Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

162

The worst part about dying isn't the pain, the fear, or even waking up under those wretched stairs again. It's remembering, in that split second before the green light hits, that somewhere out there was a version of me who had birthdays and Christmases and maybe even friends. A version who got to live.

I die fighting for him as much as for myself.

But today - attempt one hundred and sixty-three - I was still breathing.

I put my hands up to shield my eyes, squinting as hard as I could. The French coast had just started to peak through the heavy mists that clouded it, shining in all its glory. Or maybe that was just the morning sun bouncing off the water.

I preferred to be romantic about it. When in France, right?

I let out a long breath, a smile finally breaking out on my face. After countless attempts at bribery, forging, theft, and one unfortunate misunderstanding of a robbery, I’d done it. I’d managed to smuggle myself off the god-forsaken hunk of rock the British had the gall to call a country.

I stared down at my watch, watched as the minute hand finally ticked past eight. 8:01. I’d made it to tomorrow. One whole day of drawing breath.

A chuckle escaped my lips. Then a snort. Then, before I could stop myself, I was hunched over the railing laughing uncontrollably. The other passengers shied away from me, clearly thinking me insane. Good. I was insane, after all.

There was no other rational explanation for this, was there?

“You see that, you motherfucker?” I screamed. “I beat you! You gave me everything you got, and I beat you! What’re you gonna do now, huh? Rocks fall, everyone dies?!”

The other ferry passengers stared at me in horror. Several parents covered their children's ears. But they weren't who I was talking to.

I waited, arms spread wide, challenging the universe itself.

Nothing happened.

No lightning bolt. No sudden storm. No giant squid erupting from the water to drag me into the depths.

"I think I'll learn French," I mused aloud. "Maybe take up painting. Live in a little cottage by the sea. Whatever I want, really. Whatever the hell I want. How does that sound to you?"

Another long pause. Thunder roared in the distance, far, far away.

Then I heard it. The dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

I spun around to see a woman crumple, her shopping bags scattering across the deck. Then another passenger dropped, and another. All around me, the other passengers were collapsing like puppets with cut strings. The ferry captain was slumped over the wheel, his eyes closed in unnatural slumber.

At the center of the ship, there was a sharp crack that split the air like a gunshot. A tall figure in flowing black robes materialized out of nothing. Then came another crack , and another, until five cloaked figures stood in a loose semicircle, their silver masks gleaming in the sunlight.

"I guess that’s a no," I muttered, shoulders slumped in defeat.

The man in the middle raised his wand slowly, like he was trying to be all bloody dramatic about it, and spoke the words I’d grown to hate.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Dying to the Silver Masks was kinder, in some ways. It wasn’t the agonizing pain of being crushed or mangled or any other of the ways I’d found myself dying since landing in this world. You didn’t feel anything at all, really. It was more like being dunked into freezing water.

A sudden, sharp burst of cold, before you were numb to everything else.

163

I opened my eyes to see the dusty underside of a set of stairs.

The wood grain above me was so familiar I could trace each line from memory. The dank smell of mold, the scarce belongings I had scattered around me or hidden away in the tiny cracks and corners of the closet. 

This pathetic little prison had been my starting point exactly a hundred and sixty two times. Well, a hundred and sixty three now.

"Boy! Get up or I'll come over there!"

Uncle Vernon's voice boomed through the house, same as always. Same inflection. Same timing. Like a recording played on an endless loop. A nice little birdsong to start the morning with.

I stood up and stretched out my arms, letting out a loud sigh.

“Alright, you got me there,” I said to the air around me. “Point to you.”

“Boy!” Vernon called again.

Right. It was time to get started on attempt number 163. I went up the stairs to my first stop at the Dursley’s bathroom, staring back at myself in the mirror. 

Boy. That was the only name I had to put to the face I saw staring back at me. Chipped glasses, hollow eyes, and a jagged scar across his forehead. The lanky frame of a teenager, who might’ve been taller if it wasn’t for the obvious neglect - wiry arms, sharp collarbones poking through a too-large shirt.

Whoever this was, he was gone now. I liked to think this situation was a mercy for him. That he was in a better place now, away from his abusers. I knew too that that was probably a selfish lie, meant to soothe the guilt from stealing his body.

The least I could do for him now was take him far, far away from the Dursleys.

I ignored Vernon’s third yell from downstairs, glancing about the bathroom for what I’d come for in the first place.

My eyes landed on Vernon's plush bathrobe hanging on the back of the door - specifically, its thick fabric belt. Perfect. I yanked it free from its loops with a satisfying snap. 

I made my way to the stairs, carefully stretching the bathrobe belt across the third step from the top, tying one end to the banister and the other to the decorative post on the opposite side. Low enough that Vernon wouldn't see it in his rage, right where his stride would be longest.

“What are you doing up there?” Vernon thundered, right on cue. He'd probably finally walked over to find the cupboard empty. "You better not be stealing, boy!"

I turned and made my way to the Dursley’s master bedroom. This wasn't my first raid of the bedroom, and I'd learned exactly what was worth taking and what would only slow me down.

I rummaged through the open drawers, methodically going through each one. I picked up a hairpin from the dresser surface, pocketing it. Next was Petunia's prized leather handbag, slung around my shoulders.

I stuffed it with a few essentials: Vernon's expensive watch from the bedside table, a change of clothes from the closet (oversized, but it’d do), and the small emergency cash stash they thought was cleverly hidden in an old sock at the back of the drawer.

Behind me, I could hear the heavy steps of Vernon making his ways up the stairs. Any minute now, I reminded myself. Had to keep on schedule.

I popped open their lockbox with a quick jimmy of the hairpin, dumping its contents into my new bag. Credit cards I wouldn't be able to use for long, but good for the first few purchases before they noticed them missing. A small gold locket that would be valuable enough to pawn if necessary.

Most importantly, their passports. My ticket out of the country entirely. 

Not including mine, of course, since I was pretty sure I wasn’t even legally registered with the British government. A rather awkward fact to discover at the airport security desk, but that was a story for another loop. In this one, I simply pulled out Dudley’s passport and tucked it in my new bag.

I then stepped back out to the hallway, loot in hand,  just in time to catch the show.

I watched with grim satisfaction as Vernon tripped on the belt and crashed down the stairs in a yell of surprise. The sound of something snapping - an ankle, probably - was accompanied by a howl of pain that brought Petunia rushing out from the kitchen.

"Vernon! Oh my god, Vernon!" she shrieked, dropping to her knees beside him.

I whistled a tune as I came down the stairs, stooping down to pick up Vernon’s wallet from where it’d fallen on the floor. I sidestepped the two, picking up the car keys from where they hung next to the door. 

"Call an ambulance!" Petunia wailed to no one in particular.

Driving through Little Whinging was the easy part, once I’d gotten used to the older family sedan the Dursleys used. Getting all the way to Dover quickly and in one piece - that was where it got interesting. Luckily, I'd memorized the route, the police patrol schedules, and exactly which back roads to take to avoid getting pulled over.

Three hours, three near-misses with tractors, and one very confused toll booth operator later, I pulled into the Dover ferry terminal parking lot. 11:31, my brand new watch said. 

Much earlier than I’d made it in the previous loop, which meant I’d be able to cover more distance. Not that it’d seem to matter before, of course.

In loop 36, I'd stowed away on a cargo ship to America. The ship had sunk while I’d been sound asleep.

Loop 58 saw me hiding in the Scottish Highlands, living off berries and stream water, miles from civilization. A lone man this time, followed by that damn green flash of light.

Loop 79, an airplane to Australia that mysteriously crashed. Loop 101, a fishing trawler to Iceland, swallowed in a freak tsunami. Loop 134, in front of Westminster Palace, right in the middle of the crowds. 

It didn't matter. They always got me. Always. But that didn’t mean I was done trying.

I counted out Vernon's money as I walked to the ticket counter. A hundred and seventeen pounds. More than enough for a one-way ticket to Calais, to rent a shitty motel and lie low. I pulled out Dudley’s passport, smoothing it out. 

"One ticket to Calais, please," I said.

The woman at the desk smiled up at me. "All by yourself, love?"

"My mum's already gone ahead," I lied easily, the story well-rehearsed. "Dad got held up with work. He's sending me to meet her."

She hesitated, but I slid over the passport and money with a practiced casualness. I'd learned that acting like this was perfectly normal was half the battle.

She glanced down at the passport photo, frowned, then looked up at me again.

“I lost a lot of weight last year,” I said, affecting a blush.

"Alright then," she said finally, printing my ticket. "Ferry leaves in twenty minutes. Have a good trip."

I stuffed the ticket and change into my pocket, giving the woman a grateful smile.

"Thank you," I said, making a show of looking at the large clock on the wall. "Better hurry!"

I slipped between families with screaming children, harried businessmen checking watches, and tourists chattering excitedly about their continental adventures. None of them knew that in less than twenty-four hours, most of them would be back to whatever they'd been doing yesterday, with no memory of this day. 

None of them except for me.

"Now boarding for Calais," came the announcement over the PA system.

The gangway to the ferry stretched out before me, the metal walkway reverberating with the footsteps of dozens of passengers. The salty air hit me as I emerged onto the deck, bringing with it a sense of dangerous hope.

I'd made it this far before. Many times. But something felt different today. Maybe it was the extra time I'd gained by getting here early. Maybe it was the confidence that comes from having done this so many times. Or maybe it was just delusion.

I found a spot by the railing, far enough from the other passengers that I wouldn't draw attention, but not isolated enough to look suspicious. As the ferry's engines rumbled to life and we pulled away from Dover's white cliffs, I allowed myself to close my eyes for just a moment.

First I’d try to make it to France, then Germany or Spain. As far as I could get away from Britain in a single day. There had to be somewhere, some corner of the earth where they couldn’t find me. I wouldn’t allow myself to give up until I’d confirmed that wasn’t the case.

I watched the sea churn beneath us, the distance between me and Britain growing with each passing minute. Other passengers chatted, took photos, or napped in their seats, but I remained alert, ears peeled for that telltale crack of the Silver Mask's arrival. My shoulders didn't relax even after my feet touched French soil. Not even when I stopped at a café near the port, where I ordered a coffee and two dozen pastries in butchered French. 

Maybe this time would be different. Maybe I'd finally broken whatever curse kept me trapped in this cycle. The thought was too dangerous to entertain, but it stuck in my mind anyway.

I was halfway through my pastries, the map to Paris laid out in front of me, when I heard the first scream.

My head snapped up. On the street outside the café, people were backing away from something—someone. A businessman stumbled backward, clutching his chest, face contorted in pain. A woman tried to run but collapsed, her legs giving out beneath her as if her muscles had suddenly turned to water.

A lone Silver Mask, walking slowly towards me. Early. He was far too early. 

“Crucio! ”

He flicked the stick in his hand, and the man on the ground let out another gut-wrenching scream.

My stomach lurched. I knew that spell. I’d felt it personally far too many times.

My hands clenched into fists as the realization settled over me. He wasn’t here to kill me. He was here to play. With me, and everyone else who happened to be in his way.

Something boiled over inside me - something raw, something that had been festering in the pit of my chest for far too many loops. The helplessness, the fear, the endless cycle of running, only to end up back under the stairs like a rat trapped in a cage.

The Silver Mask stepped closer, mask tilting as he looked me over.

I had always known they were monsters.

“Would you look at that,” he said, almost to himself. “The Boy who Lived. Not for long, I suppose, eh?”

But I had never quite felt the rage of it like this before.

“Avada,” the man started, raising his wand. Relishing the moment.

The café windows suddenly shattered inward, a violent burst of wind knocking the Silver Mask off balance.The stick in his hand flew upwards, and for a moment, I knew he was powerless.

I snatched a bottle of wine off a nearby table and sprinted across the small cafe. With one desperate swing, I brought it crashing against the side of his head.

