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Chapter Text

The first thing Harry noticed was the silence.

It was not the oppressive, suffocating silence of the Forbidden Forest, nor the sharp stillness of a battlefield after the last curse has been cast. This was different—gentle, endless, like the world itself had stopped to breathe.

Harry opened his eyes.

King’s Cross. Or rather, something like it. White arches stretched impossibly high above him, glowing softly. The endless whiteness expanded in every direction, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt alive, humming faintly, as though the space itself were waiting.

He sat up slowly. His body moved without pain—no aching bones, no lingering bruises, no gnawing hunger. For the first time in months his stomach wasn’t twisted in knots. He placed a hand over his ribs almost in disbelief. Whole. Untouched.

“This is odd,” he muttered, his voice echoing strangely in the endless hall.

“Odd is one way to put it.”

Harry spun.

Someone—or something—stood a few steps away. It wasn’t a man, nor a woman. Its form shifted subtly with each glance, as if it refused to be pinned down by one shape. Yet it was beautiful—terribly, impossibly beautiful—like staring at fire and shadow and starlight all at once.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, though the answer tugged at the edges of his mind.

The figure smiled. “Death.”

Before Harry could speak again, a faint, pitiful sound caught his ear. He turned his head—and froze.

A small, twisted thing lay a few yards away on the polished white floor. Its skin was raw, its body malformed, writhing feebly as though it could never truly live.

Harry’s chest clenched. He knew what it was. He had felt it inside him for so long, poisoning every moment of his life.

Death followed his gaze and chuckled softly, with no real mirth. “Ridiculous. The things people do to avoid me.”

Harry’s breath quickened. “That’s… Voldemort’s—”

“A fragment. An echo,” Death confirmed. “It died with you. As it should.”

The sight filled Harry with both horror and relief. For years he had carried that thing unknowingly. Here it was, helpless and dying, and for the first time he felt light—truly his own.

He dragged his eyes away and looked back at Death.

“I suppose… I’ve met you before, haven’t I?” Harry said quietly, his voice shaking.

“Yes,” Death said, tilting its head. “You’ve carried my Hallows. Cloak, stone, wand. Very few ever hold even one. You bore them all. That makes you…” A pause. “My Master.”

Harry snorted despite himself. “Master of Death. Sounds ridiculous.”

“Indeed,” Death said dryly. “Imagine trying to command me. A title humans invented to make themselves feel clever. Still, it comes with… perks. Choices.”

Harry shifted uneasily. “Choices?”

“You stand at a crossroads,” Death said, stepping closer. Its presence felt neither cold nor warm, simply inevitable. “Because you bear the Hallows, you are not bound to the single path most take. You may go on, as countless others have done. Or you may return—either a heartbeat after your death… or to another point in time entirely.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Another… time?”

“Yes. Backward, earlier in your story.”

The temptation came at him like a tide, slow then overwhelming. To go on. To stop hurting. He thought of the faces he missed—the soft, crooked grin of his mother, the warm impatience of his father, Sirius’s laughter, Remus’s eyes when he was proud. The idea of walking toward them, no more fear, no more responsibility, made his chest ache with longing.

For a long moment Harry let himself think of it seriously. He sat very still and tried to be honest. The world he had carried had been heavy for so long: the Horcrux inside him, the deaths he had seen, the people who had kept losing pieces of themselves. The idea of lying down and letting the weight go felt like finally setting down a stone he had been carrying since he was a child.

“I could go,” he thought, and the thought was not defiant. It was an admission of exhaustion. God, I could finally rest.

The white around him seemed to hush. There were no distractions here, no noise to flinch from, no obligations to answer. He let his mind travel down the road it had not allowed itself to follow in life: being with those he had lost, letting new pain stop reaching for him. For the first time in ages the notion of death was not a terror but a relief.

But the quieter he listened to that relief, the louder other memories became.
He had always told himself he would not run from responsibility. He had always told himself to be brave because others needed him brave. That belief was brittle with exhaustion, but not gone. The image of those who depended on him—Ron’s stubbornness that would turn to bitter defeat if he let things lie, Hermione’s unspent fury at injustice, Ginny’s life that had just begun to unfurl—wove themselves into a chain that pulled at his heart.

The choice gnawed at him from both sides. Rest beckoned with gentle hands; duty tightened its grip like iron. For a long time he did not speak. He listened to the silence and to the small, dying thing that had once been part of the man whose name made half the wizarding world tremble.

As the temptation curled around him, another fear surfaced—smaller, sharper: If I return, will the Horcrux return with me? Will that piece of Voldemort come back into my life? The mere thought soured the relief.

Death’s eyes gleamed faintly, as though it had plucked the thought straight from Harry’s mind. “No,” it said simply. “I will keep this monstrosity. Gladly. Your soul is yours alone, at last.”

Relief went through him like sunlight. The burden that had lived inside him—secret, ugly, the reason for so much pain—was gone from his hands. Free, he could decide without being blackmailed by a parasite he had never wanted. The possibility of rest softened; the possibility of return hardened into purpose.

He looked down at his hands, whole and unscarred here. He thought of the battle, of Fred’s lifeless smile, of the bodies laid out in rows. Going back just after his death would mean reliving the last terrible moments; he imagined the same faces falling again, the same failings repeating. He could not consign them to that loop.

“No,” he whispered. “Not there. Earlier.” He lifted his head. “I’ve made my choice.”

Death inclined its head, like a teacher acknowledging a student’s answer. “So be it. Back you go, Master. May your second chance be wisely used.”

The whiteness flared—blinding, swallowing him whole.

When Harry opened his eyes again, the world was dim and familiar. A ceiling. Dingy, marked with cracks. His heart lurched. He knew this place.

Privet Drive.

He sat up in his narrow bed, gasping. The summer before his fourth year. The Triwizard Tournament. Cedric. Everything that was about to happen.

Harry pressed his hands to his face, trembling with shock and something like relief. He was back. He had time, and, crucially, he had returned without the shadow inside him. He could already feel the difference.

And this time, he swore—more solid than any oath he had taken in anger or despair—he would not waste it.

Chapter Text

Harry sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the peeling wallpaper as his mind raced. For the first time in years, he wasn’t just reacting to Voldemort—he was planning ahead. The weight of what he knew pressed on his chest.

Two Horcruxes were already destroyed: Tom Riddle’s diary, torn apart by the basilisk fang in his second year, and the piece of Voldemort’s soul that had been lodged inside himself, gone now that he had died and returned. That left five more. The ring, the locket, Hufflepuff’s cup, Ravenclaw’s diadem, and Nagini.
The ring and the locket, he remembered, were problems for another time. Hufflepuff’s cup too—locked away in Bellatrix’s vault, far beyond his reach for now. But the diadem of Ravenclaw... Harry frowned, pressing his palms together. That one, at least, he could try to deal with soon. He knew exactly where it was, and he knew what could destroy it. He had been in the Chamber of Secrets before. The basilisk’s body still lay down there, its enormous fangs capable of breaking through the dark magic that protected a Horcrux.

