Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All of his life, Harry had known he was unusual. How could he not have? Normal people didn't have a scar running across their forehead shaped like jagged lightning. Normal people didn't have black hair that grew back whenever Aunt Petunia tried to have it cut in styles he didn't like. Normal people weren't 20 centimeters shorter than their peers, either.

Aunt Petunia liked to comment about that a lot, because his small size meant making him wear Dudley's castoffs would have been comical even if his cousin weren't over twice his weight, and she begrudged every single penny she spent on him. The result was that his clothes tended to be aimed at children four years his junior, which of course Dudley and his friends always found grounds to belittle him for, even though Dudley himself knew Harry had no say in the matter.

Most importantly, normal people didn't have weird things happen around them, like that time he'd leapt on to the roof of the school when he'd tried to escape a round of Dudley's favourite playground game, Bully Harry.

It was a dark and stormy night, out on the island. Uncle Vernon had taken them to the fisherman's shack earlier that day, by way of a small boat that could barely fit the four of them and a suitcase each, plus the fisherman who'd dropped them off on the island, and a long, thin package that Uncle Vernon had been very careful with.

Harry was staring out of the window in the main room of the shack, and had, in fact, dozed off with his forehead leaning on the glass when there came the sound of a very firm rapping on the front door.

Harry was jolted awake. Dudley was awoken by the rapping the second time, and as he blinked blearily, Uncle Vernon came down, holding a shotgun in his hands—Harry had wondered what'd been in the long, thin package.

"Who's there?" his uncle shouted. "I'm warning you, I'm armed!"

After a short pause, the door flung open and stuck to the wall, and an enormous man was silhouetted in the flash of lightning that followed seconds later.

He stepped in and snorted. "Figured yeh'd try a fool thing like that, yeh great prune," he muttered, and yanked the shotgun out of Uncle Vernon's grasp and bent it back upon itself before dropping it. Uncle Vernon squeaked. Dudley ran behind his mother, who'd followed Uncle Vernon, and Harry thought it was hilarious how Aunt Petunia's thin stature did absolutely nothing to hide her son.

Harry turned his attention back to the man and stared. The man's head was nearly obscured entirely by thick, dark brown hair, and he wore a long canvas duster that looked festooned with pockets, alongside denim trousers tucked in to a pair of boots, all of which looked like they'd been tailored, as surely they must have been to fit so massive a man.

"Ah. Yeh must be Harry," the man said, his gaze alighting on him in fairly short order. "Got summat fer yeh here, it bein' yer birthday an' all. Mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

He rummaged through his duster, fishing out a slightly squashed-looking box, and offered it to Harry. Harry looked up at the man inquiringly.

"Well? Open it, and happy birthday," he said. Harry blinked in surprise, and carefully opened it. Inside was a chocolate cake, with bright green frosting that said, "Happy birthday!"

Harry opened his mouth to say "thank you", but what tripped out of it instead was, "Who are you?"

"Right, haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. So…Have yeh got any tea? I'd not say no to summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

Harry shook his head. "No tea, I'm afraid. Uncle Vernon didn't let Aunt Petunia stop for anything."

Hagrid sighed, and sat down on a couch that was near the fireplace. He eyed the grate, and the forlorn scraps of singed paper that sat inside the firebox. "Ah, well. Let's do summat about that chill, eh?"

Hagrid pulled out a long, slender stick—a wand?—and pointed it at the fireplace. With a muttered word, it was immediately filled with a roaring fire that went quite some way toward warming the shack despite the watery breeze that blew through the still-open door. The sudden blaze garnered another squeak from Uncle Vernon.

"Yeh still standin' there gaping like a fish fer, Dursley?" The Dursleys fled upstairs. Harry giggled—he couldn't help it, and he hated it when he giggled, as he thought it made him sound younger than his eleven years—and closed the front door. The room soon became comfortably warm, and he carried his boxed cake over as he joined Hagrid by the fireplace.

As he did so, Hagrid had been divesting his pockets of an assortment of items: a copper kettle, a packet of sausages, a poker, a teapot, a couple mugs, two plates, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig of before pocketing once more. With another mutter, the kettle was filled with water and set to boil. Soon enough, half a dozen hot, slightly burnt sausages were piled on one plate, which he gave to Harry along with a fork and a mug of tea.

Harry eyed the plate. "…I'm not sure I'd manage two sausages, much less all six," he said dubiously.

Hagrid blinked, then took a closer look at Harry. "… Yeh're right. Not to worry, I'll eat whatever yeh don't."

Harry nodded, and before he took a bite, he asked, "Not to sound ungrateful, but who are you, really?"

"Call me Hagrid, everyone does. And as I said, I'm Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts—yeh'll know about Hogwarts, o' course."

"Er…no," Harry said. Hagrid looked shocked.

"…Sorry," Harry said quickly, afraid he'd said the wrong thing.

"Sorry?" Hagrid said, barely managing to choke his exclamation down to a raised voice. Harry flinched all the same, and Hagrid darted a quick glance up to the ceiling. "It's yer aunt'n'uncle as should be sorry. I knew yeh weren't gettin' yer letters, but I never expected yeh'd not been told about…yeh ever wonder where yer parents'd learnt it all?"

"…All what?" asked Harry.

Hagrid gave the ceiling another, more piercing look. Harry figured if looks could kill, the Dursleys were lucky they were out of sight. Hagrid sighed.

"About our world, the witching world. Your world, your parents' world. Yeh ever been told about yer parents?"

"Um…Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia threatened to beat me if I ever asked about them, whenever I did ask," Harry said. He shrank in to the couch as Hagrid turned a murderous look upward again and ran a hand through his hair.

"Well, it's like this. Yer a witch, Harry."

"I'm a what?" Harry sounded incredulous.

"A witch, o' course. Not just any witch, neither. Yeh'll be a ruddy great one, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With parents like yers, how could yeh not be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

With a flourish, Hagrid produced from one of his voluminous pockets a parchment envelope, addressed in green ink. Harry hurriedly set down his plate and took the envelope. It felt weird, he decided immediately. It was heavier than paper usually was, and he read the address on the front.

Mr H. Potter
The Floor
Fisherman's Wharf
Channel Islands, UK

He cracked the wax seal and opened the envelope. He pulled out a sheet of heavier-than-paper, and read:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore OM1 GS MWP SM

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment, as well as a ticket for the Hogwarts Express.

We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

 

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Harry was, almost immediately, full of questions. The first one that came out was, "What does it mean, they await my owl?"

"Aye, that reminds me," Hagrid said, and produced an owl from one of his pockets, along with a quill and a roll of paper-like material. He quickly scrawled a note, which Harry could read upside-down, in black ink:

Dear Mr Dumbledore,

Given Harry his letter. Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. Weather's horrible. Hope you're well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolled up the note and gave it to the owl, who clamped it in their beak, and opened the front door long enough to toss them out. Then he returned to the couch, as though this were perfectly normal.

Harry closed his mouth.

"Where was I…" Hagrid muttered. By now, Uncle Vernon had crept back downstairs.

"He's not going," Uncle Vernon said.

"I'd love ter see yeh stop him," Hagrid said with a grunt.

"We swore when we took him in that we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him. Witch, ha."

"…You…you knew?"

"'Course we knew, how could you not be a witch? My dratted sister being what she was," Aunt Petunia said. She'd made her way down too, it appeared. "Oh, she got her letter, same as you, and disappeared off to that—that school, for ten months of a year, and came home every holiday with her pockets full of beetles, turning teacups in to rats and all sorts. I was the only one who saw her for what she was—a freak. But for our parents, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that—they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

Harry had flinched when she said 'freak', even though it wasn't directed at him for a change. Aunt Petunia looked in high dudgeon—she'd apparently been saving this up for years.

"And then she met that Potter boy at school, and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as—as—freakish—and then, if you please, she'd gone and gotten herself blown up and we'd got saddled with you."

Harry was shrinking back in to the couch again, looking wan. Once he found his voice again, he said, "Blown up? You told me they'd died in a car crash!"

Hagrid jumped to his feet, a move that shook the house. "A car crash? Yeh'd set that rubbish in his head? A car crash kill James and Lily? It's an outrage, a scandal! Harry Potter not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!"

"But…why? What happened?" Harry asked, sounding desperate and more than a little confused.

Hagrid's anger faded, and he instead began to look worried. "Didn't expect this. I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. I'll ask Professor McGonagall to have a word with yeh, she can explain everything better'n I could."

"Load of old tosh," Uncle Vernon said scathingly. "Now listen here, boy. I accept there's something queer about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured—and as for your parents, well, they were queer too, no denying, and the world's better off without them in my opinion—asked for all they got, messing with witches—just what I always expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end—"

"Shut yer yap, or I'll shut it fer yeh," Hagrid roared, and Uncle Vernon flinched and backed up against the wall. Harry was practically curled up in to a ball on the couch by now, something that might've been cute if it weren't so heartbreaking. Hagrid's attention returned to him.

"I'll have a word with Dumbledore when I get back. They've not bin treatin' yeh right, it's plain," he whispered to the boy. "Yeh need a bit of help, leastways, but for now, yer safe with me."

Harry's voice was quite small. "I… I don't think I can be a witch…"

"What do yeh imagine makes a witch, then?" Hagrid asked softly. "Plenty of other kids go to Hogwarts that're like yeh, Harry. Caretakers who don't have magic, I mean."

"Haven't I made it plain he'll not be going?" Uncle Vernon blustered again. "He'll be going to Stonewall High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters, he'd need all sorts of rubbish—spellbooks and wands and—"

"If he wants ter go, a great lump like yeh'll not stop him," Hagrid growled. "Stop Lily and James Potter's son? Yer mad! His name's been down since he was born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft in the world. Seven years there and he'll not recognize the himself of today. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, for a change, and he'll be under the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever had, Albus Dumbled—"

"I am not paying for some old crackpot old fool to teach him magic tricks!" Uncle Vernon bellowed.

But he only realised he'd gone too far at last when Hagrid jumped to his feet once more, shaking the building again, as he pulled out his wand again and swished it toward the Dursleys. The result was a loud bang, and Uncle Vernon yelped, his hands moving to his rear, and he turned to go back upstairs once more. Harry saw a growing bulge that wriggled as his uncle and aunt retreated once more.

"Shouldn'ta lost me temper," Hagrid said ruefully. "Got the point across, but er…don't mention this ter anyone at Hogwarts, eh? We're not ter do magic on mundane folks except in self defence."

Harry nodded, and he continued, "Anyway, it's gettin' late, and we've got lots ter do tomorrow. Here, you can sleep under this."

Hagrid conjured a blanket and handed it to Harry, who marveled at how soft it was as he bundled himself up in it. This time, he noticed that Hagrid moved his hand and wiggled his fingers as he swished his wand, just before the blanket appeared.

Chapter Text

It was daylight when Harry woke the next morning. He would have thought the events of last night were a dream, but even in a dream he wouldn't have been bundled up in a soft blanket. Plus, there was the pleasant odour and sounds of sausages cooking again, and that decided him.

He opened his eyes, and there was Hagrid, poking at the fireplace again. Harry sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and then there was a tapping at the window. Hagrid rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a bronze coin, which he gave to Harry. "Let him in, would yeh? Take the paper and give him this Knut."

Harry opened the window, and the owl dropped the paper off on the coffee table, then landed on the back of the couch. Harry offered the coin, and the owl presented his leg, to which was tied a small pouch, and he deposited the coin there. The owl then flew back out.

Hagrid deposited a plate of sausages on the table next to Harry, along with a fork. "Eat what yeh can, lots ter do today. We'll be gettin' in ter London to buy all yer stuff fer school."

Harry had been thinking about that. "But…Hagrid, I haven't got any money. And you heard Uncle Vernon last night, he won't pay for it either."

"Don't worry about that," Hagrid said. "D'yeh think yer parents left yeh nothin'? First step is Gringott's Bank."

"…Witches have banks?"

"Just the one, but they've branches across Europe. Run by kobolds."

"… Kobolds?"

"Yeah, so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with kobolds, Harry. Gringott's banks are the safest places in the world for anything yeh want ter keep safe, 'cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o' fact, I gotta visit Gringott's anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business."

Hagrid glanced over the table. The cake lay untouched in its box, and Harry had only just finished the one sausage and made no signs of wanting a second one. He mentally revised his itinerary to start with a visit at St Mungo's.

"Right. Need anything? Then best we be off. Take me hand, that's a good lad, and hold on to yer butt."

There was a sharp crack, and suddenly Harry was enveloped in darkness, feeling pressed in from all directions, before his vision cleared and they were standing inside a wood-paneled room, with broad windows that let in plenty of light, and two doors, north and south. "Come along, Harry," the enormous man said, and they strode through the northern door.

This room was very clearly a lobby, with dozens of chairs arranged neatly. There were oddly-dressed people scattered throughout, and a desk at one end of the room, staffed by a few women. Hagrid led the way to the desk and cleared his throat.

"Er, emergency wellness check fer Mr Potter here, please," he said quietly. "Discreetly, if yeh would."

The woman he spoke to stood up and peered down at the boy, then pulled together some paperwork on to a clipboard, along with a pen, and handed it over. "Right. Fill this out, and a Healer will be with you momentarily."

Hagrid nodded, and led Harry over to a pair of chairs, one big enough to support his bulk, though it groaned as it took his weight.

"Fill this out best yeh can, and I'll handle anything yeh can't."

The examination was quite thorough, and Healer Lobosca sighed.

"Chronic underfeeding. He's lucky—usually such cases lead to malnutrition, but he's just abnormally small for his age. I also found signs of physical abuse, including signs of, fortunately now healed, cracked bones. Legally, I am required to report this case to social care, and you can tell Dumbledore that he needs to act quickly if he wants to control the situation. I will also write to Madam Pomfrey, to ensure he gets a wellness check whilst he's at Hogwarts, and I will want to see him again next year."

Hagrid nodded. "That's what I figured, Lobosca. Thanks for havin' a look, then, and we'll be off."

When Harry's vision cleared the second time, he and Hagrid were standing in an enclosed brick alley.

"Let's see here," Hagrid muttered, then tapped five bricks in a loose star pattern, with its north being the upper-right brick of the pattern. Almost immediately, the bricks began to move, eventually forming an arch big enough even for Hagrid to fit through.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley. Still got yer letter, Harry?"

Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket; he'd folded it in half to make it fit.

"Good. There's a list there of everything yeh need."

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft

Uniform

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
3. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

Set Books

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

• The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
• A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
• Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
• A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
• One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
• Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
• Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
• A Witch's Defensive Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Other Equipment

• 1 wand
• 1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
• 1 set glass or crystal phials
• 1 set brass scales

Students may also bring a familiar.

Parents are reminded that first-years are not allowed their own broomsticks

"…Can we really buy all of this in London?" Harry asked.

"If yeh know where ter go, and we're already there," Hagrid said. After they stepped through, Harry looked back to see the archway already returning to its previous state of being a wall.

The sun reflected brightly off a stack of copper cauldrons outside a shop with a sign reading "Cauldrons", with a silhouette of a cauldron underneath, above the doorway.

"Aye, yeh'll be needin' one, but first yeh need yer money," Hagrid said, and chivvied Harry along. Harry wished he could look everywhere all at once, there were so many new things to see. The shops, the things in their windows, the people doing the shopping…

A low, soft hooting came from a shop with its windows blocked off by curtains, and a sign that read "Eeylops Owl Emporium". Several boys about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks on display. "Look," he heard one say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand—fastest ever—" There were shops selling all sorts, from robes to telescopes, and even silver instruments Harry had never seen before…

"Gringott's," Hagrid said, and Harry's head snapped back forward to see a marble building that towered over the shops. Standing by its open, burnished bronze doors and wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold were a pair of—

"Aye, those are kobolds," Hagrid said as they walked up the marble steps toward them. The kobolds were about 20 centimetres taller than Harry, each one's head shaped like a dog's, minus the ears. The kobold to the left of the door was a sandy beige, with black rosettes, somewhat reminiscent of a leopard, whereas the kobold to the right seemed to be their antithesis, black scales with bronze rosettes. Both carried long spears. They bowed as Hagrid and Harry passed through the door.

At the far end of the entryway was another pair of doors, this pair silver, with blazing letters that stood in perfect contrast, so as to be legible regardless of lighting:

Enter, but be warned.
Those who take treasures unearned.
Death is a kindness.

"Like I said, yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob them," Hagrid said.

Another pair of kobolds bowed them through the silver doors, and they were in a vast marble hall. The floor was carpeted in red, with a design in the center of the hall that was clearly the Gringott's seal. Along one side of the hall was a long counter, with several kobolds talking with witches and a short line of patiently-waiting customers. Further down the counter was the customer service desk, and Hagrid strode toward it.

"Mornin'," Hagrid said when they'd reached the desk. "We've come ter take some money out of Mr Harry Potter's vault."

"You have his key, sir?" the kobold behind the desk asked. They were a warm bronze, with white striping, and their voice bore a trace of a German accent, Harry thought.

"Got it here somewhere," Hagrid said as he began rummaging around in his pockets. After about a minute, he pulled it out and held it up.

The kobold peered at it, then nodded. "That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore, concerning the item in Vault 713." He passed it to the kobold, who read it.

"Very well. I will have a kobold escort you to both vaults. Gaz!"

Gaz was another kobold. Their scales were rust-red overall, but reddish-cream along their chin and down their throat, reappearing on the palms of their hands. Hagrid and Harry followed him down the hall to one of the doors leading out of it.

"What's the thing in Vault 713?" Harry asked, curious.

"Never yeh mind, lad."

Gaz held the door open for them. Harry, expecting more marble, was surprised. This was a narrow granite passageway lit by witch-lights. It sloped steeply downward, and there were rails running down it. Gaz whistled, and a cart came trundling toward them, stopping once it reached the platform. The trio climbed in to it, Hagrid with a bit of difficulty, and it began moving again almost immediately.

Shortly afterward, the passage began to curve to the left as it descended, bringing them down a gentle spiral, until it straightened and leveled out about ten minutes later. Simultaneously, the passage opened up in to a natural cavern, with stalagmites and stalactites scattered throughout.

"I can never remember, what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?" Harry asked Hagrid.

"Stalagmites come up from the ground, stalactites down from the ceiling. But don't ask me questions just now, these carts always make me motion-sick."

Soon enough, they rolled to a smooth stop at Vault 687. Hagrid had to lean on a pillar for a few seconds before he straightened up.

"Key," Gaz demanded, and Hagrid passed it over. They ran a finger down the door, then inserted the key and opened the vault.

Harry's eyes widened as he beheld the mounds of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts that filled his vault. There was also, off to the side, a shelf with various artefacts on display.

"All yers," Hagrid said, and handed Harry an empty cloth sack. "But I'd suggest pullin' only a dozen gold Galleons and a score of silver Sickles. Maybe a handful of bronze Knuts for pocket money. Should do yeh for a couple terms."

Harry nodded, and scooped coins in to the sack.

"Right, on to Vault 713, please, and can we go more slowly?" Hagrid asked Gaz.

"The carts have one speed only," Gaz said as they boarded the cart again. The air got colder as they went deeper still, though it only took a few more minutes to reach the requested vault.

Vault 713 had no keyhole. Gaz motioned for them to stay put as the kobold approached the door. They stroked it gently with a clawed hand, and the door dissolved. Hagrid, moving quickly, walked in to the vault and scooped up a small package that was sitting on the floor before returning to the cart. The door reappearred almost immediately after, and Gaz returned to the cart as well.

"If anyone but a kobold tried to open that door, they'd get sucked in and trapped," Gaz said as they put the cart in to motion once more.

"How often do you check to see if anyone's been snared?" Harry asked.

"We don't. The spell includes an alarm."

Harry figured that whatever it was that Hagrid had removed, it must have been very valuable.

After another fifteen-minute cart ride, they were back at ground level once more. Harry wasn't quite sure where to go now that he had money in his pocket, but he was also entirely too intimidated by how many people were gadding about Diagon Alley by now to be tempted to wander off.

"First things first, yer uniform," Hagrid said, and led the way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "If yeh don' mind, I'm going ter nip down to the Leaky Cauldron for a pick-me-up while yer in."

Harry nodded and entered the shop on his own. Madam Malkin proved to be a short, plump woman in mauve robes. She looked him up and down, a kind smile on her face, and asked, "Hogwarts, dear?"

Harry nodded quietly. She nodded back. "I've got the lot—another young man's being fitted right now, in fact. Come on back."

She gently chivvied him ahead of her, and on to a stool. To his left, a pale, white-haired boy stood on another stool as another witch was pinning up the black robe he was wearing. Madam Malkin considered, then slipped a robe down over Harry and began to pin it up around him as well.

"Hullo," the boy said. "Hogwarts too?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"My father's next door, buying my books, and mother's up the street looking at wands." He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father in to getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry rolled his eyes. For some reason, this boy reminded him of Dudley, except about two or three stone lighter.

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

"No."

"Play Quadball at all?"

"No." Harry wondered what on earth Quadball could be.

"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"…No." Harry was starting to dislike the boy.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they? I know I'll be in Slytherin, though, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmmm." Harry wished he could say something a bit more interesting.

"I say, look at that man!" The boy nodded toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and holding up two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," Harry said, pleased that he knew something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," the boy said. "I've heard of him. He's some sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper."

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of wild man—lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk and accidentally sets fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," Harry said coldly.

"Do you?" the boy asked with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," Harry said flatly. He didn't really want to talk about them with the boy.

"Oh, sorry," the boy said, not sounding particularly sorry. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were both witches, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts before they got their letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old witching families. What's your surname, anyway?"

Before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool.

"… Aren't you a little short to be a Hogwarts student?" the boy drawled. Harry ignored this as he left.

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

"What's up?" Hagrid asked.

"…Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and writing implements. Harry rejected the quills immediately, and so he got a fountain pen instead. He also got a bottle of ink that changed colour as you wrote.

When they left the shop, Harry asked, "What's Quadball?"

"Blimey, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know—not knowin' about Quadball!"

"…Don't make me feel worse." Harry told Hagrid about the the white-haired boy in Madam Malkin's.

"—and he said people from non-witching families shouldn't even be allowed in—"

"Yer from a witchin' family. If he'd known who yeh were—he's grown up knowing yer name if his parents are witches. Anyway, what does he know about it? Some of the best witches I ever saw were the only ones from a long line of mundane folk. Look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

"So…what is Quadball, anyway?"

"It's our one sport. Witches' equivalent of football in the mundane world. Everyone follows it, played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls… Bit hard fer me to explain the rules."

"And, um. What are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"Two of the four houses at Hogwarts. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but—"

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," Harry said gloomily.

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," Hagrid said. "Slytherin's a fairly cutthroat lot, an' a lot of warlocks came out of that house. Yeh'd probably be eaten alive."

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish & Blott's, where among other things Harry encountered books the size of paving stones bound in leather, books the size of postage stamps bound in silk, and other oddmentia. Harry had to pulled away from a book titled Animagi: Shapeshifting and You, by Rupa Kaur Gupta.

"I just wanted to know how to turn in to an animal," Harry said.

"I'm not sayin' that's inappropriate, but yer not ter use magic in the mundane world except in very special circumstances," Hagrid said. "An' anyway, the ritual fer becomin' an Animagus is difficult and very dangerous, yeh'll need a lot of study before yeh get ter that level."

Harry ducked right back out of the apothecary's shop as soon as he stepped in. As fascinating as it was inside, the smell alone was sensory hell. When Hagrid popped his head to see where Harry'd gone, he was still standing by the door.

"Smell too much for yeh? That's all right, I need a couple Sickles and we'll be on our way again." Harry nodded and handed over the requested coins. Once Hagrid came out again, he checked over Harry's list.

"Jus' yer wand left—oh yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

"Y-y-you don't h-have to—" Harry stammered.

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yeh a familiar. Usually folks do cats or owls, but I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. But it's up to yeh. Any kind yeh like?"

Harry thought about it for a moment. "How about a ferret?"

"A ferret it is, then. Let's get yeh a book on ferret care, first, though."

Twenty minutes later, they emerged from a pet shop. Harry held a large square cage which held a beautiful chocolate ferret jill (the shopkeep assured them that she'd been spayed). "Thank you so much, Hagrid," Harry kept saying.

"Don' mention it," Hagrid said gruffly. "Don' expect yeh had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivander's left now—only place fer wands, Ollivander's, and yeh gotta have the best one."

Harry had been curious about wands ever since he read his shopping list.

This shop was narrow and somewhat shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read "Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands". A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the shop window.

A bell tinkled as they stepped inside. It was a cramped space, empty except for a single spindly chair, which Hagrid sat on to wait. Along the walls of the room were thousands of narrow boxes, piled nearly to the ceiling, each labeled individually in a crabbed hand. Harry soon became aware of a faint pressure, one that didn't weigh on any part of his body. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, but it felt really peculiar.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped.

An old white man was standing before them, his wide, pale gray eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," Harry said awkwardly.

"Ah, yes. Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr Ollivander moved closer to Harry.

"Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it—it's really the wand that chooses the witch, of course."

Mr Ollivander and Harry were now practically nose-to-nose, and he could swear he saw his reflection in those misty eyes.

"And that's where…" Mr Ollivander's gaze, thankfully, swept up to the scar on Harry's forehead.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands…Well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again…Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It is, sir, yes," Hagrid said.

"Good wand, that one," Mr Ollivander said. "Well, now—Mr Potter. Let me see."

He pulled out a tape measure with silver markings. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er…well, I'm left-handed," Harry said.

"Hold out your arm. Yes, that's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another witch's wand."

Harry suddenly realised that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," Mr Ollivander said, and the tape measure collapsed to the floor in a heap. "Right then, Mr Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry took the wand and, feeling foolish, waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—"

Harry didn't even get to do more than move his hand around before the wand was snatched back out of it.

"No, no—here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry moved his hand around and again the wand was snatched from it. He had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. A pile of boxes was rising at his feet, but the more wands Mr Ollivander had him try, the happier he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

When Harry took this wand, he felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. This time, he swished the wand, and a cool breeze blew through the room, ruffling Hagrid's beard.

"That's it exactly, Mr Potter. Well, well… how curious…" He put Harry's wand back in its box and wrapped it in brown paper. "How very curious…"

"What's curious, sir?" Harry asked.

Mr Ollivander stared at Harry. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar.

"Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember…I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter…After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr Ollivander very much, but he paid seven Sickles for his wand and Mr Ollivander bowed them out.

"Now, normally this is when I'd take yeh home, but yeh aren' safe with them Dursleys. Lemme think," Hagrid said as they made their way back to the entrance to Diagon Alley.

"All right. I'm gonna rent yeh a room at the Leaky Cauldron—Tom's a good man, and yeh can afford private service while I sort this out. Now, while yeh're at the Leaky Cauldron, don' leave yer room or allow anyone in to it unless they give the password, which…" Hagrid leaned in to whisper in to Harry's ear, "is 'Galloping Gryphons', okay?"

"Okay," Harry said. They went inside the Leaky Cauldron to make the arrangements, and Tom, a gray-haired white man, helped Harry set up inside the room.

"Now, the way private service works here, Mr Potter, is that there is a place setting at the table here, see, and a menu. Breakfast between six and nine AM, lunch between twelve and two, and dinner between five and seven PM, tell the place setting what you want to eat and your food'll appear. When you're done, tell the place setting, "I'm done," and the dishes and any leftovers will vanish again. If you need anything else, just knock on the place setting and I'll be right up."

"Thank you," Harry said.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hagrid stopped by to drop off several totes full of clothes in Harry's size. Wonder of wonders, the shirts were either plain or featured wildlife, rather than cartoon characters from shows he never had the opportunity to watch. He also gave Harry a box of books, most of which was mundane scifi or fantasy novels (and how Hagrid had gotten them when he seemed unfamiliar with mundane society, Harry could only guess), but a few more educational witch books were included as well, such as Hogwarts: A History. Harry was relieved. At least he wouldn't be stuck reading his new textbooks.

That afternoon, he heard a knock at his door.

"Who is it?" he called.

"Galloping gryphons, Harry, we're Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore," an older woman's voice responded tartly. He flinched, not that she could see.

Harry got up to open the door and step aside so that the professors could come in. McGonagall was a middle-aged-seeming, black-haired white woman dressed in a bottle-green robe, with a broad-brimmed black hat. Dumbledore was a much older white man, perhaps in his late 80s, with a flowing white beard, and he was dressed in a dark blue robe with silver sequins scattered across it, so as to resemble an evening sky. On his head was a simple, brimless cap.

"Merlin's beard, Hagrid was right," McGonagall muttered, quietly enough that Harry didn't think he'd been meant to hear her.

"Go ahead and have a seat, Harry," Dumbledore said. He conjured for himself a stool, as did McGonagall. "First things first. We need to check the wards that your mother built up before she died. They were intended to give you certain protections… Minerva, would you like to do the honours?"

McGonagall nodded, and flicked her wand in to her hand from up her sleeve. With a motion that Harry didn't quite follow, she said, "Praesidia revelio."

A wave of…something, Harry presumed it must have been magic, washed over him, and the witches' brows rose in consternation.

"They're…well. They're still there, if only barely, but…" McGonagall said weakly.

Dumbledore sighed. "You were right, his mother's family was entirely inappropriate. It's a wonder the wards are still around. I should have realised…they were built on love, and so love would sustain them, not a familial relationship…"

"Quite. Anyway, Harry, Hagrid told me you asked after your parents, and that he didn't feel comfortable explaining things. I will endeavour to do so, but if you have any questions, Professor Dumbledore would be the person to ask—he knew His Nibs the longest of any of us.

"Before you were born, an evil man rose to power, a man who sought to rule the British Isles through magic, and to purge anyone who was mundane or had mundane parentage. Your parents were members of a band of resistance called the Order of the Phoenix, a group dedicated to bringing down His Nibs, and they were a significant thorn in his side. When your mother was pregnant with you, your parents went in to hiding, but the man they entrusted with the secret of their hiding place betrayed them—and you—to the Great Warlock. Fifteen months after you were born, the Great Warlock attacked them in their home. Your parents died protecting you, but when he attempted to murder you, the spell backfired. Nobody knows what actually happened to him that night, but he vanished, and you were left with that scar."

"His name was Voldemort," Dumbledore said absently. McGonagall flinched. "It is my opinion, though of course many witches disagree, that fearing the name of a thing increases fear of the thing itself. More, it's important that you, of all people, should know his name."

Harry nodded. "Thank you for telling me," he said quietly.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall, muttering. Harry could still hear what they were saying, though he had to strain his ears…

Dumbledore said, "Hmm. Andromeda and the Weasleys are the only suitable relatives he has, and I can't add another child to the Weasley household, they've strain enough with five at home—he needs someone who can give him the care he needs. Then there's Remus… He might've been an uncle, if not for the Potters' deaths…"

"Andromeda would be a good choice, being a Healer, but she's too close to magical law enforcement for my taste, especially as her daughter's angling to become an auror in her own right. I'll owl Remus and have a talk with him. We'll need to ensure he has Wolfsbane Potion, of course, but I think we can make arrangements. Harry will have to at least take the Hogwarts Express this year, but I don't envision that being a problem."

"Tell him I will set up a fund specifically for his upkeep, since his 'job' will be raising Harry, until I can make other arrangements for employment."

McGonagall nodded at this. "I think we have a plan, then."

They turned back to Harry. Dumbledore said, "I suspect you'll be here for a few weeks, Harry, while we sort things out, but you will never have to live with the Dursleys again. Is there anything at their house that you're missing that you want?"

"No, sir. Everything they gave me, aside from clothes, was hand-me-downs from Dudley, most of it after he'd already broken it in some fashion." McGonagall's expression darkened at this. Dumbledore's grew more neutral.

"Is there anything we can provide, then?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Um…some activity books, maybe?"

McGonagall cracked a smile, the first he'd seen on her face so far. "I'll see what I can arrange. I'll see you this weekend, all right?"

Harry nodded. "Thanks for coming by," he said as they rose and took their leaves.

A few days later, Professor McGonagall was waiting in a booth at the back of the pub when a weathered-looking, sandy-haired young Desi man walked in to the Leaky Cauldron. He was dressed in a somewhat threadbare brown suit, and he leaned heavily on his cane as he tottered across the room to join her.

"Good morning, Professor," the man said as he sat across from her. Despite his obvious weariness, his green eyes were bright and curious. She snorted.

"Remus, you've been out of Hogwarts for over twenty years, you're more than welcome to call me Minerva," Professor McGonagall said a bit tartly.

"As you wish…Minerva," Remus said. "I understand you and Professor Dumbledore have an offer for me?"

A waitress appeared then, setting before them a large pot of tea, two teacups on saucers, a small jug of milk, and a platter of sausages. Professor McGonagall slid the sausages over to Remus as she fixed them both a cup of tea each. After she'd slid his tea over to him, she nodded and continued the conversation.

"Aye. Hagrid picked our subject up from his relatives on the Tuesday, and he had some…choice words about how the boy'd been treated. Went so far as to bring him to St Mungo's for an emergency welfare check. Having seen him, I fully agree with his assessment concerning our subject. Consequently, Albus and I have concluded that he needs a new home. Given your relationship with his parents, we felt that you were the most appropriate choice, even despite your condition. Albus said, particularly, that this should be considered a job offer, not merely a custody agreement; you will be paid to provide a secure, loving home for the lad, even while he's away at Hogwarts."

"His parents…? You don't mean to say…" Remus's expression grew a trifle wary as he nibbled on his second sausage.

"I mean to say," McGonagall said, confirming his suspicions.

"I see. I'd have thought Petunia might've overcome her antipathy, I would've, but Lily was very clear about how she thought of us. It's a wonder Dumbledore…but I digress. Are you sure, though? He'd be away ten months out of the year for the next seven, he would, and two months is hardly enough time to be a parent. More than that, my condition limits what I'd be able to do."

"I actually had a thought about that," McGonagall said. "Hogsmeade village has several vacant houses at the moment. We could arrange for you to rent or own one, and our subject could visit on the weekends. More than that, Hagrid would be available to supervise on occasion, and he's already aware of your needs."

"That…actually sounds workable. Is there anything I should know ahead of time?" Remus asked, tilting his head slightly in inquiry.

"Hagrid bought him a ferret familiar, so that's something to keep in mind. Also, please refrain from raising your voice if possible. Aside from that, you should be fine. Poppy will be meeting with him the first day of term, I believe—I'll be speaking with her later, and I expect I'll be getting an earful, since she's read the report Healer Lobosca filed."

Remus nodded. "All right. I'm on board, I am. Shall we go see him?"

"Aye. Best we get to it; I'd like to give him as much time before term with you as we can arrange. Do you have a place right now, or shall I make arrangements here?"

Remus had been about to rise, but he paused. "Hm. I have a bed at a mundane hostel out by the Forest of Dean, but that's hardly suitable for a young lad with a ferret."

"In that case, I'll arrange a suite with Tom while we work out the house in Hogsmeade village. In the meantime…let's introduce you."

Remus levered himself up, leaning heavily on his cane, and they walked slowly up to Harry's room, where Professor McGonagall knocked.

"Who is it?" Harry called, looking up from his book. He'd been reading Fool Moon, one of the books Hagrid had dropped off earlier in the week. It was a book about different kinds of werewolves. So far, his favourite character was Tera West, a woman who seemed to be a different kind of werewolf from all the other kinds the book talked about.

"Galloping gryphons, Harry, it's Professor McGonagall and a friend of your parents'," McGonagall said.

Harry marked his place with a bookmark and got up. He opened the door and stepped aside. "Come on in," he said.

Remus stepped in ahead of McGonagall, conjuring himself a stool next to the bed. He sighed in relief as he sat.

McGonagall closed the door behind her, then nodded toward Remus. "Harry, this is Remus Lupin, one of your parents' closest friends," she said. "He's agreed to be your guardian, if you're willing."

Harry walked over, and offered his hand mutely. Remus shook it, and gave him a kind smile. "You've grown quite a bit since I first saw you, you have, shortly after you were born. Aside from your size, you look almost exactly like your father did when he was your age. Lily's eyes, too, I see. Go ahead and have a seat, lad."

Harry did so, looking nervous. "Um. Hello," he said after a bit.

Remus looked around and spotted the book on the desk. "Been reading, I see. Tell me about this one, eh?"

"Oh, yeah! So, this book is about a wizard in Chicago, see, and he's a detective. He's the only wizard in the phonebook, too, and in this book he's investigating a murder, and he's learning about different kinds of werewolves. Like lycanthropes, which are a kind that don't change shape but have these beasts in their heads that come out during the full moon, and Hexenwulfen, which are a kind that use a magic belt…"

Remus blinked slowly. He let Harry wind down, then asked, "So how do you feel about werewolves?"

"I think they're really cool," Harry said. "Getting to be a wolf sometimes seems like it'd be awesome."

McGonagall, not being in Harry's field of view, winced. "It has its upsides," Remus said mildly.

Harry blinked, then asked, slowly, "…Does that mean…?"

"Yes, Harry, I'm a werewolf," Remus said. "I'd like to ask you to keep it a secret, though, I do. Minerva knows, she was one of my professors at Hogwarts, but witch society is…very prejudiced about nonhumans and demihumans."

"What's a 'demihuman'?" Harry asked curiously, tilting his head.

"Demihumans are creatures who are part-human, or who appear to be. I'm a demihuman, for example. So are centaurs, satyrs, and so on."

"Oh. What do you mean by 'prejudice'?"

"Well…in this case, there's a widespread belief that werewolves are inherently dangerous, even in human form. Prone to violence, eager to turn anyone they meet in to a werewolf, all kinds of ridiculous things like that. I've never had a steady job, for example, and I know many werewolves in the same boat. Every single time my employer's found out, I've had to move on."

"That's awful," Harry said, looking faintly horrified. "So how does one get to be a werewolf, anyway?"

Remus hesitated. "It's transmitted via saliva while one is transformed, so far as we know. I suspect blood would do it, too, but nobody knows and nobody's wanted to try to find out."

"So…you're not contagious right now?"

"Correct. Why do you ask?"

Harry stood up, took a few steps, and gave Remus a hug. Remus was surprised, but returned it after a few seconds. "What's this in aid of?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Well…it just seemed like you could use one, Uncle Remus. Or a lot, really; it didn't sound like you had anyone to give you any."

McGonagall, who'd been content to sit off to the side while Remus and Harry got to know each other, cracked a smile. "Well, I can see this is going to work out fine. Remus, I'll make the arrangements I mentioned, but I'll leave you two to it for now, and I'll fetch you after dinner for the overnight excursion."

Remus nodded. "Sounds good to me. Later, then, Minerva."

The weekend after that, Harry found himself taking the Hogsmeade's Folly from King's Cross, a train that followed the Hogwarts Express route but ran weekly rather than three times a year. Professor McGonagall had explained to him that he'd still be riding the Hogwarts Express that year because he needed to be visible, but truthfully he didn't mind; trains were awesome. He finished Shards of Honor and was making his way through Barrayar when he arrived at Hogsmeade Station, where Remus was waiting for him. When he disembarked, Remus nodded to a couple of porters, who took charge of Harry's luggage.

"So how'd you like the trip, Harry?" Remus asked as they ambled slowly down the street.

"It was really, really cool," Harry said. "I never knew how varied the countryside was, Uncle Vernon made sure I couldn't see much when we were doing that madcap dash around southeast England."

"Mmm. I hope to give you much happier memories than the ones they gave you, I do. What'd you read on the way up?"

The ensuing infodump carried them through to their arrival at the bungalow. Harry was excited to finally have a room of his own, rather than the cupboard he'd been made to live in for as long as he could remember.

"Down, pup!" Remus said with a chuckle. "I know you're excited to settle in, but we've got time. See to Xenia, and dinner'll be out in a few minutes."

Harry's face lit up when Remus called him 'pup', even more than the knowledge that he'd have a room to himself at last had. He checked on Xenia's water and filled her bowl with pellets, then went to wash his hands.

Chapter Text

The morning of 2 September was clear and brisk, and Harry was glad of his new wardrobe. He played with Xenia for a little while and fed her, then once she was tuckered out he padded out to the kitchen for a bit of breakfast. Harry knew it was the full moon, so he moved through the house quietly. (Remus heard him anyway, but he appreciated Harry's thoughtfulness.)

Breakfast was a simple sausage sarnie and some milk; this close to Hogwarts, electricity didn't work, but the magical solution to that was simply to create little hotboxes that worked similarly to a toaster oven. Unfortunately, it only had the one temperature setting, so one had to keep an eye on the contents while it was in use, but Harry had learned how to use it effectively.

After breakfast, Harry went back to his room to pack up. He was only going to be out for a week, so he kept his packing to school supplies & equipment, and a week's worth of clothing. He gently put Xenia in to her cage—this earned him a "dook!" and a little finger-nibbling—and then changed in to a shirt featuring a wolf, a pair of denim trousers, and a clean pair of socks. After he put on his trainers, Harry carefully carried his trunk out to sit by the front door, then went back for Xenia.

Remus was sprawled on the living room couch by now, having taken only a nap after he got in from the night's excursion. "Hey, Harry," he called tiredly.

"Hey, Uncle Remus," Harry said as he walked over and sat next to his uncle. "I don't know why I feel like I'm going to miss you when I'm just going to walk down on Saturday morning, but I do."

"Feeling's mutual, it is, my dear pup," Remus said. Harry smiled at this, and Remus smiled back. Harry being 'pup' had started out as a throwaway line, but Remus had noticed how Harry lit up when he'd used it, and so it stuck. "You've been nothing but a joy since we came in to each other's lives again, and while I wish the circumstances that led to it were different, I'm glad."

"Me, too."

Just then, there was a knock at the door. "Think that's Minerva, I do. Give this tired old wolf a hug before you go?"

Harry giggled, and proceeded to give Remus a tight squeeze before he got up to answer the door. "Good morning, Harry. Ready to go?" McGonagall asked.

Harry slipped on a light cardigan and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Bye, Uncle Remus!" he called. "Have a nice trip, pup!" Remus called back, and Harry grinned.

McGonagall gestured at his luggage and, with a muttered volare, it floated in to the air and began following Harry as he stepped out.

It was a short walk from the bungalow to Hogsmeade Station, only about ten minutes. The Portbook stall stood empty next to it, and McGonagall set Harry's luggage down gently. "Now, Mr Potter, because you live here in Hogsmeade village, we're only going to do this the once. In the future, our porters will call upon you in the evening to transport your luggage to the castle, and you will join the other students at Hogsmeade Station."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said.

McGonagall picked up the Portbook and flipped to the page for King's Cross. She tapped it with her wand, and said, "Vestibulum orior."

There was a loud ripping noise, like the tearing of canvas, as a gash began to form in midair, elongating at both ends until a vague sort of door-frame big enough to allow two adults to pass through hand-in-hand was formed, and then the interior of the frame fell out to reveal the other side of the portal. Harry could see a room through it, and hear the chatterings of a crowd.

"In you go, Mr Potter, and I will see you tonight." McGonagall twitched her wand, and his luggage rose to begin following him again as he gave her a smile before stepping through. The portal closed behind him with another loud ripping noise.

Once he put his luggage on a cart, Harry slipped off his cardigan and stuck it in his trunk—London was too warm for wearing it to be comfortable. He pushed his cart out in to the open, and he saw the Hogwarts Express. Like the Hogsmeade's Folly, it was a steam locomotive, but where the Folly had been a dark green, the Express was a brilliant scarlet, and Harry had to look away because it was starting to hurt his eyes.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed his trolley off down the platform in search of an empty seat. He passed a round-faced white boy who was saying, "Gran, I've lost my toad again."

"Oh, Neville," he heard the old white woman sigh.

A Black boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd. "Give us a look, Lee, go on…" The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Harry pressed on until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He put Xenia in first, then tried to heave his trunk on. It didn't budge.

"Want a hand?" It was a red-haired white…boy?, about 30 centimetres taller than he was.

"Yes, please," Harry said.

"Oi, Georgia! C'mere and help!" Another redhead trotted over, and she looked identical to the first one. They both had their hair down to shoulder-length, and their outfits were identical—the only reason that Harry knew that one was a girl was by her name, and he was hard-pressed to identify which of the twins she was even though he knew the one that had trotted over second was a girl. Between the two of them, the twins got Harry's trunk up and in to the compartment he'd picked out.

"Thanks," Harry said.

"Aren't you a little short to be a Hogwarts student?" One—Fred?—asked, and Harry rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

"What's that?" the other twin asked suddenly, pointing at the scar on his forehead. "Are you—"

"He is," the first twin said. "Aren't you?" they asked Harry.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Harry Potter," the twins chorused.

"Oh. Yes, that's me," Harry said. The twins gawped, and Harry felt himself flush. Then, to his relief, a woman's voice called, "Fred? Georgia? Are you there?"

"Coming, Mum!" With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.

Harry sat down next to the window where, half-hidden, he could watch the red-haired white family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

"Ron, you've got something on your nose." The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose. "Mum, gerroff!" He wriggled free.

"Awww, has ickle Ronnie got sumfink on his nosie?" one of the twins asked.

"Shut up," Ron said.

"Where's Percy?" their mother asked.

"He's coming now."

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red and gold badge on his chest with the letter P on it. "Can't stay long, Mother, I'm up front—the Prefects have got two compartments to themselves—"

"Oh, are you a Prefect, Percy?" one of the twins said, with an air of great surprise. "You should've said something, we had no idea!"

"Hang on, I remember him saying something about it," the other twin said. "Once—"

"Or twice—"

"A minute—"

"All summer—"

"Oh, shut up," Percy the Prefect said, nettled.

"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?" one of the twins asked.

"Because he's a Prefect," said their mother fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term—send me an owl when you get there."

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.

"Now, you two…this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you've—you've blown up a toilet or—"

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

"Great idea, though, Mum, thanks."

"It's not funny. And look after Ron."

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."

"Shut up," Ron said again. He was almost as tall as the twins already, and his nose was still pink from where his mum'd rubbed it.

"Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?" Harry leaned back quickly so that they couldn't see him in the window.

"There was this really short black-haired boy we came across a bit ago, honestly thought he might've been too young for Hogwarts. But you'll never guess who he is."

"Who?"

"Harry Potter."

Harry heard a girl's voice, "Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please…"

"He's not a zoo exhibit, Ginny, and I'm sure you'll get to see him next year. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"

"Saw his scar and asked him. It's really there, like lightning."

"Poor dear…you didn't see any adults with him, did you?"

"No, he was all alone. We helped him get his trunk on to the train. Do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?"

"I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school," their mother said sternly.

"All right, keep your hair on."

The Express's steam whistle sounded.

"Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered on to the train. They leaned out of the window to kiss their mother goodbye, and the girl began to cry.

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls."

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat."

"Georgia!"

"Only joking, Mum."

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed; then she fell back and waved. Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window.

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest red-headed boy came in.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

"No, go ahead," Harry said. The boy sat down. He glanced at Harry, then quickly looked out the window, pretending he hadn't looked. There was still a black mark on his nose, Harry saw.

"Hey, Ron." The twins were back.

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train—Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," Ron muttered.

"Harry, did we introduce ourselves?" the other twin asked. "Fred and Georgia Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then."

"Bye," Ron and Harry said. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted. Harry nodded. "Oh… Well, I thought it might be one of Fred and Georgia's jokes. Have you really got—you know…"

Harry pulled his hair out of the way to show Ron his scar. Ron stared. "So that's where You-Know-Who—"

"Yes, but I don't remember it."

"Oh." Ron stared at Harry for a bit, then hurriedly looked out the window again, as though he suddenly realised what he'd been doing.

"Are all your family witches?" Harry asked.

"Yes, I think so. I think Mum's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

"So you must know lots of magic already." The Weasleys were clearly one of those old witching families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked about.

"I heard you went to live with, um, mundane people," Ron said. "What are they like?"

"Well. Most mundane people are just people. Some bad, most good. Um. If you can keep a secret…?"

Ron nodded eagerly, then held up his right hand and intoned, "By my word as Weasley, I swear to hold this conversation in confidence."

Harry gave him an odd look, then continued, "My family were horrible, 's why I'm so small, so I went to live with a witch up in Hogsmeade village. I'm only on the Hogwarts Express because Professor McGonagall said I needed to be seen."

"Wow." Ron was a little wide-eyed at this revelation.

"I wish I had three witch brothers, though."

"Four," Ron said glumly. "I'm the fifth boy, sixth kid overall, in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say, I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left—Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was captain of the Gryffindor Quadball team. Now Percy's a Prefect. Fred and Georgia mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with four brothers. I've got Bill's old robes and Percy's old rat."

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep. "His name's Scabbers, and he's useless. He hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made Prefect, but they couldn't aff—I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, because he went back to staring out the window.

"A rat's not bad, for a pet. I've got a ferret with me. Her name's Xenia, though I think she's sleeping right now. Hagrid gave her to me for my birthday." Harry pointed up to Xenia's cage, where the chocolate ferret was dozing.

"Besides…up until he made sure I got my letter, I never had any money or friends, so no birthday presents, not really. And my Aunt Petunia insisted on simultaneously dressing me like a little boy and making me do all the chores around the house." This seemed to cheer Ron up.

"…and until Hagrid and Professor McGonagall told me, I didn't know anything about being a witch or my parents or Voldemort—"

Ron gasped.

"What?"

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" Ron said, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I mean, I'd have thought you of all people—"

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name, and Professor Dumbledore said that fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. Shouldn't I have? I've got loads to learn…" Harry sighed. "I bet I'll be the worst in class."

"You won't be, there's loads of people who come from mundane backgrounds and they learn quick enough."

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled white woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the trolley, dears?"

Ron's ears turned pink and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry looked over the cart and selected a little bit of everything, paying nine Knuts.

"Hungry, are you?" Ron asked.

"…Nah. But this is all new to me, so I have no idea what I'd like. You can have whatever you like, of course."

"No thanks, I'm good," Ron said quickly, having pulled out a lumpy package. He unwrapped it to find four sandwiches, and pulled one apart. "She always forgets I don't like corned beef…"

"No, seriously. Have whatever you like, Ron. There's no way I'm eating all this."

"Well, if you're sure…"

Harry picked up a chocolate frog and inspected it. "What's this? It's not really a frog, is it?"

"No, but see what the card is, I'm missing Agrippa."

"What?"

"Oh…of course you wouldn't know. Chocolate frogs have cards inside, you know, to collect—Famous Witches. I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy."

Harry unwrapped his chocolate frog and picked up the card. He recognized Professor Dumbledore immediately, having seen him just last month. "Oh, huh. Dumbledore."

"Can I have one? I might get Agrippa… Thanks."

Harry flipped over the card, and read:

Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry flipped the card over again. "What? He's gone…"

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," Ron said. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her…do you want it? You can start collecting." His eyes strayed to Harry's pile of chocolate frogs.

"Help yourself, whatever and however much you want," Harry said. "But, y'know, in the mundane world, people just stay put in photos."

"Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "Weird!"

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back in to the picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the chocolate frogs than in looking at the Famous Witches cards, so Harry gave him his own while he picked out the cards. Soon he had Dumbledore and Morgana, but also Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsius, and Merlin. He finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans.

"You want to be careful with those," Ron warned. "When they say every flavour, they mean every flavour—you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you can get spinach and liver and tripe. Georgia reckons she had a bogey-flavoured one once."

Harry tossed the bag over to Ron. "Not really a fan of surprise flavours," he explained.

"Fair enough," Ron said as he started to pick his way through the bag.

The countryside sliding by in the window had by then changed from rolling fields to forests and hills, and occasional rivers.

There was a knock on the door to the compartment, and the round-faced white boy Harry had seen on the platform came in. He looked tearful. "Sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?"

"Sorry, no," Harry said.

The boy wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"He'll turn up, I'm sure… if we see him, what car are you in?" Harry asked.

"Um…I'm in the next car up, first compartment on the right… Thanks," The boy left.

"Dunno why he's so bothered," Ron said. "If I'd brought a toad, I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk."

"Well, maybe he likes toads, Ron. Or maybe it was a gift. You never know, right?"

"Oh. That's true enough, I suppose." Ron looked down at Scabbers. "Honestly, he might have died and you wouldn't know the difference. I tried to turn him yellow yesterday, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look…"

Ron rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out his wand. It seemed very ordinary, just a baton with a plain handle on one end. Harry would have guessed that it wasn't an Ollivander wand, except he'd seen wands equally as plain when Mr Ollivander had been looking for his.

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he was accompanied by a Black girl, already in her Hogwarts robes.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost his," she asked. She spoke in a monotone, and her hair was put up in a small afro.

"He was by earlier, but we hadn't seen it before and haven't since," Harry said, before Ron could say anything. The girl wasn't listening, however; she was looking at the wand in Ron's hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then." She sat down next to Harry, and Ron looked taken aback.

"Er…well, all right." He cleared his throat, and said:

Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" the girl asked. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice, and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard—I've learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough—I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

Harry could tell from Ron's stunned expression that he hadn't learned the books by heart. As for himself…while he had read all of the set books, he'd been more interested in the fiction and witch educational books Hagrid had got him.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron said. "I don't…really read all that much. The letters keep moving around on me, see. Squirrelly little buggers."

"Oh, are you dyslexic, then?" Hermione asked, frowning. Ron asked, "What's that mean?"

"Dyslexia's a learning disability, or really a whole category of such, where reading ability is impacted. It can be things like the letters moving around, letters changing shapes, all sorts of things."

"Oh. He's Harry Potter, by the way," Ron said, gesturing to Harry.

"Are you really?" Hermione asked. "I know all about you, of course—I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of Maleficing and Great Witching Events of the Twentieth Century."

"Really? I'll have to borrow them and see what they say about me," Harry said. "I saw a collection of little kids' books about me, but I didn't want to confuse anyone by looking at them."

Ron groaned. "Trust me, you're not missing anything, Harry. My sister Ginny's read whatever ones she could get her hands on via the Witch Public Library system. If you'd done even half the things they say you did, you wouldn't need to go to Hogwarts. And anyway, it's clear the authors didn't actually know anything about you and were just making things up."

Harry sighed. "Well. I guess I'm going to have to hire a lawyer, then. You'd think publishers would refuse to print clear fabrications about a living person."

Hermione stared. "…You didn't know? I'd have looked up everything I could if it were me. Do you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best, I hear Dumbledore himself was one, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad…Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

And she left, taking Neville with her.

Ron groaned again. "Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not," he said as he put his wand away again. "Stupid spell… Georgia gave it to me, bet she knew it was a dud."

"What house are your siblings in?" Harry asked.

"Gryffindor," Ron said gloomily. "Mum and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'd say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"That's the house Voldemort was in, right?"

"Yeah."

"So what do your brothers do now they've left, anyway?"

"Well… Charlie's in Romania, working at a dragon preserve. Bill's a curse-breaker. He contracts with Gringott's to help them inspect items going in to storage, but he mainly does antiquities. I think the Ministry for Magic has a standing contract as well, by way of the Office of Mundane Artefacts where Dad works. Speaking of, did you hear about Gringott's? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you get that—someon tried to rob a high-security vault."

"Really? What happened to them?"

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught. Dad reckons it must've been a powerful warlock to get 'round Gringott's, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable saying 'Voldemort' without worrying.

"What's your Quadball team?" Ron asked.

"Er…I don't know any," Harry confessed.

"… What?" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait. It's the best sport in the world—" And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his siblings and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the toadless boy or Hermione Granger this time.

Harry recognized the boy in front: it was the pale, white-haired boy he'd encountered at Madam Malkin's on his birthday. The white boys flanking him reminded Harry, unpleasantly, of Dudley.

"Is it true?" the white-haired boy asked. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry said flatly. He looked over the boys flanking White-Hair; like Dudley, they were thickset, and like Dudley they looked quite hostile.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," White-Hair said, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Ron coughed, unconvincingly trying to hide a laugh. Draco looked at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are, of course. My father told me the Weasleys all have red hair, freckles, and more children than money to feed them." Draco turned to Harry.

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thank you," Harry said. "Unlike you, I don't need my father to tell me who to hang out with."

"That would first require you to have one, wouldn't it?" Draco shot back.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So you do need instructions from your father, then? If he told you to jump off a cliff, would you?"

Draco flushed. "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it'll rub off on you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Heh. 'Riff-raff', is it? At least my parents weren't related before they married and had me."

Draco's face darkened further.

"Go away and pick on someone your own size, you might have better luck," Harry said.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food, and you still seem to have plenty."

Goyle reached towards the chocolate frogs next to Ron—Ron leapt forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell and leapt backward.

Scabbers was dangling from Goyle's finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into his knuckle. Crabbe and Draco backed away as Goyle flailed, trying to detach Scabbers.

"Hold still, you idiot, he'll let go if you quit flinging him around," Ron said. Goyle, of course, didn't listen, and it was another few moments before Scabbers went flying and hit the window. All three boys vanished at once.

Almost immediately after that, Hermione came in. "What has been going on?" she asked, looking at the sweets scattered about.

"I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry. "… No, I don't believe it, he's gone back to sleep. Anyway… you've met Malfoy before?"

Harry told Ron about his encounter in Madam Malkin's.

"I've heard of his family," Ron said darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to join the Great Warlock." He turned to Hermione, who'd been standing there somewhat impatiently. "Can we help you with something?"

"You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up the front to ask the driver and he says we're nearly there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

"All that happened is that Scabbers bit someone who was trying to steal our sweets," Ron said. "Would you mind leaving so we can change?"

"All right. I only came in here because people outside are racing up and down the corridor," Hermione said. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

Harry peered out of the window. It did seem to be getting dark. He and Ron stripped down, backs turned to one another, and put on their robes. Ron's were a bit short and threadbare, Harry noticed; he could see the ends of his pants under them.

A voice rang out throughout the train. "Now arriving at Hogsmeade Station. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Harry's stomach lurched with nerves, and he saw Ron's face was a bit pale under his freckles. They stuffed the last of the sweets in to Harry's trunk and joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way towards the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here! All right there, Harry?"

Harry was glad to see Hagrid towering over the other students.

"C'mon, follow me—any more firs'-years? Mind yer step, now! Firs'-years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy'd lost his toad, sniffed once or twice.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a collective "Oooh."

The narrow path had opened suddenly on to the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a small fleet of boats floating along a small series of wharfs. Harry and Ron were followed in to their boat by Neville and Hermione.

"Everyone in?" Hagrid asked, looking around. He had a boat to himself. "Right, forward!"

The boats glided across the lake, somehow managing to provide an incredibly smooth ride despite the chill breezes washing over their occupants.

Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy which hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbour, where they clambered out on to rocks and gravel.

"Oi, you there, is this your toad?" Hagrid asked, checking each of the children as they disembarked.

"Trevor!" Neville cried happily, holding out his hands, and Hagrid deposited the toad therein. The students followed Hagrid up a passageway carved in to the rock, which finally let them out on to damp grass near the entrance to Hogwarts Castle.

Hagrid led them up a broad stone staircase to an enormous pair of oak doars, banded with iron.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid banged on the door with his fist once, twice, thrice.

Chapter Text

The door swung open at once, and there McGonagall was, with a stern, no-nonsense expression on her face. Harry knew it concealed a kind heart, but he could tell only a handful of his peers did too.

"The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid said.

"Thank you, Hagrid, I will take them from here."

She pulled the door open wide. The Entrance Hall was enormous; you could have played football inside, if that weren’t likely to cost house points. The stone walls were lit by witch-lights, the ceiling was too high to see, and a truly stunning marble staircase facing the door led up to the upper floors.

They followed McGonagall across the floor to a small, empty chamber off to the side, just before the doorway to another large hall. Harry could hear hundreds of voices coming indistinctly through it.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall said. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted in to your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something lke your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes seemed to linger briefly on Neville's cloak, which had been fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," McGonagall said. "Please wait quietly."

She left.

"How, exactly, do they sort us in to houses?" Harry asked Ron.

"Mum said we line up and, when we're called, we go up to the head of the line and put on the Sorting Hat, which then tells everyone which house we're in," Ron said. "It can take time for the Hat to decide, though. There's even a term for people who take more than five minutes, 'Hat-Stall', I think she called them."

"Oh." Harry was relieved. He'd been worried that they'd have to perform some sort of test.

After a few minutes of nervous fidgeting, McGonagall returned. "Form a line, please, and follow me."

She led the way in to the Great Hall. The room was lit by tens of thousands of bobbing witch-lights, today glowing a cacophony of colours that, by the time they reached the floor, flowed in to a motley of whites. Set side-by-side were four long tables, each populated by teenagers. There were dozens of plates and goblets placed precisely along each. At the far end of the Hall, on a dais, was another table, perpendicular to the other four, and several adults sat at this one.

McGonagall led the first-years around the edge of the room, so that they stood in an L, with the first few standing next to a stool, upon which stood a faded and much-patched pointy hat.

Harry looked up at the ceiling to avoid the, mostly friendly, stares of the older students, and gasped slightly. Save for the lack of clouds, it could have passed for the sky above the castle. He'd known about it, since he'd read about how it had been made in Hogwarts: A History.

Hermione whispered, "It's enchanted to resemble the sky outside." Evidently she'd read it too.

There was suddenly a hush as the hat on the stool began to speak, rattling off some doggerel verses about its duty and the houses. Harry tuned it out after the first few lines, preferring instead to look around. He saw Fred, Georgia, and Percy over at the Gryffindor table, then looked over at the high table. There were Professor Dumbledore and Hagrid, as well as a sallow-skinned, black-haired man in black robes with a dour expression on his face, a white man wearing a light purple turban and matching robes, a red-headed white woman in emerald green robes, a blond white man in dark blue robes, and some other nondescript witches at the far end he couldn't make out.

"When I call your name," McGonagall was saying, "you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause— "HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouted.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.

"Bones, Susan!" was followed in short order by "HUFFLEPUFF!" and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!" "RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

"Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw too, but "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see Ron's twin brothers catcalling.

"Bulstrode, Millicent" then became a Slytherin. Perhaps it was Harry's imagination, after all he'd heard about Slytherin, but he thought they looked an unpleasant lot.

Harry was starting to feel a little ill. He'd always been last to be picked for teams during sports lessons, not because he was no good, but because nobody wanted Dudley to think they liked him.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. "Finnigan, Darach", the sandy-haired boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione almost ran to the stool and eagerly sat the hat on her head. It was nearly five minutes before the hat called, "GRYFFINDOR!" Ron groaned.

A horrifying thought struck Harry then. What if he wasn't chosen? What if he sat there for ages, looking foolish, until McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he'd better go home?

When Neville Longbottom, the boy with the toad, was called, he tripped over his own feet on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted "GRYFFINDOR", Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag".

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with himself.

There weren't many left now. "Moon", "Nott", "Parkinson", then twin girls named "Patil"…then "Perks, Sally-Anne", and at last—

"Potter, Harry!"

The hall was immediately abuzz as he trotted up to the stool, where he ended up needing a hand from Professor McGonagall before the hat fell over his whole head.

There came a voice directly inside his head. Hmmm. A difficult decision… Plenty of courage, and hidden truths that even you haven't yet realised… Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my, yes…and a thirst to prove yourself, I see, how interesting… So where shall I put you?

Harry tried to project "Not Slytherin" as loudly in his head as he could, dry-washing his hands anxiously in his lap.

Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—No? Well, if you're sure… Better be… "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry stumbled as he slipped off the stool, so relieved was he, but he managed to catch himself. He pulled the hat off and set it back on the stool, then trotted over to join Hermione at the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved he didn't notice how much louder the cheering was relative to the other first-years'. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

After a few minutes, he dragged his attention back to the Sorting Hat as Ron was called up. Ron was looking quite sallow himself, though he was quite relieved as the hat called, almost immediately, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry clapped along with everyone else as Ron trotted over to join him and Hermione.

"Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise" was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Harry looked down at his plate, which was empty. The sweets on the Hogwarts Express seemed ages ago.

"So what did the hat say to you?" Hermione asked Ron.

"It said, 'Ah, a Weasley, I know what to do with you.' Why, did you have a conversation with it?"

"Yeah, um. I actually had to argue with it a fair bit before it relented and put me in Gryffindor. It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw, but I pointed out that being only one of a handful of Black students, and a mundane one at that, took some courage all on its own." Harry could've sworn she added "besides which, I'm trans", but Hermione had said it quietly enough that he wasn't quite sure he'd heard her right. What did 'trans' mean? He resolved to ask her later, since he didn't think she wanted to talk about it at table.

"What about you, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Well, um. It said I had 'hidden truths', whatever that means." He began to notice that Hermione was tapping her knuckles, but before he could say anything more, Dumbledore stood and raised his hands, calling for quiet.

"Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! And let the feast…begin!"

Food appeared on the tables as soon as Dumbledore sat down again. Harry had never seen so many tasty things he knew he liked in one place, but without any conscious thought, he only served himself but a tiny fraction of it. A small spoonful of mash here, the smallest steak in the stack there, a spoonful of peas… He saw people pouring coloured beverages in to goblets, but he stuck with the water that was in his crystal goblet that never seemed to run dry.

Hermione noticed, with a small frown, how little food Harry had been getting for himself, but she wasn't sure what to say. She decided to focus on figuring out what foods were good for her, her leg bouncing as she ate.

Harry started people-watching as he ate slowly. Up at the high table, Hagrid was drinking heavily from his goblet, McGonagall and Dumbledore were chatting, and the purple-robed man was talking to the sallow-skinned man.

It happened quite suddenly; the turbaned man looked past the other man and directly in to his eyes, and a hot, sharp pain erupted in his scar. He winced, but managed not to cry out or clap a hand to his scar. A moment later, it was gone.

When everyone had eaten to whatever degree they were able, the food disappeared, to be replaced seconds later by desserts. Ice cream in all colours of the rainbow, apple pies, treacle tarts, fresh fruit, even jelly doughnuts…

Harry contented himself with a single, small bit of fudge.

Ron noticed this, and said, "…You know, Harry, you can have as much of whatever you want as you want."

Harry blinked at him. "But this is as much as I want…" he said quietly.

"…That's fair, I guess." The talk of the table had by now turned to families.

"I'm half and half," Darach said, nibbling on a biscuit. "Me dad's mundane. Mam didn't tell him she was a witch til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him, he says, but he recovered."

"What about you, Neville?" Ron asked.

"Well, my gran brought me up. She's a witch," Neville said, a bit slow as he took the time to enunciate each word clearly. "My family thought I was a Squib for ages. My great-uncle Algie kept trying to force magic out of me. He pushed me off of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned. But nothing happened until I was eight. Great-uncle Algie came 'round for tea. He was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles. Great-aunt Enid offered him a meringue. He let go by accident. I bounced down the garden and almost in to the road. They were all pleased. Gran cried happy. They thought I might not be magic enough. They were happy when I got my letter. Great-uncle Algie bought me my toad."

On Harry's other side, Hermione and Percy were talking about lessons. ("I hope they start straight away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult—" "Classes start tomorrow, you'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing—")

At last, dessert too disappeared, and Dumbledore stood again. "Just a few more words now we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First-years should note that the Forbidden Forest is precisely that: Forbidden, to all pupils, as it is quite dangerous. A few of our older students would do well to remember that, too.

"I have also been asked by Mr Filch to remind you all that no magic is to be used between classes in the corridors. Quadball trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house team should speak to Madam Hooch.

"Finally, I must tell you that, this year, the eastern corridor on the third floor is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

"He's not serious, is he?" Harry asked Percy.

"Must be. It's odd, because usually he gives a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere—the Forbidden Forest is full of dangerous creatures, for example. I do think he might have told us Prefects, at least."

"And now," Dumbledore said, "bedtime! Off you trot!"

Percy stood up and called out, "Gryffindor first-years, to me! Gryffindor first-years!"

The Gryffindor first-years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall and up the marble staircase. Harry's legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how much further they had to go when they came to a portrait of a fat white woman in a pink dress.

"Password?" she asked.

"Caput draconis," Percy said clearly, and the portrait swung up to reveal a doorway. They all passed through, and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room. It was a large-ish room, with plenty of couches and armchairs.

Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of a spiral staircase—they were obviously in one of the towers—they found their beds at last: five four-posters hung with deep-red velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they pulled on their pyjamas and fell into bed.

"Great food, isn't it?" Ron muttered to Harry through the hangings. "Get off, Scabbers! He's chewing my sheets."

Harry fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, a sign he'd been up far too long.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry woke up at six to find his schedule and a map on the nightstand next to his bed, along with a note. He slipped his glasses on and read it:

Mr Potter,

Please see me in the Hospital Wing after breakfast. We have some matters to discuss.

—Madam Pomfrey

Harry blinked, and there were butterflies fluttering in his stomach. What could she want from him? Was he in trouble already? What had he done to cause her to want a meeting with him…?

Harry got out of bed, collecting a set of robes, a pair of socks, and his school shoes, and went in to the bathroom to change. When he was finished, he spent about an hour or so playing with Xenia in the common room, where her dooks and wardancing wouldn’t wake anyone else up. He returned her to her cage after, where she nested and began dozing again, and he refilled her bowls.

At breakfast, he opted for a buttered slice of toast and a bit of sausage. Ron managed to convince him to at least have some orange juice, but that was all. Afterwards, he made his way to the Hospital Wing as requested, the butterflies in his stomach getting more boisterous as he walked.

“Good morning, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said as he entered. “Come join me in my office, please.”

Harry followed her in to her office and sat in the chair she indicated as she closed the door behind her.

“First things first: you are not in any trouble,” Madam Pomfrey said as she sat down behind her desk and pulled out a notebook. “Healer Lobosca sent me a report about your health, and asked me to follow up with you. Right now, I just want to ask you some questions. There are no wrong answers, I promise, but I need you to think back to when you were living with the Dursleys. Can you do that for me?”

“Um. Sure,” Harry said. He was starting to relax, but he still felt a little on edge.

(Note: ED-related content ahead. If you’d rather avoid it, skip to the next part.)

“How do you feel about your body?”

“That it’s…well… wrong. Aunt Petunia was always fussing about her weight, and complaining about the paediatrician’s opinions on Dudley’s, especially over the past year. And Aunt Petunia liked to complain about the cost of feeding me.”

“Do you feel like you’re too fat?”

“Um… I think so, yeah.”

“Do you feel like you eat too much?”

“I dunno, it feels like plenty to me…?”

“Have you skipped meals?”

“Yeah. Usually school lunches. Dudley liked to steal mine. If I was lucky, it had fruit, which he usually threw at me. Sometimes when Aunt Petunia was in high dudgeon she’d lock me in my cupboard and not feed me anything at all for a day or two.”

“What made her upset enough to do that?”

“Usually weird things happening around me, like when I jumped on to the roof of the school to get away from Dudley, or when we went to the zoo on his birthday this past summer. I, uh. Talked to a snake and made the glass on his exhibit disappear so he, the snake I mean, could escape. Dudley fell in to the exhibit and then the glass reappeared.”

“Any events that didn’t involve accidental magic?”

“Usually if I asked after something I shouldn’t have, I got beaten instead, that kinda thing. There wasn’t really a pattern I could see for when I made mistakes, or what they thought were mistakes, though.”

“On a typical day, what do you eat?”

“Um, well… Usually just a slice of toast in the morning. Sometimes if I was lucky, I’d get a bit of bacon or some sausage, if it wasn’t done to Dudley’s satisfaction. Lunch…at school, it tended to just be fruit. At home, it’d be a couple slices of bread and ham or roast beef or roast turkey. Dinner depended on what Aunt Petunia made. My portions were usually on the small side.”

“Have you ever eaten something and felt like you weren’t supposed to have it?”

“Um…I guess last night? I had a bit of fudge, something Aunt Petunia would never have allowed.”

“Do you have a list of foods you won’t eat if you can help it?”

“Yeah. Um… Brussels sprouts, yellow squash, berries, raw tomatoes, melons, and, um. Lima beans?”

“Are there foods you’ll tolerate but not seek out?”

“Peaches, mainly.”

“Have you ever skipped a meal because it involved an absolutely-not food?”

“Yes, several times.”

She asked him if he was experiencing, or had experienced, a number of symptoms: nausea (sometimes), lightheadedness (yes), joint pain (sometimes), excessive tiredness (sometimes), irritability (not really), or memory issues (no).

“What foods do you enjoy eating?”

“Um… I’m not sure, actually. I usually just ate what was in front of me unless it was something I couldn’t eat. Aunt Petunia couldn’t have cared less if it was something I actually liked or not, so I didn’t keep track. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that, it was out of your control. That’s all for now. Here’s what I’m going to do: the kitchens will be providing your meals, and you and I will be eating together. You’re welcome to invite your friends along if you like. I will need you to eat as much as you can of whatever’s on your plate, unless it’s something you discover that you don’t like or can’t eat, and you’ll be able to get more of anything you’re served if you want it. It does not matter to me if you eat everything on your plate or not; if there’s something you don’t like or can’t eat, I need to know so that you won’t be served it again. Likewise, if there’s something you do like, tell me so that I can make sure you’ll have it more often. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Madam Pomfrey glanced at her watch. “All right, it’s almost lunchtime. Go join your friends. We’ll start doing your meals together tomorrow morning. If you have any problems whatsoever, even non-medical ones, come see me as soon as you may and tell me all about them, all right? The Hospital Wing’s a no-judgement zone. Now, off you trot, pup.”

Harry grinned as Madam Pomfrey, seemingly unconsciously, used the same pet-name Uncle Remus did, and left.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “Poor kid. The Dursleys are lucky they’re mundane folks…if they were witches I’d be taking this to the Wizengamot,” she muttered. She transcribed her notes to secure parchment, then burned the originals thoroughly, to be sure they could not be reconstituted and read by unauthorized persons.

Then she drew up a letter to a therapist, a mundane one who’d married a witch in all knowledge, on a separate sheet of secure parchment, and sent that off by owl.

Secure parchment was specifically enchanted to, once the user uttered a phrase that they wrote in a set block, hide any and all ink set to it (including the phrase) until that same phrase was repeated. It wasn’t as good as an Oath of Secrecy or a Fidelius Charm—the phrase could be coerced out of people who knew it—but it was incredibly effective despite that limitation.

“What did Madam Pomfrey want, Harry?” Ron asked, when Harry joined him and Hermione just before lunch.

“Oh, um,” Harry said. “She wanted to talk about my eating and stuff, said I was going to be eating with her from tomorrow morning. You two’re welcome to join us, she said.”

“Oh, good. I noticed last night and this morning that you were eating like a bird but I didn’t know what to say,” Hermione said. “I certainly wasn’t going to badger you about it, not being a Hufflepuff and all.”

Harry giggled and Ron snickered.

“Oh, um…Ron? You should go talk to Madam Pomfrey about the dyslexia thing, she’ll be able to help you figure out ways to make it easier for you to read stuff.”

Ron scowled. “Don’t need you telling me what to do.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I get it, I get it, jeez…” He went to sit at another part of the table, away from Hermione.

“…What’d I say?” Hermione asked worriedly.

“…I think,” Harry said timidly, “that the issue isn’t what you said so much as it is that he doesn’t think of you as a friend, not yet, and thinks you’re being pushy. If I were to guess.”

“Oh.”

“But, I’d be happy to be your friend. I think you mean well, so…give it a bit, let him come to you. If he talks to Madam Pomfrey, ask him how it went, but don’t say anything like ‘I told you so’, because that will just put his back up again.”

“Okay. Thanks, Harry,” she said, sounding a bit relieved now.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Really.”

Harry’s first class was Theory of Magic, with Professor Sven Sørensen. There were flags tacked up along the walls. Some of them were various countries’ flags, but most of them were ones Harry didn’t recognize. Sørensen himself sat on his desk as the students came in, wearing iridescent robes in stark contrast to the muted colours they’d seen the other professors wearing at meals.

Once everyone was seated, Sørensen stood and smiled.

“Welcome to Theory of Magic. I’m Doctor Sven Sørensen, and my pronouns are he/him. As the name implies, we will be discussing the whys and wherefores of magic, at least what we know so far. We’ll learn Witch Sign Language, a modified version of British Sign Language that can be signed with one hand and which can be used for casting spells just like the Magica Lingua most of you will have had some exposure to. It is frequently referred to as ‘weasel’, and the act of signing in ‘weasel’ is often called ‘weaseling’.

“Now, you may be thinking that this suggests a connection to the Weasleys, one of the Sacred 28 Houses of British witch society. Other than the fact that, like most witching families, they are proficient in it, there is no connection that I’m aware of.

“You will be expected to become fluent weaselers in this class, but you will not be required to use it in any other class. Hogwarts teaches two spell languages, and every professor will provide instruction in weasel, as well as English and Magica Lingua, the other spell language we teach. Use whatever spell language you are comfortable with. If you come from a tradition that uses a different spell language, such as Ireland’s Teanga Draíochta, you are of course welcome to use that tradition’s language, but you will be responsible for mapping Magica Lingua or weasel to your spell language.

“We will learn about the various types of magic, from aeodemancy to transfiguration and beyond, and we will learn how to employ all of them in at least a limited way. At Hogwarts, you will learn specific fields independently of this class, such as Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and more, but only in this class will you survey all that we presently know. You will also receive a grounding in current understandings of science; the most powerful witches of history were men and women with a keen understanding of the world around them.

“Finally, and certainly not least, we will learn about the major traditions of magic: the Roman tradition found across Europe, the druidic tradition still practiced in Ireland, the American tradition developed by MACUSA, and more. We will also discuss traditions found in literature, including mundane works. You will learn how to identify traditions, the strengths and weaknesses of each, and, if you are so inclined, you may even be prepared for induction in to a non-Roman tradition.”

Sørensen sat on the edge of his desk once more. “First-year Theory will be primarily focused on weasel, but we’ll gradually shift to other topics as you become more proficient. If you have any questions, now’s the time to ask them. If not, we’ll get started on learning how to weasel.”

From the moment he stepped in to the Self Defence classroom, Harry felt his usual slight lightheadedness intensify. He shuffled over to a desk with Ron and sat down a little more heavily than he’d intended.

“You okay, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, just. Suddenly felt lightheaded when I came in, dunno why.”

“Weird… Well, the room positively reeks of garlic. Maybe that’s why…?”

“Dunno. Don’t worry about it too much. Oh, there’s Professor Quirrell now.”

And indeed, Quirrell made an appearance at last, just as the last students were straggling in. He perched on a stool at the front, sweeping his gaze across the students. Harry winced, his scar jabbing him for just a second as the professor’s gaze swept by.

“Welcome to Self Defence. I’m Professor Quirinus Quirrell. I’m sure many of you have heard people refer to this class as ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts’, but that is a…reductive label. Witchcraft can be dangerous even without dealing with warlocks and creatures hostile to humanity. Even mundane people can be dangerous. Nor is there any such thing as ‘dark’ arts. Magic is a tool, and like any tool, it can be used to help as well as harm.

“The first defencive toolkit any witch should have, therefore, is how to escape. The best fight is the one you don’t have, it is said, and I happen to agree with that sentiment. More to the point, adult witches and most magical creatures will always be more powerful than you are, at this stage in your magical life, so staying and fighting will inevitably end in defeat. In future years, you will learn how to defend yourself, and in fact you will learn some defencive counter-charms this year.

“So, let us begin. What are some things we can do to avoid a fight?”

At breakfast the next morning, there was a small table off to the side by the High Table. Madam Pomfrey was already waiting when Harry, Ron, and Hermione came down. Xenia was with them this time, wearing a harness and leash, both lavender in colour. She was happily skittering to and fro, occasionally emitting a curious dook.

“Good morning, Mr Potter. Come sit here by me,” Madam Pomfrey said. The table had a similar, though much reduced, spread to what the main tables did, but Harry’s place had a plate with food already on it, as promised. “Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, feel free to sit however you like and serve yourself.

“Mr Potter, as I said yesterday, eat as much as you can, but if something on your plate doesn’t agree with you, tell me and don’t force yourself to eat more of it. If you want more of something, feel free to get more. If there’s food on your plate when you’re done eating, don’t worry about it.”

“I remember,” Harry said, “but I appreciate your explaining for Ron and Hermione’s benefit. I wasn’t sure if I could get it right if I tried to.”

Madam Pomfrey smiled at him. “Not a problem. I see you brought Xenia with you this morning. She’s welcome to join us at meals, of course, but I need to know so that I can have healthy, ferret-friendly food ready for her. In the meantime… Missiculum, kitchen. Please deliver a small bowl of ferret pellets to my table, or a ferret-friendly alternative. Poppy out.”

Seconds later, a bowl of plain cooked chicken appeared next to Harry’s plate, along with some kitten kibble and, in a separate bowl, water. Harry looped Xenia’s leash around the arm of his chair and set her food down on the ground next to her. She dooked up at him and dove in.

Professor Gwilym Llewellyn’s classroom, like Sørensen’s, had flags pinned up on the walls, but his were strictly various country flags, including the variants flown by their equivalents of the Ministry for Magic. He was standing behind a lectern at the front of the class, and behind him was a projector screen. There wasn’t a projector set up, however.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Professor Gwilym Llewellyn. In Social Studies, we learn about the world around us, both the natural world, and the political world built upon it. This class aims to provide a solid foundation for Mundane Studies and Witch Studies. We will look at magical governments around the world and learn about the cultures they represent, and we’ll discuss the geopolitical histories of not just the British Isles, but across the globe.

“We will also look at how magical societies interact with the mundane world, both in the present and in ages past. Mundane Studies will, of course, build upon this to provide a solid understanding of mundane society, past and present, from the mundane perspective. Likewise, Witch Studies does the same for witch society. We will begin with the dawn of human civilisation, and we’ll look at the cradles thereof: Mesopotamia, Egypt, India, China, Mesoamerica, and Peru. From there, we will advance through human history in various parts of the world.

“If you’re worried that this class will be pure lecture and essay-writing, fear not: we’ll be learning some charms here as well. The Object History Charm, for example, will enable you to learn about an object’s past, though it can only give you visual and audio impressions for events connected to it and its previous owners. The mundane term for this Charm’s effect is ‘psychometry’.

“If this suggests to you that you’ll be handling historical artefacts…you’d be half-right. I will be bringing in some artefacts for you all to examine, but they will not be of significant value, historically speaking, and they will consist of objects found in the Isles. I may, on occasion, display artefacts from other cultures, but these will have been ethically sourced—it is highly impolite, not to mention illegal, to deal in stolen antiquities, after all.

“Finally, each year, I will have each of you prepare a dish from either your culture, if you are not English, or one of the cultures we studied during the year, and we’ll do a potluck feast.”

English was, well, English.

Herbology was outdoors, or rather, outside of Hogwarts Castle. Greenhouse One had a characteristic odour to it, but it wasn’t as bad as the apothecary’s that Harry had encountered in Diagon Alley. Professor Sprout was at the front of the greenhouse’s ‘classroom’ space. There were no plants set out today, however.

“Welcome to Herbology. I’m Professor Pomona Sprout. In this class, we will learn how to identify the various plants, magical and mundane, that are vital to witchcraft. We will explore the various uses these plants have, and, most importantly, we will care for the myriad plants we work with. And we will learn the charms that are necessary for working with certain plants, such as the Sunlight Charm.

“But, before we work with any plants, we must first learn greenhouse safety. Some of the plants we’ll be working with are rare and valuable. Some of them will be dangerous if mishandled. As a result, there will be no horseplay, no rough-housing, no pranks, jokes, tricks, or other such activity in this class. I will warn you ahead of time when you need to bring your dragonhide gloves; other safety equipment will be provided by me as needed.

“Other important aspects of Herbology include soil conditions, light, and water, as well as fertilizer, pruning, and weeding. We will discuss all of these, and more. For the first few weeks, we will in fact be learning mundane biology, or at least the parts of it which are relevant to this class.”

Charms, the next day, was quite different. Professor Flitwick stood behind a lectern sized for his small stature as everyone was coming in. His classroom had a set of fifteen two-person desks set up in three rows of five. Harry and Neville sat together, and Ron and Hermione likewise paired up.

“Welcome to Charms. I’m Professor Filius Flitwick. Except for Theory of Magic, Charms will be the most useful class you will have here at Hogwarts. We will look at quite a repertoire of charms, many of which will be useful throughout your life as a witch. Those of you who come to us from a witch background will no doubt already have encountered a dozen or more already, much of it domestic in nature.

“The Dishwashing Charm, for example, washes and dries your dishes in a manner similar to the mundane dishwasher, but without occupying cabinet space. The Mopping Charm cleans your floors for you. And of course, the Gourmand Charms, a whole suite of charms for expertly performing food preparation and cooking to your specifications. We will learn all of these and more,

“And of course, there are a myriad other charms. Transfiguration is a whole field that rests atop the titular Transfiguration Charm. Herbology uses charms to aid in soil analysis, to impart magic in to mundane plants in order to obtain magical specimens, and more. Self Defence arms and armours you through charms for offencive and defencive purposes. Healing, too, requires charms. Healers can examine the body in ways mundane doctors can only dream of.

“But, each of those fields has their own demands in terms of expertise, so we will leave Transfiguration to Professor McGonagall, Herbology to Professor Sprout, Self Defence to Professor Quirrell, and Healing to Professor Conghaile, shall we? Instead, today we will look at the Light Charm.”

Professor Conghaile's classroom looked a lot like Sørensen's, in that she had a bunch of flags hanging up on the walls. Unlike the Theory classroom, however, none of them were country flags. In addition, she had a model on display in one corner that slowly changed over time to show diffferent systems in the human body. Conghaile herself was perched on her desk in light green scrubs when Harry came in to the room.

"Good afternoon, class," she said. "I am Professor Caoimhe Conghaile, and my pronouns are she/her. I am a fully-accredited Healer, but I am not your Healer. Unless I'm present in a medical capacity or it's an emergency, go see Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing for all of your medical needs; I will not be answering questions regarding personal matters.

"Now, Healing is one of the most difficult, but also most rewarding, professions in the world. There are, however, a lot of misconceptions about the role Healers play in our society. Our job is not to help people become well again; for many, that is not an achievable or desirable goal. Rather, we strive to address the problems that our patients bring us.

"Wellness is a strictly temporary condition, one which comes and goes for a variety of reasons. Sometimes we can treat those reasons. Sometimes we cannot. And sometimes the patient wants us to only address one particular issue, but not another. It is incumbent upon us to respect the patient's wishes, to the best of our ability.

"Throughout your time in this class, we will be exploring various aspects of the craft. We will learn about how the human body works, as well as those of our nonhuman friends, hobs, kobolds, and more. We will discuss common maladies and appropriate treatments. And we will look at disability, and the various tools we can provide to improve the quality of life for our patients.

"One final thing: you will not practice real Healing until OWL-levels. Until then, your role, should you encounter a sick or injured person who wants or needs help, is to provide any assistance they need in order to get to a qualified Healer, whether that's at St Mungo's or in the Hospital Wing. But, most importantly, if they refuse aid, do not force it upon them. Get a trusted and, hopefully, qualified adult to help.

"Now, with all that said, this year, we will focus on human health. Where hobs and kobolds, and other nonhumans, have diseases and conditions that are similar to our own, we will discuss any differences in treatment they may need, but nonhuman health is for future years."

Like Charms, Transfiguration was organised in to two-person desks. When Harry came in, there was a mackerel tabby cat curled up on the professor’s desk at the front of the classroom. He noticed that there were square markings around the cat’s eyes that resembled McGonagall’s glasses.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Harry whispered politely as he passed her desk to get to a students’ one. He suspected she’d heard him from the way her ear had flicked in reply.

Students began to murmur after a few minutes, once class had supposed to begin but no professor was present. One, a Hufflepuff boy named Wayne Hopkins, was almost to the door when the cat woke up and hopped off the desk. Everyone gasped as, mid-air, the cat became McGonagall.

“Five points to Gryffindor,” McGonagall said, “as Mr Potter accurately deduced that I was, in fact, present when you all came in. One point from Hufflepuff; Mr Hopkins, please return to your seat. Mr Potter, how were you able to ascertain that the cat you saw was, in fact, me?”

“Your cat form had markings that looked remarkably like your spectacles, Professor,” Harry said. “I’d never heard of a cat having that specific marking before, though I’m sure a mundane person would have thought it an interesting quirk and dismissed it.”

“Correct. Take another two points for Gryffindor. Yes, I am a duly-registered Animagus. Many Animagi have distinctive markings that can be used to identify them in their animal form. Many do not, as well, so the Ministry for Magic requires all Animagi to register upon becoming one. An Animagus can hide in plain sight, as I demonstrated, and so it can become necessary to retrieve misplaced witches if mundane authorities detain an Animagus in their animal form and trap them.

“The Animagus ritual is one of the most complicated and dangerous feats of Transfiguration there are. It requires exacting attention to detail and adherence to requirements, and deviation from those requirements can be disastrous. The so-called Transmogrifian Torture, a rare and incredibly nasty curse, can be inflicted by forcing someone to undergo the Animagus ritual and deliberately disrupting the process. It is more properly known as Transmogrificating Lycacomia, and there is no treatment and no cure. Death occurs within a month from the onset of symptoms. Fortunately, perhaps, the ingredients for the ritual are difficult to find and to gather, so nobody much has an interest in wasting them.

“So understand me now. There will be no pranks, horseplay, fighting, or other misbehaviour in this classroom. Anyone who engages in such will be removed from this classroom and banned until such time as they show they are able to behave themselves. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a murmuring of “Yes, Professor” and “Yes, ma’am” across the classroom, and Professor McGonagall nodded.

“Now, at the possible risk of undermining myself, I will note that tics and stimming will not be so penalised. And I know what those tend to look like, so don’t bother trying to fake either one.” McGonagall gave Hermione a slight nod.

“Transfiguration is, as you may have surmised, the art of transforming one thing into another thing. A human into a cat and back, for instance. Conjuration is a subfield of Transfiguration, as it involves Transfiguring the very air in to the desired object. As a consequence of that, we will be learning mundane physics and chemistry in this class, though not in this year.

“Without further ado, we will be performing our first Transfigurations tomorrow morning, so let’s prepare for that, shall we?”

Potions was the last new class of the week, and one Harry had been looking forward to. Professor Snape, the sallow-skinned man he’d seen at the High Table during the start-of-term banquet, seemed to be similar to Professor McGonagall, at least in terms of being stern and no-nonsense in his public persona.

The Potions laboratory, however, reeked. It was almost as offensive as the apothecary’s, but at least he hadn’t had to go in to the apothecary’s shop. Hermione wasn’t handling it well, either, so he resolved to work with her on the theory that if he focused on helping her he’d be distracted from his own sensory hell.

Professor Snape stood at the front of the class, with a large blackboard behind him. His gaze swept over the class, once everyone was seated. When he spoke at last, his voice was quiet, but he had the knack of making his voice carry such that everyone could hear him clearly.

“Before we begin, there are a few things we need to discuss. First, there will be no horseplay, no fighting, no pranks, no misbehaviour at all in this laboratory. Anyone who engages in such will be removed from this room for the remainder of term and will be lucky if they achieve an Acceptable.

