Feels Like We Had Matching Wounds - orphan_account - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

King’s Cross station has never looked so clean. Utterly devoid of foot traffic and without a speck of dirt or soot anywhere to be seen, it looks only vaguely reminiscent of the King’s Cross in his memories. It’s eerie. Harry’s skin crawls with a distinct sense of unease. He isn’t meant to linger here. He needs to go.

Dumbledore intercepts him before he can board the train. “Harry, you wonderful boy. You brave man. Let us walk.”

A baby cries. He glances back and spots a minuscule figure curled up beneath one of the benches in King’s Cross station, wailing its terror and pain for all the world to hear. The baby doesn’t look quite right. Its skin is ashen pale, its limbs a touch too gangly and thin. It looks quite ill. It doesn’t look human. “Professor, what is that?”

“Something beyond either of our help. A part of Voldemort, sent here to die.”

His eyes linger on the fragmented shade of Voldemort’s soul. Red-faced, terrified, all alone… He’s starkly reminded of many nights spent crying in his cupboard, save for the fact that he had to be utterly, deathly silent if he didn’t want his uncle to give him something to cry about. “And where, exactly, are we?” he whispers.

“I was going to ask you that. Where would you say that we are?”

“Well… It looks almost like King’s Cross station, but far cleaner and with only the Hogwarts Express waiting for someone to board. Only the three of us are here.” Even as the words pour from his lips, they do not feel quite like the truth. There is a heavy sense of something more, of another set of eyes watching this conversation, but Harry cannot see them and tries to put it out of his mind. It’s not like it matters. He’s dead either way. Whatever is watching them can’t make him any more or less so.

Later, he’ll find such a thought terribly ironic.

“King’s Cross, is that right? This is, as they say, your party. I expect you now realize that you and Voldemort have been connected by something other than fate, since that night in Godric’s Hollow all those years ago.”

“So it’s true, then? A part of him lives on in me?”

“Did. It was just destroyed many moments ago by none other than Voldemort himself. You were the Horcrux he never meant to make, Harry.”

But even without the Horcrux, Harry can’t help thinking that a part of Tom Riddle will always live on within him. Abused orphan boys who clung to a magical, better world with every ounce of their strength, willing and prepared to do whatever it took to remain in it. For Tom Riddle, this meant carving a place out for himself among those who hated him most, never given a chance until he taught them to fear him. It meant chasing immortality and establishing himself as powerful above anyone else, fashioning Voldemort out of the ashes of a terrified boy that no one ever helped. For Harry Potter, this meant shoving himself into the mold of a world that decided who he was before they ever even met him. It meant living and dying for a world that turned its back on him at every opportunity. It meant living as a terrified boy and dying as one, never given the opportunity to become anything more than that.

How terribly similar yet incredibly divergent their paths are… He wonders where that began. He wonders if he would have become a shade of Tom Riddle, little more than a living ghost, had he been visited by someone who believed what the Dursleys said about him like the rest of Little Whinging did. He wonders if Tom Riddle ever would have chased power quite so fiercely if he’d been allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the summers, safe from the terror and bombings and utter helplessness that he must have felt.

He wonders… “I have to go back, don’t I?”

“Oh, that’s up to you,” Dumbledore answers with the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“I have a choice?” he whispers, sounding more bitter than he thought himself capable of. Because when has he ever had a choice in all of this, really?

“Oh, yes. We’re in King’s Cross, you say? I think if you so desired, you’d be able to board the train.”

“And where would it take me?”

“On,” Dumbledore chuckles as he begins to walk away.

“Voldemort has the Elder Wand.”

“True.”

“And the snake’s still alive. They have nothing to kill it with.” His eyes linger on the crying baby, and his heart twists in his chest. Voldemort or no, no child deserves to cry, alone and afraid, while ignored by the world around them.

As if sensing the thought, Dumbledore pauses, turns, and slowly makes his way back to Harry’s side. “Help will always be given at Hogwarts, Harry, to those who ask for it. I've always prized myself on my ability to turn a phrase. Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it. But I would, in this case, amend my original statement to this: ‘Help would always be given at Hogwarts to those who deserve it.’ Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living. And above all, those who live without love.”

Heat creeps through his veins as steady as molten lava. His vision blurs as he whispers, “Was I not deserving of it, then?” How many times has he asked for help? How many times has he been forced to save himself? How many times has he nearly died within those walls? How many times has he begged to stay within them anyway, loving Hogwarts for the sanctuary she granted him from a life of abject misery outside of her walls? How many times did Tom Riddle…? “Did he never deserve it? Not even when he was young and afraid and only fighting to survive in a world trying its level best to kill him?”

“Harry–” Dumbledore’s eyes widen as he bends down to cradle the fragment of Voldemort’s soul against his chest. For a moment, the crying increases in volume, and panic turns the sound shrill. But Harry rests a gentle hand on the infant’s chest, and sobbing eases to quiet sniffles as wary confusion glints in blood-red eyes. He smiles as a tiny, clawed hand wraps around his finger. “My boy–”

“Together, then?” he whispers. Something like wonder dances in those eyes as slit pupils widen in surprise. Voldemort is honest in death in a way that he likely never would be in life, or perhaps it is simply because this fragment has been with him all along, unaware of it as he was. It has been there for every second of pain and every triumph, a silent companion to all of life’s highs and lows that went unacknowledged for all these years. “I won’t let you go alone.”

“Harry…!” Dumbledore’s voice sounds more distant now, but the desperation within it couldn’t have been missed in a whisper. “There is nothing you can do for him. You must–”

“I thought you said I had a choice, professor.” Harry’s eyes narrow on Dumbledore’s weary form, watching the hand that once reached out to him slowly fall back to his side. “I thought you said that my ability to love is the greatest power I wield. The thing about love is… It never leaves you. It gives you the strength to shield a baby’s body with your own. It gives you the strength to run headlong into a trap for the sake of saving someone you cannot imagine living without. You say to pity the living? To pity those who have never known love? Who has ever loved Tom Riddle?”

Dumbledore sounds like he’s underwater now. “Voldemort has never been capable of–”

“You know, they used to say the same about me. The only difference between us is that I was given a chance. He wasn’t. You decided exactly what kind of person he was mere moments after meeting him, and in doing so, you condemned him to that fate, professor.” He cannot tell whether Dumbledore looks so pale due to his words or the fact that he is slowly fading away. He’s not sure that he cares. “I’ll answer my own question. I loved Tom Riddle just as much as I hated him. From the moment I first wrote in that diary, I knew that there was a connection between us. That connection had nothing to do with Horcruxes and everything to do with who we are. I was not able to show him compassion in life. He would not have accepted it from me. But in death? To the fragment of his soul that has always been with me? That has known my every emotion and memory? How could I show him anything else? If you truly thought that I would leave him here…”

Dumbledore fades before his very eyes as he whispers, “Then you must not have known me very well at all, professor.”

“Harry Potter…”

“Together, then?” he repeats in a quiet hiss, equal parts surprised and pleased to find that he can still speak Parseltongue despite their separation.

“... You are a strange, foolish boy.”

“Maybe. But was I ever given the chance to be anything else?”

“Perhaps not,” Voldemort concedes with a whisper. “It is a shame…”

“As are many things.” He walks toward the train with steadfast determination, politely ignoring the way Voldemort’s grip tightens. Gleaming red metal greets him like an old friend, and boarding the Hogwarts Express feels just as much like going home as it always has.

The train begins to move. Harry is unsure why or how his Invisibility Cloak drapes itself over his shoulders, but he does not question it, thankful for the presence of a trusted companion in both life and death. A gleaming, golden band adorned with a pitch-black stone appears on his finger, but since he died with it upon his hand and the ghosts of his family surrounding him, he doesn’t find it particularly strange that the Resurrection Stone has joined him in his final journey either.

But then the cold brush of Death brushes against his fingers and presses an equally cool, dark wand into his hand and whispers, “You’ve chosen wisely, Master.” His magic sings a song of glory and death, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that the Elder Wand has made its true allegiance known. It will not be parted from him now. It feels as much a part of him as the Cloak and Stone do now, linked to his magic as surely as the wand of holly and phoenix feather has been for so long.

“You are…” Voldemort’s voice sounds nothing short of wondrous, awed, but he does not get the chance to finish whatever thought was on his mind.

Harry closes Killing Curse green eyes and opens them within a room that he could never forget. Cobwebs and dust lurk in every corner, and the low ceiling threatens to knock his head should he sit up too quickly. He’s in the cupboard beneath the stairs.

His mind and magic feel the same as they did before, save for the faint hum of the Deathly Hallows beneath his skin. None of the artifacts are with him now, but he instinctively knows that all he needs to do is call upon them for that to change. He opts against it for now. ‘Huh… Guess I’m in Hell. I can’t think of any other reason for me to be here.’

“I rather think the fragments of my soul would have been pieced back together if that were the case,” Voldemort whispers within his mind, and Harry startles so violently that his shoulder knocks into the shelving unit and nearly sends all of their cleaning supplies tumbling to the floor. A desperate burst of magic halts the falling bottles in their tracks, and he breathes out a silent sigh of relief as they float back to their proper shelves. The last thing he needs is to be trapped inside the cupboard with a bunch of chemicals mixing together to create poisonous fumes. What an embarrassing way to go. “But yet, here we are… Perhaps it is simply because my main body still lives, but I find myself rather doubting that. If a soul such as yours could be sent to Hell for daring to show compassion to an enemy, then I suspect that no one is capable of avoiding it.”

“Aww, was that a compliment?” he whispers quietly. His scar pulses, but this time, it is not with any sort of searing pain or aches. It feels pleasantly warm, buzzing contentment and fondness down to his very core.

“It was the truth. I do believe that I’ve made it clear that I reward my helpers, no matter how treacherous they may have been before. You owed no loyalty to me, Harry Potter, and yet… Here I am, still alive because of you.”

“Or we’re both dead.”

“No. No, I rather suspect that is not the case. Would you still be capable of feeling our bond if we were?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I know much about Horcruxes, honestly, especially living ones. But if it’s soul magic, then it makes sense that we’d be tied together even in this, doesn’t it?”

Voldemort hums consideringly. “You know more than most. Answer me this then, Harry Potter. Does your shoulder still ache?”

And… Huh. It does. It’s not a throbbing sort of pain, just a dull ache that promises to bruise later, but it certainly feels real. And now that he’s focusing on the sensation of pain, he can feel several other dull aches of different sorts clinging to his body. The stiffness of old grease burns that speckle his arms, the strain of his eyes as they struggle to adjust to glasses that have never been his prescription, and the gnawing ache of hunger in his belly that makes him feel dizzy as dark spots dance in his vision… “No…” he whispers as his eyes water, realization and horror slowly sinking in and making their home in his heart. “I can’t be back here again. I thought I was finally free of this place.”

Death would be a kinder fate than this. Forced to relive his years with the Dursleys… How old is he, even? His hands seem so small, but then again, he was always small for his age. Malnutrition tends to do that to a person.

“Calm yourself, Harry. Take a deep breath. In and out. There you are. Regardless of when we’ve ended up, you must remember that you are not alone. I am able to speak with you this time. I am unsure as to why we were unable to before… Perhaps because you did not know of me and thus could not accept me as you did in Limbo. Your mother’s protection… Pain could get through but little else... This time, however, you have accepted me, and that makes all the difference. These filthy muggles will not hurt you again. I will not allow it. Had my previous self known of this… Well, I cannot promise that he would have spared you in the end, but he would have approached you differently. He would have burned this wretched place to the ground, at the very least.”

Harry snorts at that. “Yeah, he probably would have. Possessive bastard…”

“What do you intend to do?” Voldemort questions after several moments of tense silence. Not between them but because of the sounds of shuffling movement upstairs that indicate the beginning of a long day. “You have a second chance that many would kill for. Do you intend to keep things the same, or…?”

“No,” he whispers. “I’ve already seen how things end, and I… I don’t want that. I don’t want a war. I don’t want to see the people I care about sprawled out with hearts that don’t beat anymore. But what else can I do? He’s already acted on the prophecy, and if he ever hears the rest of it…”

This time, Voldemort is the one to disagree. “No. Prophecies are rarely straightforward, and that one line… ‘Neither shall live while the other survives’. I have been turning it over in my head for quite some time now, and I do not believe it foretells our inevitable deaths. Living and surviving are two very different things, after all. And with you and I trapped here and my true form stuck as a wraith… We are both surviving, not living. If we wish to live, to truly come into our own, then perhaps…”

“You think we have to work together.” It makes a horrifying sort of sense, really. The soul shard in Harry’s scar tethers Voldemort to this world, so why would they be fated to kill one another? If this war is inevitable, then there’s only one side he can survive it on, and it’s not Dumbledore’s. “You think we were supposed to. But how am I supposed to do that when…” His parents, Cedric, Sirius, Hedwig, Dobby, Remus, Tonks, Fred… Names and faces flash in his mind as sorrow takes hold of his heart, grief suffocating in its intensity.

“You are his Horcrux. There is very little he would not do for you. I cannot undo what has already been done to your parents, nor would I wish to when I would not exist otherwise, but there is no reason that any of the others must die. Not this time. If you believe his views to be too rigid, then challenge them. If you believe his methods to be too bloody, then contest them. You are one of the precious few that he will actually listen to once he knows what you are. Take advantage of that.”

“How positively Slytherin of you,” he whispers with a smirk tugging at his lips. “I might start to believe you’re on my side in all of this.”

Voldemort goes quiet for several long moments before answering slowly, almost hesitantly, “I am in your head, am I not?”

“Up! Get up! Now!” his aunt barks before he can answer, and Harry doesn’t dare to keep her waiting, not yet. Not even with his magic thrumming eagerly beneath his skin, itching and begging to be used. The heavy slam of a cast iron frying pan on the stovetop jolts him into action, and he swiftly gets dressed in raggedy clothes several sizes too large for him. He’s finished by the time Aunt Petunia returns, used to moving with urgency after spending a year on the run. “Are you up yet?”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“Get a move on, then. I want you to mind the bacon, and don’t you dare let it burn. Everything has to be absolutely perfect for Dudley’s birthday.”

Deja vu washes over him, and a grin lights up his face when he realizes what day it is. He won’t have to spend very long with the Dursleys after all. “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he agrees pleasantly, and the smile on his face only serves to disturb his aunt when he steps outside of the dusty cupboard. Even still, she merely turns her overly long neck with a quiet huff as she goes to fetch the birthday boy.

“Charming,” Voldemort drawls as he climbs onto a step stool, carefully flipping the bacon with practiced ease. “Are you certain we can’t curse them? Just a little?”

‘How aware were you last time? Like… Could you see my thoughts? Could you see through my eyes? Or were you just sort of… There?’ he wonders, carefully keeping his expression blank.

“Vague impressions were all that slipped through. General likes and dislikes, both of things and people, powerful emotions… That sort of thing. Anything else was blocked out. Presumably by the blood protection. I could easily delve through your mind now, but I see no real reason to. Not currently, in any case. We’ll need to shore up your Occlumency shields before you set foot in Hogwarts.”

That’s a good idea, actually. He’s glad that Voldemort thought of it. ‘Huh… Well, I have a feeling that you’re going to like what we’re doing today. I know I will.’

Intrigue prickles in the back of his mind. It is a foreign but benign sensation, and it is a far sight better than the bursts of burning rage that leaked through before. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I shall look forward to watching your little plot unfold, whatever it may be.”

There’s a bounce in Harry’s steps that cannot be tempered by his uncle shouting, “Comb your hair!” as soon as he catches sight of him, unable to stand the messy mop of loose curls that refuse to be tamed. Not even Dudley stomping down the stairs as Harry works on putting the finishing touches on breakfast –namely, frying up a few final eggs– can put a damper on his mood.

Dudley’s greedy eyes rove over the presents cluttering their dining table as Harry sets breakfast down on it, quickly sneaking a few pieces of bacon to tide him over while his aunt and uncle are distracted. His cousin’s face falls as soon as he finishes counting the gifts. “Thirty-six?” Dudley’s lip wobbles as crocodile tears well up in his eyes, looking up at his parents as he whispers, “That’s two less than last year.”

His aunt immediately scrambles to do damage control, same as last time. “Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present yet, see? It’s right here, under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“Thirty-seven, then” Dudley grumbles mulishly, face growing more red by the second. Though he knows the oncoming tantrum will not happen, he still eats quickly before his relatives can realize how much he’s taking.

Thankfully, they’re both too involved with Dudley to take any notice of him at all. “And we’ll buy you two more presents while we’re out today,” his aunt bargains. “How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?”

Dudley’s eyebrows furrow as if he’s very deep in thought. “So I’ll have thirty… Thirty…”

“Thirty-nine, sweetums.”

“Oh,” his cousin mumbles as he takes a seat, grabbing his first present as Aunt Petunia lets a quiet sigh of relief slip through her lips. “Alright then.”

Uncle Vernon just laughs as he ruffles his son’s hair. “Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Dudley!” The telephone rings, and he has to very carefully keep a smug smirk off his face when his aunt goes to answer it. He tunes out Dudley as he tears open gift after gift, and Voldemort’s rage grows with every shiny new thing he opens.

“They would give their child all of this and refuse you the most basic of necessities? How could anyone believe you to be spoiled when the very definition of the word is sitting across from us while you languish in his shadow?”

‘People usually see what they want to see, but I’m not going to just let them this time. This time, I’m going to force them to look and truly see. I am not coming back here once I leave, damn the blood wards.’

“Good.”

Any further scathing commentary is interrupted by his aunt returning, face pinched with displeasure. “Bad news, Vernon. Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take him.” She nods in Harry’s direction then, and his scar prickles with curiosity again, sensing Harry’s pleasure at this turn of events. His cousin’s mouth falls open in silent horror. “Now what?” his aunt asks, sounding quite cross about the situation. “We can’t just leave him here. Who knows what kind of trouble he could get into?”

“We could phone Marge?” Uncle Vernon suggests hesitantly.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon. She hates the boy.”

“What about what’s-her-name? Your friend? Yvonne?”

“On vacation in Majorca,” his aunt snaps, growing increasingly irritated. She levels him with an evaluating, heavy gaze, and her eyes skitter away at whatever she sees in his smile. It’s probably a touch sharper than what any eleven-year-old should be capable of, but he doesn’t much care. “I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” Aunt Petunia mutters lowly. “And leave him in the car…”

“That car’s new! He’s not sitting in it alone.”

Dudley begins to cry quite loudly as his parents bicker with one another, heaving huge, fake sobs as Aunt Petunia immediately whips her head in his direction. “Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him spoil your day!” she cries out as she wraps her arms around her son.

“This is disgusting.” Harry can hear Voldemort’s sneer in his voice alone. “You haven’t even given them a reason to fear you like this. Pathetic.”

“I don’t want him to come!” Dudley wails. “He always spoils everything!!” His cousin shoots him a nasty grin that breaks the facade of his act, but his aunt is too distracted trying to comfort him to notice it at all, not that she’d care if she did.

Then the doorbell rings, and his aunt grows quite pale. “Oh, good Lord! They’re here!” Dudley immediately drops the crocodile tears as his thin, scrawny, rat-like friend walks through the front door, and Harry is so violently reminded of Peter Pettigrew that he has to take a deep breath and remind himself that Piers Polkiss is just a schoolyard bully. Not even a particularly good one, really, seeing as he just holds people still while the rest of Dudley’s gang beats them up.

“I’m warning you,” his uncle threatens when his relatives realize that they truly have no choice but to bring him along. “I’m warning you now, boy. Any funny business, any at all, and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.”

He doesn’t promise not to do anything this time. He merely smiles, all jagged with serrated edges as he tilts his head just so. His uncle shudders before roughly shoving him into the car, leaving what is sure to be another hand-shaped bruise on his arm. He doesn’t care. They’re headed straight for the zoo, and he’s eager to get back into the reptile house this time. If he’s going to set himself apart from the Harry Potter he was last time, well… Then establishing his ability to speak Parseltongue from the start will go a long way there, especially since he intends to let the hat put him in Slytherin this time. And he really can’t guarantee that he’ll be able to purchase a snake in Diagon Alley between the wizarding world’s prejudice against them and his escort, so it’s best if he has one before he gets his letter. He wonders if that boa constrictor will want to stick around this time…

Voldemort’s amused laughter echoes in his head. “Oh, this is going to be interesting. They’re not going to have any clue what to do with you, Harry Potter.”

The zoo is as crowded as he remembers it being last time, and he relishes the refreshing lemon-flavoured ice pop that he gets from the nearby ice cream truck. He’s grateful that the smiling woman turned to him and asked what he wanted before the Dursleys got the chance to walk off with only Dudley and Piers’ chocolate ice creams in tow, same as last time, and savours it as much as he can without letting it melt right off the stick. He’ll be using a good bit of magic today, and he’ll need all the energy he can get.

Harry keeps a careful distance from Dudley and Piers as they start growing bored with the animals, knowing that they’ll start pushing and shoving at him if he walks too closely, and he has to carefully keep a smile off his face as they finally make their way into the reptile house. The lizards are interesting enough, he supposes, but it’s the snakes that truly hold his attention, and his eyes linger on several different exhibits as they walk past them, heading straight for the boa’s enclosure at Dudley’s demand.

His cousin presses his face right against the glass, smudging it with his nose as he stares at the massive, completely still snake. “Make it move!” Dudley whines as he looks up at his father. Uncle Vernon taps on the glass, but the boa constrictor doesn’t move an inch. “Do it again!” He does, and Harry sees a barely there shift of movement that neither his cousin nor uncle are observant enough to notice. “This is boring,” Dudley huffs as he stalks off, going to see the diurnal snakes that are actually moving around at this time of day.

Harry stays put, and his relatives don’t even notice that he doesn’t follow after them. The boa constrictor stirs, turning his head to face him as its tongue flicks out, slow and curious. “Hello,” he hisses quietly after casting a furtive glance around to make sure that Piers isn’t lingering nearby. He doesn’t feel like getting into a world of trouble like that again. “I’m sorry about them.”

This time, he’s not confused in the slightest when the snake responds, climbing down to the front of its enclosure as he hisses, “You’re a speaker. Have you come to take me with you?”

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes! I have only ever known the screeching of children and fists beating against the invisible wall of my home. I grow weary of it. I wish to see the world, to climb real trees and hunt my own prey…”

“Then I will free you,” he promises. “But it’s very cold in England. Do you… Maybe you could stay with me? You’ll have to scare my relatives a bit to get them to leave you alone, but I was planning on doing that anyway. My magic will be able to keep you warm.”

The snake deliberates on that for several long moments before nodding slowly. “I shall find you after you leave this place.” Harry nods as a smile tugs at his lips, slowly walking away before casting a Vanishing Charm on the glass once he’s a safe distance away from it, replacing it once the snake has escaped. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to how the boa escaped this time, after all. The boa snaps at the heels of several screeching families as he swiftly makes his exit, and it takes everything Harry has to not laugh at the sight.

Chaos sweeps over everyone within the reptile house, and no one notices the way he lingers at the back of the panicked group that is rushing for the doors. They certainly don’t notice when the glass containing what is labelled as a sharp-nosed pit viper disappears and reappears within the blink of an eye, and if Dudley’s overly large hand-me-downs are good for anything, then it’s for hiding smuggling out a four-foot-long, venomous snake underneath them. “Thank you, speaker!” she hisses as she coils around his sunken-in stomach. “You are far too small,” she hisses disapprovingly. “Do I need to bite your nestmates? Because I will.”

“Not now.” It should probably concern him that he’s not refusing outright, but well… He’ll have to see how everything goes, he supposes. She might very well need to depending on how furious his uncle gets. “We’ll try to scare them first. I’ll only be stuck in their nest for another month or so. Maybe I’ll be able to get more food with you there…”

“I doubt they could stop you,” Voldemort snorts in his head. “You’re the one making their meals, and you’ve certainly chosen a deadly familiar… The boa’s size will certainly help you as well. You’re going straight for intimidation, aren’t you?”

‘Well, if it works…’ Harry shrugs his shoulders as he steps out into the cool air, quickly catching up with his relatives with exaggeratedly wide, frightened eyes. He knows that he’s sold it when they just look disappointed to see him alive. ‘I need to let people know that I won’t go along with what they expect of me from the beginning this time, and your main body will never take me seriously at this age unless I do something like this.’

“I’d argue that the Horcrux and your knowledge of it alone would be enough, but this certainly will not hurt your chances.”

He somehow manages to keep either Dudley or Piers from noticing their stowaway, though he does earn himself a few new bruises in the process. Things continue on as normal. Harry makes dinner, eats his precious few scraps of it, and retreats to his cupboard as soon as he’s finished. It isn’t until morning that the thin veneer of normalcy that hovers over Number Four Privet Drive shatters completely.

“Hello, speaker,” the boa hisses as Harry’s aunt shrieks with terror. The smirk that tugs at Harry’s lips will live in his aunt’s nightmares for years. The viper pokes her head out from beneath his shirt, and even Uncle Vernon –who rushed to the backyard as soon as he heard Aunt Petunia’s scream– goes pale when he sees her.

Harry stares his relatives in the eyes as he hisses, “Hello, my friend. Thank you for joining us.” His uncle takes a threatening step forward, face shifting from pale to blotchy and red with anger within seconds. His venomous friend rears back and hisses. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, uncle.” Uncle Vernon freezes in place as Harry runs a gentle thumb over the viper’s head, snickering at the dumbfounded look on his face. “You’ll bleed out before you can ever reach a hospital if she bites you. Don’t give her a reason to.”

“W-What do you want?” his aunt stutters, eyes wide with fear.

“Regular food. A reasonable chore list. None of you laying a hand on me. And these two aren’t going anywhere, of course. Don’t worry,” he reassures his aunt when it looks like she might keel over. “It’s only for another month or so. You won’t see me again once I get my Hogwarts letter.”

“... You knew about that?” Seriously, this is just weird. It’s strange to see his aunt tremble like a leaf in the midst of some terrible storm, quaking and clinging to life with desperate abandon.

“The snakes tell me all sorts of interesting things,” he whispers. “I’ve known for a while now, but it seemed better to let you live in denial. But, well, after finding a couple of familiars…” And there’s no denying that these snakes are exactly that. His magic buzzes with contentment in their presence the same way it always has with Hedwig, and he can feel faint echoes of that bond within them as well. That faint connection, sure to grow stronger with time, is probably what let the boa find him here in the first place. “I couldn’t leave them there. The time for secrets is past us, I think.”

He shrugs with a wry smile as Dudley, slow as ever, finally joins them. “So I’ll just make it perfectly clear to you. Things are going to change around here. You might not like it, but I don’t care. I don’t make idle threats, and my new friends are more than willing to put you six feet under if they have to. So long as I’m fed and left alone until the magical world contacts me, I won’t do anything to you either. But if those simple demands are unmet… You won’t live to regret it.”

“I always knew you were a monster!” his aunt hisses, finally finding her spine somewhere within all the fear and hatred rushing through her veins. He knows he shouldn’t pity her, but some small part of him does, even after all she’s done to him over the years. They didn’t ask for this any more than he did, but even still…

“No,” he whispers sadly. His scar pulses softly in the closest approximation of comfort it can manage as he echoes the words he spoke to Dumbledore in Limbo. “You never gave me the chance to be anything else.”

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Harry’s pleasantly surprised when his threats stick without further effort on his part. He supposes that has a lot to do with the constant presence of Cepheus and Cassiopeia –the names that his boa and viper familiars, respectively, agreed to– and all the silent threats that they imply. His aunt begrudgingly allows the cupboard to stay unlocked overnight now, and Harry is far more pleased with that than he would have been to receive Dudley’s second bedroom again. His Hogwarts letter needs to be addressed to the cupboard under the stairs if he wants to get the ball rolling regarding his change of guardianship to literally anyone else, after all. Hopefully with Sirius if he can clear his name and get him out of Azkaban quickly enough.

“Always plotting, little snake,” Voldemort hisses with clear amusem*nt. “How did you ever convince the hat to put you in Gryffindor?”

‘With a lot of begging on my part.’

The funny thing is that, for all his teasing, Voldemort isn’t wrong. Harry became brave over the years, but he certainly didn’t feel very brave when he was first sorted. He’s honestly surprised that he wasn’t put in Hufflepuff after refusing Slytherin. It’s almost… Suspicious, but he pushes that thought out of his mind for now. He’s too stuck lingering on the fact that he agrees with Voldemort on something, even if it is the shard of the man’s soul in his head. Perhaps it shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. He’d gotten along perfectly well with the diary Horcrux up until he tried to kill him. That’s something that he’s going to have to change this time. He really doesn’t want to kill the basilisk again.

“It would be a terrible shame,” Voldemort agrees. “To kill one of the few living beings from the founders’ era… The loss of knowledge would be devastating.”

‘How did you ever convince the hat to not put you in Ravenclaw?’ he reflects back, chuckling at the surge of mild irritation in his scar. It’s less of a searing pain and more akin to an underpowered Stinging Jinx now, never more than slightly uncomfortable no matter how frustrated Voldemort gets. And Harry is very good at driving him to frustration.

“... The hat seriously considered it, but ultimately, my desire to use knowledge for my own purposes rather than hoard knowledge for knowledge’s sake sent me to Slytherin.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” he murmurs quietly, smirking when Dudley skitters out of his line of sight. It’s a bit cruel to intentionally unnerve them, but it’s nothing compared to what they’ve done to Harry over the years so…

“Speaker!” Cassiopeia hisses with clear excitement as she forces herself through the mail slot. The Dursleys haven’t slept well at night ever since they discovered that she could come and go from the house as she pleases, even if they at least have the comfort of knowing that Cepheus is too large to go anywhere without Harry. He does not tell them that Cepheus is both large enough and smart enough to open doors as long as they’re not locked. “Your letter is almost here! I can taste the magic and ink on the wind!”

“Oh, good. I wondered if we’d still get it today. No reason not to, I suppose, but… Hm, I wonder if I’ll get a proper escort when I send my response back?” He has nothing against Hagrid, of course, but it would be nice to get a better feel for what would or wouldn’t be useful to him beyond the bare minimum. Even if he’s mastered these spells already, having stronger foundations will only help him with the more complicated spells later on. Maybe he’ll even be decent in Potions this time. Surely Snape won’t hate him as much if he’s in Slytherin, right? “I suppose I could request one…”

“That would be wise. The less knowledge they believe you have about magic, the better, at least for now. If you paint the picture of cruel, abusive relatives who have always hated you for your magic, then you might make them panic about an Obscurial situation. Then again, I’ve found myself wondering how you avoided such a fate myself… Perhaps it has something to do with the Horcrux.”

He has no idea what any of that means, but the swinging of the mail flap and soft thump of letters landing on the welcoming mat firmly drive out any questions that may have lingered in his mind. A smile tugs at his lips as soon as he reads that familiar, looping handwriting that planted a seed of hope that refused to die in his first lifetime. It doesn’t have quite the same effect the second time around, but his excitement is still palpable in the way his magic fills the air. His aunt and uncle are pale as ghosts when he tosses the rest of the mail in their direction, idly rubbing his thumb over the ink that calls him toward his destiny.

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4. Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

“And so it begins,” he whispers with a smirk tugging at his lips. “And so it begins…” He skims over the letter and finds that it doesn’t say anything different from last time, carefully tucks both the letter and envelope in his pocket, and nicks a piece of notebook paper and pen from his uncle’s study. His face gets delightfully red when he sees Harry writing his response, but he doesn’t utter a word. He doesn’t dare to with Cassiopeia draped over Harry’s shoulders.

Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

Hello! I happily accept my place in your school, and I’m looking forward to the start of the term. I just have a few questions, if that’s alright?

You’re not lying about witches and wizards being real, are you? Only, it makes sense because I make funny things happen around me sometimes that I could never explain, but everyone says that magic isn’t real… Where would I get my school supplies? I’ve never seen any books like the ones on this list, and I wouldn’t know where to start with getting newt spleens or bat wings. Is there a special shop for this sort of thing? Ones specifically for witches and wizards? Could you point me in the direction of where to get these materials, or is that part of the test? If so, I’m afraid I might fail it and you’ll decide you don’t want me after all.

Sorry, I’m rambling. I’ll save the rest of my questions for when I can ask them in person, I think, assuming this isn’t all some cruel joke.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

“Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?” Voldemort asks with a snort. “Clever. Minerva is likely to insist on escorting you herself after that.”

‘That’s what I’m hoping for.’ She’s more capable of discretion than Hagrid is, but she’s just as much in Dumbledore’s pocket as Hagrid is. Finding out how much of the information that he intentionally lets slip to her gets back to the headmaster will be a good way of gauging just how much or little he can trust her with more serious matters.

Harry steps outside, and he doesn’t even get the chance to whistle before an owl is swooping down from the trees. He holds out his arm, and the tawny owl is oddly gentle as it hooks its talons into his sleeve, hooting softly. “Here you are,” he murmurs as he ties the piece of paper to the owl’s leg. “Be careful with that, will you? Paper is a lot more fragile than parchment, and Professor McGonagall won’t be able to read my response if it gets wet.” The owl hoots, bobbing its head in confirmation before it takes to the sky.

He watches it fly off into the distance as Cepheus joins them out in the yard, resting his head –which he can feel the weight of even with a Featherlight Charm applied to his giant familiar– on top of Harry’s. “It’s soon, then? We’re moving on to a bigger and better nest?”

“Very soon,” he promises. “Once we leave this place, I won’t let them drag me back.”

“I’ll bite them if they try,” Cassiopeia hisses sharply, and a faint smile tugs at Harry’s lips.

“I know you will.”

He receives a return letter from McGonagall within a couple of days, and Voldemort is smugly pleased about predicting her reaction the instant that Harry opens the letter.

Mr. Potter,

It is indeed the truth that both witches and wizards are real, and that you are a wizard. I apologize for sending the standard letter of acceptance to you; I was led to believe that your relatives would have already informed you of who you are. You will obtain your school supplies at Diagon Alley, a shopping district specifically for those of us with magic, and I can escort you there this Saturday if you are amenable.

It is likely to be an all-day affair, so I’d recommend that we meet early whether it is this Saturday or at another date. Perhaps nine? Am I correct in assuming that it will just be the two of us traveling to Diagon Alley, or need I prepare accommodations for your relatives as well?

Awaiting Your Response,

Deputy Headmistress

Minerva McGonagall

Harry pens his return letter with an eager smile. He’s so pleased that even his scar echoes with the faint hum of contentment, mirroring Harry’s emotions back to him as they wash over the fragment of Voldemort’s soul.

Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

That is so cool! I’m free this Saturday, and I’d really appreciate it if you could take me to this Diagon Alley. I can’t wait to see what the magical world is like! Are there very many snakes? I love snakes! My relatives don’t like them very much, but I have two that make my… Magic, I guess, feel all buzzy and warm whenever they’re nearby. That feeling has been getting stronger recently. Is that a normal wizard thing, or is there something special about them?

And I’m always up at six o’clock sharp, so you can come even earlier if you want! But nine is fine too. My relatives definitely won’t want to come with us, though. I don’t think they like magic very much. I guess that explains why they’ve never liked me very much either…

Eagerly Awaiting This Saturday,

Harry Potter

He’s going to wait to drop the bombshell of being a Parselmouth until McGonagall can hear it in person –mostly because he has no reason to believe that speaking to snakes isn’t something that all wizards can do– but it feels unwise to surprise the strict Head of House with the presence of a giant constrictor and a dangerously venomous snake. Granted, she’s not likely to predict what kinds of snakes they are, but at least this way she has some sort of warning.

A barn owl takes his letter this time, briefly preening Harry’s messy nest of hair before getting spooked when Cassiopeia peeks her head out from beneath his shirt. She’s going to sulk for days once he starts wearing clothes that properly fit him, though he supposes that she’ll probably still be able to fit under his robes. That should ward off the worst of her temper.

He’s surprised when another letter from McGonagall arrives on Friday, having assumed that any further conversation would be saved for when she picked him up. He knows there’s no point in writing a return letter, so he shoos the owl away as he goes inside to read it.

Mr. Potter,

There are several species of magical snake, yes. They are not especially common, but I imagine that you’ll enjoy learning about them all the same. And it sounds to me as if you may have established a familiar bond with these snakes, though I’ll have to wait until we meet in person to verify such a thing. Familiars are immensely helpful for young witches and wizards, aiding with both power and control in spellcasting. Familiar bonds often grow more powerful with age and time spent together, so if you’ve had your snakes for very long, it is likely that you’re just feeling the growth of said bond.

If that is the case, then I shall arrive at eight, as any sooner feels discourteous to your relatives when they will not be making the journey with us. I am very sorry to hear that they seem unhappy with your magic. We can discuss the topic more once I come to pick you up, if you’d like? Perhaps I’ll be able to smooth over any concerns regarding the matter.

See You Soon,

Deputy Headmistress

Minerva McGonagall

“Hook, line, and sinker,” he murmurs with a smirk tugging at his lips. He cannot wait for tomorrow.

Morning dawns quietly in the Dursley household now. There is no more shouting for him to wake up, no more demands for him to make breakfast, and no more protests when he eats a meal meant for a boy his age instead of the sort of scraps that someone would feed their dog. Heavy tension blankets the dining room, made worse by the fact that both Cepheus and Cassiopeia are clinging to Harry today. They know that he wouldn’t leave them behind, but even still, they hover. It’s honestly a bit funny, especially since the Dursleys already look ill about the knowledge that a witch is visiting them today.

“So you’ll really be gone after this?” his aunt asks lowly, eyes narrowed. “You’ll never darken our doorstep again?”

“They would have to drag back my cooling corpse if they wanted me to return to this place,” he mutters, and even Dudley pauses his rapid consumption of everything on the table to scrunch his nose with disgust. “You won’t see me again.”

“Good.” And that is that. When McGonagall knocks on their door, his aunt stiffens her spine and marches over to open it with a pinched expression. “The boy’s your problem now,” she says with a sneer as he walks over to join them. “We won’t have him or his freakishness here anymore. Never again! I don’t care what threats you people make; that freak is no family of mine!”

His eyes widen as the low thrum of magic that surrounds Number Four Privet Drive falters, and he thinks, with all his might, ‘This place is not my home. The Dursleys are not my family.’

The blood wards shatter.

‘Well,’ he thinks as McGonagall goes pale and quickly leads him away. ‘That’s certainly one way to make sure I never go back.’

“Well done, Harry.”

“I apologize, Mr. Potter. We’ll have to move more quickly than I would like. Magic of that magnitude failing will draw far more attention than its existence does,” McGonagall apologizes with a pinched smile. “We’ll need to Apparate. You’ll feel a faint twisting in your navel and will likely fill nauseous afterward, but it will only last a moment.”

“Okay,” he whispers, making a show of shuffling nervously. “But what about Cepheus and Cassiopeia? They won’t get left behind, will they?”

McGonagall’s expression softens then, and a small part of Harry rages at the fact that she hadn’t been the one to escort him the first time. He would have killed for this kind of consideration back then. “So long as they are on your person, they will travel with you, Mr. Potter. Though I would advise you keep them as still as possible for the trip.”

Once he nods his understanding, McGonagall takes his hand, and the two of them disappear from Little Whinging, Surrey with a sharp crack. Harry nearly falls over when they appear in front of the Leaky Cauldron, clinging onto McGonagall’s robes with flushed cheeks as he fights back a gag.

“Your struggles with magical transportation will never fail to amuse me, Harry.”

‘Shut up, Voldemort.’

His professor would probably feel quite faint if she had any idea about what goes on in his head. But she doesn’t, so she merely offers a steadying hand as Harry recollects himself and guides him through the doors of the Leaky Cauldron once he’s ready.

The brilliant thing about having an eight-foot-long snake is that everyone is so busy tracking Cepheus’s every movement that none of them notice that Harry Potter is the one he’s wrapped around. Harry is immensely pleased to avoid getting swarmed this time, trotting along after McGonagall as she starts making her way toward the secret entrance.

“Escorting another one of the new students, Minerva?” This time, there’s a distinctly nervous note to Tom’s voice, and Harry stifles a laugh at the look on the patrons’ faces.

McGonagall can hear it too if her distinctly disapproving look is any indication. “Indeed. We have much to do today, so we’ll be right on our way.”

Everyone seems very relieved to see them go, and Harry feigns the appropriate amount of awe at the sight of a brick wall shifting piece by piece until it reveals Diagon Alley before them. It’s not nearly as crowded as it was his first time around, though there are still plenty of witches and wizards to be seen roaming the cobblestone streets. Nostalgia threatens to bowl him over at the sight of these people living without fear, eagerly talking with one another and shopping for their school things without a care in the world. He never wants to lose this. This is how it’s supposed to be.

“So ensure it remains so,” Voldemort whispers in his head, and he vows to do just that.

“We’ll need to stop by Gringotts first,” McGonagall murmurs with a fond smile. “You’ll be able to access the Potter trust vault, if nothing else, and that will cover the expenses of your school things many times over. Speaking of…” A small, golden key is pressed into his hand, and Harry clutches onto it like a lifeline. He never even got to keep his vault key last time, and he finds himself so grateful to this McGonagall that he could cry. He nearly does. “Hold onto this, Mr. Potter. It is yours, and it is important that you do not lose it.”

“I won’t,” he promises as he clutches it to his chest. His throat is feeling very dry all of a sudden. McGonagall smiles down at him, and he keeps carefully still as she moves to ruffle his hair, tension lining every inch of his body. It’s an act, of course, but it wouldn’t have been the first time he went through this, and that is rather the point. Cassiopeia pokes her head out from his shirt, tasting the air to ensure that his distress is manufactured and not genuine. McGonagall does a better job of hiding her unease than most, but even she looks slightly pale at the sight of her.

“Mr. Potter, you do realize that your familiar is…”

“Venomous?” he whispers. “Yeah, I know. She won’t bite anyone unless they try to hurt me, though. Honest.”

McGonagall’s lips look quite pinched then, but with a wave of her wand and the sensation of tingly magic washing over him, she goes from looking displeased to resigned. “They truly are your familiars,” she murmurs. “I suppose your bond has developed enough to establish some sort of mental connection with them?”

‘That’s a thing?’ he can’t help thinking. ‘I guess that explains the way Hedwig and I…’ Harry shakes off that thought, determined to keep the sad thoughts at bay. He’s here even earlier than last time, so there should be absolutely no reason for Hedwig to not still be here. He’ll get to bring his original familiar home with him, wherever home ends up being for now. “Um… Not exactly?” he hedges hesitantly. “Is it not… Is it not normal for wizards to talk to snakes? Because I’ve always been able to understand them, Deputy Headmistress.”

McGonagall’s eyes go very wide, and for just a moment, she comes to a complete standstill. Harry stops right beside her. She carefully schools her expression as she murmurs, “That is a very rare gift indeed, Mr. Potter. One that has not been seen since… In quite a long time. And you may simply call me Professor McGonagall if you so wish.”

His professor jolts slightly as they continue their walk, as if only now realizing that they had stopped at all. “Well done. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Minerva look so unsettled,” Voldemort muses. “She looks as if she’s seen a ghost. Though I suppose that she may as well have, in her eyes…”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” he murmurs agreeably. “Cassiopeia really won’t bite, I promise! She only threatened to do so to the Dursleys if they started hitting me again.” He has to bite back a smirk at the thunderous expression that flits across McGonagall’s face. She looks as if she’s barely resisting the urge to return to Privet Drive and hex the life out of them. “Isn’t that right, girl?” he hisses as she presses her head against the underside of his chin.

The wariness practically melts out of McGonagall’s eyes. He’s not sure if it’s because she’s been reassured that Harry can control the deadly snake clinging onto him or if it’s because any similarities she might have seen between himself and Tom Riddle melt away at the sight of his smile –which is unfair, really, because Tom has a very pretty smile and a lot of people seem to forget that– but Harry will take it either way.

“Well, so long as you’re aware. I suppose we’ll have Severus work on an antivenin before the school year starts, just in case…”

Given Harry’s track record with people trying to hurt him, that’s probably a good idea, and he says as much. McGonagall seems pleased by his easy agreement, and the two of them make their way to the towering, pristine building that is Gringotts with no more fanfare. It’s strange to think that the last time he walked into this building was to rob it, and he hopes that any unease that lingers on his face will be dismissed as general shock. This time, when the goblin guards bow to them upon their entry, Harry bows back, not missing the pleased, if slightly startled, glint in their eyes.

‘Best to start off on the right foot this time. At least I won’t have to worry about Hagrid wasting their time this go around… Hm, I’ll have to get a blood test as well. That’s the best way for me to feasibly learn about Sirius.’ His only concern is that it may reveal his time travel in some way, and he really doesn’t want McGonagall to find out about that. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want Dumbledore to find out about that, and if she does, then so will he.

“Request a private test, then,” Voldemort suggests with a quiet scoff. “Minerva is hardly the sort to insist on being present. She’s too proper for that.”

‘Did you know her? You sound awfully familiar…’

“Not properly, but she was around while I was at Hogwarts. She was more of an aide during my time. Dumbledore never liked me, and neither did she. I kept a closer eye on her because of that.”

‘Ah, that makes sense. I’ll just ask for the private test. Thank you.’

Voldemort’s presence fades back into a pleasant buzz beneath his scar, and Harry practically skips into the marble halls of Gringotts. The goblins look viciously amused by how uneasy the other witches and wizards are at the sight of his familiars, and Harry shares wicked smirks with several of them. Their smiles only grow sharper.