Harry twisted the idea around in his mind, like a spell he couldn’t quite master. His main problem: age restrictions and Ministry oversight. Using magic freely while underage would raise eyebrows that he didn’t particularly want raising. Which, in other words, made retrieving the other Horcruxes in secret almost impossible. He sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh that felt like it had traveled from Privet Drive to the edge of the galaxy.

Minutes, or perhaps hours, passed. He tossed his ideas around, drew diagrams in his mind, made mental lists. Nothing. No solution. The Ministry was a wall he didn't know how to get past.

There would be time to think later. For now, he needed to move, to feel like he was doing something.

When he left his room and descended the stairs, the familiar creak of the second step made him hesitate. He hadn’t seen his aunt, uncle, or cousin since waking up here again. A strange mixture of nostalgia and irritation swirled in his chest. Nostalgia, because this had been his first home, miserable as it was. Irritation, because he was back to square one: stuck with the Dursleys.

They were in the kitchen when he entered. Vernon looked up from the paper, Petunia from her teacup, Dudley from a plate of eggs. All three wore their usual expressions of distaste—yet there was something else too. A hesitation. A flicker of confusion in their eyes as they studied him.

“Off to… wherever,” said Uncle Vernon, voice loaded with judgment.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Uncle Vernon. Off to… wherever. Try not to miss me too much.”

His aunt’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something subtle, almost imperceptible: a flicker of… curiosity? Or confusion?

For a moment Harry wondered if someone had cursed them, or meddled with their minds. But then another thought struck him: had the Horcrux inside him affected them all these years? Had living with that constant, poisonous aura made them sharper in their cruelty, more vicious in their disdain? And now, with that fragment gone, did they finally notice the absence of something dark they couldn’t name?

He almost laughed at the thought. It didn’t matter. Whatever had changed, they were still the Dursleys.

“Well, goodbye,” Harry said flatly, reaching for the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Vernon demanded, his mustache quivering. “You’re not just going to—”

Harry turned, a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Uncle Vernon,” he said, his voice light and mocking, “I’m a big, bad wizard, remember? You can’t exactly stop me.”

The look on his uncle’s face was almost worth all the years of misery. With that, Harry slung his worn backpack over his shoulder, the reassuring weight of his Invisibility Cloak and wand inside, and stepped out into the sunlight.

He walked until Privet Drive was a few streets behind him, then raised his wand hand casually. With a bang loud enough to rattle windows, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt at the curb.

The ride into London was as jarring and uncomfortable as ever, but when Harry finally stepped out onto the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, a strange calm washed over him. Life bustled on as if nothing were wrong. Wizards and witches chatted, haggled over cauldrons, and shepherded children from shop to shop. No one here had any idea of the storm gathering on the horizon.

Passing by Quality Quidditch Supplies, Harry’s eyes caught a large poster plastered across the window: the Quidditch World Cup, only weeks away. His chest tightened with a rush of bittersweet memory. Ron would be sending his invitation soon, asking him to come along with the Weasleys. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it—laughter, tents, the thunder of broomsticks racing through the air. Then the thought of Horcruxes and war shoved the image away.

He turned instead toward Gringotts.

The goblin-run bank loomed high and gleaming, its marble steps shining under the sun. Inside, Harry was momentarily struck, as always, by the grandeur. Polished floors reflected the lantern light, and long counters stretched down the hall where goblins sat perched on stools, their sharp eyes glinting as they counted coins or drafted contracts. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of gold.

He waited in line until finally, one of the goblins fixed him with a piercing look and beckoned him forward.

“My name is Harry Potter. I’d like to enter my vault,” Harry began.

“Accompanied by your legal guardian, I presume?” the goblin asked, tilting his head.

Harry froze. “Legal… guardian?”

The goblin arched an eyebrow, and began talking to him in a deliberate slow way. “You are underage. Hence, your legal guardian.”

Harry blinked. “I… didn’t know I had one.”

The goblin snorted, and called an assistant forward. They both started talking in a language Harry didn’t understand. The assistant walked hurriedly away. The goblin’s thin mouth twisted into something that was not quite a smile. “Your legal guardian is Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. Of all the names he might have expected, Dumbledore’s wasn’t one of them. His head buzzed with the weight of the revelation. Dumbledore had been his headmaster, his mentor, even—at times—his protector. But a legal guardian? That was something else entirely.

The goblin seemed to relish his shock, tapping long, clawed fingers against the polished desk. “It is written plainly in our records. Surprising that no one bothered to tell you. Then again,” the goblin’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, “humans are fond of keeping children ignorant, aren’t they?”

Harry felt a rush of indignation, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at the goblin, at Dumbledore, or at himself for never asking. “And what does that mean for me?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“It means,” the goblin replied crisply, “that you cannot access your vault without Dumbledore’s consent. But—” he raised his voice, cutting Harry off before he could protest, “because you are over the age of thirteen and of a noble house, by law, you should have been made aware of your legal representation.”

“I wasn’t!” Harry snapped, his voice cracking higher than he would have liked. He hated the way it made him sound—still a boy, not someone who had faced death and lived. The word representation burned in his mind. All this time, someone had been acting in his name, and no one had thought he deserved to know.

“You have another option,” the goblin continued, as if reciting something practiced. “If you are willing to swear on your magic that you were never informed of this, thereby proving your representative failed their obligations, you will be legally emancipated.”

Emancipated. The word struck Harry with unexpected force. For years he had lived by rules others made for him—the Dursleys with their cupboard and locked doors, Dumbledore with his half-truths and carefully rationed explanations. Freedom had always been dangled before him, but it was never his to claim. Now, here it was, offered across a polished desk by a goblin who didn’t even seem to care.

The thought felt both intoxicating and bitter. Dumbledore, who had been his mentor and protector, had also been the one to keep this from him. How much else had he concealed? How many decisions had been made in the name of Harry’s safety, when in truth it had been control all along?

“And I could enter my vault at will? Just like that?” Harry asked, his voice steadier now, though his chest burned with the effort of keeping it so.

“Just like that,” the goblin confirmed. His assistant had returned, standing quietly nearby, as if waiting for a cue.

“And Dumbledore will be informed of this change?” Harry pressed. If emancipation meant freedom, he needed to know exactly how far it went.

