door as easily as he came.

On his way back to Grimmauld Place, Harry began to feel dizzy and weak, his hunger having reached its peak. But it was a result of this dizziness that he did something he’d never done before, as he walked through the entrance of the house.

He tripped on the umbrella stand.

With a ‘whoosh,’ he heard the curtains in front of Walburga Black’s portrait open, and she began to screech loudly into the room, causing Harry to flinch at the unexpected noise.

“Who are you? No family of mine, if your hair is any indication!”

It seemed he was no longer invisible.

The portrait continued: “An intruder, a thief! Stealing from my noble home? Begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers—”

Harry placed the jugs of water hastily on the floor and ran over to the portrait. With several firm tugs, the curtains slid over the screaming woman. Though fully concealed, her piercing yells continued for another minute or two until, finally, there was silence.

With a sigh, he unloaded his food onto the dining table and dropped heavily into a seat. He immediately started in on the bread and meat, stuffing mouthfuls of it with his hands. Slowly, he began to feel re-energized, the dizziness fading away.

He could probably survive a little more than a week on the amount of food he’d taken, Harry thought, looking at his haul. If he really rationed it out, that is. It would be wise not to make unnecessary trips outdoors if he didn’t need to.

Perhaps he could convince Kreacher to help, once he located him. Surely the elf must be starving for food—

Harry stopped mid-chew as a thought came to him.

How was Kreacher surviving in this house when there was no food or water to be found? He recalled finding scraps of food in Kreacher’s den during Christmas, but that’d likely come from the Order.

But then what had he done during those ten years after Walburga Black had died and before the Order had occupied the house? Was Kreacher venturing out to get food for himself?

From what he’d seen of Kreacher’s deep attachment to his mistress’ old portrait and the house, he didn’t think it was likely, not unless he’d been commanded to by a living Black.

It’s fine, he thought. He’s survived just fine on his own.

But his gut twisted tightly with guilt.

Because he knew what it felt to starve for days on end, weakness overtaking and overwhelming his weary body. He knew the desperation and the delirium that captured the mind, stealing any form of rational thought. He knew the despair of realizing that no one cared—

Harry stood up swiftly from his seat and grabbed his unfinished loaf, a wedge of cheese, and a piece of fruit. He headed down to Kreacher’s den below the boiler, and gently placed the food on the dirty rags. He took one last glance around the small space, hesitating for a moment, before firmly shutting the door.

Feeling the knot in his stomach ease, Harry returned to the dining room, pulling his chair back to return to his meal.

But before he could lower himself into his seat, he heard a loud thump from the floor above him.

Kreacher?

He pulled his wand out, wary. The house-elf was unnaturally quiet most days, but perhaps Walburga Black’s screeches had disturbed whatever he’d been up to.

Either way, it would be foolish of him not to check.

Harry pushed the seat back under the table, and made his way towards the stairs.

Chapter Text

Lily leaned forward and poured the vial of dark liquid into the cauldron in front of her, eyeing it critically as the contents began to lighten in color.

The half vial of Horklump juice will blanch the potion to a pale blue, she recited silently in her head. Next, add the unicorn hairs and the stewed Mandrake.

In quick succession, she dropped in three long white hairs, then she emptied a large wooden bowl holding the chopped up Mandrake root.

Lily reached for her wand beside her and stirred the potion clockwise six times. Slowly, the pale blue darkened as the ingredients slowly melded into one.

Four drops of salamander blood.

She tipped a second vial over the cauldron, counting carefully as each drop fell. The potion sizzled loudly when the drops made contact with its surface. Again, she lightly stirred it with her wand, this time moving it eight times counterclockwise.

Lily watched the potion as it simmered for two minutes, the flame below the cauldron faintly flickering.

Now, the Chizpurfle fangs…

She lifted a much smaller bowl and carefully poured the powdered fangs into the potion, keenly observing as the mixture began to lightly bubble.

A strong earthy smell arose from it, carrying with it a familiar comfort that she associated strongly with her days at Hogwarts, when she was still a girl of much simpler times. It brought rise to old memories of the old beech tree next to the lake, a spot she frequented often with friends as they sought to escape the cool darkness of the castle.

‘Hey, love birds!’

Lily looked up at the words, cut off mid-sentence by the loud call from behind her. She craned her head back from her sprawled position on the lawn, seeing a familiar pair of shoes marching towards them. From beside her, James maintained his grip on her hand as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, glancing over his shoulder as the owner of the voice stepped up behind them.