“Good morning,” Harry greets warmly when they arrive at the counter. “I’d like to access my vault, please.”

“And do you have your key?” the goblin asks, utterly unphased by how both Cepheus and Cassiopeia lift their heads to study him. Harry slides the key across the counter without another word, and he sees the goblin’s eyes flit to his scar shortly afterward. “Everything seems to be in order. I will send for someone to take you down to your vault. Griphook!”

Harry can’t quite help the grin that tugs at his lips at the sight of the familiar face. Even considering that Griphook betrayed them in the end, that doesn’t change the fact that they never could have gotten the Hufflepuff’s Cup without his help. He hopes they’ll become better friends, or at least allies, in this lifetime than the last.

“Do you mind if we go alone?” he asks McGonagall with a shy smile. “It’s just… I’m not sure how I’ll react to seeing all their things, and I don’t want you to see me cry…”

McGonagall simply nods with a faint, pitying smile that would make his skin crawl if it wasn't exactly the reaction Harry was angling for. “Just ensure you pick up at least a hundred Galleons. More if you intend to do some additional shopping beyond the list.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall!”

Harry waits until he and Griphook are in a minecart and flying along the railway before saying, “I’d like to request a blood test as well. Private, of course.”

“That can be arranged, Mr. Potter. It’ll cost you ten Galleons.” Harry hands Griphook exactly that amount once they enter his vault, pocketing more than double what McGonagall suggested in a weightless, expanded coin pouch that costs him another five Galleons. “We can connect that bag to your trust vault for an additional thirty Galleons.”

Harry briefly considers it before shrugging and saying, “Go ahead. It’s best to be prepared, even if I don’t think I’ll need more than what I have. Who knows how frequently I’ll have the chance to stop by…” The fact that Griphook is offering this at all already has Harry smiling. He didn’t do this before, but then again, Griphook seems like he’s in a better mood in general without Hagrid’s presence. He’s not even bothered by Harry’s familiars despite their hissy sulking about the ride here. “Thank you, Griphook. I appreciate your guidance today.”

“Awful proper, for a young wizard,” Griphook grumbles lowly. “Though it would be more appropriate to wish me well in battle in these circ*mstances, Heir Potter.”

“Oh!” he flushes slightly in embarrassment. “My apologies, Sir Griphook. Um… May your enemies tremble before your blade?”

Griphook’s answering smile is downright eerie. “And may yours resent the day you were born.”

Voldemort’s laughter rings in his head, loud and clear, the entire ride back to the surface of Gringotts. “Oh, they will. Oh, how they will…”

Griphook leads Harry off to a separate room once they step off the cart, twisting and turning through hallways that Harry still can’t navigate to save his life. This bank is like a damn maze. “The magic of this place is…” Cepheus pauses as his tongue flicks in and out slowly, tilting his head slightly in a gesture of quiet contemplation that he’s picked up from Harry. “Very old. Not as old as your magic, but close.”

“... Pardon?” he hisses quietly, so confused that he doesn’t realize how Griphook startles at the sound.

“Ah. A blood test,” Griphook mutters faintly. “That is… Beginning to make more sense now.”

“Your magic tastes of Death, speaker,” Cassiopeia hisses in answer. “And there is nothing older than Death.”

Harry steps into a private room with that thought lingering on his mind, and Griphook still looks vaguely unsettled as he pulls out a shimmering piece of parchment and a silver dagger. “Three drops on the parchment,” Griphook instructs curtly.

He steps forward and cuts the palm of his hand, squeezing his fist as one, two, three drops of blood steadily drip onto the parchment. Both the dagger and his hand glow silver afterward, healing the cut as dark red words begin to scrawl across the page.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

Harry James Potter

Born: 31st of July, 1980

Died: 2nd of May, 1997

Rebirth via Temporal Displacement: 23rd of June, 1991

Age: 10 (17)

Closest Relations:

• Lily Potter née Evans (mother, deceased)
• James Potter (father, deceased)
• Sirius Black (godfather, adoptive father by magic, incarcerated)

Lordships & Heirships:

• Lord Potter by right of blood and magic
• Lord Peverell by right of blood and magic
• Lord Gryffindor by right of blood and magic
• Heir Black by right of magic and blood (distant), heir of Lord Presumptive: Sirius Black
• Heir Slytherin by right of magic (Horcrux)

Additional Titles:

• The Boy-Who-Lived
• Tom Marvolo Riddle’s Horcrux
• Master of Death

Vaults:

• Vault 687: Potter Trust Vault: Contents: 30,403 galleons, 4 sickles, and 21 knuts
• Vault 704: Potter Family Vault: Contents: 400,324 galleons, 16 sickles, and 13 knuts; Potter family grimoire; assorted heirlooms
• Vault 765: Black Trust Vault: Contents: 57,836 galleons, 12 sickles, and 8 knuts
• Vault 810: Gryffindor Family Vault: Contents: 637,246 galleons, 14 sickles, and 3 knuts; Gryffindor family grimoire, assorted heirlooms
• Vault 811: Slytherin Trust Vault: Contents: 78,563 galleons, 7 sickles, and 8 knuts
• Vault 848: Peverell Family Vault: Contents: 724,819 galleons, 5 sickles, and a knut; Peverell family grimoire; assorted heirlooms

“Ah… I understand how you convinced the hat to put you in Gryffindor now.”

“I trust you understand why I wanted to keep this a secret now?” he murmurs quietly.

Griphook schools his expression with a stern nod. “I do. The Goblin Nation prides itself on our secrecy. You will hear no whispers that originate from us, one who has mastered Death.” The goblin’s voice is almost… Reverent. It only serves to unsettle Harry further than the unexpected title already has.

“About that… What does it mean?”

He can feel Voldemort’s exasperation before the soul shard says a word, but in the end, he doesn’t have to. A sudden chill washes over the room, and Harry blinks in shock as a black, amorphous shadow appears before them. His Invisibility Cloak is suddenly draped over his shoulders, the Resurrection Stone has found its home on his finger once more, and the Elder Wand sings in his hand.

“You collected the Deathly Hallows in your previous life, Master,” Death whispers into his ear. “But that alone is not enough to become the Master of Death, no… You walked to your death willingly, and even when given the option to turn back, you embraced it. You became it. You are Death, much the same as I, though an extension of it that lives and breathes all the same. The Hallows have chosen you, in this universe and every other, and they shall have no other, Harry James Potter.”

“Oh,” he whispers. Harry feels as faint as Griphook looks, though his familiars are surprisingly unaffected by this whole thing. “Does that mean…?”

“You have become Death, and so I can no longer claim you. And so long as you carry a shard of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s soul, I cannot claim him either. I recommend convincing him to absorb the other Horcruxes to restore his sanity and soul should you continue down this path, but that, as with all other things, is your choice. I leave you to make it.” A skeletal hand caresses his face before disintegrating into nothingness.

The cold lingers, but Death is gone.

“Not a word of this leaves this room,” he demands with a sharp glare, and Griphook nods rapidly.

“The results of your test are the only thing I’m required to report to the king, and he will have discretion in the matter. Anything else can be regarded as… Personal matters, and as you’ve requested for me not speak of them, I shall not.”

“Thank you, Griphook.” He bows deeply, and the words that spill from his lips feel natural this time. “May the blood of your enemies be a sacrifice to Death that sees you honored in their hall once you join them.”

“And may the souls of those who wronged you suffer for all of eternity.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

“Is that you all done, then?” McGonagall asks with a faint hint of concern in the furrow of her brows. “You took a bit longer than I expected.”

“I’m sorry, Professor McGonagall,” he murmurs with a bow. “We had a bit of additional business to take care of.” Harry lifts his right hand, revealing the five rings adorning it with a faint smile.

The first is the Lord Potter ring, disguised as the heir ring to conceal his true age. A golden band inlaid with rubies, it’s so Gryffindor that nostalgia aches in his chest, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the Lord Gryffindor ring itself. Even disguised as an heir ring, the gleaming golden band with lions carved into the metal is eye-catching. Even more so with twin, protruding lions rearing on their back paws to hold a large ruby in place. He’s glad to have these little pieces of his past remain part of his future, and he wishes that he’d known to claim them the first time around. The third is the Lord Peverell ring, the Resurrection Stone, left almost exactly as it is with the exception of obscuring the sign of the Deathly Hallows within it. Since very few will recognize it for what it is, Harry doesn’t bother diminishing the band on this one to make it look smaller. Fewer still could ever dream of claiming it from him with Death in his shadow and the fragment of Voldemort’s soul within it drinking his magic like fine wine. The fourth is the Heir Black ring, a thin silver band with a single black onyx in its center and an inscription of ‘toujours pur’ on the inside. Harry is absolutely delighted to be wearing it, as a half-blood, knowing that Sirius’s relatives must be turning in their graves. The last and final ring –the one he nearly opted against wearing and likely would have if he didn’t intend to go to Slytherin– is the Heir Slytherin ring. Silver snakes twist around glittering emeralds nearly as bright as Harry’s eyes, and aesthetically, he thinks that it’s the prettiest one, even if he’ll never admit it out loud.

McGonagall slowly blinks, as a smile tugs at her lips. “Ah, I see.” Her eyes linger on the unfamiliar rings, and though Harry can tell she wants to ask questions, she doesn’t. “Shall we be on then, Mr. Potter?”

“After you, professor.”

The Deathly Hallows refuse to leave his side now. He’s a bit worried about Dumbledore realizing he’s stolen his wand, but there’s not much he can do about it when the Elder Wand refuses to go any further than Harry’s coin pouch. He’ll just have to go get his original wand as well and be very careful about when he uses the other. At least the other two are easier to explain away.

“Where to first?” he murmurs once the step back out onto the main street. There still aren’t too many people milling about, but he knows that will change as the day goes on.

“Madam Malkins,” McGonagall says decisively as she leads him toward the robe shop. “So that we may leave with your robes today. Even with magic, it can take quite some time to fit them properly, so it is best to take care of that first. Remember that for future years.” A bit of the sternness on her expression fades away as she continues, “Though you may choose where we go afterward. The order we obtain the rest of your supplies in matters very little.”

She may end up retracting that statement when Harry immediately starts asking about an owl, but for now, he keeps a lid on his excitement to reunite with Hedwig and trudges along to get his robes taken care of. Though to be fair, he’s also excited to get out of these ratty old clothes and into something clean and new that actually fits him.

He knows that Hedwig will refuse to go with anyone else, but… It’s just that he can feel his magic straining to reach her even now, and a faint itch is settling under his skin the longer he stays away from her. He’s absolutely going to use that to convince McGonagall if she’s difficult about it.

“Hogwarts, dear?” Madam Malkin asks as they walk in the door. “Smart of you to come this early. You’ve beaten the worst of the crowds. Ah, Minerva! Escorting another one of the muggle-born students, I take it?”

“Not quite,” McGonagall answers with a wry smile. “Mr. Potter, this is Madam Malkin. The finest seamstress in Diagon Alley, in my humble opinion.”

Madam Malkin nearly drops her measuring tape, jolting with shock when she gets a good look at him. Despite that, her shock exists only for a moment before she’s all business once more. “Do you mind setting your familiars to the side, dear? They’ll interfere with your measurements otherwise.”

He pauses, considering before hissing, “You heard her, you two.” Cassiopeia hisses in displeasure as Cepheus lowers himself to the ground without a complaint. “Please, Cassiopeia? It’s just for a little while.”

“The floor will be cold,” she hisses grumpily. “You will owe me many trips to the hot box you’ve been speaking of after this. The ones in the castle?”

“You can join me in the shower,” he promises with a sigh. “Spoiled snake…” He turns to Madam Malkin with a charming smile, and to her credit, she only seems mildly surprised instead of deeply disturbed. “Sorry about her. Cassiopeia is a bit more clingy than Cepheus.”

“Not a problem at all, dear,” Madam Malkin assures him. “Now then, are you wanting the standard Hogwarts set? That’s three school robes so that you can easily swap them out in case of any mishaps, though the house elves will keep them clean at the end of the day. They’ll gain your house colors once you’ve been sorted, so they won’t stay all black for long.”

“Definitely. Is it okay if I get a few extra robes as well? Just for casual wear on the weekends. I can’t keep wearing this.” He grimaces as he tugs at Dudley’s old sweater, and though Madam Malkin politely refrains from commenting on it, she clearly understands what he means.

“Of course! We’ll have you walking out of this store in a new set, and you can come pick up the rest of your wardrobe once you’ve finished shopping. Did you have any colors in mind?”

“Green,” he answers immediately before deliberating on other options. “Maybe a dark gray? Not quite black but close.”

“That’s easily done, dear,” Madam Malkin agrees with a smile. “Perhaps I can talk you into some darker reds as well? It should bring out your eyes.”

Nostalgia curls his lips into a smile once more. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I think I’d like that.”

Madam Malkin takes his measurements with practiced ease, and she purses her lip and exchanges a sharp look with McGonagall when she thinks he isn’t looking. There’s no denying how thin he is, even after a month of eating regularly, and he can’t help wondering if Madam Malking had noticed and said anything last time or if she was too distracted working with two clients at once to have taken notice of it at all. He’ll never know now.

“There you are,” she chirps with a cheery grin as she looks Harry over. His new, gray robes are far more comfortable than anything he remembers wearing in this lifetime or the last, and Cassiopeia hisses in clear contentment as soon as she slips underneath them. Cepheus, on the other hand, seems a bit disgruntled.

“It is so smooth,” his familiar hisses with displeasure. “It is difficult for me to hold onto you.”

“Hmm… Does this help?” Harry runs his hand down the length of Cepheus’s body, and his familiar straightens slightly at the brush of Harry’s magic against his scales. He doesn’t struggle to climb back up onto Harry’s shoulders nearly as much after that.

“Yes. Thank you, speaker.”

“Thank you, Madam Malkin,” he says with a quick bow. “I appreciate all your help today!”

“Of course, dear! Have fun with the rest of your shopping. Oh, and happy early birthday!”

McGonagall’s smile is painfully fond once they step back out onto the street, though there’s a glint of steel lurking in her eyes that she probably believes him too naive to notice. It’s a fair assumption to make. He wouldn’t have the first time. “Where to next, Mr. Potter?”

“Can we go get an owl?” His professor’s eyebrow quirks in silent question as her eyes flit from his familiars and back. “The list says that we can bring an owl or a cat or a toad. It doesn’t explicitly forbid any other animals,” he huffs with an exaggerated, playful pout. “It just says we can only bring one of those three!”

McGonagall snorts at that. “Perhaps I won’t be seeing you join my house after all,” she muses. “Severus is going to have kittens… That being said, I really must insist on you choosing somewhere else, Mr. Potter. We are already bending if not the letter of the law, then the spirit of it.”

“But…” he turns his head in the direction that he knows Eeylops Owl Emporium to be in, the same direction that his magic is tugging him toward, more insistently now than ever. “I feel a pull. Like I did with Cepheus and Cassiopeia. It’s starting to hurt, professor.”

McGonagall looks mildly alarmed at that, resting her hand on his shoulder as he lets himself take a single step forward. “Another?” she murmurs softly. “Very well, then. I suppose we can ensure that you are not leaving a familiar behind, at the very least…”

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall!” He practically drags the professor into Eeylops, and his eyes immediately land on his beautiful, snowy white owl with a heavy padlock on her cage. Intelligent golden eyes snap to him just as quickly, and his magic positively sings with joy as he reunites with his first familiar. “Hey, girl,” he coos softly. “Look at you. Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Careful, lad!” the owner barks out from behind the counter. “She’s a right vicious little blighter, that one. Bitten no few wizards, myself included. I’d recommend one of the calmer ones, maybe one of the tawny owls over here?” he gestures to a few of the free-flying owls sleeping on the perches scattered around the shop, looking quite concerned when Harry shakes his head.

“No, she’s the one. Isn’t that right, Hedwig?” The shop owner gapes when Harry reaches a single finger through the bars of her cage, and Hedwig bumps her head against him with a soft hoot. The padlock thuds against the wooden floor after a nonverbal, wandless Unlocking Charm sends it tumbling down. Hedwig bursts out of her cage, doing a few laps around the room as magic hums between them, screeching with victory before she carefully lands on top of his head. She makes herself at home in his curly nest of hair, and he giggles like he really is a child when she starts preening him. “Vicious, right,” he murmurs.

“In all my days…” The portly wizard is still struggling to pick his jaw up off the floor as he approaches them. “I have never seen an owl bond so strongly and so immediately with their wizard before. I guess she was just waiting for ya…” To be fair, Harry’s pretty sure that their bond was only so immediate this time because his magic already bonded to her in the future, slowly and steadily over the years, but he’s certainly not going to complain about regaining that bond. It’s left a gaping hole in him ever since he lost her. “Well, most owls cost ya five Galleons, cage included, but for the privilege of bearing witness to such a thing in my shop… I could sell her for three, I reckon.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, sir,” he agrees with a smile. “You don’t mind if we shop around for a bit first, do you? I’ll need to get treats and a perch for her, after all…”

“Not at all, lad, not at all. Though…” The wizard's eyes linger on Cepheus with no small amount of consternation. “It seems fine with your familiar, but do ya reckon it’ll snap at the others? Certainly looks big enough to eat owls…”

“Oh, no! Not at all, sir, I promise. Cepheus will behave.” In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. It doesn’t hurt to plant several seeds for this particular rumor, especially since Madam Malkin might actually keep it to herself. “Isn’t that right?”

“I will not eat the feathered prey,” Cepheus promises. “I am still fat with rabbits anyway.”

“You’re going to give someone a heart attack at this rate,” Voldemort points out with a cruel laugh when the shopkeeper violently startles back at the sound of Parseltongue. “It will be amusing to see who falls first. I imagine someone will faint by the end of the day…”

“A-Ah,” the shopkeeper stutters, quailing under McGonagall’s sharp glare. “Then that’s perfectly fine, lad. Take your time. I’ll just be… Over there. Ring the bell when you’re ready to check out.” He practically flees the room, and Harry takes the opportunity to look back at McGonagall with a slight frown tugging at his lips.

“Is… I know you said that it’s rare, but he seemed… Scared. Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all,” she rushes to assure him. “It’s just that… The last wizard in Britain who had that gift was a very bad man, Mr. Potter. Many of us still fear him, even years after his death. To hear Parseltongue was to hear your own death approaching, and it will likely take quite some time for such a stigma to fade out entirely.” It probably won’t ever do so, considering what he has planned. “But you’ve done nothing wrong, and that does not mean you should hide the ability. Perhaps you can give it a better reputation than it has now, in time.”

“I understand, professor,” he murmurs. “Thank you.” They make their shopping very quick, and when McGonagall shrinks down both Hedwig’s cage and her new perch, Harry sheepishly suggests, “We should probably get my trunk before we buy anything else, right?”

“Very smart thinking, Mr. Potter. I suppose you could be in Ravenclaw as well… It will be an interesting sorting, that’s for sure.”

“That’s the second time you mentioned something like that,” he points out. “And Madam Malkin was talking about houses too. What are the houses, professor? What do they mean?”

“Ah, yes. Hogwarts is split into four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, and each have produced fantastic witches and wizards. Your house becomes like your family at Hogwarts, sharing your classes, meals, and so on for the seven years that you attend. I’m Gryffindor’s Head of House, which means that it’s my job to ensure each and every one of my lions has everything they need to succeed. Gryffindor is the house of the brave and chivalrous, Ravenclaw is the house of the intelligent and wise, Hufflepuff is the house of the loyal and hard-working, and Slytherin is the house of the cunning and ambitious.”

“Oh, okay,” he murmurs. “Slytherin sounds right, but I guess I won’t find out until this… Sorting, was it?”

“That’s right, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall agrees with a wry grin. “And don’t bother trying to pry the secret of how students are sorted from me. The surprise is part of the tradition.”

“Very well,” he huffs out with an exaggerated sigh. “If you truly won’t give me even the slightest hint…”

“Not a chance, Mr. Potter. But good try.”

The rest of Harry’s shopping goes fairly smoothly. Eyes trail after him –or more accurately, Cepheus– but McGonagall is far more subtle than Hagrid. The only shopkeeper that even finds out that he’s Harry Potter was Madam Malkin, and the rest couldn’t care less, too eager to make large sales to bother asking his name. Now that he knows he won’t have to make the contents of his trust vault last him forever, he is far more liberal with his money. He invests in an expensive trunk with a built-in library, potion ingredients storage, general storage, and even a small studio apartment within it, and the built-in Feather-light Charm and Shrinking Charm both seem very useful. Push comes to shove, he figures that he can live out of his trunk while he’s not at Hogwarts. He buys several more books from Flourish and Blotts this time, including supplemental materials for muggle-born and muggle-raised children that he hadn’t even known existed until now. It makes something like rage burn in his chest, and his scar has to send several calming pulses of magic his way before he can slip back behind the demure and curious mask he’s been adorning. He sticks to the list for things like potion ingredients and writing instruments, figuring that he can always order more through Hedwig if he thinks of something he needs.

Harry’s wand is the only thing left, and he steps into Ollivanders with no small amount of trepidation. The faint tinkling of a bell heralds his arrival, and Ollivander doesn’t even turn around before saying, “I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Harry Potter.” The eccentric wandmaker turns around and studies him closely, completely ignoring the snakes draped across him and McGonagall’s presence at his side. “Ah… Your eyes are so much like Lily’s, and yet… They are not hers. Too bright, too green, more akin to a certain curse than summer foliage. How strange indeed…”

A sharp glare has an amused glint flickering in those eerie, silvery eyes that have always seen far too much. “Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? I suppose you’re here for a wand, then? Yes, indeed, why wouldn’t you be…” He knows without a doubt that Ollivander can sense the Elder Wand’s presence, somehow, and the realization makes him uneasy. Thankfully, Ollivander doesn’t comment any further on it. “Say, do any of these wands call to you? I’m quite curious, you see. Not many children enter my shop with familiar bonds such as yours, and I believe you’ll be quite a bit more sensitive to what will or won’t work for you.”

As irritated as he is by this whole situation, he can’t help being a bit grateful that Ollivander is distracting McGonagall from what’s going on here, at the very least. “I can try,” he murmurs, pretending like he doesn’t already know exactly where to go. He wanders among the towering shelves for a short time, curiously prodding a few boxes with invisible tendrils of magic before halting in front of his old wand. He cranes his head upward, narrows his eyes, and silently calls the box into his hand.

Ollivander claps with clear delight, and McGonagall’s eyes have widened with shock. “Intentional, wandless magic at your age! And silent, no less! Yes, we can expect great things from you, Harry Potter… Great things indeed.”

Harry opens the box, smiling at the sight of his faithful companion as he takes it in hand. He expects the surge of magic that follows, but he nearly drops the wand when it suddenly combusts, leaving only the phoenix feather core in his hand. “I… I’m sorry, Mr. Ollivander, I–”

“No need, no need!” Ollivander dismisses with a wave of his hand and a glint in his eye. “That phoenix feather was calling to you, for sure, but the wood… No, no it didn’t suit you at all. Perhaps in another life…” Ollivander’s eyes are far, far too knowing. Not for the first time, Harry wonders if he’s some sort of Seer. One of the real ones. “How curious that it should be that feather when…” Ollivander shakes his head, cutting off his own train of thought as he beckons for Harry to follow him. “Come along, then. I’ll have you feel out wood samples to see which resonates with your magic best.”

He barely catches a glimpse of McGonagall stepping outside to receive a letter from a frantic owl before Ollivander leads him off into a back room, and the pinched expression on her face lingers on his mind. ‘Huh. I guess Dumbledore already figured out that the wards crashed. That’s awfully fast, especially considering that it’s the summer…’

“Don’t underestimate his obsession with maintaining control, Harry,” Voldemort warns sternly. “Even if it can’t kill you, it can have devastating effects.”

“So,” Ollivander murmurs, eyes distant and sharp all at once. “What is the Master of Death doing in my shop, hm? You have no need for a wand. You already have one.”

“I need one that I can use without drawing too much attention to myself,” he answers, knowing that there’s really no point in lying to Ollivander. “And I was hoping to reclaim my old wand, but…”

“Ah… Well, as I said, this phoenix feather will answer to none other than you. But it seems you’ve changed quite a lot since the first time you received a wand from me, Harry Potter, and so it’s no real surprise that holly does not suit you anymore. You still have a bit of a temper, yes, but… Your quest is over. You have begun a new chapter in your life. Your new wand will undoubtedly reflect that.” The door clicks shut behind them, and a magical ward springs to life as it locks. “Allow me to thank you for what you did for us. Your sacrifice may have been forgotten by most, but… I never forget a face that walks into my shop or a wand that leaves it, as it were, and I certainly could not forget the one who rescued me, not even in a time yet to be.”

“Are you a Seer?” he blurts out, not quite able to help it. The question burns in his mind, and he needs to make sure that this isn’t just… Something that people will be able to figure out about him if they’re particularly sensitive to magic.

“Of a sort, I suppose,” Ollivander allows with a wry smile. “But that’s unimportant. Search for your wand wood, Harry Potter. Give me a glimpse of the destiny you’re crafting with your own two hands.”

‘Ah,’ he realizes with quiet discomfort. ‘So he knows what I’m planning to…’

“A future in which you survive, Harry Potter, is a better future for all witches and wizards,” Ollivander murmurs. “It is no business of mine how you achieve such a thing, and it is certainly no business of others. Your secrets will not leave this room. Now go on, don’t keep us waiting.”

Harry lets his magic reach out for the woods scattered on the table in front of him, getting a taste of their magic and determining how they mingle with his own. There are some that his magic recoils from immediately, others that it considers briefly before moving on to the next, and a few that it lingers on for several long moments, tugging them forward slightly before moving on to the next. Ollivander looks positively delighted by the five final possibilities that Harry is currently deliberating over.

“I see… Beech, a wood for witches and wizards that are, if they are young, wise beyond their years. This is not a wood for the intolerant, performing quite poorly for those with narrow-minded views. It makes sense that your magic would cling to it, of course, for who else could forgive even… Chestnut, a wood that takes on much of its personality from the core bound to it and the witch or wizard it bonds to… When the phoenix feather is what calls to you most strongly, it is no surprise that your magic should seek out something that further enhances its abilities. And you have already proven to have quite the way with animals,” Ollivander’s eyes flick toward his familiars with a hint of a smile. “And are bound to be an excellent flier in this and every universe… Not bad with plants either, yes, this suits you as well. Fir, a wood for survivors, and how ironic that it should like you when your magic sings of Death… But indeed, you came out of many perilous situations unscathed, and you only perished because you allowed it to be so… Pine, a wood that always chooses an independent witch or wizard, one who is destined to live a long life… In your previous life, it would not have suited you at all, but now… Yes, now… And finally, Yew. A wood that imbues its wielder with the power of life and death, and the very same wood of the wand that…” Ollivander’s eyes linger on Harry’s scar for several long moments. “Curious, curious indeed… Lay your core on this table, Harry Potter. I want you to feel for which woods call not only to you but to your future wand’s core.”

He closes his eyes as he places the phoenix feather in the dead center of five hunks of wood. Harry focuses on the subtle threads of magic in front of him as he feels two slabs of wood slide back, one remains exactly where it is, and two get drawn even closer to the phoenix feather.

“Beech and pine wood… Yes, yes, I can make those work together, and indeed, for a wizard of your caliber and complexity, I rather suspected I’d need two woods. That is common among those who have found themselves out of time, rare as the phenomenon is… Yew would not be a poor choice, but it acknowledges that the others are better. And while both chestnut and fir would work well for you, the feather does not like them. Very well, then. I will send your wand by mail once it has been completed, and I’ll send an invoice along with it. Wands such as this one are more expensive than is standard, of course, considering the materials and time involved…”

“I understand,” he agrees with an easy smile. “Thank you, Ollivander. I would like to purchase a pair of wand holsters as well. The Elder Wand doesn’t much like being separated from my person, so if I could keep it hidden on my left arm…”

“That can be easily arranged, Harry Potter, though I’d recommend investing in a holster that obscures itself and the wand within it from sight in that particular case.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. I’ll do one with the charms and one that’s visible, then. They’re less likely to go looking for anything hidden if they can see my other wand.”

“... I’m expecting great things from you, Harry Potter,” Ollivander repeats in little more than a whisper. “Terrible, perhaps, but great.”

McGonagall is patiently waiting for them when they step back out into the main area of the shop, and she quirks her eyebrow when she sees Harry return with no wand in hand. “Everything alright?”

“Of course, of course,” Ollivander says dismissively. “Some customers are simply trickier than others. I’ll need to blend a pair of wand woods for Mr. Potter here, so it will take some time before his wand is ready. We’ve already arranged the specifics. Now, you wished to get fitted for a holster as well?” Ollivander skillfully redirects the conversation, taking Harry’s measurements as he fits an emerald green holster to his right arm. While McGonagall is distracted by the flying measuring tape and Ollivander’s idle chatter, a silver holster that faintly thrums with magic not entirely unlike the Invisibility Cloak –albeit, a bit weaker– is subtly slid into his hand. Harry tucks it into his coin pouch and happily pays the total. McGonagall briefly quirks her eyebrow at the price before shrugging it off, likely believing it to include his wand. He has no intention of dissuading her of that notion.

“Well, that was unexpectedly eventful,” she murmurs once they’ve stepped out onto the now-crowded street. Witches and wizards are everywhere now, and he sees no few children eagerly running from shop to shop now that it’s past noon. “Shall we go pick up your robes, Mr. Potter? Then we shall stop for a bite of lunch and… How does a tour of Hogwarts sound?”

“Oh?” His eyes glint with excitement, and despite the inherent dangers that come with accepting such an offer –not that it’s really an offer so much as a demand, he knows– he is beyond excited to see Hogwarts once more, whole and undamaged by the war that wrecked her. “That sounds amazing! Is that something offered to all the muggle-raised students, or…?”

“Far too sharp for your own good,” McGonagall murmurs under her breath. “Not precisely, Mr. Potter. However, there are… Concerns regarding your living situation, so I am hesitant to send you back, especially when they have refused to take you. We will need to discuss alternate arrangements with the headmaster.”

She’s clearly trying to be delicate about it, but the rage in McGonagall’s eyes burns like fire. “Oh… Okay!” he agrees with an easy smile. “I’d like that very much.”

“And so the game begins,” Voldemort whispers.

‘And so the game begins.’

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Hogwarts is beautiful. She always is, and her magic sings to him and welcomes him to the only home he’s ever known. He’s never understood how anyone can leave her without feeling a gaping hole in their chest.

“The effect she has on her lords and heirs is far stronger than on the average student,” Voldemort explains. “I always felt much the same when forced to leave for the summers. She is a piece of us and we are a piece of her. There is a reason I wished to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and it was not solely to scout out future members of my ranks. I could do that just as easily within the Ministry. I wanted to come home, and Dumbledore denied me that right.”

‘So long as you promise never to harm her again… I would be happy to share that home with you. Even the main you, assuming he cooperates.’

A quiet hum is his only response, but Harry can feel how pleased Voldemort is by the thought. He turns his attention outward once more, shooting McGonagall a sunny smile that is, for once, completely genuine. “She’s lovely,” he whispers. “I really get to learn here? For seven years?” It’s not nearly long enough, but he’s grateful for it nonetheless. His magic already aches at the thought of leaving Hogwarts behind, though, and while he dedicated himself to becoming an Auror before, he wonders if he ought to aim for a professor this time… He’ll have to apply himself to his studies more, but he intends to do that regardless. There’s absolutely no excuse for scraping through his classes a second time.

“Indeed, Mr. Potter.” McGonagall’s smile grows softer too, clearly basking in Hogwarts’ presence even if she cannot feel her as strongly. “It relieves me to see you so at ease. I noticed you were a bit tense before… Not a fan of crowds?”

“Not really,” he admits sheepishly. “Crowds have never meant anything good for me. But I’ll adjust, I’m sure.” Or at least get better at pretending, not that he was tense because of that anyway. But it’s better for McGonagall to think that’s the reason than to even attempt to explain the way his world has tilted on its axis and how angry he is that this couldn’t have happened the first time. He’s angry at himself for not thinking to hide his letter, he’s angry at Dumbledore for sending Hagrid when he’s not equipped to escort students who know nothing about this world, and he’s angry at the professors in general for not thinking that something was strange after going so long without a response from him, of all people. “I’m too excited about learning magic to let it bother me for long.”

“Speaking of…” McGonagall hesitates as they climb the stone steps up to Hogwarts, mulling over her words before asking, “Was what happened in Ollivanders a regular occurrence for you? Do you often summon things to you with little more than a thought?”

The funny thing is, he couldn’t have dreamed of doing that with more than the most basic of spells in his past life. But ever since becoming the Master of Death –not that he knew that was why this was happening before– his magical core has been far more eager to respond to his will with little more than a thought. Voldemort’s leading theory is that it’s because the Elder Wand is tied to Harry and his magic, readily acting as a channel of sorts even when he’s not actively wielding it. Still, there’s no point in downplaying his abilities here. It won’t do anything but hinder him in the future.

“Yeah,” he answers with a shrug. “I can make things float, make Cepheus lighter, unlock things, make things disappear… That sort of thing. I just have to focus on it. Why? Is that strange as well?”

“The level of control you have is, for certain,” McGonagall murmurs. “But that isn’t a bad thing. Most children can make magic happen without wands, though it is rarely so consistent. The fact that you can do this now… I reckon you’ll be a dab hand at wandless magic in the future.”

“Wicked! There’s so much to learn–”

“Ah, Minerva, there you are.” It takes everything within Harry to not tense up at the sound of Dumbledore’s voice. He understands why he did what he did, of course, but that still doesn’t make the pain of it sting any less. Not now, not when he’s lived and died for this man and been found wanting even at the very end. “And you must be Harry.” He does not miss the glint of unease in Dumbledore’s eyes as soon as he sees Cepheus and Cassiopeia, but at least Hedwig’s presence keeps the headmaster from plunging into outright alarm. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the headmaster of this school, among many other things, and I must say, this is a first for me… It’s not common for wizards to have so many familiars, especially not at your age, yet those bonds cannot be denied… Come along, then.” They walk and talk for a while, and Harry nods along like the clueless child Dumbledore expects him to be. “The only others at Hogwarts currently are the other Heads of Houses –we have a meeting regarding schedules this evening, you see– and Rubeus Hagrid, Hogwarts’ gamekeeper. Would you like to meet them, Harry?”

“I’d love to,” he answers earnestly, even though he knows this is about to turn into a crisis management meeting. “Thank you for allowing me to visit, headmaster. I hope I’m not causing any trouble…”

“Not at all, my boy, not at all.” Dumbledore sounds so honest that for a moment, Harry almost believes him. It’s a good thing that he knows better. “For what is life but an everflowing path with unexpected twists, turns, and intersections? A single missed turn will not prevent you from reaching your destination.”

“Wise words to live by, sir.” Though he wonders if Dumbledore will feel the same way when Harry sets his metaphorical paths on fire before turning around and promptly sprinting in the opposite direction. ‘Probably not,’ he concludes. ‘Considering how upset he was about me trying to die with the Horcrux.’

“Yes, Dumbledore always has been a bit hypocritical,” Voldemort agrees with a snort. “I cannot wait to see the look on his face… And remember, avoid eye contact when you can, but if you cannot, then focus on showing him memories that you want him to see rather than keeping him out entirely. Your relatives will serve us well in that regard.”

‘Ah, yes, the good old drown him in guilt routine… I won’t forget. I almost hope he does try something, really. I’ll be able to show him all the highlights that he got to ignore last time.”

“Vindictive, vindictive…” Voldemort is distinctly pleased by that, and honestly, why wouldn’t he be? “If push comes to shove, I can force him out of your mind. But let’s try avoiding that. It wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion too soon.”

‘I know, I know. I’ll be careful.’

“Here we are, my boy.” Harry peers around Dumbledore’s obnoxiously bright robes, fidgeting slightly when four sets of eyes immediately turn to face him. Flitwick visibly startles at the sight of him, but he seems utterly unconcerned by the snakes draped over his body. Sprout’s smile is a bit strained around the edges, but she still gives him a friendly wave. Hagrid just about bursts into tears. And Snape, well…

“Pray tell, why are we being graced with Potter’s presence before the school year has even begun?” Snape drawls icily. “Yet another special privilege afforded to the precious Boy-Who-Lived, I suppose.”

“Enough, Severus!” McGonagall snaps firmly, and Harry barely fights down the laughter that bubbles in his throat. “There were… Complications that required this.” McGonagall turns on Dumbledore then, snarling, “I told you, Albus. I told you that they were the worst sort of muggles!”

“And yet the protection afforded from them never faltered until today… Tell me, my boy, what happened?”

“Um…” He hesitates, hunching his shoulders slightly as he murmurs, “Nothing outside of the usual, really. The Dursleys hated any… Freakishness and did their level best to beat it out of me. I guess getting faced with the fact that it didn’t work and never would was the last straw. Petunia kicked me out.”

Dumbledore ages before his very eyes, and a small part of Harry wonders whether he truly didn’t know or if he’s simply an exceptionally good actor. “Petunia?” Snape barks sharply. “Petunia Evans? Tell me you did not! Tell me you were not so foolish as to–!”

“Now, Severus, the only one that the blood wards could be tied to was–”

“Damn the blood wards!” Harry blinks in blatant shock. Sure, he knows that Snape is under a vow to protect him and all, but this is… Now he really does wish he let himself get sorted into Slytherin the first time. This could’ve been taken care of ages ago. “Petunia Evans is a spiteful, hateful shrew of a woman who loathes magic! In what world would you think it a good idea to leave a magical child with her?!”

“It’s alright,” he chimes in innocently, pretending that he's trying to defuse the situation while simultaneously dumping gasoline onto the fire. “This past month hasn’t even been that bad, really! Ever since I bonded with Cepheus and Cassiopeia, they’ve been leaving me alone. They’re even letting me eat the food I cook for them! Cassiopeia did threaten to bite them, but…” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “She wasn’t actually going to. Probably. I don’t think I could’ve kept her from doing it if Vernon hit me again, though.”

Thunderous expressions surround him, Hagrid starts sobbing, and Harry is feeling quite smug about it all before Dumbledore says, “Speaking of your familiars, my boy… I can’t help wondering where your snakes came from. They’re not native, and from the sounds of things, your relatives certainly wouldn’t have purchased them for you.”

Harry shuffles back and forth guiltily, adorning a picture-perfect look of contrition. “Well… Our usual babysitter got hurt before Dudley’s birthday, you see, so the Dursleys had to take me with them to the zoo. And most of the snakes were perfectly happy there, but Cepheus and Cassiopeia wanted to come with me so… I may have staged a bit of a breakout and helped them escape?” he squeaks quietly.

“Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Harry.” Dumbledore has a disapproving frown, but Harry rebuffs it with a polite smile that twitches at the edges.

“I will remember that, sir, but with all due respect, I would have died before I even got my Hogwarts letter if I hadn’t learned how to steal. My relatives liked to dump rat poison in the trash to ruin any discarded leftovers, after all. Just to ensure I couldn’t eat any. Besides, I already told you that they wanted to come with me.”

“And how would you know that, my boy? It isn’t as if–”

“Because they said so, isn’t that right, girl?” Harry croons as Cassiopeia twines around his arm. “I’m not going to go around taking people’s things,” he promises to the deathly silent room. “But I did what I had to do to survive, and I’m not ashamed of that. I won’t let you make me feel guilty for it.”

“Oh, you are definitely going to be in Slytherin,” McGonagall murmurs quietly, startling a snicker out of him.

“I hope so!” he says cheerily, just to watch the way Snape’s eyebrow twitches. “I love snakes.”

Dumbledore clears his throat, trying to regain control over a situation that is quickly spiraling out of it. “I apologize for assuming, my boy.” Well, now, that’s a first. He can feel Voldemort’s indignation at how easily Dumbledore is letting this go, but his irritation is soothed by the fact that they both know it’s only because Dumbledore still thinks Harry will be a useful pawn. He’ll realize that isn’t true soon enough. “And I am sorry that your relatives were treating you so terribly… I never thought…”

He absolutely did, but Harry is willing to let it slide for now. He has to be careful about this. “Sometimes family just… Doesn’t care about each other, sir. That’s not your fault. I have Cepheus, Cassiopeia, and Hedwig now, and that’s all that matters.”

“Yes…” Dumbledore murmurs. “Perhaps that is why they were called to you so young. Severus, will you see to brewing an antivenin for Harry’s more deadly familiar? We would not typically allow such an animal to remain, but damaging their bond could have… Disastrous consequences.” When Snape dips his head in acknowledgement, the headmaster turns to Harry with a gentle smile that makes his skin crawl. “You will have to be very responsible with her, my boy. This is no small amount of trust that I’m putting in you. If your familiar were to go around biting students… I’m afraid there is very little I could do to save her.

“She’s not going to,” he promises with a furrowed brow. “I don’t know why everyone thinks that she will. Snakes don’t want to bite you. They only do it when they don’t see any other choice. She’ll only do it if she’s trying to protect me. Because that’s what friends do; we protect each other.” The ‘and I will protect her too, even from you’ goes unsaid but not unheard.

“You are very lucky that you so earnestly mean that,” Voldemort murmurs within his mind. “Or you would have raised his hackles further. He is wary, but… He no longer sees a shade of myself within you, at the very least. It’s terribly ironic, really…”

“And what wonderful friends you have indeed, my boy.”

In the end, Harry ends up going home with McGonagall until the start of term. It’s a turn of events that he’s certainly not complaining about, even if it is only a temporary measure until they can find somewhere else. He’ll hopefully be able to settle those arrangements himself before the end of the year.

He spends a lot of time reading behind the safety of McGonagall’s wards while she escorts a wide range of muggle-born students to Diagon Alley, and Ollivander sends a gorgeous eagle owl with his completed wand a few days before the start of term. It’s a pale golden hue that manages to blend the beech and pine together so skillfully that his wand looks like it was crafted with a single wood, and Harry immensely appreciates the dedication to subtlety on that front, even if the engraved skulls and serpents twisting around his wand undermine that a bit. It’s still beautiful, and Harry isn’t going to complain about it when his magic positively buzzes with happiness as soon as he touches it.

McGonagall even takes the time to celebrate his birthday with him, and if he gets a bit misty-eyed about the cake and book on magical snakes that she gifts him with, then at least no one else is around to see it.

By the time he’s preparing to board the Hogwarts Express, he feels well and truly prepared for a year at Hogwarts in a way that he never has before. Hell, he feels prepared to stare down a Horntail again if he has to. He’s read all his books and properly studied and everything. Hermione would be so proud of him.

‘Will be,’ he reassures himself. ‘Will be. Even in Ron ends up refusing my friendship –and that’s an awful thought that I really don’t want to linger on– because I’m in Slytherin, Hermione won’t care about that. I’m sure she’ll be positively thrilled to study with me, actually…’ He’s anticipating blowback from his own house for doing so, of course, but he couldn’t care less about that. He’ll have all of Slytherin well in hand within his first year, he wagers. The whole Parselmouth and Heir of Slytherin thing will go a long way toward achieving that.

“I’ll see you at Hogwarts,” McGonagall murmurs as she ushers him forward. “Enjoy the ride. Make some friends. And Mr. Potter? Know that you will be a credit to any house you call your own.”

His eyes get a bit misty. “Thanks, Professor McGonagall.” A wry grin tugs at Harry’s lips as he boards the Hogwarts Express. ‘This is awfully familiar, isn’t it? Far more crowded, though. I reckon it’ll be a lot harder to find an empty compartment than last time.’

“You’re absolutely hilarious, Harry,” Voldemort says in the driest tone imaginable. “Hysterical, really.”

Even with Cassiopeia hiding beneath his school robes, Hedwig’s fierce glare from where she’s perching on top of his head combined with Cepheus being… Large and intimidating simply by virtue of existing, he supposes, result in most of the students giving him a wide berth. Harry doesn’t mind that, happily finding his old compartment and making himself at home within it. He doesn’t have to wait very long after the train starts moving for the first knock on his door.

“Anyone sitting here? Everywhere else is–” Ron pauses, paling slightly at the sight of the snakes draped across Harry.

“You can stay if you want!” he reassures him. “They won’t bite, and you can always sit across from me if you’re worried…”

“Pretty sure that bloody thing could get me from clear across,” Ron mutters nervously as he eyes Cepheus. “But… The other compartments really are full, and lots of kids think Scabbers is gross too…” His best friend visibly steels himself before taking a seat. “They won’t eat him, will they?” Ron asks while holding a rat that Harry very much wants dead against his chest. Even still, he shakes his head. They already know that they have to be careful with how they handle the Pettigrew situation.

“Nah, I fed them both yesterday. They won’t be interested in anything today.”

“That’s good then, innit?” Ron relaxes slightly, even while he does keep a close eye on Harry’s familiar. “Guess they’d be getting after your owl too if they were gonna do that kinda thing…”

Fred and George interrupt them before that conversation can go any further, peering their heads into the compartment with mischievous smiles. “Hey, Ron!”

“Listen, we’re going down to the middle of the train. Lee brought a tarantula this year.”

“Right,” Ron murmurs faintly.

“Though your new friend has some pretty cool familiars too,” Fred murmurs idly. “That one’s venomous, isn’t it? The head shape is different.”

“Huh, so it is, brother mine! And what’s your name, ickle firstie?”

