Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It hurts.

It hurts far more than they expect, and they’d expected pain. It’s worse than the cruciatus curse, and worse than death itself—not that they felt much at all with the killing curse, only fear and sorrow so bone-deep it ached. It feels like their insides are on fire, burning and stabbing and twisting their insides. If they could scream, they would, but the pain is so intense it’s clamped their jaws shut, teeth grinding with the pressure.

They don’t know how long it lasts. It could be seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days. All they know is that they press forward, one small step at a time—a shuffle, really—moving their bodies forward fraction by fraction. They could stop at any time. They’re aware of this, the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of their minds, tempting them each passing second. Give up. Go back. Rest. Is it really worth this pain?

Yes, they answer, and force their bodies forward another centimetre. Always.

Dying for him was easy; they sure as hell won’t be dissuaded from living for him.

By the time they push through the last of the barriers, gathering their magic within them and focusing hard to make it do what they want, wandless as they are, they’re exhausted. They stumble out of the mirror, the glass shattering as they do and covering them in tiny shards. They barely register the stinging of the hundreds of cuts; their bodies are weary and aching and the sensations are just more white noise. Lily stumbles in her steps and James tries to catch her, but can’t do much to stabilise her, and they both go down. They sit on the floor, panting, trying to adjust to the sensations of having living, breathing, hurting bodies once again.

James glances over at her and stares. Her features have changed. She no longer looks the way she did when they were both last on earth, and certainly different from in the afterlife—though his memories of what, exactly, it was like is fading with each passing second. He reaches out, brushes back a bit of her hair. It’s no longer fiery red, but lighter, like a filter had been put over it. There are traces of wrinkles by her eyes, more prominent as she turns to look at him.

“James, you-” Her voice is hoarse and comes out sounding dry and flat. She swallows a few times. “You look older.”

He grins lopsidedly at her. “So do you, darling. We- We would be thirty-two, right? If we hadn’t…” He trails off. “I think we’ve aged up.”

She smiles at him, and the lines by her eyes crinkle. He finds it adorable, and tells her as such, watching as her cheeks turn ever-so-slightly pink. They sit there for a while longer, breathing in stale, musty air and trying to adjust to being alive again. Lily is the first to recover enough to push herself to her feet, wincing as her hands push against broken glass.

“We need to find wands,” she says. “There have to be some around here.”

“Where are we?” he asks. He scrambles to his feet, brushing off pieces of glass from his jeans. “I’ve never seen this room before.”

“Hogwarts. Can’t you feel the wards?”

He has to focus for a second, allowing senses he’s not used in years to awaken. It’s like stretching a stiff muscle, awkward and sore, but eventually it does what he wants it to. He can sense it then, just like Lily said—the familiar pulsing of magic in the air. His home away from home. The place he met the love of his life, and his best friends. The thought of them makes him inhale sharply.

“We need to get Harry and find Padf-” he starts to say.

Lily cuts him off. “We need to stay focused. We have a plan, James.”

“You have a plan,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat in it. “I just want-” He sighs. “I just want my family to be safe.”

“And we can’t do any of that without wands,” she says.

Even in death—even returning from death—and in pain, she’s the logical one. He’d almost wonder why she wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw if not for her unwavering, idiotic bravery. (She could have, however, been a Slytherin, if she wasn’t a Muggleborn; it wouldn’t have been safe, after all, and the Hat had told her as such. Not a Hufflepuff, though; it isn’t that she’s afraid of hard work, nor is it because she not loyal. She’s all those things and more—it just isn’t things she prioritises in life.)

It doesn’t take them long to find a drawer full of abandoned wands. They try each one, casting simple spells until they both find something that works decently enough for them. They’ll get proper wands, wands that choose them, later. For now, they just need something that won’t fight them each step of the way and, if possible, even accepts their magic. Lily’s first act is to go about healing them. There’s little that can be done about the lingering pain in their bones and muscles from defying death, but she does what she can.

When they’re no longer bleeding or feeling like they’ll keel over from the basic act of being alive, they investigate the room. James is poking a lump of something furry and very-much-so dead with the end of his wand when he hears Lily gasp and let out a string of cusses. He’s by her side in a second, wand held high and a hex on the tip of his tongue. She points, and he turns sharply, expecting some sort of threat. Instead, he sees a tiara sitting atop an ugly bust.

“Lils?” he asks, cautiously. “What-” He doesn’t need to finish asking. He can feel it, the pulse of rotten magic, the stench of wrong, wrong, wrong flooding his senses. He recognises the unique profile that he’s sensed only once before—in his living room, as he stared down a madman and tried to buy his wife enough time to save herself and their son. “I don’t understand. Is that the shade that possessed Quirrell?”

Lily shakes her head. “No. I don’t think so. It feels different. Alive, and him, but not quite… It’s different. I don’t know what it is, but- Don’t touch it!” James pulls his hand back, flashing her a guilty smile. “Merlin’s sake, James. Don’t touch potentially cursed objects. Did you learn nothing from your auror training?”

“I quit before graduating,” he says. “One would think you’d remember, considering it was right around the time-”

“If you finish that sentence, you’re sleeping outside.”

He pauses, scrutinising her. It’s harder than expected, since he’s not turning away from the tiara; he might have dropped out of the auror department, but he isn’t stupid. They’d all grown up in the war, after all. “Of course, darling,” he says, when he’s fairly certain she’s not actually going to be mad. “I won’t mention the time you, in your pregnancy-fuelled daze, decided to set our house elves free.”

She lets out an indignant squawk. “I was trying to give them uniform!”

“Uniform,” he stresses, “which they already had. All you did was hand them dresses and shirts and told them to put it on! Tallow apparated to me in the middle of a training session, bawling her eyes out, asking me what she did wrong and why Mistress Flower was sending her away!”

Lily huffs. “We got it sorted in the end, so there’s no need to kick up a fuss.”

He shakes his head and bites back a reply. There’ll be time for bickering and arguing—and oh how their friends would complain about their ‘horrendous flirting styles’, friends who might be, for all James knows, dead—later. Right now, there’s a tiara containing something that feels an awful lot like Voldemort to deal with. They look around for a box, and find they’re spoilt for choices. Eventually, Lily settles for one with a working latch she can lock, and they levitate the tiara into it. As soon as the box snaps shut, something in the air shivers, as if clearing, and James blinks.

“I feel lighter, somehow,” he muses. “I don’t think we should open this box again, not until we know how to destroy… whatever that is.”

“I’ll do some research once we get home,” Lily says. “For now-” She hesitates, and James doesn’t hesitate to step up beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and holding her close. A light shudder ripples through her, and he pretends he doesn’t notice it. “I want to rush in and grab him. Take him away from all of this. But we can’t. We can’t.” She’s trying to convince herself more than him. “We need- we need to figure out what the fuck has been going on. We need to stick to the plan.”

“It’s a good plan,” he says, soothingly.

“We aren’t diverting from it.” She says it like he’s suggesting otherwise, and he knows it’s because she wants to.

“Of course not.” He pauses. “What’s the next step again?”

He knows it, of course—he’s memorised the entire thing—but he wants to give her something else to focus on, and being irritated at him for forgetting is better than spiralling. It really is a good plan, though; her plans have always worked. The one time he decided to change things up, they’d swapped secret keeper. So he has no qualms letting her take the lead in this. In fact, he has no qualms letting her take the lead for the rest of his life.

It isn’t until he grins at her, halfway through the lecture on paying attention to what she says, that she realises he’s teasing her. She huffs and falls silent, elbowing him. He laughs, pulling her into a proper hug and pressing a kiss to her head. They stay that way for a few moments, holding onto each other, before she takes in a deep, fluttering breath.

“Right,” she says. She steps back, tucking the box under one arm. “Let’s test your memory and see if we can’t find a passage out of here.”

“I’m a Marauder Lils!” He tries to ignore the hurt at the thought of the others—of Sirius, his brother in all but blood, the one he trusted with not just his life but with Lily’s, and Harry’s; of Remus, the bravest person he knew, the one he’d spent over a year secretly learning advance magic for; of Peter, who… of Peter. “I know a dozen.”

“We’ll find them,” Lily says, a promise in her voice. He’s not surprised she knows what he’s thinking; she always has. “And if Sirius and Remus don’t have a good reason for not taking Harry in…” There’s another unspoken promise, this time, one of violence and anger. He doesn’t blame her. Hell, if they don’t have a good reason he’ll hex them himself, regardless of how much he loved—loves—them.

“One step at a time,” he says, throwing her words back at her.

She glares at him. “Lead the way, then, Potter.”