From above, the bright afternoon sun shone down upon them through the clear blue sky, warming the school grounds and engulfing them in a blanket of comforting heat. The late spring breeze blew gently around them, creating ripples across patches of fresh grass, swirling leaves and pollen into the crisp air.

Much like they’d done for the last several weeks, she and James had stolen away from the chaos of the castle, seeking the quiet and solitude afforded to them by the outdoors. They had settled down on Lily’s favorite spot of grass under the old beech tree, content to bask in each other’s presence in silence as they stared up at the white clouds.

That is, until one determined and bored Sirius Black inevitably trailed after them.

‘I’d apologize for interrupting your date, except Moony tried to talk me into studying History of Magic with him again, and if I have to read about another wizard backstabbing a goblin, I’ll commit murder. Of myself. And Moony,’ Sirius bemoaned as he flung himself onto the grass beside James, throwing his left arm dramatically over his eyes in wary defeat.

‘Careful, Padfoot. That sounds like a confession,’ James uttered with a teasing smile. He pushed the frames of his glasses up his nose, as he settled once more onto his back.

‘If it spares me from Moony’s manic studying, I’ll turn myself in to the Dementors now.’

Lily rolled her eyes at his dramatics, though her mouth tilted up in amusement at the boy’s suffering form. ‘Remus is being smart. N.E.W.T.s are only a few weeks away, so we haven’t got much time left to prepare.’

‘Evans, please,’ Sirius groaned. ‘I only just escaped from his nagging. I didn’t come here to endure more.’

‘No,’ James stated with a light snort, ‘you’ve come here to whinge about it instead.’

Sirius sniffed indignantly and crossed his arms across his chest. ‘I’ll have you know, I came here specifically to share the most exciting bit of news with you, my dearest and oldest friend. But if you’re going to be ungrateful, then perhaps I’ll just be on my way.’ He moved as if to stand.

‘Sit down, you melodramatic oaf,’ James remarked with a hard yank on Sirius’ robes. ‘And tell me what you know.’

‘Well, if you insist.’ Sirius smirked as he leaned back and stretched out into a lazy recline. ‘I was heading my way here when I heard talk of our beloved headmaster’s last minute plans to take leave from the castle this weekend.’

‘No way!’ James sat up in shock. ‘For what reason?’

‘Official Ministry business, from what I could tell,’ the other boy responded. ‘Seemed rather dire, so he’s likely to be held up for several days, which means—’

‘Our plans are a definite go!’ James said enthusiastically. ‘This couldn’t have worked out any better!’

Lily sighed as she pushed herself up, tucking her red hair behind her ears. ‘That’s hardly exciting news. Professor Dumbledore’s presence at Hogwarts wouldn’t have changed your plans at all.’

‘Maybe not, but it’ll surely make things easier!’

‘Some Head Boy you are,’ Lily huffed. ‘I should report you to the Headmaster.’

‘But you won’t,’ James asserted confidently. The wicked smirk on his face belied the fondness coloring his tone as he knocked his shoulder gently against hers.

Lily ignored him. ‘We could have just as much fun here at the school—’

Sirius made a loud noise in disagreement.

‘—and you know as well as I that Professor Dumbledore’s absence from the castle means the other professors will be even more vigilant about students sneaking out of bed.’

‘They’ll certainly try, but none of them are as freakishly good at sniffing out trouble as Dumbledore. We’ll be fine,’ Sirius voiced with a shrug.

Lily continued as if uninterrupted, ‘And if by some miracle we don’t get caught leaving or entering the castle, what makes you think Madam Rosmerta would go along with any of this? Maybe the two of you are her “favorite students,” as you say, but you’re mad if you think she’d help you break school rules.’

‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve got it handled,’ James responded, cockiness bolstering his words. ‘I just have to work my usual charm and it’ll be impossible to say no to my ravishingly handsome fa—ow! Lily—my shoulder—’

‘You’re right, I can hardly resist,’ she said dryly, retracting her fist from where she’d punched him.

‘Where’s your sense of adventure, Evans?’ Sirius asked her tauntingly. ‘Sneaking out is half the fun. Our sweet baby James here is finally reaching the age of majority, so how could we not go out to a pub to celebrate?’

‘I’d like to spend the rest of my time here at Hogwarts not in detention,’ Lily emphasized. She then narrowed her eyes at him. ‘And you don’t have me fooled for a second, Sirius Black. As if any of you waited until your seventeenth birthdays to drink.’

