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The Hogwarts Express is precisely three minutes and forty-five seconds late. Harry knows this because his dad has already grumbled about tardiness six times in the past two minutes and counting.
Harry doesn’t think that a magical train can be late for anything, but he’s not about to tell James that, not when his dad already looks one off-handed comment away from having a heart attack. It’s not like Harry can blame him; this is a stressful day for everyone. For James more than most.
His dad is currently biting his nails and muttering something that sounds vaguely blasphemous under his breath, eye focused on the train-tracks and foot tapping incessantly. Some of James’ stress should have probably bled onto Harry, but he feels oddly calm, oddly excited.
It’s an unfamiliar emotion for him, to be excited about something.
“You should tap your foot with more force, Dad, I don’t think people on the other side of the station know you’re anxious yet,” Harry comments, sticking his finger into Hedwig’s cage and petting the owl’s soft feathers.
She coos softly once and then nips him. Little shit that she is.
“I’m sending my baby to Hogwarts for the first time, I’m entitled to be a nervous wreck,” James groans and rubs his face, dislodging his glasses and nearly dropping them to the floor.
“I’m eleven. Not a baby anymore.”
“Well, yeah,” James scrambles to clean his glasses with the edge of his shirt and puts them back on his face. “That’s why I’m nervous. Eleven is too young.”
“Everyone is eleven when they start Hogwarts. You were eleven when you started Hogwarts.”
“And it seemed like such a good idea at the time,” his dad grumbles, layers upon layers of meaning packed into those words. Harry only knows about 20% of the facts that justify so much anxiety. He both resents being kept in the dark about the other 80%, and appreciates his parents for letting him at least pretend that their family is normal.
That there’s nothing for him to be scared of.
“I’ll be safe, I promise,” it’s not really something Harry can promise, but he’s pretty used to lying to comfort his parents.
No, I don’t mind when papa leaves all the time.
No, I have no problem with keeping papa’s identity a secret.
No, I don’t mind living locked inside this townhouse.
No, I don’t wish I had a normal life.
He’s good at lying like that.
A loud noise announces the arrival of the train. James looks both relieved and a million times more stressed about it. Harry has never seen his dad not look scared, but this seems a little bit too extreme.
“You’ll write me every week, promise,” James puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but his eyes are glued to the incoming train. To the pile of metal and steam that’s going to steal his son away to the school that both made and ruined his life.
Harry barely has a life as it is, so he fails to see how important it is that he keeps it unruined.
“I promise.”
“And you’ll keep out of trouble.”
“I’m gonna be the nicest, kindest, most boring student in the world. You have my word.”
James gives him a look packed with doubt, but he still pulls Harry into his arms, giving him the tightest hug. Harry hugs his dad back, because it’ll be weird to not have him around all the time now. Because Harry could always rely on James when the world felt like it was falling apart. Because Harry will miss his dad like a lung.
“Be careful. Be safe. Kick everyone’s asses in Quidditch. Brush your teeth every day. Never, ever, accept professor Trelawney’s homemade teas. Remember that I love you, and—,” his dad bites his lips, cuts himself off before he can say anything further.
But Harry can make an educated guess.
And never tell anyone about Regulus.
And never let anyone find out about where you came from.
And keep every single lie we stuffed inside you catalogued and organized and safe from the world.
And don’t fuck up.
The Hogwarts Express’ horn goes off and teary parents begin saying their goodbyes. Hugs are traded. Kisses are shared. Normal families see to this normal day like the world isn’t weighing down on Harry’s shoulders with each and every breath. Like they can’t feel the gravitational pull that has always lived in his lungs.
“I know, Dad,” Harry presses his face into James’ chest, he inhales the scent of spicy warmth, of bottled-up sunshine, of being cradled in big hands when he was only a baby, of being safe and loved and happy. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Harry,” James presses those words into the crown of his head. “I love you so much, lad. I never wanted this for you.”
Tears prick at his eyes, but Harry blinks them away before they can fall. Before they can announce to the world that Harry Potter is human, and has feelings, and is so very scared of facing Hogwarts without the safety net of his parent’s arms.
That Harry Potter is even more scared of never finding the strength to leave that safety to begin with.
Another horn sounds, and James pulls away, sniffling and adjusting Harry’s sweater, his curls, his glasses, hands warm and careful as they handle his son. He’s always been gentle when it came to Harry. Always treated Harry like he was something precious. Some treasure in need of being protected.
So very different from Regulus. Regulus, who taught Harry how to fight, how to be angry, how to bite the hand that slaps, even when it’s the same one that feeds. Regulus, who encouraged him to rage, to grieve, to scream at this stupid war until his voice grew hoarse.
They’re so different from one another, Harry’s fathers. They balance each other, in a strange way.
“Alright,” James fusses over him one more time. “Your aunt Lily will be there if you need anything. Try not to drive her crazy, okay?”
“So, be nothing like you? Got it.”
James huffs out a laugh and messes up Harry’s curls lovingly.
“Watch that attitude, I’m still your father.”
“Watch your anxiety, old man, lest you have a heart attack and die from stress. I’m too young to be an orphan,” Harry jokes, pushing his dad’s hands away from him.
“I’ll try.”
“Well, and so will I,” Harry says, and they both know he’s talking about more than the attitude.
That they’re talking about the whole entire world.
+++
Harry ends up sitting with a boy with hair coloured like rust, a constellation of freckles peppering his nose, and ruddy cheeks.
He introduces himself as Ron and when he smiles his eyebrows tilt down like they’re taking in the world with all the wonder of a small child. His hands are smudged with something Harry can’t quite figure out, that is, until he picks up a large rat and Harry immediately recognizes the dark spots as the specific kind of grime that only comes from animal fur.
When he was younger, Harry used to sneak into the backyard and pet every single stray animal that managed to sneak past the townhouse’s wards. His parents always found out, the grimy film on his hands gave him away, even with his perfect poker face.
He shares this story with Ron, who seems to find the anecdote delightful, because he offers the rat— Scabbers— for Harry to pet, which he happily accepts. The animal’s fur is coarse under his hands and he seems to stare at Harry with wide, dazed eyes.
Of course, it doesn’t take long for Ron to ask Harry about his name, which is then followed by asking to see his scar, which is then followed by the question Harry has been dreading.
“So,” Ron rubs the back of his neck. At least he’s feeling awkward about it. “About your mum? I know, I know, you probably get this question a million times a day, but I’m just so curious. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Won’t be offended, I swear.”
The worst part is that Harry does want to tell him. He can’t tell if they’re gonna be friends yet, but he doesn’t want to start his very first chance at friendship with a lie. But there’s nothing else he can do. His life is nothing but a big lie, a secret so monumental that his parents stuffed him full of deceptions since before he learned what the truth could taste like.
“I don’t have a mum,” Harry says, because it’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either.
“Oh,” Ron looks away guiltily. Harry feels both good and bad about having caused this new boy so much discomfort. “Sorry.”
“For what? Being curious? I don’t mind.” Harry picks up Scabbers, staring into the rat’s eyes and watching as those long whiskers twitch. “You know, I tried to keep rats as pets once. Hid them in the basement and made them a little nest, but my dad found out a few days later and almost passed out when he saw them.”