“Harry Potter.” Everyone in the compartment does a double take, and he giggles as he lets his bangs fall to the side to reveal his famous scar. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite.”

“Mate, uh, no offense, but how are you sure?” Ron stammers nervously. “Maybe I should go–”

“Because I can talk to her.” The compartment goes dead silent, and Harry clears his throat with a nervous chuckle. “Because I can talk to her,” he repeats with a sheepish grin. “And snakes really don’t like biting people, I promise. They’ve always been really nice to me. You can pet them, if you want? Just ask first, and don’t reach for their heads. It makes them nervous if they don’t know you well.”

Fred and George turn to each other, blink, and turn back to Harry with a shrug. “Lee will understand if we hang around for a bit.”

“We were totally supposed to watch ickle Ronniekins anyway.”

“And we can meet Lee’s new familiar in the dorms later…” Minds made up, the twins plopped themselves down on either side of Harry, eyes wide with shock and awe as the snakes gently bumped their heads into their hands.

“Wicked…” George murmurs.

Even Ron looks a bit curious now. “Are they all cold and slimy like everyone says?”

“Nope!” Fred disagrees, not even bothering to try and scare his younger brother this time. “They’re just… Smooth? A bit cool, but not cold.”

Ron chews on his lip, and after several moments of quiet deliberation, he hesitantly raises a hand and asks, “... Can I?”

“Sure, go ahead!” This is going better than he ever could have hoped for, and he’s immensely pleased when Ron cautiously runs his hand against Cepheus’s scales.

“Huh… This is kinda cool, actually.”

“Thank you, little hatchling. Do you plan to keep these ones around?”

“Yes, I do.” Harry grins at the way the twins immediately focus their attention on him, turns to Ron, and says, “He says thank you. Do you want to be friends? I think we should be friends.”

Ron’s cheeks flush a ruddy red as he nods. “That’d be wicked!”

“Well, then! Suppose we ought to introduce ourselves, Gred?”

“We sure should, Forge! Like you just heard, he’s Gred–”

“No, you’re Gred! I’m Forge.”

“Oh, really? My bad, anyway–”

“This is Fred and George,” Ron cuts off with a snort before the twins can get too into it. “They like pretending to be each other since no one can tell them apart.”

“Just take all the fun out of it, why don’t you, Ron?” Fred mourns with a sigh. “Ah, well…”

“Say, Harry, what house do you think you’ll be in?” George asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Everyone was so sure you’d be in Gryffindor, but with these snakes…”

“I’m hoping for Slytherin,” he confesses, grimacing slightly at the expression on Ron’s face. “Though Ravenclaw is also possible.”

“Really? You want to be one of those slimy snakes?!” Ron cries out. Harry quirks an eyebrow at him, looks down at his familiars, and looks back at Ron without saying a word. “T-That’s not what I meant,” he stammers. “It’s just… That house is famous for Dark wizards, innit? Even You-Know-Who was sorted there.”

“I imagine there have been Dark witches and wizards from every house,” Harry says with a shrug. “And if the Slytherins were all bad, then they’d just replace the house with something else, wouldn’t they?” Ron falls silent at that, and the twins watch their interaction with gleaming, curious eyes. “Slytherins are supposed to be all about resourcefulness and cunning. Overcoming all odds, no matter the odds, by using your brain instead of running into things recklessly. No offense,” he says with a pointed glance at the red and gold on the twins’ robes. “But I’d rather be part of the house that’s more likely to survive any trouble that comes their way than the one that actively looks for it, you know? Plus, I’ve got plenty of ambition… I don’t want to be just another wizard. I want to be great. Not for something my parents did –because really, how anyone believes a baby capable of defeating a Dark Lord is beyond me– but for something I did.”

“Huh… I never thought of it like that before,” Ron admits with a thoughtful hum. “I kind of get what you mean, though. I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. Bill and Charlie already graduated; Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was a Quidditch captain. Now Percy’s a Prefect, and while these two mess around a lot, they still get good grades and everyone thinks they’re funny. It’s… It’s a lot to live up to, you know? Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but even if I do, then it’s no big deal because they did it first.”

This is either the best or worst idea that Harry has ever had. “Join me in Slytherin, then.” Ron has always been ambitious, and given his tactical skills, Harry can’t help wondering if the hat considered putting Ron in Slytherin the first time. “I’m serious!” he says when Ron levels him with a skeptical look. “You want to stand out from the rest of your family, right? You’re proud of them, but you want to be even better than what they expect of you, not just the same as the rest. You want to make them proud of you too. That sounds downright Slytherin to me, Ron.”

Ron looks as if he’s going through several crises all at once. “If it makes you feel any better, ickle Ronniekins–”

“The hat totally wanted to put Gred and I in Slytherin, but–”

“We didn’t want to hide our pranks when we plan to start a business around them–”

“So we asked to be put in Gryffindor instead. It’s better for advertising.”

“Huh. I… Huh.” Ron leans back against his seat, and he looks like he’s very deep in thought. Harry has some small amount of hope that his friend truly will join him in the snake pit, and even if he doesn’t, he has a better feeling about them remaining friends either way. “Maybe I will join you… But I don’t really know how the sorting works, so–”

“Oh, that?” Harry cuts in before the twins can start in on their nonsense about a troll. “You just have to wear a hat. It tells you what house or houses suit you best.”

“Wha– How did you know that?!” George splutters.

“I overheard some of the older years say something about sorting and a talking hat, but the rest was an educated guess. Thanks for confirming it for me, though.” He snickers at the twins’ dumbfounded expressions, and it turns to outright laughter when they mock bow to him.

“Well played, ickle snake.”

The four of them talk as the train continues to move past rolling pastures, and Ron learns very quickly that out of all of Harry’s familiars, Hedwig is the only one likely to bite. At this point in time, she likes Harry and only Harry, and she is not afraid to make that abundantly clear. The twins are in stitches about it for ages. He happily purchases a bunch of candy from the trolley witch again, splitting them with the Weasleys and happily accepting a few sandwiches in exchange. A smile tugs at his lips when, after George notices that Ron got corned beef sandwiches again, he trades his roast beef sandwiches for them. Ron seems much happier after that.

A hesitant knock raps against their door before it slides open, and the round, teary-eyed face of a young Neville Longbottom peeks inside. “Sorry,” he whispers. “But, um, have any of you seen a toad at all?”

“We haven’t, but I can help you look!” Harry reassures him before he can burst into tears. “Cassiopeia? Cepheus? Will you help us find Neville’s toad? No eating him.”

“Of course, speaker,” Cepheus hisses agreeably. Cassiopeia is a bit sulkier about it, but she agrees as well.

“I’ll be right back!” he promises, flashing Neville a smile as the boy easily falls in line beside him. He doesn’t seem bothered by Harry’s snakes at all, but then again, he supposes he wouldn’t be with all the time he spends gardening. His magic follows the faint sensation of earth and nature until his familiars pick up the scent and begin giving him more specific directions. In the end, Hedwig is the one to spot him huddled beneath one of the benches near the front of the train.

“T-Thank you so much!”

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “It’s no big deal at all. Do you already have a compartment, or have you been searching for him the whole time? Because we have room in ours! Not a lot of people want to hang around snakes, I guess…”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Neville murmurs. “I’ll have to find Hermione to let her know that we found Trevor, but…” That ends up being completely unnecessary. By the time they get back to Harry’s compartment, Hermione is standing outside of it, asking the same question as Neville had. “W-We found him, Hermione. Thank you for helping me look.”

“Oh! That’s great news.” Hermione looks genuinely pleased to hear it, though her eyes narrow at the sight of the snakes currently wrapped around Harry. “Snakes are against the rules, you know?”

“Not technically,” he refutes. “The letter says we can bring an owl or a cat or a toad, as in only one of those three. It doesn’t specifically forbid other species. It’s usually older students who find and bring in familiars like that, but I already bonded with Cepheus and Cassiopeia before I even got my Hogwarts letter. Besides, I’ve already told the professors about it.”

“Oh… I see, that makes sense,” Hermione agrees with a nod. “So long as you won’t get in trouble for it, I suppose it really doesn’t matter. Say, would you mind if Neville and I sat with you? The train is quite crowded, and we’ve spent the entire ride so far searching for his toad.”

“Not at all! I already invited Neville, and we’d be happy to have you as well.” Hermione positively beams at him as the three of them make their way back into the compartment, sliding the door shut behind them.

“My name’s Hermione Granger, by the way,” she introduces herself with a grin. “I’m the first witch in my family, so I was ever so surprised when I got my letter. In a good way, of course. I’ve already read all our course books and learned them by heart; I just hope it’s enough to make up for not knowing sooner…”

“There’s plenty that come from muggle families and manage just fine,” Ron assures her. “And you’re ahead of me, in any case. I’ve read a bit in my books, but not all of them. Oh, and I’m Ron Weasley. These are my brothers, Fred and George, and this is–”

“Heir Potter,” he cuts in with a wink. “Though you can call me Harry. I have a feeling we’ll be wonderful friends.”

“You’re really Harry Potter? I’ve read all about you in a few of the supplemental readings I picked up. Did you know that you’re in Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century?”

“I only found out recently, but yes,” he murmurs politely. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in what they say about me, if I were you. It’s all conjecture since, you know, the only survivor of that night was a year old. No one really knows what happened for sure.”

“I suppose that’s true… Do you guys know what house you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor. It sounds like the best one by far. I heard that Albus Dumbledore was in it! But I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad either…”

“Well, if you join Gryffindor–”

“Then you’ll be with us, ickle firstie!” Fred and George gesture to their ties with wry grins.

“I’m aiming for Slytherin.” Hermione’s eyes widen in shock the instant the words leave his mouth. “Though, like you, I agree that Ravenclaw wouldn’t be bad either.”

“... Slytherin, I think,” Ron murmurs hesitantly. “Though I wouldn’t be upset if I got in Gryffindor either.”

“I’ll probably end up in Hufflepuff,” Neville moans despairingly. “Gran wants me to be in Gryffindor, but I just don’t know if I have it in me…”

“I dunno, Neville, I think you do.” Truly, if any one of his friends grows into the role of a Gryffindor, then it is Neville. “But there’s nothing wrong with Hufflepuff either, you know? Being loyal and a hard worker is a good thing, and they’re all about fairness and justice. I just bend the rules too much to be one of them, I think.” His snakes are living proof of that, and he smiles when a quiet laugh escapes Neville’s lips.

“T-Thanks, Harry.”

“You really want to be in Slytherin?” Hermione asks with a calculating glint in her eyes. “Almost no one I’ve asked has said anything good about them unless they were already in it. Why?”

“Because I’d rather be able to reliably get myself out of trouble than actively seek it out. Besides, I’d like to think that I’m pretty ambitious.” As if attempting to restore Voldemort’s fractured soul and steer the wizarding world in a better direction at his side can be considered anything less than obscenely ambitious, even given his skillset. “Resourcefulness, cunning, determination… Those all sound like good traits to me, and it feels like everyone forgets that, for all that we have our fair share of Dark witches and wizards too, Merlin was in Slytherin. I want to be great, and Slytherin is the place to go if you want to be great.”

“... That does sound like it’s right up my alley,” Hermione admits hesitantly. Everyone was so certain that she’d been a hatstall for Ravenclaw, but Harry has never been so sure of that. Considering how wickedly smart she is, the way she immediately lied to cover for them during the troll incident, and all the times she helped them break the rules –or the law– with her only concern being if they get caught… Well, he’s always wondered if he wasn’t the only Gryffindor who might have been in Slytherin, and now his compartment is nearly full of them. “But aren’t the Slytherins terribly bigoted? That’s what everyone has been saying, at least. That they’re… Blood purists or some nonsense like that? That they only want pure-bloods in their house?”

“I won’t lie to you and say that some members of the house aren’t like that,” he concedes with a nod. “But honestly, that’s true of all the houses, as much as they may hate to admit it. Slytherin has a bad reputation for it, but at the end of the day, this is still a school. Kids like to pick on kids that are different from them.”

Hermione’s shoulders sag at that. “I suppose that’s true… What do I do, then?”

“You rise above and beyond every expectation they have and surpass them all. Show them that you’re not a witch to be messed with, Hermione Granger.” Harry rests his chin on his right hand, grinning as the glinting metal and gemstones of his heir rings reflect in her eyes. “And if any of them continue to give you trouble, then I will put a stop to it.” He idly taps a finger on Slytherin’s ring, and Neville is the first one to get it, eyes widening in shock.

“Y-You’re Heir Slytherin.”

“Got it in one, Neville! I’m Heir Gryffindor too, but that’s beyond the point. This?” he taps on his ring again, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips as Hermione’s eyes glint with eagerness. “I’m pretty sure I only qualify for it because I’m a Parselmouth. It’s strictly a magical-based heirship, but the point remains: I’m Heir Slytherin. That means something. It will be extremely difficult for members of Slytherin to move against me without risking their social standing, so if I make it clear that you are my friend, that messing with you is messing with me…”

“I’ll be as untouchable as you are,” she whispers. “Or close to it. That’s so interesting! I didn’t realize heritage was so important here. Oh, there’s still so much to learn…”

“I can let you borrow a few books on it,” he promises her. “It’s really not too difficult to catch up on once you’ve found out about it.” He just wishes someone had told him the first time around. He would have saved himself a lot of embarrassment if they had. “Though it can be difficult to keep track of all the families and alliances and feuds between them, admittedly.”

“The Weasleys have a feud with the Malfoys,” Ron cuts in with a scowl. “Have done for generations now, though no one really seems to remember why. Not that I really care. They’re all a bunch of pompous snobs anyway. Blood purists too.”

A small part of him wants to defend the person Draco becomes, but at this point in time, Ron isn’t wrong. Harry is going to have to drag Draco into becoming a better person, probably kicking and screaming, with Lucius Malfoy’s prejudices constantly being whispered into his ear. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says instead. “I’m trying not to make too many enemies, but know that if it comes down to you or them, then I’m choosing you, without question.”

“... Even though he’s definitely gonna be Slytherin?”

“I said without question, didn’t I?”

Ron smiles at that, and they fall into an easy conversation about the subjects they’re looking forward to most. Fred and George pipe in with their elective courses, and even Neville is slowly starting to come out of his shell. So, of course, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle have to make their grand entrance.

“Have any of you seen–” Draco’s eyes flit to Harry’s scar with a barely-there movement before he straightens his posture. “There you are, Heir Potter. I’ve been looking all over this train for you.”

“Hello, Heir Malfoy,” he says rather cooly. Draco definitely notices it. “You’ve found me. Was there anything you were needing, or…?”

A sneer tugs at Draco’s lips as his gaze flits over the other members of his compartment, only briefly straightening at the sight of Neville. “I’m surprised you’ve found yourself sitting with such rabble, especially with such beautiful familiars at your side. There’s no mistaking the Weasleys. Red hair, freckles, more children than they can afford…” Draco’s eyes flit to Hermione, and the sneer doesn’t lighten in the slightest. “And you don’t look familiar at all. Are you from a wizarding family?”

Hermione stiffens her chin, stares Draco right in the eye, and says, “I’m the first of my family.”

Draco scoffs. “You’ll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Heir Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I could help you there.” Draco offers his hand for him to shake once more, and with those words, he’s earned himself the name of Malfoy again. It'll likely be quite some time before he becomes Draco again.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he deadpans as he doesn’t move an inch. Malfoy’s hand slowly lowers to his side, and he can see how much it hurts him this time but there’s nothing to be done for it. It seems that some things are simply destined to repeat themselves.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” Malfoy sneers, dropping any pretense of respect. “Unless you’re a bit politer, you’ll end up going the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and mudbloods, and it’ll rub off on you.”

Harry jolts to his feet in an instant, and Ron, Fred, and George are only a split-second behind him. Malfoy pales at the sight of Harry’s wand fixed directly on his face, and Harry intentionally flashes the Heir Slytherin ring. Malfoy goes even paler. “I’d mind your words if I were you, Malfoy.” His familiars accent his words with sharp hisses and a clack of Hedwig’s beak as her feathers ruffle angrily. “Or you’ll quickly find yourself learning that there are things even your father can’t protect you from.”

Malfoy beats a very hasty retreat after that.

“You know what?” Hermione says with that gleam in her eyes that says she absolutely will not be swayed on something. “I think I’ll aim for Slytherin too. It seems to be in dire need of some change.”

‘There’s the Hermione I know and love,’ he thinks with a wicked smirk.

“You are going to throw Slytherin into chaos from the very beginning. This should prove to be very entertaining…” He doesn’t have to see Voldemort’s smirk to hear it in his voice. “Give them hell for me.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

“SLYTHERIN!!”

The entire Great Hall is plunged into silence when, mere moments after the hat is placed on top of her head, Hermione is sent to the house of serpents. Harry is the first to start clapping, and Ron, Neville, and the twins follow suit, joined by a few of the other first-years who are confused about the sudden shift in mood. No one else does. Even still, Hermione marches over to the table of silver and green and sits down, daring anyone to contest her place there. They don’t, but there is no disguising the sneers on most of their faces. The other members of Slytherin are pointedly leaving space between themselves and Hermione, refusing to even sit across from her. Harry cannot wait to tear into them for it.

Malfoy turns up his nose at her as soon as he saunters over to the Slytherin table, and much like last time, Neville goes to Gryffindor. Unlike last time, the Sorting Hat doesn’t take as long to come to that decision. There are no surprises so far. Everyone is getting sorted into the same houses they were in the first time, and then… “Potter, Harry!”

Whispers immediately flood the hall as Harry walks up to the stool, quirking a smile at McGonagall who only looks mildly exasperated with his familiars’ refusal to leave him.

“Did she just say Harry Potter?”

“The Harry Potter?”

“Bloody hell, that’s a huge snake…”

“Kinda weird for him to have one, innit? You don’t think–”

McGonagall places the Sorting Hat on top of his head, and the whispers fade away into nothingness. “Hm… How very interesting. I have sorted you once before, Harry Potter, and yet I have no recollection of such a thing. I suppose I ought to judge you based solely on who you are now, though… Plenty of ambition in you, yes, and a thirst to prove yourself as well. You don’t have a bad mind either, but… There’s truly only one place for you now, Harry Potter.” The Sorting Hat opens its mouth to shout, “SLYTHERIN!!”

The Great Hall falls silent again, and he nearly laughs at the shocked looks surrounding him on all sides. Then his friends start clapping and the Weasley twins whistle sharply, prompting the Slytherins to regain their composure and clap politely as well. They look pleased for all of ten seconds, several faces twisting with subtle hints of scorn as soon as he sits next to Hermione. One of the older students nearly says something about it, but a sharp glare from Harry and a hiss from Cassiopeia shuts him up really quick.

And then it’s Ron’s turn. His best friend walks up to the Sorting Hat, and he can see how almost everyone else has immediately placed him in Gryffindor. Even McGonagall is preemptively looking toward the table of red and gold, and really, Harry should have dissuaded her of any preconceived notions about her students by now. He’s almost offended.

“SLYTHERIN!!”

He hears Malfoy groan a few seats down. “Potter, Weasley, and a mudblood… What has our house sunken to? That hat must be going barmy.”

Ron easily sits on Hermione’s other side, acting as a physical shield from the hateful glares directed her way. Zabini swiftly joins them in Slytherin after that, and to Harry’s pleasant surprise, he immediately sits across from them. “Heir Zabini,” he introduces with a wry smile. “Though you can call me Blaise, if you wish. I have a feeling that we’re going to get along beautifully.” Zabini –Blaise, he supposes– looks absolutely delighted at the prospect of the chaos their sorting has brought, and now that Harry is paying closer attention to it, he isn’t the only one gravitating toward them.

Theodore Nott is hovering just on the outside of their group, close enough to express interest but not so close as to outright declare an alliance. Daphne Greengrass, though firmly sat between Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson, is levelling them with a curious gaze that has no maliciousness hidden within it whatsoever.

“Oh, look at that. You’re already building your Inner Circle.”

‘Ha ha ha,’ he thinks with a subtle roll of his eyes. ‘They’re just curious.’

“That is typically how it starts, yes. But the Notts are magic sensitive, and there is no doubt that boy can sense Death clinging to you. Both the Zabinis and Greengrasses are neutral families. You’ve suddenly presented them with an option that isn’t playing nice with the Malfoy heir, and they’d be fools not to take it given his abysmal behavior thus far. I suspect you’ll gain a following rather quickly.”

“Heir Slytherin,” he introduces with a wry smirk, delighting in the way the nearby Slytherins collectively inhale at the sight of his heir rings. It’s rare for a witch or wizard to have two, but five? It’s a bit obscene, quite frankly. “Among other things, but Harry will do.”

Blaise barks out a sharp laugh at that. “Oh, yes, we’re going to be wonderful friends.” Ron and Hermione introduce themselves as well, and though many members of their house have clearly dismissed them out of the gate, Blaise doesn’t. His eyes are gleaming with intrigue, but Dumbledore gets to his feet before he can start asking them questions.

“Welcome! I welcome you all to a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin our feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!” Dumbledore sits back down as the Great Hall bursts into laughter and applause. The Slytherin table is notably silent, and Harry feels at home in his silent contempt for the headmaster here.

“He seems a bit…” Hermione doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to for them to hear it.

“Mad?” Blaise suggests with a lazy grin. “Most certainly think so. I don’t buy it, though. Dumbledore is one of the most powerful wizards there is, and he’s wickedly intelligent too. He likes to make people forget both of those things.”

“Underestimation can be a powerful tool,” Harry murmurs under his breath. It feels a bit ironic that he’s using Dumbledore’s preferred tactics against him, but perhaps there’s a sense of poetic justice in it too. Dumbledore thinks he’s forging a weapon for his war, but he does not realize that the dagger he’s painstakingly crafting is already aimed at his back.

“So long as you don’t undercut yourself in the process. At a certain point, acting the fool means always being seen as one, and then you’re less likely to be taken seriously when you need to be.” Ron narrows his eyes in thought, and Harry barely stifles a laugh when Blaise leans forward with clear intrigue. “I mean, how many of us just thought he was absolutely barmy right now? Is that really the position he wants to put himself in at Hogwarts? What is so important for him to hide that he’d make himself look like a fool in front of all his students?”

“Hm…” Hermione hums, pursing her lips as she glances up at the High Table. “Guess I’ve got my first personal project lined up. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Harry chuckles at that. It’s so typically Hermione that it makes his heart ache with fondness. Their conversation lulls into silence as food appears before them, and after a moment of hesitation, Harry lets Voldemort guide him on the proper etiquette for this sort of thing. He’s never really cared about it before, but he needs to now. Unsurprisingly, Hermione observes and mimics his movements, and a bit more surprisingly, Ron does the same. There’s a slight air of uncertainty to Ron that Hermione fiercely stamps out of herself, but they’re both acting the part brilliantly. Blaise looks vaguely impressed.

‘I should have expected this, really. They’ve always been good at rolling with the punches.’

Once he’s sure that his friends won’t stumble without his silent guidance, Harry lets his gaze wander back to the High Table. Hagrid is drinking deeply from his goblet, and though Snape hasn’t joined him, he very much looks like he wants to. Harry almost feels bad about it. Almost. McGonagall is engaged in a deep conversation with Flitwick, and both Sprout and Sinistra interject every now and again. And Quirrel…

‘Ah,’ he realizes, going a bit pale. Those eyes are trained unerringly on Harry, and though his scar pulses reassuringly instead of hurting him this time, he feels a bit foolish for not thinking of this sooner. ‘He recognizes the ring, doesn’t he? Well, that could be a problem. Or it could lead to a useful conversation. Maybe I won’t have to wait until the end of the year to make my offer after all.’

“Be careful, Harry,” Voldemort warns. “Push too far too soon and you risk ruining our chances altogether. The fragment of his soul in the ring is larger than mine, so it’s more likely that he can sense it despite the slightly altered appearance. The ring itself isn’t that remarkable without the Hallows’ emblem, after all, and he hasn’t gotten a close look at it yet. When he corners you, and he will sooner rather than later, I’d lead with the fact that you’re a Horcrux as well lest he takes anything that follows as a threat.”

‘Got it. Thanks.’

“Of course. I do wish to see you succeed, Harry.”

He tunes out Dumbledore’s closing speech, remembering the important parts all too clearly. A cacophony of noise rises from each table, even the typically reserved Slytherins, as they sing the frankly bizarre Hogwarts song. “Dumbledore is the worst thing to ever happen to this school,” Voldemort grumbles in his head. “What an embarrassment, honestly.”

One of their fifth-year Prefects, Gemma Farley, escorts all the first years down to the dungeons, and already, there is a clear divide between students. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Blaise, Nott, Greengrass, and surprisingly, Bulstrode make up one group while Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, and Davis make up another. He is inordinately pleased with himself for having the upper hand already, and that’s without revealing his Parseltongue abilities. Granted, he’s pretty sure that Bulstrode is only by his side because of that Heir Slytherin reveal, but her reasons aren’t particularly important to him so long as she stands with him regardless.

“See? Inner Circle.”

He hates that Voldemort kind of has a point. At least he can console himself with the fact that Dumbledore will probably notice and silently freak out about it. And being friends with Neville helps, even if it isn’t for nefarious reasons in the slightest. It just happens to also be convenient, that’s all.

“Mhmn. Keep telling yourself that. Hermione and Ron are understandable, but you weren’t especially close to Longbottom for years. You went out of your way to befriend him this time. Don’t insult our intelligence by pretending it was for no reason.”

Harry pointedly ignores him, and the amusem*nt that filters between their bond makes it very difficult for him to stay angry. ‘Bastard,’ he thinks fondly.

“Undoubtedly. Not even you can change that, my soul.”

The dungeons are beautiful, in a strange way. Perhaps it’s something in the ancient magic he can feel humming in Hogwarts’ walls or perhaps it is the darkness and sprawling space that makes it feel more magical than the bright, cramped quarters of Gryffindor Tower, but either way, he loves it. It feels like home, and the reinforced sensation from Voldemort is only making that sensation stronger.

“Welcome to Slytherin,” Farley greets them with a pleasant smile. “Our current password is asphodel, and it changes biweekly. I recommend keeping an eye on our message board to avoid getting locked out of our common room.” They all trail in after her like little ducklings, and Harry nearly laughs at the mental image as the stone wall slides shut behind him. “Now, it’s important for you all to know that Slytherins have one rule we value above all others: Present a united front. Behind closed doors, you are free to handle disputes as you wish, but out there, we have to stand together. I will not stand for a repeat of what happened at dinner tonight. It’s rare that we get muggle-borns, true, but it has happened before. Our own Head of House is a half-blood. You’ll do well to remember that.”

He likes her already. Malfoy’s group is looking properly contrite now, and even a few of the older students gathered in the common room look mildly embarrassed by it. “Do not share our password with anyone outside of our house. Do not write our password down. Do not let anyone know where our common rooms are. We are not well-liked within this castle, and it’s important that we ensure the safety of our house members above all else. Having said that, if there are any students outside of our house that you wish to include in your realm of influence, then now is the time to make those claims. You still cannot share Slytherin secrets with them, but we try to prevent any public disputes before they happen. We cannot do that if you start hexing each other in the hallways due to an insult to a family friend.”

Harry clears his throat, grinning wryly when all eyes turn to him. “The house of Potter affiliates itself with houses Longbottom and Weasley. Any insult done to them will be an insult to me, and I will answer in kind.”

“And just who do you think you are to–” Flint’s voice promptly dies in his throat at Harry’s sharp glare. That’s mostly due to the wandless, wordless Silencing Charm, and watching the realization and fear settle on his face probably shouldn’t please him as much as it does.

“I’m sorry?” he hisses as both Cepheus and Cassiopeia raise their heads to the crowd. The common room is deathly silent. “Do you want to try that again?” Silence. Blissful, glorious silence. “That’s what I thought. Just so we’re perfectly clear, Hermione Granger is under my protection as well. Try anything against her, behind closed doors or otherwise, and we can all do a little experiment to find out just how potent Cassiopeia’s venom is.” His familiar hisses and bluff strikes to drive the point home, and Flint scrambles backward several steps. “Are we understood?”

“Blimey, he really wasn’t kidding about that Heir Slytherin thing.”

“He’s a Parselmouth? Harry Potter is a Parselmouth?”

“When was the last time someone had that many heir rings? This is…”

Harry clears his throat akin, and his smile is more akin to a baring of teeth. “I’m glad we all understand one another. Carry on, then. My apologies, Farley.”

Farley shakes her head, and though she looks a bit pale, she answers his smile in kind. “Not at all, Heir Slytherin. It’s an honor to have you.” She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and carries on. “Now, our yearly physicals will be held within the first week of classes. Do not try to dodge them; Professor Snape will drag you to the Hospital Wing himself if he has to. The timeslot for your health exam will be written on your individual schedules, so memorize it and heed it. Now with that, it’s time for all the little first years to get off to bed!” Farley claps her hands together. “Boys on the left, girls on the right. You’ll each be split into two separate dorm rooms, and the name plates for who goes to which room will be outside your doors. If you believe that you’ve been placed on the wrong side, then please do inform us, and we will work with you and our Head of House to find the best solution for everyone. This goes for this year and every year after that, okay?”

They all nod in easy agreement before they get shooed off to their dorms. Considering how many older years are lingering in the common room, he has a feeling that they’re about to have a very panicked meeting about him once they’re tucked away. It’s deeply amusing.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he mutters when he sees their room assignments. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are sharing one room, and while Malfoy is pleased to share with fewer people, Harry is relieved that he’ll have genuinely tolerable company in the form of Ron, Blaise, and Nott. He may have gone insane if he was stuck with this version of Malfoy for the next seven years.

“... Is this just going to be a thing with you, then?” Nott questions quietly once they’ve all settled in a bit. Harry tilts his head slightly as Nott gestures to his familiars and their general refusal to part from his side. “Most owls stay in the Owlery. Yours doesn’t look particularly keen on that idea.”

“Hedwig will probably stay here,” he admits sheepishly. He knows that he’ll sleep better at night if she does, and she is even more fiercely protective of him this time than the last. “And I already know that Cepheus and Cassiopeia are going to sulk something awful when I have to leave them behind for classes. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” Blaise dismisses with a wave of his hand. “True familiar bonds at our age are rare. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Is it true that you can feel the strain of distance when you’re separated?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s really inconvenient when I have to send Hedwig off with a letter, but at least I always know when she’s on her way back.” He’s beginning to suspect that he’s more sensitive to her bond for more reasons than he initially thought. Before, he just assumed that it was due to their bond still existing within his magic, immediately reaching out for Hedwig once he opened his eyes in the past, but every now and then Hedwig will do something that she didn’t do until his fourth or fifth year and he can’t help wondering…

“It is possible,” Voldemort concedes with a thoughtful hum. “Familiar bonds tie your very magic and soul together. You were brought back as the Master of Death, and your familiar had already parted from the mortal plane. It is not impossible that her soul would be brought back with yours. So many fascinating avenues of study… It’s a shame that necromancy is so rarely researched. We might have more concrete answers otherwise.”

“Wicked…” Ron murmurs. “I don’t have anything like that with Scabbers, but he wasn’t my rat to start with, either… Percy better not have ditched his familiar for a shiny new owl.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to,” Harry reassures him. “He would’ve just kept both if that was the case.”

“Good.” Ron’s shoulders slump with relief, and Harry honestly feels terrible for what he’s going to have to reveal sooner rather than later. “Scabbers might be kind of old and useless, but I’d have to hex him if he did that.”

Later that night, Harry lies in his bed with the question of what to do about Peter Pettigrew lingering in his mind. He needs to figure out a solid plan here. He absolutely cannot afford to make any mistakes with this.

“One step at a time, Harry,” Voldemort murmurs as he begins to drift off into the land of slumber. “Get some rest. You may continue your plotting tomorrow.”

When he reopens his eyes, there is a distinct fuzziness to the world that gives him pause. This isn’t the typical bleariness that comes with scrabbling for his glasses in the morning. In fact, everything seems perfectly clear until his eyes linger on something for too long. That’s when the edges begin to blur and blend together.

“Hello.” A silky smooth voice speaks as if to caress him from afar, and Harry shudders at the sound of it. “I’ve been trying to speak with you for quite some time now, but you have quite an ardent protector in your soul shard.”

A sixteen-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle is the one to greet him, and only the faint hint of red bleeding into his eyes marks the ring Horcrux as any different from the diary. “A human Horcrux… How curious. I had always wondered if such a thing were possible, but it didn’t seem worth testing. Clearly, I change my mind in the future.”

“Not exactly,” he murmurs. “You didn’t mean to make me.” And Nagini isn’t yet a Horcrux at this point in time, so he’s the only example of a living one to exist, currently.

“Even so, I must say that I’m glad I did. Your magic is so deliciously dark, Horcrux of mine. It sings of blood and death unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.” The Horcrux’s eyes gleam with curiosity as he stalks toward him, not unlike a panther patiently trailing after its prey before pouncing. “Yes, you will do quite nicely…”

“Enough.” Voldemort manifests between them with a sharp glare, staring down at his younger self with no small amount of scorn. “Harry has important work to do. He cannot afford to be addled by your influence over him.”

“I still cannot believe that I’ve fallen so far,” the ring Horcrux murmurs, eyes narrowing in distaste. “I look more beast than man.”

“We did this to ourselves. And if you wish to see it undone, then you will leave Harry to what he must do.”

“Oh, very well.” He’s clearly not pleased by it, but the Horcrux rolls his eyes with a sigh and concedes regardless. His eyes linger on Harry’s form and says, “So long as you continue supplying me with your magic, I suppose I can leave you be for now. But do not mistake a temporary concession for a permanent arrangement, my own.”

The Horcrux fades away into the steadily growing abyss around them. “Should I be concerned about that?” he murmurs.

“I will take care of it, Harry.” Pale fingers work their way through his curly mop of hair, scratching his scalp just so as their bond buzzes with easy contentment. He positively melts into the touch. “Do not worry yourself over it. So long as I am here, I will not let anyone harm you. Rest.”

Harry dreams of laying beneath the sun with a cool hand intertwined with his own. It’s the best sleep he’s gotten in years.

He wakes with the sunrise, stretching with a yawn as he quietly begins getting ready for the day. Cassiopeia hisses grumpily when he stands up, but a thoughtless Warming Charm has her settling back down and dozing off once more. Cepheus bumps his head against Harry’s hand, and Hedwig hoots quietly as she stirs into wakefulness, happily accepting the treat he gives her as a preemptive apology for leaving her in the dorm.

By the time his dormmates are stirring, Harry is ready to walk down to the Great Hall. He ends up casting a minor Stinging Jinx at Ron to wake him up and help him get ready instead. His friend is not a morning person in the slightest, and while Gryffindor doesn’t care much for appearances, Slytherin does. He doesn’t want Ron to have an even larger target on his back than he already will. It will take time before anyone dares to move against Harry after last night, but it will happen eventually. It’s best to stave it off for as long as possible.

“You’re a menace,” Ron grumbles as Harry forces him to redo his tie for the fifth time. “Who even cares what the knot looks like?”

“Slytherins,” Nott answers with a quiet snort.

“Harry is doing you a favour here, believe it or not. The Prefects will tear into you if you’re putting forth a bad image for our house. Second-hand robes are one thing, but wearing them improperly is a whole other beast.”

“Right… Right.” Ron sighs at Blaise’s words, shaking his head slightly. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Think nothing of it. You’d probably be in Gryffindor if it wasn’t for me, so the least I can do is help you navigate Slytherin until you find your feet. You’ll be plotting circles around us all before we know it, I’m sure.”

The four of them head down for breakfast together, and much like last time, nearly all the students of Hogwarts are whispering about him as they watch him walk past. Unlike last time, there is a healthy dose of respect tinged with unease in the majority of Slytherin’s eyes, and Harry politely pretends not to notice as they take their seats in the Great Hall. He barely bites back a groan when Snape lays his schedule in front of him.

“Guess I’m going to the hospital wing after classes today…” He’s not surprised, really. Madam Pomfrey had wanted him to put on more weight before doing the more invasive scans –because working on healing big things while his body doesn’t have enough energy to support it can be more dangerous than helpful, as it turns out– but between the Nutrient Potion she put him on and regular, balanced meals at McGonagall’s, Harry is doing far better than he was just a couple of months ago. “At least our actual classes aren’t too bad.”

He’s dreading sitting through another five years of History of Magic, but between their Herbology, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes afterward, he can tolerate a boring morning. And if nothing else, having his medical exam shortly after his final class of the day will ensure he can escape Quirrelmort’s clutches. “What classes are you looking forward to?”

“Potions,” Blaise answers immediately. “I’ve been brewing with my mother for almost as long as I could walk. I’m curious to see the differences in a classroom setting.”

“I’m excited about everything, really,” Hermione murmurs. “Though I do think that History of Magic will prove especially interesting. I’m eager to learn more about how our society came to be.”

“I’d temper your expectations there, Granger.” Nott has a faint grimace on his face as he explains, “History of Magic is taught by a ghost. Which you might think would make it interesting, but it really means that he’s hardly paying attention to anything happening around him and tends to repeat lectures. You’ll have to self-study if you want decent marks in that class.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll have to start searching for books to supplement our main text… Thank you, Nott.”

“Heir Nott,” he corrects gently. “Though I suppose I may as well give you leave to call me Theo. All of you.”

Hermione flushes slightly in embarrassment, levelling Harry with a look that says she will be borrowing those books sooner rather than later. “Thank you, Theo.”

“I’m looking forward to Transfiguration,” Ron cuts in with very little subtlety, firmly redirecting the topic back to their previous conversation. “Fred and George go on and on about that class. They always make it sound interesting…”

“What about you, Heir Slytherin?” Greengrass questions politely, though there is no hiding the gleam of intrigue in her eyes. “Any courses in particular that you’re looking forward to?”

“Defense,” he answers immediately. “And you can call me Harry.”

“Daphne, then,” she agrees with a pleased tilt of her head. “I’m particularly fond of Charms, myself. We seem to have a pretty broad range of interests between us… Would you consider starting up a study group, perhaps?”

“Let’s start with doing our homework together and go from there,” he says with a crooked smirk. “We’ll probably need a bit of time to adjust to our classes before we throw a study group into the mix. Would you mind if I invited Neville along?”

“Not at all. So long as he doesn’t mind being seen in the company of so many snakes…”

“He won’t,” he assures her, noting the way Bulstrode’s shoulders relax as tension slowly melts out of them. “Neville’s a good friend.”

“You just met him yesterday, mate,” Ron snorts. “He seems like a decent bloke, but how can you know for sure?”

“I’ve got a good sense for people. There’s a reason I’m hanging around you lot, you know?” Bulstrode looks pleasantly surprised to be included in that number, smiling faintly when he glances in her direction. “I can just tell.”

“We’ll take your word for it,” Theo murmurs, trust and awe burning in his eyes that speaks far louder than Theo himself seems capable of. “We should probably get going soon, though. We don’t want to be late for our classes.”

“Don’t worry, Hogwarts likes me.” At least his status as Heir of Slytherin is a good excuse for him knowing the castle so well. “We’ll get there in no time.”

It doesn’t take long for the other first years to realize that Harry has an uncanny knowledge of how to navigate Hogwarts, taking shortcuts and skipping over trick steps with ease. Any group of first years sharing their next class with Slytherin searches for him before trailing behind like a group of nervous puppies, though they seem to relax when they realize he’s not going to stop them from doing so. Most of their professors seem pleasantly surprised by their punctuality.

Binns hardly notices them at all, as is to be expected, but Sprout is all smiles when the Ravenclaws diligently trail into the first year greenhouses after Harry and his group of Slytherins. Much like last time, there’s a brief lecture that leads into the mostly practical class, but unlike last time, the appearance of a small grass snake in Lisa Turpin’s pot startles a shriek out of her.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s completely harmless,” he reassures her as he takes a step forward, and Sprout’s eyes widen slightly as he holds out his hand, likely realizing what he’s about to do. Like Harry wouldn’t take advantage of such a perfect opportunity to present Parseltongue as a good thing. “I’m sorry that she spooked you, little one,” he hisses quietly, and the grass snake slowly relaxes from the strike position it was in before. “She did not mean to. Would you like me to relocate you outside? Children will often dig through these pots, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I will allow you to move me, speaker, but only you.”

The Ravenclaws are wide-eyed and whispering among themselves as the grass snake twines itself around Harry’s wrist. Turpin looks faintly nervous, as do most of the Ravenclaws, but he notices that Padma Patil seems quite excited, strangely enough. “Is it alright if I go take him outside, Professor Sprout? I’m pretty sure he won’t come back in here.”

“Go right ahead, dear,” Sprout murmurs with a smile. At least she doesn’t seem as unnerved by it now as she had before. “Thank you.”

Flitwick doesn’t fall off his stack of books while reading off the roll call this time, probably because he’s met Harry already, if he had to guess. Harry’s eager to get into the practical portion of this class, but he at least makes an effort to look like he’s writing down the theoretical base that he’s known for years now.

And then it’s time for Defense. The Slytherins and Gryffindors share this class, and the only thing keeping him from planting himself at Neville’s side is the steady gaze that Quirrelmort levels him with as soon as he enters the room. Blue eyes widen and glint red for a split second when they catch sight of the ring sitting pretty on Harry’s thumb, and he very carefully keeps the smirk off his face. The bond between himself and Voldemort’s main body threatens to burn with pain, but his own fragment of the man’s soul readily interferes with it. Soothing waves of magic flow down their link like waves against the ocean shore, barely receding before surging forward again, and Harry relaxes at the feel of it.

Quirrel doesn’t stutter once during their lesson. He does his level best to actually teach and pretend that he isn’t watching Harry as closely as he is, but Harry can see right through him. It works well enough against a class of first years that don’t know him well enough to know any better, though.

“Mr. Potter, if you would stay behind for a moment?” Quirrelmort asks once their lesson is over. He definitely does not miss the way Harry’s friends halt near the door, glancing back and waiting for him to tell them what to do. He waves them on.

“Sure, professor. But just for a moment. Professor Snape will storm in here and drag me out by the ear if I don’t get to the hospital wing in time for my appointment.” It’s more information than is strictly necessary to give, but it also offers Harry protection from the worst of Voldemort’s impulses. He now knows that not one but two members of the staff are currently expecting Harry, so he’s not likely to be rash when he wants to avoid detection.

“Of course, of course…” Quirrelmort murmurs. His eyes glint red again once the rest of the students have left. “That is an interesting ring that you have there, Mr. Potter. Would you mind me asking where you got it?”

“Which one?” he asks blithely, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about. “Though the answer is the same for all of them, I guess… They’re my heir rings, professor. They all came to me after doing a blood test at Gringotts.”

“I see, I see… And you haven’t noticed anything… Strange, since you started wearing them?”

“If you’re talking about the Horcrux, then I’m well aware of it.” Quirrel’s eyes bleed red as Voldemort well and truly takes over, rage twisting his lips in a snarl. “It’d be hard not to when I’m one myself.”

“... Pardon?” A voice hisses quietly from the back of Quirrel’s head. Harry tilts his head just so, and he giggles at the flash of shock on Quirrelmort's face when his own eyes bleed red for just a moment. Voldemort is cackling within his mind.

“My soul shard told me that you intended to make another Horcrux with my death. You had already performed the rituals, and between the power of my mother’s blood sacrifice and the Killing Curse backfiring on you because of it, a fraction of your soul split off and latched onto me when you lost your body. I am a Horcrux, so of course I’d be able to sense another one. Like calls to like and all of that.”

“And you have no intention of giving up the ring, I presume?” The main Voldemort questions, sounding a bit less defensive now. He’s wary, for certain, but he doesn’t sound like he intends to rend Harry apart as soon as he gets the chance anymore.

“It’s a Peverell ring,” he answers with a shake of his head. “It’s mine. I don’t think it will take being parted from me too well.” Quirrelmort reaches out as if to test that theory, and Harry startles, all but shouting, “Wait! My mother’s blood protection shields me from you. Unless you use my blood or something similar in whichever resurrection ritual you use to come back, you won’t be able to touch me without disintegrating. I’d rather avoid that. You could feel out the Horcruxes with the bonds instead…?”

“Hm… Very well, Harry Potter.”

The ring’s magic bristles when Voldemort reaches out for his connection with it, only calming when Harry pulses another wave of his own magic to it. The Horcrux in Harry’s scar is far less prickly, but it grows fiercely protective when Voldemort tries to use it to slip into Harry’s mind, slamming their connection shut with an irritated flare of magic.

“How peculiar. They seem quite protective of you, Harry Potter.”

“Well,” he hedges hesitantly. “Let’s just say that Dumbledore has a tendency to make the same mistakes over and over again, and I’m no exception to that.”

“How so?” Voldemort demands, ignoring the way Quirrel’s face is beginning to go pale from the strain of his active possession.

Instead of saying anything, Harry simply reaches into his pocket and flashes the envelope that once held his Hogwarts letter. Seeing the words ‘the cupboard under the stairs’ is damning enough, no explanations necessary, and Harry would rather not incense Voldemort to the point of targeting his relatives. Out of respect for how much Dudley had changed by the end of it all, if nothing else. “I’m gathering evidence to ensure he can’t find a way to send me back to them, though there’s really no point in it anymore. The blood wards were destroyed. I just don’t trust that he won’t do it anyway with me deviating so far from his expectations.”

“You’ll need to find another guardian.”

“I’m aware. You’re not too attached to Wormtail, are you?”