He snickered. ‘You know me so well. I’m flattered.’

An arm came up around her shoulder, pulling her warmly to James’ side. ‘C’mon Lily! It’ll be fun. Everyone’s gone mental worrying about exams. If anyone deserves a break, it’s us.’

She could practically feel the pleading look he aimed at the side of her face.

‘Besides, I only turn seventeen once, and it won’t be the same without you there!’

She bit her lip indecisively for a second, her gaze wandering before it was drawn forth, like a moth to a flame, to a pair of warm hazel eyes.

James seemed to sense the moment she changed her mind even before she spoke, as his whole face lit up, accentuating his handsome, youthful features.

‘Alright, fine,’ she finally said, her lips pulling up to match his smile.

‘Yes!’

Her heart throbbed painfully at the memory, aching for the days when the worst of their worries were that of breaking school rules and being caught drinking underage.

Lily was pulled from her thoughts by a loud hiss and a flare of fire.

In her distraction, the gentle bubbling of the potion had grown into a turbulent roil that moved so furiously that the liquid spilled over the lip of the cauldron, reacting loudly with the flame burning below it.

In a rush, Lily shut the burner and stared down at the contents of her potion. It had darkened to the point that it was nearly black, a thick murky sludge.

A failure.

With a heavy sigh, she waved her wand at the cauldron, vanishing the contents.

It was hardly a surprise. She’d stayed up late the previous night working on variations of this very same brew, with little success. It was only after many attempts that she gave up in frustration and went to bed with a mild headache, tossing and turning in bed for more than an hour before she finally fell asleep. But, not four hours later, the call came in for James from the Ministry, rousing Lily from her fitful sleep. By the time her husband had left through the fireplace, her drowsiness was completely gone, and she could do little more than sigh before rolling out of bed and getting ready for her early shift at St. Mungo’s. When she finally stepped foot into the hospital, exhaustion lining her face, Lily was ill prepared for what awaited her that day.

It was not unusual or uncommon for St. Mungo’s to receive requests for autopsies from the Ministry, especially when the cause of death was so uncertain. It was rare, however, for Lily to be called upon to perform them due to her seniority and value as a researcher. But with the surging incidents of violence around the country, Healers across Britain were in short supply, forcing her to take on patients and cases that she typically would not.

It was just her luck that she had been one of a small handful of Healers working the early shift when the request came in—and of those working, only she had the time and flexibility in her schedule to take on a new case.

With a pang of guilt, she almost wished she had said no.

When Shacklebolt had finally revealed who it was she was examining, Lily was left reeling with a force that she could not comprehend, the air knocked from her very lungs. Her legs became jelly, her body teetering, and she was sure she’d collapse into a heap on the floor right then and there. But a steady hand reached out and gripped her shoulder, grounding her, prompting her to breathe. (‘Do you need a moment?’ a voice asked distantly.)

Somehow, she managed to complete the full examination. She moved with practiced hands while stuck in a strange state of detachment as her mind remained stuck trying to process just who it was that laid bare in front of her.

Lily found it became much easier to treat the body like any other once she willed herself to look away from his face.

That is, until James had walked in, and her body was shocked to wakefulness, as it clicked in her mind, finally, what the implications of the autopsy meant.

Sirius was dead.

James hadn’t wanted to believe it, refused to, until she’d cruelly—mercifully—snatched the vestiges of hope from him, confirming his worst fear. And as quick as he had been arriving, he was gone just as fast, nearly tripping over himself to escape the room with a barely spoken promise to return straight to work after taking a moment outside.  

When she’d finally returned to St. Mungo’s, Lily remained distracted by her turbulent thoughts and a feeling of heavy despair as the day continued to sink in. She was torn—half of her still stuck in that small room at the Ministry, haunted by what she’d seen, and the other half worried for James, who’d insisted he was okay even as the lines of stress on his face grew deeper, his shoulders hunched, and his body trembling where it stood.

She had wanted so desperately to step in front of him, to stop him from leaving. But the dull look in his eyes gave her pause, fear thrumming through her at the thought of him distancing himself from her again like he had all those years ago.

She couldn’t bear it, so she let him go.

Marlene, her dear old friend, had been quick to catch on to her somber mood, asking after her in concern.

Lily had opened her mouth, thinking with some relief that she could finally share in her grief.