Ron makes a strange sound, half a giggle-snort, and half a whimper.
“My brothers did that once too, but with a family of wild foxes. They trashed my mum’s kitchen when they escaped, got Fred and George grounded for months after.”
“You have brothers?” Harry always wanted to have siblings. He always wanted something to chase away the loneliness of being Harry Potter, army of one.
“Mate, I have too many brothers.”
“I always wanted to have a big family, but I’m an only child and so is my dad. Don’t even get a cousin as a consolation prize,” Harry puts Scabbers back down on his lap. The rat escapes as soon as he’s free, scurrying back into his cage and far away from Harry.
“Sometimes I wish I was an only child,” Ron sighs. “It’d probably be quieter.”
“Too quiet sometimes. Oh, but my aunt makes it better. She adds… excitement to my life.”
Excitement is an understatement when it comes to Lily Evans, the woman who once snuck a hatchling through Harry’s window, just so he could have the experience of playing with a real-life dragon. James had not been happy about it, but Regulus had just dissolved into laughter, so Harry was allowed to keep the dragon for three days before Lily had to come back and take him away again.
“Aunt?” Ron asks.
“Lily,” Harry says, “she’s the charms professor, I’ll introduce you when we get to Hogwarts.”
“Oh,” Ron frowns, and then immediately tries to disguise the fact that he had been frowning. There’s a question stamped on the line of his brow, but Harry can see that he’s holding himself back from voicing it. “You have an aunt professor? That’s so cool. She’s gonna be teaching us?”
Harry shakes his head. “She only teaches older students.”
Ron deflates at that. “Man, and here I thought I’d found a good way to pass at least one class.”
Harry chuckles, because knowing Lily, she would probably gonna go even harder on Harry and anyone she perceives to be his friend.
The war turned her into a little bit of a general, at least, that’s what his dad always says. Her and Regulus share the same inclination towards making sure Harry is prepared for everything, from gunfights, to hexes.
He wants to share this with Ron too, but can’t find a way to stuff so much of his family into words before the door slides open and someone else peeks in.
The first thing Harry sees, is a mess of curls, similar to the ones he sees every time he looks into the mirror. These are tighter than his, though, coiled like a nest of springs and as dark as wet soil. Attached to that head of hair, is a girl, with skin a few shades darker than his, and the straightest most perfect teeth Harry has ever seen.
“Have either of you seen a frog?”
“What kind?” Harry asks, even when he hasn’t seen a single frog today.
“Bullfrog, I think?”
“Aren’t they invasive here?”
“Which is exactly why I’m trying to help Neville get his back,” the girl rolls her eyes, like this is something obvious.
“Have you checked the bathroom? Frogs need to keep their skin moist to breathe and they’re likely to be found in damp places.”
The girl raises a single eyebrow, seemingly impressed with Harry’s knowledge of amphibians. He doesn’t have the guts to tell her that he just fell asleep watching the telly the other day and woke up in the middle of a nature documentary.
“Well, if you know so much about frogs, can you help me? This train is huge.”
Harry looks at Ron for help, but the boy just shrugs, a slightly panicked tilt to his eyebrows.
“I guess,” Harry rubs the back of his neck and reluctantly stands up.
Ron proves to be a good possible friend, because he stands up too.
“Will go faster if there’s three of us, right?”
The girl squints at him, like she’s an entomologist and Ron is her butterfly, pinned to the corkboard.
“What’s your name?” She asks.
“Ron. Ron Weasley.”
She nods once and then pins Harry down with the same intensity.
“Harry Potter,” he introduces himself, already anticipating the commotion that always follows The Boy Who Lived.
Except, it doesn’t come. The name means nothing to this girl, so Harry assumes she’s muggle-born. Either that, or she’s a better actor than he’s giving her credit for.
“Pleasure. I’m Hermione Granger. Now,” she claps her hands. “If we spread out, we can cover more ground at once. I’ll take the next five booths this way. Harry, you can go ahead and cover the five after that. And as for Ron, you can cover the next five after Harry’s. Got it?”
Ron does not look like he got it, but he nods anyway. Harry nods too, because Hermione does not look like the type of girl you say no to.
Her casualty makes him feel a bit more comfortable. A bit more human.
They don’t end up finding that damn frog, but Harry can say he might have found something else while running around the train and searching for a lost pet.
Friends.
+++
Lily Evans had a very specific image of what being thirty would be like.
She still remembers being freshly eleven-years-old, holding a letter that promised her more wonders than she could ever imagine, and picturing a future where she would fit in. Where she would be part of the magic, instead of relegated to the forgotten corners of the world.
Back then, that future had included a flourishing career working with dragons, and hippogriffs, and mandrakes, and curses, and hexes, and potions, and crystal balls. That specific part of her dreams collapsed during her first week, when she realized that none of those things were part of the same general area. It was like saying you wanted to be an astronaut, a doctor and a singer all at the same time.
The second part, however, was a hope she cultivated until she hit seventeen. In that dream, she pictured herself smart, successful, married to a good man, with three children, and a warm house. It was a generic dream, moulded more by what other people said she should want, and less by her own heart’s desires.
Never mind that she didn’t like men, that she didn’t want children, that she didn’t want to live the rest of her life in England, let alone buy a house in this country.
Those are all the things that thirty-year-old Lily knows.
Seventeen-year-old Lily didn’t know better.
That Lily had been a dreamer.
And dreamers are the first casualty in a war.
Everyone talks about the war in past tense, like something that happened to them. Like something that isn’t happening still.
Lily knows better. She can see the writing on the wall as clear as day.
It’s funny. When she was a kid, she used to sit in the living room, face only a few centimetres away from the telly and watch movies that depicted the horrors of war. None of them got the mundanity of it right. None of them could quite capture how life just keeps going, even when in an active war zone.
There’s no amount of tragedy that makes society halt, that makes the bills stop arriving, that makes the need to get up in the morning and shove your feet into uncomfortable shoes and go to work cease.
Lily knows she doesn’t need to wear uncomfortable shoes today, but she makes a point to anyway. She makes a point to dress up like a muggle, even when she’s been a part of the wizarding world longer than not.
Knitted cardigan, jeans from Harrods, and a brand-new pair of Nike sneakers, which haven’t been broken in yet and pinch at the toes. She dresses to make a point. To let everyone know that she’s muggle-born. That she’s bloody proud of it too.
The clock ticks, letting her know that a new batch of students will be arriving any minute now. A batch of students that will include her nephew.
Lily sighs, studying her reflection in the mirror.
She has some new wrinkles around her eyes, some more forehead creases. Signs of age. Signs she survived, even when this world has done its very best to take her down. Signs she still did what no one thought a muggle-born could do.
She looked Voldemort right in the eye. She challenged the man most people feared as a God and came out on top.
Lily Evans doesn’t believe in God, and even if she did, she knows too much of power-hungry men to ever see Voldemort as more than that. Just another pathetic man, believing himself bigger than the world he lives in.
She presses a finger to the mirror, right on top of the ugly scar on her left cheek. She traces the jagged edges with the pad of her thumb. More proof of living. More proof of surviving.