“That cowardly rat? Not especially, though he has proven useful on occasion. Why?”

“Because my godfather is currently in Azkaban for a crime that he didn’t commit, and I can use Wormtail to prove that. If I get him freed, then the matter of my guardianship is settled without question. No one can contest a godfather taking in the godson that he named his heir.”

Quirrelmort quirks an eyebrow at that. “Your logic is sound, but are you certain you wish to place yourself with someone so firmly under Dumbledore’s thumb? An argument could likely be made for the Malfoys with the Black connection.”

“I’m pretty sure I can get him at least on my side, if not yours. Not that there’s much of a difference there, but semantics.” Harry waves his hand dismissively. “Would you mind reminding me how, exactly, the Fidelius Charm works again?”

Quirrelmort narrows his eyes in contemplation before doing just that. “The Fidelius Charm is a complex, powerful bit of magic that very few can cast. Myself, Dumbledore, and likely you, given time and training. I cannot think of any others in our time. It is best to use the charm in conjunction with old family wards in the event of a leak, as those will at least slow down any intruders that you may be hiding from. As the name suggests, the charm only functions if the secret is given to someone who will not be primarily residing at the residence, though they may still visit the property on occasion without their magic compromising the charm. The one who casts the Fidelius Charm must weave the Secret Keeper’s magic into the magic of the spell itself or it will fail. It is integral to the spell that they be capable of sharing the secret to whomever they wish, so house elves, animals, and the like cannot become Secret Keepers.”

“That explains why my parents didn’t just have one of them be the Secret Keeper, then,” he says with a sigh. “But that also confirms something I’ve suspected for a while now. Dumbledore knows that Wormtail was the Secret Keeper, but he let Sirius get arrested for it. And even if he did believe that Sirius snapped and killed Wormtail after he betrayed my parents, with several muggles just happening to get caught in the crossfire, he still let him be thrown into Azkaban without a trial and left him there. I can’t help thinking that there might have been a reason he’d prefer I grow up with abusive muggles over a headstrong Black who had already proven that he was willing and able to cut ties with anyone who tried to stop him from doing what he felt was right.”

“You’re a paranoid little thing, aren’t you?” Voldemort croons with a cruel chuckle. “Though not without cause, I’ll admit. Very well. Assuming you can find him, you may use Wormtail however you wish, my Horcrux. I admit to being interested in finding out if this will go as you expect it to.”

“Perfect!” he chirps, switching back to English with an ease he never learned in his past life. “I should get going, though. I’m lucky that I know a shortcut, or I really would be late.”

“It’s your first day, Mr. Potter. How on earth do you already know shortcuts?” Quirrelmort sounds as amused as he does disbelieving, and Harry can't resist the opportunity to mess with him just a little bit.

“Heir Slytherin and Heir Gryffindor!” he tosses over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “Hogwarts likes me!”

Voldemort’s laughter echoes both in his head and outside of it.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

“Much better, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey murmurs with a soft smile. “You’re still underweight, but you are no longer dangerously so. Keep taking your potion and eating regularly, and you should be back on track by the end of the school year.”

“That’s good. I was worried it might not be…”

“Fixable?” Madam Pomfrey suggests gently. “It is. Most things are given enough time and care, though I am glad we caught this so early. Now, we’re going to have to start with the less pleasant treatments, I’m afraid. You have several breaks that never healed properly, and the only way to prevent long-term pain and damage is to rebreak and heal them.”

“I understand,” he murmurs while averting his eyes. “I… I don’t have to be awake for it, do I?”

“Not at all, Mr. Potter. You can take a Sleeping Draught, and when you wake up, it will already be over. There will be some lingering soreness for the next few days, but nothing worse than that.”

“Okay, I can do that.” His eyes flit over to the corner where Snape is watching over them both, concern and fury both burning in his eyes. “Can you let my friends know that I won’t be present for dinner, Professor? I don’t want them to worry…”

“We’ll take care of it, Mr. Potter. Do try to focus on your own health for the time being.”

A faint hum of reassurance thrums beneath his skin as sleep drags him under. His dreams are fragmented, disjointed things, painting a broader picture that even he is unaware of in this state.

Bloody fingernails weakly clawing at a wooden door. Pitch-black darkness and the cool press of damp stone against feverish skin. Quiet whimpers as leather mercilessly tears into tender flesh, leaving a mosaic of scars behind. Panicked thrashing as firm hands force his head beneath the water again and again, choking on his sobs as unaffected chanting drones in the background. A stray kitten with no mother, no home, and no one to love her. An adder that told him he was someone great, someone special, someone important. They tore him away from her, uncaring of the fact that she would die on her own. The older kids found him, and they crushed the snake’s skull beneath a rock and forced him to watch. It made him so sad. It made him so angry. He just didn’t understand… Why people were so terrible to him.

Harry tries to be kind, knowing that there are others like him out there somewhere. It can’t all be terrible. The whole world can’t be like this. He just has to hold on a little while longer.

Tom smothers any kindness in his heart, knowing that it is a weakness he cannot afford. If cruelty is the language of the world, then he shall learn it and wield it as a weapon. The world cares not for those like him. He’ll make them regret it.

The two of them survive. But oh, how they long to live.

Harry stirs into consciousness with a faint groan. His head is still fuzzy with the aftereffects of the Sleeping Draught, so he does not feel the spike of alarm originating from halfway across the castle as another is forcefully jolted into awareness. He only registers the soothing buzz of the Horcruxes caressing his magic with their own as he drifts into sleep once more. The dreams do not return.

“I’m alright, I promise,” he reassures his friends during breakfast the next morning. “I knew I would probably be there overnight. That’s why I sent you all ahead. Madam Pomfrey has been helping me with a few things for a while now.” He refuses to go into any more detail than that in the Great Hall, and thankfully, the others drop it.

“You should ask her about an Oculus Potion while you’re at it,” Daphne murmurs. “Those glasses are positively dreadful.”

Harry is a bit outraged to hear that he could have fixed his eyesight with a single potion this whole time, no matter how difficult it is to brew and expensive it is to purchase. Hermione has an eager glint in her eyes that makes him wonder if they’re going to have another Polyjuice situation, but in the end, it winds up being unnecessary.

“Here you are, Mr. Potter.” Madam Pomfrey hands him yet another potion after confirming that any internal damage has been dealt with, and he tilts his head in curiosity. “Severus brewed this for you. We noticed that you were straining to see, and though I suggested one of us take you to get new glasses, he insisted on this.”

Harry feels a bit bad about taking advantage of Snape’s guilty conscience when he hasn’t actually done anything to him in this life, but at the same time, this is far too useful a gift for him to refuse it. He’ll just have to thank him later.

Daphne seems immensely pleased with herself when he shows up for breakfast the next morning. Hermione levels him with a contemplative look and asks, “Do you think they have something similar for teeth? I was ever so dreading getting braces, and if I can avoid that whole situation then… Hm, I’ll look into it.”

Friday arrives in the blink of an eye. He’s positively delighted to still receive a letter from Hagrid inviting him over for tea this afternoon, even with Voldemort warning him that this could be Dumbledore’s attempt to keep a closer eye on him. He already knows that. That doesn’t mean that he’ll enjoy spending time with Hagrid any less.

‘Besides,’ he thinks. ‘If I act with the assumption that anything I say to Hagrid will get back to Dumbledore, then there’s a lot of indirect manipulation I can do.’

“So long as you’re not being reckless about this…”’

‘I won’t be. I wonder if I can get him to realize his bias against Slytherins if I bring a bunch of my friends along…? I’ll definitely invite Neville too, but hm… I suppose it depends on who wants to go. I’m hardly going to force them.’

He needs to get through Double Potions before worrying about any of that, regardless. Harry waves Neville over, and he beams when Neville doesn’t even hesitate before sitting next to him. The Gryffindors look positively appalled. “Hello, Neville. How’ve classes been? Sorry that we haven’t gotten to talk much.”

“T-They’ve been fine. And it’s alright, you’ve been pretty busy, I’ve heard.” Neville’s eyes glint with amusem*nt, and Harry knows for certain that the rumors of him being a Parselmouth have already spread across the entire school. “Herbology is my favorite by far. I’ve been struggling with actual spells, though…”

Ah, that’s right. Neville still has his father’s wand right now. Harry needs to fix that. He needs to get Ron his own wand too. “It’s a good thing you won’t have to use any in Potions then, isn’t it?” he asks with a faint smile. “And I wouldn’t mind helping you out. We’ve been discussing a study group anyway, so if you wanted to join it…”

“That sounds great, Harry! Thank you.”

The low chatter abruptly comes to a halt when Snape sweeps into the room. Harry is still absolutely certain that there must be some spell or enchantment that makes his robes billow like that.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death– Assuming you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Snape’s eyes roam over the classroom, pausing on Harry as he asks, “Mr. Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Some things truly don’t change, but at the very least he isn’t shouting it at him this time. He seems genuinely curious to see if Harry knows. He’s starkly reminded of the fact that his mother and Snape were best friends, that she was good at Potions too, as he murmurs, “The Draught of Living Death, sir. It’s a sleeping potion so powerful that it puts the drinker into a state of suspended animation, and it can only be reversed with the effects of the Wiggenweld Potion. If it’s brewed incorrectly, then it becomes a poison that truly will kill you.”

He does not miss the flash of pleased surprise in Snape’s eyes. “Very good, Mr. Potter. Ten points to Slytherin. Ms. Granger, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

“It depends on the situation, sir. Assuming we’re in the field with no other supplies on us, I would look in the stomach of a goat. But since it’s an antidote to most poisons, nearly all Potion Masters keep them well-stocked in their stores and keep one or two on their person, so I would ask if you had one first.”

“Well reasoned, Ms. Granger. Another ten points for Slytherin. Now I’ll pose a question to the class: What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” Harry subtly elbows Neville when he hesitates to put his hand up, knowing full well that he knows the answer to this. Snape’s eyebrow quirks when the nervous boy shakily raises his hand. “Yes, Mr. Longbottom?”

“T-They’re the same plant, sir. Also known by the name of aconite. It’s the primary ingredient for the Wolfsbane Potion, but it’s also used in the Wideye Potion. W-Which can also counteract the effects of the Draught of Living Death if brewed perfectly.”

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Snape allows begrudgingly. The Gryffindors are outraged at the blatant favoritism, but Neville seems so shocked and pleased to have gotten any points at all that he doesn’t notice. Harry’s just glad that his friend’s boggart isn’t likely to become Snape this time around.

It’s amazing what a difference confidence can make. Neville is still a bit hesitant while brewing –he tends to mix up what steps happen when– but Harry carefully guides him through the process of brewing the Cure for Boils while Neville takes the lead in prepping their ingredients. There are no exploding cauldrons this time, though Seamus and Dean’s potion is so abysmal that they probably wish it had exploded. Crabbe and Goyle’s isn’t much better, but the rest of Slytherin manages to produce potions that are if not perfect, then pretty close. Snape looks distinctly pleased by this turn of events.

“Perhaps you’re not as useless a lot as I feared. We shall see.” Snape somehow manages to make even his praise sound ominous as he dismisses their class, and Harry can hear the Gryffindors whispering among themselves as Neville immediately falls in line with Harry’s group.

“I got a letter from Hagrid this morning,” he starts once they’ve walked down the hallway a bit. “Do any of you want to come visit him with me? I thought it’d be interesting to find out about what sorts of creatures live in and near Hogwarts.”

“I’m in,” Ron agrees immediately. “Charlie said that Hagrid was the first one to support him when he decided to apply for the dragon reserve in Romania. Mum was always so worried but… He’s doing well for himself, and I want to thank Hagrid for that.”

Neville nods eagerly. “I’d be interested in going too. He’s the gamekeeper, right? I bet he sees all sorts of interesting plants in the Forbidden Forest…”

“Like I’d pass on any chance to learn more about Hogwarts,” Hermione scoffs playfully. “Who do you take me for?”

“Sure, why not?” Blaise shrugs with an easy smile. “May as well, right? It’s not like we have to go back if it’s boring.”

“And we do have the whole weekend to do our homework…” Theo murmurs as he worries at his lip. “I can start my Charms essay later, I suppose.”

“… Am I invited?” Bulstrode hedges uncertainly.

“Of course you are!”

“Then I’d like to come,” she decides with a nod. “And you can all call me Millie. Sorry for not giving permission earlier, but…”

“Children can be cruel,” Daphne murmurs with a wan smile. “You weren’t sure that we were being earnest. We don’t blame you for being cautious, Millie. We are Slytherins, after all.”

He tries his level best to ignore Voldemort’s amusem*nt as a pleased flush rises to his cheeks. “Brilliant! Let’s get going then. We don’t want to keep Hagrid waiting.”

Hagrid’s home is as warm and familiar as ever. The fireplace crackles merrily as a kettle boils, and though Hagrid had seemed surprised by how many visitors he had at first, he’s now happily humming under his breath as he gathers rock cakes for them all.

“I’m glad ta see yer makin’ so many friends, Harry. Even one outside of yer house… Reminds me of yer mum, it does. Her best friend was in Slytherin. Mind introducin’ me?”

He smiles from ear to ear as he says, “Of course! Neville is our lone Gryffindor, and this is Ron, Hermione, Blaise, Theo, Daphne, and Millie.”

His friends echo greetings as the half-giant returns with their rock cakes, soon going to attend the whistling kettle and bring back tea as well. Harry stealthily dunks his cake into his tea, and his friends look relieved to follow his lead in that regard. They may have broken some teeth otherwise.

“Ya gave everyone a right shock with yer sortin’, ya did,” Hagrid murmurs, looking between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Been a while since we had such a large Slytherin class, an’ weren’t no one expectin’ it. Well, Minerva was expectin’ yers, Harry, but I don’t think Severus quite believed it ‘til it already happened.”

Harry chuckles at that. “I live to surprise.” He drums his fingers against his teacup before asking, “Say, Hagrid, you’re the gamekeeper, right? I know we’re not allowed to go into the Forbidden Forest, but I figure you must see all sorts of interesting magical creatures in there. Could you tell us about them?”

“O’ course!” Hagrid’s face lights up with excitement, and Harry leans forward in eager interest. “Hogwarts is home to all sorts of interestin’ creatures. There’s the centaur herd, our acromantula colony, the largest herd of thestrals in the country, mooncalves, hippogriffs, unicorns, dugbogs, trolls, thornbacks… Even werewolves run through on occasion. An’ that’s ta say nothin’ on the mundane animals. Deer, foxes, owls… Yer regular woodland sort, really.”

Ron shudders at the mention of not one but two species of giant, magical spiders, but everyone else is practically sitting on the edge of their seats. Hagrid’s booming laughter echoes at the sight of their faces. He turns to Harry and says, “We get snakes on occasion too. Mostly mundane ones, but I’ve been keepin’ my eye out lately an’ I’m pretty sure I saw a spittin’ snake the other day.”

“That’s so cool…!” he murmurs, eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “You’ll tell me if you find one, right? I bet I could help the school get an antivenin made for one.”

“I’d tell ya because ya like ‘em, Harry.” Hagrid shakes his head with a chuckle. “Ya ain’t gotta offer nothin’ in return. Slytherins…”

They all laugh at that. Even Daphne lets her mask slip a little as she hides her mouth behind her hand. “In that case…” Harry makes a show of being bashful before asking, “Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? I don’t want to keep you too long…”

“Nonsense!” Hagrid scoffs with a wave of his hand. “I invited ya, didn’t I? Ask away.”

“I was wondering something about familiars, and I haven’t been able to find any concrete answers so… Can a familiar bond extend the lifespan of mundane animals? Or is there some sort of biological difference between the familiars we sell compared to their muggle counterparts?”

“Aye, ya got it right the first time. The magic o’ the bond extends their lifespan an’ ties it to the witch or wizard’s magic. How much longer they’ll live depends on the strength of the bond an’ the strength of their witch or wizard. Some just get a few extra years, an’ some live as long as their master does.”

“Ah, that’s good to hear,” he murmurs with a faint smile. “I know that owls and snakes can live for a while as it is, but I’ll admit that I was worried… So if you don’t have a familiar bond, then they live just as long as the animal normally would, right?”

“Oh, but that is clever. Using even this to your advantage…”

“Exactly so,” Hagrid agrees with an easy smile. He does not notice the trickle of unease flashing in Ron’s eyes. Blaise and Theo both straighten up slightly at the sight of it, unsure of what is wrong but knowing that something must be. Hermione’s eyes flicker between Harry and Hagrid and widen in sudden understanding. Daphne has a smirk tugging at the edge of her lips, and Millie is watching him in clear curiosity as she tries to figure out the angle that he’s working here. Neville is just engaged in the conversation. He’s too interested in the contents of it to realize that there is another conversation happening between the lines, at least on Harry’s part.

“Okay, next question! I’ve been dying to know this ever since I found out I was a wizard. Can we turn into animals? Or is that just a fairytale thing?”

“We can, though it’s a right difficult bit o’ Transfiguration. Not many bother with it. ‘S a long, fussy process that can go wrong an’ have ta be started over again an’ again. Ya only get ta become one animal too. It’s based on who ya are as a person; ‘s not the kinda thing ya get to choose. I’m surprised Minerva didn’t tell ya, honestly…” Hagrid claps a hand over his mouth. “Ya didn’t hear that. She likes ta surprise her third years with it.”

“Of course, Hagrid,” Daphne demures with a polite smile. “We didn’t hear a thing.”

Hagrid snorts at that. “Right, Slytherins. Yer lot are good at secrets… Anyway, I wouldn’t recommend tryin’ it any time soon. Yer all too young fer that.”

“Of course, Hagrid,” he agrees with a nod of his head. “But out of curiosity, would there be any books on the process in the library, by chance?”

“Yer gonna be trouble, aren’t ya, Harry?” Hagrid asks with an amused smile. “Fine, I’ll tell ya. Ain’t like yer gonna be able ta get ahold of the materials fer it anyway. I’d ask fer Animagi: Finding Your Inner Self. Irma will help ya find it if ya can’t.”

“Thanks, Hagrid! You’re the best.”

They fall into more casual conversation after that. Ron and Hagrid talk about Charlie and how he’s doing in Romania, and this prompts a conversation about what Ron’s brothers do for a living and what the others are working toward. Blaise and Daphne are practically salivating at the connections there. Hermione continues asking questions about magical creatures within the Forbidden Forest, even breaking out her parchment and quill to take notes at some point. Theo laughs quietly at the sight, though he really has no room to talk since he’s curled up in the corner reviewing one of his textbooks. Millie absolutely smothers Fang in affection, and the giant dog rests his head on her lap as his tail wags so hard that it threatens to knock something over. Neville joins in with Hermione and Hagrid’s conversation, hesitantly posing a question about the flora of the forest. He positively beams when Hagrid proves just as knowledgeable about plants as he is about animals.

Hagrid waves them all farewell as they head back to the castle for dinner.

“What a treasure trove of information!” Blaise cheers with a bright smile. “We’ll definitely have to go back.”

“We should.” Millie shuffles anxiously as she murmurs, “He seems lonely. And I like Hagrid; he’s nice.”

“W-We could go every Friday?” Neville suggests hesitantly. “Or maybe every other Friday. We shouldn’t keep him from his work too often, but it’ll be easiest for us to all go after Double Potions.”

“That sounds like a plan to me, Neville,” he agrees with a smile. “Hey, Hermione, do you want to go on a quick library run with me really quick? I’m gonna go look for that book on Animagi.”

Hermione perks up, completely ignoring Daphne’s muttered, “And we’ve lost them. Let’s head on to dinner. They’ll catch up with us eventually.”

“Oh, yes, I have so many projects I’m working on right now… I should grab a few references for them.”

When Harry returns to his dorm that evening, it is with a copy of the book that gives him the perfect excuse to know the spell he’s about to use in hand. “Hey, Ron?”

“What’s up, mate?”

“I noticed that Scabbers shakes a lot, and, well… I was wondering if you wanted me to use a Warming Charm on him? I do it for my snakes all the time. I figured that the dungeons might be a bit too cold for him…”

Ron meets his gaze head-on, swallowing harshly as he nods. Harry’s careful maneuvering to give himself a reason to suspect Wormtail has clearly planted seeds of doubt in Ron’s mind too. “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

Wormtail twitches when Harry hisses, “Be ready to grab him if this goes wrong. No biting, Cassiopeia. We need him alive.”

“Yes, speaker,” she hisses sulkily.

Harry twirls his wand around in his hand, silently casting a Warming Charm to lull Wormtail into a false sense of security. Blaise and Theo both watch on in wary curiosity. They don’t know what, exactly, is going on here, but they can tell that it’s nothing good. The pleasant warmth of Harry’s magic hides the way his magic clings onto the rat and holds him in place, and by the time Wormtail realizes what’s going on, it’s far too late.

A beam of blue light hits Wormtail, and the rat becomes a man before their very eyes. Ron looks like he’s going to be sick. Theo inhales sharply, and Blaise swears as he leaps to his feet. Harry’s magic bears down on Wormtail, freezing him in place as Harry takes several quick steps forward.

“H-Harry I cannot begin to express how relieved I am to see–” Wormtail’s voice cuts off with a whimper as Harry rips his sleeve, revealing the faint pattern of the Dark Mark beneath it.

“I suspected as much,” he murmurs with a hard glare. “It just didn’t feel right, you know? What happened that night. Theo, can you go get Professor Snape?”

“R-Right! On it!” His friend darts out of the room like a bat out of hell. Blaise’s wand is firmly levelled at Wormtail’s prone form, ready and able to hold him down for Harry if necessary. He appreciates the gesture, no matter how unnecessary it is.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron murmurs quietly. “I had a feeling when you started asking about lifespans but… How’d you know?”

“Rats usually only live two to three years. Maybe four if you’re extremely lucky. I wasn’t sure how long you guys had Scabbers, but it sounded like Percy brought him to Hogwarts his first year. Which would make the rat at least five. Then there’s the fact that Scabbers is missing a toe while the only thing the Aurors could find of Pettigrew’s body was a single finger…” His magic thrashes around him, burning with an ice-cold fury that makes his hands tremble. Wormtail’s eyes water as terror fills them, unable to so much as tremble beneath the force of Harry’s magic holding him in place. “It reeked of a setup.”

Snape storms in mere moments later, sneering when he catches sight of the man who is all but stuck to the floor. “Peter Pettigrew…” he murmurs with a cutting bite lurking in his tone. “Hiding away for all these years when the wizarding world believed you dead… One might think you had something to hide.” Snape’s eyes linger on the Dark Mark. “I am sure the Ministry will be very interested to hear of your continued existence. Why don’t we go speak to them now, hm? Aurors will be arriving any moment.”

“P-Professor?” he stammers, acting the part of a nervous, fearful child perfectly. Blaise watches him a faint hint of incredulity in his eyes. “Can you… Can you make sure they look into Sirius’s case as well? Because I went searching for the public record of his trial, and I couldn’t find one. They… They probably would’ve known if they’d given him one, right? Because he and Pettigrew wouldn’t have been fighting if they were on the same side. So if Pettigrew is a Death Eater, then…”

“Your godfather was not,” Snape murmurs as he closes his eyes. The very thought of it clearly pains him, but he nods nonetheless. “I will ensure that justice is served, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, professor.” Harry releases his hold on Wormtail as Snape takes over, but not before hissing, “Follow them. And be prepared to strike and grab if you must, but be careful. Do not eat him.”

Cepheus gives an exaggerated nod, more for Snape’s benefit than Harry’s, and trails after their Head of House when he leaves their dorm room. He swears that he heard an amused chuckle coming from Snape’s general direction, but he must be imagining things.

“Well,” Theo murmurs. “Are you guys up for doing some homework together? Because I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep after that.”

His friends aren’t exactly in the best frame of mind for doing homework either, but Harry helps them muddle through it until Snape returns, much later, with four bottles of Dreamless Sleep. “Rest,” he murmurs. “You may not have classes tomorrow, but it wouldn’t do for you to miss breakfast.”

When Harry crawls into bed, Cepheus and Cassiopeia curl around him, and Hedwig perches on top of his headboard like a silent sentinel. The bond between himself and the Horcruxes thrums with warmth as he drifts off into oblivion.

“You’ve done well, Harry. Rest now.”

“Oh, my own… What a wonder you are.”

Harry sleeps, blissfully unaware of the skeletal hand that cards through his hair as he embraces a land void of any dreams or, indeed, any thought at all.

When he wakes again, his eyes are just the slightest bit brighter than they were before.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

The castle is positively alive with whispered rumors by morning. If he didn’t know what he did about Skeeter, then he would be absolutely baffled by how quickly she found out about this. He’s always wondered how much time she spent lurking around the Ministry. The answer is pretty often, as it turns out.

Harry will never like her, but they may actually end up with a functioning work relationship this go around. Skeeter was not quiet about the Ministry’s failure to fact-check their accusations –which is more than a bit hypocritical of her, but it benefits Harry so he leaves it alone– and the fact that the Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black never received a trial is likely to whip the whole wizarding world into a frenzy. The Light side will be furious about Wormtail evading detection and capture for so long, and the Dark side will want to use this case for their own benefit, ensuring they have the chance to weasel out of any charges levelled against them before being imprisoned. It’s a win-win situation for Harry and a lose-lose situation for Dumbledore. He wishes that he could be part of the trial, but alas, that would mean revealing his lordships to the Wizengamot. And Harry is not going to risk revealing himself as a time traveler to the public at large, not even for Sirius. Not when he knows that his godfather will be freed either way.

‘And besides,’ he thinks to himself with a quiet hum. ‘If they really try to deny him his freedom, then I’ll just break him out of Azkaban myself before razing the Ministry to the ground.’

“I do so love it when you get violent. It’s a shame that it only ever happens in the defense of others, but I suppose you have us to get violent on your behalf…”

“I still can’t believe that Lord Black never got a trial,” Theo murmurs. The faintest hint of unease creeps into his voice as his fingers crumple the newspaper they hold. “That just isn’t done. Sending him to a temporary holding cell before trial is one thing, but no trial at all? After ten years? They’re going to have riots.”

“Good.” Daphne’s voice is cold as ice, eyes glinting with displeasure as she reads the article. “This is the most horrific case of if not outright abuse of power, then gross negligence of the Ministry’s duty that I have ever seen. Even convicted, marked Death Eaters received a trial.”

“You’d think they’d want to know the details, if nothing else,” Hermione murmurs. “Why wouldn’t they get closure for Pettigrew’s family if they thought he’d been killed? Why wouldn’t they find out who else Lord Black might have killed during the war? There were questions that needed to be answered even if he had been guilty.”

“Welcome to the British Ministry of Magic,” Blaise drawls with a wry chuckle. “My mother is always lamenting their gross incompetence.”

“Hm,” Hermione hums with that narrow-eyed, determined look about her. “I see…”

He distantly remembers Hermione talking about becoming the Minister for Magic someday, and he wonders how much sooner she might accomplish that as a Slytherin. He honestly can’t wait to find out. If anyone can gut the Ministry and actually make it effective, then it would be Hermione.

“Uh-oh,” Ron mutters when he gets a good look at her. “That’s Hermione’s plotting face. Should we be afraid? I’m a bit afraid.”

Millie snorts. “Don’t be. She’s turning her attention against the Ministry, so it won’t be focused on you.”

“My dad works at the Ministry,” he returns dryly.

“He’s Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office,” Hermione dismisses with a wave of her hand. “He’s hardly going to get caught in the crossfire of me gunning for the rest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for their crimes against a wizard.”

“... How do you know that? I didn’t tell you that. It’s been less than a week, Hermione.”

Hermione just smiles, and Ron shudders. Harry can’t blame him. That’s a terrifying look on the face of someone who is willing and able to set one of their professors on fire without hesitation.

“Anyway,” Theo mutters after clearing his throat. “Our study group?”

They all get together after breakfast to work on their homework, stopping by the Gryffindor table to drag Neville along with them. It’s nothing too intensive yet, but Harry knows that it’s just a matter of time before they’re drowning in obscenely long essays. It’s better to get into the habit of studying and finishing everything ahead of time before they’re swamped with work.

“The Wand-Lighting Charm is fairly simple, really. We just have to move our wands like so,” Daphne loops her wand and flicks it to the right. “And say the incantation, which is Lumos. We’ll be covering it in our first practical class, so be careful not to overpower it. If you do, then you might set your wand on fire instead of just lighting the tip of it, and that kind of damage cannot be fixed. When in doubt, underpower it. You can adjust afterward.”

‘Hm. Now there’s an idea. It’s a shame we don’t share Charms with Gryffindor, but I can at least make sure Ron gets a new wand without raising too much suspicion.’ Harry nods along as he flips through his Defense book, muttering, “We’ll probably be starting with the Knockback Jinx in Defense, as far as practical skills go. It’ll take a while before we’re doing more than learning about creatures, but still… You move your wand like so.” Harry demonstrates before pausing, waiting several moments, and carefully keeping his magic calm when he says, “Then you say the incantation, Flipendo. Since it knocks your target back and does little else, the smartest way to use this spell is to throw them into something heavy or make them trip over something. The more time you can buy yourself, the better.”

“We’ll likely work on the match-to-needle transformation in Transfiguration first,” Theo murmurs as he worries at his lip. “The textbook says it’s the simplest transfiguration spell. I enjoy Transfiguration since it’s so theoretical, but be prepared to take notes for a long time before we’re even allowed to try it. Transfiguration has the most inherent variation in outcomes of an individual spell out of all the branches of magic. You have to not only do the wand movement and say the incantation but actively picture what your target will transform into. Imagine the process and let your magic walk you through the steps. Maybe you turn your wood silver in color first, then you make it pointy, and then the wood turns into metal. Something like that. The goal is to do all of that in an instant, but a string of minor transfigurations works just as well to start with.”

Ron hums at that. “Like making a series of moves before reaching checkmate… Yeah, I think I can do that. I just have to see several steps ahead and move with that outcome in mind.”

“Our Cure for Boils lesson went surprisingly well, so we’ll probably be working on the Forgetfulness Potion next Friday,” Blaise muses as he drums his finger against the table. They’re trying to keep their voices down so that Madam Pince doesn’t throw them out of the library, and the low thrum of their conversation is drowned out by several students who aren’t half as considerate. “It should be child’s play, really. It’s an easier brew than Cure for Boils, though it does take a bit longer. Not nearly as dangerous if you make any missteps.”

Neville breathes out a quiet sigh of relief at that. “That’s good. I always have such a hard time remembering the order and timing of things…”

“Maybe you should try writing it down?” Hermione suggests gently. “Even if the instructions are up on the board, it usually helps you remember it if you make yourself write it out. Include the time between steps and stuff like that. Eventually, it’ll become a habit, and then you might not need to anymore. But even if you always do, it doesn’t really matter so long as you’ve figured out how to remember it.”

“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Hermione.” A smile tugs at Neville’s lips as he says, “We’ll probably start our lesson on Devil’s Snare in Herbology pretty soon. I’ve heard from upper years that Professor Sprout likes to catch our attention with a more active, dangerous plant and then ease into the easier stuff once everyone has already decided that they like the class. She even teaches a Fire-Making spell as part of that unit, though I’m a bit nervous about that part…”

“We can all practice it together if any of us struggle,” Millie reassures him with a small grin. “Merlin knows that I’m going to need the help in Charms. I am looking forward to Astronomy, though, even if I wish our class wasn’t so late. I love the stars.”

“Yes, it really should be held on Fridays, in my opinion,” Hermione mutters with a scowl. “How on earth are we meant to get enough sleep before our classes on Thursday morning if Astronomy doesn’t even begin until midnight? It’s bad for our health. You’d think that magic was capable of creating a self-updating planetarium or something of the sort. The Great Hall’s ceiling is already terribly close. With just a few small changes…”

“Planetarium?” Daphne asks with a tilted head. “What is that?”

“A planetarium projects an image of the night sky onto the ceiling and walls of a room. It’s something that muggles use to study or enjoy the stars even when they can’t actively step outside and look at them. We could have Astronomy whenever we like if there was a spell to create something similar. Maybe it could even be charmed to always show the night sky by shifting locations as time passes… It’s always night somewhere, after all.”

“Well, if anyone could create such a spell, then it’d be you, Hermione.”

She flushes slightly, clearly pleased by his words before saying, “Sorry, I got a bit off-topic there. We should probably start reading about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911 because our textbook says we’re supposed to learn about it next, but I’m beginning to suspect that Binns will never talk about anything but the goblins. And even if he does, I’m not sure I can trust him to be accurate which is something I never thought I’d say about a professor, but here we are…”

They spend most of the day holed up in the library, doing homework and preparing for their future classes. There is a brief break for lunch that results in Neville getting dragged to the Slytherin table with them, and a single glare from Harry is enough to silence any protests before they can start. Dumbledore looks both surprised and pleased by this turn of events, and he appears even more so when their group of eight returns to the library together after lunch. Ron ends up getting bored and starting up a game of chess with Blaise about halfway through, but they leave them be since all their homework is done anyway.

Sunday is spent exploring the nooks and crannies of Hogwarts. Harry keeps a few aces up his sleeve for later –namely, the location of the kitchens and the Room of Requirement– but he shows his friends all sorts of shortcuts that they take to memorizing with gleeful abandon. It isn’t until after dinner that he manages to duck away and visit Quirrel’s office.

“There is something to be said about your efficiency,” his professor murmurs with a hint of red in his eyes. Voldemort is clearly listening in on their conversation, but he’s staying in the background for now. “Perhaps you’ll be able to aid us in another matter…”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you out, though I don’t do anything for free.”

Quirrel snorts at that. “Ah, yes, a Slytherin through and through. What is it that you want, Mr. Potter?”

“Private lessons. I need an excuse to know half the spells that I do, and I’m interested in learning spells outside of Hogwarts’ curriculum. Those will be saved for a rainy day, of course, but just because the lessons would primarily be a ruse doesn’t mean they can’t genuinely be lessons as well.”

“Hm… We could arrange such a thing. You’d have to prove worth our time first, of course. What is the most complex bit of magic that you’re capable of performing?”

“The Patronus Charm,” he answers without hesitation. Quirrel stiffens in shock, and red bleeds through his eyes as Voldemort takes over.

“Do you speak of the corporeal or incorporeal form?” Quirrelmort hisses sharply, eyes glittering with intrigue and hunger. “Either is impressive, but the conviction with which you said that… You can cast a corporeal form, can’t you? How? You carry a piece of me, and I have never been able to..."

“I’ve found that there are a lot of misconceptions about how the Patronus Charm works,” he hisses softly. Quirrelmort looks extremely skeptical of this fact. “Likely due to how rare it is for witches or wizards to be capable of casting it at all. It’s an embodiment of positive emotions, yes, and the memory you use for it needs to be happy, but that doesn’t mean that it needs to be a purely happy memory. It can be tinged with sorrow or anger or any number of more negative emotions so long as the happiness prevails in the end, and in fact, using memories like that often produces a more powerful charm. Because while they cannot feel such negative emotions themselves, a Patronus is meant to ward against creatures that induce them. Preparation is, as they say, the key to victory. It’s why you can’t use simple memories either. Things like sharing a meal with your friends or bonding with a familiar… I’ve found that using those memories as they are won’t even produce a mist, but if I layer that with the feeling of no longer being alone, of finding those I would fight for and value spending time with, then it works. You can also craft a false memory if that is what it takes. Envision a world in which you’d be happiest. A world in which you’ve won, perhaps, or the moment where you create yourself a new body.”

“I see…” Quirrelmort hisses contemplatively. “Go on then. Show me.”

Harry focuses on the sensation of his Horcrux’s magic pouring into his own, soothing waves of warmth that promise constant companionship to a boy who was once so alone that he had only spiders for company. He focuses on the memory of the diary Horcrux and how seen he made Harry feel, how cared for, and he does not shy away from the sting of betrayal that came when Tom ordered the basilisk to attack him. He focuses on the look of hunger in the ring Horcrux’s eyes when they met in his dreamscape, letting the soul fragment's burning desire to know and be known in turn wash over him.

He loops his wand in several loose circles before saying, “Expecto Patronum!”

A shimmering, silvery serpent manifests between them, and Harry can feel any lingering tension from the shock of the unfamiliar form positively melt away beneath the force of positive emotions that power the spell. The serpent flares out its hood with a quiet hiss, twining around Quirrelmort and restoring some color to his cheeks.

“Marvelous,” Quirrelmort whispers as he runs his hand along the glittering scales. Harry’s Patronus is so solid that it’s as if he’s touching a living, breathing snake that radiates magic. “What an exceptional little thing you are, my Horcrux. A king cobra… Yes, we will teach you. We will have to be cautious of overdoing it while I am trapped in this form, but… Should you help restore me to a proper body, then you shall have all the lessons you could ever desire.”

“You have yourself a deal. How can I help?”

“Tell me, my Horcrux, have you heard of the Sorcerer’s Stone?”

A smirk tugs at Harry’s lips. “I’m familiar, yes. Is that the powerful artifact that I can sense somewhere within Hogwarts? There are several, but this one… Its magic is steeped in blood and death beyond even that of your other Horcrux that resides within Hogwarts’ walls.”

“You’re magic-sensitive?” Quirrelmort hisses with clear intrigue. “Last I knew, that was solely a Nott family trait within Britain.”

“Yes and no.” Harry shakes his hand in a so-so motion. “I’m sensitive to soul and blood magic in particular, not magic in general. That could be due to the blood protection on me, the Horcrux, or even just the Peverell lineage. They were known for being necromancers, after all.”

“Perhaps… Regardless, that is undoubtedly what you’re sensing. An artifact such as that… The Sorcerer’s Stone could not be created without blood sacrifice on a colossal scale, likely numbering to several thousands of lives lost. Eternal life and eternal wealth… Nothing less could create such a thing. We cannot be too hasty in retrieving it or we risk losing the stone forever. I will likely spend most of the year gauging the defenses put in place for it and creating backup plan after backup plan, and then I will need to orchestrate a reason for Dumbledore to be pulled away from the school near the end of the year. All I ask is that you aid me in completing these tasks as much as you are able without compromising your position. Your current saviour status is useful to me, after all.”

“Understood,” he agrees with a nod. His Patronus slowly fades away, but the feeling of warmth and contentment still lingers. “I’ll probably be able to arrange that myself, actually. I intend to spend most of my year planting seeds of doubt in my godfather’s mind which leads him to realize that Dumbledore allowed him to rot in Azkaban. Between that and his gross mishandling of my housing situation, while repeatedly assuring the public of my safety, we can likely bring him up for charges. The charges aren’t likely to stick, but it’s more about Sirius taking a public stand against him than anything else. And it’ll force him out of the castle, that’s for sure.”

“Hm… How intriguing. That’s a positively Gryffindor plan, but I suppose it’s meant to be, isn’t it? You intend for your godfather to take credit for it.” Harry merely smiles in turn. It’s a sharp, wicked little thing that makes Quirrelmort laugh. “Very well, very well… Meet me in my office on Sunday evenings. Your lessons will take place then, and if you manage to land yourself in detention sneaking back to your dorms, then that’s on your own head.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he hisses mischievously, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and disappearing beneath it in an instant. “I won’t get caught.” His footsteps are perfectly silent as he slips out of the room.

The bond between Harry and Voldemort’s main soul is positively buzzing with amusem*nt for hours afterward. Harry dreams of four snakes basking beneath the sun together, and at some point during the night, a fifth hesitantly joins them. It feels like coming home.

The schedule for flying lessons is posted on the announcement board the next morning, and Harry grins at the thought of it. He doubts that the circ*mstances necessary for him to land a spot on the Quidditch team a year early will happen this time, but he’s looking forward to the class nonetheless. He also intends to make sure that Neville doesn’t fall off his broom in the first place this time, or, at the very least, make sure he doesn’t get injured if he does. He still can’t believe that Hooch just stood there and watched as he fell last time.

Neville still receives his Remembrall Thursday morning, but Malfoy doesn’t attempt to steal it from him this time. He’s still fuming about Harry’s general existence, but even he knows better than to start a scene with someone who has publicly been spending so much time with several Slytherins. Neville is basically an honorary snake as far as Slytherin is concerned. Targeting him would mean targeting Harry, and targeting Harry would mean breaking the most important rule in Slytherin. It’s only a matter of time before all that tension comes to a head, but Harry is looking forward to it, honestly. He’s been itching to properly fight someone for a while now.

Harry practically skips out onto the castle grounds that afternoon, relishing in the clear skies and pleasant breeze that he would soon be flying through. Like last time, Hermione is still a bit nervous, but she has a remarkable poker face and hides it well. Neville, on the other hand, looks absolutely terrified, so Harry firmly plants himself next to him and bumps their shoulders together.

“Take a deep breath, Nev. Everything’s going to be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“B-But you’ve never flown on a broom either, right?”

Harry feels a bit bad about the fact that he has to lie here, but he shakes his head nonetheless. “No, but I’ve always wanted to fly. And even if you did fall, I’ve been practicing the Slowing Charm just in case.”

“... That’s a fifth-year spell.” Neville levels him with an incredulous look. “Did you seriously learn it in three days?”

“So did Hermione,” he deflects, as if there’s any spell she’s ever struggled with outside of the Patronus Charm. “It’s made her a bit less nervous about this whole thing. So don’t worry about it. You won’t fall, and even if you do, we’ll catch you.”

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” Hooch barks as soon as she arrives. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

Neville and Harry stand side by side, with Ron on Harry’s left and Seamus on Neville’s right. Their brooms aren’t in the best condition, but then again, none of the school brooms are. It’s a real safety hazard, and he can’t help wondering why they haven’t replaced them by now. Especially since the wizarding world practically lives and breathes Quidditch.

“Stick your right hand out over your broom!” Hooch shouts once everyone is lined up. “And say ‘Up!’”

“UP!!”

Harry’s broom smacks into his hand immediately. Hermione’s rolls over before slowly floating up to her hand, and Neville’s doesn’t budge an inch. Millie also immediately grabs ahold of her broom, while Daphne, Blaise, and Theo have to try a few more times before it comes to them. Ron manages to get his broom up on his second try, though the damaged bristles smack him in the face on the broom’s way up.

Hooch shows them all how to properly mount their brooms, and though they have to make a point of not outwardly reacting, Harry still snickers internally when Hooch corrects Malfoy’s grip. “Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly, understand? On my whistle! Three, two–”

But Neville, nervous and jumpy despite Harry’s best efforts, still rockets upward before the whistle even touches Hooch’s lips. “Come back, boy!” she shouts as he spirals out of control, and Harry doesn’t wait for her to do something that she never will this time. He kicks off the ground like he was meant to fly, shooting straight up as Neville’s face pales with fear, losing his grip on the broom just as Harry catches up with him. “Potter! Get back down here!!” He grabs ahold of Neville’s robes and yanks, hard, with the aid of an instinctive Feather-light Charm that helps him pull the other boy over onto his broom as Neville’s plummets back to the earth. And if he just so happens to “accidentally” break Neville’s wand in the process, then he’s sure that his friend will agree that it’s better the wand than his bones.

“Oh, Merlin,” Neville murmurs as he clutches onto Harry for dear life. “Oh, Merlin, we’re so high up. I never want to touch a broom again in my life. I’m gonna be sick–” Neville gags and hurls, though he at least has the courtesy of turning his head beforehand.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” He repeats the words over and over as he slowly lowers the both of them to the ground, ignoring where Neville’s broom lies broken on the ground a short distance away from them.

“What were you thinking?!” Hooch barks as soon as their feet touch the grass. “I told you–!”

“I-I didn’t mean to, professor, I–”

“Not you!” Hooch’s piercing, yellow eyes are looking right past Neville and glaring at Harry. He can feel the indignation thrumming beneath his skin. “You, Potter! Flying off all recklessly like that. You both could have been hurt!”

“And Neville would have been if you’d continued to just stand around and shout at him,” he drawls with a glare. “He was too high up, and I haven’t had much time to practice my Slowing Charm. I couldn’t be sure I’d be able to slow him enough to save him from that height, so I did the only thing I could. You know, what you should have done as soon as he kicked off by accident?”

“Why I never–!” Hooch splutters, cheeks flushing with indignation. “Detention, Potter! And did you break his wand? I cannot believe–”

“It was an accident, professor.” Neville’s voice is lined with a hint of steel as he glares up at her, squaring his shoulders even as he trembles in place. “And I probably would’ve broken my wand and several bones if I fell from that high.”

“I’ll pay for you to get a new one, Nev, I promise.”

“No worries,” he murmurs with a faint grin. Hooch looks positively incensed by it. “I didn’t get to choose my wand anyway. Honestly, I’ve been really struggling with it… This is probably a good thing. Anyway, if you’re going to punish Harry for saving me, then you have to punish me too. It’s only fair. He wouldn’t be in trouble at all if I hadn’t panicked.”

“That’s not– I’m giving him detention for his insolence, Mr. Longbottom, not for flying when he shouldn’t have.”

“Ah, you’re going to be handing out a lot of detentions, then,” Blaise cuts in with a smirk. “Because that was perhaps the worst handling of a flying mishap that I have ever seen. Shouting at him when he was already panicked, honestly… I’m sure Dowager Longbottom will want to hear about the callous disregard you’ve treated her grandson with today.”

“Indeed, is this truly the best that Hogwarts can offer?” Daphne asks with a cool glare. “It’s hardly any wonder they’ve lost funding over the years. Look at the state of things.”