But the words had caught in her throat and she realized—she couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t utter what she’d confirmed herself to be true. She didn’t have the right words, nor the strength.

Understanding as always, Marlene still insisted she take the rest of the day off, but Lily had been determined to see her remaining patients. Stubbornly, she managed through three more appointments with little trouble ('I’m fine, I’m fine,' she insisted both times she was asked). It was only after she nearly prescribed a heavy dose of pain potion to a witch with a mild case of Bowtruckle Flu that she—consumed with guilt—finally conceded to her friend’s suggestion.

She returned home, but she did not find comfort in its familiarity or safety as she normally would. The emptiness of the house felt too large, and she herself too small to fill the space. So, she locked herself in her office, hoping to find some way to remain productive in spite of her feelings.

Lily had been looking for something to keep her busy, to throw herself into, but it was a mistake to turn to something with such a high potential for harm. Distraction did not lend well to delicate work like potion-making.

With restless energy, she stepped away from her workstation and left the room, heading down the hall to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. She downed it in one go, hoping to find some relief from the dryness in her throat.

A loud knock from behind her pulled her from troubled thoughts. A large tawny owl knocked sharply against the locked window.

Lily walked over and unlatched the window, pushing it open for the bird to fly in. The owl landed smoothly on her workstation, presenting a talon with a rolled piece of parchment tied to it.

“Thank you,” she said gently, petting it lightly with one hand as she pulled the parchment loose. Unraveling it, she read the name of the sender, before glancing back at the bird.

“I’ve got a perch out back for you to rest in. I’ll need a moment to write a reply.”

The bird hooted softly and then took off through the window once more.

She sat down as she read through the letter.

Lily,

Thank you for sending the vials of Wolfsbane. This should ease my transformations for the next three months.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make it over for tea with you and James last week, but I had a few last minute errands to attend to before I left for my trip. I’ll have to make it up to you when I get back.

It may be a while until I settle in, so I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to write next, but I will send you a letter as soon as I can. Be safe.

All the best,

Remus

Instead of the comfort that her old friend’s letters usually provided her, she felt only a sick dread. Remus had left the previous week for his mission outside the country with the knowledge that he would have minimal and sporadic contact with the Order.

He wasn’t expected to return for several months.

Who was going to break the news to him?

More importantly, when?

She put the letter down with shaky hands. Could do nothing but stare at it blankly as conflict tore at her from inside.

It was only the sound of the fireplace roaring from the living room that woke her from her frozen state.

Lily leapt up from her seat and rushed out of the kitchen.

“James!” she exclaimed, throwing herself at her husband’s tall form without pause. “I was so worried!”

Two strong arms came up and wrapped themselves around her tightly. She pressed her face deeply into his shoulder, relief washing over her.

“I’m sorry,” James murmured into her hair. “I shouldn’t have run off like that.”

“It’s nothing,” she responded hastily, “It doesn’t matter—I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“I am,” he confirmed, and he nudged her back lightly. “More than alright.”

Lily leaned back to inspect him. Immediately, she was struck by the look of his expression. He looked… better. The harsh lines of stress were still present on his face, though greatly diminished, but the dark cloud of misery that had hung over him was gone—his shoulders loose, back straight, head held high—worlds better than he’d appeared the last time she’d seen him.

Before she could ask, a loud cough came from near the fireplace.

Lily turned her head, startled that she’d missed the presence of another person in the room. Then her gaze fell upon the figure, and she gasped.

“What? No hug for me?” asked a Sirius lookalike with a pout, his arms stretched forward invitingly.

She didn’t move, mind and body frozen in place by the liveliness of his features, the quality of his voice.

“How…?” she uttered in disbelief, grip tight on James’ arms. “What—James—”

“I know, it shouldn’t be possible, but it is,” her husband hastily said, reaching up for one of her tense hands. 

Lily hardly noticed, speaking directly to the lookalike with a stiff tone. “I examined you post-mortem—you were dead.”

“It wasn’t me,” not-Sirius stated (because it couldn’t be him) with a shake of his head, arms dropping to his sides as he carefully studied her expression. His voice was grating in its familiarity. 

“Of course not,” she snapped abruptly, before looking up at James in desperation. “But it was Sirius, I know it was.”

“No,” James said gently in refute, loosening the almost painful hold she had on him. “I thought the same at first too, but the state of the body, the timing of things—none of it made any sense.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near the Ministry that night,” not-Sirius reasoned. “I was stationed near Azkaban, remember?”

