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Chapter Text

For the first time since Harry could remember, those first few days of summer holiday were the best he’d seen. After the Dursleys discovered that Harry’s godfather was the wanted mass murderer, Sirius Black, they didn’t have the nerve to even speak to him wrong. After all, what could the madman do, if he was just around the corner at every step? 

And there was the issue of Harry’s father, sending a letter with DCFS to their door. The Child Services lady was very nice, shook Harry’s hand and asked him about his dad, and if he’d rather live here or there. There, absolutely, was his answer, and she left with a smile. 

Harry got a letter from Hermione telling him she’d gotten started on the homework and her parents would love to visit if given a date and time. 

Ron sent a letter telling him his mother’s been acting all odd, talking up a storm about that dinner she’d promised him. 

Harry had been ready since the day he’d gotten back. He hadn’t unpacked his school trunk, he’d just gathered the meager things he’d hidden away in his bedroom and waited. Very eagerly, he waited. 

And ten days into summer, there was a ringing of the doorbell.

Harry had his things at the top of the stairs in an instant, listening with bated breath for Petunia to get to the door. She opened it… and gave a short cry of alarm. Harry’s heart lept. 

“Hello…” he heard very faintly, and felt joy sweep through him like the world’s best patronus had just been cast.

“Wh— what— who—?”

“Terribly rude to keep a guest out on the front step, don’t you think?”

“Petunia?” Vernon barked out. “Who is it?”

“I— I don’t—?”

“Best let me in, Petunia, before the whole street hears.”

Harry heard someone shuffling, and then the door shut. For half a second, he almost thought—

“Who the ruddy hell are you?” Vernon snapped, finally tramping out of the sitting room to see. 

“Hello Vernon, my name is Remus Lupin. I am here to collect my son.”

Harry left his things on the stairs and ran. Feet pounding mercilessly on the stairs, he lept to the ground floor from five steps up, making Dudley cry out in shock as Harry landed between him and the door. Without missing a beat, Harry had flung the hallway door open and stood beaming at his father. 

His face scarred and weathered as ever, Remus Lupin looked much better off, to Harry’s delight. There were only very light bags under his eyes, and he stood tall with the confidence only an alpha on a mission could achieve. Harry’s voice echoed down the hall, making all three adults turn to face him.

“Dad!”

He barreled into his father’s chest, nearly knocking him back into the door with the force of it. Remus just laughed, pulling Harry into a tight hug while the Dursleys watched in horrified shock. 

“Told you it wouldn’t take too long,” he mumbled. 

Harry purred, clinging tight to his father’s shirt, and didn’t let up even when Lupin turned an expectant face up toward them. 

“I’m sure you met with Ms Tremane, the very kind lady who works in Child Services—”

“This is a fucking joke,” Vernon snarled, suddenly puffing up with his alpha rage so near the surface. “Who the hell do you think you are—?”

“Oh I must have forgotten to mention,” Remus cut in with a pleasant smile, reaching into a pocket. 

Pulling from it a muggle flip-phone, he held it up for them to see. 

“Do you know what this is?”

“What?” Vernon sputtered, taken aback. 

“Of course we know what that is,” Petunia snapped. 

“Then you know this is all I need to contact my good dear friend, Harry’s Godfather,” Remus said happily. “I’m sure you’ve heard the name Sirius Black-”

There was a yelp from out in the hall as Dudley jerked back and hit the stairs, scrambling up them only to trip over Harry’s trunk at the landing. 

“All I need to do,” Remus shrugged, thumbing the phone open. “Is press this button right here—”

“Alright alright!” Vernon barked, red in the face. “What do you want?!”

“I want my son,” Remus told him, suddenly cold and cutting with his words, though Harry didn’t feel the chill of them. “And I’ll be taking him now, if you please.”

The phrase wasn’t given as a request. Or even a question in the slightest. To Harry, it sounded like a warning, and he grinned from ear to ear. 

“T-take— take him—” Petunia gasped, eyes wide under the assault of alpha pheromones, both from Remus and her own husband. “Take him—”

“Thank you,” Remus nodded, and nudged Harry toward the hall. “Go get your things, Harry. You’ll like home, I think, plenty of space to practice for Quidditch- and get some spellwork done, I’d expect.”

Remus pretended as if the Dursleys didn’t exist from that point forward, which made it all the more hilarious as Vernon’s face paled at the mention of magic, looking mottled with reds all the way down to his many chins.

Harry bolted for the stairs, Remus taking them one at a time, chuckling at his son’s excitement. Harry hesitated in grabbing for Hedwig’s cage, though, and she gave him a sullen hoot, as if to plead for her freedom. Remus paused at the landing, and took the cage from Harry’s hand. 

“Point me to a window, Harry?” Remus mused. 

Without hesitation, Harry led him back to his bedroom, stripped of any of his belongings now, and flung the window open. 

“You know the way home, don’t you clever girl?” Remus mumbled to Hedwig, who was fluffing out her wings at the sight and scent of fresh air. “To the Den. We’ll be along in a just a moment.”

Out the window she went, large, graceful white wings vanishing into the clouds overhead. 

“Now,” Remus smirked, taking his wand out of his robes. “Let’s send this home, shall we?”

Watching from a crack in the door, Dudley Dursley’s jaw dropped open to see Remus tap once at Harry’s trunk, and the whole thing vanish with a faint pop! Once more at the birdcage and broomstick, and both also vanished, much to Harry’s delight. 

“I think we’ll take our leave from the sitting room,” Remus decided. 

Harry followed him eagerly down the stairs, where Vernon and Petunia where hissing a frantic discussion at one another. Once the door opened, however, they went entirely silent, and stared at Remus with horror etched into every line of their faces. Harry took his father’s arm once it was provided, and Remus gave them a pleasantly civil smile as he turned back.

“Don’t forget,” he told them in a stern, brisk tone. “I know where you live, and how to find you should you move. I also keep on me my cell phone at all times, just in case I need to contact that good dear friend of mine. Let’s part ways as if we never knew one another, shall we?”

The Dursleys stared at him, speechless, and Remus looked down at Harry with a smile and a much softer voice. 

“This may feel a bit odd, but hold on tight and don’t let go, alright?”

“Right,” Harry nodded.

“Any parting words?”

Harry grinned wickedly, turning to glare at Vernon. 

“Bibbity Bobbity Boo!”

Remus barked out a laugh, twisted on his heel, and they vanished. 

It felt as if Harry might lose his grip, and so he tightened his hand on his father’s arm. The next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very hard from all directions, he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest, his eyeballs were being forced back into his head, his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then— 

He gulped great lungfuls of fresh air and opened his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. Blinking furiously to get his bearings again, Harry looked around and found himself in the middle of a lonely forest road, flanked on either side by tall hedges and looming trees. The sunlight danced merrily through the canopy high overhead, and he could hear birds chirping all around. 

“Sorry about that,” Remus told him gently. “I know it’s not a very comfortable mode of travel.”

“Where are we?” Harry gasped, still clinging tightly to his father’s sleeve. 

“Home,” Remus chuckled, taking his hand to turn him around. “Just through the hedge there, son.”

Facing the other direction now, Harry could see the part in the wall of shrubbery, the well kept dirt road vanishing into the space beyond. 

With an eager glance up at his father, Harry dashed toward it, peeking into a wide clearing. As well as hosting several of the tall, impressive trees that made up the forest ceiling, this cheerful little space was home to a beautiful cabin, smaller than most, but large enough to claim two stories. There was a chimney on one wall, currently void of smoke, but Harry could almost see it puffing away amidst a winter snowfall, the windows lit from within, the scents of hot cocoa and gingerbread coasting through the clearing. To their left sat a garden, not walled in like the Weasley’s, but proudly boasting a myriad of it’s own crop. 

Hardly breathing, Harry tentatively moved down the path toward the door, almost certain it would vanish and he would wake up from a dream. Nothing at all shifted, save for the topmost branches in a high breeze that he couldn’t feel, protected in the glade. Making his way to the quaint front door, wooden with a simple brass knob, he nudged it open expecting this to be the second that his dream turned to nightmare. 

Remus stood at his back as Harry stepped into the warm, barely decorated sitting room. 

There was a lonely sofa, facing a tall, floo appropriate fireplace. An old, cozy looking armchair sat with it’s back to the front window, which had verdant green curtains pulled open to let light in. The kitchen table was small, only hosting four chairs, but it filled the dining room space beside the kitchen, which was small, almost cramped. A spiral staircase led up to the second story, and just under that was a door, perhaps a bathroom. 

There were boxes set against the walls, likely any other possessions that would soon fill the empty spaces of the home.

“It’s not much,” Remus admitted, closing the door behind himself. “But it’s home.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry breathed, near tears. 

“Bedrooms are upstairs, yours is the first on the right. Looks out onto the back garden.”

Harry eagerly took the stairs two at a time, much to his father’s amusement. The upstairs was given even less attention, though it hardly mattered. Harry threw open the first door on the right, giddy to find his trunk and broomstick already there. 

It was smaller than the room he’d left, but it fit so perfectly. The bed was already made with what looked like thick woolen blankets. It had at least five pillows- much to his delight; he’d been getting the urge to start nesting, which was odd enough on its own without having to hide it from everyone living under the same roof. There was a dresser, a mirror set into the back of the door, and a desk, already set under the open, unbarred window with two inkwells and what looked like an eagle feather quill. 

Remus put a hand to Harry’s shoulder, taking a breath to say something, and was cut off when Harry turned and buried his face in his father’s chest, shaking with the overwhelming joy. 

“Welcome home, son,” Remus sighed, running a hand through Harry’s unkept hair. 

Harry couldn’t speak, so full to burst with his emotions that all he could do was weep and purr, a sodden, shaky sound that had his father purring back at him. 

Remus nudged and poked and prodded until he coaxed Harry over to the bed, where they sat and held one another for a long time. Long enough that the shadows on the floor moved at least a foot. And still, they sat, holding each other in perfect, pleasant silence for another few minutes more. 

“Let’s get you settled in,” Remus offered, pressing a firm kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “I’ve put a few things in the dresser for you; a little birdy told me you’d need clothes that fit.”

And he had indeed filled most of Harry’s drawers with new clothes- well, clothes that were new to Harry. They were most certainly not brand new, but they were clean and they fit properly and they smelled faintly like rosemary and chocolate. 

Harry immediately pulled off the tent of a shirt he had on and put on one of the soft grey-green ones from the second drawer, hugging himself with the simple delight of having something fit properly on him for once. 

“If there’s no objection,” Remus said dryly, poking at the rag with his toe. “I’ll just take this out and burn them.”

“Can I do it?” Harry asked eagerly, and Remus chuckled. 

“Once you’ve gotten unpacked and settled in, we can take them to the garden shed. After that, though, it’ll be about near suppertime. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

“What?” Harry frowned, only seconds before he remembered. “Oh! Right!”

“Do you want help unpacking?” Remus offered, only slightly hesitant. “Or if you’d prefer to do it alone, I’d understand…”

“No, don’t— no…” Harry fumbled, struck with the idea that no he wanted his father right here where Harry could see him. “Stay, please. Missed you.”

“Oh I’ve missed you, Harry,” Remus said softly, his eyes so gentle as he smiled. “More than you know.”

And so, with an extra set of hands, the work was done fairly quickly. Remus took the old lumps of Dudley’s hand-me-downs out the back door in a wicker basket, Harry following at his heels. 

Just out the back door, there was a very functional little stone path that led around to the side of the house where the garden stretched almost to the back hedge. Just past the perimeter of the garden, however, there was another split in the hedge itself. 

Curiously, Harry slipped out of the well kept grass and into the wilder woods, stepping off of lawn and onto mossy earth. There was a footpath, tamped into the ground by years of travel- or magic, how could he know- that lead down an incline to the base of the hill. Staring all around, he almost missed the heavy oak doors that were set into the side of the hill at the end of the trail. 

As well as the thick chain that hung from either handle. 

“Harry?” came his father’s voice from the top of the hill. 

“Yeah,” Harry called back, staring sadly at the doors, for it took him all of two seconds to realize what they were for. 

The chain was not locked— wouldn’t need to be until the moon filled out. With reluctant, and at the same time determined, hands, he pulled the chain free and heaved on one of the doors. It came open with a little persuasion and leverage, but stopped as soon as he got it upright. Harry stared down into darkness and wondered if he would ever be able to help at all. To bear parts of this burden so his father didn’t have to. 

His mother had done it, after all. With Sirius. And they were about his age, too— he could, if he tried. 

“Come on, son,” Remus said lowly from the top of the hill. His eyes weren’t focused on the doors, but pointedly at Harry’s face. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Molly will come knocking if we don’t make it on time.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, and the door fell shut with a resonant bang.

Back in the house, wearing fitting clothing, Harry was starting to worry that something was bound to go wrong at the perfectly wrong moment. 

There was a merry little fire in the fireplace, he was warm and comfortable, he felt safe— truly safe— for the first time in his life, and it unnerved him. Someone was pleased to see him out of his room for once, and that was shocking in itself, but Remus then pulled Harry into a hug. Harry decided he enjoyed being hugged, quite a lot, in fact. 

“Are you alright?” Remus mumbled, just as unwilling as Harry was to let go. “It’s safe, Harry. I made sure of it. Arthur lent a hand to be sure it was perfectly safe having you here while… while the moon is full.”

“Wh—?” Harry sputtered. “No— no, I know that. I’m not worried about that, I just… I quite like this. Being here already feels like home.”

Remus chuckled softly, relaxing a bit into the embrace. 

“I’d hoped it would,” he confessed. “I was worried it would be too… well, I don’t know, exactly, but… I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Smells like you,” Harry added with a smile. “I like that very much.”

That made his father outright laugh. 

“Oh that reminds me,” he murmured, still grinning as he stepped away from Harry at last. “We’re going to put the charm back on, just for dinner— or unless you’d like me to take it off sooner. Your scent’s coming in a bit stronger now; won’t be long before your first heat.”

“Oh bugger,” Harry frowned, his good mood dampened by the thought of a heat. 

He’d had a few pseudo heats, but Hermione told him it was much different from a real one. He didn’t like feeling clingy and irritated, emotionally drained. And pseudo heats only lasted two or three days; this would last anywhere from three days to a week! 

He was not eager to experience the ‘joys of nature’.

“Chin up, Harry,” Remus scoffed, reaching for his wand on the table. “I’ve got a few books you can look at, read all about it before it hits. And I’ll do my best to answer any questions you might have. Another time, though, we’re almost late. Look here.”

Harry stood still for the charm, and tried to put the thoughts of his heat out of his head. 

He would be going to see Ron again— so soon into the summer. And he’d get to sit at the Weasley’s dinner table, without worrying that he’d have to go back to the Dursley’s anytime soon. In fact, he’d never go back there again. 

Sufficiently cheered, he followed his father to the fireplace, where Remus tossed in a handful of floo powder, turning the flames a brilliant emerald green. 

