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Chapter Text

Harry had done it. He’d taken out Voldemort for the (how many times was it, now?) nth time, and had finally managed it for good. The war was finally over, and he could finally rest. That is, if the voices arguing over him would finally shut up. That would be greatly appreciated, thank you. Thank you.

…Okay, seriously? First he couldn’t have a good visitor in the afterlife (just Dumbledore, because the man couldn’t stop meddling even from beyond the grave), and now this? Just let a man sleep! Especially when he was in this much pain—something about that thought wasn’t right. Last time he’d died, the pain wasn’t there. It made the whole staying dead part much more tempting (the lack of pain and ability to join all of his deceased love ones—yeah. It had been hard not to take the train).

He tried to pay more attention to the very obnoxious voices, but his ears were ringing and his head was pounding so badly that he would almost be impressed that he’d managed to stay conscious after waking up (the almost was because he’d once been bitten by a basilisk and managed to kill a shade even as lava took over his veins. Pain was an old friend of his).

He managed to push down the pain enough to start piecing fragments of sentences together. Words like, “waking up” and “quiet” made enough appearances that Harry was about ready to turn his wand on himself. Bloody hell. He wasn’t dead.

Again.

At this point they’d have to call him The-Guy-Who-Cannot-Die-Like-A-Normal-Person. Or something. Wizards sucked at naming things. And transport. They really, really sucked at transport.

He groaned, and the voices flurried above him. Probably the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey had been joking about reserving a bed for him since way back in his third year, and honestly, since he can’t stay away from the medical wing even after dropping out, it would’ve been sort of prophetic. And hilarious. Random students would be caught at all hours trying to sneak into Harry Potter’s saved bed, pictures would be taken, and—who knew what else. Yeah, on second thought, Harry was glad that she’d never actually done it.

He took a shaky breath that hurt his throat and sent fire through his lungs and almost collapsed his chest and forced himself to say his best friend’s name, although it came out as a strangled, “Mio?” instead. Eh. She’d know who he was referring to. Hermione was awesome like that.

“Oh! You’re actually awake, this time?” Definitely Madame Pomfrey’s voice, although something about it seemed off. And wait—this time? How many times had he drifted off? He tried to ask, but it came out as a groan instead. “Well, mostly awake, at least. Would you like some water, dear?”

Honestly, no. Harry knows what follows water—the interrogation, and the explanations that weren’t, and the pseudo-apologies. Which, why should Harry always need to apologize for saving the world—or at least Hogwarts—just because every adult in the magical world was useless? Well, at least if he started now, Madame Pomfrey would probably chase everybody off early. Harry felt even less willing to deal with people than usual. Maybe because he’d died—he’d died!—but he still wasn’t dead. That seemed unfair, somehow. Harry had been ready, really. That last duel had cinched the idea that they’d have to go together. Whatever. As long as Voldemort was actually gone this time, he could deal with the whole undead thing.

He forced himself up from the bed, into a position that could generously be called sitting if looked at with a tilted head through squinted eyes. Merlin, but he hurt.

Everything was black, and his ears were ringing again, so loudly that the voices had all but disappeared. It was probably an improvement. But why was it so dark? Madame Pomfrey never kept her wing this dark—oh. Duh. Eyelids. He had them.

He forced them open, sending shards of bright light piercing through his retinas. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. What he saw after a few moments was—a blur of colors, and incredibly fuzzy shapes. No glasses, then. He could see a definite blur of red, though it was maybe lighter than usual? And longer?

“Gin?” He checked, even though the color was wrong, even though there was too much of it. Maybe it was Susan? Or some volunteer, aiding in the aftermath of the war. Or his eyes playing tricks on him; without his glasses, maybe Ginny’s hair looked different.

“Absolutely not, young man!” Madame Pomfrey scolded. “There will be no alcohol consumption on my watch!”

“No, not…not gin. Ginny,” Harry breathed out, clutching at his ribs. Merlin, what had he done to himself? Surely whatever curse (Harry thought it was just another killing curse Voldemort had sent at him, but maybe the bastard had finally learned. Harry considered that for a moment. Yeah, right.) he’d been caught by hadn’t actually pulverized his internal organs?

“Aren’t you…?” He knew she wasn’t at this point. And if the hair was too dark to be Ginny’s, it was definitely too dark to be Susan’s. Some volunteer, then. Or maybe Madame Pomfrey had a secret granddaughter? Harry’d seen stranger.

“No, I’m not,” a young woman’s voice said gently, her tone turning the words into something almost musical. It was as familiar as his nightmares. “My name is Lily. What’s yours?”

Chapter Text

Harry’s heart stopped. And when it finally remembered it had a job to do, it started racing to prove its worth. For just a breath, Harry remained frozen. Then, he managed to force his limbs into working, heartbeat wild enough that he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of blood pumping.

He summoned his wand and glasses through sheer panic as he dove over the side of the bed. He landed heavily on his knee, but in one smooth motion managed to shove his glasses on his face and point his wand at the (all too familiar, now that he could see) group that surrounded him. There were at least seven, but he had trouble focusing on any but the woman with long, dark red hair.

Her eyes (that matched the pair he saw whenever he looked into a mirror, it was uncanny how similar they were and why was he thinking about this?) were wide, pupils mere pinpricks. Her jaw was slightly dropped, and her hand was halfway raised toward him. She held no wand. ‘Lily’ appeared to surprised to try anything, so he quickly swept his eyes over the others (ignoring faces that he knew. That shouldn’t be here). He paused in his glance at the imposters.

‘Madame Pomfrey’ appeared years—decades younger than she should be. Huh. A quick glance around the room showed that the hospital wing was pristine, no sign of the battle (smoke, empty eyes, blood, walls collapsed, red eyes, screams, windows shattered) scars Hogwarts had suffered visible. Whichever idiot had set this up had really put their all into it.

Harry was impressed, in an I’m-going-to-end-them-and-use-their-ribcages-as-xyplophones sort of way. There. That had enough hyphens for the wizarding world, Right?

Maybe he was a bit hysteric.

“I’ve never—how in Merlin’s name are you moving? The amount of pain you must be experiencing…” Madame Pomfrey’s evil twin trailed off, horror evident in the twist of her lips, the set of her hands. He’d always been a bad patient, but the way her brow furrowed in concern was new.

Harry had to laugh, or he was going to cry. “Pain? This is nothing.” And that was nothing but the truth. Compared to basilisk venoms in his veins, or the Crucio of a dark lord, or having his mind invaded from a man who hated him, or waking up when he thought he’d finally be at peace—this was nothing. Sort of felt like after-exposure to the cruciatus, honestly. And he’d dealt with that just fine on his own. ‘Lily’s’ eyes widened further at his statement, and her hand finally picked a direction and flew to her mouth. Her eyes were a bit shiny now, actually. Huh.

“So. You Death Eaters looking for revenge? ‘Cause if you are, I’ll have you know that if Voldemort himself couldn’t kill me, you haven’t a chance.” Harry smirked, wanting this mockery of his mother’s image gone. If he just didn’t play along, they might attack him and be done with it.

‘Lily’ choked, ‘Madame Pomfrey’ turned white, and the others that Harry had been studiously ignoring (but watching for movement out of the corner of his eye, prepared for treachery) made various sounds of stunned disbelief. The shrieks he got for saying the name felt well worth acting like an arrogant sod (he was channeling Lockheart as much as he could).

“That’s enough. The fool boy is delirious. Incar—” a cracked growl rasped from the sidelines. Harry wasn’t going to let the spell hit.

He quickly snapped an expelliarmus, snatched the man’s wand, thought better of it, and snapped out a quick summoning charm to grab all of the wands in the room while their owners were recovering from their shock (including raspy man’s clawed leg—could he use it as a wand, or was there an extra inside? Either way, Harry was now the proud owner of a pirate leg, which was sort of hilarious, his four year old self would be so proud). The fake Mad-Eye was snarling more like a mad dog,

He didn’t bother tying them up—wixen were famously useless without their power sticks—but he did keep an eye out, prepared to do just that if they tried to attack.

“So,” Harry drawled, smile turning vicious. Hermione had once told him that it was the scariest thing she’d ever seen. Considering she’d seen Bellatrix LeStrange in person, Harry still couldn’t decide if he was insulted or oddly flattered. (Both. It was both.) “Want to try this again?”

He stared ‘Mad-Eye’ down (literally, the man was on the floor because Harry had semi-accidentally stolen his leg), and the man looked both unhappy and grudgingly impressed, judging by his scowl and the upward twist to one side of his lips. Harry had a feeling Mad-Eye was proud—or would be if he saw this, considering the man in front of him was a Death Eater at best and an unknown at worst.

“That was some skill, boy—“ ‘Mad-Eye’ began. Harry cut him off with a furious hiss.

“Don’t call me boy,” Harry finally managed to say. It came out colder than he’d intended, but his point was made. His heart felt like ice, silenced from his earlier adrenaline rush. He’d survived (again!), and now he had to deal with faces that he cared about, who’d died. But younger than they should be (excluding ‘Lily,’ who looked just like she did in his photographs)?

Hell no.

Magic twisted around Harry, a thunderstorm crackled to life, lightning flashing, hail pelting down. He’d never felt it this strongly before, but maybe his trip to the afterlife (had it been? Or was it just a hallucination from whatever potion they’d used to make him see this idyllic world, with everyone alive and well?) had awakened something.

‘Madame Pomfrey’ put her hands on her hips. “I have absolutely no idea how you’ve managed to use spells, or even how you’re flashing your aura right now!” She scolded, eyes sharp. You were drained almost completely of your magic! You need to calm down, young man! If you continue, you will be putting both your life and your ability to continue using magic at risk!”

Harry had to laugh. He’d been far more drained in the past, and the real Madame Pomfrey had never said a word. Sadly, this Death Eater version of the woman might actually care more. She might be the better Mediwitch.

“Is there any way to prove to you that we are not, in fact, Death Eaters?” a low, soothing voice rumbled. The man with Shacklebolt’s face sounded just like him. Even worded his sentence the same way, and paused at the same places. Damn. These guys were good. Harry did take a moment to contemplate the idea that this might be real. Dread filled him, weighing heavy in his chest. His scar hurt—it didn’t feel like Voldemort, but he was pretty sure a migraine was incoming. He rubbed at it with his free hand, keeping his wand trained on the remnants of a happier world.

If they weren’t Death Eaters, then…

Harry took a deep breath. He could handle this. There were things that he knew about them that nobody else did. Right? He scrambled for something that would prove their villainy, but came up blank. He didn’t know any of these people well enough! He didn’t know any secrets, except…

“Which law is your sister most heavily impacted by?” Harry asked slowly, trying to word it in a way that the answer wouldn’t be obvious. Shacklebolt jolted.

“The law on witches’ rights to the Wizengamot,” he said slowly. There was an undertone of panic that Harry was choosing to ignore.

“I knew it!” Harry grinned, feeling a bit of the mania from earlier rolling back in. “You’re not the real Shacklebolt!” Lily mouthed ‘Real?’ To herself while Shacklebolt tensed.

“The Werewolf Registration Act,” he whispered. Harry froze. Shacklebolt had only ever told him that—the man had lost three of his fingers splinching on his way to Grimmauld, and was chatting to Harry about his sister. He’d told Harry not to spread the word. And he never had.

That wasn’t proof, though! It wasn’t!

He cast desperate eyes around the room, before landing on Lily. There was one thing that most wixen wouldn’t care to know the answer to. “What is Vernon’s last name?” He could have asked about Petunia’s new name or something, but there was a chance somebody knew. But nobody would remember the name of Lily’s muggle brother-in-law. It left a nasty taste in his mouth, but this question would prove things one way or the other. The only person who knew Vernon’s name in the magical world was—Harry. Not even Ron or Hermione knew the man’s given name, because Harry unilaterally referred to him by his last name, groupted with the others. ‘The Dursleys.’ Not to be confused with their orphan freak of a nephew.

It was the perfect question. ‘Lily’ looked stunned. But—

“Vernon Dursley,” she whispered, hands clutching at her robes. “His last name is Dursley.”

Fuck.

Chapter Text

There was no way. There was no way. This was not happening. Harry was just having a nightmare, or something. He gave a surreptitious glance at a book laying haphazardly on one of the side tables. He could make out the word Gladiolus, and nearly swore. Maybe Hermione was wrong, and people could read in their dreams? That couldn’t be it, though. Hermione was never wrong. Ever. She’d even been right about Sirius Black sending the damned Firebolt way back in third year. Then again, she’d been wrong about Malfoy in sixth—and any I-told-you-so against Hermione was worth bragging about. Harry would never let her—or Ron, for that matter, live that down. If he was dreaming. If he could get back to them. Merlin! Why was this his life?!

Harry took a deep breath, centered himself, and dug the fingers of his free hand deeply enough into his palm that he’d be more surprised if there was no blood later. It wasn’t important that he was calm—only that he appeared to be. He couldn’t let these people see his weakness, or they’d smell the blood in the water and it would become a feeding frenzy.

Eyes boring directly into Shacklebolt’s, he finally asked the most important question of them all, the one he’d been avoiding. “What year is it?” Shacklebolt blinked, glanced at Lily, and stated the date with only mild bemusement in his tone. This time, Harry did swear. He clenched his free hand even tighter, the sting reminding him that he was there, that this was happening. That this was his life now (always. The impossible things became suddenly possible whenever he showed up).

“I think you promised to return our wands, bo—“ Mad-Eye began. Yeah, no. Harry was going to put a stop to that nonsense immediately.

He cut off the other man with a sharp, “Call me boy one more time and you’ll get to find out what life is like without your other limbs. This is your last bloody warning.”

He did send their wand backs with a careless wave of his wand. He had promised them back if they cooperated with his interrogation, after all. Not like it mattered. This wasn’t a dream, and it probably wasn’t purgatory, which left two unlikely options. He was actually a time traveler, now—or, he was hallucinating. That was a very real thing, right? He had a lot of head trauma, he had a lot of emotional drama, and he’d been hit by the killing curse more times than was statistically healthy. Maybe his mind broke under the strain.

“This isn’t possible,” he grumbled. “What the hell…?” Because he knew Hermione was rarely wrong, and she’d said even the strongest time-turners only went back a few days. Plus, they’d destroyed the lot back in fifth year. Maybe there was time sand mixed up in his blood stream with the basilisk venom and phoenix tears, and the killing curse had activated it? It was as likely as anything else, really. The Harry Potter Effect was a truly awful curse to bear.

He vaguely registered that they were all staring at him, but honestly, he was so used to having all eyes on him that it didn’t even register as a threat. Bit rude of them to act like he was the odd one in the room, when he was surrounded by living ghosts. He idly swatted the stunner Mad-Eye sent at him, and shot back a stinging hex of his own. Rude.

“Perhaps now you’ll allow me to properly examine you,” Madame Pomfrey asked, despondence pulling her tone too thin, too dry. She definitively knew what Harry’s answer would be, and it was clear that she didn’t like it.

She would have to deal with it. Harry wasn’t in the mood to be accommodating. Or bullied into healing.

“You can certainly try,” Harry said in the driest tone he could manage. It was a nice cross between answering Percy about his cauldron bottoms and telling Hermione for the umpteenth time that, yes, she would definitely pass her exams with flying colors.

“If this nightmare is true to form, Dumbledore will walk in any second now, calling me his boy and demanding my secrets and adventures with his stupid twinkly eyes.” Okay. So Harry may have a bit of residual anger in his heart over the man who’d raised him to die. No big deal. He could handle it. Honestly, though, if Harry’s tone became any drier, they’d assume he was a mummy, set a curse-breaker on him, and bury him. Huh. Maybe a curse-breaker could fix his luck? Food for thought.

Mad-Eye did glare at him suspiciously, eye spinning, but Harry’d had a Dark Lord after him since he was a toddler, and was decidedly unimpressed. Plus, the man’s default was suspicion. Harry wasn’t actually sure he’d ever seen another expression on the rough man’s face.

Shacklebolt opened his mouth, eyebrows furrowing, when moments later, Harry’s predictions came true and the old man came strolling in. And—Merlin. He was wearing neon pink robes with yellow stripes and green stars, and Harry had to wonder if his fashion sense had actually improved over the years? Those robes should be counted as a weapon.

Harry gave Dumbledore his absolute best dead fish stare (it was a very good rendition. Creeped his dorm mates out, and had even made Malfoy shut up and leave very quickly at one point. Unfortunately, his expression only put Dumbledore off for a moment before the older man’s eyes twinkled harder, and he began poking and prodding and questioning and tearing and ripping and demanding answers from Harry until—

“Look, I honestly don’t care anymore,” Harry cut over the man’s latest monologue. “One more legilimency attempt on me, and I’m taking you out.” Harry wasn’t great at clearing his mind, so he was a shit Occlumens, but he’d had another mind connected to his for long enough that even the subtlest of attempts set him on high alert. “I’m done with men in power mind-raping me just because they can.”

The room went still. Dumbledore’s expression was difficult to read, but Harry was leaning toward pensive. He’d done something unexpected. Out of the old man’s calculations.

“Albus?” Lily murmured, voice quivering. She looked—like Hermione had, when she’d caught Ron snogging. Heartbroken, Harry supposed.

MAd-Eye was spitting mad, complaining about the hypocrisy. Madame Pomfrey was spitting mad, complaining about the privacy of her patients. Shacklebolt was fingering his Auror badge as he watched Dumbledore with cool eyes and a too-blank expression. Dumbledore began some explanation, trying to work his usual shit, but Harry was not having it.

“Yeah. No. I don’t care. I’m not dealing with this,” lightning crackled around Harry as he began furiously pacing. “Why am I even here? I will not be a prisoner any longer.” Harry had been a prisoner for as long as he could remember. Flashbacks from his childhood, of a cupboard, of locked windows, of Malfoy’s manor, of old men telling him “not yet” and a cursed house that was an almost and a not quite, as a tournament with an inescapable clause, as a chamber with no exit. With Voldemort’s death, he should finally be free. But Harry wasn’t allowed peace. He wasn’t sure that he ever would be.

“I’m not a good prisoner,” he warned, because it was only fair. They didn’t know what they were getting into, the fools. “Things blow up. People die. I’m the only one that consistently makes it out alive.”

They gaped at him, but it was only truth. Riddle, Voldemort, Sirius, Fred, Cedric, Colin, and so many more. Harry’s only gift in life was to survive to the next day, to the next fight.

He hated it.

Whether this was time or dimension travel, or some new nightmare hell, he would make it through. The rest of them would have to pick up the pieces, because that was how it worked. Was how it had always worked. Harry fought and bled and lived and lived. The people around him suffered and died and bore the consequences.

Dumbledore’s eyes were suspiciously lacking twinkles. Harry had only seen him this furious once before. “My bo—” he started in an entirely too solemn tone of voice. Harry would not let this injustice stand.

Harry raised his wand in a sharp, fluid motion and hexed the man bald. That both answered a question Harry had never consciously wondered about, and scarred him for life. At least Mad-Eye looked like he was starting to lean more toward the impressed side of the scale?

“So you threaten to take my limbs, but only take Albus’ hair,” Mad-Eye demanded gruffly. But there was light dancing in his eyes, and one side of his lips was twitching in what could almost be a smirk. Dumbledore was clearly shocked by Harry’s audacity, silent and still and utterly shocked.

“Figured it was roughly equivalent,” Harry answered, horror clawing up his spine. The headmaster looked like a naked mole rat, minus the teeth. No wonder he wore his hair so long. He was all wrinkled and twisted and weird looking. This was definitely one of those decisions that Hermione had warned him about backfiring. “He shouldn’t have called me that.”

“I…don’t think he was in the room for your earlier warning,” Shacklebolt muttered. His tone was even more reserved than usual. Holy shit, his shoulders were shaking. Had Harry gotten him to laugh?! Now, this—this was the sort of accomplishment Harry could brag about.

“Young man,” Dumbledore began, having clearly learned his lesson on the ‘B’ word. “You will put me back to rights this instant.”

“You’re supposed to be a master of witchcraft and wizardry, do it yourself,” Harry shot back automatically. Damn his problems with authority, he was really only hurting himself here. Dumbledore was legitimately the weirdest looking human he’d ever seen, and he routinely battled a guy without a nose.

He shook his head and turned back to the room at large, trying not to actually look at them, to see them, to know them. Shacklebolt was safe—Harry barely knew the guy, so he’d keep his focus there.

It was time to address the Crumple-Horned Snorkack in the room.

Chapter Text

“So,” Harry began. He stopped there, not knowing what to say. He’d never been a good conversationalist, and having two close friends who knew what he meant before he said it really hadn’t helped matters. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“It seems I’ve been displaced,” Harry said to the room at large, still not actually looking at anybody but Shacklebolt, who was a relatively safe anchor. “You know, just in case you lot are too stupid to have figured it out for yourselves. No idea if it’s time travel dimension travel, some unholy combo of the two, or an incredibly well made illusion that takes its cues from my subconscious, but you people are not my people. Any ideas on how I can get home? And if anybody mentions Dumbledore…well, there won’t be any consequences, but I will judge you harshly.

“Oh, and the Department of Mysteries is a no-go due to their general creepiness and possible eldritch summoning behind those blinding white doors—not sure I can escape again, if they decide to actually bother with me, this time. The entirety of the Ministry of Magic should probably also be counted out. I mean, I can’t trust their competence. At all. Pretty sure I’d end up lost in the void—” Harry cut himself off. That was a thought. A vaguely horrifying, yet oddly tempting thought. He could just—drift forever, since the universe wasn’t kind enough to let him enter the eternal slumber. Then again, he’d also be stuck alone with his thoughts for eternity. That sounded awful.

“Yeah. No Ministry,” Harry muttered decisively. Shacklebolt was giving him a side-eye that suggested wonderful things about Harry’s mental health. “Anyway. Any ideas?”

Judging by the echoing silence—Harry really should have known better. “Of course not. I really should have known. I’m probably stuck here forever. Proof that my luck was used up when I was a toddler.”

“Your…luck?” Moody was eyeing him like a wild animal. He’d been making aborted movements toward his leg-wand since Harry had returned it. He didn’t know why the ex-auror (if he was in the past, was moody a current auror…? Harry was going to drop that train of thought; it was making his brain hurt) bothered. If Harry really had stolen it again, Moody would have crashed back to earth like the uprooted old oak tree he truly was, inside and out (his face had more gnarls than most trees had knots. He also seemed vaguely ageless—maybe it was the extensive scarring, but he didn’t look any younger than he had in the future).

Harry bared his teeth to prove Moody right. “I’m here, aren’t I? And honestly? This isn’t even the strangest thing that happened to me this week.”

That was dying, the train station purgatory, the Hallows (which were still giving off a sort of buzzing sound—movement—presence in the back of his head that he was studiously ignoring. He did not want to know), discovering the Scarcrux, or worst of all: learning that Snape had been his mum’s best friend at one point. That had probably scarred him for life.

Oh, right. He also found out that Death was a bit of a dick, and this whole situation was probably their fault, come to think of it. Nope. That was going in the same place the Hallows’ were kept: in Harry’s mental DO NOT TOUCH drawer. Mind, Harry was bloody awful at not touching, so he’d probably screw himself over by thinking about it later, but that was a problem for Future Harry. Present Harry was full of ignorant bliss. He was a bit insulted, though. Wasn’t he good enough to keep in the afterlife (if there was one, and Death didn’t just eat the souls) instead of being flung into the past? Rude.

“Time or dimension travel…isn’t the strangest thing to happen to you this week?” That was a new voice. It sent his heart racing, chills seeping down his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, crawling and paralyzing. Much like Lily’s, it was a voice that was as familiar to Harry as his nightmares. For the first time since he’d torn his gaze away from Lily, he really looked at one of the people in this room. Maybe he had died, and he just wasn’t a good enough person to ascend. Maybe this was punishment.

Sirius Black’s steel grey eyes were bright, amusement tugging at his lips and curiosity in the tilt of his head. He was so young. There were no dark lines on his face, his cheeks were full, he had muscle and wasn’t made of bones and held together with spite. His hair—Harry could finally understand Lupin’s not-jokes about Sirius’s primping habits, because it was shiny and blue-black and full instead of lank and dull and thin and grey-streaked. This was a Sirius who could still remember what happiness felt like.

Harry did his best to ignore the heat that was burning at his eyes without permission, but it was hard. He’d known the prison had taken its toll on his godfather, but…it was really hitting him now. The madness that had always been so prominent at the corner of his eyes, at the pull of his lips, was negligible. Azkaban had left Sirius as—less than a shadow of his former self. Barely a shade.

Harry averted his gaze. The pain wasn’t worth the rush of relief. True to Harry’s incredible fortune, he should have kept his eyes on Sirius. Because standing next to his past godfather’s—future godfather’s—whatever. Standing next to Sirius Black, as he was in all of the pictures Harry had of them together, was James Potter. He stood straight and still, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, wand held loosely.

Harry…did not look nearly as much like him as everybody claimed, or his reflection in the Mirror implied. Harry was actually a bit insulted on his father’s behalf. It was like comparing Cedric to…Colin. It just shouldn’t be done. Harry was scrawny and bony and sharp-edged. James was…yeah. It was obvious why he and Sirius were popular, and it definitely wasn’t just his personality or Quidditch skills.

It was like comparing a pedigreed show cat to an alley cat with a torn ear and a tail broken in three places.

Huh. Lily was objectively gorgeous, as well. Apparently years of neglect, semi-abuse, childhood warfare, and torture really did affect a person, after all.

Harry shook his head sharply to rid himself of those unfair comparisons, and turned back to Shacklebolt. Out of everybody in the room, he sort of trusted him the most. He guessed. At the very least, Shacklebolt hurt the least to look at.

“Not even close,” he finally answered Sirius’ too-innocent question. Something in his chest was coiled too tightly, dying to get out—not in the literal sense, the way his Scarcrux had been.

“Honestly, this isn’t even the strangest thing to happen to me…today? Yesterday? In the last couple of days? In however long it’s been,” he finally huffed, throwing his spark up from the ring. Harry needed to figure out the timeline, and whether or not it was his own or some parallel thread. Hermione would know. The creature in his chest lashed out at the edges.

James let out a long, slow whistle. That was entirely unfair. Harry had never been able to figure it out.

“So you’re from…either our future or a parallel world’s future? Shacklebolt asked after a few long, awkward moments of the room’s inhabitants staring at Harry, and Harry stubbornly keeping his gaze fixed on a very nice brick in the wall across the room.

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped from Harry. Trust Shacklebolt to ask the tough questions. “What makes you say that?” Harry asked rhetorically. Really. It wasn’t like he’d all but stated it several times.

“You knew personal questions to ask myself and Lily,” Shacklebolt said evenly. His eyes were piercing, his mouth set in a straight line. “I’ve kept my sister’s secret for years, and Lily doesn’t speak about hers unless she’s drunk—and even then, she never says her name. You’ve mentioned time travel and dimension travel, but…with those, I think it’s our future.”

Okay, Harry could maybe see why Shacklebolt had wanted clarification. Harry was living it from the traveler’s side, and he could still barely believe it. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice coming out much quieter than he’d intended. “That makes the most sense. It’s either time travel or I’ve been stuck in a nightmare illusion, and the amount of power that would take doesn’t make sense.”

“Nightmare?” Sirius piped up again, a devilish curl to his smirk, a mocking lilt to his words. “With my beautiful face? I think you are mistaking the type of illusion.”

Harry squared his shoulders as those words made a critical hit. His jaw clenched right along with his fist. He stared Sirius’ younger self dead in the eye. Harry didn’t start battles—he wasn’t an instigator. He’d really like to live peacefully, and fly under the hoops, for the most part. He didn’t want the fame that clung to him like a bad smell, and he didn’t want the eyes following his every move. He didn’t want the weight of a world’s expectations on his shoulders, and he didn’t want a terrorist with connections attempting to murder him every other Tuesday.

Harry didn’t start battles. But he sure as hell ended them.

“Considering that every face I recognize in this room is dead in my time, Sirius Black, yes, I would definitively count this as a nightmare.”