The bottle shattered on impact. Wine splattered over the both of us.The mask slipped sideways, and through the gap, I saw something I’d never have expected. 

Human skin. A strand of stringy black hair. A dull blue eye, staring back at me in terror.

I gripped the broken bottle neck and brought it down again with a primal scream.

Glass and blood, mixing with the wine. He slumped to the floor, the deep red pooling around him.

My pulse thundered in my ears. My body was screaming at me to run. That more were coming. But my mind was still racing, processing as I stared down at his body.

The Silver Masks were not demons, aliens, or any other unkillable beast.

They were human.

Four more cracks echoed around me, and I knew this loop was about to end.

But somehow, I couldn’t help but smile as I looked back up at the flashes of green hurtling towards me.

See you tomorrow, assholes.

A sharp burst of freezing cold, like ice running down my back, and -

Chapter Text

170

Waverley Abbey ruins stood silent in the morning mist, stone arches reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The ancient monastery was a fair bit away from Little Whinging, but I'd managed the trip in Vernon's car, which I'd once again "borrowed".

I'd chosen this place carefully. Remote enough to avoid civilian casualties. Open enough to see them coming. Stone walls thick enough to offer some protection if needed, to hide behind. I pulled out Dudley's smelting stick, shoved sideways in the backseat of the car.

Most importantly of all, I distinctly remembered the Silver Mask that would come for me here. He would be the only one to show up at this place, at this timing. No backup.

I supposed this one wasn't very popular with his friends.

If I was going to take out one of these Silver Masks, as insane as the idea sounded, it would have to be him.

I set up in the ruins, hidden behind a pillar, and waited. Watched Vernon's watch tick minute by minute.

The crack of his arrival came at 3:17 p.m.

The sound alone made me freeze, hesitate for that crucial second I needed.

I took one step out from behind the pillar, and he turned to stare at me. Then at the smelting stick in my hand. Then back to me, still frozen in place.

He raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

171

"Boy! Get up or I'll come over there!"

I sighed, rubbing my eyes.

"Okay," I muttered. "Gotta think this through more. Got it."

172

I set up traps. Tripwires at ankle height. Glass shards scattered strategically around corners. A pit dug overnight and covered with branches and leaves.

I watched from the second floor as the Silver Mask stopped in place.

"Homenum Revelio," he murmured, and the tip of his wand glowed a pale white.

He paused, then looked directly up at my hiding spot.

"Oh, come on!" I shouted at him. "Human Reveal? You have a spell specifically to reveal humans?!"

The other man didn't seem to share my opinion on how ridiculous that was. He simply raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

173

Experimented with more trip wires. Wanted to use them to stall him as I led him around in circles, try to wear him out.

He waved his wand in a circle, said Revelio and made every one of the trip wires glow in the dark.

Bullshit. These Silver Masks were straight up bullshit.

175

Clearly, a change in approach was needed. No point in hiding or setting traps if they could just point a stick and find me. I needed to think differently. Bigger.

I spent the morning gathering what I could from a construction site - metal pipes, chains, some rope. This time at 3:17 p.m, I was ready with a crude pulley system, metal pipes balanced precariously above the middle of the ruins.

I dropped them directly on his head, right as he arrived.

The Silver Mask looked up at the falling pipes, almost lazily raising his wand. "Arresto Momentum."

The pipes stopped mid-air, hovering like autumn leaves.

"Son of a -"

178

No more traps. He seemed to have something to counter every damn one I could think of.

Falling objects? Arresto Momentum.

Molotovs? Aguamenti.

Projectiles? Protego.

No. He wasn't going to just fall for a trap. That would be too easy. To beat him, I needed him to stop casting spells. I needed to bind his mouth, his hands or both.

And the only way I was going to get close enough to do that was to do something absolutely suicidal.

That's why this time, as he cracked into existence right on schedule, I charged him, raising the Smelting stick over my head with a battle cry.

"Incarcerous!"

Ropes shot from the end of his wand, wrapping around my ankles and wrists. I crashed to the ground, immobilized.

The Silver Mask loomed over me, wand pointed at my face.

"That was... disappointing," he drawled

I grunted wordlessly in response, struggling in my binds.

"Avada Kedavra!"

179

Crack.

This time I was ready. As soon as the Silver Mask appeared, I darted out from behind the pillar, already moving sideways.

"Incarcerous!"

The ropes shot past me, missing by inches.

I smiled grimly. Progress.

"Bombarda!"

The stone arch above me exploded. I looked up just in time to see massive chunks of ancient masonry plummeting toward me.

183

Crack.

I burst from behind the pillar, zigzagging toward the Silver Mask.

"Incarcerous!"

I dodged left, the ropes missing me completely.

"Bombarda!"

I dove forward before he said it, rolling beneath the collapsing archway as stone rained down behind me.

Rising to one knee, I raised the Smelting stick, victory within reach -

"Stupefy!"

Red light filled my vision, and then nothing.

184

This time, I wasn't at Waverley Abbey.

Instead, I sat on a pebbled beach, waves lapping gently at the shore. A half-empty bottle of scotch whisky rested in my hand, the label scuffed from where I'd clipped the security tag.

I'd long since gotten over any hesitation about shoplifting. At this point I'd probably counted grand theft auto… sixty times? I was practically a hardened criminal, if you thought about it that way.

I took another swig, savoring the burn as it traveled down my throat. The warmth spread through my chest, a pleasant contrast to the cool evening breeze.

One benefit to dying? The hangover never follows you to the grave.

I laughed at my own grim joke, the sound carried away by the wind.

A familiar crack of the air came from behind me.

I raised one finger in the air, then tilted the bottle back and drained the remaining liquid in several long gulps.

When I finally stood and turned, I found a Silver Mask staring at me, wand half-raised. Even with the mask obscuring his features, I could sense his confusion. Or her, I supposed. It's not like you could really tell until they opened their mouths, given the ominous dark robes they walked around in.

"Sorry about that," I said, casually tossing the empty bottle aside. It landed with a dull thud on the pebbles. "Didn't want to waste good scotch."

I stretched my arms above my head, arching my back until it gave a satisfying pop.

"Alright," I sighed, facing them directly. "That'll have to do. C'mon. Let's go."

The Silver Mask hesitated, then raised their wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

189

Crack.

"Incarcerous!"

Dodge left.

"Bombarda!"

Dive and roll.

As I came up, I hurled a rock at his face. It clipped the edge of his mask, throwing off his aim.

"Stupe -"

I was too close now. The Smelting stick connected with his wand arm. He hissed in pain, but recovered quickly. Too quickly.

"Diffindo!"

A slash of pain across my chest, warm blood soaking my shirt.

"Avada Kedavra!"

201

Crack.

Dodge. Roll. Rock. Strike.

This time, a baseball bat. Hurts him more, sends the Diffindo careening away.

"Impedimenta!"

I dropped flat to the ground as soon as I heard the incantation, the jinx sailing over my head.

I scrambled forward on my hands and knees, keeping low.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

My limbs snapped together, my body going rigid. I toppled face-first onto the stone floor, unable to move a muscle.

"Playing in the dirt now, are we?" The Silver Mask chuckled, circling my paralyzed form. "How fitting."

"Avada Kedavra!"

204

Crack.

Dodge the ropes. Roll under the stones. Rock to the face. Strike the wand arm. Twist away from the cutting curse. Drop to avoid the impediment jinx.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

I rolled sideways, the spell missing by inches.

The Silver Mask was breathing heavily now, his movements less assured.

"Confringo!"

The ground beneath me erupted in flames. I screamed as my skin blistered and charred.

The last thing I saw was the Silver Mask standing over me, mask reflecting the dancing flames.

212

Crack.

Dodge the ropes. Roll under the stones. Rock to the face. Strike the wand arm. Twist away from the cutting curse. Drop to avoid the jinx. Roll past the body-bind. Leap back from the fire spell.

"Expulso!"

I dove behind a thick stone pillar, the explosion sending debris flying everywhere but shielding me from the worst.

I emerged, still moving, still alive. The Silver Mask's posture changed—shoulders tensing, grip tightening on his wand.

"Reducto!"

The ground beneath my feet disintegrated. I plunged into darkness, the impact breaking both my legs with a horrible crunch. A scream of pain left my mouth before I could clench my teeth.

Above me, the Silver Mask peered down into the hole, his wand aimed at my broken body.

"You have fight, boy," he called down. "I'll give you that."

I spat blood onto the stones, panting heavily.

"You have no idea, motherfucker."

He tilted his head, like he didn't quite know what to make of that, before raising his wand again.

"Avada Kedavra!"

220

Crack.

The routine was longer now, more complex. But it was quickly becoming muscle memory.

Dodge the ropes. Roll under the stones. Rock to the face. Strike the wand arm. Twist away from the cutting curse. Drop to avoid the jinx. Roll past the body-bind. Leap back from the fire spell. Dive from the explosion. Jump away from the disintegration curse.

"Incendio!"

This time I was ready. I ripped off my jacket and threw it directly at him as the flames erupted, temporarily blocking his vision.

"Flipendo!"

The spell hit me squarely in the chest. I flew backward, slamming into a stone wall. Something cracked in my spine. I crumpled to the ground, legs no longer responding to my commands.

I watched him walk towards me, a grim smile on my face. Progress.

"Avada Kedavra!"

226

"Flipendo!"

This time I dropped flat to the ground, then exploded back out to sprint at him.

The Silver Mask's posture changed - no longer confident, now genuinely alarmed.

"Levicorpus!"

I felt myself jerked upward by my ankle, dangling helplessly in mid-air.

He stood in front of me for a moment, silently panting. I'd given him the run around. Closer, at least. Closer to beating him.

"Hey," I called, and his head turned up to me. "Why do you want to kill me, anyway? I just realized I never asked you, even after all this time. You know, of you killing me."

"Avada Kedavra!"

232

Crack.

My body moved on autopilot.

Dodge. Roll. Rock. Arm. Twist. Drop.

"Son of a - " The other man cursed, wand cutting through the air as he continued casting.

Roll past the body-bind. Leap back from the fire spell. Dive from the explosion. Jump away from the disintegration curse. Throw jacket against the flames.

Twist in mid-air. Jump over the leg-locker. Take cover from the freezing charm. Run from the massive blast. Drop under the banishing charm.

"Levicorpus!"

I threw myself sideways, then forward into a roll, the jinx missing me by inches.

The Silver Mask's composure cracked.

"Crucio!"

I dove behind a stone pillar, the spell striking the ancient masonry.

"Reducto!"

The pillar exploded. I was already moving, closing the distance between us. The Silver Mask backed away, firing spell after spell.

"Impedimenta! Stupefy! Incarcerous!"

Dodge. Duck. Weave.

I was close now, so close. I hurled the Smelting stick at his face with all my strength. It connected with a satisfying crack. The Silver Mask staggered, his spell going wide.

I tackled him to the ground, the both of us crashing onto the stone floor. His wand skittered away across the ruins.

The Silver Mask thrashed beneath me, stronger than he looked. I slammed his head against the stone floor. Once. Twice. His struggles weakened.

"Accio wand!" he gasped, blood trickling from beneath his mask.

I lunged for the wand as it flew toward his outstretched hand. My fingers closed around polished wood a split second before his.

The feeling was electric. A surge of warmth ran up my arm, like the wand itself was begging me to use it.

The Silver Mask's eyes widened in horror behind his cracked mask. He scrambled backward, trying to get away.

I pointed the wand at him, the word coming to my lips from nowhere and everywhere at once. The wand cutting a triangle in the air like I'd done it a thousand times before.

"Stupefy!"

Red light erupted from the wand tip, hitting the Silver Mask squarely in the chest. He collapsed, unconscious.

I stared at the wand in my hand, then at the crumpled form of my would-be killer.

I'd done it. I'd finally won.