“Together, I think,” he said, pouring out a handful of powder into his palm. “Save on powder. Stay close.”

Clinging to his father’s arm, Harry found himself spinning furiously through the green flame, until they both stumbled out into the sitting room of the Burrow. Almost instantly, a chorus of voices began shouting, so loudly nearby that Harry startled. He was just barely upright before a tall, lanky teen barreled into him with a shout. 

“Harry!”

“Ron! Be careful!”

“Hey!” Harry laughed, returning the crushing hug with a swelling heart. 

“Fred and George thought you’d put it off!” Ron cackled, drawing back only to put one arm around his shoulders and drag him toward the kitchen, where the twins were setting the table. “Knew you’d make it— didn’t I say he’d make it!”

“After you whined about him not coming,” Fred scoffed, smirking at George. 

“And bitched at us about it for an hour.”

“George!”

“Snitched! I said snitched, mum!”

“Too right, you did— Harry! So glad to see you, dear!”

“Hi Mrs Weasley,” Harry chuckled, accepting her hug as Ron reluctantly let go of him. “Sorry we’re a bit late.”

“Don’t be sorry, love,” she insisted, patting his head with a bright, rosy smile. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d wanted to put it off a night. Sit down, dear! Tea? Remus?”

“I would love some, thank you, Molly,” Remus nodded, just as Arthur clapped him on the back. 

“Welcome back, sir!” Mr Weasley chuckled. “Glad to see you in high spirits!”

“Ey, how you doing, Professor?” Fred called out teasingly. 

“Mr,” Remus corrected with a smirk. “I am no longer your teacher, thank Circe; you two are sharp as a tack, but a school board’s nightmare.”

“Didn’t do too bad, did we Fred?” George smirked. “Haven’t got our OWLs yet, but—”

“Feel like we did pretty well in yours,” Fred finished. “Harry, you haven’t met Bill or Charlie, have you?”

“No,” Harry shrugged, simply beaming. “They here?”

“They will be,” Ron told him eagerly. “Bill’s got himself a bit of a vacation— and Charlie’s coming up from Romania for work!”

“Percy’s been hired at the ministry!” Arthur announced proudly. “He’s just upstairs, says he’s got a list of entry chores- I didn’t tell him he’s just been given everyone else’s trash jobs.”

“Oh was that you when you started?” Remus scoffed, gratefully taking the teacup he was handed. “Getting hazed on your first day?”

“It’s a rite of passage,” Arthur nodded. “I did it, he’s doing it, and he’ll load some poor idiot in the future with the shit work he doesn’t want when he’s gotten a few years under him— thank you love.”

“Dinner’s just about ready,” Molly told them, setting a cup down for Harry, too. “Ron, go fetch your sister. Boys, little help please?”

And hopping right to it, the Weasley boys were quick to obey. Ron was a little reluctant, but all it took was a glance from his father, and he was grumbling on his way up the stairs. 

It was odd, but Harry felt as if he were being watched. By his own father, by Mr Weasley, by Mrs Weasley and the twins. He felt so at home here, and yet, there was a slight tension all through dinner. They all smiled and laughed and ate like family, Remus included, but Mrs Weasley kept shooting Harry strange glances, eager looks, like she couldn’t wait to get him alone. 

Which is why he wasn’t surprised when she asked him to help her clean up, and Remus pulled Ron out into the garden for a ‘chat’.

“I’m sure you know by now,” Molly told him softly, mindful of the twins in the sitting room with their father. “We wanted to have you over for a bit more than just dinner.”

“I had an idea, yeah,” Harry mused, drying the dishes she handed him. “What’s this about?”

“Well,” she murmured, pausing to glance out the back window, though they could no longer see Remus or Ron. “I wanted to have a chat about your presentation, Harry.”

Harry almost dropped the plate he had, recovering only when he remembered that he’d given Ron permission to tell his parents. 

“Er— right,” he sputtered, turning a bit pink. “What— what about it?”

“Well,” she chuckled, “I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you, and if you have any questions…”

As she spoke, she did something very strange. Taking a bit of warm water onto the corner of her apron, she wiped the sides of her neck clean, as well as the insides of her wrists. For a moment, Harry frowned at her, not sure what she was up to— but then he smelled it. 

Like you… it told him, nagging at the back of his mind. She’s like you.

“Y-you—?!” He stammered, his eyes widening. 

“I am,” She nodded, still smiling softly at him. “Haven’t told the last two, but the twins know now, as do the older boys. I just wanted you to know that you have someone to talk to if you need. Your father knows, so you can talk to him about coming to me if you want to.”

“He’s— you— what?” Harry fumbled, still trying to wrap his mind around it. “You’re a—? And— and—?”

“Do you need to sit down, dear?” she asked, a bit amused as she dried her hands. “Go on, then, sit down before you fall over.”

“I’d— I don’t— I—” Harry sputtered, his mind whirling. 

Molly Weasley— an omega?! But—? Ron said all of his brothers were alpha— except for Charlie, Charlie’s a beta— or is he? Harry had no earthly idea! And his Dad knew? Remus knew—?

“We were never close, Remus and I,” Molly told him, still washing up as he sank heavily into a chair. “I was out of school by the time he was in it— although Arthur was in seventh year still. I got to know your parents a little during the war, and of course, I thought James was with Lily, so I had no idea that Remus was involved at all. I knew about Alice— Longbottom— but if only I had known about James. I just want you to understand that I… well, to be honest, dear, after spotting you on that platform three years ago, I’ve taken to thinking of you as one of mine.”

Harry stared. He couldn’t help feeling as if he had known it all along, but he was still surprised, and a little humbled, to hear her say it. 

“I never do know when to get to the point, do I?” she chuckled, a little dryly. “Remus told us you felt comfortable sharing your presentation with us, and that he thought you might like a woman’s advice. Little did he know, he was getting an omega’s advice as well— the look on his face when I told him…. I’m here. And so long as I live, I will continue to be here for you, Harry.”

“Ron didn’t tell me,” Harry mumbled, confused, though mostly awe-struck. 

“He still doesn’t know,” she scoffed, elbow-deep in suds as she glanced up out the back window. “Arthur and I waited to tell the boys until they turned fifteen; old enough, we thought, to understand how important it was to keep the secret. But here he is, keeping yours, so we thought we’d let him in on it a little early.”

“He doesn’t know?” Harry blinked in his surprise. 

“He will before tomorrow,” she assured him, turning to drying her dishes instead. “Which brings me to my next point; you are very due for a true heat, young man.”

Harry’s face immediately went cherry red, and she tutted at him with a knowing sort of smile on her face. 

“Now, Harry, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. When taken care of properly, heats can be some of the most enjoyable times of your life.”

That didn’t help matters with Harry’s embarrassment. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she mused, as if she didn’t notice the way he shrank into his chair. “But I understand the assumption was that my son would help you through your heat, when it came. Which he can, of course, do, if you feel comfortable with it. If not, there are a few ways you can handle it yourself, although I will warn you that it will not be as comfortable or tolerable as a partnered heat.”

“Wh— I d—” Harry sputtered, wishing suddenly that he was anywhere but here. 

“Well if you don’t want Ron to be your partner I’m sure you could talk to Fred and George,” she offered with a nonchalant shrug, oblivious to the way Harry’s jaw hit the floor. “I will vouch for their chivalry; none of my boys would ever do anything against your wishes or behave selfishly while you were in need. And if they do, well… there’s plenty of room in the garden to plant them until they come to their senses again.”

“I don’t—” Harry started, only to clam up as the door opened and one of the twins poked his head into the kitchen. 

“Wotcher, Harry,” he said with a wink, making Harry go even redder. “Mum, Lupin’s bringing Ron back to the house. All clear?”

“Go on, then,” she nodded, and he slipped out the back door. “If it’s alright with you, Harry, I think we would like to have this conversation together. As grown people.”

Drying her hands, she took up her wand again and summoned to her hand a small, dusty potion bottle that rested on the windowsill. Harry had seen it several times before, but he had never thought to ask… he watched as she dabbed it onto her wrists and sides of her neck, masking her scent as well as any charm could.

The minute Ron came back into the house, he and Harry met in the kitchen, both of them shaken and wide-eyed, though for different reasons. 

“Just want you to know, mate,” Ron mumbled. “I’d kill for you. Wouldn’t let nothing hurt you.”

“Y-yeah—?” Harry sputtered. “I know. You alright?”

“N— wh— yeah!” Ron squeaked, pointedly not looking near Remus. “Yeah, just… Your dad’s got a point, you know? I’m the alpha, it’s— it’s my responsibility to— to keep the pack running alright.”

“He— he said that?!”

“Not in the same words, but…”

“Harry would you come sit with us please?” Mrs Weasley called from the sitting room, her tone cheery and pleasant. “Ronald, you as well.”

“Shit— okay— hey, we’re alright, yeah?” Ron stammered, and Harry nodded. 

“Yeah! Yeah, we’re okay.”

And still, the pair of them were twitchy with nerves as they sat down with their parents and the twins.

“Now,” Mrs Weasley began with a smile. “As I’m sure you are both aware, this is a very important discussion. You are both coming into your teenage years, and with this comes a few changes.”

“Circe’s Mercy, mum,” Fred scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“They don’t need the kiddy version,” George told her. 

“You both know what this is about,” Arthur said gently, giving Harry and Ron a look. “The finer details, you two can discuss on your own time, but this is a very important thing to have to keep to yourselves.”

“We just want you to be aware,” Remus nodded. “You are not alone, even when it feels like it.”

“Never,” George added with a smirk. 

“Ever,” Fred agreed. 

“For the rest of your lives—”

“For the rest of forever!”

“Boys,” Mrs Weasley scolded, “don’t make me regret letting you sit in on this conversation.”

“Well you practically adopted him, mum!” Fred protested. 

“He’ll never be left alone again!” George insisted. 

“What we mean to say,” Arthur sighed. “Is that we are here if you have questions.”

“And if you’re at school,” Remus said, “where you can’t ask us immediately, Madam Pomfrey is the best medi-witch I know who won’t squeal or look at you funny for asking something that feels like you ought to know it already.”

“That woman can certainly keep a secret,” Arthur agreed.

“And of course,” Fred added graciously. “You’ve got us, mate.”

“Anything you need,” George said with a barely contained smile. 

“Even if it’s Ron you need us to vanish—”

“We’ll handle it.”

“Just say the word.”

“Boys!” Mrs Weasley barked, making them burst into giggles. 

Harry knew she was exasperated, but he couldn’t help feeling grateful. The feud over Scabbers the rat had almost torn their little pack apart, and if it happened again… But he trusted the twins. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, still warm in the face and around the ears. 

“Anytime,” George winked. 

“On top of that,” Remus said pointedly, trying to get the conversation back on track. “There are things you’ll need to know before going back to school. Little things that might give you away.”

“Ron,” Mr Weasley warned, making the young alpha sit up with a start. “You’ll be needing to keep an eye out especially.”

“There are things we do, dear,” Mrs Weasley told Harry with a soft sort of voice. “Instincts we have, that… we don’t realize what we’re doing. It will be hard to keep these things to yourself until you can be alone.”

“Things you’ll do, too, Ron,” Remus said sternly, and Ron looked so serious that Harry almost laughed. “Instincts aren’t just for omegas. You might feel like what you’re doing is right, or necessary, but that could just as well give him away like his scent could.”

“Remind yourself how you’d treat a beta packmate,” Mr Weasley offered. “I know it will be difficult, but you can’t be doting on Harry and not Hermione in the same fashion, understand?”

Ron nodded, frowning like he was concentrating on a chess game. Harry leaned over and nudged him with his shoulder, smiling when his friend glanced across at him. 

“Don’t worry about it too much,” he murmured. “‘Mione won’t let us forget it, if I know her at all.”

“Shit yeah, you’re right,” Ron huffed, looking relieved.

“Don’t think you can pawn this off to Hermione,” Remus scolded, and Harry ducked his head in a flinch. 

“That’s not—!”

“You need to take responsibility, too,” Mrs Weasley chided. “Hermione is a very good friend to have, and if she is willing to help you, all the better. But this is not for her to lose sleep over.”

“Oh so we’re supposed to lose sleep over it?” Ron protested.

The twins burst into giggles, quickly cuffed over the back of the head by Mr Weasley.

“This is not her secret to keep,” Remus told them seriously. “Be wise about this, boys.”

Hermione said as much herself when she sent her letter accepting Harry’s invitation for a visit. 

I’m not your mother. I won’t act like it. Speaking of, my mother and father would like to accept your extended invitation as well, Harry. They’ve never been invited to a wizard home before, and I think they’re excited. 

I’m so glad you’re with your father now, Harry. I can’t wait to see you again. I’ll bring my textbooks! We can do our summer work together!

Harry had never been more eager to work before in his life. He worked with his father on the garden, they arranged Harry’s room together, and they brewed potions together. 

“This one is a bit simpler,” Remus told him. “And remember, I was never a genius at this, so forgive any mistakes.”

“What is it going to be?” Harry wanted to know, and Remus gave him a knowing sort of smirk.

“This is for during your heats. It’s a pain relief; one dose a day in the morning should do the trick. Of course, you’ll need to be taking it each day.”

All of this worry and preparation for his heats were starting to make Harry very nervous. Would they really be so bad? He couldn’t even begin to imagine what they might feel like, and he didn’t think he wanted to find out.

Hermione was not of the same persuasion.

“How did your heat go?” she asked as soon as she and him were alone. 

Harry listened down the stairs to where her parents were making nice with Remus, and lowered his voice to a mumble.

“Fine, I suppose… is it always that… intense?”

“No, not at all,” she assured him, and relief hit him like a bus. “The first one is always the worst. How’d you do it? Alone, or…?”

“Ron was with me,” he told her.

“He wasn’t a berk about it, was he?” she winced, and Harry shook his head firmly. 

“No, he was… chivalrous I suppose. It was very strange, especially after, but… it’s Ron.”

“Good,” she grinned. “I’m glad it went so well for you. Mine was horrible, and I couldn’t imagine what being omega would be like. Mum says it’s just genetics; her heats were always pretty bad, too, until she was Mated.”

Harry felt a little foolish after that. 

Hermione seemed to shrug all talk of heats aside, satisfied with Harry’s answers, and turned instead to the homework they had. They finished most of it that evening with Hermione keeping them on track. Dinner was pleasant, and Harry finally met her parents, who were dentists. 

Ron came by after supper and while Harry found it hard to look him in the face for a few minutes, he eventually forgot all about his heat and the tension between the two boys seemed to just vanish. Like magic. 

He only wished his dreams would disappear like that.

Harry found himself standing in Hogwarts, but in a place he can’t remember visiting in quite a while. The chamber that held the Mirror of Erised. He looked into it and saw his parents, Remus and James, but then the dream changed. 