“Ladies first, Evans,” he says, in the same tone, even as he starts walking towards where he hopes the exit is.

She mock gasps, placing a hand over her heart. “Evans? Are you divorcing me?”

He hums noncommittally. “I mean, we did say till death do us part, and, well…”

She laughs, the first time since they returned, and he gives himself a mental point. “Maybe I’ll run away with-” She trails off off, and the humour dissipates as quickly as a nox. It’s a long-running joke between them, one that he can’t remember the origins of—one of them would bring up divorce, and the other would suggest Lily eloping with Peter.

He nudges her. “Step six, remember? We’re still on step one—get out of here.”

She takes in a sharp breath, then nods. “We stick with the plan.”

“We stick with the plan,” he echoes. They reach the door, and he hesitates. “I hope it lets out somewhere near a passage, and not something like the Headmaster’s office. The one on the second floor would be nice—the one behind the statue of that mermaid. There aren’t any paintings nearby to spot us.”

As soon as he’s done speaking, something in the room shifts, and they both step away from each other, spinning with their wands held high. They see nothing. They wait a beat, just to be sure, and then, with Lily guarding his back, he opens the door—and looks right at the mermaid statue, just a few feet away from them.

“Uh- Can rooms be sentient?” he asks. “Because either I’m a Seer, we’re very lucky, or…”

“What?”

He takes her by the shoulders and turns her so she’s looking out the door. “I’ve been in this hallway hundreds of times. There’s nothing on the wall across from the statue, let alone an entire room. That shift we felt… Did the room understand my request?”

It takes her a moment before she lets out a soft gasp. “Oh! Of course! The room of requirement!”

“The what of what?”

He can feel her rolling her eyes, even if he’s not looking directly at her. “It’s stated to be made by Ravenclaw herself—a room that shows up when you need it, and changes to suit your needs. I read it in a book from the, uh, restricted section, and spent most of our sixth and seventh year looking for it.”

His mouth falls open. “Lily Potter, did you just admit to breaking into the restricted section after telling me off numerous times for it?”

She sniffs haughtily. “Only because you and your friends got caught and lost us house points.” That’s how it always goes; they’re his friends when they’re in trouble, and our friends otherwise.

“Half the time you caught us!”

They’re still bickering as they leave the room and James opens up a small trap door with a whispered spell. Lily lights up their path with a lumos as they descend, following the long passageway into Hogsmeade.

Chapter Text

Step two—get home or somewhere safe to recuperate—is more challenging than they anticipated. For one, Godric’s Hollow’s been turned into some sort of ghastly tourist exhibition. James had almost been tempted to pay it a visit, had it not been nearly midnight. That and the fact that Lily had taken one look at it and turned as red as her hair, and someone had to be the responsible adult and not curse every ministry employee until they found the people who gave the okay. (Their wills had been explicit; the house was meant to go to Sirius.)

Then, they’d apparated to Potter Manor. It was hidden under a layer of charms and wards so depleted, it was obvious nobody had been there for years. That was where issue number two had come into play—James no longer holds the right to enter the manor. The wards had detected his death all those years ago and, as they were programmed to do, automatically shifted control to the last living heir—Harry. James coming back to life does little; the wards aren’t going to budge, not unless Harry gives the okay.

In the end, they had decided to apparate to a tiny holiday house his parents had somewhere in Wales. It had been used as a safehouse in the war for those who were leaving the country—somewhere they could spend a night or two in while they waited for illegal international portkeys or Floo Networks to open. James hasn’t stepped foot in it since before Harry was born. It’s almost as dusty as the Room of Requirement had been, and any furniture that had once decorated it is long gone; all that’s left is an empty shell of a house. It has one bedroom, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and an even smaller living room, which they stand in, barely daring to move lest they stir up the thick carpet of dust.

Lily sneezes, and the air turns hazy.

“Right,” James says, and rolls up his sleeves.

He’s glad they came back with clothes on; Merlin knows how painful it would’ve been otherwise. He tries not to imagine shards of glass up his arse—or worse—and fails, wincing at the thought. He sets about with all the cleaning spells he knows, Lily joining him a second later, and soon enough the place is spotless. Bare and empty and cold, but clean enough for them to not mind sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall for support. They’re both magically exhausted, and he can feel unconsciousness tugging at him, but he fights it.

“Should we transfigure a bed?” he asks.

Lily makes a noise that he thinks is an agreement. Neither of them stand.

“A mattress,” he concedes. A bed might be too difficult, given how tired they both are. “And blankets.”

She makes another sound. He recognises this one; it’s a yes, but you do it. He forces himself to stand, wavering slightly as the world spins. It lasts a few seconds, but once it passes he half-walks, half-stumbles to the front door. The house is barren; he’ll need to find materials outside to transfigure. It doesn’t take him too long, and soon he’s levitating a bundle of sticks and leaves into the house. Lily’s eyes are closed, and he can tell just from her breathing that she’s asleep.

It was her magic, mostly, that got them through the mirror, so it makes sense that she’s more tired than him. He’d supported her, loaned her what he could, but he knows deep down that it was her will and not his that made the difference—not that he wanted it less than her, of course. He supposes it has something to do with how powerful she is; he’s never been ashamed to admit that her intrinsic magical strength, the well of magic within her, is far deeper and stronger than his will ever be. It’s part of the reason he loves her so much—that despite this power, she’s always focused on helping rather than hurting.

He uses the last of his strength to transfigure a shitty mattress—it’s too thin, and lumpy, and somehow a little too short for them to lie straight, but it’s something to sleep on that isn’t hard floor—and a thick blanket. He’s good at those, at least; he’s had years of experience turning leaves into something comfortable to cover Remus with when the moon finally surrenders to the dawn. If he had the energy, which he does not, he would’ve made it pretty—lavender, perhaps, with splotches of pale blue and green. He might even have tried for an image of an orchid, though he’s only ever done plants before. But he’s spent, so all they get is a plain white comforter, though at least it’s thick and warm and silky smooth to the touch. He casts a simple warming charm on it, then turns to Lily. She doesn’t stir when he carefully lowers her into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin before crawling in beside her. He’s asleep seconds after his head hits the pillow.

They sleep for five days. It’s longer than either of them expected, but they clearly needed it. When they awake, their bodies are stiff and sore. They stretch, rubbing their limbs and casting minor healing charms before setting about the day. Both of them are frustrated at the time lost, despite knowing the sleep did them well.

Lily, who’s always been better at these sorts of spells, disillusions herself and leaves for the nearby muggle town. She returns an hour later with food and basic necessities, though how she got the stuff when they don’t have money, James doesn’t know. He’s wise enough to refrain from asking. Neither of them talk as they eat and wash up; they’re comfortable around each other enough to not need to fill silence with small talk. When they’re done—when they’re no longer hungry, or bleary-eyed, or sticky from days of being asleep—they sit on a transfigured couch, courtesy of Lily, and write down everything they know. It’s not much, and most of it is from Harry’s ramblings, but it’s something to go on.

“We need to go to Gringotts,” Lily says, the end of the pen stuck between her teeth. It’s a habit she’s tried, and failed, to break for years; all her quills and pens and pencils throughout her school years had damaged ends from where she nibbled away at them. The more something puzzles her, or the more stressed she is, the worse the biting.

“Can we trust the goblins?” It’s not that he’s speciest, but the goblin nation understandably dislikes wix, and while he has—had—cordial relationships with those who managed the Potter accounts, he’s under no illusion that they’d turn on him in a heartbeat if it meant gain for them. “We need to keep our return as quiet as possible, and they’re… Not exactly trustworthy, are they?”

She makes a face. “No, but they’re our best bet at finding answers right now. Our wills were clearly ignored. It’s not just Harry going to my sister; it’s Godric Hollow, too. And didn’t you say you wanted to give Remus this place for his transformations?” James nods; he’d forgotten about that. “So far, nothing in our wills was adhered to; I want to know why.”

“We’ll ask for a meeting with the Potter account manager, then,” James says. “She liked us well enough, though I don’t know why she’d agree to a meeting if we’re going in with disguises.”

“What if we said we have information pertaining to theft of our—their—accounts? It’s not entirely false. Harry said Hagrid had his vault key.” She shrugs. “Not that I don’t like him, but technically, only Harry’s legal guardian should have it—and Hagrid most definitely is not.”

“Still better than Tuna,” James mutters, and grins when Lily laughs. “Yeah, alright. We should wait a few hours, though. We’ll want to go just before the end of a wix work day; it’s statistically when there’ll be the fewest people.”