“Second, you will follow lab safety protocols at all times. It is of the utmost importance, because failure to abide by them may well send you to the Hospital Wing. If you’re unlucky, you may instead find yourself in the morgue. If you forget to bring your lab safety equipment, you will not be permitted to participate in lab assignments, and you will instead receive a Terrible for them.

“Third. If you are feeling unwell, please ensure that I am informed and do not come to class. Sneezing, coughing, vomiting, and other symptoms may interfere with your potion-making, even when wearing face masks.”

Snape paused, sweeping his gaze across the room again. He seemed to relax a trifle before he continued his lecture.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exacting art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe that this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you attend diligently.

“Mr Potter. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

“They’re the active ingredients in the sleeping potion commonly known as the Draught of Living Death, sir,” Harry said.

“Correct, one point to Gryffindor. Thank you, Mr Potter.” Snap sounded almost disappointed, but Harry couldn’t tell what he might’ve been disappointed about. Snape then turned and swept his wand across the blackboard, causing text to appear on it.

“We will talk about lab safety today, and in two weeks’ time we will brew our first potion. As part of our discussion on lab safety, I will show you photos of what happens when you fail to adhere to safety protocols. Before each photo, I will provide a content advisory. You will not be penalised if you choose not to look at the photos. If you need to step out at any point, there is a small room that I keep clear specifically for that purpose.

“Now, without further ado…let us discuss lab safety.”

Chapter Text

Saturday morning, an owl dropped off a letter for Harry at breakfast.

Dear Harry,

It only just occurred to me that you’d have your first flying lesson today, and that that means you’ll be coming down after lunch rather than after breakfast like we’d previously agreed. I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.

Love, Uncle Remus.

Harry rubbed his face for a moment, then passed the note around the table.

“Hm. Were you aware you could use one of the school owls to send a letter home, Mr Potter?” Madam Pomfrey asked gently.

“Um. Yeah, actually, there’s a notice on the house board, I just…forgot.”

“Hm. There’s probably more to it than that, but I won’t get in to that out here. Come down to my office on Monday morning, I have a surprise for you.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Oh, I had a question. I know I’m exempted from the rules forbidding first- and second-years from going down to Hogsmeade on weekends on account of I live there… can I bring friends with me, or would we need to be chaperoned?” Harry noticed that both Ron and Hermione were surprised by the revelation. He hadn’t meant to keep it a secret from them, it just hadn’t come up.

“Yes, you’d need to be chaperoned if you brought friends with you. They wouldn’t be allowed to stay overnight, either, so…ask Hagrid to take you down, but Remus would have to take them back up. You’d have to discuss that with Remus, but I think he’d be fine with it once or twice a month. You know how his joints bother him sometimes.”

Harry nodded. “Well, yeah.”

“Oh, he has a joint condition?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, Uncle Remus has joint pain that comes and goes. He says it’s hard for him to find work that suits him,” Harry said.

“Oh, yeah, that makes perfect sense.”

It took about ten minutes to get to the field where flying lessons were going to be held. Madam Hooch was present, along with Conghaile, McGonagall, and Snape. Conghaile was present in her role as Healer, with the other two professors observing and, if need be, providing assistance.

On the ground were a set of twenty brooms, and Harry deduced from his peers’ murmurring that the brooms were about four years old. When everyone had arrived, Madam Hooch cleared her throat.

“Before we get started, I want to lay down a couple of ground rules. Firstly, do not fly unless you are instructed to do so. Second, there will be no fighting or horseplay or acrobatics. We will be covering the basics only, today. Posture, handling, up, down, moving forward, stopping, and turning. We won’t be covering lateral movement, that is, strafing up, down, left, or right, but you’re welcome to attempt it.

“We will begin by practising summoning the broom to our hand and mounting it. Once everyone has achieved proper posture, we will do one-on-one flight lessons. Your heads of house and I will be taking each of you, one at a time, in to the sky. Once you have mastered the basics, you will practice by taking laps around the field. Now, one person to a broom. Stand with the broom on your wand-hand side.”

Harry stood to the right of his broom. The only other southpaw that he noticed was Fay Dunbar, one of Hermione’s dormmates.

“Hold your hand over your broom, relax, and say, ‘Up!’”

When Harry gave the command, the broom leapt in to his grasp instantly. Neville’s refused to respond at all, and Hermione’s took several attempts. After about a minute, Neville’s broom finally, almost furtively rose in to his grasp.

“Mount your brooms. Do not take off.”

Harry straddled his broom, moving as if by instinct. He adjusted his grip slightly, and tilted his head as Madam Hooch and the heads of house passed through the throng of students, issuing corrections here and there. He was pleased to hear Madam Hooch tell Draco he’d been riding his broom wrong for years.

“Ever fly a broom before, Mr Potter?” Madam Hooch asked when she reached him.

“No, ma’am. This will be my first time today,” Harry said.

Madam Hooch’s brows rose. “That’s very interesting, because your posture is exactly correct, and your grip is firm and correctly placed. You seem to be a natural, so far. The real proof’s in the pudding, of course.”

“Of course.”

Finally, the adults stood off to the side. McGonagall was astride her own broom now, Harry saw, and both Snape and Madam Hooch had their wands out.

“All right. Kick off gently and maintain a hover at five feet. Do not move.”

Harry was not the first to kick off, but once he did he realised that he felt at home almost immediately. Neville, apparently, did not, for he shot up like a rocket and screamed as his broom shot off in to the distance. McGonagall kicked off and followed him across the sky as he unintentionally performed quite a few manoeuvres, screaming all the while.

After about a minute of this, McGonagall was able to catch up to him, sweep him in to her grasp, and land safely. The broom, once Neville was no longer astride, floated gently down to the ground.

“Mr Longbottom,” McGonagall said gently, “you are hereby excused from flying lessons. If you want to stay and watch, you may, or you may return to the castle.”

Draco, Harry noticed, was looking mighty pleased with himself. He had, apparently, caught a small glass orb and was playing with it.

“Well, well, well. Look what our resident Squib lost,” he said with a sneering drawl. “I wonder when he’ll remember it.”

“Give it here, Malfoy,” Harry said coldly.

“No, I think…yes, why not…” Draco shot up in to the sky, in defiance of the presence of four adults, one his own head of house. Harry, without conscious thought, shot up as well.

Hermione, seeing this, called up, “Harry, no! You mustn’t!”

And Draco, giving Harry a malevolent grin, shot up even further before tossing the glass orb in to the air, his momentum imparting a truly impressive arc before, with a jolt, he was brought forcibly to ground by his furious head of house.

Harry, for his part, wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the orb, and he took off after it. In under a minute, he caught the orb and came down to hover at the requested five feet.

It was only then that he saw McGonagall striding toward him, with the oddest expression on her face. Mingled anger, surprise, and…was that pride?

“Land, Potter. Now. And come with me.”

Off in the distance, Harry could hear Snape give Draco a thorough dressing-down as he followed McGonagall back to the castle, broom and orb forgotten in his hands. He heard her muttering under her breath, only catching the occasional phrase, such as “Never, in all my years” and “Just you wait”.

Harry gulped. He had never been in trouble at Hogwarts before, and a whole flight of butterflies was fluttering in his stomach. They stopped in the Entrance Hall.

“Missiculum, Mr Wood. Please come to the Entrance Hall. I’ve found you a Seeker. Minerva out.”

The duo waited in silence, and Harry started to relax slightly. Soon enough, a burly tow-headed young man descended the marble staircase and crossed the hall to join them.

“A Seeker? Are you serious, ma’am?” Wood demanded.

“Absolutely. The boy’s a natural. He had the correct posture and grip from the moment he mounted the broom, too, anyone could tell. Never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broom, Mr Potter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but…he didn’t seem to be trouble, and his knees quivered a bit as he sagged in relief.

“He caught Mr Longbottom’s Remembrall after a fifty-foot dive, not a scratch on him. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it,” McGonagall went on.

“Ever seen a game of Quadball, Potter?” Wood asked him excitedly.

“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor Quadball team,” McGonagall said to Harry.

“He’s got the ideal build for a Seeker, too…light, speedy…we’ll have to get him a decent broom, though,” Wood said. “Nimbus Two Thousand or Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.”

“I shall speak to Dumbledore and see if we can’t bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus in the face for weeks…”

“I want to hear you’ve been training hard, Harry, or I may change my mind about punishing you.”

Then she smiled, only the second time he’d seen her do so. “Your father would have been proud. He was an excellent player himself.”

“You’re joking,” Ron said.

They were at lunch with Madam Pomfrey, with Xenia crunching her way through some pellets underneath as usual, and Harry had just finished telling Ron and Hermione what had happened.

“Seeker?” Ron said. “But first-years never—you must be the youngest house player in about—”

“—A century,” Harry said. “Wood told me.”

Ron gaped.

“Wood wants me to start training next week. Only don’t tell anyone, he wants to keep it a secret.”

Fred and Georgia came in to the hall just then and strode up to the table. “Well done,” one of the twins said—he thought it was Georgia, but he hadn’t figured out how to tell them apart yet. “Wood told us. We’re on the team, too—Beaters.”

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quadball Cup for sure this year,” the other twin—Fred?—said. “We haven’t won in several years, but this year’s team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us.”

“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee reckons he’s found a new secret passageway out of the school.”

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.”

Fred and Georgia had hardly left before three far more unwelcome faces swaggered up.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you catching the train back to your mundane folks?”

“You’re a lot braver now you’re on the ground and got your bully boys with you,” Harry said coldly. “What’s the matter, little baby needs his babysitters?”

Privately, Harry was appalled that he was turning Dudley’s own brand of slander on to Draco, but he didn’t let his dismay show.

“How dare you talk to me in that fashion. I demand satisfa—” Draco began hotly, but Madam Pomfrey’s voice cut him off.

“Three points from Slytherin, Mr Malfoy. Students are not permitted to duel outside of Dueling Club, which first-year students are prohibited from joining, and you were not invited to join us today. On your way, now.”

Draco scowled, and he and his cronies walked away.

Harry snorted. “Wish I knew why he took a dislike to me. I’m pretty sure it started back in Diagon Alley.”

“When you were getting measured for your robes?” Ron asked. “I think he pegged you for mundane-born at first, then when he knew you were the Boy Who Lived, he knew for sure that you’re a half-blood. Everyone knows your mum was from mundane stock, and Malfoy’s dad claimed he was Imperiused. That’s a mind-control curse,” Ron added when Harry just blinked at him. “My dad says he doesn’t believe it for a second, Lord Malfoy was pretty high up, and since his son seems to be talking the same bigoted rubbish…”

“Yeah.” Harry set his fork down. “Anyway, I’m gonna go see my uncle. See you all tomorrow after lunch, yeah?”

“…and that’s how I got to be the youngest Seeker in a century,” Harry finished, snuggled up with Uncle Remus on the living room couch about an hour later.

“You are your father’s son, pup,” Remus said with a chuckle. “He would’ve done exactly what you did, and shown off afterward to boot. However, I’m a little disappointed in you, I am; there were four adults who could have handled the situation. I’m proud of you for doing the right thing in defiance of the rules, but at least make sure you won’t get caught next time.”

Harry flinched at the tartness in Remus’s voice. Remus noticed, and he pulled Harry in to a proper hug.

“My dear pup,” he said softly in to Harry’s hair. “You’re safe here. You matter to me. You brighten my world, just by being in it, you do.”

Harry relaxed in to Remus’s hug, and Remus smiled. “Now, I had been preparing a steak-and-potato pie for dinner tonight, but how about we walk down to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate your making the Gryffindor team, eh?”

Harry’s voice was a little small, despite the comforting hug, when he replied, “…I’d like that.”

Xenia, who had been scurrying around the living room as they snuggled, climbed up on to the couch and then the back of it. She ambled over to them and snuffled at Harry’s face, tickling him with her whiskers and causing him to giggle. “Xeniaaaa…” he mock-protested.

“See, even she thinks you’re a good lad, she does,” Remus said, chuckling. “All right, up you get, pup. We’ll head over at around five, but in the meantime you have homework to do. If you get stuck on anything, bring it out here and we’ll figure it out together, we will.”

“Okay,” Harry said as he got up, scooping up his ferret as he stood. He paused just before he walked in to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “…I love you, Uncle Remus,” he said softly, hesitantly, as though he were releasing a wild animal and wasn’t quite sure what it’d do.

“Love you too, pup,” Remus said, smiling. Harry blinked on sudden tears, but instead of acknowledging them he went on to his room.

Chapter Text

At breakfast on Monday morning, two large owls flew in to the Great Hall, carrying a long package which they deposited at the little table before flying off again. Attached to the parcel was a note:

Do not open this parcel in the Great Hall.

It contains your new Nimbus 2000, but I don’t want everyone knowing you’ve got a broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you on the Quadball pitch after dinner for your first training session, and he will escort you back to the Gryffindor Common Room afterward due to curfew.

—Professor McGonagall

This must have been the broom McGonagall and Wood were talking about on Saturday. Harry was eager to see what he’d gotten, but obedient to McGonagall’s instructions, he carefully set it aside and went back to eating as he showed the note to Hermione and Ron.

“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron muttered, amazed. “I’ve never even touched one…”

“Yeah. Let’s get it up to the Common Room, though…I’ll unwrap it when we get to the pitch tonight,” Harry said.

Halfway across the Entrance Hall, they found the path upstairs blocked by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized the package from Harry and felt it.

“That’s a broomstick,” Malfoy said, throwing it back to Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face. “You’ll be for it this time, Potter—first-years aren’t allowed them.”

“It’s not just any old broomstick,” Ron couldn’t resist saying, “it’s a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two-Sixty? Comets look flashy, but they’re nowhere near the same league as the Nimbus Two Thousand.”

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy snapped back. “I suppose you and your siblings have to save up, twig by twig.”

Before Ron could respond, Flitwick appeared at Malfoy’s elbow. “Not fighting, I hope?” he asked.

“Potter’s been sent a broomstick, sir,” Malfoy said quickly.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” Flitwick said, beaming up at Harry. “Minerva told me all about the special circumstances, Mr Potter. And what model is it?”

“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” Harry said, fighting to suppress a giggle at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. “And, really, it’s thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it.”

Hermione, as the trio made their way upstairs, muttered, “Honestly, you could’ve let the adults handle it, Harry. I know you were trying to do the right thing, but still…”

“Uncle Remus said more or less the same thing,” Harry said, not quite suppressing a flinch. Hermione grabbed his wrist—Harry flinched again, and she quickly let go, but she stopped walking regardless. The boys paused as well, and Harry turned to look at her.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was ganging up on you,” she said quietly. “Um…do you want to talk about ‘it’ sometime…?”

Harry tilted his head. “What do you mean by ‘it’?” he asked cautiously.

“Past things. It’s okay if you don’t want to, we’ve only known each other a week…”

“I’ll…think about it,” Harry said after a moment. “I need to put my broom up and then go down to see Madam Pomfrey in her office, though.”

She nodded, and they continued up to Gryffindor Tower.

“Go on in to my office and have a seat, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said when Harry walked in to the Hospital Wing, several minutes later. “I’ll be right with you.”

After he’d done so, Madam Pomfrey and another woman came in. Madam Pomfrey sat behind her desk and the other woman sat in a chair off to the side.

“Harry, this is Doctor Adriana Fitzgerald. She’s a mundane psychologist, but she married a witch shortly after college, and so is familiar with both the mundane and magical worlds. I wrote to her after we spoke last week; she has a broad-strokes outline—just a summary of what you’ve shared with me and Healer Lobosca, no details—of your circumstances. I’d like you to meet with her once a week, either here in my office on Mondays or at home over the weekends, whichever is more comfortable for you. Would you be willing to talk with her?”

Harry thought about it. “Did you talk to Uncle Remus about this?”

“Yes, actually, last Thursday. He said he’d support your decision, so while I do have his signature, it’s up to you. I think you would benefit, however.”

“…Yes, I’ll do it,” he said after a moment. “So what now?”

“Well, first I’d like to conduct what’s called a psychological evaluation,” Dr Fitzgerald said. “There are several parts to it, fortunately, so we don’t have to try to do it all today, given that you have lunch in about three hours. The first part is just an interview, where you tell me about yourself and I ask you questions so that I can get to know you better. After that, there are a variety of tests that assess your cognition, how your brain’s developed, and so on. That will give me a good idea of where you’re at, what kinds of things I’ll want to talk about, and, more importantly, gives me an idea of the kinds of things you would want to talk about. Does that sound good?”

“Sure.”

“All right. Today we’re only going to conduct the interview; this part takes as long as it takes, but we can stop at any time and pick it up next time we meet, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So, tell me about yourself. Give me the inside scoop on the real life of Harry Potter, as far back as you can remember.”

Warning: the following paragraphs contain descriptions of abuse and neglect. If this is not something you feel comfortable reading, I encourage you to skip to the next section.

All right, so…the earliest thing I can remember is, when I was about three, I was tasked with helping Dudley put his toys away. He already knew by then that if he hit me, his mum wasn’t gonna stop him, but if I hit him, I’d get punished. So naturally I’d started to stay away from him as best I could.

I could tell he was going to hit me for touching his toys, so when he started to run after me, I ran. Even back then, he could usually outrun me. So, a funny thing happened. Every time he got close enough to start to hit me, that day, he would invariably slip and fall down before he could. On dry hardwood. His mum locked me in my cupboard for an entire day for that, when she noticed what was going on.

From that point on, I was generally tasked with helping to do the chores around the house while Dudley got to play with his toys. At one point he called me ‘Cinderfella’ for like a month. And as I started to be able to do a chore entirely on my own, his mum would make me do that chore when it needed to be done rather than do it herself.

If I messed up or missed a spot, or whatever, she’d hit me. If it was particularly egregious, she’d hit me and then when Uncle Vernon got home he’d hit me too. Sometimes he’d use a belt, but mostly he’d only use his hands. They’d also hit me if I asked questions about my parents, so eventually I just stopped. Or questions about anything else they didn’t want to answer, for that matter.

If they went on vacation or to the zoo or whatever leisure they wanted to do, they’d drop me off with Mrs Figg. She had entirely too many cats and insisted I greet all of them whenever I came over, and would make me sit with her while she showed me pictures of every single cat she ever had, complete with personalities and life stories.

At least she didn’t hit me.

Once I started getting to be school-age, they started only hitting me where the bruises wouldn’t show, if they hit me hard enough to leave any. Only time I ever saw them rebuke Dudley was when he’d hit me that hard at home. Our teachers seemed largely indifferent, and I’d get lectures on how I shouldn’t antagonize him or how it, um, “takes two to tango”. They never did anything about his stealing my lunches at school.

And of course, as I told Madam Pomfrey last week, whenever accidental magic happened, or to use their language, “when his freakishness showed”, I was locked in to my cupboard and denied food. This was, of course, on top of the food I did get being on the minimal side. At least she gave me water and multivitamins when she starved me…? For some reason, she never had, nor let, me help in the kitchen. I think she figured if I helped I’d sneak samples of whatever she was making.

Let me think…this is probably going to sound ungrateful, but whenever she got clothes for me, she always went for the most childish ones she could find. I’m eleven, for God’s sake. What eleven-year-old would admit to watching Blue’s Clues, much less wear Blue’s Clues apparel? To, um. Pick one example.

Oh, yeah. They always called me ‘freak’ and ‘boy’, never ‘Harry’ unless we were in public. Still don’t like those words. Why should being referred to as a boy make me feel…not just bad, but wrong, anyway…?

End of abuse & neglect descriptions.

“…As God is my witness, may I never get an epitaph like that,” Adriana muttered when Harry ran down. At a more normal volume, she said, “All of that is important to know, and I appreciate your sharing it with me. As it happens, so far as we can tell, Mrs Figg was trying to report the Dursleys the entire time—Miss Fries tells me there were over a dozen reports filed. Professor Dumbledore claims to have never received them, and has offered to submit to interrogation under Veritaserum should his word be doubted, so now the investigation is turning to how it happened that they were left unactioned and thus unreported further up the food chain.

“So, aside from all of that absolutely atrocious behaviour on the Dursleys’ part, let’s go with…what are things you liked doing? What were your experiences like, outside of all that abuse and neglect?”

Harry tapped on his knuckles as he gathered his thoughts again.

Well, so. I liked reading, and still do. Thinking about all those other worlds out there, even the imaginary ones, where I could go and be someone else and do cool things. I guess, in a way, I got exactly what I wanted. Uncle Remus is amazing. I get to help in the kitchen, we play games sometimes, we snuggle…I get to be a kid when I’m with him, and he listens to me when I need something.

There were a few times I was able to hide myself so effectively, with the Dursleys, that I got to read in peace. I got in trouble afterwards, of course, but…they never took my books away when I was locked in my cupboard. I almost preferred being in there. They left me alone.

Anyway, um. Other experiences, right. I don’t like brightness, as a sensory category. Like, loud noises, bright lights, certain textures of cloth and food, the apothecary’s shop’s smells…they’re all Bright. I can deal with them if I have to. But…cool, dim, quiet places, that’s the ticket.

I like school, mostly. I’m not sure what classes here I like, but both Potions and Self Defence have a…certain characteristic odour I can only barely tolerate, and Herbology smells a bit green. IHealing is really, really cool, though; the human body is so fascinating. But gross. But fascinating. But gross. But fascinating. I really liked flying on Saturday. I don’t think I’ve ever felt nearly as at home, outside of being at home with Uncle Remus, as I did when I was riding the school broom.

I’ve never watched the telly and they didn’t own a radio, so I don’t really know what’s good there. I like the Vorkosigan books, and I especially like Miles, the main character. He’s almost as small as I am, for one thing. There’s also this urban fantasy series about a wizard who lives in Chicago and advertises himself as one in the phonebook, but I’m not sure I like Harry Dresden nearly as much as I like Miles. He’s kind of a jerk, so far.

“All right. I think that’s all we have time for, today,” Dr Fitzgerald said. “Would you like to see me Sunday morning or Monday morning?”

“Um…I think Sunday morning would be good?” Harry said. “I think I want Uncle Remus to be part of this whole thing, and anyway, his couch is more comfortable than this chair.”

Dr Fitzgerald chuckled. “Well, in that case, I will see you at 9am on Sunday. It’s been an honour and a privilege to meet with you.”

“The honour is mine, Dr Fitzgerald,” Harry said politely, and made a shallow, but formal bow. “Later, then.”

After dinner, Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed out to the pitch, where they met with Oliver Wood.

“All right,” Wood said. “Weasley, Granger, you’re welcome to stick around, but I’ll need your oaths that you won’t share what you see with anyone. Not an Oath of Secrecy, just your sworn word.”

“On my word as Weasley, I will not discuss the evening’s activities with anyone not currently here or on the Quadball team,” Ron said.

Wood nodded. “That’s actually a bit tighter than I was looking for, but that works for me.”

Hermione thought for a moment, then said, “I swear I will not discuss the evening’s activities with anyone not in Gryffindor House, on my word as Granger.”

“Solid. So, Potter. Let’s unwrap that broom and get some airtime on it, eh? I need you to fly with your wits, not just your gut. After you’ve got some flight-time under your belt, we’ll get started on teaching you the rules of the game.”

Harry nodded, and the five of them took a moment to admire Harry’s new broom once he’d unwrapped it. He mounted up and did a few laps around the pitch, then tentatively tried a few aerial manoeuvres without even really thinking about it before hovering near Wood.

“Good, good. So, let’s talk about the balls.” Wood opened a small crate that had been sitting at his feet. From it, he withdrew a slightly squashed-looking red ball.

“This here’s the quaffle,” Wood said. “The team’s three Chasers pass it between them and try to get it through one of the other team’s hoops, for ten points a goal. After each goal, control over the ball passes to the other team’s Keeper, who then puts the quaffle back in to play. Only Chasers may score, however.”

“Three Chasers throw around the quaffle, ten points per goal, control passes to the scored-on Keeper,” Harry said with a nod.

“Right. Take this, the next ball’s a mean one and it moves on its own,” Wood said as he handed Harry a bat.

Harry swung it experimentally, to get a feel for it.

“Ball number two: the bludger. This black beauty only does love taps, but if it hits you, you have to tag one of our team’s hoops. The two Beaters fight the two bludgers away from us and toward the other team’s Chasers and Beaters.”

“Two Beaters beat away the two bludgers, and players hit by a bludger have to touch their own goal to re-enter play,” Harry said. Wood nodded and released one of the bludgers. It immediately flew in to the air and straight at Harry, who gave it a firm smack that sent it back at Wood. Wood caught it and wrestled it back in to the crate.

“That was a nice shot, Potter. Now, ball three: the golden snitch. This one is your job, the Seeker’s job. Catching it is worth thirty points, and can end the game. If the trailing team’s Seeker catches it and their score plus thirty is still less than the leading team’s, the game goes into overtime, with the target score being the leading team’s score plus thirty. Either team can concede during the overtime. The important thing to remember is that the golden snitch enters play at seventeen minutes, and the Seekers, that’s you, enter play one minute after that.”

“The Seeker’s job is to catch the snitch, which ends the game or sends it to overtime with a target score of thirty plus the leading team’s. It enters play at seventeen minutes and the Seekers one minute later,” Harry said.

“Excellent. So, I’m not going to have you go for the snitch tonight—I don’t want to lose it. So instead, I have a sack of practice balls here that behave like the snitch but return here when I send up blue sparks. I’m going to release them all at once, and a minute after that I want you to find and catch all of them. Sound good?”

“Can do.”

Harry fell asleep almost immediately when he went to bed that night, though this time it was from sheer exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Once more, Snape stood at the front of the classroom. This time, he had several stacks of packets on the table in front of him.

“As I threatened two weeks ago,” Snape said, “today we will be brewing our first potion. Our goal is to brew a potion to cure boils. As we discussed last Friday, we will be brewing two batches. The first batch will follow the amber recipe on the board. The second batch will follow the green recipe on the board. I would recommend that one partner work on the amber recipe and one partner work on the green recipe. Pay careful attention to the instructions for the recipe you brew. One person from each station, please come up to collect your packet. The other person should begin by filling their cauldrons with water to the 60% line.”

“I’ll get the packet, and I’ll take the green recipe,” Harry said to Ron. As Ron began filling up the cauldrons, Harry collected their packet. Snape took up a packet and strode over to Neville.

“Mr Longbottom, I will be working with you, in the interests of maintaining a safe environment,” Snape said. “Miss Granger, I would recommend the green recipe; it would be more challenging for you.”

Harry unpacked the packet, and sorted its contents according to the recipe requirements up on the blackboard, then read the instructions carefully, twice.

The amber recipe, by way of contrast, wanted the fangs to have a coarser grind, the leaves unmuddled, and the quills to be added whole. It also used a simple circular motion for the wand movement. After everyone had completed their potions, Snape stood at the front of the class once more.

“The purpose of this assignment, as you may have surmised, is to teach that understanding the purpose of each instruction will allow you to tune the recipe to your specific requirements. Both of these recipes perform the desired task, but the green recipe is much more effective and efficient. It is also, however, more taxing than the amber recipe. So long as your potion meets the requirements specified when we brew one, you will receive an Acceptable for that lab. Provide to me a sample of each potion today, then drain your cauldrons and clean up; when you are finished, you may go.”

All in all, Harry decided as he walked home Saturday morning, he rather liked Hogwarts. His classes were all very interesting, even the ‘boring’ ones. Mundane technology just plain did not work in the Hogwarts region, so instead of calculators, witches wrote their figures out on parchment and cast the Calculating Charm. And since the Calculating Charm could not be accidentally left at home or otherwise made unavailable, there was no real reason to have to remember one’s multiplication tables or perform long division. Consequently, Maths was already moving on in to algebra.

The two classes Harry actively disliked, however, were Self Defence and English. He was getting used to the atmosphere in Self Defence, but he sat at the back of the classroom and tried to avoid Quirrell’s notice wherever possible so as to avoid having his scar hurt. His problem with English was much more simple than that: he hated writing book reports. Harry found it difficult to read critically—if he liked a book, he tended to just devour it, and that was not really conducive to discussing themes, messaging, and other details that book reports demanded he provide.

Healing, though…Healing was cool. Harry liked learning about the human body, and how each of the organs inside contributed to making it all work. Conghaile was taking a top-down approach, so they’d started with organ systems like the skin.

Quadball practice, on the other hand, was exhausting…and exhilarating. On more than one occasion, Wood had had to tell him to quit showing off as he gathered in the training snitches. He had a tendency to strafe when he could avoid turning, though, which Wood was trying to break him out of. “It may be useful sometimes, but it’s more efficient to turn in to your lateral movements instead of strafing,” he’d said on one occasion.

“I’m home!” Harry called as he walked in to the living room, shrugging off his cardigan and putting it on the hook next to the door.

“Back here,” Remus called from the kitchen. “How was school?”

“Well, yesterday we finally made the boil-curing potion. Professor Snape had us pair off but each brew one version of the potion. I think it was kinda neat, actually, since he said the point was that, while the ingredients make the potion, technique is important for quality.”

“That it most certainly is. Some potions do require a highly-refined technique in order for the mechanism of action to work, however, simply because sloppiness would mean you’d need so much potion to get an effective dose that you’d induce water toxicity trying to achieve it, you would.”

Remus was, Harry noticed, working on a brisket.

“What’s the occasion, Uncle Remus?” he asked as he sat down at the table. “That’s a lot of meat for the two of us.”

“It is, but with the full moon coming up I want to not have to cook for a week, I do, and I don’t want to stump down to the Three Broomsticks to avoid it. Remember how tired I was the first weekend you walked down?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, you spent most of Saturday dozing, you’d said.”

“Well, that’s because I hadn’t planned ahead. Now I am, and next weekend I’m not going to be in any fit state to do more than popping something in to the hotbox for a few minutes. Once I’ve got this in the smoker, do you want to play some games?”

The next morning, Dr Fitzgerald came calling at 9am.

“Come on in, Dr Fitzgerald,” Harry said, holding the door open wide for her. “Uncle Remus is sprawled on the couch, so we’ll just hang out in the living room today, I think. He overdid it yesterday making a brisket.”

“I see,” Dr Fitzgerald said, following Harry in to the living room. Remus waved his wand somewhat vaguely, conjuring a chair for her near the couch.

“Thanks, Mr Lupin,” she said with a smile as she sat down, unslinging her backpack. “So, there are a couple of things I wanted to talk about today. First, I wanted to talk about activities of daily life, or ADLs. There are two kinds, basic and instrumental. Basic ADLs are things like toileting, brushing one’s teeth, bathing, and other self-care tasks. Instrumental ADLs are the things that allow someone to live independently in a community, such as housekeeping, cooking, money management, and so on.

“So, I already know from our first meeting that you’re capable of housekeeping. I have a questionnaire here that we’re going to fill out together. This will be the last assessment I need, and we’ll go over my report in a couple weeks. Now, without further ado…”

Dr Fitzgerald pulled a clipboard and a pen out of her backpack, along with a stapled-together set of papers she clipped to the board. She ran through the questions with them, writing down their answers.

“All right. Now, the other thing I wanted to talk about… Madam Pomfrey said, when you talked about your EDs with her the first day of term, that you indicated that your body felt wrong? Could you tell me about that, please?”

“Um, well,” Harry said. “I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s not an issue of size or of…of weight, really, although that’s part of it, but…”

“Hm. Actually, let me ask you this. How do you feel about your plumbing?” Dr Fitzgerald gestured downward to indicate what she meant by that.

“Oh. Um.” Harry looked troubled. “…I don’t know. I just…I wish…it’s…” Now he looked miserable.

“It’s okay if you need some time to think about it. A lot of people don’t, and sometimes when we learn things about ourselves, we can bury them so far down we don’t notice them any more. This usually happens when there’s pushback, or even just in the absence of support.”

Remus sat up, and pulled Harry in to a hug. “Pup,” he said softly. “You are yourself, whoever you are or choose to be. I won’t love you any less. If you don’t want to be a boy, you don’t have to be. If you’d rather be a girl, or if you want to be neither…well, it’s up to you. I will always be here for you, no matter what.”

Harry looked up at Remus. “The only thing I know for certain right now,” he said softly, “is that I wish I weren’t human. That I were a pup in truth, and not just your heart. Past that…” He gulped. “Past that, it doesn’t really matter because, male or female, it would still be the wrong shape.”

Dr Fitzgerald asked, “Then would you prefer to be called Mx Potter?”

“What’s ‘Mx’ mean?” Harry asked.

“It’s a gender-neutral title. Capital M, lowercase X, where the X is meant to be a wildcard.”

“Oh. Yeah, I think I’d prefer Mx Potter, at least for now.”

“Are you comfortable still rooming with the boys, or would you prefer another arrangement?”

“…I think Ron would understand, or at least be kind even if he doesn’t. Neville, too. I’m less certain about Darach and Jamal, though. But I think I’m good with them for now.”

“All right. Would you like me to inform your professors that you would prefer ‘Mx’?”

“Yes, please.”

Dr Fitzgerald made a note, then asked, “So what pronouns would you prefer? ‘He/him’, ‘she/her’, ‘they/them’, or…something else?”

Harry held up a finger and looked lost in thought for a few moments. “…I think I’ll stick with he/him for now…? It doesn’t really feel like anything else fits better at the moment,” he said finally.

“Fair enough. Is there anything you wanted to talk about today?”

“Um…hm. Nothing comes to mind…? Uncle Remus?”

“Well,” Remus said, “there’s that one incident last Saturday I wanted to talk about, actually. I’ve been thinking about it all week. Do you mind if I tell her about it, pup?”

Harry thought about it. “Oh. That. Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

“Right, so, last weekend, Harry had his first flying lesson. One of his peers had a very rough first lesson and so was given permission to not have to attend any more. Another peer found he’d dropped his Remembrall, and when Harry challenged him for it, the peer flew up on his school broom and tossed the Remembrall in to the air. Harry, naturally, flew up after it and caught it.

“Now, all that is fine and dandy, and I wasn’t upset when he told me about it all, but he flinched when I said I was disappointed. I think it was more the tone than the words, but it’s something that’s been on my mind.”

“I see,” Dr Fitzgerald said, “and I’m not surprised, either, given what Harry’s shared about his life with the Dursleys. Unfortunately, it’s going to take time and distance for that reaction to go away. Distance we’ve achieved—we’re quite far from Surrey—but the only way for time to happen is just by passing through it at the normal rate. So what did you do when he flinched?”

“Hugged him and said some reassuring things, such as…” Remus pulled Harry in to a hug again, and murmured in to his hair, just as he had the weekend before, “You matter to me, pup. You brighten my world by being in it, you do.”

Dr Fitzgerald nodded. “That’s right, that’s exactly right.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, unfortunately, that’s all the time we have this week. I’ll see you here next week, yes?”

“We’ll be here,” Remus said. Harry nodded, and got up to see Dr Fitzgerald out.

About half an hour later, there came a knock on the front door. Remus opened it to find two Ministry officials standing there. He recognized one as Harry’s case worker from the Ministry’s Department for Education’s Office of Social Care, a Miss Tanja Fries. The other…

“Good morning, Mr Lupin,” Miss Fries said. “We’ve finally got the paperwork squared away for Mr Potter’s guardianship; Mr Howard is here from legal to ensure the proprieties are observed.”

“Ah, yes. Come on in,” Remus said, and stepped back. Over his shoulder, he called, “Harry! Come out to the living room, please!”

Harry and Remus sat on the couch, with Miss Fries and Mr Howard sitting in chairs across the coffee table.

“Now, I’m going to go over each of these documents,” Miss Fries said, “and then both of you will sign them and Mr Howard will provide his own signature as a witness. At the conclusion of this process, Mr Lupin will be recognized as your legal guardian, Mr Potter. For whatever reason, the Dursleys did not actually have legal guardianship, merely a custody agreement that terminated upon the finding of gross mistreatment and neglect; we’re investigating that, but I don’t expect it to have any consequences for you. Any questions before we begin?”

“Yes, actually,” Harry said. “Could I, um. Change my name? I just… I want something more tangible to connect us than just paperwork. Whether he’s my uncle honourarily or my dad…”

Remus blinked away tears. He’d never had any hopes of having children of his own, being a werewolf and all, so for Harry to… “Harry,” he began, sounding just a little underwater, then cleared his throat. “Harry, you know you don’t have to…”

“But I want to,” Harry replied. “I know it’s only been five weeks, but…this feels right, somehow.”

“Hm. Well, how about this? We’ll go through the guardianship today, and then we’ll move to change it to an adoption on your birthday next year. It’s not that I don’t want you, pup, because you’re a sweetheart and I love you. It’s just that I want to ensure there’s time enough for all the legal niceties to be observed, and Tanja needs to file more paperwork for this to be an adoption instead of guardianship, right?”

“That’s right,” Miss Fries said, nodding. “I’ll get the process started for the adoption when I get back in to the office, so that it’s ready when you both are, but in the meantime…”

Harry nodded, and they went over the documentation as Miss Fries laid it out and explained it. In the end, Harry and Remus signed half a dozen times each, and when they were through, Miss Fries smiled.

“Congratulations, Mr Lupin, Mr Potter. I hope the years ahead are excellent ones,” she said, and Mr Howard nodded in taciturn agreement. “That’s our business concluded, so we’ll leave you to it.”

Harry turned to hug Remus tightly, burying his face into his uncle’s shoulder as he cried. They were happy tears, however, for Harry knew for the first time that Remus really did love him.

The Ministry officials smiled and let themselves out.

Chapter Text

It had been six weeks since she came to Hogwarts along with all of the other first-years, and Hermione had finally settled in two weeks ago. When she’d gotten her letter that July (along with a personal visit from Professor McGonagall), she hadn’t quite believed it, not really. Sure, she’d gotten her wand and set books and other things, but that could’ve just been an elaborate joke.

It’d have been an incredibly cruel joke, if it had been. She’d come out as trans to her parents four years prior, when she was seven, and while they’d acknowledged her new name and pronouns, there had been a new tension in the household. It often felt like they were just humouring her, and more than once she’d overheard them using her deadname when they thought she couldn’t hear them. At school, she’d been picked on for being a know-it-all and a dork, and for her monotonous speech, and knuckle-tapping, knee-bouncing, clicking, and on and on…

But here at Hogwarts, not only was she allowed to be herself, but nobody picked on her, either. Well…okay, that wasn’t quite true, the Slytherins were jerks, especially Draco Malfoy and his bully boys, but it wasn’t because she was Black or weird (about ten percent of the student body were, too), but rather, it was because her parents were mundane. It seemed like a strange thing to be concerned about, to her; she was at least as capable as so-called ‘pureblood’ witches in her year, and more capable than some.

Ron, Harry, and Neville were good people, she’d decided. Ron was somewhat cold in how he expressed himself, but he seemed to be kind, to her and to Harry and Neville. He was a bit prickly, too, sometimes, usually when she tried to correct him during lessons or to get him to read the assigned texts, but he always apologised once he noticed it. He struggled with the written assignments, too, but she refrained from pushing him to talk to Madam Pomfrey, on Harry’s advice.

Harry was a bit of a puzzle. She knew how the witching world saw him, but she had the benefit of seeing him every day. She saw how he flinched at loud noises, just as she did; she knew from Ron and Neville that sometimes he had nightmares that left him curled up in to a ball. Hermione also knew he ate like a bird, though he was slowly improving under Madam Pomfrey’s watchful eye. What had his home life been like, she wondered. But he was also one of the best students of their year, outside of Self Defence, at least; his marks rivalled her own, and she was no slouch, either. Sometimes she wondered how he managed it, since he wasn’t able to put as much time in to studying as she was due to Quadball.

Neville was fairly straightforward by comparison. He was a lot like her, though where she was monotonous but clear, he tended to slur his words if he tried to speak too quickly, and he had a habit of keeping his sentences short and simple. He was also incredibly clumsy; not a day would go by where he hadn’t dropped something, and his handwriting was borderline illegible even to him. Since she took meticulous notes, she’d started sharing them with him. She couldn’t help him with the written work, however, and that was depressing to contemplate sometimes.

Hermione liked her classes, even stinking Potions and Herbology, but she found Transfiguration and Charms to be fascinating. So far, they’d been working on turning matches in to needles, and she’d finally managed it two days ago, the first student to do so. Harry had managed it about thirty minutes later than she had, and they’d congratulated each other.

And today, she, Ron, and Neville would be visiting Harry’s home in Hogsmeade village for the first time. Hermione was anxious, but she was always anxious when she visited new places and met new people. But most of all, she was anxious because she was going to come out to her friends. She hadn’t wanted to do it inside Hogwarts, for some reason she hadn’t been able to articulate even to herself, but…she wouldn’t have to see Remus again, she figured.

“Ready to go?” Harry asked her, Ron, and Neville after breakfast.

“Yes,” she replied simply. Ron and Neville echoed her, and they set off. It was a good day for a walk, she found; cold and breezy, but sunny. She was glad for her woolen jumper; the boys had opted for light cardigans, but they didn’t comment about her choice at all.

“Good morning,” Remus said as they trooped in to the house, half an hour later.

“Hi, Uncle Remus,” Harry said. “These are my friends, Ron, Hermione, and Neville. Everyone, Uncle Remus Lupin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione said in her usual monotone, and stuck out a hand. He shook it; his hand was quite warm and somewhat rough, she noticed.

“The pleasure is mine,” Remus said. “Go ahead and have a seat wherever you like, everyone; I’ll have cider ready in just a moment.”

As Ron, Neville, and Hermione got comfortable on the floor by unspoken agreement—there was only the couch and a recliner for seating options, not enough room for everybody to sit in the available furniture even if the kids squeezed on to the couch—Harry vanished in to his room. He came back with two packs of cards, for a card game Hermione immediately recognized as Uno.

“There’s not really much in the way of entertainment out here,” Harry said, somewhat apologetically, “so we figured we might as well get some games in if I was going to be having people over, and this one seemed like the simplest to me. Uncle Remus is a bit colourblind—he said the red and green cards both look kinda yellow to him—so we went through and marked these last weekend to make sure he could tell the colours apart.”

As Harry was shuffling the cards, Remus came back in to the room with a tray, which he set on the coffee table; he passed a mug to everyone, then slipped the tray underneath the table as he held his own.

“Playing Uno? Go ahead and deal me in,” he said. He made as if to join them on the floor, but Harry said, a bit more sharply than Remus suspected he’d intended, “No, Uncle Remus, you can sit on the couch.”

“As you wish, pup,” he said fondly, and did just that.

“…Why does he call you ‘pup’, Harry?” Ron asked curiously.

“Um, well. It started out as a throwaway line back in August, and it, um…kinda stuck,” Harry said as he started dealing the cards, handing Remus his own.

“What he’s not saying is that I can tell that it makes him happy when I call him that,” Remus said, smiling. Harry blushed a bit.

“All right. Oldest goes first,” Harry said, “and we’ll go deasil¹ from there.”

Remus chuckled, and played his first card.

About an hour later, Hermione was finally relaxed enough to feel comfortable coming out, and so, taking a deep breath, she said, “Hey, guys? I wanted to share something with you all. Something personal, and private.”

“Go ahead, Hermione,” Harry said as they all looked to her.

“I’m, um. I’m transgender,” she said. Except for Remus, the boys had blank looks of incomprehension, so she continued, “That means that when I was born, the doctors thought I was a boy, and so did my family. But I’m not a boy; I’m a girl. You can tell on account of the girls’ stairs not rejecting me—one of the Headmasters back in the Victorian Age bewitched them to eject the boys. The boys’ stairs are, naturally, not enchanted to eject girls.”

That apparently made sense, because they all nodded. Harry, however, had an odd expression on his face, as though he’d been hit by a brick, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Ron too, she noticed.

Remus spoke first. “Thank you for trusting us with that, Hermione, and I admire your courage in sharing it, I do. I will keep your secrets, I swear on my word as Lupin.”

Neville was next to speak up, though his words were slower and plainer. “Thanks for your trust in us. Secret’s safe with me, my word as Longbottom.”

Harry and Ron began to speak almost in unison, but Harry stopped and opened his hand to Ron in invitation, who continued, “I appreciate your trust, and likewise, your secret’s safe with me, on my word as Weasley.”

“I’m glad you were comfortable enough to share that with us, Hermione,” Harry said, “and whatever help you may need, you have but to ask. On my word as Potter, your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, all of you,” Hermione said as her eyes began to tear up.

“C’mon over here, you look like you need a hug, you do,” Remus said, and Hermione joined him on the couch. He pulled her in to a hug, and she cried silently in to his shoulder for a few moments.

“Thanks, Mr Lupin,” she said when she pulled away.

“It’s no trouble. You’re a friend of Harry’s, after all,” Remus said, and looked at his watch. “Lunch time, I think, and maybe a few more rounds of Uno after that before you need to head back up to the castle.”

That evening, as Remus and Harry left Hogwarts Castle, Remus noticed an odd stench in the air, and he stopped dead in the path as he looked around.

“What’s wrong, Uncle Remus?” Harry asked.

“I’m not sure…” Remus said. “I thought I smelled something, but I can’t tell what it might be. Garlic…and something else…? We’ll stop by Hagrid’s and let him know, we will, maybe he can figure it out.”

“…Garlic…?” Harry asked. “I know Professor Quirrell’s classroom always smells like garlic. Some of the other kids claim he stuffs his turban with it to ward off vampires, something about him encountering one while he was on sabbatical last year.”

“What’s he doing skulking about outdoors this late, I wonder…” Remus shook his head as they ambled down to Hagrid’s hut. He knocked on the door, and almost immediately loud barking ensued. Harry flinched, and moved so that Remus was between him and the door.

“Get back, yeh great lump,” Hagrid said stolidly, before he opened the door a crack.

“Sorry to bother you this late, Hagrid,” Remus said, “but I thought you should know…I smelled something peculiar just as we were heading home, I did. Garlic, and something else I’m not sure of. Harry suggested it might’ve been Professor Quirrell, something about how he reeks of the stuff.”

“Oh, aye, it’s almost eye-watering sometimes,” Hagrid said. “I’ll inform Dumbledore in the mornin’. Bin wonderin’ wha’s bin killing unicorns in the forest, mebbe he knows summat.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt a unicorn?” Harry asked curiously.

“Unicorn’s blood has certain magical properties, it does,” Remus said, “among them the ability to sustain one’s life. There is, however, a consequence to consuming it, for to slay a unicorn is to destroy something sacred and innocent. One who drinks unicorn’s blood will suffer a cursed half-life, they will, for while it will sustain their life, it will also…diminish it, to put it simply.”

“Oh.” Curiosity sated for now, Harry subsided. The two men said their goodbyes, Harry offering a silent wave, and he and Remus set off home again.

Hermione had been jittery throughout lunch. She’d been half-afraid she’d get the same reaction she’d gotten from her parents, but even Ron had been supportive. She sat in the Common Room, reviewing the day’s events in her mind as she wrote in her journal. It was in code, a curious mix of several alphabets written right-to-left.

She paused, remembering the shocked betrayal she’d felt when she’d found out her mum had read one of her earliest journals, and how she’d withdrawn in to herself, mortified, as she’d overheard the woman rattling off some of her private opinions to her father.

And then her mum had the gall to wonder why Hermione kept to herself so much, even at home.

Hermione jerked her thoughts back to the present with a sigh, and resumed writing. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up, about to ask whoever it was to move when she recognized Lavender Brown.

“Hey, Lav. What’s up?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, I was just curious how your trip down to Hogsmeade today was. You left this morning looking very anxious, and when you got back there was this…glow. The other girls and I couldn’t figure it, since you’d all said you were gonna be spending time with Harry and his uncle. I dunno why that’d make such a difference.”

“Oh. Um. Can you keep a secret? It’s very personal, see.”

Lavender’s eyes narrowed a touch. “If it’s personal, why share it with someone you don’t know?”

“Well, because I don’t have to see Mr Lupin every day. You and the others, though?”

“Oh, okay. That’s understandable, yeah. I’ll keep it to myself, promise.”

“Well…” Hermione looked around. There wasn’t anyone near enough to overhear them if she kept her voice down. “…I’m a trans girl,” she muttered.

“…Ohhh. Okay. Yeah, I get it. I’ll let you decide when you want to tell the other girls, since that’s your call and all.”

“Thanks, Lav.”

Chapter Text

The morning of Hallowe’en was cloudy and quite cold when Ron woke. He groaned, having not quite gotten as much sleep as he’d been hoping, but he could hear muffled noises coming from Harry’s bed. Instead of rolling over and trying to get some more sleep, he got up, slipping his feet in to a pair of ratty slippers as he slid out of bed, and quietly padded over, slipping through the curtains.

Harry was curled up in to a ball, face buried in his pillow, sobbing quietly. Ron sat down next to him and gently rubbed his back. “Harry, it’s Ron,” he said quietly. Harry didn’t seem to hear him for a moment or two, but he quieted and rolled on to his side, uncurling a bit.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, his voice sounding a bit watery still. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me, Harry, c’mere. Nightmare?”

Harry nodded, and sat up, only to be pulled in to Ron’s lap and held close. “Want to talk about it?” Ron asked.

“Dreamt I’d been hauled back to the Dursleys’ and beaten, and then shoved in to my cupboard under the stairs,” Harry said quietly.

“There is absolutely nothing they can do to you any more, Harry. Remus, Dumbledore, and McGonagall all won’t allow it, and neither will I, Hermione, or Neville. I’d put my word on it, but I don’t think I have to.”

“I know, it’s just…” Harry sighed.

“It’s only been three months, and given it’s the anniversary of your parents’ death, I think I’d be more surprised if you hadn’t had some kind of upset. C’mon, let’s get you dressed and we’ll pester Madam Pomfrey.”

“Don’t wanna bother her,” Harry mumbled. “What could she do, anyway?”

“Honestly? Buggered if I know, I just figure she’s an adult guaranteed to be a friendly ear at this hour. Up.”

Ron gently slid Harry off of his lap and on to his feet, then rose and crossed over to his own bed. They dressed for the day in their school robes, as usual, and made their way out quietly.

As Ron had guessed, Madam Pomfrey was sitting in one of the recliners just inside the entrance to the Hospital Wing when they arrived, sipping from a teacup.

“Good morning, Ron, Harry,” she said warmly. “Come on over here and join me.”

“Good morning,” the boys chorused. Harry, Ron noticed, sounded miserable still, and he patted him on the shoulder.

“When I woke up a bit ago, I heard Harry crying in to his pillow,” Ron said quietly, once they were seated. “Gave him a bit of comfort, but…”

“…But you figured a friendly adult’s ear would be a good idea?” Madam Pomfrey finished, nodding. “What’s troubling you, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth, but for the first time in his life (that he could remember), words failed him. He tried again, but only managed a squeak this time. He weaseled, “I had a n-i-g-h-t-m-a-r-e, d-r-e-a-m-e-d that the D-u-r-s-l-e-y-s took me to their home and b-e-a-t me and locked me up in my c-u-p-b-o-a-r-d.”

“I see. Have you had nightmares like this before?” Madam Pomfrey asked gently. She set her teacup and its saucer down on the table next to her.

Harry nodded. “About once or twice a week. Not this s-p-e-c-i-f-i-c one, just generally.”

“Hm. And this is the anniversary, right, that might figure in to it,” she muttered. Aloud, she said, “All right. I’m going to send you home, to Remus, and I’ll have Hagrid bring you up tonight. Don’t worry about classes today; Hermione can catch you up.”

Harry nodded, and Madam Pomfrey used the Messaging Charm to inform Mr Filch, Hagrid, and Professors Flitwick, Cholmondeley, and Quirrell of his impending absence, it being just about time for breakfast at this point.

“All right, let’s at least get you to breakfast; Hagrid will meet you in the Entrance Hall afterward. This isn’t going to be a regular occurrence, just for today because it’s Hallowe’en.”

At breakfast, Ron told Hermione what happened.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear that, Harry. I’ll absolutely take notes for you, don’t worry about that, and if there’s anything else I can do, please let me know, okay?”

Harry nodded. “Thanks, both of you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ron said.

“What are you doing here, pup? It’s not Saturday,” Remus said when Harry walked in to the living room.

“Woke up from a nightmare this morning,” Harry said. As he spoke, he joined Remus on the couch. “Ron took me down to talk to Madam Pomfrey, and she said she’d send me home for the day on account of, well. The anniversary.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not going to be doing much, just making sure the candles I lit at sunset”—Remus gestured at the mantle over the fireplace, where a trio of candles were burning—“don’t burn the house down. Want to talk about the nightmare?”

Harry shrugged, but he told his uncle all about it, with rather more detail than he’d given Ron or Madam Pomfrey. As he talked, Remus sat up and pulled the lad in to his lap.

“Oh, pup… My poor dear pup,” Remus whispered gently in to his hair when he’d finished, and Harry began to cry softly in to his shoulder. “It’s all right, now. They can’t get to you, and you will never see them again. You’re part of my pack now, and I won’t let you go…”

Remus cleared his throat, and began to sing softly.

Go to sleep, dream deep,
Where the memories keep,
But return to your uncle, little puppy…

Your sire was the fire
Of a lifetime’s desire,
But he’s gone and departed, little puppy…

I will come if you call to me, call to me, call to me,
And I hear my puppy wailing, set me free, set me free…

When you wake, at daybreak,
For your true parents’ sake,
Say a blessing for me, little puppy…

You were born, in the morn,
From your mama’s womb torn,
To be sunshine for her, little puppy…

When you smiled, little child,
All the creatures in the wild,
Came to bask in your light, little puppy…

Now you came on a summer’s day, summer day, summer day,
But the warlock came and sent you far away, far away…

Now I’m old, and the cold
Seeks to turn me to mould,
But I’ll never forget, little puppy…

As Remus sang softly to him, Harry gradually calmed down, sniffling a little, and turned his head so that it rested comfortably on Remus, one ear against his uncle’s chest. “I love you,” Harry said, eventually, and Remus squeezed him just a bit.

“Love you too, my dear pup,” Remus said. “Are you feeling better now? Or shall I sing some more?”

“…I like your singing. Even if it’s…lullabies for babies.” Despite his words, Harry didn’t actually sound upset.

“I sing lullabies for pups, dear one, not babies,” Remus corrected him. “Besides, my entire job right now is to be here for you. If you’d rather not have lullabies, I’m sure we can figure something else out.”

“I, um…didn’t mean you shouldn’t sing me those, Uncle Remus. I just… I guess it’s that thing with Her putting me in younger kids’ clothes.”

“Understandable. You know, pup…you can flip the script on her and other people like her. Embrace it, make it your own, make it clear that it doesn’t bother you because you are in charge. Shame just gives bullies power over you, it does. I’ll follow your lead.”

“I’ll…think about it,” Harry said quietly. “Could I have some more songs, please?”

In Charms, Ron and Hermione sat together, and they’d pulled an empty desk over so Neville wasn’t an odd-man-out like he otherwise would’ve been. (Harry and Hermione usually took turns sitting with Neville, since Harry had the most patience of anyone in their class, and Hermione would’ve been sharing notes with him anyway.)

“Good morning, everyone,” Flitwick called as he hopped up on to the stool behind his lectern. “Today, we’ll be practising the so-called Hovering Charm, wingardium leviosa, as we’d discussed last week. Now, remember the wand movement, swish and flick! Swish…and flick! And be clear in your enunciation!”

With that, he demonstrated by levitating feathers on to everyone’s desks simultaneously. Ron and Neville didn’t have much luck, at least for the first several minutes of class. Finally, Hermione sighed. “Like this,” she said. She swished her wand, flicking it at just the right moment as she said, “Wingardium leviosa.”

Her feather floated up in to the air. “Five points to Gryffindor, excellent work, Miss Granger,” Flitwick said, smiling up at her.

Ron scowled, but tried his best to imitate her. His feather wobbled at first, but after a few seconds it joined Hermione’s, earning Gryffindor another three points.

Neville, meanwhile, was continuing to have trouble; his wand kept flicking in a wrong direction, despite his best efforts. It wasn’t even consistent in its wrongness—sometimes his wand moved a bit too up, sometimes a bit too right. Ron could tell he was getting a little frustrated.

“Neville, relax. Take a deep breath, and another one, and…let it flow, rather than trying to force it.”

This time, Neville’s feather floated up, and he offered a shy smile. “Thanks, Ron.” Ron’s ears went a little pink.

The three of them practised for the remainder of the class. Hermione was the most consistent of the three, and Ron was close behind. Neville continued to have trouble, but Ron’s advice did seem to be helping.

At dinner, before the feast began, Dumbledore rose and raised a hand until the Great Hall quieted.

“On this day, ten years ago, the most infamous warlock the Isles have ever known vanished. We know who he’d intended to murder, and we know that he failed to complete this task. And even as we remember these things, too many would focus on the fact of the Great Warlock’s defeat, and on the survival of the one we call the Boy Who Lived.

“We lose sight of the things the Great Warlock did, and not only to the Potters. Of the genocidal rhetoric he espoused, alongside orchestrating and participating in the murders of hundreds of our mundane brethren and the witches who loved them. And we let lie the ideology of blood purity that he promoted which, even today, continues to flourish unchecked in our community. What have we done, to prevent another warlock from following in his footsteps? What can we still do?

“And now, a moment of silence, please, for all of the victims of the Great Warlock and his allies.”

Harry, Ron noticed as he looked around, hadn’t come back yet. And Hagrid wasn’t in attendance, either. He and Hermione were seated with Madam Pomfrey, as usual, since she’d said she wasn’t sure when he’d be coming in.

Hagrid came in about fifteen minutes after the feast began, pausing by their table. “He had to take a leak, he’ll be along,” Hagrid said to Madam Pomfrey.

She nodded, and Hagrid left again, albeit after picking up a large basket that was sitting next to his place at the High Table.

Five minutes after that, Professor Quirrell ran in to the Great Hall.

“Troll! In the dungeon! Thought you ought to know,” he said, and fell over in a dead faint.

“Merlin’s teeth,” Ron swore. Harry still hadn’t come back. He and Hermione slipped away, even as Dumbledore was calling for order and having the Prefects form a defensive perimeter. Madam Pomfrey was too busy setting up a triage station, just in case, to notice. “C’mon, we have to go find Harry.”

Ron and Hermione quietly slipped past the still-forming perimeter, pausing just out of view of the Great Hall. “Let me think…ah, right, this way,” Ron said, and took the lead.

They smelled the troll before they saw them, just outside the boys’ toilets. The troll was about three and a half meters tall, stone grey, and vaguely humanoid in a way that made Ron think of a gorilla, though unlike a gorilla their head was small and they stood upright, as humans do. They dragged a huge wooden club behind them as they peered inside the room, and Ron heard snuffling as the troll appeared to be trying to find something by scent. The troll went inside.

“The key’s in the lock,” Ron muttered. Hermione muttered back, “…Isn’t that the boys’ toilet on this floor, though?”

“…Um. Yeah,” Ron said. Just then, they heard a high, petrified shriek from inside the room. “That was Harry,” Hermione hissed, and they ran in to the room.

There was Harry backed up against the far wall, looking as though he were about to faint. The troll was advancing on him, their club smashing in to the sinks along the way.

“Confuse it!” said Hermione, and she grabbed a tap and threw it against the wall. The troll stopped, turning their whole body as they looked around, and then they apparently spotted her, for they started moving toward Hermione, lifting their club.

“Oi, pea-brain!” Ron called from the other side of the room, and threw a metal pipe at the troll. The troll didn’t seem to notice the pipe, but they had apparently heard him; they paused, then turned toward Ron, giving Hermione an opportunity to slip by and reach Harry. She tried to tug him along, but he couldn’t move, still paralyzed with fear and gaping open-mouthed at the troll.

The confusion of sounds seemed to drive the troll berserk, for they bellowed as they started moving toward Ron, who had nowhere to go. Hermione paused, considered for a moment, then said, “Wingardium leviosa,” as she swished and flicked her wand, grabbing the troll’s club and lifting it out of their grasp.

The troll paused again and blinked, looking at their empty hand, then fell over as Hermione brought their club down on to their head, hard. Twice.

“I-i-is it d-dead?” Harry asked, shivering with fright still. Hermione pulled him in to a hug, which seemed to help.

“No, just knocked out, I think,” Ron said.

There came the sound of loud footsteps as several adults burst in to the room at once: McGonagall, Snape, and lastly Quirrell. Quirrell, for his part, took one look at the unconscious troll and sat quickly down where he’d been standing, a hand over his heart, looking faint. Snape bent over the troll, inspecting them.

McGonagall was looking, however, at Ron and Hermione, and they quailed at her furious expression. Harry looked up, saw her fury, and collapsed, burying his face in to Hermione’s robes and whimpering.

“What on earth were you thinking?” McGonagall asked, fury even more evident in her voice than it was on her face. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you still in the Great Hall?”

Snape looked up and gave Ron and Hermione a piercing look.

Harry said, sounding very small and scared, “Please, Professor…they were looking for me.”

“Mx Potter?” How her voice had changed from fury to kindness so swiftly, Ron could only guess as he looked toward Harry.

“I’d gone down here to use the restroom and was just about to head up to the Great Hall when that troll came snuffling about,” Harry said. “I couldn’t leave or tell anybody, and if they hadn’t come down, I’d probably be dead. Hermione knocked the troll out with the Hovering Charm and their club.”

“I…see,” McGonagall said, nodding. “Be that as it may, you would have done well to inform us, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger. However… For taking decisive action to find and rescue a missing person, five points to Gryffindor, Mr Weasley. For the excellent application of lessons in the real world, five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Now, you three had best head up to the Great Hall. Mx Potter, I would encourage you to discuss this with Dr Fitzgerald; I know events like this can be traumatic, particularly given that you were unable to defend yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said.

“Off you pop, then,” McGonagall said. He, Ron, and Hermione left.

Chapter Text

Quadball practice had gone from three days a week to daily just this week, though Wood had at least given Harry Wednesday off in light of the troll incident. With no free time after dinner, he’d been forced to study in the free periods before lunch, though fortunately he wasn’t actually alone in that—Hermione, Ron, and Neville had joined him. He’d also managed to read bits of Quadball Through the Ages when he found free time.

The first Saturday of November dawned clear and cold, and the first Quadball match of the season was scheduled for 10am, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, just seven short weeks since training had officially begun. Hagrid had been seen on the pitch the day before, carefully sweeping the field of debris and ensuring the stands were sound.

At breakfast, Harry had no appetite, unsurprisingly. Madam Pomfrey was able to cajole him in to eating at least a slice of toast and some sausage, but he was still very ill at ease.

By ten, everyone seemed to be out in the stands around the Quadball pitch. Many students had binoculars, as despite the stands being high up it was still difficult sometimes to see what was going on.

Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Darach, and Jamal up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they’d painted a large banner on the bedsheet Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter #1 Seeker, and Jamal, an aspiring artist, had painted a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Hermione had performed a tricky little charm to make the paint change colours.

Meanwhile, Harry and the rest of the team were changing in to their Quadball robes, which were similar in style to their school robes, but maroon and gold rather than the unrelieved black of the academic robes. (Slytherin’s were green and silver.) In addition, like the others, he put on leather armour: greaves, gauntlets, kneepads, and elbow pads. His gauntlets lacked gloves, unlike the others’, as his job was solely to catch the golden snitch.

“Okay, gentles and lady-men,” Wood said. “This is it.”

“The big one,” Fred said.

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” Georgia said.

“We know Wood’s speech by heart,” Fred said to Harry. “We were in the team last year.”

“Shut up, you two,” Wood said. “This is the best team Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win, I know it.”

He glared at them all, as if to say, “Or else.”

“Right, it’s time. Good luck, all of you,” Wood said, and he led them out on to the pitch.

Madam Hooch was refereeing, at the moment standing in the middle of the pitch, and off in the distance Harry could see Madam Pomfrey and Professor Conghaile staffing a triage station.

The two teams lined up on opposite sides, except for Harry and the Slytherin Seeker, Terrence Higgs; instead, they sat with their team reserves on the bench, holding their brooms.

“Now, I want a nice, clean game,” Madam Hooch said, eyeing the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a fifth-year. From what Harry could tell, Flint looked fairly massive. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Potter #1 Seeker banner fluttering in the breeze.

“Mount your brooms.”

Once both teams were mounted, she flicked her wand skyward, sending up a burst of iridescent sparks that emitted a loud buzz. Immediately, both teams kicked off, along with Madam Hooch.

“And the quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson, Gryffindor Chaser—and what an excellent lass she is, on and off the field—”

“Jordan!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

The Weasleys’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for the match, supervised closely by Professor McGonagall.

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet—a good find of Wood’s, last year a reserve—back to Johnson, and—no, Slytherin have taken the ball, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the quaffle and off he goes—Flint flying like an eagle up there—he’s going to sco—no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Oliver Wood, and Gryffindor take the quaffle—that’s Chaser Katie Bell there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and—ouch, that must have hurt, hit upside the head by a bludger—quaffle taken by Slytherin—that’s Chaser Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goalposts, but he’s blocked by a second bludger—sent his way by Fred or Georgia Weasley, whichever—nice play by a Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes—she’s really flying—dodges a speeding bludger—the goalposts are ahead—come on now, Angelina—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—Gryffindor score!”

Cheers and jeers erupted from the stands; the jeers mainly came from Slytherin, along with what was probably meant to be snake-like hissing from the younger ones.

“Budge up there, move along,” came a vaguely-familiar rumbling voice.

“Hagrid!”

Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give the enormous man enough space to sit.

“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” Hagrid said, patting the monocular hanging around his neck. “But it isn’t the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the snitch yet, eh?”

“Nope. It’s only been about fifteen minutes, hasn’t been released yet, so Harry’s still on the ground,” Ron said.

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee was saying. “Pucey ducks two bludgers, two Weasleys, and Bell, and speeds toward the Gryffindor goalposts…”

Just then, there came another burst of iridescent sparks and a loud buzzer sounded as the game reached seventeen minutes, signifying the release of the snitch.

“…And there goes the snitch! In a minute, the Seekers will join the fray. Remember, catching the snitch concludes the game, unless the Seeker’s team is behind on points after capture, in which case we go in to overtime, with the target score being the then-leading score plus 30.”

Harry mounted his broom, and across the field he could see Higgs doing the same…

“And that’s the eighteen-minute mark, the Seekers, Gryffindor’s Harry Potter and Slytherin’s Terrence Higgs, take to the sky as well, while Bell takes the quaffle across the field…”

Harry tuned out the commentary as he scanned the field, slowly circling the pitch and—there it was! He shot down and to the left, curving… Higgs followed suit mere seconds later, and Harry was gaining on the snitch until—wham!

A roar of rage bellowed from the stands; Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry’s broom spun off-course, Harry holding on for dear life. A loud buzzer sounded, pausing the game as Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then awarded a free shot to Gryffindor. But, of course, the snitch had vanished again amidst the confusion.

Down in the stands, Jamal Thomas was yelling, “Send him off, ref! Red card!”

“This isn’t football, Jamal,” Ron reminded him. “You can’t send people off in Quadball…and what’s a red card, anyway?”

Hagrid was in agreement with Jamal, however. “They oughta change the rules, Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air.”

Lee Jordan was finding it difficult to be impartial, of course. “So, after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating—”

“Jordan!” McGonagall growled, sounding vaguely feline.

“I mean, after that open and revolting foul—”

“Jordan, I’m warning you—”

“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a penalty shot to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession…”

It was as Harry dodged a bludger that flew dangerously close to his head that it happened. His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall, but he gripped the broom tightly and shifted his center of gravity. Even when he’d strafed during practice, he’d never felt anything like that.

It happened again, as if the broom itself were trying to buck him off. But the Nimbus line of brooms weren’t designed to do anything like that. Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goalposts, to ask Wood to call a time-out—but his broom proved to be entirely beyond his control. It refused to turn, and instead was zigzagging through the air, and now and then making violent swinging motions that threatened to unseat him every time.

Lee was still commentating. “Slytherin in possession—Flint with the Quaffle—passes Spinnet—passes Bell—hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose—only joking, Professor—Slytherin score—oh no…”

The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.

“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid muttered. He stared through his monocular. “If I didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his broom…but he can’t have…”

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” Darach whispered.

“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t nothing interfere with a broom except powerful maleficery—no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand.”

At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid’s monocular, but instead of looking up at Harry, she started looking frantically at the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Ron moaned, grey-faced.

“I knew it,” Hermione gasped. “Look, among the teachers—”

Ron grabbed the monocular. Snape and Quirrell were staring up at Harry, both muttering non-stop.

“They’re doing something, jinxing the broom, it looks like,” Hermione said.

“What should we do?” Ron asked.

“Leave it to me.”

Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had disappeared. Ron turned the binoculars back on Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd were on their feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely on to one of their brooms, but it was no good—every time they got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the quaffle and scored three times without anyone noticing.

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately.

Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape stood and was now racing along the row behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled out her wand and whispered a few, well chosen words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand on to the hem of Snape’s robes.

It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realise that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar in her pocket she scrambled back along the row—Snape would never know what had happened.

It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back aboard his broom.

“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been sobbing into Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes.

Harry was speeding towards the ground when the crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick—he hit the pitch on all fours—coughed—and something gold fell into his hand.

“I’ve got the snitch!” Harry called, raising it above his head, and the game ended in complete confusion.

“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was still kvetching twenty minutes later, but it made no difference—Harry hadn’t broken any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the result—Gryffindor had won by fifty points to forty.

Harry heard none of this, of course—Madam Pomfrey had just finished examining him. “As far as I can tell, you’re physically okay, Harry. Go ahead and change, and you can go. I’ll write up a report for Dr Fitzgerald and Professor Dumbledore, and—”

Ron and Hermione burst in, interrupting Madam Pomfrey. “Harry! Are you okay?” they chorused.

“Yes, he’s okay,” Madam Pomfrey said, disapprovingly. “I was just about to discharge him. Was there something you wanted to add?”

Ron flushed, but Hermione nodded and said, “Yeah. We think Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell were doing something to the broom—I don’t know if one was jinxing it and the other fighting the jinx, or what, but both Ron and I observed them staring at his broom while muttering non-stop.”

“Hm. Harry, you can go; Ron and Hermione, tell me everything.”

Harry nodded and ducked out. However, he was waiting for them, dressed casually, when they were finished talking with Madam Pomfrey.

“I’m home!” Harry called as he, Ron, and Hermione came in.

“Welcome home, Harry,” Remus called from the living room. As usual, he was sprawled on the couch, and as usual Harry crossed the room to snuggle with him.

“How was Quadball?”

“Well…I caught the snitch and we won, but…” Harry began. He, Ron, and Hermione laid out the events of the game.

“Weird. I’m sure Severus would’ve been doing his best to keep you safe, I am, but I have some suspicions about Quirrell,” Remus said, finally. “I’ll ask Minerva to have a look at the broom, just to be sure it’s not the broom acting up—it’d be unheard of, but your safety matters more to me than Quadball does. In the meantime, you two might as well stay for dinner. Harry, do me a favour and write a note to Hagrid? My joints aren’t up to chaperone duty today.”

Harry nodded and scampered to his room. A few minutes later, he came back out. He offered the note he’d written to Remus to check, and handed Hermione the pack of Uno cards.

“Right, that’s it. Take it to the owlery and send it off, please.”

“Of course, Uncle Remus,” Harry said agreeably.

The next morning was Harry’s weekly appointment with Dr Fitzgerald, as usual.

“So, it’s taken me a bit longer than usual to write up my evaluation,” she said when the three of them were seated in the living room. “That’s not anything to do with you and it doesn’t mean there’s anything particularly unusual about your case. You have Asperger’s Syndrome; post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD; avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder, or ARFID; anorexia; and species dysphoria.”

“…What do all of those words mean?” Harry asked, looking confused. Remus merely looked concerned.

“Asperger’s Syndrome, basically, means that you have deficits in social interaction and nonverbal communication skills, engage in repetitive behaviours—like your knuckle-tapping…no, don’t stop doing that if you find it’s helping you—and intense focus on interests. Unlike autism, a similar condition, you didn’t show any signs of language delay or hyperverbosity, nor general learning disability. Asperger’s Syndrome cannot be cured, only managed. We’ll talk about management in a bit.

“PTSD basically means that you experienced traumatic events in the past, and which may result in experiencing nightmares or flashbacks, avoidance of trauma-related cues which may trigger flashbacks, and changes in what triggers fight-or-flight responses. This can include flinching at loud noises, difficulties handling conflicts, fawning responses, and more. We can treat PTSD to some degree, but it won’t ever fully go away.

“ARFID basically means that there are foods you won’t or can’t eat, for a variety of reasons, and might include limiting what foods you eat to known ‘safe’ foods. I know you have textural issues, for example. This can result in disordered eating, eating either not enough or too much food, or malnutrition due to a lack of variety or failing to meet nutritional needs.

“Anorexia is an eating disorder characterised by inadequate food intake and malnutrition. It includes an unhealthy low body weight, an intense fear of gaining weight, and a view of weight and shape that is not realistic. In this instance, I am specifically excluding your species dysphoria, since that is a separate matter entirely. Regardless, Madam Pomfrey is already working with you regarding this and your ARFID, and so I will leave that to her.

“Finally, dysphoria. Usually, when we talk about dysphoria, we look at gender dysphoria, which is an intense discomfort, unhappiness, or distress due to primary or secondary sex characteristics related to your assigned sex at birth. In your case, however, it’s due to your body being human-shaped. I suspect there may be gender dysphoria as well, but that is probably tied in to the shape of your body as well.

“Any questions before we move on?”

Chapter Text

The Monday after Gryffindor’s victory over Slytherin, Ron decided, at last, to go see Madam Pomfrey.

“Good morning, Ron. What troubles you?” she asked, when he walked in to the Hospital Wing.

“Good morning. Um, well…Hermione told me ages ago I ought to see you,” Ron said, “something about…dyslexia, I think she called it? Said I might have it, when I told her about how letters like to move around on me when I’m trying to read.”

“I see,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Well, I’ll need to perform an assessment, and then we can figure out what kinds of things we can do to mitigate it. I’ll have the supplies together for both the assessment and the aid evaluation tomorrow, so meet me here after breakfast. Are you experiencing any other difficulties with your schoolwork?”

“No, just the reading thing.”

“All right. Well, if that ever changes, please feel free to let me know.”

“Of course. Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.”

“All right. So, there are a few things we can do,” Madam Pomfrey said the next morning, after the assessment. “First, if you’re comfortable with it, you can ask people to read things aloud to you. Harry and Hermione will, I’m sure, be happy to help there. Secondly, I will instruct professors to provide copies of anything they write on the boards in a standard font, along with anything handwritten they might direct to you. You might also ask Miss Granger or another mundaneborn witch to help you acquire an enchanted voice recorder. Unfortunately, the Ministry is not nearly so progessive as our mundane government, so there aren’t many magical accessibility aids available.”

Two weeks later, Professor Sørensen held a particularly fascinating lesson, or at least Ron thought so, anyway.

“Good afternoon, class. Today we’ll be talking about kobolds, as part of our first-year survey of contemporary witch and mundane society. We’ve touched upon them briefly when we talked about banking, but there is a lot more to them than perhaps even those of us who’ve lived among witches all our lives may realise.”

Ron sat up; he’d been curious about kobolds since Bill had mentioned working with Gringott’s as a curse-breaker, but with his dyslexia he’d never bothered to do any research. Now, however…

“Now, the most important thing to remember about kobolds is that they are entirely asexual: there are no male or female kobolds. Each one can lay eggs, but those eggs can only be fertilised and quickened through the use of magic. It is theorised that kobolds are descended from dragons, given that kobolds and dragons can commonly be found together—some of the higher-security vaults at Gringott’s feature dragons in their security arrangements, for example—but nobody’s been able to prove it, and the kobolds refuse to discuss it.

“Human-kobold relations have been remarkably stable, as well, compared to how humanity has treated other nonhumans. Given that kobolds are primarily subterranean and that they have quite prodigious control over the earth, this is perhaps unsurprising: we don’t compete with them for space, and they don’t drop mountains on our heads, so long as we respect their territorial claims.

“Last but certainly not least, kobolds mint our currency. They are not the only nonhumans to do so—Japanese witches contract with tengu, for example—but Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts are the only truly pan-European currency, even here in the Isles.”

The week after that, the first snow of the season fell at last, and the Gryffindors were delighted. An angry McGonagall came down to the Gryffindor table during lunch to have words with Fred and Georgia after they’d bewitched several snowballs to follow Professor Quirrell around and pelt the back of his head. Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Neville, meanwhile, had enjoyed playing in the snow that morning.

In the weeks leading up to winter break, evergreens started to appear throughout the castle, and Hagrid could occasionally be seen lugging another one in. Garlands of holly festooned the Great Hall, and, somehow, Christmas carols could be heard throughout the corridors. It was hard for Harry to be excited, even though he’d be spending two weeks at home with Remus.

“It’s not that I don’t like Christmas,” he’d said. “It’s that winter break was the worst part of the year when I lived with the Dursleys. At least during summer break I could get away from the house. Think about it. Ten years of being stuck at home with the most horrible people you know.”

Ron, Hermione, and Neville had understood at once, of course. The Weasleys were going to be staying at Hogwarts over winter break, as their parents were visiting Charlie in Romania and wouldn’t be back until after New Year’s.

Ron had expected the halls and, especially, the dungeons to be draughty and cold by now, given that Hogwarts was a huge structure made of stone, but in fact they were, like the classrooms and dorms, climate-controlled. (Hermione had told him that the enchantments for this were laid in to the stone when Hogwarts was built.)

“I do feel so sorry,” Draco Malfoy said during Potions, “for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.”

He was looking over at Hermione as he spoke, and Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. Hermione ignored him as she measured out powdered spine of lionfish. Malfoy had gotten even more unpleasant since the Quadball match. Disgusted at Slytherin’s loss, he’d tried to get everyone to laugh at how a wide-mouthed tree frog would be Gryffindor Seeker next. Then he’d realised nobody found this funny, as they were far too impressed by how Harry’d managed to stay on his broom. As a result, he’d gone back to commenting on Harry’s lack of family, and apparently decided to include Hermione in his bullying.

Ron, who had partnered with Harry at the workbench behind Malfoy, scowled. He opened his mouth to say something, but Harry muttered, “Don’t bother, unless you’re ready to whup his butt till he cries for his mum.”

Ron nodded, and they continued brewing the Wiggenweld Potion. He did, however, give Malfoy a venomous look.

It was true that Hermione wasn’t going home for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come around on the eighth, before Harry left for the weekend, to gather a list of the students who would be remaining at Hogwarts over winter break. Hermione had signed up at once. The Weasleys did as well, as their parents were planning to visit Charlie down in Romania for the holiday. Harry, since he lived down in Hogsmeade village, had told Ron and Hermione he’d come up Christmas Day, at least.

The last weeks of term flew by, it felt like, and Harry woke up on Christmas morning at six, as he usually did. He stretched, yawning, and slipped on a bathrobe to combat the morning chill, and gave Xenia her usual early-morning romp and breakfast before he headed out to the living room with her.

Remus hadn’t bothered with a Christmas tree, but in its stead was a lollipop tree perched on the end table. At the foot of the table, however, there was a pile of presents. Remus was sprawled on the couch, though it wasn’t a full moon, and he smiled at Harry as he sat up, opening his arms a bit in invitation.

“Happy Christmas, Harry. Those are all yours, I believe. Except for the couple you put there for me, anyway,” he said. “I’ll get breakfast going in a minute, I will, but first…”

“Happy Christmas, Uncle Remus,” Harry said as he hugged Remus, then he plopped down on to the ground, pulling one of the presents over. It was a long, thin parcel wrapped in brown paper, and scrawled along its length was, To Harry, from Hagrid. He opened it carefully, revealing a hand-carved wooden flute. It sounded a bit like wolfsong when he blew through it experimentally. Remus snorted.

“I suppose that’s one way you can be more like a wolf, pup,” he said. “That sounds a bit like a wolf, it does.”

Harry giggled and nodded. The next present he opened was from Remus himself. It was a large handmade wolf plushie. Harry blinked, and asked, “…Is this based on your wolf form, Uncle Remus?”

“I have no idea, actually; I commissioned it from a mundane toymaker through the Ministry, and the only folks alive today who know what Moony looks like are, um. Professor McGonagall and Hagrid. Maybe you, this weekend, but”—Remus raised a finger to forestall comment—“I will need your word that you’ll keep it to yourself.”

“I swear on my word as Potter that I will keep your lycanthropy, and all events tied thereunto, in confidence,” Harry said solemnly. He was hugging the wolf plushie close, Remus noticed.

“All right, then. There’s still some presents left, there are.”

Harry grinned, and pulled another one over, one-handed. He looked at it more closely, then handed it to Remus. “For you,” he said.

“Oh?” Remus unwrapped it carefully, revealing a set of ties that featured woodland animals; for some reason, every single one featured a wolf somewhere. “Heh. Rascal,” Remus said, amused.

“Well,” Harry began, then paused, tilting his head. “…I thought you could use some new ties.”

Remus chuckled and ruffled Harry’s hair affectionately. “Silly pup. It’s true, though, I do need to refresh my wardrobe.”

Hermione had opted to get Harry a box of chocolate frogs (he wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed that, given first- and second-years didn’t have permission to visit Hogsmeade unchaperoned). Neville, meanwhile, had apparently chosen to splurge; he’d gifted Harry a fairly comprehensive broom care kit. There were now only three more presents under the table, and Harry handed the larger one to Remus. On it was scrawled, To Remus, from Ron, Hermione, and Neville, along with their signatures.

Remus opened it carefully, revealing a painting of a forest scene along with a Christmas card, featuring Jack Frost.

Remus chuckled. “Be sure to thank them for me when you head up to Hogwarts after breakfast, will you? It’s a gorgeous painting.”

“Of course,” Harry said. The second-to-last present proved to be from the Weasleys’ mother, and contained a hand-knitted emerald-green jumper and a package of fudge.

Harry pulled the last parcel over to himself, and opened it. Inside was a bundle of cloth, and a note. He picked up the note and read it aloud.

“I’d wondered where James’s cloak had gone,” Remus muttered, staring at the cloth bundle. “Is there a signature on that note?”

“Not that I can see,” Harry said. He offered it to Remus, who looked it over. “Hm. Albus’s handwriting, I think. Well, your father would definitely have wanted you to have it, he would. Go ahead and try it on.”

Harry shook it out and proceeded to do just that, though the texture of the outside of the cloak was rather offputting. Remus nodded. “Yup, that’s his invisibility cloak, it is. Look down.”

Harry did, and gaped. He couldn’t see himself, unless he poked part of his body out from under his cloak. “Wow. It’s a bit like wearing a tent, for me, but…wow.”

“Now, the thing about this invisibility cloak is,” Remus said, “for as long as I’ve been aware of its existence, it has not lost its magic. Normally, you’re lucky if the Disillusionment Charm scribed in to a cloak lasts a decade, and they’re imperfect—the colour of the cloak bleeds through the charm just a bit. But it’s been at least thirty years and this one still functions flawlessly, and doesn’t have that imperfection.”

“Weird. I wonder where it came from, then,” Harry said. “From what we’ve been learning in Theory of Magic, nonhuman magic can sometimes be significantly better for some tasks than anything humans can come up with.”

“Absolutely. Kobold craftsfolk are incredibly skilled with metalwork, for example, so their knives and weapons are much sought-after even today. However, part of their culture is that the craftsperson is the true owner of the things they make, and others are merely lent them for a time. It’s one of only a few major issues between our peoples; there are a lot of artefacts in human hands that should have been returned to their creators, there are.”

“…Have you considered teaching at Hogwarts, Uncle Remus?” Harry asked.

“I’ve thought about it, but remember what I said about anti-werewolf prejudices in witch society?”

“…Yeah.”

Ron and Hermione met in the Common Room, where their presents were piled under a tree. Ron pulled a hassock over and sat on it, whereas Hermione opted for the armchair next to the tree.

“Happy Christmas,” Ron said. “I think Harry said he’d be meeting with us after breakfast.”

“That’s what I recall,” Hermione confirmed. She unwrapped her first present, which turned out to be a 3D jigsaw puzzle of Big Ben. “I wish they’d stop giving me 3D puzzles, the foam the manufacturers use is awful.”

Ron, who’d never seen a 3D puzzle before, said, “That’s pretty cool, though.”

“You can have it, then,” Hermione said, handing the box to him. “I have so many at home, they’re not going to ask about this one.”

Ron nodded. “Oh, my mum must’ve made you a jumper,” he said, handing her a large, lumpy parcel. She opened it, and indeed it was, along with a large box of homemade fudge. She pulled on the deep purple jumper immediately.

“It’s so soft!” she marvelled.

“Yeah, when I mentioned we were friends I told her you had sensory issues,” Ron said. Hermione grinned at him. “I’ll have to thank her,” she said.

Harry had sent Ron several pairs of jeans, and for Hermione he’d bought copies of the first three Dresden Files novels to date. “Oh, huh. I’ll have to read these,” she said as she set them aside. Neville had sent them both fountain pens in Gryffindor colours, each enchanted to be able to erase ink in a fashion similar to that of a rubber eraser and graphite.

Ron’s eyebrows rose when he unwrapped the present Hermione had gotten him. “Parchment…?” he asked.

“It’s speller parchment, specifically,” Hermione said. “It has an enchantment on it to automatically correct your spelling, so you don’t have to worry about that. Each pack comes with a stylus so that you can change individual words if it got the wrong word. It’s not able to move words around, but I’m sure the witches who came up with it are working on that.”

“Ohhh. That’s actually really cool! Where’d you find this stuff, anyway?”

“Oh, uh, one of the twins got me an owl-order catalogue about a month ago when they were in Hogsmeade, and I saved up my allowance. Not that it was doing me any good, Hogwarts doesn’t have a commissary.”

“Oh, I see.” Ron’s ears turned pink as Hermione unwrapped his gift to her.

“Oh, cool! I can always use more bookmarks,” Hermione said happily, holding up the packet of lion bookmarks Ron had picked out for her. Ron relaxed, and the pink in his ears faded.

After Christmas, and in lieu of much else to do (one can only have so many chess matches and snowball fights, after all), Ron took to wandering Hogwarts in the afternoons. That Saturday, he came across an unused classroom with the door open, and he looked inside. There was an ornate, full-length mirror standing in the center of the room. He went in and stood before it, curious.

Ron saw, not his reflection, but a tall young woman who looked like him, down to having the same blue eyes and fiery hair. But she wore a well-fitted Hogwarts uniform, with a Head Girl’s pin on the right breast of the robe, and her hair was a shaggy mane. Behind and around her stood her family, all beaming at her, and she held the House Cup, trimmed in Gryffindor red and gold, casually in one hand. For the first time in her life, Ron noticed a deep discomfort, one that had been weighing on her without her awareness for what seemed like years.

Ron looked around, trying to see what she had seen in the mirror, before her gaze fell on the golden plaque at the top of the mirror. It read, Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. She cogitated on that for a bit, then felt like she’d been hit by a brick. Again.

Oh. Oh. What it said was, I show not your face, but your heart’s desire. Ron had for years daydreamed sometimes about what it would have been like to have been born a girl, and she’d been jealous sometimes, though she tried not to show it, when Ginny had worn dresses. And if the mirror showed its viewer their heart’s desire, like it said…

She sat down and stared in to the mirror, entranced, and the young woman she beheld moved around, engaged in various activities. Sometimes she wore a Quadball outfit in Gryffindor colours. Sometimes her hair was tamed, and she wore a blouse and skirt, with heels.

The westering sun eventually forced her to look away as it shone directly on the mirror, and Ron gasped. By now, it was nearly dinnertime, and she left hurriedly, sparing one last look in to the mirror.

When Harry joined her and Hermione in the Gryffindor Common Room the next morning, she pulled them over to a corner, away from Fred and Georgia (who were apparently working on something).

“So, um,” Ron began. “I have a couple things to share. Um. First, the, um. Bigger thing. That is, um. I’m transgender.”

Harry and Hermione both pulled her in to a hug, more or less simultaneously, and Harry said, “Thank you for telling us. Is there a name you’d rather we used?”

“Not yet,” Ron admitted. “I only just realised it yesterday afternoon, and it’s the weirdest thing…”

She told them about the mirror, and what she’d seen when she looked in to it.

“That’s…really weird,” Hermione said, after a moment. “And it sounds like powerful magic. In which case, why was it standing there in an open classroom?”

Ron shrugged. “Beats me. I wonder if it’s still there…”

“Only one way to find out,” Harry said, and the three of them got up. Ron took the lead, and it was only about ten minutes later that they came across the classroom. The door was, as yesterday, open, and Ron could see the mirror still standing where it had been placed.

“There it is,” she said, and they walked in. Harry was the first to look in to the mirror, and Ron and Hermione stood back. He gaped.

“What is it, Harry? What do you see?” Hermione asked.

“I see…a large, gray wolf with green eyes, and he’s playing with you two and Uncle Remus. You’re all taking turns throwing a large stick,” Harry said. They both blinked at that.

“You don’t see…yourself?” Ron asked, sounding mystified.

“No…I think I’m the wolf…? But…why would I…?”

Ron could hear the deep longing and confusion in Harry’s voice, and it took her a moment to figure out that it was very similar to how she felt regarding being a girl.

It was then that Harry fell to his knees, tears running down his face, and the sound of his movement yanked Ron out of her reverie as she and Hermione ran forward to envelop Harry in another group hug. It soon turned in to Harry sobbing in to her shoulder, while Hermione rubbed his back gently.

Eventually, Harry’s sobbing quieted, and he pulled away, sniffling.

“I just…I am a wolf,” he said miserably. “I don’t care what this… this flesh robot looks like, it’s not me.”

“I…see,” Ron said after a moment. She exchanged looks with Hermione. “I think…well, I know I need to talk to Madam Pomfrey, anyway. I don’t know if there’s anything anyone can do for you, as far as your being a wolf goes, but…we’re here for you.”

Harry nodded. He gave the mirror another longing look. This time, the wolf he saw was rolling around, being an absolute fluffhead. Harry blinked, and stared. That was a girl wolf.

“C’mon, Harry, let’s go,” Ron said as she and Hermione stood up. She offered a hand, and Harry accepted it gratefully. As they turned toward the door, they froze. Dumbledore was sitting at a desk next to it. He stood, and walked over.

“Good morning,” he said kindly. “I see you’ve found the Mirror of Erised.”

“Why’s it called that and not just ‘the Mirror of Desire’?” Ron asked, bemused.

“An unfortunate failing among witches, Miss Weasley,” Dumbledore said, “is that they tend to be too clever for their own good. I’m sure you know by now what it does?”

“Shows us our heart’s desire, according to the plaque up top.”

“Indeed. The deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts, in fact. For you, it showed you as an outstanding and much-accomplished young woman. For Mx Potter, it showed a wolf bitch.”

All three of the kids blinked at that.

“…How did you know?” Harry asked, after a moment. “I didn’t say anything about the wolf being a girl.”