I stood shakily, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. With the wand in my hand, I felt... powerful. Complete, somehow. As if I'd been missing a limb all my life and only just noticed its return.

An unfamiliar sound made me look up. An owl, I realized, before promptly doing a double take. An owl? It was broad daylight.

It dropped something at my feet and soared away without a backward glance.

A letter. Thick parchment, sealed with red wax. Addressed in emerald green ink:

Mr. Harry Potter

Northwestern Corner, Waverley Abbey Ruins, Surrey

I broke the seal with trembling fingers.

MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received notice that you performed the Stunning Spell at seventeen minutes past three this afternoon in a non-designated area.

The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your immediate suspension from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pending a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic on August 12th.

Your presence is required at 9 a.m. on said date. Your wand will be confiscated upon your appearance, and a decision regarding your expulsion will be made at that time.

Enjoy your remaining summer holidays!

Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE
Ministry of Magic

I read the letter twice, my mind struggling to process the words. Ministry of Magic. Underage Sorcery. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I looked at the unconscious Silver Mask, then at the wand still clutched in my hand, then back at the letter.

"My name is Harry?"

A beat of silence.

Just me, the unconscious serial killer, and the empty ruin around us.

"There's a whole fucking Ministry of Magic?"

Chapter Text

I stared at the letter for a long moment, then back at my unconscious would-be murderer. The Silver Mask - or whatever the hell he actually was - was sprawled on the ancient stone floor, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"Okay, Harry," I muttered to myself, testing out the name. "What now?"

I stooped down over the Silver Mask, pulling the shattered mask off him. Beneath was an unremarkable middle-aged man with stringy black hair and a long, narrow face. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple where I'd struck him.

"You've killed me so many times," I told the unconscious man, "and I don't even know your name. That seems a bit rude, don't you think?"

I hummed for a moment, studying his features.

“Ugly,” I decided. “I think I’ll call you Ugly. You don’t mind, do you?”

I waited a beat, then patted him on the shoulder with mock affection.

"Thought not."

I searched him thoroughly, finding nothing but a second wand and a small leather pouch containing what looked like gold coins. A second wand? I supposed they weren’t fixed to one. It would make sense then, why I could use his.

The letter had mentioned they’d confiscate “my” wand. From my prior enlistment in magic school. Which meant I might have to make another trip through the Dursleys, turn the house upside down to find where they’d hidden the damn thing. 

But first, I had to do what I’d spent a hundred loops trying to accomplish.

I pocketed both the wand and the coins, then left to grab the rope I'd stashed in the trunk of the Dursley sedan. I bound him tightly with it, making sure to gag him as well. No chances.

 I heaved the Silver Mask's limp form into the backseat, not particularly caring if I was gentle about it. His head thunked against the side, his groan muffled by the gag.

"Mind your head," I said brightly, slamming the door shut. 

The letter said my hearing wasn't until August 12th. That gave me about a week to figure out what the hell was going on. Assuming I lived past today, to where it’d even matter. Which was probably a bad assumption to make, given my current track record.

I needed to get somewhere safe before more Silver Masks caught up with me.

Except that was impossible, wasn’t it? If they could send an owl directly to my location, they could probably figure out exactly where I was whenever I wanted. Like Homenum Revelio , but across the globe. 

It made sense now, how the Silver Masks had been doing it. How they tracked me across continents and oceans, how the most I’d ever managed was delay them in finding me. I’d thought they’d been following me, sure, but in a way that could be duped. That them taking longer and longer to find me meant I was figuring out how to slip away from them.

But now I knew for a fact that there wasn’t a place on Earth that I could hide from them. That it was only a matter of time before they’d find me again.

"Shit, shit, shit ," I muttered, taking a random turn onto a side road. 

School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A Ministry. A whole society of them, except I had no idea where people like Ugly fit in.

Whatever plans I had, of slowly taking out the Silver Masks one by one, were irrelevant now. I’d gained the information I’d wanted, but none of it was good. Well, except for the fact that I was one of them. A Wizard. I rolled the wand in my palm nervously as I drove, felt the warmth that travelled up my arms from it.

I stopped at the first vaguely abandoned building I could find. A shack out in the sticks. I was on a clock now, until either the Ministry or the Silver Masks found me. Or both, if they were one and the same.

I secured Ugly to a chair with more ropes, still gagged but very much awake now.

"So," I said, removing his gag, "you've got a name? Or should I keep calling you Ugly in my head?"

He spat at my feet. "You're dead, Potter. When the others find out—"

"Others. Right." I pointed his own wand at his face. "Tell me more about these friends of yours. Why are you lot so hellbent on killing me?"

He clamped his mouth shut, glaring at me with pure hatred.

"You know something?" I pressed the wand tip against his cheek. "I've seen a lot of nasty spells from you today. I think I've got most of them memorized by now. Wouldn't be too hard to recreate them now, try them out for myself."

A slow smirk spread across his face.

"Go ahead, Potter. Break the Ministry's laws again. They might even let me have the pleasure of snapping your wand myself."

I didn't let any of the doubt show on my face, staring back at him. Was he bluffing? It matched what the letter said - but that would mean the Ministry and the Silver Masks were allies, if not one and the same.

Which would mean there was a whole society of wizards out there hellbent on killing me, in the worst case. Or at least willing to turn a blind eye while the Silver Masks did it.

"What's wrong?" he taunted. "None of that Gryffindor courage left in you anymore, boy? Go on, then. Cast it. Give me your best bloody shot."

There were other ways to get him to talk, of course. Snap his fingers, pull his toenails, like they did in the movies. Except I didn't know if I had that in me, to torture somebody.

The thought of it made my stomach turn. I'd crossed that line once already - in a French café, where spilled wine and something darker had mingled on the floor. I wasn't eager to repeat the experience, no matter how much I hated the man before me.

My eyes fell on the wand in my hand again. Snap your wand myself, he'd said. The wand. It was something important to a wizard, then, if he used it as a threat.

I made a show of examining it, turning it over in my fingers.

"You know, I just noticed. Your wand. It's got a nice craftsmanship to it, doesn't it? Looks expensive. I wonder what happens if I just..." 

I gripped the wand at both ends, slowly bending it upwards. Bit by bit, watching the frown grow on Ugly's face.

"Don't!" he finally snapped, straining against his bonds.

I eased the pressure, holding the wand out in front of me.

"Then answer the goddamn question, Ugly."

Confusion. He expected me to know why they were after me. I pressed on the wand’s ends again, and he relented.

"The Dark Lord wants you dead, Potter," he growled, a hint of pride now in his face. "I won't be the last, and you won't be able to stay lucky forever."

"Dark Lord?" I snorted. "You’ve got a bloke who goes around calling himself the Dark Lord? A bit on the nose, don’t you think?"

Ugly’s lip curled. "Mock all you want. You’ll feel the wrath of - "

A sudden crack outside the cabin made both of us freeze.

"Expecting friends?" I whispered, dread heavy in the pit of my stomach.

Ugly smiled nastily in response.

Too soon. I hadn’t learnt anything yet. They were going to kill me, I was going to wake up under the stairs again, and I was going to have to spend an ungodly amount of time just to get back to this point.

I moved to the window, peering cautiously through the dusty glass. A tall figure in flowing robes was approaching the cabin, walking unhurriedly through the trees. But these weren't black robes like Macnair's. They were a deep purple, embroidered with silver stars that seemed to twinkle even in the fading light.

I was pretty sure that no Silver Mask would’ve been caught dead wearing that, at the very least.

There was no knock. The door simply swung open as if pushed by an invisible hand. The old man stepped inside, surveying the scene with mild interest: me with a wand pointed shakily at him, Ugly bound to a chair, the dusty cabin illuminated by the last rays of sunset.

"Good evening, Harry," he said calmly. "I see you've had an eventful summer."

"Stay back," I warned, trying to keep my voice steady. “Take out that wand, make any sudden movements, and I’ll kill you.”

“Yes,” the old man hummed, peering down his glasses at me. “Much has occurred indeed, it seems.”

His gaze shifted to Macnair for a moment, paired with a polite nod. 

"Mr. Macnair. I’m afraid I cannot say it is a pleasure, nor that I wished we were meeting in better circumstance."

“Dumbledore,” Ugly snarled, straining against his restraints. “Tell the boy to unhand me this instant. This is no way to treat a member of the -”

“Do you mind terribly if I take a seat, Harry? I must confess that my knees have seen better days.”

“Well,“ I hesitated, thoroughly off balance. “I’d offer you one, but the only one’s currently being used by Ugly over there. Sorry.”

Dumbledore chuckled, drawing his own wand with a fluid motion. With a gentle flick, one of the dusty logs by the fireplace transformed into a comfortable-looking armchair upholstered in deep purple velvet.

"That's quite alright," he said, settling into his newly conjured seat. "I find it's always best to bring one's own chair to such situations."

With another casual flick of his wand, an identical chair materialized behind me—this one upholstered in deep crimson rather than purple. The wood creaked slightly as it settled on the uneven cabin floor, as real and solid as if it had always been there.

I stared, momentarily forgetting to keep my wand trained on him. I'd seen the Silver Masks’ magic countless times, but this was different. Creation, rather than destruction. Matter conjured from empty air.

I'd died hundreds of times at the hands of these wizards, but only now did I truly begin to comprehend what magic meant. What I might be capable of, if I truly was one of them.

"I must say, Harry," Dumbledore continued, "when the Ministry alerted me to your use of magic, I expected to find you in Little Whinging, perhaps dealing with some minor household mishap. " 

"Sorry to disappoint," I said, keeping my voice level. "Should I have waited for him to kill me instead?"

"No," Dumbledore said mildly. "I daresay Mr. Macnair has made his own bed in this particular instance." 

Ugly opened his mouth again, probably to snarl or growl or something rude, only for no sound to leave his mouth. 

“That will be quite enough, Mr. Macnair,” Dumbledore said, wand raised. I hadn’t even seen him move, that’s how fast he’d cast whatever spell he just did. “I do believe you’ve incriminated yourself quite thoroughly already.”

“He’s going to jail then,” I latched onto that train of thought, pressing forward. “The ministry is going to punish him?”

"His case will be brought before the courts," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle but firm. "The Ministry will certainly be involved, though I fear the process may not satisfy your sense of justice."

"So, what? He gets a trial? Lawyers? He tried to kill me." 

"Yes, I do see your point," Dumbledore said, his eyes briefly flicking to the bound man. "Though I must admit I'm curious how you managed to overcome a fully trained wizard, Harry."

"I got lucky," I said quickly. "Caught him off guard."

Dumbledore hummed, and there was some emotion hidden in that. Amusement? Suspicion? I couldn't tell.

I shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of how little I knew about this world I'd stumbled into - about who Harry Potter was supposed to be, about who his allies and enemies were. One wrong word could give me away.

"What happens now?" I asked after a moment, hoping to steer the conversation back on track.

"Now," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair with surprising agility, "we must consider your safety, Harry. I'm afraid the situation has become rather more precarious than I had anticipated."

With a flick of his wand, silvery light erupted from its tip, forming what looked like a ghostly phoenix. Dumbledore whispered something to it, and the spectral bird soared through the wall of the cabin, disappearing into the night.

"Assistance will arrive shortly," he explained. "In the meantime, I believe I owe you an explanation."

I glanced nervously at Ugly, still bound to his chair. The bound Death Eater was turning an alarming shade of red now, his mouth working furiously though no sound emerged.

"Right here? He can hear everything we're saying," I said, reluctantly sinking into the crimson chair Dumbledore had conjured.

"That will not be a problem," he mock-whispered, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You see, Mr. Macnair currently believes we're having a rather passionate discussion about the architectural merits of various medieval castles."

"Oh." I blinked, taken aback. "That's convenient."

"Indeed. Quite a useful spell in certain circumstances." Dumbledore's expression sobered. "Harry, have you ever wondered why Voldemort and his followers have never managed to find you at your aunt and uncle's home? Why they haven't attacked sooner, when you were more vulnerable?"