Harry paused, watched the news settle. Watched eyes snap open, shoulders hunch, lips bitten, mouths drop, fingers clench and eyes clench tightly shut. Shacklebolt appeared mostly unaffected, and Harry couldn’t have that.

“Except for Shacklebolt,” he tacked on, forcing his tone to even nonchalance. “He is—was—will be the Minister though, and I think that dreams of politics fall into nightmare territory.”

Shacklebolt, who had seemed so eerily calm at the thought of his own demise, did not like that. Disgust twisted his face into several knots, lips pulling into some hybrid of a pout and a grimace. The expression was hysterical, and Harry would treasure it forever. Shacklebolt had been far too even and mild and calm so far, and Harry was glad for the opportunity to drag him down to his level of misery. Death? Was a mere inconvenience to the man. But becoming a politician? There was no coming back from that knowledge.

Chapter Text

“You thought we were Death Eaters,” Moody grumbled slowly, mad eye roving madly. He was obviously turning that thought around in his head, and Harry couldn’t have that. The man was sharp. Who knew what he’d figure out from everything Harry had blurted out so far?

Harry gave him a sharp nod, before barking out a, “Constant vigilance!” for old time’s sake. Half the room jumped, like they hadn’t been taught by a Death Eater who was way too good at impersonating a half-mad, grizzled ex-auror for anybody’s comfort. Barty Crouch Jr. should have joined the muggle world and become an actor. Bloke would’ve made millions.

Moody eyed him approvingly (with one eye, the other was whizzing around). “Aye, lad. Your time must be harsher than ours.”

Harry let out a short bark of a laugh that had Lily, James, Sirius, and Remus—oh, hello, Remus, welcome to the party—snap to attention with too-sharp eyes. Right. Harry may have picked up that habit from his dogfather. “I don’t know that I’d say our world was harsher,” Harry slurred a bit, exhaustion threatening to pull him under. Harry was good at ignoring that feeling, though, so he shook his head and continued through the beginning of an awful migraine, “the people were just…weaker, and I was left to deal with the fallout.”

With his words, an awful though clawed its way into his head. Immediately, any hint of exhaustion fled. His heart picked up about six paces, and he couldn’t quite control his breathing any longer. Because—he’d thought if Voldemort was dead, he could handle anything else thrown at him. But if Harry was in the past now…

Harry ignored the concerned looks he was getting, and Albus’ steady chiding (was he still going on about the hairless thing? The man really couldn’t take a hint), and McGonagall’s stern displeasure (when did she get here? Also, her hair was black!), and Madame Pomfrey’s worried bustling. Instead, he launched himself toward Moody with all the desperation of a war child being dropped back into the frontlines. Moody startled, but Harry couldn’t care, because his question was vital.

“Is Voldemort alive?” He demanded, breathless and pained.

The room fell perfectly still.

“We…defeat him?” Lily broke the silence, hope lighting up her eyes and brightening her face. Harry spared her a glance, before refocusing on Moody’s still eye.

Moody gruffly grumbled, “He’s still alive. Still in power.”

Harry…wanted to cry. He wouldn’t, of course. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried (that was a lie. He was five years old, and he discovered he had his own name at school. He wasn’t ‘Boy,’ he was ‘Harry.’ He’d cried a long time after that, and swore never again when Dudley chased him down, hit him with a stick, and called him a sissy boy).

Lily was still watching him, and the last cord holding him together (as frayed as it was) snapped.

“No, you walnuts! You don’t ‘defeat’ him!” The room’s mood, which had brightened considerably with Lily’s assumption, abruptly plummeted. “I defeated the bloody snake! Over and over and over again! This last time was final—should have been final. Instead, I woke up here!”

Harry was well aware that he had the bad habit of letting his temper run off ahead of him. The room’s silence was tense, and he could feel the weight of their stares (always, always watching, never alone, always watching). He finally dared to look up, and saw—some twisted form of hope restored on the majority of the room’s faces. He could see the calculations running through Dumbledore’s mind—he was a lot more obvious now. Was it the difference of twenty-plus years, or was it that Harry was no longer a gullible eleven year old, looking for care wherever he could?

He should really work on his temper. It caused situations like this. “No. I am not going for a—” he paused. Did the horcruxes count? He decided to count the diary, since it sort of had a body, and was able to take his wand? The details were a bit hazy. Harry had been far more worried about the giant snake at the time. None of the others counted, he decided (except for the one in his head, since coming back from a killing curse counted). Okay. So—baby. Quirrelmort. Diary. Graveyard. Ministry. The hell that was the past year—Harry was just going to wrap up all of the confrontations in a nice little box and call it good. And the final stand. So. Roughly seven? Okay, ew, why? Why that number? Maybe he needed to revise? Well—“I’m not going for an eighth confrontation with the bastard, even if I have won all but one.”

Why were they staring at him now? He mentally reviewed his little rage-speech, and groaned. Right. He was an idiot. He then mentally smacked himself for that last line. At this point, Harry deserved what he got for running his mouth.

“Won all but one?” James repeated faintly, staring at him with disbelief spilling across his features, eyes so wide the white was visible around every part of the iris, mouth gaping. Well. At least Harry didn’t look that silly when he was surprised. One point to the alley cat with a torn ear and triple-broken tail!

Unfortunately, Harry’s mouth was still rambling without his input. “When we fought at the Ministry, he half-possessed me, I threw him out, and Dumbledore stepped in,” Harry grumbled. “It’s the only battle that I didn’t bring to a standstill or win outright, so I don’t think it counts.” Harry paused, rewound, and scowled at James as he realized what had just happened.

“You can save us,” Mcgonagall began, breathless and earnest.

Harry wasn’t having it.

“I’m done with it!” Harry snapped, magic snapping and crackling right along with him. The emphasis was nice, made a few of the room’s inhabitants flinch back. “I’ve been a part of the war for longer than I even knew it existed, and it has impacted my entire life! I have spent every year since I was eleven fighting, and I was ready to be done! I thought I was dead! Again!

“Since it didn’t take the first few times, and all I felt about it was grateful, because I thought I’d missed my chance, but no! Instead I’m dropped into yet another war where everybody will expect me to save them from the snake-faced bastard!

“And. I. Am. Done!” His magic punctuated his short rant with sharp snaps of lightning and hail. Dumbledore seemed petrified, while the others in the room were obviously terrified.Except for one.

James Potter stepped forward slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and it was such a shock, the words so foreign, that Harry’s rage and fear drained, leaving him empty and lost. “You’re right. You just came from a war that was finished, and the last thing you need is the pressure of another.”

There were a few protests from the gallery of people surrounding them (Harry had kept his back to the wall, he wasn’t stupid, but there were people crowded in every other direction). Somehow, James quelled them all with a sharp look and pressed lips. It didn’t work on Moody, of course.

“The kid admitted to defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a number of times. He admitted that in his time, he finished him off. He—”

James cut him off without a second thought. Maybe Harry could see the relation, after all. “He’s a Potter, obviously. That means that he falls under my House’s banner, and as heir, I have the right. If this is what the Order is—a multitude of adults converging upon and attempting to bully a teenager into winning a war for them—then I may have to reconsider joining, myself.” His tone had gone straight to posh. He sounded like he was from an old school story book. More importantly, though—nobody had ever truly stood up for Harry before. He didn’t know what to do in this situation. He was the protector—never the protected.

Sirius and Lily strode to James’ side, presenting a united front, and keeping Harry from view. Their arms were crossed, but they held their wands firmly, prepared to fight the whole of the order at James’ word. And then—Shacklebolt joined them. Harry had to spend a not inconsiderable amount of effort to keep his jaw shut.

“Perhaps we can come to an agreement,” the naked mole rat suggested, eyeing Harry from in between the slats of his human shield. Sirius stepped closer to James, blocking off even that view.

“No.” James was firm. There was no room for negotiation in his tone, and the square of his shoulders suggested that they’d have an easier time getting the earth to spin backward. “He said he did not want to fight. We will not be throwing him back into battle simply because we can. I will be taking him home, because mum will kill me if otherwise, and we will decide where to go from there. As a family.

“You will not question him. You will not talk to him. You will not even look in his direction, considering that this confrontation started with legilimency.” James’ tone took on a vibration of rage on the last word, causing it to become something so much worse.

Harry was going to break his tearless streak. He was the protector—never the protected. But here was the man that would become his father, and for the first time, Harry was the one being sheltered.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked shocked that somebody (other than Harry, in his own time, on a few notable occasions) had stood up to him. That may not have happened since he’d defeated Grindlewald.

“You certainly will not! This child needs rest! He cannot go off gallivanting—” Madame Pomfrey puffed.

“Pops,” James said gently, “You know that I adore you, truly. Considering everything that we’ve discovered about my cousin in the last thirty minutes, do you really believe that he’ll stay, even if he stays?”

She met Harry’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what she saw, but she wince, and then sighed. “Fine. Fine! Foolish children!” She bustled around and began to shoo people out of her wing, and began to make up one of the beds with a few twitches of her wand. Huh. That was the easiest Harry had ever left her clutches.

James nodded, matters apparently settled, and turned back to Harry eagerly, only to meet Harry’s wand. Sirius scowled, and Lily raised an eyebrow, while James’ eyes once again went comically wide.

“I never told you my name,” Harry said quietly. His magic gathered close to him, coiled dangerously, a snake prepared to strike, lightning teasing the air. As grateful as he was for James’ intervention—Harry couldn’t trust it. “How did you know that I’m a Potter?”

Chapter Text

Harry watched James’ jaw fall. His eyebrows rose comedically high, and he opened and closed his mouth several times—resembling nothing so much as a fish. Lily tripped over nothing, while standing still (was Harry’s mum clumsy? Yet another thing nobody had ever mentioned about her), and Sirius tilted his head in a way that reminded Harry too much of Padfoot (his Sirius had been gone for years, but Harry couldn’t help equating him with his younger self. And it hurt, so much that his chest felt like he was caving in—but he had to move forward, always, so he’d take this hurt and bear it as well).

“I…” James started, letting his voice trail off into nothingness. He ran a hand through his hair—not rakishly, like Harry had seen in the Pensieve, but absentmindedly. So it was more habit than it was to show off? That was…nice to know, since Harry had been self-conscious of his own hair ruffling ever since he’d seen how much it made James look like a prat, and Harry didn’t have his charisma. Like this, though—it seemed natural. It made him look softer, younger somehow—a boy who’d been caught in his mischief. This was how Harry wanted to see him, in all honesty. It was much nicer than the idealized version everybody in the future seemed to have of him. Harry returned his full attention to the other (wand still pointed firmly at the other man’s chest—Harry was distracted, not stupid) as James’s shoulders shifted.

“Your hair.” James answer was firm, but there was a softness to the words that suggested—hesitancy, maybe? Understandable. What the hell kind of answer was that?

What? He lowered his wand, because that kind of ridiculous answer could only be true. No, really, what? How in the magic of Merlin did his hair give his surname away? He and James stared at each other blankly, incomprehension written into every lax line of their faces, while the others in the room stared at them both (the weight of those gazes burned, fire running through unhappy nerves at every shift of their eyes).

“My…hair?” Harry finally managed to get out around the tongue that suddenly felt too large for his mouth. In his own time, he would have blamed the feeling on Fred and George (only George, now, Harry realized with a pang in his chest that felt like he was being sawed in half. Or, not now, but in the distant future? Time travel was terrible for tenses). James continued staring at him, eyes somehow gone wider.

“Oy, Prongs,” Sirius drawled slowly, aristocratic upbringing clinging to every word despite his use of slang, “I think he really doesn’t know. As for you, Mr. Potter from a nebulous future…” Harry snorted at the sky joke. Sirius really just couldn’t help himself, could he? Sirius’s grin softened into pleasure, although the corners of his eyes were tensed in mild confusion. “Pureblooded families often have shared and rather specific traits—physical, magical, mental—the works. I’m pretty sure the magic passes it down? The Blacks, for example, have—”

“Hair as black as the darkest of nights, eyes silver as the glimmering stars, and the tendency to live their lives too fast and to die too young due to the lovely tendency of falling into the void of the Black Madness,” Harry interrupted automatically, having heard the spiel a few times too many from his Sirius. Having been locked up in Grimmauld, memories of his family (often horrifying) were at the forefront, so Harry had heard a lot about them. He looked away as Sirius’ eyes narrowed, more focused on him than before, and tried to fight off the heat attempting its best to gather at his cheeks. This was why Hermione had told him far too often that he could never be a spy.

“I…just didn’t know that it applied to other families?” Harry bit out, trying to force his way past his own awkwardness. Thankfully, Sirius seemed inclined to let him, a small shrug and an arched eyebrow his only response before continuing.

“The Malfoys are all white haired ponces,” Sirius replied with an easy grin. Too easy. This was not Harry’s dogfather, whose friends had all died or betrayed him, who had been in Azkaban for roughy a third of his life, losing a good portion of his charm and good nature. Harry needed to remember that.

Harry nodded at Sirius’ response, and threw back, “Do the pointy noses count too?”

Sirius threw back his head and barked a laugh that was both more genuine and smoother than his future self. Lack of screaming from living in a waking nightmare for a decade, Harry supposed. 

“Oh, definitely,” James cut in with a half-smile, still a bit uncertain but still willing to try. “Their necks must be built differently, too, to keep said pointy noses always pointed to the sky.”

Alily let out a surprised chuckle that shorted Harry’s brain. He’d never know that his mother was the type to chuckle rather than giggle. He’d learned more about her in the last hour than he had in the rest of his life put together. Instead of being a goddess who had done no wrong ever, and was obviously courageous and loving and perfect—she was a woman. She was a person, who tripped over nothing when she was surprised, and chuckled when she was amused. It was…nice.

James lightly reached out and took Harry’s sleeve, pulling him from the Hospital Wing. Harry let him, because he’d never be able to escape Madame Pomfrey as easily on his own. The collective displeasure of the older adults was nearly tangible, much to Harry’s pleasure. At least Shacklebolt was cool and just waved them off, even as he turned back to the others still in the wing, eyes coold and shoulders set in warning. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that meeting.

James led him up to a third floor corridor—much to Harry’s body’s groaning discontent. He ignored the ache of his muscles and the burning feeling traveling up and down his legs as he moved—he’d had worse. There was a room there that Harry distinctly remembered finding Roger Davies and Alicia snogging in. The room looked like it was protected by sigils running along the Frame of the door and the trim of the room, but it was more decoration than anything.

This seemed like it was going to be a Discussion. So Harry grabbed James’ sleeve in turn and marched him, Lily, Sirius, and all of the others who’d been in the room up to the seventh floor. James stared at him and Sirius rolled his eyes.

“So why are we not using our base, again?” Sirius drawled. Lily chuckled again, and James sniffed at them both. “I am certain that my…cousin…is perfectly aware of where he is, and has an adequate understanding of where we are going,” he replied huffily, still standing up for Harry…for some reason. Blood, maybe? Also, it was hilarious that the more annoyed James became, the stuffier he sounded.

Harry stopped in front of his favorite wall in Hogwarts. Remus snickered (making Harry jump, because he’d kind of been ignoring the crowd, and the werewolf had been so quiet he’d forgotten he was there.”

“Perfectly adequate, huh?” A girl in the back drawled, a sarcastic lilt poisoning them, as Harry began pacing. James began a rebuttal that fell silent as a door appeared.

“Perfectly adequate,” Harry shot back at her viciously. She flushed and looked away.

“What? I didn’t know this room existed. Jamie? Jamie, did you—?!” Sirius tried to get out, but he was too busy flipping his head between Harry, James, and the room.

“No. How did we miss a room? Remy?” James murmured.

Remus shook his head. Although the quitest, he was clearly the most surprised, eyes wide with wonder.

“Welcome to the Room of Requirement,” Harry said brusquely, smothering a grin as he strode forward. He’d asked for a room that would be undisturbed and comfortable. The Room, as it always had (it had been destroyed, too, hadn’t it?), provided. Plush armchairs, soft cushions, fluffy blankets, a crackling fireplace, and a table with all sorts of snacks and drinks laid out were some of the comforts the room provided. Hogwarts still seemed to recognize him as one of her favorites, despite his displacement. He was grateful that she knew him, even when nobody else did.

Harry took a chair that was to the side, off on its own a bit, and glanced over the ensemble, all of whom were exploring the room. Peter Pettigrew wan’t there. A relief he hadn’t even thought to ask for, but was grateful for nonetheless. He might end up on his dad’s side if he started cursing his friends out of the blue, after all. He ignored that issue and focused instead on his parents’ younger selves. Not much younger. They would die in anywhere from two to three years. A tragedy that shouldn’t have happened. Their small horde of friends—some looked familiar. A girl with long blonde hair and gentle brown eyes reminded him strongly of Neville—and so did the man who towered over most of the room, strong shouldered and steady. The woman with long, dark curls reminded him a bit of Theodore Nott. The man with a mustache that didn’t suit him at all could have been Susan Bones’ twin.

It was like being surrounded by ghosts and funhouse mirrors. It was bizarre and disorienting. It was horrible, that he was sure less than half of the room would survive in the next five years. Maybe less than a third. All of these youth, pale and stressed and worn out from the trials of war, but bright and determined and so very alive—would soon be corpses.

“So it was really my hair that gave it away?” Harry asked idly, ignoring Sirius’ demands that he tell him how he’d found the room, as the rest of the room slowly began wandering over, taking seats or cushions or standing with arms crossed, and focusing back on him.

Sirius looked annoyed that he was being ignored, and amused despite himself, judging by the slight pout he had going on. James mostly looked bemused, finger tapping the rim of the tea cup Remus had brought him (since he’d refused to let Harry leave his sight) idly.

“I mean—yes? Well, that and—you look a lot like mum.” James’ stare was unwavering, the deep brown of his eyes appearing almost black with the amount of focus he was directing at Harry.

Harry paused. Restarted. Paused again. He…looked like James’ mum? His own grandmother? He looked like—he didn’t know her name. He didn’t know his own grandmother’s name.

“Come off it,” Sirius bark-laughed again, eyes dancing merrily. “He looks a lot like you, Prongs!”

The small group concurred, staring at Harry with the type of intent that was usually saved for people trying to kill him. And so it began. Harry had to fight off the heat attacking his cheeks again (he didn’t think he’d ever blushed this much in his life). James grinned at him a bit crookedly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“He does,” James agreed softly. “But he was forced to fight at eleven. And—he didn’t recognize the Potter hair, although he recognized the Black traits.”

The amusement in the room shattered. Lily leaned onto James’ shoulder and grabbed his hand with tears in her eyes.. Sirius grabbed James’ shoulder with madness in his, curling around him from the back of their loveseat with a horrified whine. The others in the room stared, and stared, their eyes heavy weights, dragging him under and drowning him, accusations crushing him. Business as usual, then.

Harry curled into himself and averted his gaze. His throat was too tight too speak, no words coming out, the breath in his lungs freezing. He clenched his teeth, tensed every muscle in his body, and—nodded.

“Oh,” James breathed, resignation lacing the syllable with enough pain to drive a shard of glass through Harry’s heart.

Chapter Text

“Oh,” James repeated. For the first time since Harry met him, he seemed completely speechless. Even his earlier confusion about the hair thing was better than this.

Harry was tired of being the harbinger of evil.

From Voldemort possessing Quirrel and Ginny to his revival and the death of a young man in a graveyard, sometimes Harry felt as though he was the bad omen Trelawney always claimed to see in his teacup. Although he’d always made it out alive—well, not everybody else had. Trelawney really was an awful seer. Predicting danger for him, when it really should have been around him.

“I was…” James began, trailing off too quickly for Harry to even guess where he might be going. Sirius clutched at him, knuckles white, and Lily’s lips had all but disappeared. That look on her face sent chills clawing at Harry’s back, flashbacks of near-starvation and isolation making an abrupt appearance. Never once had he thought Lily Evans looked anything like Aunt Petunia—but that look of cold disapproval was a damn near mirror to the other woman, down to the pinched brow and slightly scrunched nose. Harry was going to be sick. He focused on James. Seeing his dad in shock over his certain death was better than associating Lily with Harry’s shitty childhood.

James took a shuddering breath and tried again. “I was somewhat hoping that would fail to be the case, but I believe that I knew it had to be. The Potters are hardly a large family, after all. Since you are from the future, of course, you should be a descendant of either my father or Charlus. So your relation to me—are you my nephew, cousin, grandson…or…”

“Son,” Harry finished for him. It hurt less to hear it from his own mouth than it would have from the man who was (will be? Could be?) his father. “I’m the son of James Potter.”

The weights of the stares around him became heavier. Harry had been treading water in a fight for his sanity—and those weights were going to force him under, drag him to the depths of the ocean. His skin was burning wear their gazes touched, and he wanted to rip it off and throw it at them in hopes it distract them, make them look away, haunt their memories for the rest of their lives. See how they liked living with the weight of his sins.

He hated them. He hated the way they were always watching, making it hard to think, to breathe. The room was too small, they were too close, it was too heavy, he couldn’t—!

“Can I hug you?” The whisper was a barely-there counterweight against the encroaching stares, but it gave Harry something to focus on, at least. He forced himself to look up. He’d been in worse situations than this (he hadn’t. He wondered what it said about him, that he would rather be in a fight for his life than surrounded by others—whether they were admiring or hateful, he’d take the Hungarian Horntail every time. At least he had a chance of winning against a dragon, and it wasn’t shy about wanting him dead—or maimed, at the very least. He knew where he stood, which was more than he could say about people, who would stare, expectations pulling him in every direction). Harry met James’ overly bright eyes. They were wet, a step away from tears.

Harry was awful with crying people.

“What?”His voice came out in a higher pitch than he’d meant it to, cracking halfway through the word. Because—nobody had offered him that before.

“There is no world where I would have left you alone to face your demons if I was still functioning. So—I must have died before you were eleven. And you faced You-Know-Who seven times—and you died twice it sounds like, and you are so used to fighting that even on the brink of magical exhaustion and permanent injury your first reaction was to jump out of the bed and take our wands and ask questions—” He’d been there?Harry would have sworn he’d shown up later? Maybe he was lurking in the background? “—and I just…can I please hug you?” James voice was thick and he stumbled on his words, swallowing several times through his explanation. His entire body was shuddering. Hearing it that way seemed to have an effect on the rest of the rooms’ occupants. They curled in on themselves, their eyes too-bright, lips pursed, brows low. They didn’t all have the same expressions, but they were close enough for Harry to tell James’ words had caused the mood of the room to fall even further.

“I don’t—er. I guess?” Harry had never felt so unsure of himself in his entire life, including the time he’d gone up against a snake the size of a young blue whale with nothing but a sword.

James’ response was too immediately extricate himself from Sirius’ and Lily’s clutches and launch himself at Harry like Dobby’s (gone, gone, a knife and a grave, giant eyes dull and voice low and fading) bludger. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s scrawny shoulders, enveloping him completely due to their size difference. For a moment it was incredibly, horribly tense—it wasn’t like Harry knew what to do, Hermione (would he ever see her again?) was the only person who’d ever hugged him before, and those were always quick, fleeting things—usually when he was about to charge into danger (“…you’re a great wizard, you know…) or when he’d just made it out, and they were more for her than him.

This—he didn’t know. Was he supposed to relax into it? What was he supposed to do with his arms? Should he lean his head in, or just sit straight as he’d been doing? It was too much and not enough and warm and blistering and sent shockwaves of pain radiating through him and was just so damn nice, all at once. How did normal people deal with this sort of thing? How could they bear it on a regular basis?

Maybe Harry was just broken.

He carefully rested his arms around James and let his head fall onto his (father’s?) shoulder. He was burning alive, and he wanted it to end, but he never wanted it to stop. He was dying, this was killing him, and he sort of wanted to crawl into the nearest cupboard and hide because it would be safe and run because it wouldn’t be (the cupboard was never truly safe—Harry could be stolen from it at any time, and shoved back in and starved at any imagined offense. Safety was a thing for people not named Harry Potter). His skin was being flayed off at James’ touch, his heart was trying to escape his chest, and he didn’t know what he wanted anymore because his mind was just—not cooperating anymore, he couldn’t think. The lava in his veins was trying to escape, he was going to burst from the pressure of keeping it contained.

When James finally pulled away, it was far too soon and not nearly soon enough. He left prickling trails of wildfire where he’d been clutching on to Harry’s back and shoulders, the imprints of his hands leaving shadow bruises that Harry wasn’t certain would ever heal. Harry’s shoulder was wet where James had tucked his head. Was it horrible, that Harry was grateful that somebody cared enough to cry for him?

James stared at Harry with puffy, bruised eyes and trembling lips. Harry really would have never guessed that his father was the crier between his parents, but what this trip through time had taught him thus far was that nobody remembered anything useful about his parents. Nobody knew the small things. Sirius had probably forgotten them due to long-term Dementor exposure and Remus…Remus was another story.

“Well. I’m too young to be a father,” James interrupted his thoughts with a joke that was too heavily laden with pain to actually be funny, and a voice that was too thick to be considered joking. “But you know, I’ve always wanted a younger brother. How about it? Want to throw a surprise adoption at my parents, Jameson?”

Harry’s brain went immediately blank. Had he been confunded? Firstly, that end joke had been horrendous. Secondly…

“I’ve attacked you and your friends, threatened you—how many times was it? Several times, at least, and you suggest I—become…family? Your brother? Is there something wrong with you?” Harry didn’t know what to think, but he did want to know what he was getting into.

James grinned at him, toned down but still warm, shoulders relaxed as he leaned back on his hands, eyes sparkling (but still puffy). “Eh, Sirius is also my brother. There is absolutely no conceivable way that you could be worse than him, so. What say you?” His voice trembled a bit at that last sentence, which did make Harry feel a bit more grounded. James was more nervous than he was letting on. It made the situation…bearable.

Harry really wanted to say a lot of things. That James was wrong. That Harry knew Sirius’ darkest actions, and Harry had done so much worse (he’d used two out of three Unforgivables, after all). That James didn’t know him. That James was naive, offering his affection, his care, his warmth to a stranger.

Severus Snape was wrong. James was just as good and kind—maybe more so, Harry’s baseline for goodness and kindness was off, and basically amounted to not locking children away or starving them or sending them back to their nightmare residences—as Harry had always imagined.

Sirius Black was wrong. Harry was definitively not enough like James (in character or appearance) to be mistaken for him. The ways that they were and weren’t alike reflected like a broken mirror—cracked, jagged, fragmented pieces catching light and shadows that shouldn’t be seen.

“My name is Harry,” he said instead of voicing his thoughts. Some things, he’d learned early on, didn’t need to be said.

James’ grin widened into a smile so bright that could light up the room, even if his eyes were a bit glassy with unshed tears (again. Why had nobody mentioned how emotional James could be, instead of his courage and sacrifice?), and he shifted forward off his hands, grabbing at Harry’s hand eagerly. Harry let him take it. The burning agony, worse than basilisk venom, was worth it for the warmth that rested in his heart at the touch.

“Harry. That’s a nice name. Harry. I wonder where it came from? Not my side of the family, unlike your hair.” James’ smile tipped into mischievous for a moment before returning to awe. Harry had never had a look like that directed at him before—like he’d made somebody’s day simply by existing.

“Oh,” Lily whispered. Harry risked looking at her. Her eyes were huge. She raised a trembling hand to cover her mouth. And then, “Oh!”

Tears threatened to fall, but she took a deep breath, shutting her eyes and clenching her jaw for a moment. After recovering, she snapped her eyes open and stared straight through Harry’s soul.

“Lily-flower?” James asked, twisting around to see her. Concern showed in the wrinkle of his brow, in the way his hand tightened around Harry’s. She looked from him to Harry and back, finally settling on Harry.

“My great-grandfather—the one I told you about James, the general?—his name was Harold. I thought it sounded stodgy, though—I always preferred his nickname. Harry.” Lily’s voice was gentle, but firm. Quiet, but steely. The room fell into silent anticipation, hordes of people Harry didn’t know expecting his answer. Well. That was hardly new, actually. Harry had more important things to think about.

