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Chapter Text

Platform nine and three quarters was the usual zoo. Birds squawked, kids shouted across the station at their friends, magical parents somehow braved the insanity with smiles on their faces. Sighing, I scanned the platform for an empty luggage cart. Most were taken by muggle raised students. Most of whom were already heading through the portal eager to see their families waiting on the other side. I wasn't so lucky. The Dursleys likely waited outside, sniffing with disdain at all the abnormal wizards like Mr. Weasley traipsing through King's Cross like they were on a muggle sight seeing trip instead of merely picking their children up from the train station.

I smiled sadly. The Weasleys were the price I paid for not playing Dumbledore's games. A steep price, almost too steep. Had Ron stuck by my side would I have let everything Dumbledore did to me go just to keep them? Yes. Undoubtedly. For three years, I thought of them as family. Mr. Weasley was the crazy uncle everyone loves. Mrs. Weasley the doting mother. Her sons were my brothers. Her daughter…In another life, I would've married Ginny. I doubted I'd ever fall in love with her, not romantically. Lasting romantic love requires a deep, abiding trust. Dumbledore and Petunia both ensured I am not and will never be capable of trusting anyone like that. Regardless of the consequences, I would've happily married into the Weasleys. Made them my family. Chosen them. Protected them. Done anything and everything they asked of me because they let me in. Simple really.

But Ronald picked his schoolboy reputation over me. His parents accepted his choice and downgraded me to Christmas card acquaintance. No matter how much I wanted them they were his family, not mine.

"Harry!"

I turned and spotted a green bowler hat weaving through the crowd. A headache built behind my eyes. Fudge. Why won't he just leave me in peace? First, he says I lied. Then I didn't lie. Dumbledore lied, but I was still being influenced by a dangerous subversive. True, but Fudge didn't know that. Then…ugh, I wished he'd make up his bloody mind and stick to a story.

"I'm so glad I caught you," he said, huffing.

I plastered a smile on my face. "Sorry, but I can't talk, minister. My uncle's waiting for me and…" I trailed off, hoping my silence implied Vernon would worry.

"Not to worry, dear boy," he said, waving a formidable looking wizard with short grey hair over. "Dawlish, let the others know I found him and meet us at the apparition point." Fudge's eyes hardened and swept the station. "I want a full complement at St. Mungo's. No one enters or exits with my authorization. Understood?"

"Yes, minister."

My eyes narrowed as I regarded the unusually sober minister. "Is there a problem, sir?"

With a huff, Fudge reached into his robes and pulled out a scroll. He thrust it into my hands. "Here. Read quickly. We need to leave as soon as possible."

I unrolled it and skimmed the document. An Emergency Protection Order. Damn it! Thomas swore he'd wait. He didn't like the Dursley situation, but agreed spending a few weeks with the muggles was preferable to spending them with Dumbledore. Why…Never mind. A better question was why did I believe him. Stupid family magics. My magic lashed out, forcing Fudge back a few steps.

Then I spotted a check mark and Dumbledore's name. I almost smiled. An exclusion order for Dumbledore. At least they managed to get that part correct. At the bottom of the form, I spied the applicant's name neatly printed on a single line. Wide-eyed, I stared at him. "You applied. Why did…" My mind spun with questions and half-baked plans. My escape-from-Dumbledore plans all involved legal strategies, prolonged court cases, and utilized the Chief Warlock's Speech to the Wizengamot 1972, in which Dumbledore swore he wouldn't rest until he'd "removed the last dregs of the deranged line of Salazar Slytherin from our good society" to my advantage. The ministry's own Department of Family and Children's Magical Lineage Office researched my mother's family. Arguably, the ministry knew they granted the same man who swore to eradicate my entire family custody of me. Even I acknowledged it was just rhetoric. Dumbledore probably thought Thomas was the only surviving member of the family. It didn't matter. No sane judge would send me back to Dumbledore once they learned Dumbledore swore to kill everyone in my family. Getting in front of the judge was the difficult part.

Fudge's involvement changed everything. I made a quick mental list of people to contact. Norton, Thomas, Silas, Rita Skeeter. I didn't want Hermione and Neville involved, but I'd rather they hear the story from me than Dumbledore. Barty was out of boomslang skin, which meant he needed at least twenty-four hours to finish his last batch of polyjuice potion. If I couldn't reach Thomas, perhaps I should try Mr. Malfoy. He wasn't my favorite person, but he was family and named in the codicil. Better him than Snape or Andromeda Tonks, whose Daily Prophet wedding photo included a beaming Albus Dumbledore standing in for the absent father of the bride.

A hand grabbed my elbow. "This way," Fudge said, pulling me away from the flow of traffic. "Harry, do you remember me visiting you in the hospital wing?"

I shook my head.

"I visited twice. Are you sure you don't remember?"

"Positive."

He eyed a clock on the wall and grimaced. "We're on borrowed time as it is, Harry, so I'll be blunt. Madame Pomfrey is a mediwitch, not a healer.* Her job is to treat minor injuries and illnesses and transfer the serious cases to St. Mungo's. Neither she nor Hogwarts is equipped to treat an acromantula bite."

"But I'm fine. See?" I started to roll up my sleeve, but he stopped me.

"Harry, without a thorough checkup by a healer with access to the correct facilities, we don't know. If she patched you up perfectly, great. If not, you could die before school starts." He reached for Hedwig's cage. I resisted. "I'll explain everything to the best of my ability later. Right now, we need to get you somewhere safe."

"Where?"

"A private room at St. Mungo's."

"And after?" I asked, afraid he'd either send me back to Dumbledore or make the Dursleys pick me up from a magical hospital.

"I don't know. There are family magics and magical laws at play here in addition to possible fraud, perhaps even kidnapping. Before we can decide anything, we need to make sure you're healthy." Fudge inclined his head towards a middle-aged woman, waiting beside Dawlish and a younger man, who tried to look as serious and forbidding as Dawlish, but failed. He guided me over to the small group. When he reached for Hedwig's cage this time, I let him take it.

Ever since I broke my arm as a child and Petunia told them our religious beliefs didn't allow sedation, I've hated doctors and hospitals. Of course, a completely failed sedation—muggle sedatives don't work on wizards and witches—would raise more eyebrows than the religion excuse. In a twisted way, she did it to protect me. But I never forgot how she glared at me like gum on the bottom of her shoe when I screamed when they set my arm. I was four.

I had few options: cause a scene, run, or go quietly. Fudge implied Dumbledore didn't know about the EPO, yet. If I caused a scene, I might draw Dumbledore's attention. I didn't swear the traditional familial oaths, but decades before I was born, Thomas did. He had full access to the family magics. According to the library books, the most basic and common element of family magic is the ability to locate heirs, both apparent and presumptive. If I ran, Thomas could and likely would hunt me down. Either way, I'd still end up at St. Mungo's.

I bowed my head. "Let's get this over with."

The younger man took my trunk. Dawlish clapped a hand on my shoulder. His magic passed through me steady and calm like plow horse. More powerful than I expected. Pressure surrounded me. Suddenly, I felt like ice cream sucked through a coffee straw. The world spun, coalesced into a typical hospital reception room of white walls, glass, and steel.

Bile rose in my throat. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to suppress the nausea. Failed. I turned and retched, narrowly missing the woman's shoes.

---

I dangled my legs over the edge of the bed, staring at my bare feet. For most of my life, I dreamed of being rescued from the Dursleys. I always imagined Hagrid or Dumbledore as my rescuer, never Fudge. I made the same mistake with him most people make with me. When I looked at Fudge, I saw a bumbling fool too wrapped up in his own importance to accomplish anything. In other words, I saw exactly what Fudge wanted me to see.

It never occurred to me that you don't obtain the highest office in the ministry by being a fool until I was sitting on a bed in a warded ritual chamber normally reserved for surgery with two aurors, Enid Barlow—a social worker—a healer, and the minister of magic. I eyed Fudge thoughtfully. What was his game? While I had little political power, I was famous. Given the current rift between him and Dumbledore, having me removed from Dumbledore's custody and examined by a healer made sense. Even if the healer found nothing, the fact that a court ordered me removed from Dumbledore's custody for a short period of time would hurt Dumbledore's reputation.

The healer, an older man with kind blue eyes and neatly trimmed grey hair, produced a glass vial from his pocket and pointed his wand at my arm. "Just a little blood, Mr. Potter."

My eyes widened. Like hell I was giving the Ministry of Magic a blood sample. At best, Fudge and I were temporary allies, and I didn't know the others from Merlin. If a few drops of willingly given blood could resurrect a man who was nearly dead, who knew what the ministry could do with a few vials. "I understand why you believe a ritual is necessary, sir." Translation, Fudge hoped the barely legal ritual would provide sufficient evidence to irreparably damage Dumbledore's reputation and permanently remove me from his care. "However, I'm just not comfortable with providing a blood sample." I held up my hand when he opened his mouth to argue. "Please understand. Providing blood without any guarantee it will only be used for a single ritual and will all be destroyed afterward endangers both myself and the few family members I have left. It is not permissible."

Tapping his index finger against his lips, Fudge studied me. Several minutes passed in silence before he nodded once. "Perhaps we can resolve this situation in another way. Did you by chance contact any of your magical relatives?" A slight smile spread across his lips when I nodded. "Does magical law grant anyone precedence over Dumbledore, who instigated the EPO when he refused to turn over your medical records?" Another nod. "I understand following the passing of Arcturus Black a few years ago the Black paterfamilias is regarded as defunct until the death of Sirius Black. Therefore, all matters regarding the house of Black are handled by a regent appointed by the Wizengamot. As the house of Potter is a minor house, the house of Black holds dominion. Therefore even though the Black family magic is presently inactive, the Black regent has sufficient authority to stand in place of a guardian."

The idiot! I took back everything I thought about him wearing a mask and being smarter than he let on. Of course he skimmed my mother's codicil and family tree, saw the Malfoys, and promptly forgot about everyone else. "Sir, would you please cast a privacy spell?"

"If it's relevant to the case," Ms. Barlow began.

"If the minister feels it's relevant, I'm confident he will share the information with you. However, it's extremely sensitive family information that I really shouldn't reveal to anyone."

A speculative gleam entered Fudge's eyes. With a swish of his wand, he erected one of the most powerful anti-eveasdropping spells I'd ever seen. I stretched out my fingertips and brushed them across the opaque mist surrounding us. Confusion swept through me. I dropped my hand. The feeling disappeared. I whistled under my breath. "Nice."

"One doesn't reach my level without knowing a thing or two," he said with a smile. "Now will you please tell me what this is about? I understand you and Lucius don't get along well, but you are family. I assure you he will do right by you."

"It's a bit more complicated, sir. House Black doesn't hold dominion over House Potter. If you will let me finish, sir," I said when he started to interrupt. "House Potter is the cadet branch of House Peverell**, which has precedence over the Blacks."

His mouth formed a soundless 'O'. "Is there anything else?"

I almost said no. Then I realized what a perfect opportunity I had. At some point, Dumbledore will accuse Thomas of being Voldemort, which was true. For me, returning to Dumbledore's care was a death sentence. While I didn't trust Thomas, I was confident that between the unbreakable vow, magical contract, and familial magic he had ample incentive to keep me alive and healthy. But a well-orchestrated smear campaign and sympathetic judge could land me right back where I started. Not good. "I have a confession," I whispered.

"Please tell me this isn't about that You-Know-Who nonsense!"

"Sort of." I schooled my features into an earnest expression. "You know I'm a parselmouth, right?" He nodded warily. "I've always been able to talk to snakes, but I didn't know what it was called until second year." Fudge looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I didn't have much time, but towards the end of year I started doing a little research. I wanted to know if there was anyone else like me." The color drained out of Fudge's face. "One of my school mates mentioned Cousin Thomas. I think their grandparents went to school with him. I found an old picture of him. We looked a little alike and we're both parselmouths so I asked Professor Dumbledore about him. Professor Dumbledore told me he was Voldemort." A Slytherin truth no one would expect from a Gryffindor.

Fudge's face turned red. He sputtered. "Enough of this nonsense, Mr. Potter!"

"Sir, I was only twelve. I didn't know what to do and everyone trusted Dumbledore, so I sort of believed him. But after this past year…Anyhow, after you sent me the codicil everything fell into place. I think Dumbledore lied to me about Thomas because he didn't want anyone investigating how he obtained guardianship."

"Sounds likely. I have to ask, Harry. As far-fetched as it sounds, do you have any reason to believe Dumbledore told you the truth?"

"No, sir. Dumbledore testified before the Wizengamot that Voldemort died. He also described Voldemort as being, quote, deformed by Dark Magic. I've met Thomas. Other than being a little tall, he looks perfectly normal. He's also very much alive, and he swore an unbreakable vow to protect me as my paterfamilias. If he was Voldemort, don't you think he would've killed me instead of swearing a vow?"

"An unbreakable vow? Let me make a few calls and verify some things. If all goes well, I'll contact him."

"The floo address is Thomas Riddle at Woodwalton Hall."

"In the meantime," he continued like I hadn't interrupted him, "I'll ask the healer to administer a basic phsyical. I doubt they'll find anything, but it will stall for time. Unfortunately, I expect Dumbledore's associates to call an emergency Wizengamot session to overturn the EPO within the next two hours."

I grimaced.

"Harry, I hesitate to ask, but when I first met you I received the impression your home life might be less than ideal. Is there anything you're willing to tell me that might assist our investigation?"

The Dursleys were my dirty little secret. I didn't want anyone to know, but Fudge's interference left me little choice. In a few hours, everyone will know I was removed from Dumbledore's custody. The best way for Dumbledore to salvage his reputation was to publically move me into his home and ensure everyone knew how happy I was under his care. I had a choice: keep everything secret or retain my mind. I picked my mind and once again leaped into the abyss. "My relatives live at Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. My first Hogwarts letter was addressed to the cupboard under the stairs, which was my room for the first ten years of my life. They only moved me into Dudley's second bedroom because they were afraid wizards were watching the house. According to Alastor Moody, my babysitter Arabella Figg is a squib and member of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. Is that sufficient?" I asked.

With a flick of his wand, Fudge disabled his charm. "I'll return as soon as possible. Harry, please cooperate with the healer. Dawlish, there is a good chance certain parties will try to remove Mr. Potter from the hospital prior to my return. Should this happen, you will transfer Mr. Potter to the secure ward reserved for the Department of Mysteries and remain with him until said parties are apprehended."

After a whispered conversation with the healer and Savage, Fudge swept out of the room with Savage on his heels.

The healer raised his wand. "Ready, Mr. Potter?"

---

When the healer paused mid-spell and recast a diagnostic charm, I feared something was wrong. When he ordered a house elf to fetch six vials of potions and prepare a bed in the pediatric ward, my fears were confirmed. I cast longing glances at the changing screen where I left my wand and lock box, which I kept on me just in case Vernon locked all my things away again. Dyfi had enough food and water for a few days, but I promised I'd let her out as soon as we arrived. And Hedwig was still locked in her cage in the corner with my trunk. Fully awake, she watched with a gimlet-eyed glare, but remained quiet.

The door opened. Fudge entered with Thomas and an older man about Dumbledore's age. His conservative brown robes and neatly trimmed beard gave him a dignified air Dumbledore always lacked. I tilted my head. With a full-head of black hair, Thomas looked almost ageless. If I didn't know he was nearly seventy, I'd guess late twenties/early thirties. Once again, I wondered how wizards aged. Norton and Hagrid were a few years younger than Thomas, but Norton appeared to be in his late-fifties while Hagrid looked about early-forties. Odd.

Thomas raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at my scar. I minutely shook my head. No pain, exactly as predicted. When I gave Thomas my blood, I recognized him as a blood relative. Since the bond of blood charm was intended to help blood relatives protect orphaned children from outsiders, when I acknowledged him as blood-kin of the sacrificed I made Dumbledore's intent and the charm's purpose contradict each other, which canceled the charm. It helped that I hadn't considered Privet Drive home since first year. At least that was Thomas's theory before the ritual. As much as I respected my mother for her sacrifice, I was glad the charm was gone. Incapacitating pain whenever I was near a certain person didn't protect me. It increased the odds I would be killed. Who cared if that person couldn't touch me! You don't need to touch someone to kill them with a killing curse.

"I'd like to conduct the fabula sanitatis ritual before we discuss the diagnosis as my findings may change the recommended treatment," the healer said.

"With your permission of course, Earl Wychwood," Fudge said. "Harry, next time you enlighten someone as to your family situtation, you should disclose your status as it may change how certain matters are handled."

"My apologies, minister," Thomas said. "I directed Harry to be slightly vague regarding family matters." Liar. "Harry, this is my barrister Felix Matson. Norton is at the ministry monitoring the Wizengamot and assisting the aurors with their investigation."

"What do you mean assisting?"

"Providing evidence," he said bluntly. "Account statements, the memories you left with him, those sorts of things."

"But—"

"—you are a minor in my care. I agreed to wait solely because I felt that forcing you to give evidence would further deteriorate your mental health. Had I known you gave Norton a bloody case of certified memories Dumbledore would no longer be an issue."

"Those were for emergencies only!"

Our audience flinched. Thomas sighed and switched to English. "Harry, your entire school year was an emergency. What possessed you to give Norton evidence you wouldn't let him review?"

"When I gave him the memories, I didn't know about the codicil. I certainly didn't know I had any living relations in the wizarding world. I thought the Dursleys and Dumbledore were my only options. Plus with the press eating me alive about the tournament, which I did not enter," I said pointedly to Fudge, "I couldn't take the risk."

"We will finish this discussion later," Thomas said before turning to the healer. "When you are prepared for the ritual, I will draw and dispose of his blood."

The healer flicked his wand and my bed began sinking into the floor. A slate circle appeared around me. The healer removed a piece of chalk from his pocket and knelt. With swift strokes, he wrote a series of runes in three concentric circles with me at the center. Then he handed me a potion. "Take this and lay down. Don't be nervous, Mr. Potter. You won't feel a thing."

With one last glance at Thomas, I settled myself on the floor, adjusting the white gown they made me change into when I arrived to keep everything covered. I took a deep breath, raised the vial to my lips, and swallowed. It tasted like oranges and strawberries, not the rotten eggs stewed with Dudley's gym socks flavor I expected.

I lay down and relaxed against the cushioning charm. Magic crawled over my skin. Time slowed. I was vaguely aware of Thomas pressing his wand to my forearm. Chanting. The ceiling lit up in a constellation of runes unlike anything I'd ever seen. I smiled when I recognized a repeating pattern of parsel runes. Why did they have mother written on the ceiling? I closed my eyes and drifted off.

Fingers pressed something sticky against my forearm, a whispered incantation followed by a prick, liquid fire poured into my veins. My eyes flew open. A hand grabbed mine before I could yank the green sticker off my right arm.

"Leave it," Thomas ordered.

My fingers twitched, but I still obeyed. Fudge and Ms. Barlow both deferred to him about the ritual, which implied he had custody. For now. I didn't know much about such things, but I remembered a foster kid from primary school talking about one family who decided they didn't want him anymore. I didn't like Thomas. In all honesty, I'd prefer we weren't in the same country, much less the same room. However, I preferred him to the alternatives. For now.

Across the room, Fudge, Barlow, and Dawlish were clustered around a small table, examining a sheaf of parchment. A blue dicta quill stood at attention beside them. Dawlish gave me a tight smile. "Welcome back, Potter. From this point on, I will be recording the conversation for use in our on-going investigation. Okay?"

I nodded.

The healer pressed an empty potion's vial into a spot on the wall. After it disappeared, he turned to me. "Just one more," he said and tapped a green dot on the top of a potion's vial with his wand. Cool liquid trickled into my veins. The burning subsided. He placed three unused vials on a table someone must've conjured while I slept. "While we wait for Healer Greengrass, I have a few questions for my patient." He conjured a stool and sat down. "Mr. Potter, please describe how you felt after you were released from the hospital wing."

"All things considered not bad. I tired easily, but otherwise fine."

"Short of breath?"

Recalling my last trip to the library with Hermione, I pursed my lips. "A few times. Mostly when I was walking up stairs. I was fine after I sat down for a few minutes."

"Pain from the bite?"

"No."

"Muscle cramps?"

"Yeah, but nothing more than I'd expect after fighting multiple creatures."

The room stilled. "What creatures?" he asked.

"The acromantula, a boggart, and a blast-ended skrewt."

"A blast-ended what?"

"Skrewt," I supplied, wondering what the problem was. "At the beginning of the year, we took care of them in Care of Magical Creatures."

"What type of creature is a skrewt?"

"They're a cross between a manticore and a fire-crab."

Gnashing his teeth and muttering about the Ban on Experimental Breeding, the healer summoned the stack of parchment and began leafing through it. "To your knowledge are skrewts poisonous?"

I opened my mouth to say no. Then the image of a massive stinger swinging towards me in the maze hit me. "I don't know," I answered, suspecting I just got Hagrid in serious trouble. Momentarily hating myself, I glanced around the room, noting how everyone was staring at me. "As long as you weren't standing behind them, the little ones were safe enough. I only saw one full-grown," I whispered.

"What did it look like?" Dawlish asked.

"Well, everyone saw the maze so…"

"Harry, we saw the outside of the maze and a spell projected select battles for the audience and the judges. I watched you confront the sphinx and a boggart. Nice patronus by the way," Fudge said, "but I didn't see you again until you grabbed the cup. I never saw any champion confront a creature I didn't recognize."

Interesting. I wondered if it was just luck that Hagrid's experiment went unobserved or if someone tweaked the spell. "I'd rather not answer."

"Please understand, Mr. Potter, the Ban on Experimental Breeding exists for a reason," Dawlish said. "Even if we discover a permit issued for breeding blast-ended skrewts, fire crabs are fifth year material, not fourth. The sting of a manticore is instantly fatal, meaning anyone who showed a group of students a manticore would be arrested for child endangerment. The same applies to acromantula."

"Experimental creatures are unpredictable," the healer said. "Without knowing the specifics, we don't know if the creature was venomous, but I believe this combination would be extremely dangerous, possibly lethal. If others were exposed, and from your statement I assume the other three champions and your entire Care of Magical Creatures class were, we will need to extract a sample of the venom and begin testing anyone exposed to the creature for possible envenomation. I assure you I don't want my ward filled with children, but I also don't want anyone to die because of a venom I might be able to cure if I'm given the chance."

I glanced at Thomas. "You need to tell them, Harry." My guts clenched. I wanted to shout at him for framing Hagrid. Maybe if Hagrid had his wand rights and Care of Magical Creatures NEWT, he'd know the risks. "How many of your friends handled these creatures?" he asked softly. "What about your muggleborn friend? If anything happens, do you think her parents will know a muggle hospital can't help her?"

I bowed my head. As much as I hated admitting it, he was right. "Full grown, they're about ten feet long. They have legs, but use propulsion for most of their movement. A bit like a rocket."

"Think about hovering on a broom and using a blasting curse to move," Thomas said when everyone else appeared puzzled.

"Sorry, muggle thing," I mumbled. "The one I killed had a stinger furled on its back like a scorpion. I don't know if it's poisonous, but most of my spells bounced off."

"How did you kill it?" Dawlish asked.

"Confringo to the underbelly."

He grimaced. "So basically a manticore with a fire crab's armored shell. Lovely," Dawlish drawled sarcastically. "Minimum we'll need a squad of aurors and some dragon tamers who specialize in iron bellies. Maybe some wards and poisons."

"You're going to kill them," I said. A simple statement of fact. As much as Hagrid loved them, I agreed with Dawlish. They were simply too dangerous to release.

"Unless someone gives me a damn good reason not to, yes."

"We need one alive in case the venom deteriorates at an unexpected rate," the healer said.

Dawlish grimaced, but Fudge inclined his head towards the healer. "I'll see what we can do."

"Back to the matter at hand," the healer said, "did you report any of your symptoms to Madame Pomfrey?"

"Yes, she said it was a side effect from the potions."

"Okay." He handed the sheaf of parchment back to Fudge. "While tiredness can be a side effect, in your case it indicated you required another dose of antivenom potion. Depending on the size of the spider and amount of venom injected, you may need up to six doses. Do you recall the size?"

"A little bigger than the bed," I whispered.

The healer's eyes widened. With a shaking hand, he summoned a sheet of parchment and quill. After jotting something down, he turned to Thomas. "I've already given him the second dose. We'll administer the next in forty-eight hours, but he will most likely require the full six doses, perhaps even a seventh. Given his condition, I'm not comfortable administering these as outpatient. He'll need to be admitted each time."

"What?! It didn't even scar." My magic crackled around me, igniting the permanent runes etched into the walls and ceiling.

"Calm down." Thomas voice cut through my outburst like a hot knife through butter. Eying his twitching wand hand warily, I shrank back. "Harry, protecting you includes protecting you from yourself. Now, you need to control your magic and calm down so we can finish this discussion. Alternatively, I will invoke the family magics and order you to act as I see fit instead of letting you offer input when applicable. Do you understand?"

My face heated. "Yes, sir," I whispered as I closed my eyes and focused on the magic racing through me. Several minutes passed before I wrestled it back under control. "Sorry."

"Please continue," he said to the healer.

Someone rapped on the door. Everyone tensed. Dawlish moved into position beside it, wand raised. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas aim his at the door.

"Enter," the healer called after receiving a nod from Dawlish.

A middle-aged man dressed in healer green swept into the room with a scroll tucked under one arm and potions bottles rattling in his pockets. He did a double take when he saw Thomas, bowed his head in his direction, then smiled at me. "So this is my new patient. Pleased to meet you, Harry. Alexander Greengrass, please call me Alex. All my patients do," he said when I started to protest.

He raised his wand. A silvery shield appeared around my bed. I glanced at Thomas. He held up a finger in warning. "Alex, what did Marcus Avery do to you when he caught in the broom closet with his sister?"

"Which time?"

"Fifth year."

Alex's ears turned bright red. "An incontinence hex," he said primly. I snickered. "Only you would ask that in front of a patient."

"I had to make sure you weren't an imposter."

"And you couldn't think of a better question?" Thomas shrugged, but his lips quirked as if he was silently laughing. "My patients get into enough trouble. I don't need you giving them ideas."

"It wasn't my idea."

"That time," Alex grumbled as Thomas dispelled the shield. Staring at a space over my head, Alex began casting a series of charms. "Deep breath." His wand swept down my sternum. "Out." He flicked it right. His eyes narrowed. "Another breath. Hold." More flicks. "Out." A quick jab.

"Are you casting diagnostics?" I asked when I recognized a wand movement Madame Pomfrey used when Hermione was petrified.

"Muggle-raised, right?" When I nodded, he said, "fabula sanitatis provides similar information to what muggles acquire through various radiological tests."

"It's like an x-ray."

"And a CT scan, sonogram, MRI. It's all the basic tests rolled into one with readings taken once a month and every time you suffer a major injury or illness, but it doesn't always provide as much information as we need."

"Could it?"

"Galen created it in 164 A.D. In his writings, he discusses altering the ritual from it's base form, depending on his patient's needs. Unfortunately, he never documented how he altered the ritual."

"And you don't experiment with ritual magic if you can avoid it."

"Exactly. I thought rituals weren't discussed at Hogwarts."

"I studied under Moody."

"Ah," he said as if that explained it all. Perhaps it did. Barty did get away with showing all the lower years the unforgivable curses. Of course, that might be because Dumbledore doubted he'd find another teacher both willing and able to perform them safely in a classroom.

"What spells are you using?"

"Interested in healing?" He smiled when I nodded. "Let's discuss the diagnosis first. Remind me next time, and I'll walk you through everything. Okay?"

I smiled for the first time since I arrived. "I will. Thanks."

"Any time." He conjured a stool and swished his wand over my head. A holographic image of my heart appeared at the foot of the bed. "This," he said, using his wand as a pointer, "is mild myocarditis, possibly caused by the acromantula venom. At this stage, it's easily treatable with potions." He removed a vial from his pocket and tapped the green dot on the cap. Within seconds, I felt amazingly calm and relaxed. "Just a little calming draught before we talk about the more serious stuff," he said to me. Too calm to feel alarmed, I shrugged. "Harry, have you ever passed out before?"

"Only around dementors."

"Would it surprise you if I said that wasn't a normal reaction?" he asked.

"Dumbledore said it's because my memories are worse than anyone else's." I felt like an idiot the moment the words left my mouth. Dumbledore said. Dumbledore lied more like.

"Harry, I know for a fact that one of your house mates had both his parents tortured into insanity in front of him. I also know there's a girl a year younger than you whose mother died in front of her a few years ago. Would you say those are horrific memories?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone other than you pass out?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Dementors cause a psychosomatic reaction, meaning they affect more than just your mind. There are some people who cannot be around dementors at all due to a physical condition. For them, prolonged dementor exposure—even from a distance like you experienced at Hogwarts last year—can be fatal."

"But I was fine the fourth time."

"Which suggests you passed out the other three. It's not a guaranteed reaction, son. Other factors also play a role. Am I correct in assuming the fourth time the dementors weren't within ten meters of your person?"

"Yes, sir," I mumbled, thinking about the water separating me from Sirius.

"While the myocarditis and acromantula bite are concerning, we can easily treat both conditions with potions. I am more concerned about the dilated cardiomyopathy. Your heart muscle is weak," he said when I looked at him askance.

"The cause?" Thomas asked.

"Infection, congenital defects, blockages. Lots of things can cause it, but Harry's bone density indicates a prolonged period of undernutrition, followed by good Hogwarts meals, and then back to undernutrition."

"Can you say definitively his heart problem was caused by undernutrition?" Fudge asked with an expression on his face that reminded me of Fang begging Hagrid for a steak.

"We see similar heart problems sometimes in anorexia patients. However, I cannot say conclusively what caused the condition. I can testify the pattern of undernutrition and regular meals mimics the feeding patterns we see in recovering anorexics. I can also point to several cases where patients suffered similar conditions after their bodies became accustomed to regular meals at Hogwarts and they were subsequently returned to their previous environment. It is a reasonable assumption considering Harry also suffers from mild stunting."

"You mean I'll always be short."

"Considering the bone density in your spine and skull, you are taller than I expected. However, the ritual revealed your bones contain more magic than any other part of your body, which is indicative of an unusual form of accidental magic. Tell me, Harry, when you were little what did you want more than anything?"

When I didn't answer, he smiled kindly and flicked his wand, pulling up a picture of my skeleton. "I bet you wanted to grow. You wanted to be tall and strong, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"Accidental magic is a funny thing. It always tries to fulfill your desires, but it doesn't always accomplish things in a conventional manner. You wanted to grow taller. Since your body didn't posses the nutrients, your magic stretched what little it had available. While your spine and skull are normal, the rest of your bones resemble a hunch-backed old lady's. Unlike her, you aren't reabsorbing bone at a greater rate than your body creates it. You simply never had it to begin with."

"So all my broken bones playing quidditch?"

"Exactly," he said with a small smile. "As for your height, don't worry. Once we heal your bones, a few potions taken during your next growth spurt will put you about where you should be."

"The treatment?" Thomas asked.

"For now, I want to try a potions regime for his heart. Sixty percent of patients experience complete recovery within six months."

"The other forty?"

"Spend a few weeks in St. Mungo's having their hearts regrown. In the end, ninety-five percent of patients experience a complete recovery. The other five percent remain on the potions regime and typically have only minor problems. All things considered, we caught this fairly early. With proper care, I doubt he'll experience any long-term problems."

"His bones?"

Alex took a deep breath and stood up. He paced around the room for a few minutes before stopping as far away from Thomas as he could get. Perhaps he thought the distance would help him dodge better. "We vanish them."

I stared at him in horror. Vanish my bones! I'd rather be bitten by a bassilisk again than voluntarily go through that.

"I know it sounds extreme," he said. "The alternative is small daily doses of skelegrow for two years. He'll hit his next growth spurt around mid-August. We can delay it up to six months, give the skelegrow a chance to work. But even if the skelegrow works, the magic will linger for years. There is a good chance they'll revert to their current form. The best solution is to remove any residual magic and start over."

"How long do we have to decide?" Thomas asked.

"If you decide to vanish them, we need to start before he hits his growth spurt."

"A month then."

"Bone vanishing isn't as dangerous as the other procedures. Although he should be hospitalized when we do his ribs and pelvis, the others can be done at home; provided, a healer or mediwitch stays overnight."

"Are you volunteering?"

"Let me check my calendar first."

---

* Based on her skill with healing, we infer Pomfrey is a healer, the wizarding equivalent of a doctor. However, the US editions repeatedly call her the school nurse. My french version of book 1 also calls her the school's infirmière, not médecin. This leads me to the conclusion that despite her apparent skill and whatever was later written on fansites or Pottermore, she is a nurse, not a doctor. Bit of a difference there...

** Canon fact, the Potters descended from the youngest Peverell brother. The eldest brother died without issue, which left any titles and entailed lands to the middle brother, not the younger. This is confirmed by both Morfin Guant in the Gaunt Shack scene in Half-Blood Prince and Albus Dumbledore in the King's Cross scene in Deathly Hallows. The Tales of Beadle the Bard are just that...tales. Regardless of how the 2nd brother died, he obviously left behind at least one legitimate heir, who inherited the stone. Yes, Rowling sort of contradicted herself. Then again, the contradiction is a book of children's fairy tales, which is hardly a decent source. I think everyone knows by now that I didn't start reading Harry Potter fanfiction until after I wrote WGM part 1. I swear if I read another fic where Harry inherits the Peverell fortune and titles based solely on James being descended from the younger brother without offering any other explanation, I will scream.

Chapter Text

The healing potions Alex prescribed were incredibly strong. I slept, read, ate, and slept some more. He said he expected I would sleep twelve to sixteen hours per day. The first day I slept eighteen. I woke to a freshly showered Thomas, who gave me a small smile before he transfigured a spare bed shoved under the window into an armchair and sat down.

A snap of his fingers summoned the most unusual house elf I'd ever encountered. She popped in with a breakfast tray in her hands and a hovering stack of books and paperwork. Dressed in a spotless white toga pinned at the shoulders with silver broaches, she stood straight backed, shoulders squared. She inclined her head politely towards Thomas, but didn't bow. Then, when I thought she couldn't get any different, she opened her mouth. "How may I be of service, Master Thomas?" she asked.

I gawped. She spoke proper English with a cultivated, not squeaky, tone. I didn't think house elves were capable of that. And she belonged to Thomas. Bizarre! Dobby said during Voldemort's first rise, house elves were treated worse than vermin, but Voldemort's alter ego's house elf appeared to be better off than the elves at Hogwarts.

"Lolly, this is Harry Potter, my new ward. Harry, Lolly," Thomas said. "She's agreed to stay with you in the event I'm called away."

Agreed? Was she a free elf? I eyed her clothing. No. The broaches bore Thomas's personal crest and cloth didn't qualify as clothes.

"A pleasure," she said, inclining her head in greeting. Then she turned to Thomas and snapped her fingers. A table appeared. "Lucius Malfoy requested a meeting next Tuesday," she said, handing him a stack of papers. "Your editor needs a date for these revisions." She dropped a stack of journals on the table. "Your solicitor called four times, regarding your application for a residence order and possible future steps. You must read through the application and send him any changes by ten a.m. tomorrow. Ralmuth of Gringotts called concerning the Lily Evans Potter Trust and Mr. Potter's medical and living expenses. I had him forward the necessary documents." Another package appeared on the table. "Rufus Scrimgeour would like to schedule an interview concerning your knowledge of the missing codicil. Ms. Barlow from MCPS called with an update on their investigation." Another package appeared. "The Department of Magical Education sent the information you requested. The remaining correspondence isn't pressing, but still requires your personal attention. I fed Nagini a deer this morning. Don't let her sucker you into giving her anything for at least another week." She placed the tray on the table. "Please don't forget to eat this time."

He gave her a wry smile. "Anything else?"

She snapped her fingers and a three inch high stack of parchment landed in his desk chair. "I collated all the reports. The summaries are on the top along with the supplemental information you requested. The Science of Magic and the other books you ordered are scheduled for delivery tomorrow." I changed my mind. Lolly's non-elfish behavior wasn't half as shocking as the fact that she rattled everything off from memory. "Do you want them here or at the house?"

"Bring The Science of Magic and the transfiguration texts here. Unpack everything else and leave it on the unread shelf in my study."

"Yes, master. Will there be anything else?"

"No," he said, opening the first letter. "Wait. Find Alex and ask him if Harry will require any special accommodations. If Alex feels he shouldn't be upstairs, set up my study as a temporary bedroom and move my work to the library. Otherwise, set up his room with the usual furnishings. Keep it simple and ask his," Thomas hesitated, "tutor for an expanded lesson plan. Remind him no dueling."

She curtsied and popped out. With one hand, he unfolded the letter while he picked up a mug of tea with the other. Leaning back in his chair, he breathed in the steam rising off his cup. The corners of his lips quirked. "Hungry?" he asked me.

"Not really," I mumbled. Adults feed normal children, not me. In my entire life, I remember two adults feeding me for no other reason than I was hungry: Mrs. Weasley and Barty. McGonagall offered tea and biscuits once—a social situation where good manners demanded she offer something—and sent for sandwiches for me and Ron when we missed the train—Mrs. Weasley would skin her alive if she forgot to feed one of her babies. My stomach growled. I flushed.

Thomas set his tea aside. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a bed tray and levitated it along with a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast to my bed followed by a glass of milk. "St. Mungo's can guarantee tamper-free potions, not meals," he said and returned to his tea.

"Thank you," I mumbled. I waited until he was occupied with his letter, tore my toast in half, and stashed it under my pillow. Then I slowly ate my eggs and drank my milk. After I finished, I picked up the diagram of my trunk I sketched the day before I left Hogwarts. In addition to the usual summer essays—all of which I finished before I left school—Barty assigned a few hours a day of additional study in my non-Hogwarts subjects, thirty minutes per day of penmanship, and a long-term trunk warding project. I was supposed to plan my warding scheme over the summer and then apply it after school started. Turning the diagram different directions, I pondered how to break into it. Picking the lock, blowing up the lock, and popping the pins on the hinges were all obvious. Drilling a hole required more work but was still a possibility. What if you dissolved the glue?

I frowned. What type of glue did it use and how would you dissolve it? A better question. I'd have to find a book on furniture restoration or visit the trunk shop in Diagon Alley. Blasting curse? Perhaps, but blowing up the trunk defeated the purpose. Still after the usual methods failed, an extremely frustrated person might resort to more violent methods.

A shadow appeared over my paper. "Sit up," Thomas said.

I eyed him. If I sat up, he might notice my piece of toast and take it away. "Why?"

"I'm not going to take your food," he said slowly like he was speaking to a five-year-old instead of an almost fifteen-year-old, "but I am going to cast a preservation charm on it."

"Why?"

"Because you don't need food poisoning on top of everything else."

I shook my head. "I meant why do you care. Why did you stay? Why don't you just go home?"

"Would you rather wake up to Dumbledore?"

"No, but I'll be fine here. There's staff and…"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Harry, we both you know you didn't contact me because of the codicil. You contacted me because there are very few wizards who both dislike Dumbledore and are able to go toe to toe with him. You contacted me because you needed a deterrent. The codicil just eased your conscience. As for why I care, pick a reason. Politics. Publicity. Irritating Dumbledore. The fact we're family and this is what family is supposed to do. They're all true."

I shot him a dubious look.

"Believe what you will," he said with a shrug.

"You're not going to take it?"

He reached inside his robes and removed a brown leather wallet about the size of my hand. He pinched the top, opening a seam, and tilted it so I could see inside. My breath caught in my throat. Apples. Bread. Cheese. Salamis. A few chocolate bars. "My head of house gave me this for Christmas first year. I've kept it on me ever since." He tucked it back inside his robes. "There's no shame in worrying about where your next meal will come from, Harry."

"You?"

"My first night at Hogwarts I left the table with half my meal in my pockets. Intellectually, I understood they were expected to feed us, but part of me always feared they'd keep feeding the wealthy kids, but not the charity cases. I hid bits of food in my trunk, under my mattress, in my nightstand. I even hollowed out an old book and my bed post so I had a few extra places."

I mentally cataloged my hiding places. Underneath my trunk lining. In a plastic bag tucked inside an old shoe. My lock box. Spello-taped underneath my nightstand drawer. A hollowed cavity behind a loose tile in the boys bathroom.

"The food never went bad," he said. "Later, I learned the house elves found my caches and cast preservation charms."

Well, that explained my two-year-old slice of chocolate cake left over from Christmas.

