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Chapter Text

It’s perhaps the strangest thing in a long string of utterly inexplicable events that finds Harry Potter, not quite dead and not quite alive, in King's Cross with Professor Dumbledore. As he sits there and questions the very dead man, he finds himself at a bit of a crossroads. 

“I've got to go back, haven't I?” 

“That is up to you."

"I have a choice?"

"Oh yes." Dumbledore smiles at him. "We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to...let's say...board a train."

"And where would it take me?"

"On," says Dumbledore simply.

On. Whatever - wherever that is. With his parents, probably. Sirius would be there, with them. Remus. Tonks. Fred. God, he wants to cry. Can he cry, here? Dumbledore would know, but then Harry wouldn't have the strength to ask. 

"Voldemort's got the Elder Wand."

"True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand."

"But you want me to go back?"

"I think," says Dumbledore, "that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have less to fear from returning here than he does.”

Right. Because whatever’s just happened, whatever choice Harry makes, one of the horcruxes keeping Voldemort immortal will die underneath that seat. If he goes back, it dies alone, and if he moves on, it goes with him. 

“But it's not the last,” Harry realizes, thinking of the farewells he'd left unsaid just before turning himself in. “Nagini. The snake, she's a horcrux too. I…I told Neville, just in case. Before coming here.” 

Before I went to die, he doesn't say. It’s obvious enough to the both of them. 

“I see,” Dumbledore says with a tilt of his head, folding his hands together. “If, indeed, he has another horcrux left, both he and the snake would be waiting for your return. I apologize for my early supposition.” 

“So…so if I go back, it's not over,” Harry says, swallowing around a lump in his throat. Despite the bright, clean station around them being completely empty, he feels as if he's being caged in, and his fingers twist round themselves as he lets that thought sink in. 

More fighting. More dying. Not necessarily him, exactly, but maybe the other students and professors. People he went to school with, ate with, studied with. Kids who might not have even lived as long as he did, for whatever definition of living you can consider Harry's life to be. Kids like Colin Creevey, whose face Harry suddenly can't remember beyond the giant camera he always held. Did he have freckles? It feels as though Colin had, but the uncertainty digs at him anyways.

“Is this all in my head?” Harry asks, breaking apart the pensive air between them. “Or is this real? This place, me, you, all of it?” 

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore chuckles, spreading his hands with a beam. “Just because something is in your head doesn't mean it's not real!” 

For a split-second, Harry is not seventeen and almost dead, feeling as though he's sitting in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts and staring up at a man he thinks of as a mentor and grandfather alike. In that split-second, he feels rather as if he's a young boy again being told something wondrous and magical, and no one knows better than Professor Dumbledore how truly great magic is. 

And then his years catch up to him as the broken little thing that used to be a soul cries out again, leaving Harry cold and horribly lonely. 

There's another question at the tip of his tongue, heavy as can be, but it’s the kind that even Albus Dumbledore can't answer. Can't be trusted to answer, one might say, after years of untold plans and immense secrets and grief; it seems that when he finally has the man ready to answer any question at all, Harry has found that he doesn't have any more answers worth hearing. Or even that the questions Harry has left can’t be answered because they're not meant for Dumbledore, really. But maybe there are others who can, waiting for him somewhere here the same way Professor Dumbledore is. 

Just as he thinks of it, there's the sudden weight of something slipping into his robes, a sensation eerily reminiscent of the day he received the Philosopher's Stone from the Mirror of Erised. He wants to be surprised, but a numbness has settled into his limbs that hardly leaves room for any other emotions.

It's worth trying, at any rate. 

“Right,” Harry says into the immense silence, jerking his head in what might generously be considered a nod. “If you'll excuse me, Professor, I think I have an appointment with someone else.” 

“Do you really?” Eyes glittering with fascination, Dumbledore stands up and looks around as if he might be able to see someone coming around a corner to visit. “Well, my dear boy, I certainly won't keep you. If I may be so bold, I should like to think that whoever you meet would feel the same way I do. That is to say, we should both believe that whatever choice you make is the right one. I do hope you keep that in mind, Harry.”  

There's a sort of look about him that makes Harry feel like he's waiting for a response, but he can't think of one worth saying out loud, so he nods again as best he can while his stomach churns heavily. 

“Well then,” Dumbledore says with a beam, “I shall head out the train station, as it were.” 

And with a slight bow of his head that sends his hat tilting, he takes off to the right with the beginnings of a hum under his breath.  

Watching as the professor heads out farther and farther into the endless white before disappearing into a haze of mist that somewhat resembles doors, Harry reaches into his robes to pull out a small stone the size of his pinky nail.

Taking in a deep, steadying breath, he turns the Resurrection Stone over in his hands three times. 

“Hey there,” he says weakly, hands clenching around the stone as they appear before him once again. Blue-white, rumpled clothes, the same faces he’s seen a thousand times by now and yet doesn’t quite know the way he should have. “I know it's only been a minute, but I wanted to talk to you again.” 

“Hey there,” his mum echoes, the smile on her face so warm it hurts. 

“Anytime, kiddo,” his dad says, grinning widely as he throws an arm around Lily. 

Letting his knees fall out from under him, Harry flops down onto the seat from earlier and gives them a shaky smile back. 

“I, um, met Professor Dumbledore,” he begins, eyes lowering so he doesn't have to meet their gaze for too long before they fall on bare feet. He frowns at the sight of them instinctively until a pair of socks and runners blink into existence around them, and he loses his train of thought. Shaking his head, Harry tries to keep on track. 

“He, er, explained a lot of things to me. The blood magic, his plans, my wand, and about the Hallows and things. I mean, I only have the stone and the cloak on me, but apparently the Elder Wand is mine because I won its allegiance or whatnot when I disarmed Draco and he's the one who disarmed Dumbledore back then on the Astronomy Tower. Classic stuff, really.” 

His dad snorts then. Harry can see an elbow dig into ghostly ribs from the corner of his eyes when they jerk up, and his parents nod encouragingly. 

“Go on,” his mum says, looking as if there's nowhere else she'd rather be than here, listening to him ramble. 

When you're a bloody orphan who killed himself to take down a Dark Lord at seventeen only for it to half-work, it's a bit difficult to move past that without wanting to bawl your eyes out. But Harry does his best. 

“Well,” Harry swallows, “he told me I have a choice. To go back and fight, or…to move on. Catch the train, and all.”

Belatedly, he adds, “This is King's Cross. Dunno what platform or anything, but. King's Cross.” 

There's a sort of shuffle, almost, where if his parents were flesh and blood there might have been clothes rustling and hair falling. They make their way over to him and crouch down, the white glow of their bodies falling into his vision beside his knees. 

A pair of small, thin hands rests on his right knee, and a broad palm comes up to wrap around his shoulder. They aren't warm, and the touch is barely there to his senses, but it still feels as though he can feel it grounding him. 

“It's okay, love,” his mum whispers, a curtain of hair slipping over her shoulder to brush his robes. “It's a hard choice to make either way.” 

“You can be honest,” his dad adds, so full of confidence that Harry envies him. “We're bloody proud of you no matter what, Harry. Right chuffed, actually. Look how far our baby boy's come!”  

It's not really funny in the least, but it earns an amused huff from Harry that has both of them smiling widely with delight. 

Staring at his knees again and taking a deep breath, Harry feels terribly small when he admits it. 