Harry hadn’t known his name was from the Evans’ side. Hell, he hadn’t known that he was named after somebody. Aunt Petunia had to have known—she just…never told him. It was too much like her, honestly. Harry hadn’t known his name wasn’t ‘Boy’ until kindergarten, when a teacher called on him and he hadn’t known to answer her.

Harry looked as deeply into Lily’s eyes as she was his. Like James, it was like looking into a cracked mirror. Her eyes were a lighter shade. Had Harry’s ever been that bright? That full of hope? That innocent? He doubted it. He’d lost his innocence when the brightest of greens lit up his world as a toddler, his mother’s screams echoing in memories lost until a dementor tried to steal his soul.

He finally nodded at her unasked question. She gave him a smile that was so heartbroken it hurt to see. Harry was just grateful that he knew what she looked like when she was upset, now. “I didn’t know about your grandfather’s name, though,” he felt compelled to tell her. It was only fair, after she’d given him so much. His name had a story, had a history. For a child who’d had nothing, particularly in the way of family…it meant a lot.

Harry wasn’t sure what it was, but something in his words broke Lily’s composure. Tears streamed down her face, and she made her way over to steal his other hand. She leaned on James’ shoulder, and stared at Harry, eyes drinking in his every feature.

They…didn’t seem to hate him. Strange. 

Chapter Text

“Harry…Harry James Potter, I assume?” Sirius asked, guessing at the traditional wizarding naming style, attempting to lighten the mood. He missed by a Quidditch field, but it was nice of him to try.

Harry’s life was storm clouds and lightning, hurricanes and thunder. It was the darkest depths of the ocean, waves roiling above. It was the screams of a woman protecting her child, and the cold of a dementor’s presence. It was the feel of a man burning beneath his fingers, of venom burning through his veins. It was the peace of death, and the agony of life.

Any attempt at levity was appreciated, no matter how silly or dull.

The crowd around them was becoming restless. Harry could see fidgeting fingers twining through hair and tapping wands, and shifting knees attempting to find a more comfortable position, or just bouncing up and down in his peripherals. It was time to fight the most monstrous beast of them all.

Gossip.

He pulled a bit away from his father—brother? That would take some getting used to. He allowed James to continue holding his hand in a vice grip. Harry had the feeling it would take more than a spell to detach the other boy at this point. Lily curled up at James’ shoulder, though she kept her eyes on Harry. Strangely, Sirius joined them by plopping down at Harry’s other side, rather than behind James. Did this mean he’d accepted Harry too? That didn’t seem quite right, for Sirius. Maybe it was just to present a united front to the crowd. Who knew?

Remus didn’t join them.

Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. How to feel about the man. Future or past or present. Remus Lupin was an enigma.

He shoved that into a mental box and hid it away. Present Harry had bigger problems staring at him (literally. Did any of these people ever blink?). Remus sounded like a problem much better suited for future Harry, even if future Harry would hate present Harry for putting it off.

“You said earlier that everybody you knew in that room was either dead or should be, in the case of Kingsley,” a girl with stacked black hair sneered. It wasn’t a very good sneer. Harry had stood up to Snape’s sneer. This girl’s sneer was like—a sneer that would get bullied by the dungeon bat’s. It was the sneering equivalent of a particularly ferocious bowtruckle. Annoying, but ignorable.

Was Harry delirious? Maybe he really should’ve stayed in the Hospital Wing this time. That sounded terrible, though, and he’d really been in much worse situations in the past. Eh. Nobody seemed to have noticed, so he’d ignore it too, for now. If he had a concussion, it would clear up on its own, surely.

Harry nodded at the girl, realizing he’d let the silence go on too long and be awkward. He was proud of himself for noticing. See, Hermione? He could read a room! She stared at him, so Harry stared back. She looked away first. There was something new to learn every day. Maybe he should use the dead-eyed fish stare on staring people when he was eventually dumped back in his time, too. It was extremely effective, judging by the girl’s twitching shoulders.

“Which…which of us do you know? Will you know? …Did you know?” A blonde girl with a round face and sweet brown eyes confused herself with the tenses. Harry felt for her. He, too, had no idea which he should use. He took a second look at her. She looked—incredibly familiar. Her lips twisted to the side in thought, and Harry’s heart just—stopped. It hurt. It hurt so much. He knew that gesture. He saw it all the time in the dorm when one of the million potted plants or herbs stuffed into every corner had started growing beyond its allowed space, and their owner was forced to trim them down or relocate them to the Forest. It was too much, this was somehow worse than seeing his own parents—

Harry focused on the feel of James’ octopus limbs. He wasn’t home. He might not ever get home again. He needed to be in the current present, not his present. He forced himself to breathe for a moment, and refocused on the girl—her hands. Her hands were safe, and unfamiliar. They didn’t have the broadness and strength behind them that Harry knew all too well.

“I mean—it depends? I’ve actually only known a couple of people in this room, but I’ve met a few in passing, but for the most part I’ve only heard stories. I wouldn’t say I know anybody particularly well.” Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He risked a glance to the room at large and—their faces were white. So he should have known them well, or they at least expected him to. But Harry wouldn’t lie, and he hadn’t even really known his dogfather or Professor I’m-not-your-professor-anymore-please-just-call-me-by-my-name Lupin.

“Stories? So you might know us by reputation,” a girl with dark curls falling in every direction interjected sharply, dark eyes showing the whites all the way around. Harry edged back a bit. She looked rabid. Harry shrugged at her for good measure. It was possible, after all—she looked vaguely familiar—maybe from Moody’s photograph of the old Order?

“My name is Dorcas Meadowes,” she pressed.

Harry narrowed his eyes. The name sounded almost vaguely familiar—wait. She was definitely in Moody’s photo. He remembered the old battle-axe pointing her out. He didn’t know the specifics—but he did remember her fate.

“Are you sure?” His voice was flatter than he’d meant for it to be. She just—couldn’t know what she was asking of him. Did she really want to know? Did she understand the cost of that knowledge—the weight of it? Would she blame him for it like everybody else seemed to?

She faltered. She took a deep breath and blew it out in a single huff. Her shoulders shuddered, but she looked into Harry’s eyes with a stern set to her lips. This was not a woman who would falter in the face of adversity. “You’re here. It changes what we know about time travel, so far as I can tell.”

Harry shrugged, meeting her determination with his own. “Probably. Madame Pomfrey would have definitely mentioned this in the infirmary the first time I woke up there—even she was just muttering under her breath. Dumbledore wouldn’t have, but that matters less, since the words he doesn’t say count for a hell of a lot more than what he actually speaks aloud. He never even tried to dangle the idea of this information in front of me, so he definitely didn’t know it could happen. Which means I can be pretty sure this didn’t happen in my timeline. Time turners don’t work like this, as my experience with the damned things taught me back in third year.”

James let out a miserable little whine that made Harry’s heart twinge. “How is it that everything you say just makes it worse?!” Harry’s dad-brother demanded, squeezing Harry hard enough that his ribs creaked in protest.

Harry winced. They hadn’t even made it to the worst parts yet. Sure, Harry was just sort of blurting everything out—everybody had known enough about his misadventures back in his time, it was easy to forget that it was all new information to these young adults (how old were they, anyway? Late teens, early twenties?). And, well. Probable concussion. Maybe he should wait until he was healed up to say anything?

…Nah.

He lightly patted James on the shoulder with his free hand. If he thought this was bad, wait until he heard about the basilisk.

Meadowes was staring at Harry with absolute horror lighting up her face and clenching her fingers into fists. “Okay. Okay, so we are absolutely coming back to why a third year had access to a bloody Time-Turner,” she stated, the demand becoming an order in the harsh pronunciation of her consonants. “For now, though—this is a different type of time travel. If your being here—if your knowledge—can change things, especially since you told us that we were not the ones to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—then I say we take that risk. I’d rather the opportunity to fix this mess in advance.”

Harry eyed her, appraising the solid set of her shoulders, her too-straight spine, her pursed lips…her trembling fingers. She did know exactly what she was asking for, then.

Harry would give it to her.

“I don’t know everything,” he warned in advance. “Hell, I barely know a fraction of everything. And I’ll only tell the fates of people who ask directly—and only if I know what happened, obviously. Dorcas Meadowes…Moody mentioned you, I know it…Ah!. Apparently you were both strong and annoying enough that Voldemort…’honored’…your persistence by killing you by his own wand.”

Meadowes’ eyes fluttered shut, she slumped forward and rested her head in her hands, but she didn’t immediately try to hex Harry for the bad news. She was taking it surprisingly well. Much better than he had when Dumbledore finally bothered to tell him about the Prophecy.

“I…see. Thank you.” She spoke quietly, and Harry blinked. Wait. What? Why was she—?

She straightened and looked at Harry directly. “I have wondered for some time now, if we are fighting this war correctly. If our general knows how to use us properly. If we’re all dead or indisposed by your time, and we don’t even win…I need to reevaluate. Thank you for sharing your knowledge.”

Harry forced his head to move, and nodded awkwardly. Nobody thanked him. For much of anything, ever. Except for Mrs. Weasley, since he kept saving her families’ lives (after endangering them in the first place, but semantics). This felt unnatural, that he was being thanked for something so…small. Information that had been all but worthless to him could change the course of these peoples’ lives.

That was…a thought.

The girl with the wimpy sneer and stacked hair spoke up. “McKinnon…My name is Marlene McKinnon. Please, I—what happens to me?”

“Oh. Your entire family was wiped out in the first—er, this—war. Including yourself. I don’t know how, but Moody mentioned it once.” Harry winced at his own bluntness. He really didn’t know of a kinder way to say it, though. He’d been told how his parents died (a lie, of course) by Aunt Petunia, who was cruel, and later Hagrid, who was…Hagrid. He wasn’t sure how to gentle the words when the meaning was so heartbreaking.

McKinnon let out a gagging sound, her face lost all of its color, and she curled her arms around herself tightly. She stared for a long moment at nothing. The rest of the room seemed too quiet, too cold. The stares were like weights dragging him under.

“Do you know why?” She managed to choke out. Harry admired her persistence, until he realized that he would have to answer her.

“You were a target because of your work for the Order, like Meadowes. I don’t know about your family, but knowing Voldemort it was probably to set an example. Or because he was upset about something. Or because he could. Even odds, really.” Again with the bluntness! He really needed to learn how to talk with people properly. There should have been a class for interpersonal relations at Hogwarts rather than Divination.

Harry flinched as McKinnon reached for him, and froze as she took his hand instead of smacking him. “Thank you. I was also…unsure about the Order, because we’re not gaining any ground whatsoever. To find out that we don’t win, and that my family is killed because of it—because of me—well. I’ll find another way to contribute.”

Again with the gratitude?!

The girl with sweet brown eyes leaned forward, earnest. Her eyes were wide, her lips partly open, hands clenched together and trembling. She looked young. Vulnerable. It was an expression Harry knew far too well. Because behind the dread in her eyes was determination. Behind her vulnerable expression was steel. Behind her trembling fingers was courage. Harry knew all too well, even though others might miss the signs. It had taken him years to read them, after all. He was looking forward to this conversation even less than the others. It would break her heart. It would haunt her dreams. She would never truly recover from the what-ifs.

There were fates far worse than death, after all.

Chapter Text

And of all fates worse than death—hers may have been the cruelest.

“My name is Alice Fortescue,” she stated, voice trembling and too quiet for a member of a secret order created to take down a snake terrorist. “I—please. What happens to me?”

Harry had to pause at that. “Like the owner of the ice cream shop?” The old man had a gentle face as well, come to think of it. He’d been one of the only adults Harry had ever met that was good to him for no reason other than being a kid. The summer before third year had been his best, due to the kind old man that gave him sanctuary.

She nodded, face falling. “I—yes. He’s my father. So you didn’t know…”

Harry shook his head. The way she was biting her lip was so familiar it hurt. He would like that to stop immediately. “It’s just that I only ever knew your married name.”

She brightened. “Oh! Did Frank and I…?”

Harry nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to speak in the wake of that smile. Neville looked like his dad, sure…but he was definitely his mother’s child. Their inflections, the shy countenance that covered a spine of steel, their eyes, their smiles…

The boy next to her had turned red, and was grasping her hand with too much force, but there was also a bit of a goofy grin on his face. Neville resembled his father, certainly. Those family aspects Sirius went on about, Harry supposed. Still, it was nice to see them like this—fully aware with bright, clear gazes.

“Then—what happened to us?” Alice demanded. There was the courage Harry knew so well.

Harry first looked at Frank, who nodded. Their stories could hardly be separated, after all. With the other boy’s grim nod, Harry began to speak.

He told them of a prophecy that may or may not have been true, of a family gone into hiding. He told them of the son that was their world, and the Death Eater raid that ended it all. He told them of the Lestranges’ mad devotion and of Barty Crouch Jr’s return years later, despite his apparent death. He told them of hospital beds and lost minds, and a child who accepted gum-wrappers as the only gifts he’d ever received from his mother. Mostly, he told them about Neville. Neville, who proved himself over and over again. Neville, who had never really been the coward that he’d been told he was by a grandmother who could only see a dead man when she looked at him. Neville, who became the only person Harry could really trust in some ways—the only one Harry knew would destroy a piece of Voldemort without a doubt. Neville, who led a rebellion in Hogwarts because it was needed. Neville, Neville, Neville… Who Harry would probably never see again.

His chest burned, and his eyes burned, but the tears just wouldn’t fall.

Harry’d had that beaten out of him long before he’d received a letter to a magical school.

Alice was sobbing by the time Harry finished their story, voice hoarse. But her eyes didn’t waver. Even as the tears fell, he could see the strength to continue, to fight, burning steadily. Frank was holding her closely, horror shown in the whites around his eyes, in the press of his lips.

Maybe this time, they and their child would reach a happier ending.

Harry doubted it. If he’d learned anything in his life, it was that happiness was a fleeting illusion, and that pain was the only consistent in life.

“Alister Greengrass.” This man—Harry thought looked vaguely familiar, with his dark hair and pale eyes. In the end, though, he had to shake his head. He didn’t know him at all.

Alister’s lips tightened. From the way he looked down, he understood all too well. “If I was alive—or cognizant—you would know me. I would have done anything to make sure of it.”

Harry felt cold. That—hurt. That his parents’ so-called best friends had their priorities in all the wrong places, but this stranger would have ensured their meeting. He wondered what that world could have been like.

It hurt so much more somehow, knowing that all of these bright young people’s futures would be reduced to ashes in just a few years.

“Us,” James said from Harry’s shoulder. He barely even lifted his head, although he did let go of Harry with one hand to gesture between himself, Lily, Sirius, and Remus. Of course. He probably couldn’t imagine a future where their fates weren’t intertwined. He wasn’t wrong.

Harry hesitated briefly. This was even worse than the Longbottoms’ tale. At least he had a bit of distance from them. But this would touch into his own history. He hated talking about himself, but to understand, he’d have to give them a brief overview. He should probably avoid the whole prophecy mess—

Shit.

He already said something about it to the Longbottoms, hadn’t he? This…was suboptimal. Well, whatever. He’d blame it on the concussion later, if anyone asked or Dumbledore did his usual ‘hide all of the useful information’ thing, later. Harry, rash? Nah, he just had a traumatic brain injury after dying and being sent to the past. Foolproof. (If Hermione was here, she would definitely be saying something about Harry’s luck—or temper—ruining even the most foolproof plans, but she wasn’t. So there.)

Wait. There was something he needed to check first, wasn’t there?

“Where’s Pettigrew?”

“Making potions with Kentwhistle,” Sirius answered with a lazy grin. “Kay caught him brewing—pulled off an awesome prank the other day—Alicia Nott’s hair was green for a week—but he was caught. Kay has kept him ever since, due to the whole war thing and what have you.”

Harry turned to look at him, and stared for a moment at this Sirius Black. At the man he’d never really known. Sirius was grinning widely, but it faded a bit at Harry’s stare. He tilted his head—so much like a dog that Harry almost broke character and did the outrageous—like laugh or something. Instead, he shook his head.

“That’s great and all,” Harry began slowly. He (for perhaps the first time in his life) did his best to pick his words carefully. This could break them, after all. “I really, really want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s just a kid right now. I’m pretty sure you guys only graduated from Hogwarts in the last couple of years. I know this, logically.

“But…don’t put us next to each other for a while, okay? In fact, it’s probably better if we’re not in the same room—or even where we can see each other—for a good long while.”

The room tensed. The air became stifling. The weight of the stares became a more physical burden.

“Harry…?” Lily said to him gently. Too gently. It made his skin crawl. He wanted to rip it off, shred it to pieces. Make it stop.

Nobody was gentle to Harry Potter. He was expected to go to battle after battle without rest, to answer an old man’s questions with the venom still burning in his veins, the ashes and blood still on his hands, on his robes, in his hair. With his wounds still bleeding and his head still pounding, and the tears not coming. He looked away from her gentle gaze. It would be easier if she was being cruel. This kindness…Harry didn’t know what to do with it, how to react, how to accept it. He let it sit in the air, unacknowledged, even more weight he would have to carry.

“Mum and dad died when I was just a little over a year old,” he whispered. High-pitched laughter and a woman’s screams…the world drenched in indescribable green…James’ arms clenched tighter, grounding him. “I never knew them.”

Sirius made a choked sound and gripped at his shoulder. Lily let out a soft sob. James’ curled ever-tighter around Harry, but that was all. He kept his gaze fixed on a spot above everybody’s heads. This was—too much. This was his story, too, and he hated it.

“Sirius—did Sirius take you in? You—you recognized his Black family rant, and…” Lily managed to speak out. Her voice was thick, but forceful. James was sobbing again. Really, why had nobody ever told him his dad was the teary one?! It was pertinent information! No, all he got was how fun and charming and brave the man had been, not how emotional! It would have helped him fifth year!

Harry winced at her question. Stick the knife right where it hurts, pseudo-mum, thanks. “I—er—no. I—Sirius. I didn’t meet Sirius—well, after the whole murder debacle anyway—I didn’t meet him until my third year at Hogwarts.”

Harry could feel their horror, but couldn’t see it, thanks to the convenient little splotch of ink he was staring at on the wall. Thank you, Room of Requirement, for always knowing exactly what he needed. At his shoulder, James’ sobbing intensified. He was shaking so badly that Harry thought there was an earthquake for a moment. Nope. Just his father-brother having emotions. All over Harry. Gross.

Honestly, James had taken his own death much better than this, and he had to have guessed that Sirius hadn’t been an actual pillar in Harry’s life, based on how he’d started crying at the others’ name. James was the intuitive one? Harry had always assumed it would be his mother, honestly…

Wait. He couldn’t be upset for Harry, right? That was—a thought Harry could not handle right now. Nope.

“And Remus?” Lily demanded, tone sharp as knives. Harry did not want to get on her bad side. Note to future self: Lily Evans is terrifying. Also, too much like Aunt Petunia. Her voice had also taken on that edge when she was displeased with something (read: Harry). It was an unpleasant reminder that the two were in fact sisters. Unfortunately.

“I met him when I was thirteen, as well.” Harry’s response was prompt enough that the Lily-beast should be pacified. It usually worked with Aunt Petunia.

“So they were off frolicking together while you were left with my magic-hating sister and her pig of a husband? While you fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” Lily’s voice had turned glacial. Okay. So Lily could not be placated with the same methods. Good to know.

Harry let out a sound that could be generously considered a laugh. If it came from a corpse and not a living being. “Ah—no. No, they were definitely not together. Or frolicking. At that point Professor Lupin still thought Sirius was the traitor behind your deaths. And Sirius—well, he’d just escaped Azkaban.”

If the room had been quiet before, it was now a graveyard. James’ grip was too tight—it reminded Harry of being tied to a gravestone in the middle of nowhere, a boy who could have been a friend facedown in the distance. Harry didn’t get nice things. It was too much. His arms were still burning where James touched, little shocks of pain pricking over his skin.

It was still nice, though.

Sirius edged forward from Harry’s side, looking at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Ah. There was the Sirius Harry recognized, hysteria pulling the sides of his mouth into a grimace.

“Azkaban?” He whispered, brushing Harry’s hand as he moved. Harry winced. The brief touch burned—they normally didn’t to this extent. Was it just that he was oversensitive thanks to James’ koala tendencies?

“Mum and dad were under Fidelius. Sirius Black was thought to be their Secret Keeper. They were betrayed, and then murdered by Voldemort directly. Voldemort tried to off me, but the curse rebounded—nobody knew why,” Harry said, forcing the words to come out. They were stale, dead, the sounds of a zombie. Wasn’t that what Harry was at this point? He silently added, and they never will. “I will not talk about that shit, don’t bother asking. Sirius was thrown in Azkaban without a trial, since everyone assumed he was the traitor. He wasn’t. They’d switched. Sirius knew he’d be too obvious—and they thought Remus was guilty, since he was acting suspiciously. So they made Pettigrew the Secret Keeper instead. He sold them out. He ran straight into the arms of his snake-faced master with the information he’d been handed on a silver platter.” Harry felt numb, at this point. Really, his life sounded like a story written to torment the tragic hero.

Except Harry couldn’t be a tragic hero, since he kept not dying.

“Pete?” James whispered, voice rough. From the tears or the pain? Harry was too antisocial to tell. “But he’s—”

“Probably innocent, right now,” Harry interjected, doing his best to be reasonable. His best would absolutely fail if he saw the rat’s face, but with the not-yet traitor safely away (in the dungeons?), he could manage reasonable. Probably. (Hermione would be so proud.) “I don’t know when he turned. You probably have a chance to—save him, or whatever. Just don’t expect me to play nice with the guy who caused my parents’ deaths and later kidnapped me for a blood ritual. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“Peter, though?” Remus asked softly, face tinged with green.

“Don’t underestimate him. Sirius called him a coward—but I think he was more cunning than anything. He saw his side losing—terribly—and ran to Voldemort—”

“Can you stop saying his name?!” A girl in the back hissed wildly. “We may be under Hogwarts’ protection right now, but we still don’t want that kind of attention!”

Harry paused, and shrugged. “Right. He made the Taboo around this time, didn’t he?”

Back to the important part—“He ran to Snake-Face because he thought the noseless bastard would win. He told me as much himself—so it’s probably not wrong. Sirius ended up in Azkaban for eleven years thanks to that guy, so just—keep us apart, please. If you decide to try with him…don’t expect me to try, too. I don’t think I can keep those memories separate.”

Lily, who was staring at him from around James’ giant, heavy head—the look in her eyes was different. That emotion, Harry recognized.

He hated being pitied.

Chapter Text

Lily looked away from him for a moment, and then resettled her gaze, even as she clutched James’ shoulder (since his arms were currently busy acting as restraints). Her jaw tightened, the same way Aunt Petunia’s did when she was desperately trying to keep from speaking (usually in front of one of Uncle Vernon’s clients). Harry really wished he’d never found out that his mother shared so many habits with her sister—his nightmares would probably feature Aunt Petunia’s cruelty wearing his mother’s face from now on.

“Harry…” Lily began, and trailed off. That was another thing Aunt Petunia did, when she wanted to keep a person’s attention. Harry hated this knowledge.

“Harry,” Lily restarted. “How old are you?”

Harry bristled. “How old are you?!” He snapped back. “I’m apparently old enough to win a war, and you’re apparently old enough to lose one.”

He regretted his temper as Lily flinched. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. But it had been a long day, and a longer year, and really, just a long lifetime. He needed to rest, but Harry Bloody Potter was never allowed to. Sure, this time it was mostly his own dumb fault for leaving the hospital wing, but in his defense Dumbledore had been there, and Harry really wasn’t up for facing his old…mentor was definitely the wrong word…headmaster. He should have begged for a bed elsewhere. James would have been on board.

“That’s not—” Lily began with a bit of temper to the hurried words. She paused, taking a deep breath. Then she repeated the deep breaths, in and out, for a few rounds. Harry really hated how like Aunt Petunia she was. That was exactly how Aunt Petunia had responded to Dudley that one time he’d spilled wine on her brand new armchair. Naturally, Harry had been blamed shortly after.

After gaining control of herself (Harry needed to figure out that trick—deep breathing had certainly never worked for him), Lily tried again. “I’m nineteen. I graduated last year. How old are you, Harry?”

Harry stared into her near-identical eyes for a long moment. Everybody mentioned how green they were, how much Harry’s reminded them of her—but there was so much more. Lily’s eyes—her entire face, really—was expressive. Now, with her brows furrowed slightly and lips twisted to one side, she reminded Harry of—himself, actually. He’d caught that particular expression on his own face once or twice when he was stuck cleaning the bathroom. It was contemplative, and upset at—the world, maybe. Undirected anger, because directed anger was dangerous. Her eyes were dark at the moment, distant, which was a far cry from the brightness earlier—now Harry could see the resemblance to his own.

“Seventeen,” Harry finally managed to respond.

Lily’s eyes fluttered shut. “So you’d just be starting your final year,” she murmured. Incorrectly.

“I was born late for the school year,” Harry corrected her. “Technically, I should have graduated this—erm, future this—year. Except that I sort of skipped seventh year since there were some things I had to do involving his Lord Snakiness that couldn’t be finished while studying for NEWTs.” Harry tried to defend himself from the gazes that fell on him once again. Yes, he was a magical high school dropout. To his credit, he stopped the noseless terrorist. And he was rich. He’d been fully planning on moving into Grimmauld and hiding for the rest of his life if he survived the final battle. Sad how his plans had been force-changed.

“Seventeen. I thought you were older than us but you’re younger. Merlin,” McKinnon whispered. Harry really didn’t like her. “A bloody teenager defeated You-Know_who.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. As much as he could shrug. It was more of a twitch, really. James’ grip was so tight that Harry thought he might have bruises the next day. “Somebody had to do it. And my earlier years proved that adults are useless.”

“I don’t—you’re so mature for your age,” Meadowes said slowly, eyeing him up like a particularly interesting two-headed animal. “I would want bloody vengeance, even if I knew the other party wasn’t guilty yet. Just the knowledge of what they could do would be enough.”

Harry sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the world resettle around his shoulders (oh, wait, that was just James changing position). He wasn’t mature. He was exhausted. There was a world of difference between the two.

Harry looked her dead in the eyes, and she flinched at whatever she saw in his. Good. “If I swore vengeance on everybody that’s ever hurt me,” he began slowly, making sure every word hit, “there would be nothing left. Hogwarts wouldn’t be standing, the Ministry of Magic would be disintegrated, the ICW would be ripped apart, and the wizarding world as a whole would be drowned in a sea of fire, along with most of the UK. It’s just not worth it.”

Greengrass shot him a look that multiplied sympathy by horror to become distress. “Has there been anything in your history worthwhile? Have you had any good in your life at all?”

Harry had to look away—the man seemed vaguely familiar still, and it was giving him a headache trying to figure out why (or maybe that was just the concussion plus previous head trauma he’d received over the years…Nah).

“Sure I have. It’s just—every good thing in my life was either broken or overshadowed by a worse memory. “

“I’m going to kill Petunia,” Lily said with a sickeningly sweet smile. Huh.That was one expression Harry had never seen on his aunt’s face. Also. Way to change the subject…

“Finally! Why now, though?” McKinnon cheered, even as Sirius choked so hard he had to brace himself on Harry’s shoulder.

“I mentioned it earlier, though I think it was ignored in light of the Azkaban revelation,” Lily said, still smiling. Harry was more afraid of that smile than he’d been of McGonagall’s everything back in first year, before he realized she was actually a softie. She stared into Harry’s eyes again, emerald meeting killing curse green.

“You knew Vernon’s name,” she said to Harry, ignoring how the rest of the room inched closer. “You knew that man’s name, but not my favorite grandfather’s, or how you were named for him.   You’ve sworn using muggle phrases. You flinch whenever I get upset—and mum always said I looked like my big sister when I screwed up my face like that. You mentioned being involved your entire life in a war you knew nothing about until you were eleven. You didn’t recognize the Potter traits. You were raised by my magic-hating sister and her awful husband, weren’t you?”

Harry didn’t look away, because that would be telling. Unfortunately, it seemed like staying silent answered her just as well.

