Chapter Text
Chapter One
The Ministry Continues to Be Helpful
Harry had survived Lord Voldemort, the Forbidden Forest, his own willing death and six months of Ministry gratitude.
The gratitude was proving the most difficult.
“It is not an experiment,” Hermione said.
Harry looked at the circular platform.
Silver runes had been carved into its surface. Three Unspeakables stood around it wearing identical grey robes and expressions suggesting that human emotion was an administrative inconvenience.
On the other side of the observation window, six Ministry officials were pretending not to watch.
“It has runes,” Harry said.
“Most rituals have runes.”
“It has restraints.”
“They are stabilising bands.”
“They have buckles.”
Hermione adjusted the stack of parchment in her arms.
Her mouth had taken on the tight shape it acquired when Harry was being unreasonable and she had not yet decided whether friendship permitted strangling.
“The assessment is designed to identify lingering magical damage,” she said. “It could explain the fluctuations in your core.”
“My magic only fluctuates when people try to examine it.”
“That is why we need to examine it.”
Harry stared at her.
Hermione stared back.
Ron, leaning against the wall beside them, slowly unfolded a packet of crisps.
“You’re both making excellent points,” he said.
Neither of them looked at him.
He ate a crisp.
The Battle of Hogwarts had happened six months ago.
It had not ended the war.
Harry had walked into the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse. The fragment of soul in Harry’s scar had been destroyed.
Harry had woken.
Voldemort had also woken, largely because Nagini had escaped Neville’s sword and because apparently the universe had looked at Harry’s life and decided closure would encourage laziness.
The battle had continued until Hogwarts began collapsing around them.
McGonagall had ordered an evacuation.
Voldemort had withdrawn with his remaining followers.
Harry had been too injured to pursue him.
Three days later, the Ministry had proposed a temporary ceasefire.
Six months later, the ceasefire remained temporary in the same way Hogwarts staircases were temporarily pointed in the wrong direction.
The country existed in an uneasy pause.
Voldemort controlled several old pure-blood territories. The Ministry controlled London. Hogwarts had declared itself neutral and begun a restoration year for students whose education had been interrupted by occupation, torture or repeated attempts to murder one another.
Harry had returned because Hermione wanted her NEWTs.
Ron had returned because Hermione wanted her NEWTs.
Harry suspected this was how most major historical movements began.
Now the Ministry wished to examine the damage in Harry’s core.
They had asked politely.
Then formally.
Then through Kingsley.
Then through McGonagall.
Then they had sent Hermione seventy-three pages of research.
That had been unnecessarily effective.
“What precisely does it do?” Harry asked.
Unspeakable Marchbanks stepped forward.
She was a narrow woman with silver hair cut against her jaw.
“The Sanctuary Revelation identifies foreign magical structures and distinguishes them from the subject’s natural core.”
“Sanctuary,” Harry repeated.
“The ritual separates the self from external influence by locating the subject’s strongest instinctive magical anchor.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a complicated way of asking where I live.”
“Physical residence is rarely the primary anchor.”
“What is?”
Marchbanks hesitated.
Harry noticed.
Hermione noticed him noticing.
Her grip tightened on the parchment.
“The place, person or principle the subject’s magic recognises as essential to continued survival,” Marchbanks said.
Ron stopped eating.
“Person?” he asked.
“The result may be abstract.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It could identify Hogwarts,” Hermione said slowly. “Or the protections created by Lily.”
“Or you and Ron,” Harry said.
He meant it lightly.
Ron did not smile.
None of them had become particularly skilled at discussing the possibility of Harry dying again.
Harry looked back at the platform.
A thin silver arch stood over its centre. It reminded him of the Veil.
His stomach tightened.
The nearest Unspeakable moved between Harry and the arch without comment.
Harry appreciated it.
He hated appreciating things in the Department of Mysteries. It felt like feeding a stray rat and discovering it had been taking notes.
“Can the ritual hurt him?” Ron asked.
“No ritual involving damaged soul magic can be guaranteed harmless.”
“Excellent,” Harry said. “That has filled me with confidence.”
“The restraints are intended to prevent physical harm.”
“Stabilising bands,” Hermione corrected automatically.
Harry looked at her.
She sighed.
“Buckled stabilising bands.”
“That’s better.”
Marchbanks held out a document.
Harry took it.
It was a consent form.
He read every line.
The Ministry had become considerably more respectful of consent since Harry had publicly described his childhood before the Wizengamot and asked how many adults had known where he lived.
Several people had resigned.
More had claimed to have been tragically misinformed.
Harry had discovered that the difference between a national hero and a national inconvenience was approximately one honest press conference.
The form stated that the ritual would stop if Harry withdrew consent.
It gave Hermione the right to observe all readings.
It allowed Ron to hit an Unspeakable if Harry became unconscious.
That clause had required negotiation.
Harry signed.
The stabilising bands closed around his wrists.
He did not like them.
He breathed through it.
Ron moved to stand directly in front of him.