“I don't want to go back.” 

There's no shocked gasps, no sudden strike of thunder condemning him, no rumble of earth beneath his feet as if the world is disturbed by the very notion of his selfishness, and the tight knot that was wrapped around his ribs loosens immediately. 

“I'm so tired,” he whispers, voice cracking halfway. “I'm so tired of fighting, and dying, and figuring things out. I'm tired of being the one who handles it all, I'm tired of being the reason people die. I should go, I know I should, because I'd never forgive myself if I moved on and left my friends to die alone taking him down, but...the only thing I can think of is that if I go back, I'll have to figure the whole world out again. I'll have to fight him, really fight him, to the bloody death, and then if I don't die again in all that I'll have to figure out what to do after the fighting stops - but I don't know how! I don't know how to go back and pretend like I never died when there's so many other people out there who deserve it more than me - people who've got families, you know? People whose lives deserved more than this at the end. Like, Fred and the Weasleys, Remus and Tonks and their baby who won't ever get to know them, Si-” 

Breath hitching, Harry slams his eyes shut and croaks out, “-Sirius. He spent 12 years in Azkaban and then-” 

Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he takes a shuddering breath, he sits there and tries to pull himself together. 

“I just don't get why it has to be me,” he says desperately, brokenly, tragically. 

His parents close in around him, shushing him gently, and Harry lets them because he's gone and died at seventeen, which means he rather thinks he's earned the right to be coddled by his parents at the moment. 

“It's not your responsibility, Harry,” Mum - she's got her arms around him and his eyes and a look on her face that's endlessly affectionate, and it's sinking in now that she's his mum again, that these two sort of ghosts are his real, dead parents with every bit of their memories and personalities and love for him - tells him, pressing a hand to his cheek. “You’ve done more than enough so far.” 

“You've done more than people twice your age with all the experience, training, and magic you never got,” Dad says, his tone leaving no room for argument. It's perhaps the most serious version of him that Harry's ever seen. “You lost just as much as anyone else did in this fight, if not more. Just because you didn't get to know what you lost before it was gone doesn't mean you're better off. You should have had family and friends and a childhood and a proper education, and you got this far despite going without.” 

“And you did it with such a kind heart,” Mum whispers, her voice so very soft and gentle. “You went through so much, my baby, and you still remembered to love. I don't know that we could have ever raised you to be kinder, braver, and stronger than you are now, and you did that all on your own.” 

There are tears slipping down his cheeks, but Harry hardly has the presence of mind to be embarrassed of them. “I just…I wish it could be someone else. Someone who wants it, someone who can make the most of it instead of the idiot that doesn't even know what a normal life is. It'd be nice if someone else could finish the fight, too, but that part's less important. I'd do it, though god only knows how I'm supposed to go about actually killing someone. Mostly been accidental so far, so that'll be new. It’s the - the living and the being…” 

He trails off without finishing the sentence, hands twitching in his lap. The faintest sensation of hands rubbing up and down his back comforts him, and Harry lets himself fall apart underneath the touch for a little longer. 

“Well, love,” Mum finally says, “I'm not an expert here, and I'm definitely no Rowena Ravenclaw, but maybe things aren't quite as you think they are.” 

Scrubbing at his face with his robes, Harry vaguely feels her pull back so she can look him in the eye. 

“It's a train, is it?” she asks, tucking a strand of blue-ish white hair behind her ear. “That's how you choose?” 

“I guess,” he replies slowly. He gestures to their surroundings as if somehow they'll be able to see the same train station he does, though Dumbledore clearly didn't. 

“Is it the Express, then?” Dad asks out loud, distracting the both of them. 

“Honestly, James,” Mum rolls her eyes, but she's smiling at the corners of her mouth, so she can't be too upset with him. 

“Dunno,” Harry says with a shrug of his shoulders, but he frowns thoughtfully as he considers the idea. “Might be, since going back means I'd be in the Forbidden Forest again. If I'm still there, and they haven't done something to me yet anyways.” 

Mum pats his cheek gently, even though they both know he'd hardly feel it regardless of what she puts into it. It's nice, this bit. It felt embarrassing when Mrs. Weasley tried to do these kinds of things, and he'd much preferred hugs, but this doesn't feel so much awkward and too intimate as it does...right. 

“Hogwarts Express or not,” she says, “I think it's more important that it's a train in the first place.” 

Pursing her lips slightly as if she's figuring out what to say, Mum hums considerately and nods. 

“You say we're in King's Cross,” she begins, “and it's a train. So where is it?” 

“Oh,” Harry blinks. “Um, it's not…here yet? Because I haven't decided, I think.” 

“But no matter which way you go, it'll be on a train,” Mum says. The look on her face reminds him of nights long ago, studying with Hermione over textbooks and flashcards while she eagerly waits for him to reach the answer. God, how long has it been since his biggest worries were school exams? “So why isn't one here?” 

“Huh.” 

Harry doesn't actually have an answer for that, so he cranes his head around to observe the area better. It's just endlessly clean flat floors and pillars, and there's only a few more benches near them before they come to an abrupt stop. The noticeboard he's used to passing by when he arrives every school year is missing, as are the ticket offices, and there's no map with the various lines he remembers staring at in first year to find the Express. 

“There's not even tracks,” he realizes, growing more confused. “But that can't be right.” 

And as he thinks it, there's a ripple of light that unfolds to let the floor nearby open up and lay down a brand new set of train tracks, a platform and all its usual signage popping up at the side. A noticeboard flickers into existence across from them, and a paper announcement slides in with the words ‘Arriving’ neatly printed in black. He blinks again, turning to his parents and feeling even more lost than before. 

“That's what I thought,” Mum nods, looking pleased. She strokes his hair from front to back and laughs when she can see the obvious lack of understanding written across his and Dad's faces. 

“You didn't have shoes on,” she tells him inexplicably. “But you looked down and noticed, and then they were there. Just like that! And we weren't here until you called us here, but of course this isn't actually King's Cross. We're - not in your head, maybe, or maybe not exactly, but something close to it.” 

He hadn’t put that together the way she did until just now, but it makes sense enough. It was the same with the robes and the Resurrection Stone, and it’s probably why everything started popping up around them when he wondered where it all was. It reminds him a lot of the Room of Requirement, actually. Maybe it works close enough. Neville and Seamus had said something about how it could do nearly anything you wanted as long as you were really clear about it, earlier in the castle. 

Leaving her thumb to rest on his cheekbone after she strokes his head again, she smiles with an almost childish glee, and it makes Harry realize once again how bloody young his parents are - or were - when they died. The expression makes her look like someone he could have been in classes with if he'd managed to attend seventh year, cheeky and delightful in the sort of way brilliant people get when they know they're right and they're about to show you something extraordinary. They were only four years older than he is now. The thought hurts as much as it does comfort him, because it means they died young just like him. Probably not the comparisons most people would have liked to earn with their parents, but Harry's never been allowed to be most people in the first place. 

“You run this station, pumpkin. It's up to you. The train, the choice, the life you live, it's all up to you. And even as silly as he is with Muggle contraptions, your Dad, he knows a bit about trains-”

“I'd better,” Dad laughs, shaking his head ruefully. “I only rode one about a dozen times a year to get to school. I hope you don't mean about the steam or parts, darling, because I certainly don't know enough for that.” 