Lily’s eyes hardened and her lips tightened. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Magic-hating,” Sirius whispered, edging forward to look between Lily and Harry, finally settling on Harry. “Merlin.”

His gaze was soft, and the look in his eyes was saner than Harry had ever known a Black could be. “How in the world did you not become an Obscurial?”

Harry shrugged off his concern. He’d wondered the same thing, back when he’d learned about them. “Sheer force of will?” He wondered idly. He gave up on hiding that part of his past—thanks, Lily, for spilling his awful childhood in front of everybody, even if the details were missing. He’d dug his own grave, he supposed. “I mean, I can resist the Imperius, so I guess a parasite might not be able to latch on?”

James was shaking again. Harry idly patted his arm (the only part of James Harry could reach, since the other was strapped around him so tightly Harry was beginning to lose circulation in his arms), ignoring the electric burn of his touch. It was more of a low hum now, anyway. He also ignored the damp patch on his shoulder that seemed to be growing again.

“The future sounds like shit,” a random extra, who’d been silent up to this point, spoke up. His face looked a bit familiar, maybe, but Harry was too tired to care at this point.

“Honestly, for the vast majority of people after my first birthday, everything was fine up until my fifth year,” Harry responded vaguely. He felt a bit distant from his own body. “Dumbledore just never took very good care of his baby recruits. I was at the center of everything since before I was born, and my friends and classmates suffered for it.

“Fuck the teachers, though. All of the adults were useless for various reasons—the only person whose reasons I’m willing to accept as reasons and not excuses is Sirius—Azkaban really messed him up. He still tried more than every other adult in my life though, so kudos for that.”

Sirius twitched at that—Harry wasn’t looking at him, but he could feel the other man’s grip on his shoulder tighten for a moment.

Remus Lupin, who had been sitting off to the side with a troubled look twisting his face even as he hunched in on himself, finally spoke up. “Sirius was in Azkaban. Where was I, that I didn’t meet you for so long?” His voice was tiny. Almost silent. Hesitant. Sirius had been wrong, way back when—Peter was crafty and cunning. And Remus Lupin was the coward.

Harry stared at him for a long moment. The silent became weightier with each passing breath, until it settled over them like an avalanche. Finally, Harry shrugged.

“Dunno,” he murmured. Remus’ face tightened at that, so Harry continued in a stronger tone, “I honestly have no idea. We never talked about it. Professor Lupin just—showed up in my third year. He never explained anything. He didn’t even tell me that he was a friend of my parents’ until the very end of the year, during the confrontation with Sirius. I couldn’t trust him after that, so I just—didn’t ask.”

Remus shrank into himself, desperation and confusion and hurt clouding his features. He bowed his head, and his shoulders trembled as he curled his arms around his knees. It hurt to watch, knowing how sensitive he was. Harry was still upset with Professor Lupin, for all the things he hadn’t said, and for a good number that he had. But. Remus wasn’t the man who’d smiled to Harry’s face while keeping him in the dark (if Sirius had been after Harry’s life for real, he would have had it. Harry had seen his animagus form a number of times, after all—and Professor Lupin had kept that very pertinent information to himself). So Harry would throw the werewolf a bone.

“Professor Lupin did help me a lot that year, though,” Harry began, and Remus’ trembling lessened slightly. “We had dementors at the school, and I have a notorious reaction to them. I saw Professor Lupin run them off with a patronus, and asked him to teach me—and he did. Saved mine and Sirius’ souls when we were attacked by over a hundred of them and I finally figured out the corporeal part.”

The stares shifted from horror to shock. The eyes of everybody in the room were bugging out at him, whites showing and jaws slack.

“You could cast a corporeal patronus at thirteen,” Remus said as he raised his head. His eyes were shiny and so were his cheeks. His face held a faint tinge of green that definitely hadn’t been there earlier.

Harry nodded. “I had to learn a lot of defense magic on the fly. The patronus and summoning charms are the only spells in my grimoire that get consistent use that I had to practice a truly ridiculous amount.”

Remus let out a pained and rather incredulous sound that was probably meant to be a laugh? So Harry wasn’t good at emotions, hex him. “And I thought I was ambitious for using the patronus as my NEWT project for defense. Here I am, outspelled by a third year.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I work best under pressure. And there was a lot of pressure for m to learn it. I was directly attacked by the torture demons twice. That spell saved me more times than I can count. I have problems with your future self, Remus, but let it never be said that he did nothing for me. That spell was worth everything to me. I ended up teaching it to a number of my classmates fifth year, and it saved their lives, too. I’m upset with Professor Lupin, and may always be since there’s no way to settle things with him—but he was one of only two good defense teachers we had, and the only one who directly taught me that useful of a spell.”

Remus stared at him for a long moment, heartbreak and joy warring in his eyes. Hope won, shining from the depths of his pain. “I taught at Hogwarts in your time,” he whispered, eyes watering.

“Yeah. And you were probably the best we ever had. When you resigned, a number of students signed a petition to drag you back despite your ‘misbehaving rabbit.’ It didn’t work—you decided to stay with Sirius, I think? He was still a fugitive thanks to Dumbledore’s incompetence. When I taught the DA, you sent me some of your class notes, which was a lifesaver.”

“A baby taught a bunch of other babies how to perform one of the hardest spells known to wizard,” Sirius mused. “Maybe you should ask him for tips, Moony.” Remus looked considering instead of indignant. Harry decided to ignore that. He wanted to pinch Sirius for the audacity, but his arms were still being held captive. He sent the other man a dark look, instead. The satisfaction he felt from the way Sirius paled was something he’d never admit to.

He was tired of being classified as the next great evil over stupid shit.

“Do you want to be a student again, take the seventh year you missed? We could work it out,” James fretted. It was nice. To have somebody care this much. Kind of terrifying, too.

Harry considered it for a long moment, but, “No. Or—maybe? Hogwarts was pretty much a death trap to me, as much as it was my first home. I wouldn’t mind finishing my education, but…I dunno. This is still weird, to be honest, and I’m about thirty seconds away from a full breakdown—if I haven’t already hit that point and this isn’t an illusion, anyway.”

McKinnon grinned nastily. Still had nothing on Snape or Malfoy, and it paled in comparison to Umbridge. “What? Being sent into the past with the living dead isn’t something to panic over, is it?” She cooed at him. “You’ve been pretty cool so far.”

Harry—well. He was the type to end wars, after all. A silly little battle like this was nothing. Just like her future. “Doing well? I just came from a war where I did at least once—twice, if you count waking up here. I’ve seen all of my friends tortured, killed, or worse. And now, the few that were left, I’ll never see again. There’s a part of me that wants to burn the world to the ground and salt the earth so nothing will grow back.

“There’s a part that wants to go after all of the Death Eaters, even those who aren’t yet, and destroy them, because that’s all I’ve ever done and all I know how to do, and maybe my friends will have a chance to grow up like normal kids if the monsters are gone.

“There’s a part that wants to curl up in a ball in a tiny, dark cave somewhere and just—give up and starve to death or at least fade from existence like I should have at the Dursleys years ago.

“You think you know war, McKinnon? You think you’re ready to fight, to lay down your life? You’re a child. You’re just a bunch of children who don’t know anything.

“You don’t know what it feels like to be held under cruciatus until you’d happily give your life to end the pain. You don’t know how it feels for imperius to take hold of your mind, gentling the orders until you’d murder your own family with a smile on your face. You don’t know the feel of a cursed item burning its way through your skin, through your mind, until nothing is left but the curse’s will.

“You haven’t had the burn of venom rushing through your veins and still have the need to fight, because what was the point if you didn’t take your enemy down with you. You don’t know the feeling of inferi clawing at your skin to drag you to an underwater grave, or the heat of fiendfire swallowing you, trying to burn you to ashes.

“You haven’t had Voldemort in your head, burning and clawing his way to possess you, or had to watch through his eyes as he tortured and murdered everything in his path—and not be able to do a damn thing about it.

“I’m doing well?” Harry laughed, a sharp, derisive thing that hurt as it escaped his lungs. He was cold. Not even the weight of James’ entire being helped. Harry stared at McKinnon’s stricken face. Good. Maybe this would get her to shut up.

“I’m cool? No.I know how to compartmentalize. After I crash this time thanks to the concussion or magical exhaustion or whatever, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back up.”

James’ arms were warm, and Harry was so cold. His—brother—pulled him closer somehow, which Harry wouldn’t have even guessed as a possibility. Lily gripped at his hand from around James, and Sirius’ clutch at his shoulder was painfully tight. Harry stared at the wall, above everyone’s heads.

Dammit. Temper, Harry. Control yourself.

Chapter Text

Harry’s shoulder was uncomfortably wet, but James was warm enough to make up for it. McKinnon’s face was stricken, the whites of her eyes showing all the way around, lips trembling. She looked like she dearly regretted speaking. Harry felt about the same. He avoided looking at the others. That had been—unnecessarily harsh, probably.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, like that would make up for his loss of temper. “I shouldn’t be taking this out on you all. It’s just—it’s been a long year—hell, it’s been a long four years—and I don’t want to see any of you die, now that I might…be able to change things.

“I’m so tired.” His voice was shakier than he liked on that last sentence, but…he really, really was. Exhausted down to his bones. Harry didn’t know how he was supposed to recover this time.

Every time the ending he wished for was within his grasp, it was taken from him.

He wasn’t even sure if he cared anymore. He just wanted to sleep.

James’ grip tightened (a feat Harry would have thought impossible. What was with his dad-brother’s arm strength?), and he let out a ragged breath as he straightened from Harry’s shoulder.

“Okay.” James’ voice was impressively steady for somebody who’d been sobbing for the better part of an hour. “For tonight at least, you’re staying with me. Pads and Moony can run interference with Wormy. Tomorrow, we can regroup. I’ll be sending a letter to my parents, and we’ll figure things out from there.”

Something about that niggled at Harry as James ushered him up, Lily and Sirius standing with them. There were several unsatisfied faces in the crowd—sorry, mobs, Harry didn’t actually know what happened to that many people (he hadn’t even known Alister existed, and he seemed a close friend of his parents, thanks Moody of the now-nebulous future). He’d about exhausted his knowledge of the people in this room already.

Harry’s brow furrowed as he tried forcing his memory into working order. James’ parents—there was something about them…

He began to follow (read: he was half-dragged) James and company out of the room, when realization hit and he stopped dead in his tracks. James turned to him questioningly, Sirius and Lily watching quietly and Remus inching closer.

“Dragon Pox,” he breathed, much to the others’ clear confusion. James raised an eyebrow.

Dragon Pox…?” He prompted.

Harry hummed distant agreement, ignoring his sort-of brother for the most part—trying to remember the details. There weren’t any. It had been an offhand comment when Sirius had been telling Harry of his great escape from Grimmauld when he’d been a teenager. Well, offhand until Sirius had burst into tears, preventing Harry from asking any followup questions (like the names of the people in the story).

“That’s a new swear,” Longbottom joked weakly. His voice was too far away.

Harry shook his head, feeling like he was in fourth year all over again, emerging from the Black Lake with his head ringing and ears full of water. “Dragon Pox!” He told James urgently, half-barreling into the other man, who caught him without much effort. Harry would be offended by his own scrawniness later.

“Your parents! They catch Dragon Pox—sometime in the next year—and die. Sirius—my Sirius—said it was only a couple of years after you left school. I don’t know—what’s best to stop it—keep them away from dragons, I guess?” Harry rambled as he tried to remember every bit of information he could. There wasn’t anything more. Why had he never asked questions?!

(It hurt too much. To know what he could have had. He hadn’t wanted to know. Little did past him know he’d end up in a situation where those answers would have come in very useful).

Even as Harry spoke, he adjusted from low-key panicking over his situation—his existential crisis, really—and moved into work mode. He could do it. He’d keep as many of these people alive as he could.

“The potion—dad said it tasted a touch off but he thought it was just the new base,” James breathed, horror in his wide eyes, in his fingers clenching too tightly around Harry’s wrist. He looked into the distance for a moment, before his brow furrowed and he turned on Harry. Ah. Here was the messenger-blaming, come at last. He’d known things were going too well.

“What do you mean, you don’t know what’s best?” James asked slowly. “Haven’t you had the preventative draught? Don’t get me wrong—the cure works better for most, especially if you’re healthy—but the draught is given upon entering Hogwarts.”

Oh. No messenger-blaming after all. Huh.

“What draught?” Harry asked blankly. And then, “There’s a cure?”

“Um. Yes. The Draconis Draught and then the Dragon Pox cure. The draught is for general prevention—not just for Dragon Pox, but also a number of other creature-related illnesses. I thought all first years had to have it? Is that not a thing in your time?” James looked endearingly confused, eyes still red and puffy.

“Maybe? It’s hard to say. The adults of my time were mostly useless? They might have forgotten I was muggle-raised and not told me? Or maybe it’s not a thing anymore.” Harry knew less than the average muggleborn about the world he’d been thrown into, since everybody just—assumed he’d know. “Madame Pomfrey never said anything, at least, and I was in the hospital wing all the time. Hagrid brought me my letter. I doubt it was anything nefarious, but they both probably assumed I’d already had it.”

James stared at him and Harry shrugged. “If anybody should have known, it was Dumbledore. He never said anything, so who knows on that front.”

James’ lips tightened, and his jaw was clenched enough that Harry was vaguely worried he’d crack a tooth. The other man took a deep breath and released it. It didn’t seem to help at all, judging by the tension at his shoulders. “Okay,” he began, voice rough. He took another few breaths as Harry watched with something that felt almost like amusement.

“Okay,” James repeated, sounding more honest and less like he was trying to strangle the word as it left his lips. “I assume you don’t trust Poppy with your health at the moment?”

Harry shrugged, feeling something that felt a bit like laughter and a lot like sorrow filling his chest. He waved his hand a bit in the air. “She’ll treat me and do a decent job of it, but who knows what she’ll tell Dumbledore,” was Harry’s only reply.

“Understood. Before you meet my—our—my parents and your grandparents, a trip to Saint Mungos is in order, then. A check-up. We shall get you the potions you need, and have them look at your overall health. No offense, but it can’t be great since you’re half-starved and still functioning despite the magical exhaustion.” James’ take-charge tone felt oddly familiar to—oh, Merlin. Harry had always assumed Lily was the Hermione of the Marauders generation, from the way people described her. Or even Remus, since he’d become a professor. This bossiness, though, was every bit a reminder of Harry’s best friend. Dear hell, all of his expectations were being flipped on their head on this fine Tuesday (was it still Tuesday? Unexpected time travel was hell on the whole keeping track of days thing. It had to be Tuesday. Weird things always happened on Tuesdays).

Harry stared at James, a bit awed in the wake of the other’s concern. For Harry. Harry had exactly five people in his life who had ever truly been concerned about him—two of them were dead in his time, one maimed, and the other two—well, they were lost to Harry now, weren’t they? Maybe it was better this way—Harry hadn’t seen them when he faced Voldiesnort for the final time. He’d been terrified that they’d died. This way, he could shelter under the belief that they were still alive.

After a long moment, Harry realized he’d been staring at James the whole time, whose brows were beginning to draw together, lips slightly parted as though he were about to ask a question—concern, again. Concern was written into every line of James’ being. It was…warm. And uncomfortable. Harry didn’t know what to do with that sort of care.

Harry finally managed an awkward half-nod at James’—suggestion was putting it too mildly—order. But. “I’m not sure how I’ll do. Erm. You know. With somebody—touching me. Or—even prodding at me with magic. It’s—I might. Erm. Lash out.” It was an uncomfortable truth, but James deserved to know, if he was going to go through all of this effort for his alley-cat adoption.

“And wherever—or whoever—it is, I want an Oath. That my information will be kept private. I don’t trust Dumbledore or Voldemole to not go prying—the latter once he finds out about me. Which he will. I’ve never been that lucky.” Even Felix Felicis couldn’t keep the snake man away, Harry was certain.

James nodded, shoulders relaxing into a slump. Had he thought Harry would refuse? Well—come to think of it, Harry had sort of strong-armed his way into leaving the hospital wing earlier. And had an entire conversation with a room of living ghosts while decidedly not passing out. Okay, fine. So maybe James had a decent reason to be relieved at Harry’s agreement, even if it came with boundaries.

“I shall tell mum and dad to get their draught updated—dad especially, since he’s always in the lab with bits and pieces of various creatures,” James said decidedly. His firm determination to help his people was something to be admired. “Then they can meet with us sooner. You are very lucky to have not suffered from the Pox.”

Harry considered that, images flashing in his mind of tiny Norbert(a), of the Hungarian Horntail, of the Gringotts escape. “Especially since I’ve been in close contact with three dragons,”he agreed blithely.

James opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. The cycle repeated a few times before he took another deep breath and brought his free hand up to cover his eyes. He let out a sound from the back of his throat—a high-pitched, keening sort of noise that couldn’t quite be called a whimper. “No more,” James begged. “No more today. I am going to feed you, and you are going to take a bath in the Headboy’s bathroom, and then we are going to sleep. We will figure everything else out tomorrow. Here’s to the hope that my hair shan’t turn as grey-streaked as Moony’s from the stress.” Remus shot him a dirty look for that, but didn’t refute the statement. Harry just sort of wanted to laugh at the way James’ accent and bearing had become all pompous again.

Harry let James drag him away as Sirius and Remus ran off—to the kitchens, per James’ order. Lily followed James, a merciless look turning her eyes cold and distant. Harry did not want to know what she was thinking about (okay, that was a lie, he kind of did. That look screamed vengeance, and he wanted to see the havoc she’d wreak—at a safe distance, of course).

The rest of the merry crew slowly fell away, leaving only a few stragglers (McKinnon, Longbottom, and a few nameless people who stayed farther back, unwilling to face James’ wrath).

The familiar hallways of Hogwarts led to Gryffindor Tower—Harry’s first home, and the beginning of a never-ending nightmare. The Pink Lady let them in after a short word (Whittle!) from James. The nameless adults quailed under James’ glare in their direction and made hurried excuses to scurry away—apparently they were using the rooms while school was out? Frank Longbottom sat on an armchair with a dazed expression, even as James dragged Harry to a couch, Lily settling on Harry’s other side. McKinnon fell into another armchair, the stormy expression to her lips easing a bit as Harry glanced at her—she looked away, lips curling in shame. Harry had apparently spooked her worse than he’d thought.

“Alice was a Hufflepuff,” Longbottom said, correctly interpreting Harry’s wandering gaze. “Alister was a Slytherin.” Huh. And here Harry thought the entirety of Slytherin united under Deathflight’s banner. He did wonder why they were all staying in their dorms from when they were students—habit, maybe?

The mood was somber, the atmosphere dark, and the silence stifling. The bleak view of the future was settling on their shoulders as heavily as it had ever fallen on Harry’s. There was nothing to look forward to, save for blood, violence, and the inevitable eternity of death. For everybody other than Harry, that is—he met the former two goals with determination, but the latter eluded him.

Harry was actually relieved when, some time later, Sirius and Remus returned with platters of food and butterbeer (a corked necklace around a slender neck, a gentle smile and a thoughtful hum). The two set their load on the small table, and James half-forced a sandwich into Harry’s hand after a quick cleaning charm; Harry wanted to clean the blood off (he really mustn’t have been asleep in the hospital wing long, since he was still covered in dried blood, and muck, and ichor—Madame Pomfrey would have never stood for that, if he’d been there longer than a moment) before eating, but James seemed to have his measure—he was right, Harry wouldn’t eat at all at the moment if he had the choice—the taste of corpse ash and blood were making him sick.

Dinner was a solemn affair, despite Sirius’ best attempts to lighten the mood. In spite of Harry’s earlier reluctance to eat, the sandwiches and side dishes were the best meal he’d had in—ages. He’d been too sick with grief to eat at Fleur and Bill’s house, and before that it had been—Grimmauld, with Kreacher. He hoped Kreacher would be okay—Harry’d written a will ages ago (his first draft had been in fourth year, on a day he’d been particularly melancholy before facing the dragon. He’d kept updating it ever since), but who knew whether the Ministry would actually follow it. All of his meals since had been lackluster at best. Recently—he hadn’t eaten before coming to Hogwarts, and maybe not for a day or two before…? He couldn’t remember how long it had been, exactly, but the sandwiches were filling. Too filling.

He ate more slowly than the others, keeping pace so that they wouldn’t notice how little he was eating. It was an old trick he’d learned to keep others from asking questions—if he finished at the same time, most people assumed he’d eaten the same amount.

James was not most people, as it turned out. He eyed Harry with concern. Great. Yet another explanation Harry would really rather have avoided.

“If I eat any more, I’ll throw up,” he explained shortly. Out of everything he’d revealed about himself, this was by far the most uncomfortable. “There’s no point. I’ve been on the run for a while, and meals were hard to come by. My body’s become used to not having as much.” Harry pointedly did not mention that he’d been used to the brink of starvation since he was a child. He knew his limits.

James’ face fell at the explanation, but he accepted it without complaint. Lily’s lips pursed and Harry involuntarily shivered. He really could have lived the rest of his life without knowing his mother shared a number of traits and habits with Aunt Petunia. Ignorance was bliss. Harry was fast growing tired of knowledge. No wonder he’d not been placed in Ravenclaw.

When they were done eating (by this point, even Sirius had given up on conversation, thank Merlin), James grabbed Harry by the wrist again and dragged him away from the Tower. It was a bit strange—Harry normally hated being dragged around like this, but—it wasn’t so bad, from James. Maybe it was because the other was obviously a tactile person to start with? Or maybe—maybe it was because of the concern Harry could feel radiating from the tenseness of his grip. Either way, it was different.

James brought Harry to the Headboy bath—which was better than the Prefect bath by a large margin. The tub should really be considered a pool. Harry was mildly jealous—he’d have snuck in much sooner, had he ever known it existed. James left with a promise of returning with fresh clothes for Harry to bother.

Harry no longer cared about any of that, as he was finally able to scrub the blood and dirt and grit away. He scrubbed under his fingernails, where it was caked, and washed his bird’s-nest-hair at least three times. He had several new scars, including—he avoided looking at his chest. He thought there might be a lightning bolt to match his scar, and was afraid there would be a symbol found in story books.

He didn’t want to know.

Not yet.

He was too tired to deal with it.

His hands, though—might need to be treated. There were nicks and a rather large cut across the back of his left hand, providing an oddly symmetrical feel to the words carved into his right. They matched, now. A long series of scratches down his forearm (the wall came down, despair, the screams of the brothers left behind), several on his legs, skinless knees, and his feet were—shredded, honestly. How had he managed walking up ’til now?

Not the worst shape he’d ever been in, honestly.

(That dubious honor would forever go to the basilisk—his entire body burned for months after. He could still sometimes feel his veins, pulsing away in his body. Single most uncomfortable injury he’d ever received).

When he was mostly clean, with only a few injuries oozing away—he could summon his wand and perform a couple of field-healing charms, but—that sounded like so much effort, for just a couple of little scratches, he settled into the warmth of orange-lavender scented bubble water (he’d thrown the first bath bomb he’d seen into the water, and was not disappointed).

For a long moment, he rested, closing his eyes and letting the back of the tub hold his head up for him—he no longer felt capable of doing that very normal task on his own. The magical exhaustion, maybe? Or the (likely) concussion? Or maybe the disappointed relief of dying but not-dying.

He didn’t care anymore.

Harry felt the heat that had been lurking behind his eyes spill over for the first time since he’d been a toddler and learned that nobody cared—not his so-called family, not the neighbors, not his teachers. And when he’d made it to the wizarding world, they cared too much, but they all had an idea of him that was —all wrong, or or too much, or—well. He was a celebrity. Ron had been that way at first too, in retrospect. Hermione as well.

James—James was the first person Harry had ever met who’d stood up for, cared for, protected, and taken care of him unconditionally. It was a shock to his system.

Harry wiped at his eyes—only a few tears had escaped, but it was still the most he’d cried since he’d learned his own name. He scrubbed at his face—with luck, anybody who saw him would assume that he got soap in his eyes, or something. He didn’t really care what they thought, so long as they didn’t know his weakness.

Harry Potter, taken down by some kindness.

Voldie-moldy would have a heart attack, if he had a heart.

Harry relaxed into the water as much as he dared—Hogwarts was a warm thrum in the background, singing to him, welcoming him home—and felt all of the pain he’d been pushing away to this point come rushing at him in a white-hot swell of agony. The exhaustion set in completely. He hurt, and he was tired, and he was confused, and he—he just wanted it all to end. Was it too much to ask for, that he could just get on the train to his ‘Next Great Adventure’?

Apparently, yes.

He forced himself out of the tub as his fingers started pruning, which took far more effort than it should have with his leaden limbs. Every step felt like it should be his last. He grit his teeth and bore it.

Harry was good at working through pain and exhaustion, thanks to the Dursleys, Dumbledore, and Voldieu. Not necessarily in that order.

He threw on the robe James left for him at some point—it was huge, highlighting the difference in their frames. He made a heroic attempt of combing his hair, and gave up halfway through. It would dry more messy than normal, but whatever. He gathered up his wand (his filthy clothing had mysteriously vanished—he’d have to stop by the kitchens to thank the house elves for everything later) and trudged back into the real (if it wasn’t the hallucination of a dying man, Harry still held onto some hope) world.

James met him the second he opened the door with an arm around his shoulders and a concerned smile, eyebrows bunched.

“Hey Harry,” he said with a gentle tone, like he was speaking to a spooked animal. Maybe he was. “Mind sharing a bed? If so, Sirius and I can can share, and you can have mine.”

Harry felt heat gather behind his eyes again, but it stayed there this time. His father was every bit the man he’d always imagined as a kid. Sure, he was a dick to Snape, but considering how the man had treated Harry, maybe it was just premature punishment.

“You don’t want to share a bed with me,” Harry admitted, no matter how nice the idea sounded. He and Ron and Hermion had all shared during their camping trips, when the cold hit hard enough that not even the warming charms seemed to help. It also sounded terrible.

Harry needed space, but he like James’ warmth, but the touching—there had already been so much touching. And—the nightmares. They’d keep whoever he bunked with awake, and that wasn’t fair, so—

“I get…bad dreams. I’d keep you awake,” Harry admitted, hating the weakness in his own voice. James looked to be charging up an argument, so Harry quickly added, “I have a spell-reflex quicker than my temper.”

That stopped him flat.

James half-shoved Harry into his bed, and crawled over Sirius, who was already down. Harry had to tamp down a snicker at Sirius’ yelp as—

“Watch it Prongs, that’s my kidney!”

“Well Pads, get your kidney out of my way!”

“Your bony elbows, fuck, mate, why?!”

“Oh, shut up! Ow!”

“Ha!”

“Move your knee—!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Remus howled over both of them.

Blessed silence ensued, and Harry felt lighter as he fell into the pillows than he had in a long time.

Chapter Text

Harry was slow to wake—his head was pounding, his lips were so dry he could taste blood, his fingers were numb, and his entire body ached. He wanted to return directly to sleep, but an unfortunate byproduct of the Dursleys’ loving care was the ability to awaken before dawn and the inability to go back to sleep.

In a fair world, they’d catch a nasty case of rabies. Sadly, Harry’s world had never once even tried to be fair.

On the upside, his bedsheets and nightshirt were of much higher quality than usual—Nev was the best friend a bloke could have. The silk—wait, no, Nev didn’t use silk, it was some plant wannabe-silk—the not-silk was soft and smooth and cool under his fingertips, and wow, Nev had been holding out on him. Harry should steal his things more often. (He wouldn’t even have to become a thief. Nev was so kind, he’d probably just give it to Harry. That was why Harry could never ask).

He slowly sat up, feeling the strain in his lungs—definitely not good, that burned. His chest was on fire, and every breath he took reignited it. He wasn’t becoming a dragon, right? Because that would just be the perfect next step in Harry’s ridiculous life.

He intentionally took a deep breath, and the burn was immediately overshadowed by the feeling of somebody stabbing a ridged spear through his chest. Oh, good. He wasn’t turning into a dragon, just severely injured. He was mostly relieved, and a touch disappointed—he could fly whenever he wanted if he was a dragon. Oh, well. With his luck, he’d be a flightless dragon or something, anyway.