“I want to compile a list of questions first anyway,” she says, turning to a fresh page. “The people in the village are very nice; I told them I ran away from an abusive partner, and they were kind enough to give me our stuff for free. You should check it out—just don’t say you’re my husband.”

He snorts, the dismissal clear. Not that he minds; he knows he gets impatient with the finer details of planning. He’s better at winging things, or keeping the bigger picture in mind. Lily’s always been the one who sees not just the trees but the bushes and ferns and even the slugs and critters that make up the forest. He finishes his mug of tea first, taking his time to savour the warm, slightly-bitter drink. When he’s finished, he puts the mug down and stands. He gives Lily a quick kiss—she turns, automatically, looking up at him with a smile as soon as he draws close—and changes his features with a few quick spells.

He’s right; there aren’t many people on the street as they make their way to Gringotts, keeping their heads down and their steps hurried despite the disguises. There’s a short line in the bank, but nothing too extreme and they’re standing before one of the tellers after just a few minutes.

“We’d like to speak to the Potter account manager, please,” James says. It’s not until now that he realises it’s been eleven years, and Gildrik might not even be their account manager anymore, but it’s too late to do anything else. “We have evidence of theft from their accounts and are willing to give the information to Gringotts without charge.”

The goblin leans forward, eyes narrowed. “These are serious accusations. Such information would be worth a lot. You’re giving it to us for free?”

James doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as blink. “No. I said without charge.”

Lily steps up beside him. “We’re not after money, but there is something we want—nothing that would put the bank or the goblin nation at risk, of course, but there will be an exchange for information provided. We’re open to negotiation.”

The goblin considers them for a second, then breaks into a toothy grin. It’s not entirely friendly. “Follow me.”

They’re led to a private room somewhere deep inside the bank, past the tellers and areas customers normally have access to. Neither of them are stupid enough to draw their wands—although they want to, desperately—and instead thank the goblin as politely as they can. They don’t dare speak, fairly certain they’re being monitored despite the appearance of an empty room, and instead choose to remain standing. It doesn’t take long for the door to open again. It’s not Gildrik that enters, and James bites back a stab of disappointment.

The goblin eyes them with disdain. “I’ve been told you have information about the Potter accounts.”

James nods. Something about this doesn’t feel right, and if he’s learnt nothing else from the war, he knows to trust his instincts. “We believe there have been thefts. We also wish to inquire about the Potters’ wills, as we can’t seem to recall whether they were followed.”

“The Potters didn’t have wills,” the goblin says, sneering. “There have been no thefts. Was there anything else?”

Lily shifts beside him, and he can tell she’s getting into a defensive position. He doesn’t take a step forward even though he wants to, but he does relax his arms; being tense results in slower reactions. He’s learnt something, at the very least, from his time in auror training.

“I have it on good authority they did,” he says, mildly. He doesn’t want to give any indication that he’s being aggressive, or give the goblin a reason to attack. “We knew them. Fairly well, in fact.”

“We’ve been… away,” Lily adds. “Or we would have come sooner. We only just arrived back a few days ago.”

The goblin glances between them. “You were acquainted with the Potters?”

“I was particularly close with James,” Lily says.

James swallows a laugh, but can’t help the smile. “Lily was one of the people who knew me best.”

He sees it the moment he and Lily go from being an annoyance to being a threat; the goblin’s eyes narrow, lips curling into a snarl. When he lifts a finger, pointing it at them, James can feel the magic gathering and reacts before he can think about it.

“Stupefy!”

The goblin crumbles to the ground, and an alarm immediately sounds. James drops his wand, raising his hands in surrender, and glances at Lily. She’s also got her hands raised, although she’s watching the goblin closely; her wandless spells are better than his. A moment later, three goblins burst through the door.

“He tried to attack us first,” James says, quickly. “We were defending ourselves.”

One of the goblins bares his teeth. “Provoked, no doubt.”

“No.” Lily’s voice is firm but soft. “All we did was inquire about the Potter wills and bring up potential theft; he tried to attack us when we said we knew the Potters intimately.”

“Likely story,” another goblin scoffs. “But we’ll check.” He sneers the word, like he thinks he’ll find proof that they’re lying.

“Go ahead,” James says as calmly as he knows how to. “Do you want me to give you my memory? I’ll need my wand for that.”

The third goblin shakes her head. “No. We’ll collect it. We promise to be as gentle as we can.” He grins, and it’s not friendly.

“I’ll offer mine, too,” Lily says. James wants to stop her, but he knows it’s an exercise in futility.

“That was always the plan,” that same goblin says.

It takes them only a minute or two to remove the memories—which actually was painless, despite the earlier insinuations—and view them. They don’t use a pensieve, instead placing the glowing wisps into some sort of runestone and pressing a claw to the center. One goblin stands guard, keeping a steady glare on James and Lily while her colleagues disappear into the memories. When they emerge, they exchange glances filled with nuance and subtext he can’t quite interpret.

“You may retrieve your wand and lower your hands,” one of them finally says. “But if you point it at any of us, we will retaliate.”

James nods, picking it up with two fingers and slipping it into his pocket. “Our offer still stands; we take no offence at his actions. We just want to know what happened to o- to their wills. What happened to Gildrik? She was the Potter account manager before they passed, wasn’t she? We wish to speak with her, if possible.”

They exchange more glances, hold more unspoken conversations, before turning back to James. “There were internal shifts after their deaths. We aren’t sure why Thrain tried to curse you—but we will find out. If you wait here, we’ll get Gildrik for you.”

He nods again, and the goblins breeze out of the room, levitating the unconscious goblin behind them.

“Well,” Lily says, sounding a little breathless. “That could have gone better.”

James huffs a laugh. “We didn’t die.” He hesitates, wondering if it’s too soon, then shrugs. “Again, anyway.”

She hits him on the shoulder. “James!”

Too soon, then—but he’s always been the kind to double down rather than back away. “I mean, we could always come back again. We’ve done it before; surely it won’t be hard to replicate?”

She doesn’t hit him again, but a second later he yelps as a stinging hex hits him right in the chest. He’s still rubbing the area, trying to ignore Lily’s smug, self-satisfied smirk, when the door opens. He stiffens, as does Lily, but this time it is Gildrik who walks in, a frown already on her face. It takes him a second to realise they hadn’t been subtle at all, and wonders how much she’s heard. Everything, it would seem, judging from the way she’s eyeing them.

“Explain,” she says, the same curt, no-nonsense tone she always took with them. James could cry, he’s so relieved to hear someone familiar, someone he knows will help them if they can convince her they’re telling the truth.

“It’s a long story,” Lily says. “Perhaps we should sit down.”

Gildrik doesn’t move. “Tell me who you really are.”

James glances at Lily, and she dips her head in a slight nod. She turns to Gildrik. “Can I drop our disguises? I’ll need to use my wand for that.”

“Allow me,” she says.

She doesn’t wait for their consent, immediately motioning with her hand. A wave of magic washes over them, and James can feel the disguise peel away from him. He feels almost naked as he stands before her, knowing she’s looking at him. She’s the first to see them after their return, and he can’t help but feel a little cheated; he wanted it to be Harry, for their son to have that honour and not someone who’s not even a friend.

She stares at them, no discernable expression on her face. “Explain. Now.”

“We came back, obviously,” James says, flashing her a lopsided grin. He always enjoyed riling her up way back when, annoying shit as he was—and he doesn’t think that will change, even if he’s now technically eleven years older. “I don’t think the keeper of the afterlife will appreciate us spilling the how, though, and it’s kind of boring, so maybe we just skip to the good part?”

Annoyance flickers in her eyes, and James feels a sliver of satisfaction; he’s still got it.

Lily elbows him warningly. “My apologies for my husband, Gildrik. Coming back has not improved his manners. To answer your question, we found out our wills were ignored and, worse, our son is being abused as a result. I remember fighting to return—it wasn’t a painless process by any means—which we managed a few days ago, though it came at the cost of magical exhaustion. We’re not exactly sure how we did it, though; our memories of the afterlife have faded. ”

“In summary, it hurt like a bitch, we found wands, got somewhere safe, passed out for five days, and then came here,” James says. She elbows him again, harder this time. He ignores her; he’s had his fun. Instead, he takes a deep, grounding breath and slips into a role he knows how to play well, even if he hates it. “And now we want to know why we bothered paying Gringotts to manage our assets when they weren’t managed. Our son, my son, the Potter heir, has no access to his vaults, no knowledge of us, and none of the properties or items we specifically willed to him. Things we paid Gringotts to handle upon our deaths.”