“-and part of that means knowing there's more than just the Hogwarts Express. It doesn't have to be a nonstop, one-way trip back to school.” 

“Okay.” And then, “So what's that mean?” 

Mum laughs too, the sound washing over him, and Harry quirks a grin at his parents instinctively. 

“It means,” she wheezes, just holding back a giggle, “that there's more than one train in the world, Harry. You can go on any train you like, and it'll go anywhere you want it to.” 

“What, like London?” he asks stupidly, and she breaks out into laughter again. 

Dad's biting his lip trying desperately not to do the same, which Harry appreciates but doesn't particularly think he'd mind. It's not like he's had a great many chances to hear either of them laugh, though he's seen it plenty of times in some of their photos. If all it takes to make them laugh is this, he's perfectly willing to make a clown of himself. 

“Not quite, love,” she says, rolling her eyes again. It should probably be embarrassing but mostly it just fills him with a curl of warmth right under his ribs. “Or, well, it might be an option if you really wanted it to. But, more than that, I think you might just be able to choose your schedule.” 

“My schedule?” 

He probably sounds like a right idiot, but he's mostly confident that neither one of them will judge him for it. Much. In fact, he's pretty sure they just look at him even more warmly, kind, love and affection and pride in their pale eyes instead of frustration. They're certainly more patient with him than Hermione would be in a situation like this, though he's not sure if that's because they think of him as a child or because he's their child. 

“Well, if there's multiple trains out there, then they certainly don't all arrive or depart at the same time now, do they?” 

“Oh,” Dad says, jaw dropping a little. “I do believe I'm catching on now, you absolutely brilliant woman.” 

“You are?” Harry asks, taken aback. “I thought-” 

He cuts himself off and flushes when they both look at him curiously. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I'm, er, used to only one of us knowing what's going on at a time, I think.” 

It's rather funny to think of it that way: a pureblood, a muggleborn, and a halfblood. There's even still a redhead and two dumb blokes to one very smart girl, which makes him crack a tiny smile. He wonders absentmindedly if his parent's relationship is anything like Ron and Hermione's, then promptly shakes the idea off because they're still staring at him.

“My friends,” he offers as an explanation, and they nod as if that's answer enough to move on.

“I think what your lovely mum here is trying to say,” Dad tells him with a roguish grin, “is that you're the Station Master here, Harry. And conductor, and ticket agent, and whoever else is in charge of making trains go about, for that matter. Which means you get to choose when you leave, where the train goes, and when you'll get to wherever you want to be. It can be on with us or back with your friends, or even anything else you can think of.” 

It almost sounds like they're saying…but no, that can't be right. It doesn't work like that. 

But what would Harry know about how the world works? He’s bloody dead and apparently still gets to go back to life. Maybe Chosen Ones and Boys-Who-Lived are special enough to break laws of the universe like everyone else suspected all along. It’s not like he ever learned enough about magic to say what is or isn’t possible, given his history with school and the fact that most people don't even know things like horcruxes exist. 

Chewing on his lip, Harry turns their words over in his head a few times. “So…London. Or Surrey, Devon, Cornwall - anywhere I’d like to be. And maybe…maybe when I’d like to be? Is that it?” 

“Seems like it,” Dad nods, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Like she said, it’s all up to you, Prongslet.” 

Ignoring the stuttered breath that nickname earns from his lungs, thoughts of Sirius and Remus at that kitchen table in Grimmauld long left behind to focus, Harry wonders if there’s a way to make sure of it. 

“Try imagining it,” Mum encourages him, noticing the uncertainty in his eyes. “Think of a ticket for your train.” 

Alright. Seems easy enough. He’s never ridden any other trains or taken the tube, but he still remembers the ticket he was given in first year for the Express clearly enough, so that’s what he chooses to think of as a template. Folding one hand over the other, Harry remembers the ticket and thinks of London. For a moment, nothing happens. 

Then there’s the sudden whisper of paper as something slides across his palms, and he opens his hands to a ticket with confident gold lettering and filigree round the edges. 

“Hogwarts to London, 1998,” he reads aloud, “King’s Cross Station, one-way ticket. Platform 9 and ¾.” 

“Looks real enough to me,” Dad hums, eyes squinting as he peers over Harry’s head to study it. “Lils?” 

Right. He'd forgotten that tickets were only for muggleborn or muggle-raised children, since they would have otherwise grown up knowing how to get to the train. Hermione had said as much during one of her endless Hogwarts: A History spiels. 

“Just like I remember,” she agrees from the other side of his head, “though we did graduate quite a bit before 1998.” 

Turning the ticket around in his hands, Harry closes his eyes and tries something else. When he opens them again and takes a good look, the words have changed from before. 

Mum scoffs in derision when she sees Privet Drive, Surrey instead of London, but she doesn’t have time to make any opinions known before Harry changes it again to The Burrow, Ottery St.  Catchpole, and then Grimmauld Place, London one after another. 

“Huh,” Harry whispers, still somewhat surprised that it’s working. He turns around to take a look at the empty platform behind them again and dares to bring forth memories of white, curling steam over dozens of gleaming red carriages. 

A faint whistle echoes through the tunnel that forms on the other end of the station, and he can hear the distant sound of wheels rattling over train tracks; within moments, the sounds grow loud enough to fill up the room, and it’s arrived before them just as magical as it had the first time he ever saw it. Where there used to be a gold and red plaque declaring it the Hogwarts Express, the school insignia has been replaced with one of a deep brown stag, and the words below it read: Harry Express. 

“Ew,” he wrinkles his nose, none too pleased with the self-declared title. The plaque trembles and flips itself twice quickly, revealing a name change. “Potter Express? Even worse.” 

There’s a sort of indignant air about the plaque as it flips again, but it gives off a satisfied hum when he nods in approval at “Magic Express.” 

“Good enough,” he figures, turning back to his parents. 

“I rather liked Potter Express,” Dad says reflectively, but he grins all the same. “Not my train, though, so I’ll keep quiet.” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Mum mutters under her breath. “Good on him for having a normal-sized head instead of that lug of yours. Alright, Harry?” 

Caught staring at the ticket with furrowed brows, he blinks green eyes twice and looks up with an odd expression. 

“Oh, dear,” Mum sighs. “I know that look.” 

“So do I,” Dad smirks, looking as pleased as a child who’s just been given free reign in Honeyduke’s. His eyes are sparkling and filled with delight. “That’s the look of mischief! Mayhem! A face to summon-” 

“Chaos and destruction,” Mum cuts him off in exasperation, but she doesn’t deny his words. “What are you thinking, then?” 

Despite being taken aback by their reactions, Harry scratches his neck absent-mindedly and says, “Well…I was just wondering, you know, since Dumbledore called this my party, and you said it’s my station, and everything’s been coming exactly the way I think of it…” 

Running a thumb over the slip of paper in his hands and hiding his gaze, Harry admits, “I’m pretty sure you’re right. I - it doesn’t have to be 1998.” 

Beneath his fingertips, the golden letters switch around to form ‘1989’.

“But if I go back and do it all again, I'll really have to do it on my own. I won't have Ron and Hermione. Not the ones who've done it with me. I'll be a kid again, and no one will listen to me, and I’ll have to figure out everything on my own because that's the way it's always been, and I'll still have-” 

Biting his cheek and relishing in the pain for just a moment to keep himself together, Harry mumbles, “-to die. For the horcrux in me. And that just sounds so bleeding miserable. I mean, I'd do it because I wouldn't wish being me on anybody else, but it'd be even harder. Lonelier. And it doesn't make sense that I get to have these choices at the very end while no one else does. Everything about this feels so wrong, like…like some giant game that pulled me in against my will.” 

