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Chapter Text

He wakes slowly. Slowly and with great confusion and with something horrible bright around him. It hurts to open his eyes and he has to keep closing them. It's so bright, impossible to adjust to and he squints to try and work out where he is.

He's not sure how long it takes for his eyes to adjust. He's waiting for someone to notice, but nobody does. There's a steady buzzing noise and silence.

When he finally opens his eyes fully it's to find he's in a dimly lit room. Even the faint glow that looks like it's from candlelight or a soft lumos is too bright though, and so he just lies there, breathing slowly and looking at his surroundings.

It's not like in books or stories, he thinks, memories don't come trickling back. They were never lost to start with. He knows who he is and where--

Well James Potter is still trying to work that bit out, staring around what looks awfully like a muggle hospital.

He tries to move but his limbs are weak. He manages to push himself up but arms trembling he drops back down almost immediately.

Is this a trap? He wonders, ponders the possibilities and then stares for a moment at the machine nearby. No, he thinks, not even Voldemort would go to this length to ensnare him. He tries to imagine the Dark Lord walking through a muggle hospital and he just can't. A chuckle rises from his throat, dry and grating.

He hasn't lost his sense of humour then.

There's a needle sticking into his arm connecting to a bag of fluids. The very thought of a needle is barbaric, but James knows better than to remove it. Lily had told him--

Lily, he thinks, and Harry. Where are they? Are they nearby? Are they waiting for him? Why is he in this hospital, why is--

That's the moment someone appears. They're pushing a weird machine with a piece of material attached by tubes around, and actually pass him without noticing. They pause next to what James sees is another person, wrapping the material around their arm and murmuring quietly to the slumbering shape who doesn't stir.

After a bit of fiddling around and looking at a clock, the person - nurse, James thinks - moves on, pushing the machine towards him systematically and then pausing in alarm when she sees him.

"Hello," James says, but it sounds less like words and more like a croak. He coughs, dryly.

"You're awake?" the woman seems surprised. James doesn't recognise her. She darts off and he tries to call after her, only for her to stop at a sink he hadn't noticed in the corner of the room and run a glass of water, "How are you feeling, sir?"

He accepts the water gratefully. "Okay," he manages to say after a few sips. The woman stares at him in seeming amazement for awhile, hovering. She seems torn between darting away and staring at him.

"Where am I?"

"St Peter's Hospital," the young woman says, "My name is Mary-Anne."

"James Potter," he says, "Um… what am I in for?"

"In for… James… can I call you? James, you've been in a coma, sir, for the past fourteen years."

Fourteen years.

It's a lot to wrap his head around and it takes more than a few days.

Fourteen years and Lily and Harry--

Are they still even alive?

He probably had to stay at the muggle hospital for longer. They were trying to give him lots of hard stones called 'pills' to eat which while admittedly tasted better than potions, had little noticeable difference on his health. The nurses and doctors were starting to talk about 'fizz-ee-o' and the 'poll ice' when James thought that he should probably leave because one thing was clear.

Nobody magical knew he was here. In fact the hospital staff hadn't even known his name when he'd been found on the side of the road, unconscious.

He'd never woken up. Not for fourteen years.

He's pretty sure he shouldn't be up and about. Not after fourteen years of sleeping, of unconsciousness. He gets disbelieving stares from the nurses and doctors and so many protests but James can't listen to them.

Fourteen years. A lot can happen in fourteen years and James needs to find out what.

All he has are some clothes the hospital dug out of their stores - some shirts that look like they belonged to his grandfather and some  trousers that are too big for him with all the weight he's lost. He wears them anyway, tightening them up with a belt and planning to find some decent robes and muggle clothes soon. He might even make a small anonymous donation to this muggle hospital for their generosity and--

Merlin, it's been fourteen years.

Harry would be fifteen, he thinks, dazed. No, he reminds himself, don't think like that, Harry is fifteen, Harry is fifteen and alive and well and--

The wand in his hand is charred. It's been unused for so long but it still feels like that first time in Ollivanders when he picks it up. A carved stick, the hospital had said, you were found with it, thought to have sentimental value…

It's just as well, James thinks as he grips his wand tightly, because if he didn't have his wand this next bit would be very difficult.

As it is, it's still a difficult task, to spin around and force himself with determination and deliberation and… what was the other one again?

He's lucky he doesn't splinch himself as his insides close in and then unfold and he stumbles into the real world with a crack in front of his house.

Or rather, what is left of his house.

It's a shell. It's a burned out empty shell. James' heart sinks, plummets down down down and he makes his way forwards. It feels like yesterday he and Lily were sitting inside, Harry zooming around on his tiny broomstick--

Nothing is recognisable. The insides are dark and foreboding, caked with dust and rubble. There are no objects of value here, not any more.

James remembers screaming at Lily to run. He remembers drawing his wand, exchanging spells too fast, too quick to see or work on wording. It was one silent cast after the other in a barrage and he might be good, he might be a promising auror, but Voldemort was better.

He doesn't know what the spell that hit him was. But he knows it must have hit because the next thing he knows is he's in a hospital bed and fourteen years have passed.

The house is cold and empty and nobody lives here. Nobody except for the statue that sits in the front yard, a good likeness to him and Lily, cradling a sleeping baby.

'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death'.

It sits there, bold and clear on the memorial. James drops to his knees, tired and weak and shaking and he's left the hospital too early he's not ready, he doesn't want to see this, he doesn't--

It's been fourteen years and Harry should be fifteen except Harry will never be fifteen and Lily will never smile and they're gone, they're dead and James is completely and utterly alone.

He's visiting Aberforth when it happens.

Or, y'know, Albus is using his brother's pub and trying to hold interviews for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position as he does every year, and he's still waiting for the first candidate to turn up.

That is - if there are any candidates. There haven't been any since 1992 where the only one to show up was Gilderoy Lockhart with his twinkling smile and books full of lies. Remus and Alastor he'd had to seek and to ask, and the latter who'd turned up hadn't even been Alastor but a Death Eater in disguise.

Albus sighs. If he can't find anyone he'll have to inform the governors. And they, no doubt, would inform the Ministry and they'd assign someone, and in this political state he doubts they'll assign anyone competent enough to teach.

He checks the time, observing the swirling planets on his watch as if it makes perfect sense.

It doesn't really matter what the time is, because the truth is he's running out of time to find someone qualified enough to teach Defence.

"I think I should be leaving," he says to his brother, who just huffs and mutters something under his breath. They may have reconciled their differences, but they're not close by any means. "It appears we are finally out of candidates for the position."

Aberforth snorts, "Anyone is better than that golden toothed idiot you hired last time."

"Alas," Albus sighs, "Gilderoy was not everything he claimed to be."

"Can't believe you hired him in the first place, a hag could teach better than he--"

Aberforth is interrupted at that moment by a flurry of spellwork from outside. There are shouts and a loud clatter of something being knocked over, only for silence to abruptly fall.

"Huh," Albus hums, "Maybe a worthy candidate is just around the corner." And with that he wanders towards to the door to see what is going on.

This was not meant to happen. He was meant to lie low, meant to work out what had happened with Voldemort and the war and what the current political situation was. People thought he was dead, reappearing out of nowhere would probably startle enough people that their spellwork might finish him off and James doesn't need that. So he stays hidden, charms his hair brown and short, changes the shape of his face marginally and makes his eyes blue. It's subtle, but it does a lot for his appearance.

He doesn't have the Cloak anymore, hasn't had it since he lent it to Dumbledore. Merlin knows what the man has done with it. James has to manage without; he's made himself a new identity and that will do for now.

He needs to find Remus and Sirius and Peter, even if only so he can murder the last one for the death of his wife and son.

Or maybe he'd just make sure Pettigrew was happily absconded in Azkaban, death was too easy.

But back on track, James was just trying to figure out how he managed to stumble head first into trouble. He hadn't even been looking for it, he'd just been heading for the Hog's Head because as nice as the Three Broomsticks was, it wasn't the Hog's Head in terms of gossip and he'd almost been ploughed down by a squashed face man holding a sack, followed by the cries of "Stop, thief!"

It takesbarely a thought before the man who had run into him was on the ground, stunned. James stumbles back, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

"Oh, thank you," a middle-aged witch ran up to him, "He stole my equipment, the delivery came early before I got here and he thought he'd just make off with it, how could you, Mundungus--" the woman addressed the man on the ground, wound out, "You thieving lying--"

James moves out of the lady's way. She looks like she's ready to curse the thief six ways from Sunday and he doesn't want to be nearby when she does. He straightens his new cloak, stepping around towards the Hogs Head when--

"Remarkable reactions, just remarkable," an observing old man claps his hands together.

James thinks telling him that it's paranoia and stress is a bad idea, "I've got good reflexes," he shrugs, brushing it off, "Used to play Seeker, well, Chaser, with a bit of Seeking--" he can't resist boasting, not, at least, until he realises who he's talking to.

Dumbledore looks old. That is to say - he always looked old, but somehow he looks older, more tired, more grey since James last say him. James looks up at the familiar twinkling blue eyes that had seen through so many of his pranks and lies at school and for a moment he's an errant school boy being sent to the Headmaster's office.

Then adult-James kicks in and he looks away. Eye-contact is bad, especially with Dumbledore. Except--

Should he tell Dumbledore? Should he explain what happened, get an in on the man who no doubt knows everything that's going on. That's how Dumbledore works after all, by knowing everything, by controlling everything--

By letting Lily and Harry die.

It's stupid. It's petty, but James doesn't care. He focusses on a spot by Dumbledore's ear and doesn't say anything that might link him to James Potter.

"I don't think I've seen you around, good sir," Dumbledore says merrily, "Oh, do pardon my manners. Albus Dumbledore."

"Ian Peverell," he says, because he's good at lying, and he knows his own family tree and this can explain away any familiarity or likenesses that people might see.

There's no twitch at the name, but then again Dumbledore is good, "Were you educated here?" he gestures around him, "Because I must confess I don't remember you as one of my students."

"I was home-schooled," James says, "What with the war and everything--" he waves a hand, "I travelled, left Britain, but I struck ill. I've only recently recovered and I thought I'd resume my travels."

The lies fall easily from his tongue. Best of all he doesn't need anything to back them up with.

"Ah, a traveller," Dumbledore smiles, "Mr Peverell, do you mind if I might be as daring as my Gryffindor nature might suggest, and make you an offer, you see--"

And that is how he ends up here. Sitting at the staff table in the Great Hall having spent a good week or so forging documents, accessing the Peverell vault for funds and setting up temporary base at Hogwarts.

After all, where better than to set up camp but in one of the hearts of the British Wizarding World: among the children.

There are no children now. Not yet at any rate, although they're due to arrive and James can already see one or two who are orderly already appearing in the Entrance Hall. He's been bustling around like the rest of the teachers preparing lesson plans and fixing bits of the castle and trying to do something about the fourth floor corridor which has somehow turned into an endless loop and won't let anyone access the Charms classrooms.

He's more than ready for a feast. He arrives early with the sole purpose of picking a seat far away from some of his fellow staff members. Minerva hasn't changed, neither has Hagrid or Dumbledore. Pomona Sprout was new when he graduated, as was Poppy Pomfrey. The other teachers are all unfamiliar from Vector, the Arithmancy teacher to Babblings for Ancient Runes. Others are decidedly all too familiar.

It turns out he knows Sinistra already - he'd saved her telescopes from being pilfered by Fletcher.

And then there's Snape.

Cursing him had been his first reaction. Then the name calling. But somehow he'd managed to hold both in and say nothing other than a cordial greeting.

Snape. Severus Snape. Severus Snivelly Snape was teaching potions. No doubt badly, James thought, and no doubt he still hadn't invented a decent hair shampoo.

By putting Sinistra, McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick… well basically every teacher really between him and Snape, James had somehow ended up the opposite side of the hall from the Slytherin table, thankfully. The Hufflepuff table is next, then Ravenclaw and James is nearest to the Gryffindors. He's glad, because over at the Slytherin table he can see a lot of kids appearing that look like they might have a Death Eater parent or two.

House of snakes indeed.

The hall fills up slowly, chatter rising in volume. James continues his assessment of the crowd, feeling a pang of sadness. Harry should have been among them, he thinks.

There's a boy over at the Slytherin table that catches his attention, mainly because he's one of the few calmly accessing James as a new teacher rather than peering at him in excitement and whispers. He's dark-haired and James can't see much else from where he's sitting, so far away from Snape that he is. He can make out the boy's companions - a dark skinned boy of Italian descent and a pretty brown-haired girl. He can't tell how old they are from where he's sitting, and frankly the children either look like young adults or little kids - there's no in between. James recognises pale blonde hair that reminds him of a Malfoy also sitting at the Slytherin table, surrounded by two larger forms and sneering at something.

Over at the Gryffindor table there is a small collection of red-heads. Three that James can see, all male. Two are identical and if it wasn't for their red hair, James would be strongly reminded of Fabian and Gideon Prewett. The two identical ones are whispering conspiratorially when Dumbledore begins his speech, so James is clear to see the way their faces twist in glee at Filch's extended list of banned items.

He's so busy examining the student body, picking out a familiar face here and there of kids whose parents he himself went to school with that he misses Dumbledore's introduction of himself completely. He's just suddenly aware of everyone turning as one to stare at him.

He doesn't like it. Not in this quantity. He likes people looking up to him, but this is different. This is unknown, this is wild rumours and what he's pretty sure are bets flying if several galleons to be seen give any indication.

Who's the new teacher? The whispers say. How is he going to teach us? And what's going to happen to him by the end of the year?

He stands up, lifting a hand in a wave as weak applause breaks out. He sits down again as Dumbledore continues his speech.

"I must also once again remind you that the Forbidden Forest is off limits to those who do not want to suffer the wrath of centaurs, get gorged by unicorns, mangled by acromantula, ravaged by--"

"Hem hem."

Dumbledore cuts off his rather alarming descriptions of putting the kids off venturing into the forest by a high squeaky noise James thinks for a moment is a result of a spell going bad. But instead Dumbledore turns to the far side of the staff table.

Next to, James is pleased to see, a deeply uncomfortable Severus Snape, sits a woman in pink. She's a sort dumpy sort of person with a squashed face that looks like she's run into a wall and all in all makes her appearance rather toad-like. She's standing, and once again she clears her throat.

"Ah," Dumbledore's eyes stop twinkling, "May I introduce to you the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister - Dolores Umbridge. Ms Umbridge will be here to examine the teaching that goes on here in our fine institution."

The whispers break out across the hall like wildfire. There's never been a Ministry Representative at Hogwarts before. James' stiffens, because he's missed something. Sneaking around in the shadows has not been productive for information, clearly so many years in a coma means he's losing his touch. Why didn't he just go and visit Sirius again--

Oh, right, he has no idea where his best friend is.

James feels horribly alone.

"And prohibit, what must be prohibited--"

She's spouting off nonsense. Dangerous nonsense. Nonsense that clearly says the Ministry are interfering but James can't see why--

It's a mystery for another day, he decides, because he really needs to work out how to do this.

He has no idea about the first thing to teaching and he has classes tomorrow.

Morning has him yawning having spent half the night constructing hastily scrawled lesson plans. There's nothing to go on for previous years, and James can only wonder at Dumbledore's own incompetence at finding a teacher. James knows nothing about teaching!

He wakes late and makes his way down familiar corridors from his room to the Great Hall for breakfast. That's when it happens. There are some older Gryffindors, gold and red scarves around their necks, and James can't see what they do, but they scatter with laughter spinning around to sneer at a much smaller boy who's lying sprawled on the floor, books and parchment scattered around him. He's clutching his wand tightly and seems to be okay.

"Better watch out!" one of the Gryffindors jeers, "Or we might get a rabid mutt set on us. Heard it almost mauled those muggles you live with, can't believe you brought it to school, about time it got put down--"

James doesn't hear the curse, but it hits the speaking Gryffindor in the chest and sends him spinning shoulder over shoulder straight into a wall. A group of Ravenclaw girls let out squeals of fright and scatter and the boy is standing now amidst his scattered school supplies, "How about you stop talking?" he hisses out between gritted teeth.

He recognises the boy from the Welcoming Feast. He'd been sitting at the Slytherin table.

James sighs, because some things never change. "No magic in the hallways," he says, with the same glee he once took as head boy for catching Slytherins doing something they shouldn't be, "Detention, Mr…" he stops, watching as the boy looks to him.

He seems startled to see a teacher. Or for some other reason because his head tilts and he doesn't answer for a moment.

"Name?" James prompts.

The boy looks surprised, "You don't know?" he asks. It's not arrogant, just surprised, but James isn't in the mood for that attitude.

"You're not that important in the big scheme of things, now stop acting big-headed and give me your name."

"Oh, I doubt he can help it, it's habit by now," James tries not to flinch at Snape's dulcet drawl as his co-worker (he shudders) appears next to him. Snape pauses, looking from the confused Slytherin to James, "Seriously, Peverell, I thought even you'd recognise our resident…" there's a deliberate pause, "Hero," Snape drawls out the word.

"Should I?" he tries to appear disinterested. It takes everything he has to squash down the urge to make a nasty comment about Slytherins.

The boy is levelling a calm, cool look and funnily enough it's that - not Snape's pleased declaration - that connects the dots. At this distance he can't miss the shade of green and had he not known Lily was dead, he would have imagined he was staring right at her again.

"Harry Potter is an arrogant fool who thinks he is above the rules. I'd do well to watch out for him, Professor Peverell."

And for the first time in thirteen years, James Potter meets the defiant emerald-green gaze of his son.

Now he looks for it: it's everywhere. Every single book he looks in published within the last ten years mentions him.

His son.

James and Lily are mentioned in passing, their end immortalised in glory and sacrifice but they are not the point of any of the text. The point is Harry. Harry who survived. Harry who was struck with a killing curse at one years old and did not die.

It's impossible. It should be impossible but what Lily did James can only wonder at, because their son is alive.

Their son is in Slytherin.

His knees feel weak and it's just as well he's already sitting good. "Merlin, no," he mutters, because there is no way, absolutely no way his son ended up a slimy Slytherin.

He almost misses his first defence class, but thankfully it's only some third years - Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors - so he manages to set them off on writing out everything they learnt in their previous two years and starts his own research into his son - Merlin, his son is alive, Harry is alive, Harry is alive and something must be wrong because Harry's in Slytherin and--

"Professor Peverell?" a kid lifts his hand up, "I'm done, what do I do now?"

James takes the boy's parchment sheet and skims over it. The kid appears to have a good covering of some basic jinxes and an alarmingly good knowledge of some minor dark curses and hexes. He has no idea who the previous teachers even are, he realises. "You can go when you're done," he dismisses the boy, feeling only slightly guilty. He's still working this teaching thing out at the moment, "Homework is to read the first chapter of the assigned textbook."

There's a pause, "Uh, sir? You haven't assigned a textbook."

"Then pick a defence textbook out of the library and write an analysis of the first chapter," James makes up. No, wait, homework means he'll have to mark it--

The boy and two of his companions are already halfway out of the door so it's too late to change it now. With a sigh James drops their parchment on a pile, rolls up his sleeves and goes back to reading about his son.

There's painfully little. He'll probably get more from newspapers he realises very quickly. Newspapers or questioning the other members of staff. Or even Harry himself, James has assigned his own son a detention already.

His Slytherin son. A part of James is horrified. What went wrong? Did Sirius raise the boy okay or did something go wrong?

He's out of his depth here, he realises, so very out of his depth.

James summons up his Gryffindor courage and stubbornness, and grabs his timetable so he can go over his constructed lesson for the first years he has next.

He doesn't have a fifth year Defence class until Tuesday afternoon which, he thinks, calculating several periods on his timetable and noting the other session to take place on Thursday morning, might work perfectly.

He has Gryffindors and Slytherins and someone, he thinks, still hates those two houses for pairing them in absolutely everything. If it wasn't for the fact that James knows for a fact Harry's in Slytherin, he could almost have convinced himself that Harry was in Gryffindor but no, Harry's there, fifteen and eyes so much like Lily's, hair like his own and sitting next to the boy of Italian descent and the brown-haired girl James only belated realises is a Greengrass.

He wonders what Sirius' reaction was. Then he wonders where Sirius even is.

James is so busy staring at Harry he doesn't even realise that everyone is present until the poncy blonde - Malfoy, no doubt - clears his throat, "Are we going to start or do you want a private interview with Potter St Potter?"

James tears his gaze away, shaking himself.

"A private interview, Draco, you should have just asked, Rita and I could have set one up," Harry says. He might look like Lily and James, but he's nothing like them. His voice is soft, just a hint of mocking and his body language is smooth and clearly one of someone who knows his opponent because when he smirks at Malfoy, Malfoy just glares back for half a second and then turns away.

"Avada Kedavra," James figures is as good a place as any to start, "The Killing Curse. One of the three unforgivables. Normally demonstrated to sixth years, but from your scattered teachers am I correct in gathering you learnt about these last year?"

The rumours he's heard about last year are that a Death Eater taught the course. He can only hope to anything that they're just rumours.

There's a scattered nod from the small group.

"Those three curses are guaranteed to send you straight to Azkaban. No defence will stop that. Not that you were under the Imperius. Not that you were forced-- can anyone tell me why--" Harry's raising his hand, along with four or five scattered others, but James' curiosity wins out, "Mr Potter?"

"Because you have want it. You can't cast the curse if you don't intend to kill, if you don't intend for it to hurt." Harry's voice is oddly flat and lacking inflection, "The curse doesn't work otherwise. Successful use of the curse is therefore enough to condemn the one who cast it."

"Correct," James nods, "Many of the Dark Arts follows this pattern which is why it's outlawed and illegal here in the UK. Can anyone tell me any shields that will block spells with the intent to cause harm?"

There's a pause, then a Gryffindor speaks up, dark skin and brown eyes, "There's no shield that will block those three curses, sir."

"No shield," James picks out, "No piece of shield or warding magic will stop it, correct, but also wrong. Can anyone tell me why?"

"Physical objects block curses," the Slytherin sitting next to Harry speaks up.

"You can dodge," a soft-cheeked blonde Gryffindor says.

"Good, good, now we're getting somewhere!"

The lesson continues in much the same way. It's cautious, probing, trying to size up what the kids know and don't, much like his other classes have been so far. Finally he sums up by explaining the timetabling he's requested for fifth years and above. He'd only decided it yesterday, and he's managed to work it so it gives him Thursdays off in their entirety, moving all fifth year classes and above to the weekend.

"You'll only have one Defence class during the week," he says, "As this is your OWL year I will endeavour to make sure you have covered everything from previous years in these sessions. Your third lesson will take place on a Saturday with the rest of the fifth years and will involve practical application of your knowledge in an appropriate situation."

"Practical application?" someone asks.

Harry, James notices, is unusually quiet, lips pressed together and gaze fixed on his textbook.

"You can't defend yourself by writing out five pages of defensive theory," James shrugs, "Knowledge is useless without practical application. No homework, I've got enough to mark as it is." There are scattered laughs, but none from Harry.

James' heart sinks slightly, as his son barely pays him a glance, grabbing his tattered bag and book and slinking out of the classroom. Greengrass and the Italian boy - Zabini - are bickering just behind him about something.

And… that's it. James feels oddly disappointed, like he'd half-expected Harry to recognise him, to talk to him about something else other than the lesson, to--

His son is fifteen years old and doesn't know him, James reminds himself. James clearly doesn't know Harry either, not if his son is a Slytherin. He's spent four years under Severus' tutelage, who knows what sort of person he is?

James certainly doesn't, he realises, and wonders what Lily would say to that.

James is half-way across the Great Hall en route to the staff table for dinner two hours later when he stops, staring.

"I thought you were in Slytherin," he says, abruptly.

The boy startles, but manages to hide it well, back becoming ramrod straight as he looks up at James, face a blank mask. For a moment he considers James, then blinks slowly, "Am I? I didn't know, hey, Ron, did you know I was in Slytherin? Now the green and silver of my common room makes sense--"

The red-head next to him starts choking on a piece of sausage and has to get thumped on the back by one of his year mates.

"Harry!" a bushy-haired witch hisses in horror at him.

James is too startled to take points, "This is the Gryffindor table."

"Why…" Harry peers up and down the table as if appearing to notice the occasional red and gold scarf for the first time, "So it is. Huh," and he takes another bite of his slice of toast.

He's not eating much, James notices with what he thinks might be parental worry. But he doesn't know Harry, barely knows his son, his Slytherin son, barely even knows who his friends are.

"Go back to your own table," James barks.

There's a look of annoyance on his son's face for a moment before it's gone. "Come on then, Hermione, we appear unwelcome here." He waits half a beat for something before turning to the right only to find his one friend still stuffing sausages into his mouth, "Some friend you are, Ronald."

"Wha-?" the red-head mumbles through a mouthful of food, "'m hungry!"

The red-head doesn't appear to want to move. But the girl sitting next to him is grabbing her books and standing.

"There's nothing against the rules about sitting at different tables, Professor, " the bushy-haired girl who had chided Harry says, "I checked in Hogwarts: A History."

"Hermione, you're the only one who has read Hogwarts: A History."

James pauses and looks around. From what he can see this strange group is the only one who don't appear to realise why the tables are divided into houses. Trying to save face he clears his throat, "Five points from Slytherin for your cheek, Mr Potter," he says in his best imitation of Minerva McGonagall, "And you'll serve your detention with me tonight, 7 o'clock, my office."

It's strange seeing Lily's eyes so guarded, "Yes sir," the boy says, every measure of respect in his tone.

"Ah, I see you've met our…" McGonagall  says at he reaches the staff table, but actually stops before she finds the words, "Potter's sorting made quite the spectacle. A good three minutes debating there."

"I was under the impression," James says slowly, aware he's meant to be home-tutored, "That the houses didn't mix."

"And usually they don't. They're separated for class and for living. Mr Potter however appeared to continue his friendship with Mr Weasley after their sorting. Mr Weasley appeared most perturbed at first but came around. Potter told me once that sweets were involved."

"And the bushy haired girl?" James is curious.

"Hermione Granger is a very talented Ravenclaw. A rather nasty incident involving a troll and some rather fake lies on Mr Potter's part served as introduction. I do believe he's gotten better at that skill since though."

"Are any of them actually in Gryffindor?" James asks.

"Ron Weasley is. Followed his family into Gryffindor without a pause," Minerva tells him, "To complete their quartet Neville Longbottom is a Hufflepuff," and James tries not to react at the name of Frank and Alice's boy, "He normally arrives late - he spends the afternoons helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouses. They normally congregate at the Hufflepuff table. The number of times I've found three of them in the wrong common room," Minerva sighs, "Severus tried to turf them out more than once, but they claim Hufflepuff is neutral territory."

It's a strange twisted feeling that takes place inside James' chest. It takes him even longer than it should to realise what it is.

He's proud.

There's a knock at the door that startles James out of sorting through piles of essays. He's making a plan to assign as little homework as possible, he decides, staring at the door wondering who it is at this time. "Enter."

The door cracks open and Harry steps into the room, eyes lowered and face neutral. Of course, James thinks, he'd given his son a detention.

He'd given his son a detention.

He'd given his son a detention.

James remembers talking with Sirius about Harry, about how his kid would be brilliant and clever and prank all the Slytherins and hopefully not get as many detentions as they did because Lily would be pissed and--

Something went wrong, James realises. Harry's in Slytherin, and try as he might James can't see any of Sirius' mannerisms in his movements. Did Sirius raise him? Did Remus? Harry's studious, quiet, has a sarcastic streak a mile wide, an apparent disregard for tradition and James is pretty sure he's used to either bending things his way or slipping under the radar where needed.

How on earth did his son grow up with those skills?

"Professor?" Harry stands in the doorway. He's not wringing his hands with nerves, he's standing there waiting, like he's almost used to having to wait for punishments. James cringes from that thought.

In an instant the plans for his detention go out of the window. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks.

When he'd pictured himself disciplining his kid, this was not what he had in mind.

"Detention, sir," Harry's expression is still neutral, voice and tone perfectly balanced.

"For what reason."

And-- there-- just a flash of righteous anger, a downward turn of the lips-- It's well hidden, and if it wasn't for the fact that in James' memory he'd only seen Lily last month he would have missed it, but it's there. "I defended myself against another student," Harry says.

"Defended?" James raises one eyebrow, "Or attacked?"

Harry doesn't answer.

James sighs. He has no idea how to do this, how to tell Harry the truth, there's no way. In Harry's mind; James has been dead for years. Sirius or some other family no doubt has taken his and Lily's place long ago. "Tell me five other ways you could have reacted other than cursed him," James says.

"Tell?" Harry blinks, "You don't want me to write you an essay?"

"I don't want to have to mark it," James waves his hand in a fruitless gesture, "Go on."

"I could have walked away, kept my head down and pretended he wasn't there. That he didn't insult my--" Harry stops, "Ignored his comments," he shrugs. Don't shrug, James wants to say, the same thing his mother drilled into him. He doesn't.

"If you react every time someone says something nasty, you'll get into an awful lot of fights," James advises, "I don't know what they said, and no doubt it was cruel and wrong--" Something about a dog, he thinks, "But attacking first isn't the answer."

"With all respects," Harry says, "They attacked me first." James opens his mouth to talk and Harry continues before he can say anything, "Solution 2: Ignored them and retatliated later."

"Harry--" James says, because this isn't the point, because his son is a quiet, closed off boy and he has no idea how he's meant to reach this Slytherin--

"Solution 3: Give them a reason to say nothing. Be it from fear or from respect, of which there is a fine line between, either way they would avoid saying things like that where I could hear them. It would circumnavigate the situation entirely and avoid the need for conflict, or conflict resolution--"

He talks like Lily, James thinks, he's all Lily, a pale, too-thin Lily with guarded eyes and a green and silver scarf and--

"Solution 4: Report them to an adult member of staff. This solution while available, is non-realistic. McGonagall is biased towards Gryffindors; she wouldn't believe anything I say. Snape is biased against me and the Gryffindors, but I think he hates me slightly more than them. The others might listen, but they'd have no evidence to do anything more than chide the students in question. Dumbledore would go on about the perils of youth." That sounds suspiciously like a quote. An ominous one too that chills James' heart.

"And me?"

Harry blinks at him, "You've been teaching me for a day, Professor. I don't know you."

But I know you, James thinks. Or rather, he knew the baby he'd cradled close and named for his grandfather. He knew the child he chased laughingly after on a toy broom while Lily comforted the poor cat. He knew the way Harry would steal his wand if he wanted attention. He knew that Harry's first word was 'Prongs' for his stuffed stag.

He didn't know this young man in front of him. Harry's a Slytherin and James had been oh-so-Gryffindor. He has no idea where to even begin.

All dark wizards go to Slytherin, children had whispered, you-know-who was a Slytherin.

But it's his son.

"You still need another one," James points out. "Those are only four solutions."

Harry blinks at him, "Oh, that's easy," he says, "Next time I don't get caught."

And James stares at the stranger in front of him, and something in him chills.

You could be great , the Sorting Hat tells him. You could go far.

And to the small eleven year old who has spent his whole life trapped beneath the stairs, this sounds like freedom.

"SLYTHERIN ," the hat calls out to the Hall's silence.

Harry doesn't care. He's spent his life so far being hated. He has the bruises to prove it, the scar from his broken arm, the pale skin from where he fell through the glass that one time and they're never going to heal. But it's in the past, he can move beyond that.

He can go far.

"What house do you think you'll be in?" the bushy-haired buck-toothed girl had asked, "I'd like Gryffindor personally, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be bad--"

"I think," Harry had said, "That it doesn't really matter. But they sorts us for a reason, right? They sort us so we can do well. Where we can achieve with people who will support us. So I'll just go where I end up, even if it is Hufflepuff."

Granger had spent just as long as him until the hat, if not longer, looking to be weighing up various pros and cons when mid-argument the hat had called out Ravenclaw. Hermione had looked confused all the way over to the table whereupon a prefect had welcomed her with a smile and question and she had settled down. Longbottom had taken twice as long as Hermione, but looked extremely triumphant when he was called out for Hufflepuff.

Ron's was instantaneous, his brothers cheering loudly. Harry joins in, catching his gaze. Ron stares at him in confusion, then at the table he's sitting at and Harry's smile falters.

They say there isn't a dark witch or wizard who didn't come out of Slytherin.

Harry thinks that's probably a bit extreme, but gathering from the way people stare--

"Hi," someone says as they sit next to him, "Blaise Zabini, last sorted in '91."

Harry turns to him, "Harry Potter," he says.

Blaise oogles the scar, along with half of the other first years, including Malfoy who sneers, trying to look like he's not, "I know," Blaise says.

"Convenient," Harry says, "It will save me having to introduce myself to a lot of people."

Blaise laughs. Malfoy scoffs, and Harry ignores him. "Chicken?" Blaise offers him the dish that has suddenly filled up with food.

It's the second friend Harry makes that day. The first is--

Well he only shares a few classes with Ron. Maybe that's a downside to not arguing with the hat. But when he gets to Transfiguration, he leaves Zabini with Nott and Greengrass, and drops in the seat next to Ron. Ron startles, staring at him.  He doesn't really appear to know what to make of him, but they'd spent the whole train ride talking, chatting and laughing.

And now Harry's in Slytherin.

"Can I sit here?" he asks, seeing Ron's expression and wondering if he should back out but--

This is meant to be a fresh start, this isn't meant to--

For a moment he thinks Ron is going to say no, that he's going to tell him to go away, to be evil elsewhere. Harry's killed a man before he turned two, what can he do now?

But then Ron shakes his head. There's a scuff of dirt on his forehead now, just like there was when he cautiously approached Harry sitting alone in a compartment.

"Sure," Ron says.

"So what's Gryffindor like?" Harry asks, getting out his books as they wait for the teacher.

"Nice," Ron says, "It's all red and gold, with comfy arm chairs and a fire, it's in a tower and--" he stops, no doubt because he's sharing secrets with a Slytherin, he's sharing Gryffindor secrets, "What about Slytherin?" he asks.

Harry's eyes grow wide, "I think the common room is under the lake," he says, "I think I saw something swim past the windows--"

"You what ?" Ron blurts out, wariness forgotten because he's eleven and that is just so cool.

"It's in the dungeon, and it's really draughty and cold, but the common room is okay, green and silver with panelled windows, kind of like an aquarium--"

"A what?"

"Aquarium. It's a big tank with fish in it, you find them at zoos--"

And just like that the fact Ron's a Gryffindor and Harry's a Slytherin falls away.

Harry spends Transfiguration and Astronomy with Ron. He sticks with Blaise in Potions because Snape, despite being his head of house seems to hate him with a passion.

"What did you do to him?" a girl Blaise is friends with asks with wide-eyes.

"I don't know," Harry says, trying to cut up his root and--
"That's not how you do it," the girl says, "You're hopeless at potions, maybe that's it. Maybe he sniffs out incompetence-- no no no, give that here--"

That's how Harry meets Daphne Greengrass.

Granger takes longer to come around. She's quickest to levitate feather in charms, a fact that Harry hears no end of from Ron as they trail together through the castle. Harry has Defence, Ron has a break.

"It's LevioOsah," Ron mimics, "She's such a know-it-all. I said as much. She is! Always correcting people, always making out that she's the best!"

"She's a Ravenclaw, they're supposed to do that--"

"She doesn't have to act so bloody snobby about it," Ron sneers, "It's no wonder she doesn't have any friends."

Harry is almost bowled over by someone, and he catches a glimpse of brown hair  and red rimmed eyes, "I think she heard you," he says.

Ron looks guilty for a second before it's gone, "It's true though, who'd want to be friends with someone who keeps correcting you, who always has to be right?"

Blaise thinks he's mad when instead of going down to the nice safe common room, Harry vanishes across the hall to find Ron. Harry  just wonders why they're going back to the dungeons if that's where the troll is, but it doesn't matter because he's already slipped away from his year mates and reaching through the crowd, manages to violently tug on Ron's robe.

"What?" Ron frowns at him, "We're going back to our common rooms, you can't come with--"

"No, but that Ravenclaw; Granger; she's not here… does that mean she's still crying--"

"Oh bloody hell," Ron's eyes widen, "Harry--"

And that's how they end up befriending Hermione Granger, a knocked out troll lying between them on the bathroom floor.

Later when Snape drags him back to the Slytherin common room, still covered in troll mucus and water, Daphne and Blaise stare at him in wonder.

"You're crazy," Daphne says, "Why weren't you in Gryffindor?"

"Because I'm going to change everything," Harry says, eyes gleaming with adrenaline, because his newest friends are a Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and for the first time in possibly his whole life he is well and truly content.

Now if only Malfoy would shut up sometime soon. Ah well, he and Blaise were learning silencing charms for a reason.

He makes his statement the next morning, debating it for only a moment. He could go over and sit quietly with Blaise and Daphne and try to pretend to ignore Malfoy or…

He goes for his more preferred option and drops into a seat at the Ravenclaw table. Hermione looks up from her book in surprise, eyes wide as if she can't believe he's sitting there.

"Morning," he says, grabbing a slice of toast with a quickness that Hermione notes with narrowed eyes as he begins eating it without even buttering it. He tries to remind himself that there's no need to do that here, and takes a second slice more slowly.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asks.

Harry shrugs, "Wanted to sit with my friend," he says, and pretends not to notice the way Hermione has to blink back tears.

There is a muffled grunt as a tired Ron drops into the seat on Hermione's other side. He surveys the breakfast table with a muttered, "Brilliant, you guys have more bacon than we do," and begins scooping eggs, toast and bacon onto his plate.

Hermione tries to hide a grin as she goes back to reading, and Harry tries to start Ron up in a conversation before deciding the visual really isn't worth it and asks Hermione what she's reading.

They're half-way through a discussion about homework for Flitwick when Harry notices a black shape swooping towards them.

"Mr Potter," Snape stops just in front of him, gaze skimming over the three of them, "As much as it pains me, I did observe you being sorted into Slytherin. Why, then, are you sitting over here at the Ravenclaw table?"

Snape towers over him so much Harry's hat almost falls off as he peers up at his head of house, "I'm sitting with my friends, Professor," he says, respectfully and with the perfect tone. Bland, emotionless, the kind he'd use on Uncle Vernon to avoid ruffling his uncle the wrong way.

"Is the house not good enough that you feel the need to seek friends elsewhere?" Snape drawls, very unpleasantly.

"Well, no--" he begins, trying to be diplomatic but Snape interrupts.

"Then you shouldn't have a problem with returning to your own house table--"

Harry wants to go there even less now, because Malfoy had seen him being told off with glee and looks like he's waiting to rib Harry a new one. He opens his mouth to argue but then Hermione speaks up.

"Professor, there are no rules against sitting at other tables," she says, "It says in Hogwarts: A History that inter-house unity is even encouraged. The very purpose of the House Cup to promote friendly rivalry, so surely there shouldn't be a problem with interacting with other houses?"

Snape peers down his nose at Hermione, a sneering comment on his tongue when there is another voice joining in.

"Miss Granger is quite right, Severus," Dumbledore himself has appeared, with a beaming smile on his face, "And must I say it is wonderful to see the students meeting people from outside their house, five points to Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Slytherin."

That's not the end of it. Not by a long way. Harry goes out of his way to sit with Blaise in potions and spend at least two meals of the day at the Slytherin table. He hadn't counted on Ron dropping into the seat next to him looking nervous but determined. "Meant to be brave, right?" Ron swallows, "Easy."

"You're crazy," Blaise says, as Hermione appears next to Daphne.

"Harry mentioned you wanted to know all about silencing charms?" she asks. Blaise tries not to look interested. Daphne sniffs and buries her nose in her book.

Harry just hides a smile and busies himself with eating.  House rivalry indeed.

If anybody asks; it's more Slytherin to make allies in other houses anyway.

Chapter Text

The week passes. Looking back James isn't sure if it rushed past or took its time, but soon it's the weekend and he's tapping his foot in a large, unused classroom he's scouted out especially for this. It's empty, but there are cupboards down one wall with practise dummies and targets for if he needs them.

The students arrive in drabbles. It's hard to tell who is from what house - it's too early for most of the students to be wearing scarves. He can see a blue prefect badge on Hermione Granger's chest for Ravenclaw - she's deep in debate with another boy about something - there's Longbottom - he looks just like Frank, James thinks wistfully, with a group of girls and--

Harry slips in almost unnoticed in a mix of people James knows are clearly Slytherins.

He tries not to shudder. His gaze skims over the crowd and at least one has a Death Eater parent. Maybe more. Nott's a weedy thing who looks content to stick to himself, completely ignoring where Greengrass and Zabini are bickering and Harry and Davis are adding their own two cents in.

The class - even with all four houses - is tiny. It's the war year, he realises, if you look above or below the class sizes increase dramatically. The third year class is the biggest, most being born at the conclusion of the war and the fifth year class is half that size. The bunch he thinks are Gryffindors are loud, but not as loud as where Malfoy is whooping with his two heavy-set friends nor where there is a loud shriek from Hermione Granger.

She's ditched her Ravenclaw pal and is speaking quietly and violently to Ron Weasley. She looks indignant over something when suddenly Harry is there between them with a sigh. Hermione huffs, clearly upset over something and all James can hear is something about "Krum" and "teaspoon".

He clears his throat, sending off a small spark into the air, "Is everyone here?" he asks, "Good, we'll--"

The door slams open and he stops, because he's pretty sure the pink-wearing ministry witch is not a fifth year student.

"Madame Umbridge," he says, words sour on his tongue, "Can I help you?"

"I heard," she says, sauntering it like she owns the place, "That you were teaching practical classes on Saturdays. I had hoped I might sit in?"

"Of course," James conjures her up a seat in the corner, "If you don't mind, I was just starting."

"Of course," Umbridge's heels clip-clop on the floor as she walks towards the chair.

"Now," James turns back to the students, aware that many of them are frowning at Umbridge in dislike, "I set up these classes for you because while learning the theory is all well and good, Defence is a practical subject and you are required to--"

He stops. There's a high pitched squeak from behind him and slowly he turns to see Umbridge is standing.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, slowly.

"Are practical classes really necessary?" Umbridge titters, "Surely there is nothing the students will need to defend themselves from."

The whole year group shift and James doesn't miss the way they look at Harry. Harry just stays silent, face blank and if there's a temper there it's carefully reigned in.

"There are all sorts of threats outside of Hogwarts," James says, intentionally vague.

Umbridge's smile is cruel, "Surely you don't believe these wild accusations flying about, involving a certain Dark Wizard having returned?"

James' brain breaks. A certain Dark Wizard? There's only one he can think of, but that means--

"But he's dead," James says. Some students are staring at him in confusion. So is Umbridge for that matter.

"Some dreadful lies--" she stops to glare directly at Harry when she says this, but Harry is staring at a corner of his book that is suddenly very interesting and so misses this, "Have been spread," Umbridge says, "Are you saying you are unaware of these?"

"I'm not here to spread rumours," James says, firmly, "I'm here to teach these students how to defend themselves. The world is not a nice place. Some of these bright young minds will want to go on to pursue jobs in hunting criminals, in defending families from dark creatures, in warding and in duelling. For that they need to understand the practical aspect of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I intend to teach them that."

Umbridge looks like she's swallowed something sour. "We'll see what the Ministry has to say about that," she says, but frankly if that's her best come-back, James isn't scared.

"We'll see indeed. I'm awfully curious to know what the Head of the DMLE thinks about it," he says, blandly, and before she can splutter a reply he turns back to the group.

"Class XXXXX creatures are not available for practical classes!" he says, "The spells however are learnable, and while often harder to perform under pressure, and harder to perform if you don't know that! Name a spell to deal with a dragon--" he whirls on a hapless student, "Weasley?"

"Uh--" Ron flushes, ears going red, "Aim for the eye," he says, and he's trying to think of the curse, but probably can't think of the name.

"Two points," James says, "Curse name? Anyone? Come on, we covered this earlier this week!"

"Conjuctivus," Malfoy says.

James glares at him a little, "Correct," he says, and doesn't award points. Instead with a swirl of his wand the table in the room is suddenly a small dragon, "Would you care to demonstrate?"

Annoyingly Malfoy can cast a perfect curse, and James purposely ignores it, moving on. Malfoy sneers at him but says nothing. "Dementor?" he asks.

"Patroni," Granger sticks her hands up excitedly, "But physical walls work as well, they can't pass through them because they're corporeal which is why a corporeal Patroni works better than a non-Corporeal form."

"Two points to Ravenclaw. Patil, name some spells that will present the Dementor with a solid barrier?"

"Banishing charm," she says, "You can still hit them with things."

"Two points. Zabini, any barrier spells?"

"Murus," Blaise says.

"The wall spell, will you demonstrate?"

Zabini does, and much like Malfoy James decides that being petty is fun, and awards no points to the Slytherin for his perfect wall spell. The Slytherins shift but say nothing at his actions.

"Final creature for today's practical - how would you deal with--"

"Hang on!" a Hufflepuff - Susan Bones - pipes up, "You didn't demonstrate the Patronus Charm."

"That's above NEWT level," James says, "Usually only taught to extremely competent seventh years or if you end up in the Auror Corps. The spell is incredibly challenging to do under normal circumstances and nearly impossible when faced with an actual Dementor due to the negating effects their presence has--"

"But Harry can do one!" Greengrass pipes up, sounding petulant. The Hufflepuffs are nodding, as are the Gryffindors and James pauses to stare with them at Harry..

Harry is looking slightly uncomfortable, "Daphne!" Harry hisses at her, under his breath.

"You can, it can't be that hard if you can do it," she snorts. Harry narrows his eyes at her.

"Is that true?" James asks, because his feelings are warring with pride at his son and a desperate, awful horror because why does Harry need to know how to cast a patronus?

Harry doesn't answer verbally, just takes it as his cue to demonstrate and raises his wand to mutter the incantation.

James is expecting a silver mist. He's not expecting the silver corporeal animal, a fully formed, proper patroni. It's clear to see, sparkling silver from ears right down to the hooves clattering on the floor as it lopes forwards then stops, great antlered head swishing through the air as if gauging invisible enemies.

It's a stag. A magnificent silver stag. It's James' animagus form right down to the number of antlers. It's impossible, there is no way Harry could know about his form, he hadn't even told Lily although he was sure she'd guessed, but--

"Two points to--" James' words catch in his mouth. Harry's in Slytherin. Harry's in--

The students are watching him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

James jerks his wand towards the blackboard, "The spells named," he says, "There are different sections, work your way around them, I'm here to help and guide but help each other. Off you go." He's still staring at the stag, and for a moment Prongs looks up to meets his gaze, before it dissolves into nothing.