A shrill ringtone echoes in Lily’s quarters and she cringes, lunging for the phone before it can wake up half the castle. She taps the answer button and presses the little block of plastic to her ear.
“This better be an emergency,” she hisses.
“It is. James is close to having a heart attack, and I consider being a widower an emergency,” Regulus’ crisp voice answers on the other side of the line.
It was his idea of use muggle phones to communicate. It was funny at the time, to see magic-raised pure-blood Regulus suggest using muggle technology, but it has proved to be more useful than any cloaked method of communication the wizarding world could come up with.
Sure, these phones cost a small fortune to buy, and they required upkeep, and good reception, and battery, but the relief of knowing they were talking through a line that was untappable by death eaters more than made up for it.
“If you’re asking about Harry, I haven’t seen him yet. He’s probably still on the train. Or the boats.”
“That’s what I told him, but he’ll believe it better if comes from your mouth.”
“Shove a sedative up his arse and let him sleep it off, then, I don’t have time for this,” Lily snorts, running her fingers through her hair to make sure she looks presentable.
She glances at the clock and calculates how much time she has left before she needs to be down in the Great Hall, pretending she’s the perfect charms professor.
“I’ll take your suggestion under consideration,” Regulus says. “How are things over there?”
“Feeling nervous, are we?”
“Very. Aren’t you?”
“It’s not my kid,” she shrugs, even when they all know Harry is hers too. Maybe not as a son, but he is hers either way.
“Twenty galleons he gets detention during his first week,” Regulus says and she can almost see the smirk on his lips.
“First week? I’d bet on first day.”
“Bold, Evans.”
“Well, he is your kid. Your and James’, those terrible genes have to come out somehow. My bet is he sets the kitchen on fire in the next hour.”
“I bet he punches someone. It’s what I wanted to do during my first day, and Harry is less concerned about being perfect.”
“So, fire for me, punching for you. Twenty galleons?” Lily smirks.
It’s so weird, to be so casually talking to Regulus Black, even when he has a hateful tattoo on the meat of his forearm and she has a line of scarred tissue stamped on her cheek. It’s so impossible, that this man be her best friend. The father of her nephew. The bridge between the hopelessness of the war and the family she has now.
“You’re on, Evans,” Regulus is smirking too, she doesn’t even need to see him to know. “But I’m just letting you know that it’ll be my thing. I always win.”
Lily closes her eyes. She sees a damp cave, blood in the water, and a million hands trying to drag her down under.
“No,” she says, “not always.”
+++
The very first person Harry finds himself disliking is Draco Malfoy.
It’s animosity at first sight.
Harry barely has the time to process the magnitude of the castle when Draco stuffs a hand in his face, insults both Ron and Hermione, and then dares to suggest he knows better than Harry. Dares to suggest he’s better because of his pedigree.
Like they are breeding dogs instead of human beings.
Of course, because Harry Potter was raised by Regulus Black and Lily Evans, he immediately swings wide and punches the prick right on the nose. He doesn’t even process his body moving. One moment there’s a platinum blonde in front of him, and the next, there’s rage, and blood, and screaming.
Something cracks under his knuckles, a wet sound that alerts everyone as to the trip to the infirmary that will soon follow.
The commotion is to be expected, but Harry still isn’t prepared to deal with being labelled a troublemaker not even an hour after stepping foot in the castle.
Professor McGonagall, as she introduced herself only a few minutes ago, berates Harry and presses a piece of enchanted cloth to Draco’s bleeding nose, before giving Harry detention of a month. It’s humbling in a way, to be failing at his dad’s mission so soon after finally being set free.
He was supposed to keep a low profile.
Punching arseholes in the hallway does not a low profile make.
McGonagall makes him apologise, which he does. It’s extremely fake-sounding, but he refuses to inject more feeling into hollow words.
“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” he spits, even when he’s only sorry he didn’t punch with enough force to break teeth.
“You’ll regret this, Potter.” The cloth must have some good magic, because the blood around Malfoy’s nose is almost gone.
“No,” Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think I will.”
McGonagall stops them before anything else can happen and shepherds the entire group into the Great Hall.
Harry awes at the infinite ceiling, the floating candles, the grandiose magic of Hogwarts. Something his dad has always included in his bedtime stories. A whole world of possibilities, finally available for Harry to experience.
But then his eyes slide to the side, to the spiteful form of Draco Malfoy and some of the magic sours on his tongue.
Harry grew up in the muggle world, surrounded by the wonders of cable, ball-pens, washing machines, and central plumbing. He grew up with a foot in the magical world, surrounded by floating candles, teleportation charms, moving paintings, and candy that came in every flavour.
It all feels like magic to him. It all feels painfully mundane to him.
The magical world still uses slaves; the muggle one passes laws to remove reproductive rights every other week. One will disinherit you for being born without magic, while the other will kill you on the street for daring to challenge your gender.
It seems there is nothing that can magic away hatred in people’s hearts.
Harry can see that hatred reflected in the blue of Malfoy’s eyes.
Familiar eyes.
The same shade he sees every time he looks into the mirror. Into his papa’s eyes.
Familiar eyes.
Family’s eyes.
They are one and the same, him and Draco. Half Black and half something else. Harry can only hope the Potter in him is enough to make him turn out different than the hateful creature he sees when he looks into his cousin’s eyes.
+++
Harry gets sorted into Gryffindor.
Lily didn’t bet on what house her nephew would land in, but if she did, she would not have guessed Gryffindor. It isn’t that Harry doesn’t belong in her former house, or that she thinks he would be better suited for another one. It’s just that she sees so much of Regulus in him that it’s hard to imagine Harry anywhere but Slytherin.
Harry looks exactly like James, from the colour of his skin, all the way to his atrocious eyesight, but inside, he’s all Regulus. Same stubbornness, same anger, same cowardice, and same insane bravery. Lily never knew someone could be both a coward and brave at the same time, but Regulus Black always had a tendency to challenge the limits of what a person could be.
The sorting ceremony continues, droning on for forever. Lily plays with the cutlery in front of her, running her fingers over the intricate patterns of the silverware. She eyes Harry as he chuckles awkwardly and approaches the Gryffindor table, already cozying up with a boy with hair as red as hers. She watches as the two kids laugh amongst themselves, a friendship already blooming in between them.
Maybe that’s why Harry ended up in Gryffindor. Maybe this is less about personality and more about loneliness.
Lily remembers being lonely. She remembers the relief she felt when she arrived at Hogwarts for the first time and found herself a community that didn’t shun her for being different. Of course, that was about twelve seconds before figuring out that she was a different kind of weird here.
Insults shifted. She was longer weird, off-putting, a freak. Hogwarts made her into a mudblood, an outsider, a perfect target for Voldemort’s cruelty. Sometimes, Lily wonders if would have been better to remain the freak of the human world, instead of the pariah of the wizard world.
Dumbledore’s clear voice announces the end of the sorting ceremony and Lily looks down to find a deep wedge carved into the wooden table, curtesy of her fiddling with the knife. She cringes and covers the damage with a napkin, waiting for the feast to start so she can slip out and eat in the comfort of her room.