“Paid in advance,” Lily adds. It had taken her time to learn the politics, conventions, and performances that came with being Lady Potter, but she’d always been a quick study. She does it just as well as James now, and he’d been raised knowing he’d one day become Lord Potter. “Tell us why we shouldn’t hold Gringotts responsible for failing to carry out services contracted—or show us evidence your best attempts to carry them out had been made, as is our right to request.”

Gildrik’s gaze flickers between the both of them before she bows her head slightly, a sign of respect he’s only seen her give a handful of times. “Lord and Lady Potter,” she greets. “Gingotts prides itself on being neutral in wix matters and never breaking a contract unless it’s found to bring harm to the Goblin Nation. I signed your contracts myself, and I know it would not have. You are… right… to be concerned.” She sounds like it had hurt to admit. “Please, take a seat. I’ll send for tea and we can discuss this matter in detail.”

Nodding, they move to the chairs Gildrik motioned to and ready themselves for negotiations.

It takes over five hours of back and forth with not just Gildrik but a further four nameless goblins they’re told are part of goblin government before a resolution is found. Or, at the very least, the start of a resolution. Lily has learnt far more than she wanted to about goblin politics in the last five hours, and she’s got a persistent ache between her eyes and the back of her head. All she wants to do is rescue her son and hex her sister and her oaf of a husband in the process. Instead, she’s stuck in this stupid room listening to goblins discuss matters she really does not give a single shit about while she does her best to smile and nod like she’s even remotely invested.

She knows if the situation is different—namely, if her son isn’t being abused this very second—she would probably find this interesting. Goblins are such a reclusive species, keeping their internal matters so private, that she knows she’s now among a very, very select few that knows more than basic textbook information. Seclusion is a valid reaction on their part, considering what wix tried to do to them in the past and would, if given the chance, do again. James had clocked out about two hours back, although he still, for all intents and purposes, appears to be listening. She knows her husband well, though, and knows that if anyone tries to ask him an actual question about the topics being discussed, he’d blank.

The basic summary of it is relatively simple, at least to her—corruption. Someone, none of them are quite sure who, had paid off a handful of goblins. Accounts were shifted, wills ‘accidentally’ lost, and vaults sealed. The issue, however, is that none of the goblins in the room want to admit that’s what happened, and spent most of the five hours trying (and failing) to come up with another theory. In the end, though, they can’t help but circle back to that simple truth.

Part of it, she’s fairly certain, is pride. They don’t want to admit that she and James are wronged. They had been prominent figures; the Potter name, while not among the Sacred 28 (and wasn’t that list an absolute joke) carried weight. Probably, hopefully, still does. She might not be a Pureblood, and some wix might see that as sullying the Potter line, but neither James nor his parents had seen it that way—and Gringotts certainly doesn’t care about something like blood purity, only gold. And in that regard, the Potter family has always been in good standing with the bank. James’ ancestors had close working relations with them, not just as cursebreakers but as investors. A small handful in James’ recent genealogy had contributed significantly to lucrative deals made with the bank, though neither of them know what, exactly, those deals had been.

To admit they’d been wronged—and wronged they are—would be to admit that the bank, in a way, had broken what was essentially an alliance going back centuries.

Finally, when they’ve exhausted all other possibilities, they admit what Lily has known all along. Subtly, under the table, she nudges James’ leg; it’s time for him to clock back in. She waits until she feels him tap her shoe with his, letting her know he’s mentally present and ready for whatever it is she wants to do.

“Thank you for acknowledging your mistakes,” she says, relishing the discomfort it brings them. She’s got a vindictive streak a mile wide, though it often takes a lot to get her to that point. A point she passed somewhere around hour two. “It would’ve been nice for it to have been caught without us needing to return from the dead—but there’s not much that can be done about that now. Let’s focus on the future, and mending bridges.”

“Of course, Lady Potter,” one of the goblins says, looking as though he’d rather do anything else. “We will conduct an internal investigation to determine which of our goblins had been… involved… with this crime. We have our own forms of punishments for traitors, but we could extend an invitation for suggestions.”

She shakes her head. “No. You handle your business; we don’t want to intrude.” The goblins all look relieved at that. She doesn’t intend to let that feeling last. “We do expect to be kept in the loop, and we’ll submit a list of questions we wish to ask those responsible. We also ask for assistance. For a start, we need help keeping our identities secret, locating a few people, and refreshing wards at the Potter Manor, once we have access. We will pay, naturally, for anything you feel is beyond the scope of reparations.”

“Of course,” the same goblin says again, this time through semi-gritted teeth. The constant reminders that they owe the Potters is hitting hard, just as she intended. “Shall we discuss how Gringotts may assist you in these matters? No payment necessary. It is our duty to offer adequate compensation for our failure.”

“Failures,” James corrects sharply. She’d kiss him senseless if it wouldn’t be entirely inappropriate. She’ll just have to wait until later. “But I’m sure that was just a slip of the tongue and not an attempt to diminish the harm done to me and mine.”

“My apology, Lord Potter. That was not my intent.” The goblin looks as though he’s anything but sorry. Lily lets it slide. She doesn’t care how they feel, so long as they keep their word and help.

“Come now, James,” she says, placing a hand on his arm as though to calm him. “They’re trying their best to undo the harm their kin caused us; let’s not be antagonistic.”

He turns to her. She can read the amusement in his eyes, though it’s well hidden and it’s only years of knowing him that allows her to see it, and knows he understands exactly what she’s doing. “Sorry, darling. I’m a little on edge from finding out all of this. I just want us to leave and get our son, but there’s still so much that needs discussing…”

It’s the opening the goblins need, and they immediately rush to offer solutions. It’s the fastest they’ve done anything in the last few hours; it only takes them twenty-three minutes to come up with a plan of action. And then, finally, James and Lily walk out of the bank with goblin-made, appearance-altering rings, and it’s time to move on to step 3: get Harry.

Chapter Text

Harry stares at the bars on his window and wonders, not for the first time, if he somehow deserves this. There’s a part of him, the part that’s gotten used to three full meals a day and friends and people who care for him, that screams no, you are worth so much more. But it’s mostly silenced by the grumbling of his stomach and the oozing wounds covering his back and legs.

He’s not a freak. He knows that much. If he is, then everyone in Hogwarts is, too, and there are good people there. So, no, his aunt and uncle aren’t right on that account—but what about the other bits? They never asked for the responsibility of caring for a wizard, never wanted the extra burden or mouth to feed. They want normal. A normal life, a normal job, a normal family. He’s anything but. He killed a man, for Merlin’s sake, just over a month ago. The bars on his window, the locks on the outside of his door, feel fitting, almost. That’s what they do to murders, right? Lock them up so they can’t hurt anyone else?

He didn’t mean to kill Professor Quirrell; all he’d wanted was for the man to stop trying to kill him. But that doesn’t change the fact Harry touched his face and hurt someone, and didn’t stop. If he’d pulled away, if he’d backed off, maybe he could justify it as an accident—as something he didn’t mean. Professor Dumbledore said it was love, his mother’s love, that did it. But Harry remembers willingly, knowingly, grabbing Professor Quirrell’s arm and watching as the man disintegrated and didn’t budge. So it’s him; it has to be him.

The worst part is that he was celebrated for it. Nobody else seemed to hold the same concerns that he does. They cheered as he was awarded house points, and, caught up in the thrill, he’d celebrated too. It wasn’t until later that it all began to sink in. He’d raised his concerns, but they were dismissed; it was over with, and he should really think about his second year rather than worry about it. He’s a child, and he should enjoy his holidays. It was easy for them to say; they aren’t the one who’d killed a man. Self-defence, maybe, but that does little to change the fact a man is dead at his hands.

If the Dursleys ever found out… He shudders. They already think he’s disgusting. Maybe they knew all along what he was capable of and that’s the reason they hate him so much; they knew, even back then, that he’s capable of monstrous things. Maybe being locked up here is a good thing. He can’t hurt anyone if he’s stuck in this room. Even if he didn’t do what they accused him of, he’s guilty of much more.

He tries, now, not to think about Dobby. About Uncle Vernon’s expression once the Masons had left. About the smile on Aunt Petunia’s face as she held out the belt. It’s hard not to, when movement opens the wounds. They feel warm, and the pain is almost pulsing. He shifts, trying to get into a position where they don’t sting, but it’s difficult.

There’s also the issue of the letter. Expulsion. He’d laughed at Hermione when she said it was worse than death, thought it weird at the time. He understands now. If he’s expelled, he’s got nowhere to go. It wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t experienced a year of freedom, a year of what life could be like. It’s almost cruel, taunting him with a taste of love and acceptance, only to threaten to take it away for something that isn’t even his fault—not that they’d believe him. Why would they? None of the teachers he had growing up ever believed what he said about Uncle Vernon, and the punishments he received after they told on him made him realise he can’t really trust adults when it comes to things like this.