There are too many missing pieces, James thinks, and once he's finished explaining to the seventh years how they could probably win a battle using only 'wingardium leviosa' he vanishes into the library for the Prophet records. He finds it in bits and pieces. The 'Boy-Who-Lived', the change in politics… going through every single paper since 1981 is tedious, so he starts going back from that summer. He'd gone through them before, but now he looks in detail, he flicks to the middle of the article where there are articles questioning Harry's sanity and Dumbledore's claims the Dark Lord has returned.

'Potter refuses to comment' says later reports, 'Beyond neither a confirmation or denial, Potter maintains a neutral stance and refuses to either refute or back Dumbledore's claims--''

'Dumbledore At Odds With Rising Dark Lord' are the more ludicrous titles, but they ring with some faint truth. Harry's school years so far are described in a whirlwind. He's a Slytherin, he's manipulative, rumours are he's the reason the last four defence professors have retired, he tricked himself into the Triwizard Tournament' (James feels sick with worry and mixed anger at that thought), and naturally all the evidence is clearly pointing to the fact he's a rising Dark Lord.

James gets to the papers describing the Second Task when he realises it's Sunday afternoon and he hasn't moved location in the past twenty hours. With a yawn and a rumble of his stomach he heads for dinner.

There are - after all - other sources than newspapers. While the preferable source is still unaware of his existence, he can always make do. And James knows from experience that the people who knew him best apart from his friends were very often his teachers.

"So," he says bright and early Monday morning and slightly sleep deprived. He's blaming the sleep deprivation for the strange sight of a house elf dressed in a safari hat and khaki shorts stalking down the corridor with a net, whispering "here, buggy, buggy," as he stalked down the corridor. "Come to Dobby, be Dobby's new pet you will, Dobby promises to feeds you and waters you and--"

Minerva raises one eyebrow at him, "Good morning," she says, considerably calmer than James is, "Did your weekend lesson work out as well as you hoped?"

"Fantastic," James exclaims, "The seventh years are atrocious in their skills, but that can be fixed. The fifth years have some potential. Did you know that Harry Potter can do a corporeal Patronus?"

It's not as much as a surprise to her as James had hoped. "I'm aware," Minerva says, "He had to learn it third year."

"He learnt it at thirteen?" James exclaims, because he's pretty sure there was a Dark Lord who once offed himself by failing to cast the Patronus charm and produced only maggots which devoured his body. And Harry managed it at thirteen?

"There were Dementors," Minerva says, "When motivated I have found Mr Potter can do anything he puts his mind to. Including giving Miss Granger a run for her money in position as top of the year. We lost him in the library in second year because of it, and he emerged looking dreadful. I believe Mr Zabini and Miss Greengrass has to manhandle him out of there and refused to let him back in. Mr Potter's score was only just behind Miss Granger's for that year, even though he missed a period of school."

"Missed school?" James frowns, "Was he ill?"

McGonagall looks uncomfortable, "Of a sort," she says, clamming up. James leaves it, instead opting to peer over towards his son. Harry's sitting with the Slytherin's today. He's sitting the side of the table nearest the door with his back to the wall. In the corner he can see everyone in the hall.

He's also furthest away from the staff table, James notes.

James recognises Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass who sit nearest Harry, but Theodore Nott is there too, as are several other fifth year Slytherins he doesn't know.

Draco Malfoy, James is somewhat relieved to note, is sitting nearer the middle of the table, away from Harry's own personal court, that somehow even includes the Quidditch team on the outskirts.

"Who taught them in '92?" James asks.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," Minerva's tone betrays how she feels about that.

"Huh," James says, because the student's summary of that year had proved most interesting. The older years had learnt a wonderful knack for memory charms, the younger years had the queerest of things that included but were not limited to 'kick him in the shin', 'don't release Cornish Pixies' and 'dropping your wand does not help when attempting to cast the shield charm'. "Might take a leaf out of his book," he ponders.

"What - claim some ludicrous accomplishment as your own and obliviate the original hero of the story?"

"That's what he did? What - no, he acted out situations. It may prove an interesting exercise. I know some good auror training techniques the sixth years will love," James ponders, lips curling into a smile. He also has some great plans for what he's going to put the fifth years through next.

James leaves the hall behind his son, the Ravenclaw muggle-born and the Slytherin dark-skinned boy. They're talking and bits and pieces of the conversation drift back to him as he follows them up to the third floor. Their class is further up, but he feels compelled to listen, to try and gain whatever insight he can into Harry's life--

"Huh," he hears from Harry, "That's weird--" his son draws up so shortly James has no time to stop, walking right into him. "Sorry, Professor," Harry says, blinking up at him and shoving something into his bag. He straightens himself off and James collects his dropped books and papers.

"Do watch where you're going," he says, "Or I might advise you to invest in some new eyepieces."

Seriously those round frames are really ugly. James can't believe Sirius let Harry choose them. Blaise, Harry and Hermione are standing there staring so James steps around, and makes a great show of opening the door to his classroom and stepping inside, the door closing firmly behind him.

He waits half a second before casting an eavesdropping charm.

"That was weird," Blaise says.

"I don't think he likes me," he hears Harry say, "Five galleons he's going to try and seriously maim me too."

"Don't be ridiculous, he's a teacher," Hermione stresses.

"You know my run with Defence teachers. The last one was a Death Eater for Merlin's sake. Come on, five galleons?"

"Not taking that bet. Hell, even Lupin tried to eat you, and he liked you."

"That… wasn't really his fault…"

James' heart races. Lupin… Remus had been here only two years ago teaching. So if he's found Remus, then where's Sirius?

"He's probably not dangerous--"

"Dumbledore doesn't consider werewolves dangerous; I'd hate to meet something Dumbledore genuinely thinks is dangerous."

They move out of the reaches of the charm and James cancels the charm as some more students wander past.

The second years bundle in and James tries to look like he was waiting for class to start, not eavesdropping on the fifth years as he turns to the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, lesson all ready in his head.

He thinks he's getting used to this teaching lark.

He spends the lesson talking through some of the lower levelled creatures the second years need to know. He's focussing on creatures for most years at the moment except the sixth and seventh whom which he is running through various duelling knowledge he knows and has found in various books. He'll move the fourth and fifth years onto hexes and jinxes soon, the lower years onto the theory with some practical application.

He's found he is enjoying teaching. He'd never had to do it before - he'd always enjoyed showing off to younger years though, and he'd had to tutor Peter - the traitor - through how to become an animagus. That had taken a lot of patience, and a lot of time but he had done it.

And while a part of him misses being an auror, misses being in the action, he's settled down. He's in his thirties, he's spent over a decade in a coma - he's not ready for field work. He strangely enough has no desire for it either and he wonders if it's died with age or in the change of times. Umbridge prowls the halls and she's still admitting that there is nothing dangerous out there with a vengeance that makes James all the more paranoid for it.

At breakfast the next morning Harry is actually at the Slytherin table for a change. The difference is that Ron and Hermione have joined him and Ron appears to be arguing Quidditch with normally quiet Theodore Nott and Hermione is glaring at the paper, clearly outraged over whatever is in it.

Snape notices the new addition to his house table, and Malfoy looks thrilled as the Potion's Professor heads down for the gang. James considers it for half a moment and then excuses himself from Sinistra to follow.

He misses the way Dumbledore's eyes track over his progress across the hall to where Harry sits.

"I thought I told you to sit at your own house table?" Snape is sneering, "Mr Potter, stop collecting strays--"

"They're not pets," Harry is protesting, and an annoyed Snape doesn't appear to care for any talking back, eyes narrowing. "And Hermione, stop reading that rubbish!" Harry snatches the paper from her hand, chucking it over his shoulder. It hits a Hufflepuff in the head, bouncing into his cereal.

Snape looks gleeful, "Detention for violence against Macmillain."

Macmillain looks so tired he hasn't even noticed. Harry looks first at the dozing Hufflepuff, then to Snape, looking like he wants to respond with some righteous argument. James knows he would have, Lily would have, but Harry--

Harry's jaws snap shut, and he nods his head, eyes ducked submissively. Even lowered with his expression schooled he can't quite hide the anger, the resentment.

"Really?" James drawls, appearing next to them and startling Hermione into knocking over her empty glass of orange juice, "Severus, you want to spend time with watching him spend the evening scrubbing cauldrons?"

"I rather had in mind cleaning out some of the older potions supply closets," Snape says vindictively. James shudders because he knows from experience that there are things alive in some of those cupboards.

"I've got a better plan," James says, thinking on his feet, "I've been making the sixth years navigate through stinksap traps in one of the classrooms. It needs cleaning before next lesson and I haven't got around to it."

"Why, Ian," Snape looks like he's swallowed a lemon, like he enjoyed James' sense of humour but it is distasteful to be liking 'Ian' himself. "Keep this up and you may actually survive the year."

Coming from Snape, James thinks that's nice. He still sneers back, for childhood rivalry's sake, even if Snivellus doesn't realise it.

"Fantastic," James beams at Snape, then glances at Harry who looks like he's been caught in some sort of trap, "Tonight, seven o'clock."

He wanders off before his son can protest the detention. He might check out the detention roll, see if there are some more he can nab. Too many might looks suspicious, but any time with his son--

His Slytherin son, a part of him reminds himself, but James shakes it off because Snape still hates Harry, so even if Harry's in the house of green and silver he must be doing something right.

"Where do you need me, Professor?"

"Huh?" James blinks at seven o'clock when Harry enters his room, gaze fixed on the wall, completely avoiding his gaze.

"Which classroom?" Harry prompts him, "For the stinksap?"

"Oh," James realises, "I lied, I had the house elves clean it yesterday, I just wanted to take your detention and get one over on Snape. Decidedly unpleasant man." That's an understatement and maybe slightly biased but James doesn't care.

Harry is blinking at him in slow but evident confusion balanced with equal wariness, "What do you want me to do?" he asks, slowly, "For my detention?"

James considers his answer for only a moment, then decides 'screw it'. "That spell," he says, "The one you cast on the Gryffindor that earned you your last detention--"

Harry's face is unreadable, and James pauses expecting an interruption but there was none.

"It was sloppy," James says, "Last time you gave me five ways you could have reacted in that situation and for your last one--" he hesitates half a second, "It was sloppy," he says again, "Anyone walking by could have heard you curse him."

"It was a banishing charm," Harry says, tone neutral.

"Charming him doesn't have the same ring," James says, "Technically a charm used on a person becomes a jinx, Depulso used on a person becomes a variant of the Knockback Jinx. But that's not the point; you gave clear intention with your words. Had the Gryffindor been more competent he could have easily blocked it."

Harry's staring at him, not managing to hide the confusion in his face, "Professor," he says, "We don't get taught non-verbal spells until sixth year." It sounds like he's quoting his bookworm Ravenclaw friend.

"And?" James prompts, "That just means nobody expects you to know it already. Plausible deniability," he shrugs, "How could you have cursed him if you didn't say a spell? You're a fifth year - you won't know non-verbal casting."

Harry's still staring at him.

"I," James says, "Am a teacher. And if Snape is going to waste your time giving you detentions I figure you might as well get something out of it. Now - let's practise levitating this book. Without saying anything."

An hour later Harry creeps away, the book having flown all over the classroom, spine slightly damaged and a dent in the ceiling. He'd eventually managed to make it fly, but with no control and James was pretty sure Harry was still whispering the incantation.

Oh well, next time James would just use a silencing charm on him and put him in a body bind until Harry could non-verbally free himself.

"So how was detention?" Blaise asks when Harry makes it back to the common room.

"I think Daphne's right," Harry says, grimly, "He's out to get me. He spent the past hour teaching me non-verbal magic."

Blaise pulls a face, "Only you would think a teacher actually teaching construes as something evil and threatening."

Harry spends his summer after first year for one horrible week at the Dursleys. He's in the middle of arguing with a house elf about letters and puddings and is saved of all things by a doorbell interrupting Vernon's prized meal.

It's for him. That might get him killed as it is, but his friends are smarter than that. Hermione beams at Vernon, her two very respectable parents smiling at him.

"You must be Mr Dursley. We're here to pick up Harry."

"Pick up--" Vernon is fuming.

"That's right," Hermione says, "Harry's coming on holiday with me to France, surely he's told you?"

This is news to Harry. Vernon is alternating between glaring at him with piggy eyes and trying to smile at the Grangers. It comes out as a grimace. His visitors are peering in curiosity and confusion since they didn't even know Harry existed.

Harry feels self conscious in his too-large clothes. His glasses are broken again and he pulls his sleeve down to hide a cut, plastering a confused grin on his face, "That was today? Hermione, you told me the 1st!"

"The 1st?" Hermione rolls with it, "No, I said we're leaving on the 1st but we were picking you up the 31st-- I did say that, didn't I?"

"No!"

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry," Hermione says, flushing. Harry admires her acting, "This must be awfully inconvenient, oh and you have guests, I'm so sorry, Mr Dursley. Mum and Dad can wait in the car, we'll just grab Harry's stuff and leave you to your meal, it smells simply delicious--"

"Nonsense," Petunia has the sense of mind to put up a good front, "Come in for some tea while the kids get ready, Harry, are you sure you didn't miss the date? He's awfully forgetful, my nephew, he was doing his homework, gets in trouble with the teachers for forgetting at school--" she leads her fuming husband and their multiplied guests to the living room while Hermione and Harry slip upstairs.

"You didn't really forget to do your homework, did you?" Hermione sniffs loudly.

Harry laughs, joy sweeping through him. He doesn't know what else to say, but Hermione seems to realise because she turns to his room with a tut, "Better get this packed then, come on. Mum and Dad can only play polite with those foul relatives of yours for so long."

It's a conspiracy. Blaise, Ron, Daphne and Hermione had come to the unanimous agreement to keep Harry as far away from home as possible. Harry doesn't say anything about it, he'd rather avoid it all together. He spends two weeks with Hermione, before several days with first Daphne, then Blaise and finally Ron and the whole of the Weasley brood.

Mr and Mrs Greengrass were the stiff sort, and while Harry was pretty sure they didn't abide by blood purity to the extent of Malfoy and his ike, they were still the prim and proper sort. Daphne and he had spent a lot of time avoiding the house with Daphne's younger sister.

Blaise's mother is terrifying. She drags around a younger man who is starry eyed over her, has too much money and as much fun as Diagon Alley is, wandering around Knockturn Alley with the Zabini's is even more fun. 

Once she leaves to visit the bank about the will of her late husband Blaise looks him straight in the eye and says, "If you were ten years older and single, you'd be doomed, mate."

"How many stepfathers is that now?" Harry asks.

"Heading for four," Blaise says, dispassionately, "Oh look, there are your pet redheads."

He gets several cleaning charms shot at his soot-stained robes from his poor attempt at flooing, and Malfoy lurks around to make disparaging comments and they're unfortunate not only because it appears Draco is still obsessed with him, but because the blonde guy in the bookstore notices him.

"Blimey, can that be - Harry Potter--" the blonde man fixes an unnerving gaze straight on Harry who stiffens. Then the blonde man lunges.

Three things happen in quick succession. Harry flinches back. Blaise, predicting this, moves to step in front of Harry, effectively hiding the full body flinch from view and also protecting Harry from the maniac.

Daphne sticks out her foot.

Lockhart trips over it in a whirlwind of blue. Blaise steps further back out of the way, aware of Harry behind him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Daphne stares in mock horror, "I didn't see you there, are you okay?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, blinking up at Harry, "There you are, I've been looking everywhere for you, I found Granger simply ages ago and, hello Mr Malfoy, Draco, I left her at the Ice Cream place, I thought we'd agreed to meet there--"

Blaise and Daphne get on with Ron and Hermione, and Harry's not sure if it's for the sake of appearances, because of him or because they don't actually mind each other. He's pretty sure he once caught Ron and Blaise comparing Quidditch teams once, but both deny it completely.

"Thank you,"  he manages to say to Ron, manages to choke it out with the full intention behind the words and he doesn't need to say any more because his friend understands.

"We were going to do it sooner so you didn't have to stay there at all but the first days of the holidays were hectic for me and Hermione was looking into some sort of school related thing that muggles do--" Ron says, "Zabini was out of the country for his mother's honeymoon - another one can you believe it - and Greengrass had to persuade her parents--"

"You guys saved me from a mad house elf," Harry says, "Also I'm sorry for the lack of letters, the mad house elf stole them-- I don't need seconds Mrs Weasley, I'm full already--"

"Nonsense," says the good natured, fierce lion of Ron's mother. She appears to have no qualms about looking after her children, probably needs to with seven of them, but to Harry she appears to be trying to make up for the unspoken about lack of his own parents, "You're looking far too thin, here, have some more juice--"

It's the best summer he's ever had, so naturally it ends by him walking smack bang into the barrier.

"No way, " Ron says. They're late already due to the large family of Weasleys attempting to get ready on time, but now they're completely and ultimately screwed. Train gone screwed.

"What if we can't get to school?"

Harry's never heard Ron more upset about missing school before.

Then Ron, the Gryffindor that he is, suggests they fly the car.

Harry has more self-preservation instincts than that. He rescues his mad owl from her toppled over cage and grabs some parchment, "Hopefully the parents start coming back through," he says, "But until then, Hedwig, how quickly can you fly?"

They end up flooing to the Hogs Head where a disgruntled bar owner ushers them into McGonagall's stern and disapproving care. Harry's never been sure whether she likes him or not, she always appears to find fault with something about him, but at least she's less obvious than Snape. "Of course it would be you two," she sniffs, "Come on, up to the castle with you, no, leave your trunks, I'll levitate them--"

Flooing is far faster than the train, even if it's not feasible for all the students. They arrive at the castle early, and maybe seeing the opportunity Dumbledore appears in the Entrance Hall.

"I had-ah-heard of your issue with the barrier. It is being looked into, but I was wondering Mr Potter if I might have a word?"

Harry glances at Ron who shrugs and appears to be wondering if there will be any food on the table at this time more than what the Headteacher wants to talk to Harry about.

"I'll have the house elves send some food along to the hall for you two, don't spoil your appetite for the feast," Dumbledore smiles, "Mr Potter, I'll just be a moment--"

Harry sighs. He lost Ron at food, so he nods, stepping to the side with Dumbledore while Ron vanishes into the hall, casting a concerned glance at Harry. "Professor," Harry says, neutrally. He's not sure what to make of Dumbledore. Especially after the Headmaster's attempt of a trap to catch Voldemort that Harry had slid into instead.

More unforgivingly, Dumbledore had let him.

Harry still wonders why Dumbledore had done it last year. Did he know about Quirrell? Or was the real bait not the stone at all but Harry?

He doesn't dare ask.

"Harry," the teacher drops to his first name and Harry tenses. Seeming to realise his discomfort, Dumbledore corrects himself, "Mr Potter, I was made aware of the fact that sometime in July you were not at your relative's house."

Harry frowns, because how is that any of Dumbledore's business--

"After Voldemort's initial defeat," Dumbledore continues, "There were still attacks by his followers. Many died or were injured; the Longbottom's, the Bones, Spencers… to keep you safe, I placed you with your aunt."

Harry stares at him. Resentment bubbles and his gaze slides past Dumbledore to the wall behind him, breathing short but controlled, listening--

"I had thought-- wrongly, it appears if what Molly Weasley informed me in a more dulcet and beautifully composed Howler I've yet to hear - that you would be cared for there. I'm--"

"Don't say you're sorry," Harry snaps, interrupting him, voice venomous, "I don't want to hear--" he checks himself, "Professor, is there a point to this conversation because I'd like to re-join Ron--"

"There are protections," Dumbledore says, "I used your mother's protective sacrifice to tie them to a blood relative. I had hoped…" the Headmaster says, "That Petunia would look past her jealousy of her sister, look past--"

"Jealousy?" Harry asks in disbelief, "She hates magic, she detests it, thinks it's freakish and an abomination, tried to beat it--" he stops. He really needs to learn to curb his temper. Dumbledore's shoulder tremble and he looks tired. Harry doesn't care, he won't let the man apologise. He left Harry with Petunia and Vernon. To keep him safe.

What was being done to keep him safe from them, Harry wants to ask, but he's a Slytherin and admitting that much is a weakness and so he says nothing.

Maybe Dumbledore can see his reluctance. Maybe Harry makes eye contact longer than he should because Dumbledore's shoulder quiver suddenly as if under a tremendous weight, "I once received a letter from Petunia when she was thirteen, requesting that she might go to Hogwarts. Jealousy with time turned to hate. I had hoped she would overcome it for her dead sister's son, but it appears that I thought wrong. While you consider that place home, the blood protection will work, but I… I think it might be best if I seek somewhere else for you. Although your friends appear to have handled that wonderfully amongst themselves."

Safest place. It's laughable. But Harry thinks about the wraith, the man with two faces, the angry dark mass that wants him dead dead dead with a burning hatred Harry doesn't understand and--

"I'm sure," he says, "I can put up with them for a few months."

Dumbledore doesn't look happy by the decision, "A few weeks will do," he says, "I will talk to them," he says, "It might ease your stay."

"Thank you," Harry says, stiffly, "Now if you'll excuse me--"

He sidesteps the man.

"Harry--" Dumbledore says, but Harry doesn't stop and Dumbledore doesn't finish.

"What did Dumbledore want to talk about?" Ron asks, as Harry joins him in the hall.

"Stuff… Ron, I was just wondering… when you said you wanted to fly the car-- do you even know how to drive a car?"

Ron grabs another sandwich, no doubt relishing the lack of corned beef, "No, but how hard can it be?"

Harry resolves to keep a closer eye on his friend.

The year is looking to be torn between dodging Lockhart and avoiding Snape's ire. Harry hates Snape with the same quiet loathing he reserves for Vernon. The quiet, sullen 'don't react because they'll just enjoy it more' sort of emotion that has his blank green gaze fixed on the grimy wall of the potion's room more often than not.

The year is not going to be quiet though, not when on Halloween the teachers burst into the kitchens where Harry's unofficial 'gang' had ended up in after the Deathday Party. Neville gets such a surprise the Hufflepuff falls off the table. Blaise and Daphne snigger over chocolate frogs and Hermione whirls around to the teachers.

"Ah," Dumbledore says, "I appears to have waylaid our missing students."

A cat's been petrified and it's not the first. Draco struts around the hall like his own personal fantasy has come true. Or rather: his father's. In truth of it Draco doesn't care about blood, not the way the fanatics of the Dark Lord had. But he cares about power and family and both of those things care about blood and so he lauds about it, the attacks giving him the confidence to say exactly what some extremists are thinking.

"Filthy little mudblood."

Ron nurses a burnt hand and a broken wand from punch Draco in the face. Harry is conspicuously absent, only because he's gone through the library twice and found barely anything about the Chamber. Hermione is beginning to claim he's becoming a Ravenclaw and Daphne is threatening to disown him from Slytherin.

Harry threatens to disown himself when the password changes in December to 'mudblood'. The bigoted Prefect who had changed it watches with glee as Harry stands there facing the blank wall.

"I'm not saying it," he says, cold and still wet from Quidditch Practice. He's not going to say it, he's not . He clutches his Nimbus, a present he and Blaise and Ron had bought last year after he'd gotten onto the team after weeks of paging through broom magazines.

"Fine then, Potter," Malfoy sneers, "You can just sleep out here."

Malfoy bought himself a Chaser position with seven branch new Nimbus 2001s. Harry thinks it's selfish and a cheap move and has said as much. He used the broom, but it hadn't lasted long after some nasty dives. Blaise still refuses to believe he'd 'broken' the broom.

"I'm not using it," Harry says.

Malfoy shrugs, "Mudblood," he says, and pushes the door that appears there open. Harry could dart in there now but--

No. He refuses.

He remains outside until Filch makes him move. Blaise and Daphne frown at him the next day, "Where were you?"

"Avoiding the new password."

"Avoiding the new--oh--"

Harry is sleepless and tired and the kitchens are very uncomfortable to sleep in, the rest of the castle is very cold and he spent a lot of the night dodging Mrs Norris who appears to sniff him out no matter where he tries to sleep.

"I don't get why he's even here," Harry complains, "What does Filch even do? "

"He's the caretaker," Daphne says, "He cleans and… uh…" she trails off.

" See, that's the thing, he cleans. But so do the House Elves. So why do we even have him?"

The three fall into a pensive silence.

"What's the matter?" Neville peers at a tired looking Harry later in Charms.

"No sleep," Blaise answers for his friend, "He--uh--" he falters.

"Refused to go into the Slytherin common room while the password remains… that…" Harry still manages a tired sneer.

"That?" Neville repeats, blankly.

"Mudblood," Blaise says for Harry.

"It's stupid," Harry snarls, "it's stupid and bigot and I'm not doing it. I'm not. Right, Blaise?"

Blaise just about manages to hide his expression as Harry turns to him, "Sure," he says, "I-uh-does this mean I can't enter the common room anymore?"

"Of course," Daphne says, "We'll boycott."

"But Daph, all my stuff's in there!"

"Well now we've left, we can't get back in unless they change it again. So we boycott."

Harry's face shutters and he turns back to his work, leaving Blaise spluttering to form the right words for an apology.

"Well, I don't know what the others will think, but you can crash in our common room. We don't have a password, we--" Neville's jaw snaps shut, then he shakes his head, "I'll show you," he says, and it sounds like a promise.

"Look, can we not go in at least once to grab our stuff before we move out?"

The Hufflepuffs give them one weird look then shrug and move on. Their common room is warm and cosy with low ceilings Ron keeps hitting his head on.

"I don't get why they're even here - they're in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw!"

"Solidarity," Hermione says where she's curled up by the fire with a book and squishy sleeping bag.

"Seriously?" a fourth year asks, "You guys are just going to camp out here indefinitely?"

"Believe me, this is the last place I wanted to end up," Daphne says, but it's kind of counterproductive considering she's snuggled up in the couch half-asleep.

"We're striking," Blaise says, "Or at least, Harry is, and we're supporting him. Because we're good friends. And we don't need to get our textbooks or homework or change of clothes or cosmetics--"

"Oh," Daphne sighs, "Oh dear."

"Why don't you just change the password?" the fourth year frowns,  looking at them like they're all illogical idiots.

"Do you know how to change the password?" Harry asks.

The fourth year - Diggory - pulls a face and shrugs. As one everyone else's face turns to Hermione.

Hermione huffs, slamming her book closed with a sigh, straightening up, "Let's see, shall we?"

Next to her Ron looks mildly terrified.

It's proved justified when half an hour later they're all standing around the Slytherin wall and watching Hermione mutter increasingly inventive spells at the stonework.

"This isn't working," Ron says, trying to hide a yawn, "Clearly subtlety isn't going to work. Hermione, I think I might have an idea?"

"Oh yeah?" she turns, challengingly, "Really?"

Harry looks like he wants to protest, but Blaise stops him, "I want to watch this."

Ron steps forwards, brandishing his broken wand to demonstrate, " Portaberto ," he says.

In hindsight none of them were really expecting him to blow a hole in the wall.

"I'm never listening to you again," Harry snaps at Blaise, as cries of alarm are heard from students inside. The teachers don't take long in arriving either and Harry helpfully casts a charm to clear away the dust. "I think you overdid that lock-splintering charm," he tells Ron with a pat on his friend's back.

"Uh…" Ron looks pale, "I think I splintered the whole wall."

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?"

The crash had brought not only Snape running but McGonagall. She stares in utter horror and confusion at the students, then at the hole in the wall, through which some sleepy looking Slytherins are appearing in confusion to try and work out what just happened.

Ron currently is staring, jaw slack at the hole in the wall that he had just created.

"Passive rebellion," Daphne is always quick off the mark.

"We were trying to change the password," Hermione says, "Since it was racist and prejudiced and we might have-- gone overboard--"

"Gone overboard, you idiot child you've just knocked down a wall--"

"We didn't knock it down," Harry's motto is deny-deny-deny, "It splintered. Badly. Ron's wand is broken you see--"

Ron's expression of betrayal goes ignored by Harry.

"Broken--Mr Weasley is that glue?"

"No," Ron says, stubbornly, his wand held together with tape and glue.

"We were just trying unlocking charms," Harry says, "That's all."

The best thing about it is that he's being perfectly honest.

That's how Ron gets a new wand, funded for him by the school.

He finds the diary in February, wet and sodden and strangely devoid of any writing. It's familiar, like an old friend, and even the name--

He spends hours staring at it. It's just a book. An empty book…

An empty book that eats his Defence notes like they never existed in the first place, and spits back out a scrawling cursive with soft words and curling thoughts of something sentient.

And while a part of him longs to close it and never look at it again he doesn't, because words reach out to him in understanding, knowing and Tom Tom Tom and he was an orphan, alone, hated and that echoes with something inside Harry and as the memory talks about growing up in an orphanage in muggle London, Harry shares about growing up with relatives who tried to beat the magic out of him.

"Harry?"

Blaise's face swims into view in front of Harry, frowning in concern, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Harry says, snappishly. Why does everybody keep looking at him like he's about to break?

"Really?" Daphne stares at him, "Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"

Harry hasn't bothered with a mirror in--

He's not even sure. Time is blurring together and he's so tired.

"I'm fine," he says, and goes back to writing. Blaise says something else but Harry either doesn't hear or doesn't register it, not at least until Blaise appears in front of him, leaning over him, arms out and--

It's not meant to be intimidating, he's trying to make a point but the movement is sudden and violent and before either of the boys have realised it, Harry flinches back.

He's on his feet and a full two steps back, head ducking and arms coming up to protect himself. It's instinctive, it's quick and protective and both boys freeze when they realise it. Harry's heart thumps in his chest, fight or flight warring and--

Seconds later Harry's standing normally, eyes guarded, mouth closed in a thin line and Blaise is there staring at the implications.

"Don't do that," Harry's voice is deceptively light, "Almost gave me a heart attack--" his voice wavers only slightly, to his credit, as he slides back to his sofa seat, fingers curled like claws around the diary.

"Harry?" Blaise asks, but somehow he knows he's not going to get much more than that. Harry doesn't say anything, and he doesn't need to. He doesn't look at either Blaise or Daphne, nor Ron and Hermione when Daphne lets them into the common room later. Half the students don't even notice the change, the few who do either look confused or glare at the intruders.

Harry ignores the world and looks after himself. It's what he's good at, and he scrawls words to a ghost of a boy.

"Harry? Harry? HARRY!"

"What?" he snaps. They keep staring at him funny. They keep asking questions, they won't leave him alone--

"You look sick," Daphne comments. It's the only thing she says about him nowadays and Harry sneers at her, because can't she think of something better to comment on?

"Flint said you missed Quidditch practise last week, do you need to see Pomphrey?" Blaise asks.

"No," he says, irritably, "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine, Harry, you look-"

"I'M FINE!" he snaps, whirling on them, "Stop trying to feel sorry for the poor little orphan boy!"

"Is this about Christmas and leaving you with Draco and--"

"Shut up!" Harry snaps, "Just shut up! You're just like the others, pampered pureblood pets dancing to their parent's strings, trying to play politics you're twelve, you're not intimidating!"

Blaise reels back, features shuttered, "Wow, tell us how you really feel, Potter," he scowls, the boy's own temper rising. "Is it this Heir of Slytherin stuff getting to you - we know it's not you, it's stopped now anyway--"

"Everyone knew it wasn't me, but they just like to point and stare," Harry snaps, "Just because I'm the famous Boy-Who-Lived well maybe I wish sometimes I hadn't lived, maybe it would have been better if I'd died! What's the difference? Nobody cares. One minute I'm their hero the next I'm their scapegoat. I don't owe anybody anything just because I lived when my parents died. I'm done answering to other people--"

He's dizzy suddenly. Dizzy and so so angry and his friends look more confused and--

"Harry, are you okay?" Blaise reaches out to him, and it's how he's always been, Blaise likes patting Harry on the back, wrapping an arm around Daphne, throwing himself spectacularly across the sofa they're already sitting on, it's just how he is but now--

Harry's hand curls around a black leather book and wrenches himself away from Blaise, shouldering past so violently he sends Blaise flying and Daphne shrieking in alarm. He doesn't know where he's going, just that he's going away before something happens because he's so angry.

It's the book, he thinks, it's all to do with the book, with the goddamn black book and Tom's ensnaring ink stained words and--

His pulse is racing and his head pounding and he can't think he slips through the corridors he's explored so well, he has to, he has to always know away out, he hates that he always has to know at least three escape routes from a room--

He slips into a bathroom nobody is going to go into. The ghost haunting it is absent, and he stops by the sink, running the water. He's tired. He hadn't realised it before, hadn't really thought about it--

He's tired and ill and he looks it . Blaise and Daphne's comments are truthful, he's pale - paler than usual - and there are dark shadows around his eyes. He looks like he has a terminal illness of some sort and his green eyes are clouded and red-rimmed.

And he's still clutching the damn book, and Tom's words still echo in his head and if Harry thinks about it, he can hear a voice whispering too--

With a scream of rage he throws it as far away from himself as possible. It hits the wall and falls down, pages open and beautifully perfectly blank and--

"Reducto," he says, because he wants it gone, he wants it to burn--

The spell glances off, hitting a sink. The cistern cracks and water sprays out. The book lies there unmoving.

Fire, he thinks, but Hermione's bluebell flames shoot off it, turning the spraying water into steam.

"Reducto," he snaps, "Reducto, Incendio, Flagrate, Terrium, Depulso Depulso Depulso!"

He knocks it aside. Piece of sink fall down but he barely notices.

The floor is wet and the bottom of his robes are sodden but he's still to focussed on the diary, on the damn urge to pick it up and write and--

The leather cover is smooth and unmarked, pages blank, slightly damp but not even a single ink smear to give hint as to the occupant, as to Tom, the memory, the thing, the dark haunting voice that--

"NO!" he cries out, fingers tearing at the pages in sudden fury. He doesn't want this. He'd left this behind with Hogwarts. He doesn't want to be powerless ever again, he has magic, he's better than his uncle, he's better than all of them, he'll show them and he doesn't need this godforsaken shadow of a memory and ink stains in his head.

The pages don't tear and the book doesn't burn and he throws it away from him. As far as he can get it, right across the bathroom. And though he hates it, part of him longs to go and pick it up and--

He steps back so sharply his back hits the wall, knocking the breath out of him. With a shudder he sinks to the ground, vaguely away of the flooding bathroom around him. He's shaking and cold and in the back of his head red eyes narrow and--

"Harry? HARRY!"

He doesn't know when Daphne or Blaise appeared, but they're there, shaking him, looking concerned.

"Harry?" Daphne looks terrified. He doesn't think he's ever seen her like this.

"Are you crying?" he asks.

"What? No," she blinks furiously, "What are you doing you idiot we're your friends! We might not be Granger or Weasley, but we like you, Harry, we're worried about you, what on earth's the matter with you?"

"I--" Harry's chokes, suddenly aware of how he must look to the pair, but there is nothing but worry in their eyes. Blaise's robes are wet and it takes Harry a while to realise that's because his friend is crouched next to him in the water spreading out over the floor, "I can't get rid of it," he says, "Him," he corrects, idly, "He won't burn, he won't tear, I can't-- there's something wrong with him-it, I--"

"It?" Daphne asks.

"The diary," Harry says, "Tom's diary. He--it writes back. But it's… it's not right it's sick and I'm sick and he's inside my head."

"Diary?" Blaise asks, but Daphne has already found it, and she reaches to pick it up and then stops, looking at Harry.

"It did this to you?"

Harry doesn't know what she means. But then he catches sight of his reflection in the water.

He's pale. He's always pale, but never had he looked so sickly. Sick with dark shadows under his eyes and his hair even more spiked that usual. His black hoodie of Dudley's is too big, his hand vanishing in the sleeves and he looks like he's ten, not thirteen. He doesn't look like a Slytherin, he looks like a lost student who found their way into this school of magic.

"We're leaving it here," Daphne says, decisively, "And we're taking you back to bed. When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night."

"When was the last time you slept without nightmares?" Blaise asks, and Harry doesn't answer.

They leave the diary lying on the floor and Daphne doesn't even need to dose him with Sleeping Draught because he falls asleep anyway.

When they go back later to pick up the diary it's no longer there.

Harry wants to tell them it's okay, they tried, but it was never going to work.

A part of Tom was already inside Harry to start with. 

They stage an intervention.

It's a mess. Of course it is, because it wouldn't be Harry if it went smoothly. There are talks of arresting Hagrid of all people but it doesn't matter. The attacks have stopped but Harry's still losing time, and he still has the book, leather growing warm and almost beating like a heart under his hands and--

They stage an intervention. He's not sure what the plan is, or was, or why Lockhart was even there or what curse he got hit with but one minute they were in the seventh floor corridor, the next they were in a room, a massive room, a giant room and Ginny's there and (why is Ron's sister there?)--

They stage an intervention. It goes like this. Blaise and Daphne confront Harry on his way to talk to the Arithmancy teacher to try and determine exactly what Arithmancy is because apparently it's later April already (but Harry could have sworn it was February) and they have to pick subjects for next year. Hermione came up with the idea. He should have known better.

He's tired and sick and there's a shadow in his head, a shade puppeteering half of his movements and he's snappish and irritable and there are spells on his tongue that he doesn't know, but he knows they will hurt and--

He turns to leave and to escape and Ron's there with Lockhart talking about Dark Objects and the diary and--

Ginny's there too. For a moment Harry doesn't know why Ginny's there, but that's stupid because he asked her to be there, because she knows about the diary, she had it first and he has to clear up his messes after all and--

Time jumps for a bit after that. He comes back to himself sitting on the floor with Tom standing over him talking. With Voldemort standing over him talking because of course it's Voldemort, it always was wasn't it, because he tried to kill Harry, because they're too similar, too alike, there's too much of Tom in Harry and too much of Harry in Tom and it's killing him--

Lockhart's obliviated in the corner of whatever room they're in. Harry's not sure what happened but Daphne is looking smug. He doesn't recognise the room. It's massive - the size of a cathedral with high ceilings and filled with wobbling towers of furniture, books and clothes everywhere Harry looks.

There's an ugly bust with a wig and a sparkling tiara on it, and nearby on the floor lies the diary, and Tom's still talking.

"You'll be dead soon," he actually directs to Harry, then turns to Blaise and Ron and Daphne and Hermione, "They'll never find your bodies."

"You might be alive," Harry says, "But you'll still only be a shadow. A memory. A part of a whole."

Riddle flinches, eyes blazing with fury. It's the only emotion he feels. "Oh, you stupid ignorant boy, you could have been great but you don't even realise, I'm in your head , you don't stand a chance."

He's a second year student - he stands no chance against whatever it is Riddle is.

Except despite all things, Harry thinks, he's not like Tom, not at all, because there are many similarities as there are differences and in the end it's the differences that make him Harry.

The hat had considered him for Gryffindor after all.

"You'll be dead soon," Riddle says, dispassionately.

"Yeah," Harry says, "I will. And so will you," and then he stabs the knife he'd found into his chest.

It's not as easy as movies make it look. He hits bone and it jars. It might even break the rib and Harry misses anything vital which is annoying because it means he'll have to do it again and--

"NO!" Riddles' furious. Riddle's furious and Harry's bleeding everywhere and weakening and Riddle needs him dead, but not like this, and Riddle's form flickers violently.

Someone screams, possible Ginny, and the knife is torn from his hands. For a moment Tom stands above him, bloody knife outstretched, fury etched into his features, and then Harry coughs up blood and okay, he thinks, he might have actually hit a lung, and Riddle's form flickers violently enough that the knife slips through his fingers.

"I die, you die," Harry says, surprisingly triumphant and vengeful for a twelve year old.

"No!" Riddle is furious. "You stupid boy--"

Harry laughs. It bubbles up inside him and erupts out, hysterical and edged with crazy. Riddle steps forwards, "You fool--" he hisses, words almost shifting into Parseltongue only to be cut off with a pained noise doubles over, clutching his own chest. His form is pale. Transparent. Like a ghost. Like a fading ghost. Harry can see right through him to his friends behind, to Ginny curled up (did Harry hurt her?) and to Hermione's tears. "This isn't over," Riddle says, promises, swears--

"Yes," Harry says, watching as Riddle's form fades out and in completely, "It is."

He loses track them, coughing up blood, thick and like iron and rusted metal in his mouth and he comes to with someone crying over him.

Someone's crying. Someone is crying over Harry and Hermione's muttering healing spells and his chest hurts and oh - yeah - he'd stabbed himself hadn't he.

Guess he could be the self-sacrificing Gryffindor after all.

They barely get to Madame Pomphrey in time. They fake some story about abandoned classrooms and Lockhart trying to obliviate them and 'he attacked Harry!' Daphne lies, 'I mean I don't think he meant to stab him, but the room was a mess of stuff and it all happened so fast and he wanted to take credit for finding the diadem and--'

So the tiara wasn't a tiara and apparently it was a big deal. It was a convenient story and Ginny sneaks in before the teachers do to make sure Harry's clear on the details, clear on the lies on the cover up because how can anyone prove such thing as a diary possessed by Voldemort exists?

Ginny stares at Harry with wide-eyes and admits that she thinks she was the one who was attacking people. She's got a bruise above one eye and Harry had hit her with a curse of sorts that had hurt her, but she doesn't blame him for what he did, and Harry doesn't blame her for what she did because it wasn't them. It was Tom Riddle, and both of them know what it's like to have him in their heads.

Dumbledore graces him with their presence then, and Ginny slips away, and Dumbledore holds out the diadem with great care. It's odd, the way he's holding it, Harry notes. Not as if it is something delicate and precious, but as if it's something that might bite him or burn him if he holds it too long.

Dumbledore asks for the story and Harry recites it for him. The lie is perfect. Every detail is covered for and Dumbledore's expression doesn't change throughout.

Harry doesn't know how, but Dumbledore knows it's a lie. Yet he doesn't call Harry out on it.

He looks like he wants to ask more, like he knows they're lying, but there's something about the tiara that has him more enthralled. "It appears you have indeed found the lost diadem of Ravenclaw," he says, slowly, "But Harry--" and he's staring straight at Harry now and Harry does what he always does around adults he doesn't trust and let's his eyes go out of focus, gaze blank and waiting and-- Dumbledore sighs, "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"No Professor," Harry says blankly, because Dumbledore is a great wizard, brilliant headmaster and Harry respects him but he left Harry with the Dursley's and he can never forgive him for that.

It takes them a night of camping out in the seventh floor corridor but they find the room again. Harry stays outside until they've hidden the diary in a safe that conveniently appeared. He knows where it is, but whatever link that was there is broken. Tom's gone, he's not coming back and maybe one day they may even find a spell that will set the diary alight and keep it burning.

In the meantime they turn to the room. The room holds so much. A lot is worthless junk, but Ron's taken to the job of pawning it off on students with glee. There are even a few rare books, expensive artifacts and spare wands that make exploring it and sorting through it their new past time. The room becomes their replacement common room (Harry's tired of Ron and Hermione getting kicked out of the Slytherin dungeon).

"Why did you lie?" he asks them, only once.

"Because you're you," they say, like it explains everything. Maybe it does. Because Harry is just Harry, and half the world think he's their savior and the other half think he's the next Dark Lord and yeah, it probably would be bad if it came out Harry was possessed by the Dark Lord for a period of time, and that Ginny was targeting muggle-borns while her father was trying to pass laws to stop the prejudice even while Malfoy stands in her way.

Because Harry is more than his house. He's brave and self-sacrificing and reckless too. Hermione's sly and ambitious and cunning. Ron is loyal and hard working and diligent. Blaise is clever and sensible and logical.

They are more than their house colours.

Chapter Text

James had thought he was good at Quidditch. And he is. He makes a damn fine chaser.

But when the first match rolls around in October and it's been a month already and he can hardly believe it and the match is Gryffindor versus Slytherin to start off the year and James is going to sit with Minerva and wear red and gold when he realises the problem.

Harry's on the Slytherin team.

That's not a problem in and of itself. James is so proud of his son he doesn't even understand the emotion fully, but he's happily supported Gryffindor winning during his schooling with the exception of the one time the Hufflepuff's actually won and that other time the Ravenclaw's pulled together and okay, so they didn't win every year, but still, James is a proud supporter of red and gold.

He turns up to the box to sit next to Minerva who is decked with red and gold. He's wearing plain robes and she offers him a scarf. The winter chill is beginning to set in now.

The scarf is red and gold and James politely refuses it. Minerva purses her lips and James hurries to explain, "I want to see which team is better," he explains, "I know Quidditch, but not these kids and how they fly."

"Gryffindor is the best," she says, "Naturally. Ever since they picked up young Ginny Weasley, she flies just as well as Charlie did--"

"But Slytherin has Potter," James points out, and Seeking, Harry's a Seeker, James never would have guessed, he never had the patience for it, liked to be in the thick of things--

The Head of Gryffindor House looks decidedly unhappy about that fact, and that makes James feel a bit better. He takes the scarf in the end - it is quite cold up in the stands - but he charms it so it's gold and silver.

The match has nothing on some of the professional games he's seen, but there is promise in most of the players. Admittedly there are some large Slytherin boys who are clumsy and the one almost gets himself knocked out by the bludger instead of hitting it, and while Ginny Weasley appears to be a good Seeker, she keeps getting distracted by the chasing she'd clearly be doing and Harry--

Harry looks like he's made for the air.

He (and James hates to admit it) flies better than James ever has. He spends the first bit of the game hovering overhead watching and James thinks that's how he's going to remain but no--

Harry remains there long enough to watch the flow of the game, to note that despite better brooms the Gryffindor trio of chasers are clearly better and getting more goals in than Slytherin are.

And then he drops, straight through the game.

James is good at Quidditch. He is. He made a damn fine chaser.

He's also not suicidal. Especially not after Harry drops from ninety feet in the air in a matter of seconds. James nearly has heart failure. Minerva just looks wistful, especially as Ginny who had been watching the game play with sharp eyes follows him into the dive. She manages to pull up, but not quickly enough and her broom clips the ground face-planting her into the ground. Harry looks apologetic and Ron's calling out angry insults from where he's playing keeper that are harmless at heart. Ginny just wipes the blood out of her face from her nose and climbs back on her broom with a fierce glare.

"Was that a Wronski Feint?" James asks after a minute or so, no infliction to his tone because he's so surprised.

"Unfortunately," Minerva sighs, "Demonstrated one in second year, terrified the life out of us and had the Ravenclaw Seeker in the hospital wing for a week. Next time he did it in a match against Gryffindor and they didn't follow him down."

Her tone is glum and James blinks, "Doesn't always work," he shrugs.