“Truthfully, I had a hunch,” Dumbledore explained. “Whereas Miss Weasley watched her reflection move around yesterday, your eyes were focused on some specific thing. Given that your Uncle Vernon’s sister breeds dogs, I think you know how to tell dogs from bitches, which means your attention would not have been ensnared so had you observed a dog-wolf.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense. Wait, you were here when Ron found the Mirror yesterday?”

“I do not need an invisibility cloak to be invisible,” Dumbledore said. Ron wondered if he realised how smug he’d sounded.

“However,” Dumbledore continued, “this Mirror’s enchantment has a tendency to ensnare those who look in to it. Many witches have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is even real or possible.

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tonight. I advise you three not to go looking for it again. If you ever do encounter it again, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on desperate hopes and forget to live. Now, I believe you were off to see Madam Pomfrey?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

“I shan’t keep you, then. Off you pop.”

As they left, Ron couldn’t help but wonder how Dumbledore had known about her vision, since she hadn’t said anything about it in that room.

Chapter Text

“Good morning,” Madam Pomfrey said as Ron, Hermione, and Harry walked in to the Hospital Wing. “Go on ahead in to my office and have a seat,” she added when she saw Harry’s face.

Once the four of them were seated, Madam Pomfrey asked, “I take it there were developments this morning?”

“Yeah, um,” Ron said. “I came across the Mirror of Erised in a classroom yesterday afternoon and took Harry and Hermione up to see it earlier today. What I saw when I looked in to it was myself as a girl. Harry…um, saw a wolf playing with us and Remus.”

Madam Pomfrey winced, but before she could say anything, Harry said, “A girl wolf, I saw, when I looked in to it one last time as we were going to leave to talk to you about her.”

“I’d warned Albus that there was going to be trouble if he left that bloody thing lying around,” Madam Pomfrey muttered; Harry didn’t think she’d meant him to hear her. Aloud, she said, “I see. Dr Fitzgerald and I discussed this a few times. There is no treatment for what she’s calling ‘species dysphoria’, unfortunately. Therianthropy, or specifically lycanthropy in this case, might make it better, or it might make the dysphoria worse, but once the infection takes hold, it will never go away. Because of that, even if I were in a position to help you acquire therianthropy, I could not legally do so until you are an adult, even with your guardian’s approval. More than that, you would have to be registered upon acquiring the infection, or everyone aware risks legal consequences.

“There is one other means of becoming a shapeshifter, but Animagi have only limited control over what their animal form is when they complete the ritual. Your animal form might be a wolf…or it might be a chihuahua. And the ritual only works once. Professor McGonagall can tell you more about it, but it’s OWL-level work—you would not be expected to be able to perform the ritual until fifth-year at the absolute earliest.

“Now, the gender dysphoria, on the other hand…and I believe this is something all three of you will be interested in—I can help with. When you are ready, I can prescribe a puberty blocker; this would prevent you from having a male puberty, until you are ready to decide on which puberty you want to have. When you’re sure that you want a female puberty, I would then prescribe a hormone replacement therapy. I have pamphlets here which will discuss both of these treatments and what to expect, but I will require a permission slip from a parent or legal guardian.”

The three of them nodded. “Well,” Harry said. “I don’t know that I’d be any more comfortable as a human girl than I am as, well.” He broke off.

“All right. If you change your mind, which you are allowed to at any time, let me and Mr Lupin know, all right?” At Harry’s nod, Madam Pomfrey turned her gaze to Ron.

“Mum’s a bit old-fashioned, but she’s always been good with Luna when they come over to see Ginny,” Ron said. “I do know she loves all of her kids, even at Fred and Georgia’s worst, though. I think she’d be pleased to know she has three daughters.”

“My parents say they’re onboard, but…honestly,” Hermione said, when Madam Pomfrey’s attention turned to her. “It’s like they think I don’t notice their attitude being all ‘let’s just humour him, he’ll grow out of it’. And I have noticed, thank you very much. I guess we’ll find out how much they actually care.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “All right. Here are the pamphlets and permission slips. Be aware that, while I will be able to start the puberty blocker as soon as I have the slips, the HRT aspect will take a month to prepare.” She handed two pamphlets and a slip to Ron and Hermione. “In addition to the permission slips, I will need you to read the pamphlets thoroughly and be able to confirm that you understand the information contained therein.”

They nodded. “Good. Off you pop, then,” Madam Pomfrey said warmly.

After dinner that evening, which Harry took at Hogwarts, he met with Hagrid and Remus at Hagrid’s hut, alone. Snow was falling, and Remus was wearing a heavy, hooded cloak and leaning heavily on his cane when Harry arrived.

“Hey, Uncle Remus, Hagrid,” Harry said. He was outfitted in long johns, denim trousers, a flannel shirt, the emerald green jumper Mrs Weasley had gifted him, a hunting jacket, a pair of mitten-gloves, his school winter cloak, and a woolly hat.

“Hey, pup,” Remus said, his voice a bit scratchy. “Ready?”

“Yup. While we’re walking, I want to share something with you, if that’s okay. Something that came up this morning.”

“Go ahead,” Remus said as the trio began making their way in to the Forbidden Forest. He kept the hood of his cloak pulled down over his eyes, as the moon had already risen by then.

“So, Professor Dumbledore had apparently left a magic mirror,” Harry said, “which he called the Mirror of Erised in one of the unused classrooms, and Ron found it yesterday afternoon. She showed it to me and Hermione this morning, after telling us what she saw in it. What I saw when I looked in to it was, well. A green-eyed girl wolf, romping around with you, Ron, and Hermione.”

Remus stopped abruptly. “The…Mirror of Erised, you say? And that’s what you saw?”

“Uh huh.” A pause, then: “Why? Does that mean something to you?”

Remus sighed and shook himself as a wolf might, and resumed walking. “Mm. It’s aptly-named, it is. Remember that it shows no futures, however. The fool witch who enchanted it wasted away in front of it himself, as I recall.”

After a few minutes, Harry asked softly, sounding small, “Uncle Remus? …If I were a wolf, would you still love me?”

“Of course I would, pup. Why do you ask?”

“I dunno, I just…” Harry sighed. “…I’ve been thinking about how the only family you have right now is me.”

Remus came to a stop again. “C’mere,” he said gently, and when Harry did so he pulled him in under the cloak, hugging him tightly. “There is nothing at all that you could do to make me leave you, my dear pup. Not one single thing. But c’mon, I’m starting to itch, I am, and we’re almost there.”

He released Harry, and after a few more minutes they reached the clearing that was their destination. Harry cleared some snow off of a stump and sat down on it, while Hagrid found himself a log. Remus pulled his cloak off and tossed it to the larger man, and carefully made his way out of the clearing and in to the forest a little ways further.

“It’s brutal to watch,” Hagrid said, noticing the concerned look on Harry’s face. “Brutal to hear, too, but nowt to be done about tha’.”

Sure enough, the two of them could hear Remus’s agonised screaming as his transformation began. The next few minutes were some of the longest Harry had ever endured, even as the screams changed into yelps and loud whimpers. Eventually, the most beautiful creature Harry had ever seen padded in to the clearing, wagging his tail and doggie-grinning as he gazed upon the child in turn.

“Hey again, Uncle Remus,” Harry said, and his smile all but lit the clearing. The wolf padded over and snuffled Harry, careful to keep his muzzle closed when it was in his proximity, and Harry giggled, petting and scritching his head where he could reach.

“Heeeeeey,” he mock-protested, when Remus snuffled at his ear. “Wanna play fetch?”

The wolf play-bowed, letting out a soft awoo, as Hagrid handed Harry a large stick. Owing to his small stature, he wasn’t able to throw it all that far, but Remus wagged and trotted after it all the same. Even Hagrid gave a few throws, chuckling, whenever Remus dropped the stick at his feet rather than Harry’s.

After about an hour of this, Remus sat next to Harry. He sang for a while, a song that Harry somehow knew was a song of happiness and love. Harry regretted leaving the flute Hagrid had made him at home, as otherwise he wasn’t able to join in. Instead, he ran his hands gently down the wolf’s back, and eventually just leaned against him, an arm thrown around.

Back at Hogwarts, Hermione had just gone up to bed when Fred and Georgia trotted over to where Ron was sitting.

“We’ve been thinking,” Fred said.

“That you might be interested,” Georgia said.

“In a secret passage we found,” Fred said.

“I really wish you wouldn’t complete each other’s sentences like that,” Ron said. “But go on.”

Fred ignored Ron’s complaint, but nodded. “Come with us,” he said.

“And don’t dawdle,” Georgia said.

“If you want to live,” Fred finished.

Ron sighed and stood, following her siblings. “Oh, uh. Since you’re showing me a secret, I ought to share one with you,” she said.

“Ickle Ronniekins has a secret?” Fred gasped.

“Shut up. I’m serious,” Ron said.

“That’s odd, you don’t look like a dog,” Georgia said.

“Or a star,” Fred said.

“Anyway… I’m trans,” Ron said quietly.

The twins stopped abruptly, and Ron nearly walked in to them. They turned in unison and hugged her.

“Welcome to the club,” Georgia said.

“I—wait, what?” Ron asked.

“I’m trans too,” Georgia said. “Mum was ecstatic, she’d been hoping for daughters, and here I was telling her at three that I’m a girl. This was just before Ginny was born.”

Ron blinked. “…Oh. Well. That explains a lot.” She glanced significantly at the twins’ outfits, which were calculatedly androgynous-leaning-feminine that night.

“Right, anyway. Secret passage,” Fred said, and they were off again.

In due course, they arrived on the third floor, and there in an alcove, along the eastern wall of the northern corridor, was a suit of armour holding a lance upright which had a purple banner tied near its point.

“Here we are,” Georgia said.

“Here it is,” Fred said.

“The secret passage,” they chorused, as Fred rotated the helmet ninety degrees clockwise. A small crack appeared in the wall, widening until the three of them were able to slide in. A few minutes later, they paused, and Fred whispered, “Be very, very quiet.”

“There’s a three-headed dog coming up,” Georgia whispered.

“And he’s asleep right now,” Fred whispered.

“But he could wake up any moment,” Georgia finished.

Ron just glared at the twins, and they soon emerged in to a moderately-sized chamber. Sure enough, there was in fact a three-headed dog. Ron looked around, and noticed there was a trap door under the dog. She also noticed that the room reeked, and there were flies buzzing about; she doubted it was mucked out very often.

The twins smirked at her, and then led her back through the secret passage. When they got back to the statue, Georgia rotated the helmet back to its original bearing.

“Pretty neat, huh?” Fred asked.

“That’s our Christmas gift to you,” Georgia said.

“I mean, it’s neat,” Ron said, “but why would I ever need to use it? There’s a giant dog at the other end.”

The twins shrugged. “That’s just it, though: why is a large dog being kept inside what is effectively just a very large crate?” Fred asked.

At breakfast the next morning, Ron asked Hermione, “Hey. Do you think you could help me research names? Mum has a whole theme going on with her kids; we’re all either references to Arthurian mythology or from mediaeval Britain. Like, take Ginny, for instance: ‘Ginevra’ is the Italian version of Gwenhyfar, King Arthur’s consort. Or Percy: Sir Percival is one of his knights.”

Hermione nodded. “Sure, we can do that. Let’s see…some mediaeval history books, the Arthurian canon… It may take a bit, but we’ll get you a suitable name.”

They made their way to the library after that, and while Hermione selected several mediaeval histories (for England, Wales, and France), Ron went looking for translations of the Arthurian canon. When they returned to the table they’d commandeered, both had three books each.

“All right. I’ll make a list of female names as I skim these books, you just write down the ones you encounter that appeal,” Hermione said as she pulled out parchment, ink, and pens.

“Sounds good.”

After a few hours, Ron’s list was fairly short: Elaine, Celia, and Vivian. Hermione’s was significantly longer, but she’d scratched some out here and there.

“So, let’s see…” Hermione tapped her parchment with her wand, and said, “Ordinatio alphabet, let’s take it from the top. Angharad? Wives and sisters of Welsh royalty. Means ‘much beloved’.”

“Maybe…? It’s a lovely name, but I don’t think it really…fits?” Ron said, after a moment. “Too many siblings.”

“I don’t think that’s how love works, but…moving on. Adwen? She was a saint, and in Cornwall she’s traditionally the patron saint of sweethearts.”

“Heh, I like that one,” Ron said as she wrote it down.

“Ceindrych? Another princess, supposedly means ‘lovely image’ or so in Old Welsh.”

“Not sure about that one.”

“Cwyllog? She’s a saint, though not much is known about her.”

“Nah, doesn’t feel right,” Ron said after a moment.

“Myfanwy? She features in a mediaeval Welsh poem.” Hermione pronounced it as though it rhymed with ‘Tiffany’.

“…What?” Ron peered at the parchment. “Oh. No, that’s Myfanwy. Meh-VA-nwee. I like it. Myfanwy Elaine Weasley…yeah, that’s me done.”

“Oh, good. Wanna go introduce yourself to folks, Myf?” Hermione asked brightly.

“Eh, sure,” Myf said. “I need to tell Professor McGonagall anyway, so she can update the rolls and whatnot.”

Chapter Text

Monday morning, when Harry came in, Myf and Hermione were playing an idle game of witch-chess. Hermione was, predictably, losing. It wasn’t that she was a bad player, exactly; she just had difficulty holding the board state for more than a handful of turns. They looked up from the board.

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione said. “May I introduce Myfanwy Elaine Weasley?”

“Oh, you found a new name, Myf? Awesome, it sounds lovely,” Harry said. Scabbers, who had been dozing on the couch next to Myf, stood up, nose twitching as he snuffled. He let out a terrified squeak, then scurried off.

“Blimey. I wonder what that was about,” Myf said, frowning. “He’s never done that before…”

“Dunno,” Harry said. “I was just up really late with Uncle Remus and Hagrid Saturday night, and spent yesterday catching up on sleep. I know it’s New Year’s tonight, so I was thinking maybe I’d stay up with them again, but…hm. Maybe I’ll ask Uncle Remus about it when I head back this afternoon.”

“Lemme know what he says,” Myf said. “Oh…speaking of Saturday, Fred and Georgia showed me a secret passage they’d found after Hermione’d gone off to bed. Leads to this room off the eastern third-floor corridor, the one that’s off-limits. There was a three-headed dog in it, a big one, lounging on top of a trap door. And the room stank, like it hadn’t been cleaned recently.”

“…A trap door, you say?” Harry asked. “I wonder…I know Hagrid picked up a small package from this high-security vault in Gringott’s on my birthday, maybe Professor Dumbledore’s keeping it behind the trap door? But…why a three-headed dog? That room must be like keeping a dog in a small kennel, no wonder it’s not been getting cleaned…the dog’d want to get out, and be quite upset that it can’t. We have to tell Hagrid.”

“Yeah, he’d be really upset if he heard about an animal being kept locked up like that,” Hermione said. “But…there’s something bothering me about all of this…”

“Hm? What’s that?” Myf asked.

“The Mirror of Erised. Why did Professor Dumbledore have it sitting around out in the open like that? I think he was hoping we’d find it…or that one of us would, anyway.”

“Huh. Now that you mention it…it doesn’t make sense for a powerful artefact like that to be sitting out in an unused classroom where anyone could find it,” Harry said. “And given he revealed his presence only after I’d seen myself in it…”

“Do you think maybe there’s some sort of…task, he’s hoping to prepare us for?” Myf asked. “Seems kind of irresponsible, if so. We’re kids, Kinda Independent Dependents as my mum sometimes puts it. Our job’s learning and growing, not being pawns in some kind of game…”

“Mm. Grown-ups can get stuck thinking a certain way,” Harry said, with a shudder—the thought had made him think of his aunt’s family. “Sometimes to the point of missing what’s in front of their noses.”

“True enough. Speaking of which, it’s just about lunch time. Shall we?”

Myf knocked on Hagrid’s door, that afternoon. “Just a mo’,” Hagrid called amidst a sudden barrage of barking and scrabbling. “Get back, yeh great lump.”

The scrabbling stopped abruptly and the barking soon quieted. A moment later, he opened the door. “Oh, hello,” Hagrid said cheerily, and stepped back. “C’mon in.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” they said as they came in, and he gestured them over to his couch as he sat down in an enormous armchair opposite it.

“So what brings yeh here?”

“Well…” Harry began, then paused and said, “Myf, why don’t you explain? You learned about it, after all.”

Hagrid’s eyebrows rose, but he looked to Myf, who said, “Um, well. Saturday night, the twins showed me a secret passage they’d found, which led to a room with a three-headed dog in it. Very big dog, average-sized room. We figured we’d talk to you about them, since…” Myf shrugged.

“I…see. Dumbledore’d asked if he could borrow Fluffy, and he assured me he’d be taken care of properly, but…kept in a room?” Hagrid looked disgruntled.

“Yeah. Smelled pretty ripe, too—I don’t think Mr Filch goes in very often to clean it out, and I doubt…Fluffy, you said his name was?…Fluffy was taken out for walkies at all.”

Hagrid’s expression darkened. “Rest assured, I will be having words with Dumbledore about this. Tha’s no way to treat a dog, particularly one as rare as he is.”

“There was also a trapdoor underneath him. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“That’s between Dumbledore and Flamel, that is,” Hagrid said, his eyebrows rising in surprise again.

“…Who’s Flamel?” Harry asked.

Hagrid rubbed his face with one hand. “Shouldn’ta said that, I should not have said that…right, out, yeh lot. I’ll talk to Dumbledore about Fluffy, don’t worry, but not one word about this to anyone.”

The trio nodded, and they left. At the fork in the path that led to both Hogwarts Castle and Hogsmeade village, they paused. “I’ll see you two tomorrow, all right?” Harry said.

“We’ll try to find out whoever this ‘Flamel’ person is,” Hermione said. Myf nodded in agreement.

“Sounds good. Later, then.” The trio exchanged hugs, then Myf and Hermione went toward the castle and Harry left for home.

When Harry got home, he sat down on the couch next to Remus, who put a bookmark in the book he’d been reading. “What’s up, pup?” he asked.

“Well…Myfanwy—she’d introduced herself to you as Ron earlier this year—anyway, Myf has a rat named Scabbers, says she got him as a hand-me-down from her older brother Charlie. When I came in to the Common Room this morning, Scabbers took great offence to me, it seemed like. He squeaked at me and then ran off to hide somewhere. As you know, I haven’t showered since we were out Saturday night, so…”

Remus sat up abruptly. “A rat? Is there anything unusual about him?”

“Um…he’s a light gray and missing a digit on one of his paws? And sleeps all the time, Myf says. Why? What’s up?”

“Harry, we need to talk to Dumbledore right now,” Remus said firmly. “I’ll explain why, but first…”

Remus pulled his wand out and swished it. “Accio Harry’s broom,” he said. “Go open the door.”

Harry did so, and a moment later his broom flew through it and in to Remus’s hand. “It’s going to be a squeeze, it will,” he said as he mounted the broom, “but c’mon!”

Harry squeezed on to the broom, the little spoon to Remus’s big, and they were off like a rocket. They flew to Hogwarts in under a minute, where Remus found a conveniently open window, and then through the corridors until they arrived at Dumbledore’s office. They dismounted from Harry’s broom, and Remus knocked on the door firmly.

“Come in,” Dumbledore called from inside, and Harry pushed the door open.

Dumbledore’s office was a vast, three-tiered affair. The first tier was occupied primarily by bookshelves and a sitting area with several couches and armchairs. The second had several tables, with a variety of silvery instruments whose purpose Harry could only guess at. The third and final tier held a plain wooden desk, and its walls held several dozen magical portraits. This morning, Dumbledore was seated in an armchair on the lowest tier. “What can I do for you, Mr Lupin?”

“I have reason to believe that Peter Pettigrew, the man Sirius supposedly murdered, is alive and well,” Remus said. “He is a rat Animagus, currently disguised as a pet in Gryffindor Tower, belonging to Harry’s friend, Myfanwy Weasley.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Dumbledore swore. “Are you certain?”

“I am. Harry was with me and Hagrid Saturday night for the full moon, his first opportunity to do so, and apparently Scabbers, the name the rat had apparently been given, smelled me on him this morning and went in to hiding. An ordinary rat would not have reacted that way, and I know Peter knows my wolf form’s scent. Moreover, even in captivity, rats only live about two to four years, and if I were to guess, Scabbers has lived considerably longer than that.”

“All right…” Dumbledore pulled his wand out and said, “Missiculum, Myfanwy Weasley. Please collect Scabbers and come to my office. Albus out.”

As they waited, Dumbledore opened a drawer in the end table next to him and withdrew a notepad and a fountain pen. He scrawled a note on the top sheet of the notepad, tore it off, and looked up. “Fawkes, take this to Auror David, please,” he said as he held the note up. A phoenix, who’d been standing on a perch that Harry only noticed once the bird left it, flew by Dumbledore, snatching up the note, and vanished with a faint pop a beat later.

A couple minutes later, a pair of blue-robed men entered the room at a run, panting. The one in front, a Black man with dreads, had his wand at the ready.

“Ah, good to see you again, Auror David,” Dumbledore said. “I think—”

At that moment, Myf came in through the open door, looking puzzled and a bit scared, a rat swaddled in a towel clasped firmly in her hands. “Professor Dumbledore?” she asked plaintively.

“Right, then. We have reason to believe that the rat is an unregistered Animagus,” Dumbledore said as he gestured with his wand. The door to the office closed quite abruptly, and Scabbers squeaked with alarm, wriggling furiously in Myf’s grasp.

Auror David stepped over and pointed his wand at the rat. “Petrificus totalus,” he said, and Scabbers stopped moving quite abruptly. “Set him down on the floor over here, and we’ll see who he really is.”

Myf set Scabbers down in the middle of the room, where the auror had indicated, and stepped back.

“Reverso figura,” Dumbledore said calmly, flicking his wand, and the rat squeaked as he reverted to a human form, still unable to move. The man was thin and a pale cream, with scraggly, mousey brown hair. He was dressed in a navy blue robe that must have been business attire when it had been new, but was now rather threadbare and raggedy. And there was a tattoo on his right wrist, a skull with a snake emerging from between the jaws.

“Incarcero,” Dumbledore continued, and ropes bound the man, holding him in place as the Body-Binding Jinx was relaxed.

“Imagine my surprise, Mr Pettigrew, when Remus told me you were still alive,” Dumbledore said in a whisper, his voice carrying despite its quietude. “Not only alive, but at Hogwarts once more. You were reportedly murdered by Sirius Black, a man many believed was the Potters’ Secret Keeper, only a day after they, too, had been—murdered in such a way that the only body part they found that could have been yours was a finger. And here you stand, missing that very finger.”

Harry had expected fury, scorn, or even disdain in Dumbledore’s voice, but he could see that Peter was all but drowning in the disappointment and sadness the elderly wizard had chosen to lade his words with. “Please explain why you did this thing.”

Pettigrew squeaked again, then licked his lips. “I… I was jealous, you see. James and Lily were very close, and they both were close to Sirius and Remus too, and…it always felt l-like I was a, a fifth wheel even when it was j-just us lads. James said, when the three of us—me, him, and Sirius—met to t-talk about it that he thought making Sirius the Secret-Keeper was too obvious. Then, the Great Warlock c-captured me about six months before that fateful night, after the Fidelius Charm had been cast. Eight m-months after the boy was born. He could s-see my jealousy, and h-he…showed me things. Showed m-me how I could be greater th-than any of them. P-promised me…”

Harry felt, rather than heard, the growl that began to bubble from Remus’s throat, and he gently took his uncle’s hand and squeezed. “Uncle Remus…” he warned, quietly, and the growl subsided.

“What the fuck, Peter?” Remus said, his voice quiet but thick with anger and pain. “We loved you, we all did, or you wouldn’t have been part of my p—family. Wasn’t a thing we wouldn’t have done for you; all you had to do was ask. And that was how you returned our love? Our trust? Not only did you yourself murder James and Lily—don’t look at me like that, you’re responsible even if you didn’t do it yourself—but you also framed Sirius. My heart broke that night, it did. Pray I never see you again, for should that day come, I will kill you myself, I swear on my word as Lupin.”

Remus slowly, and with great deliberation, turned his back on Pettigrew. For his part, Pettigrew somehow managed to become even more pale. He looked…mortified, Harry decided after a moment, then almost despite himself, he spoke.

“You killed two of my parents. Your betrayal led to me being abused for nearly ten years. And yet…” He trailed off, then continued. “I suppose I could ask for your head. I doubt I’d get it, but really, I think you deserve to live to think about what you’ve done. What your choices led to. I know you’ve lived with it for ten years already, but it didn’t sound to me like you thought about anyone else. Perhaps you never did, I don’t know. But I do know you’re not fit to be an uncle.”

“Remus… Harry… P-please…” Pettigrew whimpered. “I… I didn’t m-mean to…”

“Right. He’s all yours, Auror David,” Dumbledore said, cutting him off. “If you would, please release Mr Black, given that he appears to be innocent of the crimes for which he was sent to Azkaban. And…help him to reach Mr Lupin’s home, I think.”

“Thank you, Professor Dumbledore,” Remus said. “If there’s nothing else…?”

“That’s all for now, yes. You may be called upon to give testimony at Mr Pettigrew’s trial, but we’ll get there when we get there.”

“Hm. Harry, would you mind staying here overnight? I think Miss Weasley would appreciate the company, under the circumstances.”

“Sure,” Harry said agreeably. He gave, and got, a hug. “See you tomorrow, Uncle Remus. Love you.”

“Love you too, pup, now off you pop.”

Harry grinned, and he and Myf left for the Gryffindor Common Room.

Chapter Text

Hermione raised her eyebrows when Harry preceded Myf in to the Common Room.

“I thought you were going home? What happened?” she asked.

“Well, it turns out that Myf’s rat, Scabbers, was actually an unregistered Animagus this entire time,” Harry said. “He was actually Peter Pettigrew, and it turns out that he was the Secret Keeper who betrayed my parents to Voldemort. And framed Uncle Sirius, too, apparently.”

Hermione dropped her book in shock.

“How did you figure it out?” she asked as she bent over to pick the book back up.

Harry froze, his mind blanking on how to explain things without either lying or outing his uncle. Finally, as the silence began to stretch out awkwardly, he said, “Uncle Remus had a shrewd guess, based on Scabbers’s missing digit. Besides, as you know, he, Pettigrew, Uncle Sirius, and my parents went to Hogwarts together.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, that makes sense.”

“So, any luck finding Flamel?”

“Well…He’s not in any of Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, Notable Magical Names of Our Time, Important Modern Magical Discoveries, or A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry,” Hermione said. “And thank God for indices, or I’d have had to read all four of those books.” She shuddered.

“Maybe he has a Famous Witches card…?” Harry guessed. Myf shook her head.

“I’m fairly certain I’d have run across him in the Famous Witches card catalogues if he did,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I won’t look through my collection, though. They sometimes mention people who don’t have cards, so it actually is a good suggestion.”

“I think in the morning I’ll tackle mediaeval catalogues, and you can look through the Renaissance ones while Myf looks through her Famous Witch cards,” Hermione said as she set aside the book she’d been skimming.

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry said, nodding.

“… No need,” Myf said as she held up a Famous Witch card she’d extracted from a newly-opened chocolate frog. “Professor Dumbledore knows him. And we know exactly where to look, now. Listen to this…”

Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

“He’s an alchemist. Which means we should be able to find him in a book on the history of that field.”

When Harry went home the next afternoon, they were no closer to figuring out who Flamel was. (Hermione was not even a little deterred; she hadn’t had this much fun digging through books in ages.)

“I’m home!” Harry called as he walked in.

“We’re in the kitchen, pup,” Remus called back. Harry blinked. ‘We’? Did that mean…?

When he entered the kitchen, he saw a pale, gaunt-looking white man with an unkempt mane of brown-blond hair and gray eyes sitting at the table with Remus. The man was dressed simply, in a flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of low boots.

“Hello,” Harry offered in a near-whisper, suddenly very shy, when the man turned to look at him.

“Hello yourself, ah…pup, was it?” The man sounded amused, and offered his hand. “Sirius Black. I’m your godfather.”

“H-Harry,” Harry said, shaking Sirius’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Uncle Sirius.”

Sirius blinked, then looked at Remus. “‘Uncle’?”

“Well, my dear pup does have some idea of our relationships, Pads. And that our pack would’ve had the raising of him, under other circumstances,” Remus said, smiling a bit wryly.

“It’s still weird hearing you refer to us Marauders that way, considering James, Lily, and the rat,” Sirius said, amused. “Ah well. Harry knows, then?”

“Indeed. Even had a romp with Moony Saturday, he did. You should’ve seen the look on his face when he saw him for the first time. It was like he’d died and gone to heaven, it was. Lit up the clearing.”

Harry blushed. “W-well, he is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” he said softly as he climbed up on to his own chair.

Sirius barked a laugh. “That he most certainly is.” He gave Harry a thoughtful look. “The last time I saw you, pup, you were running around on a toy broom and pestering your dad. Now I hear you’re on the Gryffindor Quadball team and as natural a flier as he was.”

“…I had a toy broom? Huh. That…huh. See, when Madam Hooch was going around showing us how we should be mounted and so on, she said I already had the correct posture and grip.”

Sirius nodded. “Makes sense. Lily was extraordinarily gifted with charms, and one of the ones she’d laid in to you when you were a baby was designed to transfer some of her and James’s talents to you in the event that they were killed. I believe the phrasing she used was, hm… ‘to help him grow into himself’? Something like that. Anyway, I expect we’ll see some more of that come to the fore in the years to come.”

“Huh. What all did she do, anyway? Professor Dumbledore said something about wards when he met with me back in August, but…” Harry trailed off.

“That one and the wards, as far as I know,” Sirius said. “The wards in particular are an ancient magic, one that hasn’t been seen in the Isles since before the Norman Conquest. My understanding is that the main reason they fell out of favour is that they require a powerful sacrifice in order to activate them.”

Remus looked thoughtful. “Didn’t they traditionally require the sacrifice of an animal that loved the person being warded?” he asked. “Or at least, that’s what I’d read when I tried to retrace her research, anyway. Wait, how did you know that?”

“Lily, James, and I talked about it when we were setting up the false Fidelius trail, oddly enough. I guess they figured I ought to know, being his godfather and all. But yeah, in this instance I think her death activated his wards. Humans being animals and all, from a scientific perspective.”

“Merlin, that’s exactly the kind of thing she’d pull,” Remus said. “And I’d bet on that making them even more powerful than they’d otherwise be. Anyway… Harry, Sirius is going to be moving in with us, but you’ll get to keep your room and everything.”

“Oh, cool, you won’t be all alone when I’m at school any more,” Harry said brightly. “I read somewhere that pack animals, like wolves and dogs, don’t do so well when they’re alone. And you seem a lot happier than you were when we first met.”

“Rascal,” Remus said fondly. “Sirius, unless you feel up to cooking, we’re just going to have some roast beef sandwiches and crisps tonight.”

“Sounds good,” Sirius said. “You just sit there, though, I’ll do it. Harry, you want to wash up and help?”

Harry nodded, and scampered out of the room eagerly.

“He really is a sweetie,” Sirius said with a chuckle as he got up. “I’m halfway to loving him already and it’s only been…what, ten minutes?”

“Heh. All it took for him to steal my heart was the hug he gave me the day we met,” Remus said, “less than five minutes after I told him I was a werewolf.”

“… Are you serious?”

“No, I’m just Remus.” Sirius gave him a dirty look, and he smirked.

That Friday, Hermione had the breakthrough she’d been hoping for. “Harry! Myf! I found it!” she called, and they trotted over. “According to this, Nicolas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone! That must be what Fluffy’s guarding the way to.”

They blinked at her, and she sighed, then read aloud from the book:

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which is said to make the drinker immortal; this quality is why some sources call it the Stone of Eternity.

There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera-lover. Mr Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).

“That explains why we didn’t find him in any of the modern books,” Myf said, wonderingly.

“Also, the reason he’s not got a Famous Witch card is simple enough,” Hermione said. “According to this book, he’s not a witch. Anyone can be an alchemist, no innate magical ability required.”

“Well…now that we know what the prize must be…what now?” Myf asked.

“My vote is ‘tell Professor McGonagall,’” Harry said. “She is the Deputy Headmistress, after all, so it’s kinda part of her job.”

“Good afternoon, Mx Potter, Miss Weasley, and Miss Granger. What can I do for you?” Professor McGonagall asked, when she opened her office door.

“There’s something really important we want to discuss, ma’am,” Harry said.

“Hm. Well, come on in and have a seat and tell me all about it.”

When they were seated and the door was firmly shut, Myf said, “We think Professor Quirrell’s trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“I see. What leads you to believe that such an artefact is here at Hogwarts?” Professor McGonagall asked carefully.

“Well… There’s quite a bit to go over, so bear with me,” Harry said. Professor McGonagall motioned for him to go on. “Back in October, when I had Myf, Hermione, and Neville over of a Saturday, Uncle Remus smelled Professor Quirrell when he and I were walking back home that night. Or rather, the rather overpowering stench of garlic, I should say. Uncle Remus told Hagrid about it, and he’d said that someone had been killing unicorns in the Forbidden Forest. Uncle Remus told me that unicorn blood can preserve life if consumed.

“Second, Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape were duelling over control of my broom during the Quadball match in November, at least according to Myf and Hermione, who saw them both muttering non-stop while staring at my broom. They told Madam Pomfrey about it, but I don’t know what came of that.

“Next, the troll. Why did Professor Quirrell faint after announcing its presence? Shouldn’t he have been at the forefront of efforts to stop it before it cornered me in the boys’ toilet?

“Then there’s the Mirror of Erised, which Myf just happened to come across last week. Professor Dumbledore talked to us about it when Myf took me and Hermione to see it for ourselves, as we were about to leave to talk to Madam Pomfrey.

“And Saturday night, Fred and Georgia showed Myf a secret passage to a room where Hagrid’s three-headed dog Fluffy is confined. There’s a trap door underneath him, which I would assume leads to something that needs to be guarded. When we told Hagrid about Fluffy’s maltreatment, we asked him about the trap door and he accidentally told us about Nicolas Flamel.

“Finally, and this is the clincher, we know that someone tried to break in to a high-security vault at Gringott’s the same day that Hagrid had retrieved something from a vault there. And we just now figured out that Mr Flamel created the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“I see,” Professor McGonagall said after a moment. “You three are remarkably perceptive, I must say. Very well, I will take you in to my confidence, but I need your sworn words that you will not discuss this with anyone who is not a Head of House, Madam Pomfrey, or Professor Dumbledore. Mx Potter, you can talk to Messrs Lupin and Black, as well, but only within your house.”

“I swear upon my word as Potter that I will keep this conversation in confidence,” Harry said. Myf and Hermione echoed his oath, and Professor McGonagall nodded.

“Good. Now, the Philosopher’s Stone is indeed being kept safe in Hogwarts. I won’t tell you what the safeguards we’ve put in place are, but you were correct in thinking that Fluffy is one of them. I’d hoped Albus had been able to find some more suitable creature that Hagrid could aid in securing, however.

“You may be correct in thinking that Professor Quirrell’s attempting to acquire the Stone; the information you’ve provided is indeed suspicious, but at the moment it’s speculative and entirely circumstantial. I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she added hastily. “But we don’t have anything we could take to the Aurors, which means that our hands are tied on that front.

“What concerns me, however, is the Mirror. It should not have been placed where you could encounter it, and Madam Pomfrey has in fact told me that you had and that you spoke to her about it and what you saw in it. If I were to guess, Albus is trying to lead you through what I’m sure he thinks is a training exercise with teeth. Which I wouldn’t have a problem with if he were challenging OWL-level students, they would at least be able to defend themselves against an adult witch. Unfortunately, you aren’t.

“Nor is this the first time he’s tried something like this, which brings me to why Messrs Lupin and Black are allowed to hear about this conversation, Mx Potter. They were involved in another such ‘exercise’, a few years before the Great Warlock’s rising.”

She sighed and shook her head. “I won’t promise that this will be resolved without your involvement, and I suspect I’m sounding awfully trusting, considering the stakes involved. However, I have absolutely no intention of letting you walk in to any kind of confrontation with Professor Quirrell, or whoever may be involved, without preparing you as best I’m able. I will attempt to persuade Professor Dumbledore to scrap his scheme, but in the meantime, let’s do some damage control…”

“He’s what?!”

Harry cringed away from Remus at his outburst.

“Sorry, pup, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Remus said quietly, immediately contrite. “It’s just…you’ve only just begun to learn magic this school year, you have, which is hardly any time at all to train someone to go up against an adult witch, particularly a suspected warlock. I’m glad Minerva’s helping you, but…”

“Is there a good age for a kid to be expected to go through something like this, though?” Harry asked, leaning against Remus again.

“An OWL-level student, probably, especially someone enrolled in the Auror candidate program,” Sirius said from the floor—he’d stretched out on his back, head resting on his hands. “I don’t have a printable opinion about that program, mind you. Anyway, I guess we’ll have to have a word with Albus about this, too, Remus. This isn’t right or fair.”

“Indeed,” Remus said. “There’s also the possibility of taking it up with the Board, but at the moment that’s a longer shot than trying to talk Albus out of it, it is. I don’t expect to have much luck, given our own experience.”

Chapter Text

With the start of the new term, Harry had more important things to worry about, or at least more immediate concerns, than Professor Quirrell and the Philosopher’s Stone. Professor McGonagall hadn’t been able to provide much in the way of what she’d called ‘damage control’, but she had said Professor Flitwick would teach the three of them the Messaging Charm and the Disarming Charm, though she’d warned them that the Disarming Charm in particular would be somewhat of a challenge, as it was a second-year spell.

Remus and Sirius had gone up to Hogwarts to discuss the so-called ‘training exercise’, but had apparently not gotten anywhere. Dumbledore had assured them he had matters well in hand. (“Well, of course he’d say that,” Remus had muttered darkly when he talked to Harry about it afterward. “The last one came out all right in the end, after all.”)

January and February seemed to fly by. Sirius was settling in quite well, Harry thought, though he had discussed cleaning up Number Twelve Grimmauld Place with Remus on the weekends a couple of times—apparently it was full of malefices, objects enchanted with various anti-mundane jinxes and hexes and more than a few nastier booby-traps for even unwary visiting witches, and Sirius and Remus had engaged a curse-breaker as part of the clean-up effort. It also, apparently, had gotten Remus out of the house for a change. (They also mentioned someone named ‘Creature’, which Harry thought was an odd name for someone to have.)

The first of March, however, was special: it was Myfanwy’s birthday, and Harry had chosen to observe it by presenting her with three parcels. The first, from Harry himself, was three sets of school robes in Myf’s size. From Remus, she’d gotten a set of hair clips in a shade of blue that matched her eyes. And, from Sirius, she’d gotten an autographed quaffle from the Chudley Cannons’ Seeker, Galvin Gudgeon. She nearly dropped it out of shock.

“How’d Sirius— But— Zuh?!” Myf said.

“Turns out House Black’s fortune dwarfs mine,” Harry said quietly. “I’m only worth about three hundred twenty thousand Galleons; he has four million.”

Myf’s eyes nearly bugged out.

“Besides, he wanted to apologise to you, since his freedom came at Scabbers’s expense.”

“He…didn’t have to…and I don’t want to think about that rat, thanks.”

Hermione’s gift to her was a large bag of Bertie Bott’s beans, and Neville had opted to give her a wand holster. It was made of red leather, with gold-plated trim, and Myf decided she wasn’t going to ask him how much it cost.

“It’s gorgeous, Neville. Thank you,” she said.

“Happy birthday, Myf,” he said, taking his time enunciating. “First time I bought a friend a birthday present. Didn’t know Hermione well enough for hers, September.”

Hermione blushed a little. “It’s no trouble, really. We were all new to one another then, so it really doesn’t matter. There’s always this year’s, after all.”

Harry and the other members of the Gryffindor Quadball team were in attendance at the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match the next day, which was cloudy and cold, though it was fairly uneventful—at least, compared to his own first match. The final score ended up being sixty to ninety in Slytherin’s favour, which temporarily tied the two teams on points.

Afterward, Wood’s face got this odd look, like he’d bitten in to a lemon. Harry assumed he must’ve gotten a message via missiculum, because he gathered the Gryffindor team around him. “Bad news, I’ve just been informed that Professor Snape will be refereeing our match in three weeks. Which means we’re going to have to be tops, gentles and lady-men.”

“We’ll do our best, Wood. Hopefully without any repeats of the last game’s shenanigans.” Harry shuddered. “That’s not how I want to catch the snitch ever again.”

When Harry got back to the Common Room, Myf and Hermione were playing chess. Myf said, when Harry sat next to her, “Don’t talk to me for a moment, I’m trying to concen—”, stopping abruptly when she looked up and saw his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Professor Snape’s going to be refereeing the Gryffindor/Hufflepuff match in a few weeks, Wood got word shortly after today’s.”

Hermione and Myf both blinked at this. “That’s…unusual. If I had to guess, he wants to be better able to spot Quirrell trying to pull anything,” Myf said after a moment.

“That’s my guess, but given how strict he is in the classroom, we’re going to have to bend over backwards to stick to the letter of the rules. Fortunately, we’re not to face Slytherin again until November, so I don’t expect any favouritism, not that he’s shown any in class, but…”

“Yeah. It’s just…that never happens,” Myf said, frowning. “Teachers don’t referee.”

Just then, there was a commotion at the entrance as Neville fell in to the room, legs locked together. Hermione hurried over and cast the counter-charm to the Leg-Locking Jinx, then helped him up. “What happened, Neville?”

“Malfoy,” he said shakily. “Outside library. Said been looking for someone practice.”

Hermione helped him over to where Myf and Harry were sitting and in to a chair.

“You should go to Professor McGonagall and report him,” she said.

“Don’t want trouble,” Neville slurred.

“Neville,” Harry said firmly, “Professor McGonagall is one of the few teachers I know who’d sort this out properly. And you’ve got to stand up to him, people like him are used to walking all over folks they think are smaller, weaker, than they are.”

“No need tell not brave enough Gryffindor,” Neville said. “Malfoy said.”

“Pfff. What would he know? His is the House of ambition, not courage, you remember what the Sorting Hat sang,” Harry said. “More than that, we’re your friends.”

Neville looked like he’d been struck by a brick. “…F-friends…? …You really mean that…” he said wonderingly.

“We do,” Harry said. He pulled a chocolate frog out of a pocket and pressed it in to Neville’s hands. “Why do you think we’re always willing to help you out? Friends look out for one another, because they care.”

Myf looked at her new wand holster. “It’s certainly not because you’ve given us nice things, Nev,” she said. “You’re a good person, and that makes you worth ten of Malfoy.”

“Thanks, Myf,” Neville said. “I think I’ll go to bed…”

The twenty-third dawned clear and cold, though it warmed up fairly rapidly. Harry was even more nervous than he had been the morning of his first Quadball match. As then, Madam Pomfrey had been able to convince him to eat some toast and sausage, and he, Myf, Hermione, and Neville made their way to the changing rooms soon afterward.

“Good luck, Harry,” they said, before departing for the stands. Harry pulled on his Quadball uniform once more, cinching the padded leather gear in to place carefully, and stood before Wood, along with the rest of the team, holding his Nimbus Two Thousand in his left hand.

“All right, folks. We do well enough on this one, we take the lead for the Quadball Cup. Now, remember, we need at least seventy to tie with Slytherin, but I’d like to score higher if we can. Potter, that means your job’s going to be preventing Morgan from catching the snitch. If that ends the game sooner than we’d like, it happens. Everyone got that?” Everyone nodded, and he concluded, “Good. Let’s get them, gentles and lady-men.”

As in November, Harry sat on the bench while the other six players lined up on the pitch. Across it, he could see Angharad ap Morgan, Hufflepuff’s Seeker. Professor Snape stood at the centre of the pitch, seemingly as coldly aloof as ever.

“As we are now ready…Play fairly,” he said, his soft, stern voice carrying in the late winter air. “Mount your brooms.”

Meanwhile, Myf, Hermione, and Neville were watching the match from the stands. “Oh, look, Professor Dumbledore’s watching,” Hermione said, pointing.

“Blimey, that’ll keep Snape in line…not that I reckon he’d do anything anyway,” Myf said. And so the game was uneventful, scores climbing on both sides, until at last green sparks went up, alongside the Seekers.

“Go, Harr—ouch!” Myf called. Someone had poked her in the back of the head.

“Oh, sorry,” Malfoy said insincerely, “didn’t see you there.”

He grinned at Crabbe and Goyle. “Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? How about you, Weasley?”

Myf didn’t answer. Katie Bell had just scored a goal. Hermione, who was tapping her knuckles in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the snitch.

“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?” Malfoy asked loudly, a few minutes later. “It’s people they feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasleys, who’ve got no money—you should be on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”

Neville flushed scarlet, and turned in his seat to face Malfoy.

“Worth ten of you,” he said slowly. “Can think for self.”

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter before Neville finished, but Myf, still not taking her eyes off the game, said, “You tell him, Neville.”

“Longbottom, if brains were gold, you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something.”

Myf’s nerves were already stretched thin with anxiety about Harry. “I’m warning you, Malfoy—one more word—”

“Myf!” Hermione said suddenly. “Harry—”

“What? Where?”

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her knuckles in her mouth, as Harry streaked towards the ground like a bullet.

“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some gold on the ground!” Malfoy said.

Myf snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Myf had slugged him and was wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the bench to help.

“Come on, Harry!” Hermione leapt up on to the bench to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape—she didn’t even notice Myf and Malfoy rolling around on the floor, or the scuffles and yelps coming from the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches—next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the snitch clasped in his hand.

“Myf! Myf! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve won! Gryffindor are in the lead!” Hermione shrieked, dancing up and down on her seat and hugging Smita Patil in the row in front.

Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it—the game was over, it had barely lasted twenty-three minutes. As Gryffindors came spilling on to the pitch, he saw Snape land nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped—then Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Dumbledore’s smiling face.

“Well done,” Dumbledore said quietly, so that only Harry could hear. “Excellent… I’m glad you’re not distracted by the Mirror…”

Harry left the changing room alone some time later, to take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the broom-shed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling happier. He’d really done something to be proud of now—no one could say he was just a famous name any more. The midday air had never smelled so sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the last hour in his head, which was a happy blur: Gryffindors running to lift him on to their shoulders; Myf and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Myf cheering through a heavy nosebleed.

Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, silhouetted in the sky. Gryffindor in the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Slytherin…

And speaking of Slytherin…

A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, they walked as fast as possible towards the Forbidden Forest. Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he watched. He recognised the figure’s prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the Forest while everyone else was at lunch—what was going on?

Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the Forest at a run. He followed.

The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of trees until he heard voices. He glided towards them and landed noiselessly in a towering beech tree.

He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves.

Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying.

“…d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus…”

“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” Snape said, his voice icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about the Philosopher’s Stone, after all.”

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape interrupted him.

“Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?”

“B-b-but Severus, I—”

“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” Snape said, taking a step towards him.

“I-I don-t know what you—”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

An owl hooted loudly and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, “—your little bit of hocus pocus. I’m waiting.”

“B-but I d-d-don’t—”

“Very well,” Snape cut in. “We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.”

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was petrified.

“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked.

“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Myf, thumping Harry on the back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be all right—talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re having a party, Fred and Georgia got some cakes and stuff from the kitchens.”

“Never mind that now,” Harry said, still catching his breath—he’d run from the broom-shed. “Let’s find an empty room, you wait till you hear this…”

“So…is Snape in on it, too, then?” Myf asked, after Harry had finished. “I can’t see why, though, he seems healthy enough…if a bit sallow.”

“I don’t think he is,” Harry said. “I think we’re missing something, though… If Quirrell is acquiring unicorn blood, who’s drinking it? I tried looking it up, but none of the books about unicorns I’ve found in the library say anything more than that the drinker is cursed to a half-life. Nothing about what that means.”

Hermione pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. “…Is it just me, or has he been looking frailer than he had back in September? I know you’ve been avoiding looking at him, Harry, but…”

Myf blinked. “Maybe that’s it, then. It sustains your life…but drains your vitality? Blimey. I’d been noticing that too but I couldn’t reckon why.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione took over an entire table after breakfast, drawing up revision timetables and colour-coding her notes.

“Hermione, the exams are ages away,” Myf said, when she figured out what Hermione was doing.

“Twelve weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages, that’s like a second to Nicolas Flamel.”

“But we’re not six hundred years old. Anyway, what are you revising for? You already know it all.”

“…What am I revising for? Are you mad? You realise we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They’re very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s got into me…”

Myf blinked. “…Hermione, the only high-stakes tests here at Hogwarts are the GCWEs and the OWLs, and those are four and six years away. Besides, you’d have to get Unacceptables and Terribles to get held back. We both know that the odds of you getting either one are basically nil.”

“Well, sure, that’s true, but—”

“—But you’re incapable of giving anything less than a hundred ten percent, I know,” Myf finished. “That’s fair. Tell you what, if you draw up revision schedules for Harry and I that are…let’s say eighty or ninety percent as busy as the ones you’re drawing up for yourself, we’ll stick to them and join you, all right? Modulo Harry’s time with his uncles and Quadball training, I mean.”

“Oh. Sure, I can do that,” Hermione said.

“…Oh, also, are you staying over Easter break?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Harry said something about having us over for Passover; apparently Sirius is thinking about having a Seder, some kind of celebration or feast or something. It’d be lunch on the thirtieth, or so he told me.”

The last week before the Easter break, Dr Sørensen introduced aoedemancy

“Good morning, class. Today, we’re going to talk about aoedemancy, the casting of magic through song and dance. It is named after Aoede, the Greek Muse of voice and song who, it is said, developed this field in ancient Greece.

“Now, we do teach aoedemancy here at Hogwarts, but it is an OWL-level course—you would need to achieve Exceeds Expectations in both Charms and Self Defence GCWEs in order to take it. We’re discussing it this week, however, to give you an idea of what it is, and we’ll revisit it in fifth-year so that you can make an informed decision about what you want to pursue for OWL-levels.

“Aoedemancy has historically seen use on the battlefield, to invigorate warriors; in hospitals, to aid in recovery; on the stage, to set the scene; and more. It can have physical effects, as well, including elemental magic and sound-based effects. The main benefit, however, is in its ability to influence the mind. One might lull enemy soldiers to sleep at an opportune moment, or to inspire courage in a comrade when they are about to falter. Note that, like all mind magic, mental aoedemancy can be blocked by a skilled occlumencer. It also does not work on the deaf, so be aware of that.

“There is, however, one requirement to be a successful aoedemancer: the ability to keep time. Don’t worry about embarrassing yourself this week; as usual, my classroom is a judgement-free zone.”

Harry tuned out the rest of the lecture and whispered to Myf. “I guess the stone’s safety rests on whether Quirrell can overcome his stutter.”

“Safe as houses, then,” she muttered back, with only a trace of sarcasm. “It could be an act, though…some of the older students have said he didn’t stutter before he went on sabbatical.”

“Huh. Curiouser and curiouser…”

The remainder of the lesson, and most of Thursday’s, as well, was spent learning a simple lullaby. As the charm was designed for young children, Dr Sørensen had brought in a box of puppies. Harry picked it up fairly readily, though Hermione was frustrated by her own lack of ability, a rarity for her.

That Saturday, Sirius was waiting for them when Harry, Myf, and Hermione came down to the Entrance Hall after breakfast. He’d gotten his hair bleached and put up in to a mohawk, dyed the colours of the rainbow, Harry saw.

“Hey, Uncle Sirius,” Harry said, giving him a hug. “Love the hair. Is that magic…?”

“Nope. Popped in to London, found a mundane hairstylist and had it done up there. Took several hours, too.”

“It’s really cool,” Myf said.

“Thank you. Ready?”

At everyone’s nods, Sirius led the way. He inquired after their schooling, and they chattered amiably as they walked down to Hogsmeade village.

The house, when they came in, smelled heavenly. Remus was sprawled on the couch, as usual, and Harry trotted over to give him a hug. “Hey, pup,” Remus said. “I guess this means I need to get up, huh. Myfanwy, Hermione, you might as well go have a seat at the table. Mind giving me a hand, pup?”

Harry grinned and handed Remus his cane as he sat up. Remus grabbed the hand he offered, and with a grunt of effort finally came to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. Harry rewarded this with another hug, and they slowly walked in to the kitchen together.

The table was set for five, and it was clear that Sirius had pulled out all the stops. Some of the dishes were unfamiliar to Harry, but there was a brisket, devilled eggs, salad, and a roast chicken, alongside some light tan patties and a pot of soup. At each place was a plate with six shallow compartments surrounding a seventh. Each plate held a bundle of parsley, an egg, a lamb’s shank bone, a piece of horseradish, charoset¹, and a piece of matzah², with an orange sitting in the centre. There was also a ramekin of water, as well as wine glasses and, at Sirius’s place (which he soon occupied), two bottles of fruit juice. In addition to all of that, there was, Harry noticed, a small pamphlet at each place.

“Before we begin,” Sirius said, “I want to thank you for choosing to join us today, Myfanwy and Hermione. Truly.”

Myf’s ears turned a little pink, but she and Hermione nodded. “Thank you for having us,” Myf said.

Sirius nodded back, then cleared his throat, picked up the pamphlet at his place, and began.

“Passover celebrates freedom and liberation from bondage. The Hebrew word for Egypt, ‘Mitzrayim’, reminds us of the word ‘metzar’—‘strait’ or ‘narrow place’. We gather together to celebrate not only the Exodus from Egypt, but also our own coming out from narrow places.

“Our journey today isn’t so different from the narrative journey Jews take each year gathered around the Seder³ table. We’ll tell stories of the Israelites’ hasty departure from Egypt and of their miraculous passage through the Sea. We’ll sing of how G?d liberated Israel with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. We’ll ask questions and, through the symbols and tastes of the Passover meal, begin to answer them—using the words of an evolving Jewish tradition and bringing our whole selves, all of our accumulated experience, with us to the table.

“In some ways, this Seder³ is like any other Seder³. And yet, today is different. Today, we especially honour those too often marginalised and ignored. We gather as a fully inclusive family, with special attention to our queer community.

“This haggadah⁴ comprises songs, blessings, and readings culled from several sources—from the Rabbinic Passover Seder³ to contemporary queer haggadot⁴ produced by queer organisations and synagogues. It is a Seder³ for all of us.

“We celebrate Passover—Pesach—as a commemoration of events long past. We recall the years of bitter bondage. We remember that final, terrible plague which “passed over”—pasach—the homes of the Israelites, who would that very night leave Egypt, their dough still unleavened. Tonight, we listen to voices that have been too long passed over, and we call out for stories of Exodus, of yetziah. These are stories of going forth in to freedom. Stories of coming out.

“Each year, Jews at Seder³ tables across the world dutifully recite the first of four traditional questions: Why is this night different from all other nights? But, in Hebrew, the question omits the word ‘why’, asking instead, ‘Mah nishtanah ha-laila hazeh mikol ha-leilot?’ What differentiates this night from all other nights?

“Why don’t you celebrate Christmas? Why don’t you date girls? Why are you in the ‘wrong’ bathroom? Why won’t you just eat a cheeseburger? Why can’t you make up your mind between gay and straight? Why don’t you keep kosher? Why do you have to ‘flaunt’ your difference?

“Sometimes ‘why’ questions put us on the defencive. We worry that we have to justify our difference, or even our very existence. Sometimes we feel we have to squeeze ourselves in to a very narrow definition of what it means to be Jewish. Sometimes ‘why’ questions imply a value judgement: why are you this ‘strange’ way rather than that ‘normal’ way? Why are you different, unusual, problematic, ‘queer’? Why can’t you just fit in?

“Our Seder³ today is a little queer, for today, we need not explain why each of us is different. We need only come to the table prepared and open to share and to celebrate what distinguishes us, one from the other.”

Sirius smiled at Remus, and together they sang hineh mah tov, with Harry joining in from the second verse. When they concluded, Sirius began reading from the pamphlet again.

“As we bathe in the light of these candles, we remember all the candles we’ve lit as Jews, as queer people and allies, and those who struggle for freedom. Shabbat candles. Yahrzeit⁵ candles. Candles at AIDS vigils. And candles at Take Back the Night Marches.

“As we share in the light of these candles, we rededicate the flame each of us carries within, that small reflection of the Creator’s light that is ours to use as a beacon in our work of tikkun olam, repairing the world.

“We rededicate this small spark that we can use as a match to give light to the hopes and dreams of all people.”

Sirius stood up, wand in hand. “Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who sanctified us with the commandments, and commanded us to kindle the festival lights,” he recited, and swished his wand, igniting the candles at the centre of the table. “We read this next part together.”

“We include on our Seder³ table Kos Miryam, Miriam’s Cup. Legend tells of a mysterious well filled with living waters that followed the Israelites through their wandering in the desert while Miriam was alive.”

Sirius picked up an ornate goblet that had sat at the centre of the table, and tipped some of the water from his glass in to it, then passed it on to Remus. As it made its way around the table, it slowly filled up with water, and Sirius continued.

“In every generation, we experience both oppression and liberation. In our wanderings, both as a people and as individuals, Miriam’s well still accompanies us as a sustaining presence in the desert, enabling us not just to survive, but to thrive.

“Miriam’s well reminds us that our journey has both direction and destination—to a place where freedom is proclaimed for all. A land flowing with milk and honey.”

Sirius raised the goblet. “And we say together… Zot kos Miryam, kos mayim chayim, zeicher litziat Mitzrayim. This is the cup of Miriam, the cup of living waters, a remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt. May the cup of Miriam refresh and inspire us as we embark on our journey through the haggadah⁴.”

He set the goblet down in the centre of the tablet, then sat once more. “We all know each other by now, at least a little bit, but let’s take a moment to talk about what brought us here, either today or in general. Or perhaps share an ancestor or teacher whose memory you carry with you. And, share something that distinguishes you from others.

“I am Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather. I am the last living member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black outside of Azkaban, one of the so-called ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ pureblood families of Britain. I was always, heh, the black sheep of the family, having first refused to treat my family’s bonded servant, Kreacher, as anything less than a person worthy of dignity and respect. When I came to Hogwarts, I was the only member of House Black to have been sorted in to Gryffindor in a very long time.

“I met Remus, James, Lily, and the rat that fateful day. Harry reminds me a lot of what Remus was like, back then, if I’m honest. James was a bit of a prat, though in fairness to him, so was I. The rat, well…James knew him from primary school, and they came as a set. We more or less forced our friendship on to Remus, but after a while he warmed up to us and we were inseparable since. Lily wasn’t too fond of our pranks, and for a while she was sweet on a Slytherin boy she knew from before. The boy fell in with a bad crowd, and eventually he called her a ‘mudblood’—that’s an anti-mundane slur, so you’re aware—and she ditched him for good. These days, he’s your Potions teacher, more’s the pity.

“Lily was mostly James’s sweetheart, but she liked the rest of us too, when we weren’t being prats. We were tight-knit, and each of us would have done anything for the others. Anyway… That’s enough from me, for now. Remus?”

Remus snorted. “He basically gave the rundown of why I’m here, too, except for the part where he encountered some Jews as a teenager after he ran away from home. They made quite an impression on him, too, they did, and he ended up converting a few years later. Partially that was because it was yet another way to rebel against his family’s myriad bigotries, but also…well. The Jewish community welcomed him, and gave him a guiding star that wasn’t just rejecting everything his family stood for. I ended up converting, too, though I haven’t been terribly observant. Didn’t feel very compelling when I was the last one standing. Now, though… Harry?”

Harry thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not gonna go in to the details, but…I was in a bad place for a very long time. Beaten, starved, in every way made aware that I didn’t deserve to be loved, and that I should be grateful for whatever I did get. When Hagrid came and gave me my Hogwarts letter, that all changed. He was the first person I knew who seemed to care about me for myself. He got me out. Then Professor McGonagall introduced me to Uncle Remus, a few days after that. I… He…” Harry cleared his throat. “Every day I get to spend time with him, he reminds me of how much he cares. Sometimes it’s just snuggling on the couch for an hour, sometimes it’s giving me space to be myself, sometimes a surprise cup of hot cocoa or apple cider, or a snack… My home isn’t a place, it’s a person. And I don’t know where I’d be, if not for Hagrid, or Hogwarts, or Uncle Remus. But…I’m here, today, because he took me in.”

Myf was a bit wide-eyed when Harry finished. “Well…I, for one, am glad you’re here,” she said after a moment. “My turn, I guess. Hm. Well, I’m here today mostly just as an accident of fate, I reckon. I was trying to find a compartment to join on the Hogwarts Express, and Harry’s the only one who let me in, which I’m grateful for. As for something that sets me apart, well… lots of folks’ve cracked mirrors. I reckon I’m the only one who was cracked by one.”

“Pfff. That’s one way to look at it,” Hermione said. “I actually argued my way in to being in Gryffindor. I’m sure I would’ve been perfectly fine in Ravenclaw, but when I was doing my research before coming to Hogwarts I came to the realisation that I didn’t want to be just another brilliant Ravenclaw girl. There’s nothing wrong with being a brilliant Ravenclaw girl, mind; it just felt like Gryffindor would be a better fit. I’m happy to say that, thus far, I’m right. I have three talented witches for friends, even if two of them don’t quite see it for themselves yet. And I knocked out a troll last year.”

Sirius snorted. “Not many witches can say they did that their first year at Hogwarts, Hermione. All right, let us recite together…”

“Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who has made all creatures different.”

He continued, “Today, our four cups are dedicated to yetziah—going forth, coming out. We invite members of our community to share a story before dedicating each cup. All right, apple juice for myself and Remus…anyone else?” Hermione held her wine glass out, and Sirius filled it with apple juice. Harry and Myf opted for the grape juice.

“Hm. It’s weird, thinking back on those days, but I actually hadn’t expected to be sexually attracted to anybody when I was a teenager,” Remus said. “I liked James, Sirius, the rat, and Lily, but I mostly just wanted to hang out with them, I did. Partially, I guess, it was because I didn’t dare let myself get entangled with anyone. It was the custom of my people, back then, to arrange marriages, and my mother was quite firm, she was, that I would not marry anyone ‘unsuitable’. Of course, we had very different ideas of what constituted ‘suitability’, and that led to a few rows. But mostly it was just…I don’t generally find people sexually attractive. I didn’t know until much later that there was a term for people like me: asexual. I explained that to them in, oh…third-year, I think it was?

“Then my best friends, except for Lily because she was still out on the wings at the time, did something exceptionally foolish and brave in fifth-year, and…after that, we were partners, not just best friends. ‘Friends with benefits’ doesn’t really cover it, but it comes close.”

“And I think we’re going to leave it at that,” Sirius said firmly. “I might as well come clean to you all, but this stays in this room, Myfanwy and Hermione.”

“I swear by my word as Weasley that I will keep this conversation in confidence,” Myf said, and Hermione echoed her.

“James, the rat, and I became Animagi our fifth year. We didn’t register, however, although I probably will, soon, if only so it doesn’t hang over my head forever. My Animagus form is a large, black German Shepherd, whereas James’s was a white-tail stag. The rat’s you know, of course.”

Harry, Myf, and Hermione nodded. “And Remus?” Hermione asked.

“He didn’t participate in the ritual, and in fact we didn’t mention it to him until after we’d finished,” Sirius said. “And that was a trick, let me tell you.”

“I’m still amazed you managed to keep that leaf in your mouth for an entire month without my being any the wiser,” Remus said. “Mind you, that part of the ritual is disgusting to contemplate.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t have to taste the bloody leaf. Bleh. All right, wine glasses up.” Sirius recited the blessing, “Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, borei p’ri hagafen. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?D, who created the fruit of the vine. All together now…”

“Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who has called us to your service and made us holy with your mitzvot, and given us, Adonai our G?d, in love, the festivals for happiness, the holidays and seasons for rejoicing, this day of the festival of matzot, season of our freedom, a holy convocation, a remembrance of the going-out from Egypt. For you have called to us, and made us holy for your service, and your holy festivals, in happiness and joy, you have given us, to have and to hand on. Blessed are you, Adonai, who raises up to holiness the people Israel and their festival times.

“Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, shehecheyanu, v’kiy’manu, v’higiyanu lazman hazeh. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who enlivened us, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.”

They drank from their wine glasses, and Sirius began once more. “In Hebrew, urchatz means ‘washing’ or ‘cleansing’. In Aramaic, sister language to Hebrew, urchatz means ‘trusting’. As we wash each others’ hands, we reflect on this act of trust and welcoming, recalling the sources of hope and trust we want to bring in to the world for ourselves and each other.”

From under the table, Sirius pulled out a medium-sized bowl, within which was water and a wash-cloth. He set the bowl down on the table between himself and Remus, and washed Remus’s hands with the wash-cloth. When he was finished, Remus moved the bowl, and did likewise with Harry’s, and on it went around the table, until Hermione washed Sirius’s. He put the bowl back under the table, then stood, holding up the horseradish that was on his plate.

“We dip the maror, the bitter herbs, twice in saltwater, symbolising the tears of the people Israel under enslavement,” he said, then did so, taking a bite of the horseradish afterward. “That’s what’s in the ramekins, if you were wondering.”

When everyone had done so, he continued. “And now we break the middle piece of matzah², and it becomes the afikomen⁶; finding it will end our Seder³ today. No prayer is recited before we break the middle matzah². This is a silent act. We realise that, like the broken matzah², we are all incomplete, with prayers yet to be fulfilled, promises still to be redeemed.”

He pulled the middle matzah² out of the stack in the centre of the table and snapped it cleanly in half. One half he folded in to a napkin. “Cover your eyes, please,” he said, and once everyone complied, he left to hide the napkin-wrapped matzah² that had become the afikomen⁶. A few minutes later, he came back in. “That’s done. Later, when I tell you to, you kids get to go find it. And now, we raise our matzah² and we sing ha’lachma anya…”

Sirius and Remus sang it together, and then they all recited, “This is the bread of affliction which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are needy come and and celebrate Passover. Now we are here; next year may we be in Israel. Now we are slaves; next year may we be free.”

Sirius spoke once more, “Questions, even the the most irreverent, seed the freedom that we celebrate tonight. When G?d, taking Abraham in to his confidence, announced the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the man responded with rebellion. ‘Heaven forbid you to do a thing like this, to deal death to the innocent along with the guilty. Heaven forbid for you! Will not the Judge of all the earth do justice?!’

“The irreverence displayed here takes the breath away. But even more breathtaking is the divine response. G?d doesn’t consume G?d’s inquisitor in a pillar of fire. Instead, G?d submits to Abraham’s questioning. Had G?d instead flamed up in aggrieved piety, then the story we tell could never have been written, not a word of it.

“Perhaps today there is one who sits at the table, harbouring an irreverent question, one that challenges the assumptions that have brought us to this table for many generations. If the struggles with their question lead them away from the answers of their ancestors, what then? Must lineage dictate the child’s interpretation of the world?

“If any of you have questions before we get to the Four Questions, now’s your opportunity. This room is a judgement-free zone.”

After a few moments, when it seemed like nobody had any, Sirius continued, “All right. Well, if you think of any, feel free to ask them.”

He and Remus proceeded to sing mah nishtanah, then he began reading from the haggadah⁴ again.

“What differentiates this night from all other nights? On all other nights, we eat chametz—leavened bread—and matzah². Tonight, why only matzah²? On all other nights, we eat any kind of herb. Tonight, why bitter herbs? On all other nights, we do not dip even once. Tonight, why do we dip the greens twice? On all other nights, we eat sitting or reclining. Tonight, why do we all recline?

“In addition to the Four Questions, today we ask ourselves a fifth. We are commanded to celebrate as if each one of us were personally liberated from Egypt. In the next year, how do you hope to bring yourself closer to your place of freedom?”

Harry held up a hand, and Sirius paused invitingly. “Well,” Harry said, looking around. “I’d say I already found my place of freedom, I think. How much freer might I be than this, where I’m allowed to be a kid? To play games, read, snuggle with someone I love, learn and practice magic?”

Remus chuckled. “He has a point, nishmati⁷. Mostly.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “We’ll discuss the ‘mostly’ another time, I think. You’re right, though, Harry. Kids don’t have to worry about the cost of food, or finding a job, or making rent. On the other hand, you do also have responsibilities. To me and Remus, and to your teachers at Hogwarts. But, by learning and growing, you’ll win yourself free of even those, in time.”

“That’s true, yeah,” Harry allowed. “Carry on.”

“And let us recite together,” Sirius said.

“We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, but Adonai our G?d brought us out with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. Had not G?d brought our ancestors out of Egypt, then we, our children, and our grandchildren would still be enslaved to Pharaoh in Egypt. Even if we were wise and perceptive, experienced, and versed in Torah, it would still be our duty to tell about the Exodus from Egypt.”

Sirius continued, “Four times the Torah speaks about children in connection with the telling of the Exodus story, but nothing is said about the character of these children. Rabbinic midrash viewed these passages as representing different types of children: One who is wise, one who is wicked, one who is simple, and one who does not know enough to ask.

“Yet we know that no child is all wise, all wicked, all simple, or incapable of asking anything. At different points in our lives, we have been all of these children: One who is eager, one who is hostile, one who is passive, and one who is bewildered.

“We have asked the cleverest of questions; we have challenged provocatively; we have simply wanted to know the answer; we have been so confused that we could not speak. We have been all of these children: One who is aware, one who is alienated, one who is direct, and one who is silent.

“Here, I will offer an abridged version of the story of Exodus, as told in Torah, to be sure that everyone at this table knows.

“‘A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.’ Pharaoh subjected the people Israel to hard labour and bitter bondage—yet, the more they were oppressed, the more they increased and spread out. And so Pharaoh ordered Shifra and Puah, the Hebrew midwives, to drown all male Hebrew children in the waters of the Nile. But these brave women defied Pharaoh’s edict, and Pharaoh turned instead to his subjects, declaring that all male Hebrew babies be killed.

“To save her son from this edict, Yocheved hid him in a basket among the reeds of the Nile, where his sister stood silently watching over as Pharaoh’s own daughter took the child in, naming him Moses and raising him as her own. When he had grown up, he killed an Egyptian taskmaster who had beaten an Israelite slave, and he fled to the desert.

“There in the desert Moses encountered a bush that burned, but was not consumed by the flames. ‘I am the G?d of your ancestors—the G?d of Abraham, the G?d of Isaac, the G?d of Jacob,’ said a Voice. And Moses heeded Adonai’s command, returning to Egypt and demanding of the Pharaoh to let G?d’s people go.

“But Pharaoh would not listen, stiffening his heart against the cries of a people enslaved and against the pleas of Moses. G?d hardened Pharaoh’s heart. Again and again, Pharaoh refused to let the people go, until G?d performed such signs and wonders as had never been experienced before, bringing plague after plague upon Pharaoh and his people.

“As we recite the names of the ten plagues, we take a drop of juice with each name.”

“These are the ten plagues which G?d brought down upon Egypt,” they recited. “Dam, blood. Tsfardea, frog. Kinim, lice. Arov, beasts. Dever, cattle plague. Sh’chin, boils. Barad, hail. Arbeh, locusts. Choshech, darkness. Makat b’chorot, death of the firstborn.”

Sirius continued, “‘In the middle of the night the Eternal struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt. And Pharaoh arose in the night because there was a loud cry in Egypt; for there was no house where there was not someone dead.’

“Death and destruction had passed over the homes of the Israelites, their doorways and lintels smeared with lamb’s blood. And on that long and terrible night, the people Israel fled Egypt, their bread unleavened, fleeing into the desert until they reached the shores of the Sea.

“Suddenly they heard Pharaoh’s chariots fast upon them. And G?d told Moses to stretch out his staff over the waters. And all through the night the wind blew, and the sea parted, and so Israel traversed the sea, with the waters like a wall to their right and to their left.

“Behind them Pharaoh’s chariots pursued, but G?d caused the waters to return upon them, drowning them in the waters, just as Pharaoh’s edict had drowned the Hebrew children in the waters of the Nile.

“‘Then Miriam, the prophetess, Aaron’s sister, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went after her in dance with timbrels. And Miriam chanted for them: Sing to Adonai, for G?d has triumphed gloriously; horse and driver G?d has hurled into the sea.’”

Sirius and Remus sang dayenu together, and Sirius continued once more.

“G?d did all this for our ancestors and for us. Therefore we should work, speak out, strive, and fight for the redemption of all the people of the world, as it is written: ‘You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.’

“Does anyone have a coming-out story they’d like to share?”

Hermione stood. “Except for Sirius, you all were there the last time I came out. But that was not, of course, the first time. I came out to my parents when I was about seven. They, hm. To be blunt, they humoured me, bought me dresses and such, and went through the motions. Even helped me pick out a new name. But I’ve overheard them deadnaming and misgendering me to other folks, so I know they don’t understand; I think they think it’s just a phase that I’ll grow out of. But I’m not their son who’s going to grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer, damnit. I was ecstatic when I got my Hogwarts letter, since it meant I could chart my own path, become who I choose to be.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Hermione,” Sirius said when she sat down again. “You have the support of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, should you need it, and I assume from Harry’s expression that he offered the support of House Potter. That being said, finish your juice, folks, it’s time for the second dedication.”

Sirius refilled their wine glasses, and they all lifted them and recited, “Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, borei p’ri hagafen. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who created the fruit of the vine.”

Sirius continued, “Our Seder³ plate holds ancient and contemporary symbols, reminding us of our people’s Exodus from Egypt and calling us to the ethical treatment of neighbour and stranger alike.” He held up the parsley. “Greens represent new growth, and our own potential to reinvent ourselves, to sink our roots deep in to the earth, and to reach always toward the light. We dipped this potential in to the salt water of our tears, both now and in times past.”

Sirius put the parsley down, and held up the egg in its place. “The egg brings to mind rebirth and the cycle of the seasons; it calls us to consider our own generative possibilities: what will we create in our own lifetime?”

He switched to the shank bone. “The lamb shank represents the sacrifices we have made to survive. Hiding our authentic selves, risking the revelation of the truth, entering a Jewish community where we weren’t sure we’d be welcomed—each of us has made sacrifices that brought us here.”

He held up the horseradish again. “We taste the bitter herb to remind us of the bitterness of Egyptian bondage. It stings, bringing tears to our eyes, as we recall contemporary discrimination.”

He pointed to the charoset¹. “This charoset¹ represents the mortar that bound the bricks our ancestors laboured to make for Pharaoh, and reminds us of the vibrant new communities we are building today.”

Sirius held up the matzah². “The unleavened bread reminds us of life’s brittleness. Too many among us come here with flattened hearts. May today’s Seder³ enable our spirits to rise.”

Finally, he held up the orange. “And our Seder³ plate contains another symbol: the orange. A new and growing tradition, the orange represents the notion that there is—there must be—a place at the table for all of us, regardless of gender, gender identity, or sexual orientation. As Jews, we constantly recreate ourselves; our symbol is a fruit that carries within the seeds of its own rebirth.”

He put the orange down, and pulled out the bowl of water out from under the table again. “One more handwashing…” The bowl and wash-cloth was passed around the table again, each person washing the hands of the person to their left, until it came to Sirius once more. “And we recite together…”

“Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al netilat yadayim. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who sanctified us with the commandments and commanded us concerning the washing of hands.”

“We bless and eat the matzah²,” he said, and they recited, “Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, ha’motzi lechem min ha’aretz. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth. Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al achilat matzah. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who sanctifies us with commandments and commands us concerning the eating of matzah.”

“We bless and eat the maror,” Sirius said, and they recited, “Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al achilat maror. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, spirit of the universe, who sanctified us with the commandments and commanded us concerning the eating of bitter herbs.”

“And we make a sandwich of the matzah, the maror, and the charoset.

“Perhaps this sandwich reminds us of Hillel’s practice in the days of the Temple, when he would fulfil the Torah’s statement—that the people Israel would eat the Passover sacrifice with unleavened bread and bitter herbs.

“Perhaps, too, it reminds us of aspects of this very community, or of ourselves—bitter and cracked surfaces that give way to the sharp, fresh evidence of our labours in the world, tempered with sweetness combined from many sources. We are bitter and sweet, stubborn and giving. It is with our diversity that we begin our festive meal.”

“Dig in, folks,” Sirius said after he finished reading from the haggadah⁴.

“…What’s that?” Myf asked, pointing at the gefilte fish.

“It’s gefilte fish,” Remus said. “Basically, it’s kind of like a fish patty, and it’s a traditional part of the Passover meal proper. I believe this one’s savoury?” At Sirius’s nod, Remus continued, “So you may or may not like it. Don’t worry if you don’t, I’ll eat whatever you don’t.”

Myf tried a bite. “…Hm. It’s edible, anyway.”

Harry, after he gathered a little of everything on the meal plate that had been under the Seder plate, tried a bite next, and spat it out almost immediately after. “Texture, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise for things outside of your control, pup,” Remus said. “However, next time you need to spit something out, do it in to a napkin, not on to your plate, please?”

“Oh. Right, sorry, Uncle Remus.”

Seeing Sirius’s raised eyebrow, Remus went on, quietly enough that only he could hear, “I’ll explain later, Pads.”

“For what it’s worth, normally I don’t do gefilte fish,” Sirius said. “A lot of folks aren’t a fan, and there’s no real point in having a dish nobody’s going to eat, so this is the only time you Gentiles are going to encounter it in our house.”

“What’s ‘Gentile’ mean?” Hermione asked.

“‘Non-Jew’,” Remus said. “You may also hear ‘goy’ or ‘goyim’, which are Hebrew words which also mean ‘non-Jew’. Some folks prefer one over the other; we’re not really fans of ‘goy’ because it puts us in mind of ‘Muggle’, which is a pejorative way to describe mundane folks, people who don’t have magic and weren’t born to witches.”

“Mum’s not a fan of ‘Muggle’,” Myf said. “She doesn’t really like ‘mundane’ either, but there’s the whole, um, ‘euphemism treadmill’ issue, she says, and at least ‘mundane’ is purely descriptive. Over in the United States, witches use ‘no-maj’, which…I mean, I guess that also works, but it sticks out almost as badly as ‘Muggle’ does.”

“Honestly, witches could stand to learn a lot from mundane folks,” Hermione said. “I realise it’s only been about six months since I joined magical society, but there seems to be a lack of…generalisation, in a word. Each problem you encounter has a specific solution, and if that solution doesn’t work, you tend to flounder. Once in a while, you get innovators like Harry’s grandfather, Fleamont, but they’re pretty rare compared to mundane innovators.”

“And therein lies the Potters’ historical support for mundane-born witches. The Weasleys’, too,” Sirius said, nodding. “It’s one of the reasons why Myfanwy’s father is in the Office of Mundane Artefacts, although he mainly deals with cases where artefacts, mundane or otherwise, have gotten in to the hands of mundane folks.”

The conversation flowed from there as they ate. Harry tried a little of everything, though he was hesitant about the devilled eggs and the matzo ball soup, of which he had only one and a little, respectively. The sticking point came when he tried one of the sauces meant to go with the roast chicken, a sweet and sour sauce that looked like and, in fact, contained ketchup. Immediately after the very different flavour hit him, he gagged and started coughing. Remus looked up, then pulled out his wand and flicked it, causing a bucket to materialise next to Harry just in case. Fortunately, he was able to regain his composure after a few moments. “Sorry, sorry…” Harry mumbled.

“What was it?” Remus asked quietly.

“The, um, red sauce for the chicken,” Harry said. “Thought it was ketchup.”

“Ah, I see. Sirius had warned me about it, but…it didn’t occur to me to warn you about it, since I figured you’d have encountered a sweet and sour sauce already. Do you think you’ll be able to continue, or…?”

“Um…probably not,” Harry said after a moment. “Sorry, Uncle Remus.”

“No need to apologise for something you can’t help, pup.”

Once it was obvious that everyone else had eaten their fill, Sirius stood once more. “All right, it’s time to find the afikomen. I have a box of chocolate frogs for whoever finds it.”

Harry, Myf, and Hermione scattered, and Remus chuckled. “Ah, the energy of youth,” he said quietly.

“Oh? Who was it I saw zooming around the field on the far side of the forest last night, hmm?” Sirius quirked an eyebrow.

“I have no idea who you could possibly be referring to,” Remus said innocently.

“Found it!” Myf called a moment later, and soon they were all at the table again. Sirius exchanged the afikomen⁶ for the box of chocolate frogs he’d pulled out from under the table.

“We recite the blessing after the meal,” Sirius said, and they did: “B’rich rachamana, rucha d’alma marei d’hai pita. Blessed is the Merciful One, spirit of the universe, master of this bread.”

“One more coming-out story, and then we fill and dedicate the third cup,” Sirius said. “And remember, this is a judgement-free zone; anything you say here remains here.”

He looked around. “Nobody? Well. In that case, about a year or so before Remus came out as ace, I realised I was gay. Only woman I was ever attracted to was Lily. The one and only actual fight I ever had with James was whether that made me bi or not, when I came out.”

“Heh. I remember that, I do,” Remus said. “Took me and the rat what felt like ages to get you two to talk to each other again. About a week, I think?”

“Something like that, yeah. Of course, when I came out to my family, well. That was just before I ran away to live with James and his family. They understood, of course. Honestly, I think the only reason my mum left everything to me is because there was nobody else she could leave it all to, if she wanted the House to remain. All right, time to drain and refresh our wine glasses and then recite the blessing again.”

After the wine glasses were refilled, they recited, “Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, borei p’ri hagafen. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, who created the fruit of the vine.”

Sirius pulled out his wand and swished it, causing a plate of blondies to levitate over from the kitchen counter. “Anyone want a blondie? It’s like a brownie, except with vanilla rather than chocolate.”

They all accepted one, and he levitated the plate back, exchanging it with a plate of peanut butter cookies, the contents of which vanished in fairly short order.

“All right, a few more things and then we’re actually done,” Sirius said. “All together now…”

“We cannot forget those who remain behind in any land—any environment—of persecution, fearful of antisemitism, religious intolerance, homophobia, or bigotry of any kind. To those still seeking liberty of life, to those striving courageously to build a community, and to those of all humankind that strive to live a free and equal existence with all people of the world, we pledge our continued vigilance, support, and solidarity.

“And we take a breath in silence before blessing this, our fourth cup, to honour those who are as yet unable to emerge from their narrow straits.

“Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, borei p’ri hagafen. Blessed are you, Adonai our G?d, who created the fruit of the vine.” They lifted their wine glasses for the fourth and final time, and drank.

“We open the door for Elijah,” Sirius said, “that mysterious prophet whom tradition promises will resolve every dispute, smooth over every conflict, and reveal the Messianic Age—a time of peace and security for all of us. Today we voice our wish for peace and wholeness through the words of Jewish artist Judy Chicago, to remind us that Judaism has much to teach—and much to learn from—the wide world.” Sirius paused here, giving Harry a significant look; after he returned from opening the back door, Sirius continued. “All together, one last time…”

And then all that has divided us will merge. And then compassion will be wedded to power. And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind. And then both men and women will be gentle. And then both women and men will be strong. And then no person will be subject to another’s will. And then all will be rich and free and varied. And then the greed of some will give way to the needs of many. And then all will share equally in the earth’s abundance. And then all will care for the sick and the weak and the old. And then all will nourish the young. And then all will cherish life’s creatures. And then all will live in harmony with each other and the earth. And then everywhere will be called Eden once again.

“And we conclude, in unison,” Sirius said.

“May slavery give way to freedom. May hate give way to love. May ignorance give way to wisdom. May despair give way to hope. Next year, at this time, may everyone, everywhere, be free! L’shana ha-ba’ah b’Yirushalayim, next year in Jerusalem!”

Sirius smiled. “It is also our task, as Jews, to count the Omer, the forty-nine days between the onset of Passover and the giving of Torah at Mount Sinai. The count begins with day one of the Omer being the second night, last night, of Passover. Because our Seder today is being held during the day rather than after sunset, we do not perform the blessing. Hayom yom echad la’Omer. Today is one day of the Omer.”

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t join Remus and Sirius that night for the full moon, however. They’d discussed the possibility, but ultimately Remus had felt that it would have risked giving away his lycanthropy. Instead, the three of them trudged up to Hagrid’s hut on the twenty-seventh of April. It was a cold night, only a few degrees above freezing, so Harry was bundled up almost as much as he had been four months prior. He had his flute poking out of one of his pockets this time, and his wand was in a plain leather holster hanging off of his belt. Remus wore the same dressing gown and heavy cloak that he’d worn before, but Sirius was dressed in denim trousers, a shirt for a metal band, and a light cardigan.

“Aren’t you cold, Uncle Sirius?” Harry asked as they walked.

“Not particularly,” Sirius said. “Like Remus, having an animal form alters my metabolism relative to a human without it. I run a little hotter than normal, for example; dogs are typically in the 37.2 to 38.8 range, and humans fluctuate between 36.4 to 37.6. I’m usually about 38 even, which for a normal human would be a mild fever. No big deal, really. I’m less vulnerable to human diseases, but more susceptible to anything dogs and humans can catch, however.”

“So what other ways are you like a dog when you’re bipedal? Professor McGonagall talked about Animagi briefly on the first lesson, but she mostly focused on how dangerous the ritual for becoming one was.”

“So, the thing about becoming an Animagus is that you acquire some traits in your human form based on your animal form’s. I get more sensitive hearing, a stronger sense of smell, a longer tongue…watch this.” Sirius turned his head so that Harry could see, and licked the tip of his own nose. “My palate’s also both more sensitive and less discerning: I can taste things better, but I’m less bothered by flavours I used to dislike. On the other hand, I’m about as colour-blind as Remus when he’s bipedal, and my stomach’s more sensitive than it used to be. I can still have dairy, Baruch HaShem, but I’m not allowed onions, garlic, grapes, spinach, alcohol, and so on unless I’m really careful. Remus is actually slightly worse off there, so that’s why we had apple juice on Passover.”

“Oh, huh. Yeah, that makes sense,” Harry said. “Do you, um…I know people who’ve lost limbs sometimes feel like they’re still there. Do you get that with tails?”

Remus laughed. “We both do, and sometimes that leads to us sitting weirdly because we’re accommodating tails that aren’t actually there, we are. There are some magical consequences for having an animal form, too. I’m immune to almost all Transfiguration, for example, which means I can’t perform the Animagus ritual; the magic just won’t take root.”

“Huh. Does that apply to Uncle Sirius, or is that specific to werewolves?”

“A bit,” Sirius said. “He’s not actually completely immune—it just has to be an effect he’s consciously performing on himself, otherwise the werewolfy bits go ‘nuh-uh’. In my case, however, Transfigurations will just behave oddly. If you tried to do one of the animal-to-object Transfigurations while I was a dog, for example, I’d be conscious the entire time and deeply uncomfortable until it got reverted.”

Hagrid was waiting for the three of them when they reached his hut, and he had a small sack with him. “Evenin’, lads. Had yer potion, Remus?”

“Aye, took it with lunch, I did,” Remus said.

“Good, good. Harry, good to see yeh still taking it seriously.”

“That was last month, Hagrid,” Sirius said, mock-severely. Hagrid just gave him a look, with a minute gesture toward Harry that the boy missed entirely.

“Behave,” Remus muttered quietly enough only Sirius heard him, and Sirius smirked.

“Righ’, off we go,” Hagrid said, and he led the way. Harry vaguely recognised the path—it was the same one they’d taken in December, just without snow on the ground this time.

When they reached the clearing, Harry, Sirius, and Hagrid sat on logs as Remus slowly made his way out of view. Hearing Remus’s agonised screams and yelps wasn’t any easier for Harry than it was the first time he’d heard them, but this time he leaned against Sirius, who put an arm around him comfortingly.

“Hey again, Uncle Remus,” Harry said when the wolf rejoined them. Sirius stood up, and stretched.

“Heh. I noticed how much he brightened up when you pattered in to the clearing, Moony,” Sirius muttered. “Lad’s next best thing to besotted.”

Remus flicked an ear as he padded over to snuffle Harry, causing the boy to giggle and then scritch gently behind Remus’s ears. This, in turn, caused the wolf to wag. Sirius grinned, then, with an effort of will and a screeeee audible only to Remus, dropped to all fours as he turned into a very large black dog. He trotted over and nudged Remus out of the way, snuffling at Harry as well. Unlike Remus, however, Sirius gave him several sloppy canine kisses and wagged, doggie-grinning, when Harry protested.

“It’s not fair to Uncle Remus that you get to do that and he can’t, Uncle Sirius,” Harry said, his tone amused, as he wiped the dog’s saliva off his face. He pulled his wand out and looked around the clearing, then, with a weaselled wingardium leviosa, he levitated a goodly-sized stick in to the air. “Wanna play fetch?”

Immediately, both canines play-bowed and wagged, doggie-grinning, which caused Harry to giggle as he flicked his wrist, sending the stick flying a lot further than he would’ve been able to had he used his mere muscles. They crashed through the brush as they gave chase, each attempting to shoulder the other to gain an advantage as they competed to get the stick.

“Clever idea, tha’,” Hagrid said. “An’ I see yeh brought yer flute with yeh tonight. Learned to play it yet?”

“Haven’t really had the time, if I wanted to spend any with my uncles,” Harry said. “Can’t be in two places at once.”

“Aye. Remus has perfect pitch, so perhaps yeh could ask him to teach yeh.” Harry threw the stick with his wand again, this time in a slightly different direction, Remus having dropped it at his feet with a cheerful awwruff.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that…I know he’s an excellent singer, however many paw—er, feet he has.”

“Aye,” Hagrid said again. “I sorta forgot ter mention, the flute’s got a charm on it. It’s designed to degrade gradually as yeh play, so yeh can learn without sounding like yer stranglin’ cats.”

“Oh! That’s pretty cool!” Sirius dropped the stick at Harry’s feet this time, and he tossed it once more.

After about an hour and a half, the canines eventually tired of the game, and they sat next to Harry, bracketing him and wagging contentedly as he scritched behind their ears. After a moment, Remus began to sing a wolf-song of joy. Sirius joined in, after a fashion, though his voice was a bit rougher than Remus’s.

Harry took out his flute, but before he could start playing, Hagrid said, “Yeh hold it like so; to activate the charm, say ‘musica practica’.”

Harry did as instructed, and then joined the howl. His flute sounded puppy-ish compared to Remus and Sirius, but their song brought a smile to Hagrid’s face all the same.

When Harry woke on Tuesday, there was a note on his night-stand from Professor McGonagall, excusing him from class for Lag BaOmer (which he knew from talking with Sirius and Remus was the thirty-third day of the Omer). He dressed in layers—he knew from the forecast it’d be around 10 that afternoon, though it was still fairly cold.

After breakfast, he and Xenia made their way to the Entrance Hall, where Sirius was already waiting for him. “Hey, Uncle Sirius,” Harry said.

“Hey, pup,” Sirius said with a grin. “Xenia looks adorable in that little sweater you’ve put on her.”

As they walked outside, Harry said, “She does, yeah. Hasn’t tried to wriggle out of it, either, which is…abnormal for ferrets, apparently. Figured I’d bring her along, since I’d be out and about during the day for something that isn’t Herbology, for a change.”

