Chapter Text
St Mungo’s, on the 31st of October 1991, was abuzz with extreme urgency. Albus Dumbledore and Madam Poppy Pomfrey gave a full report to the healers, as best as they understood it. Madam Pomfrey was allowed to stay in her Hogwarts healer’s uniform because there was no time to waste on formalities, nor was there time for her to exchange pleasantries with her former colleagues.
Harry Potter, as far as anyone could tell, was losing his magic; if he did, the best he could hope for was becoming a Squib. It was far more likely that he would simply die. He was rushed to the Janus Thickey Ward, where six healers ran diagnostics over him to check that his magical core was still there. It was very dim, the kind of core which wouldn't be registered as powerful enough to attend Hogwarts, but it was there. He was given several potions which stabilised any side effects, but all they could do was wait. If the core shrank further, then something else was happening; if it stabilised, he would remain alive and hopefully wake up as a Squib.
Poppy and Albus didn’t want to admit that he might not wake up at all. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, and the hope Dumbledore held for the magical world, had performed his first act of heroism, and he had nearly died for it.
“If he makes it out of this, I must teach him restraint,” Albus said, mainly to himself. He took a deep breath and waited.
Four hours later, just after midnight, Poppy came to him in the tea room. He had been banished there once they realised that he could do nothing and was simply getting in the way. Poppy arrived at 4:15 am exactly.
“How is he?” Albus asked in a soft voice.
“He’ll live. He’s stabilised in his magic, but he still has very little magic and is asleep.” Poppy couldn’t make eye contact. “I don’t know if he will wake up any time soon. His magical core needs to regrow; it is dangerous, and the process might kill him anyway, but it will happen naturally. We have the boy surrounded by high-level background magic, which hopefully will make it happen faster.”
Poppy sat with Albus, and Albus looked at his teacup.
“I underestimated Harry, and now he is paying for it,” Albus confessed.
“So, you believe it was Harry who cast Fiendfyre?” The words bounced off the Silencing Charm around them and hit Dumbledore in the heart. He couldn’t speak; he just nodded.
“We will see if there is an alternative explanation, but I doubt it,” Dumbledore said. “This place will protect him, but I’ll raise your salary by five Galleons a week to check on Harry and give me a report.”
Poppy agreed. “Fine, but you need rest as well, Albus.”
“So do you, Poppy. We should both rest.”
Throughout November, the investigations happened, and by the end, conclusions were reached. The Hogwarts protective wards, specifically those of Slytherin, had activated. Quirrell was found guilty post-mortem for the crime of letting in a Class 5 dangerous creature. Severus Snape was deemed innocent of casting Fiendfyre, having had all the staff members confirm he was with them.
Harry’s wand was checked, and his wand had been the one to cast the spell. After two weeks of debate, it was determined that while Harry Potter, an eleven-year-old, would have burnt out his core to cast it, the spell would not have been so precise. It was determined that either Salazar Slytherin’s defences had decided that the one trying to rescue the students from the troll was powerful enough to cast the spell and possessed the boy to do it, or the castle itself destroyed the troll using the boy’s core as a fuel source.
Absolutely no one thought Harry Potter could destroy the troll himself, and Albus and Severus didn’t bring up their theory. It was determined that everyone wanted to talk to Harry once he woke up.
Which he did not do for the entirety of November.
Every Saturday Hermione comes for two hours. It’s hard to watch Harry lie there, but she comes anyway and talks to him in case he can hear her. Mother said that even if he can’t, talking allows her own thoughts to be organised.
“I went through that book, Harry, the one on old bloodlines. They only tracked pure-bloods, no one really cares about Muggles, but I did it. I’m sorry we couldn’t have researched together; I’d have liked to have you as a study partner.” She took a deep breath and tears run down her face, but she doesn’t stop. “Neville is here even more than I am, comes with his grandmother. He doesn’t talk about it, but he’s sad, we all are. The healers say you’re getting better, they think you’re getting better. No matter when you wake up we’ll celebrate Christmas, I promise. Even if it’s February, no matter what I’ll come, I’ll ditch classes if I have to, I’ll be here no matter what.”
She leaves behind the family tree she made tracking Harry’s family back through the generations to the Peverell brothers. “Your family tree, it has taken nearly a month and it has gaps, but I found that you are related to Salazar Slytherin. Not directly, but there is a connection. I hope that makes you happy, I hope that’s what you wanted to know.”
Neville Longbottom sat next to Harry’s bed as well, deciding which is better: a friend who can’t hear, or parents that can but don’t know who you are. Neville doesn’t talk much when he’s with Harry, but he’s there, and for Neville’s own peace that’s enough.
23 December 1991
In the French village of Saint-Véran, Hermione and her parents were on a trip. Her parents had wanted to take her skiing, and while she didn’t much care for sport, she did enjoy being there; plus, her French language skills were coming along nicely.
It was on the third day, just before Christmas, that the owl arrived. An owl as white as the snow itself, she gracefully swooped in, dropping a letter on the bed before landing on the bed frame.
Hermione, Harry Potter woke up this morning. Gran is going to come and pick you up tonight; I told her you wanted to be told as soon as possible. Neville
“Harry Potter? The boy who saved you from that awful monster?” her father asked.
“Yes, he’s been in hospital for months,” Hermione said. “I promised him that I’d be there when he woke up.”
“But to get there from here... that will take a day at least,” her mother remarked with a hint of concern.