James turned to face Harry, suddenly right there beside him, and in the mirror, Harry saw Voldemort’s face in the back of his head. Looking back up, his mother was gone, and Harry was alone in an empty, dark space, surrounded by horrible, screaming winds. It was like he was mid-flight on his broomstick, only he could feel his feet firmly on the ground. 

The screaming slowly became familiar. 

He was cold— so very cold— and nothing could warm him. The icy feeling of dread went all the way through him to the bone. He wanted to scream, to cry, but his voice wouldn’t work. He knew this feeling. 

Dementors.

They filled the air all around him, their cloaks whipping in the wind. He could hear their horrible sucking inhale now, and dropped to the ground to clap both hands over his ears. His wand was nowhere to be found; he had no chance to fight them off- and then the wind stopped.

The screaming didn’t.

It faded for a second, and Harry almost stood up. Only he found himself far too small to stand up straight. He looked up from the floor and watched as something dark passed by the window. What window?

He sat in the front sitting room (where?) while something shadowy moved outside. Back and forth it moved, always lingering. Someone familiar was with him, singing some soft song. It was a woman. 

Lily.

James was nearby; Harry could hear his voice. He couldn’t see either of them, but he knew they were there. The shadowy figure kept pacing outside the window, and Harry heard the singing stop. 

“You can’t protect him forever.” 

That was Lily, she sounded upset.

“I’m not trying to,” James said bitterly. “Do you think if I knew where he was, I wouldn’t go hex him myself?”

“Give me a reason to believe you, Prewett,” Lily demanded. 

“He had me under the Imperius Curse, Evans!” James shouted back. “I couldn’t have fought him even if I tried— and I fucking tried!”

“Convince me!”

“He told me to keep my mouth shut and he’d let me in on his little scheme— and I broke his bloody tooth! If I didn’t think you and the boy would be in danger I’d be out there now, looking for him!”

“How does that square, Fabian!? He’s your brother! Imagine if Molly knew-”

“She would kill him outright, just as I’d like to!” 

“Then you wouldn’t mind owling her to let her know!”

“Gladly— if it wouldn’t put your life in danger, Evans, for fuck’s sake!”

“My life!? What about Harry!? What about James!?”

“I’m trying to—”

“What was that?”

Harry felt it, too; something bursting like a balloon. All of a sudden, the chill became ice and the howling winds returned. And then the familiar screaming began again.

“Shit— go! Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off—” 

There was a loud bang, and the door was blasted from it’s frame. Harry found himself rising at last, and up the stairs they went. Harry couldn’t help looking back and saw-

A man, lunging for the dark shape at the door. No wand in his hands, he growled, a horrible, alpha’s growl coming from his chest. It was no use. Harry found himself turned as his savior— as Lily turned to look. There was a flash of green and Lily screamed aloud.

When she turned back, Harry saw over her shoulder, a body on the floor and the shadowed figure stepping over him. The man wasn’t familiar. He had red hair and freckles and somehow, Harry thought it might be Ron. 

Lilly ran, bursting through the door and dropping Harry into a cage— a crib. Lunging for her wand on the table nearby, she almost reached it before it was thrown from the table in a flare of light. 

“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please— I’ll do anything—” 

“Stand aside— stand aside, girl—” 

“Harry!”

There was a flash of green light, and Harry sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air under a cold sweat. 

Remus sat beside him, his eyes fearful and concerned, holding Harry’s face in both hands. The lamp was on, giving the room a soft, golden light to see by. There were no shadows in the doorway, no figured pacing outside the window. No bodies on the floor. 

Harry felt his face grow wet and understood very slowly that he was weeping. 

“It’s alright, son,” Remus murmured gently, drying his eyes. “It was only a dream. It’s over now…”

Harry couldn’t speak, but this time it was his choice not to. He was afraid that if he tried to speak he would break down into sobbing. He let his father pull him into his chest and hold him. 

It was only a dream. It was starting to fade away, and for a moment Harry was glad. Until he thought longer on it.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he realised, staring at the darkened doorway. 

“What?” Remus mumbled, though he didn’t relinquish Harry from his embrace. 

“It wasn’t a dream.” Harry was sure of it now; every time he gets too near the dementors, they make him remember that night. 

But that was more than he’d ever heard before. Something was wrong about it.

“What do you mean, Harry?” Remus pleaded, running a hand through his son’s hair. 

“Who’s Fabian Prewett?” Harry asked, trying to recall everything properly. 

“What?” Remus’s tone sank from reassurance to true bafflement, and he finally sat back to look into Harry’s face. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Lily said it,” Harry told him. “He was there, with her…”

“Harry what are you talking about?” Remus demanded, his worry only growing. 

And so Harry explained his dream. Slowly— haltingly as details began to slip through his fingers, but he remembered the argument. He remembered it vividly. 

“I thought he was Ron, at first,” Harry mused, thinking of the man who was not James Potter. “He had red hair.”

“Fabian,” Remus breathed, staring at Harry in horror.

Getting up from the bed, Remus paced the floor, and while it reminded Harry of the man pacing outside the sitting room window, it didn’t feel as sinister. 

“What was he doing there—? If it was— If— if it wasn’t James, then…?”

With a near desperate expression, he turned back to Harry to plead with him. 

“Are you sure? This wasn’t a dream, Harry, this was real—?”

“He growled,” Harry mumbled. “Like an alpha. Mum wasn’t…”

“That can’t be,” Remus huffed, looking frustrated. “If James wasn’t there, then… where was he?”

“Lily said something about Fabian’s brother,” Harry reminded. 

“Gideon,” Remus nodded. “They were twins, they—”

“Twins?” Harry cried, realising why he’d thought Fabian looked so much like Ron. “Hold on— Lily said he ought to tell Molly was was going on— did he mean Mrs Weasley!?”

Remus’s face fell, and he looked to the window. Just over the hill outside the hedge was the valley that housed the Burrow. 

“Circe’s Mercy,” he mumbled. “Who did we bury?”

Chapter Text

The conversation with Mr Weasley was intense. Remus demanded to go directly to Godric’s Hollow, but Arthur told him to wait. Mrs Weasley didn’t know about Fabian yet; all they told her was that James might not have died that night, but she still told Remus to wait. 

“I will personally take Harry for a weekend if you’d like to go with Arthur,” she offered. “He’s just a boy, Remus.”

So Harry stayed with Mrs Weasley for a weekend. Ron was very pleased about it, until Harry told him why. 

“Wh— well where is he then?” Ron asked. “If he wasn’t there that night…? Where’s he been?”

“Dunno,” Harry said miserably. “He’s probably still dead.”

“He might not be,” Ron tried, but Harry gave him a look. 

“Where’s he been all this time?” Harry countered. “If he’s not dead, where’s he at?”

Ron had no answer to that, and Harry waited bitterly for his father to return. 

Here they had hope. Hope that somehow, James Potter hadn’t been killed that night, but all Harry could think was that he couldn’t still be alive. If he had been, why hadn’t he found Harry yet? Why hadn’t he come home? 

And of all of the books he’s read about omegas, he sort of hoped James was dead instead of… anything else. Because if he wasn’t coming home, it was better that he was dead rather than chained to some… monster of an alpha. 

When Remus returned, it was with a grim expression and a tight-lipped sneer. 

“There’s nothing there,” Harry overheard, eavesdropping from the stairs late at night. 

“What do you mean?” Molly asked softly. 

“His grave is empty,” Remus spat. “There’s nothing there.”

“How?” Molly gasped. 

“We don’t know,” Arthur sighed. “But we’ll find out.”

Harry went back upstairs, tip-toeing around the creaky boards to crawl back into bed. He thought he wanted to be angry. He thought he wanted to be upset, or bitter. But all he could do was stare at the wall and cry. 

What happened to James Potter, and why hasn’t he come home?

He’s likely dead. He had to tell himself that before he could sleep. James Potter is likely dead. Which is why he hasn’t come home, and why he hasn’t been found. 

Remus sent a letter the next morning, addressed to Padfoot, signed by Moony and Pup. Harry had insisted that Sirius be informed; this was his best mate, after all. He’d want to know if it was Ron. 

But they didn’t know. No one did. Not a soul could tell what had happened to James Potter, or the Prewett twins. Not that they were telling Molly; Arthur insisted that it would put her in hospital with a broken heart.

“She lost them once,” the man warned, pale over a cuppa long gone cold. “Mourns them every day yet. I can’t watch her break like that again.”

Harry can’t quite blame him. He wishes he could. Wishes he could cling to his anger and frustration like those gnomes in the garden cling to their little holes in the dirt. 

Like those gnomes, though, he found all of his anger plucked and thrown out. Leaving him full of empty holes where they used to be, aching and longing for something he’s never known. 

So instead he clings to his father. 

Remus, who holds him whenever Harry so much as leans into his touch. Remus, who kisses his head and whispers love to him at nearly every minute. Remus, who runs to him in the dead of night and cradles him close and tells him everything will be alright. 

The nightmares were more frequent, now. Horrible dreams of looking into mirrors and seeing dementors. Of looking into his own face and seeing the corpse of his mother, skin pale and glasses askew. Of sitting awake, locked in his room, while his father screams and howls, all alone in that cellar just out the back garden. 

He kept close eye on the moon. And the fuller it got, the less he slept. The more he crawled out of bed to curl up under his father’s arm, physically telling himself they were both alright. 

“You’ll stay over with the Weasleys, Harry,” Remus whispered to him one of these sleepless nights. “Nowhere near. You’ll be safe.”

“I don’t want to,” Harry finally confessed. “I want to be with you. To help you.”

“You don’t,” Remus scolded. “Circe— you sound like your mother; perfectly mad. All that will help me, son, is knowing you are safely away from me then.”

“I won’t sleep,” Harry whined, pressing in close to his father’s chest, hearing his heartbeat. 

“Like you don’t now?” Remus chided him, holding him tight anyway. “I will be perfectly fine, Harry, I promise you. I’m not worried about a single thing, so long as you stay where you’re safe until morning.”

Laying awake that night, as predicted, Harry glared out Ron’s window at the full moon, wishing he could curse the light away. The alpha was snoring softly behind him, and it almost lulled him to sleep there, his chin on his arms, but an owl’s cry startled him awake. A dark shadow moved in the trees, and Harry wondered where his godfather was. 

And suddenly, Harry had a brilliant— dangerously mad— idea.

His father would never approve. Sirius would never approve. 

But maybe, just maybe, James would. 

Molly tended to Remus’s wounds the following morning without much comment. There were fewer than Harry had imagined, and the pair of them fell asleep for a long nap together on the sofa. Harry woke in the early afternoon to a hand carding through his hair, and a low voice humming some odd tune that he didn’t recognize. 

“Are you awake, pup?”

“Mhm,” Harry mumbled, blinking blearily into the sunlit room. 

They were home, just the pair of them, and they were warm. The house was bright with the sun, the woods alive just outside the garden wall. And Remus’s scent was warm and soft and safe again, instead of tainted by blood and shame and sorrow.

“Hedwig’s home,” Remus told him softly. “She’s brought you a letter.”

Harry sighed, not too keen on leaving his father’s arms just yet. 

“Seemed a bit cross with me when I wouldn’t get up,” Remus chuckled, and Harry huffed at him. 

“Alright, alright….”

Hedwig was indeed not pleased, nipping at his finger a bit too hard, holding her leg out with an indignant hoot. 

“Sorry,” Harry pouted, nursing his finger as she hopped her way back to her roost. “Oh pity you’re too good at your job. Go lick a toad.”

“Easy pup,” Remus said with a smile. 

“Oh dad, it’s Sirius,” Harry gasped, recognizing the handwriting on the page. 

Moony, and Pup, 

I cannot tell you in words the horror that’s taken root in my heart. I’m returning to england at once to assist you in any way I can. I cannot rest without knowing what’s happened to him, dead or otherwise. I’m sorry, Moony, if it will disappoint you, but I am coming back regardless of what you feel of it. I may not have mated the man, but I loved him as well as you did. I will see him at peace, however that may be.

Padfoot

“He’s coming back,” Harry murmured, and Remus sighed, taking the letter from him to read it again. 

“Idiot,” he said fondly. “He’ll get himself caught.”

“But what if he knows something, dad?” Harry pleaded. “He wasn’t the secret keeper, but everyone thought he was! And he was Mum’s best mate!”

“I know, Harry,” Remus said softly. “He’ll help more than you can know. But if he’s caught, he’ll be sent back to Azkaban.”

“So he won’t get caught,” Harry said sternly, and Remus nodded. 

“We’ll make sure of it.”

Harry Potter’s birthday came with several surprises. The first of which being that Hermione had been invited, along with her parents, to the Weasley home to celebrate. The second of which being that the Quidditch World Cup was being held in Britain this year. The third of which being that Sirius Black had arrived at the Den, and was waiting for them by the time they returned. 

Harry stepped out of the fireplace, brushing ash off of his knees, and froze in place, staring at the lump up a human figure asleep on their couch. Remus had his wand in hand in seconds, but Harry recognized the shaggy, pale face first. 

“Sirius!”

The man startled awake with a growl, and whuffed when Harry threw himself forward for a hug. 

“Oh, Merlin,” Sirius groaned, blinking up at a grinning Remus over the top of Harry’s head. “Hullo, Pup. Moony.”

“How in hell did you find this place?” Remus demanded, helping him up to his feet for an embrace of his own. “I’ve got it charmed and enchanted enough to have it on a registry.”

“That pretty little owl, actually,” Sirius mumbled, hanging tightly off of the alpha as Remus scent marked him. “I wandered for hours looking for it and she dragged my furry ass in the back gate.”

“Are you fed?” Remus asked, sitting back to take Sirius by the shoulders. “You look tired. How long have you been here?”

He looked into the pale beta’s face, and his expression fell into one of poorly hidden concern. 

“Long enough,” Sirius told him gently. “And yes, I am fed, and watered, and very tired. When I found a newspaper that had the date, I stopped dawdling.”

He turned to Harry, who was practically buzzing with joy. 

“Happy birthday, pup.”

“Where were you?” Harry demanded eagerly. “How did you get back so quickly? Did anyone recognize you?”

“No,” Sirius assured them. “No one did. Anyone who would recognize Padfoot as Sirius Black is either here with us, or hasn’t seen me.”

“This is stupid,” Remus warned. “You realize that, yes? You being back opens every door for anyone looking to shut you away again.”

“No stupider than breaking wizard law to keep our pack together in school,” Sirius countered with a smirk. “C’mon, Moony, you know I’m not going anywhere until we put this to rest.”

“I know that,” Remus sighed, pulling him into another hug. “I— I bloody missed you, you idiot. We’ll have to find a way to tell Arthur without him blowing your cover. He’s been a great help.”

“Weasley?” Sirius frowned, and Harry nodded. 

“Ron’s Dad!”

“That little alpha that postured at a dog?” Sirius chuckled, and Harry grinned. 

“He did?”

“Fairly well, too,” the man chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Course, he’s as much a pup as you are, eh?”