“Makes sense. Enrichment is important for any pet, and…hm, yes, she is a familiar, though not quite bonded yet. Bonded familiars can take on several forms, not just the one she’s been born to.”

“They can? What else can bonded familiars do? Hagrid didn’t seem to know much when we bought her, which…knowing how fond he is of animals is actually kinda surprising.”

“Not terribly, when you consider that familiars are spirits and not actually animals. Mind the puddle.”

Harry scooped Xenia up and circumnavigated the puddle so as to avoid getting her sweater dirty. “Huh. She seems real enough.”

“As long as she assumes a corporeal form, she will be. So, one of the key things about familiars is that they can serve as a channel for casting magic, in much the same way that wands are, and they were in fact very common among witches in the years before wands entered common practise.”

“So…why do witches use wands, then?” Harry asked curiously. “Seems like it’d be useful to have a familiar rather than a wand.”

“Oh, there are a variety of reasons,” Sirius said. “Mostly, it’s that familiars require a blood gift, regularly, though it’s not a lot of blood and there’s no requirement that it come from any particular part of your body. Some witches are squeamish about that, and many more would prefer to just not have that burden. Ah, here we are.”

They entered a clearing, a larger one than the one they’d used on the Saturday, and Remus was sitting on a log. Harry crossed over immediately to give him a hug and to join him, not noticing that Hagrid was nearby as well. Sirius chuckled, amused, and sat down on another log near them, where a guitar case was waiting.

“Love you,” Harry said quietly when he disengaged.

“Love you too, pup,” Remus said, smiling. “So, today we’re just going to be out here, singing and being joyful around a bonfire, which Hagrid has just finished setting up the wood for. I see you’ve brought Xenia this time.”

There was a fwoosh as Hagrid lit the bonfire. “Have a good time. Lemme know if summat comes up, yeh know the drill,” he said. “I’ll be back later ter put it out. Tata for now.”

Harry was going to continue talking, but Sirius began to play on his guitar, then sang:

I met her in a club down in old Soho,
Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca-Cola
C O L A, Cola…
She walked up to me and asked me to dance,
I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice, she said, “Lola”
L-O-L-A, Lola
Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo-Lola

Remus gave Sirius a look, which the other man returned blandly as he continued. When he finished, Remus asked, “Why ‘Lola’?”

“Eh. Dunno, honestly. Your turn. Whatcha got?”

“Oseh Shalom, I think,” Remus said. “Ready, pup?”

Harry nodded, and they sang together, only slightly discordant.

Oseh shalom bimromav… Hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu…¹

“So, Harry. Any songs you like?” Sirius asked, when they concluded.

“Um… ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’, I think? Or, um. ‘The Bohemian Rhapsody’…?”

Remus and Sirius looked at each other for a moment. “Rhapsody, I think,” Remus said.

“Right, easier. Harry, you have the parts Freddie Mercury sang solo, all right?” At Harry’s nod, Sirius continued, “On three… One, two, three…”

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide…
No escape from reality…

And on it went, with each of the three picking a song, Sirius playing guitar, and all of them singing together. The bonfire crackled merrily, and when it came time for lunch, it turned out to be beef franks and other goodies that could be cooked over the fire.

As Harry got ready for bed that evening, he reflected that this was probably one of the happiest days of his life. Right after the day his guardianship papers were signed, in fact. There was just…something special, about spending the day singing joyfully with his family—a family that cared for him, that loved him, even if sometimes his brain was sceptical of it.

His brain did, after all, know that Remus was being paid to care for him.

Chapter Text

The weeks leading up to the final Quadball match of the year were quite hectic, and Harry found his free time vanishing entirely—except for his weekend visits, which Professor McGonagall personally explained to Wood were off-limits. Exams were to be held the first two weeks of June, which meant everyone was revising. Except for the Weasley twins, that was, but they were busy for other reasons.

Concomitant with revision, however, Harry was starting to feel a dull ache centred on his curse scar, along with a smug sense of satisfaction that did not come from himself at all. It got worse when he was in the Self Defence classroom, which at least suggested that Professor Quirrell was the source…but how? What connection did he have to the Great Warlock that would result in a connection with Harry?

It all came to a head when Harry collapsed with a short, pained-sounding scream fifteen minutes in to Transfiguration on the twenty-third. When he was able to move again—the pain from his scar had lessened a bit—Professor McGonagall was kneeling on the ground next to him. Harry croaked, “He’s excited—he thinks he’ll be able to make his move tonight.”

McGonagall hadn’t heard him, apparently, or if she had it’d come out as gibberish, as she carefully moved him to a stretcher she’d apparently conjured, and had Myf and Hermione take him to the Hospital Wing. By the time they got there, the pain from his scar had started to subside, at least enough to where he was able to start forming coherent words again. He was rolled gently on to a cot, and Madam Pomfrey began examining him.

“Can you describe what happened?” Madam Pomfrey asked, though Harry wasn’t quite sure who she was asking. He said, “My scar hurt so bad I couldn’t do anything but fall over.”

Everyone blinked and looked at him. “Does your scar hurt often, Harry?” Madam Pomfrey asked gently.

“Until recently,” Harry said as he sat up, “only when Professor Quirrell looked at me, though whenever I go in to his classroom I get a little light-headed. For the past couple weeks, though, it’s been a constant dull ache.”

“Were you doing anything when the pain spiked?”

“I was just sitting at our table, getting ready to Transfigure a beetle into a button, and then all I knew was a searing agony from the scar. Next thing I knew, Professor McGonagall was kneeling beside me.”

“Interesting. Unfortunately, not much is known about curse scars—and nothing at all is known about yours—so there’s not much I can do. How are you feeling?”

“Um…surprisingly, aside from the dull ache from my scar, I’m feeling fine.”

Madam Pomfrey stood up from her chair next to the bed Harry’d been laid out on. “Well, in that case, I’m going to try a topical painkiller for the scar and then let you go.”

She fetched a tube of ointment and, upon returning, donned a nitrile glove. Madam Pomfrey squeezed out a small amount of the ointment on to her gloved index finger, and gently massaged it in to Harry’s forehead. It felt frigid to Harry, but after a few seconds it warmed…and as it warmed, the ache began to fade.

“Huh. Thanks, Madam Pomfrey,” he said as she capped the tube and pulled off the glove.

“It’s working, then?” Harry nodded, and she smiled. “In that case, you’re free to leave; attend lessons as usual. However, if you experience any further pain today, come to me immediately. If the dull ache returns, let me know and I’ll have some doses made up to be applied in the mornings.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks.”

Once he, Myf, and Hermione were in the corridor again, Harry said, “I…think Professor Quirrell’s going to move tonight. I tried to tell Professor McGonagall earlier, but…”

“Oh, was that what you were trying to say?” Hermione asked. “Myf and I were trying to puzzle it out while we carried you to the Hospital Wing.”

“I’ll try again at lunch, I think.”

“Doesn’t she have third period free? I think she’ll give us a pass…”

Harry rubbed his face. “Oh, yeah, she does. One of her office hours, in fact.”

He knocked on her office door when they arrived at it. It opened at once, and Professor McGonagall called, “Come in!”

Once they did, Professor McGonagall stood up from her desk and walked around it. “Are you feeling better, Mx Potter?” she asked, swishing her wand and causing the door to her office to close.

“Yes, ma’am. Um. I think Professor Quirrell’s going to try for the Stone tonight. I fell over because my scar suddenly hurt so much I couldn’t do anything, and…well. Behind all that pain was a weird sense of…I want to say satisfaction? Like he figured something out, or a plan succeeded, or something.”

“I…see,” McGonagall said. “Unfortunately, Professor Dumbledore was called to London this morning, and shan’t be back until tomorrow. I suspect that his plan was for you to stop Quirinus, and to resolve the…situation, vis-à-vis the Stone. The prat told me, before he left, that he’d set up an Age Line as part of the defences, one he configured specifically to permit minors, but not adults, to pass once it was triggered.”

In deference to Harry’s PTSD, perhaps, McGonagall managed to sound merely frustrated rather than furious by the time she’d finished talking.

“So…an adult could go through, but not return, unless the Age Line is dismantled? Couldn’t you dismantle it?” Harry asked.

“It’s keyed to him personally, so it’d both alert him that it’s been activated and, knowing him, be fiendishly difficult for anyone else to dismantle.”

Harry rubbed his face. “Why me?” he asked, exasperated. “Haven’t I done enough just being the Boy Who Lived and bringing this whole affair to your attention?”

In a much smaller voice, he added, “…Can’t I just be Uncle Remus and Sirius’s pup…?”

She must have heard him, because she lowered herself, stiffly, to her knees so she could be eye-level to him. “Och ay, and ye shoud, whelp,” she said softly as she pulled him in to a gentle hug. “Ye shoudna face this task, ma wee bairn, but ye maun, and, alake, wi’oot ma help.”

“…What?” Harry relaxed in to Professor McGonagall’s embrace, but his confusion was evident when he spoke. She snorted in amusement. “Sorry, Mx Potter. Hadn’t realised I’d slipped in to Scots. My hands are, unfortunately, tied—but I’ll do what I can to help.”

McGonagall released him, and they stood again, though McGonagall had to lean on Harry to manage it. He bore her weight without complaint, however. “Not a word to anyone, you two,” she said sternly to Myf and Hermione. “I won’t have you undermine my reputation.”

“Did you see anything, Myf?” Hermione asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“See what?” Myf asked in return. McGonagall snorted again, and said, “I’ll give you a pass so Gwilym won’t penalise you for being late. I expect Quirinus will make his attempt around midnight. Remember your lessons.”

That night, Harry, Myf, and Hermione stayed in the Common Room until they were the only Gryffindors still in the Common Room. When midnight tolled, he set his book down with his position bookmarked. “Time to go,” he said quietly as he stood up. He’d been sitting on his invisibility cloak all evening, and as Myf and Hermione joined him, he scooped it up and they began moving toward the entrance.

When they exited, they found Neville sleeping at the foot of the Fat Lady’s painting. “What are you doing out here, Neville?” Hermione asked quietly, shaking him awake.

“Forgot the password,” he mumbled. “What are you doing out past curfew? You’ll get us in trouble.”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Myf said coldly.

“I can’t let you get us in trouble,” Neville said more distinctly, and he looked like he was psyching himself up for a fight.

“Neville, I’m really very sorry about this,” Hermione said. “Petrificus totalus.”

Harry and Myf gently carried Neville in to the Common Room and set him on a couch before rejoining Hermione outside again. Harry threw his cloak over the three of them, and they began making their way to the third floor. Once or twice they had to pause, waiting while a Prefect walked past, but there were no further incidents.

Myf showed them the secret passage her siblings had shown her, and they went in. Harry bundled up his cloak once they were inside it, and set it down where he could retrieve it on the way out. When they reached the room at the end of the secret passage, there was an enchanted harp in one corner, Fluffy was snoring, and the trapdoor was open.

Even as they came in, however, the harp stopped. Fluffy’s three heads came instantly alert and began to growl. Harry just smiled wanly and began to sing.

Ahavat olam…¹ beit Yisrael…
Amcha ahavta… Amcha ahavta…

It worked…surprisingly well, for Fluffy yawned in unison and lowered their heads, snoring once more.

Torah u’mitzvot… Chukim u’mishpatim…
Otanu limadeta… Otanu limadeta…

“So who should go first?” Myf asked. Harry gestured at her and Hermione, then at himself. “Oh. You last because you’re singing? Makes sense, neither of us can sing like you can, and you didn’t bring the flute. Well, here goes…”

Al kein Adonai eloheinu beshochveinu
uv’kumeinu nasiach bechukecha…!

And with that, Myf carefully climbed in to the hole in the floor, dangling from her hands before she let go and dropped. Hermione did likewise.

V’nis-mach bedivrei Toratecha
uv’mitzvotecha le’olam va-ed!

Ki hem chayeinu… ve’orech yameinu…
Uvahem nehgeh yomam va’laila, nehgeh yomam va’laila…

Harry chose to drop down as he finished the song, so that Fluffy would wake up only after it was too late for him to do anything.

V’ahavatcha al tasir… mimenu le’olamim…
Baruch atah Adonai… Ohev amo Yisrael…
Ohev amo Yisrael… Ohev…amo…Yisrael…

It felt like an eternity, but was more probably only about thirty seconds or so, before Harry landed on something soft. He sat up; Hermione had already cast lumos, so at least there was some light.

“Myf? Hermione? You landed all right?” Harry asked.

Hermione twitched her wand. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think…” She paused. “No, I’m pretty sure we landed on some Devil’s Snare. Lumos solem!”

Harry looked down as the light emanating from Hermione’s wand went from being a torch to flooding the room with daylight, and he saw the vines from the Devil’s Snare hastily release him. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, along with Myf and Hermione. The next chamber was only a short passage away, and already they could hear what sounded like the flapping of wings.

When they emerged in to the room, Harry saw that there was a flock of shiny…birds? No, those were keys, and opposite the door they’d come through was a wooden one with a modern-looking lock. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew they were keys, since even with his glasses they were distant enough to be indistinct, but it felt…right, somehow.

“Patefico,” Hermione tried. The door remained locked, as far as she could tell. “It’s warded, we’ll have to find the key…somewhere.”

“It’s probably up there,” Harry said, gesturing at the flying keys as he looked around. “And…yes, there’s brooms, so I need to find the specific key for this lock.”

Myf examined the lock closely. “Right. This one wants a modern…black iron key, I think? Lock’s black iron, anyway.”

“Right, then.” Harry examined the brooms. They were all old models, handles worn from years of use, and he selected what looked like it might be a racing broom similar to his Nimbus Two Thousand. It was a Swiftstick Tau Three, he noted absently, as he mounted it and flew up. As soon as he was level with the flock of keys, it split in to two, with a third rocketing away from him and the remainder seemingly colluding to prevent him from moving.

Harry moved swiftly, exploiting every opening he sensed to evade the main flock while he searched for the black iron key. And…there it was! It wasn’t at the front of the fleeing flock, but he noticed a wing was bent—someone had been there before him. Though the Swiftstick wasn’t the equal of his Nimbus, Harry was able to gain on the key and, as soon as he grabbed it, the other keys began to dive-bomb him. He flew down and passed the key to Hermione, who quickly inserted it in to the lock, turned it, and opened the door. She and Myf ducked in, and held the door open wide. Harry flew through it, and they hurriedly closed the door behind him. There was a rapid clatter as the other keys slammed in to the door.

“Blimey, that was close,” Myf said. “You okay, Harry?”

Harry shook slightly as he dismounted, but it turned out to be barely suppressed laughter as he joined them. “Whew! I haven’t had that much fun outside of Quadball, like, ever,” he said.

The girls gave him a strange look, but they walked on. Shortly after, they emerged into a large, dim chamber. It was as they emerged that the room began to brighten, until with little fanfare there was a well-lit, massive witch chess set between them and the next door.

As Myf moved to pass between the black queen and king, the chess pieces animated suddenly. She stopped and stepped back. “Do we need to play our way across the room?” she asked the black queen. It nodded.

“Right… I’m gonna have to have a think about this,” she said. A few moments later, she nodded. “No offence, but you’re both crap at chess—”

“We’re not offended,” Harry said quickly. “Just tell us what to do.”

“’Course. Do we need to take the place of any pieces in order to pass?” Myf asked the black queen, which shook its head in negation. “Right, then… Black is ready,” she called to the other side of the room.

The first move was a pawn to E4, which Myf responded to with a pawn to E5. It was followed by a knight to F3, then a knight to C6. Bishops to C4 and C5 were next, then a pawn to B4 which was captured by a bishop. A pawn moved to C3, then a bishop to A5. White castled king-side, then a knight moved to F6 followed by one to G5. Black castled king-side, then a bishop moved to A3, pawns to D6, D4, and H6, and the second capture of the game was a knight to F7. It was followed by a rook, bishop, and king all moving to F7 in that order. A pawn moved to F4, then another pawn captured D4. Another pawn moved to E5, followed by a knight to G4. A pawn to E6 put the black king in check, but was captured by a bishop to E6. Pawns moved to F5, D5, and F6, then a knight captured F6. White’s queen moved to H5 and put the black king in check, forcing Myf to move the black king to G8. A rook captured F6, then the black queen. The white queen captured D5, putting the black king in to check again, which forced the black queen to F7. The white queen moved to B5, then a rook to F8, and a pawn captured D4. The black queen moved to F2, putting the white king in check, forcing it to move to H1, then a knight captured D4. The white queen moved to D3, then a bishop moved to E1. The white king threw its crown to the ground, conceding.

“Blimey. That was a good game,” Myf said as the three of them walked across the field and through the door. The white king bowed to her, and she paused to return the bow.

“So…the keys were probably Professor McGonagall’s challenge, that chess match must have been Professor Flitwick’s…and the Devil’s Snare was obviously Professor Sprout,” Hermione said. “We have a few more to go, I’m thinking.”

When they opened the door to the next chamber, a foul stench they recognised immediately wafted out: troll. They entered cautiously…only to find that the troll, an even larger specimen than the one they’d encountered on Hallowe’en, was lying supine, with a few lumps on their head.

“Blimey,” Myf muttered as they skirted the troll. “I’m glad we didn’t have to fight this one.”

They went on in to another chamber. It was rather anticlimactic, really, Harry thought as they took in the plain wooden table, upon which sat seven different bottles of liquid. As they entered, a dimly-glowing red line on the ground they’d barely noticed flashed brightly as they crossed it.

“…That must have been the Age Line Professor McGonagall mentioned,” Hermione said, looking back.

Once they reached the table, there was another, brighter flash, and two separate lines of fire erupted. The door they’d passed through was now blocked by purple flames, and the door ahead by black. They were stuck.

“Oh, look,” Hermione said as she scooped up a scrap of paper that was lying on the table. “This must be a logic puzzle… and I wish Snape were as good at writing poetry as he is at Potions, because this is doggerel.”

“Maybe Sirius had a hand in it,” Myf said. Harry and Hermione both gave her a look. “Sorry, couldn’t help it.”

Hermione cleared her throat, and read aloud…

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onwards, neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

Hermione smiled brightly. “There’s no magic involved here at all, except perhaps for the flames and the creation of these potions. Some of the greatest witches in history had no sense for logic at all, so they’d be stuck here.”

“But that means we’re stuck too,” Myf protested.

“Of course not,” Hermione said firmly. “Everything we need is right here on this paper. Seven bottles: three poison, two wine, one safely ahead, one safely back.”

“But how will we know which is which?”

“Give me a minute.”

Hermione read the paper several times. Then she walked up and down the line of bottles, muttering to herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped her hands.

“Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire, toward the Stone.”

“But there’s only enough for one person,” Harry said, looking at the bottle. “That’s only a swallow.”

“Which one will get us back through the purple flames?” Myf asked.

Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

“You two drink that,” Harry said. “You can’t come with me, there’s not enough potion, and in any case you need to tell Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, they’ll know what to do. I may be able to hold Quirrell off for a while, but there’s no way I’m a match for him.”

“But Harry, what if the Great Warlock’s with him?” Hermione asked.

“Well, I mean…I’ve survived him once before, I might get lucky again.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said, and she and Myf flung their arms around him. He flinched—he couldn’t help it—but he hugged them back.

“You’re a great witch, you know,” Hermione said.

“I’m not as good as you,” Harry said as they released him.

“Me! That’s just books and cleverness. There are more important things, like friendship and courage and—oh, Harry, do be careful, please?”

“You two drink first,” Harry said. “You are sure which is which, Hermione?”

“Positive.” Hermione took a slug from the rounded bottle and passed it to Myf, who did likewise. They both shuddered as Myf put the bottle back on the table.

“It’s not poison?” Harry asked, anxious.

“No—but it’s like ice,” Hermione said.

“Quick, go before it wears off.”

“Good luck—” Hermione said.

“Take care—” Myf said, simultaneously.

“Go!” The girls turned and walked through the purple fire.

Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He turned to face the black flames.

“Here I come,” he muttered, and he drained the little bottle in one gulp.

It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced himself, saw the black flames licking his body but couldn’t feel them—for a moment he could see nothing but dark fire—then he was on the other side, in the last chamber.

He was right, Harry noted absently. It was Quirrell.

Chapter Text

“I hate being right,” Harry muttered. Louder, he said, “Oi!”

“Ah, Mister Potter,” Quirrell said, turning to face him. Harry disliked the emphasis the man put on the salutation. “So nice to see you.”

“So what was all that cloaky business with Snape about, anyway?”

“Ah, Snape,” Quirrell sneered. “Such a thorn in my side… First, preventing me from killing you in your first match, then manoeuvring to ensure he refereed your second. He needn’t have bothered… with Dumbledore watching, I couldn’t have done anything anyway. All that time wasted, when after all that I’m going to kill you tonight.”

Quirrell snapped his fingers, and suddenly ropes bound Harry tightly. He recognised the Body-Binding Hex, having seen it used on Pettigrew a mere four months prior.

“You’re too nosy to live, Mister Potter. Scurrying around the school like that on Hallowe’en…for all I knew, you’d seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone.”

“I had to pee, you block. And you let the troll in?”

“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls—you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off—and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to bite Snape’s leg off properly.

“Now, wait quietly, Mister Potter”—Harry’s dislike for the man was starting to turn in to hatred—“I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

It was only then that Harry realised what was standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.

“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this…but he’s in London…I’ll be far away by the time he gets back…”

“Why do you keep emphasising ‘mister’ when you address me? It’s quite rude, you know.”

“Because, boy, you cannot change what you are, no matter what childish games you play at home. You were born a boy, you’ll die a boy, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

“And that is why you fail,” Harry said, in a credible imitation of someone from the telly he’d heard from his cupboard once.

Quirrell ignored this gibe and turned back to the mirror. “I see the Stone… I’m presenting it to my master…but where is it?”

Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn’t give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to the Mirror.

“But why do you fear Snape so?”

“Bah. Snape is of no real consequence. He hates you, you know.”

What? Harry thought. Why would he…and why not show any sign of it, if so?

“And… I thought I’d heard you sobbing, the other day,” Harry said, instead of revealing his thoughts.

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell’s face. “Sometimes, boy, I find it hard to follow my master’s instructions—he is a great witch, and I am weak—”

“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” Harry gasped.

“He is with me, wherever I am,” Quirrell said quietly. “I met him when I travelled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it…Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me.” Quirrell shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringott’s, he was most displeased. He punished me…decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me…”

Quirrell cursed under his breath.

“I don’t understand…is the Stone inside the Mirror? Should I break it?”

Harry’s mind was racing.

What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the Mirror, I should see myself finding it—which means I’ll see where it’s hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realising what I’m up to?

He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to himself.

“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!”

And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself. “Use the boy… Use the boy…”

Quirrell turned to Harry. “Yes… Mister Potter, come here.”

He clapped his hands once and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet.

“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the Mirror, and tell me what you see.”

Harry walked towards him.

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that’s all.

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell’s turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the Mirror and opened them again.

He saw his reflection, wan and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket—and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow—incredibly—he’d got the Stone.

“Well?” Quirrell asked impatiently. “What do you see?”

“I see myself playing fetch with a big black dog,” Harry lied smoothly.

Quirrell cursed again.

“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside he felt the Philosopher’s Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?

But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn’t moving his lips. “He lies… He lies…”

“Mister Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me the truth! What did you see?”

The high voice spoke again. “Let me speak to him… face to face…”

“Master, you are not strong enough!”

“I have strength enough…for this…”

Harry felt a massive weight pressing in on him from all directions, one that felt like it should have squished him, and yet did not. He couldn’t move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. The face was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

“Harry Potter…” the face whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backwards, but his legs wouldn’t move.

“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere shadow and vapour…I have form only when I can share another’s body…but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds…Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past months…and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now…why don’t you give me that Stone in your pocket?”

So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry’s legs. He stumbled backwards.

“Don’t be a fool,” the face snarled. “Better save your own life and join me…or you’ll meet the same end as your parents…They died begging me for mercy…”

“Liar!” Harry shouted.

Quirrell was walking backwards at him, so that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling.

“How touching…” it hissed. ’I always value bravery… Yes, boy, your parents were brave…I killed your father first and he put up a courageous fight…but your mother needn’t have died…she was trying to protect you… Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”

“Never!”

Harry sprang for the flame door, but Voldemort screamed, “Seize him!” and, next second, Harry felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At once, Harry felt a needle-sharp pain emanating from his scar. His head felt it was going to split in two from the pain, and he yelled, struggling with all his might. To his surprise, Quirrell released him almost at once. The pain in his head lessened, and he looked around to see where Quirrell had gone. And there he was, hunched over in pain, looking at his fingers—they were disintegrating before his eyes.

“Seize him! Seize him!” Voldemort shrieked again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s neck—he felt afresh the pain he’d experienced that morning, but this time he could see Quirrell howling in agony.

“Master, I cannot hold him—my hands—my hands!”

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms—Harry could see his hands were disintegrating faster now.

“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” Voldemort screeched.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face—

And then Quirrell screamed in agony and rolled off of him, his face beginning to dissolve too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin. He thought about grabbing for him again, but between the pain and the fact that the man was already falling to pieces—literally—he decided he needn’t bother, and instead scuttled away to a corner of the room, where he curled up and tried to make himself as small as he could manage.

Quirrell was too distracted by his own dissolution to chase after him, thankfully, but the pain in his head began mounting again. Quirrell’s agonised shrieks and Voldemort’s cries of “Kill him! Kill him!” were overwhelming now, and mixed with them were other voices, maybe inside his own head, saying, “Harry! Harry!”

He fell in to darkness…

Something gold was glinting above him. The snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were too heavy.

He blinked. It wasn’t the snitch at all, but rather a pair of glasses. How strange.

He blinked again. Oh. It was Professor Dumbledore. That made more sense.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” Dumbledore said.

Harry stared at him for a moment, then he remembered—“Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He’s got the Stone! Sir, quick—”

“Calm yourself, young lad, you are a bit behind the times,” Dumbledore said. “Quirrell does not have the Stone.”

“Then who does? Sir, I—”

“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out.”

Harry swallowed, and looked around. He realised he was on a cot in the Hospital Wing, or rather laying upon it, neatly tucked in. Next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half the sweet-shop.

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Fred and Georgia Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a lavatory seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days. Misses Myfanwy Weasley and Hermione Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried.”

“But sir, the Stone—”

“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. He’d turned to dust by the time I arrived, so there was really nothing for me to do but bring you back up here.”

“You got there? You got Hermione’s owl?”

“We must have crossed in mid-air. No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left.”

“Oh. So that was you…”

“I feared I might be too late.”

“You nearly were. If he hadn’t started to disintegrate, the Stone—”

“Not the Stone, lad, you—the effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Harry asked blankly. “But your friend—Nicolas Flamel—”

“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat and agreed it’s all for the best.”

“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?”

“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die.”

Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry’s face. He thought it looked a bit patronising, really.

“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all—the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things which are worst for them.”

“Sir?” Harry said. “I’ve been thinking…Sir, even if the Stone’s gone, Voldemort’s going to try other means of coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has he?”

“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share…not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time—and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power.”

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly because it made his head ache. Then, after a moment, he said, “Sir…there are some other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me… Things I want to know the truth about.”

“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”

“Well… Voldemort said he only killed my mum because she tried to stop him killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?”

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. “Alas, the first thing you ask, I cannot answer, at least not today. In the future, perhaps…when you are older, when you’re ready, you’ll know.”

Harry mentally rolled his eyes, and resolved to ask Uncle Remus or Uncle Sirius later. “But…why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?”

“Ah. Remember the wards I mentioned when we met in early August last year? Your mother had revisited some very ancient magic to put wards upon you, and her sacrifice triggered it. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that your mother’s sacrifice could protect you. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason.”

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the window-sill, which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the sheet. When he had found his voice again, Harry said, “And the invisibility cloak—do you know who sent it to me?”

“Ah—your father happened to leave it in my possession and I thought you might like it.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things…your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here.”

“And there’s something else…”

“Fire away.”

“Why does Professor Snape hate me? I mean, I never realised, because he’s never given it away, but…”

“It’s not…quite accurate to say that he hates you. He hated your father, of course—they detested each other, rather like yourself and Mr Malfoy, and then your father did something Professor Snape could never forgive.”

“What was that?”

“He saved his life.”

“What?”

“Yes…” Dumbledore said, somewhat vaguely. “Funny, the way people’s minds work, sometimes… Anyway. You remind him of your father, but, crucially, you also remind him of your mother, and she was a talented witch indeed. He is, however, quite capable of putting his emotions aside; I would not employ him, otherwise.”

Harry tilted his head. “I…see. There’s just one more thing…”

“Just the one?”

“How did I get the Stone out of the Mirror?”

“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone—find it, but not use it—would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes… Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavoured one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my liking for them—but I think I’ll be safe with a nice toffee, don’t you?”

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Earwax!”

Madam Pomfrey escorted Myf and Hermione in shortly after Dumbledore departed. “Only five minutes, mind you; he needs rest.”

“Harry!”

Myf and Hermione both looked like they wanted to hug Harry, but they refrained, instead sitting down in chairs that were next to the bed.

“Oh, Harry, we were so sure you were going to—Dumbledore was so worried—” Hermione said.

“The whole school’s talking about it,” Myf said. “What really happened?”

It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange and exciting than the wild rumours. Harry told them everything: Quirrell, the Mirror, the Stone, and Voldemort. Myf and Hermione were a very good audience; they gasped in all the right places and, when Harry told them what was under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud.

“So the Stone’s gone?” Myf said finally. “Flamel’s just going to die?”

“That’s what I asked, but Professor Dumbledore thinks that…what was it…‘to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure,’ that was it.”

“Huh. Always thought he was a bit off his rocker,” Myf said, looking slightly impressed.

“So what happened to you two?” Harry asked.

“We got out, all right and tight, and were actually on our way up to the Owlery when we ran in to Professor Dumbledore in the Entrance Hall. He already knew, or guessed, apparently—he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he,’ and bolted for the third-floor corridor.”

“He really did mean for you to do it…” Myf muttered. Harry didn’t think she meant to say that, but he nodded.

“He did, and I’m upset,” Harry said crossly. “I’m a kid, not some… some pint-sized man of the hour, or whatever. I got quite enough, um, adultification, I think Dr Fitzgerald called it, from the Dursleys. It’s not fair and it’s not right.”

“No, it’s not,” Hermione agreed. “I’ll…talk to my parents about it. Myf should talk to hers. Angry parents are generally more effective than angry students.”

“Yeah…hm. If it weren’t just the one incident, so far, I’d take this to the press, see how the public feels about the greatest witch in the world gambling with the life of the Kid Who Lived. Of course…it’d be my word against his, so it’d be trivial for him to spin it as the attention-seeking ravings of an abused and traumatised child, so…hm.”

“Best we keep it private, then, until something else happens,” Hermione said.

“Yeah,” Myf said. “Anyway…while you were out, Gryffindor suffered the worst defeat in fifty years in the Quadball match on Saturday.”

“…How bad was it?”

“You…don’t want to know, Harry.”

At that point, Madam Pomfrey trotted over. “All right, you’ve had fifteen minutes. Out, now,” she said firmly.

After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to normal.

“Can I go back to classes?” he asked Madam Pomfrey as she walked past the next morning. She paused, then strode over to stand next to him.

“Medicare gnosis,” she cast, and a red aura surrounded Harry. It flickered yellow, and then gradually faded into blue-green as a strange tingling sensation ran from his toes to his head and back, and even out to his hands and back, several times. The blue-green aura faded, and she nodded.

“As you seem to have recovered well from Albus’s davka ‘training exercise’, yes. But first, you have a couple of visitors.”

At that, Harry felt a heavy tread as Hagrid and Sirius came in to view. Hagrid looked miserable. Sirius… Sirius looked fit to burst, Harry decided.

“Hey, Uncle Sirius, Hagrid,” he said as they sat down next to his cot.

“It’s—all—my—ruddy—fault!” Hagrid wailed, his face in his hands. “If I hadn’t lent Fluffy to Dumbledore—I knew he was particularly susceptible ter aoedemancy—”

“Hagrid, Hagrid,” Harry said, reaching a hand out to pat the enormous man on the knee. “We’re talking about Voldemort here, he and Quirrell would’ve figured out a way around any creatures you might’ve been voluntold to contribute.”

Hagrid flinched when Harry mentioned Voldemort by name. “Yeh coulda died!” he wailed. “An’ don’ say the name!”

“Voldemort!” Harry shouted, and Hagrid was so shocked he stopped crying. “I’ve met him, you know, and I’m going to call him by his name. Please cheer up, we saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it.”

“He’s right, though, pup,” Sirius said. “You could have died, and in fact almost did if I understand Myfanwy’s letter to us last night rightly. I’ve conveyed a request for medical records to Madam Pomfrey from Remus, and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do from there. Now, our options are limited—being a very prominent member of the magocracy, it would be inappropriate, to say the least, to send you off to any of the comprehensives, especially as you’d be recognised immediately and questions raised in the davka press.

“Unfortunately, there’s only two other schools in Europe of an appropriate calibre: Beauxbâtons, down in the Pyrenees, and Durmstrang, in Lithuania. Durmstrang is…unsuitable, for reasons I won’t go in to. So, we’re going to talk to Professor Dumbledore, and we’re going to give him an ultimatum: either he refrains from subjecting you to, pardon my French, shit like this again, or we send you to Beauxbâtons.”

Hagrid looked…disillusioned, by the time Sirius was finished. Harry knew Hagrid admired and looked up to Dumbledore, but it was just the thing he himself needed to hear.

“That sounds good,” he said.

Exams were…not as exhausting as Harry had feared. Written exams were held in the Great Hall, under the eagle eyes of Ministry invigilators. When they came in for each written exam, they were given special quills and parchment which bore anti-cheating charms. The practical exams were more interesting, though of course English, Maths, and Social Studies didn’t have practicals (though Professor Lewellyn did promise future years would have one).

In Charms, for instance, they had to make a pineapple dance across a desk. Professor McGonagall had them Transfigure a mouse into a keepsake box, with bonus points based on how pretty it was, and points lost if the box still had whiskers. Professor Snape had required them to brew a Forgetfulness Potion, which Harry had been quite tempted to sample when he was done, so he could forget Quirrell’s agonised screaming. (He consoled himself with a reminder that Forgetfulness Potions didn’t quite work that way—they had to be calibrated very precisely in order to remove events from memory, and the first-year formulation just erased the thirty minutes immediately prior to imbibing one. More than that, they required specific authorisation from a Healer.)

The Self-Defence practical was proctored by an Auror, a kind of witch-cop, whom Harry recognised as Kingsley David, one of the Aurors who’d taken Pettigrew away six months before. When it came to be his turn, Auror David stood forty paces away, the standard distance for duels, and asked him to perform the Disarming Charm.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry cast, and the Auror smiled as his own wand nearly escaped—it only hadn’t because he’d tethered it with a leather cord, unbeknownst to Harry.

“Excellent work, Mx Potter. Thank you, that will be all,” he said warmly.

As Harry joined the students who’d been tested, Hermione muttered, “So what’d he ask of you? He’d asked me for the Disarming Charm, but I’ve been asking around and the others say they were asked to demonstrate mundane disengagement techniques.”

“Huh. He asked me for a Disarming Charm too,” Harry said. “I wonder if he spoke to Professor Flitwick…”

“Probably did. Or there was the other matter.”

“Don’t remind me. Uncle Sirius said if something like that happened again he and Uncle Remus would send me off to Beauxbâtons, though.”

“The…school in the Pyrenees? I wonder what it’s like there.”

“Probably about the same as here, but…French and Spanish, I think? It’d certainly be interesting.”

The two weeks after exams were idyllic, with highs in the mid to high teens, and no classes as the professors graded their exams. With the coming full moon, Remus and Sirius only came up for a picnic lunch with Harry, Myf, Hermione, and Neville on the June solstice. It was an enjoyable meal, with Padfoot making an appearance, to the kids’ delight, but all too soon the end of term drew nigh.

Harry joined Madam Pomfrey at what they’d come to call the Little High Table, as usual, along with Myf, Hermione, and Neville. The Great Hall was decorated in Slytherin green and silver, and behind the actual High Table, the Slytherin banner was resplendent.

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were…you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts…

“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding and the points stand thus: in fourth place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; in third, Ravenclaw, four hundred and twenty-six; Gryffindor, with four hundred and sixty–two; and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”

A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It was a nauseating sight.

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” Dumbledore said. “However, a certain affair a month ago must be taken into account.”

The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. The Slytherins’ smiles faded a little.

“Ahem,” Dumbledore said. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see… Yes.

“First, to Miss Myfanwy Weasley”—At this, Myf flushed bright pink—“for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor fifty points.”

Gryffindor cheers nearly lifted the enchanted ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other Prefects, “My sister, you know! My second-youngest sister! Got past Professor Flitwick’s giant chess set!”

At last, there was silence again.

“Second—to Miss Hermione Granger…for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”

At this wordplay, Hermione just sighed and shook her head. Gryffindor cheers once again filled the Great Hall.

“Third… to Mx Harry Potter,” Dumbledore said. The room went quiet once again. “…For pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor sixty points.”

Harry muttered, “How lovely. ‘I faced Voldemort and all I got was this lousy tee-shirt,’ except I didn’t even get the tee-shirt.”

Myf and Hermione choked, trying not to laugh. Neville only snorted. The rest of the Great Hall was, meanwhile, even louder than its previous cheering, if that were possible.

Dumbledore raised his hand, and the room gradually fell silent once more.

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr Neville Longbottom.”

When the room fell silent yet again, Dumbledore continued. “I recognise that Gryffindor has long since overshot Slytherin, and for that I should apologise. Regardless, it would seem a change of decoration is in order.”

He clapped his hands twice, and the green and silver of Slytherin flashed to Gryffindor’s red and gold. A golden flame ran down the banner behind the High Table, and where it passed the banner changed from Slytherin’s Vert, a serpent glissant to monter Argent¹ to Gryffindor’s Gules, a demi-lion rampant to sinister Or². Harry saw Snape shaking McGonagall’s hand with a rather fake-looking smile on his face. Neville positively glowed; he hadn’t won Gryffindor any points at all that year.

Final marks arrived at breakfast the next morning. To Harry’s great surprise, his marks were almost as good as Hermione’s, and Myf’s were also quite respectable. Neville had been fretting about his own, but he’d managed to do well, too, with mostly Exceeds Expectations and Acceptables—he was, however, delighted by the Outstanding he’d scored in Herbology. They’d hoped Crabbe and Goyle would have gotten poor-enough marks to be sent to one of the comprehensives, but alas, Malfoy’s bully boys had passed.

And soon enough, wardrobes were empty, trunks were packed, and Neville’s toad was found lurking in one of the toilets. Notes were distributed to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us these,” Fred said sadly). They took horseless carriages down to Hogsmeade Station, where the Hogwarts Express waited to take students homeward.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, for now,” Harry said. He alone didn’t have luggage with him—the Hogwarts porters had taken it from the dorm while they were riding in the carriages, whereas the others had pulled theirs off the carriages.

“I guess so,” Myf said, and she, Hermione, and Neville exchanged hugs.

“I’ll be sure to write, of course, and I’m going to talk to Uncle Remus and see if we can’t have you all over for a party on my birthday.”

“I can’t wait,” Hermione said, with a broad smile. “C’mon, Neville, Myf…”

The three of them climbed aboard the train, helping each other with their trunks, and they took turns waving to Harry from their compartment. He waved back, running to the edge of the platform as the Hogwarts Express departed from Hogsmeade Station. Harry’s smile faded a little when they were out of sight, and he turned and trotted home.

“I’m home,” Harry called as he walked through the front door.

“Welcome home, pup,” Remus called from the living room.

Chapter Text

7 July

“Uncle Remus?” Harry asked, a week in to July. It was about half past nine, and Remus was, as usual, sprawled on the couch, reading a book, but he paused, marking his place with a scrap of parchment, and sat up.

“Yes, pup?” Remus spread his arms a bit in invitation, and Harry smiled, clambering in to his lap and snuggling up with him.

“I just…I had a realisation, a couple days ago. Remember when I told you about the Mirror of Erised? I think… I do want to be feminine, or at least I want to go through a female puberty rather than a male one. I’m not sure about my name yet, though… I know what I’d change it to, but…it doesn’t seem like the right time to come out as a girl yet, anyway. Maybe next year.”

“I see. Well, I’ll talk to Po—Madam Pomfrey about that and sign any consents she needs from me. I need to head up to Hogwarts anyway—Albus has given me a job offer regarding the Self Defence post, he did.”

“So you’ll be teaching after all? What about the full moons?”

“Against my better judgement,” Remus sighed, “I’m roping Sirius in to be a substitute teacher. Speaking of which, he said he’s almost done restoring the London residence, so I expect next week we’ll take the Portbook down.”

“That’ll be cool. Do you think we could invite Myf and Hermione over for my birthday?”

“I don’t see why not, especially seeing as to how it’s in the Portbook directory—many House residences are, even the Weasleys’, although for private residences you have to give a password, you do, when you cast the spell.”

“Oh, cool! I’ll extend the invite when we’re actually there, though, just in case plans change.”

“A wise decision, pup. Anything else on your mind?”

“…Not really?” Harry fidgeted a bit.

“So there is. Out with it, you should know by now that I won’t judge, pup,” Remus said gently, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice.

“It’s just…um. I’ve been thinking about what you said back on Hallowe’en, and um…” Harry paused, then sat up and whispered something in to Remus’s ear.

Remus’s brows rose, then he smiled. “Well, of course, pup. I’d advise only doing that at home, and around people you trust, however. Draw up a shopping list, and I’ll see what I can arrange. In the meantime, about that party…”

15 July

The next week, Harry, Remus, and Sirius were packed up, though as they would only be gone for a month, they had opted to subdivide Harry’s school trunk rather than each pack their own. Xenia was in her travel cage, and Harry had been wandering the house all morning, clutching Bleddyn, his wolf plushie, to make sure he didn’t forget it. (His uncles were quite amused, of course, and while Sirius hadn’t said anything, Remus knew Harry’s bedroom at the London residence already had a wolf plushie waiting for the lad.)

The plan, at least as he understood it, was that they’d take the Hogsmeade Station Portbook to one of the Ministry’s hubs, and then to the London residence—it wouldn’t do to have anyone overhear the password, after all, and the hubs were designed for just such a purpose.

Finally, at half past eleven, it was time.

“Are you ready, pup?” Remus asked as they gathered at the front door.

“Yes, Uncle Remus,” Harry said, as if he hadn’t been ready for hours by then.

With a muttered volare, the luggage floated out on to the street, and Remus locked the cabin up. The walk down to Hogsmeade Station was short and uneventful, and Sirius picked up the Portbook once they reached the stall. He flipped through the Portbook’s pages until he reached the Ministry hub network, then tapped it with his wand and intoned, “Vestibulum orior.”

Harry blinked as a rectangle of light formed in the air, and as soon as it was complete, what looked like an unoccupied Underground station was visible. The portal’s opening had none of the tearing-canvas sound that Professor McGonagall’s had, the previous September. As they stepped through, Harry asked, “Why did your portal spell not make any noise, Uncle Sirius?”

“Because I’ve been casting that spell a minimum of three times a week for the past six months, pup,” Sirius said. “Twice there, once back.”

“Oh. Professor McGonagall’s made a loud ripping noise and wasn’t as…um…refined?” Harry looked around. The room—and it was a room—did look like it came out of the London Underground, at least in terms of furnishings, but there were no rails, and there were a few doors and windows. Each of the windows had a different scene, somehow, and as Harry watched, it began to rain in one of them.

“I imagine that’s because she only travels by Portbook a few times a year at most, she does,” Remus said. “I think she mainly travels by Apparition.”

“That makes sense, yeah.”

“Vestibulum orior ash nazg gimbatul,” Sirius intoned, having by then picked up this room’s Portbook. This time, the rectangle of light framed what was clearly a residence’s sitting room.

“Nerd,” Remus said fondly as Sirius put the Portbook back.

“Ah, but that’s why you love me,” Sirius said with a smirk, and they passed through this portal as well. “Welcome to Blackstone Hall, the London residence of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”

“Kreacher!” Sirius called, and suddenly, with a faint whoosh of displaced air, there was a being almost as tall as Harry standing before them. Kreacher was humanoid, with human-proportioned limbs and torso, a slight feline-like muzzle, large amber eyes, and human-like ears that came to a point. If Harry had seen Star Trek, he would have compared those ears to a Vulcan’s. They wore a simple white chiton, leaving a fair amount of dark brown fur visible. Their toes and fingers were tipped by blunt claws, though Harry noticed that the finger-claws were trimmed very short compared to their toe-claws.

“Master calls?” Kreacher asked, in a voice that gave no hint as to their gender.

“Harry, this is Kreacher, the majordomo of Blackstone Hall. He is a hob sworn in service to House Black. Kreacher, Harry child of James, Warden of House Potter, is a guest of House Black and in alliance with House Lupin. Remus son of Lyall, Warden of House Lupin, is in alliance with House Black.”

“As Master commands,” Kreacher said with a crisp bow. “May I offer refreshments?”

“Um…not just now, thank you,” Harry said. “Uncle Remus?”

“Let’s unpack first, I think,” Remus said. “We’ll do lunch after.”

“Very good, Mr Lupin,” Kreacher said. “I have been apprised of Mx Potter’s dietary needs; lunch will be served in the Green Room at thirteen hundred.”

“Thank you, Kreacher, that will be all for now,” Sirius said, and the hob bowed again, then disappeared with another whoosh, this time of air rushing in to fill the void he had created. “Right. I’ll show you to your rooms—yes, plural, this is a mansion—and while Remus unpacks, I’ll give you a tour.”

“Sounds good.”

Harry was, as the adults predicted, absolutely delighted when he found the wolf plushie sitting on his bed. It was handmade, like Bleddyn, but it was a tundra wolf, and according to Sirius it had been intended to resemble Remus’s lupine form. (“It’s an early birthday and housewarming gift,” Sirius said.)

He was also amazed by the size of his suite. It was almost as big as the entire cabin up in Hogsmeade village, and it was entirely his domain. One room, which Sirius had explained was originally a manservant’s room, was set up to be a child’s playroom. While it was connected to both the bedroom and the sitting room, the doors had been fitted with deadbolts, and he’d been assured that, while his uncles both had keys to them, his privacy would be respected when they were engaged. There was also a study, which had the usual things one would expect, but the bookshelves were stocked with age-appropriate witch literature as well as mundane materials.

31 July

Harry awoke on his birthday, as he usually did, about six in the morning. He played with Xenia for a bit, then gave her her breakfast along with an extra treat to celebrate the day. After a quick shower, he decided on shorts and a maroon tee shirt featuring a wolf, and settled in his sitting room with a book.

At eight, there was a musical chime, followed a few seconds later by a faint whoosh of displaced air as Kreacher appeared. “Would Mx Potter care for breakfast? Master and Mr Lupin are awake, and Master said they’ll be taking breakfast in the Green Room.”

“Yes, please, Kreacher,” Harry said, looking up to see the hob in a pale green chiton. “I’ll have whatever they’re having, please, and a glass of orange juice, no pulp, please.” He thought for a moment, then added, “…What are they having?”

“Master is having French toast, sausage, and eggs, Mx Potter.”

“Ah. I’ll have my eggs scrambled with cheddar, then, please.”

“As Mx Potter wishes.” He vanished again.

Harry bookmarked his spot and went downstairs. It had been an interesting two weeks since they’d moved in to Blackstone Hall, and while he’d spent a few hours a day on his holiday homework assignments, he’d also wandered the mansion. If he got lost, which he did a couple times, he could ask Kreacher to guide him to a part that he recognised.

There were six floors in the massive, L-shaped building, including the ground floor: an attic, which he’d declined to explore; a servants’ floor, which Sirius said he’d been considering having redone in to more proper guest bedrooms rather than the congregate housing it presently resembled; the third floor, which he occupied the main suite of; the second floor, which Remus and Sirius had claim to; the ground floor, with its myriad public rooms, including a library and two dining rooms (the green one was the smaller, intended for intimate meals); and the basement, which housed the utility room and an extensive laundry facility, among other domestic purposes.

As Kreacher had said, Remus and Sirius were in the Green Room when he arrived, and his breakfast was laid out: French toast, a couple of sausage patties, eggs scrambled with cheddar, and a pitcher of orange juice, with a glass already poured for him.

“Good morning, Uncle Remus, Uncle Sirius,” Harry said as he sat. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

The hob wasn’t present at that moment, but Harry knew he’d heard anyway. The men’s morning repasts were more carnivorous than his own—Remus’s plate omitted the French toast entirely, in fact—but that was to be expected, as Remus’s lycanthropy mandated a more meat-forward diet than would have been wise for Harry’s purely human metabolism, even if he’d been a more usual size.

“Happy birthday, pup,” Remus said with a smile. “Miss Fries said she’d be here at ten, so take your time with breakfast. After that, Sirius and I have a surprise for you, we do, and then remember that Hermione and Myfanwy will be here for lunch at one. As I recall, Neville had wanted to attend, but he had other business today.”

Harry nodded as he ate, and he weaselled with his right hand, “Yeah. He didn’t say what, though. Also, Myf wanted to know if I could visit her family for a day or two, and that her mum’d owl you to confirm…?”

“She did, yes. Do you want to go back with Myf tonight, then?”

“Yeah, I think I do. So after I finish eating, I’ll pack for a couple days’ outing?”

“Sounds good.”

After breakfast, the three of them lounged in the Second Receiving Room. Somehow, they all wound up on the one couch, which was at least large enough to allow Remus his customary sprawl, while Sirius idly played with his hair and Harry sat near Remus’s waist, and all three read. It was, by then, a familiar scene. Harry had, in the interim, packed a backpack with a couple changes of clothes, his toiletries, and Bleddyn, and it sat by the couch.

Shortly after ten, Kreacher walked in, claws clicking on the hardwood, and announced, “Miss Tanja Fries and Mr Bob Howard, from the Office of Social Care at the Ministry’s Department for Education.”

“Thank you, Kreacher. Miss Fries, Mr Howard, would you like refreshments?” Remus asked as he sat up. He, Sirius, and Harry marked their spots in their respective books and set them aside, and Remus pulled out his wand. He swished it, and two chairs and a coffee table floated in to place.

“No, thank you,” Miss Fries said as she sat. She put down the bundle of papers she’d been carrying, and Mr Howard shook his head as he, too, took a seat. Remus said, “That will be all, then, Kreacher, thank you.”

“Very good, Mr Lupin,” Kreacher said, and vanished.

“As we’d discussed,” Miss Fries said as she set a thick manila folder down on to the coffee table, “I have the adoption paperwork ready. As House Potter is prominent in the magocracy, the way this will work is that Mr Lupin will be named Warden Regent of House Potter until Mx Potter reaches his majority—age eighteen—and assumes control. Mx Potter, while your legal name can change to reflect the adoption, as Warden of House Potter, it will still be proper to address you as ‘Mx Potter’ or, more formally, Warden Potter. Once you have reached your majority, you will be able to formally dissolve House Potter, merge it with another House, or rename it, among other political manoeuvres.”

Harry nodded. “Is there a way I could change my name in two parts? One part public and acknowledged, the other sealed until a moment of my choosing?”

“Under mundane law, no,” Mr Howard said. “Under witch law…it depends. What did you have in mind?”

“Well…I want my surname to be changed to ‘Lupin’, of course; that part’s the public part. The part I want to keep sealed is, um. I’d like to change the rest of my name to ‘Wulfrún Azalea’.”

Miss Fries’s eyes rose, but Mr Howard merely nodded. “That can be arranged, yes. Would a change of gender accompany it?”

Harry thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, ‘female’,” he said, almost hesitantly at first.

“I will draw up the necessary paperwork for you and Mr Lupin to sign, then, and for now we’ll proceed with the adoption, naming you ‘Harry James Lupin’, yes?”

Harry nodded. Miss Fries smiled, and just like they’d done with the guardianship paperwork the year before, Miss Fries outlined each document as she removed it from her manila folder, and Harry, Remus, and Mr Howard signed where needed. Nearly an hour later, she collected the paperwork and nodded.

“Congratulations, Mr and Mx Lupin,” Miss Fries said, and extended her hand. Remus and Harry shook it, then she and Mr Howard stood again. “Mx Lupin, this will probably be the last time I see you—according to Madam Pomfrey’s reports, you’re doing quite marvellous under Mr Lupin’s care, and so my time as your case worker is drawing to a close. You will still be able to reach me in an emergency, however, and it has been a pleasure to work with you.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Miss Fries. You’ve been really nice; I’ll miss you, I think.” He stood and walked around the coffee table, and gave her a hug, which she returned.

“I’ll miss you too. Take care, pup.”

“Kreacher,” Remus called. The hob popped in to view. “Mr Lupin calls?”

“Please see Miss Fries and Mr Howard out.”

“Of course. This way, if you please, Miss Fries, Mr Howard?”

After a few minutes, Kreacher reappeared in the room. “Does Mr Lupin require anything else?”

“That will be all, Kreacher. Thank you.”

“Very good, Mr Lupin.” Kreacher vanished once more.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how he does that,” Harry said. “Just…suddenly there, suddenly not, in the blink of an eye.”

“It took me a while to get used to it,” Remus said, somewhat ruefully. “Anyway, it’s time for that surprise we mentioned. While we were down here, Kreacher was putting it in place up in your suite. Shall we?”

The surprise, as it turned out, was a wardrobe inside Harry’s playroom, with outfits sized for him. Sure, the outfits were decidedly juvenile for a twelve-year-old, but unlike the clothing Aunt Petunia had saddled him with for years, they were things he’d chosen himself.

“Now,” Remus said, “as long as we don’t have guests, you can wear these around the house as much as you like. It’s up to you if you want to tell Myf and Hermione, or anyone else, but I would advise limiting it to people you trust absolutely. And you are not wearing any of it at Hogwarts, all right?”

“Yes, Uncle Remus, of course,” Harry said. “Malfoy’d laugh himself sick if he found out. So would Crabbe and Goyle. I wouldn’t dream of giving them the opportunity.”

“Heh. Anyway, that’s all we have for now. I’ll send Kreacher to collect you when Myf and Hermione turn up, all right?”

“Sounds good.”

A couple hours later, Kreacher announced his impending arrival with a musical chime, and Harry looked up as the hob appeared, facing away from him.

“Master reports that Miss Weasley and Miss Granger have arrived, and lunch will be in thirty minutes,” he said. “Master has, particularly, instructed me to guard Mx Lupin’s dignity, hence why I am looking away.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said. “I’m dressed, and you have my permission to look upon me when I’m in this room, if you are comfortable doing so. Are they in the Second Receiving Room?”

“Yes, Mx Lupin,” Kreacher confirmed.

“In that case, tell them I’ll be down shortly.”

“Very good, Mx Lupin.” And Kreacher vanished as abruptly as he appeared.

Harry sighed and got up. He’d opted to wear one of his new playsuits for a bit, one with little cartoony foxes on it, and so he changed back in to his morning outfit of shorts and tee shirt. He made his way down to the Second Receiving Room quickly, eager to see his friends again.

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione and Myf chorused when he came in to the room. They were seated in the chairs that Miss Fries and Mr Howard had been using earlier, and Sirius and Remus were sitting on the couch. The girls rose to greet him, and they exchanged hugs.

“How’s your summer holiday been going?” he asked the girls as they were seated once more, and he joined his uncles on the couch.

“Noisy, mainly,” Myf said. “Fred and Georgia have been workshopping pranks, as they do, and Percy’s yelled at them about half a dozen times already. Mum and I went to the local charity shops for girls’ clothes for me, though she used some glamours to make it look like I was a visiting cousin, rather than invite comment. Remus said you’d be coming back with me tonight? I saw your backpack.”

“Yeah, that’s the plan, anyway. How’s your summer been going, Hermione?”

“Mum and Dad have been more respectful of my identity so far, surprisingly,” Hermione replied. “I think it’s starting to sink in that I’m serious, since I brought home a crate of androgen arrestor and estrogenating elixir. It’s only been about six months, so I don’t have anything there yet, but… Anyway, how’s your summer, Harry?”

“Well… we moved here a little over two weeks ago, I’ve been working on my homework and exploring. This place is huge—I’ve got a suite on the third floor all to myself, and Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus have the master suite on the second floor, and then there’s what used to be servants’ quarters on the fourth…no wonder it took Uncle Sirius six months to clean it up, and I bet he had outside help, to boot.”

Kreacher’s arrival was preceded by the tinkling of wind chimes a few seconds before he appeared. “Lunch is ready and waiting in the Green Room,” he announced, and paused.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Sirius said. Kreacher bowed, then vanished once more.

The Green Room, when they entered, had five places set at the table, and in the centre of it were two fresh, hot pizzas (both were ‘supreme’-style, though one omitted onions) and two carafes. On the sideboard was a plate of M&M cookies, clearly intended for dessert.

“The one with onions is for you, Myf and Hermione; Harry tolerates them, but he’s used to eating the same things we do, and we’re allergic to them,” Sirius said as everyone else sat down. He did an initial round of service, leaving a slice on each plate and water or apple juice in each glass, then sat down himself.

“Oh wow, this is phenomenal,” Hermione said, having just finished her first bite. “Where’d you get this pizza from?”

“Kreacher made it from scratch,” Remus said, “like everything else he serves.”

“Mum’s been dreaming about hiring a hob for ages,” Myf said, “but the civil service just doesn’t pay Dad enough for her to feel comfortable with it. All the rich Houses have got one, and some bigger Houses have multiple.”

“What do you mean by ‘comfortable’, Myf? Don’t servants cost a lot?” Hermione asked.

“I believe I’ll field that one, Myf,” Sirius said, before Myf could say anything. “So. Most hobs in the UK, and in several other countries around the world, many of them Commonwealth, are bound to serve by what is sometimes called the ‘Elfbind’, as hobs are, in certain circles, sometimes also referred to as ‘house-elves’. Traditionally, hobs served a household in return for offerings of milk and honey. They did so gladly, for what we consider drudgery was work they enjoyed, and in those days they wore no clothes, for their fur was protection enough and nudity was not scandalous. Presenting them with clothes of their own was a grave offence, and would result in the hobs leaving your household.

“That all changed in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, when indentured servitude and enslavement became common practice among the wealthy and powerful. The witches among them, seeking more control over their servants, devised the Elfbind, and every hob they were able to catch was bound thereby. They could not use magic except in service to their masters, they could not leave abusive households, and they were required to subsist only on whatever their masters chose to feed them.

“Now, there are free hobs, and Kreacher is among them, but because of the Elfbind it’s hard for them to find work, so the pay they are able to command is often meagre compared to what we would consider acceptable. In fact, freeing Kreacher was the first thing I did when I walked in to Blackstone Hall for the first time in over twenty years. He’s paid exactly the same rates as a human servant would be, four hundred sixty Galleons a year, paid fortnightly—I think the current exchange rate is about seventy-two quid to the Galleon?”

Hermione looked horrified during the impromptu history lesson. “I’m glad he’s paid and all, but…that’s… it’s atrocious, that anyone should be enslaved these days,” she said. “Does Hogwarts have hobs?”

“Oh yes, and they’ve been under the Elfbind since it was instituted,” Sirius said. “I don’t expect it to get mentioned in your history lessons there, though—I know Professor Dumbledore doesn’t like that it’s not taught, but the Board of Governors is largely old money, and they set policy. For that matter, the Wizengamot is still influenced heavily by old money, and until they dismantle the Elfbind, most of the hob population in the UK will remain enslaved.”

All three children looked horrified at that. “Something ought to be done,” Hermione said. “We’re supposed to be a civilised country and to be a leader in the international community, and yet we enslave people…?”

“Nor is that the only harm our government perpetrates and perpetuates,” Remus said. “But I’d rather not talk about that while I’m eating; it’s depressing, and also it’s our lovely pup’s birthday, so let’s move on to something more positive, eh?”

“Oh, sure. Um. So what all can hobs do, anyway? I’ve never encountered one before.”

“Well, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, they can perform magic, but owing to the Elfbind, they’re only able to use it as their duties require. They are forbidden to use foci, like all non-humans, so you won’t see any use wands. Many can Apparate silently, as Kreacher does, and Harry’s actually been working with him on signalling his impending Apparitions because he hates being startled. Which, thank you for doing that, Harry; Remus and I have been busy working out his Self Defence curricula so that I can substitute for him when his joint pain’s too much for him, so I haven’t had the time since we moved in.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Harry said. “He’s actually been very solicitous, which I still don’t quite understand—I know how much work goes in to maintaining a modest house, and this mansion is huge by comparison.”

“That’s because he cheats,” Remus said. “I know you’ve studied some hearth magic in Charms, but he’s had a century to learn and perfect it, he has. But in actuality, a lot of it is just that he focuses on the rooms we use; the rest of the mansion is clean only because Sirius worked to remove all the maleficery we could find on the premises.”

“And there was a lot of it,” Sirius said. “Anyway, it’s time for Harry to open his gifts, I think…”

Without pulling out his wand, Sirius muttered a quick tergere to wash his own hands, then gestured to everyone else’s, one by one, and repeated the charm. He led the way back to the Second Receiving Room, where there was a small pile of presents sitting on the coffee table, and they were seated once more.

The first one Harry unwrapped, from Hermione, was a stack of books—two trilogies by Mercedes Lackey, it seemed, by the covers. From Myf, Harry got six pairs of knitted paw socks. “Did your mum make these, Myf?” Harry asked, holding one up.

“No, actually,” Myf said. “I asked her to teach me her knitting charm and we spent some time at the library looking for knitting patterns a couple weeks ago. She’s got a shedload of yarn, and so we got some second-hand needles for me and, well…there you are.”

“They’re really cool. Thank you.”

Myf coloured slightly, looking happy and a little smug. Harry moved on to the next present, which turned out to be from Fred and Georgia; he was surprised, as they weren’t really that close outside of Quadball. However, it made more sense when he opened it to find a boxed set of inks, along with a note.

Harry snorted. “Magical ink, apparently,” he said. “Not sure I’m gonna use the pink ink, though; not my colour.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ll take it, then. I’m sure Faye would appreciate a free bottle of her favourite ink.”

“Works for me.” The next gift Harry opened was from Mrs Weasley, and it was a pack of homemade fudge wrapped in a woollen cardigan in maroon. This one had a little yellow H over the right breast. “I’ll be sure to wear it come the autumn,” he said to Myf, who nodded.

Sirius’s actual birthday gift to Harry was a stack of DVDs, a mix of old and new films from All Dogs Go to Heaven to an advance copy of The Fellowship of the Ring (and how Sirius had gotten that, Harry figured he didn’t need to know).

“Can we watch Fellowship?” he asked. He’d been working through the book for the second time, that week, and they’d missed it being in theatre by virtue of having been in northern Scotland during its run.

“Absolutely, we’ve a small home theatre up on your floor,” Sirius said, “which I arranged only in part because my mum’d roll over in her grave to have such a mundane invention in her home.”

Remus snorted, but didn’t say anything as Harry picked up the last present and opened it. Under the wrapping paper was a framed photo of Remus’s wolf form, and Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. He carefully set it down and gave Remus a big hug, causing the man to chuckle and return it.

Hermione and Myf blinked at the photo, and then at Harry’s response. “…Do you know that dog, Harry?” Hermione asked, after a moment. “…Wait, is that a dog…?”

She picked up the photo carefully and looked more closely, and Harry looked up at Remus questioningly. “No, that’s a wolf…but wolves have been extinct in Britain for centuries…”

“That would be because he’s a werewolf,” Remus said quietly. Myf nearly fell out of her chair in shock.

“Harry’s been in contact with a—are you serious?!” she exclaimed.

“No, I’m Sirius,” Sirius said, causing her to groan and roll her eyes.

“Yes, he’s been in contact with a werewolf,” Remus said. “Me, in point of fact.”

This time Myf did fall out of her chair.

Chapter Text

Myf scrambled to her feet and perched on her chair, as though ready to flee. “So…why come out now? Or at all?”

“Well…first of all,” Remus said, “I know you two are incredibly brave, you are, even for Gryffindors. I’m sure you would have stood with Harry when he confronted the Great Warlock two months ago, if circumstances had permitted. You also know how I feel about my dear pup—in fact, as of this morning, he is, legally speaking, my son, even if he prefers to continue to call me ‘uncle’.”

Hermione and Myf were surprised (and delighted) by this, but they gestured for him to continue.

“But…the last reason, and the most mundane one, is this: you’d have figured it out on your own eventually anyway, you would, and better I set the terms of your knowledge than leave it to the nattering of the rumour mill. I shan’t be coming out while I am teaching, however—I’m sure Myfanwy understands why better than even Harry, since she grew up in witch society. Harry knew since the day I met him, and while we talked about witches’ prejudices concerning werewolves specifically, he didn’t grow up exposed to it.”

Myf nodded. “Blimey, I really would, at that. They’re incredibly rare—there are, perhaps, a few thousand across the entire world, I think—but every witch child in the Isles has been read bedtime stories. You know Little Red Riding Hood? Try the Charles Perrault version sometime, and that’s just the beginning. Werewolves are…widely feared, in witch society, and just about everyone has a tale or other about how dear great uncle Fergie got mauled by one while gathering wood, or grand-aunt Jan while gathering herbs, or whatever.”

“A lot of which can be explained by fools approaching wild animals at night,” Remus said. “Now, I was turned when I was four, by a dangerous warlock who calls himself Fenrir Greyback. He’d been detained earlier that year by the Ministry for questioning regarding the deaths of two mundane children, and had passed himself off as a mundane tramp. The questioning committee, which included my father as a therianthrope hunter, bought his story, but my father didn’t, and he had some…intemperate things to say about therianthropes. My father was expelled from the meeting and Fenrir was released shortly thereafter.

“Several months later, on the last full moon night of the cycle, a strange man broke in to my room and transformed into a wolf in front of my eyes. I still have nightmares about that night… See, Wolfsbane Potion hadn’t been invented yet, so imagine how a pain-maddened, starving wild animal would react to a screaming toddler. My father fought him off, but by then I’d already been bitten…and infected. He searched for a cure, or even some kind of treatment that might help keep it at bay, but…

“My entire childhood from then on was spent being kept locked away on full moon nights, and between them I was forbidden to play with other children, or even to be seen in public if at all possible. We moved frequently, whenever my parents thought my condition might start to make itself known to others. I was only able to attend Hogwarts with Professor Dumbledore’s help, and my parents were initially extremely sceptical. Then, well…” Remus jerked a thumb at Sirius. “This jerk and his besties insisted on being friends with me, despite all my attempts to duck out of it.”

“And I shudder to think what would’ve become of you if we hadn’t, Moony,” Sirius said soberly. “You were this close to…well, never mind, not important. Kids, wolves and dogs are social animals, just like we are, but are traumatised by isolation—what plonkers call ‘separation anxiety’ is the entirely predictable result of losing a bestie—because they lack the capacity to know and understand that their pack will still be there even if they’re out of their sensory range. Werewolves, for whatever reason, have a supercharged version despite their humanity. As you can probably tell.”

Sirius gestured; Harry was snuggled against Remus, who had an arm around the lad, and Sirius himself was perched on the back of the sofa, idly running his fingers through Remus’s hair with his left hand.

“…Right, that explains why Remus is always nearby whenever he and Harry are in the same area,” Myf said quietly.

“Anyway, enough…what was the phrase Dr Fitzgerald used? Ah, right, ‘info-dumping’. We’ve a movie to watch. Kreacher, please prepare popcorn and drinks for the theatre, and take Harry’s presents up to his suite.”

They heard a tinkling of wind chimes in acknowledgement, and Sirius slipped off the couch, leading them up to the third floor.

“Hey, mum,” Myf called as she and Harry stepped through the Portbook’s portal, and as Mrs Weasley stepped in to the room, Harry said, “Good afternoon, Mrs Weasley.”

Mrs Weasley was a short, stout cream-coloured woman with the same fiery orange hair her children had, and her eyes were hazel. She was dressed for the day in a simple red dress and white trainers. “Oh, good afternoon, you must be Harry,” she said. “Please, call me Molly. Welcome to The Burrow.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Harry said as he looked around. The room was fairly large, with a fireplace on one side, with a comfortable-looking, well-loved sofa about three metres away, flanked by two loveseats. Inside that comfortable nook was a somewhat battered wooden coffee table, atop which was a vase of fresh flowers, a bouquet that reminded him uncomfortably of the Dursleys’ home. About two metres behind the sofa were a pair of bay windows, each open. To the west of the fireplace was a wide doorway, and Harry could see the dining room and kitchen through it, and another doorway to the east which showed the house’s nominal entryway and, Harry saw, a staircase that led up.

“I’ll have the sofa ready for you after dinner, Harry,” Molly said, “but in the meantime feel free to set your backpack next to it—yes, there’s fine—and Myf can show you to her room. Remus let me know about your…ARFID, I think it was?, and tonight’s dinner shouldn’t be an issue for you, I hope—I’ve a pot-roast simmering away.”

Harry nodded. “That sounds like it’ll be delicious.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see a girl peeking at him from the entryway, but as soon as he turned to follow Myf, she blushed and vanished from view.

“That’d be Ginny,” Myf said as she led the way. “She’s been asking questions about you all month…”

As they climbed the stairs, Harry couldn’t help but notice the differences between The Burrow, Blackstone Hall, and even the Dursleys’ home. The stairs doubled back at each landing, with a short hall leading to a single room attached to each. At the second floor, Harry saw Ginny peeking at him again, this time from her room, and as soon as he’d noticed she vanished again. Finally, two floors above that, they reached Myf’s room. On the door was a new-looking plaque which read, simply, “Myfanwy’s Room.”

When they entered, it was like walking in to a furnace. Nearly everything in her room seemed to be bright orange: the bedspread, the walls, and even the ceiling. And there were posters everywhere, all the same seven witches, all wearing bright orange Quadball uniforms trimmed in dark green and carrying brooms. “Your Quadball team?” Harry asked.

“Yup. The Chudley Cannons,” Myf said, pointing at the bedspread. The Cannons’ logo was a pair of dark green C’s and a cannonball. “Ninth in the league.”

Myf’s school books were in an untidy stack on her desk, across the room, next to a pile of comics which all seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, The Mad Muggle. Her wand was lying on top of a fish tank that appeared to contain frogspawn, which sat on the ledge of a bay window.

Harry stepped over a pack of self-shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out the window. Below, he could see the Weasleys’ yard, a somewhat unkempt patch of land that was bounded by a low stone wall, then he turned to look at Myf, who had been watching him nervously, as though waiting for his opinion.

“It’s not much,” she said. “Not like Blackstone Hall. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic, he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning…”

But Harry just smiled, and said, “Myf, I lived in a cupboard for ten years. Yes, I have a suite at Sirius’s house in London, but I’ve only had it for two weeks and it still seems like entirely too much room to me. This is fine, I promise.”

Myf’s ears turned pink.

1 August

The next morning, Harry woke at six to a mostly quiet house. The light was on in the kitchen, and he could hear a hushed conversation—Molly and Arthur, he assumed. He yawned and sat up, still clutching Bleddyn tightly, then stood and quietly shuffled in to the dining room.

Molly and Arthur were indeed seated at the table. “Good morning, Harry. I hope we didn’t wake you…?” Molly said.

“No, always wake early,” Harry said, his words a bit slurred.

“Well, in that case, would you like some breakfast? Arthur’ll be off to work soon, I’m afraid, but he’s been wanting a chance to talk to you for weeks.”

“Yes, please.” As Harry sat down, he slipped Bleddyn on to the chair next to him, and Arthur smiled at him. He was a tall man compared to his wife, with similarly fiery orange hair and bright green eyes, and equally as fair-skinned. He also seemed to be one of those people who always had a ready smile.

Molly flicked her wand, and a couple sausage patties plopped in to a cast-iron skillet, beginning to sizzle almost immediately as it hadn’t cooled off much since its previous use that morning. Two eggs cracked themselves into a bowl and whisked themselves, along with a bit of grated cheddar, and two slices of bread floated over to a toaster and descended. The eggs soon joined the sausages in the skillet.

“Good morning, Harry,” he said. “I just wanted to thank you for being so supportive with Myfanwy, and for being there for her, is all.”

“Oh,” Harry said, blinking. “No trouble. Good friend.”

Just then, Molly set a plate before him, of sausage patties, the eggs scrambled with cheddar, and two buttered slices of toast. Next to it, she placed a glass of water. “Thanks, Molly,” he said, and dug in.

Arthur and Molly resumed the conversation his arrival had interrupted, which he tuned out, and shortly afterward Arthur stood. They embraced each other and exchanged kisses, then Arthur said, “Well, I’d best be off. Later, Molls; Harry, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Harry said around a mouthful of toast.

Arthur disappeared in to the living room and then through the Portbook network. Molly sighed as she sat in the chair Arthur had vacated. “So, what do you think?” she asked.

Harry thought for a moment as he finished chewing and swallowed. “It’s a lovely house. Thank you for inviting me to visit.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Cooking for ten’s not much different from cooking for nine, and you’re a good lad. Ginny’s heading to Hogwarts this year, so it’ll be interesting having the house to myself for the first time in twenty-two years. My, how the years fly…”

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he chose not to say anything.

“Ah, forgive me my nattering. Just one of those mornings, I guess.”

Just then, Ginny wandered in in a nightgown, rubbing an eye sleepily. “Morning, mum,” she said, then froze as she realised Harry was there.

“Morning, Ginny,” Molly said as she stood again. “The others up yet?”

“Um, I think Fred and Georgia are, and maybe Myf?” Ginny said after a moment’s hesitation. She blinked at Bleddyn’s presence, then shrugged and sat in the chair on the other side of the wolf plushie. Molly got more breakfast going in the background.

“Nice wolf,” she managed, not looking at Harry. “What’s its name?”

“His name’s Bleddyn,” Harry said gently. “Uncle Remus got him for me for Christmas last year.”

“Oh, cool. Do you like wolves?”

“All canines, I think; Uncle Sirius is a big black dog sometimes, and he’s pretty cool too.”

“He’s an Animagus? That’s really cool.”

“Yeah. I’m a wolf too.” He froze as he realised what he just said, and Ginny blinked at him.

“You don’t look like one…are you an Animagus too? But I thought you couldn’t do the Animagus ritual until seventh-year.”

“No, not that kind of wolf,” Harry managed after a moment. “Just…inside.” He tapped his forehead.

“Oh. Is that like how Myffy’s got gender dysphoria, then?”

“Kinda…? It’s…well. My body just has a wrong…shape to it, I guess I’d say. No tail, either.”

“You could probably make one,” Ginny said. “Myf let me look through her Potions textbook the other day, there’s one called the Tail-Growing Potion.”

“There is,” Molly interjected, “but don’t expect to brew one any time soon; that’ll be fourth- or fifth-year work.”

Shortly after that, the twins came in. Harry finished his breakfast, then grabbed Bleddyn and retreated to the living room as the dining room began to fill up properly. He stretched out on the sofa once more, smiling up at the ceiling.

Ginny came in and sat on the loveseat near his head. “So…what’s Hogwarts like, anyway?”

“Oh, um,” Harry said. “It’s basically like primary school, except instead of having just the one classroom and teacher all day, each lesson is in another classroom. So Maths is taught in a different room from English is taught in a different room from Charms, and so on…”

“We were all homeschooled, easier than hoping the village school bus driver doesn’t see anything she shouldn’t. Constant Memory Charms are bad for both the caster and the victim, Mum says.”

“Oh. Um…what’s that like?”

Ginny shrugged. “Nothing special, really. Mostly it’s just some reading, answering questions in these exercise books the DfE sends, the like. Mum sometimes likes to take walks of an afternoon, show us the wilderness.”

“Huh. I never did field trips when I was in primary school, Her Nibs never allowed it. Anyway, um…can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Yesterday, you never said a word to me and kept hiding whenever you saw me looking…but this morning, you’re chatty as can be. Not criticising or anything, just curious…why’s that?”

“Oh, um.” Ginny looked thoughtful for a moment. “Just, um…overawed, I guess? And then you were matter-of-fact about Bleddyn earlier, and none of the books I’ve read about you said you had a wolf plushie.”

“You know basically everything in those books is wrong, right?”

“So Myffy’s been telling me, yeah. The authors of the books certainly didn’t say you’d be so, er, small. Or that you grew up in mundane society. Or…well, you get the picture.”

“Well, why would they? Everyone thinks they know things, and my dad was a jock, so naturally I must be, too.”

Just then, Myf came plodding through. “Morning, Myf,” Harry said. She grunted acknowledgement, seemingly too groggy still to pay attention to much of anything, then paused at the western end of the sofa.

“Oh. Morning, Harry. Good to hear you talking again, Ginny,” Myf said, somewhat blearily.

Ginny stuck her tongue out at Myf. “It was Bleddyn,” she said, sounding to Myf somewhat cryptic. Harry waved Bleddyn’s right fore-paw at Myf, causing the girls to giggle.

“Silly pup,” Myf muttered and ruffled Harry’s hair a bit, then she went on in to the dining room, where Molly already had a plate of breakfast ready for her.

Fred and Georgia, when they finished their breakfast, sat on the other loveseat for a bit, muttering cryptically to each other. When Myf came out, about half an hour later, Georgia looked up and grinned. “Who wants to play British Rails?” she asked.

“Um…what’s that?” Harry asked, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s a board game where you draw on a map of the UK and build a railroad empire,” Fred said. Georgia got up to retrieve the box, and in fairly short order the game was set up while the Weasley children explained the rules to him.

Chapter Text

Upon his return that afternoon, Sirius and Remus were waiting for Harry in the Second Receiving Room. Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, but Remus seemed a bit rumpled-looking, and both men were just a bit flushed.

“Good afternoon, pup,” Remus said, and gestured for him to join them on the couch. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

As Harry joined him on the sofa, he said, “Uh huh. They taught me how to play a board game called British Rails, which is really cool. See, you have three cards which show you three loads each and what the city requesting the load will pay for it, and your goal is to build a railroad network so you can fulfil these orders, and you do that by drawing on the board, which is a map of Britain…”

At intervals, Remus and Sirius both made sounds of interest, until finally Harry wound down after about half an hour. “Good, I’m glad you enjoyed your visit,” Remus said. “So, your Hogwarts letter for the year should be arriving in about a week, and we’ve been arranging for you to meet with Hermione and Myf on the eleventh to buy your school supplies. As part of that, we’re going to work on the Portal Charm, vestibulum orior, and teach you how to use a Portbook.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

“Really. With a Portbook, there’s very little danger of accidentally travelling somewhere unintended, since it provides the necessary anchors, and unlike Apparition there’s no risk of splinching—the portal remains open as long as there’s an intent to cross on the part of the caster.”

“Ah, okay. So does that mean you could technically use the Portal Charm without the Portbook, then?”

“Correct. Most witches aren’t going to bother, though; like Apparition, you have to visualise your destination, you do, and if you’re doing that you might as well just Side-Along Apparate if you need to take someone along with you, or use regular Apparition if you don’t.”

Harry nodded. “That makes sense.”

The subsequent week seemed to simultaneously drag and fly by as Harry eagerly anticipated his second-year letter, and its associated shopping trip, and learned the Portal Charm. Ministry-issued Portbooks included training destinations for exactly this purpose, so his lessons did not inconvenience those actually utilising the network. Finally, the morning of the tenth, at breakfast, the letter arrived.

Harry eagerly broke the wax seal on the envelope and read the letter within.

“Remember, we’ll be meeting up with Myf and Hermione, and their families, tomorrow,” Remus said.

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry said. He finished his toast, then excused himself, giving his uncles each a hug before he disappeared up to his suite once more.

The next morning, Harry opted to wear one of his plain playsuits alongside a pair of denim trousers. Remus and Sirius side-eyed him at breakfast but, as the playsuit he’d chosen looked like a tucked-in tee shirt, Remus said only, “A bit daring, pup, but as we’re only going to Diagon and the only ones who’d know are the three of us, I won’t make you change.”

Harry coloured slightly at the mild rebuke. “Yes, Uncle Remus.”

After breakfast, Harry was in the Second Receiving Room with his backpack a good thirty minutes before it was time to go. He was eager to meet with his friends and, more important, he was eager to use the Portbook for an actual trip. He sat on the couch, tapping out a melody on his knuckles as he waited.

Remus and Sirius joined him about five minutes till, and he looked up when Remus cleared his throat. “Okay, pup, it’s time to give it a go. We’ve talked this through, and remember that we want Diagon Alley,” he said, and Harry nodded as he got up, shrugging his backpack on as he crossed the room to the small pedestal where the Portbook sat ready for use.

Harry picked the book up gingerly, glancing back at Remus before he opened the book and paged through it. In his eagerness, he accidentally paged past Diagon Alley, and looked at the open space in front of him rather than the book. The page said, clearly, ‘Knockturn Alley’ as he tapped it with his wand without looking down. “Vestibulum orior,” he said excitedly, and the sound of tearing canvas met his ears as a doorway ripped its way in to existence. He snapped the book closed and placed it back on the pedestal, then strode forward.

“Harry, wait!” Sirius said, but Harry was moving too quickly for either of them to grab him before he passed through the portal, and it vanished with a faint pop behind him once he had.

“Fuck,” Sirius said. “That was Knockturn Alley…and their wards aren’t going to open up to us again today.”

Remus nodded as he scooped up the Portbook and flipped through it. “Right. We’re going to have to hope we can find him before somebody else does… Vestibulum orior,” he said once he’d flipped to Diagon, and discarded the Portbook before he and Sirius strode through in to the Leaky Cauldron’s portal room.

The room Harry was standing in looked like a large, dimly-lit curio shop, only actually magical. He didn’t think anything in here would’ve been on a Hogwarts school supplies list…

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a blood-stained pack of cards and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks leered down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley.

The sooner he got out of here, the better, he decided. Harry made his way swiftly, and as silently as he could manage, toward the door, but before he’d got even halfway, two people appeared on the other side of the glass—and one of them was the very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was lost: Draco Malfoy.

He looked around quickly and spotted a large black cabinet to his left. Quick as a flash, he vanished in to it, pulling the doors mostly closed and leaving a crack for him to peer through. Seconds later, the shop’s bell rang, an incongruously cheery sound in the gloom, and Malfoy entered.

The man accompanying him could only have been his father, from the looks. He had the same sharp, pale cream face and arctic gray eyes. Mr Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang the bell on the counter, before turning to his son and saying, “Touch nothing, Draco.”

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I thought you were going to buy me a present.”

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” his father said, drumming his fingers idly on the counter.

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” Malfoy said, looking sullen and ill-tempered. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s famous…famous for having an ugly scar on his forehead…”

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. “…Everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broom—”

“Enough. You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” Mr Malfoy said, giving his son a quelling look. “And I would remind you that it is not—prudent—to appear less than fond of the boy, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Great Warlock disappear. Ah, Mr Borgin.”

A stooping tall white man—Harry figured he’d be six foot six if he stood straight—had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy black hair back from his face.

“Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” Mr Borgin said, in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted—and young Master Malfoy, too—charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced—”

“I’m not buying today, Mr Borgin, but selling,” Mr Malfoy said.

“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr Borgin’s face.

“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” Mr Malfoy said as he took a small roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unrolled it for Mr Borgin to read. “I have a few, ah, items at home that might embarrass me if the Ministry were to call…”

Mr Borgin affixed a pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.

“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?”

Mr Malfoy’s lip curled, an expression Harry was familiar with—he’d seen it on Draco’s face often enough. “I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act—no doubt that flea-bitten, mudblood-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it—”

Harry scowled.

“—and as you can see, certain of these poisons might make it appear—”

“I understand, sir, of course,” Mr Borgin said. “Let me see…”

“Can I have that?” Draco interrupted, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.

“Ah, a hand of glory,” Mr Borgin said, abandoning Mr Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”

“I would hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunder, Mr Borgin,” Mr Malfoy said coldly, and Mr Borgin said quickly, “No offence, sir, no offence meant—”

“Though if his school marks don’t pick up,” Mr Malfoy said icily, “that may indeed be all he is fit for.”

“It’s not my fault,” Draco retorted. “The teachers all have favourites, that Hermione Granger—”

“I would have thought,” Mr Malfoy’s voice dropped to an arctic whisper, “that you’d be ashamed that a mudblood girl beat you in every exam…”

Harry vented a quiet “ha!” under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry.

“It’s the same all over,” Mr Borgin said in his oily voice. “Witch blood is counting for less everywhere—”

“Not with me,” Mr Malfoy said, his long nostrils flaring.

“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” Mr Borgin said with a deep bow.

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” Mr Malfoy said shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today.”

They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. He paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals: Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed—Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward…he stretched out his hand for the handle…

“Done,” Mr Malfoy said at the counter. “Come, Draco!”

Harry wiped his forehead, then his dampened hand on his trousers, as Draco turned away.

“Good day to you, Mr Borgin, I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”

The moment the door had closed behind the Malfoys, Mr Borgin dropped his oily manner.

“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor…”

Muttering darkly, Mr Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door.

He stared around, somewhat ill at ease again. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to maleficery. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burke’s, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads, and two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking male witches were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, hoping against hope that he’d be able to find a way out of there.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never heard of such a place. He supposed he’d flipped past Diagon Alley in the Portbook, back in Blackstone Hall. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to do.

“Not lost, are you, my dear?” asked a soft voice in his ear, making him jump.

An elderly female witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of things that looked disturbingly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry backed away.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, “I’m just—”

“Harry! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?”

Harry’s growing anxiety burst at the familiar voice, and the elderly witch nearly jumped out of her skin; a load of fingernails cascaded down over her feet, and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.

“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I was lost—accidentally flipped past Diagon Alley in the Portbook—”

Hagrid seized Harry by his elbow and pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks of outrage followed them all the way along the twisting, narrow alleyway and out in to bright sunlight. Harry saw the great marble bulk of Gringott’s Bank in the distance. Hagrid had steered him right in to Diagon Alley.

“What were yeh doin’ skulkin’ about Knockturn Alley, Harry? ‘S a right dodgy place, don’ want no one ter see yeh down there—”

“I realised that,” Harry said. “I told you, I was lost—what were you doing down there, anyway?”

“I was lookin’ fer a flesh-eatin’ slug repellent,” Hagrid growled. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?”

“Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius were supposed to follow me, but the portal closed before they could,” Harry explained. “I’ve got to go and find them…I’m sure Uncle Remus is worried sick…”

“Harry! Harry, over here!” Harry looked up to see Hermione standing at the top of the wide white staircase to Gringott’s. She ran down to meet them, her afro bobbing slightly in the wind of her passage.

“Hello, Hagrid…Oh, it’s wonderful to see you two again… Are you coming in to Gringott’s, Harry?”

“As soon as Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius find me,” Harry said. The two children looked around, and then there was Remus and Sirius, all but running to meet them, Remus outpacing Sirius by a couple dozen steps as he almost bowled Harry over, hugging him close.

“My dear pup,” he whispered, panting, in to Harry’s ear. “I’m so glad to see you safe and sound… Please, please pay more attention to the page you’ve turned to when you cast the Portal Charm…”

Harry returned Remus’s fierce hug with one of his own. “I’m so sorry to have made you worry, Uncle Remus…”

Simultaneous with Sirius’s arrival, which prompted the Lupins to separate a little so that they could pull him in to the hug, was the arrival of the Weasleys, at a somewhat more sedate pace.

“Hey Harry,” Myf said. She glanced at the two men, who were still a little short of breath. “Why were you two running just now, anyway?”

“I, um. Accidentally took a detour through Knockturn Alley,” Harry said sheepishly. “Wasn’t paying attention when I was going through the Portbook.”

“Brilliant!” Fred and Georgia said together.

“We’ve never been allowed in,” Myf said enviously.

“I should ruddy well think not,” Hagrid growled. “Well, gotta be off. See yer at Hogwarts!” And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.

“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burke’s?” Harry asked Myf and Hermione as they climbed the staircase to Gringott’s. “Malfoy and his father.”

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” Mr Weasley asked sharply behind them.

“No, he was selling.”

“So he’s worried,” Mr Weasley said with grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something…”

“You be careful, Arthur,” Molly said sharply, as they walked past the armed kobolds bracketing the doors. “That family’s trouble, don’t go biting off more than you can chew.”

“Heh. I’d love to see them get knocked down a peg, especially Narcissa,” Sirius commented. Mr Weasley’s attention was immediately caught by a nervous-looking Black couple who bore a strong filial resemblance to Hermione, which meant they must have been her parents. He joined them, alongside Hermione, and they were almost immediately lost in conversation. Mundane folks were definitely Mr Weasley’s special interest, Harry decided. From the bits he was able to parse, it certainly sounded like he knew what he was talking about, even as he asked seemingly inane questions.

The Weasleys and Harry, Remus, and Sirius were led off separately to their vaults, both groups clambering in to mine-carts for their respective journeys. Harry could not have said if the path they took this time was the same path he and Hagrid had taken the year before, and he supposed that it made sense to vary routes in order to make it harder for people to navigate the caverns beneath Gringott’s.

As he had the year before, Harry withdrew a dozen Galleons, a score of Sickles, and two-score Knuts. He also slipped a book in to his backpack, one he’d spotted sitting on the shelves—it’d make a great present for Hermione, he figured. He owed Neville a birthday present, too—he’d lost track of the calendar amidst the splendour of Blackstone Hall and then his own birthday and the party he’d had and his visit to the Weasleys…anyway, Harry knew what he’d get Neville.

Back outside on the marble steps, the three families separated. Percy muttered vaguely about needing new quills, Fred and Georgia had spotted their friend Lee Jordan, Molly and Ginny were going to a second-hand robe shop. Mr Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers down to the Leaky Cauldron for some lubrication to help fuel their ongoing conversation.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your school books,” Molly said, setting off with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she called to the twins’ retreating backs.

“Feel free to buy a few treats, Harry,” Sirius said. “It’s a lovely day, after all, and Remus and I will take care of your school supplies.” (He’d taken the Galleons and half the Sickles when Harry had climbed back in to the mine-cart to leave.)

And so Harry, Myf, and Hermione enjoyed a large strawberry peanut butter ice-cream each, which they slurped happily as they wandered through Diagon Alley, examining the fascinating shop windows. Myf gazed longingly at a set of Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of “Quality Quadball Supplies”, until Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door. In Gambol and Japes’ Witching Joke Shop, they met Fred, Georgia, and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on “Dr Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks”, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, wonky brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power.

“A study of Hogwarts Prefects and their later careers,” Myf read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds fascinating…”

“Go away,” Percy snapped.

“’Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all planned out…he wants to be Minister of Magic…” Myf told Harry and Hermione in an undertone, as they left Percy to it.

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows:

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I’d read about him in the Daily Prophet, and then checked out his entire bibliography via the Witch Public Library system…”

Harry, Myf, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long queue wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of Break with a Banshee, and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys, Remus, and Sirius were standing with Mr and Mrs Granger.