“Not if you don’t want him to,” the goblin replied with a thin smile. “We are under no obligation to notify him.”

Harry swallowed, the decision weighing on him like a stone, though it carried a strange sense of relief as well. He had been a pawn long enough, shuffled from one square to another at someone else’s command. Perhaps this was the first move he could make entirely his own.

“Very well, then,” he said at last. The words were calm, almost too calm, but underneath them lay a simmering resolve. This time, he would not be managed. This time, the choice was his.

Chapter Text

Harry left Gringotts with the reassuring weight of a money pouch tucked securely inside his pocket, along with several pieces of parchment written in sharp, claw-like handwriting. The goblin had explained, with no shortage of smug satisfaction, that the emancipation papers he now held were legally binding within goblin law but required validation from the Ministry to be fully recognized in the wizarding world.

Harry wasn’t surprised. Nothing in his life ever came easily. Still, he had enough money to last a year—more, if he was careful—and that small victory was enough to keep his steps light as he walked out into the sunlight of Diagon Alley.

“Emancipated,” he muttered under his breath, fingering the edges of the papers inside his pocket. The word felt strange, almost fragile, as if saying it too loudly might shatter the illusion. A tiny part of him expected Dumbledore to appear out of nowhere, twinkling eyes and all, ready to tell him it was “for the greater good” that Harry remain shackled to the Dursleys until he was seventeen.

He set his jaw. Not anymore. Not ever again.

---

His first stop was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The little bell chimed overhead as he entered, and a plump witch with silver hair bustled over, her wand already in hand.

“Ah, Mr. Potter! Back again. You’ve grown since I last saw you. Up on the stool, dear, up you go.”

Harry climbed onto the low platform, lifting his arms as she took quick, efficient measurements. He caught his reflection in the mirror: messy hair, Dudley’s oversized shirt sagging off his shoulders, and jeans that had more holes than fabric. He grimaced.

“I don’t suppose you know where I can find one of those bags,” he said casually, as Madam Malkin wrapped the tape measure around his chest, “the kind that expand inside but look normal on the outside? Like a… portable trunk, only smaller.”

Madam Malkin’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you mean an Extension Charm bag.” She clicked her tongue. “Not Ministry-approved, of course, but not banned either. You’ll not find such things openly sold in Diagon Alley.”

“Where, then?” Harry pressed.

She hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Knockturn Alley. You’ll have to be discreet. And mind yourself—places like that, they sniff out naïve boys like honey.”

Harry smirked. “Good thing I’m not naïve, then.”

Madam Malkin gave him a look that suggested she doubted that very much, but she said nothing further.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I’m going to need formal robes too, please.”

---

Later that afternoon, Harry slipped through the shadowed archway into Knockturn Alley, his Invisibility Cloak draped over his shoulders. The familiar chill of the place crawled down his spine. Shops with rotting signs leaned toward one another, their windows filled with sinister-looking objects.

The shop Madam Malkin had mentioned was a crooked little place squeezed between a pawnshop and a vendor selling suspicious powders. A faded sign above the door read “Cavenaugh’s Curiosities.”

Inside, the air smelled of dust and decay. The counter was cluttered with cracked crystal balls and vials filled with things Harry didn’t want to name. From behind a beaded curtain emerged a man well into his fifties, with thinning hair and sharp, restless eyes.

“Well, well. What have we here?” the man drawled, though Harry was certain he couldn’t see him. His eyes flicked about the shop like a predator sniffing the air. “A cloak, eh? Clever boy.”

Harry stiffened but didn’t remove the cloak. “I need a bag. Something with an Extension Charm.”

The man grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Expensive taste. But I have just the thing.” He pulled a leather satchel from beneath the counter, running a finger along the seams. “Bottomless inside, light as a feather. Yours for… two hundred galleons.”

Harry snorted. “That’s robbery.”

“Everything in this alley is robbery, boy. Call it a convenience tax.”

Harry pulled back the hood of his cloak just far enough to reveal his scar. The man’s eyes widened, and Harry leaned in. “One hundred, and you’ll be able to brag you sold to the Boy Who Lived. That should bring you business for a year.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled darkly. “Sharp tongue. Fine. One hundred.”

Harry dropped the coins onto the counter and snatched the bag. As he turned to leave, the man called after him, “Careful, Potter. Power like yours… people will want a piece.”

Harry didn’t answer.

---

Back outside, he considered heading deeper into the alley, maybe to Borgin and Burkes. He remembered the Vanishing Cabinet Malfoy would later use to smuggle Death Eaters into Hogwarts. It was tempting—so tempting—to find it now and destroy it before it could ever serve Voldemort’s plans.

But he stopped himself. One step at a time. Change too much too soon, and I’ll lose control of where the pieces fall.

With a sigh, Harry pulled the cloak tighter and left Knockturn Alley behind.

---

By the time he returned to Privet Drive, the sun was low in the sky. As he slipped through the front door, voices carried from the sitting room.

“—YES, HELLO! THIS IS VERNON DURSLEY SPEAKING!” his uncle bellowed into the phone.

From the receiver came an equally loud voice: “HELLO! ARTHUR WEASLEY HERE! CAN YOU HEAR ME, MISTER DURSLEY?”

Harry froze halfway down the hall, biting back laughter. He could hear Arthur’s booming voice even from meters away.

Vernon’s face was puce as he covered the mouthpiece. “Boy! What sort of lunatic have you got calling my house?”

Harry darted forward. “Let me—”

But before he could grab the phone, Vernon slammed it back into its cradle, muttering furiously about “freaks” and “mental cases.”

Harry glared at him. “That was my friend’s dad. I needed to talk to him.”

“No freak calls in this house!” Vernon barked.

Harry rolled his eyes so hard it hurt and stomped upstairs, muttering under his breath about how strangling one’s guardian was probably still illegal, emancipated or not.

---

In his room, Hedwig hooted softly from the open window. A letter was tied neatly to her leg. Harry untied it and unfolded the parchment, recognizing Ron’s messy scrawl.

> Harry,

Dad says we’ve got tickets to the Quidditch World Cup! You’re coming with us, of course. Hermione’s coming too—she’ll be here next week. We’ll come pick you up through the fireplace. It’ll be brilliant!

—Ron

Harry’s stomach twisted. He remembered the chaos from his first life: the Weasleys trying to use the blocked fireplace, Fred and George nearly blowing up the mantel, Arthur baffled by Muggle technology, and Vernon looking ready to commit murder. It had been a disaster then—and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

No. This time he would avoid the scene entirely.

He pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write.

> Ron,

Thanks for the invite—I’d love to come to the World Cup. Tell your dad not to bother with the Floo. I’ve got another way of getting there. I’ll explain when I arrive. Give my best to Hermione when she gets in.