“Y-Yeah!” Seamus shouts, not one for being outdone by the Slytherins. “You didn’t even cast a Softening Charm before having us mount our brooms! That’s always been standard practice back at home, preventing any injuries before they can even happen!”

Hooch’s glare only grows sharper as mutinous whispers break out across the class, and, surprising everyone, Malfoy’s voice cuts through them all. “I’m sure my father would like to hear about this, Madam Hooch. Unless, of course, you retract your punishment and we all keep this little incident to ourselves.”

“I will not be threatened into silence, you little cretins! Detention, detention for all of you–!”

“Is that really something you want to have to explain to Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asks with an innocent tilt of her head. “Because Hogwarts: A History says that professors have to file an incident report for any incident resulting in the detention of more than four students, and I don’t think this will look very good on your record, ma’am.”

Hooch ends up retracting her detentions, clearly giving up on any attempt at demanding respect that they will not give her and opting to salvage her reputation instead. Their lesson is very stilted and awkward after that, no matter how much Harry still enjoys the sensation of air rushing past him.

“You owe me for this, Potter,” Malfoy murmurs when they pass each other, and Harry quirks an eyebrow in silent question. He has a feeling that this is about to be an amusing turn of events. He’s proven right shortly after class ends.

Malfoy pulls him aside with a glare on their way down to the dungeons. “Look, Potter, I helped you, so I expect a favor in turn. Announce that you’re no longer running for Slytherin Prince for our year, and we’ll consider it even.”

“I don’t think so, Malfoy.” Harry chuckles before shaking his head with a sigh. “You were helping yourself as much as you were helping me, and we certainly didn’t agree to any sort of terms before you did so. That was your mistake. Besides, I hardly cared if I got detention for that. I’d have made up for any points lost by the end of next week anyway.”

Malfoy’s cheeks flush a ruddy red as his eyebrow twitches. “And what can I do to convince you to step down, then? You’re sullying the name of our house, consorting with Weasley, Granger, and Longbottom like you do. You’re going to drag down our entire year.”

“A wizard’s duel,” he murmurs as a smirk tugs at his lips. “A formal one, challenging me for the title of Slytherin Prince in front of all of Slytherin. Winner takes all, loser bows out and no longer challenges the winner’s position. How does that sound, Malfoy?”

“It sounds like you’re a real idiot, Potter. How many spells could you possibly know, growing up in the muggle world and all?” Malfoy crosses his arms with a mocking smile. “Yes, I know about that. It was kept hushed up, of course, but my father found records of it within the Ministry, though no one knows exactly where you were. Regardless, if you want to make a fool of yourself in front of all of Slytherin, then be my guest. My second is Crabbe. Yours?”

“Daphne,” he decides, feeling like that makes the most powerful statement. Choosing Ron or Hermione would make it seem like an us-versus-them duel that would isolate their group and entire year from the older students, and while he is tempted to pick Theo, he both knows that Theo would want no part of this and that it’s safer for him to pick someone from a more neutral family, reputation-wise. The Zabinis don’t have as much of a standing in Britain as they do in Italy, so Blaise is out for similar reasons. And Millie would have similar results to choosing Ron or Hermione, turning it into a half-blood versus pure-blood thing. Daphne is the best option by far.

“Then I’ll go arrange our duel with Farley. Prepare to be humiliated, Potter.”

Malfoy storms off with a huff, and Harry snorts as soon as he’s out of earshot. ‘Should I feel bad about this? It feels a bit like I’m bullying him, really.’

“No. Just wipe the floor with him and be done with the matter. It’s the best way to settle things, and I had to do the very same with Abraxus Malfoy while I was in Hogwarts. It’s the best way to knock some common sense into a Malfoy, I’ve found.”

“Well then,” he murmurs. “Guess I ought to prepare a bit. Now, how badly should I embarrass him…?”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

All of Slytherin has heard about their impending duel by curfew, and there’s a heavy buzz of anticipation throughout their classes on Friday. Poor Malfoy doesn’t see the sympathetic glances that he’s getting from several of the older years, strutting around like a peaco*ck because he’s so certain that his victory is assured. Harry is willing to bet that Flint told them all about his little display of wandless, wordless magic that has thoroughly convinced the rest of Slytherin that Malfoy doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at winning this.

They’re right, of course, but he feels the tiniest bit bad about how blindsided Malfoy is about to be. It’ll be a good wake-up call, if nothing else.

Daphne seems quietly pleased by being chosen as Harry’s second, and when he explains his reasoning to the others, they all agree with him in the end, even if a few of them still look like they wish it was them. “It’s the smartest political move,” Blaise concedes with a nod. “And you’re proving yourself as more capable than Malfoy in more than just your magical prowess by choosing her. If he had any political sense, then he would’ve chosen Parkinson or Davis as his second. The Crabbes and Goyles are vassal families to the Malfoys, so he’s basically declaring that no one but those obliged to defend him would. It’s a bad look.”

Ron is practically on cloud nine after that, and he’s even more so when he sees just how confident Harry is about winning this. It’s evening before they know it, and Harry walks down to the dungeons with Daphne to his right and everyone else trailing just behind them. He’s mildly surprised to see Snape waiting for them alongside Farley, but he supposes it makes sense for their Head of House to supervise power disputes like this. It’s far less likely to end in severe injury that way.

“Alright, I don’t usually have to say this for the firsties, but I’m going to anyway just to be thorough.” Farley’s eyes linger on him when she says this, and Harry barely stifles a laugh. “Formal wizarding duel rules apply, and any attempt to circumvent them will result in an automatic loss. You will bow to each other, take three steps away, and then turn to cast on my word, understood?” They both nod. Crabbe looks vaguely uneasy from his place behind Draco while Daphne is as composed as ever. “No lethal spells, no spells that can cause permanent damage, and no memory-altering spells, as those fall under the latter category. You are fighting to disarm or otherwise restrain your opponent. Now then… You may bow.”

Harry dips his head in a clear snub, smirking when Malfoy does the same. He takes three steps, pivots, and in a move that has Malfoy gaping in shock, sheathes his wand. “Go on then,” he taunts. “I want to see what you’ve got.”

“Stupefy!” Harry laughs as he throws up a wandless, wordless Shield Charm with a flick of his wrist. Malfoy barely manages to dodge the rebounded spell. “Tarantallegra!” The Dancing Feet Spell rebounds just as effortlessly, and Harry yawns, closing his eyes as he stretches.

“Really? You sure talk a big game for someone hurling stunners and minor jinxes at me.”

“Incendio!” Malfoy snaps, and Farley likely would have stopped the duel there if Harry didn’t conjure a swell of water to immediately extinguish it. Honestly, they don't want to set their common room on fire. It's a good thing that he knows what he does; the Water-Making Spell is advanced conjuration, not even taught until their sixth year, and everyone knows it. Malfoy goes deathly pale.

“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Let’s put an end to this.” Not willing to risk embarrassing himself when he’s never attempted to cast a Patronus Charm without his wand before, Harry flicks it into his hand with a feral grin. He thinks of what Slytherin will look like years from now, once all the pure-blood bigotry is finally stomped out of it. He thinks of a future in which he leads it to that point, repairing decades’ worth of bad reputation by the time he graduates. He thinks of what the wizarding world will look like once they finally stop pointing their wands at each other and focus on preserving their community instead.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Gasps ring out as a massive king cobra pours out of Harry’s wand, ghostly blue as it lunges forward and wraps itself around Malfoy. It’s corporeal enough that Malfoy can’t budge an inch, so when it knocks Malfoy’s wand out of his hand, it’s really only adding insult to injury.

“The winner is Harry Potter! As agreed upon, he is now the first years’ Slytherin Prince. Malfoy is unable to challenge him for the title again. If anyone else wishes to contest his place and challenge him, now is the time.” Dead silence. Farley nods, clearly expecting this outcome. “Then the matter is settled. There will be no more conflict over it.” With the matter settled and Harry’s Patronus dispelled, Farley returns to her studying, but Harry is not fortunate enough to slip away and do the same before Snape calls out to him.

“Mr. Potter. A word, if you will?” It’s phrased as a question, but they both know that it isn’t one. Harry just nods and follows along. It’s bizarre to sit in Snape’s office again, his mind instantly going back to the many failed Occlumency lessons held in here. He almost wonders if Snape intends to search his mind for answers today too. “Those were advanced spells,” Snape comments idly, as if he is just talking about the weather. “And your capability for wandless, nonverbal magic is… Markedly unusual among your peers, and indeed, even among those many years older than you. How did you come to learn such a thing?”

“I… Well, I read ahead while Professor McGonagall was escorting other students in Diagon Alley. I wanted to practice as much as I could, so I looked into more advanced spells as well. I was able to get a lot of them to work.” Luckily for him, Harry had purchased books all the way up to NEWT level and beyond while shopping in Flourish and Blotts. He can only occupy himself with reviewing spells that he already knows for so long, after all. “And the other stuff is just… Me doing the same thing I used to do as a kid, really. I learned how to unlock doors and keep myself warm on purpose, so learning how to do other stuff on purpose wasn’t that hard either. I kept practicing it after I got my wand. Professor Quirrel noticed that I seemed a bit bored in class, so he offered me extra lessons on Sundays as well.” If he can keep Snape from being so suspicious of Quirrel, even if he has reason to be, then it’ll only make his life easier. “He seemed very impressed by my Patronus. I didn’t realize it was all that special, honestly…”

“Didn’t realize…” Snape drags his hand down his face with a sigh. “Of course you didn’t. Many adult wizards cannot cast that spell, Mr. Potter. The fact that you are able to create a corporeal Patronus at eleven is nothing short of extraordinary. I had noticed, of course, that you were already guiding Mr. Longbottom through Potions with an ease I do not expect of my first years, but… Hm. Do let me know if the coursework is too easy for you. I’m a busy man, but I can make time to write up an additional lesson here and there.”

“R-Really?” he stammers, the first hint of genuine surprise entering his voice. “I might have to take you up on that, professor. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. I do not wish to hold back your growth or, heaven forbid, encourage laziness later on because everything is too simple for you now. This is the house of the ambitious, Mr. Potter. You are far from the first student to acquire such lessons, though you are one of the fastest to have done so.”

“... Say, if I asked for your help acquiring certain ingredients, could we come to some sort of arrangement?”

Snape quirks an eyebrow at him. “It would depend on the ingredients, I suppose. What were you looking for?”

“A few mandrake leaves and the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth…?” he hedges uncertainly, startling back when Snape outright laughs at him.

“No, Mr. Potter, I will not help you become an Animagus. That is far too dangerous a spell for you to learn at your age, prodigy or no.” Snape sounds thoroughly amused, though, and more importantly, he’s dropped his previous line of question. Harry didn’t really expect him to say yes anyway; he’ll just convince Sirius to help him over the summer. “But I’ll tell you what, if you’re still interested in a few years, I’ll reconsider it so long as you’ve come up with a concrete plan for every step of the process. How does that sound?”

“I’ll take it, sir!” he agrees with a smile. “Thank you. And, uh, sorry for being a bit of a tosser out there. I didn’t think Malfoy would take the hint otherwise.”

“He likely would not have,” Snape concedes with a dip of his head. “And you fought well. There is nothing to be sorry for, child. Now go on then, your friends are sure to drag you out to the library bright and early tomorrow. Oh, and Mr. Potter?” He pauses on his way out the door, turning to Snape with a tilted head. “Fifty points to Slytherin for your flawless execution of the Patronus Charm.”

Harry goes to sleep with a smile firmly fixed on his face.

Morning dawns bright and early. They don’t have any more homework than they did the week before, but Harry knows that won’t last very long and enjoys it while he can. His friends start grilling him about the duel as soon as they’ve finished their assignments.

“How did you learn to cast without a wand?” Hermione demands with an eager glint in her eyes. “And without using any incantation either. It looked utterly effortless! How?” Hermione isn’t the only one who clearly wants to know the answer to that. Every single one of them –even including Neville, who only got a brief summary of the duel that went down last night– is practically shaking with anticipation.

“Okay, so basically, everyone is capable of using nonverbal, wandless magic from a young age. That’s why kids have outbursts of accidental magic, right? It’s just that we can’t control it well, and what happens tends to be fairly random and situation-dependent. But I was in a situation where I had to instinctively do a few different things over and over again, so my magic got used to doing those things without a wand. I still didn’t need one once I got it. I can unlock a door easy as breathing.”

He doesn’t want to bother his friends with details about growing up with the Dursleys, mostly because it no longer matters and they’re too young to do anything about it anyway, but if he doesn’t drop a few hints here and there, then the discrepancy between how he acts around the students and how he acts around the professors is going to be noticed. He still has to be a bit flippant about things like this.

“Basically, try to pick one thing and focus on getting it down perfectly. It’s more about the emotions and visualized result than thinking about the incantation or envisioning the spell itself.”

“And the Patronus Charm?” Theo prods with eyes that are just as eager. “Will you teach us?”

“Of course, but we should wait for Nev to get his new wand first. I don’t want to start without him.” McGonagall is taking him to Diagon Alley to purchase a wand tomorrow, and though Neville tried to refuse, Harry already passed along the seven Galleons required for it. “Don’t feel bad if it takes you a while to get it though. It’s supposed to be really, really difficult. There are adults with their NEWTs in Charms that still cannot do it, and it’s not required for them to even try.”

“Oh, but imagine the extra points if we do…” Daphne muses. “It’ll get my foot in the door for a Charms Mastery. I simply must learn it, preferably before we take our OWLs.”

And considering how well the DA did last time, Harry can all but guarantee that she’ll be capable of it by then. “Then you will. It’s hard, not impossible. I have faith in all of you. It’s just that your confidence in being able to cast the Patronus Charm also affects the spell, so I don’t want you to get discouraged if it takes a while. It’s very emotion-based, so it picks up on little things like that.”

“Great,” Neville murmurs with a sigh. “It’ll probably take me years, then.” The Neville he used to know probably would’ve said he’d never be able to learn it, so this is progress, no matter how small.

“But you’ll get there eventually,” he says with the utmost confidence. “I know you will.”

Ron affectionately rolls his eyes at all their nerd talk before pulling out his wizarding chess set and bullying Millie into playing with him. His tune shifts drastically when she actually puts up a challenge, forcing him to adapt on the fly and create backup plans instead of his typical steady march to victory.

It’s a wonderful day, and Sunday promises to be even better. Neville is positively beaming when he returns with the same cherry wood and unicorn hair core wand that he didn’t get until several years later the first time, and though his friends try to wheedle him into an impromptu Patronus lesson, he manages to stave them off until Saturday with the promise of showing them a secret room for them to practice in. He’s not sure what lessons with Quirrelmort will entail, so he doesn’t want to risk wearing himself out beforehand.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Slytherin Prince,” Quirrelmort murmurs with a wry grin. “I presume you intend to take the title of Slytherin King by the end of the year?” His professor’s question has a distinctly teasing tone to it, and Harry snorts in answer.

“If only… That would be a bit suspicious, I fear, and I don’t want to deal with seventh-years constantly jockeying for my position. I’ll probably go for it in my third or fourth year. Young enough to be notable and cause ripples, but old enough that my fending off older students won’t be as shocking. My familiars told you, I’m presuming?”

“Well-reasoned,” Quirrelmort praises before switching to Parseltongue. “And indeed. Your snakes visit me when they grow bored of hunting or basking, and they pass tidbits along whenever they do. Snakes are such terrible gossips, truly.”

“We’re lucky that so few people can understand them,” Harry agrees with a snort. “Also, did you move the diadem in here? The Horcrux feels much closer than it was before.”

“Ah, so you can sense that?” Quirrelmort sounds distinctly pleased, and it isn’t until he explains further that Harry understands why. “I put it under the most complex magic-dampening wards I know. Dumbledore himself could walk right past it and not sense a thing. I suppose it’s something inherent to the Horcruxes… Yes, I relocated it. I am… Uneasy having three of my Horcruxes in Hogwarts, and so I wished to keep a closer eye on this one. I will be relocating it once the year is over.”

“Or you could use it as part of your resurrection,” Harry hisses softly when Voldemort nudges a mental image of an alternate ritual into Harry’s mind. They don’t often share memories this way, but he can’t deny how useful it is that they can. “It would be more powerful than the one utilizing the bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy, wouldn’t it? A powerful magical artifact that sharpens your wit and also contains a piece of your soul, my blood to get rid of the obstacle my mother’s blood protection presents, and the Elixir of Life… You would not just be revived, you would be renewed. Soul, blood, and body...” It would likely heal a substantial portion of his soul as well, beyond that of even the portion that the diadem contains. Harry’s not sure why he’s so certain of that fact, but he is. It may have something to do with his instinctive knowledge of soul magic as the Master of Death, or perhaps his blood will boost the effects of the ritual more than he realizes.

“Ah, my soul shard told you of that, I presume? Then you ought to understand precisely why I am so hesitant to absorb even one of my safeguards against Death.” Quirrelmort’s voice is sharper now, unyielding, but they absolutely have to use this ritual. And Harry knows how to convince him to do so.

“And if I told you that you were protected from Death even with just the Horcrux within myself?”

Rage spikes for a split-second before Harry’s Horcrux smothers that fire, and Quirrelmort levels him with a demanding glare. “Explain. Now.”

Harry chuckles nervously before flicking the Elder Wand into his hand. The Invisibility Cloak settles over his shoulders, flaring out to keep him from going invisible and creating a faint ripple in the air, and he turns the Resurrection Stone over in his hand three times. The shade of James and Lily Potter appears between them.

“Hello, love,” his mother whispers. “Oh, look at you. You’ve grown so much…”

“This is a prank beyond anything even I accomplished in all my years at Hogwarts,” his father says with a laugh. “I do wish you weren’t pulling it off with our murderer, but, well, beggars can’t be choosers. And you seem… So much happier now than before.” Happier than last time, his father doesn’t say, but Harry understands him just fine. “So I guess I shouldn’t complain too much. You’d better take care of my son, understand me?” James glares at Quirrelmort, jerking his fingers back and forth in an ‘I’m watching you’ motion. “The dead don’t sleep. I will find a way to haunt your ass if you hurt him.”

“Potters,” Quirrelmort murmurs with a dip of his head. It’s as much of a concession as he’ll give them, Harry suspects. At least for now. His mother presses a kiss against his forehead that is no less comforting for the icy chill it sends down his body.

“Take care, dear. And remember, we’re always with you.”

His parents’ spirits fade away, and Quirrelmort feels distinctly less murderous now than he did before. “You are a necromancer?”

“I am the necromancer. The Master of Death. In this universe and all of them, Death said. He cannot claim me, and so long as a fragment of your soul remains within me, he cannot claim you either. But your soul has taken a lot of damage, I can sense it, and you will be far better off if you reabsorb your other Horcruxes. I want us to win. We’re more likely to do that with your soul intact.”

“You would have me leave myself entirely at your mercy? I think not. How do I even know that you’re telling the truth?”

“Look into my eyes. I will show you. I will show you Death, and then you will understand.”

Blood-red meets Killing Curse green, and Harry opens the door of their connection and his mind to allow Quirrelmort to see. Flashes of memory pass them by, small, unimportant moments before he guides him to his memory of visiting Gringotts. He can feel the surprise filter between them when Quirrelmort sees the results of his blood test.

“You traveled through time. How did you die, my Horcrux?” Quirrelmort sounds willing and able to hunt down whoever had done it, and the thought makes Harry laugh quietly.

“You killed me. Sent a Killing Curse straight at your own Horcrux without even realizing that I was one. I think making Nagini into yet another Horcrux was one too many. You seemed to lose any semblance of sanity afterward, but then again, you were down to less than one percent of your soul at that point. It’s a miracle that you were as lucid as you were… It likely has a lot to do with how powerful your magic is.” Quirrelmort seems horrified by the very idea of destroying a fragment of his soul, something Harry finds terribly ironic considering how willing he is to rip it into tiny pieces. “So you’ll understand why I was a bit wary of sharing this information with you. I do not wish to fight you. I was given a choice back then. I could have gone back. I could have woken up one last time to finish the job, to take you down for good because Nagini was the only Horcrux left, and I could have left the Horcrux to die in my place. I did not. I held it close and boarded the train. I went on. It’s why Death chose me. To walk willingly to my death and then embrace it even when given the chance to go back… To show compassion to the soul shard of a man who made it his mission to see me dead, who made an attempt on my life nearly every year and ensured that my life was as short as it was miserable… I was given another chance. I do not intend to waste it. Do not lose yourself to madness again. You bloody well almost possessed me and still didn’t notice the Horcrux within me. That should speak volumes of how poorly off you were.”

Quirrelmort reels back as if he’s been struck, magic trembling faintly as he carefully restrains himself. If he was in his own body, Harry doubts that he would have bothered. “Show me.”

He does. He shows him every wretched, miserable detail. Quirrel’s body disintegrates beneath his tiny hands. The searing pain of basilisk venom courses through his veins, but that still doesn’t stop him from taking the diary Horcrux down with him. Hundreds of Dementors swarm Harry and Sirius as he desperately fights to cast his Patronus in an impossible situation, terror crawling up his throat. A flash of green sends Cedric tumbling to the earth, never to stand again. Voldemort rises from a cauldron, taunts him, and toys with a boy who is terrified out of his mind. He tortures him. Harry barely escapes. The words ‘I must not tell lies’ are carved into his wrist over and over again until it feels as if he will never stop bleeding. Sirius falls through the Veil. Harry loses the one person in the world who gave him hope for the future, and he loses it. Harry screams “Crucio!” at Bellatrix as she mocks him for being unable to cast it properly, and he barely manages to keep himself from doing it again. He’s fairly certain it would have worked that time. Voldemort almost possesses him in his fury. Dumbledore shows him memories of a young Tom Riddle that only makes him feel empathy for him, seeing more and more of himself in the boy of these memories. The Horcruxes are destroyed one by one, and Voldemort does not even hesitate as he destroys one of the only two remaining. Harry wakes up in King’s Cross, and he knows more than anything else in the world that he does not want to fight anymore. Dumbledore will not convince him to do so. Dead faces flash in his mind, so many lives lost to this senseless war that he can never bring back. He failed them. He failed all of them. If he had just let Voldemort kill him sooner, then maybe–

Quirrelmort staggers back, clutching at his head with a quiet groan. “You… Were shoving your emotions at me too, my Horcrux.”

“That was intentional. You need to understand. I… I cannot go through that again. Don’t make me go through that again. Please. Even after all this, I chose to give you a chance. Don’t make me regret it. Do the ritual. Please. Be better than that.”

Tears stream down his cheeks, and a faintly trembling hand wipes them away. “I have caused you a great deal more harm than I had realized, even if it was in a time yet to be… I can indulge you this once, my Horcrux. I will perform this ritual, and should it work as you believe it will, then we will see about absorbing other Horcruxes. I will have to insist on having one other beyond yourself, however.”

“That’s fine,” he whispers. “I’m kind of attached to the ring anyway.”

“I suspected you might be. His magic is positively tangled with your own.” Quirrelmort straightens up slightly, schooling his expression as he says, “Show me what you know of duelling, Mr. Potter. Do not hold back on me.”

As it turns out, duelling is still an excellent way to vent his emotions. And after dragging both himself and Quirrelmort through memories that he was doing his level best to shove to the background, he desperately needs that outlet. He suspects that Quirrelmort knows that, that he is being kind in his own way after causing so much distress.

It’s not an apology, but it feels like one all the same.

Harry is beyond exhausted the next morning. Emotionally, magically, he’s been through the wringer, and it’s only after the Horcruxes feed him a bit of their own magic and send feelings of warmth and determination through their bond that he feels a bit less dead inside.

That does not mean that he’s any more prepared to see the front-page news as one of the school owls drops the Daily Prophet in front of him.

Lord Sirius Black Cleared of All Charges!

By Rita Skeeter

You read that right, dear readers! After Peter Pettigrew’s shocking trial on Saturday afternoon (see pg 5 for a recap), it has been revealed that Sirius Black never betrayed the Potters, and he was certainly never loyal to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Something that could have been cleared up in an instant with a single dose of Veritaserum, which Lord Black offered to take numerous times over the years, yet nothing was ever done. In fact, Lord Black never received a trial at all.

I’m as outraged as you are. How could such a thing slip through the cracks? Every other convicted Death Eater received a trial, even if some were months later, but not Lord Sirius Black. I find myself asking the same question that I’m certain all of you are right now: Why?

I intend to find out. This case sets a horrible, dangerous precedent for members of our community, and no amount of money given in restitution can recover the loss of a decade of Lord Sirius Black’s life. A decade spent surrounded by Dementors that forced him to relive his worst memories over and over again, likely featuring when he found the Potters’ cooling corpses after Peter Pettigrew betrayed them.

If even the lord of a Most Ancient and Noble House is not safe from this sort of miscarriage of justice, then none of us can claim to be. Need we fear our own Ministry? Minister Fudge declined to comment on the matter.

We can only thank Merlin that Lord Sirius Black has miraculously survived this gross mistreatment with his mind intact. He has a long road of recovery ahead of him, but Daily Prophet wishes him all the best.

Shortly after he passes the article over to Hermione, an owl delivers a letter to him that has Harry freezing in shock, eyes roving over the words again as if they’ll change the second time he reads them. They do not.

Hey Pup,

I’m sorry for not writing you sooner. I was a bit caught up in trying to avoid making my grand escape too soon to catch that damned rat, because you know as well as I do that he would’ve run if I escaped before you got to Hogwarts, and then the next thing I knew, someone had already caught him. Funny how that works.

I made you a promise a long time ago, and I think it’s about damn time I honored it. That home with me is still yours if you want it, pup. I’m a free man now, after all. I’ll have to pass a few evaluations before the summer, but I’ll do it. I’d do anything for you. Surely you know that.

I must say that I’m surprised to hear that you sorted into Slytherin, but maybe not as surprised as I should have been. You’ve always been a sneaky little devil, even if you are a bit impulsive. That might be the pot calling the kettle black there.

Anyway, I hope to speak with you properly soon. Maybe if I behave myself, I’ll be able to see you over Christmas break…

Lots of Love,

Sirius

P.S. Our mutual friend says hello. And I am… So sorry for the way we parted last time, pup. It won’t happen again, I swear it.

It takes everything in him to not burst into tears in the middle of the Great Hall. This is his Sirius. This is the same Sirius who…

A chillingly cold hand brushes against his shoulder, there and gone within an instant. “Thank you,” he whispers. And though Death does not answer him in words, he can feel their comforting presence all the same.

Unseen to him, Quirrel shudders from his place at the High Table, feeling rather as if someone just stepped over his grave. The chilling hand on his shoulder is not nearly so comforting, a warning rather than reassurance, and any lingering doubts in Voldemort’s mind about the existence of Death as an entity are firmly erased.

Harry Potter walks in Death’s shadow, and if Lord Voldemort wishes to evade an unseemly end, then he needs to account for his Horcrux’s wishes in his plans. He can make a few adjustments, surely...

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

“Welcome, class! I know you’re all very excited for today’s lesson, but do allow me a moment to review the theory with you one more time. As you all know, today we will be learning a very important spell known as the Wand-Lighting Charm. This charm is useful in dark places, whether you are searching a shadowy room for hidden dangers... Or trying to find a scroll that rolled under the sofa. Lumos!”

The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs both are hanging off of Flitwick’s every word, eager to get into some real casting. Harry is just as excited, though not for reasons that any of them understand just yet. Blaise is watching him with the slightest quirk of his eyebrow, clearly wondering what Harry is up to. He merely grins and leaves his friend to ponder that on his own.

“Now the counter-charm for this spell is the Wand-Extinguishing Charm, Nox!” The light at the end of Flitwick’s wand dims until it fades away completely. “We will be practicing both of these spells today, as it will not do you much good to learn one without the other. A Wand-Lighting Charm will leave your wand illuminated until you perform the counter-charm, even if you cast other spells with it. However, be careful when doing so, as even the slightest lapse of control can result in your wand catching fire. That sort of damage is not easily remedied, and indeed, many young witches and wizards have had to get entirely new wands if such a thing occurs. Now, does anyone want to have the first go at it?”

Harry’s hand lifts into the air a mere second before Hermione’s, and their friend group is quick to follow them. Even Ron volunteers for it, and Harry sincerely hopes that he’s not chosen if only so he won’t have to embarrass him in front of the whole class. It would seem suspicious if Ron managed the spell just fine once and then had his wand catch on fire, after all.

“Mr. Potter, if you would.”

“Lumos,” he whispers, grinning when a faint glow emanates from the tip of his wand. It’s a simple spell, but this one will always be one of his favorites. It’s one of the very first that he ever got to learn, after all. “Nox.” The light extinguishes, and Flitwick claps in eager approval.

“Very well done, Mr. Potter! Ten points for Slytherin. Now, if any of you struggle with this, please feel free to come to me or one of your classmates for help. Mr. Potter, I want you to continue practicing with an additional control exercise: see how small or large you can make your ball of light. And if you have any other ideas, do feel free to try them! I will be on hand if anything gets explosive.”

He nods eagerly as a genuine smile tugs at his lips. He never really thought about trying to alter the effects of a spell before, and he really should have since other spells can be cast over the Wand-Lighting Charm. There are several things that he wants to try.

“Lumos!” Children all around the room begin lighting the tips of their wands, and while Harry does so, shrinking the ball of light down to the tiniest speck that he could muster, he subtly flicks his left hand and makes Ron’s wand glow blindingly bright before it bursts into flames. Flitwick extinguishes it in moments, but the damage has already been done.

“Not to worry, Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick reassures him when Ron flushes with embarrassment. “We have at least one every year. And being magically powerful is never something to be ashamed of. It takes time and effort to learn control, and those who initially overpower this charm are often some of the best duellists later in life.” Flitwick winks with a smile as he says, “I was one of them, after all.”

Ron doesn’t look like he feels nearly as terrible after that, and Harry breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He’s not sure whether Flitwick is just saying that to make Ron feel better, to help him save face in front of the Slytherins, or if he really means it, but regardless, it’s effective. “We’ll ensure you get a new wand, but for now, I want you to write a short essay on what you believe went wrong and how you intend to avoid it happening the next time.”

His best friend sighs before hunkering down to do just that. By the end of the lesson, everyone is so distracted by Harry turning the tip of his wand a brilliant, emerald green –earning Slythering fifteen more points– that they forget about Ron’s wand catching on fire at all.

“So, why’d you set my wand on fire?” Ron asks once they’re in the Great Hall. The low thrum of other conversations taking place around them drowns out the sound of their own, though their friends aren’t even pretending not to be interested in Harry's answer. “I figured you had a reason, so I didn’t say anything but… I am curious, mate.”

“It was a hand-me-down, right?” Harry asks as if he doesn’t already know the answer. “It looked a bit worn in some places, and the core was even poking out toward the end. Wands are… They choose the witch or wizard, so if you’re using one that was passed down to you, then you’ll never reach your full potential with it, even if you can manage to use it without too much trouble. I’m hardly going to let one of my friends get stuck with such a handicap. Besides,” he grins as he firmly presses seven Galleons into Ron’s hand. “If I’m the one who broke it, then you can’t get upset with me for paying for your replacement. You don’t owe me anything for it.”

Ron’s eyes get a little wide as he shakes his head. “Mate, no, you don’t have to–”

“I insist. Besides, I really do have more money than I could ever spend in a dozen lifetimes, Ron. And with Sirius petitioning for guardianship, the Black fortune will soon be part of that.” And the Slytherin fortune through Voldemort, but they don’t need to know about that one. “You’re my friend. Let me help you. I understand what it’s like, after all. Before joining the wizarding world… Well, I had less than nothing, and my relatives were not exactly kind. They had plenty for themselves, but for me…” He widens his eyes, pouting slightly as he murmurs, “I don’t want to be like them, mate.”

“Oh, bugger,” Ron swears lowly as he begrudgingly accepts the Galleons. “Fine. But no more gifts, understand? Only for birthdays and holidays.”

“I understand,” he agrees easily. He already intends to spoil his friends for birthdays and holidays anyway.

“... Did you break Neville’s wand on purpose too?” Theo murmurs lowly as realization dances in his eyes. “Because his magic was poorly suited to it. It’s why he was having so much trouble casting before.”

“A happy accident,” he lies with an innocent smile that none of his friends believe for a second. “How could I have possibly managed such a thing while saving him from plummeting to, if not his death, then severe injury?”

“How indeed?” Daphne mutters dryly with an amused smirk tugging at her lips. “In any case, we certainly cannot complain about the results…”

“I can,” Ron grumbles without any real heat. “I want you to help me with all the extra essays the professors are going to be assigning me until I get a new wand.”

“Consider it done,” he agrees with a dip of his head. After years of writing essays for Hogwarts, he’s far beyond what the professors expect of first years anyway. It’s pretty easy for him to help his friends out with this. This all feels a bit like cheating –he’s never been the worst student, but suddenly being at the top is downright bizarre– so Harry is happy to elevate his friends to his level and watch them thrive.

It solidifies his desire to become a professor someday. There’s something so immensely satisfying in seeing how much they’ve already improved in a couple of weeks, and he cannot wait to see where they end up seven years from now.

That Saturday, Ron returns to the castle with his willow wood and unicorn tail hair wand in hand and a smile from ear to ear. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be so easy,” he whispers with wide, awed eyes. “I feel like I could cast the Wand-Lighting Charm a hundred times and still not get tired.”

Understandably, his friends absolutely refuse to put off Patronus Charm lessons any longer. Neville has his new wand, Ron has his, and their homework for the next week is already completed. Harry laughs when their eager, demanding gazes land on him. “Alright, follow me,” he murmurs. “I’m going to show you something really cool.”

Harry leads them up to the seventh floor, immediately turning down the left corridor and walking down the hallway until they come across the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. “Stand to the side for a moment,” he instructs them, smiling when they don’t hesitate to do so. He paces back and forth in front of the portrait, thinking with all of his might, ‘I need a room for my friends and I to practice spellcasting, a room where no other students or professors will be able to find us.’

Millie gasps quietly when the portrait swings open, and his friends trail in behind him as he walks through the door. The Room of Requirement has truly outdone itself, transforming into a room made for duelling. The floors and walls are humming with magic to soften any falls, training dummies are lined against the far wall, and as soon as Neville steps through the door, it slams itself shut to ensure their privacy. It’s perfect.

“Welcome to the Room of Requirement,” Harry says with a wry grin. “The one room in Hogwarts that can be anything you want it to be, provided that you pace back in forth in front of Barnabas’s portrait three times while focusing on what you need. The more specific you are about it, the better, and be sure to guard yourself from discovery as well. You can keep others out if you limit access to specific people or specifically exclude a certain group. I’d advise against telling others about it since only one group or person can use the room at a time, though.”

“Oh, what a fascinating room!” Hermione cries out, eyes glittering with curiosity. “Can it truly be anything you want it to be?”

“It cannot break the laws of magic –conjuring food, for example– but otherwise? Yes. I’ve yet to find any limitations to it.”

Hermione’s grin is a wicked, victorious little thing. “Brilliant. I won’t have to bother convincing a professor to give me a pass to the Restricted Section, then.”

Theo’s eyes go a bit dreamy then. “All that knowledge at our fingertips, and without having to worry about other students checking them out first or getting approval for certain books… This is even better than the library.”

“Quick, we’re losing our pseudo-Ravenclaws,” Blaise jokes with a snort. “Will you show us your Patronus again? I always do better with practical demonstrations before a theoretical one, and our resident nerds don’t need more than the theoretical explanation anyway.”

Harry nods indulgently, smiling as his friends watch on with eager eyes. He twirls his wand in circles as he focuses on the memory of Quirrelmort agreeing to do the better ritual, dreaming of the changes that such a small ripple will make in the distant future. He focuses on the memory of their duel afterward, remembering the way Quirrelmort allowed him to get a few hits in that he certainly should not have managed. He focuses on the letter from Sirius and the mingled love and grief that flared to life within him as soon as he read it.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Harry runs his hand along shimmering scales as his king cobra surges to life. “As you all saw, the wand movement for the Patronus Charm is a tight circle, and the number of times you loop your wand determines how powerful your Patronus is. Using three or seven loops produces the most powerful Patronuses, but it won’t matter how many times you say the incantation or do the wand movement if you don’t focus on one of your happiest memories while casting it.”

He walks back and forth as he lectures his friends, smiling at the nostalgia of it all even as a snake follows behind him instead of Prongs. He really needs to come up with a name for them soon. “Many people mistake their happiest memory to be a moment of pure joy, but I’ve found such logic to be faulty. That is not to say that a Patronus cannot be formed by such a memory, simply that I’ve found it more effective to focus on moments of happiness that exist despite and sometimes because of hardship. Memories like spending time with friends, successfully managing a spell on your first try, enjoying your favorite meal… Those are memories of contentment, yes, but not of true happiness. They’re not strong enough. It needs to be something deeper, something more meaningful to you. Don’t shy away from a memory if it hurts a bit too. The worst that can happen is the spell doesn’t work.”

Harry shrugs his shoulders as his Patronus drapes itself over him, chuckling under his breath as warmth suffuses him and the Horcruxes alike. “And remember, be patient with yourself. This is a seriously complicated spell, and there’s a reason that they never teach it in Hogwarts. Don’t get frustrated if it takes time for you to figure out what memories work best for you. It took me months to get there, but once you get it… Well, the only thing that can make casting it difficult after that point is being in the presence of a Dementor or Lethifold, but let’s hope we won’t have to deal with that for several years if at all, hm?”

He looks back over his shoulder, blinking slightly when he’s faced with seven pairs of awed, sparkling eyes. “Mate…” Ron murmurs, as his entire body practically thrums with excitement. “You would be the coolest bloody professor ever! I have never been so determined to learn something in my life.”

“Putting aside his language,” Daphne says with a quiet laugh. “I must agree. The way you speak is… Captivating.”

“Alright then.” Millie nods with a determined grin. “Let’s do this.”

By the time the sun dips beneath the horizon, Hermione is the only one to have managed any sort of progress at all. It’s only a faint wisp of mist, there and gone in an instant, but her eyes light up with excitement as everyone cheers. Harry is so proud of her that his chest aches with it.

“So you showed up after all,” Quirrelmort murmurs when Harry visits his office the next evening. “I wondered if you might not after what happened last time.”

There he goes again with those non-apologies that are clearly meant to be one nonetheless. “I know that I look like one, but I’m not actually a child. I knew I’d have to tell you eventually. I was just… Not fully prepared to face those memories again myself, it seems. I’ll get over it.”

Quirrelmort hums at that, gaze flickering red as he studies Harry’s form. “Very well,” he concedes with a hum. “How goes your godfather’s petition for custody?”

“He’s not likely to meet any resistance. The Ministry is going to be bending over backward for him for quite some time, and I intend to make abundantly clear that I want to stay with him. Even if they do give us trouble, I’ll just visit him from McGonagall’s until we can push it through,” he says with a shrug. “She’s not likely to care so long as I stay out of trouble. That she knows about, anyway.”

Quirrelmort snorts at that. “Very well, then. I do have an actual lesson planned for tonight, assuming you are interested…?” The way he allows the question to trail off while slowly smirking makes it obvious that he knows exactly how interested Harry is, but he doesn’t mind a bit of harmless teasing.

“Of course! What is it?”

“Unfortunately, I am… Not exactly in prime condition at the moment, and Hogwarts’ wards will pick up on any darker spells that I teach you. It isn’t worth the risk at this point in time. So instead, I will use what Filius has been positively raving about since your last Charms lesson: spell modification.”

Harry perks up at that, and Quirrelmort chuckles. “What you did would be impressive if you were as young as you pretend to be, but we both know you’re capable of far more than changing the colour of a Wand-Lighting Charm. Let’s do a little thought experiment, shall we? What would you say is the easiest spell for you to cast? Something that you don’t need a wand or incantation for.”

He doesn’t even need to think about it. “The Warming Charm.” Between having threadbare clothes in his last life and taking care of his familiars in this one, he barely even registers when he casts that one.

“Before we delve into blending spells, I want you to give me an example of a non-traditional use of the spell. Our arsenals are only as vast as we are creative, after all.”

“Hm…” Harry hums, scrunching his nose a bit as he suggests, “If it’s really hot or someone is casting a bunch of fire spells in the middle of a fight, then I could throw an overpowered Warming Charm at them. The heat would make them reluctant to rely on fire, and it could even cause heat stroke if it’s strong enough, couldn’t it?”

“Indeed it could.” Quirrelmort looks distinctly pleased by his reasoning, nodding approvingly. “Now, given the opportunity to experiment with it, which spell would you blend with the Warming Charm to alter its effects?”

It takes Harry a longer time to decide on that one. “The Water-Making Spell,” he murmurs after a few minutes of contemplation. “If I used an overpowered Warming Charm on it, then I could make the water scalding hot, maybe even boiling, and catch an opponent off guard that way. Especially if I say the incantation for the Water-Making spell. They’d be more wary if they didn’t know what I was using, but if they believed that they did, then they’ll probably assume that the water is cool and more of a hindrance than an active danger.”

“Very good, Harry.” He shudders as the bond between himself and Voldemort’s main soul pulses with fondness. “Though for the sake of clarifying this exercise, I feel I should inform you that saying you’d use the Warming Charm to keep food warm longer and blend it with the Cushioning Charm to get better sleep at night are equally correct answers.” He flushes in embarrassment. “None of that. I called this a thought exercise for a reason. You are a very combat-oriented wizard, through no real choice of your own, and I suspected your answers would be something like this. There is nothing wrong with that. I am simply attempting to… Broaden your horizons a bit, so to speak.”

“Oh… I get it,” he hums. “It’s kind of like how Dumbledore figured out that Patronuses can deliver messages, but I figured out that corporeal ones can trip up your opponents. Most don’t bother using them against people, but since they’re so uncommon, no one really knows a defense against them either… Different perspectives broaden our understanding of spells we already know, and it lets us use them in ways we didn’t believe possible before. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“Exactly so. Now, I want you to write me a list of five different ways you could use a Warming Charm outside of the standard use and five different spells you could attempt to blend it with, including what you believe would happen. You may include your first examples, but you may not include my own. Understood?”

Harry nods, and he gets about halfway through his list before he whispers, “Dumbledore was wrong, you know?”

“Hm?” Quirrelmort hums. “He’s been wrong about many things. You’ll need to be more specific than that.”

“You would’ve made a wonderful professor.”

The contentment flowing between the two of them nearly made Harry fall asleep before he could hand over his list. Quirrelmort nods approvingly as he reads over it, nearly ruffling Harry’s hair and pausing just before he can make such a painful mistake. He forces some distance between them and murmurs, “Get some rest, Harry. We’ll put these into practice next week.”

Harry dreams of a young Tom Riddle. The dilapidated sign for Wool’s Orphanage is swinging in the wind just behind them, creaking with every motion. A big brute of a boy who reminds him of Dudley —Billy Stubbs, his mind whispers— lurches forward as if to hit Harry. And Tom…

Without saying a word, without so much as twitching a finger, Tom’s magic rips that boy apart. “I will not let anyone harm you,” Tom hisses sharply. “Never, Harry. Never again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he hisses in little more than a whisper.

When Harry awakens, it is with magic thrumming beneath his skin. “I’ll hold you to that…”

But the vow speaks for itself, really. A knot of worry eases in Harry’s chest, and he does his level best to proceed with life as normal. Or as normal as it ever can be for him, in any case.

Considering who currently has the Marauder’s Map, it’s only ever been a matter of time before the twins tried figuring out where they are disappearing to on Saturdays. Harry’s been preparing for it, and he’s absolutely thrilled at the prospect of having the map in his hands again. Besides, this is a good excuse to spend more time with the twins too.

“Hey Fred, George!” He throws a cheery wave over his shoulder without missing a beat, snickering when they startle so badly that they almost knock each other over. To be fair, Harry and his friends have been talking amongst themselves rather loudly, so they had no reason to believe that they were onto them. All a part of the ruse, of course. “You can come join us, you know? We don’t bite.”

“Well then, looks like we’ve been caught, Gred–”

“Indeed we have, Forge! So, what’re you sneaky snakes–”

“Plus our wandering lion, getting up to, hm?”

Harry rocks back and forth on his heels, tilting his head with a considering hum. Most of his friends are waiting to see what he’s about to do, but he can tell that Ron wants to tell them as badly as he does. So before he can, Harry says, “How about we make a deal? I’ll tell you what we’re up to and even let you join us in exchange for you returning something to me.”

“You Slytherins and your deals,” Fred tsks playfully as a grin tugs at his lips.

George, on the other hand, seems a bit more concerned. “You want us to return something to you? Did you lose something, Harry?”

He shakes his head. “No, I just have reason to believe that you found something. We’ve been pretty careful about sneaking off, and no one else has noticed where we’re going.” The seventh floor is all but abandoned at this time of day, and no one thinks anything about a group of first years exploring the castle if they happen to pass by them. It’s a good excuse for him to ask, “Did you happen to stumble across an enchanted map, by chance? Because Sirius was telling me about how he, my dad, and a couple of their friends made it during their time at Hogwarts, and when I told him about the secret room we’ve been visiting, he’d never heard of it. I figure it’s probably not on the map, right?”