The banquet appears with a wave of Dumbledore’s hand. Once, Lily would have found it wonderful to be surrounded by so much magic, but that time has long since passed. She looks at Dumbledore, at this wise man and all his flourish and finds nothing in her chest but resentment.
She will forever be that scared nineteen-years-old girl, coming to him and begging for his help. For her friends. For her family. For Regulus and for Harry. For herself, above everyone else.
She received nothing back then and she receives nothing now.
Lily’s survival depends on no one but herself.
Once the students descend upon their food and the staff looks away to focus on their own conversations, Lily quietly slips away. Normally, she would keep to the corners, exit without fanfare, but never before has her nephew been at a banquet. She feels like she needs to acknowledge him somehow. Let him know that he’s not alone like she was alone when she was only eleven and thrown into the biggest bigotry soup known to man.
Harry doesn’t notice when she arrives, so she taps him on the shoulder and watches as he jumps and turns back to look at her.
“Aunty,” Harry wheezes, putting a hand on his chest. His glasses are slightly crooked and his hair is messy like it often is after a long day. “Merlin and Jesus, you scared me.”
“Harry,” she greets back, “congrats on making Gryffindor. I know some people who will be very happy about the news.”
“And some who will bitch a lot,” Harry snorts.
Lily gives him a look that she hopes communicates that he’s going too far. Revealing too much.
Harry’s face closes off and he clears his throat.
“Are you leaving already?”
“I’m tired,” Lily shrugs.
Harry hums and looks away for a moment, grey-blue eyes focusing on something distant and turbulent. Lily is about to ask what it is, when he turns back and pulls the boy next to him by his collar. The one with fiery red hair and a constellation of freckles resting upon his cheeks and nose.
“By the way, this is Ron. He’s my friend,” it’s a deflection, but Lily decides to allow it.
“Nice to meet you, Ron.”
The boy— Ron—, smiles sheepishly and blushes bright red.
“N-nice t-to meet you, ma’am,” he looks away, lightly elbowing Harry in the gut.
To his credit, Harry takes it with pride and just laughs.
“Jesus, don’t call me ma’am. Makes me feel a thousand years old. Just Lily is fine.”
Ron nods and then leans closer to Harry to whisper “Jesus?”, which makes her nephew snort-laugh. Lily can’t help but grin too. Not all of her years in the wizard world will ever erase the muggle that she was raised to be. She refuses to let it die, actually.
“Alright, I’m going to bed now,” she waves at both boys. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“High bar,” Harry grins. He looks a lot like James when he does that. All carefree and bright.
“Think you can clear it anyway?”
“You have no faith in me,” he fake whines.
“I have faith that your excellent judgment will control those mischief genes in your veins.”
“Yeah, Dad said the same thing,” Harry sighs, pouting a little bit. He looks a lot like Regulus when he does that. Filled with stubbornness and pride.
“And for once in your life, listen to your dad.”
Harry looks away again, eyes sliding to the professor’s table.
“I will,” he says. There’s a storm trapped beneath the icy blue of his eyes. Doubt and fear and relief and rage.
He looks at lot like her when he does that.
+++
Lily waits until she’s safe in the privacy of her room to call Regulus.
“Evans.”
“I owe you twenty galleons.”
Regulus erupts into laughter.
“Who?”
“Malfoy,” she sighs. “He probably deserved it too, but I wasn’t about to tell Harry that.”
“I told you, Evans,” he says and almost sounds proud. “I always win.”
Lily chuckles and very pointedly doesn’t point out all the times when he lost. Instead, she chooses to take today as a win and collapses on her bed, toeing off her sneakers.
“Well then, Mister I Always Win, what house you think he’s in?”
Regulus is silent for a long time, too long, before tentatively suggesting, “Hufflepuff?”
“Is that a guess, or a hope?”
“Can’t it be both?”
Lily snorts, because she gets what he means. Things would be easier if Harry was a Hufflepuff. Hufflepuffs are less messy than either of them were granted in their childhoods.
“Well, you lose either way.”
“What house?” Regulus asks, voice slightly tremulous.
“Guess.”
“I already did.”
“Guess for real.”
Regulus makes an annoyed noise and Lily mockingly copies him.
“Harry is stubborn,” he says. “And he’s prideful, and he’s brave, and a little bit stupid, and—”
“Careful there,” Lily cuts him off. “That might be my house you’re insulting.”
“They’re not insults,” Regulus says, “they’re qualities.”
Lily snorts, picturing the perfect little Gryffindor boy and finding herself hating him. Harry isn’t like that. Harry is so much more than a list of qualities made up by four wizards that couldn’t even figure out how to create internal plumbing. They’re all more than the houses made to divide them.
“Anything can be a quality, if you just use it the right way,” she points out.
“And anything can be a weakness if you’re stupid enough to find yourself thinking you’re better than everyone else.”
“Are you speaking from experience, Black?”
Regulus snorts, no longer insulted by her words after so many years of friendship.
“Twenty galleons he’s a Gryffindor,” Lily says.
“That’s an unfair bet.”
“Tough shit.”
“Twenty galleons he’s a Slytherin,” Regulus counteracts, even when he knows he’s already lost.
“Well then,” Lily kisses her teeth, pressing the phone to her ear and feeling how warm the plastic has become. “Guess I don’t owe you money anymore.”
+++
Becoming friends with Ron is as easy as breathing.
Harry never had friends before, excluding the odd mice, raccoon, or beetle that would make its way into his bedroom, but having Ron feels good. They talk for hours on end, about everything and nothing. They’re late for class together, they get lost in Hogwarts’ endless halls together, and they challenge each other for wizard’s chess at least three times a day.
Being friends with Ron is natural, easy, effortless.
Becoming friends with Hermione is a little bit more difficult, but the pull is just as unavoidable.
At first, it’s just the odd encounter, it’s just pulling Ron back when he and Hermione would enter into yet another one of their scuffles. But eventually, disagreements turn into banter, turn into friendly banter, turn into Hermione tagging along for every meal and every free moment they can scrounge up.
Hermione is different than Ron. She’s got a fire behind the eye that Harry only ever seen in his aunt Lily. That quiet certainty that she wasn’t born for this, so she’ll carve a place to belong with her bare hands if need be.
Harry relates to it. Harry bonds with Hermione because of it, trading stories about the muggle world like they are secrets. Relishing in a world that is so unlike this one, packed full with a different kind of magic than Hogwarts provides.
When Harry makes it into the Quidditch team, Hermione is even more proud than Ron. She takes him by the arm, her grip unbreakable and warm, and drags him to a trophy wall, smiling from ear to ear.
Her teeth are perfect, sparkly white and fitted together like corn kernels.
She points at a picture, something from years ago, the paper yellowed with age. Harry squints at it, trying to figure out what she’s trying to show him.
“What am I looking at?”
Hermione huffs and yanks his arm again. She always does that. She always expects everyone to be as smart and perceptive as her.
“The names, Harry. Look,” she points. “Gryffindor Quidditch team, 1973, Chaser, James F. Potter. That’s your dad, isn’t it?” She sounds very proud of herself.
“I guess,” Harry squints at the photo, finally locating his dad’s mop of curly hair, his crooked glasses, and his dark skin.