“But now I'm thinking that if it doesn’t even matter when, maybe it doesn’t matter who,” he continues, glancing up at them from underneath his fringe for any sign of disapproval. “So maybe, y’know, I give my ticket to someone else who deserves it, someone who knows enough to make a difference, and then I won't have to keep walking into all…this.” 

He waves a hand around at the train station, lingering for a moment where the shriveled babe is still crying, unable to catch its own breath. 

“And if I give someone else my ticket, then I can go with you instead,” he finishes somewhat lamely, chancing a glance upwards. 

They look decidedly shocked, but not in a bad way. In fact, as the seconds go by, their surprise melts into something a lot more considerate, and Dad even pulls away from Mum to cross his arms while he chews over that. 

“I suppose the smart thing to do is send back someone who knows enough to make it matter,” Mum says slowly, obviously running through a list of the possible options. “Someone like Dumbledore, who knows about the horcruxes and how to get rid of them. Cut out a bunch of the slog, yeah?” 

Shuffling his feet, Harry nods. “Yeah. That's the smart thing to do.” 

“But that's not what you're planning.” 

“Nope.” 

“And if you're planning on leaving with us, it’s not me or James.” 

Harry pauses, then shakes his head without a word. He hadn't even considered that, but he knows even as she mentions it that it wouldn't be possible. He might be able to change things up as he'd like over here, but Harry can feel with a strange certainty that there's only one ticket available. One ticket for one person who died, and that's as fair as it can be. But even if he could, it wouldn't feel right to send only one of them back and have the other two move on when they've finally gotten the chance to be all together. 

It's Dad who gets it first this time while Mum keeps guessing wrong answers - Ron, Hermione, Sirius’ brother R.A.B, Kreacher for some reason, and even Snape, though they each make a face at the idea for their own reasons. He's not even sure living people are options, but he lets her talk just to hear her voice. A head of messy black hair just like his tilts to the side, Dad staring at Harry like he can find the answers to the universe if he can only find the right angle right before hazel eyes suddenly go wide from behind his glasses. 

“Oh, Merlin,” he gasps, “Harry, you-” 

The flickering muscles of his apparition flex as if he's going to jump forward and wrap Harry in a hug, but he just takes two jerky steps instead. 

“You're going to give it to Sirius,” he whispers, his voice fraught with so many emotions that it can barely be recognized as his own.

It's - it's love and pride and awe as much as it is grief and guilt, everything that James Potter associates deeply with his brother and son wrapped in a gloriously tangled knot. The second Harry hears it, he knows he's making the right choice. Dad knew Sirius better than anyone else in the world, and the way he's looking at Harry as if it's Christmas and Easter and his birthday all at once is sign enough that it’s a good idea. The best one he's ever had, most likely. 

“Yeah,” he admits, buoyed by the validation from Dad's reaction. 

“But-” Hesitating, Mum bites her lip and holds back whatever she was going to say originally. “Harry, he doesn't know about the horcruxes. He, um, wasn't able to watch over you like we were. On the other side, I mean. We don't even know if he'll have memories from here, he could wake up only with whatever he left with.” 

Dad shakes his head at her, fond and strangely wistful. “He's not sending Sirius back because it's the smart thing to do, Lils.” 

“What's that mean?” she asks, expression more befuddled than before. 

“He's doing it because he loves him,” Dad says, shooting Harry a small, gratified smile. “Isn't that right, sprog?” 

Harry shares the smile, chest growing warm at the obvious approval. Flipping around the ticket and holding it up without a word, he shows them the most recent change he's made. 

Hogwarts to Godric's Hollow, October 31st, 1981. King's Cross Station, one-way ticket. 

“Oh,” Mum says, her voice thick and strangled. 

“It's the furthest back I can make it go,” Harry tells them with a plaintive shrug. “I figure it's because that's when I became a horcrux and being a horcrux is what brought me here.” 

He can see that she's lost for words. Dad's been good enough about it that he figures an explanation won't sit with them the wrong way, so Harry tries. 

“It's just that if I have to be a horcrux, and I've got to go through the whole hunt and fight for my life and probably die again, then I want,” he swallows, clenches his jaw, speaks up again, “to be happy first. To live the life I never got to have. And I know you guys loved - love - me now, but it didn't really hit me until I was already fourteen, when I saw you at…at the graveyard. I mean, I didn't even know you loved me as an idea until I found out you died for me instead of abandoning me in some booze-induced car accident. But Sirius, he...he was the first person in my life that I could ever tell loved me, with every bit of him. He broke out of bloody Azkaban to keep me safe, he checked in on me when he was half out of his mind, came to watch me play Quidditch, and bought me a broom while on the run! The first thing he asked me after we thought he'd be free is if I wanted to live with him. And then even when he was finally free from prison and could've been anywhere, he moved to a godforsaken cave for an entire year, living off rats and grass because he wanted to be close to me during the Triwizard Tournament! He went through twelve fucking years in Azkaban for something he didn't do, and he had to live somewhere that reminded him of that, and then when he finally left he got killed trying to save ME.” 

His eyes are wet again, choked sobs spilling out of him as he rambles on. He's never had the chance to fully explain these feelings to anyone because they hurt too much to say out loud, just like he'd spent years grieving before he could even vocalize missing Sirius; even when it was just him and Hermione sitting in a tent pouring themselves out to each other in tiny, broken whispers to fill in the silence Ron left behind, struggling to stay afloat, these thoughts were kept behind lock and key. Harry isn't sure that he'd ever be able to say it if he doesn't now, though, and the only audience here is his parents because he's been hit with a Killing Curse for the second time in his life. 

It doesn't kill you to express the worst pains of your life if you're already dead. 

“I - I didn't have p-parents,” he stutters, desperately hoping they'll understand this isn't a complaint, to understand what this choice means to him, “I didn't know how to be someone's s-son. But he didn't know how to be a dad either, so we could be something else, something easy and good. He could be anything in the world and I just had to be me, and nothing else has ever come close to that. Sure, sometimes he thought I was you, dad, but sometimes he'd think I was mum too, and I knew it only meant he could see you both in me. He didn't want me to be you both, he just couldn't stop seeing you everywhere…that made me happier than it ever did hurt. He'd say sorry, sometimes, when he was more with it, and then I could listen to him say that no matter what the world did to me they couldn't take you both from me in the ways that matter. Like, I've got you in the way I scowl, the way I eat my favourite foods first on a plate, how I'm allergic to pecans, that sort of thing. Padfoot used to say that the main reason I reminded him of you-” 

He points to James.  

“-was because mum never looked pleased to see him, so obviously James was going around with glamoured eyes to make a match set again. No one else knew that, no one else bothered to tell me those things. Everyone always went on and on about how he wasn't good for me because he was mad or, or irresponsible, but plenty of them looked at me like I was a ghost without ever going mad in Azkaban now, did they? And, a-and! I didn't have to explain the Dursleys or hide the really bad parts like I do with the Weasleys or Hermione or anyone else, really, because he just got it, understood what it was like and never made me feel like it made anything different…I love all of them, I swear, but none of them would ever know how to do that. Sirius and I, we didn't talk about it, but we didn't have to, and he made sure that if I had to live like that they were gonna bloody well know he was looking out for me.” 