"Oh, no," Minerva shakes her head, "That one wasn't a feint. He'd actually seen the snitch. Potter likes to alternate to keep the opposition on their toes. He also likes to--" she stops, just as Harry probably proves her point and drops down from where he was circling above straight into the mass of players. The Gryffindor Seeker, nose pouring blood, goes grimly after him, weaving through and up and over the other players and--

Harry barrel rolls and the bludger passes harmlessly overhead. The Gryffindor Seeker following has to pull up so violently she flies into her own teammate and there are more disappointed noises from the red and gold stand. Ron's still cursing loudly judging by his lips moving over at the goal posts but someone has fired a silencing spell at him. His sister doesn't appear to need anyone to defend her because she shoots off through the chaser throng like an arrow and Harry follows. It's a fluke - of course it is - and both seekers nearly knock the Slytherin keeper off his broom as they dart in and around the hoops with apparent ease.

"How I wish he was in Gryffindor," Minerva sighs, "His father was a dab hand at Quidditch himself, but it would have made my year to have that cup in my office for at least one year."

"If his father could see him he'd be having palpitations," James says, because he is, and because Harry looks so alive in the air it appears he barely needs the broom. His son drops through the games again, scattering Gryffindor chasers and knocking the quaffle aside to Malfoy in green and silver who shoots towards the Gryffindor goal, "Is that even allowed?" James gapes.

"He practically played fourth chaser last year in the Ravenclaw match," Minerva sighs, "I checked the rulebooks. It's allow-- JORDAN, STOP NAMING QUIDDITCH MANOUVRES POTTER'S PULLING OFF AND COMMENTATE ON THE GAME!"

"Sorry, Professor," the boy in dreadlocks says, breathlessly, "And after the disgustingly good chasing from Potter, it's Gryffindor back in possession, Spinnett dodges a bludger, passes to Johnson, Spinnett, Bell, these three girls are a quality team right there, the Slytherin chasers don't stand a chance… and Bell SCORES!"

The Gryffindor side erupt with cheers and the game continues. They're slowly drawing ahead, even with Harry occasionally dropping through the game to scatter their play, even stealing the Quaffle from time to time.

"It's Bell-Spinnett-Bell-Johnson takes the qua--no, snatched mid-sloth roll by Potter - I'll give you that one, Potter, that was a smooth move - Potter passes to Harper-Warrington-OH NO, WARRINGTON SCORES, COME ON GRYFFINDOR!"

The Slytherin chasers are not as good as the Gryffindor's trio of girls, not by a long shot. They like to use their weight to knock into the three of them, but it results in as many fouls as it does goals and so Gryffindor still manage to pull ahead. They'd probably be knocking Slytherin into the ground if it wasn't for the occasionally neat bit of flying mostly from Harry who has a tendency to fly straight through chaser formations like he can't see them, the Gryffindor Seeker hurtling after him in case the snitch is nearby, or from Malfoy and Flint who appear to have at least tried to coach some semblance of skill into their players. Clearly some are aiming to play professionally, because the manoeuvres are pulled off stunningly well. Gryffindor have their own ploys, and some new things James has never seen before. He watches, enjoying his first Quidditch game in years. It's nowhere near the speed or skill of professional leagues, but it's still well controlled and there's potential there.

"Nice bludger by Weasley Thing One, Harper drops the Quaffle, Spinnet catches it, passes to Bell, passes to-- No! Intercepted by Malfoy who -- another nice bludger by Thing Two and it's Johnson with the Quaffle and--what's that, Potter, is he saying something??" Jordan pauses to squint at the green clad player, "Please don't tell me those foul cheating--"

"JORDAN!" Minerva snaps, and then the next second has to move aside as Harry quite literally drops into the box, broom clutched in hand.

"Present," he says, dropping it in McGonagall's lap, "I just couldn't help myself, it was so shiny."

"Potter presents the snitch to Professor McGonagall like a cat with a dead bird," Jordan says, sounding rather stunned, "I'm not even sure when he caught it to be honest, in between Wronski Feints and some weird Seeker variant of the Woollongong Shimmy and DID HE HAVE IT UP HIS SLEEVE THE WHOLE TIME? Trying out a Plumpton's Pass didn't really pay off, Gryffindor almost pulled ahead--"

"You flatter me, Jordan," Harry laughs, cuffing the back of the commentator's head as he passes. James wonders for a moment where he's going right before his son leaps off the edge of the seats.

James almost has a heart attack. From the sounds of it Minerva definitely does. "HARRY POTTER!"

"So after almost killing McGonagall, Slytherin win 310 to 260, well done, I guess," Lee sounds disgruntled, "Yeah, yeah, celebrate away."

Harry is fine, he free-falls for all of two seconds before mounting his broom and flying over to join his team mates. McGonagall is clutching her chest muttering about Potters being the death of her and James only feels mildly guilty for that. He can't quite stop grinning.

"Don't look like that," she scolds, "I thought you were supporting Gryffindor?"

"Their Chasers are better but Potter's the better Seeker and the Seeker wins the game."

James can't quite hide the smile. As a beater herself McGonagall huffs at that comment, "You play Seeker?"

"I used to play Chaser," he says. Down below the Slytherin team are celebrating and the Gryffindors are looks disgruntled. "Don't worry," he tells Minerva with a grin, "There are always the Hufflepuff's to beat."

His next Saturday lesson rolls around and he's still on magical creatures for the moment. James can barely contain a grin as a chest in the middle of the room shudders, "I've got a great lesson in store!" he says.

"Oh no," a Slytherin girl he doesn't know shudders, "It's not another Boggart, is it?"

James deflates somewhat, "You've dealt with them?"

"Professor Lupin taught us in third year," a Hufflepuff pipes up, looking slightly terrified.

Damn Moony and stealing all of James' lesson plans. James bets he probably put the kids through an assault course as well although admittedly that idea had been Remus' to start with--

"Regardless," he continues, "Facing your fears is a good lesson, not just in how to deal with Boggarts."

"Will you go first then, sir?" someone calls out. James wishes he knew who so he could glare at them because--

He'd been able to track down the Boggart and he'd forced it into the chest before he'd had to see what it turned into. His mind flashes with visions of Lily dead, of Harry dead, both a young baby and the young man in the room, lurking over at the side with Blaise Zabini and Hermione Granger who--

"Potter, stop going through Arithmancy," he snaps. Harry startles and focusses a bit more on the lesson as James turns to the class. "Around the room," he gestures, "I'll go first. It's just a Boggart after all."
Just a Boggart. That's laughable. This is a stupid idea, what is James going to say if it is a dead Harry at fifteen? How can he explain that? Some of them might recognise Lily, and if it's Voldemort or--

The chest is open before he can change his mind and maybe it's a good thing Harry isn't a Gryffindor, isn't as reckless as him going it without a plan and--

A young boy climbs out of the chest. Dark messy hair and green eyes he's about four or five and James was right, it is Harry, but he's neither dead nor injured he's just… there…

There at some age between four and five and James will never know exactly, he realises with horror, he'll never be able to find out, never be able to fill that gap. He missed fourteen years.

"Ridikulus," he says, and the young Harry stumbles and trips on shoe laces tied together and James grabs the nearest person he can to face the Boggart.

The hapless Gryffindor he has grabbed turns out to be Ron Weasley and the Boggart doesn't waste time turning into a giant spider.

James sneaks a glance at Harry, only to find his son staring right back. He's pretty sure nobody else knew who the child was but Harry... well... how could you not recognise yourself?

This may be awkward.

"RIDIKULUS!" Ron shouts a little too loudly, and the giant acromantula stops walking because it has no legs. The thorax rolls helpless and Harry's still staring at him in confusion and that's when the boggart rolls, sans legs to a stop in front of him.

James' instinct is warring between professional curiosity and personal instinct to protect his son.

His son, Merlin he can't stop thinking it. Harry is his son. Harry is his son and he's alive and yes, James missed years of his life and fears that maybe he can't breach it, not really, but--

He could try.

The spider shudders and with a crack reforms into a ghostly shape. It's a boy, his skin like wax and dark, ink black hair. He looks up at Harry, pale long fingers holding a wand and he opens his mouth to say something only for something black and viscous to leak out of the corner of his eyes like black tears.

It's ink, James realises with confusion, thick black ink and the spectral boggart wipes it away, smearing black across his handsome face just as Harry's wand comes up.

"Riddikulus," he intones perfectly and there is a crack as the Boggart's shape shifts unwillingly, figure stumbling into robes too large and bright pink, resembling those of Dolores Umbridge. Harry doesn't laugh, but other students do and the Boggart flinches.

And for a moment James thinks he sees bright red eyes and a flash of green light as the Boggart's shape shifts again as Blaise steps forwards. An invisible horse rears up and only half the class can even see it. Blaise turns the Thestral into a stuffed pony which falls in front of the feet of a Hufflepuff who flinches away with a squeal from the Lethifold that materialises.

James tries to focus on the lesson, and not on how Harry's still sneaking glances at him.

He's expecting a confrontation but it-- it doesn't happen. Tuesday class happens as normal. Then the Saturday class where he talks the class through lesser known creatures and spells specifically designed for dealing with them. 'No, a Homorphus charm does not force a werewolf to turn into a human, what textbooks have you been reading?' and when it eventually does happen he's not expecting it.

"Professor," Harry says, lingering after one of his Saturday sessions after his classmates leave, "I was wondering if I could ask you a quick question--"

"Of course," James says, dropping his books on his desk. He's getting to like this teaching business, he thinks, never thought he'd enjoy teaching snot nosed little brats--

There's a click and he turns, frowning at Harry who appears to have just closed the door with his wand. Closed and--

Locked.

"Harry--" he doesn't get anything more out because Harry's wand swings around before he can do anything and aims straight at him.

"It's just a quick question," Harry says, levelly, "And one I want you to answer honestly because I'll know if you're lying. Who are you?"

James' world tilts, threatening to crash down, "Ian Peverell," he says, "Harry, are you cursed? Confunded--"

"Don't. Lie." Harry's voice is like ice, "You're lying, I told you not to lie--"

"Let's put wands away, shall we, Potter?" James suggests, trying to remain calm, trying to remember his auror training, trying to work out how quickly he can get his wand before Harry curses him--

"Sure," Harry says, "Accio--" and James' wand flips through the air into Harry's hand. "Shall we try this again?"

"You know who I am," James says, "Ian--"

"You're not!" Harry snaps, jerking his wand at James who stills.

"Woah," James holds his hands up, staring at his son who still has his wand pointed at him, "Harry, calm down--"

"Tell me who you are," Harry says, pocketing James' own wand and pulling something out of his pocket "Because I don't believe you're Ian Peverell."

"What do you mean, of course I'm--" James stops talking, because he spots the old piece of parchment in Harry's hands. It's blank now, but he'd know that old thing anywhere, it still has the rip on the edge from the time it got caught on his antlers…

And it wasn't his Boggart that gave it away, it wasn't something he had said or done it was-- it was the damn map. He hadn't even considered that old thing was still around, let alone in the hands of the only person who could probably understand what it meant to see James' name there.

"No, you're not." Harry's voice is measured and controlled, "I missed it for ages. Not surprising. Fred and George somehow managed to miss Peter Pettigrew sleeping with Ron Weasley for three years and I didn't notice Barty Jr last year when I should have but there are so many people around that it's not surprising… I should have been checking, should have been on guard…" the boy sounds angry, but not with James, more at himself.

"You have the Map," James says, "Harry--"

"No," Harry's wand jerks up, "Tell me who you are!"

"Harry, please--"

"How do you know about the Map? It lies, it--"

"It never lies. We built it that way, we--"

"Who?"

The Slytherin's wand is trembling, "Me. Remus. Sirius. Pe-petrigrew." He stumbles over Peter's name.

Harry's gaze grows flat and James realises his reason too quickly. He's dealing with a Slytherin. A really paranoid Slytherin he shouldn't push.

"Prongs! They called me Prongs!" he blurts out, "Moony, Wormtail and Padfoot. We made the Map!"

Whatever spell was on the tip of Harry's tongue dies. He's pale-faced, angry and silent, still waiting for an explanation.

James gives him one, "I don't know the name of the curse. I woke up in a muggle hospital. I'd been found unconscious and bleeding on the street in Sheffield on November 1st 1981 and I spent the past fourteen years in a coma. I didn't know… I thought you were dead, you and Lily, I tried to slip back in, to work out who was in power, and then I got this job and I swear--" he chokes, "I was going to tell you, I was going to come clean to Dumbledore before he offered me that freaking job, I was going to look for Sirius, going to sort things out--"

He hasn't done any of that. He hasn't even had the courage to face his own son.

Some Gryffindor he is.

Harry's trembling. His wand lowers and he stares at James like he's looking at a stranger.

James drops his glamours. His brown hair darkens, he gets thinner, bonier and his features become his own to other's eyes. He sees it in Harry's expression, sees the shock that even whatever awful childhood he had doesn't let the boy completely mask.

Shock, hurt and a flicker of hope. And one cautious, hesitant word. "Dad?"

Harry's staring at him hungrily like he's trying to absorb the image before him. It's all James can do to swallow and let him, trying to find the words to explain.

"I thought you were dead until I saw you in the corridor," he says, "That first detention. I went to Godric's Hollow - I had no idea who won the war, if Voldemort was around, nothing, not even if Lily--" he chokes.

"Godric's Hollow?" Harry asks, "The birthplace of Gryffindor? Why would you go there?"

"Why would I go--?" James splutters but… Harry doesn't know. Harry doesn't even realise… "It's the home of our family as well," he says, "For generations. All the way back to the Peverell line," he gestures to himself, "We hid there, Lily and I and you when Voldemort was after you."

"You mean that our house is there?" Harry's face flickers in surprise.

"It's not standing," James shakes his head sadly, "I found the wreck and a statue of Lily and I and you as a baby and I thought… I thought you were dead. I stalked around Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley to try and find information but nothing to suggest you were alive--"

"You didn't read the papers?"

James shrugs, "Just the covers," he admits and is surprised to see Harry laughing at that. He's resolutely focussed on something over James' shoulder. "Should have read the whole thing I guess," James admits, "I thought you were just another scrawny Slytherin, I didn't even recognise--"

He hadn't even recognised his own son.

"You're alive," Harry says, "You-- you're really James Potter?"

"At your service," he says with a mock bow. It does nothing to alleviate the tension.

"Prove it," Harry says.

"Harry--"

"Transform. Into a-- into your animal. I know you can, I know you're an animagus, you can't fake that."

He has, James is impressed to note, neglected to mention what animal. "I was so proud," he says, "When I saw your patronus. Just so you know."

He thinks he sees the Slytherin blink away tears before he leaps forwards, transforming as he does.

The stag doesn't really fit in the classroom easily, not with the desks but he makes do before turning back with a soft 'pop'.

He thinks Harry's choking. Except he's not, he's hyperventilating and panicking and James goes to help but Harry stumbles away from him so fast he trips over a desk. "Don't," Harry says, "Don't--"

"Harry," James says, then stops, "I got hit with a curse," he says, "I was in a coma. For fourteen years. As soon as I was better I looked for you and Lily, I swear it--"

"All this time-- you were alive," Harry's breathing is still shaky but he's holding it together. He looks seconds away from breaking but he's somehow holding it together in front of James, "You were alive."

"I would have found you sooner, had I known, I promise you--"

"You were alive," Harry says, "Which means there was no body - but you--"

James opens his mouth then stops because that… that hadn't occurred to him, "They must have buried something," he says, "Voldemort faked it. Or-- the house was a wreck. Maybe they assumed they couldn't find one because there wasn't one."

"And nobody looked?" Harry stares at him, and James steps forwards, flinching slightly when Harry steps back, "Nobody double-checked, nobody--" he laughs weakly, "Of course they didn't, it was war and all that and Dumbledore's too busy to check up on those kinds of things," there's some bitterness and resentment there.

James runs his hand through his own hair for the first time in ages, "I'm just glad you were okay," he says, "That you were alive and safe."

"Safe?" Harry frowns, "Yeah, that's one word for it."

"What do you mean?" James asks, "You were with Sirius, right? He looked after you, I mean, I'm sure he wasn't fantastic, I mean, it's Sirius, but--" he trails off because Harry's expression just broke, and he's pretty sure Harry's seconds away from a breakdown. "Harry?" he asks, "Didn't Sirius--"

"Sirius?" a myriad of emotions flit across Harry's face but finally the one that settles there is sorrow twisted into bitterness. He ducks his head from James' gaze, fiddling with his wand, "Didn't you hear? Sirius is dead."

And James' heart drops out straight through his stomach.

Second year slips away so quietly if Harry had blinked he'd probably have missed it. Ravenclaw win the house cup, the ending feast overruns and everybody almost misses the train from waking up late the next day. Dumbledore stands at the front of the Hall and makes speeches about the school banding together and how the attacks finally stopped so that they can move past it.

The diadem, the friends note, is not mentioned. They don't say anything, and the teacher's seem to think Harry's absence from classes was because he'd gotten himself lost in the library. While true, he hadn't been lost for more than a day before the crazy house elf that had popped up the whole of last year had appeared to rescue him.

And true to his word with images of a spectral shadow and ink-stained memory in his head Harry returns to his relatives. He's not sure if Dumbledore talked to them or not. He likes to think the man did, but it's hard to tell. They don't touch him at the very least. Dudley stares at him with wide eyes and looks away when Harry looks at him, Vernon snipes cruel barbs at him more than ever and Petunia shoves small plates of old stew and dried bread at him and doesn't look at him. They exist in some carefully constructed world of blank ignorance, as if they can't see Harry existing and breathing under their very noses.

Harry stares at the Hogsmeade permission form and crumples it up. It's not even worth trying for. He buries himself in school work and in letters to his friends and they're like a lifeline to sanity he grabs with both hands. One more week and then he can leave, one more week and he can visit Ron, one more week and Daphne had said her parents actually liked him enough to invite him back, one more week--

It becomes like a mantra. It's all he has to cling to and it's probably just as well because that's when Marge turns up and like a rubber band snapping, Vernon remembers he exists.

He lasts all through the week. He survives, because that's what he does, eyes ducked, temper held in check, too-long sleeves pulled down over that burn from where he'd tripped over Marge's dog into the oven, and that bruise Vernon had given him dragging him into his room and--

It was only a matter of time really before he snapped. It's kind of spectacular, he has to admit, and Marge's ego had already inflated her more than Harry's raging magic ever does, but Vernon is looking at him with murder in his eyes and Petunia with terror and Harry runs.

His trunk is too heavy and he can't use magic and he's bleeding from the cut on his lip Vernon got in before he made it out of the door and he's hungry and exhausted and he makes it only one block before he collapses in a heap on a bench, the world swimming dizzyingly in front of him. His ribs hurt too from where he'd tripped into the table, and it's hard to breath. The night is warm but Harry just feels cold. He curls up, trying to think what to do, where to go, but his mind isn't working properly.

There's the snap of a twig behind him. He's too tired to look, just stays where he is curled up with his trunk next to him, the streetlight flickering and--

A wet nose presses against his hand. He cracks an eye open, staring at the large shaggy black dog with it's paws up on the bench staring at it. It's tail wags when he notices it, tongue hanging out slightly and it's head tilts to one side, considering Harry. Harry reaches out to pet it, scratching it behind one ear and then withdrawing quickly in case it bites or has fleas. It certainly looks mangy enough.

"Go home," Harry tells it. The dog looks at him pointedly, as if telling him to do the same and Harry laughs, "No, I'm ditching, I'm running away, I shouldn't have gone back but--" he flinches slightly.

The dog turns, and for a moment it looks up the road, looking for all expectations like it's going to bound away again into the darkness. But then it looks back at Harry and that expression shouldn't exist on a dog's face, it looks almost like it's considering Harry's bruises and bleeding lip, like it understands what it means which is stupid because it's just a dog, it's just--

The dog rears back and turns into a gaunt faced man with scraggly hair and Harry almost has a heart attack. He does fall off the bench, trunk clattering down as he throws himself backwards away from the dog-the man-the--

"Wait, wait, wait!" the man says, sounding rather desperate. He steps after Harry then seems to realise how stupid that is and stands still, "I'm not here to hurt you, I just wanted to check up on you you look just like James has anyone told you that?"

"Who the hell are you?" Harry says, trying to scramble to his feet. He has his wand somewhere and he scrabbles for it. He'd seen the man before, he realises, on the muggle news, he'd escaped from prison, he'd been armed and dangerous and--

And he was a dog.

Wizard, Harry realises, fingers closing on his wand just as the man rasps out, "I'm your godfather."

Harry freezes. All his childhood hopes and dreams of a family member coming to whisk him away from the Dursleys jump to mind and he stares because never in all his fantasies had this been an outcome.

"Are you okay?" the man asks, strangely concerned, "I was just going to look at you, I was going to leave but I smelt the blood, Harry--"

The use of his name snaps him to attention because this man is a wizard, he knows James, he knows Harry and Harry knows how the wizarding world treat him and he shoves himself to his feet, never turning his back on the man and stepping backwards, drawing his wand--

The man sees it, and panic flares in his eyes. "NO!" he shouts, and Harry is not prepared for the ragged man to leap at him. He tries to get away, but the man's hand closes about his wand. Harry steps away, tripping straight over his own trunk lying there and the man lunged, grabbing Harry's wrist and the next second Harry is on his knees being sick because one minute he was on the sidewalk of Wisteria Walk and the next he is on a porch somewhere and it feels like his stomach has been turned upside down and he's being grabbed and shoved through a door and--

That is how Harry meets Sirius Black. The faux kidnapping is hard to get over initially, and Sirius is half mad meaning it takes longer than it should and a lot more running through the too dusty halls of Grimmauld Place before any level of understanding is achieved.

Sirius Black is Harry's godfather. Sirius Black was in prison for unknown reasons and he broke out for unknown reasons and he just wanted to check up on Harry which of course spiralled dramatically. They drag Harry's trunk in from the porch where it had crashed down hard enough to splinter the wood, he's going to have to get a new one, and silence the screeching portrait of Sirius' mother and finally there's an awkward sort of silence between them.

"You can stay here," Sirius says eventually, "If you like. You shouldn't have to go back there ."

Sirius Black is the first adult Harry trusts. Which is a pretty poor example admittedly, but Sirius is the first adult who shown concern, who has stopped whatever convoluted reason he had for escaping jail to make sure Harry was okay.

And so Harry, recklessness warring with self-preservation and eventually both sides winning out, agrees to stay.

The Minster waits and waits but Harry Potter never turns up at the Leaky Cauldron.

Being with Sirius is-- refreshing. It's nice and while Harry knows there are things Sirius isn't telling him he doesn't mind. Sirius was arrested for something and he claims innocence and Harry believes him. He can't say why or how, maybe it's his godfather's desperate expression when he explains it, maybe it's the fact he broke out of Azkaban which is meant to be impossible to escape from, maybe it's the fact that Sirius shows genuine concern for Harry's welfare. Either way Harry gives him the benefit of the doubt and believes him.

Sirius is a wealth of knowledge about James, but he doesn't shove it in Harry's face. Harry's curious about his parents. Every orphan is, but knowing what they were like at school isn't what he wants to hear. As a child that's not what you want to know about your parents. As a child you care more for how they look after you, how they treat you, not what their favourite colour is. Sirius knows he can't replace that, but he occasionally can give Harry glimpses. James was this sort of person, in this situation he would have done this. Lily would have made you do this because she had these personality traits. It helps build a fractured image in Harry's head, a fractured hope that's already dead, but there none the less.

Sirius himself is crazy. He'll snap at Harry on a regular basis gaze distant and far-away and while those moments are becoming less, they do happen. He keeps muttering about a rat and keeping Harry safe and then jumping back to reality and realising that Harry's with him and Harry's already safe. The protective magic on the Black House is ancient and damn near unbreakable.

As are many of the objects stored within. The library is both a wealth of knowledge and despair. Half the books are cruel twisted things, creatures live in the curtains and cabinets line the walls filled with poisons and cursed objects. They begin to clear it out slowly, talking over subjects and school and motorbikes and idle topics that allow Harry to slowly get to know Sirius and for Sirius to slowly begin to heal.

"I'll keep that," Sirius says to a small decorative gold plaque, "Gryffindor colours, you can keep that locket though, green everywhere--"

"Nah," the locket is cold and horrible to touch, even with his ridiculous yellow gloves Sirius had materialised from somewhere. Perched in the window Hedwig hoots disgruntled as she watches them work, probably still annoyed that Harry has yet to reply to Ron's letters about where he is. He's told all his friends he's found somewhere and is safe but nobody appears to believe him so he's now resorted to ignoring them.

Hedwig doesn't like that.

"Kreacher can have it," Harry chucks the locket on the pile to bin, and then decides to stop putting off tackling the biting snuffbox. "He'll appreciate it no doubt."

"Have I shown you my room?" Sirius asks, "I should, it's like the Gryffindor common room except with more pictures of naked girls and motorbikes. You like Gryffindor tower, right?"

"It's okay," Harry frowns, wondering why Sirius is asking about that, "Bit red really, very bright. Hufflepuff is more mellow--"

"Hufflepuff?" Sirius frowns, "You've been in the Hufflepuff common room?"

"I've been in all of them," Harry says, frowning, "We keep getting kicked out of Ravenclaw for being too loud, and also none of us like waiting for Hermione to argue with the door knocker, and none of my housemates like it when I bring the guys back to Slytherin common room so we usually end up in Hufflepuff or Gryffindor-- Sirius? What's the matter?"

"Your housemates?" Sirius repeats, "Back to Slytherin-- you-- what house are you in?"

"Slytherin?" Harry says, a sinking feeling in his chest, "I'll admit, I have reckless Gryffindor tendencies, but I--"

"You're in Slytherin?" Sirius looks horrified, some silverware falling limply from his fingers, "Merlin, James' son in Slytherin?!"

"What's wrong with Slytherin?" Harry glared.

"It's Slytherin!" Sirius says, "Do you know how many Dark Wizards come out of there? Do you know how many Death Eater's kids are there?"

"Yes. So I avoid them. There are plenty of other students, twenty students does not a house make," Harry's voice is cold, "Do you think I'm evil? That I'm going to be a dark wizard?"

"You're in Slytherin!" Sirius says like that explains, "Your parents were Gryffindors… what would they think--"

"I like to think they'd be proud," Harry says, blinking back tears. This shouldn't get to him, it shouldn't but-- "No matter what house I'm in. I'm top of my classes, except for the ones Hermione has me beat at. I'm on the Quidditch team, I-- no, I'm happy in Slytherin, I don't need to justify myself to you--"

"My whole family were in Slytherin," Sirius is no longer looking disgusted. Just confused. Shocked. "I was the black sheep, quite literally… I got sorted into Gryffindor because I didn't want to be like them--"

"Good for you," Harry snaps, "I'm happy where I am."

"Didn't anyone warn you about Slytherin?" Sirius can't seem to understand that most of his housemates just don't care about who he  is. So he gets Malfoy sneering at him (Malfoy sneers at people regardless of their house though) and maybe some older years occasionally trip him up and Blaise and he have gotten good at shielding spells, but they're children, and Harry has experienced worse. "I can't believe they thought it was a good idea, you should have been safe, James and Lily would have wanted you in Gryffindor with friends and--"

"THEN THEY SHOULDN'T HAVE DIED!" Harry finally snaps and his temper, "MUM DIED TO SAVE ME, I GET THAT, I GET THAT THEY WERE BRAVE AND COURAGEOUS BUT THEY DIED! THEY LEFT ME! THEY WENT OUT IN A BLAZE OF GLORY LIKE A BLOODY GRYFFINDOR AND I HAD NOTHING! I HAVE NOBODY , DON'T YOU GET THAT?"

Sirius flinches.

"I'm Slytherin because I have NOTHING!" Harry snaps, "BECAUSE I LOOK AFTER MYSELF! Because I CAN BE GREAT, AND I DON'T CARE ABOUT STUPID HOUSE PREJUDCES!" he glares at Sirius, "I'm not some baby dark wizard. Not everyone in Slytherin is a dark wizard. Not everyone who wears green and silver deserves to be bullied because the Sorting Hat thought they were smart, cunning and had plans for life. Ambitions. Dreams. I know Slytherins who are kind and generous. My best friends are a Gryffindor who is loyal and stubborn and a Ravenclaw who is brave and ruthless. The hat didn't put me in Slytherin because I was born evil or something idiotic, it put me there with the other kids - eleven year old kids - because it was where I could be myself and reach my greatest potential."

"Harry--"

"Don't," he snaps, "You haven't been here. You're not my parent."

Sirius pales at that, "I would never…" he shakes his head. "Your temper is all Lily's," he whispers, "She would have been furious with me for-- she'd be proud. Of you--"

"Well I will never know," Harry says, "Because she's dead. They're both dead."

It's final. It's solid. It's a fact that won't change and he sees that register in Sirius' eyes as he takes Harry in and for the first time Harry thinks he's actually seeing Harry, not a shadow of James and Lily. "James would hate that you're in Slytherin," Sirius says and Harry closes his eyes, about to stalk about of the room when Sirius continues, "He won the Quidditch cup for Gryffindor and he'd hate that his son was winning it for Slytherin. I don't know how I feel about your house, but I'm sure you're  brilliant. You're Harry. Just don't… don't fall into the wrong crowd, not like Regulus did."

"There are wrong crowds in every house," Harry says, and for some reason Sirius seems to acknowledge with ease, "And besides," Harry adds, "Blaise and I put silencing spells on Malfoy all the time. We keep score. Blaise is five ahead. For now."

Sirius does actually laugh at that. "Let's… let's grab food. Something that preferably Kreacher hasn't cooked."

It's awkward. It was bound to be, but after that something eases. Sirius occasionally throws him speculative glances and he's not seeing Harry as evil or a future dark lord. Harry has a weird feeling that even if he were Ravenclaw he'd have gotten that reaction.

Sirius is disappointed he isn't in Gryffindor. Sirius is disappointed he isn't more like James.

Except oh that's not quite right.

Sirius is still mourning his brother in all but blood and trying to get to know Harry in the middle of it all is not at all easy for the man.

Still they get through it, and while not perfect, Harry enjoys the summer. He even sends Hedwig off to Hermione and Ron to explain that he's still alive. They don't appear to believe him judging by their replies and Harry has to remind himself that Sirius is technically a wanted felon. Their concern should be appreciated considering his penchant for trouble.

"Harry!" Ron and Hermione finally get to confront him on the Hogwart's Express, "We got your owl. We thought you were dead." They'd probably be louder and more dramatic but there's a snoozing man in the corner of the carriage.

"Dead?" Harry blinks, "That's dramatic. I'm not dead. At least I don't think I am."

Ron looks shifty and then swallows and blurts it out, "I overheard from dad - Sirius Black wants to kill you."

That statement, in light of the past few months, is so ridiculous Harry almost laughs out loud. "No, he doesn't," he says.

"Harry," Hermione says, "Apparently he was a big supporter of You-Know-Who."

Harry's brain goes blank. He runs through conversations and discussions and debates and he's pretty sure Sirius had made his loyalties quite clear. Then again Sirius was a bit crazy, maybe he had some dissociative disorder. Or maybe he was lying but then that made no sense, if he had wanted to kill Harry he had ample opportunity to do it.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Am I-- Harry he's a mass murderer! Of course I'm sure! You were in serious danger this summer and all we get is a few measly owls saying you've found a place to stay, you'll meet us on the train?"

"Sirius danger," Harry picks out the pun, making a mental note to pass it along to Sirius. The man snoozing by the window coughs and Harry wonders if he's actually asleep or just faking now. He'd probably fake it too in the man's position to avoid conversation.

"It's not funny, Harry!" Hermione snaps, "You didn't even go to Diagon Alley, how did you get your new supplies?"

"I--" Harry debates for a moment, then lowers his voice so they can only just hear him, "I stayed with my godfather," he says. He watches their eyes widen in surprise, "He's been ill," he says, "Ill and away and he came by and I-- I wanted to get to know him a bit so I stayed with him. He was my dad's best friend."

"You have a godfather?" Ron stares at him, "And they left you with the Dursleys?"

"He was ill," Harry says uncomfortably, "Anyway he had old copies of the textbooks. It was easier than buying my own." Sirius and him and spent most of the summer trying (and failing) to clean the Black Family House. The elf that snuck around proved to be unhelpful when Sirius asked him to do anything, but Harry had had more luck by bargaining with the little guy. He'd gotten too used to the antics of elves after dealing with Dobby last year. Kreacher had proved somewhat helpful after that and hadn't even put up a protest when Harry claimed Regulus Black's old room, enjoying the green colouring.

"I got a new trunk too," he says, "I - uh - broke my old one, and we found this and Hermione you'll love it, it fits so many books in it--"

He's successfully distracted them for now, and he drags down his new trunk to show it off to them. Hermione actually vanishes inside completely at one point and Ron and Harry hear her exclaims of wonder.

"This is ingenious," Hermione's voice drifts up, "Think of how much space it could save if everyone lived in houses this size? If you lived in your trunk, your home, your library would be entirely portable--"

"Live in my trunk, Hermione," Harry says, peering down at his bookshelves, "And I'll mail you to Africa."

"You can't live in there," Ron looks pale, "One of our cousins was in one of those when the charms broke. We had to bury him in the trunk."

"It's okay," Harry says, "I'm sure you have plenty of cousins left."

"Unfortunately," Ron mumbles.

Malfoy appears for his usual taunt but whether at seeing the teacher there, or at Ron and Harry gathered around an open trunk talking to it he decides better and vanishes off. Blaise and Daphne appear and while Daphne leaves to return to Tracey Davis and Lillian Moon, Blaise stays to share sweets and summer stories with them. Ginny and Neville find them too to say 'hi' and that's about the moment the train grinds to a shuddering halt and all the lights go out.

Harry's had nightmares about Tom Riddle's ink-splattered form and Voldemort's smoke and ash face. He thinks the Dementor's almost top that with cold icy fingers that squeeze at your heart and crush your hopes until you're wallowing over and over in everything bad and nothing good.

No wonder Sirius went mad at Azkaban.

They make him feel helpless like a seven year old at the wrong end of Uncle Vernon's fists and he hates it. He comes back to himself with his friend's hovering over him, cold and clammy and a teacher handing him chocolate.

Professor RJ Lupin.

"Eat it," he says, "You'll feel better."

"Professor," he says, staring at him because Sirius had mentioned him, Sirius had talked a lot about James and Remus and Lily and, "Professor, did you know my father?"

Lupin looks confused because of course there is no way Harry should know that from three sentences of interaction but regardless he nods, "We were friends at school."

"Can I--" Harry stops, aware that everyone's staring at him, then decides to plough on regardless, "Can I ask you about my parents, sometime?" he asks, "At school when you're not busy?"

Everyone is still staring at him. Professor Lupin most of all, and okay, maybe it was a stupid idea, they knew each other for all of seven school filled years. So many school friends don't keep in touch there is no guarantee tht had they lived Harry would even know Lupin and since they're dead Lupin no doubt moved on with his life but it doesn't stop Harry being curious and-- "Sure," Lupin says, "That's fine."

School opens with McGonagall of all people dragging him to the nurse to shove chocolate down his throat. It opens with warnings about the Dementors and Malfoy's taunting's about Sirius Black and if he wasn't before well... now Harry is pretty sure there are several things Sirius didn't tell him.

McGonagall opens with a lecture on Animagi and oh, Harry thinks, that's what Sirius is, he turns into the dog and their teacher can turn into a cat and how useful would that be, he thinks.

It's hard. It takes years and it went so badly wrong once it created the werewolf curse but if Harry could do it--

If Harry could turn into an animal well it's not wand magic so it's not restricted by the Ministry and if he lost his wand or if he was under attack he'd have a guaranteed escape.

The more he thinks about it, the more it appeals to him. Daphne's sister - Astoria - is the one who eventually locates him in the library researching it and he manages to persuade her to leave him there on the condition he tutors her in transfiguration. Astoria is a frail thing and Daphne treats her like she's made of porcelain. A curse or something, that's what they'd said, but despite it Astoria has a fierce and strong personality almost as if to compensate. Neville is the one who finds them, and finds them as in trips over them and drops all his Herbology books on their heads and manages to get them kicked out by the librarian.

"I'm sorry," he says, dejectedly.

"That's okay," Harry says, "I know somewhere else we can work."

That's how, after a year of mining through and clearing the room of hidden things, Harry accidentally discovers it actually changes it's shape. They've been using the Room of Hidden Items that it didn't even occur to them that asking for something else gets you something else. Harry's need for the Room so they could study reveals what looks like a mash-up between all the common rooms.

The Room isn't completely secret. Other students discover it all the time but they just don't realise it's special. Being on the seventh floor which has a tendency to arrange it's classrooms at least twice a month people pay little mind to the moving door as they try and locate the Arithmancy room. Harry and his friends are the only ones who use it on a regular basis to meet up and--

"Where have been?" Hermione says, "And don't say the library I went through it twice."

"I found him," Astoria says triumphantly, "You owe me five sickles."

"So," Harry drops his book on the table, "I have an idea."

"It's going to be bad, isn't it?" Blaise sighs.

"It," Harry says, showing them the page on animagus transformations, "Is going to be fantastic."

Meeting with Lupin for tea every other Saturday also gives Harry an in to ask about Dementors and repelling charms. Persuading his teacher to help him learn it takes time but he gets there too.

"You know," Lupin says one afternoon when everyone is at Hogsmeade except Harry because he never stood a chance of getting his permission form signed from either Vernon and he somehow doubted an escaped convict's signature would be acceptable, "You're just like James and Lily but also absolutely nothing like them."

Harry blinks at him in confusion.

"I think they'd be proud," Lupin says, "Your mother certainly, I'm pretty sure James too once he got over the fact that you were in Slytherin."

Harry's jaw clenches and his gaze fixes on the wall beyond Lupin, recalling his argument with Sirius.

"Your mother's best friend was in Slytherin," Lupin says, vaguely, "And James hated him with a passion. I think part of his dislike of the house stemmed from there. When I saw you in the carriage I assumed you were all Gryffindors. Stupid of me. Stereotypical of me, because now I've gotten to know you, of course you're a Slytherin and that, Harry, is something to be proud of."

Harry still doesn't know what to make of that, so he sips his tea and watches the Grindylow making faces against the glass.

Still, Lupin teaches him the patronus charm and it's hard but Harry tries and studies  and in between school work and working out how to undergo the animagus transformation he slowly improves. Their first Quidditch game of the year is against Gryffindor (because of course) and Ginny is playing Seeker and the weather is awful (because of course). Malfoy had been talking about faking injury, and Harry almost wishes Buckbeak had mauled him because the weather is so bad Harry doesn't see the Dementor until he almost flies right into it.

He ducks under it and a flash of lightning illuminates the stands and a flash of gold and -is that Sirius, what the hell is his godfather doing here - and he's so cold, drowning in despair--

He manages, somehow, to land in the stands practically on top of Neville, Hannah and Susan. His broom doesn't stand a chance and Harry avoids embarrassment from his housemates because there is no way the Hufflepuffs will talk about the shaking mess he was when they pulled him away from the pitch.

Sirius must hear about how Harry's Nimbus picked a fight with the Whomping Willow and lost because he gets a Firebolt for Christmas with a muddy pawprint on the card. Sirius must also have lost his remaining marbles because he tries to break into Gryffindor Tower on Halloween and then again with a knife and threatens Ron.

"He must think you're in Gryffindor," Ron says, "Why else would he come into our dormitory?"

"Or maybe," Harry slams his book shut so loudly half the hall looks at him, "Maybe he's not actually after me."

Determining who he's after is harder than it should be. Ron and Hermione keep arguing because Hermione's cat keeps leaving the Ravenclaw common room with the apparent specific desire to main Ron's pet rat Scabbers. Harry's taken to hanging out with Blaise and Daphne just to avoid the arguments.

"I say we murder the rat," Blaise tells Harry in History of Magic one day, "Then it's over and done, right?"

"Do you think he'll notice if we replace it?" Harry asks, "Or I know, Hedwig can eat him. Then I'll apologetically buy him a new one, or something better like an owl or something."

"Don't you dare!" Hermione hisses from Harry's other side. He sits in the middle - instinct from when Blaise and Daphne weren't on the best of terms with Hermione or Ron. It's pointless; he's walked in on Ron and Blaise's Quidditch debates enough times now.

"Fine, fine, we won't murder his rat," Harry rolls his eyes, "Happy?"

"I would if you paid attention," Hermione says, "Now be quiet, Binns is lecturing."

"Cool," Harry says, going back his notes on the animagus transformation. He thinks he's worked out all the steps now--

"Honestly, Harry, don't you ever pay attention in History? Ron says you didn't last year either."

"I have transcripts of all his lectures," Harry says, distractedly, "Someone in the older years sold them to me. They've been the same for the past thirty years, maybe longer, this guy's mother had copied them out from 1954."

"What?" Hermione looks indignant, "Give that here!" she practically snatches it from his hand and he gives it, looking smug. He watches as she pages through until she reaches what clearly must be today's lecture, because she begins muttering words to herself.

"Runghorn the Barbaric was banished from the Goblin nation having made the pact with the Roman Wizards. He--"

Binns is still talking and he's saying exactly the same thing, "He made a deal that the Goblins would assist in the warding of Rome and--"

"--and they'd manage the gold lines in exchange for-- this is exactly the same, word for word!"

"Right down to the inflections," Harry adds smugly.

Hermione hits him with the notes, "This is how you've been acing History you lying, cheating Slytherin!"

"And proud," Harry grins, "Uh, hey can I get those transcripts back, they cost me a fair Galleon."

"Only," Hermione sniffs, "If you share them with me."

"Of course," Harry agrees readily, "Anything to keep you killing yourself by time-travelling all over the place." He doesn't quite know how, but that's the only explanation for why he leaves Hermione in Arithmancy and then bumps into her again running to Muggle Studies. The poor girl was so overworked she hadn't even realised.

Hermione just glares at him for working it out and then proceeds to withhold his notes for the rest of the class.

In general school for that year goes well. That is to say nobody is out to kill him, despite what people think. He's relaxed about it, and everybody else worries while Harry goes about life as normal right until he gets manhandled into a broom closet by the Weasley Twins.

"What is this?" he asks.

"A broom closet," Fred says.

"I can see that," Harry says, "It's nice. A bit dusty. I'm impressed, you managed to locate Filch's cleaning supplies. Now what?"

"What? No, ignore the cleaning supplies," George shakes his head, "Ginny told us what you did."

"What I did?" Harry doesn't know what he's talking about.

"Well she didn't give us details. She's too good for that, but she told us the basics. Apparently you saved her life."

"I--what?" Harry blinks because he's pretty sure he didn't save her life, if anything he'd put her in danger and--

"Yeah, that was what we said," Fred shrugs, "We were all 'you're not talking about Harry, right, that scrawny Slytherin Ronald is friends with and Mom's practically adopted because his relatives suck?' And it's true, you're invited to the World Cup this summer if you can come and we can get tickets, and anyway, Ron's friends with you, Ginny too and you're a scrawny git, but you're okay."

"Uh-- thanks?" Harry's not sure what to think.

"So anyway. Present," they shove a piece of parchment into his hands, "Third floor corridor. Hump-backed witch. Enjoy!"

They leave him there with the parchment. It's blank, old and torn a bit around the edges. It takes Harry a few days to work anything out about it and when it starts talking back he almost burns it instantly. Yet he doesn't, he gathers his friends and they all peer at it and watch the mindless parchment insult them.

Hermione's casting revealing charms and Harry's playing through the games Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are talking him through.

"I am up to no good?"

'Do you swear it?'

'Do you solemnly swear it?'

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

It's a Map. It's a Map of Hogwarts and it shows where everyone is at every single moment. There are holes. Try as they might Ginny can't locate the Chamber, nor the entrance. The Room of Requirement doesn't appear. There are half a dozen corridors and secret tunnels Harry knows about that aren't on there. Neville knows of some Hufflepuff secret tunnels that also aren't shown.

It doesn't matter. It gets him to Hogsmeade.

It gets him to the Three Broomsticks in time for a conversation that the adults having should really know better than to have in such a public place.

It gets him knowledge from eavesdropping that he almost wishes he hadn't heard. It has him shaking with snow falling around him and Ron's confusion and Blaise is looking at him with horror and Hermione with slow realisation.

She always had been too clever for her own good.

"Black was your godfather," she says, "Harry - you said over the summer… you stayed with your godfather," her words are cold, " Black ? You stayed with Black?"

"Everyone's wrong. I-I don't know what happened but he's not trying to kill me. He wouldn't, he… Sirius can't have done that, he said he was innocent--"

"And your parents?" Blaise stares in horror, "How do you explain that?"

"I-I… I don't--" Harry doesn't know, because the truth is Sirius didn't tell him that part.

Chapter Text

It's hard to find Sirius. His godfather is being elusive which is probably a good thing considering there are soul-sucking fiends out for his soul but a bad thing because the longer before Harry finds him the more the questions build up along with the hurt and the anger and the betrayal.

Hermione and Ron shoot him worried looks and he pretends he can't see them whispering behind his back. He pretends he doesn't know that he's an idiot for trusting Sirius. For thinking there was an adult who actually cared--

"You killed them!" he shouts when he eventually tracks down Sirius using the Marauder's Map to the Shrieking Shack, "YOU BETRAYED THEM!"

"I did," Sirius says. He doesn't even try to deny it.

"You as good as killed them!" Harry snaps, "So why don't you finish the job, huh? Kill me! Go on! Should have died last year anyway, come on! KILL ME!"

"NO!" Sirius looks shocked, hurt and Harry's instincts were right. Sirius means him no harm. "I didn't want to hurt you, Harry, I never wanted you or Lily or James to be hurt. I just thought it would be a good idea, that it would be safer, nobody would notice the switch--"

"What are you talking about?" he asks, because Sirius is mad, madder than a March hare and all Harry wants to do is squeeze out a coherent story from him.

It comes out slowly. In bits and pieces and "That's all he left behind," Sirius laughs, "A finger!" He finds that fact hilarious, keeps laughing, "I saw his picture in the paper, had to keep you safe, went to check up on you--"

"Saw Peter? In the paper? But he's dead."

"He's not human. He's a rat. Rat like I'm a dog and your dad--"

"He's a rat. A rat that's missing a toe," the awful truth sinks in and it's unbelievable, maybe Sirius has finally lost it but-- "Ron's rat?"

"You know him? You could steal him, bring him too me, I can finish him--"

"Or I can take him to Dumbledore," Harry says, "If this even is true--"

"It is, I swear it--"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry glares, "I thought--" I thought I could trust you, I thought you were being honest with me.

Sirius doesn't answer and maybe that just shows how messed up he is. If only he'd told Harry, if only--

Harry knows Ron, he could easily have stolen Scabbers, Ron's feelings about the matter be damned, but now the rat (looking ill and moth-eaten and Ron is convinced Hermione's cat has finally eaten it) is gone and dead and-- "The cat ate it," Harry says, "It. Him. Scabbers."