“Well, they say I’m going to be picked up tonight, so I suspect it will be fast,” Hermione attempted to sound convinced.
“Well, if you’re going to ditch our beautiful holiday to spend time with this boy in hospital, then we simply must come with you,” her father announced matter-of-factly.
“Yes, obviously,” her mother agreed.
“Thank you.” Hermione hugged her parents, and they finished having dinner just as they saw the fire expand to the point of absurdity. When they blinked again, a woman was standing there wearing a green dress and a stuffed vulture hat. Next to her was Neville, wearing a simple red and green robe with animated snow swirling around it. He gave her a small wave.
“Good evening. You must be Michael and Janet Granger,” she said, shaking their hands. “Pleasure to meet you; my name is Augusta Longbottom.”
“Hello, pleasure to meet you, Ms Longbottom. And you must be Neville, correct?” Michael turned to the boy, who only nodded.
“Well, I know that Hermione simply must go, but we would like to come as well,” Janet confirmed, much to the annoyance of Augusta, though she couldn’t think of any rule against it.
“Oh, very well. Though you’ll have to wait on the fifth floor in the tea shop, common magical diseases could be fatal to Muggles. Do you agree to these terms?”
They did; so long as Hermione would be safe and they could be near her, they agreed. Augusta led them back to the fireplace and said very clearly, “St Mungo’s Hospital, Fifth Floor!”
Hermione’s parents felt quite motion-sick, it was a very unpleasant ride, but they did end up in the tea shop visitors' lounge in one piece.
As Salazar woke up, he saw that he was surrounded by Christmas decorations. He sighed; he was tired. Once he was fully awake, a healer was right beside him, scanning his core and magical power.
“You are almost fully recovered,” the healer smiled, her wand tucked into her sleeve. “We have given you many potions, but you’ll need something solid to eat.” She observed his discomfort as he looked at the Christmas decorations. “Are you feeling okay?”
Salazar closed his eyes. Christians had been the main attackers of Hogwarts, yet these modern mages had decided to celebrate Christmas anyway? Wantsols, all of them. Why would they not celebrate Yule, the tradition of mages, instead of this hollow party? He felt truly bitter and lay back down. Even though he’d been asleep for months, he knew as well as anyone else that being in a magical stasis is not the same as sleeping; he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep for a couple of hours.
By the time he awoke again, he wasn’t angry. He had recovered his energy, had a proper sleep, and saw his friends.
“Hello, Hermione, Neville.” He looked at both of them. “I was foolish, wasn’t I?”
Hermione nodded, and Augusta raised a silencing charm around them.
“You are a complete idiot!” Hermione scolded. “The official report says Salazar Slytherin’s defences activated, which destroyed the troll.”
“I suppose that’s technically true,” Salazar mused.
“Only because you activated them! Harry, I don’t know how you know all these magical secrets, whether it’s because you’re related to Slytherin, or because of your scar, or just because you’re really, really studious in magical theory, but you’re a CHILD! Doing daft stuff like this can get you killed,” Neville finished. Salazar looked up, thinking.
“Sorry,” he said after a few moments.
“Yeah, well, we aren’t the only ones you need to apologise to. Helena has been distraught since Halloween,” Hermione accused with all the sternness she could muster. She noticed Harry did look guilty, which was a result.
“Okay, I’m sorry. Will you be here for Yule?” Salazar asked. “The healers haven’t given me the go-ahead to leave yet, but when they do, we can celebrate with a Yule log.”
Neville laughed a bit, but he was polite about it. “Of course you would be Pagan; it seems obvious in retrospect. The Malfoys are also Pagan. We can celebrate that, can’t we, Hermione?”
“Yes, of course, though I don’t know how,” Hermione admitted. She had been planning a Christmas celebration.
“Christians took a lot of symbols from Pagans; you’ll barely have to change anything,” Salazar said. “It’s just what they mean: the winter solstice, survival in a harsh winter, and nature magic.” He had gone into teaching mode; he did so miss teaching.
“Well, I got you a Yule present, then.” She handed Salazar a large piece of parchment from where it was safely stored. “I tracked your family and the Gaunts, and then Isolt Sayre’s family.”
Salazar was very surprised. He looked at the tree.
There it was. Starting with his father, Cadmus Peverell, then himself. It missed Rowena and Helena, their relationship was lost to history, he supposed. However, after him, it went to Gaunt, and that line was a direct line until Corvinus Gaunt, which he supposed made sense. But then there was Rionach Sayre, who had a daughter, Isolt Sayre. Salazar looked up.
“Wait... Ilvermorny was founded by a relative of Salazar Slytherin? AND that relative married a Muggle and they started the magical school together?”
Hermione nodded, and Salazar laughed. He laughed a lot; he laughed for so long that Hermione and Neville became concerned.
Within six hundred years, the school he built had stood without him, and the Muggle-borns being there had done nothing but make it stronger. Then, in 1627, one of his relatives started another school with a Muggle, and it was also doing fine. It was a very interesting feeling, having everything he ever thought about the world be shattered around him.
Still, second chances, and since he was wrong, he might as well be helpful. The last of the old beliefs fell away, and in their place, a new ambition formed: protect the future, secure a new legacy. If the Gaunts were dead and the Sayres weren't, because they decided their legacy should be built with Muggles, then he would do something he never thought he could. He’d change his mind.