He gave me an understanding look. "Someone, either my roommates or an elf, reported me to my head of house. Christmas day, he pulled me aside and gave me this preservation pouch, the magical version of a lunch box, with the warning that attracting rodents wasn't proper behavior. It took me two years to start completely relying on it, but he never mentioned it again."

Fifty years later, he still carried his pouch, but he also threw away three bites of toast, which I would've stashed somewhere. Only a partial recovery, but better than I could manage.

"How much will it hold?" I asked, wondering if I could afford one with what I had leftover or if I needed to wait until after my birthday.

"One to six meals. Do you have a preference?"

"Six." In a pinch, I could stretch six meals to last three weeks.

"All right. I'll have Lolly pick one up. Is there anything particular you want in it?"

Barty would never ask. He'd fill it with fruits, vegetables, granola, yogurt, cheese, and nuts. "Treacle tart," I said nervously. Of course, he would say no.

"Okay. If you'd like anything other than treacle tart, ask Lolly. Be warned," he held up a finger, "if you don't select real food in addition to a few sweets, Lolly will pick for you. She particularly enjoys broccoli and raw beets."

"No one will take it away?"

"No one," he confirmed.

I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn't ask. Then again, I wanted a predictable guardian. "Why did you…" Words failed me.

"Because we share the same demon."

That night Thomas's words haunted my dreams. A shared demon. One more thing we had in common. One more thing I wished we didn't share. When I accepted his offer, I planned on hating him. I wanted to. He took them away. By all logic, I should despise him as much as Dumbledore. I didn't. Maybe because Thomas did the one thing no one else would. He put my needs first.

He canceled meetings, persuaded Scrimgeour to interview him under a silencing ward in my hospital room, hired Rita to manage the press and gave her explicit instructions to keep the vultures as far away from me as possible, personally checked my mail for portkeys and incinerated all six howlers someone, probably Mrs. Weasley, sent me. When he slept, Lolly stood watch. She spent most of her time organizing Thomas's paperwork. I did quietly ask her about Hedwig and Dyfi, who Thomas released a few hours after they admitted me. Fortunately, Barty remembered my password.

Slowly, I began to believe that he planned to fully honor our agreement. He wasn't the family I would've picked, but he also wasn't as horrible as I initially feared. Then they extended my hospital stay another three days and I received my first letter from Hermione.

---

When Thomas dropped two unopened letters in my lap shortly after breakfast Tuesday morning, I raised an eyebrow in surprise. Following Rita's article in the Sunday edition of The Daily Prophet, Thomas ordered Lolly to redirect and screen all my mail. Anyone I didn't personally know received a form letter thanking them for their concern. Howlers (for every well-wisher there was another angry with me for besmirching the headmaster's good name)were returned to sender. Potentially dangerous mail was forwarded to the aurors unless I personally knew the recipient. Then Lolly sent out a more personal letter, explaining the legal consequences of such actions in the future. I suspected she also added their names to a list of possible new order members, but couldn't prove it. Honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

I picked up the first letter. My finger ran across the perforated edge. Muggle paper. Interesting. Hermione started using muggle supplies shortly after Christmas, but she still used parchment for correspondence. It looked more professional, she claimed. Puzzled, I checked the wax seal and discovered a blob of white candle wax instead of the red seal embossed with her initials I expected. Even stranger.

Fear coiled in my gut. Hermione adored her stationary set. She kept it well stocked and always at hand. She hardly ever wrote anyone during the school year, but everyone knew how anal she was about anything someone else might read. She would never send anyone a letter on lined notebook paper unless it was an emergency.

With trembling fingers, I tore the seal off the make-shift envelope and opened it, revealing five sheets of muggle paper. I unfolded them and began to read.

Dear Harry,

Yesterday, I received the most disturbing letter from your new guardian, alleging I sent you an unauthorized, touch-activated portkey. I most emphatically did not send you a portkey. When I find out which of the idiots I'm presently staying with turned my last letter into a portkey without my consent, I just might take a page out of Professor Moody's book. I've narrowed it down to Mr. Weasley, Professor Lupin, and a scattered-brained idiot named Dedalus Diggle. Of course, I'm not supposed to tell you any of this. I'm also not supposed to write that my parents decided I should spend my summer with the Order of the Phoenix. Maybe if the person who ordered me to do these things hadn't recently attempted to murder my best friend I'd be more inclined to acquiesce to a request he had no legal right to make. Unfortunately for him, the more time I spend around these people, the more sane and logical your become. Sad, isn't it? Thus, I'm afraid my insatiable curiosity has already gotten the better of me. Not that I was at all inclined to repress it. What sort of friend would I be if I didn't watch my best friend's back and help him research his conspiracy theories?

I'm sorry if I'm ranting. I just can't believe anyone would be so stupid as to send an unauthorized portkey to someone who is in the hospital with heart problems. Sometimes I honestly wonder if they're all trying to kill you. I'm sure most of them aren't. Everyone staying here for the summer is incredibly worried. Even Ronald. Well, he spends more time complaining about cleaning and you having your name in the papers again, but I think deep down (like in the nearly non-existent depths of his mind that he hardly ever uses) he's worried.

Please don't get mad at me for this. I haven't asked anyone any questions about things I'm not supposed to know about. But I might have confronted Professor Dumbledore in the hallway the other day. Viktor was seen by a private healer after every task, and I know for a fact they transferred Cedric to a private healer after the third task because I saw his parents leave with him. I'm so sorry. I just assumed you were seen at the same time and that Madame Pomfrey was following-up with your care. I sort of yelled at the headmaster, and I might have called him a deranged, old fiend. I didn't mean it. Oh fine! Of course I meant it. I just didn't mean to say it. I still can't believe I did that.

In my defense, I'd just overheard that beast tell Professor Snape that you were in a rebellious phase and that making you spend your summer in progressively increasing pain from an acromantula bite was the equivalent of a good spanking! He even had the nerve to say it wasn't dangerous at all. Professor Snape stormed out and hasn't been back since.

I also overheard the same three idiots I mentioned earlier discussing how they plan to rescue you when you're released from the hospital Thursday afternoon. Apparently, one of the aurors assigned as your guard that afternoon is either sympathetic or an Order member. Unfortunately, I haven't met him and they didn't mention his name. They doubt your guardian will let him get close enough to slap you with a portkey, but he's volunteered to serve as a distraction. Once you reach the lobby, he will send a signal, then draw your guardian and the other guard's attention. Someone will apparate in, grab you, and either apparate or portkey out. I'm guessing a portkey as they mentioned St. Mungo's logs outgoing apparition. I don't know if Professor Dumbledore is aware of this plan or not. They might think kidnapping you will please him. I don't know. Regardless, I know you don't want to be under Dumbledore's care (after everything I've learned, I don't blame you!) nor do I believe you will receive any medical treatment outside the bare minimum, which is not what you need. Please pass this message on and stay safe.

Anyhow, I found out something interesting. Did you know your mother was the only muggleborn member of the Order of the Phoenix? Shocking that. I always thought…Never mind. I feel quite stupid right now. I wasn't raised to accept anything without questioning it. I can't count the number of times my nanny or one of my parents took my history book away and began filling in all the details it glossed over, such as the East India company selling smallpox infested blankets to native peoples. Why I believed the wizarding world was any different from the muggle one I have no idea. It should not have taken me four years to realize all the books about the last war say "a lot of witches and wizards, mostly muggleborns, died" without providing any actual numbers. How many is a lot? Ten? A hundred? Ten thousand? A million? How do we know those muggleborns didn't just emigrate overseas? I'm currently combing the Hogwarts graduation lists and Daily Prophet obituaries in what is probably a vain attempt to piece together some actual numbers.

Regardless of the glaring statistics problem, I'd expect a group whose stated mission is to protect muggles and muggleborns to include more than a token muggleborn. I can't say if this is true for the entire group, but those I've met are all wizard-raised and wouldn't know the difference between a shotgun and an atomic bomb. They're just so…ugh! I'm sorry. I know you have more important things to worry about than my venting. This is just so frustrating.

I'm counting on you to listen to the healers and get better. Scratch that. I'm counting on the healers knowing a few good sticking charms and your new guardian to confiscate your wand, lock up your broom, and board up the windows. (I won't claim I'm entirely comfortable with your new guardian situation, but right now the medical report someone nicked and left on the kitchen table worries me far more than the cousin you conveniently forgot to mention. Do not think I've forgotten about that. I still can't believe you found a magical family member and didn't tell me!)

Speaking of sticking charms, please tell me Professor Moody covered how to remove really obscure sticking spells. Please? I swear that portrait of Padfoot's mother is the most foul thing in existence. No wonder he ran away. Personally, I consider it a minor miracle he hasn't burned the house down, yet. If people keep setting of that bloody portrait, I'll volunteer to light the match.

Take care of yourself and please don't forget to write. I wanted to come visit you in the hospital, but Mrs. Weasley said they weren't allowing anyone who wasn't family. Keep in touch.

Love,

Hermione

P.S. They're checking all my incoming and outgoing mail. Please send your reply to Neville. Don't send one with Dobby. Last time I called him, Kreacher, Padfoot's house-elf, pitched a fit. I lied and said I called him because I didn't know how to work a wizard stove. Calling him again is too risky. Fortunately, Neville's elf doesn't set Kreacher off, and she's willing to deliver my mail. Please disregard any letter I send by owl until I say otherwise. Those are all dictated.

Stunned, I set it aside. Most people viewed Hermione as a rule-abiding brainiac. I knew better. Rule-abiding brainiacs do not brew polyjuice potion in a school bathroom nor do they tackle another student during dueling club just so they can steal a hair off their robes. Hermione was only rule-abiding when she thought the teachers were watching. Still, I never expected her to volunteer her services as my personal spy. Of all the stupid risks! Merlin and Morgana, I hoped she didn't get caught.

I mentally reviewed her letter. What to do? I didn't want to betray anyone, but Mr. Weasley was the only new Order member on the list. Barty said Mr. Weasley passed on information to Dumbledore's Order during the last war, so he wasn't really a new member. Sighing, I offered the letter to Thomas.

"You should read this," I said when he didn't immediately take it.

He set aside the letter he was reading and accepted it. While he read, I picked up the second letter. The handwriting was familiar, but I couldn't place it or the coat of arms on the wax seal. I opened it and smiled when I spotted the signature. Neville. I hesitated to call him a friend, but I trusted him more than any of my other dorm mates.

Dear Harry,

I'm sorry to hear you aren't feeling well. Gran and I tried to visit when we visited my parents yesterday, but the healers weren't allowing you any unrelated visitors. We did get to meet your cousin, though. He poked his head out the door and talked to us for a few minutes. Did you know he went to school with Gran? She graduated the year before. He seemed like a decent sort, not at all what I expected.

Ginny and I have talked a few times about her first year. I haven't mentioned anything to Gran. I don't want her to worry or to spread a rumor that may not be true. Just because a magical object claims it was created by someone does not mean it was. I doubt the diary was examined for a magical signature before it was destroyed, so there's no proof. Still, I'm a bit uneasy.

Gran plans to invite you for tea. I hope you can come, but if you're not feeling up to it, maybe we can meet up at Diagon Alley before school starts or even at the hospital. I visit my parents every few weeks during the summer.

Get well soon!

Neville

P.S. Don't worry about Hermione. I asked Aunt Callidora to make me a voice-activated portkey to our summer house. I sent it to Hermione and extracted a promise she'll use it if she gets caught "indulging her curiosity". Luckily, Aunt Callidora didn't ask any questions.

Relief swept through me. At least she had a way out. I knew better than to try to talk her out spying. Then I frowned as I recalled Neville's first paragraph.

"Thomas, why didn't you tell me Neville stopped by?"

"Must've slipped my mind," he said absently.

Sure, and I owned property in Atlantis. I sneered. "Did anything else slip your mind?"

He gritted his teeth and set Hermione's letter aside. "Do you have any idea how many people have stopped by claiming they know you or knew your parents? Several hundred a day. Most are turned away by the receptionist or the aurors standing outside the door, but there is always someone they feel deserves an update. Some old family friend I doubt you even know, a school mate's parent, or a member of the Wizengamot who just had to stop by and see how you're doing. I haven't bothered keeping track of all these people for the simple reason I doubt you'll ever hear from any of them ever again."

An oppressive silence filled the room. I hunched in on myself. "Sorry," I whispered.

"While I do not appreciate your lip, I'll excuse it this time. In the future, mind your tone. At a minimum, you will address me with the same level of respect you would Professor Moody or you will not like the consequences. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." I clenched my hands, wondering once again what I got myself into. He didn't sound angry, but neither did Petunia the few times she locked me in my cupboard herself instead of waiting for Vernon.

He lowered his head into his hands and rubbed his temples. "Lolly!" he yelled. The moment she appeared he handed her Hermione's letter. "Take this to Amelia Bones. No one else. Make sure she's alone when you give it to her."

"But Siri…Padfoot! You can't expose him like—"

"—Amelia is one of the most logical purebloods I've ever encountered. I assure you if she wanted to find Padfoot," he grimaced, "she would simply send him an owl, hop on her broom, and follow it. Instead, she practically forced Scrimgeour to remove all but one auror from the case and ensured the sole remaining auror is your father's old dorm mate. Does that sound like she wants Padfoot found?"

"No," I mumbled as Lolly popped out. "How did you know about Padfoot?"

"I know all the marauder names and how they earned them. Granger is different than I expected."

I blinked. Usually, he called her my mudblood friend. Sometimes, he said muggleborn, but not normally. What changed? "How so?" I asked cautiously.

"I heard she's a know-it-all goody two shoes."

My shoulders shook in silent laughter. Then I snickered. "Who told you that? Snape or Malfoy?"

"Both actually."

I laughed until my chest seized up. Gasping for air, I curled up in a ball, squeezing my sides. It didn't help.

A vial clinked in the rack under the bed. My breathing eased. I opened my eyes and found Alex and Thomas, who looked faintly worried, looming over me.

"Easy, son," Alex said when I started to sit up. With his wand, he tapped a purple dot painted on the inside of the bed rail and the bed moved itself into a seated position.

"Sorry," I whispered as I closed my eyes.

"Nothing to worry about." He cast a few diagnostic charms, frowned, and picked up my chart. After jotting something down, he turned to Thomas. "He's responding, but not as well as I'd like. Adjusting the dosage will help some. If he were a few years older, I'd try Erasistratos's Solution, but I fear that would do more harm that good at his age."

"Make your point, Alex."

"He needs potions keyed to both his blood and magic." Thomas sucked in a breath. Alex held up both hands. "You know I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't believe it was absolutely necessary. You and I both know there are ways to mitigate the risks. Just think about it." He reached over and ruffled my air. I glared up at him. "I'll be back in a few hours. Take it easy, son."

After he left, I leaned against the pillows, and willed my body to relax. The episodes were normal, according to Alex. It was something about the mix of conditions, potions, and acromantula venom. Unfortunately, I was half-asleep when he explained it so I didn't remember the entire explanation. Just pieces. "Sorry," I whispered.

"Never apologize for matters outside your control, Harry. Care to tell me what you found so amusing?"

"Second year, the know-it-all goody two shoes conned our defense professor into signing a pass for the restricted section. Third year, the same goody two shoes broke Draco Malfoy's nose with one punch. I'll grant she loves learning and if you don't know her, she can come across as a bit of a know-it-all."

"Interesting."

The next few minutes passed in silence. I picked the muggle maths book Barty dug up from somewhere shortly before school let out and a pencil up off the night stand and settled back for another long, individual study session. Below each problem, Barty added an arithmancy question. Early on, I borrowed Hermione's arithmancy text, thinking it might contain a few tips Barty forgot to mention. It didn't. When I asked Barty why her book was so much easier than mine, he laughed and explained how he was educated by his parents prior to Hogwarts. Or rather how he wasn't educated. He knew the basics: reading, writing, a few magical laws, some history, basic addition and subtraction. Like most purebloods and half-bloods, Barty didn't attend a formal school before Hogwarts. He knew how to write an essay, but didn't know basic math skills most muggles take for granted. Both his parents were educated by their parents and so on. Since no one in his family studied basic mathematics until Hogwarts arithmancy, they didn't bother teaching their children basic mathematics, which Hogwarts stupidly treats as an elective.

"Paint stripper," Thomas said.

"What?"

"Walburga always had a thing for obscure spells. Unless Granger wants to knock out the wall, I doubt she'll be able to unstick the portrait. However, she doesn't have to remove the painting to get rid of it. Hit Walburga with a freezing spell, cover her with paint stripper, and scrape her off. Magical portraits are charmed against light damage, humidity, insects. The usual things that damage an expensive oil painting. They are not charmed against noxious chemical compounds most wizards don't even know exist.*"

"Okay." I paused. Another question hovered on the tip of my tongue. My hand stung as if hexed by an invisible Barty. I really shouldn't, but curiosity won over self-preservation. "Why are you helping?"

"Payback," he said, opening another letter. Judging by his frigid tone, I really didn't want to know.

---

* Dichloromethane, the active ingredient in most paint strippers until the EU banned it in 2009, was first discovered in 1840. In this instance, there are plenty of witches and wizards who know what paint stripper is. Most of them have never tried using it on a portrait. Any type of portrait. I mean really. I can't think of many reasons why you would even try to use paint stripper on an expensive painting...Unless you're a teenager who's constantly watched by the portraits and needs to ensure they don't squeal if they catch you doing something you shouldn't.

 

Chapter Text

On Thursday, my sixth day in St. Mungo's, Thomas shook me awake at five thirty in the morning, shoved a bundle of clothing into my arms, steered me into the bathroom, and uttered a gruff "five minutes" that made me wonder if Barty was actually impersonating Moody during our early morning lessons or Thomas, who only appeared to be a morning person the first time I woke up in the hospital because he'd stayed awake all night. In reality, Thomas didn't wake up until he'd had at least one mug of strong tea.

I dropped my clothes on a bench and turned the water on. When I stepped under the spray, it instantly changed from lukewarm to the perfect temperature. I grinned. So much better than the muggle way. As I pondered the various reasons for Thomas's strange sense of urgency, I scrubbed myself and ducked back under the spray. Then it hit me. Release day. But Alex said he wouldn't spring me until the afternoon. Why the change? Even if they moved the time, Hermione's letter indicated Dumbledore had corrupted at least one auror other than Moody. They'd still know about the change. Maybe changing the time reduced the potential number of kidnappers. Mr. Weasley could probably 'go home early' easier than he could take the day off.

Thomas banged on the door.

"Coming," I yelled, shutting the water off. I dried off and shook out my clothing, raising an eyebrow in surprise when I realized Lolly brought one of my muggle track suits I asked Barty to hold onto for me, a white undershirt that was both too big and too clean to be mine, and my athletic shoes instead of robes. After slipping the clothing on, I stepped outside.

Alex stood beside Thomas's conjured chair, talking quietly while Thomas sipped his tea. Alex turned. "On the bed, Harry. One last checkup before you leave."

"I thought you weren't releasing me until eight," I said, cocking my head when I noticed Thomas's gray wool suit. Perfectly tailored and pressed muggle clothing, not what I expected. Then again, I sometimes spotted a pant leg poking out the bottom of his robes. I wondered if he preferred pants under his robes like I did. Probably. We were both muggle-raised. Odds were he entered Hogwarts with the same 'only girls wear dresses' notion as I did.

"Plans change," Thomas said, pointing to the bed.

Rolling my eyes, I seated myself on the edge. Alex's wand danced over me, his movements more hurried than usual. He nodded once. "You'll floo me if there's any problem," he said to Thomas.

"Of course."

"If need be, send someone to get me. If I'm not at the hospital, I'll be either at home or my brother's." Alex clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Son, this is extremely important. If you experience any chest pain, palpitations, or faintness, you must tell someone immediately. You cannot play around with this. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Take your potions every eight hours. Thomas, I gave Lolly enough for four days. If you change your mind about brewing them yourself, let me know. I assume you'll have someone stay with him when you step out."

"His tutor has already volunteered."

"You know the charms to keep an eye on him during the night and how to raise the head of the bed. Keep him calm. Harry, that means no running, flying, dueling, or competitive sports. Long walks, as long as you're with someone, are fine. You're not bedridden, but nothing strenuous."

"Yes, sir." Nothing he hadn't said before.

Smiling, he reached into his pocked and withdrew a massive tome. "Here. It's a bit over your year level, but I'm confident you'll manage. Just remember what we talked about. In the beginning, it's far more important to understand how the magic works than it is to be able to perform it. Understand now, perform later."

Grinning, I accepted the book. The leather felt worn and smooth under my fingertips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, son. Owl me if you have any questions." He turned to Thomas. "It's just theory. No actual spells. But it's more than enough to help him find out if he enjoys studying healing. I'll see you in two weeks." He shook Thomas's hand, ruffled my hair, and left.

Seconds later, a fist-sized ball of light appeared in the center of the room. It grew into a miniature sun then exploded like a firework. Sparks hit my arms, lingering without burning. The magic dispersed. An imperious-looking witch wearing a monocle and a man with unusual yellow eyes hovered a few feet above the floor. After straightening their robes, they calmly walked down an invisible flight of stairs.

The witch and Thomas exchanged pleasantries while the other man looked on. No introductions, just lingering glances and pain-filled smiles. In some ways, they reminded me of the Donaldsons—a divorced couple who lived on either side of Mrs. Figg. On the rare occasions when they weren't fighting, they wore similar expressions.

"I'm afraid we're on a tight schedule, gentlemen," she said, removing two vials from her pocket. "Lord Wychwood, I trust you secured the clothing I asked for."

"In the bag along with conjured copies of our wands and Harry's glasses," Thomas replied, handing her a canvas sack.

"Excellent. Two hairs each." She uncapped the vials and passed them to us.

I raised it to my nose and sniffed. Polyjuice! I quirked an eyebrow at Thomas, who plucked two hairs out of his head, and dropped them in the potion. It bubbled and fizzed before turning a deep hunter green. The yellow-eyed man accepted Thomas's vial, extracted a set of navy blue robes from the bag, and disappeared into the bathroom. Replacements, I realized. Probably aurors, but they were both older than the aurors who guarded my door.

Curious, I extended my sixth sense. Maybe it wasn't real, but it saved my neck a few times at the Dursleys. I'd never tried it at Hogwarts. Never even mentioned it to anyone. I pushed my senses out and brushed against her. Warm lemon pie. Tart, but sweet. Trustworthy. I grinned. A stinging hex hit my hand.

I blinked at the disapproving woman. Not furious. At least, I didn't think she was too upset. She seemed more exasperated than anything. "How long have you been able to do that, Mr. Potter?"

My eyes widened. She felt that. "You mean it's real?" I whispered.

"Of course it's," she stopped and shook her head. "Mr. Potter, you have no idea what you just did, do you?"

"It's just sensing people," I muttered.

"Did you ever try sensing people at Hogwarts?"

"No, ma'am."

She sighed. "I don't have time for this now." Her gentle tone turned cold and formal. "Lord Wychwood, I'm confident you will address this in an appropriate and prompt manner."

"Of course, Madame Bones." Thomas's tone held the same thin veneer of civility hers did. Bones? As in the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? I thought she tried cases, not investigated them.

"Good. The polyjuice, Mr. Potter." I plucked two hairs out and dropped them in the vial. It turned teal. Odd. I expected bogey colored like Crabbe and Goyle or navy blue like Moody. "You two best be going. Rufus and I will handle matters here."

Thomas wrapped one hand around my wrist and grabbed my shoulder with the other. I tensed. "Breath deeply and center yourself. Tell me when you're ready and I'll apparate us."

"But I thought St. Mungo's—"

"—they've lowered the wards around your room."

"Then why didn't they apparate?"

"Safety," she said. "Neither Rufus nor I have ever visited your hospital room, Mr. Potter. We feared we might overshoot our destination and alert certain parties to our operation."

His grip tightened. "Owl me if I need to press charges," Thomas said.

"Will do."

---

Barty warned me once that Thomas was the most paranoid individual he'd ever met. I thought he meant wards, charmed dustbins, and maybe a few more unusual security measures. But if Thomas's travel methods were any indication, his security precautions were leagues ahead of anyone else.

First, he apparated us to Hyde Park. After he cast numerous anti-tracking and magical dampening spells on me, we apparated to Kensington Gardens. A few more spells followed by a calming draught and we apparated to a small alley I'd never seen before. There Thomas cut my hand and wrote on my forehead with my blood. I didn't freak out until he started chanting in parseltongue. He quelled my protests with a single glare. According to Thomas, who I sincerely hoped wasn't lying, his highly illegal spell temporarily disabled any blood-anchored tracking charms. Combined the earlier spells all made it impossible to track my magical signature. However, there was one tracking spell Thomas refused to disable. The trace.

Contrary to popular belief, the trace is not cast on the wand. It is cast on the person. Hence, when Dobby levitated the pudding, he didn't need my wand. He only needed to use a spell near me when I wasn't in the presence of an adult witch or wizard. In theory, you could use a minor's magical trace to track apparition. Thomas claimed it would be exceedingly difficult because the trace was only intended to track magic that wasn't used in the presence of a magical adult, but possible.

The next apparition landed us in a muggle parking garage where Thomas unlocked a blue BMW with a key, not his wand. "No magic until we're inside my wards," he said and slid into the driver's seat.

I blinked. The car remained the same. Nice, but rather ordinary.

"It doesn't bite."

"But it's—"

"—get in and I'll explain."

The car's interior was just as ordinary as the exterior. Clean and still smelled new, but no space expansion charms or unusual buttons. The passenger seat was comfortable enough for a vehicle, but not self-warming or charmed for optimum comfort. Completely mundane.

The second I shut my door, Thomas cranked the car and put it in gear. It didn't fly or even drive itself. Instead, Thomas manually drove the car out of the parking garage with the same experienced hand I'd expect from Petunia or Vernon.

Shortly after he turned onto the A12, he said, "Harry, if you were Dumbledore, how would you expect me to travel?"

"I don't know." Obviously seeing as part of me was still stunned he could drive a car.

"I dislike muggles. Correct?"

"I guess."

"When I was a little older than you, I publicly informed Dumbledore that muggles are lower than flobberworms and only good as fodder for dementors. A few years before you were born, Dumbledore quoted my words back to me. He also called me Tom during that encounter." He chuckled. "You know, I don't think he noticed the slight pause in my spell work when I realized he was trying to anger me. A rather juvenile attempt I used for my own benefit. I'm not a psychologist. I cannot fully explain Dumbledore's world view or say if he applies the same world view to everyone. In my case, he still sees me an angry sixteen-year-old. People change. No one is the same at fifty as they were at sixteen. At sixteen, I hated my name. I'd just discovered my father, who I was named after, was living in the lap of luxury while I grew up in poverty. At age twenty, the same name helped me claim my grandfather's estate." He glanced at me. "I first met Dumbledore when I was eleven. He was the teacher assigned to introduce me to the magical world. You know that little trick you tried with Amelia? I tried something similar with Dumbledore."

"How did he feel?" The words escaped my mouth before I could check myself.

"Have you ever seen a banana peel after it's been left outside for a few days?" I grimaced. "Like that."

"You never trusted him."

"Never," he agreed. "When I purchased my home, every member of Dumbledore's Order was wizard-raised."

"You live in a muggle area."

"Debatable. My nearest neighbor is over half a mile away. Since then, Dumbledore has recruited two muggle-raised member. Your mother and Severus Snape."

"Your spy."

"A double spy I only invite to meetings I want Dumbledore to know about. Based on what he believes about me, Dumbledore will be monitoring the skies, floo, apparition, and possibly portkey travel. Although portkeys are a little more difficult to monitor than the other two. No one can scry for me, and I've temporarily negated his ability to scry for you. With one exception, his agents will stand out worse than Dumbledore's robes. As long as we don't use magic, we are invisible as long as we remain in the muggle world."

Brilliant. He used Dumbledore's own preconceptions against him. My mind seized on another point. "When will he able to scry for me?"

"The spell will suffice until you're under my wards. When you feel up to it, I'll guide you through a ritual that will prevent any future tracking spells."

"What about the trace?"

"We'll discuss getting rid of it after Alex clears you. Don't worry. As long as you're either under my wards, you can practice magic during the summer without adult supervision."

"Nice."

He flicked the blinker on and merged onto another road. "How long have you been using passive legilimency?" he asked abruptly.

I jerked in my seat. "What?"

"Sensing people, as you ignorantly named it," he drawled, "is known as passive legilimency."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do it." A lie. I tried it on Thomas a few days ago. Like a strong cup of coffee. Strong and bitter. Not as bad as I expected. When he didn't say anything, I assumed it was either acceptable or (more likely) not real.

Thomas snorted. "Don't lie to me, Harry. Of course you meant to. You just didn't intend to be caught. Or maybe you didn't realize you could be caught. I'm not certain. I allowed it when you were just testing Alex, the nurses, and myself. You weren't hurting anyone, and it helped you feel safe so I let it slide, but I have to draw the line at the head of the DMLE. Did you rely on it before you left for Hogwarts?"

Staring out the window, I nodded.

"Your head doesn't rattle. A verbal answer please."

"Yes, sir," I mumbled, falling back on my Dursley ingrained response to male authority figures.

"When I patched your mind back together, I was more concerned with keeping you sane and safe from Dumbledore than I was with any habits he might've suppressed. I cannot verify anything without checking your mind again. Personally, I'd rather teach you how to heal your mind for yourself and then talk you through any problems you may have. That will serve you better in the future, but we'll discuss that issue later."

"You think Dumbledore suppressed it so I wouldn't realize he felt like a rotten banana peel."

He laughed. "Passive legilimency reads what others project. Everyone you read is an adult with full control of their magic. Alex, Amelia, and myself are also all skilled occlumens so we're even more muffled than others."

"So the rotten banana peel was because Dumbledore was projecting his dislike."

"It's far more subjective than that. In a single instant, you perceive some one's intent towards you, how their character aligns with traits you value. Everything you receive is interpreted, which means even the most accomplished occlumens can't block it. Although teenagers rarely perform accidental magic, they don't have the same control over their magic as an adult. They leak magic like a sieve. Your muggle cousin probably feels about the same as a muggle adult. A single magical child feels like ten magical adults. Once they hit puberty, it gets worse. I spent my first six weeks at Hogwarts with a constant migraine. I found out what I was doing from a library book and eventually taught myself how to turn it off and on."

Interesting. I wondered if I read the Dumbledore's personality completely wrong. Maybe in the twisted depths of his mind, everything he did he did to protect me. I still hated him with a passion I once reserved for the Dursleys, but maybe he didn't intend to murder me and give my body over to an impostor. I snorted. Most likely, Dumbledore just wanted a convenient excuse.

"You're lucky Amelia was so understanding."

I nodded mutely, pressed my face against the window, and stared at the scenery. Several times, he tried to restart the conversation. After the third time, he stopped trying. We left Greater London on the M11 towards Cambridge. Shortly after we turned off near Great Chesterford, Thomas stopped for fuel. Following a quick breakfast of tea and fried egg sandwiches Lolly packed for us, we resumed our journey. The city gave way to towns and flat farmland crisscrossed by waterways.

"The Fens," Thomas announced. He briefly explained Salazar Slytherin was raised in the Fens, according to legend. When I asked if that's why he lived near them, he gave me a secretive smile and shook his head. "You'll see."

The roads became narrower, less used, until he turned off a dirt track into a farm field. "Give me your hand."

"Why?" I asked.

"No one can enter or exit the property without me unless I've added them to the wards."

"Will you add me?"

"After you learn how to control them," he said with a smirk.

I turned in my seat until my shoulders were wedged between the seat and the door. "So if I go in there I'll be a prisoner."

He groaned. "You are the most paranoid child I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. For the last time, Harry, you're not a prisoner. However, Barty tells me you nearly melted the defense suite the one time he let you try to manipulate his wards. He's already added ward control to your summer schedule. Once you've learned the basics, I will teach you how to enter and exit the property without triggering the defenses or, Morgana forbid, the offensive protections."

"Promise?"

"For the love of," he banged his hand against the steering wheel. "I have put a great deal of effort into keeping you alive and as healthy as possible. I realize you don't trust me. Hell, if our positions were reversed, I'm not certain I'd trust me either. But I'm not suicidal. I swore I'd protect you and I will. Hand!"

Reluctantly, I extended my right hand. Thomas pressed his hand against mine, palm to palm. "Haraldr Iacomus Evans Potter, I welcome you home," he hissed.

The air shimmered around us. The ordinary farm field transformed into a mere*. A cobblestone drive wound around the water's edge, leading to a three story stone house with ivy growing up the front. I didn't know why, but it felt old. Not Hogwarts old, but still old.

When we crossed the ward line, the hair on my arms stood up. I felt foreign magic slither through my mind. I tried to push it aside, redirect it. Failed. Memories of the Dursleys, Hogwarts, and St. Mungo's flashed through my mind. The magic shifted. Warmth surrounded me. Safety. Acceptance.

"Home," I whispered, not realizing I'd spoken the word until Thomas responded.

"Home," he agreed. I glanced at him. His faint smile appeared more genuine than any expression I'd seen from him to date. "Lolly found this place shortly after I moved back to Britain in '72. I told her I wanted a magical home with room for an office and a potions lab. Instead she found a muggle monstrosity with half the back wall missing and giant-sized holes in the roof. I thought she was crazy. She had to trick me to come see it. Then I found the old ward stones. They weren't much. The ministry listed the home as demagicked and sold to muggles in 1813. They hadn't been renewed or recharged in over one hundred fifty years, but I could still sense them. I bought the place for the ward stones and spent the next year fixing it up. Unplottable, muggle repelling charms, and an obscuration ward that's stronger than the fidelius, among others."

My eyes widened at that. If there was a ward stronger than a fidelius, why didn't—

"A highly illegal obscuration ward."

Oh. "Why?"

"Why is it illegal or why did I cast it?" he asked as he parked the car in front of the house.

"Why is it illegal?" I asked, half expecting him to answer human sacrifice.

"Obscuration wards date back to the Indian Campaign of Alexander the Great. The wards were originally cast in parseltongue and anchored with parsel runes. At various points, different scholars have tried to translate the ward with varying degrees of success. Changing the language changes both the underlying arithmancy and the runic anchors. You can't just cast the spell in Latin and expect the parsel runes to work. On 29 March 1461, Lionel Gryffindor, the last magical Earl of Sarum and his three sons fell at the Battle of Towton."

My eyes widened when I recognized the name. "But that's a muggle—"

"—prior to the statute of secrecy, muggle and magical affairs were often one and the same. The War of the Roses was fought over the line of succession to the English throne. Wizards were just as impacted by that war as muggles. Upon their deaths, the earldom fell to a six-month-old babe. Fearing for their lives—assassinations among the magical elite were incredibly common in those days—Lionel's wife called the entire family together to cast an obscuration ward. One hundred seventeen witches and wizards, the last remaining descendants of Godric Gryffindor and their families, gathered to cast the ward. Maybe they thought if they all cast simultaneously, they'd produce a stronger ward. Some protection charms, such as repello inimicum, work like that. Unfortunately, obscuration wards are not designed to be cast by more than one person at a time. Three days later, Reginald Prewett discovered their bodies. There were no survivors. Fast forward to the statute of secrecy and most wizards believe obscuration wards, which were never well documented outside the parseltongue community, require human sacrifice."

I struggled to wrap my tired brain around his tale. "They don't?"

He scoffed. "No. All they need is half a pint of the caster's blood and a source of magic."

"Source?"

"Lolly and Nat, her spouse, take turns feeding them. It's no more draining on them than a simple levitation spell."

"Oh." A thought occurred to me. Although the OWL papers I studied covered a diverse range of topics, Hogwart's History of Magic focused almost exclusively on the goblin rebellions. "Where did you learn about that?"

"Old journals from that time period, Council of Wizards records, probably at least a hundred separate sources. In my day, Bagshot's A History of Magic included the basic story, but didn't mention which ward they were attempting."

Despite the early hour, I fought back a yawn. I hoped he didn't think I found the subject boring. It sounded fascinating. Maybe I could talk Barty, who Thomas hinted was my mysterious tutor, into letting me research it on my own for my next independent research project.

"Come. Let's get you settled. We'll talk more after you've rested."

---

Shortly after I awoke in the most comfortable bed I'd ever slept in, Nat popped in and informed me in his halting, but grammatically correct, speech that Thomas was called to the ministry for an emergency meeting with Madame Bones, but wanted to see me as soon as he returned. Nat's patient had taken a bad turn last night. He and were busy tending to him. I should call Lolly if I needed anything. He then cast a monitoring spell on me and popped out.

The urge to run through the house, exploring every nook, cranny, and magical object like I did my first month at Hogwarts, was almost overwhelming. Then I took my afternoon potions and moving more than ten feet away from my bed no longer seemed like a good idea. Instead, I explored my well-appointed room, opened a window in case Hedwig decided to visit, and plopped down in front of the fireplace with "Enemy of the People", a play by Henrik Ibsen that Barty left on my nightstand with a note.

Read before dinner next Wednesday.

I grinned when I read his note. By the time I left Hogwarts, meals were my favorite part of the day. At least one thing wouldn't change. I finished the first act before I swapped over to my trunk project. I lounged on the rug in front of the fire place in my bedroom with Dyfi wrapped around my neck as a silent bodyguard and my trunk warding project spread out around me. I felt oddly safe. Must be the wards.

"I worried," she hissed. "You're mine,. When Thomas said you were sick, I was so scared. I knew there was something wrong. I could smell it, feel it. I tried to tell you, but you didn't listen."

I set my pen down and stroked her head with my index finger. "I did listen. I asked Madame Pomfrey, but she said it was just the potions. I thought…Never mind what I thought. I should have trusted your word over hers. You'd never tell me I smelled like a dying rat without a reason."

"You didn't smell that bad. Almost though." She paused. "There's another snake in this house. Bigger. You will tell her I am not prey!"

"Nagini, Thomas's familiar. Lolly said the wards don't allow her to attack anyone without Thomas's permission."

"Ask if snakes are included."

"I will." The owls and house elves were included, so I assumed Dyfi was, but I'd still ask. I rather liked having her around.

I summoned Leed's manuscript and turned to the warding section. It wasn't comprehensive, but offered a decent start. An interesting parsel rune ward intended to stun grave robbers caught my eye. Not exactly the super locking charm I'd hoped for, but still interesting. I wrote the page number on my trunk diagram and began looking for another.

Then a tempest of magic stronger than anything I'd ever felt slammed into me. Absolute fury and contempt followed by the mental image of a striking snake. Reeling, I flared my magic, forming a protective bubble. The foreign magic became muted then disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

The door creaked open. "Harry?" Barty asked.

"I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that," he said, pulling out the wand he won from Moody. His wand danced over my head for a moment before he clasped my shoulder with his free hand and drew me into a half hug. "You're as well as you can be under the circumstances. You gave me a right good scare, kid."

I squirmed out of his grasp, earning a snicker. "Sorry, I forgot normal human contact makes you uncomfortable. Let him cool off before you go down stairs."

"That was Thomas?"

"It certainly wasn't me. Moody's sedated. You're magic is still battling acromantula venom and a heart condition. My lord is the only other person allowed on the property."

"Oh." I bit my bottom lip. Maybe I shouldn't ask.

"Ask," he prompted.

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Moody?" I nodded. Barty seated himself in the overstuffed chair beside my bed and flicked his wand, raising the light. "How many times do I have to tell you daylight, not the pre-dawn gloom you think is appropriate for studying?"

"Once more apparently."

He smirked then turned serious. "You know the defense position is cursed, right?"

My eyes widened. No, I didn't know that, but it made sense when I thought about it. None of our defense professors lasted longer than a year, and something horrible always happened either to or because of them.

"If you catch him in a good mood, I'm sure my lord will share the tale. It's common knowledge among the law enforcement community the position is cursed. That's why Dumbledore's forced to hire people like Lockhart. No one in their right mind wants the job."

"You did."

"Extenuating circumstances, and I was never contracted for the position. Arguably, the curse would target Moody, not me. The only people who are interested in the job are either incompetent frauds or people with nothing to lose."

"But Lupin—"

"—was living hand to mouth. Teaching at Hogwarts meant free room and board and allowed him to save his wages. Without it, he probably would've starved to death by now. Magicals don't hire werewolves, and they can't hold most muggle jobs because they miss too much work. Do you remember when we studied why some curses are illegal?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, afraid I already knew where this conversation was heading.