“Stop telling lies!” she cried with a furious shake of her head. She glared harshly at him. “I checked his blood and his magic—I rechecked it three times. It wasn’t a mistake—it was Sirius! It-it couldn’t have been anyone else except him!” 

Her voice broke in distraught, tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

“Lily, love, just look at him,” James clamored to say, wrapping an arm around her as he turned her towards the lookalike. “Really look. And think about this logically—we saw Sirius two days ago, and he was perfectly healthy. Nothing like—like what we saw with the body. You said it yourself—it would have taken years for him to have reached that degree of starvation.”

She took a shaky breath as she examined the man in depth. Her eyes roved over his tall, wiry frame, inspecting the way his shirt molded comfortably around his shoulders and the sleeves stretched across his arms, the shape of them suggesting a healthy, active lifestyle for a man in his prime. She then looked at the smoothness of his skin, the whiteness of his teeth, and the well-groomed fall of his hair—all tell-tale signs of someone who was put-together and well-cared for. His face was one she’d known since it was still stubbornly round with youth, looking every bit as familiar as she remembered, not a mark or hair out of place.

And yet, she still hesitated. Because how could it be? She’d seen this very face when it was as cold and lifeless as the metal table it laid upon. Had cut a clean line down his arm and collected a vial of his blood in her own hands to confirm what she’d feared most.

But she continued to search, and it was the depth of his dark eyes—the warm and vivacious light behind them—that finally pushed her over the edge.

James was right.

“Sirius…” she murmured, a wobble in her voice, her vision blurring once more with tears—but this time, for a wholly different reason than the last.

“C’mere,” Sirius said invitingly, again raising his arms towards her expectantly.

With little pause, Lily ran forward into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing him tightly as she shook with relief.

“I always knew you’d miss me the most,” he teased her softly.

“Oh, shut up,” Lily responded weakly with a short, abrupt laugh.

When she finally leaned away, she couldn’t help the look she shot him, now filled with awe. “You’re alive.”

“Well, I’d tell you it’s great to be alive again, but I never really stopped.”

It’d only been a couple of hours, but it felt as if it’d been years since she’d had any reason to smile. Seeing Sirius alive and well was like an impossible weight lifting from her shoulders.

Swiping at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, Lily watched silently as the man gave her shoulder one last comforting squeeze before he stepped back to lean against the fireplace.

“What will they do with the body now?” she asked after a moment. 

“Shacklebolt’s going to have another Healer examine it—see if a fresh pair of eyes won’t uncover something new,” James replied, coming forth to usher her into the armchair nearby, then sliding into the remaining one near her.

She could see a frown forming on his face.

“But you don’t agree?” she asked.

“Sirius is being targeted in some way, but we haven’t figured out why or by whom. I’m not keen on inviting more people to get involved than is necessary. Especially if it’s anyone employed by the Ministry.”

“Considering this occurred in the Ministry—and the DoM no less—I think we’re well past the point of keeping this a secret. There’s no doubt that Crouch Jr. is already aware of the situation,” Sirius stated.

“It’s to be expected. For now, Shacklebolt’s doing his best to keep the identity of the body under wraps for as long as he can. His team was the first on-scene last night. Other than us, they’re the only ones who know that the corpse is a Sirius lookalike,” James explained.

“And do you trust them to keep quiet about this?” Lily questioned with some skepticism. It was exceedingly difficult to tell who in the Ministry was trustworthy these days.

“Shacklebolt does, and I trust him to know who to throw his lot in with. As far as anyone else knows, we’ve got an unidentified wizard who was found dead in the DoM.”

“Let me look at the body again,” Lily urged, leaning forward in determination. “Now that I’m aware of the truth, I can consider things with a clearer head.”

She then paused, looking up at them in surprise. “Wait. If you’re concerned about how much Crouch knows about the situation, then… you don’t think this is Voldemort’s doing? You seemed convinced of it before.”

“I’m not so sure anymore,” James said, staring hard at the ground. “I’m not ruling it out—of course not. Random deaths occurring in obscure places? It’s got Death Eater written all over it—”

Lily would hardly consider the Ministry obscure, but she understood the implication. The Department of Mysteries, known for its focus on research that was both esoteric and experimental in nature, likely held little relevance or interest to the average person. The fact that it was also deeply and securely located within the Ministry building meant it made for an unusual location for violence to occur. Still, at the height of the First War, it became frighteningly common to find bodies dumped in unusual places, as Death Eaters and other allies of the Dark Lord became emboldened by their rising power.