“Oh, there you are, good,” Molly said. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute…”

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue which exactly matched his eyes; his pointed witch’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Myf, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet.”

“Big deal,” said Myf, rubbing her foot where the photographer had stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard her. He looked up. He saw Myf—and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be Harry Potter?”

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly. Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry’s arm and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry’s face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.

“Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”

When he finally let go of Harry’s hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to Remus, but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!”

“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography—which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge”—the crowd applauded again—“he had no idea,” Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his school fellows will, in fact, be getting the real, magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that, this year, I have been invited to be a guest lecturer at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft, where I shall help train the next cohort of talented young men and women entering their OWL years.”

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found himself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron.

“You have these,” Harry muttered to her, tipping the books into the cauldron. “I’m not even remotely—”

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice Harry had no trouble recognising. He straightened up and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer.

“Famous Harry Potter,” Malfoy said. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny. She was glaring at Malfoy.

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” Malfoy drawled. Ginny went scarlet as Myf and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching the year’s stack of new schoolbooks.

“Oh, it’s you,” Myf said, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of her shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” Malfoy retorted. “I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for that lot.”

Myf went as red as her sister, and dropped her books in to Ginny’s cauldron. She started towards Malfoy, but Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of her shirt.

“Myf!” Mr Weasley said, struggling over with Fred and Georgia. “What are you doing? It’s mad in here, let’s go outside.”

“Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley.”

It was Mr Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco’s shoulder, sneering in just the same way.

“Lucius,” Mr Weasley said coldly, with a curt nod.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Mr Malfoy said. “All those raids…I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amidst the new books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.

“Obviously not,” he said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to witchkind if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Mr Weasley’s expression darkened. “We have a very different idea of what disgraces witchkind,” he said.

“Clearly,” Mr Malfoy said, his gray eyes straying over to Mr and Mrs Granger, who were watching apprehensively. “The company you keep, Weasley…and I thought your family could sink no lower—”

There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went flying; Mr Weasley had thrown himself at Mr Malfoy, knocking him backwards into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on their heads; there was a yell of “Get him, Dad!” from Fred or Georgia, and Molly was screaming, “No, Arthur, no!” The crowd stampeded backwards, knocking more shelves over. “Gentlemen, please—please!” the assistant cried, and then, two voices said in unison, “Petrificus totalus!”

Sirius and Remus lowered their wands, both of them looking annoyed. “This is no way to behave, gentlemen,” Sirius said. “Not that I wouldn’t want to give you a black eye myself, Lucius, but surely a man of your…carefully curated reputation would want to refrain from brawling with another witch in public like a brace of cats fighting over chicken scraps?”

Mr Malfoy wasn’t able to move much yet, but his eyes looked murderous.

“And you, Mr Weasley,” Sirius continued. “Imagine the headlines. Ministry official brawls with billionaire…you’d be lucky to still have a job, much less remain head of your Office.”

Unlike Mr Malfoy, Mr Weasley just looked chagrined. Remus and Sirius released their spells, and Mr Malfoy scowled. Neither man was unscathed—Mr Weasley had a cut lip, and Mr Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopaedia of Toadstools. He was still holding Ginny’s old transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Here, girl—take your book—it’s the best your father can give you—”

Without another word, he turned away and gestured to Draco as he swept from the shop.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Remus said. “Really, Sirius, I would never have expected you to be the voice of reason.”

The shop assistant looked momentarily like he was going to stop them all from leaving, but Sirius gave him a flat look and the man deflated. The group hurried up the street, the Grangers clearly ill at ease and Molly furious.

“Being the punkest witch in Diagon Alley doesn’t mean anything if I don’t use my power for good,” Sirius said, smirking. “Besides, that’s the best approach for a man like Lucius. Heard he ducked out of a sentence at Azkaban on account of he’d been Imperiused, which is of course a load of shite…”

“Language, Pads,” Remus muttered.

“What a fine example to set for our children, Arthur,” Molly said sharply. “Sirius was right, surely your job’s worth more than getting satisfaction… What Mr Lockhart must’ve thought…”

“Seemed pleased,” Fred said. “Didn’t you hear him as we were leaving? Asked the bloke from the Daily Prophet if they could work the fight in to his report—said it was all publicity.”

But it was a subdued group who headed back to the Leaky Cauldron’s portal room, where the three families would be separating once more: Sirius and the Lupins to Blackstone Hall, the Weasleys back to The Burrow, and the Grangers out the front door to the mundane street outside. Mr Weasley opened his mouth to ask another question about mundane society, but closed it when he caught the look on Molly’s face.

“Go ahead and take us home, Harry,” Remus said. “Remember, hub first.”

Harry nodded, and actually read the pages carefully as he leafed through the Portbook this time. “Vestibulum orior.”

Chapter Text

A couple days after Harry’s visit to The Burrow, a Healer from St Mungo’s came calling, a woman named Maud Ashborn. He and Remus met with her in his bedroom, and Remus had conjured some chairs for the occasion.

“Good afternoon, Mx Lupin, Mr Lupin,” Healer Ashborn said when she entered the room. “I’m here to conduct the annual wellness exam that my…predecessor…had ordered. Will you be comfortable with my conducting it in this room, Mx Lupin?”

“Yes, ma’am, but…why isn’t Healer Lobosca doing it?” Harry asked.

“She was dismissed October of last year, as I recall. All management would say about it, when anyone asked, was that she was dismissed for cause. No details.”

“That’s odd,” Remus said. “Normally, when there’s a change of practitioner, they send patients a letter to inform them of the fact, they do, along with information about patients’ legal rights and so on.”

“…You mean you hadn’t received one?” Healer Ashborn asked, looking a little disturbed. “I will be sure to have the relevant paperwork delivered to you, should you wish to complain; you have that right.”

Harry nodded. “Anyway, yes, I’m comfortable with the exam being done here.”

Healer Ashborn nodded. “All right; first, I’m going to cast a few diagnostic charms… Nothing fancy, just the standard medicare gnosis and nutricis gnosis. Medicare gnosis will tell me how your body’s doing right now, and nutricis gnosis will tell me how you’re developing. Next, I’ll do a physical exam, and then I will have a private conversation with you, Mx Lupin, about how you’ve been treated at home over the past year. Finally, we’ll discuss my findings and what happens next, if anything.”

“Sounds good,” Harry said, and Remus nodded in agreement.

“Excellent. In that case…”

The examination went quite smoothly, although nutricis gnosis had tickled a little—a common reaction to how the Developmental Charm inspected the body, Healer Ashborn had said, when he’d giggled. The private conversation, though… Harry decided that he didn’t like Healer Ashborn very much. It was clear from her questioning that she didn’t approve of him living with two men, anyway, and when he mentioned wanting to undergo a female puberty…well, she was professional, at least.

“All right,” Healer Ashborn said, after she’d invited Remus back in after the aforementioned private conversation. “So, you’ve got a clean bill of health. Developmentally, you’re probably about a year behind your peers in terms of physical maturation, but that’s attributable to your history with your previous guardians. Your diet’s looking reasonably good, as well.

“Now, I understand from our conversation during the exam that Mx Lupin wants to undergo a female puberty. That is certainly something we can arrange, but given that he is a student at Hogwarts, I would recommend pursuing treatment through Madam Pomfrey. She would be responsible for monitoring his development regardless, and she already handles routine care whilst he’s in attendance. Does that sound reasonable?”

Harry nodded mutely. Remus said, “That makes sense to me, it does.”

“Excellent. Now, do either of you have any questions for me?”

“I think we just about covered everything,” Remus said.

“Wonderful. Well, Mx Lupin, it was a pleasure to meet with you, and I’ll see you again next year.”

“It was nice to meet with you, too,” Harry said, and Remus nodded.

Harry waited until after he was sure she was gone, then said, “…I don’t think I like her very much, Uncle Remus. She…well, she didn’t go out and say so, but I don’t think she likes how I’m living with you and Uncle Sirius.”

“Well, that’s certainly good to know,” Remus said. “I can request a new Healer for your next wellness exam. I don’t even have to specify why, if you’d rather I didn’t.”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “…I mean, if someone asks for, um…corroboration?, it’d just be my word against hers, and she didn’t say anything outright.”

“If we asked for disciplinary action against her, they might, but as she didn’t actually do anything wrong…”

That evening, Harry wrote a letter to Healer Lobosca. She was the first person, outside of Hagrid, to be truly kind to him, and he’d liked her a lot and had hoped to see her again.

Harry showed the letter to Remus, to make sure it was okay—he’d corresponded with Hermione, Myf, and Neville, but this was the first time he’d written a letter to someone who wasn’t a friend.

“Looks reasonable to me, pup,” Remus said. “Let me know what she says, eh? I know her, but it’s been a few years since I’ve heard from her.”

“I will.”

Healer Lobosca’s response came a few days later, at breakfast.

True to his word, Harry showed it to Remus as soon as he’d read it. “Do you think she has a place to stay? I remember our conversation last year, about how you were forced to move around constantly…”

“Probably not, no,” Remus said. “Or rather, if she does, it’d be purely temporary.”

“We have room here at Blackstone Hall,” Sirius said. “I’m not comfortable having a guest here while we aren’t, however, even with a caretaker in residence. And if she’s anything like Moony, she won’t accept your money if you offer to subsidise a flat for her.”

Remus made a rude noise at Sirius. “She’d accept a job offer, probably, but House Potter can’t afford a private Healer at market rates, and I refuse to hire her on at less. And the household isn’t large enough to require a servant, for that matter.”

“There must be something we can do, though,” Harry said, with a hint of wheedling in his voice. “She needs to be part of a pack, and I didn’t get the feeling she’s got one, from her letter.”

“I don’t disagree, pup,” Remus said. “Issue is, she can’t stay here while we’re at Hogwarts, and the Hogsmeade house doesn’t have a spare room. Granted, since I’ll be teaching, the only person home during the week would be Sirius, full moons aside, but that won’t change the fact it’s a two-bedroom house.”

“I could give her my—” Harry began, but Remus said, firmly, “No. You deserve to have a space that is entirely your own, and while I appreciate that you’re just trying to help, I’m not going to let you surrender it for the sake of a woman you don’t know.”

Harry subsided, frowning.

“Do I recall correctly that you own the house, Remus?” Sirius asked. “If so, we can add a room, easily enough. Shouldn’t take more than a few weeks, I figure, given magical construction techniques.”

“I do, yes, but we’d have to make use of a hotel while it’s being worked on, since I doubt you’ll get the paperwork done quickly enough to have construction finished by the start of term.”

“That’s not a problem. Harry, go ahead and extend an invitation to Ms Lobosca, please; I’ll include a note in my person as Warden of House Black, to reassure her that this is from the three of us and that you have permission to do so.”

14 August

Harry, Remus, and Sirius were seated in the Second Receiving Room after breakfast on the Wednesday. Harry looked a little fatigued—he hadn’t slept well the night before, anxious as he was—and he fidgeted as they waited. Finally, about half past nine, Kreacher appeared at the door in to the room and announced, “Chiara daughter of Kendall, Heir of House Lobosca.”

The woman who followed him in to the room looked…worn. She was the same white-haired, blue-eyed white woman Harry had met the year before, but she’d been in blue medical robes, somewhat reminiscent of mundane scrubs, at the time. Now, she was dressed similarly to Sirius’s habitual outfit: denim trousers, black combat boots, a black tee for some band he’d never heard of, and a pair of black fingerless gloves. Over her shoulder, she’d slung a black backpack, and she’d applied black lipstick and nail polish, among other things, giving her a gothic punk look.

“Good morning, Ms Lobosca,” Harry said, and he was followed a beat later by Remus, who said, “Hey, Chiara. Been a while. Come on in, have a seat.”

“Hi,” Ms Lobosca said, somewhat brusquely. She crossed the room, and her stride resembled Remus’s, Sirius noted. It didn’t seem as bad as his partner’s, though, and she’d put a note of defiance in to it as well, as if rejecting the idea that she needed anything.

“Did you bring anything else with you, Ms Lobosca?” Sirius asked.

“Please, call me Chiara,” she said as she sat in a chair facing them, “and no, just the backpack and my motorcycle. Kreacher’s put my bike helmet and jacket up. So, look. I appreciate the invitation, and obviously I’ve accepted it since I’m here, but I shan’t be staying long.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, tilting his head. It looked fairly lupine, Chiara thought, and she wondered if Remus had noticed yet how much his own mannerisms had rubbed off on the kid.

“I’m only here because I’m happy to have a roof over my head while I’m looking for another job, to be blunt. I’m not here for charity.”

“It’s not charity,” Remus said. “As my pup said when we were talking about it, you need to be part of a pack.” At her frown, and before she could say anything, he raised a hand, forestalling the rebuttal she’d been about to make.

“Yes, I’m sure you could survive without one, I am, as I’ve done it for years. But, as you know perfectly well, wolves, and especially werewolves, aren’t meant to live alone and unsupported. I can’t compel you to stay, nor will I, but what I want is for you to find your pack before you leave us.”

Chiara sighed. “You’re right, we’re not. But, damnit, what else is there for me? For us? Since St Mungo’s, I haven’t been able to hold a job for more than three months. How am I supposed to have pack-mates when I’m dealing with shite like that?”

“Believe me, I know what you mean. I didn’t really expect to have a pack, either, but Professor Dumbledore hired me to be Harry’s guardian. But then we met, and after he rambled on about werewolves in a mundane fiction book he’d been reading, I told him I was a werewolf. Guess what he did.”

Chiara raised an eyebrow. “Since you adopted him, I’m assuming he didn’t run away screaming.”

“He gave me a hug, and said something about how he figured I could use one and that I didn’t have anyone to give me any, the rascal.”

“Heh. That tracks, he was real sweet when I examined him last year. All right, you win. I’ll stick around until I find my people, whoever they happen to be.”

Harry beamed.

“There’s one thing I want to mention,” Sirius said. “We’ll be expanding our Hogsmeade home so that you can have your own room, and we’d been planning to move up to it this weekend for the full moon and then Hogwarts. While that’s going on, I’ll be putting us up in a hotel, and you will be part of our group for that.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Chiara said after a moment. “What are your plans for the full moons, then?”

“I’ve a clearing in the Forbidden Forest for my use,” Remus said, “now that Wolfsbane Potion exists, and since Sirius moved in with me, he’s joined me. Harry’s joined us a couple times so far, and I was planning to allow him to next week as well, at least for a night.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Chiara asked, shocked. “You’re letting the boy who lived hang out with you while you’re transformed? Don’t you realise how dang—”

“I’m a wolf, not a ‘boy’,” Harry interjected. “And Uncle Remus has been very, very good about not letting me come in to contact with his saliva when he’s a wolf.”

It took Chiara a moment to find her voice again. “You’re…a wolf. In what way are you a wolf.”

“Inside, in my head and in my heart,” he said simply. “I haven’t done the Animagus ritual and Uncle Remus hasn’t infected me at all; I think medicare gnosis would tell you if he had, if you want to check. But…I’m a wolf. I know this is a human body, but that doesn’t change anything.”

“Hm.” She looked sceptical, but shrugged. “No, that won’t be necessary. So, where’s my room?”

“Kreacher, please show Chiara to the guest room prepared for her use,” Sirius said. “After that, it’s probably time to get lunch started.”

16 August

A couple days later, Harry sat in his study, idly contemplating a magical window set in to the wall next to his desk. It was currently configured to show him a wolf exhibit for a zoo somewhere across the pond, where it was about mid-morning. He turned away, and called, “Kreacher! I’d like a conversation, if you’re available, please.”

There was a musical chime of acknowledgement, and a few seconds later Kreacher Apparated in to the room. “What did you wish to discuss, Mx Lupin?” he asked, his voice studiously neutral as always.

“I just wanted to, um…ask some questions about things,” Harry said, a bit hesitantly. “About you, and your experiences…if you’re comfortable with me asking, that is.”

“As you are young and new to magical Britain, Mx Lupin, I will make allowances that I would not for Master’s peers.”

Harry nodded. “So…I guess my first question is…why? I know you were bound to serve House Black for decades, if not centuries, so why accept Uncle Sirius’s coin? Why not do something else?”

Kreacher didn’t answer immediately, and in fact Harry was about to withdraw his question when the hob responded. “I love what I do, Mx Lupin. Yes, I was compelled by the Elfbind to serve, but there is a world of difference between doing something because you cannot do otherwise, and doing something because you chose to. I have always enjoyed the work, mind you, but now I am paid and respected as the valuable member of the household that I am. More than that, Master always treated me with dignity and respect, even when his family attempted to stamp out his kindnesses.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense. So…why the, um. Outfit?” Harry gestured at the chiton Kreacher was wearing, which today was a warm burgundy. “You could dress as you like, right?”

Harry wasn’t sure how he knew that Kreacher was pleased by the question, given he didn’t smile as a human would or drop his muzzle open in a doggie-grin as Remus-as-wolf or Padfoot might have done. “Yes, indeed. I could even, as my ancestors did, go without. But this chiton is comfortable, and that’s the important part, yes?”

Harry considered his next question more carefully. “Why do you go by ‘Kreacher’, anyway? I’m sure Uncle Sirius would let you choose something else…”

Kreacher actually looked a little confused. “Because ‘Kreacher’ is who I am. Master asked me if I wanted a different name when he gave me my freedom, and that is what I told him as well. Whereas I know that ‘Harry Potter’, or even ‘Harry Lupin’, as you are currently styled, is not who you are. ‘Harry’ is the name you were given by your parents, of course, but it ill fits the person I see before me, in the same way that Miss Granger’s name fits her. Is there a name that you would like me to use instead?”

“Wulfrún,” Harry said immediately, then blinked. He hadn’t meant to actually use it anywhere yet…and yet, it felt completely natural to tell Kreacher, somehow.

“Wolf-lore, hmm…? Yes… You are, indeed, a keeper of secrets, wolf-souled. Do you have more questions for me, Wulfrún?”

“Well…this isn’t really to do with you, but… ‘wolf-souled’?”

“That is what I said, yes. You have a wolf’s soul. Mr Lupin and Master have talked about your, hm, ‘species dysphoria’ is the phrase, yes? It is rare, but sometimes you humans are born with a non-human soul. And it was common, before the White God came to the Isles, for this to be done artificially. Miss Evans was, I have been told, an extraordinarily gifted witch when it came to pre-Christian magic, and she may well have given you a wolf-soul, perhaps in honour of Mr Lupin. Alas, there is no way to tell whether an animal soul arose naturally or was created, so I would not worry too much about it.”

“Huh. I’ll…have to think about that. Thank you, Kreacher, I appreciate your time and willingness to answer my questions.” Harry offered his hand, and Kreacher shook it.

“Very good, Mx Lupin.”

Chapter Text

The next weekend was their last at Blackstone Hall until the winter break, and Harry had stuffed his trunk full. Obedient to his uncles’ wishes, the majority of his playsuits remained in his playroom; the four he’d packed were plain colours and were indistinguishable from a tucked-in shirt when worn with trousers. In addition, he had the coming year’s school supplies, a brand-new copy of British Rails, his presents for Neville and Hermione, and a few other odds and ends stuffed in to the trunk. Consequently, Remus and Sirius had their own valises. Chiara, on the other hand, was using her black backpack.

Harry smiled to himself at the thought. He’d finally convinced Remus to let him fund a new wardrobe, though Remus had insisted on visiting second-hand shops to put it together. Harry hadn’t minded that part—he’d just wanted his uncle to look more professorly (and had said as much).

He was reading a book in the Second Receiving Room, with Chiara seated with a book of her own in the chair opposite, when Remus walked in, leaning on his cane. “Ready to go, pup?”

Harry marked his place with a bookmark and nodded. “Yup. We’re just waiting for you and Uncle Sirius.”

Just then, Sirius walked in as well, carrying both men’s valises. He set them down next to Harry’s trunk, using a couple of Sticking Charms to secure them. With a muttered volare, their luggage rose in to the air. “Kreacher, please maintain the house in our absence,” he said, and a musical chime rang in acknowledgement. The hob himself was not present, however; none of them felt it necessary for him to be present if his duties didn’t require him to be, after all.

Harry picked up the Portbook, flipping through it carefully until he found Hogsmeade Station, and with a muttered vestibulum orior, the four of them travelled to Hogsmeade. From the Station portal gateway, they made their way to the Prancing Hippogryph, the larger of two hotels in the village, where Sirius had reserved the Queen’s Suite while the house was being enlarged for Chiara’s benefit.

As Professor McGonagall had told him the year before, the evening of 1 September, the Hogwarts porters called upon Harry to carry his trunk and Xenia up to the castle. He gave Remus and Sirius both a tight hug, and Chiara a wave, as he left, shortly afterward, to join the other students at Hogsmeade Station. Myf, Hermione, and Neville were already waiting for him, and Ginny was walking with the other first-years over to where Hagrid was calling for them when he arrived.

“Hey, Hermione, Myf,” Harry said. “Neville, I have something special for you—I’d forgotten your birthday was the day before mine, but I think you’ll appreciate it—I’ll show you in the morning.”

“Looking forward to it,” Neville said in his slow, careful voice. They exchanged a round of hugs, then joined the throng of students making their way to horseless carriages at the opposite end of Hogsmeade Station from where the first-years were gathering. Or, rather, Harry saw winged, skeletal horses; the other three apparently saw nothing.

“So…was anyone going to explain why the carriages are being pulled by skeletal horses this year, or…?” Harry asked, once the four of them were in a carriage.

“…What skeletal horses?” Hermione asked. “I didn’t see any…”

“Huh. Maybe they’re just invisible, normally…but if they’re invisible, why can I see them?”

“I don’t know…but we can figure it out, I’m sure, given there will be books that talk about it.”

The rest of the journey from Hogsmeade Station to Hogwarts was occupied with the more usual chattering of friends seeing one another again after two months’ separation.

“Oh, hey, the Little High Table’s still up there…and Uncle Remus is sitting near Madam Pomfrey, too,” Harry said when they entered the Great Hall.

“Didn’t you say he’s our new Self Defence teacher?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah. So I’d have figured he’d be at the regular high table, with the other professors.”

“If you were sitting with the rest of us Gryffindors, maybe he would be,” Fred said from behind them. “But that’s all right, you are his family, after all.”

“That’s true, yeah,” Harry said as they walked through the Great Hall. “Can’t wait to play Quadball again, honestly. Good to see you two.”

“Good to see you, too,” Georgia said, and she and Fred patted Harry’s shoulder before sitting with the other Gryffindors. Harry reflected that by now he was definitely able to tell the twins apart, though if he had to explain how, he wasn’t sure he could. Fortunately, it hadn’t come up yet.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were waiting near the head of the House tables. Malfoy’s lip curled when he noticed he had Harry’s attention.

“I see Hogwarts is going to the dogs,” he sneered. “Don’t choke when you wolf down your food, Potter.”

Harry blinked. “What are you talking about, Malfoy?”

“Father saw you’d changed your name over the holiday. Did you think that wasn’t going to be all over magical Britain?”

“No, I already know it was; your delivery just sucks. Maybe your father could fetch you a copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Stand-Up Comedy.”

Malfoy scowled and strode away, flanked by his flunkies.

When he and his friends reached the Little High Table, Harry gave Remus a surreptitious hug before sitting in his usual spot—which, he noticed, was between his uncle and Madam Pomfrey. “Hey, Uncle Remus,” Harry said quietly. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with the other teachers?”

“There’s no real requirement to, pup; there’s just usually nowhere else to sit,” Remus replied, smiling. “Besides, my nephew’s here, he is, so why would I sit anywhere else?”

Harry coloured slightly, but he smiled as he turned to Madam Pomfrey. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if the Little High Table’d be here. Glad it is, though.”

Madam Pomfrey smiled fondly back at him. “You’ve made excellent progress over the course of the year, Harry, but I figured tonight isn’t a good time to try you on eating with your House. We’ll talk about this more on Tuesday, however.”

Further conversation was forestalled by the first-years coming in behind Professor McGonagall. Like the previous year, she placed a stool in front of the High Table, and a worn, heavily-patched black hat upon the stool. Also like last year, the hat began to speak. The words were different from the year before, but the same information was conveyed, and the form was just as bad.

“Does that hat spend all year figuring out what doggerel it’s going to say next time?” Harry asked Remus in a whisper.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Remus muttered back.

The Sorting Hat, mercifully, concluded its poetry, and Professor McGonagall stepped forward. Harry, Hermione, Myf, and Neville resumed their conversation from the carriage, quietly, rather than pay attention to the Sorting Ceremony. They did cheer when Ginny was Sorted in to Gryffindor, of course.

After the Sorting was concluded, Professor Dumbledore stood, causing the Hall to quiet down as he raised his hands. “Welcome, students old and new, to a new year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft! I shan’t bore you with speeches yet, that time will come soon enough, but please welcome our new Self Defence instructor, Professor Lupin. And now, let the feast…begin!”

And as he sat down, platters, tureens, gravy boats, and carafes all made their appearances along the tables, piled high or filled to the brim with a variety of dishes. Harry’s own plate had a small seasoned chicken breast, a mound of mashed potatoes with a bit of brown gravy over top, and broccoli, all things he found he’d enjoyed the previous year, and his goblet contained, as always, ice-cold water, with a straw poking out of it. There was more food if he wanted it, including a pile of what looked like meat pies, a bowl of fresh salad, and more. In addition, there was a beef roast, which Remus did a fine job of devastating over the course of the meal.

Harry didn’t clear his plate by the time dessert came around, but that was all right. Madam Pomfrey had gone over the rules, just in case Harry or his other table companions had forgotten, and he’d at least eaten most of dinner. He chose a chocolate chip cookie to follow it, and nibbled.

At last, once everyone had finished dessert, Professor Dumbledore stood once more. “I have a few start-of-term notices to deliver, now we’ve eaten. First-years should be aware that the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all pupils, as it is, in fact, forbidden and quite dangerous. A few of our older students would do well to remember this as well.

“As well, no magic is to be used in the corridors between classes. Quadball try-outs will be held the second week of term, and anyone who wishes to play for their House team should speak to Madam Hooch.

“And now, bedtime! Off you pop!”

The next morning, Harry pulled Neville’s birthday present out of his trunk and presented it to him before they went off to breakfast.

“Sorry it’s so late,” Harry said as Neville blinked and then unwrapped it carefully. It was a mechanical typewriter, with some charms added to muffle the noise.

“Oh wow,” Neville said, smiling broadly. “Never thought get typewriter. Thank you, Harry. Best present ever.”

“You’re welcome. I think this model also has the ability to erase mistakes, if you’re careful. Should help with your essays… and maybe you could ask Professor McGonagall if you could use one for exams.”

“Will ask, yeah.”

It was a pleasantly cool, clear day as the four of them walked out to the Herbology greenhouses. Professor Sprout was waiting for them, as usual. “We’ll be working in Greenhouse Three today,” she said when everyone had arrived, and led the way. She pulled her keyring off her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertiliser, mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling.

When they entered, there were twenty pairs of earmuffs in varying colours on a bench at the front of the class, which Professor Sprout was soon standing behind. Once everyone was gathered in front of her, she began. “We’ll be repotting mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the mandrake?”

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first in to the air.

“Mandrake, or mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” Hermione said, sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people who have been Transfigured or cursed to their original state.”

“Excellent. Five points to Gryffindor,” Professor Sprout said. “The mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harry’s glasses as it shot up again.

“The cry of the mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said promptly.

“Precisely. Take another five points,” Professor Sprout said. “Now, the mandrakes we have here are still very young.”

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in colour, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harry, though he knew better than to underestimate them. Hermione may have swallowed the textbook, but he wasn’t far behind.

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” Professor Sprout said.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t pink and fluffy.

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered,” Professor Sprout said. “When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right—earmuffs on.”

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put a pink fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear. He recalled from reading the textbook that these plants each had a tuber which resembled a human infant in miniature, but there was a difference between reading about it and seeing it. This particular specimen was pale green and mottled, and—okay, yeah, it appeared to be male. Harry knew better, however; mandrakes didn’t reproduce in that particular manner, and their sex genes didn’t correspond to human concepts of sex anyway. The plant was also, or at least appeared to be, bawling at the top of its tiny lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large pot from under the table and plunged the mandrake into it, burying it in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. She dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

“As our mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won’t kill yet,” she said calmly, as though she’d just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. “However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up.

“Four to a tray—there is a large supply of pots here—compost in the sacks over there—and be careful of the venomous tentacula, it’s teething.”

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching stealthily over her shoulder.

Harry, Hermione, Myf, and Neville selected a tray at once, and after a few minutes the rest of the class found their trays and groups as well. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists and gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes trying to cram a particularly large one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching and covered in earth. They traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash, and then they were off to lunch.

The next morning, Harry met with Madam Pomfrey in her office, where she sat in a chair facing him on his side of the desk, rather than behind it. She had a notepad in her lap and had a fountain pen poised over it.

“So, I just want to talk about how your eating habits have changed over the past year,” Madam Pomfrey said. “You’re not in trouble, and nothing’s going to happen because of anything you tell me. Unless you want something to, in which case I need to know, all right?”

“Sure,” Harry said.

“First thing, are you hoarding food at all? That is, do you have non-perishable foods in a safe place where you can get to it?”

“Um…I have several packets of sweets in my trunk…? Mostly jelly babies and Starburst jellies.”

“Okay. As long as you’re cleaning up after yourself, that’s perfectly fine. Now, how have you been eating at home?”

“Well… generally, breakfast and dinner I eat with Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius, so I eat whatever’s on my plate. Lunch is up to me, and usually I just have a sandwich. Roast beef, for instance. Sometimes Uncle Remus makes biryani and naan, or Kreacher does at his direction, and I’ll just do leftovers of that.”

“Could you expand on ‘whatever’s on my plate’, please? Are you eating food you genuinely like, or are you eating food because you’re expected to?”

Harry squirmed a little. “…A bit of both…?”

“That’s not good. Food should be an enjoyable experience, and not only should you be comfortable saying when you don’t like something, that preference should be respected. I’ll talk to Remus about that. When you say ‘lunch is up to me’, are you eating lunch every day? Or do you skip it sometimes?”

“Um… If I remember to. Sometimes I get caught up in a book and just don’t notice that it’s passed me by. So probably I’ve missed lunch once or twice a week…?”

“All right, so perhaps someone should check in on you around lunch-time. Do you have big meals, small meals, or in between?”

“Well…breakfast and dinner tend to be about the same size…? Usually Uncle Remus or Kreacher have my plate ready to go. Uncle Remus knows what I do and don’t like, so I really only end up getting food I don’t like when Kreacher serves the meal.”

“You’ve mentioned Kreacher a few times; is he a hob?”

“Uh huh. Uncle Sirius said he came with Blackstone Hall, but that freeing him was the first thing he did when he went there for the first time after Azkaban. I like him, I think; he’s kind, and he knows I don’t like being surprised by his appearance, so he warns me with a chime before he Apparates in.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “Okay. I want to talk about the hoard a bit more. Have you considered muesli bars or bags of pretzels, or other non-sweets?”

Harry blinked. “…No, I hadn’t, but muesli would work, if it’s not too crunchy…?”

“I’ll make you a deal, then: I’ll give you three packs of muesli bars for the hoard, for half of the packets of sweets currently in it. And I’d like you to tell your uncles on the weekend—don’t worry about them being upset, I’ll have had a word with them by then.”

“Okay, I think I can do that,” Harry said, sounding a little daunted.

“One more thing, also: I’m going to recommend to them that they work with you to have a more appropriate space for it than your trunk, like a cabinet or your night-stand, and to help make sure you have safe foods in it. Now, is there anything you’d like to discuss with me whilst you’re here this morning…?”

“Um. Yeah, actually… I’ve decided I want a female puberty. I talked to Uncle Remus about it back in July, and he said he’d talk to you…?”

“He did, in fact, and also signed the permission paperwork. Now, do you remember what the pamphlets said about the androgen arrestor and oestrogenating elixir?”

“i think so…? The androgen arrestor is designed to block male puberty, and does so by deactivating the gonadal cells that would normally be responsible for producing testosterone, in effect being a form of chemical castration. It will not bring about a female puberty. Because it blocks a sex hormone without providing its complement, prolonged treatment without the oestrogenating elixir will cause bone conditions like osteoporosis later in life due to the reduced uptake in calcium. And I may see a growth in height.”

“Correct. And the oestrogenating elixir?”

“The oestrogenating elixir causes permanent development of breast tissue, which will remain even if the potion is stopped; changes in fat distribution, principally benefiting the arse, chest, jawline, and skin, which will reverse if the potion is stopped. Side effects include reduction of libido, potential loss of fertility, potential for nausea and headaches, and increased emotional instability normal to adolescence while the brain adjusts. Breast development will include tenderness, particularly around the nipple, and I may experience weight gain due to increased appetite…?”

“Also correct. So, starting tomorrow morning, you will have two potions waiting for you on your night-stand. It’s up to you what explanations you give to anyone who asks about the potions. Normally, I’d cast a few diagnostic charms, but your new healer at St Mungo’s sent me a report, so instead I will need to meet with you again in December. In the meantime…” Madam Pomfrey pulled two stoppered vials out of a pocket. “Your first doses.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and she passed him the first one. “This one is the androgen arrestor.” It was a translucent white fluid that, when he unstoppered it, smelled of nothing in particular, and he knocked it back. It had a distinct taste, but he could not have described it any more than he could have described how water tasted.

The oestrogenating elixir, on the other hand, was a cloudy sky blue, and, somewhat incongruously, tasted purple.

“So what did Madam Pomfrey want to talk to you about, Harry?” Hermione asked, when Harry returned to the Gryffindor Common Room.

“Well, the important bit is that I’m now on the titty tonic,” he said, grinning. “But we also talked about my EDs.”

“Decided on a female puberty after all, then?” Myf asked. “You seemed a bit hesitant about that when you wrote over the summer.”

“I was still on the fence about it, yeah. Even after I told Uncle Remus I wanted to. I’m still not…”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted patiently, “you don’t have to choose one or the other. You can be nonbinary or agender. Myf and I, we know what we want, mostly. In your case, it’s perfectly understandable that you’re not sure, particularly since your species dysphoria is pulling on you as well.”

“…That’s true. Thanks, ’Mione.”

“Now, all that said, do you still want us to use he/him for you?”

“I…think I want to give they/them a try?” Harry said, after a moment’s thought.

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon, class,” Professor Flitwick said, standing behind his lectern as usual. “Last year, we covered quite a few basic Charms: incendio, motare, reparo, patefico, and sero, and of course wingardium leviosa, and more. I know some of you thought they were boring—everyone finds at least one of the basic Charms to be boring—but they were also vital, because you need a grounding in the basics in order to move on to more complex Charms.

“All of the domestic Charms I discussed last year require a firm grasp of motare, for example. And so, this year, we will be building on the basics. From incendio, we will move on to frigere, the Chilling Charm; by combining frigere with motare, we can make ice cream. We will also learn tergere, and when and where to use it, and the Sense-Dulling Charms, which I’m sure many of you will appreciate, especially in the Potions laboratory.

“Last but certainly not least, we will learn the Universal Counter-Charm, annullare, one of the most important Charms we teach here at Hogwarts. Like water, the universal solvent, it is effective at countering a wide variety of Charms, and like water, there are Charms it is ineffective with. But, we’ll discuss that when we get to it.”

Professor Sørensen’s first lesson, their last of the Tuesday, was altogether different. He leaned on his desk, dressed today in a set of emerald-green robes, and projected on the wall behind him was the Irish flag.

“Good afternoon, young witches. We’ll be continuing our weaselling lessons, but now we’ve a solid grasp of the basics, it’s time we moved on to studying the magical traditions of cultures around the world. As we’ve a few students from the Emerald Isle, it seems right that we begin with the Druidic tradition kept alive there despite the depredations of the Vatican over the centuries. In fact, though the Latin tradition was imposed in the centuries of the British Occupation, the Druidic tradition has seen a significant comeback especially in the past few decades.

“Like many traditions around the world, the Irish tradition is strictly auditory; the Deaf community there has adapted weasel to their needs, however, so you may see younger witches weasel when they cast. Whereas we may simply shout and wave our sticks, Irish witches sing or recite poetry instead, sometimes with instrumental accompaniment. And, unlike the strict formalism that the Latin tradition requires, the Druidic tradition requires only that the verbal component have some relationship in the witch’s mind to the effect they are trying to achieve.”

Here, the professor paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he shook his head, and grinned. “For example, and this is in English for your benefit,” he said, then held up his left hand, fingers spread and palm up, as if to hold a large ball, and sang, in a fair imitation of Professor McGonagall’s Scottish brogue, “By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes, where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond…!”

Water coalesced in to a ball floating above his open hand. It grew, until it was the size of his head, and then he tossed it behind him as he completed the verse, “Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae, on the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.”

The ball of water shattered, flattening out to form a tapestry, albeit in water, of the titular loch.

“As you can probably guess, the Druidic tradition is more flexible in its results than the Latin tradition, but the trade-off is having to actually think about what you’re trying to achieve, at least at first. The versatility really pays off in adulthood, and especially as one grows older, as swiftness comes with practice.

“Now, you might think that the Druidic tradition is related to aoedemancy, but in fact that is not the case, beyond both being related to music. Druids were poets, bards, musicians, as well as priests and judges, and cultivated a rich oral tradition. Aoedemancy, meanwhile, comes to us from ancient Greece, and so is part of the Latin tradition. Whereas the Druidic tradition can achieve myriad effects, aoedemancy is almost entirely mind magic and, to a limited degree, the manipulation of sound waves.”

The Potions laboratory was every bit as much of an assault upon Harry’s nose this year as it had been last year. As usual, Professor Snape was at the front of the classroom, standing before the blackboard that dominated the far wall. His gaze swept over the room, the man’s habitual stern scowl set as though it had been moulded that way, and once everyone was seated, he spoke, his voice carrying in defiance of its quietude.

“As we are now embarking upon another year, it is once again incumbent upon me to impress upon you the necessity and importance of lab safety. I do not tolerate horseplay, fighting, pranks, or any other form of misbehaviour in this classroom; engage in any such, and you will be removed for the remainder of term, with entirely predictable, I am sure, consequences to your marks.

“You will observe lab safety protocols at all times while you are in this classroom; failure to do so may well land you in the Hospital Wing, if you are lucky. If you are not, you may endure a stay in the morgue instead. If you fail to bring your lab safety equipment, you will not be permitted to participate in lab assignments, and consequently your mark for them will be a Terrible.

“Last, but certainly not least, if you are feeling unwell in any capacity, do not come to class. Physical symptoms can and do impact the quality of your Potions work, not only in how they disrupt your ability to perform each step as specified, but also in how they may influence the brewing process. As before, I will not penalise you for health-related absences, so long as Madam Pomfrey confirms them.”

To the utter surprise of the class, Professor Snape followed this lecture with a tight-lipped smile. “Now, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that we have, I understand, a crop of mandrakes this year. Consequently, we will be learning how to brew one of the more esoteric, but essential, potions in any brewer’s toolkit: the Cisfiguration Concoction. Because of the rarity of this ingredient, you will be required to demonstrate exquisite attention to detail in order to be permitted to brew it, and therefore it is optional: if you meet my standards and are willing to undertake the brewing of the Cisfiguration Concoction, you may choose to omit the practical portion of the end-of-year exam for this class and substitute your mark for this potion in its place.

“The Cisfiguration Concoction is a restorative draught, designed specifically to counteract Transfigurations and curses which have Transfigurative effects. There are a few conditions it cannot cure, however, and in those cases the potion is only a partial treatment. I would suggest avoiding those conditions to the best of your ability. Now, back to lab safety…”

The Self Defence classroom with Remus resembled his predecessor’s only in that it had desks and chairs. Whereas Quirrell’s arrangement was a hemicircular arrangement, Remus had opted to put the desks up against the wall, at least for this first lesson—the chairs were arranged in a similar hemicircle, however, and a camp stool sat at its focal point.

“Hey, Uncle Remus,” Harry said quietly as Gryffindors and Slytherins filtered in to the room. Remus smiled at them, but held up a finger.

“Outside of this classroom, Mx Lupin, you may call me whatever you wish. Inside of it, I am Professor Lupin,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I know it’ll be hard to stick to, so don’t worry if you slip up.”

Harry nodded, and took one of the seats nearest their uncle, and Hermione, Myf, and Neville took chairs adjacent to them. Malfoy, they noticed, went for one of the outermost, alongside Crabbe and Goyle.

Once everyone was seated, Professor Lupin smiled. “Good afternoon, class. I am Professor Remus Lupin, your new Self Defence instructor. Now, I have only an incomplete picture of what your previous instructor has taught, and it basically amounted to ‘how to get away from trouble’. This year, we’ll go over techniques for creating opportunities to escape, including a few basic combat charms, most notably the Disarming and Shielding Charms. We’ll also look at some basic grabs and grapples from mundane martial arts, and how to defeat them.

“Later in the year, we will look at the Code Duello and, particularly, the Spaulding Protocol used in magical duels. Understand me now, however: there will be no duelling outside of this classroom, and you will not be permitted to challenge anyone to duels, for any reason, outside of this classroom. Mr Malfoy, you need to be quiet while I am talking.”

Malfoy scowled. He’d apparently been whispering to his cronies, but he sat up straight again, and Remus continued.

“Lastly, we will look at some of the various non-human threats and pests that witches in your year should be capable of handling, such as Cornish pixies, over the course of the year, for variety. So! First, I will do some demonstrations of some of the things we’ll cover. Let’s see… Mx Lupin, would you please come up and demonstrate the Disarming Charm?”

“Good morning, class,” Professor Conghaile said. She was dressed, as usual, in a set of scrubs, though today’s was dark purple. “Last year was primarily theoretical material, stuff you’d find in a mundane health class…if we ignored the parts where we discussed how human diseases affected our non-human and demi-human friends and vice-versa. We’re going to branch out a little bit this year, with mundane and magical first aid, and along the way we’ll talk about non-human health. There are many non-human peoples around the globe, and you’ve no doubt encountered some already, like Britain’s own hobs and Germany’s kobolds.

“So, this year, we’ll focus on European non-humans: hobs, kobolds, centaurs, leprechauns, and so on. We will also talk about demi-humans, or part-humans, such as Eastern Europe’s veela. Yes, Miss Dunbar?”

“Will we talk about werewolves, then?” Fay Dunbar asked. She was a slim, white brunette with blue eyes and a long, narrow face.

Professor Conghaile let the question hang in the air for a moment, then responded, her voice unusually flat, “Per the Werewolf Control Act of 1830, werewolves are considered Creatures, rather than Beings, and therefore will not be discussed in this class. I would advise asking Guest Lecturer Lockhart, or perhaps Professor Lupin, if you wish to learn more about them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Moving on,” Professor Conghaile said, her voice returning to normal, “one of the characteristics that distinguishes non-humans from demi-humans is that human/demi-human relationships may result in children, whereas human/non-human relationships never do. Another characteristic, albeit one that is a matter of law rather than biology, is how the species is legally classified.”

Transfiguration began with revision of the very same ‘beetles to buttons’ lesson that Harry had so memorably collapsed during the previous term. They pulled it off only a few minutes after Hermione did, and Professor McGonagall gave them both a rare in-class smile. “Excellent work, Mx Lupin, Miss Granger. Now, I should like you to practice consistency: produce several more buttons, each as identical to the one before you now as you may.”

Myf was having trouble, however. Her button kept having legs, or an antenna, or turned to wood while not changing shape. Professor McGonagall paused by her. “Is something on your mind, Miss Weasley?”

“Oh, um… It’s just…” Myfanwy said quietly, “Ginny’s usually so lively at home, but in the week we’ve been here, she’s just been…quiet. I thought it might be nerves, Hogwarts can be overwhelming for first-years, but surely she’d be starting to settle in by now…?”

“Not necessarily,” Professor McGonagall said, also quietly. “If she’s been homeschooled, as I know you were, it can take several weeks to settle in, particularly as this has been the longest she’s been away from her mum, ever. You might consider bringing her along with you when you join Mx Lupin and their uncles this weekend.”

At this, Harry smiled. “Yeah. It’s Rosh Hashanah the Saturday, and Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius were talking about a feast with Chiara last Shabbat. We’re not actually going to be at home for it, though—Uncle Sirius is having a room added for Chiara, so we’ve a suite at the Prancing Hippogryph until that’s ready. But we can talk about that at lunch,” he added, as Professor McGonagall seemed like she was about to say something. Instead, she nodded and resumed circulating through the classroom.

“So who’s Chiara, and why haven’t you mentioned her at all?” Myf asked, as the four Gryffindors walked down to the Great Hall after Transfiguration.

“She’s a Healer I saw with Hagrid on my birthday last year,” Harry said. “She was very nice and conscientious. Made sure I knew what she was going to do before she did anything, and let me decide if I wanted it done. Before her, I’d only ever interacted with the school nurse, or a private doctor Their Nibs engaged, and they didn’t care how I felt about anything.”

“Ah. So why’s she with you now? Shouldn’t she still be with St Mungo’s?”

“Probably, but… she’s some kind of distant cousin of Uncle Remus’s, she said.”

“Distant cou—” Myf began, then cut herself off. “Blimey, that’s bloody discrimination.”

“And illegal besides,” Hermione added. “We ought to do something about that…”

“Like what?” Neville asked. “Kids. Not like listen us.”

“I have a few ideas, but I think we’ll want to start by focusing on a different issue first, like equity for hobs,” Hermione said. “I was corresponding with Kreacher in August, and he’s told me shedloads about how they’re treated, both when Sirius’s parents were Wardens of House Black and in other households across the United Kingdoms and the Commonwealth more broadly.”

“Should probably start small, I think,” Harry said as they reached the Great Hall and went in. “Let’s focus on Hogwarts’ hobs first. We could ask Kreacher to introduce us, perhaps.”

Shortly after they sat down at the Little High Table, Harry became aware that they were being stared at, and when they looked over to see who it was, they saw a mousy-haired white boy almost as short as they were staring at them, and they saw that the boy held a mundane camera—and that it wasn’t a disposable point-and-shoot model, either. When the boy realised Harry was looking at him, he went bright red.

“M-Mx, um, Potter,” the boy said, stammering a little. “I’m Colin Creevey, a-and I’m a Gryffindor, too. D’you think—um, would it be all right if—can I take a picture?”

“… A picture?” Harry asked, blankly.

“S-so I can prove I’ve met you,” Creevey said eagerly, edging forward a little. “I know all about you—everyone’s told me. About how you survived when the Great Warlock tried to kill you and how he disappeared and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead”—his eyes swept over Harry, trying to spot it—“and one of the boys in my dorm said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.” He paused to draw breath—Harry had been surprised he’d managed to say as much as he had on a single one—and continued, “It’s brilliant here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you”—he looked imploringly at Harry—“maybe one of your friends could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?”

Out of the corner of their eye, Harry saw Malfoy saunter over, flanked as always by his cronies Crabbe and Goyle. “Signed photos, Potter? You’re giving out signed photos?” Malfoy was loud enough to cut through the usual lunchtime din, and a hush fell over the Great Hall as everyone turned to stare.

“Everyone, queue up,” Malfoy called. “Harry Potter’s giving out signed photos!”

“In your dreams, I’d be giving out signed photos, Malfoy,” Harry said coolly.

“You’re just jealous,” Creevey said.

“Jealous?” Malfoy asked, incredulous. He didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. “Of what? I don’t want a scar right across my head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut up makes you that special, myself.”

Crabbe and Goyle were chortling, as though this were the height of comedy.

“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” Myf said angrily as she retrieved her wand. Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing a clenched fist menacingly.

From behind Harry, a familiar voice rasped, “What’s this about signed photographs, Mx Lupin?”

Malfoy’s haughty smirk congealed abruptly as Remus put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Oh, Mr Creevey wanted a photo to send to his parents, Professor Lupin,” Harry said.

“I see,” Remus said. “Mr Malfoy, unless you want your own copy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return to your table, along with Messrs Crabbe and Goyle.”

It was then that the last person Harry wanted to talk to, even more than Malfoy, trotted over, a little out of breath. “Ah, Mx Potter, what’s this I hear about you offering autographs?”

Chapter Text

“C’mon, then, Mr Creevey,” Lockhart said, pulling Harry over to stand in front of him. “A double portrait, can’t say fairer than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.”

Creevey fumbled with his camera and took a photo, and just as soon as Harry blinked the flash out of their eyes, they wriggled free of Lockhart’s grasp and darted around the Little High Table, putting it very firmly between them and the celebrity witch. Remus barely managed to stifle a growl, and turned to Lockhart, closing the distance between them with surprising speed.

“If you ever,” he muttered, quietly enough that only Lockhart could hear him, “do anything to hurt my nibling, be sure to have your affairs already in order. Do I make myself clear, Mister Lockhart.”

“Perfectly.” Lockhart gave him a somewhat brittle smile and walked away. Harry sat down in his usual spot, and Remus sat next to him seconds later.

“Sorry about that, pup,” Remus said quietly. “I knew he was an incompetent prat, but I didn’t expect him to be so…handsy.”

“Mmm,” Harry said around a bite of beef roast, then swallowed it. “Fits with how he was at Flourish and Blotts last month, though. Can’t imagine why he thinks it’s okay to touch children without permission…and I’m sure if I hadn’t managed to wriggle free, he’d have pulled me off somewhere. To do what, I’m not sure.”

“Hmmm. Something I’ll need to watch out for, I’m thinking.”

Madam Pomfrey put in, “I’ll have a word with the Heads of House, myself. If he’s that blatant in front of everybody…”

“So what was that you were saying about him being incompetent?” Hermione asked.

“Well…I’m sure you’ve read his works by now, Hermione,” Remus said. “Compare, for example, his stories in Wanderings with Werewolves and the actual effects of the Homorphus Charm.”

Hermione blinked, then after a moment she said, “… Oh, right, I thought that was weird, but maybe he knew something I didn’t. Does he really…?”

“Well, he wrote it, so you’d have to ask him, but Myf saw Professor Dumbledore use the Charm back in January. I will, however, say this: observe the timing of the events.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right. That must’ve been an Animagus whose form was a wolf, then…”

“It’s not as uncommon as you might think, but I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow, assuming you’re joining us for Rosh Hashanah…?”

Hermione and Myf nodded, and Hermione said, “Of course.”

Harry was quietly playing with Xenia in the Gryffindor Common Room when Oliver Wood found them the next morning. The burly sixth-year was already dressed for the day in his Quadball practice uniform.

“Morning, Lupin,” he said cheerfully. “Figure the sooner we’re at Quadball practice, the better-equipped we’ll be to win the Cup this year.”

“Oliver, I know Professor McGonagall gave standing orders that you were not to interfere with my family time—you can have me Sunday afternoon through to Friday evening, but Saturdays are off-limits.”

Wood scratched his chin, then grinned. “She said after breakfast on Saturdays. Have you eaten yet?”

“…Well, no, but—”

“Then we’ve got time.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. But you’ve got me until eight-thirty, at which point I shower, eat, and head out.”

Wood beamed.

As they were about to leave the Common Room, a few minutes later, there was a clattering as Creevey made an appearance. “Harry! Harry, look! I got the photo developed!”

Harry barely managed not to roll their eyes as the boy ran to meet them. He held up the photo he’d mentioned for Harry’s inspection. A moving, black and white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm that Harry recognised was their own. They were pleased to see that their photographic self had apparently dug their heels in and was refusing to be pulled in to view. As they watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the photo.

“Will you sign it?” Creevey asked.

“No,” Harry said flatly. “I’ve Quadball practice, sorry.” And they turned and climbed through the portrait hole.

“Oh, wow, wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quadball game before!” Creevey climbed through after him.

“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you, Harry? Weren’t you?” Creevey said, trotting alongside him. “You must be brilliant. I’ve never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?”

Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.

“I don’t really understand Quadball,” Creevey said breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly round trying to knock people off their brooms?”

“Yes,” Harry said patiently, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quadball. “They’re called bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team, who carry clubs to beat the bludgers away from their side. Fred and Georgia Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.”

“And what are the other balls for?” Creevey asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Harry.

“Well, the quaffle—that’s the biggish red one—is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch—they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.”

“And the fourth ball—”

“—is the golden snitch,” Harry said, “and it’s very small, very fast and difficult to catch. But that’s what the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quadball can’t end until the snitch has been caught. And whichever team’s Seeker gets the snitch earns his team an extra thirty points.”

“And you’re Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said Colin in awe.

“Yes,” Harry said, as they left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. “And there’s the Keeper, too. He guards the goalposts. That’s it, really.”

But Creevey didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quadball pitch, and Harry only shook him off when they reached the changing rooms. Creevey called after them in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried off to the stands.

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and Georgia Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth-year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning, side by side, opposite them.

“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the pitch, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training programme, which I really think will make all the difference…”

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quadball pitch, on which were drawn many lines, arrows and crosses in different-coloured inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s shoulder and he began to snore.

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on.

“So,” Wood said, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about what they could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle, “is that clear? Any questions?”

“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” Georgia said, who had woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday, when we were awake?”

Wood wasn’t pleased.

“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all, “we should have won the Quadball Cup last year. We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately, owing to circumstances beyond our control…”

Harry shifted guiltily in their seat. They had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still tormenting him.

“So, this year, we train harder than ever before… Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the changing rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.

They had been in the changing room so long that the sun was up properly now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry walked onto the pitch, they saw Myf and Hermione sitting in the stands.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Myf called incredulously.

“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking enviously at the toast and marmalade Myf and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.”

They mounted their broom and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped his face, waking him far more effectively than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quadball pitch. They soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and Georgia.

“What’s that clicking noise?” called Fred, as they hurtled around the corner.

Harry looked into the stands. Creevey was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

“Look this way, Harry! This way!” he cried.

“Who’s that?” Fred asked.

“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took them as far away as possible from Creevey.

“What’s going on?” Wood asked, frowning, as he skimmed through the air towards them. “Why’s that first-year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training programme.”

“He’s in Gryffindor,” Harry said quickly.

“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” Georgia said crossly.

“What makes you say that?” Wood asked testily.

“Because they’re here in person,” Georgia said, pointing.

Several people in green Quadball robes were walking onto the pitch, broomsticks in their hands.

“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked the pitch for today! We’ll see about this!”

Wood shot towards the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and Georgia followed.

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin captain. “This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!”

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood, and he had a look of triumph on his face as he replied, “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”

Angelina, Alicia and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.

“But I booked the pitch!” Wood said, positively spitting with rage. “I booked it!”

“Ah,” said Flint, “but I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape: I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Seeker.”

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. “Where?”

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” Fred asked, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” Flint said, as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. “Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the Slytherin team.”

All seven of them held out their brooms. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words “Nimbus Two Thousand and One” gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early-morning sun.

“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” Flint said carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps,” he smiled nastily at Fred and Georgia, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives, “sweeps the board with them.”

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits. Harry snorted.

“They claim it outstrips the Two Thousand,” Harry said. “From what I’ve heard, it’s the same manufacturing process as, just with a red varnish instead of brown, to make it go faster. Personally, I don’t understand how a red varnish could manage that, but hey, it’s not my money.”

Malfoy shot Harry a hateful look, but before he could say anything, Myf and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.

“What’s happening?” Myf asked Harry. “Why aren’t you playing? And what’s he doing here?”

She was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quadball robes.

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” Malfoy said smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my father’s bought our team.”

Myf stared at the seven finely-crafted, red-tinted variants of Harry’s own broom.

“Good, aren’t they?” Malfoy said smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives, I expect a museum would bid for them.”

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure talent.”

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered.

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little mudblood,” he spat.

There was an immediate uproar, and Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and Georgia jumping him. Alicia shouted, “How dare you!” and Myf whipped her wand out of its holder, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at Malfoy’s face.

A loud bang! echoed around the stadium, and a jet of green light shot out of Myf’s wand, hitting Malfoy in the face and sending him reeling backwards on to the grass.

The Slytherin team scowled and encircled Malfoy. Pucey helped him up, and Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but instead of words, he belched and several fat, glistening slugs dribbled out of his mouth.

“Well, seeing as to how your Seeker has suddenly become unfit to play, we’ll be taking the pitch,” Wood said. Flint gave him a murderous look, but the Slytherin team escorted Malfoy back to the castle.

Just then, the bell-tower rang eight o’clock.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Wood swore. “Lupin, you might as well go—there’s no way we’d get any training done in thirty minutes that’d be worth anything.”

Professor Snape was waiting for Myf when she, Harry, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny went down to the Entrance Hall after breakfast to meet with Sirius.

“Miss Weasley, a moment, please,” he said coldly. Myf walked closer to him, and he snapped his fingers. The air surrounding the two of them seemed to congeal ever so slightly, and from Harry’s perspective, it shimmered enough that they couldn’t make out Snape’s or Myf’s lip movements, much less hear anything either of them were saying.

“I understand that there was an altercation on the Quadball pitch earlier this morning,” Snape said, “and I want to hear your version of events. No excuses, no extraneous commentary.”

“Yes, sir,” Myf said. “I understand that Gryffindor booked the pitch this morning, and that, owing to Malfoy becoming your new Seeker, Slytherin was given permission to use the pitch as well. When Hermione said that nobody on Gryffindor had to buy their way on to the team, Malfoy called her a mudblood. My siblings were intending to punch his lights out, I think, but they were blocked by Flint. I pointed my wand at Malfoy under Flint’s arm and cast the Slug-Vomiting Hex on him.”

“I see,” Snape said, his voice seeming to thaw a trifle. “Very well. Detentions for both of you, and ten points from Gryffindor. I trust there will not be a repeat of this incident.”

“No, sir,” Myf said. Snape snapped his fingers again, and the air returned to normal. “Run along, Miss Weasley. I will contact you when it has been arranged.”

Myf nodded, and rejoined her friends, who’d been joined by Sirius while she was talking with Snape.

“What was that about?” Neville asked.

“Oh, uh. I hexed Malfoy after he called Hermione the m-word,” Myf said as they were leaving Hogwarts. “We both got detentions.”

“Which hex?” Sirius asked. His hair had been put up in a mohawk again, this time in bisexual pride colours, but as if deliberately undercutting his usual punk persona, he wore slate-gray cotton trousers in a semi-formal cut, a white button-down shirt, and an extremely loud tie—it both caught the eye and hurt to look at for too long, as the colour shifted between violent blue-purple, hot pink, a particularly obnoxious yellow-green, and an equally obnoxious orange.

“The Slug-Vomiting one,” Myf said. “What’s with the tie, anyway?”

“Remus asked me to dress nicely for Rosh Hashanah,” Sirius said with a smirk. “So I’m making him regret it.”

“Could you, um…please not do that to us in the future?” Hermione asked. “I appreciate your punkishness, and I love your mohawk, by the way, but in this instance the tie’s contributed—and will contribute—to sensory overload for four of us. Also, Remus is colourblind, so the loudness is wasted on him.”

Sirius stopped abruptly. “Oh, shit, you’re right. Pardon my French… One moment, please.” He pulled out his wand and muttered to himself, then said, clearly, “Colorare rufus.” The tie became a solid maroon and stayed that way.

Hermione blinked. “Thanks, we appreciate it.”

“Absolutely not a problem, Hermione.”

After another twenty minutes or so, they reached the Prancing Hippogryph, and Sirius led them in to the Queen’s Suite’s main room, where Remus and Chiara were seated—Remus on the sofa, and Chiara in one of the armchairs. Remus’s nose twitched a little when Ginny came in, though the only person who noticed was Sirius.

As they entered the room, Kreacher announced their arrival (which caused Harry to blink in confusion): “Sirius son of Orion, Warden of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. Harry child of Remus, Warden of House Potter and Scion of House Lupin. Myfanwy and Ginevra daughters of Arthur, Scions of House Weasley. Neville son of Frank, Heir of House Longbottom. Hermione mundane-born, Scion of House Granger.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Sirius said dryly. “Kids, may I introduce you to Chiara Lobosca, our guest.”

Harry gave Chiara a small wave as they made a beeline to join Remus on the sofa. Remus chuckled and returned their enthusiastic hug with a gentle embrace of his own.

“Miss Lobosca,” Neville said, as he, Myf, and Ginny gave her a formal bow. Hermione, after a couple seconds of confusion, bowed as well.

“Please, call me Chiara,” Chiara said, “and there’s no need for the bowing—I’m not one to stand on ceremony, even if I weren’t scion of a house almost as irrelevant as Miss Granger’s.”

The four of them straightened, and they found seats of their own. At Sirius’s nod, Kreacher floated a tray of drinks—really just flutes of fizzy apple juice—around, which everyone accepted one of, then stepped in to the attached dining room.

“So, before we eat,” Remus said, “there’s something I need to tell you, Neville and Ginny. It’s important, however, that I have your word that it will not be discussed with anyone, present company excluded.”

Neville blinked, then straightened up, paused to focus, and said, “I swear by my name as Longbottom that I will hold this conversation in confidence.” It was the longest thing Harry had heard him say all week.

Ginny, a beat later, followed his oath with her own. “I swear, by my name as Weasley, to hold this conversation in confidence.”

“Thank you. I am a werewolf, and the reason I’m telling you this is that you’ll likely figure it out on your own, and Myf and Hermione were both informed on Harry’s birthday. The other three”—Remus gestured at Chiara, Harry, and Sirius—“already know. Sirius because we’d gone to school together, and Harry because I told him the day we met, last year.”

“And I know because I’m one, too,” Chiara said, “and Professor Dumbledore had arranged for us to be pen-pals while I was at Hogwarts. I wouldn’t have chosen this time and place to come out to you all, but Remus clearly trusts you kids, and his judgement has generally been quite sound.”

Ginny was visibly gobsmacked, but Neville just…stared, for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Gran said knew you, that parents knew you…?”

“Your parents and I,” Remus said, “along with Harry’s parents, Sirius, and many other witches, were part of the Order of the Phoenix, an organisation that was formed to resist the Great Warlock and his followers. Now, sadly, disbanded, its purpose served.”

Neville nodded. “Given turned out was still…around? In May, not sure disband was right call. But hindsight twenty-twenty.”

“Yeah, that’s…certainly a fair point,” Remus said, “but there’s not really anything that we could do right now to ensure he’s gone for good. The best we can do is prepare you, which is of course already in my job description, it is.”

“Were you thinking about extracurricular lessons, Uncle Remus, or…?” Harry asked, tilting his head.

“Mmm, maybe. You picked up expelliarmus pretty quickly, you did. The problem is, any time I could set aside for it would be time not being spent giving you the childhood you deserve. Though…I just had a thought… Anyway, we’ll talk about it later. Everything ready in the dining room, Kreacher?”

“Yes, Mr Lupin. If everyone is ready…?”

Everyone stood, with Harry slipping out of Remus’s lap just seconds before he, too, came to his feet, and they followed Kreacher in to the dining room. There were several dishes arranged on the sideboard, and Harry beelined to his seat—as usual, the only one with food already present—as Kreacher began dishing up the first course, matzo ball soup. Remus sat to his left and Sirius to his right, and Chiara sat on Remus’s other side. Completing the circuit, Hermione sat on her other side, then Myf and Ginny, and finally Neville.

“Did you do all this yourself, Kreacher?” Harry asked as the hob set bowls of soup before everyone, gesturing at the sideboard. The hob chirped affirmatively; after he finished serving, he said, “Indeed. There was precious little real cooking in the years Master was absent, so I was delighted when he asked me if I would be willing to cook for his holidays, even when he’s up here.”

Ginny piped up, though she was anxiously washing her hands in her lap as she did, “Why do you call him ‘master’, Kreacher? I thought he liberated you…?”

“Yes, Master liberated me, and it is precisely because he did so that I choose to continue to accord him the title,” Kreacher said. “It is true that under the Elfbind I would have been compelled to, whatever my own feelings, but…as I have said to Mx Lupin when they asked, there is a difference between doing a thing because one has no choice, and doing a thing because one enjoys doing so.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “And, um… Does that mean you enjoy working for him, then?”

“I do. You’ll not find a fairer employer, I’d say. My wages are equivalent to what a human being would be paid in my position, and I am, for the most part, my own boss—Master made it clear that, as long as Blackstone Hall remains in good condition and the rooms used are maintained, I may do as I please. And so it pleases me to cater for events such as Rosh Hashanah.”

“Soup big tasty,” Neville said as he sampled it. “Don’t think had kind soup before.”

“Matzo ball soup is a traditional Jewish dish,” Sirius said. “It’s usually part of Passover rather than Rosh Hashanah, but I know Harry likes it, and I was at a bit of a loss trying to find a non-dairy soup that would work.”

“Oh, because of kashrut?” Hermione asked. “No cooking meat with its mother’s milk and all, right?”

“Precisely. The sages extended that to prohibit the mixing of meat and dairy in general, and the strictest interpretation requires a completely separate set of cookware, utensils, and dishes to prevent contamination. While I could certainly afford that, I always thought that was ridiculous.”

“I don’t really understand the logic of it, myself,” Harry said. “I think there’s some scientific basis for some of kashrut, like not eating pork, but they certainly couldn’t have known about it three thousand years ago.”

“In fairness, I think the idea was mainly to set them apart from their neighbours,” Remus said, and Harry nodded. “Makes sense.”

Shortly thereafter, the (empty) bowls were whisked away, and Kreacher began serving the main course. Harry’s plate held a slice of roast chicken breast, a small mound of roast gold potatoes, green beans, and some honeyed apple slices. There was also a ramekin of brown gravy, which they carefully drizzled over their chicken and potatoes. Everyone else’s plate had, in addition, a slice of sweet and sour brisket.

Harry was used to this, of course; over the past year, Remus (or Sirius, once he’d been freed) would cook something they hadn’t had before, once or twice a month, alongside food they knew Harry could eat, and they were free to sample it if they wanted to. There was never any pressure, of course.

Neville hadn’t come along for more than a handful of the once-a-month visits when Harry brought their friends home, so he was a little confused. “Why Harry not get brisket?” he asked.

“It’s a new dish for Harry,” Remus explained, “and it’s his decision whether he wants to try it or not. Between me and Sirius, there’s no concern about leftovers going bad. Or Chiara, now she’s joined our household.”

Chiara snorted with amusement. “We werewolves do tend to pack it in, yeah. Kind of necessary, though, given how the infection seems to work. Sucks away energy most of the month, only to expend it nightly for four or five nights…” She blinked, and yawned, as if to emphasise the point.

“Oh. That makes sense,” Neville said. “Food tricky sometimes. And. Healer tell Gran each visit that need lose weight. She think is choice be fat.”

Chiara narrowed her eyes at this. “You are the weight your brain thinks you should be, Neville. For all that the mundane medical establishment is fatphobic, Healers ought to know better—if there were any way to lose weight and keep it off, we witches would have found it by now and the Ministry would have its hands full dealing with warlocks bilking mundane folks for all they’ve got. If you feel like getting a lecture sometime, ask Professor Snape about weight-loss potions; only time I’ve ever heard him swear.”

“Oh? Why that?”

“The short and sweet version is, they’re all deadlier than mundane weight-loss drugs. Nobody’s come up with a formulation that doesn’t effectively eat you up from the inside, and I’m fairly certain it’s intrinsic to that entire class of potion. You can’t dilute them, either; all of the potion buffers I’m aware of react violently when mixed in, and nobody knows why.”

Neville nodded. “Oh, okay. Are Healer?”

“I was. Then management found out that I’m a werewolf and fired me. Been unable to find steady, lasting, work since.”

“Managem—oh. St Mungo’s. Gran not fan.”

“I won’t ask why, this isn’t really the time. So…Ginny, you’ve been awful quiet, how’s Hogwarts been treating you?”

Chapter Text

The following Wednesday, Myf woke to find a note on her night-stand.

She groaned. “What’s up?” Hermione asked, having apparently already gotten up.

“My detention’s with Lockhart,” Myf said quietly as she got ready to face the day.

“What’s wrong with Gilderoy?” Faye asked from behind her curtains—she was also getting ready, apparently.

“Did you see how he grabbed Harry at lunch last week?” Hermione asked. She was sat on her bed, already in her uniform robe, and was carefully putting her hair up in a dark red headscarf.

“Oh, riiiight, I forgot about that,” Faye said. There were some spritzing sounds, then she opened her curtains as she ran a wide-toothed comb through her now-damp hair. “I mean, I know he’s a celebrity and all, but…that doesn’t change how he’s supposed to interact with us kids.”

“Worse, he’s not even competent. You remember Chapter Eight in Wanderings with Werewolves, where he talks about how he defeated the Wagga Wagga werewolf? Specifically, how he used the Homorphus Charm?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t gotten that far yet. Why, what’d he say?”

“Well, first of all, the Homorphus Charm doesn’t actually work on werewolves—it’s a counter-charm for the Animagus transformation. Now, I have no doubt that the Wagga Wagga ‘werewolf’ actually was a wolf at the time, but it was too early in the day for him to have had a lunar transformation—most of those happen around nine PM local time, or ten PM on Summer Time. Not seven.”

“Huh. I wonder why nobody’s gone to the press and presented a case for fraud, then.” Faye tossed her comb on to her night-stand, then checked herself in the mirror. “So, breakfast?”

That evening, Myf walked up to Professor Lockhart’s office and knocked on the door, a trifle furtively. She’d rather not have been up here at all, but more importantly she didn’t want other students to know she’d be with the man.

“Come in, come in!” came that very man’s smarmy voice, and she opened the door and went in. The first thing she noticed was that nearly every inch of every wall was plastered with posters featuring Gilderoy Lockhart. He’d even signed a few, it appeared, and there was a large stack of photos on his desk.

“You can address the envelopes,” Lockhart said brightly, pointing to a student’s desk and chair nearby. There was a stack of envelopes there, along with a set of quills and vials of lilac ink (“Manufactured to my exacting specifications,” Lockhart boasted) waiting to be employed. Myf managed to stifle a sigh, and sat down. She inked up a quill and pulled an envelope over.

“This first one’s to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her—huge fan of mine.”

The minutes crawled by. Myf let Lockhart’s voice wash over her, occasionally offering neutral-sounding noises of attentiveness. Now and then, she caught a phrase, like “Fame’s a fickle friend” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, Miss Weasley, remember that.” She couldn’t help but think that he would have relished a chance to have Harry spend time with him, which thought was somewhat nauseating to contemplate.

There were no candles, of course—why buy millions of candles a year when witch-lights lasted longer than mundane lightbulbs and could be tuned by the owner?—but it felt like she’d been there for hours and that she was on her thousandth—it couldn’t have been nearly that many, it just felt like it had been—envelope. This one was being addressed to Veronica Smethley.

And then she heard something—something quite apart from Lockhart’s prattle about his fans. It was a voice, full of malice and far colder than even Snape at his frostiest.

“Come… Come to me… Let me rip you… Let me tear you… Let me kill you…”

Myf was so surprised, she jumped and left a large blot of ink on the envelope where she’d been working on the street.

“What?” she asked.

“I know!” Lockhart said. “Six solid months at the top of the bestseller list! Broke all records!”

“No,” Myf said frantically. “That voice!”

“Sorry?” Lockhart asked, looking puzzled. “What voice?”

“That—that voice that said—didn’t you hear it?”

“…What are you talking about, Miss Weasley? Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy? Great Scott—look at the time! We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have believed it—the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”

Myf didn’t answer. She was straining her ears, trying to see if she could hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling her she shouldn’t expect a treat like this every time she got detention. Feeling dazed, Myf left.

It was well past curfew, but she’d kept Snape’s note to her in her pocket in case a Prefect asked why she was out. By the time she got to the Gryffindor Common Room, it was nearly empty, and she opted to go up to the second-year girls’ dorm. She tried to be quiet as she shed her clothes, but she heard Hermione’s curtains slide open and, a moment later, Hermione herself slipped in to Myf’s alcove with her.

“I can’t believe he kept you till nearly midnight,” Hermione whispered. She knew she didn’t really have to—the spaces described by their curtains were covered by Muffling Charms that could be activated when the curtains were drawn—but it didn’t feel quite right to be talking normally so late in the day.

“I can’t believe it either, and my hand’s going to be sore for days,” Myf whispered back. “But that’s not important…”

She told Hermione about the voice she’d heard.

“That’s…quite strange. And Lockhart couldn’t hear it? Harry’s the only person we know with an invisibility cloak, and they’re asleep. More than that, you’d have noticed someone coming in.”

“Not to mention the part where Harry doesn’t have a malicious bone in their entire body…oh well, it’s late, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

As she lay in bed, moments later, Myf couldn’t help but wonder.

Over the next several days, Myf tried to keep an ear out for the voice again. Harry was initially sceptical when she’d told them about it the next morning, but they’d never known her to lie, much less about a malicious, arctic-cold voice. And, they pointed out, they hadn’t had any exposure to the magical world until the year before.

Myf didn’t hear the voice again, but she did notice Ginny seeming to withdraw in to herself again, which was unusual. The younger girl had been eager to attend, and at least during the first week she’d been fairly gregarious despite her sheltered upbringing. As the days marched on, however, Myf had other things to distract her, like the first, and so far only, actual argument Harry had with Madam Pomfrey, ever, on the sixteenth.

“I know that fasting is a traditional part of Yom Kippur, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey said at breakfast, when Harry announced their intention to fast. “However, I also know that preserving life comes before all other mitzvot, and fasting can be detrimental to recovering from EDs. I’m sure that you’re ‘used to’ going hungry, given your history, but that actually means there wouldn’t be any real meaning to foregoing food for the day.”

Harry opened their mouth to object, but before they could say anything, Remus said, “She’s right, pup. The intent of a fast for religious observances, like Yom Kippur, isn’t the deprivation of nourishment, it’s giving up something that brings pleasure for a day. We can talk about it in plenty of time for next year, but for right now, let’s go with this: eat plain things, like oatmeal without any mix-ins, or toast. You can add a bit of honey or syrup, if that would help.”

“Okay, sure,” Harry said, after a moment, with a hint of a puppy-ish whinge in their voice. But they had a bowl of oatmeal and a bit of toast, as Remus had suggested.

Hermione’s birthday, later that week, was fairly uneventful. Myf presented her with a purple scarf she’d knit herself, Neville gave her a wand holster similar to to Myf’s, but in a warm purple that matched the scarf, and Harry had opted to give her an original, signed first-edition copy of The Hobbit. (It had been sitting in their vault, apparently.)

That Friday was the first time they found Professor Sirius Black waiting in the Self Defence classroom rather than Professor Lupin, and he smiled rakishly as the students organised themselves. There was also a covered birdcage on the teacher’s desk, from which issued the occasional soft rustling. Myf, Harry, Hermione, and Neville took seats at the front, as usual.

“Good afternoon, class,” Sirius said. “Professor Lupin is, unfortunately, feeling under the weather, and so I will be teaching in his stead today. Mr Malfoy, I know Professor Lupin’s warned you before about talking whilst he is. Yes, I have his notes, and yes, we will be going over Cornish pixies as planned.”

Myf was pleased to see Malfoy look nonplussed—unlike him, she knew Sirius being an Animagus gave him enhanced hearing. She gave Harry an amused look, one they returned, and then together they took notes as Sirius lectured.

“…And, finally, I have some Cornish pixies here in a cage,” Sirius said, gesturing to the birdcage. “Now, the most effective way to deal with pests that can move faster than you can is not by casting charms like petrificus totalus or stupefacio; they require good aim, something an auror or hunter might have, but not something most people have. Instead… Miss Granger, what would you use?”

“Immobulus, Professor Black,” Hermione said promptly. “It’s a radial spell, so there’s no need to worry about precision.”

“That is correct, five points to Gryffindor. In a moment, I’m going to release the pixies in this cage, but I want all of you to be ready to cast the Freezing Charm. Remember, the incantation is immobulus. Repeat after me: immobulus. Good. Here we go!”

Sirius whisked the cover off of the cage, and Myf could see there were three winged creatures inside of it. They were small humanoids, about eight inches tall, with gossamer wings; each was intensely, almost brilliantly blue, though they were not precisely the same colour. With the cover off, she could hear a faint whinge, though from the grimace on Sirius’s face, the whinge must have been the human-noticeable edge of the high-pitched noises they were really making. Sirius opened the cage, and the pixies flew out almost immediately, only to stop in mid-air as Myf raised her wand and shouted, “Immobulus!”

“Excellent reflexes, Miss Weasley; take five points for Gryffindor,” Sirius said. “Let’s give other folks a chance, shall we?”

Overall, it was an enjoyable lesson, though Myf could see how, without the lecture beforehand, the practical portion could have gotten out of hand.

A week and a half later, on 1 October, Myf awoke to a note on her night-stand again, this time from Remus:

Oddly, Myf didn’t encounter Remus until after he’d let her, Harry, Hermione, and Neville in to the Self Defence classroom—he hadn’t been at breakfast. When she stepped in, she realised why: the desks and chairs had been stacked up against the western wall, and a set of targets were set up along the northern one.

“Right, so, the first thing we’re going to practise is the Stunning Jinx, stupefacio. It’ll send a red bolt at whoever you’re aiming at and stun them for a few seconds, depending on how much energy you put in to it. Some foes are resistant to it, however; dragons and werewolves, for two. Line up—the X-marks I made on the ground should line you up with one of the targets—and let’s give it a go, shall we?”

Right away, Myf could tell Neville was having trouble with the incantation. In weasel, it was ‘stop’ in an arc from right to left and then snapping straight back to the right, but Neville’s coordination was bungling it—his hand kept wanting to go too far. The Magica Lingua incantation wasn’t much better—unless he went slow, his tongue kept tripping over it.

She turned her attention back to her own target, but it was hard for her to tune Remus and Neville out as she practised casting stupefacio.

“Right, then. Mr Longbottom, I’m going to teach you a basic spellcraft technique,” she heard Remus say. “The concept was developed by a mundane-born witch, several years ago, who’d learned computer programming back in the eighties. What we’re going to do is create a ‘symbolic link’—we’ll pick a word or motion you can reliably perform, one that you’re not going to use accidentally when trying to do something else, and we’ll tell your magic that when you perform that word or motion, you actually want to cast stupefacio. Does that make sense?”

Myf didn’t hear Neville’s reply, but it must have been a nod because Remus continued, “Good. Now, I’m actually going to demonstrate this with lumos, because accidentally lighting up the place is a far less dangerous mistake than accidentally flinging around a Stunning Jinx. Now, do you have a word or motion in mind?”

“‘Knock’?” Neville said.

“That should work, yes,” Remus said. “So, we’ll start with ‘ligare knock ad lumos’, which you can take your time pronouncing—Mr Jacobs developed ligare as an accessibility aid specifically, and it’s very forgiving. And it doesn’t require any wand movement—if you have a connection to any arcane focus at all, it’ll work.”

“Okay.” After a moment, Neville said, very distinctly, “Ligare knock ad lumos.”

“Excellent, just like that. Now, use knock…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Myf saw the tip of Neville’s wand flare in to brilliance as he said “knock.”

“Brilliant work. Now, to remove the link, we say ‘ligare inrita knock’. Then we’ll use ligare to link ‘knock’ to stupefacio and you should be good to go.”

Chapter Text

The first two weeks of October were unremarkable, though the addition to the house was finally complete. Harry’s pack moved back in to it on the twelfth, and they were glad to have their room back. The morning after, they puttered about, arranging things to their liking again—the construction had required them to pack things up, just in case, so now they were unpacking. Harry’s intense focus on restoring their room to rights might have worried Remus, but he knew he was particular about his bedroom.

The week after that was the first full moon of October, and this time Chiara was willing to let Harry join them for it. Harry dressed in their now-usual ‘romping with the pack’ attire: thick woollen paw socks, long johns, under-shirt, denim trousers, flannel shirt, winter coat, dragon-hide gloves, and scarf. Remus had his heavy cloak and dressing gown, and Chiara had procured similar attire for herself, in dark blue. The four of them—two humans, two werewolves—trudged up to Hagrid’s hut at seven that evening, where Hagrid himself joined them as they then proceeded to their usual clearing.

When they arrived, Remus and Chiara split off, each heading to their own segment of forest. Harry sat next to Sirius on a log, who pulled them close in to a comforting half-hug as, soon enough, they both heard the pained screams and yelps that heralded the werewolves’ transformations. As always, Harry brightened again when, their transformations completed, the wolves trotted in to the clearing again. They sniffed each other’s rumps in greeting before they snuffled Harry and Sirius’s faces, garnering a “Heeeeeey!” in mock-protest from the child, then sat, tails curled around their feet, looking at them expectantly.

“Let me guess: you want to play fetch,” Harry said with a giggle as they pulled out their wand. They looked around, then, with a muttered “wingardium leviosa,” they levitated a suitably large stick. They giggled again as Remus and Chiara play-bowed, then with a flick of their wrist, they flung the stick in to the forest, and the wolves gave chase.

“Goofballs,” Sirius said with a chuckle. “Always the same old song, at least with Remus. I don’t know Chiara well enough to know if she likes playing around, but last time, when it was just the three of us, she seemed more interested in loafing around than in romping.”

Chiara came bounding back in to the clearing, the large stick in her jaws, with Remus close behind, and she dropped the stick at Harry’s feet. Both wolves were wagging and doggie-grinning. Sirius smirked, and with a screeeee, he joined them in their quadrupedalism. Harry just rolled their eyes and levitated the stick again, launching it in a different direction this time, and the three canines chased after it once more.

After a couple hours, it was clear they’d grown tired of the game, and they sat around Harry, Chiara to their right and Remus to their left. Padfoot grumbled and initially tried to shove himself between Harry and Chiara, but didn’t have the mass to move her out of the way, so he ended up sitting next to Remus instead. They sang together, with Harry accompanying them on their flute.

31 October

Harry woke at six, as they usually did, and sat up. They stretched, then quietly dressed casually, in a tee shirt and denim trousers. Hanging on their wardrobe was their outfit for the day: charcoal gray cotton trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a reddish-brown cardigan.

Wait a minute, they thought. That cardigan was red when we bought it last week…

They checked their socks drawer, where their uniform socks and a couple pairs of plain whites lay in wait…and the uniform socks were also reddish brown.

So whatever it is, it’s affecting my eyes, not my clothing. Lovely. I’ll tell Uncle Remus at breakfast.

They extracted Xenia from her cage and took her downstairs, giving her some playtime as they usually did, though they were still lost in thought.

Bleed-through traits usually mean one has an animal form, but…I’d know if I had one. So far, this is the the only one to turn up… Harry paused to consider that for a moment. No, not the only one—the sun’s not out yet, the witch-lights are turned low, and I can read the noticeboard. Which makes sense, if I’m becoming colourblind… Oh, God…that means the daytime will be Bright. Well, fudge.

Harry took Xenia back up to her cage at seven, then scurried off to breakfast without even waiting for their friends like they normally did.

“Uncle Remus,” they said, shortly after they sat in their usual spot at the Little High Table, “do you know of anything that might cause me to start to develop colourblindness or see better in semi-darkness?”

Remus blinked. “Can I look at your eyes real quick, pup?”

Harry nodded, and turned in their seat to make it easier.

“Well, your pupils haven’t narrowed in to slits, but your irises have grown. And…yup, you have tapeta lucida. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect either lycanthropy or Animagus enchantment. Poppy, would you mind taking a look tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly, but you’re, more or less, our resident expert on shapeshifting, Remus,” Madam Pomfrey said. “If it’s not lycanthropy or an Animagus enchantment…maybe Professor Dumbledore would know.”

“Assuming he’d want to explain anything,” Harry muttered. They didn’t realise they’d said anything until Remus snorted in amusement.

“In the meantime,” Remus said quietly as he pulled out his wand, then flicked it at Harry. “Homoculus viridia. Visiminus minima.”

The first charm didn’t seem to do anything that Harry could tell, but after the second one was cast, the Great Hall, which had been noon-bright a moment before, returned to its usual morning gloaming.

“What does homoculus do?” they asked, tilting their head curiously.

“It’s a glamour designed to mimic the appearance of human eyes, though most people who use it do so to change their eye colour,” Remus said in a near-whisper, though Harry heard him clearly. “It was originally developed to disguise artificial or missing eyes, back before modern prostheses rendered the need for it moot. I’ll teach you the full suite on Tuesday, seems it’ll be necessary.”

Harry nodded.

Harry, Remus, and Sirius met in the Entrance Hall at eight-thirty, all dressed similarly. Sirius’s mohawk was jet black, for a change. After a round of hugs, they walked down to Hogsmeade Station together. The weather was appropriately overcast, and a bit nippy.

When they reached Hogsmeade Station’s Portbook stall, Sirius picked up the Portbook…and then handed it to Harry, and said, “We’re going to Godric’s Hollow, Harry.”

Harry nodded and flashed him a quick smile, then opened the Portbook and flipped through it. Upon reaching the correct page, they tapped it with their wand, then said, “Vestibulum orior.”

The portal tore its way into existence, every bit as rough as their previous portals had been, and they put the Portbook back just before the three of them passed through together.

The Godric’s Hollow side of the portal was a nondescript storage room, with an array of keys on the wall next to the exterior door. Sirius plucked a set without examination, and locked the door behind them as they exited in to a small alley.

“Keeps mundane folks out,” he muttered to Harry. “The keys are actually ward-stones, and only work on that door if you know their purpose.”

“Ah,” Harry said, and the three of them walked down the street and then turned the corner. And there it was, St Jerome’s Church and the adjacent cemetery. And about halfway down the road to it was a dilapidated house, with an overgrown lawn. Harry paused as they were passing it and looked at the house—and then when they looked up at the first floor, pain flared in their scar, causing them to wince. This must have been their parents’ house, they decided.

“What is it, pup?” Remus asked.

“Oh, um. I think this is my parents’ house,” Harry said, and pointed.

Remus and Sirius both swore as they were suddenly able to see it too. “The Fidelius Charm must have made you a Secret-Keeper,” Remus said, after a moment. “I’m not sure I understand how, though; it’s not supposed to be a bloodline spell. Anyway…”

This early in the day, there was only one person at the cemetery gate, a middle-aged white man in a police officer’s dress uniform, standing at parade rest. His eyes tracked them, though he didn’t take official notice until the three of them came to a stop just before him.

“Good morning, sir. Warden Potter and entourage to visit the Potters’ grave,” Remus said, and the man nodded.

“Go on in.”

Remus led the way off toward the eastern end of the cemetery. When they reached it, they stood together for a moment, then Sirius stepped forward, staring at the headstone.

“I’m sorry, my loves,” he whispered as he fell to his knees. Tears ran down his face and fell quietly as rain as he cried, and Harry gently, but insistently, moved under his left arm to hug him. Remus joined him on his right only a few seconds later, also crying quietly.

Harry didn’t know how long they knelt there. After a moment, and almost without thinking about it, Harry began reciting the mourner’s kaddish, pushing through the tears fogging their own voice, and their uncles joined them once they noticed.

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei rabah, b’alma div’ra chirutei. V’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon uv’yomeichon, uv’chayei d’chol beit Yisrael, ba-a-gala uvizman kariv. V’imru, amen. Y’hei sh’mei rabah m’varach l’alam ul’almei almaya. Yitbarach v’yishtabach v’yitpa’ar v’yitromam v’yitnasei, v’yithadar v’yitaleh v’yithalal sh’mei d’Kud’sha, b’rich Hu. L’eila min kol birchata v’shirata, tushb’chata v’nechemata da-amiran b’alma. V’imru, amen. Y’hei sh’lama rabah min sh’maya, v’chayim aleinu v’al kol Yisrael. V’imru, amen. Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu v’al kol Yisrael v’al kol yoshvei teiveil. V’imru, amen.”¹

When they finished, they stood again, and Sirius ruffled Harry’s hair. “Technically speaking, you’re only supposed to recite Kaddish when you have a minyan, pup; G?d hears a minyan’s prayers directly, whereas in all other circumstances the messengers take them to G?d,” he said. “But…you did an excellent job.”

Whatever hold the headstone may have had over them when they’d arrived, it was gone now, and by unspoken agreement they left once more. Rather than return to Hogwarts, however, they chose to return to the Hogsmeade house, where they spent the day simply being in each other’s company. Chiara helped with lunch, but otherwise left them to it.

Harry and Remus returned to the castle shortly before the feast concluded, and were surprised to find Myf and Hermione waiting for them on the central staircase in the Entrance Hall.

“Hey, Myf, Hermione,” Harry said. “What are you two doing out here? Shouldn’t you still be in the Great Hall?”

“Well, we ate, but we figured we’d wait for you so you didn’t have to be alone,” Myf said.

“Well, I’ll leave you three to it, then,” Remus said, and exchanged a brief hug with Harry before heading up to his professorial accommodations.

Harry, Myf, and Hermione started up as well, chatting about the day’s lessons. Their conversation was cut short, however, when both Harry and Myf heard a voice. Myf recognised it at once: she’d heard that frozen-helium malice before, when she’d done the detention with Lockhart.

“Rip… and tear… until it is done… Kill…”

“Harry? Myf? What’s wrong?” Hermione asked; the two of them had stopped dead on the staircase.

“It’s that voice again,” Myf said. “Shhh…”

“…So hungry… for so long…”

“Listen!” Myf said, and she and Harry were looking around, Harry tilting his head to the left and then to the right, as though that would help him locate the source of the voice better. It might have been comical (and adorable) under other circumstances.

“…Kill… Time to kill…”

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away, moving…upwards? Was it part of the castle, to appear wherever it wanted?

“This way!” they shouted, running the rest of the way up the marble staircase and to the first floor, Myf and Hermione behind him trying to catch up, but gradually falling behind.

“Harry, what are we—”

“Shhh!”

Harry strained their ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, they heard the voice: “…I smell blood… I smell blood!”

Their stomach roiled. “It’s going to kill someone!” they yelled, and, ignoring Hermione’s bewildered face, they ran up the next flight of stairs three steps at a time, trying to listen over their pounding heart.

Harry zoomed around the entire second floor, Myf and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner in to the last, deserted, passage.

“Harry, what was that all about?” Hermione asked, wiping sweat off her face. “I couldn’t hear anything…”

But Myf gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor. “Look!”

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, Myf and Hermione squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the witch-lights.

“What’s that…thing…hanging underneath?” Myf asked, a slight quiver in her voice.

“It’s…” Harry gulped. “It’s Mrs Norris…”

And so it was. Filch’s cat was hanging by her tail from the sconce on the wall. She was stiff as a board, eyes wide and staring, and unmoving.

For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Myf said, “Let’s get out of here…”

“Shouldn’t we try and help—” Harry began awkwardly.

“Trust me,” Myf said, “we don’t want to be found here.”

But it was too late. The feast had apparently let out, and the distant sound of voices grew ever closer as a few hundred students climbed the stairs at both ends of the corridor and came out in to it, trapping the trio.

The noise died, almost as though a cone of silence had fallen over the trio, as the students in front spotted them and the hanging cat in the middle of the corridor. Then someone shouted through the quiet.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, mudbloods!”