"Moody was an auror. One of the best of his day. I've known him my entire life and can't remember him without his magical eye or what his face looks like under the scars. The man's been subjected to more curses than any currently active auror. About a month ago, you helped me brew healing potions. I didn't tell you at the time because you didn't want to know, but those potions were all for Moody. Some curses you can't completely remove. The way I understand it, and I'm not a healer so I may be wrong, they can only stop certain curses for a time, but without a counter the spells will slowly regain their strength. Moody wasn't worried about the defense curse because he was already dying. If he had stopped taking his potions and lived with the pain, he might have lived a few more years. But I kept him on the potions."

"So you're killing him." I regretted my tone the instant the words left my mouth. If this was true, then Moody was already dying. It was the same as a terminal cancer patient not opting for a final round of chemo.

"No. My lord gave him a choice. I wasn't here when they spoke. Moody said my lord showed him some of the pensieve memories I sent him about you. I don't know which ones. I know better than to ask. I do know Moody swore an unbreakable vow when he joined Dumbledore's order. Moody said…" He paused and collected himself. "He said he'd rather spend what little time he has left with me than his remaining time helping Albus with his cockamamie schemes."

That didn't sound like the Alastor Moody I'd read about. "Are you sure it's not a trick?"

"Harry, whatever my lord showed him broke him. I've never seen a more devastated person in my life, and I spent a year in Azkaban. I need to go. Will you be all right by yourself for awhile or would you like Lolly to come stay with you until my lord calms down?"

"I have Dyfi and Nat's monitoring charm. I'll be fine."

"Okay. If you need me, I'll be in the guest room. Down the hall second door on the right."

---

* A shallow lake

---

This is not my typical author's note. I'm only writing this because I have received several questions regarding these issues. Writing a response here is quicker.

Why isn't this story marked as an AU? Because ALL fan fiction is by definition AU unless you copy the books word for word. Adding an AU to the description servers no purpose in my opinion and is redundant.

Why didn't you label this as neutral!Harry or at least manipulative!Dumbledore? It's not labeled as neutral!Harry because that's a spoiler. If asked, I will sometimes send regular reviewers spoilers, but I personally dislike them. The manipulative!Dumbledore is addressed in WGM Chapter 1's author's note. In short, I consider manipulative Dumbledore canon.

Now for the pink elephant in the room…

Isn't Voldemort a psychopath? The answer depends on several factors, including how you define canon and if you mean the clinical definition of a psychopath. If you include all the interviews where Rowling contradicted either previous interviews or the books, yes with a BIG maybe. However, we've already established that I do not include interviews. Here is also where I warn you that the popular usage of the word "psychopath" and the clinical definition are worlds apart.

Years ago, I attended an open psychology lecture on the leading figures of World War II. I was completely shocked when the lecturer firmly stated that Heinrich Himmler, the man who orchestrated the final solution, was completely sane. He wasn't a psychopath or sociopath. He was simply a man who strongly believed in antisemitism. At the time, this was incredibly hard to swallow. Even Hitler, who some scholars believe was a psychopath, was iffy. Among other issues, Hitler was an addict, which confuses the issue of his mental health.

If you think this is relevant, why didn't you discuss it a few chapters back when you first presented Thomas Riddle, Lord Voldemort as mostly sane? Because I wanted to wait for his political beliefs to begin bleeding through. Until Book 7, everything we know about Voldemort's political beliefs meets the definition of propaganda. Book 7's main purpose always struck me as being to 1) prove Voldemort is insane (and blind/stupid), 2) imitate WWII without actually studying the causes of WWII, and 3) prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Harry picked the right side. Not that he ever picked a side, but you get my point.

We do know from Sorcerer's Stone (or Philosopher's, I can't remember which the US version used, but I also read it in French, so I get mixed up some times) that Voldemort tried to recruit both James and Lily. So having him personally believe muggleborns are worthless or magic thieves (the views shown in Book 7) doesn't fit with Book 1. Since I consider Book 7's proper title to either be Harry Potter and the Deux ex Machina or Hermione Granger and the Deathly Hallows, I'm more likely to believe Book 1.

Additionally, in canon (not after the fact interviews that magically make McGonagall twenty years younger than she was in a previous interview) we are given very little evidence to support the view that Riddle is a psychopath. We see Riddle either trying to defend himself long enough to get his body back (Quirrel and diary), proving a point to his followers that Harry Potter is not his magical equal (graveyard), punishing followers after they royally screwed up (ex. Pettigrew losing Crouch Sr.), interrogating a prisoner (Olivander), and in battle. Predominately, we encounter him when he's being thwarted by Harry, meaning we see him when he's fighting someone he perceives as an enemy. NONE of this provides sufficient information to diagnose him as a psychopath. It doesn't even prove he's a little disturbed. All it proves is that he is a fairly hands-on general.

In book 6, we're shown all those 'lovely' (note the sarcasm) memories by Dumbledore. I'd like everyone who's made it this far in this ridiculously long author's note to stop and think for a moment. The first time he met Dumbledore, Riddle demanded he tell the truth about whether Dumbledore was there to take him to the asylum. Translation: scared, angry kid. Dumbledore's response, he set an eleven-year-old child's wardrobe on fire. Dumbledore entered the room with a preconceived idea of Riddle based solely on his conversation with Mrs. Cole. This is the same Mrs. Cole who was publicly drinking in the middle of the day during the late 30s. In other words, Dumbledore took the word of a drunk and never bothered to look any further. Honestly, this says far more about Dumbledore's character than Riddle's. However, it is what Dumbledore presents to Harry as proof Riddle was always a disturbed little boy.

His portrayal in books 5-7 (I'm certain you've noticed by now that my story begins in book 4 and then deviates so while I'll use books 5-7 their characterizations are largely irrelevant) is a sadistic man who engages in random acts of violence and destruction while taunting his opponents and cackling at inappropriate moments. This is a classic villain, not a psychopath. Classic villains are formula characters. For example, Voldemort is a combination of the mastermind and the monster.

My Riddle is a closer to an antihero than a classic villain. He is either a revolutionary or a terrorist, depending on your point of view. While his reasons may be perfectly understandable, his methods will remain questionable because that is the nature of both terrorists and revolutionaries. Sadly, the politics shown in the books allow me to do this.

Terrorists are frequently portrayed in the media as psychopaths. The truth, unfortunately for anyone who feels safer believing they're just crazy, is quite the opposite. Numerous psychologists have studied actual terrorists from multiple countries. I believe Martha Crenshaw says it best: "the outstanding common characteristic of terrorists is their normality." (Crenshaw is a political scientist, not a psychologist. The psychologists I've read agree with her. They just use more flowery language.)

While you do see a few psychopaths/sociopaths involved in wars, coordinated terrorism, like Voldemort's Death Eaters, requires organization, loyalty, and ideology. Some of the traits associated with psychopathy are disadvantages to a terrorist. I don't remember where I read this, probably in one of those crazy security studies classes I took as an undergrad, but at one point, there was an argument that a true psychopath made an excellent captain, but a poor general. This being said, it's not uncommon to see true psychopaths associated with war crimes, but their not normally at the top of the food chain. (I suppose that's why they normally charge whoever committed the war crime and their commanding officer.)

Thank you all for your lovely reviews! Knowing actual people (Wait, you are humans, not martians. Right?) are reading and enjoying my story means the world to me.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Lolly showed me to Thomas's study. The downstairs, which I'd barely noticed the day before, was open and comfortably furnished. Four squashy armchairs clustered around a fireplace on one end of the room and a dining table on the other. Instead of nosey portraits, photographs of massive waterfalls, seaside cliffs, dunes, and old buildings adorned the walls. Most were magical, but not all.

Lolly tugged my sleeve. I jerked my attention away from the waterfall.

"Iguazu Falls in Brazil," she said. "Come. Best not keep him waiting."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied automatically.

Hand resting on the door knob, she turned and smiled at me. "Respectful. I like that in a human." She opened the door and poked her head in. "Master Thomas?"

"Send him in Lolly. I'll call you when we're through."

She nudged me inside and shut the door behind me. For some reason, I always imagined Thomas's office, if he had one, would be the opposite of Dumbledore's: black draped walls, no sunlight, and a snake in the corner. There was a large snake sunning herself by the back door. Other than that, Thomas's study was large and airy with plenty of sunlight and enough books to open his own library. A photograph collage over the fireplace caught my attention: Woodwalton Hall in various stages of renovation.

In one, a pile of stones neatly re-stacked themselves into a wall. Another showed Thomas standing beside a massive hole in the floor. A long finger pointed to the hole. "That's where someone tore out the staircase leading to the third floor. This," Thomas said, indicating a twisted mass of rusted metal and vegetation, "is the conservatory before I restored it."

"Looks like a lot of work."

"It was, but I enjoyed it. There were nine bedrooms, a drawing room, sitting room, and a dining room. Lots of useless space. I repaired the exterior as best I could then brought in a muggle crew to finish the roof and double check the exterior. Stone mason, I'm not," he said with a self-deprecating laugh. "Before I left Brazil, I spent some time studying magical construction techniques. Once the muggles cleared out and I had the place warded, I gutted the interior and rearranged everything into something I can actually use." He waved his hand at the two arm chairs across from his desk. "Please have a seat. We have much to discuss."

Instead of seating himself behind the mahogany desk that dominated the large room, Thomas choose the arm chair closest to the fireplace and summoned a simple, white tea set. "Tea?"

"Depends on what's in it."

"Tea leaves and water. Milk and sugar are also available."

"Nothing else?"

"I save the veritaserum for Wormtail and Severus."

I ducked my head to hide my smirk. "Yes, please." The teapot rose into the air and poured two perfect cups of tea. Then set down on the tray without a sound. I glanced at his hands. No wand. "How?"

"Practice. It's best if you start experimenting with a rubber ball or a pillow. Please choose something that won't break any bones if you accidentally drop it on your foot."

"I will. Thanks."

"You're welcome. How do you like your room?"

"It's nice, but…"

"Go on," he prompted.

"A little big," I mumbled. "Sorry, I mean it's really nice. It's just my bathroom is bigger than my old bedroom—"

"—too much space makes you feel uncomfortable."

"It's wonderful during the day, but when I sleep…" I bit my lip. How to explain?

"I'll conjure some bed curtains for you tonight. If that helps, I'll have Lolly pick up some and change your bed into a four poster. If not, I can either temporarily shrink your room or you can swap with Moody. The guest room is a little smaller than yours, but not enough to make much difference I'm afraid."

"Okay."

"There is some old furniture in storage also. Feel free to look through it. If you see anything you like, ask Nat to help you move it. He knows which pieces shouldn't be shrunk."

"Okay."

"Dyfi wants me to ask about Nagini."

"Nagini is not allowed to stalk, much less eat, her."

I sipped my tea, wondering if I should ask about last night. Best stay silent, I decided. I'd already asked too many questions.

"I want to apologize for last night. I should have raised the wards around the dueling chamber before I lost my temper."

"It's okay."

"No, it isn't." He sighed and set his tea cup on a small side table beside his right elbow. "Harry, I pride myself on my control over my magic. There is absolutely no excuse for what happened yesterday."

"It's no different from what I did in Dumbledore's office or when Dumbledore threw us out."

"The difference between us, Harry, is you're still growing. You don't have complete control over your magic yet. Dumbledore and I both do. It should not have happened, and I owe you both an apology and explanation."

"Not really," I said quickly.

"Yesterday morning, Dedalus Diggle successfully kidnapped Amelia Bones."

"What?"

"The polyjuice worked. They identified the spy and arrested Diggle. Unfortunately, Diggle portkeyed her to his personal home instead of the Order's safe house. We all expected Dumbledore to run straight to the Wizengamot, so Fudge was waiting for him at the ministry. We miscalculated. Dumbledore called a press conference."

My world collapsed. "What did he say?"

"You don't need to concern yourself—"

"—what did he say?" I demanded, clearly enunciating each word.

Thomas sighed. "He claims I asked him to pick you up from St. Mungo's and watch you for a few hours while I took care of some last minute details at the ministry. Since he was tied up with the ICW, he sent Diggle. He never imagined the request didn't come from me."

I lowered my head into my hands as I mentally mapped out the different angles. Dumbledore's explanation sounded reasonable, if you didn't know Thomas wouldn't trust him with a goldfish. "What about the trial?"

"You need to understand, Harry, Dumbledore is currently the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Much like the House of Lords*, the Wizengamot is both a legislative and a judicial body. This case is the same as if they arrested the Lord Chancellor. Finding an objective judge is nearly impossible. Instead of appearing before a magistrate, Dumbledore's case was automatically sent to the Council of Magical Law, which is like the Crown Court. The reason I was upset last night," he said, a slight lisp leaked into his voice, "is because Fudge and Amelia both recused themselves. They're too involved in the case. Dumbledore's trial will be presided over by Delores Umbridge, Fudge's senior undersecretary." He reached over, gently prized the tea cup out of my hands, and set it aside. "Harry, I need you to try to stay calm. If you feel you can't, I have a calming draught on my desk. All you need to do is ask for it. All right?"

I steeled myself for bad news. "Tell me," I whispered, clenching my hands together. My throat felt dry.

"Odds are Dumbledore will never see the inside of a jail cell," he said.

Part of me wanted to comment that they had something in common. Another, the same side that wanted to survive at all costs, wondered why. Luckily, the latter won. "But the evidence…" When Thomas shook his head, I stopped.

"Sometimes reputation matters far more than evidence. In this case, the problem is the judge. I understand why they assigned her the case. She's one of three justices who doesn't worship the ground Dumbledore walks on, but Umbridge has made too many enemies in the Wizengamot. The evidence will not matter. The moment they learn Dolores Umbridge convicted Albus Dumbledore, the Wizengamot will overturn his conviction on appeal. I doubt it will take them ten minutes."

"Fudge knows," I whispered.

"Of course he does. In the short term, Dumbledore's reputation will be almost as damaged by an overturned conviction as if they sent him to Azkaban. But removing you from Dumbledore's care also removes you from Dumbledore's sphere of influence, which is potentially more damaging to Dumbledore's political capital. Especially if you show your gratitude for Fudge's intervention publicly."

"That's good, right?"

"Why do you think it's good?" he asked after a pregnant pause.

"If it damages his political capital, he won't have as much support if he tries to get custody of me."

"Have you studied the Wizengamot Charter, yet?"

"No, sir," I replied, thrown by the abrupt change in topic.

"Wipe that look off your face," he said, chucking me on my chin. "It's post-NEWT material so it's hardly surprising you haven't covered it yet. The charter contains the phrase 'as magic wills it'. There's much more to it, but for our purposes, it means the ministry always assumes a child with living magical relations closer than a fifth cousin is subjected to family magic and defers to the head of the family's wishes unless the child is being abused by the head of the family. This is a long held right in our society. Dumbledore will let the custody issue drop unless he wants the brainwashed masses to revolt. Additionally, your mother's codicil grants me, not Dumbledore, parental authority. You don't have to take my word, Harry. I have several thousand law books in my library. Look it up for yourself or ask Norton or Matthews next time you write them."

"I'll do that." I stared into the flames, wondering why Thomas disagreed with me. Barty always used the same tactic when I said something he disagreed with. He said finding out why I thought something was quicker than arguing over it. "I don't like it, but I get that I'm a propaganda tool. Simply removing me from Dumbledore's custody should hurt his recruitment efforts in the short term. Exposing him and the Dursleys during a trial will cause even more damage. It could potentially get him out Hogwarts."

"Trials," he corrected absently. "They're still investigating your previous living situation and whether Dumbledore knew about the codicil. This is just for negligence and child endangerment during the Triwizard Tournament."

A tentative smile spread across my lips. "So even if he gets off this time, it will still damage his reputation enough for the next set of charges to stick."

Rubbing his temples, he sighed. "I wish it was that simple, but I don't think either you or Fudge understands how Albus Dumbledore works."

"What do you mean?" Worry pooled in my gut. While I didn't know how Dumbledore worked politically, I knew more than enough about how he worked personally. Although I believed he did things to accomplish goals he believed in whole-heartedly, I didn't approve of his means, particularly when they involved me.

"Dumbledore has a well-established pattern of returning students to abusive environments. You're not the first. I doubt you'll be the last." His mouth settled into a grim line. "Do you know how Dumbledore became headmaster? Every few years, he tells someone some cock and bull story about the board wanting a younger headmaster, someone who genuinely cared about the students and had classroom experience." He snorted. "They believe him because they believe in the legend. Mind you, these are the same people who also believe he killed Grindelwald in a duel when it's a well-established fact that Grindelwald is currently imprisoned in Nurmengard, which doesn't say much for their intelligence. Dumbledore became headmaster during the 10 July 1956 emergency board meeting following the murder of Stephan Wilcox, one of Dumbledore's half-blood Gryffindors, two weeks after school let out by his muggle father. The court ruled Dumbledore wasn't liable as while he knew of the abuse he wasn't legally required to report it**. The board disagreed. They wanted him out of the classroom. Since they couldn't fire a tenured professor, they promoted him to the one position that is traditionally titular, meaning the headmaster of Hogwarts is expected to make two speeches a year, sign off on whatever staff members the board decides to hire, and meet with prefects and faculty on request. It is a position designed for doddering old men. The only reason he has any power at Hogwarts is because McGonagall allows it."

"If that's the truth, why doesn't anyone else know?"

"Plenty of people know, Harry. They just don't believe it. Dumbledore heads his own personality cult, if you will. The general public views him as the second coming of Merlin. The Daily Prophet, his position as Headmaster of Hogwarts, being Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, even his beard and twinkling eyes are weapons he uses to create an idealized image of himself. Following the defeat of Grindelwald—incidentally Dumbledore didn't even raise his wand until after the Australians killed Grindelwald's remaining lieutenants—Dumbledore set himself up as magical Britain's benevolent guide. People honestly believe a better future is impossible without him. Child abuse and kidnapping charges won't bring Dumbledore down. I can give you a long list of muggle personality cult leaders who survived far worse scandals. For example, Juan Peron kept a thirteen-year-old mistress, but he's practically a political demigod in Argentina. Joseph Stalin killed over ten million of his own citizens and thirty-five percent would still vote for him were he alive today. In this respect, most wizards are no different from muggles. They will believe the legend over reality. A few scandals will not take down the likes of Albus Dumbledore. It's not possible. Short term, we can win with a few well-placed newspaper articles. Long term, we need Dumbledore's dead body—preferably on top of a ten-year-old male muggle prostitute, but I'll take whatever I can get—accurate muggle studies courses that cover things like atomic bombs, and a history curriculum that includes the last two hundred years, not just the goblin wars. Right now, over fifty percent of our population knows we fought wars with the goblins, but they don't understand the goblins control our monetary system. Hell, they don't even know what a monetary system is. Do you see the problem?"

Refusing to meet his gaze, I picked at a loose thread on the chair arm. He didn't tell me anything I didn't already suspect, but his words neatly dispelled any illusion I had that a court case and Rita Skeeter could protect me from Dumbledore. Which meant I asked to live with my parents's murderer for naught.

"Well?" he said.

"Yes, sir. I understand. Why…" No, I shouldn't ask that. I'd asked him too many questions already. Best not add to it.

"Ask." He prompted.

"It's not important."

"Harry, our family magic compels me to help you. It has since the moment I learned we're related. I don't mind the compulsion. I knew it was a possibility when I swore the oaths. Unfortunately, I cannot help you without either you telling me what's wrong or seriously violating your privacy. Either way works for me."

Damn legilimens. I sucked in a deep breath. "Why did you swear an unbreakable vow to protect me when you can't?"

"Because I know I can. I have contacts around the world. Many of whom despise Dumbledore and several who can beat me in a duel. Worst case scenario, I take you to Joseph and the two of you disappear for a few years."

"Joseph?"

"Leeds."

"What can he do?"

Thomas laughed. "In 1943, Grindelwald personally executed one of Joseph's several greats grandsons. The boy was a civilian, barely of age. Wrong place, wrong time. I doubt Grindelwald even knew who the boy was. Joseph spent the next year and a half plotting his revenge. Then on 22 January 1945 he imperiused a few carefully selected muggles. On 13 February, he apparated to Dresden*** where Grindelwald kept his headquarters. He then personally warded the entire city against all forms of magical transportation, including brooms, selected a nice out of the way hillside, and waited for the bombs to drop. Between the muggle bombs and three fiendfyre spells, he killed three-quarters of Grindelwald's elite and most of their families, including Grindelwald's wife and children. By the time Grindelwald fought Dumbledore, his army was down to less than fifty wizards. Most of whom were fresh out of school. Grindelwald lost the war because he pissed off a single old shaman, who has forgotten more about magic than most can learn in a lifetime."

---

Destination, determination, deliberation. Translation: focus on the hoop Barty conjured on the lawn. Only on the hoop, not my so-called tutor and his godfather who were lounging on the sidelines laughing like a pair of hyenas. Picture yourself inside the hoop. Really want, as in you can't live with yourself if you fail, your body inside the hope. I spun on my heel and landed face first in the grass. I raised my head, hoping I had somehow landed on the hoop. Nope, the damn hoop was still ten feet away, mocking me.

"This is more entertaining than I thought," Moody said, gasping for breath.

I stood, brushed myself off, and patted my pocket to make sure the sticking charm I placed on the fully-stocked preservation pouch someone, probably Lolly, left on my nightstand remained. Still there. Good. "So glad you're enjoying this," I said between clenched teeth.

"Back to work, Harry," Barty called, still grinning like loon. So much for decorum.

"Why do I need to learn this nearly three years early?"

Barty sobered. "Because you're a walking target. Just think, after you master apparition, you get to learn how to make a portkey."

Joy. "I'd rather walk."

"Not always an option. Try again," Barty called.

I closed my eyes and centered myself. Honestly, I enjoyed my lessons. I liked having Barty's undivided attention. I didn't even mind sharing him with Moody. Other than being Dumbledore's man, he seemed like a decent sort, but I'd only known him for a few days. He spent most of his time either sleeping or reading in the conservatory. He played chess with Barty every night and attended Thomas's mandatory, family-style evening meals with a forced smile. Thomas tolerated him. Barty enjoyed spending time with him, but sometimes I caught Barty glaring at him when he thought no one was looking. After the Sirius debacle, Barty told me you can't choose your godparents. They're as good as family, and part of you will always love them no matter what they do. Seeing how he interacted with Moody, I wondered what Moody did.

"Stop daydreaming and focus!"

Rolling my eyes, I imagined reaching out and grabbing the hoop with invisible hands, turned on my heel, and apparated for the first time. I missed the hoop by several feet, but I still moved. Grinning, I looked to Barty.

He smiled back. "Better. Rest for a few minutes and then try again. Don't get too tired though."

"I'm fine."

"The healer said—"

"—I know what Alex said. I heard him the first dozen times." It wasn't my fault I stood up to quickly yesterday afternoon and ended up passed out on the floor. No one warned me that might happen after they swapped me to oral potions. I woke up with Alex and Thomas hovering over me. Alex reiterated my restrictions and explained that practicing new magics was perfectly safe as long as I didn't panic and rested frequently. Even though Barty insisted on treating me like one, I wasn't an invalid.

"Then I shouldn't need to remind you." Barty clapped me on the shoulder and ruffled my hair. "You two keep an eye on each other. I'll be back in a minute," he said and went inside before either of us could protest.

Moody pointed to the chair Barty had vacated. "Sit. I want a word with you."

Feeling uneasy, I perched on the edge of the chair and concentrated on my breathing, willing my heart rate to return to normal. The sooner it slowed the sooner I could return to my practice and escape what I feared would be an uncomfortable interrogation.

"Still sore about the trial?"

Of course he would open with that. "It's not fair."

"If you're going to complain, be more specific."

"I want to be there. I want to see them convict him. I don't care if he gets off later. I just…"

He sighed. "Son, I've attended many high profile trials over the years. Testified at a good many of them. The ministry is a madhouse on a good day, worse during a high profile trial. You would be hounded by reporters, fans, and Dumbledore supporter's alike. Riddle's good with a wand. I'll grant him that, but even if he and Dumbledore were working together they couldn't keep you safe in that environment. Add in your health issues, and attending is asking for either a month in St. Mungo's or to be kidnapped and then spend two months in St. Mungo's. This isn't a game, son. I'm no fan of Riddle's, but for once I completely agree with him."

"I understand, but I still—"

"—want to see Albus lynched. Join the club." He tilted his head, an odd sight without his magical eye whirling around. "I didn't know about Albus's methods," he said, "but in hindsight, I'm not surprised."

"What?"

"Don't mistake me, son. I did nothing to you and you let Barty keep me imprisoned in my own trunk and then didn't stop him when he handed me over to his master."

"You're exactly right. You did nothing, just like everyone else."

"Let me finish," he barked. "My father, grandfather, great-grandfather, ten generations of aurors. We were the king's men. My father and elder brothers died fighting Grindelwald. In my youth, I somehow translated swearing an oath to enforce the law and be impartial as vowing to hunt down dark wizards. Joining Albus's group was a natural extension of my self-appointed mission.

"It took over fifty years for me to realize they didn't fight Grindelwald because he was a dark wizard. They were defending England. My father would've arrested everyone. Order and Death Eater alike. I put my personal vendetta over my oaths and for that I apologize."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. I wriggled my toes inside my shoes, trying to suppress the urge to fidget. What was taking Barty so long?

"I knew Riddle was Voldemort and your mother was related to him."

I jumped. "What?"

"Albus told me in confidence a few months before you were born. He swore your parents didn't know, but I wonder sometimes. Voldemort was a known parselmouth and spoke with a British accent. It's not a great leap that he and your mother might've been related."

"You knew she was a parselmouth."

"Suspected, but never proved until I heard you speaking to your little friend last night." He paused and sipped a glass of water Nat set out for him earlier. Leaning his head back, he closed his remaining eye. The eye patch he wore in place of his magical eye and the silver leg Thomas conjured for him last night with the warning it would kill him if he tried to run were the only visible reminders he wasn't a free man. Otherwise, he was simply a dying man, gaunt and nearly magic-less, who was enjoying a pleasant summer afternoon in the garden. "History is written by the victors. Trite, but true. Go to Flourish and Blotts and pick up any book about the last war and you'll read all about how the tide turned after the giants retreated and Crouch authorized the aurors to use the unforgivables. That's a lie. We were losing. Neither Albus nor the ministry could replace the people they lost. Our forces grew younger and less experienced with every month that passed. Then Albus brought us news of a prophecy. We should have asked every question you asked Albus when he revealed it to you plus a dozen more you didn't know to ask. We didn't because we needed the hope so badly. Just knowing it existed…you can't imagine that feeling. It's funny. We never even knew what the thing said, but we needed something to believe in so we believed. Then we woke up one morning and Voldemort was dead, just as we believed would happen. We were all so relieved, so busy celebrating that we were still alive, that no one investigated your parents' deaths. We took everything that happened that night on faith. Now, I have far more questions than answers."

A chilly wind blew over us. I rubbed my arms through the light jumper Lolly insisted I wear outside. "What questions?"

"Questions I don't have the time left to answer. I have no right to ask anything of you, but I want you to do a few things for me."

"What sort of things?" I asked cautiously.

"Just ask more questions, reexamine the facts. Maybe you'll discover new evidence, but the crime scenes are all so contaminated I doubt any exists."

"Scenes?"

"There was something rotten towards the end. Yes, I know Pettigrew was a spy. Riddle took great pleasure in informing me that Dumbledore imprisoned Black for crimes he didn't commit." He stared at his folded hands for a moment before shaking his head. "Look, kid. Unless Pettigrew somehow copied himself and went home in every Order members' pocket, there's no way he did everything we attributed to a spy in our ranks. It's just not possible. Unless," he said, turning to face me, "there was a another problem. Something bigger that Pettigrew might have exploited without realizing it."

Interested in spite of myself, I leaned forward. "Like what?"

"When Albus discovered the fidelius charm in a library book at Hogwarts, we thought it was sent by Merlin himself. It's a complicated spell. You need an intimate understanding of wards to even attempt it. Albus and I tested it on smaller items before trying it on his brother's house in Hogsmeade. It worked better than expected. He passed out instructions to the Order members he thought could handle it and offered to cast it himself for everyone else. At various points more than half the Order lived under the fidelius. When they died were they still living under the fidelius? Did they die outside their homes or within the area allegedly protected by the fidelius? Who were the secret keepers? Who cast the spell? Do we have any evidence other than the word of the caster and secret keeper these homes were ever protected? For example, did a neighbor suddenly forget the home existed? There are ways to verify these things, son. It may take you fifty years. You may not find anything, but you may also discover something we missed. Whatever the case, you owe it to yourself to find out what steps your parents took to keep you alive and evaluate those steps with an objective eye. I've only known you for a few days, son. Even I can tell, you need this. So many people have let you down. I can't say doing this will help. It may even make matters worse. Still, I think you should research the matter for yourself. Find out exactly what measures your parents took to keep you safe. Even if they were wrong, I think you'll be better for knowing they tried."

As I pondered his request, a kestrel dove into the tall grass where the lawn met the marshland Thomas had mostly let revert to its natural state.

"It's nice out here. Peaceful," Moody muttered. "When I die, I want to be cremated. My ashes are to be charmed with an anti-summoning spell, then strapped to an owl and scattered over the Orkney Islands. There better not be enough left for someone to parade me around as their pet inferius. My eye and leg are to be completely destroyed. No fancy funerals or page long obituaries. I've already written my goodbyes. They're sitting unsealed in my nightstand drawer. Riddle promised he'd send them within a week of my death. Please remind him when he forgets. I cannot stop you from holding a wake, but I don't want a bunch of people sitting around bawling over me. Got it?"

Mutely, I nodded.

"Amelia Bones, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora Tonks are to each be allowed to choose one memento. In addition, you will find a set of orange and purple pinstriped robes," he shuddered, "shoved in the back of my guest bedroom closet. Please send them to Albus. Everything else goes to you."

"Why me?" I might understand if I was actually his apprentice, but I wasn't.

"I spent three days digging through all the memories Riddle gave me. Yours, Barty's, and his own. Verifying them was a bitch, watching them worse. Albus has always seen the world differently from everyone else. I like to think he sees the possibilities, not the reality. I used to admire that about him. Then I discovered that in his pursuit of an ideal world he allowed a child to grow up in a bloody boot cupboard and later perpetrated one of the gravest offenses known to our society on that same boy—the son of his own supporters no less! I do not trust a vision that relies on those means. If I had a few more years left, I'd take you and run. But if wishes were hippogriffs, hags would fly. The only thing I have time to do is what I should've done twenty years ago. Help my godson. Unfortunately, most of my assets are in the wizarding world. Seeing as my godson is also an escaped convict, I can't leave Barty anything unless I want to subject him to a manhunt. This time last year, I would've done it without a second thought, but things change. Since I can't leave everything to Barty, I'm leaving it to you with these verbal instructions. Riddle lent me his solicitor last week so my will is mostly taken care off. However, what I really want can't be written down. So I'm making Amelia my executor and you my unofficial executor. I don't know you, but I know my godson thinks of you as family. Between you and Riddle, I'd rather trust you. After you receive my estate, close out my Gringotts account and convert it into muggle pounds. My house is to be demagicked and sold to muggles. I will not have some well-meaning nincompoop turn my home into a bloody shrine. The contents are to be shrunk, packed, and given to Barty along with the proceeds from the sale of the house and my Gringotts account. He can either deposit the funds into a muggle bank, stuff it under his mattress, or burn it. Personally, I'd like him to move to The Netherlands and apply for political asylum, but that's his decision." Rolling his good eye, he waved his hand at the window. "Now go tell Barty to get his ass out here and finish teaching you how to apparate. Maybe I'll get lucky next time and you'll land in the lake."

Two days later, Alastor Moody fell asleep in front of the downstairs fire while playing chess with his godson. He took his last breath ten minutes later. Thomas conjured a sheet over the body and waited until Barty raided the small liquor cabinet in his study and locked himself in his room. After casting a few additional wards and a spell Thomas said countered homenum revelio on Barty's door, Thomas told me to sit down on the stairs while he floo-called Amelia Bones. Even with his study door open, I only overheard snippets. They were both cordial. I gathered the news, while unwelcome, wasn't unexpected. Thomas called me into his study a few minutes later.

Avoiding looking at the the body, I skirted the living area. Part of me felt incredibly guilty that my inaction shortened his life. Another, more pragmatic side, repeated Moody's own words back to me. This was his choice. He wanted to spend his last days in comfort, not with a wand strapped to his hand. He got his wish. When I entered the study, Thomas was hunched over his desk with a blood quill in his hand. He scrawled something on a piece of parchment, cast a silent spell on a salt shaker Lolly handed him. Two minutes after Lolly popped out, Amelia Bones and a tall black man I vaguely recognized from my hospital stay appeared in our entrance hall.

Madame Bones's face softened when she saw the body. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "No fuss, eh Alastor?" she whispered. Her hand reached for the sheet then dropped to her side. "Thomas, I hate to impose but if I take him back to the ministry they'll…"

"Who else do you need?"

"A healer to conduct a final exam and Nymphadora Tonks. Harry and Shacklebolt are already here."

"The same Tonks who gave Dumbledore Harry's schedule?"

"Unfortunately. As a condition of her continued employment, she has sworn an unbreakable vow she will never again report anything related to Harry or his family to Albus Dumbledore."

"If she's willing to swear a blood oath that she will not attempt to harm Harry or remove him from my care, she may attend. Will Alex suffice?"

"Yes."

"Lolly, tell Alex we need him." Thomas's voice was quiet as if he too was respecting the dead. "Nat, prepare a pyre in the garden." Both house elves bowed their heads and popped out without a word. "Harry, go upstairs and change into your school robes."

"Why?"

"Because attending a funeral in your pajamas is disrespectful."

An hour later, I found myself outside dressed in the nicest school robes I owned. Moody's body rested on a small pyre in the back garden within view of Barty's bedroom windows. Not that I expected him to watch. Someone had swapped out Moody's leg and laid his fake eye beside his body. Even in death, it still spun in its socket. Tonks, who portkeyed to the garden, was just a shadowy figure standing between the other two aurors. She sniffled every few minutes, but was otherwise silent.

Thomas grabbed my sleeve. "This is our simplest funeral rite. When you cast, you're supposed to use a happy memory of the deceased. Shacklebolt casts first. Then Amelia. Tonks. You. Me. Afterward, Shacklebolt and Amelia will light the pyre."

Shacklebolt approached the body and raised his wand. "Expecto patronum." A lynx exploded from his wand, circled the pyre before approaching Moody and touching his forehead with his nose. The lynx returned to his caster, standing beside him as a silent sentinel.

Soon a wildcat and a stoat joined the lynx. Then it was my turn. Channeling a memory of Barty didn't feel appropriate, but I didn't know Moody long. Then I recalled the poker game he conned me into last night and the aces he hid up his sleeve. I raised my wand and Prongs joined the throng.

I think everyone expected a snake when Thomas raised his wand. Instead, a massive gray wolf padded out of Thomas's wand. He stalked towards the pyre, stared at the body, before silently returning to Thomas's side. He nudged Thomas's hand then settled back on his haunches.

Then they lit the pyre.

---

Ever since he allowed three aurors onto his property, Thomas had been dangerously twitchy. He reset the wards after they left, checked every surface they'd had access to, including the ceiling, and burned the grass outside in case one of them had, by some miracle, attached a locating spell to a blade of grass. Highly improbable. At least, Nat knew how to regrow the lawn quickly. Lolly swore Thomas only allowed them on the property because people would ask too many questions if Moody's last apprentice didn't attend his funeral, and Thomas didn't want me near Dumbledore.

When Dumbledore's trial began on Thursday, Barty, who Thomas said wouldn't have attended the ceremony even if he wasn't an Azkaban escapee, still wasn't completely sober. Thomas didn't trust anyone else to stay with me. Even with the house elves, I wasn't allowed to stay by myself. Thus, Thomas stayed home. A few of his people still attended. Lucius Malfoy even spoke for all my magical relatives, including Thomas. A far cry from the trial I'd spent the past six months envisioning.

By the time, I watched the pensieve memories. The Wizengamot had already convened an emergency session and overturned the conviction just as Thomas predicted.

I don't remember much after that. Lots of yelling. I might have exploded a few things. Then Nat spelled a calming draught into my system and knocked me out.

---

* Prior to Constitutional Reform Act 2005, the House of Lords did function as both a judicial and legislative body. The Lord Chancellor served as president of the Supreme Court and was technically head of the judiciary. In recent times, they rarely exercised these powers and delegated most matters to the Vice Chancellor, a senior judge.

** Shockingly, this is true. In the UK, teachers, doctors, nurses, etc. are not required by law to report suspected child abuse. I did find guidance documents, which suggest they are encouraged, but the same government site with the guidance documentation specifically stated they are not required by law to report it.

*** The Bombing of Dresden is one of the most intriguing post war debates. Some argue it was a military target and the bombing was completely justified. On the other extreme, you have people who argue it was a war crime and every position in between.

Chapter Text

Drumming my fingers on the table, I studied the two runic arrays I'd carefully copied onto a three foot square sheet of parchment. I waved my wand over the parchment and muttered a spell to check my rune work, which Thomas showed me after I singed my eyebrows experimenting with the scribe spells in Study Methods and Charms. A quick charm fixed my eyebrows, but not my pride. I followed the instructions to the letter, or so I thought. The next day, Barty picked apart the Elder Futhark runes I'd copied incorrectly. Turns out, stroke order is more important with Elder Futhark runes than parsel runes. Since I was only passingly familiar with Elder Futhark, I just traced them. Bad idea.

At least no one saw the explosion, just the end result. A small consolation.

Afterward Barty tweaked my tutorials, which all resumed the week after Moody's death except dueling, and added the necessary information. When I argued against learning a second runic language before I completely mastered my first, he shrugged and asked if I wanted to learn how to use the scribe spells in Study Methods and Charms or if I'd rather spend the next ten years translating everything into a different language and redoing all the arithmetic equations. Before I agreed, I asked Thomas if he knew of an already finished parsel version or maybe pre-written arrays or stickers. He laughed and informed me that seeing as he invented the Elder Futhark version and found it perfectly suitable for his use, he saw no reason to translate it into another language. If I wanted to help my friend with her research, that was my business. Copying the information was my problem, not his. If I didn't want to spend the next six months copying data tables by hand, I should find Barty and ask him to teach me the basics of casting runic spells in Elder Futhark.

Through patient observation, I'd already discovered Barty's 'don't memorize spells; understand them' mantra came from Thomas. In Hogwarts classes, I could get away with just memorizing the wand movement and incantation. As long as it sort of worked, I passed. Even Barty sometimes taught the spell first just to keep me interested. At least, he did before Thomas intervened. Now, if I didn't understand it, I wasn't allowed to try it. Period.

While I despised that rule, I also understood his reasoning. Thomas's private library included over 80,000 books and scrolls. Many were primary sources and quite rare. Some of the rarest he claimed he'd purchased at muggle estate sales of all places. The magical side of the family must've died out and left everything to a squib. He didn't believe in ropes and caterwauling charms. He also removed all curses before placing anything in his library. He wasn't interested in being cursed by his own possessions. Not that I blamed him. The problem lay in the difference between an academic library and Hogwarts. Hogwarts was first and foremost a school. The texts selected for our library typically did not exceed NEWT-level. There were a few higher level texts in the restricted section, including Moste Potente Potions, but they were the exceptions, not the rule. Outside a few shelves of books he bought for Barty when he was my age, most of the books were beyond my current understanding. Barty privately admitted roughly seventy percent of the collection was well beyond him as well. As the obscuration ward story illustrated, even the nicer magics could be deadly in the wrong hands.

After a week and a half of practicing the runes and spells every day under Barty's watchful gaze, I was finally allowed to use them without supervision. Provided, I didn't repeat my mistake. The runic and arithmancy portions were simple beginner material. Combining them with spell casting added several magnitudes of difficulty. No one would tell me what year-level that particular skill was. However, Hermione said they hadn't covered it in her class yet. Still between the parsel runic wards I learned from Leeds and Barty's lessons, I managed.

I laid an inkwell in the upper right hand corner of the right most array, placed a plain sheet of paper I'd found in the library supply closet below the inkwell. An old quill that wouldn't be a big loss if it caught on fire was set beside the paper. Then I opened Lockhart's Year with the Yeti, an excellent fire starter, to the first available page and placed it in the center of the larger left array. I took a deep breath and picked up my wand.

"Concentrate," I whispered to myself as I drew a glowing rectangle around the first paragraph with my wand. The box sank into the page. The selected text turned orange. I sighed with relief. Since the first step didn't use an incantation, it was a bit tricky.