His vision is blurred from tears, but he can tell that Mum's hands are held over her mouth. Dad is shaking, slightly, and he's wrapped himself round her from behind, still bravely meeting Harry's eyes. He isn't smiling anymore, but he gives a firm nod as if to confirm that they're listening to him. To the very end. 

“I would have died to bring him back,” Harry confesses, fresh tears escaping him. “If anyone had said even once...had suggested that maybe something would bring him back, I'd have done it in a heartbeat. I just couldn't…I couldn't see a life where I survived losing him and still got to be happy. Honestly? I-” 

He pauses, unsure of the words until they actually come out of his mouth with an unbearably heavy truth. 

“-I think I figured, if Sirius couldn't be happy after everything he went through, then neither could I. Ever since third year…he was supposed to be my happy ending. When I lost him, I lost that too.” 

It's only now that he says it aloud that the realization strikes Harry so. Sirius had been just like him, but the struggles he went through meant nothing in the end. All that fighting and surviving only to never see a proper end. Harry's been afraid to have anything good ever since, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The one, deep desire he's always had for a family vanished in the wind then as he prepared himself to die miserably in some subconscious way. It feels good in a terrible way to admit it: like having to cauterize a great, gaping wound in him and knowing that he'll be able to heal after the excruciating burn. 

Fairly certain that the waterworks have finished, Harry cleans his face with his robe sleeves and tries to regain some semblance of composure. “So. I'm going to give him the life he deserves, and I know he'll give that back to me. This way, even if I die and don't get to come here because I've used up my one chance, it'll all have been worth it. I'll do the work, die, fight the tosser, whatever it takes, and I won't whine once.”  

He's astonished to see that even as pale apparitions of the long dead, his parents are still capable of crying. The parents who didn't cry at the graveyard, or in the Forest, or even when they died, stand crying before him now. 

“Okay,” Dad says, his voice clear and confident despite the tear tracks faintly visible on his translucent cheeks. 

“Okay?” Harry parrots, still processing the sight before him. 

“Okay,” Mum croaks in agreement, wiping away glimmering drops of silver-y liquid from her cheeks. “It's your choice, little love. A damn good one, too.” 

“Right,” Harry says, getting onto his feet with stiff jerks. “Er. How do you suppose I do it, then? Get him to board?” 

“I don't think you have to worry about that,” Dad chuckles wetly, raising his hand to point at the train. 

Lo and behold, Sirius Black sits in the carriage nearest them, his sleeping head leaning on the corner between the wall and window. 

“Wha-?” 

“He showed up somewhere between the bit about breaking out of Azkaban and living in a cave,” Dad explains, a wry grin crossing his shimmering face. 

Harry barely hears it, drinking in the sight with a terrible greed that rises from the very soles of his feet. It's Sirius as he last saw him, clothes tattered from the fight and hair frizzy from the humid London air outside the Ministry, as colourful and fleshed out as Harry himself is instead of the younger, handsome, soul-like specter that appeared in the Forbidden Forest. He looks like he's been through the wringer, beat up and haggard, and somehow he is still one of the best things his godson has ever seen. 

Harry takes a few dazed steps towards the carriage before he realizes there's still a train between them. It takes every inch of restraint he has left to stand there on the platform instead of running to the nearest door and clambering inside. Even placing the ticket on Sirius physically seems like too great a temptation, so Harry does his best to come up with a method that doesn't end in him clinging to the sleeping body of his dead godfather. 

Like magic, his wand appears in an outstretched hand. Harry lets out a rather dry laugh that seems more of a cough. 

“Alohomora,” he says, pointing it at the window. The latch inside clicks free, and with another flick of his wand, opens up for him. He debates doing this last part with his own hands, but it feels much too vulnerable right now. “Wingardium Leviosa.” 

Watching as the ticket floats away from his outstretched hand into the carriage, he lets the paper tuck itself into a waistcoat pocket snugly, its gold print shining cheerily out of the corners. 

Harry steps back, then, and starts when his parents settle in line next to him on both sides. 

“I think he's all set,” Dad announces, eyes soft when he looks at Sirius. 

“He travels well, for a mutt,” Mum sniffs, earning a cut-off giggle of surprise from her son. Both of them turn to look at him, so he shrugs with a smile playing at his lips. 

“Better than you know,” Harry says, and they smile as if they think he's quite right. 

“Any last words, then?” Dad asks. There's a note of finality in the way he says it. 

“Seems wrong to say them when he can’t hear it.” There's a whistle of steam as the train prepares to leave, and a bell jingles from the front end for the last boarding call. 

“Maybe he can,” Mum points out, “and he'll just wake up to them and know.” 

“Like a message from the beyond,” Dad jokes, clearly referencing something Harry doesn't have context for. Even so, the words spark an idea in his mind, and green eyes light up underneath tousled black hair. 

“A message,” he breathes, looking all seventeen of his years in the best way. “Dad, that's it! Here, let me-” 

With a pop of noise as Harry furrows his brows in concentration, two familiar wands find themselves in the hands of Lily and James Potter. 

“How did you-?” 

“Huh?” 

Beaming with delight that it worked, Harry twirls his wand suggestively. “Dunno if it'll seriously get to him, what with this being maybe my head and maybe the way to the afterlife, but it seems worth the try! So that he doesn't wake up feeling like he's just been bludgered from being dumped in the past with no warning.” 

“What are you talking about?” His parents trade confused glances, their newly found wands held loose in their hands. 

“A patronus,” Harry explains with the same beam, looking between the two of them eagerly. “To carry a message from us! So he's not alone when he gets there!” 

“Is that even possible?” Mum wonders right as Dad yells, “Bloody brilliant!” 

“By Godric, Harry, you might be even smarter than your mum here,” Dad laughs, immediately raising his wand. “Better head on your shoulders than the both of us, really, I mean!? A patronus!” 

“Mum?” Harry asks, gaze flitting between the train vibrating with energy and the woman still pondering his idea. 

“Why the hell not,” she says finally, a smirk blooming with something wicked. “Like you said, it's worth trying. If he can come back from the dead over a decade into the past, why can't we send some magic with him? This whole thing is mental anyways!” 

The whistles begin anew as the bell jingles farewell, and three hands rise as one to greet it. 

“Expecto Patronum!” 

In a blinding flash of white light, three deer spring from their wand tips and bound forwards to follow the train as it begins its journey. 

Lily sends a fierce demand for a better future carried in a beautiful doe. 

James sends his warmest comforts to soothe a friend in dire need, his stag heavy with purpose. 

Harry sends a letter filled with every bit of heart he can spare, feeling light with the knowledge that this is the best thing he’s ever done. 

Even as the train enters the tunnel with their patroni running alongside it, Harry breaks into a brisk jog so that he can watch the exact moment that Sirius falls out of view. His parents join him, though this time he can feel fingers threading between his own in both hands, silently supporting him. When he looks down in surprise, he realizes that he's begun to fade out of colour and into the blue-white of the dearly departed. 

“Alright, Harry?” his mum asks without looking, and he feels a squeeze. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, a strange calm washing over him. “I'm alright.” 

For the first time in a very long time, Harry means it too. 