—Harry

He tied the letter back to Hedwig’s leg. “Take this to Ron, girl. And maybe stay there a night or two. I’ll be fine.”

Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately before taking off through the open window.
He leaned against the windowsill, following Hedwig’s white silhouette as she rose higher into the sky, her wings catching the faint glow of the setting sun. She looked so free, so untouchable, gliding as though nothing in the world could harm her.

But Harry knew better. The memory wasn’t a memory at all, not yet—it belonged to a future that he had already lived and left behind. He could still feel the hollow ache of loss, the sharp, brutal moment when Hedwig had fallen, struck down because of him, because she had been where he was. His first true friend, his companion through every sleepless night at Privet Drive, through every letter that made him feel less alone, had given her life to shield his.

He kept his eyes on her until she became a speck in the horizon, whispering a promise she couldn’t hear but he hoped, somehow, she would feel.

Harry lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Cedric’s face flashed in his memory—the easy smile, the firm handshake before the Quidditch match. He remembered the Triwizard Cup, the sudden pull of the Portkey, Cedric’s lifeless body sprawled on the graveyard grass.

Not this time.

“I’ll save you too,” Harry whispered into the quiet room. “I swear it.”

The new satchel lay on the desk, gleaming faintly in the fading light. His emancipation papers rested beside it. And for the first time in years, Harry felt the future wasn’t a prison sentence written by Dumbledore or Voldemort.

It was his.

Chapter Text

Two weeks slipped by, each day folding into the next with surprising swiftness.

By the first half of August, Harry was in his room at Privet Drive, kneeling beside his school trunk. The familiar rattle of quills and books echoed as he pressed his weight down to close the lid. Most of his belongings were packed, neat for once. Only a few folded documents remained outside—the papers of his emancipation, carefully tucked into the magically expanded pouch he now wore hidden against his chest. They were the one thing he wouldn’t risk losing.

On the desk by the window lay a stack of letters, bound loosely with twine. Ron’s scrawled handwriting, always hurried, had appeared twice, filled with cheerful demands that Harry come over. Molly’s letters were longer, sometimes several sheets, brimming with worry and insistence. She had suggested, then urged, and finally declared that she would come and fetch him herself.

Her last letter had not been a request at all:

"We will come and fetch you tomorrow, dear. Don’t you worry about a thing."

Harry had smiled at that, half-amused, half-exasperated. Molly Weasley’s determination could match a Hungarian Horntail. He bore her no resentment—how could he, when he owed so much of his experience of family to her? Yet he could not ignore how her persistence felt sharpened by another’s hand. Dumbledore’s. It had his fingerprints all over it.

Harry did not intend to wait for her plan. Instead, he had decided to arrive at the Burrow on his own terms, one day early.

He stood and looked around the room that had been his prison and his shelter, depending on the year. The walls still bore faint scratches from where he had hidden things beneath the floorboards; the bed sagged in the same uncomfortable way. It was strange to think he might never spend another summer here.

---

Downstairs, the Dursleys were clustered in the sitting room when he appeared, Hedwig’s cage in one hand, his trunk carefully dragged behind him. No magic—it was heavy, awkward, and the handle bit into his fingers. But he wouldn’t risk the Ministry’s underage magic alarms for something as small as convenience.

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him the moment he entered. They still looked at him like he was dangerous, like he might explode into feathers or fire at any moment. But there was something different this summer—less hostility, more hesitation.

“Going, then?” Uncle Vernon asked after a pause. His voice was rough, more uncertain than Harry had ever heard it.

“Yes,” Harry said. He waited for the usual lecture, the demand for gratitude, the sneer. None came.

Petunia’s hands twisted in her lap. At last she spoke, sharp and quick, as if she regretted it even as she said it: “And where will you be… staying?”

Harry blinked. He had expected indifference, perhaps suspicion, but not curiosity. It wasn’t quite concern—but it was close enough to unsettle him.

“At a friend’s house,” he said carefully. “The rest of the summer.”

No protest followed. No muttered freak.

The memory of an earlier moment flitted through his mind: breakfast, just a week ago, when Dudley had muttered please while asking Harry to pass the sugar. The word had landed like a dropped bomb, and the silence that followed had been unbearable. Vernon had coughed, Petunia had frozen, and Harry had slid the bowl across the table, barely suppressing a laugh. The incident had never been spoken of again, but the air in the house had shifted ever so slightly afterward.

“Well,” Harry said now, awkwardness tightening his chest. “Goodbye, then.”

No one wished him well. But neither did they slam the door behind him. For the Dursleys, that was the closest to affection he had ever known.

---

The Knight Bus appeared with its usual shriek of brakes, tossing him nearly off his feet as it stopped before the crooked outline of the Burrow. Harry stepped down into the familiar garden path, his heart beating strangely fast. It had been far too long since he’d seen this place safe, whole, filled with laughter instead of grief.

The door flew open before he reached it.

“Harry?!” Ginny’s voice was the first, quickly joined by Ron, Fred, George, and finally Molly, bustling forward with her apron still powdered in flour.

“Harry, dear, you weren’t meant to arrive until tomorrow—how did you—?”

“They dropped me off,” Harry interrupted smoothly, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Didn’t fancy waiting.”

Molly frowned, but before she could press, Harry turned swiftly to Ron. “Up for Quidditch?”

Ron cheered, the twins whooped, and just like that, the matter was forgotten.

Harry’s gaze caught Ginny as she hung back in the doorway. His stomach lurched. She looked… small. Younger than he remembered, all freckles and bright eyes and coltish limbs. The girl who would someday stand at his side in fire and blood was, right now, still far from that. He waited for the familiar tug in his chest, the rush of affection and attraction. But it wasn’t there—not like he expected. Fainter, more distant. He told himself it was her age. That was all.

---

The afternoon passed in flight and laughter. Harry soared beside Ron over the orchard, diving and racing until they were red-faced and breathless. The broom beneath him felt like freedom itself. For the first time in months—years, really—he wasn’t thinking about prophecies or battles or graves. Just the wind in his hair and Ron’s laughter in his ears.

When they finally collapsed in the grass, Ron rolled onto his side, squinting at him.

“You look different,” Ron said. “Better, somehow. Like you’ve—dunno—shaken something off.”

Harry hesitated. The words piled up inside him—the truth about time, death, the future he had already lived. But how could he put it into words Ron would believe? He would think Harry had gone mad, or worse, tell his mother.

“I suppose,” Harry said carefully, “it’s because I know I’ve got family out there somewhere. You know, Sirius. Makes the future feel… less empty.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Harry let the quiet stretch, staring at the drifting clouds. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to imagine a future that wasn’t all fire and shadow.