Fred and George’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly. “You’re the son of one of the Marauders?” Fred looks like Christmas has come early. “They’re our idols, you know? We found the map in our first year, and it gave us hints until we figured out how to use it. It’s helped us with so many pranks…”

“But it’s yours,” George continues with a faint smile. “We’d give it back to you anyway. You don’t actually have to show us what you’re up to. Sometimes the surprise is half the fun of it, but we just can’t figure out what’s in that corridor.”

Harry’s hand trembles faintly as it wraps around his beloved map, and he shakes his head with a bright grin. “I want to show you. I think you’ll find it pretty useful, and you’ll probably have fun with what we’re practicing too. But you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” they promise without hesitation. “We know a thing or two about keeping secrets,” Fred murmurs with a wry grin. “Though I must ask, do you know who is who? We’ve only ever known their codenames.”

“My dad was Prongs. Sirius is Padfoot, Remus Lupin is Moony, and Wormtail…” he lets his voice trail off with a grimace. “Is best forgotten, honestly.”

“Ah,” George mutters as he averts his eyes. “His animagus form was a rat. That… Makes sense. Wait a minute, does that mean…?”

Harry winks at him and starts making his way to the Room of Requirement without saying a word, snickering when the twins scramble to follow after them. “You’re so cruel to us, Harry,” Fred whines dramatically, slumping against George with a sigh. Ron snorts at their antics and smoothly steps around them, and the rest of their friends giggle lowly. Even Daphne is laughing quietly behind her hand, while Blaise and Neville aren’t shy about it at all. Fred looks immensely pleased by their reactions.

“We should demand some sort of restitution,” George says with a nod. “For emotional suffering. How about… Putting us in touch with your godfather so we can run prank ideas by him?”

“Deal!” Harry grins before shaking both of their hands, snickering at the bewildered and hopeful looks on their faces. “He would love that,” he explains. “And it’ll help him get his mind off of things if he’s able to lean into his love for pranking again. You’d be doing me a favor, really, but you should have thought of that before suggesting those terms.”

The twins burst into laughter that echoes down the hallway. Anyone who might have heard it assumes that there’s a prank waiting for them along the path, so they abruptly turn around and walk in the other direction.

Hermione is the one to call forth the Room of Requirement this time, allowing Harry to hang back and make sure the twins don’t wander too close and muddle up the process by accident. They’re practically vibrating with excitement as soon as the door appears before them.

“Welcome to the Room of Requirement,” he murmurs as they walk inside. “The one room in Hogwarts that can be anything you want it to be. We’ll tell you more about how to get into it yourselves later, but for now… Expecto Patronum!”

The twins gape in awe as a brilliant, blue serpent bursts free from Harry’s wand. “Do you want to learn?” he whispers.

They both nod eagerly. “Are you kidding me?!” Fred starts with a wide grin. “That is so cool, and the look on everyone’s faces when we–”

“Figure it out will be hilarious! We’re in, Harry.” George’s eyes glint with excitement, and he bows, half-teasing and half-serious as he says, “Please teach us, my lord. We bow to your wisdom.”

“And so the Inner Circle grows…”

Harry can’t help it; he laughs. “Come on, then. Let’s get you two caught up. The rest of you, feel free to keep practicing! I think you’re getting pretty close to producing a mist, Daphne. I could’ve sworn I saw the air waver last time…”

He hadn’t, but confidence is just as important in this spell as actual ability. He isn’t surprised in the slightest when she produces a faint mist by the end of the day.

They’re getting there. Slowly but surely, they’re getting there. And if they master a spell as complicated as this so early on, then they’re sure to find other spells far easier to learn down the line. He cannot wait to see what terrors they become.

They’ll be unstoppable forces of nature by the time he’s through with them. Harry always has been the sort to fight with his friends by his side rather than standing behind him, after all.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Even with his classes being a breeze, Harry is kept plenty busy in the days leading up to Halloween. He and Sirius regularly exchange letters –it’s gotten to the point where his chest doesn’t ache quite as much every time Hedwig leaves the castle anymore– and discuss school and Healer’s appointments, carefully keeping things casual and vague just in case their mail is intercepted. Not that Harry doubts Hedwig would gouge out the eyes of anyone who tried, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Then there are the Patronus lessons with his friends, and they’ve all been making steady progress that has him glowing with pride. Hermione, Daphne, Theo, and George are the closest to managing a corporeal form, consistently summoning an incorporeal shield that shows hints of solidifying here and there. Ron, Millie, and Fred are on the verge of consistently managing a shield, only struggling on occasion while experimenting with what memories to use. Neville and Blaise are still struggling with it, but they are managing to summon at least a bit of mist with every attempt. He has faith that they’ll manage a shield by Christmas break, at the latest, and expressing his unwavering confidence in them always results in a brighter mist when they try again.

The true highlights are his lessons with Quirrelmort, though. Voldemort truly is an amazing professor, and he feels like he’s learned more from him in a couple of months than he learned from all of Hogwarts in six years. He laments the fact that Dumbledore didn’t hire Tom Marvolo Riddle for the Defense position more and more by the week. Perhaps their curriculum wouldn’t be in utter shambles if he had.

He wakes up on Halloween morning with a faint hint of dread crawling up his throat. He knows that he has no real reason to fear something terrible happening, not with the vow promising that Quirrelmort won’t harm him or allow harm to come to him, but it’s hard to shake off years’ worth of ingrained instincts. Nothing good ever happens on Halloween.

The Horcuxes send a pulse of warmth and reassurance down their bond with him, and he basks in the comforting buzz of their magic until it hurts a bit less to breathe. “Cepheus, Cassiopeia, do you two want to come with me today?”

Cepheus nods, bumping his head against Harry’s chin as he carefully wraps himself around his robes. Cassiopeia, on the other hand, hisses sulkily. “I thought we weren’t allowed to travel with you, speaker.”

He feels a bit bad about how busy he’s been lately, and he silently promises to himself that he’ll at least spend more time with his familiars over the weekends. “Normally I couldn’t take you to classes. But my parents died today, so I think the professors will forgive me for it. I feel too… Unsettled to go without you anyway. Please, my dear?”

“Fine,” Cassiopeia agrees after a moment of contemplation. “But I expect many nights in the hot box in apology. And for you to at least let us join you in your lessons with the other speaker.”

“I can do that.” Harry runs his hands over her scales with an apologetic smile as Cassiopeia drapes herself over his shoulders. He knows that he’s forgiven when she carefully settles at the base of his neck. It’s her way of silently promising to guard him even though she’s still upset.

“Ah,” Blaise murmurs sympathetically once he’s awake and aware, methodically getting ready for the day as he glances at Harry from the corner of his eye. “Having a rough morning?”

“You could say that.” Harry worries at his lip as he whispers, “Do you think it’s showing too much vulnerability to keep them close today? I just feel… Uneasy. The fact that Hedwig hasn’t come back yet doesn’t help.” He knows that she just spent the night with Sirius to rest her wings, but it still makes him anxious. He keeps finding himself instinctively reaching for the bond between them to ensure that it’s still active.

“I think anyone who might be tempted to start something will be too intimidated by them to try,” Blaise says with a shake of his head. “And you can always start hissing to freak everyone out if anyone gets out of line.”

Harry snorts at that. He’s sure that everyone will get used to it eventually, but he’s not above taking advantage of the fact that people still jump whenever they hear him speaking Parseltongue. “Thanks, Blaise. You’re right.”

Neville meets them on the way to the Great Hall, falling in line with Harry as they walk straight for the Slytherin table. “You alright, Harry?” he murmurs with a wobbly smile. And the fact that his friend is trying so hard to comfort him when he lost so much on this day as well is… Harry could cry. Neville is too good for this world.

“I think I will be. Maybe not now, but eventually.”

“Just let us know if there’s anything we can do to help, okay?” Neville bumps his shoulder with Harry’s and sits down right next to him, mischief dancing in his eyes when he says, “No return favor necessary. I still owe you for breaking my old wand.”

The older Slytherins look at them like they’re utterly mad when Harry laughs. “Figured that one out, did you?”

“Not immediately, but Ron’s wand breaking shortly after was hint enough. I genuinely do appreciate it. I feel like I’ve actually got a chance of passing the practical portions of my classes now.”

“As if we’d accept anything less than your best, Neville,” Daphne teases with a sniff. “Do let us know if you encounter any other… Obstacles. We’ll see to removing them.”

The fluttering of owls delivering the daily mail lulls their conversation into silence, and Harry grins when Hedwig lands right on top of his head, passing down a letter with a self-satisfied hoot. “Hello girl,” he coos. Despite his general sense of unease, a smile is tugging at his lips as he unfurls the roll of parchment.

His heart skips a beat at the words scrawled across it.

Pup,

I got special permission to pull you from your classes today. Your professors understand that you need some time to grieve away from Hogwarts, and you’re doing so well that none of them are worried about you missing a lesson or two.

I cannot wait to see you again.

See you soon,

Sirius

His eyes immediately dart up to the High Table, and when Snape locks eyes with him, he gives Harry a single, slow nod. He refuses to cry in the Great Hall, but it’s a very near thing. “I’ve got to go,” he murmurs, uncaring of the way students are looking at him when he gets to his feet. His legs are shaking. Hedwig clacks her beak at anyone who stares a bit too long, and they quickly avert their eyes. “You probably won’t see me for the rest of the day. I’ll explain later.”

“I’ll share my notes with you when you get back,” Hermione says with an easy smile. She knows him well enough by now to tell that he’s excited, not upset. They all do. “Have fun.”

“Thanks, Mione.”

He all but sprints for Snape’s office. Hedwig flies right behind him, only surging forward as Harry swings open the door. She lands on Sirius’s shoulder and begins preening his hair as well, and he really does burst into tears then. “Sirius…!” he sobs.

His godfather’s trembling arms wrap around him, holding onto Harry and refusing to let go. “Pup…” They both quiver and shake, two broken men clinging onto one another because they understand horrors that no one else ever could. “Look at you,” Sirius sniffles with a watery chuckle. He doesn’t even flinch at the sight of the snakes draped over him, doesn't flinch away from their scales brushing against his skin. “I always knew you’d make a good Slytherin. Come on, let’s get you out of here, pup. We have… So much to talk about, and I’d really rather not deal with Snape again today if I don’t have to.”

Harry laughs at that, rubbing at his eyes as his godfather gathers a pinch of floo powder, wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulder, and tosses the powder into the fireplace. “Twelve Grimmauld Place!” There’s a brilliant flare of green as they step through the flames, familiars carefully clinging onto them to avoid being lost in transit. Harry stumbles out of the fireplace, and Sirius is steadying his feet before he even has the chance to fall.

It’s hard to even recognize Grimmauld Place. What was once a grimy house on the edge of ruin is practically sparkling now, and if it wasn’t for the familiar furniture, Harry isn’t sure he’d believe that he was in the same home at all. “It looks great, doesn’t it?” Sirius murmurs. “Kreacher still hates my guts, but as soon as he learned that you’re a necromancer, he went all out cleaning this place. He’s positively thrilled to have a proper heir of House Black.”

“Ah,” he squeaks, paling slightly. “So you were talking about Death in your letter. How much do you…?” He’s too afraid to force the words out of his mouth. He loves Sirius more than anything else in this world, and the thought of losing him to this choice is… It’s unbearable. It would have been hard enough with a version of Sirius that he purposefully kept a certain distance from. His Sirius… He doesn’t know if he could bear it.

“Everything, Harry,” Sirius whispers. “Every single thing, and it doesn’t change my choice in the slightest. I… Death gave me two options. The fact that I fell through the Veil gave them more choices over what to do with my soul than they could with most, and the godparent-godchild bond between our magic, though not as powerful as a familiar bond, was enough to link our souls together. So I had two options. I could either be sent back with you, overtaking the old Sirius’s memories and body just like you did, or I could remain in the afterlife. Go or stay. But before allowing me to make my choice, Death told me about everything. The Horcrux within you, the way Dumbledore expected you to die for this world before you ever got a chance to live in it, the fact that you planned on doing things differently, on the other side of things… All of it. I made my choice, Harry. I didn’t even hesitate. I will choose you every single time. Always.”

“Sirius…!” He tackles his godfather in another hug, ignoring Cassiopeia’s indignant hissing. Hedwig starts preening his hair from her place atop Sirius’s shoulder, and he doesn’t even try to fight the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you. And I’m so sorry. I was so stupid. If I hadn’t fallen for that trap, if I had just remembered the mirror, then–”

“Hey, pup, none of that,” Sirius shushes. “It’s not your fault. You were fifteen. You had the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you did your best with the information that you had. It’s not your fault that dear old Bella caught me off guard.” Sirius says this with a roll of his eyes, flicking Harry’s nose with a fond smile. “You did well. That night and every moment that followed afterward. You did so well. I am so incredibly proud of you, pup.”

“Even now? Even when I…?”

“Even now. Dumbledore will demand that you die, and Voldemort will ensure that you live. There’s really nothing more to it than that. Your life is the single most precious thing in this world to me. I can’t be Voldemort’s man, not after what happened to James and Lily, but I am yours. In this and every life. So if you stand by his side, then I will stand by yours. It’s as simple as that.”

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Harry to pull himself together after that. “Thank you,” he whispers again, meaning the words with every fiber of his being.

“Anything for you, pup. Now come on, give me all the juicy details that you’ve been leaving out of your letters! I’m positively dying to know what mischief you’ve been getting up to.”

Harry happily regales him with everything. Sirius seems truly surprised to hear that he brought Ron and Hermione along to Slytherin with him, though after a moment of contemplation, he just nods his head like it makes perfect sense after all. He smiles fondly when Harry describes becoming fast friends with Neville as well, staying close even after he sorted Gryffindor, and that smile doesn’t waver when Harry tells him all about his Slytherin friends as well. His duel with Malfoy has Sirius fighting back tears of laughter, and he seems genuinely interested in hearing about his friends’ progress with the Patronus Charm. It’s only mentioning his private lessons with Quirrelmort that gives Sirius a slight pause.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, pup,” he reassures Harry before hurt can even begin to take hold of his heart. “It’s that I don’t trust him. Are you absolutely certain he won’t hurt you? Does he already know that you’re his Horcrux? I just want to make sure you’re being careful about this.”

And it’s not like Harry can blame him for being worried. “He knows. And he’s already made a vow to not only not hurt me, but to not let anyone else hurt me either. I’m safe, Sirius. I promise.”

“Magically binding?” Sirius asks, whistling when Harry nods. “Well, alright then. That works for me. Is there anything I can do to help you, pup?”

“That depends,” he drawls with a wicked little smirk. “How do you feel about suing Dumbledore? Voldemort and I need him out of the castle near the end of the year.”

Sirius’s eyes glint with equal parts intrigue and confusion. “I’d be down, but what would I even sue him for? And why?”

‘He doesn’t know,’ Harry realizes grimly. He suspected as much, but having confirmation of it still infuriates him. “Dumbledore is the one who cast the Fidelius Charm, Sirius. He knew that Wormtail was the Secret Keeper. He would’ve had to weave his magic into the spell; it wouldn’t have worked otherwise. Even if he believed that you killed Wormtail, he should have insisted on a trial afterward. That’s quite literally part of his job as the Chief Warlock. He knew that Wormtail betrayed my parents, knew that there was no other way for them to be dead, and yet he didn’t even try to defend you. You were just… Shoved into Azkaban without a second thought, Sirius, and he could’ve changed that. He could’ve, but he didn’t.”

Sirius’s eyes go very wide. “Oh, that motherf*cker…!” he snarls. “I should’ve known! Sure didn’t think it was much of a priority to get me pardoned once I broke out either. But why…?” he whispers, sounding so very vulnerable and betrayed. “Why would he do that?”

“I… I don’t know,” he murmurs hesitantly, wincing when his voice isn’t half as convincing as he meant for it to be.

“But you suspect. Don’t spare my feelings, Harry, please. Just tell me.”

“I think he suspected I might be a Horcrux from the beginning. Or something similar to one, in any case. He left me with abusive muggles that would make me desperate for any scrap of affection, desperate to belong, and then had Hagrid introduce me to the wizarding world. And while we’ve done a good job of curbing the worst of his house biases this time around, Hagrid had plenty to say about Slytherin the first time. It’s the main reason I asked the hat to put me somewhere else. Anywhere else. I think… He wanted me raised like a pig for slaughter, Sirius,” he whispers, echoing Snape’s words. “You would have raised me to live. He needed me willing to die.”

His godfather is trembling with barely suppressed rage, taking several deep breaths before he says, “I’m going to ruin him. It is going to take years to tear him down from his pedestal, but I am going to ruin him. And I’ll be patient about it, pup, so don’t worry. This first blow is more about making a statement anyway, right? I can’t imagine the charges are going to stick.”

“Probably not,” he agrees with a dip of his head. “It’s more about sowing seeds of doubt than anything else. He’ll probably get away with it by claiming he was still grieving and couldn’t bear to personally see to your trial, pretending he didn’t know you never got one or some sh*te like that, but it’ll make some people start questioning things. And those questions will only grow louder and more numerous over the years. So just… Make a scene about it. Be a Gryffindor. Play to your strengths. It’ll get the ball rolling.”

“Alright. Alright… I can do that. And I’ll make sure to get in touch with Remus, catch him up to speed. I won’t tell him anything about you,” he promises before Harry can even begin to panic. “Not yet. But he needs to know why I’m making a move against Dumbledore. Because he didn’t even know that the rat was their Secret Keeper before our trials, and if he knew how the Fidelius Charm worked, then he would’ve torn Albus a new one. No way he would’ve kept quiet about it.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I really don’t want him to be stuck on the opposite side of this war. I miss Moony.”

“Me too, pup. Me too.” Sirius’s smile wavers around the edges before he forcefully changes the topic. “So, outside of the Patronus Charm, what else are you and your baby Death Eaters up to?”

“Not you too!” he groans with an exasperated sigh. “Voldemort –the shard of his soul inside my head, that is– is constantly calling them my Inner Circle. Oh! And speaking of soul shards… Kreacher!”

Kreacher looks up at Harry as if he hung every star in the sky, and it’s so thoroughly disconcerting that he does a double-take to ensure that his eyes are, in fact, still working properly. Even though they came to an accord later in life, it’s strange to see such fanatical devotion shining in the house elf’s eyes. He almost reminds Harry of Dobby. “Hello, Kreacher.”

“Hello, Heir Black! Kreacher is most pleased to meet you.” He’s just glad that Kreacher still sounds like himself, at least, even if this is the most excited he’s ever heard him be. “It is being a great honor to serve a good heir of the House of Black once more.” Kreacher glares at Sirius as he says this, and Harry barely stifles a laugh. “How can Kreacher help you?”

“Can you bring me the locket that Regulus asked you to destroy?” Kreacher freezes at that, eyes going very wide as he trembles. “I know that you’ve been trying very hard to destroy it for him, Kreacher. It’s okay. I’m not upset. But I know how to destroy it and have the means to do so.” Not that he intends to, but having Voldemort reabsorb it sort of counts, right? “So I can take it over from here, okay?”

Kreacher starts sobbing. “Kreacher is trying so hard!” he wails. “Nothing works! If you can really be fulfilling master Regulus’s last wish…” Kreacher pops away, and when he returns it is with Slytherin’s Locket in hand. Sirius inhales sharply. “Please, young Heir Black. Kreacher cannot even touch it without his head hurting, but Kreacher can sense an even more powerful one with you. If you can be purging it of evil…”

“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. “It may take time, but I know how.”

Kreacher nods, passing it over to Harry after only a beat of hesitation. “Your magic be so dark that it tames them,” the house elf murmurs. “Yes, you will make a good master…”

Harry’s smile is a small, strained thing filled with pity. He needs to move up his plans to help the house elves. Maybe if he talks to Quirrelmort about it… “I’d rather be your friend.”

Kreacher starts crying all over again, and Harry’s heart breaks when he whispers, “Master Regulus said that too.”

Sirius looks terribly guilty. He heaves out a sigh as he says, “You know what, Kreacher?”

“What, nasty master Sirius?”

“How would you feel about being Harry’s personal elf?”

Kreacher looks equal parts horrified and excited by that proposition, visibly hesitating as he asks, “Are you freeing Kreacher…?”

“I can if you want me to.” Kreacher shakes his head violently. “Then no. Harry is my heir, and he’s still a part of House Black through me. You and I have never gotten along, so it doesn’t hurt anything to assign you to him,” Sirius says with a shrug. “You don’t have to listen to me. I can always look for another house elf.“

“... He is being of House Black, if only technically, but oh… Kreacher’s mistress would be so upset. He’s no Black by blood… But his magic…!”

“Not yet.” Harry startles at the conviction in Sirius’s voice, tilting his head slightly as his godfather says, “He’s not a Black by blood yet. But… I’ve always hoped to blood-adopt you, pup. James and I used to talk about doing it once you were old enough to understand what you were agreeing to. And now that I’m a free man… Well, now isn’t the time for it, but over Christmas break… I know that I’ll never replace James and I’m not trying to, but–”

“Yes!” he chokes out. “Yes. I… I want that more than anything else in the world.”

“Yes…” Kreacher mutters. “Yes, Kreacher can be doing that, then. It does not erase his mudblood mother, but two pure-blood fathers… It is close enough, yes. I will be serving young master Harry.”

Magic sings as a bond between them flares to life, and Harry takes a steadying breath before saying, “I’m not making this an order, but please try to refrain from using the word ‘mudblood’ in the future. My mother was a muggle-born, and as awful as my muggle relatives are, that’s not something to be ashamed of. One of my best friends is a muggle-born, and she’s one of the most brilliant witches that I know.”

“... Kreacher will remember that, young master Harry. If you do not mind Kreacher asking, what heir rings do you be wearing? Black and Potter are only two.”

Harry’s smirk is a wicked little thing as he murmurs, “Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Peverell are the other three. And you can just call me Harry, you know? No master required. We’re friends, remember?”

Kreacher’s eyes go very wide. “Those is being very old families… Kreacher is honored to serve you, Harry.”

And, well, it’s not perfect, but it’s progress. They’ll just take things one step at a time and go from there.

Harry ends up spending the night at Grimmauld. He’s too emotionally wrung out to deal with compartmentalizing his feelings in front of the other Slytherins right now, and it’s not like he’s worried about missing History of Magic tomorrow morning. Besides, the mental link between himself and Quirrelmort is quietly content, so he suspects that things went far more smoothly in regards to inspecting the protections for the Sorcerer’s Stone this time around. He’ll have to ask him about it later.

“You take care, pup,” Sirius murmurs with another lingering hug before sending him off the next morning. “And remember that I’m only ever an owl away. I’m working on recreating those mirrors, but my magic is still a bit off from spending so long in Azkaban. It may take me a while to manage it, but I’ll send one along as soon as I’ve got them working, alright?”

“Alright,” he whispers. “I’ll keep in touch. And keep me updated about the whole Moony situation, will you?” He pauses, thinks about it for a moment, and says, “Actually, do you think you could convince him to take the Defense position a year earlier? If I have to deal with Lockheart again, then I’m going to riot. Or maybe just feed him to the basilisk..."

Sirius barks out a laugh at that. “I’ll see what I can do, Harry.”

Returning to Hogwarts feels a bit less like going home now that he has one to call his own, but the castle’s magic greets him just as warmly nonetheless. “There you are, Mr. Potter,” Snape murmurs. His lip quirks slightly as he says, “Your friends were about to send a search party out for you. I’m quite certain I overheard Mr. Zabini and Mr. Weasley plotting to write you a letter and follow the owl. It is only thanks to the good sense of Ms. Granger and Mr. Nott that they refrained.”

‘Is Snape teasing me right now? This is just bizarre.’

“Severus does have a good sense of humor when he’s not surrounded by brats,” Voldemort says with a chuckle. “It is a good sign that he feels comfortable revealing it to you.”

“It’s a good thing they didn’t,” he says with a chuckle. “I don’t think the wards would’ve taken too kindly to it.”

“Indeed. Now move along, Mr. Potter. You have enough time to make it to Herbology if you hurry.” He knows better than to ask for a pass, simply nodding as he power walks out of Snape’s office and quickly grabs his things. He casts a Warming Charm on both Cepheus and Cassiopeia that has them melting into his bed.

“Have fun digging in the dirt, speaker,” Cepheus hisses contentedly. “We shall go talk with the other speaker later.”

“Yes,” Cassiopeia agrees with a sharp hiss. “We can discuss our plans for the dangerous wizard and helping the little elves later. You will be taking us with you.”

“Understood,” he murmurs before slipping out of the room. He’s eternally grateful for Hogwarts’ help when he finds himself standing outside of the greenhouse in record time, quietly slipping in behind his classmates.

His friends are clearly dying to know what happened, but they refrain from interrogating him until lunch. “Alright, spill!” Millie demands with an eager smile. “What happened? You don’t seem nearly as shaken up as I expected you to be after yesterday.”

“Sirius is going to blood-adopt me.” He almost laughs when he hears Malfoy choke on his drink a few seats down. “And while I still miss my parents, I’m trying to focus on building my new family, you know? Yesterday was… It wasn’t nearly as awful as I expected it to be. But what about you guys? I’ve heard that the Halloween feast is something spectacular. Did anything interesting happen?”

“Not really,” Theo murmurs. “The food was amazing and the ghosts were more active than usual, but that was all.”

Come to think of it, maybe it’s a good thing that he wasn’t around. The ghosts of Hogwarts have been pointedly keeping a distance from him ever since the Opening Feast, and he wonders if certain they can sense that he’s the Master of Death. He’s just glad that they seem to be too afraid of him to say anything if that’s the case. “I’ll look forward to it next year, then.”

“How does blood adoption work, exactly?” Hermione asks with an eager gleam in her eyes, and Harry smiles as Daphne immediately begins to explain it to her.

Some days, he questions his decision to remain at Hogwarts. He knows that he could go to the Ministry and get himself registered as a time traveller, acknowledged as an adult, and simply sit his tests and be done with it regardless of the uproar that it would cause, but… Moments like this help him remember what he’s fighting for in the first place. He’s fighting for their future. He’s fighting for the chance that none of these children will ever have to see war at all, at least not of the sort that they did last time. And if they do? Then he will ensure that they’re ready for it. How is he meant to ensure that if he can’t train them himself? He refuses to leave their fate to chance, and Hogwarts certainly didn't do a good job preparing them the first time.

Their continued safety is worth any number of inconveniences that come with being perceived as a child. They are worth remaining in the presence of the man who willingly led Harry to his death. Anything to prevent those he cares about from suffering that same fate as he once did.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Cool scales brush against his skin as he strolls through the halls of Hogwarts. The low cadence of nonsensical hissing and the hum of Hogwarts’ magic ground him when he feels as if he might otherwise float away into the ether. He feels as if he simultaneously sees far too much and far too little, feels far too much and far too little, and feels as if he doesn’t truly exist at all.

Harry Potter is dead. It is only after seeing Sirius again, after reverting to the same hurting boy he was before, that he truly realizes it. The person he’s become since dying… He’s both himself and not, living and dead, real and yet a mere fabrication… He’s not sure he would recognize himself if he looked in the mirror.

But maybe that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe it’s time to shed the mantel of Harry Potter once and for all, donning the cloak of Harry Potter-Black as he steps forward into the future. Once more, Sirius has offered him salvation without even realizing it. He has offered him a fate and life of his own choosing as if it was the simplest thing in the world to do, and it should have been but yet… Sirius is the first person to ever offer him such a thing. He is the first person to get a good look at the broken, hollow shell of a person he’s become, and he still wants nothing more than to stand by his side. He is the first person to see and truly understand the role he’s playing, acting the part of a child and keeping himself so busy that he doesn’t have the chance to linger on the horrors plaguing his mind.

Sirius would know something about that, wouldn’t he? He wonders, not for the first time, how much of his godfather’s personality is a reflection of his younger self trying desperately to cling onto better days. He wonders if there’s something irreparably broken in both of them. Maybe there is. Maybe that only makes their bond all the more unshakable.

Harry’s magic pulses with warmth and indulgent fondness, and his feet trail toward Quirrel’s office without conscious thought. “What ails you so, my soul?” Quirrelmort murmurs nearly as soon as Harry crosses the threshold. The door clicks shut behind him. “I could feel your fretting all the way across the castle.”

“Sirius wants to adopt me,” he whispers. ‘Someone actually wants me,’ he doesn’t say, but it radiates loud and clear between them. “He wants to blood-adopt me. He would have last time if he wasn’t still a wanted fugitive.”

“This is a good thing, no? Is it not what you wanted?”

“It is. It is!” he insists, trembling faintly as he shakes his head. “It’s just… Death told him everything, and he still chose me. Everything. He won’t take your mark, but he’ll stand by my side even as I stand by yours. It’s more than I ever could’ve dreamed of, and…” Good things don’t happen to him. ‘I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop’, he realizes distantly. ‘I’m waiting for something to go wrong. The fact that so much is going right scares me. I’m not used to it.’

But how does he explain that to someone who has carefully calculated and planned his every move since he was even younger than Harry's body is now? In the end, he doesn’t have to.

“Our speaker is afraid,” Cassiopeia explains. “He has spent much of his life as prey with one predator or another only a half-step behind him. He knows danger. He knows survival. He knows war. He does not know safety or home or peace. He longs for it as much as he fears it. He is afraid to hope because he is afraid to lose.”

“And he is afraid to lose because he is afraid it would destroy him,” Cepheus hisses quietly. “Forcing himself to relive those memories so you would understand… He never got the chance to grieve. He is being forced to now. He mourns everything that could have been and was denied to him the first time, and he is terrified that it will be torn away from him again.”

“Ah, I see…” Quirrelmort hums in contemplation, pausing before he murmurs, “I suppose there is no harm in sharing this with you, of all the people in the world. I felt much the same, once upon a time. When bombs were being dropped on London and safe harbor at Hogwarts was denied to me... I feared that I had finally found a world where I could be something better, something greater, and that I would lose the chance to ever truly be a part of it because of the world I abhorred. Fear… That is what created Lord Voldemort in the first place. So that I would never have to feel such a thing again.”

“Did it work?” he whispers, and there is something so broken and longing in his voice that Quirrelmort answers him without a single beat of hesitation.

“For a time? Yes. But our fears have a way of catching up to us in the end. And what a strange way this is, for me to be bound to one so favoured by Death.”

“... Are you afraid of me?"

“Of you? No, my Horcrux. Of your potential? Of what you could do? Hm… Perhaps. You hold within you the power to destroy my only means of immortality. Another version of myself has caused great harm to you, and I am not entirely innocent of that. Yet here I stand. Whole, alive, better off than I was before, from the looks of things. Sustained not by unicorn blood and hatred but by the proximity of my soul shards and your Patronus easing the strain of possession between myself and Quirinus. I cannot help wondering why.”

“Because I could give you a chance that no one else ever gave you. You deserved one. Why wouldn’t I try?”

“And that, my Horcrux, is why I cannot truly fear you.”

A faint smile twitches on his lips. “Speaking of… I have a gift for you.” Harry pulls Slytherin’s Locket out of his coin pouch, sliding it across Quirrel’s desk so that he can safely take it. “This was in the Black townhouse. I figured you would prefer to hide it elsewhere, or perhaps we could use this one in the ritual as well…? It has a larger piece of soul in it than the diadem does, but I don’t know how it would mess with the math of it if there were two soul pieces involved.”

“Hm… I could likely make it work, yes. This is assuming that we’re able to get ahold of the Sorcerer’s Stone, of course.”

“We’ll be able to. It’s probably not in the Mirror of Erised yet, but I got it last time without any problems and still have no use for it myself. It shouldn’t be difficult. I also told Sirius about the Fidelius Charm thing, so he has every intention of suing Dumbledore for us near the end of the year. He’ll be forced to stand trial for it, and it’ll give us a window of opportunity. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself in the meantime.”

“I am aware. There is a reason I did not go the route of unleashing a troll upon the school this time. Honestly, I do not know what my other self was thinking… It was as simple as pleading with Hagrid that my troll still needed to be fed and watered, and then he was telling me all about how to get past the cerberus, no dragon egg necessary. Anything for a fellow lover of misunderstood beasts.” Quirrelmort snorts at that, and Harry can’t help his shaky laugh. That sounds so much like Hagrid. “You are fond of him,” Quirrelmort notes cautiously. “You know that…”

He knows. Merlin, like he could ever forget. “I am fond of many people. Hagrid is a good man. Easily manipulated, but good. He was the first person to show me kindness in life, at least that I could remember. The very first. The one who bought me Hedwig and showed me the magical world the first time. And I know that was intentional on Dumbledore’s part, but that doesn’t make Hagrid’s kindness any less real. He can’t lie like that. Don’t ask me to hate him for being Dumbledore’s man. Don’t ask me to hate him for buying into the same lies that I did.”

“... I will not. I simply worry that you are not prepared for him to hate you.”

“How could I ever be?” he whispers brokenly. “But that doesn’t change what needs to be done. Just… Don’t kill him. Please?”

Quirrelmort sighs. “How could I ever deny you anything? I will not. You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

The two of them sit in that office until well after curfew, magic twining between them as the fireplace crackles and exudes a gentle warmth that echoes down to Harry’s very soul. His familiars curl up in front of the fire, and even though he knows Hedwig is sure to worry when he’s not there in the morning, Harry cannot force himself to get up. He drifts off shortly after a woolen blanket is carefully draped over him, caressed by a whispered hiss that he cannot truly remember.

Harry is locked up in his cupboard again. Something freaky happened again –he was running away while his cousin played Harry Hunting and suddenly found himself up on top of the roof– and no matter how hard he tried to explain that he had no idea how he got up there, his aunt and uncle wouldn’t listen to him. It was freaky, and anything freaky is Harry’s fault.

“... Harry!” A voice calls out to him, all wobbly and distorted like someone is shouting underwater. His throat is so dry that he can’t force himself to answer. It hurts to breathe. He hasn’t had any water in days.

The cupboard door swings open, and wide, red eyes take in the state of him with a worried hiss. “What on earth did those muggles do to you?”

“What didn’t they do?” he manages to hiss with a raspy cough. “That’s a shorter list.”

“I’m going to kill them.”

“No,” he hisses sharply. “You are not. It is over. It is done. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?! Of course it matters! How could you just–?!"

“Let me show you?”

Tom sighs, hesitating before cradling Harry’s face as he delves into his mind once more. Harry guides him toward the memory that he wants to show him, a more recent memory that almost makes him regret how badly he scared his relatives this time. His aunt and uncle… He’ll never regret that, but Dudley…

“I don’t understand. Isn’t he coming with us?”

His cousin… Despite the years of animosity between them, he is the only one who looks at Harry as he was about to march off to war and asks why he isn’t going into hiding with them. He is the only one who even treated it like an option.

“Who?”

“Harry.”

“Absolutely not,” Vernon scoffs.

His cousin looks thoroughly disturbed by this, a pinched frown tugging at his lips that used to come before a tantrum. It looks sterner now, though, more severe. “Why?”

And when confronted with his irrational hatred so directly, Vernon starts stammering. “Wh– B-Because he doesn’t want to. Do you, boy?”

“Absolutely not. No. Besides, I’m just a waste of space, isn’t that right, Vernon?”

His uncle stares at him for several long moments before murmuring, “Come on, Dudley. We’re off.”

But his cousin hears something in Harry’s voice that even he hadn’t heard at the time: resignation. And he doesn’t get into the car. He slams the door shut, steps around it, walks straight up to Harry, and offers his hand while Vernon stares in shock. Harry takes it, and he pretends not to notice the way both of their hands tremble.

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space.”

Dudley grew up surrounded by hatred and fear, hatred and fear of Harry specifically, yet even still… In the end, he offers a kindness to him that very few ever did. “Thank you,” he whispers as Dudley walks back toward the car. “Take care of yourself, Big D.”

They both know that this is goodbye. This is goodbye forever. And when Vernon drives away… Dudley’s head is cradled in his hands, hiding his face as he cries. Real tears this time. They’re the only real tears that he has ever seen his cousin shed, and they’re for a boy who hasn’t died yet but who they both know is going to.

“You are far too kind for your own good, Harry,” Tom hisses softly as he retreats from his mind. “I will spare the boy then, but your aunt and uncle–”

“You would make another orphan, and believe it or not, Aunt Marge is even worse. She was the one who sent her dogs after me. I don’t want to do that to Dudley. Just leave it be, please?”

Tom heaves out a resigned sigh. “How could I ever deny you anything?” he whispers. He does not hunt down his relatives, not even in his dreams. Instead, he stands guard over Harry’s prone form, wand in hand, and runs his hand through Harry’s messy curls until his cupboard shifts and fades into stone walls and a fireplace that is down to its last embers.

“How do you forgive them so easily?” Quirrelmort murmurs almost as soon as Harry stirs into wakefulness. “I do not understand it.”

“I forgave you, didn’t I?”

Quirrelmort is quiet for a long time after that. “That you did…” he eventually whispers. “That you did.”

Hedwig is quite cross with him when he slips back into his dorm –beneath the Invisibility Cloak, of course– just before sunrise. Luckily, she’s easily bribed with her favorite treats, and she can feel how much more settled his magic is now. Ron, Blaise, and Theo all level him with a narrow-eyed glare first thing in the morning, but they’re all guilty of sneaking around the castle after curfew at this point; Harry has been a terrible influence on them. They unanimously decide to let the matter lie.

Has Harry mentioned how much he loves being in Slytherin? Because he really does. He wouldn’t get away with keeping half as many secrets in Gryffindor.

“Have you guys found the kitchens yet?” he asks casually while they hang out in the Room of Requirement, taking the form of the Restricted Section of the library this time, and he laughs at the way Ron and Millie's heads immediately whip over in his direction.

“You have? I’m pretty sure the twins have too, but they won’t tell me, the berks,” Ron grumbles with an exaggerated huff. “Was it on the map?”

“Yeah, but it took a while for me to figure out how to actually get into it. Who would’ve thought of tickling a pear, of all things… At least the way of getting the portrait here to open makes some sort of sense.”

Millie snorts at that, abandoning her book on curses with an eager gleam in her eyes. “Do you plan on showing us, or are we just gonna sit around talking about it?”

It takes a while for them to pry Hermione and Theo away from their books, but they’re used to this routine by now and manage it in the end. Harry is dreading the terrors that they’ll both become once exam season rolls around, though.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were pulling our leg,” Neville murmurs as Harry leans toward the portrait of a fruit bowl that marks the entrance to the kitchens. Even still, his friend startles slightly when the portrait swings open, revealing a bustling hive of activity as over a hundred house elves prepared dinner for a castle with several hundred children housed within it.

“Hello!” A cheery house elf greets them as she pops away from the dishes for a moment, tilting her head as she asks, “Can Wimsey be helping you with anything, little ones?”

“We’re fine, Wimsey,” he’s quick to reassure her. “But thank you for asking. I just wanted to show my friends where the kitchens were. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your jobs…”

“It is being no trouble at all, little ones! Sit, sit. We can be getting you snacks.”

They’re all ushered off to a small table within the kitchens, and Hermione watches on with wide-eyed bewilderment as she murmurs, “What are they?”

“You know, you’re so smart that I forget you’re not from our world sometimes.” Blaise chuckles at the playful glare she levels him with, raising his hands in mock surrender. “They’re house elves. They’ve served witches and wizards for centuries now, maintaining homes in exchange for binding themselves to a family’s magic. They need to connect themselves to an external source of magic to survive, you see. Though I’ve always wondered how so many manage to serve Hogwarts without suffering ill effects. Dumbledore is powerful, but he’s not so powerful that he can support that many bonds without it taking a toll…”

“That is being because the Dark Forest is a magical forest, little one,” Wimsey explains as she sets a tea tray and little cakes down for them. “Places like the Dark Forest is being our home long before we found homes with witches and wizards, but there is not being many of them left anymore. The magic dies, the forests are cut down, and the muggles build their homes where ours once was. We be having to leave, to find new homes, and the forests can only be supporting so many of us. Us Hogwarts elves be lucky. We be helping because we want to, because we like watching the little ones grow, and we not be getting in any trouble if we don’t want to do something. Others… Others are not being so lucky.”

And Harry can still see the spark of indignation in Hermione’s eyes, the clear understanding that something is wrong here, but this Hermione was sorted into Slytherin, not Gryffindor. She was sorted into a house that values cunning and intelligence instead of dismissing it at best or berating it at worst, and that makes all the difference. Hermione has taken to learning cunning and manipulation the same way that she’s taken to learning everything else: with a zealous fervor that anyone sane fears being on the other side of.

“You were brownies, weren’t you?” she murmurs. “There are a few muggle fairytales involving you.”

“We were being known by that name once, yes,” Wimsey agrees with a faint smile. “We worked for anyone who left out offerings, be they witches, wizards, squibs, or muggles, and just made sure we weren’t seen. A bit of tidying here and there… It didn’t be hurting anyone. And our forests kept us fed and happy, so we only be working when we wanted to back then.”

“I didn’t know that.” Daphne leans forward, clearly interested. “You said the magic started dying… Was that around the time that the Olde Rites stopped being performed regularly?”

“It be starting with the witch hunts,” Wimsey murmurs with a distant look in her eyes. “But that is being the same thing, in the end. Wimsey was not around back then, so you be having to ask one of the older elves if you want more information than that.”

“Why don’t we know any of this?” Theo’s eyebrows are furrowed with consternation, and his teacup is left forgotten as he ponders this new element of his reality. “This feels like the sort of thing we should know. But I’ve never read anything about it at all, nothing that even hinted at it."

“Most house elves cannot be reading or writing,” Wimsey answers with a shrug. “Witches and wizards do not want to be risking them reading their mail, and only the really little ones ever think to ask us about our history. Most forget by the time they're grown."

And Neville, proving exactly why he was sorted into the house of the brave and chivalrous, asks, “Do you want to learn?”

“What do you be meaning, little one?”

“Do you want to learn how to read? How to write? We can teach you.” The kitchen goes deathly silent as the clanging of pots and pans abruptly stops. Several wide eyes turn in their direction.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Neville!” Hermione positively beams at him. “And it’s not like any of you are forbidden from doing it, right? So we can teach you, and then you can teach the elves that we don’t have access to. I imagine that many of you were separated from friends and family a long time ago… Don’t you want to be able to get in touch with them?”

“... We be liking the sound of that very much, little ones,” Wimsey murmurs. “Are you being sure it is no trouble?”

“None at all,” Theo says with a shake of his head. “Knowledge shouldn’t be kept from anyone. We’d be happy to help you.”

Revolution often starts with a single spark, a tiny flicker of flame that later expands into a fire so massive that it is utterly inescapable. It is something that the house elves will have to realize they want for themselves, something they have to be willing to fight for on their own terms, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to nudge them along to that conclusion, to offer support where it has not existed before.

The fire is not yet lit, but the faintest of embers have begun to glow.

“So,” Harry starts once their lesson for the evening is over, drumming his fingers against his chair idly. “I know that part of your campaign is fighting for creature rights, but is that genuine or is it just something you do to garner more support?”

“It is genuine, though I do not discourage my followers from believing the latter. Magical creatures have been part of this world for far longer than any witches or wizards have, and I’ve long since held the belief that magical humans came to be from a cross between various creatures and muggles. It is likely why certain features and abilities are so consistently passed down family lines.”

“Really?” He can’t help quirking his eyebrow at that, but it makes sense, at least to a certain extent. “Do you think Salazar Slytherin was descended from a Naga, then? It would explain the Parseltongue…”

“I was able to locate family records within the Chamber of Secrets, and he did immigrate to Britain from Thailand,” Quirrelmort murmurs. “Which is home to the largest population of Nagas in the world, so do with that information what you will.”

“How do you explain muggle-borns, then?”

“It has been at least a millennium since magical humans began walking this earth, Harry. That is plenty of time for them to take on muggles as partners and pass down the trait that makes it possible for children to be born with magic. I rather suspect that there are more squibs in this world than anyone cares to admit, and when two squibs marry and have children of their own… It is not a guarantee that their child will have magic, but it is far more likely. It is why it is possible for muggle-borns to have other magical siblings.”

“And squibs?” he asks, genuinely curious to know what Quirrelmort thinks. “How are squibs born to two magical parents if the ability to use magic is, functionally, just a recessive trait?”

“Inbreeding causes genetic harm regardless of the magic involved. When closely related cousins marry each other, there are bound to be consequences to that. There is a reason why so many pure-blood families struggle to conceive children."

“How do you know about all of this, anyway?”

“My search for immortality led me immediately into the medical field. I needed to understand the limits of the human body to understand how to change them, and genetics had to be taken into consideration on that front.” Quirrelmort chuckles as he says, “But you are certainly full of questions today, my Horcrux. Is there any particular reason for that, or are you simply indulging in your curiosity?”

“My friends and I may or may not be slowly stoking the flames of a house elf rebellion,” he explains sheepishly. “And I was wondering if any of the Slytherin properties might have a magical forest on its grounds, though I should check with the goblins about the Gryffindor and Peverell homes as well… House elves used to be brownies, you know? The enslavement thing is fairly new. And while the elves at Hogwarts are generally content…”

“They have the Forbidden Forest, and they do not rely on a master’s magic so much as the forest's and castle’s… The majority of house elves in Britain are not so fortunate.”

“Exactly,” he agrees with a nod. “I know that Kreacher hates Sirius, and he’s only settled some now that his bond was passed over to me. Dobby absolutely hates working for the Malfoys to the point that he actively defies orders instead of just searching for loopholes in them; he punished himself over and over again as he tried to help me last time. And I’m hardly going to force them to rebel against the way they’re treated and start making demands for fair compensation, that’ll only make them resistant to such a big change, but I’m quite certain they’ll get to that point on their own eventually. For now, we’re starting off with teaching the Hogwarts elves how to read and write.”