Harry wasn’t allowed nice things.

He stretched a bit, trying to ease out the numbness in his fingers—it didn’t help much, and he only succeeded in setting off the spear-to-the-lung feeling, so he gave up before he could damage himself further. Madame Pomfrey had apparently let him escape from her tender loving care, so he couldn’t be too poorly.

His head pounded behind his left eye, which caused a shot of ice down his spine. He could have done without the news that Voldie was active—wait. He didn’t have the usual feeling of somebody drilling into his head—was he just…having a normal headache, no enemies required?

What a nice change of pace.

He grabbed at his wand—under his pillow as usual—and realization trickled through him like a spring shower—slow to start, with a torrential downpour incoming.

He was at Hogwarts.

Why was he at Hogwarts?

He should be—at the Dursleys…? No, that wasn’t right. In a tent with—Hermione. Where was Hermione?

He clenched his wand and gritted his teeth. But—they’d met up with—Ron. Ron had returned to him. And…Neville? Oh. Neville led him into the school, and—the Carrows. That bitch—to McGonagall—and…

HIs head was throbbing. Harry took a deep breath that ignited his lungs and shook his ribs. Focus on the lung pain.

There was—Fiendfyre. The diadem was destroyed. There was the clearing—

“…Come to die? Avada kedavra!”

—And then…who…? Narcissa Malfoy. He wasn’t dead. Neville—gentle, quiet Neville—killed the snake. There was—a battle? What…?

The Wand. Its allegiance—Voldemort crumbled, soul shattered, and Harry—Harry’s world had lit up into colors he’d never known existed.

He’d won.. Harry won, somehow. He’d won and—nothing. He couldn’t remember. Must have passed out. And Neville—dragged him to the dorms instead of into Madame Pomfrey’s clutches?

Neville was a true friend. Harry owed him—too much. But now—he had all the time in the world to repay him.

Harry never thought he’d live to see the end of the war—or even the end of Voldemort.

What was he going to do…?

He was—he was supposed to die…

Harry’s lungs sent a pang of agony echoing through his ribcage. Kind of it, to break him out of his thoughts like that. He was in the here and now. He’d—figure out what to do later. For now, he just wanted…his glasses. He wanted his glasses, and a bit of toast and some—orange juice. That sounded…that sounded nice.

He forced himself to move—holding tight to his wand (it was second nature, at this point, after it had broken that first time—it felt a bit…different, though…) as he pushed back his bed hangings.

He froze as Sirius’ face entered his vision. But he was—so young…

“You’re awake!” Sirius cheered through a manic grin (Harry had never heard his tone so—lighthearted, before. So bright and enthusiastic—). “Jamie was fretting on whether to bother you or not—you definitely need the sleep—but you’re made of skin and bones and little else, so Remus and I convinced him that waking you was the best option, truly.”

Jamie—?

Harry’s gaze drifted over Sirius’ shoulder. He was so confused—

A young James Potter was being held back by a young Remus Lupin. James was pouting, with a twist to his lips that reminded Harry eerily of—well, himself. And with that, he was reminded of everything that had happened—the day before?

Merlin.

What exactly had he told them…?

“Harry!” James smiled hugely, and Harry’s heart was hit with a ball of emotions Harry couldn’t even begin to unravel. That was—that was his father, who liked him well enough to take him under his wing immediately.

Harry wondered when the rug would be yanked from under his feet.

Nice things weren’t allowed in his world.

James’ excitement dimmed to concern at Harry’s silence. Harry—who must be wearing James’ clothing, not Neville’s. Neville—who he’d probably never see again. That was—Harry couldn’t think about that right now.

“James…?” He rasped, instead. His throat was so dry, and his lungs were on fire, and—he probably shouldn’t have left the hospital wing, but he’d honestly been worse off before and released early (basilisk venom thrumming through his veins, a dementor’s chill lingering at his heart).

“Hey, Harry,” James said, far more gently this time, concern coating his words in cotton. “Do you need a drink?”

“Yeah, mate, you sound a bit rough,” Sirius agreed, head tilted and—staring, always staring, eyes focused on Harry’s mistakes—

“I—yes, please,” Harry coughed a bit as he answered, wand gripped so tightly he was surprised it didn’t creak in protest. Instead, it just sort of quietly thrummed—an unrecognized pulse against his fingers.

Remus quickly brought a glass over—were they prepared for this?—and Harry gratefully took it in his free hand. He brought the cool glass to his lips, and—discretely sniffed, first. No obvious smell or color—it was probably okay. Possibly veritaserum, but—well, Harry’d already told them most everything yesterday. It wasn’t like a bit of truth potion would do much now except confirm his wild tale. So he tipped his head back, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. It wasn’t enough—it never was—but at least he no longer felt like he was back at the Dursleys, just waiting for day to break so he could sneak into the bathroom and sneak some water from the tap.

It would have to be enough.

“Thank you,” He said as he finished.

“So, baby Potter,” Sirius began with a crooked grin (there was a hint at the corner of his mouth—something Harry recognized from his Sirius when he was talking about Regulus—defensiveness and wariness and regret all rolled into one). “Yesterday was—“

“A mistake,” Harry agreed instantly. Sirius’ eyebrows shot up, and James’ lips pulled to the side. “I shouldn’t have told you all—nearly as much. If it weren’t for the concussion—”

“Concussion?” Remus demanded in the background. Harry—still didn’t know how to feel about him, even though this Remus had never just—left or ignored him, like Professor Lupin had—so he shrugged aa single shoulder at him.

“I mean, yes? No way I’d have said that much otherwise. I—” The pain in his head pulsed into a lightning strike that travelled all the way into his fingers—Merlin, his head was killing him (at least it was a normal sort of pain, rather than Voldemort-induced)—and sent waves of nausea rolling. He rubbed at his temple for a moment until it—lessened, not stopped—and continued, “I know better than to mess with time. What’s done is done—I won’t obliviate you all—but I really should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Fair,” Sirius agreed as James escaped Remus’ grip and moved closer. “But not what I was going to say. Enlightening. It was enlightening.”

Harry glared up at him from one eye as he kept pressure on the other. “I’m sure it was. I’m just hoping it doesn’t earn me a one-way trip into the DoM. Damn those guys.”

The other three boys nodded, but the looks in their eyes—Harry could tell they’d never had a tour of the facilities. Just thinking about the Hall of Prophecies was enough to send shivers down Harry’s spine—not to mention the Veil of Death. Especially now that the killing curse had failed to—well, kill—Harry on several notable occasions, and had actually connected twice—yeah. He wanted nothing to do with that department. Ever.

This Sirius Black would never fall to the Veil.

“We kept Wormy away last night,” Sirius told him seriously. “Not sure if we can keep it going, though.”

Harry nodded and clenched his jaw. “Just—warn me ahead of time. I should be able to control myself, since the concussion is sort of clear.”

“There’s—no way,” Remus began, curling up a bit under his friends’ stares. “I mean—you declined treatment. There’s no way a concussion would heal that quickly.”

“It’s not healed,” Harry agreed shortly. “I heal quickly, but that’s not it. Most of the—disorientation is gone. Don’t get me wrong—my head is killing me. But I’m at least slightly more in control of what I’m saying, today.”

James winced at that. “I don’t want to know,” he decided with a grim set to his mouth. His eyes were darkened with—rage, maybe? “Not yet. We’ll warn you ahead of time with Wormy, but it will be after the meeting with the Healer. I don’t know how you manage it, but everything you say makes it worse.”

Harry’s chest clenched at that, as if he’d been doused with ice water. That—that hurt, from the man who could have been (would be? Would never be?) his father. He wasn’t wrong, per se, but…

“No offense, Prongs, but you’re a moron,” Sirius commented idly. James reared back in offense, and opened his mouth as though he’d argue, but Sirius continued, “You’ve heard how the kid’s roughed it—for a long time. How do you think he just took that statement?”

James paused, jaw clenching and unclenching, fingers tapping against his thigh (Harry—did that, too. Was it something he’d picked up from his father as a baby?). He tilted his head slightly—and then he turned to Harry so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet. “That wasn’t—no! I didn’t mean to make it sound like you’re the problem, I swear!”

“What…did you mean, then?” Harry was cautious—he’d been burned too many times, by people he should have been able to trust.

“I meant that I hate that you had to go through all of that! I just—I wish things had been different for you, and I want to fix it, but I can’t! I swear!” James was—panicking. Over Harry’s feelings being hurt. This was—an entirely new experience. Harry had always been expected to just—accept the pain and move forward.

“I—it’s okay?” Harry could tell James wasn’t assuaged in the slightest—his eyes were wide and shiny, his lips pressed too tight, fingers gripping his pants—this wasn’t okay. James had apologized—for nothing, really, Harry was used to worse. How could he make this okay…?

Oh! That was—a good idea, maybe?

“Do you solemnly swear, though?” Harry managed to get out. He tried a grin—he was sure it didn’t have the same effect as Sirius’, but hopefully James would get it—

James’ shoulders relaxed, and he threw a hand (no longer clutching at his pants) up to rub at his hair. “I solemnly swear,” he agreed with a wan smile. Harry could relate. All of these emotions were exhausting.

“Food. Then Healer,” James said decisively, grabbing Harry’s arm (Harry had never been touched so much before). Sirius threw his arms up behind his head with a grin and followed them with lazy grace. Remus took up the rear, worry pressed into the corners of his eyes. Everything was a lot, but it would—be bearable, with James at his side.

Chapter Text

Harry was wrong. This situation was unbearable, James or no. He stared at Healer Selwyn, feeling a little dead inside. The woman was tiny, with tiny hands and a tiny mouth. This was who Umbridge claimed to be descended from? He’d always known the woman was a fraud, but why had anybody believed her?

Healer Selwyn stared back, a tick at the corner of her lips. Laugh away. Harry could do this all day. A sharp pain hit his side and he grunted, not breaking eye contact with the healer.

—James was an ass, elbowing him in the side like that.

“Harry. You promised,” James—well, if he was anybody else it would be counted as a whine. Coming from James, however, it ended up more as a plea. Harry sighed and closed his eyes, losing the staring contest he’d somehow found himself in. He had promised, and Harry was many things, but an oath-breaker wasn’t one of them.

“Would you like your…brother…to step out of the room, Mr. Potter?” Healer Selwyn questioned gently, lips still twitching.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Not like he doesn’t already know too much,” Harry grumbled. James beamed and held his ground, Sirius acting as silent shadow behind him, Lily at his elbow.

“The others,” she began, and Lily hissed at her. Hissed. Like a cat. Holy shit, he would have never guessed she was like this when she was alive. Where were these stories? Sirius was letting out a growl deep in his throat, but that was less surprising considering Harry had lived with a much more dog-like version of the man summer before fifth year.

“They’re fine, too. I don’t really care.” He didn’t. Despite everything, despite their youth—they’d already stuck up for him several times. They were younger versions of the only adults who’d ever truly cared about “just Harry.” Mind, if things became too invasive, he’d kick them out with no remorse. Including the Healer.

“So I’ve been told you never received your Draconis Draught?” The Healer questioned briskly. Harry nodded back.

“As far as I know.”

She made a few notes on her clipboard. “So I suppose a full checkup for today, including a Magiscore—”

“Magiscore?” Harry interrupted blankly. Four heads swiveled to him in unison, identical looks of shock written in wide eyes and slack jaws. It was impressive. Creepy, but impressive.

“…A full checkup and index,” the healer corrected faintly.

“Magiscore detects how depleted your magic is after a few basic spells,” Sirius explained, and he was officially Harry’s favorite. “It’s not a power-ranking, whatever some of the idiots in the pureblood faction think, but it does give a general indication of stamina level and core stability. It’s…unusual that you’re unaware of it.”

Of course it was.

Harry nodded at Selwyn, who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Harry understood.

“Who was your primary healer?” Selwyn asked, tone gentle but murder flashing in her eyes. Harry kind of wanted to set her on Dumbledore to see what would happen.

“Madame Pomfrey? I guess,” Harry answered. He drew back a bit as Healer Selwyn’s jaw clenched so tightly he could see it in her neck, tendons standing out starkly.

“Have you never,” she murmured, “had a checkup from a healer?” Harry blinked in answer, and she let out a sound not unlike a teakettle. She turned on James, and Harry’s wand was in his hand faster than she could open her mouth. She paused, turned back to Harry, and something in her gaze—gentled, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. Harry put his wand away, a bit embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t put words to.

“James, where did you find this boy?” She murmured.

“He found me, really. Mind keeping a secret that more than a few people know about?” At her nod, James continued, “He’s from the future. And possibly an alternate dimension. My—son, actually. He’s my brother now—I’m keeping him.”

Healer Selwyn’s eyes widened before she closed them with a lengthy sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose between delicate fingers. “Of course,” she muttered, “a time-traveling Potter. It’s always the Potters.”

James and Harry nodded in unison, glancing at each other with a grin, although James’ was more bright and Harry’s more tired. Harry…was exhausted.

“Well. We’ll go through the list. Body measurements first. Harry wilted in front of the steel in her gaze. This…would not be fun. At all.

Harry had never before been so disappointed he was right.

After being measured—she hadn’t touched him, instead using a tape measure that worked itself like Ollivander and a scale that self-adjusted—she brought out a range of medical devices. The way they were spread out made them look like torture instruments instead, and Harry felt more wary than he probably should. James and Lily wore encouraging expressions, but Sirius’ lips twisted in a way that screamed he was on Harry’s side.

The first she brought out was a small sphere, but James interjected, “Erm, Healer? Harry is on the brink of magical exhaustion—”

“Nah,” Harry disagreed, feeling a bit hot as every gaze in the room fell on him. “I mean, not really? It was bad—yesterday, Merlin, has it only been a day?—anyway, I feel fine now.”

“You…feel fine. After being on the brink of magical exhaustion?” Healer Selwyn intoned, eye twitching.

…She should get that looked at.

Harry nodded, and Sirius and James’ eyebrows rose as Lily’s furrowed.

“That…shouldn’t be possible,” Lily murmured slowly, each word jabbing at Harry. She’d have to try harder than that, he’d spent six years at school with Malfoy. He shrugged at her in response.

“Okay. Okay. What we shall do first is measure the range of the exhaustion, and so long as it isn’t too low, we’ll continue,” Healer Selwyn stated. Harry wanted to throw her at McGonagall to see who’d win in a fight.

She handed him what looked like a bell on a string. He stared at her blankly until she explained he needed to hold the string up and away from him, letting the bell dangle. He followed her instructions, watching the bell chime every so often. Healer Selwyn’s eyes widened and her lips tightened, and after she turned on James.

“I thought you said he was on the brink of—” she began hotly, and Lily interrupted.

“He was. I was with Madame Pomfrey when she performed the metimurus—”

“And the score?”

“Dark red—almost black.” The room was silent for a moment, and Harry was overcome by the sudden feeling of having done something wrong as Healer Selwyn turned back to him.

“The bell rang five times in a clockwise pattern, five times counterclockwise. You’re already back to half charged, Mr. Potter.” Healer Selwyn’s tone had an edge to it that really suggested she wanted to take a hammer to his skull and crack it open for its secrets.

Too bad for her, Voldemort had already tried.

“Erm, yeah? I could have told you that? I feel way better than yesterday, and even managed to sleep. It was great.” Harry kept an eye on her. Death by homicidal healer felt incredibly underwhelming after Voldemort—or the basilisk.

“That…shouldn’t be possible,” Sirius stated, eyeing Harry like he was an animal in a zoo (how was that snake doing, anyway? Had it made it to Brazil?).

“No…it’s a rare talent, but it is possible. Mr. Potter…how old were you the first time you remember being magically exhausted?” Healer Selwyn was eyeing him like a particularly interesting bug.

“Erm…” he was about to say eleven, right after he’d murdered ol’ Quirrelmort, but that wasn’t true, was it? “I was…maybe six or seven? Apparated onto the school roof. Felt like death for days after.” And that was before the beating he’d received for using magic, however unknowingly.

“You…apparated. At seven years old.” Sirius looked like his soul was fleeing—an unfortunate callback to the time his older self was almost devoured by dementors.

Healer Selwyn accio’d her pen from where she’d dropped it in surprise. “I…see. And how many times have you been magically exhausted since?”

Harry grimaced at her, but obligingly tried to total them up. First year with Quirrelmort. Second year with the diary—he still didn’t know why he’d become magically exhausted from that when he’d been swinging a sword and not his wand. Third year with the hundreds of dementors. Fourth year with the bloody graveyard. Fifth year? Yes—the Ministry. Sixth year—the night of inferi and then a battle. Seventh year—Merlin. Four times total, maybe? For complete magical exhaustion, at least. And then—waking up yesterday. So…

“Eleven? If you include yesterday’s mess,” Harry muttered, staring at the ceiling. He could feel the weight of their gazes trying to pin him down.

“Eleven. Merlin,” Healer Selwyn murmured. He risked a glance at his pseudo-brother. James had lost all the blood in his face. He looked like he was about to faint. Sirius seemed to share Harry’s opinion, because he’d clamped his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Lily was covering her mouth, eyes dark with horror. Sirius…just looked a bit sad. His expression was blank, except for the slightest pull at his eyebrow. It was enough.

“Well. I suppose that does explain your recovery time,” Healer Selwyn spoke with a brisk, clear tone, like she could cover up her lapse. “Especially since it started so young—your body grew used to accommodating the loss of magic.” Harry shrugged a bit uncomfortably.

“Since you’re only halfway to recovery—and how you’re able to move, much less function normally—we’ll have you perform the tests, but the results will be more suggestion than fact. I’ll need to see you fully healed to establish a baseline.”

Harry just nodded, pretending like he knew what she was talking about. She had him grip a small blue tube and told him to cast his most powerful spell. He raised his wand (which felt strange in his hand—he hadn’t noticed until now, but there was something off about the way it hummed—he shook his head and resigned himself to checking it out later). He didn’t really have a most powerful spell? Expelliarmus, maybe? Except it wasn’t that powerful…the patronus? Sure. Sounded like a good idea.

He snapped his wand sharply, and a large, silvery stag erupted. Harry…stared. He’d been able to cast a corporeal patronus since he was thirteen. But this…he could see its hair. Its eyes had definition. What…?

Healer Selwyn’s jaw had dropped, James was grinning dopily, Lily’s eyes were soft, and Sirius—was staring between Prongs and James. Harry grimaced. Sirius was the one he’d have to keep an eye on. He noticed things.

“Merlin,” James began, and Sirius barked out a laugh, interrupting him.

“Not Merlin,” Sirius grinned. “Prongs!”

“Yes…?” James questioned. He looked confused for a long moment, eyebrows scrunched—Harry could see the instant it hit him. His eyes popped and his eyebrows rose comedically. A slight line of tension hit his lips—like he was trying to keep them still. A tremulous smile overtook him anyway, and his eyes became shiny. “Prongs,” he breathed reverently.

Harry really should learn to think things through.

His face was hot, and he quickly looked down. What a nice floor pattern. He’d never fully appreciated Hogwarts’ interior design until today. Was that a cracked stone? Maybe he should restore it—

“Okay. Okay. I believe I’ll just ignore the fact that a seventeen year old managed to cast a fully corporeal patronus while at half-power.” Healer Selwyn sounded stressed, enunciating her consonants like that. If Harry ever did make it back to the future, he’d have to add her to the “adults Harry had traumatized by existing” list. The highest contenders were the Dursleys, but McGonagall had made her way up near the end.

She made Harry run through an odd array of exercised—magic was so weird, why did he have to clutch a glass orb in one hand and a tuning stick in the other? Something about frequencies that he didn’t understand, he’d ask Hermione to translate later—

Oh.

He had to force himself to breathe after that reminder.

She had him hold a few other instruments—some let off smoke, one let off sparkles, and one screamed until she told him he could put it down, and then scampered away under a table, whimpering. Then came the part Harry was dreading. Diagnostics.

“Is there anything I should know beforehand?” Healer Selwyn demanded with a sharp gaze. “Any underlying conditions that may interfere with my tests?”

“Not that I know of?”

Healer Selwyn, James, Sirius, and Lily turned near-identical disbelieving looks at him. Well. They’d caught on quickly. But it wasn’t Harry’s fault he didn’t know what would pop up.

She performed a couple of quick spells, nodding and murmuring and making notes. She was careful not to touch him, and her spells were light and noninvasive. Harry had a feeling he had James to thank for that. Harry watched as she activated a pretty, pale yellow light field that gently swept over him—it felt kind of like cool mist. Things seemed fine until—

Healer Selwyn gasped loudly enough that Harry jumped, and dropped her wand. Harry looked around but didn’t see anything but worry in the eyes of his sort-of family, so—what startled her enough that she dropped her wand?

She stared at him for a long moment. “Why,” she growled, eyes flashing, “did you not inform us that you’ve been poisoned!” Her question was more statement, and Harry—

Wait.

What?

“I haven’t been poisoned,” Harry argued. He was fairly sure, anyway.

“There are signs of a strong neurotoxin in your system—you shouldn’t be conscious right now. How are you moving—?!” Healer Selwyn was panicking. Judging by the fear on James’ face, Healer Selwyn losing her calm healer facade was not a common occurrence. Or maybe he was just afraid that Harry had been mysteriously poisoned and walking around like normal—

Huh. That sounded oddly familiar…

“Neurotoxin? Would snake venom count…?” Harry asked slowly, mind churning. Because—well. There was a particularly noteworthy snakebite in his checkered past…

“Yes it would count!” The teakettle note was back in her voice. James looked ready to faint all over again.

“Okay. Well, it wasn’t recent, but—when I was twelve I was bit by a basilisk. Could that be it?”

The silence was deafening.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry,” Selwyn said after the silence had gained life of its own. “But. Did I just hear you say that you were bit by a basilisk? At twelve?”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, yes? Well technically I guess you can say I stabbed myself on its fang, but in my defense it was trying to eat me at the time.”

“What is your life…?” Sirius wondered, staring at him with an odd light in his steely eyes.

“Pain and agony, with a side of suffering,” Harry rejoined. It was true. That was why he’d like it to be over already. Rather rude of death to not just take his soul already.

“A basilisk…a young one?” Selwyn looked like she’d lost all hope. Harry understood that feeling a little too well.

“Depends on their lifespan, I suppose. This one was over a thousand years old—and over fifty feet long.” Harry wasn’t even exaggerating, unfortunately.

The silence in the room was a stark reminder that Harry’s life was something out of a storybook—even among wizards.

“Where the hell did you find a thousand year old basilisk?” Sirius finally asked. Honestly, from what Harry knew about his Sirius, he’d never have guessed his younger self was this—relaxed? Was relaxed the right word?—about everything. Azkaban did him dirty.

“That’s the question you want to ask?!” James demanded a bit hysterically. “Not, ‘How the hell did Harry survive getting bit by a thousand year old basilisk?!” Harry agreed with his pseudo-brother. This Sirius was weird.

“He’s from the future, right?” Sirius asked in a bored tone, causing James to turn on him with fire in his eyes. “Doesn’t that mean that thousand year old basilisk is around somewhere right now?”

That was…a really good point, actually. But also, “It shouldn’t be a problem yet,” Harry hummed. “Give me a week.”

“No! No basilisks!” James hissed in a noise not unlike a teakettle. Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, but turned to Harry with a nod. Good. Harry had a conspirator. He’d take it. Funny Sirius was still enabling him, nearly two decades too early.

“I thought you didn’t want to fight,” Lily said quietly, as James and Sirius bantered about Harry’s field trip for snake murder.

“I’m tired of it,” Harry answered, forcing his voice to stay even. “But…I like you all. If I don’t fight and you die, it’ll be my fault.”

“Who told you that?” James demanded. “Who said that? They’re wrong! The fault lies at the feet of the villain, not the innocent!”

Harry grimaced at him,, but didn’t respond. He still didn’t want to fight—rather, he’d like to lie down and end wake up to the greater fields of Elysium—but that wasn’t an option so he’d keep moving forward. At any rate, the snake was his responsibility as the only parselmouth in the UK. They literally couldn’t stop it without him.

“How did you survive the bite?” Selwyn asked, face pale and drawn. Yeah. That was the more usual reaction to his stories. Harry was kind of enjoying Sirius’ easygoing responses, though.

“I’m nigh unkillable,” Harry forced a grin. Sirius winced at him and James’ mouth twitched down. Okay. Maybe he should stop trying to smile. Selwyn glared at him and he amended, “A truly ridiculous amount of luck and Phoenix tears.”

They all stared at him. Harry’s shoulders hunched defensively as he tried to avoid their gazes. “That…has been tried before,” Lily said quietly. “It failed. The subject died in agony after prolonging their lifespan to not quite three weeks.”

Harry blinked. “I mean, I survived the killing curse twice,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. This time, they had shifted his worldview. “Maybe I really am unkillable?” Harry hated that idea. He thought he’d survived Great Lord Noseless as often as he had thanks to plot armor from the prophecy. If there was something about him that kept him from dying…he’d been yanked out of his world the last time he’d been hit by an AK. What would happen the next?

James let out another teakettle noise. Lily and Selwyn had turned white, Lily’s hand to her mouth, and Selwyn’s wand fallen to her side. Sirius looked like he’d been slapped by a fish. Everything was worth it to get an actual reaction from his pseudo-godfather. It counted as Harry’s win.

“The killing curse…” Selwyn’s breathing was ragged.

“The first when I was a toddler, the second before I woke up here,” Harry said, eager to get everything over. “Look, if we stop at every injury, nothing’s going to get done. What do you need to know?”

Selwyn visibly rallied herself, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. When she reopened them, she was visibly more collected. “Any injury that’s almost killed you or should have. Any magical exhaustion that kept you in bed for over six hours. We’ll start there and I’ll decide if anything else is necessary. Chronological order preferred.”

It honestly took Harry a second to remember what chronological meant. Maybe he was still more tired than he’d thought.

“AK as a toddler,” Harry began his rapid-fire summary. “Most everything else was at Hogwarts. First year: Quirrellmort attacked me at the end of the year and I burnt his face off. It was my first incident of magical exhaustion, I think? Wait—that was probably when I was eight or nine and I apparated. Second year: Partial possession and the basilisk, obviously. Magical exhaustion. Third year: was nearly Kissed, drove off over a hundred dementors with a patronus, magical exhaustion. Fourth year.” Here, Harry had to take a breath and steel himself. “Fourth Year: A dragon almost mauled me to death, fought off Voldie and blocked his AK by accident. Magical exhaustion. Fifth year: Partial possession again, almost threw myself into the Veil, and fought off a bunch of Death Eaters. Magical exhaustion. Sixth year: almost drowned due to inferi dragging me under, massive battle, magical exhaustion. Seventh year.” Harry took another breath. Where to even begin…? “Seventh year: war. Too many single incidents to count, but they follow the same pattern. Then at the end…AK. Thought it had killed me, woke up here instead.” Harry would explain no further. The horror in their eyes was enough to tell him they understood the gist.

“So that’s why you were hardly reacting to the magical exhaustion,” James breathed, eyes closed and mouth tensed in pain.

Harry shrugged. It was honestly more strange for him to be rested and at full strength. It was far more normal to be running on fumes—had been for as long as he could remember, thanks to the Dursleys’ care.

Selwyn was so pale that Harry thought she should sit down before she passed out. She really didn’t look well. She made an inarticulate noise that had the rest of them staring at her.

“Out,” she said evenly. Everybody out—not you, Mr. Potter the younger,” she hissed at Harry, who had jumped up and had already grabbed at the door handle. Rude of her, to give him hope it was over and snatch it away like that. The others left, grumbling, Lily sending Harry a strange look as she passed, after Selwyn explained she needed to do a full diagnostic, which their presence would interfere with.

She explained her spells as she cast, “—and this is to confirm your age at the time—”, and did not relent, even after the fourth time Harry’s hand twitched toward his wand. It was driving him mad, having to stay relatively still. Sure, it was kind of her to tell him what she was doing, but he’d rather she not do it in the first place. What did it matter, anyway?

It was obvious by the third spell that Harry was living on borrowed time. He wondered when he’d have to pay it back, and why it couldn’t have been sooner rather than later. Death hardly played fair.