Hedwig hoots, and he spins towards her, ignoring how his back burns with the movement.

“Shh, girl. I know you want to fly, but you can’t. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t dare speak too loudly; he’s not sure what time it is, only that it’s dark outside. He can hear the telly downstairs, so he knows they’re not asleep yet, but they don’t like hearing him talking regardless of the time of day.

She gives another hoot, softer this time. It sounds sad, even to his ears. He wonders if he should’ve set her free before coming back to Privet Drive, or perhaps given her to Ron or Hermione for the summer. It was selfish of him to decide to bring her with him, he realises. He wanted the comfort she brought him, but he never considered how she would feel. It’s another thing the Dusleys got right, then; he always thought they were wrong to call him selfish until this very moment.

“Next year I’ll send you back with Ron,” he promises. “Then you won’t be caged up during summer.”

Hedwig ruffles her feathers, pressing her beak through the cage bars as though trying to reach him. He doesn’t move towards her, even though he wants to, unsure if he’s up to standing at this point. Something warm trickles down his back and he sighs. If he gets blood on the floor or sheets, they’ll be angry. One of his shirts—or rather, one of Dudley’s old shirts—is lying at the foot of his bed, and he grabs it, tucking it under him to hopefully catch any blood that drips. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than nothing.

Hunger gnaws at his stomach, and he does his best to ignore it. He tries to think, instead, about school. All his school supplies are locked in the cupboard, so he can’t reference them, but he thinks he can recall enough to practice the wand movements with his finger, tracing the patterns in the air. He loses himself in the repetition, allowing his mind to drift. If he closes his eyes, he can almost believe he’s at Hogwarts, sitting on the end of his bed in the Gryffindor tower. Neville’s on his bed, reading a book on Herbology, and Ron will walk in any second, asking if Harry wants to play a game of chess before bed. He’s not sure how he feels about chess after the giant set, but he’ll probably say yes just to spend time with his best friend. Maybe they can convince Hermione to pull her head out of whatever book she’s reading and join them, or find a game all three of them can play. There’s a small selection of board games in one of the common room cupboards. There should be enough time to try one before curfew. He might even try to see if Neville wants to play; he still feels bad about the petrificus totalus.

A loud crash from downstairs pulls him out of his daydream.

Please don’t be Dobby, he thinks. If it is, he’s not sure he’ll survive the punishment—and if he’s expelled, he’s not sure he’d want to.

Aunt Petunia screams, and his heart sinks. Whatever it is can’t be good, and he knows deep down they’ll find a way to blame him for it. There’s yelling, and he strains to hear the words. It’s muffled, but he manages to catch a few words from Uncle Vernon’s deep bellowing—threats of calling the police, something about a trick, something else about it being impossible. Aunt Petunia’s shrieking, too shrill for him to understand, and there are two other voices—ones he doesn’t recognise and are too muffled to make out. It goes on for what feels like ages, but can’t be more than a couple minutes. Then, he hears something shatter, like glass being thrown against the wall. There are more noises, then, like furniture being upended. He wonders if they’re being robbed, and finds he doesn’t have the energy to care. The noises stop abruptly, the sudden silence making his ears ring.

Then, he hears two pairs of footsteps thunder up the stairs. He listens closely. He’s memorised the sounds all three Dursleys make; he needs to know who’s approaching his room so he can anticipate what’s happening. Aunt Petunia’s safe, because she brings food that she shoves through the cat flap, but doesn’t enter. Dudley just yells insults or taunts, so he’s safe too. It’s the heavy-set steps of Uncle Vernon that he’s learnt to fear. But he doesn’t recognise these steps; they’re foreign to him.

He hears a man cuss. “A fucking cat flap. And three locks! Like he’s some-some criminal!”

Another voice, a woman this time, firmly says, “Alohomora.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he scrambles to his feet. Wix. There are wix standing outside his room, and they sound angry. He moves, automatically, to his window, pressing himself against the bars as though, if he tries hard enough, he’ll squeeze through and end up on the other side.

The door flies open. Two strangers stand in the doorway, wands raised. He flinches. Both of them stare directly at him, and they both look so, so incredibly angry that he feels like throwing up. Even when they lower their wands, holding it loosely by their side, he can’t help but feel like they’re about to curse him. He’s not sure what he’s done, but he thinks he probably deserves it; maybe they’re friends of Professor Quirrell, and they’re here for revenge. That makes the most sense.

“Sorry,” he blurts. He’s not sure it’ll help, but at least he’s trying. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” But he did, and he knows it. “I don’t- I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The woman steps forward, her gaze dropping to Harry’s feet and he glances down, automatically. There’s a small trail of blood running down his left leg and pooling on the carpet.

“I’m going to kill them,” she says, suddenly. Her voice is calm—too calm—and when he looks back up, her eyes are wild with rage.

Harry no longer understands what’s happening. Who’s them? Why would she kill whoever they are?

The man grabs her by the wrist. “You can’t.”

“I absolutely can.”

“You can’t,” he repeats, a little more firmly.

She pulls her hand free from his grasp, snarls, “Watch me!”

Harry flinches, shrinking into himself as much as he can. Maybe if he makes himself small enough, they’ll forget he’s there.

The man shakes his head, stepping in front of her and angling himself so Harry can’t see her anymore. “I love you, and you’re right to be angry, but you’re scaring Harry—either calm yourself, or step out.”

She inhales sharply. “I- You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just-”

“I know,” the man says. “I’m pissed too. But we can’t. We can’t.” He turns to Harry, tone suddenly growing gentle and soft. “We’re not mad at you. We’re angry that the people who were meant to look after you didn’t, and we’re angry that you’re hurt and in pain. Can I cast a healing spell on you? I don’t need to go closer; you can stay where you are.”

Harry considers him for a moment. He doesn’t trust them—doesn’t even know who they are or why they’d be in his room, or why they seem to care about him—but he can’t deny that he’s in so much pain. What’s the worst that could happen? More pain? He can deal with that, for the small chance that the man will actually help. He nods, slowly.

Something like relief flashes across the man’s face. He lifts his wand—Harry can’t help flinching again—and murmurs a few spells. Harry recognises a few from Madam Pomfrey, but a couple of them are foreign to him. They wash over him, warm and comforting, and he feels the gashes on his back start to stitch together. It itches and sends shivers down his spine, and he twists uncomfortably. It lasts nearly a minute before fading, skin tingling with residual magic.

“Thank you for taking the trouble,” he says, automatically.

The man swallows hard, face twisting into a peculiar expression. “It’s not trouble. You don’t deserve to be in pain. No child does—but especially not you.”

Harry doesn’t quite understand, but he nods like he does. Perhaps if he plays along, they’ll tell him what they actually want.

“Harry,” the man says, “Are you- are you happy here?”

The woman lets out a disbelieving protest, and the man shoots her a glance, shaking his head slightly. “Padfoot, sixth year,” he says.

Somehow, that odd mixture of words makes her fall silent, and the man turns back to him, waiting expectantly.

Harry isn’t sure how to answer the question; it feels like a trap, so he diverts to the standard answer he’s memorised. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon take good care of me, even though I can be difficult. I’m grateful for their love and care.”

The man smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s good. But, and keep this just between you and me, I don’t really like them all that much. Petunia has always seemed a little… fishy to me. And Vernon! My goodness. He seems like a walrus sometimes, doesn’t he? Always stomping around and yelling. It’s no wonder he went after Petunia; she even has Tuna in her name.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and a small giggle escapes at the mental image of Uncle Vernon turning into a walrus. He’s hit with a wave of fear a second later; what if they find out he laughed? “That’s not very polite to say.”

The man shrugs. “That’s okay; I’m not a very polite person. Besides, it’s our secret. They won’t ever know you laughed—though I did call her Tuna-fish to her face multiple times throughout my life. Your mother always found it funny, too, even if she would pretend to scold me for it.”

“You- you knew my mother? What was she like?” he breathes. Then, catching himself, adds, “If I may ask, sir.”

“You may ask me anything you like, whenever you want,” the man says. “I knew Lily very well. She was one of my best friends. And my wife here-” He gestures to the woman still standing behind him. “-she knew James, your father—sometimes better than he knew himself. Between us, I’d say there’s not a single thing about your parents we don’t know.”