Voldemort. The Dark Lord had a actual name then. A French name, though I didn’t know enough to translate it. I filed that way mentally, along with all the other bewildering tidbits of information I’d picked up today.

"I... never really thought about it."

In the sense that my experience had been distinctly the opposite. The loops where I'd stayed with the Dursleys were when they'd found me quickest. Hours, at most.

"When your mother sacrificed herself to save you, she invoked an ancient magic. Her love created a shield that Voldemort could not penetrate. I reinforced this protection when I placed you with your mother's sister."

"Wait," I interrupted, rising abruptly. A cold anger pulsed behind my temples. 

"You’re the reason I was with the Dursleys?"

The question came out sharp, edged with all the anger I'd absorbed from the memories of that cupboard. The dark space. The cobwebs. The constant hunger.

"Yes. After your parents' passing, I made that decision."

"Do you know what they did to the boy you left with them? That they kept him in a cupboard? Starved him? That I can find scars on his body that look years old?"

"I knew that your life there would not be easy," he said quietly, "I had hoped that they would learn to love you as one of their own."

"You left a child with people who hated him. Who you knew would treat him poorly."

Dumbledore's eyes held a deep sadness. "There is no justification I can offer that would make your suffering acceptable, Harry. I believed - perhaps wrongly - that your physical safety outweighed all other considerations."

"My physical safety?" I laughed bitterly. "From what I can tell, they didn't care if I lived or died."

"The protection was in the blood connection itself - in the reluctant shelter your aunt offered, however meager and cruel."

We sat in silence, as I stewed on that. I still didn't know how much of the anger was mine, but his explanation hadn't dulled it much. It still roared in me, deep and bitter, like lava finally erupting from a volcano.

I supposed I couldn't blame Harry for it. I'd lived one day of that - he'd lived over a decade of it.

"You're right, Harry," Dumbledore finally said. "I prioritized your survival over your happiness. I cannot undo that choice now, but I can acknowledge it was a mistake."

"And of all that were for these blood wards, right? they were supposed to keep me safe from them? From Voldemort?"

"Yes. They created a boundary neither Voldemort nor his servants could cross, so long as you could call that place home. They should’ve lasted until your seventeenth birthday."

"Except they didn't, did they?" I muttered darkly.

"Early this morning, the wards collapsed completely. Not weakened or breached - utterly destroyed. As if they had never existed. And I cannot explain how."

Suddenly, the pieces were starting to fit together. The wards had fallen the exact moment I'd woken under those stairs. When I'd replaced the real Harry Potter - or whatever had really happened.

"The consequences were immediate," Dumbledore continued. "Anyone who wished to were now able to locate you. Mr. Macnair was merely the most eager to enact vengeance, it seems."

"Yeah," I said, my voice hollow. "You could say that."

Sharp cracks outside announced the arrival of Dumbledore's summoned help. Moments later, the cabin door swung open, and three oddly-dressed individuals filed in—a severe-looking woman with a monocle, a tall Black wizard with a single gold earring, and a grizzled man with a wooden leg and a wildly spinning artificial eye.

"Amelia, Kingsley, Alastor," Dumbledore greeted them. "Thank you for coming so promptly."

"Merlin's beard," the woman exclaimed. "Is that Walden Macnair?"

"Indeed it is," Dumbledore confirmed. "Apprehended by young Mr. Potter here after Macnair attempted to attack him."

All eyes turned to me, and I resisted the urge to shrink back. Great. Even more wizards. 

"Potter?" the man with the artificial eye growled, his magical eye swiveling to fix on me. "You caught a Death Eater by yourself, boy?"

"I got lucky," I repeated, the excuse sounding feebler each time.

"Lucky or not," the tall wizard said, "it's impressive work. Have you considered what you want to do after Hogwarts, Mr. Potter?"

"Uh," I hesitated. "Not really?"

"Kingsley," the woman warned, frowning. "He's barely fourteen."

"Talent doesn't care about age," the other man - Alastor, by order of elimination - said, "And this here shows quite some talent, Potter."

The woman stepped forward, approaching Macnair to examine his bindings.

"We'll take him from here," she said briskly. "Though I warn you, Albus, the Minister won't be pleased about this. The trial will be… complicated."

"I have complete faith in your handling of the matter, Amelia," Dumbledore said smoothly.

Then, with another series of cracks, they were gone, taking Macnair with them.

"Who were they?" I asked once we were alone again, still reeling slightly at how fast they'd come and gone.

"Friends," Dumbledore replied vaguely. "People I trust to deliver Macnair to a Ministry cell without any... complications."

I nodded slowly, filing that away as yet another thing to investigate later.

"Now," Dumbledore continued, "we must address the issue of your accommodations for the remainder of the summer. With the blood wards gone, Privet Drive is no longer safe for you."

“Hey,” I scoffed, “You won’t see me complaining about that.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore hummed, brows furrowed. “Then it seems we must rely on the kindness of others. How would you feel about arriving early for your stay with the Weasleys, Harry? I imagine Molly would be delighted to have you.”

"Sounds as good a plan as any," I said. "But how are we getting there, sir?"

I paused, frowning at myself. Sir? Where had that come from?

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled, breaking me out of my thoughts. "I thought we might walk for a bit, if you don't mind. I find a short stroll before bed does wonders for one's constitution."

I followed him outside, where night had fully descended. The stars were brilliant out here, away from the city lights.

"I confess," Dumbledore said as we walked, "I have been less than forthcoming with you, Harry. Today, you’ve had to deal with the consequences of that choice."

I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. His expression had grown somber, his eyes no longer twinkling behind his spectacles.

"There are reasons - good reasons, I believed - for the distance I have maintained. For the information I have withheld." He sighed heavily. "But perhaps I have been mistaken."

We walked in silence for a while, the only sound the soft crunch of our footsteps on the path.

“Harry,” Dumbledore finally said, “you may find yourself feeling... different, in the days ahead. Changed, perhaps.”

I tensed. Did he know? Could he somehow sense that I wasn't the real Harry Potter?

“After confronting death so directly,” he continued, “it's not uncommon to experience a shift in perspective. A reordering of one's priorities. It would do you good to speak with somebody, once the dust has settled. If not to me, then to someone you trust.”

I relaxed slightly. He thought this was trauma, shell shock. I could work with that.

We reached the edge of a small village, and he came to a stop. He turned and offered one arm to me, palm faced out.

"We shall be apparating to the Burow," he explained, seeing my confusion. "It is a form of magical transportation, though I must warn you it will not be the most pleasant of ones. I’m afraid time is of the essence.”

I hesitated, then took his arm.

"Sir," I said, choosing my words carefully, "I think I'd prefer knowing what I'm up against, even if it's difficult to hear. I can handle it."

Dumbledore's eyes held mine for a long moment. 

"Yes," he said quietly. "I believe you would. And perhaps, when you have settled at the Burrow, we shall have a proper conversation. One with fewer omissions on my part."

The world compressed around us. I felt like I was being squeezed through a too-tight rubber tube, pressure building in my ears and chest until I thought I might splinter into a million tiny pieces -

Chapter Text

And then we were standing in a field.

I promptly collapsed to my knees, dry heaving into the grass. I probably would've vomited if my stomach wasn't entirely empty of anything to throw up.

"A common reaction to one's first apparition," Dumbledore murmured, waving his wand. A gentle warmth spread through my limbs, easing the nausea immediately. "It becomes easier with practice."

"I'll take your word for it," I muttered, forcing myself to stand.

Before us stood what had to be the strangest house I'd ever seen. It looked as though it had once been a small stone cottage, but extra rooms appeared to have been added over time until it resembled a crooked, multi-story tower held together by what could only be magic. Several chimneys perched haphazardly on the red roof, and the warm glow of lamplight spilled from the windows.

"Ah. The Weasleys appear to be expecting us," Dumbledore said, nodding toward a plump woman hurrying across the yard.

"Harry!" she called. "Thank goodness you're safe!"

Before I could respond, she had enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug.

"Mrs. Weasley," I guessed, stiff in her arms.

"Oh, Harry, we were so worried when we heard what happened," she said, finally releasing me.

"I apologize for the late hour, Molly," Dumbledore said. "Events have unfolded rather more dramatically than anticipated."

"Nonsense, Albus, you know you're both welcome any time." She turned to me, wringing her hands. "Are you hungry, dear? We were just having dinner, if you'd like a plate."

My stomach answered the question for me with an embarrassingly loud growl.

When had I last eaten? If we were counting this loop, it had been at least a day, but if not… a hundred, maybe? Three months? No wonder I felt hollow.

I smiled sheepishly. "Actually, I'm starving."

Mrs. Weasley beamed. "Well, come on in then! Everyone's waiting to see you're alright."

She led us through the yard, chattering all the way about how worried they'd been and how glad she was that I was safe. I tried to keep my face neutral, to nod at the right moments, but my mind was racing. Everyone. Multiple people who knew the Harry from before. How many of them would I have to fool to stay alive?

As Mrs. Weasley led us through the front door, I got the answer to my question: far, far too many.

The wooden table was crowded with redheads of various ages, all of whom looked up when we entered. The smiles that broke out on their faces only made the dread sink deeper.

"Harry!" A lanky boy exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. "Mum wouldn't tell us what happened. Just said you were coming to stay early."

Next to him, a girl with the same flaming red hair who seemed to be intensely interested in her plate suddenly looked up, her face flushing. Twins grinned at me from the other side of the table.

"Well, if it isn't Harry Potter, making a dramatic entrance as usual," one twin said with a wicked grin.

"With Professor Dumbledore himself as escort," the other added, looking impressed. "Whatever you did must've been good."

"Fred! George! That's enough," Mrs. Weasley scolded. "The poor boy's been through... well, he's been through quite enough already."

An older man stood, presumably the father, and extended his hand. "Good to see you, Harry. Er, even if it is a bit ahead of schedule."

I shook his hand. "Thank you for having me, sir."

At the far end of the table sat another young man, slightly older than the twins, with horn-rimmed glasses and a pompous expression. He hadn't risen like the others but was watching the proceedings with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.

"Potter," he said with a curt nod, adjusting his glasses.

"Percy," Mrs. Weasley said reproachfully, "you could at least say hello properly."

Percy sighed dramatically. "Of course, Mother. Welcome, Harry. I trust you're well, all things considered?"

"Er, yeah. Thanks." 

"Before I depart for the evening," Dumbledore announced, "there is one more errand I must attend to. Harry's belongings are still at Privet Drive."

"At this hour, Albus?" Mrs. Weasley said.

"I assure you, Molly, it will take but a moment." Dumbledore said, looking oddly serious. "I believe a brief conversation with Harry's relatives is rather overdue regardless."

With that, Dumbledore disappeared with a soft crack , leaving the table in a moment of awkward silence.

"Wouldn't want to be the muggles right now," one of the twins said, breaking the silence.

"Reckon Dumbledore might turn them into toads?" the other suggested.

"Fred! George!" Mrs. Weasley admonished again, but I caught the hint of a smile on her face. "Now sit, Harry! You must be absolutely starving, you poor thing."

I slid into the seat, acutely aware of everyone's eyes on me. The lankier boy dropped back into the chair beside me.

"So what happened, mate?" he whispered, leaning in. "Did something happen with the muggles?"

"Ronald," Percy interrupted in a carrying voice, "Harry is clearly uncomfortable. Perhaps we could refrain from interrogating him about what I'm sure was a distressing experience?"

Ronald's ears turned red. "I wasn't interrogating him, Percy. I was just—"

"It's fine," I said, cutting off what looked to be a familiar argument. "Just had some trouble. Dumbledore thought it was better if I stayed here."

The twins exchanged a look.

"Must've been some trouble," one of them said.