Then I tapped the quill with my wand. "Copy." No fancy Latin or even old German incantation necessary because modern English evolved from Old English, which used an extended version of Elder Futhrack. The quill leaped to life, dipped itself in ink, and began writing. Thirty seconds later, the quill set itself down and the orange text returned to its original color.

I snatched the paper up and skimmed it. Word for word Lockhart. Perfect. I picked up a self-updating copy of The Magical World Data Book, a compendium of social statistics from around the world that I borrowed from the library, and began copying all the data Hermione had asked me to look up for her.

Several hours later, I took the large stack of population statistics and began casting data sorting spells on it. In my defense, Hermione wouldn't tell me why she needed information from Canada, the US, Brazil, Mexico, Australia, Japan, and France, but not Britain. I was bored and a bit curious. When nothing jumped out at me, I set my wand aside, leaned back in my chair, and stretched just as someone knocked on my door.

"Come in," I called, thinking it was Thomas or one of the house elves. After canceling my regular tutorials that morning, Barty had disappeared to only Cassandra knew where. Considering I caught him practicing Thomas's bastardized animagus transformation in front of a mirror last week and also saw him leave one night, while Thomas was meeting with Norton and Mr. Matson in his study, wearing similar robes to the ones Thomas wore after his ritual, I didn't want to know.

A stranger entered the room. I narrowed my eyes at him and expanded my senses towards him. Technically, I wasn't supposed to use passive legilimency at all until I learned how to control it, but given the circumstances I made an exception. Sour lemon curd. I tilted my head. "Polyjuice?" I asked Barty.

He entered the room and shut the door behind him. "Something far more permanent," he answered, seating himself in the armchair beside my bed.

I turned and studied him, pondering the changes while he picked up the stack of copied papers and leafed through them. His pale blue eyes had darkened to a crayon blue, his hair a dark auburn. His chin squarer, lips fuller. I could still see traces of Barty Crouch in his haunted eyes and high cheekbones, but he looked like a stranger. Like he was no longer Bartemius Crouch, Jr. My eyes widened.

"Novam vitum?" I asked, naming a ritual we'd studied the previous week. As Thomas explained over cards one evening, if you could magically transfer traits like parseltongue, as Dumbledore once claimed, the Gaunts would've intermarried with all their cousins, not just the ones who spoke parseltongue. Ritual magic could not alter magical traits. However, it could permanently change your appearance and provide false paternity/maternity results.

Provided, you were willing to sacrifice everything attached to your old identity, including your birth family and any inheritance.

He smirked. "Knew you'd catch on."

"Well, you did tell me the answer last week."

"True."

"Who are you?"

A brilliant grin spread across his face. "Bartholomew Alexander Crawford-Hall. My friends call me Barty. Most people don't know the Hall part, so keep it quiet."

"Whatever happened to Bartemius Crouch, Junior?" I asked, playing along.

"Born on 4 September 1963, died on 2 February 1983. I think. Not quite sure really. Never met the bloke."

"And you?"

"Born 10 October 1956, nearly seven years before Crouch." Barty dragged his left arm across the table, pushing his shirt sleeve up. My eyes widened. No dark mark.

"How?"

"Not how, why."

"Then why?"

"Should anyone learn that I am both your guardian's adopted son and your tutor, I will be subject to much higher scrutiny." He pointed to a tiny freckle half-way up his forearm. "We altered it. Not quite the political statement I want to make, but times change."

"Adopted?"

"My eighteenth birthday present."

"What about detection spells?"

"It reads as an archaic tracking spell parents used on their children during the witch hunts."

I honed in on his new birth date. At nearly thirty one, Barty looked a little older. Given how we age, he should look younger. Unless… "Is seven years the usual cost of a year in Azkaban?" I asked, thinking of Sirius.

"Forty. The combined price of a year in Azkaban plus spending more than a decade under the imperius curse," he replied. "Don't think too much about it. My ELS is still around one hundred fifty. I'll live a long life. Not as long as I originally thought, but long enough."

"ELS?"

"Estimated life span. You have to ask for it nowadays, but it's still a good thing to know." He set the copies aside and leveled his gaze on me. "An ELS is extremely personal information. Asking someone for theirs isn't just the height of bad manners. It is grounds for a duel to the death, especially if you weasel it out of someone else or share another person's ELS without their permission."

"I understand."

"Good. Care to tell me what you're working on?" His mouth twisted into a sneer as he tapped the copies with his index finger.

"Hermione asked me to look up a few things for her."

"You seem to misunderstand. Let me rephrase. Why are you looking this up for her? Last I checked, all Granger needs to do is write the relevant embassies. They'll send her the same information for free without you lifting a finger."

"I know."

"That's my point, Harry. Why are you wasting your time?"

"Maybe I'm curious."

"About muggleborn immigration statistics? Harry, I know you. You're a self-interested little shit. You'd never look up something you didn't think you could use. I have a hard time imagining you looking up seemingly random population statistics for the fun of it. Is there more to this?"

"For the last time, Hermione asked me to look up some things for her. If I knew what's she looking for, I wouldn't have bothered copying the data for her."

"Are you bored?"

"What?"

Leaning back in the chair, he regarded me thoughtfully. "Last year, Granger tried to rope you into four separate research projects that I know of. Considering her personality, I'm certain there were more. You refused her each time. I personally heard you tell her once that you didn't mind studying with her, but you had separate research interests and believed you should both conduct your own research independently. You can see why I'm a bit flummoxed by your recent change of heart. What's changed? If you're bored, we can alter your schedule. Maybe give you a little less free time."

"I'm not bored," I said quickly.

"Are you certain? I personally enjoy having the afternoon off, but if you don't…"

"It's not that."

"Then what is it because this," he waved the sheaf of papers in front of my face, "is not my student. My student would never lay back and let someone else make all the decisions for him. My student would never accept a single healer's word without doing his own research and asking for a second opinion. My student would never let his guardian meet with his personal barrister without being present. My student played word games with Albus Dumbledore at the age of fourteen and won. My student would never be this passive, this accepting!"

His words cut through me like a knife. "I'm sorry."

Barty deflated. "This is exactly what I'm talking about, Harry. I don't want an apology. I want you to be you. Stop acting."

"But…"

"So you admit it."

I hung my head and hunched in on myself. "You don't understand."

He laid his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "I've seen inside your head too many times to not understand, Harry. You were trained from a young age to be passive and accepting. To not care. I get that, but over the last six months I've watched you cast off that mask and grow into yourself. Now, you're backsliding." Sighing, he stood. "My first month here, I tiptoed around like you're doing now. I followed every rule, spoke only when spoken to. I spent my first month terrified I'd screw up and he'd send me back to my father's house. Then I had Longbottom in Potion's sized screw up."

"What did you do?"

"You know the potions lab on the second floor of the carriage house?"

I nodded. The classroom Barty only used when it rained was on the first floor. We'd also had a few potions classes in the small, but well-equipped potions lab.

"My lord didn't set up the house with children in mind. Originally, this floor was the master suite and three guest suites, which my lord kept for his overseas colleagues. At one point, he actually wanted to host mini-conferences and such. His plans changed when he took me in. Anyhow, the potions lab used to be in the attic. Until I knocked a vial of erumpet exploding fluid into a half finished cauldron of antidote for uncommon poisons. The explosion took out half the roof."

"How are you still alive?"

"Accidental magic. I slept for a week. If he didn't get rid of me after I destroyed the roof, exposing his precious library to elements, he won't get rid of you either. Just please stop acting how you think adults want you to act and be yourself."

After Barty left, I turned my desk chair around and stared into the flames. It was warmer than usual outside so the magical fire didn't produce much heat. Maybe he had a point, I decided. Over the last week, I'd nearly bitten a hole in my tongue. I wanted to be more involved in the decisions Thomas was currently making for me. I wanted…I wasn't sure. For so long, I structured my life around escaping the Dursleys and later Dumbledore. The last time I considered exactly what I wanted to do with a Dursley-free existence I was ten and magic didn't exist. But now…

On impulse, I picked up the stack of papers I'd copied for Hermione and sorted them by country. Then I selected the US and Japan, the first two in my stack, folded them up, and stuffed them in an envelope. After writing her a quick note, I called for Nat and asked him to place the letter in the outgoing post.

---

Two days later, Lolly handed me a letter from Neville during breakfast. Knowing it contained Hermione's response to my last letter, I slit the envelope open with my wand and held it at arms length. When it didn't explode, I turned it upside down and dumped the contents on the table, earning a raised eyebrow from Thomas and an amused look from Barty. I shrugged.

"You never know with Hermione," I said, lifting the flap of a letter that was folded around an envelope with my wand and casting a detection spell on the envelope. Nothing. So far, so good.

"Dare I ask what you did to her?" Thomas asked and sipped his tea.

"Why are you assuming I did something?"

He shrugged. "With women it's always your fault even when you're innocent. Judging by your behavior, you're not."

I speared a forkful of eggs and chewed while I mulled over my response. "You're a researcher, Thomas. How would you react if you asked your best friend for information and they only sent you half of it?"

"Depends. Did the friend have access to everything I asked for or just a piece of it?"

"Everything. I even told her I had it."

"You deserve whatever she comes up with," he said, sending his letters and papers to his study with a flick of his wand. He levitated his dishes to the sink, stood, and brushed off his slacks. "I have a meeting this morning with my publisher. Send Lolly if you need me," he said and disappeared into his study.

With trepidation, I opened the first letter.

Dear Harry,

I think I've talked Hermione out of hunting you down. Maybe. For future reference, holding her precious data hostage is not advisable if one wishes to remain in good health. I honestly didn't think she knew some of those curses. Hopefully, she only knows them in a theoretical sense. If not, I pity Ronald and his brothers, who I understand are currently stuck in the same house as her. Fortunately, that situation should be remedied shortly.

Warn a bloke next time you pull a crazy stunt like this. Sneaking out of my gran's house and taking the Knight Bus to muggle London is not my idea of fun.

As I'm not certain what the current policy is for packages, I will be sending your birthday presence with my house elf Anise, who will be instructed to give it to your house elf. Please tell your guardian to be expecting her the afternoon of the 30th.

Neville

Thank Circe for Neville. Maybe Hermione's revenge wouldn't be as horrible as I feared. Then again, Neville came up with some truly awful ideas such as coating a potions vial in bubo tuber puss and then handing it in or conning Malfoy into stealing it off Snape's desk. Neville would never do it, but he had a truly frightening imagination sometimes.

I took a deep breath and slit the second envelope with my wand. Then I levitated the letter out and unfolded it, using my wand and a fork instead of my fingers. I closed my eyes and steeled myself. Maybe she'd understand or at least not be quite as furious as she was when she spoke with Neville. I opened my eyes and began to read.

Dear Harry,

I suppose I should say thank you for the data. I also suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you're holding the rest of it hostage. That is so you! You know I don't like sharing my conclusions until I've examined all the data. Since you insist, I'll tell you, but don't blame me if my current conclusions are incorrect because someone decided he wanted immediate answers. Be advised that since I am sharing, I expect a large package of information in return.

I can't recall if I mentioned this in my previous letters, so please bear with me if I'm repeating myself. Last week, I finally pried some numbers out of Mr. Weasley. Honestly, I think he told me just to shut me up. It didn't work. Anyhow, he told me 7,017 witches and wizards perished during the war, including 2,301 muggleborns, which means 10.5 percent of the population supposedly died.

I say supposedly because your skepticism is contagious. Last year, there were 257 students living in Gryffindor tower. Forgive me for being blunt, but if 10.5 percent of the population died there would be more war orphans in Gryffindor. There should be more people who lost a parent, sibling, or grandparent to the war. Especially in our year. Instead, we have your parents, Ron's uncles, and Neville's parents (although I'm not sure they count because I read they are still living). Even if we include people like Dean who don't know the identity of one of their parents, there's still a huge discrepancy in the numbers especially if you consider the entire school.

Anyhow, I pestered Mr. Weasley for more data. Finally, he brought me a copy of the Ministry of Magic census data for the last century, which is where things get interesting. Muggleborns have always disappeared from the ministry census. Apparently, no one noticed until 1980, when some idiot checked their census data expecting to find 2,713 muggleborns and only found 209. I say idiot because instead of checking the previous censuses to see if they even had a record of the missing muggleborns, which they don't, they marked everyone who didn't respond to the 1980 ministry census as missing/presumed dead. Incidentally, this is their standing policy for the last century, which means all that ministry data I spent weeks digging through is absolutely USELESS!

As for the death toll during the last war… If you take our 'death toll' and match it up with the immigration statistics you sent me, you'll see exactly what happened to our missing witches and wizards. They didn't die. They left! They just didn't bother informing the British Ministry of Magic. (At least, I assume they all left, but can't conclusively prove it because a certain someone is holding the information I need hostage.)

Naturally, this lead me to question why all these people left. I mean I understand leaving during the first war what with the Death Eaters and all. (About that, ignorance is not bliss, Harry. I really wish you'd stop sticking your head in the sand. At a minimum, you should read The Daily Prophet so you know what people are saying about you.) But what about the the 20s, 30s, 50s, 60s. We weren't at war then, so why did they leave? There wasn't even a blip during the last war. As far as I can tell, Britain has always hemorrhaged half blood and muggleborn witches and wizards. If these people had stayed, our population would be more than twice it's current size. Instead, we're experiencing negative population growth when the birth rate indicates positive population growth. Magical Britain is dying and the idiots at the ministry aren't even investigating the problem!

You know me. I just can't leave well enough alone. Plus, I'm stuck in the same house as Ronald and the twins. (Thanks for the information on the trace, by the way. I had to work around Mrs. Weasley, but the twins now understand that testing experimental joke products on me has consequences.) Such a fun summer. Not! Anyhow, since I have access to all these supposedly knowledgeable Order members, including several ministry employees, I decided to ask a few more nosy questions. They all spouted the same propaganda until I asked Snuffles about career opportunities. He practically fled the room.

Then Mrs. Weasley patted my hand and told me that one day I'll marry a nice man, like one of her boys, have children, and experience a fulfilling life with my family. She wasn't quite that condescending, and I'm certain she believed every word she said. But my parents did not raise me to be a housewife!

I'm sorry. I know I'm ranting. I really wish I could talk to you about all this. Everything that I've discovered…it's just awful. Letter's are nice, but they take so long to get here. I'm rambling again.

Enough of my troubles. Last week, you mentioned you were waiting for your healer's final report before making any decisions about Hogwarts. Before you decide anything, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to ask yourself if Hogwarts is really the best choice for you. Sit down and make one of those crazy lists you love so much. Please use your head, not your heart. Neville and I will still be your friends regardless.

Happy birthday and send me more data!

Hermione

I breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't planning on killing me. Yet. I glanced back at the second to last paragraph. Talk to each other. Maybe…"Barty, is there a way to send letters instantly? Like apparition, but on a smaller scale."

He blinked. "Just the text or the original letter?"

"Ideally, the original letter," I replied, thinking about the packet of data I needed to send.

"For the text, the protean charm might work. I'm not sure if you can cast it on an entire notebook or just a sheet of parchment. It's also only one way, so you'll need at least two notebooks per person and some way to protect the information."

"Like the blood-based protection spell Leeds showed me? But that only protected a single sheet. Remember, that's why I had to copy everything onto a single scroll of parchment?"

"True. I'm afraid I won't be much help on this one. Protecting a residence isn't the same as protecting information. Vanishing cabinets were popular during the war. Dreadfully finicky, but better than nothing if you were out of practice apparating. If a cabinet can send a person from one location to another instantaneously, you should be able to send a letter instantaneously. No idea how the damn things worked though. Sorry," he said before I could ask for more information.

I slumped down in my chair. "So much for that idea. Maybe I should stick with owls."

"Back up, Harry. I didn't say don't look for the answer. I said I don't know the answer. That doesn't mean there isn't one." He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, I know it may seem like I always have the answers, but I only have one year of magical education after Hogwarts. I did have summer tutoring, so I come off as knowing more than the average Hogwarts graduate. The truth is in a few years you'll know as much about magic as I do."

"But what about the muggle stuff?"

"I spent over a decade living under the imperious curse. I wasn't allowed to touch anything magical or that might have magical applications. I studied philosophy, law, and history. Subjects my father deemed safe. I wasn't even allowed to read the books in their original Latin or Greek. I plan to re-enroll in the Salem Institute of Magic's distance learning courses next session, but even with that you'll still catch up sooner than you think."

"Oh."

"You do realize there are three people living in this house. I'm not the only person you can ask for help."

"But…"

"He'll help if you ask."

---

My birthday was a day of firsts. It marked the first time I slept until noon outside the hospital, the first time I received new clothing that fit with the tags still attached as a gift. Thomas claimed they were a necessity, not a gift. Apparently, Lolly bought them after she realized I was wearing the same two track suits everyday. Since they were in a box and I received them on my birthday, I called the two pairs of jeans and four t-shirts a nice gift. Thomas called them decent clothing suitable for the occasional trip into the muggle world and roaming around the marshes. The single set of robes were for our upcoming trip to Diagon Alley where he expected me to choose my own clothes. It was also the first time I remembered celebrating my birthday with other people and my first non-St. Mungo's trip outside the wards.

"Your birthday present's in Cambridge," Thomas said and sent me upstairs to change with explicit instructions to wear my new muggle clothing.

An hour later, I found myself standing outside a muggle bookstore with Barty while we waited for Thomas, who apparated somewhere shortly after we parked in a city parking deck. Barty and I took the city bus to Heffers Booksellers on Trinity Street where Thomas was supposed to meet us. I fingered the snake amulet hidden under my t-shirt, which Thomas insisted I wear and then insured no one could remove without his consent. If anyone asked, the snake represented Dyfi. The amulet prevented scrying and tracking spells, temporarily disabled my trace by making the spell loop back in on itself, disabled all portkeys except Thomas's, and restricted the people who could apparate with me to Thomas and Barty. It also contained a blood-based tracking charm for good measure. Thomas made it for me before my last St. Mungo's trip. Wearing it when outside the wards was non-negotiable.

Barty tapped me on the shoulder. "Here," he said gruffly, sounding more like his Moody impersonation than himself. I accepted the envelope and started to tuck it inside my pocket.

"Open it."

I tore the envelope open and discovered a simple happy birthday note wrapped around a thirty pound gift card. "Thank you," I said.

"Figured you might enjoy picking out your own reading material for a change," he said. "Come on. My…" He checked himself. "Thomas should be back shortly. That card is so you can buy whatever strikes your fancy. Not schoolbooks. If you find anything you want Incorporated in your studies, let me know. If we don't already have something similar in the library, I'll make arrangements for it. All right?"

I nodded and followed him inside with the gift card still clutched in my hand. A gust of cool air greeted us. I savored the feeling. When Barty started to cast cooling charms on my clothes, Thomas overruled him. Unless I began having problems with the heat, I had to suffer through it just like everyone else. Thomas swore the muggles would notice if I wasn't sweating when the heat-index was over ninety degrees Fahrenheit.

Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting cross legged on the floor in the science fiction section. Out of all the novels Barty assigned, I enjoyed Fahrenheit 451 the most, so I figured science fiction was a good starting point. I was leafing through a copy of Dune, which seemed interesting if a little far-fetched, when I thought I heard someone mention my name. I turned my head and spotted Thomas standing at the end of the aisle beside a strange girl. She seemed familiar, but I couldn't place her. Then she smiled.

My jaw dropped. "Hermione?" I whispered, looking between her and Thomas.

"I did say your birthday present was in Cambridge," Thomas said with a smile. "Come find me when you're ready to leave."

Grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, I drank in her appearance, cataloging all the minor changes. With her hair braided back and a little makeup, she looked older than her nearly sixteen years. Plus, I'd always seen her in wizard robes or jeans. Normally robes because Mrs. Weasley viewed most muggle girl's clothing as scandalous. While Hermione's white sundress was fairly modest by muggle standards, I knew Mrs. Weasley wouldn't let her wear it out in public because she made Hermione change out of a knee-length jean skirt when we left for Hogwarts last year because it was "indecent".

"How?" I asked. "I thought they had you locked up somewhere."

Her smile turned into a smirk that would send the Weasley twins running for cover. "I poured doxy venom in the bangers and mash and then walked right out the front door. I'm Order free for the rest of the summer."

I blinked. "Doxy venom?"

"It causes severe diarrhea, vomiting, and nausea. The twins knicked it and then tried to test their wretched products on everyone, including Crookshanks. I was simply putting their experiments to a more productive use."

No arguments here. If someone tested prank products on either Dyfi or Hedwig, I'd probably use them as my personal test dummy. "Where are you staying? Neville's?"

She shook her head and settled on the floor beside me, folding her legs neatly under her body and smoothing her skirt over her lap. "A short let studio flat in Fulham until term starts." She laid a finger over my lips. "It was either this or a youth hostel. I just couldn't stay in that house another minute." Curling the fingers on her left hand, she revealed a silver amethyst ring I'd never seen her wear before. Not that I normally what she wore unless it was a drastic departure from her school robes. "Sirius found this among his mother's things. It's supposed to prevent all scrying and tracking spells except blood-based ones. Your…Thomas checked it when he met me at the train station. Calling him by his first name feels so strange, but he insisted we address each other by first name while in public. He said it's good work, and I don't think he'd risk you so it should be okay."

"Hermione," I said still smiling, "if it passed Thomas's test, I'm sure it's more than adequate." A distant memory of my pre-Hogwarts Dursley escape plan intruded. I frowned. "I thought most places won't rent to anyone under eighteen without a cosigner."

"Aging potion, an editing spell, and a mild confundus pre-applied to my passport."

I raised an eyebrow, but held my tongue.

She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. "After the stunt you pulled, you have no room to talk."

"What stunt?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Cousin Thomas," she said dryly as she pulled a book off the shelf and read the back. "I'll be honest, Harry. I'm not exactly happy with you. I'm your best friend. Some things I need to hear from you in person, not The Daily Prophet. Although I do understand your decision. Had I been in your position, I wouldn't have told you either. How long have you known?"

"Since January."

She smiled tightly and passed me the book. "You might enjoy this one."

Realizing the subject was closed, I checked the title: Ender's Game. I'd passed it over during my initial sweep because the title didn't sound very interesting. After flipping it over and skimming the back, I changed my mind and opened it to the first page. Before I finished the first paragraph, I was hooked. I set it aside for later and selected another book off the shelf.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"So am I. When you wrote and asked me to send food, I should have shown my parents your letter instead of just sending food."

I swallowed hard. "I shouldn't say this. The aurors are still investigating the situation. But children's services didn't have a file on me; they had files," I said emphasizing the 's'. "Seems like every time they started an investigation they misplaced the file and forgot about me. Please don't feel guilty. Sending food helped me far more than child services starting yet another file."

"How are you feeling?" she asked a few minutes later.

"Pretty good most days. Alex says the heart potions are working. I'm still not sure about the bone vanishing thing, but I don't want to become a hunchback either." I shrugged.

"Enough gloomy talk." She leaped to her feet and extended her hand. I grabbed it and let her help me stand. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. My free hand darted out and latched onto a bookshelf as I bowed my head and took deep breaths. The dizzy spell passed. I gave her a wane smile. "All right?"

I nodded. "Don't worry. It happens all the time."

"If you're sure." She grabbed my hand in a firm gripped and tugged me towards a different section. "Aren't the buildings around here amazing? I've always wanted to visit Cambridge, but Mum and Dad prefer more exotic locales. Once, I talked them into taking me camping in the Forest of Dean. I loved it. Mum not so much. After one night in a tent, Mum booked a hotel and sent Dad to the nearest travel agency. We flew to France the next afternoon."

All told, we spent nearly two hours exploring the bookstore. Then we joined a bus tour of the city. Thomas cast a muffling charm and spent the entire tour discussing Cambridge's magical history, including the unusually high number of ghosts the ministry had removed over the years. The university once had a magical college. It was permanently shut down following the statute of secrecy, but the ministry didn't tear down the building. Instead, they cast a simple muggle-repealing charm and left it in the care of house elves. Although we could see the building, no one was allowed to enter for fear the muggles would notice. The building still possessed enough magic to sustain ghosts though. Unfortunately for the University of Cambridge.

I dozed off somewhere around the botanical gardens. I think. Not entirely sure. I remembered Barty pointing a flowering silver lime tree and engaging Hermione in a lively discussion of its magical properties and use in potions. Thomas added something about wands, but I don't recall what. I woke in my own bed, still dressed in my jeans, with Dyfi lounging on my stomach.

Disappointment lanced through me. Hermione. I slept through most of her visit. I wanted to talk to her, tell her about all the things I was learning, and get her opinion, but I missed my chance. I cursed under my breath.

Dyfi raised her head and scented the air. "Thomas said they're holding dinner for you."

Wonderful, I thought dryly. Instead of a short nap, I slept half the day again. Sighing, I rubbed my thumb over her head. "I'll go down in a minute. I can't believe I fell asleep!"

"But it's a hot summer day." Of course she missed the point. Sometimes I wondered if she was being deliberately obtuse or if she was just being a snake. Difficult to say. When I first met her, I'd say snake. However, the longer we spent together the more her mannerisms changed. Now she seemed almost human at times.

"I just wish I'd gotten to spend more time with Hermione. I barely got to see her and then…I hate this. Can't fly, run, or duel. I can't even stay awake long enough to spend time with my best friend."

Dyfi slithered up my chest and nudged my cheek with her nose. "Then why are you up here moaning instead of downstairs spending time with her."

"She's here? But after Moody, I thought Thomas would never—"

"—he promised your friends could visit. So far, he's kept his promises. What made you think he wouldn't keep this one?" I scooped her up and set her on the still warm pillow. Forcing myself to move slowly, I stood and combed my fingers through my hair. If Parvati was waiting downstairs, I'd shower and change into fresh clothing. Fortunately, I never felt the need to impress to Hermione.

"Take me with you," Dyfi demanded.

I extended my hand and let her coil around my wrist like an Egyptian bracelet. "Do not start another argument with Nagini."

"As long as she doesn't order you around, I won't."

I rolled my eyes, but privately conceded her point. Nagini had been with Thomas almost as long as Lolly. She regarded Dyfi and I as interlopers and wasn't shy about sharing her opinions. Thomas said it took her three years to warm up to Barty and nearly five to accept Nat.

I opened the door. Voices traveled up the stairs. I paused. Hermione and Thomas. I crept down the stairs. The voices grew louder. An argument maybe? No, neither sounded angry or exasperated. A friendly debate then.

"I agree the steps should be sequential, but I still think you need an overview. No matter how logical and self-explanatory your explanation is people will still need to reread some sections," Hermione said, "especially the section on connecting with your magic. You said yourself that's where most potential animagi fail. Plus, your publisher wants a revised edition. Personally, I'd appreciate more theory, but your selling point is making the transformation easier for the average witch or wizard. Most of whom will shut the book the second they see the word theory." She huffed as if mortally offended that most people didn't share her interests. "Also, you need more visualization exercises. Sirius has seven additional exercises penciled in the margins of his copy that he said were necessary."

"Maybe I should be working with Black instead of you," Thomas said in a teasing tone.

"Please, Sirius wouldn't give you the time of day. Although he might lend you his notes if you allow him to see Harry."

"That's Harry's choice. I won't force the issue."

"I wasn't suggesting you should."

Thomas hummed in the back of his throat. I tiptoed down the stairs and peered into the room. Barty was curled up in arm chair by the fire with a book while Hermione and Thomas were both sitting on the floor with pages spread out between them. I blinked, but the odd sight didn't go away.

"So more visualization exercises. As an appendix or part of the chapter?" Thomas uncapped his pen and picked up one of the hundreds of black cloth bound notebooks that littered his office. I wondered how he could tell them apart. Must be a spell, I decided.

Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip. "Depends. If the additional exercises will work for most people, in the chapter. But if they vary by the person, an appendix."

"Damn, another controlled experiment. Maurice won't be happy."

"Would he rather publish something that's incorrect?"

Thomas snorted. "All Maurice cares about is sales. He'll be just as happy if it sells with a list of things that might help in an appendix as he would with a chapter of proven suggestions; provided, he gets the final product by November 1st."

"Maybe anecdotes instead. A few first person accounts might make the subject more approachable, too. It would also be quicker. If the training takes nine months minimum using your new method…I really wish you'd let me read the entire manuscript. If I knew exactly what your latest improvements were I might be able to—"

"—I'll tell you the exact same thing I'll tell Harry when asks." He raised he head and looked me in the eyes. "Right now, you need to be concentrating on your secondary school education, not tertiary. Once you've completed your NEWTs, we'll talk. Before then, forget it."

"But I've already read Sirius's copy. It won't hurt to let me read your revisions to the same book," Hermione said with the same glint in her eye she had when she conned Lockhart into giving her a pass to the restricted section.

Thomas threw his head back and laughed. "How in seven hells did you two end up in Gryffindor? The sorting hat must be further off its rocker than Dumbledore is. Fine. But if you want to read the revised edition before anyone else, you have to earn it."

"How?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"Ten page critique and minor proofreading. No outside research. If you see something you don't understand, write it down. I don't want other theories clouding your opinions nor do I need further research. I need to refine what I have while keeping it at about a sixth year level."

Barty closed his book and gave me a crooked grin while Hermione mulled over Thomas's bargain. When he learned about my friend visitation requirement, Barty told me that Thomas and Hermione would either kill each other or get along like a house on fire. Either was a frightening prospect.

"Deal," Hermione said.

Thomas flicked his wand. The pages stacked themselves and flew to his office. "Harry, why don't you show her the gardens? Dinner will be in about thirty minutes. I'll be in the library if you need me." With a crack, he apparated to the third floor.

Barty rolled his eyes. "Looks like I'll be fetching dinner. Back in a bit." He laid his book on his chair and left.

I gave Hermione a sheepish smile. "Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"Don't be embarrassed, Harry. I knew before I came that you wouldn't last long, especially not in the heat. We went on the bus tour because it gave you a chance to rest. No one expected you to stay awake as long as you did."

"Oh." I stared at my bare feet for a second. "How's Neville?"

"Miffed that his grandmother scheduled a big family dinner on the same night as your birthday." She gave me a knowing look. "We were both invited two weeks ago. I didn't know where we were going until this morning. All he told us was we'd need muggle dress. Personally, I think that's why Neville's grandmother rescheduled his birthday dinner. According to Neville, she was dead set against him 'traipsing around like a common muggle'. I promised him I'd thank you for the birthday present you sent him. I have no idea where you found those plants. Some of them were incredibly rare."

"So you've seen him recently then."

"We met up yesterday afternoon. I hate that he has to sneak around, but his gran…I can't decide if she's crazy or just extremely overprotective. Honestly, I think the only reason she allows Neville to attend Hogwarts is because his father did, and she wants Neville to be exactly like his father. It's quite sad really." I led her out to the garden where Barty sometimes held lessons while she continued talking nonstop. "Did you know Neville doesn't even have his own wand? She makes him use his father's. I know it's not my place to say anything, but from what I've seen and read that wand is a horrible match. She's stiff ling Neville's education. He'll never reach his full potential without a wand of his own. I'm terribly worried about his OWLs. He'll never make Os without the proper wand."

"Hermione, not everyone wants to make straight Os."

"I know, but it's just awful. Neville's smart. He could be one of the best in the school if she'd just back off and let him be his own person."

"Hermione, I know. Can he still meet us in Diagon Alley?"

"I think so."

"Then maybe we can distract his gran long enough for him to buy another wand. Do you want to walk down to the marsh or just sit and talk for a while?"

"Talk," she answered. "Thomas and Barty gave me the grand tour while you were asleep. The library is absolutely amazing, and you get summer tutoring. I'm so jealous. My parents promised to hire an ancient Greek tutor for the summer, but then the Order tricked them into sending me away for the summer and that feel through. It was supposed to be my big Christmas present."

Somehow that didn't surprise me. "I'm sorry I got you involved in all this."

She sighed. "It's not your fault. My parents…Harry, there's a reason I've spent the last three Christmases at Hogwarts. Didn't you ever find it odd?"

"Ronald stayed, too."

"For different reasons, Harry. He stayed because he didn't want to be left out of whatever grand adventure we were embroiled in. Also, the Weasleys can't exactly afford a big Christmas celebration. I asked Ginny about it once. She said their parents encourage them to stay at Hogwarts because it's a nicer Christmas than they can celebrate at home. The Weasleys want their children to have the best they can offer, which means a Hogwarts Christmas. My parents," she dropped her head into her hands and massaged her temples, "how to explain? I grew up in Hale, outside Manchester. My parents specialize in cosmetic dentistry and own a highly lucrative practice about two miles from our house. They don't accept NHS patients. Their entire practice is private. When I was born, my mother took the compulsory two weeks off. Then she hired a nanny and went back to work. Growing up, the only time I spent with my parents was during family vacations. Even then, we brought the nanny. I stay at Hogwarts during the holidays because my other option is a three day skiing trip and spending the rest of my holiday alone or with a tutor I barely know because I'm too old for a nanny. Last summer, the Weasleys picked me up the first week of August. My parents had planned yet another vacation in Paris. I had a choice between watching them snog for three weeks or going to the Weasleys early. Naturally, I picked the Weasleys."

Stricken, I stared at her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I—"

"—stop that! I did not tell you any of this to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you're my best friend, and I know you won't react like a jealous prat."

"Why would anyone…" I trailed off as I recalled Ronald's envious gaze every time he saw one of us with something nice. "Never mind."

"You get it, don't you? Ron was almost unbearable every time we went to the alley. How do you think he would've reacted if he'd realized you weren't the only one who was well off?"

"Badly."

"You think? The point is, Harry, I'm actually a little grateful the Order talked my parents into letting me spend the summer away. Otherwise, I'd have spent the next month bored out of my mind while my parents played golf and lounged around by the pool at the villa they rented in romantic," she sneered, "Tuscany. Instead, I have a nice studio flat where I can cuddle with my cat and read as much as I want without worrying about being scarred for life by seeing my forty-seven-year-old mother sunning herself topless."

I snorted. "That bad?"

"You have no idea. I love my parents dearly, Harry, but we love each other best from a distance."

"What if the Order tracks you down?"

"I've done my homework. My owl post is being redirected to a service in Diagon Alley that sends it via house elf. It's designed for people who travel a lot and don't have a permanent address. Even Fawkes will be redirected. I should be fine, and I have contingency plans in case they track me down."

"Should I ask?" I said, remembering the doxy venom.

"It's best if you don't."

"Be careful. You're playing a dangerous game and…"

She silenced me with a finger laid over my lips. "Harry, I'm asking you to trust me. Should the Order find me before school starts, kidnap you, harm Neville, or decide to alter us in anyway they will pay dearly."

"But you don't know occlumency."

"Viktor's aunt works for the Bulgarian Embassy in London. She's a master occlumens and is currently studying legilimency. She's agreed to teach me. I doubt I'll be a master before school starts, but I should be adequate."

"It's genetic. You did test yourself, I assume."

She punched me in the shoulder. "Of course I did! The only difference between our results is parseltongue."

"Okay. You're in a safe neighborhood, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, father. Any other questions, father?"

"Hey, I'm just—"

"—I know. It's a nice place. I promise."

"Do you need any money? I deposited The Daily Prophet settlement in a normal vault. All I need to do is write a letter and give you the key."

"Harry, I have my own money. I don't need yours."

"I know, but living on your own can be expensive and—"

"—for Merlin's sake, Harry! It's only for a month. Between my personal savings and the emergency fund my parents set up for me when I started Hogwarts, I have enough to live on my own for the next two years if necessary. In the highly unlikely event I run out of money before September 1st, all I have to do is take the train to Manchester, go to my grandfather's old firm, and tell his partner that my parents unknowingly left me in the care of an insane vigilante group for the summer while they went on their second honeymoon in Tuscany, and I'll have access to more money than I could possibly need. I will be fine." She inclined her head towards the house. "Come on. Barty—is he really Thomas's adopted son—should be back. I hope you like pizza."

"Never had it."

"You'll love it. Promise."

Chapter Text

Hedwig perched on the rail above my head and began grooming my hair. I reached up and stroked her feathers. Sometimes I wondered why Hagrid picked Hedwig. He knew I wasn't on good terms with the Dursleys and probably didn't expect me to write them. Maybe he thought I needed a friend more than a familiar. Or maybe he realized a white owl was easier to track. Not sure, but I leaned more towards friend most days. No point tracking an owl who rarely delivered mail and never anything important.

I didn't truly understand the difference between a post owl and a familiar until a few days ago. During my evening meditation, I discovered a thin thread buried deep within my mind. When I started to cut it, Dyfi freaked out and finally explained why she stayed.

All these years I thought I healed her with accidental magic, I didn't. Instead, I gave her my magic, creating a conduit between us. A true familiar, my legilimency book called it. I found three books on the subject in the library, including one on using the conduit, but hadn't finished them yet. By the time third year started, Dyfi was already dependent on my magic.

"I still don't understand," I whispered to the snake wrapped around my neck. "If you'd said something, I would've helped you free yourself before it was too late."

Dyfi tickled my earlobe with her tongue. "Meeting you was like waking up after a long winter. I was in a fog before. Prey, water, warmth, eggs, predators. A simple life, but dangerous. Then you came. Eggs were suddenly unimportant. I knew I could count on you for prey, water, warmth, and protection from predators." She hesitated and then rubbed the top of her head underneath my chin, an almost human gesture. "You're mine. I don't know how else to explain. Besides, I couldn't leave my human in the care of an owl who doesn't know the difference between a human and an owlet."

A deep chuckle sounded from behind me. I craned my neck and spotted Thomas with Xerxes, a gray Eurasian eagle owl, perched on his arm. "Smart snake. You should listen to her." He flicked his wand at Xerxes, narrowed his eyes, then nodded once. Apparently satisfied, he smiled and stroked the bird's head. "I bet you saw that heavy manuscript on my desk and decided to moult early. Ah well, Thais will be more than happy to fill in for the next month."

"Thais?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"My spectacled owl. A colleague gifted her to me years ago. A tropical subspecies, she only makes deliveries here during the summer. I'm surprised you haven't seen her, yet."

"Just Xerxes and the barn owl Robyn."

"Come. You will spend the afternoon helping me brew your potions."

Curious, I stood and brushed of my clothes. After a quick goodbye to Hedwig, I followed him out. As we walked the short distance to the carriage house that housed my temporary school room on the first floor and Thomas's potions lab on the second, I wondered at the sudden change in both schedule and demeanor. Between revisions, new articles, meetings concerning my situation, and his more questionable evening activities, Thomas had a tight schedule. He normally closeted himself in his study after breakfast, took lunch either alone or during a meeting, and didn't emerge until dinner. When Barty left, he'd send Lolly to check in on me every hour on the hour. Sometimes, I'd see him in the library, but we didn't interact much outside healer appointments and meals. I could also count on one hand the number of times Thomas ordered me to do anything while we were home. I paused.

Was this my home? Maybe. Too soon to say.

I followed him inside. "I'll stay here," Dyfi hissed. "No fumes."

With my right hand, I unwound her from around my neck and deposited her on her favorite windowsill. Then I followed Thomas up the stairs. The first time Barty and I used the lab I stopped at the top of the stairs and stared slack-jawed at what Thomas considered a proper potions lab. When I asked Barty why the lab wasn't underground like at Hogwarts, he snickered and said Thomas believed placing a potions lab in a dungeon instead of a well-ventilated tower where accidental explosions couldn't rock the foundation was a sign of mental disease. After working in Thomas's for a few hours, I was inclined to agree.

Thomas's potions lab put Hogwarts to shame. With excellent ventilation, tons of natural light, soapstone counter tops instead of wood, a large sink, and layered safety wards designed to protect both people and ingredients, the potions lab provided a pleasant work space. I wondered if Snape's private lab resembled Thomas's or if it was as unpleasant as the student labs.

Thomas checked a bubbling cauldron of polyjuice and another clear potion I didn't recognize. "Veritaserum," Thomas answered my unspoken question. "A powerful truth potion. At least it will be once it's finished."

"Who brews these?"

"Barty. As long as he has a proven recipe, he's a competent potioneer. Not master material, but few are."

"Are you?"

"I obtained my potions mastery from Escola Mágica do Paraná in 1960. It wasn't my first, but was certainly my last."

"Difficult?"