Harry’s breath catches. The images of them he saw in the Mirror of Erised are still burned into his memory; he wonders how accurate they were. There were people at school who knew his parents, but not very well; they’d taught them, or seen them in passing, or had heard of them. Not many had stories, and even fewer had the kind of stories he really wants to hear—stories about what they were like outside of classes, what kinds of things they enjoyed, their dreams, their life after they graduated… And he has questions, too, though not ones he dares to voice. Questions like if they would be proud of him, if they would be angry that he killed someone, if they’d still love him.

“I don’t know about you,” the man says, after a long stretch of silence, “but I’m starving. Haven’t had a decent meal since breakfast! How about we go get something to eat, together, and the two of us can answer all your questions and tell you a little about them? Don’t worry about your aunt and uncle. They’ve already agreed to it. You can ask them, if you like, though I don’t know if they’ll answer; they’re… asleep right now.”

A deep longing wells up within Harry, but he’s not sure. They’re strangers. The woman scares him, with her earlier outburst, but the man seems… nice enough. He’s soft spoken and gentle, hasn’t made any sudden movements, and even healed him. Still, they’re strangers who broke into his house and fought with his aunt and uncle (who still haven’t shown up to chase them away, and Harry isn’t dumb enough to believe that they’re actually sleeping). He can’t trust them. He wants to, and a subconscious part of him is telling him that he should, but he’s too scared.

“Do you know what a magical vow is?” the man asks.

“Uh-” He’s not sure if he’s meant to answer, but he’s been silent for so long, he feels like he has to say something. “Is that just like a promise? That’s… magical?”

“Something like that!” The man smiles at him. “A magical vow is a vow, a promise, you make on your magic. That means you swear by it, and then put some magic into your promise. If you break that promise, there are consequences, depending on how much magic you use when you make it. You can be hurt, or, in the worst case, lose your magic—sometimes for days, sometimes permanently.”

Harry stares at him, unsure where the man’s going with this, until he lifts his wand. Harry’s eyes grow wide with realisation a split second before the man speaks.

“I’m not going to promise you’re never going to experience pain again, because that’s not something anyone can control, and I don’t want to make you a promise I can’t keep. But what I will promise is this.” The tip of his wand lights up, and Harry can feel the magic gathering. “I swear on my magic that I will do everything within my power to ensure Harry Potter will never again be hurt by the Dursley family. I also promise that I will do everything within my power to ensure he is safe, loved, and cared for.”

There’s a rush of power as the magical vow is completed, the magic settling onto the man. There was a lot of magic put into that promise; Harry can sense it in the air like static. He can barely believe it—it’s an incredible promise, and nobody has ever said anything like that to him before—and is still staring when the woman steps to the side, wand also raised, and makes the exact same promise. He doesn’t know how to react, gaze flickering between the two of them. He feels something welling up behind his eyes and refuses to blink or let the tears fall; despite the promise, he can’t help but think he’ll be mocked or hurt for crying.

“Come with us,” the man says, and this time there’s a soft plea in his voice, like he’s afraid Harry will say no. He takes a single step forward, holding out a hand. “We’ll take you somewhere safe.”

“Can Hedwig come with me?” he hears himself ask. It’s not what he meant to say—he’s not quite sure what, exactly, that was, only that he wanted to speak—but it’s what comes out.

“Of course! We need to get her something to eat; she looks far too skinny for an owl. Maybe a nice fat rat?” There must be some sort of hidden sentiment to his statement, because the woman elbows him with a frown, and he laughs. “Come on, Harry. Let’s get out of here; this place is making me itchy in unmentionable places.” He pauses, wiggles his eyebrows. “My ass.”

The woman elbows him again, tutting disapprovingly despite the amused smile tugging at her lips. Harry can’t help but giggle; the man is funny, and with the promise—the magical promise—still lingering in the air, he feels… not safe, but safer. Slowly, he nods, reaching out to take his hand. The woman grabs Hedwig’s cage and then, together, they leave the room.

Chapter Text

“He’s asleep,” James says, slumping onto the couch beside Lily.

She casts a quick, non-verbal silencing charm; the last thing she wants is their talking to disturb him. It’s been a rough few hours. The Harry they’d met and spoken to is so vastly different than the child that had sat before them, on that dusty floor of the unused classroom. That child had been talkative and enthusiastic, showing hints of snark both she and her husband were known for. He rambled about things in a similar fashion to James—pausing only for breath, changing thoughts almost mid sentence, seeing connections between things that she only barely followed—and had deep set dimples when he smiled. He didn’t quite smile as often as she would’ve liked, but oh how she longed for even just one of those grins to show up now.

The boy they took to dinner picked at his food, twirling the pasta around his fork far too many times. He spoke softly, not daring to look at either of them for long, and hid any fleeting laughter at one of James’ jokes behind a hand. He answered questions the way he thought they wanted him to and never honestly. The worst part, she thinks, is that Harry still doesn’t know who they are; there had been no time to reveal themselves, no opportune time. He was, is, still too scared of them—of her in particular—for it to have gone well.

And that’s the worst part. She can still vividly picture the fear etched onto his face whenever she’d speak. She’d been too rash earlier, too loud. She should’ve known it would’ve frightened him, but she’d allowed her anger to dictate her actions. It was the same anger that drove away Severus, but it was also the anger that allowed her to stare down Voldemort without flinching. Her parents had always told her it was either a gift or a curse, and it was entirely up to her to decide which it was. She’d taken the words to heart, spent her entire life trying to use it for good. Today, though… Today it had been a curse.

“You did well,” she says, shifting so she can lean into James.

She won’t deny a small part of her is envious. It’s foolish, she knows, and she doesn’t give it any hold within her, but she can’t help the inklings of jealousy that rise within her. James knew exactly how to speak to Harry, even made him laugh. All Lily did was make him flinch and shut down.

“I had experience,” he says, pressing a kiss into the side of her head. “I know we never told you much, but you should’ve seen Padfoot when he first moved in with me. Mum had to pull me aside and tell me what to say and do—and what not to, which was probably the main thing.”

Lily nods. She remembers their sixth year, when Sirius came to school and didn’t immediately cause trouble. The few times she saw him in class, he’d kept his head down and left almost as soon as it ended. It was entirely unlike the Sirius she’d known (and was irked by). She hadn’t been friends with him, and definitely not James, but she’d been worried nevertheless. She never found out what happened until after she and James got together—and even then, the details had been vague. Sirius always preferred to downplay it, cracking a joke and changing topic so effortlessly she didn’t realise until it was too late to bring it up again. That was fine; she never really needed to know the details, only that he was okay—and he was, for the most part.

“How bad was it?” she asks, now.

“Bad,” James says. “About the same as Harry, but longer, and he’d take the blame for things Regulus did. The day he came to mine, he… He almost died, Lils. They held the cruciatus on him for… too long. He only just managed to apparate—he shouldn’t have known how, but he self-studied the theory in his fifth year, just in case. Appeared in our living room, splinched in a dozen places. My parents had keyed him into our wards the year before.”

Lily grasps one of his hands in hers, squeezing it tightly. “How long did it take him to go back to being himself again?”

James considers her for a long moment. “I don’t think he ever did, not fully. A part of him changed that day. Abuse changes you, but leaving, escaping, changes you too. I think a part of him felt guilty for leaving his brother behind. We never had a heart to heart about it, but I know… knew… him well enough to know what went unsaid. I’m not saying he didn’t heal. He did. It took months, but he did. We just needed to give him time.”

She swallows. Time. She can do that. She’s not the most patient person—it’s never been her strong suit—but for Harry, she’ll be anything he needs. “What else?”

James knows she’s not talking about Sirius, not anymore. “He’s going to say things—repeat things—about himself that aren’t true. You’re going to want to correct him. Don’t. Challenge it, gently, in a way that doesn’t seem like a challenge, but don’t fight him on it. I know that goes against your nature—hell, it goes against mine—but he’ll just retreat. We want to make him rethink what he’s been told about himself, not just tell him he’s wrong.”

He knows her well; every fiber of her being is protesting that. Harry’s her son—the one she carried for nine months and fretted over once he was introduced into the world. The very thought of not immediately correcting false, negative, notions he has about himself makes her feel like a failure of a parent. But she knows what James is saying is the right course of action.

He presses another kiss into the top of her head. “If he starts talking, listen. I know you won’t rush him, but you also can’t react—not negatively, anyway. Be interested in what he’s saying, and be genuine, but don’t allow your emotions to show too much. And follow his lead.”

“Can you give me an example?” She’s fairly sure she understands, but she’s never been one to hide how she feels, so she’s not quite sure if she’s getting it right.