“I didn’t know your dad was a Chaser,” Ron whistles. He also sounds impressed.
“Me neither,” Harry echoes, but unlike his friends, he’s not impressed at all. In fact, he’s a little bit angry about it. Angry about not being told something. About being the unwilling recipient of yet another secret.
It seems so trivial. Such a stupid thing to be angry about, but Harry can’t help it.
He can’t rage about being the chosen one. He can’t resent the war for taking his freedom before he was even born. He can’t hate Voldemort for turning a newborn into an enemy. Into a martyr.
So, he rages about this.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Why not? If it was me, I would want to brag,” Ron says, putting his hands on the glass and getting closer to the trophy. “I mean, looks like his team won that year too. Maybe Harry should try to be a Chaser instead, if he’s anything like his dad, Gryffindor would win no problem.”
“Don’t be stupid, Ron,” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Harry is an excellent Seeker. He’ll do amazing.”
“Well, yeah, but he could be an even better Chaser. He’s got the genes for it.”
“That’s not how genes work—,” Hermione sighs, and Harry tunes out of his friends’ bickering.
He scans the rest of the pictures, watching as the teams change as the years pass. A trophy here and there, a victory and a million losses. So many years of so many people loving the same game. This is Harry’s legacy too now. This is where Harry will be one day, immortalized behind this wall of glass, together with the rest of his team.
Ou of the corner of his eyes, Harry catches something.
A familiar face. Forever smirking lips. Sharp cheekbones. Dark curly hair. Pale skin and almond-shaped eyes.
The photos are sepia, but Harry doesn’t need colour to know the blue of this boy’s eyes. He sees that shade every day, when he looks into the mirror.
Slytherin Quidditch team, 1974, Seeker, Regulus A. Black.
Harry puts his hands to the glass. He presses down on it like he could crawl up inside the display, like he could melt into the picture and into his papa’s arms.
Hermione and Ron’s bickering continues, but Harry can’t hear them anymore.
Everything in his mind goes blank.
Seeker.
Regulus was a Seeker.
He was a Seeker like Harry is a Seeker.
It feels important somehow. It feels like something he would want to share. Like the kind of discovery that would prompt him to take Ron and Hermione by the arm and show them that there’s more in his veins than James Potter’s talent.
That he’ll be a good Seeker because his father was a good Seeker.
But he can’t.
Harry Potter has known nothing but secrecy since being born.
He takes his hands away from the glass.
He tears his eyes away from his papa’s photo.
He turns away and doesn’t look back when his friends call for him.
+++
Lily is halfway through a very good novel when her door slams open.
She would love to say the sudden noise doesn’t make her jump, but it does. Her heart hammers in her chest and panic courses through her veins. Not even the years of relative peace they’ve been granted could calm the cornered animal she’s become.
Luckly, her wand is resting on the other side of the table, and not in her hands, because otherwise she would have vaporized Harry on the spot.
“Didn’t your parents teach you to knock?” She rubs her forehead, putting the book to the side.
“My parents are arseholes and they tell me nothing,” Harry sneers, kicking the door closed and stalking closer.
Lily examines the frown on his brow, the look of betrayal on those icy blue eyes.
She sighs, pulling up a chair and gesturing for the boy to sit.
“What happened?”
Harry eyes the chair like it could be trap, before deciding that brown leather does not a boobytrap make, and sitting down.
“Hermione showed me the trophy display for former Quidditch teams.”
“Yes…” Lily doesn’t get it.
Harry makes a strangled noise and frustratedly rubs at his face, displacing his glasses.
“Dad was a Chaser,” he says, very slowly, like he’s explaining a very difficult concept to a toddler. Which Lily finds very offensive, because just a few years ago she was the adult and he was the helpless toddler.
“He was.”
“And…?” He gestures emphatically.
Lily presses her lips together, trying to figure out what else he could be alluding to. She was never a big fan of Quidditch, so she just let the details of the game slide over her mind, like water off a duck’s back.
“You’re gonna have to use some more words there, Haz.”
“I can’t,” he groans. “I can’t because—,” he cuts himself off and Lilly finally gets it.
Whatever this is, it has to do with Regulus.
“Your mum.”
Harry makes a face, which Lily understands. She also hates referring to Regulus as a mother, but it’s the best they can do in this situation. It’s the best way to keep his identity a secret.
“Sure,” Harry cringes. “H— She was a Seeker. I saw it. I saw hi— her, in the photos,” he stops, smacks his lips like he’s just tasted spoiled milk, and then says, “is this even doing anything? This her stuff. Because it just feels too disrespectful.”
“It isn’t doing anything when you say shit like that,” Lily sighs, picking up her wand and casting a quick spell for privacy. “There, talk freely now.”
“Why didn’t you do that sooner?” Harry accuses.
“I’m trying to teach you to not mention Regulus, not how to get around the rules.”
“You hate the rules as much as I do.”
“No, not as much as you do,” Lily doesn’t think there’s anyone that hates the secrecy more than Harry and James. “But yes, I hate them too. You said something about a picture.”
“Papa was a Seeker.”
“Was he?” She scrunches up her nose, trying to think back to her childhood. “I’ll be honest, I never paid too much attention to Quidditch. I wouldn’t know either way.”
“I’m not asking whether or not he was. I’m telling you he was. I saw the photos; he was part of the team when he was attending Hogwarts. He was a Seeker like me.”
“And?”
“And—!” Harry makes another frustrated huff and collapses back on his chair. He’s so needlessly dramatic, Potter flair tattooed on every inch of his skin. “And I didn’t know! They never told me. They never tell me anything.”
“You’re upset Regulus never told you he used to be a Seeker?” Lily doesn’t mean to sound so incredulous but she can’t help it. It’s such a small thing for him to be upset about.
“Sure,” Harry shrugs. “Sure, I’m upset about that. I’m upset about a lot of things. I get that they can’t tell me about the big stuff, but why hide this? It’s like they don’t know how to tell me the truth anymore.”
Lily wants to reassure him, to tell him that this is a smaller issue than he’s making it up to be. Except, she can’t do that. She can’t do that because it would be a lie, and Harry already holds too many lies to be burdened with yet another one.
“Do you feel different now that you know?”
Harry stops, chews on his lips as he thinks, and then shakes his head.
“Do you still want to be a Seeker?”
This time, Harry doesn’t hesitate before nodding.
“Then I fail to see the problem.”
This is, apparently, the wrong thing to say, because her nephew makes an annoyed clicking sound and looks away. His shoulders draw up, a solid armour rising all around him.
“Of course you do. You’re always on their side. Everyone is. It’s always the whole entire world against Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived,” he says like his own name like it has done him harm.
And the worst part is that Lily knows it has.
“Harry—,” she coaxes, but the boy just jumps up suddenly, dusting his robes and then plastering on a fake smile.
“Sorry to bother you, aunty Lily. I’m alright now. If you’ll excuse me, I promised Ron I would help him with our potion’s homework,” and then he bows a little bit and rushes out the door.
Lily is left frozen on her chair, staring at the empty spot her nephew just occupied and cataloguing each and every line on Harry’s face that reminds her of Regulus.
For better or for worse, that boy is just like his father.