"Hard to say. I was also teaching full-time and had just received a promotion. Looking back, I think my problem was the combined workload, not the coursework." He flicked his wand and summoned two size four tin-lined, brass cauldrons. "Get salamander blood, griffin claw, powdered moonstone, fairy wing, hawthorn leaves, turmeric, and white willow bark from the cupboard. Don't levitate the griffin claw unless you want it to explode."

While I fetched the ingredients, Thomas conjured a handheld chalkboard and wrote the recipe down. From memory, I noted as I laid the ingredients out in a grid, making sure they didn't touch.

"Group your ingredients together."

Okay. I skimmed the chalkboard and cringed. A potion's formula instead of a recipe. Barty started me on formulas before the third task, but I'd never made a potion from one. Uncertain, I glanced at Thomas.

"Take your time. It's okay if you don't know how to interpret something. When you're ready, talk me through it before you begin brewing."

I ground my teeth and turned my attention back to the formula. Ten minutes passed in silence. Thomas checked Barty's potions while I studied the formula. At least his handwriting was legible unlike Snape's. Several times, I misinterpreted a symbol or instruction. Eventually, I saw the common thread. Twenty-one. Seven and three, the two most magical numbers in arithmancy. Arithmetically, water is neutral, meaning it doesn't exist when calculating potion qualities. Although the formula listed eight ingredients, there were only seven. I skimmed the formula again. The ingredients were added in groups of three. Then combined with the fairy wings added last. Stirring patterns in groups of six. Six is divisible by two. So actually two groups of three. Back to three, again. Wait, an extra ingredient. Not recognizing the symbol, I frowned. My gaze traveled to the rune written beside it. Null?

"Talk me through what you have."

Again with the orders. Fighting to keep my expression neutral, I turned to him. "Combine four measures of salamander blood with six measures of water and boil. Remove heat. Add one measure of white willow bark and one measure of hawthorn leaves. Let steep for seven minutes. Drain. Reserve the liquid. I assume you discard the willow bark and hawthorn leaves as they aren't used again." When he nodded, I continued. "Grind three measures of griffin claw into a fine powder. Blend griffin claw with one measure of powdered moonstone and one measure of turmeric." I bit my lip.

"Continue."

"Add one measure of water to the griffin claw mixture and stir until it forms a paste. Place cauldron with the griffin claw mixture over a low flame. Heat for three minutes. Pour the salamander blood tea?"

"Technically tisane, but tea works in this instance," he said with a smile. "You're doing well. Keep going."

"Into the paste, stirring constantly. Sounds a bit like making a roux," I muttered to myself.

"Precisely."

"Sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize. If you read the instructions and think make a roux, then say it."

"Okay." I shifted my weight to my other foot and pressed ahead. "Bring to a roiling boil. Stir once clockwise every minute…"

Thomas shook his head. "Check the symbol again. Note the line dividing the hourglass. If one quarter from the top is fifteen seconds, then?"

"Thirty seconds?"

"Are you asking or telling?"

I winced. "Telling, sir."

"Good. Finish up."

"Stir once clockwise every thirty seconds for a total of six clockwise stirs. Reduce to a simmer. Add one measure of fairy wings. Stir counterclockwise six times, averaging ten seconds per stir. Then stir clockwise six times, averaging four seconds per stir. Simmer for two minutes without stirring."

"And?"

I stared at the floor. "I don't know," I mumbled.

He sighed. Booted feet appeared in my peripheral vision. A hand clasped my shoulder. "Harry, what level would you say potions formulas are? OWL? NEWT? Post-NEWT? Give me your best guess."

"OWL."

"Why?"

"Because I'm starting fifth year."

"Try NEWT," Thomas said dryly.

"Then why…" I trailed off. Barty the Overachiever. Enough said.

"You did exceptionally well. Had you known this portion," Thomas said, circling the offending section with his finger, "Barty and I would be having a long discussion about you studying magics you aren't ready for." He tapped the null symbol. "This is an optional steps, as indicated by this symbol here. Blood. Magic. Wand. One often finds this combination in old alchemical texts. While it's not legally banned, this step is almost a lost art. Do you recall Alex mentioning tying your potions to your blood and magic? This is that step."

Then why a wand instead of a knife? Last time, Thomas brought the cauldron into the house and directed me to add three drops of blood, which I drew with a goblin-made dagger.

"Adding your own blood and magic to a potion you created only requires your wand. The dagger provides a workaround when someone else brews the potion, but using it is extremely complicated. Review the formula a few more times. Then prepare and organize your ingredients. Use 40 grams/milliliters per measure."

"Aren't you going to help?"

"I will with the last step. Barty tells me you can brew polyjuice blindfolded. You also helped him with Moody's healing potions, which are far more complicated than your heart potion. I'll be here if you need help. All you have to do is ask." Then he summoned an empty cauldron and began setting up another station.

On the first day of class, Snape told us he could teach us how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death*. Could, not would. Big difference. I never understood how badly Snape's attitude influenced my potions brewing until Barty turned my Saturday mornings into mandatory potions lessons. Under Barty, brewing became easier, less nerve wracking. I didn't worry about Snape, my grade, or someone sabotaging my cauldron. Barty taught me everything Snape should have plus some. I took a deep breath and centered myself. I knew how to brew. Now to prove it.

After selecting a mortar and pestle from the supply closet, I measured griffin claw into the mortar and began grinding it by hand. My focus narrowed. Magic trickled down the pestle, breaking down the claws in more uniform manner than the pestle alone. Snape neglected to tell us simply following a recipe or wanting your potion to turn out correct isn't enough. True brewing, not following a recipe and praying it turns out decent, is moving meditation. Your entire being must be focused on creating a final product that does something. Potion making is slow magic, ritual magic.

"Perfect," Thomas muttered. I jumped. He placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

I nodded, took a deep breath, and re-centered myself. Then I ran the pestle of the griffin claws once more, removing any accidental magic I might have expelled when Thomas startled me. Once I was satisfied, I pre-measured the rest of my ingredients, grouped them by step, and began brewing.

Thomas's presence faded into the background. Mix, add, cast alarm charm, wait, strain. The steps blended together. When I made the final stir, my hand dropped to my side. I blinked rapidly, dispelling the trance, and peered into my cauldron. Mint green with swirls of silver glitter from the fairy wings. Good. I sniffed. Dandelions without a hint of turmeric. A grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. I looked up. The grin slipped off my face.

The bastard tricked me! Thomas wasn't brewing. He was leaning against the counter beside his clean cauldron monitoring my every move. He smirked. "Did you really think I would let you brew a new potion without supervision?" He strode across the room and peered into my cauldron. "Beautifully done, Harry. I dare say yours may work better than mine did."

Feeling uncomfortable, but happy at his praise, I bit my lip. "Probably not."

"We'll see. Now take your wand and rest it on the lip of the cauldron. Be careful not to touch the potion. The incantation is simple. By blood and magic I bind. You must imagine three drops of blood being added to the cauldron. I normally picture a hazy outline around each to represent the magic, but that's not strictly necessary. Ready?"

"But I've never done this before," I said, not wanting to screw up my hard work.

"Binding a potion brewed by your own hand is worlds simpler than binding one for someone else. Just try. Worst case, you have to brew another batch."

I closed my eyes. Unbidden the image of the silver knife I'd used before appeared. Three blood droplets slipped off the tip. I fiddled with the image, replacing the knife with my wand. It reminded me of when I opened my lock box. Ruthlessly, I pushed the lock box aside. Focus on the potion now, ask if the same spell will work on my lock box later. I muttered the incantation. Nothing happened.

Then I heard my heartbeat thudding in my ears, the blood rushing through my veins. A string pulled from my elbow through the palm of my right hand, but painless. I opened my eyes just as the cauldron flashed. Three perfect red drops lay on the surface, not mixing with the potion.

"Stir clockwise three times," Thomas instructed. "Focus on the blood becoming one with the potion."

How? I wanted to ask, but didn't. Instead, I picked up the stirring rod and dipped it into the potion.

"Make it yours."

I understood. As I completed the first revolution, I silently informed the potion that it belonged to me and no other. Another stir. I needed it most. To run and fly again. Final stir. Mine. I glanced down at the potion. The silver swirls had turned into to small 'H's and 'P's. They twirled together like dancers at a ball before turning back into swirls.

A flick of his wrist summoned a rack of crystal vials. He drew his wand from the holster on his left wrist. "Technically this next skill is post-NEWT, but it shouldn't be." His wand movement was so minute I almost missed the final flick. A perfect sphere of potion rose from the cauldron and zoomed over to the rack, transformed into a funnel, then deposited itself into a vial. My jaw dropped. "Don't look so impressed. It's still the same levitation charm you learned in first year."

"Yes, but I've never seen it used like that."

"You should have." He quickly transferred the rest of the potion into the vials and cast a stasis charm over them. "Come," he said, heading for the stairs, "I need to show you something."

Puzzled, I followed him downstairs and discovered someone had left a stack of file folders and a tea tray on the large table Barty and I used as a shared desk. Thomas pulled out Barty's chair, a straight backed oak chair with a padded bottom identical to mine, and seated himself. I hesitated before seating myself across from him.

After pouring the tea, Thomas leaned back in his chair. "I have a one track mind, especially when I'm researching something new. Unfortunately, editors don't normally want two dozen articles on the same topic. Unless I need an article for my backlog, I just outline the topic and note the date. Should I decide to write the article, I select the outline, check the date. Then I use the search feature built into the library wards to pull everything I looked up within a week of the date on the outline."

My stomach flopped. He knew. Damn it! I didn't want to discuss anything with him until I'd made a decision. Then, I could subtly steer him towards the correct conclusion.

He set his tea cup down. "I'm a bit annoyed that you thought you could manipulate me as easily as you did Dumbledore, but I would've done the same at your age."

"I just—"

"—wanted to control the discussion. I must ask had you lost control would you have deliberately angered me to the point I lost control over my magic?"

I shook my head. After having Dumbledore physically throw me out of his office, I wasn't keen on repeating that experiment with Thomas.

"A wise choice. I planned on having this discussion with you after the bone vanishing. Alex felt you should have as much stress-free recovery time as possible. Seeing as you're already investigating Hogwarts' alternatives, I feel we should discuss this now. Hopefully before you get your heart set on something which may not be feasible given the situation."

Sensing a pending ultimatum, I steeled myself and met his gaze head on. "I don't wish to return to Hogwarts in September." Too blunt perhaps, but I might only have one chance to state my wishes.

"Agreed."

Shock coursed through me. Thomas spoke of Hogwarts in reverent tones. It was his first home just as it was mine. He liked everything about the school except Dumbledore, or so I thought. I never expected him to agree with me.

"Harry, in May 1974, Dumbledore opened the Wizengamot with a speech in which he pledged to, and I quote, 'personally cleanse our society of the diseased line of Salazar Slytherin'. I can't say if he meant it or if it was just rhetoric. Dumbledore declared a blood feud between our families. The Peverell and Slytherin lines are down to two surviving descendants. Both are sitting in this room. Even if you were perfectly healthy, I would not entrust your safety to an enemy." The hard edge in his eyes bled off. He thumbed through the file folders, selected one, and passed it to me. "That said, Dumbledore isn't the main reason I don't believe Hogwarts is a good fit. Take a look."

The label read 'HJP Placement Exams July 1995'. I frowned. A few weeks ago, Barty began giving me hour long, multiple choice tests every few days. Nothing new. Barty believed test taking was an acquired skill. At Hogwarts, he tested me at least once a week. Essays, oral quizzes, multiple choice, and even mock OWL exams. When he started another round of testing, I just assumed it was more of the same. Did Barty think I wasn't ready for fifth year? He did say I was one of the youngest in my year. Nervous, I opened the folder, revealing a type-written summary written on letterhead from the Salem Witches' Institute—the coed secondary school run by the Salem Institute of Magic. All my subjects were listed, including English Literature—the only muggle subject Barty didn't teach alongside a magical one. "I thought Salem combined biology, herbology, and care of magical creatures," I said when I noticed each subject listed individually.

"They do, but they also offer electives in each subject."

Beside each subject was a number. Six through twelve for most subjects, but they used simple pass/fails for biology, chemistry, and physics and a three hundred eleven was written beside Latin. Absently rubbing my scar, I scanned the results again. So I passed biology and chemistry. Probably squeaked by thanks to Dudley's textbooks, which he threw in my room at the end of every school year, and Barty's lessons. Failed physics. Expected. While Barty had taught me a little physics, I needed to learn more charms theory before he Incorporated physics into my regular lessons. A three eleven in Latin, whatever that meant, and elevens in everything else except astronomy where I scored a twelve, Care of Magical Creatures with a nine, and Dark Arts…My head jerked up. "I'm not taking Dark Arts."

Thomas sighed. "Joseph demanded you take the Dark Arts exam in exchange for providing the placement tests and having them graded. I must say I'm glad I agreed. Been sneaking into the restricted section have we? Of course, labeling a section 'restricted' is like waving a red cape in front of a bull."

Embarrassed, I ducked my head. "Maybe."

"Harry, being curious is not a crime. Between the situations Dumbledore threw you into each year, Barty, and your abilities in DADA, I'm not surprised you scored well. Barty and Joseph have both commented that you sometimes know things a typical Hogwarts' student wouldn't. For example, your favorite blasting curse is the fire-based confringo. Hogwarts teaches bombarda at OWL-level, which causes small explosions, and expulso at NEWT-level. Both are pressure-based spells. Due to the high risk of accidents and large class sizes, the only fire-based spell on the Hogwarts curriculum is incendio. Blue-bell flames are in the first-year charms book, but aren't covered in class. You can only find the others in the restricted section or a professor's personal library. Add in your knowledge of esoteric magics like blood oaths, and I would expect you to score at or above year-level. My only concern is that your knowledge may exceed your practical skill-level. Over the last few weeks, I've observed several of your lessons. You're quite skilled for your age, but you also have a lamentable tendency to overpower your spells. The best way to explain it is you're trying to hard, which forces the spell. That's fine for OWL-level, but dangerous for your current level and potentially lethal."

"That's why you showed me water levitation and suggested I practice wandless summoning, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said bluntly. "I taught Dark Arts at the Escola Mágica do Paraná in Brazil from 1951 through 1978. I also worked as Joseph's teaching assistant while I attended the Salem Institute of Magic. I've seen the consequences of poor magical control first hand. I'd rather you not learn the hard way."

My ears perked up when I heard him mention SIM, my top pick after NEWTs. If he worked as a teaching assistant, that meant he actually lived there. For how long, I wondered. Did he know anyone still on the faculty besides Dr. Leeds? Most magical university programs required British students to enroll in a two-year remedial program then sit their International Advanced Wizarding Levels because they didn't accept British NEWTs, which were a watered down version of the old ICW administered NEWTs the Ministry of Magic adopted in 1958. Not surprising considering one of the official goals of the Department of Magical Education's national curriculum was to 'reduce or eliminate the usage of less desirable magics'. I still hadn't found any criteria to determine if a spell was 'less desirable' or not. The entire definition seemed to hinge on the definition of dark arts, but each phrase used the other in their definition, meaning 'less desirable' or 'dark' was whatever the ministry said at that particular moment. In other words, 'less desirable' and 'dark' were the acceptable excuses for censorship.

But Thomas sat his NEWTs in 1945. Over a decade before the ICW renamed their NEWT exam to the International Advanced Wizarding Level or IAWL in an attempt to eliminate confusion between the British NEWT and the international standard. Maybe they didn't require remedials. If so, then… "How many years did you spend going to school after Hogwarts?"

"Including Oxford and my third and fourth masteries, which I studied while teaching at Paraná, fifteen."

I stared at him like he'd transformed into a horntail. "Oxford?! I thought you hated muggles."

"I do," he replied while pouring himself a second cup of tea.

"But why would you…I just don't understand. Encouraging me to study muggle subjects is one thing, but Oxford?!"

"My parents were married in the muggle world, and my mother died without registering her marriage with the ministry. I entered Hogwarts a muggleborn and graduated as one."

"But you're not."

"Not according to the ministry. With a few whispers in the right ears about my true heritage, record-breaking OWL scores, and excellent recommendations from most of my teachers, I secured a position working for the Department of Mysteries contingent on my final NEWT scores. I took a summer job working for Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley, until I could start. Then Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, and the Department of Mysteries cared far more about Dumbledore's opinion than my record-breaking NEWT scores. They withdrew their offer." He sighed. "Do you know how many muggleborn department heads work for the ministry? One. Dirk Cresswell, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. A rather dangerous position considering he's the first Goblin Liaison in three centuries who's lasted longer than two years without the goblins mounting his head on a pike. They promoted him to get rid of him. When becoming an unspeakable fell through, I kept my job at Borgin and Burkes while I made the necessary arrangements, which included a muggle degree so I could partially circumvent Salem's remedial coursework requirements. Then I did the exact same thing most muggleborns do. I left. The only difference is I remained a British citizen."

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say. I wasn't surprised though. In her last letter, Hermione said she'd found a few muggleborns overseas and written them, asking why they left. They all sent the same response. Upon graduating Hogwarts, they had four job options: Ministry personal assistant/secretary for life, Knockturn Alley shop boy, housewife/pure blood arm candy, and prostitute. Hogwarts isn't compulsory unless you're muggleborn. As a muggleborn, Hermione couldn't legally withdraw from Hogwarts until after her OWLs unless she found a ministry-acceptable, pure blood host family: a childless pure blood couple between the ages of 40 and 75 with an annual income exceeding 14,000 galleons, who were willing to take in a muggleborn ten months out of the year if her new school didn't offer boarding.

Half bloods didn't fare much better. The reason I was exploring foreign healing programs was because Alex gently explained that even with my fame, the odds of a half-blood being offered a St. Mungo's apprenticeship without already having a healing mastery were slim to none. My experience with Barty/Moody not withstanding, apprenticeships were arranged by wealthy purebloods for second and third sons and cost a small fortune. Which explained why five out of every eight missing witches and wizards were half-bloods.

While I fixed myself another cup of decaffeinated tea (Nat refused to serve caffeine after lunch), I added the information to what little I already knew about Thomas's history and noticed a glaring inconsistency. "Wait, you said you moved back to England in '72. How could you live in England while teaching in Brazil?"

"It's called magic, Harry," Thomas said, rolling his eyes. "I'm more than capable of inter-continental apparition. Besides, after I made department head in '68, my duties became more administrative. I still taught a few graduate classes, but they didn't need as much hand-holding as my IOWL and IAWL students did, which allowed me to move back to England. But we've drifted off topic. Do you know why I had you brew today?"

I shook my head.

"For the same reason I asked Joseph for placement exams. Until now, I've had two conflicting reports on your abilities. Your Hogwarts records indicate a mediocre student, who improved dramatically with private tutoring. However, the consensus among the Hogwarts staff is you will be unable to maintain your current class standing without further tutoring."

Gritting my teeth, I glared at him. "I'm not stupid."

"You're not," he agreed. "Keep in mind your professors do not know what you were studying with Barty. He deliberately misled them. Told them you were months or even years behind where you actually were. At first, he just wanted to see how far he could push you. Later, he did it to keep Dumbledore from demanding he change your schedule, which would've given Dumbledore more opportunities to pull you aside for a private chat. Unfortunately, I have two competing opinions. Hogwarts believes you are at best mid-fifth year, but expect you will fall behind by the end of next year. Barty contends you are mid-sixth and also claims the majority of your studies are self-directed with him providing weekly goals, as-needed assistance, and tutorial-style discussions. In addition to their conflicting reports, I also have to take into account that last November I ordered Barty to teach you according to the ICW curriculum, which is harder than Hogwarts's."

"Why? It's not like I can sit the IOWLs."

Thomas snorted. "Of course you can. The Wenlock School in Ireland allows private IOWL candidates. They even offer mock exams. You can also take them at the ICW testing facility in Switzerland or at any of a dozen schools. The only catch is you can't sit them in the UK."

Interesting. Maybe I abandoned that option too soon. Having IOWLs and IAWLs would bypass the remedial course work. Depending on which ones I sat, I might even pick up a few muggle credentials.

"Over the past two weeks, I've observed your practical lessons."

I looked at him sharply. When, I wanted to ask. I never saw him.

"Disillusionment charm," he said with a shrug. "Earlier today, I watched you brew a NEWT-level potion correctly on the first try without assistance."

"But I still made a mistake with the formula and the potion was fairly easy."

"Rhazes Concoction is simple on paper, but it requires the correct intent and perfect timing. It also doesn't explode or produce toxic fumes if you make a mistake. Salem places you in their sixth year, not fifth. This is my dilemma. Hogwarts does not accelerate students. Period. My personal opinion is if I send you to Hogwarts or another school that forces you to attend classes based on your age instead of your ability, you will be bored. In other words, you will either act out, begin practicing more powerful magic on your own before you've acquired the necessary control, or put forth the bare minimum effort needed to scrape by. Salem, Wenlock, Paraná, and Durmstrang all offer acceleration. They are all wonderful options for next year."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Say it," I whispered. "Just go ahead and spit it out. I know I'm defective."

Thomas's sigh echoed in the small room. A hand covered mine. I looked up. "You're not defective. You're sick. There's a difference. I know you wanted to transfer this year."

I took a shaky breath. "I did."

"Set aside the risk of being hexed by your classmates, inhaling potions fumes, or catching the flu every time it goes around for a moment. Between healers appointments and procedures, you will miss over a month of school during first term. That's not counting days you're not feeling well. Do you remember how tired you were the day after your birthday? Barty just canceled your morning lessons and let you sleep. You worked a little after you woke up, but not more than an hour or so. There will be more days like that before you are fully healed. A traditional school simply cannot offer the flexibility you will need over the next six months."

"So Barty's stuck with me for a while longer."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a mockery of a smile. "It's not like I have much else for him to do. You know when I agreed to file for custody I had this grand plan. I'd let you and Barty spend a few months fishing then ship you off to Paraná with a bodyguard and begin reassembling my forces, training my people, all the things I should be doing. Instead, I spend more time meeting with Amelia and the Minister of Magic than I do my own vassals." I cringed. Vassals? Couldn't he come up with something nicer, less medieval?

"Then why bother? And don't tell me we're family. Neither of us knew we were related when Barty took me as his apprentice. I know Barty. Dumbledore might have set up the situation, but Barty wouldn't have accepted me without getting your approval first. Hell, you even provided some of my textbooks. I sort of get why you care now. Family magic can be a real bitch from what I've read, especially if you haven't reproduced. Acknowledging a heir in theory gets you off the hook. Thanks for that," I drawled, "I always wanted to get married and have children before the age of thirty. Not!"

"The magic doesn't care if you're married, and it can't control if you and your partner decide to use birth control. All it does is ensure a healthy sex drive. Acknowledging you changes nothing. Our family magic has always preferred an heir and a spare. Besides, why would I want to diminish what I regard as a pleasant side effect?"

I felt like banging my head against the table. "Thomas, I really did not need to know that."

"You brought it up." The smug smirk slipped off his face. He turned pensive. "You were an experiment. I wanted to see if a typical Hogwarts student could transition to the international standard."

Of course he did, I thought bitterly. "Why?"

"Because magical Britain is dying, and the national curriculum is part of the problem."

My breath caught in my throat as I instantly linked Thomas's claim with Hermione's recent investigations. "Why do you care?" I whispered. "You left. Why bother coming back? Why didn't you just stay in Brazil and teach?"

"Because this is my home. I refuse to sit and watch that group of inbred, ill-educated idiots destroy my people when I can do something about it."

"All you do is kill anyone who disagree with you. You're causing most of the problems. Not to mention, your followers are those inbred, ill-educated idiots."

Thomas placed his hands palms down on the table and took a deep breath. "I will never apologize for my actions. To do so would imply I am sorry. I'm not. I did and will do what I believe is necessary to protect our people and ensure there is a Hogwarts and Diagon Alley for future generations. If I am vilified for it, then so be it." I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up a warning finger. My mouth clicked shut. "For all your research and your attempt to maintain your objectivity, you never once questioned your sources. Tell me, Harry, what do legislation and The Daily Prophet have in common? No answer? Ministry written legislation and the state-run newspaper. Your sole source of information was the Ministry of Magic, which you yourself acknowledge practices extensive censorship, propaganda, and misinformation. I realize you were under close surveillance. I can understand why you didn't approach someone like young Nott and ask him what he knew about the war. But you were apprenticed to Barty for Merlin's sake. You lived in his secure quarters. Why didn't you ask him why he fought? I didn't make him. Hell, I was against it at first. Learn how to vet your sources, Harry. Then ask some damn questions instead of making assumptions. I assure you Black didn't join the Order for the same reasons your father did. I also know for a fact Barty joined me for different reasons than Lucius Malfoy. The reasoning may be variations on a theme, but everyone had a reason. It was far more complicated than me versus Dumbledore or whatever other juvenile notions you imagined based on a few newspapers articles printed by the state controlled media!"

Something in me snapped. My eyes narrowed. "Fine. Why do you fight? What made you decide to turn a political movement into a terrorist campaign?"

The fight drained out of him. "What makes you think I started it? Look up Dylan Rosier when you have the chance. Ask yourself if people would follow me, risk dying in Azkaban or being kissed by a dementor, over a few hundred muggleborns. Most of whom will leave Britain within two years of graduating. Find out more about how the ministry works than the bare minimum necessary to save your own ass. Study the bloody process and who's-who. In the meantime, read through the information in the files. There are four options, which I've already outlined for you. Pick one by the end of the week and let me know your decision." He stood. Levitating the tea set in front of him, he strode out of the school room, leaving a stack the stack of file folders behind.

---

That night I tossed and turned, Thomas's accusation still ringing in my ears. Deep down, I knew he was right. Once I thought I had a decent picture, I stopped looking. While Barty never confessed, I knew why he was sentenced to Azkaban. I never once asked him why. After Rita's interview, a guilt-stricken McGonagall probably would've answered me if I'd asked her about my parents or even herself. Snape might've told me just to rub my nose in the fact I didn't know. I met Sirius in Hogsmeade, wrote him every few weeks. Why didn't I ask? Two sentences scribbled on a sheet of parchment.

My gaze landed on a rack of vials resting on my desk. Silvery wisps glowed in the dark room. Forty vials, forty memories I didn't ask for and wasn't sure I wanted to watch. An unexpected birthday present from Peter Pettigrew. A short letter explained he was fulfilling a promise to my mother. What promise he didn't say.

I started to throw out the memories, but couldn't. Regardless of the source, they represented a chance to meet her. A chance I wasn't certain I was willing to take. What if I ruined her marriage? What if she hated me? I shook myself. She loved me. I felt it in my bones. She loved me.

Ask some damn questions, he said. Maybe I should start with her. Why did my parents join the Order? Sirius? I extended my hand and curled my fingers. A tendril of magic latched onto a silver hand-held mirror. It flew across the room and landed in my hand. I turned it over, rubbing my fingers across the roses engraved on the back. Before she left, Hermione pressed the mirror into my hands and said please talk to him. I know he hurt you, but you've already lost Moody. Don't lose Sirius because you're being stubborn. He really cares about you. When you're ready, just say his name.

Easy for her to say. Sirius didn't betray her. I paused. Did he really betray me or was it Azkaban talking? Barty didn't discuss it much, but he implied prolonged dementor exposure damaged more than just his life span. Before he died, Moody suggested Barty could get political asylum. If Barty could, so could Sirius. Did that mean other countries refused to extradite people who would be sentenced to Azkaban? If so, did they refuse specifically because of the dementors or generally inhumane conditions?

I needed to know.

I picked up my wand and raised the light. Then I turned the mirror over. "Sirius Black," I said.

The mirror's beveled edge glowed blue. Minutes passed. Nothing. I slumped against my pillows. So much for that idea.

"Harry?" The voice sounded half-asleep, but it was clearly Sirius.

"Hey, Sirius. Sorry I woke you. Couldn't sleep."

The eyes in the mirror flickered. Then Sirius's entire face appeared. "It's really you. Tap the right corner of the mirror with your wand so I can see your face."

I quickly adjusted my mirror and gave the image of Sirius a wan smile. "How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing? Merlin, Harry, I was such a fool. I'm so sorry. I should have listened. I should have taken you and run. Not listened to Albus. Everything made so much sense when I talked to him, but I…Are you feeling okay? He hasn't hurt you, has he?"

"Unless you count the thrice cursed healer wanting to vanish my bones, no one has hurt me. If anything, he coddles me. It's infuriating. I can't even go for a walk without a house elf checking up on me every thirty minutes." I held up my right arm so he could see the leather band tied around my wrist. "Medical monitoring spells. Thomas has a matching one."

Sirius sobered. "It's really serious then."

"It's pretty bad, but it's still fixable. Hermione said you saw my medical records."

He nodded. "I'm so incredibly sorry, Harry. I knew you weren't happy there. How could I not? What happy child volunteers to live with an escaped convict he just met? I guess finding your cousin," he grimaced, "was the next logical step."

"It's not entirely your fault. You didn't have the complete picture. I planned on telling you, but then you said Dumbledore did the right thing."

"I don't blame you for not trusting me, Harry. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't have trusted me either. After I found out about the legilimency, I did confront Dumbledore. I was seconds away from kidnapping you and fleeing the country when he said he did it to help you. Reactive attachment disorder, he called it. He claimed it happened because you were orphaned, but with a few minor adjustments you could live life as a normal child. I honestly believed he did it to help you. Maybe in his mind he did. I don't know. A few days after your diagnosis, Hermione took me to a muggle library and helped me look up a bunch of things. Dumbledore lied to me. I didn't want to believe it, but he did. I've trusted him since I was eleven-years-old, but…" He sighed and brushed his hair out his face with his fingers. "I messed up. If I hadn't run off after Peter, none of this would've happened."

I took a deep breath. "You're wrong," I said and began explaining about my mother's lost codicil and how imprisoning Sirius kept the public focused on my father's will instead of my mother's while Dumbledore quietly obtained custody of me and placed me with 'family'. Out of sight, out of mind. By the time anyone thought to look for my mother's documents, they'd disappeared.

I fell asleep with Sirius's mirror propped on the pillow beside me.

---

* HP and the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter Text

I entered St. Mungo's for what we hoped was my last inpatient procedure on 7 August and didn't leave until 13 August. I don't remember much. One moment Alex dosed me with draught of living death. The next I woke with pins and needles in my feet and hands, cotton balls in my mouth, and five days missing. Thomas said they gave me the antidote Tuesday afternoon. He also swore I sat up and talked for several hours. If I did, I don't remember it.

Over a week later, my body still felt sluggish. More stiff than heavy because regrowing my pelvis and ribs only added a few pounds of missing bone mass. At least I wasn't muzzy headed anymore. Ditching the antivenom potion definitely helped my braincells. My attention didn't wonder as much anymore. I also didn't nod off at the drop of a hat. Thus, Thomas finally allowed the long-promised trip to Diagon Alley. Provided, I attended a few meetings first.

Standing in the Ministry of Magic's atrium, I rolled a foreign wand between my fingers. Bamboo and dragon heart string, according to the Ministry of Magic's wand check desk. It felt dead, not magical. Probably couldn't manage a lumos. Once again, I wondered how stupid you could get. My wand details were printed on the front page of The Daily Prophet. Why would any security guard in his right mind let me get away with presenting a dead wand that clearly wasn't mine? Not that I trusted the Ministry of Magic with my actual wand, but still!

Tucking the oak and kelpie hair wand he'd bought from the junk shop in Diagon Alley at the same time we acquired my newest prop (calling it wand was insulting) in the spare wand holster he wore on his left arm, Thomas rolled his eyes at me. "Stop dawdling," he said, grabbing my elbow and steering me through the Ministry of Magic's atrium. "Shoulders back, head up. Don't slouch. Do not spend this meeting staring at your shoes. Be polite and on your best behavior. Greet Fudge as Minister Fudge. Afterward, it's sir or minister unless he invites you to address him differently. Likewise, you are Mr. Potter from now until we leave the premises. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Manners in the magical world are significantly more formal than in the muggle world. You've scrapped by the last few years without seriously offending anyone who matters. Luck mostly. Today matters."

"I understand," I said. He gave me the same lecture in the car on the way to London, before we left Ralmuth's Gringott's office, and a third time in the idiotic phone booth the ministry used as a visitor's entrance.

"I don't expect you to remain silent. You were invited to this meeting as a participant, but you are not expected to contribute. For Mehen's* sake don't pepper them with questions like you did Ralmuth."

"Excuse me for not knowing what a currency broker is."

Thomas closed his eyes. His lips moved silently for a few seconds before he clenched his jaw. "Harry, Ralmuth was flattered by your questions. We both want you to understand your accounts and the reasons behind our financial decisions. However, the minister does not care if you understand or not. One or two questions is fine. More isn't. Not in this sort of meeting. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he said, drawing his real wand and tapping a glass panel with the word 'Lift' etched into its face. As we waited for the lift, he returned to his previous topic. "This is a small, working breakfast. Just us, Norton, the minister, and his senior undersecretary. The minister may give you leave to address him informally. Madame Umbridge will not. She does not like children, and I know several pardoned death eaters with less extremist political views than hers." He gripped my shoulder as the lift rumbled down. "I do not care if she says all muggleborns should be hanged, drawn, and quartered in the middle of Hogsmeade," he hissed softly as he pretended to straighten my robes. "You will not argue with her."

I nodded tightly. Don't argue. Minister Fudge. Madame Umbridge. Barrister Norton, then Mr. Norton. Got it. I imagined I also shouldn't mention I'd rather be back at St. Mungo's than having a late breakfast with the minister.

The antique lift doors rattled when they opened. I glanced between Thomas and the lift. He didn't actually expect me to ride in that death trap, did he?

"It's safer than it looks," he said, stepping inside.

With trepidation, I followed him inside. Thomas gave the attendant our floor just as a bevy of paper airplanes zoomed inside and hovered above our heads. I struggled not to gape. Pretend you've seen everything before was another rule Thomas drummed into me during our car ride. Don't stare like a muggle.

"No parseltongue during the meeting. Speaking in a language others can't understand in a social environment is extremely rude," Thomas hissed as the lift rose. A few minutes later, the lift stopped on the first floor, otherwise known as the Ministry's penthouse. The doors opened. Thomas stepped out. Percy Weasley inclined his head to Thomas then spun on his heel and led us to the minister's office without saying a word or giving me a second glance.

I bit my tongue. Both before and after the Yule Ball, Barty drilled me in what he considered proper manners. I knew which fork to use during a meal, how to greet my peers and teachers, basic personal hygiene charms, including instant stain removal, descenting, and ironing charms. Basically everything I needed to know to survive Hogwarts without making a total fool of myself. A bit too late in my opinion. I knew enough to realize perfect Percy was being quite rude.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Thomas's forced smile. Probably noticed before I did. Calling Percy on his rudeness wasn't Thomas's style. He'd rather arrange a witness or two then give Percy enough rope to hang himself.

Percy rapped on a door then poked his head inside. After a few whispered words, he flicked his fingers towards the open door then turned and marched down the hall.

"Idiotic little pissant," Thomas muttered under his breath. Then he plastered a smile on his face, greeted Minister Fudge, who promptly introduced Dolores Umbridge. After a round of introductions, I found myself seated at a round conference table with Madame Umbridge on my left and Thomas on my right. Norton sat on Thomas's other side.

Over a light breakfast of fresh berries, scones, yogurt, and boiled eggs—Fudge smiled and said he'd checked the menu with my healer—we discussed the results of my final inpatient procedure at St. Mungo's and the current schedule for my outpatient procedures. I quickly realized Fudge believed I might need to testify at some point and wanted to minimize potential scheduling conflicts. I privately wondered how he benefited from my testimony, but pushed the issue aside when Madame Umbridge asked me to pass the sugar. Summoning at the table was impolite.

"Mr. Potter," she said as she sprinkled a little sugar over her berries, "I understand you've withdrawn from Hogwarts. Will this be a permanent withdrawal or are you planning on attending next year?"

I glanced to Thomas for permission. Rita reported my withdrawal last week while Alex had me knocked me out. I read her article and the short letter she wrote me, but didn't know how the general public or the ministry reacted. Thomas nodded once. "Likely permanent."

"Oh? So you aren't only withdrawing for medical reasons," she said, looking at Thomas.

"Alastor Moody took a very dim view of Hogwart's current curriculum," Thomas said. He paused and sipped his tea. Drama queen, I thought, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "He accelerated Harry in all his current subjects and added a few others. Additionally, he swapped Harry over to the international standard."

Her eyes widened. "Really? Am I correct in assuming he'll be sitting his international exams?"

"Wenlock's December IOWLs. Even though he's academically ready for the exams now, Healer Greengrass is concerned the practical examinations may be too taxing and advised we wait until November at the earliest."

"Interesting. Mr. Potter, I'd love to discuss your experience converting to the tougher standard and your impressions of the exams." She tilted her head towards Thomas. "With your guardian's permission of course."

A minuscule nod from Thomas. "Certainly, madame," I said. "When would be best for you?"

"I'd prefer after your exams, but if you have any documentation showing the differences between your Hogwarts education and Moody's tuition, I would appreciate it."

"Dolores will be heading the Hogwarts Inquiry," Fudge said between bites, "and possibly teaching. Although I don't believe she should divide her energies between teaching and the inquiry, given Dumbledore's recent stonewalling, teaching may be the only way to get her the access she needs to the school."

Beside me, she grimaced, making her look more like a toad than ever. I wondered if Thomas wasn't the only person who experimented with the animagus transformation. Maybe she was partially stuck in it. "I hope it doesn't come to that, but I'll do what I must. I've already corresponded with a few current students and spoken with some recent graduates, but none have your experience with a different standard. Given your recent experiences, how would you rate Hogwarts on a scale of one to ten with ten being excellent?"

"Education and boarding or just education?"

She pursed her lips. "Education then boarding." Brow wrinkled, she leaned forward as if anticipating my answer.

"Education a six," I said after thinking about it for a few minutes. "Two for boarding."

She blinked. Across the table, Fudge stared at me in disbelief before giving himself a small shake. "A two?" he whispered.

"The beds are comfortable and the food's excellent," I said with a shrug.

"The lowest anyone else has given boarding was a seven," she said.

I took a bite of scone before I answered. Delicious. "Forgive me for asking, madame, but what house were they in?"

"Three Slytherins, two Ravenclaws, and a Hufflepuff."

I gave her a tight smile while I carefully considered my words. Ever since they rescued me from the Dursleys in flying car, I've liked the Weasley twins. However, Hermione's last letter discussed her suspicions that McGonagall held her guardianship during the school year. Strict, but kind McGonagall always deferred to Dumbledore. Unless she miraculously acquired a backbone over the summer, her involvement compromised Hermione's safety. I wanted her distracted, not fired. "Maybe things are different in the other houses, but Gryffindor has no supervision. Entering the common room is like entering the monkey house at the London Zoo. Our head of house holds three positions when at most she should hold two. There simply aren't enough hours in the day to accomplish everything demanded by two positions much less three. Thus, she leaves supervising Gryffindor House to the prefects. Most of whom spend their days studying in the library because only a deaf man can study inside the tower." Which didn't stop Hermione from trying. "During any given day in Gryffindor, you have people tricked into consuming experimental potions, games of exploding snap that may last well past the official lights out, and rampant bullying. In four years, I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen an adult inside the tower."

Both her eyebrows raised to her hairline. "I'd heard Slytherin and Ravenclaw both had a few issues, but nothing like this. Are you certain the potions were experimental?"

"I really don't want to get anyone in trouble, Madame Umbridge, but last year the in-thing in Gryffindor Tower was a student-invented sweet called a canary cream. When you eat it, it transfigures you into a giant canary. A few minutes later you moult the feathers and change back. No harm done. The trouble is this product was tested on the student body without faculty supervision. While I believe it causes little harm, the creators never shared the ingredient list and the people who consumed them frequently did so without realizing what they were eating before it was too late. In the cases I witnessed, they simply grew a few a feathers, but what if someone was allergic to one of the ingredients or the creators simply made a bad batch? They could've seriously hurt or killed someone. I can't say what the other heads would've done in that situation—"

"—knowing Severus as I do," Norton said, "if one of the Slytherins pulled a stunt like that they wouldn't wake up the next morning."

"Same goes for Pomona," Fudge said. "Dear Merlin, I never imagined…Mr. Potter, is there any chance you can ask some of your friends to corroborate this? Things may have changed after you moved out of the dorms."

"Cornelius, I'd prefer to contact them myself," she said. "That will help override any objections that Mr. Potter here may have tampered with the results. Not that you would," she said, giving me a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Perhaps that is best. Who would you suggest?"