"To get Dumbledore himself involved," the other finished.

Mrs. Weasley rounded on them, and they both held their hands up in surrender.

I gave her a grateful look and focused on my food, barely remembering to use a fork instead of my hands to shovel it into my mouth.

"Blimey, mate," Ronald said, watching me devour the meal, "those Muggles weren't feeding you at all, were they?"

"You're one to talk," the girl muttered for the first time, her eyes quickly darting back to her plate when I glanced at her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ronald protested through a mouthful of potatoes. "I'm a growing boy."

"Growing outward, maybe," one of the twins teased.

"I do hope," Percy said loftily, "that your table manners improve before you return to Hogwarts, Ronald. It reflects poorly on the family."

"Oh, shove off," Ronald muttered.

The conversation flowed like that for the rest of dinner, with each member of the Weasley family trading good-natured jabs and jokes across the table. It was a warmth that'd been entirely absent from the tense, silent breakfasts at the Dursleys.

As I finished my second heaping plate, I realized I was smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

Another crack announced Dumbledore's return, cutting the laughter short. He appeared in the doorway, a battered trunk floating beside him and a covered cage hovering just behind.

"Your belongings, Harry," he said, directing the trunk to rest against the wall with a flick of his wand. The cage settled gently beside it, and an indignant hoot came from beneath the cloth cover.

I stared at the cage, trying not to let my surprise show.

"She was rather agitated," Dumbledore explained, removing the cloth to reveal a beautiful snowy owl. "I thought it best to cover her cage for the journey."

The owl ruffled her feathers and gave what seemed like an accusatory look in my direction. A pet owl. Alright, then. Why the bloody hell not, at this point?

"I must say," Dumbledore added, his voice noticeably cooler, "your relatives were not particularly cooperative. It required a rather firm conversation to acquire your things."

The owl in her cage gave a soft hoot, as if in agreement.

"Vernon was quite vocal about your unauthorized borrowing of his automobile," Dumbledore continued. "Though he became significantly less vocal when I reminded him of his obligations toward you over the years, and how thoroughly he had failed to meet them."

I couldn't help but smile at the thought of Vernon cowering before this odd old man.

"I would've paid to see that," I said.

"Perhaps we shall revisit the memory," Dumbledore replied cryptically. "If there happens to be the time and opportunity."

I didn't even have to pretend to not know what that meant, judging by the confused look on Ron's face.

"Ah, and before I forget," Dumbledore said, reaching into his robes, "I believe this belongs to you, Harry."

He extended his hand, offering me a wand.

The moment my fingers closed around it, I felt a surge of warmth rush through my hand and up my arm - but far more intensely than it'd had with Ugly’s wand. This was my wand, and the difference between it and Ugly's was so vast I could barely put into words.

"Thank you, sir," I said, unable to hide my wonder.

Dumbledore nodded, his expression growing serious as he turned to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"Arthur, Molly, I find I must trouble you for a private word," he said. "There are matters we would do well to discuss away from young ears, eager as they might be to listen."

Mrs. Weasley immediately stood up, brushing crumbs from her apron. "Of course, Albus. We can use the sitting room."

"Children," Mr. Weasley said, "why don't you help Harry get settled upstairs? It's getting late."

"I'd be happy to assist," Percy said, rising from his seat with an air of importance. "As the eldest present, I should—"

"Upstairs, all of you," Mrs. Weasley repeated, her tone brooking no argument.

Ron helped me lug my things up several creaking flights of stairs to a small room under the eaves, its walls plastered with posters of people zooming around on broomsticks.

"Think the Cannons have a shot this season?" Ron asked, gesturing toward a violently orange poster where several players zoomed around, occasionally colliding with each other.

"Maybe," I hummed, staring at the poster.

A moving image, and not in the way I was familiar with. Depicting a sport of flying around on broomsticks.

At this point, I was so tired I was willing to just accept it.

"I know everyone says they're hopeless," Ron sighed, "but their new Keeper isn't half bad. Fred and George keep taking the mickey, but I still have faith."

"Right," I yawned, slumping onto my new bed.

Ron rummaged through his dresser, tossing me a faded pair of pajamas. "Here. You can use these for now, mate. I reckon you're too knackered to dig through your trunk."

I changed quickly, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. The room was warm and slightly stuffy, with the sweet summer air drifting in through the half-open window. From somewhere below us came the faint sounds of Mrs. Weasley tidying up, dishes clinking gently as they washed themselves.

"Harry," Ron said quietly after a moment, flopping onto his own bed with a creak of springs. His voice had dropped to nearly a whisper. "Dad looked worried. Really worried. When he came home before dinner."

I stared up at the slanted ceiling, feeling a cold weight settle in my stomach.

"He said there was an 'incident'," Ron continued, clearly choosing his words carefully. "But you know how adults are. They never tell us anything important."

"It's nothing."

"Come on, mate. You can tell me. Was it... you know," Ron hesitated, "something to do with You-Know-Who? Like last time, with the scar?"

You-Know-Who. Voldemort. "The Dark Lord". The cause of all my pain, suffering and deaths. And based on this conversation, not for the first time. Harry had trusted him, then.

If trusting him was the wrong decision, it'd pay to learn it early. I was expecting to redo this particular night as many times as needed to get it right, after all.

"Someone tried to kill me," I finally muttered. "So yeah, probably."

" Kill you?" Ron whispered, eyes wide in horror.

I couldn't help but smile. I supposed it was rather horrifying, wasn't it? When had dying become an inconvenience in my mind?

"Yeah," I repeated. "Dumbledore took care of it."

"Right then," Ron said after a long silence, turning to stare up at the ceiling with an oddly serious look on his face. "We'll beat him again, mate. Just like last time. I've got your back."

I turned to look at him. I wondered for a moment if he really knew what that meant. If he'd still say that if he knew that I wasn't the person he thought I was.

If he knew that I didn't deserve that kind of unconditional love.

"Yeah. We will."

The following week at the Burrow passed quickly. Each day blended into the next, marked by home-cooked meals, impromptu Quidditch matches, and explosions from the twins' room that Mrs. Weasley pretended not to hear.

For the first time since waking up in this world, I could breathe without constantly looking over my shoulder. The Burrow felt safe in a way I hadn't experienced before, its magical protections a comforting blanket against the dangers outside.

Percy was often absent during the days, leaving early for the Ministry in pressed robes and returning late, full of self-important stories about cauldron bottom regulations and international magical cooperation. 

His attitude clearly grated on his siblings, but I found his endless droning about Ministry procedures unexpectedly valuable. Each detail about wizarding government was another piece of the puzzle I was desperately trying to assemble.

"You actually listen to him?" Ron asked incredulously one afternoon, after I'd spent half an hour letting Percy explain the intricacies of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

"He knows a lot about the Ministry," I shrugged. "Could be useful."

Ron looked at me like I'd grown a second head, but didn't press the issue.

I spent my nights, once Ron had gone to sleep, carefully piecing together Harry's life. The school trunk became a treasure trove of information, each item offering a glimpse into the life I was supposed to be living.

There was a photo album, wrapped in a fine cloth and placed carefully at the bottom. The leather cover was worn at the edges, the binding cracked from frequent opening. Inside, the photographs moved - not just moved, but lived. People laughing, waving, embracing.

The front pages showed Harry with Ron and a bushy-haired girl, their arms thrown around each other's shoulders as they stood before a vast castle of towers and turrets. In another, Harry streaked across a bright blue sky on a broomstick, his face tensed in concentration as he chased what looked like a tiny golden ball. The most recent page was of Harry with a gaunt-looking man, tired smiles on both their faces.

The last page was the one I always went back to. A red-haired woman with bright green eyes smiled gently from a sunlit garden. A man with unruly black hair and glasses grinned as he cradled an infant in his arms, his face radiating pride.

I often found myself tracing their faces with my fingertips, a strange longing rising in my chest for people I'd never known.

The trunk also contained books with titles like "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3" and "A History of Magic." They were all in pristine condition, practically fresh out of the wrapper. It seemed Harry hadn't been much of a reader.

Thankfully for us, I was.

I spent every free moment devouring those books, memorizing incantations and wand movements. The once pristine pages quickly became cluttered with notes, underlines, and crude diagrams.

I wasn't going to be able to cover the entire curriculum, so I focused on core defense spells. Protego, Stupefy, Expelliarmus. The next time a Death Eater showed up, I was going to be ready for them.

After learning about the Trace and its many loopholes from A History of Magic - that casting spells in a magical household like the Weasleys wouldn't get me in trouble - I began actually practicing. I'd sneak out to the Weasley orchard each night when everyone was asleep, my new wand clutched in hand.

The actual casting of spells was harder than Macnair had made it look, than I’d managed in the heat of the moment. It wasn't just about the wand movements or the incantation - those I could learn. The hard part was making yourself believe that waving a stick and muttering a word could alter reality. 

The arrogance to believe that you could defy physics at will, if you only wanted it enough.

The first night I attempted Stupefy on a makeshift target, I spent two hours repeating the words, jabbing my wand exactly as described, achieving nothing but a sore arm and mounting frustration.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, glaring at the stack of apples I'd arranged. "Just fall, damn you."

I was overthinking it. Analyzing. Questioning whether it was even possible. And that, I realized, was precisely the problem.

I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. And for just a moment, I released my doubts. I abandoned the very concepts of mass and force — for what wizard concerns themselves with such trivialities? — and simply knew the spell would work.

" Stupefy! "

The surge of warmth flowing from my chest, down my arm, and through the wand was unlike anything I'd experienced before. I opened my eyes to see a jet of red light hit the apples, violently scattering them away from me.

I stared at the aftermath. Magic. Actual, physics-defying, honest-to-god magic.

The mingled sensation of awe, wonder, and horror was unlike anything I'd ever felt.

The Weasleys didn't seem to mind my sudden interest in reading — beyond Ron's offhand comment that I'd started to "take too much after Hermione". The only one who seemed to notice something was wrong turned out to be the owl.

She would watch me with those intelligent amber eyes as I annotated my textbook, head tilted as if trying to figure out what had changed about her owner.

"I know," I whispered to her one night, reaching through the cage bars to stroke her feathers. "I'm not him. I'm sorry, but I think he's gone. I'm trying my best to do right by him."

She nipped my finger. Not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely hard enough to hurt.

"Fair enough," I muttered at her. "I'd probably be pretty upset too."

I had let her out of her cage that first night, expecting her to fly away and never return. But to my surprise, she came back the next morning, dropping a dead mouse on my pillow like some macabre gift. After that, she stayed, though she watched me with those accusatory eyes whenever we were alone.

"What's your name anyway?" I asked her one evening as she preened her feathers. 

She hooted softly but offered no clarity. Of course she couldn’t. I was talking to a owl like she could understand what I was saying. 

During the day, I'd join the Weasleys outside, where Ron taught me the finer points of Quidditch. It turned out Harry was some kind of prodigy on a broomstick, which was just my luck. I was decidedly not. The first time I mounted the broom, I shot up twenty feet and nearly fell off.

"Blimey, Harry," Ron called up to me, "what's gotten into you?"

"Just rusty," I called back, white-knuckling the handle as I tried to coax the broom back to the ground. "Haven't flown since school."

Fred and George had found this particularly amusing, offering helpful advice like "try not dying" and "the ground's the hard bit at the bottom."

But as the days went on, I got better. There was an instinct to it, a muscle memory that wasn't mine but seemed to linger in Harry's body. By the end of the week, I could zip around the makeshift pitch with something approaching competence.

Between flying sessions, I soaked up everything I could about the wizarding world. Mrs. Weasley's casual use of magic for cooking and cleaning. Mr. Weasley's endless questions about "Muggle contraptions" that gave me the perfect excuse to ask my own questions in return.

"So the Ministry has how many departments again?" I asked casually one evening, as he tinkered with what appeared to be a dismantled toaster.