“—but the evidence and the circumstances don’t line up—none of it does. Certainly Voldemort could have had the man murdered and then dumped in the DoM. But it doesn’t—” James’ expression became pinched, lips pursed as if it pained him. “—it doesn’t explain the boy.”

“The boy?” she echoed quietly, eyebrows rising in surprise.

James sighed as he leaned an elbow against his knee, running a hand over his face. “The lookalike wasn’t the only thing unusual about last night. When the Ministry first became aware of the disturbance that occurred in the DoM, it wasn’t because they’d found a dead man. That didn’t happen until well after they’d realized there was an unauthorized wizard who’d broken into the department. He’s our one suspect for the murder… but he’s just a boy—couldn’t be past Hogwarts age—yet he somehow broke in without triggering any of the wards or protective spells placed around the Ministry. The only reason anyone noticed him was because he attacked Augustus Rookwood, who was on guard duty that night.”

Lily couldn’t help the wave of horror she felt at his words. “Surely there must be another explanation. A child suspected of murder ?”

“Nearly twice over. Rookwood almost died when they battled,” James said, shifting restlessly in his seat. “The boy’s shown himself to be exceptionally powerful, and it seems he wasn’t holding back during their fight.”

“That’s the reason you don’t believe Voldemort’s involved in this,” she stated, eyes wide in understanding.

“We suspected at first that he might be under Voldemort’s thumb, but it appears less and less likely the more we learn. If the boy is working under his command, then why the farce with Rookwood?”

Lily felt sick. The thought of someone so young in Voldemort’s service...

Sirius spoke up. “And with what happened at Hogwarts today, we’ve got reason to believe this kid may be in danger, perhaps even on the run from Voldemort.”

He glanced over at her just as she eyed him questionably.

“He escaped from the Ministry and headed right for the school,” he continued to explain. “We haven’t determined exactly what he was looking for, but he had a run-in with Snape not long after. The kid knocked him out, but not before Snape managed to—”

Her hands began to shake from how tightly they clenched into fists, her mood souring at the mention of his name. A familiar anger coursed through her, pulsing under her skin like a beast trapped within a cage as she grit her teeth.

A gentle hand came forth from beside her to cover her left fist, pulling her gaze up to meet a pair of concerned hazel-colored eyes. Though he uttered no words, James’ familiar presence was calming, and it coaxed her away from her stormy thoughts. 

“—into his mind. A memory, he said, of Voldemort—of his resurrection, and then of a duel to the death against him.”

“What?” Lily asked, the rage fully receding as she registered the words. “Are you saying this boy fought Voldemort and lived?”

“We don’t know,” James responded, hand tightening over hers. “Snape only caught a glimpse of it before he was forced out. But it’s becoming clear that this boy was, at one point, deemed important enough to take part in Voldemort’s affairs. More than most Death Eaters, it would seem. But something must have changed between then and now because it seems he’s no friend of Voldemort today. We need to find him, and not just because he’s the key to this whole investigation. If the memory holds any truth to it at all, then his life is in danger.”

Thoughts were moving a mile a minute in her head trying to process the barrage of information, but when she moved to speak, she only asked, “Just who is this boy?”

Something seemed to shift in the air between the two men; James’ face contorted in a swift flash of discontentfrustrationanger—anguish?—before it dropped into a stiff blankness, while Sirius frowned severely, his casual pose visibly tensing as he crossed his arms.

Feeling suddenly wrong-footed, Lily inquired in an uneasy tone, “What is it?”

Seeming to sense the fear creeping into her voice, James deflated, looking her in the eye. “I—”

He seemed to struggle for words, looking away before flashing a quick glance at Sirius. He then stared down at their connected hands, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of her hand.

James sighed. “I don’t know how to tell you this, and to be honest, I’m not sure I would have if I didn’t know you’d never forgive me for keeping this from you.”

Something deep in her gut tightened at this, and she felt a spike of hurt.

It must have reflected on her face because James then voiced in a panic, “No, no! Shit—I shouldn’t have said—it’s nothing against you. It’s me, I swear. This is difficult because I’m still trying to understand this myself, and I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“James, if you think it’s going to concern me this much, then you need to tell me,” she pushed, her brow furrowing as he tried to collect himself.

“Sorry, just—give me a second.”

He took a slow but shaky breath before starting again.