“Do you think I'll disappear?” he asks casually, having only just thought of it. “Since he's changing the past?” 

“Somehow, I don't think so,” Mum snorts before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You're a very special boy, Harry Potter.” 

“Fear not, sprog,” Dad says with a solemn slash to his mouth that doesn't match his twinkling eyes, “you may spend eternity in my loving arms safe from all this time-travel, resurrection nonsense. No fun, no adventure, just the three of us stuck together forever.” 

“I think I'd like that,” Harry says, entirely sincere.  

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Reasoning dictates that they should board a train too, to move on, but Harry's starting to feel tired now. There's a dreamy, hazy quality to the station that wasn't there before, and it makes him yawn. Yes, trains seem a lot of work right now. How did Dumbledore leave again? It must have worked since he isn't around anymore. He spots the exit and nods, decided. Before they can make it to the double doors that appeared when the once headmaster left earlier, something occurs to Harry suddenly. 

“Wait,” he says, steps coming to a halt. Letting go of their hands to jog back, he crouches down by one of the benches. 

“It's okay,” he mumbles as fabric wraps itself around the sniffling horcrux in something like a swaddle, “you'll be alright. Come on, now.” 

It's still a disturbing sight to see, covered as it is in warped, reddish skin and purple bruises, with limbs not quite the same as a real babe's, but he picks it up despite that. It never had the chance to be anything else, just like him. Harry might not be able to save it, but that doesn't mean he has to abandon it here while he moves on. Clutching the bundle to his chest in the closest thing he can manage to a proper embrace, Harry shushes it once more and walks back to his parents. 

Dad ruffles his hair gently. Mum smiles. 

Taking one last look back over his shoulder as they wrap their arms around his back, Harry smiles at the paper announcement that's changed from ‘Arriving’ to ‘Departed’ and leaves King's Cross Station. 

Four things happen as Lord Voldemort enters the Potter's cottage on October 31st, 1981. To be more specific, a great deal of things happen that night as a result of Harry Potter surviving a rather horrific murder via a Dark Lord, but only four things happen that didn’t happen the first time. Peter Pettigrew still betrays his best friends, James Potter is still wandless, Lily Potter still uses an arcane ritual based on blood and sacrifice to save her son, and little Harry still cries as a jagged, bloody shape carves itself into his forehead as a mark to his survival. Almost the same story, but not quite. 

The first thing that changes is that as James dies, a silver stag leaps between time and space to arrive before his dear friend Remus Lupin with a message: “I’m sorry for not trusting you, Moony. We should have told you Sirius was the decoy and Peter the Keeper. Stay proud, stay kind, stay brave, and I shall remain forever yours. I love you, old boy. Give me a howl at the next full for old times’ sake. Goodbye!”

The second thing is that as Lily dies, a silver doe leaps into the Great Hall of Hogwarts amidst the gloomy end of the Halloween Feast to announce, “We switched Secret Keepers, and Lord Voldemort is coming. The only way for Harry to stay safe is with Sirius. If anything happens to my son under your care, I will make death a kindness. Heed my warning: the war is not over!”  

The third thing is that Sirius Black trips in the doorway of Peter Pettigrew’s house, gasps, and immediately spins on his heels to Apparate to Godric’s Hollow with a head full of memories that haven’t been made yet. He pays no mind to the twinge of pain where he’s surely splinched himself by refusing Healer’s orders to recuperate before attempting magical travel, still recovering from his last Order mission. When he arrives to the town square free of anti-Apparition wards, he runs straight towards the house with a crumbling roof and magic leaking out of it like a popped balloon. He does not, this time, bend over in grief at the sight of his best friend’s cooling corpse through the front door, nor does he falter when he sees his dear friend, James' wife Lily, fallen in front of a cot. He cries out, a dreadful sound that echoes throughout the night, but does not stop running until he sees the fourth thing that has changed since he last lived this night. 

And this fourth, impossibly possible thing is a glorious stag that’s waiting for him within little Harry Potter’s room, having arrived at the exact moment a lightning-shaped scar formed on the baby’s forehead. 

“Hullo, Sirius. It’s me, Harry. Grown up Harry, I mean. Not, uh, the baby. Seventeen, not one. You get the idea.”

Perhaps it is the adrenaline leaving his body in a great rush, or the shock setting in, or the fact that the last time he heard this voice it had been much more broken from puberty and anger at the world, but almost at once he crumples to the ground with tears streaming down his face. He remembers living and surviving and dying, he remembers a young boy with James’ looks and Lily’s eyes, remembers hiding behind knobby knees as the boy fights a swarm of Dementors, remembers holding this boy through a tearful confession of dark rituals that took his blood, remembers disregarding explicit orders to go save this beautiful, foolish, brave boy who charged through the Ministry of Magic to save his godfather, remembers the wide-eyed horror of Lily’s eyes watching him fall through the Veil of Death. 

Sirius Black is twenty-one years old, and he remembers the boy that made life worth living past that. A boy he left behind, a boy he failed, a boy who deserved the world and only got the barest of kindnesses. A boy he loved more than anything. 

“I dunno if this’ll even work, but I wanted to let you know that this is real, that you’re actually back in time. Things pretty much went to shite when you, er, left, and when I got a chance to send someone back, I knew it had to be you right away.”

He’s rushing through the words as if he’s afraid to linger on them too long, a single fragile thread keeping his thoughts together. Sirius wishes he would never stop talking. 

“Sorry for shoving this all on you, but I know you’ll make the most of it. It’ll be everything we ever wanted, you and me against the world. Family. And that’s all I need, honest, so just remember that, alright? Even if I’m a horcrux, even if I’ve got to die in the end and I don’t get a choice to come back, I want you to never forget that it was worth it. And if I’m not the one who finishes off old Voldy, I want it to be you - for me and everyone else, even if you can’t remember everyone who's gone. Um, make it something dramatic, for our sakes. Oh, by the way, you should start with Grimmauld, since your brother and Kreacher already have a headstart on you.” 

As if receiving delayed instructions, the stag moves closer and dips its regal snout to brush against his cheek, for all the good it does coming from a spell that cannot transmit touch. 

“I’ll be okay no matter what. I promise. I’ll have mum and dad on the other side, that’s where I’m going now. Oh, erm, on the off chance it happens earlier, tell Remus I’d make a terrible godfather, yeah? Kid is probably better off with someone responsible, or someone much less…me. At least if he was a werewolf I'd actually be able to help with something. Dunno what they were thinking, honestly. At least if this works out, he won't need a godfather to take him in anyways.”

There’s a genuine peace to the voice that lets you know he’s smiling as he says the words, and Sirius chokes back another sob as a hand claps over his mouth. He has a great number of things he’d like to say to all of this information, but he’s loath to miss a single second of Harry’s message. Because he's apparently in 1981, his Harry is likely dead, and these might be the last words he ever hears from that ridiculous, precious kid who sounds so grown up right now. There’ll be time enough for that later, but later comes quicker than he thought when the stag speaks its final words after a drawn silence. 

“Love you, Padfoot. Goodbye, and good luck. You’ll need it.” 

Even knowing it’s useless, he lunges forward to catch hold of the dissipating patronus and falls straight through the mist onto the floor. One year old Harry, who’d been distracted from his pain by the shiny toy that reminded him of his father and the fun they used to have, breaks out into a wail and clutches his head. 