"No no no, the cat was only trying to help--" Said cat is purring on Sirius' knee, "It didn't kill it, did you?"
Harry wonders how it is that Sirius can communicate with the cat, it only makes him more curious to try the animagus transformation but other matters aside, "But he's dead. There was blood on the sheets."

"And a body? He's faked his death once, it would be easy to do it again."

Harry opens his mouth and then shuts it because that's true and maybe if Sirius at least sees a body he'll be better, put this incident that is clearly killing him behind him--

Sirius is losing his mind not over the fact that he's guilty, but that he hadn't managed to commit the crime he was imprisoned for yet.

Harry doesn't know what to do. He sits at the Slytherin table and tries not to listen to Malfoy's taunts about Hufflepuff supporting Dementors and Black being after him--

"Notorious Mass Murderer OR Innocent Singing Sensation," Ron reads, "Clearly he's the Singing Sensation, that's why he was a crappy godfather."

Only about half of what Ron said was audible around the food he was chewing through. Harry wrinkles his nose and snatches the article from Ron, "You need to eat less," Harry tells Ron with good natured grumbling.

"You need to eat more," Ron says, glancing at him with a surprising level on concern, "Anyway," he shrugs, "When you live in a house of nine you get used to finishing your food quickly before someone eats it all."

He's trying to be subtle about glaring at George and failing. Harry coughs a laugh into his hand.

"If that the Quibbler?" Hermione sniffs, "It's not very reliable."

"Nah," Harry says, "Masquerading as Stubby Boardman, lead singer of the Hobgoblins is totally an alias Sirius would use." He tries to smile, tries to imagine Sirius starting a rock band.

He probably would have, thirteen years younger and with a light still in his eyes.

He wonders what happened to the four friends to split them up so. He wonders if that could happen to him, Ron and Hermione. They're split already in backgrounds and houses and although they sit at the Hufflepuff table to feign neutrality, they're the only ones that do.

So much for changing things, Harry thinks.

Sirius was incarcerated, James is dead and Peter was a rat for thirteen years. So Harry turns to the one who was left, watching him when he thinks Harry isn't looking. Remus is a broken man, he looks ten years older than he is and he looks-- he just looks tired. Tired and lonely. Tired and lonely and ill and--

"The Patronus Charm," Lupin tells him, "Is a method that will work to repel dementors. But it's strong, powerful magic and not easy to learn."

"I'll try," Harry says, watching Lupin move around the room. He's got secrets, but Harry isn't in the mood to pry. Isn't in the mood to try and work out what they are, because if he knows anything he knows that Lupin doesn't mean him harm. He's not exactly a force on Harry's side either, but he's not a threat.

"Your boggart… I told you I didn't want to see what it would transform into, lest I found myself in a classroom with Lord Voldemort." Lupin doesn't flinch. Harry admires that about him. "An idea I had for practising - if you expect the boggart to turn into something, it often will. It's why I made the class think beforehand what they were afraid off. It's why we got the clowns and spiders and mummies, not anything that would truly inspire terror, regardless of the person. Corpses. Dead loved ones. Monsters. Boggarts sound funny, and indeed we force them into a shape of amusement, turn them into a practical joke. But they're not. They're shadows and dark forms and fear itself. Nobody's seen one's true shape. Not even a friend I know with a magic eye knows it's real form - it senses him looking, see, and picks a form."

"So you're saying--for practising the patronus charm, if I expect a dementor, then that's what it will turn into?"

"Just try not to think of a different fear too much," Lupin says, and opens the trunk.

The lessons are draining. Harry leaves the classroom feeling like he's run a mile - exhausted but empowered. His progress is stuttering - silvery mist and too many bars of chocolate.

Lupin's a good teacher. One of the best Harry's had - he's supportive, knowledgeable and gives clear instructions. Harry's just not quick to pick up the spell, which is apparently normal, but it still frustrates him. He should get this. He has to get this, he needs to get this.

"You knew my dad," Harry says, "That means you knew Sirius Black too. And Peter Pettigrew."

Lupin closes up, visibly. "Yes, I did," he says shortly. He can't deny it. Not really. Harry almost doesn't want to push him.

"You were all friends."

"It was a long time ago," Lupin says, busying himself with the lock on the trunk containing the boggart.

"You were all Gryffindors?" Harry asks, and wow, double-standards in thinking the Gryffindors were the good guys. Lupin gives a short nod, "And was Sirius Black my godfather?"

"Harry," Lupin says, "If you're asking this, then you already know."

If Harry's asking this then he's already come this far, he might as well leap off the cliff all the way, "Then just one more question. I promise."

Lupin sighs, and he looks so tired and old. Whatever his illness is it has aged him, just like prison had aged Sirius.

Broken friendships, Harry thinks again.

"Is it possible," he asks, heart stuttering in his chest, "That you're all wrong about Sirius Black?"

Lupin stiffens. He's half turned away from Harry, face lit by flickering candles and it's hard to read his expression. "No," he says, voice wavering but certain, "The spell… there's no question."

"But what…" Harry says, slowly, "What if it wasn't Sirius? What if he wasn't part of the spell - fidelius, right? What if I told you my friend had a rat that has been in his family for thirteen years? What if I told you it was missing a toe?"

Lupin twists around so sharply and quickly Harry's on his feet and five paces back before either of them realise it. Lupin stares at him. He doesn't ask the stupid question of how and why Harry knows that, because if Harry's suggesting what he thinks he is then the answer to both questions are clearly obvious.

Harry's also clearly alive. Unscathed. Not under an curse.

Harry guesses his lessons are over.

Lupin stares at him at breakfast the next day. None of the other staff are acting weird so he hasn't told anyone. Harry swipes toast off Blaise's plate and Daphne's bowl of cereal and neither say anything because as long as he's eating they don't care what he eats off their plate.

"So - this summer they've revealed Britain's hosting the Quidditch World Cup final," Blaise says, "You two are both going, right?"

"If my father buys tickets," Daphne shrugs, rather unbothered by Quidditch.

"If the muggles let me," Harry says.

"Like you ever care what they think." Daphne snorts, "Are you getting tickets, Blaise?"

"Mom will get me some. She'll be busy with my new stepfather anyway, so as long as I have someone to go with--" Blaise shifts, a little uneasy.

"How long are we giving this one?" Daphne asks with a sniff.

Blaise looks uncomfortable but only for half a moment, "Five months," he says, "Five galleons."

"Ten galleons that he only makes it until Easter," Harry says.

"Harry, Easter's next week."

"Twenty galleons," Harry says.

Blaise shrugs, "It's your money."

"Get Granger to divine it for you," Daphne snorts, "I hear she walked out of Divination the other day, actually decided to drop the subject."

"Are we talking about the same Granger?" Blaise looks surprised.

"It was either that or murder Trelawney," Harry shrugs, "Here she is now - Hermione! Did you actually quit Divination?"

"You know very well I did - I told you last week," Hermione says behind a stack of five books.

Blaise tries to peer around them, "Are you still managing to do Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Muggle Studies AND Care of Magical Creatures? How-- how does that fit into your timetable? Even doing Muggle Studies with the Hufflepuffs, and Care with the Slytherins--- how does it fit?"

"She just has a lot of free time," Harry says with an intentional jab. He might not know exactly how she's doing it and he doesn't have a restricted pass at the moment to abuse to look up books about time travel, but he still enjoys teasing her about it. She'll tell him… eventually.

"I got her to sign me off on the subject over the weekend. She stunk of sherry all through it - really, drunk at school, it's disgraceful. She was jabbering on about servants breaking free and the shadows rising, I don't really think she even knew what she was signing. Good riddance."

Harry steals another glance at Lupin up at the staff table but he's gone. He wonders with frustration what, if anything, the other man will do, and then realises he can find out for himself.

"Hey, cover for me in Arithmancy, will you?" he asks, grabbing his bag, Marauder's Map tucked safely inside.

Blaise nods half-distracted by the Daily Prophet, "Sur--wait, what?"

But Harry's already gone and out the door.

In hindsight Harry wishes he'd told his friends what he'd been doing. They know bits and pieces strung out between them, but maybe he should have told them what he was planning. Admittedly he hadn't thought it through - he had found Lupin's name on the map, moving down a tunnel towards the Shrieking Shack where he knew Sirius would be.

And then he had seen Peter Pettigrew's name, scurrying around Rubeus Hagrid.

"You were our friend," Remus Lupin is saying when Harry finally makes it there, stumbling down the tunnel that slopes and weaves uneasily. There's a bruise in his side from where the wall of rock jabbed into him and it aches as he pauses at the bottom of the stairs, listening to his godfather and teacher bickering, arguing, years of hatred and hurt in the air between them. Harry almost can't bring himself to interfere.

"It wasn't me! Just listen, Remus, please, listen to me--"

"What did you do to Harry, what tale did you spin him, what spell did you--"

"He didn't," Harry barely registers when he decided to ascend the stairs, when he decided to step into the room directly between Remus and Sirius. He should have brought back-up, he thinks, Ron or Blaise or Hermione with her quick brain, even if she does panic (don't have matches, honestly) in some situations. "If he wanted me dead he had the whole summer."

"The summer--" Professor Lupin looks pale, "You spent-- with him--"

"I had to," Sirius looks pained, "He's with Petunia - Lily's sister - and her awful husband, they beat him, Remus--"

"They don't," Harry says, but it's too quick, too objective and his teacher just trembles something awful at that, "They don't," Harry says, and it's true, it's fine, Dumbledore spoke to them anyway and-- "Look," he says, "It doesn't matter, if we can just find the rat then I can live with Sirius, I don't have to go back to them anyway!" An unplottable property in the middle of London protected by the darkest magic of an old family is probably just as safe as protective sacrificial magic anyway.

Professor Lupin is staring at Harry, then Sirius and then Harry again with wide eyes, "He's innocent?" he asks, directing the question to Harry before turning to Sirius, "Peter actually--"

"They switched Secret Keepers," Harry says, "He didn't tell me, he should have told me, we could have gotten the rat, I practically lived with it--"

He should have seen it on the map, Harry thinks, and oh, the map; he drags it out.

"You found--" both Sirius and Remus stare at the Map in his hands.

"Fred and George Weasley gave it to me. I think it was a thank you, but you can't tell with those two," Harry shrugs, opening it out, "The spellwork is amazing, Hermione and I can't figure out half of them, and we're trying to add some sort of search function because it saves paging through the whole map, but it doesn't matter because--" he jabs his finger down successfully, "There. See?"

It's undeniable proof in black ink, resting in the corner of the hut on the grounds with small snoring 'z's floating up from it.

Peter Pettigrew.

It's a stupid idea, a reckless idea, but Harry is a Gryffindor at heart too, he probably could have been great decked out in red and gold, but even in green and silver he's great and it's not your house that makes you and it certainly wasn't the house that made Peter Pettigrew.

And for a moment - for one single, stupid moment - Harry thinks of a future away from the Dursleys, he thinks of living in Sirius' house, of having an adult he can actually trust, who actually treats him like a person and not an object, a thing, a chess piece to be shoved around. He doesn't want Dumbledore who looks at Harry like he's already dead, and he doesn't want Mrs Weasley treating him like a seventh son.

He just wants to be Harry.

It was stupid even entertaining the hope. He should have known better.

The thing is - their plan works. Harry visits Hagrid, he chips a tooth on a rock cake, he enjoys a cup of tea, he finds the moth-eaten rat snoozing in a jar, Professor Lupin turns up and Hagrid realises that Harry probably shouldn't be wondering about on his own and allows the Defence teacher to escort him back to the castle…

Pettigrew tries to run and even that is shut down. Lupin catches him with an incarcerous around the middle and Harry makes sure Hagrid isn't watching from his window. A black dog appears with bright eyes and a snarl of teeth and Pettigrew squirms and squirms and begs forgiveness.

"I should just let Sirius kill you," Lupin contemplates.

"Don't," Harry says, "We need him alive to clear Sirius' name."

"Harry, please--" the rat begs.

"We can give him to the Dementors," Harry decides instead and watches as the grey-haired man falls to his knees. He looks far older than mid-thirties. Clearly even with Mrs Weasley's cooking he hasn't aged well, then again considering Ron had once complained bitterly about Fred and George's experiments on him he shouldn't be surprised.

"Come on," Lupin sneers at the man, "Up. We'll hand you over to Dumbledore, Sirius for god's sake don't shift, what if somebody sees?"

"We're going to have to explain to Dumbledore," Sirius says, "He won't trust you otherwise, you know that, and I can keep an eye on this foul loathsome rat in case he tries to run."

"The last thing I want to do is explain it to the rest of the staff why I'm hanging out with Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew," Remus mumbles, "Heaven forbid if Snape finds us--"

"That bastard," Sirius secretly looks like he's waiting for an opportunity to meet Snape again, probably to punch him in the face. "It's a good plan though, Harry, it's a great plan," and he pats Harry's shoulder with a grin and eyes that are bright for the first time with hope.

That is, of course, when the moon rises and Lupin freezes.

"Professor Lupin?" Harry asks, "We're almost up to the castle - do you know Dumbledore's password or will we have to play guess the sweets--- Professor Lupin?"

Remus has frozen, the moon reflected in his eye, round and fat and full and--

"So I never mentioned why we became animagi, did I?" Sirius says, stepping away from Lupin.

He's called Moony , it should have occurred to Harry sooner.

"RUN!" Sirius shouts.

"But Pettigrew--"

"Sirius!" Peter sounds terrified, falling away still bound in ropes. Can he shift without a wand, Harry wants to know, but he knows that, of course you can shift without a wand but only if you're skilled enough, calm enough and Pettigrew isn't shifting, he's writhing and trying to get away and Harry only makes it one step towards him before Sirius pulls him back.

"Go!" he shouts again, "Run!"

"Sirius, no!!" but Sirius isn't Sirius and Remus isn't Remus. One man shifts into a dog, his form dissolving, sort of shimmering and there's a heatwave of sorts and Harry misses the exact moment of change, but one moment he's human then with a quiet 'pop' he's animal.

The other man does change and unlike the animagus transformation - this one looks painful. The man bends over, his spine arching, distorting, his skull growing and skin stretching and fur growing. Bones snap around into place, teeth become sharp and daggered and pained moans turn into a crazed howl.

"He hasn't had his potion," Harry realises, making the last few links, just as hands turn into claws and Peter--

"Come on," Harry snarls, half-dragging Pettigrew up.

"Untie me, Harry, please, I can help Sirius, we used to calm Remus most full moons your father and I, you look just like your father--"

"Shut up!" Harry snaps, letting go of the man, just as, with a pained howl, the black dog is tossed aside. "SIRIUS!" he shouts, and the wolf freezes.

Its eyes are yellow, its fangs silver and its tail tufted into two. It looks almost like a normal wolf, except no normal wolf looks that crazed, that hungry, that fucking terrifying--

The werewolf lunges and this is how Harry dies. Not at some spectral shadowy dark lord, not at a memory of a diary, but at a moon-mad monster.

"Bombarda!"

The ground explodes at the wolf's feet and Lupin - it's not Lupin, there's no humanity in those animal eyes - rears back with a snarl, spittle flying.

"Annihilare!"

Something else explodes and the wolf whimpers. It's prey isn't so easy anymore. Harry manages to grasp his own wand, "Depulso!" The werewolf ducks away, but doesn't give up.

"Harry! Come on!" He twists, spotting Ron and Hermione staring with terrified eyes at Harry. Ron grabs him, tugging him up and away from the wolf, "Don't hang around, we've got to run--"

The wolf howls.

"Annihilare?" Harry asks, "What the hell kind of spell is that?"

"I knew those door-opening charms would come in useful," Ron grins and Harry wants to hug him and punch him, but this isn't a good time before the wolf lunges again--

"Everte Statum."

The werewolf is thrown back several paces. It lands with a yelp and appears to think better about attacking. The spellcaster appears with a whirl of black cloak and a sinking feeling in Harry's gut as Snape casts a critical eye over the three of them, "I followed Weasley and Granger down here when I realised Lupin hadn't taken his potion, are you three imbeciles in one piece, you could have been bitten, you could have been one tasty morsel in that mutt's belly, you could have--"

Under normal circumstances Harry would love somebody to tackle Snape and steal his wand. But normal circumstances don't involve Peter Pettigrew choosing that moment to escape his bindings, snatching Severus Snape's wand gleefully.

"I'm not going to Azkaban," he says, "I'm not, I won't--"

"Is that--" Hermione stares.

Pettigrew grasps the wand with claw-like fingers, yellowed teeth leering in a smile--

"No!" Harry shouts out desperately. Ron's closest but the wand lashes out and Ron is thrown backwards with a godawful crack. Harry hurls the first three spells that come to mind and Hermione throws a neat looking net-spell but the rat dives right through it, brown body vanishing in the gathering dusk.

Harry doesn't think. He takes off. He doesn't make it far, Hermione's shouting at him, there is still a werewolf out there and Snape is snarling insults and there is a horrible hopeless churning feeling in his gut.

His mother screams in his ears.

"HARRY!" Hermione screams.

The air is cold. His breath frosts in front of him. There is frost in his bones.

Burning hands grab him. Ron tugs him backwards, and Snape is wandless and probably slightly concussed but he's there trying to shove the three of them back. He's a horrible person, an even worse teacher and a bully but at least he doesn't want them to die, Harry supposed that's one good thing going for him.

There's a werewolf on the loose, Pettigrew escaped and Sirius--

"The dementors," Snape says, "We should head back to the castle, Potter--"

The dementors aren't heading for them, Harry realises, they're heading for the lake, for the place Harry had last seen Sirius, fighting the werewolf, and Sirius is injured and defenceless and tired and there are shapes of looming hopelessness approaching, swooping down from the night and it takes Harry just that long to work out what they are.

"Harry!" Hermione shouts at him again as he takes a step towards where Sirius had vanished, towards the origin of the bleak despair, towards--

Snape curses at him, "Get back, you idiot boy--"

"No," he shoves away from his teacher, "Sirius--"

"Black? Black's here?"

"He's innocent," Harry says, "He's--"

"He's a murderer you stupid child!" Snape sneers, "He's a traitor!"

"He's not."

"He's my godfather."

Harry needs to get this, he needs to be able to cast this damn spell and maybe it's that knowledge more than his happy memory of could-have-beens he knows will never exist that forces the silver to explode out of his wand.

It's mercurial liquid metal, it's hope and dreams and mirrored reflections. It's sharp hooves and antlers like tree branches and knives that slash right into the darkness. Harry can feel it draining his energy and he drops to his knees, unable to do anything else than watch the stag patronus tumble straight through the dementors, scattering their ranks like shadows fleeing from the light. It's a light in the distance, standing vigil over something down near the lake.

"Potter if you run you're getting a year's worth of detention-- POTTER!"

He skids over damp grass and  his pulse is pounding and his hands are clammy and there is blood and no movement and Harry successfully cast a patronus, a beautiful patronus with a silver form and a royal head and Sirius should look and see because it's Prongs, right, this is what Prongs must have looked like--

It doesn't matter. The stag stands over Sirius' limp form and it doesn't matter.

He was too late.

He knows, theoretically, he's in shock.

He's curled on a hospital bed and people move around him whispering and he's probably in emotion shock. Physically he's fine. A bit bruised. A bit ruffled from the werewolf encounter, but otherwise unharmed. Ron has a broken leg and Snape has a head wound and Sirius--

He's still breathing.

Harry thinks that's almost worse.

"I spent the summer with him," he chokes out between sobs, "I spent the whole damn summer staying in his house. If he'd wanted to kill me he could have done it then."

"You what?" Hermione looks shocked and Dumbledore is staring down at him. He's listened to the whole story with miles of patience and the look of one who understand what Harry is going through. He doesn't understand at all, Harry thinks.

He wonders if he'd told Dumbledore from the start if this could have been sorted. If they could have cleared Sirius, found the rat, if he'd just spoken to Lupin sooner, or been more alert and worked out Lupin was a damn werewolf, if he--

"I stayed with him all summer. He-- I ditched the Dursleys and he found me, took me to Grimmauld Place. I thought he was mad but-- I stayed and he never tried to hurt me, he--" Harry stops to draw in a shaky breath but it collapses half-way through into a choked howl. "He's going to be okay, right?" he asks, "He was an animagus when Lupin clawed him, he won't turn, he'll--"

"Harry," Hermione's voice breaks, just a little bit.

"My dear boy," Dumbledore says, and he seems to understand that words won't help. "Miss Granger, you should have just left the common room should you wish to return, but I think that circumstances given, you might want to stay the night."

They're talking but the words are all kind of blurring together. Dumbledore leaves and Hermione sits next to him, looking unwilling to leave him, looking like she wants to scoop him up in a blanket and keep him safe, like she can stop the world around, like she can stop time or--

Time.

"Hermione," he says, fevered, "Hermione."

"Harry, just rest. Just-- I'm so sorry about Sirius, I'm--"

"He's not dead! Don't you see? He's not dead, we can go back! We can go back and save him, can't we? You can time travel…"

Something gold glitters around her neck and he lunges for it. It's a small golden hourglass, with golden sand streaming through it and this is how she's been doing her lessons, this is how it works, this is--

"Harry," Hermione says in a small broken voice, "We can't."

"Why not?" he demands, "We can save him, we can--"

She's shaking her head, "We can't change time. And even if we could-- the Time Turner can't cross its own time stream. And we… Ron and I… we already time-travelled back once this evening."

Harry stares at her blankly, "You what?"

"We spent the evening looking for you. And then we heard a student had been injured, and there was a werewolf loose on the grounds and we heard your name and--" Hermione swallows, "We went back in time, waited for you to appear, didn't count on Snape following us but I thought… I thought saving you from Lupin would do it, but--" she lets out a laugh, "Ron got hurt anyway. He was the hurt student, it was just a closed loop; we didn't change anything."

Which means Sirius is already gone. Sirius is gone and dead and--

His body is hidden behind the curtain. It will be dragged away by the ministry and burned and all that will be left will be ashes.

Harry barely registers leaving Hermione and moving to the curtain. He doesn't go in - he doesn't want to see-- He drops onto the bed next to it and curls up, just staring, thoughts going around in circles.

That's how time works, apparently. Circular loops that can't be controlled. Circular loops that paradoxically start themselves off.

Circular loops that end in this: blood, ash and a slow death.

Harry doesn't know what to say to Professor Lupin. He doesn't even know why he's here, at the classroom watching his teacher pack up.

Harry lost the first adult he could trust and Remus lost his last best friend.

"You shouldn't have to leave," he says, "You were the best teacher we've had."

Lupin straightens, "Ah," he says, "Harry." There's an awkward sort of pause, "I was negligent," he says, "Someone could have gotten hurt. Perhaps had I taken my potion then events might have played out differently." He sighs, looking tired, "I must take my leave. Feel free to write," he adds, and it sounds a little bit like 'please, write' so Harry nods, not sure what to say or do.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, because why can't Lupin see it was his fault, if he'd been better, faster, cast the spell quicker--

"It's not your fault," Lupin says, and he takes a moment to consider Harry, "It wasn't your fault," he says again and maybe someday Harry likes to think he'll believe it, "Sirius went out like he was always going to - under the full moon, in a fight and currently wanted by the whole of magical Britain. Harry - there was no way it could have worked out. Even with Snape reluctantly admitting he saw Pettigrew, the Ministry tossed aside the posthumous pardon without question. It does mean his bank accounts are still frozen by Gringotts, but--"

"They're not," Harry says, shoving an envelope at Lupin, "Or maybe they are and the goblins just don't care, but either way this is yours."

Maybe Sirius did know, or maybe the Will update was just wishful thinking and dead dreams. Harry doesn't know, "Here," he says, passing the Marauder's Map over with the envelope from Gringott's. "You made it, you should probably keep it."

Lupin regards the map with deep interest but does not pick it up, "I think your father and Sirius would have wanted you to keep it. I also think they would have wanted you to have these--" he leans into his trunk and pulls out two books on transfiguration. "Your father was a dab hand at transfiguration. Sometimes I think it was a side-effect of his extensive research and not just pure talent."

"Uh…" Harry takes the textbooks, confused, "Thanks?"

"Don't get caught," Lupin says, taking the map from Harry then and tucking it on top of the books. For a moment the four names of the Marauders flashes up and then fades. Inspiration strikes Harry then, and he knows what he'll find in the books.

"Thank you," he says.

"Take care, Harry."

He nods, making to leave, hesitating for one moment in the doorway, "Oh, and Professor? Hermione was right - you were the best teacher we've ever had."

He leaves Lupin then, tired and old and the last of a lost generation.

Chapter Text

James goes about his day numbly. He hasn't seen Harry since yesterday evening. Since Harry told him that Sirius was dead and then practically clawed his way out of the room. James didn't follow, he knew the expression on Harry's face and knows he needs space and time.

Harry's not in class on Tuesday and James hasn't seen him in the Great Hall at all this week. He eventually spots him Saturday with his Ravenclaw and Gryffindor friends over at the Ravenclaw table near a girl with - were those cork earrings? - spooning mash potato onto his plate. It's hard enough finding people without them switching tables, James thinks irritably. The trio look slightly subdued and Harry was wearing a slightly pained expression like he had a headache. James used to look that way after a hangover and Lily would screw her face up the same way and he just hopes his son hasn't been drinking. He's fifteen.

He'd honestly just be impressed with where they obtained the alcohol, but then again Harry's found the map. That might explain it.

"You mean you caught-- HARRY POTTER! You can't expect to keep a live human in a JAR!"

A few people look up curiously at Hermione Granger's shriek and it's probably worrying that nobody looks that alarmed at her words. Harry does indeed appear to have a jar but it looks empty apart from a leaf in it or something. He shoves the jar over to the girl with the cork earrings who looks appropriately awed over the empty jar while Hermione glares and starts whispering furiously.

Harry might continue to avoid him, James is going to have to catch him eventually. Without appearing like a complete stalker, and without freaking his son out there's really only one way to really talk to Harry again.

"Gonna have to give him detention," James says with all the suitable horror of a parent.

"I know how you feel," Snape says from near his elbow. James just about avoids knocking his glass over, he didn't realise Snape was sitting right next to him, "Potter and his pals are blithering idiots and half the staff think they can do no wrong."

"He's in your house," James manages to sound less surprised than he actually is.

"Just like his father," Snape mutters, "Trust me, Ian, he's trouble," and goes back to his toast.

James wonders what kind of universe it is that Severus Snape thinks he's a friend.

It is as he should have predicted; Harry that comes to him. James isn't entirely sure how his son managed to get into his locked office, some defence teacher he is, but Harry's there, shoulders hunched ever so slightly that suggests he's trying to look relaxed and failing.

"You should write to Remus," is the first thing Harry says, "If you really are James Potter."

"I am," James wonders how long he's going to have to prove it to him, but looking at Harry he thinks his son knows that. James gave him proof already, it's not a question of if he is James Potter, it's a question of if Harry is ready to accept that. "I haven't told anyone," James says, "Not even Dumbledore."

Harry's green eyes - so like Lily's - eye him warily. "Probably a good idea," Harry shrugs, "Although how Dumbledore managed to hire another Defence teacher who isn't everything they said they were I don't know. He must have a talent for it."

James runs his head through the list of Defence teachers he knows, "A werewolf, a fraud, don't tell me that one was actually a Death Eater in disguise."

"You forgot Quirrel," Harry says, "He had Voldemort in the back of his head, but really in terms of people who should be dead, I think you win. At least Dumbledore knew Voldemort wasn't dead. The whole world thinks you're dead."

"I'm not, clearly," James gestures, "I mean, maybe Voldemort does know, he cast the curse after all."

"Do you know what curse?"

James shakes his head. He's been looking into that in between trying to research the last fifteen years, "Something dark. Something that probably should have killed me. I mean - a fourteen year coma - it as good as did."

He pauses, trying to consider how to ask, how to even broach--

Harry does it for him, "Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban."

James pales, "Merlin," he chokes, "What? Why--?" he pauses, because he knows why, he can see why, he can--

"He blasted thirteen people to smithereens," Harry says, dispassionately, "Twelve muggles. One wizard. Peter Pettigrew. The few who knew also realised he must have betrayed you to Voldemort. He didn't, of course. He was chasing Pettigrew, Pettigrew was the one who killed the muggles. Faked his death, lived as a rat-- Sirius escaped two years ago. Nobody knew he was an animagus, see, and he escaped Azkaban. First to do so. I… I spent some time with him but… the Dementors got him in the end."

James throat closes up. He doesn't cry, doesn't break down - he's already lost Lily, already lost his one year old child, already lost fourteen years - this is a war, people die in wars.

Except no. There is no war. There's been no war for fourteen years but--

"Is he back?" he asks, and he doesn't need to specify who.

Harry nods, short and jerky, "There was a… plot… last year. A Death Eater at Hogwarts, the Triwizard Tournament that got hijacked into a ritual to bring him back--"

"A ritual - oh - three tasks," James realises, because Artihmancy had not been a strong subject but he remembers enough to know that three tasks ending on what was probably the midsummer solstice was magically significant, "Hang on - if he's back, then why isn't anybody doing anything about it? Why isn't there better security, why the hell didn't Dumbledore check my credentials--"

"One - he's Dumbledore, he thinks hiring Snape is a good idea, and two - the Ministry won't listen. Fudge - he's, uh, Minister at the moment - he thinks Dumbledore is making a power grab by claiming the Dark Lord returning. I can't back him because half my house will lynch me--"

"You're in Slytherin," James says, because fuck practically all the Death Eater kids ended up there.

"Yeah," Harry says, "Problem?"

James shakes his head before he even realises it, "Hang on, that's why Umbridge is here, then? To keep an eye on Dumbledore."

Harry nods again. Harry has, James realises, been avoiding Umbridge. He'd hate to see that awful woman confronting his son about the rumours. 'No comment' the newspapers have said, and there is only so long before Harry can't keep ducking under the radar and keeping the press off his back.

"This is messed up," James presses the knuckles of his hand against his temple, "You've got friends, though? You're happy?"

His son looks thrown by the question, "Sure," he says, "I'm peachy," he's giving James a side-eye like he thinks James is slightly crazy.

"Give me a break here, kiddo," James feels a bit lost trying to breach this gap between them.

"Look, I just wanted to tell you about Sirius. He was your best friend and all--" Harry's closing himself off, "Talk to Lupin. Probably avoid Dumbledore. Definitely avoid Umbridge--"

"Avoid you?"

Harry pauses. He glances at his watch, "Look, I've gotta go," he says, "See you in class."

"Wait, Harry--"

"I've got to go--"

"Now?" James asks, "Look, I know you don't need a father - you're fifteen - but I can still be there for you, okay?"

"I don't want to do this," Harry looks irritated, "I'm only here because Ron and Hermione persuaded me to play nice. I don't know you and from what I've heard you were a bully and a prat. I don't need that and you're right - I certainly don't need a father!" He's halfway to the door when it even occurs to James what the time is.

"Where are you even going at this hour?" he asks, and then, because he still thinks he's twenty two instead of thirty six, he follows after Harry, "Are you sneaking out?"

Harry doesn't answer, he makes it out of the door and James follows, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face by the swinging door and--

The corridor is empty. Because of course, James thinks, Harry has James’ old invisibility cloak now. Harry has his cloak and map and James can't think of anything better really, except now--

He can't hear footsteps and he's not going to grope blindly over the corridor. He goes back into his office, closes the door, listens. There are no footsteps - of course Harry is probably smart enough to cast a muffling charm over himself. James gives his son a two minute head start.

Then he's following.

Invisible and silent - following Harry should be damn near impossible but James is nothing if not resourceful. Also - as it turns out - other students aren't nearly as lucky as Harry - and there are other students. They are spread out enough that James would assume they were just late to getting to their common rooms except none of them are heading in that direction.

They're heading to the grounds. To the Forbidden Forest - or rather - to a clearing just on the edge of it.

"Almost walked into Umbridge," some tall Hufflepuff is saying, "She was standing in front of that portrait of those toads down one of the dungeon corridors and I just saw pink."

It's a weird mixed group, James eyes them up from the shadows. He wonders if he's mistaken for a moment - he can't see Harry, maybe his son went off elsewhere - but then there is a shimmer and Harry slips out of the shadows, another student with him - a young girl with plain brown hair who looks like she needs some more sun. She's definitely not a fifth year - James thinks he's seen her in his third year classes.

Several red-headed Weasley's hurry over enthusiastically when they see them appear and now James looks he can spot Harry's usually friends - Hermione, Ron, Blaise and Daphne are in the midst of some more of their year mates but they're definitely not all fifth years.

The girl with Harry is showing them something on the back of her hand. James thinks he sees blood. Daphne is looking indignant and James realises where he recognises the other girl now as her younger sister. He moves closer to try and hear what the group is saying.

"Is Dumbledore right then?" a Gryffindor is demanding of Harry, "Is he really back?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny--"

"Don't give us that shit you're feeding the Prophet, just tell us."

"Why?" Harry snaps at Seamus, "So you can label me a liar and deluded fool as well, no thanks."

"Hey, let's just calm down here," the Hufflepuff that had almost walked into Umbridge steps up, "I believe Harry."

"Do you?" another Hufflepuff looks mutinously at his housemate, "Are you sure Potter didn't just curse you before you grabbed the cup? You don't remember anything - convenient, isn't it?"

"Shut up, Zacharias," at least five Hufflepuffs step up, "Are you calling Cedric a liar?" a girl who looks like she's related to Amelia Bones steps in front of Cedric, arms crossed defensively.

"How about this?" Harry suggests, "If you don't believe me then you can leave right now."

"It's dodgy enough meeting like this," Theodore Nott says, "We couldn't have met on a Hogsmeade Weekend or something?"

Hermione clears her throat, "Umbridge would have heard. 'No school clubs' ring a bell? She's going to stand against everyone finding out the truth, that Vol-Voldemort--" she takes a deep breath, "That he's actually back."

The students are rallying, James realises, with no teacher or adult involvement, they're making connections and forming a group.

It's like looking at the Order of the Phoenix filled with fresh graduates sixteen years ago.

"At least the Defence teacher is competent this year," Lee Jordan says, "Imagine if the Toad Inquisitor was teaching."

"I don't think she can teach," Blaise mutters.

"So say we believe you," another confrontational Hufflepuff says, "What then? What are you expecting us to do? We're fifteen, we're not going to go and kill You-Know-Who!"

"We're not asking that," Hermione says, "But let's be honest - for a first rate institute of magic, I'd hate to see what the worse schools look like. So far at Hogwarts I've encountered trolls, a Cerberus, students have been petrified by a creature that was never caught, there have been dementors and a tournament with a death toll and  if this is what Hogwarts is like - the safest place in Magical Britain - then what do you think it will be like when we graduate, let alone when the war starts. Because believe me, a war is coming. And we need to be ready."

"Who is going to teach us? You?"

"I hear Harry can cast a corporeal patronus," Susan Bones defends him.

"He actually understands the laws of thermodynamics."

There's a pause and James takes a moment to pick out the platinum blonde girl who spoke with giant pink glasses perched on her head and a necklace made from - were those corks - and she gives the group a dreamy smile.

"Luna," Harry says, "That's physics, it doesn't-- how is that related?"

"Oh, everyone knows physics has an effect on magic," the girl announces brightly, "It was in the latest Quibbler."

"That garba-OW!" Ginny Weasley takes great care to stamp on Zacharias Smith's toes accidentally.

"I'm with Harry," she says, "We're here to learn, right? So let's learn. And you know what - let's show Umbridge and the Ministry whose school this really is, because come on. Dumbledore let Quirrel teach when he was possessed by Voldemort. He let students get attacked in my first year, he let dementors in and as good a teacher Lupin was, he didn't ensure safe precautions for having a werewolf on the grounds. Dumbledore clearly doesn't care about the students and right now he's worrying about the war. This isn't Dumbledore's school either, this is ours and even if you don't believe Voldemort is back, surely you can at least fight for Hogwarts."

There are murmured agreements, and the whole group appear to have come to a general consensus. "Well I'm not meeting out here every time," Daphne says, "It will be snowing soon, so can we--"

"I can do a Protean charm," Harry says, "Hermione too, we're working on a method of communication and then we can arrange a time and place to meet. We have a place we can meet," he nods, confirming whatever place Daphne was thinking of. His gaze is distracted, skimming the treeline and - oh - he's looking for James.

He knows James is there. He has the Map, he's probably been on teacher lookout from the start but he hasn't told anyone. The youngest female Weasley leans over and Harry folds the Map away from her as she turns to him.

The rest of the students are dispersing amongst themselves, breaking off into little groups and Harry passes the Map off to Ron and muttering something to Ginny, makes a beeline for James.

Uh oh.

"I wasn't following you," James says as Harry appears in front of him, angry and indignant, "And I won't tell anyone about your super-secret club."

"What I do is none of your business," Harry says, "Stay out of it."

"I was curious," James says, "I was also keeping an eye out for you guys, I can at least do that much. And Harry, if you need any help, I know some good books and I can do some more teaching for you guys--"

"Dad, don't," Harry hisses, and he's so prickly and defensive they both almost completely miss the fact that Harry just called James 'dad'. Their response is for James to blink a bit and Harry to back away a step before continuing as if nothing has happened, "Look, I don't know what you're meant to do here as my father. But I can handle myself and I can handle this, I don't need help."

James' jaw clicks shut. He doesn't know what he's meant to do here either.

"You know my office is always open to you," he says, and then just makes a decision on the spot. Gryffindor rashness and bravery at it's finest, but maybe bravery in this case is just stupidity and a lack of boundaries, "In fact, detention. Monday. For sneaking out after curfew."

"What? You can't--" Harry says indignantly, before slamming his mouth shut, eyes still glaring.

"Seven," James says, "You're going to have to know some things to teach those other students."

"I know some things - hang on, are you giving me detention just to teach me?" Harry asks, sounding disbelieving.

"Snape actually likes that I give you so many detentions," James wrinkles his face, not sure still how he feels about Snape liking him for a change. "Also Umbridge is probably just waiting for a time when she can assign detentions so I plan to monopolise on them. So if you need to get out of anything then you've got detention with me."

The look Harry gives him is both surprise and just a general air of one who has every intention of using that excuse and not turning up to said excuse.

James doesn't mind. It's a start.

Giving his son detention to spend time with him, what would Lily say.

James wouldn't want to admit he's actually looking forward to Harry's detention. He's fallen into a stride with his teaching and he's beginning to understand why people do it. It's rewarding, seeing his training and lessons pay off. The kids alternate between liking him as a teacher and hating him - James has a tendency to do a lot of practical stuff that means the third years at the very least are currently treating defence lessons as simply physical activity; running around outside over obstacle courses and avoiding various creatures James has managed to procure.

He should probably start setting more essays, but he still really hates marking them. He got into an argument with Hermione Granger last week because his grading system was simply a series of ticks if James agreed with the student's argued point over the use of when defensive spells would work better than offensive spells. He actually thinks Hermione was just disappointed in her three sole ticks, and James doesn't admit it was only because he couldn't be bothered to read the Ravenclaw's four foot long essay.

He does write to Remus. He doesn't do it as James Potter, because that's a one way ticket to the Order of the Pheonix' headquarters. Instead he writes it as Ian Peverell under the guise of asking for information about his teaching methods since all the other previous teachers from the past four years were either dead or otherwise incapacitated.

He asks to meet. He thinks that's a bad idea but maybe if he can persuade Harry to come along--

He busies himself with pulling out a newspaper he managed to sneak out of the library without Madame Pince seeing. He swears that lady lives there, he's never seen her elsewhere.

The headline reads 'Triwizard Tournament Ends In Disaster'. He remembers Harry saying there had been a Tournament, and that it had been instrumental in bringing Voldemort back to life and he's three lines in before he even realises the champion number is wrong.

He's another two lines in before he realises Harry's name keeps coming up.

"That's a bit out of date," Minerva says from next to him. She's spent this whole meal regarding him with mixed curiosity and wariness like she's weighing up who's side he's on in the upcoming war. "I've got the one from today if you want to read--"

The newspaper from that morning announced-- "High Inquisitor?" James stares, "Umbridge? Did they just make up a position so she could stay and have more power?"

Around the hall the rest of the teachers have pinched faces. Except for Umbridge: she's puffed out like some hidious pink peacock practically preening in the attention. A few of the students are nodding approvingly but the large majority are looking unhappy and glaring at her. Ministry representative or not, Umbridge has not made herself popular. She's been assigning detentions for the past two weeks even though James is pretty sure she's not allowed to do that. She likes to linger in the back of his class like a bad smell everyone is pretending they don't know is there.

He looks for Harry - at the Gryffindor table of all places - and his son is currently trying to flick something down the table. It hits someone's school hat - slightly frayed and patched - nobody wears their school hats anyway after the first week of term unless they're first years - and the hat falls into one of the Weasley twin’s soup.

James wonders what Harry's encouraging the twins to do and he's not sure whether to laugh or be worried. Fred and George Weasley are worse than he and Sirius ever managed to be.

Sirius, he thinks with a pang of sorrow, he can never thank him, never apologise to him, never say goodbye--

"I think I'll stick with this," he says to Minerva in response to her offer of the more recent newspaper, "I’ve been trying to catch up on recent events. I would have loved to compete when I was younger."

"They put an age line around the Goblet," Minerva says, "Not that it worked, someone bypassed that and entered Potter - that poor kid can't catch a break, I swear…”

James just about manages not to choke on his glass of pumpkin juice. Harry had mentioned a tournament, he hadn't said he'd been competing. He'd been fourteen.

James feels sick. His previous thoughts of how wonderful it would have been to enter are replaced by horror and--

"That tournament had a death toll," he manages to choke out. "And they let a fourteen year old enter?"

Minerva looks at him strangely, "You seem very interested in Harry Potter," she notes.

"I was--" he pauses, and then decides the truth always made the best lie, "I was in an accident," he says, "I spent a few years in a coma." (More than a few, but who's counting?) "I'm a bit out of touch with everything; I've been trying to catch up on recent events-"

His old teacher's eyes widen, "Oh dear, Ian, why didn't you say anything? Yes, yes the Ministry thought it was a good idea. And it was, but there was--" she stops, narrowing her eyes at him. She's in the Order, of course she doesn't know if James is on their side, the Ministry's side or even Voldemort's side. "There was a plot - someone was masquerading as the Defence teacher - there were rumours that it was a Death Eater named Barty Crouch Junior. The Ministry couldn't confirm it, said Crouch had died in Azkaban. Regardless Potter got entered, and something went wrong in the last task. Mr Diggory got cursed, Potter wouldn't talk although he was proven not to have done it. It was put down to outside sabotage."

Looking at the article James sees the same facts there, just mixed into propaganda. "And the tournament itself? If Diggory entered - he's a sixth year, right?"

"Seventh now," Minerva nods, "The other two champions were in their final years too. Mr Potter did quite well for himself for a fourth year. Apart from that mess with the second task--"

James makes a curious face and waits for her to elaborate.

"In his defence, it never occurred to us that he'd have to pick--"

"Pick? Pick what?" James has no idea what she's talking about.

"The champions were forced to rescue a person close to them. They were under the lake in an enchanted sleep in the merpeople village. The champions were given an hour. Miss Granger had gone to the ball with Viktor Krum and since he didn't have any close friends or family nearby, we asked for her to volunteer…"

"Hang on, there was a ball? I didn't know Hogwarts did balls."

"It was tradition," Minerva says, "As part of the Triwizard Tournament. The champions led the opening dance. Miss Granger went with Viktor Krum, Diggory had his Ravenclaw girlfriend--"

"And Harry?" James asks, because he never thought this is how he'd find out about his son's first dance, he wonders how Harry will take teasing later--

"Mr Potter and Miss Greengrass were delightful, although I suspect that was through many threats on Miss Greengrass' part and more than a few dancing lessons."

James glances over the breakfast crowd of students. Harry's Slytherin friends are actually over at the Slytherin table by themselves, all moodily eating their breakfast looking like none of them want to be awake at this hour. Harry's still whispering with Fred and George Weasley and James thinks he might be able to see a bag of galleons--

"So did Ha-Potter have to rescue Daphne Greengrass?"

"Ah," Minerva says, looking a bit abashed, "That was the problem. We borrowed Ron Weasley. Thus when confronted by both his friends he did the only logical thing, really, we should have expected it. He threatened the merpeople and took both. Durmstrang's champion had to rescue the Beauxbaton girl's hostage, much to his confusion.”

James tries to imagine what he would do if confronted with picking Sirius or Remus and ignoring the pang that - yes, Sirius is dead, it's just Remus now, Sirius is gone and Lily is gone and Peter's a traitor and-- yes, he thinks, he would take them both.

"I'd have picked both," he says, when Harry turns up for his detention.

"You'd have picked what?" Harry repeats back, carefully monotone and distanced from James.

"In the Tournament. Second task. I'd have done the same. Or I'd have tried to be stupidly chivalrous and stayed to make sure everyone got saved, but I can see why you wouldn't want to do that, so good job."

"Wow," Harry says, still deadpanning, "From what I've heard about you I thought you'd have been more impressed with my flying skills."

"Flying skills?" James asks, "Which task was that?"

"Had to get past a dragon. I flew."

"You WHAT?"

Summer rolls around and Harry looks to it with just as much trepidation as always. It's only a few weeks he has to spend there, but even with the soul sucking monsters and werewolves around, time spent at Number 4 Privet Drive is always infinitely worse. The Dursley's are certainly better now than they were. Harry thinks Dumbledore must have had another word with them because they're apathetic and ignore him entirely and that's always better than the alternatives.

Summer brings weird dreams and sleepless nights. It brings an eventual escape to an empty house in London with a sneering house elf and a vault of gold that is all now in his name.

The Black House is cold and empty without Sirius. It’s all his. Wanted felon or not, Sirius left it all to Harry somehow. Harry doesn't know what to do with the empty space and the half-completed cleaning he and Sirius had gotten done the previous summer. There's the rattling of some creature in the desk in the drawing room and there is a portrait of Walburga Black that screams if Harry descends the stairs too loudly. Yet the place reminds Harry of the Slytherin dungeons, and Regulus' room is decked with comforting green and silver and it's the last thing he has of a godfather he never knew so he does his best to try and clean through it.

The truth is Harry hadn't really known Sirius and you can't mourn someone you never knew.

Except Harry did know Sirius, and he mourned the missed opportunities and maybes as much as he did the actual loss. Regardless he was a Slytherin - he landed on two feet and kept going.

The house cleaning would have to wait - he got accosted in Diagon by a family of red-heads and practically kidnapped to go to the World Cup. The older Weasley siblings still stare at him in clear confusion while Arthur asks him about light switches and Molly shoves more food onto his plate. Ginny and Ron are fiercely loyal and it makes for a fun summer.