“Since the break-in last night, the boy’s interacted with a number of people—at the Ministry, in Hogsmeade, and at Hogwarts. None of them, as far as we know, have met or seen him before that. But, at least four of those people have independently reported that they mistook this boy for someone else—”

Lily frowned, not expecting the direction of the conversation.

“—me.”

Confused, she asked, “Are you saying he bears a strong likeness or that he attempted an impersonation of you?”

“If you’d asked me just a few hours ago, I’d have insisted it was the latter because according to everyone who’d seen him, it was ‘uncanny.’ I thought they must have been talking bollocks because there are no other Potters, and there’s no way a stranger could look that similar to me that he’d successfully fool four different people—not unless magic was involved in some way. But then I saw him for myself—for just a second—when I went after him at Hogwarts. And yeah—”

James released a short laugh, a low, guttural sound, as if he were choking on his words. “It’s pretty damn uncanny.”

Not sure what to make of her husband’s words, she asked hesitantly, “And you still don’t think it’s an impersonation?”

“I’m not sure what I think anymore,” James replied with frustration. He then slumped in defeat, sounding broken as he said, “Because—he’s running around calling himself Harry.”

Lily felt the breath expel from her lungs like she’d received a punch to the gut. She yanked her hand back from James’ grip, retreating into her chair protectively, body coiled with tension.  

“What are you trying to say?” she demanded, tone stiff. 

“The boy’s been introducing himself as Harry Potter,” he choked out, his now empty hands curled tightly at his knees. “I was convinced that he, that Voldemort, must have been playing some horrible trick to mess with my head. Having someone masquerade as me to frame me for a crime I didn’t commit? It was so obvious. But the motive isn’t there. The plan—illogical and poorly executed. And yet, Albus—Albus seems convinced that the boy is being genuine. And I—”

“And what? You think by slapping on a familiar face and a familiar name that that suddenly gives this boy some authenticity? James Potter, I’ve never known you to be a fool,” she angrily snapped.

It was like being submerged in ice cold water, the shock that was rendering her body utterly frozen. Of all things, she hadn’t been expecting to hear her baby’s name, a name belonging to a child nearly fifteen years dead, murdered in his crib—a name now stolen by a boy suspected of murder. She didn’t laugh at the irony.

James winced. “No, of course not. Of course I don’t believe that.”

“Then why would you possibly entertain the thought?” she asked harshly. “How could you let yourself fall for such an obvious trick?”

“Lily—he had your eyes.”

An intake of breath.

“Merlin, Prongs,” Sirius spoke up from beside the fireplace, where he had remained in silence throughout their conversation, standing over them almost protectively as they spoke. In the heat of their words, she’d nearly forgotten his presence. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

James looked haunted as he turned his head away, avoiding both their gazes. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it, so I tried not to think about it at all. But I can’t—I can’t stop picturing it in my head.”

Her mind was horribly blank, forced into silence by the four words her husband had uttered. He had your eyes.

Her eyes.

Not many knew that Harry had inherited her green, almond shaped eyes. She and James had gone into hiding not long after he’d been born, limiting the interactions that the three of them had—especially Harry—with other people to a significant degree. And their social circle only became narrower the longer they remained in hiding.

Adding to that, the fact that Harry’d had light blue eyes for more than half a year before they finally settled on a brilliant emerald green meant that those who had interacted with him likely never saw their true color. For those few who did see them, well, she expected most to have long forgotten them, fifteen years after his death.

She didn’t think it was a detail that Pettigrew would have remembered (because who else would know to use this against her?)—who’d always been so skittish and stand-offish around Harry, spending little time around him and keeping his distance. She’d always assumed it was because he was fearful of bringing harm to her baby, or that he perhaps had an aversion to children.

If she’d only known how far and how close her thoughts were to the truth. 

Heart sick, she slumped in her seat, anger overtaken by exhaustion, and said in an agonized tone, “Harry’s dead, James. Dead.”

“I know,” James stated hoarsely, pushing forward from his chair to kneel beside her. He took her hands once more in his, looking up at her eyes. “I know he’s not who he says he is—I realize that—but that doesn’t mean he believes it. And after everything that’s happened today—I think that maybe this boy, whoever he is, needs help.”

Lily shook her head despite the sharp pang of sadness she felt at his words. “After he murdered a man, you still think this boy needs help?”

“Now more than ever,” he said softly. “If Voldemort is truly after him, he’s going to need all the help he can get.”