“Let’s get sat down,” Remus urged him, nudging the pair of them toward the dining table. “I could do with some tea, you?”

Harry was quick to fall asleep there, resting with his feet in Sirius’s lap and his head on Remus’s shoulder. Even with the discussion as grim as it was, he was home, and safe, with his father and his godfather, and for a brief few days, all was well that way. 

They whispered over plans and maps and dates, while Harry joined them for the sake of it. Reading his spellbooks over and over, scribbling in the margins of them to make notes. Napping on the couch when he could, or floo-ing across to the Burrow to practice flying with Ron and the twins. 

The nightmares kept coming. He had stopped screaming in the dead of night, for most of them. Waking in cold sweats and holding his breath to keep quiet, a horrid guilt crawling all across him at the thought of waking his father yet again. 

It was the least he could do. 

This time, though, he couldn’t help himself.

Everything felt stiff. Every inch of him, aching and rigid and unable to move the way he needed. He felt constricted, confined, almost as if he was Apparating, but he didn’t leave this cold leather armchair. 

A sweltering rage was slowly building in his lungs, something cruel and vicious and eager for release. He sat watching a fire crackling in a fireplace, feeling small, but livid as he stared into the embers. He wasn’t alone. He could sense another body in the room with him. 

“Where is Nagini?”

His voice sounds cold. Venomous. It feels good to speak, to feel the rasp of air scraping past his teeth. 

“I— I don’t know, My Lord,” a familiar, pathetic whimper said from behind the chair. “She set out to explore the house… I think…”

“You will milk her before we retire, Worm,” Harry sneered, recognizing the whining voice behind him now. “I will need feeding in the night. The journey his tired me greatly.”

Wormtail. 

Peter Pettigrew. 

And now Harry knows why he’s so angry. 

He wishes he could turn and sock that sniveling little face with his own bare fist, but he couldn’t move. The words were flowing from his mouth of their own accord. He was simply a passenger in this dream, watching from behind these weak, livid eyes. Listen with unfeeling, clever ears.

“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?”

Harry wanted to pitch Peter into the fire. 

“A week, perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over.”

“The— the Quidditch World Cup, my Lord?” Peter sputtered, and Harry felt like screaming. “Forgive me, but— but I do not understand-?”

“Because, fool, as we speak, wizards are pouring into the country from around the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be obsessing over security. Checking identities thrice and watching for unusual activity, lest the Muggles take notice of their stupid sporting event.”

What? Stupid sporting event? Harry would never call the Quidditch World Cup stupid. 

What is this dream?

“Your Lordship is still determined, then?” Peter murmured. 

“Certainly I am determined, Worm.”

Harry had never spoken such vitriol in his life. Whatever is happening with this dream, this is not his voice. He loathes the man that ruined his family, yes, but he would never sound this menacing. He would never sound as if the next words out of his mouth could be the killing curse. 

Peter seemed to hear the imminent danger in it, too, and hurried to add, 

“It could be done without Harry Potter, my Lord-!”

“Without?” that cold, now foreign voice purred viciously. “Is that concern I hear, Worm?”

“N— No!” Peter squeaked, genuine terror echoing around the room. “The boy is nothing to me— nothing at all—! I mean to say that if we use another witch or wizard— any wizard— the thing could be done with so much more quickly! If— if you allowed me to leave you for a short while— you know that I can disguise myself most effectively— I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person—!”

“I could use another wizard,” the cold voice hissed. “That is true…”

“My Lord, it makes sense,” Peter pleaded, sounding thoroughly relieved. “Laying hands on Harry Potter would be most difficult— he is so well protected by not only the wizarding world, but his father—”

“And so you volunteer to fetch a substitute? Or do you volunteer to abandon your Master and flee for your wretched, miserable life?”

“N— No my Lord! I— I— I have no wish to leave you truly—!”

“Lie to me again, Worm,” the cold voice snarled, and Peter whimpered as if struck with the back of a hand. “I can taste your revulsion when you speak to me. You shudder when you touch me. You flinch to merely look upon your Master.”

“Mah— my— my devotion to your Lordship—!”

“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice at best. Had you anywhere else to flee to, you would not be here now. You will stay, feed me, care for Nagini.”

“B— but you are already so much stronger, my Lord—?”

“Come.”

It rattled throughout the room, a violent hiss of sound, and Peter whimpered again, nearly a sob of terror. 

Parseltongue. 

“Lying Worm,” the cold voice sneered. “You know as well as I that a mere few days alone would rob me of the meager strength I’ve gathered. Be silent.”

Peter swallowed back his sobbing, reduced to a quivering, weeping, sniffling mess. The room stood silent for a moment. Harry could almost hear a faint rustling from beyond the distant door. 

“I have my reasons for using the boy, Worm. As you well know by now. Months are insignificant to thirteen years of waiting, of patience. The plan is sound, accounting for the protections placed upon the boy. All that is required is a seedling of courage from you, Worm. This should not be so difficult; you managed well enough to hide among the lions for the years you did so.”

“Please my Lord,” Peter choked out, panic in his voice as a trembling hand gripped the back of the chair. “All through this journey I have been considering this plan myself— My Lord, Bertha Jorkins’s disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed with this, if I murder—”

“If?”

The fire sputtered, weak for a moment as if this voice could chill even the flames. 

“If?” the voice hissed, much like a wounded cat. “When you follow my instructions, Worm, you will do so quietly, and without fuss. The fuss, and the whimpering is what will draw the attention of the Ministry and their allies. Would that I could, do this myself, and surely with much less blustering. Find your spine, Worm; there is only one more corpse between us and Harry Potter. By then, I will be finished with you, and my true faithful servant will return to me—”

“I am a faithful servant,” Peter whined, despondent. 

“Faithful requires the intelligence and the loyalty to do what I require,” the voice sneered. “You do not satisfy those expectations in the slightest.”

“I was the one that found you, Master,” Peter pleaded, urgently now. “I brought you Bertha Jorkins.”

“A temporary stroke of consciousness,” the voice said dismissively. “You were entirely unaware of how useful the bitch would be, weren’t you?”

“I— N-no, I thought she might—”

“Hush, pest.”

“Master please,” Peter whimpered. “I alone have been with you these long months! I alone have been by your side, obedient and present!”

“You alone have been cowardly enough to hide among the vermin and survive,” the voice sneered. “Although, I do believe you are due some reward for your reluctant diligence.”

“Wh— r-really?” Peter breathed, but Harry had a cold, dreadful feeling of terror rising up in his chest. 

“Mmh, yes… I will allow you to perform one final essential task for me… one many of my disciples would give their right hand for…”

“Yes— yes my Lord!” Peter gasped, with a growing sense of relief in his voice. “I would—! What— what can I do—?”

“Patience,” the voice purred, “don’t spoil the joy of the surprise, Worm. Until then, be sure my faithful servant is in his proper place at Hogwarts, and you will be rewarded. Now, I believe Nagini has returned to us…”

There was a hiss, a rustling, a rumbling from beyond the door, and it slowly creaked open to reveal a massive, dark snake. Shiny and sleek with a diamond pattern all down the length of her, and nearly silent aside from her scales on the hardwood floors. 

“Human man stands beyond the door,” she hissed, the parseltongue clear as crystal in Harry’s mind. 

They’re being observed?

“Magical?”

“Muggle. Ancient. Weak…. Alone.”

“Mmmh,” the voice said coldly, “Nagini brings me interesting news, Worm.”

“Ah?” Peter gasped, “yes, My Lord?”

“It seems there is a muggle standing outside the door, listening to every word we say…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see a small, hunched figure march to the door and fling it open. There was a scuffle, and a short gasp, but neither of them spoke until the cold voice did. 

“Where are you manners, Worm? Invite him in, close to the fire where it’s warm.”

With a shuffling of heavy feet, and a thunking of a cane, Peter ushered the muggle man into the room. Bundling up behind him to push him closer to the armchair Harry was confined to. Closer to the fire, yes, but closer to the owner of that cold, cruel voice. 

Harry wished he could speak his own mind. Tell the man to run. To swing that walking cane at Peter and clock him over the head with it. To pitch the snake into the fire. To burn the whole bloody house down. 

None of this left his mouth.

“You heard everything, muggle?”

“What’s that you’re calling me?” the muggle demanded gruffly, entirely unaware of the danger he was in, or too old and ornery to care.

“Muggle,” the cold voice repeated, almost amused by the exchange. “A non-wizard.”

“Dunno what you mean by wizard,” the muggle huffed, puffing up and angry, posturing like a much younger alpha. “But I know I’ve heard enough to call the police— you’re talking murder and more. And— I’ll tell you this, my wife is likely to come looking for me any minute now—”

“You have no wife,” the voice purred, a poisonous sound. “You are alone here. No one knows you’re here, and no one will miss you… it is unwise to lie to a Lord like me, for I see all that you hope in vain that I do not.”

“Lord, huh?” the muggle snapped. “Lord—? You don’t have the manners of a Lord or even a Lady. Turn ‘round and face me like a man, why don’t you?”

“I am no man, muggle,” the cold voice sighed. “I am a god, at the cusp of undeath. You amuse me, however… Worm, turn my chair so I might face this bold little creature.”

Peter whimpered, an audible flinch, and Harry felt a terrible urge to thrash— to break free— to warn the poor muggle man before—

“You heard me, Pettigrew.”

Peter came into view, his face scrunched up and weeping as he began to turn the heavy leather armchair. Harry shrieked silently to himself to stop, to wake up— for this must be a terrible nightmare— and could do nothing but watch as the snake rose up to hiss at the poor muggle man. 

He saw the man’s face fall open into abject horror, a vile disgust, pale and haunted as his eyes widened to the point of tragic comedy. His walking cane clattered to the floor as he clutched at his chest and gasped for air. He let out a horrid scream that was followed by a flash of brilliant green light, a rush of wind—

“Harry!”

Harry woke with a scream of his own, caught up in a warm, safe embrace and the scent of rosemary, and he sobbed. Trembling with a cold sweat, his forehead aching and burning like a white-hot blade had been run along his scar. He buried himself into his father’s chest and clutched at his face with a ragged shout. 

“You’re alright, Pup— breathe for me, son— breathe, Pup…”

Following his father’s urgent pleadings, he forced himself to inhale, weeping furiously as the burning in his scar subsided very slowly. A prickling, tingling pain that burst like firecrackers for a few moments more. 

When at last he could breathe without sobbing around it, Harry rested his chin on his father’s shoulder, feeling the alpha’s rumbling purr like a coat of armor as he met the eye of Sirius Black in the doorway. The man’s face was drawn pale with concern, but he had a knowing look about him. As if he’d seen the dream Harry had. Or knows of dreams like it. 

Remus coaxed Harry downstairs for a cup of tea; it was early in the morning, but the sun would be up before long, and Harry was not going back to sleep. He wasn’t keen on repeating his nightmare, either, like he hadn’t with the others. The two grown men didn’t pester him for it, though, much to his relief. They sat in silence until the sun was warming the table through the back windows, birds calling in the trees around the garden.

“It lingers,” Sirius murmured, resting a tender hand on Harry’s shoulder where the boy sat up at the table with is teacup warming his chilled fingers. 

“Mmh,” Remus hummed, bringing toast from the kitchen to the table for each of them. “What does?”

“The haunt from the dementors,” Sirius sighed, his grip tightening for just a moment. 

Remus looked up at him hesitating with a look of concern, and Sirius shook his head. 

“Never should have been near children,” he mumbled, with a pained glare aimed at the wall. “I’m so sorry, Harry…”

“Fudge and Dumbledore are the ones who placed the dementors at the school,” Remus scolded gently. “You are not to blame, Sirius. They could have used any other measure to apprehend a wanted criminal, and they went too far. It would have been too much for anyone other than Voldemort himself. You are not at fault.”

“Makes you a bit mad,” Harry mused, and both men turned frowns onto him. “The lingering… makes me so angry… so wild. I feel mad with it until it passes.”

He looked up at Sirius, who was near tears, fighting them back with visible effort. 

“To think you were in this state for so long,” Harry murmured. “It’s a miracle you’re walking, Padfoot. I’m just relieved you’re alright.”

The man’s tears fell, and Remus put an arm around him with a soft purr. Harry leaned to rest his head against Sirius as well, and they sat in a warm silence for a moment. The icy, lingering dread of the nightmare was finally gone, and Harry felt near tears himself to think that he never could have been this way with the Dursleys. He would loathe to think of them knowing about his nightmares, much less looking to them for comfort this way.

The silence was broken by a burst of crackling flame in the fireplace, the green light making Harry startle in his seat. Sirius was out the back door in a flash of dark fur, just in time, too. 

“Harry— Harry you won’t believe it—!”

Ronald Weasley, bursting out of the fireplace, covered in ash and beaming from ear to ear, threw himself at the boy in the chair with a howl of triumph. 

“Dad’s got the tickets! Monday— we’re going to the World Cup!”

A swooping, resounding joy rose up in Harry with a burst of startled laughter, just as another crackling roar came from the fireplace. 

“Ronald!”

Arthur’s furious shout made both boys flinch, but Remus gave a bark of laughter, and Harry giggled, clinging to this sudden normalcy as his alpha gave a sheepish grin.

“Morning,” Ron chuckled, and Arthur swatted him across the side of his head. 

“I told you to wait!” he scolded, and Ron grumbled at him. “What if they’d been asleep!? This is another alpha’s home, you impulsive pup!”

“Sorry!” Ron cried indignantly, rubbing at his head. 

“Welcome in, Arthur,” Remus chuckled, swiping Sirius’s teacup off the table with a clever hand. “We were just having breakfast.”

Luckily, there were only two plates at the table, and Remus tapped at the kettle with his wand to make a new round of tea. He hid the third teacup away in the sink before fetching two new ones from the cupboard as Ron flung himself into a chair beside Harry.

“Ireland versus Bulgaria!” he cried eagerly, making his father sigh heavily. “It’s supposed to be a right battle between them!”

“I’ve heard Krum is the only thing Bulgaria has going for them though,” Harry countered as Remus placed two steaming cups at the other two places on the table. “A wicked Seeker— but if Ireland beats them out for points, what good is one player?”

“That’s why Hufflepuff never bloody wins at school,” Ron scoffed, and Mr Weasley rapped on the table near Ron’s hand. 

“Oy, manners, pup.”

“Right— thank you Mr Lupin,” Ron blurted as Remus stepped away. 

“You’re very welcome, Ron,” he chuckled. “Sit down, Arthur. Have you eaten?”

“I’m so sorry, Remus,” Mr Weasley huffed. “Bill and Charlie arrived last night and it’s been a right circus at the Burrow.”

“They’ll be coming to the World Cup as well!” Ron told Harry urgently. “The whole family’s going— and we’ve got you and ‘Mione tickets as well!”

“Sick!” Harry gasped. “Have you told her!? I can send Hedwig!”

“No I sent Pig already—”

“Oh come off it, you’re not calling him Pig, are you?!”