It was Draco Malfoy. He’d pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes bright, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the frozen cat.

Myf was mildly surprised by Malfoy’s word-choice, as Snape had, after all, informed her that he’d be getting a detention as well. Unless he was lying…? “…Didn’t you get a detention the last time you said that, Malfoy?”

Malfoy smirked. “Yeah, and?”

It was then that Mr Filch, the school custodian, pushed his way through the crowd. He stared at his frozen cat, then shifted his gaze to Harry, Myf, and Hermione. Harry gulped and tried to hide behind the girls—the last time they’d seen anyone that angry was Uncle Vernon after a bout of accidental magic, and—

Harry was snapped out of it when Myf enveloped them in a tight hug, and they realised Professor Dumbledore had also made an appearance.

“They were not responsible for creating this scene, Argus,” he said calmly, and the custodian’s attention turned to the elderly witch.

“Then who was?” Filch demanded. “Someone hurt my cat, and I demand—”

“Come with me,” Dumbledore said. He gestured to Harry, Myf, and Hermione. “You three, as well.”

“My office is nearest, Headmaster,” Lockhart offered, appearing out of the crowd. “Just upstairs, in fact—please, feel free—”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” Dumbledore said, and the eight of them—Professors McGonagall and Snape had also joined them by then—made their way up to Lockhart’s office.

As they entered the man’s darkened office, Harry saw several of the men in his posters hurriedly duck out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart waved his hand, causing the witch-lights scattered throughout the room to come to life. Dumbledore laid Mrs Norris on Lockhart’s desk and began to examine her. The children exchanged tense looks, and Myf and Harry sank on to one chair—she’d been holding their hand, and when she was seated she’d pulled them in to her lap to hug them tightly again, which they appreciated as they were still shaking from the flashback. Hermione sank in to another, and the three of them watched quietly.

“It was definitely a curse that killed her,” Lockhart was saying. “Probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her…”

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair next to the desk, head in his hands and unable to look at Mrs Norris. Harry had never interacted much with the man, but he felt sorry for Filch, despite the flashback the man had triggered.

Dumbledore was muttering incantations under his breath, tapping the cat with his wand, but nothing happened. She continued to look as though she’d been recently taxidermied.

“…I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou,” Lockhart said, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography. I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets which cleared the matter up at once…”

At last, Dumbledore straightened. “She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly amidst his counting of the various murders he’d prevented.

“Not… not dead?” Filch choked, looking through his fingers at his cat. “But why’s she all…stiff and frozen?”

“She has been petrified,” Dumbledore said. (“Ah! I thought so,” Lockhart said.) “But how, I cannot yet say…”

“Ask him!” Filch bellowed, turning his tear-streaked, blotchy face to Harry, who flinched away from him.

“No student, especially not a second-year, could have done this,” Dumbledore said. “Only an adult warlock with some considerable skill could—”

“He did it, he did it,” Filch spat, his face reddening with rage once more. “You saw what he wrote on the wall!”

Harry whimpered, trying to bury himself deeper in to Myf’s embrace.

“Harry couldn’t have hurt a fly,” Hermione said hotly, suddenly standing between Harry and Mr Filch. “Look at them, they’re scared—they’d never hurt anyone if they could help it! They know what it’s like to be hurt!”

“Rubbish!” Filch snarled.

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” Snape said from a shadowy corner of the office. “Mx Lupin and their friends may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

His lip curled, and his voice developed a sneer. “Nevertheless, we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in that corridor at all? Mx Lupin, I know, was excused from lessons today to visit their parents’ graves, but the girls…?”

“We’d left the feast a little early to wait for them,” Hermione said. “We were on our way up to Gryffindor Tower…”

“But why that corridor specifically? It is not along the most direct path from the Great Hall to the Tower,” Snape pressed.

It was clear that they didn’t have an (acceptable) answer to that. Snape continued, “I suggest, Headmaster, that Mx Lupin and their friends are not being entirely truthful. Perhaps it would be best if they were denied certain privileges until they are ready to tell us the whole story. Personally, I would recommend they be removed from the Quadball team until they are ready to be honest.”

“Really, now, Severus, there’s no need for that,” McGonagall snapped. “The cat wasn’t hit on the head by a broom. There is no evidence at all that Mx Lupin or the girls did anything wrong.”

Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look, and they shivered. Harry wasn’t entirely sure how they’d noticed the elderly witch’s attention settling on them; probably some instinctive sixth sense, since their face was still buried in Myf’s robe.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” Dumbledore said firmly.

Snape looked deeply neutral, but Filch’s continued fury was plain to see. “My cat has been petrified!” he bellowed. “I want to see some punishment!”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” Dumbledore said patiently. “Professor Sprout was recently able to procure some mandrakes. As soon as they’ve reached their full size, I will have a potion made which will revive Mrs Norris.”

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up an Cisfiguration Concoction in my sleep—”

“Excuse me, Mister Lockhart,” Snape said, his voice frostier than any tone he’d ever taken with a student, “but I believe I am the Potions Master in this school.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“You three may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Myf, and Hermione.

“C’mon, pup, let’s get you to Gryffindor Tower,” Myf muttered quietly to Harry, gently easing them to the floor. “You’ll be okay, Mr Filch”—she gave the man a venomous look—“won’t hurt you, you’re safe now…”

Myf and Hermione both took one of Harry’s hands as they led them away.

“D-do—” Harry swallowed, and began again. “Sh-should we h-have mentioned that Myf and I heard a v-voice…?”

“Probably not,” Hermione said quietly. “Even in the magical world, hearing voices isn’t a good sign. But…if both you and Myf heard it, maybe there’s something going on we’re just not aware of yet. I’ll do some research.”

Chapter Text

“Uncle Remus,” Harry said at breakfast the next morning, “do you have a charm for noise…? I can hear every single clinking of silverware on plates and things, and it’s starting to be overwhelming.”

Remus nodded, then pulled his wand out. He flicked it toward Harry and muttered, “Audiminus, visiminus minima, homoculus viridia.” Harry’s feelings of overwhelm faded after a few seconds, and they relaxed.

“Thanks,” they said, and Remus patted their shoulder gently.

“Given…yesterday,” Remus said, “I think I’m going to teach you these charms tomorrow rather than wait till Tuesday, I do. I’ll still go over them during our secondary class time, however.”

“Makes sense. You can’t just keep casting them for me, after all; you’ve got your own needs to consider.”

The next several days, the attack was all anyone was talking about, and Mr Filch could be seen on several occasions trying to scrub the ominous words off of the wall. Regardless of the cleaner he used, however, they remained as bright and fresh as they’d been the night they went up. Harry generally tried to avoid encountering the man—they sympathised with him over Mrs Norris’s stasis, but they didn’t want to risk having another flashback.

Ginny seemed to have been affected by the attack as well. She refused even the most cursory of interactions, unless it was with one of her siblings or Harry, and Myf had confided in Harry that she thought it was because Ginny liked cats and got upset when she heard about cats being harmed.

On Tuesday, Hermione raised her hand at the beginning of Social Studies. That she raised her hand at all was hardly unusual—Hermione almost always had questions during Social Studies, especially when the lesson related to magical Britain in some way. It was rare for her to start a lesson with her hand raised, however, and so Professor Llewellyn raised an eyebrow when he called on her.

“Yes, Professor Llewellyn,” she said. “I was wondering…could you tell us about the Chamber of Secrets, please?”

“Well…” Llewellyn pursed his lips. “You understand, what we know about the early history of Hogwarts is spotty at best, even with the extensive research conducted by Bathilda Bagshot when she wrote Hogwarts: A History, so bear with me, please.”

He cleared his throat, then began: “Back in the tenth or eleventh century of the Common Era, Hogwarts was constructed by four witches, who were said to be among the greatest known in Europe at that time: Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. For many years, they lived in harmony, each recruiting students according to the qualities they valued: Gryffindor favoured the brave and the bold, Ravenclaw selected the bright and studious, Hufflepuff preferred the humble and stoic, and Slytherin the ambitious and cunning.

“And for many years, Slytherin sought to bar admittance to witches who were not pure of blood. Finally, one day, he stormed out of the castle after a heated argument with Gryffindor. Now, it is a documented fact, though not one that is widely known, that buildings invested with magic and inhabited by large numbers of witches over long periods of time gain a measure of intelligence, able to respond to the wishes of their inhabitants after a fashion. Such buildings are sometimes referred to as ‘knowes’ or ‘hollowed hills’, with the latter name deriving from a historical practise of building domiciles in to hillsides, the purpose of which was to have a home that was easily defended and also somewhat climate-controlled.

“Thus is the case with Hogwarts Castle: the founders put considerable effort in to ensuring that Hogwarts was the best-defended domicile in the Isles. Even Gringott’s, as skilled as the kobolds are, is merely on par with Hogwarts for security, not its superior. The founders, including Slytherin, wanted to ensure that every student who attends is able to do so in as much safety as can reasonably be achieved given a population of underage witches who, ah, don’t necessarily get along with one another.

“Now, this means that it is theoretically possible for any student to convince Hogwarts to produce for them a room that is a secret to everybody, and no doubt quite a few have done so successfully over the centuries. Such a room would certainly be a ‘chamber of secrets’, yes? Regardless, there have been stories about a chamber specifically built in to Hogwarts itself, and hidden away, by Salazar Slytherin himself, accessible only to those who have a bloodline connection to him.

“Unfortunately, if there is such a chamber, generations of Headmasters have so far been unable to locate it. If it is indeed only accessible to Slytherin’s blood relations, then perhaps that points to none of those Headmasters being such. Or it doesn’t exist. Or Hogwarts doesn’t wish it to be found. Or…you get the idea, surely.”

Harry had their hand up when Llewellyn finished, which was also a rarity—they usually whispered their questions to Hermione, who either answered them herself or passed them on to the professor.

“Yes, Mx Lupin?”

“So…” Harry tried their best to stifle a grin as they asked, “…Does that mean hobbits really existed? What with folks building homes in to hillsides and all, I mean.”

“Hobbi—” Llewellyn cut himself off once he got the joke. “Ha. Two points to Gryffindor, Mx Lupin. No, but I understand why you asked, considering that Mr Tolkien’s lore for The Lord of the Rings stated that their autoethnonym, or the name they used for themselves, derives from ‘holbytla’, or ‘hole-builder’.”

“Nerd,” Myf whispered to Harry, though they could hear the smile in her voice.

“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a douche,” Myf said as she, Harry, Hermione, and Neville fought their way up to Gryffindor Tower to drop off their books, “but I didn’t know he was a bigot… Wouldn’t be in his House if you paid me. Honestly, I’d’ve got the train back home if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me there.”

If Harry had lupine ears to go with their lupine heart, they’d have folded back; they’d never told their friends that the Sorting Hat had considered sorting them in to Slytherin. They could still recall the hat’s words…

As they threaded their way through the crowds, Creevey went past. “Hiya, Harry!”

“Hullo, Colin,” Harry said automatically.

“Harry—Harry—a boy in my class has been saying you’re—” But Creevey was swept away again before he could finish, the boy too small to fight the tide of humanity sweeping toward the Great Hall as Harry was managing (though Harry was cheating—they were following Myf and Hermione).

“What’s a boy in his class saying about you…?” Hermione asked curiously.

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” Harry said glumly.

“People here’ll believe anything,” Myf said disgustedly.

The crowd thinned, and they were able to climb the next staircase without difficulty.

“D’you really think there’s an actual, specific thing called the Chamber of Secrets?” she asked Hermione.

“I dunno,” Hermione said, frowning. “If Professor Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs Norris, that suggests to me that the entity responsible isn’t…human…”

She trailed off. They’d just come to the scene of the attack, and the only changes had been that Mrs Norris was not hanging from a witch-light sconce and there was a chair up against the wall bearing the message.

“Might as well have a butcher’s whilst we’re here, eh?” Hermione said, already moving to look at the windows nearby. Harry, meanwhile, dropped to their knees, inspecting the floor.

“Look, scorch marks…” they said. “Here…and over here—”

“Come look at this,” Hermione said. Harry, Myf, and Neville joined her, and she pointed at the topmost pane of the window she was standing at. About twenty spiders were scuttling, all trying to get through a small crack in the glass. A long, silvery spider-silk thread hung from it, as though they’d all climbed it in an effort to make good their escape.

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Harry said. “Myf, have y—Myf?”

Harry looked over their shoulder. Myf was on the other side of the corridor, and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run.

“…Arachnophobia?” Harry asked.

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve handled them in Potions loads of times,” Hermione said, bemused.

“It’s quite different when they’re dead.” Myf was looking anywhere but at the window. “I can’t stand the way they move…”

Hermione tried not to giggle, but a little titter escaped.

“It’s not funny. If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my—my teddy bear into a bloody great spider because I broke his toy broom. You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and…”

Myf broke off, shuddering, and Hermione managed to fight down the urge to laugh. Harry said, to change the subject, “Remember all that water on the floor? Where’d it come from? I think Mr Filch has mopped it up…”

“It was about here,” Myf said, her mind taken off of the spiders, as she slowly paced the corridor until she was in front of a door. She opened it gingerly and peeked inside. “Ah, girls’ toilet.”

“Hm. That’s Myrtle’s toilet,” Hermione said as she and Harry joined Myf. “It’s supposedly haunted by the ghost of a former student, hence the name, but ghosts are incredibly rare—you have to be a world-class witch to even have enough skill and power to become one, and no student is going to be even remotely world-class.”

Ignoring the large ‘out of order’ sign sellotaped to the door, the four of them went in. It was possibly the strangest bathroom Harry had ever seen, having simultaneously a very modern minimalist aesthetic with decidedly rococo fixtures. They decided they didn’t want to think very hard about that.

Despite the dampness of the floor, it was also pristine.

“So…does nobody use this toilet, then?” Harry asked as they looked around. They walked over to the sinks partially lining the wall opposite the door and began examining the taps, purely out of puppy-ish curiosity for a new environment.

“Nope. See also: haunted,” Hermione said. “It’s possible Hogwarts itself has decided this room in particular ought to be left alone…”

As Harry ran their hands over the taps, one by one, they reached one that didn’t feel the same as the others. “What are you…?” they muttered to themself, running their fingers across it again as they looked directly at it.

There was a gasp. “Didn’t know was Ophistoma,” Neville said, blinking.

“Ophi-what? Myf, what does that…mean…” Harry trailed off as they turned to look at the others and saw Myf’s pole-axed expression.

“It means,” Myf said, “that you can talk to snakes. And so can I. Because I heard you, when you were talking to yourself just now.”

“Oh. So…that voice we heard…”

“I don’t think I want to guess about that. Hermione, you up to doing some research?”

“Yeah, sure. I only asked about the Chamber in class today because every single copy of Hogwarts: A History was checked out and I’d left my copy at home,” Hermione said. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything else useful here, so we might as well go.”

The four of them had only just left the toilet when—

“RONALD WEASLEY!”

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, light glinting off his prefect’s badge, an expression of deep disgust on his face.

“That’s a girls’ bathroom, Ronald,” he gasped. “What were you—”

“Oh, shut your bloody mouth,” Myf said, and Harry moved behind Hermione, putting her between them and Myf as the rising fury in her voice registered. “I know you only used my name at home and whatnot because Mum’d have had your hide if you didn’t, but I will be treated with respect here. If you cannot do me even the minimal courtesy of using my bloody name, I will go talk to Professor McGonagall right now.”

“Get—away—from—there—” Percy said, striding toward them and starting to try to chivvy them along. Myf didn’t budge.

“I have every right to use a girls’ toilet, you prat.”

“Don’t you care what this looks like? Coming to the scene of the attack while everyone’s at dinner?”

“Why shouldn’t we be here?” Myf asked, glaring at her brother. “We didn’t lay a finger on Mrs Norris.”

“That’s what I told Ginny, but she still seems to think you’ll be expelled. I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out. You might think of her—all the first-years are over-excited by this business—”

“Right, and I’m supposed to believe you care about her?” Myf asked, her ears red with anger. “You’re just worried I’ll mess up your chances of being Head Boy.”

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Percy said tersely, “and let that be a lesson to you. No more detective work, or I’ll write to Mum.”

“Oh, piss off. I’ll tell her you’ve been deadnaming me, Pratsival. C’mon, guys…let’s go get something to eat.” Myf stormed off, and Hermione, Harry, and Neville followed her.

After dinner, the four of them chose a table in the common room as far away from Percy as they could manage. Myf was still in high dudgeon, and kept blotting her Charms homework. After the third or fourth time—Harry hadn’t kept track—she slammed her copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harry’s surprise, Hermione followed suit.

“Who can it be, though?” Hermione asked quietly, as though continuing a conversation. “Who’d want all the mixed-blood and mundane-borns out of Hogwarts?”

“Gee, let me think,” Myf said, putting on a show of great puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks mundane-borns are scum?”

“I mean, Malfoy’s the obvious suspect, but that’s why we can rule him out—he’s not smart enough, nor that convincing an actor, for this. I’ll look up his family tree, but I doubt he has any connection to Salazar. We don’t have any other candidates, though…”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to sneak in to their common room to find out for sure one way or the other…”

“There is, but it’s extremely risky, would only work if we were able to grab Crabbe and Goyle, and from the description, the potion sounds really unpleasant. So. We’ll just have to wait and see. In the meantime, I have a research project to do.”

“Speaking of potions…” Myf said, turning to face Harry. “Harry…have you thought about asking Madam Pomfrey to prescribe a tail-growing potion?”

Harry blinked. “…No…”

“Perhaps you should. It might help with your species dysphoria.”

Harry blinked some more. When they didn’t respond, Myf waved a hand in front of their eyes. “Hello…? Earth to Harry, come in, Harry…”

“Sorry. Um. It just didn’t occur to me that I could. Ask for something like that, I mean.”

“I’m…not surprised, given…” Myf trailed off, and Harry smiled their appreciation of her tact.

Wednesday afternoon, after Healing, Harry made their way down to the Hospital Wing.

“Good afternoon, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said when they came in. “Could I talk to you in private…?”

“Give me just a second, Mx Lupin, while I finish up this paperwork,” she said, not looking up from it. Harry nodded and sat in one of the chairs in the waiting area, tapping a melody out on their knuckles as they waited.

After a few minutes, Madam Pomfrey said, “All right. Come on in to my office, Mx Lupin.”

Once they were seated and the door was shut, she asked, “So what brings you in today, Harry?”

“I wanted to, um…” Harry hesitated. “…askifIcouldgetatailgrowthpotion,” they said in a rush.

“All right, let’s slow down and try that again, please?”

“Could I get a Tail-Growing potion, please? For, um…” They trailed off.

“Oh, yes, I see. It will take a few weeks, but I believe I can have a dose ready on…” Madam Pomfrey glanced at the calendar on her wall. “…Let’s call it the twenty-ninth? It’ll be on your night-stand alongside your other potions that morning. If you feel like it’ll help, I’ll have a case ready for you to take home for winter break.”

“Okay,” Harry said, and their beaming smile could have lit up the room if it weren’t already well-lit.

“Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“No, that was the only thing…”

Chapter Text

It was usual to find Hermione reading a book, but from Wednesday morning on, she did nothing else, when she wasn’t eating, sleeping, voiding, or in class. She had several research topics to tackle, and she switched between them to help keep her from getting complacent. First of all, she wanted to know more about Ophistomata; secondly, the Slytherin and Malfoy lineages, to rule the Malfoys out more definitively; and finally, magical creatures.

Her initial foray, before the Quadball match on Saturday, was not promising, to say the least, at least with regards to Ophistomata and magical creatures. To start with, Ophistomata were rare—rarer than werewolves, in fact, and that was saying something—and so finding concrete information on them was challenging, to say the least.

She did learn a few facts, however: first, that it was a heritable trait, meaning that if one person was an Ophistoma, so too should other family members; and second, despite the name, Ophistomata could communicate with reptiles, including dragons, and not just snakes.

As for the Malfoy and Slytherin lineages…well, she was able to determine that the Malfoys came to the British Isles alongside, or shortly after, the Norman Conquest of 1066. That was about as far as she’d gotten, and while she knew Hogwarts was founded before then, that wasn’t enough to conclusively rule out the Malfoys as heirs of Slytherin.

Saturday, 9 November, dawned partly cloudy and cold, and Harry was excited for their third-ever match. The first one featured in their nightmares sometimes, and the second had been a delight, but they’d have been lying if they said they weren’t nervous. However, they didn’t even need any cajoling from Madam Pomfrey to eat at breakfast, no doubt to her relief.

As game-time approached, the entire school made their way down to the stadium. It hadn’t gotten much warmer, though Harry found they hadn’t really noticed—the only concession they’d made to the forecast was throwing on a light cardigan, since even with the climate-control charms, Hogwarts was still a draughty castle.

Harry, Myf, Hermione, and Neville separated, with the latter three moving on up in to the stands as Harry went on in to their designated changing rooms. They donned their scarlet Quadball robes and leathers, then sat alongside the other members of the team as Wood delivered his pre-game pep talk.

“Slytherin have better brooms than us,” he began, “no point denying it. But we’ve got better people on our brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have, we’ve been flying in all weathers”—(“Too true,” Georgia muttered. “I haven’t been properly dry since August”)—“and we’re going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto their team.”

Wood turned to Harry, then, looking a bit emotional.

“It’ll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that snitch before Malfoy or die trying, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”

“So no pressure, Harry,” Fred said, winking at them.

As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard too. Madam Hooch, the Quadball referee and flight instructor, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was truly necessary.

“On my signal,” Madam Hooch said, “three… two… one…”

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upwards, twelve players ascended toward the patchwork sky. Harry and Malfoy traded glares across the pitch as they waited for their own moment to take flight.

The game was fairly uneventful in those first eighteen minutes, though Gryffindor had an uphill battle keeping the match from getting too lopsided. Their training sessions with Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand was proving quite handy, as in fact the Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones that Slytherin rode were, as Harry’d said two months prior, just Two Thousands with red varnish.

It seemed like almost no time had passed at all when the yellow sparks signalling the release of the snitch flew up, and Harry and Malfoy mounted up, kicking off in to the air a minute later with the red-brown—to Harry—sparks signalling their own arrival to the game went up.

Almost without thinking about it, Harry ducked as a bludger flew past their head, so closely they’d felt it ruffle their hair as it flew by.

“Close one, Harry!” Georgia called, streaking past them with her club in her hand, ready to knock the bludger back towards a Slytherin. They saw her give the bludger a good, hard whack in Pucey’s direction, but the bludger curved back around for another go at Harry only a few seconds later.

Harry did a barrel roll to avoid it, and Georgia whacked it toward Malfoy this time. But once again, a few seconds later, it arced around to fly at Harry again. Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed towards the other end of the pitch. They could hear the bludger whistling along behind them. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible…

Fred was waiting for the bludger at the other end. Harry ducked as he swung at the bludger with all his might; the angry black ball was knocked off course.

“That’s done it!” Fred shouted happily, but he was wrong; as though it was magnetically attracted to them, the bludger pelted after Harry once more and they were forced to fly off at full speed.

“Georgia! You handle the other one, I’ll keep this one off Harry’s back!” Fred called to his twin as she flew by, and Harry began to search for the snitch. Less than a minute later, an orange burst of sparks flew up, signalling a time-out, and they all flew down to the ground.

“What’s going on?” Wood asked as the Gryffindor team huddled around while the Slytherins in the stands jeered. “We’re being flattened. Weasleys, where were you when that bludger stopped Angelina’s scoring?”

“Someone’s fixed the other bludger,” Fred said. “I’d told Georgia I’d deal with it, but this one hasn’t left Harry alone since they kicked off. Slytherin must’ve done something to it…”

“Can’t have, the regulation set’s been in Madam Hooch’s office all term,” Wood said.

Madam Hooch was flying over, and over their shoulder, Harry could see the Slytherin team pointing in his direction and jeering.

“Listen,” Harry said as she came nearer, “with you flying around after me, the only way I’m going to be able to catch the snitch is if it decides to fly up my sleeve. Go keep the team safe, I’ll deal with the rogue one.”

“Don’t be thick,” Fred said, “it’ll take your head off.”

“Wood, this is mad,” Alicia Spinnet said angrily. “You can’t let Harry deal with that thing on their own. Let’s ask for an inquiry—”

“If we stop now,” Harry interrupted, “we’d have to forfeit the match. And we’re not losing to Slytherin just because of a rogue bludger! C’mon, Wood…”

“This is all your fault,” Georgia said angrily to Wood. “‘Get the snitch or die trying’—what a stupid thing to tell them!”

Madam Hooch had joined them. “Ready to resume play?” she asked.

Wood looked at the determined look on Harry’s face. “All right…Weasleys, let Harry deal with it on their own.”

On Madam Hooch’s blue-green sparks, Harry kicked off once more and heard the tell-tale whoosh of the bludger following them again. Higher and higher Harry climbed. They looped and swooped, spiralled, zigzagged and rolled. Slightly dizzy, they nevertheless kept their eyes wide open. A cold blast of air shot up their nostrils as they hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the bludger. They could hear laughter from the crowd; they knew they must look very stupid, but the rogue bludger was heavy and couldn’t change direction as quickly as they could. They began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the cold wind of their flight to the Gryffindor goalposts, where Adrian Pucey was trying to get past Wood…

A whistling in Harry’s ear told them the bludger had just missed them again; they turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.

“Training for ballet, Potter?” Malfoy yelled as Harry did an odd little strafing circle to dodge the bludger again. Off Harry fled, the bludger trailing a few feet behind them… And then, glaring back at Malfoy in hatred, they saw it: the snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy’s left ear—and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn’t seen it.

For an agonising moment, Harry hung in mid-air, not daring to speed towards Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the snitch.

WHAM!

They had stayed still a second too long. The bludger had hit them at last, smashed into their elbow, and Harry felt their arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in their arm, they slid sideways on their broom, one knee still crooked over it, their right arm dangling useless at their side. The bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at his face. Harry swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in their pain-dulled brain: get to Malfoy.

Through the haze brought upon by their pain, Harry dived for the sneering face below them and saw his eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking him.

“What the—” Malfoy said, careening wildly out of Harry’s way.

Harry took their usable hand off their broom and made a wild snatch; they felt their fingers close on the cold snitch but was now only gripping the broom with their legs and there was a yell from the crowd below as they headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out.

With a painful thud, they flipped off their broom and landed on their back, bringing their left arm up to shield their head as they slid along the grass. When they came to a stop, they held up their left hand, which still held the snitch. “Aha,” Harry said vaguely, “we’ve won…”

And they fainted.

They came round, still lying on the pitch, with someone leaning over them. They saw a glitter of teeth.

“Oh, no… not you,” Harry moaned.

“Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Lockhart said loudly, to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Harry. I’m about to fix your arm.”

“No!” Harry said, struggling to sit up. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks…”

They heard a clicking noise—Creevey had his camera out.

“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” they said loudly.

“Lie back, Harry,” Lockhart said soothingly. “It’s a simple charm I’ve used countless times.”

“Why can’t I just go to the Hospital Wing?” said Harry through clenched teeth.

“They should really, Professor,” Wood said, who couldn’t help grinning even though his Seeker was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I’d say.”

Through the thicket of legs around them, Harry spotted Fred and Georgia Weasley, wrestling the rogue bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

“Stand back,” Lockhart said, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.

“No—don’t—” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harry’s arm, muttering, “Brackium… emendo!”

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry’s shoulder and spread all the way down to their fingertips. It felt as though their arm was being deflated. They didn’t dare look at what was happening. They had shut their eyes, their face turned away from their arm, but their worst fears were realised as the people above them gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. Their arm didn’t hurt any more—but nor did it feel remotely like an arm.

“Ah,” Lockhart said. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the Hospital Wing—ah, Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort them?—and Madam Pomfrey will be able to—er—tidy you up a bit.”

As Harry got to their feet, they felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath, they looked down at their right side. What they saw nearly made them pass out again.

Poking out of the end of their robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-coloured rubber glove. They tried to move their fingers. Nothing happened.

Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had removed them.

Madam Pomfrey wasn’t pleased.

“You should have come straight to me,” she said, somehow managing to sound only exasperated, not angry, as she examined Harry’s deboned arm. “I can mend bones in a second—but growing them back…”

“You will be able to, won’t you?” Harry asked.

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but you’re in for a rough night,” Madam Pomfrey said grimly. “You’ll, unfortunately, have to stay overnight…”

Over her shoulder, she added, “And no, that doesn’t mean you get to join them, Messrs Lupin and Black. I might be persuaded to permit Padfoot to stand watch, however.”

She helped Harry in to a hospital gown, and Harry was nauseated by the movement of their right arm as she helped them dress. “All right. I’ll be right back—I need to draw up a dose of Skele-Gro, and then we’ll put that arm up in a sling. After that, you should be good for a meal.”

She drew back the curtains around the cot Harry was sat on, and they could see their uncles, Hermione, Myf, and Neville waiting for them.

“I am…deeply questioning why that man is a guest lecturer,” Hermione said. “As far as I know, brackium emendo isn’t even a real spell. Something smells, and it’s not the Skele-Gro potion Madam Pomfrey mentioned.”

Remus and Sirius were muttering to each other. “I swear I’m going to get a restraining order against him for this,” Remus said. “Casting non-medical magic on a minor without their guardian’s consent…I’m fairly certain that’s an assault, in fact…”

When Madam Pomfrey returned, she held a small beaker of fuming blue-green liquid in one hand and a bundle of cloth in the other. “Now, you will need to drink all of this. It will burn. It will taste foul. It will also not work, unless you drink the entire dose. I wish I could make it more pleasant, I really do.”

Harry gulped, and took the beaker in their left hand, then brought it up to their lips and knocked it back—and then immediately dropped the now-empty beaker as they suffered a coughing fit. Fortunately, it didn’t shatter.

Once they recovered, Madam Pomfrey got their arm bundled up. “All right. Dinner’s been delivered, so let’s get you sorted…”

Harry was woken up around midnight, that night. It wasn’t their arm, though there were shooting pains racing along it, which would have been enough to wake anyone up. Rather, it was the hob kneeling on the cot next to their pillow, gently applying a cold compress to their forehead.

There was enough light from a distant witch-light that Harry could tell the hob was clothed only in what looked like a pillowcase, but they also didn’t smell like the one hob they knew, so it definitely wasn’t Kreacher.

“Hello…?”

The hob squeaked, and cringed back. “Harry Potter! So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, Mx… Such an honour it is…”

“Th-thank you…?” Harry sat up, careful to only use their left arm for assistance. “Who are you?” they asked as the hob moved around to the foot of the cot.

“Dobby, Mx. Just Dobby.”

“I…see. I don’t mean to be rude, but…you’re aware it’s past midnight, yes?”

Dobby cringed back again. Harry added, hastily, “Not that I’m not pleased to meet you, but, er…is there any particular reason you’re here?”

“Oh, yes, Mx…” Dobby said, sounding simultaneously earnest and worried. “Dobby has come to tell you, Mx…it is difficult, Mx, Dobby doesn’t know where to begin…”

“Please, sit,” Harry said, gesturing. To their shock, the hob began to sob. “S-sit down,” the hob squeaked through their tears. “Never… Never ever…”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said softly. “I didn’t mean to offend you or…”

“Offend Dobby?” the hob asked, still crying. “Dobby has never been invited to sit by a witch—like an equal—”

Harry impulsively grabbed Dobby and pulled them in to their lap, giving them a tight hug. They whispered, in to the hob’s ear, “It’s okay, Dobby… It’s okay… You’re safe here…”

Gradually, Dobby began to calm down again. “You can’t have met many decent witches,” Harry said. Dobby shook their head.

“Dobby is forbidden to speak ill of his masters,” the hob said.

“Hm. Do they—no, I shan’t ask that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Almost as soon as they asked, they realised they shouldn’t have, for Dobby burst in to tears again, and it was another few minutes before he calmed down again. “Mx Potter asks if they can help Dobby…Dobby has heard of your greatness, Mx, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew…”

“I’m not ‘great’, though,” Harry said. “Whatever you’ve heard about my ‘greatness’ is a load of crap. I’m not even top of my year, that’s Hermione…”

“Mx Potter is humble and modest.” Dobby sniffled. “Mx Potter speaks not of their triumph over He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“…Voldemort?”

Dobby clapped his hands over his ears. “Ah, speak not the name, Mx…!”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “My friends don’t like it either…”

“Dobby heard tell,” the hob said, feline eyes gleaming in the darkness, “that Mx Potter met the Great Warlock a second time, nearly six months past, that Mx Potter escaped again.”

“It’s true,” Harry said quietly. They let go of the hob, but Dobby chose to remain in their lap, at least for now.

“Ah, Mx Potter is valiant and bold! They have faced many dangers already… But Dobby has come to warn them, Harry Potter is in grave danger as long as they remain at Hogwarts…”

“But my pack’s here,” Harry said. “I can’t very well live anywhere else…”

“Dobby knows, Mx…Dobby thought his bludger would be enough to make—”

“Your bludger?” Harry asked, a note of real anger in their voice at last. “What do you mean, your bludger? You made that angry cannonball try and kill me?”

“Not kill you, Mx, never kill you!” Dobby said, shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter’s life! Better sent out of the castle, grievously injured, than remain here, Mx! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to recuperate elsewhere.”

“Really. I don’t suppose you’d care to explain why?”

“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” The hob began to sniffle again. “If they knew what they mean to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He Who Must Not Be Named was at the height of his powers, Mx! We hobs were treated like vermin, Mx! Of course…Dobby is still treated like that, Mx…

“But mostly, Mx, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He Who Must Not Be Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Great Warlock’s power was broken, and it was a new dawn, Mx, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the dark days would never end, Mx… And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps already happening, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to rhyme, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—”

Dobby froze, a look of horror on his face, and he moaned, “Bad Dobby…Dobby is going to have to punish himself when he returns home…”

“So there is a Chamber of Secrets? And did you say it’s been opened before?”

“Ah, Dobby has already said far too much, Mx,” Dobby said. “Dobby can only say that Harry Potter must flee, must leave the castle for their own safety.”

And with that, Dobby vanished with a faint whoosh of air refilling a void, even as Harry began to hear the distant approach of footsteps. Harry lay back down, feigning sleep, their eyes on the entrance to the Hospital Wing.

A body floated in, followed by Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, and with a careful wave of his wand, Professor Dumbledore guided the body over to a cot and gently lowered it.

“Get Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore whispered. Professor McGonagall passed by their own cot as she strode to Madam Pomfrey’s quarters.

Professor McGonagall rapped on her door, then waited. Only a minute later, it creaked open as Madam Pomfrey came out, having thrown a cardigan on over her nightgown. “What is it, Minerva?” she asked as they walked back over to the body.

“A student has been attacked,” Professor McGonagall whispered back. “I found him on the stairs near here. There was a bunch of grapes…we think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Mx Lupin.”

Harry’s stomach clenched, and slowly, carefully, they raised their head so they could look at the body. It was Colin Creevey, stiff as a board, his eyes wide as his hands held his camera.

“Petrified?” Madam Pomfrey whispered.

“Yes,” Professor McGonagall said. “But I shudder to think…if Albus hadn’t been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate, who knows what might have…”

The adults stared down at the boy, then Dumbledore leaned forward and carefully pried the camera out of Creevey’s hands.

“You don’t think he managed to get a photo of his attacker…?” Professor McGonagall asked. Dumbledore didn’t answer; instead, he pried open the back of the camera.

“Merlin’s beard,” she swore as a jet of steam hissed out of it. Harry, near the other end of the Wing, caught the smell of burnt plastic.

“Melted,” Madam Pomfrey said wonderingly, “all melted…”

“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“It means,” Dumbledore said, with an air of resignation, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.”

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

“But Albus…who…”

“The question is not who,” Dumbledore said, eyeing Creevey, “but rather, how…”

And from the expression on her face, Harry doubted Professor McGonagall understood him any better than they did.

Chapter Text

Harry woke again at six, though they were groggier than usual, owing both to the now-reboned arm and the late-night revelations. They sat up and looked over to Creevey’s cot, only to find it curtained off. Seeing that Harry was awake, Madam Pomfrey came over with a tray of breakfast, all things they liked, as well as their morning potions, and then began bending and stretching their arm and fingers.

“All in order,” she said, as they ate. “You can leave when you’re ready, Mx Lupin. Try to use that arm for light activity only, for a couple of weeks. It should be right as rain in about a month.”

So no punching Lockhart with it, Harry thought. Out loud, they said only, “Okay.”

By the time they’d finished eating, Madam Pomfrey had set down a fresh bundle of clothes and drawn the curtains around their cot. They changed—shirt, denim trousers, fresh socks and underpants, and light cardigan—and left the Hospital Wing, hurrying off to Gryffindor Tower so that they could tell Myf, Hermione, and Neville about Creevey and Dobby. To their surprise, the three of them were neither there nor in the Great Hall when they schlepped down to check.

Finally, they tried the library, just as Percy strolled out of it, looking in much better spirits than the last time they’d met.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” he said. “Excellent flying yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor have just taken the lead for the House Cup, thanks to you!”

“You haven’t seen Myf, Hermione, or Neville, have you?” Harry asked.

“Last I checked, Hermione’s in here. No idea where the other two’ve gone, though,” Percy said, then grimaced and added, with a faint air of disgust, “I suppose…Myf…might’ve gone to use a girls’ toilet, though…”

“Thanks,” Harry said a bit shortly, and went on in to the library with a somewhat tight-lipped expression.

“Harry!” Hermione said, when they sat down next to her in the library. “How’s the arm?”

“Fine,” Harry said. Myf showed up a second later with some books. “Hey, Harry,” she said as she set them down on Hermione’s other side.

“Hey, Myf.” They began to tell the girls about Creevey, but Hermione interrupted, “We already know, we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Flitwick at breakfast, that’s why Myf’s in the library with me today.”

“There’s something else, though,” Harry said as Hermione checked the books off a list she’d made. “This…enslaved hob named Dobby visited me last night…”

Harry told them everything Dobby had told them, or didn’t. The girls stared at them.

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” Hermione asked.

“This settles it,” Myf said with an air of triumph. “Lucius Malfoy must’ve opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he’s told dear old Draco how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby’d told you what kind of monster’s in there, though… I want to know how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the school.”

“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” Hermione said. She pulled over the topmost book in the stack Myf had set down and began skimming it. “Or maybe it can disguise itself—pretend to be a suit of armour or something…I’ve read about chameleon ghouls…”

The news that Creevey’d been attacked and was now lying stiff as a board in the Hospital Wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning, and the rumour mill was busily churning away. First-years were travelling in tight-knit groups, as though scared they’d be attacked if they ventured forth alone.

Ginny, who’d sat next to Creevey in Charms, was distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and Georgia were going the wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking it in turns to cover themselves with fur or boils and jump out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in amulets, talismans, and other protective items was sweeping the school. Hermione had to persuade Neville not to buy any, since he was a pure-blood and therefore highly unlikely to be attacked.

A notice went up the following week to the effect that a duelling club was being formed, with the first session scheduled for that Thursday, 14 November, at eight o’clock. There was a note attached to it by Professor McGonagall to the effect that students attending the duelling club would not be subject to curfew, provided they returned immediately to their Houses afterward.

And so Harry found themself in the Great Hall, along with what seemed like two-thirds of the student population. The tables and benches that were a mainstay had been moved elsewhere, and the platform where the high table normally stood had been turned in to a stage.

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” Hermione asked, as they edged in to the chattering crowd—Harry touched their wand and muttered a quick “audiminus minima” to save their poor ears. “Someone told me Professor Flitwick was a duelling champion when he was young, maybe it’ll be him.”

“As long as it’s not—” Harry began, but they ended on a groan. Gilderoy Lockhart was walking on to the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by Professor Snape, who was wearing his customary black.

Lockhart twiddled his wand, waving his other hand for silence. “Gather ’round, gather… ’round,” he called flamboyantly, voice amplified just a touch. “Can you all see me?” After a pause, as the crowd began to quiet down, he added more quietly, “Can you all… hear me?”

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club, to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works.

“Let me introduce my assistant this evening, Professor Snape,” Lockhart said, flashing a bright smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

“As if he had the prowess to be a threat to Professor Snape,” Myf muttered. Harry, Hermione, and Neville nodded in silent agreement.

Snape’s upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling…if Snape were looking at them like that, they’d have been running as fast as they could in the opposite direction.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed, or at least Lockhart did, very flamboyantly. Snape just gave a sharp jerk of his head. Then they turned to face the opposite direction and counted out twenty paces each before facing each other once more, raising their wands like swords in front of them.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart said. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry muttered, watching as Snape bared his teeth.

“One—two—three—”

Both of them swung their wands forward in the same instant. Snape shouted, “Expelliarmus!” and Lockhart was flung across the room, his wand flying out of his hand, until he was stopped by a wall, whereupon he slid down to sprawl on the floor.

Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Harry, Myf, Neville, and Hermione traded knowing smirks.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off, and his wavy hair was standing on end.

“Well, there you have it!” he said as he stumbled back up on to the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown. Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…”

Snape had a very neutral expression on his face, though Harry could tell from the set of his eyes that the professor was furious. Possibly Lockhart may have noticed too, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me…”

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart paired Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff second-year, but Snape reached Harry and Myf first.

“I believe, Mx Lupin, that you would find a more suitable partner in Mr Malfoy,” he said coolly. “Miss Weasley, you partner with Mr Finnegan. Miss Granger…Miss Bulstrode, perhaps.”

With a gesture, Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him came a Slytherin girl, an athletic-looking white brunette with curly hair that reminded Harry of some of the girls they’d seen on the covers of Uncle Vernon’s sports magazines. Hermione simply nodded once, though Harry could smell her nervousness. (Wait, ‘smell’? Harry thought.)

“Face your partners and bow!” Lockhart called from the platform.

Harry and Malfoy bobbed their heads at each other.

“Turn and measure twenty paces!”

Harry did so, a bit nervously, then turned when they counted twenty paces. Malfoy, thankfully, hadn’t taken advantage of having a clear shot.

“Wands at the ready!” Lockhart called. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponent—only to disarm them—we don’t want any accidents. One…two…three…”

Harry swung his wand, but Malfoy had already started on ‘two’: his spell hit Harry and then…absolutely nothing happened. They both stood there, blinking. “Was that supposed to have done something?” Harry asked, after a moment. “You can try it again, I suppose.”

“I said disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, and Malfoy took advantage of Harry’s momentary distraction to fling another spell at them. It, too, did absolutely nothing.

“You’re… you’re a…” Malfoy whispered, gaping like a fish out of water.

“Nope. And not having this conversation, either,” Harry said shortly, only loud enough for Malfoy to hear.

“Stop! Stop!” Lockhart screamed, but Snape took charge. “ANNULLARE RADIA!” he bellowed.

A haze of greenish smoke hung over the scene. Both Neville and Justin were laying on the floor, panting; Myf and Darach were still standing; and Hermione and Bulstrode were still moving. Bulstrode had her in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain, and both their wands were on the floor, forgotten. Harry leapt forward and, without thinking about it, delivered a short, sharp kick to the inside of Bulstrode’s left knee, causing it to collapse immediately and her to let go of Hermione.

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” Lockhart said, sounding flustered as he stood in the centre of the Great Hall. He glanced at Snape, whose neutral expression gave away nothing, then looked away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair…Mr Longbottom and Mr Finch-Fletchley, how about you?”

“A bad idea,” Snape said, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. “Mr Longbottom is known to have speech difficulties, so it would hardly be fair to Mr Finch-Fletchley…” Neville’s face, which was usually a little pink, reddened a little. “How about Mr Malfoy and Mx Lupin?”

“Excellent idea!” Lockhart said, and gestured Harry and Malfoy to the centre of the room.

“Now, Harry,” Lockhart began, but Harry cut him off. “Protego, yes, I know,” they said quietly. Out the corner of their eye, they saw Snape whispering something in to Malfoy’s ear, and then Malfoy smirked.

“Okay. Three—two—one—go!”

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and shouted, “Serpensortia!”

The end of his wand exploded, and from it emerged a large black snake, which plopped down on to the empty floor between them, hissing as it slithered toward Harry. But Harry was, even then, raising their own wand, shouting, “Annullare!” The ‘snake’ stilled, and became merely a mass of carbon.

“Excellent thinking, Harry,” Lockhart said.

Perhaps Malfoy thought conjuring a snake would scare Harry, because the boy looked disappointed for a second before his expression went neutral again.

Later that night, as Harry, Myf, Hermione, and Neville sat in the Common Room, Myf asked, “So… Harry, did you know you were magic resistant before Malfoy cheated?”

“Oddly enough, no,” Harry said. “It’s very weird… I’m colourblind now and my senses have…expanded, I’d say?, but I don’t have a joint disorder. And, er. No period.”

Both Hermione and Myf groaned. “I mean, you’re right to make the comparison, but at the same time…”

“I will say, though, that I can kind of pick up on people’s emotions by scent now…? Malfoy was afraid, though he put up a pretty good show, and he seems to have twigged to something. I’ll have to talk to Uncle Remus about it.”

“Huh. Maybe there’s some sort of magical condition that can do all of that,” Hermione said quizzically. “I’ll have to look that up too, of course.”

Chapter Text

The day Harry had been anticipating all month dawned overcast and cold, but, as Madam Pomfrey had promised, there were three potions on their night-stand when they woke. The first two were, of course, the androgen arrestor and the oestrogenating elixir they’d been taking almost since term began. The third, however, contained a brown substance that looked like a solid mass of fur but, when shaken, revealed itself to be a liquid about as viscous as water. When Harry opened the vial, the potion smelled like warm animal and cinnamon, and when they drank it, the taste was, not disagreeably, the same.

It didn’t take long for the potion to start taking effect. A small protrusion formed between their butt cheeks, where the vestigial tail-bone could be found. As it grew, it initially curled along their butt-crack, until Harry tugged their underpants down a little and gently freed it. Their new tail was already fuzzy, and as it lengthened the fuzz turned in to fluff. Finally, two or three minutes later, a wolf’s tail hung down almost to their ankles.

Harry tried to grab their tail several times, and each time it swished just out of reach. They almost began to start chasing it, but caught themself just in time, and they turned to their mirror instead. Their tail was a reddish-brown so dark as to be indistinguishable from black in the minimal pre-dawn light. As Harry beheld it, it began to wag, and a smile bright enough to light the alcove blossomed on their lips.

Getting dressed proved to be a bit of a challenge, especially as Harry’s tail kept wagging, and they made a mental note to ask Remus to commission tail-friendly clothing. Their tail settled down on the way down to the Common Room, but as soon as they saw Myf and Hermione, it began wagging again.

“I have a tail,” Harry said brightly as they joined the girls, causing them to giggle.

“Yes, I see that,” Hermione managed, her voice admirably grave. “I’m guessing it’s euphoric, too, since you’re all but lighting up the room. And wagging.”

Harry coloured a bit, but nodded. “I tried catching it, but it kept moving away.”

Myf lost the plot at this, and it took her a moment to recover. “You are a very silly pup, did you know that?”

Neville joined the three of them then. “Love tail. Looks right.”

Harry coloured darker, tail wagging harder for a few seconds, until they managed to get their tail to still. “Let’s go eat, yeah?”

Harry managed to avoid interacting with Malfoy until just before Transfiguration, somehow, and their tail was entirely still as they waited to see what the boy would make of it. Malfoy just stared at Harry incredulously for several seconds, then he sneered. “Hogwarts really is going to the dogs these days, I see. Best put a collar and leash on this one, everyone; wouldn’t want it to get loose and bite someone.”

Harry snorted. “Most dogs only bite people when they’re scared or provoked, you block, and I’m not afraid of you. And somehow I don’t see you offering any grounds for me to demand satisfaction, so…”

Professor McGonagall loomed behind Malfoy even as he said, “Aw, and here I didn’t think I needed to point out that your mum was a bitch, Potter.”

“Five points from Slytherin, Mr Malfoy,” she said coldly.

Harry smirked at Malfoy’s disgruntlement.

“Hey, Uncle Remus,” Harry said at dinner that evening. “I’ve been meaning to ask… last week, during the duelling club, when Hermione and Bulstrode were partnered up, um… I smelled her nervousness. Is that, um…something you and Uncle Sirius can do?”

Remus held up a finger as he finished chewing and swallowed a bite of beef stew. “Mmm. We can definitely pick up on pheromones, yes. For humans, the science is still out on whether we actually produce any, but as far as bleed-through traits go, we can definitely pick up on fear and arousal via scent. Fortunately, perhaps, territoriality is not something we need to worry about.”

Harry coloured a bit, thinking about that. “Yeah, I can imagine. So…how come Ginny’s been smelling scared? She seemed to be settling in fine by early October…”

“You’ll have to try to talk to her about that, you will; there can be all sorts of reasons for a first-year to be scared, or at least nervous, especially since the attack on Hallowe’en. I’ll try to have a word with her, though it’s really more Minerva’s department, it is. In the meantime, I have something for the four of you.”

Remus pulled four packets of gift-wrap out of his suit pockets and handed them out. They each had a pattern of blue chanukiyot on white paper, and were labelled with their recipient’s name, and each contained, upon being opened, a pair of winter gloves. Harry’s were of course wolf-themed, whereas Myf’s were orange, Hermione’s deep purple, and Neville’s maroon and gold.

“Happy Chanukah,” Remus said.

The next three weeks seemed to pass in a blur. Harry got more Chanukah gifts, one for each night of the Festival of Lights: a chanukiyah of their own, colouring books and crayons to go with them, a wolf comforter, carob gelt (as his uncles and Chiara couldn’t eat chocolate), a couple of DVDs (Balto and Call of the Wild), a Shabbat kit, and last but certainly not least, a stack of wolf-related novels, including the first two books of the Firekeeper Saga: Through Wolf’s Eyes and Wolf’s Head, Wolf’s Heart.

On 2 December, a notice went up on the board for students to sign if they would be staying at Hogwarts over winter break. Hermione signed up, as did the Weasleys: their parents would be visiting Bill over the holidays, apparently. Harry, as they’d be with their pack in Hogsmeade, did not; like the year prior, they would be walking up to visit their friends.

Hermione’s research regarding the Slytherin lineage was finally complete, although she’d warned Harry, Myf, and Neville that, as best she was able to tell given the records available in the public stacks, the Slytherins had died out sometime in the eighteenth century. The family’s first appearance in the British Isles was during the Anglo-Saxon invasion slash settlement period which began in the fifth century of the common era, and were known then as the Slideren clan. They were members of a hereditary priesthood in those days, and there were no records of intermarriage between them and the Malfoys at any point after they reached the Isles.

Her attempts to figure out the monster in the Chamber of Secrets were, however, hampered by the fact that the vast majority of the information available on magical creatures was ciphered away in various alchemical treatises; the only truly useful volumes were various editions of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and those were voluminous enough to make it difficult to peruse. And also every single copy was checked out, for some reason.

Hermione, therefore, intended to make use of the winter break to snag one. There was one other lead she wanted to pursue, but she needed a teacher’s signature to access it, as the Magical Bestiary (as translated from Latin by Tiberius Sagart) was in the Restricted Archives.

21 December

The Saturday after the autumn term ended, Harry had their first-ever sleepover, with Myf and Hermione staying overnight at The Den, as the Hogsmeade house had finally been dubbed. There were two sleeping bags laid out for them in Harry’s room, but at the moment they had other concerns: along with the sleepover, they were being permitted to join Harry and their pack for the final full moon of the year.

The girls wore outfits similar to Harry’s, only Hermione had added a second jumper to her ensemble, and they, Sirius, and the werewolves trudged up to the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid joined them as they passed his hut, and they chatted about their academics as they walked to the clearing.

Harry and Sirius found their log without really thinking about it, and the child leaned on their godfather as Hagrid found his own seat. As Remus and Chiara left the clearing again, Hermione made to follow Chiara.

“Don’t,” Sirius said, and Hermione stopped. “The transformation is extremely painful, and werewolves tend to be vulnerable during it. You don’t want to be nearby, I promise.”

“Oh. Yeah, fair.” She nodded and sat on Harry’s other side.

“Uncle Sirius?” Harry asked suddenly. “What does it mean to be ‘wolf-souled’? I was talking to Kreacher once, back in August, and he said I had a wolf’s soul.”

Sirius blinked, then stared down at his godchild. “It means that you have theriopsychia, my dear pup. Which is ‘beast-souled’ in Greek, I think, and I’m not surprised that Kreacher was able to detect it. Hobs are readers, of a sort, and can see the truth of things, an ability that is sometimes called true-sight.”

“So what’s ‘theriopsychia’, then…?”

“Albus would be able to explain it better than I can, but, basically, it means that you have a wolf’s soul. Most theriopsychics have species dysphoria, and some may display behaviour reminiscent of their animals. Unless they’re witches, that’s about as far as they’ll get. You, though…”

Remus and Chiara returned then, and the subject was dropped in favour of playing with the wolves. After Harry demonstrated their technique of using wingardium leviosa, Myf and Hermione took turns throwing the large stick they’d chosen for the evening as well. Even Sirius took a few turns, though after the second time he decided to go quadrupedal for a while.

As usual, after a couple hours, the wolves grew tired of fetch and sat at Harry’s feet, lifting their heads up in song.

24 December

It was Christmas Eve, ten minutes before curfew, and Hermione had just figured out what the mysterious creature was that Harry and Myf had heard. She copied the relevant portion of the Magical Bestiary on to a scrap piece of parchment, and pocketed her fountain pen. Before she left the library, she conjured a small mirror. It wasn’t perfect—there were a few matte spots marring the otherwise reflective surface—but it served.

She slowly, carefully, crept through the castle, careful to look around only with the mirror. Hermione was only a few corridors away from the entrance to Gryffindor Tower when it happened. She had just stuck her mirror around the corner when she saw a large yellow eye—and then she was paralysed, unable even to close her eyes as the basilisk slithered by and was gone.

Percy found her half an hour later, mirror still in hand.

Chapter Text

When Harry walked in to the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts the next morning, just after nine, they were greeted by the entire Weasley clan in residence, even Percy. Ginny and Myf were distraught, but Fred, Georgia, and Percy merely looked grim. Their tail, which had been wagging slowly when they came in, stilled.

“Hermione was attacked last night,” Percy said, taking the lead. “We wanted to wait for you before we went to visit her, you and—Myf—being her best friends and all.”

“Harry,” Myf said quietly, as they began to climb the staircase to make their way to the Hospital Wing, “you’re growling.”

Harry blinked, looking confused, and the growl subsided. “…I was?”

“You were, yes. I know Percy’s a prat, but he’s also a Prefect. And my brother.”

“I know, I just…instinct, I guess.”

Myf sighed. “I reckoned it was that…but you’re going to have to learn to rein it in, or Malfoy’s going to think you’re a werewolf. And he’d absolutely go to the Daily Prophet if he could prove it.”

“Yeah. Part of why I use homoculus every morning, if I’m honest.”

As they entered the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey was already waiting for them. “Miss Granger is right over here,” she said, leading them to a curtained-off cot near Creevey. She pulled the curtains aside, and Harry was the first one to reach Hermione’s side, with Myf not far behind. The older Weasleys hung back, being there mainly for moral support, and Ginny looked indecisive.

Harry pulled a stool over and sat. “Hey, Hermione,” they said. “I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but Myf and I are here, and so’s the rest of the Weasleys. Percy said he found you holding a mirror…”

After a few minutes of rambling, Harry came to the realisation that Hermione was conscious. They’d smelled someone’s fear when they came in, but they’d just assumed it was Ginny’s anxiety…but no, Hermione had been scared all night, it seemed, and been relieved when she’d heard her friends.

“I…think Hermione’s conscious,” Harry said. “I’d smelled someone’s fear when we walked in, but I can’t smell it now. So…I think one of us should spend time with her as often as we can, Myf.”

“Hm. I reckon that’ll end up having us here between dinner and curfew, then.” Myf frowned for a moment, then nodded. “And I’ll handle weekends and Quadball practise.”

“Thanks, Myf.”

Though the attack on Hermione had rather ruined the holiday spirit, they’d decided to bring their gifts down to the Hospital Wing and unwrap them there, so that she could be included. Harry sat with Hermione whilst the Weasleys went to retrieve them, and they brooded for a bit.

“I wonder…” Harry said, eventually, and looked around. “I’ll be right back.”

They got up and checked Madam Pomfrey’s office; to their relief, she was there, working on paperwork. “Madam Pomfrey?” She looked up, offering a wan smile.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Could I borrow Hermione’s wand for a moment? I want to test a hypothesis—see, I was able to smell her fear and then its cessation when we came in and she’d heard us.” Harry sounded hesitant, and their tail curled between their legs a bit.

“A hypothesis?” Even as she asked, Madam Pomfrey stood and walked briskly over to a set of cubbyholes arranged along one wall. She pulled a wand out of one of them, then paused.

“Yeah. I know silent magic is really really hard, but…it’ll be like five or six months before the Cisfiguration Concoction would be brewed and ready, right?”

“Ah, I see where you’re going with this. Well, it’s worth trying.” She handed Harry the wand, and they wagged a little. “Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Oh…Poppy’s fine, Harry, at least over the holidays.”

Harry nodded, and trotted back over to Hermione’s cot and sat once more.

“I’m going to put your wand in one hand, Hermione. Maybe you can try casting lumos silently?”

They waited a moment, then stood again and carefully put her wand in to her left hand, which had been holding the mirror and so already had her fingers curled as though to grasp a cylindrical object.

“Don’t worry if it takes a while, okay? I know you don’t have much else to do while you’re petrified, but there’s plenty of time.”

It was just as Harry sat down again that the Weasleys returned; between them, they’d levitated the various parcels they’d received for Christmas. “We’ve got Hermione’s too,” Myf said, “since we figured on including her and all. Why’ve you got your wand, Hermione?”

“I gave it to her,” Harry said, then explained their reasoning. “Anyway, let’s go with a round-robin?”

The remainder of winter break was sombre, and Harry and Myf sat with Hermione every day. Harry read some of their books aloud to her, including both novels in the nascent Firekeeper Saga, which Harry, at least, fell in love with practically from the first page of Through Wolf’s Eyes. After all, the protagonist was a young woman who was raised by wolves from toddlerhood, and what wolf-souled child could resist identifying with her?

With the start of term, they began alternating their visits as they’d agreed, since it was a bit difficult to study in the Hospital Wing. Harry continued to read to Hermione, but now it was their notes from lessons and the assigned readings rather than novels. Myf, on the other hand, would talk about what she recalled from the lectures, plus any practical material covered. On the weekends, Myf sat with Hermione on Saturdays and Harry on Sundays.

As Myrtle’s toilet was along one of the paths from Gryffindor Tower to the Hospital Wing, Harry found themself confronted by a flooded corridor the second Friday after term started. They carefully slipped in to the girls’ room to see what was up—there wasn’t an Out of Order sign, so presumably Mr Filch hadn’t noticed the flooding yet. The water seemed to be flowing from one of the toilets, and when Harry checked, there was a book in the toilet bowl.

It was wet when they picked it up, but even as they inspected it, opening it up to peer inside, the book dried out without warping or staining, or indeed showing any sign that it had been wet at all. Odd… This must be an enchanted book, but I don’t see any title or…oh, there’s the maker’s mark. Produced in 1943, hmm? I wonder… And all the pages are blank. But why? Surely whoever this belonged to had written in it, or it wouldn’t still be around today…

Puzzled as they were, Harry chose to wait until they could talk to Myf before investigating it further, and slipped the small black leather-bound book into their pocket.

That night, Harry and Myf sat in a corner in the Gryffindor Common Room, the small book sitting on the table before them. Harry had pulled over a stool, and their tail swayed to and fro as they sat.

“So you’re saying this book was wet when you found it, but dried up almost immediately when you picked it up?” Myf asked, sounding sceptical. “And no signs of water damage, either.”

“Right. So, let’s be methodical about this. Would you object to taking notes?” At Myf’s head-shake, they slid a piece of parchment and one of their fountain pens over. Myf scooped up the pen and uncapped it, then held it at the ready over the parchment.

“Right. 17 January 2003. Investigators: Harry Lupin, Myf Weasley…” Harry paused, giving Myf time to write, then continued. “Subject is a book. Black, leather-bound, dimensions…” They squinted, then pulled out a sickle and used it to measure the book. “About eight and a half sickles long by six wide, and about one and a half sickles deep.”

After pocketing the sickle again, Harry continued, “Subject was made in 1940 for Winstanley’s. No other visible identifying marks. Subject smells…like…” They carefully lowered their head until it was about two inches away from the book, and sniffed experimentally. “…Leather, paper, and…um. We have a problem.”

Myf looked up from the parchment and frowned. “Oh? What sort of problem?”

“Yeah, um.” Harry sighed, then weaselled, “It smells like Ginny.”

Myf stared at them for a moment, then capped the fountain pen and set it down. “You’re sure?”

“Sure as I can be. I’ll take it with me tomorrow morning and get Uncle Remus’s opinion, though, if you want a second opinion?”

“Yeah… In the meantime…you said it was blank when you picked it up, right? Doesn’t that seem strange to you, then?”

Harry nodded, starting to tap on the knuckles of their left hand with their right. “Yeah, to both. I wonder… I’ll try writing in it, see what happens?”

Myf passed them the fountain pen, and they uncapped it and opened the book to the first page. “Let’s see…”

Harry: Hello.

After a moment, the ink seemed to be absorbed in to the page. “Oh. The ink vanished. …Wait…”

Diary: Greetings.

“Let’s try…hm, I’m not giving it my name…”

Harry: My name is Dudley. Who are you?

And, again, the ink vanished after a moment, then new words appeared.

Tom: Hello, Dudley. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?

“Tom Riddle, huh…wonder who that is,” Harry said, before writing some more.

Harry: Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.

It seemed to take a bit longer for the words to appear this time.

Tom: Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read.

“Wait,” Myf said, before Harry could start writing in it again. “My dad always says not to trust things where you can’t tell where it keeps its brain.” She stared down at it. “So what are you really, little book…?”

“Well…” Harry looked thoughtful. “I could ask it verifiable questions? But…if it’s from the 1940s, maybe it knows something about the last time the Chamber was opened.”

“…I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Harry: So I noticed your book was made in the 1940s. Does that mean you know about when the Chamber of Secrets was last opened?

This time it was a couple minutes before the book responded.

Tom: Well, yes, actually. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned.

“Well, we’d be able to verify that easily enough, I think…” Harry said. “But I’m going to probe for some more information. Let’s see…”

Harry: Could you tell me who it was, last time?

Tom: I can show you, if you’d like. You don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him.

Harry hesitated. “I don’t like this at all. Surely the book can just tell us…? Memories are very much not infallible, Dr Fitzgerald says, and they can lie to us.”

Myf nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense, and I reckon it could lie by omission regardless.”

“Right.”

Harry: No, thank you. Memories can lie. Just tell me what happened, please.

Tom: Very well, if you insist. But it will take much longer to tell it than it would have to show you it.

Harry rolled their eyes, but after a moment the writing on the page changed…

Harry snorted, closing the book. “Well, that was enlightening,” they said after a moment. “As I recall, acromantulae lack the ability to petrify, and they’re not reptilian.”

“Yeah.” Myf gave the book a look, then sighed. “We need to take this to Professor Dumbledore. It’s too late to do that tonight, so tomorrow morning, I reckon.”

“…I wonder what it’d do if I confronted it.” Harry stroked their chin thoughtfully. “I’m not going to! Not tonight, anyway,” they added as Myf opened her mouth.

“Yeah, it’s about bedtime, I reckon. G’night, pup.” Myf impulsively reached up to scratch gently behind Harry’s right ear, causing their tail to start wagging. She smiled at them, amused.

“Um. G’night, Myf,” Harry managed, blushing, before gathering up the book, their pens, and the parchment Myf had been taking notes on, all but fleeing up to their dorm.

Myf blinked as she stood and made her way to her own dorm, somewhat confused by Harry’s reaction. She didn’t think they could be embarrassed by acting lupine…

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry and Myf went up to Professor Dumbledore’s office. When Myf knocked, she heard his voice call, “Enter!” and the door swung open. Dumbledore was walking down to the lounge as they came in, and he gestured to the sofa as he sat down in an armchair opposite it. “Have a seat, Mx Lupin, Miss Weasley. What seems to be troubling you this morning?”

“Well, sir…” Harry began, their tail pulled up between their legs and their fingers running through its coat. “Yesterday, when I was on my way to the Hospital Wing after dinner, I noticed the girls’ toilet by the site of the first attack had flooded again, so I went inside to investigate. The source of the flooding was one of the toilets, and when I looked, I found…this.”

Harry pulled Tom’s diary out of their pocket and held it out. As Dumbledore took it, they continued, “After I got back to the Gryffindor Common Room, Myf and I examined it, and…I think it may be relevant to the attacks last year.”

“Examined it how?” Dumbledore asked incisively, giving it a quick once-over himself before he looked to the young students once more.

“Um. We noted our observations, then purely on a whim I tried writing in it. It, um,” Harry licked their lips nervously, “wrote back.”

“What do you mean by ‘wrote back’?” Dumbledore’s gaze was directed at the book again. When he opened it, the pages were as blank as ever.

“It says its name is Tom Riddle, and it told us a story about the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened. I didn’t tell it anything about myself, mind—I gave my name as ‘Dudley’.”

“Tom Riddle, you say…how very curious… Is there anything about your initial observations that struck you as odd?”

“Um. I’d rather not say—I don’t want anyone to get in trouble…” Harry’s tail twitched nervously as they continued to run their fingers through its fur.

“I assure you, Mx Lupin, there will be no negative consequences.”

Harry hesitated, then sighed. “It smelled like Ginny, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded, then stood again. “All right. Thank you for bringing this to me. I will examine it most carefully, but…for future reference, you may know Tom Riddle better as Lord Voldemort.”

Myf gaped.

30 January

“Good evening, Hermione,” Harry said as they sat down by her cot. As she was still petrified, Hermione said nothing, and they proceeded to unpack their bag. A desk had been set up for Harry and Myf’s use, making it easier for the two of them to study while talking to her.

Suddenly, the tip of Hermione’s wand lit up and increased in brightness until Harry had to shield their eyes. “Hermione? D’you think you could dim it or turn it off, please? This is exciting, but it’s far too bright—I’m having to shield my eyes.”

After a moment, her wand-tip dimmed to a tolerable level, and Harry was able to look at her again. “Right, so I think the next step is figuring out how to communicate. One for ‘no’, two for ‘yes’, three for ‘uncertain’ or ‘don’t know’ would be easy, but we’d be limited to playing Twenty Questions, and that gets tedious.”

Her wand-tip flashed twice, though it took several seconds between each change in light level to change to the next one.

“…And I guess practising how to cast more quickly would help, too, especially if we can figure out some sort of code for real communications.” Another two flashes. “So…I guess I’ll hit the library later, or I can ask Uncle Remus if he has any ideas.” Two more flashes.

Madam Pomfrey, perhaps attracted by the flashing lights, cleared her throat. “I’ll just prepare a private room for Miss Granger, then, shall I?”

Harry started and looked up. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

14 February

It took several days (Harry and Myf weren’t nearly as adept at finding material as Hermione was), but by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, they’d begun learning Morse Code, a system for encoding messages in short and long signals. It had originally been developed for telegraphy, which used electric pulses for signalling, but it was simple, well-known, and, most important, already existed. (One of the first things Hermione’d said when everyone’d got proficient enough to have actual conversations was that Slytherin’s monster was a basilisk. Harry reported this to Dumbledore immediately, of course.)

As there had been no attacks since Hermione’s on Christmas Eve, Lockhart had been strutting about, claiming he’d eliminated the threat. (Harry privately wondered how anyone could possibly believe the man, even without his books being full of confabulations.)

And so, on Valentine’s Day, when Harry walked in to the Great Hall for breakfast, they were momentarily confused.

There were white and reddish-brown flowers placed throughout, both along the tables and along the walls, and white heart-shaped confetti was drifting down from the ceiling, vanishing when it landed. As always, Harry’s breakfast was waiting for them when they reached the Little High Table, and Madam Pomfrey and Remus gave them a warm smile.

Harry hugged their uncle before they sat, and asked, “What’s with the white and brown flowers and the white confetti?”

“Professor Lockhart,” Remus said gravely, “has decided that, to celebrate his victory over the monster from the Chamber of Secrets, he would sponsor school-wide festivities for Valentine’s Day.”

Harry’s voice was soft as they said, “Uh huh. I, for one, don’t believe it. If he knew where it was, he’d be telling G?d and everybody about that.”

Remus snorted with amusement. “What I was thinking, yes. And yet…”

That was when Lockhart, dressed in white robes, stood and raised his hands at the High Table. “Your attention, please, I beg,” his voice rang out, and the hubbub at the House tables died down to a whisper or two. “Happy Valentine’s Day! And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all—and it doesn’t end here!”

The overly flamboyant man clapped his hands, and through the doors trooped a dozen short humanoids, each no more than three feet tall, with pointed ears, warm russet skin, and luminous amber eyes. Save for these features, however, the humanoids could probably have passed for young humans. They were dressed in white chitons with fake white wings affixed to their backs, and each carried a golden harp. (“…Of course he hired leprechauns,” Remus muttered darkly.)

“My friendly, card-carrying Cupids!” Lockhart beamed. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your Valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a love potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about entrancing enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”

Both Flitwick and Snape had rather stony expressions on their faces. Remus scowled. “Sirius and I will have to have a lesson on how to determine if a drink has been spiked, we will. And ‘entrancing enchantments’ are just a hostile application of legilimency, which means a lesson in occlumency as well. Oy vey. At least I can expect Severus to undercut the fool if anyone actually asks him about love potions, I do.”

Harry winced. “How did he get this job, anyway?”

“You’d have to ask Albus, I think. He hasn’t said anything to us faculty about it, anyway.”

The leprechauns disrupted classes around the school all day to deliver Valentines, and in fact they seemed to take a gleeful pleasure in it. After lunch, on their way to the Healing classroom, one of them caught up with Harry.

“Oy, you! Harry Lupin!” they called, and suddenly the leprechaun was standing right next to them seemingly without traversing the space that had been between them only a moment before. Harry looked around wildly, but there wasn’t really any opportunity for them to escape. “I am deliverin’ a musical message wi’ ye, Mx Lupin.”

And the leprechaun began, their fingers moving nimbly over their harp as they sang,

Their eyes are as green as a new beanstalk,
Their hair is as dark as a blackcock,
I wish they were mine, they’re truly lupine,
The hero who conquered the Great Warlock.

Harry’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as the leprechaun concluded the limerick, grinning with malevolent good cheer, and vanished. Malfoy, who was nearby, smirked. “‘Lupine’, is it? I wonder…” His voice trailed off, the smirk fading in to a thoughtful expression, and after a moment the smirk returned alongside a chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Malfoy?” Harry asked, though they had a sinking feeling and a nasty suspicion that they knew what he was about to say.

“Oh…nothing you need concern yourself with, wolf-boy. Not yet, anyway.”

As February faded in to March, Harry’s spare time became swallowed by Quadball practice, leading Neville to learn Morse code and take over their time with Hermione. The match itself, on 22 March, was not particularly eventful; Gryffindor won by twenty points, enough to put them in second place behind Ravenclaw. (Harry had opted to not drink the caudalixir that morning, as it’d proved to interfere with flight during practice.)

Myf and Remus’s birthdays had been celebrated, marred only by being held in the Hospital Wing so that Hermione could be included. (Harry’d got Remus a collar like the one he’d got for Sirius back in November, but in plain leather rather than Sirius’s studded black.)

On the Saturday after the match, however, Dumbledore summoned Harry and Myf to his office, before Harry’d left for The Den.

“Come in, come in,” he said, gesturing for them to sit in the lounge. “I have some matters to discuss regarding the diary you turned over.”

As they sat, Harry asked, “What sort of matters, sir?” This time they’d opted to sit on a hassock, thereby allowing their tail to move freely, rather than join Myf on the sofa.

“As I am sure you guessed, the diary is indeed an enchanted artefact. More specifically, it is a kind of malefact called a ‘horcrux’. Horcruces are a particularly vile form of maleficery, in part because they contain part of a person’s soul. I have spoken with Miss Ginevra, and it appears that the diary was controlling her, with the intent of causing the monster of the Chamber of Secrets, a basilisk, to purge the school of mundane-born and half-blood students, as well as so-called ‘blood traitors’—that is, purebloods like the Weasleys who stand with mundane-born witches.”

As Myf leaned forward and opened her mouth, Dumbledore raised a finger, forestalling her. “I assure you, Miss Weasley, she has not been, and will not be, punished for her part in this affair. For now, Madam Pomfrey and Mx Lupin’s Dr Fitzgerald will be working with her. If she chooses to discuss that with you, that is her choice to make; I have already had to remind Master Percival of this.” Myf nodded, and sat back.

“Anyway, the horcrux. Destroying such malefacts requires great power, either as a singular spell or via a magical artefact. I will be working on that. In the meantime, we need to kill the basilisk and thereby eliminate the threat it poses to the school, should any other malefacts be found to provide access to the Chamber of Secrets. I understand that you two are Ophistomata, yes?”

Harry and Myf nodded mutely, and he nodded back. “Unfortunately, this presents me with a problem. You see, the three of you—Mx Lupin, Miss Myfanwy, and Miss Ginevra—are the only Ophistomata available to us. I am certainly not going to involve Miss Ginevra any further in this affair, but as the Chamber can only be accessed by Ophistomata, I must therefore involve either or both of you.”

Harry looked annoyed. “I thought Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius talked to you last year about involving me in situations like this…?”

“They did, and I promised not to involve you without your consent.” Harry scowled. Dumbledore continued patiently, “I need an Ophistoma, and you two are our only options.”

Harry’s scowl deepened. “All right, I’ll do it. But you can be sure my uncles will hear about this.”

Dumbledore’s smile had the air of being grandfatherly, somehow, and Harry wished he hadn’t. “Of that, I had no doubt at all. Now, here’s the plan…”

Chapter Text

Over the next couple of weeks, brochures were distributed in the common rooms, each detailing the electives available to third-year students and the potential careers that the new classes could potentially enable. Harry and Myf sat with Hermione on 2 April to talk about them.

“Okay,” Harry said, “so the first decision we have to make is whether to switch Maths out for Arithmancy. Arithmancy is the application of maths to magical processes, which, according to the brochure, can include some aspects of divination and spellcraft. It says here that arithmancy is a requirement for specialising in dimensional transfiguration, among other fields. Does that—”

They were already turning to look at Hermione’s wand, and the flashing of its tip cut them off as Hermione responded: Daw dit daw daw, dit, dit dit dit, dit daw dit daw dit daw. Dit daw daw, dit daw, daw dit, daw; daw, daw daw daw; daw, dit daw, daw dit daw, dit; dit dit, daw, dit daw dit daw dit daw.¹

“Okay, then.” Harry made a note on a piece of scrap parchment; Hermione would have to go over the electives herself once she’d been unpetrified, but Harry and Myf intended to take classes in common with her. “Next is Divination, which is self-explanatory. The brochure says the class will cover a variety of divination techniques, from astrology to tarot. Could be interesting, but…my understanding is that predicting the future is mainly a matter of figuring out what’s likely to happen. In which case I predict I will have breakfast in the morning.”

Myf snorted. “I’m gonna take it. You?”

“Yeah, sure, why not. Hermione?”

Daw dit daw daw, dit, dit dit dit, dit daw dit daw dit daw.³ Harry made another note.

“I’m definitely gonna do Magizoology,” Myf said. “The short version of what the brochure says is that it’s taking care of magical creatures, like crups, unicorns, and so on.”

Hermione’s wand flashed again, in the same pattern as the last time. Harry made a note, then said, “The other big decision is, Mundane Studies or Witch Studies, to replace Social Studies. The brochure says that Mundane Studies is a look at the mundane world through the lens of the magical community, and focuses mostly on recent history, including cultural phenomena, with a view toward acquainting witches with mundane life. Witch Studies, meanwhile, emphasises magical history and culture. So, M or W?”

Hermione’s wand flashed. Daw daw. “Mundane Studies, then. I…think I’ll go for Witch Studies, myself. Myf?”

“Eh…I’ll do Mundane with Hermione,” Myf said. “I’m from a pureblood family, and the homeschooling Mum’d given us focused on that aspect anyway—probably by Ministry mandate, thinking about it. Besides, Dad’s always been interested in mundane artefacts and I kinda want to know what he’s talking about.”

Harry paused to let Hermione respond, if she wanted to, and apparently she did. Daw daw, dit daw, daw dit daw, dit, dit dit dit; dit dit dit, dit, daw dit, dit dit dit, dit, dit daw dit daw dit daw.²

“Spellcraft seems interesting,” Harry said. “Not just creating spells, but also the various crafting techniques and the underlying mechanics. Could be useful. So I think my electives are gonna be Arithmancy, Divination, Witch Studies, and Spellcraft.”

“The last one in the brochure, Hermione, is Study of Ancient Runes,” Myf said. “It says that the name is a bit of a misnomer, since it covers various writing-based systems of magic, not just the Germanic runes. I’m not gonna do it because my dyslexia would get in the way, but how about you?”

Daw dit daw daw, dit, dit dit dit, dit daw dit daw dit daw. ³

“…So you’re saying you want to do all of them? Is that even allowed…?” Myf looked down at the electives sheet in her lap. “Huh. Says ‘at least two’, so I guess it is.”

Dit daw, dit daw dit dit, dit daw dit dit, dit daw dit daw dit daw. ⁴

Harry wasn’t sure how you could transmit firmness in Morse, but Hermione had somehow managed to do so. “That’s that, then. I know yours won’t be finalised until you’re able to sign yours, Hermione, but I’ll let Professor McGonagall know. She’ll probably come down to have a word about the workload, you know how she is.”

Daw dit daw daw, dit, dit dit dit, dit daw dit daw dit daw. ³

Three weeks later, on 25 April, Harry, Lockhart, and Dumbledore stood inside Myrtle’s toilet. Lockhart was extremely apprehensive—Harry got the feeling that he’d have bolted if he’d had any choice in the matter. Dumbledore was carrying his wand and a sheathed sword affixed to a sword belt, and on his shoulder perched Fawkes, a phoenix. He’d bound the door shut with a charm as soon as they’d entered, and now he faced Harry.

“I know you haven’t had any training with swords,” he said, “much less weapons in general, but this sword was enchanted a long time ago to impart expertise to the wielder—that is to say, it will make you a champion-tier warrior so long as it is in your hand. Its name is Fragarach, sometimes called ‘the Answerer’ because it compels truth if held at someone’s throat.”

Harry blinked, and stared down at the sword, their tail wagging leftward anxiously. “If it’s so dangerous that you think I need it, sir, why am I going in…?”

Dumbledore sighed. “There are bound to be further obstacles, Mx Lupin. Ones that would be outright barriers without your assistance. Fawkes will be with you, and he is an able guardian.”

Harry nodded unhappily. They belted on the sword, then turned to the sink with the snake tap. They said, softly, “Open, please.” The entire fixture flashed green, so brilliantly that, despite the brevity of the flash, Harry had a momentary after-image floating in their vision for a few seconds, and then it began to make a loud grating sound as it withdrew in to the wall, revealing a staircase down where it had been only a moment before. A strange, musty odour came wafting up from below, and Harry wrinkled their nose. It reminded them of the boa constrictor they’d encountered at the zoo on Dudley’s birthday, two years before, except it was more intense and…off, somehow. That must be the basilisk’s odour, Harry thought as they began to descend in to the depths of Hogwarts. Behind them, they heard Lockhart’s mincing steps and Dumbledore’s heavier tread as the men followed them.

One seeming eternity later, the staircase came to an end, having spiralled downward, and opened on to a tunnel large enough for three adults to walk abreast, if they were friendly. The musty odour had only grown stronger as the trio descended. Wordlessly, a witch-light came bobbing forward, high enough that Harry couldn’t see the orb itself, to light the way, and the trio walked down the tunnel. In a much shorter period, they came to a set of stone doors which had runes carved in to it, along with more snake motifs.

“Interesting,” Dumbledore said, his eyes scanning the runes. “The runes are in Old English…”

Next to him, Lockhart was muttering to himself. Harry paid it no mind, however, since at this point they knew the man was a fraud. “What does it say?”

“Allowing for linguistic drift…it says, ‘Speak, friend, and enter.’” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“…Isn’t that a line from Fellowship of the Ring, sir?” Harry tilted their head curiously.

“Yes, it was, Mx Lupin,” Dumbledore said, amusement fading from his voice, “and I was kidding. What it actually is is a warning regarding the basilisk; if I had to guess, Salazar didn’t want to assume that his heir knew anything about the creature. Unfortunately, he didn’t, ah…what is the phrase mundane folks use these days…‘future-proof’ the message. The door should open if you command it to, like with the staircase.”

Harry nodded, then stared at the snake motifs. “Open, please,” they said, and just like before, the door momentarily flashed a brilliant green and a loud grating sound ensued. This time, the doors slid apart, revealing a large chamber. The musty smell was nearly overpowering, and Harry pulled their wand out, muttering a quick nasiminus, which reduced but did not eliminate the smell. Before they stepped in to the chamber, they drew Fragarach with their right hand, still holding their wand in their left just in case.

The witch-light Dumbledore had summoned floated in and rose, becoming brighter. Off in the distance, Harry could now see several tunnels, a rather large shed skin—the basilisk must have moulted recently—and, in the centre of the far wall, a dais. At the centre of the dais was a silver throne, with green velvet padding. It was empty, of course.

Harry’s ears twitched, almost without them realising it, as off in the distance they heard a hissing voice and a faint susurrus underneath it. Kill… Rip… Tear… Hungry… the voice said, and Harry looked around. Dumbledore was still in the tunnel. Lockhart was cowering in one of the corners of the chamber. Fawkes chirped softly, a sound that somehow filled the room despite its quietude, and took flight, circling above Harry’s head as though waiting for something. They closed their eyes and waited. The susurrus drew closer, becoming louder and somehow deeper, and then out of the tunnel to Harry’s left, the basilisk emerged. With another soft, room-filling chirp, Fawkes dove.

There came the sounds of a large animal thrashing as they cried out in agony. Harry risked a peek after a moment—and the basilisk’s eyes had become a bloody ruin. Evidently, Fawkes had clawed them out, and their gaze required them to see their target in order to petrify them, it seemed, because Harry was still able to move. They turned to face the enormous magical snake. “Do you have a name?” they asked, even as they assumed a combat stance.

I do not, young witch, the basilisk responded, their voice seemingly breathy with pain to Harry’s ear. I was always ‘snaca’. And you, they hissed, are about to be ‘snack’…!

The basilisk lunged forward. Harry nimbly stepped to the side as the basilisk’s jaws snapped shut where they’d been mere seconds before, and struck at the snake’s head. Unfortunately, the sword rebounded, unable to slice through their hide, and vibrated almost painfully in Harry’s hand. They stifled a curse, pivoting to face the basilisk as they slithered forward and around, preparing to strike again.

“The basilisk’s hide is resisting Fragarach’s edge! I can’t slash in to it!” Harry called to Dumbledore, who was still standing out in the tunnel. “This is a terrible time to learn a new spell, Mx Lupin, but if you can, try casting bombere in to its open mouth!” Dumbledore called back. “Or, um, stab it!”

Harry blinked and adopted a different stance as the basilisk came toward them again. They weren’t going to say so, but the uncertainty in Dumbledore’s voice was not what they needed right now. The basilisk hissed, mouth agape as they lunged at Harry again. This time, the witch thrust Fragarach forward, point-first, even as they shouted, “Bombere!”

A sparkling red-brown pellet flew forth from their wand and in to the basilisk’s mouth, seemingly to little effect, as it descended upon them. There was a faint pop and blood gushed, spattering Harry and the ground, though the explosion was apparently not enough to do more than make the snake flinch to the side at the last moment, causing them to slide past the child.

Harry pivoted to face the basilisk again, and this time they noticed blood trickling out of their mouth. “I don’t suppose there’s a stronger version of bombere, sir?”

“Alas, no! You’ll get it eventually, Mx Lupin!”

The basilisk lunged once more, fangs glinting in the light, and once more Harry pointed Fragarach at their open mouth. They shouted, “Bombere!” and another red-brown pellet flew forth. This one, too, initially seemed to do nothing when it vanished in to the snake’s mouth. There was another faint pop, and another gush of blood. This time, however, the jaws came down around the young witch, and Fragarach was wrenched from their grasp as it sank in to the roof of the basilisk’s mouth, causing another gout of blood to issue forth, showering Harry. The blow must have driven the sword in to the basilisk’s brain, because the creature stopped moving.

At first, Harry didn’t notice the fang embedded in their right forearm—they were too busy being overwhelmed by the stench inside the snake’s mouth. It didn’t take long for the pain to dominate their senses, however, and they screamed in agony as searing pain began to travel along the veins in their arm. Harry sank to the floor, the fang wrenched free, and dark brown blood welled up from the puncture wound. After a moment, the snake was levitated off of them and thrown to the side, and the sudden brightness temporarily blinded Harry as a soft, mournful chirp filled the room. Fawkes landed on their upper arm, and Harry blinked as the bird seemed to inspect the wound. Then warm wetness spattered on to it, a liquid that was so hot it seemed like it should have burned their skin painfully on contact, and yet it was soothing instead.

Harry blinked as the soothing heat from that wetness spread even faster than the searing agony from the basilisk venom had, and the pain disappeared as it swept through them. Dumbledore stood next to them, offering his hand. “Congratulations, Mx Lupin, on a well-earned victory,” he said quietly.

Harry took the hand, and Dumbledore helped them to their feet. He turned to the basilisk and reached inside, and, after a moment of searching, he pulled Fragarach free. With a muttered tergere, the blade was cleansed of the basilisk’s blood, and Dumbledore extended it to Harry, hilt first. “Go ahead and sheathe it; its duty is done.”

In the distance, there was a shriek from where Lockhart was cowering, and as Dumbledore and Harry turned to face him, the man stood, wand in hand. “Ah, very well done, Harry Potter,” Lockhart said, sneering as if he hadn’t been cowering just a moment ago. “There’s just one little matter to clear up…”

He lifted his wand and pointed it directly at the child. “Imagine the headlines. Lockhart Defeats Slytherin’s Monster, perhaps… But, now it is time for my brilliance to shine ever brighter…!”

Harry blinked. So did Dumbledore. The world had seemed to slow to a crawl as Lockhart lifted his wand, but even as Lockhart shouted “OBLIVIATE!” Harry flicked their own wand and countered with a shouted “Protego!” The curse bounced off of their shield, and a corona of blue light limned Lockhart’s shocked face as the spell slammed in to it. It was Lockhart’s turn to blink, shock fading into bewilderment as he looked around, slack-jawed.

“…Who are you? Where am I?… Who am I…?” he asked querulously after a moment. Dumbledore snorted, not deigning to answer the man. He turned to Harry, who still held Fragarach in their right hand. “It’s a good thing you hadn’t sheathed Fragarach yet, Mx Lupin. I’m surprised he decided to try to obliviate you in my presence. Even Voldemort would have focused on me, being the much more experienced and powerful witch. But then…”

Dumbledore sighed, then pointed his wand at Lockhart and muttered, “Petrificus totalus. Motare.” The man froze, and then floated up in to the air. “…He always was a fool.”

Harry blinked. “…Didn’t you hire him, sir?”

“The Board of Governors did, over my objections. Mr Malfoy had a hand in that, I believe. I will have to inform them of these events, although I will keep your name out of it. I will also,” Dumbledore sighed again, “have to send for Healers from St Mungo’s. Poppy is quite capable of seeing to your care, however.”

As he spoke, Dumbledore gently pulled Harry along, letting the child lean against him as they plodded along, their gait a bit unsteady due to the lingering effects of the basilisk venom. After a few steps, Harry paused to sheathe Fragarach, a little belatedly. Lockhart bobbed along in the air behind them.

“Fragarach seems to like you, so, as it belongs to me personally rather than to the Hogwarts Foundation, I will be loaning it to you. It will be put in your vault at Gringott’s, should you need it in the future; be aware, however, that misuse will result in my withdrawing the loan.”

Harry blinked. After a moment, they said, “Isn’t it a highly valuable historical artefact, sir…?”

“It is, but it’s meant to be used, Mx Lupin, not put on display somewhere for people to stare at and yearn for. More than that…it may be powerful enough to destroy horcruces.”

As the trio ascended the staircase, Dumbledore snapped his fingers, and a peculiar stillness settled around them. “Cone of silence,” he explained when Harry paused, tilting their head curiously. “After Poppy sees to your arm, I’ll want you to destroy the diary—if I’m right, you’ll need to thrust Fragarach in to it, as if you were going to embed it in to the ground. Don’t actually do that, by the way; it won’t dull Fragarach because it’s a magical sword, but it will dull lesser blades.”

Madam Pomfrey, when they reached the Hospital Wing, muttered quite a few bad words under her breath—Harry thought they recognised some of them, like ‘drek’, the Yiddish word for ‘shit’—as Harry was transferred to leaning on her. She sat Harry down on a nearby cot and inspected the site where the basilisk’s fang had punctured their arm. (Harry noticed, vaguely, that the sword belt, and Fragarach, had somehow disappeared between exiting Myrtle’s toilet and reaching the Hospital Wing.)

“You’re extremely lucky, Harry,” she said after a moment. “If Fawkes hadn’t been there to shed tears for you, you would very likely have been dead within five minutes. As it is, phoenix tears aren’t a perfect antivenin—the basilisk’s venom will linger for a while; I’m assuming you’re feeling lethargic?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said. Slurred, really, but she pretended that she hadn’t noticed.

“That should fade in a few hours. However, there will be some lasting consequences,” Madam Pomfrey continued. “The wound site will be numb, and you may experience occasional tingling in your right arm, as though it had fallen asleep and then woken up. It will also be weaker than your left arm, though by how much remains to be seen. Now, what I want you to do for right now is take a nap for an hour; I’ll wake you, if you don’t wake yourself.”

Madam Pomfrey made a moue of distaste. “In the meantime, I’m going to triage Mr Lockhart. Albus said he tried to obliviate you and that it bounced off your protego shield—excellent work on that, by the way; not many witches your age are able to reflect spells—and hit him in the face.”

She shook her head, then sighed and conjured a set of curtains around the cot as she stood up. She pointed her wand at Harry’s blood-drenched tail and muttered a tergere. It felt to Harry like a wave of hot, soapy water flooded their fur and then vanished, leaving their tail dry and fluffy—and smelling faintly like raspberries. She repeated it on their head, with similar results. “Anyway, I’ll see you in a bit, pup,” she said as she slipped out between the curtains.

Harry undressed after Madam Pomfrey left, and lay down as she’d instructed. They tried to sleep, but found themselves unable to, thoughts whirling around in their head, as they overheard her triaging Lockhart.