"Seven major ones," he replied, delighted by my apparent interest. "International Magical Cooperation, Magical Games and Sports, Magical Law Enforcement—that's where I work, of course, though the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office is rather small—Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Magical Transportation, Mysteries, and Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"And which department handles trials like mine?"

"That would be Magical Law Enforcement, primarily. Though for something as minor as underage magic, it would normally just be a hearing with Mafalda Hopkirk from the Improper Use of Magic Office."

"But it's not going to be normal, is it?"

"Harry..." Mr. Weasley hesitated. "I don't want you to worry too much. Dumbledore will be there, and the evidence is clearly in your favor. Self-defense is protected under wizarding law, just as it is for Muggles."

The days ticked by, and slowly I began to feel less like an impostor. The Weasleys made it easy to belong.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over how thin I was, constantly piling extra helpings onto my plate. Mr. Weasley peppered me with questions about "Muggle" life whenever he caught me alone. Ron, surprisingly, liked chess about as much as he liked talking about Quidditch. 

The twins included me in their elaborate pranks. I'd even managed to have a cordial conversation or two with Ginny, though she still turned the color of a tomato whenever I entered a room.

Percy seemed to regard me with a kind of grudging respect after I asked him detailed questions about Ministry proceedings. "It's refreshing," he told me one evening, "to see someone your age taking an interest in the proper functioning of magical government."

That was all to say that I'd almost forgotten about my upcoming trial with the Ministry when a rather official looking owl flew over my plate at the Weasley table on Sunday morning.

"What in Merlin's name?" Mr. Weasley muttered as it dropped a formal-looking envelope directly into my porridge. 

I wiped off the worst of the mess and broke the purple wax seal. The parchment inside was thick and heavy, embossed with the Ministry's seal.

MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Dear Mr. Potter,

Please be advised that the date and time of your disciplinary hearing has been changed to 9 AM on the 18th of August.

Furthermore, due to the serious nature of the offense and the involvement of a Ministry employee, the hearing will now take place before the full Wizengamot in Courtroom Ten.

Your presence is required at the aforementioned date and time. Failure to appear will result in immediate adjudication in your absence.

Yours sincerely, 

Mafalda Hopkirk 

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

"They've moved the hearing back," I said, passing the letter to Mr. Weasley. “The 18th.”

Mr. Weasley's face grew progressively redder as he read the letter. 

"This is outrageous. A full Wizengamot hearing for underage magic?" 

"What?" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, setting down a platter of sausages with a bang. "Let me see that, Arthur."

"Wait," Ron interrupted, looking stricken. "The 18th? But that's the day of the World Cup!"

"Ronald Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley rounded on him. "Harry is facing expulsion from Hogwarts, and all you can think about is Quidditch?"

"No, I just meant - "

"It's fine," I cut in. "You should still go. It's not like having an audience will help my case."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said firmly. "We'll all be there to support you."

"Mum's right," George added, though he didn’t seem entirely enthusiastic. "Ireland versus Bulgaria? They'll play again."

"Besides," Ron mumbled, ears turning red, "wouldn't be right, would it? You stuck dealing with those gits and us lot having a grand time."

"I assure you, Potter, that the Ministry will make a fair ruling," Percy said, rising from his seat with his breakfast barely touched, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare for work."

"On a Sunday?" Fred called after him.

“International cooperation doesn't observe weekends, Fred," Percy replied primly as he left the room.

"This reeks of Lucius Malfoy's influence," Mr. Weasley said, still frowning at the letter. "Moving the date, involving the full Wizengamot. It’s unprecedented. He’s trying to intimidate you."

The Weasley siblings’ faces soured at the mention of the name. There was a history there, from what I’d gleaned from context clues. A dark enough history that I didn’t dare ask them directly what had happened.

“Excuse me,” Ginny muttered, suddenly pushing away from the table. Her face had gone pale.

Fred and George shared a look across the table, their usual smiles gone. Without a word, they both stood and followed after her.

I ate quietly for the rest of breakfast, entirely occupied with my thoughts as the Weasley parents discussed logistics on how they’d tell the older siblings about the change in plans. They’d spent a fortune on these tickets. Been waiting a full summer for it, in the case of Ron. 

And yet they were willing to sacrifice it all for a boy that wasn’t here anymore.

By night time, I found myself flying above the orchard behind the Burrow. As much as I’d struggled with getting the hang of it, being in the air was liberating. My head was clear, up here in the clouds.

I pushed the broom higher, turning between the stars. Within a week I'd have to face the Wizengamot. Somehow face a room full of the most powerful witches and wizards in Britain and make my case. Despite all of Mr. Weasley’s assurances, it still felt like I was walking directly into a trap.

That there was every chance that half the wizards making my ruling were Death Eaters themselves. 

I turned sharply and sent the broom into a steep dive. The old Cleansweep shook badly under me, protesting the abuse I was putting it through. I couldn’t help but grin as the ground raced closer, my heart soaring as I brought myself back hurtling back up into the sky.

Maybe I’d taken a bit too well to Harry’s love of flying.

I rolled the broom sideways, attempting a barrel roll I'd seen Fred execute earlier that week. For a moment, everything was perfect - the night air rushing past me, stars wheeling overhead as the world inverted. 

Then came the sickening crack from somewhere in the broom's handle.

I felt myself slipping, my grip on the handle weakening. For a moment, I was suspended in the air, no longer connected to the broom, my stomach lurching as gravity took hold of me.

And then I was falling.

Huh. So this was it. Loop 233. It’d lasted far longer than any loop before it, so I supposed that was a record.

I closed my eyes, feeling the wind whistle past me. The stairs. The cupboard. Vernon's yelling. It would all start again in a few moments.

I didn't know if I had it in me to do it all again. To escape the Dursleys, to trick Macnair, to make my way to the Burrow. To earn the Weasleys' trust all over again, knowing I was deceiving them at every turn. 

As the ground rushed up to meet me, a strange sense of peace settled over me. What if this was the last time? What if the loop finally broke and I simply... ended?

The thought wasn't frightening anymore. Perhaps this was how Harry Potter's story was always meant to end. Slipping on a broom and falling out of the sky like a goddamn idiot.

In my final moments, as the ground rushed up towards me, I had a ridiculous thought. 

I never did learn the owl's name.

233

"Harry!"

I sat bolt upright, gasping for air, hands automatically reaching for my throat, my chest, checking for injuries that should have been there.

"You alright?"

Ron's concerned face swam into view, illuminated by the morning sunlight pouring through the attic window. His hand was on my shoulder, steadying me as I fought to control my breathing.

"You were thrashing something awful," he said, frowning. "Bad dream?"

I stared at him, uncomprehending. This wasn't the cupboard under the stairs. This wasn't the beginning, with Vernon's voice booming through the house.

This was Ron's room. In the Burrow.

"What day is it?" I asked, my voice coming out as a croak.

Ron's frown deepened. "Sunday. Seriously, mate, should I get Mum?"

I shook my head, struggling to process what this meant. 

"I'm fine," I managed. "Just... give me a minute."

Ron looked unconvinced but backed away, giving me space. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to piece together the implications.

Somehow, the anchor point had progressed.

Which meant that I wasn't condemned to repeat the same few days for eternity. That someday, if I could keep the anchor moving, there was a possibility I could die of old age. Die free.

I turned away quickly, pretending to search for my glasses on the bedside table, not wanting Ron to see the tears in my eyes.

"Breakfast's nearly ready!" Mrs. Weasley's voice called up the stairs.

"Coming, Mum!" Ron called back, already pulling on his socks. He glanced at me, concern still evident in his face. "You sure you're okay?"

I nodded, swiping quickly at my eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Harry, dear?" Mrs. Weasley said when I came downstairs, her anger at Ron immediately forgotten. "What's wrong?"

I shook my head, wiping ineffectually at my face as tears streamed down my cheeks. The entire Weasley family was staring at me now, identical expressions of concern on their freckled faces.

"Nothing," I managed, a watery smile breaking through. "I'm just... I'm just really glad to be here."

Mrs. Weasley's expression softened instantly. She crossed the kitchen and enveloped me in one of her bone-crushing hugs.

"Oh, Harry," she murmured. "Everything's going to be alright. You'll see."

And for the first time since waking up in this world, I actually believed it might be.

Chapter Text

The next day’s morning was, as it often was, interrupted by an argument.

"Fred! George!" Mrs. Weasley shouted, brandishing a stack of papers. "What exactly do you call these?"

The twins exchanged a quick glance before Fred adopted an innocent expression.

"Just a bit of market research, Mum," he said smoothly. "For after school."

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," George added with a hint of pride. "We're thinking of opening a joke shop someday."

Mrs. Weasley's face reddened. “This is what you've been doing up in your room all summer? Explosions at all hours - "

"Product testing," Fred supplied helpfully.

"- frightening poor Ginny - "

"I wasn't frightened," Ginny objected from across the table. "I was helping."

"HELPING?" Mrs. Weasley looked ready to explode, her face a scarlet red.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat from behind his newspaper.

"Perhaps this discussion could wait until after breakfast, dear?"

Mrs. Weasley took a deep breath, visibly reining in her temper.

"We will discuss this later," she promised the twins, tucking the forms into her apron pocket. "Mark my words, boys."

Mrs. Weasley had just begun serving up a second round of toast when the kitchen window rattled open, admitting another bloody owl into the Burrow.

"Incoming!" Fred warned, ducking as the tiny owl made a spiraling descent toward the table, finally crash-landing with a flutter of feathers and releasing its delivery - a hastily folded letter that plopped directly into my porridge.

Did they train these owls specifically to target my breakfast? I wouldn't put it past these wizards at this point, from what I'd seen and read about already.

"Errol, really!" Mrs. Weasley scolded, as if the owl could possibly understand her.

"That's not Errol, Mum," Ron said, squinting up at the tiny bird. "It's Pig."

The diminutive owl hooted proudly, performing a celebratory loop around the kitchen before crash-landing next to the butter dish.

"Pig?" I asked, fishing out the soggy letter. Again.

"Short for Pigwidgeon," Ron said with a grimace. "Ginny named him."

"It's cute," Ginny grumbled, clearly having had this argument before.

I unfolded the damp parchment. The handwriting was neat and somewhat familiar, though it seemed hastier than usual, with the occasional ink blot suggesting it had been written in a hurry.

Dear Ron (and Harry, if you're there),

I've just heard what happened from your father. I can't believe they're making Harry appear before the entire Wizengamot for an under-age magic case! It's almost certainly against Ministry regulations.

And I can't believe I had to hear about it from Mr. Weasley and not from you! Honestly, Ron.

I've convinced my parents to cut our holiday short. We'll be returning to London as soon as possible, and I'm planning to come to the Burrow in a few days if that's alright with your parents.

Please let me know if there's anything I can bring. I've already started researching relevant cases and precedents from what I had with me. I've included a short summary with this letter you can start reading beforehand, Harry, if you've got the time.

Don't do anything stupid until I get there!

Love from,
Hermione

P.S. Ron, don't let Harry brood too much. You know how he gets.

I blinked, reading through the letter again. Only then did I notice what had fallen out from between the folded parchment - Hermione's idea of a "short summary" was actually several pages of parchment bound together with twine, covered in her meticulous handwriting and color-coded annotations. It was also currently sinking to the bottom of my bowl of porridge.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, quickly fishing the sodden pages out. The ink was already beginning to run in places, turning her careful notes into smudges.

"Here, let me help with that," Mr. Weasley said, pulling out his wand. With a gentle swish, he pointed it at the wet parchment. "Tergeo."

The excess moisture lifted from the pages like a thin mist. The ink stopped running, settling back into Hermione's neat script.

"Useful little charm, that," Mr. Weasley said with a smile. "Comes in handy at the Ministry more often than you'd think."