Then, neither did Harry.

He somehow managed to keep himself from sending a slicing spell at Selwyn before she finished. Harry was rather proud of himself. He’d come a long way from being that kid who couldn’t keep his mouth shut around Umbridge. Stellar self control, really. Look at him keep his twitchy fingers off his wand. Look at him not casting any spells in return. Look at him—bloody hell, why was this taking so long? Wasn’t she done already? It had to have been hours since she’d sent the others out of the room to start this torture.

“It’s been less than ten minutes,” Selwyn stated with a sharp look in her eye, mouth twitching. Had he said that out loud?

“May I just point out that I just finished a war in which wands pointing at you meant very bad things?” Harry huffed.

Selwyn’s mouth stopped twitching, and her brows cinched. “Of course. I apologize, Mr. Potter. I am…unused to those your age having such experiences.”

Harry blinked. “The people who just left are my age, and they’re fighting a war,” he said, less to argue and more to clarify.

She nodded. “And yet none of them have fought a fifty foot basilisk and lived to tell the tale.” Harry was impressed at how dry her tone was. He should take notes. Anyway, Harry hadn’t really told the tale—it was less impressive than it sounded, what with Riddle’s strutting in the background and Fawkes plucking the basilisk’s eyes out. He did have to concede the point, though. Basilisks were a bit of a rarity.

“We’re done,” she said, staring at the list that had been writing itself with a look of distant horror. “Would you like the others to return?”

Harry shrugged. At this point, he couldn’t bring himself to care one way or the other. James had accepted everything (albeit with tears and octopus hugs), Lily had watched quietly, embers burning in her eyes, and Sirius had agreed to help him with the basilisk again. They were fine. He was glad baby Remus wasn’t around at the moment (was he distracting Pettigrew? Harry couldn’t remember). Remus was…a bit of a sore spot. If Sirius’ death had left a gaping wound, Remus’ back and forth had left a number of shallow gashes.

Selwyn had barely opened the door before James and Lily burst through, Sirius sauntering in behind them. Harry blinked at them all.

“The scans—” James huffed as Lily demanded, “The results?”

Selwyn glanced at Harry, who shrugged. He didn’t know what was on them and James seemed in a better position to remember whatever Selwyn was going to say. He didn’t care what they knew—it had been an open secret in his time. They’d already heard the worst of the stories—he was pretty sure.

…Maybe he shouldn’t tell them that he’d been (was still? Had the AK killed it?) a living horcrux. If the basilisk thing had bothered them this much…

“I want an honest answer from you first, Mr. Potter,” Selwyn said, looking at Harry and not James.

…Shit. She definitely already knew about the Horcrux thing, didn’t she? Harry nodded at her and made a tense motion with his hand to proceed. He almost smacked himself in the eye, and grimaced at his own awkwardness. Some warrior he was.

“According to my scans, you’re drowning in Necromantic magic,” Selwyn said, lips pinched and eyes dark. “I need to know why.”

The resulting chaos had Harry biting his lip to keep from laughing. Lily’s eyes doubled in size, mouth dropping and tripping in place. At least Harry knew where he’d inherited the awkwardness from. James mouth tightened and he grabbed Sirius without looking, who in turn appeared ready to snap Harry in half.

Let him try.

“How the hell should I know?” Harry shot back without much heat.

Selwyn blinked at him, disapproval gone in a flash. “What—” she tried to ask, but Harry wasn’t letting her go that easily. She had deliberately waited until the others had returned. She could have asked him when they were alone, but chose not to. That placed her firmly on the side of not to be trusted.

Harry knew it was too good to be true, to have an actually decent healer.

“I was hit by two killing curses,” Harry drawled, “and didn’t die. I was used as an ingredient in a ritual to restore a body. I wore a madman’s anchor to life for months until we found a way to kill it. How should I know why I’m ‘drowning’ in death magic? The possibilities are endless.”

Sirius’ expression cleared, and he grimaced, sinking into himself as Harry continued. Lily had calmed, eyes cool with lips pursed (seriously, Harry wished he’d never learned how many mannerisms she and Petunia shared). James just looked sad again.

Selwyn looked embarrassed, as she should. Harry dove in for the kill. “What I’m more interested in is why the Healer my—brother—trusts so much decided not to ask me privately. And asked in a way that makes me sound like a villain. Or why she apparently wasn’t listening when I said I was hit by a bloody killing curse.”

Selwyn wilted in on herself. Good.

“I would like to know the answer as well,” James said quietly with an undertone of arrogance that could only come from his pampered upbringing.

“I just—I thought you were exaggerating the killing curse bit, and necromancy is strictly forbidden—” Selwyn looked ready to cry, herself. Harry felt a bit bad for pushing her to this point, but she’d brought his wrath upon herself.

“Say I was a necromancer,” Harry said quietly, the cold shadows of death twining around his heart, echoing in his voice. “What would you have done? Were you hoping for these three to aid you? Do you really believe you could stop me? Magical exhaustion doesn’t stop me, and every attempt at holding me has been met with abject failure in the long run. What were you planning?”

Selwyn was white and shaking. Harry didn’t care. He was so tired of people making him out to be the bad guy for existing.

“I’d like the answer to that as well,” James said quietly, a steely undertone to his voice.

Selwyn managed to say, “I…don’t know. I…I’m sorry.”

Harry paused, and stared. James drew himself tall, nose in the air and arrogant rich kid vibes flowing off of him in waves as Sirius matched him effortlessly. Harry had forgotten that Sirius was also from a rich household, but he pulled off the I-am-effortlessly-better-than-something-like-you-which-does-not-even-have-the-right-to-lick-my-boots pose better than James. Lily just had a ferocious gleam to her eyes, and she was tapping her wand in a mindless way that was anything but friendly.

Harry interrupted James’ rant at the Healer.

“You’re the first person who’s ever apologized to me,” he said quietly, softly. The room froze, even as Selwyn’s expression relaxed. “I also appreciate that you were honest in that you didn’t know what you were doing. However. If you ever pull something like this again, you’ll wish the basilisk had killed me.”

Selwyn had gone from pale to chalky. Her eyes were wide and horrified, but she rallied herself and clenched her wand. She had more spine than Harry’d expected, but she nodded at his warning (not a threat, as much as it might sound like one. The oath he’d had her swear was comprehensive, and doing this again would break one of the clauses. She would not like the consequences of that, Harry was sure).

“On that note, is there anything else we need to know right now?” Sirius asked with false nonchalance, eyes wary as he glanced Harry’s way.

“You’re dying,” she told Harry abruptly, and took a step back as the other three turned on her like a pack of hyenas (like a pride of lions).

“Yeah? How so?” Harry was more curious than surprised. He’d lived long past his life expectancy at this point. He felt bad about his reaction as he saw the devastation in James’ eyes. How had the other man grown so attached so quickly?

“I—inconclusive. Your core appears unstable,” Selwyn said as she hid behind her notes. “I just know that if you continue as you have been, you’ll be lucky to survive the year.”

For a long moment, silence reigned supreme. Elation and guilt at that elation warrred within Harry’s chest, making him feel like he was both floating and sinking through the earth in tandem. An uncomfortable feeling, to be sure. It meant he could help end the war years early, save his parents and Sirius, and be allowed to rest at the end. On the other hand, the look on James’ face was—devastating was the only word that fit that expression, the desolation in his eyes—Harry hated being the cause of that look.

“How can we save him?” James asked, much to Harry’s horror.

Selwyn shook her head. “I’ve never seen readings like these, Heir Potter. The only time I’ve seen anything close—was in an Obscurial.”

The room was silent. Harry tried to respect the mournful tone, but he hadn’t respected anything in quite some time, so—

“Figures.”

James gaped at him as Lily covered her eyes.

Sirius blinked at him, but also used his words. “Sheer force of will, eh,” he questioned with a wry grin. This cemented Sirius as his favorite, even if he had been willing to kill Harry over the necromancy thing earlier. Water under the bridge.

“Sheer force of will,” Harry agreed under his breath. He looked up with a grimace and met Lily’s eyes, flashing lightning.

“I’m going to kill Petunia,” she snarled under her breath. Harry changed his mind. Lily was definitely his favorite.

Chapter Text

James had dragged the others back to his and Sirius’ shared flat. Apparently neither of them were employed—James was living off of the Potter money and Sirius off of his inheritance from Alphard Black. Lily was most of the way through her Potions apprenticeship.

Why had nobody ever told Harry that his mum was working to become a Potions Master? That seemed far more interesting than a thousand and one iterations of how he had her eyes. It was also a much nicer thing to learn than her similarities to Aunt Petunia. Maybe she could take Snape’s job in the future, if Harry managed to prevent the war. It would be hard to be a worse teacher than the slimy git. No matter his contributions to the war, he was a shit professor.

James was sitting in the armchair, working his way through the multitude of papers Selwyn had given them on Harry’s health with furrowed brows and downturned lips. That look of deep concentration caused by partial blindness was the most similar to Harry’s that he’d seen so far—as much as he hated comparing himself to James (alley cat vs pedigreed show cat), he couldn’t deny the similarities in their ‘focused but not liking what they were focused on’ look.

Lily was curled up with a book in her lap that she wasn’t reading, instead eyeing the papers in James’ hands with hunger in her eyes and rage at the corner of her lips, in the whites of her fingers gripping the book like she wanted nothing more than to rip it apart. Harry had a feeling that she might actually make good on her vow to murder the Dursleys, and he wasn’t sure what to think about that.

Sirius was lounging on the couch, idly messing around with—something. Harry couldn’t fully look at him—the way he was lazing about and still working on a project was so similar to the twins—the twins he would never see again as a pair, the twins that were half-lost, the twins that Harry would likely never see the remaining half of again—

It hurt too much. Harry’s chest seemed to freeze up every time he glanced in that direction and breathing became a manual response rather than automated—so he stopped looking.

This Sirius was so different from his Sirius that he didn’t know what to do with him. He was so—relaxed, which was something Harry’s godfather hadn’t been capable of after the horrors of Azkaban and losing everybody he’d cared for at once (even if the loss of Remus and Harry was mostly his own fault). That seemed right. James was a bit of a crybaby, but he was so enthusiastic, and kind, and—strong, and willing to stand up for Harry when they’d barely known each other for an hour and half of that had been Harry threatening him at wandpoint. And Lily—all anybody had to say about her was how kind and bright and brilliant she was—they’d forgotten to mention that she was also ferocious.

Up until recent events had occurred, Harry had kind of imagined Lily as an older, more uptight version of Hermione based on the way people described her. Now he knew that if she was like anybody, it was Fleur. Determined and decisive and unwilling to put up with anybody’s shit. Also a bit prejudiced and arrogant and with a fire burning in her heart that made its way into the bite of her words. Harry wasn’t sure whether he should be concerned or not that his mum’s younger self reminded him of a bloody Veela.

Harry had pictured James as—Harry wasn’t even sure. Maybe Cedric? (Harry ignored the twinge of guilt that pulled at his chest with a meathook.) Headboy and beloved by all, loyal and honest to a fault—mixed with George—popular despite his pranks, the less explosive and impulsive, but far crueler twin. Harry would never forget that James had bullied Snape on a lark because Sirius was ‘bored.’ He was still similar to George, but honestly? Instead of Cedric he was more like Molly Weasley—lovely and a bit hysterical and loving and overbearing and fully willing to become a dragon for those she deemed hers.

Harry had known Sirius—but he’d only known Sirius after Azkaban. He was coming to find that Sirius before Azkaban was an entirely different person. AA Sirius had been spiteful and cruel, a bit deranged, tense and liable to strike out at a moment’s notice—but he hid it all under a smile that stretched his gaunt cheeks in an uncomfortable way. BA Sirius was sharp and witty, but also easygoing and loose-limbed with a languid smile that dimpled on one side and a mischievous cast to his eyes that made those around him want to join in on the fun. BA Sirius was like Fred—the more explosive and impulsive but also more amiable twin—mixed with Bill, the cool Cursebreaker who was willing to set out on his own and could move forward in any situation, no matter how unfavorable.

Remus, who would be coming over in a bit, apparently he had some things to do that had made James’ mouth set in a thin line and Sirius’ gaze sharpen—oh. That was what Harry had been forgetting (one of many things, he was sure). He’d told them Peter was the traitor, but—Remus was still acting suspicious. Harry should probably tell them about the packs—and tell Remus that the work was pointless. He’d wait for Remus to return.

Anyway—Remus. He’d always pictured young Remus like Hermione, like he and Lily were cut from the same cloth. That was—probably not entirely true, although the similarities to Hermione were there. Young Remus, from what little Harry had seen of him, had a wicked tongue and a sarcastic mien that did not match his choice of bland jumpers at all. Older Remus was quieter and more thoughtful, while younger Remus was sharper and—had Harry mentioned sarcastic? Because that was absolutely younger Remus’ defining personality trait. Harry’d already known that Remus was a bit of a coward—but younger Remus was bolder, more willing to speak up. Probably because he actually had people who would back him up, that could protect him. Younger Remus was more like—and honestly, Harry hated himself a bit for the comparison, but—he was more like Malfoy, minus the blood supremacy and narcissism and general git behavior. They had the same sharp tongue and… a hesitancy, an uncertainty in themselves, burying their insecurities in the more powerful people they were connected to (Lucius Malfoy versus the Marauders). Mind, Remus reminded Harry of Malfoy mixed with Hermione (Harry ignored the awful hollow feeling that burst within his chest at the reminder of his best friend)—the girl who seemed straight-laced but had also brewed Polyjuice illegally in a haunted bathroom as a second year, after stealing the ingredients from Snape. Anybody who thought Hermione was the rule-follower among them didn’t really know the girl at all).

Harry had a feeling that a good number of James’ and Sirius’ detentions were actually Remus’ fault, even if he hadn’t been the one to get in trouble.

Harry returned his gaze to the ceiling, interest caught by an oddly florescent patch of green that seemed to be growing and shrinking—bloody hell. Was it breathing? Did James and Sirius have a living patch of slime attached to their ceiling that they hadn’t seen fit to clean? What in Merlin’s name—

“Its name is Archibald,” Sirius interrupted his minor panic. Which. What? They’d named it? Surely they knew there was power in names? “It eats all of the leftover potions that are too dangerous to trash.”

Harry stared at the slime—at Archibald—with a sense of vague horror gnawing at his scar (formerly scarcrux). “So…if it eats all of the dangerous things…is it poisonous? Or explosive? Or corrosive?” Harry managed to force out.

Sirius barked a laugh, bright and carefree. “That was the most boring reaction I’ve seen to Archibald yet. Tiger Lily over there tried to set it on fire, and Remus tried to banish it.”

Harry noticed that Sirius had avoided his question. He also noted the ‘tried’ and decided he’d rally rather not know. Truly. He was happily oblivious. It didn’t matter at all. Need not know and whatnot. He wasn’t interested—

Dammit.

“Tried?” He asked as blandly as he could manage.

“Apparently it stores the extras of everything we’ve ever fed it ,” Sirius explained, malevolence coating the bright tone in shades of mischief. “It’s nigh impossible to kill at this point.” Harry stared at Archibald in growing horror, the vague gnawing from before becoming a hunger that ripped and clawed at him.

“I have more in common with a slime monster than I do with most people,” Harry mourned. He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Sirius’ hysterical laughter hit him full force. He grimaced. Well, he’d been a laughingstock for years, at least this time was warranted and not a government’s smear campaign against a teenager.

“Merlin, Harry,” Sirius gasped when he’d managed to contain his humor somewhat.

Harry grimaced in the other man’s general direction, refusing to actually look at him and be reminded of his place out of time and the godfather he’d lost. Sirius seemed to find that amusing as well, based on the humming chuckles he let escape his control.

Harry glanced over at Lily, whose eyebrow was twitching fiercely. She was looking at Sirius with murderous intent. Ah. She must not like Archibald, then. A quick glance at James—showed the man was still intently focused on the papers in front of him, clearly not paying the rest of them any mind. Harry was both impressed and envious. He wasn’t great at shutting off distractions like that, and people staring at him could still interrupt his concentration. Then again—Harry had been raised by awful people and his school years were full of strife. James had been (from Sirius’ stories) raised by a kindly couple who gave him everything and in his school years, he was the strife. Maybe it made sense that he could afford to ignore the world around him.

“Archibald,” Lily hissed at Sirius, “ate my favorite perfume the other day. If I have to stop it from disturbing my bag one more time, Sirius Orion Black…we’ll see if Fiendfyre is enough to end its miserable existence.”

Harry blinked. “Your middle name is Orion?” He wondered aloud.

Sirius seemed glad for the distraction from Lily’s wrath. “Ah. Yes. It’s a pureblood tradition—the middle name of the first son is taken from the name of the father.”

“No…it’s just…future you told me your middle name was Lee?” Harry had rarely felt more like an idiot in his life.

Sirius and Lily blinked at Harry for a long moment, which absolutely did not help his feeling stupid. And then Sirius began howling in laughter. “Sirius—Lee Black!” He cried. “Yes! That’s it! I’m Seriously Black! Oh Merlin, that’s—that’s gold! Why have I never thought to use that one before?!”

Lily gave him a rather disgusted look before turning back to Harry. “Why?” Was all she said.

Fair.

“My bad?” Harry grimaced.

When Sirius finally managed to start breathing around his laughter, he gasped, “That—that was ama-amazing. I’m k-keeping it.”

Harry eyed him before saying, “I think Orion suits you better.”

Sirius sat up in offended dignity, face gone all pouty (though Harry was sure at this point the other would deny it). “Rude!” He snapped at Harry.

Harry raised an eyebrow in return. “Surely you’ve noticed at this point that your initials are an abbreviation for son of a bitch?”

Sirius froze. Lily froze. James finally looked up from the papers, a confused cast to his brow and ink smeared over his cheek, joining in on the momentous occasion.

“Guess not,” Harry muttered and returned to staring at Archibald the Devourer. Harry wondered—if he threw Archibald at Voldemort, would it devour him too…? But then maybe it would gain a taste for human flesh, which would be bad to say the least. Dark Lord Archibald. But. The idea of Voldemort being taken down by a sentient slime mold was kind of brilliant. Dark Lord Devoured sounded like a nice title for a trashy article in the Prophet…

“Did…did father do that on purpose?” Sirius wondered in a daze. “If so, I like the man more than I ever thought I would…”

“Do what?” James asked (apparently he hadn’t rejoined the living world soon enough to follow their conversation). Poor James was ignored.

“I will never let you live this down,” Lily said slowly. Sirius nodded mournfully, accepting his fate with more grace than Harry would have ever expected from him.

Harry stared at them all. They were—not far off from children. Barely older than Harry. And with their deaths or disappearances—the world had turned them into caricatures. James was brave and bold and Lily was selfless and kind and Sirius was charming and courageous (and after Lily and James’ death, he was mad). Nothing more. Since coming to this time, Harry had learned something important—they were people. Everybody who had judged him off of them, who’d expected him to take their mantle had been wrong. Because they were more than what they’d been described. That meant that Harry—he could be more than just the one or two things he was described as, as well.

“So,” James said, crossing his fingers and looking at Harry seriously. “This list—there’s…a lot in it. I have to go through the most major parts to know what sort of potions regime we need to have you on, since Healer Selwyn gave a basic list but I’d prefer the specifics.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘that bitch.’

Harry winced, but nodded. He was glad he’d extracted an oath from Selwyn before she’d done anything. He knew he couldn’t trust her—or anybody in any sort of position of authority, really. This—wasn’t going to be fun. It hadn’t been fun in the Healers office, and it would be worse if James was really going to pick over it all with a fine-toothed comb.

“So—there was an event when you were young—major exposure to Death and Dark magic both. I’m assuming that was the killing curse?”

Harry hummed agreement, but since he’d decided to be honest—and he didn’t have much to lose since James seemed willing to defend him from the world, Unspeakables included—he expanded, “The killing curse was cast by Voldie. It backfired and destroyed him instead, but it left a—fragment, behind. I was stuck with that fragment of soul,” Harry rubbed at his scar uncomfortably, “until I was hit by the killing curse—er, the one that brought me here somehow. I can feel the void it left behind.”

James and Lily blinked at him, but Sirius—

“Bloody hell. You were a living horcrux?” Sirius hissed, mouth twisted into a grimace.

Well. Maybe Harry didn’t need to explain the whole horcrux thing, after all. “Er, sort of. The ritual was never performed, so it was more like a parasite attached. But close enough.”

Sirius whistled, long and slow. “And I thought the Marauders were good at getting into trouble.”

Harry—really kind of appreciated this laid-back approach. It was much better than the wariness his friends had treated him with back in fifth year. “Ron always called it the Potter curse,” Harry agreed evenly.

Lily let out an inelegant snort-laugh. “Potter curse? That certainly explains a lot,” she grinned at him. Harry tried to grin back, but had a feeling he missed the mark. The Potter curse was no laughing matter, but this was his mum, but—her smile gentled into something kinder, softer, and Harry felt his face relax into something more natural. That expression was the most like the woman he’d been trying to live up to since he’d arrived in this time. He opened his mouth to ask—

“Okay. So. Soul-parasite. Got it.” James made some notes on his parchment. Harry wanted to know exactly what he was writing.

Also. Way to ruin the moment.

Chapter Text

“Long term starvation?” James continued calmly, still finishing a couple of lines.

Harry’s entire body just—froze at the question. “I—yeah. Since I was a kid.”

James’ lips tensed, but he said nothing and simply made another few notes. Lily’s eyes were flashing murder. Sirius—was staring at Harry, but not in pity. Empathy. Out of all the Marauders, Harry had always assumed he and Sirius were the most similar in terms of upbringing. Sirius hadn’t spoken much of his past, but when he had…

“You’ve already explained the magical exhaustion, so I’ll skip over that,” James said evenly. There was a dark look in his eyes as he scanned through the list. Harry was impressed—when he’d been that angry, he’d started yelling. He reckoned he really did get his temper from his mum, then. Or from the scarcrux pressing its weight into his soul. Whichever.

“Remnants of burns and nerve damage in your hands?” James’ voice was more clinical than the actual Healer had managed. Harry appreciated his efforts.

“Burnt my defense professor’s face off when I was eleven,” Harry answered mildly. Lily choked on air and James’ head shot up to stare at Harry with surprised—but not accusing—eyes.

Sirius barked another laugh. “Suppose the bastard deserved it then?”

Harry shrugged carelessly. He really liked Sirius’ devil-may-care responses. “I mean, he was possessed by Voldiemart and trying to murder me at the time, so I suppose he did.”

Lily mouthed Voldiemart with a strange expression—eyes narrowed in concentration and nose wrinkled—while Sirius whistled. “Suppose he did,” he echoed distantly.

“Moving on from that honestly horrific explanation,” James said with a too-even tone. Harry’d wondered where the tears had gone—apparently he was forcing himself past them to get the work done. Harry could respect that. “This shows unusual stretching to your bones?”

Harry—wasn’t sure about that one. Stretching? “I had the bones in my arm vanished by my incompetent defense teacher when I was twelve?”

James made a soft noise of understanding and marked something else off on his list. “That’s not it, but it does explain why the bones in that arm are cleaner than the rest.” That was—a horrifying way to put it, Harry would be scarred for life (all one year left of it).

“Erm,” Harry racked his memories but came up blank. “I’ve got nothing, then.”

“No animagus transformation then?” Sirius piped up. “I know it left us with some unusual stretching, since we were…younger than the recommended age.” James pointed his quill at Sirius in sharp agreement.

“Nah, never had the time, and I wasn’t smart enough,” Harry answered, deep enough in thought he missed the significant look that James and Sirius exchanged. “Ah! In second year we polyjuiced ourselves?”

“You…used polyjuice. As a second year.” James’ expression was distant and tone mild. Too mild. Harry recognized that tone—from his own voice. There was a storm brewing. “What in the name of Merlin’s bloody left finger torn off by the hawk were your teachers doing?”

Sirius whistled and Lily gazed at James warmly after that outburst. Harry was impressed. He still seemed calm, which made the anger brewing underneath that much more intimidating.

…Harry needed to learn that trick.

“They were obviously useless berks. I think we need to have a talk with McGonagall,” Lily answered in a tone sharp enough to cut, eyes flashing. James nodded at her, a twist to his lips that seemed a bit too familiar. Sirius’ smile had grown too wide for his face, malicious intent burning in his eyes. Harry decided to pretend he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

“Why were you using polyjuice, anyway?” Sirius demanded when their silent conversation had ended. “I mean, we would have done the same for a prank, but you hardly seem the type. Too serious by half.”

“Oh, we were breaking into the Slytherin common room,” Harry answered idly. Before the Marauders could get too excited he added, “I was being blamed for the Chamber of Secrets opening, and we thought Malfoy was the actual culprit, so we disguised ourselves as his friends to question him.”

“I…what.” Lily sounded like she’d given up. Well, this was Harry’s life, where the impossible was just another Tuesday (because it was always Tuesday). Take it or leave it.

“So what was Slytherin’s monster?” Sirius wondered. Truly, his ability to roll with the punches made him the star of the show. “I always guessed Hydra when dear old mum told me I’d get eaten by it if I stayed a blood traitor…”

“Basilisk, actually,” Harry responded without actually meaning to. There was a long pause, a silence that weighed heavier than all the Dursleys combined.

“…That makes so much sense,” Lily whispered, jaw soft and eyes glazed. Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

James took a deep breath and continued, ignoring the basilisk issue (again. Harry admired that level of willful disinterest). “Okay. Next is…ah. Soul Pull—that would be the dementor exposure—in your third year?” Harry nodded and James moved on. “And…acromantula venom?”

“Fourth year, death tournament,” Harry said shortly. He added, “Dragon tail to the shoulder—I don’t think I was burned?—and then I was used in that necromantic ritual that gave The Dark Git a body,” to get it out of the way.

James ticked off parts off his list, lips twisting. “Dark artifact remnant?”

Harry paused. “Erm. Any more information on that one? I’ve dealt with a lot of dark artifacts at this point.”

James gave him a narrow-eyed stare but elaborated with, “Right hand?”

Harry flinched, which had every other person in the room jerk to attention. Ah. In that case…he held up his hand, the light silver scarring shimmering in the light. Lily’s hand flew to her mouth, but James and Sirius…their countenances turned dark, rage twisted their features.

“A blood quill?” James spat out. “Who used a blood quill on the heir of an ancient house?” Sirius’ fury seemed to hold his voice, a low growl the only sound emerging from deep within his throat.

“Umbridge,” Harry said with a grimace. “Fuck that bitch.”

“That would be…” James trailed off, face screwed up in thought.

“An assistant in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Beast Division,” Sirius answered promptly, only to look disgusted with himself.

James blinked. “That could hardly have come from your childhood. Do you still keep up with Ministry information?”

Sirius sighed deeply, with his entire soul (Harry would know). “Well…yes. It was habit for a long time, and then with the war, I assumed it would be useful.”

“It is,” Lily agreed, thoughtful. Her lips were pursed like Petunia’s when she was in deep thought. Harry fought down a shudder. They were sisters. Of course they had similar expressions and habits.

…It was still uncomfortable to experience though, logic or no.

“Why did she even have access to you?” James questioned, brow furrowed and lips quirked to one side.

“She was my defense professor fifth year,” Harry answered mildly.

Sirius sat up, staring at him with a steely gaze that was both far too familiar and entirely too foreign. “Wait. You burnt the face off of your first year DADA professor, second year vanished your arm bones, and fifth year forced a blood quill on you?”

Harry was mostly surprised that he’d remembered the specifics. “Erm. Yes? Never trust the defense teacher.”

“What in Merlin’s stretched left ear were your professors doing?”

“Not much, honestly.”

James let out the teakettle noise and moved forward on his list. “Cruciatus damage—you’ve mentioned that before.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, fourth year, maybe fifth year—that was a bit of a blur—probably sixth year?—and definitely seventh year, a few times.”

“More than once,” Lily breathed.

Sirius gave Harry a look of—not pity—sympathy, maybe. Had he been crucioed as well? “Rough go, mate,” he murmured. Harry really liked this Sirius.