A strange amalgamation of exasperation and fondness filters through their bond as Quirrelmort heaves out a sigh. “My followers are certainly not going to like it, but I won’t stop you. They likely will not realize that you put this in motion, and it matters not even if they eventually do. Are there any other plans of yours that I should be aware of?”

“I plan on becoming an Animagus over the summer, but other than that, not really. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Very well then, Mr. Potter,” Quirrelmort murmurs as the red slowly fades out of his eyes. “Do remember to keep practicing your combination spells. Your hybrid of the Warming Charm and the Tracking Spell was particularly inspired. A spell capable of replicating short-range heat vision… It will be very useful when faced with those skilled in obscuring their presence, be they a witch, wizard, or magical creature.”

“I’ll keep experimenting,” he promises with an eager grin. “There are so many possibilities…”

And he cannot wait to discover all of them. He has an eternity to do so, after all.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

An air of anticipation hovers over Hogwarts as Christmas break rapidly approaches. The castle itself seems alive with magic. The moving staircases shift more often, almost playfully, as if to reflect the mood of the children traveling up and down them, and the portraits are more eager to engage in conversations, caught up in the holiday cheer of it all.

They’re all practically itching with restless energy, and his friends put that much more effort into learning the Patronus Charm as a result. Neville and Blaise can now consistently call upon misty shields that have them beaming with shared pride. Ron and Millie are beginning to see hints of a corporeal form within their shields that has them excitedly discussing what their Patronuses might be. Fred has made leaps and bounds of progress with George’s help, and they’re both incredibly close to managing corporeal forms. Their age and practice with wielding their magic creatively help them tremendously, and though they can’t quite make out what their Patronuses will be yet, they can tell that they’re both some sort of canine and look similar enough to quite possibly be the same animal.

Daphne has gotten close enough to a corporeal form once to make out tiny wings poking out of the mist of her shield, and similarly, Theo has learned that his Patronus form has far larger, feathered wings. Hermione, on the other hand…

“Expecto Patronum!” A brilliant, blue hawk bursts free from her wand, soaring around the room in triumphant swoops and dives as it mirrors Hermione’s victorious cry. “I did it! I finally did it!!” Hermione is positively beaming from ear to ear as her hawk lands on her shoulder.

“Brilliant, Hermione!” Millie all but tackles her in a hug with a smile just as wide. “I knew you could do it!”

“Well done.” Daphne’s grin is incredibly fond and nearly as proud as Harry’s. “Every day I grow more certain that our housemates must be blind to not see the potential in you. I look at you and can only see someone who is going to go on to accomplish great things.”

“Sometimes Slytherins can be all ambition and no common sense,” Theo says with a snort. “They’ll learn eventually.”

They chatter eagerly about the upcoming break, basking in the glow of pride in one of their own and the comforting energy that any Patronus radiates like a soothing balm. “Are any of you staying at Hogwarts?” Harry asks. He already knows that the Weasleys plan on doing so, but he’s genuinely unsure about his friends that were in Slytherin last time too.

“Mum and Dad are visiting Charlie in Romania,” George offers freely. “So we’re all gonna be stuck at Hogwarts.”

“I’m staying as well,” Theo murmurs quietly. “My father is… Not particularly pleased by the company I’ve been keeping, so I intend to avoid that conversation for as long as possible.”

Harry’s eyes narrow at that. He’s going to have to get Voldemort to set Mr. Nott straight, it seems. “Stay with me,” he suggests with a wobbly smile. “Sirius wouldn’t mind. The Potters took him in when he was avoiding his family, after all…” He turns to face Ron and the twins with a sunny smile. “And you guys can come too! Feel free to bring Percy along; he seriously won’t mind.”

“And it will help solidify your godfather’s ability to take care of you if he proves capable of taking care of several children at once,” Blaise teases with a wry grin. “Not that the blood adoption will leave anyone opposed to it with much room to work with regardless, but they won’t be able to take you from him by claiming him unfit.”

“There’s that too,” Harry admits with a chuckle, and he can see the way Ron visibly relaxes when he realizes that this isn’t a charity thing. Blaise is scarily insightful sometimes. “So, what do you say?”

“We would never turn down the chance to spend Christmas break with Padfoot!” Fred cries out. “Of course we’ll go!”

“Yeah, mate. It sounds like fun. I doubt Percy will come since he’s been studying for his OWLs like mad, but we can ask,” Ron says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“... If you’re sure he won’t mind,” Theo hedges uncertainly. “But you might want to tell him who you’re inviting first.”

“He knows who my friends are,” Harry promises with a comforting smile. Theo’s shoulders practically slump with relief. “He doesn’t care, I promise.”

“... Then yeah, that sounds wonderful. I’ll let Professor Snape know.”

Harry steps off the Hogwarts Express with a massive smile, biting back a laugh at the way students quickly shuffled out of his way as Cepheus and Cassiopeia cling to him despondently, hissing about the cold.

“I’m sorry, you two. It’s just for a little while longer,” he hisses consolingly as he layers another Warming Charm over them. The biting wind and freezing temperatures are making them positively miserable, and he knows they can’t wait to curl up in front of the fireplace at Grimmauld. Even Hedwig is thoroughly disgruntled by the weather, ducking her head into Harry’s neck as she hoots quietly.

They make quite the vision, flanked by three heads of red hair and Theo’s mousy brown as he all but clings to Harry as well. He’s been quite nervous that his father might show up on the platform despite telling him that he was staying at Hogwarts, and Harry almost wants him to just so he can scare the life out of him. Almost. He won’t wish that sort of stress on Theo, but he’s prepared to deal with it if he needs to.

“Pup!” Sirius barks out with a brilliant grin, waving them over and ignoring the eyes that linger on him with practiced ease. “There you are. It is so good to see you again. And your friends as well! It’ll be nice for that empty house to have a bit of life breathed into it again.”

“Thank you for having us, Lord Black,” Theo murmurs with a shallow bow, eyes still darting around the platform warily.

“None of that lord nonsense,” Sirius scoffs with a wave of his hand. “I only make people use titles if I hate them. Now come on, then! Let’s get out of here before a crowd forms.” Sirius herds them all through the floo, lingering at the back of their group with his wand in hand, barely hidden up his sleeve. Harry chuckles at the similarities between the two of them, having done the exact same thing without a thought.

‘The war has really left its mark on both of us, huh?’

“That goes without question. For what it’s worth, I believe you are coping rather well, all things considered.”

‘Considering that your way of coping was splintering your soul into increasingly smaller halves and hiding them away so that you could never die, that’s not as comforting as you meant for it to be.’

A bright flare of green and a dizzying tug sees him stumbling out of the fireplace, and Sirius barks out a laugh as he catches him before he can dive facefirst into the rug. “Magical travel really doesn’t agree with you, huh, pup?”

“You know it,” he grumbles. “I wish we could just fly brooms everywhere…”

“No way!” Cassiopeia hisses sharply. “The magical fire is bad enough. I refuse to go on those wretched sticks!”

Harry snorts at that, and Sirius tilts his head in a very dog-like show of confusion. “You know, I never really thought to ask but… What do snakes even talk about?”

“Plenty of things,” he murmurs. “Though mostly about hunting and basking. That right there, though… That was Cassiopeia saying, and I quote, ‘No way. The magical fire is bad enough. I refuse to go on those wretched sticks.’ She’s a bit testier than Cepheus is.” Cassiopeia hisses quietly at him, not really saying anything so much as she was protesting his accurate assessment of her character. Cepheus, on the other hand, looks about as smug as a snake can manage while lifting himself up to rest his head on top of Harry’s again. He likes the view best that way.

“... You named them after constellations?” Sirius murmurs softly.

“It’s a Black family tradition, isn’t it?” he answers with a wobbly smile. “It felt right. I figured I’d name my Patronus after a constellation too, even if Serpens is a bit on the nose…”

Sirius visibly perks up in interest at that, and Harry can practically see the silent question in his eyes. ‘Your Patronus changed?’ he’s asking. “You already learned the Patronus Charm?” is what he says instead.

Harry grins, and here, surrounded by friends and the only family he’s ever known, he allows himself to try something he isn't sure is possible. He waves his empty hand with a whispered, “Expecto Patronum.”

Serpens’ shimmery blue scales uncoil lazily as he winds himself around Harry’s body, making himself at home among his familiars with a contented hiss. Sirius looks utterly gobsmacked as he watches Harry run a hand along those scales, smiling at the gentle warmth that they exude. His familiars don’t even bother leaving for the fireplace, too content beneath his Patronus’s gentle glow to give up their place by Harry’s side.

“Merlin…” Sirius whispers. “You’re really something else, pup. You know that?”

“I’m not that special,” he denies as heat rises to his cheeks. “Hermione figured hers out right before the break.” And considering the fact that she’s genuinely an eleven-year-old with the magical reserves of one, she mastered the spell terrifyingly quickly. He honestly wonders if half the difficulty surrounding the Patronus Charm is due to the lack of confidence most witches and wizards have in their ability to cast it.

“Because she had a good teacher,” Sirius insists with a teasing smirk. “You won’t escape my praise, pup, so don’t even try. Merlin, Remus is going to be so impressed.”

He visibly lights up at that, almost missing the way his friends straighten up slightly in response. “Remus is coming?”

“Sure is! I’m still trying to talk him into moving into Grimmauld, but you know how he is… He blames himself for thinking I could ever betray your parents, and no matter how many times I say it isn’t his fault, it hasn’t gotten through to him yet. That and he’s worried about affecting my chances for guardianship,” Sirius scoffs. “Like they could stop me, really. You want to stay, I want you to stay, and we’re already bound by magic. Blood will well and truly seal the deal whether they like it or not, and goblins don’t need a wizard’s approval to do that sort of thing.” He says this with a wink, delighting in the clear amusem*nt flitting across the twins’ faces.

Ron quietly mutters, “Oh, Merlin, there’s two of them,” and ends up sending Sirius into a fit of hysterics. The worst of Theo’s anxiety is already melting away, and despite how afraid he was this morning, there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips now.

“Anyway, Remus should be arriving tomorrow. He wanted to give you kids a little bit to adjust first, and, well…” The full moon was yesterday, so he probably feels pretty awful right now. “Anyway, you kids have fun! I’ve got to finish writing this letter to Gringotts, but just shout if you need anything, okay? For me or Kreacher. You’re Harry’s friends, so he’s sure to be happy to meet you.”

Surprisingly enough, Sirius is right. There is no muttering about blood traitors when Kreacher sees three heads of bright red hair. Instead, he smiles at them all and asks, “Is there anything Kreacher can be helping Harry or his friends with?”

“That depends,” Theo murmurs with an eager glint in his eyes. Harry knows exactly what he’s going to say before the words ever leave his mouth. Neville, Hermione, and Theo are the driving forces behind stoking the flames of their house elf rebellion, after all. “Do you know how to read or write?”

Kreacher startles at that, frowning slightly as he shakes his head. “Kreacher do not be knowing how. House elves is usually not being allowed…”

“Do you want to learn?”

Kreacher’s smile is far more reminiscent of his cruel grins of before in that moment, looking so terribly pleased that nostalgia twists in Harry’s chest. “Kreacher would be honored. Kreacher be liking Harry’s friends very much, I think.”

“Brilliant!” Fred starts with a delighted snicker. “We were hoping you’d say yes. Oh, and by the way–”

“If you want to, of course, would you be interested in helping us prank Sirius?” George continues with an eager gleam in his eyes. “We’ve gotta prove that his advice has been helpful, after all…”

“Oh, yes…” Kreacher murmurs with a cackle. “Kreacher be liking Harry’s friends very much indeed.”

Shortly after dinner, Sirius eagerly bites into one of the many custard creams that Kreacher brings to the table and promptly turns into a giant canary, twittering in laughter that has the twins high-fiving with wild grins. When he returns to normal a minute later, Ron narrows his eyes in contemplation, shrugs, and takes one as well.

Melodic laughter floats around the table as they all enjoy the Canary Creams that exist years earlier than they had last time thanks to Sirius’s help. Even Kreacher joins in on the fun, turning into a far smaller canary that has the twins eagerly discussing the potential for varying effects on humans and magical creatures and how they should account for them in future batches.

It feels like coming home in a way that he’s never felt before, and considering the tears welling up in Theo’s eyes, Harry has a feeling that he’s not the only one who feels that way.

Harry practically leaps up from his seat when the Floo flares the next morning. “Uncle Moony!” he cheers as soon as Remus steps through the flames, looking quite startled by the immediate, warm reception.

“You remember me…?” Remus whispers, sounding utterly heartbroken, happy, and so terribly guilty at the same time.

“Bits and pieces,” he murmurs, as if he hasn’t spent years getting to know the man standing in front of him. “My memory of back then is a bit fuzzy, but I do remember you.”

“Oh, cub…” Remus sounds like he’s about to cry. He sounds like he’s been doing that a lot lately. “I am so, so sorry. I would have taken you, I swear, but they never would have let me.”

“I understand, Uncle Moony,” he murmurs with a faint smile. “It’s not your fault that our Ministry is filled with a bunch of bigots and idiots. Not that those two groups tend to have much separation, mind…”

They can hear Sirius’s laugh echoing all the way from the kitchen, and he joins them shortly afterward with two mugs of hot chocolate Harry gratefully accepts his, smiling when Remus accepts the other with only the slightest bit of hesitation. “Thank you, Sirius.”

“Of course, of course,” Sirius dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Come on, take a seat. The other sprogs aren’t awake quite yet, but it’s only a matter of time before they join us. May as well get comfortable.”

Remus is the very picture of awkwardness as he allows himself to be herded over to the sofa, taking a seat and asking in a halting voice, “Slytherin, huh? I admit, it’s not what I expected, but Sirius seems to think you’re doing well there. You’re not having any trouble, are you?”

Considering who he is and the reputation that comes with it, Harry doesn’t take offense to that question. Not when it’s so clearly steeped in genuine concern. “No trouble at all,” he promises. “I’m Slytherin Prince of my year, actually. We were split into two factions at the beginning of the year, but Malfoy and his lot have given it up by now.” They’re still clearly unhappy with the way things went and looking for any opportunity to discredit him, but they won’t find one. “And classes have been interesting, if a bit boring… But my friends and I have been studying ahead and practicing spells in our spare time, and Professor Quirrel offered me extra lessons on the weekends. I’ve been keeping myself busy.”

Remus’s eyes grow steadily wider the longer he talks, and Sirius barks out a laugh at the look on his face. “Our pup’s amazing, isn’t he? Would’ve been destined for Ravenclaw if he wasn’t such a sneaky little sh*t.”

“I resent that,” Harry sniffs playfully. “I think I could’ve made a fantastic Hufflepuff. No one would’ve ever suspected me there.”

“You would have eaten them alive,” Sirius deadpans. “And that is the most Slytherin reasoning for going to another house that I have ever heard.”

“The twins are only in Gryffindor because they wanted to be able to advertise their prank products,” Harry quips with a quirked eyebrow. “And they knew that Slytherin would expect them to never get caught when they want to be.”

“... The second most Slytherin reasoning, then.” Sirius shakes his head with a laugh. “Of course they did. That makes so much sense, actually…”

“The twins?” Remus asks curiously.

“Ah, right! I forgot you don’t know who our guests are yet. The Weasley twins, Fred and George. Their younger brother, Ron, is also staying with us, and then there’s Theodore Nott.”

“Nott?” Remus is clearly wary at the mere mention of that name, and Sirius levels him with a stern look.

“He didn’t go home for a reason, Moony. Looked scared out of his skin when he stepped off that train, like he was looking for his father in every shadow. It’s impossible to miss. He looked just like…” Sirius shakes his head with a sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Just leave the kid be, Moony.”

“Of course I will. It’s not like I have any room to judge…” Remus heaves out a sigh, shooting Harry a wobbly smile as he murmurs, “I’m glad that you’ve been making friends, Harry. And that you’re looking out for Nott, from the sound of it. So much like your father…” Harry barely manages to hide a faint grimace at that. He really hopes that Remus doesn’t start in on that, though at least it’s not about a physical characteristic this time. “How about your other friends? I’m sure you had some that went home for the holidays too, right?”

“Yeah! There’s Hermione Granger, and she’s positively brilliant. A muggle-born, the first witch in her family, and she’s the first one of my friends that I’ve been able to teach how to cast the Patronus Charm–”

Remus spews hot chocolate all over the carpet. Kreacher quietly pops into the room to clean it up with a faintly amused grin as Remus splutters and coughs. “You taught her what?” he croaks.

“The Patronus Charm?” Maybe it’s a bit cruel of him to tease Remus like this when he was the one to teach it to him in the first place, but considering he never even knew that Remus knew his parents for so long the first time… It feels fair. He wiggles his fingers and does his level best not to laugh when Serpens answers his call, no incantation necessary. Remus looks like he’s about to keel over in shock. “I mean, all of my friends can at least manage a shield by now, and the twins are getting pretty close to their corporeal forms too. I’m almost certain they’ll all learn it by the end of the year, though they may not hold up against Dementors… Hopefully we won’t have to test that any time soon.”

“A-And what year is Hermione in?” Remus stutters weakly, looking quite pale as he sets his hot chocolate down on the table. That’s probably a smart idea; he’d just choke again if he took another sip right now.

“She’s a first year. In Slytherin, just like me,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. “The twins are the oldest of us, and they’re third years. I’m also teaching Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bulstrode, and Neville Longbottom.”

Remus clings onto that tiny hint of normalcy with everything he has, just like Harry expected him to. “You’re friends with Neville? That’s good. If things had gone differently, you would’ve been godbrothers… What house is he in?”

“Really?” he murmurs. He actually hadn’t known that. “And he’s in Gryffindor! His housemates gave him a bit of trouble for hanging out with us at first, but then we all teamed up together against Hooch when she almost let Nev get hurt. The first years have been alright since then, and the twins have been pranking any of the older years that try giving him trouble for it.”

“That’s… Good to hear. Surprising, but good. The Slytherins and Gryffindors are usually at each other’s throats all the time.”

Their conversation pauses with the quiet creak of a step, and Theo grimaces when Remus immediately looks in that direction. “Hello…” he murmurs, shuffling uneasily. “Sorry for intruding.”

He watches Remus positively melt before his very eyes, and if he didn’t know Theo better, he’d think he was manipulating him on purpose. But he does know Theo, and he knows that Theo is always wary and extra polite around strangers. His father keeps dangerous company, after all.

“It’s no intrusion at all,” Remus reassures him. “Would you like a cup of hot chocolate?”

Theo hesitates. His eyes flit to Harry, Kreacher, Sirius, and then back to Remus again before he whispers, “Yes, please.” Kreacher pops away to get it before Remus can even start to stand up, clearly seeing Theo’s discomfort and remedying it in the best way that he can. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

“Anything for Harry’s friend Theo.” Kreacher snickers at the dumbfounded look that Sirius is leveling him with. “Kreacher is capable of being nice to wizards when wizards is being nice to him.”

“Hey, Kreacher?” he cuts in before Sirius starts looking any more guilty than he already does. “Speaking of, I have a question for you. Would you be alright with me taking down the heads of your predecessors?” They’re just creepy, really, and it feels wrong to leave them up there. House elves aren’t trophies. “I wanted to bury them. Give them proper funerals. But this is your home too, and I didn’t want to do it without asking you first.”

Kreacher’s eyes go misty as he nods. “Kreacher would be liking that very much, Harry. There is being a good spot out in the garden for them.”

They hold a quiet funeral service for elves that not even Kreacher knows the name of, and the house feels much lighter after each head is carefully separated from their mounts and buried like they should have been in the first place. Harry glares at the wooden mounts and sets them on fire without a word.

“... You is being a good friend, Harry,” Kreacher murmurs. “Kreacher is most honored to serve you.”

Their solemn moods are lightened by the burst of energy that the twins bring downstairs with them, and Harry can’t quite stifle his laugh at Ron’s tired yawn as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

“Moony!” they cry out as soon as they see Remus, and poor Remus almost chokes on his hot chocolate for the second time that day. “We found the map, you see–” Fred starts with an eager grin.

“And it’s been incredibly useful, so we wanted to thank you–”

“For your part in making it. Of course, we gave it to Harry since it should be his–”

“But the point remains! We never would’ve found the kitchen without it, or all those secret passages to Hogsmeade,” George continues with a smirk. “Would you mind too terribly if we wrote you? We’ve been exchanging letters with Padfoot over there for a few weeks now, getting ideas for our pranks and experiments in the like.”

“... I suppose?” Remus agrees hesitantly. “I could tell you whether or not something is possible, at the very least.”

“Wicked!” Fred cheers. “Thank you; you won’t regret it!”

“Merlin, you two have too much energy,” Ron groans as he thunks his head against the table. “How did I end up surrounded by morning people?”

Remus chuckles at that. “Welcome to the club. I’ve always been more of a night owl myself, but Sirius… I’d say you get used to it eventually, but that’s a lie.”

Harry is pleasantly surprised by just how well Remus meshes with the rest of them. It doesn’t take very long at all for them to fall into a comfortable routine, and by the time they go on their trip to Diagon Alley –they do need to buy everyone Christmas gifts, after all– Theo loses the hunch in his shoulders and the waver in his voice that Remus’s arrival had brought back.

“We’ll have to split up a bit,” Harry murmurs. “Or we won’t be able to get gifts for each other.”

Sirius and Remus exchange a look that carries the weight of a whole conversation between them without uttering a single word. “Pup, you can stay with me. Theo, you should stick with Remus, and the Weasley trio should be fine on their own.” Sirius exchanges an equally weighted glance with Harry at the way that Theo’s shoulders tense up, explaining, “We just want to make sure you don’t run into anyone you don’t wanna see, kid. And that there’s someone there to protect you if you do.”

“... Oh,” Theo whispers, grimacing faintly. “Can’t all four of us stick together, then? And just split up when we’re buying gifts for each other?”

“I don’t see why not.” Remus smiles gently as Theo inches closer to Harry. “It’s probably safer that way.”

Ron glances Harry’s way and exchanges a single nod with him, and the twins salute in his direction the second that Sirius and Remus’s backs are turned. It makes fondness burn in his chest so strongly that it nearly hurts. Children or not, he knows that they’ll keep an eye out for anyone that looks even vaguely like Theo and run right back to them if they see anyone that fits the bill.

His friends are the best, truly.

Diagon Alley is a rush of activity so close to Christmas, filled to the brim with witches and wizards doing their last-minute shopping. It strikes him quite suddenly that he’s never even been to Diagon Alley near the holidays, having only been able to browse for gifts in person in Hogsmeade. He’d always owl-ordered everything else.

How sad is it that he’s experiencing so many entirely new things within less than a year of his second chance at life? How sad is it that he never really got the chance to just… Live his life. Always fighting to survive another day.

“For neither can live while the other survives…” Voldemort whispers.

“You alright, pup?” He jolts at the sound of Sirius’s voice, nodding hesitantly. He hadn’t even noticed that Ron, Fred, and George are already gone.

“Yeah, sorry. Just… Got a bit lost in my head, there.”

Sirius’s smile is nothing but understanding. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he whispers with a voice so full of longing and nostalgia that Harry wants to cry. “I missed this.”

‘Me too,’ he doesn’t say but thinks with every fiber of his being. Sirius understands him anyway. He always understands. He’s the only one who truly can.

“Come on, you two,” Remus whispers. “It’s a good thing we stuck with you after all. You might not have gotten anything done otherwise.”

“Oi! I resent that!” But Sirius’s voice is warm with laughter and happiness that Harry never got to hear from him before, and the shackles of his imprisonment, both inside Azkaban and out of it, have well and truly fallen free.

It’s just holiday shopping. It’s just holiday shopping, and yet… It’s so much more than either of them ever dreamed of having.

They end up going a bit crazy as a result, but what else is new? They’re both desperately lonely people with more money than they could ever dream of spending in a dozen lifetimes, so why wouldn’t they spoil the precious few that they hold close to their hearts?

It’s surprisingly easy for him to choose gifts for the people he cares about, though choose might be a bit of a loose term. He ends up buying everything that makes him think of them and winds up trying to balance out how much he’s spending on everyone afterward.

With the aid of the twins’ stealthily taking Ron’s measurements while he slept like the dead, Harry orders him two school robes, three casual ones, and a shiny new pair of dragonhide boots. Because for all that Ron doesn’t care much about appearances, Slytherin does, and he still covets having things that are entirely his own. He’s a bit insecure about having robes that are too short for him, and if Harry can solve that problem, then why shouldn’t he? The twins both get brand new Nimbus 2000s, and Harry is already mentally writing a cheeky note about how Gryffindor will need all the help they can get if they want to have any hope of beating Slytherin next year. Hermione gets a stack of new books because he knows her and exactly where her priorities lie. Now that she’s mastered the Patronus Charm, she going to be looking for another complex project to sink her teeth into. He buys her several books on wandless magic, nonverbal magic, and even a few on Occlumency and Legilimency. Neville gets an assortment of magical plants to add to his gardens at Longbottom Manor: a Flitterbloom, a Sophorus plant, and Moly. Nothing too dangerous yet, but plenty rare all the same. Theo’s gift is similar to Hermione’s, though the contents of his books are different. Harry mostly gets him books on defensive spells and curses, a few on brewing poisons, and then the very same model of a magical camera that he knows he’ll see roaming the halls of Hogwarts next year. It doesn’t hurt to remind his friend that he has options, several of them, and that any way he decides to deal with his father is something that Harry will support.

Daphne gets a protective amulet that buzzes faintly if it detects any tampering in her food or drink, and it also comes with the ability to charge it up with magic that can release a spherical shield around its wearer with a code word. It won’t hold up to any darker curses, but it will block most jinxes and hexes in a pinch. It’s even the sort of dainty, delicate silver necklace that looks just like something she would wear anyway, so it won’t raise any suspicions for her to start wearing it all the time. Blaise gets a set of shiny, goblin-forged throwing knives that he’s expressed an interest in learning how to use recently because, as he says, ‘Everyone expects you to throw spells at them. They don’t expect you to throw a knife right behind it.’ Harry is hardly the sort to punish that sort of creative thinking. Millie’s gift is a combination of several little things that he knows she’ll appreciate more than any of the more expensive gifts. She gets a book on the most powerful figures in recent wizarding history –almost all of which are either half-bloods or muggle-borns; he knows that she’s still pretty insecure about her blood status in a house that puts so much value in it– a Beater’s bat since she has expressed interest in joining the Quidditch team next year, and a self-warming cat tree for her kneazle.

Remus’s gift is something that he had to owl order anonymously –and thankfully, Hedwig had understood why he couldn’t use her for that one– since the last thing they need is word getting out that Harry Potter is buying the Wolfsbane Potion. A year’s supply of the highest quality there is on the market. Sirius’s gift… That’s harder. It’s much harder. But in the end, his eyes catch on a minuscule potion swirling with molten gold, and he knows exactly what to get him. It’s outrageously expensive, but it’s not like that really matters.

And after much deliberation, he decides to buy one more gift. Sirius whistles quietly when Harry shells out the money for a Pensieve. It’s an expensive gift, true, but the promise that it implies is far more valuable than a few hundred Galleons. An offer of total transparency, something that not even the most skilled Legilimens can pry from someone else’s mind. It’s something that not even their connection guarantees them, and it’s Harry’s biggest show of trust yet.

He hopes that Voldemort likes it.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

The comforting scent of cinnamon drifts through the air, warming him from the inside out as he stirs into wakefulness on Christmas morning. Or, well, as much as one can call it morning when it’s still dark outside.

“Good morning, Kreacher,” he murmurs as he shambles into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas.”

“Blessed Yule, Harry.” Kreacher is too pleased to even chide him about celebrating the muggle version of the holiday, humming quietly under his breath as he works on breakfast. A small part of him thinks he’ll always be awed by such casual displays of magic as this. There’s just something about watching whisks stirring bowls without any hands attached to them, knives cutting and chopping before ingredients toss themselves into a sizzling pan, and dishes doing themselves before they can remain dirty for more than a minute that makes him feel at home. Perhaps it is the reminder that magic is part of him always, not just in life-or-death situations, and can be used just as easily for mundane things like this.

He’s overcome with the longing to be part of this somehow. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Kreacher must see something of Harry’s emotions on his face because he does not refuse him outright. He pauses, looks over the kitchen, and says, “You can be kneading the dough if you wish. Do you be knowing how?” Harry nods eagerly, and Kreacher hops off a stool and allows him to do just that. Even with magic, certain things just have to be done by hand, and it’s strange to think that kneading dough requires just as much consideration as brewing potions does.

“Severus would be positively horrified to hear you make that comparison,” Voldemort snickers within his mind. “Even if it is not entirely without merit.”

Harry and Kreacher work side-by-side until the sun crests over the horizon and other residents of the house begin to wake. Even when Sirius pads down to join them, Harry continues to monitor their cinnamon rolls as they bake in the oven, speaking lowly with Kreacher as the sizzling hiss of eggs on a frying pan fills the air. They’re bickering playfully about the house elf’s refusal to let Harry make the omelets when Sirius clears his throat, sounding distinctly amused when he asks, “You two having fun?”

Kreacher throws a withering glare over his shoulder that has Harry sighing, though he at least pats Harry’s wrist in quiet reassurance that he’s not upset with him. Sirius lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t let me get in the way of a good time; I just wanted to make sure Harry knows he should eat especially well this morning. The Blood-Adoption Potion usually causes some minor physical and magical changes, and it’s going to be a bit draining.”

Harry perks up at that. “The potion came through, then? I wasn’t sure if we’d get it before I had to go back to Hogwarts, much less before Christmas…”

“Yes, well, funnily enough, as soon as I mentioned you, the goblins seemed to make it a priority.” Sirius barks out a laugh, a smirk tugging at his lips as he asks, “Do I even want to know, pup?”

“I’m pretty sure that it’s just the Master of Death thing,” he says with a shrug. “But you certainly won’t hear me complaining about it.” Sirius ruffles his hair with a fond grin before returning to the living room, and Kreacher relaxes almost as soon as he’s gone. “Why do you hate Sirius so much, if you don’t mind my asking?” he murmurs quietly.

“He is being a bad son,” Kreacher mutters sharply. “Always making Mistress Walburga angry, spitting on the Black family name, running around with blood-traitors and–” Kreacher pauses, and the magic hovering over the room wavers slightly before he continues, in a quieter voice, “But that is not being why Kreacher is really angry. Kreacher is being angry because he left Regulus all alone. Kreacher is being angry because good master Regulus missed his wretched brother and was punished severely if he ever dared to show it. Even when he be going to Hogwarts and trying to reconnect… Nasty master Sirius be all but spitting in his face. He cried for months after… And he still be dying to save his brother, in the end. Kreacher cannot be forgiving nasty master Sirius for that. Cannot.”

His heart pangs at the pleading tone in Kreacher’s voice, the clear fear that he’ll be asked or expected to anyway and have Harry’s will imposed on him through the magic of their bond. “I understand, Kreacher,” he murmurs, smiling softly when the house elf relaxes once more. “And I’m sorry. Would you be happier coming with me to Hogwarts?”

Kreacher seems to consider that for several long moments before shaking his head. “I can be coming if you need me, of course, but this is being my home. I do not want to leave it if I can be staying.”

“Then you don’t have to,” he promises. “I just wanted to make the offer. And if you ever change your mind, please feel free to tell me.”

“I can be doing that, Harry.”

The pile of presents that Harry walks out to once they’ve finished preparing breakfast is truly obscene. He knows that not all of the gifts are his, of course, but even still, there’s a distant part of his brain that truly cannot comprehend the concept of there being even more gifts in this room than Dudley has received for all of his birthdays combined.

“You will be catching flies like that, Harry,” Kreacher teases, jolting Harry back into awareness as he sets the steaming plate down with flushed cheeks.

“Sorry. I just… I’ve never really had a real Christmas before.”

Kreacher’s eyes soften then. “Then we will be making it extra special this year, and we can be discussing celebrating Yule next year. Kreacher will be going to wake Harry’s friends and the wolf. You can be keeping the mutt company.”

Cepheus and Cassiopeia are dozing in front of the fireplace, hissing quiet greetings to him before they fall asleep again. Harry plops himself down next to Sirius with a watery laugh, willingly leaning into the hug that’s immediately offered to him. “You doing alright, pup?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. It’s just… So much. And I love it, but it also hurts, you know? Why couldn’t we have this from the start?”

“I know, pup. I know.” Sirius sounds like he’s barely fighting off tears himself. “I find myself thinking that every damn day. But we have it now, and we need to focus on that, yeah? We won’t let anyone steal this away from us.”

There is the clattering thud and startled shout of someone falling out of their bed from somewhere upstairs, and they both snort at the sound. “Sounds like Kreacher is having fun,” he murmurs. “It’s only fair. It is Christmas, after all…” With that thought in mind, he pointedly stands up to set an extra seat at the table, knowing that Kreacher will put up a token protest but likely give in if he asks nicely enough. They’re a family, and he intends to recognize that Kreacher is as much a part of that as the rest of them. It’s the closest thing to a gift that he can give the old house elf without him outright refusing it at this point in time.

Kreacher isn’t prone to tears, but he looks like he might cry for a moment when he comes back down the stairs followed by four excited children and a yawning werewolf. He blinks at his place at the table, wide-eyed at the stack of pillows on his chair, slowly walks over to Harry, and hugs him.

“Merry Christmas!” the twins chorus, ruffling Harry’s hair with wide grins. Ron is wide awake for once, and his eyes are nearly as wide as Kreacher’s when he sees the massive piles of presents. Theo is filled with a quiet sort of awe as he helps himself to a cinnamon roll, and Remus chuckles fondly when they all practically inhale their food so they can start opening presents more quickly.

“Alright, kiddos!” Sirius says with an eager clap of his hands. He looks years younger like this. He has a beaming smile, eyes free of the worst of the shadows that haunted him until death last time, and shoulders that do not slump with weary exhaustion as they used to. “Let’s tear into those gifts!”

Harry is quietly pleased to receive the same flute from Hagrid as last time, laughing at the owl-like note that comes out when he blows it. But as far as gifts that he received last time as well go, there is simply no topping Mrs. Weasley’s hand-knit sweater and homemade fudge. He’s even fonder of the emerald green fabric now that a silver H adorns it. Ron looks pleasantly surprised when he opens his own, smiling at the black fabric that only has a maroon R embroidered into it. Maybe it’s because he’s in Slytherin this time, but whatever the reasoning, Ron seems happy to not receive yet another maroon sweater. The twins immediately swap sweaters with mischievous laughs, and Theo is running his thumb over the silvery fabric of his own sweater with trembling hands.

“Please tell your mum thank you from me,” Theo murmurs. “I intend to write her a letter, but…”

“Of course,” Ron agrees with a nod and a warm smile. “When I told her you weren’t really expecting anything from your family… She really outdid herself this year.”

Then they move on to opening the gifts from their friends. The twins nearly drop their new brooms in shock, tackling Harry in a hug that Ron quickly joins them in when he sees his new robes. He keeps glancing back at them as he mutters, “I cannot believe you, mate. First the wand, now this? It’s too much, Harry. I can’t–”

And he knows. He knows that Ron feels guilty for not being able to get him more than candy, but Harry shakes his head firmly. “I got you the robes because I wanted to, Ron, not because I expect some sort of equivalent exchange with presents. The fact that I’m getting gifts at all… This is the first year that I ever have. Ever. I promise you that Chocolate Frogs mean just as much to me as fancy jewelry. I just… Seriously, I could not spend the kind of money I have in a dozen lifetimes. It would be terribly selfish if I didn’t share that kind of wealth with my friends, don’t you think? Birthdays and Christmas are the only times that I can get away with doing this sort of thing at all.”

Ron rolls his eyes heavenward with a sigh. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Because I do.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he comes by it honestly.” Remus chuckles warmly as he opens his own gift of expensive robes, tugging lightly at the threadbare set he is currently wearing. “James and Sirius both… If you tried to explain budgets and reasonable gifts to them, then they always just got this glassy look in their eyes.”

“... It does make me feel better, just a bit.”

Theo, on the other hand, laughs quietly at his assortment of gifts. “Trying to tell me something, Harry?” he asks with a wry grin. That grin turns a bit manic around the edges when Theo opens his gift from Sirius and finds a gleaming dagger within it.

“You never know when it might be useful,” Sirius explains with a wink. “Everyone always expects a spell. They don’t expect a blade.”

“One might think you’re encouraging me to kill my father,” Theo says with a dryly amused look. “Thank you. Both of you. It is… Comforting to know that should things grow dire, I won’t be defenseless.”

Hermione, to absolutely no one’s surprise, sends them all books. What is a pleasant surprise is how well they’re individually tailored to them. Fred gets a book on hexes and George on jinxes, both several years above their current level, with a letter explaining that she thought they might serve as good inspiration for their pranks and prank products alike. Ron looks positively curious about his copy of The Art of War , and Theo has a small smile tugging at his lips as he skims through a book on electricity and how it functions. Harry is still wide-eyed at his own gift: a book on ritual magic that he’d bet money she snuck into Knockturn to acquire. And even knowing that it’s partially because she hopes he’ll teach her once he gets the hang of it, Harry adores that she went out of her way to get him something that would challenge him.

The twins give everyone prototypes of their Puking Pastilles that have worse side effects than the final product will –they still make you genuinely a bit sick even after taking the reversal currently– with a wink. “We know how you Slytherins love to plot,” George starts with a snicker.

“Not that we’re any better. So if there ever comes the time you need an alibi…” Fred shrugs his shoulders with a wicked grin. “Nothing better than puking your guts out. They’ll think you’re too sick to be causing trouble.”

Neville sends him a vial of Murtlap Essence for his scar which, while no longer paining him like it used to, is still a curse scar that gets a bit inflamed after spending so much time with Quirrelmort. He’s honestly surprised that Neville noticed it; he barely does himself, but then again, he is used to it being far worse… Theo’s gift is a book on the Wheel of the Year and the rituals used for celebrating them, something that Harry very much looks forward to devouring later. Daphne’s gift is yet another book, but this one is on far more complex wizarding traditions that neither he nor Hermione have found any mention of among their current books or anything available to them in Hogwarts. Blaise sends Harry several vials of Forgetfulness Potion that he brewed himself, subtly hinting that should anyone overhear something that Harry doesn’t want them to, he need only slip a little into their drink to avoid a catastrophe. Millie sends him a bunch of owl treats for Hedwig alongside a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and a few Ice Mice that he’s sure Cepheus and Cassiopeia will enjoy chasing around, if nothing else.

He’s pleasantly surprised to receive a book on advanced Charms theory from Remus, though really, he’s not sure what else he was expecting after the Patronus Charm thing. Remus is absolutely the type to encourage growth and furthering his strengths, and in his eyes, Harry is an eleven-year-old Charms prodigy, not an eighteen-year-old wizard who just happens to look much younger than he is.

There is still a truly concerning pile of gifts left from Sirius, and Ron looks like he’s going to laugh himself sick at the mild look of discomfort on Harry’s face. ‘This is karma,’ he thinks. ‘This is absolutely karma.’

The first present from him that Harry opens is actually a joint gift from Sirius and Remus: a two-way mirror. “You got it to work!” he cheers, eyes glittering with delight. “Now we don’t have to send Hedwig back and forth to talk.” And so long as they’re careful not to be overheard, they can well and truly talk about everything. There’s a reason that Sirius insisted on enchanting this himself; they aren’t risking the chance that their creator could eavesdrop on their conversations, as unlikely as that would be. People have done stranger things to get to Harry before.

“Sure did! Moony was a huge help there; I was struggling with the rune matrix something fierce. My hands just aren’t steady enough to carve them properly yet, so he did them for me and let me imbue them afterward.”

“Thank you, Moony,” he murmurs with a wide smile. “This means so much to me. To both of us, really.”

“It’s the least I could do, really…”

“Now come on, pup! Come on, come on, I’ve got some really exciting surprises for you.”

There’s enough candy to make his entire year sick to their stomachs, dragonhide battle robes that are especially outrageous given how much growing Harry has left to do, the Blood-Adoption Potion that he puts to the side for now, a necklace that is actually an emergency portkey that will take him straight back to Grimmauld if he says ‘Padfoot, I’m coming home’, a book titled Animagi: Embracing Your Inner Animal , the magical penknife that Sirius bought him last time, and last but certainly not least… “No way.” He’s gaping and he knows that he’s gaping, but he honestly can’t believe this. “Sirius, you didn’t!”

Teal feathers and downy, purple wings adorn the tiny, serpentine face that peers up at him, clacking its beak with a melodic hiss. “Hello. Hello.”

“Hello,” he hisses, a smile tugging at his lips as the young occamy startles before regarding him with an adoring look. He can already feel the magic flowing between them, solidifying into a bond that is going to send the whole castle, and possibly the wizarding world, into a fit. Occamies are XXXX-ranked creatures, after all, but it’s strictly illegal to separate a witch or wizard from their familiars, no matter how dangerous they may otherwise be. “It’s nice to meet you, little one. Do you have a name?”

“I do not,” the occamy hiss-sings with a tilt of their head. Tiny talons flex as they try and fail to take to the air, too young to get any wind beneath their wings. Harry extends his hand so they can cling onto him instead. “Will you give me one, singer?”

Harry mulls it over for a bit before suggesting, “What do you think of the name Eridanus?” His newest familiar lets out a pleased hiss as the magic between them surges once more, heating the room to a dizzying degree.

“I accept this name, singer.”

With their bond more firmly settled, he turns to see the sheepish look on his godfather’s face as Remus chews him out for being reckless. But Harry has a feeling that he knows exactly who helped Sirius with this one, considering the only way that he could have known about that potential familiar bond is… ‘Thank you, Death,’ he thinks with all his might. He’s not entirely sure that the entity can hear him, but the room does seem to cool slightly as if in response. He doesn't think he imagined it.

“This really is just going to be a thing with you, isn’t it?” Theo murmurs fondly. “Harry Potter, tamer of serpents and an owl with an even fouler temper than most dragons.”

“This is so bloody cool, mate! Do you know how rare it is for wizards to form familiar bonds with magical creatures?”

“The looks on everyone’s faces when we get back are going to be–”

“One for the Pensieve, that’s for sure. We’re definitely riding back with you.” A smirk tugs at Fred’s lips as George winks at them, saying in perfect synchrony, “We wouldn’t want to miss the chaos.”

“Oh, I suppose it worked out in the end,” Remus mutters with a sigh. “But please be more careful, Sirius. If they hadn’t formed a familiar bond, then Harry would have been in a lot of trouble for keeping it.”

“Him,” he says, not quite sure how he knows that, only that he does. “And it’s okay, Uncle Moony. I could have always let Hagrid look after him until I graduated, even if we hadn’t bonded. I plan on taking Care of Magical Creatures anyway.”

Remus concedes his point with a grimace and a quiet sigh, willing to let the matter lie since there is no changing the outcome regardless. “Do you know who that last gift might be from, cub?” he asks instead, firmly changing the topic and ignoring the feathered serpent in the room. “I don’t see any signature or letter attached…”

Part of him is almost afraid that it’s from Dumbledore, but it only takes opening the shimmering wrapping paper to see that isn’t the case. Harry’s eyes go wide at the strangely slanted title of the book in his hands. “Parselmagic Throughout History by Salazar Slytherin,” he hisses before shaking his head slightly and repeating the same thing in English. “I didn’t even know there was a written form of Parseltongue! I’ll have to thank Professor Quirrel later…” Before anyone can ask too many questions about that particular bit of information, Harry says, “Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you two.” He gives Sirius and Remus both playful glares. “Finish opening your gifts! I don’t want to take the potion until afterward, not if I’m going to be half as tired as you think I might be.”

Sirius looks positively gleeful at his own array of candy and prank products, and he wraps Harry in a hug as soon as he sees the glimmering bottle of Felix Felicis. “I’ll use it wisely, pup,” he promises.

Remus, on the other hand, looks hopeful and nauseous all at once when he sees what Harry got him. “Did Sirius…?” Harry nods, and Remus drags a hand down his face with a weary sigh. “Merlin, we’re going to need to have a talk about what is and isn’t appropriate to share…”

Theo quirks an eyebrow at him and asks, “Is this about the whole werewolf thing? Because Notts are sensitive to magic, if you recall.” Remus pales even further and Theo waves his hand dismissively. “None of us care. I was a bit cautious at first, but you’ve given us absolutely no reason to distrust you and Harry does trust you. That’s enough.”

Ron, Fred, and George all immediately and rapidly nod in agreement, and Remus looks like he might cry. “We won’t tell anyone, though,” Ron promises. “I know people can be right gits about that sort of thing. Even I was a bit scared at first, but then I remembered that Harry is way scarier than you.”

Remus snorts at that, quirking his eyebrow at Harry as he asks, “What on earth do you do to them during those practice lessons, cub?”

“He’s bloody brilliant is what he is,” Fred cuts in with a wry grin. “Terrifying, but brilliant. George and I are so close to managing our Patronuses… I’m pretty sure it’s just the memories we’re trying to use that are the issue.”

“Most of our happiest moments are pretty purely so,” George concedes with a nod. “But now that I’m thinking about it…” He and Fred exchange a look with identical flashes of inspiration in their eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Forge?”