"Percy Weasley wasn't there for the canary creams, but he was a prefect and then head boy," I replied, hating giving the prat another opportunity to boost his ego. "He'll know better than most exactly what level of supervision the professors provided, but I'm not sure he'll talk about it. He may see any questions about the conduct inside the dorms as doubting his ability to keep order. Keeping order wasn't his job, but I'm not convinced he'll see it that way."

"We're due a security review," Fudge commented absently.

Umbridge's answering smirk reminded me of Barty when I showed him the codicil. Scary. "I'll see to it. Anyone else?"

"Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown from my year. Maybe Sally Anne Perks, but she's had a rough go of it. Dennis Creevey and Nigel Wolpert, both first years last year, were favorite test subjects for the canary creams, but again they may be too afraid to talk. I'm sure there are others, but that's all I can think of off the top of my head. Everyone else either finds the incidents extremely funny, is friends with the perpetrators, or is afraid of them."

"Including you?"

I shrugged. "I have my suspicions about the creators, but no proof."

"What else?"

Sighing, I dabbed my spoon in my soft-boiled egg. How to explain? "Since studying inside the tower is nearly impossible, many of us use the library. A less than ideal situation as the library is set up for individual study, not study groups. However, since everyone uses it for both," I paused long enough for her to draw the correct conclusion.

"The noise levels make studying difficult for all parties and also disrupt the library's purpose," she said.

I nodded. "Even if the tower were quieter, we only have a few tables inside the common room and only two are large enough for group study. It's a great setup for parties, not studying."

"I see." She sipped her tea and stared at the table for a moment. "Do you have any other issues with the boarding situation?"

"Loads." The adults chuckled. I flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

She waved her hand. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Potter. You seem to have given this matter a great deal of thought. Out of curiosity, have you considered how one might address these issues?"

Thomas and Norton both looked at my sharply while Fudge eyed me with a shrewd curiosity. I realized the adults all suspected I'd already considered the matter. "Summer before second year," I said after I realized Thomas wasn't going to change the subject, "I asked the local librarian if the government regulates boarding schools. I don't know much about how our ministry works, but the muggles have national minimum standards for boarding schools. Hogwarts fails them abysmally. They don't even provide balanced meals unless you personally request them. They certainly do not monitor the Quidditch training schedules or have permanent adult quarters within each house. They don't even supervise Hogsmeade visits. At a minimum, I'd expect them to meet the minimum standard."

Her nose wrinkled like she smelled something foul every time I said the word muggle. Inspiration struck. "Hogwarts is our premier magical institution. It should exceed the muggle minimum standards not fall so far short the muggles would shut the school down. To put this in a different perspective, last year I paid four thousand five hundred galleons in Hogwarts tuition. For one hundred galleons less at Salem, I get a room shared with one other person equipped with my own desk, dresser, bookcase, bed, and privacy and silencing wards, access to supervised student potion labs, mandatory monthly meetings with a faculty adviser, private project rooms I can check out on an as-needed basis, and a private tutoring program. They also offer a wider array of classes, better student teacher ratios, and smaller class sizes. If you'd like, I've also kept in contact with a few of the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang." At Barty's insistence, but she didn't need to know that. "Maybe you should ask them about what they observed. Thomas taught at Paraná for years. I'm certain he knows more about school policies and such than I do."

Thomas's check twitched. Inside, I was laughing. Umbridge played a good game, but I wasn't blind. I noticed the cow eyes she made at Thomas during the introductions and the little glances she kept shooting towards him. I'd pay later for setting him up with the toad. Oh well! Worth it. So worth it.

After Thomas agreed to meet with her over lunch next week, the conversation turned towards the Wizengamot and Dumbledore's latest stunt before the ICW. I listened with rapt attention as Fudge described Dumbledore's speech announcing Voldemort's return. A speech which wasn't sanctioned by the Wizengamot who appointed Dumbledore as their representative before the ICW. The conversation dragged on. The leather monitoring band around my wrist heated. Ten o'clock.

Thomas reached in his robes and removed three potions vials, which he handed to me. I downed each in quick succession, wrestling with my gag reflex each time. I didn't think anything could taste worse than skelegrow. Wrong. Skelegrow mixed with heart potions tasted like unwashed troll smelled.

I followed the conversation as best I could. Most of it was over my head. While I understood they were tallying possible Wizengamot votes for Dumbledore's upcoming impeachment trial, I didn't know the individual members well enough to predict how they would vote. Except Ogden. He'd vote against impeachment. A house elf popped in and cleared the table. Parchment began being spread out and Thomas swapped seats with Norton. As he pointed out different members he'd personally contacted, the list grew but we still didn't have a clear majority. Too many fence sitters.

Frustrated, Fudge slapped the table. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We have to start the trial by the end of next week. The first thing Dumbledore's team will do is call Mr. Potter to testify. They'll demand veritaserum, which he isn't well enough to take. Never mind it was Dumbledore's negligence that led to him being unable to take it, his testimony will still be thrown out because even with your consent the Wizengamot will not allow a fifteen-year-old to swear an unbreakable vow to tell the truth during the proceedings in lieu of veritaserum. Without either a vow or veritaserum, they'll never accept his testimony. This entire thing is pointless. Instead of impeachment, we should call a no confidence vote, which will reduce his power sufficiently for us to remove him at a later date."

My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to scream. No, it didn't. A no confidence vote simply removed Dumbledore as chief warlock, but left him as a member of the Wizengamot. It allowed him to recover, gather the necessary votes, and resume his position. Impeachment removed him from the Wizengamot. Properly handled, it could also prevent him from ever holding another public office. I leaned over and nudged Norton. "Isn't perjury grounds for impeachment?"

The room fell quiet. "You're referring to him claiming Voldemort's returned?" Norton asked.

I nodded.

"Unfortunately, speeches before the Wizengamot and ICW are not sworn statements during a judicial proceeding. If he were anyone else, the Wizengamot might hold him in contempt, but that's all anyone can do."

"I wasn't referring to his 1981 speech. I meant his testimony in the January 1982 trial of Severus Snape. Hogwarts doesn't have full transcripts, but The Daily Prophet printed an excerpt. I may be remembering this incorrectly, but I believe Dumbledore used the phrase 'Voldemort's death' during his testimony." Believe nothing. I looked it up again last night. "If he's running around now saying he always knew Voldemort," two flinches followed by two half-second later fakes, "survived then he perjured himself during Snape's trial."

"Which leaves us back with the you-know-who issue," Fudge grumbled.

Umbridge twirled a quill between her fingers. "Perhaps not. The aurors and unspeakables both investigated the original crime scene and reached the same conclusion. We have ample evidence you-know-who died. Perhaps an exhibit in the atrium followed by a press conference. I know it's terribly morbid, but showcasing our evidence along with a few expert statements should be enough proof for anyone. Maybe another statement by you," she said to me. "I doubt you're up to a major appearance, but a well-timed interview should suffice."

Thomas eyed me thoughtfully. I knew what he wanted to ask. Exactly how far was I willing to go to remove Dumbledore from power? I answered that question during the third task. No going back. "Sure if it's okay with Thomas."

"I'll contact Rita Skeeter tonight," he said.

The smirk on Umbridge's face reminded me of Aragog seconds before he told his children they could eat us. "Wonderful. Lord Wychwood, Mr. Potter, it was such a pleasure meeting you both. I do hope you'll both keep in touch. Don't forget, Mr. Potter, I'll be contacting you in a few months about your studies. Get well and study hard. Should you remember anything else about Hogwarts you feel I should know please send me an owl. Lord Wychwood, I'll see you next week. Cornelius, may I borrow Weatherby? I plan on digging through all the old transcripts. If Dumbledore said something incriminating in one trial, he might've said more during another."

"Go ahead, but pull the Snape trial first. While I don't doubt Mr. Potter's word, we need a better source than The Daily Prophet." After exchanging bows and curtsies, Umbridge showed herself out of the office. Fudge turned to Thomas. "I apologize for cutting this short. I really must get on this as quickly as possible. We never even considered this avenue! Mr. Potter, if you're ever interested in interning with the Wizengamot or the Ministry's prosecutors, I'll be more than happy to write a letter of recommendation."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, keeping my response neutral. Not interested, but I knew better than to throw the offer in his face. "Thank you, minister."

He showed Norton out of his office, but made no sign of actually seeing us out. Odd. Fudge shut the door and raised his wand. Chanting under his breath, he erected a set of anti-eavesdropping and security wards that even impressed Thomas, who shot a few spells at them before whistling softly under his breath.

"My apologies, gentlemen. I don't normally go to such extremes, but desperate times and all. In all honesty, I almost don't want to ask these questions, but I fear I must."

My heart rate accelerated. Crap. He'd figured it out. Now the only question was was Fudge going to keep his mouth shut or throw me in prison.

"Regardless of the answer, Harry, you're not in trouble. The unspeakables finished analyzing the Triwizard Cup a few days ago. They couldn't identify who turned it into a portkey, but they did find traces of the same spells our senior aurors learn to erase magical signatures. Based on our investigation and your actions following the tournament, I assume you knew the cup was a portkey. I further deduce it was created by Alastor Moody. Am I correct in assuming it took you to Wychwood here?"

I glanced at Thomas, wondering if I should answer.

"It did," Thomas said. "Harry requested an unbreakable vow before I acquired custody."

"Understandable considering what Scrimgeour discovered about the muggle swine Dumbledore left him with," Fudge said amicably.

"Quite. How's his knee by the way?"

"Fine. St. Mungo's healed him up within the hour. Still a little embarrassed he was wounded by a muggle."

"Wounded?" I asked.

"By a shot gun," Fudge carefully enunciated the word as if he was unfamiliar with it, but at least pronounced it correctly, "courtesy of one Vernon Dursley, who is now residing in a muggle prison cell. I assume Dumbledore prevented you two from meeting under normal circumstances so you simply found another way."

Thomas nodded. I quickly parroted his actions, not wanting to appear more guilty than I already did.

"Since Moody was licensed to create emergency portkeys, no crime occurred. If Mr. Potter was returning to Hogwarts, there might be disciplinary action for sneaking off the school grounds in such a spectacular manner. As far as the ministry is concerned, when Hogwarts failed to adequately ensure the champions safety during the third task, Alastor Moody stepped in and created a portkey to a third party—you, my lord. This explains the generic antivenom in Mr. Potter's system. I am curious. Did Alastor provide you a complete list of creatures in the maze?"

"The list he provided included newly hatched acromantula. Nothing like what bit Harry. The skrewts weren't mentioned either."

Humming in the back of his throat, Fudge flicked his wand and summoned a role of parchment from his desk. "This is your official copy of our investigation. It clears both you and Alastor of any wrong doing. As far as the ministry is concerned, you were simply doing what was necessary to protect the students, including your heir, after you learned Dumbledore wasn't taking the necessary safety precautions. However, we all know there is more to this story. May I call you Harry?" he asked me.

I nodded. "I'd prefer it, sir."

"In private, it's Cornelius. I insist," he said with a smile. "The third task, the cup Alastor turned into a portkey and then personally placed in the center of the maze, it all had a single purpose. To remove you from Dumbledore's control long enough to secure your unbreakable vow. The antivenom was just an unexpected bonus."

I glanced at Thomas, who gave me a pointed look. "Yes, sir."

"Which means you were confident you would come in first. Since Alastor was standing beside me during the entire task, I know he didn't help you during it. But with his eye, he didn't need to. I assume he had you memorize a map."

I nodded again.

"I'm certain St. Mungo's will appreciate Harry's anonymous donation of say," he glanced at Thomas, "nine hundred galleons."

Leaving me one hundred from the Triwizard purse. Not that I cared considering the circumstances. Besides, my big payout from the tournament was a fifty thousand galleon settlement with The Daily Prophet. "I understand, sir."

"Excellent." He turned to Thomas. The smile slipped off his face. Fudge's eyes drifted closed. He took a deep breath as if steeling himself for his next question. Fudge was far more intelligent than I first assumed. I wondered if he'd seen through my statements and realized Dumbledore was telling the truth about Voldemort, but denied it for his own reasons. "Sir, after our first meeting, I did some private research in my family archives. As a boy, I was fascinated by history. William the Conqueror was a particular favorite of mine. Forgive me for asking, but are you that Earl of Wychwood or is your title a recreation? There are several unfortunate gaps our records."

Thomas leaned his hand on his chin and stared at the wall for a long moment. Then he tilted his head. "This stays inside this room. Contrary to what some will have you believe, I do not desire a bloody civil war." Bloody being the key word. A few deaths were acceptable, half the magical population wasn't.

"Not a recreation then," Fudge whispered. He clenched his hands together and visibly willed himself to breath. "Does Dumbledore know?"

"Considering he personally campaigned against my 1948 request for formal Wizengamot recognition, I'm certain he does."

"And the crown?" he asked.

"I was first listed on the Roll of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal in 1948."

Fudge dropped his head into his hands. "May Merlin help us all."

---

* Mehen is the snake coiled around Ra and is regarded as a protective deity.

Chapter Text

"Ten galleons each," the prim shopkeeper said.

I glanced between the stack of used trunks and the shopkeeper. What manner of idiot did he take me for? I swiped a finger through the inch high dust coating the lids. "Robbery! The entire lot isn't worth six."

"Fine," he said as if he was doing me a favor, "since you're making a bulk purchase, I'll cut you a deal. Forty galleons per four."

I snorted. "Most wizards may be mathematically illiterate*, sir, but I'm not. These trunks were old when you bought them. The space expansion charms failed ages ago." I picked at a frayed edge. "The canvas covering is rotten. I imagine you bought the lot intending to resell them to Hogwarts students, but then Hogwarts opted for the larger trunks currently in use. Judging by the dust, you haven't sold one of these in the last twenty years. Now, I'm offering you a chance to off load them. As is. For say five sickles each."

Behind me, Hermione sucked in a harsh breath. She ground her teeth, but didn't comment. Save Ollivander, who honestly didn't care who he sold his wands to as long as he sold them, every shop we visited was the same story. The shopkeeper took one look at Hermione's muggle jeans and multiplied their usual price by five.

Had Barty not sat me down and walked me through various catalogs, pointing out the owl-order markups and what I should expect to pay in person I wouldn't have known. When I asked why they charged more for owl-orders in addition to delivery fees, he replied because most purebloods and half bloods either send a house elf or use a shopping service, but muggleborns frequently use owl order because they believe it's cheaper and more convenient, which led to a long discussion on the difference between Diagon and Knockturn Alley pricing, tourist traps, and the unofficial muggleborn tax.

Muggleborns grew up using pounds, not galleons. Even after exchanging their money at Gringotts, an eleven-year-old muggleborn still thought in terms of pounds. For example, twenty pounds for a rucksack. When they entered the magical world, the same eleven-year-old still equated a single pound with a single galleon even though the galleon was worth five times more. Few shops listed their prices. There wasn't much competition outside the potion ingredient market, and most wizard-raised knew the prices were negotiable. Muggleborns didn't. Hence, the luggage shop got away with selling the same rucksack they sold a wizard-raised child for four galleons to a muggleborn for twenty. Even if the muggleborn noticed, who would they complain to? The pure-blood-run ministry?

I got off easy. Even though I knew less than the average muggleborn, people looked at me and saw a Potter. They didn't normally overcharge me. If anything, they gave me discounts or even sold me items, such as my insanely expensive, custom-built lock box from Herman's Custom Wizard Equipment, at cost. However before we met Neville, his great-aunt Callidora, and Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron, Thomas cast a charm on me that prevented anyone who wasn't expecting to see me in the alley from recognizing me. Hence, the shopkeepers trying to tax me for Hermione's jeans.

Glancing back at Hermione, I noted the pained expression on her face. Of course she noticed the bilking. I imagined the same situation happened every time she entered the alley. It explained why she was so willing to let Mrs. Weasley do her school shopping last year and why Hermione insisted her parents stay with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, not shop on their own, when they brought her to the alley summer before last. I silently vowed to speak with her before school started. She'd hate me for it, probably rant about how they treated muggleborns for a few months, but better pissed off and equipped to handle the problem (and possibly educate other muggleborns) than ignorant. She wouldn't like it, but there were ways around both the owl-order and the in-store muggleborn markups.

I quirked an eyebrow at the shopkeeper. No way I was paying ten galleons for a trunk I could purchase at a muggle flea market for fifteen pounds. Glancing at the rusted hardware and rotten dragon-hide straps, I revised my estimate. Make that ten pounds. "Five sickles."

"You seek to beggar me! Five galleons each," he said.

"Five sickles," I replied, not budging from the price. "If you don't wish to free up some space in your shop, I'm certain Tolridge's Secondhand Luggage will be more than happy to accept my offer."

Just as I predicted, he bristled. "But they're in Knockturn. Surely a gentleman such as yourself," he shot a meaningful look at Hermione, "wouldn't patronize such an establishment."

I shrugged. "I really don't care where the shop is located as long as they provide the merchandise I want at an appropriate price."

"Fine. Three galleons each." Still a galleon left on the muggleborn tax. Then the usual negotiating room.

Sighing, I crouched down and prodded the bottom trunk with my wand, sending a silent spell into the stack. With two exceptions, they were all surprisingly sound. Mostly cosmetic defects and broken locks. None of which mattered considering what I planned to do with the trunks. I cocked my head as I regarded the stack. Technically, I needed four trunks. One per compartment I planned on adding: clothes, books, and a catch all for things like my broom and potions supplies. A simple, but secure design that integrated multiple subject areas and would, with the proper documentation, be a suitable optional IOWL project. Well, the ICW considered it optional. Salem and Paraná required it. I could either present it as part of my application or during my IOWL exams. My choice.

The fourth trunk was for when I accidentally turned one of them into toothpicks or sawdust. In theory, it wouldn't. My cardboard box experiments started working a few days after my birthday, and I hadn't blown one up in nearly a month. But master warder I wasn't. Best to have a back up or tow.

I also couldn't ignore what my project symbolized. The basic student trunk Hogwarts required everyone purchase for first year was a starter trunk. Altering the trunk to meet your needs or ditching it altogether and starting over like I was was a traditional rite of passage most wizards didn't bother with anymore. A true wizards trunk grew as you grew. It evolved with you into a piece of equipment second only to your wand. Some eventually migrated away from trunks and used charmed bags, but others preferred nice, solid trunks. Three compartments might be overkill for an OWL student, but completely inadequate once I began studying for a mastery.

After seeing where Barty imprisoned Moody, my coffin-sized student trunk was out. I wanted a smaller trunk, no higher than twelve inches so I could slide it under the bed, with lots of built in drawers, shelves, and racks that pulled out from the expanded space. No way I was repeating Moody's mistake. I eyed the pile of old trunks. Plus, unlike the modern pine student trunks, these were solid oak. Ideal, but way outside my budget unless I managed to con the conman. "Are these the only used small, flat-top, low-profile trunks you have in stock?"

The shopkeeper stiffened. "As I told you earlier, sir, we have an extremely nice selection of new merchandise. Our used stock is mostly limited to the standard student trunk. We also carry some very nice refurbished models. All with fire-proofing and water-proofing charms."

Unanchored charms that would fail within three years. Not interested. "I was only asking because two of these are beyond repair. The other eight all require new locks and handles. An additional expense on my part. I'm willing to give you two galleons for the lot, including the two that are only good for firewood."

"Five."

"Two."

He grimaced. "Four galleons nine sickles."

"Two."

"Four and not a sickle less."

I shrugged my shoulders and slung an arm over Hermione's shoulders. "Let's go."

"But-"

"-I owled Tolridge's a few days ago," I said, cutting off Hermione's protest. "They have some in stock. I just thought I should try here first since we were already in Diagon Alley. I apologize for wasting your time." A half-truth. Tolridge's only had two in good enough shape for my trunk project. Either the shopkeeper bit or I went with plan B: buying one of the trunks from Tolridge's and building a lot more boxes than I originally planned. More time consuming, but doable.

Neville rolled his eyes at my antics, but helped me guide Hermione towards the door. The shopkeeper caught up with us halfway through the shop. "Wait. Three galleons for the lot if you haul them all off today."

I studied him as I ran the numbers in my head. Seventeen times three was fifty one. So five sickles and two or three knuts per trunk. A pound and fifty pence each. Sweet deal. The fool would've been better off selling them at a muggle flea market as coffee tables. "Deal."

Before he could change his mind, I crossed the shop and dropped three galleons the counter. Then I cast a gentle dusting charm on the trunks-no sense risking them falling apart before I got them home-and removed a bottle of shrinking concoction from my robes. Much safer than shrinking charms, especially when dealing with pre-owned trunks. I'd rather not be known as the-boy-who-blew-up-half-the-alley. Carefully, I applied four drops to each trunk lid. Each trunk shrunk down to the size of a match box. I gathered up the lot and stuffed them in my pockets. Then I nodded to the shop keeper and left.

Outside, Thomas rose gracefully from the bench in front of the shop window and extended his hand to Lady Callidora Longbottom, my grandmother's first cousin who insisted I call her Aunt Callidora. The elderly witch tottered as she rose to her feet, grabbed Thomas's arm to steady herself, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "So unfair," she murmured. "Only eleven years difference and you still look so young while I'm-"

"-you're not that old."

She glared at Thomas. "Old," said firmly. "Blacks don't age gracefully. Haven't in centuries. James and my Colbert, bless their souls, could've broke the curse, but fate...Maybe young Harry here," she turned and patted my cheek, "will. Narcissa's son won't. The Malfoys are almost as short-lived as the Blacks. Didn't used to be," she said with a far-away look in her eyes. "Tea or do you need to take the young one home?" she asked Thomas.

"Tea sounds lovely. Why don't you and the boys head to Apicius**? Miss Granger and I will meet you there."

Panic crossed Hermione's face. A few weeks ago, she confessed she didn't mind Thomas. He was even likable in small doses and with Lolly supervising the encounter. She enjoyed their correspondence/arguments, but he also unsettled her. Probably on purpose, knowing Thomas.

"Go," Thomas hissed to me. "We'll have a little chat and then pay a quick visit to Madame Malkins. We won't be long."

Sorry, I mouthed to her before inclining my head towards Thomas. "Yes, sir," I said and followed Aunt Callidora and Neville out of the side alley.

After we merged with the throng of Diagon Alley shoppers, Neville touched my elbow. "What did he say?" he asked.

I translated Thomas's message. Neville winced. He started to turn back, but Aunt Callidora grabbed his arm and shook her head. "It's for the best. Your friend is a brilliant girl. So much promise...Why in a few years she could," she shook herself. "Never mind. Minerva should've taken care of this years ago. That she didn't...A single man taking a young woman clothes shopping isn't proper. I'd better not catch either of you boys attempting it, but in this case he's the better choice. He's also muggle-raised," she said to Neville. "He knows better than most what she's facing."

Thirty minutes later, a puffy-eyed Hermione and grim-faced Thomas joined us at the restaurant. Over the rim of my tea cup, I studied her. Puffy eyes, but not red and no tear streaks. She cried earlier, but not for long. Her hands didn't shake when she poured herself a cup of tea and her eyes weren't clouded over. No blatantly illegal curses, good. I shifted to her appearance. Fitted sky blue robes with flowy sleeves. A shimmer on her right forearm revealed a hidden wand holster. By some miracle, probably a well-timed petrificus totalus accompanied by lots of swearing, Hermione had exchanged her faithful scrunchy for a self-shrinking hair tie.

"Elbows off the table," Aunt Callidora said. Sighing, I let my elbows drop over the edge. At least she noticed before Thomas did. His stinging hexes felt like someone slammed your hand inside a door. "You look very nice, dear," she said to Hermione. Her tone turned imperious. "We will go shopping next Wednesday, just the two of us and my daughter. We will outfit you as befits a proper young witch. No more dressing like a male muggle in public. With a little polish, I'm certain we'll find you a nice host family by Beltane."

Hermione's smile turned forced. "Sounds lovely. Thank you, Lady Longbottom."

"You're most welcome. I will also make arrangements with Minerva for you to open a Gringott's giro*** account."

"But I thought I couldn't open a vault until I turned seventeen," Hermione said.

"True, there's no vault associated with a giro account. It's all paper and account books. Some families use them for pin money." The way she said 'some families' implied pure blood families.

Hermione turned blazing eyes on her. "Which makes it easier for those people to steal from me."

Thomas snorted. "Hardly. The goblins are in the banking business to make money and to hold wizards by the balls. They won't steal from you anymore than they will from the rest of us. Just read the fine print before you sign the contract and remember everything is negotiable." Confusion flashed across Hermione's face. Thomas's tea cup clinked against the saucer when he set it down. He heaved a long suffering sigh. "Forget about the goblin wars for a moment, Miss Granger, and think of the goblins as businessmen. As businessmen, they do not care if your blood is blue, black, or purple. All they care about is market share and making money."

Hermione stared at Thomas like he'd grown a second head. She set her tea cup down and took a deep breath as if she were centering herself before a battle. "Why do the goblins care about market share? They have a monopoly."

"Appearances are deceiving," Thomas said. "Gringotts mints and issues galleons, sickles, and knuts with the value of the galleon pegged to it's value by weight in nine karat gold on the gold commodity market. Legally, this," he set a galleon on the table, "is a bank note. Right now in the United Kingdom, there are eight**** banks with the authority to print their own money, including Gringotts. Tell me, Miss Granger, when was Gringotts founded?"

"1616 as part of a treaty during the goblin rebellions," Hermione said after a few minutes.

"If you don't know the answer, it's best not to guess," Thomas replied. "410 AD when the goblins seized control of the Roman banking system in the aftermath of Briton's independence from Roman rule. Yes, Gringotts is older than Hogwarts. Most don't realize this because your History of Magic class only teaches the goblin rebellions and a few bits of useless trivia."

Bristling like Crookshanks seconds before he scratched someone, Hermione ground her teeth. "It's not useless."

I suppressed a groan. Trust Hermione to defend the worst class at Hogwarts.

"Wendelin the Weird? Don't you think you would be better served studying the causes of the conflict with Grindelwald or the role wizards played in the death of Henry VI?"

"Henry VI?"

"Melancholy was once the muggle euphemism for the killing curse. Enough about your inadequate history lessons. This," he said, tapping the galleon, "is also an example of both a private and a local currency. Since it's use is exclusive to a small community, it also serves as a non-tariff barrier to trade. It along with ministry regulations banning the charming of muggle artifacts keep many of the shops in Diagon Alley in business. The combination means they have very little, if any, competition outside a few shops in Knockturn Alley and Hogsmeade and businesses run out of people's homes. It is also one of the main reasons why none of the magical advances credited to British witches and wizards over the past two hundred years were accomplished on British soil."

"But Professor Dumbledore-"

"-conducted his research with Nicolas Flamel at Flamel's laboratory in Luxembourg. If you don't believe me, ask him."

"Let's not confuse the issue with a history lesson," Aunt Callidora said. She gave Hermione a sympathetic smile. "The goblins provide excellent services, dear. As long as you are polite and you remember the goblin rebellions. Only a fool keeps everything he owns in Gringotts. The goblins are well aware the wealthiest families also deal with the muggle banks, and they rightfully view them as competition."

I thought back to my own dealings with Gringotts. Excellent services. Knowledgeable staff. And during my first meeting with him, Ralmuth told me war was extremely profitable if one had the proper mindset. He didn't care if the humans decided to kill each other as long as both sides borrowed from him. I started to mention him, but the look in Hermione's eyes changed my mind. She'd had enough shocks for one day.

Instead, I removed a journal from my pocket, opened it to the blue paperclip, and passed it to her. "You asked why I needed so many trunks. Here's why," I said and handed her the journal. I leaned forward and pointed to the simple runic array I'd begun diagramming on the bottom of the page. "Do you remember Professor Moody talking about his trunk?"

When she nodded, I took one of my miniature trunks out of the bag and set it on the table. "Each of these is a possible compartment. Instead of laying it flat to open, I'm going to stand it on it's end," I turned the trunk onto its narrow end and balanced it like a domino. "This allows me to cast space expansion charms on both the normal trunk space and the lid." Then I launched head first into debating the merits of applying multiple space expansion charms to drawers and built-in shelves as opposed to making one large pit like Moody did.

Within five minutes, Hermione was bent over my notes, new quill in hand. I silently thanked Barty for insisting I only bring a copy of notes, not the originals. I loved Hermione dearly, but I was the one who'd spent the last month merging shoe boxes together into multi-compartment test trunks. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and how to do it. But Hermione didn't need to know that. Who knows? Maybe she'll stumble across something I missed. Merlin knows, Barty and Thomas weren't much help. When asked for an opinion, not instructions, they both shrugged and said the trunk was unique to wizard. Figure it out on your own and don't experiment inside the house.

Neville leaned over. A crease appeared between his eyes as he studied my book storage page. It wasn't much. Then again, maybe I shouldn't compare it to Thomas's library. Barty sometimes held my runes lessons in the library so we could study the parquet floor. Even with magic, cutting out the runes, laying the floor, and then anchoring the spells probably took six months. Add in writing the six rune sequence that allowed the floor array to scan, index, catalog, and shelve the books inside the front cover of each book and you're looking at three to four years just to set up the library. I wondered if Thomas started the project, but Lolly finished after...

I stopped myself. Better not think about the horntail in the room in a public place. Or about Thomas's response when I asked him why Fudge freaked out over a muggle title. It's your family history, too, he said. If I can look it up, so can you. What a helpful guardian. Not!

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a red line that went all the way to the top of the page.

"A conveyor belt," I answered. "See here," I flipped to the previous page and pointed to a three dimensional sketch of a book shelf. Side pieces and a rail across the front prevented the books from falling out, but I also wanted to add an automated sticking spell. Barty said they didn't exist, but I thought I just needed to be more creative. If a space expansion charm designed for handbags let me carry four bottles inside one fountain pen converter-my January project-maybe I should investigate child broom safety features. Something designed to keep people from falling off a broom might keep my books from falling off the shelves. "The trunk's interior is space expanded to about four feet horizontally and ten feet vertically, but the sky is literally the limit."

Thomas plucked the notebook out of Hermione's hands and flipped to an earlier page, which showed a simple bookshelf the same height as the trunk and about five feet long mounted on wooden drawer slides with the weight resting on a small set of wheels. "Until you learn how to build a conveyor belt and how to make it move with magic, you'll keep your head out of the clouds and stick to something you can actually build."

I glared at him. "I know how. It's exactly like the old chain pump out behind the barn. The only difference is instead of buckets, I have shelves. The spell used on never-ending spinning tops will make it move. I just need to figure out how to turn the spell off."

"Stop talking like a muggle. You don't turn a spell off."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "You know what I meant."

"The point remains. I've told you repeatedly your trunk will evolve with you. It is highly likely you'll rip everything out and redo it several times. It doesn't need to be perfect the first time out. It's not supposed to be perfect. I'm thrilled you see yourself needing enough book storage for a small library, but right now you don't need it. Focus on fulling your immediate needs first then look forward two or three years. After you've created something that fulfills those needs, work on your crazy ideas. Not before!"

Neville flinched at Thomas's tone. Gulping, he glanced between us as if waiting for an impending explosion. I frowned at his reaction. He reminded me of myself when I was around Vernon.

"Harry, you wouldn't have really gone to Knockturn Alley, would you?" Hermione asked. I wondered if she was genuinely curious or trying to distract Neville.

"Yes," I answered.

"But it's dark. You heard Hagrid and Mr. Weasley. Why would you..." She trailed off and shot a wary glance at Thomas as if blaming him for my willingness to shop around.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair, "have you ever visited Knockturn Alley?"

"Of course not!"

"Then how do you know anything about Knockturn Alley? Miss Granger, you are not a child. Stop parroting other people's opinions and form your own. For the record, where Diagon Alley is magical Britain's upmarket high street, Knockturn is it's slum. In wizarding society, labeling Knockturn Alley 'dark' is easier than admitting that high poverty rates and high murder rates generally go hand in hand. Calling it 'dark' got the ministry off the hook for fixing the actual problem. The same twisted logic had them dumb down the OWLs and NEWTs rather than implementing mandatory primary education. Of course that's just my opinion, but at least I've both lived and worked in Knockturn Alley unlike Hagrid and Weasley."

Taken aback, Hermione's mouth snapped shut. She pursed her lips and rocked in her seat, reminding me of when she bit her tongue during potions. I started to tell her Thomas wasn't Snape. As long as she asked genuine questions, he'd answer them. I guaranteed she wouldn't always like the answer. I didn't. Then I noticed the Thomas clenching his jaw and realized how on edge he was. Today marked his first and second trips to Diagon Alley since the seventies. Maybe another time and in a less threatening environment.

When Thomas leaned back in his chair and began discussing the owl post censorship legislation Elphias Doge proposed during the last Wizengamot meeting, the tension drained out of Neville. He touched the wand holster strapped to his forearm as if reassuring himself his new wand was really there, took a deep breath, and picked up the notebook, which Thomas had dropped on the table in front of Hermione.

"What's a conveyor belt?" he asked.

"Honestly," Hermione huffed, "you need muggle studies almost as badly as Ronald. A conveyor belt is a continuous loop, usually made of chain or a rubber belt. It is stretched between two pulleys-wheels," she added, seeing his confusion. "The wheels rotate, which moves the conveyor belt." Rolling her eyes, she snatched my notes out his hand and turned back to my controversial design. She pointed to the sketch. "Think of like Mr. Filch's ladder. Each step on the ladder is a shelf. You can only see two steps. You turn the wheels inside the trunk to see the different steps. Got it?"

"Yes. No need to be so condescending."

"I wasn't."

"You were," Neville said shortly. "Do you remember sending me a letter a few days ago asking why Mrs. Petrov, her occlumency teacher," he said to me before turning back to Hermione, "invited you to an early autumnal equinox celebration she's hosting at the embassy for Hogwarts students? I grew up in this world, Hermione. I don't need anyone to explain to me days of high magic my family has observed for the past thousand years. But you do for the same reason I need occasional explanations of muggle terminology. The only difference is your perception that it is okay for you to ask questions about my world, but not for me to ask questions about yours."

Thomas and Aunt Callidora fell silent, watching the confrontation with calculating gazes that made me want to kidnap my friends and run. Neville's gran paid lip service to letting him meet up with me in Diagon Alley and maybe inviting me for tea. For now, she told Neville I was too sick to come. I fully expected her to find another excuse then another and another. By the same token, she discouraged Neville from maintaining close ties with his grandfather's side of the family because Callidora Longbottom was a true Black.

During the last war, Sirius was the only Black who sided with Dumbledore and the ministry. The others either sided with Thomas or remained neutral. Callidora and Harfang Longbottom were neutrals who opposed Dumbledore's politics but lacked the political power to challenge those policies. I was honestly amazed Neville's gran allowed him to stay with them while she spent the next six weeks consulting with a healer in Japan. Neville said the new healer wouldn't be able to do anymore than the previous thirty healers, but his gran was stubborn. She wanted her baby back. I privately wondered if she decided if she couldn't have her son back, she would mold her grandson into his image. It didn't work. Neville and I weren't our fathers no matter how hard people tried to make us into them.

"There is no yours and mine, Neville. We live in the same-"

"-until you decide to live your life as a full-time witch, we don't." Frustrated, Neville ran his fingers through his hair, twisting the locks like a child having a tantrum. "Hermione, do you have any idea how offended I was when you asked me why I didn't just celebrate Christmas like everyone else does?"

"I didn't mean to offend you. I just thought-"

"-you assumed I didn't know the true meaning behind the holiday. I know exactly what the Christmas holiday is about. It is a religious holiday celebrating the birth of a man who is now considered a deity by the same religion that believes we should be burned at the stake for being born. I will not celebrate a holiday created by the very group who hunted us down. Don't even think about spouting off that ridiculous twaddle they teach us in History of Magic. Use your brain for once and consider the details. Wendelin the Weird had a wand. She could cast a flame freezing charm. What about the muggleborns whose parents refused to send them to Hogwarts, which was allowed back then? They didn't have wands. Neither did underage children or some witches from poorer families. Witches and wizards died. If I were inclined towards muggle religions, which I'm not, I would pick one that doesn't have my people's blood dripping from its hands. The Yule rites, which I realize you've never partaken in because Hogwarts doesn't offer them, can only be performed on midwinter. Last year, the winter solstice occurred on December 22, not December 25. It looked like I participated in your Christmas celebration because Hogwarts withholds Yule gifts until December 25th."

Chagrined, Hermione shifted in her chair. She pursed her lips, nibbling on the inside of her cheek, as she stole clandestine looks at the others. Inclining her head towards Hermione, Aunt Callidora wore a tight smile. She reached across the table and patted Hermione's hand. "Don't worry, dear. Rome wasn't built in a day. You'll adapt in time," she said. Thomas's face remained suspiciously blank. I wondered how he felt about the older holidays.

Barty observed Yule, the vernal equinox, and Beltane at Hogwarts, but always as days of meditation and reflection, nothing obvious unless you knew his habits. He never performed the rites and never told me more than the bare minimum, which I could've learned from a children's book, because Alastor Moody hadn't observed them since he graduated Hogwarts.

"I'm sorry, Neville. I shouldn't have assumed you were a christian. I thought most witches and wizards were because Dumbledore," she nibbled her bottom lip. "Please don't be mad, Harry, but I overheard what he said to you in the hospital wing third year. What he said about the afterlife sounded a lot like...you know."

Hands shaking, Neville stood and bowed stiffly. "If you ladies will excuse me, I need some air." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.

Aunt Callidora sniffed delicately. "Grandmother always said Kendra wore the pants in that family. Percival was a fool several times over for marrying that gold-digging mudblood. Look where it got him. A cell, leaving her to squander what few resources the family had left."

"Who?" I asked.

"Kendra and Percival Dumbledore, Albus's parents. It isn't polite to speak of such things, but you children should know there are several Azkaban-sized skeletons in the headmaster's closet."

I glanced out the window and spotted Neville sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. Sighing, I laid my napkin on the left side of my plate. "May I be excused?" I asked.

Aunt Callidora inclined her head in assent. I looked to Thomas. "Very well," he said, waving his middle and ring finger on his left hand. A signal? Too concerned about Neville to question Thomas's hand gestures, I slipped out of the restaurant.

A light breeze blew through the alley, carrying away the August heat. People milled about comparing their purchases and window shopping. A little boy walked past with his mother, tugging on her robes. I smiled when I realized he was trying to free his hand, which was stuck to his mother's robes. Creative use of a sticking charm. Little bugger must've wandered off.

I neared Neville's bench. My foot struck an invisible wall.

"Watch it!"

I blinked. "Barty?" I asked as Barty's head appeared in mid-air. "I thought you were in Salem."

"Five hour time difference, remember? I slept off my exams and portkeyed back a little after lunch."

"Why didn't you join us?"

"Because I knew you wanted some time alone with your friends without my," a pause as he fought an internal battle, "father tagging along. Having an invisible body guard isn't ideal, but a certain group of crazies never got the message about portkeys and heart potions. Better safe than sorry. Are you angry we didn't tell you?"

I felt Neville's gaze boring into my back as I considered the angles. As much as I hated admitting it, there were risks associated with me being in Diagon Alley. Big ones. Taking everything into account, I was honestly surprised Thomas allowed it at all. I also wouldn't be surprised if there were other invisible guards lurking around. "No. I understand. I might not like it, but that's hardly your fault. Thanks for giving up your day off for me."

"Not a problem." He extended his hand to Neville. "Bartholomew Crawford. I'm Harry's tutor and foster brother. Everyone calls me Barty."

Neville licked his lips nervously before he shook the hand. "Do you mind if I call you Mr. Crawford or Bartholomew? Barty..." He stopped, leaving his objection unsaid but still understood. He refused to call him Barty for the same reasons Barty called Thomas 'my lord' instead of father. One name held bad memories, the other didn't.

"Bartholomew's fine. I'll leave you two to sort out your issues with the scold," he said, drawing his wand. A few flicks and mumbled incantations later a hazy privacy ward cut Neville and I off from the rest of the alley.

Neville hunched his shoulder and stared at the paving stones. "I'm sorry I ran out. It was rude of me. I just couldn't take anymore. Hermione's great. I wouldn't have passed half my classes last term without you two helping me. She's a good friend, honestly."

"She's just a bit much sometimes. Believe me, I know. Still, I'm kind of worried about leaving her alone with them. No telling what she'll pick up."

"Hopefully tact," he blurted out. Then he flushed. "I'm sorry, but sometimes she is such a..." He stopped and bit his lip.

"What were you going to say?"

"A word you'd punch for."