+++
Lily waits precisely twenty-three minutes, and then dials Regulus.
“Evans.”
“You were a Seeker?” It’s supposed to be a question, but it sounds more like an accusation.
“I was. Does it matter?”
Lily groans, collapsing back on her chair and spinning around.
“Your son just came to me to bitch about it. He was very upset you didn’t tell him.”
“About being a Seeker?” Regulus also sounds confused. “Why would he be upset about it?”
“Do I look like a mind-reader? I don’t know. You figure it out, you’re the father.”
Regulus huffs in annoyance. If it’s directed towards her, or Harry, Lily doesn’t know.
“What did he tell you?”
“That you and James forgot how to tell the truth and that he’s tired of being lied to all the time.”
“It’s not like I choose to lie to him,” Regulus snaps, angry at her even when she’s not the source of his frustration.
“Yeah, but you’re still his father. What else are children for other than raging against their parents?”
Regulus makes a very annoyed noise and Lily momentarily thinks she’ll be hung up on. She isn’t, but only because Regulus knows that she’d call again if he ever did that.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“You better,” she says and hangs up.
Regulus doesn’t call back.
+++
Harry hates lying.
He hates lying.
He never noticed how much until he finds himself staring face-to-face with the Mirror of Erised.
Dumbledore tells him that the mirror shows him what his heart desires most, warns him against letting himself be consumed by impossible desires, and then leaves him alone to be swallowed whole.
Harry frowns at his reflection, thinks back on Dumbledore’s warning, and doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it because he only seems himself. Same tan skin, same full lips, same blue eyes, same dark curls.
“You’re supposed to show me what I want,” he asks the mirror.
“I am,” his reflection answers.
“What do I want?”
His reflection looks at him with so much pity that Harry almost wants to crush the mirror in retaliation. And then, slowly, so slowly, it raises an arm and pushes up the mop of curls that always falls upon his forehead.
His blank forehead.
Harry touches his own brow in surprise, fingers immediately finding the jagged line of his scar.
“This is what you want,” the reflection says.
And the reflected world starts collapsing.
There are bones on the floor. Death eaters run up behind mirror-Harry, blue-green light reflecting against the ruins of the castle that Hogwarts once was. Harry shouldn’t be able to hear voices, but the screams echo anyway and no amount of pressing his hands to his ears can make the infernal wailing stop.
A world in which Harry Potter isn’t shackled by his own prophecy.
A world on the verge of ending.
A war lost.
“Freedom,” his reflection accuses. It’s his voice, but it isn’t. “No matter what the cost is. This is what you want.”
Harry snarls at his own reflection. He turns his back to it and runs.
He hates this stupid mirror, and he hates his stupid reflection, and he hates that this is what his heart decided to beat for. He hates that he saw a version of himself, free of scars, free of burdens, and he couldn’t help but yearn for it.
No matter the costs.
Harry hates the scar etched on his forehead, and he hates Voldemort, and he hates his parents for giving birth to him in the middle of a war.
But most of all, Harry hates himself.
Because the Mirror of Erised doesn’t lie.
But Harry does.
+++
By the time winter break ends, Harry has cultivated a series of guidelines to help him lie better. He tried to make a game out of them, a mission, instead of a burden.
Mission: keeping Regulus a secret.
Section 1. things he is not allowed to talk about.
Number one: never talk about his papa’s looks. Number two: never talk about his job. Number three: never say his father used to be a Slytherin back in the day. Number four: never speak French in public. Number five: never speak Japanese in public either. Number six: if anyone comments on how he doesn’t have his dad’s eyes, change the subject.
Section 2. things he is allowed to talk about.
Number one: how his father would always sing him to sleep when Harry was a baby. Number two: how he always succumbs to Harry's teasing when cooking and lets his son drag him into clumsy dancing in their kitchen. Number three: how his hands were always delicate when he patched Harry’s scraped knees. Number four: how he’s kind, and gentle, and fierce, and how much Harry misses him each and every day.
Section 3. things he’s allowed to be.
Number one: strong. Number two: brave. Number three: reliable. Number four: friendly. Number five: kind. Number six: perfect.
Section 4. things he’s not allowed to be.
Number one: himself.
+++
There’s a philosopher’s stone hidden beneath Hogwarts.
It’s obvious now that Lily thinks about it, but it doesn’t make her any less furious about the discovery. She screams and curses Dumbledore’s name for a solid twenty minutes after he finds out. What kind of reckless idiot keep something this dangerous around a school? Around children?
She knows Dumbledore is not a monster. She knows that he cares, in his own strange and convoluted way.
But she also knows that caring will never be enough to stop the man from putting people in danger. Dumbledore’s priorities will always be this stupid war, no matter the costs. She knows that. She does. And yet, she can’t help but be just a little bit more disappointed.
Lily reaches out for her emergency phone before she even realises she’s doing it. Regulus picks up on the third ring.
“I’m beginning to think no one understands the meaning of an emergency phone.”
“And just because you opened up with that, this time it’s an actual emergency.”
“What happened? Is Harry okay?” His voice changes, becoming more harried, more worried.
“Harry is fine, but he might not be for long. Did you know Dumbledore hid a philosopher’s stone here at Hogwarts? Because I just found out, and let me tell you, it’s a bloody stupid move.”
“Dumbledore what?” Regulus hisses, just as angry as she is.
“Yeah, what I just said.”
“Why would—? No. I don’t care about that. What else?”
“What else?” Lily laughs, but it sounds bitter. “Well, there’s a philosopher’s stone sitting under my feet, and there’s a chosen one walking around these halls, and forgive me for thinking that’s not the best combination. There’s too much he wants in this castle.”
“Voldemort,” Regulus says. He’s one of the few people that never cared much for the fear that surrounds the Dark Lord’s name.
Fear only gives him more power, he had told her once and she had since then vowed to purge herself from it too.
“Yup, good ol’ Lord Voldy.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothing for sure, but I suspect,” she suspects that Harry is hiding things from her, and she suspects he’s in more trouble than he’s willing to share.
He is, after all, his parents’ child.
“I’ll let James know.”
“No!” Lily snaps. “If you tell him, all hell breaks loose. You know how protective he gets. Let us handle this without him.”
“Us? I can’t exactly go into the castle.”
“Take some Polyjuice potion then.”
“That takes a month to prepare, I don’t think we have that much time.”
He’s right and they really don’t.
“Well, then. Figure something else out. I have my own investigations to do. And I have to keep an eye on your troublemaker.”
Regulus is silent for a really long time. Lily can tell is a bad silence, a charged silence.
“Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll do something on my end, just keep me updated.”
“I always do,” she huffs out a laugh. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I never do.”
Lily bites her tongue and refuses to point out the eleven-year-old consequence of the stupidest thing he’s ever done.
+++
There’s a philosopher’s stone hidden beneath Hogwarts.
It makes sense once Harry figures out (more like when Hermione figures it out and tells him), but the discovery does nothing to ease the bitterness in his guts.
He hadn’t told any of the adults in his life about his encounter in the Forbidden Forest, about being pressed down into the damp earth and staring death right in the eye. Voldemort is seeking the philosopher’s stone; Harry is sure of it. Voldemort has someone working for him, someone that managed to slip inside the walls of this castle.