“That stupid Pigwidgeon that Ginny’s done is stuck— the little poof won’t answer to anything else—!”

“Oy!” Mr Weasley sputtered, choking on his tea as Remus’s eyebrows rose. 

“What?!” Ron cried, pinned under the stare of both men as Arthur’s shock turned to true anger. 

“D’you know what it means to call someone a poof?” Remus asked him softly.

“Wh— no?” Ron sputtered, shrinking a little as Arthur heaved a mighty sigh. “It’s… he’s a tiny little owl, a ball of puff…”

“Suppose it’s gone out of style, thank Circe,” Remus chuckled. “You know what a queer is, Ron?”

“Ye— oh,” Ron blurted, eyes going very wide as he glanced at his father. “Yea— yeah… sir.”

“It’s rather unkind to refer to someone— or even an animal— as a poof,” Remus chided gently. 

“Sorry, sir,” Ron winced, and Remus smiled at him. 

“All’s well,” he assured. “You know it now, though. Mind you don’t use words you don’t know the meaning of, yeah?”

“I should bring your mother along to the World Cup and leave you home,” Arthur hissed, and Ron’s face fell. 

“No!” he cried, “what?! I said sorry!”

“No— please!” Harry added, “he didn’t mean it that way!”

“Of course he didn’t,” Remus nodded, ruffling Harry’s head. “Come now, Arthur, he’s just a boy after all.”

“I don’t know how you tolerate us, Remus, really,” Mr Weasley scoffed, and Remus laughed. “Can’t apologize enough.”

“You and yours have always been good and kind to the world, Arthur,” Remus told him firmly. “To the best of your ability, I do believe.”

“Well— perhaps Ron could lend you his ticket to atone,” Mr Weasley said teasingly, and Ron growled a little at him. 

“I’m sorry!”

“Very kind,” Remus chuckled. “I wouldn’t dare; the moon fills out the night of the match.”

“Ah,” Arthur sighed. “Right… I’m sorry, mate.”

Harry’s good mood soured at once, and he leaned into Ron’s shoulder as the alpha took a rather large bite of toast. He’d known the month was rounding out, but he had been putting off the thought of the moon. That inspiration from last month came back to him, but he wouldn’t know where to even start, much less how dangerous it might be. 

Remus caught the scowl on Harry’s face, and dropped a gentle hand to the back of Harry’s neck with a purr. A scent mark, a heavy wash of that scent of home and safety that warmed Harry from the inside like chocolate. Turned the scowl into a pout with ease, and then into a smile as Ron pressed some toast into his hand.

“C’mon, mate, you look peckish, eat something!”

“Molly will come around to visit while we’re gone,” Mr Weasley said gently, as Remus finally sat down beside Harry at the table. “I’m sure Harry will have loads to talk about when he gets back, yeah?”

“Thank you, Arthur, for bringing him along,” Remus sighed. “If I’d had the idea myself I’d have arranged for it ages ago, I just…”

“Right,” Mr Weasley winced. “When we’re back from the Cup, we’ll see about Godric’s Hollow again.”

“Have you spoken to Molly?” 

“No…. I want to be certain it’s him.”

“That’s probably wise…”

“You should come ‘round today,” Ron told Harry eagerly. “Bill and Charlie are home! Charlie’s got this wicked dragon’s tooth— big as my hand! Mum’s pissed; Bill said he’d cut his hair before he came home but he didn’t— and he’s got a tattoo!”

“Really?!” Harry gasped, stunned by the news. “A tattoo?! Of what?”

“Dunno— Mum won’t let him show us but Ginny said it’s a great clock tower with a dragon blowing fire all down the side of it!”

“If my son comes back with a tattoo,” Remus warned, and Mr Weasley nodded seriously. 

“Too right— I’ll have Bill’s head.”

Well Harry was more than eager to see the tattoo now. More than eager to finally meet these brothers that he’d only ever heard about. He did recall crossing paths with some of Charlie’s friends in his first year, when Hagrid had hatched a dragon in his hut on the grounds of Hogwarts and needed to be rid of it in the dead of night. 

Upon first meeting, Harry hardly noticed they were there at all; the Burrow was alive with noise and motion when they arrived. The twins were shouting down at Mrs Weasley, who was shrieking about candies and wands. Ginny was shouting about her laundry needing done and how dare they hide her wand from her. Percy was nowhere to be found, but as the bustle ventured outside with the tables and place settings, he thrust his head out the window to shout at them to keep the noise down. 

The eldest two, Bill and Charlie, had their wants held aloft, the tables in the air, flying headlong at one another as if the two were sword fighting with the big bulky furniture. Ron thought it hilarious, and Ginny was viciously cheering on Bill, only for Percy to demand silence. 

Hermione arrived with Crookshanks and her things all packed for Hogwarts, and while Ginny helped her up to the room they’d share, Remus stepped out for a word with the Grangers. 

Harry found himself alone in the garden with the two eldest boys, Bill who was fending off a pair of sneaky gnomes, and Charlie who was repairing the damage they’d done to the tables. 

“It’s good to finally meet you, Harry,” Charlie said with a smile. “Ron’s had a lot to say about you.”

“All good I hope,” Harry chuckled, helping him throw a tablecloth and smooth it out. “Mouthy git.”

“Ha! No, all good,” Charlie grinned. “Says you’re one hell of a seeker— finally got that cup back from Slytherin last year!”

“Yeah!” Harry seethed. “That was a hell of a match! Did he tell you—?”

“Oh more than once,” Charlie nodded. “He’s rather proud of that story, aye Bill?”

“Who Ron?” Bill scoffed. “Quite the puffed up little alpha, isn’t he?”

“Bit like you were,” Charlie teased, and Bill rolled his eyes. 

They were so much like the rest of the Weasley boys that Harry felt quite at home between them, setting the table and talking about the World Cup with gusto. Charlie had a near permanent smile on his face, a pleasant air of comfort about him, while Bill was a bit quieter, quick witted and snarky. He did in fact, keep his hair long, in a tail pulled tight at the back of his neck, and he had an earring swinging from his left ear that Harry knows Mrs Weasley despises. 

“Ron told me you’ve got a tattoo, Bill,” Harry asked, “is he yanking me?”

“Nah,” Bill chuckled. “Had Ginny tell him it was some wild thing. It’s just a Gryffindor lion, rather small, actually.”

“I know about muggle tattoos,” Harry mused, “but are wizard tattoos different? Like photographs?”

“Yeah, he didn’t do one of them, though,” Charlie mused, glancing aside at his brother as he dropped into a chair. “Magical tattoos can move like pictures or paintings, but that’s a pricey spell, innit?”

“Merlin,” Bill scoffed. “Could buy myself an entire dragon with that kind of gold.”

“I could get you a dragon, mate,” Charlie smirked. 

“Yeah— how’s Norbert, by the way?” Harry grinned. 

“Norberta is a female,” Charlie corrected. “And has dropped a clutch, actually, we’re very pleased with her.”

“Sick!”

“Hey, how’s your dad, Harry?” Bill asked gently, glancing up at the house where Molly’s voice was getting nearer. “Read about him in the Prophet, but… Mum wrote to tell us it wasn’t like that at all.”

“Can’t imagine finding out about your dad like that,” Charlie sighed, shaking his head.

“He’s alright,” Harry frowned. “We haven’t gotten that wolfsbane potion just right yet, but… we’re working on it.”

“Could have a few potion masters reach out,” Bill offered. “I know a witch that’s scary good with her craft.”

“If he wasn’t such a pain in the arse I’d say ask Snape,” Charlie mused. 

“No chance,” Harry scoffed. “He only made it last year because Dumbledore forced him, I’d bet.”

“Couldn’t believe it when we heard about your mum,” Bill added, flicking his wand to string up a series of dancing lights above the tables. “Rather well kept secret that was.”

“I’d wondered why I never found wedding photos of him and Lily,” Harry noted. “Hagrid had kept loads of photos of them for me, but… there was no wedding pictures. Should have been a clue, I suppose.”

“Are there any with your dad?” Charlie asked. 

“Nah, they didn’t marry. Wanted to wait out the war. I do have photos now though! Dad gave me some last year for Christmas.”

“Did I ever tell you about that cursed painting we found in America?” Bill said suddenly. “Beautiful— stunning wedding picture— said to be two omegas, a man and a woman. When we took it down from the wall, the whole team fell into season, it was chaos.”

“Circe’s mercy,” Charlie winced. “How’d you break that one?”

“Old fashioned way, unfortunately,” Bill grumbled. “Either that or those rancid potions that kill ‘em— those are horrid.”

“Bill?” Harry blurted, suddenly reminded of what the man does for work. “You break curses, yeah?”

“Yeah—” he scoffed. “Wish I’d known about that particular one before we took the brunt of it.”

“Do you know anything about lingering curses?” Harry asked, touching at his scar.

Bill hesitated, following the teen’s hand with a frown. 

“Well… not much,” he frowned. “I know a place can hold a curse under very particular circumstances…. Why?”

“I had a nightmare recently,” Harry told him. “I can’t remember it now, but… when I woke my scar was burning.”

The two older boys shared a look, and Bill sat forward to look at the scar. He took his hand and brushed Harry’s bangs back. 

Oddly enough, Harry felt a great swooping in his stomach as the alpha leaned in close. His face felt hot, and he held very still while Bill hummed at him. His scent was clouding around Harry’s face, a very pleasant, earthy stone sort of smell that made Harry’s pulse quicken.

“Even knowing the curse that did it,” Bill mused, “I can’t say for certain how it would act if it did linger. No one’s survived it before, is the thing. Does it hurt you now?”

Harry shook his head, shaking Bill’s hand loose, and the alpha shrugged. 

“Lingering curses only last this long— what’s it been, thirteen years? They only live this long on the strongest of intentions. Not surprising, considering who did it, but… that’s all I could tell you, I’m sorry, Harry. Could write to a medi-witch, if it starts up again. Probably should.”

“William!” Mrs Weasley barked from inside the house. “Come help me with this, pup!”

“Coming, mum!”

Charlie watched Bill walk away, smirking as Harry sat back in his chair with a huff, his face still a bit warm. 

“Wotcher, Harry,” he purred, and Harry’s face burned red-hot all over again. 

“I— What!?” the boy sputtered, trying to laugh it away. “What’s that mean?!”

“We get a little caught on alpha scents sometimes,” Charlie said, his tone suddenly serious as he tapped at his own nose. “Don’t trip yourself on ‘em, aye?”

“It— wh— we?” Harry stammered, shaken out of his embarrassment a little. 

“I keep flags on me,” Charlie said with a knowing nod. “Helps me clear my head. Mind your nose, pup, or it’ll give you away.”

Stunned, Harry sat quietly beside his father through dinner, listening to the gossip about the Cup and the Ministry and Percy loudly praising his new boss, Mr Barty Crouch. He’d known about Mrs Weasley, and had suspected Charlie, but just knowing it makes him think. Could there be others? Hiding in plain sight like himself? Could some of his own classmates be hiding in plain sight?

He glanced up the table at where Mrs. Weasley was chastising Bill for his hair and his earing, catching the alpha’s eye as Bill gave an exasperated sigh. He smiled across at Harry, and Harry felt his face burn hot, tearing his eyes away again as Ron clamored on about Victor Krum. 

Remus looked down at him, frowning when Harry refused to meet his eye. He made sure to pull Harry aside before leaving him there for the evening; he’d be staying over the next two nights. The moon would be full  within the week, two days after they would leave for the World Cup. 

Harry was clinging to him 

“You’ll be alright, Pup,” Remus purred, kissing the top of his head. “You’ll have loads of fun; the time will just fly right past you.”

“Hate being apart,” he mumbled, and Remus sighed. 

“We’ll be alright. We’ll be apart for much longer while you’re at Hogwarts, remember.”

“That’s different,” Harry grumbled, earning a soft chuckle from his father. 

“Not by much. I love you, Pup.”

“Love you Dad.”

Harry tried. He did; distracted himself with his own broomstick and his little pack, with Charlie’s stories about dragons from across the world. He even offered to help Fred and George with their little prank wands and trick candies. Found himself sat for ten minutes with a ten-foot-long purple tongue while they worked out the counter-jinx to fix it. 

All in good fun, though. He laughed just as much as they did when they offered one to Ron, which clued Ron into putting the candy down again. When Ginny innocently picked one up to try it, Harry lept to stop her— and was far too late. 

This time he sat for ten minutes listening to Mrs Weasley shriek at the twins about how dangerous their trick magic was getting, and how she wouldn’t tolerate them anymore in her house. She made them bring all the candy out into the garden to destroy it, and even if Ginny’s jinx had faded within the minute. 

She didn’t speak to any of them until the morning of the World Cup.

Harry didn’t sleep much that night. He watched the fuzzy shape of the nearly full moon crawl across her sky and wondered why she was so cruel. Vowed to himself, laying between Ron and George on the floor of Ron’s bedroom, that he would get her back for this. 

It felt as if he had hardly shut his eyes before he was being shaken awake again by Mrs Weasley with her hand on his shoulder. 

“Time to go, Harry dear,” she hissed, turning to wake Ron as well. 

Harry groggily shoved his glasses onto his face and sat up, feeling a bit like he’d left a piece of himself asleep on the floor. None of them seemed awake enough to speak, even the twins. They yawned and scratched their heads and stretched so hard they shivered, wandering downstairs into the kitchen. 

Mrs Weasley was stood at the stove, stirring a large, steaming pot. Mr Weasley was standing at the table, pawing through a sheaf of large parchment tickets. He looked up and smiled as the boys entered the room, chuckling at the groggy sneer Fred gave him. 

“Well, how do I look?” Mr Weasley asked eagerly, opening his arms to show them his clothes. “Anything like a muggle, Harry?”

He was wearing what looked like a golfing sweater, and a pair of jeans a little too big for him, held up with a thick leather belt. 

“Yeah, well done,” Harry scoffed, smiling as Ron rolled his eyes. “What’s that for?”

“Meant to be in muggle disguise,” Mr Weasley said firmly. “Too many wizards gathering in one place.”

Something odd, like a cold, writhing sense of dread, began to swell in Harry’s heart. It jolted him awake at last, perfectly alert as he remembered something from somewhere…. Someone had mentioned a large gathering of wizards, maybe in a dream…?

“Where’re Bill and Charlie and Per-ehr-!” George mumbled, cutting away to heave a mighty yawn. “Percy, damn.”

“Having a lie-in,” Mrs Weasley told him, ladling porridge out into bowls for each of them. “They’re Apparating, pup.”

“So they’re still in bed?” Fred grumbled, tucking into his bowl immediately. “Why can’t we just Apparate with ‘em?”

“Because you’re not of age and you haven’t passed your test,” she scolded, still testy from the trick candies. “And don’t even think of asking them to bring you; you’ll wind up splinched and miss the Cup. Circe’s mercy, where are those girls?”

She set a bowl down for Ron and bustled up the stairs, huffing to herself as she went. 