Then came the voices—sudden, overlapping, rising from the house.

Harry shot upright, hand jerking toward his wand before his mind caught up. His heart hammered, body screaming ambush.

Ron frowned. “Blimey, Harry, it’s just noise. Probably Hermione—or one of my brothers.”

Harry forced a thin laugh. “Right. Old habits. Hard to shake.”

---

Inside was pure chaos.

“Hermione!” Ginny squealed, wrapping her arms around the girl who had just emerged from the fireplace, hair bushier than ever, smile wide. Fred and George immediately began talking over one another, one of them loudly declaring, “Well, would you look at that, Granger’s gone and turned pretty on us!”

“Fred!” Molly snapped, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

Hermione laughed nervously, setting Crookshanks down. The cat bounded straight for Ron, who picked him up with a mix of fondness and reluctance.

And then Hermione’s gaze found Harry.

She smiled.

The sight stopped him cold.

In his mind, she was still the Hermione of the forest—gaunt, tear-streaked, clinging to her books and her courage when everything else had been stripped away. He remembered the candlelit nights in the tent, the fierce way she had whispered "I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this till the end". He remembered leaving her behind before walking into the forest to die.

And now—here she was. Younger, unscarred, radiant.

Before he knew what he was doing, Harry had crossed the room and pulled her into a hug. Too tight, too long.

“Harry!” Molly exclaimed, startled.

He released her quickly, face burning. Hermione’s cheeks were pink too, but she masked it with a grin. “You smell awful,” she teased.

Harry laughed, relief spilling out of him.

---

That evening, the three of them gathered in Ron’s room.

“The World Cup’s going to be brilliant,” Ron said, tossing a Quaffle toward the ceiling and catching it again.

Hermione, already seated cross-legged with a book, shook her head. “It’s more than brilliant, Ron—it’s historic. Ireland versus Bulgaria hasn’t—”

“You’re ruining it,” Ron groaned. “It’s meant to be fun, not… educational.”

Harry chuckled, but his thoughts strayed while they bickered. He saw fire and masks and terrified Muggles screaming in the night. He saw the mark in the sky. Could he stop it? Should he?

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice cut through, curious. “What’s on your mind?”

Harry hesitated, then said quickly, “I’ve decided to drop Divination. I’m going to take Ancient Runes instead.”

Both of them gaped.

“Are you mental?” Ron asked. “I’m not doing that.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry replied with a shrug. “It’s my choice.”

Hermione’s face lit up. “That’s wonderful! You’ll never regret it. Ancient Runes is fascinating.”

Ron groaned louder. “Merlin save me.”

Before Harry could retort, Molly’s voice floated up the stairs, summoning them for dinner.

---

The Weasley table was crowded, loud, and utterly alive. Food passed from hand to hand, laughter rang from every corner, Ginny teased Ron until he turned red, Fred and George carried on a whispered scheme. Hermione smiled more easily here than Harry had ever seen at school.

Harry let it all wash over him, memorizing every detail. For the first time in months, he felt safe. For the first time in months, he felt at home.

Chapter Text

The days at the Burrow unfolded with deceptive ease. For once, there was no looming crisis, no immediate danger, only the hum of daily life in a house bursting with Weasleys. The chaos of breakfast, the laughter in the orchard, the arguments over whose turn it was to de-gnome the garden—all of it wrapped around Harry like a blanket he both cherished and feared. He knew peace like this was fragile, temporary, an illusion that could shatter at any moment.

Ron tried to spend every waking hour playing Quidditch, dragging Harry out with a broom in hand. Harry joined him, of course, but not as eagerly as before. Something tugged at him—a sense of unfinished business, of knowledge he should have already gained but had been denied.

On the third morning, while Ron hunted for his Cannons jumper and Hermione scolded Fred and George for “experimenting with fireworks indoors,” Harry climbed the stairs to find Percy. He was, as always, busy polishing something—this time his old badge.

“Percy,” Harry said cautiously, “could I borrow some of your old textbooks? Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, anything advanced?”

Percy blinked, then sat straighter, as though honored. “Finally, someone with initiative. Most boys your age waste their summers, but knowledge—ah, knowledge is preparation.” He bustled off and returned with a precarious stack of heavy tomes. “Do treat them with care. Some are Ministry-approved editions.”

Harry thanked him and carried the books back to Ron’s room. The mattress sagged beneath their weight.

Ron’s jaw dropped. “You’re not serious. You actually want to read?”

Hermione’s eyes lit up as she skimmed the titles. “Harry, these are N.E.W.T. level! Seventh year material!”

Harry only shrugged. He didn’t explain himself. He couldn’t. Both of them watched him, Ron in bafflement and Hermione with dawning curiosity.

At first, Hermione was delighted to help. She organized their time, dividing chapters between them. But after several days of Harry’s relentless focus—hours spent poring over counter-curses, trying shield spells, memorizing hexes—her delight wavered. She frowned more often, chewing her lip as she watched him.

One afternoon, she broke. “Harry… don’t you think you’re pushing too hard? Maybe start with fifth or sixth year before jumping to this? It’s a lot.”

Harry forced a grin, though it felt heavy. “Between your brains and me being ‘the Chosen One,’ I think we’ll manage. Maybe we could even teach the classes ourselves.”

Hermione laughed, covering her mouth, but Ron only frowned. His ears flushed pink, and Harry silently cursed himself. He knew Ron’s jealousy well enough. He made a mental note to tread more carefully.

As the two of them bent over a text on protective enchantments, Harry studied them quietly. There was a closeness between them now, subtle but present. He wondered if they had already begun to feel what he suspected might grow between them. He had been blind to it before. Now, with borrowed time, he noticed every glance, every softened tone.

The fragile peace didn’t last long. The Quidditch World Cup loomed, and with it came new chaos.

The morning of their departure was a storm of clattering trunks and raised voices. Arthur bustled about, checking pockets and pockets of his robes for tickets. Fred and George slipped Extendable Ears into their bags when they thought no one was looking. Ginny rolled her eyes at the madness, caught Harry’s gaze, and made a face that sent him into quiet laughter. He felt a surge of affection toward her—protective, warm, but brotherly. He reminded himself it was the difference in his heart, in his years lived.

When they reached the Portkey rendezvous, mist hung low over the field. Cedric and his father were waiting. Amos greeted Arthur warmly, while Cedric stood tall and smiling, all easy charm and quiet strength.

Harry’s chest constricted. Cedric, alive. His smile too bright, his future still unwritten. Harry forced himself to greet him casually, though his throat felt tight. He prayed no one noticed the trembling in his hands.