The Quidditch World Cup is spectacular. Hermione gets tired of having her ears talked off about Quidditch manoeuvres and eventually just kicks Ginny out of her room so she can sleep.

"I see Malfoy still harbours delusions of adequacy," Ginny whispers in his ear as they sit in the Top Box for the World Cup. She and Harry burst into peals of laughter because their shared sense of humour is something Harry always enjoys.

He and Ron record bits of the game on their omnioculars and re-watch them later with Hermione trying to explain to Fred what a television is behind them. Celebrations last through the night and Harry's not sure when it turns from celebrating into a riot of panic and chaos but it does.

He's mostly just glad he comes away from that whole situation without getting arrested by some overeager ministry grunt. Harry has no intention of getting on the wrong side of the ministry - he does have some self-preservation, thank you.

What with the chaos in the aftermath of the game and the freaking dark mark hanging over the camping grounds, well, in hindsight of course Harry's name comes out of the Goblet of Fire. It should almost be expected by now.

The school doesn't know what to think. Those that know him believe him when he says he didn't put his name in. Well, except for Ron who fights with him over it, jealousy and anger warring in his friend's words. Blaise can prove for sure Harry didn't since he didn't actually leave Harry's side while the goblet was lit, but half the school just decide not the believe him anyway. The Slytherins are torn between being grateful they have a Slytherin champion and hating the fact it's him. They're on par with the Gryffindors for how bad they treat him as he walks down the corridors.

It stops after the First Task and Harry nearly kills himself fighting a dragon. The Hungarian Horntail is terrifying and huge and oh, if only his animagus form was coming on better he might have a better chance instead of feeling like a fly buzzing around the dragon just waiting to be swatted.

He's still not sure how he gets out of that one.

The Yule Ball could have been disastrous. He considers asking Astoria so she can go but he thinks Daphne might castrate him. He could ask Hermione and does so, but she already has a date. Ron - whom he has reconciled with at this point - scoffs, "Who would go with you?"

"Well, you, clearly," Hermione sniffs.

"Ron, try some tact," Blaise scolds, "Like this: Daphne Greengrass, will you go to the Yule Ball with me?"

"No."

Ron scoffs and Zabini glares at him. "What do you mean 'no'?" he asks, looking frustrated.

"No," Daphne says, "I'm going with Harry."

Blaise shoots Harry a betrayed glance and Harry shrugs helplessly. He's pretty sure Blaise has a crush on Daphne. Practically every guy he knows has had a crush on Daphne, himself included. Harry just shrugs helplessly at him because it's not like Daphne had given him much choice in the matter.

"Harry," Cedric Diggory asks him while Harry's between Potions and Arithmancy one day, "Can I talk to you a moment?"

"My answer is final - I won't go to the Yule Ball with you," Harry says, and Cedric and half the people in the corridor just stare at him at that announcement.

Harry doesn't intend to take the egg to the bathroom with him. He's already dropped it in the shower and it might have been a happy accident to freak Draco out, but it still managed to help him solve it.

Harry bribes a pretty Ravenclaw girl with a twin sister in Gryffindor who is friends with Hermione to go with Ron. Blaise seems to be unsure whether to be annoyed with Harry for taking Daphne, or Daphne for agreeing to go with Harry. He takes Astoria in, what Harry suspects is, a move to piss Daphne off. It works. Harry keeps his date for two dances before she leaves him to hound Zabini's heels. Astoria looks at Harry as if asking why his friends are so crazy, only to be proved right as Ron and Hermione bicker.

Hermione looks radiant. She can't stop smiling. Ginny and Neville stumble over, and Neville must have been practising because Ginny doesn't look like she's got any bruised toes. The girls begin to chat and Harry shifts over on the bench so Blaise can appear, ducking as if trying to avoid a certain pissed off Slytherin.

"Are you still avoiding my sister?" Astoria says, laughingly. She looks happy to just be here, although seems to be tiring quickly.

"Yes," Blaise hisses, "I lost her in a gaggle of Weasleys - how the hell do the teachers tell any of them apart?"

"They don't," Ron says, glaring daggers at where Krum has brought Hermione a drink before whirling her off to another dance, "Flitwick tried to call me 'Bill' last week."

"I may have mistakenly called one of the twins 'Percy'," Harry sighs, "I ended up down two flights of stairs. The pair were trying to work out a pattern to the vanishing steps - I think they're trying to make a map of Hogwarts or something - they even managed to calculate the movement of those flights on the south corridors between the seventh and third floor that like the swing around on some invisible axis."

"What the hell for?" Blaise looks horrified by the thought, "A student fell off those," he says, "At least, that's what one of the older years said."

"Something about slinkies," Harry shrugs. "I caught Professor McGonagall calling Ron ‘Charlie’ before giving up and just calling him ‘Mr Weasley’."

"I've got too many siblings," Ron drops his head onto the table with a thud.

"You've got too many siblings?" Ginny says indignantly, "At least you didn't have a teacher trying to call you 'Mr Weasley' the other day."

"Oh no," Blaise says, "I see Daphne. Cover for me, Harry," he says, and ducks towards a group of Ravenclaws Harry knows by association, just as Daphne appears.

"Are you still looking to castrate Zabini?" Astoria asks her sister.

"No," Daphne says, sweetly, "But it's fun to inspire such fear. Another dance, Harry?"

Harry doesn't want to dance. He doesn't think he's particularly good, but he fakes a smile and takes Daphne's hand. The music takes a more pop-like tone and this may actually turn out to be fun, he thinks.

Harry's growing problem is trying to stay alive. There appears to be no feasible method of breathing underwater for over an hour and much as he's loathe to do it, he's considering bringing in a muggle scuba diving kit. He knows how deep the lake is though, and Hermione has already lectured him extensively on the problems the human body undergoes at high pressures.

Everyone else's growing problem appears to be with him. A lot of it is exaggerated. A lot of it comes from one source.

Rita Skeeter. She's covering the Tournament for the newspaper, although she should really say she's just covering Harry. She's becoming a growing problem. Even weirder is Harry keeps seeing her around the school, but when he goes to look for her he can't see any sign of her. There's still the bitter aftertaste of a mandrake root in his mouth from over Christmas and Harry wonders--

"This is an OUTRAGE!" Hermione's shriek is audible across the hall and Harry can hear it even from where he's actually eating at the Slytherin table for once, head deep in scribbling notes in a book. He glances up, puzzled.

"What's up with Hermione?" he asks.

"I think Skeeter is getting to her," Daphne sniffs, "Apparently she's cheating on you with Viktor Krum."

"Potter! Have you seen this?"

The hall all turn to non-so-subtle listen in as Hermione stalks towards them. Ron looks like he's debating the benefit of stalking over and Ginny's standing with Hermione, her nose in a magazine.

"It's come up in conversation," Harry says, neglecting to mention it came up five seconds ago.

"It's… it's… scandalous! How can she print such trash? Is this a gossip rag or--"

"It's not a very good gossip rag is it?" Harry interrupts, an idea forming in his head. "After all, it's not accurate at all. I mean - you're cheating on me with Viktor Krum?"

"Exactly!" Hermione looks relieved,

"She's made it seem very one-sided, not a mention of me, which, I suppose means at least we're on equal footing what with me and Daphne…" he trails off.

"What?" Hermione's jaw drops open, along with half the hall, Daphne's included.

"Yeah, I thought telling you would be awkward but now--"

"You--and Greengrass?"

Daphne looks like this is news to her but manages to compose herself, relaxing back on the table and bathing in the whispers.

"Hang on," Ginny who had trailed over in Hermione's wake joins in with a glint of trouble in her eyes, "Hermione. AND Greengrass. Harry, I thought we had something."

Harry splutters for a moment before regaining composure. "Ginny, you know I don't do attachments," he chides and the red-head crosses her arms.

"That's not what you said last night," she's blushing a bit from the gasps, but holds her mask.

"Heat of the moment," Harry says, blasé.

"Had too many of those promises," Blaise mutters, and he's probably talking about Harry's statements he tends to come up with during one of his life-daring adventures but at this moment-- Blaise realises what he's said too late because now the hall aren't even trying to hide their staring.

"You're joking," Malfoy actually speaks up.

"Not at all," Harry says, "I'm very nice, aren't I Krum?"

Krum, who hasn't been paying attention at all, glances up, "Uh… very nice. Good flyer, great with a broom stick."

Hermione lets out a strangled gasp, "Harry," she says, voice rather faint but whether that's from the way Harry's handled the conversation or otherwise is hard to tell, "How could you?" she says, that statement equally hard to comprehend.

This could very easily turn bad, Harry reflects, but Ginny saves him by dropping into the space next to him, "He's just a share-the-love kind of guys. Isn't that right, Ron? Harry shares his meat with you all the time?"

Ron, who has finally wandered over with only the vague idea of conversation nods in gleeful agreement, and now everybody stops staring because they're too embarrassed to look at him.

When there's another article about Harry's love life and Hermione's duplicitous ways a week later the student population eye up the group and decide it's probably not worth asking about. Harry drops his theory to Hermione and they don't even need to check the registration - they've already done that as part of their research and they both know if they manage to prove this they've got the blackmail material they need.

Hermione looks triumphant. She can be surprisingly ruthless for a Ravenclaw.

The second task creeps up on him and Harry recruits some Hufflepuffs to cop together some half-assed plan involving a plant that should let him breath underwater. Harry is going to Neville with all Herbology questions from now on. He has spare in case he needs it, he knows some warming charms and--

It goes smoothly. As smoothly as swimming at the Black Lake can go. He almost swims into the Giant Squid, has to fight off a few Grindylows and Moaning Myrtle but that's the worst of it. And then--

Then he reaches the bottom of the lake to find his precious item and it's not his firebolt or invisibility cloak, it's Ron and Hermione and Harry wants to murder someone. They're safe. Of course they're safe, Dumbledore is managing this, but it's still terrifying to think of what could go wrong.

Fifteen minutes later and they're back at the surface and Ron and Hermione gasp awake both looking at him with equal confusion and Harry can probably guess why, but he's ignoring that because did the judges even think it through properly?

"Harry," Hermione gasps between strokes to keep afloat, "What--I thought--Viktor---"

Harry just about hear Ron's sneer over the sound of lapping waves, "Come on," he says, spitting out water, "Let's get to shore--"

"You were only meant to get one of us, y'know?" Ron says, once they no longer had to worry about staying afloat and collapse in a muddy pile on the shore. Harry could see the teachers hurrying towards them.

He snorts, "How was I meant to know when confronted by you and Hermione which one I had to save? You're both my best friends!"

Both Ron and Hermione look wide-eyed and emotional at him openly admitting that to them. Harry makes a habit not to have anything to do with emotional stuff, and so he lets the moment hang for a second more before it's interrupted.

"One 'ostage, 'e was meant to rescue one 'ostage!" Madame Maxine sounds outraged.

"What is the boy playing at, Dumbledore?" Karkaroff is equally as pissed off, stalking forwards just as Harry straightens and steps boldly into the way.

"'What I'll sorely miss'," he quotes, "Applies to both Ron and Hermione in equal measure. I was not going to pick between them six hundred feet underwater, and if you have a problem with that then maybe you shouldn't have taken both of them from me--" he pauses, turning to Hermione and Ron, "Hang on, if one of you were meant to be another champion's hostage then who--"

Hermione clears her throat, "Viktor, Harry?"

Ignoring Ron's muttered 'oh, he's Viktor is he', Harry stares at her, "Viktor? Viktor who?" he asks, mind blank, "Oh, Viktor Krum?" he asks.

As if on cue the lake erupts as someone appears. It's not Krum though, it's Cedric with a dripping Cho Chang instead.

Madame Pomfrey appears with warm towels, and Harry accepts, towelling his hair and choosing to blast heating charms at Ron and Hermione and then himself. The headteachers are still debating when Krum emerges, looking very confused with a silver-haired girl in tow.

"Gabrielle!" Fleur cries out from the Beauxbaton crowd, "Gabrielle, oh merci, merci--"

Krum trudges dripping towards them, taking a towel as he passes Madame Pomfrey shoving potions down Cedric and Cho's throats. He blinks at Hermione in confusion and then at Karkaroff, "Vat--" he gets out before Harry clears his throat.

"Ah-- I appear to have rescued your intended hostage," he says, "I'm sure the organisers of the task are very sorry for the confusion caused when they picked their hostages, you see Hermione and Ron are like sister and brother to me, I thought I was intended to rescue them." He grins brightly but it's slightly too fake, "I'm sure they're dreadfully sorry for the mix-up," he says, staring at them, "But if you'll excuse me, we're going to grab some of that stuff Madame Pomfrey is handing out--" he drags Hermione and Ron away bodily, ignoring Hermione's splutters and Bagman's confused stuttering apologies to Krum.

"I can't believe you did that," Ron stares at him as they grab some sort of potion that sends steam out of their ears and finishes warming them up, "You stole Krum's hostage."

"Harry," Hermione scolds, "Didn't you realise--" she stops, staring at him, "You knew I went to the Yule Ball with him, you knew I was his hostage but you took me anyway--"

"I had no idea you were so close," Harry says, nonchalantly, corner of his mouth quirking up into a grin, "Easy mistake to make, you know, saviour-complex and all that--"

Hermione cuffs him around the head, then hugs him. Ron is looking at him with equal awe and fond annoyance and a little bit of glee.

"What I said was true though," he adds, "You are both my best friends, I wouldn't leave either of you behind."

The Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Slytherin share a grin, just as their friends reach them.

"Did you actually steal Krum's hostage?" Blaise asks.

"Technically," Daphne is trying not to get mud on her robes, "Krum still had a hostage to rescue since Delacour didn't get hers. So Harry was doing him a favour."

"I didn't steal his hostage," Harry says, which is in part a blatant lie, "I rescued mine - how I was I meant to know out of Ron and Hermione that I only actually had to rescue one?"

"I don't think they thought that through," Neville says, "Did the Gillyweed help? Where did you get it?"

"Oh, that's what it was!" Susan exclaims, "I thought you'd transfigured yourself gills, that would have been so impressive, a lot better than Krum's shark head."

"Imagine being rescued by that," Ginny elbows Hermione who just smiles weakly.

"Oh look," Ron says, "They're giving out the scores, I wonder if they're going to penalise you for stealing Krum's hostage--"

"But he was the only champion to finish within the time limit," Blaise points out.

In the end Fleur got twenty-five, Cedric got forty-five, Krum got forty and Harry got forty-seven.

"They deducted you three?" Daphne stares in amazement, "How do you manage it, Harry?"

"I have no idea what you're implying," he says with a laugh.

The end of term arrives in a rush of warm air and golden light. Harry's almost sad he's exempt from exams - sometimes he thinks he cares more about his schooling than literally everyone else except perhaps Hermione. It had always been his plan - do well in school, get good results, get a good job, get away from the Dursley's. The new addition of magic hasn't changed that.

He spends the time going through the steps of the animagus transformation. It's tedious more than difficult, and the later spellcasting is hard to wrap your head around. At least he's finally had that damn leaf in his mouth for the designated time - Ron keeps accidentally eating his. The work is all above seventh year level and he, Hermione and Daphne have poured over it, and he goes over it again to check it through. The castle is empty - all students busy inside. One Ravenclaw gets lost in the library only to be found two days later with a long beard in the west tower. A Hufflepuff had decided to boycott all their exams and joined the house elves for a brief period of time in the kitchen before being persuaded back to her common room to protest there.

Moody likes to give Harry shoulder pats when he walks past him in the corridor with murmured words of encouragement. Harry normally managed to duck away from them anyway, but he's taken to using the Maurauder's Map to avoid him which is harder than you'd think with so many names buzzing around. It doesn't work. Harry heads off thinking Moody is in his office only to almost walk right into him one corridor later.

It's been a quiet latter half of the year. Harry guesses that he should have expected it really and maybe he did. He has after all completed all the tasks alive; the final one was almost too easy.

Harry is in Slytherin though, and Slytherins have a strong sense of self-preservation. Sure it doesn't always mesh with his occasional recklessness but in this instance it's vital.

It's the difference between life and death.

Next time Harry isn't going to try and be brave or chivalrous. He's just going to find the sphinx and have a nice conversation with her for the whole of the course. Let Cedric take the damn cup by himself.

If there wasn't any proof that Harry's life was awful then the graveyard is definitely it.

It's going to haunt his nightmares for months.

He's still pretty sure he should be dead. Maybe he is dead and this is the afterlife. He's not sure, but everything hurts and he's grabbed the cup at an uncomfortable angle but it doesn't matter because using the portkey is horrible enough as it is that he doesn't care.

He slams back to earth with the Death Eater's jeers and Voldemort's screams still echoing in his ears. His limbs are shaking from the Cruciatus and this, he thinks stupidly, this is why the animagus transformation will be useful and this is why he will finish and this is why he did better in his studies because otherwise Cedric would be dead and not just still-dying next to him.

And his mum--

His mum--

She had been so young. Twenty-one. Pretty auburn red hair and his eyes and she'd been nothing more than a magical echo with a soft smile and gentle words and 'Run, Harry, go now' and he'd gone, without stopping to see if his father had followed her out of Voldemort's wand.

"Harry, Harry, Harry--"

Someone says his name over and over and he snaps back to the real world, gravity pulling him in as he focusses on Dumbledore in front of him. Shock, he thinks, and no, Sirius was shock, this is adrenaline, this is fight or flight, this is him still fighting until he knows it's safe because he had someone at Hogwarts.

"It was a trap," he says, voice hoarse from screaming, "It was a trap and he's back."

He doesn't specify who. He doesn't say anymore because that's when Fudge appears in his eye-line, "Who's back?" he asks, "What on earth happened? Is Diggory dead?"

It's hard to tell, Amos Diggory is certainly wailing like he is.

"He's not dead," Harry says, because he won't allow Cedric to be dead as well, "I don't know what spell hit him. It was sabotaged - the last task. It was rigged, the cup was a portkey--" he stops, meeting Dumblesdore's gaze.

"Cornelius, we need to see to this, Amos, let the healers get through-- Minerva will you take Harry--"

"I've got him," Moody says, voice gruff and scarred. A thick meaty hand lands on Harry's shoulder and he stumbles, the hand guiding him one pace two pace three pace--

He had someone at Hogwarts Harry thinks numbly along with Moody's never on the Map where I expect him to be.

Penny in the air.

It's not Moody.

Penny drops. Not-Moody makes it two more paces before Harry's out from under his hand, wand out and at least two metres are between him.

"You're not Moody," Harry whispers, and the man twists, grinning at him and Harry's right, there's an imposter, there's an imposter right here and nobody's noticed-- "Annihilare!"

The one good thing about shooting a door opening charm at him is that there's no real counter charm. Maybe a strong shield but it tends to tear holes straight through them because that is - as Ron had discovered - the sole purpose of these rather violent unlocking charms.

It takes out a chunk of the man's shoulder. At least it should have but he deflects it last minute as Harry ducks away and the adults around notice. Fudge is protesting and blithering, many of the teachers are shouting at Harry and Dumbledore--

Dumbledore at least appears to get it, shooting several spells towards not-Moody. Unfortunately the fake-auror is good enough to impersonate a real Dark Wizard catcher and ducks and deflects most of them. His false eye spins maniacally and he throws several nasty coloured hexes towards Harry.

They don't hit. Harry ducks away but it doesn't matter because there's a shield of transparent glass or something between him and the spells. Dumbledore has cast it and in that moment, not-Moody has reached for where the silver triwizard cup has rolled and grabbed it in his hand.

Harry doesn't curse the poor quality portkey spell that just consistently takes it between two locations, if only because that saved his life tonight. But it also saved the life of the traitor, identity still pending. Dust and soil drifts down and voices are loud. Harry's heart still beats in his ears and he can see Ron and Hermione and Blaise in the distance.

Then Dumbledore is there, and it's actually Dumbledore, there's no imposter here, "I need you to tell me everything," he says, not being as stupid to try and touch Harry, just gesturing, Minerva, Severus, please come with us, Filius, Pomona, please see to the students." Fudge is busy trying to talk to the international headteachers and so they leave him there, which, Harry thinks, is probably a good thing. They head to Dumbledore's office and once there Harry talks. He talks and talks and he just wants to sleep or fight something - he's not sure which - but he tells them everything that happened.

"We need to act," Dumbledore says when he's finished, "Severus, you know what to do. Minerva, get Cornelius, he needs to know--"

"The Minister?" Harry laughs. It sticks in his throat, comes out a little hysterical, "Fudge isn't going to listen, you know that, right?"

"He can be made to see reason--" Dumbledore says, infinitely calm in all that has happened.

"Reason?" Harry repeats, and he wants to argue, wants to scream and shout and tell him not to be stupid, if Fudge could listen to reason then Sirius would never have been a wanted man, Sirius would never have been kissed on sight, but he's too tired, "Good luck with reason," Harry says, limping from the room.

"Harry--" Dumbledore says, and he senses rather than actually sees Minerva following him, escorting him to the hospital room.

Only once there, once he finds a bed with Hermione and Ron and Blaise there, all with questions, all hovering anxiously with Mrs Weasley buzzing about like a worried bee, only once there does Harry finally allow himself to collapse.

He sleeps nearly sixteen hours straight.

Chapter Text

Harry spends his summer after fourth year in hiding. From Voldemort, from his relatives, from the Order--

He spends enough time at his relatives, although he's not sure if the protective magic from Lily's sacrifice will even protect him. Voldemort used his blood, does that not mean he can pass through the wards?

Thankfully Voldemort either can't or doesn't want to try anything. Instead he's lying low like a cloud bank on the east. You can see it, know it's there, but you can also convince yourself the storm won't arrive.

The Ministry are doing the latter with great skill.

Harry's hiding from them too, especially when he finds out they sent Dementors after him. Why him he doesn't know - he hasn't given any statement about that night. Dumbledore continues to try to fight back, but he's not letting Harry in on his plans. Harry wasn't expecting to know anything, but it's still a slap to the face to be so entirely blanked after what he went through.

So when Dementors come calling and the guards who Dumbledore had had stalking him during his stay at the Dursley's drive them off… well… Harry's not there. Quite how the guards didn't notice he'd moved back to Sirius' house in London Harry doesn't know, he just receives five worried owls asking where he is.

Grimmauld Place is still gloomy and miserable but he doesn't mind. It's comforting some what. It's his, and Kreacher is too, lurking in the corners. Harry stays in Regulus' room, Kreacher complains until Harry makes him tell him about Regulus and then they're in some sort of uncomfortable truce. He has one whole argument with the portrait of Mrs Black which ends when Harry threatens to burn her portrait off the wall unless she shuts up.

The last third of his summer he spends in the Order of the Pheonix' headquarters. He's not sure whose house it is, and it's probably safer he doesn't know. The Order send a guard to meet him except of course they can't find him. He arranges a meeting place and sneaks up on all them when they're still staring at the cars passing.

He's pretty sure Mad-Eye spots him as he sidles up to a young purple haired witch. "You're really unobtrusive with pink hair," he notes, the sarcasm edging his voice.

She jumps a mile and falls over a broomstick that leans against the wall next to her. The rest of the group whirl around with wands out, relaxing slightly when they recognise him.

"Hi, Remus," Harry greets his former teacher. They've exchanged a few letters and Remus had been a great source of advice for spells during the Tournament.

"Constant VIGILANCE!" Moody shouts at the crew that have been gathered to protect him, "You let a fifteen year old sneak up on you!"

"Well," Harry says, still slightly annoyed that he even has to go with them, "Are we going?"

"Ha-hang on!" the pink haired woman says, her hair sliding to purple as Harry attempts to neatly duck away from the group. It goes spectacularly wrong when Tonks takes a step forwards and trips over thin air straight into him. He detangles himself awkwardly, "Can't you walk in a straight line?" he asks, and it's meant to come out bitter but it's a bit too muffled by her hair.

"Don't tell anyone this," Tonks says, "But I'm not actually this tall. You'd have thought I'd have gotten used to it by now."

Harry makes it free and pauses to consider her, "Surely that use of your metamorphagus abilities is blatant cheating."

"Ahaha, not, if anyone never knows to start with," she says.

Harry stares at her blankly, "You were a Hufflepuff, weren't you," he says.

"Why'd'ya ask?"

"You just told me that fact about yourself."

"Yeah," she says, "But nobody's gonna believe you," she grins widely, and Harry watches her go because he thinks the Hufflepuff may just have outwitted him.

He spends the last third of his summer with the Order. The Weasley's appear to have moved in, at least for the summer, and Hermione--

"Hermione," Harry says, staring at her when she just goes with them from the Order Headquarters to the train station, "Do you even go home anymore? Do your parents exist?"

"Of course," Hermione blusters, "Why would you say that?"

Harry decides not to point out that Hermione spends most of her year with them, and that he hasn't seen her parents since the summer after his first year and that for all he knows they've moved to Australia to open up a new chain of dental practises. "No reason," he says, because at least the Dursley's make a point about disliking him, Hermione's parents appear to have just forgotten their daughter exists, and in some ways that's almost worse.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

"Is it me or does the trolley witch never change? I swear she was here when Bill went off an it's almost like she's part of the train."

"Don't be silly, Ron," Hermione sniffs, "She's clearly a person."

Ron looked dubious and Harry just buys a few chocolate frogs as Ron and Hermione go off to the prefect carriage. He wasn't chosen and he's disappointed in that weird detached way that he had almost expected the badge, and he feels a bit left out but at the same time he doesn't really care. He just really hopes that the prefect for Slytherin is Blaise and not--

"Oh," Blaise says when he sees Harry, "You didn't get it either."

"Draco?"

"Oh, why," Daphne says in horror, "Parkinson got it for the girls - it's blatantly obvious that they're choosing the parents over the kids, have they met Pansy Parkinson? She wouldn't know responsibility if she looked it up in the dictionary."

"I don't think she can use a dictionary," Ginny mutters from where she had stuck with Harry, "Oh, here's a compartment - hi Neville, hi Luna--"

Harry pauses to greet some fourth year Slytherins he recognised from an argument over seats in the common room they had eventually settled with a wizarding version of poker that they had only won because one was so busy ogling Daphne they didn't notice Harry and Blaise blatantly cheating. When he eventually does enter the compartment it's to Daphne glaring at a dopey looking blonde haired girl while Ginny is glaring back equally as fiercely, Neville is covered in some kind of green sludge and the blonde girl is just serenely reading her magazine upside down.

That's how Harry meets Luna Lovegood.

Fifth year is, predictably, not going to be easy. It's not just exam year. It's not just the fallout from the media storm that Harry's narrowly managed to miss. It's not just the fact he's so close to completing the animagus transformation - close enough that he and Hermione have come up with a plan should it all go wrong. It's not just the fact there's a ministry lackey walking around the corridors as if she owns the place and as if Harry should bow down under her. He doesn't bow. He doesn't fight back either and he thinks that annoys her more.

There's yet another new defence teacher. Greying salt and pepper hair, he still looks rather young despite it. He wear square glasses and every time Harry looks at Professor Peverell he has the uncomfortable feeling like he's looking in a somewhat distorted mirror.

The teacher also keeps staring at him. Harry should probably be used to that by now, and maybe he's imagining it--

It's probably unfair. Peverell is his favourite teacher after Lupin but…

There's just something about him Harry can't shake. Something is wrong with him. Blaise thinks he's paranoid. Hermione's too busy fussing over the guy's awful marking. He makes up for it in his practical teaching - he knows what he's talking about. He talks about fights like he's been in them, like he knows how to survive and how to win. Harry likes that but still--

He still can't throw that feeling.

So he keeps his head down and waits. He sics Dobby on the corridors to avoid unwanted media attention and fills out the forms needed to avoid arrest should he ever manage to transform. He whispers with Cedric and Susan Bones behind Umbridge's backs and watches as Dumbledore spots him in the corridors and then goes out of his way to avoid him. He dreams of corridors and snakes and wakes in cold sweats with Malfoy throwing his pillow at him and Blaise staring at him, worried, but knows better than to say anything.

Then Professor Peverell does a session on boggarts and all of Harry's suspicions are confirmed.

Ian Peverell's Boggart is a six year old Harry. Young skinny with grazed knees and messy hair and nobody else sees it why would they, nobody else knows what a young harry looks like its not like they have pictures, that's laughable...

Ian Peverell's Boggart is a six year old Harry and judging by the way he turns to look at Harry afterwards he knows. He knows its Harry, he knows Harry, knew Harry as a child but he...

Harry doesn't remember him.

'Did my parents have any other friends?' he asks Lupin in a letter and he gets a list and none of them are called Ian Peverell. He looks through school year books and none of them look like Harry's new defence teacher.

So who is he?

He doesn't tell the others. They know he suspects their teacher. He suspects all his teachers at this point.

He uses the Map. The Map he should have found Peter Pettigrew on months before he did. The Map he should have noticed Barty Crouch on where Moody was and Moody in his office, trapped all year round.

The Map proclaims James Potter and Harry doesn't know what to do with that.

He waits for a while. Eyes up the man when Peverell isn't looking. The Map still announces him James Potter, and he's a distorted reflection of Harry - older, some transfiguration (his dad had been good at transfiguration, right) and he gets Ian Peverell, staring at Harry in a corridor without knowing who he is at all but giving him a detention because he's a Slytherin against four older Gryffindors, because he's just some child by himself and James Potter is a bully, because Ian Peverell looks at him sometimes like he still can't quite believe Harry's there, because his boggart is Harry at six, a child without parents, without a father because James--

It's about the time that Harry starts to think of his as James that he confronts him in his classroom. It's stupid and Gryffindor but he leaves a note in Hermione's textbooks. If things go wrong and this is just another Death Eater or guy whose name is James Potter then she'll make it hopefully before he dies. As it is he meets her on his way to the Ravenclaw common room. Ron is with her and merlin, James thought Harry had been raised with Sirius and--

"Harry?" Ron says, "What is it, what's wrong?"

"My dad," Harry chokes out, and then can't say any more.

"Your dad? Harry--" Hermione's going to be reassuring, going to tell him that James Potter is dead, that he's hallucinating or--

He shoves the Map at them and watching, trying to control his breathing. He's better than this, he's better than turning into a little kid the moment all his childhood dreams come true at once. Sirius had already been torn from him, he's not going to let it happen again.

"This is impossible," Hermione stares at the name in the Defence office, "Harry, you can't be saying--"

"He's a stag," Harry says, voice wobbly but at least he can speak now, "He's a stag, he's wearing a glamour, he looks… not as much like me as everyone says. Same hair, but he's older and thinner and he said he's been in a coma for the past fourteen years--"

"And you believed him? Harry--"

"I believe him," Harry says, "Hermione, his boggart…"

"You mean that kid?" Ron wrinkles his nose.

"That was me," Harry says, "Me at six or so. The Map says it's him. And he transformed into a stag and you both should know that--"
"You can't mimic someone else's animagus form," Hermione whispers, "Oh, Harry--"

"Okay," Ron says, "This is extreme. This is big. This is… I know what to do."

"What?" Harry says, "What do I say to the father I thought was dead? What do I--?"

Ron pulls him in for an awkward one arm hug while Hermione just throws herself at him like a limpet. Words and questions keep circling around in Harry's head and he doesn't know how to stop them building up one on top of the other. He skips class, avoids Ian Peverell - James Potter - whatever his name is and tries not to notice the way his friends stare at him.

"Out of my way, out of my way," Umbridge stalks past like a great banshee decked out in pink. Harry slides out of her eye line, not wanting to draw more attention to himself.

"Ugh," Hermione says, full of indignation and frustation indicating she's going to go on another rant. Harry slips away to the kitchens for food and she follows, silently fuming.

"Out with it," Ron says through a mouthful of yorkshire puddings, "Tell us all how much you hate Umbridge, take Harry's mind of his dead dad coming back to life."

"Ron," Hermione scolds, "That's insensitive of you."

"Someone should just teach Ron to cook," Harry sighs, "He's having a passionate life-long affair with food anyway. No, I'm not that hungry Dobby, just some toast--"
"Master Harry's Great Friends be insisting that Master Harry eats more," Dobby says, shoving the overflowing plate at him and then leaving Harry to it. Harry almost regrets tricking Malfoy into freeing the elf, then against he prefers Dobby trying to murder him through overfeeding to blocked barricades.

He picks reluctantly at a piece of brocoli as Hermione begins pacing. He exchanges a worried look with Ron - it's not a good sign.

"Well," Hermione says, looking like she's about to launch a plan to take over the Ministry with the amount of thought she's putting into her words, "I just thought - what with the Ministry interfering at Hogwarts - it might be worth banding together. Like the Order is - spreading the word - except doing it among other students."

"You mean like a Junior Order of the Phoenix?" Harry asks with narrowed eyes.

"Sort of. Yeah, basically. What do you think?"

"I think it's stupid," Harry says, shoving his mostly still full plate away from him. Hermione gives him a reproachful look just for that, "No, but the Ministry is on a smear campaign against Dumbledore. It's all I can do to keep my name out of it - Hermione I don't want a media presence and I certainly don't want a school wide presence as someone who is publically backing Dumbledore."

"But Harry - You-Know-Who is back. We need to do something. He's going to come after you! If you're alone then you're going to die. Everyone will lose - they don't know what's out there. You do. You can warn them--"

"Warn them? Like Cedric Diggory was warned? Like Bertha Jorkins, like--"

Hermione flinches, "You know what I mean--"

"The Ministry doesn't want to listen. Nobody else does either. It will take real solid proof to get these archaic wizards to see the truth and start working together."

"What happened--" Hermione says angrily, "What happened to changing it? You said that once - you said you wanted to change it. The stupid house prejudices, the purity of your blood mattering, the stereotypes - you said you were going to change it! What happened to that, huh?"

"It doesn't work, Hermione," Harry hisses, "People see the colour of my scarf and they assume I'm the next Dark Lord in training, never mind the fact that I'm fifteen. People are short-sighted idiots and I've given up, okay, I've given up trying to change their minds. The least I can do is thread my way through this needle and come out of the other side in one piece, okay?"

"Harry," Hermione says, complete seriously, "I have faith in you. I mean - come on - you changed Ron's mind about Slytherins on your first day!"

"Hey!" Ron says indignantly. Hermione shoots an apologetic but reproachful look. Ron sighs, "She is right, mate, you do know that?"

Harry sighs, "You're not always right," he tells Hermione before she can get a big head about it, "But maybe - okay? I'll consider it - your idea might have merit."

As long as, he thinks, it doesn't blossom into an actual think until, much like actual flowers, the time is right.

"First I need to deal with Peverell," he says.

Ron slams his fork down so hard Hermione jumps, "I've had it with this," Ron mumbles, "Blaise and Daphne tried to snap you out of it, well now you're trying my tactic."
"Oh no," Hermione says weakly.

"Dobby," Ron says, "I'd like a tankard of your finest firewhiskey."

Harry's wayward free elf friend has way too much ability to procure alcohol quickly, he thinks.

"I'm not--"

"You are," Ron says, shoving a glass into his hand, "You'll go see him tomorrow and talk to him - James Potter or not - but right now? Right now we're having fun, okay? Besides, I've always wanted to try this stuff."

"Ron!" Hermione scolds, "Alcohol is not the answer!"

Ron takes a large swig of his pint, "You're right," he says after a few expressions of what looks like excrutiating pain, "It's probably not, but whatever, this stuff is like drinking fire, try some!"

"No!"

Ron raises one eyebrow mockingly and Harry is for a moment witness to his two best friends playing chicken with glares before Harry breaks it up by raising his full glass of golden liquid.

"To the resistance," he says, "To your idea."

"It's not a resistance," she sniffs.

"It sort of is."

She doesn't disagree, and just drinks her glass down.

Resistance sounds better than waging a war anyway.

The alcohol is disgusting and it burns and it's strong enough to make him splutter, to make him forget about his worries for just a moment. Harry wonders if this is what normal teenagers do all the time, and he decides that he'll allow himself this night, at the very least, to relax.

"What can run but never walks, Has a mouth but never talks, Has a bed but never sleeps, Has a head but never weeps."

There is one long moment when the trio just stare at the brass knocker of Hermione's common room, their drunken minds too addled to comprehend it. Then, with great seriousness, Harry speaks, "Ron Weasley," he says, "Always running, talks a LOT, lives in his bed--"

"Nonono!" Hermione giggles, "Never talks, it said never talks."

The eagle on the knocker tilts its head considering at them, "Would you like me to repeat it?" it asks.

"S'fine," Hermione says, "It's eeeeeasy," she drawls, "It runs, has a mouth a bed and a head--"

"A stone statue," Ron reasons with glee, "Of a-a-a-a…" he pauses, "Something," he decides, "It can't talk, it doesn't sleep, it doesn't cry--"

"It's clearly a clock," Harry argues, "It's always a clock, it's a clock, right?"

"No," the knocker looks both annoyed and amused by them.

Hermione's too busy laughing to give an answer, "It's-- it's--" she hiccups a little, "Water. Running."

Ron peers down as Hermione sinks to the floor, "Hermione," he says, "Water doesn't have legs."

That sends the three of them off into another fit of laughter and the eagle knocker just sighs. It really hates drunk students.

"Let's go to my common room," Ron says.

"But you can't remember the password, let's just visit Neville--"

"I don't want to get hot vinegar on me do you know how long it took to get the smell out last time and oh, look, Hermione, is that the north star or Mars?"

"No, no, it's Jupiter," Hermione emphasises.

"Thank you I am right." Harry punches the air, "I win, we go to the Room."

It's later when he's near falling asleep that he turns to Hermione, "Hermione," he says, "You know what you were saying earlier?"

She hums. She may just be snoring or she may be awake, but regardless he continues talking.

"I was serious. You guys are right. So let's do it," he says, "Let's fight."

He twists to look at her and she's awake, eyes bright with ideas, and Ron's snoring already, but Harry already knows he'll go along with their ideas if they sound appealing enough and this is house unity at it's finest.

'No school organisations' appears the next day and Harry just shoots Hermione a knowing look. They're more determined now than ever - if the Ministry thought this would deter them then they have another thing coming.

He goes to see James.

It goes both better and worse than he thought it would. He even goes back a second time because he owes it to the other man to explain how Sirius died, and he owes it to Remus to try and resurrect at least one of his dead friends. In hindsight he wishes he hadn't gone back the second time because it's only served to encourage the man.

"I can't believe he gave me detention," he says, glaring at the man reading his newspaper at the staff table.

"He could have given you much worse," Hermione says knowingly, "He is our teacher." She pauses and Harry just lets what she said sink in, "Oh my gosh," she says, eyes widening, "Your dad is our teacher? He's a teacher?!"

"Hermione, shut up!" Ron hisses for Harry, glancing around but everybody is too busy staring at the newspapers and then at Umbridge and Harry steals a newspaper from Colin Creevey to look at the headline and--

"Hogwart's High Inquisitor?" Hermione stares in horror at the Daily Prophet in Harry's hand, "What the--"

"This is an outrage!" Ginny flops down next to them with one of her friends - a girl Harry recognises as Demelza Robbins

"No sharing Quidditch tactics!" comes the customary shout from Angelina Johnson, the current Gryffindor Quidditch captain, a lethal chaser that Harry knows more from on the field than off who severely disapproves of Harry making nice with Gryffindor's keeper and seeker.

"Have you seen this?" Ginny points to the paper, "It says she has the right to fire teachers!"

"Fire teachers?" Hermione says indignantly, "What, no, that's not fair!"

"I thought you'd be happy, she might actually get rid of Divination," Ron mumbles, "Leave the proper magic - no more wishy washy fortune telling, no more number lessons, no more--"

"Ron, Arithmancy is an actual subject."

"I know, I know, the study of numbers, right--"

"Hmm," Hermione looks unimpressed, "Arithmancy," is the study of numbers in magic, but really the term 'mancy' means it's a form of divination - which is stupid, Arithmancy is not nearly as much hodgepodge as that class was - but assuming 'mancy' makes that branch of magic a form of diving answers, such as crystalomancy using crystals to divine the future - utter rubbish if you ask me - but subjects such as Transfiguration is the act of doing something. Forms of magic ending in 'graphy' or 'ology' refers to the study of a specific branch of magic but we've butchered the language and don't use those forms nearly as much as we should--"

Ron blinks blankly, eyes glazing over slightly. He appears to enjoy Hermione's passion, but isn't really understanding what she's saying, not at least until he chimes in, "So you're saying it should be 'magy', right, not 'mancy'?"

"Exactly!" Hermione beams, and starts up a new paragraph as Ron leans over to Harry.

"So my uncle twice removed has a sister in law who's kid daughter studies technomagy at a foreign Department of Mysteries sort of experiment place who explained this fact a lot to our family. She repeated it to nearly everyone, and when you've heard it half a dozen times it does actually start to make sense."

"Wow," Harry deadpans, "Keep this up and you might actually pass this year."

Ron shoves him and Hermione looks put out when the pair start hitting each other with their forks in the middle of her explanation on word origin. "Humph," she says, "Boys."

"No, but, what if she fires your dad?" Ron says, eyes wide, "He might lose his job!"

Harry rolls his eyes, "First off," he says, "Can we stop calling him that, he's not--" he sees Ginny staring, "Bad joke," he says, with the ease of one who is accustomed to lying. It doesn't work on Ginny, but she gets the message turning away and pretending she can't hear. He leans in closer to Ron and Hermione, "I don't live with him," he says, "What he does, doesn't affect me--"

"But you could," Hermione says reproachfully, "You can leave the Dursley's, you can--"

"No," Harry's voice is cold, "If I leave anywhere it's to the Black home and I do it alone. I don't need Ian Peverell trying to look after me. Besides - a year and a half and I reach majority and age out anyway."

"Harry," Hermione says in that tone that is too pitying for Harry's liking, "You could live with your-- with someone you could trust. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Harry just glares. He trust James Potter about as much as he'd trust Draco Malfoy, which is to say he trust Draco won't hex him in the bathroom only because it would damage the mirrors and ruin Draco's own hairstyle morning routine. It's just that the man seems to take Harry's every attempt to sidestep out of his path with another 'come hither' motion and just keeps shoving himself in Harry's life.

Like this 'detention'.

His 'detention' starts weirdly. "Yeah," Harry says, "Dragons," because wow - his father is really out of touch with everything. "Didn't you catch up on the papers?"

"There were a lot of papers," James says defensively, "And I like to look through the sport and comic section too just to see what I missed."

Harry can't tell if he's being sarcastic or serious. He settles from crossing his arms and looking around, "Going to make me write lines?" he asks, curious despite himself to see what James is going to do.

"Sit down," James gestures wildly, "I'm not giving you detention - you know that already."

"So what are we doing?" Harry doesn't sit down, instead deciding to cross his arms over his chest and glare at his father, "Because if I'm here for father-son bonding time--"

James pulls a face. It's an odd mix of regret and longing and it stops Harry's in his tracks. The expression was surprisingly open, relaxed and almost scared.

His boggart had been Harry when he was a child. Missed opportunities, Harry thinks, for the both of them, and he stops protesting for a moment to look at James and wonder, "You know," he says, "I was expecting a panic," Harry tells him, "Over the fact I was in Slytherin."

"I'll admit," says James, "That I did have one. But I... I just got you back, I'm not going to throw it away because of your school house. That's all it is. Colours on a school scarf and a Prefect badge which, I am pleased to note, you didn't get?" There's an upward turn in his voice turning it into a question.

Harry snorts. "There is no way Snape would make me a Prefect. Malfoy probably bribed his way in anyway because Blaise or Theo would have been a lot better but..." he shrugs weakly.

"You," James says, "are brilliant and Lily would have been so proud. She'd have heart attacks at your flying, she'd love your friends especially Hermione, and she wouldn't have cared you were in Slytherin. She... she used to have a best friend in Slytherin."

"Remus said that," Harry says, wondering if James has written to Remus yet or not, "Hang on, you said used to?"

"They had an argument in fifth year. Never got over it. Part of the reason I suspect she dated me was to piss him off because we hated each other. Lucky for me she decided I was actually worth it and that was that."

"Who was it?"

James face twists, "There's a reason Severus Snape hates you," he says.

Harry stares at him. "Snape? You're kidding, Snape and mum were friends?"

"They grew up near each other. Snape taught her about magic I think, not sure, she didn't talk about him much."

Harry stares a bit more. He never hears much about Lily. It's always rants about how awful his father was from Snape and other people commenting how much he looks like James and how brave James had been during the first war. He never hears about his mother, never hears what she was hoping to do as a career, what she liked to eat, whether she could cook--

Now is his chance, he realises, and Merlin how he wants that, he wants that more than anything but he--

He doesn't want to make a mistake. He doesn't want to lower his guard, he doesn't want this ghost in front of him to crumple into dust, turn back into ashes and a coffin.

His father is dead and this man--

This man's boggart is a five year old Harry.

Wasted opportunities, he thinks again.

"I'm curious," James says, kind of uneasily like he might be privy to the whirl of thoughts in Harry's head, "Does Snape hate you as much as he hated me?"

"Oh, more," Harry says, "Much more."

James frowns at that, "So how can he take points from you though if you're in his house?"

"Usually he just ignores me. Takes points from Hermione or Ron if they're around. He actually gave me points once," Harry considers, "Five when I gave a Hufflepuff bad directions. Don't know if he knew they were bad, though."

His dad makes a considering noise at that, humming. There's an awkward gap where they both stop, thinking of what to say. Harry doesn't offer anything, but he doesn't back away either.

"Okay," James says after a bit, clearing his throat, "So, uh, wordless spells, did you get anywhere--?"

"No," Harry says, "I've been distracted, in case you hadn't noticed-- hey!" he ducks the ball James throws at his head. He thinks it's a tennis ball and he scoops it up off the floor, "I didn't think a Pureblood like you would know what this even was," he says, "Wizards don't play tennis, do they?"

"No, but, Lily introduced me," James says, "Anyway, blast them. Levitate them, disarm them, but you've got to do it wordlessly."

Harry stares at him considering and James almost looks like he's about to give up when Harry straightens, tossing the tennis ball back to James. "Okay then," he says, "I know some wicked unlocking charms - wanna see?"

James is still grinning the next day from his detention with Harry. It was like a weird mix between teaching and what he used to do with his father, when Fleamont wanted to try and teach him some lesson or other. He thinks he could cope with this, he can work with this, he thinks.

Harry is more like Lily than like him. Oh he has James' bravery, bright ideas and occasional reckless sense of adventure but it's been tempered and whittled down into a razor sharpness that is all Lily. Still it doesn't deter him - James won Lily over in the end, he'll win his son over too.