“Fuck,” Sirius whispers, shaking from head to toe as the wind blows through the hole in the roof. James is dead, Lily is dead, and the Harry he knew and loved is gone with them. He has failed nearly everyone he ever loved, and Voldemort isn’t dead. 

Rising to his feet and lifting the baby - tiny, chubby, toddler Harry who can’t even begin to understand the events of tonight - to his chest, Sirius desperately breathes in his scent to soothe the violent ache betwixt his ribs that resembles being skewered on a spit. Safe in his arms, Harry lets his wails peter out to focus on the gentle hand running down his back repeatedly. 

“Oh, bubba,” Sirius whispers, wet falling away from his eyes and onto the blue romper, “I’m sorry, I'm so sorry.” 

There’s the tell-tale crack of someone Apparating poorly nearby, a rustle of robes as they run towards the house. Stiffening as the world bleeds into high definition around him, he runs through a series of half-made plans before realizing that most of them involve leaving the baby in his cot while he gets ready for a fight, and that isn't an option at all. Setting Harry on his hip with one hand, Sirius makes his way to the ruined staircase with his wand held aloft in the other. Using the smashed fourth step as a boundary line, he moves his hands quickly. 

“Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri. Repello Icinicum.” 

They feel like only the barest of failsafes for him, but he knows they'll stand through much and that he doesn't have enough strength to fight if he puts up any other protections. Belatedly realizing he's bleeding from the splinching earlier when it drips down his ankles and pools onto the top step, he adds, “Episkey, Ferula.” 

No use in a fight if you're bleeding out everywhere, but any healing more thorough than that will take a concentration and delicate touch he cannot bother to summon. A man appears in the door, too tall and too good, which means that it isn't his enemy.  

“NO!” Remus cries out when he sees the body from the front door, voice hoarse and hair windswept. “James, no, James-” 

Wood creaks as stray pieces of rubble are blown out of the nursery, and he whips his head up with desperate hope. 

“Oh,” he says, the hope fading visibly when he catches sight of Sirius standing in the shadows. A scarred hand rises to half cover his mouth, as if pretending that if he doesn’t ask, the answer can’t hurt him. “L-Lily?” 

Grey eyes staring blankly above damp cheeks, Sirius slowly shakes his head. “Harry.” 

The intense amounts of grief and joy warring inside him weakens his knees, and Remus bends them willingly enough. 

“Thank god, thank Merlin,” he chokes, clutching the banister for support. And then, “Oh, James, Lily, it shouldn’t have been you-” 

He spews sick all over the rug Marlene bought Lily as a housewarming present, but there’s no one left to scold him for it. Sirius lets him, somewhat jealous that someone here gets to vomit out their emotions. He shushes Harry absent-mindedly when the toddler begins to cry anew, wand still trained on the door that Remus came through. 

“Moony,” Sirius says, “how did you know to come here?” 

Wiping at his mouth with a ragged sleeve, Remus takes a deep breath to steady himself. 

“James,” he says, blinking back tears. “He sent me a patronus.” 

“Huh. What’d he say?” 

“Goodbye,” the werewolf whispers, shutting brown eyes and letting the cool wind chill his tear-stained face. “It must have been - just before.”

“That’s it? No words of wisdom? Some tips, maybe?” Sirius is distantly aware that his voice has left calm to verge on hysterical, but only just. Clearing his throat, he tries to sound less like he’s about to lose his mind. “Anything useful?” 

“Stay proud, stay kind, stay brave,” Remus parrots, staring at his sick like it’ll give him the answers to living through this tragedy. “Sorry for not trusting you, old chap, Peter was-” 

He goes so suddenly still that Sirius takes his eyes off the door to check on him, terrified for a moment that he’s let his guard down and things have already gone wrong, but he’s pulled back by the loud thump of two solid feet landing right outside the house without any warning. There’s a soft swear as the person takes in the sights, and he relaxes again minutely. 

“Hagrid,” Sirius says, chin dipping into the tiniest nod. “Dumbledore.” 

If he clutches Harry tighter to his chest, it’s none of their business. They’ll have to walk over his dead body before he lets go of the baby now. 

“Oh my,” Dumbledore whispers, closing blue eyes to mourn the violence that occurred here. Behind him, Hagrid falls on his arse with a wail, trembling with sorrow. 

“Not them, not James ‘n Lily! Oh, no, no, no!” 

“Indeed, Hagrid,” Dumbledore says, opening sad eyes again. “The world is worse off without them. Certainly I know this to be true for those of us here.” 

“..eter,” Remus mumbles, lifting himself off the floor with a barely contained tremble. “Peter, it was Peter.” 

When Sirius sees his blown pupils, he realizes it’s rage that’s gotten ahold of his friend now. Good. They’ll need it soon enough. 

“Peter,” Sirius agrees, clenching his jaw. “I went to check on him, found the place empty. No signs of a struggle. Came straight here. It was too late.” 

He remembers the events of this night well enough to let them haunt him forever, and it’s hardly a lie. It’s exactly what would have happened if it weren’t for Harry. Biting his tongue to keep from falling into a deep pool of memories, Sirius tightens his grip round his wand for lack of anything better to do. 

“Th’ ruddy BASTARD!” Hagrid howls, waving impassioned fists in the air. “HOW COULD ‘E!”

“I see now,” Dumbledore nods tightly, his solemn face stark in the moonlight. “This is what she meant by switching Secret Keepers. It is a comfort that you remain alive and unharmed, Sirius. Lily said that Harry’s best claim to safety lies within you. Where is he?” 

“Lily?” Sirius unclenches his jaw and licks his lips distractedly. “When did…how did she-” 

“Her patronus arrived at the tail end of the Halloween Feast,” Dumbledore interrupts him, holding a hand in the air as if to wave off any further questions. “Quickly, Sirius, it is of utmost importance that we understand the circumstances of tonight’s events. Has Voldemort left? Will he return with reinforcements? I sense great magic has been performed here tonight, and we cannot remain here if it is unsafe.” 

“He’s gone.” Lips twitching into a sardonic smile, Sirius feels a dark laugh escape him. “He’s been done in by his own spell, Dumbledore, and he won’t be able to fight anyone for a while yet. His body’s been turned to dust so all that’s left behind is a pile of robes and his damn wand. No, Voldemort's going to have to magic his way into another body before he brings reinforcements.” 

Bending over as the laugh grows increasingly unhinged while all three wizards gape at him, Sirius gasps for breath and shoves his hair out of his eyes. “And I’m going to make sure he never comes back to touch Harry ever again, starting with the fucking Death Eater that let him in! He’ll be here any moment now, crawling back to see how his precious Dark Lord’s gone and murdered half of the only people who’ve ever loved him, the useless, pathetic worm that he is!” 

“You can’t,” Remus says at once, ignoring the furious glare it earns him. “You have to keep Harry safe, so obviously I’ll be the one that kills him.” 