“You have no idea,” Harry agreed evenly. Sirius may have been raised by Walburga Black, but Harry had been raised by fire. It was a tossup.

James nodded. “The scars on your mental defenses are something else. It looks like you’ve faced a number of attacks?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Fourth year I learned how to resist the imperius thanks to our defense teacher, who was a death eater in disguise,” Harry ignored the sound of James’ quill nib snapping and the reparo he cast. “And the snake bastard tried again at the end of the year. Fifth year was—Dumbledore tried to have Snape teach me Occlumency, which I’m pants at—”

Sirius choked. Harry paused to look at the other, who had rage in the tension at his jaw and black fire, cold and cruel burning in his eyes. He looked more like Harry’s Sirius, like this. “Dumbledore had Snape teach you Occlumency? There’s no way the bastard saw you as anything other than James the second.”

“I mean…yeah,” Harry agreed slowly, not sure where this sudden rage came from.

“Did he actually teach you, Harry? Or did he just shred at your defenses, over and over?” Sirius’ voice was a step from a growl.

“Erm. Which one is shouting ‘Legilimens!’ Over and over without explaining anything other than telling me to clear my mind?” Harry honestly wasn’t sure, but this was sounding like the whole debacle wasn’t entirely his fault.

Only mostly. He really hadn’t wanted to learn at the time, after all.

James swore loudly, standing and slamming his hands on the table. Harry jumped—he hadn’t been expecting that from James’ side of the room. He met Lily’s eyes, who blinked bemusement back at him. At least he wasn’t the only one confused.

“That wouldn’t do a damn thing for somebody whose mind was already open,” Sirius explained lowly, tone dark. Harry hoped he wasn’t planning on tracking Snape down for murder. The man was a bastard, but he did help the war in the end. “You were at least in part a living horcrux, which acts as a link to the originator. There’s no way Occlumency would close that link, and ripping at what shields you would naturally have—and you had to have something in place to keep that link from possessing you—would have only caused your mind to open further.”

Harry blinked. That…explained more than it didn’t. The end of fifth year was the only time Voldemort had managed to possess him. Maybe it wasn’t because he’d become aware of the link—maybe it was because Harry’s ‘natural shields’ or whatever had been ripped out of place. It was something to consider, at least.

How did Sirius even know that about living Horcruxes? To Dumbledore’s knowledge, Harry was the first.

“Severus,” Lily murmured. Harry winced, because she and Snape had been friends at one point—then he saw her eyes. That was not a wistful or regretful cast to her eyes—it was an inferno, a burning rage.

James wanted to give Peter the benefit of the doubt, to trust his friend. Lily looked like she wanted to rip Snape limb from limb. Everybody claimed it was his mother’s love that had saved him, and Dumbledore made it sound like a soft, gentle warmth. Lily’s love was not gentle—it was ferocious and all-consuming. This, Harry could believe had shielded him.

“Okay. Legillimency and the imperius. Okay.” James didn’t sound okay, whatever he said. “You said you’d been exposed to multiple dark artifacts?”

“Horcruxes,” was all Harry said.

“What is a horcrux, exactly?” James wondered, brows furrowed. Lily nodded, lips pinched.

“Soul container,” Sirius said before Harry could decide exactly what to tell them. “It involves a complicated ritual and sacrifice of an innocent. It breaks a piece of your soul and you store it. Grandfather considered making one, but didn’t appreciate the side effects. Told Reg and I if we ever did something so stupid he’d sacrifice the rest of our souls in exchange for a more obedient demon.”

That…wasn’t disturbing at all. Harry gave a commiserating nod to the other man. He knew what it was like to be sacrificed to a demon—although his had started out as a human, so maybe it didn’t count.

“On that frankly horrifying note,” James said as he marked on his list again—at this point it was more scratchy handwriting than not. “Scarring on your ankle? Says it was cursed as well?” His tone was verging on the edge of despair. At least it wasn’t disbelief.

Harry had to think on that one for a minute. “I dunno,” he finally admitted. So much had happened in his life that whatever it was probably hadn’t been that bad. Sirius wandered over to James’ list and glanced over the note.

“More death magic?” Sirius raised a brow.

“Death magic?” James demanded, looking closer. He cast a narrow-eyed gaze at Sirius. “It doesn’t say death magic.”

“It does. Right here. That runic sequence? Empty dead.”

Empty dead? That sounded like…

“Oh! I was nearly drowned by some inferi? They might have grabbed my ankle,” Harry remembered. The looks the three sent at him should be bottled and sold as dragon repellent.

“How do you forget nearly being murdered by zombies?” Lily demanded,

“I mean, I had bigger problems at the time,” Harry reminisced. “That was the night Dumbledore died, the school was invaded by Death Eaters, and the war began in earnest.”

“What the fuck,” Lily muttered under her breath. Harry felt that, down to the ‘clean bones’ in his right arm.

James and Sirius stared (always staring), and Harry shrugged. It wasn’t his fault that his life was a dumpster fire.

Archibald gargled his agreement from the corner.

Harry appreciated his support.

Chapter Text

The silence in the room was so thick Harry could have used it to choke the basilisk.

“Hogwarts…was overrun by Death Eaters?” Sirius asked slowly, turning the words over like they’d make sense if he repeated them enough. They wouldn’t. Harry’s life was a madhouse.

“Yeah. Malfoy let them in,” Harry answered easily, grateful they’d been distracted from his many and varied injuries and near-death experiences. He might be answering their questions fairly easily, but the more sense that returned to him as he healed, the more he realized…he probably shouldn’t have said anything about the probable future. Whatever. It was done, and they’d all have to live with it. “Dumbledore had some mad plan that was basically assisted suicide, Snape killed him on his orders because Malfoy’s a wimp who couldn’t do it himself—even though he was fine with letting Death Eaters into a school with eleven year olds, dammit—and…that was it? I wasn’t there for most of the Death Eater part because I was dealing with the inferi cave, but I don’t remember anybody else dying.”

“…What the fuck,” Lily repeated, slightly more horror tingeing her tone this time around.

James was staring at Harry with deep-seated horror. “A plan? Dumbledore let Death Eaters into Hogwarts because of a plan?”

Harry opened his mouth to argue—and paused. When it was put like that…Harry had tried warning everybody about Malfoy, but nobody had listened, and Dumbledore had admitted to Harry in the afterlife-that-wasn’t that he had known about some of Malfoy’s plans. Did that mean—had Dumbledore allowed Death Eaters to infiltrate intentionally? Or had he just…assumed Malfoy wasn’t that evil? (He wasn’t—Malfoy was more of a coward than anything—but he’d done it anyway.)

“That’s…a solid maybe,” Harry finally decided. “I don’t know what Dumbledore had planned. I don’t…I don’t know.” And if he’d planned that, allowed it, Harry’s childhood misadventures became…he wasn’t going to think about that for now, actually.

The others were looking at him with mixed pity and worry—Harry could live without both. Worry was useless and pity was demeaning. He hated it.

“I think that covers the worst of it,” James said after he took a deep breath. Lots of that going on in the last couple of days. “It’s enough to work with. The exposure to dark artifacts and the bloody basilisk venom are top priority of course—”

Harry winced at the reminder that the venom was somehow still active in his system. Also? He was tired of repeating himself. Half of James’ questions he’d answered when they were with Selwyn, but they were all still reacting like it was the first time. Then again—it was a lot of information at once, maybe they just hadn’t remembered.

“—although I don’t know exactly what to do with it—there’s no antidote to basilisk bites and no basilisk to create one—”

Harry cocked a brow at Sirius, who nodded. Good. Snake extermination (and possibly species extinction) was still on, then.

“—but there are some potions to lessen some of the effects, at least, I’m shocked you still have feeling in your fingers. There’s not much to do for the necromantic magic you’re shrouded in—nobody’s survived a killing curse before, after all. But we can start to heal some of the scarring—that hand of yours, your arm, and your forehead are most prevalent…we can start trying to leech the residue later…

“Oh! After we have you healed and once you’ve gained a bit of weight, we can start vanishing your bones and regrowing them—it’ll fix the breaks and the nasty twisting and—”

“No offense,” Harry interrupted his father-brother’s rant, “but is any of this worth it when I’ll be dying in a year?”

Lily flinched back and dropped her gaze, and Sirius dropped the thing he’d been messing with the whole time on his face. It made a much larger sound than expected from its tiny frame—Harry’d be surprised if Sirius didn’t end up with at least a black eye. James’ brows furrowed and his mouth stiffened and—oh, no.

Harry knew that expression, recognized its creases and the way it pulled at his lips.

That was Harry’s expression when he decided to do something even though it should be impossible.

James was too attached, and Harry didn’t want to live. He wondered who would win in the long run.

“It’s worth it,” was all James said, shortly. Harry didn’t bother arguing.

A knock at the door had all their heads whipping to the sound. There were supposed to be wards, how was somebody here— chime filled the air—once, twice, three times—followed by a sharp clang. Harry winced, but saw the others relax.

Remus, Lily mouthed to Harry as Sirius hopped up to get the door (with an eye that was already red and swelling). Harry relaxed as well. He did have some problems with his old professor, but this kid wasn’t him, hadn’t made the same mistakes.

Sirius trotted back in with Remus at his heels looking exhausted and dirty and worn out as a used handkerchief. He collapsed into the armchair at the side of the room, looking like he was the one who’d fallen prey to about a thousand versions of necromancy.

Sirius’ mouth was twisted as he eyed his friend, and—oh, yeah. Harry should do something about that now.

“They’re not going to listen,” Harry said easily as he eyed Remus. The man jolted, eyeing Harry with a look in his eyes that was a little too wild—how close was the full moon, again?

“What are you talking about?” Lily demanded, eyes darting between Harry and Remus as she stroked her wand with a curl to her lips that would do any wolverine proud.

“Dumbledore has him meeting the packs,” Harry said, raising his voice to be heard over Remus’ protests. Some secret mission. “They don’t listen, most of them join the Dark Git, and those that don’t are punished for it anyway. They won’t listen to you because you can’t promise them anyway—even the things Dumbledore has the ability to grant, he won’t, because he’s saving his favors or doesn’t want to force things or some dumb reason.

“You’re wasting your time, making Sirius and James and Lily suspicious of you for no reason, and in my future at least, it causes them to distrust you so strongly that they switch the Secret Keeper to Wormtail, who betrays them immediately. Do you really think this is the best path?”

There was a deep, awful silence to the room—the calm before the storm. Harry swore he could almost taste the ozone.

“Dumbledore has you doing what?” Sirius finally seethed. Harry blinked. That was the closest he’d sounded to the Sirius of Harry’s time since they’d met.

Remus was staring at Harry, face chalk white despite his tan. “It…that’s why…?” Remus whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” James demanded, eyes hurt but shoulders stiff.

It devolved into an argument that reminded Harry of Hermione and Ron when they decided to double team Harry—I have to. It wasn’t up to me. This is important. They deserve a chance too and This is your life. Why are you doing this to yourself? We didn’t know. Please let us in—until Remus slumped into his armchair, defeated, as the others crowded him.

Harry let out a silent sigh of relief. That was one more thing he’d fixed for this timeline…universe…whatever, then. Even if Remus continued dealing with the packs, his friends knew and could help him. Could keep him from straying too far, could keep their trust, could keep an eye on him instead of out for him. 

(Hypocrite? Harry? Absolutely. He was well aware he’d done the same as Remus a number of times—the difference was, he was Harry Potter, and meant to shoulder the world. Remus deserved better. Harry didn’t.)

James finished up—commiserating with, berating, both?—dealing with Remus and walked back to Harry.

“Good news or bad news?” He asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Bad news,” was Harry’s immediate answer. Always better to deal with it first—bad news was always more urgent.

“You’re going to have a rough time with potions for the next few months,” James said with a sympathetic wince. Harry shrugged. It wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him—did that even really constitute as bad news when he’d never see his friends again? Or compared to having to deal with yet another version of the Dark bastard? Cursed jewelry should be the line, really.

“Good news?” Harry asked.

James’ grin widened. “None of your potions will interfere with the Draconia Draught. You’ll get to meet Mum and Dad—and probably the other Potters—in a few days.”

Harry almost threw up. That was the good news? Really? His grandparents and possibly other relatives all at once?

Harry would rather fight Ol’ Noseless again. Without his wand.

“Great,” he managed weakly, and James’ grin just widened, the utter bastard.

Remus eyed Harry warily. Little wonder—Harry had sort of just aired out one of his greatest secrets. It was for his own good, though!

…Was this what Dumbledore felt like? Harry suddenly felt the need for a shower hot enough to scour the nasty feeling of empathizing with the man who planned his death away.

“You’re going to love Mum,” Sirius said easily. Oh, right, he’d been all but adopted by the Potters at this point, hadn’t he?

“Great,” he repeated weakly. His expectations toward family were fairly low—as long as they didn’t feed him through a cat flap, he’d probably like them just fine. He was more worried about the other way round—Harry was…not a particularly likable person. He’d been turned on too many times for it to be anything else.

Well, if they hated him he only had to deal with it for a year, anyway. Then he wouldn’t be worried about much of anything at all.

Harry shook his head. It was time to flip the tables. All of the tables.

“So we’ve been talking about me pretty much nonstop for the last few days,” Harry tried for casual, but he’d never once been casual a day in his life. The others stared at him like he’d grown two heads—he surreptitiously felt at his neck, just in case. Nope. Still just the one attached.

“We have,” James finally agreed slowly, playing along.

“I was wondering about you guys. I don’t…really know much about any of you, personally.” Harry hated admitting to ignorance, but in this case it was warranted.

Sirius barked a laugh. “Well it’s nothing so grand as basilisks and inferi and horcruxes,” he teased, “but I was raised by the Blacks. Enough said.”

“Not really,” Harry argued, trying to control his brow from twitching. “I was raised muggle and the Blacks were barely a relic in my time.”

That had the others pausing again. Sirius’ brows drew together, and he sulked in silence. Harry rolled his eyes—his dogfather had apparently always been easily insulted. Good to know.

“I was born and raised in Wales?” Remus ventured, an olive branch. He was…he was trying. Harry should do the same. Remus wasn’t Professor Lupin.

“Your accent’s definitely thicker,” Harry agreed, and the tense set of Remus’ shoulders relaxed somewhat, also relieved at their silent truce.

“Yes, Wolfie McWolf Wolfe being raised in the lush green wilderness is such a surprise,” Sirius intoned.

Harry frowned. “Wolfie…McWolf Wolfe?”

Sirus’ face lit up as Remus’ darkened. Sirius opened his mouth—only to be hampered by a sock—a dirty sock, eugh—flying directly into it with a sharp snap of Remus’ wand.

“My name is Remus Lupin,” Remus sighed, looking for all the world like a single muggle mother of a full coven.

“Erm. Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Harry finally asked after a long pause.

This time, James jumped in, as Sirius was still struggling with the sock. “Remus was a mythological figure raised by wolves,” James grinned wildly, hair becoming more untamed in his excitement. “Lupin is derived from the Latin word for wolf.”

Harry stared in disbelief. “How the hell did nobody realize you were a werewolf when you were teaching?” He finally demanded.

Remus shrugged. “People tend to write off what they don’t want to see,” he sighed. “And my name throwing my affliction in their face along with my civility means most don’t want to believe the coincidence.”

“It gets better,” Lily sang, and Remus sank farther into the chair. “The one who bit him was Fenrir Greyback—Fenrir was a norse wolf god.”

Remus actually whined at that, the sound more animal than any Harry had heard from him before—including when he’d seen the man traipsing the Forest as a werewolf.

“Better than that,” Sirius sputtered, having finally removed the sock, “his mother’s surname is Howell.”

Harry stared at Remus, who was bright red and had his hair clutched in his hands like he was about to rip it out. The last time Harry had seen him like this, the man was trying to abandon his son and come with Harry’s troupe on their treasure-hunting trip. It was the last time Harry had seen him alive. He shook his head to clear the memories.

“So…the universe might actually hate you more than me,” Harry said conversationally.

Remus glowered at him, but Harry thought it was an excellent point. Judging by the terror twins’ reaction (he had to blink away an image of brilliant red hair and matching wicked grins) of raucous laughter, he was right.

“I was turned when I was four,” Remus gritted out.

Harry nodded. “I got my scarcrux when I was one,” he agreed sagely. “It’s shit—being marked by a madman for no good reason, isn’t it?”

Remus blinked a bit (he didn’t know about the scarcrux yet, did he? Harry felt a bit bad for throwing it at him like that, but he was sure Sirius and James would let him in on the fun later). Then his jaw softened, and he nodded—a jerky little thing that conveyed his nerves better than the shite of his fingers gripping at his jumper.

“Yes,” Remus agreed quietly. “It really is.”

They shared a moment of silent commiseration.

Harry wondered. He’d been marked for as long as he could remember—and Remus had, too. They were more similar than he would have ever guessed, in his time. Than Professor Lupin would have ever let him know.

It was…nice, having somebody who could understand the burden of a more powerful man laying claim on their suffering. Fenrir, Voldemort—they were all the same, weren’t they? Craving power and taking their frustrations out on the innocent. Marking their claim for no reason but that they could.

It was sickening, maddening.

Harry felt bad for his earlier thought—he changed his mind. He’d rather bear the weight on his own, than have another child suffer. Remus hadn’t deserved his fate. Hadn’t deserved to have it forced upon him with no choice, no cure.

No hope.

“So…is this a bad time to mention his dad’s name, Lyall, also means wolf?” Sirius wondered.

Harry took a deep breath—and sent the earlier nasty sock flying right back into his mouth. That was what he deserved. Remus had the right idea.

He smiled innocently at Sirius’ grunting as he once again fought with the filthy thing (Harry would rather stick his sock from after dealing with the baslisk in his mouth than that one—and the basilisk-slaying sock had been dipped in mucky water that had probably been sitting for a thousand years. Sirius’ mouth-sock, though? Looked almost radioactive it was so nasty).

Remus grinned at him, James was laughing too hard to stand—literally, he’d fallen over the back of his chair—and Lily was taking pictures.

Harry knew there was a reason she was his favorite (other than her promise of Dursley-vengeance, of course).

Chapter Text

Harry leaned back and observed the others. Sirius was hexing Remus over the whole sock thing, Remus was hexing him back—it looked like they were about to start a full duel, the idiots. Lily was trying to pick James up off of the floor, and James was making her self-imposed task impossible by laughing so hard he was wheezing and boneless.

It was nice.

Even before the war, Harry and his friends had never been like this.

He and Ron had been close, but somewhat timid toward each other (hazards of being each other’s first real friend). Hermione came along—and the bloody troll—and after that it had been one danger after another. They were forged in the fires of war before there was a war.

James and the others…they were children. They might have had to mature more rapidly toward the end of their Hogwarts years, but they’d had the opportunity to be children before that. Harry had never had the opportunity, and his best friends had been dragged down with him.

He breathed deeply. It hurt. It felt like there was a hole in his chest, caved in and empty. He’d lost everybody.

No more Ron, nagging at him to eat and coaxing him onto the pitch and standing at his shoulder when the worst came. No more Hermione, nagging him over homework and arguing over silly things and staying at his side, the only person who had never strayed, even if she’d doubted.

No more Neville, their quiet talks when neither could sleep, shy smiles and gentle eyes. No more Fred, with his sharp retorts and easy laughter. No more George, with his vicious barbs and steady presence. No more Luna and her breezy presence, her strange words and beliefs and her distant eyes.

No more Ginny.

Harry’s eyes fluttered, and he cut off his thoughts there. It was too much. Ginny—Ginny was too much. It was strange. They’d barely seen each other the past year, barely spoken, didn’t write at all—but she was right next to Ron and Hermione in terms of pain. But while he could think about them, Ginny—she was—he couldn’t.

He took a shuddering breath that rattled his lungs—it hurt, and he gasped a bit, and—oh. He hadn’t been breathing at all that last little bit, had he?

He looked up, to find four sets of eyes staring (watching, always watching, gazes weighing him down, pinning him, dissecting him) back. Apparently his little trip down memory lane had taken more time than it felt like.

“Are you okay?” James said softly, half-leaning on Lily.

Harry shrugged. “I left a lot behind,” was all he could say to describe the void in his chest from where his heart had been torn out and shredded.

The looks they gave him ranged from confused to miserable understanding. James’ brows were scrunched up like he might cry, and Harry was grateful when he didn’t. Harry couldn’t handle James’ pain on top of his own.

“I’m going to send an owl to Mum,” James said quietly as he excused himself from the room. Lily followed him, a silent shadow. Harry was a bit suspicious of just how quiet she’d been since he’d appeared.

Harry felt faintly sick again as he remembered that he’d be meeting—at the very least—his grandparents in a few days time. Like he didn’t have enough stress in his life. James—James was an outlier. None of Harry’s relatives liked him. His grandparents—they would surely feel the same. James was polished and neat and had a tilted accent to his voice that screamed wealth and love. Harry was broken and dirty and the only accent he could claim was in tones of death. He wasn’t—how was he supposed to accept that he could meet relatives on the Potters’ side? They’d all been dead for so long by the time Harry had learned of magic…

“What did you mean, earlier?” Remus piped up. Harry owed him for the distraction.

“I said a lot earlier, which part?” Harry kind of wondered if he’d been drugged. He’d never been this relaxed about giving information in his life.

“Being marked by a madman…” Remus murmured uncomfortably, eyes darting this way and that.

Huh. Had Harry really not mentioned…? Maybe it was while Remus was gone. “A prophecy marked me, The Dead Lunch Overlord tried to subvert it and brought it into play instead. If he’d just left well enough alone…”

“Wait. Is that the first killing curse?” Sirius asked as he marked up James’ notes.

Harry hummed agreement.

“…The first…?” Remus muttered, eyes dazed.

“Of the two that actually hit me, yeah,” Harry answered, eyes on Archibald, who was currently flashing different colors while eating…something…piled up in the corner. He pointed to his forehead, to his scar that was actually pretty cool if not for all the staring it caused. It was the only feature he’d liked before Hogwarts, before learning his parents had died protecting him, not due to a dumb mistake. “It left me marked.”

Harry could feel Remus’ eyes on him, but ignored it for the most part. Remus was…Remus. He was a bit of a mess no matter his age, and it was as easy for Harry to ignore him as it was for his older counterpart to ignore Harry.

Maybe Harry was still a tad bitter.

“That’s…not good,” Sirius said with a hint of hesitation to his tone.

Harry sat up and turned to him as quickly as his lead-laden limbs would allow him. When Sirius was hesitant, bad things happened. Even after Azkaban Sirius had been very confident in his awful decisions. So hesitance? Very much not a good thing.

Sirius swallowed thickly at whatever look Harry was giving him. “No…just—being marked from dark magic like that—it…”

“Either spit it out or stop talking so I can pretend like I never heard it,” Harry said evenly. Sort of evenly.

Okay, so judging by the wariness in Sirius’ gaze he hadn’t managed a tone anywhere near even. Did it count that he’d tried?

…Prior experience said no.

“A Mark rarely means anything good,” Sirius began slowly. “A Mark like that, though? A Mark of Death, a Mark of Challenge? That is…very much a bad thing. Little wonder you only have a year left, when Death has claimed you.”

Harry squinted at him. He knew he hadn’t said anything about the Hallows, so Sirius had to be referring to something else. “Friendly reminder that I was raised by muggles and never had the time or interest to learn about magic theory,” Harry complained. “If you would please explain this like you were talking to a toddler, I’d appreciate it.”

Sirius let out a sharp bark of laughter, and some of the shadows cleared from his eyes. Being raised in Grimmauld had really done a number on him. “How would you call this…a foretelling, I suppose?” Sirius said…seriously. Harry hit himself internally for that. He paused, unsure how to continue. Harry was suddenly certain he did not want to know, and ‘foretelling’ sounded too much like ‘prophecy’ to him, so he diverted the conversation entirely.

“You know, for somebody who laughed at Wolfie McWolf Wolfe, you don’t have much ground to stand on,” Harry interrupted a tad desperately.

Sirius blinked at him, surprised by the non-sequitur. “I…what?”

Harry gave him a wolfish grin. “Your name is Sirius Black, Mr. Dog Star,” he began.

Sirius rolled his eyes as Remus gave him a curious look. “Like I hadn’t heard that before,” Sirius tried, but Harry interrupted him right back. Turnabout is fair play and all that rot.

“Sirius Black, in the House of Grimmauld, whose form resembles a grim,” Harry said. He sat back and watched the chaos unfold, at Sirius’ look of disgust and subsequent horror, at Remus’ look of unmitigated delight. Harry had just started a war, and he’d never been so proud of himself.

“Serious McGrim Grim,” Remus said slowly, devilish smile slowly unfurling at the corners of his lips.

“Why would you do this to me?” Sirius asked, eyes baleful as any dog in the midst of betrayal.

Harry shrugged. “Blame future you,” he answered a touch waspishly. “He stalked me for a good portion of third year, had everyone convinced I’d die due to Grim sightings. This is vengeance.”

Sirius pouted as Remus snickered at his plight. Harry thought the man was too amused, so he knocked him down a peg or six with a well-timed, “Not that my werewolf professor was any better. He actually kept me from facing my boggart in front of the class. The nerve.”

Sirius and Remus both turned to him with identical expressions of horror. Shite. And here Harry thought he’d been doing so well at the whole normal thing.

“I’m sorry. Why would you face a boggart in front of the class?” Remus breathed.

Harry blinked. Not the part he thought they’d get upset with. “It was part of the third-year curriculum?”

Remus’ scowled, the grimace at his lips lifting just slightly, revealing sharper-than-average canines. Seriously, how had nobody realized the man was a werewolf earlier? “Learning about them, of course. But facing your greatest fear in front of a room of teenagers? Merlin, I’d have rather been cursed!”

Sirius was nodding his agreement. “What in the name of Merlin’s droopy eyelids was future you thinking, Moony?”

“It was in the curriculum. Who sets the curriculum?” Remus half-snarled, and he was really taking this more personally than he had any right to.

“The Headmaster, I think, since the Ministry signed the Hostilities Cease for Learning treaty with Hogwarts in sixteen twenty-two,” Sirius said without much thought. Harry was grateful Hermione was muggleborn. If she’d been pureblood like Sirius she would have been unbearable.

The silence fell heavy in the room.

“Why would Dumbledore…?” Remus said slowly, eyes wide and lost. He reminded Harry of Colin, like this.

Harry had a good number of reservations about Dumbledore, but this? “My guess,” he said slowly, thinking out loud, “is that he didn’t consider it as anything awful. He was born and raised decades ago, right? It would have been normal for children to pull up their britches and face the unknown.”

Harry had thought about this a lot in the tent, where there were long stretches of absolutely nothing. It was what he’d decided was probably Dumbledore’s view on the Dursleys. They hadn’t been actively harming him, so they were fine. Dumbledore was from an era where caning disobedient children was normal in the muggle world. Where they had to grow up quickly, where they were expected to be seen but not heard, act like adults when in the presence of one.

Harry wasn’t sure how that translated to the magical world, but considering it was all but set in the Dark Ages? He had a feeling views on children and abuse would be even more medieval.

“Perhaps,” Remus said, but his eyes were still sharper than they were thoughtful. Harry hadn’t thought the boggart thing would be a landmine!

“What’s yours, then?” Sirius asked, clearly going for a distraction from the somber mood. “You-Know-Who?”

Harry huffed a laugh. “That was why Professor Lupin wouldn’t let me have a turn,” he agreed. “But my fear was and is much more rational than some asshole who lost the nose game with a toddler.” He ignored Remus mouthing ‘the nose game.’

“Oh? What kind of rational?” Sirius grinned, leaning closer like Harry was sharing a secret. Joke was on him. Everybody knew Harry’s greatest fear in the future.

“Fear itself,” Harry bastardized whatever it was that Dumbledore had said. Or was it Professor Lupin? Somebody had definitely said something about how fearing fear was wise. Or something.

“…What?” Sirius said, face screwed up in confusion. Mostly he looked constipated.

“There’s a reason Professor Lupin helped me with the patronus charm,” Harry said evenly.