He's grinning wildly at his fifth years on Tuesday. They look barely recovered from their Saturday practical of a Hogwarts-wide treasure hunt to find various objects he'd hidden in purposely difficult places. McGonagall had asked him later as to why she had found two Hufflepuff's and two Gryffindors trying to scale the wall to retrieve a ribbon tied to a portrait about ten feet up a wall while a Slytherin looked out and laughed at them until one of the Hufflepuff's had finally had the bright idea to just levitate the thing down to them.

Harry had looked particularly smug when he had mentioned that to James on Monday.

He thinks Harry seems happier too. It's hard to tell, he's lurking near the back like usual and watching as James practically bounces on his toes, unable to wait to start teaching.

"You," he announces to the fifth years, "Are going to love this."

The whole class look horrified. It's possible the only person who looks more horrified than them is Umbridge, and he was beginning to think that was her permanent expression. James makes a grand gesture to his lesson plan, "Shield charm time!" he announces cheerfully, "Remember incantation is protego. Protego maxima is larger but harder to maintain. Other spells do exist - you should have researched some as homework! Let's see who's done their homework, hmmm?"

"Uh, sir?" Pansy Parkinson looks visible nervous near Malfoy, "What happens if we don't succeed in casting the spell?"

"How about we have a demonstration--" James can't pick Harry, his son has ducked out of eyeline, "Miss Bones, think fast--"

"PROTEGO!" Susan shouts because she knows from experience that James is not messing around. The second her shield appears there's a spurt of green goop from the floating ball. It bounces harmlessly off the shield and sizzles away. What doesn't vanish slides to the floor in a smelly lump. The class look on in shock.

"So," James claps his hands together, secretly very proud of his attacking transfigured dragons that breathed stinksap, "Who is first?"

"I thought Fred and George were joking when they said he said they were being trained in illusion and concealment and anti-tracking spells by dodging giant transfigured hounds and stinksap traps," Ron Weasley swallows, throat bobbing nervously.

"You’re a sadist," Harry tells him outright, and at least half the year look alarmed, like James is going to murder Harry for suggesting such a thing. James is actually more glad that Harry's relaxed enough to say that, especially judging by the look in his eyes which is just like Lily's when she was amused by everything suggests Harry's not that intimidated by floating stinksap traps.

"It's not that bad, it has some really cool properties," Longbottom is saying, and talking about some plant or other but Hannah Abbort just looks disgusted. Susan pokes the lump with her foot, wrinkling her nose a little.

"You can't shield, you get hit," James says, gesturing to his constructs, "You can't defend yourself from my fake mini-dragons," he gestures to the transfigured wooden models, "They'll attack. Non-lethally, but decidedly unpleasantly. My sixth years were awful at it, but three goes and their spellwork improved astronomically. You see, all you need is a little motivation and--"

The door slams open. "Sorry I'm late."

Even the sight of Snivellus - ugh, James shouldn't call him that, he might slip up, but he still refuses to call the man Severus. Who thought that was a good name anyway. He almost regrets asking Snape along when he sees poor Longbottom quiver and almost faint, but he shrugs it off. He's doing this for Lily, he reminds himself, Lily's friend, Lily's friend, Lily's oh, screw it. James was secretly hoping one of the traps would hit Snape. James might have matured but he's not that mature, "Class," he says with a wide smile, "I've recruited Professor Snape to help."

Also Snape seems to some have misconstrued idea that Ian Peverell is an alright guy by his standards which is just really freaking ironic but he's not going to crush the poor man's opinion of him quite yet. Instead he's roped the wanna-be defence teacher into his practical class. His very messy practical class.

This is going to be fun. Never let it be said that James Potter did not have a sense of humour.

"Now this is perfectly safe and non-lethal," he emphasises again to the group.

"That's only because not even Mrs Stower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover can get the stains out," Greengrass sneers. James pretends he didn't hear her.

"At least they don't shout CONSTANT VIGILANCE when they vomit all over you," Harry tells her, and she gives him such a stink-eye James plans to do exactly that for his next session.

"I don't see how any of this is necessary to defence and why the theory won't just suffice," Umbridge sniffs at him from the corner where he had sent her. About half the class appear to realise James essentially assigns Umbridge the time-out corner for when she invades his classroom. Umbridge herself hasn't cottoned on.

"Well, until you're the one teaching and considering I found in your records you got failing grade for Defence, I'll teach my students how I please and theory is the last thing they need to be learning. How, exactly, would theory work if they ever found themselves trapped on enemy territory?"

Umbridge just sniffs, clears her throat in a horribly girly way and writes something in her notes. James doesn't care. She can't fail him for actually teaching.
"We could always throw a book at the enemy," Ron stage-whispers, only for Hermione to hit him.

"How often, exactly, does he think I intend to wander onto enemy territory?" Zabini asks.

"He could portkey us into Snape's office, I think that counts," Ron responds.

"Not us Slytherins," Daphne sniffs, "We're more likely to be sent to his private quarters."

"I don't think it would matter which house we're in if we caught him in the bath," Harry whispers back, and the group try to look anywhere other than Snape who is glaring at them.

James tries to keep a straight face and to pretend he didn't hear them. The giggles the group have collapsed into make that rather difficult but he manages to begin directing students around the classroom.

"At least Snape didn't give us the Talk, I think that would have put some of us off for life."

"OKAY," he announces before Snape can murder his son, "Half the class on the sides, half the class in the centre-- no, Longbottom stay, people, stop running away, Bones, stay, Finch-Fletchley, Goldstein, Potter, Granger, Greengrass, Bulstrode, Goyle, Nott--" he continues to reel off names, dividing people across the room until he has about a third of the whole group. He then has to duck as a wooden dragon swoops down on where poor Neville is stuttering through a spell.

He spends some time helping Neville before moving around. Snape is delivering scathing comments to Theodore Nott but they appear to be working. Most students appear to have succeeded out of pure desperation to avoid the green goo. He pauses in one of his circles of the room by Harry who seems to have made a little bubble of shields, occasionally pausing to renew one. Snape had strolled away only seconds previously, robes billowing in a method James still has yet to figure out precisely how he does it.

"Protego maxima!"

"Try wordless," James suggests and his son glares at him. "No, really," he says, "It's not… it's not about the words. Not really. It's about the magic. The intention. It gets broken down into runes and arithmancy and actual words for different spells but it all comes down to the magic."

Harry is staring at him with Lily's eyes-- no, James thinks. The eyes are Lily's, but Lily never looked at him like that. The face is Harry's and the eyes are his too, cautious and wary and--

Maybe James is imagining it, but he likes to think there's a little bit of trust in them too, now.

"Don't speak," James says, "Just cast."

One of Harry's bubble shields falls, and a wooden construct swoops down and Harry's wand flickers out. He doesn't speak, the spell flickering out from the end of the wand. The beautiful sky blue bubble deflects the slime, burning it up before it even reaches either of them.

James reaches out to pat Harry on the shoulder, to smile and congratulate him, to be a father but two things occur then.

James realises he's still Harry's teacher and can't be this open, his hand faltering.

Harry twists and ducks and before James even realises it his son has flinched away from James' hand.

There's pause that goes on a second too long.

"Good job," James says, "Take twenty points for Slytherin."

"Thanks," Harry says, a little stiffly. A little too defensively, a little too light, a little too quick to spin back to flick out another spell. Also wordless, but it's clearly taking his son concentration to try and work out how it's happen and form the magic. He doesn't appear to realise that many adult wizards can't cast silently, and that doing so at his age is astounding.

His son is astounding. Brave and clever and chivalrous and sneaky and yet he's cynical, whimsical, prickly and sharp and unfriendly and--

James had been so busy paying attention to the fact Sirius was dead that the other part of that never occurred to him.

Sirius had been in Azkaban. Sirius had been in Azkaban for twelve years and Remus was laying low in Europe. Harry's cynical and bitter and so so jaded and if Sirius was in jail then--

Harry flinched away from contact. He flinched--

Who the hell had raised his son?

James, as he has found despite all his newspaper searching and despite all his attempt at information gathering; asks Minerva McGonagall.

It's Christmas already. He's not quite sure just what happened to the months. It's October and he's watching Slytherin versus Gryffindor in Quidditch. It's November and Harry's confronting him about his identity. It's December and he sees his son fairly regularly for detentions. Umbridge isn't happy about James taking all his detention, but she's also just sort of generally gleeful that Harry's being punished. He isn't, of course. James is teaching him spells, talking to him about Lily and Sirius and if he's lucky he gets a story back about what Blaise did when they were in second year, or that one time Hermione had wanted to live in the library.

Then it's Christmas and the students are going home leaving the castle pretty empty. He spots a few red heads lurking around, and Harry too, but less times than James expects because he thinks his son is hidden under James' old invisibility cloak most of the time. "Who does he stay with?" he asks at the staff table. The staff don't leave unless they have families. Sinistra and Vector have left, Babbling just plain forgets to eat and Dumbledore is actually there for once having an animated discussion with Pomona Sprout about the merits of tulips over daffodils.

Snape looks like he swallowed something sour to James' right. He looks like he can't and doesn't want to understand James' obsession with Harry Potter. James doesn't care what Snivelly does or doesn't want.

"Muggle relatives," Minerva says curtly. James' brain splutters. He's been pondering this for weeks, brain considering so many options but this? Muggle relatives… he doesn't have Muggle relat--

Lily does though. Her parents might be dead but she had a sister. A sister who had married a large gruff guy James can barely remember meeting once - hadn't he described his broomstick to that guy?

And Harry lives with them?

James might just be worrying over nothing, but something tells him it wasn't good.

Lily had never spoken about her sister much, and maybe it was for a good reason. "Petunia?" he asks, the next time he turns around and finds Harry in his office. His son sneaks in half the time and James stopped jumping a while ago. He can't always hide the smile at Harry's appearance, and his son can't quite seem to stop appearing with some random tidbit or question and even though some visits don't last long, he still comes by.

It's the wrong thing to ask, because Harry clams up so fast James practically hears the snap of his expression closing. He'd thought he'd wormed his way in, given Harry a decent impression of himself, an honest impression, but that one worded question--

It means James is right, "You were raised by Petunia?" he asks, and the next thing is he wants to know why not Sirius, but he already knows the answer to that. "Lily said she didn't like magic," he says carefully, "So how was--"

"Why?" Harry says before he's even finished, "I don't see how that's any of your business." Harry shuts him down so fast James almost gets whiplash.

"I'm your father," he says, "I care, I want to know-"

"Look, I don't want you to father me," the Slytherin hisses, "I managed this long without a father I don't need one now. Certainly not one who was a bully and a big-headed git who thought everyone who wasn't a Gryffindor was beneath him." His green eyes are furious and--

Ashamed? James can't tell, he can't read this boy at all.

"Have I been trying to father you?" James asks because he hasn't. Not really. He's made an effort to get to know Harry, to learn that his son likes treacle tart, scrapes by with a passing mark in History of Magic because he obtained transcripts for the lessons a few years ago and does just well enough to get by because he prefers Transfiguration and Defence and--

James hasn't been trying to father Harry. He doesn't know the first thing he'd do in that regard. He'd left off being a father with dirty diapers and magical bubbles to entertain a one year old and come back to a sullen teenager who can eat, read and write without his assistance. He can fly a broomstick, he can tie his own shoelaces. From the little snippets James hears other parents have done what he couldn't. He simultaneously hates, is jealous of and grateful to them for that, for stealing those moments but for looking after his boy but now--

Now James is just there for the final stages. Support and advice and life lessons. Harry ages out when he turns seventeen. That's a year and a half away, James can try and be with him for that. He tries not to be overbearing, he tries not to be an adult - it's easy, James is still mentally twenty two. He probably comes across as less like an adult and more like a sort of uncle. He thinks it helps because either way, Harry turns up to his detentions and looks less hostile each time.

Except now.

"Did Petunia and - what was her husband's name again?"

"Vernon," Harry says, "And a cousin my age - Dudley--"

"Did they do a good job?" James says, and he wants to say 'they must have, because look at you' but that would be a lie. Harry is alive. He's fifteen but he reminds James of the Order of Phoenix as young graduates at twenty. He's fifteen but he's already a war-torn survivor. He's not a child. "Harry--" he says, because he can see it already.

"It was fine," Harry snaps, defensive and hunched and--

No, James finally realises, finally recognises where he's seen this before. Not hunched; tense. Expectant. He's expecting the blow, the loud words, the anger.

He reminds James of Sirius at sixteen when he turned up on James' doorway.

It was fine, Harry says, Sirius says, and they blur together, young and scared and angry at the world, beaten down and defiant still and--

It was fine, children lie to themselves but it's wrong because it was not fine, that's never fine and both James and Harry know it.

"Oh Merlin," James says, and Harry glares at him even more for the pity.

"They were muggles," he says, "They just didn't understand magic. They didn't understand me. It was fine."

"Don't lie," James says, "I'm not asking you to tell me the truth, but don't sugarcoat it. Don't lie."

Harry rolls his neck slightly, "Muggle upbringing sounds better than anything wizards would have managed," he says, "What with all their 'boy who lived' propaganda and total lack of logic in regards to anything that can't be solved by magic. Hermione brought a biro last year and had half the class fascinated with questions such as 'how does it write' and 'where is the ink?'."

James senses a change in subject and although he doesn't want to, he lets it happen. "Lily used to talk about ring-bound notebooks versus parchment," he admits, and the atmosphere is still tense, still skirting around something important but the crux of the matter is neither of them know each other well enough yet to break into those issues. "Petunia's husband -whatever his name was - wouldn't stop talking about these things called 'rills'."

"Drills," Harry corrects him, "Yeah, he does that."

"Lily almost hit me when I suggested we enchanted one to run without electricity. And yes - I do know what that is. I took muggle studies."

"You did?" Harry blinks, "Then surely you… you realise there is a reason we don't enchant anything more complicated that a screwdriver?"

James stares at him as if he hasn't considered this fact, "I'm a Pureblood," he shrugs, "Growing up around magic meant we never mixed with muggle stuff much and Lily was probably smart enough to know better."

Harry has the look of one who has learned this latest piece of knowledge first hand. "Well, if you try to enchant anything complicated it… tends to become sentient."

"Sentient?"
"Like the portraits," Harry gestures, "Except worse. A lot worse, and devices that use electricity are really bad. Really Mr Weasley's car just going rogue and running away was a good option. I know a guy in third year who brought a digital wristwatch and tried to enchant it. It--" Harry stops and shudders, "Needless to say there's a reason we don't do that."

"What did you try?" James asks, because he can and because he's curious.

"We--" Harry opens his mouth, and this is weird, James thinks, because does he scold Harry for whatever dangerous venture this was, or does he praise him or--

Lily help him how does he look after their son?

"It wasn't me, it was Hermione. Well, it was me, I bought her a walkman and it--"

"Hang on hang on - what's a walkman?"

"It's a--" Harry stares at him, "A box," he says, "That plays music."

"A radio?"

"It's smaller. And portable and you can buy music to put it in and play your favourite songs. I thought she'd appreciate it because she was always complaining how loud the Ravenclaw common room was, anyway I bought her one and it ran on batteries and we played around with it and it-- It wouldn't stop singing-- and we thought that was bad but it managed to tune into any song it wanted to and we were trying to silence it and then it ran away--"

"Ran away?"

"As I said - they end up sentient. Ron found it in Gryffindor Common Room screeching songs on Valentine's Day about love and heartbreak and it's all muggle stuff, so half the students had no idea what it was, and then it was serenading a portrait on the North Tower for a week and well now it pops up from time to time, I think it's dying a bit or it's haunting one of the classrooms on the second floor, they've been weird noises from there for the past few weeks--"

Harry really lights up when he's relaxed, James realises. When there are no barriers and no pressures and he's just being a kid, just fifteen and laughing over an accidentally enchanted music box.

There are too many long stories waiting to be told, too many words still unsaid between these moments, but right now, James thinks, he wants to just know Harry underneath the labels and memories and colour of his house scarf.

That's more important than changing things in the past that can't be changed anyway.

Chapter Text

"Gryffindor has a sword, and Hufflepuff has... wait, an AXE?"

Harry stares with disbelief at Neville and Hannah. He's decked out in full green Quidditch robes, and his friends are clearly not supporting him judging by the surpass of yellow and black they're wearing, but they're here to wish him good luck anyway. At least - he thinks they are. He's still not quite sure why the latter is waving around an axe but he's prepared to go with it. Maybe.

"Hang on," he says, "What did Slytherin have?"

"Probably a giant snake," Neville says, "I don't know, you tell us."

He decides it's probably best not to mention what he's found out in the giant snake department. Instead he just admires the axe, "Hannah," he says, "If you hurt me with that replica axe of Helga Hufflepuff, I think it counts as deliberate attempt to cause harm and also cheating and Hufflepuff will probably lose by default."

She snorts, "Pff," she says, "I don't need to cause you harm! Cedric is clearly the better seeker; you're going down so hard they'll be an imprint of your face against the ground."

Hufflepuff's can be surprisingly violent, Harry decides, eyeing up the replica axe, "Noted," he says. "I think I see my team captain now, excuse me--"

"Sureeee!" Hannah drawls as he hurries away, "Run away, just prepare to lose!"

Flint is staring at him strangely as he appears. Harry doesn't even bother with his usual greeting of 'haven't you graduated yet' and just falls into line, tugging at the trim of his Quidditch robes as they wait for the rest of the team to emerge from the changing rooms. "Potter," he says, slowly, "Is the axe part of their gameplay?"

"They're planning on murdering Malfoy," Harry says, and Flint just shrugs because honestly when it comes to Hufflepuff's - they're actually surprisingly violent. Murdering Malfoy is as plausible a reason as any.

The Quidditch Game is the third of the season. There are times Harry wishes there were more but with school work increasing as OWLs draw closer, his free time getting eaten up by visits to James and the remainder by constructing their little resistance group he's had less time for Quidditch. Umbridge has been stalking the pitch as if looking for an excuse to ban him, but he hasn't given her one yet. She's like a great pink dementor and the more certain Harry is that she's looking for an excuse to deal out punishment on him, the less reasons he has to give her one. His dad takes all his detentions, he keeps his head down, nose clean--

Slytherin won their game against Gryffindor. Hufflepuff won their game against Ravenclaw. Harry wishes they hadn't drawn lots to play the winter game. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw will be the first match back in the spring, but currently there is thick snow on the ground and though the sky is blue, the wind is icy. "Fly to win!" Flint says, with all the motivation of one who has their tactics and game plan already sorted.

The wind is - if possible - even colder higher up. It bites at the players with icy fangs and Harry casts warming charms on himself to ward the chill off. He wishes he had his wand on him to cast more, but he'd left it on the ground as per the Ministry's requirements. The game is progressing nicely. Either way it's a lot better than that one game that went on for a whole weekend. Harry had thought there were rules against that sort of thing, and thankfully it didn't go on longer because of classes. He had been physically present for most of Monday's classes, but thankfully not even McGonagall had given him detention for sleeping through her double class, using Nott's shoulder as a pillow, the other boy too out of it to complain.

The other boy hits a bludger away from Harry and then has to duck as one of the Hufflepuff beaters retaliates with relentless aim. McGonagall herself is standing on tip toes peering at them, the chaser team from Hufflepuff well-co-ordinated but falling to Slytherin's brutal tactics. They don't have the skill of the Gryffindors, but they have a few neater manoeuvres that are pulled off successfully scoring them several points and keeping it level.

"Foul move there by Warrington! His boyfriend appears to approve of it though, oh and it's Stacey to Bradley to Cooper, back to Bradley, nice drop pass there, didn't see that happening and SCORE! Hufflepuff score again with some nice neat playing there - meanwhile Malfoy is struggling to not oogle his own reflection - ahem, sorry - Malfoy is struggling to gain possession as Cooper takes it again - oh, nice bludger by Nott, wish he'd missed--"

Harry flies down to interrupt the game play - something he likes doing just for the thrill mostly. Quidditch is one of the few times he can act on his reckless impulses, actually let himself relax for a bit. He makes it three metres before a shape makes him pull up, Cedric Diggory grinning at him. "Don't be rude, Potter," he says, and with a glare Harry barrel rolls around him forcing Cedric to chase after him.

They play the game of cat and mouse in the sky for a while, the chaser constantly changing as Harry blocks Cedric's path and Cedric interrupts Harry's attempted gameplay. The Hufflepuff chasers score a few more goals with Slytherin struggling to gain back possession.

At this rate if Harry doesn't stop playing games and catch the snitch Hufflepuff will win. There are times Harry hates the fact the Slytherin chasers rely too much on brute strength and muscle and have no skill or--

Hufflepuff score another goal and Harry drops straight into a dive. Cedric isn't stupid enough to follow him down, but does keep a hovering eye on him as Harry pulls out. He uses his momentum to skim the low field, glancing up.

Trade secret: it's easier to spot the sunlight glinting on the snitch from the ground than from the sky where hundreds of shining watches and glasses in the crowd distract the eye.

He circles the pitch once, twice, gaining height slightly and--

There. He's not even sure if it is the snitch but he goes for it anyway. It's not the snitch - it's some golden sparks someone in the Hufflepuff crowd have managed to produce in support - but the move encourages Cedric into chasing after him right up until he realises there's nothing there. The Hufflepuff Seeker falls back, tagging along slowly and so when Harry rounds the corner and spots another golden speck he speeds towards it alone.

The gold speck buzzes sharply to the side like a fly, then back again indecisively.

Bingo.

Cedric hasn't noticed yet either, and Harry accelerates, angling up towards the golden snitch--

The chill in the air means it isn't noticeable for a while. Not at least until the screams in his ears start.

His mother. Dying.

Never his father, he thinks, only Lily, only his mother--

Screaming.

Not Harry!

The very thought, the very concept that his father is alive (somehow, miraculously) muffles the sound. Harry grips his broom and spins under the first Dementor, diving back to ground level when he encounters the second. It swoops up and reaches out with a skeletal hand and - this is Voldemort, he thinks, it has to be, Voldemort sent them to attack him but--

He doesn't think this is his enemy, not this bold a move, not now, not--

The hand reaches out and he twists his broom but the other Dementor is right above him.

His mother screams. He hears a rasping, hollow breath. His grip on his broom slackens and for a moment he sees things: two dementors closing in, Harry caught between and looking paler and fainter by the minute and--

No, please, take me instead!

Stand aside--

Not Harry!

Not today, he thinks, and he doesn't have his wand, he can't cast a patronus and why isn't Dumbledore casting a patronus but he can survive, it's what he does and he did not chew that damn leaf for three months, barely eating, talking out of the side of his mouth and sipping drinks through a straw for this not to work.

The voices are ringing in his head and there's a scream but he's not sure if it's in his head or from the crowd because that's the moment he lets go of his broom, throwing himself back and away from the Dementors.

The broom hovers there where he leaves it. The creatures reach out but Harry's not there. He's falling, hands out and clutched over a golden speck and for a moment he just let's himself fall through the air to the screams, wondering if someone is going to cast a spell or--

He doesn't trust anyone enough to wait to find out. He's falling, tumbling over and over himself in the air and the ground is going to be hard - frozen and hard and painful, he thinks for one sharp moment before something twists and--

It feels like apparating, forcing himself somewhere else, but he's not somewhere else, he's smaller and--

His wings flare out on instinct and brooms have nothing on this he thinks, dazed, spirally into the fall. It's more of a controlled dive now and he pulls out of it with a flap of feathers and--

Feathers, he thinks in a daze, are incredibly convenient. Also bad timing but still--

He doesn't know what kind of bird he is. He remembers impressions of claws and a razor sharp beak, and there's an animal instinct in him to hunt and dive but he wrestles it back.

The feeling from the Dementors is gone. They're still there, but they can't sense him anymore.

His flight stabilises, and he's aware of the gasps and cries of alarm and of one loud high pitched squeal of "POTTER!" that is neither good nor concerned. His wings flap (and isn't that a weird feeling) and he's a bit uncoordinated but it also feels as natural as flying on a broomstick does to him.

The crowd are whispering, crying out in alarm and he twists, wings out to soar as he circles, spotting a sea of yellow and black and a large axe glinting in the sun--

There's not much space to land but he manages, wings flaring out to stop him and transforming as he does. He lands, stumbling slightly and almost falling straight into Susan Bones.

"I didn't mean there'd be a literal imprint of your face!" Hannah wails in panic. "We thought you'd fallen, I closed my eyes and then you were gone but you were a bird! How did you turn into a bird?!"

Neville just looks pale. "Are you--"

"Get Hermione," Harry says grimly, "Get her--" he sees Hermione herself just over Neville's shoulders, "Hermione, you need to get the papers now--"

"Harry," she's staring at him slack-jawed, "You just transformed, you did it, you--" she's jubilant, elated, she hasn't seen it yet--

"Get the papers," Harry snaps at her, "Hermione, listen, Umbridge--" at his words there is another loud cry and Hermione leaps into action, realising the consequences of his actions.

"I'm on it. Stall," she commands.

"I'm a Slytherin," he shouts after her, "That's what I do best!"

He swallows, then meets Neville's gaze, "You did it!" Neville says, "You actually managed the transformation!"

"First time," Harry shrugs, "And now Umbridge is going to try and punish me for it," he glances out of the stands, "How much do you want to bet that she's going to try and get me expelled?"

"Not taking that bet," Neville shakes his head, "You better get down there…"

"But what about the game?" someone else Harry doesn't know pipes up.

Harry holds up the snitch, "Slytherin won," he deadpans, "Caught it before shifting."

There's another angry shout.

"I should go," he drawls, lazily, "Wish me luck."

He takes as long as possible to descend from the stands to where the pink toad is angrily and triumphantly waiting for him. He steps out to meet her, head held high.

Umbridge is furious with him. As expected. "An Animagus," she announces, "Mr Potter, are you aware that becoming an Animagus is illegal under the age of seventeen, especially if your form isn't registered with the Ministry of Magic?"

Harry braces himself, "I couldn't register," he says, meeting her gaze. She hasn't even dragged him away, she's having this discussion in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch while the whole school watch with bated breathe to see if he's going to be expelled.

"And why not?" she snaps, smiling a thin lipped smile that looks entirely too pleased with herself.

"I hadn't transformed," Harry says, "That was my first time. I didn't know my form, I could hardly register--"

"You must have had some idea of your form, surely," her tone is suddenly simpering sweet, "Could you not have sent them prior notice--"

"He did!" Hermione appears in a whirlwind, brandishing papers, "We were going to send them off once we had the details for the animal form, here--" she shoves a paper at Umbridge, then pulls it back, "No, wait, that's mine--"

"Hermione," Harry says, voice calmer than he feels.

"Here," she finally finds his, "Bird, Raptor, Species unknown, suspected falcon--"

"That," Umbridge doesn't even look at the documents, "does not excuse the fact that it is illegal to practise this kind of magic under the age of seventeen. That means--" her beady eyes gleam, "That you were breaking not only Hogwarts rules, but Ministry law--"

"I think you'll find, Dolores," McGonagall's voice sounds from behind them, "That it is perfectly legal when the students are supported by a trained Animagus. Which I am, last time I checked."

Harry's breath catches, but he doesn't let his surprise show, "Professor McGonagall was kind enough to tutor us," he says, "We approached her about it a year or two ago, and she agreed to take us on as long as we put in the time and effort and it had no negative impact on our school work."

Umbridge splutters, "You--" she turns to McGonagall, "You trained--"

"I think you'll find that's allowed," their defence teacher appears. Harry studiously avoids looking at his father, instead watching Umbridge turn a rather nasty shade of bruised peach. "The law does state that a young witch or wizard if supervised may undergo the training--" of course he'd know, Harry thinks, James had to go through this himself, but he didn't have to cope with attempts on his life and having to resort to transforming to stop a very painful impact with the ground.

For a moment Harry wonders if the broken bones would have been worth it, then decides that no, they would not have been.

"If you'll excuse us, Professor, " Harry says, "Professor McGonagall and I need to discuss my registration now I know my form," he turns away, effectively dismissing the woman. She looks furious, but McGonagall has a look in her eyes that scares Harry more as she gestures.

"This way," she says, and Harry steps quickly after her. He catches his father's eye and James looks proud, before hiding it behind his concerned teacher façade.

Or concerned parent, but Harry doesn't know what that's like.

"You too, Miss Granger," their transfiguration teacher says.

Harry thinks they might just have got away with it, although this next hour might be trying. There are cheers from people in the stands and he can see Daphne whispering with Ron and pointing violently.

"Hey, Harry!"

He turns at his father's voice. The disguised man smiles at him.

"You make a beautiful peregrine falcon," he says, and no, Harry's not imagining it. He's proud.

His father is proud of him.

He thinks then that he could possible produce a Patronus just from that. He keeps the happy feeling close. It's conflicted, but it's happy. His father is proud of him. His father is alive and he's proud and--

Even McGonagall's fury is buffered by that feeling when she finally makes it to her office.

"What," she says, voice too calm, "where you thinking?"

Hermione opens her mouth to answer but is cut-off.

"The answer is you weren't thinking. Clearly. Had you thought this through you wouldn't have even attempted such magic."

"We're aware of the consequences," Harry says, boldly.

"Were you?" she peers down her glasses at them, "Because clearly you weren't… if I hadn't stepped in you would have been expelled and nothing anyone could have said or done would have prevented that."

"Daphne's father has an in with the Registration Department," Harry says, voice still even, "If it came to it and we were found out they were going to swear under Veritaserum that our learning how to be Animagi had been approved by them--"

"BRIBERY, POTTER?" and yup, she's furious, "I mourned the fact you were a Slytherin and not a Gryffindor. To this day I still think the Sorting Hat picked the wrong house because I've never seen a more rash, more idiotic decision making that this, do you have ANY idea HOW IT COULD HAVE GONE WRONG?"

"Please, Professor, we understood--"

"YOU COULD HAVE DIED, YOU COULD HAVE KILLED YOURSELF, YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN STUCK AND NOBODY WOULD KNOW! WHAT FOOLISHNESS PROMPTED YOU TO CONSIDER IT, LET ALONE ATTEMPT IT?"

McGonagall levels them with her best glare and Harry and Hermione do their best to sink into the floor. Then with a sigh she closes her eyes and sink down in her chair, "Never," she says, "Have I been more proud of my students," she says, "Have a biscuit."

"A-what?"

"A biscuit, Mr Potter. I believe we need to have a long-awaited conversation about this, not least of all how you managed to do this without anybody finding out, and without aid."

There's a pause.

"Also I'll need a list of who else is attempting this foolish venture," she says, "For when I am no doubt interrogated by Umbridge."

Harry glances at Hermione who meets his gaze for a second, then turns to McGonagall, "I'm almost at the transforming stage," she admits, "Just behind Harry…"

"She keeps getting distracted by the theory," Harry says, "She also keeps stopping to help Neville. Ron's doing it, but he keeps eating his mandrake root by accident. Daphne gave up half-way through, Blaise is somewhere in the middle. We thinks Ron's a terrier of some kind. Or a fox, we're not really sure. Hermione's an owl. Neville's uh… Neville's--"

"Well...," Hermione says, "We're not sure, but he keeps ending up with really long claws so our current bet is a badger. Zabini's some kind of cat."

"That's it?" McGonagall frowns at them, "I admit I was half-expecting Miss Weasley, the younger Miss Greengrass and Miss Lovegood to also be a part of this, this--" she can't find a word for it.

"Ron and Daphne insisted they were too young," Harry says, "Arguably we're too young, but--" he falls silent and decides not to mention that Ginny's been looking through all Ron's notes and is no doubt either waiting a year or two to attempt it, or currently following three steps behind them.

"Never in my years at Hogwarts--" their teacher looks exhausted, "We better get your registration sorted, Potter, can you transform again for me?"

"A peregrine, right?" Harry asks, standing. Hermione nods and he steps away for enough space, then forces the change. He's more aware of it now it's not a life or death situation, he's aware of the ability like a bubble just out of reach that he prods, grabbing the magic and wrapping it around him as his form changes. He steps forwards and transforms mid-way, flapping his way onto McGonagall's desk. His claws scratch the woodwork, and he fluffs up his feathers. They're mostly grey, but a few are still a brown grey of a junior plumage. Hermione reaches out a tentative finger and runs it along his head. Harry lets out a shrill cry.

Professor McGonagall is watching him with an odd look in her eyes. "Your father," she says, her Scottish accent rather thick, and eyes slightly watery, "Would be so proud."

He is, Harry wants to tell her, he is proud and he has told Harry as much.

Harry's having bad dreams. There's a haunting corridor and a door at the end that he fixates over, aches to know what lies behind it, needs to know--

And then he wakes up.

He dreams of blood and whispered conversations taking place in a dark room and of a man with straw coloured hair laughing in the shadows. On the man's wrist is an ugly tattoo that burns black.

He dreams of snake coils and fangs and hissing and he can understand it, he is the snake and -whose perspective did you see this from, Dumbledore asks as Harry stands shaking in his office.

'We're off to see the wizard!' Fred and George had once sung when sent to Dumbledore's office. They don't sing now, they stand silently, pale and terrified for their father's life.

He's in his pyjamas, the sweat on his body is now cold and icy and he can still taste the blood on his tongue from where the snake bit down.

Arthur Weasley lives, and Harry dreams, and Dumbledore goes out of his way to avoid him. The Order want him at Headquarters over Christmas, and Harry wants to sneak off back to Grimmauld Place, so to compromise he stays at Hogwarts. A part of Harry wants to use the excuse to try and catch Dumbledore to ask him what's going on but the old man--

The old man avoids him. When Harry does find him Dumbledore looks at him with all the weariness of his age and there's something dark in his gaze.

Harry's seen it before in ink splattered pages of a diary that is still hidden somewhere in this castle. Dumbledore looks at Harry like he looked at Tom Riddle - wary and scared and so so sad. It makes Harry wonder what it would have been like if Tom and he had been born in the same generation.

They could have been great, he thinks, but Tom isn't. He's a monster, he turned himself inside out and there's nothing left than a monster of a man. That's fine. Harry doesn't care. He'll be great himself. At least he could be, was his future not so entwined with a man hell bent on murdering him.

He could be, were their minds not entwined too.

He thinks that's it. It would explain why Dumbledore avoids him, why he looks straight through Harry to Tom.

It would explain the dreams. The snakes. An open mind link or something - Harry spends hours in the library but finds nothing. He's not surprised. Cursed scars don't give people connected minds.

Diaries don't just possess people.

He's not sure what it is. Professor Snape is meant to be teaching him Occlumency and Harry's looked it up. It means Snape can read his thoughts as they exaggerate the spell to try and teach him.

It means Snape might know his father's alive.

'Clear your mind' the books say, and it's not helpful. Hermione sends him reading lists from home and he gets a restricted pass from McGonagall. He thinks the latter is only so she can assign him extra transfiguration work as punishment for his almost-unregistered animagus attempt, but he's not sure. He just keeps paging through books on mental organisation and--

"Hyphen," someone snaps their fingers at him and Harry jumps half a mile. He thought he'd been the only one in the library.

James Potter is standing half-way down the book aisle and is grinning widely at him.

"Huh?" he says, somewhat ungainly with half a mouthful of food in his mouth.

"Hyphen," James says again with a grin, "For your falcon."

"Hyphen?" he asks again, and thinks it over for half a minute, "Oh," he says, "Okay, that's… clever, actually." He gets what it is - at least he thinks he does - it's a nickname, like Prongs, Moony, Padfoot. It's for him, for the peregrine with barred wings and tail. That also makes sense. It's for him--

"But no," he says firmly, "That is not funny."

"It kind of is," James says, "Because the media like to hyphenate your name, right? That's kind of funny--" he's grinning widely, "What are you doing in a dark corner of the library anyway? It's Christmas! Aren't you--" he stops, probably realising that none of Harry's friends are around.

"Researching," Harry says, "The Weasley's are at home after Arthur's attack, Hermione went to actually prove to me her parents exist, Daphne and Astoria are home and Blaise is with his mother on her fifth honeymoon. Or sixth, I've actually lost count."

"Come on then," James says and Harry just stares. "Come on," he says again, "It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. It should be spent with family and friends and--" he pauses, looking visibly nervous, "And I managed to arrange a meeting between Ian Peverell and Remus Lupin. I need you to facilitate. Please?"

Harry remembers what happened last time he let Remus introduce himself to one of his old friends alone and thinks that James is right. He nods, "This is going to be awkward," he says, "He'll probably try to hex you."

James just laughs, "He can try! Now what were you looking at anyway--?"

Harry shoves the piles of books away. He'd decided anyway - mind link to Tom Riddle or not - he's not going to lessons with Snape. The man hates him and Harry has too many secrets to hide. He's had Tom Riddle in his head before.

"Nothing," he says with a grin, "I've actually worked it out and didn't really need the books."

This time he knows exactly how to deal with Riddle.

They meet Remus on December 24th on a cold, snowy but clear day. The air is crisp but it's warming up as the sun rises. James meets Harry in the Entrance Hall fully aware that taking Harry away from the safety of the school is dangerous.

"You look exhausted," he says in greeting to his son. Harry just squints up at him in bleary eyed pain as he rubs his forehead violently.

"You look great yourself," Harry snaps back, rubbing his head some more and managing to give his hair an even more artfully ruffled look, "I just didn't sleep well is all." All signs of pain vanish as he visible straightens.

James frowns in concern, "Headache?" he asks, "Do you need potions or--?" he stops, not sure how far to push.

Harry's staring at him with that confused expression James is growing to know - the one where he's not sure whether to be wary of this parental action or accepting. And James--

James doesn't push.

Lily, he thinks, would be so proud of him. Fourteen years in a coma and he's finally matured.

"If you need anything," he says, "Let me know."

And he gets a nod and a small smile back. Bit by bit he's winning his son over.

"Now get the cloak on," he says, "Don't want anyone seeing you sneak out, least of all Umbridge."

"It's okay," Harry says, "She takes a long bath at this time of day. Dumbledore is folding his sock drawer, Snape is brewing potions for Madame Pomphrey and McGonagall is chasing mice or something... I actually don't know what she's doing."

James stares, "I don't even want to find out how you know that."

Magical map or not, he really doesn't know how his son knows in that much detail what the various staff members are doing.

They don't meet in the Hog's Head (because that's where Dumbledore's brother works) and they don't go in the Three Broomsticks (because everyone goes in there). Sensibly they don't meet in Madame Puddifoot's either, instead going to a small café on the outskirts called 'The Shrieking Coffee' with the tagline of 'where your coffee really screams'. Harry casts James an unimpressed look at this, because they both know the real reason the Shrieking Shack was thought of as haunted. Harry obviously doesn't think Remus will find it funny.

James buys them both drinks and Harry's hot chocolate quietly sings while his coffee just whistles ominously every time he goes to take a sip. He wishes he'd just got a huffing cup instead, fingers tapping nervously on the ceramic and causing the whistling to stutter in and out.

Harry glares at him, "Knock it off," he says, too much of a composed Slytherin to actually appear to be nervous. James' fingers tap-tap-tap and the coffee whistles in and out and maybe if he taps it to the right beat it will actually whistle a tuneless song--

"Stop it, Dad--" Harry bats at his hand and James nearly upends his own coffee on himself and that is, naturally the moment Remus walks in.

He does a double-take at seeing Harry there. "Harry. Are you sure you should be out of the castle?"

"No," Harry isn't defiant or smug, he's just quietly accepting and confident, "But I am."

Remus' gaze slides to James, "You must be Ian," he says, "It's nice to meet you - I must say, some of your defence ideas are marvellous--" Remus is about to go into full-on prefect lecture mode, James can see it. This isn't why he's here to have a discussion about lessons. This isn't--

"Actually," Harry clears his throat quietly, looking around, but James has already cast a Notice-Me-Not, various muffling charms and their booth is in the corner and out of sight. "Remus, there is a reason I'm here."

"Ah," Remus says, eyeing Harry fondly. James feels a stab of unreasonable jealousy at the sight of the clear understanding between the two of them, comradery, odd sort of mentorship, "It isn't just because you wanted to see your favourite Defence teacher and so decided to join Dumbledore's new and unexpected hire on a Hogsmeade visit, is it?"

Remus is wary. James sees it. Harry must too. "There was a Grindylow in your office," the Slytherin interjects, "I spent the summer before my third year with Sirius Black. My patronus is a stag and for the record my animagus is a peregrine falcon. Although the latter is public record, even if McGonagall and Daphne's uncle did manage to keep it from being in the papers."

Remus doesn't even look surprised at the last admission, "Okay," he says, looking at Harry and glancing curiously at James, still disguised as Ian Peverell, "What is this about if it's clearly not a friendly meeting between Defence teachers?"

"It's about this," Harry drops the Maurauder's Map on the table next to his still humming coffee, "Last year I didn't use it properly, I missed Barty Crouch being where Moody was, I missed Moody being in his office all the time when his polyjuiced double was walking around. I missed Peter Pettigrew on it until it was too late and--"

"Harry," Remus interrupts, "That wasn't your fault, there are so many names on the map--"

"I know," Harry says, "Which is why when I first saw one name I thought I'd gotten confused. Thought maybe I was standing too close to someone called James, or that I was misreading a Polkins as a Potter. But I wasn't. And his animagus form wasn't made public. It was only ever known to four people, with a few made aware later. And it sounds unbelievable, it sounds crazy and I didn't believe it myself but--"

"No," Remus shakes his head, already seeing what Harry is getting at, "Harry, stop talking in riddles and just say what it is you're trying to say, because it sounds like you're trying to say--"

"He is," James finally speaks, clearing his throat. "My name isn't really Ian Peverell, but I had to think of something and that family is long dead with no relatives. I just wanted to find out what had happened to the war, to Lily, to--"

Remus punches him. Right before drawing his wand he punches James. The whistling coffee gives one last whistle as it is flung to the floor, scalding part of James' knee on the way down.

"No," Harry is there suddenly, between Remus' wand and James, "Remus, listen. Look and listen and--" he twists to James, "Take off the glamour."

"Harry," Remus cautions him, "What was the last thing you said to me before I left as your teacher?"

"Remus," Harry says, "Just hear him out. Sirius would have heard him out. Okay, Sirius probably would have cursed first too, but just-- don't curse, not just yet. You're good at that, I know, and Hermione was right. You were the best defence teacher we ever had," he glances over his shoulder at James with a shrug, "Sorry, James," he says.

Harry's feeling self-conscious, clearly, and James figures there was no way this could have gone smoothly. This is pretty good all things considered, and he takes the glamour off and watches as Remus sits down in shock. Remus looks tired, he thinks, tired and grey and too scarred already. He looks tired and old, but as James slides back into his seat and starts talking, Harry taking his seat next to him, he thinks Remus looks a little bit lighter and little bit happier.

James answers extensive questions. He thinks Remus might be getting paranoid in his old age, but then he remembers that Voldemort is back. These precautions are necessary. Remus even threatens Veritaserum and James agrees to it, should it come to it.

Eventually Remus just runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, "I'm not going to ask it of you, but it may be required for the Order to believe you. You have to understand this is just…" Remus stares at him, "We thought-- oh Merlin, James--"

It's a manly hug. A very manly hug with no sniffles or tears. Harry is sitting with stiff shoulders and his gaze fixed on a peeling bit of wallpaper on the opposite wall, "Touching," he says, with not quite enough sneer to be a full-on Slytherin drawl but it definitely has the undertones.

Remus sits now like his strings have been cut in mixed relief and happy bewilderment, "Are you okay, Harry?" he asks, "Why didn't you come to any of us with this? I thought you'd have stopped rushing in by yourself."

"Who's rushing?" Harry spreads out his hands, "I sat on the information for a good week before confronting him. I've staked out his office for even longer. He's under Dumbledore's nose. I mean - even the great Dumbledore is too busy playing chess with Voldemort to realise. Plus he's avoiding me so he's hardly noticed that I've started hanging out with the new teacher. Nobody cares, Remus, that's the problem. If people cared more, maybe they'd do something about our impeding dark lord issue."

Remus pinches the skin between his eyebrows as if he's heard this before from Harry. "People do care, Harry. The Order--"

"Is very efficient at guarding something, if certainly not me," Harry says, pointedly. "Blaise and I spoke to Hagrid, we know he tried to recruit the giants and failed. And judging by your new scars you failed with the packs as well."

His son's sharp eyed observations have Remus flinching.

"Harry," James tries to - he's not even sure - caution his son? Scold him? His tone of voice that he uses doesn't work, Harry backs away.

"Don't try to father me," he says, "I'm heading back to the castle."

"The cloak--" Remus says, grabbing at it but Harry's already half-way out.

"I'll fly!" he says, and oh course, James thinks, Harry's form is a peregrine.

"Fly?" Remus asks, before he too realises what Harry means, "He's just like you, James," he says, and then appears to understand the implications at that and turns to look at James again as if to check he's real, "Like you but with Lily's stubborn nature and strong morals."

"I miss her," James admits.

"I missed you," Remus says, "And Sirius, and by Merlin, even that traitor Peter. I can't believe--"

"Neither can I," James says, "I thought I was dead. Maybe I was. Maybe I was meant to be, since there's no way Voldemort ever thought I'd be alive again. Everything is so different sometimes… sometimes I wonder if I was ever meant to wake up."

Remus' hand clasps his shoulder, "Let's just keep hanging on, old friend," he says, glancing after Harry, "And make sure your son stays alive."

James dispels the magic around their booth, pulling up his cloak and beginning to hurry after his son, "Complete Slytherin," he mutters, "With the drama of a Gryffindor."

"You don't mind his house?" Remus hurries after him.

"I'm heartbroken," James says, light-heartedly, "Whole family in Gryffindor and then--"

"James--"

"I didn't know what to think," he admits as they emerge into the crisp open air, "But he's my son. Mine and Lily's. He always will be - Slytherin will only deck his Quidditch robes for six years."

"Seven," Remus idly corrects, "He got on the team in first year."

"That little-- I can't believe he didn't tell me-- oh there he is," James says, spotting the falcon sitting on the fence along the path back to the main town, "He did actually wait - probably wanted to check you wouldn't eat me or something--"

"When have I ever eaten you, you're sticks and bones, quite literally there are sticks on your head--"

"It's a sign of nobility and honour and--"

"You're a glorified horse with sticks on your head. What wolf would want to eat you?"

There is a flutter of wings and snow as the falcon takes off. It's barred stripes lightning across it's wingspan as it circles once around then and then rises slightly. Remus looks oddly smug watching him. "You didn't," James says, "Did you help them?"

"Sirius paved the way. I just made sure they didn't permanently transfigure themselves by passing along a helpful book or two."

Overhead the peregrine circles, a speck against the sky before his wings fold and dive. "He's going to give me grey hairs," James closes his eyes, "Quick, Moony, check I'm not grey."