He should tell aunt Lily about it. He should tell Dumbledore, or Minerva, or maybe even pick up his emergency phone and dial his parents. Beg any and all the adults in his life to help him.
But something stops him.
Because this is it. If he asks for help now, if he lets anyone know how weak he is, he will lose what little freedom he has. If his dad ever finds out, he’ll never let Harry return to Hogwarts. If Harry gives in now, he’ll be locked away in his bedroom until he hits thirty.
This is the choice he needs to make.
His freedom.
No matter the costs.
It’s close to midnight when Harry slips out of his dorm, invisibility cloak draped over his shoulders and bare feet on cold stone. He finds the room that once housed the Mirror of Erised, now blissfully empty, and huddles up against a corner.
The emergency phone burns a hole in his pocket, a block of plastic that somehow weighs more than it should. Muggle technology, something that shouldn’t belong into Hogwarts, but Harry feels like he doesn’t quite belong either, so it’s alright.
He picks it up, fiddling with the antenna, pressing the buttons, and tapping the screen. His fingers know the number by heart, and he dials it multiple times before deciding to finally press the call button.
It rings for about seven seconds before his papa’s voice comes from the other side.
“What happened?” He sounds worried, which makes sense. This is supposed to be an emergency phone, after all.
Harry presses his lips together.
“Nothing happened,” yet, he doesn’t dare say. “I just missed you.”
His papa sighs, but Harry can tell he’s endeared.
“I missed you too, Haz.”
“I got detention the other night,” he feels compelled to share it. “Snape made us go into the Forbidden Forest. You’d think it being forbidden would make it be out of the question as a punishment for kids, but he’s an arsehole.”
Regulus just hums and Harry can practically picture the rage simmering in the downturned curve of his lips.
“Snape is an arse,” he agrees. “I didn’t know you got detention again.”
“It was about a small thing, guess Dumbledore didn’t feel inclined to share it with you.”
“Oh? What did you do?”
“Snuck into Hagrid’s hut after curfew.”
“Ah, like you’re doing right now? Out of bed when you shouldn’t be?”
“How do you know I’m not in bed?” Harry challenges with a smirk. “Maybe I cast a silencing spell and I am currently following all the rules like a good son.”
“You are a good son,” Regulus’ voice is unbreakable as he says it. “But you’re also your dad’s son. The Potter in you makes you into a menace.”
“And not the Black?”
“Harry,” Regulus’ voice turns stern.
Harry cringes, realizing he said more than he should out loud.
“Right, sorry. Slipped out.”
“It’s fine,” Regulus sighs, and then chuckles. “After all, you’re alone in a forgotten corner of Hogwarts, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Harry chuckles too. “Guess I really am a menace.”
His papa doesn’t say anything else and they fall into a comfortable silence.
There’s a part of his that wants to tell Regulus everything. About meeting Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. About the philosopher’s stone. About the heist he thinks is about to happen and his own selfish need to be the hero just so he can prove to his dad that he can do this alone.
But he’s also afraid of what his papa might say.
How pathetic, to crave comfort and independence at the same time.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry asks, after a pregnant pause.
“Of course.”
“Would you have me fight? If I needed to?” Harry knows it’s unfair to ask this of Regulus. That’s it’s unfair of him to propose what his father thinks is a hypothetical and Harry knows is the jaws of a three-headed dog and a mission to go down into the bowels of Hogwarts.
“Ideally? I would have you be safe,” Regulus sighs, “but I’m also a realist, unlike your dreamer of a father.”
Harry bites his lips, glances at the empty spot where the Mirror of Erised used to be, and asks, “so, you’d have me fight?”
“You’re a good fighter, you know that?”
“I was raised by fighters.”
Regulus lets out an airy laugh, a twinge of self-deprecation in each exhale. “And cowards too.”
Harry nods, because he knows his papa is a coward. But he also knows that it takes the bravest of people to fight against their own cowardice and come out on the other side. It’s easy to be brave when braveness is all you’ve ever known. It’s harder to stand up when you’ve only been taught to cower.
Harry has been taught how to cower, but he’s been taught how to resist to.
He’s been taught how to survive.
“I would have you fight, Harry,” Regulus says, after a short pause. “I would always have you fight. You’re stronger than I could have ever expected, you know. Whatever it is you’re asking me about, fight it. Fight for it. Don’t let them defang you, no matter how hard they try.”
Harry takes a deep breath. He pictures sharp teeth, golden stones, dark lords, and a war older than his eleven years on this Earth.
Harry Potter was raised to be a fighter.
“I’m scared,” he confesses.
“Good,” Regulus’ voice is strong, strong like Harry wishes he could be. “Fear will make you brave.”
+++
When Lily spots a familiar black cat out of the corner of her eyes, she knows she’s ran out of time for planning.
She scoops him up without fanfare and rushes into her quarters, casting about a million different protective charms before dumping him on her bed. He leaves her arms as an animal and lands on her sheets as a grown man.
“Emergency?”
“What do you think?” Regulus hisses, dusting his clothes and hopping up. “Also, I hate being picked up.”
“Bitch about it when the emergency passes. What happened?”
“Where’s the philosopher’s stone?” He demands, eyes stormy and unnaturally blue.
“Why?” She asks, even when she knows the answer already.
“Because my son is braver than everyone gives him credit for, but he’s also eleven and I refuse to let him do this alone.”
The lines of his elegant face are hard. Determined. A man ready to do anything for his son.
Lily curses once and gestures for him to follow her. Because she’s also brave, and she’s also stupid, and she would also do anything for Harry.
+++
Harry pictured himself dying many times before.
It was a natural consequence of being raised as The Chosen One. He knew from a very young age about the prophecy, the risk that it was to just be him, the dark forces that would stop at nothing to snuff the life from him.
But it turns out that picturing your death and being faced with it are two very different things.
There’s fire all around him, there’s an angry professor pressing his face down against hard stone, and there’s a fight for something more than immortality.
Harry wants to say he’s strong, and he’s brave, but the truth is that he’s only eleven and he can’t fight against a grow man with hunger in his eyes and a demon attached to the back of his head.
He tries to grab the philosopher’s stone, tries to keep it safe, but it’s a losing battle really.
For some deranged reason, Harry really did think that being the chosen one would make him stronger than this.
But it turns out strength is not something a prophecy can grant you.
Harry trips, and he falls, and Quirrell is hot on his heels, lunging for the stone like a predator. Harry raises his hands to protect himself, to put something in between his fragile human skin and the claws of a mad man.
Except, nothing hits him.
Instead of the expected pain, strong hands wrap around his arms and pull him up. He knows that touch, recognises it from growing up in a townhouse forgotten by the word. So lonely but so surrounded by love.
When he opens his eyes, his father is standing in front of him, flanked by his aunt Lily.
Harry could collapse in relief, but Lily’s hands keep him stable.
“Are you okay?” Regulus asks and Harry answers with a pathetic wet gurgle of an affirmative.
“Black,” Lily’s voice is sharp and her eyes are focused on the enemy.