He hums in thought. “Say he tells you about how he’s grateful Tuna gave him stale bread for dinner. Your instinct is to be mad—which is fair. You should be. But he seems happy, or at the very least thankful. Follow his lead; validate his emotions, cos Merlin knows that hasn’t happened enough. I’m glad you got something to eat. It’s not a lie. We are happy he didn’t starve to death.” James shrugs. “Don’t leave it at that; remember, we want to challenge his thinking. Add something like, I wish she gave you a little more than that or ask him if it was enough food. Keep your tone mild. Interested, and pleasant, but mild. If he’s excited, and it’s actually something positive, then mimic that, but the rule of thumb is, as much as possible, keep things lighthearted.”

She smiles wryly. “So I definitely shouldn’t threaten to murder them?”

He chuckles. “Not yet, in any case. Once he gets to the anger stage, we’ll help him hide the bodies.”

She huffs in amusement. “When did we become those parents?”

“About the time you interrupted boys night to throw a pregnancy test at me, yelling the entire time,” he says, and she can feel him grinning.

This time, she laughs. She still remembers the panic she felt when the second line came up (and for all her years in the wix world, her instinct still had been to apparate to a drug store and purchase a muggle test), the anxiety clouding her judgement. James had been with Sirius, Remus, and Peter, their fortnightly hangout. With the war picking up, it was a source of joy in difficult times. She remembers apparating to the restaurant, wanting to tell James, and then… Well, her panic took over.

“Anything else I should know?” she asks, pulling herself from the memory. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy reminiscing; it’s that it hurts. There are eleven years of just nothing, and while they may look older, their last tangible memories are from nearly a decade ago.

“We tell him the truth about us tomorrow.”

She startles. “Is that wise?”

“Probably not, but he’s been lied to and misled by adults so many times…” James sighs. “If we deceive him for much longer, he’ll never trust us again.”

He’s right; from everything he’s said, the people he thought he could trust ended up lying to him or dismissing him. “I can’t stop thinking about the things he said about Dumbledore,” she admits. “I want to believe he’s making it up or exaggerating, but after properly meeting him, I know he’s not the kind. If anything, he underplays everything. And even if hewas misinterpreting things, what excuse is there for not checking on Harry over the years? I can’t imagine leaving a child somewhere and never making sure they were okay.”

James stiffens, just a little. “Dumbledore… I trusted that man with my life. But he sent Harry to Tuna. He knows how much she hates not just you and me, but wix in general. Hell, even Snivellus would’ve been a better choice; at least he loved you.”

“He loved the idea of me,” she corrects immediately. “It was different when we were younger, but by the time we were of age, most of what he knew about me was invented in his head.” Then, as an afterthought, though it doesn’t actually bother her, adds, “Snape. You’re thirty-two now, and we don’t have time for petty childhood mindsets.”

“Tell that to him. From what Harry’s said, Sni-Snape bullies him—probably because he looks like me.”

She elbows him. “So are you saying you’re stooping to his level? Or are you better than him?” He mumbles unintelligibly under his breath, and she grins. She’s got him. “Or- don’t tell me you’re jealous of him? That’s it, isn’t it! I mean, he was my first best friend, the one who introduced me to the wix world. If he didn’t switch sides, I probably would have mar-”

She’s cut off as James pulls her down into his lap, fingers moving to grab her side. She gasps and tries to pull away, but he holds her firm, squeezing and poking until she’s full-out laughing.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” he teases. “Can’t quite hear you.”

She cusses at him, and his eyes glint in mischief; he moves down towards her hips, her weakest spot, and soon she’s laughing too hard to get any words out. He lets up a minute or two later, but she doesn’t move, resting her head in his lap as she catches her breath. He smooths her hair back, running his fingers through it and playing with the ends.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “He’s going to be okay.”

There’s still a lot to do, but for now she lays there and allows herself to rest.

Harry doesn’t wake up so much as jolts awake, bolting upright in bed, panic running through his body. His surroundings are entirely unfamiliar; the bed’s too soft, and his body’s too pain-free. It takes him a long moment of staring at the walls, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest, to remember the events of the previous day. His breathing catches. How many times had he been taught in school growing up not to trust strangers, and never, under any circumstance, follow them anywhere? Yet he’d not only left home but accepted their invitation of spending a night at their house.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are going to kill him.

He lies there, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what, exactly, he’s gotten himself to. It’s only much later—how long, he’s not sure—when his bladder is protesting too much to ignore that he reluctantly slips out from under the covers. He vaguely recalls being given directions to the bathroom last night, though so much of yesterday is a blur that he can’t be quite sure this isn’t all just some weird fever dream. He reaches deep within him until he feels it—the tie of the magical vow, buzzing in his subconscious. At least that’s real.

With the promise of safety a quiet hum etched into his soul, he convinces himself to open the door. It’s brighter outside than he expects, sunlight streaming into the tiny living room. Huddled on the couch are the man and woman from last night—Prongs and Blazefur. Weird names, if you asked him, but who is he to argue. They’re reading something held open between them. The Daily Prophet, he realises a second later. He stands in the doorway, squeezing his legs together and wondering if he should bother disturbing them to get to the bathroom or go back to his room and wait to be let out. He doesn’t make a noise, but Blazefur suddenly looks up towards his direction, a smile lighting up her features as soon as her gaze lands on him.

“Harry! Good afternoon! How’d you sleep?”

Prongs puts the paper down. “Hungry? We made breakfast a few hours ago. It’s under a heating charm—but if you’d prefer lunch, we were just trying to figure out what to get.”

“Er.” Harry shifts awkwardly.

Understanding flashes in Prongs’ expression. “Bathroom’s over there,” he says, pointing at a door. “We can talk after.”

Harry feels a rush of gratitude as he sprints to the bathroom. When he emerges, feeling a lot better now that he doesn’t have a complaining bladder, Prongs and Blazefur are sitting at the dining table.

“We weren’t sure what you like,” Blazefur says as he joins them, “so we made a variety. We have your typical English breakfast—hashbrowns, sausages, toast, scrambled egg. Blaze made Asian-style congee. Her roommate back in Hogwarts convinced the house elves to make it sometime in their third year, and it became a staple. It’s not my favourite, but we thought you might like it.”

There’s something that smells warm and almost familiar about the congee. If they served it at Hogwarts, he thinks he would remember it. He reaches for a small bowl, almost missing the flash of emotion that passes across Blazefur’s face. He can’t place it, but he’s too distracted by the scent of the congee to pay it much attention. The first bite fills his mouth with warm, salty flavour. It’s itching at the back of his mind, like a dream that’s almost, but not quite, faded. The traces of memory are there, but the more he tries to reach for them, the more they shift out of reach. He eats the whole bowl, only realising he’s done when his spoon scrapes against the ceramic.

“That was the first solid food you didn’t spit out when you were weaning,” Blazefur says softly.

It’s the first thing she’s said since he started eating, and he looks up towards her. She’s smiling, but all he can see in his mind is the murderous rage in her eyes, her threatening words ringing in his ears. It hadn’t been directed at him, but surely someone who could get that angry would eventually, no doubt, get mad at him. He isn’t an easy person to live with, he knows. But her words cling to him, burying themselves into his skin. They don’t just have stories about his parents; they have stories about him.

“I-” He’s not quite sure what to say. He wants to ask for more information, but he’s already asked them so much the previous day. Would they be tired of it by now? He settles for something safer. “I liked it. It was good.”

Prongs laughs. “It’s all you’d eat for a good two months. Exactly this preparation. If we changed the recipe or tried to give you anything else, you’d spit everywhere. I got very good at dodging.”

Harry winces. So he was a difficult child; Aunt Petunia had been right. “I’m sor-” he starts to say. Then Prongs’ words catch up to him, and he gawks at the man. “You? You got good at dodging?” Prongs freezes, and Harry automatically shrinks back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have questioned- I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll just go to my room.”

“No, no. That’s my fault. I should’ve been more careful. This isn’t how-” Prongs sighs, runs a hand though his hair. “We need to tell you something. It’s not bad.”

Harry eyes him wearily. Every time someone has said it’s not bad, it’s been bad. “What…” He swallows, words catching. He’s a Gryffindor. He can be brave. “What is it?”

They tell him. It doesn’t take long. He listens, fighting the urge to get up and hide in his room the entire time. He can’t quite bring himself to believe it—that the two people sitting across from him, in the flesh, are the same people he sat across from in an empty classroom as they stood in the reflective glass of the mirror and watched him. How often did he daydream about this? About having parents, about them coming back to life somehow. About them telling him they love him. But not like this—not when his hands are stained red with the blood of his professor. How can they love him now? How can he deserve their love and care? They fought to return for a murderer. If they find out—when they find out—they’ll regret it.