Remus understood before Sirius; Harry could practically see his eyes light up as the realization hit. “Dementors,” he breathed.

Harry nodded. “Hate the buggers more than anything else. Would rather go ten rounds with He-Whose-Name-People-Don’t-Know.

“You mentioned that before, that Remus taught you the patronus because you had a ‘notorious’ reaction to dementors,” Sirius mused, and wow. Harry might actually have to watch what he said, if the man’s memory was exact enough to remember word choice.

Harry hummed agreement. “They’re awful. I have a good number of bad memories for them to leech off of. The first time I encountered one, the reaction was so strong I passed out.” Harry refused to say fainted. He had to maintain some of whatever shreds of dignity he had left.

“That’s—” Sirius began, eyebrows furrowed in concern. He was interrupted by the timely reintroduction of James.

“Good news!” James smiled. “Confirmed with Dad—Harry can take the Draconia Draught now, and it shouldn’t interact with any of the other potions I have listed negatively. We’ll be meeting them this weekend.”

Harry—couldn’t breathe. That was too soon, way too soon, his relatives hated him this would be so bad James would hate him too they’d turn him against Harry—

He felt two strong hands settle onto his shoulders. “Breathe,” Lily said gently, and Harry gasped a breath. It was too much, this was too much, it wasn’t—

“Breathe,” she said again, and only because it was a voice from his nightmares, the sound of protection, did he manage to follow her instruction.

“What’s…wrong?” James asked slowly, but Harry was too busy trying to do as Lily commanded to answer.

Sirius took a sharp breath. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Sirius grabbed James and dragged him to a corner, whispering rapidly in his ear.

Harry was grateful for the interference, he didn’t think he could handle James’ way of showing affection at the moment. Even the hands at his shoulders were scalding, he’d come out of this with new scars, he—

Was breathing.

After some time—Harry couldn’t tell if it had been a minute or a week—he managed to settle his breathing into something resembling a regular pattern, and Lily removed her hands from his shoulders. He only had a moment to be grateful for and grieve the loss before she jumped over the back of his chair, the absolute lunatic, and settled in next to him.

His side was on fire where she pressed against him, but she didn’t try to hold him. Something to be grateful for.

“Are you…okay?” Remus asked, a hesitant softness to his consonants.

Harry forced a laugh out that sounded more like he was choking. Okay? He’d never been okay, not once in his life.

“I’m fine,” he managed to choke out.

For some reason, nobody looked like they believed him.

Chapter Text

“Something’s bothering me,” Sirius mused aloud.

Harry glanced at him warily. Sirius had never announced his intentions unless he was about to make them everybody’s problem in as loud and painful a way as he could manage. He and George still refused to talk about the mistletoe nonsense. (Had? It wasn’t ‘still’ any longer, was it?)

James hummed a response, even as he stayed focused on the letter that had come crashing through the window (Harry meant that literally. He never thought he’d meet another owl as clumsy as Errol, but Lumina had outdone herself).

“So. All of the nicknames for You-Know-Who. Isn’t it all a bit…juvenile?” Sirius smirked at Harry, who could only blink at the other man’s audacity.

“Pardon.” Harry demanded, tone turned from question to statement. Sirius’ smirk only grew wider, the absolute wanker.

“No, seriously. You come up with a new name for him every time you mention him. I admire the dedication, and despair the reason.” Sirius crooned out, turning his words into a melody.

Harry had never been so insulted in all his life. “Should I call him by name, then?” He demanded, and Sirius’ smirk dropped from his face, his eyes went wide, and his lips lost their color

“What?” He demanded, jerking up from where he’d been lounging.

“In my time,” Harry murmured as he narrowed in on his target, “I called him by name until he reestablished the Taboo. It made everybody in the room jump, every time. Should I call him by name, then? Summon him like the boogey man? Vol—”

“No!” Remus cried, jumping to his feet.

Harry smiled coolly at Sirius, point proven. He wasn’t going to actually say the name (he’d learned his lesson the hard way), but the demonstration had worked wonders. Sirius grimaced and averted his eyes.

“I dislike giving him power,” Harry said, keeping his tone as even as possible. “I dislike that everybody accepts that he’s the one being talked about. His war never even made it out of the UK, but somehow he’s worse than Grindelwald? I don’t understand it, and I won’t play into it.”

There was a long silence, and Sirius’ eyes returned to his, questioning.

“He’s different from Grindelwald,” James finally spoke up, tone heavy enough that his shoulders sagged under the weight. “Not worse, per se, but different. You-Know-Who is…mostly quiet. His Death Eaters are out and about, but he…makes it hard to trust. This war is…insidious, where Grindlewald’s was very much in the open.”

Harry hummed his agreement. He could understand that, but he agreed with Dumbledore on this point. “Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself,” he quoted. “The more power you give his name, the more power you give him. I don’t want to give that power to him for free. At the very least, he should earn it.”

The others in the room stared at him like he was mad. Maybe he was. He certainly felt it, sometimes.

“You’re not wrong that it’s juvenile,” Harry finally admitted when he felt the silence had drawn on too long. “It is. But that’s kind of the point. The bastard took everything away from me, including my childhood. It’s…a reclamation of sorts?”

Sirius’ lips twisted, and he looked thoughtful. Another difference from the Sirius Harry had known. Thoughtfulness wasn’t something he’d kept after the Dementors. He’d been too brash, too self-absorbed (Harry could understand why, and he’d never really blamed the man. He was still one of the most helpful adults Harry had ever dealt with).

“I…can understand that,” Sirius said slowly, words tumbling like rocks in a stream. “However—you have told us a number of serious things, so I assumed you wished to be taken seriously?” Oh, he was becoming stuffy again, losing most of his contractions and accent becoming so upper-crust the Queen would mistake him for a long-lost cousin. More importantly, he hadn’t caught that he’d made two puns of his name in the same sentence.

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t actually mean to tell you any of that,” he said, the twist to his lips causing his consonants to twist a bit. “I had a bit of a nasty concussion, you know. If I’d been in my right mind, I’d have been far more selective. Maybe would have played at being an illegitimate child or some rot.”

The four stared at him with accusing eyes, and he shrugged again. It was only the truth.

“Merlin’s saggy balls,” Sirius muttered, earning a sharp, “Sirius!” and a swat from Remus.

Harry grinned a bit. “I mean it, though. The only reason I’m still talking is that I’ve already said too much, and there were too many people in that room, and I’m pants at Obliviation.”

That earned him a sharp glare from Remus, but really? Harry had been on the receiving end of Snape’s particular brand of revenge. He was hardly scared. He paused. Snape…there was something about the man…he should probably tell Lily at some point that he was only mostly an irredeemable bastard, but that wasn’t it…

He scrunched his nose and gave up. He couldn’t remember, so it probably wasn’t that important.

Hopefully.

…It was definitely important, wasn’t it? Bloody hell.

He scrunched up his nose and threw the thought away. If he remembered whatever it was, he’d do something about it. Otherwise there wasn’t much he could do.

“Is there…a reason a mention of the Potters bothered you so much?” Remus asked with a hesitant brush to the ends of his words.

Harry choked on an inhale. Oh, he’d been doing his best to forget that, Remus was such a wanker. Some things never changed. He did his best to breathe evenly, Lily’s hands at his shoulders grounding him, keeping him present.

“Why would you—” Lily began in a hiss, but Sirius cut her off.

“No, I think this is relevant. Harry’s kept calm for the most part this entire time, despite being surrounded by a bunch of people who were dead in his eyes. Especially you and James, Lils. So. Why are the Potters triggering this response?” There was a demanding lilt. Harry hated him a little bit.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” Harry hissed at the man (not realizing he was the similarity to Lily’s response). James and Remus paled at his tone, while Sirius swallowed, his brows furrowing to regret. It was too late for that. “But I never knew the Potters at all. I was raised by magic-hating muggles. So the Potters—they’re—what if—” He was hyperventilating again. All of these bloody emotions they kept giving him were so very damned inconvenient.

“Oh,” Remus said, and there was a sad layer to the understanding in his eyes.

“Oh?” James wondered, just as demanding as Sirius had been. They were echoes of each other, and Harry could understand why McGonagall had said they had seemed close enough to be brothers in truth.

“Oh,” Remus agreed, tone quiet and dry as the Professor’s had ever been. “It’s—you lot wouldn’t understand.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow as Harry forced his breathing back under control.

“I wouldn’t understand my relatives hating me?” His words were dripping in so much acid that Harry could have used them to poison the basilisk. An impressive bit of intonation, that.

“That’s not it at all,” Remus disagreed, eyes flashing to Harry. When he found no protest—Harry didn’t have the words for it, could barely understand his own reaction, so he would appreciate the explanation himself—he turned back to Sirius. “It’s one thing for your family to hate you because of your choices,” he stressed. “It’s another thing for them to hate you because of what you are.”

Remus turned back to Harry, and the understanding in his eyes was almost painfully warm. Harry wished that Professor Lupin had spoken to him like this. It would have helped him immensely at thirteen, surrounded by friends who didn’t know how good they had it, by other students who’d always been watching and judging, to know that…there was somebody who could understand. Who was painfully similar in all the worst ways.

“My da…he loved me,” Remus stressed quietly, and in that moment Harry knew where this was going. “But after the bite…after I was changed…things were never the same. He still loved me…but he hated me more. What I represented, what I was. He loved his son…but he couldn’t reconcile his son with the monster. And that was…feeling that, and knowing nothing could change it…because it was my fault, not…” Remus’ face twisted, his eyes fell to the floor.

Harry was a bit winded as he said, “I never even knew what I’d done wrong. I didn’t know about magic until my Hogwarts letter.” Lily’s fingers dug into his shoulders, deeply enough that her nails were bound to leave marks.

Remus’ lips twisted as he looked up at Harry. “My mum loved me,” he whispered, confessing a secret, a sin, “but she couldn’t understand my magic, or my curse. My da didn’t want to understand.”

Harry closed his eyes. Because—neither of them loved him, but Aunt Petunia? Who’d been raised with his mum? She should have understood, but she didn’t want to.

He and Remus were more alike than he’d ever realized, jagged shards of mirrors reflecting each other endlessly.

Sirius huffed, and Harry blinked at the full-grown man who was pouting like a toddler. “How is that any different?” He demanded. “Mum—hell, all of the Blacks—despised me for being a Gryffindor, hated that I was—”

“You had the option,” Remus cut him off with words made of shattered glass. Harry stared. This was not a side of Remus he’d ever known existed—perhaps it had been killed off with the deaths of all of his closest friends. “You could have conformed to your family’s beliefs. You chose not to. A fact we’re all grateful for, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that there was a choice. For Harry and I—there was no decision. Our greatest sin was simply being alive, our very existence.”

Harry had never felt so seen through in all his life, including Occlumency lessons with Snape.

He hated it.

Sirius’ brow scrunched, and his lips pressed tight. He nodded ungraciously and sat back with a huff as he turned over Remus’ explanation.

He wasn’t the only one. Now that Harry could understand his reaction, he could control it. He might be pants at Occlumency, but he understood himself fairly well. He’d never had family outside of what Ron and Hermione (his chest twinged and he ignored it with a twist of his lips—a motion Lily’s sharp eyes didn’t miss, despite being mostly behind him) could give him, and that hadn’t been fair to them at sixteen, much less eleven. He’d never had it, and didn’t know what to do with it. Lily and James—and the more youthful Sirius and Remus—were at the capacity he could handle—because they were roughly his age, and he could handle family at the level of his peers. But his grandparents—well. They were old enough to actually be his parents, and that was—as a child, the adults had always hated him, disdained his existence. Between the Dursleys’ tales of his miscreant ways and the distrust he’d worn like a shield—adults had never liked him, until Hagrid. Until Dumbledore, until Mr and Mrs Weasley. But the worst of it had been his blood relatives, and what if—what if it hadn’t been the Dursleys? What if Harry was just…intrinsically unlikable, with a few brave souls willing to wander past that?

It would kill him, if his grandparents hated him.

He nodded at Remus, grateful for the explanation, because the other had been right. Harry had grown used to being hated and loved and reviled and idolized in turns, and very little of it had been anything he’d done.

Honestly, Harry would have preferred everybody forgot about him—outside of Quidditch, of course, which he’d done with his own talent.

“So…you’re afraid of meeting my parents because you’re afraid they’ll dislike you?” James sounded utterly bewildered.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t have a great track record with adults,” he muttered. Outside of Hagrid, even the adults that had been okay at first—like Fudge—had been awful later. Remus had never mentioned he knew Harry’s parents—or that Sirius Black was an illegal animagus who knew the layout of the school better than most. Sirius had—well. He hadn’t been in his right mind, but he’d mostly wanted James.

Dumbledore…Dumbledore was something else. He’d reacted badly coming to this time—he winced. He’d almost forgotten about the whole hair thing. He…might should apologize later.

…Even if it was funny.

Moody had approved, so surely it wasn’t that bad?

He blinked hard enough to see little flecks of light on the backs of his eyelids. When he opened his eyes again everything was a little off, and everything looked somewhat bluer than before, but it was easier to focus.

Remus was staring at him, eyes fever-bright, and made a small gesture with his mouth—commiseration. Harry could understand how the adults might treat a kid with more scars than sense, considering what he’d been through with a few bruises. He nodded back, hoping to convey the message in turn.

He might not be great at showing it, but he was grateful to this version of Remus.

He was still a wanker, though.

“You realize we’re adults,” Lily said quietly, smile thin. An Aunt Petunia-look if there ever was one—except Aunt Petunia had never had flames flashing in her eyes, amusement and rage and life flickering back and forth.

Harry blinked. He—he hadn’t realized that, actually. They were—hell, they were barely older than him. They were somewhere between the twins’ age and Percy’s.

He inhaled sharply. They were barely old enough to have graduated, and they were caught up in this war. For the first time, Percy’s decision to abandon them for the Ministry—to accept an easy lie over an awful truth—made so much sense.

If Harry hadn’t been in the middle of it all since he was in nappies, he might have chosen the same.

He wondered how many of the people in this room would still be alive in five years, and grimaced at the dark turn his thoughts had taken.

If it were up to him—and he’d been told many times, by many people that it was, in fact, up to him—all of them would survive. They’d have futures. He’d do whatever he could to make it so.

Even if it meant going back through the Horcruxes—

The Horcruxes.

Bloody buggering fuck.

He remembered what he’d forgotten earlier, thought it didn’t actually have much to do with Snape, it was just that the man had nearly become synonymous with Slytherin in Harry’s mind.

“So, did you know your brother is planning to betray Riddle?” Harry asked Sirius evenly.

They all stared at him blankly.

“Who’s Riddle?” Remus finally demanded gruffly, the edges of his words a little blurred with an accent Harry’d never known he possessed.

“First, Sirius complains that my nicknames are juvenile. Now, nobody knows who I’m talking about,” Harry grumbled. He looked up and met Sirius’ eyes. “Tom Riddle is The Snake Bastard’s name from before he took up his anagrammed moniker.”

They all froze.

“Regulus is going to betray You-Know-Who?” James voiced the groups’ thought in some odd form of telepathy, breathless and wide-eyed.

James’ words knocked Sirius out of his stupor and he whooped. “I knew it! I knew Regulus wasn’t an evil little git! He—”

He cut himself off at whatever he saw on Harry’s face, face going paler than it had been when Harry’d met his future self after a year free from Azkaban.

“No,” Sirius whispered, voice cracked and raw. “No.”

Harry would try to mislead him, to convince him otherwise—but he’d never been a liar, and had the scar on his hand to prove it.

He kept his silence, and that was all the answer Sirius needed.

Chapter Text

Sirius was pacing, ranting, as he had been for the last hour.

“We have to save him! If he betrays You-Know-Who, that’s—it’s proof! He’s not as awful a git as I thought! He—he can be saved!”

Harry didn’t actually disagree. That being said, he was also starting to understand why Hermione and Ron had done their best to stay out of his way fifth year (he’d never see them again, never see their smiles, their laughter, their tears. Never see the looks they shared when they thought he was being stupid, would never be able to share a look when one of the other two played the fool).

James groaned. “Fine, then! You tell us where we should start looking! He’s your brother!”

Sirius’ rant continued on as though James hadn’t said a word. Remus had put on a look of reluctant dismay—as though he were watching an accident he could have stopped, but it was too late and everybody had died. Lily’s eyes had steadily grown darker, and she was clutching at her wand a little too tightly.

Harry’s bet was on Lily.

Sirius’ head whipped toward Harry, and the manic light in his eyes was a little too uncomfortably reminiscent of the Sirius who’d been trapped in Grimmauld. Harry didn’t approve, and apparently neither did Remus, whose brow crumpled further.

“You—you know! Where Regulus is, what he’s doing—”

No. Nope. Harry would nip this one in the bud. “I have no idea what he’s doing or where he is,” he said. “All I know is how he died—dies—to a point. I don’t even know when it happened, only that it did.”

Sirius glared at Harry like it would have any effect at all. Harry had been stared down by a dark lord, a crazed Sirius, a number of Death Eaters, a pink toad, Minerva McGonagall, and Hermione Bloody Granger. Sirius Black—especially a younger, saner version of the godfather he’d barely known? Was ineffective at best, and amusing at worst (or…vice versa, maybe, Harry was terrible at this sort of thing. This was why he needed Hermione, she’d already have a chart ready of values for him to reference).

Besides, Harry only spoke the truth (could only speak the truth, had paid for the truth in blood, had carved it into his own skin so even his best attempts at lies sounded ridiculous. He’d almost been a Slytherin, though, and had been Undesirable Number One. He knew how to dance around the truth, to twist and fold and twirl until it was unrecognizable). He really had no idea about Regulus’…anything, really. Except…

“Maybe Grimmauld?” Harry asked, grateful that the Fidelius didn’t hold in parallel universe time traveling or whatever it was he’d managed to do this time. “I know he adored Kreacher, that they were together until the end. And he…never really left the way you did, I’m sure. It might be our best bet?”

Sirius half-snarled at him with a sarcastic, “Oh, really? Why didn’t I think of that?” And Harry was really and truly tempted to whack him across the nose with one of the many newspapers strewn about. He’d never do it to a real dog of course (Ripper had instilled into him a deep-seated…respect for canines, and Fang had convinced him that they weren’t all hellhounds out to bite the ankles and calves of unsuspecting innocent children everywhere), but Sirius clearly deserved it.

Also, it would save him from whatever spell Lily was on the cusp of casting, wand tip glowing an eerie yellow.

See? Sirius should thank Harry for his restraint, really.

Sadly, Harry wasn’t that far gone—yet—so he flicked a silencing charm at him, knocked his wand out of his hand so he couldn’t just undo it in a half second, and turned to the actual adults in the room. Lily eased off of whatever spell she’d been planning and gave Harry a sharp nod. Remus just looked less sure of what was happening than ever, and the look in his eyes as he glanced at Harry was a tad discouraging. James mostly just looked relieved.

“So. Should we start with Grimmauld?” Harry knew Regulus was important, of course (even if he was still a tad bitter toward the man for reaching the locket first, for Dumbledore’s entirely unnecessary death), but more importantly—Harry was invested, now. He wanted to save as many of these idealistic fools as he could.

James grimaced. “Unfortunately, it does seem the best idea. I would really rather never bother with Walburga and Orion again, but—needs must, I suppose.”

Harry blinked. And then again, for good measure. “Orion Black is alive? I could have sworn he died earlier than this.”

James blinked owlishly, eyes wide and curious behind round frames too similar to Harry’s for comfort. “Well, yes? He’s away for work quite often and I am quite certain Walburga’s been poisoning him since we were third years, but he is still around.”

It was Harry’s turn to blink owlishly. “And nobody’s…done anything to stop her?” He ventured.

Sirius, who’d since stomped over with a scowl worth of Snape (and a deep, mischievous part of Harry that was generally fast asleep was straining at his self-control to tell Sirius that he looked like his greatest nemesis) and snatched his wand back to regain his voice, answered, “Father has built up a tolerance for my dear mother’s greatest attempts over the years. Mother should know better than that, but…well, she’s always been rather mad.”

Harry blinked again, grateful that Sirius’ tantrum was over—now they could work on it—but very confused that he was talking so calmly about his family. Future Sirius had all but spit whenever their existence was mentioned.

Maybe Azkaban had…enhanced his feelings about them, as well?

Harry shook his head and refocused on the conversation, which had twisted back to Regulus while he’d been ruminating on the way Sirius regulated his emotions. And that was an incredibly uncomfortable sentence with ugly alliterations. Harry hated it.

“I’m blocked from Grimmauld,” Sirius argued, “and I highly doubt they’d allow a Potter to darken its doors after your lot sheltered me, Prongs. Remus—I love you, mate, but I’m fairly certain the wards would incinerate you on the spot. And Lily—better not said what I know they adjusted for the wards involving muggleborns.

Between James and Sirius’ poncy diction, Harry felt vaguely like a bedraggled pigeon in comparison when he spoke.

…An illiterate bedraggled pigeon who’d accidentally been caught in the wash cycle and was hit by a bike or two. Maybe three.

“Harry’s a Potter, too,” James shot back, and oh. Now at least he knew what they were arguing about.

“I hate with every fiber of my being that I have to say this,” Harry interrupted Sirius’ riposte, “and I hate you lot for making me be the one to say it. But—and I say this with every bit of loathing, so you’re aware—have you considered Peter?”

Because Peter was a pureblood, Harry was fairly sure, and the little rat was very good at getting into places he shouldn’t.

James paused, jaw slack and mouth slightly parted, even as Sirius’ eyebrows furrowed together in a look not dissimilar to Mad Eye (and Harry would be remembering that insult for later, thanks).

“Oh,” Lily breathed. “That’s…”

“Are you sure?” James asked, and Harry hated him even as he was grateful for it. So he had thought of Peter, he’d just not said it in consideration for Harry’s feelings. Harry…had no idea what to do with this softness, nobody had ever treated him this way before. He was floundering in the wake of James’ goodness.

Sure, he was a bit of a cunt, but most teenagers were, and Snape had taken his anger out on ickle firsties. Clearly the bullying had been preemptive punishment.

(Harry mostly tried not to think about the bullying, but…he’d bring it up with James later, after Regulus, when they’d had a moment to breathe. Or at least when James had had a moment of rest. There was still the basilisk to consider. And the war, he supposed.)

“That…they probably never removed Peter from the wards, since he only ever visited the one time,” Sirius said slowly, turning over each word, tasting them like he was the one being poisoned (and what the hell kind of family were the Blacks really, that it was apparently common knowledge that a wife was poisoning her husband and nobody cared at all—or even acted like it was abnormal?).

“Can we trust him?” Lily cut in with brutal efficiency, eyes flashing. Harry was a bit worried she’d start snarling at any moment, and took a careful step back.

Just in case.

“Maybe…not with everything,” James said slowly, eyes fluttering shut as his jaw clenched, muscles straining. Physical evidence that it was killing him to doubt his friend. Even with literal proof from the future that it could happen—and perhaps already had.

Remus sighed, and Harry jumped a bit at the reminder he existed. Forget werewolf, the man was half ghost. “I don’t…I don’t want to distrust him. Harry—Harry even said it, before—that Peter’s still just…that he hasn’t necessarily betrayed us yet. Harry doesn’t know when he…when he left. So maybe…”

He was right, but Harry still wanted to hex him bald for—

Merlin’s right kneecap.

Oh no.

No, no, nononono—

“Harry?” Lily interrupted his spiral, concern twisting her brows into an expression he’d never seen on Aunt Petunia. That centered him enough, just enough.

“Did I…did I actually hex the headmaster bald?” Harry gasped out, horror seeping cold through his bones (through his clean arm bones, ugh).

Sirius’ grin lit up to something unholy, and Harry died a little inside. That was answer enough.

“It was glorious,” Sirius breathed, eyes sparkling. “Outdid any of the fun the Marauders ever managed—we certainly never managed to prank good old Dumbledore.”

Harry—oh, he was hyperventilating. “How—he—he was strange, he wasn’t…”

Lily glanced at him strangely, green eyes (so unlike his own, so innocent despite the tragedies she’d no doubt already suffered) shaded under lowered lids. “How do you mean?”

“He—he wanted me to remove the spell, and—” Harry remembered it, but it wasn’t how Dumbledore should have reacted, wasn’t how—

Lily’s expression cleared. “What do you remember, exactly?”

“He—he demanded I set him right, he—” Harry’s insistence sputtered. What was he missing?

Lily shared a not-so-secret look with James—they’d need to practice that, and turned back to him. “That…might be the concussion talking,” she said gently, too gently, Harry flinched at the velvet warmth in her tone.

“What?”

“Dumbledore thought it was hilarious,” James agreed, eyes furrowed as he looked deep into Harry’s eyes. Harry glared back in reflex. “He even changed his robes to match his lost hair color—bright silver.”

Then the words registered.

“He…what?” Harry asked. Because he had the distinct memory of Dumbledore being furious, of scolding, of—

But he wouldn’t, would he? Albus Dumbledore had never been that type of person as long as Harry had known him. Dumbledore was many things—secretive and cunning and manipulative and brutally honest and sad and tired and cruelly kind and kindly cruel—but he wasn’t the type to snap over a joke.

Harry was—he didn’t—why was he…?

“What…else do you remember, after waking up?” Lily questioned, not touching him, but hand hovering nearby.

“Moody—he approved. Constant vigilance. Your hair. I…took the wands. Kingsley being Kingsley. An interrogation, to confirm—you were who you are. Madame Pomfrey.” Harry’s thoughts were a bit disjointed, lost.

The concern tugging at Lily’s brow deepened, taking over her face as she sucked her lip in to bite at it. “I…why is the only thing that you’re remembering wrong about Dumbledore?”

Harry didn’t know, but he’d also like the answer (how much of what he remembered from that time was wrong? What had he—why would Dumbledore be petrified of his anger? Dumbledore had looked Grindlewald in the face and said too far, had handled Voldemort’s anger like he was speaking to a small child. There was no way he would be afraid of Harry, so why…). Immediately.

That wasn’t bloody likely though, so he returned to their original conversation. He would—he would need to talk to Dumbledore later, but not now. “So. Peter for Grimmauld, then? If you’re worried about trusting him all the way, you can give him bits of the puzzle—claim Sirius is worried about Regulus—which even has the benefit of being true. Or…I don’t know. I will never trust him, but…”

But he knew betrayal, though his was minor in the face of what Wormtail’s decisions had wrought. Ron had left them—and Harry had forgiven him, even though he would never hold it against him (could never now, when Harry would never see him again), there had been a shadow that Harry couldn’t rid himself of. Because Ron had left them, betrayed them, given up.

Harry was able to overcome that shadow with the memories of everything Ron had done for him, all of the times he hadn’t left his side. But. The shadow lingered. And Ron hadn’t even directly betrayed them, would never have—and Harry knew that to his bones, Ron would have died before telling Voldemort or his followers anything about Harry.

He couldn’t imagine being in his father’s shoes right now, having the same belief in Peter that Harry had in Ron. Because Harry’s faith in Ron had proved justified. And James’ faith in Peter had killed him.

Harry shook his head. He’d leave the decision to James, for now—but if Peter made the same choices, took the same roads…Harry’s fist clenched tighter around his wand (when had he drawn it?), tight enough that it stretched the scarring enough he could feel it.

He wouldn’t let Peter hurt his family the way he had before.

Everybody thought of Harry as fairly pacifistic, and they weren’t entirely wrong (he’d beaten Voldemort several times with the bloody disarming charm), but even Hermione and Ron tended to forget that he’d been willing to kill Sirius Black when he’d believed him to be the traitor. They forgot that the only reason he’d kept Sirius from killing Peter was because he didn’t think his father would want him to become a murderer—and because he could stay in Harry’s life if he was exonerated. Harry hadn’t thought Sirius would want to keep him until he’d offered Harry to stay with him—but the Sorting Hat had believed Harry would be great in Slytherin, and Harry had known, even at thirteen, that the best way to keep the connection with his godfather open was to keep him out of Azkaban.

He wouldn’t let Peter hurt his family this time.

Harry would destroy him first.