The Portkey spun them away, and they landed amid the sprawling chaos of the World Cup campgrounds. The place buzzed with energy—thousands of tents scattered across hills, their chimneys puffing colored smoke. Banners waved. Families from every corner of the wizarding world strolled in dazzling robes, their languages mixing into a strange music.

And then Harry saw him.

The Muggle man, carrying wood for his fire. Ordinary, middle-aged, face unremarkable—but Harry knew. He knew what the Death Eaters had planned for him and his family. His stomach clenched.

Before he could stop himself, Harry slipped away.

The Weasleys were distracted, arguing about where to pitch the tent. Hermione was marveling at a kettle that sang lullabies. Harry walked fast, heart hammering, until he reached the edge of the wards, where a modest cottage leaned into the hedge.

He waited, then knocked.

The door opened to a woman, her face lined with kindness and surprise. “Oh! Hello?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Harry stammered, putting panic into his voice. “I got lost. Could I... use your phone? Just for a minute?”

Concern filled her expression. She ushered him inside without hesitation. The cottage smelled of tea and bread. A young girl sat barefoot on the rug, playing with a set of battered dolls. She looked up curiously at him.

Harry’s throat closed. He could not let them die.

He straightened. “Imperio.”

The word slipped from his mouth in a calm, commanding tone, no wand raised. Power thrummed through his voice. The father stiffened, then relaxed. The mother blinked, confusion clouding her eyes. Even the girl tilted her head, dolls forgotten.

“You need to leave,” Harry said softly. “Now. You just remembered something urgent—something that takes you away for two days. Pack quickly. You’ll be safe if you go.”

They nodded slowly, like sleepwalkers, their expressions glazed. The weight of guilt pressed on Harry’s chest, but he forced himself to hold steady. Better confused and alive than dead tonight.

When he slipped back into the chaos of the camp, his breath was shallow, his skin damp.

Inside the Weasleys’ tent, he was met with instant uproar.

“Where were you?” Arthur demanded, relief and frustration warring on his face. Bill and Charlie, who had arrived earlier, eyed him curiously. The twins smirked.

Harry opened his mouth, fumbling for an excuse, but Fred cut in with a grin. “Bet he saw one of the Veela already. Can’t blame him. Got lost staring, didn’t you, Harry?”

The tent erupted in laughter. Harry laughed too, thin and forced, and let the excuse stand. Everyone seemed satisfied—except Hermione, who watched him closely, suspicion narrowing her eyes.

Arthur clapped him on the back. “Good you’re in one piece. Molly was going to kill me.”

The tension eased, and the rest of the day was spent exploring. Harry followed Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins through winding rows of tents, each one stranger than the last. Carpets floated like hammocks in front of doorways, lanterns shimmered in impossible colors, banners displayed symbols from nations Harry had never even read about. Wizards from across the globe mingled, their voices and fashions painting a living tapestry of magic.

It was dazzling, overwhelming. Yet Harry’s thoughts returned, again and again, to the cottage at the edge of the wards. He hoped desperately that the family had already left, that they were safe on some distant road, unaware of the horror they had narrowly escaped.

As the sky deepened into shades of rose and violet, they returned to their tent. Arthur gathered them all and led them toward the stadium.

The path was crowded, a river of excited witches and wizards, when the Malfoys appeared. Lucius swept forward, cane glinting, Narcissa elegant and cold, Draco sneering as though the dust itself offended him.

“Well, Arthur,” Lucius drawled, his pale eyes gleaming, “how ever did you afford so many tickets? Charity from the Ministry, no doubt.”

Ron’s fists clenched. Ginny bristled.

Harry looked at Draco. Beneath the sneer, he saw only a boy. Misguided, poisoned, but still a boy. No one was born cruel.

Lucius smirked, lifting his chin. “Really, one wonders how you manage to parade this crowd through public without embarrassment.”

Harry stepped forward before Arthur could respond. “Strange,” he said evenly. “With all your money, you’d think you could buy some manners. Guess they don’t sell those.”

Fred and George howled with laughter. Draco flushed scarlet. Lucius’s expression iced over, but Arthur quickly pressed a hand to Harry’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Arthur urged, voice tight. “We don’t want to miss the start.”

They filed into the massive stadium, climbing higher and higher until the whole world seemed to open before them. The roar of the crowd shook the air, banners whipped in the wind, and the pitch glowed beneath enchanted lights.

Harry sank into his seat between Ron and Hermione. All around him, the Weasleys leaned forward, faces alight with excitement. He forced himself to smile. Inside, his fists tightened in his lap, and he whispered a silent hope—that the family he had touched with forbidden magic was already far, far from here.

The match was about to begin.

Chapter Text

The camp still burned with celebration.

Songs echoed through the clear night. Fireworks lit the sky, their sparks falling like enchanted rain before vanishing into the darkness. Wizards staggered between tents with bottles in their hands, faces flushed from drink and victory. Children waved glowing shamrocks in the air, chasing each other with delighted shrieks, the echoes carrying over the fields. The smell of roasted meat, spilled butterbeer, and woodsmoke mingled in the air, wrapping everything in the warmth of festivity.

It should have been perfect. It had been perfect once.

But not for Harry.

Every cheer, every burst of song, felt distant, muffled, like noise from another world. His wand rested against his palm, and every few moments his fingers tightened around it, reassuring himself it was still there. He could not lose it tonight. Not again.

No one else noticed his unease. Ron was practically shouting himself hoarse, insisting that Krum’s last dive had been flawless, while the twins jeered and rattled off statistics that contradicted him. Ginny was clapping along with Hermione, who looked flushed but happy as she held a steaming cup of cocoa Fred had conjured. Arthur’s round face glowed with fatherly pride, and even Percy—pompous Percy—seemed lighter, laughing stiffly with Bill and Charlie. The Weasleys were a picture of noisy, chaotic joy, whole and together.

And Harry sat apart, his chest heavy with dread.

He had done it. Earlier that evening, when no one was looking, he had nudged the Muggle family away. The Imperius Curse had slid from his lips like poison, cold and bitter, and he had guided their dazed steps into the night. The memory clung to him like ash. It had left a bitter taste in his mouth, an echo of wrongness that no relief could quite smother. But he had convinced himself it was necessary. He had saved them.

So why did he feel sick? The thought would not leave him: fate was not so easily fooled.

Harry forced his eyes on the fireworks. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the night would pass differently this time.

But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t.

—

The scream tore through the camp like a knife.

Instantly Harry was standing, wand clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched. His heart plummeted even before the first shouts of alarm, before the rushing thunder of footsteps and panicked cries. Smoke rose where tents had been set aflame, and shadows flickered in the chaos. Figures in masks and cloaks strode into the clearing, wands raised.