"You're not grey, but you do need to re-apply your glamour. You can be grey then."

"Perfect," James says, brandishing his wand, just as the falcon angles out of the dive horizontal with the earth.

Harry must have most definitely been practising because he transforms mid-flight and slows to a skid in front of them, "He's here," he says, and James is instantly on alert.

"Who, Voldemort?"

"No, Crouch, Remus, he's here, in Hogsmeade. I saw him, in the alleyway behind Dervish and Bangs--"

"Barty Crouch? The Head of Magical Law--"

"Not that one," Remus corrects him, "He's dead. At least, we think, we never found the body, no, the son--"

"Oh, that slimeball Ravenclaw?"

"He was a Death Eater," Harry says, "He tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity. He was at Hogwarts, masquerading as Moody last year. He's the reason I was in the tournament, he's the reason Voldemort is back. He's here, Remus--"

"Don't do anything stupid," Remus is already moving, wand casting out a gangly-legged wolf patronus. It's a real wolf, not a werewolf and James had always thought it was just a bad co-incidence. Now he sees it though after fourteen years he can see it's appropriate, this strong, wild fierce creature still stubbornly going - it fits Remus perfectly. "I think I've found Crouch in Hogsmeade. Notify the Order, we might be able to bring him in for Fudge-- HARRY!"

James twists but his son is already half-way down the street. "I thought Slytherin prided themselves on self-preservation," he rolls his eyes, starting off after him.

"Wait-- JAMES!" Remus calls from behind him, already sounding exasperated at losing both of them but James is just trying not to lose Harry as he twists down an alley and quickly vanishes.

Hogsmeade is still ridiculously small - it's one main street and about three side streets and a small collection of houses. For the largest only magical village in Britain there's really not much to see. It's easy to twist around, mimicking the path he'd seen from air until he emerges practically right on top of the two men.

He recognises Crouch from photos more than personal experience. He's always seen Crouch when he's been polyjuiced so this is the first time he lays eyes on the man - young but painfully thin and ill. His straw coloured hair is wild and a manic grin settles on his face as he spots Harry. The man behind him - Ministry worker, Harry realises - unspeakable by dress code according to Blaise. His eyes are dazed and unfocussed and--

Department of Mysteries, he thinks, Department of Mysteries and a long black corridor with a door--

"I don't know why he's trying the Ministry," Harry says, "The safest place for anything is at Hogwarts, surely your Lord knows that--"

"Potter--" Crouch just leers, "Nice to see you again, how is your defence? You really were one of the best students I saw. You could have been fantastic, it's just a shame--"

"Incendio!" Harry casts and Crouch just deflects it.

"Predictable," he says, "Don't be so obvious, Potter!"

Harry throws an expelliarmus closely followed by a bombarda and stupefy. The spells are silent.

Crouch dances out of the way and deflects the last, "Better," he says, wand flicking once behind him. The ministry worker vanishes with a crack and Harry's next curse crashes into the ground where he had been standing. Crouch doesn't voice his spells either, and Harry dodges a stunner and a rather nasty purple one whose purpose he doesn't know.

"You brought him back," Harry says, and there's a silent I'm going to kill you he doesn't voice because he's not going to give the man that much warning.

"I will watch his second rise," Crouch says, a crazed gleam in his eye.

"You're insane," Harry says.

"No, Frank and Alice Longbottom are insane," Crouch laughs, "I've never been better!"

Harry casts a bone-breaker and a few cursed cutting spells. The last one he is forced to knock off to the side when his father stumbles out from another alleyway, throwing himself flat to avoid the spell-fire.

"Get out of the way!" Harry says as James casts a shield charm. "No--"

Crouch is already moving, sliding backwards towards the main part of Hogsmeade. "Harry!" James says as Harry darts past.

"Crouch!" he shouts, "Crouch, get back here!" He flings out another cutting curse and it shattered stone off a building as Crouch dodges. He flings back some more dubious coloured spells and James pulls Harry to one side out of the way. He flails, and in that moment the Death Eater flashes him a crooked grin and a tilted head before spinning away into apparition. Harry's curse hits the snow where he had been standing but it's too late.

People are shouting and appearing to see where the spell casting was coming from. Remus is running up, pale and sweating and Harry glares at the spot Crouch was as if it might make him return. His mind races through alternatives but he knows that inevitably there was nothing he could do - he had chosen to rush in, to attack--

He's cast the bait, he thinks, he succeeded. Crouch got away but--

Bait cast.

Now he just needs to let it catch.

"Harry--" James tugs him away from the crowd, twisting so his back is too them, face his hidden to them. Harry spots at least one person pointing at him and whispering. Great, he thinks, paranoid and delusional are going to appear in the papers now too, he thinks bitterly. If he's lucky half of Hogsmeade didn't see him running after Crouch, a man supposed to be dead. Paranoid and delusional and--

"Was that spell Dark Arts?" James manhandles him out of the main street, practically dragging him back to the alleys and turning them towards the road back to Hogwarts. Snow whirlwinds around them and Harry tries and fails to break free.

"Don't touch me!" he says, and James lets go of his so fast he almost falls straight over. His dad's glamour isn't on but his hood and scarf are pulled up. For a moment Harry takes him in - a figure similar in build and appearance to him but older, more ragged and with a narrower chin and grey hair and--

Disapproving.

"Were those Dark Arts?" he asks again.

Harry breaks into a fast walk, wanting to be back at Hogwarts before people begin to question why he's there. "Don't be stupid," he says, "Dark Arts aren't taught at Hogwarts, Professor."

His tone is completely even.

"Neither is the animagus transformation," James hisses, "Were those Dark Arts spells, Harry--"

"Harry," Remus catches up to them, "Merlin, don't do that, what did I tell you about impulsiveness getting you killed?"

"It's okay," Harry sneers, "The Order's doing a fine job of looking after me--"

"What is that meant to mean?" James demands.

"There was a dementor attack in the summer, Harry wasn't even there, James, it's okay--"

"A dementor attack? Remus, what aren't--"

Harry doesn't need this, not now, he continues walking, pace brisk and he's out of the main village, the two adults keeping pace with him.

"We were guarding him, James, he's fine, he went off to stay at Sirius' place without telling us--"

"He lives in that old house?"

"Well he could hardly stay at yours, it's just a ruin now--"

"Harry, was that Dark Arts? Where did you learn that - did another Slytherin teach you?"

Harry whirls on him, "They're not all evil!" he snaps, "I'm not evil! For goodness sake, Pettigrew betrayed you and he was in Gryffindor! They're not all learning Dark Arts and partaking in secret rituals!"

"Harry - that spell prevents clotting! Do you know what that means - it means a small cut would never stop bleeding!"

"Are you saying not to use it? On him? He tortured Neville's parents, he brought him back! Besides it's was a small spell - barely Dark Arts--"

"That's not how it works--"

"You're a Dark Creature, Remus, don't you judge me, Dumbledore let you run off your leash in a school full of children--"

"Stealing from Snape, very mature, Harry," Remus just looks disappointed.

"No magic is bad, just like no person is bad. It doesn't work that way!" Harry snaps.

James shakes his head, "Dark Arts are made to cause pain and suffering. Curses and scars that won't heal, permanent tissue injury, PTSD, nightmares--"

"And normal spells don't? You can just as easily kill someone with an avada kedavra as you can with a cutting curse to the throat," Harry argues. "Or you could use an AK for killing spiders and pests and a cutting curse for nothing more than cutting up vegetables. Magic isn't finite, it's infinities, nobody should be limited simply because the wizarding world is made up of awful people who can't be trusted with power. I thought this world would be better… but it's not - it's prejudice and bias and still all about power and money and rumours and scandals and lies that keep some people afloat and drown others. Nobody should have to hide!"

"Harry, you're fifteen," Remus stresses, "No matter how much magic you know it doesn't give you the power to chase after a convicted murderer!"

"No, and clearly it doesn't give me the respect for all of you to just tell me what it is you're all still hiding from me," Harry snaps, hiding his hurt beneath a sneer, "Do you think Dumbledore would have actually answered your patronus? Or will he have swooped in to save the day and then left again - don't think I haven't noticed how he won't even look me in the eye."

"Don't be ridiculous," James says, "Dumbledore's a good man--"

But Remus is quiet.

"Remus?" James asks, frowning suddenly at something, "Hang on, Remus, did you tell Harry-- has Dumbledore told Harry-- do you even know about--"

"Everyone's all so freaking scared of him and scared of me because you all think I'm going to be him, or something, and none of you can see that I'm not Tom Riddle!"

"Tom Riddle?" James asks, clearly not even knowing who he is. Harry just scoffs, because he's clearly not going to get either of them on his side, all attempts wasted before he starts. Sirius would have understood, he thinks, Sirius would have--

"Harry--" Remus tries to placate him, but James interrupts.

"Wait, wait, Remus, does Harry even know? Do you know? About the prophecy?"

"James," Remus hisses, and Harry can't tell if he's shocked or scandalised because he's too busy fixating on the words himself.

"Prophecy?" he says, and he doesn't do Divination but he's heard enough about them from Hermione to understand, to realise, "There's a prophecy about--"

"James--" Remus sighs, and Remus knew, Remus knew, Remus knew--

James knew--

"Do you know what it says?" Remus asks, suddenly worried, "The wording--"

"What, no, you mean you don’t? Harry-- you don't know--"

James knew--

Prophecy, Harry thinks, prophecy and a dark corridor with a door at the end-- something he desires at the end, something he'd send the snake to get and he just wants to know--

No.

Not him. Not Harry at least.

Him.

He tears away from the pair, ignoring their calls and shouts.

Maybe Dumbledore's got grounding in his wariness, Harry thinks. Maybe he and Tom Riddle are more connected that he had first realised.

Chapter Text

"Prophecies-- STOP RIGHT THERE - I think I read something about those earlier this week."

He's mid-explaining everything to them. Curled up in the Room of Requirement with the knowledge in the room's security and the distinctive lack of his father or any other teacher, Harry tells them. He's mid-explanation when Hermione bounces up like a jumping jack and practically skips away to find the book, "I thought she quit Divination," he remarks to Ron.

"She did," Ron says glumly, "But ever since Umbridge tried to fire Trelawney and Firenze took over and began using the stars to tell the future, Hermione's been trying to connect Astronomy to Divination and so took some books out of the library for some 'light reading'." He makes air quotes.

"Here," Hermione's voice drifts through from some distant dark bookshelf, "All prophecies are recorded and stored in the Hall of Prophecies in the depths of the Department of Mysteries. How they do that isn't specified - it may be a memory provided by those who witness it, but one thing is clear."

"And what's that?" Blaise asks from where he's leaning with his arms crossed.

Hermione reappears, frizzy hair puffed up with excitement, "Once stored only those about whom the prophecy is about can touch the storage containers."

"So that means-- if this is about Harry and You-Know-Who, then only they can touch the prophecy to retrieve it."

"Doesn't your dad know?" Blaise asks, turning from Daphne to Harry. "Oh, let me guess, you're avoiding him."

"Don't look at me like that, it's not like you have to worry about your fathers, none of them last long enough."

"Cruel," Blaise clicks his tongue, "True, but cruel, Harry, don't go there."

Harry doesn't apologise, considering his options. He's been avoiding his dad since Christmas - easier said than done. It's stupid, he thinks, but he had hoped for at least one nice day with his dad--

It's stupid and childish and he banishes that thought from his head, "Voldemort thinks it's in the Department of Mysteries," he says.

"How do you know?" Hermione asks. He doesn't reply.

"He wants to know what it says. Exactly. Whatever he heard must have been what made him come after me as a baby - prophecies predict the future, right? He must have… must have thought I'd be a threat or something--"

"Self-fulfilling," Daphne sniffs, "He made his own worst enemy."

"I wouldn't be his worst enemy if he'd just leave me alone," Harry grumbles, but he knows it's more than that. He knows that prophecy or not, there's something now that means he doesn't get a choice in this.

There's a bit of Voldemort inside his head, some of his power, a connection--

"You're not possessed," Ginny tells him when he asks, "Not again. No blackouts, no time loss, Harry, you're fine. If you weren't we'd tell you."

"Is your dad okay?" he asks her.

"Thanks to you. You should have visited, Mum wanted you there."

"I had stuff to sort out."

"Did you get it sorted?" Ginny asks.

Harry doesn't think so. He thinks it just ended up more complicated.

He dreams in black and white. He dreams in infra-red and he's looked it up, but not yet found out what kind of snake Nagini is, only that she's huge and venomous.

He dreams of maps and blueprints hundreds of years old and of a crazed man with straw coloured hair pouring over them like a madman. He wakes in cold sweats and he knows his friends have noticed that he's not sleeping.

Something is coming. They need to be prepared.

Someone suggests they make their revolution the army that Umbridge fears. Harry thinks they don't need to be something of Dumbledore's to be feared - they deserved to be feared on their own merit. He watches as stunners fly into training dummies, as Hermione turns into an owl and then turns right back around to where once again all Neville can seem to manage is the lethal looking claws and all Harry can think is that: this is them.

This is us, he thinks, this isn't Dumbledore's army.

This is Hogwart's Army. The sleeping dragons that have been tickled, and everyone is going to find out just why you shouldn't wake them up.

Harry and Blaise also find it hilarious that Draco Malfoy keeps patrolling the corridor with his gleaming prefect badge and Inquisitorial Squad Badge, and he has no idea that they've stolen his name to start a secret club.

"The Dragons is stupid," Hermione says.

"Why not?" a fourth year Gryffindor who often can be caught staring star-struck at Harry through a camera lens says, "He fought a dragon last year, it's part of the school motto--"

"I--" Daphne pulls a face, "Agree with Granger," she says, like it pains her, "But it also kind of fits--"

"Draco Dormiens," Luna Lovegood says with a vague smile, "I've always wanted to be a Sleeping Dragon."

They never do agree on an official name, but the nickname does stick.

Umbridge stalks the halls and James looks like he wants to dog Harry's steps as well, but also knows when to show restraint. Harry tries to distance himself, tries to avoid James' stares that look like he wants to sit down and explain everything, but knows that Harry doesn't want that.

Harry doesn't know what he wants.

The Dragons keep meeting, and getting caught was inevitable, Harry thinks, as Filch manhandles him into Umbridge's office where she's sipping daintily on a pink floral teacup. She's a fat, middle-aged woman with wrinkles and plump fat in all the wrong places, but she acts like she's a young girl: cute and dainty with fine features and a delicate voice.

She's not. She's horrible and she inexplicably reminds Harry of his Aunt Marge, and it's that that saves them all. Because if there is one thing Harry can do; it is smile at his Aunt Marge while she insults his family.

"My dear boy," she pampers, "What. Is. This?"

And there's the List.

Except, no, Hermione is a Ravenclaw. She's not stupid enough to make a list and leave it lying around. He looks down at the piece of paper and it's not hard to fake seeing it for the first time, because it's not their club contract that Daphne and Blaise had composed.

"It looks like a list of students," he says, "Most of which I know--I've never heard of Zacharias Smith though--"

"A brave student came to me," Umbridge clutches her heart like she's about to have a heart attack. Harry hopes she is. "They passed on to me the names of these students who have been breaking Ministry Law."

Harry peruses the list again, and it's not hard to find the name missing.

This is the last time he lets Cedric bring his girlfriend and her friends into these sorts of things.

"Breaking the law?" he asks, "What law?"

"My law," she says with a simpering smile and drops a scroll in front of him, "Educational Decrees are now Ministry Law, were you not aware of that, Mr Potter, when you started your little… club?" she all but vomits out the word. "Actions against decree number 68 is clearly stated for all to see, as are it's consequences."

Expulsion. Harry knows this. But…

"All I see is a list of names," he says, "It could be about studying or people to share homework plans with. Except Smith, like I said I don't know who he is, but this list isn't necessarily a club," he somehow manages to put the exact same emphasis that she did on the word.

Umbridge's already thin lips thin further. Her face turns a shade redder and she opens her mouth again the door opens and James falls through the door.

"Ahem," his father brushes off his robes and tries to look a bit more dignified as McGonagall and Snape appear behind him, "Mr Potter there you are. You missed detention."

Snape looks gleeful. McGonagall looks stern, but it's aimed at Umbridge not Harry. "And why," she says, her voice close to a cat's hiss, "Are you interrogating one of my students?"

"As Hogwarts High Inquisitor," Umbridge preens slightly, puffing out his chest and only succeeding in making her fat chin wobble ominously, "It is within my right to question the students to matters pertaining to the Ministry and the Law."

"And what," Snape drawls, giving the word several seconds to sink in, "did Mr Potter do this time?"

"I have been made aware of a secret underground club," Umbridge brandishes the list like it's proof, "Run by none other than Mr Potter here."

"I don't run a secret club!" Harry protests, and he'd swear that under Veritaserum if necessary because he doesn't run it, he just sort of sits there and watches--

Umbridge rounds on him, furiously, and he's oddly relieved that he's got back-up, even if Snape is one of those in the room. "Don't. Lie." She's spitting in his face and Harry tries to resist the urge to wipe away the saliva drips, "I know you were planning on starting a secret club. That is no longer allowed under Educational Decree 68--"

"I was," Harry admits, just to save her glee. She actually blinks and stumbles a little at that easy admission and nearby he can see McGonagall and Snape looking horrified.

"You-- were?" Umbridge asks, then blinks again, "Of course you were!" she says, "I knew it! See how he admits his faults--"

"I was planning on it," he interrupts her again, "Nothing ever happened."

Snape raises one eyebrow, seeing where he's going with this. McGonagall still looks like she's swallowed something sour and Umbridge looks confusedly gleeful. "You admit you broke Ministry Law?"

"Of course not!" Harry exclaims, "I would never!"

"But you just admitted--"

"I said I had been intending to start a club. But, while I had been intending to break the law, I didn't actually break it and therefore have, technically, done nothing wrong."

Umbridge opens her mouth to complain and then stops, caught up in the logic of it. McGonagall looks like she's trying not to face-palm and Snape coughs in a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

"I think," James says from behind Harry and he isn't even trying to hide his amusement, "That means no laws have been broken, Dolores, your watchful and vigilant eye has avoided a catastrophe."

"He was intending to--"

"But no laws were broken!" James finishes cheerily with a tone of voice that reminds Harry eerily of Dumbledore, "It's a lot like those Gryffindors once who were caught planning to cheat but because no cheating had occurred no crime was committed. I mean; if we punished students for everything they were going to do, they'd never have a chance to learn for themselves what a bad idea it is. And clearly Mr Potter has learnt from you that this was a terrible mistake, and your quick actions stopped something potentially tragic."

Harry's never heard so much bullshit in his life. He wonders if the Gryffindors were James and his friends and judging from McGonagall's pinched expression it's a distinct possibility.

He thinks adding to the spiel and proclaiming Umbridge to be a good role model would be a step too far so he keeps silent and just nods seriously.

Umbridge splutters. Chokes a little. Looks like she's going to throw something. Finally she holds in her temper, but her tiny eyes promise retribution as she glares at Harry, "In that case, Mr Potter, you are free to go. This time."

"Fantastic," James says, reaching out a hand like he's going to rest it on Harry's shoulder and thinking better of it, just steps around Harry so he's using his body to herd Harry away. Harry oddly appreciates the gesture, and he notes how McGonagall narrows her eyes at it. "Let's go then, detention, I've got some aging defence textbooks that need the paper lice treated--"

Snape looks satisfied with that made-up detention, and McGonagall lingers for only a second to glare at Umbridge before stalking off to assumedly go tell Dumbledore. Harry follows James down three corridors until they're both sure nobody else is there and then he peels off through a tapestry concealing a set of hidden stairs.

"Harry!" he hears, "Harry, wait, can we just talk--?"

He lingers on the stairs as James appears at the bottom, "About?" he asks, wide-eyed and innocent. James sighs, staring at him like he doesn't know how to act.

"The prophecy," he says, "I don't know the precise wording, but I can tell you, I don't know why Dumbledore hasn't already--"

"I don't want to know," Harry says, "I don't believe in Divination or fate. I make my own."

He has to believe that, has to have some grasp of control of his own life which is sharply spiralling away from him. James doesn't say anything else, just allows Harry to turn around and escape up the stairs.

It was a Saturday in late February when second term was already well under way. Outside, the wind howled and drove the stinging sleet into a steady assault against the castle windows. The castle itself was sulking at the weather; four separate groups of first years had had to be rescued after the moving staircases deposited them in the wrong part of the castle, and a fourth year who had wandered down one corridor had found herself somehow on an entirely different floor.

Secret passages are Hogwart's saving grace sometimes, Harry thinks. There is one between the library and kitchen that only appears when the moon is a quarter full. There is one that moves around depending on where the occupier of a nearby portrait has gone wandering that day. There are times Harry needs a quick escape and there is a staircase there, just when he needs it the most to dodge Umbridge. He's pretty sure the castle is sentient. He's also pretty sure that physics can't even begin to explain magic and how it works in this place.

He loves the castle all the more for it.

But he's not the only one who considers it home, and he wakes in a cold sweat with the triumphant thought that 'he's coming home' running through his head and he knows that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

The clock blinks at him. Quite literally, the library clock has two eyes and it's hands are quite literally hands that rest on the seven and five. The library book under his head digs into his cheek and his glasses are knocked askew. His breath is still coming in short sharp bursts and the cold of the outside seeps into his bones as the voice echoes in his ears.

He jolts up and away so fast he almost sends his teetering pile of study material cascading over some first years sitting near to him. They give him odd looks as he scrambles up, barely managing to grab his stuff as he rushes past. He doesn't even fully realise where he's going until he's halfway there and by then, well--

"Can you-- what are you doing here?"

Harry never thought he'd burst in on James, Remus and Snape having tea.

"We're… talking about defence," Lupin says, and they actually are he thinks with horror, he can see defence textbooks and no doubt they're planning some new torturous lesson for them, "Harry, what's the matter?"

"I need your help. Well, not his," Harry jerks his head at Snape, "And not yours really, I didn't know you'd be here - do they really let you back in the school after what happened?"

"Harry!" Remus scolds.

"Shush," James mouths over the word 'Moony', "Don’t worry about him.” James waved his hands flippantly, “It’s his time of the month.” Lupin looked aghast while Snape looked mildly amused.

"Worry about him?" Harry repeats, disbelieving, "He almost ate me!"

"Harry!" Remus sounds indignant and Harry doesn't relent.

"He's a Dark Creature, are you associating with a--"

"OKAY!" James snaps, "I get it, not everything Dark is bad, but if I see a Dark spell used by you for no justifiable reason then you're--" he stops, and Harry thinks he might have been about to say 'grounded', "In detention," James finishes, probably aware of Snape there, "For the rest of my time teaching here."

"So, about four months?" Harry asks, "No defence teacher has lasted more than one year teaching."

"Oh, sure, tell me that now," James looks alarmed, but also appears more worried about what Harry has appeared to tell him, "Come on," he says, "I'll escort you back to the Slytherin common room before Umbridge catches you out after hours."

Harry half expects Snape to interject. Instead his teacher just narrows his eyes at the pair of them and Harry twists so the man can't compare the two of them in profile.

"What is it?" James asks, outside the room out of earshot of everyone except maybe Remus but then that doesn't matter that much.

Harry considers how to explain the connection for a moment. There is still cold sweat clinging to his forehead; he's amazed he managed to play it off as cool as he did to Snape, "When Voldemort tried to kill me," he begins, watching James' curious reaction of stress lines and tense muscles, "-because of this prophecy," he adds, just to make his dad flinch, "The curse rebounded. Mum sacrificed herself for me, and Voldemort was destroyed. At least - his body was. His spirit fled, he lived in animals, snakes, the back of our first defence teacher's head--"

"Dumbledore is the worst at hiring," James shakes his head.

"My scar hurts when he's near," Harry says, "Or when he's emotional. Which isn't very often - guy's a psychopath - but I can feel him. I dream sometimes… like I'm him. Dumbledore says he thinks Voldemort left a link with the curse, a sort of mental bond--"

"A sort of mental bond?" James quotes him, and he sounds as disbelieving as Harry, "What sort of 'mental bond'?"

"I don't know, the restricted section - don't look like that, Hermione had a year pass - it doesn't have anything and Dumbledore won't elaborate - but you're missing the point. I dream about him, what he's doing."

James comes to a full halt, "You what?"

"I dream. From his point of view. And his snake's the one time - that was weird - and I'm getting better at blocking it out, but sometimes it creeps through and--"

"Did you see something?" James is suddenly there, and he looks like he's going to reach out but he doesn't, just hovers, looking worriedly over Harry, "Are you okay? Is your scar still hurting?"

"I know what Barty Crouch was doing in Hogsmeade," Harry says, "And I know what he's planning."

“You see into his head?” James says again, sounding horrified with each word, “Harry, you can’t just do that, it’s dangerous--”

“I don’t have much choice,” he snaps, “But he thinks it’s here! He’s coming to get it. Or he’s-- I don’t know, sending people to get it.”

James’ face is an appropriate level of concerned, and when the third voice enters the conversation, tone a simpering sickly sweet and horribly knowing Harry watches the expression just freeze. “He’s sending people to get what?” Umbridge says from where she has just turned the corner. She’s dressed all in pink as always, and her head cocks to the side with an ugly smirk like she’s caught them red handed.

Harry’s heart sinks and he stares at her blankly for a good five seconds. James manages to plaster a smile and slip into a tone Harry recognises horribly as the same tone he uses for getting out of trouble, “Madame Umbridge,” he says, “How can I help you this fine evening - I was just escorting Mr Potter back after another of his detentions--”

But her beady eyes are fixed on Harry and she’s not backing down, “I knew he was hiding something,” she says, triumphantly, “I knew it, I told Cornelius something like this was going to happen, that Dumbledore was plotting against us, that’s why we had to act, why we had to get him out before--”

Harry’s jaw snaps shut and James splutters, “Hang on,” he says, backtracking, “Dumbledore?”

Umbridge sniffs, looking like he’s shoved something sour under her nose, “Yes,” she says, “He’s been spreading lies and slanderous rumours, now he’s planning to act.”

“You had to get him out?” Harry repeats, ice creeping into his stomach because as much as he dislikes the man, Dumbledore had been like some sort of security blanket. Voldemort wouldn’t try anything with Dumbledore around, the older and more twisted version of Tom Riddle was rightfully wary of his old teacher and would want to stay far away but not-- “Where is Dumbledore?”

“He left,” she says, like that explains everything.

“He what?” James looks seconds away from goring her on an antler, “He’s the headmaster, he can’t just leave.”

“Oh, excuse me, he was… what’s the word? Discharged from employment. We had to let him go.”

“We?”

“The Ministry. The Minister himself has seen fit to elect me as Headmistress for the moment, at least until a suitable replacement can be found or my position can be made permanent--” for a moment her smile grows thin, “I’m currently locked out of Dumbledore’s office, whoever knows what foul magics he has in there--”

He doesn’t have any magics, Harry wants to say, just a pensieve and a gargoyle that only accepts sweet-related passwords.

“And where is Professor Dumbledore now?” James asks, cautiously. “Did you arrest him for…” he makes a hand-gesture, clearly not sure of the word that will describe the way Umbridge views the people who have opinions that differ to that of her previous Ministry.

“We tried to arrest him, but he cut and run.

It feels less like a death sentence than it should. It hangs over them, dark and ominous and the horrible truth sets in. “Congratulations,” Harry says, but the words are hollow. He doesn’t mean it. “On your promotion,” he says, “It’s well-deserved--”

“Enough, Mr Potter, you haven’t yet answered my question. What is it Dumbledore’s after? What’s his plan? I just want what is best for our community--”

“I don’t know anything,” Harry says, “He’s been avoiding me all year--”

“How auspicious,” she simpers, “I think you and I may benefit from a little chat in my office. Professor Peverell can assist my newly promoted team in checking Dumbledore hasn’t left any other instructions with staff or students.”

Dumbledore hasn’t left him any instructions, Harry wants to scream, Dumbledore hasn’t spoken to him, hasn’t so much as dared to look in Harry’s direction for fear of seeing someone else behind Harry’s eyes. Dumbledore had spent the whole year avoiding Harry because of his link with Voldemort, and yet he still saw fit to leave Harry alone and virtually unprotected within the walls of the castle?

Dumbledore was clearly an idiot and had not at all considered the threats that already lay within, as Umbridge fixes her beady eyes on him and juts out her many chins, “Now,” she declares, “That item of interest Dumbledore was going to retrieve - you are going to tell me where it is.”

Out of the many, varying circumstances James had thought through regarding threats and dangers, somehow he never considered this pink toad and her rabble as an actual viable threat. Clearly he’d been too busy worrying about his son and the real threat outside the walls of the castle, because Umbridge has gathered together people to support her - admittedly a small group consisting of Filch and Slytherin’s Junior Death Eater Club, but it’s support. This makes things more complicated, especially considering Dumbledore’s gone and according to Harry, there’s a Death Eater or more planning an attack on the castle. The kids can’t know, he thinks, looking at their smug faces, they can’t have any idea, they’re just looking forward to throwing their weight around, they have no idea what is coming--

“Professor Peverell, you can help Mr Filch in getting some of the chains out of the dungeons; I believe they may be necessary when Dumbledore and his cronies show up, Potter, you’re with me.”

She latches on to Harry, under the arm, and James sees him flinch, sees his green eyes flash with panic as she moves for him. Haery stumbles - uncharacteristic for him -  and flings out an arm, latching onto James for a moment before Umbridge manages to drag him forwards. For a small, fat woman she looks like she has a mean grip.

“I’ll see right to it,” he says, trying to communicate silently with his son that he’ll sort this out, he’ll get help, he’ll--

His hand closes around the piece of parchment shoved at him by Harry, and he his mind races through plans and options, trying to stem the rising despair.

Umbridge drags his only child around the corner on a determined march and Filch steps forwards, rubbing his hands together gleefully, “She’s good for this school, going straight for the good old punishments,” the wizened man sneers, “See if students trek muck through my spotless hallways now--”

“We’ll run a patrol,” the Malfoy brat says, puffing out his chest so the badge catches the light, “If we catch anyone out post-curfew we’ll bring them straight to you or Madam Umbridge. I’m sorry,” Malfoy chuckles, “ Headmistress Umbridge.”

“About time we got some proper discipline in this place,” Filch croaks, “About--”

“Argus,” James tears his gaze away from where Umbridge had dragged Harry off to, “Shut up.”

Filch looks like James had slapped him. “Excuse me?” he asks, sticking his pinky finger in his ear and wiggling around as if that might dislodge something.

“In fact,” James makes a decision, “You're right, it's approaching curfew, students should be in their common rooms, it's much safer. See to it.”

He leaves Filch still squinting at him and casting one last glance at where his son had been, he spins on his heels and heads the opposite direction, barely avoiding ploughing over Malfoy and his cronies.

He can’t just interject, Umbridge will skin him alive, he needs to tell someone what Harry just told him, he needs to--

He looks at what Harry shoved into his hand and can’t hide  his smile. His son really did get his mother’s brains.

He finds Hermione in a room somewhere between the Ravenclaw tower and the Runes Department. She’s not technically in the castle - she’s circling around just outside and as James gets there there is a light fluttering as an owl - great horned, he thinks - flutters through the window and lands, somewhat clumsily on the floor.

“I am so glad Remus gave you actual textbooks,” McGonagall is standing there, looking determined, fierce and so proud he’d have almost thought she was a Ravenclaw herself in that moment as she looks upon the ridiculously fluffy owl. Hermione’s bushy dark hair just translated to a bundled of dark over-feathered plumage and for a moment the owl attempts to preen herself, but gives up. Between one blink and the next the girl is standing there, looking very pleased with herself. “I’ve got the forms all signed-- Ian,” Minerva spots James lurking in the doorway, “Hello, I was just assisting Miss Granger with her final transformation. I doubt she’ll have to worry about her OWLs with all the work she and her friends have put into this foolish venture.”

“Congratulations,” he says to Hermione, “Of course she shouldn’t worry about owls, all things considered.”

Hermione looks aghast, but whether it’s because of the pun or because her teacher just told her not to worry about exams; it is hard to tell.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he adds, “I was hoping I could borrow Hermione. Are you done here--?”

“Of course,” Minerva says, “I’ll mail your forms off this evening,” she says to Hermione.

“Thank you,” Hermione says, Professor P-Peverell, what can I help you with?”

“If you just come with me, I need your help with something--” he says, and steps aside gesturing to the door. She narrows her eyes at him but moves, glancing back to check he’s following. He lingers a moment, before twisting back to McGonagall. This is just going to confuse her, he thinks, but hopefully it might alarm her too that a stranger knows what he does, “Get the Order,” he tells her, voice hushed but Hermione probably hears anyway, “Get Dumbledore wherever he is, and tell him they think the prophecy is here.”

She stiffens, “What on earth do you mean, Ian? Dumbledore--” and she’d almost definitely demand more, but right now he doesn't give her the chance.

“Dumbledore’s gone,” James snaps, savagely, because Dumbledore left his son in an abusive household, Dumbledore failed to prepare Harry for the full extent of Voldemort’s delusional beliefs regarding that stupid thrice cursed prophecy and Dumbledore left the castle in the hands of the pink toad. He owes her more but right now he has to rescue his son. “Dumbledore,” James says, voice dropping to pure venom, “Is too far away to do anyone any good and by the time he comes ambling back in with his bee covered robes and dented hat, we’ll either be dead and clearing up the mess after our victory. And personally I know which one I prefer. Now go. And summon. The Order.”

He leaves her there, still spluttering on her words like a cat with a hairball.

Outside in the corridor Hermione glares at him, “I know who you are,” she says, like it’s some sort of challenge, glancing behind to where McGonagall looks like she’s seconds from chasing him down.

“Good,” he says, “Let’s go, before I get castrated by McGonagall, Harry needs help.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” she says, primly, “Let’s go!”

“Are we going to Dumbledore’s office?” Harry grits out as Umbridge drags him along the castle corridor. “Your office?” he stumbles over an uneven flagstone.

Umbridge pauses for half a second, as if trying to decide if Harry is trying to slight her or not. She decides to ignore it, and instead fixes her beady eyes on where the guardian griffin statue sits. “I would, if that foul statue would move out of the way.”

She takes a threatening step towards the gargoyle, but it stays as still as...well...stone. She pulls out her wand, muttering something ominous about veritaserum under her breath. Harry uses that opportunity to cast his gaze around for something, anything, that can help him…

His gaze lands on the forest outside and a terrible, wonderful idea enters his head.

In front of him, Umbridge looks seconds away from cursing the statue to smithereens, and so Harry speaks up, blurts out, “I’ll show you where the weapon is!”

Umbridge pauses.

“I didn’t want to help him, Dumbledore doesn’t even like me, my parents got killed for his cause, I’ll show you where the weapon is.”

“And why,” Umbridge steps closer to him, and Harry tries not to choke on her perfume, “Why should I believe you?”

“Why would I lie?” he asks, with wide eyes, and a well practise expression of perfect neutrality. “I’m a Slytherin, you were too, you know the value of that.”

Appealing to her house pride appears to work because she gestures, “Let’s find out then what Dumbledore’s been hiding.”

He’s leading Professor Umbridge through the Forbidden Forest and all she can do is to look like a puffed up peacock following behind him and commenting “I knew Dumbledore was up to something. I told Cornelius and the aurors and when they marched in here to confront him he ran like a guilty man.”

Harry comes to a stop by a fallen tree and a mossy clearing. “There’s no conspiracy,” he says, “You know it’s all in your head, right?”

Umbridge scoffs, stalking past him. Harry holds his breath as she rounds a slight bend and--

Nothing happens. “Yet he’s building an army, isn’t he?” she says, “A weapon - well go on, then, Potter. Where is it?”

“I--” Harry waits. He doesn’t know the forest that well, but he knows it well enough to lead Umbridge to a well ridden centaur path.

And right now the Ministry and Umbridge are the centaur’s least favourite friend.

At least, that’s the plan. It will, of course, not go accordingly, but he can at least try. He’s good at adapting and right now he may have to. There are no centaurs around by the looks of things.

“It’s not here, is it,” Umbridge decides to move things along, “You lied, I bet your little friends are busy hiding it right now, aren’t they?”

“It’s here,” he bluffs, “Why else would I lead you here, this place is horrible.”

“I’ve had enough of your games. Foolish boy, you are going to tell em what you've been planning.” She someone manages to look down her nose at him. Which is difficult considering she's short and squat and doesn't have much of a nose to begin with.

Harry opens his mouth to lie, to spin a new believable tale when there is a horrible groaning sound. There is a sudden and terrible lurch as the tree trunk to Harry’s left is suddenly grabbed by something. Harry flinches away and Umbridge spins around, both of them staring.

Someone picked up the log.

A very big someone, with five fingers and large eyes and--

“GRAWP PLAY?” asks the someone. Umbridge screams as the tree trunk comes down and Harry is pushed to the side by something. He stumbles and is dragged along by a hand under his arm as the shape materialises into red hair and lanky limbs. Ron pulls Harry to the edge of the clearing with him, and the pair stair in horror at the scene unfolding before them.

“What the actually--” Harry hisses at Ron, as Umbridge straightens, puffs out her pink fur-coat covered chest like some demented peacock crossbred with a toad.

“Begone,” she demands, like the giant might listen to her, “Leave, you filthy half-breed, you barbaric--”

The baby giant blinks at her, eyes welling up with tears. “Grawp no play?”

Ron curses next to him. “Oh no.”

Harry didn’t think the dejected giant could look as saddened as it did when Umbridge starts firing spells, but his eyes well up with tears and the tree trunk drops so violently the ground shakes. “Let’s go,” Ron hisses, Umbridge distracted for now as Harry slowly edges after his friend--

“Incendio!” Umbridge calls out and a column of flame shoots out her wand. Grawp startles, flinches and the giant tree trunk still in his hand shifts--

“MOVE!” Ron shouts, as the pair of them make a run for it.

“There are giants in the forest?” Harry says, “GIANTS?” Behind them Grawp is not swatting at Umbridge like she’s a fly, and she’s shrieking something unintelligible.

“First of all, he’s a baby giant,” Ron says, “Secondly; I told you about him, remember? He’s Hagrid’s half-brother.”

“Half-brother? Half-brother? Didn’t I say that I had better self-preservation than risking my neck around half-educated teenage giants?”

“Hey, mate, you’re the one who brought Umbridge out into the forest - what were you expecting to find?”

“I don’t know, I was hoping the centaurs would carry her off or something!”

They scrabble along the undergrowth, keeping low as they find a bush to stay still behind as they watch Grawp continue to swing his tree trunk wildly.

Harry hates Hagrid. Or rather - he doesn’t hate Hagrid. Hagrid was his first sort-of friend, the big half-giant may be a bit dim at times but he has the purest heart of anyone Harry’s met.

Harry hates Hagrid’s propensity for large and dangerous and terrifying monsters. His half-brother included.

There is a rustle of twigs and Harry and Ron spin around, only to relax when they spot bushy hair, “Oh, it’s only you,” Harry says, “What are you two doing here? How did you even find me?”

Hermione brandishes a piece of parchment triumphantly.

“You dad gave us this,” she says, then pouts as Harry rescues the Map from her. “He wants to help.”

Harry knows this. He’s got enough enemies to worry about right now without worrying about those who are already on his side. And new player or not, if there is one thing he can trust it is that James is one hundred percent on his side.

Mostly Harry just wishes he could have one term to be left in peace to actually study. Nobody really considers his education in all this, except maybe Hermione and she puts education above everything so she doesn’t really count.

“Come on,” Hermione says, “We should get back up to the castle, find your dad and--” that’s as far as she gets as she spins around and walks straight into a slightly soot-stained Umbridge.

“And where…” there’s still a bit of her pink jacket smoking, “Where do you think you three are off to so… quickly…”

“Professor Dumbledore won’t stand for this,” Hermione says, primly, back ramrod straight and chin out like a defiant Gryffindor, “The castle won’t accept you as a Headteacher, why do you think the gargoyle won’t let you in?”

“How dare you?” Umbridge bristles, “The castle won’t accept me but it accepts that old fool with three headed dogs in his classrooms and monsters roaming the grounds petrifying students? Removing the headmaster is merely a safety precaution at this stage. He is not fit to run a school of young, easily deceived minds such as yourself…”

You’re not fit, Harry is thinking.

“It appears,” she says with an air of great reluctance, “That I must do what I must, your minds are already so confused, a bit more… influence won’t hurt…” and she lifts her wand a tad higher.

"You can't!" Hermione shouts, "The Minister!"

"What Cornelius doesn't know," Umbridge says slowly, "Won't hurt him. Now just hold still, Mr Potter. This won't hurt a bit."

Harry can see the word on her tongue, knows already what's going to happen, braces himself for the pain, but not for a brilliant red spark to hit her.

It’s not a spell, Harry realises belatedly. It sears her pink coat with soot and sparks like crazy and--

It's a firework, he thinks, and for a moment Umbridge looks confused, looks almost offended by the burned hole in her coat and then--

Then she notices what Harry has already seen, what Ron clearly recognises judging by the meep in his voice, Hermione’s backing up towards them--

The three fling themselves out of the way of the giant firework dragon flying straight for her with its jaws open. Umbridge takes one look at it and with a shrill, piercing scream starts running.

"What in the--"

“Come on!” James shouts from the side, “You were taking too long!”

“You’re a teacher!” Hermione is outraged, “Why do you even have Fred and George’s products?”

“They’re a good investment--no, I’m not justifying myself to a teenage girl, let’s just get a move on before--well, before-- something else goes wrong.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s friends are whispering to themselves, casting suspicious glances at him when they think he isn’t looking. Harry himself is quiet, and he winces occasionally and rubs at his head like something is bothering him.

“We’re going to get locked up,” Ron is mumbling, “My dad’s going to lose his job, I’m going to be expelled, as soon as Umbridge returns--”

“We’ve got time,” James says, “I’ll handle it; worst case I reveal myself and everyone is too busy marvelling to worry about a little insurgence against the government.”

“A little insurgence?” Hermione splutters, “A little --” she sounds like she’s going to start a full-blown rant. Harry doesn’t say anything, he just keeps rubbing at his head.

At his scar, James realises with horror at the same time Hermione realigns her priorities.

“Dumbledore isn’t here,” she says, “But you told McGonagall to summon the Order - what are you scared about?”

James doesn’t know. He’d been half-way through finding out before Umbridge had interrupted, “I think,” he begins slowly, “There is going to be an attack. On Hogwarts.”

Ron swears loudly and crudely. James wonders whether he picked it up from his mother or father and hopes Harry hasn’t picked up on some poor language tastes. “Did they hear Dumbledore was gone?” he asks, “Decided it was a good time to attack--?”

“Why would they do that?” Hermione frowns, “They’ve been keeping a low profile all year - why now and why Hogwarts?”

“They’re looking for something,” Harry says, his hand still massaging his forehead, “The prophecy.”

“Here? In Hogwarts? Why on earth would they look here?” James doesn’t understand it, “Prophecies are stored in the Ministry, deep in the Department of Mysteries. Not at Hogwarts…”

Something akin to guilt can be seen in the way Harry pulls a face at that. "I--uh--" Harry winces, "I may have implied that the prophecy was hidden at Hogwarts and not in the Department of Mysteries."

James stops, "You what?"

"In my defence I didn't know it was a prophecy," Harry argues, trying to stay calm, but even James can see the panic his son is trying to hide, "But he wants it badly, like, really badly - I've been dreaming about this corridor for months, so I realised it was important somehow so I might have implied to Crouch that it was here. And it must have worked. I mean, it did work."

"We need to tell--" James doesn't get to saying Dumbledore's name because he realises the same as Harry that Dumbledore isn't there.

“There’s no way into the castle though,” Hermione says, “There are only seven odd secret passages and they’re either caved in or monitored or--”

“Oh no,” James realises at the same time Harry does, “Crouch was here the other day. In Hogsmeade. I suspect that caved in tunnel might not be as caved in as it once -- woah, Harry?”

James is mid-sentence when with a cry of pain Harry makes a blind grab for something, eyes clenched shut and keels over.

His friends move towards him but James is quicker, catching his son before he falls. He’s limp for a moment, eyes closed and so still James thinks his heart will stop with the sudden terrible and awful fear that wells up in him.

But then with a jolt Harry’s eyes fly open. He blinks once at James, not flinching from his grip. His gaze is bleak and not there for a moment before he focuses on his father as James helps him into a more comfortable sitting position.

“Harry!” Hermione hovers anxiously, “What’s wrong?”

“You look really pale,” Ron comments, observationally.

“The Prophecy,” Harry says, his eyes finding James’, “They’re coming now. Tonight .”

James swears. “That doesn’t give us much time,” he says, mind already racing, “You two are prefects, right? Good, then Ron, go make sure the Common Rooms are barricaded, locked, Hermione go locate as many teachers as you can, Harry, we--”

“They’re coming?” Hermione interrupts, frowning, “For the Prophecy?” she is frowning, and her lips move silently as she quotes from a book she’s read, “But… I didn’t think they could.”

He stops.

Realisation creeps in with a horrible, cold feeling. “Oh,” he says, “That might be bad.”

“What might be?” Ron demands, “What’s the problem?”

“The orbs they keep prophecies in,” Hermione says, slowly, “They’re enchanted. Specially. It’s to protect them and to stop people who aren’t involved listening to them.”

Harry gets it now too, his face going deathly pale. "Oh crap.”

“Language,” James says, without thinking, “Can’t believe I just said that,” he mumbles.

“What does that mean? Specially enchanted?” Ron asks.

“It means,” James concludes, “That only the people about whom the prophecy is about can touch it. And if he thinks it is here… he can’t send someone else. He has to come here himself.”

“Why not just get a minion to use a levitation charm?” Ron asks, and Hermione looks at Ron like she’s seeing him for the first time.

“That is surprisingly logical,” she says, “Things are never that easy though, not with magic.”

Magic isn’t simple, and things like anti-levitation and anti-summoning charms exist.

“We’ll deal with Voldemort turning up if it happens,” James says, “Right now we need to be prepared for the Death Eaters arriving on our doorstep. Where does the tunnel come out in the castle?”

“Mirror on the fourth floor.”

“Oh, it’s that one,” James hums, trying to plan what to do. “Okay, we grab the Order and try and head them off early, you two are prefects, right, you can ensure all students are in their common rooms--”

They’re not even halfway there. They’ve just left the entrance hall and are ascending the staircases when the explosion happens. It’s very definitely an explosion, and it shakes the castle. It’s impossible to tell where it comes from, and they all clutch the bannister in alarm.

“They’re not being subtle, are they?” Ron huffs, eyes wide.