“We’re going to drop our glamours, okay?” Prongs—no, his dad—says.

Harry nods, not daring to speak. There’s no push of magic or shimmer; one moment they look one way, and the next they’ve changed. He stares. They’re different than he remembers. Older, more human. They’re looking at him with so much hope and love in their eyes that it hurts. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until his mum makes a noise of distress and he turns to find he can’t see her through blurry vision.

“Oh,” he says, softly.

He hasn’t cried since waking up in the hospital wing. At first, he didn’t have time; there were always people around, and there was so much to do that he pushed everything to the back of his mind. Then, once he was back at Privet Drive, he’d been too afraid. If the Dursleys heard him, he’d get into trouble for disturbing them—and what right did he have to cry anyway, when they looked after him? So he’d ignored his emotions and bit back the tears as much as he could. Now that they’ve started, though, he finds he can’t stop. They fall without permission, and he buries his head in his hands, choking on a sob.

His parents are here. He should be happy. He should be grateful they returned. But all he can do is sit here and cry. They’re going to think he doesn’t want them, or realise he’s too broken to love. They’re going to send him back, or decide he’s not worth the effort. They’re going to— A gentle hand rests on his back, rubbing slow circles. Someone sits on his other side, pressing up against him. Neither of them tell him to shush, or say that it’s going to be okay. They sit there, letting him know they’re there without words, and let him cry.

Chapter Text

“I’m here about Harry Potter,” Lily says as the door opens.

Molly Weasley blinks up at her. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Lily takes in the woman standing in the doorway. Neither James nor her really interacted with Molly during the war. They knew her brothers, had fought alongside them. They hadn’t been intimately close—enough to mourn, not enough to let it affect them for long—but everyone in the Order had been friends. She’d heard about Molly, of course. Gideon and Fabien had talked fondly about her, their beloved older sister. But she’d been busy raising her children and wanted little to do with fighting and Death Eaters and Voldemort, and Lily had respected that.

Looking at her now, Lily can tell there’s something unassuming about her, but in the way that screams hidden danger. Mrs. Weasley’s no auror, no seasoned warrior, but there’s no doubt that if the woman thinks Lily’s a threat to her family in any way, there will be hell to pay. Motherly and modest does not mean meek or harmless, after all.

“Chrisy Vanes,” Lily says. “My husband, Benjamin, and I are—were—friends with the Potters. We were overseas, and only recently returned to the UK.”

They’ve been given new identities by the goblins—something that would normally cost a pretty penny, but is instead, thankfully, part of the restoration offered. Chrysanthemum “Chrisy” Vanes and Benjamin Vanes are now real people with actual bank accounts. Anyone who goes looking would find it difficult to prove they’re anything but real. Even their new wands—provided by the bank so they didn’t have to go to Olivanders and answer awkward questions—are registered under their new names.

“I think you’ve got the wrong place,” Mrs. Weasley says. “He’s not here.”

“I’m aware. He’s actually with us. It’s… complicated.” Lily smiles, trying her hardest to convey she’s not a threat. It’s difficult; most of her tangible memories revolve around the war. She’s used to fighting and sneaking around and being generally distrustful of everyone, not openly discussing her son. “Forgive me for being forward, Mrs. Weasley, but we need someone to help look after him while we get our affairs in order. He mentioned his best friends are Ron and a girl called Hermione, but she’s muggleborn—not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but it makes things a little trickier. We figured you would be a good choice. It’ll just be during the day; we’ll take him back at night.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes narrow. “It would be a pleasure to have him over—and I’m sure Ron would love having him around—but I have to ask, why isn’t he with his family? Dumbledore said-”

“Dumbledore was mistaken,” Lily says, smoothly. She doesn’t care what Mrs. Weasley was about to say; Dumbledore left her son in that house, knowing full well the things she’s said about Petunia. Besides, if Mrs. Weasley said just one good thing about that man, Lily would probably lose her amicable demeanour. “Harry was being abused. We rescued him.”

Mrs. Weasley gasps audibly, hand flying to cover her mouth. “Merlin! How is he doing?”

Lily personally thinks that’s a stupid question, but she understands the inclination to ask. “Not great. He will be, eventually, but it’ll take time. He’s also had a difficult year—which reminds me. You might want to check on Ron. I’m not sure if he told you what happened, but he was badly injured going after a Voldemort-possessed Professor Quirrell.”

“What?!” Mrs. Weasley shrieks.

“Ah.” Lily hides a smile; she’d had an inkling the Gryffindor had kept it quiet. It’s a fairly standard Gryffindor trait, after all. “I’ll leave the details to him, but from what Harry’s told us, Dumbledore hid the Philosopher’s stone in the castle. Voldemort wanted it.” She once again ignores the tiny flinch from Mrs. Weasley at the name. She’s long since learnt not to fear saying it; the man already killed her. What more can he do? “The three of them—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—thought it was Professor Snape that was possessed and went after him. There was apparently some sort of gantlet hidden under a trap door in a third floor classroom? Something about flying keys, a giant chess set, and a logic puzzle… Ron got hurt in that second one, when he sacrificed himself as a ‘piece’ to let Harry and Hermione move on. Got blown right off the knight, Harry said, and hit his head pretty hard.”

From the way the red is creeping up Mrs. Weasley’s neck and to her cheeks, Ron is in a lot of trouble. Lily doesn’t feel bad for snitching; children don’t have the capacity to understand what they should or shouldn’t go to their parents about, and this is most definitely something that should have been spoken about ages ago. She’s just glad Harry felt safe enough to open up to James. While she doesn’t mind Ron getting in trouble—he should; what they did was reckless—she needs to ensure Mrs. Weasley’s anger isn’t also misplaced.

“If I may be blunt,” Lily says, “I’m not entirely sure what Dumbledore was thinking—both in storing the stone at a school and those so-called protections. Seems to me that any thrill-seeking Gyffindor would try and conquer that sort of obstacle course… And name me one Gryffindor who isn’t.”

“I-” Mrs. Weasley shakes her head, as if clearing something from her mind. “Yes. You’re right. I’m-” She shakes her head again. “Forgive me, this has taken me by surprise. Ron didn’t say anything about this!”

“Boys,” Lily says, a mixture of fondness and exasperation seeping into her tone. She might not have been a mother for long, but she still remembers what it was like in the Gryffindor tower at 11. “I hear they’ll eventually reach a stage where they’d rather tell you things than hide them from you, but I have yet to see proof of that.”

Mrs. Weasley laughs. “My oldest still hasn’t reached that stage, if it does exist.” She takes a step back, motions with an arm. “But look at us, still standing in the doorway! Please, do come in.”

Lily is tempted, but only for a second. This is the longest she’s been away from Harry since they rescued him, and she finds she already misses him. “I’m afraid I can’t today—but if it’s not too forward of me, perhaps next time?”

“Oh, of course! You’re always welcome here.” She hesitates for a split second. Lily tries and fails to figure out why. “And Harry too, of course! I’ll be glad to have him over, anytime—just send an owl if you can.”

“Does tomorrow work for you?” Lily asks. She’s not afraid to take full advantage of the offer, and her instincts tell her Mrs. Weasley would treat Harry as her own—and, perhaps more importantly, defend him as her own. “Say ten in the morning?”

Mrs. Weasley nods. “I’m sure Ron will look forward to it.” She pauses, as if suddenly remembering she’s meant to be angry at him. “He’s grounded from treats for a week, but I’ll bake something just for Harry—do you know his favourite desserts?”

“All desserts,” she says, biting back her smile a little. He takes after James that way; Harry’s sweet tooth has blossomed tremendously in the last few days. “Though, I should probably warn you, he was starved before coming to us. Food… can be a touchy subject for him. Please encourage, but don’t pressure him to eat.” She would leave it at that, but she’s never been one to shy away from asking. The worst someone can say is no, and that’s a lesson she’s always taken to heart. “He does better when he’s given options and left to his own devices. I think it reminds him of Hogwarts.”

There are tears in Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, but she blinks past them. “Oh, of course! It would be my pleasure to cook for him.”

Lily thinks there’s going to be a lot of food in Harry’s future. She makes a mental note to have Gringotts transfer money to the Weasley vault; she has a feeling Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t accept if offered outright, and it will be much easier to get rid of any arguments before it happens.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” she says.

“Goodness! Just Molly, dear.”

“Then I insist you call me Chrisy.” She smiles, then glances at her watch. “I have to be off. Thank you so much, Molly; I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She leaves feeling lighter. Now that Harry has somewhere safe to stay apart from them, she and James will be able to move on to the next step in their plan—and, hopefully, sort out a little more of the mess Dumbledore made.