"Mudblood?" I asked. When Neville nodded, I sank down on the bench beside him and studied him for several minutes. "Moody called me that a few times," I said. He looked at me sharply as if wondering why anyone would call a Potter mudblood. "Normally when I did something stupid like forget I had a wand. The strangest things used to frustrate him to no end," still did, I silently added, "like how I tie my shoes in the morning. What's the use of having shoelaces that never come untied and are always as tight or loose as you need them when you forget and untie them every night? He was absolutely determined I would learn what it meant to be a wizard and realize my true place was in the wizarding world, not the muggle."

"You were thinking about leaving, weren't you?" Neville said, picking up on the hidden undertones Ronald would've either missed or ignored. "Can't say I blame you. I've thought about it a few times myself. Out of curiosity, how close were you?"

"Close enough to ask Moody for muggle school books." Recalling Barty's first impromptu history lecture, I snickered. "Didn't turn out so well for me. I increased my course load and received a long lecture about how muggle subjects aren't really muggle."

"What do you mean?"

What was Ptolemy?"

"As in the chocolate frog card?"

"Yes."

"A potioneer."

"Claudius Ptolemaeus wasn't just a potioneer. He was also a mathematician, astronomer, astrologer, and geographer. The muggles still consider him one of the most influential astronomers and geographers of his day. How about Isaac Newton?"

"An alchemist*****. Studied under Nicolas Flamel I believe."

"Partially right. He was also a physicist, astronomer, and mathematician. The muggles consider him one of the most influential scientists of all time. Do you see where I'm going with this? Archimedes, Ptolemy, Newton. They're not the only ones. Before the statute of secrecy some of the greatest thinkers in human history were wizards. Many of whom worked side by side with muggles. Open any muggle textbook and you will find squibs, witches, and wizards. You just won't realize it. Right now, we study less than half the subjects our ancestors did. Used to be potions, chemistry, and transfiguration****** were taught side by side then combined into alchemy lessons. Now, Hogwarts doesn't even offer alchemy unless enough students demand it and can meet the prerequisites. Unlikely because Hogwarts doesn't teach chemistry. Biology was taught with herbology. Maths with arithmancy. Languages with runes. Everything was connected."

"I get," Neville said, interrupting my rant. "Although I wish you would've said something when Hermione started in on you about wasting your time studying muggle subjects instead of studying magic."

"I couldn't. Moody didn't start studying the sciences and maths until he after he retired from the aurors." True. When Madame Bones sent me the contents of Alastor Moody's home, Barty discovered stacks of muggle books. One night, while reading the notes Moody had penciled in the margin of a physics text, Barty commented that it looked like he and his godfather finally had something in common. "He didn't want people to know. I mean Madame Bones was one his closest friends and she said she'd never seen him with a muggle book. Same for his last auror trainee. He made me promise not to tell."

"Made things right difficult for you, didn't he?"

"Sometimes."

"He really called you a mudblood?"

"Yes, then he accused me of being a tourist. Said I didn't even bother trying to learn the culture just like a mudblood."

"Ouch."

"True though," I said conversationally.

Neville nodded. "I never thought about like that. Guess I always believed you were raised like the Weasleys. They're about as nontraditional as it gets." And thumbing their noses at tradition hurt them financially and ostracized them from families like Neville's.

Mudblood was still a sore point for me. Every time I heard the word, I recalled Hermione's pained expression and wondered if my mother once wore an identical one. However, I couldn't deny there was some truth behind the accusation. All muggle-raised children enter the wizarding world as tourists. You go, see the sights, then return to the muggle world still awed by magic. Then you leave for Hogwarts and think magical culture isn't so different from mine. See? They even celebrate the same holidays. They dress a little funny and prefer quills, but they're just a little backwards. Few realize the truth without being hit over the head with it. Repeatedly in my case.

Mudblood meant more than dirty blood-the uneducated child's definition. It meant someone who made no effort to adopt the foreign culture they lived in, instead expecting the magical world to adapt to their cultural norms. It wasn't our fault. We needed more to assimilate into a culture than just quidditch and a school uniform even the most conservative pure blood wouldn't be caught dead in after graduation. Dumbledore gave me what I needed when he apprenticed me to Barty-a contract Thomas said he'd let stand as long as Barty and I both wanted it.

Hermione's house elf campaign offended people because for every house elf like Dobby or Winky there are dozens like the Hogwarts's elves. Telling people to free their house elves was telling them to kick their house elves out of their families. She was saying either the elves or the humans, neither of whom she knew personally, were unworthy. Completely unacceptable.

But recognizing the truth behind the accusation didn't make it sting less. It also didn't enable me to live up to expectations. Thomas was living proof of this. Just like me, he untied his shoes before he kicked them off.

"Harry, about the wax tablets you made for us," Neville said, changing the subject. While they weren't the instant communication method I originally envisioned, the three sets of protean charmed wax tablets worked well enough given the protean charms limitations. "Think you can make two more sets? I'd like to be able to write you without worrying about my mail being censored or upsetting Hermione."

Feeling like we were one step closer to becoming actual friends, a big step up from pen pals and occasional study partners, I smiled at him. "Sure."

---

* Saying most wizards are mathematically illiterate (also called innumeracy) may be an over generalization, but it is based on canon. In the Goblet of Fire Chapter 7, Mr. Weasley is unable to tell the difference between a five and twenty pound note despite both having the numbers printed on them. To me, his lacking this basic skill explains a lot about the Weasley's financial difficulties and why they thought spending most of their lottery winnings on a trip to Egypt instead of saving it for their children's education and school supplies, which they normally have difficulty affording, was a good idea. They won 700 galleons. Translated: 3500 GBP (British pound sterling) in 1993. That's the equivalent of 5,421.95 GBP today or 8,564.51 USD (US dollar). In other words, Mr. Weasley won about 2.5 months salary at the average annual nominal salary in 1993 and blew most of it on a family vacation. Although he did purchase Ron a wand, Ron's 4th year dress robes also serve as a clear example of the Weasley's poor financial management. Interestingly, innumeracy is also one of the causes for people making poor health care decisions. Sorry, just another random fact rattling around in my brain.

** A Roman recipe collection compiled in the late 4th or early 5th century AD. Also refers to Marcus Gavius Apicius, a 1st century AD Roman gourmet.

*** Depending on where you live, you may or may not have heard the term 'giro' before. There's also a second issue. In the UK, giro is also short for a girocheque, which a check (or cheque as you prefer) not a transfer credit. The Gringotts Giro Account referred to in this story is NOT a checking account. It is a true giro system as in Egypt under the Ptolemies. I'm not going to write an extended lecture on the history of banking. Banking is old like Hammurabi old. Just because your economy is based on the gold standard doesn't mean everyone walks around with gold coins in their pocket (or grain in Egypt). Harry bought the trunks with pocket money.

**** Actually seven banks in the UK have the legal right to print their own banknotes in addition to the Bank of England. I changed it to eight because Gringotts is either not known in the muggle world or is known under a different name.

***** Isaac Newton did study and experiment with alchemy, including research on the philosopher's stone. Seriously, I didn't make this up. He also fancied himself a prophet spoken to directly by God. Sadly, I remember the random bits of trivia and hints of scandal my first physics professor sprinkled into the syllabus as means of keeping his students awake better than I do the laws of motion.

****** The definition of alchemy as being a mix of potions, chemistry, and transfiguration is Rowling's, not mine.

Chapter Text

The day after our trip to Diagon Alley, I woke with a fever and Alex, who was reluctant to prescribe additional potions, ordered bed rest and fluids. I spent the first few days napping, reading, and 'talking' with my friends through the wax tablets. They worked surprisingly well. Neville said I should refine the idea and sell them. Hermione said the ministry would arrest me if I started selling an uncensurable communication method. Then she suggested I take advantage of magical Britain's burgeoning black market-her words, not mine.

They were really brilliant until Hermione asked if I'd decided whether to watch Pettigrew's memories yet. In her defense, we had discussed the issue several times before. She never asked what they contained or advocated one decision over another, rather mature of her in my opinion. She also didn't ask me until after Neville signed off for the night.

I had. Out of sight out of mind, which explained why I'd shoved the entire rack on the top shelf in my closet. When I replied with a terse "yes and no", she dropped the subject. Unfortunately, we were all accustomed to private letters, not three way tablets. We both forgot to erase them. I didn't know when Neville read our conversation. Maybe he read it while we were writing it or woke up in the middle of the night and decided to see if I was awake. Regardless, he saw it.

I never imagined Neville of all people would feel so strongly about the issue until I woke up to find a thick envelope on my nightstand.

Unlike most wizards, Neville didn't exchange his brain for a wand. Sirius's situation was in the notes I gave him on the train. Although I never mentioned Pettigrew by name, Neville was smart enough to realize a) Pettigrew faked his death, b) Pettigrew had compelling reasons for faking his death, and c) as a supposed member of the winning side, Pettigrew had no reason to fake his death. In the first paragraph of his six page letter, he stated his belief that Pettigrew betrayed my family. Then he bluntly told me all the reasons he thought I should watch them anyway. It boiled down to this.

His parents only made minimal provisions for his care. In the event they died or were permanently incapacitated, they left everything up to his grandmother. All they left behind for him to remember them by was a handful of pictures taken at Yule and on his birthday.

Neville's gran said his mother was young and believed herself immortal like many young people do. Even with a war going on and their comrades dying left and right, Alice Longbottom fervently believed her family would survive and her side would triumph. At least, that was the story Neville heard. Funny, his grandmother never mentioned if his father shared those beliefs. Neville assumed he did.

My mother did what Neville wished his had done. He concluded by saying even if the memories had come from Bellatrix Lestrange he would still watch them.

The source didn't matter. The memories did.

I reread his letter five times, picking up different nuances with each pass through. At first, I was vehemently opposed to the idea, but I gradually changed my mind. My mother left me with her killer for a reason I still didn't understand. Granted, she made a better choice than my father did. There was no comparison between my life as Thomas's ward and my life as Dumbledore's. Thomas won that race before Dumbledore even left the starting line.

Pettigrew's memories represented a chance to meet one of my parents. Regardless of what I discovered, it was a chance worth taking.

---

I stared at the swirling silver mist trapped in the basin of the small pensieve Lolly brought up after I finished my breakfast. Thomas taught me how to use one during my first legilimency lesson. It was part of his 'ten reasons why you should control your legilimency before it controls you' speech. Each reason came with an example. Some were horrible, like the girl who died from a brain aneurysm because no one realized she was subconsciously using passive legilimency on the entire school before it was too late, but I always had a general idea of what the memory contained before I entered it. Not this time.

Pettigrew's memories were numbered, starting with one, but not dated. The only way to find out what the memory contained was to watch it.

Nervous, I stretched my hand out over the basin, clenched my eyes shut, and took a deep breath. Then I dipped my finger in the first memory. My room dissolved as I entered a war zone.

Plaster rained down from the living room ceiling. Burn marks dotted the walls. Feathers from an exploded couch cushion littered the floor. The mirror over the mantle resembled a large spider web. Even the couch was overturned as if someone had used it for a makeshift barrier. Feet shuffled behind me. I whirled around and found a younger, less plump Pettigrew gaping at the destruction.

I mimicked his expression. What happened? I wondered as I tiptoed around the room, examining the broken remains of what was once a comfortable family area. The window closest to the floo suddenly broke. I jumped then stilled as I became aware of raised voices coming from another room followed by spell fire.

A black haired toddler-me, I realized-sailed through an open door unassisted. Pettigrew leapt half-way across the room and caught me moments before I hit the floor. I stared up at him with solemn eyes, but didn't cry. A pudgy hand-hard to imagine I was ever that small-gripped his robes in a death grip. After placing my middle two fingers on my right hand in my mouth, I laid my head on his shoulder and sniffled.

He patted my back. "It's okay," he whispered. "Mummy and Daddy are just having a little argument."

A crash sounding from the nearby room.

"Big argument," he amended, edging away from the door.

My eyes widened. Sirius mentioned a huge fight sometimes after my first birthday. His description didn't quite match the memory, but it was close enough. Sirius must be in the other room, trying to smooth things over. I wondered if he was the one who half-way levitated me out of the room. I squared my shoulders and marched to the door. My mother filed for divorce over this. I knew it in my bones, but Sirius wouldn't confirm it. I needed to know more. I turned the door knob. It didn't move.

I wanted to see them, but I didn't need to. A deaf man could hear them from three blocks away.

"You slept with-"

"-you, James. He's your son, your blood. You know it as well as I do."

"My son is not a fucking parselmouth."

"Your wife is. Serpensortia," my mother said. "Bind him, lovely," she hissed. "Is this proof enough, James? Our son-our perfect, beautiful little boy-is a parselmouth because I am a parselmouth as was my grandmother."

Mumbling behind me drew my attention. I turned and spotted Pettigrew expertly balancing me with one arm while he erected wards with his free hand. My eyes widened. This was the man Sirius said was inept at magic?! Somehow I missed the minor detail he mastered the animagus transformation at the same age my dad and Sirius did. Granted, Pettigrew was a bit cowardly. Based on things I'd overheard from Barty and Thomas, I gathered Pettigrew also lacked raw power. However, he wasn't inept.

Panting, he finished raising the curse and hex deflecting wards. Then he tweaked my nose. My naive self giggled and tried to catch his finger.

He sighed. "So much for dinner. What do you think, little man, Chinese or pizza?"

I clapped my hands. Pettigrew laughed. "Pizza it is." He sobered and pressed a finger over his lips, shushing me.

"Your grandmother was a muggle!"

"A squib, who told stories in parseltongue. You knew there was a chance when we married, James. I didn't hide it from you."

"Liar! You said you weren't. You knew I would never sully my ancestors by marrying a dark witch."

"Dumbledore said I wasn't, but you never asked me. No one did. Parseltongue doesn't make us dark anymore than speaking German makes you dark, but your actions do."

"I shouldn't have to ask. You're my wife, damn it! You don't keep secrets like this."

She scoffed. "Like you've told me everything. Do the Deathly Hallows ring a bell, James?"

"That has nothing-"

"-it has everything to do with this. You lied to my face about the invisibility cloak, but I never lied about being a parselmouth. All you had to do was ask me, but you didn't. Instead you asked a man who didn't even know my name until our seventh year. I admit I don't advertise it, but I would've told you if you'd asked. Get out," she sounded defeated ",before our son loses both his parents." There was a pause followed by shuffling feet. A door creaked open. "And James, if you ever point your wand at my son in anger again, by the time I'm finished with you I will make Voldemort look like an innocent school boy in comparison. I'll owl you your things."

A door slammed.

Several minutes later, my mum appeared, bleeding from multiple cuts with soot smudges on her face and torn clothes. She surveyed her damaged living room and smiled softly when she spotted me in Pettigrew's arms. "Thank you for keeping an eye on him, Peter. Sirius," she sighed and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, "well you know Sirius."

"Not exactly godfather of the year," Pettigrew quipped.

"Understatement. He means well, but sometimes I think Aberforth's goats have more sense. Do you mind keeping an eye on him while I clean up?"

"Take your time."

"I'm sorry about dinner. We don't get to see each other nearly enough and now the roast is dripping off the ceiling."

"It's okay, Lily. Honest. Your cooking's excellent, but you know I come for the company. I'll order us a pizza and see what I can do down here."

She went upstairs. Pettigrew waited until she turned the shower on then he cracked the door open to the kitchen and peaked inside.

I winced. The roast wasn't just stuck to the ceiling. The entire room was covered in bits of meat, gravy, what probably began life as some sort of vegetable, broken crockery, and shards of glass. Pettigrew's wand began dancing in the air as he verbally incanted various repairing, cleaning, and vanishing spells. The dishes and glassware pieced themselves back together and stacked themselves in the sink. The food disappeared. After casting a few spells intended to detect broken glass and other sharp objects, he locked the door with his wand and set me down. Then he pulled a rotary phone out of a cabinet and dialed a nearby restaurant.

I never imagined my parents had a phone. I knew Thomas kept one in a small shed outside the wards because his wards fried anything electrical. Having a working phone inside the house suggested their wards weren't very powerful.

I crept closer. Stupid really. It wasn't like anyone could see me, but I felt like I was eavesdropping on something that should remain private. Still, I drank in every detail, all the little things I should've known had...Best not think about that right now.

Pettigrew transfigured a few toys and played with me until the pizza arrived. Then he set the table. By the time my mother returned, Pettigrew had me sitting in my high chair playing a game of 'here comes the snitch', which amused toddler me far more than it did the older me who recalled playing said game literally during my first quidditch game.

"You're so good with him," she said, smiling. After kissing my forehead, she sat down beside me, stroking my head while Pettigrew fed me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"No, but...it was just a story, Peter. An innocent little story. Why can't James see that?"

"In parseltongue?"

"Yes, but it's not like James hasn't heard me speak it before. I use it nearly every night when I put Harry to sleep."

Pettigrew sighed. "Lily, you know how James is. When he finds something that contradicts his world view, he pretends it doesn't exist. I'm sure he heard you, but he probably convinced himself you were just whispering or humming. I'm guessing he heard Harry talk back."

"Harry did nothing wrong."

The toddler picked up a sliver of pizza, licked the sauce off, then held it out to Pettigrew expectantly. Pettigrew forced a smile on his lips, took the piece, and quickly swallowed it. "Thank you, Harry." Gross.

My mother stifled a snicker.

"Of course Harry didn't do anything wrong, Lily. I didn't mean to imply he did," Pettigrew, said, picking up another bite-sized piece of pizza. He fed it to me complete with zooming noises. "I wondered about it myself actually."

She looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"When I kept him last week, he spilled juice all over his teddy, and I took it away to clean it. Harry kept pointing at it and hissing until I gave it back to him. I know parseltongue when I hear it, Lily."

She froze. Horror flitted across her face followed closely by relief. "Peter, will you roll up your sleeve please?"

"Please don't ask."

A split second later, she pointed her wand at his throat and said, "Imperio. Roll up your sleeve."

Pettigrew didn't bother fighting the curse or asking which sleeve. He merely gave her a sad smile and rolled up his left sleeve, revealing the dark mark. She slumped down in her chair and canceled the curse with a flick of her wand.

"Please let me explain," he said.

"There's no need."

"Lily, I haven't betrayed you or Harry. I would never." Famous last words, I thought bitterly. "If you will just let me explain-"

"-your family is sworn to his line. He called; you answered. You never had a choice. Your ancestors made it for you long ago."

"How long have you suspected?" Pettigrew's voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.

"A little over a year. Dumbledore asked me to research the Three Earls and their descendants while I was pregnant."

What did she mean by the Three Earls? Was this somehow related to the Wychwood thing I hadn't started researching yet? If so, Dumbledore learned about it during the late forties. Why did he wait thirty years to look into it?

"So what now?"

Pensive, she stared at a spot on the wall while stroking my head. My toddler-self leaned into her touch. I smiled sadly, wishing I could feel it just once. "Do you know why James joined the Order?" She laughed bitterly. "He said they're just a bunch of slimy snakes. We can't let them win. This mess is just a continuation of his school days, and Sirius isn't any better. This vendetta they have...You know it bothered me when we were in school. I refused to date James until he stopped."

"He didn't." Pettigrew's voice sounded hollow. "You know you're my best friend, right?"

Startled, she jumped in her seat then steadied herself. "I thought James-"

"-I became friends with them out of necessity. I saw what happened to Snape on the Hogwarts Express. When I sorted into Gryffindor and was assigned to their dorm, it was either join them or spend the next seven years being tortured. I know you don't like hearing this, but it's the truth. Look, the Dark Lord and Dumbledore weren't interested in the marauders because we're nice people. Dumbledore recruited James for the same traits that brought the Dark Lord knocking on his door. They recruited you because you make the rest of us look like we're standing still. You're the sort of person they like having behind the scenes, conducting research and formulating strategies."

"Peter, you're scaring me."

"I apologize, but you need to understand, Lily. This is the only way I know to explain it. The thing with Snape in sixth year wasn't an accident. It was attempted murder. Snape was always searching for evidence to get us expelled. They decided to use his curiosity against him. I got cold feet and stayed in the dorms, but James and Sirius were on the grounds that night because they wanted to see the deed done. James changed his mind at the last minute. I think he was afraid you'd hate him. They like to pay lip service to how much they hate dark magic, but magic isn't good or evil-"

"-it just is. It's how you use it that matters. My words, remember?"

"My point, Lily, is some of our so-called pranks were so far over the line the line might as well have been in China. At a minimum, the lot of us should've been expelled many times over. If Dumbledore hadn't shielded us from the consequences, we would've all been in Azkaban before our seventeenth birthdays. We never stopped. We just moved on to more politically acceptable targets."

"My son is not an acceptable target!"

"I know," he said, tentatively reaching across the table. When she didn't jerk away, he patted her hand. "I know. Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

She swallowed hard. "James came home early from the Order meeting. I know we're supposed to be in hiding and everything, but he hates being cooped up here. Besides, we're not exactly well hidden. Between Bathilda and the Order, half the country knows where we live. It's not like we're under the fidelius."

"The fidelius didn't help the McKinnons," he said softly. He turned his head, revealing premature lines etched around his eyes. He seemed so sad, broken. I wondered what about the McKinnons affected him so.

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, shaking slightly. After she steadied herself, her eyes snapped open. "Anyhow, he finally talked Dumbledore into letting him back out in the field. I had Harry in the living room. I was telling him one of my grandmother's stories when James flooed in. Harry looked right at him and grinned. Then he said daddy just as plain as day. Oh, I was so proud of him, but James had the funniest look on his face. Then Harry said it again. When James didn't respond, he started to cry. That's when I realized Harry was speaking parseltongue and James...I thought he knew. Honestly, Peter. I thought he knew, but he didn't." Her tears turned to hysterical laughter. "He accused me of sleeping with You-Know-Who. Can you believe it? Harry looks like James's clone. How could he think...You know what I don't want to know how. Obviously, he didn't think. Then he pointed his wand at Harry and," she nibbled on her bottom lip in a way that reminded me of an embarrassed Hermione, "I think I blew up the living room."

"Think?"

"It's still attached to the house," she said defensively.

They looked at each other for a long moment and then burst out laughing. She reached across the table and lightly punched him in the arm. "It's not that bad."

"If you don't mind getting wet when it rains. Circe's tits, Lily, you blew a hole in the roof."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Did not! I blew a hole in the second floor. Any damage to the roof is incidental and caused solely by James's shoddy construction skills."

"Except the Dumbledores had the roof replaced before you two moved in as a wedding present."

She blushed. "Oops?"

"Hurricane Lily strikes again! At least the house is still standing." He sobered. "So what now?"

"I'll let James stew for a few days. Then we'll talk, but he's not stepping foot inside this house until after the twenty-ninth."

Pettigrew inhaled sharply. "The new moon? Lily, whatever it is you're planning please don't. There are other ways. Safer ways that don't require the power of a new moon. I'll help you. We'll run away if we have to. Please, I beg of you don't do this."

"I'll do what I must, Peter, as will you when the time comes." A chill swept through me. She practically gave him permission to betray us. Another memory intruded.

My mother pleaded with Voldemort to take her instead. Did she raise her wand? I couldn't recall.

"But for now, I'd like you to do something for me," she said. "Odds are James and I won't survive this war, but Harry has a chance. I want you to visit during story time. I don't want my family's stories to die with me."

"I'll do it."

"Don't be too hasty, Peter. Family stories should never be told to outsiders. Even Petunia doesn't know them. My grandmother treated her like one of her own, but she wasn't blood. We'll need a vow to protect both my family history and you as it's keeper."

"Agreed."

"Peter, when I'm gone, please ask Harry not to think too poorly of me. I love him more than anyone or anything in this world, including myself," she hesitated. "Don't give him these if you think they'll fall into the wrong hands. They're meant for family only. Magical blood family only."

He wet his lips. "I understand."

Then the memory went dark.

Shaken, I exited the pensieve. I wanted answers, but Pettigrew's memory only raised more questions. Or maybe the answers it suggested weren't ones I liked.

I shook myself until my teeth rattled. No! I was imagining things. I had to be. She wouldn't. She couldn't.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed my emotions aside as best I could. I needed to think about this objectively, analyze everything while the memory was still fresh.

My parents both died in the same place. Obviously, my mother let my father back in the house at some point. Pettigrew said the twenty-ninth was a new moon. Moon cycles influenced some rituals and potions. I didn't know of any that were particularly dangerous, but I was a beginner. Thomas would probably know though. So my mother did something on the twenty-ninth. Afterward, she felt safe enough to let my father back in the house.

I wondered if whatever she did enabled me to survive the killing curse. Possibly, but if so, why didn't more people use it?

My great-grandmother Maia-Thomas's aunt-survived long enough to pass on the family history to my mother. Maia was a parselmouth, which lent credence to Dr. Leed's theory that some squibs weren't genetically squibs. Inbreeding reduced their line's overall fitness until their magic focused on more important matters, such as compensating for physical defects, leaving very little (if any) accessible to them.

I swallowed hard. One last point, the one I didn't want to consider.

My mother knew Pettigrew was a death eater months before we went under the fidelius. She knew, and she still let him become their secret keeper. Dementor-induced memories weren't always accurate. Between that and my age at the time, I couldn't say for certain. However, I neither saw nor heard a fight between my mother and Voldemort. Pleading, but not fighting. She just stood there.

My breath sounded ragged as my mind pieced together the puzzle in a completely unacceptable manner. No. Absolutely not. I wouldn't even entertain the idea. My mother wouldn't do that.

But she knew about Pettigrew, a little voice whispered. She practically gave him her blessing. Then, instead of opening her mouth and shocking the hell out of a certain pig-headed cousin or, better yet, drawing her wand and cursing him until he couldn't see straight, she pleaded for her child's life in English and blocked a killing curse with her body.

Eyes narrowed, I dove back into the pensieve. I would watch the memory again and again, if necessary. I would prove to myself that I was wrong. One hundred percent wrong. The victim of an overactive imagination. Nothing more.

Then I would extract what little I remembered of the night my parents died and repeat the process until I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that my mother did not commit suicide via Voldemort.

---

No one ever warned me that when you set out to prove something wrong, you'd better be prepared in case it's right. Maybe it was obvious or maybe it was yet another lesson Petunia and Vernon conveniently forgot to teach me. Perhaps both.

After re-watching the first memory, I watched the first few minutes of the others, searching for contradictory information. I knew when the twenty-ninth passed because Pettigrew cursed the new moon under his breath before asking my mother, who looked haggard and pale with blood-shot eyes like the previous Mrs. Number One a few weeks before she died from cancer, if she needed him to take her to St. Mungo's or at least call Madame Pomfrey. She refused and began telling another story in hissed whispers I had to strain my ears to hear. Other than that and a few tidbits about people I'd never heard of, the memories were just family stories preserved for a soon-to-be orphaned child, exactly as advertised.

Then I summoned pen and paper and began studying Pettigrew's first memory and my only one in earnest. I needed to know. Working at a fever pitch, I began dissecting the memories. Watch five minutes, leave, jot a few notes, and repeat.

My mother entered the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, a bruise I hadn't noticed before on her right cheek. Upon closer inspection, our eyes actually weren't the same color. Even as a toddler, mine were a few shades darker. I wondered at the difference. Was it lighting?

Wishing the pensieve had fast forward, rewind, and pause functions like a muggle VCR, I stalked around the kitchen, examining her appearance as best I could. She tilted her head. I raised my hand to her face and studied the bruise pattern. Not a hand print, I thought, eyes narrowed as I studied the oddly shaped bruise. From a certain angle, it looked like a tadpole. What caused it?

Suddenly, slender fingers wrapped around my wrist. They yanked my arm. The edges of the memory turned blurry. Then it fell away, revealing Lolly.

She stood on my bed with my wrist clasped firmly in her hand and a disapproving frown on her face. "When did you last drink anything?" she demanded.

"I..." My mouth snapped shut when she pointed to the half-full pitcher of juice. I knew I should've poured it down the toilet, but wasting perfectly good juice felt like a crime. "If I drink as much as Alex wants me to, I'll float away."

She bowed her head and eyed me, reminding me of how McGonagall eyed Fred and George over the rims of her glasses. "Mr. Harry," she said, sounding more like McGonagall by the second, "when the healer instructs you to drink, you will drink. The only reason you are not in St. Mungo's right now is because half the children's ward has vanishing sickness." With a snap of her fingers, she poured a tall glass of juice and conjured a straw. The glass nudged me until I gave in and accepted it. Then she stood over me while I drank it. "Better. I swear sometimes you're worse than Master Thomas."

"What did Thomas do?"

Snorting, she refilled the glass. "A better question is what didn't he do. I wasn't born into this family, you know?"

Having never heard her story, I shook my head. I'd always assumed Thomas inherited her from some distant relative.

After returning the memory to its vial and banishing the pensieve downstairs, she smoothed out the comforter and seated herself cross-legged. "My first mistress, Emilee Gamp, was a well-known columnist before she died. She was survived by a niece, a squib who had already relocated to the muggle world."

"She freed you."

Lolly shook her head. "Not in the way you understand it. We elves draw a good portion of our magic from the family we're bonded with. To us, being freed is the rough equivalent of snapping a wizard's wand, firing them, and then blackballing them in the community. Your friend Dobby is an unusual case."

"How so?" I asked.

"Let me ask you a question," she said. "At Hogwarts, who does the laundry?"

My jaw dropped when I considered the ramifications. "The house elves."

"Exactly. Touching clothing will not free a bonded house elf unless the being they're bonded with intends it. From what I heard, Dobby tricked Malfoy into freeing him," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "That man is a pandering fool, who fancies himself a cunning politician. He has his uses as did his father, but you can't buy brains. Dobby wasn't freed when he received the sock because Malfoy didn't intend to free him. Dobby pretended he was freed, but actually wasn't until Malfoy accepted his statement as truth."

"I knew Dobby was brilliant."

Lolly hummed in the back of her throat. "Given time and a little polish, he could be. I wasn't like your friend Dobby. I wasn't dismissed in disgrace. No, we discussed the matter and decided I should seek a new family through a placement agency. Once I found a new family, we would ritually transfer my bond." She winced. "Finding a new family was more difficult than I anticipated because most elves aren't like me. A few are trained as ladies maids or man servants. I believe your friend Dobby was trained as such. Others, like my Nat, may learn health monitoring spells and basic potions brewing after a family member falls ill, but they stick to cooking, cleaning, and gardening."

"But not you," I said, thinking about Lolly's day-to-day duties.

"Not me," she agreed. "During her seventh year, Mistress Emilee took a tumble down the stairs at Hogwarts. No one ever knew exactly how it happened, but the stairs were changing at the time. She fell four flights, bounced off another. She survived, but the fall broke her back. Magic is a great and powerful thing, but it's not infallible. In time, she learned how to walk again, but she was never the same afterward.

"I was trained from a young age to be her eyes, ears, hands, and feet. I learned how to read, write, speak properly, and even use an illegal wand. As she aged, my mistress lost her mobility. She was afraid of how people would react if they saw her infirmity. So she commissioned a potions master to formulate a new variant of the polyjuice suitable for cross-species use. I took her place in public." She snickered. "It was really quite the hoax."

"I bet." Recalling how Barty used polyjuice to impersonate Moody, I frowned. "I thought polyjuice also recreated old injuries."

"You're thinking like I'm human. Our bodies look similar, but there are enough differences that her injuries didn't carry over."

"So Thomas picked you because you can impersonate people?" I asked, slurping the last sip of juice.

Shaking her head, she cast a cleaning charm on my empty glass and returned it to the tray. "You'd think that, but he didn't pick me," Lolly said serenely. "Master Thomas has a one track mind. When he starts working on a project, it's all he thinks about. I don't know exactly what state Mr. Marius found him in, but I imagine it was pretty bad."

"Who?"

"Marius Avery, Master Thomas's editor. They've been close friends since their school days. After we bought this house, I spent a lot of time over here fixing the place up. Sometimes, I'd pop back to our quarters and discover he hadn't eaten all day or woke up with what he thought was a brilliant idea," her tone implied she didn't share Thomas's enthusiasm, "and never went back to sleep. Mr. Marius sent my agency a list of requirements. I was the sixth interview."

Expecting her to be higher on the list, I frowned.

She gave me a conspiratorial wink. "There's a reason I'm not allowed in the kitchen. Back then, I burned water. Believe it or not, Master Thomas did the cooking for both of us until I espoused Nat. Mr. Marius bought my contract with the understanding I would return to the agency if Master Thomas and I didn't get along. Then he 'lent' me to Master Thomas for three months. We butted heads at first, but eventually Master Thomas realized I only wanted what was best for him." Knowing her, Thomas didn't have much choice. "Mr. Marius gave Master Thomas my contract for his birthday. I bonded with the line the following Yule." She patted my hand. "Now, why don't you tell me what's bothering you while I freshen this place up?"

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"Do you have any idea how many times one of my boys has tried that line on me? If you were fine, you wouldn't have spent six hours watching the same memory over and over again."

I shrugged, but didn't answer. If I told anyone, it became real.

Reaching under my shoulders, she grabbed my pillow. "Sit up," she ordered. After I sat up, she fluffed the pillows and cast a cooling charm on them before letting me lay back down. The cool cotton felt wonderful against my neck.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"You're welcome. Mr. Barty argued against giving you those memories without anyone watching them, but Master Thomas said they were your mother's legacy. He felt he didn't have the right to watch them without your permission and Mr. Barty isn't blood." Ears twitching, she stopped and folded her hands together. "I know you and Master Thomas are both determined to avoid talking about the iron belly in the room, but it's clearly eating at both of you."

Throat suddenly parched, I clenched my hands into fists. "My mother committed suicide. Was I really that bad? She didn't even fight, Lolly. She just stood there and let him kill her. And Wormtail...she knew he was the traitor months before they cast the fidelius charm."

Spindly arms wrapped around my neck. When I stiffened, she squeezed lightly and pressed her cheek against mine. "I don't know how, but I firmly believe your mother was protecting you as best she could. You and Master Thomas are going to sit down and talk. Soon as in within the week. I don't care if I have to stick you both to the floor and pour potions down your throats. This has gone on long enough. You two will discuss this before you drive yourself crazy playing what-if." Cupping my face between her hands, she drew back and looked me in the eye. "And you will get used to normal contact. If I have to hug you every hour, I'll do it."

A mirthless chuckle escaped my mouth. "Barty's right. You really are an evil little dictator."

Shooting me a blinding smile, Lolly patted my cheek. "All my boys say that eventually. It means I'm doing my job." Then she kissed me on the brow and popped out before I could protest.

---

Author's Note: I have a confession. I write scenes, not chapters. After I finish the scenes, I group them into chapters, which sometimes means a long wait. For instance, this time I wrote a delightful interview with Rita Skeeter that I later shunted to the next (unpublished) chapter and three other scenes that won't make appearance for at least four chapters. I also use this story as an experiment. It is a place where I can experiment with POV, characterization, voice, story construction even grammar without consequences. I love my critique group, the magazine editors I've worked with over the last few years, my sister who serves as my highly critical first reader...but sometimes when you're learning something, writing as a release or to unwind, or your mind isn't all there (I'm certain you lovely folks have noticed a few what the heck moments) the last thing you want is for someone to rip your story apart line by line.

For this chapter, I attempted pantsting. In other words, I shoved my outline aside and just wrote by the seat of my pants. This technique works wonders for some people. I am not one of them. I already knew this. In the back of my desk drawer is the first novel I ever wrote. I was thirteen. The language actually isn't that bad considering my age, but the story...Let's just say it will never see the light day. In all honesty, I really should've burned it instead of shoving into the bottom drawer of the new desk I built a few months ago. (I adore my new desk, which fits perfectly in the weird corner bounded by a closet and my front door. Seriously, I designed my desk so I can open both doors at the same time and still see out the window. Crazy, but true.)

As a finished product technique, pantsting was an epic fail. However, within my 9000 word ramble I discovered a few nuggets that truly belong in the story. These pieces caused me to tweak my outline so it wasn't a complete waste of time. It also caused me to go back and reevaluate some other projects I'm working on. For me, that's the number one reason why I write fanfiction.

There's another reason why this chapter took a particularly long time to write. Some of its underlying themes hit a little close to home. War changes people. Seeing people killed changes people. Losing friends changes people. When the war ends or the soldier returns home, sometimes it's like you're living with a stranger. Some couples come out of this stronger than ever before. Others it smashes what they had into tiny shards of broken glass that shred everything they touch. This is truth as I see it.

When writing about Lily and James's final days, I can't see a happy family blissfully unaware of their impending destruction. Even though they were in hiding, in some ways I think this is how Rowling portrays them. It is to her credit. I'm too cynical to believe the happy family image. Thus, my lenses are harsher, less rose tinted.

James and Lily were cooped up in a small house with an infant while their friends were out in the real world fighting and dying. Even though Snape is far from a reliable source, we learn enough about James over the course of the books to know James started the war with Snape and Snape's assertion that James was an arrogant bigot and a bully was true. (This doesn't make Snape an angel or misunderstood. It simply means the marauders' pranks were intended to humiliate their victims.) He was also a fighter.

We know less about Lily than we do James. Regardless, take a fighter and tell him to spend the next year hiding out with his wife and child and you have a recipe for disaster. When you think about it, it's a miracle James didn't mirror Sirius's actions in the Department of Mysteries. Between the war, Dumbledore telling them to both sit on their hands, a new baby, their friends dying or being wounded in action while they did nothing, and the prophecy, they lived inside a pressure cooker. In this story, it exploded.

Writing in first person, I can't get inside James or Lily's heads. While I will probably never write either of their perspectives, I don't think James intended to harm his son Harry. James was a soldier in a war where the opposition was led by the only known parselmouth in the UK. He heard parseltongue and reacted on instinct. It's sort of like how my best friend knocked me down and gave me a concussion because some idiot set off fire crackers in the street outside my house. For a moment, Harry wasn't his son. He was Voldemort and James reacted accordingly. Lily reacted to James and you have WWIII.

I do consider Lily's actions the night she died assisted suicide. She didn't raise her wand, push furniture against the door, climb out the window, hide behind the door with James's broom and try to bash Voldemort over the head with it, or well...anything really. She didn't fight back; she begged. She was a mother defending her child and she didn't fight back. Why?

I have a theory that I will be exploring further in future chapters. We are told on two separate occasions an unbreakable vow requires a specific ritual involving a wand. Then suddenly Harry's saved by an naturally spawned unbreakable vow?! This explanation never worked for me. It always seemed like a half-assed attempt at making Snape a likable character. I will be disregarding it because to me Lily's actions only made sense if she knew her death would ensure her son's survival.

Well, now that you know more about the method behind my madness and mindset than you ever wanted to know, I'll sign off. Once again, thank you for all the reviews, favorites, alerts, and PMs. I wish I could respond to every one of you. Sadly, I can either spend my days writing responses or writing for food. Unfortunately, food takes priority. I do read and appreciate every one of them.

Chapter Text

One in the morning, five days after I realized my mother committed suicide, I found myself huddled under the covers with Sirius's mirror propped up on my pillow. In an odd way, it reminded me of how I studied at the Dursleys, but the differences between there and home were profound. The Dursleys didn't care if I stayed up all night. They actually preferred me hungry and exhausted. Also, they didn't want me studying anything especially magic. There, the rules existed to hurt me. Here, they existed for my benefit.

The rule was in bed by nine thirty and lights out by ten. An early bedtime for a fifteen-year-old, but my evening potions always knocked me out by nine. I thought about the tray of potions vials sitting on my nightstand and mentally revised that statement. They only knocked me out if I took them. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, counting my breaths, steadying my heartbeat. Not taking my potions on time was playing Russian roulette, especially when I still had that bloody monitoring band wrapped around my wrist. If Thomas found out...I shuddered. Get this conversation over with, take my potions, go to sleep, and hope no one noticed anything in the morning.

"Sirius Black," I said.

A minute passed before his smiling face appeared in the mirror. "Thank Merlin. I was just about to call you. Quick, I need an opinion," he said as I studied him, trying to figure out what was different about him. Clean shaven and healthier than I'd ever seen him, but healthy wasn't different. Something seemed off. Then it hit me.

"What happened to your eyes?"

"Colored contacts," he said, turning his head to give me a profile view. "What do you think? I wasn't too sure about brown eyes, but Hermione says they look like her mother's. My hair's a little lighter, but the goal was to look like a cousin, not a sibling. Think it will work?"

"Cousin?" I asked curiously. Hermione had implied she and Sirius were creating a new identity for him, but I hadn't asked for details as even with Lolly running the occasional letter our communications weren't completely secured.