Death Eaters.

Harry’s breath caught. They were here, right on time, exactly as he remembered—only not exactly.

Above the crowd, suspended by cruel enchantments, floated a family of three. The mother screamed hoarsely, her arms flailing as she tried to shield the child, a little boy, who was sobbing so hard it was difficult to breathe just watching him. The father shouted, twisted helplessly in midair, while the masked figures below laughed and sent them spinning faster, higher.

Harry’s stomach heaved. This was not the family he had saved.

His fault. His curse. His choice.

He staggered forward a step before Hermione’s hand clamped on his arm.
“Harry! We have to go!”

Arthur Weasley’s voice rose above the din: “Into the forest, quick! Bill, Charlie, Percy—stay with me!”

Fred grabbed Ginny’s wrist, George shoved Ron ahead, and together they plunged into the trees, Harry last of all. His head twisted over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the little boy still screaming in the air. That shouldn’t have happened. That was his fault. Even if the first family had escaped, even if he had saved them, the cost had only shifted.

Around them the camp dissolved into bedlam. Wizards tripped over their own tents, struggling to grab children, to snatch belongings, to flee. The air stank of burning canvas and gunpowder from the fireworks still exploding overhead. A witch stumbled past Harry, dragging her crying daughter by the hand, while a man shouted for someone who never answered. Spells flashed like lightning, red and gold against the smoke, and every cry only pushed the terror deeper.

The forest swallowed them at last. Branches cracked under hurried steps, voices echoed in confusion, and the glow of the fires threw shifting shadows on every trunk. They slowed only when the noise of pursuit faded and the trees pressed thick around them. Harry’s pulse pounded in his ears, louder than the leaves crunching beneath their feet.

And then—

“Well, if it isn’t the Gryffindor golden trio… plus a few spares.”

Draco Malfoy leaned against a tree, pale face faintly illuminated by distant light. His arms were crossed, posture smug, but Harry caught something else—something taut in the way he held himself, as though every second here was borrowed time.

Ron groaned. “Oh, brilliant. Just what we needed.”

Draco smirked. “You’re running away already? Didn’t even stop to cheer your little Muggle friends?”

Hermione stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

Draco tilted his head. “The family up there. Mudbloods, the lot of them. Everyone knows it. Guess not everyone managed to escape tonight.”

Harry froze. The words were knives.

“How do you know they’re Muggleborns?” Hermione demanded. Her voice trembled with fury. “How?”

Draco’s smirk deepened. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Your father told you, didn’t he? Your Death Eater father,” Hermione spat.

Draco’s eyes flashed. “Shut your stupid mouth, Granger, you filthy—”

Ron barked, “Say it and I’ll hex your teeth right out of your head!” He stepped forward, red-faced, his wand already out.

But Harry moved faster.

“Enough, Malfoy!” His voice thundered through the trees, raw and furious. He stepped forward, wand raised, every muscle tight with rage. “If you ever speak about them like that again—if you so much as look at my friends again—you’ll regret it.”

The force of it shocked even Ron, who gaped at him, while Hermione’s lips parted in alarm.

For a moment, Draco’s expression slipped. His eyes flickered to Harry’s wand, to the unshaking fury behind it. Then, quickly, he masked it with disdain.

“Tsk. Touchy, Potter.” He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He vanished into the trees, far faster than his casual words suggested.

The silence he left behind pressed heavily. Harry’s chest heaved, his grip on his wand unrelenting. He would not—could not—lose it. He had sworn.

Ron found his voice first. “Blimey, Harry… you nearly hexed him into next week.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. She didn’t ask the questions burning in her expression, but Harry felt them anyway, heavy as stones.

He turned away. “We should keep moving.”

The air thickened suddenly, unnatural and cold. And then it came: a surge of emerald light that painted the treetops in sickly green.

High above the camp, a skull spread across the sky, vast and hollow-eyed. From its mouth slid a serpent, writhing endlessly.

The Dark Mark.

The forest erupted with screams. Wizards and witches fled blindly, crashing through the undergrowth, while others pointed wands skyward in terror. Somewhere to their left, a man cried out, “He’s back! He’s come back!” before being dragged away by panicked companions. Children wailed, clutching their parents, as if the mark itself could strike them dead at any second.

Harry’s insides clenched. He had known it was coming, but still it shook him, that mark of pure terror branded against the stars. A mark that had once signaled war, torture, murder. A mark he had seen over and over again in another life.

Aurors stormed through the trees, firing Stunners without hesitation at anything that moved. Branches splintered as spells lit the night, voices shouted in confusion. Harry pressed himself behind a trunk, keeping Ron and Hermione close, his wand steady in his grip. He would not let it fall. Not this time.

He watched the glowing skull above, guilt gnawing at him. The family he had tried to save was gone, safe somewhere far away, but another family had paid the price instead. His stomach twisted. He had thought he could outmaneuver fate, rewrite a page in the story. But the story had written itself anew.

Ron muttered, “What the bloody hell is that thing?”

Hermione’s voice shook. “It’s Voldemort’s mark. From the war. It means… it means they were here.”

Harry’s eyes did not leave the sky. The green light burned overhead, searing itself into his memory all over again. The past he thought he knew had already started to unravel, twisting into something darker, sharper, more unpredictable.

And everything was more dangerous now.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the Quidditch World Cup blurred together in a haze of unease. The Burrow, usually a place of warmth and noisy comfort, carried a weight that did not quite lift even with the smell of Molly’s cooking or the chatter of gnomes in the garden. Shadows clung stubbornly to the corners of the crooked house, not visible but felt—like a draft that whispered beneath the doors.

Harry found himself caught between the chaos of the Weasley household and the silence of his own thoughts. He replayed the images of that night again and again: the mob of masked wizards marching through the camp, the terrified screams of the Muggleborn family suspended helplessly in the air, and above it all, the blazing skull with a serpent tongue—the Dark Mark. It seemed to burn still, etched into the night sky of his memory.

The wizarding world had not taken the event lightly. By the next morning, news had spread everywhere. Whispers swelled into headlines. Names were dragged into the spotlight, and none more loudly than Bartemius Crouch.

“Under investigation,” Mr. Weasley had muttered grimly over the Daily Prophet one morning, his lips pressed tight. “His wand was the one that cast the Mark.”

The paper had spilled the rest. Crouch had insisted it was his house-elf, Winky, who had stolen his wand and conjured the Mark. Witnesses had claimed they saw the elf returning the wand to her master after the chaos, though whether by her own will or another’s remained in doubt. Some said she had acted under Crouch’s orders. Others swore the man had no part in it. The Ministry had not charged him—yet—but Crouch had responded with brutal decisiveness: Winky was dismissed on the spot.