Hermione took her place at the monitoring desk.
“You all right?” Ron asked.
“No.”
“Good. Thought it was just me.”
The runes ignited.
Silver light travelled beneath Harry’s shoes.
The ritual touched his magic.
It did not feel like a spell.
It felt like fingers turning pages inside his chest.
Harry flinched.
The silver arch brightened.
Something moved through his scar.
Not pain.
Recognition.
A deep, impossible awareness opened beneath his ribs.
He felt Hogwarts behind him: ancient stone, repaired walls and hundreds of sleeping portraits.
He felt Ron.
Hermione.
Ginny.
The Burrow.
Grimmauld Place.
Every place he had survived.
Every person he loved.
The ritual moved past them.
Harry’s eyes opened.
“Stop,” he said.
Marchbanks raised her wand.
The runes did not dim.
“Stop the ritual,” Hermione ordered.
“I am attempting to.”
The silver light turned green.
Ron reached for Harry.
The stabilising bands tightened.
“Harry?”
The world tipped.
Harry felt something searching through him.
It passed over friendship.
Loyalty.
Love.
It was not looking for any of those things.
It was looking for certainty.
For the person who would not permit him to die.
Not because Harry was good.
Not because he was useful.
Not because his survival served a war.
The magic found an answer.
Harry had time to think that it was wrong.
Then the platform exploded.
Tom Riddle had been discussing trade restrictions when Harry Potter appeared in his lap.
There was no warning.
One moment Tom was seated at the head of the Malfoys’ council table while Lucius explained why the French Ministry had objected to the seizure of three shipping routes.
The next, there was a flash of green light.
Something struck Tom’s chest.
His chair nearly overturned.
Every wand in the room rose.
Tom looked down.
Harry Potter stared back at him.
The boy was breathing hard.
His wrists were ringed with silver burns.
His glasses sat crookedly across his face.
Two black feline ears rose from his hair.
A long black tail curled around Tom’s forearm.
Silence consumed the room.
Harry blinked.
Tom blinked.
Harry looked down at where he was sitting.
Then at the arm Tom had automatically placed around his waist.
Then at the assembled Death Eaters.
Bellatrix made a small noise.
Harry’s new ears flattened.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Bellatrix pressed both hands over her mouth.
Her shoulders shook.
Tom could not tell whether she was laughing or experiencing some form of religious revelation.
Harry turned back to him.
“Why,” he said carefully, “am I sitting on you?”
Tom examined the question.
“I imagine it is because you appeared there.”
“Helpful.”
“I strive to be.”
Harry’s tail tightened around his wrist.
Tom looked at it.
Harry followed his gaze.
The tail released him so quickly it struck Lucius across the face.
Lucius did not react.
Years of service had prepared him for many things.
Apparently being slapped by Harry Potter’s tail was among them.
Harry scrambled upright.
He made it one step from Tom’s chair.
His knees buckled.
Tom caught him before he hit the floor.
The reaction was instinctive.
That disturbed Tom almost as much as the warm weight of Harry against him.
Almost.
Harry’s pupils had expanded until only a narrow ring of green remained.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
Tom’s amusement vanished.
“I did nothing.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“You appeared during a meeting about French shipping tariffs.”
Harry looked around.
Several parchment maps covered the table.
There was a plate of untouched biscuits beside Rodolphus.
Nagini slept near the fire.
No sacrificial altar was immediately visible.
Harry looked disappointed by the evidence.
“What happened before you arrived?” Tom asked.
“The Ministry used a ritual on me.”
Tom’s magic shifted.
The windows rattled.
Lucius quietly moved the trade documents away from the edge of the table.
“What ritual?”
“One intended to identify the safest—”
Harry stopped.
His ears rotated backwards.
Tom watched them.
Harry noticed him watching.
“If you say anything,” Harry said, “I’ll bite you.”
Bellatrix stopped shaking.
“My Lord,” she whispered, “may I say something?”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Harry lifted his chin.
“Finally. A sensible decision.”
Tom looked down at him.
The boy remained half-supported against his chest.
His black tail had curled around Tom’s waist.
Neither of them mentioned it.
“Continue,” Tom said.
Harry’s expression became mulish.
Tom waited.
He had waited decades for obscure magic, political opportunities and revenge.
He suspected he would wait considerably longer for Harry Potter.
“The ritual was meant to find the person or place my magic considered essential to my survival,” Harry muttered.
Lucius inhaled.
Severus closed his eyes.
Bellatrix’s hands returned to her mouth.
Tom stared at Harry.
Harry glared back.
“No,” Harry said.
Tom had not spoken.
“No,” Harry repeated.
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
“What did it say?”
“That you’re going to become unbearable.”
Tom considered denying it.
Harry’s ears twitched.
Tom smiled.
The tail around his waist fluffed to twice its size.
“Oh,” Tom said softly. “How extraordinarily inconvenient for you.”
Harry hissed.
It was the most charming threat Tom had ever received.