"Malcolm Blake," he said as if he were introducing himself, "Hermione's muggle second cousin once removed. See?" He flipped the mirror around, making the room spin. Then the image resolved into a close up of a muggle photograph. A man I now realized was a younger Sirius dressed in ratty jeans and a seventies-style maroon shirt that wouldn't look out of place in Dumbledore's closet held a red-faced baby with a brilliant smile on his face. At first, I thought it was me, but closer inspection revealed a muggle hospital room in the background. He swiveled the mirror again and I saw a family photo with the same man sitting with an older couple with a curly-haired toddler perched on the woman's lap. It hit me then. These were Hermione's family photos and somehow they all featured a younger-looking Sirius.

"How?"

"A little deaging potion and some guy Hermione's grandfather knew. Bit shady, if you ask me, but the man's a genius with photos. It took a little longer than we originally planned. She had to dig the negatives out of storage. Don't worry. Hermione made sure we had all the negatives and copies of the photos then I obliviated him. It's not foolproof, but I should be able to fool anyone who comes looking for me. I can't use a lot of magic," he said with a shrug, "but that's a small price to pay for being out of that house."

Understandable. I was once willing to give up my magic completely if it meant escaping the Dursleys and Dumbledore. "You said you needed an opinion," I reminded him before we both veered off subject again.

Pensive, he turned away from the mirror. Papers rustled then he spun back around with a magazine in his hand. He opened the magazine to a dog-eared page and held it up in front of the mirror. A bed. I blinked and looked at it again. A dark stained wood headboard and fairly minimal foot board-really just two posts jutting up enough to hold the mattress and sheets in place. "For Hermione," he said. "Well, I plan on telling her it's for my guest room, but it's really for her so she has somewhere to go next summer." He shrugged. "I know it's weird and we're not really related. I mean we could be, considering how my family got around, but probably not." A haunted look crossed his face. "A fifteen-year-old kid shouldn't have to rent their own apartment. I'm not saying she can't handle it because she did, but it's not right. I was thinking about getting a bed, a couple of bookshelves, maybe a desk. I checked the pet policy before renting the place. Crookshanks won't be a problem. She'll have her own bathroom. There's even private beach access. I know she said she wanted to be closer to Cambridge next summer," I schooled my features into a blank mask, trying to hide my shock. Hermione never mentioned staying close to me next summer. That she said anything to Sirius suggested she wasn't planning on living with her family next summer either. "It's a bit far, but there's regular train service. Personally, I don't see the difference between the libraries around here and those in Cambridge, but as long as she doesn't mind making a day out of it, it's not that far away."

"It sounds great, Sirius." A band tightened around my chest like I was trapped in a Hagrid hug without the warmth. My eyes closed as I struggled for breath, willing body to fight back for a little longer without the potions.

"Harry!"

My eyes snapped open at Sirius's worried tone. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. By all rights, you should've spent the last month in St. Mungo's. You were not well enough to leave the hospital, but staying there was a greater risk to your health than the alternative. I also hear you're still battling that fever."

"It's just a side effect from the potions," I said.

Sirius pursed his lips. "Maybe."

"Who told you about the fever? Hermione?"

"Your guardian. It seems we finally found something we agree on: you getting healthy and staying that way. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Can't," I mumbled.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both." The mask I always wore around Sirius slipped off my face, revealing my inner turmoil. "Why didn't you tell me my father tried to kill me?" I whispered.

A harsh intake of breath followed by a chair scrapping across the floor. "Wormtail?" he asked, resigned.

I nodded. "I still can't believe you threw me out the door. You could've killed me."

"Hardly. By that age, you were levitating everything in sight, including yourself. You used to do this thing where you'd float yourself upside down while sucking on your toes. Beat anything I've ever seen. Lily ran herself ragged casting cushioning charms on the floor."

Frowning, I mulled over this new scrape of information. "But I thought accidental magic doesn't manifest until age five or six."

"Those are average ages," he said gently. "Some manifest later; others earlier. The first time, you were about six weeks old. Lily was so worried. The healers told her all this nonsense about premature babies and squibs. You were so small she had to shrink all your clothes. I remember it like it was yesterday. Lily took off your unicorn wrist rattle to give you a bath. She set it on the kitchen table. Next thing anyone knew, it was in the kitchen sink with you," he said wistfully. "Lily and James were so proud. We all were." He paused.

"I thought I was full-term."

He shook his head. "You were due September 6th. I remember Lily patting her stomach and whispering that you needed to come a little sooner or you'd be the oldest in your year."

Maybe I listened a little too well.

"We were all at St. Mungo's visiting Alice Longbottom and her son, who was born the night before. Lily got the funniest look on her face then Alice started screaming for a healer. You were born a little before midnight." His voice cracked. "James didn't handle it well. Kept telling me he should be in there and trying to slip inside the surgery. Remus finally stunned him and called Albus to talk some sense into him. In hindsight, he should've called Minerva. James didn't take Albus's presence too well. They nearly got into a fist fight in the lobby. Then the healer walked in and announced you were both fine. Smaller than everyone planned and you needed a few potions, but overall you were both fine."

Silence fell as I digested his story. Part of me wondered why my mother went into labor early. Was it natural or intentional? Given the prophecy, someone might have caused it because the 30th wasn't exactly 'as the seventh month dies'. If they truly believed Trewlaney's insanity and were convinced she was using the Gregorian calendar, it was possible. However, unless they scanned my mother for foreign spells and potions at St. Mungo's, we would never know. Still, I wondered. It was awfully convenient that Neville and I were born on the 30th and 31st respectively. Too convenient really.

"Was Neville born early?"

Scratching his chin absently, Sirius tilted his head and closed his eyes. "Don't think so," he said several minutes later. "My memory's a bit spotty sometimes, but I seem to remember Frank moaning about the baby taking his time."

"You still haven't answered my question," I said softly. "Did my father try to kill me?"

"I know Lily thought he did, but we didn't see the beginning of the fight, only the end." He paused.

"And you can't tell me about what you saw because of that idiotic vow," I said before he could utter another excuse.

"Don't put words in my mouth," he said softly. "There are a lot of things I don't know. Things I never knew because I was too much of a coward to ask. Did you ever ask your cousin," he grimaced as if the thought pained him, "why he told me how to get rid of my mother's portrait?"

"He said payback," I said with a shudder as I recalled Thomas's tone.

His brow wrinkled then he nodded. "As a kid, when the entire Black family gathered for holidays, my uncles would tell us stories about Hogwarts before bed." A wistful smile appeared on his lips. "Looking back, I think that's the only time we were a family. Uncle Charlus, your grandfather, would conjure sleeping bags in front of the fire at my grandfather's. I remember we'd all run in and dive for the bag closest to the fireplace. It never worked. The eldest always got the fireplace and the youngest was always next to the door with the rest of us smushed in between. Something about the bathroom," he shivered. "Can't remember. There, but not," he mumbled, setting off alarms in my head. Dementors or what Barty called the Black insanity?

"Don't push yourself."

"It comes and goes," he said with a shrug. "Where was I?"

"Why Thomas hated your mother," I prompted.

"Everyone hated my mother. Even her own blood hated her. Uncle Cyg used to tell us stories about Hogwarts. My father sounded so different when he talked about him. Happy, playful." A far away look entered his eyes. "Alive," he whispered. "I remember playing gobstones with Reg once. Before Hogwarts, not sure how old we were. Still small. I remember telling everyone I was a big boy because I was taller than Kreacher, or was that before? Anyhow, we were sitting there and suddenly my father started screaming. Sounded like he was dying. Kreacher popped in, grabbed Reg, and left. Uncle Cyg flooed in. He had a couple of people with him. I don't remember who. They bundled me off to his house. Reg and I spent the next few months bouncing between families-the Black's dirty little secret. I always hated Kreacher for leaving me behind."

I bit my tongue. He couldn't, I wanted to say. I asked Dobby once about popping with passengers. He puzzled over it for a few minutes before saying it should be possible, but most elves couldn't manage more than one. He never answered when I asked how many he could manage. Instead, I changed the subject. "Why was a Potter at a Black family gathering?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Because by then, Uncle Charlus and James were the last Potters left."

Oh. Back to the beginning then. "What didn't you ask my parents? It's okay if you don't want to say. I know it's personal."

He sighed. "Harry, you should never have to beg anyone for information about your parents. I'm sorry if I've made you feel like you should. I know that Remus and I haven't exactly been forthcoming. It's difficult to talk about. I was closer to James than I was my own brother. But you have the right to know. The vow I swore only covered," he tried to speak several times before he found a way around the vow, "your language issues."

"Not my mother's?"

"Lily, too?"

Pursing my lips, I wondered if I should tell him about the memories. He already knew Pettigrew was my source, but probably thought he sent me a letter or told me in person. Sirius wasn't the most rational person before the dementors. Could he handle knowing what she did on top of everything else? No, I decided. "Snape's snake told me about her."

Blinking, he cocked his head and mouthed the words then a giggle escaped him. "That sounds so wrong."

"His name's Franklin. His first owner abandoned him in a park. She found him and gave him to Snape."

"Sounds like Lily. Do you really want to know, Harry?" When I nodded, he stood up. The image shook as he walked across the small apartment to the kitchen. I wondered where he was. Somewhere near the sea, Hermione said. Limited magic, but he seemed happier. She said she'd enrolled him a cooking class. As he flipped on a gas burner and filled a kettle with tap water, I realized all I knew was she'd helped him rent a nice apartment on the beach and there were lots of restaurants nearby so he wouldn't starve.

Water droplets landed on the mirror. He set it on the counter and turned away. The kettle clanged when he sat it on the stove. Then he picked up the mirror and frowned at the water. "Sorry," he muttered and wiped it off on his pants leg.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he propped the mirror up and sat down at a small two-person table. "Have you ever had a crush?" he asked. The answer must've shown on my face because he grinned. "Who?"

"Cho and Parvati." An imagine of Hermione kneeling beside me in a white sundress popped into my mind. My ears warmed.

Sirius waggled his eyebrows. "Anyone else?"

I glared at him. "Don't you dare tell her."

"Hermione!" He looked like Christmas and his birthday both came early.

"Don't," I paused, searching for a plausible threat. Nothing. "Please. I thought she was pretty, but it's Hermione. She's a friend and I don't really think of her like that. She looked really nice and everything, but I know the real her."

He barked out a laugh. "I keep trying to tell her she's not half as attractive with ink smeared on her nose." He sobered. "I get what you're saying. There's a difference between checking out a girl and dating her. So two crushes and you checked out your friend once." Technically three times, but I didn't dare correct him.

The kettle whistled. Leaving the mirror on the table, Sirius stood and crossed the room. He took a mug off a hook under the cabinet, dropped in a strainer and filled it with leaves. Then he removed the kettle from the heat and poured it over the leaves. After flicking the burner off, he returned to the table with his mug cradled in his hands. "Sorry," he said, yawning. "Cho and Parvati. Did you like them both at the same time?"

"Not really. Cho was around November. Then I started noticing Parvati right before the ball."

"They were quick little crushes. A few months at most and it was over. That's normal. James saw Lily and that was it. There were times when everyone in our dorm changed girlfriends more often than we changed our socks, but not James. He'd flirt a bit, but at the end of the day, he only had eyes for Lily, who openly despised him for six years. She was his obsession."

"You make it sound like he was a stalker."

"Not quite." His mug thumped against the table. "My memories are fractured at best. I can't always tell the real memories from the nightmares. A lot of times they bleed together. Hermione's had me reading psychology books. I think she believes if I have enough information I can fix myself." A sigh hissed past his lips. "Sometimes I think James was obsessed. Others I think his crush died a natural death and was reborn years later as love. I wish I could tell you one way or the other, but I can't because I honestly don't know. Looking back, I think I saw their relationship as a symbol of everything we were fighting for. The muggleborn and the pureblood in love and living happily ever after as the muggles say. I never asked why when James called off the wedding or why he changed his mind. I saw them happy and in love and that was all I ever needed to know."

As I stared at Sirius's anguished face, I realized how much it cost him to not lie. He needed the lie like the Giant Squid needed water. The lies kept his world in balance and his mind mostly stable. I wanted the truth. After fourteen years````` of lies about my family, I felt I deserved it, but not at this price.

Instead of pressing forward, I took a mental step back and smiled at him. "Thanks. How do you like the beach? I've never been myself, but I hear it's fun."

A grin flitted across his lips. "It's wonderful. Warm and sunny - well, as sunny as Britain gets - and the girls," he trailed off with a dazed expression on his face. For the next ten minutes, Sirius rambled about muggle girls in bikinis, warm weather, and the coffee shop down the street. Then he glanced up at the wall. "Take your potions and go to bed."

"You sound like Thomas," I grumbled, already reaching for the first potion.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but good," he said as I popped the cork off. Head tilted back, I chugged the first potion, grimaced, and reached for the second. A gimlet-eyed Sirius watched me swallow it then he smiled. "Goodnight, Harry," he said, reaching for the mirror. His thumb pressed against the glass. "And Harry, I'll let it slide this time, but if you skip your potions just to talk to me again I will tell. Even if I have to kidnap Malfoy and make him play owl, I will find a way. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," I mumbled as my eyelids grew heavy. The mirror slipped out of my fingers as sleep claimed me.

Chapter Text

The day before the Hogwarts Express left Kings Cross without me-seven days after I learned my mother knew about Pettigrew's tattoo-I found myself pacing in the living area outside Thomas's office with my research notebook and ever-present ink pen in hand. After a solid week reexamining my old theories, researching the Three Magical Earls and discovering exactly why the idea that Thomas's title might not be a recreation and that Dumbledore knowingly lied to the Wizengamot-wasn't the first time and I doubted it would be the last-terrified Fudge, piecing together the chain of events as I understood them, I still had more questions than answers. However, I also realized that unless Thomas had a direct line to Dumbledore's mind-highly unlikely given some of the ambushes Thomas walked into during the last war-Thomas couldn't answer all of them.

As tempting as it was, I didn't spend all my time researching the past. I also skimmed a few books about woodworking and furniture construction Barty left on my nightstand, reevaluated my IOWL project, and filled out the paperwork for Wenlock's December IOWLs, which I still needed Thomas and Barty both to sign off on. I also talked to Dyfi about the memories until she crawled out the window in disgust, tried talking to Hedwig who groomed my hair in the same that's-nice-dear manner I associated with Mrs. Weasley while ignoring every word I said, interrogated Sirius, and wrote down all the magical control exercises Thomas and Barty taught me-even the bean stacking exercise I despised with a passion usually reserved for Draco Malfoy and Dumbledore-for Neville, who went from nothing happening when he waved his wand to causing explosions overnight. I would've loved to see the look on his uncle Algie's face when Neville 'accidentally' incinerated his toupee. It served him right for throwing his nephew out a window. I even found a possible solution to my tinkering withdrawal.

Intellectually, I understood the reason behind Thomas's no experimenting in the house rule: a teenage Barty. But I wasn't Barty. After Alex's diagnosis I needed something to keep myself from thinking about the damage that almost cut my life span in half. Tinkering with my shoe boxes and what evolved into the wax tablets was fun, kept me from thinking too much about the diagnosis, and let me feel like I was actually accomplishing something other than sitting around and cramming my head full of information I wasn't allowed to use yet. I needed my projects just as much as I needed food and shelter. My projects kept me sane.

I also knew Alex wasn't planning on prescribing bed rest when we started the next phase of treatment, which Alex rescheduled from the second of September to the sixteenth. It didn't matter. He said absolutely no walking up and down the stairs for at least a week following each session, which was a problem seeing as I worked on all my projects in the school room, potions lab, barn, and/or garden. Luckily, I had a solution. Provided, I talked really fast and spiked Thomas's tea with a mysterious, but undetectable, substance that made him forget his precious library was above my bedroom. Instead, I planned on playing the pity card and crossing my fingers, which was much safer than trying to drug an extremely paranoid man with a well-earned reputation for cursing first, questioning second.

Nervous, I glanced at the clock over the mantle. Five 'till two. Lolly gave me his two o'clock slot when I gave her Pettigrew's memory and a terse note for Thomas. Maybe I should've written something other than 'watch', but I didn't know what else to say. The memory said more than enough.

Taking a deep breath, I centered myself. This promised to be the most difficult conversation of my life, but also the most necessary. Lolly was right. We needed to talk, but no one said I had to start the conversation with the most difficult topic. Maybe if I worked up to it, it wouldn't be so bad. I gathered my courage and stepped inside. I squared my shoulders and rapped my knuckles against the door.

"Enter," Thomas called as the door swung open.

"Wait in front of the fireplace," Thomas said the moment I crossed the threshold.

Dread pooled in my stomach as icy fingers crept up my arms. It felt like a dementor times ten, making me wonder if I was projecting or if the feelings were real. My eyes fluttered closed as I sank into my practiced meditations, conjuring the image of a solitary flame in my mind as I brought up my occlumency shields. The urge to flee disappeared and my worst memories stayed firmly locked away. When I knew I could split my focus while maintaining my shields, my eyes snapped open.

I scanned the room, searching for the dementor. No dementor. Instead, I discovered Thomas at the far end of the room near the door leading to the glassed-in conservatory hunched over a small table.

He held up a finger in warning and turned slightly, revealing a small obsidian obelisk about as tall as my arm was long hovering over the table. A flick of his wand illuminated runes around the base. Another flick and the runes wrote themselves in the air above the obelisk and then rearranged themselves.

Apparently satisfied, Thomas nodded once. "Lolly, when you've finished recording the data, return this to storage and ward it. Use your blood," he said, shooting a meaningful glance at me.

"Of course." She scribbled something on a long roll of parchment then banished the obelisk with a snap of her fingers. The dementor-esque feeling vanished. She turned a shrewd gaze on Thomas. "I'll send Nat up with some food. Please try to eat something." When Thomas started to protest, she held up a hand. "I know, master. After spending the last four hours with that thing, I don't feel like eating either, but we both used a lot of magic. If we don't eat, we'll be useless tomorrow." She glanced at me. "And you should eat before you take your afternoon potions, not after like you did yesterday."

I flushed. "Sorry, I forgot."

"See that it doesn't happen again," she said with syrupy smile that promised pain and humiliation if I didn't follow her orders.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call me if you need me," she said and popped out.

"What was that thing?" I blurted out. The feelings reminded me of that night by the lake. What could cause that other than a dementor?

Thomas crossed the room and sank into an armchair. His head lolled back and eyes drifted closed. "I believe," he said after meditating for several minutes, "it is an execution chamber for dementors." He twitched his fingers. Lolly's roll of parchment zipped across the room and landed in his lap. He unfurled it and beckoned me closer. "These runes here," he said, pointing to a sequence Lolly had copied off the object, "say it is, but you should never trust anything written on a magical object. We wizards are a paranoid lot. More often than not the inscription's a trap, encouraging you to utilize in the object in a manner that will likely lead to your demise."

Filing that information away for future reference, I asked, "Did you learn at Borgin and Burkes or during your mastery studies?"

He conjured his patronus, relaxing further when the silvery wolf curled up by his chair. Most people believed chocolate was the only treatment for dementor exposure, but a properly cast patronus worked just as well if not better. At least, that's what a note I found penciled in the margin of one of the real Alastor Moody's books said. Watching as the tension bled out of Thomas as he rubbed his foot against the patronus as if it was solid, I wondered if the patronus was better than chocolate. It certainly worked faster.

"Sit," he said, indicating the chair across from him. After I seated myself, notebook resting in my lap, the patronus shifted so its tail curled around my ankle. Warmth swept through me. In a way, it reminded me of the first time I felt the wards. "I apologize," Thomas said. "I should have warned you before exposing you to that."

My eyes narrowed as I caught the hidden meaning. "Why did you?"

He inclined his head towards me. "I needed to see your reaction."

"You were curious," I accused.

"That too. I needed to know if you thought to employ occlumency before or after you cast a patronus."

"Why?"

"Before means you've learned to think before you act. It also means you're confident in your occlumency."

"But I'm not."

At my protest, Thomas shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Your instincts say otherwise. You didn't even think about casting a patronus, did you?"

I clenched my jaw, hating everyone in that moment: myself for not reacting as expected, Barty for drilling examine first, cast spells second into my head, and Thomas for arranging this idiotic test to begin with. "I still don't understand why you needed to know how I'd react," I said.

"Severus Snape left the Order a few days after you were hospitalized. He's tenured so he still holds his job, but I lost that inside link to Dumbledore. Keeping Severus at Hogwarts is more important than him remaining in the Order, Harry. We're still in a state of cold war, but that will eventually change. When it does, anyone associated with my known followers or you will be at risk."

My eyes widened in horror. Deep down, I knew this was a possibility when I first contacted him, but I honestly believed they wouldn't go that far. They protected people like Hermione. They wouldn't hurt her, especially not when I wasn't choosing a side. "But I'm neutral."

"You are also my heir. Being neutral doesn't change your blood, Harry. Between the two of us, you are the softer target, a weakness I have no choice but to allow. Should this conflict escalate, they may target you to get to me. You are safe behind my wards. Your friends are not. Although I have serious doubts about your friendship with Neville," I glared at him, "should anything happen to Hermione I fear you will act on your programming."

"And whose fault is that? You swore you'd help me, but all you have me doing is reading books and listening to lectures. I need-"

"Healing your mind could take years. You knew this before you contacted me. There's no quick fix. No healing ritual or potion that will undo it. Your occlumency studies have progressed at an amazing rate for someone not studying under a master legilimens."

Rolling my eyes, I said dryly, "I live with a master legilimens. I should be progressing faster."

Thomas eyed me contemplatively, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. "Mind magic can be extremely stressful on the body. From the first day, you were magically and mentally ready for more intensive lessons, but we also have to consider your physical health. A heart attack, for example, would set you back months if not years, which assumes it doesn't put you in an early grave. I wanted to give you as much time to heal as possible. I also felt teaching you more in-depth mind magic would be easier if we were both comfortable around each other. That's one of the reasons I stayed with you in St. Mungo's even after Barty used novam vitum. However, we are running out of time. I patched your mind together, but it is a temporary solution we must repeat every six months until you're completely healed. Should the war escalate, which I believe it will, there is a chance I will be unable to get to you in time should the patches fail."

I nearly bit a hole in my tongue. Of course it would escalate. Dumbledore and Thomas both exorcised the phrase 'peaceful resolution' from their vocabularies years before I was born. I wanted to point fingers and yell, but I knew better. If I lost control of my emotions, Thomas would never answer my questions.

"I exposed you to that object for two reasons. One, it allowed me to simulate a legilimency attack while monitoring your vitals. Your heart rate and blood pressure both stayed within the normal range, which means you are ready for more intensive lessons. Two, worst case scenario, there may be dementors guarding the perimeter here. Using the dementors as personal guards is an extreme measure I do not believe will be necessary, but I'd rather prepare for the possibility than be caught unaware."

"What about Barty?" I asked, shooting him a concerned look. Thomas's mouth settled into a grim line. His gaze slide away. My eyes widened in horror when I understand his silent message. If Thomas needed dementors guarding his personal residence, Thomas was severely injured and Barty already dead. Clenching my fists, I nodded tightly. "I understand. You never answered my question," I said more as a distraction than because I wanted an answer. "Who taught you that runes lie?"

"Dumbledore actually. When I started Hogwarts, I was Slytherin's Mudblood. Some of my housemates believed I wasn't after a few parseltongue demonstrations, but others...They came to respect my power. Nowadays, they'll even accept me into their social circles as long as I don't do anything to remind them of my mixed heritage, but in the beginning they hated me."

"Like Malfoy hates Hermione?" I asked, curious despite myself.

"Perhaps. Tell me, Harry, does young Malfoy target every muggleborn in Hogwarts or just her?"

I started to say every muggleborn, but quickly realized that wasn't right. Dean never knew his birth father, but he presented himself as a muggleborn. "I haven't seen him the others individually," I said, giving myself some wiggle room. It was Malfoy. Of course, he targeted all muggleborns.

"He probably hasn't. Put bluntly, young Malfoy's jealous. As a first year muggleborn completely new to the wizarding world, Hermione beat him in every subject. That girl has more talent in her little finger than Draco Malfoy has in his entire body. She is also a powerful witch. In a few decades, she'll be able to match me spell for spell as long as I'm not casting in parseltongue. The same goes for you. You two are special where young Malfoy is merely mediocre. His father in a misguided attempt to motivate the boy ensured he knows it. To add insult to injury, Hermione is also quite comely where as most of the girls from older families -the same young women his parents are encouraging him to court-are one, perhaps two, generations away from being grotesquely deformed."

"So you're saying Malfoy hates Hermione because she's pretty? That's crazy."

"I'm saying he would hate her less if she resembled the Parkinson bint. Even if she weren't a muggleborn, he would still hate her. Instead of a muggleborn being better than him, a halfblood would be or, worse in his eyes, a girl. Now imagine Hermione sharing a dorm room with four Malfoys and you'll have a similar situation to my first year. They despised me at first, but they were also Slytherins. My first Christmas one of my dorm mates sent me what was supposedly a protection amulet. My head of house confiscated it and gave it Dumbledore for analysis. A few weeks later, Dumbledore asked me to stay after class and explained what the amulet actually did. It protected someone alright, but not me."

"So that thing doesn't actually imprison dementors?"

He licked his lips. "In this case, I believe it works as advertised, eventually killing them. I will need to construct one and test it to be sure. If it works, it will solve several problems."

"What sort of problems?"

"I shouldn't tell you this, Harry, but I suppose it won't hurt. Dementors were created for battle. They're weapons currently controlled by the ministry. They can be useful, but they are also extremely dangerous. In the event the conflict escalates again, the dementors will be used either by myself or the ministry. Regardless of who they side with, they will eventually be freed from Azkaban and allowed to breed, but there will also come a time when they must be caged. The ministry may be content with restricting them to Azkaban, but I am not so trusting."

Nat popped in with a tray, deposited it on a side table, and left. Without standing up, Thomas summoned a small plate of baked beans on toast and a tall glass of raspberry lemonade. He sipped the drink and hummed in the back of his throat. "I've missed this," he said with a smile. "To think I almost told Nat no when he asked for raspberry plants. Eat before Lolly hexes us both for upsetting her husband."

After fetching my snack, I slipped into the seat opposite from Thomas and laid my notebook on the floor. I took my first bite of toast. Fresh bread and homemade baked beans, I noted.

"So what brings you here, Harry? I don't mind the interruption, but you don't normally seek me out."

Pondering where to start, I sipped my raspberry lemonade. "I didn't know the lemons were ripe." Stupid. The lemon trees

"They're not. Nat's preservation charms are second to none and excellent for storing the harvest, but you didn't come here to discuss lemons."

Needing a safe beginning topic, I summoned my notebook without my wand. A smile flitted across Thomas's face. "You've been practicing," he said.

"Reading about Neville's daily disasters provides a lot of incentive," I said, removing the folded IOWL forms I stuffed between the pages of my notebook before I came downstairs. I passed them to him. "I've already discussed this with Barty. He said it's up to you."

The paper crinkled when he unfolded the forms. While he finished his last bite of toast, he skimmed the forms, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. "Four plus exams? That's ambitious." I swallowed my protest when he raised his hand. "I've seen your work ethic, Harry, and your test results. I believe you're fully capable of sitting these exams and excelling. I just want to make sure you understand the consequences. Plus exams in potions, charms, and herbology double as chemistry, physics, and biology exams respectively. As such, they are regarded as sciences. You know the exam requirements."

I did. Six subjects minimum, ten maximum. They required one exam each in humanities, mathematics, sciences, and language and two exams in magics. It was a very odd system where a charms plus exam counted as a science because it included physics, but a charms exam counted as a magic. They also renamed some courses and changed others until they were almost unrecognizable. For instance, instead of offering a Care of Magical Creatures exam, they had Magical Creatures, which covered all creatures in theory and offered an optional care practical for students who wanted to take an IAWL in a specific creature or creatures. They didn't even offer DADA, my favorite subject. Instead, each school required all first through third years to take basic magical defense, which covered stunners, shields, disarming, and magical creatures like boggarts and grindylows. Anything more advanced was covered in informal dueling clubs, which required students and their parents to sign a magical contract stating any student who used magics learned during dueling club-it didn't matter if you were caught-against another student for any reason would be automatically expelled. Barty said Gellert Grindelwald was the most famous wizard expelled by contract.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"You just started physics last month. There's no harm in waiting another year and sitting a supplemental exam."

"I know." I paused and bit my lip. "I saw my Hogwarts record, Thomas. Hearing that all my professors thought I'd fail as soon as Barty left wasn't so bad, but Dumbledore put his expectation that I would fail the instant Moody stopped looking over my shoulder on my permanent record. I know the other schools don't really care about his opinion or even most of my grades. Between the different systems and what our own ministry says about our potions and history grades, odds are they'll skip straight to my exams, project, and interview without opening my Hogwarts transcript. I can do this."

"I know you can. I am asking if you've fully considered the consequences. Madame Umbridge has requested we publish your IOWL results and possibly even an interview on the exams in the Prophet. Parsel runes and Dark Arts with an optional parseltongue practical will raise more than a few eyebrows."

"Arithmancy plus counts as my math. Then charms plus, herbology plus, and potions plus all count towards science. History's my only humanities course, so it's required. Runes counts a language. I could drop English literature, which also counts as a language, but I might as well take it. Transfiguration is one magic. Magic makes more sense to me when I know how it interacts with the physical world. I know it doesn't work that way for everyone, but it does for me. Even though I know it will mean more work, I don't want to drop any of my plus subjects, which means I need another magical subject. It's either divination or dark arts. I don't need tea leaves or a crystal ball to know how badly I'll fail the divination exam. Besides, at IOWL level the Dark Arts exam is just theory. It's mostly about not blowing yourself up using unknown spells. The practical portion is just learning an obscure spell. Last year, they taught students how to spit shine their shoes. The year before it was how to trim nose hair. Stupid, harmless bits of magic."

"Okay."

Chapter Text

Silence fell between us. Ice clinked against the glass as Thomas toyed with it, rocking it back and forth. Nerves? I wondered. The glass stilled.

“I watched the memories,” he said. Tone even and face blank, nothing betrayed his true feelings.

“And?” I prompted after a long pause.

“It changes nothing.”

“She let you kill her.”

Sparks flew off his fingertips as Thomas sliced his hand through the air. “She is dead!” He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “Your mother is dead,” he said gently. “I killed her. Knowing why she didn’t fight back doesn’t change what happened. I made just as many decisions that day as she did.”

“But if you’d known…”

He laughed – a hollow laugh that echoed in the room like a ghost. “What if is the dominion of children and fools. I do not concern myself with what if, Harry, only what is.”

“But she –”

“Stop.” He closed his eyes and exhaled – a deep, shuddering breath as if he was purging himself of his thoughts. “Harry, I did not know we were related until you sent me the codicil. To be frank, I stopped looking for wizarding relatives when I was sixteen and hadn’t even considered the idea that there might be others out there since.” His words lisped as parseltongue slipped into his speech. “I enjoy having wizarding kin – well, you at least. That said, there were other factors in play that day.”

I squared my shoulders. “Such as?”

Instead of answering, Thomas flicked his fingers towards a file cabinet. The latch clicked. The drawer rumbled as it slid open, sounding almost like one of Hagrid’s growling creatures. A two-inch thick file flew out, sailed across the room, and landed in Thomas’s outstretched hand.

Silverware rattled when he dropped it on the table. With one finger, he turned it towards me, displaying the blood red label written in Lolly’s perfect cursive. OTP Finances: Potter, it read. A chill swept through me.

For a moment, I was trapped in Barty’s sitting room with Sirius sitting across from me, the chess board between us, as I accused my father of doing something stupid. Judging by the thickness, it was either multiple something stupids or James believed he was being principled. I imagined Dumbledore encouraged the latter.

Of course, this was Thomas. While he wasn’t making excuses or claiming he didn’t do it, he was the other side’s leader. Perhaps, he dummied up the file after I sent the memories down – another way to keep me cooperative. Still, I couldn’t see how admitting he killed my mother and couldn’t say he’d have changed his mind benefitted him.

Papers rustled as Thomas flipped the file open. “Intelligence is a funny thing. As much as I’d like to claim that everything in here is one hundred percent fact and verified by three independent sources, most of this is hearsay and rumors. The withdrawal records purchased from Gringotts are accurate, but the goblins do not track gold after it leaves a vault. They just record how much comes in and how much goes out.”

Mouth suddenly dry, I reached for my raspberry lemonade and took a sip. “And they sell that?” I said.

“To anyone with the gold.” He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. “The goblins are no wizard’s friend and every wizard’s enemy.”

“Ralmuth isn’t.”

“Individually, Ralmuth isn’t. The Goblin Nation, on the other hand,” he shrugged. “They profit from our conflicts.”

“You make them sound like arms dealers.”

“That too.”

Paper rustled as he flipped through the file. His finger trailed down the pages. I glimpsed long sheets of handwritten tallies like a wizarding version of the spreadsheets Vernon left scattered around the living room. He hummed under his breath and spun the file around. A long finger tapped the page, drawing my attention to the withdrawal column.

1,319,699 galleons, 9 sickles, 3 knuts

My heart pounded in my chest as dozens of passing comments from Snape, Ron, and Barty suddenly made sense. I always assumed a modest inheritance from my grandparents bought my parents’ cottage and put away enough money to live off for a few years. My mum later withdrew some of it and placed it in trust for me. It was a simple story, an upper-middle-class Privet Drive tale.

Except my father was wealthier than I could imagine.

My gaze roamed to the date. 28 October 1981. Less than a week before Thomas killed them.

I swallowed hard. “He financed the Order,” I whispered to myself.

“At one point, yes.” I looked at him sharply. He held up a hand, forestalling my questions. “Starting in February 1979, James Potter donated 15,000 galleons per month to the Order of the Phoenix. The gold was transferred directly to a vault owned by Albus Dumbledore, making it easily verified. This withdrawal…” he hesitated. “I don’t know where this gold went. When I went to Godric’s Hollow that day, all I knew was that a week after James Potter withdrew over a million galleons jobberknoll feathers and erumpet fluid disappeared from the black markets. The Order bought up the entire supply. I thought, and my analysts agreed, that Potter gold was financing mass veritaserum and bomb production.”

“Dumbledore wouldn’t use bombs.”

“I note you didn’t say veritaserum. As for the bombs, Dumbledore likes to keep his hands clean. The same doesn’t apply to the Order. On the 30th, Pettigrew reported a plot spearheaded by James Potter and Sirius Black to smuggle an erumpet fluid bomb into Malfoy Manor and blow it sky high. Draco Malfoy is a few months older than you. He was a toddler and as innocent you were. He and his mother would have been home.”

Bile rose in my throat and denials rose to my lips. I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and shoved my feelings aside. Rational, I told myself. Be rational, lest I lose my only chance to get real answers from Thomas.

I wouldn’t delude myself. If I reacted with anything other than cold, hard logic, Thomas would never discuss this again nor would Lolly intercede on my behalf. Would the Sirius who insisted Dumbledore’s prophecy was absolute truth hesitate over mailing a bomb? I couldn’t say. My father…When I asked Sirius if my father tried to kill me, all he said was that he didn’t see the beginning of the fight. He never explicitly denied it.

“My mum wasn’t involved,” I said.

“Bombing’s a muggle idea,” he replied. “Additionally, as much as the bomb plot concerned me, the other ways the Order could use a million galleons concerned me more. I needed the Potter galleons out of Order hands.”

“But the divorce –”

“Was unknown until you sent me the papers. Even with it, you were the Potter heir. Had James died and you lived, you would have inherited everything. At the time, I believed your mother would have total control of the estate until you came of age. I had no reason to think she didn’t support James’s donations nor did I have any reason to believe they wouldn’t continue. Had she died, I believed your custody would default to Sirius Black, who did support the donations and donated extensively himself. He was also part of the bomb plot. Any way I looked at it, your custody went to an Order member, who would have continued funneling that million galleons to the Order. The only way to stop the flow of funds was to kill James and Lily Potter.” He paused. “And you.”

“If they were as entrenched in their beliefs as you think, they’d have just left it all to the Order.”

“First rule of magical pureblood society, Harry. Purebloods are like the Hapsburgs. They’re all related. The last time a pureblood line ended the court battle over who inherited lasted nine years. All I needed was six months.”

“And if the Order already had the funds?” I challenged.

“Undue influence.” His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “Ironically, I would have had a better case as your guardian than using some random pureblood James Potter may or may not have met. Do remember that I didn’t need to stop the transaction. I needed to buy enough time that it no longer mattered.”

I rolled his words around in my mind, twisting them into different scenarios like the Rubix cubes Dudley smashed when he couldn’t solve them. Don’t know. Everything Thomas said boiled down to previous actions and things he suspected but couldn’t confirm – Thomas’s “don’t knows”. So if he killed my family to a withdrawal, what really happened to the money? “If my father really withdrew over a million galleons, where did it go?”

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. Since that night, Lolly has monitored every known order account so has Lucius Malfoy. She even hired a forensic accountant. Every deposit traces back to an employer, family member, or a matching withdrawal. There are no traces of James Potter’s gold.”

Heart pounding in my chest, I asked the one question I’d asked friends, teachers, and even Professor Dumbledore dozens of times and never got a straight answer. “Why did I survive? Professor Dumbledore said my mother’s love protected me, but if love could block a killing curse,” I trailed off.

“Dumbledore’s not wrong. I don’t know if she acted out of love or desperation. Perhaps, she truly was suicidal and believed her actions gave her death greater meaning. Did you know you have runes on your feet?”

I blinked. “Those aren’t runes. I cut my foot on a piece of glass years ago.”

“Then why did they register on Alex’s scans as inactive runes? After he brought them to my attention, I did some research but my findings were inconclusive. Then you gave me the memories. There is only one new moon ritual associated with those runes and the one on your forehead – Clytemnestra’s Curse.”

“If it has a name, why didn’t Dumbledore tell me?”

“I doubt he knows. New moon rituals are powerful magic – dangerous, highly illegal, and once you’ve recovered there are no physical signs you ever performed one. Your runes, in particular, match nineteen known protection rituals. Clytemnestra’s Curse wasn’t even on my list until I heard about the new moon.”

“What does the curse do? What did she do?”

A book slid across the table. My breath caught. In all my hours trolling through the Hogwarts Library and later perusing Thomas’s shelves, I had never encountered a book such as this. Bare-breasted women danced around a fire – all cast in solid gold. Pearls crowned their heads and emeralds covered the ground at their feet like grass. It was a king’s ransom in precious gems and gold. After glancing at Thomas for permission, I reached for it hesitantly. My fingertips slid off the preservation spells as if they were shield charms.

“Where?”

“When,” he corrected. “According to the dating charms, the parchment dates to 389 AD. It’s a book a women’s magic I found in the catacombs of Rome. Not very useful, I admit. Childbirth, child rearing, and obscure rituals that can only be cast by women. I don’t know how Lily Potter came by it. I suspect she either translated the runes herself or somehow acquired a more modern variant because that one uses Phonecian. The latin’s archaic, but you should understand it well enough.”

“And you’ll just let me read a book that costs more than your house?”

Thomas snorted. “Between the maker’s protections and mine, that book would probably survive fiendfyre. Still, no food or drink while you’re reading. If you have questions about the translation work, ask Barty. Lolly has my notes on the runic translations. If you want them, ask her.”

Sensing his dismissal, I gathered the book in my arms and slipped out of the office. Dozens of new questions chased each other in my head, mingling with the old ones until I didn’t know which avenue to explore first. Perhaps, the book was the key. Maybe if I found out what the curse was then I could investigate whether my mother knew about it. If she did, did she actually use it and why? Who could I ask? The few female friends I knew about were dead. Sirius’s memories were compromised by the dementors. Pettigrew probably didn’t know any more than he’d sent. Snape, Barty was pretty sure she cut all ties with him before she left Hogwarts.

As I trudged up the stairs, Lolly popped onto the landing. She stood there with a notebook clutched in one hand and a sympathetic smile on her face. When I neared, she reached up and squeezed my hand.

“When you need help with that,” she gestured to the book, “call me. No late nights, mind you.” Her eyes glazed over before she nodded to herself. “When you’re ready to visit her grave, tell me and I’ll make the arrangements.”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t want Thomas.”

She patted my hand. “Not him,” she agreed. “I’ll find someone trustworthy and competent. Even if I have to pop across the pond and hire Leeds to accompany you, I’ll find someone.”