“You have to pass a test to Apparate?” Harry asked, thinking of the way Remus had vanished the pair of them to reappear at the Den when he left the Dursleys for good.

“Oh yes,” Mr Weasley said firmly, tucking the tickets away into the pocket of his jeans. “The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people the other day for Apparating without a license. It’s not easy, Apparition, and when it’s not done properly it can lead to nasty complications. The pair I mentioned went and splinched themselves.”

Everyone around the table— aside from Harry— winced at the word. 

“Er— splinched?” he repeated. “What’s that?”

“Left half of themselves behind,” Mr Weasley said, spooning a bit of treacle onto his porridge. “So they were stuck, of course. Couldn’t move either way to get themselves righted again. Had to wait for mediwitches and first responders to sort them out. Meant a fair bit of paperwork, mind you, what with the muggles that spotted the body parts they’d left behind.”

Harry had a sudden, horrifying image of a pair of legs and an eyeball lying abandoned on the pavement of Privet Drive. He could almost hear Petunia’s vivid shriek. 

“Wh— were they alright?!” he asked, shaken, and Ron reached across to scent mark him. 

“Oh of course,” Mr Weasley assured him firmly. “Put exactly right again. But, they did get a hefty fine, and I don’t think they’ll be trying it again in a hurry. You don’t mess about with Apparition. There are plenty of adults who don’t bother with it. Most use the floo systems or prefer brooms— might be slower, but they are much safer.”

“But Bill and Charlie and Percy can all do it?”

“Yeah and they could take us with ‘em,” George mumbled, only to receive a chastising growl from Arthur. 

“You will not,” Mr Weasley scolded. “Your mother would have their heads.”

“Charlie had to test twice, didn’t he?” Fred smirked. “Failed the first time; Apparated five miles south of where he meant to, right on top of some poor old bitty doing her shopping.”

“He passed the second,” Mrs Weasley scolded as she marched back into the kitchen, and the boys smothered their snickering. 

“Percy only passed two weeks ago,” George told Harry. “Git’s been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just to prove he can.”

Following Mrs Weasley into the kitchen were Ginny and Hermione, both of them pouting and drowsy, Ginny hiding a yawn behind her hand. 

“Why’re we up so early?” she hissed, dropping heavily into a chair between Ron and Fred. 

“We’ve got a good walk this morning,” Mr Weasley told her, passing a hand across the back of her neck to scent mark her as he placed a bowl down between her elbows on the table. 

“Walk?” Harry frowned. “We’re walking all the way?”

“Gods no,” Mr Weasley chuckled. “That’s miles across the country. We only need to walk a short way— it’s very difficult to gather large numbers of wizards without attracting muggle attention, you see. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on occasions like the this, as big as the Quidditch World Cup—”

“George!” Mrs Weasley suddenly snapped, her shoulders tighter than a bowstring. 

“What?” George gasped, with an air of innocence that deceived precisely nobody.

“Turn out your pocket,” she hissed, and he yelped, feigning offense. 

“What?!”

“Turn it out— what is that?!”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t you lie to me, pup—!”

She gave a wordless shout of anger and snatched up her wand. 

“Accio!” 

George gave a shout of dismay, lurching to catch them, but his hands closed around nothing as several brightly colored, wax-paper wrapped treats flew out of his pocket and into Mrs Weasley’s outstretched hand. More trick candies. The sight of them made the whole room go stiff, and Mrs Weasley seemed to grow to twice her height as she gave a low, dangerous, yowling growl.  

“You were meant to destroy these!” she shrieked, reddening in the face as her anger swelled. “You lied to my face—!”

“No no no-” Fred tried, but she jabbed her wand at him, next, and he swore out loud. 

Harry shrank back from the table as the twins exploded up from their chairs. Ron sat back with him, ducking his head with an arm around Hermione, none of them keen on inviting themselves into what became a shouting match between the twins and their mother. 

Mrs Weasley resorted to screaming the summoning charm over and over and over, revealing more and more and more of the candies from hidden pockets and pouches in the twins’ clothing. And as much as they protested their creations being destroyed, she only seemed to grow angrier. 

“Do you have any idea how dangerous—!?”

“They’re not—!”

“We spent months developing—!”

“You could have hurt your sister you absolute—!

“She was fine!”

“We’d never hurt Ginny—!”

“And you lied to my face—!”

“If you’d just listen—!”

“—never care to hear what we—!”

“Is this what you spent all that time on instead of studying for your OWLs!?”

“Oh FUCK the OWLs, mum—!”

“Those fucking—?!”

Ron swept Harry and Hermione away rather quickly as Arthur stood up with a growl, and Ginny was close behind them. 

The air of the house was thick with tension when they finally left with bags packed and thrown over their shoulders. Mrs Weasley kissed her mate goodbye and turned to kiss Ron on the head, but as she did, the twins marched themselves to the door without looking back. 

“Have fun,” she said stiffly, and scowled after the twins to say, “and behave yourselves!”

She was, promptly, ignored as the door swung shut behind them. 

“I’ll send the others along around midday,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll stop in for supper with Remus tonight before the sun sets.”

“Tell him I love him,” Harry pleaded, and some of the tension left her face as she smiled at him. 

“Of course, Harry. Run off, don’t want to be late, now.”

The morning air was cold and crisp, untouched by sunlight yet, though there was a haze of morning light on the horizon to greet them as they marched out across the field after Fred and George. Harry, viciously relieved to see no sign of the moon in the sky, caught up to Mr Weasley. 

“So how does everybody get to the World Cup without all the muggles noticing?” he asked with a huff, picturing thousands of wizards on brooms racing across the morning sky. 

“Oh that’s been the headache of the season,” Mr Weasley scoffed. “The problem is that thousands of wizards turn up for the game, and of course we haven’t got a magical site big enough to accommodate everybody. There are places muggles can’t wander into, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand wizards into Diagon Alley— and host a Quidditch game! So we picked out a nice, deserted moor and set up as many anti-muggle protections as possible. Ministry’s been working on it for months.”

“Anti-muggle magic?” Harry repeated, and Mr Weasley nodded. 

“Spells to confuse them, turn them around, convince them they don’t want to go that way. Of course, some people arrive on muggle transport, and the Ministry has to be attentive to that for accidents that just happen because all accidents do just happen. Most people know to fly by night or use concealment charms if they’re coming on broom, and of course some people Apparate, like the older boys will. I think they’ve set up a handy little grove for them to walk out of into the moor. And for those of us who can’t, we use Portkeys!”

“What’s a Portkey?”

“An object that’s been bewitched to transport from one place to another, but at a set time. Like catching a train! The portkey will leave the hill just up there at a strict time, and if we miss it, we’ll miss the match!”

“That’s why we’re up so early,” Harry scoffed. “Blimey.”

“Yes,” Mr Weasley chuckled. “We’re not the only family up this way that’ll be using it, though. You can transport large groups or small using portkeys.”

“What’s it look like?” Harry wondered aloud, and Mr Weasley huffed, trudging up the hill and running out of breath a bit. 

“Well, can’t have muggles picking one up on accident, can we? It’ll look like a bit of trash, litter and such, something they’d leave well enough alone.”

It was a long walk. The hill Mr Weasley had pointed out seemed closer on the horizon that it was, and Harry was starting to run out of breath himself. He made it in time to stand with the twins, huffing for air with his hands on his head, watching Mr Weasley give Hermione a hand up the last steep slope as she clutched at a stitch in her side. He looked around, finding nothing but stones and grass, and dreaded the thought of more walking. 

At least the air was crisp and clean as he gulped it down. 

“Bout two minutes to spare!” Mr Weasley announced, looking at his watch. “Right, look around up here for the portkey! Something a muggle wouldn’t pick up, remember. Hop to!”

“How big’s it supposed to be?” Ginny groaned, hands on her knees as she scowled across the hilltop. 

“Small, small, not too—”

A shout cut through the air, and a friendly voice rang out across to them from the far side of the hilltop. 

“Morning Arthur! Portkey’s over here!”

“Thank Merlin,” George gasped. 

“Amos!” Mr Weasley called back with a wide smile. 

As the group of them crossed the hillside, Mr Weasley reached the two men first, shaking hands with the older, scruffier looking wizard. The man- Amos- was holding an old, moldy boot in his other hand, with a sack bursting at the seams on his shoulders. At his side was, to Harry’s surprise, a familiar face. 

“‘S that Diggory?” Fred sneered, still a bit peeved from the fight with Mrs Weasley— and seemingly the Quidditch match they’d lost to Hufflepuff in the previous year. 

“Pups, this is Amos Diggory,” Mr Weasley announced. “He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his boy, Cedric?”

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome young man of around seventeen, Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff team at Hogwarts. He had a warm smile on his face for them, even for the twins, who weren’t shaken out of their sour spirits just yet. Cedric didn’t seem to mind much, giving Harry a nod as they gathered around the boot. 

“Morning.”

Harry felt that odd, swooping feeling in his gut again, and managed a polite smile back as Mr Weasley gestured around the the lot of them. 

“And Amos, these are my twins, Fred and George. Ron, of course, my girl Ginny, and Ron’s packmates, Hermione Granger, and— well, Harry, of course-”

“Merlin’s beard!” Amos gasped, his eyes jumping to Harry’s forehead. “Harry Potter?”

As Harry winced, ducking his head to let his bangs fall further down his face, Ron puffed up at his side. All summer, he’d forgotten the feeling, and he was reminded of just how much he couldn’t stand it. 

“Potter-Lupin,” Ron corrected firmly, and Amos looked bewildered. 

“I’ll say— that bit in the Daily Prophet about your dad being a…?”

“A banging good teacher,” Cedric cut in tactfully. “Yeah, that’s him. Didn’t hear about your name though, Harry, good on you, mate.”

“Yeah,” Harry huffed, grateful for the kindness and for Ron’s presence at his side. “Dad said it was always supposed to be that, but… y’know.”

“Ah yeah I quite like it,” Cedric said with a smile. “Suits you.”

“Yeah thanks…”

Harry found himself quite warm in the face as Amos flustered and cleared his throat, checking his watch. He turned away from Cedric, only to find Fred watching him with a narrow-eyed stare. A sense of dread loomed when Fred nudged George, and the pair of them smirked across at Harry without saying a word. 

At least their mood had changed. 

“Alright, only a minute to go,” Mr Weasley announced, and ushered them all closer to the boot. “Just need to touch it, a finger will do, and don’t let up until we’re there, you hear?”

With a bit of difficulty, due to their bulky backpacks, the nine of them all clustered around the boot to place a finger on it somewhere. For a moment, they just stood there, shivering under a cool breeze, in an odd silence. Harry amused himself imagining a muggle wandering up the hill to see them, two grown men and seven teenagers gathered around this manky old boot like some sort of religious event…

“And three…” Mr Weasley murmured, eyes glued to his watch. “Two…. One.”

It was instant. Harry felt as if a hook behind his navel had been yanked without warning, jerking him forward. His feet left the earth, his shoulders banging into Ron and Hermione’s on either side of him. His finger was stuck to the boot, as if it had grown from his hand, and he could hear nothing but a roaring, howling wind in his ears—

His feet slammed back down into the ground, and his knees buckled. He wasn’t the only one; Ron tipped over, and Hermione came down to the grass with them in a heap. Only Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory, and Cedric were left standing. 

Then a voice said from somewhere nearby,

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill.”

Chapter Text

Harry disentangled himself from his packmates and took Ginny’s hand to get to his feet. They had arrived on what seemed like a deserted stretch of misty moor, alone with a pair of sorrowfully dressed and grumpy-looking wizards. One was holding a large gold watch, wearing a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes. The other, holding a thick roll of parchment and a quill, was wearing the odd pairing of a kilt and poncho. Some poor attempt at dressing up as muggles, Harry had to guess.

“Morning, Basil,” Mr Weasley greeted the kilted wizard, handing him the old boot. 

“Hello Arthur,” Basil said wearily, tossing the boot into a crate full of junk; old portkeys Harry had to assume, peering into the crate to see old newspaper, an empty drink can, and a punctured football. 

Basil didn’t bother hiding his yawn, sighing heavily as he looked around at them all. 

“Not on duty, eh?” he mumbled, turning back to Mr Weasley. “Bully for you… been here all night…. C’mon, then, step aside; we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite… Weasley… Weasley…”

He peered down at his parchment, and Harry couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the bloke; the shadows under his eyes could hide a boggart.

“Quarter of a mile’s walk that way, first field you come to,” the man sighed, gesturing in the direction. “Site manager’s Mr Roberts. Diggory… let’s see…. Second field for you, ask for Mr Payne.”

“Thank you Basil,” Mr Weasley nodded, already ushering them along. 

The mist felt thick, even for the setting. As they walked, across the moor, distant shapes began to emerge from the fog, as if Harry had only just put his glasses on for the morning. It was a good twenty minutes before anything came into clarity; a small stone cottage next to a standing gate. Beyond it were shadowy shapes of hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said goodbye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door. 

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. He had a distant, dazed sort of look to his eyes. Harry could see, at a glance, that this was the only real muggle for miles around, and he turned his head to look their way at the sound of their approach. He seemed to come back to himself as Mr Weasley smiled at him, though. 

“Morning!”

“Morning,” the muggle murmured. 

“Would you be Mr Roberts?”

“Aye, I would,” the man nodded. “Who’re you?”

“Weasley! Booked two tents a couple of days ago?”

“Aye yeah,” Roberts mumbled, consulting a list of names tacked to his door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?”

“That’s it,” Mr Weasley nodded, using a hand to usher Harry forward. “I pay now, then?”

“Yeah,” Roberts said vaguely, his eyes losing their focus again. “You’re not foreign, are you?”

As Mr Weasley hesitated at the question, Harry realized why he’d been motioned forward. In Mr Weasley’s hands were muggle bills, that he likely had no clue what to do with. 

“Er— sorry?” Mr Weasley chuckled nervously. “Foreign?”

“Aye,” Roberts mumbled. “Everybody’s had some trouble with money today…”

Harry shuffled through the bills to hand him the proper amount, the number listed at the top of the page on the door.

“Oh— no, I’ve packed away my reading lenses!” Mr Weasley said warmly, with a concerned look in his eye. “Just needed a little help in the low light is all—”

“Never been this crowded up here,” Roberts mused, leering across the field at the tents as if he could cut through the fog with a scowl. “Hundreds of pre-bookings… people usually just turn up…”

“Oh is that right?” Mr Weasley chuckled, offering him the money. 

“Aye,” Roberts said, not even glancing at the bills in his hand. “People from all over. Loads of foreigners— but weirdos, too, yeah? ‘S a bloke wandering around in a kilt and poncho…”

“Oh…” Mr Weasley said slowly, hesitating with a hand out for his change. 

“Seems like some kind of meeting,” Roberts continued thoughtfully. “Like they all… know each other…. Somehow.”

At that precise moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr Roberts’s front door with a loud crack! 