The dismissal itself had sparked outrage. Hermione had gone nearly red in the face describing it, her voice trembling with indignation.

“She was loyal to him her whole life, and he throws her aside because it’s convenient!” she’d exclaimed. “She didn’t even get a chance to defend herself. It’s disgraceful!”

Percy, on the other hand, had leapt to Crouch’s defense.

“Mr. Crouch is one of the finest men in the Ministry,” Percy had declared, chin lifted proudly as if the man’s honor were his own. “Strict, yes, but fair. He has given his entire life to maintaining order after the war. To suggest he would consort with Death Eaters is ridiculous.”

The argument had sparked a storm in the Burrow’s kitchen.

“Ridiculous, is it?” Arthur’s calm voice had hardened into steel. “You think it’s ridiculous when his own son was a Death Eater? When that boy died in Azkaban?”

“That doesn’t mean—” Percy had flushed scarlet. “You can’t judge a man by the mistakes of his family!”

“I’m judging him by the way he treated that elf, Percy!” Arthur had snapped, the heat in his voice startling Harry.

The argument went on, building day by day until the house itself seemed to tremble with the tension. Molly had tried to soften it, but the strain only grew. Percy sat stiff-backed at meals, refusing to yield. Arthur grew quiet and bitter afterward, staring into his tea.

Harry hated every second of it.

He could not stop seeing the Muggleborn family, dangling above the camp like broken dolls. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He had saved one family of Muggles, pulled them out of danger—and in doing so, another family had taken their place.

It was a choice he hadn’t even realized he was making. A life exchanged for another, as though fate demanded balance. The thought twisted his stomach. What if that was how it always worked? He wasn’t sure of anything. He wanted to believe he could save the people who mattered most—Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys—but doubt whispered otherwise. What if saving Fred meant dooming George? What if every choice he made unbalanced the scales, condemning one life to preserve another?

He tried to push it aside, but the fear stayed.

---

It was late afternoon when Harry’s reflections finally loosened their grip. The air smelled faintly of grass and woodsmoke. He sat on the worn garden bench, staring at nothing in particular. Hermione joined him, her presence quiet at first, a soft shuffle of shoes across the grass.

Ron was inside, helping his mother with something or other. That left the two of them alone, the Burrow’s wild garden buzzing with bees and fluttering with butterflies.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked gently, lowering herself onto the bench beside him.

Harry blinked, dragged from his thoughts. For a moment he said nothing. His eyes caught on a butterfly drifting lazily above Hermione’s head, its wings bright orange against the late sun. It hovered there, absurdly delicate, catching in her hair like a living ornament. She tilted her head slightly, oblivious, and Harry thought she had never looked more beautiful.

His throat went dry.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, forcing his gaze away. “Just… tired.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced. She leaned a little closer, her shoulder brushing his sleeve. “You’ve seemed different, Harry. I’m worried about you.”

“Different how?” he asked, though part of him dreaded the answer.

She hesitated, color rising in her cheeks. “You look… healthier, actually. Better, somehow. But you’re also… tense. Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen every second. Even your reaction to Malfoy in the woods—it startled me.”

Harry looked away, jaw tightening. She was right, of course. She always was.

For a fleeting moment, he thought of telling her everything—the truth about time, about the war that hadn’t yet happened, about the deaths he carried on his conscience. Hermione was the only one he believed would understand. The only one who might believe him. But the thought of dragging her into the shadow of that war again made his chest ache with guilt.

“I just…” He searched for words that weren’t lies. “After everything last year—with Sirius, with Pettigrew—I realized I don’t really know who to trust anymore. Not even the adults. Maybe especially not them.”

Hermione blinked at him, startled. “Harry, what do you mean?”

He turned back to her, eyes shadowed. “Did you know Sirius never even had a trial before they threw him into Azkaban? And Dumbledore—he was practically running the Wizengamot at the time. How could he not notice? How could he let that happen?”

Her breath caught. She hadn’t considered that. “But—why would Dumbledore ever want Sirius imprisoned if he was innocent? What reason could he possibly have?”

Harry’s hands tightened into fists in his lap. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Because all this time, he’s been my legal guardian. My representative. He has complete access to my vault at Gringotts. He can make decisions for me. It should’ve been Sirius’s right, if he’d been free. But Dumbledore never told me. Never asked. Just kept it quiet.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Harry… how do you even know that?”

“Because the goblins told me,” he muttered. “When I tried to withdraw money. I had to get emancipated just to use some of what my parents left me.”

Hermione stared at him, struggling to form words. She looked very small in that moment, uncertain. “I don’t understand… why would he—why keep that a secret?”

Harry looked at her then, at the confusion and worry in her face, and realized he’d said too much. Too soon. He wasn’t sure she was ready to hear it all—not yet.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice softer now, almost sad, “you never really know a person. Not completely.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, though they sat close enough that their sleeves brushed with every small movement. A breeze rustled the tall grass, carrying with it the faint clucking of chickens. The butterfly was gone, but Harry could still picture it, caught in Hermione’s hair.

He wasn’t sure he wanted the image to fade.

---

The next morning dawned in chaos, as every morning at the Burrow did when September loomed.

Hermione darted after Crookshanks, who stubbornly refused to be shoved into his carrier. Ron swore loudly as Pigwidgeon—the tiny owl Sirius had given him—perched high on a kitchen shelf, hooting with manic delight as he dodged capture. Molly’s voice thundered through the house, scolding Fred and George for managing to dirty their uniforms before even wearing them.

Amid the storm of shouts and footsteps, Harry slipped upstairs toward Ron’s room, trying to escape the din. On the landing, he nearly collided with Ginny.

“Careful,” she said, grinning. “Or you’ll get trampled by the stampede. Trying to escape my family already?”

Harry gave a weak laugh. “Something like that.”

For a second, the air between them hung strangely charged. Ginny’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and Harry felt an odd tug in his chest—familiar, but not. He still couldn’t quite reconcile this Ginny with the girl he knew she would one day become.

She brushed past him with an easy smile, disappearing down the stairs. Harry lingered, unsettled.

Should I start things with her earlier? The thought came unbidden, and almost as quickly he shoved it away. No. Too many things had already shifted. He couldn’t risk altering more.

Still, another doubt gnawed quietly. Without the Horcrux tethered to his soul, was he already changing in ways he didn’t understand?

“Time to go!” Arthur’s voice carried up the stairwell. Molly echoed him with another order to hurry.

The Burrow erupted into one last storm of scrambling feet and shouted instructions. And then, just like that, it was time to leave.