“I know, I know,” Regulus turns to face Quirrell and Voldemort too. “It’s been a while, Tom. How have you been doing? Not so well, from what I can see.”
Voldemort doesn’t answer. If anything, he seems to shrink a little bit. Like he’s afraid of Regulus.
In the face of the Dark Lord’s silence, professor Quirrell grows agitated. He looks from Harry, to Lily, to Regulus, to the Mirror of Erised, and back to Harry again.
“What will you do now, Regulus Black?” Quirrell grins, his teeth glinting under the light. “Turn me in to the Ministry? A very difficult endeavour for a dead man and a former death eater.”
Regulus is silent, wand still pointed at Quirrell and eyes impassive.
“No, I won’t turn you in, professor,” he shakes his head. “Azkaban doesn’t require any corpses.”
And then Regulus Black, Harry Potter’s father, kills a man.
+++
Harry wakes up in the infirmary, with his dad’s slumbering form sitting on a chair next to him.
He tries to be quiet, but the second he moves James startles awake and pins him with the most relieved-angry-betrayed-disappointed-happy look Harry’s ever seen. He gets scooped into a bone crushing hug first and can’t help but melt into his dad’s arms, even when he knows he’ll get grounded for the rest of his life after the shit he just pulled.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” James pats him, worried hands running over his injuries gently.
“I’m fine, Dad. I’m okay,” he wants to ask about his papa and aunt Lily, but he doesn’t think that’s allowed right now.
“Good,” James kisses the crown of his head, before releasing him and pinning him with fury in his eyes. “What the bloody hell where you thinking, Harry?!”
And there it goes. Harry was expecting that.
He still cringes, because he’ll always hate disappointing his dad.
“I had to do something,” it’s a weak excuse, but he still tries.
“Oh, you just had to, didn’t you?” James is furious, Harry can read it in every line of his dad’s glare. “You couldn’t have told me? Or Lily? Or Dumbledore? Or literally anyone else?”
“I couldn’t!” Harry tries to defend himself. “I tried to tell McGonagall and she didn’t believe me.”
“You could have told me.”
Harry can’t explain why that is an impossible idea without breaking his dad’s heart. So, he says nothing.
“I should pull you out of Hogwarts for this,” James says, and Harry feels his blood freeze in his veins.
“Y-you can’t do that,” he stutters out, even when he knows that his dad can. That he might. “Please, you can’t do that,” Harry fought so hard to be good during this entire year. He tried to win his freedom any way he could.
James runs a hand over his face, exhaustion clinging to him like smoke to cotton.
“I can do that, but I won’t,” it’s a victory, but it doesn’t feel like one. “You don’t know how scared you got me, Harry. I was terrified. Please, don’t ever do that to me again. I won’t take Hogwarts from you, but you need to start trusting me with these things. Don’t make me lose my son, I couldn’t bare it.”
Harry feels bad, he’s never felt worse in his entire life.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he says and means it. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”
James gathers him up in his arms, squeezing him so tight.
“I know, Harry. You’re a good kid, I know you are. I just worry so much. I love you so much, lad.”
Harry hugs his dad back; he buries his tears in knitted cardigans and tan skin. He knows he’s loved, being loved was never the problem. The problem is the leash that so much love feels like when resting against the meat of his throat.
+++
James has to leave before nightfall and Harry tries not to miss his dad’s warmth when he is left in the quiet darkness of the infirmary.
He tries to sleep, but his mind is too restless. He tosses and he turns and he pictures the Dark Lord’s misshapen face, the hatred in those clear eyes. He’s never been hated like that before. It’s odd, he’s always known of his own hatred towards Voldemort, but he never stopped to imagine the other way around.
He had always known that Voldemort is his enemy, but he never stopped to consider that he is Voldemort’s too.
Eventually, sleep manages to take him, because he next opens his eyes to sunlight streaming through the windows and a bearded figure standing by his bedside.
Harry sits up slowly; he paws for his glasses and shoves them on his face. Dumbledore is an imposing figure, not quite a grandfather figure, not quite a jailor. Something in between.
“You’re quite famous now, aren’t you, Harry?” Dumbledore’s smile is warm and it’s truthful.
He approaches the bedside table with slow steps and Harry follows him with his eyes. There are a variety of get-well-soon gifts there, chocolate frogs, and flowers, and jellybeans. Dumbledore takes a jellybean and pops it into his mouth, cringing at the taste.
“I must confess,” he says, “the appeal of every flavour jellybeans confounds me.”
“Bad flavour?”
“Cherry,” the old man clarifies with a smile. “I hate cherries.”
Harry can’t help but chuckle a little bit at that.
“I see a little cat dropped by during the night,” Dumbledore gestures to his clothes and Harry looks down to find his sheets covered in black fur.
“Oh,” Harry hadn’t even noticed when his papa snuck into his bed, but he feels comforted by the idea of Regulus risking so much just to see if he was doing well. “I guess so.”
Harry doesn’t want to look at Dumbledore; he doesn’t want to examine what the old professor might be thinking about Regulus’ dangerous little visit. So, he stays quiet, and he runs his fingers through the cat hair, and he lets his mind wander.
Naturally, the only thing he can think about is what happened with professor Quirrell and Voldemort. The cuts on his face still ache, and his hands are heavy with the phantom shape of the philosopher’s stone. For a second there, Harry looks down at his lap, expecting himself to still be holding it, but they’re just as empty as he imagined.
“Professor,” Harry calls. “Why did the philosopher’s stone come to me?”
Dumbledore makes a thoughtful noise, stroking his beard like a cartoon stereotype of an old man.
“It was a trick of mine. A way to keep the stone away from the hands of those who would use it for their own gain.”
Harry raises a single brow. He hates when people talk in riddles, and it seems Dumbledore forgot how to sound like a normal man decades before he was born.
“It was quite a clever invention. You see, I made it so that only someone that couldn’t use the stone would ever be able to find it,” he sounds quite proud of himself, like he’s expecting to be praised, but Harry can’t scrounge up a compliment to give him.
“Why didn’t you just make it so no one could ever find it?”
Dumbledore makes a face at that, like Harry just said something impossible.
“Because, Harry, I still needed to make sure the stone could be found if need be.”
Harry thinks it says something about Dumbledore, that he’d rather have a dangerous weapon around in case he ever needs to use it himself, instead of just getting rid of it once and for all.
He bites his tongue and doesn’t dare voice those thoughts.
“So, the stone came to me because I couldn’t do anything with it.”
Dumbledore nods once, and then his eyes turn from prideful to curious. He studies Harry like he’s a curiosity. Less of a boy and more of a stubborn puzzle piece.
“What did you see when you looked into the mirror, Harry?” It sounds like a simple question, but Harry was raised by liars, so he can spot one from a mile away.
What did Harry see when he looked into the mirror?
The end of the world.
Freedom.
Myself, and I hated it.
Myself, and I loved it.
He looks into Dumbledore’s eyes and presses his lips together into a smile. The curve of it is shaped like Regulus’ rebellion, like James’ flame, like Lily’s stubbornness.
Like Harry Potter’s resistance.
“Sorry, sir,” he challenges the man that helped shape his life. He rages against it. “But I’m afraid that’s a secret.”