“Obliviate!” he barked, his wand raised, and Harry startled. 

In an instant, Mr Roberts’s eyes rolled back, and his head lolled forward. He sat up in the next heartbeat, with a dreamy look of blissful ignorance on his face. He smiled vaguely at Mr Weasley and handed him a few bills, along with a brochure. 

“Map of the campsite for you,” he mumbled. “And your change.”

“Thank you so very much,” Mr Weasley said gently, ushering Harry along toward the gate, where the wizard was motioning them with both hands. 

The man looked utterly exhausted, a scruff of unshaven beard on his chin, purple bags under his eyes, and he was almost breathless as he spoke. 

“Too clever, this one… needs a memory modification every ten bloody minutes— and that bastard Ludo Bagman’s no help. Shouting about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his lungs— no concern for muggle security, I tell you… gods, I’ll be so happy when this is all over…. See you later, Arthur, enjoy the Cup.”

And with another loud crack! he was gone again. Disapparated. 

“Hang on,” Ginny frowned. “I thought Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports? Shouldn’t he know better than to talk about Quidditch things in front of muggles?”

“He should,” Mr Weasley scoffed, leading them through the gate and into the campsite. “But Ludo’s always been a bit… lax, we’ll call it, about security. Couldn’t ask for a more enthusiastic Head of the sports department, though; he played for England himself! Greatest beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had!”

Harry could feel the sunlight finally breaking over the horizon, struggling to cut through the chill of the fog. They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents, visible only as they stepped closer to them. Most of them looked perfectly ordinary; their owners had clearly attempted to make them look as muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys or bellpulls or weathervanes. 

However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Harry could hardly blame Mr Roberts for being suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on, they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets- and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

“Some of us can’t resist showing off,” Mr Weasley said with a scoff, smiling at the displays. “Those are lovely roses, my word….”

They reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, where an empty space awaited them, bearing only a small sign hammered into the ground that read Weezly.

“Couldn’t have picked a better spot!” Mr Weasley declared happily. “The field is just on the other side of the wood there; we’re as close as could be!”

According to Mr Weasley, there was no magic allowed in the righting of their tents, even as Ron shot a sneer back at the tent with the turrets. Harry, having never been camping a day in his life, was learning just as much as Mr Weasley while Hermione guided them through the steps of putting up the tent and starting the fire. Harry was happy to step away when Mr Weasley grew a bit overexcited about using the mallet to stake the pegs down, but before long, they had managed to erect a pair of shabby, two-man tents. 

The rest of the family seemed pleased, even as Harry shared a look of mild concern with Hermione. Surely she could also see the problem with the tents; they are seven people right now. It’s likely that they could fit into them, snug, yes, but fitting. The trouble was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they would be ten people. 

Hermione took a breath, likely to point out the dilemma, only for Mr Weasley to drop to all fours and crawl into the tent. 

“Might be a bit cramped, but I think we’ll squeeze! Come have a look!”

Hermione winced, but she ducked into the tent after him anyway, taking Harry by the hand for support. He followed dutifully, bracing himself to deliver the sorry news—

His jaw dropped the moment he ducked under the flap. 

They had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as old Mrs Figg’s house: crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. Harry found himself almost listening for the old bat around the corner. 

“Well, it won’t be for long,” Mr Weasley said, patting at his balding head with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “Borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.”

While the twins tossed their bags onto a pair of bunks, Mr Weasley picked up the dusty kettle and frowned into it. 

“We’ll need water,” he sighed. 

“There’s a tap marked on this map the muggle man gave us,” Ron offered, entirely unconcerned with the extensive insides of the tent. “It’s on the other side of the field.”

“Oh excellent!” Mr Weasley said with a smile. “Why don’t you take your pack down to fetch some for us? The rest will help me get some wood for a fire!”

“We’ve got an oven,” Ginny protested, gesturing to it. “Why do we need—?”

“Anti-muggle security!” Mr Weasley said firmly, only for George to scoff at him. 

“He wants to play with muggle matchsticks, Gin.”

“I’d like to do the thing properly!” Mr Weasley defended, while Fred snickered at him. 

Harry took a peek into the girls’ tent while Hermione was dropping off her bag; only slightly smaller, though without the smell of cats. She fetched a personal canteen as well, wearing it on her hip as the three of them set off across the campsite with kettles and bottles and cans.

As they walked, the sun finally found the strength to cut through the mist, revealing the near city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. Ron was watching the flags and decorations, while Harry and Hermione were watching the families and packs. It was dawning on Harry that wizards from across the world were gathering for the game. 

As the rest of the campers were starting to wake up, Harry could hear languages from all points of the globe drifting out of tents, most of these being families with small children. He’d never seen witches and wizards this young before; grinning at the sight of a toddler pawing through pink flames that did her no harm aside from drawing giggles out of her while he mother watched with a groggy smile. There was a tiny little boy, no older than two, squatted outside of a pyramid-shaped tent with a wand in both hands. The wand itself was far to large for his chubby little fists, and he jabbed it down into the grass with a child’s determination. A slug, trying to inch away from his battering stick, suddenly began to swell, growing to the size of a salami, and then further. As the little pack of three drew level with them, the boy’s mother came stumbling out of the tent. 

“Oh how many times, Kevin!? You don’t— touch— Daddy’s— wand—!”

She gave a wordless shriek of disgust as her heel came down on the slug in her attempt to snatch the wand away, and the boy burst into furious laughter. Weak from his giggling, the wand was ripped from him, and he didn’t seem to notice. 

A short way further on, they saw two little girls, barely older than Kevin, riding between the tents on toy broomsticks that flew only high enough for their toes to skim the damp and dewy grass. A ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he rushed past the pack, he was huffing and grumbling under his breath. 

“Broad daylight—! Where are your parents!?”

Adults were of course emerging from their tents to begin breakfast. Some of them, with furtive glances around for ministry workers, conjured their fires, while others were nervously striking matches as if unconvinced that it would work at all. Three African wizards sat captive in conversation wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit over a brilliant purple flame. A group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read ‘The Salem Witches Institute’. 

“Er— my eyes tricking?” Ron scoffed, as he turned a corner. “Is everything going green?”

It wasn’t a trick; they had walked into a patch of tents that were covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, looking as if a small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names called. 

“Harry! Ron! Hermione!”

Turning, they found Seamus Finnigan, a fellow Gryffindor fourth year, and one of Harry and Ron’s dorm mates. He was sat in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, another dorm mate, Dean Thomas.

“How d’you like the decorations!” Seamus cackled. “Ministry’s not pleased!”

“Ah why not show our colors?” Mrs Finnigan said with a smile. “You should see what the Bulgarians have dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting Ireland, of course, aye?”

The smile turned a bit pointed, and the pack very quickly assured them that they would, in fact, be supporting Ireland. They bid their classmates farewell, and carried on. 

“Can’t say no when they ask you up front, can you?” Ron scoffed, glancing back at the greenery. “Bloody hell…”

“Wonder what the Bulgarians have on their side,” Hermione giggled. 

“Let’s go see it!” Harry said, pointing out a large patch of tents up the field a ways where a Bulgarian flag was fluttering in the breeze. 

The tents here hadn’t been coated in plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster plastered across it. The portrait of a man with a surly face and heavy dark eyebrows. He was handsome, but a bit unsettling, his moving picture doing nothing but blinking and scowling, perhaps a bit of a sneer to his lip every now and again.

“Oh that’s Krum,” Ron said softly. 

“Who?” Hermione frowned. 

“Victor Krum!” Ron grinned. “The Bulgarian Seeker!

“He looks grumpy,” she scoffed, and he rolled his eyes. 

“Grumpy?! Who cares! He’s unbelievable in the air! Really young, too, I think I heard Bill say he’s only barely eighteen or something. Merlin, he’s a genius in flight— just wait until tomorrow night, you’ll see. You’ll love him, Harry.”

There was already a small queue for the tap in the far corner of the field when the pack arrived. They joined it anyway, lining up behind a pair of men in the middle of a heated argument. One was a very old wizard wearing a long, flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard, holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and near tears with exasperation.

“Just put them on, Archie! You can’t walk around like this— the muggle at the gate is already suspicious enough—!”

“I bought this in a muggle shop,” old Archie said stubbornly. “Muggles wear ‘em.”

“Muggle women,” the ministry wizard hissed furiously as Hermione smothered a giggle behind her hand. “Muggle men don’t wear them, Archie! Put them on, for Circe’s sake!”

“No!” Archie declared firmly. “I won’t! Like a healthy breeze between the knees, thanks.”

Hermione snorted out loud and had to leave the line, her face in her hands as she giggled. Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for the old man, but old Archie didn’t leave without his water, and Hermione didn’t return until he’d gone on his way.

On their way back, burdened with the weight of the water, they began to see more familiar faces as they walked much more slowly through the campsite. Here and there they called out greetings to friends and classmates. Oliver Wood, the old Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Harry over to his parents to introduce him. Apparently he’d just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team, and Harry congratulated him until he was free to carry on with his pack. They waved to Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff boy in fourth year, and a little farther they saw the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, who made a point to wave at Harry even as she smacked at her giggling younger sister’s shoulder. When Ron nudged him, Harry frowned back, confused, and even Hermione started to give him a smirking look. More to save himself the confusion than anything, he pointed out a few unfamiliar teenagers, a larger group, that he’d never seen before.

“Who’re they? I don’t think they go to Hogwarts?”

“‘Spect they go to another school,” Ron shrugged. “Somewhere foreign. Never met anybody’s who’s been to one— though Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil years and years ago…. He wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn’t afford it. The penfriend got all offended and sent him a cursed hat. Made his ears shrivel up.”

Harry snorted around a giggle, silently amazed at the idea of more wizarding schools. He knew America had multiple, but he hadn’t thought of any exchange programs. He glanced at Hermione, who didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, either. 

George greeted them the minute they got back, looking a bit exasperated. 

“You’ve been ages!”

“Met a few friends,” Ron scoffed, setting his cans down. “You haven’t got that fire started yet?”

“Dad’s having his fun,” Fred told them. 

Mr Weasley was having absolutely no success with lighting the fire, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around his feet, but he looked as though he was having the time of his life. 

“Oop!” he gasped, grinning at the match that he’d managed to light, and even laughing when he promptly dropped it in his shock. 

“Here, Mr Weasley,” Hermione said gently, taking the box from him to show him how to do it properly. 

At last, the fire was lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch and discuss while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr Weasley kept up a running commentary, mostly for Harry and Hermione’s benefit, and Harry was grateful to be thinking of anything other than home. 

His father should be up and potion crafting by now. Trying his best to get that wolfsbane potion just right without Harry around to fuss and get underfoot.

“That’s Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office… and here’s Gilbert Wimple— Committee on Experimental Charms; he’s had those horns for a while now— Morning Gil! Arnie! How are you, mate? …Arnold Peasegood, an Obliviator, member of the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad… oh those are Bode and Croaker, they’re Unspeakables…”

“They’re what?” Harry blurted, following with every odd name and title until then.

“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret work, nobody knows what they get up to…”

They had only just gotten started cooking a real (albeit late) breakfast of eggs and sausage when the last three Weasley boys came strolling out of the forest to join them. 

“Just Apparated, Dad,” Percy called, a bit loudly as Fred rolled his eyes. “Ah, excellent! Lunch!”

“Charlie!” Ginny greeted with a wide smile. 

“Heya, pup!” Charlie chuckled, throwing himself down between her and Harry. “Afternoon, Harry!”

“Hi— did you see Dad?” Harry asked quickly, and Charlie smiled. 

“Thought you’d ask; yeah I did. He’s doing well, told me to send along the message that he’s just fine.”

“Looked rather chipper when we left,” Bill noted, and Harry flushed a little when Bill winked at him. “He knew you’d ask after him. Told us to remind you you’re here to have fun and watch a Quidditch game. He’s confident about his potion this time, he said.”

“Aha!” Mr Weasley cried eagerly, thankfully drawing everyone’s eyes up toward him instead as he jumped to his feet.

Harry took the time to get control over himself, baffled by the heat on his cheeks. What is this squirming mass of nerves in his gut? The smirk on Charlie’s face felt almost mocking, and he did his best to ignore it. 

“Man of the moment!” Mr Weasley called out, greeting another wizard with a firm handshake. “Mr Ludo Bagman himself!”

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in his nightgown. Ludo was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man slightly gone to seed; the robes were stretched tight across a round belly that he surely hadn’t had in the days when he’d played for the English Quidditch team. His nose was a bit squashed (broken by a stray bludger, Harry had to assume), but his round blue eyes, rosy complexion, and tuft of blond hair gave him the appearance of an overgrown schoolboy.

“Ahoy Arthur!” he cried with a bounce in his step. “What a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming, and hardly a hiccup in the arrangements— not much for me to do!”

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards ran past, pointing out a shower of violet sparks that were raining down over someone’s very magical campfire.

“Good afternoon Mr Bagman!” Percy said eagerly, puffing up for a man he’d not had much good to say about until now, extending a hand to him to shake. 

“Ah— yes,” Mr Weasley chuckled. “Ludo this is my son, Percy. He’s just started work at the Ministry. This is Fred— no, George, sorry— that’s Fred. Bill there, Charlie, Ron, my daughter Ginny, and Ron’s little school pack, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter-Lupin.”

Bagman’s eyes did the smallest of double takes when he heard Harry’s name, his eyes performed the familiar dance up to the scar on Harry’s face. Thankfully, he did nothing but smile politely, and Harry was silently grateful for it.

“Pups,” Mr Weasley continued, “this is Mr Ludo Bagman, the man who provided such wonderful tickets to us— Ludo I can’t thank you enough.”

Bagman scoffed and blustered, waving it away as if to say it had been nothing. 

“Do you fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he asked instead, rather eagerly jangling a pocket full of coins. “I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first— I’ve offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years! Little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match!”

“Oh… go on then,” Mr Weasley chuckled. “Let’s see… a galleon on Ireland to win?”

“A galleon?” Bagman laughed, looking slightly disappointed. “I can see you’re none too confident, eh? I won’t pester! I won’t pester— any other takers?”

He looked to Bill and Charlie, but Mr Weasley made a sound of disapproval. 

“They’re a bit young to be gambling. Molly wouldn’t-”

“We’ll bet thirty-seven galleons, fifteen sickles, three knuts,” Fred announced, cupping his hands for George to pour the money into them. “That Ireland wins— but Krum gets the Snitch! Oh— and we’ll throw in a trick wand as well!”

“Don’t go showing Mr Bagman rubbish like that—!” Percy hissed, but Bagman lit up at the mention. 

He snatched up the wand George offered him, which gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken. Bagman roared with laughter, clutching at his chest, his shoulders bouncing with the force of his guffaws. 

“Oh excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in years! I’d pay five galleons for that!”

Percy froze, his face trapped in a look of stunned disapproval. 