"Thanks, Mr. Weasley,” I said, staring down at the now completely dry notes. Huh. I’d been so focused on purely defensive spells that I’d missed out on neat little tricks like this.

I picked up the letter, handing it to Ron. "It’s from Hermione. She's coming early to help, apparently."

"That's very thoughtful of her," Mrs. Weasley said, refilling my tea.

I nodded absently, my mind already racing ahead. Hermione. The bushy-haired girl from the photographs. One of Harry's best friends, apparently. Another person I'd have to fool.

The Weasleys had proven to be rather accepting of the many verbal mistakes I’d made since coming here, in not knowing things I should’ve known. Something told me the girl everyone called the smartest witch they’d ever known wasn’t going to let that go quite as easily.

"We should probably write back," I said, pushing away my half-finished breakfast.

"Already on it," Ron said, scribbling a reply on the back of Hermione's letter. "Mum, is it alright if Hermione comes tomorrow?"

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Weasley said. "She can stay in Ginny's room. I'll make up the spare bed."

Ginny's expression brightened considerably at this news.

"She could help us practice for the hearing," I suggested. "You know, read up on the relevant laws and stuff."

"Blimey, Harry," Ron grumbled. "You'll have her color-coding your defense strategy before lunch."

"Actually," I said, "that sounds pretty helpful right now."

Ron groaned, slumping into his breakfast.

“We can still fly afterwards?” I offered as a olive branch, a wry smile on my face.

Ron perked up immediately. "Yeah? Brilliant! Maybe we can get Fred and George to play two-on-two if Percy's still hiding in his room."

"I'm sure we could convince them," I said, glancing at the twins who were in the middle of transfiguring Percy's abandoned toast into something that looked suspiciously like a toad.

As Mrs.Weasley rounded on the two again and a argument began anew, I started reading.

The summer sun hung high over the Weasleys' orchard as I leaned against an ancient apple tree, surrounded by open books. Thick texts on Ministry procedures I'd borrowed from Percy, Hermione's notes with their meticulous color-coding, and the Standard Book of Spells I'd nearly worn through from constant reading.

I flipped through Hermione's section on the Wizengamot, my eyes scanning her neat handwriting:

"The Wizengamot consists of forty-nine members (seven councils of seven). This includes Department Heads from the Ministry of Magic, but its primary seats belong to the old wizarding families. The Wizengamot is an invite-only council that requires either immense prestige, heritage or wealth (or often, all three) to be considered for. Many members have held seats for decades if not generations, creating a deeply entrenched political structure and insular governance that..."

I closed my eyes, trying to visualize the courtroom she'd described. About fifty of the most powerful wizards and witches in the country, staring down at me, judging not just the spell I'd cast but whether I deserved to keep my place in their world.

A world I'd barely had the time to get a foothold in. That I could barely defend myself against. A terrible thought occurred to me then - one I'd been avoiding for a long time.

What if I could give myself more time?

The rational approach would be to kill myself now, deliberately. It only made sense, right? There was every chance that this was the best anchor point I'd ever get. I could do it over and over, mastering every single spell in my books, learning every bit of trivia I could.

Arrive at the Ministry, and then Hogwarts, more powerful than any wizard that had ever lived. Powerful enough that I would never have to worry about the Death Eaters again.

My hand trembled as I raised the wand to my temple. Just two words. That's all it would take. I'd heard them enough times now to know the exact intonation, the precise wand movement. They were practically engraved into my mind.

But I couldn't form them. My throat closed, heart hammering against my ribs. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool shade.

It would be painless, I told myself, pressing the wand tip harder onto my skin. Quick. I wouldn't even feel a damn thing.

The wand dropped to the grass, both hands coming up to cover my face instead. I let out a long sigh.

I supposed I was still scared of death after all.

"Harry?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Ron stood at the edge of the clearing, concern etched across his freckled face.

“Bloody hell," I gasped, hastily grabbing my wand from the grass. "Make some noise next time."

"Sorry." He shuffled closer, eyeing the books scattered around me. "Mum sent me to find you. You missed lunch."

"Did I?" I glanced at the sky, surprised to see the sun had moved significantly since I'd settled here. "Lost track of time, I guess."

Ron picked up one of Percy's books, grimacing at the title: Internal Procedures of Magical Law Enforcement, Volume IV. "Merlin's beard, Harry. You're really turning into Hermione, you know that? Should I be worried?"

I managed a weak smile. "Just trying to be prepared."

Ron dropped down beside me, leaning back against the trunk of the apple tree.

"Look, mate," Ron began, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "I know you're worried about this hearing. And You-Know-Who, and all that."

I glanced at him, surprised by the earnestness in his tone.

"Dad says it’ll be alright. It's just a big deal because... well, because of who you are."

"That's what I was afraid of," I admitted.

"But you've got Dumbledore on your side, and everyone listens to him. I'm sure it'll be alright," Ron said. He picked at the grass beside him, seemingly gathering his thoughts. "And even if it wasn't, even if Malfoy or some other old git manages to get you expelled… you'd still have a place here."

I stared at him.

"Mum's already said so," he continued, ears turning slightly pink. "If they snap your wand - which they won't - you'd still have a home with us. Bill could probably get you into some curse-breaking apprenticeship that doesn't need formal qualifications, or Charlie's always saying they need help with the dragons, so…"

His voice trailed off.

"What I'm trying to say is, you'll be alright. With us. No matter what."

A lump formed in my throat.

"Thanks," I managed, the word barely audible.

Ron nodded, clearly as uncomfortable as I was.

"Yeah, well... just thought you should know."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what remained unsaid hanging between us.

"Mum's made shepherd's pie," Ron said suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. "She'll send a search party if we don't head back soon. You know how she gets."

"Right," I said, standing and gathering my books.

Not for the first time, I wondered what the real Harry Potter had done to deserve such loyalty.

I'd spent most of my nights since then awake, sitting by the window in Ron's room with a lit wand, poring over Hermione's notes. I'd gone through them so many times I could practically recite entire passages from memory.

I felt like I knew Hermione just from the way she wrote. She was clever, precise and far too naive. She could find the tiniest loopholes in the laws, link two entirely separate events together to support her points. But while she tried to sound objective, I could feel the anger between the lines - observations about how certain laws consistently benefited specific families, how punishments varied dramatically depending on one's social standing.

It painted a picture of a society deeply resistant to change, with power concentrated in the hands of a privileged few. Not so different from the non-magical world, really. Just with wands and more dramatic hats.

"Morning," Ron yawned one morning. "Did you sleep at all?"

"A bit," I lied, suppressing a yawn. "Just want to be prepared."

We headed downstairs for breakfast, where Mrs. Weasley was already busy at the stove, directing several pans with her wand while simultaneously kneading dough for what looked like fresh bread.

"Hermione should be here around ten," she informed us, flicking her wand to send a platter of sausages to the table. "Traveling by Floo from Diagon Alley."

"Brilliant," I said, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

By half-past, Mrs. Weasley was starting to look anxious.

"Perhaps I should check with her parents," she fretted, wiping her hands on her apron. "Muggles do have those tele-things, don't they, Arthur?"

"Telephones," Mr. Weasley corrected, looking delighted at the prospect of using one. "Fascinating devices. I've been meaning to learn how they -"

"Not now, dear," Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"I'm sure she's fine, Molly," Mr. Weasley reassured her. "Probably just got caught up at Flourish and Blotts. You know how she is around books."

It was nearly noon when the fireplace finally flared green, and Hermione stepped out, brushing soot from her clothes. Her hair was even bushier than in the photographs, if that was possible, and her arms were laden with books and parcels.

"Sorry I'm late," Hermione said, setting down a bag that clinked suspiciously with what could only be more books. "The queue at Flourish and Blotts was absolutely dreadful, and then I ran into Professor McGonagall, and - "

Mrs. Weasley swept forward to envelop her in a hug. "Not to worry, dear. We're just glad you've arrived safely. How was Spain?"

"Oh, it was lovely," Hermione said, though something in her tone suggested her mind was elsewhere. "Very educational. The magical district in Catalonia is fascinating - did you know their Ministry equivalent is housed entirely underwater, beneath-"

Her eyes found mine, and she stopped mid-sentence.

"Harry," she said softly.

"Hi, Hermione," I replied, hoping my nervousness wasn't obvious.

She crossed the room in three quick strides and threw her arms around me, hugging me so tightly I could barely breathe. There was a desperation to it that surprised me - like she was confirming I was real, solid, actually there.

"Hi," she whispered, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

I awkwardly patted her back, not quite sure how to respond. Ron met my eyes from behind her, giving me an equally confused shrug. Ginny’s smile slowly turned into a frown from across the table.

When Hermione finally pulled back, I noticed her eyes were slightly wet, though no tears had fallen. She blinked rapidly, composing herself.

"Right. Well, I've been researching precedents all night," she continued, like nothing had happened. "The Wizengamot doesn't typically handle minor infractions like underage magic. See, that falls under the purview of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but I did find a precedent they could be using to justify-"

"Breakfast first," Mrs. Weasley interrupted firmly. "You look like you haven't slept in days, dear. The law books can wait until after you've eaten."

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I suppose I am a bit hungry."

"So," Ron said through a mouthful of eggs, "what'd you bring in that bag? Sounds like you've got half the library in there."

Hermione shot him a disgusted look. "Honestly, Ron, don't talk with your mouth full."

She reached for her bag and began extracting books, laying them out on the table beside her plate.

"Wizengamot Procedures and Protocols, Volume III," she explained, setting down a massive tome bound in faded purple leather. "Notable Cases in Underage Magic Exemptions." Another book, this one slimmer but no less official-looking. "Self-Defense in Magical Law: A Comprehensive Overview."

She flipped open the topmost book to reveal neatly color-coded tabs protruding from various pages, each one labeled in tiny, precise handwriting.

"I thought we could go through them together after breakfast," she said, looking at me. "Start building your defense."

"Sounds great," I said, leaning over to scan one. "I finished reading that summary you sent, if you want to start there."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You have?"

"Don't sound so shocked," I laughed, trying to keep my tone light. Right. Harry wasn't much of a reader. "It's my neck on the line."

"No, I didn't mean anything by it," She shook her head. "That's excellent, Harry. So, what did you think? Did my analysis of the Hopkirk precedent from 1887 make sense? I think it's our strongest argument, considering the circumstances."

I nodded, trying to recall the details from her notes. The case had involved a fifteen-year-old witch who'd used magic to defend herself from a rogue hippogriff.

"Yeah. Though I'm not sure how much a case from over a hundred years ago will hold up."

"Precedent is everything in wizarding law," Hermione replied, scribbling something down. "The Wizengamot considers cases from the 1600s with the same weight as those from last year. It's one of the fundamental flaws in our legal system, actually. There's very little evolution of-" She caught herself, shaking her head. "Sorry. Getting off track."

"No," I said, leaning forward. "Tell me more."

Both Ron and Hermione looked at me strangely at that.

"I mean, if it'll be useful," I said quickly. Shit. She’d been here barely five minutes and I was already blowing it.

"That's enough of that at the breakfast table," Mrs. Weasley interrupted, levitating more toast onto our plates. "There'll be plenty of time for studying after you've all eaten properly. Hermione, dear, did you have breakfast before you left? You look peaky."

"I had a bit of toast," Hermione admitted.

"Not enough for a growing girl," Mrs. Weasley insisted, piling eggs and sausages onto Hermione's plate. "Eat up, all of you."

After a relatively quiet breakfast, Ron stretched and turned to me.

"Might as well get the de-gnoming over with before we start all this studying. Mum's been after us since yesterday about the garden."

"Actually, Ron, I was hoping you could help me with something first," Hermione said, her voice just a touch too casual. "Some of these books are rather heavy, and I might need a third opinion on which ones are most relevant for Harry's case."

Ron stared at her blankly. "You want me to help you sort books? Me?"