“I am, Gred! On the count of three, then? One, two…” Fred pauses as they unsheathe their wands, and in perfect synchrony, they shout, “Expecto Patronum!”

A pair of identical coyotes leap free from their wands, chasing each other around the room with playful, muted yips. “Merlin,” Remus murmurs, wide-eyed with awe as he watches the Patronuses run throughout the house. Kreacher half-heartedly steers them away from the more delicate china, wary of just how corporeal they may be. “I know you said you were teaching them, but actually seeing it is… It begs disbelief, yet the proof of it is right in front of me.”

“Man!” Ron groans as he throws his head back. “Now I’ve really got to figure mine out soon. They’ll hold it over my head until I do.”

Theo laughs quietly at that. “Do you want me to help you? I think… I think that I might…” Theo squares his shoulders before whispering, “Expecto Patronum.” Ron gapes as an otherworldly owl flies around the room, doing a few loose circles before coming back to perch on Theo’s shoulder. His robes crinkle slightly underneath the glowing talons.

“You used this as a memory, didn’t you?” Ron asks with narrowed eyes, looking between the twins and Theo with sudden understanding. “All three of you. Hm… I think I get it.” Despite saying that, Ron sits there for several moments, meditating on something before he lifts his wand with a glint of determination in his eyes. “Expecto Patronum!”

Ron’s Patronus wavers for a moment before solidifying into a small, blue monkey that leaps on one of the coyote’s backs as they race around the room. “You’re all going to be menaces,” Sirius says with the proudest smile that Harry has ever seen on his face. “Even more so once you’ve got the Black blood running through your veins, pup. I’ve just got this feeling that… Well, I suppose we’ll see if the Potter luck applies here too.”

“Is there anything special that I have to do?” he asks as he lifts the vial with a loose swirl of the liquid inside. The potion is blood-red, not that he really expected it to be any other color, and is sure to taste vile but…

“Nope! You just drink it. The hard part has already been taken care of by the goblins.”

‘Well, here goes nothing,’ he thinks as he knocks the potion back, grimacing at the thick taste of iron on his tongue as his entire body shudders. Then the aches come, and he grits his teeth as he feels magic wash over him like a tidal wave.

“Singer?” Eridanus hisses curiously. “You look different. You feel different too, just a little.”

“Speaker!” Cassiopeia launches herself into his arms, hissing frantically as she checks him over for any signs of injury. “You scared me!”

“He told us that he would be taking the potion,” Cepheus points out idly. “I do not know why you are so surprised.”

“Shut up. And who is this?” Cassiopeia tilts her head slightly as she evaluates the tiny occamy clinging onto him. “He sings of your magic already. Is he part of our nest now?”

“Yes,” he hisses, shifting slightly and blinking in shock when slightly longer, curly hair brushes against his face. “He is like Hedwig. You cannot hunt him.”

“I will not,” Cassiopeia agrees surprisingly easily. “He is little and unappetizing anyway. I don’t like eating feathery things.”

“Birds are good. You are just bad at catching them.” Cepheus is clearly amused when he says this, ignoring the way Cassiopeia hisses in indignance. “We will protect him as we protect you, speaker,” he promises.

“Merlin, pup,” Sirius whispers, drawing him out of the conversation with his familiars. He is surrounded by wide eyes that have him flushing self-consciously. “Your hair suits you like this. It shouldn’t have grown, though, not unless… Can you try something for me? Try imagining yourself with a different feature, something that would make you look different from how you usually do.”

That doesn’t take much thought at all, and he gasps when he sees black hair turn into a fiery red with little more than a thought and a flicker of his magic. “I knew it!” Sirius crows. “Oh, my family would be turning in their bloody graves! You’re a Metamorphmagus now, or, well, perhaps you’ve always been, just a little bit, and this just strengthened the gift? Have you ever changed your appearance before, pup? With accidental magic or anything like that?”

“My aunt shaved everything except for my bangs off once,” he murmurs with a considering hum. “Because she wanted to cover the scar. It all grew back immediately. And I don’t know if it counts, but I also turned my teacher’s wig blue once.”

“Hm… Maybe,” Sirius says uncertainly. “But that sounds pretty in line with the usual sort of accidental magic, honestly. I’d bet more on it being the potion than anything else, though this sort of thing is really rare. Then again, considering that it’s you…” Sirius barks out a laugh. “That’s the Potter luck, alright.”

With a bit of concentration, Harry’s hair bleeds black once more and lengthens until it’s brushing against his shoulders. He doesn’t have to look into a mirror to see that he looks like a blend of all three of his parents now, and a smile tugs at his lips at the thought.

Theo levels him with a carefully considering look, the twins look positively gleeful as their Patronuses glow even brighter, Ron looks amused and resigned all at once, and Remus just heaves out a sigh that all but screams that he expects many sleepless nights in the future. “You’re James’ cub alright. And Sirius’s now too, Merlin help us all.”

Amusem*nt that both is and isn’t his own wells up within him, and Harry’s answering smirk does not reassure Remus in the slightest. This is a dead useful ability to have, and he has every intention of taking advantage of it. Preferably without anyone else, with the exception of his friends, finding out that he’s a Metamorphmagus at all.

“Yuletide Blessings be upon you,” Voldemort murmurs. It feels more like a statement of fact than a blessing in the traditional sense. “And… Merry Christmas, Harry.”

‘Blessed Yule, Voldemort.’

He has never felt such contentment as this, and he will fight with everything he has to keep it this way. No matter what it takes.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

The sibilant crackling of the fireplace is a symphony of quiet hisses and pops that are no less beautiful for his inability to understand them. Perhaps the mystery is part of the beauty. Perhaps that is why Harry stares, entranced, as the flames shift from orange to red to blue as they flicker merrily, sprawling out and basking in their warmth like a cat melting into a sunbeam.

He is so comfortable that he does not even realize that the world is blurred around the edges until a young Tom Marvolo Riddle sits down next to him. “What a blessed Yule this is,” the ring Horcrux murmurs with an unholy gleam in his eyes. “That I get to spend it with you… I suppose my older self was feeling particularly charitable tonight.”

“Not so charitable that I’d allow you to do so alone,” Voldemort grumbles, cutting a sharp glare at his younger self as he joins them by the fire. Harry instinctively leans into his touch, and their souls resonate with a buzzing warmth that puts the fire to shame. Tom’s pupils blow wide at the magical resonance between them, leaning closer until he’s all but plastered against Harry’s side. Voldemort does not look even remotely amused by this. “I know exactly what I was like when I was younger, after all. No patience, only greed.”

Tom narrows his eyes at this. “I am fully capable of waiting when the situation calls for it, as you very well know. This is one of those times.”

He has a feeling that he’s missing out on some part of the conversation that’s happening here, but it’s hard for Harry to care about that overly much when his magic sings so contentedly. He knows that the Horcruxes won't hurt him, so he’ll leave them to their plotting for now.

“So long as you understand.” Long, cool fingers begin gently working through his new curls, and Harry positively melts beneath the touch. “We cannot afford to make any missteps.”

All three of them shudder when the world blurs and shifts slightly to the left before coming into focus once more. “You are a marvel, my Hocrux,” the original Voldemort hisses, swanning toward them with a burning look in his eyes that would look more at home on Tom’s face. He’s not sure that he’s ever seen Voldemort being this expressive. “What you have given me, what you have offered, so earnestly and without hesitation… Does it not frighten you? What I might see in your memories?”

“No,” he hisses without a beat of hesitation. “I have no intention of hiding anything from you now that we are well and truly working together. If you want to know something, then just ask. If you want to see something, to hear it for yourself as if you were there in the first place, then you only need to ask. The prophecy, the fate of your Death Eaters, the outcome of the war… All that I have, all that I am, I offer to you.”

“Phrasing, dear heart,” his Horcrux warns gently. “Mind your phrasing lest you find yourself bound to an agreement you did not intend to make.”

“I offer any of my memories to you,” Harry clarifies sheepishly, flushing slightly when he realizes how that sounded. “Apologies.”

“Worry not,” Voldemort dismisses with a quiet chuckle. “It is still a most generous gift. I’m afraid that my own pales in comparison. In fact, I wonder…” Voldemort gives him a considering look then. “A list,” he says suddenly, nodding as if his decision had been made weeks, maybe even months, ago. “If you give me a list of those most important to you —and it cannot be everyone or include broad groups, Harry; it must be specific— then I can ensure that they are spared regardless of what circ*mstances they may find themselves in. Take your time,” he reassures Harry with a faint smile. “There is no rush to complete this list. It will be quite some time yet before I have my own body, never mind regaining my strength…”

“Thank you,” he whispers with wide, disbelieving eyes. This is more than he ever would have hoped for from a fully healed Voldemort, never mind one who has not even been made mostly whole yet. There is a reason why he’s been working so hard to get his friends, at the very least, on his side above all else. “I… Thank you.” He feels a bit like he might cry. Both his Voldemort and Tom send twin pulses of warmth and fondness through their bond, and he shudders when the main Voldemort does the same.

“I do reward my most faithful, little Horcrux. That you would gift me knowledge beyond even what a true Seer could foretell… All without attempting to leverage it to better your position… I could do nothing less than this.”

“I’m eighteen,” he grumbles with absolutely no heat in his voice. He doesn’t have any left to spare with the way it floods his cheeks. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

“... You died so young, little Horcrux.” Something almost like regret tinges Voldemort’s voice, and that, more than anything, shocks him into silence. “That any version of myself would snuff out such potential is… Unfathomable.”

“It wasn’t really you,” he whispers, accepting the unspoken apology for what it is. “But I’ve already forgiven it.”

“I know.” And Voldemort’s expression is… Almost gentle. He’s only ever seen the Horcrux in his scar look at him like that. “And what a wonder you are for doing so… Yuletide Blessings be upon you. Do come visit me once you return to the castle.”

“Tosser,” Tom hisses almost as soon as the main Voldemort blurs and fades, retreating from the land of dreams. The ring Horcrux is well and truly plastered to his side now. He can’t manage to feel anything but endeared by it. “Who does he think he is? Inviting himself into your mind, into your dreams, without a by-your-leave and leaving just as quickly. Tosser.”

Voldemort snorts by Harry’s side, and it takes everything he has to not devolve into helpless giggles. “You seem to forget that we are him. We may have our differences, but not in this. We would do the same were we not so closely connected to Harry.”

“... Shut up.”

Tom is in a mood for hours after that, only truly settling down when the blurry edges of their dreamscape start to close in on them. Harry blinks open his eyes with a yawn. Magic buzzes beneath his skin, and he allows himself just a little while longer to bask in this contentment before getting on with his day.

Returning to Hogwarts is met with equal parts anticipation and dread. The gleaming red of the Hogwarts Express beckons him, and he’s not sure that he’ll ever get over his morbid attachment to the perfect double of the train that took him back through time and space and landed him here. How could he when everything is so much better now than it ever was back then?

“Take care of yourself, pup,” Sirius whispers with his arms wrapped around him in a hug that would be suffocating if Harry wasn’t so used to a boa constrictor using him as a personal space heater. “And remember that I’m only ever a call away. If you need me for anything, anything at all…”

“I know,” he murmurs, stepping back with a fond smile. Cepheus bumps his head against Sirius’s cheek with a slow flick of his tongue, and even Cassiopeia seems a bit morose to be leaving Grimmauld behind. Hedwig hoots softly from her perch on his shoulder, preening his hair with quiet contentment that tells him she enjoys his new curls as much as Harry does, and he can feel Eridanus’s sharp talons clinging onto his wrist, hidden just beneath Harry’s robes as they discussed. No need to cause a stir before getting to Hogwarts, after all. “Be safe, Padfoot. And take care of Moony for me.”

Between Harry’s new look and the twins causing mayhem, as per usual, no one even recognizes him as he boards the train. It shows an appalling lack of situational awareness, especially considering his familiars and the fact that he’s flanked by Ron and Theo. He knows that they’re all children, but Merlin…

“Merlin,” Blaise mutters as soon as they set foot in their compartment. “You can really see the Black in you.”

“Hello to you too, Blaise,” Harry says dryly, snorting at his friend’s sheepish expression. The twins snicker as they slide in behind them, locking the door behind them with a pulse of magic that should keep anyone else out. “How was everyone’s break?”

Blaise is eager to tell them all about going home to Italy, promising to take them all to the beach once the weather has warmed up a bit. Hermione sheepishly admits that she spent most of her break telling her parents all about the friends she’d made at Hogwarts, and she tells them that her parents are hoping to meet them at some point. “Maybe we can do our shopping together?” she suggests hesitantly. “I know it’ll be hard to get all of us in Diagon Alley on the same day, but…”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Millie agrees with a wobbly smile. “I’m sure I’ll be able to convince my father to let me go alone…”

Daphne shifts the subject of conversation back to more comfortable matters so smoothly that Harry is absolutely certain she learned it from her parents. He’s just grateful that they encouraged her political sense instead of entitlement. “We could always happen to bump into one another after we’ve begun our shopping. If nothing else, Harry’s familiars will be able to track us down.”

“Speaking of familiars!” Ron’s eyes gleam with nothing short of pure glee as he says, “You will never guess what Sirius got for Harry.”

“Oh, it’s brilliant!” Fred crows as soon as everyone’s eyes flicker toward Harry. “One of the best pranks Hogwarts will ever see.”

“Even better for the fact that they can’t do anything about it,” George continues with a snicker. “They’re bonded. Well and truly bonded. And though the rules aren’t really meant to include familiars like this, per se, they still do.”

“It’s just so rare that no one would expect it,” Theo murmurs with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Wait, is it…?” Neville’s eyes widen as he whispers, “Did you form a bond with a magical creature, Harry?”

Eridanus pokes his head out from underneath Harry’s robes with a quietly hissed, “Hello, hatchlings.”

“An occamy?!” Millie cries out, eyes glittering with awe. “They’re so rare! And they usually hate people… I don’t think it was even known that they speak Parseltongue. Because you can understand him, can’t you? You got that same look on your face as you do when you’re listening to Cepheus or Cassiopeia.”

“It’s a bit accented, but they definitely do,” he murmurs. “It just also sounds a bit… Sing-songy? You can definitely hear the avian influence despite them speaking in hisses.” It makes him wonder if it might be possible for him to talk to dragons. They’re a bit more separated from snakes than occamies are, but even still… It isn’t as if he ever really tried. “His name is Eridanus, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Neville murmurs as the occamy croons in easy contentment, swiftly tucking himself back beneath Harry’s sleeve when a knock sounds at their door.

George opens it with his wand hidden just behind his back, only relaxing when he sees a familiar witch and the trolley full of sweets that beckons to all of them. “Anything off the trolley, dears?”

The rest of their train ride is fairly uneventful, all things considered, and though he doubts it will remain a secret for very long, the residents of Hogwarts are, at large, currently unaware of the familiar that joined Harry over the break.

He sneaks off to visit Quirrelmort as soon as he can get away with doing so. Cepheus and Cassiopeia remain in the dorm, though he does offer to bring them along. The pervading chill of Hogwarts’ halls that not even a Warming Charm can fully overcome makes the siren call of a fireplace too difficult for them to ignore, but Eridanus staunchly refuses to be parted from Harry’s side. He’s beginning to suspect this will become something of a pattern.

“Hello, Harry,” Quirrelmort murmurs as soon as the quiet click of a closing door echoes throughout the room. “I admit, I did not expect you so soon. Is this merely a social visit, or have you come to offer a memory?”

“Did you have any memories in mind?” he asks. “Or would you prefer I surprise you?”

“Hm… A compromise, perhaps. One of each will do for now. I do wish to know the full prophecy, but the second memory may be whatever you wish for me to see.”

It is not difficult to pull the silvery, wispy duplicate of a memory from his head, though he does shudder at the bizarre sensation that washes over him. He understands now why Quirrelmort isn’t asking for more memories at once; he isn’t entirely sure he’d be able to withstand the strain of retrieving more than a few. As such, he takes the time to carefully consider what memory he should show Quirrelmort.

In the end, the decision isn’t as difficult as he expected it to be. There are many, many things that he could show him, almost none of them good, but the whole reason he came back is to prevent those things from happening at all. Dredging up old hurts for no reason will do neither of them any good.

“I’m finished,” he hisses quietly once he’s poured his chosen memory into the shimmering Pensieve. “Would you like for me to stand guard? It probably wouldn’t look good if someone stumbled across us like this, and these memories are for no one but you.”

“That would be for the best,” Quirrelmort concedes with a nod. “I will return shortly. Send a pulse of magic through our connection if anyone requests entry.”

Harry pulls out the Marauder’s Map as Quirrelmort dips his head into the Pensieve, and he sits in the chair that has become his somewhere along the way with a vague sense of unease about him, hoping that he hasn’t made a terrible mistake.

-

Voldemort opens his eyes and immediately scowls upon finding himself in the headmaster’s office. He hardly expected Dumbledore to divulge such an important secret anywhere else, but that does not mean he enjoys finding himself standing in the room where his desperate pleas to remain at Hogwarts had been dismissed by the very man standing in front of his Horcrux now. The very man that convinced Dippet that they could not make exceptions, could not turn Hogwarts into a sanctuary for those affected by the war ravaging the muggle world, despite the fact that Hogwarts was built to be that very sanctuary for their people. Despite the fact that he was one of her heirs, now one of her lords, and had that right written into her very charter, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

The wretched irony of it all has never stung more.

His Horcrux looks older than he does now, though he knows that the opposite is true. But it is hardly teenage lankiness –stretched too thin and grown too small for a boy his age, so clearly malnourished that it’s a wonder no one noticed– that draws his attention and keeps it.

Harry Potter wears grief and devastation like a second skin, and his magic pulses around him, searching for any target, any reason, to lash out in pained fury. It is a look he knows very well. It is a look that graced his own face often in his younger years, hidden away until he was alone and free to let the mask slip ever-so-slightly.

This was not a good time to reveal the prophecy to Harry. It was blindingly apparent without even knowing the context of the memory, and yet here Dumbledore stood, preparing to do just that. “The thing that smashed was merely the record of the prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person has the means of recalling it perfectly."

“Who heard it?”

"I did. On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher..."

It is an equally bizarre and curious sensation to view a memory within a memory. But watch he does as Sybil Trelawney’s eyes go foggy and distant, prophecy spilling from her lips like an unrelenting current.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...."

Merlin and Morganna but he is a fool. A self-fulfilling prophecy cost him a decade of progress, and it is worded so vaguely that it could just as easily be interpreted in a dozen other ways. It can be argued that the prophecy has already been fulfilled, as Harry vanquished him all those years ago, if only indirectly. It can be argued that having the power to defeat him does not mean that Harry will ever use it that way. Marking Harry as his equal can just as easily refer to him ruling by his side as the physical scar he marked him with that night. The power he knows not… It could refer to his Horcrux itself, the potential to become the Master of Death, or even the companionship that his Horcrux thrives in even now. To live and to survive are two very different things, and it can easily be argued that neither of them is capable of reaching their goals, of living happily, while the other struggles to survive. That they either succeed together or suffer together until one of them dies. They are the only ones who can kill each other, but that certainly does not mean that they have to. If anything, it is a further guarantee of their mutual immortality so long as they work together.

His Horcrux’s magic explodes as Dumbledore dictates his own understanding of the prophecy, throwing the office into utter disarray as the boy grieves the life he has already resigned himself to losing within a moment. The boy is hurting and alone, and Dumbledore leaves him to it, abandons him to another summer with his despicable relatives, because he needs the boy to die to win this war.

And it is so much easier to kill off a pawn that has outlived their usefulness when they have no desire to live at all.

The memory changes, shifting abruptly into a dimly lit room with a much younger version of his Horcrux as he sits, quill in hand, and writes in the pages of the first Horcrux that Voldemort ever made.

He is a silent observer to wary conversations melting away into true companionship, understanding, and conversations that flow as easily as ink across the pages. He watches as excited smiles give way to flushed cheeks. He watches as Killing Curse eyes glow with joy every time his Horcrux responds.

Voldemort watches as the Boy-Who-Lived falls in love with his first Horcrux, the largest fragment of his soul that remains on this earth, and the truest version of himself that there is. And though his Horcrux is far better at hiding it, he has little doubt that the sentiment is returned.

What other reason would there be for him to call out to little Ginny Weasley? Why else would he use the bond forged between them to make her retrieve the diary? Harry carries a piece of their soul, and even if the Horcrux could not sense that, he would sense that their magic is far more compatible. He would sense that he could have a stronger body if they drain the life force of Harry Potter instead, yet he does not. It is damning.

It is doubly so when they confront one another in the Chamber of Secrets, revealing that his first Horcrux knows exactly who Harry Potter is, the threat that he posed to them then, and still stayed his hand until the last possible moment, until he is given no other choice lest he finds himself trapped within the diary once more.

Voldemort watches as a mere boy is forced to take on a basilisk with tears of hurt and betrayal blurring his vision. He watches as the Sword of Gryffindor guides its heir in how to wield it, ensuring that even as the basilisk’s fang sinks into Harry’s arm, the mighty serpent goes down with him. He watches regret and horror flicker across the diary Horcrux’s face as soon as the fang sinks into Harry’s arm, swiftly hidden beneath a thin veneer of taunting and a wobbly voice.

When the boy pulls the fang out of his arm and stabs it through the diary, injecting it with blood and venom that both burn as strongly as the other, he sees grief and sorrow settle on Harry’s face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. A casual observer might think the boy was speaking to Ginny Weasley, believing that they would both die down here because the boy himself is sure to.

But Harry Potter’s eyes do not leave the husk of his former Horcrux for even a second. “I’m sorry…!”

And as Dumbledore’s phoenix cries over the boy, saving his life, Voldemort knows that the prophecy, self-fulfilling or not, is true. They could only ever be each other’s ruin or salvation. Nothing else is possible for souls as intertwined as theirs.

He wonders when he last thought there might be something within him worth saving. He wonders how Harry Potter can see it so easily.

He wonders…

-

Harry watches Snape’s name move closer to Quirrel’s office with narrowed eyes. This is not the usual route he takes for patrols. In fact, he traverses many unusual twists and turns on his way to Quirrel’s office, but it does seem as if that is his final destination.

He pulses his magic in warning, and Quirrelmort lifts his head out of the Pensieve with barely a second of hesitation. He hides it just as swiftly, and without a word, Harry tucks himself beneath the Invisibility Cloak and retreats to the corner furthest from the door. Just in time, too, since Snape slams open the door mere seconds later, eyes sweeping over the room and immediately growing more concerned at whatever he does or does not see.

“C-Can I help you, Severus?” Quirrelmort stutters, eyes wide and looking rather like a startled mouse. Harry is extremely impressed by how good of an actor he is.

“Have you seen Potter recently? He hasn’t returned to the common room yet, and I thought perhaps one of your lessons had run past curfew again.” Snape’s eyes are narrowed with displeasure, and Harry realizes that this must be something of a longstanding issue between them. It’s strange having a Head of House that actually notices when he’s not around.

“Ah… Y-You’ve just missed him, I’m afraid. He should be heading back now, though.”

Snape hums at that, heaving out a weary sigh as he asks, “And what was on the agenda for the little menace today? More casual spell creation?”

“P-Parselmagic, actually,” Quirrelmort says with a shake of his head. Snape’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly. “A few years ago, I f-found this book that no one could translate. I thought it a c-curious puzzle, so I bought it. To no avail, of course, until Harry happened to see it. It was a m-most fortunate discovery! To think, P-Parseltongue has a written form…”

“I occasionally forget that you were a Ravenclaw,” Snape drawls with an amused smirk. “And then you remind me. Anything particularly interesting so far?”

“Not in the early chapters, but that’s to be expected, r-really. There’s a fair bit of history to dig through, f-from what Harry tells me, but he seems excited about it. I f-figured I may as well let him keep it.”

There’s that funny twist to Snape’s frown again. “You really ought to avoid becoming overly familiar with any of your students, Quirinus. I know the boy is brilliant, but the others are bound to notice eventually.”

“Jealousy can be a p-powerful, driving force,” Quirrelmort refutes with a faint grin. “And if anyone needs extra training…”

“Then it’s him,” Snape sighs. “I know, but Merlin, you could be more subtle about it. You know that Albus doesn’t like it.”

“I don’t much care.” Quirrelmort drops the stutter entirely as he locks eyes with Snape, murmuring, “It’s unlikely that I’ll return after this year anyway. I can’t imagine going back to Muggle Studies, and with the curse…”

They sit in silence for several long moments.

“Be careful, Quirinus,” Snape murmurs as he walks out the door. “Lest you find yourself with enemies that you cannot afford to have.”

It is utterly bizarre to hear Snape warn Quirrel instead of threatening him. He hasn't even meant to change some of the things that he has, but with Quirrel obviously looking out for Harry instead of attacking him and being altogether far more subtle... No one has any reason to suspect him, truly.

“You should get to bed, my Horcrux,” Quirrelmort hisses softly. “Before he returns and finds that you’re still not in it.”

“But… The memories.”

“We may discuss them another time. But if it allows you to rest at ease… Know that the prophecy holds no influence over my actions from now on, and the memory you chose to share with me… Provided excellent insight, indeed. I thank you for your trust, and I vow that I will not betray it. Your secrets are my secrets, Harry.”

Magic thrums between them, thick and strong, and Harry thanks his lucky stars that no one among the Hogwarts staff is magically sensitive. The way their magic twists and coils around one another would be utterly damning otherwise.

“Thank you,” he hisses quietly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

He realizes, quite suddenly, that he’s just as fond of his name on Voldemort’s lips as he of hearing them from Tom Riddle’s. His cheeks burn. Maybe it was a mistake to go digging around for that particular sequence of memories.

Some things are best left buried.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Harry focuses on writing his list. It helps to ground him, to remind him of what he’s doing here, and there’s nothing quite like the stark reminder of just how many people he lost last time to cool flushed cheeks. He has a mission here. He needs to stay focused on that mission.

This is a good chance to practice writing in Parselscript, if nothing else.

I would kill and die for everyone on this list. Each and every one of them. I am aware that it is a long list, but know that I will not, can not, budge on these names. I do not want to fight you. I never have, but I believe you know by now that I will if you give me no other choice.

Don’t make me choose between you and them. You won’t like my answer.

Hedwig, Cepheus, Cassiopeia, Eridanus, and any future familiars that I may bond with are strictly off-limits. I doubt you or yours will target them when they are tied so closely with both my magic and myself, but there is a reason I am taking this precaution anyway. Hedwig dove in front of a Killing Curse that would have otherwise struck me last time. I did not know the others then, but I have little doubt that they would do the same. It would destroy me if they did. I never fully healed from that gaping wound in my soul, that glaring absence that never truly disappeared.

It goes without saying that I will raze this world to the ground if I lose Sirius again. Even now, I wonder if I could so much as glimpse at Bellatrix without hexing her into oblivion. I do not doubt that I could cast the Cruciatus on her this time. Must you break them out of Azkaban? I would rather not make Neville endure her presence either, and it isn’t as if they’re particularly useful after a decade around Dementors. They cannot escape from the cloying sorrow like Sirius could, after all. Not unless any of them are Animagi and I was just previously unaware of this. Though speaking of, I feel like I should inform you about Barty Crouch Jr. He was pretty alright, all things considered, and I feel like he’ll be of more help to you than the current inmates as well. His father currently has him trapped beneath the Imperius Curse in their family home.

Sorry, I’m getting distracted. I’ll give you the rest of the list, then. Ron Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Percy Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Bill Weasley, Molly Weasley, and Arthur Weasley are included under my protection. They took me in, became my family when I had none, and they mean the world to me. Fred died last time. It will not happen again. Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Millicent Bulstrode are equally off-limits. They are dear friends, each and every one of them, even the ones that I did not know before. Luna Lovegood is also off-limits. She will become a student of Hogwarts next year, and even if she wasn’t one of my dearest friends from before, I have a feeling you would not want to alienate her. She’s a Seer, you know? A far more consistent one than Trelawney. I don’t want anything to happen to Cedric Diggory either. We weren’t especially close, but… He was the first to die in the second war, and it was only because of me. If I hadn’t insisted that we win together…

Remus Lupin is also under my protection, as is Nymphadora Tonks. I do not wish to… I could not bear seeing them dead again. We’ve already agreed upon Hagrid and my relatives, but it doesn’t hurt to include their names here as well. I want to shield Severus Snape as well. I know that I cannot protect him from punishments when he willingly devoted himself to you, but I ask that you are lenient with him. Dumbledore trapped him in a vow to ensure my continued existence, and though he mistakenly believes that it is a sufficient leash to keep Snape on his side, we both know that is not the case. I’m sure you are not opposed to the additional protection, even if I cannot truly die. Best not to let that information get out too soon.

Finally, I’m including Kreacher, Wimsey, and Dobby under these protections. I would include all house elves, but you said I had to be specific… Is there any way we can convince Lucius to let go of Dobby again? I miss that crazy bugger. He saved my life once, you know? Died for me. So many people died for me…

Harry rolls up the piece of parchment with a sigh, tucking it into his mokeskin pouch for safekeeping. It’ll seem odd if he visits Quirrel again so soon, but he’s far too restless to sleep right now. After a moment of contemplation, Harry slips beneath his Invisibility Cloak and into the halls of Hogwarts with Eridanus perching on his shoulder. He finds himself wandering past several dusty, unused classrooms until his eye catches on a mirror that stretches up to the ceiling, golden frame gleaming and immediately drawing his eye to the inscription that was carefully carved into it.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. I show not your face but your heart’s true desire. ‘Of course it’s still here,’ he thinks despairingly. ‘Dumbledore will want to know what my greatest desire is now more than ever.’

In truth, Harry cannot help being curious himself. He finds himself drifting toward the mirror with barely a second thought, shuddering at the faint tingle that washes over him as he crosses the threshold.

Harry’s reflection smiles back at him with a wave, but it is his true face instead of the younger one he currently adorns. His parents are not the ones standing behind him this time, not Lily and James Potter, in any case. But Sirius does. Sirius is smiling and laughing and happy with his arm draped over Remus’s shoulder. Harry’s friends stand around him, both old and new, and are all grown now. They have a freeness and lightness to them that they never got to have before, a promise of seeing tomorrow that none of them truly believed before. There are others too. The Weasleys and Tonks flit around in the background, Kreacher and Dobby stand proudly as they speak with the others as equals, his familiars are all draped over him, and standing by Harry’s side…

An older version of Tom Riddle smirks at him before lifting reflection Harry’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. His cheeks burn. He will not think about that. He will not. Even still, he finds himself sinking down to his knees as he stares at the potential future before him. He wants this so fiercely that he burns with the hope of it.

“Singer! Someone is approaching, singer!”

“So… You, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised,” Dumbledore murmurs when he, too, crosses the threshold. It is only then that Harry is able to tear his gaze away from the mirror, barely avoiding making direct eye contact with Dumbledore. Instead, he allows his eyes to rest on Eridanus’s form as a sheepish smile curls his lips. “And I see you have not come alone. Another familiar, my boy? I do wonder how you came across an occamy…”

“Sirius found him,” Harry murmurs. “And we bonded immediately. I’m sorry for not saying anything, professor. I was just… Nervous. I know you don’t like Cassiopeia or Cepheus, and Eridanus is too little for me to leave him behind in the dorms. He can’t even fly yet.”

Dumbledore’s gaze softens at the very real fear in Harry’s voice. He hates that such compassion still wouldn’t let him spare Harry, in the end, if he went along with what the man wanted from him. “I am sorry, my boy. I do not mean to frighten you, and I know that I was… Less collected than I should have been when first we met. I expected you to be rather more like your parents than you are, but I should not have. It is not as if you knew them.”

Harry dips his head in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry too. For scaring you. I don’t know why everyone hates Parseltongue so much, but… It’s always been a part of me. It feels wrong to hide it. I don’t want to. Snakes have always been kind to me. Kinder than most people…”

“You have a good heart, Harry,” Dumbledore murmurs softly. There is still the faintest hint of unrelenting steel in his voice, a hint of the war general hidden beneath a thin veneer of senility, but Harry is dutifully playing the role of a fearful child that clings onto everything good that he has. Dumbledore is responding to that. He’s softening those edges and stopping an argument before it even starts for the sake of fostering trust that will never again exist between them. “Tell me, have you discovered what it is that this mirror shows you?”

“I show not your face but your heart’s true desire,” Harry whispers. “It shows you what you want more than anything else in the world.”

“Indeed. And what is it that you see, Harry?”

He wants to lie, wants to hide the truth of this both from Dumbledore and himself, but he opts for giving a vague truth instead. “I’m surrounded by my family,” he whispers. “We’re all together, and we’re all so happy…” Harry sniffles, and though they are crocodile tears now, they would not have been once upon a time. His voice is very small when he asks, “What does it feel like, professor? To be safe? To be happy?”

Dumbledore inhales sharply, and a small, vindictive part of Harry is glad to hear the wounded noise. He never let on how much it hurt last time, never even realized the way he was being used by this man, but he doesn’t intend to let him get away with it this time. Not without weighing down his conscience with every meeting he forces between them.

“... I often find myself wondering the same thing. I’m not sure that I remember the feeling myself.”

Harry’s smile is a wobbly thing as he glances up at the man who orchestrated both his own and Harry’s death, and he whispers, “I hope you’re able to find it again one day.”

They both know that he will not.

“The mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry,” Dumbledore murmurs after a few moments of weighted silence. “I ask that you not go looking for it again, but if you do stumble across it, then you will be prepared. Remember that it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

Harry nods and dips beneath his Invisibility Cloak, but not before those guilt-laden eyes notice the rings adorning his fingers. He pretends not to notice as Dumbledore freezes with shock and realization at the sight of a second Hallow on Harry’s person, fleeing the room before the man can say another word.

Any confrontations with Dumbledore that can be avoided should be, and Harry has no intention of making things easy for the man this time around.

The brilliant blue glow of several Patronuses fills the Room of Requirement as Harry and his friends that have figured out the charm give advice to those who still haven’t quite managed it yet.

“It’s almost… Bittersweet? A memory that is happy because another memory is sad,” Ron murmurs with a distant, almost guilty look on his face. Blaise nods with the most serious expression that Harry has ever seen him make, humming consideringly as he ponders what memory would work best for him. Harry knows, just from the look in Blaise’s eyes, what is about to happen.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A panther prowls around the room, only distinguishable from a leopard or a lioness from the faint, barely there spots that shimmer a silvery blue. Ron positively beams as Blaise glows with awe and pride, and as if responding to his wizard’s joy, Ron’s Patronus runs up to Blaise’s and clambers on top of the big cat’s back. The feline allows it with a quiet chuff and a swish of his tail.

Blaise isn’t the only one to make so much progress. Daphne’s bat now flutters around the room, hanging from the rafters with quiet squeaks as a slight smile tugs at her lips. Millie cheers as a horse bursts free from her wand, cantering around the room with a whinny. And Neville… His face is pale with a thin sheen of sweat coating it, but he refuses to stop, absolutely certain that he has the right memory this time. Harry is inclined to believe him with his consistent shields today, especially after seeing the faint outline of something large hidden within the mist.

“One more try,” he agrees. “But you won’t be able to use any magic tomorrow without risking putting yourself behind in classes. Magical exhaustion is no joke, Nev.”

“I understand. But I’ve got it this time; I know that I do.” Neville wipes the sweat off his brow before twirling his wand exactly seven times, eyes narrowed with concentration. “Expecto Patronum!”

They all gape when a hulking bear winks into existence, patrolling the room with terrifying speed considering its size. Neville looks even paler than he did before and his Patronus doesn’t linger long, but he’s done it. They’ve all done it. Harry is so proud of them.

“You’re all absolutely brilliant,” he whispers with no small amount of fondness. “We’ll start on nonverbal casting next Saturday. Unlike the Patronus Charm, this is actually taught in Hogwarts, though they don’t even start teaching it to us until our sixth year. I don’t intend to wait that long. Hermione, I know you can summon flames and cast a nonverbal Wand-Lighting Charm already, but we’ll work on expanding the number of spells you can cast that way. It’s more difficult for someone to predict what you’re trying to do if they don’t even have an incantation to go off of.”

The twins groan good-naturedly at that, but he doesn’t miss the way each and every pair of eyes in the room glints with interest. This generation is going to take the wizarding world by storm, and not a single one of the doddering old fools is prepared for the upheaval looming on the horizon. They cannot even see it coming.

He cannot wait to see the looks on their faces when they can no longer ignore it.

Harry truly considers missing his lesson with Quirrelmort the next evening. He has recovered enough to supply more memories, and he does not know which prospect makes him more uneasy: the thought of Voldemort asking for more of his past or discussing what he has already seen. But there is no point in putting this off either, so with a faint sense of dread clinging to his skin and Eridanus curled around his wrist, Harry marches on beneath the cover of the Invisibility Cloak.

“Hello, Harry,” Quirrelmort hisses as soon as the door shuts behind him. “Take a seat.” So they’re going to have this conversation, then. Harry sets his list down on Quirrel’s desk before claiming his chair, averting his gaze as blood-red eyes read over his untidy scrawl. “This is doable.” Quirrelmort’s voice is quiet, almost gentle, and Harry hates how very seen he feels by those eyes. “Though needlessly defensive. I imagine you were a bit raw after our last meeting, so I shall forgive it. You do not have to share another memory today if you do not wish to.”

His shoulders slump with unspoken relief before he can even begin to hide it. “Really?”

“We have all of eternity to better understand one another,” Quirrelmort says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We hardly need to rush it at your expense. Though I do wish to discuss the memories from last time with you, if you are amenable?”

“... May as well get it over with,” he agrees with a sigh. “It won’t get any easier to talk about if I wait, so you can ask.”

“You said that the fragment of my soul within you is generally of the mind that we were meant to work together from the start. Having heard the full contents of the prophecy… I am inclined to agree, though I do not much care if that wasn’t the intended meaning. You have challenged your fate, gone back in time to change it, and so it holds little water to our current situation regardless.” Quirrelmort’s fingers drum listlessly against the desk, but the quiet clacks of nails against wood are nothing more than an afterthought as Harry listen’s to his fluid hissing. “Your other memory was an interesting choice. It took me some time to puzzle out your exact motives for sharing such a vulnerable thing with me, but I believe that I understand it now.”

He feels rather like an insect beneath a magnifying glass as Quirrelmort ponders him, and he only finds himself grateful that those eyes are what stare at him through it rather than the searing heat of the sun. “You wish to prove your value to me beyond being a Horcrux. You wish to prove that you are worth sparing your family and friends no matter how they may try to defy me. You wish to prove that our shared immortality is not the only reason I should keep you around, and oh, Harry… You had already done so. You do not realize it, but you have. Never has another so easily kept up with me, so eagerly delved into experimenting with magic that others do not even believe possible, and you have shown me proof that even before, even when we stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, you possessed a tenacity that refused to let you go down quietly. It is as admirable to me now as it was infuriating to the other version of myself, I am sure. So many witches and wizards bow and scrape to whoever they deem the most powerful, the most advantageous, but you… You will not bow to anyone, Harry Potter, and I would never ask it of you.”

Harry cannot say anything to that. How can he? It’s all true. He is a bit flattered that Voldemort doesn’t expect subservience from him, though. He never would have given it, but he rather expected them to fight about it for a good, long while.

“Should your list change, you need simply to inform me,” Quirrelmort hisses, as if he’s insistent on utterly destroying Harry’s worldview. He sure seems insistent on making him regret not taking up Quirrel’s offer the first time around. “Whether you wish to add a name or remove one from it, you need only say the word.”

“Thank you.” Harry shifts uneasily, wrong-footed and uncertain. He’s not used to being so hesitant to speak his mind. “Why are you doing this?” he finally manages to force past his lips. “Why are you going so far out of your way for me? The vows, our conversations, magic lessons… Why?”

“Because you are mine, Harry Potter. And I take care of what is mine.”

There is something deeply, terribly wrong with him that is pleased to hear those words. Harry shoves the reaction down, but even as he and Quirrelmort earnestly begin practicing Parselmagic, he cannot quite forget it.

He’s surprised that it takes as long as it does for word of his adoption and placement with Sirius to get out, truly. And though he’ll never like Rita Skeeter as a person, he cannot deny how useful she is right now. She is very firmly on Sirius’s side, after all, even if only to further stoke the flames of a scandal and secure private interviews. Regardless of her reasoning, it benefits them nonetheless.

The Boy-Who-Lived: Harry Potter-Black

By Rita Skeeter

You read that right, dear readers! It’s my great pride to announce that our young savior, previously known as Harry Potter, is now Harry Potter-Black. Lord Black has recovered well from his wrongful conviction and the time spent in Azkaban as a result, and has been petitioning for his godson’s custody since the day he was released.

As of last evening, that request was officially accepted. Harry Potter has become Harry Potter-Black, not just in name but in blood. “I always wanted to blood-adopt Harry,” Lord Black tells me in an exclusive interview offered to the Daily Prophet. “James and I talked about it almost as soon as he was born. I never really planned on having kids of my own, but I loved little Harry more than anything else in the world the moment I laid eyes on him. It was hard not to. He’s my son. I would do anything for him.”

“Is Harry the Black heir, then?”

“Oh, yes!” Lord Black laughs. “I named him such before I was ever thrown into Azkaban. But the blood-adoption makes it rather difficult for anyone to contest it, so it was as necessary as it was wanted.”

“Do you not think it’s a lot of responsibility to put on his shoulders? He already has a lot to live up to…”

“Harry is capable of amazing things.” Lord Black says this so earnestly that I find myself sitting up straighter, intrigued by the note of awe in his voice. “And an additional heirship is hardly going to hinder him. He already had four, after all. What’s a fifth?”

I find myself so stunned by this revelation that I cannot help prying further. “Which heirships?”

“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? Either Harry will tell you when he’s ready, or you’ll find out when he claims his Lordships. It’s sure to cause quite the stir either way.”

Though I wish to inquire further, I know that Lord Black will not speak any further on this subject. Instead, I decided to shed some light on another rumor that has been whispered quietly in certain circles lately. “Is it true that Harry is a Parselmouth?”

“Oh, yeah! The kid’s got a gift with snakes, really. They used to make me nervous, but after spending time with him and his familiars over the break… Well, it’s hard to be afraid of the clingy, heat-seeking little buggers. Any time they weren’t with Harry they spent curled up in front of the fireplace like the world’s laziest cats. His owl’s the one you’ve gotta watch out for.” Lord Black barks out another laugh with an undeniably fond expression. “She’s right protective of him. Fierce little thing.”

We here at the Daily Prophet wish Lord Black and Heir Potter-Black all the best in their endeavors. Lord Black is rumored to soon claim his seats on the Wizengamot, and this reporter would be sincerely surprised if he does not act as the proxy for his heir’s seats as well. As for our Boy-Who-Lived… Well, perhaps a future in Care of Magical Creatures should be expected. It has been centuries since any witch or wizard has had so many familiars, after all.

“Well, the anonymity was nice while it lasted,” he sighs at the image of himself and Sirius beaming and waving on the front page of the Daily Prophet. He can’t even be mad at it, really, though he does laugh at the flash of teal feathers that disappears beneath his robe’s neckline. Hedwig stares imperiously from her place atop his shoulder, and both Cepheus and Cassiopeia are coiled around him, though the latter only claims his arm for herself while the former requires his entire torso. They look at ease, at peace, happy… He hopes that Sirius kept a copy of that photo for themselves. He wants to hang it up somewhere.

Ron snorts at that, exchanging an amused look with Theo that has his friends studying them closely. The two of them know very well that Harry can still hide among the crowds without issue, but they know better than to mention that in the Great Hall. “Tough luck, mate,” Ron says instead. “Though at least they’ll be reluctant to publish any bad press about you now. It was smart of Sirius to tell them how many heir rings you have. They’ll be wary of making an enemy of you when you have that much political power at your fingertips, and they can’t try to discredit the families you’re part of without knowing them. All warfare is based on deception.”

Hermione perks up at that. “Sun Tzu! You’re enjoying the Art of War, then?”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees with a smirk tugging at his lips. “I think it’s gonna prove dead useful.”

‘It’s a shame,’ he thinks. ‘That I didn’t go to Slytherin the first time. I wonder if Ron would have joined me then too. I wonder if he would have embraced himself so easily, if he would have accepted the person he is without years of denial and self-hatred that I do not know if he ever truly grew out of before.’

The three of them were never meant for Gryffindor. He feels guilty for disparaging his heritage in that way, but that doesn’t make it any less true. They were utterly wasted in that house, stifled by it in direct contrast to how Gryffindor encouraged Neville to come into his own.

‘How ironic is it that I still wouldn’t trade those experiences and the knowledge they gave me for anything, even as I change them now?’

“Not ironic,” Voldemort disagrees quietly. “Slytherin. Utterly, undeniably Slytherin. Knowledge is power, after all.”

Harry’s two-way mirror is burning a hole in his pocket. He wants to talk to Sirius. He wants complete privacy to do so. He wants… He wants to speak to the basilisk again, this time without the shade of Tom Riddle commanding her. He cannot stop thinking about her now that he’s drudged that memory up again, cannot stop thinking about how terribly lonely she must be trapped down in the Chamber of Secrets. He cannot stop thinking about little boys trapped in cupboards and attics.

He may as well kill two birds with one stone. It doesn’t get much more private than the Chamber of Secrets, after all.