“Boys,” Mr Weasley murmured. “That’s all of your savings… are you sure—?”

“Oh don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” Bagman boomed, rattling his pockets. “They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance… I’ll give you excellent odds on that one. We’ll add five galleons for the funny wand as well, shall we?”

Mr Weasley winced, but didn’t intervene as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins’ names. 

“Cheers,” George grinned, taking the parchment to tuck it away while Bagman turned back to Mr Weasley with a cheerful grin.

“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number’s making difficulties and I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out; he speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.”

“Mr Crouch?” Percy said eagerly, absolutely squirming with excitement. 

That must be the Mr Crouch that Percy kept mentioning, his boss at the ministry. The man that could do no wrong, according to Percy. Harry hadn’t heard much else about him, but Percy was eager to speak about him.

“Oh he speaks over two hundred languages fluently! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll—”

“Anyone can speak Troll,” Fred scoffed. “All you have to do is point and grunt.”

Percy threw Fred a nasty sneer, furiously stoking the fire to bring the kettle back to the boil. Charlie was hiding a snicker that Ginny was unashamed of giggling out loud. 

“Any news on Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr Weasley asked as Bagman got settled in the grass beside Percy. 

Harry had a vague recollection of that name, but couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.

“Not a dicky bird!” Bagman shrugged easily. “But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha, memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”

“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?” Mr Weasley asked tentatively as Percy handed Bagman his tea. 

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” Bagman said, eyes wide and innocent, “but we can’t really spare anyone at the moment. Oh— talk of the devil! Barty!”

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled across the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting of his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. Harry could see at once why Percy idolized him; Percy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr Crouch had complied with the rule about muggle dress so thoroughly that he could have passed for a bank manager. Harry doubted even Vernon Dursley could have spotted him for what he really was.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty!” Bagman urged him cheerily, patting the grass beside him. 

“No thank you, Ludo,” Mr Crouch snapped with audible impatience. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.”

“Oh is that what they’re after?” Bagman chuckled. “I thought he was asking for a pair of tweezers- bit of a strong accent on that one—”

“Mr Crouch!” Percy gasped eagerly, “would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” Mr Crouch sighed, looking a bit surprised to see him. “Yes- thank you Weatherby.”

Fred and George snorted into their cups, and Harry bit down on his tongue to keep from giggling. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself with the kettle.

“Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,” Crouch said firmly. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath; he wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Mr Weasley heaved a mighty sigh. 

“I sent him an owl last week— I’ve told him a hundred times; carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but he will not listen to me.”

“He’s desperate to export here,” Crouch huffed, taking a cup of tea from Percy without a word to him. 

“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?” Bagman mused. 

“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family vehicle,” Mr Crouch said. “I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve- that was before carpets were banned, of course.”

He said it with an air of warning, as if he wanted to leave nobody questioning that all of his family had— and do— obey strictly by the law.

“Been keeping busy, Barty?” Bagman asked with a smile. 

“Fairly,” Crouch sneered. “Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no small feat, Ludo.”

“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over,” Mr Weasley said with a smile. 

Ludo Bagman looked offended. 

“Glad?! I don’t know when I’ve had more fun! I mean— it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, huh?”

Bagman was grinning now, looking eager, but Crouch just raised his eyebrows down at him. 

“We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details-”

“Oh details!” Bagman scoffed. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean it’s happening at Hogwarts—!”

“Ludo we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,” Mr Crouch snapped, cutting him off sharply. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

He handed his untouched tea back to Percy and waited for Ludo to bustle to his feet. Bagman swigged down the last of his cup, jingling with the twins’ gold in his pockets as as he came upright.

“See you later!” he said with a wink at the twins. “You’ll be up in the Top Box with me, I’m commentating!”

He stepped away with Mr Crouch, and both Disapparated only a few feet into the woods. 

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” Fred demanded at once. 

“What was he talking about?” George pleaded. 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mr Weasley said with a knowing smile. 

“It’s classified information,” Percy huffed, “until such a time as the Ministry decides to disclose it—”

“Oh shut up Weatherby,” Fred snarked. 

Harry let the excitement of the World Cup overwhelm him. He was here to have fun and watch professional Quidditch, not wonder about his father- who likely had Sirius to keep him company anyway. By dusk, it was as if the air itself was shivering with anticipation, and as darkness began to spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting spectators, the last vestiges of pretense disappeared. The Ministry had bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic breaking out all across the field. 

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet with trays and carts of magical merchandise. Luminous rosettes, green for Ireland and red for Bulgaria, which were squeaking the names of the players. Tall green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks. Bulgarian scarves adorned with Lions that really roared. Flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved. Tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectable figures of famous players, which strolled about the palm of your hand and struck poses, posturing or preening. 

“Been saving all my pocket money all summer for this!” Ron said eagerly as they wandered through the salesmen for souvenirs. 

He bought himself a shamrock hat, as well as a figurine of Victor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The tiny alpha scowled up at the green hat on Ron’s head as he marched back and forth across Ron’s hand. 

“Oh look at these!” Harry gasped, stopping at a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, covered in strange dials and knobs. 

“Omnioculars!” the salesman pitched eagerly. “Replay action, slow it down, get a play-by-play breakdown as you watch! These are a bargain— ten galleons each!”

“Oh fuck off,” Ron sighed wistfully, and Harry thrust a hand into his pocket. 

“Three pairs,” he said firmly, and the salesman beamed. 

“Wh— no no!” Ron cried, going red in the face. “Don’t—?!”

“This is your christmas,” Harry told him with a smirk. “Don’t expect anything from me this year— or next year for that matter!”

“You— yeah, alright,” Ron chuckled, a bit abashed, but slinging his arm around Harry’s neck anyway. “Go on then!”

The twins were the only ones without souvenirs of their own, having given Bagman all of their gold, but Bill had brought them each a flag anyway. Everyone else had green Ireland flags or hats or rosettes pinned to their chests.

Then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed to life in the trees, lighting up the path to the field. 

“It’s time!” Mr Weasley said eagerly. “Let’s get up to the stadium!”

They were the nose of a throng of eager spectators, marching along with a swelling excitement that only grew more and more as they walked. The air itself felt alive, ready to cry out with laughter and delight. Harry found himself grinning from ear to ear as he followed along, for the entire twenty minutes through the woods. 

On the other side, they were greeted by a massive stadium, the walls shining golden, towering overhead. He could only see a fraction of their curve, but it was enough to tell him that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably within them. 

“Seats a hundred thousand!” Mr Weasley told him eagerly at the awestruck look on Harry’s face. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working at it all year! Muggle repelling charms on every inch of it; every time muggles came close all year, they’ve remembered suddenly urgent appointments and dashed off again, bless’ em!”

“Prime seats!” the ticket witch declared when Mr Weasley handed them to her. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, don’t stop until you can’t go any higher!”

It was a shoving, shoulder-rubbing crowd, but everyone was eagerly making room and making way, hunting for their own seats the entire way up the lush, purple, carpeted stairs. The staircase began to empty the higher they went, until the Weasley party were alone, giggling and whispering about their excitement all the way up. At precisely mid-field sat the Top Box, looming over the entire stadium, with the perfect view of all six of the tall golden goalposts. 

Directly across from them in the Top Box was a gigantic blackboard, magically scribed with tall, golden letters. 

The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family— Safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer.

As he watched, the letters swept away, only to be replaced by more with a new message. 

Mrs. Skower’s all-purpose magical mess remover: no pain, no stain!

Looking away from the blackboard, he glanced around at the empty seats behind them while Hermione and Ron fetched their programs from under their seats. The rest of the Top Box would fill up soon enough- but there was already a seat filled, much to Harry’s surprise. 

“Dobby?!” he blurted, dumbfounded, spotting a pair of familiar bat-like, floppy ears.

It was a house-elf, much like the one that had caused so much mischief for Harry in his second year at Hogwarts. This house-elf, looking up at him with big, watery brown eyes, was not Dobby, and Harry felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. 

“Did sir just call me Dobby?” she squeaked, her voice quavering a bit- even more than Dobby’s had- as Ron and Hermione spun around to look 

“Oh— I’m sorry,” Harry sputtered, mortified at his mistake. “I— At a glance, I thought—?”

“Oh but I knows Dobby, sir!” she squeaked, shielding her face behind her floppy ears and spindly hands. “My name is Winky, sir- and you- you sir- you is surely Harry Potter!”

“Potter-Lupin,” Ron corrected at once, though not unkindly as she flinched a bit. 

“Apologies, sir! Mr Potter-Lupin sir!”

“I— it’s alright,” Harry huffed, nudging Ron a bit. “That’s me.”

“Oh Dobby talks of you often, sir!” Winky told him, watching him from behind her thin fingers, almost awestruck as she stole glances up at his scar. 

“How is he?” Harry asked gingerly. “Freedom treating him well?”

“Ah, sir,” she sighed, shaking her head, her ears swinging from side to side. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”

“Why?” Harry asked, baffled. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” Winky told him sorrowfully. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another position, another family, sir.”

“Why not?” Harry frowned. 

“He is—” Winky sat forward, lowering her voice to whisper. “He is wanting paying for his work, sir!”

“Paying?” Harry repeated. “Well why shouldn’t he be paid?”

Winky looked horrified, so much so that she buried her face behind her hands and ears again with a squeak of alarm. 

“House-elves is not paid, sir!” she yelped, muffled behind her hands. “No no no— I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby! He is getting up to all sorts of hijinks, sir, unbecoming of a house-elf! You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and you’ll be up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common ghoul!”

“Well he ought to have a bit of fun!” Harry protested. 

“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Mr Potter-Lupin, sir,” she bemoaned. “House-elves does what they is told! I is not liking heights at all Mr Potter-Lupin—” she would not look anywhere near the railing of the Top Box as she spoke “—but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir!”

“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like heights?” Harry demanded.

“Master— master wants me to save him a seat, sir,” she said shakily, nodding to the empty seat beside her. “He is very busy. Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf!”

She managed a glance over his shoulder at the railing at last, only to squeak, and bury herself behind her hands and ears again. Mumbling to herself about being a good house-elf, Harry felt about as helpful as a cage of pixies. Instead of pester her further, he turned back to the others again, his heart sinking when Winky sobbed to herself behind her hands.

“So that’s a house-elf?” Ron mumbled, toying with his omnioculars rather than stare. “She alright? Acting weird…”

“Dobby was weird,” Harry corrected. “I think… I think she’s just frightened.”

“Oh wild!” he cackled, finding a distraction in the crowd with the omnioculars pressed to his face. “I can reverse a minute! I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again and again… and again… ha! Sicko!”

Hermione handed Harry a program, nudging him to point out a line in it. 

“A display from the team mascots will precede the match,” she read aloud. 

“Ooh that’s always worth watching,” Mr Weasley said eagerly. “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.”

While they pondered through the program, and toyed with the omnioculars, the Top Box began to fill. Over the next half-hour, the seats around them were claimed by their people, and Mr Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often out of ‘respect’ that he looked as if he kept trying to sit on a thumb tack. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, finally arrived, Percy attempted a bow that flung the glasses off of his own nose, cracking against the floor. 

Mortified, he repaired them with his wand and sat quietly in his seat instead, throwing Harry a furiously jealous look when Cornelius Fudge greeted him like an old friend. Harry would be keen on letting Percy trade him places; he hadn’t yet forgiven the way Fudge had acted about his father.

“Ah, this is the Bulgarian Minister,” Fudge introduced with a smile, as if Harry wasn’t scowling at him with a stiff lip. “And this is Harry Potter!”

“Potter-Lupin,” Harry corrected sternly, and Fudge’s eye twitched. 

“Potter— yes— with the—” he kept saying, when the Bulgarian minister didn’t seem to understand any of his english. “Come now, you know who this—?”

The Bulgarian wizard finally spotted Harry’s scar and started chattering loudly to his companions as he pointed it out. He was happy to shake Harry’s hand, and Fudge heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Knew we’d get there in the end— I’m no good at languages, that’s what I have Barty Crouch for. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saved him a seat! Good, too; these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places— oh Lucius!”

Ron stood up at once, and Hermione looked as if she’d licked a lemon when she turned around.

Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr Weasley were none other than the Malfoys. Dobby’s former masters. Lucius with his pompous cane, a woman who looked as if she’d smelled something off, and Draco. 

Draco also wore the curling sneer that his mother shared, but he looked surprised to see them there, and even softened his face. 

He’d grown an inch or two, Harry noticed first, and his white-blond hair was a touch longer as well. Sweeping back from his face in carefully placed waves, curling around the backs of his ears. His silvery eyes caught onto Harry’s face for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirking up into what was almost a smile. He caught a glimpse of Ron next, who was standing in a full posture, and the smile died before it was born. Thankfully, he only offered a polite nod rather than any nasty words, and Harry felt a bit of smug satisfaction when Ron seemed a touch disappointed. 

“Ah, Fudge,” Lucius Malfoy greeted smoothly as he shook the Minister’s hand. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or my son, Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” Fudge nodded with a smile, offering a shallow bow to Mrs Malfoy. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr Oblansk— Obalonsk— Mis— well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic and he can’t understand a word we’re saying anyway, never mind. Oh I believe you’re familiar with Arthur Weasley, yes?”

There was a moment of severe tension as Mr Malfy and Mr Weasley locked eyes. Both alphas stood at full posture, though neither seemed to look it; the scents of them were enough. The last time they’d come face-to-face, it had been a fight in a bookshop. Mr Malfoy was the one to blink first, looking Mr Weasley up and down with a cold, clever glare.

“Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”

Fudge, who wasn’t listening to a word, turned back to say, 

“Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital, Arthur, he’s here as my personal guest!”

“How… kind of him,” Mr Weasley said tightly, managing a strained smile. 

Mr Malfoy’s eyes passed across the Weasley pups, and then to Hermione. She went a bit stiff, but postured back like an alpha, staring determinedly back up at him without blinking. He didn’t seem impressed, his eyes landing on Harry, who shot him a scowl, and he looked a bit amused. 

“Lovely moon tonight, isn’t it?” he mused, and Harry felt nausea rise in his gut. “Good light to see a Snitch by, eh?”

“Good for potion craft as well—” Draco mumbled, and then winced.

That silvered cane had come down hard on Draco’s foot, and Lucius’s glare craned around to his son. 

“Sit,” he said, his tone like ice and silk, but Draco didn’t cower. 

He turned away before he rolled his eyes, though, following his mother to his seat without looking back at his father.

“Slimy fucking git,” Ron hissed, but Hermione took Harry’s hand and smiled at him. 

Harry had wondered if Draco would abide by the agreement they’d made on the train home last year. He was pleased to see that Draco wasn’t acting as a miniature version of his father anymore— and was in fact acting in contrast. It gave him a bit of hope, as well as the young alpha’s comment on potion craft. 

Dad would be alright. He had Padfoot, and Mrs Weasley in the morning. He’d be alright.