“Like bloody hell I’m letting you do it without me,” Sirius hisses, rage bubbling inside him like a volatile potion on the verge of exploding. “You’ll make it too quick, Moony, and I’ll kill myself twice over before I ever let him have an easy go after everything he’s done-” 

The man speaking right now is not lost in rage because he’s freshly grieving the loss of people he considered his brother and sister-in-law, nor is he the mad man who escaped a prison after a decade of undue torture; the urge to murder Peter Pettigrew in a most gruesome manner is largely based on the knowledge that in Sirius’ last life, the rat tied his precious godson to a tombstone and bled him to revive the Dark Lord that killed his parents. It is born from the fact that he kidnapped a fourteen year old boy after directly orphaning him and carved his flesh to use his blood in the darkest of magics, killed a companion in front of him, gave him nightmares and horrors no child should ever face, and did it to bring back the monster that hurt every one of them twice over. No, there’s no such thing as mercy here for the sake of James and Lily’s memory, not anymore. Mercy in the name of goodness brought back evil from the dead and chewed up all the people he loves. Sirius doesn’t need to clear his name of betrayal this time because he's determined he'll stand here and take care of Harry the way he was meant to, no running and letting people get blown up in a big show for. There’s nothing preventing him from making Wormtail experience the worst kind of misery known to mankind on his way to hell now. He'll arrive soon enough, if Hagrid is already here. 

Rather charitably, or perhaps uncharitably depending on who's asked, Sirius thinks that if his friends didn't want him to murder Peter fucking Pettigrew then they should have sent him a patronus as well. In fact, he's starting to believe they haven't because they already approve of his plans. 

“-and he’ll bring the Dark Pillock back if he has the slightest chance, I know that for a fact-” 

“Give me a full moon with him and I’ll make him regret ever having lived,” Remus argues, eyes wild with the promise of pain. “We’ve two weeks, there’s time enough for anything you want in between-”

Hagrid pales dramatically when he hears the plethora of plans they toss about in return for Peter’s betrayal, but he turns round readily enough to keep an eye out for anyone approaching from the street.

“How do you know this?” Dumbledore asks, stepping in between them to physically attract their attention. “What have you learned about Voldemort, Sirius? What failsafe did he prepare for tonight?” 

“I have LEARNED that he isn’t DEAD,” he shouts loud enough to hurt, coming forward a few steps out of anger, “and the filthy RAT that brought him here will do it AGAIN if he’s given the chance! Why don’t we talk about what YOU’VE fucking learned, Albus, like the Merlin-forsaken prophecy that drew him here-” 

The prophecy that made his boy a target, the one that they spent the whole year guarding and hiding from Harry only to let him fall into a trap, the prophecy that possibly means Harry has to die before someone can kill Voldemort if what the patronus said is true-! 

It’s only because he’s expecting it, hyper aware of his surroundings on a primitive level aided by his enhanced Animagus senses, that Sirius notices it. There’s a slight twist in the air, the faintest beginnings of a loud crack, and a distortion of light where he knows someone will appear. 

Peter always was shite at Apparition. At least Moony has the excuse of grief-stricken panic. 

If he was still at the top of the stairs, he wouldn’t have the right angle to reach. It’s no matter now. His wand is drawn and pointed instantly, red light already blooming at its tip. “Stupefy.” 

The spell flies past Remus who's turning his head at the loud sound, past Dumbledore with his wand halfway through a movement, cuts right next to Hagrid's ear, and aims true at the short man that appears on the path to the house. It hits him in the throat the exact moment he realizes it's coming for him, and Peter Pettigrew falls to the ground without even the chance to take a breath. Before Sirius can add anything else, the others do it for him. 

“Incarcerous! Petrificus Totalus!” Good old Moony. His chest is heaving with restrained violence, and he rather looks as if he'll leap into the fray and tear Wormtail's throat out with his bare teeth. Sirius thinks it a fantastic idea, if only a little uninspired. 

Dumbledore doesn't use a verbal spell at all, but a pale yellow dome shimmers into existence over the body to prevent escape. And then, because he's a terrible old coot that can't mind his own bloody business, he disarms the both of them so that they can't do anything about the traitorous ex-best friend lying meters away. 

Things shortly devolve into chaos after that. 

There's shouts and hands pointing every which way, portraits clattering to the floor and vases shattering as tempers run too high for their magic to stay calm. He finds himself on the first floor without knowing he ever moved, sobbing filling his ears. Sirius threatens everyone in the room except Harry, Hagrid jumps ahead of Dumbledore to defend him, Remus abates to listen with a tense jaw, Dumbledore goes on and on about what’s right and good and how this isn't the solution to their problems, they've just lost their best friends, take a moment to mourn so they don't become monsters. 

That works on Remus because the arsehole bloody well knew it would, but Sirius only stops running his mouth when Harry digs sharp, tiny nails into his neck as he tries to climb over his shoulder. 

“Dada!” Harry says, wriggling so intensely that Sirius has to use both hands to hold him safely. He reaches out to the hall where James still lies, eyes open and dull, mouth spread wide. “Pa'foo, Dada!” 

He hadn't even noticed when Harry stopped crying, too busy yelling at the top of his lungs. Black curls mussed from sweat and dust whip around when he understands what the baby's looking at, and something cracks open inside his ribs. 

“Oh, sprog,” Sirius says weakly, staggering backwards from the weight of his emotions, “I'm sorry. Dada…Dada's sleeping, he can't play with you.” 

“Sheepin’?” Harry asks, his arms caught between their chests now. “Sheepy time?” 

“Yes, love,” Sirius croaks, swaying dangerously until Remus clasps a hand over his shoulder to keep him stable. “Sleepy time. Say goodnight, Harry.” 

Familiar with this, at least, dear little Harry gives a put-upon sigh, pouts, and says, “Gunnite!” 

Beside him, Moony chokes down a sob and folds them both into his wide arms, clinging to them as it might shield the three of them from the horrors of this terrible, dreadful night. It's a futile attempt, but it does good in the reminder that Sirius has people here he needs to take care of. Snaking his arm out of the embrace to wrap a free arm round a thin waist, Sirius holds the last of his ragtag family together and thinks of the last time he saw them while dying in a Department of Mysteries.

By the time he comes out of his mind and into the real world again, Dumbledore is upstairs casting spells and making his observations, Hagrid having already left with Peter while they were otherwise occupied. Portkey, most likely. Dumbledore steps out of the nursery to send them a partly disappointed but mostly sad look before he lets whatever's in his hands fly down the stairs before leaving. Only two wands remain behind as evidence of their time here, innocently sitting on the corner table Lily used to keep the picture frames they broke roughhousing two weeks and fourteen years ago. Of course. He'll take care of the arsehole later, when he stops falling out of his own skin. He's got important things here to do, important people to grab onto as reminders of this seemingly unreal life. 

“It's us against the world,” Sirius mumbles, recalling the patronus that sat upstairs only an hour ago. That's what they always said, tossing around old copies of the Prophet, making grand plans for their future. 

Here they are now: a time-traveling dead godfather, an orphaned baby destined to fight a certified Dark Lord, and their werewolf brother-uncle who apparently pulled himself together to find a bird and have a son right before counting worms. What a crock of shite, eh? 

Contemplating all of the ways he's sorely unprepared for this, twenty-one and thirty-six and still nowhere near good enough to be a father, Sirius thinks of his fifteen year old Harry becoming a godfather and says, “Fuck you, Moony.” 

There's a startled jerk of limbs as Remus lifts his head to sniff with no small amount of confusion. “Wha-?” 

“You’re a stupid sap,” Sirius explains nonsensically. “Don't worry, I'll fix it.” 

And then - because he cannot stop recalling each of the fascinating things he was told by a glowing stag, I love yous and Goodbyes and Even if I have to die again - he remembers the part that made the least sense of all. 

“What the fuck is a horcrux?”