"Yes," Hermione said, giving him a pointed look. "In Ginny's room."

"But I was going to -" Ron's eyes suddenly widened with understanding. "Oh! Right. Yeah, course I'll help."

"I'll come too," I offered, trying not to smile. Did they think they were being subtle? "Three heads are better than two, right?"

"Exactly!" Hermione said quickly, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

We traipsed up the creaking stairs to Ginny's room on the first floor, a snug space with a flowery scent and posters of the wizarding equivalent of a pop star on the walls. Two beds had been squeezed in, one clearly makeshift.

The moment the door closed behind us, Hermione pulled out her wand.

"Muffliato," she whispered, making a subtle flicking motion.

“What was that?” I said, immediately alert.

“Privacy charm,” she said offhandedly, glancing about the room. “In case anyone tried to listen in.”

"Where'd you learn that?" Ron asked, looking impressed.

“Oh,” she paused, like she’d just remembered something. “A textbook I read over the summer. Supplementary material on useful charms.”

“Yeah,” Ron huffed. “That tracks.”

Hermione set her bag down on the bed, then turned to face me directly. There was an intensity in her eyes that made me almost take a step back on instinct, coupled with the deep eyebags and frizzled hair.

"Harry, I need you to tell me what really happened. The whole story."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Hermione said, lowering her voice, "that there's no way the Wizengamot would convene a full hearing over a simple case of underage magic, even if it’s you. Something else is going on."

Ron and I shared a glance, and he shrugged back at me. I supposed trusting him hadn’t proven to be a bad idea so far. Why not?

“It’s not just underage magic,” I finally said. “I cast a spell because I was defending myself against a Sil- Death Eater.”

"What?" Hermione whispered, her face paling. "A Death Eater attacked you directly? At your home?"

"Not exactly at home," I clarified. "I was... elsewhere. But yeah, he found me. Tried to kill me."

"And you fought him off?" Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “Oh, Harry.”

"I'm fine," I said. "Really. Not a scratch on me."

In this timeline, anyway. I didn’t think she’d want to hear about some of the other ones, judging by the expression on her face.

She nodded. "Okay, well - Have you told Sirius about this?"

"Not yet," I said carefully. "I didn't want to worry him."

Hermione's frown deepened.

"Harry, he would want to know. He’s your godfather. He’d be worried sick if he knew."

"I'll write to him," I promised, filing that bit of information away. "After the hearing."

"If Death Eaters are openly attacking you," Hermione continued, her voice dropping even lower, "something's seriously wrong, Harry.”

“It’s not all that different from Pettigrew,” Ron interjected. “Dumbledore’ll take care of it just like he did last time, Hermione. He’s Chief, er, Wizard, isn’t he?”

“Chief Warlock,” Hermione corrected primly. “And that doesn’t mean he can make any arbitrary decision he wants, Ron. The Wizengamot still rules by majority.”

“But he's Dumbledore," Ron insisted. "Everyone respects him. Even Dad says there's no way they'd rule against Harry with Dumbledore there."

“Still,” Hermione frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. Even the more… conservative members of the Wizengamot don’t benefit from being seen prosecuting the Boy who Lived. They should be trying to sweep this under the rug, not blow it up.”

"Maybe it's because of Sirius?" Ron asked, frowning.

Hermione paused, frowning as if she was going to refute that, before nodding.

“That’s… actually quite astute, Ron.”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Ron snarked, settling on the other side of the bed as Hermione paced the room.

"The Ministry is furious that Sirius escaped right under their noses, and they know you helped him," Hermione continued. “That you might still be in contact with him. Once you’re in custody, they have the right to force you to tell the truth. Magically, I mean."

"Brilliant," I muttered. “Of course they can.”

"It makes sense," Hermione said, finally sitting down. "The full Wizengamot, the rushed schedule - whoever’s pushing for this is hoping to catch you off-guard."

Ron leaned forward, determination in his eyes.

"Well, they don't know what they're in for, do they? We've got three days to prepare, and Hermione's basically a walking library."

"You won't be alone in this, Harry," Hermione said firmly. "We'll make sure you're ready."

The next few days became a blur of legal texts, practice questions, and strategy sessions. Hermione drilled me relentlessly on questions they could ask, while Ron - even though he had many complaints - helped comb through her texts for potential loopholes we could use.

"Remember," Hermione emphasized one evening as we sat surrounded by parchment in Ron's cluttered room, "stick to the facts. You were attacked by a former Death Eater. You defended yourself with the only means available. Your life was in imminent danger."

"And if they ask about Sirius?" I asked.

Her face grew serious. "Deny any recent contact. Say you haven't heard from him since that night at Hogwarts. It's technically true, and... well, it's the safest answer."

Before long, I found myself in the vast atrium of the Ministry of Magic, surrounded by a sea of redheaded Weasleys.

The polished dark wood floor reflected a peacock-blue ceiling inlaid with moving golden symbols. At the center stood a fountain,  golden statues of a wizard and witch surrounded by magical creatures gazing up at them in adoration.

I couldn’t help but stare at it, an uncomfortable feeling building in my gut.

"The Fountain of Magical Brethren," Mr. Weasley explained, following my gaze. "Bit much, if you ask me."

Several passing Ministry workers slowed to stare at our unusual group. It wasn't every day that the entire Weasley clan descended on the Ministry, looking determined and slightly intimidating despite their friendly faces.

"Right," Mr. Weasley said after we passed security. "The hearing's in Courtroom Ten, down in the old section. Only Harry and I will be allowed down."

"We'll wait here," Bill said, gesturing to the atrium. "Good luck, Harry."

Mrs. Weasley pulled me into another one of her hugs. "You'll be brilliant, dear."

"Remember everything we practiced," Hermione whispered.

Charlie clapped my shoulder. "If they give you any trouble, just imagine them facing a Hungarian Horntail. Works for me in tough situations."

Fred and George exchanged looks before Fred leaned in. "Worst case scenario, we've scouted three different escape routes. You’ll be in Calais before they know it."

"Undetectable, of course," George added with a wink.

I couldn’t help grin at the irony of that.

As Mr. Weasley and I made our way to the elevator, a portly man in a pinstriped cloak and lime-green bowler hat rushed toward us, flanked by a severe-looking witch in magenta robes.

"Arthur," the man said tersely, barely acknowledging Mr. Weasley before turning his attention to me. "Ah, Potter. Just the boy I was looking for."

"Minister Fudge," Mr. Weasley said with a polite nod. "We were just heading down to the Misuse of Magic Office."

"Yes, yes, of course," Fudge said, adjusting his bow tie. "May I have a word with Mr. Potter first? Ministry business, you understand."

Before Mr. Weasley could object, Fudge had steered me several paces away, his hand on my shoulder with an avuncular touch.

"Now, Harry," he said, voice dropping to a confidential murmur, "I want you to know that despite this unfortunate incident, there's nothing to worry about. We're simply following procedure."

I kept my face carefully neutral. "Is it serious, sir?"

"Hardly! These things must be done properly, of course. We can’t have people thinking there’s rules for them and another set of rules for Harry Potter, can we?" He chuckled warmly. " It’s just about going through the… formalities, if you will. There's really nothing to be worried about."

"If you say so, sir." I glanced back at the toad-like woman behind him. Umbridge, I recalled.

"Ah, Cornelius," came a friendly voice from behind us, "I see you've already greeted young Harry."

I turned to see Dumbledore approaching, dressed in deep purple robes with silver moons that somehow didn't look out of place even in the Ministry.

"Dumbledore!" Fudge exclaimed, his face brightening. "Excellent timing! I was just reassuring the boy that today's meeting is merely a formality."

"Most kind of you, Cornelius," Dumbledore replied with a smile. "I've prepared a brief statement about the extenuating circumstances. Given the circumstances, I believe we can all agree that Harry's safety must be our primary concern."

"Quite right, quite right," Fudge nodded. " I've already spoken with Madam Hopkirk about expediting the process."

"Your assistance is most appreciated," Dumbledore said. "Though I must admit, I'm surprised to see you personally attending to this matter. Surely a man with your responsibilities has more pressing concerns?"

"Nothing is more important than the safety of our citizens, especially when it comes to Harry Potter," Fudge declared, puffing up importantly. "After that terrible business last year, well... we must all be vigilant."

"Indeed we must," Dumbledore agreed. "Your dedication to duty is commendable, Cornelius."

I couldn’t help but marvel at Dumbledore’s poker face, how he said all that with a straight face. And Fudge was eating it right up, beaming with pride. Huh. Turns out the old man could be sneaky when he wants to be.

"Well, I should get back upstairs. Delegation is important, but there are some decisions only the Minister can make." He winked at me. "Don't worry, my boy. You're in good hands."

"Thank you, Minister," I said.

As Fudge strode away with Umbridge hurrying to keep up, Mr. Weasley rejoined us, looking relieved.

"Everything alright, Albus?"

"Merely a small misunderstanding about protocol," Dumbledore replied. "Arthur, I'm afraid I must steal young Harry away. The hearing begins in - " he consulted his watch again "- precisely seven minutes. You are welcome to observe from the gallery, of course."

Mr. Weasley nodded, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll be there, Harry. Remember what we discussed - stay calm, stick to the facts."

As we walked toward the lifts, I took in Dumbledore's profile. I hadn’t known what a powerful man he was the first time we met, but I still couldn’t see it. He didn’t seem like the wizard who defeated Grindelwald, or the one Voldemort still feared, or the co-author of the paper on a Unified Theory for Magic.

He just seemed like a doddering old man, humming along to the elevator’s jingle as it arrived at our floor. I supposed that only made him even more dangerous.

"Sir," I said as soon as we were alone in the elevator, "what's really going on? Why am I here?"

"Politics, Harry. A dangerous game even in the best of times. And yet, I’m often reminded that it can be all too petty.”

“What?” I frowned, the frustration making me far too candid. “What does that even mean?”

"It means, Harry, that your hearing today has very little to do with underage magic and everything to do with power."

"You promised to tell me more, sir," I said tightly, fighting the urge to grab him and shake him until he told me everything he knew. "About why this is happening. About what's really going on with Voldemort. You promised not to keep me in the dark."

“Yes,” he murmured, “I did. I apologize, Harry. When you get to my age, bad habits become rather difficult to kick.”

Dumbledore sighed deeply, suddenly looking every one of his many years.

"Voldemort’s followers grow bolder. The man who attacked you was acting with purpose, not merely out of impulse."

"What purpose?" I asked. “Beyond the fun of it, I guess.”

"That remains unclear even to me. But something is stirring, Harry. The signs are subtle, but to those who lived through the first rise, they are unmistakable."

I frowned at that.

“But he’s dead, right? Voldemort?”

Dumbledore hummed, staring back at me for a long moment.

“I’m not so certain, Harry. As you’ve seen yourself, Voldemort has a remarkable ability to cling on to life, no matter how wretched he becomes in the process.”

Great. He might as well have said he definitely wasn’t dead, given my luck so far.

"Today's hearing may well be part of that pattern,” Dumbledore continued. “If certain parties within the Wizengamot can discredit you or remove you from Hogwarts entirely…"

"They'd be doing Voldemort's work for him," I finished grimly.

“But I think they’ll find, Harry,” Dumbledore murmured. “That to be rather more difficult than they anticipated.”

We descended a flight of worn stone steps. The torches here were spaced farther apart, the shadows deeper between pools of flickering light. At the bottom, the corridor opened into a wider space with several heavy doors. Numbers were engraved above each in tarnished bronze.

Door number ten was a dark, imposing door that seemed to radiate cold. I took one last glance back at Dumbledore, who nodded back at me.

Alright, then. I stared at the door, hand hesitating above the handle.

Time to face the music.

The moment my hand closed around the doorknob, I felt a familiar hook behind my navel. The corridor dissolved around me, Dumbledore's startled expression the last thing I saw before being yanked violently through space.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text