“…Unfortunately, it appears that he has an extensive history of sustained use of the Memory-Editing Charm, with blatant disregard for the consequences to himself and his victims. He may never fully recover from his accidental self-obliviation… although, if he does, he’ll be up on charges since he doesn’t have a licence to cast the spell…”

Harry’s eyes closed a moment later, and they slept.

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey and Myf were sitting on stools next to the cot when Harry woke up an hour later. They blinked and sat up, the lethargy they’d been feeling before they slept having dissipated. “Hey, Myf. Hey, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Feeling better, pup?” Madam Pomfrey asked warmly. At Harry’s nod, she stood and walked over, inspecting their arm again.

“All right. Don’t try to lift anything over nine kilogrammes with your right arm for a week or two, Mx Lupin; after that, just take it easy. Any dizziness or lightheadedness, nausea, heart palpitations or racing…?”

“N-no, I feel fine,” Harry said after a moment’s thought. “Does that mean I’ll get to leave today?”

“Indeed. Incidentally, Miss Ginevra said she wanted to talk to you about something, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was, and said that you’d likely know. And…Pomona said the mandrakes will be ready in a few more weeks.”

They nodded, then asked, “So…what’s going to happen with Mr Lockhart? If you can tell me, I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t legally tell you without his permission, which…he is no longer legally able to give. Anyway, Miss Weasley and I will step out and you can dress.” Madam Pomfrey indicated a fresh set of clothing on the night-stand next to the cot, and the clothing they’d shed earlier had vanished. “I’m afraid the clothes you came in wearing had to be incinerated—getting mundane blood out of clothing is hard. Getting basilisk blood out of clothing is pretty much impossible.”

When Harry stepped out of the curtains, Dumbledore was standing next to Myf, looking grave. “Good afternoon, Mx Lupin. I shan’t be taking up any more of your time today, but please see me in my office on the Sunday, when you return from Hogsmeade.”

“Of course, sir,” Harry said. “Um…”

“You can discuss the affair with Mlles¹ Weasley and Granger, and Mr Longbottom, as well as your uncles, but please refrain from discussing it around anyone else.”

Harry nodded, and Dumbledore gave them a grandfatherly smile. “Have a lovely weekend. Off you pop.”

Ginny was waiting for them when Harry and Myf got back to the Common Room. She waved them over, seeming almost cheerful for the first time in several months. When they sat down next to her, she gave Harry a shy smile.

“So, um…” she said quietly—almost too quietly, Myf had to strain to hear her—then she blushed and cleared her throat, and her voice came out more strongly. “Um. Professor Dumbledore told me I should, um…try to tell you about the… the… oh, Nimue’s tits…”

Harry reached over to grasp one of Ginny’s hands and gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s okay, Ginny. I’m guessing the diary futzed with your head?”

She nodded. “Yeah… I’m not sure how much I can actually talk about…it. It… It…” Ginny sighed with exasperation.

“Would it help if we spoke Ophisomilia¹?”

Ginny blinked. “I… I thought this ability was tied to the diary.”

“Nope. The diary just took advantage of a trait you already had. Myf can speak Ophisomilia too.” Harry smiled gently. “And apparently the, um…geas? the diary set was focused on English, because you just named it.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Wow, I did, didn’t I? Right, so. The diary forbade me to talk about it and what I did while under its control, and so on. I… I was responsib—”

“No, Ginny, you were not. Not for any of it,” Harry said, reverting to English as they spoke firmly. “The diary was using you. The responsibility, the fault, is not yours. You didn’t know any better, couldn’t have known any better. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Ginny nodded, tearing up, and she moved to join Harry, hugging them and burying her face in their shoulder as she began to cry. They held her close, gently rubbing her back. “Shh… It’s okay, Ginny. It’s okay…”

After a few more moments, she sniffled, and sounded just a little underwater. “I… thank you. I figured you’d react that way, pup, but…”

“My only comment,” Myf said mildly, “is that Dad’s always reminding us to not trust thinking things when you don’t know where they keep their brains. But”—she raised a finger to forestall Ginny as she opened her mouth—“But, everyone makes mistakes. It’s a learning experience, that’s all. Everyone survived intact…well, except maybe Lockhart, but he, um…was hoist by his own pétard, apparently.”

Ginny sat back, snorting a little snottily at that. “What do you mean?”

“She means,” Harry said, a touch of smug satisfaction in their voice, “that he tried to obliviate me and I reflected it back at him. So, let me tell you what happened…”

When they finished, Ginny and Myf were both staring at him. “Dumbledore is loaning you Fragarach?!” Myf exclaimed. “That’s one of Ireland’s national treasures!”

“I know. I’m…I won’t pretend I’m happy about him owning the sword and loaning it to me, but…I kind of get the feeling that I’m going to need it. But… Hogwarts doesn’t teach swordsmanship, which means I’d need to find a private tutor—I probably should anyway, in case I need to use another blade. Besides which, if it’s in my vault, it won’t be to hand if I need it. Hmph.”

Myf nodded. “Yeah. It’s not like you can carry a weapon here anyway—it’s against school rules, and technically Dumbledore shouldn’t have armed you, et cetera.”

“He shouldn’t have involved me to begin with,” Harry snapped, then sighed and raised a hand. “Sorry. It’s just…this is the second time he’s dragged me in to a problem and had me solve it. Granted, he needed an Ophistoma, and Myf could have done it, but…”

Myf shook her head. “Don’t apologise, you’re right to be peeved. Honestly, I don’t think I could have handled it as well as you did. The chess game last year? It was nerve-wracking, but I knew what I was about. The basilisk, though…?”

Harry snorted. “Eh. Well. As frustrated as I am about having to do the dirty work again…I honestly don’t think I’d have done any differently if we had to do it over.”

Ginny grasped Harry’s left hand and gave it a little squeeze. “I would. But…thank you, pup. If you hadn’t taken…it…to Professor Dumbledore without me finding it again, things would have gotten a lot worse.” She grimaced, and added, in Ophisomilia, “The diary mentioned several times that it hoped to drain me dry. I’m glad it never got the chance to get that far.”

“Me too,” Harry said. Myf added, “Same.”

When Harry entered Dumbledore’s office, a few days later, Dumbledore was standing at a table, with the diary in front of him and Fragarach in its sheath a few feet away on the table. He looked up at them, and Harry’s tail stilled. “Good afternoon, sir,” they said.

“Good afternoon, Mx Lupin. Doing well, I trust?” He pulled Fragarach over, then turned to face Harry.

“Fairly,” Harry said agreeably, then tilted their head. “So…I’m guessing today is ‘stab a book’ day?”

“Yes, but in a moment,” Dumbledore said. “First, I owe you an apology. Slaying the basilisk should never have fallen to you. Secondly…” He sighed, gesturing for Harry to follow him as he moved over to the lounge and sat.

Harry sat on a hassock, tilting their head. “Secondly…?”

“Secondly, you are a horcrux, I’m…fairly certain,” Dumbledore said quietly. He sounded pensive, in fact. “You see, the process of creating a horcrux involves murder. It’s not particular as to how, as long as it happens within the hour. Somehow, when Voldemort tried to kill you, he left part of himself inside you. I’m not sure he meant to—it’s possible he’s not even aware of it yet—but it does mean there’s a connection between you and him.”

Harry gulped, and nodded, their tail swishing slowly. “What does that mean, exactly, sir?”

“It means,” Dumbledore sighed heavily, “that while you are still alive, he cannot truly die, and while he is still alive…neither can you, as long as that connection remains. I would have preferred to keep this to myself, but your uncles came by yesterday and gave me quite the earful while you and Mlles[¹]][#fn1] Weasley were spending time with Miss Granger.”

Harry tried not to giggle, but a titter managed to escape before they were able to resist the urge. Dumbledore looked a little chagrined, but not, Harry thought, displeased.

“They, in fact, made it very clear that keeping secrets from you was bound to do you more harm than good. Among, ahem, other things. So. It is my intention to set aside some time each week for private tutoring, though it will take some few weeks for me to establish a suitable curriculum—so we’ll begin in September. It will be quite eclectic—I don’t quite know what all you’d need to, but that’s life for you: full of surprises.”

Harry nodded, eyes wide. “So, um…I’ve been meaning to ask, sir…”

“Yes…?”

“What’s ‘theriopsychia’?”

Dumbledore blinked. After a moment, he said, “A great gift, according to some. A great curse, to others. It means, Mx Lupin, that you possess the potential to shapeshift like Mr Lupin at will, rather than as the full moon commands. It’s rare in the magical world but, unlike a lot of magical gifts, it is not a condition that only witches can be born with. Most theriopsychics never develop past the yearnings, but only the ones who do are witches. I have heard that some liken—pardon the pun—it to traditional, moon-bound lycanthropy, as theriopsychia shares a lot of traits in common with it. Magic resistance, bleed-through traits, mannerisms, physical characteristics…I’m sure you’ve noticed the bleed-through traits by now; the onset of puberty is usually a developmental trigger.”

Harry blinked and nodded. “Um…yeah. Heightened senses, particularly hearing and smell, colourblindness, and according to Uncle Remus my irises have grown.”

Dumbledore nodded back. “Well, there you go, then.”

After a short pause, Harry asked, “So…how did I come to be one?”

“That’s an excellent question, and while it’s possible to make someone theriopsychic before they’re born, it’s impossible to tell them apart from the naturally-occurring sort. It was, however, a not-uncommon ritual back before the Christianisation of the Isles, and your mother was rather fond of ancient magic. If her notes survived her, they may hold some clues. Anyway, let’s go, as you said, stab a book.”

Dumbledore stood up again, and handed Fragarach to Harry as the two of them moved back over to the table where the diary sat.

“Unsheathe it and position it, point down, over the diary,” he instructed, and Harry moved to obey, setting the sheath down next to the diary. Dumbledore scooped it up. “Now, stab down, hard as you can, and do not stop pushing it down. Don’t worry about the table.”

As Harry stabbed down with all of their might, the diary seemed to scream, Fragarach penetrating through it and in to the table after quite a bit of force was applied. Ink welled up out of the wound, bubbling fitfully, and spread across the cover. And then, as suddenly as it began, the diary fell silent and ceased to ‘bleed’ ink.

Dumbledore pulled out his wand and flicked it wordlessly, then sighed in relief. “Good. You can pull Fragarach out now.”

Harry did so, putting their right hand down to keep the diary in place. The ink hadn’t vanished, and ended up staining their fingers by the time they’d managed to free the sword. Dumbledore flicked his wand again, and a cascade of warm, soapy water seemed to flow over their hand before vanishing and leaving it dry and unstained, along with Fragarach’s blade. Dumbledore held out the scabbard, and Harry carefully sheathed the sword.

“All right. That’s all for today, Mx Lupin. I appreciate your assistance.”

Harry nodded. “Of course, sir,” they said, and offered a small wave as they left.

The next few weeks were hectic with revision and, in Harry’s case, Quadball practice. Hermione was excited by the news that the Cisfiguration Concoction would be brewed soon, and in general things were looking up. The student body was blissfully unaware that the monster in the Chamber of Secrets had been slain, but did know that Myrtle’s toilet had finally been sealed entirely. Rumours flew about precisely why, but nobody approached the truth, and as time passed other matters came to occupy the discourse du jour.

On 14 May, Harry was summoned to Dumbledore’s office. As they entered, they were aware of harsh voices coming from above. Or rather, one harsh voice—the other one was quieter and more serene, and familiar.

As they climbed up to the second tier, it became clear who the harsh voice belonged to: Lucius Malfoy. And standing next to him, looking frightened and seriously battered, was Dobby. Harry blinked.

“What I want to know, Dumbledore,” Mr Malfoy was saying, “is how it came to be that the attacks stopped. Surely you know who the culprit was…?”

“I do, yes,” Dumbledore said, unflappably.

“And…? Who is it?” Mr Malfoy demanded.

“The same person as last time, Lucius. But this time, Lord Voldemort was working through someone else. By means of this diary.” Dumbledore held up a small black book with a gaping wound in its centre, his attention focused on Mr Malfoy. Harry’s attention was, however, focused on someone else. Dobby was gesturing toward the diary, then Mr Malfoy, and lastly miming being struck repeatedly.

“I see…” Mr Malfoy said slowly.

“A clever plan,” Dumbledore said in a level voice, his gaze locked to Mr Malfoy. “Because if Harry here”—Mr Malfoy shot Harry a quick, fulminating glare before turning his attention back to Dumbledore—“and their friend Myfanwy hadn’t discovered this book, why—Ginevra Weasley might have taken all the blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she hadn’t acted of her own free will…”

Mr Malfoy said nothing, but his face suddenly bore a very neutral expression.

“And imagine what might have happened then,” Dumbledore went on. “The Weasleys are one of our most prominent pureblood families. Imagine the effect on Arthur Weasley and his Mundane Protection Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and killing mundane-borns. Very fortunate the diary was discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who knows what the consequences might have been otherwise…”

Mr Malfoy managed to say, stiffly, “Very fortunate.”

Harry, meanwhile, nodded at Dobby—they’d gotten the hob’s message. Dobby backed in to a corner, cowering.

“Don’t you want to know how Ginny got hold of that diary, Mr Malfoy?” Harry asked.

The look of cold fury on Lucius Malfoy’s face when he rounded on them almost—almost—made Harry flee, but they stood their ground, shuddering visibly, as Mr Malfoy said, “How should I know how the stupid little brat got hold of it?”

“Because you gave it to her,” Harry said, fear evident on their face as they stood resolute. “In Flourish and Blotts. You picked up her used Transfiguration text and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t you.”

Mr Malfoy’s pale hands clenched and unclenched. “Prove it,” he hissed.

“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” Dumbledore said mildly, “not now that Mr Riddle’s vanished from the book. On the other hand, I would advise you, Lucius, not to go giving out any more of Lord Voldemort’s old school things. If any more of them find their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back to you…”

Mr Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry distinctly saw his right hand twitch as if he were going to go for his wand. Instead, he turned to his hob. “We’re going, Dobby!”

He stormed down the stairs and wrenched open the door, and as the hob came hurrying up to him, he kicked Dobby through it. They could hear Dobby’s pained yelping all the way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment, thinking hard. Then an idea struck.

“Sir, may I give that diary back to Mr Malfoy, please?”

“Certainly,” Dumbledore said, “but hurry—you need to catch them up before they leave the building.”

Harry grabbed the diary and rushed out of the office, pausing only to remove a sock—it was one of the paw socks Myf had made them—and put their shoe back on. They stuffed the diary in to the sock and resumed running after Mr Malfoy, finally catching up to him at the stairs.

“Mr Malfoy,” they panted, “I’ve got something for you.”

And then Harry pressed the sock in to Mr Malfoy’s hand.

“What the—?” Mr Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it aside, then looked furiously from the book to Harry, who managed, barely, not to flinch away.

“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Mister Potter,” Mr Malfoy growled. “They were meddlesome fools too.”

He turned to go. “Come, Dobby.”

There was a pause. “I said, come.”

But the hob didn’t move. He was holding up Harry’s paw sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure. “Master has given Dobby a sock,” he said in wonderment. “Master gave it to Dobby.”

Mr Malfoy spun. “What’s that?” he spat. “What did you say?”

“Dobby has got a sock,” the hob said, still sounding awed. “Master threw it, and Dobby caught it, and Dobby—Dobby is free!”

Mr Malfoy stared at the hob for a moment. Then he turned and lunged at Harry. “You’ve lost me my servant, boy!”

But Dobby said, in an iron voice that carried, “You shall not harm Wulfrún Lupin.”

There was a loud bang, and Mr Malfoy was flung backwards, tumbling down the staircase that had been behind him, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing below. He got up, his face twisted with fury, and pulled out his wand. Dobby raised a claw-tipped finger.

“You shall go now,” he called down, pointing that finger at Mr Malfoy. “You shall not touch Wulfrún Lupin. You shall go now.”

Mr Malfoy had no choice. He gave Harry and Dobby one last fulminating glare, which Harry allowed themself to flinch away from, then spun and hurried out of sight.

“Many apologies for not asking before what name you preferred around him,” Dobby said quietly. “Dobby owes you life debt for freeing me.”

Harry sighed. “I assume that means you talked to Kreacher at least once between your visit on Christmas and today.”

“Dobby did, yes. Had to shut hands in hot oven when Dobby came home.”

Harry winced. “Eh, whatever. I was going to come out soon anyway. C’mon, let’s get you down to the Hospital Wing…”

Madam Pomfrey was waiting for them. How she knew when they’d turn up, Harry was never quite sure, but she didn’t even bat an eye as Harry gently nudged Dobby forward. “You’re safe now, Dobby. Mr Malfoy can’t hit you or order you to punish yourself ever again,” they said. Dobby’s eyes watered, and he turned to bury his face in Harry’s school robes as he cried.

The next day, the Cisfiguration Concoctions were finally ready. Harry, Myf, Neville, and Ginny were given leave to sit with Hermione, who’d been moved back to the main dorm of the Hospital Wing. Mr Filch looked as dour as ever as Madam Pomfrey readied the doses, carefully calibrating them to the mass of each victim. She delivered Mrs Norris’s dose first, as she had been petrified the longest, then paused.

“Since Mx Lupin and Miss Granger have demonstrated that she and Mr Creevey are awake and aware, I want you two to, once you start to be able to move, inhale as deeply as you are able, and hold it until you can’t any longer, then try to let it out slowly. Your lungs are going to need a few seconds to get moving again, and if you don’t do that, you will not like the consequences.”

Hermione’s wand flashed an acknowledgement. Creevey hadn’t had the experience or sheer nerdery Hermione did, so he wasn’t able to respond. She delivered the doses to them, and they both did as she said. It was only about two minutes before they were both sitting up. Creevey’s movements were jerky, as though his body were resisting orders, but he seemed to be alert and coherent. Hermione, on the other hand…

“Um,” Hermione said, looking around, then raised her hands to her eyes, fumbling around a bit as if trying to find a blindfold that wasn’t there. “I… I can’t see anything. Did someone turn out the lights or something…?”

Chapter Text

Harry, Myf, Ginny, and Neville stared at her, stunned.

“No…it’s…about nine in the morning, Hermione,” Harry said. They gently took the hand nearest to them (the left, as it turned out) and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m here, and so are Myf, Ginny, and Neville. Whatever help you need, we’ll make sure you get. I swear this on my word as Potter.”

“Stood by me, Hermione. Be churl if didn’t you,” Neville said. His hand joined Harry’s.

“We’re friends, Hermione,” Myf said. “We’ll read for you, tell you about landmarks, all sorts. Whatever you need.”

Ginny paused, then said quietly, “It’s not over until the Fat Lady sings, Hermione, and the orchestra hasn’t even finished tuning up. Sure, you’re blind now, and that sucks. That sucks a lot. But it’s not the end. Learning how to be independent while blind is gonna be hard, but you can do it.”

Hermione sniffled, then grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled them close, crying in to their shoulder as they hugged each other, mourning the loss of the most important sense she’d had.

After a while, she pulled away, sniffling some more. “Yeah…you’re right, Ginny. It’s not the end. And I refuse to let it be.”

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. “All right. Hermione, I’m going to run some diagnostic spells—just medicare gnosis and nutricis gnosis, and we’ll go on from there. Petrification can result in nerve damage, which can in some cases be healed, but I won’t know for sure what the situation is until I run those diagnostics. Which means you four”—she gestured to Harry, Myf, Ginny, and Neville—“need to step out in to the lobby. Once I’m done, you can come back.”

They nodded and did as they were told, each gently patting one of Hermione’s hands before they left.

Madam Pomfrey winced as she read the report from medicare gnosis, a few minutes later. “So it’s looking like the optic nerves were, hm, burned out almost entirely. Modern Healing can do a lot, but that is unfortunately beyond our capabilities, and mundane medicine won’t be able to do much better, from what I understand of it.”

“Fuck. Um.” Hermione blushed. “Pardon my French.”

“Entirely understandable. If you have any other four-letter words lurking in there, might as well get them out; I shan’t comment.”

After Hermione said some more rather choice words (Madam Pomfrey offered some suggestions) and subsided, Madam Pomfrey continued, “So. First things first. No exams; this is a qualifying exemption. I know you’re disappointed, but you’ll need to catch up even with Harry and Myf taking the time to try to keep you current. Second, as you were injured at Hogwarts, we will foot the bill for any and all medical expenses incurred, including the acquisition of accessibility aids, independent skills training, and so on. None of that burden will fall on you, and you will get the best care we can command.”

Madam Pomfrey paused. “In fact… One moment, please.” She swished her wand. “Missiculum, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. Albus and Minerva, please come down to the Hospital Wing at your earliest convenience. We have an issue to address.”

Hermione’s new lessons began the following Monday. She’d been moved in to the room she’d occupied whilst she was petrified, and so that’s where she was when Élodie Rivers came calling. The iron-haired Black woman knocked on the door, waiting for Hermione’s “Come in!” before doing just that.

“Good morning, Madame Granger, I am Élodie Rivers,” she said with an African French accent as she came in. “I will be your cane travel instructor.”

“Hi, Élodie,” Hermione said, tilting her head a bit in subconscious imitation of Harry to try to tell where the woman was.

“I am standing over here,” Élodie said, and she held out her hand. “And I am holding my hand out ahead of you and to your left. A little higher.”

As Hermione’s hand found Élodie’s, they shook, and she released it and pulled a stool over. “So, I am told that you suffered severe nerve damage caused by a basilisk’s gaze, which had petrified you. Do you have any vision at all?”

Hermione thought about it. “I can tell when there’s a bright light, but that’s about it.”

“All right, so no functional vision. I have brought with me several styles of white cane today. We will not practise using all of them, but the main difference between them is the tip and the length. Ideally, your cane should be long enough to give you two or three paces’ advance notice of what is ahead of you, so that you have time to stop even when you are walking briskly, and the choice of tip is personal preference. Some of my clients prefer a metal tip and two-tap. Some of my clients prefer a ball tip, and sweep ahead of them. As long as you are able to determine what you are walking on and you can find obstacles with your cane before you find them with your feet, that is what matters.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Hermione hedged. “So how does that work, exactly?”

“Well, with the two-tap method, the way the cane vibrates when you tap the floor tells you what the surface is like: grass or concrete or something else, whether it’s soft, et cetera.” Élodie demonstrated, tapping on the bare stone with a metal-tipped cane accompanied by a soft “un, deux”, then tapping on the rug next to Hermione’s bed with a second soft “un, deux”. “What did you notice was different?”

“Well…tapping on the stone was a loud ‘thwack’ for each tap, whilst tapping on the rug was more of a soft ‘thunk’…?”

“Bon, yes. Sweeping, on the other hand, you can hear the surface audibly as the tip rolls or scrapes across it, and unlike the two-tap method you will find every single crack or uneven surface, guaranteed. It also degrades the tip faster than the two-tap method, and ball tips are several times heavier than metal tips.”

Hermione nodded. “All right… I think here at Hogwarts I’d prefer to sweep rather than tap; the floor’s visibly uneven in places. Or, um. It was when I could see, anyway.”

“Yes, and I am glad you have noticed that. Most sighted people don’t, so it often falls upon blind people to point it out. So, there are several ways of teaching cane travel skills; the one I prefer, which was developed by and for blind people, is called ‘structured discovery’, and a big part of it is critical thinking skills and problem-solving. Now, do you know what direction is north?”

Hermione hesitated, then pointed. “This direction…?” She wasn’t quite sure how she could tell, since she had no landmarks to work with, but…

“That is…absolutely correct. Let me ask you this: how did you know?”

“I’m…not sure? I just thought about it for a second, and that felt right, somehow.” Hermione shrugged helplessly.

“Interesting. Some people have an innate directional sense and so don’t need a compass to navigate in absolute terms, and it appears that you are one of them. So, we know north. Where is south?”

Hermione pointed the opposite direction.

“Fantastique. And that means you also know east and we—well, of course you do. Clever girl. So, I am going to give you a cane and then I am going to show you how to hold it. There are a variety of grips, and for the most part they all work, but the style I prefer has the benefit of causing the cane to slide vertically when it is stopped by an obstacle, instead of jabbing you in the stomach. Nobody likes being jabbed, right?”

“Right,” Hermione said. She stood and held her hand out, and Élodie nodded. “All right, we are going to start with a ball tip…”

Hermione heard the clattering of canes hitting one another, a sound that was distinctly uncomfortable, but it soon came to an end, and Élodie gently pushed a cane in to her hand.

“All right, so the first grip we are going to talk about is called the pencil grip. Why do you think that might be?”

“Because you hold it like a pencil, kinda?” Hermione held the cane in her hand in that manner.

“Bon, yes. It is great for crowded areas, where you’re going to be moving slowly anyway, because it’s not going to trip anyone. More than that, it is also useful for finding things along a wall or door, like if you are trying to find a door knob. May I touch your hand?”

“Sure.”

Élodie’s hands touched Hermione’s cane-gripping hand and gently nudged it until her hand was palm-up, her fingers spread, and the handle of the cane rested between her index and middle fingers, with her forearm parallel to the floor.

“This is the grip I was talking about before. You will twitch the cane left or right with your thumb, and because it is not a firm grip, if you encounter an obstacle, like an unexpected wall, or uneven pavement, your cane will slide up.”

“Makes sense,” Hermione said, nodding. “So…I guess now I learn how to navigate?”

“Juste, correct,” Élodie said.

The rest of the lesson was smooth sailing, and Hermione was a quick learner. By the time their time was up for the day, she was comfortable navigating her room and was even venturing out in to the Hospital Wing’s main room, albeit slowly.

Braille was…not harder, exactly, since Hermione was first learning the alphabet on a wooden block, then practising writing with a slate and stylus. The “slate” was actually a hinged piece of metal, with holes on one flap and divoted metal on the other. Each hole corresponded with a Braille cell, and the divots corresponded with the dots. What took some getting used to was that writing Braille this way was essentially backwards from how it was read. By lunch time, Hermione had learned the alphabet and basic punctuation, and was practising reading and writing by making up sentences and then reading them back.

After lunch, which was made substantially easier than it might have been by being pre-prepared sandwiches and crisps, Hermione’s next lesson was organisational. She’d always considered herself neat and tidy, but as she could no longer use her traditional practise of colour-coding, she was given a box of adhesive-backed materials in various textures (she fished out the ones whose textures were sensory hell and gave them back) and styles (including bump dots in several sizes), as well as safety pins and plastic label tape, and an embossing labeller.

Her last lesson of the day was a curveball. One of the unused classrooms near the Hospital Wing had been turned, temporarily, in to a carpenter’s shop—because electric devices didn’t work in Hogwarts, it was all muscle-powered tools, but Hermione learned how to take apart and put together a doorknob, how to disassemble and reassemble the mechanical bits inside a toilet tank, and more.

“I’m…actually kinda surprised,” she said to Ansel Hannity, the carpenter. “I wouldn’t have figured learning how to be blind in the magical world would involve so many mundane skills, especially here.” Hermione gestured at the classroom around her.

“Well,” Ansel said, “it’s like this: Ye need knowin’ all o’ this, on account o’ if’n ye live alone ye cannae get a sighted person doin’ it, ye ken?”

Hermione nodded. “…That’s a fair point. And magical Britain, for all that it’s socially a bit behind…sometimes a fair bit behind…still has flush toilets and door knobs and all the other minutiae of modern life, even here at Hogwarts.”

“Aye, that is ’e way o’t, lassie. So, A want ye tae think aboot what ye’re awantin tae mak for yer project. Dinnae wirry aboot ’e cost, Hogwarts is peyin.”

Hermione thought about it. “…Y’know, I’m not actually sure. I’ll try to have something for you by the time we finish making the wooden Braille cell, how’s that sound?”

“Guid. Och, an on yer way, lassie, that’s ’e bell.” And so it was; that was the dinner bell.

And so, for the remainder of term, Hermione fought to regain her independence, throwing her considerable determination and energy in to learning how to be successful as a blind person. It was hard, and sometimes she wanted to just sit down and cry, but she wasn’t alone. Harry, Myf, Neville, and Ginny stopped by whenever they had free time, and she was back in Gryffindor Tower within a week.

Of her lessons, only carpentry wouldn’t be following her home, but that was all right. The point of that class wasn’t to learn how to make things out of wood, it was to gain confidence in her ability to perform work without vision, and it was definitely successful in that. What she’d be doing over the summer holidays at home was instead learning how to do household chores without vision: cooking, washing dishes, sweeping and mopping the floor, laundry, and all sorts.

Chapter Text

20 May

Harry woke at six, as they usually did, and found a note on their night-stand. Like the previous year, they were excused from classes for the day due to it being Lag BaOmer. After their usual morning routine, Harry waited in the Entrance Hall for Sirius, Xenia scurrying about within the boundary dictated by the length of the lead in Harry’s hand.

“Ready, pup?” Sirius asked as he entered the Hall from the main door. Harry nodded, and they exited together. Xenia scurried ahead, chittering her excitement as she explored the grounds. Several times along the way to the clearing, her meanderings almost entangled Harry, but they just giggled at her antics and recovered by passing the lead from hand to hand as needed.

“Bonfire and singing, right?” Harry asked. Their tail had been wagging the entire time, and they kept reminding themself to keep an eye on the environment so they didn’t get ‘happy tail’ syndrome.

“Yup. Remus brought a tambourine this time, so it won’t just be the guitar.”

“Oh, cool. Maybe I should learn an instrument I can play with my hands so I can sing and play at the same time…”

“There are plenty of options. Anything in particular catch your fancy?”

Harry thought about it, occasionally reining Xenia in to make sure she didn’t get caught in anything. “…I dunno. Guitar, maybe? I want something I can carry with me.”

“Mmm. I’d suggest a ukulele, actually. A soprano’d be a good fit for you, and the skills would transfer to an acoustic guitar if you decide you want to play one later.” Sirius gestured with his hands, sketching the approximate length of the instrument (fifty-three centimetres). “Moreover, an acoustic would be almost as long as you are tall, which would make it impractical.”

“Oh.” Harry looked thoughtful, then after a moment, they added, “…Yeah, I think a ukulele would be better.”

4 June

At breakfast, an owl delivered a copy of the Daily Prophet to Harry at the Little High Table. They tipped the owl with a knut, as it seemed to be expecting, and unrolled the paper.

Harry stared at the front page headline. Then they closed their eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. Nope. The headline hadn’t changed.

Werewolf At Hogwarts — Is Your Child Safe?

“Um. Uncle Remus…” they said, handing the paper to him.

When Remus saw the headline, he looked ill. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “Oh, shit…” He passed it on to Madam Pomfrey, and as it made its way around the Little High Table, Hermione, Neville, Myf, and Ginny were also horrified. (Myf had read the title for Hermione.)

Across the Great Hall, Harry could see Malfoy smirking like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. Professor Snape stood up abruptly—apparently he’d just opened his own copy of the Prophet—and stalked along behind the High Table until he reached the Little High Table, and from the neutral expression on his face and the fury in his eyes, Harry could tell he wasn’t pleased by the news, either.

“Remus,” Snape said quietly, “I want you to know that I had no part in this. We’ve had our differences, but I was and remain willing to leave them in the past for the sake of a working professional relationship. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about this. He broke no school rules, and his father remains on the Board of Governors.”

Remus nodded. “I understand, Severus. And I appreciate your candour.”

Snape nodded back, and stalked off again.

“Well,” Remus said quietly. “If I resign, maybe the loss of my career is the only consequence I’ll face…”

“…What others are you thinking about, Uncle Remus?” Harry asked worriedly. They looked like they were on the verge of tears as it was, and Remus sighed and pulled them in to a hug.

“It’s entirely possible that the Ministry will arrest me. Chiara too, probably, if they know or suspect…”

When Harry pulled away, they noticed there was a crowd of students forming near the Little High Table, murmuring amongst themselves. At some unseen signal, students began to break off in ones and twos, sometimes even threes, to walk up and talk to Remus. Each and every one of them expressed their support, whatever the Daily Prophet had to say, as he’d been—in their words—a brilliant Self Defence instructor.

Remus blinked, at first stunned to realise so many students liked him and wanted him to stay, and then he thanked them, each and every one. By the time breakfast ended, he’d made up his mind to stay as long as he was able, instead of resigning as he’d originally been thinking.

Unfortunately, merely because his students liked him didn’t mean the general public did. As June wore on, the Daily Prophet stoked anti-werewolf sentiment on a near-daily basis, clamouring for the Ministry to take action. And so, finally, it did.

18 June

Five aurors came in to the Entrance Hall just after lunch began, each carrying a thin coil of silver chain. Dumbledore was waiting for them, a neutral expression on his face as he stood in the centre of the room.

“We are here,” the auror at the head of the group said to him, “to arrest Mr Lupin. Bring him forth.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Dumbledore said, a note of warning in his voice. “He has served admirably throughout the year, and no student has been harmed due to his actions.”

“You know better than that, Headmaster,” the man responded. “His presence here is in violation of the Werewolf Control Act. Failing to surrender him, as I’m sure you are aware, may result in charges being filed against you as well.”

Dumbledore looked around the room. “That’s odd, I don’t see any members of the Crown Prosecution Service,” he said mildly. “And your power of arrest is limited to specified persons while on the premises, and only I or a justice duly appointed by the Wizengamot may make such specifications. So if you want to arrest me, you will have to petition, ah, me, Landreau.”

Landreau ground his teeth. Just then, Remus and Harry walked out of the Great Hall. The aurors turned to them.

“Remus John Lupin, Warden of House Lupin and Warden Regent of House Potter,” Landreau said, his voice all but shouting his disgust and loathing, “You are under arrest for the crimes of being an unregistered werewolf, for being within two thousand metres of a school, and for child endangerment.”

“I reiterate, Landreau, that you don’t want to do this,” Dumbledore said.

Landreau just snorted and looked disgusted. “This is my job, Headmaster.”

Harry looked at the aurors, then Remus, and finally Dumbledore, and began to mutter to themself. Remus wasn’t quite sure what they were saying, but four of the aurors moved to encircle him, having uncoiled the silver chains they were bearing, ready to bind Remus. He raised his hands, offering no resistance as they closed in.

“No!” Harry shouted, suddenly, fear and anger and pain mingling in their voice. The aurors paused, looking at the young child for a moment before they continued to close in on Remus.

“You can’t do this! You can’t…!” Harry’s voice grew louder as they protested again, but this time the aurors didn’t stop; they just ignored Harry as they began to bind Remus with their silver chains.

As Harry continued to protest, their words transmuted into a wordless scream, and then into a lupine howl of pain and fury, and the aurors stopped entirely and stared at them. Harry had fallen to the ground, where they were writhing, howling as their body changed. Bones popped sickeningly as they rearranged themselves and lengthened or shortened, altering Harry’s body away from its natal humanity. Blunt claws popped out of their reshaped digits, their teeth sharpened or elongated or grew as their jaws lengthened, and their robes strained and then tore, fur sprouting all over their now-naked body as the child became a wolf.

The howling stopped. Amidst tattered and torn clothing, a yearling wolf stood before them, fangs bared, and they growled as fury and grief radiated from them in almost palpable waves. The wolf was a rust-brown colour so dark as to be almost black, with forest-green eyes that gleamed menacingly as they stared at the aurors.

“Let. My. Uncle. Go.” Harry’s voice was distorted, coming as it did from a mouth that was much bigger and held far more tongue and teeth than a human’s, but it was still recognisably theirs. The aurors paled, looking to their leader.

“We have a job, gentlemen, and you’re werewolf hunters, yes? Is that not a werewolf?” Landreau said, scowling at his men.

“But sir, he transformed during th—” one began.

“I can see that, you block. That is still a werewolf,” Landreau snarled back.

“That, I’m afraid, is where you’re wrong,” Dumbledore said. “Mr Lupin, yes. Mx Lupin”—here he emphasised Harry’s salutation—“is theriopsychic. The Werewolf Control Act does not, therefore, apply to Mx Lupin.”

Landreau sighed. “Semantics. The boy turned in to a wolf and isn’t an Animagus. If that’s not lycanthropy, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Mx Lupin is not infectious. They can’t make more of themself, even by reproduction. Theriopsychia doesn’t work that way.” Dumbledore gave the leader a penetrating stare. Harry, for their part, hadn’t stopped growling.

Landreau sighed again. “Fuck. I did not need this. We haven’t got all day, gentlemen. Detain him and let’s be off. Leave the yearling alone.”

Harry’s growling intensified, and they started to advance on the aurors.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, “stop. If you attack them, they will detain you too, and I can’t control what happens after that.”

Harry froze, turning their head to look at the elderly witch, an expression of hurt betrayal on their face.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m going to do what I can, you know that.”

“But they’re taking my uncle,” Harry snarled bitterly.

Dumbledore eyed the aurors. They flinched from the grim expression that was now on his face, but they had, by now, bound Remus with their silver chains. “Yes, I can see that. You have my word, my sworn word, on my name as Dumbledore, that I will do everything within my power to return him to you. But, you. Can’t. Fight. Them.”

Harry sat on their haunches, then lifted their head and howled, the sound even more mournful than wolf-song usually was. The aurors flinched again, but now they were pulling out, dragging Remus with them.

“We’ll be back for that one,” Landreau said, gesturing at Harry. “Just as soon as we’re able.”

“Mister Landreau,” Dumbledore said mildly, “if you think you can remove a child from my custody against my consent, particularly the Boy Who Lived, you will not have the opportunity to think again. Do I make myself clear.”

Landreau gulped, looking frightened for the first time. “Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir.”

“Leave.” Dumbledore’s voice rang out like iron this time. And Landreau and the other aurors did.

Harry’s mournful song became the only sound in the Entrance Hall, even as the other students began to leave the Great Hall for their afternoon activities. Wisely, they didn’t attempt to crowd the wolf.

Myf, Neville, Ginny, and Hermione came out, and were the only people, aside from Dumbledore, who did approach Harry. The four of them hadn’t followed Harry and Remus out mostly because they’d asked them not to, but now that the situation was over…

“Harry,” Myf said quietly, “are you in there?”

Harry ceased their howling after a few more seconds, and slumped to the ground, ears flat, with a look of deepest despair on their lupine face. “Yes,” they said, and their friends flinched. None of them had ever heard Harry sound that pained, that lost, before.

Myf stepped forward, and she began to pet Harry gently. “I’m sorry, pup. I’m so, so sorry… For them to do that to you, to Remus, just for the crime of existing… it’s wrong.”

Harry whimpered, and if the pain in their voice earlier hadn’t broken the tweens’ hearts, that sound definitely did, and the other three joined Myf, gently running their hands over the wolf, scritching and petting, wordlessly giving Harry what comfort they could.

“That’s it,” Hermione said fiercely. “It’s on, now. I know we hadn’t really begun to fight for hob rights, but the Ministry knows not what they have wrought this day.”

“So what are we going to call it, then?” Myf asked. “If we’re expanding our remit beyond hobs, I mean.”

“The Student Association for Nonhuman Equality, perhaps…?” Hermione shook her head. “No…that stops being applicable once we graduate…”

“You have four more years, Hermione,” Ginny pointed out. “And you can found an external organisation with a different name afterward.”

“True. Hmm. I was hoping to think of something more menacing than The Hogwarts Organisation for the Rights of Nonhumans, but I can’t. THORN it is.”

“There we go,” Myf said, nodding. “And after we graduate, we just drop ‘Hogwarts’ and drag the H in from the word ‘the’ to take its place.”

Harry sat up, finally, then tilted their head. Their voice was calmer, but their grief was still audible. “Um. I… don’t think I can change back right now…and even if I could, my clothes tore when I changed the first time.”

Myf snickered. “That’s all right, Harry. You can be a wolf.”

Harry chuffed, then their eyes widened. “… Oh crap, where’d my wand go?”

Myf, Ginny, and Neville looked around. Ginny pointed at it; it was poking out from under Harry’s rump. “You’re sitting on it, you silly pup.”

The wolf stood up in a hurry, then looked down where they were sitting.

“…And it’s intact,” she reported as she scooped it up. “I know you could buy another one, but still.”

“Well. We can’t stand around here all day,” Myf muttered.

“Indeed not,” Dumbledore said. They all jumped, except for Harry, having somehow forgotten he was there. “I’ll have Mr Filch clean up here and then have Mr Black come up. No doubt he’s going to yell at me, since I failed to stop the aurors from taking Remus, but c’est la vie. Mx Lupin, we’ll talk later, but…congratulations on your first transformation. Please refrain from being so dramatic in the future, eh?”

Harry snorted with wry amusement. “No promises, sir. If intense emotions is a catalyst, well… I am a teenager in six weeks’ time. I can’t exactly not have feelings too big for me to contain.”

The other tweens giggled. “That is an excellent point,” Dumbledore said ruefully. “Off you pop, then.”

As they returned to Gryffindor Tower, Harry had to fight the urge to start howling again. It helped that their friends each had a hand on part of their body, reminding them of their presence and, more importantly, of their love. That was going to be important, in the days and weeks to come.

“Well…” Harry said, “I might as well be Wulfrún now. I think the theriopsychia transformation is gender-affirming, but I can’t actually tell right now.”

“Um. Well,” Ginny said, blushing. “I…could…check…?”

“Ginny!” Myf gasped.

“What? It’s not like we’d be—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Um. Neville and I can hear you,” Hermione said quietly. “I, for one, would like to talk about anything else.”

“Same,” Neville said.

The next morning, Wulfrún was still in wolf form, which made caring for Xenia effectively impossible. She descended the boys’ stair and ascended up the girls’, nudging the door to the second-years’ dorm open with her head carefully—someone had apparently left it open a crack.

Myf woke up with a wet face; hot, smelly breath nearly smothering her; and a wolf staring at her. She very nearly shrieked, but stifled the impulse almost immediately when she realised the wolf’s eyes were Wulfrún’s green, rather than the more usual yellow, amber, gold, or ice blue.

“Nnngh. Yes, Wulfr—wait, how did you get up here?” Myf sat up, wiping the wolf-slobber off of her face with a sleeve of her pyjamas.

“…Walked?” Wulfrún tilted her head curiously. “Same as everyone else?”

“Huh. Well, guess the stairs think you’re a girl too, then.” Myf shook her head. “All right, what do you want?”

“Um…I can’t exactly give Xenia her usual morning exercise and whatnot. Or eat in public, not with Malfoy ready to call me a bitch as it is.”

Myf snorted. “I mean, he wouldn’t be wrong, at the moment. But yeah. I’ll tell Madam Pomfrey at the Little High Table, if she’s already there, and you can go on to the Hospital Wing.”

Wulfrún flicked her ears and doggie-grinned, tail thumping a little.

“And stop breathing in my face. Nimue’s tits, did a rodent crawl in and die in your muzzle overnight or something?”

If a wolf could be said to smirk, Myf decided, Wulfrún had figured out how.

After breakfast, Wulfrún was summoned to Dumbledore’s office, with Myf to provide a helping hand as needed. When they came in, Dumbledore was already seated in the lounge, and he gestured to the sofa across the coffee table from him. “Harry, if you want to join Myf on the sofa, you may,” he said, and she took him up on it.

“Thank you, sir. And, um. It’s Wulfrún now, please.” She sprawled across the sofa, her chest resting on Myf’s lap. Myf rolled her eyes, but scritched behind Wulfrún’s right ear.

“Wulfrún, then,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “So, Landreau is almost certainly going to be coming back at some point in the near future or, if not him, another auror will. He’s going to argue that you’re a werewolf on the basis that you physically changed shape, which is not how the Animagus enchantment works. The fact that your transformation is not subject to lunations is, however, the salient point under the law, and he is going to bring the matter before the Wizengamot. Doing that will take time, however.”

“So…when should I expect him and his merry band of fools, then?” Wulfrún’s voice was tinged with remembered pain and fury.

“Probably mid-July; as the Principal Witch of the Wizengamot, I will be doing my best to filibuster, of course, but that’s about as far as I expect I’ll be able to push it.”

The annual departure from Hogwarts on the last Saturday of June was a much more sombre affair for Wulfrún and her friends than it had been the year before. Dumbledore had been unable to retrieve Remus from the Ministry’s clutches. He had been able to assure Wulfrún that her uncle was alive and relatively unharmed (though he’d omitted the ‘relatively’ part), which was…something. Wulfrún decided she didn’t want to dwell on it too much. She had so far been unable to resume her human form (privately, she hadn’t been trying very hard), and so Neville, Darach, and Jamal had helped her pack her trunk.

Her marks for the year had eclipsed Hermione’s, though she insisted that it wasn’t fair to make the comparison since Hermione’d been petrified and blinded and so hadn’t been able to complete the school year, and Hermione agreed. Myf’s were an improvement over the prior year’s, which she attributed to actually having support for her dyslexia for the whole year. Neville’s had improved as well, which he thanked Wulfrún for, since the typewriter she’d gifted him had been a game-changer. Ginny, for her part, was happy with her marks; they were almost as good as Wulfrún’s had been.

The five of them boarded the same carriage to transport them from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade Station, and only managed to fit because Wulfrún didn’t need a seat. Their legs were cramped, but they didn’t mind, and when they arrived at the station, she was the first to exit. She snuffled each of them as they disembarked, causing them to giggle. And she licked Ginny’s ear, which earned her a swat on the shoulder. She doggie-grinned in response, wagging. “Rascal,” Ginny muttered fondly, scritching behind Wulfrún’s right ear.

“Well,” Wulfrún said sadly, “I guess I’ll see you soon…”

“Aw, c’mere, you big baby,” Myf said, and gave Wulfrún a big hug. “We’ll be there for your birthday, don’t you fret.”

“What she said,” Hermione agreed. “We love you too, pup.”

Wulfrún snuffled her again. “Wulfrún!” she said, mock-severely, as she hugged the wolf. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Just then, the warning whistle blew, and Myf gasped. “Unfortunately, we gotta run. See you soon, pup, and try to stay out of trouble, please?”

“No promises,” Wulfrún said, briefly amused. “See you.”

She turned, and slowly made her way through Hogsmeade to The Den, ears flat and tail drooping, where she pawed at the front door, claws scrabbling on the wooden surface. After a moment, Sirius opened it wide for her. “Hey, Uncle Sirius,” she said softly.

“‘Hey’ yourself, pup,” he said, scritching between her ears as she padded through the door.

Chapter Text

July seemed to have come and gone, as fleeting as a midsummer night’s dream. Wulfrún spent her days moping. Sirius made sure she did her holiday assignments, but sometimes it felt like all of her happiness had been stolen along with Remus when the aurors arrested him in Hogwarts back in June.

On the one paw, she’d finally managed to turn herself human again, and Madam Pomfrey had sent a case of caudalixir home with her, so she’d have her tail regardless of which shape she wore. On the other paw, her joints still ached, and it’d been a week since she’d turned herself human for the first time. It had come with a surprise: her body was gender-affirming now. Madam Pomfrey had Portbooked down to Blackstone Hall to confirm it was real and not just some weird magical glitch; her verdict was that it was real, and that she didn’t need the androgen arrestor or oestrogenating elixir any more.

She hadn’t transformed since, but it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. No, she admitted to herself on the morning of the day she turned thirteen, it’s because I want to romp with Uncle Remus, and I can’t. And…and I’m worried that my penis will come back.

Wulfrún sighed. She was dressed in a playsuit and a pair of shorts, and she was rereading the Dresden Files series in the privacy of her playroom. The books weren’t doing a good job of distracting her, however, and she huffed. She got up and put the books back, and tried rereading Through Wolf’s Eyes. That, at least, seemed to do a better job of keeping her attention, since Kreacher had to clear his throat before she noticed he’d arrived.

“Miss Myfanwy and Miss Ginevra have arrived, Miss Lupin,” he said when she looked up. “Miss Granger and Mr Longbottom are expected to arrive soon, as well.”

“Thank you, Kreacher. I’ll, hm”—Wulfrún looked down at her playsuit—“change in to something a little more appropriate and then I’ll be down. Are they in the second receiving room?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Offer refreshments, then, while they wait, and that should be all for now.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Kreacher vanished again.

“Teleporters,” Wulfrún muttered, as though it were a four-letter word, then snorted at herself as she got up to change.

When she entered the second receiving room a few minutes later, Wulfrún was dressed in a simple sundress and paw socks; the dress had been modified by a seamstress so that it had a removable patch over her rump, allowing it to be wearable whether she had a tail or not. Today she did, and it wagged as she saw her friends.

“Hey, pup,” Ginny said, waving. She and Myf were sitting on the sofa. “Dad won the Annual Daily Prophet Galleon Draw, so once we get back, we’re going on vacation to visit Bill in Egypt; he’s on contract with one of the local banks—I think Dad said it was Panoub’s? It’s like Gringott’s, but…Egyptian, and run by sphinxes.”

Wulfrún pulled a hassock over and sat on it, facing the girls. “How much did Arthur win, anyway?”

“Seven hundred Galleons,” Myf said. “I think that’s…fifty-two thousand quid or thereabouts? The trip to Egypt’s going to eat some of it, but Mum was making noises about deferred maintenance she wanted to address when we left.”

Wulfrún nodded, but before she could say anything else, she heard the clicking of Kreacher’s claws on the floor as he led Hermione in. “Hermione mundane-born, Scion of House Granger. Miss Granger, the sofa is directly ahead of you. Wulfrún is sitting on a hassock off to the left of it, and Madames Weasley are sitting on the sofa. Would you like me to pull a chair over for you?”

“Yes, please, Kreacher. Hey, Wulfrún, Myf, and Ginny,” Hermione said, and she walked across the room at very near to her pre-blinding pace. She swept the floor ahead of her with her cane, careful to ensure it moved to the side opposite her forward foot as she walked.

When her cane found the hassock, she stopped, tilting her head slightly. Kreacher gently levitated a chair over and set it down. “Your chair, Miss Granger,” he said whilst standing adjacent, and she turned and advanced. On finding the chair, she reached out to find the contours, then turned and sat, folding her cane as she did. Once she did, Kreacher vanished. “Whew. I had to be very firm with Mum and Dad when I got home, did I mention? Kept trying to do things for me. If I had a knut for every time I had to remind them that I needed to be able to do it all myself if they really wanted me to be successful, I’d have filled up my piggy bank. So, how are you all?”

“Myf and I are doing well,” Ginny said brightly. “I was just telling Wulfrún about how we’re going to be visiting our brother Bill in Egypt; Dad won the Annual Daily Prophet Galleon Draw, which netted us seven hundred Galleons. Um. What was it, again, Myf?”

“About fifty-two thousand quid,” Myf said.

“That’s amazing,” Hermione said. “Did you ever figure out if your transfigurations are gender-affirming, Wulfrún? I didn’t want to ask by mail because that is not a question I want to explain to my mum.”

Wulfrún giggled. “I can imagine. ‘Oh, my friend is a werewolf now, a special kind that can transform when she wants to, and she couldn’t tell if she has a dick still or not.’” She sounded remarkably like Hermione for a moment.

Hermione shuddered. “I wouldn’t have put it like that, silly pup, but…yeah, basically. Anyway, did you?”

“Oddly enough, I confirmed that they’re gender-affirming when I became human again. Poppy says I don’t have to take HRT any more.”

The other girls stared at Wulfrún, and she blushed. “I know, I know, I wish I could give you the same, Myf and Hermione, but she was adamant that the only reason it was even possible for me is because I’m theriopsychic. And I can’t transmit that. She also said that it’s likely that my periods, if I have any, will probably be like a wolf’s oestrus cycle rather than a human period.”

“So…” Ginny said, struggling mightily to not giggle, “…you’re gonna be in heat? Do you know when?”

Wulfrún blushed more. “Probably around February, but I’m not sure. And won’t that be fun,” she said dryly.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Myf said. “At least you’ll only endure it once a year.”

“Yeah.”

Sirius cleared his throat from the door. “Hey, kids. Kreacher’s just finishing up with lunch; it’ll be lamb biryani and naan.”

Wulfrún could hear Kreacher’s claws clicking on the floor again, and Sirius stepped hastily out of the way as he came in with Neville. “Neville son of Frank, Heir of House Longbottom,” the hob announced.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Neville said as he moved over to join the girls. “Additionally,” Kreacher said, “lunch is ready in the Green Dining Room, whenever you are. Miss Lobosca is already waiting.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Sirius said, sounding amused. “That will be all for now.”

Neville hadn’t quite found a seat yet, but the girls rose and they trooped through the door, Sirius leading the way.

After lunch, they convened in Wulfrún’s sitting room, where the gifts they’d brought had been set on the coffee table. Wulfrún sat on a hassock again, and the others arranged themselves on the sofa and a couple chairs. Sirius and Chiara sat on the sofa, with the Weasleys on the other end.

“Let’s start with…this one,” Wulfrún said. The gift she’d picked up was labelled as having come from Hermione, and she carefully unwrapped it, revealing a set of books; the one on top was titled Wolves: Behavior, Ecology, and Conservation. “Hm. Leave it to Hermione to go for books,” she said teasingly, and Hermione chuckled dutifully.

“My mum and I did some research, and I figured you’d want to learn as much about wolves as you can, since you’re one part-time, now.”

“Sensible, yeah, and thanks. I was focused more on modifying my wardrobe, if I’m honest.”

The next gift Wulfrún unwrapped was from Myf and Ginny. “More paw socks, I see. But in my colour this time, nice.” She demonstrated by holding one out against her tail.

“Yeah. We had to go to the library in town to use one of their computers to buy it,” Myf said. “Mum wasn’t thrilled about the expense at the time, but she said I shouldn’t worry about it when we found out about the prize.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Thank you.”

Chiara’s gift to her was paperwork. “I’ve decided that what I really want is to become a private Healer,” she said. “I’d been talking to Remus and Sirius about it for several months now, and…you’d be surprised how many folks out there are suffering because they don’t want to or can’t access St Mungo’s. Sirius will be, very quietly, setting up a foundation to pay on behalf of those who can’t afford a private Healer. This paperwork represents a commitment from me to you to provide services for you. Remus had it ready to go back in June, before he was arrested, but we’d agreed that it would be a surprise.”

Wulfrún stood and threw herself toward Chiara, wrapping her arms around the woman, who barked in surprise before returning the hug, and she cried in to Chiara’s shoulder. “Wha—oh. Right, yeah. Shh, pup, it’s going to be okay…”

Wulfrún muttered something, but it was muffled. Eventually, though, she stopped crying and turned her head. “In other words, you won’t have to deal with that Ashborn woman and her prejudices,” Chiara said quietly.

Wulfrún nodded, sniffling a little, then slid out of Chiara’s lap and returned to the hassock, where she opened the next gift, from Neville. It was a set of chewelry: several prism pendants and sets of dog tags. “Oh, ha ha, very funny,” she said mock-severely, holding up the dog tags. “And… thank you, Neville.”

Neville grinned at her. “Felt appropriate. Not sure if will chew, but better safe.” Wulfrún nodded in agreement.

The penultimate gift, from Sirius, proved to be a grooming kit, chosen specifically for working with large dogs…and wolves. “Oh, wow, thanks, Uncle Sirius,” she said. “Um…it does mean someone else will have to do the grooming, though.”

“Naturally. But this way you can avoid your fur getting matted and such,” Sirius said. Wulfrún nodded, and as she reached for the final gift (it had come from Hagrid), the package wriggled.

“… Am I imagining things, or did this thing just wriggle?” She pointed at what appeared to be a roughly book-shaped thing wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied off with twine.

“Not just you, I saw it too,” Sirius said, giving it a suspicious look. “I know Hagrid won’t have sent you anything dangerous, but…he doesn’t exactly have the same ideas on ‘danger’ as the rest of us.”

Wulfrún nodded, and very carefully unwrapped the book. It was titled The Monster Book of Monsters in gold lettering, bound in forest green leather. As she looked at it, the book wriggled again, then hopped upright and began to bounce around, seeing what it could see. So to speak: the book had no visible means of receiving visual input. There’d been a note under it, which she retrieved somewhat gingerly.

She read it aloud for Hermione’s benefit, then added, “I wonder what he means by ‘useful’…”

“I think he said something at the last planning session about it being the Magizoology text this coming year,” Sirius said. “Since he’s taking over from ol’ Kettleburn, it’s his call.”

“Aha.” Wulfrún reached to pick up the book, but it snapped at her and she flinched back. “And there’s why Hagrid likes it, then.”

Hermione giggled. “Well, I’m not getting anywhere near that thing, personally. I already talked to Professor McGonagall about my electives, and she’s said it’ll be trivial to produce my assignments in Braille—while Hogwarts itself isn’t terribly accessible, there’s a spell for converting work to and from that was developed by a witch whose son had gone blind as the result of a mundane accident. So the only class I won’t be taking is Magizoology.”

“That’s pretty cool. The spell, I mean,” Wulfrún said. “If it hadn’t already existed I’d be making that my first project in Spellcraft. As it is…”

Wulfrún shrugged a shoulder, only belatedly remembering Hermione hadn’t seen the gesture. “I’m sure there are other things I could figure out that’d help. Just say the word.”

“I appreciate it, pup, but it’ll be a collaborative effort,” Hermione said, her tone implying no criticism or censure. “So I hear you got an advance reader copy of The Dragon of Despair, Wulfrún. Want to read it to me?”

6 August

A week later, Dumbledore visited Blackstone Hall. He’d given advance notice, so Sirius and Wulfrún were waiting for him in the Yellow Parlour, one of the rooms on the second floor of the mansion. Accompanying him was Landreau, and Wulfrún fought the urge to growl at the man who’d led the arrest of her uncle.

“Albus son of Percival, Warden of House Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Principal Witch of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Witches, and Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft. Philemon son of Gaston”—which Kreacher pronounced the French way—“Warden of House Landreau, head auror of the Office for Magical Creatures,” Kreacher announced, as the two men entered the room.

Sirius rose, giving a curt bow that included them both, whereas Wulfrún, when she rose, offered a bow only to Dumbledore, as she was dressed in trousers rather than a dress or skirt.

“Please, have a seat,” Sirius said, gesturing to the chairs opposite the sofa where he and Wulfrún had been seated a moment before. “Refreshments?”

“Coffee, please,” Dumbledore said as he sat. Landreau was not entirely able to keep a faint look of disgust from his face as he sat as well. “No, thank you.”

Sirius nodded to Kreacher, who said only, “Very good, Warden Dumbledore,” and vanished.

“We’re here to discuss your case,” Dumbledore said, giving Landreau a warning look. “As I said would be the case in June, the Wizengamot has deliberated on the matter of your theriopsychia and the application of the Werewolf Control Act. Despite considerable lobbying from the more traditional families and”—he pointedly did not look at Landreau—“government officials, the Wizengamot has concluded, narrowly, that the Werewolf Control Act did not need emendation, as you are not infectious. Consequently, you are of course free to continue to attend Hogwarts.”

Landreau’s disgusted look deepened, and he reddened a little, but he said nothing, merely nodding in affirmation.

“An ancillary discussion was had regarding Mr Lupin, your uncle. An agreement was reached, as the Wizengamot is also Britain’s highest magical court. He will be released next week, but he is barred from Hogsmeade village and Hogwarts. To enforce this restriction, a small team of lemures have been stationed there.” He pronounced ‘lemures’ like ‘lay-MYOOR-eez’.

Landreau seemed almost pleased by this part. Sirius paled. “Are there any other restrictions, Albus?” he asked.

“No. He may reside here, should your doors be open to him. As they always were.” Dumbledore’s voice softened with that last sentence, and Landreau looked disgusted again.

“Now, the final duty I have today,” Dumbledore said, “is delivering your letter, Miss Lupin.”

Wulfrún nodded, accepting the sealed parchment envelope he held out to her. “…What are ‘lemures’?” she asked, a little belatedly.

“Lemures,” Dumbledore sighed, “are malevolent spectres, held in check by an enchantment similar to the Elfbind. They ‘eat’, qua eat, despair and fear, and their presence is known to inspire those emotional states. The magical prison Azkaban is guarded by lemures, and for especially egregious crimes, they may be permitted to give criminals ‘the kiss’.”

“What’s that do?” Wulfrún’s face looked almost bloodless.

“That is what magical Britain has decided to term the devouring of the soul, back during the Victorian Age. At any rate, because of their presence, you will need to be escorted to and from Hogwarts should you wish to visit Hogsmeade village.”

Wulfrún nodded, looking glum. Her attention wandered as she thought about what these developments would mean, which meant she missed most of what Dumbledore said next.

“…so I’m offering you the Self Defence post,” Dumbledore concluded, his attention on Sirius.

“…Unexpected, but. Yes, I accept,” Sirius said, smiling a bit wryly.

Chapter Text

Wulfrún almost didn’t recognise her uncle when he finally came home to Blackstone Hall, Remus was that haggard. She and Sirius were waiting in the Great Entry Hall, and when Remus came in, it was with the air of a man who’d repeatedly been beaten soundly.

“Uncle Remus…?” Wulfrún asked hesitantly, her voice almost swallowed by the Great Entry Hall’s vastness. He offered her a smile, but it was brittle and sad.

When Remus had first stepped foot in to the mansion, Wulfrún’d had to remind herself not to rush him, but that smile broke her resolve, and she all but flung herself at him. He chuckled softly, scooping up the undersized teenager as she clung to him.

“Shh, my dear pup,” he said quietly as she began to cry in to his shoulder. “I’m home, and they shan’t be taking me away from you again. Let’s go sit down, though, eh? Pads, would you…?”

“Of course, Moony,” Sirius said, and the three of them slowly went up the stairs, Sirius helping to balance Remus so he didn’t tip over under Wulfrún’s weight. When Remus sat, a few moments later, it wasn’t the Yellow Parlour or the Second Receiving Room, or even any of the rooms in Wulfrún’s suite that she beheld, sniffling. They were in her uncles’ sitting room.

“I see you figured out how to transform back while I was gone, you did,” Remus said. He held Wulfrún tightly against him, and he was in turn leaning against Sirius. “I’m so proud of you, my dear little puppy…”

Wulfrún’s answering smile would have lit the room if it weren’t already well-lit. “I love you,” she whispered. “Both of you.”

9 August

That weekend, Wulfrún and Sirius went to Diagon Alley to pick up school supplies. Remus had opted to stay home, on account of he was still recovering from his imprisonment, in addition to the next full moon cycle beginning literally the next night.

When they arrived at Diagon Alley, Wulfrún noticed there was a larger-than-usual crowd around the Quality Quadball Supplies, and as they walked past, she overheard several comments in hushed tones. “It just came out, this one’s a prototype unit,” someone said. Another, much younger voice piped up, “It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Daddy?”

“Ireland International’s just put in an order for their entire team,” the proprietor said, “and they’re favourites for the World Cup!”

Wulfrún paused and looked back. The crowd thinned momentarily, long enough for her to see both what they were looking at and the ad copy posted in the window next to it. Behind the glass was possibly one of the sleekest brooms she had ever beheld. She read the ad quickly.

The Firebolt

This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a streamlined, super-fine handle of ash, treated with a diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its own registration number. Each individually selected birch twig in the broomtail has been honed to aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The Firebolt has an acceleration of 0—150 miles an hour in ten seconds and incorporates an unbreakable braking charm. Price on request.

Wulfrún thought about it as she caught up with Sirius, but she’d overheard Uncle Vernon complaining often enough that she knew that prices not being disclosed usually meant you couldn’t afford it. She wondered what that meant in terms of pricing from her perspective, since Europe’s magical economy was set to the silver standard (a sickle was two ounces of silver): how much did that broom cost?

She shrugged. Ultimately, it wasn’t relevant; her Nimbus Two Thousand was still in good nick, and that’s what mattered. Besides, the rest of the team were the folks who needed new brooms. Sure, the Gryffindor Quadball team had been able to keep pace with Slytherin’s the previous year, but that was their superior training and some amount of luck.

Their first port of call was Gringott’s and the House Potter vault, where as usual Wulfrún withdrew a dozen galleons, a score of sickles, and two-score knuts (about 1037.88£, according to Gaz, who’d known the conversion rate without having to consult). Secondly, Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, where she commissioned a new set of school robes, with a request for accommodating her tail.

After a quick stop inside the apothecary (made tolerable by nasiminus), Wulfrún and Sirius stopped at Flourish and Blotts to pick up her schoolbooks for the coming year. The first thing they noticed as they approached was that the splendour of prior window displays was absent, and instead a large iron cage was visible, within which about a hundred copies of The Monster Book of Monsters were busily trying to wrestle each other for, she presumed, dominance.

As she and Sirius entered, the manager came hurrying towards them. “Hogwarts?” he asked abruptly. “Come to get your new books?”

“Yes, but—” He cut Wulfrún off, saying impatiently, “Get out of the way.”

The man drew on a pair of heavy-duty dragon-hide gloves as he brushed past Wulfrún and picked up a large, heavy stick that was leaning against the exterior of the cage.

“I’ve already got one of those,” Wulfrún said quickly. The man sagged with evident relief, and he said, “Thank heavens for that. I’ve been bitten five times this morning already—”

He was interrupted by a loud riiiiiip as two Monster Books had seized a third and were pulling it apart. He grabbed the stick again and poked it in to the cage, forcing the books apart as he shouted, “Stop it! Stop it!”

After he put the stick back, he said, “I’m never stocking them again, never! It’s been bedlam! I thought we’d seen the worst when we bought two hundred copies of The Invisible Book of Invisibility—cost a fortune, and we never found them…Well, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes, um…” Wulfrún pulled out her supplies list. “I need Unfogging the Future, Intermediate Transfiguration, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three, The Aspiring Spellcrafter, Numerology and Grammatica, and Magical Britain: A History and A Mundaneborn Commentary.”

“Ah. Taking Divination and Spellcraft, too, I see,” the manager said as he removed the dragon-hide gloves. “Come along, then…”

As Wulfrún grabbed a basket and followed, Sirius said, “I’ll be outside with some treats when you’re done, pup.”

“Sounds good,” she said, wagging a little.

When Wulfrún left with a hefty bag of books in her right hand, Sirius was waiting with two ice creams: peanut butter with raspberry syrup swirled in. She smiled and accepted hers.

31 August

Like her first year, Wulfrún was taking the Hogwarts Express from King’s Cross Station to get to Hogwarts. Unlike that year, she was accompanied by Sirius and would be using the mundane entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and that meant her trunk had a complete wardrobe folded up neatly inside, rather than the week’s worth she’d been accustomed to. She’d still be permitted visits to Hogsmeade on the weekends, of course—Remus had signed the permission slip, and he was still legally her father—but not to stay overnight with her uncles. Sirius was dressed in a brown suit, similarly to Remus’s habitual wear, but his hair was, as ever, up in a mohawk, bright yellow to Wulfrún’s eyes.

They arrived on the platform in plenty of time to find an open compartment, and soon enough Myf, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville joined them. Hermione was accompanied by a dog this time: a large-ish chocolate Labrador wearing a harness and a vest that said “service dog - do not pet”. (He was leggier and only a little broader than breed standard, and his width-to-height ratio was much closer to a wolf’s than it was to a dog’s, but he was still recognisably a Labrador retriever.)

Once she sat down, Hermione pulled the harness off of the dog and said, “Under the seat, Frodo.” He obediently crawled under the bench seat and laid down.

“Lovely dog,” Neville said. “Why get?”

Hermione smiled wryly. “Well, it turns out that one of the lingering consequences of the basilisk’s petrification gaze is that I’m not quite able to localise traffic well enough to safely navigate streets on my own, hence Frodo here. He’s a very special sort of seeing-eye dog, however, I’m told.”

“How’s that?” Myf asked, tilting her head in subconscious imitation of Wulfrún’s habitual inquiring tilt.

“He’s part werewolf,” Hermione said. “I’m not sure how that works, though…”

“As it happens,” Sirius said, “sometimes werewolves encounter mundane dogs during the full moon. If he doesn’t have access to Wolfsbane Potion, he’s going to operate on instinct, and if she’s receptive, well…”

He gestured at Frodo. “The offspring are very intelligent and make excellent service dogs—if the bitch’s owner is cognizant, which apparently they were in his case. And Frodo definitely smells part-werewolf to me. Probably a generation out from the original outcross, if he just looks like a large chocolate Lab.”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah. Élodie Rivers, my cane travel instructor, helped me get him. We’re still learning how to be partners, but I was very insistent on returning to school.”

“So why’s he named ‘Frodo’?” Wulfrún asked.

“Well…he’s only got three toes on his right forepaw, if you look closely. It’s not actually his registered name, but he answers to it just fine.”

Wulfrún looked closely at Frodo’s forepaws, and Hermione was right: the dog was missing a toe. “And you’re certain he’s not an animagus?”

“I asked his previous keeper if I could try the Homorphus Charm on him, and he didn’t change shape at all. Lady was a little confused at first, then when I explained, she said she understood completely.”

The steam whistle sounded, warning of the train’s impending departure, and blew again a couple minutes later just before it began to move.

“So how was the trip to Egypt?” Wulfrún asked Myf and Ginny.

“It was amazing,” Myf said, and Ginny nodded, adding, “We saw the pyramids and the Sphinx statue, and of course Bill showed us the non-secret parts of Panoub’s. It was a lot like Gringott’s, since they both used marble in constructing the building and main customer-facing spaces below ground.”

“We got to talk to a few sphinxes, as well,” Myf continued. “Their bodies may be feline, but they have opposable thumbs just like we do, though it looks a little weird when they write…”

“Bill even got to show us his workshop,” Ginny said. “It mainly just looked a lot like Dad’s, but he says that that’s because, contrary to popular belief, the ancient Egyptians didn’t actually curse any of their things or tombs. They believed that the goods they were buried with would join them in the afterlife, which means that if they cursed anything, the curses would have followed them as well. The reason he’s working with Panoub’s is that more contemporary witches have a tendency to curse their stuff, especially the dottier elderly bigots.”

Wulfrún nodded. “That makes sense. I think I read something the other day about how the ‘curse of King Tutankhamen’ was actually just bad luck and superstition.”

“That’s what Bill said, when I asked him about it.”

Several hours later, after the trolley lady had been and gone, Wulfrún’s least favourite person and his flunkies turned up. Draco had his usual haughty demeanour, and Crabbe and Goyle their usual looks of casual, incurious disinterest.

“Well, look who it is,” Draco drawled, “the wolf and the weasels. I heard your father finally got his hands on some gold this summer, Weasley. Did your mother die of shock?”

“Mister Malfoy,” Sirius said warningly. Draco blinked; evidently he hadn’t noticed the man was there.

“C’mon,” Draco said to his flunkies, and they disappeared.

Rain began to fall as the train continued onward, growing from an inconstant drizzle to a steady downpour over the course of an hour. It grew dark, and the witch-lights aboard the train flickered in to life. Wind began to rattle rain against the windows, causing Wulfrún to mutter a quick audiminus to diminish its pressure on her ears.

“We must be nearly there,” Myf said as she looked out the window, where the view was by now entirely black. The words had barely left her lips before the train began to slow, the squealing of the brakes loud enough to cause everyone in the compartment to wince.

“We can’t be there yet,” Hermione said, her fingers running over a watch on her wrist; she’d flipped up the faceplate, exposing the hour and minute hands and the raised bumps marking the hours, to check the time.

“So why’re we stopping?”

As the noise of the pistons and brakes faded away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever. Wulfrún got up to stick her head in to the corridor; all along the carriage, other students were doing the same.

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that less-secure luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, the witch-lights flared brightly before winking out and they were plunged in to darkness.

“What’s going on?” Myf asked from behind Wulfrún.

“Ouch! Myf, that was my foot!” Hermione said.

Wulfrún found her seat by feel, and there was a squeaking sound at the window, and then a very little light came in through it as Myf tried a look through it.

“There’s something moving out there,” she said. “I think people are coming aboard…”

“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,” came Hermione’s voice. “Frodo, up.”

There came the rustling and rattling of the dog’s harness as she slipped it back on to him, and then the compartment door slid open. “Frodo, forward,” Hermione said as she closed the compartment behind her.

There was a soft, crackling noise, and a fiery orb appeared, floating over Sirius’s hand, lighting the compartment. “Stay where you are,” he said quietly as he stood and turned to the compartment door.

But before he could reach it, the door slid open.

Standing there, illuminated by Sirius’s flame, was a tall, vaguely humanoid figure. Its face was a human’s, eyes bright and terrible, lips drawn back in a too-wide, manic grin that showed entirely too many teeth. Its skin, such as it was, was the bloated, pale blue of a drowned corpse, and a tattered cloak shrouded the rest of its body save for a single hand that, even as Wulfrún watched, was withdrawn in to the cloak. And then the mouth opened, impossibly wider than it had any right to, as a faint susurrus drew air toward it. Air, and…something else.

An intense cold swept over them all. Wulfrún felt her breath catch in her chest, and fingers of ice seemed to dig in to her, and—

From far away, Wulfrún heard terrified, pleading screams, her vision filled with fog-tinged memories of the beatings she’d suffered at the Dursleys’ hands. Then there was a truly horrendous smell, snapping her out of it as someone shouted, “Wulfrún! Wulfrún! Are you all right?”

“W-what…?” Wulfrún managed as her vision cleared. The witch-lights were aglow again, and the floor was shaking—the Hogwarts Express was moving again. She seemed to have slipped out of her seat and on to the floor. Hermione had returned, with Frodo under the bench seat once more, and she and Myf were kneeling over Wulfrún. Above them, she could see Neville, Ginny, and Sirius watching. Wulfrún felt very ill at ease; when she raised her hand to push her glasses back in to position, she felt cold sweat on her face.

“Are you okay?” Myf asked nervously as she and Hermione helped Wulfrún to her seat.

“I…I don’t know,” Wulfrún said, her voice small and hoarse. She looked toward the compartment door, but it was closed and the creature that had been there was gone. “What happened? Where’s that—that thing? Who screamed?”

“No one’d screamed,” Myf said, more nervously still. Wulfrún looked around the compartment; everyone looked back at her, looking pale.

There was a sharp crack, loud in the relative silence, and Wulfrún turned her head to find the source. Sirius had opened a bar of chocolate and was breaking it up in to squares.

“Loathe as I am to give you chocolate, pup, given your metabolism limits how much you can eat,” Sirius said quietly, “it really is the most effective short-term treatment for a lemure attack.”

He pressed a square in to each of their hands. Wulfrún blinked. “… That was a lemure?”

Everyone stared at Sirius. He crumpled up the empty wrapper and slipped it in to a pocket. “Eat. It’ll help. I need to speak the driver.”

Sirius strolled past Wulfrún and disappeared in to the corridor.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Wulfrún?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t get it…what happened?” Wulfrún asked, wiping more sweat off of her face.

“Well,” Myf said, her tongue tripping over itself as she continued, “That thing—that ‘lemure’, Sirius called it?—stood there and looked around—and you—you—”

She gulped, visibly trying to relax. “I thought you were having a fit or something. You went sort of rigid and fell out of your seat and started twitching…”

“And Mr Black stepped over you and walked towards the lemure and pulled out his wand,” Ginny said. “And he said, ‘None of us is hiding Remus Lupin under our cloaks. Go.’ But the lemure didn’t move, so he muttered something and a silvery thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around and sort of glided away…”

“Was horrible,” Neville said, his voice higher than usual. “Feel cold went when came in?”

“I felt weird,” Myf said, shuddering. “Like I’d never be cheerful again…”

Ginny, who’d been huddling in the corner looking nearly as bad as Wulfrún felt, gave a small sob; Hermione reached over and pulled her to her side, her arm around the other girl.

“But…none of you fell out of your seats?” Wulfrún asked, feeling strangely hollow.

“No,” Myf said. “Ginny was shaking like mad, though…”

Wulfrún didn’t understand. She felt weak and shivery, like she had when Mr Filch had been shouting at her the year before. She also felt the beginnings of a strange sense of shame. Why had she fallen to pieces like that, when no one else had?

Sirius had returned. He paused as he entered, looked around, and said, “The chocolate won’t hurt you. There’s not enough in that square to poison you, pup.”

Wulfrún took a bite, and to her great surprise, warmth seemed to suffuse through her.

“We’ll be at Hogsmeade Station in ten minutes,” Sirius said. “Are you all right, pup?”

“Fine,” she muttered, not quite managing to stifle an embarrassed, puppy-ish whinge.

They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade Station, and there was a great scramble to get out despite the rain. It was bitingly frigid on the platform, and the heavy rainfall only made it worse as they dashed to the carriages.

“Firs’-years this way,” a familiar voice bellowed, cutting through the rain somehow. The six of them turned to look, and there was Hagrid, a witch-light hovering over his head at the other end of the platform.

“All righ’, yeh five?” Hagrid called over the heads of the crowd. They waved at him even as they scrambled for a carriage, which forestalled any opportunity to speak even without the other students rushing for the carriages. Wulfrún was vaguely comforted by the winged horses she saw harnessed to them even as she climbed in to one, followed by her friends. Hermione didn’t need much assistance finding the door and getting in, and she left Frodo’s harness on him as he lay at her feet.

As the carriage trundled towards a pair of magnificent wrought-iron gates, flanked by stone columns topped by statues of winged boars, Wulfrún saw two more lemures, standing guard on either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf her again; she leaned back against the seat cushions and closed her eyes until they’d passed through the gates. The carriage picked up the pace on the long, sloping drive up the castle. At last, the carriage drew up to the entrance of the castle and swayed to a halt.

As Wulfrún disembarked, a drawling, delighted voice sounded in her ear.

“You fainted, wolf-boy? Is Longbottom telling the truth? You actually fainted?”

Malfoy elbowed past Hermione (which behaviour caused Frodo to growl at him) to block Wulfrún’s way up the stone staircase to the castle, his face gleeful and his eyes glinting maliciously.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Myf said, her jaw clenched.

“Did you faint, too, Weasley?” Malfoy said loudly. “Did the scary old lemure frighten you, too, Weasley?”

“Is there a problem?” Sirius asked mildly, having just disembarked from his own carriage.

Malfoy gave Sirius an insolent stare, which took in his mundane formalwear and mohawk. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he said, “Oh, no, Professor,” then he smirked at Crabbe and Goyle, and led them up the steps in to the castle. Myf, Wulfrún, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Sirius went up shortly after, pushed along by the other students as they arrived.

The Entrance Hall was a vast room, lit by dozens of witch-lights, with a large marble staircase in the centre leading upward towards classrooms and Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers. The Great Hall was to the right, its doors open wide to welcome the students in.

Just as Wulfrún started to make her way to the Little High Table, she was intercepted by McGonagall. “Miss Lupin, Miss Granger,” she called, “I want to see you both!”

Wulfrún turned, and there the professor was, next to the door. She fought her way against the crowd—Hermione had less trouble, since people seemed to move instinctively out of her way—until they reached Professor McGonagall. “There’s no need to look so worried,” McGonagall said. “I just want a word in my office. Move along, Miss Weasley.”

Myf blinked as McGonagall ushered Wulfrún and Hermione away from the crowd, up the staircase in the Entrance Hall, and along a corridor. Once they were in her office, McGonagall gestured Wulfrún toward a chair, saying, “Hermione, there are a couple of chairs ahead of you and to your right a touch; Wulfrún is going to sit in the farther one.”

“Thanks,” Hermione said as she walked over to it and sat. She nudged Frodo, and he sat by her side.

McGonagall moved around her desk to her own chair and sat. “Professor Black sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Miss Lupin.”

Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door, which opened to admit Madam Pomfrey, who came bustling in. Wulfrún felt her face heat. It was bad enough she’d passed out, or whatever, without everyone making all this fuss.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t need—”

“Ah. Yes, you do,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I know about the lemures, Miss Lupin. Nasty business, those. Setting them around the school…”

She muttered to herself as she examined Wulfrún, checking her forehead. “She won’t be the only one who collapses. Yes, she’s all clammy. Terrible creatures, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate—”

“I’m not delicate,” Wulfrún said crossly.

“Of course you’re not,” Madam Pomfrey said soothingly, now checking her pulse.

“What does she need?” McGonagall asked crisply. “Bed rest? Should she perhaps spend tonight in the Hospital Wing?”

“I’m fine,” Wulfrún said, jumping to her feet. She knew what Malfoy’d say if he found out she’d had to go there, and she didn’t relish the thought.

“Well, you should have some chocolate at the very least,” Madam Pomfrey said, checking her eyes.

“Professor Black gave us all some already,” Hermione said.

“Oh, good. I knew he had a head on his shoulders,” Madam Pomfrey said approvingly.

“Are you sure you feel all right, Miss Lupin?” McGonagall asked sharply.

“Yes.”

“Very well. That will be all for now, Poppy.”

After Madam Pomfrey left, muttering to herself again, McGonagall continued, “Moving on…you two have the heaviest workloads of your year. I want you both to know that you will not face censure if you should decide to drop a class. Particularly you, Miss Granger.”

“I’m blind, ma’am, not brain-dead,” Hermione said. “I know that that’s going to create challenges, and I already made a concession when I decided against Magizoology after all, but my mind’s still as sharp as ever.”

McGonagall nodded. “I understand. With that out of the way, let’s go down to the feast.”

The four of them made their way back down to the Great Hall, where Flitwick was levitating the Sorting Hat and its stool out. As they walked in, Wulfrún muttered a hasty audiminus.

“We missed the Sorting, it seems,” Wulfrún said quietly as they strode to the Little High Table, where Madam Pomfrey, Myf, Ginny, Neville, and Sirius were waiting. McGonagall gave the girls a brief smile as she moved on to her own place at the High Table.

“What was that all about?” Myf asked. Wulfrún had started to explain when Dumbledore stood up to speak, and she broke off.

“Welcome!” the elderly witch said, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get them out of the way before you become befuddled by our very excellent food…”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, then continued. “As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the lemures of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

He paused, and Wulfrún recalled the conversation she’d had with him only a few weeks before, and his evident unhappiness when he’d told her.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Lemures cannot be fooled by tricks or disguises, not even invisibility cloaks. It is not in the nature of a lemure to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the Prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the lemures.”

Dumbledore paused again; he looked very seriously around the Hall, which was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. Firstly, Professor Black, who substituted last year, has kindly consented to fill the post of Self Defence teacher.”

The applause this garnered was respectable—Sirius had apparently been almost as liked as Remus had been.

“Look at Snape,” Myf muttered. Snape was looking at the Little High Table—at Sirius, Wulfrún assumed—with the neutral expression she’d come to recognise as a mask for anger, usually. It was common knowledge that he wanted the Self Defence job.

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

This time, the applause was more general, and loudest from the Gryffindor table in particular. Hagrid, Wulfrún saw, was flushed with embarrassment and staring down at his hands, a grin barely visible through the tangle of his thick black beard.

As the applause died down once more, Dumbledore started to speak again. “Well, I think that’s everything of importance. Let the feast begin!”

And with that, the platters, tureens, gravy boats, and serving bowls were suddenly full of food. Wulfrún’s plate suddenly had a mound of mashed potatoes, a small pile of broccoli, and a chicken breast, and a small ramekin of brown gravy.

It was a delicious feast, and the Hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of silverware on plates. Wulfrún, Myf, and Hermione were eager for it to end, however, as they wanted to congratulate Hagrid. They knew how much being made a teacher would mean to him—he wasn’t a fully-qualified witch, having been expelled from Hogwarts for a crime he didn’t commit. Wulfrún had helped clear his name the previous school year.

At long last, after dessert had been and gone, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for bed, and they got their chance.

“Congratulations, Hagrid!” Hermione called as they drew near to him at the High Table.

“All down to yeh, Wulfrún,” Hagrid said, wiping his face with a napkin. “Can’ believe it… Great man, Dumbledore…came straight to me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he’d had enough…it’s what I always wanted…”

Overcome with emotion, Hagrid buried his face in his napkin, and McGonagall shooed them away.

Wulfrún, Myf, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville joined the Gryffindors streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired now, along more corridors, up more and more stairs, to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower. A large portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress asked them, “Password?”

“Coming through, coming through!” Percy called from behind the crowd. “The new password’s Fortuna Major!”

Through the portrait hole and across the common room, the girls and boys divided towards their separate staircases. Wulfrún climbed the spiral stairs with no thought in her head except how glad she was to be back. They reached their familiar, circular dormitory—this one expanded magically to fit seven four-poster beds—and Wulfrún, looking around, felt as comfortable as if she’d been with Remus.

Chapter Text

1 September

Wulfrún woke the next morning to a note from Madam Pomfrey under her caudalixir.

Wulfrún was brooding after Xenia’s playtime when Fred and Georgia came down from the fifth-year boys’ dorm. Georgia sat on the sofa next to her as she stared off in to the middle distance.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Georgia asked softly. The twins were, as ever, styled androgynously and identically as they engaged in their favourite prank: gender fluidity. Wulfrún, of course, could tell them apart from their scents.

“Oh…just thinking about Malfoy’s antics at the entrance last night,” Wulfrún said. “And in the Great Hall, after.”

“Oh, pfff,” Fred said, dropping on to the sofa next to his twin sister. “That little git wasn’t so cocky when the lemures were down at our end of the train. Came running in to our compartment, didn’t he, Georgia?”

“Nearly wet himself,” Georgia confirmed. “Wasn’t best pleased, meself; they’re horrible.”

“Sort of freeze your insides, don’t they?”

“You didn’t pass out, though, did you?” Wulfrún asked, her voice small.

“Forget it, pup,” Georgia said bracingly. “Dad had to go to Azkaban once, remember, Fred? Said it was the worst place he’d ever been. He came back all weak and shaking… They suck all the happiness out of a place, lemures. Most of the folks imprisoned there go batty.”

“Anyway,” Fred said, “we’ll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quadball match. Gryffindor versus Slytherin’s first game of the season, remember.”

Wulfrún was cheered by this; the first time the two of them had gone head-to-head, Malfoy had come off decidedly worse, having been too busy gawking at Dobby’s bludger chasing her around trying to knock her off her broom to notice the snitch flitting by his head.

“Well, best be off,” Fred said, then Georgia said, “Breakfast calls.”

At breakfast, Hagrid stopped by before he took his seat at the High Table, swinging a dead polecat absent-mindedly with one enormous hand.

“All righ’?” he said to Wulfrún, Hermione, and Myf. “Wulfrún and Myf, yer in me class tomorrow afternoon. Bin spendin’ the las’ week gettin’ everythin’ ready. Hope it’s okay… Me, a teacher, hones’ly…”

He gave the three of them a broad grin as he left.

“Wonder what he’s been getting ready,” Myf said, only a little anxious. “So what’ve you got scheduled? I’ve got double Theory, Healing, and double Charms today; then Herbology, double Magizoology, and Potions tomorrow; Mundane Studies, Healing, and Potions Wednesday; Divination, Herbology, Transfiguration, and double Maths Thursday; and double Self Defence, Transfiguration, and Mundane Studies Friday.”

Wulfrún glanced at her own. “Same, but Spellcraft after Charms today and between Transfiguration and Witch Studies Friday. And double Arithmancy instead of Maths. ’Mione?”

“Similar to me, but no Magizoology, and…Ancient Runes on Wednesday morning…and before lunch Fridays,” Hermione said haltingly, her right index finger running over the Braille on her schedule.

Just then, a chime rang throughout the castle. “Oop, time to get moving,” Wulfrún said.

As they left the Great Hall, they passed the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was doing another impression of a fainting fit. Wulfrún just rolled her eyes. “If you spent more time on your schoolwork and less on being a bloody wanker, Malfoy, you’d be a lot closer to reaching Hermione’s marks,” she called over her shoulder.

Malfoy scowled at that, not that she noticed.

Theory of Magic held no surprises, not really; they’d be surveying African traditions this year, which were among the most varied even today. Healing, though…

“Welcome, once more, to Healing,” Professor Conghaile said, dressed in her habitual Healer’s scrubs. “This year, we’ll be looking beyond Europe’s non-human and demi-human inhabitants, and we’ll also be exploring magical diagnostics, starting with the standard medicare gnosis and nutricis gnosis spells. Who can tell me what these two spells disclose?”

Wulfrún’s hand was the first one up, even before Hermione’s, which was a rarity. Conghaile nodded to her, “Miss Lupin?”

“The medicare gnosis spell,” Wulfrún said, “shows the caster the patient’s approximate age, height, weight, blood pressure, heart rate, average body temperature both internal and external, and an approximate assessment of the patient’s blood, with clarity depending on the physician’s most recent continuing-education coursework.

“Nutricis gnosis, on the other hand, looks at developmental factors, such as haemoglobin, cholesterol, blood sugar, vitamin and mineral intake, bone growth and repair, and can even, in recent years, include genetic factors that may impact development.”

“Correct, Miss Lupin,” Conghaile said with a smile. “Take ten points for Gryffindor. More specific spells like genetica gnosis can be used to gain a clearer insight in to particular aspects of a being’s health, and, as you’ll find in Spellcraft, for those taking that elective, we are constantly refining our diagnostics with the latest developments from around the world.

“There are those who say the magical world is behind the mundane world, but when it comes to health, we cannot afford to be left behind, especially as we treat diseases unknown to the mundane world. Unfortunately, we also cannot share our own advances. I wish we could. The days when witches were burned at the stake are not so far gone, and there are witches alive today whose grandparents knew victims of the witch hunts, and even today there are witches killed in Africa for the simple crime of being unable to cure terminal illness.”

The Spellcraft classroom, that afternoon, was moderately lit, to Wulfrún’s lupine eyes, and she and Hermione were able to quickly find seats at the front of the room. Hermione sent Frodo under the desk so he’d be out of the way. The only light was the sunlight streaming through the south-facing windows, in fact, and Wulfrún found out why as a young white woman entered the room from what was apparently an office attached to it.

Her hair was as dark as Wulfrún’s own, and her eyes were a cloudy off-white that was, frankly, a little startling at first. She wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that, again, resembled Wulfrún’s, albeit without lenses mounted, and a black dress, over which she wore a dark red cardigan. And she had a white cane in her hand; unlike Hermione’s, it was much shorter, and she didn’t use it to navigate at all. Maybe it was meant for identity purposes?

“Ah. G-g-g-good afternoon, you’re the first to arrive,” she said, and her voice even sounded like Wulfrún’s, though with what seemed like a hard-won maturity. “You must be Miss Granger and M-m-miss Lupin,” she continued, looking at the two girls in turn. “I’ll introduce myself to the class once they’re here, but it’s a p-pleasure to meet you.”

“How did you know it was us, Professor Garner?” Hermione asked. “We’ve never met before, as far as I know…”

“T-t-t-true, we have not,” Garner said warmly, “butbutbut I recognise your dog, and Ianthe said she’d f-f-found him a keeper. How are you doing, Mister Frodo? Are you being a good boy?”

Frodo wagged a little, his tail thumping against one of the desk’s legs, and Garner chuckled. “Good to h-hear. And wherever I find Frodo, and thus you, Miss Granger, I-I-I can reasonably expect to find Miss Lupin.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wulfrún said, smiling. As they were talking, the classroom had been filling up with Gryffindors and Slytherins, and a chime sounded throughout the castle, causing her to wince and Garner to nod.

“All right, that’s the b-bell,” she said as she moved to the centre of the classroom. “Good afternoon, class. I am Professor Arianna Garner, your Spellcraft instructor. Yes, I’m b-b-b-blind. Don’t think, however, that I won’t see w-w-what you’re up to; these glasses”—she tapped the frame of her glasses—“have been enchanted to visualise you all to my magical sense. So, without further ado, let’s t-t-talk about spellcraft.”