“Okay, I think they just made it past the blockage.”

Hermione and Harry are exchanging pointed looks that James thinks he should be worried about. “Come on,” Harry says, still rubbing at his forehead occasionally, “We need a rendezvous - fifth floor?”

“What’s on the fifth floor?” James asks, but the other three are already heading off up the stairs. “Guys, slow down! I’m not as young as I remember being--!”

He pauses to catch his breath, then grits his teeth and follows.

Harry knows the castle wall, darting sideways into one of the corridors to go straight for the spiral tower that bypasses the fourth floor entirely which - given the soon-to-be-occupation of that floor - is probably for the best.

They burst out into the corridor and judging by the way they startle appear to have run right into McGonagall who almost shoots a curse at them. "JAMES POTTER!" their teacher snaps, "Don't do that--" she says, her hair half in a bun and glasses skew, "Oh, it’s you. Wrong Potter," she corrects, stiffly, straightening her glasses, "Please stop trying to give me early heart attacks and come with me, I need to talk to you about several things. First of which - where exactly is our new headmistress and secondly - please tell me that explosion was you?”

"Oh, Umbridge won't be a problem," James appears from thin-air behind McGonagall and she jumps once more.

“Potter- Ian !” she scolds, "Don't do that! Where have you been - Dumbledore is gone, Umbridge is missing and I’ve summoned the Order but for what reason I don’t know - how do you even know about the Order --"

“There are Death Eaters,” Harry blurts out, then quails a bit under his teacher’s glare, “I’m telling the truth,” he says, “I… it’s like at Christmas. With Mr Weasley. I saw them coming - they’re attacking the castle, I told Professor Peverall but then Umbridge got paranoid so we… leftherintheforbiddenforest--”

“You did what ?”

“Left her. In the Forbidden Forest. With a baby giant and a herd of centaur and a firework dragon and--”

"You're going to be the cause of my retirement, Potter," McGonagall says.

"How come you can make her retire but I can't," James almost whines, "Merlin, my own son is a better Potter than I, and he's not even in Gryffindor. First Potter in Slytherin for ten generations and he gets a teacher to retire."

"Do talk sense, Ian," McGonagall says, “You still haven’t explained how you knew about the Order. Unless of course Potter told you--”

“Only in a manner of speaking--” James says, “Minerva; I promise I’ll explain this all to you later, but right now I need you to trust me - I’m on your side. We need to get some defences set up and I need you to get the Order.”

She gives such a look for a moment, then her gaze swivels to Harry and back, like a cat. She knows, James realises, she just doesn’t quite know how or why, but she understands the importance of time, “How--” she mouths, then shakes her head, “Not now, the Order are already here. I’ll see to it that the students stay in their common rooms-- someone get Dumbledore back here NOW!” she stalks off, cloak swirling around her and James turns to Harry, Ron and Hermione.

He opens his mouth and then closes it, knowing already what the verdict is, “There’s no point in telling you three to go back to your common rooms and stay out of the way, is there?”

“There’s no point in telling any of us that,” Ron says, and holds up what looks like a gold galleon. James squints at it. He didn’t think the Weasley’s owned any galleons.

“We’re fighting,” Harry says, like it’s final, and James sighs. He sees too much of Lily in his son.

He sees too much of himself.

“Besides,” Ron interjects, “This is our home too. We want to defend it, we’re the Sleeping Dragons, right?”

“You’re the what ?” James looks bemused.

“No, Ron’s right,” Hermione says, “This place is made to be defended. It's why Rowena designed the ever changing floor plan the way she did with the trick steps, the moving staircases, the corridors that alternate positions every other Thursday--"

"She did it to be defensive?" Harry says, "Oh, great, I thought she did it just to be annoying."

"That's why your common isn't in a tower," Hermione says huffily, "Clearly you Slytherins can't work out a simple pattern--"

"Clearly us Slytherins value survival over falling off the stairs--"

"Cunning should mean you can handle moving staircases!"

"Cunning means we know when to avoid unnecessary danger--"

"Guys, guys, can we argue about this another time?" James speaks up over them. “We’ve got company.”

“I know,” Ron says, “I called them.” He holds up the galleon like it’s an explanation but doesn’t answer James’ question, “We’re going to need back-up, right?” and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder to some new arrivals.

James takes one look at Fred and George Weasley, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan and Ginny Weasley and shakes his head emphatically. “No,” he says, pointedly.

“Unusual time for a meeting,” Seamus greets them, “Hang on, ain’t he a teacher?”

“No,” James says again to Harry and Ron, “No, I can’t allow this.”

“Harry, you just outed us to a teacher, mate,” Fred - maybe-George? - pouts, “Good job.”

“What, no," Harry shakes his head, "He knows already, he's not going to do anything, and you--" he turns to James, "This is what we've been training for - to fight, to defend ourselves and our home!" he presses, "You can't stop us."

“You’re students! I can’t let you fight!”

His twenty-one year old self is warring with his thirty- shit , he can’t remember how old he is. The younger James wins, the last war fresher in his mind than most.

He had been their age too, this is their war as much as it is his. “Fine,” he says, “But you don’t do anything rash and you all come back, do you hear me? I want evasive maneuvers from all of you, avoid direct fighting if possible--”

“Fighting?” Dean asks, “What fighting? Is this to do with the explosion? One of the Inquisitorial Squad said it was an accident with a volatile potion--”

“We’re being attacked,” Ron blurts out. “By Death Eaters. Maybe You-Know-Who as well, maybe even his giant snake--”

There are immediate questions, and James tries to fend them off only for Harry to whirl around and snap “QUIET!” at everyone. They fall silent instantly and James can only wish he’d managed to learn how Lily and clearly Harry do that. He waits, because these are Harry’s friends, but all his son does is turn to Ron, “Giant snake?”

“Yeah,” Ron blinks, “You said he had a giant pet snake--”

“Not that one--” Harry says, slowly, “Ron, you’re a genius, Ginny, I need you with me. Guys, the Death Eaters are trying to retrieve something from the castle. I--shit--we need to defend ourselves. Block them off. Keep them contained. Don’t get hurt. Don’t put yourself in the direct line of fire. There’s something I need to do. See you in a bit.”

“See you in a--what, HARRY ?” but Harry is already taking off down the corridor.

“What’s he doing?” Ron asks, watching Harry sprint away down the corridor.

“Something stupid, probably,” Hermione shrugs, “Wai- Ginny?”

“We’ll be in Myrtle’s bathroom! I’ll tell you later!” Ginny calls over her shoulder as she races after Harry, “But if you hear screaming or hissing - you all need to shut your eyes, okay?”

“What?” Ron gapes, “I think they’ve lost it--Myrtle - Moaning Myrtle? This is a bad time for a bathroom break.”

“Not now, Ron,” Hermione appears to know, or at least have some idea.

“Okay,” James claps his hands together, “Hermione, Ron - you inform any more of your little club what’s going on when they get here - you two - you any good at avoiding detection?”

The twins shoots each other gleeful grins, “Oh, Professor, evasive maneuvers are some of our best skills.”

"You should have been Slytherin," he says to the twins, and there's a moment in which they all, James included, think he's insulted them, and then he realises he's just paid them a compliment.

"Well," says Probably George, "The hat did want to put me in Slytherin, but I said there was no way I wouldn't be in the same dorm room as my brother."

"The hat did contemplate Ravenclaw," Probably Fred hums, "But when I told it if we were in different houses we'd switch ties and class schedules it decided to save the teachers' a headache and put us in Gryffindor together."

"Missed opportunity, George," Maybe-Not-George laments with a dramatic hand across his heart.

"Well right now, I need some of that Ravenclaw and Slytherin," James says, "And maybe one of those swamps of yours too. We’re going to see just how many rules we can break in defense of this castle.”

“You’re a teacher,” Hermione looks disapproving, “You can’t break rules!”

"I'm Prongs," James scoffs, "I invented rule breaking."

"You're who?" Fred and George chorus.

"Not now," Hermione says, “I need to explain this to Blaise and Daphne without getting cursed.”

Water drip-drip-drips down the cold flagstones, trailing a path in the algae and slime and mould that cling to the walls. It’s damp and humid in the bowels of the castle, and the air is old. Bones and dried scaling cracks beneath their feet as they trace a path through the gloom, their robes trailing through the putrid water.

Harry wonders whether Dumbledore was ever going to do something about the giant snake living in the basement. He’s pretty sure the old man isn’t even fully aware of it beyond the haunting legend of Slytherin’s monster and after the whole diary incident it never really occurred to him that it was still down here.

Next to him Ginny shivers, “I used to dream about this place,” she whispers, “But half-dreams; I never really remembered what I was doing when I was here.” She pauses, then forcefully corrects herself, “When he was here.”

“You remember what to say?”

“Not the language,” she says, “It’s funny,” she says, as the snakes shimmer to life in front of him, “I remember speaking it. I can even hiss out the words if I try, but no meaning comes to them the way they used to when… when he was in my head.”

Harry’s never noticed any difference. Then again, he supposes, Tom’s always in his head.

“Go on,” she says, gently, “Tell it to open.”

The words slips from his mouth like something venomous, and the magic shimmers in the air. “I always thought this place would be more interesting. More private study, less dungeon and torture chamber, less ugly statues---”

“It was built long after Slytherin had died,” Ginny says, “I looked it up, found those who had claimed to find it before. But who knows what madness runs in the bloodline, what prompted him to build this place under the eyes of everyone else. I think there might be rooms connected, but I have a feeling previous descendants have gotten here already. I doubt there's anything left but dust and cobwebs."

Harry stops before the statue, "So what now? Where's the basilisk?"

"You call it," Ginny says, "From the mouth of the statue."

"Come out!" he shouts, then turns to Ginny. She shakes her head.

"English."

He hisses but it's not words, just plain frustration, "You sure you can't remember the words?"

"Something about Slytherin. That's all."

"Come out!" he shouts again at the statue, but this time it's not English. It's a strangled hiss, his tongue moving strangely and his vocal cords moving in a way that doesn't produce a language that's even close to replicable by a normal person, "In the name of Slytherin, I command you to awaken! In the name of the heir and of Salazar himself--"

And the gaping maw cracks open and the skin in the corridor is large, but it’s not this large, Harry thinks. He catches a glimpse of a giant mouth, of fangs and scales and a size bigger than he’d ever expected before his eyes are shut and he’s holding onto Ginny and talking.

It’s not talking. The strangled hissing language isn’t structured like a normal language; there are no tenses or prepositions or sense of pronouns. It’s horribly crude and there’s a reason there is no written version for it. It’s not a language; it’s a magical ability that runs through his blood (through his soul, maybe) and that’s the only thing that keeps them alive those precious few seconds for the basilisk to listen and obey.

The basilisk hisses something - it's mindless and cruel and 'Snake's aren't good conversationalists,' Harry had told Ron and Hermione, 'They don't work the same way as us, they're sentient, but not in any way we'd consider sentience'. She's all instinct and predator and she listens to the shadow, the memory, the ragged figure of Riddle hovering over him, over the both of them.

The voice that echoes around him is ancient and like cracked parchment. It shivers over Harry's bones, hunger crawling beneath it's scales as it reaches for food, for the light--

She’s all instinct and foreign emotions that humans can’t comprehend and as terrifying as the spectre from his first year had been, as terrifying as the haunting wraith come back from the dead last year was, Harry thinks nothing compares to standing there, blind to the world around him while the walls echo with hissing and the sliding of scales on the wet floor, Ginny’s tiny warm form beating against his own heart.

Then it’s over and she’s gone and Ginny is looking up at him, but her eyes are still closed, too wary to open them, “Did it work?” she asks.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Let’s find out shall we?”

Their feet pound against the stone flagstones and their robes are still damp with the chill of the chamber and sweat still beads from the climb up the stair tunnel back up to the bathroom. The castle is oddly alive for the time, and around them bright lights of spellfire flash.

"Can you hear it?" Ginny asks, and Harry doesn’t turn around the check, he can hear the whispering in the walls, that voice that hungers and calls and hunt-prey-kill--

They round the corner too fast and almost run straight into the dark shapes standing in the corridor. One flicks out a nasty brown curse that hits Harry in the leg sending him stumbling slightly. The Death Eaters standing there with pale masks look up, sneering faces and gleeful voices.

“Oh finally,” one says, “Something interesting--”

“It’s Potter ! Get them!” Macnair shouts, wand lifting--

Harry hears her, seconds before he grabs Ginny. “Get out of the way!” he snaps, and it’s with such a ferocity that the Death Eaters hesitate, giving him enough time to dive sideways through a tapestry covered doorway. Their spell fire falters, just as with a crash a large, deep emerald green serpent crashes around the corner with lunging fangs and bright yellow eyes that freeze Macnair in place with stiff muscle and wide bulging eyes, seconds before the fangs close down.

The screams that follow are piercing and horrifying.

“You’re sure she won’t eat us?”

“She was here to protect the school first,” Harry says to Ginny as they stand there, hearts and breaths racing as they try not to draw attention to themselves, “She’s as much a part of this castle as anything else here.”

There are screams from the other side of the curtain as the King of Serpents goes to work. Then there is silence, and Harry strains to hear the slither of scales, the hissing voice--

Is she gone? Ginny’s wide, frightened brown eyes ask and she doesn’t dare ask it aloud.

Harry tugs her back out into the corridor and instantly pulls a face. The house elves are going to hate him, he thinks, Filch too for cleaning purposes. “Good riddance,” Ginny mutters.

Harry can hear Death Eaters running, fleeing from the monster he’s set upon them. “Expecto Patronum,” he mutters, “Close your eyes, don’t look directly at the snake. She should be just biting, but I can’t guarantee she listened so whatever you do, don’t look directly at her eyes. Tell the others.”

The stag that materialises there bows it’s royal head and then bounds off in a silver beam. Harry turns to Ginny, “That should take care of it,” he says, “We should find the others; you reckon you can find your way past any traps the twins might have set up?”

“I’ve lived with them for 15 years,” she retorts, “What do you-- move !”

A curse flies overhead as Ginny and Harry throw themselves flat. “POTTER!” the Death Eater appearing around the corner shouts, “Should have known I’d find you at the source of the ruckus. It’s why I left the imbeciles lead the charge, distract all the rest while I look for you and find out where exactly that dratted thrice damned crystal ball is.”

“Annihilare!” Harry snaps out, but this time Crouch Jr has learned his lesson and dodges. He follows it up with a silent Portaberto that bounces off a transfigured rock that blocks it.

“Protego!” Ginny snaps out as several coloured lights slide off it, “Stupefy!”

“Ginny, just go!”

“Are you crazy? I’m not leaving you to face this psycho--”

“He’s mine,” Harry says, “Go find the others--”

“Harry--”

They fling themselves to the side of the corridor as a stream of fire down the middle of the corridor. Ginny flings back something oddly bat-shaped and Harry aims some spells towards the floor.

Crouch knocks them to one side with ease, “You forget who used to be a friend of the family, Alastor Moody taught me all his tricks. Why else do you think I was able to imitate him so well?”

Harry shoots another lock-crushing curse at him, just to make him actually dodge. “Ginny, go! Tell my dad I’m just taking a diversion”

“Harry, no, HARRY!” she screams when Harry bounds across the corridor, deflecting two dark cutting curses straight into the window. He doesn’t stop either, and he sees Crouch’s eyes widen in confusion as he throws himself straight out. “Your dad’s fucking dead, Harry , if you kill yourself I’m gonna murder you!” he hears Ginny shout, seconds before footsteps and a whirl of red hair suggest she’s listening to him, knowing his trick.

Crouch doesn’t, rushing to the window, just in time to see the falcon veer sharply straight back towards the castle.

Harry shifts as he re-enters the castle, firing three curses at Crouch’s back. One actually hits, but unfortunately it’s just a bone breaker to Crouch’s non-dominant hand. “That one actually hurt, nice, good tactic,” Barty Jr hums, like he’s still teaching, “Try and be a little quicker next time, that trick’s gonna get old real soon--”

"I'm going to take a chunk out of your other arm," he promises grimly. “Expulso!”

Both move away from the explosion. They’re both flinging curses before the dust even clears. “Where is it, Potter?” Crouch snarls, “You said it was here, well ? Where is it?”

“I lied,” Harry snaps back, “I do that. Slytherin.”

Crouch actually has the gall to laugh, “I like you, I really do,” he sighs, almost regretfully, “Such a shame, I’m gonna have to make sure you’re telling me the truth-- Crucio !”

The spell clips him on the shoulder and despite himself Harry cries out, dropping to one knee. The spell doesn’t last long, he manages to throw a Reducto and Infringo back, silently, and he thanks his dad for all those detentions now as Barty struggles to avoid bits of breaking glass and wall that rain down over him.

“Cute,” Barty laughs, “You put up a good fight for a kid, but what you going to do if you win, huh? Going to kill me? Lone snake by himself, you're not a big brave lion, don't trick yourself--"

"Expelliarmus!" someone shouts, and both Harry's and Crouch's wands go flying. Harry lunges for his, and the spellcaster stumbles towards the other, reaching out. It hits Neville’s hand, and bounces away, and Crouch eyes it up, already moving towards it.

“Longbottom,” Crouch sounds unimpressed, and not at all distressed by being wandless. "How dare you?" he sneers, "You'll go the same way as your parents--"

" Stupefy ," Harry, unlike Neville, had managed to catch his wand with the unerring accuracy of a seeker. Crouch topples like a tree, head crashing into the hard stone and neither the Slytherin nor the Hufflepuff look daunted by this.

"I-I did it," Neville stutters out, "I actually did it."

"That was a neat disarming charm," Harry considers it, "I should start to use that spell more often."

“I actually did it,” Neville is staring at Barty’s crumpled body in amazement.

“Come on,” Harry offers Neville a hand, “Want to help me kick him out of the window?” At Neville’s look he reassigns his priorities, “Yeah, you’re right; I should probably go see where the basilisk has gotten to,” he decides.

“You basilisk what ?”

“Come on!”

They run along the school corridors; there are screams in the distance signalling the rough location of the giant snake Harry is already regretting letting loose.

They take the main stairs, Harry taking two at a time and Neville huffing behind him. They hit the final grand staircase at the same time as something else does, sending the pair lunging for the bannister as the stone steps shudder.

“Harry,” Neville looks deathly pale, “What was that?”

“I think that might have been the basilisk,” he replies, but he can’t hear the hissing, can’t hear the screams, can just hear a horrible, wrenching cracking noise and the creak of splintering wood. He looks past Neville’s shoulder to where the doors to the main entrance are bulging, as if about to burst at the seams any moment--

“Uh, Harry--”

The wood splinters and the wall shakes. Umbridge’s Educational decrees drop to the floor, the glass shattering in a thousand falling raindrops--

“Harry--”

“What is it, Neville?” he turns to the Hufflepuff, only to see Neville is staring not at the splintering door, but above his head to the upper floors where the moving staircases lie above them--

Cracks are spreading like fine fingers reaching out, and Neville trips over backwards as stones scatter down. There are shrieks of someone laughing, curses flying overhead as the Order no doubt fight off the oncoming Death Eaters while behind them--

Harry’s headache which has been present the whole night finally becomes a fully fledged migraine. He barely holds in the hiss of pain as his scar splits open, and he knows full well who stands behind the door, what’s coming, who's coming--

(You know who's coming Tom Riddle whispers in his head.)

“Harry!” Neville shouts in alarm as the staircase above him gives up it’s fight with gravity, around the same time the door finally splinters. Harry just has time to grab a fistful of Neville’s robes, cast the strongest shield charm he knows and throw them out of the way as the world crashes down around them.

Harry comes to buried in what feels like a pile of rubble. He’s covered in bruises what feels like from head to toe. He pushes himself up, feeling something firm next to him. He blinks, and his whole vision is shattered into tiny pieces.

“Reparo,” he mumbles, and he’s going to need new glasses, he thinks, as his vision mostly resolves, but there’s still a chunk of glass missing from one lense and judging by how wet his face feels he has a horrible feeling the shard may be embedded in his cheek.

He pokes tentatively at it. Winces. He’s right.

He pulls it out before he can consider regretting it, shooting a sharp Episkey at his face. It feels only marginally better and he can only hope that if it scars it will look more dashing that the ugly never-quite-healing-lightning bolt.

Looking around him all he sees is devastation. It takes a lot of peering through the gloom to figure out his surroundings, to figure out where he even is. The castle is barely recognizable.

In front of his he can see the door to the Great Hall, house tables empty and dark. Behind him lies the ruins of the staircases, the steps leading five metres up before they stop, nowhere further to go, the way barred by giant pieces of rubble and bannisters. To his right the whole front door to the castle is less of a door, and more of a gaping arch falling straight into the main courtyard.

Harry grabs his wand, relieved when he encounters it where it should be. Next he looks for Neville, and he doesn’t have to look too far.

Neville lies next to him, head facing the remains of the ceiling, a large chunk of rubble lying half on him. “Neville?” Harry reaches out, giving his friend’s shoulder a shove, “Nev, you doing okay?”

There’s a horrifying moment he thinks Neville won’t respond, but then Neville opens his eyes, moans and closes them again. Harry takes this as a good thing.

“What hit me?” Neville mumbles, as Harry sees to getting the chunk of stairs off his friend.

“Grand staircase,” Harry responds, unironically. It turns out it’s mostly rubble, and he drags Neville free only for his friend to let out a yelp.

Once out, Harry sees why. Neville’s left leg is sitting at an odd angle. Neville struggles up, peers at it and almost passes straight back out again. “Hey,” Harry hits him, “Stay with me!”

“I’m okay,” Neville says, but he’s really not. Harry curses, fumbling with his wand.

“Ferula,” he mumbles, and he’s always been crap at healing spells, but the bandages wrap themselves around Neville’s leg. “Come on,” he says, leaning over Neville, trying to find the leverage to maneuver his friend upright.

They get half-way upright when there’s the crackle of ozone and Neville let’s out a yelp, trying to shift out the way and only succeeding in sending them both falling over. The clumsy movement saves their life as brilliant green shoots over their head.

Harry’s head pounds, “Come out, Harry!” Voldemort’s voice drifts over the smoke and dust, “We have a conversation to finish.”

“Stay here,” Harry hisses softly at Neville, voice so low he almost slips into Parseltongue.

“Nonono Harry--”

Harry taps a disillusionment at him for good measure, and leaving Neville propped up against the chunk of stone he’d been buried under, Harry legs it, like the good cowardly snake that he is--

Oh, who is he kidding, he thinks, he's being the Gryffindor again and running the distraction. It works too, he makes it away from the wall, away from Neville before he’s forced down again as several nasty dark curses fly overhead.

“Don’t try to run,” Voldemort sounds amused, “Clever Slytherin that you are, you should know there’s no running from me.”

The voice and image in his head shimmers and it’s a sixteen-year old wraith and a seventy-year old monster and-- “So fucking arrogant, Riddle,” Harry sneers, and the words are not in English, but it doesn’t matter because he hears Voldemort’s snarl of anger--

Harry throws himself out of the way as his stone barrier explodes. It sends him flying and he hits the stone floor hard, jarring his shoulder. There are jeers from shadowy Death Eaters. His heart lodges in his throat. He spits out dust, frantically checking all his limbs but he’s still in one piece, he’s still breathing, he’s--

“You’re a little outnumbered, now - where were we? Oh yes. You’re going to tell me where the Prophecy is, Harry. And then I am going to kill you.”

Voldemort walks like a wraith through the smoke. Harry stumbles upright, green eyes meeting red and he grits his teeth and something in him screams at the proximity, and the too close too close too --

“It’s not here,” he laughs, “I lied. I told Barty that already.”

Voldemort tilts his bald, skull-like head to one side as if considering that, but he can already hear the truth that rings in the air. “That’s unfortunate,” he says, “For you, at least. You’ve once again become superfluous to me, Harry Potter.”

Harry sees the wand lift up, the yew wood gleaming in the light of the green spell the forming on the tip as he dodges again.

“There’s no point in running!” Voldemort sneers, “There’s no Dumbledore here to hide behind! Avada Kedavra!”

Another killing curse brushes a hair too close and Harry narrowly avoids running straight into another masked figure, hisses out a curse that misses, stumbles back and his head splitting open and--

His vision wavers. Tom stands before him, sixteen and dripping ink with a book lying at his feet and--

A full adult Voldemort steps through the smoke with pale skin, veins visible through the skin it is so translucent, eyes red and features waxy and distorted and words on his lips--

He’s too close to dodge and Harry looks death in the face, sees Voldemort’s nostrils flare with triumph, seconds before a rock wall springs up between them.

It cracks under the impact, pieces shattering off into a shape, into a stone man who picks up a shield and sword and stands guard, the animated rock stepping into the path of another spell hurtling his direction.

“Dumbledore--” Voldemort sneers, just as something comes flying at his head. It’s not a spell, and the shield fails to stop the chunk of rubble from dropping. It splinters into a hundred grains of sand and the dark lord stands there, fuming--

“Get away from my son,” James Potter says, and then flings his next levitated object at the spectral man.

Harry freezes for only a moment, staring at the stranger fighting for him. Not much of a stranger, he thinks in disbelief.

His father.

He’s not an orphan, he realises, and it’s the first time he’s realised that, and he’s going to do his damndest to keep it that way.

Voldemort easily blocks the levitating rubble. For a moment silent, quick and deadly spellfire passes across before Harry can mimic his dad, summoning a large chunk of rubble that happens to be directly behind Voldemort. The Dark Lord turns to deal with it and James and Harry stumble out of the way, “How are things going?” James asks, like it’s just a normal day.

“Good,” Harry huffs, “Same old, you know how it is-- Bombarda !” he snaps out at a Death Eater looming spectrally through the gloom.

“Silently,” James chides, then is forced to shout out a Rictumsempra at another Death Eater. He ignores the look Harry shoots at him, “The Order are here, it’s okay, we’ve managed to pin down the Death Eaters now, a few slipped past but we were doing fine until Mr Moldy-Shorts appeared.”

Mouldy shorts, Harry mouths, trying to spot Voldemort in the chaos that has become the courtyard as the rest of the Order make it to the ground level. Spells of all colours are flying everywhere.

A Death Eater almost shoots off a green curse at Harry only for a white feathered fury to drop from the sky and go straight for his wand. "Is that an owl?" James asks, "Did Hermione transform?"

"What? No, that's my pet owl, Hedwig."

"You have an owl… I thought you had a dog, those Gryffindors said--"

"Oh, no, that was Sirius. He thought it was funny to go to Hogsmeade with me once third year as a dog and the whole school thought I had a new pet. That was in hindsight when Pettigrew faked his death a second time though so it was probably a bad decision-- Stupefy! Impendimenta! ” he knocks out the one as Hedwig steal his wand, vanishing into the night.

"When we're done and it's summer," James shouts over to Harry, "I'm taking you to some historical places in England for magic. We'll get the train and--"

"The train?"

"Platform seven and a half does a tour, I think, at least they did fourteen years ago."

"Wizards don't even try to be logical," Harry rolls his eyes, and throws a curse that misses the Death Eater. They jeer and laugh, but don't look so happy six seconds later when a suit of armour starts to try to strangle him.

"Harry," James chides.

"What?" he shrugs, "Animation charm."

Fire flares from where Voldemort is still trying to fight his way back to Harry and James, utter fury written in his scarlet gaze. He sends Moody, McGonagall and Shacklebolt stumbling away from the fire serpent that emerges, fangs lunging out.

“There you are!” Hermione appears, frizzy hair escaping the messy tie she’s shoved it into. She has the Map in one hand and her wand in the other, “I’ve been trying to catch you for the past fifteen minutes but the Entrance Hall is a mess and Bellatrix blew up the staircase--”

“I know, I was on it at the time.”

“Listen, you’re going to have to talk to the basilisk.”

“I don’t think talking to that thing is going to do much good,” James eyes up the fire basilisk.

“Not that one,” Harry says, “Slytherin has a basilisk living in the Chamber of Secrets. I sicced it on the Death Eaters.”

“You what ?” James blinks, looking horrified, “You set a basilisk on the school?” James asks, and it’s a fair question because shit Harry doesn’t think they’re legally allowed in Britain anymore, never mind the fact this one had apparently been around since before those laws were passed.

James is looking at him with horror, and Harry knows what he’s thinking, Harry’s thinking it too, he just hides it better. There are students in this school - eleven year old children - but Harry is putting the war before them.

“The students are in their common rooms,” Harry says before James has to ask.

“I got Astoria and Susan to seal them,” Hermione adds, “As soon as Ginny reappeared.”

James relaxes only slightly, still frowning at his son, "You can speak to snakes?"

"Yes," Harry says, shortly, waiting for the disgust, the outrage, the--

"That's so cool," James stares, "Imagine just... being able to speak another language. There was a Ravenclaw in my year who spent hours teaching himself gobbledegook and you just... know it."

That was not the reaction Harry had been expecting, "It's actually kind of dull, really," he says, "They're not great conversationalists. It's all food food food with most of them."

“But a basilisk !”

“Food food kill some non-magicals, eat some people, honestly this wyvern I met once was much more interesting even though it sounded a bit like it was speaking old English--”

James pulls a face, “Okay, fair point. Can’t believe nobody knew it was just chilling in the basement.”

“It’s not anymore,” Hermione says, “Uh--I actually don’t know where it is, but I think it went looking for more Death Eaters down the tunnel they came through.”

“I don’t think talking to her is going to work,” Harry winces, “But I need to get her, because I think if it came to me versus Voldemort she’d go with Slytherin’s - depulso - heir--”

“You go!” James takes over the fight with the Death Eater who has interrupted their conversation, “I’ve got stuff to do here.”

As if to prove it James tosses a spell at the passing Death Eater, hitting him in the face with some orange slime that immediately starts trying to claw its way over the rest of his body, “Go! I’ve got this.”

Harry shoots him a look, wanting to say so much but knowing there is no time.

“Don’t die,” is all he can manage, before he turns and leaves his father to face the man that had already killed him once.

Harry breaks into a run, hopping up onto the rubble to gain some height. Five spells fly towards him, but he’s a moving target and he makes it across the courtyard, coming up behind a dark shape he prepares to stun--

The shape stumbles straight into him and it is only surprise that stops him cursing as Malfoy shoves him violently out of the way. Draco’s hair is wild, his eyes panicked and Harry knows Malfoy Senior is around here somewhere, knows--

“Get out of the way,” Malfoy hisses, fleeing from the battle and the Dark Lord with self-preservation instincts that make Harry almost jealous. He can see the other members of the Inquisitorial Squad cutting their losses as they realise this isn’t Umbridge’s castle anymore. He contemplates shooting a spell at Malfoy’s back.

“Which way did he go?” Harry almost leaps out of his skin as George Weasley appears next to him, looking curious.

“Ran off after his Inquisitor Squad buddies towards the East Tower.”

“Oh good,” George grins, “Flitwick made us leave our portable swamp down there, to stop entry to the basements. The Hufflepuff students can get around - we left them a boat - but nobody else. Then Professor Peverell asked us to add a few unsavoury creatures to it, so we got Hagrid to think of his favourite cuddly swamp creatures and--"

"Oh, those poor souls," Ginny appears, a mess of bright red hair and aims a neat bat bogey at who Harry thinks is one of the Lestrange brothers. Distracted by the giant bats made of mucous Harry nips him with a mild burning hex and he starts screaming at that point. George disarms him and catches the wand - it appears he already has a collection of them.

Harry clicks his tongue, “Don’t disarm them,” he complains, “Come on, guys, you can be more lethal than an expellia-- expelliarmus !”

The other Lestrange brother’s wand goes flying and his wand hits another in the eye. Ginny’s flipendo hits him straight in chest sending him flying backwards.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry mumbles, ignoring Ginny’s smug, consternated expression, “it was already in my head.”

“Woah, Professor Peverell is duelling the Dark Lord,” Fred appears, with Dean, Ron and Seamus, “He’s damn good.”

“Of course he is, he was an auror, you know, before mum died,” Harry says. There are green lights flying towards James, and Harry turns away before he can see if they hit or not, his heart breaking just a little. He looks at the present members of the Draco Dormiens before they can question what he means by that, “Seamus, I need your help to blow up a big snake.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Seamus says, “How big a snake?”

“It’s a basilisk.”

Seamus swears. Fred and George look way too happy about the turn of events. Ron looks oddly relieved, “At least it’s not a spider.”

It’s too easy to fall into the fight, to throw a spell, defend, throw some more, duck--

He’s fourteen years out of the game except he's not, not really. He's just spent the past year doing nothing but defense. True, it's been aimed at teaching children, not at dueling Dark Lords, but it's still a year of practice. He can see Remus teaming up with McGonagall, can see Shacklebolt knock out someone who looks suspiciously like Lucius Malfoy and--

They’re winning , except they’re not, because Voldemort strolls through the destruction and spellfire like it’s a pleasant summer day. Someone falls to a green light, and nearby Harry’s little Ravenclaw friend - Hermione - is standing back-to-back with Blaise. Voldemort sends a purple cat’o’nine curse at them and James dives straight back into the fight.

The wicked purple curse is deflected with a lightning bolt that strikes it from the sky. A stone lion leaps at Voldemort’s throat and he shatters it into dust, pausing to eye James up.

“Who are--” Voldemort stops, staring at him, gears clearly turning.

“I guess this makes it four times defied,” James grins, “Hang on, wait, are we including last time? Because this makes five and this time? This time I have my wand.”

His tone is cheeky, grin smug and the monster clearly understands that, because the hail of curses and green killing spells is honestly impressive. He barely has time to dodge than he already has to ward off a fiery serpent that spins into existence in front of him and he sends a mini hurricane at it to send it back to its owner.

“You want a prophecy?” James shouts across to Voldemort, “Well accio .”

Voldemort’s flat nostrils flare, trying to figure out exactly what that’s going to achieve. A whip of lightning flares towards James, catching him across one arm and he stumbles. Voldemort’s thin lips curl into a smile as he stalks forwards.

“Time to kill you for good, this time,” he says, “Then your son will follow--”

That’s when James’ summoning charm kicks in and a crystal ball pelts the dark lord on the head.

Nearby Cedric Diggory is shooting spells at someone who looks like Avery. Diggory swints at him, “Did you just throw a Crystal Ball at You-Know-Who's head?"

"I summoned it," James corrects, "And yes. Yes I did. I’ll be honest I was hoping for more, but it appears the Divination Professor actually locks her cupboards unfortunately."

There is a moment that James just wants to laugh hysterically at the look of complete bafflement on the dark lord’s head, but instead he grabs his wand and transfigures two more stone lions to leap at Voldemort. One is crushed by a bone breaker, but the dust and ash maintains its shape and leaps at him anyway, only to be whipped away by the fire basilisk Voldemort has summoned back from where it was pestering Moody. The serpent is terrifying, James doesn’t want to know how Harry is going to deal with the real one as it coils, seeking him out with unnerving accuracy--

James curses, because he’s good at duelling, he is, but Voldemort isn’t a Dark Lord for nothing and he’s going to die, he realises suddenly, he’s never going to see Harry again, he’s--

His wand twists, attempting to transfigure himself a shield but there’s not going to be time--

The flames roar and the fire basilisk, if it is anything similar to the real one, is terrifying, and it opens wide ember hot fangs and--

There is a flare, brighter, impossibly, than the fire behind it and James flinches away. When he looks back, the fire basilisk is gone and instead there is a pile of ash on the floor and a small, tiny, featherless baby bird.

Not a bird, he realises, a phoenix.

Voldemort’s eyes narrow unpleasantly.

“Dumbledore.”

This time it’s actually Dumbledore, striding through like he’s arrived exactly when he meant to. Hermione and Blaise fall back as he passes. There’s a lull, or rather, there isn’t a lull, half the courtyard has been watching James and Voldemort duel for the past five minutes, still-standing Death Eaters and Order members both.

James knows when to leave it though, falling back as Dumbledore comes to a pause next to him. “Apologies for the delay,” Dumbledore says, like he’s merely late to tea, pausing to stoop over and deposit the helpless baby Fawkes in his pocket. “I brought some guests with me.”

Around them the red robes of Ministry Aurors are appearing, and the Death Eaters who are still around are quickly fleeing.

“It’s not here, Tom,” Dumbledore says, spreading out his hands, “It appears that you got tricked by a fifteen-year old boy.”

Voldemort’s nostrils flare, “He’ll die eventually, he and his father both, right after you, old man.”

It’s a threat. Dumbledore doesn’t even look alarmed. “Well, I am going on 115-years, it would be about time for a bit of a rest.” Spells fly at Dumbledore and fizzle out before they get there. Dumbledore looks furious for a moment, and James can see exactly why they say that Dumbledore is the only man that Voldemort ever feared in that moment. Voldemort hesitated. “Leave, Tom." Dumbledore demands, "You’re outnumbered, your secret is out--”

Somewhere something explodes. “I think that was your pet snake,” James inputs helpfully into the conversation, and Voldemort looks momentarily shocked, “That’s what you get for keeping a thousand year old basilisk in the basement of a school.”

Oddly Voldemort relaxes, “This isn’t over,” he sneers, and then he just sort of dissolves--

It’s not apparition. James has never seen anything like it, but Voldemort dissolves into black smoke. It billows out from his body in reaching fingers and inky blackness, one second he's there, the next his form is gone. The smoke billows, surging forwards and James flinches. Dumbledore doesn't even budge as the smoke passes right through him and straight out across the courtyard. There are screams and Ministry and Order scatter alike, eyes wide as the smoke forces it's way into the night.

Voldemort's gone. Vanished.

Around them, the Death Eaters still standing are doing the same. Those remained lie unconscious and bound.

James stumbles, tired and weak, suddenly. It's over. They're gone, the school is intact, the Death Eaters fought off, Voldemort--

Knows he's alive, but that's a problem for another time. Around him the Entrance Hall and stairs lie in ruins. Dumbledore is surveying the scene with the air of patience and sorrow as Ministry aurors go to work rounding up caught Death Eaters.

James spots Remus limping towards him, Severus behind him. The latter looks pale.

“What was that?” he hisses, “Peverell, the Dark Lord--”

“Is gone,” Dumbledore says, gravely, “For now, right now we must recover and--”

“How?" Severus snaps, “He looked about to murder you--”

“Magic,” James says, only to receive the dryest look yet from his former hated schoolmate. Oh Merlin, he realises, suddenly, he's been thinking of Snape as Severus, when did that start?

“What was the explosion?” Remus asks, peering into the distance. Judging by the plume of smoke it looks like someone blew something up near the Fourth Floor bridge. James can’t tell, and he starts limping towards it, only for Remus to grab him by the arm. “Oh no, Great Hall for you - everyone’s gathering there--”

James allows himself to follow Remus, red robes mingling around him as the Aurors begin rounding up the Death Eaters. Amongst them appears a man in a black bowler hat, shaking so hard James thinks it might just fall off his head.

“Peverell, isn’t it?” the man says, then spots Dumbledore, “Albus! You can’t be here, you were fired!”

“Whose stupid idea was that?” James mumbles.

“Ah, Minister Fudge, how nice of you to join us--”

“Join you? JOIN YOU, I ALMOST GOT MURDERED BY YOU-KNOW-WHO , what was You-Know-Who doing here?”

“That’s funny,” James says, dryly, and he’s matching Harry for sarcasm right now, “I heard lately from Madame Umbridge that Voldemort hadn’t returned.”

The Minister for Magic full on flinches at the name. “Madame Umbridge - oh yes, where is Madame Umbridge--?”

James makes his getaway at that point, leaning on Remus a bit for support, “I’ve no idea,” he throws over his shoulder.

“Peverell-- Peverell --”

“Minister--”

Dumbledore takes the Minister under his wing as Remus and James make their way through the crowd. It’s mostly aurors and Order members, but here and there James can see students from Harry’s club all looking flushed but alive. Hermione and Daphne are helping Neville towards a table, Blaise is nearby with Daphne’s younger sister and Cedric Diggory and a gaggle of Hufflepuffs are wandering around with glasses of water.

He can’t see Harry.

“Here, sit down,” Remus finds them a seat, “We need to figure out how we’re going to tell Dumbledore--”

“Where’s Harry?”

James refuses the seat, instead standing, no matter how much he sways from sheer magical exhaustion. “I’m sure he’s fine,” Remus soothes him, “I’ll go ask Hermione--”

“He went to blow up a basilisk, where is he? Remus, please--”

James spots some more Sleeping Dragon members, and ignoring Remus he appears behind them so abruptly that Dean Thomas actually lets out a mild scream before realising who it is. “Professor,” he says, “Uh--are you okay?”

“Harry,” he says, like that explains things, but it doesn’t, and of course it also doesn’t explain why he’s frantically looking for a student he’s been amicable at best to-- “What was that explosion?” he tacks on, “Harry said he went to deal with the snake--”

One of the Weasley twins hovering behind Thomas replies. “Oh, yeah, well Seamus Finnegan has an aptitude for pyrokinetics.”

"An aptitude," Thomas mutters, "Aptitude, you try sitting next to him in class for five years, you'd learn some good ways to put out fires too."

“And Harry--”

"He was there," Dean Thomas says, looking around, "It was his idea - he hissed a bit, we lured the snake to the fourth floor to the tunnel the Death Eaters came through and as it passed Fred and George fed Peeves to it - he slid right out being a Poltergeist and all, but he left behind Seamus’ concoction.”

“You fed Peeves to it?” James repeats, slightly alarmed, “The same Peeves who forced the school to close for three days because he was planting bombs everywhere? He willingly let you feed him to a --what am I talking about, of course he did.”

“Yup,” Seamus looks a bit charred, a bit burned but all the happier for it, “Oi, Cedric, why are you looking so happy?"

"I'm not happy," the grin vanishes, as the Hufflepuff deposits some water next to them, "It's awful news, didn't you hear? The centaurs carted off our new headmistress for trespassing. She was a bit charred but I've no idea how that happened. Half of the ministry agents that arrived went off to retrieve her and the last anyone saw of them they were being chased by a flying car."

James never thinks he's heard anyone sounds so happy while looking so glum. Except maybe him and Sirius when being caught for detention. He makes a mental note to never again trust a Hufflepuff.

"And Harry?" he asks, again, sick of getting no answer, "Is he alive? Is he--"

Cedric just blinks, "Uh-- I'm sure he's fine, he's a stubborn little Slytherin-- okay--" he says, glancing at Seamus and Dean as James pushes him away and ditches them, they’re useless anyway, "Is he just awfully protective of his students or am I missing something?"

Dean squints after him, "I think we're missing something. But I also think we're about to find out."

James ducks underneath where Peeves is flying around loudly singing, looking none the worse for his brush with a basilisk: "Jingle Bells, the Dark Lord smells, A million miles away! Faced with some kids, He ran and hid, Terrified all the way!"

He’s halfway out of the Great Hall, en route to look for his son when Severus appears. "Ah, Ian--" Severus drawls, looking composed, if slightly dusty and not as if he'd just spent the last hour trying to avoid picking a side, "Are you well--"

"Look," James doesn't have time for this, "I'm just going to be honest, Snape. I don't really like you. You're --" he winces, this is painful, "You're passable at potions," he says, "Maybe even good. You're a really bad teacher, but Lily liked you, once, and so--" oh, this was going to be horrible, "I'msorry," he says quickly.

"You're what?" Snape repeats, staring.

"I'm not going to repeat it," James says, "That's all you get, Sni--Snape. Now have you seen- -Dumbledore ?"

"Ah," the old man says, treading carefully over some rubble covered ground, "Ian! How fantastic! I witnessed some of your duel with Voldemort, are you okay?"

"I'm peachy," James says, "Have you seen Harry?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Dumbledore tries to placate him, "Did Voldemort say anything to you--"

"Where's Harry?" James asks again, peering over everyone trying to see, "Look, I just want to find him, so can someone tell me where Harry is?”

"Ian, calm yourself," Albus says, "The boy is fine… I didn't know you were so concerned for him--"

James opens his mouth to say something. Maybe the truth, maybe a lie, maybe just to demand for his son again when there's a cry from across the hall.

"Dad? Dad ?"

"Harry!" he steps around Albus and alights on the figure of his son, battered, dust covered but ultimately very much alive.

He turns, and he just notes Albus' surprise, notes the shape of Ron and Ginny behind his son, notes the way everyone twists around or darts out of the way of Harry Potter, seconds before he throws himself into James' arms.

"I thought you were dead," Harry's saying, "I saw so many killing curses, and there was fire and I thought I'd lost you, I thought--" the words are hard to make out because his face is buried into James' shoulder and it's all he can do to pull Harry close and wrap his arms around him.

“Congratulations,” he says, to try and cover up the lump in his throat, “I think you have me beat - you destroyed more of the school than I ever did.”

"Did I actually destroy it if it just happened to fall down near me?"

His logic is good, very Slytherin. James is proud, it's the sort of excuse he'd have used.

Albus is staring at him. Everyone else is staring at Harry and he probably realises this because he pulls away abruptly, eyes faintly red and clears his throat, "I'm glad you're not dead," he says, stiffly, probably trying to regain composure, "I- uh - I'm going to go check on Blaise and Astoria… you should drop the glamours, they uh don't suit you, they-uh--" Harry turns away, almost walking smack bang into Dumbledore. "Sorry sir," he says, without a trace of uncertainty, "Wasn't looking where I was going, do excuse me--"

"My dear boy, would you mind explaining--"

Nearby Snape is staring at Harry and James with undisguised horror. There's a instinct, habitual probably, to sneer at him, to mock him but right now James doesn't care about Snape. He's the past - messy and stupid as James was - and right now all he cares about is the present, in Harry staring at him with that expression, his son looking at him with love and fear and concern and just that hint of mischief James is used to see in his own eyes.

"Ian--" Dumbledore is clearly confused.

"I'm sure my dad can explain," Harry says, and James doesn't miss that sly grin and oh no, no he's not going to… "Right, Prongs?" he grins, slipping like a snake past Dumbledore towards where his Slytherin friends are staring at him.

"Harry," James calls, "Harry!" he shouts because his son did not just leave him and was that a salute the cheeky brat--

"Ian," Dumbledore's eyes are not twinkling, "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

"Now about that--" James notes Dumbledore's hand on his wand, "Firstly my name isn't exactly Ian… and uh…"

Harry's laughing over with his friends who look like they want to strangle him, and James decides just to go for broke.

He drops the glamours with a flourish and a half-bow.

Well if he thought the hall had been staring at Harry, then they were outright goggling at James.

"Now if you'll excuse me, Albus, how about we catch up later over a nice cup of tea because right now I need to go murder my son," he says calmly and then makes a beeline for where Harry is still laughing at him.

(When Harry and Ginny name their eldest son Jamie it's one of the best moments in his life.)