There was a pause as Garner flicked her right hand and her wand fell gracefully in to her grasp. She flicked the wand, and as she began to speak again, fiery letters appeared against a backdrop of black smoke.

“This course will t-teach you the techniques f-f-for developing spells, building upon the theoretical underpinnings you have been learning in Theory of Magic. Like Th-th-th-th-theory, we will be exploring the magical traditions of the world. Unlike Theory, however, we will be examining the mmmmechanics of these traditions and i-i-investigating how each tradition creates spells. They did not, after all, spring f-f-forth from the cosmos fully-formed, as Athena d-did from Zeus’s forehead.

“Each year, we will devise a-a-a variety of spells, ranging from the simplest rendering of w-words in the air to some quite complex spells, and the end-of-year exam will be a sssingle spell you choose from the repertoire you’ve developed over the c-c-course of the year. You will demonstrate that spell for us, including a presentation d-detailing where your inspiration came from, what steps you t-t-took to develop it from concept to finished spell, and what issues you encountered as you developed it. Your m-m-marks will be based on the technical merits of the spell, independent of any utility, actual or otherwise, to the-the-the magical world, and on your presentation. Any questions?”

2 September

The next morning, Wulfrún made her way to the Hospital Wing as she’d been directed, where she joined Madam Pomfrey in her office.

After she sat down, Madam Pomfrey said, “So, as I said in my note yesterday, you’re not in any trouble. We’re just going to talk about your progress since our meeting last year. How often do you eat snacks from your stash?”

Wulfrún thought for a moment. “…Um. Two or three times a week? Usually around three, but also if I’m up past ten…?”

“And how often are you up past ten?” Was that a hint of disapproval…? Wulfrún couldn’t be sure, but she answered honestly, “Once or twice a week. Nightmare’ll wake me and then I’m hungry and…yeah.”

“Ah. Which ones do you tend to prefer?”

“…The muesli bars with dried apples in them. Not really sure why, but they just seem the tastiest to me.”

Madam Pomfrey smiled a little. “Well, they are among the fruits wolves are known to enjoy in the wild. So, how do you feel about trying new foods? I know from conversations I’ve had with your uncles that you’re generally open to it when you have safe foods available and you know you won’t be judged if you don’t like something.”

“Basically that, yeah. Letting it be on my terms has helped a lot, but the bigger issue is that I need to know what something is, especially if it resembles something I’ve already had but isn’t the same thing. And if I ask what something tastes like, the answer needs to not be…um…tautological?”

“Yup, ‘tautological’, and that makes perfect sense; it’s something I anticipated, so hold that thought. So, here’s what’s going to happen: one meal a day, you will eat with your peers rather than at the Little High Table with me. I’ve talked to the hobs in the kitchens; if you say ‘identify food’ when you sit down, you’ll get a menu listing the foods prepared for that meal and a description of each. They’ll tell me what you ate, but don’t worry about that—it doesn’t actually matter to me what you eat, as long as you do eat, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wulfrún said, and then tilted her head. “You mentioned in your note that you wanted to talk about the familiar-bonding ritual…?”

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “I did indeed. Completing the familiar bond falls under my bailiwick, since it’s ritual magic that requires blood, both to seal the pact and to maintain it afterward. How the blood is obtained doesn’t matter, so long as it’s the blood of the pact-maker. Ideally, we do it in the light of the full moon, which means next week. I’ll arrange things with Albus, all right?”

“Sounds good,” Wulfrún said, nodding.

After lunch on Tuesday, Wulfrún and Myf made their way out of the castle and down to Hagrid’s hut, where he would be teaching. As the girls neared a newly-built paddock adjacent to the hut, Wulfrún recognised the familiar haughty drawl of one Draco Malfoy, which meant that Gryffindors and Slytherins were in the same time slot this year.

Hagrid was leaning on one of the paddock’s corner posts, grinning as he waited for the class to arrive, and wearing what seemed to be his favourite pocket-festooned coat—Wulfrún recognised it from their first meeting. Sitting next to him was a male grey merle dog, small only by comparison to his keeper, named Fang. Wulfrún smiled; she’d been afraid of the German mastiff in prior years, and hadn’t actually met him yet, but her uncles had done a lot to make her more comfortable around big canines. She knew they’d never hurt her, and while Fang didn’t look much like a wolf or a Schäferhund, he was squarely between Remus’s wolf shape and Padfoot in size.

Fang sniffed the air, then yawned and stood up. He trotted over to greet Wulfrún, who stood her ground with a shiver and let him sniff her. She lifted a hand, and he ducked his head and pressed it up underneath the raised hand, clearly demanding to be pet as he wagged.

“Hey, Fang,” she said as she stroked along the back of his massive head, relaxing at his obvious friendliness. “Good to meet you.”

“I see one introduction just became superfluous,” Hagrid said, amused. “All righ’, gather ‘round and get yer books out, yeh’ll wan’ pa—”

“And how, pray tell, are we meant to be opening our books?” Malfoy drawled coldly.

“You stroke the spine,” Wulfrún muttered. Hagrid looked a little disgruntled. “Didn’ the clerk tell yeh?”

“Tell me what?” Malfoy demanded. He looked around. Wulfrún and Myf had their copies of The Monster Book of Monsters out and opened to the table of contents, unfazed. The only students whose books were bound shut were, interestingly, all Slytherins, Wulfrún noticed.

“I wonder what he did to make the clerk ‘forget’ to tell him,” Myf muttered. “Who’s a good book, then? You are, yes, you are…” she crooned, gently scratching the spine with her right hand as her left supported the book. The book emitted a rustling approximation of a purr.

“Yeh stroke the spine,” Hagrid said, demonstrating with his own copy. It, too, purred rustlingly and obligingly opened up. “Right, I’ve a pack of barghests in the paddock here today, though they tend t’be shy ’round strangers. Who knows how they hide?”

Wulfrún’s and Myf’s hands went up almost immediately. “Miss Weasley?”

“Barghests are able to make themselves invisible,” she said promptly.

“Good, take five poin’s fer Gryffindor. Now, barghests are magical scenthounds, bred fer huntin’ magical wildlife, includin’ man-eaters. Tha’ll be werewolfdogs, grindylows at low tide, water hags, kelpies, an’ the like. Because their quarries are apt t’ resistant t’ the usual run of weapons, barghests have much sharper fangs, an’ paws an’ claws like a cat’s. Finally, there’s a couple more traits yeh have t’ remember, and they are…Miss Lupin?”

“A barghest laying on your porch or at your doorstep presages your death,” Wulfrún said. “And if you antagonise one, their claws and fangs inflict wounds that resist both mundane medicine and the common Healing techniques for treating such wounds.”

“Good, take another five points.” Hagrid turned to the paddock and gave a sharp whistle. A moment later, a quartet of large black dogs, easily rivalling Fang in size, appeared from out of nowhere. “Now, if yeh know how to work with dogs, yeh know how to work with barghests. As there’s twelve of yeh, I’ll put yeh in groups of three, one barghest to a group.”

Wulfrún ended up being grouped with Myf and Lavender, which she didn’t mind, and Hagrid led them over to one of the smaller barghests, a bitch named Jasper (Hagrid said he’d named her that for her green eyes). She was interested immediately and almost entirely in Wulfrún, who was more than happy to provide scritches.

“So, um… I’ve been meaning to ask, Wulfrún…” Lavender said as she did a rough sketch of the barghest, whose preoccupation with the other girl made drawing her easy. “Why don’t you spend much time with anyone other than Myf, Hermione, and Neville…? Not including the Quadball team, I mean.”

Wulfrún watched Malfoy from the corner of her eye as she made much of Jasper, and she took a moment to think, holding up a finger, before she said, “Mostly…I’m just not much of a people person, Lav. We met on the Express when we first came to Hogwarts, and that was…enough, I guess? I don’t know how to make friends; I didn’t really have anyone to talk to who was safe.”

“‘Safe’ as in…? If you don’t mind my asking, I mean. Will she let you pick up her forepaw?” Lavender finished her first sketch, which was of the barghest’s head, and her second one was an enlarged depiction of Jasper’s left paw while Wulfrún held it. “Those claws are wicked.”

Wulfrún’s smile was bittersweet for a moment. “Well…my cousin Dudley wouldn’t let anyone spend time with me, and the adults at primary school mostly just wanted to know what I was doing to antagonise him, that sort of thing.”

“Wow, what a jerk. Um…Fay, Lizbet, Sally-Anne, Smita, and I, we talked over the summer. About you, a bit, especially when we learned you’d be joining us in the girls’ dorm this year. We’d be happy to be friends with you, Myf, and Hermione. And Ginny and Neville.”

Wulfrún blinked. “Um…yeah, actually, that’d be lovely.”

Suddenly, there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh and then a scream, and as Wulfrún turned toward the source of the sound, Hagrid lunged forward and yanked Malfoy away from the barghest he’d apparently struck. The boy was cradling a bloody hand.

“You. Do not. Attack. Our animals,” Hagrid growled, taking the time to enunciate clearly as he held the boy up by his robes. “Fifty points from Slytherin and detention, and I will be speaking to Professor Snape about this. Yer damned lucky yer hand only got bit, not taken off entire.”

Malfoy muttered something, but he was far enough away that Wulfrún couldn’t hear it. She presumed it was something about telling his father about this or somesuch, though.

3 September - lunchtime

Lunchtime on Wednesday was the first time Wulfrún had eaten a meal with her peers since the first week of her first term at Hogwarts, and she was a little nervous. Actually, she was quite a bit nervous, but that was in part because she’d joined the other third-year girls.

“Hey, Wulfrún,” Lavender said as she piled up some roast potatoes on her plate “Are you gonna be joining us for lunch from now on?”

“Yeah. Madam Pomfrey says I’m ready to try one meal a day with you lot.” Wulfrún inspected the menu that’d appeared earlier, then piled a sausage, a bit of beef roast, some roast potatoes, and some carrots on to her plate.

“Oh, okay. We were thinking about having a picnic of a weekend afternoon. Want to join us?” Lavender gestured to the other girls, and Wulfrún nodded.

“I’d be delighted. Just, um… do you mind if I bring my own food? Or would you rather I gave you a list of things I can’t eat?”

Lavender blinked. “Um…whichever is more comfortable for you, pup.”

“Okay…” Wulfrún thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “I’ll try to write something out, but don’t be surprised if I forget to and end up bringing my own food. Alternatively, feel free to poke me about it.”

“Sure thing. So, what’d you think of the barghests? Jasper seemed to like you a lot, but…”

4 September

Thursday morning found Wulfrún, Hermione, Myf, and Neville taking a rather circuitous route to get from the Great Hall to Divinations, which involved going up two separate staircases and down a third. Like the Spellcraft classroom, the Divinations classroom was dimly-lit, to Myf and Neville’s eyes, at least (to Wulfrún, it was well-lit); by way of contrast, however, the room was lit by witch-lights set to mimic candlelight instead of the diffuse brightness most of the other classrooms enjoyed.

There was a roaring fire in the fireplace, which heated a large copper kettle, and from which issued a cloying sort of perfume that made Wulfrún and Frodo sneeze several times in quick succession when they first entered the room. Wulfrún’s eyes were watering badly enough that she took Hermione’s hand, muttering, “Whatever that perfume is, it’s probably toxic to wolves because I literally cannot see, my eyes are tearing up so badly.”

“… Out,” Hermione said firmly, pushing Wulfrún back toward the entrance to the classroom, and Myf pulled her out in to the hall. Wulfrún’s vision cleared almost immediately.

“Well, that’s…interesting,” Wulfrún muttered. Louder, she said, “I’m going to write to Uncle Remus, see if there’s an air-clearing spell of some sort.”

“There’s no need,” Hermione said as she joined her, Frodo in tow. She flicked her wand at Wulfrún and Frodo, muttering “bullaeris puro” with each flick.

Wulfrún blinked as the air she breathed lost all traces of the scents that had surrounded her before Hermione’s charm. “Wow. That’s…that’s right handy, that is. Only problem is that it means I have to track by sight rather than scent, as long as it’s up.”

“You’re not tracking anything in there to begin with, though,” Myf said. “C’mon, let’s find a seat…”

Now that her eyes weren’t watering, Wulfrún was able to tell that the classroom was set up more like an indoor bistro than anything else. There were about two dozen small, round tables, each only large enough to hold a tea service, two saucers, and two teacups that were, at least at the moment, upside down. Flanking the tables were chintz armchairs, all of which were slightly off-white to Wulfrún’s eye.

“Want to sit with me, Hermione?” Wulfrún asked, looking around.

“Sure. Let’s see…there should be a chair…ah, yes, here we are. Over here, Frodo,” Hermione said as she sat down, and Frodo lay down to her right. Wulfrún sat across from her, and Myf and Neville took an adjacent table. The classroom filled up—it seemed to be almost the entire female third-year population of Gryffindor and Slytherin, since the only actual boys seemed to be Nott and Davis from the latter House and Finnegan, Neville, and Richards from Gryffindor.

Shortly after the bell chimed, a trapdoor in the ceiling at one end of the room opened, and a rope ladder unrolled, hitting the carpeted floor with a thump. A small, thin olive-skinned woman with raven black hair descended, then blinked owlishly as she looked around the classroom. She was festooned in translucent shawls of various warm colours, and underneath them she wore a simple white chiton. The woman wore a plain gold ring on her right ring finger, several beaded necklaces hung from her neck, and she wore a pair of circular glasses, with a prescription that made her eyes seem unnaturally large when viewed through them.

She smiled, then, and glided across the floor to the fireplace. “Good morning, my dears. What a pleasure it is to see you in person at last…” Her voice was wispy, as if a stiff breeze would have rendered it inaudible “Welcome to Divination. You may call me Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before… I find that descending to the hustle and bustle of the school too often obscures my view of oncoming events…”

The air, thick as it was with the perfume wafting through the room, seemed to congeal with the silence that followed this statement, then Trelawney cleared her throat softly, adjusting a shawl minutely, and continued, “So you have chosen to study Divination, the most elusive of all magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Gift, there is very little I will be able to teach you. Books can only take you so far in this field…”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and Wulfrún and Myf barely managed to suppress a snort.

“Many witches, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future.” Trelawney’s huge eyes seemed to dart from face to face, as if looking for something. “Only a few possess the Gift… You, boy,” she said suddenly, looking at Neville, “is your grandmother well?”

“Seemed so, last letter,” he said nervously.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, dear,” Trelawney said, firelight glinting from emerald pendant earrings. As Neville gulped, she continued placidly, “We will be covering the basic methods of Divination this year. The first term will be devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear,” she shot suddenly at Smita Patil, “beware a false-faced man.”

Smita blinked in confusion, but said nothing as the professor continued, “In the summer term, we shall progress to the crystal ball—if we have finished with fire-omens, that is. Unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever.”

A tense silence filled the room after this pronouncement, but Trelawney seemed unaware of it. She turned to Lavender, who was nearest and seemed to shrink away from the woman, and said, “I wonder, dear, if you could pass me the largest silver teapot?”

Looking relieved, Lavender nodded and stood, then took an enormous teapot from the shelf beside her and set it down on the table, near the professor.

“Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, the thing you are dreading—it will happen on the seventeenth of October, a Friday.”

Lavender shuddered as she sat once more.

“Now, everyone, turn your teacups up and deposit one scoop of tea leaves from the cannister on your table in to it. I will fill it. Then you will drink; drink until only the dregs remain. Swirl these around the cup three times with the left hand, then turn the cup upside-down on its saucer; wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then give your cup to your partner to read. You will interpret the patterns using pages five and six of Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, helping and instructing. Oh, and dear”—she gestured to Wulfrún—“the tea here is decaffeinated, you shan’t poison yourself drinking it.”

Wulfrún whispered to Hermione, “…How’d she know?”

Hermione muttered back, “Your transformation back in June was rather public, pup. Anyway, since I can’t read your leaves, you’ll have to ask Myf or Neville to.”

Wulfrún nodded, and they drank their tea. Hermione had a Braille copy of Unfogging the Future in her lap, which she read with her free hand as they drank. When they’d finished, she passed her cup to Wulfrún. “So what can you see?” she asked after a moment.

“A load of soggy brown bits,” Wulfrún said.

“Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes to see past the mundane!” Trelawney said.

Wulfrún rolled her eyes, then squinted as she looked in to Hermione’s teacup again. “Some sort of dog, I think… A jug…and a hammer?”

“Where’s the dog at?”

“Near the top of the cup.”

“So…Faithful friends, good health, and triumph over adversity, hmm? Well, I knew the first part already,” Hermione mused.

After about a minute, Trelawney glided over to the two of them. “Ah, Madames Granger and Lupin…if I may, Miss Lupin…?”

At Wulfrún’s nod, she picked up her cup and peered in to it. The room quieted as everyone turned to watch. “Hmm… The falcon… my dear, you have a deadly enemy.”

“Everyone knows that, though,” Hermione said. “On account of her having encountered the Great Warlock twice now.”

Wulfrún, Myf, and Neville blinked. They’d never heard Hermione speak to a teacher that way before. Trelawney chose to ignore this. “The club…an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup… The skull… danger in your path, my dear…”

Everyone was staring at Trelawney by now, transfixed, as she gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and then screamed. She sank in to a vacant armchair, her hand at her heart and her eyes closed.

“My dear girl—my poor dear girl—no—it is kinder not to say—no—don’t ask me…”

“What is it, Professor?” Finnegan asked. Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly, they crowded around Wulfrún and Hermione’s table, pressing close to Trelawney’s chair to get a good look at Wulfrún’s cup.

“My dear,” Trelawney’s huge eyes opened dramatically, “you have…the Grim.”

“The…grin?” Finnegan asked; apparently he’d misheard.

“No, you daft boy, the Grim, the Grim,” she snapped. “The giant black dog who haunts churchyards! My dear girl, it is an omen—the worst omen—of death!”

Wulfrún blinked, then tilted her head inquiringly with an innocent look on her face. “…Oh, a big black dog? Is that all? ’Cause Uncle Sirius is one of those sometimes. Can’t let him have nachos when he’s a dog, though; the farts are quite deadly.”

There was an awkward pause as Trelawney stared at her, and then the other students snickered.

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

Silently the class took their teacups up to the wash tub at the front of the room, packed away their books, and closed their bags.

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

After lunch, Gryffindor third-years were still chatting about the morning’s Divination class as they filed in to the Transfiguration classroom alongside Hufflepuff third-years. Wulfrún chose a seat at the back of the room, which was a bit unusual for her—normally she, Hermione, Myf, and Neville were at the front, to learn everything they possibly could.

She hardly paid attention to the lesson, which was about animagi—after all, she could already transform if she wanted to, so it was hardly applicable to her any more. It was a much more in-depth lesson than the teaser McGonagall had given them in the first transfiguration lesson they’d had, and again she showed them her animal form, a cat with spectacle markings around her eyes.

“Really, what has got into you all today?” said Professor McGonagall, turning back into herself with a faint pop, and staring around at them all. “Not that it matters, but that’s the first time my transformation’s not got applause from a class.”

Hermione raised her hand, and McGonagall nodded to her. “We’ve had our first Divination lesson this morning, Professor, and we were doing tasseography, and—”

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

Everyone stared at her.

“Me, ma’am,” Wulfrún said, tilting her head.

“I see,” McGonagall said, giving her a look. “Then you should know, Miss Lupin, that Sybill Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her favourite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues—” McGonagall broke off, and they saw that her nostrils had gone white. She went on, more calmly, “Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and Professor Trelawney…”

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

Hermione laughed, and Wulfrún felt a faint smile cross her lips. She hadn’t been concerned about the ‘death omen’, not when it could have just been her Uncle Sirius in dog form, but she had to admit that she had been a little concerned.

Chapter Text

Somehow, Wulfrún didn’t see Malfoy again until Friday morning, at breakfast, but she was unsurprised to see that his right hand was swaddled in so much gauze that it resembled a small white quaffle. He was, of course, hamming it up for all he was worth (so about two knuts, she figured), too.

“Wonder if I should remind him that being a prat won’t improve his marks,” Wulfrún muttered around a mouthful of toast.

“If it didn’t take the first time, I’m not sure it’s worth trying again so soon,” Hermione said, causing Wulfrún to wince—she hadn’t realised she’d verbalised her thought.

“Probably not. Maybe just before winter break, then, when term marks get issued.”

Hermione swallowed a bite of sausage, and said, “Sounds reasonable to me. I’ve been meaning to ask, how did Magizoology go, anyway? Aside from Malfoy being himself, I mean.”

“It was actually pretty cool. Hagrid had gotten four barghests to come greet us, and he made introductions before setting us loose. Jasper liked me quite a bit, for some reason. They’re normally standoffish at best around lycanthropes, or so the Monster Book says, including animagi. I guess theriopsychics like me are rare enough that they’d not been bred to go for us.”

Hermione blinked. “I mean, that would make sense…why train for rare circumstances?”

The Self Defence classroom was surprisingly bare when Wulfrún, Myf, Hermione, and Neville entered shortly after breakfast, with an armoire standing alone at the far end of the room. The desks were stacked neatly out of the way, and a line of chairs was set up along the wall by the door. Sirius was, as of yet, nowhere to be seen, however, as their fellow third-years, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, joined them. There was intense speculation as to what the first lesson would be about, which came to a stop as he arrived at last, just as the bell chimed.

“Good morning, good morning,” Sirius said as he strode to the armoire. He inspected it quickly, then nodded. “Our first lesson will be a practical one, but before we begin, I need to ask each of you a rather personal question under a cone of silence. All will be made clear soon enough, I assure you. Line up, please…”

Once everyone had lined up along the wall, Sirius called them up, one by one. It wasn’t until he’d called on Wulfrún that she realised the nature of the question, however, which was fair enough—he had said he’d ask under a cone of silence.

“I don’t think I need to ask,” Sirius said once the two of them were under the cone, “what fears you might have, my dear pup. I’ve a boggart in the armoire there, and they, like lemures, exploit the fear of their victims. Unlike lemures, they are relatively harmless—if you don’t have a heart condition, at least. The most effective counter for a boggart, however, is laughter. Given your experiences…hmm. How would you make a mockery of Petunia and hers?”

“Um…” Wulfrún had to think about that. “For Dudley, probably pantsing him in front of the whole school. I’m… I… dunno… what would work for Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia.”

“I’m afraid I never got to know Vernon, probably fortunately for him, but Petunia never did like mice. Lily and I would sometimes sneak a mouse in to the house while she wasn’t looking, and she always carried on like they were the worst things imaginable when she encountered it.”

Wulfrún giggled at that. “I suppose that would work, yeah. And, um…Hagrid tried to turn Uncle Vernon in to a pig when he came to deliver my first Hogwarts letter.”

“Oh, I bet that was entertaining,” Sirius said with a grin.

“It was, in retrospect. So I guess that’ll do for him, then.”

“All right. Keep all three of those things in mind, then, just in case. Go join the other line, and we’ll get started on the lesson proper in just a moment.”

Once Sirius had talked to all twenty students, he stood next to the armoire. “All right, class. As I’m sure you’ve probably guessed by now, I have a boggart in the armoire here. Would anyone like to guess what the best defence is against a boggart?”

Quite a few hands went up, most of them Ravenclaws’, and Sirius nodded. “Miss Turpin?”

“The best defence against a boggart is having several people, sir,” a short, muscular white girl with straw-coloured hair and brown eyes said, and Sirius nodded again.

“Correct, take five points for Ravenclaw. Now, I’m going to open the armoire in just a moment, and each of you will, one at a time, approach. The incantation you want is ‘riddikulus’. Repeat after me: ‘riddikulus’. One more time…and, good. Remember to keep your counter-image in mind. All right, here we go!”

He opened the armoire, and the first student up was Morag MacDougal, a redheaded, green-eyed white Ravenclaw girl, as the boggart inhabiting the armoire burst out in to the room. For her, it transformed into a Rottweiler, which caused her to flinch a little. She slashed at the dog with her wand, shouting, “Riddikulus!” and he stood up on his hind legs and began to dance a jig, causing her to giggle.

“Excellent!” Sirius shouted, and she grinned and stepped away and over to the empty side of the room. One by one, the students stepped forward, causing the boggart to assume a new form each time. For Myf, it was an enormous spider—and, like MacDougal, it danced when she cast riddikulus. And then it was Wulfrún’s turn, and as she stepped forward, the boggart changed once more.

And then the world went silent and grey, and the mirth that had filled the room mere seconds before turned to bitter ash in Wulfrún’s mouth. A hollow rushing sound filled her ears as she stared, transfixed, at the lemure standing before her. The moment seemed to stretch before a bright, blue-limned silvery creature slammed in to the lemure, causing it to shatter in to prismatic shards as a black void flew backward, and the world filled with colour and true noise once more. The boggart fled in to the armoire, and Sirius slammed it shut.

“All right, that concludes the practical lesson for today, I think. Dismissed,” Sirius said as he moved from the armoire over to the teacher’s desk. “Madames Granger and Weasley, please wait. Miss Lupin, come over here, please.”

It took a moment for Wulfrún to realise that he’d been talking to her, and then another for her to start moving again as the room emptied around her. Soon, it was just her, Hermione, Myf, and Sirius in the room, and he enveloped her in a tight hug. “I hadn’t expected that, and I’m sorry,” he murmured softly in to her ear. “But, it says something very significant, my dear pup.”

Wulfrún meant to ask, “What?” but the word was too muffled to make out as her face was pressed in to her uncle’s chest. He gave her a squeeze, then released her and gently nudged her away.

“That the only thing you fear is fear itself,” Sirius said calmly, having intuited her question. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, nobody else was confronted by a lemure when the boggart assumed their worst fear. It doesn’t mean you’re weak or incapable.”

He stepped around the desk and opened a drawer, from which he extracted a box of chocolates. “Have a chocolate,” he said, opening it. Wulfrún eyed him, then selected one and popped it in to her mouth. As with the actual lemure attack on the Hogwarts Express, she was filled with a soothing warmth almost as soon as she began to chew.

Hermione tilted her head. “So what would the boggart have done if it had latched on to Frodo?” she asked.

“It’d probably have turned in to a vacuum cleaner or a thundercloud or so, depending on what scares him. Which can be helpful for us, albeit potentially traumatic for him. Boggarts are easier to deal with the more people there are, as they start to get confused as to what they should be, as I’m sure you’ve read.”

Just then, the bell chimed, signalling the end of second period, and Sirius sighed. “All right, off you pop. Wulfrún, I’m going to have a think about this—it’s rare for a boggart to become a lemure, so there’s not much in the way of literature on what to do about it and, I have to admit, I was operating on instinct.”

Wulfrún nodded. “What was that silvery creature, anyway?”

“It was a Patronus. We’ll go over it when we have time, all right?”

As it was on Monday, the Spellcraft classroom was lit only by the westering sun that afternoon. When Professor Garner entered the room this time, however, she waved her hand and witch-lights lit. They weren’t as bright as was the standard in other classrooms, which puzzled Wulfrún, but she didn’t inquire. She and Hermione were in the front again, and Frodo lay under the desk, his harness leaning on the desk next to Hermione.

Garner walked over to her desk and set a large handbag down on it, then turned to the class and began.

“G-g-good afternoon, class,” she said warmly. “Monday, we talked about the syllabus, and-and I gave a b-brief overview of the term’s agenda. Today, I’m going to g-g-give a brief history of mmmmodern spellcraft, and then we’ll create our first spell. Some of you may be f-familiar with the earliest d-days of computer science, back in the early-to-mid n-nineteenth century. For those who are not, A-a-augusta Ada King, Countess Lovelace, m-more commonly known today as Ada Lovelace, is c-considered to be the author of the first computer p-p-p-program, an algorithm for calculating Bernoulli numbers, in consultation with Ch-charles Babbage.

“Some two d-decades after this was published, in 1863, a-a-a witch by the name of Alfred Prewett determined that Babbage’s theories could be applied to mmmagic, and he codified the f-first modern spellcrafting language, Codicil. It was initially d-d-developed in Latin, which was the-the style at the time, and later reworked in English at the M-ministry’s behest. Since that time, th-there have been a n-number of languages developed, among them Sssimurgh, the language we’ll be u-using here at Hogwarts.”

Here, Garner paused and returned to her desk, where she opened the handbag and reached in to it with both hands. She withdrew a stack of slates, which could not possibly have fit, given the dimensions of the bag and the slates, and set them down next to the bag, then reached in again and withdrew a cup of styli.

“Now, each of you w-will come up and collect a slate and a s-stylus. Miss Granger, I have one which b-b-behaves like a Braille note-taker for you, which Miss Lupin will c-collect on your behalf. Each slate is individually num-n-num-n-n—really, tongue?—numbered, and you will be r-retaining the one I will issue for the d-duration of the term; the stylus is not, but if-if you lose it, you will be buying the replacement. It is, of c-course, your privilege to buy your o-own slate and stylus, if you p-prefer.”

After everyone had collected a slate and stylus, Professor Garner continued, “So. Our first project will be v-very simple. At the top of your slate—in portrait orientation—you wi-will write ‘spell’, then in quotes, ‘salutare’. All spells b-begin with the ‘spell’ keyword, followed by a nnname—this name is what you will use to cast the spell.”

As she spoke, Garner flicked her wand in to her hand and then flicked the wand. Almost immediately, a cloud of black smoke formed, along with fiery letters. “Underneath that, you will write ‘p-print’ followed by an open parenthesis. Then, quote, the-the words ‘hello world’, unquote, and close parenthesis. Your spell should l-look like what’s on my board.”

spell "salutare"

print("Hello world")
  

“When you are ready, t-tap the slate with your stylus and say, ‘run salutare’. If you did th-this all correctly, you will see the words ‘hello world’ appear in the air in f-front of you with perfect legibility. Miss Granger, there is a separate output p-p-pane with your slate. If you did not get ‘hello world’, please raise your hand.”

Malfoy had raised his, apparently, because she heard Garner walk over to him, and she turned her head to watch. “Yes, Mr Malfoy?” Garner asked.

“I can’t write with this, Professor,” Malfoy said, holding up his bandaged hand.

Garner pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded once and turned to Smita. “Miss Patil, m-may I borrow you?”

“Um,” Smita said, looking over. “Sure, Professor.”

“Please assist Mr Malfoy for the-the remainder of today’s lesson.”

Smita shrugged and moved over to the desk Malfoy was seated at. He seemed a little nonplussed at being partnered with a half-blooded Desi, but managed to control his expression to a slight frown rather than the disgust or disdain Wulfrún thought he’d have preferred. He also, interestingly, declined to say anything cutting, choosing instead to say, “Thank you, Miss Patil,” in a neutral voice.

Wulfrún didn’t think for a moment that Malfoy was actually turning over a new leaf, however—he had chosen to attack an animal, after all. Nobody who’d hit a dog for reasons other than defending someone was a good person, in her book, and…well…Malfoy was a bully.

Chapter Text

The picnic that weekend was a smashing success, and Wulfrún had in fact managed to provide Lavender that list of foods she couldn’t eat. The main topic of conversation had been a fairly simple question: would you rather meet a man or a bear in the woods? Various permutations were mooted: was it a man they knew and liked, or disliked, or a stranger? What sort of bear?

From what Wulfrún heard from the fourth-years Saturday night, Sirius’s third-year curriculum was essentially just like Remus’s had been, though Remus hadn’t begun the school year with a boggart. The next few Self Defence lessons had been along the same vein as what the fourth-years reported, however.

For example, red caps were related to hobs, but they preferred to prey on travellers, whom they encountered by lurking around crossroads and abandoned roadside buildings, rather than play housekeeper. Their name derived from the fact that they dipped their caps in the blood of their victims.

Then there were the kappa, reptilian water kami, or petty gods, from Japan. They were humanoid, with webbed fingers and toes, a turtle-like carapace, and mottled green scaly skin. They had a dish-like projection from the tops of their heads, which contained a water-like liquid; if the dish was damaged or the liquid spilled, they were severely weakened until the liquid was replenished or the dish healed. They could normally be found in rivers and ponds, where they preyed on unwary swimmers, and although they were native to Japan, they could be found wherever diaspora Japanese settled.

Her other classes were equally interesting: in Potions, they were learning about, and brewing, Shrinking Solutions, a kind of potion that shrank the drinker through age regression. (She paid very close attention to these lessons.) In Divination, meanwhile, Trelawney had evidently decided she was a poor target for her pronouncements of doom, as she hadn’t inspected Wulfrún’s cup since that first lesson. It was still heavily perfumed, but Hermione helped her learn the Air Bubble Charm that she’d cast on her and Frodo.

Magizoology was every bit as interesting as the first lesson had been, with the entirety of September’s lessons being devoted to barghests. Like Jasper, the rest of the pack quite liked Wulfrún, even to the point of letting her handle their paws as their nails were clipped and the fur between their paw-pads carefully trimmed away, without their attempting to tug their paws out of her grasp. None of the other students were able to achieve this, however. Malfoy had apparently been ejected from the class, it seemed, as Wulfrún hadn’t seen him in attendance since that memorable first lesson.

September 10

On the tenth, Wulfrún woke to a note under her caudalixir again. This time, it included a hall pass—that night was to be the night they solidified the bond between her and Xenia, apparently, and to do so, they’d need to be outside at midnight.

That night, Wulfrún and Xenia went down to the Entrance Hall at eleven, and she was playing fetch with the ferret when Madam Pomfrey entered the hall, carrying a small satchel.

“Good evening, Miss Lupin, Xenia. Are you ready?” she asked, and Wulfrún nodded.

“As I’ll ever be. Dressing gown and cloak, and I’ve memorised the Warming Charm.” She looked pensive for a moment, then shrugged. “I just wish I could have some of my friends witness it.”

“Maybe if they get a familiar of their own,” Madam Pomfrey said with an amused chuckle. “All right, let’s be off; time’s a-wasting.”

The three of them ambled out of the castle and out on to a field, far enough away from Hogwarts that nobody looking out the window could see them, but still within the boundaries of the various protective wards. Under Madam Pomfrey’s guidance, Wulfrún cast a circle on the grass using powdered chalk, then hammered a stake down at the centre and tied Xenia’s lead to it such that the ferret couldn’t break the circle. Madam Pomfrey removed a small silver bowl, a packet of gummies, a water bottle containing fresh water, a couple of alcohol pads, a packet of cotton balls, a needle, a syringe, a tegaderm bandage, a sharps bin, and a couple sheets of sterile paper.

“Come over here, please, and present your right arm,” Madam Pomfrey said as she laid out her phlebotomy kit just outside the circle. She inspected Wulfrún’s elbow to find a likely vein, then swabbed it clean with an alcohol pad. Next, she opened the disposable needle packet and attached it to the syringe.

“All right, this is going to hurt a bit,” she said as she aligned the needle. At Wulfrún’s nod, she pushed it in and began collecting the blood the ritual required. Once that was done, she placed a cotton ball over the wound site. Wulfrún held it there while Madam Pomfrey opened the tegaderm bandage, then released it as the bandage was applied.

“All right. This goes in to the bowl, this goes in to the sharps bin…” Madam Pomfrey muttered to herself as she completed the preparations. Wulfrún consumed the gummies and bottle of water. After fifteen minutes, she disrobed, facing away from Madam Pomfrey, then accepted the silver bowl when it was ready. “I’ll be looking skyward, but I did bring a pack of cue cards for you to read off of if you need the assist.”

She hadn’t realised before how…infuriating…the scars on Wulfrún’s body would be when she saw them at last. The girl had clearly been belted several times when she’d been with the Dursleys, though the scars were noticeable mainly by their reflectivity rather than actual colouration; these were old scars. They seemed focused primarily on her buttocks and upper legs, though there were a few on her lower back—probably stray blows.

“Thank you, Poppy,” Wulfrún said, then she stepped in to the circle. She spoke a short phrase in Latin, which caused a faint snap, inaudible but sensed nevertheless. She moved to stand in front of Xenia, holding the silver bowl with her left hand as she continued. Meanwhile, Xenia stood as still as a statue, seemingly frozen mid-step.

“Foedus obsigno, dono hanc sanguinis offero,” she concluded, a few minutes later, and gently set the silver bowl of blood down on the ground, within Xenia’s reach. Whatever hold had been on Xenia was released, and she scurried to the bowl and began lapping up the blood. Almost immediately, she began to glow, as though reflecting the light of the full moon.

When the blood had been completely consumed, there was another faint snap; like the earlier one, this too was inaudible. And then before Wulfrún was a creature that resembled a hob, if one were six inches tall and capable of floating unaided in mid-air.

“Keeper of Secrets, thy gift hath been accepted. Unto thee I grant my faculties and powers, and to thee I pledge my strength. So long as thou doth tithe thy blood, thou may call upon me, and I shall answer wherever thou doth wander.”

Hermione’s birthday came and went. Wulfrún had gotten her a grooming kit for Frodo; Molly had sent her a doggie sweater, with the promise of more to come; Neville had gotten her an enchanted Perkins Brailler, a kind of typewriter designed specifically for typing Braille; and Myf had opted for a harness to match Frodo’s new sweater.

20 September

Wulfrún’s first lesson from Dumbledore turned out to be the afternoon of the 20th, with very little in the way of advance notice. (There was a note from Dumbledore on her night-stand, underneath that day’s vial of caudalixir, when she woke up.) Dumbledore was seated in the lounge area of his office when she came in after lunch.

“Ah, good afternoon, Miss Lupin,” Dumbledore said cordially. “Have a seat.”

Wulfrún sat on the indicated hassock and tilted her head at him inquiringly. He gave her a small, amused smile. “So, given that there is a link between you and Tom, it’s important that you learn how to shield your mind. Occlumency and legilimency, its opposing discipline, are rare skills. Legilimency requires one to be both receptive to the other person’s totality and at the same time not so receptive that one can’t control what one takes in, and striking that balance is incredibly difficult. Occlumency, meanwhile, is rare primarily because most witches just don’t need to shield their minds from external influences.

“So, there are two schools of thought when it comes to shielding the mind: barriers and redirection. Barriers are, I think, self-explanatory: they’re a mental brick wall. Redirection is more complex: instead of rejecting intrusion outright, you guide the intruder toward memories and thoughts you choose and, perforce, away from the ones you want to keep safe.

“So, some examples of each: grounding yourself with a specific thought or memory and pushing them out is a barrier, for example thinking of how much you want to be a wolf—assuming that that doesn’t cause you to transform, I mean. Constructing a mental maze would be redirection, as would inundating the infiltrator with irrelevant and useless trivia about wolves. Both approaches are effective, but a hybrid approach may be more effective than just a barrier or just redirection, particularly when you don’t know how an opponent is likely to behave.”

“I see,” Wulfrún said. “I’m not sure…well. One thought that immediately came to mind was redirecting infiltrators to traumatic events, but I’m fairly certain that that would just give them a handle they can yank on, both to destabilise me in the moment and to cause other problems later.”

“Indeed, but that’s not a bad strategy either. Forcing your opponent to feel emotions can distract them, making it easier to repel or redirect them. Now, we’re going to practice both techniques. I’m going to be very noisy, which means you should be able to tell when I’m coming in and where I’m going—or trying to go—and I’m also going in as lightly as I can, which should make it relatively easy to eject me. Don’t worry about being gentle, either; you can’t hurt me. When you’re ready…”

Wulfrún thought for a moment. There was a song she’d heard once, when she was a very young pupp—a toddler, she had to remind herself—Dudley had been watching the telly.

“Okay, I’m—” And before she could finish her sentence, she could already feel Dumbledore enter her mind as they looked at each other. Apparently he didn’t need to meet her eyes. It felt like there were suddenly tentacles entering her brain, each feeling around for something, and she focused on the song, letting it flow through her.

27 September

Rosh Hashanah was the week after Hermione’s birthday. Wulfrún found herself waiting in the Entrance Hall for it, as she and Sirius would be popping down to Blackstone Hall to celebrate it. Sirius himself came down the marble staircase only a few minutes after she sat down on its bottom step, wearing one of his more usual outfits of a band tee-shirt, denim trousers, combat boots, and a smile for his favourite niece. His mohawk was undyed, for a change.

“Hey, pup,” he said as she stood up. “Been waiting long?”

“Only a couple minutes,” Wulfrún said as she gave him a hug, then they left the castle. It was a crisp, mostly clear day, and so the walk along the path to Hogsmeade was a pleasant one. After about twenty minutes, Sirius called a break, though their exertions didn’t require it.

“All right, we should be outside the grounds’ anti-Apparition wards,” he explained as he took her hand. “Hold on to your butt…”

And with a loud crack, they vanished. After a brief eternity of immense inward pressure in utter darkness, they reappeared at Hogsmeade Station’s Portbook stalls. Sirius handled the trip from there to Blackstone Hall, and they were, for the day at least, home.

Remus was sat in an armchair in the second receiving room when they arrived, and Wulfrún shot across the room to hug him and attempt to burrow in to his lap. He chuckled as Sirius’s own traversal was more sedate, being a brisk walk rather than a sprint. “Hey there, my dear pup… I missed you too.”

She whinged a little, not a trace of her beloathed humanity in the sound, and he chuckled again. “Well, shall we? Kreacher has lunch waiting for us in the Green Dining Room, he does, and after that…”

Wulfrún smiled, letting her uncles’ voices wash over her as the three of them got up and moved along. It wasn’t much. In fact, it was damned little compared to the visits home from previous years. But it was enough.

October

And then, Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quadball team captain, called the team together after dinner on 1 October to discuss tactics for the coming season. At seventeen, he was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, and there was consequently a quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed the team.

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

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

“We’ve got three superb Chasers.”

Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell.

“We’ve got two unbeatable Beaters.”

“Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,” Fred and Georgia Weasley said in unison, pretending to blush.

“And we’ve got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match!” Wood rumbled, glaring at Wulfrún with a kind of furious pride. “And me,” he added, as an afterthought.

“We think you’re very good, too, Oliver,” Georgia said.

“Cracking Keeper,” Fred said.

“The point is,” Wood went on, resuming his pacing, “the Quadball Cup should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since Ha—Wulfrún joined the team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get to finally see our name on the thing…”

Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and Georgia looked sympathetic.

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

“We’ll do it, Oliver!” Angelina said.

“For sure,” Wulfrún said.

Training began in earnest on the Friday evening and continued throughout October, three evenings a week. The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no amount of mud, wind or rain could tarnish Wulfrún’s wonderful vision of finally winning the huge silver Quadball Cup.

17 October

Lavender was crying as everyone was gathering for Self Defence on the seventeenth. She was standing with Smita Patil while Smita was explaining something to Thomas and Finnegan when Wulfrún came in with Hermione, Myf, and Neville.

“What’s wrong, Lavender?” Wulfrún asked as she walked over.

“She got a letter from home,” Smita whispered. “It’s her rabbit, Binky; he’d been killed by a fox.”

“Ah. Zichrono livracha¹, may his memory be for great blessing.”

“I should have known,” Lavender said, her voice foggy with her tears. “You know what day it is?”

It took Wulfrún a moment, but then she nodded and Lavender continued, “The seventeenth! ‘That thing you’re dreading, it will happen on the seventeenth of October!’ Remember? Professor Trelawney was right!”

“Um…I’m sorry if this sounds insensitive, but how could you dread an animal being killed by a fox?” Hermione asked, tilting her head. “Or…was Binky an old rabbit…?”

“No, we’d gotten him as a kit last year,” Lavender said, blinking. “Why?”

“Well, how could you be dreading his death, then? I can understand being worried about him, but…if she hadn’t said anything, would you have been dreading something happening to him? More to the point, with a warning that vague, there really wasn’t anything you could have done to prevent it or to warn your parents.”

“I…” Lavender blinked again as her crying eased. “…That… Huh. That’s a good point. Thanks, Hermione.”

31 October

As was becoming tradition, on Hallowe’en, Wulfrún found herself waiting in the Entrance Hall for Sirius, tail limp, dressed in a long-sleeved, white button-down shirt, dark grey cotton trousers, and muddy-brown cardigan (Myf had assured her that the cardigan really was maroon). Lavender had carefully braided her hair, long enough now to fall a third of the way down her back, and tied it off with a ribbon the same colour as her cardigan, and Lizbet and Smita had applied makeup. The result was that Wulfrún had turned heads and inspired mutters of “oh, damn, she’s hot” as she’d walked down from the Common Room.

She was still a little flushed from the overheard compliments when Sirius arrived, a few minutes after she had, and Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Goodness,” he said approvingly. “Give it a year or two and you’ll have your pick of the litter of potential suitors, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

“I figured. Got a few catcalls already,” Wulfrún said as they walked out of the Hall. “I haven’t had to break any fingers, yet, but I’m sure a day will come.”

“Well…you would really only need to pick up one or two of them one-handed, I think, if you have the strength Remus did at your age, no broken bones needed.”

Wulfrún snorted. “Probably.”

“So…have you had any thoughts along those lines?” The question caught Wulfrún off-guard, and she stumbled. Sirius caught her before she could fall over and waste the Gryffindor girls’ sartorial efforts, and she blushed.

“Um… I…” she said, blushing more as she actually began to think about it. “…I dunno. I like Myf, Ginny, Hermione, and Neville, but…I can’t tell if I like like them or not. And being split between the Weasleys feels…I dunno. Like it’d be awkward, I guess?”

“Probably worse than awkward for them, I think,” Sirius said knowingly. “Not a situation I had to worry about, thankfully. Petunia despised all of us quite roundly, being witches when she was just a bitch, and the feeling was mutual. Anyway…it’s fine to experiment and see what you like. Just don’t hurt each other, and your friendships will survive whatever comes, all right?”

“…Yeah.”

The conversation turned to other matters from there, and then they apparated to Hogsmeade Station, travelling from there to Godric’s Hollow to join Remus in visiting Wulfrún’s parents’ grave.

1 November

The next day was the first official Hogsmeade weekend of the year. Wulfrún had, in previous years, been able to go unescorted of a weekend, but with the posting of a squad of lemures at Hogsmeade came a consequent loss of that privilege. She resented it, bitterly, and not just because she missed going home every weekend. That squad was entirely unnecessary, and everyone who knew Remus knew it. Worse, she felt full of nervous energy when she woke up that morning.

As she was climbing up to Gryffindor Tower after breakfast to retrieve her purse, Wulfrún abruptly decided she wasn’t interested in going to Hogsmeade today after all, and had a vague notion of shapeshifting to bleed off that nervous energy. As she roamed the upper corridors of the castle, looking for a room she could use for the purpose, she heard a familiar voice from one of the rooms she was walking past.

“Wulfrún?” Sirius asked. “What are you doing up here? Weren’t you going to go down to Hogsmeade with Myf and Hermione?”

“Um…I decided I didn’t want to, since…” Wulfrún shrugged. Sirius nodded, looking sympathetic.

“Ah. Come on in. I’ve just taken delivery of a grindylow for our next lesson.”

“A what?” Wulfrún followed him in to his office. In the corner, there was a very large tank of water. A pale brown humanoid was pressed up against the glass, gnashing their sharp little fangs at the two of them. Their arms were long and thin, as were their fingers, which were tipped by menacing claws.

“Water spirit,” Sirius said, eyeing the grindylow thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with him, not after the kappa. The trick is to break his grip. You notice the long, spindly fingers? They’re strong, but very brittle.”

The grindylow bared his teeth at them, then zipped in to a nearby tangle of weeds, where he peered out at them suspiciously.

“Cuppa, pup?” Sirius asked as he took a kettle down from a shelf. “I was just thinking about making one.”

“Sure,” Wulfrún said. Sirius set the kettle down on his desk and tapped it with his wand. Within moments, it was whistling, and she quickly cast an audiminus.

Sirius set two teacups on saucers down next to the kettle and opened a drawer. From it, he withdrew a bag of large-leaf English breakfast tea bearing the northern tea merchants logo, and spooned some of the contents in to the cups before returning the bag to the drawer and closing it. He then carefully poured water from the kettle in to the cups.

After a few minutes, he stirred in a little sugar and milk to Wulfrún’s cup, then offered it to her.

“Have a seat,” Sirius invited, even as he did so himself. “Something on your mind, pup?”

Wulfrún sipped cautiously at her tea, then glanced at the grindylow in his tank, who was shaking his fist…at her? at Sirius?

“…Yeah. Thinking about the boggart.”

“Ah?” Sirius said inquiringly, taking a sip of his own tea.

“Why did it pick to be a lemure? I mean…my mother’s relatives would have been reasonable.”

“I’d been wondering about that as well. Were they on your mind?”

“Truth be told, I had been thinking about them, since you asked, yeah. But…then I remembered the lemure we encountered on the train.”

“I see.” Sirius leaned back in his chair a bit. “Well…like I said back then, that suggests that what you fear most of all is—fear itself. Very wise, pup.”

Sirius smiled wry amusement at the look of surprise on Wulfrún’s face. “…Were you thinking that that would’ve made you a coward?”

“Well…” Wulfrún said, but before she could say anything more, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Sirius called. The door opened, and Snape strode in, carrying a wooden case. He paused briefly in mild surprise to see Wulfrún sitting there.

“Much appreciated, Severus,” Sirius said, his eyes twinkling. “Would you set it on the desk there, please?”

“Certainly.” Having done so, he paused again, looking between the two of them.

“I was just showing Miss Lupin my grindylow,” Sirius said, pointing at the tank.

“Fascinating,” Snape said without looking. “Give Remus my regards.”

“Of course.”

“I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued. “If he needs more.”

“I’ll send it forthwith. Ta, Severus.”

“Not at all,” Snape said, but there was a look in his eye that Wulfrún distrusted. He backed out of the room, a wary, neutral expression on his face that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Severus has very kindly been continuing to brew Remus’s Wolfsbane Potion,” Sirius explained. “Neither of us were terribly good at Potions, and this one is particularly complex. It’s his way of apologising for Mr Malfoy’s actions in June.”

“Ah. I’d wondered…” She finished her tea and set the cup and saucer down on the desk.

“Well, I’d better get back to work, pup. I’ll see you at dinner, yes?”

“Of course, Uncle Sirius.”

Chapter Text

Before Quadball practice on Sunday, Wood had an announcement to make:

“We’re not playing Slytherin next weekend. Flint’s just been to see me. We’re playing Hufflepuff instead.”

“But why?” Fred and Georgia chorused. Georgia continued, “We’d been training for Slytherin for a solid month…”

“Flint’s excuse,” Wood said, “is that their seeker’s hand’s still injured. But it’s obvious why they’re doing it. They don’t want to play in the wind we’ve been getting… Think it’ll damage their chances…”

“His hand’s not gotten infected,” Wulfrún said irritably. “He’d be taking an antibiotic still if it had.”

“I know that, but we can’t prove it,” Wood said bitterly. “Worst part is, Hufflepuff’s got a new captain and seeker, Cedric Diggory…”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie suddenly giggled.

“What?” said Wood, frowning at this light-hearted behaviour.

“He’s that tall, good-looking one, isn’t he?” Angelina said.

“Strong and silent,” Katie said, and they started to giggle again.

“He’s only silent because he’s too thick to string two words together,” Fred said impatiently. “I don’t know why you’re worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff are a pushover. Last time we played them, Wulfrún caught the Snitch within about five minutes of coming in, remember?”

Wulfrún gave Fred a cold stare. “Please do not comment about people’s intelligence,” she said quietly but firmly.

“Sorry,” Fred said, though he didn’t sound terribly contrite. Wulfrún decided to not push the issue this time, however, instead returning her attention to Wood.

“We were playing under completely different conditions then,” Wood said. “Diggory’s put a very strong team and training regimen together, and he’s an excellent seeker! I’d been afraid you lot were going to take it like this. We mustn’t underestimate him, and we mustn’t let Slytherin try to wrong-foot us. We need to win!”

“Oliver, calm down!” Fred said, looking slightly alarmed. “We’re taking Hufflepuff very seriously. Seriously.”

8 November

The day of the Quadball match dawned cold and clear, nearly textbook conditions for a good game. At breakfast, Malfoy looked mildly perturbed—apparently he’d been hoping the weather would be awful. Wulfrún’s ears twitched as she tried to listen in, but with the usual boisterousness of a weekend morning, it was hard to make out what Malfoy was saying. Something about a prank, that much she was certain of, though.

It turned out to be a little gusty outside when the team went down to the pitch to prepare for the match, but that was all right—the sun was out and it was surprisingly dry for an autumnal Scotland. Wood spoke at length about what their strategy was going to be. Wulfrún tuned it out, since her role as seeker wasn’t really dependent on anything other than the score and preventing Diggory, her opposite number on the Hufflepuff team, from catching the snitch.

The early part of the match was uneventful. After the traditional bow between the captains, Diggory trooped back to the bench even as she did, but unlike her, his head was constantly swivelling, following the action. When the yellow sparks indicating the snitch’s release went up, they mounted their brooms, and then they kicked off a minute later as the, to Wulfrún’s eyes, brown sparks went up to herald the arrival of the seekers on to the playing field.

She burst in to the air with glee, eyes already searching for the snitch as she and Diggory both began to fly a pattern around the stadium. It was particularly elusive today, however, and the scores remained roughly even as she and Diggory flew. She could hear the chatterings of the crowd and the occasional gong of points being scored.

And then, even as Wulfrún flew higher to obtain a more commanding view of the pitch, the world went silent and grey. A wave of arctic cold flowed through her, blossoming from her chest, just as she became aware of movement on the ground below. Before she could reason one way or the other, she looked down.

Oh. That was interesting, in a vague sort of way that did nothing for her emotional state. There were over a hundred lemures on the field, their manic expressions and too-wide, overly-toothy grins all pointed upward. At her, she realised vaguely. The arctic chill within her seemed to deepen and spread, and then she heard it again… Someone was screaming… Inside her head… A woman…

Without realising it, Wulfrún had let go of her broom, a swirling white fog overtaking her vision and shrouding conscious thought. What was she doing…? Why had she been flying? She needed to help the woman…the woman was going to die…

And then Wulfrún knew nothing more for a brief eternity.

When Wulfrún woke again, there was a susurrus of voices over her.

“Lucky the ground was so soft.”

“I thought she’d be dead for sure.”

“But she didn’t even break her glasses.”

Wulfrún couldn’t make out who was saying what, and while she could hear the words, the meanings of them couldn’t be fathomed. She felt a little adrift still, unaware of where she was, how she’d gotten there, or what she’d been doing before. What she did know was that she ached, a whole-body ache that reminded her of one of Uncle Vernon’s beatings, in the early days before she and Dudley’d started school.

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Scariest… The scariest thing… Skin the colour of drowned corpses… Cold… Screaming…

Wulfrún’s eyes snapped open. She could see the familiar shapes of the Hospital Wing’s vaulted ceiling, and knew immediately where she was. The Gryffindor Quadball team was arrayed around her. Myf, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny were also there.

“Wulfrún!” Fred said, looking pale. “How’re you feeling?”

It was as though Wulfrún’s memory was on fast-forward. One moment she’d been flying, the next…the lemures…

She sat bolt upright, so quickly they all gasped. “What happened?”

“You fell off,” Fred said. “Must’ve been, what, fifty feet?” (‘Feet’? Oh…about fifteen metres, she thought.)

“We thought you’d died,” Spinnet said; she was shaking.

All Hermione managed was a soft whimper, somehow sounding very lupine, and her eyes were puffy.

“But the match,” Wulfrún said. “What happened? Are we having a replay?”

No one said anything. The truth fell in to the silence like a rock being dropped from a great height.

“We…lost—?”

“Diggory got the snitch,” Georgia said. “Just after you fell. He didn’t realise what’d happened. When he looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to call it off, wanted a rematch.”

“Wouldn’t have been fair,” she muttered. “Outside interference or not, he’d played well.”

“Wood thought you’d say that, yeah.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Wulfrún looked around, realising he wasn’t there.

“Still in the showers, last I saw,” Fred said. “We think he’s trying to grow gills.”

Wulfrún drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them as she hugged her legs. Fred patted her gently on the shoulder. “C’mon, Wulfrún. We can’t always score.”

“There had to be one time you didn’t get the snitch,” Georgia said.

“It’s not over yet. We lost by twenty points, but we can make that up easy enough,” Fred said. “Just means we’ll need to outfly Ravenclaw and Slytherin.”

Wulfrún sighed and laid down again, letting the team’s words wash over her as they discussed the scores they’d need to get in the other games that year. They’d lost. For the first time ever, she’d lost a Quadball match.

After a few minutes, Madam Pomfrey came over to tell the team to leave her in peace, for which she was grateful.

“We’ll see you later,” Fred said. “Don’t beat yourself up, pup, you’re still the best seeker we’ve ever had.”

The team trooped out, and Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them. Myf, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny moved closer to Wulfrún’s bed.

“Professor Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said, shuddering. “I’ve never seen him like that before. He ran onto the pitch as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the lemures. Shot silver stuff at them. They left the stadium straight away…he was furious they’d come into the grounds, we heard him—”

“Then he magicked you on to a stretcher,” Myf said, “and walked up to school with you floating on it. Everyone thought you were…”

Her voice faded, but Wulfrún hardly noticed. She was thinking about what the lemures had done to her…and about the screaming voice. She looked up, and saw the concerned looks on her friends’ faces, looking so anxious that she cast about for something prosaic to talk about.

“Did someone get my Nimbus?”

They looked at each other.

“Er—”

“What?” Wulfrún asked, looking from one face to another.

“Well…when you fell off, it got blown away,” Hermione said hesitantly.

“And…”

“And it…it hit… Oh, pup…it hit the Whomping Willow.”

Wulfrún looked stricken. The Whomping Willow was an animate tree, known to take a swing at anything that invaded its personal space.

“Oh… Oh, no. Oh, shite, don’t tell me…” she said, dreading the words that were to come.

“I’m afraid so. The Whomping Willow broke it into several pieces. Professor Flitwick brought it back, but…” Myf picked up a bag that was sitting at her feet, then tipped its contents out on to the bed. Several splintery bits of wood and a pile of twigs fell out, all that remained of Wulfrún’s beloved Nimbus Two Thousand.

At first, Wulfrún was horrified. Quadball had been one of her great loves at Hogwarts, outside of Healing, her uncles, and, under her uncles’ tutelage, Self Defence, and now that the magical sport had been taken from her…

She burst in to tears.

Chapter Text

That evening, Sirius visited Wulfrún. He looked furious, but as he walked toward her he visibly wrestled his fury until it was replaced by his concern for her.

“I’m sorry, my dear pup,” he said once he sat on a stool by her cot. “I’d have been here before you woke, but Albus and I had to be very firm with the lemures. They were set to guard Hogwarts’ and Hogsmeade’s boundaries, and should not have been anywhere near the Quadball pitch.”

“I…kinda figured,” Wulfrún said, sitting up. She reached for him, and he moved to sit on the edge of the cot instead, giving her a hug. She climbed in to his lap as she returned it, not really caring how juvenile she looked in that moment. “I hate this… every time they turn up, I’m incapacitated. They came near to killing me today. Why do they affect me like that…? Am I just—”

“It has nothing to do with weakness, my dear pup,” Sirius said softly in to Wulfrún’s hair. “The lemures affect you worse than other folks because there are horrors in your past they don’t have.”

Sirius gently scritched behind Wulfrún’s ear, something which, if not for the Quadball match today, would have caused her tail to wag. Instead, it caused her left foot to wiggle.

“Lemures are among the foulest creatures that inhabit this world. They are the ghosts of the unquiet dead, according to the Romans—that is, they were believed to have been created when someone was buried improperly or the funeral rites were not properly performed, or weren’t performed at all. They dwell in the spaces where people have lost hope, feeding on their despair. They possess an aura of despair, in fact; their very presence drains hope and happiness from those within it, and it affects even mundane people. If it can, a lemure will drain every last moment of happiness from their victim, in effect creating a human copy of themself: a soulless being incapable of love or compassion. They’d be left with nothing but their worst experiences of their life. And the worst that has happened to you, my dear pup, is enough to make anyone fall off their brooms. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“When they get near me,” Wulfrún said in a small voice, “I can hear Voldemort murdering Mum…”

She felt Sirius’s arms tighten around her as he digested that.

“Why did they have to come to the match?” she asked bitterly.

“They’re getting hungry,” Sirius said. He forced himself to relax his embrace. “Albus won’t let them in to the school, so their supply of human prey has been drying up. I don’t think they could have resisted the large crowd around the Quadball pitch. All that excitement, emotions running high…it would’ve been their idea of a feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible,” Wulfrún muttered.

“It’s a fortress set on an Unplottable island off the Scottish coast. But they don’t need walls or water to keep the imprisoned people in, not when they’re all trapped inside their own head, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

“How did you manage to survive, Dod¹?”

“Well…” Sirius began, then chuckled. “Truth be told, I survived because I knew you were still alive, ahavti. First thing I did when I learned your parents had been murdered was make sure you were alive. Then I went after the rat. Reminds me, I need to ask Hagrid what he did with my bike—I’d loaned it to him so he could get you to Albus and…I’m sorry to say…the Dursleys.”

“Hm. You made that lemure on the train back off,” Wulfrún said abruptly.

“Yes. There are…certain defences one can use. But, there was only one lemure on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

“What defences, Dod¹?” Wulfrún asked, a wolf seizing a newly-presented toy. “Can you teach me?”

“Albus would likely be the better teacher for defending against lemures, my dear pup.”

“But if the lemures come to another Quadball match, I need to be able to fight them—”

Sirius thought about it for a moment. “…This is true. We’ll talk about it more during winter break.”

Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Wulfrún in the Hospital Wing on the Sunday as well. She didn’t argue, but she also didn’t let her throw away the remnants of her Nimbus, either. She knew she was being ridiculous, and that the Nimbus was beyond repair, but she couldn’t help it—it had been like she’d lost a best friend.

She had a stream of visitors, aside from Sirius. Hagrid had sent up a bouquet of flowers that looked like small yellow cabbages. Ginny, meanwhile, had made a rather personal ‘get well’ card that she presented to Wulfrún whilst blushing furiously—she still hadn’t quite got over her hero worship, it seemed. The third-year Gryffindor girls had also been by, which Wulfrún appreciated.

It was somewhat of a relief to return to classes on the Monday, even if it meant enduring Malfoy, who had apparently tired of playing up the barghest bite, repeatedly doing impressions of her falling off her broom instead. He was on his best behaviour during Spellcraft, however; either he genuinely liked the subject, or else his father had taken him to task after he’d apparently been expelled from Magizoology.

The following day was sunny and relatively warm. Hagrid greeted the Gryffindor and Slytherin third-years with his customary gruff cheer. “How bist², Wulfrún, Myfanwy?” he called as he spotted the Gryffindor girls. “I’ve a treat for yeh, a great lesson.”

“No bad,” Wulfrún said, a wolfish smile on her face. Myf nodded in agreement. “An ye?”

“Likewise,” Hagrid chuckled. “All righ’, follow me, yeh lot. Shan’t be far.”

He led the way behind his hut and to a large clearing that was only about a five-minute walk in to the Forbidden Forest. At the far end of the clearing were a trio of feathered quadrupeds only a little larger than an Eriskay pony. Their heads were black, as were their legs and a broad band down their backs to their tail. Their bellies were white, as were the upper third of their wings, which were presently folded up. The remainder of their wings were a jewel-like greenish blue, and their tail feathers were an emerald green. Their forelegs were those of a bird, taloned and black, and their hinds were equine, the hooves the same colour as their forelegs. All three were saddled and wore halters.

“These are Scottish magpie hippogriffs,” Hagrid said proudly, stopping only about a metre and a half in to the clearing. “They’re the only breed native to Scotland, and one of only three native to the British Isles; the other two are Ireland’s emeraldines and England’s Essexian redcoats. Would anyone like to guess why these ones’re called ‘magpies’?”

Only two hands went up: Wulfrún’s, and a Slytherin girl who was almost as colourless as Malfoy. “Miss Greengrass?”

“Because their plumage resembles that of the Eurasian magpie,” Greengrass drawled.

“Correct, take five points for Slytherin. Now, the Scottish magpie is large enough to be ridden, but this is not necessarily true of other breeds, and Buckbeak here”—Hagrid pointed to the largest of the three hippogriffs—“is fairly large relative to his fellows. The most important thing to remember about hippogriffs is, they’re a proud lot, and quick ter take offence. Treat ’em like royalty, and yeh’ll not go far wrong. Now, the section on them’ll be page forty-nine in yer books.”

As they got their books out, Hagrid looked over the small crowd. “Who’d like ter take the lead in meetin’ one?” Almost in unison, everyone but Wulfrún took a step back. She blinked and muttered, “Cowards.”

Myf snorted. “Turn around and say that,” she said quietly enough only Wulfrún could hear; Wulfrún could hear the joking tone in her voice, however.

“Ah, excellent,” Hagrid said, beaming. “C’mon over, Miss Lupin, there’s a good lass, and stop…there. Three meters away, as yeh would were yeh t’meet the Queen. An’ bow or curtsey, as yeh like.”

Wulfrún tried not to let her nervousness show as she gathered her uniform skirt and dipped a curtsey, holding it as best she could. It was difficult, but after a moment—and just as her calves were starting to burn—she saw the hippogriff bow back, a motion that reminded her irresistibly of a canine play-bow.

“There yeh go. Yeh can unbend now, Miss Lupin,” Hagrid said from behind her. “Yeh can walk up to him now, see if he’ll take a pat or two.”

As she stepped forward, Buckbeak cawed, a raspy sound that made her freeze. “It’s all righ’, he’s just sayin’ ’ello.”

When Wulfrún stepped up to him at last and extended her hand, Buckbeak surprised her by pressing his head eagerly in to it. She smiled, keeping her teeth hidden—baring them would have been a threat, after all—and gently stroked over the hippogriff’s avian head.

“All righ’, I think he’ll let yeh ride him,” Hagrid said as he came up behind her. With no more warning than that, he grabbed the back of her uniform robes and lifted Wulfrún up, then settled her down on Buckbeak’s back. “Now, the posture yeh want ter keep is like this…” he said as he gently moved Wulfrún’s arms, legs, and torso until she was seated properly. “Yeh’ll not need ter guide him, I told him the flight plan this mornin’, so the reins are just here so yeh have summat ter help yeh keep in position.”

And then he gave a firm swat on Buckbeak’s rump. Buckbeak started, and cawed in annoyance, then walked forward. His gait transitioned in to a canter and then, as his wings spread and began to flap, a gallop, and soon enough they were airborne. Wulfrún clung to the saddle for dear life as the ground fell away rapidly, and soon they were soaring over the Scottish Highlands, at a height her Nimbus Two Thousand could never have achieved even when it had been brand new. Gradually, she began to relax, straightening up just a little as she looked around. Below her, she could see Hogwarts Castle and Hogsmeade.

Almost as soon as she’d acclimatised, Buckbeak dove, and they landed in the clearing a couple minutes later. Wulfrún almost fell off when she dismounted, but Hagrid was there to help her down, and she all but flew across to Myf once she’d regained her footing. “I am never,” she said as she clung to her friend, “doing that again. Ever.”

16 November

“You’ve made quite excellent progress in occlumency,” Dumbledore said as he and Wulfrún sat in his office on the Sunday. “In fact, at this point all you really need is practise. The exercises I’ve taught you will keep you in trim, so I will make one attempt each time we meet. In the meantime, we shall move on to other subjects. As you’ll not have another Quadball match until the end of March, I should like you to practice your theriopsychic transformations.”

Dumbledore rose, then crossed his office to a cabinet, from which he withdrew a phial containing a swirling green, white, and purple fluid that looked like it had glitter suspended in it. He returned to the sofa and sat once more. “I brewed this potion specifically to mitigate the transformation pain. It’ll persist after you turn back for a bit, to help with the joint pain you’ve mentioned, and it’ll help you transform more quickly. However, it tastes bad; even if it didn’t, I’d rather you didn’t come to rely on it.”

“How bad is ‘bad’?” Wulfrún asked, cautiously.

“Ask Remus to describe how Wolfsbane Potion tastes sometime,” Dumbledore said dryly.

“…Oh. Well.” Wulfrún looked pensive for a moment, then held her hand out. “I’ll try it, I guess.”

Dumbledore put the phial in to her hand. It was, despite the clarity of the glass, ice cold, and as she pulled the stopper out, a cloying scent wafted in to the air, causing her to wrinkle her nose. She knocked it back, like she did her caudalixir.

“EWWW! What the…fudge did you put in this? Skunk musk?!”

Was that a twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye? She hoped not. “I did warn you it’d taste bad. It’s up to you if you want to take another dose in the future. For now, though…” Dumbledore flicked his wand, and a Japanese screen materialised between them. “Disrobe, then focus on having paws and fangs rather than hands and teeth.”

Wulfrún blinked, then did as she was bid. Once she was sky-clad, she focused on her hands and mouth and imagined them transforming…and then her magic took hold, an icy chill racing through her as she changed. This time, the transformation was over faster and didn’t hurt nearly as much, and at the end of it a yearling wolf stood over her clothes. She trotted out from behind the screen, and he smiled.

“Well? How was that? Do you think it’s worth the taste?” Dumbledore asked. That was definitely a twinkle in his eye.

“It…helped, but…” Wulfrún’s ears flattened for a moment, then she flipped her tail. “Honestly, it could be worse.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you come over here and sit, and we’ll do this week’s occlumency practice?”

Being a wolf for a couple hours every weekend, alongside the approaching promise of an anti-lemure defence, did much to assuage Wulfrún’s anguish at losing her Nimbus. Alas, the school’s loaner brooms were not its equal, having been chosen more for their user-friendliness for flying lessons than for speed. Still, at least she was able to continue practising Quadball. What lifted her spirits the most, however, was the knowledge that she’d be home for the holidays, and ‘home’, to her, was one Remus J Lupin.

On the other paw, the final Hogsmeade weekend of term was upon them, the week before end of term. Wulfrún wasn’t sure if she wanted to try to make it down this time, either, considering the lemures at the gate. Instead, she chose to nestle in an armchair in the Common Room and read Which Broomstick, a quarterly that discussed the various manufacturers and models of brooms on the market. That chair was, in fact, where Fred and Georgia found her shortly after Myf and Hermione had departed. The peculiar flatness of a cone of silence fell upon her, and she looked up.

“What are you two up to this time?” she asked. The twins were standing in front of her, with identical smirks on their faces.

“We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go,” Fred said. He looked around. Nobody was looking, apparently, for Georgia reached inside her cloak and pulled out a wad of parchment, which she presented to Wulfrún with a flourish.

“Early Christmas present for you, Wulfrún,” she said. Wulfrún took the parchment and unfolded it gingerly, expecting a joke. Instead, it seemed to be a worn bundle of blank sheets of parchment.

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“This, Wulfrún, is the secret of our success,” Georgia said, gazing at it fondly.

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” Fred said, “but we decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”

“Anyway, we know it off by heart,” Georgia said. “We bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it any more.”

“And what do I need with a wad of aged parchment, exactly?” Wulfrún asked, somewhat bewildered.

“A wad of aged parchment!” Fred said, sounding greatly affronted as he closed his eyes in a grimace. “Explain, Georgia.”

“Well…when we were in our first year, Wulfrún—young, carefree and innocent—”

Wulfrún rolled her eyes. “…So when you were babies?” she asked, deadpan.

“—Well, more innocent than we are now, anyway—we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off a stink bomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason—”

“So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual—”

“—Detention—”

“—Disemvowelment—which we thought was a lark, but it turns out he really does know a spell for that—”

“—and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous.”

“…Don’t tell me—” Wulfrún said, starting to smirk as well.

“Well, what would you’ve done?” Fred asked. “Georgia caused a diversion by dropping another stink bomb, and I whipped the drawer open and grabbed—this.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” Georgia said. “We reckon Filch never did figure out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn’t have confiscated it.”

“And you do?”

“Oh, yes,” Fred said, smirking again. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in the school.”

“You’re having me on,” Wulfrún said, looking at the aged parchment.

“Oh, are we?” Georgia asked. She pulled her wand out, tapped the parchment briefly, and intoned, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Immediately, thin lines of green ink began to flow away from the point that Georgia’s wand had tapped, arranging themselves in to a faint grid, then words appeared on the frontmost sheet in the wad of parchment:

Wulfrún stared down at the wad in shock, not seeing that the remainder of the sheet was a map of Hogwarts in exacting detail, down to minuscule dots with labels attached. She knew who created the map.

Fred, misinterpreting her shocked expression, pointed to a passage that led out of the castle. “Right in to Hogsmeade,” he said. “There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four”—he pointed these passages out—“but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it’s caved in—completely blocked. And we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times.”

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” Georgia sighed, patting the heading of the map. “We owe them so much.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them that,” Wulfrún said, deadpan.

“… Wait, you know them?” Fred asked.

“Well, but of course. Except for Prongs, they’re my uncles. He’s my dad.”

Fred and Georgia’s mouths dropped in shock.

“No way,” Fred said, recovering first. “You’re having us on.”

“Nope. ‘Moony’ is Uncle Remus, and ‘Padfoot’ is Uncle Sirius. ‘Wormtail’ is…well, no, I don’t want to talk about that.” Wulfrún bit her lip. “You realise I’m going to have to tell my uncles you gave me their map, right?”

“Do you really have to?” Georgia asked.

“I don’t keep secrets from them, especially not when they might get them—or me—in trouble.”

“Well…” Georgia paused, then sighed. “Ah well. Just keep our names out of it, then.”

“No promises, but I doubt Uncle Sirius would care.”

“Anyway,” Fred said, “when you’re done, just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed.’ And it’ll go blank.”

“See you in Honeydukes,” Georgia said, winking, and the twins left, lifting the cone of silence as they went.

Wulfrún stared at the map some more, then sighed and tapped it with her own wand, muttering, “Mischief managed.” She set Which Broomstick aside, pocketed the Marauders’ Map, and went to go visit her uncle.

Chapter Text

“…So that’s why I came up here,” Wulfrún concluded.

She sat in an armchair in Sirius’s office, holding a cup of tea and a saucer in her hands as the Marauders’ Map sat on his desk. Sirius sighed.

“I appreciate your bringing this up to me, pup,” he said. “In the wrong hands, it could be a dangerous tool, as I’m sure you know. However…we both know that the lemures being posted here is complete nonsense, since there’s no reason for Remus to come here. Don’t get caught with it, eh?”

Wulfrún blinked. “…Err. Aren’t you supposed to uphold the rules now, Uncle Sirius?”

“What’s the point of being a rebel if not to flout the rules now and then?” Sirius asked, and winked. He pushed the Marauders’ Map back over to Wulfrún.

“Well…if you’re sure…” She sounded dubious as she set her tea down on the desk and scooped up and pocketed the Map.

“I am, pup. I know you’ll behave.”

The path Fred had indicated for getting to Honeydukes from Hogwarts had changed by the time Wulfrún found a private space to check the Map for it, at least for the portion within the castle. This one used the same alcove that she, Myf, and Hermione had used in first-year to go after Quirrell. Instead of leading her to the room where Fluffy had been imprisoned, however, the secret passage opened up to a spiral staircase that led downward. There was no obvious source of light, but she had no trouble seeing in the dimness as she descended the stairs.

When she reached the bottom of the staircase, there was a low-ceilinged, earthen corridor that was, as far as she could see, completely straight. The quality of the lighting had changed, too. Whereas in the secret passage and the spiral staircase it had been a golden yellow, here the light was a pale blue. It didn’t take long for the initial straightness to be proved a dishonesty, however; the passage twisted and turned, akin more to an animal’s den than anything made by a human.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was, in reality, only about forty-five minutes according to a quick tempus nunc, Wulfrún emerged from the passage in to a room that looked like it had at one time been a root cellar, but was now just an underground storeroom. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling, with a solid wooden ladder underneath, next to what appeared to be a large dumbwaiter that didn’t look original to the root cellar. She climbed the ladder and cautiously pushed the trapdoor up, only to find herself in another storeroom.

Quickly, Wulfrún scurried up in to it and closed the door behind her, and she could hear the hustle and bustle of a store and its custom above her, which meant…yup, there was a wooden staircase off to one side, which she took more cautiously. When it seemed opportune, she slipped in to the main store and gasped.

There were barrels upon barrels and shelves piled high under candies of every conceivable variety—and quite a few Wulfrún thought were rather improbable. There were the usual mundane options of rock candy on sticks, ropes of liquorice, lollipops, bubblegum, mints, and more, of course. But there were also chocolate frogs, which she was already familiar with; ice mice, which were animated mouse figurines that, the advertising assured her, would make her teeth chatter and squeak, whatever that meant; acid pops, which carried a product safety warning concerning their acidity; Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans, of course; and more.

What caught Wulfrún’s eye, however, were the milkbones. Rather than being flattened cartoon-bone-shaped dog biscuits, however, these resembled cow bones, complete with ‘marrow’ in a variety of flavours. The advertising promised her a ‘howling good time’, whatever that meant. Maybe they’d make her able to sing like her uncles when they were on four legs.

Honeydukes was also, however, full to bursting with Hogwarts students, which at least helped Wulfrún blend in. After browsing for a few minutes, she came up behind Myf and Hermione; Myf was looking at a tray of blood-flavoured lollipops.

“Eww, no, Wulfrún wouldn’t want one of those,” Hermione was saying, “I expect they’re for vampires.”

“How about a packet of Cockroach Cluster, then?” Myf asked, inspecting one.

“Absolutely not,” Wulfrún said.

Myf nearly dropped the packet.

“Wulfrún!” Hermione said. “What are you doing here? How—how did you—”

“Wow!” Myf said, looking very impressed. “You’ve learnt to apparate!”

“‘Course not,” Wulfrún said, then in a whisper she told the other girls about the Marauders’ Map.

“So that’s how come they never get caught!” Myf said, when she was finished. “Why didn’t they let me in on it?”

“And you say Sirius is letting you keep it?” Hermione asked, sounding a little concerned.

“He is, yeah. Just so’s I don’t let it fall in to the wrong hands, though,” Wulfrún said.

“Makes sense. Well, let’s see what we can get, eh?” Myf said, and the three of them made their selections. It was raining outside, but lightly enough to not be much of an issue—Wulfrún had forgotten her cloak. Myf pointed out all the sights to her as they walked along. Hermione was mainly content to walk along with Frodo at her side, companionably silent. “…And here’s the Three Broomsticks. Why don’t we go in and get a butterbeer?”

“Sure, but just a sec…” Wulfrún paused to cast a quick audiminus on her ears, and then they went in. Finding a seat was difficult, since it was crowded, but after a couple minutes they were able to slide in to a booth, and Hermione sent Frodo under the table.

“Wulfrún! And Myf and Hermione!” Lavender called over the din as she and Smita made their way over to the booth.

“Hey, Lav, Smita,” Hermione said. “Feel free to sit down and join us, there’s still room.”

Lavender joined Hermione and Smita slid in next to Wulfrún. Shortly after, Madame Rosmerta herself came over. “What’ll you have?”

“Five butterbeers, and some water and scraps for Frodo, please,” Wulfrún said casually, and the other girls nodded in agreement. “And a platter of mozzarella sticks, please,” Hermione added.

The butterbeers were delivered first, five steins of steaming, foamy amber liquid that smelled, to Wulfrún, quite lovely. She cautiously tried a sip from her stein. It was hot, buttery, and a bit sweet to her…and honestly she just didn’t see the appeal. She tried another sip. Ehh. It was just as unappetising the second time, and she pushed her stein away.

“What’s wrong, pup?” Lavender asked.

“I dunno…I just… I don’t understand the appeal, I guess?” Wulfrún said. “It tastes okay, but…”

“Well…Madame Rosmerta does sell other beverages, including club soda. Want to try one of those? It’s just carbonated water, nothing more.”

“…Sure, let’s try that.”

Wulfrún requested a club soda when the mozzarella sticks arrived, but then the door opened and three familiar voices could be heard: Hagrid, Flitwick, and McGonagall. Accompanying them was a man Wulfrún didn’t recognise, but she immediately ducked under the table—while she did have permission to be in Hogsmeade, she did not leave the castle the usual way.

The four of them paused at the bar, where Wulfrún could hear them ordering drinks, then moved toward them and eventually sat at a nearby table. After a moment, Rosmerta came over carrying a tray and set the drinks in front of their respective owners.

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” the unknown man said. “Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won’t you? Come and join us…”

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”

Wulfrún started to fret almost immediately. She needed to get back to Hogwarts before the other students did, and that meant she’d need to go in to Honeydukes’ cellars soon. How long were the professors and the minister going to be there?

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” came Rosmerta’s voice.

Wulfrún saw the minister swivel his portly body, as if scanning for eavesdroppers, then he said quietly, “I came to check on the lemures, of course. I daresay you heard what happened at the Quadball match last month?”

“I did hear a rumour,” Rosmerta said.

“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” McGonagall asked a little acerbically.

“Do you really think Lupin’s likely to show his face here again, Minister?” Rosmerta whispered.

“His son’s here, and it’s well-known that werewolves pine for their pack-mates,” the minister said shortly. Fuck you, too, Wulfrún thought.

“You know that the lemures have searched my pub twice?” Rosmerta asked, a slight edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away. It’s very bad for business, Minister.”

“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than you do,” the minister said uncomfortably. “Necessary precaution…unfortunate, but there you are…I’ve just met some of them. They’re in a fury against Dumbledore—he won’t let them inside the castle grounds.”

“I should think not,” McGonagall said with considerable asperity. “How are we to teach with those horrors roaming around?”

“Hear, hear!” Flitwick said.

“All the same,” the minister said, “they are here to protect you all from something much worse…we all know what werewolves are capable of…”

Treat someone like a beast, you fucking twat, see how long it takes for them to decide to act like one, Wulfrún thought savagely. She only realised she was growling when Myf nudged her with her foot.

“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” Rosmerta said thoughtfully. “Of all the people to be actually a werewolf, Remus Lupin was the last I’d have thought…I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. Earnestly, almost painfully shy and reserved. Hardly what I’d have expected for a werewolf…”

“That’s one of the things that make them so pernicious, Rosmerta,” the minister said gruffly. “Nobody suspects until someone’s up and died in the night.”

Myf nudged Wulfrún with her foot again, and she managed to stop growling again. Fortunately, the minister had apparently had enough talking for the time being. “Well, I’d best be going, I’m dining with Dumbledore tonight,” the minister said. “Pleasure to see you all.”

“And you, Minister Fudge,” Rosmerta said warmly.

Wulfrún’s return to Hogwarts was about as prosaic as her original exit had been. For appearance’s sake, she left her Honeydukes purchases with Myf and Hermione—when they got in, she’d have to make a show of being surprised and delighted by their thoughtfulness, but that didn’t seem like it’d be terribly difficult.

The last week of term seemed to simultaneously fly by and drag on, and at the end-of-term feast Sirius gave her and her friends a packet each, wrapped in silver giftwrap, with blue chanukiyot print. These proved to contain a small bag of chocolate gelt (carob in Wulfrún’s case) and five galleons. Myf and Ginny perked up immediately. Hermione’s packet was larger, since it also contained a box of peanut butter dog biscuits for Frodo and a rope toy.

And then there was the train home. After breakfast, Wulfrún changed into her lupine form, a process that was over in a mere ninety seconds now and which didn’t hurt nearly as much as her first, traumatic, transformation had. The other girls giggled as she stepped out from her private alcove, and Lavender and Myf helped her get her pack on. It was a mundane one designed for dogs, but sized for her. Frodo, curious, trotted over to sniff at the familiar-but-not canine.

“It’s only me, Frodo,” Wulfrún said, amused. She licked his muzzle affectionately, and Frodo doggie-grinned. His eyes were large and soulful, his ears perked, and his teeth were tucked behind his lips: a happy dog, in other words.

“Good boy, Frodo,” Hermione said. “But c’mon over here, please, it’s time to go.”

Frodo whinged a little, but he trotted back over to Hermione and stood still as Hermione put his harness on him. She shouldered on her own backpack, then picked up the handle of Frodo’s harness with her left hand, her cane in her right. “Do you want to lead the way, pup?”

Wulfrún gave a small, mocking play-bow, and started for the door, her claws clicking on the bare stone. Myf chuckled. “I guess that’s a ‘yes’, then. Go ahead, ’Mione, we’ll be behind you.”

The girls chatted about their holiday plans as they made their way from the Gryffindor Common Room down to Hogsmeade Station, where they broke up in to smaller groups so as to fit inside a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Sirius rolled his eyes theatrically when he saw Wulfrún being lupine, but then he chuckled. “Are you planning to be lupine when we arrive at King’s Cross, pup?”

“…Yeah,” Wulfrún said, after a moment’s thought. “I want to spend more time being, well, me, and not the Girl Who Lived.”

“Fair enough.”

When they were settled in with Myf, Hermione, Frodo, Neville, and Ginny, Wulfrún occupied the centre of the compartment, having rolled on to her back, curling a little. She tucked her forepaws in while spreading her hind legs, exposing her tummy.

“Well, someone wants her tummy rubbed,” Myf said with a giggle as she knelt next to the yearling wolf and obliged, causing Wulfrún to pant happily and wag. After a few minutes of this, and after the train began moving, Myf gently patted Wulfrún’s belly and sat on the bench behind her. “So how have Dumbledore’s lessons been going, pup?”

“Well…I’m doing quite well with legilimency, he says,” Wulfrún said as she rolled over and rose to a sitting position. “He’s having to actually work to get through my defences now, in part because he doesn’t want to risk harming me. And I think you noticed how quickly I was able to transform, earlier.”

Myf nodded, and Wulfrún continued. “After the winter break, he said, he wants to move on to some more esoteric magic. I’m not sure what he meant by that, but he did indicate that it would be guided by my interests rather than what he thinks I should know. Legilimency and shapeshifting were the things he felt I needed to master regardless.”

“What interest now?” Neville asked.

“Well…” Wulfrún looked pensive, somehow. “Healing, mainly, and spellcraft. But I also want to learn about the ancient magic that my mum found so fascinating, I think. Given Voldemort”—everyone in the compartment flinched except Frodo and Hermione—“is still swanning around, albeit in a much-reduced mode, I’m probably going to need to learn as much as I can about combat magic, too.”

Sirius nodded at this. “Sounds reasonable. Remus and I have been corresponding, of course, and we’ll teach you the Patronus Charm on Monday. I know it’s too last-minute for the rest of you to join us, but I’ll be holding practise sessions of a Saturday evening, after sunset, next term, and we’ll go over it then. It’s exceedingly rare for young witches to be able to cast it at all, so I don’t expect any of you to achieve it. Nonetheless…”

“…Nonetheless, I need to learn it to defend myself from the lemures,” Wulfrún finished, nodding.

Hermione tilted her head. “I’ve been thinking about spellcraft myself, and there’s one thing I’ve been hoping to develop, given how much extra stuff I have to haul around these days. I know Professor Garner’s handbag is bigger on the inside, but from what I understand, it’s a spell she developed the more traditional way as a child, along with her sister.”

“I presume that means you asked her about it?” Myf asked.

“Yeah, that’s how I know she did it the more traditional way. She said she’d offer guidance, since it’d involve writing a Simurgh module for dimensional transfiguration, but that I could probably manage it.”

The conversation became more general after that, and Wulfrún sprawled under the bench opposite Frodo, dozing for a while and content to just share space with her friends and family.

About ten minutes before the Hogwarts Express pulled in to King’s Cross, Sirius cast a glamour on Wulfrún so that she appeared to be a wolfhound instead of an actual wolf, complete with amber eyes rather than green. The same glamour also gave her the appearance of wearing a service dog vest, which made Hermione grimace when Sirius mentioned it.

“I know it’s necessary to justify her presence,” she said, “but…in the future, Wulfrún, would you please refrain from being lupine on the Hogwarts Express? I like you a lot, but…people do misuse such identification in order to get their untrained dogs places they don’t belong, and that reflects poorly on people who need their service dogs, like me.”

Wulfrún’s ears flattened at that, but she nodded and said, “Sorry about that, ’Mione. I hadn’t considered that, and that’s on me.”

“In this case, it’s fine—you’re at least as well-trained as Frodo is, but I’d rather you not get in the habit.”

“Reasonable, yeah.”

Sirius cleared his throat. “Before we disembark, one last round of gifts for you all, since tonight’s the second night of Chanukah.”

From his pack, Sirius pulled out more silver-and-blue-wrapped packets. These contained beautiful, leather-bound A5 journals; Hermione’s contained, instead, a leather-bound A5 planner, with a pack of blank white paper already inserted. The leather covers were all in Gryffindor red, with each person’s name embossed in gold on the front; Wulfrún’s additionally had a Magen David below her name.

“Love it,” Neville said simply. “Thank you.” The others echoed his sentiment, and they put the journals away. (Myf stuck Wulfrún’s in to her saddlebags for her.)

Wulfrún’s third-night gift was a collar, from the same business she’d bought Sirius’s collar from the year before. Hers was a plain brown leather one, though it bore dog tags and a Magen David. She wore it to bed, of course.

The next morning, Wulfrún regretfully returned to her scorned human form and chose to dress in a starry playsuit and a pair of trousers, with a cream-coloured cardigan thrown on over top. After breakfast, she and her uncles met in the Yellow Parlour, which had been temporarily cleared for the occasion. Remus sat on a sofa off to one side, and Wulfrún and Sirius stood in the centre of the room. At one end of the room was a wardrobe that Sirius had apparently brought in for the occasion—it clashed with the Yellow Parlour’s decor.

“Now, in order to cast a Patronus, you need to have a very strong, very happy memory,” Sirius said. “I don’t expect you to be able to succeed on the first go, though—this is beyond GCWE-level work, and many otherwise-qualified witches can’t manage it.”

Wulfrún thought for a moment, then she grinned suddenly.

“I have a suitable memory, I think,” she said.

“All right. The incantation is ‘expecto patronum’.”

“‘Expecto patronum’… ‘Expecto patronum’…” Wulfrún repeated carefully, then nodded.

“Swish your wand, and let’s see how that goes,” Sirius said as he stood aside.

Wulfrún nodded, and then shouted, “Expecto patronum!” as she brought her wand up in a near-vertical slash.

And to her surprise and delight, a silvery cloud issued forth from the tip.

“Oh, well done, pup! Tell me, what memory did you use?”

Wulfrún grinned again. “The moment Uncle Remus became my legal guardian.”

“I’d have thought you’d pick the day I adopted you, my dear pup,” Remus said, amused. “Or when you saw your tail after your first dose of caudalixir.”

Wulfrún blinked. “…Y’know, those would probably be better. Thanks, Dod¹.”

She focused again, recalling the memory…

Wulfrún slashed forward with her wand again and shouted, “Expecto patronum!”

This time, a silvery cloud positively billowed out of her wand, then solidified in to a silvery-blue wolf that looked suspiciously like—

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that her Patronus looks like you, Moony,” Sirius said, amused. “Allowing for the fact it’s silvery-blue light and not, y’know, you-coloured.”